The Butcher's Son (18 page)

*

I had several meetings with Kevin in the next week—
he
was still kept incredibly busy trying to juggle his duties at the shelter with speaking engagements for the chief. As I’d expected, while C.C. got all the credit, I got all the work preparing for the fundraiser—dunning calls to the media for coverage, press releases, a few human interest articles on the shelter and its good works, etc. The press releases all emphasized that the event was for raising money for the shelter and that, coincidentally, the chief would be making a few remarks, but nobody was fooled as to its real purpose.

C.C. and the chief’s team lined up prominent potential contributors and urged attendance as a show of support for the chief. Formal invitations were sent out and would be checked at the door lest any homeless intrude on the festivities.

R&D Contractors arrived the Thursday before the event, much to Kevin’s dismay.

“They’ll never get the room painted in time!” he told me, and I did not pass on the information that they weren’t
supposed
to, that it was just a glorified photo op. Instead, I tried to reassure him that it really didn’t matter, and that the important thing was it would get done eventually. And I vowed to myself that if it
didn’t
, that fact and the relationship between C.C. and his wife’s second cousin would somehow be tipped to the media.

Sunday dinner would be over at twelve-thirty; that would leave only an hour and a half to clean up from lunch and set up for the fundraiser. McNearny had indicated he would leave the details to Kevin and me as long as we kept him informed, and we decided to simply leave the room basically set up as it was.

C.C. had me spend a small fortune on cut flower arrangements “to brighten up the dump.” We were informed that about 200 people would be in attendance, which would greatly overtax the kitchen’s staff and equipment. While I’m sure C.C. and certain members of the chief’s team, not to mention many of those corralled or coerced into attending, were thoroughly repulsed by the idea, we’d convinced McNearny the food served should be basically the same as a typical lunch for the homeless—soup, sandwiches, milk, coffee, cake and, as a concession to the occasion, a non-alcoholic punch. Kevin had recruited extra volunteers for the kitchen staff.

*

Sunday arrived. On C.C.’s explicit instructions, I
had convinced Kevin to leave the scaffolding, tarps, and various paint cans exactly as they were, despite the inconvenience to the homeless in getting to the window between the kitchen and the dining room where the food was dispensed. A lectern—the one Kevin used as a pulpit in the shelter’s makeshift chapel—was brought in for the chief’s remarks and strategically placed for maximum visual effect contrasting the freshly painted wall with the drabness of the rest of the room.

To spare the invited guests the inconvenience of sidestepping the painting equipment as the homeless were expected to do, tables for serving food were set up just inside the entrance to the dining room and everything prepared in advance so the kitchen could, in effect, be shut down before the fundraiser began. For as little painting as had actually been done, the smell of fresh paint was nearly overpowering.

C.C. was there, of course, glad-handing all and sundry and making it clear that whatever success the event might have was totally due to his own tireless efforts.

I was a bit surprised by the turnout, and by the representation from the media. I suspected it was due in part to the reporters’ speculation as to whether the chief would be able to present himself as a real human being. For a man running for the office of governor of the state, he had been rarely seen in public other than under the most strictly controlled circumstances since the Dog Collar fire.

I noticed that, apart from the reporters and various media people, very few attendees took more than coffee or punch from the food provided. Had the sandwiches been caviar rather than tuna or ham salad, I’m sure there would have been more attention paid to the extraordinary work Kevin and his volunteers put into its preparation.

There was a stir when, about halfway through the scheduled time set for the event, the chief swept into the room accompanied by the rest of the family, including Sue-Lynn and baby Sean. It did seem as though he was making a very serious effort to appear congenial, and I wondered if he might actually have taken McNearny up on his suggestion to hire a professional humanizer.

Kevin greeted them all, as he had greeted everyone who came in and then, a few minutes later, moved to the podium. The room settled down, and he began to speak.

Once again, he surprised me. He thanked everyone for coming then spoke about what the shelter meant to him and, most important, to the homeless people it served. He was warm, and sincere, and charming—qualities that, if possessed by his father, would have made the chief’s election to the governor’s mansion a much easier task.

At last, he introduced his father; a loud round of applause from the faithful and the turning on of lights for the TV cameras accompanied the chief to the podium. He and Kevin shook hands warmly, and then the chief did the unthinkable—he actually reached out and hugged his son, an act that not only surprised the hell out of me but obviously out of Kevin, too.

Kevin left the podium and joined Sue-Lynn and the rest of the family in the front of the room. The chief waited for silence and began.

“A man’s family—”

There was a tremendous explosion, and the freshly painted wall dividing the kitchen from the dining room tipped slowly forward, disintegrating as it came.

Chapter 14

Impressive, it certainly was. The Dog Collar fire
it
was not. The chief appeared on every newspaper front page and TV screen in the country, somersaulting over the lectern, a look of complete shock on his face. He landed flat on his back on a table about three feet away and, apart from a few bruises and a badly shaken sense of control, was completely unscathed.

There were several minor injuries among the others in the room, mostly cuts and bruises, and considerable initial panic, but little in the way of permanent damage either to the spectators or, it turned out, to the building. The wall had been a rather flimsy addition when the shelter took over and did not involve any real major structural elements.

The cause of the blast was determined to have been the antiquated oven Kevin had worked so frequently and diligently to repair; the odor of escaping gas had been completely overpowered by the paint fumes.

The overall result of the incident was a mixed bag. The chief got a lot more public exposure than he’d ever contemplated, although how or if it would affect his standing with the voters remained to be seen. Kevin received far more in spontaneous public donations in the wake of the explosion than the fundraiser brought in.

C.C. frantically tap-danced away from any responsibility for anything—especially the all-too-obvious fact that had the room been either entirely painted, as it should have been before the event, or left unpainted, someone would undoubtedly have noticed the leaking gas in time to prevent the explosion. He didn’t even attempt to pass the blame on to me.

*

All-in-all, things eventually settled down and got
back to whatever it was that passed for normal. There had been no more new bar fires, although the arson squad, I heard through Tom, suspected the arsonist could merely be lying low for a while.

They still hadn’t conclusively proved or disproved whether it was the same arsonist in all seven fires. Tamasini, whose MO the arsonist had copied so faithfully in the six non-fatal fires, was questioned extensively and repeatedly, but could or would give no information that advanced the investigation. The gallon jar that had held the gasoline for the Dog Collar fire was confirmed by exhaustive chemical analysis to have originally contained the jumbo olives served in most restaurants and bars.

The gay community slowly overcame much of its fear, and the bars began to fill up again. Bacchus’s Lair reopened, and Bob and I decided to go out for dinner and take in the show. Neither of us had really been, or felt like being, out other than to dinner since the Dog Collar; but we both realized our lives, however in disarray they might be, lay ahead of us, not in the past.

Arriving at Bacchus’s Lair, we noted that the entrance had been widened to include three outward-opening doors. New occupancy limit signs were in evidence at the top and the bottom of the stairway. Emergency lights flanked the stairway and, in the bar a new emergency exit had been installed at the back of the hall leading to the restrooms. A uniformed security guard was also in evidence.

Still, the place was not nearly as crowded as it had been prior to the Dog Collar, and I couldn’t help but notice several other people had adopted my preference for seats near the exits.

We’d just placed our drink order when T/T swept up to the table. Without a word, he leaned over and kissed Bob resoundingly on the cheek.

“How ya doin’, sugar?” he asked sincerely.

“I’m fine, thanks, Teddy. And thanks for the card. It meant a lot.”

“You’re more than welcome, darlin,’” he said then turned to me. “And how are you doin’, you hot hunk o’ gorgeousness?”

“The check’s in the mail, Teddy,” I said, grinning. “But thanks for the vote of confidence. Do you have time for a drink?”

T/T shook his head.

“Sorry, honey, but it’s almost showtime. But you give me a rain check, hear? Great show tonight. You just wait!” And with a squeeze to Bob’s and my shoulders, he moved off toward the stage.

Remembering my conversation with T/T at Griff’s, I looked idly around the room and asked Bob, “You know Dave Lee, right?”

He nodded. “The manager?”

“Yeah. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him.”

Bob looked around then gave a small jerk of his head toward the bar, indicating a tall, dark-haired guy about forty dressed all in black.

“He’s the guy at the end talking to the bartender. I don’t know him very well. He’s a good manager, but he sort of keeps his distance.”

“So I’ve heard. I still wonder who actually owns the place.”

He thought a minute.

“I honestly don’t know. Rumors, of course, but I don’t put much stock in them. If I was to guess, I’d say it’s probably owned by some straight guy or a group of straight businessmen who like the money a well-run gay bar can bring in but don’t want to be identified as actually having anything to do with it.”

“Hmm. Makes sense. Still, I’m curious.”

He grinned at me.

“See? You should have taken up the offer the other night. You’d make a great private detective!”

Before I had a chance to respond, the lights dimmed, the music blared, and the show started.

T/T was mostly right. It was a good show, but not great. Nobody new—the cute redhead with more looks than ability was back, and quite a bit better than I’d remembered. T/T was terrific, of course—he had real talent, and the audience loved him. I wondered how far he would have been able to go in show business if he hadn’t opted for drag.

During the intermission, several guys came over to offer Bob their condolences. I knew they were sincere and meant well, but I could also see how close to the surface of Bob’s emotions Ramón’s death still was.

The second half of the show was highlighted by the cute redhead’s surprisingly accurate lip-synch to Jeanette MacDonald’s “San Francisco”—Jeanette would have been proud.

And finally, it was time for Judy.

“Ladies and gentleman,” the offstage voice announced, “Miss Judy Garland!”

There was the usual enthusiastic applause as the curtains opened, then the usual utter silence as Judy stepped forward and raised her mike. Even before she opened her mouth, I sensed something…well,
different
, but had no idea what it was.

The spot narrowed to just her face, and she began to sing “I’m Always Chasing Rainbows;” and I realized what the difference was—she was looking at the audience. No stares, of course, but little flickers from face to face. A small thing, true, but this was the first time she’d even seemed aware there was anybody out there in the dark.

I don’t know if I was the only one to notice. She got the usual thunderous ovation, of course, and she actually smiled and gave a little nod of recognition. She then went into “Come Rain or Come Shine,” and it struck me that, while her choices weren’t nearly so…well…sad…as when Chris and I saw her the last time, she wasn’t doing any of the really upbeat stuff, either.

Her last number was “I Can’t Give You Anything But Love,” and for the first time her attention wandered over to our table. Dark as it was in the room, I felt her eyes sweep past mine and return, for just an instant; and there was the slightest hint of a smile. My imagination, probably. Yet somehow, I didn’t think so.

At the end of the song, and her set, the customary standing ovation. Then she was gone.

Bob and I finished our drinks, agreeing we had missed not being out among the crowd and vowing to do it on a regular basis. We moved up to the bar for a nightcap and to shoot the shit with some guys we both knew.

It was nearly one o’clock when I got home. The red light was flashing on my answering machine. I pressed Listen and heard Kevin’s obviously stressed voice.

“Dick. This is Kevin. Please call me the minute you get this. I’m at the shelter, and I’ll wait here until I hear from you. It’s very important!”

Curious, but not really expecting him to still be there at that time of night, I dialed the shelter’s number. The phone was picked up on the first ring.

“Salvation’s Door.”

“Kevin? This is Dick. I just got in. What’s the problem?”

“Patrick’s back,” he said.

*

I arrived at the all-night diner about five minutes
before Kevin and ordered a pot of coffee with two cups. We’d agreed to meet there as an alternative to my coming to the shelter, which was locked down for the night, or Kevin’s coming to my place, which I did not even suggest for a number of reasons.