Authors: Armistead Maupin
Tags: #General, #Gay, #Fiction, #Social Science, #Gay Studies
She nodded. “I thought it would discourage him from seeking out Simon. I’m afraid I was wrong about that. It only sent him into a fury.” She cast a scolding glance at the father of her son. “He has such a temper, that one.”
If there was something appropriate to say under the circumstances, Michael couldn’t think of it. Miss Treves sensed his discomfort and smiled sympathetically. “It’s a bit much, isn’t it?”
He waited a moment longer before asking: “What do you want me to tell the police, then?”
“Everything,” she replied. “Except the reason he came here.” She turned to Wilfred. “That won’t make matters any worse for your father, love. They were both drunk—obviously—and they got into a senseless fracas. Bunny was wandering by on the pavement and … made too much noise, which … distressed your father … and they began to fight. They’ll see that he died of a heart attack, I’m sure.”
Michael wasn’t so sure, “But couldn’t they trace him to Simon?”
“How? I haven’t seen him myself for over twenty years. They have no reason whatsoever to link him with me if …”
“What if Wilfred’s father comes back?”
The kid shook his head. “He won’t, mate.”
Miss Treves gave him a pitying look. “He might, love. I doubt if the police would hold him completely responsible for …”
“Doesn’t matter. I don’t care.”
“Of course you care. Don’t be silly.”
Wilfred smiled and shook his head.
Miss Treves raised herself to a sitting position, then sought the floor with her tiny feet. She wobbled a little standing up—because of the brandy, no doubt—but her resolve seemed firm as she strode toward the corpse.
“What are you doing?” Michael asked.
She knelt next to the body. “Looking for something.”
As she searched Bunny Benbow’s pockets, Michael grew increasingly nervous. “I don’t think you should do that. They might be able to tell if …”
“We were looking for identification,” she said curtly. “That’s perfectly understandable. Here!” She had found what she wanted: Benbow’s ragged clipping of the
Mirror
story—
ROVAL RADIOMAN ON FRISCO PLEASURE BINGE
. She handed it to Michael. “Burn it, will you, love?”
Michael stuffed it into his pocket. “Is there anything else on him?”
Her frisking produced only a few coins and a St. Christopher medallion. She brushed off her hands and stood up. “Well, now … are we clear on everything?”
“I think so,” said Michael.
She turned to Wilfred. “How about you, love?”
The kid nodded.
“Good. Then I’ll just slip back to …”
“Wait a minute,” blurted Michael. “Where should the body be when the police arrive?”
“My, yes … well … I suppose we should put him back in the hallway, don’t you? That way you can say he burst in when … the lad’s father opened the door. Of course, you could very well have brought him in here … no, I think the hallway’s best. Would you mind awfully?”
So Michael and Wilfred dragged Bunny Benbow back to the site of his untimely demise.
“Splendid.” Miss Treves beamed as she supervised the arrangement of the corpse. “That looks quite natural, I think.” She headed toward the door. “I’ll just toddle on home. Would you ring me, love, when the police have gone?”
“Wait …”
“The number’s on the fridge under ‘Nanny.’ “
“Oh … O.K.”
“I’m just around the corner. Chepstow Villas.” She gave him a supportive smile. “Keep your pecker up, love. It’ll all be over soon.”
She reached for the doorknob—reached
up
—then froze and turned around again, gazing wistfully at the body as she spoke: “Goodbye, Bunny. Safe journey home.” Her eyes glimmered wetly as she glanced back at Michael. “Such a child, that one. Such a big, overgrown child.”
All She Gets
M
ARY ANN WAS SLICING KIWI FRUIT WHEN MICHAEL
called.
“You sound so close,” she said. “Are you sure you’re in London?”
“I’m sure.” His tone seemed tinged with irony.
“Is something the matter?”
“No … I’m fine. What time is it there?”
“Oh … suppertime.”
“Is Simon there?”
“No. Why would he be here?”
“I meant … around.”
“Oh.” She must have sounded far too defensive. “He and Brian are out running, actually. We’re having Simon to dinner tonight. Wait a minute … what time is it
there?”
“Late. Or early, rather. I just saw a bobby to the door.”
“A
bobby?”
She giggled. “Sounds like you’re doing all right.”
“Not that way.”
“Oh.”
“A man had a heart attack in our hallway. He was in a fight, and he died right outside my door.”
“Oh, Mouse … how awful.”
“Yeah.”
“Are you O.K.?”
“Sure.”
“You don’t sound O.K.”
“Well … I’m rattled, I guess. I’m not used to being interrogated.”
“What did they want to know?”
“You know … just what I heard.”
“What did you hear?”
“Not much, really. Just a couple of drunks yelling.”
“Was it anybody you knew?”
“No. Well … the other guy lived upstairs. He ran away when … the guy had the heart attack. It’s over now, anyway. How are
you,
Babycakes?”
“Fine. Well … O.K. Nothing to speak of, one way or the other.”
“Is Simon enjoying himself?”
“Oh, yes. As far as I know.”
“I’ve got a message for him. Tell him Fabia Dane slopped by. She used to be Fabia … uh … Pumphrey, but she got married and she wants him to …”
“Hang on. I’d better write this down.” She scrambled for a pencil. “What were those names again?”
He spelled them for her. “She’s having a summer party at her new country place. She’s sending him an invitation later. Her new husband makes potato chips. And she’s a cunt.”
“Is that part of the message?”
“That’s a footnote. I think he knows it already.”
“O.K. Anything else?”
“That’s it. She looked to me like a jilted girlfriend.”
“Oh, really?”
“Uh-huh.”
“What was she like?”
“Uh … cunt wasn’t enough?”
“Well …”
“An upper-class cunt. How’s that?”
“Great.” She giggled, pleased with this elaboration. She needed all the reinforcement she could get. “When will we see you again?”
“Tuesday night, I guess. Tell Simon I’ll leave the keys with his nanny.”
“His
nanny?”
He laughed. “That’s a whole different story. She’s his former nanny, actually. If you try to reach me after tomorrow, I won’t be here. I’m going to the country for Easter.”
“How elegant.”
“Maybe. I’m not exactly sure where I’m going. I mean … I know where I’m going, but I don’t know what I’m going to find.”
“That makes sense.”
“No. Get this: I think Mona’s there.”
“Mona?
Our
Mona?”
“I think so, but there’s no way of knowing for sure. She won’t talk to me.”
“You’ve seen her?”
“Just briefly. From a distance. Her hair is blond now, and she cuts it like Princess Di.”
“I can’t believe it.”
“It’s macabre, isn’t it?”
“How do you know she’s in this country place?”
“I don’t. It’s kind of a long shot. I don’t know … at least I’ll see the countryside.”
“Are you going alone?”
“I don’t know.”
“C’mon, Mouse …”
“I might go with a friend.”
She heard someone whoop in the background. “Uh, Mouse … who was that?”
“Who do you think? The friend.”
“He just found out he’s going?”
“Right.”
“He sounds pleased.” He sounded delirious, in fact; the whooping hadn’t stopped. “How old is he?”
“Eleven, at the moment. Wilfred, get down from there.”
“Wilfred, huh? How English can you get? He isn’t really eleven, is he?”
“No.”
She waited for him to elaborate, then said: “Is that all I get?”
“That’s all you get. Until I’m home.”
“Is there good dish?” she asked.
“Some. Plenty, actually. I’m not sure you’ll believe it.”
“Like what?”
“When I get home, Babycakes.”
“You’re no fun,” she pouted.
Outfoxed
G
OOD FRIDAY CAME, GRAY AND DRIZZLY. MICHAEL
stood on a platform at Paddington Station, mesmerized by the soot-streaked silver trains as they thundered into the great glass cavern. The depot was swarming with haggard Londoners, all intent upon an Easter somewhere else.
He checked the time. Eleven fifty-six. The train for Oxford would leave in seventeen minutes. He set his suitcase down and perused the other passengers queuing at Platform 4, Wilfred was plainly not among them.
They had agreed to meet al eleven-thirty, just to be safe, so the kid was almost half an hour overdue. If they missed this train, Michael realized, they would miss their connecting train in Oxford. He chided himself for trusting the kid to run off on his “last-minute errand,” whatever it was.
He wouldn’t get in a snit about it. He hauled his suitcase to the newsstand and lost himself in the screaming headlines of the tabloids. One said;
RANDY ANDY’S ROYAL DIP
. It featured a disappointing telephoto shot of Prince Andrew in a bathing suit. Another pictured the prince’s porn star girlfriend and said:
KOO D’ETAT.
He bought an apple and checked the time again. Ten minutes till departure. What the hell was going on? Had Wilfred changed his mind? Or misunderstood his instructions? What if Wilfred’s father had come home?
The last thought was too creepy to pursue. He returned to the platform and saw that the train had arrived, so he paced alongside it, growing antsier by the second.
It better be serious,
he told himself,
but not too serious.
He couldn’t leave without knowing what had happened. He would just have to cancel the trip.
He approached a conductor. “Excuse me. I’m trying to get to Moreton-in-Marsh.”
“Right you are. This is the one. Change at Oxford.”
“I know, but if I miss this train …?”
“Then you’ll miss Moreton-in-Marsh, sir. Till tomorrow, that is.”
“Shit.”
“Expecting someone, are you?”
“Yeah. I was. Thanks.” He skulked away, supremely disappointed, then stopped in his tracks as he caught sight of Wilfred’s bronze-brown ringlets bobbing through the crowd.
“There
you are.”
The kid’s expression was appropriately sheepish. “Sorry, mate.” He was wearing jeans and a bright yellow sleeveless sweater with a matching bow tie. He carried a canvas satchel under one arm and a large cardboard box under the other.
Michael ditched his lecture and grinned at him. “We’re not immigrating, you know.”
Without answering, Wilfred boarded the train and strode through the carriages until he found one that was sparsely populated. “How’s this?” he asked.
“Fine.”
The kid took the seat by the window and stowed the satchel beneath him. He kept the cardboard box in his lap. “It took longer than I thought,” he said.
“For what?”
A cryptic smile. Then Wilfred tapped the side of the box.
Michael looked down at it. It was wrapped in masking tape, and there were four or five little holes in the top. The light dawned. “Jesus, Wilfred …
if that’s what I …”
“Keep it down, mate.”
“They’ll throw us off.”
“No they won’t.”
“It’s gotta be … against the law or something.”
The kid shrugged. “You’re good with cops.”
Michael stared at him incredulously, then looked down again. “Are you sure he can’t get out of there?”
The kid nodded.