It made sense, but didn’t make me as comfortable as a more straightforward answer would have. I considered coming at it from a different angle, but Payne distracted me.
“Tell us about you,” he encouraged. “What’s your day gig?”
“No kidding,” O’Brien, the redheaded rookie, said when I’d finished. “ Sophie’s Voice? I love that show.”
I thought he was just being polite until he started recapping particular episodes and quoting some of my mother’s more outrageous remarks.
I can honestly say that the only thing flaming about O’Brien was his hair. He was as butch as they come, an obviously new but typically tough NYC police officer, displaying nothing that triggered the slightest flicker of my gaydar.
Still, once he’d confessed his fanboy enthusiasm for my mother’s program, I considered it a declaration of homosexuality second only to leading the New York City’s Gay Pride Parade.
I suppose there are straight men in the world who genuinely love Oprah. Who subscribe to Martha Stewart’s Living, and whose preference for watching Rachael Ray over a baseball game is simply an indicator of their varied and enlightened range of interests.
Yeah, right.
I remembered now how red O’Brien turned when he saw the provocative picture in my living room. I’d mistaken arousal for shock. Then, there was the way he kept sneaking sidelong glances at me. He was sizing me up, just not in the manner I’d thought.
I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. Here was Tony dumping me because of what he thought his peers would think, while at least one would not only have approved but might have been interested in joining us for a three-way.
Maybe I’d have to get O’Brien’s number. Sleeping with one of Tony’s subordinates-insert evil cackle here. Not that I was spiteful or anything.
I was distracted enough that when Payne announced, “Here we are,” I got out of the car before I even realized we weren’t anywhere near the station.
In fact, we were parked in the “No Parking” space in front of the Park Grand, one of New York’s ritzier hotels. Payne took my arm while O’Brien flashed his badge and talked with one of the parking attendants.
“This isn’t the police sta-” I began.
“Not unless we’ve moved way up in class,” Payne interrupted, leading me forward. “No,” he continued, “the evidence you need to see is here.
“I just hope you’ll be able to see it for what it is.”
As a high-priced call boy, I’d visited clients in a lot of high-end hotels. The Park Grand was one of them.
But in my profession, the goal was to pass through the common areas as unobtrusively as possible. Don’t attract attention from hotel security, press, or an unsuspecting spouse. Head straight for the elevators and casually make your way to your client’s room.
So, although I’d passed through the Park Grand dozens of times, I never took notice of the lobby, the meeting rooms, or the restaurants. I kept my head down as if deep in thought and made a beeline for the residential floors.
Therefore, I had no idea of the hotel’s geography and where Payne was hustling me with the cool efficiency of a skilled bodyguard. Or a hitman. His paternal authority invited no questions, either. It was all “Come-with-me- if-you-want-to-live.”
On my other side, O’Brien walked in lockstep. He didn’t have Payne’s natural aura of control, but he kept me between them, reinforcing the sense that I was better off going along quietly.
We arrived at what appeared to be a meeting room, its twin doors closed. From inside, I heard murmurs over an amplified voice that I couldn’t quite make out. As my ears adjusted, I understood the last words of what sounded like an introduction.
The speaker’s voice was loud but slightly distorted through the sound system. It was recognizable, but I couldn’t quite place it. He had a strong New York accent. An older man, somewhere in his sixties or seventies, I’d guess. “… the man of the hour himself. Congratulations on this highest of tributes.”
Was I here for some kind of show?
Apparently so.
Payne opened one of the doors and pushed me inside.
“Just stand with me in the back,” he whispered. “Looks like we got here just in time.”
The man on the stage stood in the center of a bright spotlight. The room had been set up for a dinner. I’d guess about a hundred tables, each of which sat ten, faced the front of the room. A huge panel of LCD monitors, which combined to form a single image, dominated the back wall.
The room was so darkened that it was impossible to make out the audience.
The monitors showed the face of the man who’d just finished speaking. Now I knew who it was. The city’s current mayor, a pretty popular Independent who’d risen to prominence in the business world before entering politics, waited for the next speaker to come to the stage.
The image behind the mayor flickered and was replaced by a blue-and-white logo for the New York City Police Department. A string of letters ran across the bottom of the screen: The Police Officer’s Public Service Division’s Detective of the Year: Tony Rinaldi.
The words were greeted with riotous applause, as was the man who made his way to the stage.
Tony.
My Tony.
Who’d taken his mother to this dinner instead of me.
Who was ashamed of me.
Who’d walked out on me and never looked back.
All of which led to the obvious question: What the hell was I doing here now?
The mayor greeted Tony warmly and handed him a bronze plaque. They posed briefly for a photo together, and the mayor grinned as if they’d been best friends for years. The camera flashed, the mayor’s job was done, and he walked off stage with the distracted look of a man thinking about whatever Comes Next.
For the first five minutes of Tony’s speech, my heart was pounding so loud it drowned out whatever Tony said. I caught the big themes. It was his privilege to serve. He’d always tried to work on behalf of the public. He thanked his fellow officers who’d awarded him this humbling honor.
Although most of what he said was a drone to me, I couldn’t help but be proud of how assured he seemed. What a confident speaker he was. Not to mention how breathtakingly beautiful he looked, bathed in the spotlight’s glow like a vision of masculine perfection. I doubted there was ever an actor on Oscar night who looked better onstage.
With his natural charisma and easy charm he held the audience in the palm of his hand.
Having been there myself, in more ways than one, I knew what a nice place that was.
Eventually, my-what? Anxiety? Excitement? Hope? Whatever I was feeling, it began to calm down and I was able to hear what he was saying.
“Part of this plaque,” Tony said, referring to the trophy in his hands, “says it’s due to my ‘outstanding courage in the face of danger.’ And I suppose that’s true. If there’s a situation where I can count on my fellow officers, or my wits, or my training, or, worst come to worst, my gun-to save a life or protect an innocent, I’m prepared to make a stand.
“But tonight, I have to make a confession. Behind this badge, it’s easy to be brave. But to be honest, in my personal life, I haven’t held myself to the same standards. There I’ve allowed fear and shame to rule me.”
There was a slight quaver in his voice. What he was about to say wasn’t easy. That he could say it at all made my heart want to burst.
“But no more. There comes a point where you have to man up. Where you have to take a stand. For me, that time is tonight. Surrounded by my friends. My family. And my extended family-the men and women in blue who put their lives on the line every day for this city.”
That elicited a hearty round of applause. I don’t think anyone suspected where Tony was going with this-at least, where I hoped this was going-but he had them on his side.
“For a long time now, I’ve been in love with someone whom I’ve kept a secret. A person who I was afraid to
