“Homophobic means I don't like gay people,” Brad said apropos of nothing.
Scott nodded.
Brad shook his head. “I just don't like being in this place,” Brad said. “I'm liberal. In bars in the minor leagues, I even met a few guys who I let give me blowjobs. Doesn't mean I'm gay or that I hate you guys. Just this place gives me the creeps.”
I glanced around. To someone unaccustomed to the more flamboyant side of gay life, it could be a little difficult to take. The atmosphere was like the most outrageous parts of the Pride Parade, the ones they usually show on television, or on hate videos put out by the religious right.
Scott said, “We should call Todd again.”
So I did. His answering service told me to hold on. He must have left a message to page him immediately if we called.
After I explained everything to him, Todd said, “Does Brad know where Frederico is?”
“I don't know,” I said. “We never asked him.”
“You don't want to know,” Todd said. “Don't let him tell you the place. He's got to get himself to the authorities immediately. Go from where you are to the nearest police station and stay there no matter what. That's the Twenty-third District at Halsted and Addison. I will bring reinforcements.”
“What did you find out about old man Proctor's business?” I asked.
“No time now. Immediately get him to the police station.”
I walked back to the table. Brad wasn't there.
“In the john,” Scott answered my unspoken question.
“He didn't want an escort?” I asked.
“He said he could handle it.”
I motioned for our waiter, who came over, leaned up next to me, and whispered in my ear, “I'd love to take you home if neither of these guys is your lover.”
“Thanks, I'm spoken for,” I said.
Scott hadn't been recognized by anyone in the bar, or if he had, they'd kept a discreet distance. Going out with him can be a hellish experience. Get one fan who recognizes him, and you could have a maelstrom of screaming lunatics around you in seconds. Other times he manages to slip by completely unrecognized. Last year he dragged me to the Chicago Auto Show, the biggest one in the country. We'd walked around for two hours, and he was completely unrecognized.
I paid the check and sat on the edge of the booth to wait for Brad. The dancing boy was immediately upon me. I had sat spread-legged with both knees jutting into the aisle. He chose to deposit himself on my right knee and proceeded to make his pouch jump and jiggle on my thigh.
For my dollar, I got a hug and a whispered “Thank you.” He smiled and moved on to his next victim.
“It's so nice they're friendly,” Scott said.
“Hell of a way to make a living,” I said. “I wonder if they have real jobs.”
“Ask them sometime,” Scott said.
“I'm not sure I care that much.”
“Brad's taking a long time,” Scott said.
I leaned out of the booth and looked toward the back and the washrooms. “I hope he didn't get lost or molested,” I said.
“I'm going to check,” Scott said.
I scanned the crowd. A tall, beefy guy and a short, thin guy with a wispy mustache lounged near the door. Undercover cops or ⦠I began to feel uneasy.
A moment later, Scott hurried up to our table. “He's gone,” Scott announced.
“What do you mean, gone? He can't be gone!”
“I mean gone, as in âno longer at this place in this universe,'” Scott said.
I needed sarcasm at this moment. I nodded discreetly in the direction of the suspicious guys near the front. “Did Brad see them?”
“I don't know when they came in.”
“Come on,” I said. We both rushed to the back together. We checked both johns. Empty. A third door led off from the hallway with the washrooms. I pushed it open. The room was set up like a hundred dressing rooms in tawdry theaters. A mirror with a row of lights around the perimeter. Cramped quarters with clothes strewn everywhere. Racks of clothes against the walls. A dancing boy sat in a tatty flannel bathrobe. A cigarette dangled from his lips while he perused a textbook whose title read
Sociology of Groups in the Wild.
He glanced up at us. “You're not supposed to be back here, but for you, I'll make an exception. I charge extra for two at the same time.”
“We're looking for the guy who was sitting with us,” I said. “Kind of a big beefy guy. Did he come through here?”
The dancer drew his robe closer around himself. “I remember him. Haven't seen him, but I've been on break only a couple minutes. You'll have to ask Charley.”
“Where's he?” I asked.
The dancer nodded his head toward another door farther back. Through this we strode. This room was maybe eight-by-eight with a large metal desk in the middle, three filing cabinets against the far wall, and a door to our right.
A fat man smoking a cigar gave us a brief glance. He wore a T-shirt with holes in it. A ledger book was open in front of him. He wrote several figures into it, then raised an eyebrow in our direction.
“I got a license,” he said. “Or if you aren't the cops or the
city inspector, I don't provide the dancing boys for prostitution. I run a clean place here. I can't get you any favors.”
“Did a big guy with greased-down hair go through here a few minutes ago?” I asked.
“Nope. I'm busy. You don't belong here. Leave.”
I marched over and opened the far door.
“Hey, what do you think you're doing?” The fat guy lumbered over.
I ignored him and peered out into an alley. I saw no sign of Brad. The fat man grabbed my arm. I shook him off and said, “Is there any other way out of here?”
“Fuck off, buddy!”
Obviously he wasn't going to win Miss Congeniality of this alley.
I looked over my shoulder at Scott. “You sure he didn't go out the front?”
“Positive,” he said.
“Get out of here!” the fat guy roared.
“Okay,” I said. We walked out the back door.
To our right, the backs of buildings extended twenty feet and ended in a chain-link gate which prevented egress in that direction. To the left the alley twisted and curved toward Wrightwood Avenue. Because it had only one exit, the alley was unfrequented.
“I don't like this place,” Scott said.
“We'll hurry.”
The gray and chill of the day before had returned on a rising northeast breeze. The mid-October afternoon gave a grim forewarning of an unpleasant winter.
I zipped the jacket Lester had brought me and pulled the collar closer around me.
The buildings surrounding the alley presented bleak, soot-encrusted faces toward us and cast elaborate shadows that made the alley seem even cooler and more sinister than it needed to be. I wished I had a heavier coat. At the last curve before Wrightwood, Scott grabbed my arm and pointed. I saw a row of behemoth-sized plastic garbage cans. In the gathered shadows behind them at ground level, I saw a hint of blue fabric.
Scott hurried over and moved one of the containers. Behind it was Brad. Together we stooped over him. He was on his back. I saw blood seeping from a wound above his left ear. The seam on the right sleeve of his jacket had been ripped open.
“How bad is it?” Scott asked.
“Let's get those two fags!” a voice called.
I looked up to see five guys who all looked to be in their mid to late teens approaching us from the Wrightwood Avenue end of the alley. It is far too common for gangs of young straight guys to come into gay neighborhoods, hang around, and wait for gay people to beat up. These guys must have known the exit for the Womb, that the alley was rarely used and waited for victims.
I stood up and faced them. I felt powerful and invulnerable as adrenaline rushed through me. I didn't see any weapons. I knew that Scott and I could take care of any five unarmed teenagers.
“Let's take them,” I said.
Scott yelled, “Fire!”
The five teenagers gave him an odd look. They took a couple of paces forward. Scott continued to bellow. Scott's response was certainly one of the ones that was highly recommended by police departments.
A scrawny bepimpled kid, the shortest one of them with the scraggliest hair said, “Nobody's going to hear them. It's a bluff. We can take them.”
Nevertheless, three of them hesitated.
Scott tried shouting “fire” again, but no people appeared at any of the dirt begrimed windows or at the dilapidated and padlocked doors.
“Ain't nobody but us and the fags,” said the skinny kid. He came forward with the confidence that his buddies would follow.
I decided not to wait for rescue or for them to make a concerted move. I launched myself toward the biggest oneâmaybe as tall as me, but at least fifty pounds heavier. He went into a defensive crouch. At the last second, I pivoted to the right away from him and slapped the palm of my hand up and into the bridge of the skinny kid's nose. He collapsed to the ground. One of them grabbed me from behind. I lifted my right foot and brought the heel back
sharply against his shin. He let go. The big one tried to grab me in a bear hug. As he reached, I sent my hand darting for a grasp at his genitals. I connected with soft folds of the front of his jeans and a significant portion of his dick and balls. I did my best to crush them in my grip. He screamed and fell to his knees.
Scott had the wrist of one of the others, held up against the kid's back almost to the neck. The fifth one ran off.
The wailing of fire-truck sirens made a delicious noise. Someone
had
been listening. The firemen called the cops. When they arrived, I told them for sure we wanted to press charges. They took the kids away. The official constabulary was impressed that one of the guys having been attacked was Scott Carpenter the famous baseball player, but seemed a trifle confused when he and I insisted that it was a hate crimeâgayâbashingâand not just an ordinary mugging.
An older cop with grizzled white hair and a limp took down all the information. He wanted us to take Brad to a hospital. Soon after the arrival of all the official personages, Brad sat up. He claimed he didn't want assistance. I wanted him at the police station as soon as possible. It might be going over the police radio about the identity of the mugging victim as a well-known baseball player. That could alert all kinds of people, some of whom were not out to act in our best interest.
“Why'd you run out on us?” I asked at one point while the police were busy loading teenagers into the squadrol, Chicago's version of what in an old gangster movie would have been called a paddy wagon.
Brad shrugged. “I thought I recognized two guys who walked in,” he said. “I panicked. I've never been stuck like this. Glen's dead. I'm really scared. I was afraid to trust you guys. I thought you might sell me out.”
“To whom? For what?” I asked.
He scratched his head again. If I saw that gesture a whole lot more times, I'd shave his head bald myself.
We drove to the police station in a blue-and-white cop car. Scott and I sat in the backseat and Brad up front next to a cop, who was more than delighted to ignore the gay aspects of what had occurred and concentrate on the fact that he had an all-star pitcher in the back of his car. We talked baseball for the mercifully short trip to the station.
My lawyer met us at the admitting desk. Todd shooed away all the solicitous and inquiring cops, and asked for and got a private room to talk to us.
“What the hell is going on?” he asked when we were finally alone.
I told him the story while Scott and Brad slumped in gray metal folding chairs, in a gray-walled room, with a painted gray wooden table.
Todd was tall and waspishly thin. His charcoal trousers were held up by black suspenders, stretched over a white shirt. He wore a perfectly knotted tie. He'd spread his gray suit coat over a chair. I'd only ever seen him dressed as if for court. If I asked him about his attire, I knew he'd say that for a trip to the police station, it never hurt to look one's best. It might be impressive at the right moment.
He wore glasses with thin gold rims. His sunken cheeks and crinkles around his eyes added to the impression he gave everyone that, with a few minor alterations, he could have been anyone's maiden aunt. He often sounded like it, too.
After I finished my story, he thought for several minutes, then said, “I'll be right back.”
He returned in five minutes with two uniformed cops who escorted Brad out.
“I need to talk to you guys alone,” Todd said after they left the room.
“Brad might try to run,” I said.
“I called in a favor,” Todd said. “The commander of the police district and I have worked together before. Throwing Scott's name around didn't hurt. Those two guys will keep him safe.”
Todd rested his skinny butt on the top of the table. I stood near the door. Scott remained in the chair.
“What have you found out?” I asked.
“Several bits of information,” Todd said. “First, old man Proctor is generally regarded as an honest real-estate dealer. No known shady connections. As Lester said last night, Mrs. Proctor's in the same business as her sort of ex-husband and the two of them are incredible rivals.”
“Like Blake and Alexis on
Dynasty,”
I said.
Todd frowned. He didn't approve of popular culture. In music he preferred Gregorian chant. Anything tuneful later than 1899 was anathema to him. He on occasion deigned to watch a silent movie but hadn't been to a talking movie since his freshman year of high school. He spent his free moments rereading Samuel Richardson or all thirty-two of Sir Walter Scott's novels in the order they were published.
“It's a classic case of two separated people into each other viciously and irrevocably,” Todd said. “I found out that before their marriage they were competitors. My source says that it was a strange union. In the early years of the marriage, Mr. Proctor hired a gigolo to catch her in a compromising position. Meanwhile, she hired a prostitute to do the same to him. In this case, a picture might be worth a thousand words, but it could also be worth millions of bucks. Eventually, they wound up trading pictures, realized what they'd done, and had a secret meeting in Hong Kong to try and make peace.”
“How'd you find out all this stuff?” I asked.
“My accountant is the smartest lesbian on this continent. She knows an enormous number of secrets about rich people. I have her looking into both Proctors' dealings for illegality of any kind. If it's there to be found, she'll find it.”
Todd took off his glasses, pulled out a handkerchief, and polished his lenses. When he had them settled back on his
nose, he continued, “They discovered they'd turned each other on with their aggressiveness. Sort of fellow cutthroats. Piranhas in bed with each other. For a few years they tried to stay apart, but the attraction between them remained incredibly powerful.”
“Sounds nuts,” Scott said.
“People get turned on by some odd things,” Todd said. “They ended up getting married and even had kids, Glen and Bill. The marriage didn't really put an end to their competition. Eventually they dueled for their kids' affection. For a couple of years, they holed up in separate wings of that big mansion up in Lake Forest.”
“What ended the marriage?” I asked.
“They aren't divorced. That's why I said sort of ex-husband. They're separated. Haven't lived together in five years.”
“Why not divorce and be done with it?” Scott asked.
“Who knows?” Todd said. “Business? A sick attraction? Power? Could be anything. Reportedly, they would do anything to hurt each other in business.”
“Nuts!” Scott said.
“That may be,” Todd said. “What I also found out is that they were both interested in several large deals down in Mexico lately especially with the North American Free Trade Agreement that was signed recently. My source says that the son, Glen, was sent down by Daddy to do some work for him, although it wasn't clear whether it was licit or illicit work. As an older son, Glen supposedly was quite a disappointment to his father.”
“I don't suppose he dreamed about having a drug-addict, has-been baseball player for a kid,” I said.
“Not a dream come true,” Todd agreed.
“So how does that affect us?” Scott asked.
“I'm not sure,” Todd said. “The kid comes back from Mexico and says he is in trouble and does not run home to Mommy or Daddy. I would think they've got enough money to cover up almost anything.”
“Enough cash to buy off an unhappy South American drug lord?” I asked.
Todd shrugged. “From the way you describe Glen Proctor, he seemed to be living out some Terry and the Pirates fantasy.”
“Maybe he was just trying to win his parents' love and affection,” Scott said.
“You have an invitation to talk to Mrs. Proctor?” Todd asked.
I nodded.
“Then go talk to her. She might know something that will help. The people after you have to be placated. I'm not sure how you go about doing that.”
We discussed that for half an hour but got nowhere.
The old cop with the limp came in and said, “We got a mob of reporters out here, want to talk to Mr. Carpenter about what's going on.”
“You going to hide it was a gay-bashing?” Todd asked Scott.
“No,” Scott said. “But I'm not sure I want to talk to them now.”
“Whoever's after us has probably heard where we are,” I said.
Todd agreed.
We left the room. The cop limped over and pointed out the window. “Minicams are here.”
I glanced out at the crowd of milling reporters. I saw a few I recognized from the ten o'clock news on different stations. I also saw several people in the ubiquitous charcoal gray suits I had come to associate with those people after us. If they were minions of South American drug dealers, they did not fit the cliche look as presented on so many American television shows. They looked neat, clean, and respectable. I didn't see the big guy with the blond mustache and bald head.
“I can get you out the back,” our cop buddy said and left to arrange it.
“Can we get police protection?” Scott asked.
“Probably not,” Todd said.
“We should hire personal bodyguards,” Scott said.
“I've already taken care of it,” Todd said. “Guards may simply draw attention to you, but we've got to at least try.”
“You trust these guys?” Scott asked.
“I've used this company before,” Todd said. “When I called today, I didn't say who they'd be protecting. They have no way of knowing that I'm your personal lawyer. I trust them. Protection is only a temporary solution. If these people want to kill you, they will. You've got to try to find them so you can negotiate. You've got to find out how Glen managed to connect you with what he was into, and what to give these guys to make them go away. I do not have high hopes.”