The Good Cop (10 page)

Phil was right, of course.

We talked for a bit about the upcoming meeting, and the need for everyone to be aware of all aspects of the situation and cool it.

Tim came back on to remind me that they were having a housewarming party the following Saturday, and for me to be sure to bring somebody if I wanted. “How about your friend Tom Brady? He could probably use some relaxation. There'll be some straights here, if he thinks he needs some ‘protective coloration.' As a matter of fact, you can bring him and his wife and her girlfriend if you'd like. It's already an established fact that he has fag friends, so being here shouldn't cause too much more hassle.”

Probably not a very good idea, I thought, but: “Yeah, I'll ask. Thanks; I'll let you know as soon as I can.”

We hung up and once again, phone cradled between shoulder and ear, I immediately dialed Tom to tell him of the meeting and that I might, as a result, be a little late getting to the Montero for dinner. He said that he, Lisa, and Carol would go on ahead and meet me at the hotel.

*

I'd barely put the phone back on the cradle before it rang. I picked it up immediately.

“Dick Hardesty.”

“Dick. Glen here. I've been trying to call, but your line's been busy.”

“Yeah, sorry about that.”

“No problem. Did we get the room at M.C.C.? I talked with Lee Taylor, and he'll be there. He wants to ask several of the other League members. I hope the room's big enough.”

“It should be,” I said, then told him that everyone I'd contacted would undoubtedly be there.

“Good. I've got to be in court all day tomorrow, and I may be late getting there. If I am, start without me—it's pretty much your show anyway.”

My
show? How in hell did
that
happen?

“Uh…”

“Well, you're the one Richman came to. You know more about exactly what was said than I do. You'll do fine. I'll see you there.”

*

I won't go into all the details of the meeting. Between Glen O'Banyon and me, we'd contacted fewer than a dozen people: sixty-two showed up, and the room was just barely big enough to hold everyone. The largest contingents, of course, were from the Bar Guild and the Gay Business League. Things got a little rough in spots, particularly when the editor of
Rainbow Flag
made the strong case that the story was real news for the gay community, and that any form of censorship, even self-imposed and with the best of intentions, was a bad thing. The chairman of the Gay Pride Committee said they were planning to ask Tom's superiors to okay Tom's being the Grand Marshall at the forthcoming Gay Pride Parade. There were a few hard-core activists also present who, like many activists for many causes, were firmly convinced that the sword was mightier than the pen, and that the way to right a wrong was to use the blacksmith approach—get a situation white hot and then use a sledgehammer to beat it into the shape you wanted it. They seemed to totally ignore the fact that since homophobia is not a tangible thing, it can't be eradicated by simply battering it into submission.

It was probably Glen O'Banyon, who had come in only about fifteen minutes late, who nudged the scale to a however-grudging consensus.

After everyone had had their say, O'Banyon came to the front of the room, still dressed in his court suit.

“Chief Black,” he began—and it was instantly apparent why and how he became the successful lawyer he is—“is the best hope the gay community has for positive change within the police department. And regardless of how justifiably proud the community may be to claim Officer Brady as one of its own, the basic facts are these: Chief Black's opponents—the very same men who have hassled, harassed, and discriminated against the community all these years—are now looking to that very community for a specific reason to bring the Chief down. And the only way they can do this and succeed will be if the community hands them tacit confirmation that there
are
gays in the department in the first place.”

He paused, and looked slowly around the room from face to face, before continuing.

“Of
course
there are gays in the department. They've been there for years. But they are there today only because no one can
prove
they're there. The only difference between Tom Brady and other gays on the force is that now the chief's enemies have a name, and a face, and an incident from which they can launch their assault on the chief. But their biggest problem, and Chief Black's strongest defense, is that no one…
no one
…in the department or out—” he paused for only a heartbeat, but it was long enough to make the point of the last two words, “—can
prove
that Tom Brady is gay. For Officer Brady to boldly step forward and admit to being gay, as some in the community would have him do, would do absolutely nothing but destroy his career, quite possibly drive Chief Black from office, and most definitely start a witch hunt for other gays within the department.”

He paused yet again to give his message a moment to sink in.

Finally, he said: “The question each of you must ask yourselves, and every single member of the community you can talk to, is this: Is the gay community, by its reaction to this incident, going to hand the chief's enemies a loaded gun?”

The meeting broke up shortly thereafter, and I only had a quick moment to talk with O'Banyon and a couple other attendees before I had to head off for the Montero. The overall impression was that a concerted effort would be made to laud Officer Brady for his actions during the shooting incident, but to ignore as completely as possible his sexual orientation.

Everyone seemed greatly relieved, but no one expected it to be the end of the story.

*

I got to the Montero at 7:40—not too bad, considering parking was, as usual, a bitch. I walked through the lobby and into the cavernous dining room. A quick look revealed maybe thirty people, but none of them were Tom, Lisa, or Carol. I crossed the lobby to the cocktail lounge on the other side, thinking perhaps they were waiting for me there. Nothing. (Though the bartender was a real hunk; I made a note to return some evening soon.)

Back across the lobby to the dining room where the maître d' was just returning to the podium from seating a family of four.

“One?”

“No, I was supposed to meet the Bradys….”

He gave me a classic “Ah” complete with raised eyebrows and a slight heads-up gesture. “Mr. Hardesty. The Bradys are expecting you: If you'll just take the last elevator to the left: The code is two-four-four. It will take you to the President's Suite. I'll tell them you're on your way.”

The President's Suite? You've arrived, kid!
Hey, I admit it: I was impressed.

As I walked to the elevator, I realized that since the elder Brady owned the place and as far as I knew the President was occupied elsewhere, he could use any damned room he wanted to. Still….

The last elevator on the left did not have buttons, but a small numbered keypad; the same system used, I'd learned in an earlier case, to gain entry to the guest parking garage and from there access to the guest floors. I pressed two-four-four and the door swooshed open as though the elevator car had just been standing there, patiently waiting for me. I stepped in and, with a muted chime, the door closed and the elevator began its utterly silent ascent. It stopped at the seventeenth floor and the doors sighed open onto a small, richly paneled foyer; through the large open double door directly in front of me I could see a room about three times the size of my entire apartment.

Now try not to gawk,
my mind cautioned,
and don't pick your nose.

Yeah, yeah, I got it,
I mentally replied.

Tom got up from a small semi-circle of chairs at the far end of the room and came over to greet me. He had on a powder-blue short sleeved shirt, which appeared to have been tailor made to hug every contour of his body. And as he moved across that vast room, he truly looked “to the manor born.” Beyond him another man rose from one of the chairs—I didn't have to be told who it was. Aside from having almost pure white hair, the resemblance to Tom was incredible.

Tom was still wearing his sling but otherwise looked to be in perfect health. We shook hands and went over to the semi-circled chairs. Lisa and Carol were seated on either side of the now-standing elder Brady, and looked truly beautiful. They'd obviously both just had their hair done for the occasion.

Mr. Brady, Sr. stepped forward and extended his hand. “Dick, it's a pleasure to meet you.”

“Mr. Brady,” I said by way of acknowledgment as I took his hand.

He smiled. “John, please.”

Good Lord, even his voice sounded like Tom's—or, I realized of course, more correctly it was the other way around. I could imagine that when Tom reached his dad's age, he'd look exactly like his dad looked now.

The women and I exchanged greetings, and I bent over to give each of them a peck on the cheek, then Tom's dad motioned me to the empty chair beside Carol.

Let the Breeder games begin!
my little mind-voice said.

“Can I get you a drink, Dick?” Tom, who had remained standing, asked. I noticed that everyone else seemed to have one, so I said: “Sure, thanks.”

“What would you like?”

As if you didn't know,
I thought, but then caught just the trace of a smile that told me he was well aware of the games.

“Manhattan, I think.” I turned to Mr. Brady as Tom went over to what appeared to be—and I'm sure was—a fully stocked bar. “Congratulations on acquiring the Montero,” I said. “It's a real landmark, and since its restoration….”

He looked at me and smiled. “Yes, and were I not so much a blatant capitalist I might very well feel a little guilty. The restoration nearly bankrupted the previous owners, and I got it for far below its true value. But now, with it back in pristine condition, it won't require major work for years.”

“So how long will you be staying?”

He picked up his drink and took a sip, then set it back down onto the small table between his chair and Lisa's.

“Until these contract negotiations are taken care of…which may be quite a while, I'm afraid. I'd hoped that when Joe Giacomino was put away, it would make the A.H.W.A. more responsible and reasonable. But the leadership just switched around, it didn't change. And with Joey G. heading the local here, I'm sure he's going to be under a lot of pressure from Joe Sr. and the union leadership to prove he can be just as big an arrogant bastard as his old man.” He looked up as Tom brought my drink, handed it to me with a smile, then went to sit beside Lisa. Tom's dad's eyes never left his son.

“But the longer the talks drag on,” he said with a smile, bringing his eyes back to me, “the more time I'll have to spend with my son and my charming daughter-in-law.” He reached over to pat Lisa's hand. Lisa smiled at him warmly.

The conversation moved on to and through a wide variety of subjects, with a great many questions from the elder Brady directed to Tom and Lisa, though politely phrased to include Carol and me, however peripherally. I was touched to see how obvious it was that the older man adored his son and was extremely proud of him.

A pleasant-looking, middle-aged waiter suddenly appeared from somewhere with menus in his hand. Brady Sr. smiled at him, nodded, and the waiter handed a menu to each of us. “Thank you, Walter,” Brady said, then turned to Lisa, Carol, and me. “Walter has been on the Montero's staff for…?” he looked up at the waiter who was standing with his hands folded in front of his apron.

“Twenty-eight years, sir,” Walter said, quietly.

“…twenty-eight years!” Brady repeated. “The Montero couldn't do without him,” he said, and Walter, though trying to remain waiter-stoic, allowed himself a quick smile of pleasure. I was beginning to see how Brady had built his empire.

“I could have had the chef come up and use the kitchen here in the suite,” he said, almost apologetically, “but didn't want to impose on him. And this way, we don't all have to have the same thing.” He asked Walter to refresh our drinks while we looked at the menus and, after enquiring politely as to what each of us was drinking, Walter picked up the glasses that were empty and moved off to the bar.

*

Dinner, in the suite's formal dining room, was not surprisingly excellent. The wine, while I of course hadn't the foggiest idea of what it was, was very good, as was the Strega served with desert.

The conversation flowed smoothly, with both Lisa and Carol going out of their way to charm Tom's dad—and obviously succeeding. But I'd noticed, throughout the evening, the senior Brady looking back and forth from Lisa to Tom and, more disconcertingly, from Tom to me. I wondered, somewhere in the back of my mind, if just perhaps the elder Mr. Brady were a lot sharper than any of us might have realized.

Over coffee, as we finished our desert—the Montero's staff included the best pastry chef in the city, and his apricot-brandy cheesecake was pure heaven—the talk moved back to the upcoming labor negotiations, scheduled to begin in two days, and the bitter enmity between Brady and Joe Giacomino, Sr.

“Of course, Joe Senior and I don't have a patent on hating one another,” he said, smiling. “Joey and Tom aren't exactly the best of buddies.”

“You know Joey Giacomino?” I asked.

“They grew up together,” Brady senior said. “Well, same town, same school, though young Joey was two years ahead of Tom.” He paused for a moment to take a small sip of his Strega, then a sip of coffee. “Joey is a real chip off the old block,” he said, leaning back in his chair. “Every bit as much the blustering bully that his father was—and is. All the other kids were terrified of him, but not Tom!” His father's pride all but sparkled from his eyes. “Tell him about the Cracker Jack, Tom,” he urged.