First You Fall: A Kevin Connor Mystery (3 page)

Al en loved to mentor me. He taught me about fine wines, good clothing, gourmet food, and even opera.

He also taught me about myself. One night, we were talking about how I always hated school. I told him about my restlessness, my forgetfulness, and how quickly I’d get bored with whatever the teacher was saying.

Al en told me to hold on and got a book from his shelf. I couldn’t see the cover, but Al en started reading me a quiz from it. Did I have trouble reading things unless they were very interesting or very easy? Did I have difficulty planning and organizing my work? Did I sometimes speak impulsively, only to regret it later? Did my thoughts ever bounce around like a bal in a pinbal machine? Did I have a chronic sense of underachievement?

I felt like he was reading the story of my life.

Al en told me that more than five “yes” answers to the fifteen questions indicated I was a likely sufferer of Adult Attention Deficit Disorder. I had fourteen.

The next day, Al en got me an appointment with a psychiatrist friend of his. Two days later, I took my first Adderal , a long-lasting form of Ritalin. Adderal helps people with AADD function better. It helps us organize our thoughts and focus more acutely.

Immediately, I felt as if a fog in my mind had lifted.

I started getting more organized, accomplishing more. I sent away for information on some master’s programs and was seriously thinking of returning to school.

That’s just one of the many ways Al en changed my life. Now, I was on my way to return his copy of Gore Vidal’s
The City and the Pillar,
a classic book I couldn’t have gotten through before meeting Al en.

But first, I had to figure out how to get there.

Although Al en’s apartment was only a few subway stops from where I was, I made it a general rule not to take the trains. Three years ago, I was the victim of a pretty horrific mugging/gay bashing on the IRT.

As a result, I took a course in self defense using Krav Maga, the Israeli fighting technique, at The Gay and Lesbian Community Center. But the best defense was not to put yourself into a compromising position.

While being little and cute is a valuable asset for a hustler, it isn’t helpful on public transit.

So, the question was, do I walk in the stifling heat, or do I grab a cab?

Hey, I just got a hundred dol ar tip.

“Taxi!”

Pul ing up to Al en’s apartment building, I saw right away that something was wrong. A crowd was gathered on the street, and strobe lights from police cruisers and an ambulance made everything stop-motion.

“You can let me off here,” I said to the driver, half a block from where everyone was gathered. As curious as the next guy, I walked over to see what the fuss was about. In New York, people stop and watch any street drama for as long as they can. Accidents, murders, messy public break-ups, people slipping on ice: they’re al part of the city’s free entertainment.

Which was good because who could afford Broadway anymore?

As I approached the cluster of onlookers, I overheard their remarks. “Oh, how terrible,” an elderly man who lived in Al en’s building said to his wife. I wasn’t sure if he was talking about the emergency or the sight of his miserable-looking spouse in her nightgown.

“He was such a nice man,” a middle-aged woman in shorts and a tank top said to a young girl who looked like her daughter. “I mean, I never met him or anything, but he seemed so nice.”

“That dude is, like, pancake city,” a teenager with four rings in his right eyebrow, and, strangely, no other visible piercings said to his friend.

“What happened,” I asked him.

“Some old guy did a Spiderman off his balcony,” the teenager said. “Only, I guess he ran out of web fluid.”

His friend snorted.

Suddenly, I got an uneasy feeling. Pushing my way to the front of the crowd, I saw something that broke my heart. A body lay on the ground covered by a dark green blanket with NYPD stamped across it.

Only the top of the head was visible, but it was enough for me to recognize familiar gray hair with a kidney-shaped bald spot.

“Al en!” I cried, not even aware that I said it out loud.

I don’t know what I was thinking, but I ran over to the body to embrace it. I heard the crowd give a col ective gasp and I knew I just added considerably to their evening’s entertainment.

“Whoa there, son,” said a middle-aged African-American police officer who ran over to grab me.

“Now, calm down. You know this guy?

“Yes, I think he’s a friend of mine,” I told the officer, whose badge read “Blake.” “His name is Al en Harrington. He lives, lived, in apartment 10K.”

“That’s right,” Officer Blake said. “I’m sorry to say there’s been an accident. Your friend fel from the balcony.”

Tears wel ed up in my eyes. I blinked them back.

Lights from a police car flickered over the officer’s face as I looked at him in disbelief. “What do you mean ‘fel ?’ What happened?”

“Wel , do you know if he’s been upset about anything lately? Or depressed?”

“No, I, God, what are you saying? You think he kil ed himself.” Despite the heat, I felt myself shaking.

“We don’t know anything yet, sir. I’m just asking, is al .”

“No, he was like the happiest guy in the world. He had nothing to, I mean, he would never…” I wanted to tel the officer how strong Al en was, how happy. But thinking of those things made the sadness of his death hit me like, wel , like a body hitting the ground.

That thought was enough to do it. I started crying uncontrol ably. Giant hiccupping sobs that made me sound like a seal.

“Awww, Jeez,” Officer Blake said, embarrassed.

A plump, fiftyish woman standing at the periphery of the crowd ran over with a tissue. She put her arms around me and pul ed me close to her fleshy bosom.

“Poor baby,” she cooed. “Was that your daddy, honey?”

That’s the great thing about street theater. The audience can join the cast at anytime.

“No, he was my friend,” I cried as she hugged me.

It was actual y kind of comforting to be held like that, but then I looked down and saw that she wasn’t wearing any shoes and that her toes were black with dirt. She didn’t smel too good, either.

I disentangled myself from the probably homeless woman’s embrace. “Um, thanks for the tissues. I’m fine now.”

I turned back to Officer Blake. “Listen, you have to find his kil er. There’s no way this guy would hurt himself.”

“Tel you what,” he said, anxious to avoid another scene. “How about you give my partner a statement, and we get this al on the record, OK?”

“OK,” I said, stil feeling shaky. I kind of wanted to go over to Al en and touch him one last time, but I didn’t want to know what lay beneath that police blanket.

I could feel the crowd’s attention divided between watching the body and watching me. I knew that my red-eyed, red-cheeked snotty face was probably quite the sight.

“Hey, Tony,” Office Blake shouted. “Can you come here?”

“Just wait here and he’l be right over,” Officer Blake said. “You can tel everything you know to Officer Rinaldi.”

Then, the past walked towards me.

Tony Rinaldi.

The only man I ever loved.

The only man who ever left me.

Until tonight, when Al en left me, too.

Seeing Tony again was like seeing the dead brought back to life.

He looked at me like he’d seen a ghost, too.

I had just enough time to make out his stil -familiar features before I fainted.

Do Old Flames Still Burn?

OK, I THOUGHT,
back at my apartment, that could have gone worse.

I could, for example, have thrown up on him. That would have been worse. Or my head could have exploded. That would have been worse
and
messier.

Oh, who was I kidding? We don’t see each other for seven years, and I greet him by passing out.

It
couldn’t
have gone worse.

But I had an excuse, right? I mean, first Al en dies, and then Tony appears. There are only so many shocks a system can stand.

As a computer geek, I know al about systems crashing. Too much input and the whole network comes crashing down.

I was definitely suffering from data overload. The attention deficit doesn’t help, either. According to the books, it’s at moments like this that I’m likely to be distracted by a mil ion smal details and forget to focus on the big picture.

Focus, Kevin, focus.

Tony couldn’t have been nicer about the whole thing, but in a detached, professional way. In front of the other cops, he kept cal ing me “sir,” offering to get me water or a chair. Final y, when everyone else drifted away, he whispered to me, “Listen, I know we have to talk. How about I get your address and take your statement at your place? You OK to get home? I could have someone take you.”

I told him I was fine. I gave him my address and he said he’d be over as soon as he finished up at “the scene.” He figured it would be another hour, hour and a half, tops.

That was an hour ago. Plenty of time for me to replay our conversation in my head a mil ion times.

What did he mean by “we have to talk?” Did he mean about Al en or about us? And why come to my place to do it? Couldn’t we have spoken just as wel there? Does he always interview witnesses at their homes? I didn’t see him inviting himself over to Homeless Lady’s house, although I guess she didn’t have one, being homeless and al .

I thought for a moment about whether homeless shelters counted as “homes” before I realized I was getting distracted again.

Focus.

I ran around the apartment, putting the dirty dishes under the sink (no time to wash them), making the bed, and taking the porn off the nightstands. I considered changing into something sexier, but I figured that would look contrived. But I did comb my hair and wash the snot off my face.

I was doing some push-ups to pump up my pecs when I stopped myself.

Why was I bothering? He probably has another boyfriend by now. Even if Tony was interested, and he did nothing to signal that he was, would I want him back? It took me a long time and a lot of tears to get over him. Did I want to put myself through that again?

Tony Rinaldi had caused me nothing but pain.

Which is why I couldn’t understand the feelings I had the whole time we were talking in front of Al en’s building.

The lightheadedness. The pounding heart. Even under the terrible circumstances that had brought us together, the sheer joy I felt seeing his face again.

That squishy feeling in the pit of my stomach. I wondered if an antacid would help.

Shit.

Tony knocked ten minutes later. “Hi,” he said, immediately extending his arm for a handshake.

Making it clear that he didn’t want a hug.

In front of Al en’s building, I couldn’t get a good look at Tony. But standing in the light of my hal way, I saw him clearly. He looked incredible. His boyish features had matured, maybe hardened a little. His cheekbones were more defined, his lips even ful er.

His body was stil prime. Wide shoulders tapered to narrow hips. I could see the bulge of his biceps and the flatness of his stomach underneath his white dress shirt.

I knew the view would only improve from the back.

There was also something a little haunted about him, a little tired. Maybe it was just the years, or the lateness of the day, or the stress of the job. Maybe it was al the work that having to deal with Al en’s death would bring. Maybe it was the heat.

Maybe it was seeing me again.

I shook his hand.

“Come in,” I said. “It’s good to see you. I think.” I gave a little shrug.

“Yeah,” he said, a slight chuckle in his voice. “It’s good to see you, too.”

“But weird.”

“Yeah, weird,” he agreed.

We stood at opposite ends of the room like boxers waiting for the bel to ring. I knew why I didn’t want to get any closer. I didn’t trust my hands to behave themselves.

“How about something cold?” I offered.

“That would be great.”

I got us both beers. When I returned, Tony was sitting in a chair across from the sofa. I handed him his drink and took a sip of mine. I licked my lips. As Alicia Silverstone so memorably said in
Clueless,
anything that draws attention to your mouth is good.

“I’m breaking a couple of rules by having this now,” Tony observed as he opened his bottle. “I’m here on official business, you know.”

He was joking, but he was also making sure I knew why he was here: Sorry guy, nothing personal. I felt something inside me sink, but I wil ed myself not to react.

“Too bad about your friend,” he said. “How did you know him?”

I’m not ashamed of what I do for a living, but it never even occurred to me to tel Tony how I real y met Al en Harrington. I figured I’d get the false origin of our relationship out of the way as soon as possible, so I could stick to the later, more relevant, truths. “We met at a party. We’d get together once a month or so for dinner, a show, whatever. He was a great guy.”

Tony fidgeted. “Some of his neighbors said that he was, uh, gay.”

“Yeah, so?”

“Wel , I was just wondering, if you two were, um, boyfriends.”

“No. He was just a friend. I told you”

“Just checking.” Tony took a long swig from his bottle. “You’re probably not even into that stuff anymore, right?”

“Friends?” I asked stupidly.