the
police department and the district attorney’s office harass certain
people."
As she said this, Ira Sullivan popped his swart face
around the corner, making the woman jump. "What’re you
gossiping about, Cherie?"
Flushing pink, the woman replaced the dictation
headphones on her ears and began typing a mile a minute.
Sullivan clucked his tongue ruefully. "You’re
a shameless washerwoman, you know that?" The secretary pretended
not to hear him. I’d forgotten how tall and ungainly the man was.
Even in a blue pinstripe he looked weird and wroth, with his
down-turned mouth and upturned hair and electrified eyes.
"Mr. Stoner, let’s go on back to my office,"
he said to me.
Turning to the secretary, he added: "See if you
can manage to hold my calls and your tongue till I buzz you."
The woman nodded without looking up from her computer
screen.
"Look, I want you to understand something,"
Sullivan said, once we got out of Cherie’s earshot. "If I’d
had any idea that Mason’s disappearance would turn out so
tragically—well, there’s not a thing I wouldn’t have done to
help him. Not a thing. I want Cindy to know that, too. I tried to
tell her at the funeral, but I don’t know if she took my meaning.
We were all plenty distraught. After what that man went through, to
end up like he did, where he did." He shook his head sadly.
Sullivan’s office was at the end of the hall, a
large posh room, painted white like the reception area and accented
with modern canvases framed in brass. The one that took up the wall
above his liver-shaped desk was an O’Keeffe flower. Unlike most law
offices there were no bookshelves filled with case law. Just the big
canvases and, of course, the spectacular view through the picture
window.
Sullivan waited a moment—to let the luxe room work
on me—before sitting down behind his desk. "I don’t do much
court work anymore," he said, in case I’d missed the point.
"Just corporate stuff and a few favors for my friends."
I sat down across from him on an overstuffed chair
that gave beneath me like a down pillow. "I understand that you
represented Mason Greenleaf at one time."
Sullivan cocked his head and stared. "Before we
get into this, I’d like to know what your interest is in this
tragedy."
"Cindy’s dissatisfied with the police
investigation of Mason’s death. She feels they’ve done a cursory
job."
Sullivan laughed. "Our police department doing a
cursory job? Now, how is that possible? It isn’t as if Mason was a
nigger." He leaned back in his chair. "What would you say
he was, Mr. Stoner?"
He wanted me to use the word fag. Since he figured I
was thinking it, he wanted me to say it.
"Mason’s
bisexuality probably was a factor in the investigation," I
admitted.
"How could that be in this great land of ours‘?"
Sullivan said sarcastically. "The home of the brave?"
I wasn’t in the mood for a civics lesson from Ira
Sullivan. "We can weep about the state of society all day if you
want to. Or we can try to figure out why Mason Greenleaf killed
himself."
"You don’t think there’s a connection, huh?"
Sullivan said with a snort of disgust.
"I’m sure there is. But there are also
specific reasons for what happened. The man disappeared for five days
for no apparent reason, and then, drunk and injured, ended his life
in a rat trap hotel room. It was a miserable finish."
Sullivan looked away, out the blue window. He didn’t
say anything for quite a time, and when he iinally spoke, his voice
was heavy with emotion. "A man can take comfort in knowing who
he is, Mr. Stoner—even if he is despised for it. Mason was not
blessed with such understanding. He walked a line that no one can
walk for long. People try, of course. Lock themselves in unhappy
marriages or pointless relationships. But sooner or later what you
are comes back to haunt you."
"You’re saying he wasn’t happy with Cindy
Dorn?"
"No," he said, still staring out the
window. "I’m saying he wasn’t
police department and the district attorney’s office harass certain
people."
As she said this, Ira Sullivan popped his swart face
around the corner, making the woman jump. "What’re you
gossiping about, Cherie?"
Flushing pink, the woman replaced the dictation
headphones on her ears and began typing a mile a minute.
Sullivan clucked his tongue ruefully. "You’re
a shameless washerwoman, you know that?" The secretary pretended
not to hear him. I’d forgotten how tall and ungainly the man was.
Even in a blue pinstripe he looked weird and wroth, with his
down-turned mouth and upturned hair and electrified eyes.
"Mr. Stoner, let’s go on back to my office,"
he said to me.
Turning to the secretary, he added: "See if you
can manage to hold my calls and your tongue till I buzz you."
The woman nodded without looking up from her computer
screen.
"Look, I want you to understand something,"
Sullivan said, once we got out of Cherie’s earshot. "If I’d
had any idea that Mason’s disappearance would turn out so
tragically—well, there’s not a thing I wouldn’t have done to
help him. Not a thing. I want Cindy to know that, too. I tried to
tell her at the funeral, but I don’t know if she took my meaning.
We were all plenty distraught. After what that man went through, to
end up like he did, where he did." He shook his head sadly.
Sullivan’s office was at the end of the hall, a
large posh room, painted white like the reception area and accented
with modern canvases framed in brass. The one that took up the wall
above his liver-shaped desk was an O’Keeffe flower. Unlike most law
offices there were no bookshelves filled with case law. Just the big
canvases and, of course, the spectacular view through the picture
window.
Sullivan waited a moment—to let the luxe room work
on me—before sitting down behind his desk. "I don’t do much
court work anymore," he said, in case I’d missed the point.
"Just corporate stuff and a few favors for my friends."
I sat down across from him on an overstuffed chair
that gave beneath me like a down pillow. "I understand that you
represented Mason Greenleaf at one time."
Sullivan cocked his head and stared. "Before we
get into this, I’d like to know what your interest is in this
tragedy."
"Cindy’s dissatisfied with the police
investigation of Mason’s death. She feels they’ve done a cursory
job."
Sullivan laughed. "Our police department doing a
cursory job? Now, how is that possible? It isn’t as if Mason was a
nigger." He leaned back in his chair. "What would you say
he was, Mr. Stoner?"
He wanted me to use the word fag. Since he figured I
was thinking it, he wanted me to say it.
"Mason’s
bisexuality probably was a factor in the investigation," I
admitted.
"How could that be in this great land of ours‘?"
Sullivan said sarcastically. "The home of the brave?"
I wasn’t in the mood for a civics lesson from Ira
Sullivan. "We can weep about the state of society all day if you
want to. Or we can try to figure out why Mason Greenleaf killed
himself."
"You don’t think there’s a connection, huh?"
Sullivan said with a snort of disgust.
"I’m sure there is. But there are also
specific reasons for what happened. The man disappeared for five days
for no apparent reason, and then, drunk and injured, ended his life
in a rat trap hotel room. It was a miserable finish."
Sullivan looked away, out the blue window. He didn’t
say anything for quite a time, and when he iinally spoke, his voice
was heavy with emotion. "A man can take comfort in knowing who
he is, Mr. Stoner—even if he is despised for it. Mason was not
blessed with such understanding. He walked a line that no one can
walk for long. People try, of course. Lock themselves in unhappy
marriages or pointless relationships. But sooner or later what you
are comes back to haunt you."
"You’re saying he wasn’t happy with Cindy
Dorn?"
"No," he said, still staring out the
window. "I’m saying he wasn’t
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