Hate Crime (3 page)

“Thanks for your help, Morelli,” Swift said, as she started toward her car. “Sorry it didn’t work out better.”

“It isn’t over yet,” he replied, and he meant it. He was not going to let these people roam free. Not in his town—not anywhere. He would not stop searching. He would hunt them relentlessly. He would follow every lead, every possibility. He would catch those miserable perverts no matter what it took.

2

THREE MONTHS EARLIER

Evanston, Illinois,
near the Phillips College campus
Fourteen miles north of Chicago

“Which one do you think is the cop?” Shelly asked.

Tony surveyed the entire bar—stools, tables, dance floor, TV monitors, pool tables. “Hard to say. What do you think?”

Shelly tilted her head. “See the guy at Table Two? I think it’s him.”

“Why him? I see several new faces in the bar tonight. The woman with the black leather fixation. The two nerds dancing the Batusi.”

She shook her head. “Nope. Table Two.”

“Because he’s wearing a tie?”

“Because he has food stains on his tie. Also, check out the socks. They don’t match.”

“And that makes him a cop?”

“Who else would have such poor personal habits?”

“Oh, anyone single. Which would be everyone in this bar.”

“People coming to a singles bar hoping to hook up with someone are going to doll themselves up. Including guys. Only someone working undercover would wear those socks. I mean, one of them is argyle, for God’s sake. The other is a sweat sock. They’re not even close.”

Tony relented. Shelly was an astute judge of humanity; that was why he put her behind the bar. “Maybe you’re right. But I’ve got my eyes on one of the guys next to the dance floor. Table Ten.”

“Which one?”

“The blonde.”

“You’re saying he’s the cop? Or you’re just saying you have your eye on him?”

Tony smiled. “How well you know me.”

Shelly was, as Tony’s mother was fond of saying, cute as a bug. Barely five feet tall—she had to stand on a box to reach the glasses hanging over the bar. She had a pert, trim figure, and an effervescent personality that patrons loved. It was more than just her personal adorableness—even Tony loved to watched her work as she darted from one station to the next, working three mixed drinks simultaneously and getting them all exactly right. He loved it when she pumped the Bass Ale spigot; it made a pneumatic hissing noise that reminded him of the elevator brakes in the Sears Tower. Shelly was good, and he wasn’t the only one who knew it. Some of the regulars dropped by Remote Control just to see her. One of his very first actions when he became manager was making her head bartender for the after-work shift. Drink sales rose dramatically.

Decisions like that were what put Tony where he was today. Not that managing a near-campus singles bar was going to rival Supreme Court justice as one of the country’s most desirable jobs. But given where he had come from, what he’d had to overcome to get to this point, he felt pretty good about it. The bar was thriving, and he liked to think he’d played some small part in that success, since the whole place was his idea.

He’d spent the whole evening trying to keep a smile on his face, but the truth was all these rumors about undercover narcs were worrying him. Even if there was nothing to it, the gossip alone could put a serious dent in their business. And that caused him considerable concern.

He tried to shrug it off, but there was a heaviness settling in, fogging his brain, that he couldn’t quite shake loose. It was nothing tangible or rational—but it was there, just the same. Like a shadow hovering over his shoulder. A pervasive uneasiness he couldn’t talk himself out of, since he didn’t know what was causing it. He’d had black patches before; they were always there, always lurking, the enemy within. He had tried to conquer them, without success. He thought he’d mastered the situation, but even that seemed in doubt, what with everything going on at the bar, at school. With Roger.

He knew it was foolish to take everything that happened here so personally. Mario owned the place, not him. But he was its creator. He couldn’t help having some paternal feelings, weird as that was. To him, this job was one long party. And he needed that party. Needed it to remind himself that he was happy. No matter what happened. Happy, happy, happy.

Remote Control was particularly crowded tonight. All the bar stools were filled and there was a half-hour wait for a table. All for the good. The bar was more fun when it was packed, more alive. The rich dark oak fixtures gave the place an Old World feel—in direct conflict with the ambience suggested by all the high-tech gadgetry. The decor was full of contradictions, and Tony embraced them all. He loved it here.

“I’ve got two Coronas headed to your blond boytoy’s table,” Shelly said, sliding the tray toward him. “I know you executive types don’t normally perform manual labor, but—”

“I’ll take it.”

Tony checked himself in the mirror behind the bar. Sandy blond locks, bangs dangling over one eye the way he liked them. Could you tell he’d been working out? I mean, he could tell, but could anyone else? Like the blond guy at Table Ten?

“Two Coronas for the gentlemen,” Tony announced as he lowered the tray. “As ordered.”

The two men, one fair, the other darker in complexion, sat at opposite ends of the table. They were both young—probably college students. Not Phillips, though—more likely Northwestern. Perhaps even University of Chicago. They were doing their best to act earthy, but it wasn’t convincing. Like Bertie and Jeeves trying to do
American Pie
. Their perfectly creased chinos and perfectly unscuffed Doc Martens told the true tale. It was part of the John D. Rockfeller legacy to the University of Chicago—in addition to the pseudo-Oxfordian architecture that never quite worked. Phillips students were just townies by comparison.

“Somethin’ goin’ on tonight?” the darker of the two asked.

Tony flashed his brightest smile. “There’s always something going on in Evanston, gentlemen. Beaches, boutiques, art galleries—just depends on what you’re looking for.”

The blond guy smiled. “Ain’t that the truth.” What teeth. What a smile. What a way with words. Tony’s heart did flip-flops just looking at him.

“Thought I saw you lookin’ around,” his companion said. “You and the chick behind the bar.”

“There’s a rumor goin’ around that an undercover cop is haunting some of the local bars. Probably a crock, but we were trying to guess who the cop might be.”

“So that’s all it was?”

“Yeah. Why?”

His blond friend grinned. “Brett thought you was givin’ him the eye.”

They both looked at him. All at once, Tony felt like an amoeba in a science experiment. Were these guys gay, too? Was that why they were asking, because they were interested? Or just the opposite? He knew better than to assume gayness just because two guys hung out together. Especially when the frats were on the prowl. But it was so hard to know, even now when he was well out of the closet. Some of his gay buddies said they could always tell if another guy was gay, like they had some kind of biological radar. Tony didn’t believe it. In any case, even if that did exist somewhere, the radar fairy hadn’t brought him any. He never knew, and had learned to play it cool until he was certain.

“Didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable. Just trying to spot the cop.”

The blond man laughed. “Well, that’s good. Brett here thought maybe you were a faggot.”

Tony felt his blood turn to ice. “Here’s the tab. If you need anything more, just wave at one of the waitresses.”

The darker man was still staring at him. Even as Tony turned and walked away, he could feel those eyes bearing down on him. He positioned himself behind the bar, not so much to help Shelly as for the sense of security it offered. Putting a big block of oak between himself and Table Ten.

“Problem?” Shelly asked.

“No. Nothing.” He was suddenly aware that his hands were shaking. What a fool he was. “I’ll be in my office. Tell Mario if he comes back.”

“All right. I’m almost through. Phoebe’s taking over.” Shelly’s large round eyes brightened. “Got me a date tonight.”

“Have a good evening. Don’t get too crazy.”

“I’ll try to keep my panties on.”

“And Shelly?”

“Yeah?”

He winked. “You were right. Definitely the guy with the socks.”

I can’t begin to know what the future holds for me. But I do know that . . .

When he was finished, Tony shook his wrists, working out a cramp. He caught a glimpse of the clock over the door.

Good grief! He’d been writing in his journal for more than two hours. Mario wouldn’t be happy about that—if he found out. He’d only intended to sit down for a minute or two, but once he started writing, the words just flew. Something inside him was desperate to get out, he supposed. Two hours! That was a novel, not a diary entry. And he hadn’t even mentioned his latest problem, the one that was weighing heaviest on his mind. And his conscience.

He pushed out of his chair and stretched. He’d never figured himself for the diary type. Had tried to keep one once before—and rarely wrote more than a line or two before bed. He gave it up after a month. But since he’d started keeping a journal on his laptop, all that had changed. Somehow it was easier with a keyboard. Must have something to do with the male infatuation with gadgetry. Whatever the cause, he’d managed to keep the journal going for more than two years now, since his eighteenth birthday, and that was in addition to managing this bar full-time and taking classes at Phillips part-time.

“Tony?”

He looked up. It was Phoebe, the on-duty bartender. “Phone call for you on Line One.”

“Why don’t you take a message and I’ll—”

“It’s Shelly.”

He nodded, finished what he was writing, then reached for the phone. He adored Shelly, but he was aware she’d been having some . . . problems of late. He’d have to be blind not to have noticed. What he didn’t know was what it was all about. She hadn’t confided in him, at least not yet, but he had a strong feeling that she wanted to. Perhaps this was the time . . .

“Hello?”

At first, he thought she was laughing at him, but it didn’t take long to realize how wrong he was. That wasn’t laughter. Just the opposite. She was trying to speak, but her words were broken and convulsed by tears.

Less than five minutes later, Tony was outside the bar. He wrapped his coat tightly around himself. It was still cold and wet, typical Illinois spring. Not bad, but just chilly enough to require a coat. Just enough wet that he had to watch for puddles as he crossed the dark asphalt parking lot. He spotted his Volkswagen bug and began fumbling in his satchel for his keys.

“Lookit that purse. I told you he was a queer.”

Tony froze.

“Nice purse, faggot. Got a lipstick in there?”

Tony tried to keep his voice even. “It’s a satchel. Like a backpack. I carry my schoolbooks—”

“Check out the limp wrist.” The two men from Table Ten emerged from the shadows of the parking lot. “Disgusting. Faggot car, too.”

Tony tore through his bag, desperately searching for those keys. “Look, boys, I don’t want any trouble.”

The dark man came closer. “I saw the way you were looking at me. I know what you were thinking, too. Sick’ning, that’s what it was. Flaming queen, coming on to me in public, in front of my friends.”

“I didn’t mean anything.” Tony’s heart was racing. Was anyone else in the parking lot? If he shouted, would they hear it inside the bar?

The dark man kept coming. “I know what you wanted, you butt-fucking pervert. Well, I’m gonna give you something a little different.”

Tony threw back his shoulders. “Look, asshole, if you have some idea that because I’m gay, I’ll be your punching bag, you got it wrong. I’ve studied Tae Kwon Do and I am one mean mofo, so the smartest thing you could do is just leave me alone.”

The dark man laughed. “Listen to him, Johnny. The little cocksucker thinks he’s tough. Gonna use his sissy boy kung fu on us.” He laughed again, slow and ugly. “I’m quaking in my boots.”

“We have security here,” Tony lied. “All I have to do is yell.”

“Then we’ll have to make sure you don’t.”

The dark man pulled a Taser out from inside his coat and shoved it into Tony’s gut. In one explosive burst, Tony felt the electric pulse ripple through his body, ripping it apart. His legs dissolved; a second later he hit the asphalt. The man applied the Taser again and again, torturing him, never letting him rest. Tony twitched and spasmed like a half-crushed bug. Even when the Taser was finally removed, he couldn’t stop writhing. He was like a marionette on a madman’s string, jerking one way then the next, his entire body convulsing.

While he was unable to resist, they dragged him into the back of their van. They Tasered him a few more times during the drive, just to keep him hurting and helpless, until they arrived at a dark, secluded vacant lot. No one could see what they did here. No one could hear, no matter how loudly Tony screamed.

They hauled him out of the van and threw him down on the concrete in front of a chain-link fence. When the spasming began to subside, they hauled him upright by his hair. A moment later, Tony felt the dark man’s fist in his chest. The pain was searing, like a branding iron piercing his already weakened body. His attacker had hit him in the solar plexus, knocked the wind out of him. Maybe broken something. Tony couldn’t breathe. He wanted to cry out, wanted to attract some help, but he could barely muster a whimper.

“Let me help,” the blond kid said. He lunged forward with a roll of duct tape and gagged Tony, then taped his wrists to two fence posts. He was immobile, pinned like a human sacrifice, arms splayed as if he were about to be crucified.

The first blow dislocated his jaw. The second cracked a rib. Tony was on fire; every nerve of his body had been electrified. The blows rained down on him, one after another, so many and so of-ten and so hard that Tony could no longer distinguish where they landed or what part of his body had been broken. The dark man worked him over with a leather sap, pummeling his head and face and hands. Tony felt two of his fingers snap. And the blows just kept coming.