Third man out dsm-4

by Richard Stevenson

  I folded and pocketed the list and said, "These are all people you've already outed. You haven't been threatened by anybody who hadn't been outed yet but was afraid you might go after them? Somebody in your files?"

  "No. Not yet."

  "Where do you keep these famous files, anyway?"

  "Hidden."

  "Here in the house?"

  "Upstairs. I'll show you. They're locked up. Eddie has a key. I have a key. And I'll show you where there's another one. Nobody else has ever seen the files."

  "I'm flattered."

  "You should be. I take my responsibilities with the data that I've gathered very, very seriously."

  This was an interpretation of Rutka's activities that would have been challenged through clenched teeth by many in Albany, but I was now his security consultant and not his conscience, or linguist, and I let it go.

  "How did you compile these files?" I said. "How do you dig up all this dirt on people?"

  "I'm surprised to hear you call it dirt," he said, looking annoyed. "That's a retrograde term I'd expect to hear from a person who has internalized his or her own homophobia."

  "That's what I meant. It's dirt to them."

  "Exactly. So, Strachey. You're a detective. If you were going to build up a set of files on homophobic closeted people, how would you go about it?"

  "I'd keep my eyes open and ask a lot of questions wherever gay people congregated. I'd stake out cruising areas and see who turned up. I'd make myself available to people who wanted to sell information that somebody somewhere would consider damaging. And of course I'd cultivate in-the-know gay people who share my beliefs about outing or who might be brought around to my way of thinking."

  He nodded. "You've got it."

  "I'd build up a network of informants, too. In the police department, among the press, maybe in the area's hotels and motels, where lots of gay people are employed, and closeted gay people show up for trysts wearing shades and red wigs that don't fool sharp-eyed nosy desk clerks and room-service waiters and busboys."

  Another nod.

  I said, "I guess the motives of your informants don't count for much. Just so they deliver the goods."

  He looked at me with both eyes and said gravely, "I occupy the high moral ground in this. It doesn't matter if many of my informants don't. They can deal with their own consciences. I'll deal with mine. I think of tips from sleazy people as just that tips, leads. I would never out anybody on the say-so of just one person, even if that person was sincere and reliable-which some of them are. They aren't all scuzzbags.

  "That's why it pisses me off that people say I use McCarthyite tactics. Joe McCarthy was reckless and sloppy. He'd go after somebody on the basis of anonymous calls or letters from crackpot organizations. I would never do anything like that. The idea of it makes me sick."

  When I thought about it later, Rutka's indignantly drawn fine distinction between his approach and Joe McCarthy's kept blurring in my mind. But as Rutka sat there on a sunny Wednesday morning shaking his head in disgust over McCarthy's failure to double-check his sources, he came across as the consummate professional: exacting, judicious, fair-minded, wise: the Benjamin Cardozo of outing.

  I said, "Well, John, whatever I might think about your outing campaign and the way you go about it, you've convinced me that I can rely on your skills as a researcher-reporter. That's quite a data bank you must have stored away up there. And I guess I agree it's all but certain that the name of the person who shot you is buried somewhere inside those files. So if I'm going to help keep you from getting shot again, we should get to it. It's time for me to take a look at those files."

  Rutka seemed to pause for just an instant to consider the gravity of the step he was about to take, and then he swung both feet onto the floor, sat up, and reached for my hand. end user

  5

  Rutka slid up the stairs backwards on his seat, pushing himself upward with the good foot. On the second floor he pulled himself upright and hobbled into a dim bedroom with drawn shades that had been a teen-aged girl's in the early seventies and had been frozen in time: orange shag throw rug; pink chenille bedspread with a heap of stuffed animals on the pillows; a stack of Carole King records; an Osmond Brothers poster on the wall; some group photos showing the Handbag High cheerleaders hoisting their pom-poms and thrusting up their breasts with military precision.

  "Your sister's room?"

  "You are good."

  Rutka unzipped the belly of a stuffed hippopotamus and pulled out a set of three keys. "Now you know where a set of keys is, in case I'm not here."

  Down the hall, he unlocked the attic door with two of the keys and we climbed up, him on his seat. The wall of dry heat that hit us when we got to the top felt like a visit to Khartoum. I helped support Rutka and we bent low so as not to have our skulls pierced by roofing nails. Past the piles of old furniture and boxes labeled "XMAS" and "GRANDMA," at what I took to be the rear of the attic if my orientation was correct, was an old World War II-vintage desk.

  A light bulb on a wire dangled overhead. Heaps of old Cityscapes and Queerscreeds were on the floor off to one side, and on the other stood a two-drawer metal filing cabinet. The heat was awful under the uninsulated shingled roof, and Rutka switched on a box floor fan that just blew the hot air around; I tried to remember the Arab word for the madness caused by this type of wind.

  Rutka used a third key on his chain to unlock the file cabinet. Down below a phone began to ring, but Rutka gestured to never mind. "The machine will pick it up." He perched on the edge of the desk and said, "This is it. The famous files."

  I slid open the top drawer. It was jam-packed with file folders arranged alphabetically by outee.

  "The ones with the red tags have already been done," he said.

  "I'd have expected an up-to-date guy like you, John, to be computerized."

  "My financial resources are not unlimited, despite what I'm paying you. I'll stay here while you look through them. You'll probably have some questions."

  We were both sweating now from the heat. The main effect of the fan was to dry the sweat on our body surfaces and blow occasional droplets onto the stack of files I spread out on the desk. My neck itched and we both stank. Rutka seated himself on an old kitchen chair next to the desk and made notes in the margins of a file he retrieved from a desktop box labeled "CURRENT" while I spread out the A's.

  "What's that?" Rutka said, listening.

  I heard it too, the sound of glass breaking, a bottle or jar smashing.

  We listened.

  "I'll check," I said.

  Before I even made it to the stairwell, a smoke alarm down below began to wail. I hurtled down to the second floor, and even faster to the first, where dark smoke was boiling into the kitchen. Out on the back porch, flames, fed by what smelled like gasoline, were roaring up from the floor. The glider cushions were ablaze, and even the M amp;M's, drenched by the blazing fluid, were melting and popping in the billowing fire and smoke.

  I grabbed the canister fire extinguisher by the kitchen door, yanked the release handle, and directed the hose at the conflagration.

  White foam shot out with enough force to make me bobble the awkward tube, but I regained my aim and sprayed the glider and floor repeatedly with the retardant chemical. The flames vanished in spots, only to spring up again when I shifted my aim.

  Hacking and gasping and weeping from the smoke, I doused the area with chemical until the fire was extinguished. I found a phone in the kitchen, dialed 911, and asked for the Handbag Fire Department to come out and make sure the fire was out. Then I examined the damage.

  Rutka, having made his way down from the attic, appeared in the hallway leading to the kitchen and peered at me with a look of horror.

  "Oh, Jesus, what happened? What blew up? Oh, God, now what!"

  "I hate to tell you."

  "What? What happened?"

  "There's a hole in the back porch screen, and there's broken glass on the porch floor. It lo
oks as if it was done deliberately with a Molotov cocktail."

  He fell against the doorsill. "Oh, God. I did it. Now I really did it!"

  "It looks that way."

  The smoke alarms were still wailing and I got up on a chair to disengage the one in the kitchen. I was about to head upstairs to shut off the alarm there when sirens sounded out on the street. I thought of something and sped back out to the porch and snatched up Rutka's hot revolver with a towel and handed them both to him to hide. He flung them into the oven and slammed the door shut as I went on up to disengage the second-floor alarm. When I came back, a police cruiser was parked outside, lights flashing, and Rutka was opening the front door for a Handbag patrolman who looked dimly familiar. He caught my glance and blinked. Then a fire engine roared up in a manner that might have successfully intimidated a small blaze into extinction. As the rescuers barged in, Rutka directed them to the rear of the house.

  To me, Rutka said, "Maybe you'd better lock the attic door."

  He passed me the keys and I moved up the stairs quickly. I secured the attic and was headed back down when I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror at the end of the hall. My face was sooty and my hair was a tropical rainforest. I dashed into the not-so-fastidiously-kept bathroom and washed the grime off my face as well as I could, drying off with one of the rancid towels heaped on the floor by the shower. I dumped the stale water from a grimy glass on a shelf by the sink and gulped tapwater from it, salve for my dehydrated throat and insides.

  Back downstairs, the firefighters had declared the blaze extinguished, but for safety's sake they were wetting down the smoky and charred area of the porch with a fluid from their own canister. Rutka was speaking with the fireman in charge and explaining what had happened.

  "That's what it looks like to me," the fireman said disgustedly. "I'm going out to call the fire marshal right now. Don't touch anything out there. They'll need to check the place out for what they can find."

  "I won't touch it."

  "You can air the place out-set up some fans. Nobody saw it happen?"

  "We were upstairs," Rutka said. "We heard the bang and my friend here ran down and put the fire out. I've got a wounded foot."

  The fireman looked down and shook his head. "You were lucky. You were just darn lucky somebody was here."

  Rutka looked at his foot and said, "I know."

  "You ought to call your insurance man," the fireman said. "The damage should be covered."

  The Handbag police patrolman who had come flying up Elmwood Place just ahead of the fire engine had been entering and exiting the house busily throughout the activities of the past fifteen minutes, and now he returned and was listening intently to our conversation. "OCTAVIO T. REED," read the nametag on his uniform. He had slicked-back dark hair, and liquid brown eyes in a broad face that was bunched up now in a kind of quizzical squint. His shoulders were slumped forward almost disconsolately, it seemed. I remembered now where I knew him from: we'd met at the Watering Hole and spent half a night together at my Morton Avenue apartment in 1975 or '76, after which, I thought I recalled, he said he had to get back to his recent bride in Handbag.

  While the fireman went on talking to Rutka about insurance and cleanup matters, Reed beckoned and I followed him outside.

  "Long time no see," I said.

  He glanced around nervously. "I don't go out anymore. I've got kids in school and I'm a police officer and-you know."

  "How long has it been?"

  "It was July of nineteen seventy-six," he said. "You're one of the ones I like to remember."

  "It's pretty clear to me, too. I don't go out anymore either. I've got a boyfriend. I met him not long after I met you."

  He looked at me wistfully. "All that time."

  "Are you still married?"

  "Sure."

  "Is it a good marriage? I mean otherwise."

  "Yeah," he said. "That's the trouble."

  The firemen were coming out now and starting to pack up their pumper. Reed looked around and said, "Are you still a P.I.? I've seen your name in the paper."

  "I am."

  His look darkened. "You're not working for this Rutka, are you?"

  "As of today, I am. On account of what happened last night-the shooting. He hired me."

  "Maybe I shouldn't be telling you this, but I hate to see you get involved with this guy. I was just out going around the neighborhood trying to turn up anybody who saw anything at the time the fire started, and I got one. There's an old lady over on Maplewood Place whose bathroom window looks out on Rutka's backyard here. She says she saw somebody go through the backyard and up behind Rutka's garage before the alarm sounded and the fire department got here. She says it was Eddie Sandifer."

  "She saw him herself? She's sure it was Sandifer?"

  "That's what she says."

  "Interesting." "Be careful of those two."

  "I've been being careful of them, but maybe not careful enough." end user

  6

  Reed got into his cruiser and rode away, and I went back into the house and looked up the Kopy-King number. I checked my watch-11:57 A.M., about half an hour since the fire started-and dialed. Sandifer answered.

  "Hi, Eddie, this is Don Strachey. Do you know what's happened out here? I'm at the house in Handbag."

  "What happened? What do you mean?"

  "There's been a fire. It's okay, it was put out without much damage, but somebody threw a firebomb onto the back porch. It looks like another attack on John and it was sort of a close call."

  I could hear his breathing quicken. "Is John all right?"

  "For now. Later I'll try to get him to a safer place."

  "I've got my lunch break," Sandifer said. "I'm coming out. Don't leave till I get there, okay?"

  "How long does it take to drive out here?" I said.

  "Twenty minutes. I'm leaving right now."

  "See you soon."

  Rutka was seated at the big mahogany table in the dining room looking morose and going through some papers he'd taken out of a drawer in the sideboard. "I guess I'd better call the insurance agency. Even though those people are such a hassle."

  I said, "I phoned Eddie. He's driving out."

  "I know. I heard you."

  "He's concerned about you, he says."

  He continued to peruse the documents. "If he wants to come out, fine. Though you're here now." He looked up. "You're not crapping out on me, are you? Now that I'm relying on you more than ever?"

  I looked at him but didn't answer.

  "I don't have any friends in this town," he said.

  "You do have enemies. That I believe."

  Now he looked worried. "Is there something you don't believe?"

  I seated myself in the chair across from Rutka and looked into his face and said, "The cop who was here asked around the neighborhood for people who might have seen something at the time of the fire. He found one."

  Rutka blinked. "He did?"

  "A woman on Maplewood Place was looking out her bathroom window, which overlooks your backyard."

  "Vera Renfrew."

  "She told the cop she saw someone she recognized cut through her back yard and into yours before the fire started. Guess who she says she saw?"

  "I don't know. I'd love to know. Who?"

  "Eddie. She saw Eddie Sandifer."

  He slumped forward and shook his tresses. "Oh, no."

  "Can you explain that, John?"

  He kept shaking his head. "She told this to that dumb cop?" He was grinning stupidly.

  "That's what I've been told. The police will pass it on to the arson investigation unit."

  Rutka suddenly went all red and he glared at me fiercely. "I'm being set up," he said. "I'm being goddamn fucking set up." His left eye headed west.

  "By Eddie?"

  "No, no!" he snarled, his dark locks trembling. "Of course not by Eddie! I'm being set up by Bruno Slinger, that sleazoid scumbag! Slinger and Grey Koontz are trying to frame me."
>
  "Who," I said tightly, "is Grey Koontz?" My head had been feeling hot and greasy on the outside and now it was starting to feel hot and greasy on the inside, too.

  "Koontz is one of Slinger's tricks and a dirtbag from the word go. He looks a lot like Eddie, except maybe younger, maybe twenty-four or — five. From a distance, or even in a dark bar or someplace, people sometimes get them mixed up. Slinger must have planned the whole thing after I outed him. He's one of the ones who threatened me and he is absolutely ruthless, ask anybody. It was probably Koontz or Slinger who shot me last night, and now they're trying to frame Eddie, the fucking degenerates!"

  I looked into the one of Rutka's eyes that was looking at me and said, as calmly as I could, "Are you using me?"

  "No. Not underhandedly, if that's what you suspect."

  "Don't. I'll catch on. And then you'll have another enemy."

  "I wouldn't. I know you're sharp, Strachey. That's why I hired you. If I wanted to run a con on somebody, I'd do it with those stupid Handbag cops. Trust me."

  I said, "The Handbag cops aren't doing badly at all, so far. And it strains credulity way past the limit that the famous senatorial aide you outed should have a boyfriend who looks just like your boyfriend and would be in a position to frame you. That's quite a coincidence."

  "They're not boyfriends," Rutka said, and turned to snatch a Snickers bar from the sideboard behind him.

  "Koontz is an occasional trick, that's all. It's in the files-you'll see it. Slinger's current boyfriend is Ronnie Linkletter. I can't imagine that wimp Linkletter coming after me. But Slinger and Koontz-those two douche-bags are capable of anything."

  He went to work on the candy bar and I sat there watching him eat. "Are you hungry?" he said. "Help yourself."

  "No."

  He finished the sweet. "You don't believe me, do you?" he said, giving me his poor-misunderstood-thing look.

  I said, "It's about the dumbest explanation I ever heard."