One Dead Drag Queen (6 page)

“No, not impossible.” McCutcheon wasn’t as dismissive as Jantoro, but he was in the same ballpark.

“Remember, I was specifically threatened, Tom’s truck
was blown up, and my lover is in the hospital. That’s one hell of a lot of coincidences. Sounds like more than random chance to me.”

“You really think they blew up an entire city block to make you miserable?”

“Well, if you put it that way, no, except—”

“Specifically personal terrorism isn’t the general rule. Bomb the clinic. Add a couple of secondary explosions. For a terrorist that’s all in a day’s work. People in the crowd recognize you, which happens often. Someone who recognizes you doesn’t like you. They make a threat. Most likely an idle threat. If it scared you—”

“It did.”

“—then he accomplished his purpose. The more you sit and brood the worse it gets.”

“But specific terrorism does happen. Look at those doctors who worked at clinics. They got murdered.”

“But this wasn’t an individual assassination. If someone really wanted to kill you, they’d probably succeed.”

“Then why did I hire you?”

“Same reason everybody does. If there was a concerted frontal attack on you, we’d try to stop it. Those rarely happen. Mostly we’re a deterrent. The attackers or killers have to take us into account. What we’re really here for is to make the client feel more secure. You knew that when you hired me.”

He didn’t have to say, “I told you so.” I remembered the earlier conversation when he’d explained the limits on what his firm could do.

As we turned onto Michigan Avenue, I thought I’d try again. “What does it mean that they knew which car was his?”

“You want a vast conspiracy or random chance?”

“Neither. I want to go to sleep.”

“Random chance happens more often than we care to admit. That’s why it’s called random chance.”

“Is that supposed to be comforting? I think the bomb was meant for Tom and me, and I’m frightened. Can I walk outside of my home? Going with me to events is one thing. Having you around my every waking minute does not sound like the way I want to live. Do Tom and I need to keep you around forever?”

“What did you think was going to happen after you became the most public gay figure in America?”

“How could anyone have planned for that?” I sighed. “I expected to be a focal point, not a target.”

“It’s not an easy reality to face. The more careful and more sensible take as many precautions as they can.”

“I’m not sure if I’m careful or sensible at this point. Sometimes I think everybody is threatening me. This doesn’t make sense.”

“What’s happened so far makes sense to someone who is probably certifiably insane. How you live your life in the face of that insanity is your choice. You can sit in your apartment and wait for the world to come to you, or you can make decisions and do something about it. You’ve been under threat since you announced you were going to pitch after coming out.”

6

I will never forget pitching in that first game. The terror and joy of those moments is seared in my memory. The announcement of my impending mound appearance caused an immense sensation. I was to be the first athlete who was openly gay while still active in a major sport. Within fifteen minutes of the announcement that I would pitch, all the tickets for the game were sold out, and more press credentials were requested than for a World Series game. Tickets were being scalped at over a thousand dollars apiece. Security was unprecedented—everyone attending the game had to walk through metal detectors and all bags were searched. The cops told me I set a record for number of death threats in a twenty-four-hour period.

Hundreds of other calls came from people threatening to cancel their season tickets. Some threatened not to go to another baseball game as long as I was in the league. A slew of supportive calls came too, but none of these were what I was afraid of.

Several prominent sports people have said that it would be easier for a convicted felon, returning from a stint in prison, to play on a professional sport team than it would be for an openly gay person. There’s no question there are gay people in major sports. A few who compete in individual sports have come out—Louganis, Navratilova, Galindo—but these are the exceptions, not the rule.

I was unprepared for what greeted me when I went out to begin warming up that day. As I walked out of the club-house, I heard an uncharacteristically loud murmuring from the stands. I could see blue-uniformed cops blocking the light in the doorway to the field.

My favorite catcher, Morty Hamilton, was behind me. Morty wasn’t that great with a bat, but he threw himself with reckless abandon at anything pitched to him. He set the record for fewest passed balls in a season. He said, “I ain’t never been shot at.”

“This isn’t a day for dying,” I remember saying.

Five feet from the dugout I stopped and took a deep breath. I walked into the sunshine and stopped again. Thirty thousand people were already in the stands. As I jogged onto the field, they rose to their feet cheering and applauding. I turned around 360 degrees. It was hours before game time and the stands were nearly filled.

“Don’t sound like a lynching,” Morty said.

I nodded.

After a few moments, he nudged me. “We gonna get started or you gonna stare at them?”

The crowd clustered as close as they were allowed to the playing field during batting practice. Police officers stood at every egress to the field and at the end of the aisles next to the field. After I finished stretching and doing wind sprints, I
began to warm up. There were calls of encouragement and scattered applause at every pitch.

It was the largest crowd in the history of the park. When I walked out to pitch in the first inning, the ovation continued for five minutes. A few in the reserved boxes were sitting down. As far as I could see, the rest were on their feet. Thousands were waving little rainbow flags. I saw numerous rainbow banners unfurled. I could see groups of leathermen, clots of drag queens, and thousands of regularly dressed men and women.

After the national anthem, they didn’t sit down. They roared and cheered for each strike I threw. They booed at each ball. Each out caused a wave of thunderous cheering. After the third out that inning the noise swelled to a crescendo. As I strolled to the dugout, I gave the crowd a slight tip of my cap. They went nuts.

Most of them sat down as my team came to bat. When the first batter stepped in, the singing started. First it was “We Shall Overcome,” then “Somewhere over the Rainbow,” then various show tunes. It was a gay crowd after all.

I pitched a one-hitter. Morty said I never threw harder. While I was on the field, I don’t remember the cheering ever stopping. Even when the game ended, they kept on. Hundreds of cops stood on the field as I made a circuit of the stadium. Even then they didn’t stop. I came out of the club-house three times before they finally began streaming out of the stadium.

In every city it had been the same. Threats. Tickets sold out in minutes, record crowds, wild cheering, rainbow flags, singing. In one city someone had shouted out, “Sinner.” The cheering didn’t stop for fifteen minutes after that. The shouter was escorted out, probably more for his safety. I won
twenty-eight games that year. We didn’t come close to getting into the play-offs, but Chicago is used to losing baseball teams.

I said to McCutcheon, “I thought I was past all that. The season’s over.”

“It’s never going to be over as long as you’re alive.”

I knew that already. I just wasn’t sure I wanted to be reminded of it at that moment. Because you aren’t the one to say something first or you forget the truth in a moment of high emotion doesn’t mean you haven’t thought of it or don’t realize it.

As he pulled into the circle drive of my building, I said, “I don’t know what the hell I’m supposed to do with the rest of my life.”

“Wallowing in self-pity is probably not a good option. I’d stick with round-the-clock security at least until this is cleared up. It’s more likely to be helpful than pity.”

“I’m not sure I need a lecture on my response to this whole situation. You’re a guard, not my keeper.”

“What do you want me to say?”

I didn’t want to sit and brood. I wanted to hurt someone. Which is how all this mess probably started. Someone wanting to lash out and hurt. Tom would say it’s more complicated than that. He’s always looking for deep psychological motivations and hidden meanings.

Finally I said, “I want you to tell me that you have a magic formula to make this all go away.”

“Maybe you should try that self-pity thing for a little longer.”

I managed a brief smile. “How would the twenty-four-hour-a-day security work?”

“It’s pricey.”

“Cost is not the problem.” Before this, security had been easily planned. We’d go over my schedule of public appearances, and people from his firm would be assigned. The number of guards would depend on the venue and how large a crowd was expected.

He explained, “For today, call whenever you’re ready to go out, I’ll respond immediately. I can have someone ready in half an hour, probably less. If you know the night before, it is easier to assign somebody, but we’re just starting and this is a special case. You have the firm’s number, my private office number, my home number, and my pager number. No matter what time, just call me.”

“I could get used to hating living like this.” I shook my head. “I’m going to get some sleep.” I got out of the car.

Just before I entered the private elevator to the penthouse, I looked back at the entrance. McCutcheon was watching me from his Hummer, waiting until I was safely inside.

7