Death Trick - Stevenson Richard. Страница 49

Bowman said, "Billy, you and I have got to go in there and say something soothing to your friend there. It might take awhile, so let's just relax and go up and sit on the stairs for a time and let the fellow hear the sound of your voice. Let him get used to it. Then we'll see what we can make happen. You got me?"

I said, "Don't go. Not until the sergeant here has offered an apology for his homophobic cruelty toward a friend of ours—a friend of Mark's."

In the side yard a patrolman with a tool kit strapped to his back was moving up the ladder.

"Come on, Billy, we've got to get that troubled lad safely onto terra firma. Let's go, kid."

Bowman moved toward the building. Blount stood still.

Bowman turned around, glowering. He said, "You're both under arrest."

We looked at him.

He said, "You, William Blount, for suspicion of murder. You, Donald Strachey, for aiding a fugitive from justice. I'm obliged to remind you that you have a right to remain silent, you have a right to—"

"Bi-l-l-leeee!" The voice sliced through the night. The crowd froze. The man on the ladder stopped and listened.

This time the figure raised one arm from the window frame. "Bi-l-l-l-eeeee!" The crowd gasped, and someone behind us said, "Oh, God."

Blount yelled, "I'll be right up, Eddie! Hang on! "I'll be up!"

Blount trotted across the street, up the brick walkway, and into the building. A minute later two arms were wrapped from behind around the figure on the ledge. The figure began to turn as if on a pinwheel, and then it doubled up and disappeared through the window.

We charged into the building and up the stairs. Blount and Storrs were sitting beside a blue gym bag on the floor of the fourth-floor landing, their backs against the wall under the window. Blount was holding Storrs's hand. They hardly seemed to notice us banging on Mark Deslonde's locked door.

There was no response from inside the apartment. Two firemen bounded up the stairs with axes; Bowman and I and three patrolmen stood back. I could hear the radio blasting away inside. Disco 101—the Three Degrees' "Jump the Gun." After three well-placed blows the door splintered and fell away.

The living room was empty. The face of the man on the ladder was visible through the window. We moved into the bedroom and found no one. A second set of stereo speakers carried the roar of the music into the room where we stood. Bowman said, "Somebody shut that goddamn thing off!"

The bathroom door opened. Mark Deslonde stepped out in his nylon briefs and stared at us with the most astonished look I'd ever seen on a face.

I said, "Jesus! Are you all right? Where the fuck have you been?"

"I've been trimming my beard. What is this? What the hell is going on?"

"Trimming your beard? For an hour? For a fucking hour?"

Deslonde shrugged, tilted his head, and grinned.

"You've got a lot of nerve coming in here, strachey. Because we're such nice guys, the DA and I decided during the excitement last night not to go to the trouble of prosecuting you and your pal Blount, and now you waltz in here like you owned the goddamn city of Albany and start badgering me and asking for favors. I've run into some pretty deluded perverts over the

years, but, Jesus' mother, you take the cake, Strachey, you surely do."

I said, "What a crock. You owe me a big one, and you know it. I just want to borrow the thing overnight. You'll have it back first thing Sunday morning. By noon, anyway. Or one."

He shifted in his chair and caused the holes and nodules on his face to move around. "I'd have to know your intended use for the device," he said. "That thing is worth a lot of money, and if it got damaged in any way, they'd make a note of it and take it out of my pension when that holy day comes, and that pension is already so piss-paltry the wife and myself will probably end up in some trailer parked by a meter on Central Avenue. Now, what the hell are you gonna do with it?"

"I can tell you this much, Ned. The device will be used in a manner your department will approve of entirely. I'm talking about law enforcement. It will be used to collect evidence against a felon. I plan to provide the DA with another warm criminal body for Judge Feeney to pounce on and gobble up. And if you'd like, I'd be happy to mention your name in connection with the apprehension of this disgusting public menace."

He cringed. "You can skip the last part."

An hour later, before I had lunch with Timmy at his apartment, I phoned Sewickley Oaks.

"This is Jay Tarbell, calling for Stu Blount. Mr. Blount's son William has been located, as you may know, and Mr. Blount wishes now to proceed with the boy's treatment. He would appreciate your picking up the boy late tonight, and I'd like to discuss the arrangements—the boy is rather distraught, I'm afraid, and might put up some resistance. I'm sure, though, that your staff can come prepared for any eventuality."

"Oh—I see. Well, Dr. Thurston has stepped out, but I know the doctor thought perhaps Mr. Blount might have changed his mind. I mean, considering what happened last night—we saw the TV reports, and we thought—"

"Not at all, not at all. The boy is no longer under suspicion of murder, of course, but, sad to say, young William is still queer as a three-dollar bill, so to speak, ahem. And you do have Judge Feeney's order in hand, do you not?"

"Oh, yes—"

"As well as the substantial first payment of Dr. Thurston's fee."

"Oh, certainly—"

"Well then, let's get on with it, shall we? Let's lay out a plan. Now I must tell you that young Blount has altered his appearance and that he has assumed an alias. I'll be calling later tonight with further details, but for now, let me just pass on to you Stu Blount's instructions...."

Saturday night at Trucky's. After a warm-up at the Terminal, we drove out Western just after eleven. As we went in, Cheryl Dilcher's "Here Comes My Baby" was on. Truckman was at the door, drink in hand, and I told him I'd like to see him in his office, that I had an apology to make.

He smiled feebly and said, "Sure, Don, sure. Gimme ten minutes."

We ran into the alliance crowd and learned that the judge had denied a restraining order against the Bergenfield police, and that Jim Nordstrum, out on bail, was planning to close the place if it was raided one more time. Despite the absence of any discernible warm feeling for the Rat's Nest and its approach to gay life, there was real anger among the movement people over the sour indifference of the legal establishment toward the harassment of a place that detracted from the moral fitness of no one who chose not to go there. The human machinery of the law was smug and petty and substantially corrupt; that was what hurt. No one could figure out what step to take next, and I did not tell what I knew.

I went looking for Mike Truckman, found him, and ushered him almost forcibly into his office.

I said, "I did think you had something to do with Steve Kleckner's death, Mike. It was mainly because of the company you keep. And your booze problem didn't help—you've got one and you'd better do something about it fast. Anyway, I was stupid and wrong-headed, Mike, and I hope you'll forgive me."

He raised his glass, tried to smile, and set the glass down. "Forget it, Don. Shit, I guess you had your reasons. Let's pretend it never happened. I'm game if you are. We need one

another, all of us. Gay people can have their differences, sure, but when push comes to shove, we gotta stick together, right, buddy?"