bony hand in his lap and stared at me
with his thousand-mile eyes.
"You can go now," he said. "I’m
tired of this conversation."
I went back down the drive to where I’d parked the
Pinto, got in, and sat there for a time, thinking about Del
Cavanaugh, his cattiness, his bitterness, his misery. The image of
his illness was horrible and depressing. It had depressed me, and I
didn’t know or like him. For Greenleaf it had probably been an
ordeal. He feared the disease that Cavanaugh was dying from,
according to Cindy Dorn. Whether that fear in combination with what
it had done to his ex-lover was enough to untrack him, I didn’t
know. I was certain that Cavanaugh was capable of playing upon that
fear and the guilt that it inspired—and probably had. Cavanaugh’s
own interpretation of Greenleaf ’s motives didn’t impress me. He
had blamed the suicide on Greenleaf ’s choice of lifestyle, which
was tantamount to blaming it on his decision to forsake Cavanaugh and
live as a straight with Cindy Dorn. It was a savage, self-serving
judgment, especially considering the fate that Cavanaugh’s own
lifestyle had brought him to. Moreover, if it was as simple as
that—if Greenleaf had killed himself because he was a homosexual
trying to be something that he wasn’t—then I didn’t see any
difference between Cavanaugh’s reasoning and that of the cops: just
another fag suicide.
At least, I’d confirmed the fact that Greenleaf had
paid the man a visit for the first time in years, possibly on the
same day he had dropped out of his ordinary routine into the limbo
that led to the Washington Hotel. Since the visit with Del Cavanaugh
had followed hard upon the company Greenleaf had had the previous
night, it was reasonable to suspect that whomever he’d sat on his
porch drinking with, late Wednesday night, was the mutual friend that
Cavanaugh said had told him about Del’s illness. Which pretty much
left me where I’d started. Looking for the man who drank Scotch.
I didn’t have the stomach to go back into that
garden and ask Cavanaugh for a name, so I started up the car and
headed downtown, to where I should have gone in the first place, Ira
Sullivan’s law offices in the Dixie Terminal.
9
IRA Sullivan’s office was on the tenth floor of the
Dixie, on the south side of the building, facing the river. Through
the large fan-topped windows in the anteroom, I could see the stadium
and, beyond it, coal barges cutting downriver in a swath of foam. The
anteroom was antiseptic white. White carpet, furniture. The only
color in the place came from the view through the window and the few
delicate watercolors posted on the walls.
Sullivan’s secretary, a goggle-eyed woman with
blotchy skin and a taffy pull of bright red hair, asked my name,
buzzed Sullivan, then spent the next few minutes chatting me up while
we waited for Sullivan to come out of his office.
"He’s been in a funk all week," she told
me, pecking desultorily at a computer console. "A good friend of
his died, and he took it very hard."
"That’s why I’ve come to talk to him."
"You knew Mr. Greenleaf?" the woman said,
arching an eyebrow with surprise, as if, to be honest, I didn’t
look the type.
"I didn’t know him. I’m working for a friend
of his, Cindy Dorn."
Removing a pair of headphones from her ears and
draping them like a choker around her neck, the woman leaned
conspiratorially across her desk. "Mr. Sullivan really saved Mr.
Greenleaf ’s bacon a few years ago. He had big problems. Big,"
the woman said, dividing her hands for emphasis.
"I heard he was charged with solicitation."
"You didn’t hear the half of it. They were
ready to throw away the key until Mr. Sullivan stepped in." The
woman cocked an elbow on her desk and rested her chin on it,
gesturing with her free hand just as if we were cutting recipes
across the kitchen table. "You know I’m not a bleeding heart.
But I will tell you for a fact that it is a crying shame the way
with his thousand-mile eyes.
"You can go now," he said. "I’m
tired of this conversation."
I went back down the drive to where I’d parked the
Pinto, got in, and sat there for a time, thinking about Del
Cavanaugh, his cattiness, his bitterness, his misery. The image of
his illness was horrible and depressing. It had depressed me, and I
didn’t know or like him. For Greenleaf it had probably been an
ordeal. He feared the disease that Cavanaugh was dying from,
according to Cindy Dorn. Whether that fear in combination with what
it had done to his ex-lover was enough to untrack him, I didn’t
know. I was certain that Cavanaugh was capable of playing upon that
fear and the guilt that it inspired—and probably had. Cavanaugh’s
own interpretation of Greenleaf ’s motives didn’t impress me. He
had blamed the suicide on Greenleaf ’s choice of lifestyle, which
was tantamount to blaming it on his decision to forsake Cavanaugh and
live as a straight with Cindy Dorn. It was a savage, self-serving
judgment, especially considering the fate that Cavanaugh’s own
lifestyle had brought him to. Moreover, if it was as simple as
that—if Greenleaf had killed himself because he was a homosexual
trying to be something that he wasn’t—then I didn’t see any
difference between Cavanaugh’s reasoning and that of the cops: just
another fag suicide.
At least, I’d confirmed the fact that Greenleaf had
paid the man a visit for the first time in years, possibly on the
same day he had dropped out of his ordinary routine into the limbo
that led to the Washington Hotel. Since the visit with Del Cavanaugh
had followed hard upon the company Greenleaf had had the previous
night, it was reasonable to suspect that whomever he’d sat on his
porch drinking with, late Wednesday night, was the mutual friend that
Cavanaugh said had told him about Del’s illness. Which pretty much
left me where I’d started. Looking for the man who drank Scotch.
I didn’t have the stomach to go back into that
garden and ask Cavanaugh for a name, so I started up the car and
headed downtown, to where I should have gone in the first place, Ira
Sullivan’s law offices in the Dixie Terminal.
9
IRA Sullivan’s office was on the tenth floor of the
Dixie, on the south side of the building, facing the river. Through
the large fan-topped windows in the anteroom, I could see the stadium
and, beyond it, coal barges cutting downriver in a swath of foam. The
anteroom was antiseptic white. White carpet, furniture. The only
color in the place came from the view through the window and the few
delicate watercolors posted on the walls.
Sullivan’s secretary, a goggle-eyed woman with
blotchy skin and a taffy pull of bright red hair, asked my name,
buzzed Sullivan, then spent the next few minutes chatting me up while
we waited for Sullivan to come out of his office.
"He’s been in a funk all week," she told
me, pecking desultorily at a computer console. "A good friend of
his died, and he took it very hard."
"That’s why I’ve come to talk to him."
"You knew Mr. Greenleaf?" the woman said,
arching an eyebrow with surprise, as if, to be honest, I didn’t
look the type.
"I didn’t know him. I’m working for a friend
of his, Cindy Dorn."
Removing a pair of headphones from her ears and
draping them like a choker around her neck, the woman leaned
conspiratorially across her desk. "Mr. Sullivan really saved Mr.
Greenleaf ’s bacon a few years ago. He had big problems. Big,"
the woman said, dividing her hands for emphasis.
"I heard he was charged with solicitation."
"You didn’t hear the half of it. They were
ready to throw away the key until Mr. Sullivan stepped in." The
woman cocked an elbow on her desk and rested her chin on it,
gesturing with her free hand just as if we were cutting recipes
across the kitchen table. "You know I’m not a bleeding heart.
But I will tell you for a fact that it is a crying shame the way
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