The Butcher's Son (9 page)

“And then I looked up just as one of the supports on one of those big fluorescent light fixtures snapped off, and the rest of the fixture came swinging down from the ceiling. I tried to duck, but it got me right on the side of the head. I passed out for a second on the floor at the front end of the bar.

“When I came to, there was thick, pitch-black smoke down to within three feet of the floor and moving lower. I could hear the liquor bottles on the back bar exploding from the heat, and I started crawling toward the door, to keep as much below the smoke as I could. I couldn’t see anyone else around me, so I was sure Ramón had made it out.

“But then when I got outside, and he wasn’t right there waiting for me, I knew he hadn’t, and I had to go back in and find him. I
had
to!”

He looked, for the first time, up at Chris and then over at me.

“I left him in there,” he said. “I…left…”

His voice broke into a long, terrible wail, and he leaned forward like a crumbling wall. I reached over and grabbed him, forgetting about his burned arms and back, and hugged him to me.

“It’s not your fault.”

I kept repeating “It’s not your fault” as he muffled his wail in the cloth of my robe. Chris hadn’t moved, but he was visibly shaking and biting his lip as the tears ran down his face. He set the pot down, came over to sit on Bob’s other side, and put his arms around us both.

*

Chris found Arnie and Jason’s number, and when
Bob went with him into the bedroom to find a pair of pants and a loose-fitting shirt, I saw that it was almost ten o’clock. The chance of waking either Arnie or Jason, if he wasn’t still on duty, were remote.

Going to the kitchen phone, I dialed the number. I did not recognize the voice but took a chance.

“Arnie? This is Dick Hardesty, Chris’s other half.”

“Hi, Dick,” he said, his voice tired. “What can I do for you?”

“You heard about the Dog Collar, of course.”

“It’s all over the news, local and national. God, what a waste!”

“Chris and I were there,” I said, hastening to add, “but weren’t inside when it started. There aren’t any words… But I thought I saw Jason on one of the units. I assume he’s still on shift?”

“Yeah, but he should be home soon. I talked to him earlier, and he sounded really down. He didn’t say so because he was calling from work, but I suspect he knew a couple of the guys who didn’t make it. I hope I didn’t know any of them.” There was a pause, then a tentative: “Why did you want to talk to him, Dick? I really don’t think he’s going to be in the mood for a lot of questions about the fire.”

“No, Arnie, I understand. And I wouldn’t have called at all if it weren’t really important. You know Bob Allen, don’t you? He owned the Ebony Room?”

“Sure. We used to go…” He paused. “Oh, God, Dick, you don’t mean he was…”

“No, he’s here with us, but his lover Ramón is…” I couldn’t say the word. “…is still missing.”

“Christ, I’m sorry, Dick. Please tell him how sorry we are.”

“I will, Arnie, thanks. But they were together in the bar when the fire started, and they got separated, and Bob is tearing himself apart with guilt. He
really
needs help on this, Arnie. If he could find out what happened to Ramón, at least it will help him deal with it. The regular information channels will be blocked solid for God knows how long. I figured that, since Jason was there, he might know something…anything…that could help.”

Arnie was quiet for a moment.

“I guess you haven’t been watching the news reports on the fire.”

“Most definitely not. Not with Bob here.”

“Right, of course not. But I probably should prepare you. According to the reports, most of the bodies were burned beyond recognition. It’ll be days before positive identification can be made.”

“Shit!” I had been afraid that would be the case. “But some
have
already been identified?”

“I gather. But rather than speculate, Dick, why don’t I talk to Jason as soon as he gets home and see if he has any information at all that could help. Okay?”

“Thanks, Arnie. I know it will mean a
lot
to Bob.”

There was a moment’s pause, and I was just about to say goodbye when Arnie said, “You know, Dick, I try not to think about it, but every time I hear there’s a big fire somewhere, and Jason is on duty, I just…well, I can’t imagine how losing him would be. Please tell Bob we’re thinking of him.”

“I will, Arnie. Again, thanks, and I’ll hope to hear from Jason. So long.”

*

I called the building supervisor, explaining that
Bob
had been in an accident and lost his keys. The supervisor said he thought he had an extra set, and that if he found them he would bring them up to our apartment. About twenty minutes later, he rang our bell.

“There’s a twenty-five-dollar fee for lost keys,” he said. “Will he be needing the mailbox key, too? That’ll be another ten dollars.”

I took the keys out of his hand, told him we’d get back to him, and closed the door.

Although none of us had eaten in fifteen hours or more, we weren’t really hungry. Still, Chris insisted we had to eat something, and Bob reluctantly agreed. We went into the kitchen, and Chris rummaged through the refrigerator, pulling out lunch meat, butter, mayonnaise, mustard, lettuce, and some macaroni salad he’d made a day or so before.

“How about a glass of milk, Bob? Or more coffee?”

“A little milk’s okay,” Bob said.

So, Chris brought out the milk, and got the bread, and some silverware, and a few small plates, and…

“I think this’ll do it for now, Chris.” I gave him a little smile.

“Sure,” he said and came to join us at the table.

We ate slowly. The phone rang, and Chris got up to answer it. He held it out to me.

“It’s Jason. I think he should talk to you.”

“I’ll take it in the living room.”

*

“Chris, you and Bob want to come in here?” I called as I hung up the phone.

Chris had apparently told Bob the reason I’d called Arnie and Jason, and anxiety showed clearly on both their faces. He hovered over Bob until he’d settled on the couch.

“They found Ramón?” Bob asked without emotion.

I nodded.

“Jason recognized him when they brought him out,” I said. “He and Arnie used to come into the Ebony Room.”

Bob sat very still. I was trying to pick words that would hurt the least but realized that was impossible, so I just forged ahead.

“He didn’t die from the fire,” I began, hoping that knowledge might give Bob even an atom’s worth of comfort. “He hardly had a mark on him, Jason said. Something had fallen over him that protected him from the flames. They believe it was the smoke that was responsible for many of…why a lot of the guys on the main floor didn’t make it out. It was extremely toxic, probably from that mesh ceiling.”

Bob still hadn’t moved, just sat there with his eyes downcast.

“Jason says it’s a very quick way to go.” I continued. “Just a couple of breaths, actually. And Jason knows what he’s talking about. He’s almost certain Ramón didn’t suffer.”

Bob looked up at me, his eyes red, but his voice was under control.

“Thanks, Dick.” He turned to Chris. “Thanks, Chris.”

What I didn’t tell him—what I could not bring myself to tell him and prayed he would never find out—was that they had found Ramón behind the bar, probably less than ten feet away from where Bob was knocked down while trying to find him.

Chapter 7

Neither Chris nor I went in to work on Monday.
We didn’t want
to leave Bob alone, and there was a lot to be done—notifying Ramón’s family in Puerto Rico, making whatever arrangements they might request, getting Bob’s car out of the impound lot where it had been towed, along with other cars whose owners would not be coming back to them. I called the office to say I wouldn’t be in, but I gave no reason, and no one called to demand one.

We got up early again and found Bob already up and in the living room, watching the news. The fire was still the major story, but the TV crews had not arrived until well after the main part of the blaze was extinguished. Still, the shots of the street with a jumble of debris and firehoses snaking around the trucks, the front of the gutted building with wisps of smoke rising from it, and worst of all, a quick, almost sidelong shot of a long line of blanketed forms stretched out on the sidewalk were all-too-painful reminders of the crowd, and the noise, and the knowledge of what had happened.

It was the worst fire in the city’s history, and it not only plunged the gay community into mourning but rallied it as nothing had done before. Much of the straight community responded as well. Funds were set up to help pay medical expenses for the injured and to help bury the dead. Newspapers that had relegated the six previous gay bar fires to one- or two-paragraph notices—buried deep in the bowels of the paper surrounded by ads for blenders and pantyhose—now belatedly decried the fact there was an arsonist loose in the city and demanded that something be done to catch him. Of course, in the papers’ defense, it could be pointed out that no one had died in the previous fires.

Still, the fire and the senseless deaths had apparently made a lot of heterosexuals wake up to the possibility that a homosexual’s life just might have value, too.

The Sunday supplement had come out with the story on the chief and his family as its lead article, but the fire had made it totally irrelevant.

*

By Monday night, most of what had to be done had
been done. There were several calls to Ramón’s parents—Chris and I alternated with them. Bob had wanted to tell them himself but realized he wouldn’t be able to—Ramón had not been out to his family. However, it turned out they had heard about the fire, and it probably didn’t require too much to figure out the obvious.

They requested that his body be sent home to Puerto Rico for burial, and Bob agreed. We contacted two funeral homes we knew to be owned or operated by gays, but they were already swamped, and we had to call several others before we found one that could make the arrangements.

When I drove down to the morgue to see about picking up Ramón’s personal items and Bob’s keys, I was told that someone would have to make positive identification of the body. I couldn’t put Bob through that so I told them I would do it. I was taken into a small room with a curtained window, and a moment later, the curtain was opened. An attendant stood beside a sheet-covered form on a gurney.

I forced myself to turn my emotions off and nodded. The attendant pulled back the sheet to reveal Ramón’s face, looking as though he were asleep. I’d never seen Ramón asleep. I never would. I just nodded again, and the attendant covered Ramón’s face and closed the curtain.

While I was at the morgue, Chris and Bob had gone up to Bob’s apartment, where they found the answering machine filled with messages from Bob’s and Ramón’s friends, who’d either heard through the grapevine or seen Ramón’s name in the only newspaper that had printed a list of the dead. Later in the afternoon, the three of us drove down to impound to retrieve Bob’s car, which Chris drove back to the apartment.

Chris got carry-out for dinner, and we sat around talking of just about anything but the fire…or Ramón.

Finally, Bob said, “I think it’s time I headed upstairs to my place.”

“Are you sure?” Chris asked. “You’re more than welcome to stay here as long as you want.”

I nodded in agreement.

Bob smiled for the first time since the fire—a small one, but a smile, nonetheless—and said, “You know I can never repay you two for what you’ve done, but I have to start getting on with my life sometime, and it might as well be now.”

“Okay, then,” I said, “but promise you’ll call if there’s anything you need. And if you change your mind about spending the night here…”

He got up from the sofa.

“I’ll be fine. Really.”

Chris and I followed him to the door. He started to extend his hand to Chris then changed his mind and hugged him, tight.

“I owe you,” he said.

Then it was my turn.

When he released the hug, he backed up a bit and looked me in the eye.

“Thanks,” he said then turned, opened the door, and went out into the hallway.

*

The chief’s campaign-launch press conference had
been set
up weeks in advance for what was now the Tuesday following the fire. One of the larger meeting rooms of the Convention Center had been reserved, and the conference had been scheduled for precisely four-thirty p.m. to maximize coverage on the evening news. Every detail had been painfully staged to present the chief in the best possible light. Should he wear his uniform (yes, since few people would recognize him without it) and his hat (no, because even with carefully placed lighting there was a chance the brim might cast a shadow that would give him an even more sinister look than he had without it)?

The fundamental objective was to minimize any possible chance for spontaneity. Spontaneity was not the chief’s strong suit, and everyone except possibly the chief himself knew it.

But from the moment the body count began to come in from the Dog Collar, everything was up for grabs. A few of the chief’s advisers suggested that, in the wake of the fire, with the funerals and burials of the dead beginning Tuesday, the chief should postpone the press conference—or at least the announcement. However, the chief wasn’t going to let a few dead faggots stand in the way of his big moment, and the conference schedule remained unchanged.

It was obvious, even to C.C. if not to the chief, that the reporters were going to be far more interested in what was being done about the fire than in the chief’s throwing his hat into the political ring.

C.C. and the political honchos gathered early Sunday morning at the chief’s City Hall office—he dared not be anywhere else, under the circumstances. His early-morning arrival, striding stern-faced (he actually had no other) through pre-notified crowds of reporters and camera crews from around the state and the country, gave strong evidence that he was in control of the situation. C.C. and the others entered quietly through side and rear doors.