Текст книги "Cockeyed "
Автор книги: Richard Stevenson
сообщить о нарушении
Текущая страница: 8 (всего у книги 14 страниц)
“Well, you said you advised him against going on. Maybe you should have hit him over the head with a chair.”
“He was determined to do it. And he never even got to show the picture of his mother.”
“O’Malley said her disappearance might be a hoax. Is that possible?”
“No. Who would benefit?”
“Maybe she staged it herself. Without Hunny’s knowledge.
To throw the Brienings off track. She has a history of deception, after all.”
“The embezzlement?”
“Don, she’s a criminal, for God’s sake.”
“Reformed. Mother Van Horn has been law-abiding in recent years. And sober.”
The get-an-erection commercial ended, and O’Malley reappeared. His look was one of disgust mixed with triumph. The chair next to him was empty. He peered into the camera and said gravely, “As for the wisdom of the Lottery Commission awarding one billion dollars to a plainly unstable radical homosexual who 110 Richard Stevenson
is going to utilize his celebrity to promote sexual deviance and poor taste, ladies and gentlemen, I rest my case.”
O’Malley glanced to his right as a noisy commotion broke out, and soon we could hear a plaintive cry. “Mom! Mmmmooooommm!”
“We have plenty more evidence,” O’Malley went on, trying to ignore the ruckus, “that Mr. Van Horn is morally unfit to receive a large sum from a state agency. Focks News has learned that a former altar boy was served alcohol by Mr. Van Horn and sexually violated by him when the boy was a minor.”
I said, “Oh no. Stu Hood!”
“The arsonist?”
But the picture that came on the screen was not Hood but that of Mason Doebler, the bearish owner of the Pontiac Firebird Hunny had been instrumental in wrecking.
Timmy said, “That guy was an altar boy?”
“Now a grown man,” O’Malley said ominously, “but haunted by the pain and humiliation he suffered at the hands of the predatory Huntington Van Horn, Mr. Mason Doebler has informed Focks News that he is suing Mr. Van Horn for three hundred and seventy-five million dollars —”
More loud voices could be heard, and then suddenly Hunny appeared along with two women, one of them Jane Trinkus in her too-tight jeans. Trinkus had Hunny by the arm and the other woman was wrapped around his right leg, and they were trying to drag him away from O’Malley.
Trinkus screamed, “Stay live, stay live! America needs to see this! He’s a terrorist!”
“Violence follows Huntington Van Horn wherever he goes,”
O’Malley boomed. “Late last night, supporters of Mr. Van Horn shot a Focks News cameraman who presently lies wounded in an Albany hospital. I urge you to offer your thoughts and prayers for…this brave cameraman.”
The wrestling match proceeded a few feet from O’Malley, who leaned back in his seat and gawked.
CoCkeyed 111
“This is my mom!” Hunny moaned, and was trying to hold up to the camera a photo of a plump smiling old lady in a leisure suit and a fresh perm. “This woman is missing from Golden Gardens in East Greenbush, and she may be injured or abducted or lost and hungry!”
“None of that has been proven,” O’Malley said, “although of course our thoughts and prayers also go out to this elderly senior citizen, whatever she might be up to.”
“If you see her,” Hunny gasped out, “please notify your local police department. And Mom, Mom, if you are tuning in, and you are being held against your will, or if you are hurt, I just want you to know that I love you, Mom! I love you, I love you, I love you! And if this has anything to do with the Brienings, don’t worry, we will take care of everything. Don’t worry, don’t worry, don’t worry, Mom! Just come home, Mommy! Mommy, just come home!” Hunny began to weep as the two women now dragged him out of camera range.
Bill O’Malley said, “Who are the Brienings?”
ChAPteR fifteen
I drove over to Moth Street in time for Hunny’s return from the Focks studios, a homecoming that was bound to be sad and awkward. I had already had a call from Nelson, who blamed me for what happened on the O’Malley show. Nelson claimed erroneously that it had been my job to keep Hunny out of any kind of trouble. In fact, I had been hired to deal with local thugs who turned up to harass or injure Hunny in one way or another, but not right-wing media thugs from Focks News.
Still, I wondered if there was any way I could have kept Hunny from looking spectacularly foolish once again. Now I was even more determined to help keep Hunny from acting like his own worst enemy and – although I hadn’t gone to Dartmouth and was not so much revolted by Hunny as fascinated by him —
help keep him from becoming the cultural right’s poster boy for abominable homosexual depravity.
Bill O’Malley had not gotten an answer to his question about who the Brienings were, and as I drove I tried to formulate a story for Hunny to use in case the question came up again. Hunny had been seriously drunk on the O’Malley show, so maybe he could get away with saying he had misspoken. And instead of the Brienings he had meant to say the Grindings or the Rhinestones or the Bite-sizes, not that those made any sense to anybody, either. But Hunny had a knack for brazening things out, so I supposed he could redeploy his broad range of improvisational talents.
While I had Nelson on the line, I told him I had met the Brienings, and it was my belief that they were not directly responsible for the disappearance, but that the threatening letter they had sent Mrs. Van Horn might somehow have caused Mother Van Horn to panic and bolt. Meanwhile, I suggested, we ought to respond with vague evasions to any questions from the press or the police about the mysterious Brienings.
114 Richard Stevenson
The Mason Doebler threat was going to be harder to finesse.
Doebler had apparently contacted O’Malley’s people and lied about having been molested by Hunny, borrowing and whimsically altering Stu Hood’s story, in a desperate attempt to extract more than the thousand dollars Hunny had promised Mason for his new catalytic converter. Three hundred seventy-five million dollars could put a real dent in Hunny’s bank account. Hood was sure to get wind of this development, and perhaps he would then sue Doebler for either invasion of privacy or plagiarism. Either way, I knew of lawyers the aging arsonist could hire who would gleefully take this on.
I arrived at Hunny’s house and parked across the street just as Art drove up and eased their dingy Explorer into the driveway, which was so tiny the suv stuck out about a foot onto the cracked sidewalk. Several TV crews were still on the scene, but instead of pouncing in their normal way they approached the vehicle tentatively. As I approached, Art told them, “Mr. Van Horn is under the weather and will have nothing more to say to the media until further notice.” The reporters all seemed to accept this.
Some looked chastened, others bordering on queasy. They had either seen or heard about the O’Malley fiasco. The two Gray Security guards also stood off to the side looking pensive.
Hunny climbed out of the back seat with a Budweiser beach towel over his head and face, and Art led him as quickly as Hunny’s unsteady gait would allow up the front steps and into the house. I followed close behind.
Antoine and the twins had left for the night, but Marylou was in the living room stretched out on the couch, her ball gown up around her knees. As we came in, Marylou switched off the TV, stood up and straightened her skirts. “Huntington, you naughty boy!” she said gaily. “Am I going to have to send you to the woodshed? Oh, my word, when they showed that female impersonator pretending to be me, and you said, no, that’s not Marylou Whitney, that’s Mary Cheney, the lesbian daughter of Dick Cheney, the war criminal, I just thought I was going to wet my pants!”
CoCkeyed 115
Hunny flopped into a chair and lit a Marlboro from a pack on the coffee table. “Well, they can insult me, Marylou. I am just one of Sarah Palin’s reg-ler Amur-kins. But when they start in on the elite such as yourself, then they have gone too far. I have the deepest respect for the elite, especially an elegant society lady like yourself. Oh, Artie, dearest, I think I need a pick-me-up. Would you be so kind as to indulge your favorite old tosspot?”
Marylou tsk-tsked Hunny. “Is that wise, Huntington?”
Art’s thinking was similar. “Hunny, honey, I’m shutting you off, and you are going right straight to bed. You have to be up bright and early when they resume the search for your mom. Or maybe she’ll turn up while you’re dreaming, and you ought to be bright and perky to welcome her back at the crack of dawn.”
Hunny was suddenly alert. “The crack of who? The crack of Don Johnson?”
“How about Donnie Osmand?”
“Yecchh.”
“Or Don Giovanni,” Marylou said, and then trilled something Timmy would have recognized.
“How about Don Strachey’s adorable crack?” Hunny cooed in my direction. “Donald, you aren’t saying much. I think you have turned morose again. I can’t imagine why. I don’t suppose you caught me on the Bill O’Malley show, did you, by chance?”
“I did. Hunny, you might need to sober up until your multiplicity of problems have been taken care of. It would be really helpful if you did that.”
“Artie, do get me one more shot, would you, please, doll face?”
“Nuh-uh. You’ve had more than enough. Donald is correct.”
Hunny snapped, “All right, then don’t! Anyhoo,” he went on, his head suddenly pitching forward, “maybe we should all call it a night. Don, will you be joining Arthur and me in our bed chamber? If you do, you’ll be glad you did. Ecstatic, in fact.
Thrilled to your receding hairline.”
116 Richard Stevenson
“No, thank you.”
“Oh, you must have attended the church up the street from the one I went to. Methodists sometimes allow a bit of leeway, but Presbyterians are generally stick-in-the-muds when it comes to sharing the masculine booty. Are you Presbyterian, Donald?”
“I once was. You nailed me, Hunny. Now I am more of an anarcho-vaguely Buddhist-secular humanist-worshiper of a good night’s sleep.”
Hunny arched an eyebrow and was about to say something else when his head suddenly toppled over again and his eyes blinked shut.
“Not to worry,” Art told me. “Hunny isn’t dead. He’s just through for the night.” Hunny’s Marlboro dangled from his fingers and Art bent down and took it away. “Anybody want the rest of this? I hate to waste cigarettes. Do you know how much these things cost nowadays? I’ve tried to get Hunny to quit, mostly because of the incredible expense. But he said he’d give up food first, or his blood pressure pills, which cost nine hundred fifty-eight dollars a month, and his co-pay is almost two fifty.
Of course, now that he’s richer than Prince Harry, Hunny won’t have to worry about co-pays and what have you. Still, where I grew up in Schenectady, you didn’t waste money and put out a perfectly good cigarette until it was smoked down to the filter. Or if it didn’t have a filter, my dad might get out the tweezers like it was a roach. Not that he ever knew what a doobie was. Anybody want this?”
“Just snip off the hot end and save the rest for later,” Marylou said. “I’ve seen people do that in Palm Beach since Madoff.”
I asked Marylou, “Were there any useful phone calls while Hunny was out? Nothing new from Golden Gardens, I take it.”
“No, darling, there was just a brief call from Detective Sanders.
He saw Hunny on Bill O’Malley, and he asked me if I knew who the Brienings were. Who are they, anyway? As Hunny’s media representative, I need to be kept in the loop and on top of the information flow. And don’t worry yourselves over what I might CoCkeyed 117
have to say to anyone on the subject of the Brienings, whoever they are. Everybody who knows me knows that spin is my forte.”
Art said, “Hunny will brief you in the a.m., Marylou. The Brienings may actually be the biggest fly in the ointment we’re having to deal with.”
“No other calls?” I asked.
“No. Oh, there was one, actually. Do either of you know a Quentin Shoemaker?”
Art said no, but I said I thought the name sounded vaguely familiar.
“Mr. Shoemaker said he saw Hunny on Bill O’Malley and he wants to come down from Vermont where he lives and help Hunny out. He is one of the original Radical Fairies, he said. And now Mr. Shoemaker is part of a commune up in Ferrisburg called the Rdq, and he thinks Hunny is getting a raw deal both from horrid right wingers like Bill O’Malley and also from all the gay people in Albany and across the nation who are not coming to Hunny’s defense as he gets dragged through the slime.”
“That’s where I heard of Shoemaker,” I said. “I’ve read about the Rdq. It’s a kind of neo-hippie group, the Radical Drama Queens.”
“Oh, lovely, lovely! I think this is just the pick-me-up that Hunny needs at this point. I’m sure the RDQ will bring a breath of sanity and fresh air into all our lives. And at this dark moment, we certainly could use a ray of sunshine or six. Since Hunny won the Instant Warren, his life has just gotten so… complicated.
Perhaps some people who have been placed on this earth to promote peace and love will simplify things and remind every one of us what is really important in life.”
Art said, “Marylou, honey, what you are saying sounds an awful lot like wishful thinking.”
That sounded right to me.
ChAPteR sixteen
First thing in the morning, Hunny announced he was going to have “a shot of the twink that bit me,” but Art said, “No, pootykins, I am shutting you the hell off again.”
“Then bacon and eggs, it is!” Hunny declared heartily. “There will be plenty of time when I enjoy my customary elevenses to march into General Jack Daniels’ office and salute smartly.”
Hunny had phoned Nelson at the East Greenbush sheriff ’s office, where the search for Mrs. Van Horn had resumed, but no sign of her had yet been found.
Now the kitchen phone rang, and Hunny started and looked frightened. “Maybe this is about Mom. Oh Lord, oh Lord.”
He picked up the receiver. “Van Horn residence.” He listened for a minute or so with a look of consternation and finally said,
“Well, maybe you should be in rehab – butting-in rehab is what you really ought to sign up for!” He banged down the receiver.
“It was just one of my thousands of non-fans,” Hunny said glumly. “Somebody who saw me on Bill O’Malley. You know, boys, that entire portion of last evening is hazy. Tell me the truth.
Was I charming, and was I an effective spokesperson for the celebrity community? Or did I arrive at the studio snockered, and did I hop around on one foot and stick my other foot up my ass so that it was coming out of my throat and looked really weird on TV and grossed everybody out?”
“The latter,” I said.
“Donald,” Hunny said, fumbling with a fresh pack of Marlboros, “how did you sleep? Were you comfortable enough on the guest room fold-out?”
“The metal bar in the middle hit me in the back. But I folded up the bed and placed the mattress on the floor and slept there.
It was fine.”
“On the floor! Donald, you are such a primitive. It’s Jungle 120 Richard Stevenson
Jim. It’s Bomba the Jungle Boy. This is starting to turn me on.”
Busy getting breakfast together, Art looked over his shoulder and said, “How do you like your eggs, Donald?”
“Scrambled, thank you.”
The phone rang again. “Van Horn residence. Oh, Detective Sanders. I am so glad to hear your official-sounding voice. Uh-huh. Uh-huh. Yes, Detective Strachey is just to my port side. In fact, I was just about to offer him a glass of port. Here, let me put him on.” To me, Hunny said, “Colonel Sanders says there is no news on his end, but he wishes to speak with you.”
“I’ve been in touch with the East Greenbush sheriff,” Sanders told me, “and people over there have resumed the search for Mrs.
Van Horn. But they’re starting to run out of territory the old lady might have wandered into on her own. It’s looking more and more as if she got a ride somewhere, and yet nobody has reported picking up an elderly woman in her bathrobe and slippers. That pretty much leaves us with, she’s with somebody she knows. Her family and friends all deny taking her anywhere, but there may be somebody who’s been left out of that equation that you all are not thinking of. Would you please ask Mr. Van Horn about friends of his mother who maybe haven’t been contacted yet?”
“Sure. Mr. Van Horn’s mind is functioning more efficiently than it was yesterday, and I’ll see what I can find out.” Hunny looked at me cross-eyed and smacked himself on the forehead a couple of times.
“I take it,” Sanders said, “that there have been no more calls from supposed kidnappers.”
“No.”
“An abduction is unlikely then. Anybody doing it would likely have made their ransom demands by now. But I’m still intrigued by these people the Brienings. Mr. Van Horn mentioned them again last night on Bill O’Malley. He said that if his mom was watching she should not worry about the Brienings, that he would deal with them. These are the same Brienings, I take it, that Mr. Van Horn might give half a billion dollars to?”
CoCkeyed 121
“Probably. Are you sure he said Brienings on O’Malley? Some of his speech was indistinct.”
“You heard it as clearly as I did, Strachey. I’ve replayed the video of the O’Malley show twice. Now, what gives here? Who are the Brienings, and where do they fit into the equation? Look, I am playing straight with you, and I expect you to play straight with me. Otherwise, well…I don’t know. You’ll find that I am not a policeman to be screwed around with.”
“Lieutenant, let me get back to you on that. I do appreciate your interest and concern.”
“I’ll be back over to Mr. Van Horn’s residence this afternoon.
I’ll expect to be clued in. Do you hear what I’m saying?”
“Fair enough.”
I hung up and said to Hunny, “Sanders is interested in the Brienings. You mentioned them on O’Malley last night.”
“I did? What in heaven’s name did I say?”
“That your mom should not worry about them. That if they had something to do with her disappearance, you would deal with them.”
“I said that on TV?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Blabbety-blabbety-blabbety. That must have been me.”
“Yes, Hunny. Blabbety-blabbety-blabbety.”
He thought this over and then winced. “I may have to go on the wagon. I’ve done it before.”
“That would help a lot.”
“For Mom. Just until she is safely back.”
“Hunny, it would do you good,” Art said. “You could slim down, too, while you’re at it.” Art retrieved two slices of heavily browned Wonder Bread from the pop-up toaster and set them on a section of paper towel next to a jar of grape jelly.
“I was off the sauce for three days when Larry Tralongo 122 Richard Stevenson
died,” Hunny said. “Larry was our first friend to die of AIDS.
I thought everything was going to be different from then on, and I might as well get used to it. But I never did get used to it, even though there were many more opportunities – too many opportunities – to do so. I came home after Larry’s funeral that day and got lit. However, Donald, I’m just a social drinker, I want you to know. I never missed a day of work on account of the booze. Oh, Artie, what time is it? Lord, I cannot believe that I’m not out at the warehouse right this minute punching in my time card and planning out my day of trying to grope a few of the stock boys.”
“Why don’t you just pretend,” Art said, “that this is a workday and you’re not going to have your first cocktail until after work.
Later on you can be as social as you please. Just as long as you don’t have to go on TV again.”
Hunny chuckled. “Did I really call the other Marylou Whitney Mary Cheney, the war criminal’s daughter?”
“You did. We were all so proud of you. Marylou and Antoine were rolling around on the floor, they were laughing so hard. The twins thought it was a riot, too, even if they weren’t sure who Mary Cheney was. Tyler asked if she was part of that old folk-song group.”
“Bill O’Malley must have swallowed his tongue.”
“He thinks he’s the unperturbed type, but you could tell that your remark got to him.”
“Mom would have loved it. She’d have been falling out of her wheelchair.”
“It’s good that you insisted on showing her picture. O’Malley was just going to blow her off. He just wanted to distort everything and make you look bad. And then showing Mason Doebler and saying you molested him. What a lot of BS that was.”
Hunny set down his coffee mug. “Was Mason Doebler on, too? I don’t remember that.”
“The twins taped it.” Art said to me, “The boys know how to work the vCR.”
CoCkeyed 123
“Oh. Should I watch it?” Hunny asked.
“No. Don’t.”
“What did Mason have to say? That he crashed his car while I was sucking his dick? He likes to go around making a big deal of that dumb incident.”
“He said you molested him when he was an altar boy. He’s suing you for three hundred seventy-five million dollars.”
Hunny resumed eating his breakfast. “Okay, as of this minute Mason Doebler is off…my…list. He goes into the Dave DeCarlo bin.”
“Mason and several others. You had calls earlier this morning from people we know who said not very nice things about you.
Not our friends, but people we know. People who saw you on Bill O’Malley. Or on Channel 13 the other night. Or on The Today Show.”
“Don’t tell me who. Not yet. Well, at least I got Mom’s picture on TV. I can’t believe that nobody has called with news of her.
Why hasn’t anybody spotted her somewhere? Unless she has had plastic surgery. But it’s been too soon for that. And Medicare wouldn’t cover a makeover. It’s cosmetic.”
I said, “Are you sure, Hunny, that there is no one in your family or in your mom’s circle of friends who might have picked her up and given her a ride somewhere? Someone Nelson or the police haven’t contacted yet.”
“I gave them a list. I wracked my brain.”
“Somebody phoned your mom fifteen minutes before she left the nursing home. Is there anybody you can think of who might feel free to phone her at seven forty-five in the morning? That’s pretty early to call most people.”
“I know. Though since Mom eschewed the bottle, she’s been one to rise and shine with the rosy-fingered dawn. So it could have been anybody who knows her.”
“Right. So perhaps there is someone she knows that you’re not thinking of. A church friend or a work friend maybe.”
124 Richard Stevenson
Hunny pressed the sides of his head hard in an apparent attempt to stimulate thought.
After a moment, he said, “Arthur, I need a drink. One.”
“No. That would be unwise, dear one.”
“Well…Godfrey Daniels! Am I going to have to start sneaking down to the coal bin?”
The phone rang and Hunny picked it up. “Yeah? Who be you?” He listened and said, “Well, you’re not much of a role model either, bothering people at nine in the morning and calling them…crappy names and crap like that. Are you speaking for all the gay people in America? I very much doubt that, you evil queen!”
He hung up and said, “Verizon must be open by now. Artie, we really do need to get an unlisted number. Today.”
I said, “You should probably keep this number as long as people need to reach you about your mother. This is not the time to be going incommunicado, even if you have to put up with some cranks.”
Hunny shoved his plate aside and reached for his Marlboros.
In his desolation, he looked so unlike the euphoric Hunny that Timmy and I had seen on Channel 13 five days before that I wondered if he might ever recover from what had turned out to be a stroke of stupendously bad luck for him, winning a billion dollars.
The phone rang again, and this time it was not another gay person calling up to criticize Hunny for embarrassing the homosexuals of America. This call was from Nelson, who was now over at Golden Gardens. He said Mrs. Kerisiotis had asked him again who the Brienings were. They had phoned the nursing home and identified themselves as “business associates” of Rita Van Horn, and they said they might drop by late Wednesday with some information about her that the management of Golden Gardens would find interesting. They told Mrs. Kerisiotis to be sure to mention their call to Nelson and Hunny.
