Hunny said into the phone, “Give us just another minute, okay?” A few seconds later, he yelped, “Oh no!” and hung up the phone. “They said Marylou invited them into the house for some good weed, and they’re on their way in!”
That’s when we all heard the sound of a woman’s high-pitched shriek.
The Focks cameraman lay on the porch moaning and clutching his chest, and the woman with him was prone behind the porch railing, yelling into her cell phone, “Send the police! Send the police!” The 911 operator must have asked her where she was, because she said, “It’s on my gPs! It’s in the car on my gPs!”
I asked Hunny to remind us of what his house number on Moth Street was, and he said 126, and the woman yelled into her phone, “One twenty-six Moth Street, in Albany!”
We had all heard a car screech away, but there was no sign of the vehicle by now.
Hunny switched on the porch light, and I looked down at the whimpering young man on the floor. I got on my cell and told 911 that in addition to the police we would need an ambulance.
I said, “Hunny, is anybody in the house a doctor or nurse?”
The remaining partygoers were crowded just inside the front door, chattering and peering out.
“No.”
The woman with the cell phone came over and said, “Bert!
Bert! Don’t die on us. Bill needs you. We all need you.” She had a hard time bending down because the jeans she was wearing were so tight.
As I got down on my knees to examine the cameraman’s soaked T-shirt, I saw with relief that the shooting was not what it first appeared to be. The mess on the man’s chest smelled not like blood but like paint. I touched it, and I said, “You’ve been hit with a paintball pellet. It exploded but it didn’t penetrate your body.”
“But, hey, this fucking hurts,” the cameraman groaned. “I hurt my back. It hurts.”
“They tried to kill us!” the woman said. “My God.”
50 Richard Stevenson
“Who fired the paintball? What did you see?”
“I think it was a car. We were just coming up the steps.”
Then I remembered that the man dressed as Marylou Whitney had been ushering the newsies into the house, but where was the Saratoga and Palm Beach socialite?
Art had come out now with a flashlight, and he was shining the beam around the porch and the wooden front steps. More red paintballs had struck the porch railing and some of the shingles on the front of the house. A border of marigolds ran along the concrete walkway from the steps down to the sidewalk, also paint-splattered, and it was when Art shone the light down there that we saw the bottom of Marylou’s pink gown. Her legs were sticking out from under the forsythia bush below the porch.
Hunny raced down the steps, shouting, “Marylou! Marylou!”
A muffled voice came out from under the bush. “Hunny, I’m stuck. I fell off the steps, and my necklace is caught on something.”
“Oh, girl, you look like the Wicked Witch of the West and the house fell on you.”
“Somebody shot a gun.”
“But it was just paint, Donald says. Were you hit? Are you wounded?”
“I don’t know, darling.”
Now the woman in the tight jeans was on her cell phone again, and I heard her say something about “they tried to kill us”
and “a transvestite may have set us up.”
I asked Art for his flashlight and then crawled under the bush to find out what was holding onto Marylou. Her diamond necklace had become entangled on a forsythia branch, and while she aimed the flashlight I broke off bits of the branch and tried to free the Whitney jewels without damaging them further.
Marylou said, “I know we have known each other for such a short, short time, but I have to tell you, whoever you are, that I think I am falling in love.”
CoCkeyed
51
“Okey-dokes.”
She had scratches on her neck and jaw and her wig was seriously askew, but Marylou did not seem to have been hit with a paint pellet.
“You’re sure you’re okay?” I asked.
“I am feeling a bit moist, but that may be from the excitement.”
I yelled, “She seems to be uninjured. We’ll be with you in a second.”
Hunny said, “Maybe the attackers will be back. Oh, where are the Albany police when you need them!”
There was a sudden brightness, and as Marylou and I wriggled free of the forsythia and I helped her to her feet, I saw the woman in the tight jeans wielding a video camera with a light atop it and recording our struggles. Apparently this would be Marylou’s debut on Focks News, and mine also.
I said, “I heard you speculating on who the paint shooter was after. It’s a safe bet that they were not shooting at you but at Hunny or Art or their friends. No one even knew you were here.”
“Who are you?” she snapped. “I need a name please. And your position here.”
“Don Strachey. I’m a private investigator working for Hunny.
Billionaires attract bad people occasionally, and that’s why I am present. Based on your remarks on the phone just now, it sounds to me as if you are among the bad people Hunny needs to be protected from.”
“I’m Jane Trinkus and I don’t need lectures from you on how to do my job. If Bill was here, he would make short work of a dickhead like you. As his representative, I am telling you to watch out or I will do the same.”
“I’m making a note.”
There were no sirens, but the cop car that turned off Transformer came up Moth Street fast, flashing like a meteor.
Art said, “Finally, Alice Blue Gown.”
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There were plenty of parking places along the street, but the patrol car double parked and two officers got out. “Who made the 911 call?” the older one asked.
Trinkus identified herself as a producer for
The Bill O’Malley
Show
and said, “We know that we are not liked in the homosexual community, but this is the first time anyone actually tried to kill us. My cameraman Bert Spatz is lying on the porch severely wounded, and I am just lucky to be alive.”
The cop indicated to his junior officer to go up and check on the cameraman, while Hunny said, “Somebody shot paint pellets from a car and raced off. Very
noir
-ish, even without the fog and other cheesy effects. But I don’t think they were shooting at these Bill O’Malley lovelies. I won the lottery this week, and I’ve had nothing but trouble since then. I have a private detective, in fact, Don Strachey here, who is looking into a number of unfortunates who have shown up since Wednesday.”
The cop acknowledged me with a nod but was more interested in Hunny. “So you’re Huntington Van Horn?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“Congratulations, sir. Yes, I’ve heard of this happening.
Lottery winners are shown on TV, and then people start bothering them and trying to walk off with a piece of the winnings, legally or illegally.”
Now Trinkus was on the phone again with somebody, saying,
“We may be in danger. The cops up here are in bed with the gays.
Maybe somebody should wake Bill up. This is incredible!”
There were more flashing lights, and an ambulance rolled up the street and halted behind the police cruiser. A young man and a young woman in uniform got out quickly and the cop pointed to the porch.
The officer, a Sergeant Filio, took statements from everyone who had witnessed the paintball attack. Trinkus stuck to her theory that the Focks News crew were “shot at” by radical gays, probably people who Hunny phoned and alerted that Focks News was about to ambush him. The officer said he just wanted CoCkeyed
53
a narrative of what actually happened, and when, and he said detectives would soon arrive to question witnesses and listen to any ideas they had on who might have done the shooting.
After Marylou gave her version of events, the cop said, “Mrs.
Whitney, you probably shouldn’t leave Saratoga without some kind of security whenever you are wearing your jewels.”
“Oh, officer, thank you so much for such sound advice.”
Trinkus said, “That’s not Marylou Whitney. It’s a fucking drag queen. Are you serious?”
Sergeant Filio said, “I’m just going to pretend I never heard that,” and winked at Marylou.
The cop turned his attention to the eMts, who were now hauling the cameraman down the steps on a gurney, and Art said to Hunny under his breath, “I know that cop. He used to date Malcolm Thibidoux.”
“Where are you taking him?” Trinkus yelled after the eMts as they slid the gurney into the ambulance, and they told her Albany Medical Center.
“Is he going to be okay?”
“Should be. He says his back hurts. Probably from when he fell over. But the paint didn’t get in his eyes or anything”
“Be brave, Bert, be brave,” she called after him. “Bill will be so supportive of you.”
Another police car arrived as the ambulance was pulling away, and two plainclothes officers led us through our recitations a second time. Again, Jane Trinkus speculated that she and her cohorts had been shot at by “gay terrorists.”
Hunny and I had a quick, private back-and-forth as to whether we should mention to the detectives Stu Hood, Mason Doebler and Hunny’s several other assorted boyfriends and tricks who had made vague or specific threats over the past three days. We decided not to. Hunny said, “They’re not all model citizens, but now that I am a billionaire I guess I can deal with them on my own, no? With your help, Donald, I mean. And if any of these
54 Richard Stevenson
lads turns out to be into paintball wars, you can hand him over to the girls in blue. Why stir up trouble for these unfortunate youths, many of whom are practically middle-aged by now, and perfectly harmless?”
I guessed what Hunny was also saying was, let’s not go poking a stick into the busy hive of his sexual past, for God knew what else might come buzzing out to chase Hunny up and down his hectic erotic landscape. Keeping this part of his life separate for the moment and away from the police did seem to make sense.
Especially given that Hunny had so many people angry at him at this point that focusing on a few unstable tricks and rent boys just felt laughably limited.
“Well, at least Hunny’s not on
Meet the Press
,” Timmy said, indicating the kitchen television set. “Not yet.”
He had one eye on two Sunday morning health-care-debate talking heads, another eye on the
Times Union
spread out on the kitchen table, and a third eye — I was always amazed that he could do this — on his masala tea, a relic of his long-ago Peace Corps days, that was busy coagulating in a large mug that sat between us. I was having coffee and an English muffin, and I was fretting over Tom Friedman’s dark forecasts in the
Times
. Global warming, with its inundated cities and wars over vanishing natural resources, was a good momentary distraction from Hunny.
“These people are just bonkers,” Timmy said, as he read the
TU
page one story on the Family Preservation Association of Albany County. “They can’t actually believe that the Lottery Commission might take back Hunny’s billion dollars. But they are having a high old time making lottery officials squirm, and they’re getting all kinds of ink for their screwball organization while they’re at it.”
“Ink is who they are.”
“And of course Hunny is a godsend.”
“He is a bit of a right-wing gay caricature. If Hunny hadn’t existed, Rush Limbaugh would have had to invent him. It’s why I think I’m basically glad to be working for him. I mean, in addition to walking away with a tiny portion of his billion dollars.
In a world of gay folks like us who are busily turning queer life in America into a kind of insipid parody of our parents’ dull, stable existences, Hunny is this horrifying creature climbing out of the primordial homo ooze. I have to say that I find him alternately hair-raising and beguiling.”
“Insipid? Donald, do you think our life is insipid?”
“No, I like it. It’s nice. It’s comfortable. I wouldn’t have it any
56 Richard Stevenson
other way.”
“Then what are you saying? Would our lives — and the lives of our gay friends who are like us — be improved if we were all more like Hunny and Art and that gay menagerie they surround themselves with?”
“No. But you know I like to quote Ogden Nash. ‘Home is heaven, and orgies are vile, but I like an orgy once in a while.’
You’ve even been known to quote him yourself in recent years.
If not in Albany, then certainly from time to time on vacation in Thailand.”
He pretended to bristle, then laughed. “Of course we all have a streak of Hunny in us, expressed or unexpressed. But it’s the
flaunting
— there, I said the right-wingers’ word — it’s the flaunting of this life of booze and boys and mayhem that just gets tiresome. And, yes, embarrassing. There, I said that, too. In the straight world, people like Hunny make me embarrassed to be gay.”
“Me too. Except I’m kind of embarrassed to be embarrassed.”
“Yes, you would be. I’d like to be. But I can’t. I’m just embarrassed.”
“The
TU
story doesn’t mention any gay groups in Albany or elsewhere coming to Hunny’s defense. That’s disappointing. I guess they’re embarrassed, too.”
“With his billion dollars,” Timmy said, “Hunny probably doesn’t need any help. He can hire all the help he needs. Like you.”
“Me, and he’s getting a lawyer to deal with the DeCarlo lawsuit. Plus, we agreed that after last night’s paintball episode he should hire some private security people for his house. I put him in touch with Gray Security, and they should have some people over there by now.”
“You said it was unclear who the paint shooter this morning was trying to hit. Only the TV people and the Marylou Whitney impersonator were on the front steps at the time. But isn’t it possible that somebody who hates Hunny just took some CoCkeyed
57
potshots at the house, and they didn’t care who they hit? They just wanted to frighten Hunny and complicate his life?”
“That’s what it looks like. And maybe with a little luck, humiliate a few fags. Not knowing that the Bill O’Malley people were in the line of fire.”