1
After carefully hanging his clothes in the closet and dumping his dirty laundry into a pile in the basement, Scott sprawled his six-foot-four-inch frame onto the couch, spread his legs far apart, and planted his feet on the edge of the oak coffee table. He shut his eyes and said, "I don't want to be disturbed for a thousand years. Not for nothing or nobody."
Scott wore faded blue jeans, white gym socks, and a University of Arizona T-shirt. He'd just returned from a week-long series of speaking engagements on the West Coast. As the highest-paid pitcher in professional baseball, he gets huge numbers of requests to speak each year.
He opened one eye. "Unless we have chocolate chocolate-chip ice cream in the freezer."
I said, "If we do, you will bestir yourself enough to race like mad to get some before it's all gone?"
"I'd share. Probably."
I sat on the coffee table next to his right leg. I let my finger trace a wandering line from his ankle, around his instep, and then halfway up his leg. "How about hot sex instead. The kind men dream about happening once in their lives."
He opened both eyes and looked at me accusingly. "Tom, you ate all the ice cream."
"I had no choice. While you were gone, alien beings landed inthe backyard and demanded the most valuable ransom I could pay."
"That's what you said last time."
"It is?"
"I think you may be fibbing."
"Me?"
Suddenly he swung his legs around and grabbed me, and moments later I rested in a complicated head lock, half under him. He tried to grab several vulnerable parts of my anatomy. I wrestled with his heavily muscled 190-pound frame.
"You caught me by surprise." I laughed and tipped him over. We tumbled to the floor. Instantly we jumped to our feet, circling each other warily.
I sidestepped his next lunge.
We grappled momentarily. He slipped. I slid and he was behind me, arms around my chest and stomach, attempting a bear hug. I felt his chin on my shoulder, his bristly cheek against my neck.
We faced the picture window. I watched a car turn and enter the driveway. "There's somebody coming," I said.
"You won't get out of this that easily," he said.
"Seriously. A car's coming up the driveway." He relaxed his grip a moment to look. I dashed away.
"You rat," he said.
I pointed outside. A huge black Buick slowly maneuvered up the fifty-foot drive. "It's a priest with a couple of passengers, I think."
"Somebody soliciting donations?" Scott asked.
"You don't send priests out on Saturday afternoons in black Buicks to make door-to-door pleas for cash." I tried to see what the priest looked like or to catch a glimpse of the passengers, but they moved up the driveway out of view.
Moments later the doorbell rang. We hurried to answer.
Of the people who stood on my porch I recognized only one, Neil Spirakos, one of the reigning queens of Chicago gaydom.
I live in a farmhouse in the middle of one of the last cornfieldsin southwestern Cook County. The subdivisions creep closer every year. Soon I'll want to sell. I like the quiet. A visit to the suburbs by Neil Spirakos was a major event.
Within minutes five of us sat in my living room. As Neil explained the reason for their visit, I observed our guests. Neil had stuffed his overweight body into a rocking chair. He wore designer jeans, inappropriately tight on the contours of his lower torso, along with a brightly checked turtleneck sweater that clung to his rolls of fat.
Scott and I sat on the couch. In the wing chair on my left sat a pale and sweating priest dressed in black except for his Roman collar, which he tugged at in sporadic bursts. Moments before, I'd shaken his cold, flabby hand: Father David Larkin. Every few minutes during our conversation he'd pull out a comb and run it through his rapidly thinning hair. No matter how many times he did it, he couldn't cover the fact that the remaining long strands wouldn't be sufficient for long to keep his pate hidden.
In the wing chair to the right sat an elegantly dressed woman with dark hair and fair, pale skin. I have a fashion sense just above that of a learning-disabled snail, but even I could tell without looking at the labels that she got her clothes from exclusive boutiques in New York, Paris, and Rome, plus whatever doodads she picked up on Oak Street in Chicago. Taking off a red coat with black collar and matching black leather gloves, she'd revealed a red knit dress and a black scarf with swirls of spidery red in it draped around her throat. A pair of black leather boots and a small black shoulder purse completed the outfit. From this last she extracted a silver cigarette case and a cigarette holder. On her, this wasn't an affectation. She carried it off with grace and humor. Her sultry "May I?" and lifted eyebrow sent me for an ashtray. I am not one of those radicals who refuses to permit smoking in my house or presence. In my pre-Scott days I liked kissing a man with the smell of cigarettes on his breath.
Neil had introduced the woman as Monica Verlaine. I knewher by reputation as one of the richest women in Chicago, owner of a chain of gay newspapers in large cities across the country. The most visible, prominent, and powerful lesbian in America.
"Murder," Neil said, finishing the explanation he'd begun five minutes earlier.
The priest pulled out a gleaming white hanky and mopped his upper lip and the fold of his double chin. "I don't believe someone would kill him," he said.
Monica took a short drag from her cigarette, dipped an ash into the nearby ashtray, and watched Neil placidly.
"You have proof for that charge?" I said to Neil.
Neil slammed his fist on the rocker arm. It creaked dangerously in response. "No. The fucking police and the fucking Catholic Church pulled a fast one."
"Please," the priest said.
"Sorry for the language, Father," Neil said. He neither sounded nor looked contrite.
The priest leaned forward in his chair and waved away the apology. "We have no proof it was murder. And while I would never defy or accuse my superiors, there is a moral obligation for the truth to come out." He subsided. Out came the comb.
With cool aplomb Monica reduced Neil's overly dramatic explanation to the basics. She told us that Father Victor Sebastian, fifty-one years old, had been found dead in the sacristy half an hour after the Sunday evening Faith Mass. The police had been called. Chancery officials had shown up. Father Victor Sebastian had been involved in Faith since 1972, when it began sponsoring a mass in Chicago for gay Catholics.
Faith used to be the main gay Catholic organization. I knew they'd had rough times in recent years--internal dissension and fights with the Vatican--but I knew little of the politics of the situation.
Monica explained. "Father Sebastian always spoke for moderation and conciliation. Yet each time the group took a more radical stance, he came with us. When we split up, we didn'tthink he'd stay." She described him as kind, gentle, and unassuming.
"One of the few actually goddam Christian people in the fucking Catholic Church." Neil said this with no apology to the priest. "Some bastard killed the only good priest in the whole fucking diocese." Another smack on the rocker arm. I winced.
Monica continued the explanation. What little inside information they'd managed to obtain led them to believe the police had done only a perfunctory check. Barely looked for fingerprints, just took a few pictures. The paper said it was a heart attack. "I finally managed to get through to a source in the chancery this...
