Choice of Evil

down at my feet. She doesn’t like concrete much at her age, but the sidewalk was still warm from the day’s heat and it probably felt good against her arthritis.

I wasn’t halfway done with the smoke when the bouncer came outside. “You mind going around the back way?” he asked. Polite now, not like before.

“Nah.”

“Okay. You just walk toward the corner. You’ll see an alley. You turn left and—”

“Ah, that sounds complicated,” I told him. “Maybe you’d better show me the way, huh?”

“I can’t leave my—”

“Sure. I understand. Tell this Lincoln guy that I came by to see him, okay?”

I gave an imperceptible tug on Pansy’s leash. She lumbered to her feet. “Wait a minute,” the bouncer said.

I stopped.

His face looked like he was making up his mind. “I’ll show you,” he finally said.

“Lead on,” I told him.

He started walking in the direction he’d told me to go. Suddenly he stopped, turned, looked at me: “You gonna walk behind me all the way?”

“Sure,” I said; meaning, “What else?”

He nodded, as if confirming a deeply held suspicion, but he started up again. When he turned into the alley, I unsnapped Pansy’s lead and she trotted ahead of him. He practically slammed himself into the alley wall to get out of the way as her dark-gray shadow flitted past. He whirled around and said: “Wha—?”

And then he saw the pistol I was holding. “Just a simple precaution, pal,” I reassured him. “You’re taking me someplace nice, I’m gonna thank you for it. Otherwise, you’re not gonna need to look up ‘crossfire’ in the dictionary, understand?”

He put his hands up.

“Put ’em down,” I told him. “Relax. Just do whatever you were gonna do.”

He walked down the length of the alley, fast now, Pansy trotting alongside him like she was heeling. I could barely make out her shape, but I knew the hair was up on the back of her neck, ears flattened, tail whipped between her legs to protect her genitals. Ready to deal out a more certain death than anything I was holding. Guns jam. Shooters miss. Pansy never did either one.

The bouncer rapped a couple of times on a bright-yellow door. It opened immediately. There was light coming from inside. I could see maybe half a dozen people. Except for the guy answering the door, they were all sitting down.

“All right?” the bouncer asked me over his shoulder.

“Sure, pal. Thanks for your help.”

I stepped inside, Pansy’s bulk against my leg. I could feel her vibrating, still ready.

“My name is Lincoln,” the man said as he closed the door behind us. “I’m the one who called.”

He was medium height, early thirties; his body looked trim in a pastel T-shirt and white pleated pants, but his face was older. Prominent cheekbones, thin lips, a full set of capped teeth, brownish hair frosted a lighter shade at the forelock. He wore a diamond stud in his right ear, and his grip was strong, self-assured.

He walked over to a sofa where some other people were sitting, nodded his head at an armchair off to one side. “Okay with you?”

I sat down without saying anything, Pansy dropping down on my left. Farther in that same direction, a pair of women at a cafe table. One, a busty brunette in a pink tank top, showing off her muscular arms among other things; the other, a slender blonde with long, lank hair falling on either side of her head, bangs covering her eyes, wearing some kind of middy blouse.

“We didn’t expect you’d bring. . . company,” the guy who called himself Lincoln said.

“You worried she’s gonna talk?” I asked.

The brunette laughed. Nobody else made a sound.

“No. I was just. . . Forget it. Vincent didn’t say anything about you having a. . . partner.” Making sure I heard the name, keeping the connection alive. Vincent was an old friend. A gay man, emphasis on the second word. Heavy emphasis.

A lot of gay guys I’d met over the years said they started with being molested. I was ignorant enough to think that was the root until I met Vincent. His family was the real thing—loving and warm and supportive. He explained to me how being gay was hardwired, present at birth. Genetic. “It’s not a ‘choice,’ ” he said, explaining it to me. “It’s not a ‘preference’ either. It’s what we are. It’s what I am.”

Vincent was in what he called the “literary world.” I never understood what he did. Or maybe I never paid attention. What I remember most was how he hated. . . them. Baby-rapers. I was hunting one when we crossed paths, that’s when I found out. But he didn’t hate them because he was one of us. The Children of the Secret, we’re a big tribe, but we’re not united. We don’t fight under the same flag. Vincent wasn’t a draftee in that war; he was a volunteer. He hated them for what they did to children. . . not what was done to him. That was the kind of man he was.

Vincent was a man in a lot of ways, it turned out. He had to do some jail time. Not much, a few months. He wouldn’t talk about something the grand jury wanted to know, and some pontificating pervert of a judge locked him up for contempt of court. The black-robed ass-kisser told Vincent he’d stay there until he talked. Once the appellate court figured out that was a life sentence, they cut Vincent loose.

I couldn’t help it. I was young then. So I asked him if he had sex in there.

“No,” is all he said.

I remembered what it was like Inside. How guys who weren’t close to gay on the bricks got turned in there. “Turned out” is what the cons called it. Turned over is what it was. I didn’t know how to ask him about that. . . rape thing, so I just said, “How come?”

“I didn’t meet anyone I fancied,” he said, his deep-blue eyes telling me that someone in there had mistaken gay for weak. And learned the difference.

That was a long time ago. Vincent’s gone now. But his name would still key my lock. . . at least enough to make me listen.

“What did Vincent tell you?” I asked the guy who called himself Lincoln.

“He said you could. . . that you were some kind of private investigator. But. . . off the books.”

“Meaning I don’t have a license, or I get paid in cash?”

“Both, I guess. But that’s not what I meant. I mean, what Vincent meant. He said you could. . . find someone. Even if they didn’t want to be found.”

“Okay. That’s what you want?”

“Vincent said you’d never go to the police,” Lincoln said, meaning it as a question.

“You’re tap-dancing,” I told him. “I don’t know what you asked Vincent. I wasn’t there when you talked to him. . . if you did. And nobody can ask him now, right? My resume is in the street—that’s where you have to ask whatever you want to know. You gonna ask a liar if he lies? How would you know anything comes from my mouth is righteous? Either go with what Vincent told you, or get somebody else, friend.”

The guy who called himself Lincoln glanced around the room like he was taking a vote. I couldn’t see anyone respond, but he went on like it had been unanimous.

“We want. . . the man who’s killing all the. . . gay-bashers. The ‘Avenger’ or whatever name the tabloids are calling him this week.”

“You want him. . .?”

“We want to find him,” Lincoln said. “We want to. . .” He glanced around the room again, waited until he was satisfied. “. . . to help him get away.”

The whole place went quiet, like a bomb had just dropped and they were waiting for the smoke to clear to determine the body count. But I’d had a lifetime of knowing how to answer the question he never asked, so I aborted their pregnant pause and said: “Why tell me?”

Then they really went quiet.

Another mistake. I just sat there—a frog on a lily pad, waiting to see if they were flies. I reached down, scratched behind Pansy’s ears, my face just this side of bored.

Waiting.