Death Trick - Stevenson Richard. Страница 27

"Is he gay?"

"He is."

"Do you think he's out here?"

"Somewhere out that way, yes. Harv, do you remember the FFF?"

"Sure. Forces of Free Faggotry. They were active eight or ten years ago. They predated us at the center by a year or so, I think. They were even pre-Stonewall when they got started. They've been defunct for several years, though. They were considered too radical even for the hell-raisers who got this place going—Kight and Kilhefner and that bunch."

"Yeah, that's what I remember reading about them. They worked underground, right? Went around snatching gays out of mental hospitals they'd been forced into and then hiding them out. They worked on contract, as I recall, with friends of the people who were locked up."

"You got it," Geddes said. "That was the FFF. J. Edgar Hoover had them on a list of thirty-three degenerate organizations that he carried in his wallet."

"I don't know yet who would have arranged it, but I'm pretty sure the FFF performed its service for my clients' son once, in the late fall of seventy. A lesbian friend of his was brought out, too."

"Yeah," he said, "it would have been around that time. That sounds right. Maybe the parents made the contract. Your clients."

"Hardly. They're the ones who put him in. For 'problems of social adjustment.'"

"One of those."

"The hospital probably used electroshock therapy," Geddes said. "Blast the demons out. It used to happen a lot. It still does. More than you'd think."

"You really think they'd have done that? To a couple of kids?"

"I'd say so. Check with the guy when you find him. I'd put money on it."

"Harv, does the name Kurt Zinsser ring a bell with you?"

"He was one of them," Geddes said, "an FFF founder. The group split up, I heard, in seventy-five or -six when a couple of them got busted up in Oregon, and then there were the usual hassles over theology and tactics. Some of them are still out here in Santa Monica and Venice. Zinsser, the last I knew, was back in his hometown, Denver."

Of course—Mountain Time, not far from Cheyenne. I said, "Can you get me an address and phone number?"

"I'll try."

"Call me."

"Will do. Hey, Don, how's it going for you back there? Are you ready to make the move yet? You know, we've got men out here, too."

"Oh—I don't know, Harv. It's my masochistic streak."

"You into that? Well, if that's your bag, Don, who am I? Anyway, we've got that, too."

"No, I meant staying in Albany. No, that's wrong, too. I like it here. Albany's not exactly London or Vancouver, but I like my friends here. And a lover—I have a lover. I didn't tell you that?"

"The last time we talked you'd just gotten your divorce from Bambi."

"Brigit."

"Right. That was—?"

"Three years ago."

"God, was it really? We grow old, we grow old, we shall wear our Levis rolled. I hit the big four-oh this year, Don. They're moving us right along, aren't they?"

"Yeah, me too, Harv. I'm forty now. Last night I found the first gray hair in my mustache."

Pluck it out?"

"Nah, I would have felt ridiculous. Hey, listen, give me a call on Zinsser, will you? I've gotta get moving."

"It was great talking to you, Don. Glad to hear about the man in your life. Peace to you both. I'll be in touch on Zinsser. Give me a day or so."

"I'll appreciate it."

"Glad to do it. See you, brother."

"Right, Harv."

I made another credit-card call, to New Baltimore, fifteen miles down the Hudson from Albany.

"Good morning, Sewickley Oaks."

"The administrator's office, please."

"One moment."

Click-click.

"Dr. Thurston's office."

"Yes, this is Attorney Tarbell, and I'm calling for Stuart Blount. Mr. Blount wishes to know whether Dr. Thurston is fully prepared for the admission of Mr. Blount's son, William— particularly in regard to strengthened security. Mr. Blount is especially anxious that there be no unfortunate recurrence of the nineteen-seventy situation. And Judge Feeney, of course, shares that view."

"Well, I—Dr. Thurston has stepped out, but as far as I know, he's done everything he and Mr. Blount and the judge talked about last week. The judge was quite insistent regarding the maximum-security aspect, and Dr. Thurston, I know, has been making arrangements. Has young William been located?"

"Not just yet. But he will be soon, hopefully."

"Should I have Dr. Thurston call you?"

"Thank you, no. Mr. Blount will be in touch. In a week or so, I should think."

"All right, then. Thank you for calling, Mr. Tarbell."

"Thank you for answering when I did. Have a nice day."

"Thank you. Good-bye."

"Bye now."

I hung up and said it out loud: Asshole Blounts! Hardy Monkman had once lectured me against the pejorative use of the word "asshole." It was counterrevolutionary; it mimicked

homophobes. But, as I'd tried to explain to Hardy, there were assholes and there were assholes. The Blounts were assholes.

I phoned Stuart Blount's office and told his secretary I'd need another two thousand dollars within forty-eight hours. She put me on hold, then came back and said she would mail the check to my office that afternoon. I said, "Have a nice day."

I drove over to my apartment and retrieved the Blounts' letter to their son from the jacket of "I'm Here Again." I wanted to rip it open, but I didn't. I carefully steamed the flap loose, then unfolded the typed note. It said:

Dear Billy:

You must come and talk with your mother and me. We can help you, plus we have good news for you. We know where Eddie is, and perhaps we can arrange to put you two in touch.

Your father, (Signed) Stuart Blount

Eddie again. The guy whose lookalike had once gone into the Music Barn and sent Billy Blount into a tailspin. Who the hell was this Eddie?

I DROVE OUT WESTERN. DlSCO 101 WAS PLAYING THE VILLAGE

People's "Sleazy." I switched over to WGY and wound down with some Tommy Dorsey—way down, too far. Public radio had on a Villa-Lobos guitar piece, and I stayed with it on the drive out to Trucky's.

Truckman put out a light buffet every day from twelve to two—for $1.95 you could fill up on water-soaked starches and poisoned cold cuts. It was popular and drew a mainly straight crowd from SUNY and from the State Office Campus.

I ate macaroni salad and salami with yellow mustard on a

day-old bun. I looked for Mike Truckman but didn't see him around. The dance floor was roped off and the juke box was playing something of the Bee Gees'. I went back to the disc jockey's booth and saw a DJ I'd met a few times at parties. He was inside, sorting through records and listening to something on his headset. I opened the door and went in.

Niles Jameson was a small, skinny black man with a full Afro and a big nimbus of black fuzz all around his placid, delicate face. He wore black pants and a black T-shirt and looked like a dark balloon on a dark string. He glanced my way as I came in and shoved the headset off one ear as he went on examining a stack of new records.

"Hi. I forget your name." He had a big, resonant voice, like a radio DJ's.

"Don Strachey. We've met at Orrin Bell's. I was there the night the guy from Tulsa went through Orrin's waterbed with his spurs."