Outburst (14 page)

“It's me, Todd.”

“Hey, you old closet queen, how are you? Long time no gab,” he said over the blare of Barbra Streisand.

“I take it I didn't wake you up?”

“Oh, heavens no,” said the bank teller by day and drag queen by night.

“So what are you doing home tonight? I thought I'd get your machine.”

“I'm taking the night off. You know why? I'm getting sick of the straight people down there,” he said, referring to the mega-gay complex, the Gay Times, where he often performed. “I mean, what's going on? Have we, the oppressed, made too much progress, or what? I mean, we're talking about a drag show. We're talking about big old homos in beautiful gowns and tons of makeup. I mean, do you realize that eighty percent of the audience last night was straight, and—”

“Jeff,” interrupted Todd, knowing that he'd have to cut in at some point. “I need your help.”

“Sure, doll.”

“You told me once that all the bartenders know when Rawlins comes in to the Gay Times. Is that right?”

“Of course they do, and it's not because he's dreamy, it's because he's a cop. Trust me, the bartenders always try to know the cops and know when they come in.”

“Okay, then I have a favor to ask. Will you check on another cop for me, a guy by the name of Mark Forrest? Will you find out if he was in there recently? And with whom?”

“Why? Don't tell me you got trouble in paradise and you're looking for another hunk in blue?”

“I guess you haven't seen the news in the last couple of days. Mark Forrest was a park police officer, and he was murdered. He was also gay, and I'm trying to find out if he was dating anyone.”

“Oh, my God, I should start reading the papers again, shouldn't I? Listen, I'll do what I can. I'll get as much four-one-one as possible. Tomorrow soon enough?”

“Perfect.”

Todd gave him a few more details and then hung up. Still clutching the phone, he knew what he wanted to do next, whom he wanted to call, very much so. But should he? Dare he? And then, without another thought, he started dialing. Then stopped halfway through.

No, he wasn't going to give in. He wasn't going to call and check on Rawlins. He couldn't. Nope, he wasn't going to be the first one to break.

Averting that number, he dialed another.

A groggy voice answered on the fourth ring. “H-hello?”

“Oh, shit, Janice,” said Todd, for he'd completely forgotten the time. “I woke you up.”

“Oh, shit, Todd, you did.”

“I'm sorry.” Realizing how self-absorbed he'd been, he quickly added, “Listen, it can wait. I'll call you back tomorrow.”

“Forget it, Todd,” she said with a yawn. “I'm awake. What's … what's up?”

“Nothing, I …” Now it sounded stupid, sophomoric. “Oh, brother.”

“Oh, brother, what?”

“At dinner tonight was I … well, was I a jerk to Rawlins?”

“Why aren't you asking him?”

“Because I can't. We're not supposed to talk in anything but an official setting, remember?”

“Oh, right—police orders,” she said, stifling another yawn. “Well …”

She'd tell him, give it to him straight, of that he was sure, and Todd felt himself flinching, for of all the people in the world, Janice and her opinions mattered the most to him. It wasn't simply that they had dated back in college and that they now had a unique family bond that would forever unite them. And it wasn't simply that she was always honest. No, it was more the way she always delivered the truth, frankly but softly. Or rather she was always direct but encouraging. He relied on her for this—relied on her perhaps way too much. But she had a way of helping him through the muckier corners of his life, nurturing the better parts of him in a way no one else could. When he'd been deep in the closet, she'd been one of the few to know that he was gay and virtually the only queer person not to cast judgment.

“You know what I hate about gay men?” she said, the sound of her sheets crumpling in the background as she rolled over. “You think the words
gay
and
sex
mean one and the same thing.”

“Oh, we do, do we?” said Todd with a smile, for this was vintage Janice, wise and irreverent.

“Yes, you do. I mean, the whole world knows the power of testosterone, and I'm not knocking it, I'm really not. I mean,

There'd be a whole lot less Lesbian Bed Death if dykes could get a hit or two of it. But you guys think with your dicks, you know? Yet what does sex take up on a good day, fifteen minutes? On a great day, thirty?”

“Something like that.”

“But …” She yawned again. “But you're still gay the other twenty-three and a half hours, right?”

He'd often told her that she should have been a shrink instead of a lawyer, and he now ran his hand through his hair and said, “Yeah, of course, but, Janice—”

“That's my point—you're not gay simply because you have an orgasm with someone of the same sex. You and I and Rawlins and every other queer person are gay because our primary emotional relationships are with someone of the same sex. And let's face it, the best part of being in a relationship isn't just the sex, it's having someone to have breakfast with, go walking with, do the gardening with, and—”

“Janice, listen, I'm sorry I woke you up,” he interrupted, wondering where this late-night conversation was going. “Maybe we should talk tomorrow.”

“No, you asked a question and I'm going to tell you. You see, sometimes … sometimes you just have to stop thinking about yourself and whether you should've done this or that, whether you looked good or stupid. Or who was right or wrong. You gotta forget all that crap and just give and give and give. That's how you keep a relationship alive and healthy and happy, Todd. Sometimes you just have to forget all about being the top dog and you gotta bow to your partner and give with every bit of your heart. And then still keep giving.”

Staring out the balcony doors and finally seeing it all, he said, “I guess that means I was a jerk.”

“See, you're not so dense.”

A moment later it
was completely quiet, and Rawlins turned toward the open windows, stared into the dark, and tried to hear something, anything. There was the low, nearly continual hum of insects, a dog barking in the distance, and then … yes, there it was again. The sound of something moving ever so carefully, perhaps that of a shoe sliding through grass. Or was it just some sort of animal?

A couple of years ago Rawlins had come home quite late—he and another cop had been staking out a suspected crack house, to no avail—and he'd parked in the back, just as he'd done tonight, in the space alongside the garage. Exhausted and stiff, he'd climbed out of his car, clutching the jumbo cup of cold coffee he'd bought four hours earlier at a SuperAmerica gas station. Heading toward the vinyl city-issued garbage can, he saw that the lid was flipped open. Not thinking much about it, he threw in the entire cup, coffee and all. Immediately there was a childlike shriek, a scream so shrill that Rawlins had jumped a good six feet. So was this happening again, had the street-smart and pervasive raccoons of Minneapolis invaded the garbage?

In an instant Rawlins was on his feet, padding naked through the apartment, past the bathroom and to the back door. Scratching the dark hair of his chest, he looked down from the second floor and his eyes fell immediately to the garage, a sagging wood-frame structure surrounded by an out-of-control raspberry patch. Off to the side, visible in the light from a lamp in the alley, sat his car, a silver Ford Taurus. And between his vehicle and the garage stood the large black garbage container, now completely undisturbed. Rawlins looked about, searching the bushes that were thick with the junglelike leaves of a hot, humid midwestern summer. He then moved to the side and checked the wooden staircase that doubled back and forth down the rear of the old house to the backyard. Nothing.

Something off to the side caught his eye. Rawlins pulled back from the glass, but, yes, someone was out there—a man, none too big, slipping through his backyard. So was it just someone cutting through his yard, a neighbor taking a shortcut? No. Rawlins noted how the man was moving, slowly, carefully, and knew this wasn't right. Either this guy was scoping out his house, trying to discern an easy way to break in to the downstairs apartment, or…or … Wait, he was moving back toward the garage. What was he going for? Rawlins's car? There had been a rash of car robberies, where the windows were smashed in and radios ripped off. Or could the guy be going for the garage? In the past year there'd been a handful of garages torched, the work of some warped punk.

Whatever this guy was about to do wasn't good, that much was more than obvious, and Rawlins rushed back to his bedroom, pulled on his jeans, then went to his closet, where his shoulder holster hung. He took his gun, flipped open the barrel. Yes, fully loaded. Barefoot, he turned, started across the room, then froze. There was a different noise, this one more distinct, much closer … and definitely not from outside. Holy shit, thought Rawlins, with a shock of realization. Someone was in his apartment. What the hell was going on here; was he about to be hit from front and back?

It was all instinct. His years on the force clicked in, and he raised his gun, clasping it between both hands in a prayerlike grasp, and swept across the room as silently and effortlessly as a ballet dancer. He paused at his doorway, pressed himself against the door trim, and listened but could sense nothing. Holding himself perfectly still for what seemed like minutes but was only seconds, his breathing slowed to next to nothing even as his heart throbbed. Okay, you bastard, what the fuck are you doing in here and where the hell are you?

Rawlins moved his shoeless right foot an inch or two ahead, slipped forward, and peered around the doorjamb. There. Down the hall, through the kitchen and dining room, Rawlins saw a figure move. Rawlins couldn't tell if the guy was armed, but he was definitely coming this way, there was no doubt about that. Yes, and one of the maple floorboards creaked as the intruder boldly maneuvered from the living room, around the dining-room table, and toward the kitchen.

That's right, thought Rawlins, his finger tightening on the trigger. I don't know how the fuck you got in here, but come on. Come all the way. I'm waiting.

Rawlins slunk back in the doorway, surprised that the guy wasn't hesitating, wasn't checking out his color TV or CD player. And that fact alone sent a shiver of fear up Rawlins's spine. What the hell was this all about? Why would one guy be lurking in the backyard while another was brazenly moving through his apartment? Rawlins's mind whipped back through the cases he was working on, tried to think who might have put out a hit on him. And why.

The soft sound of rubber-soled shoes moving over linoleum reached Rawlins. The kitchen. Jesus, he thought. The guy obviously thought Rawlins was asleep, and he was making straight toward the bedroom.

Rawlins slunk away, pressing his naked back against the cool plaster wall. It was only a matter of seconds, a matter of moments, before the guy would round the corner and enter the room. But would he just slip in? Or would his entry be more dynamic? His heart pounding thick and hard, Rawlins raised his pistol, ready to fire away. And then it happened: Without hesitation the mysterious figure turned from the hallway and proceeded into the bedroom. In the spark of a second, Rawlins bolted out of the darkness.

“Freeze!”
he shouted as he flew forward.

Using all his weight and strength, Rawlins hurled himself against the other man, catching him totally unsuspecting. The intruder yelped and fell back with surprising ease, and Rawlins plowed forward, smashing the guy against the other wall and jabbing his pistol against the guy's temple.

“Jesus Christ!” cried the man.

Rawlins had lusted after that voice, had caressed that body, and in horror he demanded, “Todd?”

“Rawlins … what the hell are … are …”

“Oh, shit!” Rawlins jerked away nearly as quickly as he had first seized Todd. “What the fuck are you doing sneaking in here? I could've killed you!”

Todd's eyes were large and shocked, and he started to say something, stopped, then said, “I wanted to apologize and … and I was afraid if…if I called you wouldn't answer. So I just came over. I know I'm not supposed to see you, but I have a key, you know.”

Of course. More than once Todd had come home late from work, entering not this apartment but his condo, slipping quietly about, undressing, and then crawling in bed with Rawlins, who was already asleep. And that apparently was exactly what he'd been planning and hoping to do here.

But, thought Rawlins. “Who's that other guy?”

“What other guy?”

“The one in the backyard.”

“The hell you talking about?”

This wasn't adding up, not by any means. Not wasting a moment, Rawlins, still clutching his gun, abandoned Todd and rushed out of the bedroom and down the short hall. He hurried up to the window in the back door and looked down. The figure obviously hadn't heard Rawlins shout and was now disappearing around the side of the garage. Clutching his gun and still wearing only his jeans, Rawlins ripped open the door and burst out. Taking the old wooden steps two at a time, he raced downward, leapt onto the grass, and tore across the yard.