Hate Crime (18 page)

Scholes frowned. “Yes. A little.”

Loving acted as eager as a lonely puppy. “Really! Tell me about him. What’s he like?”

“I should get back to my room . . .”

“Aw c’mon. Just a little somethin’.”

Scholes seemed torn. “Well . . . he isn’t the monster the media is trying to make him. But he’s got a lot of issues.”

“Who doesn’t?”

“Yeah. But he’s way above his quota. He’s been—” Scholes must’ve thought better of it, because he stopped himself midsentence.

“Were you with him . . . that night?”

“Yeah. After.”

“Did you know what he did?”

“Couldn’t help. He bragged about it for damn near an hour.”

“And you heard?”

“Yeah. I also heard him—” He stopped, then turned back toward the parking lot. “Look—I gotta go.”

“I gotta thousand more—” But it was too late. Scholes was out of there.

Heard him say what? Loving wondered. And why was he at this meeting in the first place? And why was a supposedly loyal fraternity brother so quick to diss his brother? Something strange was going on here. Loving didn’t know what it was. But he intended to find out. If he had to hear about every dog in the Windy City.

20

JOURNAL OF TONY BAROVICK

My first real job was waiting tables at a bar called the Black Dahlia in the ritzy Waffle Park area. First I took drink orders, then I tended bar, then I became the night manager, which meant I did both and then some, only more so. There was a reason I rose through the ranks so fast, even though I was taking classes part-time. I loved it. Everything about it. The freedom of being on my own, making a decent living. The exhilarating nightlife. The chance to hang out with people of all kinds, all walks, even people my father might not approve of. For the first time, I felt as if I’d left the artificial worlds of school and family and church and found something real.

This was not a gay bar, but everyone who worked there knew I was gay. I never made any big announcement or anything, but for once, I didn’t try to hide it either. I don’t know why, exactly—the time just seemed right. No one minded. The boss was a big old gruff macho guy, but he didn’t care. Every now and again he’d make some remark about “managers who were light in the loafers,” but I didn’t sense any malice in it. At least it wasn’t an obsession with him. And it certainly didn’t prevent him from treating me well. I worked for several months, till I moved on to Remote Control. It was comfortable. Most of the time.

We started to attract more of the biker traffic that frequented the suburbs. I’m not talking Hell’s Angels, at least not most of the time. This was yuppie biker stuff—doctors and lawyers in midlife crises, tooling around on absurdly expensive, perfectly polished Harleys and wearing designer leather jackets. Despite their education and relative affluence, some of them could be harsh, especially when they left the wives and girlfriends at home and it was just big alpha males gathered around the table, all of them jockeying to prove that despite his age and the spare tire around his gut, he was the biggest stud puppy of them all.

“I bet you’re desperate to suck my dick, aren’t you?” one of them said to me one evening when I came to take their order. I didn’t know what to say. Nothing was necessary, as it turned out, because they all started laughing so hard—and checking their friends to make sure they were laughing, too. At home that night, I thought of a thousand brilliant comebacks, but when it happened, I was too stunned to speak. I was still transfixed when he added, “If I catch you looking at me like that again, I’ll stuff your balls in your mouth. If you have any.”

Objectively, I realized the jerk was only revealing his own insecurities, but it hurt all the same. Just when you think you’re safe, you’re not. Just when you think people accept you for what you are, they don’t. How long would I be hated for being the way I was born? For being the way God made me?

“I had a buddy down at the penitentiary who hit a fag with his hog doing ninety miles an hour. Know what he got?”

“Eight to ten?”

“No. The Congressional Medal.”

Bad as they were, I’d take them any day over the holy rollers who sometimes wandered into the bar. Sometimes it was just kids on a church outing; sometimes it was a group determined to save my soul. It was to be expected—what with politicians talking about “waging war against the homosexual agenda” and preachers teaching from the pulpit that “the acceptance of homosexuality is the sign of the Beast.”

Imagine standing there with your little pad, asking if you can take their order, only to hear, “Did you know that studies have proven that homosexuality can be cured?”

“It’s not a disease,” I said weakly.

“Don’t be afraid,” said a small woman with dark eyes. She took my hand and pulled it to her breast. “We just want to help you.”

I shook her hands away. What, was this supposed to turn me on? Spark my interest in chicks with a messiah complex? It didn’t work. I brought them coffee and stayed away from their table until they finally departed. They left tracts on the table. I threw them away.

How many times did I have someone read that nasty little verse from Leviticus to me, the one passage in the entire Bible that arguably, subject to differing interpretations, may come down on gays? I’d point out that it was right next to the verse that says children who are disrespectful to their parents should be executed. For that matter, Leviticus prescribes the death penalty for house burglary and adultery. How many of us would still be around if we started enforcing these laws? I’d ask. But I never got anywhere with them. Leviticus also dictates that a mother must make a burnt offering after bearing a child, that a father must prove his daughter’s virginity by displaying a bloody sheet in the town square, that you can’t sow your field with two kinds of seed or put on a garment made of two kinds of material. Who would suggest that these passages should be taken seriously in this day and age?

The antigay passage rubs shoulders with passages condemning masturbation, or sex during menstruation. For the ancient Jews, reproduction was survival, so any form of sexual activity that didn’t produce offspring was met with disapproval. How long are we going to let ourselves be ruled by four-thousand-year-old laws concocted by primitive Jewish tribes running around in the desert? I’d ask. But they didn’t listen to anything I said, and even if they did, they wouldn’t admit it when they were hanging around with their holier-than-thou friends. Truth was, as I soon realized, that passage in Leviticus was just a smokescreen—a convenient excuse to justify their own prejudice which had its basis in fear and xenophobia, not the Bible.

“Sodomy is still a crime in some states,” one young tough told me. He was clenching his fists, looking as if he’d enforce the law himself. “God doesn’t like it when you pervert the natural order.”

Then why the hell did he make me this way? I wanted to scream. It’s not as if I chose to be gay. But you can’t explain that to these people. You can’t explain what’s it’s like, being constantly judged. Having people suggest that there’s something wrong with you because you’re not just like them. Feeling as if you’re on the outside looking in, when all you really want in the world is to belong. To feel part of the gang. Not to be alone.

21

Mike was so unaccustomed to letting someone else drive that he didn’t know what to do. He fidgeted with the lighter, played with the electric windows, and scanned the radio dial—Chicago had a lot of stations. He found a Billy Joel song he remembered from college, smart and oh-so-catchy. Now he’d probably have the tune running through his head for days.

“You know, Swift,” Mike said, “I’m starting to get excited.”

“Want me to hose you down?”

“That won’t be necessary, thanks.” Mike gazed at the towering buildings on either side of them, the throngs of people crowding the sidewalks, the hustle and bustle of famed Michigan Avenue. “This is my first time in Chicago and I’m pretty pumped.”

“I’m excited about the drag racing. Who’da thought? It’s like something out of
Grease
.”

Mike watched as Swift steered her car down the busy street. Letting someone else drive went totally against the grain, but it was her car and her city, so he was just going to have to bear it. “Are you the good girl, or the naughty girl? Olivia Newton-John or Stockard Channing?”

“Who do you want me to be, big boy?”

Mike smiled. “Why do you do that?”

“Do what?”

“All the innuendo. I know you don’t mean it.”

“Don’t be so sure, slick. I think you’re a darn fine specimen, as men go. And I figure in a job like this, a girl’s got to take her pleasure where she can find it.”

“Uh-huh.” Mike watched as the skyscrapers whizzed by his window. “You’re aware that you’re driving Baxter crazy, right?”

“Because we left her at headquarters to do the grunt work?”

“Because she thinks you’re coming on to me. Constantly.”

A sheepish grin crossed the agent’s face. “You got a problem with that?”

“I’m just saying.”

“That woman’s got more repressed desire than I’ve ever seen. I can’t help but toy with her. It’s my nature.”

“Well, I’d appreciate it if you’d lay off her a little.”

“What’s it to you?”

“It isn’t helping the investigation.”

“Don’t give me that BS. Do you have feelings for her?”

Mike bit his lip. He had made Baxter a promise. “She’s my partner.”

“Don’t hide from the question. Answer it.”

“I just don’t think you need to be needling her all the time.”

“Look, Mister Tall, Dark, and Dense, if you and Baxter are romantically involved, or want to be, you should get a new partner.”

“That isn’t—”

“And if you aren’t, sugah,” she continued, “I’m available. And my apartment is only a few blocks away.”

About an hour later, Mike stood at the edge of a drag strip in the middle of an open field pondering the nature of the enduring relationship between a boy and his wheels. Small wonder guys love cars, he mused, as he watched two of them tear off into the distance. It’s all there. Sleek polished hoods, rubber tread, big noisy engines. The thrill of adventure, the hint of danger, the strong scent of sex. Nothing sexier than chrome.

“Amazing how the automobile has changed human society,” Mike commented.

“More amazing how the automobile has changed human courtship,” Swift replied. “Did you lose yours in the backseat, too?”

“I’m afraid that information is classified.”

“Whatever. Have I mentioned yet that I find this all kind of a turn-on?”

“Probably. But not to these children, I hope.”

As Mike gazed around him, he felt as if he were swimming in a sea of teenagers—or people who wanted to pretend they were. Who else would come to the Windy City Sizzlin’ Speedway, which was basically a long paved strip out in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by undeveloped brush and red clay. According to some of the boys in Swift’s office, a local farmer had gotten the inspiration to pave a strip across some uncultivated land. It was a huge success. Drag racing in the city streets sharply dropped overnight—and thanks to the small entrance fee, the farmer made a tidy profit.

“How many kids have you talked to so far?” Mike asked.

“I dunno. Seems like a million or so.”

“And you showed them the picture?”

“Right. If dear departed Manny had friends, I haven’t stumbled across any of them.”

Mike nodded. “Keep at it.” He plowed into a nearby group of young people. He made no attempt to be subtle; he knew they could make him a mile away, so why pretend to be anyone other than who he was? Besides, some of these kids had seriously cool cars.

“So you come here often?” Mike asked a sweet young thing named Tanya. He guessed her to be about sixteen, with hair that looked like a kindergarten finger-painting project.

“Almost every day when school’s out.” Talk about enthusiasm. She almost bounced when she spoke. “It’s so bad. Totally phat.”

“I notice you’re one of the few females on the premises.”

“I don’t know why that is. I live for it. It’s like, you know, like, duuuuude.” She laughed.

“Yeah, but . . . why?”

“Hey, you gotta do something, right? What else is there? This beats going to the mall. Or drinking or doing drugs.”

“Can’t argue with that.”

“My car is great—I got a 350 V-8, Tranny, slick as ice, and enough r.p.m. to handle the Indy 500. Where else am I going to get the chance to challenge every would-be macho stud in the city—and win?”

“I can see the appeal.”

“It’s a great way to prove yourself. Once you’re behind the wheel, it doesn’t matter if you’re big or small, male or female. All that matters is how good you are. You turn the ignition—and thirteen hundred feet later, you know who’s hot and who’s not.”

Mike watched as two more cars approached the starting line. One of them was apparently being driven by a friend of Tanya’s. “Come on, Hootie! Show ’em your struts!”

Hootie was the lanky boy in the Thunderbird. He glanced at the driver in the neighboring yellow Camaro, then punched it. And they were off—at something like 100 m.p.h.

“Kind of dangerous, isn’t it?”

“Better here than on the streets. I have seen a few wrecks, though. Nothing too bad. Some of the slicks bet on the races. Then they start taking it way too seriously.”

Hootie, alas, did not win his race, which did not surprise Mike, being a former Camaro owner himself.

“That’s tough. Hootie’s gonna be bummed. I better go.”

“Just a sec.” Mike had been so absorbed in the racing he almost forgot that he was technically supposed to be investigating. He pulled the photo out of his pocket. “Ever see this guy before?”

She looked for only a moment. “Yeah, I’ve seen him. I think I raced him. Has an ‘89 Mustang, right? Modified engine. Big wheels.” She grinned. “I knocked his socks off.”

“What was he doing here?”

“Far as I know, he was just racing, like everyone else. We get some older guys, sometimes. Fogies trying to recapture their youth with big, souped-up race cars. You know the kind.”