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.
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