“Why not?” Scott asked.
“It's real complicated.” Brad eyed each passerby suspiciously, pulled out a handkerchief, and wiped sweat from his forehead and above his lip.
“You're really scared,” I said.
“Glen was supposed to call the cops,” Brad said. “He was going to arrange protection.”
“What was going on in Mexico?” Scott said.
“I'm scared,” Brad said. “I hate being in this public place.”
We debated briefly about where to go. Brad suggested his hotel room. I vetoed that as too dangerous. I didn't want Brad to know where our temporary refuge was. Scott suggested my lawyer's office. I called, but got his answering service at work and his machine at home.
Finally I said, “I know the perfect place.” I saw an empty cab at the corner waiting for the light. “Follow me!” I ordered. I dashed out of the restaurant and flung open the cab door. As we piled in, I did a quick reconnaissance of the nearby populace. An art student hurried by with her four-by-five-foot flat leather case for carrying artwork. A group of fifteen kids with two adults in tow, ascended the steps of the Art Institute. Several young couples walked hand in hand up the steps. Various sets of tourists and art lovers marched in and out of the museum, none of them carrying dangerous weapons, wearing snarling faces, or approaching us as nefarious characters.
In the cab, I said, “North Clark Street just south of Diversey.”
“Where are we going?” Brad asked.
“Safest place I know of in the city,” I said. “No one would think to look for us there.”
The Womb was the sleaziest bar in the city. It was on Clark Street south of Diversey, across from the post office. The bar was in the basement of a crumbling building. The color scheme, which had changed numerous times over the years, had been returned to lurid tints, generally suggesting walls spray-painted with vomit. The entertainment used to be lesbians strippers in leather. Now dancing boys performed in skimpy outfits. They alternately gyrated slender hips on a tiny stage to the rear of the bar, or circumnavigated the central well, shaking down customers for tips. The joint had a grisly reputation for prostitution, somewhat of a higher-class notoriety for transvestites, transsexuals, and other transgender folks, plus it had underground nationwide fame for its after-hours parties, rumored to be filled with vast quantities of illegal drugs, gallons of booze, and lack of clothes on the partygoers. It matched our hotel as one of the last places I could think of that anyone would look for us.
I knew it would be open because they served a daily brunch. It was a lavish spread with over fifty different kinds of salads, cold pasta dishes, a plethora of meats, fruits, and vegetables. You could get omelets, waffles, and pancakes freshly made to your order, after which you could indulge in an enormous variety of desserts heavily weighted on the chocolate end of the spectrum.
It was just after noon when we walked in. The first bartender I saw was dressed in a purple, pure silk, full shirt with double pleats in back and very full long sleeves. He had on black gym shoes with bright yellow socks and black 2(X)IST boxer briefs. He was among the more conservatively dressed of the staff. The cook at the omelet table
wore a red chef's hat and a single black strap of cotton around his neck which tapered down and connected to a contoured pouch. He also wore a carnation behind one ear. Both these guys had lean muscular figures that looked terrific in their outfits. The Monday noon crowd filled half the place.
When we were two feet inside the front door, Brad said, “What is this place?”
“A haven,” I said.
We asked for and received a seat at a booth near the back. Moments later, our waiter appeared in sheer Silvery Short and Robe. He gave us some tips on specials, flirted with the three of us shamelessly, and sashayed away.
Brad shook his head. “Is this a gay bar?” he asked.
I glanced around. “It's more of a hallucination,” I said, “but it grows on you.”
As we perused the buffet table, the dancing boy left the stage at the far end of the room and pranced over to us. He seemed aptly dressed in a gold-banded thong. Another few beers, and his figure would no longer be appropriate for this outfit. Maybe they only had the second-string guys gyrating at Monday lunch. Brad made shooing motions at the dancer, but I knew the drill. I stuck a buck in his pouch, and he left us alone.
I picked up a broccoli-and-cheese omelet and a Caesar salad, along with some onion soup. Scott found the appetizer /finger food that he liked so much and loaded up. Brad stuck to waffles.
After I'd consumed enough to take the edge off my hunger, I said, “We've got big problems. Brad, you said you were scared and Glen had made some kind of deal. What's going on?”
We spoke in soft voices, although the size of the booths, the distance we were from any other patron, and the sounds of music for the dancers wafting over hidden speakers were sufficient to mute anything we said.
“How can I be sure I can trust you?” Brad asked.
Scott said, “We can't be sure we can trust you, either. We've been shot at. You're scared. Who are you planning to turn to, if not us?”
Brad's immediate response was to wolf down huge quantities of waffle while glancing anxiously around the room.
A Nick Bakes poster on the wall next to the booth was of a young blond lying in bed with his pajama tops open, and the bottoms unbuttoned enough to reveal white briefs. I always thought it looked like Scott when we first met. I think he's even more beautiful now.
Scott broke the silence. “We've got no choice but to trust each other.” He explained that the police didn't believe us about Glen's death.
Brad finished his waffle and took several enormous gulps of coffee. Immediately the waiter appeared and refilled the mug. He rested a hand on Brad's shoulder and leaned a hip more than companionably close. He finished his onerous duty and sauntered off.
“I don't know if I can take this place,” Brad said.
“We could all be dead if we don't do something,” I said. “We've got to know what the hell was going on. You've got that information. Like Scott said, who are you going to turn to?”
“I don't know,” Brad said. “We were down there together. We didn't plan for it to happen.”
“What?” I demanded.
Brad mumbled, “Drugs.”
“I knew it,” I said. It was such a stupid cliche thing for Glen Proctor to involve himself in: illegal drug trafficking. He double-crossed somebody and got himself killed.
“What kind of drugs?” I asked almost bored.
“Not
kinds
of drugs,” Brad said. “Drug
people.
We had a line on where Frederico Torres was hiding.”
Everybody knew from the headlines that Frederico Torres was the most powerful drug kingpin in Mexico. Huge numbers of police officials in twelve countries and
millions of dollars had been spent hunting for him. He had eluded numerous police dragnets and was wanted by the authorities in half the countries in the world not only for illegal substances but for his involvement in assassination and gunrunning as well.
“He's got a price of seven million dollars on his head,” Brad said. “Glen found out where he was and was determined to cash in. He'd lost all the money he made in baseball. This was his way of showing his dad he could make it on his own and that he'd kicked his drug habit for good and was making up for it. He knew where Frederico was. I was going to help Glen turn him in. We were going to split the money, but something went wrong near Huautla, in Mexico.”
“Why didn't you just call the police?” I asked.
“We were going to, but we didn't know which cops to trust. Glen suggested we give the information to cops in this country. He decided we should split up. He came a day ahead. I think he had a meeting with somebody at the airport in Acapulco, but he wouldn't tell me. He gave me a number to call when I got here, which I guess was you guys. I flew out of Mexico City to Ciudad Victoria.”
Brad wiped his palm across his brow. I didn't think his nervousness was from being turned on by the dancing boy, the hired help, or the decor.
“On the way to Mexico City, I drove by the place where twenty-four Mexicans were killed in an ambush. There's a lot of drug traffic through that region. I think I was lucky to get out of there alive. I knew I shouldn't have gotten involved with Glen. He always had the goofiest schemes.”
“Are you sure he wasn't trying to smuggle drugs?” I asked.
Brad looked down at the table, pawed at his hair again, and looked sideways at us. “He wasn't. I went through his luggage and my own, in case he tried to stuff some in that I didn't know about.”
“You knew him pretty well,” Scott said.
“I know I'm not bright, but I've been around enough to recognize Glen's type.”
“How'd you get involved with him?” I asked.
“I was in Ciudad Victoria doing some preparation for the winter baseball leagues. I'm a sort of coach and player. It's the only place I can still play. Nobody else wants me. My knee's a little gimpy from an operation. Glen came through a few weeks ago. He suggested a vacation together. It was nice seeing a guy I could talk to and understand. I'm not prejudiced, you understand, but at least he spoke English. Besides, Glen always was a good guy to party with.”
“How'd he stumble onto this drug lord's whereabouts?” I asked.
“I'm not sure,” Brad said. “Glen didn't explain much to me. He just wanted my help.”
“Did he know before he ran into you?” I asked.
Brad thought a minute. “I don't think so. He didn't start talking about it until the day we left Cuernavaca for Acapulco. That was five days ago.”
“Why did he need your help?” I asked.
“I'm not sure. I think I was supposed to be like sort of a bodyguard.
“You have no idea what happened?” I asked.
“Only a little. I know he was sending the information about the drug guy's whereabouts here and not bringing it with him. I got nervous and figured I'd better get out of the country for a while. At the Mexico City airport, I thought I was being followed. I had a scheduled stop in Ciudad Victoria. While there, I checked in at my place to pick up a few things. My neighbor told me that some mean-looking dudes were looking for me. At the airport gate I saw the guy who I thought was following me in Mexico City. I don't think he saw me. I turned around and left. A friend agreed to drive me as far as Brownsville, Texas. I just wanted to get back to the United States as quick as I could and get hold of Glen. Brownsville is where I saw the bus I would have been on boarded by guys with guns.”
The waiter returned and sidled up to our booth. His thong came up to about the edge of our table. In an incredibly deep bass voice, he asked, “Is everything satisfactory?”
Brad said, “Get the hell out of here, faggot!”
The young man drew himself up to his full-fairied fury. I forestalled a confrontation. Much as the young man didn't deserve to be treated harshly, I wasn't in the mood for confrontation. I echoed Brad's sentiments, but with a more friendly dollar bill tucked into his G-string and a pat on the ass.
To Brad I said, “Keep your homophobia to yourself. If you're going to get out of this, it's going to be because of us.”
“I should call the cops,” Brad said. “I don't even know what homophobia is.”
“Call them,” I said.
Brad hesitated. He went through his head-scratching routine again. “I could tell them I think Frederico Torres is after me and that his men killed Glen.”
“What proof are you going to give them?” I asked.
“That they killed Glen.”
“We have no body and no proof for that,” I said.
“But they attacked you.”
“And you don't like us, so you're going to call the police and use an attack on us as a way to get protection for yourself. Does that really make sense to you? Do you think they'll buy your story?”
“They have to,” Brad said. “Don't they?”
“Your trust in the local constabulary is quaint but misguided,” I said.
“They can't just come into this country and kill people,” Brad said. “We've got laws against that.”
I was polite enough not to laugh at him. Now that we had information from him about who was probably chasing Glen, I wasn't sure how much good he was to us. I didn't want this homophobic creep hanging around, who we
might have to protect or save. I also wasn't sure what we could do with the information.
I wanted to shower and shave, meet with Mrs. Proctor, talk with my lawyer, and be safe in my own home. The immediate questions were how to be safe and how to handle Brad. I could easily see him getting himself killed by doing something stupid.