Hate Crime (22 page)

“You never answered my question. Did Tony know Manny Nowosky?”

Shelly fell silent.

“Well? Did he?”

Her words came slowly and carefully. “Major, you have to understand. Tony was like a brother to me. He gave me this job. He took care of me.”

“Yeah, and they may have taken care of him.”

Shelly’s eyes widened like balloons. “You don’t think—”

“That stupid frat boy has been saying from the start that he didn’t kill Tony. I know at least one person who actually believes him. Wouldn’t it be a damn thing if he was telling the truth?” Mike leaned across the bar. “One more time, ma’am. Did you ever see Manny and Tony together?”

She licked her lips before answering. “Once.”

“And that was?”

“The last night. The night—” Her eyes fell. “The night Tony was killed.”

“Nowosky was here! What did they talk about?”

“I don’t know. They were arguing about something. That guy—Manny—was mad at Tony.”

“Did they leave together?”

“I don’t think so. I’d already knocked off. But I was told that Tony got a call—I don’t know who from. Then he left.” She paused. “But the girl on duty told me she saw Manny leave just a few moments after he did.” She covered her mouth with her hand. “Oh, my God. I never put the two together. I never imagined—”

“Any other criminal types here that night?”

She thought a moment. “Now that you mention it, there was another guy. The chicken.”

“Excuse me?”

“Oh, sorry. Chicken. That’s street slang for a hooker. Gigolo. Whatever you want to call them. I mean, I didn’t know for a fact that he was, but that’s what everyone told me.”

“You know his name? Where he lives?”

“Sorry, no. He wasn’t a regular.”

“And he left at the same time as Tony?”

“That’s what they told me. Just a little while after Manny. He’d been watching the door all night. I thought he was waiting for a john. Jane, whatever. But maybe it was something else.”

“Yeah, maybe. Thanks, Shelly. You’ve been a big help.” He slid a card across the bar. “If you see this chicken in here again, I want you to give me a call. Immediately. And don’t let him leave till I get here.”

He returned to the booth where the other officers were still talking.

“What happened?” Swift said, smirking. “Strike out with the coed?”

He shook his head. “No. I struck pay dirt.”

“Does that mean my chances of getting lucky tonight have diminished?”

“No,” he said, staring grimly off into space. “I think maybe for the first time I’m beginning to understand what this case is really about.”

25

JOURNAL OF TONY BAROVICK

When I got a shot at the manager position at Remote Control—except it wasn’t called that then—I jumped at it. I mean, gee-whiz, this was a place even my mother could visit. Not that she would. But she could.

The main adjustment I had to make related to the clientele. The Dahlia had been a drinking bar, with a lot of toughs and all-guy groups, bikers, and general carousers. Remote Control was a singles bar and everyone knew it. That changed everything. It also guaranteed—being so close to the Phillips campus—that it would never be empty. And it wasn’t. But I thought it could do better. Not just that we could make more money, but that we could provide a greater service to the community, by combining my love of gadgets with my love of, well, love.

When I first presented my ideas to Mario, he laughed. “Singles bars don’t provide a service,” he explained. “We’re in the meatpacking business. We help people find someone to help them get through the night. It never lasts. Why should it?”

I wasn’t satisfied with that. The reason singles pairings don’t last, I reasoned, was because they aren’t based on anything but physical appearances. We could change that. It seemed ridiculous to me that here in the twenty-first century, with the vast technology we had at our disposal, none of it had been employed to improve the courting process. About the only attempt I could even think of was so-called computer-dating services, which more often than not were a complete scam. We could do better.

All the technological innovations we eventually implemented were my idea. Mario kicked and screamed—but he always ponied up the money. We changed the name to Remote Control—my idea again—and started marketing ourselves in the campus newspaper. And it worked.
If you build it, they will come!

We never talked about it, but I’m sure Mario realized that my being gay gave me insight into how this whole process could be improved. Sure, most of our clientele was straight, but that didn’t mean they didn’t have their secrets, too. People really grooved on the idea of putting themselves out there—via video cameras—without making fools of themselves. People loved the idea of being able to check out a prospect surreptitiously before meeting them. More than check them out—to actually get a sense of who that person was. When they finally met, the “first dates” always went a thousand times better because the participants didn’t feel like it was a first date. They already knew this person, right? At least a little bit. And that made all the difference. About a year after we changed the name, we had our first—of several—weddings right in the bar—a couple who had met each other there, thanks to my whizbang gizmos. I felt vindicated. I felt as if I had finally given something back to the world. I had proven my father wrong. I might be gay, but I was not a pervert. And I was certainly not a loser.

There’s been talk about franchising Remote Control. Mario has always been a hustler, and he knows a good thing when he sees it. He promised me I wouldn’t be forgotten if the chain made the big time. I don’t think I’d better bet the farm on that, but whether he takes me along or doesn’t, he has given me a place to shine, and for that I will always be grateful. Best of all, he’s given me a home, something I haven’t had for a long time. I look forward to going to work. Shelly has been behind the bar for almost a year now and I love her. I consider her the sister I never had. I’d do anything for her. The customers love her, too, and she’s able to handle some of the financial stuff that is frankly way over my head. She takes care of me. And I do my best to take care of her.

That’s what being in a family is all about, isn’t it?

26

After he got the page from his boss, Charlie the Chicken found the nearest pay phone and gave him a call.

“Got something special for you this time, Charlie.”

Well, that can’t be good.

“You’re going to enjoy this.” Even when Charlie couldn’t actually see the man’s tacky gray suit he could see the man’s tacky gray suit. It was in his voice, in his carefully suggestive phrasing.

“What is it?”

“Do you remember our conversation? When I first interviewed you? We talked about your . . . likes and dislikes.” There was something particularly creepy about the man’s voice today, which immediately put Charlie on his guard.

“I don’t do men. Absolutely. It’s a rule.”

“But Charlie . . .”

“No.”

“But consider—”

“I’m not going to change my mind, so give it up.”

“You wouldn’t have to actually . . . you know. Think of it more as . . . an acting job.”

“The answer is still no, and nothing you can say will—”

“He’s willing to pay triple your usual rate.”

Charlie felt his jaw drop. Triple?

“And I for one am willing to double your usual commission. To help you overcome your reluctance. Think of it as hazard pay.”

“Still, I don’t do—”

“Come now, Charlie. Be sensible. You told me you needed money. I’m trying to help you.”

Yeah, sure you are. Help me to an early grave.

But the man did have a point. Charlie needed a stake—fast. If he didn’t raise some more scratch, he’d never get out of this town. And if he took too long about it, he’d end up dead.

“And you’re sure I won’t have to . . . you know.”

“Positive. That’s not what he’s into.”

“Well, I might consider it.”

“Good boy, Charlie. You’re doing the right thing—and the patriotic thing.”

“Patriotic?”

He could hear the smile in the man’s voice. “You know what they say. Support your local congressman.”

He was wearing a corset. Or maybe it was a bustier. Charlie always got those two confused.

“I’ve been bad,” Congressman Tweedy said, looking repentantly at the carpet. “I need to be punished.”

And I need a new line of work, Charlie thought. “All right, you bad boy—”

“Girl.”

“Girl. All right, you bad girl. Bend over.”

Tweedy assumed the position, clutching the back of a leather recliner. He had a nice house, well furnished. Charlie wouldn’t mind meeting the little lady who had done this place up, but somehow he felt certain that wasn’t going to happen. Congressman Tweedy’s wife had to be a million miles away. And when the cat’s away . . .

“Take that,” Charlie cried, smacking the man on his all-too-exposed posterior. It was hairy and rippled with cellulite and almost as protuberant as the sagging gut on the other end. He tried to keep his eyes on the furniture. “And that!”

“Harder,” the congressman gasped. “I’ve been very bad.”

Turned out, Charlie swung a pretty mean ruler. He’d brought his own. He’d brought a dog collar, too, but it was beginning to appear that he wasn’t going to need it.

Charlie continued swinging, making a satisfying smack as the wood hit the flesh.

“Harder,” the man grunted, between squeals. “I need—”

“Shut up, bitch,” Charlie said, and thwacked him so hard the blow almost knocked him into the chair.

“Oh yes. Yeeeesssss.”

Shouldn’t be too much longer now, Charlie observed. Good. Then he could get out of here, get back to his apartment where he couldn’t be spotted by his roving stalker. Besides, he was really getting into the swing of this, and he was afraid if he did it much longer, he might start to like it.

“Repeat after me,” Charlie commanded. “I am a fat ugly little girl.”

He whimpered. “I am a fat ugly—”

“Shut up, bitch!” He thwacked him again, and this time, just for good measure, grabbed the congressman’s arm and thwacked the back of his hand. Tweedy trembled with pleasure.

“Now listen up, you sorry excuse. Do you think you can learn how to behave like a proper little lady?”

“Y—yesss.”

“Yes,
sir,
bitch!”

“Yes, sir!”

“I’m not convinced,” Charlie bellowed, thwacking all the way. “I think I’m going to have to keep on beating you. Harder and harder. Over and over. Until you just can’t take it anymore.”

“Oh, noooo,” the congressman said, meaning oh yessssss . . .

Tweedy was breathing hard and fast now, gasping for each breath, sweating like the pig he was. Charlie knew the man was close; all he needed was a finishing stroke, something creative and effective and . . .

“On the floor, bitch!” He pushed the congressman down, then put his boot on the side of the man’s face and crushed it into the carpet. And thwacked him some more.

“Oh yessssss! . . . Yes, yes, yes, yes, yessss!” Groaning, the congressman rolled over on his side. “Oh, thank you, sir. That was—”

“For me, too,” Charlie said, grabbing the cash on the coffee table. “Parting is such sweet sorrow. Let’s not make a scene, okay?” He stopped at the door. “Oh, and Congressman? Good luck in the November election.” He gave a little salute. “You certainly have my vote.”

27

Everyone should have a place where they can go to get away, Ben mused, as he sat down with his Trollope novel and a cup of hot tea and stared at the specials board at Novel Idea. It was a great place to have lunch, and since it was, technically, a bookstore, when you were finished, you could look at the new releases. Of course, Ben rarely read anything written after 1901, but still. The best of it was, he came often and regularly enough that people knew and recognized him. There was even a sandwich named after him on the menu. It was like Cheers for Ben—the place where everybody knows your name.

Even on his busiest days, he tried to slice away a half hour to relax, nourish his body with tortilla soup, and nourish his brain with nineteenth-century lit. It was a chance to refresh and recharge.

Usually.

“Ben, we’ve got to talk.”

Somehow, here in his sanctum sanctorum, Christina was sitting at his table. And she’d closed his book. And she’d taken his tea.

“Christina, I’ll be back in the office in—”

“And you’ll shut your door and blow me off. And I have a flight for Chicago leaving in ninety minutes and I can’t mess around with you anymore.”

He grabbed for his book, but she pulled it away. “And what makes you think I’ll listen to you here?”

“Because if you don’t, I’ll create a big scene. And I know how you hate scenes. Especially here, where everybody knows your name.”

Scott, the owner, stopped by. “Can I get you anything else, Ben?”

“Yes. A new table. With one chair.”

He grinned. “You two. What kidders. French onion soup, Christina?”

“Yes, that would be lovely.” Scott returned to the kitchen. “Looks like I’m here to stay, Ben.”

He folded his hands. “You know, Christina, you’ve done some bad things before, but this is truly evil.”

“I know. I feel horrible about it. But we have to talk.”

“If it’s about the Christensen case—”

“You know it’s about the Christensen case. Specifically, it’s about Ellen Christensen.”

Ben’s movements slowed. “What about her?”

Christina leaned across the small round table. “I know, Ben.”

“You know what?”

She looked him right in the eyes. “I know.”

Dee, the manager, passed by their table. “Saw you on TV the other night, Christina. Loved your hair.”

“Thanks.”

“Smart move, Ben. I’d let her do all the press conferences from now on.”

Ben grabbed his tea and pulled it back to his side of the table. “I’ll bear that in mind.”

“I’m serious,” Christina said, once they were alone again. “I know all about it.”

“You couldn’t possibly—”

“I’ve talked to your mother.”

Ben was floored. “What! How dare you—”