For a while, I wondered how the other operatives would handle this case. But I didn't wonder too long, I already knew. They'd save the Weiss kid and ignore the other dozen-because the Weiss kid's family were the only ones paying. That's why Georgia had given me this job. Because she knew I didn't think that way. She knew I wouldn't be satisfied with saving only the one. She knew how I thought. You don't leave any man behind.
And whether anyone recognized it or not, this was a war zone.
These people; they knew they were living in enemy territory. They were terrified of the midnight knock-the accusations at work, the innuendoes of friends, the gossip of neighbors, and all the awful consequences. The soft boys, they start out sweet and playful, almost innocent, but time would erode their spirit. The older they grow, the heavier the burden becomes. Day by day, they learn to be furtive, they become embittered and their voices edged with acid. You can stand in the bar and watch it happening in their eyes, night after night, the shadowed resentment, the festering anger. Why do we have to hide? Pretend? The question- what's wrong with me?- was backward. Pretty soon it turns into what's wrong with them? And the chasm grows, the isolation increases. The secret world digs deeper underground.
But not for too much longer. The summer of love is already exploding, next year the summer of lust, and after that the frenzied summer of disaster. But that summer would also bring the Stonewall revolution, and after that-this would start to change. All of it.
I almost envied them.
Because, they knew what they wanted.
I still had no idea.
There was a soft knock at the bedroom door. It pushed open with a squeak. Matt stuck his head in. 'Are you asleep?'
'Not yet. Are you all right?'
'Mike…?' He stepped closer to the edge of the bed. 'Can I sleep with you tonight? Just to sleep. That's all. The couch is - ' 'Kind of uncomfortable, I know. Yeah, come on.' I slid over and pulled back the edge of the blanket for him. He slipped in next to me. Not too close.
We lay on our backs, side by side. Staring at the ceiling.
'This isn't about the couch, is it?'
'Uh-uh.'
'Didn't think so.'
'You don't have to worry-'
'I'm not worried.'
'I mean - '
'Matt. It's all right. You don't have to explain.' I thought about those nights in Nam where soldiers hugged each other closer than brothers. Of course, rifle fire, mortar shells, explosions, napalm, mud, blood and shit-and the threat of immediate death - can do that to you. The moments in the jungle when the patrol would stop for break, collapsing into heaps, sometimes lying in each other's laps, the only closeness we had -and the nights in cheap Saigon hotel rooms, when there weren't enough mattresses to go around, you shared with your buddy, and you felt glad he was next to you. The touch of a squad mate in the dark. You learned to feel safe in the stink and sweat of other men. They were your other half. You couldn't explain that either, not to anyone who hadn't been there.
'I'm sorry, Mike.'
'For what?'
'For being such a - ' He couldn't finish the sentence. He couldn't say the word.
'Matt…?'
'My mom used to call me Matty. When I was little.'
'You want me to call you Matty?'
'If you want to.'
'Matty, come here.' I put my arm around his shoulder and pulled him closer, so his head was nestled against my chest. I couldn't see what he was wearing, but it felt too soft. Nylon something. I ignored it. Whatever. 'C'mere, let your Uncle Mike tell you a bedtime story.' He wasn't relaxed, he lay tense next to me. Waiting for me to push him away in disgust…?
'When I was twelve, my dad brought home a puppy for my birthday, just a few weeks old. He was a black Labrador retriever and he was so clumsy he tripped over his own shadow. He couldn't walk without stubbing his face, but I fell in love with him the first moment I saw him. My dad asked me if I liked him and I said he was just perfect. I called him Shotgun. The first night, he whined for his mommy, so I took him into bed with me and held him close and talked to him and petted him and he fell asleep next to me. He followed me everywhere and he slept with me every night. Then Monday morning, we took him to the vet for his shots. The vet examined him and examined him and examined him, and he just started frowning worse and worse. Finally, he says there's something wrong with Shotgun; he's defective, his hips are malformed, he's going to have trouble walking, he's going to go lame, a whole bunch of other stuff. Then, he took my dad aside and talked to him for a long time. I couldn't hear what they were saying, but my dad just shook his head and we took Shotgun home.'
'The vet wanted to put him to sleep?'
'Yeah. My dad wouldn't let him. But I didn't find that part out until later. We went home, but I didn't want to have anything to do with Shotgun anymore. Because he was broken. He wasn't perfect. And I wanted a dog that was perfect. Shotgun kept following me around and I kept pushing him away. That night, he kept trying to jump up onto my bed and he kept whining, but I wouldn't lift him up and let him sleep with me. Finally, my dad came in and asked what was wrong and I said I didn't want Shotgun anymore, but I wouldn't say why. My dad figured it out though. He knew I was angry at Shotgun for not being perfect. But he didn't argue with me, he just said, okay, he'd find a new home for Shotgun in the morning. But… for tonight, I should let Shotgun sleep with me one last time. I asked why, and my dad picked up the puppy and held him in his lap petting him for a moment, and I asked why again, and my dad put Shotgun in my lap and he said, 'Because even ugly puppies need love. In fact, ugly puppies need even more love.' And when he said that, I started to feel real bad for pushing Shotgun away, and then my dad said, 'Besides, Shotgun doesn't know he's ugly. He just knows he loves you a lot. But if you don't love him and you don't want him, then tomorrow we'll find someone who doesn't care how ugly he is and who'll be happy to have a dog who will love them as much as Shotgun can.' That's when I hugged Shotgun close to my chest and said, 'NO! He's mine and you're not giving him away. Because I can love him more than anybody. I don't care how ugly he is.' And that's when my dad tousled my hair like this and whispered in my ear, 'That's the exact same thing your mom said when you were born.''
Matt snorted. Then curled up with his backside pressed against me. I couldn't figure out if he felt like a girl or a boy or something of both -or neither.
All these queerboys-some of them were girlboys, yes; but the rest, they were still boys. Soft boys. Men without… without what? Some quality of maleness? No. They were male. They just didn't do all that chest-beating. Hmm. Of course not. Chest-beating is for dominance -it's to drive away all the other males from the mates. That's counter-productive in this environment. Here… they want to be… friendly? Affectionate? But chest-beaters can't do that, can't afford to do that without losing dominance. No wonder the queerboys were the targets of bullies. Bullies are cowards; they pick victims who won't fight back. I stared at the ceiling, wondering if this train of thought would bring me any closer to Mr. Death. I couldn't see how.
After a while, I stopped worrying about it and fell asleep myself.
The next morning, we pretended everything was normal. He went to work, I drove up to Hollywood Boulevard.
Georgia looked grim. She met my eyes briefly, jerked her head toward the office. 'Mr. Harris wants to see you.'
'Mr. Harris?'
'Ted Harris-the man whose name is on the door?'
'Oh. I didn't know there was a real Ted Harris. I thought he was a fictitious business name, or something.'
'There's a real Ted Harris. And he's waiting for you.'
Shit. They'd found out I'd visited Dad. I had that called-to-the-principal's-office, cold-lump-in-my-gut feeling. I knocked once on the door, no answer, I turned the knob and went in. I'd never been in this room before. Desk, chairs, lamp, and a middle-aged man with his back to me, staring out the half-circular window that faced the boulevard. The window was grimy, but the morning sun still broke the gloom with blue-white bars of dust. Harris
