Read Online The Man Everybody Was Afraid Of by Joseph Hansen - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Joseph Hansen
Tags: Suspense
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the time, bills and payments, kids that turn out to be junkies and whores and car thieves. They got to think somebody is more miserable than they are. Or happier. That’s worse. Gays can’t do nothing right. Come out or hide—it don’t change nothing. They’ll always hate us. Or envy us. Or pity us. Take your choice.”
“Every penny from where?” Dave asked.
“ Qué? Oh—a boutique. Potted plants. Near a big hospital, so it did good. But if I didn’t hide half what we took in—put it in a separate bank Cliff didn’t know nothing about—we’d have been out on our nalgas. Then I heard about this place—for sale cheap because it was run down. I drove up. Last July, weekend of the parade. It looked great to me. I told Cliff, ‘Either we take it or it’s over between us.’” Gloomily Rodriguez dumped the rest of the beer from his bottle into the fancy glass. “So, it’s all my fault. I should never have—”
“It’s someone else’s fault,” Dave said. “What parade?”
“You know, man. Gay Pride Week? Every year. To celebrate 1969 when those drag queens threw their purses at the New York police. Cliff was always in that parade up to his ano. But why celebrate drag queens? They spend their whole life celebrating. They don’t do nothing but make the rest of us look bad.” Rodriguez shook his head and smiled scornfully. “Gay pride! What does that mean, man?”
“Two strips of flocked wallpaper?” Dave said.
“Yeah. Shit.” Surprisingly, Rodriguez started to laugh. “He had the bucket of paste. The paper was rolled out on the floor facedown. He was on his knees, brushing paste on the back when they came in. No knock, no nothing. Three big ones. He jumped up and said what is this or something. And they said he killed Ben Orton, and Cliff slopped the brush in the paste and painted the first cop. Right from the top down.” Rodriguez wiped his eyes. “Wow, that cop looked funny. Like some old movie, you know? One big, long stroke of the brush.”
“Getting on their good side from the start,” Dave said.
“Man, there is no way to get on their good side.” Leftover laughter jerked the smooth brown chest, made the shoulders jump. Rodriguez hiccupped but he meant what he said and he said it grimly. “I told them he was here all day with me. Told them and told them. They don’t care.”
“You’re going to have to tell them something better.”
“I did. They don’t care about that neither. The district attorney—he don’t care about it. Even dead, this is still Ben Orton’s town. Everyone is in his pocket. Judges too. You don’t think Cliff can get a fair trial, do you?” Mouth clamped in bitterness, Rodriguez reached to twist out his cigarette in an abalone-shell ashtray on the table. “Daisy Flynn knew Cliff, interviewed him twice on TV. I told her. She don’t care, neither. Puta .”
“Told her what?” Dave got out of the canvas chair to use the ashtray. “That you know who killed Orton?”
“Why do you care?” Rodriguez asked suddenly.
“It’s a matter of seventy-five thousand dollars.”
“Money.” Rodriguez looked pained. “Don’t you care about justice? Don’t you care about Cliff?”
“I care that he didn’t kill Ben Orton. I care that he was set up for it. I’d care to know who set him up because the odds are good that if I knew that I’d know who killed Ben Orton. If it was his wife or his son, I’d care deeply. Was it his wife or his son?”
“It was Richard T. Nowell,” Rodriguez said.
8
R ICHARD T. NOWELL SAID , “They get overexcited.” The hand-loomed jacket he’d worn in that snatch of film Dave had seen at KSDC-TV hung in some closet now. He had on only swim trunks. His spare, tanned body didn’t show his age. Neither did his hair, which had been to that high-priced barber again. It was gray but it grew thick and healthy. What showed his age were his eyes, hard, bright, and wary—eyes that had seen too much and doubted most of it.
“Every penny from where?” Dave asked.
“ Qué? Oh—a boutique. Potted plants. Near a big hospital, so it did good. But if I didn’t hide half what we took in—put it in a separate bank Cliff didn’t know nothing about—we’d have been out on our nalgas. Then I heard about this place—for sale cheap because it was run down. I drove up. Last July, weekend of the parade. It looked great to me. I told Cliff, ‘Either we take it or it’s over between us.’” Gloomily Rodriguez dumped the rest of the beer from his bottle into the fancy glass. “So, it’s all my fault. I should never have—”
“It’s someone else’s fault,” Dave said. “What parade?”
“You know, man. Gay Pride Week? Every year. To celebrate 1969 when those drag queens threw their purses at the New York police. Cliff was always in that parade up to his ano. But why celebrate drag queens? They spend their whole life celebrating. They don’t do nothing but make the rest of us look bad.” Rodriguez shook his head and smiled scornfully. “Gay pride! What does that mean, man?”
“Two strips of flocked wallpaper?” Dave said.
“Yeah. Shit.” Surprisingly, Rodriguez started to laugh. “He had the bucket of paste. The paper was rolled out on the floor facedown. He was on his knees, brushing paste on the back when they came in. No knock, no nothing. Three big ones. He jumped up and said what is this or something. And they said he killed Ben Orton, and Cliff slopped the brush in the paste and painted the first cop. Right from the top down.” Rodriguez wiped his eyes. “Wow, that cop looked funny. Like some old movie, you know? One big, long stroke of the brush.”
“Getting on their good side from the start,” Dave said.
“Man, there is no way to get on their good side.” Leftover laughter jerked the smooth brown chest, made the shoulders jump. Rodriguez hiccupped but he meant what he said and he said it grimly. “I told them he was here all day with me. Told them and told them. They don’t care.”
“You’re going to have to tell them something better.”
“I did. They don’t care about that neither. The district attorney—he don’t care about it. Even dead, this is still Ben Orton’s town. Everyone is in his pocket. Judges too. You don’t think Cliff can get a fair trial, do you?” Mouth clamped in bitterness, Rodriguez reached to twist out his cigarette in an abalone-shell ashtray on the table. “Daisy Flynn knew Cliff, interviewed him twice on TV. I told her. She don’t care, neither. Puta .”
“Told her what?” Dave got out of the canvas chair to use the ashtray. “That you know who killed Orton?”
“Why do you care?” Rodriguez asked suddenly.
“It’s a matter of seventy-five thousand dollars.”
“Money.” Rodriguez looked pained. “Don’t you care about justice? Don’t you care about Cliff?”
“I care that he didn’t kill Ben Orton. I care that he was set up for it. I’d care to know who set him up because the odds are good that if I knew that I’d know who killed Ben Orton. If it was his wife or his son, I’d care deeply. Was it his wife or his son?”
“It was Richard T. Nowell,” Rodriguez said.
8
R ICHARD T. NOWELL SAID , “They get overexcited.” The hand-loomed jacket he’d worn in that snatch of film Dave had seen at KSDC-TV hung in some closet now. He had on only swim trunks. His spare, tanned body didn’t show his age. Neither did his hair, which had been to that high-priced barber again. It was gray but it grew thick and healthy. What showed his age were his eyes, hard, bright, and wary—eyes that had seen too much and doubted most of it.
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