CHAPTER

NINE

SUNDAY WAS A BLUR OF SLEEP. AFTER I FOUND CLAY’S knife, I cooked breakfast, scrambled eggs and toast, and went back to bed. I took an old Valium to keep the dreams out of my head; otherwise, I wouldn’t have been able to sleep. I woke up at 4 p.m. and raised the window in my apartment. It had rained during the afternoon; the leaves were wet, and black puddles of water stood in the gutters.

After a slow run through the neighborhood (hampered as I was by my nicotine addiction), I sat on the bed and took stock of the records, books, the knick-knacks, and other items I planned to haul tomorrow to flea markets and junk shops. Because Chris had paralyzed my efforts to get bonded based on my “background,” my bodyguard work had trickled to nothing. And Stephen wasn’t a paying client. So, I switched to plan B. I’d sell a few things to make the month’s rent. If I was lucky, I’d get about $200 for my efforts, enough for about half the monthly expenses. It wasn’t the way I preferred to make money, but I had no other choice.

That evening, I forgot to call Stephen Cross.

***

I was dressed by 9 a.m. Monday morning and ready to move the bundles down the stairs. Even at this early hour the sun baked Boston. The air hung like a damp cloth over the street. The afternoon promised to be frightful: muggy and close, not pleasant for schlepping my treasures around the city.

I had dragged one of my bags stuffed with records to the door when the phone rang. I picked up the receiver and heard the clatter of a computer keyboard on the other end.

“Didn’t hear from you Sunday,” Stephen said. “Thought I’d call.”

“Pardon me, but I was exhausted.” I told him in detail about my encounter with Clay Krieger.

“You are damn lucky,” Stephen said.

“I know. My first mistake was letting my libido get the better of me. I should have put the kibosh on that when I saw him at Matt’s.”

“What was his name again?” Stephen asked. I thought it odd because journalists were supposed to remember names. He must have had other things on his mind.

“Clay. Clay Krieger.”

“Don’t know him, but Aryan America must have been trouble in paradise for him. Maybe we could take my car up to Warren tomorrow. Take a look around. Safely, of course.”

I thought of Stephen’s blue 1990 Honda Civic—dependable, reliable, and a veteran of New England weather and traffic.

“Maybe,” I said, “but I need to make money today.”

The keyboard stopped clattering and Stephen was silent for a few moments before he spoke again. “I forgot to tell you—you probably don’t have any interest—but I came to a decision last night.” Stephen sighed and I heard the flare of a match. John must have been at work.

“Go on,” I said.

“Well, I’m giving a speech tonight at the Boston Inclusive Coalition Annual Fund Dinner. I’d like you to be there.”

“You’re right, I’m not interested.” I imagined a steep admission price and a boring gathering of glittering gays.

“That’s why I didn’t ask you before. But the event would be on me. John is going.”

I chuckled. “You still haven’t given me enough of an incentive.”

“Des, it’s going to be a hell of a speech. I’m going to ‘out’ Rodney Jessup.” He stopped, tempering his excitement. I was speechless. Stephen sounded like a little boy playing with a new train set, excited about his toy and looking forward to his first crash. The fortune teller inside me foresaw dire consequences.

“Do you think that’s wise, considering….”

“Too late now. I’ve made up my mind—and Rodney Jessup wants to talk to me.”

“What?” The story was getting weirder.

“I told you I tried to reach him a few times over the past month. I wanted to interview him for my column. I thought I’d start with how the campaign was going and then pop the question. He finally returned my call last night. I could feel the ice over the phone. Nothing but silence after our introduction.”

“The great and powerful Rodney Jessup. Did he remember you?”

“No. So, I asked him why he called me back. I said, ‘If you don’t mind, I’ll call you Rodney rather than Reverend Jessup. You never told me your real name.’ I only knew it because of the business card that fell out of his pocket. He told me he called because he responds to all callers, for the good of the faith—a pious excuse. ‘We’re all important,’ he said. I guess I’m just one of the flock—the black sheep, maybe.

“‘Cast your mind back, Rodney,’ I said. ‘The Hercules Theater in New York City—1978 or so? Do you remember?’ He told me he didn’t know what I was talking about. I responded, ‘I think you do.”

“I told him I was making an important speech and his name would figure prominently. The tension shot up over the phone. Suddenly, he wanted to talk. He said the earliest he could see me would be Tuesday in New Hampshire after a campaign stop there. He hoped we could talk rationally; find out what all ‘this nonsense’ was about. So Tuesday, if we go up together, we could do double business—Aryan America and Rodney Jessup.”

“Honestly, Stephen, this sounds dangerous.”

“Don’t be a wuss, Des. This kind of work is just up your alley.” He stopped and I heard drawers open and shut. “I’d feel better if I could find that damn business card.”

“The card’s no proof. It’s your word against his. Your trick at the Hercules might just have happened to have it in his pocket.”

“There’s a little more to it than that. The card has my name on the back, written in pencil by Rodney. It has my old New Haven address and phone number on it—a record that could be checked, dated, and verified. ‘Hercules’ is written in the corner, but not the word ‘theater’… .” There was an audible crack over the phone as if Stephen had slammed his fist on the desk. “The graphite smeared. There’s a thumbprint.”

Bingo! He’s got him, hook, line, and sinker. An adrenaline rush stoked me.

“When do you want me to drop by?” I asked.

“How about six? We’ll have a nice walk to the hotel.”

***

Sweat was streaming off me by the time I got back to my apartment after 4 p.m. In six hours of work, I had netted about $235. 32. I found the thirty-two cents on the seat of a Green Line Lechmere train in Cambridge.

I ate an apple, showered, and dozed until 5:30, before I dressed in the best pair of dark jeans I owned and a short-sleeve white shirt. On my way out, I stopped at the bookcase and took Clay’s knife from behind my collection of Tennessee Williams plays. I wedged the cloth-covered weapon inside my left high-top boot. In fifteen minutes, I was sitting on Stephen and John’s landing.

Stephen, dressed in a black tuxedo, opened the door and smiled. “Are you crazy? Why didn’t you ring?”

“I was enjoying the evening before the real festivities began.”

“Honey? What’s wrong?” Another voice inside the apartment. John Dresser, looking grim and fumbling with a tux tie, appeared at the door. One look and I remembered why Stephen was hooked up with this man. Stephen Cross, middle-aged political writer from Kansas, who’d made friends and enemies in Boston, was little more than an average looker compared to John, the Assistant Manager at The Body Club.

John, at least ten years younger than Stephen, was the stuff of fantasies for gay men and straight women. John had achieved his own successful marriage with the gym. He was shorter than Stephen, blond, soft blue eyes, and in the prime of his physical life. His face was drop-dead gorgeous with appropriately chiseled chin and cheekbones; the skin, not yet reflective of encroaching droop, stretched as smoothly as canvas across the handsome framework. More than one man had attempted to steal John away from Stephen and their monogamous relationship, but all comers had failed. The two had remained together since they met in 1990, both devoted to the partnership. My only solace was they had not yet reached the “seven-year itch.”

John worked at the kind of place I loathed: a club of floor-to-ceiling mirrors, sparkling chrome exercise equipment, and twenty-four hour dance music. Not a haven for the image phobic by any means. I’d take bets (despite my smoking) I could out bench press any gay boy at any gym, especially where the pretty ones had oiled muscles, shaved bodies and crotches, and the fuck-you attitude. Who couldn’t figure them out? The transformative experience from sand-kicked-in-the-face child queer to gym queens. The gym gods surely would scoff at the rusty weights under my bed, but I looked as damn good, as Stephen would say, as those $100-a-month lifters. I was short, packed, and muscled in a 5’ 10” frame. All in the genes. A psychiatrist would probably say my feelings about the gym were internalized homophobia. But then, I think most shrinks are full of shit. What floats your boat is your choice.

A cautious smile spread across John’s face. It had been many months since we had seen each other. He moved his right hand behind his head and made a tugging motion. “I like your pony tail,” he said.

I gave it a yank as John stepped back inside. Stephen bent down and tugged on it as well. “I suppose some would find it dashing,” he said. “Very Pirates of Penzance. I still think you look better without it.”

“I hope I’m not underdressed,” I said, ignoring the dig, “but this is my best outfit.”

“You’re fine. I’m only in this penguin suit because I’m speaking.” He sighed.

“Having second thoughts?” I asked.

“A few. I’m worried about John. I finally told him the whole story. There was never any reason until now. Rodney was one of those mysterious romances, a nova that exploded and then disappeared, that so many of us have in our histories. I could never have imagined that it would end up like this.” Stephen looked past the trees into a hazy blue sky. Wistfully, if I had to guess. “John’s concerned. And he knows that when you and I go out we always get into trouble. I told him about tomorrow.” Stephen patted my head as if I were the faithful dog who had returned after running away. “I love that you’re here, Des. I know you’ll take care of me.” He pounded his fists into his black cummerbund. “Damn, I wish I didn’t have this gut.”

“Love has a way of doing that,” I said, looking down at my own flat stomach. “It’s not that bad,” I said throwing some flattery his way. “I’ve seen a lot worse on Channing Street.”

Stephen sloughed off my compliment. “I spent the afternoon finishing my speech. It’s more sympathetic than I imagined. Rodney made a great first impression. I discovered something today that I knew but wasn’t ready to admit. I was in love with the guy all those years ago. Maybe a shrink would call it an obsession, a first crush, but it felt like love to me.”

He sat next to me on the step and we laughed.

“If you loved him, why are you outing him?” I asked.

“Because I can’t stand what he’s become. How he hates us. There’s more to it, but I can’t go into it right now because John’s here. Stephen waved his hands with a theatrical flair. “I broke down when Rodney said we couldn’t go on. I thought the world was ending. I was young and stupid, but it was so painful.”

“Well, Madame Bovary, before you reach for the arsenic, perhaps you should take a look at this.” I took out the knife and unrolled it from its wrapping. “What do you think?”

“Jesus, Des, what am I supposed to think? It looks deadly.”

I formed a trampoline with the cloth and bounced the weapon in the air. “The knife used in your stabbing? The knife used to carve swastikas into bodies? A little gift from a member of Aryan America.”

I let the knife settle onto the fabric. Stephen stared and his fingers crept toward his abdomen.

“My gut,” he said. “I live with this goddamn scar every day.” He frowned with a hurt sadness. “Who knew you’d get to Aryan America so early? The whole idea of writing about them is a smoke screen to cover my own concern—”

“—Where did you get that?” John Dresser stood in the door. His expression was a cloudy gray.

I wrapped up the knife and reinserted it into my boot. “Sorry, John, it’s from an acquaintance.”

John shut the door and smirked. “Certainly, no one I want to know.”

Stephen looked at his watch. “We’d better get going. I’ll tell you later about the knife, baby. Door locked? Porch light on?”

“Yes,” John said sourly.

We walked down the steps to the sidewalk. I lit a cigarette and made sure not to exhale smoke in John’s direction. Stephen looked at me with covetous eyes, knowing he couldn’t suck one down in front of John. We turned north on Columbus Avenue and passed rows of sun-warmed brownstones and brick apartment projects. Traffic hummed around us. Diners sipped drinks under San Pellegrino umbrellas at outdoor cafes.

When we crossed a bridge over the Massachusetts Turnpike, Stephen put his fingers through the chain-link suicide fence and stared at the cars and trucks racing by below.

“I don’t want anyone to get hurt, Des,” he yelled over the zip of engines.

I stood close to him. “Don’t worry about me. You worry about yourself and John. I’m a tough kid who’s been through trouble, and sometimes I like it. My life’s never been dull.”

When we reached the hotel entrance on Arlington Street, we stopped under the bright red canopy. John entered the revolving door and stood inside as Stephen and I talked.

“Maybe you should tell Chris about Clay Krieger,” Stephen suggested.

I shrugged.

“Think about it,” Stephen said. “For me.”

“Since you put it that way,” I replied.

Come inside. We could read John’s lips through the glass.

“If I decide at the last minute not to out Rodney Jessup, I’ll be talking about theories of the genetic predisposition of homosexuality.”

I faked a yawn, checked the elastic band on my pony tail, and then escorted Stephen across the red carpet and through the revolving door.

***

The Gay Nineties had come to Boston in the gilded splendor of gold-leafed cartouches and twinkling chandeliers. The hotel ballroom sounded like a 747 on takeoff. Raucous laughter, loud conversations, and the sound of clinking glasses rolled across the room in bilious waves, overpowering any attempt at refined conversation. Waiters in white tuxedos balancing crystal wine glasses on silver trays, snaked through the crowd to tables festooned with lavender tablecloths and napkins. Rainbow-colored helium balloons floated over centerpieces of pink roses. The dinner took on a surreal quality for me, considering the Spartan charms of my life.

I had no problem with the scrubbed and smiling faces or the clatter of dinnerware. What I couldn’t swallow was the sense of dread which washed over me during this celebratory evening. I grabbed a glass of mineral water from a passing waiter. The drink’s icy frost chilled my hand. The man in the vat from my dream popped into my head. I shut my eyes and tried to push back the sense of alarm rising within me.

I might as well have been in Bora Bora. Everyone seemed to be speaking doggerel. I followed Stephen and John through the crowd. The men and women they spoke with were unaware of what lurked beyond the room’s camaraderie: an outing that could change the political landscape, a killer who might have Stephen in his crosshairs. Safety and security were as commonplace as the morning paper to the other attendees. Stephen introduced me to several people. I shook their hands and promptly forgot their names. They moved their mouths. I nodded my head.

An Hispanic woman and an African-American man waved from a table across the room. Stephen put his left hand on John’s shoulder and guided him through the crowd. I made a supreme effort to focus when Stephen introduced me to Lucinda Martinez and Win Hart.

Lucinda, or “Luce”, the nickname she preferred, was the gay community liaison to the Mayor’s office. She was about 30 years old, bright and pretty, with short black hair and darting brown eyes. She wore a radiant red evening dress, silver necklace, and earrings, all of which complemented her dark skin.

I recognized Win, a tall, thin, black man, who taught aerobics at The Body Club, the same health club where John worked. Win was handsome in a charcoal-gray tux. Although he was probably no more than 28, a few strands of gray threaded through his closely cropped hair. I had faint memories of him from my bar going days, although I was sure he didn’t drink. He and John seemed to be good friends.

After we took our seats, Luce told Stephen, “Two reporters are here to cover your speech. I really had to work hard to get them to come with no clue about the story. Can’t you give me a hint?”

Stephen smiled. “No, Luce. Patience.”

“Your favorite cop is here, Stephen,” Win said. He pointed to the corner near our table. Chris Spinetti was slouched against the wall, his tie askew on his white shirt. “Isn’t he the straight one you talked to at the committee meeting?” Win asked. “Good thing we’re an accepting bunch.”

“Probably here to protect me,” Stephen said, and waved to the detective.

Chris glowered and didn’t wave back.

“Fits right in, doesn’t he,” I said to Stephen. “I thought protection was my job.”

Chris was standing about twenty feet from the table. A man, identified by Luce as the founder of a gay and lesbian youth outreach organization, sidled up to Chris and chatted up the unmoved detective as we watched. Stephen put other faces to names: a gay city councilor, the head of the local AIDS-care group, a prominent gay attorney and his lover of 16 years, all to be honored for their service to the gay community.

Everyone had a cocktail except Win and me. Then dinner arrived—predictable hotel food, but of a higher quality than was usually served at similar functions. John and Win talked about the latest technological advances in step aerobics. Luce tried to engage me in dinner conversation, but I was reluctant to answer her barrage of questions about my background. I replied “New Rochelle” to most of her inquiries, which finally annoyed her. I was sure she would find out the true story later from Stephen and she would dislike me, but I had other matters on my mind at the moment.

I grew increasingly concerned about Stephen, who seemed, as the evening dragged on, to be withdrawing deeper into a funk. His conversation, when he decided to join in, seemed forced and a bit snappish. For the most part, he avoided talking altogether unless the subject was innocuous. Even then he stammered and appeared distracted. The pressure of his “revelation” was getting to him, I thought. John patted Stephen’s hand and whispered to him several times. This small display of affection had a calming effect upon him.

After dinner, the BIC President, a prim lesbian named Kathy, who looked as if she should be selling fabrics at Laura Ashley, presented the community service awards. The crowd erupted after each presentation because the house was loaded with relatives and admirers. A few self-congratulatory speeches followed each award amid the bustle of waiters and clatter of coffee cups. Shortly after 8 p.m., Kathy introduced Stephen.

Polite applause filled the room. Stephen kissed John and rose from his chair. He leafed through his notes and then placed them on the table next to the lectern. He looked into the crowd. From our close vantage point, you could see the storm clouds passing across his eyes.

Stephen tapped the microphone and began. “When I was asked to speak at this dinner, I thought I would talk about a topic that’s been in the news a lot lately—the theory of biological determination of sexual orientation…but it has become clear during the past two months, that I must talk about a subject closer to me—the response of the gay community to violence—the effects of threats made upon my life.”

There were a few gasps. I, and everyone else at the table, looked at John. He frowned, lowered his head, and stared at the untouched cake on his dessert plate.

As Stephen continued talking about the culture of America’s hatred for the homosexual, a few members of the community shook their heads in agreement. Luce fidgeted with her spoon and Win looked annoyed. “I was hoping Stephen might keep his speech lighter,” Luce whispered to me.

As if in answer to her, Stephen continued, “This is no time to be coy. Once we were a queer joke, a laughable, mincing bunch of pansies with limp wrists and lisps. Post-Stonewall America views us differently. The joke is we graduated from sissies to destroyers of society, from Quentin Crisp to The Terminator, from silence to the destructor of families in little more than twenty-five years. The power shift our enemies have anointed upon us is monumental.”

He paused and looked at our table.

“My enemies want me dead, but we are all targets. The subtle forms of hate remain: the snickers, the laughter, the crude jokes. Discrimination’s still alive. What a tired word. Discrimination is the bureaucratic lessening of ignorance, hatred, and bigotry made palatable to the public.”

He closed his eyes, as if to utter a prayer.

“Faggot, the joke.

“Queer, the laughingstock.

“Faggot, the threat.

“Queer, the destroyer of America.

“Today, the love that previously dared not speak its name can’t keep its mouth shut and America is buying earplugs.”

An uncomfortable rustle passed over the crowd.

“God, what’s wrong with him?” Luce asked me.

“Stephen is teaching us to be diligent—to take nothing for granted,” I whispered back.

“I have come to the point that I wish to address; the reason for my speech tonight—”

The sentence left Stephen’s lips. He stopped and shaded his eyes with his hands. I saw his hands shake a bit; his mouth tightened and his gaze froze upon some object behind us. I turned to see a man in a blue suit walk out a side door.

“A moment,” Stephen said to the crowd. As the glitterati chattered, he left the podium and returned to the table. In a strained voice, he said, “Rodney Jessup’s here.”

Stephen, John, and I ran to the ballroom entrance and peered over the brass banister to the first floor. The man Stephen believed to be Rodney Jessup was gone.

“I know he was here,” Stephen said. “I saw him.”

“I saw a man,” I said. “Dark blue suit, red tie.”

Chris Spinetti jogged up behind Stephen. “What’s going on?” He put his hand on Stephen’s shoulder. “God, you look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“I have—one from about twenty years ago,” Stephen replied. “Rodney Jessup, just as I was about to—”

Chris bolted for the stairs.

“Wait,” Stephen yelled. “I want him first. He’s done nothing wrong.” Chris cut short his sprint and returned to our group. Stephen kissed John. “Go back to your seats and tell Luce I’ll be back in a few minutes. I’ll look for him.” His eyes were sad and moist. He left us standing at the railing and vanished down the stairs.

Luce and Win bombarded John with questions when we returned. The event chairman was already calling for an explanation. I waited until John was in his seat and I could see that Chris had returned to his position near the door. I excused myself on the pretense of going to the men’s room.

I hurried down the steps, but Stephen and Rodney weren’t to be found. I searched every red-tufted chair, the men’s room, the gift shop, and the hotel restaurant where tourists in shorts and T-shirts dined. The hotel bar was the last place I checked.

The slim white face of the television preacher. The slim white face of Times Square.

I spotted Rodney Jessup sitting at the far end of the bar, across from a blue neon beer sign. The room smelled damp, smoky, and as sweet as brandy. The man I assumed to be Jessup was alone, sipping an amber liquid over ice from a rocks glass. I sat on a stool, two seats away. I knew little about him, but I decided to find out as much as possible as quickly as I could. I wondered where Stephen was. I looked around for him, my imagination placing him at a dark table, nursing a drink, watching Jessup, the too-real phantom he had conjured from his past. Stephen wasn’t around, however, so it was up to me to conduct the interview for him.

“Drink’s on me, Reverend Jessup.” I pulled my billfold from my jean’s pocket.

The man in a blue pin-stripe suit and red and blue striped tie turned to me. He was not the fire-breathing demon of my fantasies. Stephen was correct: the preacher was sleek, tall, handsome, maybe made more so by the muted light in the bar. His blond hair, neatly combed and parted on the left, topped a V-shaped face, culminating in a tapered chin. The proportions of his face and the graceful contours of the brows over the blue eyes defined a visual elegance.

“You know me?” he asked calmly. He lifted his glass and I caught a smoky whiff of scotch.

“Through a mutual friend—Stephen Cross.” I lit a cigarette and offered him the pack. He waved it away.

He settled back in his chair and ordered another scotch on the rocks. I ordered mineral water with lime.

“Two drinks,” he said. “That’s my limit. Regardless of what Mr. Cross seems to think, I don’t know him—have never known him.” A light Southern accent glazed his speech, the vowels pulled tenderly before snapping into shape.

I wanted him to say “homosexual”.

“I am a blessed man with a wonderful wife and two beautiful children. A rumor such as this can be very damaging at the wrong time. I came here tonight to dissuade Mr. Cross from making a rash statement that might result in a civil action, but I see I’m too late to intercede.” He sipped his drink.

“He didn’t get that far. He never said your name.”

Rodney’s lips parted in a thin smile.

“I meet so many people all the time, Mr.—”

“—Harper.”

“I’m on my way to New Hampshire tomorrow, Mr. Harper. I would like to meet Mr. Cross. It’s possible that we have crossed paths at some point, but I’m certain not in the way he recalls.”

I took a drag on my cigarette. “How did you know Stephen was here tonight?”

“I have my sources and I also have a staff that reads newspapers—of all kinds.”

“Stephen’s invited me to come along tomorrow.”

“You’re welcome. All are welcome to join my campaign.”

“Hate, Reverend Jessup. I’m pretty sure all I’d get is hate.”

Rodney gulped his drink. “No, Mr. Harper. Love. You’d get pure Christian love. I don’t approve of your lifestyle choice. Excuse me, I presume you’re homosexual.”

I laughed. “Nothing but. A finer specimen couldn’t be found.” Then I chuckled because the word sounded identical to Stephen’s imitation.

Rodney turned to face me. “I don’t really approve of the way you live, but I love you because Christ loves you. You and the rest of the homosexuals are wrong, Mr. Harper, because you want us to accept you. Love, yes. Accept, no. You’re evil at worst, Mr. Harper. Wrong, at best.”

“I can appreciate your position,” I said. “You have your family, your career, your presidential credibility at risk if Stephen makes his little announcement. You can’t stay quiet. Pay him off and your ass is guilty, even if you’re not. Go public and fight it—proclaim your innocence to the great unwashed—the seeds of doubt will have been planted. Either way, you’re screwed.”

“Delicately put. This is the kind of twisted story a homosexual would make up about me. To destroy me. To trump up some fabricated nonsense about sex.”

“It would ruin your campaign.”

He brushed his hand through his hair. “The funny part is, Mr. Harper, I don’t even expect to win the presidency, or even the state, the county, or the church down the block. I’m building for the future. I talk about the destruction of the family, drugs, violence, homosexuals, abortion, the threat to the one true everlasting church and I can see the fear in their eyes. They really believe the world is coming down around them. That’s the key. They don’t understand that it’s been that way all along. But, looking at you Mr. Harper, I can see you know the truth.” Rodney finished the last of his drink. “I must be going. I have a busy schedule tomorrow.”

He extended his right hand. I shook it—warm to the touch— even after holding a cold glass. Freezing. The vat. He buttoned his suit coat.

I looked around for Stephen again.

“Remember, you’re welcome,” he said and then walked to the door.

He left me at the bar with his tab.

When I returned to the hall, the dinner had ended because of the awkward departure of the keynote speaker. Luce looked sour; she kept apologizing to the two reporters who were haranguing her. John frowned, angry and distraught. Win said Chris had been called to the station.

“This has been a first-class disaster,” Luce said to me when the reporters left. “A sheer disaster. I promised them a story. Where’s Stephen?”

“I didn’t see him,” I said. “I thought he’d be back by now. Jessup was in the bar alone.”

John’s hopeful glance faded.

“What’s Stephen got to do with Rodney Jessup?” she asked.

“Patience, Luce,” I said.

She scowled.

We waited for another hour. No Stephen. Win, John, and I searched the hotel, even taking the elevators to each floor in the building. Luce called their apartment and got the tape machine. The wait staff was clearing the tables when we left about 10 p.m.

“I’m sure Stephen’s at home,” I told John in an effort to soothe him as we descended the staircase. “He was embarrassed by Rodney.”

John dismissed my lame excuse. “Stephen? Never.”

John and I said our goodbyes to Lucinda and Win. John promised to call Win when he got home.

When we left the hotel, the night sky was hazy and thick, a few bulbous clouds already hiding bleary stars. John was sullen, unwilling to talk, as we walked back to the apartment. I was hesitant to bring up awkward conversation, so I smoked and whistled an anxious tune under my breath.

As we crossed Columbus Avenue, John finally spoke in agitated anger, “Stephen and I met on a night like this. It was after a poetry reading. We went for a walk on the Esplanade. The sky was just like tonight, warm and hazy. We sat on a bench and watched the lights twinkle across the Charles River.”

I put my hand on his back.

“Our attraction was instantaneous. I loved the way he held my hand, the way he put his arm around my shoulder. I couldn’t believe this intelligent, sensitive man could like me, much less want to go out with me.”

“John,” I said, “Really, you’re going to trip over your own modesty.” I wanted to tell him that Stephen was sure to be okay— that Stephen loved him and, of course, felt the same way about their relationship.

“No. I’m serious. I’d had a few boyfriends before I met him. When you have muscles, it’s easy—but it’s a blessing and a curse. I’d had some affairs, but I knew Stephen was different from the start. I was in love and I hoped he was in love with me. He told me about Kansas summers and I told him about Vermont winters. We both decided that if we could survive them, we could survive anything.”

I had never experienced this intimacy from John and somehow the dark, the mood of the evening, made him seem smaller, less powerful than his well-built frame. We crossed an overpass and a commuter train rumbled on the tracks below. Above us, the street lights soared like little suns.

“Stephen!” The rumble in John’s voice echoed the train, but it was filled with horror, almost rising to a howl. “I’ll kill him when I get home. Walking out like that! What a stupid, stupid thing to do…getting involved in these groups and politics.”

“He’s okay,” I said, not really believing my own words.

“The deeper we get into politics, Des, the more we become targets. Stephen and I argued about it—his taking on nasty groups in his column. He told me that politics is supposed to create waves. He said the country can’t go back. I hate the whole shitty business…the media…fighting for rights…fighting for what? So, fags can-” He covered his face with his hands. After a few moments, he lowered his hands and kicked an empty beer bottle from the curb. The glass shattered in the street.

When we turned onto Channing, John knew something was wrong. The porch was dark - he had turned on the light before we left. As we came closer to the brownstone, I got the sense that things were not right at 308.

John ran, fumbling with his keys.

“Let me go first,” I said, catching up to him.

“Shit!” He had the wrong key.

I tried to calm him. “Quiet. I know more about breaking and entering than you do.”

“Damn.”

He gave up trying to open the door. It was unlocked; I pushed it open.

The frame inside had been jimmied. Splintered wood lay on the carpet; the security lock dangled from a fragment. I put my index finger to my mouth to hush John and then stepped inside. Wavy fingers of light from the streetlamps filtered through the bay window.

The sight was not pretty: bookcases were overturned, cushions were thrown from the couch, papers littered the floor.

“Oh, my God,” John said.

I stumbled over an overturned floor lamp.

I heard a rustle, a quick movement downstairs.

“Is anyone in the building?” I whispered.

“The upstairs neighbors are on vacation. Let’s get out, Des. We can go next door and call the police.”

“You go.” I wanted him out of the apartment fast. I pointed downstairs.

John ran out the door.

The rooms were ghost-story dark. My eyes sharpened, trying to detect any movement in the living and dining rooms; my ears sucked in any sound I could hear over the pounding of my heart. I was in the middle of an adrenaline explosion. The rush pushed me on. I felt invincible, as I had many times before during drug-induced highs. I needed to be smarter. A madman, a killer, could be in the apartment. I centered myself, took a few deep breaths and walked on.

The dining room table and chairs were undisturbed, but books lay scattered on the floor around Stephen’s computer cart. As I stepped into the kitchen, broken glass crunched under my feet.

The sound downstairs was unmistakable—the creak of sliding glass doors. I ran to the rear window in the dining room, thinking I might get a glimpse of the intruder in the alley below. A cat, flushed from its hiding place, darted for cover behind a trash can. Then stillness. I was too late.

I moved back through the mess in the kitchen. The counters were piled with canned goods and recipe books. Drawers of tableware, kitchen utensils, towels, and pot holders had been poured on the floor.

The rooms below were unfamiliar to me and called for added caution. I thought of taking out Clay’s knife, but didn’t want to get my fingerprints on the butt. I retrieved a butcher knife from the floor and walked slowly down the stairs, holding the blade out and flat away from my body. The stairs led to a small room, an office where the intruder had had a good time. Books were opened, files and papers thrown about. The office was connected by a hall to a dark bathroom on the front of the building, but it was a curious bluish-gray light coming through a slightly opened door that attracted my attention. The faint glow arose from what I presumed was John and Stephen’s bedroom.

I pushed open the door.

It was their bedroom. The room had been ransacked like the rest and the sliding doors to the back patio were open. Warm air wafted into the room.

The solitary eye of Stephen’s laptop computer—missing, I now remembered, from the cart upstairs—sat unblinking in the center of the bed. The screen threw out the frosty light.

I looked at the three lines in large type emblazoned on the screen.

QUEERS BURN IN HELL

FAGGOTS

ARYAN AMERICA