I phoned Mr. and Mrs. Trask. Dad said keep the kid. Mom wanted to calm down a bit yet. She asked whether we'd keep him a while longer.
After my tutoring group left, I got hold of Frank Murphy at the police station. He listened to all I told him. He said he'd check it out, but he told me whatever I had was speculative and circumstantial, although if I wanted, he'd arrest Montini for trying to run us off the road. I didn't want that for now. I let it go.
I was late for meeting Scott and Jeff, so I hurried to my classroom for my coat. They stood in the doorway.
Scott said, “Instead of letting the car run, I thought we'd meet you here.”
“I'd like to talk to Paul Conlan before we go,” I said. We walked down to the gym. They stayed in the hall while I stood inside the doors waiting for a pause in movement. The basketball team ran plays, shouting and calling encouragement to each other. Montini caught my eye and turned his back. With that, instead of waiting, I marched across the floor and told him I needed to see Paul. While he hesitated, I beckoned Paul over. I told the boy what I wanted. He looked to Montini for approval.
With a snarl, Pete said, “Who gives a shit?” and walked away.
In his faded orange practice uniform, dripping sweat and breathing hard, Paul followed me into the hallway. The two boys nodded coolly at each other.
“Paul,” I said, “I wanted to ask a few more questions about your party.”
He pointed at Jeff. “Ask him. He was there. The cops questioned
me. They said I didn't do anything wrong. I'm in the clear.”
Jeff said, “Come on, Paul. You've got to help me. I didn't kill Susan. Mr. Mason might be able to find who did it. Why won't you talk to him?”
“He's just a schoolteacher. He can't do anything.”
“Paul, we were buddies. I need help,” Jeff said. The sounds of slapping basketballs and running feet echoed around the plaintiveness of Jeff's plea.
“You may have needed my friendship,” Paul said, “but I was never a buddy of yours. You hung around like a wimp. You were never really one of the guys.”
“What happened since we last talked?” I asked. I would never have expected such cruelty from Paul Conlan. Whenever I'd seen him around school, he was always the big-deal athlete but with plenty of time to be generous to the adoring hordes. He'd managed to pull this off without seeming condescending or phony. Now his face showed anger and hate, and yet underneath I thought I detected a note of fear.
Paul said, “All of you stay away from me. I don't need this murder shit to screw up my chances for college and a pro career. I've got a chance to go to a top-rated school. Leave me out of this. Leave me alone.”
Jeff quivered with anger. “You bastard,” he said. “All the times I trusted you. All the dreams we had about our futures.”
“Forget it,” Paul interrupted. “That was kid stuff. I got nothing to say about the party or anything else. I have to get back to practice.” He yanked open the gym door and left us.
“He's not like that,” Jeff said. Tears waited at the edges of his eyes. “He didn't mean that stuff. He's scared.”
“Of what?”
“I don't know,” he said.
I wondered what had hardened Paul's attitude since I'd talked to him last.
Outside, the early evening was clear and very cold. No wind
blew. They predicted another record cold night. The announcer for WFMT informed us that the high temperature for the day had been seven below. We drove my Chevette because it had a backseat.
We went to my place to work out. With bits and scraps of extra weights, we found enough to set up Jeff. He got tired first and went upstairs to take a shower. Scott and I finished at the same time. While he showered, I turned on the evening news. The lead story: The Chicago City Council passed the Gay Rights Ordinance after thirteen years. I wanted to go to town and go out for at least one drink to celebrate. I mentioned it to Scott as I got dressed. We decided that it was as reasonable to have Jeff stay at Scott's apartment as it was to have him stay at my place. Jeff thought it was great. He'd get to see where the famous baseball star Scott Carpenter lived.
The passage of the Gay Rights Ordinance had the usual to do with making it as palatable as possible to the religious bigots by adding a smorgasbord of discriminated-against groups, and then tailoring it so that the religious bigots wouldn't have to obey it. And if a huge chunk of the aldermen hadn't been running for mayor in the special mayoral election, it still probably wouldn't have passed. I guess we aren't supposed to question the motives of our straight friends when they condescend to give us what should have been ours years before. Nonetheless, I'd worked on committees to get the damn thing passed, and I did feel good about it.
First, we stopped for dinner at Lawry's the Prime Rib. The amount of trouble we have with Scott's fame when we go out varies. When we first met, he was hesitant about being seen out with a guy. That much of a closet, I refused to accept. He's gotten much better about that over the years. However, as his fame has grown, so have the hassles. We go out less busy days of the week and at an hour when restaurants aren't likely to be crowded. Sometimes, we've been in the middle of vast crowds on the lakefront and haven't been recognized,
and yet in the most intimate and expensive restaurants, we've been forced to leave because of obnoxious patrons. This night, because of the weather, the restaurant wasn't crowded. Except for one waitress, whom Scott signed an autograph for, we had a quiet meal.
At Lawry's, they've got three entrées on their dinner menu: thin, medium, or thick-cut prime rib. Here's a tip. Order the end cut. Eating it is almost better than sex. While we ate, Jeff satisfied more of his curiosity about the life of a professional sports player. They'd obviously already discussed a great deal during the day. Jeff returned several times to the subject of the World Series three years ago. Scott's fifth-game no-hitter was a phenomenal work of art. His seventh-game no-hitter was a thing of beauty, as well as being the highest-rated TV show ever.
After dessert and over coffee, I said, “I've got a few more questions about Sunday, Jeff.”
He squirmed slightly but looked cooperative.
“First, I want to know how everybody got along with each other,” I said.
“Okay. Becky pretty much runs things. She's got a mean mouth. Even Paul's a little afraid of her, I think. She makes plans for the group. If she wants to go to a movie, then we all go to a movie. If you disagree, she cuts you off, you're nothing, and the group goes along with her. Doris and Roger are basically an audience for her. Eric hung around mostly, I think, because he and Paul were teammates and sitting at home bored Eric. Paul and him are good friends.”
“What about drugs and alcohol at the parties?”
“Kids drank.” He did a more pronounced squirm. “And we did some drugs. Almost always pot. Once or twice, we did coke. I did a couple lines once.” He stared at his hands as they smoothed the tablecloth.
“Who brought the drugs?”
“Every time I saw, it was Becky, although Paul usually rolled the joints or cut the lines.”
Maybe Paul the saint had a few more flaws. I asked, “Did you ever buy any?”
“Once in a while, some of us would chip in for a little extra. Usually not, though. Nobody mentioned money much at all. We always had enough drugs. It wasn't a big deal. Nobody was an addict or anything.”
Teenage whine and defensiveness had crept into his tone. I asked, “Do you know why Paul cut you off so badly today?”
“No.” He shook his head miserably. “I thought he was my friend.”
“He was the last one to see the two of you together. When I talked to him, I thought he might be hiding something.”
Jeff defended his friend. “He's not like that. He's a good guy. I don't have a lot of close friends. I'm pretty quiet. I don't like to do stuff.”
“He told me that.”
“It's true. I'd rather sit home. Lots of times, Susan and me would go to her house and baby-sit her little brother and sister and watch TV. Especially lately, she wanted to go and do stuff.”
“Was she different in any other way recently?”
He thought a moment. “Not that I noticed.”
“About Paul, then.”
He fiddled with a spoon and fork left from dinner. “We're buddies. He's a good teammate. He could get us to do better in a game even more than Coach could. Everybody likes him. He's great to be around when it's him and me and just the guys. When Becky's around, it's awful.”
Scott said, “After this is over, maybe you and Paul can patch things up.” Jeff nodded hopefully.
I asked, “Do you know anything about teachers buying drugs?” I mentioned several names.
“I heard they did. All of us in the group talked about it.”
“Did you ever actually see them buying?”
He shook his head.
“Which ones were there rumors about?”
“The ones you said.” As Eric had, he added a few younger teachers I only knew as names on faculty lists.
“Okay. Now tell me about Paul and Coach Montini.”
College recruiters had been drooling all over Paul, Jeff told us. They came from all over. Paul and Coach Montini had meetings about it all the time. Montini had pushed Paul a lot this year. As Paul said in the hallway, he really had his heart set on a pro career. He wanted to get into a big school. He talked about it all the time. Paul attended summer athletic camps, did extra workouts, everything.
I didn't see how that information would help. I switched topics. “Was Susan connected with the drugs? Selling, carrying, delivering?”
“Not that I saw or knew about.”
“Who would want to kill her?”
“I don't know.”
Scott said, “What I don't get in this whole thing is, why isn't Becky Twitchell dead? Almost everybody hates her. Everything I've heard about her is negative. She's part of the drug connection. Why is she the center of everything yet taking none of the consequences of her behavior?”
“I don't know.” Jeff shrugged. “Partly because she dates Paul, and everybody likes him. He's great, cool, fun to be around, always knows what to say or do.”
At Scott's, we installed Jeff in front of the forty-inch stereo television. The kid spent most of the time while we were there with his mouth gaping open. I guess I'm used to it. Scott's place is done in several basic styles. The living room has dark wooden chairs and sofas covered with soft cushions. A bright white rug and floor-to-ceiling windows make it airy and bright. One wall has a cabinet with his three Cy Young Awards, M.V.P. trophies, a baseball autographed by the 1927 Yankees, framed newspaper clippings from the highlights of his career, and other souvenirs he's amassed over the years. The paintings on the walls at opposite ends of the room are of rural scenes, each over ten
feet by ten. The one on the east wall has two youths about thirteen fishing in a quiet eddy of a river just after dawn. You can feel the haze and warmth of a summer morning and the closeness of the friendships of youth. On the west wall, two boys, perhaps fifteen years old, walk down a dirt road between fields of wheatâbaseball, bat, and gloves in hand. Long shadows follow them as they move into a red-orange-gold sunset. At the far horizon there is a glimpse of a summer storm.
In the electronics room, where we left Jeff, were stereos, CD players, tape players, Nintendo games, computers, printers. If it existed electronically, it was probably in this room. Scott had filled the room with reclining chairs, easy chairs, bean-bag chairs, and rocking chairs.
First, we stopped to see Neil. He muttered and swore at great length. He'd been working for the Gay Rights Ordinance since 1972, when it was less than a twinkle in a queen's dream. He wanted to be out partying and celebrating. The doctor wouldn't let him leave for another day or two. His cronies from the local gay organizations had been by to cheer him up but had left to pursue more convivial surroundings. He groused at the lack of liquor. I pulled a champagne bottle from beneath my coat.
“I thought this might be necessary,” I said, and presented it to him. We drank a glass or two with him. Scott promised to return with him after Christmas to visit the people with AIDS in the hospital. Early on, Scott had added visiting people with AIDS in hospitals to his schedule. Scott's done a huge number of benefits for all kinds of hospital groups. He brings in the crowds. His first priority nowadays are the requests that come in for AIDS benefits.
An hour later, we lounged comfortably in Bruce's Halfway There Bar, our hands wrapped around cups of hot coffee. It was too cold for beer. We'd left an unhappy Neil to his TV set.
Bruce's was a quiet gay bar, one of the few Scott felt comfortable in. It sat between two aged apartment buildings on
North Avenue, a block west of Wells Street. Housed in a building that might have been built the day after the Chicago fire, its main virtues were quiet and discretion. Inside, Scott was unlikely to be recognized, or if he was, the gray-suited clientele was far too discreet to notice. In this bar, even the screaming queens became whispering princesses. It was also only a short walk from there to his place.