“What a coincidence,” he said, smiling, and she looked around quickly. The office was crammed with a gray metal desk and a file cabinet, a computer and an old monitor, adding machines, money counters, and a black matte safe with a silver combination lock. Invoices, correspondence, and inventory sheets sat in stacks on the desk; a large clock with manila timecards in slots hung by the door. It was another surprise. Anne had expected
“I’m looking for someone who came in here about five or ten minutes ago.” She liked the manager so much she decided to level with him, almost. “He’s dangerous, a killer. His name is Kevin Satorno and he’s escaped from a prison in California. I know it sounds kind of crazy.”
“Not at all, unfortunately.” The manager didn’t blink. “We do get men released from prison. Parolees, ex- cons. Gay bars are magnets for all kinds of transients. It’s a problem for us, and the community.”
“Even if the man isn’t gay? I mean, I don’t think this man is gay.”
“I love it. Nobody’s gay but we somehow stay in business.” The manager chuckled. “The cons that come in, not all of them are gay, they don’t have to be. They come for the hustle, not the sex. If they’re just out of the joint, they won’t have any money. They hustle for drinks, cigarettes, a warm bed to sleep in. Or sometimes they pick up the customer, go home with him, and roll ‘im.”
“For real?” Anne asked, like a true Philadelphian.
“Sure. It’s dark in here, and the cops don’t exactly drop in for doughnuts. And my staff knows not to pry, all of us do. Too many people in the closet, you know. Each to his own, as long as he spends money.” The manager’s cell phone began ringing from a belt holster, but he ignored it. On separate black holsters hung a beeper and a walkie- talkie. “You’re sure he’s here, at the tea dance?”
“What does he look like, this man you’re looking for?”
Anne wished she’d kept one of her red flyers, but she hadn’t known she’d spot Kevin. She rattled off a description, and the manager’s eyes widened in alarm.
“Wait a minute,” he said. “Light blond hair, almost platinum? Cut close, almost shaved?”
“Yes,” Anne answered, excited. “You saw him?”
“No, but I heard about him. A friend of mine manages The Eagle, and he told me that some asshole took a swing at one of his customers last night. Broke his nose.”
Anne’s heart stopped.
“After midnight, this good-lookin’ blond guy came in the bar. Everybody noticed because he was new. A queen sent him a few drinks, because he’s into blonds, but when he went over to pick him up, the blond freaked out on him. Called him a faggot and hit him across the face.”
“My God.” Anne felt her chest tighten. Had it been Kevin? At only an hour after the murder, he’d still be jiggered up. Violent. “Did they call the police? Is there a report?”
“No. They threw the guy out, they took care of the queen, and it was over.”
“No! Why didn’t they call 911? A customer was assaulted.”
“I don’t know any bar that would. We sure wouldn’t. We keep the cops out of here, we police ourselves. Especially this weekend. Holidays are pure gold in this business. We’ll pay our rent on this tea dance, then we close up, clean up, and reopen again tonight. Hold on.” The manager crossed to a shelf that held electronics equipment Anne hadn’t noticed before; a VCR, another black box, and a small TV monitor, in black and white. It was a security system!
Her hopes soared. “You have security cameras here?”
“Sure do, for times like this. This is a multiplexer. We have three cameras in the bar and one on the door.”
“I can’t believe it!” Anne stepped over to the monitor. The TV screen was divided into four windows, with a time and date stamp on the upper right. The quartet of images was gray and shadowy, but she could see now that the lower right box was trained on the front door. The front door was opening and closing, and men were piling into the bar. It was hard to tell the true colors of hair and clothes, but the men’s features were discernible, if grainy. “And you have a tape?”
“This is it. You say it was about five, ten minutes ago that this guy came in?” The manager hit the rewind button on the VCR, and the men on the monitor screen started flying out the front door of the bar. The time stamp in the top right corner ran backward. “Here we go.”
Anne watched in nervous silence as the tape stopped rewinding and began to play. The front door kept opening and closing as men piled in on mute, obviously laughing and talking, in large and small groups. “He was wearing a white T-shirt.”
“Honey, that’s half the men in here. Watch the screen and tell me if you see him.”
Anne bit her lip as a group of men dressed in T-shirts and tank tops boogied in. Suddenly a foursome burst in together, and the fifth, a man hanging in the back, had hair that made a white blotch on the grainy tape. Anne felt her heart seize. It was Kevin! “There! That’s him!”
“Hold on.” The manager hit the pause button, and the image froze on the screen. “Which is he?”
“That him, in the Joe Camel T-shirt?”
“Yes!” Anne squinted at the screen. She hadn’t noticed it because she hadn’t seen Kevin’s chest, but his T- shirt bore a small cartoon of Joe Camel over the breast pocket. “That’s him!”
“I guess he’s making the rounds, lookin’ for a place to hide. I’ll be damned if I’ll let him hurt my people.” The manager was already reaching for his walkie-talkie and withdrawing it from his holster. He pressed the Talk button on the walkie-talkie and rattled off a perfect description of Kevin in the Joe Camel T-shirt. “You read me, Mike? Julio? Barry? Call me as soon as you grab him. Good. Over.”
“Let’s go get him.” Anne was already heading for the door, but the manager frowned.
“No, we stay here. My security guards will get him.”
“I didn’t see any security out there.”
“They’re there, and they know what they’re doing. They’re trained to deal with situations like this.”
“Of course they are, and what do I know? I’ll just stay here and wait.”
“Wait! What are you doing?” he shouted after her. “I can’t have you running around my bar, fucking up my tea dance!”
Anne found herself plunged into darkness again, but this time the manager caught up with her and grabbed her hand, less friendly than before. The two Uncle Sams tugged at each other until he gave up, evidently not wanting to make a scene. He began searching with her, moving them both quickly and expertly through the crowd, looking at everyone and talking into his Madonna headset, looped over the brim of his stovepipe.
Anne didn’t see Kevin yet, but the scene in the bar had changed. Men stuffed the dance floor, but they weren’t dancing, they were clapping at a show on the elevated stage. She looked up. best buns contest, read a placard on an easel, and a row of semidressed men stood on the stage with their backs turned to the audience. They were dressed in only their underwear, a crazy-quilt of tiger print, stars-and-stripes, and zebra stripes, and a drag queen in red sequins was emceeing. She bumped her microphone against a tush in leopard print. “Give it up for Couple Number 1!” she shouted, and the crowd went nuts.
The manager and Anne searched for Kevin, eyeing each face, most of them turned to the stage. Security guards in black T-shirts with white staff lettering on the front prowled through the crowd, and the manager was talking into his headset.
“Let’s hear it for Couple Number 2!” the drag queen shouted, and the clapping intensified. Stars-and-stripes trumped tiger print. It was a patriotic crowd. Too bad they couldn’t serve in the military.
Suddenly the manager stopped, holding his earpiece, then turned to Anne. “Head for the front door.”
“Did we get him?” Anne asked, her heart leaping up, but the manager held fast to her hand and pulled her through the crowd to the front door. The doorman she had talked to before was there, and the manager gestured
