realize that his patrons were just about almost exclusively gay until 1981 or so. If Derry residents had heard him say this, they would have laughed and said that Elmer Curtie must think they had all been born yesterday-but his claim was perfectly true. Like the man with the cheating wife, he was practically the last to know… and by the time he did, he didn’t care. The bar was making money, and while there were four other bars in Derry which turned a profit, the Falcon was the only one where rambunctious patrons did not regularly demolish the whole place. There were no women to fight over, for one thing, and these men, fags or not, seemed to have learned a secret of getting along with each other which their heterosexual counterparts did not know.
Once he became aware of the sexual preference of his regulars, he seemed to hear lurid stories about the Falcon everywhere-these stories had been circulating for years, but until ’81 Curtie simply hadn’t heard them. The most enthusiastic tellers of these tales, he came to realize, were men who wouldn’t be dragged into the Falcon with a chainfall for fear all the muscles would go out of their wrists, or something. Yet they seemed privy to all sorts of information.
According to the stories, you could go in there any night and see men close-dancing, rubbing their cocks together right out on the dancefloor; men french-kissing at the bar; men getting blow jobs in the bathrooms. There was supposedly a room out back where you went if you wanted to spend a little time on the Tower of Power-there was a big old fellow in a Nazi uniform back there who kept his arm greased most of the way to the shoulder and who would be happy to take care of you.
In fact, none of these things was true. When folks with a thirst did come in from the bus station for a beer or a highball, they sensed nothing out of the ordinary in the Falcon at all-there were a lot of guys, sure, but that was no different from thousands of workingmen’s bars all across the country. The clientele was gay, but gay was not a synonym for stupid. If they wanted a little outrageousness, they went to Portland. If they wanted a lot of outrageousness-Ramrod-style outrageousness or Peck’s Big Boy-style outrageousness-they went down to New York or Boston. Derry was small, Derry was provincial, and Derry’s small gay community understood the shadow under which it existed quite well.
Don Hagarty had been coming into the Falcon for two or three years on the night in March of 1984 when he first showed up with Adrian Mellon. Before then, Hagarty had been the sort who plays the field, rarely showing up with the same escort half a dozen times. But by late April it had become obvious even to Elmer Curtie, who cared very little about such things, that Hagarty and Mellon had a steady thing going.
Hagarty was a draftsman with an engineering firm in Bangor. Adrian Mellon was a freelance writer who published anywhere and everywhere he could-airline magazines, confession magazines, regional magazines, Sunday supplements, sex-letter magazines. He had been working on a novel, but maybe that wasn’t serious-he had been working on it since his third year of college, and that had been twelve years ago.
He had come to Derry to write a piece about the Canal-he was on assignment from New England Byways, a glossy bi-monthly that was published in Concord. Adrian Mellon had taken the assignment because he could squeeze Byways for three weeks” worth of expense money, including a nice room at the Derry Town House, and gather all the material he needed for the piece in maybe five days. During the other two weeks he could gather enough material for maybe four other regional pieces.
But during that three-week period he met Don Hagarty, and instead of going back to Portland when his three weeks on the cuff were over, he found himself a small apartment on Kossuth Lane. He lived there for only six weeks. Then he moved in with Don Hagarty.
8
That summer, Hagarty told Harold Gardener and Jeff Reeves, was the happiest summer of his life-he should have been on the lookout, he said; he should have known that God only puts a rug under guys like him in order to jerk it out from under their feet.
The only shadow, he said, was Adrian’s extravagantly partisan reaction to Derry. He had a tee-shirt which said MAINE AIN’T BAD BUT DERRY’s GREAT! He had a Derry Tigers high-school jacket. And of course there was the hat. He claimed to find the atmosphere vital and creatively invigorating. Perhaps there was something to this: he had taken his languishing novel out of the trunk for the first time in nearly a year.
“Was he really working on it, then?” Gardener asked Hagarty, not really caring but wanting to keep Hagarty primed.
“Yes-he was busting pages. He said it might be a terrible novel, but it was no longer going to be a terrible unfinished novel. He expected to finish it by his birthday, in October. Of course, he didn’t know what Derry was really like. He thought he did, but he hadn’t been here long enough to get a whiff of the real Derry. I kept trying to tell him, but he wouldn’t listen.”
“And what’s Derry really like, Don?” Reeves asked.
“It’s a lot like a dead strumpet with maggots squirming out of her cooze,” Don Hagarty said.
The two cops stared in silent amazement.
“It’s a bad place,” Hagarty said. “It’s a sewer. You mean you two guys don’t know that? You two guys have lived here all of your lives and you don’t know that?”
Neither of them answered. After a little while, Hagarty went on.
9
Until Adrian Mellon entered his life, Don had been planning to leave Derry. He had been there for three years, mostly because he had agreed to a long-term lease on an apartment with the world’s most fantastic river-view, but now the lease was almost up and Don was glad. No more long commute back and forth to Bangor. No more weird vibes-in Derry, he once told Adrian, it always felt like thirteen o’clock. Adrian might think Derry was a great place, but it scared Don. It was not just the town’s tightly homophobic attitude, an attitude as clearly expressed by the town’s preachers as by the graffiti in Bassey Park, but that was one thing he had been able to put his finger on. Adrian had laughed.
“Don, every town in America has a contingent that hates the gayfolk,” he said. “don’t tell me you don’t know that. This is, after all, the era of Ronnie Moron and Phyllis Housefly.”
“Come down to Bassey Park with me,” Don had replied, after seeing that Adrian really meant what he was saying-and what he was really saying was that Derry was no worse than any other fair- sized town in the hinterlands. “I want to show you something, my love.”
They drove to Bassey Park-this had been in mid-June, about a month before Adrian’s murder, Hagarty told the cops. He took Adrian into the dark, vaguely unpleasant-smelling shadows of the Kissing Bridge. He pointed out one of the graffiti. Adrian had to strike a match and hold it below the writing in order to read it.
SHOW ME YOUR COCK QUEER AND I’ll CUT IT OFF YOU.
“I know how people feel about gays,” Don said quietly. “I got beaten up at a truck-stop in Dayton when I was a teenager; some fellows in Portland set my shoes on fire outside of a sandwich shop while this fat-assed old cop sat inside his cruiser and laughed. I’ve seen a lot… but I’ve never seen anything quite like this. Look over here. Check it out.”
Another match revealed STICK NAILS IN EYES OF ALL FAGOTS (FOR GOD)!
“Whoever writes these little homilies has got a case of the deep-down crazies. I’d feel better if I thought it was just one person, one isolated sickie, but… ” Don swept his arm vaguely down the length of the Kissing Bridge. “There’s a lot of this stuff… and I just don’t think one person did it all. That’s why I want to leave Derry, Ade. Too many places and too many people seem to have the deep-down crazies.”
“Well, wait until I finish my novel, okay? Please? October, I promise, no later. The air’s better here.”
“He didn’t know it was the water he was going to have to watch out for,” Don Hagarty said bitterly.
10
Tom Boutillier and Chief Rademacher leaned forward, neither of them speaking. Chris Unwin sat with his head down, talking monotonously to the floor. This was the part they wanted to hear; this was the part that was going to send at least two of these assholes to Thomaston.
“The fair wasn’t no good,” Unwin said. “They was already takin down all the bitchin rides, you know, like the Devil Dish and the Parachute Drop. They already had a sign on the Bumper Cars that said “closed.” Wasn’t nothing open but baby rides. So we went down by the games and Webby saw the Pitch Til U Win and he paid fifty cents and he seen that hat the queer was wearing and he pitched at that, but he kept missing it, and every time he missed he got more in a bad mood, you know? And Steve-he’s the guy who usually goes around saying mellow out, like mellow out this and mellow out that and why don’t you fuckin mellow out, you know? Only he was in a real piss-up-a-rope mood because he took this pill, you know? I don’t know what kind of a pill. A red pill. Maybe it was even legal. But he keeps after Webby until I thought Webby was gonna hit him, you know. He goes. You can’t even win that queer’s hat. You must be really wasted if you can’t even win that queer’s hat. So finally the lady gives im a prize even though the ring wasn’t over it, cause I think she wanted to get rid of us. I don’t know. Maybe she didn’t. But I think she did. It was this noise-maker thing, you know? You blow it and it puffs up and unrolls and makes a noise like a fart, you know? I used to have one of those. I got it for Halloween or New Year’s or some fuckin holiday, I thought it was pretty good, only I lost it. Or maybe somebody hawked it out of my pocket in the fuckin playyard at school, you know? So then the fair’s closin and we’re walkin out and Steve’s still on Webby about not bein able to win that queer’s hat, you know, and Webby ain’t sayin much, and I know that’s a bad sign but I was pretty “faced, you know? So I knew I ought to like change the subject only I couldn’t think of no subject, you know? So when we get into the parkin lot Steve says, Where you want to go? Home? And Webby goes, Let’s cruise by the Falcon first and see if that queer’s around.”
Boutillier and Rademacher exchanged a glance. Boutillier raised a single finger and tapped it against his cheek: although this doofus in the engineer boots didn’t know it, he was now talking about first-degree murder.
“So I goes no, I gotta get home, and Webby goes, You scared to go by that queer-bar? And I go, Fuck no! And Steve’s still high or something, and he says, Let’s go grease some queermeat! Let’s go grease some queermeat! Let’s go grease…”
11
The timing was just right enough so that things worked out wrong for everyone. Adrian Mellon and Don Hagarty came out of the Falcon after two beers, walked up past the bus station, and then linked hands. Neither of them thought about it; it was just something they did. It was ten-twenty. They reached the corner and turned left.
The Kissing Bridge was almost half a mile upriver from here; they meant to cross Main Street Bridge, which was much less picturesque. The Kenduskeag was summer-low, no more than four feet of water sliding listlessly around the concrete pilings.
When the Duster drew abreast of them (Steve Dubay had spotted the two of them coming out of the Falcon and gleefully pointed them out), they were on the edge of the span.
“Cut in! Cut in!” Webby Garton screamed. The two men had just passed under a streetlight and he had spotted the fact that they were holding hands. This infuriated him… but not as much as the
