Whistle Pass (5 page)

T
HE
train’s final stop—Chicago’s Union Station.

In the concrete cavern, the ceiling black from the era of coal-burning steam engines, Gabe walked along the cement floor, dodging pillars and people in more of a hurry than he was. He pulled open a glass door and made a left through the primary orifice of space. Newspaper hawkers shouted the headlines. Their voices echoed under the domed ceiling and cascaded around the wide array of passengers ignoring them. “James Dean dead. Read all about it. Get your paper here!” Public address speakers yawned destinations. “Last call for Omaha. Gate 14.”

He opened another door and walked outside. This ceiling of concrete protected a circular driveway filled with taxis hungry for a fare. Exhaust fumes choked him, clung to his clothing as if living denizens of a world he wasn’t welcome in. A man in a burgundy waistcoat and black cap asked, “Cab, sir?”

“Evanston. Botanic Inn,” Gabe said.

The man put a silver whistle to his lips and blasted three loud bursts of noise. A green cab jumped out of line and pulled in front of him. The man in the waistcoat opened the back door and Gabe climbed in. “Botanic Inn,” the man told the driver.

The driver slammed down a metal lever on the fare box and pulled out of the alcove into the city’s traffic. Gabe glanced at the box to ensure the count didn’t begin any higher than the thirty-five cents for a single passenger, then closed his eyes to the lights and inhabitants in this concrete ant farm.

“Botanic Inn.”

Gabe batted his eyelids and groaned. He’d fallen asleep. A doorman in top hat and tails opened the door.

The driver turned and put his arm over the seat. “That’ll be $2.35. Make it $2.50?”

Gabe shoved some bills into the expectant hand. “Make it three skins. I’m not paying for it.” He slid out of the cab.

“Thank you, sir. Thank you indeed.”

Gabe stuffed a lone dollar into the gloved hand of the doorman as he entered the hotel lobby thick with potted plants on a mosaic floor, the scent of lilac drifting from one fan’s blades to the next and back again. Minimum wage had just gone up to a buck an hour, and for the sake of appearances, it was essential he tip accordingly.

“Mr. Simons!” the desk clerk called out. “So good to see you again, sir. Arthur, take Mr. Simons’s bag for him.”

A red-uniformed bellhop scurried to the desk, where the clerk handed him a key. Gabe handed over the valise.

“Your regular room is all ready for you, Mr. Simons. If there’s anything we can do for you, please, do not hesitate to call.”

“Thank you, Joseph, I will.” Gabe dutifully followed the bellhop to the elevator. A colored woman slid the brass-coated door closed and pushed the button for the sixth floor.

It never ceased to amaze Gabe how in a hotel with the most modern of elevators, no longer requiring an operator, luxury dictated the operator remain, if to do nothing more than relieve the passenger of the inconvenience of pushing a button. The door opened to a maroon deco runner traversing the length of the hallway. Gabe trailed the bellhop to 623 at the end of the hall, next to a stairway. The bellhop swung the door open and stood back to allow Gabe to enter first.

“Where would you like your bag, sir?”

“Just put it on the dresser.” Gabe handed over a dollar and sat on the soft quilts overlaying the bed. He ran his feet over the plush carpet and stared at the sheen of the glossy white walls. The door closed and the phone rang. He leaned over and picked up the receiver on the nightstand. “Yes?”

“Anthony! We’re in the bar. Get dressed. There’s someone special I want you to meet.”

We?
He sighed. “Of course.” He dropped the receiver onto the cradle. “We.”

Gabe emptied his lungs in a long, slow stream and stood. He slipped out of his coat, then his shirt, and went to the bathroom, resplendent with its brass fixtures and porcelain knobs. The man in the mirror reflected imperfection. Not a wrinkle, not a roll of fat anywhere. A toned, sleek body. But the image had no soul, no strength of character. That had all washed away a long time ago. He pulled up the brass handle to close off the sink’s drain and turned on the hot water. Steam quickly cloaked the wall-length mirror.

With a fingertip he outlined the distorted figure. Then he drew in a zipper-shaped line between the abdomen and ribcage. A dot next beneath the right breast, another just below the right shoulder, and one more left center breast. He stood back and appraised his handiwork.

“How did you survive? What is there within you that refused to die?” He placed a hand over the center of the chest, over Charlie Harris’s heart. “I really want to know.”

He added some cold to the sink full of hot water, rubbed soap on a washcloth, and scrubbed his body. After, he rinsed and dried his skin.

At the closet he opened the door and selected a suit. Navy pinstripe. The other end held the shirts. A powder blue one would go well with the wool suit. He left his choice of attire on the hangers and sat on the bed. Why had he allowed this to happen?

The courtship had been the answer to his prayers. Private dinners in fine restaurants, surrounded by Chicago’s nobility. Dancing in private clubs. Gabe had quickly learned that if a wallet was fat enough, same-sex partners were almost acceptable in some circles. Then came the first offering of cash. A courtesy. Merely a stipend to cover his travel expenses. Slowly, the dinners reduced to room service. The dancing, strictly between the sheets. The amount of money in the envelope increased. Now on the rare occasion when they ventured out on the town, Gabe was more bauble than companion.

Ring, ring
.
Ring, ring
.

He glanced at the phone.

Ring, ring
.

He sucked in his lips.

Ring, ring
.

He placed a hand over the receiver.

Ring, ring
.

Damn you, Gabriel
. He picked up the phone. “Yes?”

“Will you hurry up? My friend has somewhere to be later.” A click signaled the conversation had ended.

Fingertips over his torso, between abdomen and ribcage, he pondered Charlie Harris. Why was the man in Whistle Pass? Who was Harris’s keeper? Was he nothing more than a kept man too? Or was he trouble for hire? Or just trouble? The dates and money for the room reservation had arrived special delivery. Totally impersonal, completely discreet. But Harris had asked about the mayor, oblivious to Roger Black’s status in the community. If Black had sent for him, wouldn’t Harris know something about the man he’d traveled to see?

Curious.

Harris was an unknown. An anomaly. He didn’t appear to have two nickels to rub together, and didn’t seem to care. There was nothing he could offer in the way of the lifestyle Gabe wanted. The man probably wasn’t interested in men. Not to mention the symptoms of shellshock indicating he might be insane. But Gabe couldn’t get him out of his mind.

He stood and pulled the clothing from the closet.

T
HEY
sat at a corner table in the Orchid Room, deemed such by a wall mural. Two men graying at the temples, the third much younger. Younger than Gabe’s twenty-four, even. The three men stood as he approached.

“Anthony, this is Mark. Isn’t he just the most gorgeous thing you ever did see? He’s a student at the university.”

The blond young man smiled. Gabe shook the fingers of the extended hand, wondering what
Mark’s
real name might be. Not that it mattered. Introductions apparently concluded, they sat. An envelope found its way under the table onto his lap. But not from his host.

His host was lost in Mark’s blue eyes. Gabe turned to the bulbous man reeking of bacon fat to his left.

“Two hundred for the weekend, right?” floated to his ears on a carpet of belched garlic.

“Excuse me?” A sweat of indignation oozed from Gabe’s pores. “What do you think I am?”

The man leaned over to him. A hand clamped down on Gabe’s knee. “I know what you are. I don’t have all night. Let’s go up to your room and find out if those lips are worth the price.” The pressure on Gabe’s knee increased. The face soured, the voice graveled to threat. “They better be.”

Heat washed over Gabe in broken waves. Anger baked his skin. He just wasn’t sure who he was mad at—the men at the table… or himself. “You asshole,” he muttered.

“Anthony, sit down. You’re causing a scene.”

Gabe looked around. A few heads at other tables lowered their gaze. He
was
standing. Hadn’t done it knowingly. But it was as good a
position as any. “Asshole.” He smiled. “Asshole!” he shouted. “Asshole,
asshole, asshole!”

“Sit down, you little….”

Gabe scorned the pocked face. “Little what? Queer? I
am
a queer.” He thrust out his arms and posed on his invisible cross. “Ladies and gentlemen! I… am a queer!” He lowered his arms to his sides. “And so are these men, but they don’t have the guts to admit it.” Mark jumped to his feet and ran out of the room. Gabe followed him with his eyes, chuckling. He tore the pinstripe suit coat off and laid it over the back of the chair. “This isn’t mine.” He kicked off his shoes. “Or these.”

A woman at a neighboring table looked up at him. “That’s correct, madam. I’m also a whore.” He cocked his head slightly. The woman was much, much younger than the man accompanying her. “Are you, by chance?” Her hands went to her face. The man at her table bolted on the same escape route Mark had taken. “We should start a union.”

“Mr. Simons. I must insist you leave. Right now!”

From under his brows, Gabe looked at the desk clerk. “I was just leaving anyway.” He unbuttoned the shirt and removed it. Dropping it to the floor, he sang, “Not mine.” As he walked, he unbuckled the leather belt, unbuttoned the trousers, then unzipped them. At the door, he let the pants fall to his ankles. He stepped out of them and fumbled with the waistband of his boxers. “Let’s all be glad these
do
belong to me.”

“Oh, what the hell.” He turned to the tabled stares. “I got paid a hundred a night for this.” He pushed down the boxers. “So, what do you think? Too much for too little? Or should I have demanded more?”

Women screamed and gasped. Men covered ladies’ faces. One woman pushed her gallant escort’s hand away and smiled appreciatively.

Gabe glowed and bowed. “Thank you, madam.”

“
Mr. Simons!
” The clerk grabbed his arm.

Gabe pulled the boxers in place. Shoulders proudly back, he strode into the lobby, inhaling the wonderful lilac fragrance for the last time. A bellhop handed him the clothes he had worn in and his valise. “Thank you. I’m afraid I am a bit short on cash to tip you, my good man.”

“Out. Out!”

Gabe ignored the desk clerk and headed for the door held open by
the uniformed doorman. A taxi sat waiting. He climbed into the backseat
and dug $2.35 from the trousers in his hands. “Sorry. No tip this trip.”

The cab sped down the street. Gabe dressed, wondering all the while what Charlie Harris would have done in this situation.

Chapter 7

T
HE
edge of the mattress scrunched under Roger’s weight when he sat upright. “What are you doing here, Charlie?”

Charlie, more confused than ever, took off his coat and hung it on the back of the door. There being no chairs in the room, he sat a foot away from Roger, adding a physical void to the emotional one between them. He pulled over the duffle and rooted out the telegram.

Roger read the message, turned the paper over and back again. “I didn’t send this.”

Charlie’s heart sank. He’d hoped, no matter how faint the chance might be, Roger’d decided he had to have him in his life. “But you’re the only person who ever said ‘Need you’ to me. Unless you told somebody about us?” The thought of Roger nonchalantly gossiping over coffee and donuts about what they’d shared filleted his guts. “You didn’t, did you?”

The man’s head snapped around to glare at Charlie. “Are you nuts? Do you know what something like that would do to my political career? Christ. If anybody ever found out….”

Charlie put his hand over his mouth and looked at the ceiling. He’d become the dirty little secret in a budding politician’s past. What had been beautiful and clean was now ugly and mired in mud, a political opponent’s fodder.

A hand kneaded his shoulder. He pulled away and stood.

“I didn’t mean it like that. I’m sorry.”

“I want you to leave, Roger. I need to pack. There’s no reason for me to hang around here.” He pivoted on a heel to face the man. “And, don’t worry. I’ll take your embarrassment to the grave. Now, please, get out.” He didn’t know if he wanted to scream, curse, cry, or break something. Most likely, all the above.

Roger didn’t move. “Sit down, Charlie. We have to talk.”

“No. Get out.”

Roger patted the covers. “Don’t you see? Somebody knows, and I have to find out who. Now I
do
need you. I need your help.”

Charlie shook his head. “Not my problem.”

“You might want to consider this, Charlie. I had no idea where to find you, even if I’d wanted to. But whoever sent the telegram did. There’s more to this. Give me a few minutes. Please? Sit down and listen to what I have to say.”