Boystown 7: Bloodlines (6 page)

“I wish I had more experience with teenagers,” he said, then corrected himself, “I didn’t mean that the way it sounded. I wish I knew more about them.”

“They’re not that difficult, they’re just adults with some parts missing.” I don’t know why I said that; I didn’t have the slightest idea what to do with Terry. I wondered why I wanted to impress Joseph with my so-called parenting skills.

“So, your friend Brian, you’re not boyfriends?”

“No. We’ve fooled around. I guess he’s kind of a fuck buddy.”

“Fuck buddy?”

“Oh, you don’t know that term? Well, it’s a friend—”

“You don’t have to explain. It’s vividly self-explanatory.”

I mentally kicked myself. Did I really think a priest wasn’t going to be at least a little bit judgmental about the way guys behaved? Worse than just a priest, too. A virgin priest. His idea of what a relationship with a man should be like was probably something out of a Harlequin romance—but with a sex change for the heroine. Or some queer version of
Father Knows Best
, co-starring Robert Young and Ozzie Nelson without their bland little wives.
 

Our lunches arrived. I ordered another margarita. Joseph wasn’t even halfway through his. We took a few bites and agreed the food was good. Halfway through I asked, “Do you not have any gay friends?”

“I do. A couple. We just don’t discuss anything directly.” He made me think of priests sitting around drinking cognac while discussing Oscar Wilde and the joys of male companionship. “They’re not very happy people,” he added, destroying my little picture.

I made short work of my dinner and pushed my plate away.
 

“I think Brian may have met someone. He brought this guy home last night; he was still there in the morning.”

“That bothers you?”
 

“Not for me. Brian was with my friend Ross.” I decided to leave out the part where Ross was also a fuck buddy of mine. It was a confusing enough conversation. “Ross moved downstate to be with his family. He’s dying of AIDS.”

“And he didn’t want to be a burden to Brian?”

“His parents are bible-thumpers. He thinks God is going to save him.”

“God
will
save him. Though probably not the way he’s hoping.”

“Does God ever give people exactly what they want?”

“You’re thinking of Santa Claus. God gives us what we need.”

“I can’t say I believe that.”

“What do you believe?”

“Human beings are attracted to patterns. We find them everywhere, even where they don’t exist. We make stories out of them.”

“Which is the way God made us.”

“You know, you have the same first name as the man I killed. Is that coincidence or God’s plan?”

“If God created everything, then God created coincidence. Nothing is outside God’s plan.”

“So you’re saying that God wrote the rules of nature and then tossed in a healthy dose of coincidence. Why would he do that?”

“To keep things interesting.”

My second margarita arrived and I realized I didn’t want it. Something about the idea of coincidence keeping things interesting wasn’t sitting well with me. Coincidence was all well and good when you happened to run into a friend you’d just been thinking about on the street, but illness was also a coincidence, AIDS was a coincidence, and that wasn’t making me especially fond of a God who’d create it.

“Is something wrong?” Joseph asked.

“I shouldn’t have ordered a second drink.”

“Leave it.”

“It was four bucks.”

“It’s on me. I’m still getting my salary while I think things over.”

I was a little embarrassed. Money was fine; I shouldn’t have said anything about the price of the drink. I could afford it. I could afford the whole lunch, and if I’d been a little faster on the uptake would have offered to treat him. But he had shown up out of the blue so I decided to let him pay. I’d treat him next time. If there was a next time, and the longer we talked the more I thought there shouldn’t be.

On the walk back to my office it was raining harder and we had to be even more careful to stay under the umbrella. To distract us from the fact that we were pressed against each other, Joseph asked me questions. Of course, the fact that the questions were about my sex life defeated the purpose. There wasn’t a whole lot to say about my sex life until Daniel came along. There had been a few experiences with other men, furtive, dangerous, exciting, but also disappointing. And, like a good Catholic boy, I’d tried dating women. Which was how I’d come to meet Daniel. I’d dated his sister. Briefly and unsuccessfully.
 

“And you knew it was love right away?”

“No. I knew he was damned attractive and I was happy when I was with him. Love is more complicated than that.”

He nodded and said, “Yes, I think you’re right.”

When we reached my door, we walked through the downstairs door, shook out the umbrella and closed it, as we were about to climb the stairs he said, “Wait. I’d better not come up.”

“All right. So we’ll say goodbye here then?” I suspected he wanted to kiss, but because I’d kissed him earlier, I decided to make him be the one to initiate. I waited. Listening to him breathing. Finally he exhaled and leaned into me. His kiss was gentle, as mine had been, his tongue tentatively exploring me. Without thinking, I pulled him against me. I wanted to feel the weight of his body against mine. I slipped my hands into his jacket and felt his strong back beneath the cotton of his shirt.

He kissed me a little longer and then pushed away. “I should go.”

“Are you sure? We could go upstairs to my office.”

“No. I have a lot to think about.”

I reached down and grabbed his dick. It was as hard as I thought it would be. He exhaled roughly. “It feels like you’ve already made a decision.”

“Play nice.”

“Never,” I said, but took my hand away.

“I need to go,” he said.

“Confession?”

“Maybe later. I’d like to see you again.”

“Sure, just give me a call.” I wasn’t entirely sure I meant it.
 

“How about Thursday night. Dinner. Maybe a movie.”

“What’s wrong with tomorrow?”

“Too soon.”

“And Friday?’

“Too far away.” He kissed me again. “Say yes.”

“All right. Yes.”

A moment later he was gone. I climbed the stairs to my office, stretched out on the sofa, and quickly jerked off before the feel of his lips on mine left completely. Then I promptly fell asleep.

It was late afternoon when the phone rang, waking me. The sun was easing its way down to the western horizon, leaving the city dim and shadowy. The clock radio said it was five-thirty-four. I stumbled the few feet to my desk, mainly because I’d neglected to pull up my pants, and grabbed for the phone.
 

“Hello?” I said, my voice a sleepy foghorn.

“Oh, hi, is this Nick Nowak?”

“Yes, it is.”

“This is Lana Shepherd. You called me?”

“Yes, I did. I’m working with Cooke, Babcock and Lackerby on your friend Madeline’s case.”

“Yes, you said that in your message. Is this about my testimony? Because I have an appointment day after tomorrow to go over it.”

“This is different. I’m hoping you can lead me to other possibilities for helpful testimony.” That was about the shortest way I could think of to explain what I was up to. “I’m hoping you can spend a half an hour with me, maybe a little longer?”

“All right. I just got off work and I don’t feel like going out. Can you come here?”

“Probably. Where is here?”

She gave me an address on Lake Shore Drive just above Belmont. I’d lucked out. She could have been anywhere in the Chicago area, but she happened to be within walking distance of my office. I told her I could be there in less than half an hour and she said that would be fine. I hung up the phone and pulled up my pants.

Chapter Five

Lana Shepherd’s building was at 3220 Lake Shore Drive; actually it was two buildings that shared a lobby and a truncated courtyard with the addresses 3210 and 3220. Both were fifteen stories tall, made of red brick, and had broad windows for the living rooms, narrower windows for the bedrooms, and very tiny windows for the bathrooms. They were built sometime in the 1950s and the architecture did a brilliant job of capturing the malaise of the period. Over the entrance, metal letters spelled out the words Two Towers.

The buildings on either side dwarfed Two Towers in architectural grandeur, if not height. The building across Melrose was defiantly mod and rose to thirty stories. The building on the northern side wasn’t as tall but it took up the rest of the block. It was nearly a hundred years old and very likely featured butler’s pantries larger than the bedrooms in Two Towers.

I’d been expecting someplace hoity-toity given the Lake Shore Drive address, but the building was decidedly middle class. I wondered what Lana Shepherd did for a living and how she’d come to live in the building. She lived in the north tower, though honestly I felt a little silly thinking of a fifteen-story building as a tower. The Sears Tower was a tower. The Hancock was a tower. Anything with less than fifty floors seemed far too short to be a tower, at least in Chicago.
 

The lobby was spacious and clean with simple leather furniture. In the middle was an unoccupied desk with a sign sitting on it that said the rental office was open from ten to seven; below that information an arrow pointed to the south tower. At either end of the lobby were identical security doors and intercom systems. Fortunately, Land had said she was in 407, so I didn’t have to go searching through nearly a hundred names looking for her name. I pressed the right button and a half a minute later the security door in front of me buzzed.
 

I took the elevator to the fourth floor and wandered around the halls until I found her door. The apartment was situated at the back corner of the building facing north and west. When Lana opened the door, I saw that she was an attractive woman in her early thirties. She wore a pair of designer jeans and a fitted T-shirt. The apartment was very warm so she hadn’t bothered with shoes or socks. Her hair was cut short and she’d died it carrot red.

She invited me into the living room which was to the left of the front door, the main window faced west and I had the immediate feeling that the window in the bedroom, to my right as I walked in, likely had a dismal view of the classic brick building next door. She had a large brown plaid sofa with an antique trunk sitting in front of it as a coffee table. In front of the long window stretched a dining table and six chairs. It was far too big for the apartment and had either come from her family or a grander part of her life. The kitchen was behind a folding door and included a narrow stove, a miniature refrigerator, and a small sink unit. I liked the apartment and said so.

She waved me off. “The nice ones are in the front. They have lake views. Would you like a pop or something?”

“Water would be fine, thanks.”

It took only a moment for her to step over to the tiny kitchen, grab a glass from the cupboard, and fill it with water. When she came back into the living room we sat down on the sofa.
 

“I don’t really understand why you’re here,” she said.

“I’m looking for things that might help Madeline. Things people might not think of. Maybe we should start with Madeline’s parents and brother. They’ve refused to testify. Do you know why?”

“I don’t know for sure, but I think it has to do with the kids. Hedy dotes on them. I don’t think she wants Madeline to get them back. Ever.”

“Hedy?”

“Mrs. Levine.”

“Why wouldn’t she want her daughter to have her own children?”

“Well, she did murder their father.”

“I know, but the reaction is more like something you’d expect from his parents, not hers.”

“There’s a lot of history.”

“That’s what I’m here for. It’s the history that might be helpful.”

“No. It wouldn’t be,” she said simply and picked up a cola drink she’d left on the trunk. She sipped it carefully then looked back at me.

I took a moment deciding whether to press her on that. My guess was that whatever she was holding back would be very helpful. Finally, I asked, “What did you think of Wes Berkson?”

“He was an asshole.”
 

“So I’ve heard.”

“He was the kind of guy who was always on the hustle. Always had a scheme he was working. Things would be better as soon as he put some deal together. Somehow the deals never came together. He asked me for money about at least dozen times. From ten bucks to ten thousand.”

“He asked you for ten thousand dollars?”

“My mother died. He knew I was going to get a little of the money so he asked. At her funeral.”

“I hope you said no.”

“You had to be really naive to believe him. He was that obvious.”

“And his parents? Are they around?”

“I think he burned them years ago. I heard or read that they refused to comment on the trial.”

I wondered if that meant something. Should I try to find them? Then I asked, “Do you know who Emily Fante is?”

She was quiet for what seemed like a very long time. “Is that going to come up when I testify? I mean, it’s just an opportunity to talk about what a good person Madeline is. Isn’t that right?”

“So you
do
know who Emily Fante is.”

“Madeline would prefer that I not talk about Emily.”

That explained why Melody had lied about knowing who Emily was. It wasn’t Melody who’d changed her mind, it was Madeline. “Is Emily the woman Wes was having an affair with?”

“No. Absolutely not.”

“Do you know who Wes was having an affair with?”

“No. I don’t.”

“Does Madeline know?”

“I think so. She said a couple of things that gave me that impression. But I can’t say for certain.”

“I spoke to the office manager at Madeline’s old practice. She didn’t seem to like Madeline much.”

“Cynthia? No, she doesn’t like Maddy.”

“Do you know why?”

“I do. But Madeline would rather I not talk about it.”