One Dead Drag Queen (13 page)

“Are you saying she’s a random nut or that an antiabortion group planted her in all these jobs? That’s awful deep cover and tremendous long-range planning. The clinics must do background checks before they hire people.”

“I would presume they do,” Kearn said, “but I don’t know for sure. Backgrounds can be faked. Random nuts can slip through lots of cracks.”

“I don’t think you’ve got much there. Do you really think one of those true believers could work in one of those places?”

“If they thought it was the best way to enhance their cause.”

“Maybe.” I wasn’t convinced.

“Another thing I’ve got. I had one of the people at the station run down the names of the owners and tenants of all the buildings that were destroyed and those on the blocks around them. I’m going to go over it for any anomalies.”

“Like what?”

“The police will probably see as much as I do, but you never know what small snippet of information will break this case.” Kearn shrugged. “It’s like the last grain of sand that shifts a fraction of an inch and causes the earth to quake.” While taking a sip from his coffee, he nodded toward the half-filled row of counter stools. “The third guy from the door has been staring at our table for some time. You know him, or did two of your security people follow us?”

I glanced as casually as I could. When the man saw my look, he got up off his stool and approached our table. I tensed immediately.

He looked to be around fifty and about seventy-five pounds overweight. He wore a red windbreaker, a blue, crew-neck T-shirt with a pocket, and white Bermuda shorts. He poked a finger at me. “You’re Scott Carpenter.” He began to reach into his pocket.

Oscar was there in seconds. The man was supine on the floor in less time than that. The befuddled man looked up and held out a pen. “I wanted your autograph.”

Oscar helped him up. The guy was embarrassed and pissed.

I apologized, signed the autograph, and offered to get him a baseball signed by the whole team. Finally, mollified, he waddled away.

Kearn said, “If you’re going to bring protection to our meetings, then they will have to be much less obvious. And you’ll have to hire a firm with better operatives. I spotted your guy within two minutes.”

“Then why did you keep talking to me?”

“I want an exclusive interview. I’m looking for any angle.”

I gazed at him carefully.

He continued, “I’m in a profession that is ruled by tabloid journalism, but after what I’ve been through, I’m not sure that should be all. I’m looking for human interest with dignity, not sensationalism. They haven’t snuffed out every shred of my integrity.”

I guess I wanted to believe him. More for his sake than mine. I looked at his overly coiffed hair, his professionally manicured fingers, and his perfectly cut clothes. Being clean and neat is not a sure sign of corruption or of being gay, but too many things about this guy were a little too perfect. Rolling
in the mud in tattered blue jeans, worn sneakers, and a ripped T-shirt aren’t qualifications for sainthood, but I know which one I trust more. He got up to leave, and I stood up with him. We shook hands.

“I’m just offering you some help,” Kearn said.

“I’m interested, but I’m not sure who to trust.”

“When I get information, I’ll share it with you. I’d appreciate it if you’d call me when you know anything.” Kearn handed me his card. “That’s got my home, work, and pager number on it. Call anytime.”

I got back to the hospital around six. Tom’s mother was on duty. A couple of relatives were getting a bite to eat. In the next couple hours numerous people from Tom’s work stopped by. Meg Swarthmore, one of his best friends at school, stayed for an hour. She filled me in on more gossip about the people at school than I ever cared to remember. She kept saying, “Be sure to tell him this when he wakes up.”

I must have given an annoyed sigh at one point because she finally ran down. “I guess I’m rattling on,” she said, “because I’m scared. I want him to wake up.”

“I’ve been talking to him while he’s asleep,” I said. “I understand the impulse.”

Edwina Jenkins, his principal, came by. I told her, even if he woke up in the next five minutes, he wouldn’t be in the rest of the week. She made sympathetic noises and left as quickly as was decently allowable.

Several of our gay friends showed up around eight—they were sweet and sympathetic. Then the phone rang about eight-thirty. It was the switchboard. They said they had an urgent call from someone named Myrtle Mae. Before I could tell them to take a message, I heard him say, “It is absolutely
vital that I speak to them.” His drag-queen persona was on high shrill and fast-forward. Maybe for some people it’s hard to say no to a drag queen on a mission, not me. I hesitated, trying to think of a polite way to tell him to shove it. Unfortunately, the operator took my silence for a yes. She put him through.

“I found something out that you might be interested in knowing, and I know Tom will be when he wakes up.”

“What?” I could barely get the word through gritted teeth.

“Dr. Susan Clancey was supposed to be at the clinic.” He paused as if the import of this would be readily understood by me. It wasn’t.

“Who is she?” I asked.

Dramatic sigh. “You don’t know?”

I didn’t give him the benefit of my own dramatic sigh. “If I knew, I wouldn’t have asked.”

“Tom will know. Susan Clancey is notorious for performing late-term abortions. Her visit to Chicago was supposed to be kept secret for obvious reasons. If it was known she was coming to town, there would have been large demonstrations. Her presence has caused near onto pitched battles in some cities.”

“But no one here knew?”

“That’s what I said. However, what if that knowledge leaked out?”

“Are you sure about this information? Where did you hear it?”

“A source. Tell Tom when he wakes up. He’ll know it’s important.”

Myrtle Mae hung up. The image of him stuffing candy bars into his mouth at last year’s pride parade came into my mind. At the time I’d dared to comment that what he’d draped over himself for the day looked like a cheap bedsheet.
He claimed it was the sheerest and most expensive silk. That day a friend of ours who cared enough to count claimed Myrtle Mae had eaten at least a dozen candy bars in less than two hours. I would take Myrtle Mae as seriously as I felt necessary, which wasn’t much.

I turned my attention back to the friends who were there and enjoyed them until nine o’clock, when they left, then I went down to the cafeteria to get some food.

13

When I awoke for the second time, I was looking out a darkened window. It was night. Dim light came from somewhere behind me. I felt much more alert. I realized I was hooked up to various devices. I deduced I was in a hospital. I was wearing a hospital gown, which after a woman’s girdle is the most singularly demeaning garment designed by man. I hadn’t owned a pair of pajamas since I was ten.

I heard distant voices. I thought I recognized Scott’s and my mother’s. They were murmuring low and were outside my line of vision.

I thought about calling out to them, but that seemed as if it would take too much energy. I had to piss, but didn’t see a bedpan. I let that idea drift off. I tried to think back to how I got here.

The last thing I remembered before waking up the first time was working in the Human Services Clinic.

I’d just had a meeting in an upstairs office with Gayle Bennet, a woman who did not like me, did not like my being
there, and did not mind making her feelings about it obvious. Unfortunately, that particular day I was trying to get a project done for my friend Alvana Redpath, and I’d promised Alvana I’d be nice to Gayle. This was important to Alvana because she was trying to date Gayle. I kept telling Alvana that I thought Gayle was straight, but Alvana was smitten.

I’d been fuming as I came back down to the basement because Gayle had been unnecessarily rude, and I had swallowed my annoyance in deference to Alvana. I’d seldom met overt hostility at the clinic, but Gayle had said something about how stupid men could be. All I was doing was clearing up the filing and trying to make the system more efficient, so that it would serve the entire clinic more effectively.

After the meeting, Alvana and her son Alan had met me in the basement. She’d just picked him up from the day-care section of the clinic. Her four-year-old was one of the few kids under the age of ten who would put up with me. Scott is better with the little ones, and he always thinks I can’t handle any of them. Alan was a quiet child, more given to spending time alone with a set of blocks than in socializing with the other children. I empathized. I enjoyed spending time with him. He and I were playing a haphazard game of catch with a Nerf ball as Alvana and I talked. I remember crawling under a desk to retrieve an errant toss. After that, I vaguely recalled a loud noise and pain in my head, then nothing.

I rotated my neck, moved each arm and leg, rearranged my torso. Nothing caused any particular pain. I figured this was good. I tried to lift my head. For a few seconds it was okay. Then I got dizzy and a little nauseated. I put my head back down. I would try that again later. I didn’t feel tired. I concentrated for a few moments and tried calling for Scott or for my mother. My vocal chords emitted a mild harrumph. I lifted my eyes to look around as well as moving my head
without lifting it from the pillow. I couldn’t see a call button. I gathered my energy and turned onto my side. The light was coming through the open door to the hallway. A few feet outside the door, Scott and my mother were talking with Ken McCutcheon, Scott’s head of security.

I don’t like McCutcheon. In my opinion, he is too pretty and way too young to run security for anything except a Little League team. I didn’t like the way Scott had checked out his background. He’d talked to a few friends. Big deal. But that was his decision. He’s the one with the most death threats. I’d wanted Scott to get security far sooner than he did.

I pulled in a deep breath. I gave a call that came out somewhere between
hey, oops
, and
huh?
The three of them turned around and hurried into the room. McCutcheon stayed near the door. Scott and my mother each sat on the bed, my mother on my right, Scott on my left. Each held a hand.

My mother said, “Tom, you’re awake.”

I nodded. She’s good with the obvious.

“Are you all right?” she asked.

I gave it another nod. My “Yes” came out as “Yumphs.”

Scott said, “You’ve been unconscious for two days. The doctor says nothing is broken, and they don’t think anything is damaged permanently.”

“We should get the doctor in here,” my mother said. “At least the nurse. They’ve got to check him over.” She didn’t wait for agreement or approval. She leaned down and hugged me fiercely, then rushed from the room.

Scott brushed my hair back from my forehead. He caressed my face with his fingertips. “I love you.”

I rested my face against the palm of his hand. I croaked, “Love you.”

“You want some water?”

I nodded. He raised the bed more upright and held the
glass for me. I took it from his hand. I found my muscles worked well enough to hold the glass and drink. The water was smooth and pleasant going down, better than chocolate syrup on a hot-fudge sundae, but not by much.

I cleared my throat several times. “I’ve been unconscious for two days?” My voice sounded weak and gravelly.