The Last Undercover (23 page)

I called the company remaining in my undercover persona and spent what seemed like hours on the phone. My blood pressure was rising, as was my anxiety. Posing as a boy lover among “experts” was stressful enough without having to worry about how I was going to pay for my room and board. I was supposed to be living off my private family foundation, for crying out loud!

I eventually straightened out the misunderstanding but not without doing a song and dance for the credit card security department. The rental car issue was resolved but upsetting. Now the credit card fiasco had me climbing the walls. I eventually relaxed and settled into a room.

After I unpacked, I decided to find the “charming secluded inn” that was hosting the conference, and set out for a late night drive through Miami. I’m sure the local residents find Miami easy to navigate, but I got lost, perhaps because my senses were already jangled by the rental car and credit card experiences. I eventually located the Miami River Inn at 118 SW South River Drive, but by accident rather than navigational skill. Located in an older section of town, the inn was nestled among mature trees behind a tall, wrought iron fence. The fence may have been more for protection than beauty: because of the hour, the streets were hardly crowded, but those few denizens I did observe appeared as though they could easily have sported felony rap sheets. I headed back to the hotel, hoping to get a solid night’s sleep in anticipation of the next day’s preparations with my case agent and the surveillance team, followed by my arrival at the NAMBLA conference.

For much of the next day, I made preparations for the weekend. I assumed my contact with my case agent would be minimal once the conference began, and I wanted to insure we had all the bases covered. Around three in the afternoon, I met with the Miami surveillance agents who would be covering me that evening and throughout the weekend, if necessary. As I have found in almost every city I have worked, the agents were great. They were most helpful and looked as if they would fit in with the surroundings. FBI agents discarded the white, button-down collar shirts long ago and these guys presented the right Miami image. Nothing spells stress to an undercover agent like surveillance agents that reek of J. Edgar Hoover’s FBI.

With the briefing complete, I suited up, strapped on the recording equipment, grabbed my crutch, and headed toward my secluded rendezvous. Once again my navigational skills failed me, and I circled the area several times before stumbling onto the inn.

Billed as Miami’s only bed and breakfast, the inn was built almost a century ago and is listed on the National Register of Historic Places. A member of the International Gay and Lesbian Travel Association, the complex is located just west of the Miami River. The inn has four cottages with a total of forty rooms. Although management describes each room as “uniquely decorated with antiques and period pieces” many of the furnishings appeared to be Salvation Army thrift store chic. The “lush tropical garden” was overgrown and “the manicured croquet green” needed mowing. But this was business, not pleasure.

I pulled into the parking lot, and as I exited the Dodge Caravan, Mike from Cleveland parked next to me. His was a familiar face from the New York conference the year before, and together we made our way to the registration desk, hidden toward the rear of the complex.

After registering as part of the Wallace Hamilton Press group, Mike and I were escorted back to a secluded, three-story cottage. The building had a large sitting room and two bedrooms on the first floor, with bedrooms on the second and third floors. Because of my “handicap,” I never got beyond the first floor and can only assume the rooms housed one or two people. My room was just off the sitting room, conveniently located so I could slip in and out of conversations taking place when the members gathered. The room was cramped but I greatly preferred that over a spacious one with a roommate, so I had no complaints.

After putting my things away and secreting the five recording devices I brought for the conference, I walked outside and ran into Peter Herman, who was being followed by David Mayer. Peter introduced us. We chatted briefly and made our way back toward the cottage as others began to arrive.

I was in the sitting room greeting the members when David Mayer came down from his bedroom. We quickly struck up a conversation. He said he was an international flight attendant from Chicago for American Airlines. Within an hour of arriving at the conference and less than ten minutes after I met David, he kindled my investigative interest to a warm glow.

David: Do you travel a lot?

Me: You know, not internationally. I’ll fly back and forth to . . . Atlantic City.

David: [I’ve been to] Thailand three or four times. . . . Costs me next to nothing.

Me: Yeah. I bet Thailand’s special.

David: They’re fun. It’s hit and miss, not consistent. You’ve got to get out of Bangkok and again it depends what your taste is. The youngest that I’ve seen is five.

Me: Really?

David: Usually by thirteen, fourteen, they’re old and they’re done. Acapulco is another fine place. If you ever get a chance go down to Acapulco, the beach, the gay beach.

Me: Pretty easy pickings?

David: Yeah, real easy. Again, though, not consistent. You know, I’ve been there when it’s been like, you know, being a kid in a candy store, and I’ve been there when it’s like, basically, nothing going on. Very inconsistent, but when it’s good, it’s great!

I couldn’t believe his boldness. The New York conference experience was disappointing from an investigative standpoint: Jeff Devore was the only one who discussed his criminal ventures. I hoped to be more assertive this weekend, but David made it easy by initiating the criminal conversation. Within the first hour of our weekend investigation, he ratified the theme we were expecting to find: sexual predators who gathered annually to network with other predators, openly discussing criminal dreams. We found our first nugget in what would prove to be a gold mine.

I was disappointed to learn from Peter that only about seventeen members were coming to the conference. Since this was an annual gathering, I assumed that everyone from New York and possibly more would travel to Miami.

That evening, several members joined me in the minivan as we made our way over to a Brazilian all-you-can-eat buffet on SE First Avenue where Peter arranged for us to eat. When we arrived, I assumed we would have our own room, but there was no private banquet area and as more members arrived they merely pulled up chairs in a crowded, noisy setting. Much of my recording from the restaurant was inaudible.

Ten attendees went to the restaurant. Peter Herman, Mike from Cleveland, and Floyd from San Francisco were people I’d met at the New York conference. My “new friends” included David Mayer from Chicago, Tim from Michigan, Sam Lindblad from New Mexico, James from Miami, and Dick Stutsman from South Carolina. Also at the restaurant, but not joining us at the table, were Paul Zipszer and Brian. The conversation that evening was light. I sat between David and Sam and when I said I lived off a trust account, both offered to marry me. My private room was looking better by the minute.

Sam, a former schoolteacher and three-time convicted sex offender, had a very gentle nature. The balding, fifty-seven-year-old with a thin build readily spoke of his conviction, and I was interested in learning more about him as the weekend progressed.

James sat across from me. His handsome features and youthful appearance betrayed his age and his sexual desires. Neatly dressed and wearing a tie, he appeared to be a young account executive. I wasn’t too far off in my initial assessment; he said he worked for a downtown Miami law firm. He looked much younger than his true age, forty-six. Legally trained overseas, he was unable to take the bar in the United States. He settled for working as a paralegal. Although articulate and personable, this was his first conference and, at least for the evening, he was understandably reserved.

Tim was intriguing. I guessed him to be in his mid-forties. Close to six feet in height, thinly built, with close-cropped, dark hair, he claimed to work at a juvenile detention facility in Michigan. He had a melodic voice that reminded me of one of my favorite ESPN sportscasters, Dave Campbell. But Tim was guarded. He seldom responded to direct questions, and as David Mayer learned later, “Tim” may not have been his true name. I had little contact with him during the weekend so I had no idea if he was really from Michigan or where he actually worked. His fears stemmed from an earlier infiltration of the group when, as he said, the “FBI came knocking on my door.” That visit scared Tim and he was reluctant to disclose too much information about himself. I realized I still needed to be cautious about probing too deeply, so I spent almost no time speaking with him.

Dick from South Carolina was a talker. Although he had gray hair and a short, gray beard, he appeared to be in great shape for his age.

Following a dinner that lasted several hours, we all returned to the inn.

23

RELAXING WITH PREDATORS

T
he lounge outside my room was comfortable, and I gathered there with those who rode in the van with me as we waited for the others to arrive. Someone brought a large bottle of cheap whiskey and someone else found paper cups. I nursed my drink throughout the evening as the bottle emptied. I hoped the demon drink would loosen tongues.

I slumped into a soft easy chair, preferring to limit my interaction with the others and just allow my friends to incriminate themselves with their conversation, if possible. My personal safety was not a major concern, and I believed my credibility within the organization was intact, but the less I talked, the less opportunity I had to misstate some time-honored BL line of thought and possibly arouse suspicion.

David’s sense of humor was evident throughout the evening, as was Tim’s paranoia. The issue of sexuality dominated much of the conversation. The underlying theme was that the age-of-consent laws were “the arbitrary impositions of a repressive society.” I had little interest in their opinions on the topic, but tried to appear as though I was participating, giving the occasional nod or grunt.

Tim observed, “Repressed sexuality is such a taboo subject that we don’t sell anatomically correct dolls. Can you image selling a doll without a head or an arm?” He also blamed the industrial revolution for bringing about the extension of childhood.

James concluded that “youth aren’t even the owners of their own sexuality. . . . We’ve extended childhood beyond its natural boundaries. . . . In the agrarian society people are adults at thirteen, fourteen.”

“Because of medical breakthroughs, children are reaching puberty faster,” claimed Floyd, the father of four.

Chris, the mop-haired socialist from Illinois “lived on the streets in San Francisco for a year and a half,” which apparently made him an expert on everything.

The screen door sprung open and Todd Calvin, the divorced dentist from Dallas, entered, breaking up the conversation. Working the room, glad-handing the attendees, he quickly won over David and the others with his warm personality.

When Todd mentioned he flew to the conference in his privately owned single-engine Beechcraft Bonanza, he and James had an immediate connection. James knew a great deal about planes, and that topic began to dominate the conversation. For me, though, it was another subject in which I had little knowledge or interest.

Todd incurred the wrath of some in the room when the conversation turned to politics, and he apologetically admitted to voting for President Bush, the only member to have done so. That announcement turned heads and several times throughout the weekend David, a “dyed-in-the-wool Democrat,” brought up the topic.

The evening’s entertainment arrived when Paul Zipszer and his friend Brian entered. Both had been at the Brazilian buffet but were afraid to join us. Paul, a body builder in his late thirties, was shy about outing himself and even debated coming to the inn following dinner. Brian, his crutch, provided the necessary courage.

Paul introduced himself and took his belongings up to his room. Brian stayed behind and entertained the troops. In his late thirties or early forties, the blond Brian was not a NAMBLA member, a fact that would cause Peter much consternation when he learned Paul brought a nonmember friend. Described by Paul as manic-depressive, Brian was definitely manic tonight. “I’m married for seventeen years and it’s over, okay. Now I’m living with a man for a year and half . . . but I’m not one of you all.”

When someone asked whether he was gay, he replied, “I’m bisexual because I just had sex with a female about four days ago.” David shivered and drew a loud laugh when he said, “That’s weird sex!”

Brian said he was “aspiring to find a rich old man who is gay.” A huge smile came across David’s face, and he turned toward me and said, “I’ve already found one.”

Brian went around the room asking us what we did and where we lived. His boldness made my job easier. I merely had to sit there and let the recorder run. When the conversation turned to David, we learned he had a doctorate in economics, master’s degrees in psychology and social work, and had once been recruited by the CIA.

Todd’s eyes opened wide. “Really! Are you working for the government right now? Is there a representative from the government here in this room?”

Before I could answer, Brian chimed in: “Yeah, I just came from the welfare office.” No sense both of us admitting we were government agents, so I kept quiet.

Brian complained that his wife, an exotic dancer who had had various plastic surgeries to enhance her appearance, engaged in sex with other women for pay, but objected to Brian having a homosexual relationship; she caught him with another man when she came home early one evening. A spirited discussion developed about the double standard existing between lesbian affairs versus male homosexual affairs.

Todd turned the discussion back to a more serious topic among BLs: the issue of talking openly with someone having like desires and needs. He asked, “How many in this room have friends who know what they like?”