Mortal Allies (28 page)

Then I said, “How about Lee? You said he was cautious, but isn’t it possible he had enemies? Maybe a former lover with a grudge?”

“Anything’s possible. Maybe he was lying to me, but he swore he was celibate before we met.”

“So you were both . . . uh, what? Both virgins? Is that the term?”

“Yes, it’s the term we use. And yes, we were both virgins.”

So much for the old stereotype of gay men being wildly promiscuous. On the other hand, I couldn’t help thinking his sheer raw inexperience in romantic attachments might have made him less stable, less able to handle the swings and shifts of his first affair. First-timers of any sexual predilection tend to be fairly immature and prone to wild mood swings.

I said, “Tommy, you already know I’m something of a novice about how all this works. Excuse me if I say something insensitive here. Gilderstone claimed he knew you were gay because he was gay, so he caught on to your act. All he had to do was watch you with other people. Is it possible you or Lee might’ve inadvertently tipped your hands?”

“Look, some gays are easy to identify. There’s always the earring in the left ear or the flashy clothes if you want to be identified, or there’s the unconscious effeminate manner, or maybe you overaccentuate your manliness. I don’t think No or I fall into any of those categories.”

“I don’t guess you do,” I admitted. “But how’d you recognize he was gay?”

“I, uh, after one look, we knew we loved each other.”

“That’s it? Some invisible spark?”

“What were you expecting? A secret handshake or something?”

“I just wasn’t expecting some intangible emotional clue.”

“Haven’t you ever felt that with a woman?”

I had to consider that. I’d certainly felt an avalanche of lust for certain women. That happened a lot — too often, if you want to get strictly technical. And there were a few women I’d felt strong emotional attachments to, although that developed over time, a gradual thing, like a slow-motion magnet tugging me inch by inch in its direction. But I’d never looked at a woman and felt some headlong rush.

“Actually, Tommy, I really haven’t ever felt something like that,” I admitted.

“Too bad.”

“Yeah, too bad. So do you miss Lee?”

I asked the question sincerely, although I’d never in my life imagined I’d be asking a homosexual how much he missed his mate.

“God, yes. As miserable as this situation might seem, the hardest part is knowing I’ll never see him again. That probably sounds perverted to you, doesn’t it?”

For the first time I actually entertained the notion that maybe Whitehall didn’t murder his lover, that some bastard stole into his apartment in the dead of night and left the corpse beside him. How must that feel?

“Why was he your first?” I finally asked. “You’re a very attractive guy. You told me lots of gays are fairly promiscuous. What makes you different?”

“Ambition, I guess. It’s not a homosexual’s world, is it? You can come out of the closet and make a handsome living as an interior designer, or a hairstylist, or even a writer, but what other profession welcomes gays into its ranks? The military sure as hell doesn’t.”

“Then why choose the Army?”

“Why did
you
choose the Army?”

“I don’t know. My father was a soldier and, uh, it just looked like an adventurous way to make a living.”

“My father wasn’t in the Army, but I came to pretty much the same conclusion. The way I was raised was pretty loose and undisciplined. I was allowed to do whatever I wanted. I could stay up as late as I wanted, skip school, you name it. When I was a kid I thought it was great. When I got older, I didn’t. That make sense?”

“I guess,” I said, although frankly it didn’t make the least bit of sense. I’d barely had a loose or undisciplined minute in my whole life.

“Anyway, I wanted something more disciplined, more structured. And I didn’t want to grow up and become a hairdresser or a decorator.”

I nodded.

“And until now, I really loved it. I just figured that as long as I could hold my gayness under control, I’d do really good at it.”

“So why the Army? There are lots of other ways to avoid being a stereotype, aren’t there? Or did you always want to be a soldier?”

“Hell, I don’t know. I grew up reading war books and biographies of famous generals. Being gay, you’re still susceptible to little boys’ dreams. It drove my parents crazy, because they’re pacifists. But they’re also broke, and it didn’t hurt that West Point pays you to go. That was no small consideration. Do you want to hear the funny thing? They never blinked when I told them I was gay, but they nearly vomited when I told them I was going to West Point. Pretty ironic, huh?”

“So you suppressed it? Your gayness?”

“Yeah. Outside the house, anyway.”

“That why you boxed?”

“Believe it or not, I actually love the sport. And I guess I figured that if I could beat everybody who stepped into the ring, you know, really beat them, then everybody would say, ‘Gee, what a macho guy.’ What’s more hetero than boxing? Who’s ever heard of a gay winning the Golden Gloves or being the brigade boxing champ at West Point, for God’s sake?”

“Why’d you turn down the Rhodes Scholarship? Gilderstone said you had a good shot.”

“Maybe so, maybe not. There were lots of good guys going for it. Besides, I wanted to get to the Army.”

“You still would’ve gotten to the Army.”

“I wanted to be an infantryman. I wanted to go to the field and live in the woods and tromp around rifle ranges and lead men. Why waste two years at Oxford when I wanted to be with troops?”

He sounded completely sincere, and I must confess to a certain prejudice on my part. I, too, joined the Army to become an infantryman — which, if you don’t know, is the truest form of warrior in the military. And were it not for a wound that made it no longer possible, I would still be an infantryman. Law is intellectually challenging, and often even emotionally fulfilling, but in my mind it is still, as they say in the computer world, a default mechanism.

Tommy Whitehall and I shared something in common.

Then we both heard the sound of footsteps coming down the metal ramp that led to the cell. The steps were heavy and leaden, and we’d been left in isolation nearly an hour. It had to be the big brute.

“He treatin’ you okay?” I asked.

“Don’t let his looks fool you. He’s all right. In fact, I kind of like him.”

I chuckled and he quickly added, “Of course, I like him like a brother. And strictly like a brother.”

We were both guffawing as the cell door swung open.

The big goon sniffed the air, saw the crumpled McDonald’s wrapper and the empty beer cans, and gave me a dreadful glower. I shrugged my shoulders, since considering the circumstances, there didn’t seem any point in denying my crime.

I then reached into my briefcase, withdrew the last can of Molson, and held it up to him. “We saved one for you,” I timidly said, as I did the
pshht
thing.

He took it from my hand, raised it to his lips, and drained it in a single gulp.

I left Tommy Whitehall alone in his cell, no doubt to climb the walls some more. The big Korean led me out while I mentally recounted my accomplishments. I had exploited Whitehall’s loneliness, physical hunger, and susceptibility to alcohol to woo him out of his stony silence. It had worked, too. At least, I think it had worked. Before Carlson would know it, I would own our client.

But Whitehall had accomplished something, too. I found myself liking him. Some of it was what Ernie had told me about him, and some of it was just the fact that I had to defend him, which makes you susceptible to being sympathetic. But some of it was just Whitehall himself. I wouldn’t be the first defense attorney who’d been gulled by his client, but he seemed like a decent, genuine guy. And for the first time, I wondered if maybe, just maybe, all evidence to the contrary, he might actually be innocent.

I hadn’t changed my mind. I was just entertaining the notion.

T
wo brief phone calls did the trick.

The first was to the American Bar Association. You pay your two hundred dollars a year in annual dues, and you’re part of the club. They send you biennial brochures about the legal issues the ABA is currently lobbying in Washington. They keep you apprised of bar practices. They also maintain a registry of every lawyer who’s authorized to practice law in the United States.

Unless Keith Merritt owned a small private practice in Florida that specialized in medical torts, or was a 1932 graduate of Duke law school who coincidentally was supposed to be deceased, he was not now, nor had he ever been a practicing attorney. The only other possibility was that he’d never taken or passed the bar exam. But after I called Yale Law School, where Katherine had told me Keith got his law degree, I learned that only six Merritts ever graduated from that august institution.

Not a one was named Keith.

It’s not that I didn’t trust Katherine, but I didn’t. When you know someone the way I know her, you run traplines.

So who in the hell was Keith Merritt? And why had he been tossed in front of that car? As much as I would’ve loved to dig into these pressing questions myself, I had my hands full already. I needed help. I needed someone resourceful and sly and trustworthy. That last quality ruled out Katherine or anybody from her clique. And that left Imelda. She was richly gifted with all three attributes, except that trustworthy thing, at least lately. So I went up to the HOMOS building and hooked a finger in her direction. She grumpily followed me outside and fell in beside me as I ambled in the general direction of nowhere in particular.

Before I could get out a word, she snapped, “What the hell’s your problem? You’ve been walking around like you got a brick up your butt.”

“Oh, you’ve noticed,” I spitefully replied. “I’m the one you worked with these past eight years. The one who flew you over here. The one who’s wearing the same uniform you’re wearing.”

“I ain’t forgotten.”

“Damn it, Imelda, those people, they make me uncomfortable.”

“What people? You mean Allie and Maria?” she innocently replied.

“Yeah, them two,” I said. “Haven’t you noticed anything odd about them? I mean, real odd.”

“You mean, they’re lawyers? So what? Ask me, all lawyers are stone-cold weird.”

“Let me give you a little hint. When you were a kid, didn’t your mother ever have one of those awkward chats with you? That birds-and-bees thing? Haven’t you noticed those two have their stingers on backwards?”

“Oh.” She stopped, adjusted her glasses on her nose, and gave me a discerning look. “You mean, ’cause they’re lesbians?”

“Damned right. That’s exactly what I mean.”

“Hmmph,” she said, shaking her head like this was really ridiculous. “I got no problem with that.”

“You don’t?”

“Hell, the Army always had plenty of lesbians.”

“And you got no problem with that?”

“Any reason I should? They do their jobs, let well enough be.”

I was getting exasperated. “Don’t try telling me Allie and Maria don’t give you the heebie-jeebies. Christ, the big one makes paint flake off the walls. The other one glooms up a room faster than anybody I ever met.”

She stopped in midstride. “You know your problem?”

“I didn’t think I had a problem.”

“Oh, you got a problem, all right. You’re a White man.”

I very calmly said, “Imelda, it’s got nothing to do with it.”

“Hell it don’t. You ain’t never been on the spiky end of prejudice.”

“Let me quote the illustrious Colin Powell. ‘Skin color is a physical quality; homosexuality is a behavioral quality.’ He’s a Black man, if I remember correctly. He’s not comfortable with gays.”

“Ain’t no rule says only White people can be irrational. Maybe it’s a man thing,” Imelda retorted.

“You can’t have it both ways,” I shot right back. “First you claim it’s only White males. Now it’s a man thing.”

Her eyes got narrow and squinty, and she cocked her head to the side. Philosophical debates aren’t a real good idea with Imelda. Debates in general aren’t a good idea with Imelda. Not if you like walking on two unbroken legs.

She said, “Let me ask you something.”

“What?”

“You ever seen me with a man?”

“Huh?”

“A man. One of them things with a poker and two balls between its legs.”

“I know what the hell men are. Of course I’ve seen you with men,” I stiffly replied.

“No, you ever seen me
with
one?”

“I, uh . . . no. So what?”

“You ever get to thinking about that? Never wonder that ol’ Imelda’s forty-nine years old and don’t have no man around?”

“What are you telling me?” I choked out. I mean, I thought I suspected, but it couldn’t be. Not Imelda Pepperfield. Not my trusted right hand . . . my able assistant . . . my girl Thursday . . . or Friday, or whatever.

“You can’t ask, and I don’t have to tell. That’s the rule, ain’t it?” she smugly replied.

“Oh my God,” I groaned, suddenly confronting the inevitable truth. Okay, I’d never seen her with a man, but I’d never attached any seamy misgivings to it. I always thought she was such a dedicated professional that she was like, well, married to the Army. Or she was such a headstrong, resolute woman that she couldn’t find a man who wasn’t intimidated by her.

Without another word on the subject, she abruptly started walking again. I hurried to catch up. “Hey, wait.”

She looked coldly over her shoulder. “I got nothing more to say,” she frigidly announced.

“No, I, uh, hold on, damn it.”

She stopped and turned toward me. “What?”

“I need to ask you something,” I haltingly said, unable to come to terms with what she’d just told me.

She fluttered her lips and rolled her eyes, and, knowing her like I did, I recognized the look. I’d better get over this fast or she’d pop me in the nose.

“Do you think Whitehall did it?”

“Maybe.”

“Maybe’s equivocal.”

“Maybe,” she mysteriously reiterated.

“Why maybe?”