The Good Cop (12 page)

“Do you have any money in with your things at the bus station?”

He sighed and shrugged. “No. That guy took it all.”

Shit!

“Did you check out that busboy job?” I knew the answer before I asked it.

He again looked embarrassed and dropped his head to look at the missing buttons on his shirt. “I was going to,” he said, like a little kid caught doing something he shouldn't. “But then I thought of all the money I could make hustling, and…I'm really sorry. I should have.” Then he gave me a sad little look that made me want to reach out and hug him. “I don't think I want to hustle any more.”

*

I called Reverend Mason at the M.C.C. to thank him for letting us use the room for the meeting, but with another purpose in mind, as well. I'd remembered that the M.C.C. had just started Haven House, a shelter for runaway and abused gay and lesbian teenagers, and I asked if there were any chance of getting Jonathan in. I explained his situation briefly, and the Reverend said the house was nearly full already, but that I should bring Jonathan by, to see what might be done for him.

Before we left my office, I reached into a drawer of my desk and got out my Polaroid. I wanted to document Jonathan's injuries just in case the bastard who did this to him was ever caught. I handed him the morning paper and told him to hold it up for the first photo as documentation of the date. When I asked him to take off his shirt, I saw he had bruises all over his upper body as well as his face. The guy had really done a number on him, and I was even more certain now that I definitely wanted to have a little private chat with the bastard who had done it.

*

I drove Jonathan to the bus station, asked him for his locker number and the combination to the lock, and told him to wait in the car while I went in. He'd gotten enough stares as we walked from my office to the car: He didn't need any more.

I then took him to my place…
okay, okay, you don't have to say it
…so he could shower and change clothes. He only had two other shirts and one other pair of pants in his small backpack, and I was too much heavier than him for anything I had to fit him properly.

“Can I use some of your aftershave?” he called from the bathroom.

“Help yourself.” Shortly thereafter, I heard a couple of short
“Ow!”
s as the alcohol touched his scraped and bruised face.

The aftershave came into the room before he did, but he looked a lot better than he had when I first saw him in the hallway. And battered and bruised as he was, he was still really cute.

Don't go there, Hardesty!
my mind cautioned, and for once I agreed.

We drove to the M.C.C. and I noted as we got out of the car that the bungalow directly next door to the church had a small sign over the door saying “Haven House.” Two teenagers, a boy and a girl, were sitting on the steps, talking. They waved to us as we walked up to the door to the church, and we waved back, then entered. No one seemed to be there, though we checked the office and even went downstairs to the Sunday School room where the community meeting had been held. Finding no one, we were coming back up the steps when we saw Reverend Mason…Tony…coming in the front door. He had on torn, paint-spattered Levi's and an equally paint-spattered Dallas Cowboys sweatshirt. I gathered he'd been working.

“Jack and Marie told me they'd seen you coming in,” he said. “Sorry I wasn't here, but we're still doing a lot of work on the house.” He smiled and shook hands with both Jonathan and me, and seemed to be totally oblivious to Jonathan's all-too-obvious bruises and black eye.

“Let's go into the office.”

We followed him into a small room just inside the front door, opposite the stairway.

“Sit, please,” he said, smiling, and we did.

“So how old are you, Jonathan?”

“Twenty-one…” he started to say, but caught me looking at him and looked quickly away.

“Nineteen,” he amended.

Tony pursed his lips slightly. “You're just a bit older than most of our kids. How long have you been hustling?”

Despite the bruises that covered a good portion of his face, I could see Jonathan blush. “About a month.”

“Are you a runaway? Did your folks throw you out?”

Jonathan shook his head. “No, sir. I came here on my own. I'd never been away from home before and I figured it was time I got out and made something of myself.”

Tony smiled, gently, then looked at me and sighed. “We are, as I told you on the phone, Dick, near capacity already. You'd be amazed at how many gay throwaway kids there are out there on the streets.” Then he looked at Jonathan, who again was looking at the floor, anticipating being told there was no room for him at the inn.

“Are you willing to work, Jonathan?”

The youngster lifted up his head immediately. “Sure. There's a place in Dick's building that's looking for a busboy, and…”

“Good. All our kids, even the very youngest, are expected to find some kind of outside work. But I meant are you willing to work here, too, to help us finish Haven House? We're in the process of converting the attic into two more bedrooms, and…”

“Sure!” Jonathan said, eagerly. “I helped a guy back home fix up his place and we even built a game room in his basement and I put up paneling and helped him build a couple walls and…”

Tony gave me another quick smile and a quick but gentle hand-raise to turn off Jonathan's motor.

“Well, then, if you don't mind living in an unfinished attic until we get the rooms done, we'd be happy to have your help.”

Jonathan, boy puppy-dog, was back.

“Wow! That's great! Thank you!”

Tony looked slowly from Jonathan to me and back again. “Now you understand, particularly since you'll be the oldest of our kids, that this arrangement is only temporary, until you can earn enough money at an outside job to get your own place. And even with an outside job, you'll have work obligations here as well, and we can't accept excuses for not meeting them. Is that agreeable to you?”

“Sure! Anything!”

I could tell that Tony could see in Jonathan pretty much what I did—a nice kid who was not only in need of help, but who could appreciate it when it was offered to him.

“And of course we do have some rules which cannot be broken: No drugs, no drinking; no fights—you have a problem, you bring it to me. Understood?”

Jonathan nodded eagerly.

Tony slapped his hands on his knees, got up from his chair.

“Okay, then, let's go get you settled in.”

Jonathan practically leapt from his chair and, having momentarily forgotten his bruises, winced in pain.

I got up, too, soaking in a bit of the glow that was practically radiating from the young man. We all left the office and, outside the door to the church, I shook hands with Tony and offered my hand to Jonathan. He looked at me questioningly. “Aren't you coming?”

I shook my head, oddly touched that he'd expected me to. “No, Jonathan, I've got to get back to work. You'll be fine. You let me know when you get that job, okay?”

Tony put his arm around the young man's shoulders and gave him a quick—but not too rough—squeeze. “We'll see to it,” he said.

I started down the steps and heard Jonathan say “Dick?”

I turned back to him. “Yeah?”

“Can I hug you?”

I moved up to him, open-armed. He grabbed me in a bear hug which surely must have hurt his sore chest. Then he backed away.

“Thanks again, Dick!” he said happily. “I'll come see you.”

“You do that,” I said, and turned again to walk to my car. For some reason, I almost had a lump in my throat.
Oh, Hardesty,
my mind sighed…
you are
such
a marshmallow!

*

There was a message waiting for me when I got back to the office: Lieutenant Richman. I returned his call immediately.

“Lieutenant,” I said when I heard his voice, “it's Dick Hardesty. What did you find out?”

There was a very slight pause and then: “I tell you what, Dick, I've got some work on my desk I've really got to get to. Are you going to be home this evening? Maybe I could give you a call there, if you don't mind.”

Mind, hell!
I thought.
Don't bother to call, just on come over and wear your cellophane pants!

“Sure. I'll be home around five thirty.”

“Fine. I'll probably give you a call sometime later then.”

We exchanged goodbyes, leaving me with a definite feeling that something was very strange about that call. Of course, my crotch was all in favor of its having some subtle sexual meaning, but the rest of me just thought it was unusual, somehow.

I tried to devote the rest of the day to the things I was being paid to do, like tracking down the source of a letter a client's boss had received accusing my client of being a child molester. The boss hadn't believed it for an instant, and had handed it over to the client, who wanted the source rooted out so he could sue whomever it was for slander (and, having the letter in hand, he'd probably have a good case). I'd pretty much narrowed it down to the ex of the client's current partner, who apparently blamed the client for stealing his lover, though they'd not been together for about two years before the client even met the lover. Some people just don't know when it's time to put out the torch.

*

I got home at about 5:20 and had just fixed myself a Manhattan when the phone rang.

“Dick Hardesty.” I said.

“Dick, it's Mark Richman. Am I interrupting anything?”

I wish!
I thought. “Not at all, Lieutenant. I just got home a while ago.”

“Good. Look, we really have to talk.”

“Name the time and place.”

“Well,” he said, “my wife and kids are out of town…”
Whoopee!
my crotch shouted “…so I was just going to stop somewhere and grab a pizza, then maybe we could meet somewhere a bit later.”

“You're welcome to come over here,” I said. He had, after all, been to my apartment once before, on another case.
Yeah! Yeah! Good idea!
my crotch panted.

“I'm glad you offered. Actually, under the circumstances, it's probably not a good idea for us to be seen in public together too often—no offense, which I'm sure you realize.”

I did, completely. With a virtual civil war developing inside the department, discretion was indeed the better part of valor. Richman had to maintain at least the appearance of neutrality for as long as he could, and for him to be seen too often with a card-carrying faggot might threaten his neutral image.

“Let's go one farther,” I suggested. “I haven't even begun to think about dinner, but pizza sounds good. Why don't I order one in and we can talk while we eat.”

There was only the slightest pause, and then: “…Uh, sure; that sounds fine. Do you drink beer? I'm off duty and on my own time, so…I can stop and pick some up.”

I'm not saying a word,
my crotch whispered.

“That'd be great. Have any preferences in your pizza?”

“I like everything.”

I'm still not saying anything.

“Okay. I'll call now. About how long before you get here?”

“I'm just getting gas, and calling from the station. I see a liquor store across the street, so I can just run over there now. Maybe 25 minutes?”

“Good. You know how to find the place, right?”

“I remember. See you shortly, then.”

He remembers,
my crotch snickered.

Oh for the love of God, drop it!
my mind commanded. So I did.

*

I called Momma Rosa's and ordered a large Supreme with everything (I had a can of anchovies in the kitchen, just in case), and when the bell rang almost exactly twenty-five minutes later, I didn't know if it was Richman or the pizza. I buzzed whoever it was, took a bill out of my wallet so I wouldn't have to fumble for it later, and walked to the door, anticipating the knock. When it came, I opened the door to find Lieutenant Richman standing there in his civies, holding a six-pack of imported bock beer in his left hand. He offered his right for a handshake, then came in and I closed the door.

“I figured you for a bock man. Hope I was right.”

“On the head.” He handed it to me and I took it into the kitchen, with him close behind me. “Want one now, or wait until the pizza comes?”

“Now's fine.”

I took out two bottles, opened them, and put the rest back in the fridge, then led the way back into the living room.

We'd just sat down when the buzzer rang.

“Good timing,” Richman said as I got up to buzz the delivery man in. Rather than return to my chair, I just waited by the door until I heard the knock. I opened it, mildly surprised to see young Jeff, the kid from the laundromat, once again standing there.

“Hi, Jeff,” I said, glad to see him. Tom had a point about Jeff being old enough to know what he wanted, but much as I'd have enjoyed it, my mind wouldn't let me get beyond the “legal age” thing. Jeff grinned broadly at me, then looked over my shoulder at Lieutenant Richman seated on the couch. His grin broadened even further.

“Where do you
find
these guys?” he asked in a conspiratorial whisper.

I returned the grin. “Fate,” I said, and handed him the bill I'd put in my front pocket. “Keep the change.”

“Thanks.” He pocketed the bill, then leaned toward me, head down but eyes on mine. “I do three-ways,” he said.

“I'm sure you do,” I said with a laugh, putting my hand on his shoulder and giving him a friendly push. “Now get out of here.”

Jeff, still grinning, waved at the Lieutenant, winked at me, and left.

I carried the pizza into the kitchen and, pulling out two pieces for each of us, I put them on plates and took them to the living room.