Book II. Chapter 3. 1985 - Old Behavior

While Nick was at the Academy, and because Harry was hardly ever around, Marilynn acquired a Realtors’ license and set up an office in Mount Pleasant. Nick fell right in with her after dropping-out and, with his natural good looks, glib tongue in conjunction with an innate ability to read other people; together with Mom’s pretentious airs and business acumen, made them a good team, tailor made for the polite airs of Southern congeniality. Marilynn was a matronly southern-belle whose pretenses were less annoying to him than they might have been, had he not already spent some time at Bishop English and The Citadel acquiring a smattering of manners and vocabulary above jail-house jargon.

Nick took his libido into town to the gay bars and picked up on an occasional hooker too. Sitting at the bar in Dandy’s, Nick was complaining about his last affair with a real Southern Belle that had ended just when he thought he’d arrived, a real-estate acquaintance asked him, “Why honey, are you wasting your time with these stuck-up bitches in Charleston? You don’t have the pedigree for these Southern Twats…”

He was aware his friend wasn’t putting him down and he could easily admit he hadn’t the pedigree for Charleston’s society girls. He was acutely aware that he was, however, a well-off twenty-seven year old bachelor that would be a good prospect anywhere else but Charleston.

“Yeh, that’s true, but if only…”

“If only… if only, darlin’… if wishes were fishes.”

He listened out of boredom but paid attention because this swish with the fishes was onto something when he quoted the Beatles song, “You should get back to where you once belonged… Jo-Joe.”

“You mean, California?”

“Oh sweetheart, you are getting warm…” he nuzzled up to Nick’s ear, “C’mon, Nicky, you know Santa Barbara is teeming with trust-fund babies who could care less about class distinction.”

“What do you know about Santa Barbara?” Nicky wiped the moisture from his ear with his sleeve.

The friend leaned back on his bar stool slurring, “Oh, they have one of the most delightful gay-bars in the whole world, lover boy,” he then stood with his chest puffed out proudly, “go to ‘The Pub’ and be sure to tell Frankie, Donny of Charleston says, ‘Hi there’.”

The night before drew a blank… Nick remembered the conversation with Donny about Santa Barbara. His mind peeled away the layers of darkness… putting pieces of memory in place… there was cocaine; making out in the back seat of a cab to Donny’s place on Sullivan’s Island; a creepy blank space after that. Remembering only that there was cocaine and a black hustler scoring for them... He was there in a strange bed. He turned on his side to reach over… chiefly, to find out whose bed he was in.

His arm fell on cold flesh… Donny was there… face down with wrists tied to bed posts… a silk tie stretched tight around his neck… shit, dead… what? Dead! Oh, God, get out of here!

Nick drove to the office, hung-over, replaying over and over again, the events of the night before. Vague flashes of memory… leaving the bar with that other queer… was it Frank? Fred? Something like that… then the three of us making out in Donny’s bed… and the screen went blank… nothing… “Oh, shit, what’s going to happen… no one saw me leave the apartment… or did they? Oh, no, everyone at the bar saw us leave together… what the fuck… make up a story now… come up with something. There is sure to be an investigation. Did I leave any evidence? … Semen? … DNA? Sure did.. luminol on the sheets will find mine for sure…. Should I call Harry?”

There was an investigation and Nick was the only suspect. The incident was kept eerily hushed in the press. He was the last person with Donny seen leaving the bar. Frank met up with them afterwards. Nick was politely asked to answer some questions at the police headquarters.

The detective in charge of the investigation was congenial, as was the case with most folks in Charleston. Southern graciousness was bred into them but Nick knew it to be deceptively disarming. The investigator flipped through a folder… only glancing at the top pages of it momentarily before he began. “Mr. Baker, I’m Inspector Montague and I have been given the unpleasant task of determining exactly what happened with Donald Crowther. I know that this must be an uncomfortable… can I say, ‘situation’, for you and I hope you understand that what you say here will be held in the strictest confidence if we find you to be honest with us.”

Nick nodded in agreement. Southern charm held sway with most of these characters but family connections meant more. He wasn’t sure whether his natural gifts here would apply but was relieved at the tone of Inspector Montague.

“Now, Mr. Baker, what time did you leave Dandey’s with the deceased?”

“I suppose it could have been around ten but I’m not sure, sir.” He couldn’t stop his hands from shaking… some nervousness that could be seen as guilt, “You understand, I have a reputation that might be tainted were anyone to know I was ever at Dandey’s.”

Montague's eyebrows knitted as he pulled a cigar out from inside his linen jacketand put it in his mouth, “Yes, Mr. Baker, but we don’t give a damn about your sexual preferences or your reputation. To quote Groucho, I suck on a cigar but I haven’t sucked on anything else of the sort, if you know what I mean? But, as much as my wife disdains it, I haven’t murdered anyone. It's a brave new world Mister Baker and it isn’t a crime in Charleston to smoke a cigar.”

“Well, yes, I know what you mean… Groucho said he took it out once in a while. You understand, I’m not gay either,” because he hadn’t been Mirandized, he scanned Montague’s face for any sign he might be believed and hoped to dissuade the charming investigator of suspicion, “I just go where my colleagues and clients are.”

“I understand, Mr. Baker,” taking the cigar out of his mouth and waving it casually in Nick’s face, “I never light the damned things either. So, can you tell me then, how long were you with Mr. Crowther last night?”

“We went to his apartment for a drink or two… talking over a real estate deal… you know, we’re in the same business. I left around midnight, I think.”

“We?” Montague interrupted Nick’s prepared spiel. “Just you and Mr. Crowther?”

There was a possible way out, “Yes… I mean, no.” Nick stumbled onto his exit from the scene of the crime.

“No?” Montague tapped the desk top, “Who else was there?”

“There was another guy, I don’t know him.” He had to make up something quick.

The detective was pulling for a short straw, “Did this character have a name?”

Nick remembered that Frank had dropped by after Donny called him to score. They took a cab to pick up a bindle. Frank had left Donny’s shortly after he got his rocks off to score some more coke for them. They gave him a c-note to buy an eight-ball but he never came back. Nick put all his talents into play with a believable scenario, “I believe it was… he was a black dude. Yes, I remember now, his name was Frank or Fred… or something like that.”

Covering for himself he thought about the semen he might have left…“Oh, to be honest, I slept with Donny, and I was there a little later than that, I suppose.” 

Nick knew that Frank had also dropped a load, and his seman was sure to be discovered.

The inspector was being glib, “You suppose? You are being frank with me.”

“Yes sir, I sort of blacked out and couldn’t remember exactly what we did… I’m sort of embarrassed, you understand.”

“You’re embarrassed about what; you slept with a man or…” Montague suggestively wrapped his lips around the cigar and took it out again, “Or was it because you strangled Mr. Crowther?”

He knew he could be busted this time, “No… no, I know he was alive… we played some games with ropes and ties, but I remember us saying goodnight.”

He needed a good lie for cover. He’d never killed a man before… but, Nick could certainly lie, “Donny; I mean, Don, told me to leave the door ajar. He was expecting Frank or someone to come back with the coke.”

“This is just an inquiry Mr. Baker…” Montague had enough fun and was ready to move on, “I’m not interested in what you people do with each other until one of you ends up on a coroner’s slab.”

This Montague could see through any lie, so Nick tried to be humble, “I suppose I need a lawyer now.”

“There isn’t enough evidence to give the D A anything to go on… yet. We’ve sent samples of your mess on the bed for a DNA analyses, so I suggest you stick around if we need to talk again; you never know.…” Montague picked a folder from the table and gestured with an upturned palm for Nick to go ahead of him from the room, "You understand, I haven't Mirandized you yet, all of this is confidential."

Nick knew his DNA was deep inside poor Donny's rectum but it would be mixed with Frank's.

Harry had his feet on the detective’s desk, smoking a cigarette, outside the interview room. Montague greeted him like they were old fraternity brothers, “Harry, good to see you. What we have here is a young man in trouble,”

Nick stood at Montague’s side, avoiding eye contact with Harry, like a teenager busted for underage drinking.

“I trust you can keep an eye on him until the investigation's ovah.”

Swinging his feet off the desk, Harry stood casually dropping his massive arm over Montague’s shoulder, “Maybe I can talk with you privately tomorrow…. before this investigation goes too far. It would be better for Nick to set up shop somewhere else in the meantime, don’t you think?”

Nick wasn’t impressed that Harry held sway over regular cops but he was surprised that he could pull strings with Montague just like he did the Supe at Los Prietos. Harry’s massive arm over Montague’s shoulder diminished the Inspector’s threat and Nick was relieved that he had, by all appearances, escaped another disaster.

Harry had seen enough of humanity to set aside any judgment about the behavior of other people. As they drove away from the station, Harry was thinking more about how to get Nick out of trouble than any personal disgust at what he’d done. Nick waited for Harry to say something… anything that would give him an idea of what Harry thought.

He broke the silence, “I didn’t kill the guy… dad.” This wasn’t exactly a lie… that night was a blank after all.

“Doesn’t matter much, does it?” Poker-faced, Harry didn’t even look at Nick as he continued, “We have friends back in Santa Barbara; you can start-over there.”

“What about the investigation?”

“These cases usually go cold after a week or two…. Or they’ll hang it on this Frank… he’s black and Charleston is still the South.” The assurance with which Harry asserted this said everything Nick needed to know. His relationship with his dad was that way. He’d learned to never push too hard for things when Harry didn’t offer.

Crowther had no family to speak of. Donny had said so much when they first met, “They’re Episcopalian and I was disowned when they found out I was queer. They might be tolerant in other places, but not around these parts. As long as we stay in the closet, we’re okay, but once we’re outed, fags down here in the South don’t stand a chance.”

Harry's calm baritone voice broke into Nick's thoughts, “Don’t worry, the ACLU will jump on it and it will get thrown out of court. Or, maybe, Frank will get a couple of years for manslaughter. He’ll be okay. That is, unless your Donny's family calls for justice. Frank's black, they'll hang him."

Nick knew that South Carolina went for capital punishment that year. A bile arose from his gut, “Yeh, I guess so. Lethal Injection, I think.”

“If you get in a jam like this again I might not be able to help. There's a detective in Santa Barbara, Ryan’s his name. We did some work in Da Nang.”

“You were in Nam?” Nick knew this guy had some history, but he had no idea, “No offense, but I thought you were too old for that one.”

Harry dismissed Nick’s comments with a wave of a hand that held a card, “Look, this is a number for special occasions… emergencies. I hope you never have to use it.”

Nick opened his window, said, "Gotcha,” and vomited.

The realization, that the corpse on a slab in the morgue was of little consequence to anyone, only bothered Nick a little. Knowing that, were it not for Harry Baker, Nick might as well have been locked up for twenty years for a murder and that meant more to him: all for a sex crime, and a murder he couldn’t even remember. He shook the thought off like a dog his fleas before it sank in too deep. He easily dismissed guilt or shame of this sort. It’s a talent he had for keeping facts like that from sinking in.

 

A change of address took care of the immediate problem, and, as for any nagging conscience, he found out a long time ago that the wicked do sleep well. That’s what Zoloft and Ambien were for.