How Long Has This Been Going On (75 page)

"It isn't just Danny, Walt. Everyone who isn't dead is dying."

Walt and Luke were talking quietly at the kitchen table when Blue arrived. "What's goin' on?" he asked.

Walt said, as he rose, "Danny is dead and now even Tom is sick and I want to go home with you," bursting into tears on the last words as Blue took hold of him. That good, strong, there-for-you Blue, as Luke so clearly saw. Luke thought, we were ridiculous to hope to separate those two. "The trouble is," Walt wailed, "I have to play the show tonight, in my tragic mood."

"Can't they—"

"No, it has to be me. But could you stay with me there and then take me home?"

"Anythin' you want, youngster."

Then there was a fanny pause, till Blue released Walt and said, "What's the bear?"

"Oh, that's Claude," Luke replied.

Blue nodded as if that explained everything.

When Luke got upstairs, Tom was already in bed, sliding through the paper while the television silently reverberated with news.

"So early?" asked Luke.

"Tired."

Luke nodded, sitting on the edge of the bed. "I told him," Luke said.

Tom shrugged.

"Well, he should know."

"Who's that?" asked Tom, staring at the television screen.

Luke turned to see a Polaroid of a young man who looked intensely familiar. "Undo the mute," said Luke.

"...have made no comment as yet," said the announcer. "Now this." A commercial.

"Wasn't that... you know," said Tom. "Chris's partners' son? Who own the house together?"

"Oh, the Ironwords? Golly."

Tom switched to another news show—no, they were on the commercials, too. A third channel was stuck on—wait, here it was again. A Polaroid of a hostage alleged to be held in Daly City by the White Aryans, who have threatened to kill him unless a policeman agrees to substitute for him.

"We are attempting to substantiate the story, though neither the police nor the—"

Tom jumped back to the show that hadn't carried the story yet: There was the same Polaroid.

"That's Lonnie Ironword," Tom said.

"Zeus golly Jesus," said Luke. "You're right!"

"I love it like this," Walt told Blue, "miserable though I be. Under the covers with you, so secure and toasty."

"You want to talk about Danny now?"

"It will take me time to deal with that, Blue."

"I understand."

"Will you be so understanding if I ask not to go to the party tomorrow night?"

"Yeah, but I kind of need you to be there. All those New Year's people that I don't know, and tryin' not to embarrass Mason."

"I'm afraid of it."

"Who isn't? But I'll be with you, certainly."

This is Abbott and Costello saying they'll be with you on the Bataan Death March.

"I'll only go if I have to," said Walt.

"You have to," said Blue. "Because we got to help each other out at the problem times."

* * *

Evan was watching the late news, and there it was, for by now the television people had pieced it together: A young male San Francisco native was being held hostage in a residential block of Daly City by a member of the White Aryans in retaliation for an alleged "genocide of my people by the police." The hostage taker had promised to kill his hostage unless the police traded one of theirs for him, the policeman then to suffer White Aryan judgment. In fact: He "would pay for his Christian sins against the movement." The hostage taker was unnamed, because unknown, but the hostage was one Lonnie Ironword, ambushed while hitchhiking home.

So Evan shouted
"Shit!"
and ran across the hall to bang on Frank's door.

"Did you see what—" she began.

"We saw," said Larken. "What about... ?" He indicated the Iron-words' floor.

"Don't anybody worry," said Frank, looking astonishingly fit as he came up behind Larken. "Doctor Hubbard's on the case."

"Frank's been calling his cop friends. He thinks—"

"Lark, I asked you not to—"

"Well, Jeez, Frank, where's your white horse and everything?"

"You're going somewhere?" asked Evan, backing up as Frank came through the door. "Somewhere... momentous? Because what's that fixed and manly look on your face?"

"Somewhere unbearable. Daly City."

"Frank," Larken cried, "they need a SWAT team for this!"

"No, Larky," as Frank marches downstairs, so proud that, today at least, he has the power to move as easily as anyone in perfect health. "They need someone like unto a cop who has nothing to lose."

"This is the unbelievable part," said Larken, and
"Frank!,"
Evan shouted.

"I'm a ghost already," Frank called over his shoulder. "So who are you trying to reach?"

"I have to apologize for what I did to you," the Kid told Walt. "You're vulnerable and I'm ruthless. Blue's content and I'm jealous. We're all thieves and I'm we're." He took Walt's outstretched hand. "Yes, of course you'd be unbearably forgiving as well. Blue is furious with me, you know."

"He protects me so much that sometimes I sit on the bed and cry for joy. He makes me feel better than I am, because he respects me, and I don't even know why."

"They call that love," said the Kid.

Frank and the police, the following day. His cop friends—detectives, mostly—telling their superiors about this guy. The news media on the prowl, sensing a Break in the Story. Frank thinking, I've got two, three good days in me. Perfect days, then back to the living death. You think Frank is way off base, but he is not far from what the situation calls for—trained (if stale), credible, experienced in playing bait from his days on the Vice Squad, and, though unschooled in the necessary techniques, fearless and formidable.

Still, there was the "insurance" problem. If the chief of operations let Frank stand in and Frank was hurt, the city of San Francisco would be vulnerable in a multimillion-dollar lawsuit by any of Frank's relatives, no matter how distant.

Frank had an answer for that: He was the only child of only children, and all his relations had predeceased him. The chief would refer to a possible eighth cousin in Bakersfield—nobody has
no
relatives, right? But there might be professional pride in it as well. A big city like San Francisco can't field its own experts? It has to borrow a gay pornographer to protect the citizenry?

"But I
know
Lonnie Ironword!" Frank insisted. "We live in the same building, okay? It would help anyone trying to rescue him to be able to ascertain just how Lonnie is reacting to developments."

"Ascertain," the chief repeated. "Yeah, let's
ascertain."

We're in Daly City at the site of the crisis, a quiet-looking little house in red with white trim. Hours have passed as the negotiators performed the obligatory first act in dealing with a hostage taker—exhaust him with talk. One reason why is to wear him down; another is that some of these characters are more interested in advertising their grave quarrels with the way of the world than in killing anybody. You let them unburden themselves, then let them surrender.

By now, it's well after dark of the next day, and Frank is getting nowhere in his windbreaker with the Smith & Wesson .38—a souvenir of his days on the force—tucked into the back of his waistband. The dog's on the quicksand and Frank's ready to spring, but the chief says no, they're going to talk the subject down, fit him into their sharpshooter sights, gas the place, whatever. And whatever doesn't involve Frank. Look, guy, thanks for the offer, but now you're wasting my time, so walk.

Frank walks, all right—into the army of cops and cop cars and television news teams ringing the floodlit street. Frank walks through all this and up to the subject's house; and Frank hears the shouts of the cops behind him, as with his hands in the air, Frank strides up to the fatal door, bawling out, "I'm the cop you wanted for the trade-off! Don't shoot, I'm coming in, okay?"

"Open the door
slow!"
a voice responds. "Slow, now, boy! Don't worry, I've got the drop on the kid here, so you'll soon see."

"God
fuck
the shit to
hell!"
remarks the chief, when he hears of it. "Happy new year!" Too late—Frank is inside, floating atop the quicksand, bringing himself back to life, sheer kismet.

At that moment, Blue and Walt were dressing for Mason Crocker's party, Walt presenting one reason after another why he should stay home.

"What kind of New Year's party starts at seven-thirty?" Walt groused, as Blue tried to straighten Walt's tie.

"Stop this fussin' all about, will you?"

"I
know
this is a mistake."

"It ain't... It's not a mistake fer you to accompany me to a society party. Do us both good, maybe."

"Blue, don't you see that these selfish Republicans are the reason that Danny is dead, and everyone else? They pretend that it's out of their hands, but secretly they're
glad.
They
want
us dead."

"Now why would they—"

"I've
told
you, and you never listen and that's why I'm always reproaching you. Because we keep bringing up the truth, the sex truth, which probably contains all the other truths combined. And most people build their whole lives on lies—but they get away with it because everyone else is lying, too. It's a lying society. So then the gays come forth to shatter these lies and—"

"Quit fiddlin' so I can neaten you up."

"I believe
you're
the one who needs advice on how to dress!" cried Walt, taking offense. "You rustic goof!"

At the look of hurt on Blue's face, Walt, pained at his own impatience, turned away. "You see why I shouldn't go. You see how this drives a wedge between us."

Blue gently pulled Walt around to face him, put his hands on Walt's shoulders, and said, "I need you with me tonight, because I'm no good at fancy socializin'. I know I'm trash, certainly. But I'm hopin' that you'll stay by my side and guide me from sayin' too many wrong things and losing the gig with Mason. He's real, real big on..."

"Style."

Blue nodded.

"The trouble is," Walt reasoned, "when you say that, you are giving me power over you, and I am not worthy of it. I betray everyone I love. I know I mash at you, and I hate myself for it, but then I mash you some more. I say horrible things to Tom and Luke, who are my fathers. And I let Danny die. I am disloyal and without honor, and I can't figure out how to be a better boy, and that just makes me madder. Don't force me to come to this party, Blue. Please don't do that."

Blue was weeping.

"Oh, no," said Walt, touching the tears. "Did I do this to you?"

"I went and saw Eddie Swindon again today. He's trash, just like me. Tennessee. He's goin' pretty fast now, and he was sayin', 'Just remember me, Blue, that's all I ask. Keep me in mind, and mention me from time to time. Maybe go to one of those meetin's where you get up one after the next and talk about a friend who's passed on. Speak his name and tell of his qualities.' He said that to me. And he said, 'How's it goin' with yer new beau?' I told him, 'It's the most beautiful thing when he's honest and true with me. But when he's hard, I know that love is the most painful thing of all.'"

They held each other for a long time. Then they went to the party.

"Incoming," said Frank coolly, as he entered the front room of the little Daly City house. The subject was a wild-looking working-class loser—early middle age, collapsed stomach, hair that had vastly thinned yet grew scraggling to his shoulders, tattoos leering beneath the sleeves of his T-shirt, jumpy and eager with his .45. The hostage, of course, was Lonnie, wan and exhausted, a bundle tossed on the broken-down couch with his hands tied in front of him at the wrists and his eyes wide at this unexpected visit. He's smart enough to be silent but his eyes read,
Frank?
Are you going to save me?

"Yeah, incomin'," says the subject, holding Frank right in the line of fire, wary yet curious. "You a vet? The 'Nam, could be?"

Frank shakes his head slowly.

"Now close the shittin' door, I'm no fool," says the subject. Door

closed, he adds, "Move over here," using the gun to edge Frank deeper into the room. "Move it! Out of the—"

"You know what I call a man?" says Frank, confidentially more than rhetorically. Turning on the charm. "A man is as good as how many of the other side he has brought down. That's a man."

"More this way," edging him.

Frank does move a bit, but he's fixing the guy with his eyes. "Am I wrong?"

"Don't give me no shittin' spiel, Mr. Police, because you're already on the way out. What's a man? I brought you in here, see my power?" His head nods at the outside. "TV, attention. What I'm shittin' up to, it's news, you see that?"

Bravado. The guy's nervous, bought himself a deal he can't handle. Didn't think it through.

"I shittin' brought you in here, and you ain't walkin' out, got me?"

"It's a trade," says Frank, philosophically.

The subject giggles.

"What's a man?" Frank again asks. "Who's renowned? Who survives? Who watches? I'd call these worthy questions."

The subject's moving about, trying to keep his mind on Frank but distracted by the usual ephemera, all his favorite injuries. The 7-Eleven clerk who didn't show respect. The cop who stopped his car for no reason and hit him with six tickets and a sneer. The world that stood him in the corner, made him say
Sir.
Christ, Frank thinks, the pathetic
smallness
of scum! The concentration with which they harp away on
nothing!

"I don't want a talkin' cop," the subject tells Frank. "I want a dead one."

"Looks like we'll have that," Frank replies, giving Lonnie a sign to rise. "I'm in, he's out. White Aryans honor their agreements, right?"

Lonnie rises and the subject gets anxious. "You're not the in-charge guy here!" he cries. "Shittin'... 'Cause no one'll tell me
what,
so hold your shittin'
horses,
see?"