Unlike Others (14 page)

She knew as soon as she heard the voice, heavy, authoritative, bored. A desk sergeant's voice. "You Josephine Bates? We got a man here that says he's your cousin. Name of," she could hear the rustling of papers as he checked it, "Richard Kauffman. That right?"

"Yes, it is." She held herself stiff for the rest of it. Hit and run, maybe, or a traffic accident—but she was afraid she knew. The vice squad had been busier than usual lately, raiding suspect bars, taking in employees and customers alike. She waited, with her eyes on the bedroom door behind which Linda lay asleep.

"He wants you to raise bail for him. We got him here on a Section Thirty-seven."

"What's that?"

"Crime against nature," the officer said, sounding embarrassed.

Jo snickered. She couldn't help it, the whole thing was so grotesque and at the same time so frightening. "I don't know, I've never had anything like this happen before. How much bail will he need?"

"Five hundred, probably. They'll let them out in the morning, fix a time for the trial later."

"Shall I call you back?"

"Don't bother. Just show up in the Twelfth Street station tomorrow morning at nine o'clock." The cop had slipped back into his routine boredom. "Have somebody prepared to sign his bail bond. You can get a professional bondsman if you want to. Case'll come up in a couple weeks, maybe a month."

She hung up, beginning to tremble. Her bank book was in the top desk drawer. Without looking, she knew that she had less than thirty dollars on deposit. The rent would be due on payday. Linda—no, Linda was supporting her drunken Debby. She turned on the desk lamp and pulled out the small notebook in which she kept addresses. Harris, Marjorie Mary. A private listing, of course; that was the only way you could avoid friends or enemies, and Mag had plenty of both. God, Jo prayed, please let her be in that fancy high rise apartment. Please let her be sober.

She gripped the handset so tightly that her knuckles ached, listening to the faraway ringing at the other end of the line.

"Hello?"

Thank God. Jo said sharply, "Mag, this is Jo Bates. The law and order boys are all over the place tonight They've picked Rich up on a thirty-seven."

"Where? Who was with him?"

"I don't know a thing about it. The fuzz just called. I was at The Spot with Rich earlier, but I don't know that he stayed there. He wants me to find somebody who will put up bail for him, they'll let him go in the morning."

"Good God," Mag said in her rich contralto, "the boys get the bad end of the stick every time, don't they? Wait a minute."

There was silence. Jo could see her pondering, her large shapeless body wrapped in one of the rich brocade dressing gowns she loved, her untidy gray head bent. Probably had to put her glasses on to find the phone, near-sighted as she was. Pencil in her hand—that was the old newspaper girl, get the story on paper and be sure you spell the names right. After what seemed like an endless wait, during which the clock hands moved steadily and Linda slept, Mag said cheerfully, "I’ll call Emily Fosgett and ask her about bail. She can also tell us how to go about getting the charges dismissed."

"All I know," Jo said guardedly, "he's at the Twelfth Street station and they'll probably set five hundred dollars bail."

"Will his analyst testify that he's had therapy? You know, these poor misguided people aren't bad, they're just sick."

"Testify him right out of a job. There's no way this can be kept out of the papers, is there? He’ll be fired if it makes the papers, even if they clear him."

"Look," Mag said, "I’ll cut over to Emily's. She's home, I know, because she's having a party. She asked me, but I'm fighting the virus flu. Want to come along?"

"I have a girl here who has to be home by midnight."

"One of those, huh? Come on, I'll drop Cinderella wherever she's going. I guess my pumpkin will hold three."

Heaven bless Mag, Jo thought, she always knows exactly what to do and she always does it, too. She dressed quickly, putting on her frilliest blouse, adding earrings and a bracelet. Look as feminine as possible. Nothing like having a flock of Lesbians come busting in to rescue you, when you're fighting a morals charge. I look like a goddam Christmas tree.

She turned on the burner under the coffeepot and stood jiggling with impatience while it heated. When it began to steam she poured a cup and took it into the bedroom. "Darling, wake up, you have to go home."

Linda was used to mobilizing in a hurry. She sat up, rubbed her eyes, reached for the coffee and took a long swallow before she said a word. "What's the matter? You're all dressed up."

"One of my best friends is in jail. I've got to go and see somebody who can bail him out."

"Anything I can do? No—Debby's home alone."

"Mag Harris is coming over. She’ll drop you off."

Linda's eyes widened. "The columnist? Is she gay?"

"Used to be, I guess. I'm not sure. She's the kind of big-hearted gal who runs around in the middle of the night getting people out of jail, anyhow. She has pull, too."

Linda got out of bed. "I guess all minorities stick together. Ought to, anyway. The trouble is telling who your lodge brothers are."

Jo went back to the kitchen, poured the rest of the coffee and drank it standing. "I'm sorry to get you involved in this. It’ll work out all right, though."

"Is this the man I saw you with at The Spot? What happened, did they raid it?"

"I don't know. The fuzz won't give out any information unless they can hurt your feelings with it—not unless they think you're going to slip them twenty."

"Oh, you know there's no graft here since that politician took over. He cleaned up the bingo games—you can't buy package liquor before twelve noon on Sundays
man, this is a moral town." Linda fluttered her eyelids.

"There's a car stopping." Jo put her cup down. "Come on, get your shoes on and let's go. It's quarter of."

Linda stepped into her loafers, stuffing her stockings into her pocket, "Got your keys?"

Mag, peering through her glasses at them, looked like somebody's grandmother in from the country. Cushiony, untidy, with a small black hat crammed down on her mass of white hair and her feet in arch support oxfords. Jo said, "Mag, this is Linda," and caught the familiar reaction: surprise, then polite blankness. Linda said, "I read your column all the time."

"Can't tell a thing by looks, can you?" Mag slapped Jo on the shoulder. "She belong to the club?"

"Sure."

"You never know."

Linda's smile was full of memories. Mag chuckled. "Not that it's any laughing matter. Where do you want to go, doll?"

Linda gave the address. "I'm sorry to make all this bother for you."

"No trouble. Not unless the cab drivers' union gets after me for not paying my dues. I do this all the time."

Linda's block was dark. Mag said, "We'll wait till you're in," and settled back behind the wheel. Linda leaned to kiss Jo and then ran up the steps, keychain dangling from her hand. The door swallowed her up.

"What's the deal?"

"Her girl's getting over a binge. Alcoholic.”

One of those, huh? Waste of girlpower." Mag drove the way she wrote, not the way she looked. The car careened around a corner and settled back on all four wheels, and Jo sighed. Mag said, unruffled, "Let me tell you something, baby, there's nothing in this one-night-stand business. Find yourself a nice congenial girl and get married. It's the only way."

"Find me one. Hell, find me a couple and let me take my pick."

"What's wrong with this one?"

Jo's smile was sour. "According to her, we're both strong people. That makes us natural fall guys for any slob that comes along. She could be right."

"Sure. There's always something the matter with your girls, either they're frigid or they can't hold a job—it's a wonder you haven't had a drunk or a dope addict. I've wanted to tell you for a long time, don't be a masochist There's nothing but grief in it."

"That's easy to say."

"Too bad I'm not twenty years younger. I'd take you on myself."

"Just say when, Mag. I'm willing."

Mag laughed. Like her pink and white skin, her laugh was young. "I'll be sixty-two on my next birthday, Josephine. That's a little too much difference. Besides, I get the most godawful backache when I exercise."

"Mag, how about Rich's bail? Have these people got that kind of money?"

"First, they've got it. Second, they won't lose it unless Richard jumps bail, which I don't see him doing. The main reason I thought about Emily," Mag said, whamming on the brakes for a red light and almost sending Jo through the roof, "she may be able to keep the thing from coming to trial. She has loads of money and she's related to one of the important aldermen. Besides, she's married to Kingsley Fosgett, the architect. Between them, they know everyone."

"The one who designed the Scott Building?"

"Yeah You'll love Kingsley, she's just a sweet, great big girl."

Jo's head ached. So did her arms and legs; she'd lain unmoving for almost an hour while Linda slept. She sat motionless while Mag got out of the car. "Come on, come on, don't just sit there," Mag said brusquely. "Sooner we get at this, sooner it’ll be over."

The Fosgetts were having a real party. A brawl, Jo thought, wanting to put her hands over her ears as the double doors of the studio opened and the noise broke over them. There was a record player going in a far corner of the room, and two boys were sitting on the floor just inside the door, playing bongos. A dozen different conversations rose and broke around the musicians without disturbing them. It was deafening.

Emily Fosgett came to meet them. She was about Mag's age, but slender to the point of being haggard, curled, creamed, powdered and decked with jewels that looked real and probably were. There was even gilt dust sprinkled in her carefully arranged hair. She wore an evening dress of fuchsia satin, cut low over her bony collarbone and flat chest. Jo though she looked like an intelligent, aging man in drag.

She said without wasting any time on greetings, "Come in King's study and well see what we can do. Then you girls can have something to drink and meet some of the people."

"Have to go home, Em. I've got a hell of a cold, sore throat and everything."

"You need a drink, that's the thing for a cold." The study walls and ceiling were lined with acoustic . Perhaps, Jo thought, the Fosgetts gave parties often. They sat down. Mrs. Fosgett said, "I called the station soon as you hung up. King's got a man on the vice detail. Only way to keep track of what goes on."

"What's the story?"

"The man—your cousin—was picked up in a place on North Clark, the Happi Time. It's a hangout for rough trade, apparently. He had too much to drink, let a stranger pick him up, and when they got outside—"

"Cop, of course."

"What else?"

"The bastards," Mag said. "The goddam town's full of murder and rape and gang wars. Five thousand kids in the Cobras—the cops are afraid of them. You can buy H or M anywhere. It's not safe for a woman to go out on the streets after dark in any residential neighborhood. And what are the police doing? Trapping homos and taking bribes."

"Keeping a lot of sweet little old ladies from playing bingo, and banning Sartre from the movie features."

"If he'd picked up a kid, or raped somebody—"

Jo laughed. The idea of Rich forcing anybody to do anything was too much. Mag grinned. "Let's quit worrying about the decline and fall of western civilization and get the man out."

"The bail's no problem. The money's available—in cash; King always keeps a little on hand for emergencies. Stay away from the commercial bail places, they're honest enough but why pay their rates? Jo, you be at the station house by nine sharp. If you're lucky they may get around to him by afternoon. Court doesn't convene on Sunday. They'll set his bond and let him go." She gave Jo an appraising look. "Wear that outfit, dear. You look so straight it makes me sick."

Mag said, worried, "The rough part will be keeping it out of the papers."

"We'll get to work on that later. One thing at a time." Jo said, "I don't think he has a record."

"Good, then he can plead that it was all a misunderstanding. The man invited him out for a drink, or something, and he didn't know the score. That's if it comes to trial, which we hope it won't." Emily Fosgett looked at her sharply "What does he do?"

"Real estate."

"Could be worse. He could be a teacher—or a minister." She drew a finger across her throat. "Christ, imagine putting your heart's blood into a career and then having it all torn apart by some fool thing like this."

There was a tap at the door. Emily pulled it open. A short rosy-faced man with a crest of white hair came in. His round tummy was tucked into a magnificent brocaded cummerbund, his dinner jacket was of Italian silk, his studs were of smoky pearl. Emily looked at him fondly. "Mag, you know King. Jo, this is my husband."

"Delighted to have you here, but I'm sorry your friend's in trouble." Kingsley Fosgett gave the impression of bowing without actually doing so. "I don't know what you drink, but I brought you both gin and tonic. That's Mag's tipple. If you want something different, I’ll get it."