Текст книги "Death Trick "

Автор книги: Richard Stevenson

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"I was glad I stayed. I met Huey around that time, and then Frank. Also, I had a hot thing going for a while with a guy named Dennis Kerskie. He was going to help me start an FFF branch in the East, but unfortunately Dennis freaked out and took off for Maine to cleanse his intestinal tract, or some weird thing. Actually, it was just as well. Dennis could be pretty flaky, and I don't think he would have had the discipline for the

things I wanted to do. I did meet Mark through Dennis, though, and I'm grateful for that.

"Anyway, by the time I met Steve Kleckner that night, I'd pretty much settled down. I was seeing Huey once a week—we had a nice, relaxed sexual friendship, nothing heavy—and I was seeing Frank once a week, but not too much else. Well, actually there was this one guy from Lake George I met in the park one night in August. Mark was staying at my place with a friend, so I took a chance and we went to my parents' place, and that turned into a very bad scene. Stu and Jane came home the next day unexpectedly and caught us smoking a joint in the front room without the vent on, and it got pretty ugly. After that I sort of swore off having sex with people I didn't know—it was just getting to be too much of a hassle—when Mark and I went out to Trucky's that night three weeks ago and I met this really neat guy. That was Steve Kleckner.

"It was funny—a couple of years ago I wouldn't have gone for Steve. He was sort of young and loose and goofy, and I usually went for more intense kinds of people, or guys who were savvy and cool, like Huey. But I guess somehow I was ready to just let go for a while and be a kid—I'd never done that when I was a kid—and I really fell for this happy-go-lucky young jock.

"At first I thought, oh Jesus, I really shouldn't. Not another involvement. I had the feeling right away that it might lead to something like that, and I was reluctant. My life was already going along pretty well—I had my job, which, shit job though it was, I enjoyed and it kept me solvent. And I had my friends, Mark and Huey—and Chris, who was always there when I needed her. And, of course, I had Frank, who gave me something nobody else could—I really don't want to go into that, if you don't mind; it's sort of embarrassing. Okay?"

I nodded. We'd come back to Zimka.

"Maybe all that sounds to you like kind of a crazy, fragmented life," Blount said, "but I was just thankful, even after nine years, to be out and on the loose and in charge of my own life. And anyhow, who is there really, gay or straight, who finds everything he wants in life in one place or in one person? I think it doesn't exist, and people who say they have it all—in a wife, or husband, or lover, or family, or great house or perfect

job—those people are kidding themselves, and what they really mean is, they have the one or two things they want most, or that society approves of most, and to keep those couple of things they're willing to give up a lot of other things they'd love to have: variety, money, good sex, security, adventure, or whatever.

"Actually, I did have it all, in a way, even if it was spread all over town, and it would have been beautiful—damn near perfect—if I'd gotten my parents to accept me, too. That's the one thing I've never had, and—well, I guess that's the one thing I'm not going to have. You've met them, and you must have seen how hopeless they are. If I'd had a brother or sister, that might have taken some of the pressure off, but I didn't—I don't—so—what the hell. Fuck Stuart and Jane. Just—fuck 'em."

He sat silently for a moment. Then he reached for another cigarette and offered me one. I declined. He lit his, dragged deeply, and exhaled. He went on.

"So anyway, I'm cool, right? I went out to Trucky's that night with Mark, and we were going to dance and maybe meet some people we know and go get something to eat, to the Gateway or out to Denny's, and then I guess I had it in the back of my head that I might call Frank later and see if he wasn't busy.

"But I met Steve Kleckner instead. I'd seen him around some, mostly through the glass in the DJ booth, and I'd always thought he was attractive, but I really didn't know him and hadn't thought much about him. He was off work that night, though, out at the bar, and acting kind of mellow and funny and having a real good time, and one of the bartenders who knows me a little introduced us.

"We clicked right away. You know how it is, probably, when two gay guys who are physically attracted to each other meet, and each is sort of up—and ready, even if you don't know it—and you're both a little high, and there's this warm, simpatico something that goes back and forth. You're trading lines and laughing at the same things, and you recognize in the other person's stories of his life a lot of the downs and hassles you have yourself, and you know he's understanding yours, and

then there's the sexual tension underneath it all that both feeds the closeness and makes it feel incomplete, and of course the atmosphere around you is saying do it, do it, do it.

"Well, that's what happened with Steve and me that night. We danced and drank and carried on and had a great time together, and then we left together to go do it, to make it complete.

"We left Trucky's around three. Mark had left earlier with this tall blond number he'd turned on to, and we rode into town in Steve's old junky-ass Triumph Herald. We had the top down, it was a warm night, and I remember the car making this awful racket, ka-bang, ka-bang, ka-bang as if there were firecrackers under the hood. Steve said it wasn't important, not to worry, the car always did that, something to do with a worn drive chain that would set him back three hundred to replace, and the car wasn't worth it, he'd just drive it till it quit."

The time had come to find out something. I said, "A question. Did you notice who left Trucky's around the time you and Steve left?"

He thought about it. Then: "No—I can't remember. Actually I was a little high, and I don't think I was noticing much of anything except Steve. I remember we sat in his car in the parking lot and kissed and messed around a little before we left. I suppose there were some people coming and going, but I don't remember who. Nobody hassled us, I know that."

"Then you wouldn't have noticed if another car had followed you?"

"Well, I supposed there wouldn't have been much traffic that time of night, but—no. I didn't. Jesus, do you think one did?"

"Yeah, I do. Do you remember seeing a big, new gold-colored car in the parking lot when you and Kleckner went out?"

"I don't know. Maybe. I just can't remember. Whose car would that have been?"

"Frank Zimka's—a friend of Frank Zimka's car. With Zimka in it."

"Frank? I don't think Frank was out that night. No, he wasn't. I saw him in the morning. I went there—after it

happened. Or did he tell you that? I suppose he did. You seem to have a knack for getting people to tell you things they're not supposed to repeat." I lowered my head contritely. "I owe Frank money," Blount said, "for the plane fare. Chris has part of it. She'll mail it to Frank when she gets back to Albany. So it won't have a Denver postmark."

"Kurt taught you that?"

"That one I figured out for myself."

"What did you and Kleckner talk about during the ride to his apartment? It would have taken fifteen minutes or so. Did Steve mention that he'd been depressed over the past few weeks? His friends say he had been."

"You know, as a matter of fact, he did mention that. He said he'd been down and I'd helped him climb out of it—that made me feel good—and he said he wasn't depressed anymore. Just older and wiser."

"Why? What did he know that he hadn't known before?"

"He didn't say. I might have asked him—I probably did. But he just said something about the ways of the world and then dropped it."

"Was he afraid?"

"Of what?"

"Of what he'd learned. Of the person, or people, it concerned."

"No. Not afraid, I wouldn't say. Just sad. Sad when he talked about it, but not sad after and not before. Steve was just feeling too good that night for anything to keep him down."

"So you arrived at Steve's apartment."

"Yes. We went in, and at first we stood in the living room for a long time kissing and groping around. We were both really hot, I remember, but we couldn't seem to quit long enough to make it to the bedroom. You know how that is, right?"

"Right."

"Pretty soon our clothes were off, and we started back toward the bedroom. I remember Steve turned on the radio when we went by it."

"Disco 101?"

"Sure."

Sex music. The year before I'd gone home with someone who'd put on some old Nat Adderley records, and I was so

disoriented I could hardly remember where I was and what I was supposed to do. Though gradually it came back.

"So you made it to the bed. Were the lights on?"

"In the living room, a lamp, I think. There was some light coming into the bedroom from that. And in the bedroom, a blue light on the ceiling. I remember the blue light—at one point when Steve was groping around beside the bed for the grease, he reached up and pulled the light string with his toes. And then he left the light on. A very dim blue light. It was nice– Steve was nice—the whole thing was—" It hit him. He covered his face with his hands and silently shook.

I waited.

After a time he looked at me and said quietly, "You know, I haven't had sex with anybody since that night. I sleep with Kurt, and sometimes he holds me, but—" He shrugged. Tears slid down his cheeks.

I said, "Look—Billy—we could wait until tomorrow to do this. But it'll be better for you, I think, if we get it done now."

He wiped his face with his bath towel. "I know," he said. "Let's get it over with. I want to get this over with." He tossed the towel away, then sat with his face leaning against his open hand, his palm covering one dark eye.

I said, "There's a ground-level window beside that bed. Do you remember it?"

"Yeah. I do. I remember the breeze on my ass and my shoulders. It was a warm night, but by then I guess it had cooled off. I remember the window."

"There's a shade on the window. Was it up or down?"

"It was—the shade was down, but it was flapping against the windowsill—or the screen, I think there was a screen—and sometime, I'm not sure when, Steve reached over and put the shade up so that it wouldn't flap." His face went white. "Christ! Do you think somebody was—?"

I said, "Yes, I think someone was a few feet away from you and Steve, in the alleyway, watching and listening. And probably waiting."

Blount was breathing heavily now, angry, embarrassed, experiencing the fright and rage he'd have felt that night if he had known.

"After sex, then, you lay together for a time?"

"For a while. I don't know how long. He—Steve's head was on my chest. Yes, and then he fell asleep. I remember I had to move him off me when I went to the bathroom. I can't sleep, see, until I take a shower after sex. It's weird, I know, but—God, somebody was out there! All that time. Jesus!" "How long were you in the shower?" "A long time, probably. I do that. Then I sleep like a rock." "You were planning to stay, to sleep with Steve?" "Sure. I didn't have to work the next day. Of course." "After your shower you came back into the bedroom." He looked away, breathing hard again, and I could see him girding himself.

"Yeah. I came back then. I was starting to get back in bed when I saw it—the blood." There were beads of sweat on his forehead, and he blinked and repeatedly choked back the emotion as he described it.

"The sheet was up over Steve—I'd pulled the sheet over him because of the cool breeze when I'd gone into the bathroom, and it was still there when I got back. But the sheet was wet– soaking wet. All over his chest I could see this wetness, purplish in the blue light. At first I couldn't figure it out—I was dog tired, and I was still a little high. I thought, crap, what'd we spill, what is this stuff?

"Then I touched it, and somehow I knew right away it was blood, and I thought, oh shit, one of us has screwed up his rectum in some dumb way. But I thought it couldn't have been me, I'd just been in the shower and I was fine, and then it hit me all at once.

"I yanked the sheet away, and there it was—all this blood oozing out of Steve's chest. I got dizzy and I thought I was going to pass out. I just kept saying Steve, Steve, Steve, and I leaned down and I touched his face and shook his head, but all the time I was doing it, I could see he wasn't moving or breathing, and I knew he was dead.

"Then I just stood there looking at him. For a minute, maybe, or five, I don't really know how long, I stood there thinking what is this? What happened? I looked around the room, and it was the same as when I left it, except blood was coming out of Steve's chest, and he was dead.

"Then I guess I thought no, he can't be dead, and I started thinking a little, and I felt for his pulse. I felt his wrist, and under his jaw, and I couldn't find a pulse, and I was starting to feel his groin when I smelled it. The shit—Steve had shit himself. I almost passed out again. I sat down on the floor, and then—there was the knife. Whoever had done it had dropped the knife, and it was right there, wet and purplish in the blue light."

I said, "You didn't touch it?"

"No. I guess I was already thinking, without even knowing I was. In fact, that's when I really started thinking. I thought, they'll think I did it, everybody will, and I'll go to prison again."

"Again?"

"Sewickley Oaks. It's all the same. Except maybe in real prisons they don't strap you down and zap you till you think you're going to fly apart—muscles and bones and brains exploding all over the ceilings and walls. Or maybe in the worst prisons that's what they do do, Attica or in the South."

"They did that? At Sewickley Oaks?"

With a look of the most intense loathing, he nodded once.

I said, "What happened next?"

"I—I got dressed and I walked out of the apartment, up Hudson."

"When you left the apartment, was the window screen in or out? It's a portable, adjustable screen. I've seen it. When you left, where was it? Try to remember."

He tried, but he couldn't.

"But the screen wasn't on the bed, or on the floor where you could see it?"

"No. I don't think it was. No."

"What about the apartment door—when you went out. Open or closed?"

"It was locked. From the inside. I had to turn the bolt."

"Then you walked up Hudson."

"As soon as I got outside, the unreality of it hit me again, and I thought no, he can't be dead, and I thought maybe I'd been wrong and he was really still alive. There was a phone booth just a couple of houses up, on the corner at Hudson and Dove, so I called the police—started to call, but I didn't know Steve's

address. I walked back to the apartment, memorized the address, and then went back and called. I said to go to the address, but I didn't say who I was."

"I know. It's on tape."

He grunted and shook his head. His T-shirt was soaked through with sweat, and droplets were now falling from his nose and chin.

"So you walked to Zimka's then? Up Hudson and through the park?"

"I knew I had to get out of Albany fast. I really didn't even understand what the fuck had happened, but I did know it was something horrible and I'd be blamed for it, and I had no choice but to run. No choice that I could see."

"And Zimka was home when you got there?"

"He was asleep. I had to bang on the door for—I don't know. A long time."

"How do you know he'd been asleep?"

Blount looked confused. "Because he said he was. He looked it. It was six in the morning. Did he tell you he wasn't?"

"No, he told me the same thing."

"But you don't believe it?"

"No. Maybe. I don't know."

"I don't get it. You keep saying suspicious things about Frank—you said he was in Trucky's parking lot that night when we left. Do you think Frank had something to do with– what happened?"

"Probably. It's not clear yet. Keep going. What happened next?"

"Frank borrowed a car and drove me to New York. I thought they might already be looking for me at the Albany airport, though I suppose they wouldn't have been watching that soon. Frank lent me the plane fare, and when I arrived out here, I called Kurt. I knew I could count on him, and I was right; he's been great. Look—what makes you think Frank is mixed up in this? Crazy old Frank. Frank is usually so whacked out he couldn't hurt a fly on downers."

I said, "Tell me about Frank. About you and Frank. Embarrassing or not, it's important that I know."

He looked away. "What's to tell? He's a trick—a friend I

trick with. I like him. He likes me. We get it off together."

"Jerk-off buddies? That's not the way Frank sees it. It's not the impression I get."

He looked at the wall and said nothing.

I said, "Eddie Storrs and Frank Zimka are the same person, aren't they?"

He sat there, his chest rising and falling, his face desolate—willfully empty, it seemed. He gave a choked laugh, then fell silent again. Finally, he looked at me and said, "No. They're not the same. Not really. The terrible truth is, there are two of them."

21

Billy blount and eddie storrs, blount told me, had been sixteen-year-old lovers at the Elwell School. Before then neither had known he was homosexual, just different somehow, and vaguely but deeply unhappy. In the presence of other male bodies, each had felt a disturbing, unresolvable tension whose source was unbeatable, baffling. The two sad, mystified boys became friends, and during a weekend visit to Eddie Storrs's home in Loudonville, they had been goofing off and ended up in the same bed—and it happened. Two weeks later they spent a weekend at the Blount home on State Street, and it happened again.

The two were terrified. At first they denied to themselves what was happening. They never spoke of it, tried not even to think of it, just did it. Then one night in Loudonville something snapped. Suddenly each professed his love for the other. They faced it, gave it a name, and let it pour out. The language they used was out of pop songs with half the pronouns transposed. It was explosive, glorious, liberating—and horrifying. In confronting their love, they also confronted something else: they were queer. A couple of cocksuckers. They were in love and mag-

ically happy—as at peace with themselves as they had been at war with themselves before—and at the same time they were frightened and wretched and ashamed of their true selves, which the other boys, and the world, would despise. They loved themselves and each other, and they despised themselves and, at times, each other.

Billy and Eddie contrived to meet in secret when they could—in the woods and fields around Lenox, in their parents' homes, in their own rooms at Elwell when their roommates were safely out on dates or off to hockey tournaments. Both boys' grades fell, and no one could explain why. When asked about this by their teachers and advisers or by their parents, both mumbled about how the curriculum "lacked relevance"– this was 1968—and the grown-ups shook their heads and muttered back about their keen desire to "establish a dialogue" with the boys. None, however, got established. You just did not tell people that you were a homo.

In fact, Billy and Eddie were spending most of their mental and physical energies on devising strategems for spending time alone with each other, and on the anxiety that resulted from their success with these ploys.

"This crazy life lasted for over a year," Billy Blount told me, "until the fall of our senior year, when the shit hit the fan. Some jerky kid from Danbury, Connecticut, caught us one Sunday night doing it on some mats stored under the gym bleachers. This kid never liked me; he was the type who smells a secret weakness in people, then baits you and tries to dig it out. When he caught us, I'd never seen such an evil, victorious smile on anyone's face. He walked straight over to the headmaster's house, and within three days our parents had been notified, and they came and got us. They told us that maybe we could go back to Elwell after we'd been 'cured.' We thought this was funny in a sorry kind of way, but we went along; we humored them. I mean, they were our parents. What did we know?

"The last time I saw Eddie was the day he left Elwell—I left the day after that. While our parents were with the headmaster and our roommates were in class, we shoved the desk against the door in my room and made love on my bed for the last time—what turned out to be the last time.

"As scared as we were, it was beautiful and very, very intense. It was one of the few times in my life when I've actually made love with a man, not just fucked with somebody for fun, or for connecting up with someone you like. We cried and held each other and said we'd love each other forever and ever, and no matter what happened we would find each other someday, and when that happened, we'd never let anyone come between us ever again.

"I remember Eddie bit my lip so hard it bled, and when he saw it, he made me bite him so our blood would mix, and that way we'd be a part of each other until we were together again. That seems pretty freaky to me now, but at the time it didn't at all, and I did it. And I'm not sorry. Eddie is the first person in my life who made me stop feeling like some kind of weird, dead robot and turned me into a human being with feelings I understood and wasn't ashamed of—or shouldn't have been ashamed of. Back then I didn't know I didn't have to be ashamed. No one told me. Everyone said the opposite. I suppose it would have happened anyway, the gay revolution. So many people were ready. But still—God bless the Stonewall queens!"

In lieu of a drink he raised another cigarette and lit it.

Now I understood—most of it. It was a story most gay men would understand. At Rutgers twenty years earlier I'd been in love with my best friend. He was straight, or so I assumed. And I'd been too frightened to open up to him, to declare my true feelings; the boy meant everything to me, and I was terrified that my revelation would end the friendship.

We parted after graduation, and at some point I moved and stopped answering his letters. Eight years later I thought I saw him—Jake, his name was—in a gay bar in Washington, D.C. The man turned out not to be Jake, though the resemblance was powerful; and the look-alike was an agreeable young man nonetheless, with a personality sufficiently bland and pliant that I could go home with him and seem to fulfill one of the great, unending erotic fantasies of my adult life. Afterward the Jake look-alike told me he'd never met a man with a sexual hunger as great as mine. I told him the truth of the matter, a mistake, maybe, and he was hurt. I never saw him after that.

I said to Billy Blount, "Frank Zimka is Eddie's look-alike, isn't he? You used Zimka. Regularly."

"Yes."

"And Zimka knew it and went along with it because he was in love with you and was willing to accept the humiliation in order not to lose you."

"Yes. I hadn't planned on telling him. I still don't know which would have been worse, telling him or not telling him. But I called him Eddie one night in bed. He asked me who Eddie was. And I told him. Not about the forced separation and Sewickley Oaks—that's always been very painful for me to talk about—but about Eddie's being my first great true love, who had left me and disappeared from my life. And then it began. Whenever I was with Frank, he became Eddie."

Blount had only dragged twice on his cigarette, and now he stubbed it out. He said, "I first saw Frank in the Terminal one night. I thought he was Eddie, and I nearly went crazy. When he wasn't—well, you know." I knew. "I didn't really plan on seeing him after that night, but—well, he went for me and gave me his phone number, and—one thing led to another."

I said, "Where is Eddie now?"

"I don't know. After Elwell, I was put in Sewickley Oaks, where I met Chris, and we became friends. She was in for the same 'abnormality' as mine. Margarita had been her lover, and when Chris was committed by her parents, Margarita ran away from home and made it out to L.A., where a year later she heard about the FFF. They rescued us and took us to L.A., where we stayed for six months until I called my parents, and they promised that if I came back to Albany, they'd get off my back. I came home, naively thinking I might find Eddie or at least find out where he was, but my parents would never tell me. They'd only say he was being 'rehabilitated,' as they put it, someplace out in the Midwest.

"I finished high school at Albany High, then went to SUNY, and for all those years I never heard from Eddie or a word about him. For a while, I'd thumb or bum rides out to the Storrs' place in Loudonville and try to talk to Eddie's parents, but they finally sicked the cops on me and I had to give up."

I said, "Read the letter."

"From Frank? I don't know whether I can handle that right now."

"No, the one from your parents."

"I can handle that one even less."

"I've read it," I said. "You'll be interested."

He looked at the letter warily, then at me. I nodded. He reached to the foot of the bed where the letter lay, picked it up, opened it, and read. He lay back and stared at the ceiling, the letter still in his hand. "They win the prize, Stuart and Jane," he said. "They win the fucking grand prize." He dropped the letter on the bed beside him.

Throughout our two-hour conversation—or rather Blount's extended monologs—the pieces had been arranging themselves and falling into place. There was one to go. I said, "Did Eddie Storrs ever hurt anyone? On purpose?"

Blount sat up straight and gazed hard at me. He said, "No—I mean, yes. Not after we'd become lovers. With me, Eddie really calmed down. But before that, yes. 'Eddie had a reputation for getting into playful kinds of fights—dorm scuffles and all—and then doing things that really hurt or were dangerous. Once he had a kid down and kicked him in the neck. Another time Eddie grabbed a nail file and—stuck a kid in the thigh with it."

We looked at each other.

"Was Eddie Storrs ever jealous of your friendships with other guys? Or didn't you have any?"

"Not after, but before, yes. When Eddie and I were just becoming friends, but before we'd figured out what was really going on, he always gave me a hard time about other guys I hung around with, and he'd act pretty rotten toward those people. In fact, one kid I sort of felt comfortable with sometimes—I think now that he was probably gay—he was the one Eddie stabbed with the nail file." Blount's eyes got big, and he said, "No"

"Yes. Probably yes."

My mind went back to Albany. Huey Brownlee was at my place. Margarita Mayes was staying with a friend. Mark Deslonde was, as far as I knew, with Phil.

I said, "The phone."

Blount handed it to me across the bed. I dialed Timmy's number. It was 12:40 a.m. in Denver, 2:40 in Albany. He answered on the second ring.

"It's Don. I want you to go see Frank Zimka right away and

get him over to your place for the night, no matter what it takes. Are you awake enough?"

"Listen, I haven't slept at all. Where the fuck have you been? I've been calling your motel every ten minutes since midnight. A bad, bad thing has happened."

I said, "Zimka is dead."

A silence. Then, "How did you know? It just happened earlier tonight."

I said, "Wait a minute." I asked Blount for a cigarette, and he lit one for me. My hands were shaking, and the first drag on the Marlboro was like inhaling a medicated Brillo pad. I handed it back to Blount. I said, "Was he stabbed?"

Timmy said, "Yes. It happened at his place around eleven. Calvin was heading over to the park and saw the cops and commotion and checked it out and called me. They think it happened in the apartment, but Zimka managed to crawl out onto Lexington before he died. He must have been spaced out. He told the old woman who found him that a ghost had done it—the ghost of his own youth, or some crazy shit."

I said, "That's what he must have looked like to Zimka. Christ."

"Who must have looked like?"

"Eddie Storrs."

I summed it up for Timmy, then got Sergeant Ned Bowman's home number from Albany Directory Assistance. The operator said, "Have a nice evening." I woke Bowman up and told him where I was and who I was with. He said I was under arrest. Then I summed it up for him, and he replied that my story was pure fantasy and he wanted to see me first thing in the morning. I told him maybe later in the day, or century.

I called Continental and made two reservations through to Albany on a flight leaving Denver at 7:50 a.m. Blount heard me make the second reservation, for him, and he didn't object. Finally I called Timmy back with our flight number and arrival time.

Blount packed and wrote a note for Chris Porterfield, who was asleep on the living-room daybed. Kurt Zinsser was snoring beside her.

We took the Bobcat back to my motel, left word for a six A.M. wakeup, crawled into bed, rolled together, and slept.

22

Blount traveled as bill mezereski, thinking the airline manifests were still being monitored. This was smart of him. For purposes of keeping Ned Bowman out of my hair, and to act cute, I traveled as Alfred Douglas—I figured Bowman had given up on that phantom—and as soon as we landed in Albany at 2:27 in the afternoon, I was taken into custody.

When the plane halted on the parking apron, the captain asked that passengers remain in their seats for just a moment; everyone sullenly obeyed. Two bulky lads in blue entered the aircraft and walked directly to seat 9-C. One said, "Would you come with us, please, Mr. Douglas? Detective Bowman would like to speak with you for a moment."

"Why, certainly," I said, shrugging cheerfully to the passengers around us. Blount sat frozen in his seat. I said to one and all, "Ah, what would Timmy say." As I got up, I kicked Blount's ankle. "Ah, Timmy"

They led me down the ramp and into the terminal wing. As we passed Timmy standing wide-eyed at the gate, I shook my head and rolled my eyes back toward the plane.