Murder at Willow Slough (31 page)

34  

Spotlight

Jamie didn’t like his parking place. His monitor car was supposed to save him a spot in the small lot west of the bar, but it was full, all of the cars there unoccupied. He squeezed the clunky old Impala back onto the street, dodging theater traffic. “Where’s my monitor?” he yelled into the microphone. “He’s not here and I don’t like it. Tell Kent to let me know once we’re inside that everyone’s where they’re supposed to be.”

He found a spot around the corner, managed to parallel-park the old boat and describe his location. He checked in the mirror; he looked okay, not edgy; shut off the ignition, breathed twice and stepped out of the car. He strode toward Chez Nous. Fifteen feet from the door he muttered to himself,“Made me wear a goddamn IU sweatshirt.One size too big.” He tossed his head. “But tonight I dominate.”

A cab with a single black-haired passenger pulled up to the entrance as Jamie went inside the bar. He paid a $3 cover, proceeds going to Hoosiers Care About AIDS, declined the change from his ten-spot, got his hand stamped.

Semi-crowded, surprisingly so. It must be because of the fundraiser.

Two shirtless leathermen stood in the dim left corner. Pool tables were active. This music had the beat he needed tonight, unlike the sappy Straight crap on the hotel radio. He walked to the bar. “Bud Light.” Realized that was a mistake; no booze tonight.

“Coming up,” the bartender replied. A glass was set before him. Jamie paid for his Diet Coke and left a tip for Lt. Phil Blaney. “Thank you much,” the bartender smiled.

Jamie leaned forward; Blaney cocked his head. “Does this mean I can expect good service tonight, barkeep?”

Phil guffawed, “In a Gay bar? Takes more than a buck. But it rhymes with buck.”

“Ain’t that it.” Jamie headed off for the terrace. Phil, I wondered but didn’t know. Thank you for reopening those cases. A wave of pride and respect washed over him.

Ten minutes later Kent passed, wearing a Colts sweatshirt. Kent gave him a nod without looking. The music was heating up, Jamie’s right foot was working.

First john break. Soon Kent was at the next urinal, unzipping his fly. Jamie made a fist,kept staring ahead.Kent said,“Message received,sorry, we’re clear, your monitor’s in place. This joint is busy for a weeknight.”

Jamie finished. Made another fist. Outside, he looked for any hot man to divert his attention. Saw one. Followed. No killers visible.

The bar was filling up, and Jamie checked his watch, 10:40. The DJ was spinning “I Will Survive.” Jamie Gaynor sang along, hoped it was true, watched the dance floor and the rest of the place.

Second john break, same urinal. Spot next to him quickly filled up. Jamie glanced over, troll alert! “Well, hello hello hello,” a voice chirped.

Jamie buttoned up, flushed. “Goodbye,” he winked. Kent was frowning in line.

Boredom kept Jamie moving, but the music was still decent. He went up to the front bartender, who served him promptly. “Bud Light,” he growled.

“Yes sir.”

Left Lt. Blaney money for Diet Coke and tip.

The bar was big for Indianapolis, but it wasn’t that big a place. Waiting was hard. Jamie wanted to talk to anyone about anything. Presently a voice filled his ear, “I’m sorry for staring. Don’t tell me you’re here alone.” Jamie turned to find a brown-haired young man, a couple inches shorter, maybe three years older, very White Hoosier corn; Jamie’s idea of pleasant looking. “’Cause I won’t believe you.” The guy had a nice smile.

“I’ve been stood up,” Jamie smiled back. His eyes danced and he didn’t even know it.

“Right. Now who’s going to stand you up?”

“Just a guy, a friend of a friend. We were supposed to have a drink together.”

Mr. Pleasant grinned, looked toward the pool table. “I hate it when you lie to me.”

“My name’s Joe,” Jamie lied, his hand outstretched.

Hands and eyes met. “Your name’s Gorgeous. My name’s Joe.”

“Hey, Joe.”

He was very gentle. They talked sports. Real Joe was excited about baseball’s home run derby, and was working up to asking Jamie to go to a Triple-A game when the Indians were in town. Jamie saw it coming, felt the need to remind him of the friend of a friend.

“I knew it,” Joe sighed. “My one chance at a tall, handsome, butch, blond muscleman. Would it help if I knelt, signed over my mutual funds and kissed your boots?”

“No, but it would be highly entertaining. Tall, huh?”

“Especially when I’m on my knees.” Jamie kissed him, thanked him, affirmed his soul and their mutual attraction; then moved on, spying Kent in a corner and realizing he’d just watched him kiss Joe.

Third john break. His only neighbors were there to piss. Jamie fought exasperation.
***

Four beats came,then the sound of a midget saying, “Twenty seconds and counting.”

Jamie screamed, homosexual anthem! Dancetime. He headed for the floor, killer or no. Lightning cracked. It was a sin not to dance to the Pet Shop Boys, and he was a very good dancer. Jamie grabbed the arm of the closest man. The fellow was at least sixty. “You lovely boy, why me?”

“Gray’s cute too. You’ve honed your technique.”

“Mercy me, where is my Viagra?”

A small brown bottle was passed to Jamie on the dance floor by an athletic, shirtless Black guy with dreadlocks. Shouldn’t, working. Serial killer!

Did anyway, fuck this shit. Inhale. Passed the vial back to the brown hand. Kissed air in the guy’s direction. “Hey,” Dreadlocks mouthed back. Blood engorged in two brains. Kent climbed three steps to a little balcony above the dance floor.

Lt. Phil Blaney got a call, but with the loud music he had to take it in the office.

Jamie felt his heartbeat. A small circle of space formed around him and his partners, though the floor rapidly got crowded with this song and these boys. “The blond! How in the world. A face like that?” someone shouted on the perimeter.

His neighbor shrugged, “Maybe he likes spankings over daddy’s knee.”

It’s not a sin. The beat seguéd into the cynical Boys’ most positive sound. The older guy begged off. Jamie swatted daddy’s butt goodbye. Then before him was Dreadlocks, with pretty eyes. They started off slow, minimal motion, just a basic up, down and around; saying hello physically, then deliberately ignoring each other until a word of lyric brought them together. Then spins with the light show going into the chorus, where they danced together, face to face, lean-in, lean-out, to “One in a Million Men.”

Another hit of poppers during the second verse; the same separation as before, but more animated now. Jamie’s toot hit him as the second verse built up. A bright spotlight found him, stayed on him.

Kent didn’t want him that visible, but nobody’d warned the DJ. Across the room the same thing occurred to Thomas Alan Ford, newly arrived and delighted.

Jamie and Dreadlocks made full eye contact now. Touching each other for micro-seconds, touching themselves, showing the sex they could have, projecting it to the room and getting it back again as smoke billowed, floorboards trampolined, walls swayed—two in a roomful of tribesmen, dancing and singing and grooving together.

At the musical bridge, Pop Cliché #1—who but the Pet Shop Boys could get away with it?—a simultaneous notion to pose in contrast four times, and one last vial-pass; then whirling into the payoff, knees floor-ward, hips thrusting, hand on neck, on thigh, mouths ready, asses too, for all the world to see.

Jamie pivoted and thrust his crotch—ten feet in front of Kent’s face.

Jamie replaced his frustration with freedom; the DJ miraculously played the original, grandiose ending intact, mood changes made for image-making, tympani helping Jamie and Dread strike last sexpositions; then an embrace which welded them, Dread’s leg around Jamie’s waist, Jamie’s hands supporting his back, arms up and graceful, black locks cascading to the floor, an ecstatic finale, as Jamie possessed the man’s body.

The whole room waited to breathe or come. Kent exploded.

Lights changed; the room breathed. Next was a dance-rap, and Jamie and his friend headed off the floor arm in arm to applause. Their lone white spotlight turned into nine spinning reds. They passed unseeing by Kent, who stared furiously ahead, working his jaw. Good Christ, in a gaybar. He shoved past a fat woman and hurried off the platform, desperate for the nearest john.

35  

The Hunt & The Chase

Blaney learned that Ford had left home, destination unknown. Left his post behind the bar to find Kent.

Another john break. Jamie headed to the far one by the pool table. It was getting late. The adjoining space was quickly filled.

As he exited, a laughing young man hurried in, calling something over his shoulder to his friends. Wet spilled all over Jamie’s chest. “Oh. Sorry!”

“No problem,” Jamie said, wiping cocktail off his sweatshirt. He was soaked from his shoulder to his belly button. Where’s Kent? Find the bartender.

No Blaney. An Asian guy in a leather and steel harness came at him from behind the bar. “What’ll you have?”

“Nothing, sorry,” Jamie said, turning back.

And he saw Tommy Ford wrap an arm around a small, diffident-looking young guy in a dirty tank top. Ford’s and Jamie’s eyes locked. Ford grinned, pointed to his Muscular Dystrophy T-shirt, pushed Diffident toward the door.

“I see him! Ford’s here, exiting right now! Has a guy with him!” Too much crowd between. “I’m going to lose him!”

Jamie pushed. The bar was at full capacity. Some guy yelled, “Hey bitch, watch who you’re pushing.”

“Sorry.” A space opened up, Jamie squiggled through it. A fat man he’d seen earlier, “Excuse me,” he maneuvered another foot and a half. “Hi, thanks,” to someone who let him through.

Where are they? They can’t be gone!

Drag queen in the way.“’Scuse me,honey,”and a firm shove.Nothing between him and the door but barrels. Now! Hugged a barrel and got outside. “He’s leaving, but I don’t see him. Blink your headlights so I know you’re here.” Looked both directions. Nothing. Forget the lot. No headlights blinked. Across the street? No. Just guys heading toward him. “What should I do?”

Ran to Alabama Street. Could that be an old Toyota pulling away? “He’s driving south on Alabama. I’ll try to follow.” Ran up to his Chevy as the maybe Toyota hung a right. Shouted his location into his microphone. Jumped in and started the Impala. “He’s heading west towards Meridian. Kent, where are you? Call my cell phone.”

Rear-view mirror as he skidded around the corner. No cop cars stirring. No phone call. He flipped on his phone to call Harvey, but got no dial tone. Banged the phone against his chest, listened again; nothing.

He was on his own. Bail out? Follow?

He pictured Diffident’s face; drove on. Acid guts again.

Kent hurried out of the bathroom to find Jamie. I’d know that damn yellow swoop anywhere. He looked and looked, shoving past people. Lt. Phil Blaney caught up with him. “We have to talk.”

“Not now, I’ve lost my witness.”

“Ford’s in his vehicle. He left eleven minutes ago, could be here by now.”

“Great. Just when I’ve lost my witness. Let’s go to the pool room, he’s not here.”

They fought their way past people to the pool room. At 6’4”, Kent could see over the heads of most customers, but still no Jamie. “I’ll try the corner john.”

“You want me to search with you, or post on the door in case Ford comes in?”

“Yeah, watch for Ford. I’ll find Jamie.”

He wasn’t in the john, but two perverts were. Jamie wasn’t in the pool room. He wasn’t in the main room. Major Slaughter arrived. “I heard Ford’s on his way.”

“Yeah, but he should be here by now, and Blaney hasn’t seen him. Jamie’s missing.”

“Shit.”

“Look on the dance floor, Chief. I’ll take the terrace.”

The terrace was crowded, but no Jamie. Kent re-entered the dance area, hooked up with Slaughter. “You seen him?”

“No. I checked the dance floor john, too.”

“I don’t think he’s here, then. I’ve looked everywhere. My God, what if he’s slipped out? What if Ford’s been here and they’ve already made contact?”

“Radio Ford’s tail car.”

“Yeah.” Kent hurried up to Blaney, could tell he hadn’t seen Ford. “Still no witness. Stay here on the door till further orders. We think maybe he and Ford have already made contact. We’re going to check with Ford’s trailer.”

“Got it.”

Kent sprinted out to his taxi/police car, called. What he heard sickened him. IPD said, “I had him, then he ducked into a parking garage. I followed and got stopped by some old broad in a 20-year-old Mercury blocking the lane, and somebody behind me too. I was pinned in. The garage has entrance and exit opposite each other, and this lady was trying to fit into a space too small, so I got out and parked the damn car for her, and by the time I got out he was gone. I called Harvey as soon as it happened.”

“Ford’s eluded his tail,” Kent told Slaughter, who climbed in with him.

“No Jamie, no Ford.”

“Tell all cars to rendezvous at HQ.” Slaughter notified Harvey. Kent tore that taxi downtown. “We’re falling apart, George. This is like looking for a needle in a haystack. Notify all state, IPD and sheriff ’s cars to be on the lookout for the Toyota and the Chevy. Give the plate numbers. Maybe we’ll catch a break.”

The major relayed the order. “The chopper maybe.”

“They’ve got a head start on us. Why did this happen? What went wrong? Get Campbell on the horn.”

“I haven’t seen him,” Julie said. “Isn’t he still inside?”

“No. What do you hear from his mic?”

“I haven’t had a report in five, ten minutes. Nothing. Not even the music.”

“Shit, his mic’s dead then,” Kent muttered. “I should know, the man never shuts up.”

“Did you see him exit the facility?” Slaughter barked at Campbell.

“No. I thought he was still inside.”

Kent said, “Is his car in place? Are you in place? Where are you, Campbell?”

“In the parking lot at the side. Where I was assigned.”

“Jesus Christ,” Kent cried.

“Any Chevies in that lot, Campbell?” the major growled.

She looked at the other cars. “No, sir.”

“What’s he driving, Campbell?”

“Oh no.”

“Search the area for that Chevrolet, if it’s not too much bother, then rendezvous at HQ, Campbell,” Kent ordered. He cut the call. “You’d think she’d know something was wrong when she stopped hearing the music. Otherwise there’s no excuse. There’s music on the terrace even.

Human error, equipment error. Damn.” “Jamie’s resourceful,”George reminded him.“He’s got good judgment.” “He doesn’t have a fucking gun!”

***

If it was the Toyota, it was turning south at Meridian, heading for the interstate. Jamie ran stop signs and flashing red lights to catch up. Turned left on Meridian.

Cop car coming his way! Jamie pulled the signal on the steering column to flash his brights. Nothing happened.

GM car, not the Acura. His right foot gunned the gas, his left foot searched for the brights switch. Where? Patrol car passed him. Jamie honked. The cop car went the other direction. The Toyota, if that’s what it was, ran a red at 10th and Meridian, straight up the ramp.

Speedometer at 50. Jamie radioed his location. Is anyone listening?

Little traffic, but a cab headed his way in the near lane. Jamie calculated space, speed, tromped the gas pedal, swung left in front of the cab but too far wide. Cabbie’s angry horn, miss this parked car on 10th! Brakes and he was clear by two inches.

Ahead of him, maybe Toyota climbed the ramp and disappeared.

The choice was soon: I-65 South or I-70 West? Where are you, econobox?

Not here. Not there. Jamie chose 65 South. Maybe that’s why you’re a stupid IU fan, you’re from southern Indiana. Going 70 now, come on let’s have 80, he floored it.

Topped out at 74 and a half, and no econobox.

He drove searching and cursing all the way till he hit I-465. Drove west around the beltway, looking for a gas station, not finding one. Finally he did, pulled off and screamed a moment. He’d had one good look at Diffident’s face, which was all it took. He called HQ on a pay

phone and roared, “Where the fuck’s my backup?”

“Where are you?” Harvey scolded.

“Um, 65 South, then 465 West. Southwest Truck Stop.”

“Stay there. Kessler’s ordered all cars to rendezvous here. Stay where you are. Give me your number.”

Jamie waited, and he waited, and the phone never rang. It was the kind of pay phone that couldn’t receive incoming calls.