Only Make Believe (19 page)

“You didn’t dance with anybody else?”

He leaned back. His voice rose a little. “Miz Shepherd’s old enough to be my mammy. See, I was working, had to be on call for my uncle. Be ready to help him to the commode and drive him home once he finished his poker. Which was right before midnight.”

For the next question I lowered my own voice. “You didn’t dance with the Diva?”

“The—? Oh, her. Well, no. Like I said, she was polite. But, well, funny, you get what I mean? Talked in kind of a whisper. Ask her a question and she bats her eyes and pulls at her gloves and smiles but don’t say nothing.”

“You didn’t escort her out of the club at any time?”

“Did somebody say that? No, no. What happened is—I had to go to the rest room. Ran into the lady coming back. I figured she was on a commode run herself. So, when we get back inside, I asked her to dance, figured what the hell. But she just shook her head and patted my cheek. That was it. My beer was still on the bar. I listened to Mr. Larry Doolittle bitching about Doc taking all his cash and calling it rent. I watched the card game a while, finished my beer, listened to the music. Took my uncle to the toilet once and then home, drove back here, the baby was dirty and squalling and the wife sound asleep.”

“Doesn’t sound like much of an evening.”

“No, sir.”

“And you don’t know who the Diva was—what he was?”

“Say again?”

“The Diva was a man—a man dressed as a lady, an opera singer, only this wasn’t Halloween.”

Fletcher squeezed his knees with both hands. “A homo? And I went right up to her. Him! Christ, a real pansy?”

“No, he was married with two kids.”

Fletcher stood up, moved around behind the dinette chair he’d been seated on, took hold of the back rail with both hands. “He was staying at the hotel? They actually allow that—perverts? Sure had me fooled. I hate queers.”

“Fooled me, too,” I answered pleasantly. “And now he’s dead.”

Fletcher let go of the chair. “What happened?”

“We don’t know. Your uncle didn’t tell you about this?”

“Just that somebody got beat up Sunday night and later died. He didn’t mention any details.”

“That’s why we’re checking with people that were there on Sunday night. Did you, maybe, see him—the Diva—with anybody else? Outside the club? Besides the ones we’ve mentioned? Maybe he left with somebody? Went upstairs to, ah, do whatever they would do?”

“I hate queers, mister. I didn’t go upstairs, didn’t see anybody go upstairs. Turns my stomach just to think. And see, now I’m late for my job. You got a car? Could you give me a lift over to the Edison place? Ain’t but three blocks.”

I told him no, that I was hoofing it, too.

Fletcher called a goodbye to his wife. By then, the baby had quieted.

As we walked up the drive toward the street, I asked him one more question. “You drove your uncle home, you drove back here, you changed the baby because your wife was asleep. Any witnesses to all that?”

Fletcher stopped, turned and pointed to his brother’s house. “Go ask Mary Louise in there, she’s my sister-in-law. She stays up late, listens to the radio, does crossword puzzles.”

A short conversation with Mary Louise Fletcher confirmed that Albert had indeed parked his uncle’s black sedan in the driveway about twelve-thirty Monday morning and hurried inside the garage apartment. She was sure of it, Mrs. Fletcher said, because the glass louvers make a particular kind of sound when the front door is pulled shut. The sedan, she confirmed, remained in the driveway all night.

At three o’clock that afternoon the weather bureau in Jacksonville predicted patches of overnight frost from High Springs to Homestead, with freezing temperatures inland. By ten, temperatures along the Caloosahatchee had plunged to thirty-five degrees. WFML-Fort Myers warned listeners that citrus and winter vegetable crops faced ruination. Tourism would likely be hit as well, the station reported.

Casualty figures from Korea followed. I turned off the radio, pulled on my old Navy watch jacket, slipped a pint of Bacardi into my hip pocket and drove to Bud’s rooming house.

The pay phone in the hall was off the hook. Bud’s door was unlatched. He was seated at the desk, bundled up in wool pants and sweater, a fifth of rum at his elbow. The electric heater was turned up high. Florida boys take winter seriously.

I shut the door behind me. Bud stood, turned, took two steps and stumbled into my arms. I pulled him close, kissed his scarred neck and mouth, slipped both hands up under his sweater and shirt, and began rubbing his spine and ribs. He kissed me back, cupping my ass with his big hands. Discovering the pint, he hauled it out and laughed. The laugh sounded tired and scared and desperate.

“Guess we got the same idea, huh Lieutenant?”

“It’s been a long day, Sarge. And a hell of a week. That’s a present for my good boy, OK?”

“You not gonna drink with me?”
He was slurring his words.

“How many have you had, sport?”

“Not enough. The McGraw woman wouldn’t talk to me. Lives in a rented room in Tampa. Shut the door in my face. Has a sick husband that lives with her. Turns out he suffers from a bad case of the alcoholics. Landlady told me they don’t have two dollar bills to rub together. No car, of course. She lost that job selling bleach and toilet paper. Don’t seem like she’s in a position to be hiring any thugs to put the Diva out of commission. Or do the job herself, at least not at the Caloosa.”

I mixed two weak highballs and drew Bud down on the sofa beside me. He shut his eyes, crossed his arms across his chest, took a deep breath and let it go. I squeezed his knee. He took his drink and sipped it, glanced at the window, pushed himself upright, adjusted the Venetian blinds and flopped back down on the saggy-cushioned couch.

“You first,” he said finally. “Tell me some good news.”

“The North Koreans are still in Seoul. But there’s a blizzard over the peninsula so UN casualties are light. It’s not snowing here.”

He grabbed the back of my neck and forced my face down to his lap. “Asshole,” he growled. “Think you’re so funny.”

I tried to bite one of the buttons on his fly. He pulled me upright. “Get out a there,” he said. “No bones for bad dogs. Not yet. Tell me about Mr. Barfield’s nephew. The one-beer driver.”

I described the meeting with Muscles Fletcher, his wife, children and insomniac sister-in-law.

Bud shrugged and downed the rest of his drink. “Car was there all night, huh? Lives in Edison Park? And she’s sure he didn’t leave?”

“The sister-in-law says she’d have heard if he did. Says the glass door makes a funny sound. Rattles when it snaps shut—chucka-chucka.”

“Chucka-chucka, my ass. Living quarters has got to have more than one door—say a kitchen door that opens into the garage?”

“I didn’t see one. Could be.”

“OK, he told you the wife was asleep and the baby squalling when he got in? Did he say if the woman woke up or slept through?”

“He didn’t, no. I assumed he let her sleep. Maybe you should haul her in and grill her.”

“Wife can’t be forced to testify against her husband. You know that.”

“Don’t use force. Be sweet.”

He grabbed my neck again. “Fletcher asked DiGennaro to dance. I don’t like it. Sounds suspicious. The Sloan twins were crocked and they caught on to his act pretty fast.”

“Not until he told them to go play with themselves.”

“You think they—never mind. Their business.”

“Exactly. Their business. Larry Doolittle had a snoot full, too, and he says he didn’t catch onto the Diva. And I believe him.”

“Did you believe Fletcher?”

“He says he hates queers. Says the thought of being with a man turns his stomach. He told me. I didn’t ask.”

Bud laughed again, brighter this time. “Turns his stomach? Good thing he wasn’t in the Navy, huh?”

“The Navy’s gonna be in the Marine pretty soon, that right, Sarge?” I reached over and touched the front of his sweater, the spot right over his heart. “Come here, OK? Relax.”

He pushed my hand aside. “Anyhow, DiGennaro wasn’t queer. Can we go ahead and agree on that?”

“You weren’t queer when I met you. We don’t know what he was. Here, just let me hold you.”

“I ain’t queer for nobody
but
you. That’s the thing, goddamn it. Remember what you said today—about my boss being paid to ignore me and you?”

“Sure. We’re close friends, war buddies. You work for me part time and him part time. You date a waitress.”

“No sir, this.” He grabbed the back of my neck, pulled my face roughly to him and kissed me hard. “And this.” His other hand went for my belt buckle. He unsnapped it, popped off the waistband button, unzipped the fly, jerked my shorts down and reached for me with both hands.

It hurt. I elbowed his ribs. He turned, seized my arms and pushed me onto my back. Within seconds, he was riding my naked crotch. “She phoned the boss, you know that? Lucille Shepherd, stinking cunt bitch. Complained about us two
boys
.”

He kissed me again, a kiss that was half rape and half desperation. “I don’t want my life ruined, nor yours. Listen, Dan. We got to be careful—you do, I do. The whole town’s talking about this situation—the Diva, the Caloosa,
us
.”

I reached up and tried to pull him closer. “Us? Us the cocksuckers? Us the only queers in town? Like hell.”

He put his head next to mine, whispering: “Fucking newspaper was right out there on the boss’s desk. Fucking front page with that story about DiGennaro and the hotel and the boy. You know what the boss said? He warned me, he actually warned me about the Caloosa’s reputation rubbing off. Said even if I am punching my girlfriend six ways from Sunday, plus half the other waitresses in town, he said it wouldn’t make no difference. Said shit-ass Ralph Nype could do a story on me and my good buddy any time—he didn’t use your name—and spill everything about the shack-up hotel down by the river that allows queers and homos in. Caters to ’em, he said. Welcomes their business.”

I was only half listening. My dick was getting hard. The rough wool fabric of his pants—not to mention his breath in my ear and his weight on my hips and chest—was sadly, deliciously but uncomfortably stimulating. I reached down and tried to adjust things. His hand followed mine. When his fingers touched my dick I shivered, gasped and tried to make a joke. “Bringing Slim to the departmental Christmas party didn’t fool the old buzzard, huh?”

“You told me he knows the score and is paid to overlook it.”

“He wants you back full time. He’s tightening your leash, that’s all.”

Bud pushed himself upright, felt the front of his own pants, discovered a wet spot and glared at me. “Jesus, we’re fucking animals. Do you hear what I say, Dan? Are you listening to anything but your balls?” He sat back, breathing hard, and waved a hand in the direction of my crotch. “Come on. Cover yourself up.”

“You did the uncovering, mister. Why don’t you put your hand back down there and help me out. Or your mouth. Finish what you started. Come on. Come here, Bud, be my buddy. Come here, come here.”
He lurched upright, crossed the room and picked up the rum bottle.

I pulled my pants and shorts back up, buckled the belt and got my zipper about halfway closed. My hard-on, soaked and drooling, hadn’t begun to wilt.

Bud sucked down two or three swallows straight from the bottle. “Went to pick up my dry cleaning and shirts on the way home. The clerk, Tommy Osceola, this weasel-faced half-Seminole ex-shoplifter, see what I mean, he asked me how I liked rounding up fairies and running them out of town—so normal people don’t have to look at them and puke.”

“Tommy O’s about as normal as a two-headed rattlesnake. His tribe kicked him out of the village for exposing himself to little girls.”

“Forget him. Listen up. I’m thinking I ought to return to active duty. Because what the hell am I doing here in Myers now there’s a war on? We—the reserve unit—we got a letter last week asking for volunteers. Captain Yeomans told me up in Bradenton that if enough men don’t come forward, there’s gonna be call-ups within a month.”

He swigged another couple of swallows of Bacardi. “I wasn’t gonna tell you about this. Not right away.”

My arousal turned to alarm.
Now hear this. All hands on deck. Man your battle stations. Flank speed. Kamikazes coming up fast.

“You’re not going anywhere,” I told him. “I’m not losing another lover in another fucking war.”

He tipped up the bottle again but came up empty. “Now you got me dead before I even sign the re-up papers. Semper Fi, Mac.”

The fresh, raw memory of the Marine’s cortege on Second Street—somebody’s son, husband, lover or best friend—flooded my mind. Tears filled my eyes.

“We had our war, Bud. We beat the Japs. Younger guys are getting killed now—for what? I saw a funeral parade this week. Downtown, four blocks from here. Color guard, cops, hearse, flowers. Tommy Carpenter was driving some of the friends and family. It was a dead Marine sergeant. At least they have a body. Mike Rizzo’s bones are at the bottom of the Pacific. Forget fighting the fucking Chinese Commies. Let them have Korea and welcome to it. I’m not following you to some graveyard in LaBelle. We’re in this together.”