Текст книги "Cockeyed "
Автор книги: Richard Stevenson
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ChAPteR seven
The Focks cameraman lay on the porch moaning and clutching his chest, and the woman with him was prone behind the porch railing, yelling into her cell phone, “Send the police! Send the police!” The 911 operator must have asked her where she was, because she said, “It’s on my gPs! It’s in the car on my gPs!”
I asked Hunny to remind us of what his house number on Moth Street was, and he said 126, and the woman yelled into her phone, “One twenty-six Moth Street, in Albany!”
We had all heard a car screech away, but there was no sign of the vehicle by now.
Hunny switched on the porch light, and I looked down at the whimpering young man on the floor. I got on my cell and told 911 that in addition to the police we would need an ambulance.
I said, “Hunny, is anybody in the house a doctor or nurse?”
The remaining partygoers were crowded just inside the front door, chattering and peering out.
“No.”
The woman with the cell phone came over and said, “Bert!
Bert! Don’t die on us. Bill needs you. We all need you.” She had a hard time bending down because the jeans she was wearing were so tight.
As I got down on my knees to examine the cameraman’s soaked T-shirt, I saw with relief that the shooting was not what it first appeared to be. The mess on the man’s chest smelled not like blood but like paint. I touched it, and I said, “You’ve been hit with a paintball pellet. It exploded but it didn’t penetrate your body.”
“But, hey, this fucking hurts,” the cameraman groaned. “I hurt my back. It hurts.”
“They tried to kill us!” the woman said. “My God.”
50 Richard Stevenson
“Who fired the paintball? What did you see?”
“I think it was a car. We were just coming up the steps.”
Then I remembered that the man dressed as Marylou Whitney had been ushering the newsies into the house, but where was the Saratoga and Palm Beach socialite?
Art had come out now with a flashlight, and he was shining the beam around the porch and the wooden front steps. More red paintballs had struck the porch railing and some of the shingles on the front of the house. A border of marigolds ran along the concrete walkway from the steps down to the sidewalk, also paint-splattered, and it was when Art shone the light down there that we saw the bottom of Marylou’s pink gown. Her legs were sticking out from under the forsythia bush below the porch.
Hunny raced down the steps, shouting, “Marylou! Marylou!”
A muffled voice came out from under the bush. “Hunny, I’m stuck. I fell off the steps, and my necklace is caught on something.”
“Oh, girl, you look like the Wicked Witch of the West and the house fell on you.”
“Somebody shot a gun.”
“But it was just paint, Donald says. Were you hit? Are you wounded?”
“I don’t know, darling.”
Now the woman in the tight jeans was on her cell phone again, and I heard her say something about “they tried to kill us”
and “a transvestite may have set us up.”
I asked Art for his flashlight and then crawled under the bush to find out what was holding onto Marylou. Her diamond necklace had become entangled on a forsythia branch, and while she aimed the flashlight I broke off bits of the branch and tried to free the Whitney jewels without damaging them further.
Marylou said, “I know we have known each other for such a short, short time, but I have to tell you, whoever you are, that I think I am falling in love.”
CoCkeyed 51
“Okey-dokes.”
She had scratches on her neck and jaw and her wig was seriously askew, but Marylou did not seem to have been hit with a paint pellet.
“You’re sure you’re okay?” I asked.
“I am feeling a bit moist, but that may be from the excitement.”
I yelled, “She seems to be uninjured. We’ll be with you in a second.”
Hunny said, “Maybe the attackers will be back. Oh, where are the Albany police when you need them!”
There was a sudden brightness, and as Marylou and I wriggled free of the forsythia and I helped her to her feet, I saw the woman in the tight jeans wielding a video camera with a light atop it and recording our struggles. Apparently this would be Marylou’s debut on Focks News, and mine also.
I said, “I heard you speculating on who the paint shooter was after. It’s a safe bet that they were not shooting at you but at Hunny or Art or their friends. No one even knew you were here.”
“Who are you?” she snapped. “I need a name please. And your position here.”
“Don Strachey. I’m a private investigator working for Hunny.
Billionaires attract bad people occasionally, and that’s why I am present. Based on your remarks on the phone just now, it sounds to me as if you are among the bad people Hunny needs to be protected from.”
“I’m Jane Trinkus and I don’t need lectures from you on how to do my job. If Bill was here, he would make short work of a dickhead like you. As his representative, I am telling you to watch out or I will do the same.”
“I’m making a note.”
There were no sirens, but the cop car that turned off Transformer came up Moth Street fast, flashing like a meteor.
Art said, “Finally, Alice Blue Gown.”
52 Richard Stevenson
There were plenty of parking places along the street, but the patrol car double parked and two officers got out. “Who made the 911 call?” the older one asked.
Trinkus identified herself as a producer for The Bill O’Malley Show and said, “We know that we are not liked in the homosexual community, but this is the first time anyone actually tried to kill us. My cameraman Bert Spatz is lying on the porch severely wounded, and I am just lucky to be alive.”
The cop indicated to his junior officer to go up and check on the cameraman, while Hunny said, “Somebody shot paint pellets from a car and raced off. Very noir-ish, even without the fog and other cheesy effects. But I don’t think they were shooting at these Bill O’Malley lovelies. I won the lottery this week, and I’ve had nothing but trouble since then. I have a private detective, in fact, Don Strachey here, who is looking into a number of unfortunates who have shown up since Wednesday.”
The cop acknowledged me with a nod but was more interested in Hunny. “So you’re Huntington Van Horn?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“Congratulations, sir. Yes, I’ve heard of this happening.
Lottery winners are shown on TV, and then people start bothering them and trying to walk off with a piece of the winnings, legally or illegally.”
Now Trinkus was on the phone again with somebody, saying,
“We may be in danger. The cops up here are in bed with the gays.
Maybe somebody should wake Bill up. This is incredible!”
There were more flashing lights, and an ambulance rolled up the street and halted behind the police cruiser. A young man and a young woman in uniform got out quickly and the cop pointed to the porch.
The officer, a Sergeant Filio, took statements from everyone who had witnessed the paintball attack. Trinkus stuck to her theory that the Focks News crew were “shot at” by radical gays, probably people who Hunny phoned and alerted that Focks News was about to ambush him. The officer said he just wanted CoCkeyed 53
a narrative of what actually happened, and when, and he said detectives would soon arrive to question witnesses and listen to any ideas they had on who might have done the shooting.
After Marylou gave her version of events, the cop said, “Mrs.
Whitney, you probably shouldn’t leave Saratoga without some kind of security whenever you are wearing your jewels.”
“Oh, officer, thank you so much for such sound advice.”
Trinkus said, “That’s not Marylou Whitney. It’s a fucking drag queen. Are you serious?”
Sergeant Filio said, “I’m just going to pretend I never heard that,” and winked at Marylou.
The cop turned his attention to the eMts, who were now hauling the cameraman down the steps on a gurney, and Art said to Hunny under his breath, “I know that cop. He used to date Malcolm Thibidoux.”
“Where are you taking him?” Trinkus yelled after the eMts as they slid the gurney into the ambulance, and they told her Albany Medical Center.
“Is he going to be okay?”
“Should be. He says his back hurts. Probably from when he fell over. But the paint didn’t get in his eyes or anything”
“Be brave, Bert, be brave,” she called after him. “Bill will be so supportive of you.”
Another police car arrived as the ambulance was pulling away, and two plainclothes officers led us through our recitations a second time. Again, Jane Trinkus speculated that she and her cohorts had been shot at by “gay terrorists.”
Hunny and I had a quick, private back-and-forth as to whether we should mention to the detectives Stu Hood, Mason Doebler and Hunny’s several other assorted boyfriends and tricks who had made vague or specific threats over the past three days. We decided not to. Hunny said, “They’re not all model citizens, but now that I am a billionaire I guess I can deal with them on my own, no? With your help, Donald, I mean. And if any of these 54 Richard Stevenson
lads turns out to be into paintball wars, you can hand him over to the girls in blue. Why stir up trouble for these unfortunate youths, many of whom are practically middle-aged by now, and perfectly harmless?”
I guessed what Hunny was also saying was, let’s not go poking a stick into the busy hive of his sexual past, for God knew what else might come buzzing out to chase Hunny up and down his hectic erotic landscape. Keeping this part of his life separate for the moment and away from the police did seem to make sense.
Especially given that Hunny had so many people angry at him at this point that focusing on a few unstable tricks and rent boys just felt laughably limited.
ChAPteR eight
“Well, at least Hunny’s not on Meet the Press,” Timmy said, indicating the kitchen television set. “Not yet.”
He had one eye on two Sunday morning health-care-debate talking heads, another eye on the Times Union spread out on the kitchen table, and a third eye – I was always amazed that he could do this – on his masala tea, a relic of his long-ago Peace Corps days, that was busy coagulating in a large mug that sat between us. I was having coffee and an English muffin, and I was fretting over Tom Friedman’s dark forecasts in the Times. Global warming, with its inundated cities and wars over vanishing natural resources, was a good momentary distraction from Hunny.
“These people are just bonkers,” Timmy said, as he read the TU page one story on the Family Preservation Association of Albany County. “They can’t actually believe that the Lottery Commission might take back Hunny’s billion dollars. But they are having a high old time making lottery officials squirm, and they’re getting all kinds of ink for their screwball organization while they’re at it.”
“Ink is who they are.”
“And of course Hunny is a godsend.”
“He is a bit of a right-wing gay caricature. If Hunny hadn’t existed, Rush Limbaugh would have had to invent him. It’s why I think I’m basically glad to be working for him. I mean, in addition to walking away with a tiny portion of his billion dollars.
In a world of gay folks like us who are busily turning queer life in America into a kind of insipid parody of our parents’ dull, stable existences, Hunny is this horrifying creature climbing out of the primordial homo ooze. I have to say that I find him alternately hair-raising and beguiling.”
“Insipid? Donald, do you think our life is insipid?”
“No, I like it. It’s nice. It’s comfortable. I wouldn’t have it any 56 Richard Stevenson
other way.”
“Then what are you saying? Would our lives – and the lives of our gay friends who are like us – be improved if we were all more like Hunny and Art and that gay menagerie they surround themselves with?”
“No. But you know I like to quote Ogden Nash. ‘Home is heaven, and orgies are vile, but I like an orgy once in a while.’
You’ve even been known to quote him yourself in recent years.
If not in Albany, then certainly from time to time on vacation in Thailand.”
He pretended to bristle, then laughed. “Of course we all have a streak of Hunny in us, expressed or unexpressed. But it’s the flaunting – there, I said the right-wingers’ word – it’s the flaunting of this life of booze and boys and mayhem that just gets tiresome. And, yes, embarrassing. There, I said that, too. In the straight world, people like Hunny make me embarrassed to be gay.”
“Me too. Except I’m kind of embarrassed to be embarrassed.”
“Yes, you would be. I’d like to be. But I can’t. I’m just embarrassed.”
“The TU story doesn’t mention any gay groups in Albany or elsewhere coming to Hunny’s defense. That’s disappointing. I guess they’re embarrassed, too.”
“With his billion dollars,” Timmy said, “Hunny probably doesn’t need any help. He can hire all the help he needs. Like you.”
“Me, and he’s getting a lawyer to deal with the DeCarlo lawsuit. Plus, we agreed that after last night’s paintball episode he should hire some private security people for his house. I put him in touch with Gray Security, and they should have some people over there by now.”
“You said it was unclear who the paint shooter this morning was trying to hit. Only the TV people and the Marylou Whitney impersonator were on the front steps at the time. But isn’t it possible that somebody who hates Hunny just took some CoCkeyed 57
potshots at the house, and they didn’t care who they hit? They just wanted to frighten Hunny and complicate his life?”
“That’s what it looks like. And maybe with a little luck, humiliate a few fags. Not knowing that the Bill O’Malley people were in the line of fire.”
“I am guessing that we haven’t heard the last of Focks News.
I’m sure O’Malley will call for the death penalty.”
“This is a job for the Albany PD, and all the indications are they’ll take it seriously. They know that paint is only paint, but those war-game pellets can do real harm to people who aren’t wearing vests and goggles. What happened last night was assault, and the cops I met seem prepared to treat it that way.”
“Wouldn’t it be interesting,” Timmy said, “if the paintball attack could be traced back to one of the Family Preservation people. fPAAC is up to its eyebrows in local conservative wing-nuts – tea-baggers, birthers, deathers and other types of Obama haters.”
“Except, when Second Amendment crazies lose control, they tend not to just shoot paint. They go in with real Uzis and go down in a blaze of glory taking as many people with them as they can. This thing feels more like a homophobic out-of-control loony or drunk.”
“So, Donald, what exactly is your role at this point? The police will investigate the paint attack and the security people will protect Hunny. What will you be doing to earn your fee?”
“There are still a few of Hunny’s former occasional and short-term boyfriends I need to check out. Guys who have sent threatening notes or phone messages.”
“By short-term, I suppose you mean ranging from several hours down to ten minutes.”
“Yes, speed dating seems to be one of Hunny’s favorite pastimes.”
“And these Briening people. Surely you can be helpful dealing with them. You’ve dealt with extortionists before – though none 58 Richard Stevenson
that I can recall who were quite as grandiose in their expectations as the Brienings.”
“I’m trying to figure out whether the Brienings’ delusional venality will be an advantage or a disadvantage. Lack of rationality is generally an obstacle in situations like this, but these people are so off the wall that I may mau-mau them and they’ll just go poof.
Anyway, I should soon get an inkling as to what I am dealing with. I’m going to drive out to Cobleskill this afternoon.”
Something somebody was saying on Meet the Press caught Timmy’s attention, and then my cell phone went off.
“Strachey.”
“Don, I need your help,” Hunny said, his voice shaky. “Can you drive over to East Greenbush? Art and I came out to Golden Gardens to see Mom. But she’s gone.”
Gone? “Hunny, do you mean that your mother has passed away?” This could solve certain problems.
“No, she’s just not here. And nobody knows where Mom went. ”
I said I’d be there in ten minutes.
§ § § § §
“They say they’re going to have to notify the police,” Hunny said. “They’re searching the premises one more time, and if Mom doesn’t turn up they are going to have to call the sheriff ’s office.
I’m thinking maybe they shouldn’t wait. I mean, they found her wheelchair by the front door, for heaven’s sake. It sounds like she somehow just left. Got out the door and wandered away somewhere.”
“There’s a receptionist,” I pointed out. “Or isn’t she always at her desk?”
Art said, “We’ve come in here when she’s back out of sight in the office, catching some zees, or trimming her nose hairs, or whatever.”
“Mom rides around in that chair – she calls it her taxi to nowhere – but she can walk in her slow, rickety way. There was nothing to prevent her from strolling right out the door and —
CoCkeyed 59
what? Hitching a ride to almost anyplace.”
“The other doors are alarmed,” Art said, “but not the front.”
“What was she wearing when she was last seen?”
“Just her bathrobe and slippers. Mom has been meticulous about her appearance all her life. Or she was until recently. She might not have been aware that she was dressed somewhat inappropriately for appearing in public.”
I was standing and Hunny and Art were seated on a bench in the corridor outside the administrator’s office. Elderly men and women in various stages of inert disrepair were slumped in wheelchairs up and down the hallway. Some had looked up at me as I walked in, but most took no notice. The place was decorated with pretty-posy wall stencils, under the apparent assumption that none of the inmates would have found Motherwell interesting or gotten a charge out of a Munch or two. The hall we were in did not smell fetid, but the stench of disinfectant was not much of a substitute.
“I talked to Mom yesterday afternoon,” Hunny said, “and she told me how much she was looking forward to my visit. The staff here had told Mom about me winning the lottery even before I called her on Thursday, so I guess everybody here knew I was coming. And I told Mrs. Kerisiotis, the administrator, that I would donate new flat-screen TVs to all the rooms. That went over big, and I have to say, it went through my mind that Mom might get a little extra tLC as a result.”
Art said, “Hunny also offered to have the dietician sent on a long trip to Hawaii and replaced by somebody who could cook, but nobody here has said any more about that.”
“Was yesterday afternoon the last time you spoke to your mother?” I asked.
“Not long after I got home from your office.”
“And she sounded normal?”
“Normal? Well, normal for Mom in the past couple of years is not exactly what Dr. Joyce Brothers would call normal.
60 Richard Stevenson
Sometimes she’s her good old self. Other times she forgets things and people. And she gets frustrated and mad. A couple of weeks ago one of the nurses told me that Mom had thrown her Depends at an aide and told people to stop treating her like a baby. I asked her about this, but she said she didn’t remember doing it, and we both had a good laugh over that one.”
Hunny and Art both stood up as a tiny middle-aged woman wearing a blue business suit, a pink ruffled collar and a huge brooch that looked like a sea urchin came striding up the corridor.
“That’s Mrs. Kerisiotis,” Hunny said. “When Mom went missing, she came in, even though it’s Sunday.”
I was introduced by name but not title or function, and Mrs.
Kerisiotis said to Hunny, “Did you telephone your mother early this morning, Huntington?”
“No, I didn’t.”
“Your mother’s roommate, Nola Conklin, says your mom received a phone call at about a quarter of eight. Nola was half asleep and she couldn’t make out what was said. It wasn’t long after that that Rita left the room in her wheelchair. She was dressed only in her nightie and bathrobe, so of course any staff seeing her headed down the hall would have thought she was going in the direction of the lounge or the game room. Can you ask around among friends and relatives and try to find out who might have phoned her?”
“Yes, I will do that. Oh God.”
“Huntington, there is still no sign of your mother, and I think I will have to notify the sheriff ’s department. Some of our staff have even walked up and down the highway asking if any neighbors might have noticed your mum, but no one reported seeing her. I am so, so sorry this has happened. I think that Rita may have been determined to leave the building, and cleverly she took advantage of the front desk shift change at eight o’clock.
She has certainly never done such a thing before. Has she talked to you at all about wanting to leave Golden Gardens or of wanting to go to a particular place?”
CoCkeyed 61
“No,” Hunny said. “Mom has always said this place suits her. I mean, she says it’s boring and smells bad and the food is revolting and sometimes she feels like she would just as soon be rotting in a grave as rotting in a nursing home. But she says most of the staff are nice, and the heating system works fine in the winter.”
“Yes, she seems to like it here, and Rita is well-liked by both the staff and the other residents. Now, Mrs. Conklin told me your mom became agitated while watching the six o’clock news on TV yesterday evening. I know that you have been in the news, and I am wondering if she may have become upset over a report on you and your lottery prize and these Albany people who are trying to have your prize revoked. Did she not mention anything about this to you?”
Hunny looked stricken and reached for his cigarettes and then quickly put them back. “No, but she means to tell me things and then things slip her mind. She has mentioned that this happens.
So she might have seen me being maligned by those religious nut cases and she decided to give them a piece of her mind or something. That would be just like Mom.”
“Mother Rita is a cheerful lady who likes to have her bit of fun,” Art said. “But she doesn’t suffer fools, either.”
Hunny said, “I wonder if she went to find the fPAAC people and tell them off. But how would she even know who they were or where to find them? Now I’m really worried. Maybe the sheriff ’s people could look for her wherever the fPAAC idiots are.
Do they have an office, or a den, or a nest, or what? And Donald, girl, you could check out fPAAC, too, and maybe infiltrate them or keep an eye on them or something.”
“I’ll add them to my list. This afternoon I may visit the Brienings in Cobleskill. But if your Mom doesn’t turn up soon, she’ll be my first priority.”
Hunny grabbed his cigarettes and in the same motion jammed them back in his shirt pocket. “I almost forgot about the putrid Brienings. Good grief, maybe they kidnapped Mom. Called her up and lured her outside and then whisked her away!”
62 Richard Stevenson
Art said, “Why would they do that, luv?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Because I’m rich and famous. Like when those people snatched Frank Sinatra Junior or the Getty kid.”
“But those were for the ransom. The Brienings don’t need Mother Rita to extort money from you. They’ve got that letter instead.”
Mrs. Kerisiotis said, “Who are the Brienings?”
I could all but see the wheels spinning inside Hunny’s head and the terror he felt over the possibility of his mother’s being revealed in Golden Gardens as a thief. He said, “They’re people Mom had some trouble with a long time ago. It was an argument over a breaded zucchini recipe.”
“It’s hard to imagine your mother having a long-standing disagreement with anyone, Huntington. She is generally such a cheery lady. She can be outspoken, of course, and she has her opinions. And she doesn’t like to be bothered with Depends.
But five minutes after she lets off steam, she is back to being as sweet as can be. The aides all love Rita. She tells them stories that I would consider off-color, but the staff all think she is just a hoot.”
Tears welled in Hunny’s eyes. “That’s my mom.”
Now the large-breasted black man with a heavy beard and glittering earring who Timmy and I had seen on television at Hunny’s winning-the-lottery party came down the corridor in a green nurse’s outfit. His cornucopia of rhinestones still dangled from his left ear.
Hunny shouted, “Antoine!” and the two embraced and Art soon joined in the hug.
“Hunny, honey, we can’t find your mom, but I’m sure she is somewhere okay. That Rita can take care of herself, girl. You better believe it!”
“Oh, Antoine, honey, where in the world would Mom go? It sounds like she knew what she was doing – snuck out during the front desk shift change. Or maybe it wasn’t premeditated, and CoCkeyed 63
it was just a moment of opportunity and she took it. But Mrs.
Kerisiotis says you all have looked high and low, and now she’s going to call the sheriff. Oh God, please don’t let the police find her dead in a drainage ditch being gnawed on by wild dogs!”
This image seemed to spur the administrator to action, and Mrs. Kerisiotis headed into her office making speaking-into-a-receiver gestures.
“Hunny, honey, your mom is just such a dear lady, and I’m sure she is going to be back here where she belongs in no time at all.”
“Oh, Antoine, honey, I am trying to believe that.”
“Rita told us a joke the other day that had us all rolling on the floor and screaming our heads off. Did she tell you the one about the lady who led a cute bag boy out to the supermarket parking lot? The lady says to the bag boy, ‘I’m glad you came outside with me. I have to tell you, I have an itchy pussy.’ The humpy kid says to the lady, ‘Well, you’re going to have to point it out to me. All those Japanese cars look alike.’”
Hunny and Art’s laughter was so rollicking that several of the old folks staring at the floor in the corridor looked up.
“I know Mom gets on the phone with her old friend Tex Clermont once a week to trade jokes.”
“Hunny, I sure do see where you get your sense of humor.”
“Antoine, Mom has had a nice time here overall. Minus the disgusting food and so on. So I can’t begin to imagine why she would just walk out the door. It’s true, her mind is going.”
“I’ve noticed that, Hunny. But she has two or three marbles left, and on a good day she’s one hundred percent. Well, eighty-two.”
“Maybe she just went for a stroll. It’s such a sunny day out. It’s kind of hot, but Mom has never minded the heat. Or she walked down to Dairy Queen for a treat.”
“We all checked down there. But don’t you fret, Hunny.
Those girls in the sheriff ’s department will have her back here 64 Richard Stevenson
in no time at all. One time a lady made it out the door and three miles down Route 43, and the officers found her in the waiting room at Jiffy Lube reading the Troy Record. She said she liked it there because the coffee at Jiffy Lube was better than the coffee at Golden Gardens. That poor lady – her name was Turalura Butterworth – passed away a week after the sheriff brought her back here. But that was just a coincidence, I am certain.”
Now Mrs. Kerisiotis came back out from her office. She said two sheriff ’s deputies were on their way, and they would get word out to all patrol officers in the region about the missing Golden Gardens resident. When Mrs. Kerisiotis told the duty officer the name of the missing patient, he had said to her, “Van Horn? Why is that name sounding familiar?”
“Huntington,” Mrs. Kerisiotis said, “you are such a celebrity.
The next thing you know I’ll go into the Grand Union and your face will be on the cover of the National Inquirer. We’ll find out all about your hidden secrets and scandalous love life.”
Mrs. Kerisiotis grinned, but Hunny only smiled back feebly.
