Only Make Believe (31 page)

Bud turned to me, winked, put his hand on my shoulder, walked us a few paces farther back into the shadows and immediately began to break down.

“You almost got killed right there in front of me, Lieutenant. Two seconds more and you’d of been brain salad.”

I touched his side. The two of us were in dark shadow—outside but invisible. “Fat chance, Sarge. I’m descended from a long line of fighting Confederates. Hey, I was winning.”

He pulled me close. I ran my arms up under his shirt. He was shaking. His sweat was ice cold. He kissed my neck and my ear. “The Confederates lost, Dan. Got outnumbered, not outfought. You should of waited. Should of let me handle it. Sometimes you act like you ain’t got good sense. Jesus, what would I do if you’d got hurt—or even …?”

He let the
even
…? hang in the humid night air.

I brought my hands around to his chest and rubbed my fingertips in the thick mat of hair. “I guess you’ll have to get your little posse back down here for some advanced training. Like you were doing while I was solving your case for you? Huh?”

He pinched my butt and stepped back. “Think you’re so smart, don’t you? Maybe you’d like to show me what you figure I might ought to do with them. Maybe later on tonight, huh? After we get showered and cleaned up. After I get my suspect booked and we get those cuts attended to? Maybe you’ll be ready for some kind of advanced workout. You think so? That right? That right?”

“Yeah,” I whispered. “That’s right.”

The door to Albert Fletcher’s apartment was open. I went inside and phoned Ralph Nype at the
News-Press.

“City desk,” he answered. When I identified myself, he snapped, “Make it quick, Dan. I’m on deadline. And you owe me a Speed Graphic.”

“I owe you a kick in the ass. Mr. O’Malley had a deluxe suite. He might have stayed on until Easter. He was paying in cash. Pure gravy for my balance sheet. Then you sent that gumshoe calling.”

“The cash was embezzled. Stolen.”

“From his father-in-law. The wife’s a fat shrew.”

“He was with two of your employees—women not his wife.”

“How many of our girls have you been with, Ralphie? Keep in mind that O’Malley was paying the girls in cash, too. Last I heard, you didn’t even give my girl a tip.”

“Like I said, Dan, I’m on deadline.”

“Guess you wouldn’t be interested in a bigger headline than Ohio Embezzler Exposed, huh?”

“Ha, ha, ha. You got twenty seconds.”

“Hold the presses, Ralphie. “This story’s worth any number of Speed Graphics.”

“Ten seconds.”

“On one condition. Every time you’re served a drink in my establishment you tip the server with a dollar bill.
And
if you’re ever allowed to go upstairs with one of my girls again you tip her twenty.”

“Twenty?”

“That’s right, Ralphie. My girls are worth every cent of it.”

“OK, OK, Dan. Shoot.”

“New developments in the DiGennaro homicide. I’m still on the scene. There’s been an arrest. The suspect’s a member of a prominent local family. His name’s Albert “Four Eyes” Fletcher and he is on his way to jail. And get this: Detective Spencer “Bud” Wright is the hero. He gets complete credit for nailing the killer in the case of the artificial diva.”

“Woo woo,” Nype responded without missing a breath. “Great headline, Dan. Thanks.”

“It’s a fascinating case,” I continued. “The victim had abnormal tendencies, but he definitely wasn’t a homo. We believe he wore women’s clothes because he loved women so much. It excited him. Every man that wears a dress is not a homo. Got it? Homos can look like anybody—a muscle man, for instance. Or an Air Corps gunnery student—or a young Lee County husband and father who won’t wear his glasses, and who’s blind to what he really wants.”

“That’s sick,” Nype responded. “Real sick. Could you repeat it for me and talk a lot slower this time?”

Bud topped off Chuck’s and Cy’s champagne goblets with ginger ale, then filled mine and his own with the real French slosh. “To justice,” he said, raising his glass.

“And liberty,” Chuck answered, his voice bouncing upward from baritone to tenor. “For all but one.”

“The sick fucker,” Cy added, his voice froggy with excitement at being inside a real bar, the Caloosa Club.

I touched the rim of my glass to Bud’s, then to Chuck’s and Cy’s. “Enough about Fletcher. Let’s raise hell.”

I was throwing a Saturday night celebration. Four-Eyes Fletcher had entered Raiford State Prison the previous Tuesday. He’d copped a plea a mere three months after assaulting Nick DiGennaro. His attorney-uncle, Wayne Larue Barfield, had only briefly considered a jury trial. Barfield sensibly recognized the considerable risk of damaging testimony by Patt Cope and myself. On the advice of his uncle, and while admitting no wrongful intent, Fletcher accepted a sentence of ten years on various charges and was shipped out the following day.

According to Bud’s contacts in state law enforcement, Four Eyes had already been assigned to a six-man unit. His bunk mates were said to be older, stronger, tougher men. All were serving sentences for violent crimes. Bud figured Four Eyes would have to learn to keep his hands to himself.

Larry Doolittle got off with a suspended sentence, returned to Philadelphia and swore never to cross the Mason-Dixon Line again. That was fine with me and, I suspected, with his brother-in-law. Doc Shepherd had traded his influence for Doolittle’s promise to keep quiet about everything he’d seen or heard in Myers.

Chuck kicked back his ginger ale in two gulps. “Raise hell for sure if you’ll pour me some of the real stuff, Uncle Bud.”

“You know that would be highly illegal,” Bud said primly, reaching for another bottle of Canada Dry. “You’re way under age.”

I laughed. “None of this is legal. Lee County’s dry. You boys shouldn’t be within half a mile of this club. But there’s a war on. Nobody cares.”

“Right,” Cy croaked. “I’ll drink to that.”

“The fishing boat’s reserved for tomorrow morning,” I said.

“Right. Yes. You wouldn’t want to soak up a lot of alcohol and risk a bad hangover out on the—” Bud stopped short, embarrassed at even a glancing reference to Chuck’s drunken behavior the morning his father died.

Chuck looked away, shook his head a couple of times, but bounced back smiling. “Hadn’t thought of that. We do have to hit early mass first. We can pray for fish. Lots of fish.”

“You got any interest in spring training games, boys? There’s a note on the office bulletin board. Says police officers get in free this season and can bring their friends.”

“Wow. Sure. That’d be neat. You think maybe we could include Eldon?”

“Don’t see why not. More the merrier.”

The room was about half full. People were drinking, playing cards and making conversation. When Carmen popped a champagne cork, Tommy Carpenter segued from “Sentimental Journey” into a frisky medley of Cole Porter tunes—“Too Darn Hot,” “Night and Day” and “Anything Goes.” Several couples got up to dance.

The boys crossed the room to observe the action at the poker table. Wayne Larue Barfield was not among the players. He’d resigned his membership the week his nephew was arrested.

Bud leaned against the bar, a satisfied smile playing across his tanned, freshly shaved face. I moved in close. “Chuck’s got a crush on you, Uncle Bud. No doubt about it.”

“Right. Yes. I believe he does. And he’ll get over it. Don’t mean a thing. He’ll find a girl soon enough.”

“He’s crazy about his Uncle Dan, too. Why do you think he’s going to end up playing for the other team?”

“It’s just nature. You watch. Some little gal will shake her tits in his face and that’s the last we’ll see of him. Baseball tickets or no baseball tickets. He ain’t—you know. Like you and Carmen.”

“Will you be disappointed? If it turns out he’s not? I kind of will be.”

“Huh? Best thing he can do is be normal, go the right way.”

“The right way? Thanks, Sarge.”

“The easier way, you know what I mean. Not have to be looking for shadows every time he takes a step.”

“Men don’t just get up one morning and decide to be a regular Joe. It’s not like choosing which shirt to put on.”

“No, and I guess if he’s got any doubts, he sure ought to find out which side he’s on as soon as he can. But not with you or me. A crush ain’t a blow job.”

Down the bar, another cork popped. Somebody at the card table yelled, “Hit the deck.”

“Zeros,” somebody else called out. “Kamikazes. Coming right at us.”

Tommy deftly dropped Cole Porter in favor of marches in dance rhythm—“Semper Paratus,” “The Wild Blue Yonder,” “Stars and Stripes Forever.”

Bud grinned but the grin was off-kilter. “Either way, we got to hope the boy don’t inherit his daddy’s taste in party clothes.”

Carmen topped off our glasses. “Bossman, it’s faaa-bulous we use the good stuff tonight. Celebrate that we got our hotel all safe again.”

“Send a bottle over the card players,” I answered. “Tell ’em it’s compliments of General de Gaulle.”

Bud looked me square in the eye. “You feel safe, Dan?”

“As long as I’ve got you beside me? Hell, yeah.”

“You didn’t ever have to choose. That’s one difference between us. Your Ensign Mike on the
Indianapolis,
he climbed down into your bunk and whammo, you both knew.”

“Correct. It wasn’t any choice to make. And then you were just there. I didn’t have to choose my path either time.”

“But I did—I do.”

I poked him in the ribs. “Glad you’re on my team, Sarge. Even if young Chuck may not end up on ours.”

Bud drew himself up, serious as a drill instructor. “You know, I tell myself it really don’t make no difference in my line of work. Not if you’re trying to do the right thing. Not if you nail the bad guy.”

“Sarge, that puts us right back where we started. Because the law in this country says
we’re
the bad guy. Just because we love each other.”

Tommy rolled into “Anchors Aweigh.” Bruce Asdeck had entered the room. After greeting two or three friends and collecting a glass of cognac at the bar, he strolled toward us and drew an official-looking envelope out of his jacket pocket.

I knew what was coming. I’d agreed to let the retired admiral pull a few strings.

Asdeck sipped his drink, scanned the document and threw Bud his foxiest insider grin. “Staff Sergeant Wright, I am reliably informed by a source at the Pentagon that you are being promoted to technical sergeant and will serve as first sergeant of your reserve unit, the hundred and twenty-seventh whatever it is, effective the first of next month. You will be reporting to a Captain James Steele, who is currently en route from Korea. You will be the captain’s chief training NCO and you and the captain will be directed to bring the hundred and twenty seventh up to wartime standards during the forthcoming year. Congratulations, Top.”

Bud looked like he’d been kicked. But he was a pro and quickly recovered. “Thank you, sir. Great news. You know I’ll do my best.” The two men exchanged salutes.

I signaled Carmen for more champagne—champagne for everybody, all the adults, anyway—on the house.

My rearguard action had bought us more time. Asdeck predicted that Bud would never set foot in the frozen mud of a Korean foxhole. His personnel file had been marked “unavailable for transfer.” For the moment, at least, he was safe from Red Chinese bullets.

I knew Bud’s doubts and fears remained strong—that the risks for two men living and working together were numerous, that it was only a matter of time until we were caught, arrested and ruined.

I knew the risks better than he did. But I believed we could beat the odds. Now that the messy business with the dead Diva was over, I figured it was time to work on our relationship. I was going to give it all the energy I had. And I sure as hell wasn’t going to tell Bud what I’d done to keep him safe. I loved him too much. I was perfectly willing to be dishonest, even lie to his face, to keep him by my side. Bud still had a lot to learn. And I was going to teach him all I knew.

In the meantime, at that very minute, he had his own surprise to spring on me and the boss. Reaching inside his jacket, he pulled out a manila envelope. The return address was plain to see: Federal Bureau of Investigation, Washington, D.C. Opening the envelope, he unfolded a letter and a photocopy of one of the anonymous threats I’d received back in January.

Mr. Uing you durty QUEER HOMO your wicked durty privates will be cut OFF by the flameing sword of the ANGEL and thrown in the FIRE and you will be nailed to the Cross like LORD JESUS ….

A glance at the copy triggered a hidden but predictable reaction. My privates shrank up against my groin, seeking protection.

“Told you I wasn’t gonna let go of this,” Bud said, speaking first to me and then turning to Asdeck. “Sir, I know you’re not real keen on allowing the feds to stick their noses in our business. But when my law-enforcement people here in Florida couldn’t—I don’t want to say
wouldn’t
—do nothing about running IDs on half a dozen sets of good prints, I had to take the initiative. Contacted a buddy of mine at the Bureau. A man I knew from the Corps. We were boots together at Parris Island. And he was at Iwo Jima, too, but that was later, of course. Anyhow, we’ve kept in touch. I figured I could trust him. This was a month ago—when I sent him the letters and cards that Dan’s been getting. He said he’d see what he could do. Said he’d keep it confidential as he could.”