Second You Sin (36 page)

“And if it makes you feel any better,” Andrew explained, “I did cal your mother before I told Marc to go ahead and post the video.”

“What did she say?”

“Wel , after I spent a half hour trying to explain what ViewTube is, never mind the whole concept of a viral video, she seemed to get that the footage would be made public. She was thril ed. She told me to go for it.”

“Wow,” I said. “You did it.”

“
You
did it,” Andrew said. “It was your idea to find that video in the first place, and when it didn’t work out with Gabe, you hooked me up with Marc.
You
made it happen, dude. You told me Yvonne’s biggest mistake was fucking with you and your family, and you know what? You were right. We won, Kevin. We won.”

Andrew was ebul ient. For me, it was just starting to sink in that one of my plans had worked out. It was a new feeling.

“So,” Andrew said, “want to come over and celebrate? You bring the champagne, I’l pop your cork, baby.”

Now that, I was familiar with. “Not tonight, Andrew.”

“Hey, can’t blame a guy for trying. Figured I was on a rol .” I could hear the shit-eating grin in his voice.

“No harm, no foul. And congratulations. I’m glad it worked out for you.”

“You, too, bro. Hey, listen, how about your friend?

Marc? Is he hot?”

“Very.”

“Think he’d be interested in me?”

“You have his number,” I reminded him.

“Maybe I could get
him
to come over,” Andrew said, teasing.

A few days ago, I would have told him “no way.” Marc didn’t go anywhere.

“Maybe you could,” I said, happily. “Maybe you could.”

It was too late to cal my mother, but I listened to the message she’d left earlier. “Hel o, Kevin. It’s your mother.” As if there was any mistaking that voice.

“Didn’t I tel you I was going to be a star? Wel , I just got off the phone with your friend, the TV

producer, Andrew—that nice boy who I think you should real y consider dating because, let’s face it, that policeman boyfriend of yours is never going to make up his mind and you’re not getting any younger.

“Anyway, remember that little run-in I had with She Whose Name I Shal Not Speak? Wel , it turns out that Andrew, who, by the way, is very attractive, has some new show; it’s cal ed
Viewing Tube
or some
fakakta
name like that. It’s not on regular TV; you have to watch it on the computer. I don’t know what channel.

“In any case, he’s going to put what happened at my shop on his computer show and the whole world is going to see that your mother gave that terrible woman exactly what she deserved.

“Andrew told me it was al your idea, and I have to say, I’m very proud of you, baby. I told you that you have to stand up for what you believe. That potty mouth thought she was going to sue me? Once everyone hears the filth that comes out of her, the only thing she’l ever get from me is pity. I wouldn’t piss in her mouth if her stomach was on fire. I wouldn’t—”

My father’s voice came from the distance “Are you
still
on the phone? How many people are you going to cal about this? So, you’re going to be on the computer, who cares? You think this is going to make you a star? What am I, living with a crazy person? You know who else is on the computer al the time? That little blonde singer, the one who goes around without her panties al the time. So, big deal.

Enough already.”

“Would you please let me speak in peace,” my mother yel ed back. “I’m talking to—”

“You’re talking to everyone. Who are you cal ing next? You want I should look up the president’s number, too? Maybe he’d like to watch.”

“Could you just . . .”

My voice mail indicator showed that the message went on for another four minutes. Figuring I’d gotten the gist of it, I disconnected.

I walked back into Tea and Strumpets feeling pretty fine. The guys who’d bothered me before were, not surprisingly, gone, and I made it to Freddy’s table unmolested.

Freddy greeted me with one word. “Spil .” I told him and Cody about my phone cal with Andrew.

“Holy shit,” Freddy marveled. “Your mother’s going to be bigger than that guy who cried about leaving Britney alone. Or that chubby hausfrau who sang on British
American Idol.
Susan Lucci.”

“It was
Britain’s Got Talent,
” I corrected him. “And her name was Susan Boyle. There’s no such thing as ‘British America, ’ anyway.”

“Not anymore.” Cody put his hand over Freddy’s.

“But there used to be. It was the name of the original thirteen colonies that were ruled by the British in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, until the American Revolution forced them to recognize the United States as a sovereign nation.”

Freddy and I looked at him.

“What?” Cody asked.

Freddy smirked with pride. “Nothing, baby.” He took the hand that Cody had placed on his and gave it a squeeze. To me, he added, “I knew al that, by the way.”

“Yeah, right,” I said. I looked at Cody. “Watch
Jeopardy
much?”

“I have a mind for trivia.”

Freddy wriggled his eyebrows. “And an ass for . .

.”

“Freddy!” Cody yel ed. He put his hand over Freddy’s mouth.

I figured I’d change the subject and save Cody some embarrassment. “So, do you want to hear about my undercover operations at Jacob Locke’s headquarters?”

They both did.

First, I fil ed Cody in on the circumstances that led me to look into Locke in the first place. After summing up my suspicions, I told them about my visits to the office. I described Jason and Lucil e, the general lassitude of the campaign, and, mostly, I went on about the many moods of the mercurial Locke. I described his vanity, his open campiness, and the blatant way he cruised me.

Freddy said, “Wel , darling, what did you expect?

He’s a man of the cloth
and
a conservative politician.

If you were writing a recipe for closet homosexuals, those would be the two main ingredients.” Cody asked, “You real y think he’s behind what happened to Randy?”

“Randy!” I exclaimed. “I can’t believe I haven’t even asked how he’s doing. I’m a terrible friend.” Freddy looked at me with sympathy. “Yes, but admitting you have a problem is the first step to healing, darling. I, however, asked about Randy as soon as I saw Cody, and I’m happy to report he continues to get better.”

“Is he talking yet?” I asked Cody.

“Not coherently. He kind of blurts things out, like he did when you saw him the other day, but he’s definitely making progress. The doctors expect a ful recovery.”

More good news.

“OK, but back to my question,” Cody continued.

“You’ve spent some time with him. You real y think Locke could be a kil er?”

“I think that man would do whatever he had to do to get ahead,” I said.

“Or, to get
some
head,” Freddy added.

“I mean,” I continued, “how do you go out there and say such terrible things about gay people when you’re having sex with men, yourself? What kind of person would do that?”

“In Nazi Germany,” Cody observed, “the Gestapo enlisted Jewish people to turn in their friends and family. They were cal ed ‘Jew Catchers.’ They sent their own people to concentration camps in exchange for immunity and comfort.”

“Locke is a Fag Catcher,” Freddy said.

“Someone who’d do that would do anything, right?” I asked Cody.

Cody shrugged. “Who knows?”

“I don’t know what’s worse,” Freddy said, “the fact that he’d betray his own people, that he might be a murderer, or that he wears bronzer.”

“He’s
so
vain,” I agreed. “Everything about him is perfectly turned out. He was wearing more hairspray than the entire cast of a John Waters movie. He even does eye exercises so that he won’t have to wear glasses anymore.”

Cody put his elbows on the table and leaned closer to me. “What do you mean? Did you see him doing them?”

“No, it just came up in conversation. He said he had an astigmatism.”

Cody turned a shade paler and shivered. He picked up his tea with both hands. They were shaking.

Freddy put his hand on the back of Cody’s neck.

“You OK, baby?”

Cody took a swal ow of his tea. “This is just a little creepy.”

“What?” I asked.

“Do you know how you treat an astigmatism?” Freddy and I shook our heads. Cody was making us feel like the slower students today.

“Wel , with an astigmatism, one eye is weaker than the other. So, your other eye works harder to make up the difference. Got it?”

We nodded.

“The problem is, the muscles in your eye are like any other. You have to use them to make them stronger. But once the good eye starts working harder, the eye with the astigmatism just gets lazy. It lets the good eye do al the work.

“So, you have to force the bad eye to work harder.

And the way you do it . . .”

It was my turn to get a chil . “. . . Is by covering the good eye.”

Cody blanched. I felt the blood run from my face, too.

“I don’t get it,” Freddy said.

“When Locke is training his weak eye to work harder . . .” Cody began.

“He covers his good eye,” I continued. “What do you think he’d use for that?”

Freddy looked at me, then at Cody, then at the table. He lifted his head with a jerk. “An eye patch!”

“Got it in one,” I answered.

“Like that guy who came to see Randy in the hospital. He was standing three feet away from me.” Cody shivered and Freddy pul ed him into his lap.

“And I think that the person driving the car that hit Randy was also wearing an eye patch,” I added.

“OK, that settles it,” Freddy said. “I am
so
not voting for him.”

“Locke has gray hair,” I said to Cody. “You said the guy at the hospital was a brunette.”

“He could have been wearing a toupee,” Cody said.

If he took the trouble to wear the patch to disguise himself, that made sense. “You’re right.”

“This is getting scary,” Cody said. “What are you going to do?”

I knew, but I wasn’t going to tel them. If I did, they’d try to stop me.

Only an idiot would do what I had in mind.

38

Tonight

“This is the point where Charlie’s Angels get the cops involved,” Freddy said as we left the café. “You need to cal Tony.”

“He’s right,” Cody said, holding on to Freddy’s arm.

I real y didn’t have time to go into the hundred reasons why cal ing Tony wasn’t an option. “OK,” I said, meaning, “OK, I’ve heard you,” not “OK, I’m taking your advice.”

I kissed them both on the cheek and we said good night. I liked watching them walk away together, arm in arm.

A quick flash of jealousy surprised me. There’s always been a spark between Freddy and me. Now, with Tony out of the picture, was I letting him get away too easily?

I’d have to figure that out later. Right now, I had a more pressing engagement.

I put my hand into my front pocket and played with what I’d slipped in there earlier this evening. The metal felt smooth and cool. Should I use it or not?

Freddy told me to go to the cops. With what? I had no evidence. Nothing tangible to suggest that the attacks on my friends were related, let alone connected to Jacob Locke. The business with the eye patch wasn’t going to be enough to convince the police to open a murder investigation into a major political figure.

I needed hard proof.

My pocketed fingers traced the shape of the silver cross and the keys attached to it.

Locke’s keys.

I’d lifted them from his coat when I’d gotten it for him back at the campaign office. He and Jason had joked about how Locke kept losing his keys, so I figured I could grab them with no one the wiser.

When I took them, I hadn’t planned on using them. I just figured it would annoy Locke to lose them again and did it out of spite.

A childish prank, but now I was glad of my immaturity.

Did Locke real y have eye patches at his office? If so, what else might I find? Don’t serial kil ers keep mementos of their victims, or was that just on
Bones
? What about other evidence? Weapons or drugs?

I held in my hand the means to find out.

The problem was, I didn’t have long to act. Jason had teased Locke about the expense of changing the locks every time Locke lost his keys. Which meant that if Locke noticed them missing anytime soon, the copy I took from him would quickly be useless.

I might have only one shot at snooping around the office.

Tonight.

If I had told Freddy and Cody what I was planning, they would have stopped me. Ditto Tony, not that he was in the picture anymore. Bastard.

The idea of breaking into Locke’s office made me nervous, but, real y, what was the risk? Locke was gone for the evening and I doubted he’d be going back late on a Saturday night. There was a chance Jason could stil be there, but if he were, I’d just turn around and come back later.

What’s the worst that could happen?

On my way to Locke’s office, I stopped by a drugstore and picked up a flashlight and latex gloves.

As late it was, the streets by Times Square were stil busy with theatergoers and tourists. As I approached Locke’s office, I was heartened to see the lights off. Once there, I cupped my hands to my eyes and looked through the window. Best I could see, there was no one there. Unless someone was scuffling around in the dark, the place was empty.