Rust on the Razor: A Tom and Scott Mystery (Stonewall Inn Mysteries) - Softcover

1

Scott trudged into the bedroom, nodded at me, then plodded to the closet, slowly took off his suit coat, and began carefully undoing his tie. Each fold of blue silk took its own meticulous movement to unravel. He draped it carefully on his tie rack.

No question that his meeting had gone poorly.

The more enraged he becomes, the more painstaking his movements. If an opposing batter fears a fastball in his ear, he need only time the lengthening seconds between Scott's pitches. Many a surprised batter had flinched from the following curveball that gently drifted over the outside corner of the plate. Scott might be furious, but he kept control of himself. Then again, a few well-prepared players had found themselves sprawled on their asses in the batter's box.

Scott pulled his white shirt out of his pants, unbuttoned it, and let it hang open over the soft blond down on his chest. Then he sat on the edge of the bed and leaned over to unlace his shoes.

"I'm exhausted," he said. It was only eleven A.M.

We'd talked most of the night before. He'd gotten up at six to be at a breakfast meeting with his agent, his lawyer,and the lawyers from Physically Fit Sportswear, the clothes of champions.

"What happened?" I asked.

"I watched them attempt to pick apart my life. They canceled all the contracts."

He placed the shoes next to each other under a corner of the bed and then draped one black sock over each one.

"They can do that?"

"They did it."

Rumors about Scott's sexual orientation had swirled for months in the tawdry gossip papers. Then, several weeks ago, we had insisted that an attack on us be reported as a hate crime against gay people. The news percolated through the athletic grapevine, but sports reporters in the major papers had hesitated to write about it.

Scott's being gay became national headlines last week, after a speech by Albert Hollis at the Southern Christians for Jesus, Morality, and the Family convention. The Reverend Hollis, from Scott's hometown in Georgia, had chosen to use him as an example of immorality. Without specifically stating Scott was gay, he'd dragged Scott's name through a mire of innuendo. The tabloid press went nuts, with enormous lurid headlines, and ugly rumors flooded through the mainstream press. Other preachers took up the throb of viciousness. Then a friendly journalist in Atlanta called Scott with the rumor that Hollis planned to release a negative video about Scott. Several days of investigation confirmed that Hollis had put together a hatchet job. One of the tamer sections showed clips of my lover autographing baseballs for kids, while a voice-over talked about gay people trying to recruit little children.

Three days ago, Scott had called a press conference to publicly announce his sexual orientation. A sensation followed and still continued. Unfortunately, at practice the morning of the announcement, he'd pulled a groin musclewhile running wind sprints in the outfield. He had been X-rayed, examined, and placed on the fifteen-day disabled list. Scott had gone ahead with the press conference.

The team decided silence equals safety and said nothing. Officially they didn't have to take a stand, and with Scott out of action, they felt they could delay dealing with the issue of his sexuality. Now, rumors of an imminent trade or involuntary retirement swirled throughout the baseball world.

Most of his teammates with half a brain had figured out he was gay a long time ago. Those who were friends and important to Scott knew and accepted the two of us. At the major-league level, with the high degree of ability demanded of players today, there was little time or inclination for massive prejudice. His close friends on the team called and offered support. Many others said nothing. A few of them made comments distancing themselves.

On the sports radio call-in shows, the idiots monopolized the phone lines, with everything from snickers to outright slander. Usually the hosts cut off the outright threats. I feared for Scott's safety. All it would take was one crazy.

His toughest moment would come after his muscle healed: pitching in front of thousands of possibly hostile fans.

"Are you going to fight them about canceling the contract ?"

"I don't know."

I wanted him to say something Churchillian, or I was willing to say it for him--anything that would rally the world to his cause. Something on the order of "We'll fight in every courtroom, carry our cause to the highest level, fight on the beaches and the hedgerows, stand and not be beaten." I'd had to face being openly gay and a teacher, so I could understand a great deal of what he was goingthrough. Nevertheless, it was his career and his world in the middle of total upheaval. I couldn't demand a heroic response from him. I would love him and support him no matter what decision he made. I kept silent.

Scott stood up and winced.

"How painful is it today?"

"Bad as ever."

As a kid I'd been secretly titillated when I'd read that an athlete had pulled a groin muscle. I hadn't known exactly what it meant, but I knew it involved something "down there," that was secret, forbidden, and not to be talked about, and, for a little gay kid, therefore enticing and alluring.

"I'll massage it," I said.

Early in our relationship I'd taken several classes in massage and muscle-relaxing techniques. Because of his profession, he was prone to strains and tiredness. Besides, I enjoyed touching his body, and if it helped him and gave him pleasure at the same time, why not? We'd taken some of the courses together, so if I pulled a muscle while working out he could reciprocate.

He hung his pants on a hanger, and then lay on his back on the bed. I knelt next to him and placed my fingertips on his upper thigh. We talked as I began to knead, rub, and massage.

"What'd they say?" I asked.

"That I am an immoral person and not a good example to the youth of America."

"Well, I knew that."

He didn't smile. "They didn't."

"They actually said you were immoral?"

"Direct quote." His body stiffened for a moment as I hit a particularly sore spot. He held his breath, then let it out slowly. A moment later I resumed my ministrations.

"Your lawyers must have said something."

"At great length. Made no difference. The bad guys are calling a press conference this afternoon to announce the deal is off." Scott had a ten-million-dollar endorsement deal with Physically Fit, one of the largest sports advertisers in the country.

"We'll have to cut back on chocolate this year," I said.

Still no smile.

"I've made safe investments over the years," he said. "We're not going to have to eat gruel and live on the streets, but this pisses me off." He growled deep in his throat. "And the team lawyer just sat there with his finger up his butt and a fatuous smile on his face."

"He was there?"

"Absolutely. Somebody from the commissioner's office, too. He talked for over half an hour about 'the best interests of baseball' and about possible danger to me physically."

"I think about that, too. I'm petrified about the next time you pitch."

"Maybe I won't have to face that. When I'm better, the team, the baseball commissioner, and whoever else wants to butt their nose into somebody else's business have to make a decision."

"Don't they have to honor your contract?"

"They'll probably have to pay me. I don't think that was ever the problem. It's my being openly gay and a baseball player that's the big problem."

I massaged and rubbed him for a while. He shut...