Goodbye to Beekman Place
Sample Chapters
Prologue
The Night in Question
I’m not one of those alcoholics who defends himself by saying “I can quit whenever I want.” Let me make this perfectly clear: I have absolutely no desire to stop drinking. I know its bad for my health, but I’ve always been a functional drunk, much stronger than the weepy, self-loathing victims at AA meetings. Drinking has not ruined my life, nor am I Nicholas Cage from Leaving Las Vegas. I’m at my best with a good whiskey buzz, and as far as the city gay scene is concerned, I’m just one of the boys.
Quite frankly, I need to drink. I don’t feel like a man without it. Alcohol does more than just lower my inhibitions: it excites me and brings me to life, allowing the same clarity for the day that I have in the night. I don’t know many gay men with the courage to face their full potential. Mine may be liquid courage, but at least I’m able to admit that.
You know, if it weren’t for liquid courage, I never would have noticed the elevator in the Beekman Place lobby...
Peoria, Illinois
1919
The hissing cat stood in the center of the elevator doors, back arched, tail curled forward, front paw poised as though ready to strike. Its body was a stylized silhouette, a featureless insignia void of specific detail, but clear in both its shape and stance. The cat had been created to fit perfectly within a circle, two pieces that came together to form a designer’s logo when the doors were fully closed.
In the lobby beyond the elevator, a New Year’s gala was in full swing. The dance floor swirled with black tuxedos, white collars, feathered headbands, and beaded dresses. Waiters carried trays on their fingertips. Ladies smiled devilishly as men gripped their shoulders, pulling them in close. It was a night to remember for all in attendance, and that very reason made the crowd feel hot, alive.
But then it began.
The crystal pendants dangling from the Tiffany chandeliers clinked like wind chimes, loud enough to slow movement on the dance floor. Hands were released as couples stepped back, separating. Faces turned upward, worried. The leader of the jazz band called for silence, and a hush fell over the Beekman Place lobby.
Shh!
Stop talking and just listen . . .
When plaster dust started to fall, all eyes turned toward the elevator. A rumbling noise came from somewhere above the ceiling, as though someone were rolling bowling balls down the hallway of one of the uppermost floors. The noise grew progressively louder, as if the balls were getting closer, picking up speed - first a rumble, then a gallop, then, over a period of about thirty seconds, a roar. The sound from above now overpowered the room. It was clear something had gone terribly wrong with the elevator. Nervous guests instinctively backed away. The screeching from within the wall could have easily been mistaken for a Chicago ‘L’, with metal straining against metal and something very heavy slamming dangerously against the support beams.
There was absolutely no time to run
The hissing cat logo exploded outward in an electric spasm of white. Panicked guests screamed as the air suddenly filled with shards of marble, chrome, and broken glass. An Erte statue toppled from its pedestal, shattering into pieces on the black and white tiled floor. At the moment of impact, the elevator cabin crashed into the lobby, skidding on its side like a fallen, injured ice skater.
It came to rest in the middle of the crowd.
* * * * *
Alarm bells rang and the fire sprinklers snapped on, drenching the party in cold water. With a haze of plaster dust still hanging in the air, frightened guests dropped their drinks and ran toward the exits. They were followed by musicians shedding their instruments like clothing. In less than a minute, the party became a mob; but despite the commotion, Libby maintained her cool. A sharp old woman in a black Chanel cocktail dress, Libby shot dirty looks at those fleeing before noticing the waiters were about to follow.
Then she looked pissed.
“The hotel’s safe, ya fuckin’ cowards!” Libby yelled. “It’s just the goddamn elevator!” She glared at them in disgust for a moment before taking a few steps toward the elevator cabin. One of its doors had fallen open.
There was someone inside.
Libby immediately took control. “YOU, call the fire department!” she barked at a busboy. “And YOU,” she pointed at another, “call an ambulance!” She anchored herself between the door and waitstaff. Gesturing at the wreck, she raised her hands angrily to every employee within earshot. “The rest of ya, get your asses over here and get this thing open ! NOW, if ya sons of bitches expect to get paid!”
The staff snapped into action.
Peeling off her headscarf and using it to wipe the wet makeup off her face, Libby glared first at the wreck, then at the lobby doors where guests were trampling each other in an effort to leave. Her eyes then moved to the far end of the hall, where an old man stood in a doorway, having somehow managed to stay clear of the commotion. His tuxedo is dry, Libby couldn’t help but notice. And Bill Roanoke wasn’t watching the events. He was watching her.
It was time for a dose of reality.
“You weak, timid, spineless excuse for a man,” Libby growled, confronting him. “How can ya just stand here like this? How can ya just stand here and do nothing? Did ya happen to notice what just happened? Did ya happen to notice that we’ve got a bit of a problem here?” She snapped her fingers by his face. “Hel-lo, Mr. Roanoke. Is there anybody in there?”
Behind her in the lobby, a waiter had just managed to pry the elevator’s second door open, but he quickly fell backward, a queasy look on his face. A pool of red formed on the tile beneath his shoes. He covered his mouth with his hand.
“Ya got a solution here, Bill?” Libby pressed. “Ya got anything to say at all? A little direction, maybe? Anything you’d like us to do here? Call the police? Call an ambulance? Would you like us to grab a broom and dustpan, maybe?”
She scowled and waited for a response.
Nothing.
The elderly man just shook his head and took a drag from his clove cigarette, pissing her off even more.
“Hey! Deer in headlights! Am I talking to myself, here?” Libby yelled. She knocked on his forehead like a door. “In case ya haven’t noticed, this would be a really good time for the Big Guy’s advice! A little action here, Bill? A little managerial take-charge mojo?”
With the ruined party behind her, Libby got in Roanoke’s face. “This is your cue, Bill. There is literally a fire burning under your ASS!”
Still nothing.
It was as if Bill Roanoke was watching a movie, detached.
* * * * *
Across the room a bartender yelled out that he needed a doctor - now. With the desk phone still to his ear, a bellman yelled back that the firemen were on their way and the operator was calling for an ambulance. Smoke had started to rise from within the elevator shaft. Sparks from dangling electrical wires popped in the sprinklers like paparazi flashbulbs.
Someone threw a chair through a window. A woman in the corner had blood gushing from her temple. And somewhere near the exit, a drunken man was crying, “He’s gone, he’s gone . . .”
And then Libby knew.
* * * * *
She turned around when a hand touched her shoulder. She recognized the guest immediately, and even with the circumstances, Libby couldn’t help but smile. “Well, look what the cat dragged in,” she cackled. “Welcome to Beekman Place!”
In the rain of the sprinklers, water rolled off her face like sweat.
“And let me be the first to say, It’s about fuckin’ time!”
I’m not one of those alcoholics who defends himself by saying “I can quit whenever I want.” Let me make this perfectly clear: I have absolutely no desire to stop drinking. I know its bad for my health, but I’ve always been a functional drunk, much stronger than the weepy, self-loathing victims at AA meetings. Drinking has not ruined my life, nor am I Nicholas Cage from Leaving Las Vegas. I’m at my best with a good whiskey buzz, and as far as the city gay scene is concerned, I’m just one of the boys.
Quite frankly, I need to drink. I don’t feel like a man without it. Alcohol does more than just lower my inhibitions: it excites me and brings me to life, allowing the same clarity for the day that I have in the night. I don’t know many gay men with the courage to face their full potential. Mine may be liquid courage, but at least I’m able to admit that.
You know, if it weren’t for liquid courage, I never would have noticed the elevator in the Beekman Place lobby...
Peoria, Illinois
1919
The hissing cat stood in the center of the elevator doors, back arched, tail curled forward, front paw poised as though ready to strike. Its body was a stylized silhouette, a featureless insignia void of specific detail, but clear in both its shape and stance. The cat had been created to fit perfectly within a circle, two pieces that came together to form a designer’s logo when the doors were fully closed.
In the lobby beyond the elevator, a New Year’s gala was in full swing. The dance floor swirled with black tuxedos, white collars, feathered headbands, and beaded dresses. Waiters carried trays on their fingertips. Ladies smiled devilishly as men gripped their shoulders, pulling them in close. It was a night to remember for all in attendance, and that very reason made the crowd feel hot, alive.
But then it began.
The crystal pendants dangling from the Tiffany chandeliers clinked like wind chimes, loud enough to slow movement on the dance floor. Hands were released as couples stepped back, separating. Faces turned upward, worried. The leader of the jazz band called for silence, and a hush fell over the Beekman Place lobby.
Shh!
Stop talking and just listen . . .
When plaster dust started to fall, all eyes turned toward the elevator. A rumbling noise came from somewhere above the ceiling, as though someone were rolling bowling balls down the hallway of one of the uppermost floors. The noise grew progressively louder, as if the balls were getting closer, picking up speed - first a rumble, then a gallop, then, over a period of about thirty seconds, a roar. The sound from above now overpowered the room. It was clear something had gone terribly wrong with the elevator. Nervous guests instinctively backed away. The screeching from within the wall could have easily been mistaken for a Chicago ‘L’, with metal straining against metal and something very heavy slamming dangerously against the support beams.
There was absolutely no time to run
The hissing cat logo exploded outward in an electric spasm of white. Panicked guests screamed as the air suddenly filled with shards of marble, chrome, and broken glass. An Erte statue toppled from its pedestal, shattering into pieces on the black and white tiled floor. At the moment of impact, the elevator cabin crashed into the lobby, skidding on its side like a fallen, injured ice skater.
It came to rest in the middle of the crowd.
* * * * *
Alarm bells rang and the fire sprinklers snapped on, drenching the party in cold water. With a haze of plaster dust still hanging in the air, frightened guests dropped their drinks and ran toward the exits. They were followed by musicians shedding their instruments like clothing. In less than a minute, the party became a mob; but despite the commotion, Libby maintained her cool. A sharp old woman in a black Chanel cocktail dress, Libby shot dirty looks at those fleeing before noticing the waiters were about to follow.
Then she looked pissed.
“The hotel’s safe, ya fuckin’ cowards!” Libby yelled. “It’s just the goddamn elevator!” She glared at them in disgust for a moment before taking a few steps toward the elevator cabin. One of its doors had fallen open.
There was someone inside.
Libby immediately took control. “YOU, call the fire department!” she barked at a busboy. “And YOU,” she pointed at another, “call an ambulance!” She anchored herself between the door and waitstaff. Gesturing at the wreck, she raised her hands angrily to every employee within earshot. “The rest of ya, get your asses over here and get this thing open ! NOW, if ya sons of bitches expect to get paid!”
The staff snapped into action.
Peeling off her headscarf and using it to wipe the wet makeup off her face, Libby glared first at the wreck, then at the lobby doors where guests were trampling each other in an effort to leave. Her eyes then moved to the far end of the hall, where an old man stood in a doorway, having somehow managed to stay clear of the commotion. His tuxedo is dry, Libby couldn’t help but notice. And Bill Roanoke wasn’t watching the events. He was watching her.
It was time for a dose of reality.
“You weak, timid, spineless excuse for a man,” Libby growled, confronting him. “How can ya just stand here like this? How can ya just stand here and do nothing? Did ya happen to notice what just happened? Did ya happen to notice that we’ve got a bit of a problem here?” She snapped her fingers by his face. “Hel-lo, Mr. Roanoke. Is there anybody in there?”
Behind her in the lobby, a waiter had just managed to pry the elevator’s second door open, but he quickly fell backward, a queasy look on his face. A pool of red formed on the tile beneath his shoes. He covered his mouth with his hand.
“Ya got a solution here, Bill?” Libby pressed. “Ya got anything to say at all? A little direction, maybe? Anything you’d like us to do here? Call the police? Call an ambulance? Would you like us to grab a broom and dustpan, maybe?”
She scowled and waited for a response.
Nothing.
The elderly man just shook his head and took a drag from his clove cigarette, pissing her off even more.
“Hey! Deer in headlights! Am I talking to myself, here?” Libby yelled. She knocked on his forehead like a door. “In case ya haven’t noticed, this would be a really good time for the Big Guy’s advice! A little action here, Bill? A little managerial take-charge mojo?”
With the ruined party behind her, Libby got in Roanoke’s face. “This is your cue, Bill. There is literally a fire burning under your ASS!”
Still nothing.
It was as if Bill Roanoke was watching a movie, detached.
* * * * *
Across the room a bartender yelled out that he needed a doctor - now. With the desk phone still to his ear, a bellman yelled back that the firemen were on their way and the operator was calling for an ambulance. Smoke had started to rise from within the elevator shaft. Sparks from dangling electrical wires popped in the sprinklers like paparazi flashbulbs.
Someone threw a chair through a window. A woman in the corner had blood gushing from her temple. And somewhere near the exit, a drunken man was crying, “He’s gone, he’s gone . . .”
And then Libby knew.
* * * * *
She turned around when a hand touched her shoulder. She recognized the guest immediately, and even with the circumstances, Libby couldn’t help but smile. “Well, look what the cat dragged in,” she cackled. “Welcome to Beekman Place!”
In the rain of the sprinklers, water rolled off her face like sweat.
“And let me be the first to say, It’s about fuckin’ time!”
To Chris and Fred Dedin
Chapter One
It Always Starts With a Kidnapping
I hate being old.
I hate waking up and farting as soon as I get out of bed in the morning, and I hate how puffy my face looks in the bathroom mirror when I pick the crust from the corners of my eyes. I hate having to sometimes take the stairs one at a time when I first come down to the kitchen, and I hate when the sunrise catches my reflection in the living room TV just right, reminding me to stand up straight and stop slouching like an old woman.
I really hate how my first cup of coffee always makes me shit.
When I was younger, my family said I resembled my father when he was my age. “You’ve got your dad’s eyes and hair color,” they said, “and when you smile, your dimples fold the same way his did. You’ve got his cheek bones.”
I’ll admit, there are times when I see Father’s face looking back at me in the mirror, but I don’t see a 38-year-old man anymore; I see his reflection as he is right now, a man in his sixties who is approaching the later phases of life.
I have no idea how I lost eleven years…
Peoria, Illinois
1980
The glowing orange letters of the Landmark Cinema marquee shimmered like a campfire on a cold February night. The sky was a sheet of frozen black glass, a dark window spattered with dusty blue stars and clouds that looked like crumbled wax paper. In the distance, the rising moon hung just above the riverfront. It peered cautiously over the tips of the skeletal trees and triangular shadows of the old downtown skyline.
A white-trashy girl, with heavy blue eyeshadow and a failed attempt at Farah Fawcett hair, walked past the theater’s entrance with her hands shoved deep into the pockets of a hunting jacket that smelled like Mennen. The coat was far too big for her, and wearing it made her feel like a Weeble.
Before her shift, her boyfriend had warned her it was going to snow that night and she’d better wear something warmer if she would be working outside. As usual she didn’t listen, which had really pissed him off, starting a fight as he drove her to work and making him peel his tires as he sped off. Though she would never give him the satisfaction of knowing he was right, the dropping temperature had forced her to borrow a jacket from one of the fat guys who worked the window, giving him the wrong idea. She tried not to look his direction when she quickly glanced at the box office clock.
Thank God it’s almost over, she thought.
The same thing every Saturday night, again and again and again.
* * * * *
The usherette picked ticket stubs and discarded popcorn containers from the sidewalk while the cars arriving for the last movie circled the parking lot, looking for spaces nearer the building. A brown van gunned its engine, completely disregarding the posted 5 MPH limit, which left the girl coughing in a cloud of hot exhaust when it raced by.
A growing line of people had gathered in front of the box office now, teenagers mostly and young adults in their early- to mid-twenties. Many of the teens were dressed like it was still Halloween, and the girl even saw one freshman boy shivering in fishnet stockings under his long coat. He was holding a newspaper in front of his crotch, like an old man at a porno theater.
The girl noticed almost everyone in line was carrying bread, rice, squirt guns, and toilet paper. Shit, I’m gonna be cleaning up half the night, she thought. The steam from her breath lingered in the air like smoke. Fuck, I hate Rocky Horror night.
A few minutes passed, and the line edged through the lobby. A few last-minute stragglers ran in from their cars, coughing marijuana smoke. The usherette followed behind them, but soon returned with a broom and small plastic dustpan.
From inside his idling car, Rich Pelonis watched her intently.
* * * * *
The Cadillac’s glistening hood ornament, a football field’s distance from her dashboard, peered out across the parking lot, a silhouette against a horizon of black paint and chrome. From his vantage point in the car, the hood ornament was the only stationary object in sight. The rest of his vision swirled in blurry waves of light, color, and rye.
Shutting his eyes, Rich swallowed another mouthful of whiskey and Coke, relishing the burn in his throat. When he opened his eyes again, the dashboard’s instrument panel came back into focus, its amber numbers glowing in the dark. Gary Newman’s Cars sang out from the radio.
Here in this car...I am safe from it all...I can close every door…
It’s the way that I live...in this car...
Rich had loved this song since he was a boy. He settled back to enjoy the music while there was still time to kill.
He was finally starting to relax.
* * * * *
Rich hated Peoria. It was as shitty and rural as rural shit towns got. He had spent his entire life living in the Chicago area, and as far as he was concerned, “downstate Illinois” meant Joliet or Aurora.
Peoria.
What the fuck am I doing here? he wondered.
It had taken three solid hours just to drive to this god-forsaken place, and that wasn’t counting the extra forty minutes he’d spent getting out of the city and past the construction where the tollway joined I-55. Traffic had finally leveled out once he was south of the old Joliet Arsenal, but then the landscape changed abruptly, growing flat, dark, and lonely.
For the next two and a half hours, Rich shared the highway with little more than eighteen-wheelers and the occasional Chevy pickup. He traveled through some of the smallest places he’d ever seen, tiny towns with farmer names like Dwight and Odell.
The countryside grew even quieter when he was forced to leave the highway and move to a smaller state route. There was no major interstate connecting Peoria to Chicago.
His eyes glued to the clock, Rich nervously fiddled with a credit card, twirling it between his fingers. The card was black and had the phrase Shh, No Talking! beneath the circular logo of a hissing cat. The name BILL ROANOKE was embossed in gold letters above the account number.
Rich took another swig from his flask before riveting his eyes back onto the dashboard clock.
It’s almost time.
* * * * *
Drinking and driving was a dangerous thing for Rich to do these days, especially considering what happened to him in Orland Park a few years ago.
Back in 2005, two years ago from Rich’s point of view, he had been a manager in training at a local Outback Steakhouse and was engaged to Jolynn, a waitress he met at the restaurant. When Jolynn got pregnant, as a courtesy Rich tried not to drink in front of her, but that was a hard thing to do with so many friends who hit the bars after work. One night his buddies came in while he was bartending and “twisted his arm” until he agreed to join them at Salerno’s, a nearby tavern, after his shift. Later, the party had been ready to move on to a different location when Jolynn called his cell, insisting he come home.
It took some doing, but Rich convinced her to join him at the next stop.
Forty minutes later, Jolynn had pulled into Salerno’s parking lot, just in time to see Rich’s taillights leaving. She followed, but because of traffic, she was several minutes behind him, far enough away so he never saw the accident.
A homeless man had stumbled into the oncoming lane and was struck by a car. The impact threw the man into Jolynn’s path, and his body bounced off her hood with a thump. The police assured the expectant mother that she, herself, wasn’t responsible for the death, but she had naturally become hysterical and desperately tried to reach her fiance.
But Rich never answered his phone.
In fact, he didn’t come home that night at all.
Rich focused on the clock again.
* * * * *
Rich hated the weeks that followed Jolynn’s accident. Her doctor made her stop working for the remainder of her pregnancy, putting additional stress on him to cover all their bills himself. To make matters worse, Jolynn seemed to become needy and insecure overnight, frequently calling him at the restaurant, asking when he was coming home.
It was almost like she was trying to push him away, Rich told Jolynn the night he left her, shoving her fat ass onto the bed when she was crying, trying to hug him. Clinging to him. Suffocating him.
Stupid bitch.
Using an unborn kid to make him feel bad.
And if she was acting that way now, what would she be like in a few years?
Rich could only imagine how tough things would be if Jolynn had been his wife the night his drinking had really gotten him into trouble.
Someone’s coming out.
* * * * *
Crouching in his seat, Rich watched as the the parking lot slowly filled with people. The new Pacino movie Cruising had just let out, and as was the case for any film the Godfather star appeared in, attendance was good – very good on opening weekend. But Cruising’s gay-themed plot wasn’t having the same success as Pacino’s other films, and Rich could see disappointment in the 1980s audience. From behind the steering wheel, he watched as a group of good ol’ boys strutted by, obviously pissed about having paid for that movie.
“That was fucking sick,” one of them complained. “I mean, I was expecting Dog Day Afternoon, you know?”
“Or The Godfather,” someone else said.
“Fucking faggot Godfather.”
“Al Pacino ain’t no queer!”
“Pacino? I thought it was De Niro!”
“It’s those damn Rocky Horror faggots, that’s what it is.”
“Same thing every Saturday night, again and again and again.”
“Men wearing women’s clothes.”
“Or dressed like the goddamn Village People!”
“We should get our money back,” one guy said, lighting a smoke. “Tell the big guy in the window that it wasn’t what we thought it was going to be. He’s the one in charge, right?”
“You mean the manager?”
“Yeah.”
“Screw that. I need a goddamn beer.”
“Hey, check out this Firebird.” One of the men stooped down to admire the Trans Am’s grille, just a few feet from Rich’s Cadillac. “What do you think she’s got? A 350?”
“Whaaaat do you think she’s got, a three-fifteeeeee?” someone mocked. “Shit, Donnie, let’s go. It’s quarter Bud night at Foxy’s, and I got me a roll of quarters in my pocket.”
Sophomoric laughter worked its way through the group.
“C’mon, Donnie!”
Donnie stood up but hesitated when he noticed the Caddy’s proximity to the Pontiac. Rich had parked so close to the Trans Am that its driver’s side was inaccessible. Neither the Pontiac’s driver’s door nor the Cadillac’s passenger door could be opened.
“Nice parking job,” Donnie said snidely to Rich, then caught up with his friends before Rich had a chance to respond.
Rich let it go.
No need to start a fight here, he thought, returning his gaze to the clock. Without even realizing he was doing it, he wiped his clammy hands on the lap of his jeans.
I am scared to do this.
* * * * *
From across the parking lot, a brown van started its engine. It was a 1970s-style conversion van, the same one that had passed the usherette earlier. It turned into the aisle and reparked in the newly vacated space on the passenger side of the Trans Am. Like the Cadillac, the vehicle blocked access to the Pontiac's door. The van shut its engine, and its driver - a man in his late twenties with a shaved head and biker jacket - gave Rich a nod before disappearing into the back.
Despite the cold, Rich felt hot and uncomfortable, probably from the whiskey. He turned off the heat and cracked open the sunroof. His thoughts returned to the event which had brought him here tonight, the Palos Heights drunk driving accident where Rich had done far more than just injure another driver. That night’s repercussions had changed his life completely.
He’s coming out now.
* * * * *
In an instant, Rich’s body went numb.
The kid leaving the Landmark was exactly where he was supposed to be.
Glancing at the van, Rich couldn’t see the skinhead, but he knew his partner was there, watching from behind one of the darkened windows.
Rich crouched in the car in silence.
* * * * *
A young man in his twenties had just stepped onto the sidewalk.
He was a typical midwestern closet case, with feathered brown hair and a black leather jacket. The kid had obviously enjoyed the movie. He still had a hard-on and was trying to hide it with his coat. Not wanting to be seen, he made a beeline for his Trans Am.
He didn’t even look up until he was directly in front of Rich’s Eldorado.
* * * * *
Blondie’s One Way Or Another blared from the dashboard radio as the usherette opened the door to her boyfriend’s Grand Torino. In yet another example of how much he loved his car more than her, she was not allowed to smoke inside, and was forced to take one last drag before flicking her cigarette into the parking lot.
His car is not that great, she thought.
And as the butt hit the pavement in a puff of orange sparks, the girl noticed two men closing the trunk of an idling Cadillac.
She gave them no thought.
The music faded as the Torino pulled away.
* * * * *
A plume of white exhaust lingered in the air where the Eldorado had been. Its blinkers flashed amber when it turned right on University Street, heading uptown.
The brown van lingered behind a few minutes while the skinhead made sure that no one had followed. Adjusting the rearview mirror, he admired the padlock securing the chain around his neck. He knew exactly what was expected of him tonight, and he was ready to make sure it happened.
Five minutes later, the van left the theater. The parking lot was as quiet as an empty movie set.
* * * * *
The next day, while red and blue police lights flashed in front of the old Beekman Place Hotel, the officers down the street at the Landmark unlocked the Trans Am with ease. William Delorenzo’s keys had been intentionally left in plain sight.
And they were surprisingly clean, considering the crime scene’s savagery.
I hate being old.
I hate waking up and farting as soon as I get out of bed in the morning, and I hate how puffy my face looks in the bathroom mirror when I pick the crust from the corners of my eyes. I hate having to sometimes take the stairs one at a time when I first come down to the kitchen, and I hate when the sunrise catches my reflection in the living room TV just right, reminding me to stand up straight and stop slouching like an old woman.
I really hate how my first cup of coffee always makes me shit.
When I was younger, my family said I resembled my father when he was my age. “You’ve got your dad’s eyes and hair color,” they said, “and when you smile, your dimples fold the same way his did. You’ve got his cheek bones.”
I’ll admit, there are times when I see Father’s face looking back at me in the mirror, but I don’t see a 38-year-old man anymore; I see his reflection as he is right now, a man in his sixties who is approaching the later phases of life.
I have no idea how I lost eleven years…
Peoria, Illinois
1980
The glowing orange letters of the Landmark Cinema marquee shimmered like a campfire on a cold February night. The sky was a sheet of frozen black glass, a dark window spattered with dusty blue stars and clouds that looked like crumbled wax paper. In the distance, the rising moon hung just above the riverfront. It peered cautiously over the tips of the skeletal trees and triangular shadows of the old downtown skyline.
A white-trashy girl, with heavy blue eyeshadow and a failed attempt at Farah Fawcett hair, walked past the theater’s entrance with her hands shoved deep into the pockets of a hunting jacket that smelled like Mennen. The coat was far too big for her, and wearing it made her feel like a Weeble.
Before her shift, her boyfriend had warned her it was going to snow that night and she’d better wear something warmer if she would be working outside. As usual she didn’t listen, which had really pissed him off, starting a fight as he drove her to work and making him peel his tires as he sped off. Though she would never give him the satisfaction of knowing he was right, the dropping temperature had forced her to borrow a jacket from one of the fat guys who worked the window, giving him the wrong idea. She tried not to look his direction when she quickly glanced at the box office clock.
Thank God it’s almost over, she thought.
The same thing every Saturday night, again and again and again.
* * * * *
The usherette picked ticket stubs and discarded popcorn containers from the sidewalk while the cars arriving for the last movie circled the parking lot, looking for spaces nearer the building. A brown van gunned its engine, completely disregarding the posted 5 MPH limit, which left the girl coughing in a cloud of hot exhaust when it raced by.
A growing line of people had gathered in front of the box office now, teenagers mostly and young adults in their early- to mid-twenties. Many of the teens were dressed like it was still Halloween, and the girl even saw one freshman boy shivering in fishnet stockings under his long coat. He was holding a newspaper in front of his crotch, like an old man at a porno theater.
The girl noticed almost everyone in line was carrying bread, rice, squirt guns, and toilet paper. Shit, I’m gonna be cleaning up half the night, she thought. The steam from her breath lingered in the air like smoke. Fuck, I hate Rocky Horror night.
A few minutes passed, and the line edged through the lobby. A few last-minute stragglers ran in from their cars, coughing marijuana smoke. The usherette followed behind them, but soon returned with a broom and small plastic dustpan.
From inside his idling car, Rich Pelonis watched her intently.
* * * * *
The Cadillac’s glistening hood ornament, a football field’s distance from her dashboard, peered out across the parking lot, a silhouette against a horizon of black paint and chrome. From his vantage point in the car, the hood ornament was the only stationary object in sight. The rest of his vision swirled in blurry waves of light, color, and rye.
Shutting his eyes, Rich swallowed another mouthful of whiskey and Coke, relishing the burn in his throat. When he opened his eyes again, the dashboard’s instrument panel came back into focus, its amber numbers glowing in the dark. Gary Newman’s Cars sang out from the radio.
Here in this car...I am safe from it all...I can close every door…
It’s the way that I live...in this car...
Rich had loved this song since he was a boy. He settled back to enjoy the music while there was still time to kill.
He was finally starting to relax.
* * * * *
Rich hated Peoria. It was as shitty and rural as rural shit towns got. He had spent his entire life living in the Chicago area, and as far as he was concerned, “downstate Illinois” meant Joliet or Aurora.
Peoria.
What the fuck am I doing here? he wondered.
It had taken three solid hours just to drive to this god-forsaken place, and that wasn’t counting the extra forty minutes he’d spent getting out of the city and past the construction where the tollway joined I-55. Traffic had finally leveled out once he was south of the old Joliet Arsenal, but then the landscape changed abruptly, growing flat, dark, and lonely.
For the next two and a half hours, Rich shared the highway with little more than eighteen-wheelers and the occasional Chevy pickup. He traveled through some of the smallest places he’d ever seen, tiny towns with farmer names like Dwight and Odell.
The countryside grew even quieter when he was forced to leave the highway and move to a smaller state route. There was no major interstate connecting Peoria to Chicago.
His eyes glued to the clock, Rich nervously fiddled with a credit card, twirling it between his fingers. The card was black and had the phrase Shh, No Talking! beneath the circular logo of a hissing cat. The name BILL ROANOKE was embossed in gold letters above the account number.
Rich took another swig from his flask before riveting his eyes back onto the dashboard clock.
It’s almost time.
* * * * *
Drinking and driving was a dangerous thing for Rich to do these days, especially considering what happened to him in Orland Park a few years ago.
Back in 2005, two years ago from Rich’s point of view, he had been a manager in training at a local Outback Steakhouse and was engaged to Jolynn, a waitress he met at the restaurant. When Jolynn got pregnant, as a courtesy Rich tried not to drink in front of her, but that was a hard thing to do with so many friends who hit the bars after work. One night his buddies came in while he was bartending and “twisted his arm” until he agreed to join them at Salerno’s, a nearby tavern, after his shift. Later, the party had been ready to move on to a different location when Jolynn called his cell, insisting he come home.
It took some doing, but Rich convinced her to join him at the next stop.
Forty minutes later, Jolynn had pulled into Salerno’s parking lot, just in time to see Rich’s taillights leaving. She followed, but because of traffic, she was several minutes behind him, far enough away so he never saw the accident.
A homeless man had stumbled into the oncoming lane and was struck by a car. The impact threw the man into Jolynn’s path, and his body bounced off her hood with a thump. The police assured the expectant mother that she, herself, wasn’t responsible for the death, but she had naturally become hysterical and desperately tried to reach her fiance.
But Rich never answered his phone.
In fact, he didn’t come home that night at all.
Rich focused on the clock again.
* * * * *
Rich hated the weeks that followed Jolynn’s accident. Her doctor made her stop working for the remainder of her pregnancy, putting additional stress on him to cover all their bills himself. To make matters worse, Jolynn seemed to become needy and insecure overnight, frequently calling him at the restaurant, asking when he was coming home.
It was almost like she was trying to push him away, Rich told Jolynn the night he left her, shoving her fat ass onto the bed when she was crying, trying to hug him. Clinging to him. Suffocating him.
Stupid bitch.
Using an unborn kid to make him feel bad.
And if she was acting that way now, what would she be like in a few years?
Rich could only imagine how tough things would be if Jolynn had been his wife the night his drinking had really gotten him into trouble.
Someone’s coming out.
* * * * *
Crouching in his seat, Rich watched as the the parking lot slowly filled with people. The new Pacino movie Cruising had just let out, and as was the case for any film the Godfather star appeared in, attendance was good – very good on opening weekend. But Cruising’s gay-themed plot wasn’t having the same success as Pacino’s other films, and Rich could see disappointment in the 1980s audience. From behind the steering wheel, he watched as a group of good ol’ boys strutted by, obviously pissed about having paid for that movie.
“That was fucking sick,” one of them complained. “I mean, I was expecting Dog Day Afternoon, you know?”
“Or The Godfather,” someone else said.
“Fucking faggot Godfather.”
“Al Pacino ain’t no queer!”
“Pacino? I thought it was De Niro!”
“It’s those damn Rocky Horror faggots, that’s what it is.”
“Same thing every Saturday night, again and again and again.”
“Men wearing women’s clothes.”
“Or dressed like the goddamn Village People!”
“We should get our money back,” one guy said, lighting a smoke. “Tell the big guy in the window that it wasn’t what we thought it was going to be. He’s the one in charge, right?”
“You mean the manager?”
“Yeah.”
“Screw that. I need a goddamn beer.”
“Hey, check out this Firebird.” One of the men stooped down to admire the Trans Am’s grille, just a few feet from Rich’s Cadillac. “What do you think she’s got? A 350?”
“Whaaaat do you think she’s got, a three-fifteeeeee?” someone mocked. “Shit, Donnie, let’s go. It’s quarter Bud night at Foxy’s, and I got me a roll of quarters in my pocket.”
Sophomoric laughter worked its way through the group.
“C’mon, Donnie!”
Donnie stood up but hesitated when he noticed the Caddy’s proximity to the Pontiac. Rich had parked so close to the Trans Am that its driver’s side was inaccessible. Neither the Pontiac’s driver’s door nor the Cadillac’s passenger door could be opened.
“Nice parking job,” Donnie said snidely to Rich, then caught up with his friends before Rich had a chance to respond.
Rich let it go.
No need to start a fight here, he thought, returning his gaze to the clock. Without even realizing he was doing it, he wiped his clammy hands on the lap of his jeans.
I am scared to do this.
* * * * *
From across the parking lot, a brown van started its engine. It was a 1970s-style conversion van, the same one that had passed the usherette earlier. It turned into the aisle and reparked in the newly vacated space on the passenger side of the Trans Am. Like the Cadillac, the vehicle blocked access to the Pontiac's door. The van shut its engine, and its driver - a man in his late twenties with a shaved head and biker jacket - gave Rich a nod before disappearing into the back.
Despite the cold, Rich felt hot and uncomfortable, probably from the whiskey. He turned off the heat and cracked open the sunroof. His thoughts returned to the event which had brought him here tonight, the Palos Heights drunk driving accident where Rich had done far more than just injure another driver. That night’s repercussions had changed his life completely.
He’s coming out now.
* * * * *
In an instant, Rich’s body went numb.
The kid leaving the Landmark was exactly where he was supposed to be.
Glancing at the van, Rich couldn’t see the skinhead, but he knew his partner was there, watching from behind one of the darkened windows.
Rich crouched in the car in silence.
* * * * *
A young man in his twenties had just stepped onto the sidewalk.
He was a typical midwestern closet case, with feathered brown hair and a black leather jacket. The kid had obviously enjoyed the movie. He still had a hard-on and was trying to hide it with his coat. Not wanting to be seen, he made a beeline for his Trans Am.
He didn’t even look up until he was directly in front of Rich’s Eldorado.
* * * * *
Blondie’s One Way Or Another blared from the dashboard radio as the usherette opened the door to her boyfriend’s Grand Torino. In yet another example of how much he loved his car more than her, she was not allowed to smoke inside, and was forced to take one last drag before flicking her cigarette into the parking lot.
His car is not that great, she thought.
And as the butt hit the pavement in a puff of orange sparks, the girl noticed two men closing the trunk of an idling Cadillac.
She gave them no thought.
The music faded as the Torino pulled away.
* * * * *
A plume of white exhaust lingered in the air where the Eldorado had been. Its blinkers flashed amber when it turned right on University Street, heading uptown.
The brown van lingered behind a few minutes while the skinhead made sure that no one had followed. Adjusting the rearview mirror, he admired the padlock securing the chain around his neck. He knew exactly what was expected of him tonight, and he was ready to make sure it happened.
Five minutes later, the van left the theater. The parking lot was as quiet as an empty movie set.
* * * * *
The next day, while red and blue police lights flashed in front of the old Beekman Place Hotel, the officers down the street at the Landmark unlocked the Trans Am with ease. William Delorenzo’s keys had been intentionally left in plain sight.
And they were surprisingly clean, considering the crime scene’s savagery.
The 1980 Cadillac Eldorado
Chapter Two
Next Comes the Alcoholic Writer
I wish there was a way that I could feel normal without drinking. A way to stop the anxiety, you know? The tightness in my chest, and the fear of speaking my mind.
And having said that, I really wish I could write without alcohol. To sit down and type without a glass of Chardonnay…or for those stories that really hit close to home, a big tumbler of whiskey with an ice-to-liquid ratio that could take down a horse, if used in different circumstances.
Of course it’s not my fault, you know.
Not the drinking itself, but the whole writing stereotype we all see on TV.
I mean, whenever we see a character writing a book, he’s always depicted at a small wooden desk, with a lamp, a cigarette, a bottle and a glass. It always seems to be night. The writer is always good looking, in a scruffy sort of way. But even more important, the writer types with a fierce look of confidence, smiling when he’s finished, and toasting himself at the end.
For me though, the story can’t even begin until I have a buzz going…
Peoria, Illinois
Twenty-Seven Years Later
The old Cadillac’s hood ornament bounced up and down like a buoy, exaggerating the potholes’ severity and confirming this was not a good place for 27-year-old air suspension. This stretch of Roanoke Avenue was still paved with bricks, and Frankie never understood why the city hadn’t covered the surface with concrete as they had done to all the other streets this close to downtown.
Easy Olivia, Frankie thought. There’s no other road to take.
From above, the old trees reached over the street like fingers, obscuring the road in an arthritic canopy of yellow, orange, red, and crisp green. The steep angled attics of the old Roanoke homes marked his progress like watchtowers, looming over his car from high above the street. With the exception of clouds to the north, the October sky was icicle blue.
Inside the car, the damp autumn air felt colder than it really was. Frankie inhaled deeply, taking in the musky aroma of wood and wet earth. After a quick glance over his shoulder, he polished off the last of his flask before stashing it under the seat. His dashboard clock read 11:23, and every so often the sun would break through just long enough to warm his shoulders through the open sunroof. In a few short weeks, it would be too chilly to drive with the windows open at all. It was already too cold in Chicago, and Frankie was amazed at what a difference a mere three hours’ drive had made in the weather.
A yellow leaf fluttered through his sunroof.
* * * * *
He had only been away from Chicago a little over four hours now, and already he missed her skyline’s reflection on the cold, choppy water of Lake Michigan. Though Frankie had actually grown up in Peoria, he left there in 1996 when he reached his mid-twenties. Peoria was a quaint little town with an air of stability that was perfect for a wife and kids: good schools, clean roads, subdivisions with homeowners’ associations. It was more a place to raise a family than a home for a single, 38-year-old gay man who had always been a city boy at heart.
It never was my city, he thought.
Peoria definitely had the appearance of a real city in places, especially when driving through its old bluffside neighborhoods, where Chicago-style homes overlooked a small downtown with surprisingly large-scale buildings. But its similarities to Chicago were only in appearance. Its residents spoke with distinct regional drawls, most having spent their entire lives in the central midwestern corridor. When he looked in the mirror eleven years ago, Frankie knew he didn’t belong in this place, and once he left, he never looked back.
Actually, that’s not quite true.
* * * * *
Frankie had indeed looked back on many occasions, especially since joining OldPlaces Magazine, a job that took him to numerous small midwestern cities in Illinois, Wisconsin, Indiana, Iowa, Missouri, and occasionally, Minnesota. He didn’t mind the travel. It got him out of the office two or three times a month, and he enjoyed taking his old Caddy on road trips, filling her big gas tank on the company credit card.
Small towns were best enjoyed in small doses, in surgical strikes where Frankie was deployed, inserted, and quickly removed. He had grown proficient at getting research done on his computer, and when he left Chicago to find the “human” sides of his subjects, he worked as swiftly as a private investigator, scheduling interviews, snapping pictures, and taking notes, synopsizing his findings later in the comfort of his office, with the real city in the window behind him.
OldPlaces.com was a Chicago-based online magazine that specialized in the forgotten Midwest. Its byline read, “a publication that remembers the old places hidden all around us, from which the modern world was built.”
The magazine sounded a lot loftier than it really was, though, considering it had started on a mimeograph machine, the pet project of an Oak Park church volunteer. OldPlaces was a Christian publication, a fact that had caused near riotous laughter when Frankie had first told the guys at the Cell Block about his new gig. “Seriously,” he’d told them, “it started as a church pamphlet. There was this little old lady making a magazine in the goddamn rectory basement, and she printed off copies like ads for a bake sale. And to think, she hired me!”
But Frankie was wrong to call Tina Collins, his boss, a little old lady. Though she might have been in her fifties, she had proved to be as hip to modern technology as any high school teenager. At her insistance, OldPlaces was one of the first publications of its kind to move to the web in the mid-1990s. OldPlaces still printed a monthly paper copy for elderly readers, but like any good website, it provided expanded information online. Tina also insisted that Norton, her husband who just happened to be the church pastor, “encourage” his flock to buy computers for their households if they didn’t already own one. “The internet is the backbone of the modern world,” Tina told the women who lingered after service to chat. “And it’s your duty as parents to know what’s going on in your house, on your living room computer, and in your children’s bedrooms.”
Mrs. Collins was obviously alluding to smut, but the fact that computers could also receive her magazine was just one of God’s little miracles.
* * * * *
Rounding the next curve, the treeline broke for a moment, allowing Frankie a panoramic view of the downtown skyline below. Peoria sat in a lush, tree-covered valley, spanning several miles along the Illinois River.
Peoria always came as a surprise to travelers unfamiliar with the area. They’d drive for hours through endless miles of small towns, cornfields and pig farms, then BAM! The trees thickened, the horizon dipped downward, and a riverfront skyline appeared out of nowhere, with twin condominium towers that looked hauntingly like the former World Trade Center. When compared to the surrounding farm towns, Peoria was the closest thing locals had to a “real” city. It had a skyline, a big bridge, a riverboat casino, and even a Holidome.
A stop sign appeared and Roanoke Avenue ended at Hamilton Boulevard. Frankie leaned forward to check for oncoming cars, then across the street to where Beekman Place faced the mouth of Roanoke Avenue. One of the oldest streets in Peoria, Hamilton sloped sharply toward the river in two long concrete stretches separated by a grassy embankment in the middle. Ninety years ago, Hamilton had been one of the busiest roads in town. Now in less than two minutes, Frankie had circled the grass and found a parking spot across the street.
He grabbed his backpack before locking the Eldorado.
And then he looked up.
* * * * *
Like a rocket, the old hotel shot upward. Her sleek marble exterior came out of nowhere on what was a quiet residential street. She was twelve stories tall, white and seafoam green, with Art Deco lines and windows whose frames came together in herringbone starbursts. She was a tower on the hill and completely out of place when compared to everything else in the neighborhood. Looking up from the sidewalk, Frankie felt the same admiration as when he stood at the base of the Carbide & Carbon Building on Michigan Avenue, his favorite Chicago skyscraper.
A semicircle driveway allowed cars to pull up to her lobby, but an exterior stairway cut directly across the grass, giving visitors sidewalk access as well. Frankie climbed the stairs, crossed the drive, then went up a second set of marble stairs to the building’s entrance under a striped awning. Before he could even knock, the lobby’s beveled glass door swung open and a little old lady in a black cocktail dress scampered out.
“Frankie Downs!” the woman cackled, smiling broadly and opening her arms for a hug. “I’m Libby. Welcome to Beekman Place!”
* * * * *
The ice loudly sloshed within the chrome decanter as Libby shook it with the skill of having done so many times before. Two martini glasses sat on the bar - Waterford, Frankie noticed, identical to a set he had seen at Marshall Field’s but didn’t dare risk his credit rating to buy.
“Now, I know that bathtub gin was all the rage when this place was built,” Libby said, pouring two Manhattans, “but there’s something to be said about being too authentic, don’t you think? Besides, if I had to size you up, I’d call you a whiskey man. And a drink should at least have some color, right?”
“Libby,” Frankie said in half-assed protest. “It’s a little early-”
“To hell it is!” she cut him off. “It’s never too early for a good buzz.”
Frankie smirked. “It would be rude to contradict the hostess.”
“I thought you’d agree,” Libby smiled broadly. “Sorry about not properly garnishing your beverage, but cherries take up so much room in such a tiny glass.”
“I don’t like small glasses, Libby.”
“I like the way you think, Mr. Downs. Cheers.”
The two clinked glasses. Libby downed her cocktail in a single gulp. Frankie took a healthy swig from his, but left enough behind to swirl around while he talked.
“So, how long has this building been called Beekman Place?” he asked, noticing the framed poster of Angela Lansbury in Mame hanging behind the bar. “I know it was built in the late teens, but I thought Patrick Dennis’ novel didn’t come out until the ‘50s.”
“How long has she been called Beekman Place,” Libby corrected.
“Pardon?”
“She,” Libby said again, sounding like a school teacher. “The hotel is a grand lady, so we call her she. Like a fine ship or a beautiful car.” Pulling out a pack of Bensen & Hedges, Libby twisted one into a shiny black holder. “That old Caddy of yours outside on the street. I’ll bet she’s not it to you, is she? I’ll bet she’s a she.”
“She’s a she alright,” Frankie said, knowing exactly what the old woman meant.
“What’s her name?” Libby asked.
“Olivia.”
“Olivia?” Libby repeated, intrigued. “Now, there’s a name with a story. I’d better freshen our cocktails while you tell it.”
Lighting her cigarette from a pack of bar matches, Libby held the holder between her teeth, reminding Frankie of Bergis Meredith as the Penguin on Batman.
“Finish your glass Mr. Downs, and tell me about your Olivia.”
“Olivia is the first Cadillac I’ve owned myself,” Frankie began, “and I love her more than any other Cadillac I’ve ever seen, including the new models. As a kid, I grew up with Cadillacs, starting in 1975 and going through 1984. We weren’t rich by any means, but Father always made sure Mother had a really nice car. He called them ca-dilly-acts.
“We kept each one for two years,” he continued, “then traded them in around the time when the body styles changed. We had a couple of DeVilles, an old Fleetwood diesel, and a really pretty white Seville, with one of those slanted trunks like a Rolls Royce.”
“I had one of those,” Libby recalled fondly. “It was two-toned, like a goddamn pimp car. Gold and this nasty cream color. I thought I was riding in style back then, but when I think about it now, I must have looked like a hooker. And before you ask, that car was an it.”
“The one Cadillac we didn’t have when I was a kid was the Eldorado,” Frankie went on. “I guess it was because we were a family of four, and Eldorados only had two doors. Hard when you’ve got kids in the back seat. I’ve always loved Eldorados, at least until ‘86 when they started to round the corners. It was the only model I never got to ride in, so I think that’s why I bought one when I was older. All grown men have play cars. Some have Corvettes, others have Cameros. I have a 1980 Cadillac Eldorado, black on the outside, red leather on the inside.”
“Now that’s class.” Libby was being facetious. She pushed a fresh drink toward Frankie. She puffed her cigarette and stirred her Manhattan with her fingers. “And you call your midlife crisis car Olivia becaaaause . . .”
“Because one of the first songs I heard on her radio was Olivia Newton John’s Magic,” Frankie admitted. “It’s one of the songs from Xanadu, with those early ‘80s synthesizers and that late disco sound. What can I say? The song was perfect, especially through those old Delco speakers. And as I sat in the car and listened to Magic, I said to my car, ‘Your name is Olivia.’”
Frankie smiled broadly and settled back in the white leather bar stool. “Was it all that you were hoping for, Libby?”
“All that and much more, Mr. Downs.”
“So can we talk about the hotel now, please?” Frankie asked. Libby nodded and came around the bar to sit next to him. Opening his backpack, Frankie set his Mac laptop on the counter. He angled it so Libby could see the screen.
“You never answered me about the name,” he said. “When was the name changed to Beekman Place?”
“It was never changed,” Libby said. “She’s always been called that.”
“Even before the movie? Before the book?”
“That’s what I said.”
“Oh, come on now, Libby,” Frankie was doubtful. “It’s a cute little advertising ploy, and you’re not going to lose points with me over it. We both know Mame the musical and Auntie Mame the story are about the same crazy old woman who lived in 1920s Manhattan.”
“Are you calling me a crazy old woman?” Libby faked a pout.
“Yes I am, and quit changing the subject,” Frankie teased. “In all the Mame stories - the books, the plays, and the movies - Mame Dennis lived at Beekman Place in Manhattan, which, as you can find in any city record, was a real building that was built in the ‘20s.”
“So what’s the problem?” Libby asked. “Lots of buildings end up having the same names. The Grand Hotel. The Corner Bar. Beekman Place in Peoria was probably named after Beekman Place in New York.”
“But that’s where the timeline doesn’t make sense.” Frankie clicked on a folder labeled Hotel History. Photos of Beekman Place in New York popped onto the screen, along with the property’s history and important events. Frankie scrolled down to the construction date. “The building was completed in 1929.”
“So?”
He opened a second folder with similar records on Libby’s building.
“Construction began on The Beekman Place Hotel - that is, this building here on Hamilton Boulevard - in the spring of 1919, and it was finished in time for a New Year’s Eve opening.” He waited for this to sink in. “Libby, I’m talking New Years Eve nineteen-nineteen.”
“It must have been quite a party,” she said, raising her glass then taking a drink. Frankie glared at her.
"What?”
“Well, in addition to being built almost ten years before the New York building,” Frankie continued, “do you realize this hotel was finished in less than a year? A modern hotel can’t be built that fast, let alone a hotel built almost ninety years ago.”
“They must have had some awfully hard workers,” Libby crossed her legs and leaned back on the bar. “Did they have Mexicans back then?”
Frankie cringed.
Libby patted him on the knee. “Oh, I’m just kidding with you, Mr. Downs. Don’t get your panties in a bunch. So, both buildings have the same name. So what? And who the hell can trust records that are almost a hundred years old? I’m nearly a hundred. Do you trust me?”
“Do you really want me to answer that?” Frankie shot back.
“Not until I’ve had another cocktail.” Libby hopped off her stool. Returning to the back of the bar, she swept up the dirty glass, emptied the ashtray, and with the speed of an experienced bartender, deployed fresh drinks.
Frankie watched her mix up enough for six people.
Forget the Penguin, he thought. She’s goddamn Ruth Gordon from Rosemary’s Baby.
“You want a cigarette?” Libby set a clean ashtray on the bar. “If my cigarettes are too foofy for you, we keep Marboro Lights back here, if you’re a manly man.”
Frankie smiled and reached for his backpack. “I’ve got my own, but thanks.” He pulled out a cigarette, stuck it in his mouth, and fumbled for his lighter.
“Heads up.” Libby tossesd him a pack of bar matches.
“Thanks.” Frankie lit his cigarette then closed the matchbook. He noticed the cover’s logo, a silhouette of a hissing cat in a circle. “Shh, No Talking!” was written in an Art Deco font above the strike plate.
“So, what else do you want to know about my lady?” Libby walked around the bar and motioned for him to join her toward the center of the room. “You’ll find that I know all her dirty little secrets.”
“I’m assuming you don’t have a liquor license.” Frankie said. “So why is the bar fully stocked?” He looked at the chrome and glass shelves behind the counter, as packed with liquor as any neighborhood pub. There were also cigarettes for sale.
“The bar was part of the hotel when she opened,” Libby explained. “And I’m kind of a stickler for keeping things the way they’ve always been. The bar technically isn’t open to the public, but the tenants may use it as they wish. It’s like a clubhouse inside the building. Reserve it for parties or grab it when it’s free. All I ask is that you replace whatever you use and clean up the puke.”
Libby saw she had said something that struck Frankie’s curiosity. “What?”
“When you say tenants, you mean the people who live upstairs?” he asked.
“Why, yes,” Libby replied.
“And how long has Beekman Place been an apartment building?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” Libby said. “For quite a while, I guess. The rooms were converted to apartments before I got her in 1980.”
“Do you know how long ago the rooms were converted?” Frankie asked.
“No,” Libby said. “But something tells me you do.”
Frankie smiled. “The Beekman Place Hotel was opened from December 31, 1919 to December 3, 1933. The entire duration of Prohibition.”
“So?” Libby scoffed. “What does that have to do with the apartments?”
Frankie clicked on another folder. The screen opened to a record of the building’s status following its days as a hotel.
“Well . . . this, Libby. It’s what happened to the hotel right after Prohibition ended. Beekman Place only operated as a hotel during the time the 18th Amendment was in force, less a couple weeks in December the first year. The hotel was open exactly from December 10th, 1919 to December 4th, 1933. As soon as Prohibition was repealed, the hotel closed to vacationing guests and reopened as an apartment building. It took only a week. There was almost no down time at all.”
Frankie stared at Libby for a reaction, but she just shrugged her shoulders. “The building lost her appeal,” she said. “Why stay here when you could have a party anywhere?”
Frankie shook his head. “What I mean is, it’s just like how quickly the building itself was constructed. As if the owners had planned for everything, like they knew what was going to happen in advance.”
“Just sounds like good planning to me.” Libby was unphased. “Good businessmen. They had a sense for what was going to happen with their investment.”
“It’s an awful lot of coincidences, Libby.”
“Does that surprise you?”
“What?”
“I said, does that surprise you?” Libby repeated, almost defensively. “You write about these things all the time in your magazine - strange histories of old neighborhoods, quirky people who lived in the past. Hell, this whole downtown has a crazy history. Why, during the ‘20s-” She stopped midsentence. “Frankie, do you even know what room we’re in?”
By this point, Libby was standing at the center of the bar, directly between Frankie and a large piano on a raised stage. With her heels making deliberate clicks on the tile, she strolled across the black and white terrazzo, past two rows of intimate tables with chairs and white tablecloths. She stopped when she came to the entrance, looking up to where the wall-hugging staircase climbed to a landing with a heavy metal door.
Frankie’s eyes lit up.
“We’re in the basement,” he realized. A hidden speakeasy!
“It was called, appropriately, The Janitor’s Closet,” Libby said. “Or the JC for short. Beekman Place was built in a time when everyone knew Prohibition was coming,” she explained. “She was built as a haven. A hotel with hidden amenities. She was a place where you could have a drink and then get a room if you wanted to pass out . . . or get laid.” She winked. “And if the owners predicted Prohibition’s end as well as they did its beginning, then who gives a shit? If those owners were alive today, I’d let them handle my stock portfolio.” The old woman smiled devilishly.
“So, we’re left with this beautiful building,” Libby said, “and you have a nice little story for your magazine.”
Sighing softly, Frankie looked defeated.
“Now, let’s grab a fresh drink and let me take you on a proper tour,” Libby said. “Did you bring a camera?”
“In my bag,” he patted his backpack then stubbed out his cigarette in an ashtray on a nearby table.
Libby came around the bar again, setting two iced-tea-sized glasses on the counter, filling them with booze. “In case we get thirsty upstairs.”
With a fresh glass in hand, Frankie followed his hostess away from the bar, up to the landing, and into the heart of the old Beekman Place Hotel.
Thank God my buzz is starting to kick in, he thought.
* * * * *
Swinging her hips when she walked, Libby carried herself like a wealthy woman at a fundraiser luncheon. With one hand she used her cigarette holder to point out items of interest; with the other she held her Manhattan in such a way that her charm bracelet hung downward, motionless.
“We call this room the concourse,” she explained, “but really it’s just the community game room. Sometimes we have parties; sometimes we watch movies. During the holidays, all the boys get together and decorate the Christmas tree, right there in front of the windows facing the street.”
The concourse was a sizable hall just off the lobby, opposite the JC. With floor-to-ceiling windows, it got more sunlight than any other room in the hotel, and the draperies were more for aesthetics than function. A grouping of dark green mohair furniture was arranged around the room’s fireplace, and the carpet was the kind of shag one normally only associates with old Hollywood homes. There were so many ferns, Frankie felt like he was in a garden center.
"Who are all the boys?” he asked, going back to the Christmas tree.
“Tenants, mostly,” Libby said. “And friends of tenants. There are lots of creative people who live here, you know.”
“Creative boys, you mean,” Frankie said, trying to rile her.
Libby smiled politely, unaffected. “Well, you’re a creative boy, aren’t you?” she said. “How else could you write all those wonderfully creative articles?”
Before he could answer, Libby changed the subject. “You know Mr. Downs, back when the hotel was open, the concourse was a place for guests to relax and play billiards. The windows would be open when the weather was nice, and during the cold months, guests could sit around the fireplace and enjoy the ambiance.”
“Is that so?” Frankie said, conceding. Libby was directing the conversation on her own terms, and there was nothing he could do to change that. He was starting to get better at reading her story, however - recognizing what to believe and when she was embellishing.
“It’s open to the lobby – the concourse.” Libby continued. “Great for people watching. You could see everyone who came into the hotel from here. Movie stars. Politicians. Gangsters.”
“Like Al Capone?” Frankie played along.
“Al didn’t get down here very much,” Libby said. “The Shelton Brothers were our local bootleggers.”
“The local Al Capones,” Frankie got the picture.
“They were treated like celebrities when they came to the hotel,” Libby told him. “They were the ones who kept the liquor flowing, who kept the JC full of famous faces.”
Frankie raised an eyebrow. “Lots of famous people in those days, Libby?”
“All kinds, Mr. Downs. The pre-jet jet set.”
“Even in Peoria?” Frankie called her bluff. “In Peoria, Illinois?”
“I believe that’s what I said.”
“I don’t know about that, Libby. If given the choice between a Peoria hotel and a hotel in Chicago, I’m thinking I’d choose Chicago. I’m thinking anyone would choose Chicago. Speakeasy or not, there’s something to be said about spending a night in a big city.”
“As I mentioned before, it depends on what amenities your hotel has to offer.”
“You mean like prostitutes?”
“Among other things.”
Frankie followed her into the lobby. Like the rest of the building, almost nothing had been changed. The lobby still had the original registration desk, bellhop cubby, and an elegant side office with the word Concierge etched in the center of a beveled glass window.
“Ain’t she grand?” Libby asked, purposely stopping in the middle of the vast room. She spun on her heel and beamed radiantly, posing like Cleopatra when she gazed upward toward the ceiling’s Egyptian-inspired chandeliers.
Frankie had to agree. Beekman Place in Peoria was nothing like he had expected.
But it’s time to get to the business at hand.
* * * * *
“Libby, what do you know about the man who built the hotel?” Frankie asked. “I know his name was Bill Roanoke, but I don’t know much else beyond that.”
“Ah, William,” Libby said, as though reminiscing. “He was quite a special friend of mine, you know.”
“Libby,” Frankie wondered if Libby was playing or showing signs of demenia. “Bill Roanoke must have died in the 1930s.”
“So?”
“So,” Frankie said. “You’re a lovely senior woman, but you can’t tell me that you’re old enough to have known him.”
“Oh, ” Libby giggled, “you said senior. Ain’t you sweet?”
“And tactful,” Frankie added.
“And so full of shit,” she said bluntly.
“Roanoke Avenue was named after Bill Roanoke’s family,” Frankie continued. “His father owned a number of distilleries in Peoria Heights, not far from here, on the bluff. The family house was literally within walking distance of this hotel.”
“It sounds like you know quite a bit about him already,” Libby mused.
“I do,” Frankie said, “but only the A&E Biography stuff. Wikipedia. I know who he was, who his parents were, where they all came from, and how their money was made. I even know that Bill Roanoke disappeared in the early 1930s, right after Beekman Place closed as a hotel.”
“He disappeared, you say?” Libby seemed intrigued.
“As soon as Beekman Place reopened as apartments,” Frankie said.
“Zoinks, Frankie. Looks like you and Scooby have a mystery to solve.”
“Anything you’d like to offer on the matter?” Frankie tried to keep on point. “Anything you might have overheard in the last twenty years? Talking to neighbors? Things you learned from the other homeowners in the area?”
“You mean while I’m gossiping over the fence with the little old lady who lives nextdoor with her 47 cats?” Libby asked.
“Your words, not mine,” Frankie grinned.
“Do I really look like a desperate housewife, Mr. Downs? Standing in the yard with a big hat and a pair of gardening gloves, bored to the point where I’d talk to anyone just for company? You may find this hard to believe, but just because I’m a senior woman doesn’t mean I live my life like an old fart. I feel as young today as I did when I was in my twenties. I’ve got better things to do with my time than gossip.”
Frankie found Libby rather amusing.
“Well, I’ll admit you don’t strike me as a bingo.player,” he said, “but you also don’t strike me as an agoraphobe who never leaves the house. Very honestly, I’m surprised to find a person like you living in Peoria at all. Has anyone ever told you that you’d fit in well in Chicago?”
“Has anyone ever called you pushy?” Libby fired back, playfully. “It sounds like you’re speaking from experience by asking me if I gossip with the neighbors.”
“It only makes sense that you’d have met a few of the people who’ve lived around you, especially when you first moved in. Back in 1980, there must have been a few people still around who were old enough to have remembered the last fifty years. Before 1980, I mean.”
“And it only makes sense that a man who works for an Internet magazine would know how to find the answers to these questions.”
“You can’t Google everything, Libby.”
“All right, I’ll bite.” Libby grinned in a way that was less giving up and more changing the subject. “What do you want to know?”
“For starters, the dirt.” Frankie eagerly leaned forward. “You know so much about the people who stayed in the hotel, don’t tell me there aren’t a few saucy stories you’ve picked up about the man who built it. Think of it as bringing the hotel to life by making Bill Roanoke a real, live person.”
“Even if he was a bad character?” Libby asked. “I’ll tell ya this, Frankie. Bill Roanoke wasn’t exactly father of the year.”
“Libby, this is exactly what I want to hear.”
The old woman cackled like the Penguin. “I didn’t realize OldPlaces was run by the Enquirer.”
“Stop stalling and cough it up,” Frankie insisted. “From what I understand, Bill Roanoke never married. I’ve read he was sort of a playboy.”
“He was, if you mean he liked to play with boys,” Libby said. “That’s why he never married.”
“He was gay?” Frankie asked for verification, even though he’d already known this. Remembering what Libby had said in the concourse, he prodded further. “Was he one of the boys?”
Again, Libby dodged the question. “Peoria was a busy town ninety years ago,” she said. “Of course, working for OldPlaces, I’m sure you already know that. Like any town of this age and size, there was a lot of old money back then. Only during the ‘20s, that money was new.”
“Is that so?”
“Oh, you should have seen it, Frankie. Downtown was a happening place! We had factories and breweries. We had Vaudeville and movie theaters. We had cars, and restaurants, and brothels, and hookers on street corners. It was the place to be if you couldn’t make it to Chicago.”
“Peoria was a real city back then,” Frankie said, seeming wistful at the thought.
“In those days, a hotel like Beekman Place made sense,” Libby went on. “Not only was the economy booming, but Peoria didn’t have the depressed reputation it has today. Peoria was to 1920s Illinois like Vegas is to present day Nevada. It’s how that cliché got started, If it played in Peoria, it’ll play anywhere. You have no idea how true that was. The city was alive, and everyone wanted to be here.”
A confused look came across Frankie’s face. “Libby, exactly how old are you?”
Libby shook her head and made a ch, ch, ch noise. “I’m not falling for that one,” she said. “Not only am I too old for you, Sweetie, but I don’t think I’m your type.”
Slam.
* * * * *
The lobby door opened and closed. Both heads turned in unison to see who had arrived. The first thing they saw was a big Crate & Barrel box, followed by three large Bed Bath & Beyond bags, a case of Diet Coke, and a package with the HSN logo on the label by the address. There was also a set of human legs.
“Colby!” Libby squealed. In a flash she was across the checkerboard floor and taking the largest of the packages from his arms, nearly spilling her drink in the process. “Frankie, this is Colby, one of our many shopping queens.”
“Oh, sstop,” Colby said with a noticeable lisp. Finding a way to redistribute his packages, he stuck a hand out in Frankie’s direction.
“Frankie Downs,” Frankie introduced himself. “Do you need some help with that?”
“Got it,” Colby said. “But thanks. If you wouldn’t mind though, would you get the elevator?”
“Absolutely.” Frankie went ahead to the elevator on the far lobby wall and pressed the UP button.
“Frankie’s the man from the magazine,” Libby told Colby, setting his box in front of the elevator doors.
“OldPlaces, right?” Colby asked, arranging his packages in a neat pile on top of the box. “Libby told us you were coming. We saw the website. It’s nice.”
“Thanks.”
“Hey!” Libby broke in, speaking directly to Colby. “We should have a party tonight. Yeah, a party to celebrate the article about our building. Tell everyone. Party at Libby’s. Starts promptly at seven o’clock, with cocktails at five.”
“Sounds great, Libby,” Colby rolled his eyes. Turning aside to Frankie he muttered, “She always does this.”
Ding!
The elevator doors opened. Frankie helped push the box and packages into the cabin. Once inside, Colby straightened himself up and shook Frankie’s hand again.
“Thanks. And don’t mind her. She’s a crazy old lady.”
“Cocktails at five!” Libby yelled as the elevator closed.
For just a split second, Frankie caught a glimpse of the glass behind Colby’s shoulder. The cabin’s interior was predominantly chrome, but the wall opposite the doors had a sizable mirror. The words Shh, No Talking! were etched in the glass.
The doors closed.
“Nice guy,” Frankie said, steadying himself on the wall. He closed his eyes for a moment. “Hey Libby, what did that sign in the elevator mean . . ?” His words trailed off as he momentarily lost his footing. He steadied himself against the wall.
Libby pretended not to notice as she re-entered the JC.
Hanging back to gather himself, Frankie waited until the old woman was out of sight before he followed. He made it about halfway across the lobby when something seemed to dawn on him. He stopped, looked to the lobby’s entrance, then back around to the elevator. A hotel’s registration desk is usually the first thing you see when you enter its lobby, he thought. But that’s not the case here.
He retraced his steps.
* * * * *
Frankie had visited most of Chicago’s old skyscrapers, and for the most part, hotels from that era were set up pretty much the same. Normally, when one entered from the street, a person could walk a straight line through the foyer and lobby, right up to the registration desk. A hotel’s desk was as important as its exterior facade, and it was generally designed to make an impression when a guest checked in.
The Beekman Place desk was to the left of her entrance. Sure, her desk was nice, but the focal point of this particular lobby was clearly the elevator. The architect wanted visitors to notice the elevator first.
The elevator sat on the far end of the lobby in the center of a marble wall, directly opposite the entrance. It was positioned in a sharp, rectangular box, trimmed in chrome, but recessed into an odd sort of black threshold.
Setting his glass on the floor, Frankie drew closer. His eyes focused on the cat.
* * * * *
A hissing cat logo stood in the center of the elevator doors, back arched, tail curled forward, front paw poised as though ready to strike. Its body was a stylized silhouette, a featureless insignia that was void of specific details but clear in both shape and stance. The cat had been created to fit perfectly into a circle, a designer’s logo in two pieces that came together when the elevator doors were fully closed. The words RADIO WORLD were written in an Art Deco font, emblazoned on the brushed metal surface directly below the cat.
I was supposed to ask Libby about this, Frankie recalled.
Fumbling through his pockets, he found the pack of matches Libby had given him earlier. He looked at the matchbook, then to the elevator, realizing the logos were identical. Turning the matches around, he saw the phrase Shh, No Talking! above the strike plate, and remembered the sign in the back of the elevator when Colby went upstairs.
He also remembered that Libby never answered his question.
Stepping back from the elevator, Frankie turned toward the Janitor’s Closet, but he forgot about his glass and accidentally kicked it over. He stood for a moment and stared at the floor, watching the spilled liquid move in and out of focus.
Shit.
He was drunk.
In fact, he was very drunk. Much drunker than he should have been so early in the afternoon.
Frankie was a functional alcoholic, and though he frequently drank during the day, he was usually the one to mix the cocktails, having learned how much it was safe to consume to avoid the situation he was in right now.
He knew how to drink to relax, and he knew how to drink to be happy. Above all, he knew how to drink to stay conscious and what would happen if he ever went beyond that point.
And then he collapsed.
* * * * *
The lights of the Peoria riverfront twinkled on the water in the windows of Libby’s guest room. From the pillow, Frankie could see the red neon sign of the Hotel Pere Marquette above the downtown rooftops, glowing in the rain.
Swallowing hard, he pulled himself up and threw his legs onto the floor. He grabbed the headboard, steadying himself while his surroundings came into focus.
The nightstand clock read 8:51 p.m.
Sitting on the edge of the mattress, Frankie cupped his head in his hands and ran fingers through his hair. His mind raced through the last few moments he could remember, replaying them like surveillance tape.
He drove here from Chicago.
He arrived late morning.
He had been drinking in the car.
He had been drinking while talking to Libby.
She had shown him around.
He had met a couple of tenants.
He knew he was drunk when he met . . . shit, what was his name?
Colby.
Libby’s demeanor had changed toward the middle of the afternoon.
She’d been feeding him drinks since the time he arrived.
She was trying to get him drunk, and to push him beyond-
Don’t even go there, he thought. It was my own fault I drank so much.
Frankie’s heart pounded in his chest, beating hard from both the liquor and the shame he always felt from blacking out in a stranger’s house. This was not how he had planned for the afternoon to go, and more important, this was the worst thing he could have done to a client, a woman who opened up her home to him. A person who had probably called his boss, rightfully giving Tina an angry earful.
Frankie forced himself to his feet.
His clothes were disheveled and his boots had been kicked off onto the lace bedspread. Moving from the bed to the doorway, he turned on the light and tried to get his bearings.
He didn’t recognize this room.
The bedroom was small, rectangular shaped, with two matching dressers and an antique sleigh bed from the 1940s. It obviously had once been a guest room, back when the old hotel was open.
He noticed his backpack and laptop had been left on one of the dressers.
Next to the door, Frankie found a bathroom. He turned on the lights and checked his reflection in the mirror. Christ, he was a mess. Puffy eyes, red skin, pulsing temples. Unbuckling his belt, he took off his jeans and shirt. Seeing both soap and fresh towels, he turned on the water and stripped off the rest of his clothes.
I may as well clean myself up, he thought. Libby was probably pissed off already, so it couldn’t make things any worse. Having been in this situation many times before in his life, Frankie knew what was necessary for damage control. Okay, think . . .
You’re in a guest room.
Frankie smirked when he opened the medicine cabinet. Libby had stocked it with exactly what one would find when staying in any hotel: tiny bottles of shampoo, lotion, deodorant, and a little toothbrush and razor, both individually wrapped in plastic.
He looked at the bottles closely. There’s that damn hissing cat logo again.
Ten minutes later, he was clean, dry, back in his T-shirt and underwear, and wiping the steam from the mirror. The hot shower helped a little, but he knew what happened next was entirely up to him.
He quickly went to work putting himself back together.
* * * * *
In every alcoholic’s life, there are times when one wakes up in a strange room, in an unfamiliar place.
Sometimes it’s on a buddy’s couch.
Sometimes it’s in a stranger’s bed.
If he’s lucky, it’s in a private setting, in his car in a parking lot, or on the floor of his laundry room, just inside his house. Private settings are rarely glamourous, but at least you’re spared the embarrassment of being passed out in public.
The worst places to wake up are those that involve other people, especially people who one sees in daily life. Frankie had once passed out drunk in the dark seating area of Padlock, a bar he used to frequent before ruining his reputation. He had awoken when the bartender shined a flashlight in his face. The bartender who had cut him off was now offering to call a cab. In an effort to save face, Frankie had declined and driven himself home. The next day, he was furious at himself, not for getting drunk and driving home, but for knowing others must have seen him. His reputation, at least at Padlock, had suffered a damaging blow.
Frankie knew he had a problem, but he had grown adept at controlling it. Not hiding it exactly, but dealing with it “appropriately,” through many years of experience, and practice, and error. And error.
And error. . .
Frankie knew he was an alcoholic, but he also knew he loved drinking so much, he could never let it go. Alcohol brought out a courage from within that he never could seem to find when he was sober.
And he needed that courgage to get through his daily life.
* * * * *
Using a dab of lotion to reshape his flattop, Frankie returned to the bedroom and sized up his clothes. His jeans were okay, but his shirt was a wrinkled mess.
On a hunch, he opened the closet.
He was surprised - but relieved - to find a drop-down ironing board with an iron in a wall-mounted holder. Ten minutes later, he stood fully clad in front of the bathroom mirror. He looked like a normal person again.
He was clean now.
Leaving the guest room quickly, Frankie returned to the lobby in search of Libby.
It was time to face the music.
* * * * *
The graphics of Headline News flashed on the flat screen above the concourse fireplace. Colby had noticed that CNN was running a segment on the musical Hairspray, and he had come out to watch it, flanked by an entourage. Once the story ended, Frankie stayed behind as the impromptu gathering returned to the JC in laughter, leaving a familiar black dress standing in the threshold. “Mr. Downs, I’d like you to meet Andy Conner,” Libby said in an unexpectedly pleasant tone. She had brought a friend.
Frankie smiled uneasily, setting his drink on the mantle. He wasn’t really drinking it. He had been holding it as a prop, something to do with his hands.
“Hey, Frankie,” Andy said.
“Nice to meet you, but please . . . could you excuse me for just a second?” Frankie nodded to Andy before pulling Libby aside, away from the party. Once out of earshot, he fell on his sword.
“I know an apology will do nothing at this point,” Frankie whispered, “but I am so . . . incredibly . . . sorry, Libby. My behavior today was completely unacceptable. Totally unprofessional. I had no business drinking like that this afternoon, and you have every right to file a complaint about me. To say it was out of line doesn’t even skim the surface. Libby, I honestly don’t know what I was thinking. It’s like . . . I mean . . . I . . . Shit!”
Struggling for words, he lowered his eyes.
I’m so ashamed of my behavior.
“Libby, I don’t even know what to say. I am so incredibly sorry.”
“Eh,” Libby shrugged her shoulders. “It happens to the best of us. Don’t worry yerself ‘bout it. So what if you had a few too many? I don’t know if you noticed, but I had a few myself. Shit happens. Leave it at that.”
Frankie looked confused. “But Libby, I passed out in the lobby. I passed out when I should have been working on the story.”
“So?”
“Oh, come on,” he insisted. “It’s more than ‘So?’”
“No it ain’t.”
“But Libby, someone had to carry . . .” Frankie again lowered his voice to a whisper. “Someone had to carry me. I mean, how did I get to bed?”
Libby grinned and leaned in close to him. “Very discreetly, Mr. Downs.”
“Who got me to the room then?” Frankie asked, not believing she was treating this so lightly. “Who picked me up off the floor? Who put me in the bed?”
“Discretion is one of the top amenities of Beekman Place, Mr. Downs.”
“I get that Libby, but you’re missing the point.”
“Shh!” Libby brought her finger to her lips. “No talking, Mr. Downs.” Again, she smiled evasively. “Did I have help? Hell yes, I had help! But I’m also not at liberty to talk about my helpers. What happens at Beekman Place stays . . . oh hell, you know how that goes. It goes both ways, you see. I cover for you, and you do something nice for me.”
Silence.
“Okay, I’ll bite.” This was starting to make sense now.
“Do you have any idea how many people I’ve seen passed out in this place?” Libby asked, changing the subject as she had done all afternoon. “On the floor? At the bar? In the elevator? In another couple of hours, you should look around and see how many of these guys are still conscious. Still upright. Still able to talk, without slurring their words. It’s no sweat, really. It’s a compliment to the hotel.”
“I hope I didn’t puke,” Frankie chanced a joke.
"You didn’t,” Libby giggled. “I would have told you that.”
“What do you want, Libby?” It was a direct question. “I obviously owe you a very big favor.”
The old woman lips turned up in a smile. “When you go back to the city, remember our little hotel, Mr. Downs. No one wants to read about just another building full of apartments. They want some excitement. A little pizzazz. A little dirt. They want to read about a fun landlady,” she added with a wink. “Your magazine is quaint, but sometimes it dwells just too damn much in the past. Too nostaligic. And I don’t know about you, but I live for today. Here. Now. I may be old, but I don’t wake up in a coffin.” Libby had a twinkle in her eye. “Can you do that for me, Frankie?”
“Yes, Libby,” Frankie promised. “I will definitely do that for you.”
The two had an understanding.
* * * * *
“Is it okay to approach?” Andy asked, still watching from a distance.
“Yes, sure,” Frankie motioned for him to come over. “I’m sorry, I’ve forgotten your name. Is it Alan?”
“Andy.”
“That’s right. Andy. Sorry.”
“I found your camera.”
“What?”
“You accidentally left your camera in the lobby, Mr. Downs,” Libby said, winking again.
“Oh shit,” Frankie realized. “I guess I did lose my camera.”
“I hope you don’t mind,” Libby said, “but as Andy here takes pictures for a living, I asked him to take some photos using your camera. I figured you’d want some shots of the hotel to go along with your article.”
Tina had offered to send a photographer with Frankie, but he had insisted he could take the pictures himself. Of course, he had forgotten everything when he was with Libby this afternoon, and had Andy not found the camera . . . ugh!
“Why, yes Libby. And thank you so much . . . again.”
“I’ll leave you two boys to get acquainted,” Libby said in an obvious attempt at matchmaking. She rejoined the party in the JC.
Andy seemed embarrassed. “She always does this.”
“The party or the set-up?” Frankie asked.
“Both,” Andy replied. “Or, at least when she’s here. She seems to hit the town a lot on her own, although none of us really knows where she goes.”
“I can’t imagine having her as a landlord,” Frankie said.
“She’s a trip.”
“Yeah.”
Uncomfortable silence.
“So . . . that’s my camera.”
“Oh yeah, right.” Andy handed it over.
“Well, thanks. I really appreciate it.”
“No problem.”
“I’ve got my computer . . . uh, in my room,” Frankie said. “Give me a second and I’ll get it, and we can see what kind of pictures you took.”
“Great,” Andy said. “Libby said they’d be used in a magazine?” He seemed genuinely excited that his photos might be published.
"A few of them will, but most of them will end up on the website,’ Frankie explained. “I’m with a firm called OldPlaces. We do a monthly website, and a quarterly magazine.”
“I’ve seen it.”
“Really? That’s good,” Frankie said. “I’ll forward the pictures tonight, so my boss will have them when she opens her email in the morning.” Frankie looked around the concourse. “I’m assuming this place has wi-fi?”
“Surprisingly, it doesn’t,” Andy told him. “And that’s odd because Libby’s really into computers.”
“Oh,” Frankie said, disappointed. “Well, I can transfer the pictures to my laptop, anyway. Give me a minute.”
Frankie left the concourse and returned a few minutes later with his backpack. When he got to the lobby, Andy was talking with some guys near the elevator. He looked up when he saw Frankie.
“Hey,” Andy said. “I have an idea. At the risk of giving Libby more gossip material, you can use the computer in my apartment to send your pictures to your boss. That is, if you want to send them off tonight.”
“That’s not necessary,” Frankie told him, glancing at his watch. “I work at eight, so I need to get back on the road. I can find a Kinko’s before I leave.”
“Kinko’s closes at ten,” Andy told him. “You’re in Peoria, remember?”
“There’s got to be someplace with wi-fi between here and Chicago,” Frankie said. “We’re close to Bradley University, right? They had late-night cafes back when I used to live here, so I’m sure I can find somewhere to access the net. There used to be a place up the street from the Quench Room.”
“Okay . . . sure,” Andy seem disappointed. “Just offering.”
“Besides, my camera is formatted for Mac.”
“I use a Mac,” Andy perked up. “I noticed your camera is an Apple when I was using it.”
Frankie hesitated for a moment, considering the offer.
"I’m still a little buzzed, he thought, and this kid’s inviting me up to his apartment. Andy has to be a solid fifteen years younger than me, and with all that’s already happened today, sticking around any longer is not a wise idea.
Smiling politely, Frankie looked the young man over. Nice looking, thin waist, white T-shirt, black boots. Too young to be in his league though.
Black boots.
“I really don’t mind,” Andy smiled.
Silence.
Despite his better judgement, Frankie accepted the young man’s offer.
* * * * *
From the balcony of Andy’s apartment, Frankie could see over the trees of the entire surrounding neighborhood. He saw both the homes of Roanoke Avenue and those on the upper streets beyond Armstrong and Sheridan Road. Downtown Peoria looks out of scale from up here, he thought, exhaling cigarette smoke.
“Here you go,” Andy said from behind, handing Frankie a whiskey and coke from inside the apartment. “The ashtray’s right there,” he pointed to a small wrought iron table in the corner by the railing.
“Thanks, Andy.”
Frankie put out his cigarette before returning to the living room.
Inside the apartment, Frankie understood why it had been so easy to convert the old hotel into rentable units. It seemed that most if not all of the hotel rooms had been suites to begin with. Andy must have had seven hundred square feet to live in, including a small entry, a living room, a tiny galley kitchen, and a separate dining room. Frankie couldn’t see the bedroom, but from the visible floorplan, there was sure to be plenty of space.
“I’m on your website,” Andy said from his iMac. He had pulled up the OldPlaces home page. He clicked on the Contact Us toolbar and scrolled down until he reached Frankie’s name. He clicked the link. “I saved the files in a PC-friendly format.”
“That’s fine,” Frankie said, “but even if you didn’t, the whole office uses Mac, so it shouldn’t be a problem.”
“Right here, right?” Andy pointed to the screen.
“Yup, that’s me. And could you please cc a copy to Tina Collins?”
“Absolutely.” Point, click, send.
“How long have you lived here?” Frankie asked, making conversation. He settled into a small IKEA sofa and stared at the many framed black and whites that were hanging on the walls.
“Couple years,” Andy told him. “Although, I’m going to be moving soon. I’ve been sending out my resume. As much as I hate to leave this old building, there’s a company in Seattle that wants to see more of my portfolio. Peoria’s nice, but it’s no big city.”
“You’re applying for a job?” Frankie asked. Must be nice to be so young and have all your shit together, he thought.
“No, I’ve got the job already,” Andy said. “Or at least a job. I applied for a standard website catalog thing, but when they saw my work they seemed to be impressed.” Andy spun around in his chair to face his guest. “Very honestly, they said I had too much talent for the position I was originally hired for. That really made me feel good, you know?”
You’re in a better position than I was at your age, Frankie thought. When I was in my twenties, I was still waiting tables and trying to find direction.
“That is a compliment,” Frankie said, trying to keep the edge out of his voice. He hated talking to young men about career stuff, especially when he hadn’t gotten his own career going until well into his thirties. And even then, not a day went by when Frankie didn’t wonder how different life would be right now had he made better choices in the past. Especially when he was reminded of those choices by young boys like Andy.
“More money?” Frankie asked.
Andy nodded modestly. “Not enough to actually afford my own home, but still more than I expected. It will put me in a good place, though. Job-wise, I mean. Potential for advancement in the future.”
“That’s great,” Frankie couldn’t help grumbling. “It must make you happy.”
“Yeah,” Andy admitted. “It does.”
Silence.
Frankie directed his attention to the photographs on the walls. They were all Andy’s work, mounted in simple mattings against dark frames. Like Frankie’s own writing, Andy’s subject matter focused on the homes of old Peoria, with other Illinois towns he recognized as Springfield, Chillicothe, Decatur, Champaign, and Bloomington.
“We seem to like the same things,” Frankie noted. “When I was your age, I used to love grabbing my Walkman and strolling through all these old neighborhoods, especially at night. It must have been amazing to have lived in these houses when they were new, you know? To come home from work and pull into a garage of a house like that.” He gestured to a photograph labeled John C. Flanagan House, 942 NE Glen Oak Avenue, Peoria, Illinois.
“Just imagine,” Frankie said. “That’s your house. That’s where you sleep at night.”
Andy nodded quietly, without expression.
“When I look at photographs like that,” Frankie continued, “I imagine what the people were like who lived at that time, when the houses were brand new. What their lives were like. What they did during the day. It’s almost sad when you think about it, you know? All the people who lived in the past and did enough with their lives to have left behind a house like that? It’s like their monument. Their tombstone. All that’s left of their life today, all these years after they died.”
“I think you read more into these pictures than I do,” Andy admitted. “I just see them as old houses, you know? Great for a photograph. Catch them in the right light and click. Perfect for a portfolio.”
Frankie’s buzz was returning. With each sip of whiskey, the room was growing fuzzy and he was starting to forget that he had to get back to the city.
“I do understand what you’re talking about, though,” Andy went on. “But I guess that’s why people like me take pictures, and people like you write the stories behind them. I mean, that’s why you work at OldPlaces, right? Because you have a love of the past? A reverence for it? There must have been something that made you go work for a magazine like that. Not many people are lucky enough to work in a job that reflects their true calling.”
True calling? Frankie thought. Yeah, that’s why I’m writing for OldPlaces now.
I’m finally living my true calling.
He shifted on the sofa.
* * * * *
Frankie did love his job right now, but not in the way Andy was suggesting. Very honestly, the path that had brought him to OldPlaces had been far from a pleasant one. He was lucky to have this position at all, and if Tina found out how he was about to behave tonight, he wouldn’t be employed as a writer for long.
“I do love the past,” Frankie said, keeping things moving. “And it is rewarding to work for a place where I can bring the past to life.”
“You seem to be pretty good at it,” Andy was at ease with his compliments. “When Libby told us you were coming, I looked up the website and read some of your stories. Anyone can write about an old building’s history, but you always seem to work in something more. Almost a human side. It makes the buildings more real. Just like it takes an eye for a good photograph, it also takes a good ear for the right words. One with more than just facts, I mean.”
“It takes a little imagination,” Frankie admitted. “But again, it’s a job most anyone can do.”
“I know your imagination extends beyond OldPlaces, Frankie.”
Frankie’s attention was piqued. His eyes went to slits. “What do you mean?”
“Did you see that one?” Andy pointed to a picture in the bedroom hallway. It was a picture that couldn’t be seen from where Frankie was currently sitting.
He got up to take a look.
* * * * *
This photograph was larger than those in the living room, and though the work wasn’t Andy’s, it was Andy. He was the subject matter. Frankie’s eyes narrowed like a cat’s when he saw the young man in the picture, shirtless in a black harness, leather chaps over black boots.
From the corner of his eye, Frankie noticed how Andy was watching him carefully, his young body backlit by the lights in the living room.
Silence.
“What do you want?” Frankie asked, rattling the ice in his drained glass.
“You run a profile on Control/Bound, don’t you?” Andy clicked on a page he had minimized on his computer. The screen turned red and opened onto a bondage/control fetish site, where gay men search for partners with very specific sexual interests.
Andy pulled up the member directory and clicked on the name CityRopes. Frankie’s photo popped onto the screen.
“That,” Andy said
And after a moment of silence, Frankie decided to stay for one for the road.
* * * * *
Some time later, Andy watched as Frankie laced up his boots. The young man was naked except for the restraints still buckled to his wrists and ankles. The bedroom was a mess, the floor strewn with rope and an empty bottle of lube on the nightstand.
Frankie said goodbye, and Andy locked the door behind him.
* * * * *
Alone in the hallway, Frankie looked at his watch. Shit! It’s almost 3:30!
It was a three-hour drive to Chicago, and another hour on top of that once he hit rush hour traffic. If there was any chance of getting to work on time, he had to leave now.
Heading down the hallway, Frankie located the elevator. He reached to push the call button, but stopped when he remembered the ding. Not wanting to attract attention, Frankie found the stairwell and hurried down to the lobby.
He had just rounded the third floor when the elevator came to life.
* * * * *
It started on Andy’s floor and seemed to follow him down the stairs. Frankie continued his descent, rounding the ground floor’s last corner when he heard the elevator pass him. Thinking he had forgotten something inside Andy’s apartment, Frankie upped his pace to be present when the cabin reached the lobby.
Ding!
The elevator opened. But Andy wasn’t inside.
“Excuse me, SIR,” the skinhead said, pressing a different button as though he’d stopped on the wrong floor. Their eyes met briefly, and Frankie hesitated, trying to place if he’d met the man before. But before he could speak, the elevator closed, with just enough time for a glimpse of the Shh, No Talking! mirror.
The elevator went back up.
Sir?
* * * * *
With no time to spare, Frankie left the lobby and ran down the stairs to the street where his car was parked. Ten minutes later, his Eldorado turned off I-74 and began its journey up the small state routes that would connect to I-55 and eventually Chicago.
* * * * *
A few hours later, Libby screamed.
I wish there was a way that I could feel normal without drinking. A way to stop the anxiety, you know? The tightness in my chest, and the fear of speaking my mind.
And having said that, I really wish I could write without alcohol. To sit down and type without a glass of Chardonnay…or for those stories that really hit close to home, a big tumbler of whiskey with an ice-to-liquid ratio that could take down a horse, if used in different circumstances.
Of course it’s not my fault, you know.
Not the drinking itself, but the whole writing stereotype we all see on TV.
I mean, whenever we see a character writing a book, he’s always depicted at a small wooden desk, with a lamp, a cigarette, a bottle and a glass. It always seems to be night. The writer is always good looking, in a scruffy sort of way. But even more important, the writer types with a fierce look of confidence, smiling when he’s finished, and toasting himself at the end.
For me though, the story can’t even begin until I have a buzz going…
Peoria, Illinois
Twenty-Seven Years Later
The old Cadillac’s hood ornament bounced up and down like a buoy, exaggerating the potholes’ severity and confirming this was not a good place for 27-year-old air suspension. This stretch of Roanoke Avenue was still paved with bricks, and Frankie never understood why the city hadn’t covered the surface with concrete as they had done to all the other streets this close to downtown.
Easy Olivia, Frankie thought. There’s no other road to take.
From above, the old trees reached over the street like fingers, obscuring the road in an arthritic canopy of yellow, orange, red, and crisp green. The steep angled attics of the old Roanoke homes marked his progress like watchtowers, looming over his car from high above the street. With the exception of clouds to the north, the October sky was icicle blue.
Inside the car, the damp autumn air felt colder than it really was. Frankie inhaled deeply, taking in the musky aroma of wood and wet earth. After a quick glance over his shoulder, he polished off the last of his flask before stashing it under the seat. His dashboard clock read 11:23, and every so often the sun would break through just long enough to warm his shoulders through the open sunroof. In a few short weeks, it would be too chilly to drive with the windows open at all. It was already too cold in Chicago, and Frankie was amazed at what a difference a mere three hours’ drive had made in the weather.
A yellow leaf fluttered through his sunroof.
* * * * *
He had only been away from Chicago a little over four hours now, and already he missed her skyline’s reflection on the cold, choppy water of Lake Michigan. Though Frankie had actually grown up in Peoria, he left there in 1996 when he reached his mid-twenties. Peoria was a quaint little town with an air of stability that was perfect for a wife and kids: good schools, clean roads, subdivisions with homeowners’ associations. It was more a place to raise a family than a home for a single, 38-year-old gay man who had always been a city boy at heart.
It never was my city, he thought.
Peoria definitely had the appearance of a real city in places, especially when driving through its old bluffside neighborhoods, where Chicago-style homes overlooked a small downtown with surprisingly large-scale buildings. But its similarities to Chicago were only in appearance. Its residents spoke with distinct regional drawls, most having spent their entire lives in the central midwestern corridor. When he looked in the mirror eleven years ago, Frankie knew he didn’t belong in this place, and once he left, he never looked back.
Actually, that’s not quite true.
* * * * *
Frankie had indeed looked back on many occasions, especially since joining OldPlaces Magazine, a job that took him to numerous small midwestern cities in Illinois, Wisconsin, Indiana, Iowa, Missouri, and occasionally, Minnesota. He didn’t mind the travel. It got him out of the office two or three times a month, and he enjoyed taking his old Caddy on road trips, filling her big gas tank on the company credit card.
Small towns were best enjoyed in small doses, in surgical strikes where Frankie was deployed, inserted, and quickly removed. He had grown proficient at getting research done on his computer, and when he left Chicago to find the “human” sides of his subjects, he worked as swiftly as a private investigator, scheduling interviews, snapping pictures, and taking notes, synopsizing his findings later in the comfort of his office, with the real city in the window behind him.
OldPlaces.com was a Chicago-based online magazine that specialized in the forgotten Midwest. Its byline read, “a publication that remembers the old places hidden all around us, from which the modern world was built.”
The magazine sounded a lot loftier than it really was, though, considering it had started on a mimeograph machine, the pet project of an Oak Park church volunteer. OldPlaces was a Christian publication, a fact that had caused near riotous laughter when Frankie had first told the guys at the Cell Block about his new gig. “Seriously,” he’d told them, “it started as a church pamphlet. There was this little old lady making a magazine in the goddamn rectory basement, and she printed off copies like ads for a bake sale. And to think, she hired me!”
But Frankie was wrong to call Tina Collins, his boss, a little old lady. Though she might have been in her fifties, she had proved to be as hip to modern technology as any high school teenager. At her insistance, OldPlaces was one of the first publications of its kind to move to the web in the mid-1990s. OldPlaces still printed a monthly paper copy for elderly readers, but like any good website, it provided expanded information online. Tina also insisted that Norton, her husband who just happened to be the church pastor, “encourage” his flock to buy computers for their households if they didn’t already own one. “The internet is the backbone of the modern world,” Tina told the women who lingered after service to chat. “And it’s your duty as parents to know what’s going on in your house, on your living room computer, and in your children’s bedrooms.”
Mrs. Collins was obviously alluding to smut, but the fact that computers could also receive her magazine was just one of God’s little miracles.
* * * * *
Rounding the next curve, the treeline broke for a moment, allowing Frankie a panoramic view of the downtown skyline below. Peoria sat in a lush, tree-covered valley, spanning several miles along the Illinois River.
Peoria always came as a surprise to travelers unfamiliar with the area. They’d drive for hours through endless miles of small towns, cornfields and pig farms, then BAM! The trees thickened, the horizon dipped downward, and a riverfront skyline appeared out of nowhere, with twin condominium towers that looked hauntingly like the former World Trade Center. When compared to the surrounding farm towns, Peoria was the closest thing locals had to a “real” city. It had a skyline, a big bridge, a riverboat casino, and even a Holidome.
A stop sign appeared and Roanoke Avenue ended at Hamilton Boulevard. Frankie leaned forward to check for oncoming cars, then across the street to where Beekman Place faced the mouth of Roanoke Avenue. One of the oldest streets in Peoria, Hamilton sloped sharply toward the river in two long concrete stretches separated by a grassy embankment in the middle. Ninety years ago, Hamilton had been one of the busiest roads in town. Now in less than two minutes, Frankie had circled the grass and found a parking spot across the street.
He grabbed his backpack before locking the Eldorado.
And then he looked up.
* * * * *
Like a rocket, the old hotel shot upward. Her sleek marble exterior came out of nowhere on what was a quiet residential street. She was twelve stories tall, white and seafoam green, with Art Deco lines and windows whose frames came together in herringbone starbursts. She was a tower on the hill and completely out of place when compared to everything else in the neighborhood. Looking up from the sidewalk, Frankie felt the same admiration as when he stood at the base of the Carbide & Carbon Building on Michigan Avenue, his favorite Chicago skyscraper.
A semicircle driveway allowed cars to pull up to her lobby, but an exterior stairway cut directly across the grass, giving visitors sidewalk access as well. Frankie climbed the stairs, crossed the drive, then went up a second set of marble stairs to the building’s entrance under a striped awning. Before he could even knock, the lobby’s beveled glass door swung open and a little old lady in a black cocktail dress scampered out.
“Frankie Downs!” the woman cackled, smiling broadly and opening her arms for a hug. “I’m Libby. Welcome to Beekman Place!”
* * * * *
The ice loudly sloshed within the chrome decanter as Libby shook it with the skill of having done so many times before. Two martini glasses sat on the bar - Waterford, Frankie noticed, identical to a set he had seen at Marshall Field’s but didn’t dare risk his credit rating to buy.
“Now, I know that bathtub gin was all the rage when this place was built,” Libby said, pouring two Manhattans, “but there’s something to be said about being too authentic, don’t you think? Besides, if I had to size you up, I’d call you a whiskey man. And a drink should at least have some color, right?”
“Libby,” Frankie said in half-assed protest. “It’s a little early-”
“To hell it is!” she cut him off. “It’s never too early for a good buzz.”
Frankie smirked. “It would be rude to contradict the hostess.”
“I thought you’d agree,” Libby smiled broadly. “Sorry about not properly garnishing your beverage, but cherries take up so much room in such a tiny glass.”
“I don’t like small glasses, Libby.”
“I like the way you think, Mr. Downs. Cheers.”
The two clinked glasses. Libby downed her cocktail in a single gulp. Frankie took a healthy swig from his, but left enough behind to swirl around while he talked.
“So, how long has this building been called Beekman Place?” he asked, noticing the framed poster of Angela Lansbury in Mame hanging behind the bar. “I know it was built in the late teens, but I thought Patrick Dennis’ novel didn’t come out until the ‘50s.”
“How long has she been called Beekman Place,” Libby corrected.
“Pardon?”
“She,” Libby said again, sounding like a school teacher. “The hotel is a grand lady, so we call her she. Like a fine ship or a beautiful car.” Pulling out a pack of Bensen & Hedges, Libby twisted one into a shiny black holder. “That old Caddy of yours outside on the street. I’ll bet she’s not it to you, is she? I’ll bet she’s a she.”
“She’s a she alright,” Frankie said, knowing exactly what the old woman meant.
“What’s her name?” Libby asked.
“Olivia.”
“Olivia?” Libby repeated, intrigued. “Now, there’s a name with a story. I’d better freshen our cocktails while you tell it.”
Lighting her cigarette from a pack of bar matches, Libby held the holder between her teeth, reminding Frankie of Bergis Meredith as the Penguin on Batman.
“Finish your glass Mr. Downs, and tell me about your Olivia.”
“Olivia is the first Cadillac I’ve owned myself,” Frankie began, “and I love her more than any other Cadillac I’ve ever seen, including the new models. As a kid, I grew up with Cadillacs, starting in 1975 and going through 1984. We weren’t rich by any means, but Father always made sure Mother had a really nice car. He called them ca-dilly-acts.
“We kept each one for two years,” he continued, “then traded them in around the time when the body styles changed. We had a couple of DeVilles, an old Fleetwood diesel, and a really pretty white Seville, with one of those slanted trunks like a Rolls Royce.”
“I had one of those,” Libby recalled fondly. “It was two-toned, like a goddamn pimp car. Gold and this nasty cream color. I thought I was riding in style back then, but when I think about it now, I must have looked like a hooker. And before you ask, that car was an it.”
“The one Cadillac we didn’t have when I was a kid was the Eldorado,” Frankie went on. “I guess it was because we were a family of four, and Eldorados only had two doors. Hard when you’ve got kids in the back seat. I’ve always loved Eldorados, at least until ‘86 when they started to round the corners. It was the only model I never got to ride in, so I think that’s why I bought one when I was older. All grown men have play cars. Some have Corvettes, others have Cameros. I have a 1980 Cadillac Eldorado, black on the outside, red leather on the inside.”
“Now that’s class.” Libby was being facetious. She pushed a fresh drink toward Frankie. She puffed her cigarette and stirred her Manhattan with her fingers. “And you call your midlife crisis car Olivia becaaaause . . .”
“Because one of the first songs I heard on her radio was Olivia Newton John’s Magic,” Frankie admitted. “It’s one of the songs from Xanadu, with those early ‘80s synthesizers and that late disco sound. What can I say? The song was perfect, especially through those old Delco speakers. And as I sat in the car and listened to Magic, I said to my car, ‘Your name is Olivia.’”
Frankie smiled broadly and settled back in the white leather bar stool. “Was it all that you were hoping for, Libby?”
“All that and much more, Mr. Downs.”
“So can we talk about the hotel now, please?” Frankie asked. Libby nodded and came around the bar to sit next to him. Opening his backpack, Frankie set his Mac laptop on the counter. He angled it so Libby could see the screen.
“You never answered me about the name,” he said. “When was the name changed to Beekman Place?”
“It was never changed,” Libby said. “She’s always been called that.”
“Even before the movie? Before the book?”
“That’s what I said.”
“Oh, come on now, Libby,” Frankie was doubtful. “It’s a cute little advertising ploy, and you’re not going to lose points with me over it. We both know Mame the musical and Auntie Mame the story are about the same crazy old woman who lived in 1920s Manhattan.”
“Are you calling me a crazy old woman?” Libby faked a pout.
“Yes I am, and quit changing the subject,” Frankie teased. “In all the Mame stories - the books, the plays, and the movies - Mame Dennis lived at Beekman Place in Manhattan, which, as you can find in any city record, was a real building that was built in the ‘20s.”
“So what’s the problem?” Libby asked. “Lots of buildings end up having the same names. The Grand Hotel. The Corner Bar. Beekman Place in Peoria was probably named after Beekman Place in New York.”
“But that’s where the timeline doesn’t make sense.” Frankie clicked on a folder labeled Hotel History. Photos of Beekman Place in New York popped onto the screen, along with the property’s history and important events. Frankie scrolled down to the construction date. “The building was completed in 1929.”
“So?”
He opened a second folder with similar records on Libby’s building.
“Construction began on The Beekman Place Hotel - that is, this building here on Hamilton Boulevard - in the spring of 1919, and it was finished in time for a New Year’s Eve opening.” He waited for this to sink in. “Libby, I’m talking New Years Eve nineteen-nineteen.”
“It must have been quite a party,” she said, raising her glass then taking a drink. Frankie glared at her.
"What?”
“Well, in addition to being built almost ten years before the New York building,” Frankie continued, “do you realize this hotel was finished in less than a year? A modern hotel can’t be built that fast, let alone a hotel built almost ninety years ago.”
“They must have had some awfully hard workers,” Libby crossed her legs and leaned back on the bar. “Did they have Mexicans back then?”
Frankie cringed.
Libby patted him on the knee. “Oh, I’m just kidding with you, Mr. Downs. Don’t get your panties in a bunch. So, both buildings have the same name. So what? And who the hell can trust records that are almost a hundred years old? I’m nearly a hundred. Do you trust me?”
“Do you really want me to answer that?” Frankie shot back.
“Not until I’ve had another cocktail.” Libby hopped off her stool. Returning to the back of the bar, she swept up the dirty glass, emptied the ashtray, and with the speed of an experienced bartender, deployed fresh drinks.
Frankie watched her mix up enough for six people.
Forget the Penguin, he thought. She’s goddamn Ruth Gordon from Rosemary’s Baby.
“You want a cigarette?” Libby set a clean ashtray on the bar. “If my cigarettes are too foofy for you, we keep Marboro Lights back here, if you’re a manly man.”
Frankie smiled and reached for his backpack. “I’ve got my own, but thanks.” He pulled out a cigarette, stuck it in his mouth, and fumbled for his lighter.
“Heads up.” Libby tossesd him a pack of bar matches.
“Thanks.” Frankie lit his cigarette then closed the matchbook. He noticed the cover’s logo, a silhouette of a hissing cat in a circle. “Shh, No Talking!” was written in an Art Deco font above the strike plate.
“So, what else do you want to know about my lady?” Libby walked around the bar and motioned for him to join her toward the center of the room. “You’ll find that I know all her dirty little secrets.”
“I’m assuming you don’t have a liquor license.” Frankie said. “So why is the bar fully stocked?” He looked at the chrome and glass shelves behind the counter, as packed with liquor as any neighborhood pub. There were also cigarettes for sale.
“The bar was part of the hotel when she opened,” Libby explained. “And I’m kind of a stickler for keeping things the way they’ve always been. The bar technically isn’t open to the public, but the tenants may use it as they wish. It’s like a clubhouse inside the building. Reserve it for parties or grab it when it’s free. All I ask is that you replace whatever you use and clean up the puke.”
Libby saw she had said something that struck Frankie’s curiosity. “What?”
“When you say tenants, you mean the people who live upstairs?” he asked.
“Why, yes,” Libby replied.
“And how long has Beekman Place been an apartment building?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” Libby said. “For quite a while, I guess. The rooms were converted to apartments before I got her in 1980.”
“Do you know how long ago the rooms were converted?” Frankie asked.
“No,” Libby said. “But something tells me you do.”
Frankie smiled. “The Beekman Place Hotel was opened from December 31, 1919 to December 3, 1933. The entire duration of Prohibition.”
“So?” Libby scoffed. “What does that have to do with the apartments?”
Frankie clicked on another folder. The screen opened to a record of the building’s status following its days as a hotel.
“Well . . . this, Libby. It’s what happened to the hotel right after Prohibition ended. Beekman Place only operated as a hotel during the time the 18th Amendment was in force, less a couple weeks in December the first year. The hotel was open exactly from December 10th, 1919 to December 4th, 1933. As soon as Prohibition was repealed, the hotel closed to vacationing guests and reopened as an apartment building. It took only a week. There was almost no down time at all.”
Frankie stared at Libby for a reaction, but she just shrugged her shoulders. “The building lost her appeal,” she said. “Why stay here when you could have a party anywhere?”
Frankie shook his head. “What I mean is, it’s just like how quickly the building itself was constructed. As if the owners had planned for everything, like they knew what was going to happen in advance.”
“Just sounds like good planning to me.” Libby was unphased. “Good businessmen. They had a sense for what was going to happen with their investment.”
“It’s an awful lot of coincidences, Libby.”
“Does that surprise you?”
“What?”
“I said, does that surprise you?” Libby repeated, almost defensively. “You write about these things all the time in your magazine - strange histories of old neighborhoods, quirky people who lived in the past. Hell, this whole downtown has a crazy history. Why, during the ‘20s-” She stopped midsentence. “Frankie, do you even know what room we’re in?”
By this point, Libby was standing at the center of the bar, directly between Frankie and a large piano on a raised stage. With her heels making deliberate clicks on the tile, she strolled across the black and white terrazzo, past two rows of intimate tables with chairs and white tablecloths. She stopped when she came to the entrance, looking up to where the wall-hugging staircase climbed to a landing with a heavy metal door.
Frankie’s eyes lit up.
“We’re in the basement,” he realized. A hidden speakeasy!
“It was called, appropriately, The Janitor’s Closet,” Libby said. “Or the JC for short. Beekman Place was built in a time when everyone knew Prohibition was coming,” she explained. “She was built as a haven. A hotel with hidden amenities. She was a place where you could have a drink and then get a room if you wanted to pass out . . . or get laid.” She winked. “And if the owners predicted Prohibition’s end as well as they did its beginning, then who gives a shit? If those owners were alive today, I’d let them handle my stock portfolio.” The old woman smiled devilishly.
“So, we’re left with this beautiful building,” Libby said, “and you have a nice little story for your magazine.”
Sighing softly, Frankie looked defeated.
“Now, let’s grab a fresh drink and let me take you on a proper tour,” Libby said. “Did you bring a camera?”
“In my bag,” he patted his backpack then stubbed out his cigarette in an ashtray on a nearby table.
Libby came around the bar again, setting two iced-tea-sized glasses on the counter, filling them with booze. “In case we get thirsty upstairs.”
With a fresh glass in hand, Frankie followed his hostess away from the bar, up to the landing, and into the heart of the old Beekman Place Hotel.
Thank God my buzz is starting to kick in, he thought.
* * * * *
Swinging her hips when she walked, Libby carried herself like a wealthy woman at a fundraiser luncheon. With one hand she used her cigarette holder to point out items of interest; with the other she held her Manhattan in such a way that her charm bracelet hung downward, motionless.
“We call this room the concourse,” she explained, “but really it’s just the community game room. Sometimes we have parties; sometimes we watch movies. During the holidays, all the boys get together and decorate the Christmas tree, right there in front of the windows facing the street.”
The concourse was a sizable hall just off the lobby, opposite the JC. With floor-to-ceiling windows, it got more sunlight than any other room in the hotel, and the draperies were more for aesthetics than function. A grouping of dark green mohair furniture was arranged around the room’s fireplace, and the carpet was the kind of shag one normally only associates with old Hollywood homes. There were so many ferns, Frankie felt like he was in a garden center.
"Who are all the boys?” he asked, going back to the Christmas tree.
“Tenants, mostly,” Libby said. “And friends of tenants. There are lots of creative people who live here, you know.”
“Creative boys, you mean,” Frankie said, trying to rile her.
Libby smiled politely, unaffected. “Well, you’re a creative boy, aren’t you?” she said. “How else could you write all those wonderfully creative articles?”
Before he could answer, Libby changed the subject. “You know Mr. Downs, back when the hotel was open, the concourse was a place for guests to relax and play billiards. The windows would be open when the weather was nice, and during the cold months, guests could sit around the fireplace and enjoy the ambiance.”
“Is that so?” Frankie said, conceding. Libby was directing the conversation on her own terms, and there was nothing he could do to change that. He was starting to get better at reading her story, however - recognizing what to believe and when she was embellishing.
“It’s open to the lobby – the concourse.” Libby continued. “Great for people watching. You could see everyone who came into the hotel from here. Movie stars. Politicians. Gangsters.”
“Like Al Capone?” Frankie played along.
“Al didn’t get down here very much,” Libby said. “The Shelton Brothers were our local bootleggers.”
“The local Al Capones,” Frankie got the picture.
“They were treated like celebrities when they came to the hotel,” Libby told him. “They were the ones who kept the liquor flowing, who kept the JC full of famous faces.”
Frankie raised an eyebrow. “Lots of famous people in those days, Libby?”
“All kinds, Mr. Downs. The pre-jet jet set.”
“Even in Peoria?” Frankie called her bluff. “In Peoria, Illinois?”
“I believe that’s what I said.”
“I don’t know about that, Libby. If given the choice between a Peoria hotel and a hotel in Chicago, I’m thinking I’d choose Chicago. I’m thinking anyone would choose Chicago. Speakeasy or not, there’s something to be said about spending a night in a big city.”
“As I mentioned before, it depends on what amenities your hotel has to offer.”
“You mean like prostitutes?”
“Among other things.”
Frankie followed her into the lobby. Like the rest of the building, almost nothing had been changed. The lobby still had the original registration desk, bellhop cubby, and an elegant side office with the word Concierge etched in the center of a beveled glass window.
“Ain’t she grand?” Libby asked, purposely stopping in the middle of the vast room. She spun on her heel and beamed radiantly, posing like Cleopatra when she gazed upward toward the ceiling’s Egyptian-inspired chandeliers.
Frankie had to agree. Beekman Place in Peoria was nothing like he had expected.
But it’s time to get to the business at hand.
* * * * *
“Libby, what do you know about the man who built the hotel?” Frankie asked. “I know his name was Bill Roanoke, but I don’t know much else beyond that.”
“Ah, William,” Libby said, as though reminiscing. “He was quite a special friend of mine, you know.”
“Libby,” Frankie wondered if Libby was playing or showing signs of demenia. “Bill Roanoke must have died in the 1930s.”
“So?”
“So,” Frankie said. “You’re a lovely senior woman, but you can’t tell me that you’re old enough to have known him.”
“Oh, ” Libby giggled, “you said senior. Ain’t you sweet?”
“And tactful,” Frankie added.
“And so full of shit,” she said bluntly.
“Roanoke Avenue was named after Bill Roanoke’s family,” Frankie continued. “His father owned a number of distilleries in Peoria Heights, not far from here, on the bluff. The family house was literally within walking distance of this hotel.”
“It sounds like you know quite a bit about him already,” Libby mused.
“I do,” Frankie said, “but only the A&E Biography stuff. Wikipedia. I know who he was, who his parents were, where they all came from, and how their money was made. I even know that Bill Roanoke disappeared in the early 1930s, right after Beekman Place closed as a hotel.”
“He disappeared, you say?” Libby seemed intrigued.
“As soon as Beekman Place reopened as apartments,” Frankie said.
“Zoinks, Frankie. Looks like you and Scooby have a mystery to solve.”
“Anything you’d like to offer on the matter?” Frankie tried to keep on point. “Anything you might have overheard in the last twenty years? Talking to neighbors? Things you learned from the other homeowners in the area?”
“You mean while I’m gossiping over the fence with the little old lady who lives nextdoor with her 47 cats?” Libby asked.
“Your words, not mine,” Frankie grinned.
“Do I really look like a desperate housewife, Mr. Downs? Standing in the yard with a big hat and a pair of gardening gloves, bored to the point where I’d talk to anyone just for company? You may find this hard to believe, but just because I’m a senior woman doesn’t mean I live my life like an old fart. I feel as young today as I did when I was in my twenties. I’ve got better things to do with my time than gossip.”
Frankie found Libby rather amusing.
“Well, I’ll admit you don’t strike me as a bingo.player,” he said, “but you also don’t strike me as an agoraphobe who never leaves the house. Very honestly, I’m surprised to find a person like you living in Peoria at all. Has anyone ever told you that you’d fit in well in Chicago?”
“Has anyone ever called you pushy?” Libby fired back, playfully. “It sounds like you’re speaking from experience by asking me if I gossip with the neighbors.”
“It only makes sense that you’d have met a few of the people who’ve lived around you, especially when you first moved in. Back in 1980, there must have been a few people still around who were old enough to have remembered the last fifty years. Before 1980, I mean.”
“And it only makes sense that a man who works for an Internet magazine would know how to find the answers to these questions.”
“You can’t Google everything, Libby.”
“All right, I’ll bite.” Libby grinned in a way that was less giving up and more changing the subject. “What do you want to know?”
“For starters, the dirt.” Frankie eagerly leaned forward. “You know so much about the people who stayed in the hotel, don’t tell me there aren’t a few saucy stories you’ve picked up about the man who built it. Think of it as bringing the hotel to life by making Bill Roanoke a real, live person.”
“Even if he was a bad character?” Libby asked. “I’ll tell ya this, Frankie. Bill Roanoke wasn’t exactly father of the year.”
“Libby, this is exactly what I want to hear.”
The old woman cackled like the Penguin. “I didn’t realize OldPlaces was run by the Enquirer.”
“Stop stalling and cough it up,” Frankie insisted. “From what I understand, Bill Roanoke never married. I’ve read he was sort of a playboy.”
“He was, if you mean he liked to play with boys,” Libby said. “That’s why he never married.”
“He was gay?” Frankie asked for verification, even though he’d already known this. Remembering what Libby had said in the concourse, he prodded further. “Was he one of the boys?”
Again, Libby dodged the question. “Peoria was a busy town ninety years ago,” she said. “Of course, working for OldPlaces, I’m sure you already know that. Like any town of this age and size, there was a lot of old money back then. Only during the ‘20s, that money was new.”
“Is that so?”
“Oh, you should have seen it, Frankie. Downtown was a happening place! We had factories and breweries. We had Vaudeville and movie theaters. We had cars, and restaurants, and brothels, and hookers on street corners. It was the place to be if you couldn’t make it to Chicago.”
“Peoria was a real city back then,” Frankie said, seeming wistful at the thought.
“In those days, a hotel like Beekman Place made sense,” Libby went on. “Not only was the economy booming, but Peoria didn’t have the depressed reputation it has today. Peoria was to 1920s Illinois like Vegas is to present day Nevada. It’s how that cliché got started, If it played in Peoria, it’ll play anywhere. You have no idea how true that was. The city was alive, and everyone wanted to be here.”
A confused look came across Frankie’s face. “Libby, exactly how old are you?”
Libby shook her head and made a ch, ch, ch noise. “I’m not falling for that one,” she said. “Not only am I too old for you, Sweetie, but I don’t think I’m your type.”
Slam.
* * * * *
The lobby door opened and closed. Both heads turned in unison to see who had arrived. The first thing they saw was a big Crate & Barrel box, followed by three large Bed Bath & Beyond bags, a case of Diet Coke, and a package with the HSN logo on the label by the address. There was also a set of human legs.
“Colby!” Libby squealed. In a flash she was across the checkerboard floor and taking the largest of the packages from his arms, nearly spilling her drink in the process. “Frankie, this is Colby, one of our many shopping queens.”
“Oh, sstop,” Colby said with a noticeable lisp. Finding a way to redistribute his packages, he stuck a hand out in Frankie’s direction.
“Frankie Downs,” Frankie introduced himself. “Do you need some help with that?”
“Got it,” Colby said. “But thanks. If you wouldn’t mind though, would you get the elevator?”
“Absolutely.” Frankie went ahead to the elevator on the far lobby wall and pressed the UP button.
“Frankie’s the man from the magazine,” Libby told Colby, setting his box in front of the elevator doors.
“OldPlaces, right?” Colby asked, arranging his packages in a neat pile on top of the box. “Libby told us you were coming. We saw the website. It’s nice.”
“Thanks.”
“Hey!” Libby broke in, speaking directly to Colby. “We should have a party tonight. Yeah, a party to celebrate the article about our building. Tell everyone. Party at Libby’s. Starts promptly at seven o’clock, with cocktails at five.”
“Sounds great, Libby,” Colby rolled his eyes. Turning aside to Frankie he muttered, “She always does this.”
Ding!
The elevator doors opened. Frankie helped push the box and packages into the cabin. Once inside, Colby straightened himself up and shook Frankie’s hand again.
“Thanks. And don’t mind her. She’s a crazy old lady.”
“Cocktails at five!” Libby yelled as the elevator closed.
For just a split second, Frankie caught a glimpse of the glass behind Colby’s shoulder. The cabin’s interior was predominantly chrome, but the wall opposite the doors had a sizable mirror. The words Shh, No Talking! were etched in the glass.
The doors closed.
“Nice guy,” Frankie said, steadying himself on the wall. He closed his eyes for a moment. “Hey Libby, what did that sign in the elevator mean . . ?” His words trailed off as he momentarily lost his footing. He steadied himself against the wall.
Libby pretended not to notice as she re-entered the JC.
Hanging back to gather himself, Frankie waited until the old woman was out of sight before he followed. He made it about halfway across the lobby when something seemed to dawn on him. He stopped, looked to the lobby’s entrance, then back around to the elevator. A hotel’s registration desk is usually the first thing you see when you enter its lobby, he thought. But that’s not the case here.
He retraced his steps.
* * * * *
Frankie had visited most of Chicago’s old skyscrapers, and for the most part, hotels from that era were set up pretty much the same. Normally, when one entered from the street, a person could walk a straight line through the foyer and lobby, right up to the registration desk. A hotel’s desk was as important as its exterior facade, and it was generally designed to make an impression when a guest checked in.
The Beekman Place desk was to the left of her entrance. Sure, her desk was nice, but the focal point of this particular lobby was clearly the elevator. The architect wanted visitors to notice the elevator first.
The elevator sat on the far end of the lobby in the center of a marble wall, directly opposite the entrance. It was positioned in a sharp, rectangular box, trimmed in chrome, but recessed into an odd sort of black threshold.
Setting his glass on the floor, Frankie drew closer. His eyes focused on the cat.
* * * * *
A hissing cat logo stood in the center of the elevator doors, back arched, tail curled forward, front paw poised as though ready to strike. Its body was a stylized silhouette, a featureless insignia that was void of specific details but clear in both shape and stance. The cat had been created to fit perfectly into a circle, a designer’s logo in two pieces that came together when the elevator doors were fully closed. The words RADIO WORLD were written in an Art Deco font, emblazoned on the brushed metal surface directly below the cat.
I was supposed to ask Libby about this, Frankie recalled.
Fumbling through his pockets, he found the pack of matches Libby had given him earlier. He looked at the matchbook, then to the elevator, realizing the logos were identical. Turning the matches around, he saw the phrase Shh, No Talking! above the strike plate, and remembered the sign in the back of the elevator when Colby went upstairs.
He also remembered that Libby never answered his question.
Stepping back from the elevator, Frankie turned toward the Janitor’s Closet, but he forgot about his glass and accidentally kicked it over. He stood for a moment and stared at the floor, watching the spilled liquid move in and out of focus.
Shit.
He was drunk.
In fact, he was very drunk. Much drunker than he should have been so early in the afternoon.
Frankie was a functional alcoholic, and though he frequently drank during the day, he was usually the one to mix the cocktails, having learned how much it was safe to consume to avoid the situation he was in right now.
He knew how to drink to relax, and he knew how to drink to be happy. Above all, he knew how to drink to stay conscious and what would happen if he ever went beyond that point.
And then he collapsed.
* * * * *
The lights of the Peoria riverfront twinkled on the water in the windows of Libby’s guest room. From the pillow, Frankie could see the red neon sign of the Hotel Pere Marquette above the downtown rooftops, glowing in the rain.
Swallowing hard, he pulled himself up and threw his legs onto the floor. He grabbed the headboard, steadying himself while his surroundings came into focus.
The nightstand clock read 8:51 p.m.
Sitting on the edge of the mattress, Frankie cupped his head in his hands and ran fingers through his hair. His mind raced through the last few moments he could remember, replaying them like surveillance tape.
He drove here from Chicago.
He arrived late morning.
He had been drinking in the car.
He had been drinking while talking to Libby.
She had shown him around.
He had met a couple of tenants.
He knew he was drunk when he met . . . shit, what was his name?
Colby.
Libby’s demeanor had changed toward the middle of the afternoon.
She’d been feeding him drinks since the time he arrived.
She was trying to get him drunk, and to push him beyond-
Don’t even go there, he thought. It was my own fault I drank so much.
Frankie’s heart pounded in his chest, beating hard from both the liquor and the shame he always felt from blacking out in a stranger’s house. This was not how he had planned for the afternoon to go, and more important, this was the worst thing he could have done to a client, a woman who opened up her home to him. A person who had probably called his boss, rightfully giving Tina an angry earful.
Frankie forced himself to his feet.
His clothes were disheveled and his boots had been kicked off onto the lace bedspread. Moving from the bed to the doorway, he turned on the light and tried to get his bearings.
He didn’t recognize this room.
The bedroom was small, rectangular shaped, with two matching dressers and an antique sleigh bed from the 1940s. It obviously had once been a guest room, back when the old hotel was open.
He noticed his backpack and laptop had been left on one of the dressers.
Next to the door, Frankie found a bathroom. He turned on the lights and checked his reflection in the mirror. Christ, he was a mess. Puffy eyes, red skin, pulsing temples. Unbuckling his belt, he took off his jeans and shirt. Seeing both soap and fresh towels, he turned on the water and stripped off the rest of his clothes.
I may as well clean myself up, he thought. Libby was probably pissed off already, so it couldn’t make things any worse. Having been in this situation many times before in his life, Frankie knew what was necessary for damage control. Okay, think . . .
You’re in a guest room.
Frankie smirked when he opened the medicine cabinet. Libby had stocked it with exactly what one would find when staying in any hotel: tiny bottles of shampoo, lotion, deodorant, and a little toothbrush and razor, both individually wrapped in plastic.
He looked at the bottles closely. There’s that damn hissing cat logo again.
Ten minutes later, he was clean, dry, back in his T-shirt and underwear, and wiping the steam from the mirror. The hot shower helped a little, but he knew what happened next was entirely up to him.
He quickly went to work putting himself back together.
* * * * *
In every alcoholic’s life, there are times when one wakes up in a strange room, in an unfamiliar place.
Sometimes it’s on a buddy’s couch.
Sometimes it’s in a stranger’s bed.
If he’s lucky, it’s in a private setting, in his car in a parking lot, or on the floor of his laundry room, just inside his house. Private settings are rarely glamourous, but at least you’re spared the embarrassment of being passed out in public.
The worst places to wake up are those that involve other people, especially people who one sees in daily life. Frankie had once passed out drunk in the dark seating area of Padlock, a bar he used to frequent before ruining his reputation. He had awoken when the bartender shined a flashlight in his face. The bartender who had cut him off was now offering to call a cab. In an effort to save face, Frankie had declined and driven himself home. The next day, he was furious at himself, not for getting drunk and driving home, but for knowing others must have seen him. His reputation, at least at Padlock, had suffered a damaging blow.
Frankie knew he had a problem, but he had grown adept at controlling it. Not hiding it exactly, but dealing with it “appropriately,” through many years of experience, and practice, and error. And error.
And error. . .
Frankie knew he was an alcoholic, but he also knew he loved drinking so much, he could never let it go. Alcohol brought out a courage from within that he never could seem to find when he was sober.
And he needed that courgage to get through his daily life.
* * * * *
Using a dab of lotion to reshape his flattop, Frankie returned to the bedroom and sized up his clothes. His jeans were okay, but his shirt was a wrinkled mess.
On a hunch, he opened the closet.
He was surprised - but relieved - to find a drop-down ironing board with an iron in a wall-mounted holder. Ten minutes later, he stood fully clad in front of the bathroom mirror. He looked like a normal person again.
He was clean now.
Leaving the guest room quickly, Frankie returned to the lobby in search of Libby.
It was time to face the music.
* * * * *
The graphics of Headline News flashed on the flat screen above the concourse fireplace. Colby had noticed that CNN was running a segment on the musical Hairspray, and he had come out to watch it, flanked by an entourage. Once the story ended, Frankie stayed behind as the impromptu gathering returned to the JC in laughter, leaving a familiar black dress standing in the threshold. “Mr. Downs, I’d like you to meet Andy Conner,” Libby said in an unexpectedly pleasant tone. She had brought a friend.
Frankie smiled uneasily, setting his drink on the mantle. He wasn’t really drinking it. He had been holding it as a prop, something to do with his hands.
“Hey, Frankie,” Andy said.
“Nice to meet you, but please . . . could you excuse me for just a second?” Frankie nodded to Andy before pulling Libby aside, away from the party. Once out of earshot, he fell on his sword.
“I know an apology will do nothing at this point,” Frankie whispered, “but I am so . . . incredibly . . . sorry, Libby. My behavior today was completely unacceptable. Totally unprofessional. I had no business drinking like that this afternoon, and you have every right to file a complaint about me. To say it was out of line doesn’t even skim the surface. Libby, I honestly don’t know what I was thinking. It’s like . . . I mean . . . I . . . Shit!”
Struggling for words, he lowered his eyes.
I’m so ashamed of my behavior.
“Libby, I don’t even know what to say. I am so incredibly sorry.”
“Eh,” Libby shrugged her shoulders. “It happens to the best of us. Don’t worry yerself ‘bout it. So what if you had a few too many? I don’t know if you noticed, but I had a few myself. Shit happens. Leave it at that.”
Frankie looked confused. “But Libby, I passed out in the lobby. I passed out when I should have been working on the story.”
“So?”
“Oh, come on,” he insisted. “It’s more than ‘So?’”
“No it ain’t.”
“But Libby, someone had to carry . . .” Frankie again lowered his voice to a whisper. “Someone had to carry me. I mean, how did I get to bed?”
Libby grinned and leaned in close to him. “Very discreetly, Mr. Downs.”
“Who got me to the room then?” Frankie asked, not believing she was treating this so lightly. “Who picked me up off the floor? Who put me in the bed?”
“Discretion is one of the top amenities of Beekman Place, Mr. Downs.”
“I get that Libby, but you’re missing the point.”
“Shh!” Libby brought her finger to her lips. “No talking, Mr. Downs.” Again, she smiled evasively. “Did I have help? Hell yes, I had help! But I’m also not at liberty to talk about my helpers. What happens at Beekman Place stays . . . oh hell, you know how that goes. It goes both ways, you see. I cover for you, and you do something nice for me.”
Silence.
“Okay, I’ll bite.” This was starting to make sense now.
“Do you have any idea how many people I’ve seen passed out in this place?” Libby asked, changing the subject as she had done all afternoon. “On the floor? At the bar? In the elevator? In another couple of hours, you should look around and see how many of these guys are still conscious. Still upright. Still able to talk, without slurring their words. It’s no sweat, really. It’s a compliment to the hotel.”
“I hope I didn’t puke,” Frankie chanced a joke.
"You didn’t,” Libby giggled. “I would have told you that.”
“What do you want, Libby?” It was a direct question. “I obviously owe you a very big favor.”
The old woman lips turned up in a smile. “When you go back to the city, remember our little hotel, Mr. Downs. No one wants to read about just another building full of apartments. They want some excitement. A little pizzazz. A little dirt. They want to read about a fun landlady,” she added with a wink. “Your magazine is quaint, but sometimes it dwells just too damn much in the past. Too nostaligic. And I don’t know about you, but I live for today. Here. Now. I may be old, but I don’t wake up in a coffin.” Libby had a twinkle in her eye. “Can you do that for me, Frankie?”
“Yes, Libby,” Frankie promised. “I will definitely do that for you.”
The two had an understanding.
* * * * *
“Is it okay to approach?” Andy asked, still watching from a distance.
“Yes, sure,” Frankie motioned for him to come over. “I’m sorry, I’ve forgotten your name. Is it Alan?”
“Andy.”
“That’s right. Andy. Sorry.”
“I found your camera.”
“What?”
“You accidentally left your camera in the lobby, Mr. Downs,” Libby said, winking again.
“Oh shit,” Frankie realized. “I guess I did lose my camera.”
“I hope you don’t mind,” Libby said, “but as Andy here takes pictures for a living, I asked him to take some photos using your camera. I figured you’d want some shots of the hotel to go along with your article.”
Tina had offered to send a photographer with Frankie, but he had insisted he could take the pictures himself. Of course, he had forgotten everything when he was with Libby this afternoon, and had Andy not found the camera . . . ugh!
“Why, yes Libby. And thank you so much . . . again.”
“I’ll leave you two boys to get acquainted,” Libby said in an obvious attempt at matchmaking. She rejoined the party in the JC.
Andy seemed embarrassed. “She always does this.”
“The party or the set-up?” Frankie asked.
“Both,” Andy replied. “Or, at least when she’s here. She seems to hit the town a lot on her own, although none of us really knows where she goes.”
“I can’t imagine having her as a landlord,” Frankie said.
“She’s a trip.”
“Yeah.”
Uncomfortable silence.
“So . . . that’s my camera.”
“Oh yeah, right.” Andy handed it over.
“Well, thanks. I really appreciate it.”
“No problem.”
“I’ve got my computer . . . uh, in my room,” Frankie said. “Give me a second and I’ll get it, and we can see what kind of pictures you took.”
“Great,” Andy said. “Libby said they’d be used in a magazine?” He seemed genuinely excited that his photos might be published.
"A few of them will, but most of them will end up on the website,’ Frankie explained. “I’m with a firm called OldPlaces. We do a monthly website, and a quarterly magazine.”
“I’ve seen it.”
“Really? That’s good,” Frankie said. “I’ll forward the pictures tonight, so my boss will have them when she opens her email in the morning.” Frankie looked around the concourse. “I’m assuming this place has wi-fi?”
“Surprisingly, it doesn’t,” Andy told him. “And that’s odd because Libby’s really into computers.”
“Oh,” Frankie said, disappointed. “Well, I can transfer the pictures to my laptop, anyway. Give me a minute.”
Frankie left the concourse and returned a few minutes later with his backpack. When he got to the lobby, Andy was talking with some guys near the elevator. He looked up when he saw Frankie.
“Hey,” Andy said. “I have an idea. At the risk of giving Libby more gossip material, you can use the computer in my apartment to send your pictures to your boss. That is, if you want to send them off tonight.”
“That’s not necessary,” Frankie told him, glancing at his watch. “I work at eight, so I need to get back on the road. I can find a Kinko’s before I leave.”
“Kinko’s closes at ten,” Andy told him. “You’re in Peoria, remember?”
“There’s got to be someplace with wi-fi between here and Chicago,” Frankie said. “We’re close to Bradley University, right? They had late-night cafes back when I used to live here, so I’m sure I can find somewhere to access the net. There used to be a place up the street from the Quench Room.”
“Okay . . . sure,” Andy seem disappointed. “Just offering.”
“Besides, my camera is formatted for Mac.”
“I use a Mac,” Andy perked up. “I noticed your camera is an Apple when I was using it.”
Frankie hesitated for a moment, considering the offer.
"I’m still a little buzzed, he thought, and this kid’s inviting me up to his apartment. Andy has to be a solid fifteen years younger than me, and with all that’s already happened today, sticking around any longer is not a wise idea.
Smiling politely, Frankie looked the young man over. Nice looking, thin waist, white T-shirt, black boots. Too young to be in his league though.
Black boots.
“I really don’t mind,” Andy smiled.
Silence.
Despite his better judgement, Frankie accepted the young man’s offer.
* * * * *
From the balcony of Andy’s apartment, Frankie could see over the trees of the entire surrounding neighborhood. He saw both the homes of Roanoke Avenue and those on the upper streets beyond Armstrong and Sheridan Road. Downtown Peoria looks out of scale from up here, he thought, exhaling cigarette smoke.
“Here you go,” Andy said from behind, handing Frankie a whiskey and coke from inside the apartment. “The ashtray’s right there,” he pointed to a small wrought iron table in the corner by the railing.
“Thanks, Andy.”
Frankie put out his cigarette before returning to the living room.
Inside the apartment, Frankie understood why it had been so easy to convert the old hotel into rentable units. It seemed that most if not all of the hotel rooms had been suites to begin with. Andy must have had seven hundred square feet to live in, including a small entry, a living room, a tiny galley kitchen, and a separate dining room. Frankie couldn’t see the bedroom, but from the visible floorplan, there was sure to be plenty of space.
“I’m on your website,” Andy said from his iMac. He had pulled up the OldPlaces home page. He clicked on the Contact Us toolbar and scrolled down until he reached Frankie’s name. He clicked the link. “I saved the files in a PC-friendly format.”
“That’s fine,” Frankie said, “but even if you didn’t, the whole office uses Mac, so it shouldn’t be a problem.”
“Right here, right?” Andy pointed to the screen.
“Yup, that’s me. And could you please cc a copy to Tina Collins?”
“Absolutely.” Point, click, send.
“How long have you lived here?” Frankie asked, making conversation. He settled into a small IKEA sofa and stared at the many framed black and whites that were hanging on the walls.
“Couple years,” Andy told him. “Although, I’m going to be moving soon. I’ve been sending out my resume. As much as I hate to leave this old building, there’s a company in Seattle that wants to see more of my portfolio. Peoria’s nice, but it’s no big city.”
“You’re applying for a job?” Frankie asked. Must be nice to be so young and have all your shit together, he thought.
“No, I’ve got the job already,” Andy said. “Or at least a job. I applied for a standard website catalog thing, but when they saw my work they seemed to be impressed.” Andy spun around in his chair to face his guest. “Very honestly, they said I had too much talent for the position I was originally hired for. That really made me feel good, you know?”
You’re in a better position than I was at your age, Frankie thought. When I was in my twenties, I was still waiting tables and trying to find direction.
“That is a compliment,” Frankie said, trying to keep the edge out of his voice. He hated talking to young men about career stuff, especially when he hadn’t gotten his own career going until well into his thirties. And even then, not a day went by when Frankie didn’t wonder how different life would be right now had he made better choices in the past. Especially when he was reminded of those choices by young boys like Andy.
“More money?” Frankie asked.
Andy nodded modestly. “Not enough to actually afford my own home, but still more than I expected. It will put me in a good place, though. Job-wise, I mean. Potential for advancement in the future.”
“That’s great,” Frankie couldn’t help grumbling. “It must make you happy.”
“Yeah,” Andy admitted. “It does.”
Silence.
Frankie directed his attention to the photographs on the walls. They were all Andy’s work, mounted in simple mattings against dark frames. Like Frankie’s own writing, Andy’s subject matter focused on the homes of old Peoria, with other Illinois towns he recognized as Springfield, Chillicothe, Decatur, Champaign, and Bloomington.
“We seem to like the same things,” Frankie noted. “When I was your age, I used to love grabbing my Walkman and strolling through all these old neighborhoods, especially at night. It must have been amazing to have lived in these houses when they were new, you know? To come home from work and pull into a garage of a house like that.” He gestured to a photograph labeled John C. Flanagan House, 942 NE Glen Oak Avenue, Peoria, Illinois.
“Just imagine,” Frankie said. “That’s your house. That’s where you sleep at night.”
Andy nodded quietly, without expression.
“When I look at photographs like that,” Frankie continued, “I imagine what the people were like who lived at that time, when the houses were brand new. What their lives were like. What they did during the day. It’s almost sad when you think about it, you know? All the people who lived in the past and did enough with their lives to have left behind a house like that? It’s like their monument. Their tombstone. All that’s left of their life today, all these years after they died.”
“I think you read more into these pictures than I do,” Andy admitted. “I just see them as old houses, you know? Great for a photograph. Catch them in the right light and click. Perfect for a portfolio.”
Frankie’s buzz was returning. With each sip of whiskey, the room was growing fuzzy and he was starting to forget that he had to get back to the city.
“I do understand what you’re talking about, though,” Andy went on. “But I guess that’s why people like me take pictures, and people like you write the stories behind them. I mean, that’s why you work at OldPlaces, right? Because you have a love of the past? A reverence for it? There must have been something that made you go work for a magazine like that. Not many people are lucky enough to work in a job that reflects their true calling.”
True calling? Frankie thought. Yeah, that’s why I’m writing for OldPlaces now.
I’m finally living my true calling.
He shifted on the sofa.
* * * * *
Frankie did love his job right now, but not in the way Andy was suggesting. Very honestly, the path that had brought him to OldPlaces had been far from a pleasant one. He was lucky to have this position at all, and if Tina found out how he was about to behave tonight, he wouldn’t be employed as a writer for long.
“I do love the past,” Frankie said, keeping things moving. “And it is rewarding to work for a place where I can bring the past to life.”
“You seem to be pretty good at it,” Andy was at ease with his compliments. “When Libby told us you were coming, I looked up the website and read some of your stories. Anyone can write about an old building’s history, but you always seem to work in something more. Almost a human side. It makes the buildings more real. Just like it takes an eye for a good photograph, it also takes a good ear for the right words. One with more than just facts, I mean.”
“It takes a little imagination,” Frankie admitted. “But again, it’s a job most anyone can do.”
“I know your imagination extends beyond OldPlaces, Frankie.”
Frankie’s attention was piqued. His eyes went to slits. “What do you mean?”
“Did you see that one?” Andy pointed to a picture in the bedroom hallway. It was a picture that couldn’t be seen from where Frankie was currently sitting.
He got up to take a look.
* * * * *
This photograph was larger than those in the living room, and though the work wasn’t Andy’s, it was Andy. He was the subject matter. Frankie’s eyes narrowed like a cat’s when he saw the young man in the picture, shirtless in a black harness, leather chaps over black boots.
From the corner of his eye, Frankie noticed how Andy was watching him carefully, his young body backlit by the lights in the living room.
Silence.
“What do you want?” Frankie asked, rattling the ice in his drained glass.
“You run a profile on Control/Bound, don’t you?” Andy clicked on a page he had minimized on his computer. The screen turned red and opened onto a bondage/control fetish site, where gay men search for partners with very specific sexual interests.
Andy pulled up the member directory and clicked on the name CityRopes. Frankie’s photo popped onto the screen.
“That,” Andy said
And after a moment of silence, Frankie decided to stay for one for the road.
* * * * *
Some time later, Andy watched as Frankie laced up his boots. The young man was naked except for the restraints still buckled to his wrists and ankles. The bedroom was a mess, the floor strewn with rope and an empty bottle of lube on the nightstand.
Frankie said goodbye, and Andy locked the door behind him.
* * * * *
Alone in the hallway, Frankie looked at his watch. Shit! It’s almost 3:30!
It was a three-hour drive to Chicago, and another hour on top of that once he hit rush hour traffic. If there was any chance of getting to work on time, he had to leave now.
Heading down the hallway, Frankie located the elevator. He reached to push the call button, but stopped when he remembered the ding. Not wanting to attract attention, Frankie found the stairwell and hurried down to the lobby.
He had just rounded the third floor when the elevator came to life.
* * * * *
It started on Andy’s floor and seemed to follow him down the stairs. Frankie continued his descent, rounding the ground floor’s last corner when he heard the elevator pass him. Thinking he had forgotten something inside Andy’s apartment, Frankie upped his pace to be present when the cabin reached the lobby.
Ding!
The elevator opened. But Andy wasn’t inside.
“Excuse me, SIR,” the skinhead said, pressing a different button as though he’d stopped on the wrong floor. Their eyes met briefly, and Frankie hesitated, trying to place if he’d met the man before. But before he could speak, the elevator closed, with just enough time for a glimpse of the Shh, No Talking! mirror.
The elevator went back up.
Sir?
* * * * *
With no time to spare, Frankie left the lobby and ran down the stairs to the street where his car was parked. Ten minutes later, his Eldorado turned off I-74 and began its journey up the small state routes that would connect to I-55 and eventually Chicago.
* * * * *
A few hours later, Libby screamed.
Chapter Three
Product Placement
What’s the saddest you’ve ever been?
Mine is so deep, I can only face it in the moment of clarity immediately following a drinking bender. I wake up in the wee hours, heart racing, thirsty for water. In the darkness of the bedroom, I push away whoever happens to be next to me, and I step outside for a cigarette, thinking about my life and what I have become. I’m alone in my thoughts…always alone…and as the smoke fills my lungs, the truth fills my head, cold, unfiltered, and very, very sad.
Sadness as deep as mine cannot be discussed with others. It would scare them, disgust them, and push them away forever. I’d have no friends at all if I shared my story openly. But I need to tell someone. My existence depends on it. And I need to tell it in a way that won’t cause them to gather the children and lock the door. Or let the phone go to voicemail.
Or worst of all, call the police.
Chicago, Illinois
The rich aroma of coffee wafted through OldPlaces’ Oak Park offices. It started in the employee kitchenette and mingled with the sounds of laughter, a copy machine, Don and Roma’s Breakfast Diner streaming on a desktop computer, and someone talking about Fox and Friends. Car tires splashing through a puddle could be heard for just a moment as the front door opened and closed. Like a receptionist in a dentist’s office, Rose, the elderly secretary, smiled politely from behind her reading glasses when she saw Frankie enter and close his umbrella. Her lips retracted into a frown, however, when her nose caught a whiff of stale cigarettes on his clothes. The humidity only made it worse when he passed her desk and headed toward his office.
“Good morning,” she said flatly.
Bitch, thought Frankie.
With his backpack over his shoulder, Frankie grabbed a cup of coffee from the kitchenette before flipping on the office lights and settling at his desk. In the window behind him, the gray Chicago skyline loomed ominously in the east, the highest of its buildings growing fuzzy near their rooftops, vanishing into a ceiling of low hanging clouds that looked like tin foil. It was a far cry from the weather in Peoria yesterday, but in all honesty, Frankie couldn’t remember much about Monday, especially the drive home.
He took a sip of his coffee before removing his sunglasses.
Pulling out his laptop, Frankie turned it on and logged onto OldPlaces’ homepage. Without even looking at Andy’s pictures, he fired off a message to Tina’s inbox: “Aren’t these amazing?” He then checked his email, The Drudge Report, and the local weather for tonight and tomorrow.
Rain.
He sipped his coffee, sighed loudly, and buried his head in his hands.
There was a knock at his door.
* * * * *
“Hey, I need to talk to you,” Gale said with urgency as she entered Frankie’s office. She stood at his desk and leaned in close.
She inhaled.
“You jackass,” Gale lightly smacked his shoulder. “You reek of alcohol!” Reaching in her pocket, she pushed a tin of Altoids at him. “Rose caught whiff of you when you came in. She’s in Tina’s office right now, tattling.”
“Shit,” Frankie muttered.
“Here.” Gale popped the Altoid tin open. “Have a few of these.”
“What’s she saying?” Frankie held his hand over his mouth and nose, trying to smell his own breath. From the very start, he’d had problems with Rose. She was a Joyce Meyer-loving Christian who abhored gay people. She had never said anything overtly, but Frankie could feel her disapproval every time she looked at him. “Rose never misses a chance to rat me out to Tina,” he said bitterly.
Gale looked shocked.
“What’s that for?” Frankie asked.
“Did you go out again last night?” Gale asked, more accusation than question. Her eyes looked wide and painted behind the thick lenses of her black horn-rimmed glasses. Gale was the perfect fag hag (although she preferred the term “fruit fly”): late twenties, trendy clothes, full-figured yet somehow still able to maintain an hourglass shape. She was Frankie’s office “ears,” and she defended him every chance she could, especially while he was away.
“You look like you didn’t even stop at home,” Gale cringed.
“I didn’t,” Frankie admitted. “There was a par . . . err, a reception at the building last night.”
“You smell like you’ve been fucking.” Gail’s bluntness was one of her strongest attributes.
“Gale, please! You know I don’t do that.”
“Well, that’s what you smell like.”
“Well, I wasn’t.”
“What time did your reception end?”
“Around 3:30.”
“And you came here straight from there?” Gale’s mouth hung open in sheer astonishment. “Are you nuts? You know what Tina said the last time you did that. Are you trying to get fired?”
“Gale, it wasn’t like that. I brought back enough for a really good mystery. It’s got history; it’s got bizarre characters. Did you know Beekman Place was a Prohibition era hotel? There’s even an old speakeasy in the basement. And just wait until you hear about the landlady.”
“Frankie, I like you, but this time you’re in serious-”
Gale hushed as Rose strutted past the open office door. The receptionist didn’t say a word, but the glare she shot them said plenty. Not only did she not like Frankie, Rose wasn’t a fan of Gale either.
Beeeeep!
A red light popped on as Tina’s voice chirped through the speakerphone.
“Frankie?” Tina sounded cheery and upbeat. If he was toast, Frankie would never have guessed from her tone. “When you get yourself settled, would you step into my office, please?”
“Sear-ee-us trah-bull,” Gale mouthed silently.
“Sure, Tina. I’ll be right there.”
“Great,” Tina said. “I’ll see you shortly. Oh, and I just love the pictures, by the way.”
“Thanks, Tina.”
The red light went dark.
Frankie remained behind his desk for a moment, reaching for Gale’s breath mints. “Do I really smell that bad?”
She nodded.
As their eyes locked, the crunch of breath mints was the only sound in the office.
* * * * *
Wearing a different cocktail dress than before, Libby reclined on the sofa in a pose that kept her heels from damaging the upholstery.
“I don’t know how this could have happened,” she cried, dabbing her tears yet somehow managing to avoid smudging her makeup. “Andy was such a good tenant. Always paid his rent on time. Never made any noise.” Libby inhaled deeply as though preparing to let out a wail. “He was such a good boy!” she whimpered.
“We understand, Mrs. Kaslauskas,” the detective was sympathetic. “This must be a terrible thing for you to have to go through, but we still have some questions that we need you to answer. The victim’s full name was Andrew Conner. Is that correct?”
“It is,” Libby sniffed.
“And how long has he been a tenant of yours?”
“About a year and a half,” Libby said.
“And you said he was a good tenant? You never had any problems with him?”
“None.”
“So, he took care of the place? No wild parties? No noisy friends?”
“He was as quiet as a mouse,” Libby said.
“How about Mr. Conner’s social life outside the building?” the detective asked, alluding to the murder’s sexual nature. “Do you know where he went when he wasn’t in his apartment? Aside from work, I mean. For example, if he had a Saturday night off, where would he go? What kind of clothes did you see him wearing?”
“Oh, Detective.” Libby dabbed her eyes again. “Not to be rude, but that sort of thing is really none of my business.”
The detective raised an eyebrow.
“Here you go, Libby.” Colby appeared from behind and interrupted the questioning. The detective got a bird’s-eye view of ass when Colby handed Libby a Manhattan. “Can I get you anything else?” Colby asked her.
“No, Dear, I’m fine. Thank you.”
Colby stepped away.
The detective cleared his throat. “I understand that the last time the victim was seen alive was at a party in this room last night?”
“Yes, but . . . one second, please.” Looking over the detective’s shoulder, Libby waved for Colby to return. She reached into her glass and took out the cherry, placing it in his hand with wet fingers. “Thank you, Dear.”
“Mrs. Kaslauskas, the party?”
“Oh, yes . . . the party.” The detective was amazed at how quickly Libby regained composure. “We had a guest from Chicago,” she said, “a man from a history magazine who is writing a story about my building.”
“Do you remember his name?”
“I do,” Libby said. “Frankie Downs. Dee, oh, double-you, en, es.”
“And his employer?”
“OldPlaces dot com,” Libby said. “It’s a website. I can show you if you’d like.”
“No, that’s not necessary, Ma’am. Thank you. Did Mr. Downs have any contact with the deceased?”
“Oh, yes!” Libby said, twisting a cigarette into her holder. “They seemed quite smitten with each other.”
“Smitten?”
“Well, interested,” Libby corrected. “Andy was helping Frankie with his story. Andy is – was - a photographer, you know. Frankie . . . err, Mr. Downs was supposed to take some pictures for the website, but he wasn’t able to do so himself.”
“And why is that?” the detective asked. “Didn’t he have a camera?”
Libby shook her head and motioned for him to come closer. “He had been drinking,” she whispered.
“I see.”
“Yeah, he was really putting them away,” Colby added, eavesdropping from across the room. “He passed out drunk, right there in the lobby.”
“Actually, Sir, if I could talk to the lady alone, please?” The detective was irritated by the interruption but interested in the information.
“It’s okay, Dear,” Libby told Colby. “I can speak with the detective myself.”
Colby nodded and left.
“Ms. Kaslauskas, can you think of any reason why Mr. Downs would want Andy Conner dead?” the detective asked. “Were they hostile toward each other? Could you sense any animosity?”
“Oh no, it was just the opposite,” Libby said. “The two were inseparable the entire evening. Well, the entire evening once Mr. Downs slept off his hangover.”
“He was sleeping?”
“Yes. For a couple of hours,” Libby said. “As Colby said, we found Mr. Downs on the floor of the lobby, in front of the elevator. It took two of my tenants just to carry him to my apartment around the corner. I obviously couldn’t do it myself, you know. A little old woman like me. They put him in my guest room so he could sleep it off. I didn’t know what else to do, so I just let him be.”
“Did you, err, inform Mr. Downs’ employer?” the detective asked.
Libby shook her head. “I felt sorry for him, really. A man who needs to drink like that must have an awful lot of problems. I wasn’t going to call his boss, because he must have felt bad enough already. Imagine. Drinking like that in the middle of the afternoon.”
The detective kept his mouth shut while Libby sipped her Manhattan.
“Take your time, Ms. Kaslauskas.”
“Andy was telling Mr. Downs all about his new job and how he was going to be a big success in Seattle,” Libby went on. “That boy had talent. So much potential. And it just tears my heart apart, knowing that we’re never going to see all the things he could have accomplished with his li-” She stopped midsentence, gasping when the coroner wheeled a gurney with a body bag – Andy’s body - through the lobby. Her eyes widened.
Then she exploded in gut-wrenching sobs. “Andy! Poor, poor Andeeeeeeeeeeee.”
Shooting the medics a dirty look, the detective motioned to hurry the hell up and get the body out of view. Closing his notebook, he stood up and patted Libby on the shoulder. He then joined another officer in a sidebar by the elevator.
“How’s Kellie doing up there?” the detective asked.
The officer shook his head in disgust. “Faggots,” he spit the word. “They get into some weird shit.”
* * * * *
I think it’s time to be sad now, it’s that time todaaaay, yeah-
The boy that’s makin’ me sad is goin’-
…awaaaaaaay…
A sweet vanilla candle burned in a jar on Tina’s Hemmingway-style Ethan Allen desk. Her office filled with an invisible haze of sugar, a scent so strong even the coffee couldn’t compete. An illuminated Thomas Kinkaide painting peered down from the paneled wall directly behind her chair. It was flanked on one side by a shiny gold cross and on the other side by a gilt-framed picture of Jesus with Paul Mitchell locks. Frankie always thought the room looked more like a rectory than an editor’s office.
And the radio was playing The Carpenters’ version of a rock classic.
“Did you have a good trip?” Tina asked, scrolling through Andy’s photographs. For the first time, Frankie saw the pictures he’d submitted. The boy had talent.
“I’ll bet the drive was beautiful,” Tina continued, gazing at some exterior shots that showed the upper Beekman Place facade posed against a horizon of sun-drenched autumn trees. “I just love the Midwest in late fall, don’t you?” she said. “The way the sun illuminates the color of the leaves?”
“It can be pretty,” Frankie acknowledged.
“As brilliant as a stained glass window,” Tina said.
“Peoria only has another week, or two at best.” Frankie made an effort at small talk, to delay the confrontation. “They’re just going through a late Indian summer now, and the weather was a lot warmer than it should have been. All it takes is one really good frost.”
“I know the trees in Norton’s garden lost their leaves several weeks ago,” Tina continued. “Mmm, you can almost smell the air in these pictures, can’t you?”
I can’t smell anything with that goddamn candle! Frankie thought. “Tina, you have no idea. I rolled down my windows as soon as I entered town.”
“And that skyline along the river. It’s stunning, isn’t it?”
Frankie tried not to roll his eyes while his boss continued to wax eloquent.
“Yes. Stunning.”
“Did you see much activity on Roanoke Avenue?” she asked. “I know the woman who runs the Historical Society of Greater Peoria and East Peoria, and she tells me the neighborhood has been designated an action zone.”
“There are a few restoration projects, but there’s still a lot of landlords holding on to their old rentals.” Frankie relaxed with a more comfortable subject. “It reminds me of the days when Joliet first got riverboats. You can see that the city is reinvesting in the old infrastructure, but gentrification is only just beginning, and there’s a lot left to do. Most of old Roanoke, especially the stretch on the bluff, still has its original pavement.”
“Bricks?”
“Mm-hmm.”
“Well, I suppose that’s quaint, as long as the road is in good condition.”
“It’s not.”
“How unfortunate.”
“I’m thinking of a Prohibition angle.” Frankie settled back in the chair. “Beekman Place has never really lost her charm, even after converting to apartments.”
“Rose mentioned you saw a speakeasy in the basement.” Tina looked pensive. “You know, when I think about it, Frankie, I really like that idea.”
Frankie’s face reddened on realizing Rose had been eavesdropping.
“Oh, Frankie,” Tina went on. “We all just love the stories you’ve written about Peoria. Knowing what you’ve given us before, I can’t wait to see what you do with this Beekman Place Hotel.”
“Thank you. I appreciate that.”
Here it comes.
“You’ve been with us for only a couple of years and already you’ve gained a following.”
“That really means a lot, Tina. I can’t tell you how much I appreciate you saying that.”
Tina stood from her desk and continued to smile as she walked behind Frankie and closed the door. She sat down in the chair next to him, crossing her legs and folding her hands over her knee. Even as a gay man, Frankie couldn’t help but notice how beautiful she was: mid-fifties, frosted hair, and a stunningly well-preserved body. She was, as always, dressed to the nines, today wearing a fitted business suit and opened-toed heels with a 1970’s flair.
She finally got to the point. “Frankie, we have a problem.”
* * * * *
Frankie had long ago learned how to handle himself the day after a drinking binge. Back when he still had a roommate, Frankie always made sure he got up early the morning after a late night at the bar, so he could be seen sitting at the breakfast table, drinking coffee, cheerfully reading news on his laptop. There was one time when he had spent the night at his parents’ house. After everyone else went to bed, he stayed up drinking wine and watching late night television. Around 1:30 a.m., with two bottles of Merlot in his bloodstream, he raided the refrigerator and ate a family’s worth of leftover Chinese. After that binge he had intentionally stuck his finger down his throat, puking up a belly of unwanted calories.
The next morning, Frankie’s mother sat him down, telling him they had to talk. He thought she knew about the bender. Instead, she was concerned about using bulimia to lose weight. From that moment on, Frankie always knew these talks never went the way one expected.
* * * * *
“A problem with my story?” he played dumb.
“Frankie, both Norton and I pray for you every day. You’re a man with great talent, but you’re damaging your own potential by drinking as much as you do.”
“Tina, we’ve talked about this before,” Frankie shifted in his chair. “And I know where you stand on the issue. Yes, I may like to tip them back on occasion, but it hasn’t affected my job performance, at least not since the last time we had this conversation.”
* * * * *
It had been over a year since the talk he was referring to, and Tina had good reason to sit him down at that time.
It was the Tuesday after Memorial Day, a long weekend when the Chicago clubs were especially busy for IML. Frankie had taken off work from Thursday through Monday, renting a room in the city so he didn’t have to go home. He had been drunk for almost four straight days. Not slobbering drunk, but rarely without a good buzz. Frankie had brought his work clothes with him when he first checked into the hotel, and he’d gone directly from the city to the office early Tuesday morning. Even though he was showered, neatly dressed, and on time for his job, his body still carried the stench from the long weekend of debauchery.
It was in his skin.
* * * * *
“Your performance is fine,” Tina assured him. “I have no issues with your work ethic, nor your sense of urgency.”
“Oh?” Frankie wasn’t sure where this was heading. Assuming Libby had kept her part of the bargain - and from his boss’s beating around the bush, there was no reason not to - Tina had no way of knowing what had happened at the hotel yesterday. He decided to go a different route.
“Tina, I’ll admit I had a late night yesterday evening, but I assure you it’s not what you’re thinking, although I certainally don’t fault you for thinking it.” Frankie paused as he realized how confusing that sounded.
“Really?” Tina said.
“Libby Kaslauskas, the charming owner of Beekman Place, arranged for a reception in the evening, so I could meet the tenants,” Frankie said. “I was tempted to decline, but I’ve got to tell you, I couldn’t pass it up. It gave me the chance to learn about the hotel’s history from those who live there now. Libby said it best herself: It’s not just another apartment building.
“It was late when I left. Much later than I had originally planned, but I’ll tell you it was worth it, and you’ll see that when I write the feature. It was darn close to midnight when I finally hit the road, and I took my time driving back, too long I’m afraid to have enough time to go home and change. I apologize if I smell a little bit like smoke this morning, but again it was worth it.” Frankie leaned forward in his chair before adding, “Quite frankly, Tina, I couldn’t wait to tell you.”
“I believe you.” It didn’t sound like she did.
“Then what’s the problem?” he asked.
Silence.
“Frankie, I’m worried for your soul.”
Leaning back in his chair, Frankie seemed confused. He started to reply, but stopped himself . Tina could tell he was choosing his words very carefully. “How does staying late for a story damage my soul?” he asked. “You are talking spiritually, right?”
Tina nodded. “When was the last time you went to church?” she asked.
“Church, Tina? Are you kidding?”
“No, Frankie, I’m speaking quite soberly. When was the last time you spoke with the Lord in His own house?”
“You know I don’t go to your church, Tina.”
“Well, any church then. Catholic. Calvary. Unitarian. When was the last time you spent a few hours with God and really took a good look at your life?”
Frankie’s face felt hot. He wasn’t embarrassed, but boss or not, he wasn’t going to let her start preaching to him again. He knew that in Christian-speak Unitarian was synonymous with homosexual.
Tina has a hidden agenda.
“Tina, I told you about my lifestyle before Norton hired me,” Frankie reminded her. “We agreed that as long as I kept it to myself, it wouldn’t be a problem.”
“And it’s not, Frankie. Please don’t misread my intent. I’m not concerned with your sexual preference, nor am I interested in the lives of any of my employees, so long as they keep them private.”
“Then I’m sorry, Tina, but I don’t understand what you’re getting at.”
“Frankie, let me be blunt. OldPlaces is a Christian organization. We were started by a member of Norton’s church, and over the years we have grown into a self-sustaining business. We deliver a wholesome product that gives back to the community, both in service and in spirit.
“We are a nonjudgmental, equal opportunity employer. We have only one true requirement for all employees: a passion for history and a love of old places. We hired you for your proven ability to embrace our values. We don’t care about your sexual orientation or your personal life. We do care, however, when anyone’s private life becomes an issue within this office.”
Now visibly angry, Tina dropped the pleasantries. “Frankie, I must insist that when you enter these offices, you be sober, clean, and free from the smell of alcohol. I insist that you be showered, wear fresh clothes, and that you leave the coat you wore to the bar at home.
“If you do have an unexpected delay, such as this reception you attended while representing this organization, I’d rather you be late for work - or even take the day off completely - than arrive at the office on time a disheveled mess. This is no less than I require of any employee, and I regret this has become an ongoing issue requiring a second conversation about this very topic. I insist that you remember that being a Christian-inspired business, there is a certain decorum we must maintain within our staff. Today, you have not maintained our standards for a second time. We will NOT be having this conversation again, Frankie.”
Silence.
“Consider this a final warning, Frankie. It will be written up and placed in your file alongside the first one. I regretfully say that if this happens again, further disciplinary action will be taken, up to and including termination.” Tina settled back in her chair, allowing Frankie to take this all in. “Have I made myself clear?”
Silence.
“Yes, Tina. And I am sorry.”
Tina nodded contentedly, satisfied with her managerial performance. “Then I look forward to seeing you tomorrow morning,” she added.
Frankie stood up and quietly left Tina’s office. He stopped by his desk, grabbed his laptop and coat, and nodded goodbye to Gale on his way out the door. As he passed Rose’s desk, she never looked up, but Frankie knew she was watching him every step of the way.
He walked to his car in the rain.
* * * * *
Detective Kellie Hogan stood thoughtfully in the corner of Andy Conner’s apartment. She was a tall woman, late thirties, slender. Her mousy brown hair hung over her forehead neatly, above green eyes and skin void of makeup. The CSIs were doing their job, and through the window Kellie could see the ambulance being cleared to leave the crime scene.
“The victim was not a smoker.” The technician crouched by the coffee table was photographing Andy’s ruined portfolio, dumped like a trash can and soiled with ashes.
“Got one!” He held up tweezers grasping the butt of a half-smoked cigarette. “It smells like cloves.”
“Bag it,” Kellie instructed.
“There’s more over here,” someone called from the kitchen.
“The last email was sent out just after midnight,” a different investigator said from Andy’s computer. “It went to a Tina Collins at OldPlaces.com. There’s a file attached. Pictures of the hotel.”
“We’ll need to take that computer.” Kellie didn’t want anything overlooked.
“Oh. Wait a minute.” The investigator had clearly noticed something.
“Did you find another email?”
“No, but look at this.” The investigator helding up a glass that had been next to the keyboard. “There’s more in this glass than just whiskey and Coke,” he said. “I’m guessing it’s Coke, and I’m not talking about the vending machine kind.”
Kellie’s interest piqued. “Bag it. We’ll test it at the lab.”
“You know, if this guy was high on cocaine,” Detective Jack Rollings said as he came up to Kellie, “that might explain the savagery of the murder.” A recent addition to Peoria’s police department, Rollings had been Kellie’s partner for a little over three months.
“Well, this homo was into some kinky shit,” somone said from across the room.
Laughter.
“Did you see the picture in the hall? Maybe we can use it in the obituary.”
“Knock it off!” Kellie snapped, glaring at the officer who had just made the comment. “This is someone’s boy. This is a person. Do your jobs without the editorial comments, okay?”
Silence.
“So, what do you think?” Rollings asked Kellie. “How did this all play out last night?”
“Coroner puts the time of death around 4:20 this morning,” Kellie said, “but I’m more interested in what happened before that.”
“Well, it’s definitely a ritual killing,” Rollings said. “You can tell it was planned in advance. The scene was thought out carefully, down to every detail.”
“I can see that.”
“We’re sending blood to the lab,” Rollings said. “I’m guessing there were two, maybe three other men involved. We won’t know for sure until the lab tests the samples.”
“Semen?”
“Yup.”
“Detective! Over here,” someone called from the kitchen. “You need to see this.”
Standing at the open refrigerator, a CSI held a glass bottle in his gloved hand. He rolled it so the detectives could read the name etched in the glass.
“Coca-Cola,” Rollings said. “Makes sense. The killer was drinking whiskey and Coke.”
“Yeah, but look at it,” the CSI pointed to the bottle. “It’s old. Really old.”
“So the kid needed to clean out his fridge,” Rollings shrugged. “Not every gay man is as clean as those Queer Eye guys.” More laughter, though more subdued than before.
Kellie frowned.
“No, I mean really look at it.” The CSI shook the bottle and held it up. “It’s fizzy. It’s fresh.”
“Your point being . . ?” Rollings asked.
Kellie realized what the CSI was getting at. “That bottle is almost a hundred years old.”
“There’s more of them right here in the door,” the CSI pointed out. “One, two, three . . . four, counting this one.”
“Open it,” Kellie instructed.
“That’s evidence,” Rollings told her. “Let the lab do it.”
“We have three more, counting what was spilled onto the computer.” Kellie’s tone was serious. “Open it up.”
“I’ll need a bottle opener.”
“Here.” Someone handed him one.
Pfffft!
“Whew! That’s not Coca-Cola from a two liter,” the CSI exclaimed.
Kellie’s face lost all expression. “Bag ‘em,” he ordered. “Bag every bottle you find.” She turned toward the apartment and yelled so everyone could hear. “Listen up! Keep your eyes open for any type of cigarette butts or ashes that look like they came from clove cigarettes. Gather every cigarette you find, but pay special attention to clove cigarettes.” She brought her hand to her chin.
“What’s on your mind, Kellie?” Rollings realized she was on to something.
Kellie motioned for him to follow her into the hall outside the apartment. Once the door closed, he looked at her, curious. “Kellie? What is it?”
“Jack, this is not the first time there was a death like this in this building,” she said.
“What do you mean?” he asked. “Bring me up to speed.”
“It’s both in the way the body was left and the things that were left behind,” Kellie said. “About thirty years ago, I think. There was an old case - unsolved, if I remember correctly. A gay man was killed in this very building.”
“Okay, but . . .” Rollings stammered slightly. “Kellie, I don’t mean to sound heartless, but is that really surprising? In a building this old? With so many apartments? Don’t gay men like these kind of - what’s it called - Art Deco places?”
“If it was a normal murder, no.”
“There is nothing normal about any murd- ” Rollings stopped before he sounded like a cliche. “Wait. Okay. So you’re telling me that this murder thirty years ago happened in the same manner as the one today?”
“I can’t tell you how it happened. I just remember hearing the story,” Kellie said. “Young gay man, murder, Beekman Place. It’s been a while since I heard it, but I can say that the outcome,” she gestured back toward the murder scene, “was the same.”
“The murder scene was similar?” Rollings asked.
“No, the murder scenes are identical,” Kellie said. “Same homoeroticism, same sadomasochism, same Coca-Cola. And I’m guessing, same cigarettes. Heavy stuff. Kind of a hard thing to forget.”
“Start from the top,” Rollings told her. “What’s so special about the Coke?” He noticed Kellie’s face had lost its color. He walked alongside her as she made her way to the elevator. “Coke was around thirty years ago, you know.”
“Coke’s been around for over a hundred years,” Kellie explained. “And that’s what we seem to have here. The glass bottles in the refrigerator. That’s how Coke was packaged in the early 1900s.”
“So it’s a commemorative bottle,” Rollings offered. “A reproduction of a package from a hundred years ago.”
“It looks that way, yes,” Kellie said, “but when we test it - and let me just add that everything I’m saying needs to be confirmed by the lab - when we test it, we’re going to find that it’s not made with the same formula as Coca-Cola today.”
“No one knows the formula, Kellie.”
“But we do know what’s IN the formula, and that’s what I’m getting at. Not the portions of the ingredients, but the ingredients themselves. Back in the turn of the century, Coke was advertised as a drink that was supposed to ‘relieve exhaustion.’ And it did, too, in a big way. Coke was made with cocaine, rather than caffeine. Get it? COCA-Cola. They might as well have been saying, COCAINE-A-Cola. When people drank it, their exhaustion did go away. They felt happy. Their heart beat faster. They suddenly felt that they could do anything.”
“They were stoned.” Rollings understood the history, but still didn’t know where she was going with this. “And we’re pretty sure we just found cocaine in the Coke in the apartment back there.”
“We didn’t just find it in the soda,” Kellie continued, pressing the elevator’s call button. “I can all but guarantee we just found one of the original bottles made from when cocaine-laced soda was still being produced. I’m telling you, Jack, that bottle is over a hundred years old.”
Rollings shook his head. “That doesn’t make sense. We both heard the seal break when we opened the bottle from the refrigerator. If that soda is as old as you’re suggesting, it would have gone flat long ago.”
“Let’s wait for the test,” Kellie told him.
“Kellie, that story aside, it doesn’t matter if the soda is old or new. We’re still talking about a copycat murder, by someone who must have had a pretty good knowledge of the crime scene.”
“I know that. That’s why I need to find the file on the original crime scene. Again, I remember the story - how the investigation started - but not the findings. There should be some answers in the old files. You can handle things on this end, right?”
“Yeah, but-” Rollings stopped abruptly, remembering something. “What about the cigarettes? What are you expecting to find?”
Ding!
The elevator opened. Kellie stepped inside.
“Mrs. Winslow’s Soothing Clove Cigarettes,” she said. “I think they were last made around 1898.”
“Okay. I’ll call you if we find them.”
“Thanks, Jack.”
The two detectives separated, and Rollings returned to the apartment. Detective Kellie Hogan stood in the elevator while the doors closed to form a hissing cat logo.
* * * * *
With her windshield wipers flapping, the old Eldorado splashed noisily through the alley. Her arrow-shaped taillights smoldered red in the dreary morning drizzle, going dark once the car pulled into the garage. It was raining steadily now - not a heavy downpour, but the slow soaking sleet that always seems to taunt Chicago in the days right before the weather turns cold for good. WLS was predicting light showers for the next several days.
A few minutes later, Frankie stood in the kitchen of his northside brownstone. The air smelled stale and faintly musty, not because the place was dirty but from having been shut up in humid weather. Opening some windows, a chilly October breeze worked its way down the first floor hallway and into the adjacent rooms. He turned on his Bose for a little background noise, hating the silence that allowed his mind to wander and reflect on his life.
He felt dirty.
* * * * *
The shower water was so hot, it nearly scalded Frankie’s body. He had washed himself completely three times over and was now standing with his eyes closed, enjoying the heat and the heavy smell of Irish Spring. Later on, when he was clean and dry, he pulled on a pair of sleep-pants and a T-shirt. He curled up in an afghan on the living room’s leather couch with his laptop, a bottle of water, and the TV remote.
He double-clicked his Beekman Place file.
A short while later, Frankie fell asleep with the television on.
* * * * *
Jim Brennard was without question the world’s oldest metrosexual.
He was a polished man in his seventies, tall and slender, wrinkled, with wire-framed glasses. He had been wearing a silver pompadour so long, his appearance was unintentionally retro, almost trendy. His starched pink shirt was open to the middle of his chest, where a thick gold chain was just visible beneath tufts of white hair.
He carried a black Coach man bag.
“Officers,” Jim nodded to two uniformed policemen who were leaving the Beekman Place lobby. Jim spoke in such an articulate manner, his voice had an almost feminine quality, causing a rude raised eyebrow from one of the departing policemen. On entering the hotel, Jim paused to look around. The crime scene had been fully processed, and a single detective was taking tenants’ statements by the old registration desk.
The worst of it seemed to be over.
He strolled past the elevator and entered the JC.
* * * * *
From the sound of Libby’s laughter, one never would have guessed she had spent the morning talking to police about a brutal murder that had happened in her building. She didn’t even look up when Jim approached, as she was engulfed by both a cloud of cigarette smoke and a raunchy story being told by Colby, who sat next to her at the bar. Colby, noticing Jim first, patted Libby on the knee to let her know they had a visitor. When the old woman looked up, her face went blank for a moment. She quickly recovered and hopped off her bar stool.
“Jimmy Boy!” Libby cackled. “What the hell are you doing in Peoria?” She looked at his shirt in surprise. “You really think you’re young enough to pull that off?”
Jim smiled politely. “Age is a state of mind, Libby. An elderly lady told me that once. I understand we had a situation this morning?”
Libby pinched her lips. “No one is more concerned about this than me, Jimbo. What happened here last night, well . . . as you can imagine, it just rocked me to the core.” Shaking her head like a stage actress, Libby touched her chest with her fist. “You have no idea how I felt when I saw that poor boy’s body.”
“You do seem shaken,” Jim said flatly, not buying the performance. Looking over her shoulder, he saw two empty glasses on the bar behind her, in addition to the cocktail at her stool. “How are you holding up, Libby?” he asked. “I mean, really. Are you doing okay?”
“I’ll get through this, Jim,” Libby assured him. “You know, this isn’t the first time I’ve had to deal with something like this.”
“Now that you mention that,” Jim recalled, “there was a murder a few years back. Was it 1980?”
“It was.” Libby sniffled.
“Right after you moved into the hotel,” Jim’s memory was improving. “You’d been here less than a week, if I remember correctly.”
The old woman nodded.
“Two murders under your watch, Libby. This must be just awful for you to go through . . .” he purposely let his words linger “ . . . again.”
Silence.
“You have no idea, Jim.”
“You should eat something,” Jim changed the subject. “Keep your strength up. We should leave the hotel for a while, don’t you think? Get you some fresh air.”
“I’m really not hungry.” Libby fluttered her hand by her throat. The movement unintentionally pushed smoke to Jim’s face. “Lost my appetite. Nerves, you know.”
“Let me take you to lunch, Libby.”
“Thanks Jimbo, but I’d rather stay here.”
“This isn’t a request.” Jim was firm, teeth clenched behind his fading smile. “I insist.”
Without even realizing it, Libby took a step back. As she regained composure, Jim could see her bite down hard on her cigarette holder.
A little over the top, don’t you think? he thought.
“Maybe I could go for a bite,” Libby agreed a bit too quickly.
Jim nodded. “The car is waiting outside.”
* * * * *
“Jack, I found it.” Kellie’s voice sounded excited in his cell phone. “Saturday, February 9th, 1980. Victim William Delorenzo, gay, white male, age twenty-two, a resident of the Beekman Place Apartment Building on Upper Hamilton Street.” Rollings listened intently from outside the morgue of the Saint Francis Medical Center near downtown Peoria.
“Jack, Delorenzo lived on the same floor as William.”
“Go on, Kellie.”
“Found at the scene were several bottles of Coca-Cola that tested positive for cocaine,” Kellie read. “It appears that the liquid in the bottles was consistent with the actual formula used by the company in the manufacturing process of the early 1900s. In addition, tobacco cigarette products were found at the scene. Listen to this. There was a cigarette box - not a pack, but a box like they used to use in the late 1890s. I was right. The brand was called Mrs. Winslow’s Soothing Clove Cigarettes. As far as they could tell, the box was authentic.”
Rollings eyes widened at that last part. “What about fingerprints?”
“Lots of them,” Kellie said. “Mostly William’s, a few unrelated, and two unidentified males whose prints were found on all the S&M gear used in the murder.”
“No match?”
“None. But, in their defense, the database wasn’t as good in those days. Jack, if we could find that box in cold case evidence . . .”
“It should still be in storage, Kellie. Over on Adams Street, probably.”
“All right. I’ll look for it. How are things coming along at the morgue?”
“They’re about to start the autopsy. I’ve also explained the situation to the guys in the lab, so we’ll hopefully know more about those unopened bottles of Coke shortly.”
“Keep me posted.”
“Hey, Kellie,” Rollings added. “Do you think there still might be blood evidence from 1980? If there is, maybe we can find a DNA sample. Whoever committed the murder twenty-seven years ago must be in their seventies by now. It will help narrow down the suspects.”
“I’m on it, Jack.”
* * * * *
Though the Pine-Sol did its best, it still couldn’t hide the smell of underpants. The hall had the feel of an old grade school bathroom, with years of dirt waxed into the shiny floor and walls layered in semi-gloss yellow, where the stains had been easier to paint over than to clean. Jim had hit the nail on the head when they first walked past the nurse’s reception desk. “This place smells like shit and roses,” he’d said.
“From what the brochure says, the public recreation room should be just around the corner,” Jim read from a glossy pamphlet. He pointed to a wall-mounted dry erase board, where today’s activities were written in orange and brown.
He noticed a dinner menu.
“Oooh, country fried steak,” Jim said hungrily. “With mashed potatoes, creamed corn, and Jell-O with little mandarin oranges inside.” His cheeks pinched into a frown. “I don’t like oranges. Especially from a can. The citrus makes my dentures sting.”
“Is there a reason we’re here?” Libby was not the least bit amused. Her heels made deliberate clicks on the corridor’s hospital-grade floor tiles. “Ya tryin’ to scare me, Jimbo?”
“Not at all, Libby. Like I said in the car, we’re here for lunch.”
“Don’t you think we’re a little late for that?” she asked.
It was quarter to three in the afternoon. According to the assisted living home’s schedule, lunch had been served at 10:30 a.m. With the exception of the caretakers, most of the facility’s occupants were napping. The hall was quiet, except for the staff of General Hospital, who were whispering at low volume from the TV in the public lounge, near the corridor’s end.
“Dinner will be served at four,” Jim responded, “so let’s just call it a late lunch or early supper. Old people like to eat before it gets too dark.”
“We’re just going to hang around here for forty-five minutes?” Libby opened her cigarette case. “If you’re really that hungry, I can find ya a bar that serves appetizers.”
“You know you can’t smoke in here, Libby.”
“Then excuse me while I step outside.”
“Oh, I’d much rather you stay here with me,” Jim said in the same tone he’d used at the hotel. “Let’s take a little tour. We can use the time to talk. You can tell me how much you’ve enjoyed living in Beekman Place for the past twenty-seven years.”
“So, that’s what this is about, then?” Libby asked. “You’re threatening me with an old folks’ home, just because that poor boy was murdered this morning?”
Overhearing the mention of Andy’s murder, a woman being pushed past in a wheelchair shot Libby a frightened look. The crime had made the local midday news, and it had been an exciting topic of conversation in the recreation room during The Golden Girls’ commercial breaks. Libby gave her the finger.
“Easy Libby,” Jim warned her. “These people may be your roommates someday. If you get on their bad side now, they may not let you play Bingo.”
“Do I look like I play Bingo?” Libby took offense.
“It’s hard to say. When I saw the news this morning, I couldn’t see you. In fact, I couldn’t see much at all past the police cars and local reporters. I will say though that I was able to read the hotel’s nameplate as the camera zoomed in for a close-up of the corpse leaving the lobby. First a cadaver, then Beekman Place in shiny gold letters. It’s a pity the news used the footage, because the image would have made a nice commercial.”
“That wasn’t my fault,” Libby insisted.
“Are you sure about that?” Jim asked.
“You’re not my boss, Jimbo.”
“Are you sure about that?” he repeated.
“Get to the point.”
“I won’t even be your acquaintance if you don’t take your position more seriously,” Jim reprimanded her. “Any media attention - good or bad - is considered detrimental to the hotel. Do I need to remind you what Shh, No Talking! means?”
“Am I just talking to myself?” Libby grew indignant. “I told ya, I am not responsible for that boy’s death. From the way it’s lookin’ right now, the man ya should be dumpin’ in a nursing home is that writer from OldPlaces Magazine. Like I told the police, he was the last to see Andy alive.”
“And by that writer, you mean Frankie Downs?”
“I do.”
“Then let me ask you this: Why was Frankie Downs allowed at Beekman Place in the first place?”
“He’s writing a story about the hotel,” Libby explained.
“A story for the media,” Jim clarified.
“An article for his stupid little website,” Libby defended. “A website that no one but bored to tears church ladies read. Frankie called me, remember? What was I supposed to do? Tell him no? He was going to write his . . . his little column one way or the other, so I figured, what the hell? I’d show him around. Supervise what he saw. Would ya rather I’d let him poke around the elevator without me? I’m telling ya, Jimbo, if it wasn’t for me, this would be a lot worse.”
“Worse than two murders, Libby?”
“One murder, Asshole. One. Don’t try pinning 1980 on me! I’d only been around for a week back then. Anyone would have had trouble handling something like that.”
“Which I gather is why you were allowed to stay,” Jim conceded. “You were cut some slack. Allowed to find your own way of doing things. It seemed to work for a while, but again, two murders under a single landlady is a little hard to swallow. People are talking, Libby. They’re saying you’ve grown complacent over the years. Spending a little too much time in the city.”
“I spend no more time there than you do.” The remark offended Libby. She added snidely, “How’s life in Chicago, by the way? How much time have you spent in the city these days?”
“That’s irrelevant.”
“Bullshit.”
“Where one lives is not important, Libby.”
“Unless you’re unlucky enough to be stuck in Peoria, I guess.” Reaching for her purse, Libby pulled out a flask. She took a healthy swig, staring at Jim bitterly. “What the hell are ya doing here, anyway? What do ya really want, Jim?”
Jim stopped at the recreation room doorway. He motioned with his head for Libby to look inside. The center of the home’s social activity, the rec room was both dingy and quiet, with vinyl couches, drab wallpaper, and carpet worn from wheelchairs, walkers, and rolling medical equipment. A console television flickered in the corner, with sound so low it was almost inaudible. The seniors with vacant eyes fixed on the soap opera looked propped rather than seated.
“Libby, this is a reminder, not a warning. It’s your job to know who comes into the hotel and when they leave. What happens in Peoria affects all of us. Especially when its bad enough to make the Chicago news.”
Jim put his arm on Libby’s shoulder to emphasize his point. “Am I your boss? No. Am I your friend? Not really. Do I care what happens to you? Yes . . . but only to an extent. How you behave in Peoria directly affects me, and I’m telling you now if you ever put me in a position where I have to choose between you and the hotel, I will always - always - put Beekman Place before anything else. I need you to know that.
“And if you don’t want to end up living here,” Jim swept his other arm in front of them, “I suggest you choose your friends more carefully.”
Libby pulled away. “Frankie Downs is not my friend,” she said defensively.
“Libby, I’m not talking about Frankie Downs.”
* * * * *
Gilligan’s Island was on TV, but the volume was muted. The castaways’ closing credits were reflected in the glass coffee table, as well as in the bookshelves’ wooden surfaces and the shiny hardwood floor. A strong smell of lemon mixed with Clorox eminated from the kitchen. The apartment had been scrubbed spotless. Not that it needed it, but Frankie had done it anyway. Cleaning was how Frankie relaxed, especially when he was in a bad mood, and the effort he put into cleaning was in direct proportion to the heaviness of his thoughts.
He had already used four bottles of bleach this week.
Nick at Night was airing The Brady Bunch next.
* * * * *
The streetlight on the sidewalk made the raindrops glimmer in the window. They reminded Frankie of The Matrix credits, falling one by one like numbers on the glass. A freshly starched shirt hung on the knob of a cabinet near the sink. The iron hissed with steam as Frankie stood in the kitchen and carefully pressed tomorrow’s khakis, taking great care to match the seams so the crease would be as straight as possible.
He liked sharp edges.
* * * * *
The words of Tina’s warning echoed through his head. Frankie couldn’t put their talk out of his mind. No matter how hard he tried, he kept replaying the scene, again and again and again.
Tina was angry with him.
Really angry.
And to make matters worse, she had every right to be angry, as this wasn’t the first time he had fucked up in such a big way.
Frankie’s face grew shiny in the iron’s rising steam.
He was worried about more than just that morning’s talk. The sit-down he’d had with Tina well over a year ago combined with exaggerated memories of similar times when friends had voiced concern about his drinking. Many talks, many embarrassing moments. They were ugly thoughts, conjured up by the day’s events, and they rose to the surface like pimples on his skin. Frankie knew what he was feeling was textbook depression, an alcoholic’s regret made worse by getting caught at his job. Tina was right in sending him home today, but it didn’t make being alone tonight any easier.
His mind was wandering, and he couldn’t rein it in.
He needed something familiar to occupy his time while depression ran its course, before eventually - hopefully - retreating.
So he cleaned. And he ironed.
Ling!
And now, he had mail.
* * * * *
After putting away the ironing board, Frankie tapped the screensaver on his laptop. The Control/Bound website appeared. He had made a contact.
KuffedKid127: Hello Sir. I got hard reading your profile. Im totally on the same page as you. I relly got hard with the scene you described. Where are you located?
Frankie’s eyes narrowed after reading the message. Spelling errors and repeated phrases - signs of inebriation and the truth that comes from lowered inhibitions. Frankie smiled. These were some of the first things he looked for when a person first approached. After scrolling through the gallery photos, he clicked on the profile and read KuffKid’s description:
Slave kid here, 26 yrs old, needing control by training me into heavy long term bondage, hands taped behind my back to eat and drink from dog bowl, lick boots, and hand over all of my control. Bondage, Cage, Stocks, Boots, Piss Training, BONDAGE! Doghooded, muzzled, handcuffed, fist mitts, dog tail plug, in head to toes rubber or leather or Army skinhead gear. Heavy bondage in cage, cell, stock, sleepsack, straightjacket, hood, gag, funnel, heavy chastity, punishment, denial…Head to toe full encasement, overnight storage, it’s all good. Transform me into a perfect rubber, leather, or skinhead puppy through heavy long term bondage. Train my mough for your needs then gag it and muzzle it when not in use. Limits: No scat, heavy pain, body modifications.
Okay, that’s better, he thought. His writing is coherent.
Like Frankie’s own ad, a Control/Bound profile could be previewed and edited before final posting. There was plenty of time to work out the kinks and to form one’s thoughts in a way that was both enticing and easy to read. It wasn’t the place for Shakespeare, but one needed to show a little intelligence if expected to be taken seriously. In KuffedKid’s case, he had succeeded for the most part, at least enough for Frankie to respond. Frankie typed:
CityRopes: Thanks for your interest in my profile. Bondage, to me, is more than just getting tied up & jerked off. I like to take my time with a scene, and watch your reaction while the ropes are pulled tightly to the corners.
Send.
Ambiguous and hot, he thought. Let’s see where he goes with that.
* * * * *
Leaving the laptop to simmer, Frankie got things ready for the next morning, setting alarms, laying out his socks and underclothes, and placing several bottles of water on the nightstand. The computer chimed about two minutes later, but he waited ten minutes to read the message, as always careful of his pacing.
KuffedKid127: WOW that’s hot SIR. Where are you located SIR.
He’s calling me Sir, and he’s capitalizing the name. Good start.
Frankie loved the early stages of meeting someone for sex. He loved the anonymity and the fact that it happened in a forum that was little more than words. Sure, there were some sleazy pictures included within his own profile, but they were more of the people he’d been with rather than of himself.
In the early days of AOL, Frankie ran a screen name that listed his sexual interests in very limited space. With no ability to post photos at that time, it had been a challenge to paint the right picture of himself, separating his style from the typical leathermen who were mainly looking for the usual “I want you to lick my boots, boy,” or “Treat me like a dog.” The M4M Dungeon rooms had been littered with choppy profiles filled with text message abbreviations, and only those who knew the codes understood what each symbol meant. The problem was, there weren’t any acronyms for Frankie’s particular fetish. He had been forced to describe himself through common abbreviations and short, crafted phrases.
Though it worked on occasion, more often than not Frankie was forced to wade through the crap when it came to meeting guys for sex. Over time, he grew proficient at separating the genuine bondage enthusiasts from the men who wrote their profiles after pounding too many Budweisers. When a guy caught his interest, he moved the discussion to private chat, feeling him out in a forum of words.
And words were Frankie’s turf.
* * * * *
CityRopes: I’m on the north side, near the El. If you’d like to talk about meeting, I’m “CityRopes” on AIM, if you have AOL.
Frankie opened AOL Instant Message, and left it running while he went into the bedroom. He heard the message chime while he was pulling on a T-shirt. He buckled his jeans and returning to the computer.
KuffedKid127: Hello SIR.
Frankie responded:
CityRopes: Hello there. Thanks for IM’ing me.
He always kept chats very casual at first, putting the guy at ease and seeing what direction he took the conversation.
KuffedKid127: I love your profile SIR. Its just what I’m into SIR.
CityRopes: Thanks for the kind words. I appreciate that. I enjoyed your profile as well.
KuffedKid127: I can see you took great care with what you wrote. The scene you described was amazing. Exactly what I’m looking for SIR.
He smirked, tying his boots. Compliment your captor. You’re doing pretty good so far. Frankie typed:
CityRopes: What’s on your mind tonight?
The notation in the chat box corner read “Your buddy is typing.” It stayed there for a good five minutes, giving Frankie enough time to check himself out in the bathroom mirror. Not bad, but you’ve looked better, he thought, sucking in his stomach and tugging at his black shirt where it clung to his love handles. He wasn’t a thin man, but with the right clothes he cleaned up well. On returning to the laptop, a response had just been sent.
KuffedKid127: Even on Control/Bound, I’ve had trouble finding sirs who share the “control” scenero described in your profile. It’s what I fantasize about when I jerk off, and it’s the reason I contacted you.
A second message quickly arrived:
KuffedKid127: SIR
Frankie’s smirk changed to a full smile. It had taken KuffedKid five minutes to write two sentences, and even then he forgot to finish with “Sir.” He’s nervous, Frankie thought, while noting the care in which the message had been written. Back in his AOL days, Frankie loved when people noticed his own complete sentences, especially when complimenting his grammar or the use of proper punctuation in a forum known for sentence fragments. One man had even called him “Fraiser” during a frank talk about cock and ball torture.
Ling!
“You’ve got mail.”
* * * * *
Frankie opened his inbox and found an email from KuffedKid. The message was an attachment. Clicking that, a photo opened on his desktop. It was one he hadn’t seen in KuffedKid’s gallery, and it looked like it had just been snapped in the bathroom mirror. Today’s newspaper was visible on the vanity top in the lower corner, positioned on purpose as a time stamp.
That’s why it took him so long to respond.
KuffedKid was an average man, a boy next door type with short hair, nice looking shoulders, and a slight stomach with hair that went up past his nipples. His face was a little obscured by the flash of the camera held by his cheek, but there were plenty of good head shots in his profile, so Frankie already knew what he looked like. What caught Frankie’s attention was the padlock around KuffKid’s neck. Shiny and new, it was worn on a chain like a necklace.
It’s a prop, Frankie thought. He doesn’t know what a padlock means.
KuffedKid127: I sent you a photo SIR.
KuffedKid127: Would SIR like to meet sometime?
Frankie took a few minutes to craft his reply.
CityRopes: I would definitely like to meet you, and to discuss your impending imprisonment. Does the boy have a keyholder?
KuffedKid127: boy does not SIR.
CityRopes: The boy does now.
KuffedKid127: Thank you SIR.
Looking at the clock, Frankie ran the numbers through his head. He needed to be home by 11:45, in bed no later than midnight. He typed:
CityRopes: I don’t have time to play with you tonight, but I am heading out for awhile, meeting some friends in town. If you’re available, we can meet face to face when I’m finished. Do you know where the Cell Block is?
KuffedKid127: Yes SIR.
The two exchanged contact information before Frankie signed off his computer. The night might be salvageable after all.
* * * * *
For a gay man with his share of kinks, the advantage to living in a big city was that even on a slow night, the bars had plenty of people to talk to. The heart of Chicago’s gay scene was centered around Halsted Street, in a city neighborhood just north of the downtown skyline. In many ways, Halsted was like a carnival on the sidewalk, a bustling boulevard that openly welcomed gay people, busy almost every night of the week. Though its proximity to the Cubs’ Wrigley Stadium had dubbed the area Wrigleyville, most locals called it for what the neighborhood really was: Boystown.
The Cell Block was one of many Boystown bars, sharing the sidewalk with cafes and antique shops, all within walking distance of each other along the Halsted strip. Though many clubs had flashy facades, the Cell Block, toward the far northern end of the strip, was more subdued. Unlike the colorful neon that marked Roscoe’s and Sidetracks, the Cell Block seemed a quieter place, at least to those passing on the street. If it had been located in one of the suburbs, especially those in the south, the Cell Block could have easily passed for a neighborhood pub, assuming that pub was a biker bar.
* * * * *
“Hey, Tony.” Frankie took a seat near the front of the bar. He set down his wallet and cell phone before stashing his keys and hanging his leather jacket over the back of the stool.
“Long time no see,” Tony said, rolling his eyes. A friendly man in his mid-forties, Tony threw drinks at the Cell Block six nights a week. He had worked in the place long enough to be considered a fixture, and Frankie was one of the few customers allowed to call him Tony. Most people called him Anthony.
“Is there any way I could possibly interest you in a drink?” Tony asked.
“Just a small one,” Frankie said. “You know I hardly ever touch the stuff.”
“And Betty Maltese was a very lovely woman,” Tony played along. “CC & Coke tonight?”
“Yes, please.”
“Hey, I have something for you by the way.” Tony reached behind the register. He grabbed a printed copy of an AP story he had found on the internet and passed it to Frankie. “I thought of you when I read this. It was on the Drudge Report this morning. Do you still read that website?”
“Every goddamn hurricane,” Frankie replied.
“Did you see this?” Tony pointed to the headline. It was taken from My Way News, entitled “S&M Death Raises Legal Questions.”
Frankie shook his head as he got absorbed by the story.
* * * * *
The article described the death of Adrian Exley, a gay man from Massachusetts who died during a consensual sexual encounter with a “master” he met on a bondage-themed website. After agreeing to a three-day S&M session with a man he only knew by the screen name Rubrman, Adrian was accidentally suffocated while mummified in Saran Wrap, duct tape, and a tight-fitting leather hood. Though the story didn’t mention the website’s name, it was clearly alluding to Control/Bound, where Frankie ran his own profile.
Frankie set the copy down when Tony served his drink.
“You need to be careful with that shit you do.” Tony looked him straight in the eye, leaning in close. “I don’t want to see you in a story like this.”
“I’ll be careful, Tony.”
“I hope so.”
* * * * *
Frankie had first met Tony sometime in the mid-‘90s, but it wasn’t until four years ago that they bonded and formed something of a friendship. The Anthony/Tony boundary came down in September 2001 when their over-the-bar banter had turned casual, but their relationship remained little more than bartender and tipping customer.
It was during that time when Frankie first met Paul Lavinski, a man Frankie had considered his best friend for almost two years. Paul, like Frankie, had been a staple in the leather bars, but before that night in September, they’d shared no more than casual nods when passing in the clubs.
And then the attacks happened.
* * * * *
Like anyone who recalls that day, Frankie remembered exactly where he was when the planes hit the World Trade Center. He had still been working for Gay Chicago Magazine, and he’d just gotten to work when breaking news hit the media. Over the next several hours, his office became increasingly deserted. Frankie left work early himself, heading home mid-afternoon. Alone in his apartment, he hadn’t moved from the television until sometime after eight o’clock. He finally pulled himself away from the coverage long enough to grab a shower and head down to Halsted. He found the mood in Boystown the same as everywhere else. Even in the leather bars, the morning’s video still played on TV screens.
And that’s when he first met Paul.
* * * * *
He had long forgotten which one of them had first approached the other, but Frankie could remember meeting Paul at the Manhole, a last-chance bar a few blocks from Roscoe’s. Like Frankie, Paul had come out to seek refuge in the familiar, but even the Manhole was quiet that night, its cruising overshadowed by the day’s tragedy. After chatting at the bar, the two left in search of food. They ended up spending the night together, not in a sexual way, but just to share each other’s company.
From that moment on, they were friends.
* * * * *
“So, I’ve seen that look before,” Tony guided Frankie’s mood away from the article. “And I’m guessing you’re on the prowl.” “Is that so?”
“I think it is.”
“And you’re interested because . . ?”
“Well, as your bartender, it’s my job not only to keep your drink full, but also to make you feel as welcome as possible, and offer my assistance if you’re looking for something in particular.”
“How about some-one in particular?” Frankie unfolded a picture of KuffedKid he had printed from his computer.
Tony peered at the image. “What’s his name?”
Frankie laughed. “I have absolutely no idea.”
“Just do me a favor and let me know when the wedding is,” Tony teased. “I want to make sure I get the night off work.”
“Let me know if you see him, Tony.”
“Will do, Boss.”
* * * * *
Settling back in his barstool, Frankie folded the article and tucked it into his jacket while watching the growing crowd. Though technically in the “leather bar” category, the Cell Block still had the warmth of a local tavern, long and rectangular, with low ceilings and a wooden floor.
This was one of Frankie’s favorite places, and he sometimes stopped in on his way home from work for a quick drink. Unlike the Eagle on Lincoln Avenue, a hard-core club that enforced a specific dress code, the Cell Block was more of a neighborhood bar, where local leathermen gathered to shoot the breeze.
Back when Paul was still alive, Frankie had spent countless nights in little clubs like this. The first place they had gone was Buck’s, the tiny country-western bar down the street. Paul had introduced him to a friendship network wider than Frankie had ever imagined. Paul had been one of those people with a natural gift of gab, a man who could sit down beside a stranger, then get up with a new life-long friend. There were times when he even reminded Frankie of what Truman Capote must have been like, not in looks or voice of course, but in the way he could charm almost anyone just by being himself.
And though he would never admit it openly, Frankie had deeply envied the ease with which Paul made - and kept - friends. It was a talent that Frankie had never even come close to developing. Though he tried to follow Paul’s lead, Frankie always knew he was just riding Paul’s coattails.
Frankie was a loner by nature. And when he was completely honest with himself, he knew that even with Paul’s encouragement, Frankie would never be more than a popular man’s sidekick. It made him feel like he did in high school, an outsider who was lucky to be a sidekick at all.
A sidekick.
On the night of Paul’s accident, after first hearing the news, there was a hole in Frankie that even liquor couldn’t fill. Losing a close friend is hard on anyone, but Frankie had lost someone he loved.
* * * * *
“Two o’clock, near the back, right side of the room. I believe he’s wearing a yellow carnation.” The bartender came in close and dropped his voice. “Does he know what you’re going to do to him?”
Frankie shot him a dirty look before setting a twenty next to his empty glass. “Thanks for the heads up.”
“Don’t forget what I told you,” Tony warned. “I don’t want to see your name in the news.”
Grabbing his things, Frankie worked his way through the crowd, nodding Hi to the faces whose names he had forgotten after Paul’s death. KuffedKid was sitting alone by the wall, on the far side of the bar, watching the pool tables. He looked nervous.
Enjoying the moment, Frankie took his time before making his presence known.
It doesn’t get any better than this.
* * * * *
An hour or so later, the bar had grown busier. Tony had been joined by a second bartender, and the chalkboard near the pool table was now filled with rows of names.
By 10:30, Frankie had learned all he needed from KuffedKid, whose name was actually Steven Davis, a 21-year-old kid who had never before set foot in a leather bar. As Frankie suspected, Steven wanted to experiment with a typical master/slave scene, the reason he wore a padlock in his online photo. Though Frankie wasn’t much for the traditional roles of S&M play, he was attracted by Steven’s nervousness, which had continued even after several drinks.
He’s uncomfortable talking about this in person, Frankie thought. Steven’s genuinely scared about being in here, but not because he doesn’t WANT to be. He’s worried about what his friends will think.
Sensing Steven’s apprehension, Frankie pushed forward with questions for another twenty minutes. Steven was Frankie’s favorite type of man: insecure and inexperienced, driven by libido for the chance to live out a private S&M fantasy.
It was times like this when Frankie felt Paul’s guidance within himself. Frankie remembered the ease with which Paul talked to strangers, and he mirrored the example when controlling Steven’s jitters long enough to arrange a meeting for the upcoming weekend. Frankie chose his words carefully and smiled when he sensed it was appropriate.
I know exactly what you’re looking for, Frankie thought. I know exactly how you need to be treated.
A time was set and a key was exchanged. Steven wanted to wear the padlock until the day of their hookup, and Frankie agreed to hold the key, knowing it was a turn-on. Once the rules were established - no masturbating until the meeting - Frankie grabbed his coat before making a fast pit stop in the restroom. When he returned, Steven had already left the bar. Scanning the crowd, Frankie shrugged his shoulders and gave the matter no further thought.
It was time to leave.
* * * * *
On the sidewalk outside the Cell Block, Frankie paused to light a cigarette, checking the time. He’d accomplished what he’d wanted, and it still wasn’t even eleven o’clock. Smiling contentedly, he walked to his car.
* * * * *
The black Eldorado drove slowly down the busy Halsted strip. Despite the fact that it was a weekday, the street was full of people going in and out of the bars.
Stopping to let a group of drunks cross the road in front of him, Frankie stared at the men lingering around the RAM adult bookstore. Even by Halsted standards, the RAM’s clientele were seedy. It greatly amused him to watch the people going inside - the trolls who used the glory holes, the lowest of the low. They were a comical sight, men who zigzagged along the sidewalk with eyes flicking nervously over their shoulders. Some men were drunk; others, focused. All shared the knowledge their destination held a stigma, a scarlet letter that would be attached to them the moment they entered its door.
And then Frankie saw him.
* * * * *
Standing in the doorway, Steven waited to be buzzed in. He was accompanied by a second man, a skinhead wearing a biker’s jacket. For just a split second, Frankie stared at the skinhead with a strange feeling of déjà vu. He could swear he had seen him somewhere before, but he couldn’t quite place him. His memory was too fuzzy.
Was he at . . . Beekman Place in Peoria? he wondered.
WOO-WOO!
A car horn reverberated through Frankie’s shoulders, startling him. Police lights swirled in his peripheral. A squad car had pulled up behind him and was now sitting on his ass. The cop inside the cruiser motioned for Frankie to move along. And he wasn’t being nice about it.
* * * * *
Like many ideas in Frankie’s short-term memory, the skinhead left as quickly as he arrived. Frankie continued down Halsted until he reached Belmont Street, then turned east toward the water and onto Lake Shore Drive.
Was Steven cruising someone while talking to me?
Whatever the case, it really didn’t matter.
If bookstores are what he’s into, then who am I to judge? Hell, my own “first time” happened in Swingers World in downtown Peoria. I had just turned eighteen, and I still weighed 240 pounds. I remember getting my dick sucked by some old queen in one of the video booths. I didn’t even cum. I couldn’t wait to go home and shower.
With the padlock key in his fist, Frankie clutched the steering wheel and gave Olivia some gas. The lights of downtown Chicago shimmered in the rearview mirror as the car headed north, careful of the speed limit.
What’s the saddest you’ve ever been?
Mine is so deep, I can only face it in the moment of clarity immediately following a drinking bender. I wake up in the wee hours, heart racing, thirsty for water. In the darkness of the bedroom, I push away whoever happens to be next to me, and I step outside for a cigarette, thinking about my life and what I have become. I’m alone in my thoughts…always alone…and as the smoke fills my lungs, the truth fills my head, cold, unfiltered, and very, very sad.
Sadness as deep as mine cannot be discussed with others. It would scare them, disgust them, and push them away forever. I’d have no friends at all if I shared my story openly. But I need to tell someone. My existence depends on it. And I need to tell it in a way that won’t cause them to gather the children and lock the door. Or let the phone go to voicemail.
Or worst of all, call the police.
Chicago, Illinois
The rich aroma of coffee wafted through OldPlaces’ Oak Park offices. It started in the employee kitchenette and mingled with the sounds of laughter, a copy machine, Don and Roma’s Breakfast Diner streaming on a desktop computer, and someone talking about Fox and Friends. Car tires splashing through a puddle could be heard for just a moment as the front door opened and closed. Like a receptionist in a dentist’s office, Rose, the elderly secretary, smiled politely from behind her reading glasses when she saw Frankie enter and close his umbrella. Her lips retracted into a frown, however, when her nose caught a whiff of stale cigarettes on his clothes. The humidity only made it worse when he passed her desk and headed toward his office.
“Good morning,” she said flatly.
Bitch, thought Frankie.
With his backpack over his shoulder, Frankie grabbed a cup of coffee from the kitchenette before flipping on the office lights and settling at his desk. In the window behind him, the gray Chicago skyline loomed ominously in the east, the highest of its buildings growing fuzzy near their rooftops, vanishing into a ceiling of low hanging clouds that looked like tin foil. It was a far cry from the weather in Peoria yesterday, but in all honesty, Frankie couldn’t remember much about Monday, especially the drive home.
He took a sip of his coffee before removing his sunglasses.
Pulling out his laptop, Frankie turned it on and logged onto OldPlaces’ homepage. Without even looking at Andy’s pictures, he fired off a message to Tina’s inbox: “Aren’t these amazing?” He then checked his email, The Drudge Report, and the local weather for tonight and tomorrow.
Rain.
He sipped his coffee, sighed loudly, and buried his head in his hands.
There was a knock at his door.
* * * * *
“Hey, I need to talk to you,” Gale said with urgency as she entered Frankie’s office. She stood at his desk and leaned in close.
She inhaled.
“You jackass,” Gale lightly smacked his shoulder. “You reek of alcohol!” Reaching in her pocket, she pushed a tin of Altoids at him. “Rose caught whiff of you when you came in. She’s in Tina’s office right now, tattling.”
“Shit,” Frankie muttered.
“Here.” Gale popped the Altoid tin open. “Have a few of these.”
“What’s she saying?” Frankie held his hand over his mouth and nose, trying to smell his own breath. From the very start, he’d had problems with Rose. She was a Joyce Meyer-loving Christian who abhored gay people. She had never said anything overtly, but Frankie could feel her disapproval every time she looked at him. “Rose never misses a chance to rat me out to Tina,” he said bitterly.
Gale looked shocked.
“What’s that for?” Frankie asked.
“Did you go out again last night?” Gale asked, more accusation than question. Her eyes looked wide and painted behind the thick lenses of her black horn-rimmed glasses. Gale was the perfect fag hag (although she preferred the term “fruit fly”): late twenties, trendy clothes, full-figured yet somehow still able to maintain an hourglass shape. She was Frankie’s office “ears,” and she defended him every chance she could, especially while he was away.
“You look like you didn’t even stop at home,” Gale cringed.
“I didn’t,” Frankie admitted. “There was a par . . . err, a reception at the building last night.”
“You smell like you’ve been fucking.” Gail’s bluntness was one of her strongest attributes.
“Gale, please! You know I don’t do that.”
“Well, that’s what you smell like.”
“Well, I wasn’t.”
“What time did your reception end?”
“Around 3:30.”
“And you came here straight from there?” Gale’s mouth hung open in sheer astonishment. “Are you nuts? You know what Tina said the last time you did that. Are you trying to get fired?”
“Gale, it wasn’t like that. I brought back enough for a really good mystery. It’s got history; it’s got bizarre characters. Did you know Beekman Place was a Prohibition era hotel? There’s even an old speakeasy in the basement. And just wait until you hear about the landlady.”
“Frankie, I like you, but this time you’re in serious-”
Gale hushed as Rose strutted past the open office door. The receptionist didn’t say a word, but the glare she shot them said plenty. Not only did she not like Frankie, Rose wasn’t a fan of Gale either.
Beeeeep!
A red light popped on as Tina’s voice chirped through the speakerphone.
“Frankie?” Tina sounded cheery and upbeat. If he was toast, Frankie would never have guessed from her tone. “When you get yourself settled, would you step into my office, please?”
“Sear-ee-us trah-bull,” Gale mouthed silently.
“Sure, Tina. I’ll be right there.”
“Great,” Tina said. “I’ll see you shortly. Oh, and I just love the pictures, by the way.”
“Thanks, Tina.”
The red light went dark.
Frankie remained behind his desk for a moment, reaching for Gale’s breath mints. “Do I really smell that bad?”
She nodded.
As their eyes locked, the crunch of breath mints was the only sound in the office.
* * * * *
Wearing a different cocktail dress than before, Libby reclined on the sofa in a pose that kept her heels from damaging the upholstery.
“I don’t know how this could have happened,” she cried, dabbing her tears yet somehow managing to avoid smudging her makeup. “Andy was such a good tenant. Always paid his rent on time. Never made any noise.” Libby inhaled deeply as though preparing to let out a wail. “He was such a good boy!” she whimpered.
“We understand, Mrs. Kaslauskas,” the detective was sympathetic. “This must be a terrible thing for you to have to go through, but we still have some questions that we need you to answer. The victim’s full name was Andrew Conner. Is that correct?”
“It is,” Libby sniffed.
“And how long has he been a tenant of yours?”
“About a year and a half,” Libby said.
“And you said he was a good tenant? You never had any problems with him?”
“None.”
“So, he took care of the place? No wild parties? No noisy friends?”
“He was as quiet as a mouse,” Libby said.
“How about Mr. Conner’s social life outside the building?” the detective asked, alluding to the murder’s sexual nature. “Do you know where he went when he wasn’t in his apartment? Aside from work, I mean. For example, if he had a Saturday night off, where would he go? What kind of clothes did you see him wearing?”
“Oh, Detective.” Libby dabbed her eyes again. “Not to be rude, but that sort of thing is really none of my business.”
The detective raised an eyebrow.
“Here you go, Libby.” Colby appeared from behind and interrupted the questioning. The detective got a bird’s-eye view of ass when Colby handed Libby a Manhattan. “Can I get you anything else?” Colby asked her.
“No, Dear, I’m fine. Thank you.”
Colby stepped away.
The detective cleared his throat. “I understand that the last time the victim was seen alive was at a party in this room last night?”
“Yes, but . . . one second, please.” Looking over the detective’s shoulder, Libby waved for Colby to return. She reached into her glass and took out the cherry, placing it in his hand with wet fingers. “Thank you, Dear.”
“Mrs. Kaslauskas, the party?”
“Oh, yes . . . the party.” The detective was amazed at how quickly Libby regained composure. “We had a guest from Chicago,” she said, “a man from a history magazine who is writing a story about my building.”
“Do you remember his name?”
“I do,” Libby said. “Frankie Downs. Dee, oh, double-you, en, es.”
“And his employer?”
“OldPlaces dot com,” Libby said. “It’s a website. I can show you if you’d like.”
“No, that’s not necessary, Ma’am. Thank you. Did Mr. Downs have any contact with the deceased?”
“Oh, yes!” Libby said, twisting a cigarette into her holder. “They seemed quite smitten with each other.”
“Smitten?”
“Well, interested,” Libby corrected. “Andy was helping Frankie with his story. Andy is – was - a photographer, you know. Frankie . . . err, Mr. Downs was supposed to take some pictures for the website, but he wasn’t able to do so himself.”
“And why is that?” the detective asked. “Didn’t he have a camera?”
Libby shook her head and motioned for him to come closer. “He had been drinking,” she whispered.
“I see.”
“Yeah, he was really putting them away,” Colby added, eavesdropping from across the room. “He passed out drunk, right there in the lobby.”
“Actually, Sir, if I could talk to the lady alone, please?” The detective was irritated by the interruption but interested in the information.
“It’s okay, Dear,” Libby told Colby. “I can speak with the detective myself.”
Colby nodded and left.
“Ms. Kaslauskas, can you think of any reason why Mr. Downs would want Andy Conner dead?” the detective asked. “Were they hostile toward each other? Could you sense any animosity?”
“Oh no, it was just the opposite,” Libby said. “The two were inseparable the entire evening. Well, the entire evening once Mr. Downs slept off his hangover.”
“He was sleeping?”
“Yes. For a couple of hours,” Libby said. “As Colby said, we found Mr. Downs on the floor of the lobby, in front of the elevator. It took two of my tenants just to carry him to my apartment around the corner. I obviously couldn’t do it myself, you know. A little old woman like me. They put him in my guest room so he could sleep it off. I didn’t know what else to do, so I just let him be.”
“Did you, err, inform Mr. Downs’ employer?” the detective asked.
Libby shook her head. “I felt sorry for him, really. A man who needs to drink like that must have an awful lot of problems. I wasn’t going to call his boss, because he must have felt bad enough already. Imagine. Drinking like that in the middle of the afternoon.”
The detective kept his mouth shut while Libby sipped her Manhattan.
“Take your time, Ms. Kaslauskas.”
“Andy was telling Mr. Downs all about his new job and how he was going to be a big success in Seattle,” Libby went on. “That boy had talent. So much potential. And it just tears my heart apart, knowing that we’re never going to see all the things he could have accomplished with his li-” She stopped midsentence, gasping when the coroner wheeled a gurney with a body bag – Andy’s body - through the lobby. Her eyes widened.
Then she exploded in gut-wrenching sobs. “Andy! Poor, poor Andeeeeeeeeeeee.”
Shooting the medics a dirty look, the detective motioned to hurry the hell up and get the body out of view. Closing his notebook, he stood up and patted Libby on the shoulder. He then joined another officer in a sidebar by the elevator.
“How’s Kellie doing up there?” the detective asked.
The officer shook his head in disgust. “Faggots,” he spit the word. “They get into some weird shit.”
* * * * *
I think it’s time to be sad now, it’s that time todaaaay, yeah-
The boy that’s makin’ me sad is goin’-
…awaaaaaaay…
A sweet vanilla candle burned in a jar on Tina’s Hemmingway-style Ethan Allen desk. Her office filled with an invisible haze of sugar, a scent so strong even the coffee couldn’t compete. An illuminated Thomas Kinkaide painting peered down from the paneled wall directly behind her chair. It was flanked on one side by a shiny gold cross and on the other side by a gilt-framed picture of Jesus with Paul Mitchell locks. Frankie always thought the room looked more like a rectory than an editor’s office.
And the radio was playing The Carpenters’ version of a rock classic.
“Did you have a good trip?” Tina asked, scrolling through Andy’s photographs. For the first time, Frankie saw the pictures he’d submitted. The boy had talent.
“I’ll bet the drive was beautiful,” Tina continued, gazing at some exterior shots that showed the upper Beekman Place facade posed against a horizon of sun-drenched autumn trees. “I just love the Midwest in late fall, don’t you?” she said. “The way the sun illuminates the color of the leaves?”
“It can be pretty,” Frankie acknowledged.
“As brilliant as a stained glass window,” Tina said.
“Peoria only has another week, or two at best.” Frankie made an effort at small talk, to delay the confrontation. “They’re just going through a late Indian summer now, and the weather was a lot warmer than it should have been. All it takes is one really good frost.”
“I know the trees in Norton’s garden lost their leaves several weeks ago,” Tina continued. “Mmm, you can almost smell the air in these pictures, can’t you?”
I can’t smell anything with that goddamn candle! Frankie thought. “Tina, you have no idea. I rolled down my windows as soon as I entered town.”
“And that skyline along the river. It’s stunning, isn’t it?”
Frankie tried not to roll his eyes while his boss continued to wax eloquent.
“Yes. Stunning.”
“Did you see much activity on Roanoke Avenue?” she asked. “I know the woman who runs the Historical Society of Greater Peoria and East Peoria, and she tells me the neighborhood has been designated an action zone.”
“There are a few restoration projects, but there’s still a lot of landlords holding on to their old rentals.” Frankie relaxed with a more comfortable subject. “It reminds me of the days when Joliet first got riverboats. You can see that the city is reinvesting in the old infrastructure, but gentrification is only just beginning, and there’s a lot left to do. Most of old Roanoke, especially the stretch on the bluff, still has its original pavement.”
“Bricks?”
“Mm-hmm.”
“Well, I suppose that’s quaint, as long as the road is in good condition.”
“It’s not.”
“How unfortunate.”
“I’m thinking of a Prohibition angle.” Frankie settled back in the chair. “Beekman Place has never really lost her charm, even after converting to apartments.”
“Rose mentioned you saw a speakeasy in the basement.” Tina looked pensive. “You know, when I think about it, Frankie, I really like that idea.”
Frankie’s face reddened on realizing Rose had been eavesdropping.
“Oh, Frankie,” Tina went on. “We all just love the stories you’ve written about Peoria. Knowing what you’ve given us before, I can’t wait to see what you do with this Beekman Place Hotel.”
“Thank you. I appreciate that.”
Here it comes.
“You’ve been with us for only a couple of years and already you’ve gained a following.”
“That really means a lot, Tina. I can’t tell you how much I appreciate you saying that.”
Tina stood from her desk and continued to smile as she walked behind Frankie and closed the door. She sat down in the chair next to him, crossing her legs and folding her hands over her knee. Even as a gay man, Frankie couldn’t help but notice how beautiful she was: mid-fifties, frosted hair, and a stunningly well-preserved body. She was, as always, dressed to the nines, today wearing a fitted business suit and opened-toed heels with a 1970’s flair.
She finally got to the point. “Frankie, we have a problem.”
* * * * *
Frankie had long ago learned how to handle himself the day after a drinking binge. Back when he still had a roommate, Frankie always made sure he got up early the morning after a late night at the bar, so he could be seen sitting at the breakfast table, drinking coffee, cheerfully reading news on his laptop. There was one time when he had spent the night at his parents’ house. After everyone else went to bed, he stayed up drinking wine and watching late night television. Around 1:30 a.m., with two bottles of Merlot in his bloodstream, he raided the refrigerator and ate a family’s worth of leftover Chinese. After that binge he had intentionally stuck his finger down his throat, puking up a belly of unwanted calories.
The next morning, Frankie’s mother sat him down, telling him they had to talk. He thought she knew about the bender. Instead, she was concerned about using bulimia to lose weight. From that moment on, Frankie always knew these talks never went the way one expected.
* * * * *
“A problem with my story?” he played dumb.
“Frankie, both Norton and I pray for you every day. You’re a man with great talent, but you’re damaging your own potential by drinking as much as you do.”
“Tina, we’ve talked about this before,” Frankie shifted in his chair. “And I know where you stand on the issue. Yes, I may like to tip them back on occasion, but it hasn’t affected my job performance, at least not since the last time we had this conversation.”
* * * * *
It had been over a year since the talk he was referring to, and Tina had good reason to sit him down at that time.
It was the Tuesday after Memorial Day, a long weekend when the Chicago clubs were especially busy for IML. Frankie had taken off work from Thursday through Monday, renting a room in the city so he didn’t have to go home. He had been drunk for almost four straight days. Not slobbering drunk, but rarely without a good buzz. Frankie had brought his work clothes with him when he first checked into the hotel, and he’d gone directly from the city to the office early Tuesday morning. Even though he was showered, neatly dressed, and on time for his job, his body still carried the stench from the long weekend of debauchery.
It was in his skin.
* * * * *
“Your performance is fine,” Tina assured him. “I have no issues with your work ethic, nor your sense of urgency.”
“Oh?” Frankie wasn’t sure where this was heading. Assuming Libby had kept her part of the bargain - and from his boss’s beating around the bush, there was no reason not to - Tina had no way of knowing what had happened at the hotel yesterday. He decided to go a different route.
“Tina, I’ll admit I had a late night yesterday evening, but I assure you it’s not what you’re thinking, although I certainally don’t fault you for thinking it.” Frankie paused as he realized how confusing that sounded.
“Really?” Tina said.
“Libby Kaslauskas, the charming owner of Beekman Place, arranged for a reception in the evening, so I could meet the tenants,” Frankie said. “I was tempted to decline, but I’ve got to tell you, I couldn’t pass it up. It gave me the chance to learn about the hotel’s history from those who live there now. Libby said it best herself: It’s not just another apartment building.
“It was late when I left. Much later than I had originally planned, but I’ll tell you it was worth it, and you’ll see that when I write the feature. It was darn close to midnight when I finally hit the road, and I took my time driving back, too long I’m afraid to have enough time to go home and change. I apologize if I smell a little bit like smoke this morning, but again it was worth it.” Frankie leaned forward in his chair before adding, “Quite frankly, Tina, I couldn’t wait to tell you.”
“I believe you.” It didn’t sound like she did.
“Then what’s the problem?” he asked.
Silence.
“Frankie, I’m worried for your soul.”
Leaning back in his chair, Frankie seemed confused. He started to reply, but stopped himself . Tina could tell he was choosing his words very carefully. “How does staying late for a story damage my soul?” he asked. “You are talking spiritually, right?”
Tina nodded. “When was the last time you went to church?” she asked.
“Church, Tina? Are you kidding?”
“No, Frankie, I’m speaking quite soberly. When was the last time you spoke with the Lord in His own house?”
“You know I don’t go to your church, Tina.”
“Well, any church then. Catholic. Calvary. Unitarian. When was the last time you spent a few hours with God and really took a good look at your life?”
Frankie’s face felt hot. He wasn’t embarrassed, but boss or not, he wasn’t going to let her start preaching to him again. He knew that in Christian-speak Unitarian was synonymous with homosexual.
Tina has a hidden agenda.
“Tina, I told you about my lifestyle before Norton hired me,” Frankie reminded her. “We agreed that as long as I kept it to myself, it wouldn’t be a problem.”
“And it’s not, Frankie. Please don’t misread my intent. I’m not concerned with your sexual preference, nor am I interested in the lives of any of my employees, so long as they keep them private.”
“Then I’m sorry, Tina, but I don’t understand what you’re getting at.”
“Frankie, let me be blunt. OldPlaces is a Christian organization. We were started by a member of Norton’s church, and over the years we have grown into a self-sustaining business. We deliver a wholesome product that gives back to the community, both in service and in spirit.
“We are a nonjudgmental, equal opportunity employer. We have only one true requirement for all employees: a passion for history and a love of old places. We hired you for your proven ability to embrace our values. We don’t care about your sexual orientation or your personal life. We do care, however, when anyone’s private life becomes an issue within this office.”
Now visibly angry, Tina dropped the pleasantries. “Frankie, I must insist that when you enter these offices, you be sober, clean, and free from the smell of alcohol. I insist that you be showered, wear fresh clothes, and that you leave the coat you wore to the bar at home.
“If you do have an unexpected delay, such as this reception you attended while representing this organization, I’d rather you be late for work - or even take the day off completely - than arrive at the office on time a disheveled mess. This is no less than I require of any employee, and I regret this has become an ongoing issue requiring a second conversation about this very topic. I insist that you remember that being a Christian-inspired business, there is a certain decorum we must maintain within our staff. Today, you have not maintained our standards for a second time. We will NOT be having this conversation again, Frankie.”
Silence.
“Consider this a final warning, Frankie. It will be written up and placed in your file alongside the first one. I regretfully say that if this happens again, further disciplinary action will be taken, up to and including termination.” Tina settled back in her chair, allowing Frankie to take this all in. “Have I made myself clear?”
Silence.
“Yes, Tina. And I am sorry.”
Tina nodded contentedly, satisfied with her managerial performance. “Then I look forward to seeing you tomorrow morning,” she added.
Frankie stood up and quietly left Tina’s office. He stopped by his desk, grabbed his laptop and coat, and nodded goodbye to Gale on his way out the door. As he passed Rose’s desk, she never looked up, but Frankie knew she was watching him every step of the way.
He walked to his car in the rain.
* * * * *
Detective Kellie Hogan stood thoughtfully in the corner of Andy Conner’s apartment. She was a tall woman, late thirties, slender. Her mousy brown hair hung over her forehead neatly, above green eyes and skin void of makeup. The CSIs were doing their job, and through the window Kellie could see the ambulance being cleared to leave the crime scene.
“The victim was not a smoker.” The technician crouched by the coffee table was photographing Andy’s ruined portfolio, dumped like a trash can and soiled with ashes.
“Got one!” He held up tweezers grasping the butt of a half-smoked cigarette. “It smells like cloves.”
“Bag it,” Kellie instructed.
“There’s more over here,” someone called from the kitchen.
“The last email was sent out just after midnight,” a different investigator said from Andy’s computer. “It went to a Tina Collins at OldPlaces.com. There’s a file attached. Pictures of the hotel.”
“We’ll need to take that computer.” Kellie didn’t want anything overlooked.
“Oh. Wait a minute.” The investigator had clearly noticed something.
“Did you find another email?”
“No, but look at this.” The investigator helding up a glass that had been next to the keyboard. “There’s more in this glass than just whiskey and Coke,” he said. “I’m guessing it’s Coke, and I’m not talking about the vending machine kind.”
Kellie’s interest piqued. “Bag it. We’ll test it at the lab.”
“You know, if this guy was high on cocaine,” Detective Jack Rollings said as he came up to Kellie, “that might explain the savagery of the murder.” A recent addition to Peoria’s police department, Rollings had been Kellie’s partner for a little over three months.
“Well, this homo was into some kinky shit,” somone said from across the room.
Laughter.
“Did you see the picture in the hall? Maybe we can use it in the obituary.”
“Knock it off!” Kellie snapped, glaring at the officer who had just made the comment. “This is someone’s boy. This is a person. Do your jobs without the editorial comments, okay?”
Silence.
“So, what do you think?” Rollings asked Kellie. “How did this all play out last night?”
“Coroner puts the time of death around 4:20 this morning,” Kellie said, “but I’m more interested in what happened before that.”
“Well, it’s definitely a ritual killing,” Rollings said. “You can tell it was planned in advance. The scene was thought out carefully, down to every detail.”
“I can see that.”
“We’re sending blood to the lab,” Rollings said. “I’m guessing there were two, maybe three other men involved. We won’t know for sure until the lab tests the samples.”
“Semen?”
“Yup.”
“Detective! Over here,” someone called from the kitchen. “You need to see this.”
Standing at the open refrigerator, a CSI held a glass bottle in his gloved hand. He rolled it so the detectives could read the name etched in the glass.
“Coca-Cola,” Rollings said. “Makes sense. The killer was drinking whiskey and Coke.”
“Yeah, but look at it,” the CSI pointed to the bottle. “It’s old. Really old.”
“So the kid needed to clean out his fridge,” Rollings shrugged. “Not every gay man is as clean as those Queer Eye guys.” More laughter, though more subdued than before.
Kellie frowned.
“No, I mean really look at it.” The CSI shook the bottle and held it up. “It’s fizzy. It’s fresh.”
“Your point being . . ?” Rollings asked.
Kellie realized what the CSI was getting at. “That bottle is almost a hundred years old.”
“There’s more of them right here in the door,” the CSI pointed out. “One, two, three . . . four, counting this one.”
“Open it,” Kellie instructed.
“That’s evidence,” Rollings told her. “Let the lab do it.”
“We have three more, counting what was spilled onto the computer.” Kellie’s tone was serious. “Open it up.”
“I’ll need a bottle opener.”
“Here.” Someone handed him one.
Pfffft!
“Whew! That’s not Coca-Cola from a two liter,” the CSI exclaimed.
Kellie’s face lost all expression. “Bag ‘em,” he ordered. “Bag every bottle you find.” She turned toward the apartment and yelled so everyone could hear. “Listen up! Keep your eyes open for any type of cigarette butts or ashes that look like they came from clove cigarettes. Gather every cigarette you find, but pay special attention to clove cigarettes.” She brought her hand to her chin.
“What’s on your mind, Kellie?” Rollings realized she was on to something.
Kellie motioned for him to follow her into the hall outside the apartment. Once the door closed, he looked at her, curious. “Kellie? What is it?”
“Jack, this is not the first time there was a death like this in this building,” she said.
“What do you mean?” he asked. “Bring me up to speed.”
“It’s both in the way the body was left and the things that were left behind,” Kellie said. “About thirty years ago, I think. There was an old case - unsolved, if I remember correctly. A gay man was killed in this very building.”
“Okay, but . . .” Rollings stammered slightly. “Kellie, I don’t mean to sound heartless, but is that really surprising? In a building this old? With so many apartments? Don’t gay men like these kind of - what’s it called - Art Deco places?”
“If it was a normal murder, no.”
“There is nothing normal about any murd- ” Rollings stopped before he sounded like a cliche. “Wait. Okay. So you’re telling me that this murder thirty years ago happened in the same manner as the one today?”
“I can’t tell you how it happened. I just remember hearing the story,” Kellie said. “Young gay man, murder, Beekman Place. It’s been a while since I heard it, but I can say that the outcome,” she gestured back toward the murder scene, “was the same.”
“The murder scene was similar?” Rollings asked.
“No, the murder scenes are identical,” Kellie said. “Same homoeroticism, same sadomasochism, same Coca-Cola. And I’m guessing, same cigarettes. Heavy stuff. Kind of a hard thing to forget.”
“Start from the top,” Rollings told her. “What’s so special about the Coke?” He noticed Kellie’s face had lost its color. He walked alongside her as she made her way to the elevator. “Coke was around thirty years ago, you know.”
“Coke’s been around for over a hundred years,” Kellie explained. “And that’s what we seem to have here. The glass bottles in the refrigerator. That’s how Coke was packaged in the early 1900s.”
“So it’s a commemorative bottle,” Rollings offered. “A reproduction of a package from a hundred years ago.”
“It looks that way, yes,” Kellie said, “but when we test it - and let me just add that everything I’m saying needs to be confirmed by the lab - when we test it, we’re going to find that it’s not made with the same formula as Coca-Cola today.”
“No one knows the formula, Kellie.”
“But we do know what’s IN the formula, and that’s what I’m getting at. Not the portions of the ingredients, but the ingredients themselves. Back in the turn of the century, Coke was advertised as a drink that was supposed to ‘relieve exhaustion.’ And it did, too, in a big way. Coke was made with cocaine, rather than caffeine. Get it? COCA-Cola. They might as well have been saying, COCAINE-A-Cola. When people drank it, their exhaustion did go away. They felt happy. Their heart beat faster. They suddenly felt that they could do anything.”
“They were stoned.” Rollings understood the history, but still didn’t know where she was going with this. “And we’re pretty sure we just found cocaine in the Coke in the apartment back there.”
“We didn’t just find it in the soda,” Kellie continued, pressing the elevator’s call button. “I can all but guarantee we just found one of the original bottles made from when cocaine-laced soda was still being produced. I’m telling you, Jack, that bottle is over a hundred years old.”
Rollings shook his head. “That doesn’t make sense. We both heard the seal break when we opened the bottle from the refrigerator. If that soda is as old as you’re suggesting, it would have gone flat long ago.”
“Let’s wait for the test,” Kellie told him.
“Kellie, that story aside, it doesn’t matter if the soda is old or new. We’re still talking about a copycat murder, by someone who must have had a pretty good knowledge of the crime scene.”
“I know that. That’s why I need to find the file on the original crime scene. Again, I remember the story - how the investigation started - but not the findings. There should be some answers in the old files. You can handle things on this end, right?”
“Yeah, but-” Rollings stopped abruptly, remembering something. “What about the cigarettes? What are you expecting to find?”
Ding!
The elevator opened. Kellie stepped inside.
“Mrs. Winslow’s Soothing Clove Cigarettes,” she said. “I think they were last made around 1898.”
“Okay. I’ll call you if we find them.”
“Thanks, Jack.”
The two detectives separated, and Rollings returned to the apartment. Detective Kellie Hogan stood in the elevator while the doors closed to form a hissing cat logo.
* * * * *
With her windshield wipers flapping, the old Eldorado splashed noisily through the alley. Her arrow-shaped taillights smoldered red in the dreary morning drizzle, going dark once the car pulled into the garage. It was raining steadily now - not a heavy downpour, but the slow soaking sleet that always seems to taunt Chicago in the days right before the weather turns cold for good. WLS was predicting light showers for the next several days.
A few minutes later, Frankie stood in the kitchen of his northside brownstone. The air smelled stale and faintly musty, not because the place was dirty but from having been shut up in humid weather. Opening some windows, a chilly October breeze worked its way down the first floor hallway and into the adjacent rooms. He turned on his Bose for a little background noise, hating the silence that allowed his mind to wander and reflect on his life.
He felt dirty.
* * * * *
The shower water was so hot, it nearly scalded Frankie’s body. He had washed himself completely three times over and was now standing with his eyes closed, enjoying the heat and the heavy smell of Irish Spring. Later on, when he was clean and dry, he pulled on a pair of sleep-pants and a T-shirt. He curled up in an afghan on the living room’s leather couch with his laptop, a bottle of water, and the TV remote.
He double-clicked his Beekman Place file.
A short while later, Frankie fell asleep with the television on.
* * * * *
Jim Brennard was without question the world’s oldest metrosexual.
He was a polished man in his seventies, tall and slender, wrinkled, with wire-framed glasses. He had been wearing a silver pompadour so long, his appearance was unintentionally retro, almost trendy. His starched pink shirt was open to the middle of his chest, where a thick gold chain was just visible beneath tufts of white hair.
He carried a black Coach man bag.
“Officers,” Jim nodded to two uniformed policemen who were leaving the Beekman Place lobby. Jim spoke in such an articulate manner, his voice had an almost feminine quality, causing a rude raised eyebrow from one of the departing policemen. On entering the hotel, Jim paused to look around. The crime scene had been fully processed, and a single detective was taking tenants’ statements by the old registration desk.
The worst of it seemed to be over.
He strolled past the elevator and entered the JC.
* * * * *
From the sound of Libby’s laughter, one never would have guessed she had spent the morning talking to police about a brutal murder that had happened in her building. She didn’t even look up when Jim approached, as she was engulfed by both a cloud of cigarette smoke and a raunchy story being told by Colby, who sat next to her at the bar. Colby, noticing Jim first, patted Libby on the knee to let her know they had a visitor. When the old woman looked up, her face went blank for a moment. She quickly recovered and hopped off her bar stool.
“Jimmy Boy!” Libby cackled. “What the hell are you doing in Peoria?” She looked at his shirt in surprise. “You really think you’re young enough to pull that off?”
Jim smiled politely. “Age is a state of mind, Libby. An elderly lady told me that once. I understand we had a situation this morning?”
Libby pinched her lips. “No one is more concerned about this than me, Jimbo. What happened here last night, well . . . as you can imagine, it just rocked me to the core.” Shaking her head like a stage actress, Libby touched her chest with her fist. “You have no idea how I felt when I saw that poor boy’s body.”
“You do seem shaken,” Jim said flatly, not buying the performance. Looking over her shoulder, he saw two empty glasses on the bar behind her, in addition to the cocktail at her stool. “How are you holding up, Libby?” he asked. “I mean, really. Are you doing okay?”
“I’ll get through this, Jim,” Libby assured him. “You know, this isn’t the first time I’ve had to deal with something like this.”
“Now that you mention that,” Jim recalled, “there was a murder a few years back. Was it 1980?”
“It was.” Libby sniffled.
“Right after you moved into the hotel,” Jim’s memory was improving. “You’d been here less than a week, if I remember correctly.”
The old woman nodded.
“Two murders under your watch, Libby. This must be just awful for you to go through . . .” he purposely let his words linger “ . . . again.”
Silence.
“You have no idea, Jim.”
“You should eat something,” Jim changed the subject. “Keep your strength up. We should leave the hotel for a while, don’t you think? Get you some fresh air.”
“I’m really not hungry.” Libby fluttered her hand by her throat. The movement unintentionally pushed smoke to Jim’s face. “Lost my appetite. Nerves, you know.”
“Let me take you to lunch, Libby.”
“Thanks Jimbo, but I’d rather stay here.”
“This isn’t a request.” Jim was firm, teeth clenched behind his fading smile. “I insist.”
Without even realizing it, Libby took a step back. As she regained composure, Jim could see her bite down hard on her cigarette holder.
A little over the top, don’t you think? he thought.
“Maybe I could go for a bite,” Libby agreed a bit too quickly.
Jim nodded. “The car is waiting outside.”
* * * * *
“Jack, I found it.” Kellie’s voice sounded excited in his cell phone. “Saturday, February 9th, 1980. Victim William Delorenzo, gay, white male, age twenty-two, a resident of the Beekman Place Apartment Building on Upper Hamilton Street.” Rollings listened intently from outside the morgue of the Saint Francis Medical Center near downtown Peoria.
“Jack, Delorenzo lived on the same floor as William.”
“Go on, Kellie.”
“Found at the scene were several bottles of Coca-Cola that tested positive for cocaine,” Kellie read. “It appears that the liquid in the bottles was consistent with the actual formula used by the company in the manufacturing process of the early 1900s. In addition, tobacco cigarette products were found at the scene. Listen to this. There was a cigarette box - not a pack, but a box like they used to use in the late 1890s. I was right. The brand was called Mrs. Winslow’s Soothing Clove Cigarettes. As far as they could tell, the box was authentic.”
Rollings eyes widened at that last part. “What about fingerprints?”
“Lots of them,” Kellie said. “Mostly William’s, a few unrelated, and two unidentified males whose prints were found on all the S&M gear used in the murder.”
“No match?”
“None. But, in their defense, the database wasn’t as good in those days. Jack, if we could find that box in cold case evidence . . .”
“It should still be in storage, Kellie. Over on Adams Street, probably.”
“All right. I’ll look for it. How are things coming along at the morgue?”
“They’re about to start the autopsy. I’ve also explained the situation to the guys in the lab, so we’ll hopefully know more about those unopened bottles of Coke shortly.”
“Keep me posted.”
“Hey, Kellie,” Rollings added. “Do you think there still might be blood evidence from 1980? If there is, maybe we can find a DNA sample. Whoever committed the murder twenty-seven years ago must be in their seventies by now. It will help narrow down the suspects.”
“I’m on it, Jack.”
* * * * *
Though the Pine-Sol did its best, it still couldn’t hide the smell of underpants. The hall had the feel of an old grade school bathroom, with years of dirt waxed into the shiny floor and walls layered in semi-gloss yellow, where the stains had been easier to paint over than to clean. Jim had hit the nail on the head when they first walked past the nurse’s reception desk. “This place smells like shit and roses,” he’d said.
“From what the brochure says, the public recreation room should be just around the corner,” Jim read from a glossy pamphlet. He pointed to a wall-mounted dry erase board, where today’s activities were written in orange and brown.
He noticed a dinner menu.
“Oooh, country fried steak,” Jim said hungrily. “With mashed potatoes, creamed corn, and Jell-O with little mandarin oranges inside.” His cheeks pinched into a frown. “I don’t like oranges. Especially from a can. The citrus makes my dentures sting.”
“Is there a reason we’re here?” Libby was not the least bit amused. Her heels made deliberate clicks on the corridor’s hospital-grade floor tiles. “Ya tryin’ to scare me, Jimbo?”
“Not at all, Libby. Like I said in the car, we’re here for lunch.”
“Don’t you think we’re a little late for that?” she asked.
It was quarter to three in the afternoon. According to the assisted living home’s schedule, lunch had been served at 10:30 a.m. With the exception of the caretakers, most of the facility’s occupants were napping. The hall was quiet, except for the staff of General Hospital, who were whispering at low volume from the TV in the public lounge, near the corridor’s end.
“Dinner will be served at four,” Jim responded, “so let’s just call it a late lunch or early supper. Old people like to eat before it gets too dark.”
“We’re just going to hang around here for forty-five minutes?” Libby opened her cigarette case. “If you’re really that hungry, I can find ya a bar that serves appetizers.”
“You know you can’t smoke in here, Libby.”
“Then excuse me while I step outside.”
“Oh, I’d much rather you stay here with me,” Jim said in the same tone he’d used at the hotel. “Let’s take a little tour. We can use the time to talk. You can tell me how much you’ve enjoyed living in Beekman Place for the past twenty-seven years.”
“So, that’s what this is about, then?” Libby asked. “You’re threatening me with an old folks’ home, just because that poor boy was murdered this morning?”
Overhearing the mention of Andy’s murder, a woman being pushed past in a wheelchair shot Libby a frightened look. The crime had made the local midday news, and it had been an exciting topic of conversation in the recreation room during The Golden Girls’ commercial breaks. Libby gave her the finger.
“Easy Libby,” Jim warned her. “These people may be your roommates someday. If you get on their bad side now, they may not let you play Bingo.”
“Do I look like I play Bingo?” Libby took offense.
“It’s hard to say. When I saw the news this morning, I couldn’t see you. In fact, I couldn’t see much at all past the police cars and local reporters. I will say though that I was able to read the hotel’s nameplate as the camera zoomed in for a close-up of the corpse leaving the lobby. First a cadaver, then Beekman Place in shiny gold letters. It’s a pity the news used the footage, because the image would have made a nice commercial.”
“That wasn’t my fault,” Libby insisted.
“Are you sure about that?” Jim asked.
“You’re not my boss, Jimbo.”
“Are you sure about that?” he repeated.
“Get to the point.”
“I won’t even be your acquaintance if you don’t take your position more seriously,” Jim reprimanded her. “Any media attention - good or bad - is considered detrimental to the hotel. Do I need to remind you what Shh, No Talking! means?”
“Am I just talking to myself?” Libby grew indignant. “I told ya, I am not responsible for that boy’s death. From the way it’s lookin’ right now, the man ya should be dumpin’ in a nursing home is that writer from OldPlaces Magazine. Like I told the police, he was the last to see Andy alive.”
“And by that writer, you mean Frankie Downs?”
“I do.”
“Then let me ask you this: Why was Frankie Downs allowed at Beekman Place in the first place?”
“He’s writing a story about the hotel,” Libby explained.
“A story for the media,” Jim clarified.
“An article for his stupid little website,” Libby defended. “A website that no one but bored to tears church ladies read. Frankie called me, remember? What was I supposed to do? Tell him no? He was going to write his . . . his little column one way or the other, so I figured, what the hell? I’d show him around. Supervise what he saw. Would ya rather I’d let him poke around the elevator without me? I’m telling ya, Jimbo, if it wasn’t for me, this would be a lot worse.”
“Worse than two murders, Libby?”
“One murder, Asshole. One. Don’t try pinning 1980 on me! I’d only been around for a week back then. Anyone would have had trouble handling something like that.”
“Which I gather is why you were allowed to stay,” Jim conceded. “You were cut some slack. Allowed to find your own way of doing things. It seemed to work for a while, but again, two murders under a single landlady is a little hard to swallow. People are talking, Libby. They’re saying you’ve grown complacent over the years. Spending a little too much time in the city.”
“I spend no more time there than you do.” The remark offended Libby. She added snidely, “How’s life in Chicago, by the way? How much time have you spent in the city these days?”
“That’s irrelevant.”
“Bullshit.”
“Where one lives is not important, Libby.”
“Unless you’re unlucky enough to be stuck in Peoria, I guess.” Reaching for her purse, Libby pulled out a flask. She took a healthy swig, staring at Jim bitterly. “What the hell are ya doing here, anyway? What do ya really want, Jim?”
Jim stopped at the recreation room doorway. He motioned with his head for Libby to look inside. The center of the home’s social activity, the rec room was both dingy and quiet, with vinyl couches, drab wallpaper, and carpet worn from wheelchairs, walkers, and rolling medical equipment. A console television flickered in the corner, with sound so low it was almost inaudible. The seniors with vacant eyes fixed on the soap opera looked propped rather than seated.
“Libby, this is a reminder, not a warning. It’s your job to know who comes into the hotel and when they leave. What happens in Peoria affects all of us. Especially when its bad enough to make the Chicago news.”
Jim put his arm on Libby’s shoulder to emphasize his point. “Am I your boss? No. Am I your friend? Not really. Do I care what happens to you? Yes . . . but only to an extent. How you behave in Peoria directly affects me, and I’m telling you now if you ever put me in a position where I have to choose between you and the hotel, I will always - always - put Beekman Place before anything else. I need you to know that.
“And if you don’t want to end up living here,” Jim swept his other arm in front of them, “I suggest you choose your friends more carefully.”
Libby pulled away. “Frankie Downs is not my friend,” she said defensively.
“Libby, I’m not talking about Frankie Downs.”
* * * * *
Gilligan’s Island was on TV, but the volume was muted. The castaways’ closing credits were reflected in the glass coffee table, as well as in the bookshelves’ wooden surfaces and the shiny hardwood floor. A strong smell of lemon mixed with Clorox eminated from the kitchen. The apartment had been scrubbed spotless. Not that it needed it, but Frankie had done it anyway. Cleaning was how Frankie relaxed, especially when he was in a bad mood, and the effort he put into cleaning was in direct proportion to the heaviness of his thoughts.
He had already used four bottles of bleach this week.
Nick at Night was airing The Brady Bunch next.
* * * * *
The streetlight on the sidewalk made the raindrops glimmer in the window. They reminded Frankie of The Matrix credits, falling one by one like numbers on the glass. A freshly starched shirt hung on the knob of a cabinet near the sink. The iron hissed with steam as Frankie stood in the kitchen and carefully pressed tomorrow’s khakis, taking great care to match the seams so the crease would be as straight as possible.
He liked sharp edges.
* * * * *
The words of Tina’s warning echoed through his head. Frankie couldn’t put their talk out of his mind. No matter how hard he tried, he kept replaying the scene, again and again and again.
Tina was angry with him.
Really angry.
And to make matters worse, she had every right to be angry, as this wasn’t the first time he had fucked up in such a big way.
Frankie’s face grew shiny in the iron’s rising steam.
He was worried about more than just that morning’s talk. The sit-down he’d had with Tina well over a year ago combined with exaggerated memories of similar times when friends had voiced concern about his drinking. Many talks, many embarrassing moments. They were ugly thoughts, conjured up by the day’s events, and they rose to the surface like pimples on his skin. Frankie knew what he was feeling was textbook depression, an alcoholic’s regret made worse by getting caught at his job. Tina was right in sending him home today, but it didn’t make being alone tonight any easier.
His mind was wandering, and he couldn’t rein it in.
He needed something familiar to occupy his time while depression ran its course, before eventually - hopefully - retreating.
So he cleaned. And he ironed.
Ling!
And now, he had mail.
* * * * *
After putting away the ironing board, Frankie tapped the screensaver on his laptop. The Control/Bound website appeared. He had made a contact.
KuffedKid127: Hello Sir. I got hard reading your profile. Im totally on the same page as you. I relly got hard with the scene you described. Where are you located?
Frankie’s eyes narrowed after reading the message. Spelling errors and repeated phrases - signs of inebriation and the truth that comes from lowered inhibitions. Frankie smiled. These were some of the first things he looked for when a person first approached. After scrolling through the gallery photos, he clicked on the profile and read KuffKid’s description:
Slave kid here, 26 yrs old, needing control by training me into heavy long term bondage, hands taped behind my back to eat and drink from dog bowl, lick boots, and hand over all of my control. Bondage, Cage, Stocks, Boots, Piss Training, BONDAGE! Doghooded, muzzled, handcuffed, fist mitts, dog tail plug, in head to toes rubber or leather or Army skinhead gear. Heavy bondage in cage, cell, stock, sleepsack, straightjacket, hood, gag, funnel, heavy chastity, punishment, denial…Head to toe full encasement, overnight storage, it’s all good. Transform me into a perfect rubber, leather, or skinhead puppy through heavy long term bondage. Train my mough for your needs then gag it and muzzle it when not in use. Limits: No scat, heavy pain, body modifications.
Okay, that’s better, he thought. His writing is coherent.
Like Frankie’s own ad, a Control/Bound profile could be previewed and edited before final posting. There was plenty of time to work out the kinks and to form one’s thoughts in a way that was both enticing and easy to read. It wasn’t the place for Shakespeare, but one needed to show a little intelligence if expected to be taken seriously. In KuffedKid’s case, he had succeeded for the most part, at least enough for Frankie to respond. Frankie typed:
CityRopes: Thanks for your interest in my profile. Bondage, to me, is more than just getting tied up & jerked off. I like to take my time with a scene, and watch your reaction while the ropes are pulled tightly to the corners.
Send.
Ambiguous and hot, he thought. Let’s see where he goes with that.
* * * * *
Leaving the laptop to simmer, Frankie got things ready for the next morning, setting alarms, laying out his socks and underclothes, and placing several bottles of water on the nightstand. The computer chimed about two minutes later, but he waited ten minutes to read the message, as always careful of his pacing.
KuffedKid127: WOW that’s hot SIR. Where are you located SIR.
He’s calling me Sir, and he’s capitalizing the name. Good start.
Frankie loved the early stages of meeting someone for sex. He loved the anonymity and the fact that it happened in a forum that was little more than words. Sure, there were some sleazy pictures included within his own profile, but they were more of the people he’d been with rather than of himself.
In the early days of AOL, Frankie ran a screen name that listed his sexual interests in very limited space. With no ability to post photos at that time, it had been a challenge to paint the right picture of himself, separating his style from the typical leathermen who were mainly looking for the usual “I want you to lick my boots, boy,” or “Treat me like a dog.” The M4M Dungeon rooms had been littered with choppy profiles filled with text message abbreviations, and only those who knew the codes understood what each symbol meant. The problem was, there weren’t any acronyms for Frankie’s particular fetish. He had been forced to describe himself through common abbreviations and short, crafted phrases.
Though it worked on occasion, more often than not Frankie was forced to wade through the crap when it came to meeting guys for sex. Over time, he grew proficient at separating the genuine bondage enthusiasts from the men who wrote their profiles after pounding too many Budweisers. When a guy caught his interest, he moved the discussion to private chat, feeling him out in a forum of words.
And words were Frankie’s turf.
* * * * *
CityRopes: I’m on the north side, near the El. If you’d like to talk about meeting, I’m “CityRopes” on AIM, if you have AOL.
Frankie opened AOL Instant Message, and left it running while he went into the bedroom. He heard the message chime while he was pulling on a T-shirt. He buckled his jeans and returning to the computer.
KuffedKid127: Hello SIR.
Frankie responded:
CityRopes: Hello there. Thanks for IM’ing me.
He always kept chats very casual at first, putting the guy at ease and seeing what direction he took the conversation.
KuffedKid127: I love your profile SIR. Its just what I’m into SIR.
CityRopes: Thanks for the kind words. I appreciate that. I enjoyed your profile as well.
KuffedKid127: I can see you took great care with what you wrote. The scene you described was amazing. Exactly what I’m looking for SIR.
He smirked, tying his boots. Compliment your captor. You’re doing pretty good so far. Frankie typed:
CityRopes: What’s on your mind tonight?
The notation in the chat box corner read “Your buddy is typing.” It stayed there for a good five minutes, giving Frankie enough time to check himself out in the bathroom mirror. Not bad, but you’ve looked better, he thought, sucking in his stomach and tugging at his black shirt where it clung to his love handles. He wasn’t a thin man, but with the right clothes he cleaned up well. On returning to the laptop, a response had just been sent.
KuffedKid127: Even on Control/Bound, I’ve had trouble finding sirs who share the “control” scenero described in your profile. It’s what I fantasize about when I jerk off, and it’s the reason I contacted you.
A second message quickly arrived:
KuffedKid127: SIR
Frankie’s smirk changed to a full smile. It had taken KuffedKid five minutes to write two sentences, and even then he forgot to finish with “Sir.” He’s nervous, Frankie thought, while noting the care in which the message had been written. Back in his AOL days, Frankie loved when people noticed his own complete sentences, especially when complimenting his grammar or the use of proper punctuation in a forum known for sentence fragments. One man had even called him “Fraiser” during a frank talk about cock and ball torture.
Ling!
“You’ve got mail.”
* * * * *
Frankie opened his inbox and found an email from KuffedKid. The message was an attachment. Clicking that, a photo opened on his desktop. It was one he hadn’t seen in KuffedKid’s gallery, and it looked like it had just been snapped in the bathroom mirror. Today’s newspaper was visible on the vanity top in the lower corner, positioned on purpose as a time stamp.
That’s why it took him so long to respond.
KuffedKid was an average man, a boy next door type with short hair, nice looking shoulders, and a slight stomach with hair that went up past his nipples. His face was a little obscured by the flash of the camera held by his cheek, but there were plenty of good head shots in his profile, so Frankie already knew what he looked like. What caught Frankie’s attention was the padlock around KuffKid’s neck. Shiny and new, it was worn on a chain like a necklace.
It’s a prop, Frankie thought. He doesn’t know what a padlock means.
KuffedKid127: I sent you a photo SIR.
KuffedKid127: Would SIR like to meet sometime?
Frankie took a few minutes to craft his reply.
CityRopes: I would definitely like to meet you, and to discuss your impending imprisonment. Does the boy have a keyholder?
KuffedKid127: boy does not SIR.
CityRopes: The boy does now.
KuffedKid127: Thank you SIR.
Looking at the clock, Frankie ran the numbers through his head. He needed to be home by 11:45, in bed no later than midnight. He typed:
CityRopes: I don’t have time to play with you tonight, but I am heading out for awhile, meeting some friends in town. If you’re available, we can meet face to face when I’m finished. Do you know where the Cell Block is?
KuffedKid127: Yes SIR.
The two exchanged contact information before Frankie signed off his computer. The night might be salvageable after all.
* * * * *
For a gay man with his share of kinks, the advantage to living in a big city was that even on a slow night, the bars had plenty of people to talk to. The heart of Chicago’s gay scene was centered around Halsted Street, in a city neighborhood just north of the downtown skyline. In many ways, Halsted was like a carnival on the sidewalk, a bustling boulevard that openly welcomed gay people, busy almost every night of the week. Though its proximity to the Cubs’ Wrigley Stadium had dubbed the area Wrigleyville, most locals called it for what the neighborhood really was: Boystown.
The Cell Block was one of many Boystown bars, sharing the sidewalk with cafes and antique shops, all within walking distance of each other along the Halsted strip. Though many clubs had flashy facades, the Cell Block, toward the far northern end of the strip, was more subdued. Unlike the colorful neon that marked Roscoe’s and Sidetracks, the Cell Block seemed a quieter place, at least to those passing on the street. If it had been located in one of the suburbs, especially those in the south, the Cell Block could have easily passed for a neighborhood pub, assuming that pub was a biker bar.
* * * * *
“Hey, Tony.” Frankie took a seat near the front of the bar. He set down his wallet and cell phone before stashing his keys and hanging his leather jacket over the back of the stool.
“Long time no see,” Tony said, rolling his eyes. A friendly man in his mid-forties, Tony threw drinks at the Cell Block six nights a week. He had worked in the place long enough to be considered a fixture, and Frankie was one of the few customers allowed to call him Tony. Most people called him Anthony.
“Is there any way I could possibly interest you in a drink?” Tony asked.
“Just a small one,” Frankie said. “You know I hardly ever touch the stuff.”
“And Betty Maltese was a very lovely woman,” Tony played along. “CC & Coke tonight?”
“Yes, please.”
“Hey, I have something for you by the way.” Tony reached behind the register. He grabbed a printed copy of an AP story he had found on the internet and passed it to Frankie. “I thought of you when I read this. It was on the Drudge Report this morning. Do you still read that website?”
“Every goddamn hurricane,” Frankie replied.
“Did you see this?” Tony pointed to the headline. It was taken from My Way News, entitled “S&M Death Raises Legal Questions.”
Frankie shook his head as he got absorbed by the story.
* * * * *
The article described the death of Adrian Exley, a gay man from Massachusetts who died during a consensual sexual encounter with a “master” he met on a bondage-themed website. After agreeing to a three-day S&M session with a man he only knew by the screen name Rubrman, Adrian was accidentally suffocated while mummified in Saran Wrap, duct tape, and a tight-fitting leather hood. Though the story didn’t mention the website’s name, it was clearly alluding to Control/Bound, where Frankie ran his own profile.
Frankie set the copy down when Tony served his drink.
“You need to be careful with that shit you do.” Tony looked him straight in the eye, leaning in close. “I don’t want to see you in a story like this.”
“I’ll be careful, Tony.”
“I hope so.”
* * * * *
Frankie had first met Tony sometime in the mid-‘90s, but it wasn’t until four years ago that they bonded and formed something of a friendship. The Anthony/Tony boundary came down in September 2001 when their over-the-bar banter had turned casual, but their relationship remained little more than bartender and tipping customer.
It was during that time when Frankie first met Paul Lavinski, a man Frankie had considered his best friend for almost two years. Paul, like Frankie, had been a staple in the leather bars, but before that night in September, they’d shared no more than casual nods when passing in the clubs.
And then the attacks happened.
* * * * *
Like anyone who recalls that day, Frankie remembered exactly where he was when the planes hit the World Trade Center. He had still been working for Gay Chicago Magazine, and he’d just gotten to work when breaking news hit the media. Over the next several hours, his office became increasingly deserted. Frankie left work early himself, heading home mid-afternoon. Alone in his apartment, he hadn’t moved from the television until sometime after eight o’clock. He finally pulled himself away from the coverage long enough to grab a shower and head down to Halsted. He found the mood in Boystown the same as everywhere else. Even in the leather bars, the morning’s video still played on TV screens.
And that’s when he first met Paul.
* * * * *
He had long forgotten which one of them had first approached the other, but Frankie could remember meeting Paul at the Manhole, a last-chance bar a few blocks from Roscoe’s. Like Frankie, Paul had come out to seek refuge in the familiar, but even the Manhole was quiet that night, its cruising overshadowed by the day’s tragedy. After chatting at the bar, the two left in search of food. They ended up spending the night together, not in a sexual way, but just to share each other’s company.
From that moment on, they were friends.
* * * * *
“So, I’ve seen that look before,” Tony guided Frankie’s mood away from the article. “And I’m guessing you’re on the prowl.” “Is that so?”
“I think it is.”
“And you’re interested because . . ?”
“Well, as your bartender, it’s my job not only to keep your drink full, but also to make you feel as welcome as possible, and offer my assistance if you’re looking for something in particular.”
“How about some-one in particular?” Frankie unfolded a picture of KuffedKid he had printed from his computer.
Tony peered at the image. “What’s his name?”
Frankie laughed. “I have absolutely no idea.”
“Just do me a favor and let me know when the wedding is,” Tony teased. “I want to make sure I get the night off work.”
“Let me know if you see him, Tony.”
“Will do, Boss.”
* * * * *
Settling back in his barstool, Frankie folded the article and tucked it into his jacket while watching the growing crowd. Though technically in the “leather bar” category, the Cell Block still had the warmth of a local tavern, long and rectangular, with low ceilings and a wooden floor.
This was one of Frankie’s favorite places, and he sometimes stopped in on his way home from work for a quick drink. Unlike the Eagle on Lincoln Avenue, a hard-core club that enforced a specific dress code, the Cell Block was more of a neighborhood bar, where local leathermen gathered to shoot the breeze.
Back when Paul was still alive, Frankie had spent countless nights in little clubs like this. The first place they had gone was Buck’s, the tiny country-western bar down the street. Paul had introduced him to a friendship network wider than Frankie had ever imagined. Paul had been one of those people with a natural gift of gab, a man who could sit down beside a stranger, then get up with a new life-long friend. There were times when he even reminded Frankie of what Truman Capote must have been like, not in looks or voice of course, but in the way he could charm almost anyone just by being himself.
And though he would never admit it openly, Frankie had deeply envied the ease with which Paul made - and kept - friends. It was a talent that Frankie had never even come close to developing. Though he tried to follow Paul’s lead, Frankie always knew he was just riding Paul’s coattails.
Frankie was a loner by nature. And when he was completely honest with himself, he knew that even with Paul’s encouragement, Frankie would never be more than a popular man’s sidekick. It made him feel like he did in high school, an outsider who was lucky to be a sidekick at all.
A sidekick.
On the night of Paul’s accident, after first hearing the news, there was a hole in Frankie that even liquor couldn’t fill. Losing a close friend is hard on anyone, but Frankie had lost someone he loved.
* * * * *
“Two o’clock, near the back, right side of the room. I believe he’s wearing a yellow carnation.” The bartender came in close and dropped his voice. “Does he know what you’re going to do to him?”
Frankie shot him a dirty look before setting a twenty next to his empty glass. “Thanks for the heads up.”
“Don’t forget what I told you,” Tony warned. “I don’t want to see your name in the news.”
Grabbing his things, Frankie worked his way through the crowd, nodding Hi to the faces whose names he had forgotten after Paul’s death. KuffedKid was sitting alone by the wall, on the far side of the bar, watching the pool tables. He looked nervous.
Enjoying the moment, Frankie took his time before making his presence known.
It doesn’t get any better than this.
* * * * *
An hour or so later, the bar had grown busier. Tony had been joined by a second bartender, and the chalkboard near the pool table was now filled with rows of names.
By 10:30, Frankie had learned all he needed from KuffedKid, whose name was actually Steven Davis, a 21-year-old kid who had never before set foot in a leather bar. As Frankie suspected, Steven wanted to experiment with a typical master/slave scene, the reason he wore a padlock in his online photo. Though Frankie wasn’t much for the traditional roles of S&M play, he was attracted by Steven’s nervousness, which had continued even after several drinks.
He’s uncomfortable talking about this in person, Frankie thought. Steven’s genuinely scared about being in here, but not because he doesn’t WANT to be. He’s worried about what his friends will think.
Sensing Steven’s apprehension, Frankie pushed forward with questions for another twenty minutes. Steven was Frankie’s favorite type of man: insecure and inexperienced, driven by libido for the chance to live out a private S&M fantasy.
It was times like this when Frankie felt Paul’s guidance within himself. Frankie remembered the ease with which Paul talked to strangers, and he mirrored the example when controlling Steven’s jitters long enough to arrange a meeting for the upcoming weekend. Frankie chose his words carefully and smiled when he sensed it was appropriate.
I know exactly what you’re looking for, Frankie thought. I know exactly how you need to be treated.
A time was set and a key was exchanged. Steven wanted to wear the padlock until the day of their hookup, and Frankie agreed to hold the key, knowing it was a turn-on. Once the rules were established - no masturbating until the meeting - Frankie grabbed his coat before making a fast pit stop in the restroom. When he returned, Steven had already left the bar. Scanning the crowd, Frankie shrugged his shoulders and gave the matter no further thought.
It was time to leave.
* * * * *
On the sidewalk outside the Cell Block, Frankie paused to light a cigarette, checking the time. He’d accomplished what he’d wanted, and it still wasn’t even eleven o’clock. Smiling contentedly, he walked to his car.
* * * * *
The black Eldorado drove slowly down the busy Halsted strip. Despite the fact that it was a weekday, the street was full of people going in and out of the bars.
Stopping to let a group of drunks cross the road in front of him, Frankie stared at the men lingering around the RAM adult bookstore. Even by Halsted standards, the RAM’s clientele were seedy. It greatly amused him to watch the people going inside - the trolls who used the glory holes, the lowest of the low. They were a comical sight, men who zigzagged along the sidewalk with eyes flicking nervously over their shoulders. Some men were drunk; others, focused. All shared the knowledge their destination held a stigma, a scarlet letter that would be attached to them the moment they entered its door.
And then Frankie saw him.
* * * * *
Standing in the doorway, Steven waited to be buzzed in. He was accompanied by a second man, a skinhead wearing a biker’s jacket. For just a split second, Frankie stared at the skinhead with a strange feeling of déjà vu. He could swear he had seen him somewhere before, but he couldn’t quite place him. His memory was too fuzzy.
Was he at . . . Beekman Place in Peoria? he wondered.
WOO-WOO!
A car horn reverberated through Frankie’s shoulders, startling him. Police lights swirled in his peripheral. A squad car had pulled up behind him and was now sitting on his ass. The cop inside the cruiser motioned for Frankie to move along. And he wasn’t being nice about it.
* * * * *
Like many ideas in Frankie’s short-term memory, the skinhead left as quickly as he arrived. Frankie continued down Halsted until he reached Belmont Street, then turned east toward the water and onto Lake Shore Drive.
Was Steven cruising someone while talking to me?
Whatever the case, it really didn’t matter.
If bookstores are what he’s into, then who am I to judge? Hell, my own “first time” happened in Swingers World in downtown Peoria. I had just turned eighteen, and I still weighed 240 pounds. I remember getting my dick sucked by some old queen in one of the video booths. I didn’t even cum. I couldn’t wait to go home and shower.
With the padlock key in his fist, Frankie clutched the steering wheel and gave Olivia some gas. The lights of downtown Chicago shimmered in the rearview mirror as the car headed north, careful of the speed limit.
Chapter Four
The Good Cop and the Bad Cop
Music inspires my imagination.
When I hear a good song on the radio, it triggers a video in my head, a story of my own creation set to the playing music. Sometimes it follows the lyrics, but more often than not, the song is just a jumping point. Whenever I hear Gary Newman’s “Cars” for example, I’m back in 1980, at the Landmark Theater in Peoria.
Back in the day, I was a big fan of The Pet Shop Boys. “Being Boring” is still one of my all-time favorite singles. Unlike most of their hits, Being Boring was a somber tune, a ballad about the past that required repeated listenings to be fully understood. The lyrics tell of how people change as they grow older: their dreams fade, values blur, friends slowly disappear. The story opens in the 1920s, before moving on to the ‘70s. It closes around 1996, when many people are “missing.”
Being Boring is by far the most touching piece about AIDS I have ever heard. And the video it triggers is so gut-wrenchingly sad, only the spectacle of the clubs can distract my imagination.
It gives it something to focus on.
“Good morning, Frankie. May I have a word?”
Frankie had barely closed the reception room door when Tina was at his side. She looked very concerned. The mood of the office was tense this morning. He sensed it the moment he stepped in.
“Is there a problem, Tina?”
“Yes, Frankie. I’m afraid there is.”
Whatever Tina wanted, it couldn’t be a complaint about how he looked. Frankie had risen early, twenty minutes before his alarm, plenty of time to primp. He wore polished black boots, starched beige khakis, and a crisp red, awning-striped oxford that smelled so strongly of lemon starch, it could have easily been mistaken for bleach. Frankie always wore red the day after a bender. The color of the fabric offset the redness in his face.
Frankie held out his arms like Jesus, his black wool trench coat fanning out like a cape. The movement of fabric sent a gust of cologne, soap, deodorant, Oil of Olay, and styling gel sailing directly toward Tina’s nose. He was clean enough to give Martha Stewart a hard on. “Is this going to be like airport security?” he asked.
“Frankie, please, you look fine,” Tina insisted. Her voice was brimming with urgency. “It’s something else.”
There was a commotion down the hall.
“Who are those people in my office?” Frankie could see the door was open and his light was on. A man was rummaging through the drawers of his desk. “What’s going on?” Frankie voice was rising.
“We have a situation,” Tina said.
“Are those men police?” Frankie asked in disbelief, now straining to see his desk. The men weren’t wearing uniforms, but Frankie caught a quick flash of a badge as one of them passed the crack in the door.
“Yes, they’re police, and NO, they don’t have a warrant,” Gale said from the corner of the reception room. She was staring directly at Rose.
Tina shifted uncomfortably. “I gave them permission to look in your office,” she admitted. “I thought it better than having them come back later with sirens and newspaper reporters.”
The officers were methodically sifting through Frankie’s desk.
“Tina, what the hell is this about?” Frankie demanded. “If this is your idea of having me escorted from the premises, so help me God, I’ll-”
“Frankie, I need you to keep your voice down,” Tina warned.
“Are you firing me?” Frankie asked.
“Of course not,” Tina said, a bit too quickly.
“You mean of course not YET,” Gale added.
“Tina?”
“We’re sure this is just some crazy coincidence,” Tina told Frankie. “Norton is on his way right now. I know the detectives will straighten this silly mess right out, as soon as they’ve had time to talk with you.”
“Get to the point.” Frankie was angry.
Tina’s next sentence was spoken with such deliberateness, it seemed like she was forcing each individual word from her mouth. “Frankie, we just know you had nothing to do with the murder.”
Frankie stared at his boss in total disbelief.
“Where did this come from?” he asked, aghast. “Tina, no offense, but you’ve been in your office inhaling those damn Yankee candles a little too long.”
“I had no choice,” Tina said quickly. “The detectives told me what happened in Peoria yesterday, and allowing them to look through your office was necessary.”
Libby must have told her, Frankie thought, stepping back. “Tina, please. I can explain.”
“No, Frankie, an explanation is not important right now.” Tina was trying hard not to become flustered. “Though what happened at the hotel was horrific, as I said, we just know you weren’t involved. The police are just doing their jobs right now, and I’m sure that when they talk to you, we’ll all have a good laugh . . . err, that is, we’ll . . .” Tina stumbled on her words once she realized she was about to make light of a brutal death.
She cleared her throat. “What I’m saying, Frankie, is that we’ll all know for certain you couldn’t possibly be involved in the murder. The police will just ask you a few short questions.” Tina quickly added, “And I apologize for being insensitive to the dead.”
Someone is dead.
“Tina, seriously . . . I have absolutely no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Please, Frankie.” Tina did her best to smile reassuringly. “Just talk to the police.” She turned to Rose. “Rose, would you mind paging Frankie’s extension?”
“Officers!” Rose yelled from her desk.
Frankie’s office door swung open.
Detectives Willie Taft and Vern Collekis galloped into the reception room like horses. “Frankie Downs?” Taft asked Frankie, winded from the short sprint.
“Yes, Officer, that’s him.” Rose was such a suck-up. Tina frowned at her.
“Frankie Downs?” Taft repeated, the grin on his pudgy lips clearly showing amusement over the room’s demeanor. He flashed a badge in Frankie’s face, holding his coat in such a way they all saw the gun holstered near his enormous stomach.
“I’m Frankie Downs,” Frankie told him. “What’s the problem here?”
“Mr. Downs, we need to talk to you about the murder of Andrew Conner.” The room fell quiet as Taft retrieved a small notebook from his pocket, crinkling junk food wrappers in the process. “Were you at the Beekman Place Apartment Building in Peoria, Illinois last night, Mr. Downs?” There was a drawl in his voice that exuded Central Illinois.
“I was,” Frankie confirmed.
“You were there on office business?” Taft asked. “As a representative of this here magazine?”
“That’s correct,” Frankie said.
“And you drove there yerself?” Taft continued, his drawl slipping through. Despite his best efforts to sound professional, he was unsuccessful at hiding his rural background. “In your own car. By yerself. All the way from Chicago. To Peoria.”
“Yes, that’s correct.” Frankie looked him over, sizing up his intentions. “I left Chicago around 7:30, and got to Peoria late morning, before noon.”
“Long drive, was it?” Taft asked.
“Not particularly.”
“Traffic thins out once you get south of Joliet,” Taft said. “I’ve made that drive myself many times.”
“Okaaaay . . .” Frankie was confused by where Taft was going with this. “Course, by the time you drive through rush hour in Chicago,” Taft continued, “then down all them quiet roads in the middle of the state, it does end up being a long drive.” Taft paused on purpose, so his next statement had more impact. “I always get a little thirsty in the car, myself. I like to bring something to drink on the road.”
Frankie tensed.
“How ‘bout you, Mr. Downs?” Taft asked. “Did you bring a little something to drink on the road yesterday?”
Shit.
“I always take a bottle of water in the car with me,” Frankie answered. “Just like anyone who travels.”
“That all you took?” Taft raised an eyebrow. “Water?”
“Why are you asking about my drive?” Frankie took the direct approach to change the subject. “And what were you doing in my office just now?”
“Mr. Downs, did you have any contact with Andy Conner while you were in Peoria?” Taft asked. “Young boy. Lived by himself. If I had to guess, I’d say he was a good fifteen years younger than yerself.”
“I spent time with a lot of people,” Frankie said. “That was the reason for my trip.”
“But Mr. Conner in particular,” Taft wanted Frankie to stay on topic. “Andy Conner was his name. You did spend some time with this boy, isn’t that correct? Later in the evening? After most people went to bed?”
“Andy . . . yes,” Frankie replied with caution. “But I didn’t get his last name.” He paused as Taft’s words sunk in. “I’m sorry. Did you say that Andy is dead?”
“As a doornail, Mr. Downs. And it seems that apparently you were the last person to see him alive.” Taft grinned broadly. “We understand you and Conner spent a great deal of time together yesterday evening. You boys had drinks together, went back to his apartment together. Got to know each other.”
“We spoke briefly at a reception,” Frankie corrected, sensing where this was going. “It was an impromptu thing, organized by Libby, the building’s owner.”
“Libby . . . Libby,” Taft pretended to search his notes for a reference. “Libby Kaslauskas?”
“Yes. She’s the landlady.”
“She was the elderly woman who gave you a tour of the building?”
“Yes.”
“The elderly woman who even showed you the inside of her own apartment?”
“Well, yes,” Frankie said. “I suppose so.”
“You know, Mr. Downs, this Libby told us you were drinkin’ when you arrived at the building. Said she thought you might have been drinkin’ in the car. In fact, from what this woman said, you pretty much spent the entire afternoon drinkin’ in front of her. She said you even passed out drunk on the floor right there in the lobby. Is that true?”
“Oh, Frankie,” Tina muttered.
Frankie frowned.
“Yep, right there on the floor,” Taft continued, working the room. “Boy, if ya ask me, that sure is an unprofessional way for someone to be actin’ on a business trip. I mean, I’ve heard of businessmen stayin’ at the Ramada while attendin’ business conferences and such. Ya always hear stories about how these married boys behave when they’re alone in the Tiki bar, and their wife ain’t around. How ‘bout you, Mr. Downs? Do you have a wife?”
Frankie glared at the detective. This man has it out for me.
“There was an evening cocktail reception.” Frankie answered only the first part of Taft’s question, carefully choosing his words. “Arranged - and attended - by the building’s owner. Like everyone else in the room, I had a few drinks. Everyone, including Libby, I might add.”
Taft stared directly at Frankie. “So, ya don’t have a wife, then?” He was purposely making a scene.
“I don’t see how that’s relevant,” Frankie said.
“Oh, it is relevant, Mr. Downs. Very relevant, in fact.”
“Willie,” Detective Collekis, a little uncomfortable at Taft’s tone, cut in. “Maybe we should do this at the station.”
Taft ignored him. “Did you boys have sexxx?” Taft emphasized the word, making sure it could be clearly heard by all, even those in the offices down the hall.
Someone gasped. Frankie wasn’t sure if it was Tina or Rose.
“Tina, call the lawyer,” Frankie said.
“Err . . . Frankie . . . yes, I would,” Tina stammered, “but this seems to be a personal matter.”
“Personal matter?” Frankie couldn’t believe her response. “Tina, are you kidding me?”
“It’s awfully early for an innocent man to be lawyerin’ up like that, Mr. Downs,” Taft said. “Doesn’t look good when you do that, no siree.”
“Willie,” Collekis said, “Mr. Downs just asked for a lawyer.”
“I didn’t hear them exact wordss,” Taft said. He pronounced words with a lisp.
“Stop talking to him like that!” Gale snapped at Taft, loud enough to get his attention. Taft turned toward Gale, amusement dancing all over his face. “Who is this?” he chuckled. “You talkin’ to me, Sweetheart?”
“Does it look like I’m talking to myself?” Gale stepped forward.
“Aw, ain’t she cute?” Taft said to the room. He peered at Gale. “You a friend of this man, Darlin’?”
“Yes, I am.”
“You been his friend for a while, I take it?”
“Yes, I have.”
“Y’all spend time after work together? Goin’ shoppin? Goin’ antiquin’? Things like that?”
“Stop trying to humiliate him!” Gale said. “Even a half-assed TV detective has better manners.”
“Gale, language,” Tina begged.
“Vern, you wanna get this lady a glass of water?” Taft asked his partner. Collekis came around to Gale, but looked as though he agreed with her, though not quite enough to challenge his colleague. At least not yet.
“Why don’t you sit down, Darlin’?” Taft suggested.
“It’s okay, Gale,” Frankie said, staring directly at Taft. He was starting to realize what was actually happening here, but it couldn’t be done in this office. The location needed to change. “I can take care of this myself,” Frankie said to Gale. “I’m fine.”
“A man who does them kind of things to another man ain’t nowhere near fine.” Taft turned to Gale. “And it really makes me wonder what kind of ladyfriend would hang out with him. It really does. Especially one who swears at a policeman.”
Rose cleared her throat loudly.
Frankie quickly changed the focus.
“Tina, call Ms. Stein!” he yelled, pulling the attention back to himself. He was only just starting to grasp what must have happened after he left Peoria, but for the immediate moment, these public questions had to stop.
Looking directly at Taft, Frankie went on the offensive. “I believe what Gale was trying to say is that your line of questioning, and the manner in which you’re asking them, is highly inappropriate for the office of a Christian magazine. If there was a crime after I left, then of course I’ll cooperate fully with anything you need to ask, provided that you ask them in an appropriate manner, in the appropriate setting.”
Frankie quickly added a page from Tina’s playbook. “There is a certain decorum we maintain in these offices, Detective, and today you have broken that decorum. Because of your behavior, you have left me no choice but to seek legal council before I answer any further questions.”
Turning to Tina, Frankie addressed his boss directly. “Tina, I went to Peoria on magazine business, on an assignment that you gave me yourself. As I was acting in an official capacity, I expect official representation in this matter. Please call the lawyer - now.”
Frankie could see Tina weighing options in her head. She had no other choice.
“Rose, call Penelope.”
Frankie glared angrily at Taft. “This ends now,” Frankie informed him. “I want to see my lawyer.” He lowered his voice before adding, “And the next time you speak to me, Detective, I expect to be called Sir.”
* * * * *
Penelope Stein scowled as she sat with her legs crossed behind the wooden table. Her body was rigid, poised and icy calm, and her black Chanel suit made a dark contrast against the interrogation room’s dingy yellow walls. She was a drop-dead ringer for Lillith on Fraiser.
“Captain Adams, is my client under arrest?”
Sitting quietly next to Stein, Frankie watched Detective Collekis and his Captain, Marshall Adams. Though Taft had tried to participate in the session, Stein had forced him to leave, using phrases like bigoted, homophobic, and jaw-droppingly unprofessional to describe his behavior. She had already opened the questioning by threatening a lawsuit if disciplinary action wasn’t taken for Taft’s “wildly inappropriate” initial contact with Frankie. She meant it, too. Though Taft was no longer physically in the room, Frankie knew he was watching from behind the mirrored glass window.
Adams explained. “Multiple witnesses place Frankie Downs as the last person seen with Andy Conner before he was murdered. There was evidence of S&M-style sexual activity, and Mr. Downs’ fingerprints were matched to numerous leather items that were found at the scene.”
“I pulled your fingerprints from the data base,” Collekis told Frankie. “They were taken during your arrest for DUI on Harlem Avenue.”
“Mr. Downs, do you have a drinking problem?” Adams asked. He was alluding to Libby’s statement on how much Frankie drank at Beekman Place.
“I’m a social drinker,” Frankie conceded.
“You don’t consider your drinking a problem, then?” Adams asked.
“Absolutely not.”
“Then how do you explain your DUI? To most people, a DUI is a pretty good indicator that a person might have a drinking problem.”
“My DUI wasn’t that bad,” Frankie said, a bit defensively. “I was rated a Level 1, the lowest of five levels. I’m sure you can see that on my record.”
“There is no such thing as a good DUI,” Adams said. “The level of a DUI doesn’t matter. Any DUI means you were arrested for driving drunk.”
“That was seven years ago,” Frankie pointed out.
“And you’re telling me you’ve never driven drunk since?” Adams was relentless.
“What my client means to say,” Stein interrupted, “is that after receiving a low-level DUI in 2000, he successfully completed court-supervised monitoring almost seven years ago. His record has been clean since that time.”
“So, you haven’t been caught driving drunk in the last seven years?” Adams reworded the same question.
“Captain?” Stein tried to redirect the discussion. “I believe we’re here to discuss a murder.”
“Were you drunk when you left Andy Conner’s apartment?” Adams asked pointedly. “Did you drive home in that condition?”
“I had a drink in his apartment, but I was sober when I left.”
“Quiet, Frankie,” Stein took control. “The Peoria Coroner’s Office puts the time of Conner’s death somewhere around 4:30 in the morning. My client left Peoria at 3:30 a.m. He purchased gas at a Morris truck stop at 5:47 a.m., as well as coffee and a breakfast biscuit at a Morris Hardee’s. Both transactions were made by debit card, and I’m sure that Frankie is visible on at least three different security cameras at the gas station, as well as the camera at Hardee’s drive-through window. Tell me, Captain, how does one travel from Peoria to Morris in less than ninety minutes?”
She waited for an answer.
“You’ve got a big car with a big engine,” Adams told Frankie. “It’s a Cadillac, right? One of those old Eldorados? I remember those cars being pretty fast.”
Frankie’s silent glare pierced holes in the captain’s feable accusation.
“Anyone familiar with this state,” Stein continued, “knows there is no direct route from Peoria to Chicago. There are many different state routes one can take. Some are faster than others, but all involve two-lane, sheriff-patrolled highways. And even at that time of night, one is still impeded by darkness, changes in highway numbers, and small towns with aggressive speed limit enforcement.”
“That doesn’t mean he couldn’t have made it.” Adams was stubborn.
“Even under the best of circumstances, Morris is at least two hours and fifteen minutes from Peoria,” Stein insisted. “I don’t care what was found in Andy Conner’s apartment. It is not humanly possible for my client to have committed this murder.”
Settling back in his chair, Captain Adams released a slow, audible sigh. She’s right, he thought. Downs couldn’t have made it back that fast.
Penelope Stein didn’t miss a beat. “Now, returning to Dectective Taft’s behavior in the OldPlaces offices-”
Thump, thump, thump!
Someone knocked on the mirrored glass window. Excusing himself, Adams gestured for Collekis to follow, leaving Frankie and his attorney at the table.
The Captain closed the door behind them when they left.
* * * * *
“His story checks out,” Taft grumbled, handing over faxed copies of time-stamped security camera photos from a Morris truck stop. He looked through the interrogation room’s observation window, where Stein was whispering in her client’s ear. “We also pulled his credit card activity, and just like the bitch says, he gassed up at Mobil and bought food down the street.”
“You mean the lawyer?” Adams asked.
“Yesss,” Taft stretched his words. “The law-yer.”
“What should we do, Captain?” Collekis asked. “The timeline doesn’t coincide with the amount of time taken for the murder, or the time of death itself.”
“Well, Downs is definitely involved somehow.” Adams studied Frankie through the glass. “If he’s not the actual murderer, then he must be affiliated with the murderer. A friend, maybe. Or a drinking buddy. Someone from his circle in the city.”
“Ya want us to hold him?” Taft asked.
“No,” Adams grumbled. “We don’t have solid evidence. Not yet anyway. And certainly not after his laywer files her harrassment complaint.” Adams gave Taft a disapproving glare. “That, we will address in the privacy of my office.”
“Where should we go with this, Captain?” Collekis asked. “How should we proceed?”
“Pull his records,” Adams said. “See where Downs spends his money. Pull his credit. See what online service he uses. Search everything. You know the drill.”
“Will do,” Collekis said.
“Willie,” Adams said, making a hitchhiker’s thumb over his shoulder. “I want you out of sight when Downs and his lawyer leave.”
“I will, Capt’n. And, sorry.”
“Captain Adams?” Lisa, the front desk officer, popped her head into the observation room. “There’s a Detective Kellie Hogan on the phone for you. She says it’s urgent.”
“I’ll take it in my office,” Adams told her before turning to Collekis.
“Frankie Downs is free to go.”
* * * * *
Penelope Stein’s Mercedes splashed a puddle as it slowed to a stop in front of the OldPlaces offices. Stein turned to Frankie before he opened the door. “Just so we’re clear on this, my assistance today was only because this incident took place on OldPlaces property.”
“I understand,” Frankie nodded. “And thank you for that.”
“I am a civil attorney and a friend of Tina and Norton,” Stein continued. “I no longer represent clients in criminal court, and I strongly advise that you find council for yourself immediately.”
“I will,” Frankie’s head kept bobbing.
“Call this man.” Penelope gave Frankie a colleague’s card. “He is an excellent attorney, familiar with issues that relate to the men in your community.”
“Penelope, this isn’t a gay thing,” Frankie said a bit defensively, but stopped when he remembered how Taft’s behavior gave Stein the advantage in the interrogation room. He took the card. “Okay, then.” He opened the passenger door. “Thanks for your help. And the ride.”
“One more thing,” Stein got his attention before he left.
“Yes?”
“Until this matter is resolved,” Stein warned, “I strongly urge you to stay at home. Refrain from any behavior that might call attention to your nighttime activities. Good luck, Mr. Downs.”
“Thanks.”
The Mercedes pulled away. A few moments later, Frankie’s Eldorado did the same, jumping onto the Stevenson and heading uptown in the rain.
Two cars behind him, an unmarked sedan followed.
* * * * *
Alone in his office, Captain Adams hung up the phone. His face was ashen, and his eyes wide with worry, almost disbelief. For the past twenty minutes, Detective Kellie Hogan had shared a story that was no less than incredible, X-Files-like. He stared at the notes he had made on a yellow legal pad.
They read like a mystery.
In November 1980, a young gay man named William Delorenzo had been murdered in Peoria’s old Beekman Place Hotel, the same residence as Andy Conner. The crime scene from 27 years ago was hauntingly similiar to Conner’s murder, including Coca-Cola and clove cigarettes that forensics swore were at least seventy-five years old. If that wasn’t strange enough, there was another, more confusing similarity: Frankie Downs’ fingerprints were present at both murders.
“Impossible,” Adams was incredulous, but Hogan was insistent. She would send over reports that verified her findings as soon as the lab work was complete. Obviously, someone had erred, for in 1980 Frankie would have been only eleven years old. The 1980s fingerprints were those of an adult male, not a child.
Still, they do match, Adams thought. And that means that Frankie was connected to both murders, even if he wasn’t the one who actually performed the acts.
It had to be a relative.
“Jesus, Capt’n! This fruitcake’s into some weird fucking shit.” Taft entered the office without knocking. He held up a stack of freshly printed computer copy, and read them aloud like a shopping list. “Number 1, $750 for leather restraints from a place called Fetter’s - sheepskin lined, with double padlocks; Number 2, bondage videos from three different companies in San Francisco, $400; and Number 3, renewals to online magazines that specialize in bondage, discipline, and boys who like to be tied up and spanked.”
Taft added snidely, “Sounds like fun.”
“It also sounds like the perfect M.O. for our killer.” Adams was too lost in thought to criticize the wisecracks. He picked up his desk phone. “Downs lives on the north side, right?” he asked Taft while he buzzed Lisa.
“Spittin’ distance from Boystown, Capt’n.”
“That’s Belmont’s jurisdiction,” Adams pointed out.
Beep!
“Homicide,” said the voice through the speakerphone.
“Lisa, get me the Belmont Precinct. I need to talk to Captain Peter Novak. He generally works the night shift.”
“One moment, Captain.”
Thunk, thunk! Collekis knocked on the door politely but walked right in without waiting. He was carrying a stack of papers. “Captain, these are online records for Frankie Downs. Chatroom activity. He goes by the screen name CityRopes.”
“Got a screen name profile?” Adams asked.
“Yeah, but I’ll let you see it,” Collekis said. “I’m not going to read this out loud.”
“He on your buddy list, Vern?” Taft snickered.
“Willie, I’m sending you home.” The Captain was clearly irritated. He gestured for Taft to hand over Frankie’s bank statements.
“Jeez, Capt’n,” Taft complained. “I didn’t mean to piss off the lawyer.”
“That’s not it,” Adams said. “The smart-ass remarks have to stop. Do you understand? They stop NOW.”
“Yes, Sir.”
“Go home and get some sleep,” Adams continued. “Call me tonight at seven o’clock. You’re going on graveyard.”
Beep!
“Captain Adams?” Lisa’s voice sounded tinny on the speakerphone. “Captain Novak is not at work yet. Do you want to speak to the Captain on duty?”
“No, I really need to talk to Novak on this one.” He sighed before adding, “Call him at home, Lisa.”
“Okay. Hold on.”
“Vern, you stay here,’ Adams said to Collekis. “I’ll get with you once I’m finished talking to Belmont.” Adams turned to Taft. “ "Willie, go home. This isn’t a punishment, but something’s changed and I need you here tonight. It’s only temporary.”
“Aw, Capt’n-”
“Deal with it, Willie.”
Beep!
“Captain Novak is on Line 3,” Lisa announced. “And he says this better be good.”
Adams picked up the phone’s receiver, but didn’t immediately take the call. “Vern, gather everything we’ve got on Frankie Downs. Also, see if Peoria has uploaded their files on the 1980 Beekman Place murder yet. Some of those old cases aren’t in the system. Get ahold of Detective Kellie Hogan. She’ll know what to do.”
“Yes, Sir.”
“And close the door!” Adams yelled as Taft and Collekis left the office together.
The door clicked shut. Inhaling deeply, Adams gathered his thoughts before talking to the Belmont Captain on his home line. Even though Novak was a colleague, he clearly felt entitled to a higher level of respect, even admiration. He was hard enough to talk to at the station.
* * * * *
“Frankie? It’s Norton,” came the thick European accent on voicemail. “I’ve just finished speaking with Penelope Stein. She has alerted me to your situation and to the events in our office this morning.”
There was a pause.
“Frankie, both Tina and I have decided that it would be best for all involved if you don’t come into the office for a while. You can do your work from home.”
Well, they sure didn’t waste any time, Frankie thought.
“Tina also feels it best to hold off on your Beekman Place story. Perhaps you could write about something else,” Norton continued. “If you feel like writing, Tina suggested Lockport, maybe the old Dellwood Park dam, near Joliet? Anything is fine, Frankie. You’ve always had good judgment on what we consider appropriate subject matter. Whatever you choose to write, just send us the files through email. There is no need for you to come into the office.”
Norton’s voice took on an even more serious tone.
“Frankie, today was indeed unfortunate. Both Tina and I are praying for a swift resolution. Take care of yourself. Open your heart to God. Allow Christ to be your strength. But remember, you must ask Him for His help, yourself. You must be the one to take the first step. The Lord be with you, Frankie. You are in my prayers.”
Click. “End of new messages.”
Shutting off the phone, Frankie laid the receiver on the coffee table next to his laptop. Settling back on the couch, he stared blankly at the television, where a young Jake Gyllenhaal was talking to a man in a rabbit mask: “Do you really want me to wear that stupid bunny suit?”
“Watch the movie now, Donnie. I have something that I want to show you.”
Frankie covered his eyes with his hand.
Focus.
Frankie tried to relax, but his thoughts kept returning to Taft and the spectacle in the office that morning. In particular, he thought about Tina, and how his drinking had again directly affected her life, causing embarassment for her as well as himself. Frankie had known Tina for almost three and a half years now. She had always been kind to him, even when he didn’t deserve it. He had put Tina in a very bad position today, and whatever course of action she decided to take would be completely his fault.
Completely.
* * * * *
When Frankie first came to Chicago, he had planned on returning to college. He did have a few years of community college under his belt, but no degree, so he got a job as a waiter, the typical path for gay men in his situation. It all started out well and good. Frankie planned to save tuition money, finish his associate’s, and hopefully transfer to Columbia where he could pursue his passion for writing. But saving money wasn’t as easy as expected, and he ended up waiting tables for almost three years before landing his first writing job, still with no degree.
Back in 2004, Frankie joined Gay Chicago Magazine. The pay wasn’t much, and despite his familiarity with the scene, he really hated the assignments he was given. He had never wasted time in trendy nightclubs, and he especially disliked the frivolous “special events” at these places, affairs that required his attendance in order for him to write about them later. From drag shows to pride parades, each experience seemed worst than the last, and Frankie had to keep telling himself, “It pays the rent . . . it pays the rent . . . it pays the rent . . . ”
Gay Chicago.
What was he thinking?
It was kind of funny, looking back on that job. Frankie would submit a story about a new club or a sidewalk festival, but he always found ways to tie in the neighborhood’s history, telling what a building was before it became a club, or how a new gay-owned business affected lifelong residents whose street was changing with the times. The underlying theme to almost all Frankie’s Gay Chicago articles was that the modern city had been built on the recycled sites of older, more interesting places. Writing for the magazine brought in a steady paycheck for a couple of years, but eventually Frankie’s boredom got the best of him. He desperately needed something more satisfying, a job that made him feel like he wasn’t wasting his life.
So he sent out resumes.
Oddly enough, it hadn’t been OldPlaces where Frankie first met Tina. He met her at a church of all places, an Oak Park cathedral designed by Frank Lloyd Wright. It was hard to remember now, but on the morning Tina introduced herself, Frankie was acting like a “foxhole Christain,” recovering from the aftermath of an especially disturbing bender. He was so hung over on that specific morning, he had no idea Tina was interviewing him for a job.
By that particular Sunday, Frankie had ten solid years of alcoholism under his belt. He had started drinking in his early twenties, and like many gay men who grew up in rural Illinois, he picked up the pace when he relocated to the city. Chicago was an exciting place for any single man to live, but its thriving nightlife was a dangerous temptation for an alcoholic. Between busy bars and easy sex, it was not uncommon to lose days, weeks, or in Frankie’s case, months at a time.
* * * * *
For a drunk in the gay scene, one of three things could happen. The first outcome was by far the best: sober up, settle the tab, and find a life partner who had grown out of the clubs. Boystown was a trap, a modern Twilight Zone where time never changed. As long as a man stayed in reasonable physical shape, it didn’t matter how old he was. The liquor flowed and the bartenders were friendly.
The Halsted clubs were packed nearly every night of the week, with crowds that ranged from 20-year-old twinks to men in their forties fighting time with low-carb diets and daily workouts. In their song In Denial the Pet Shop Boys accurately called gay life “a fantasy world,” where the “queens and fairies and muscle Marys” fueled a false reality that existed only at night. And if a man didn’t wise up in time, he would find himself in the second, more somber phase of gay life, where the spiral quickened into a whirlpool.
Or more specifically, down a drain.
* * * * *
Even if he wasn’t conscious of his choice, if a gay man hadn’t quit the clubs by his 35th birthday, it was almost impossible to avoid turning fifty on a bar stool. Diet and excercise were all well and good, but if he was still a heavy drinker at thirty-five, little could be done to reverse what he’d enabled.
On any given night, Chicago’s clubs were filled with well-dressed men wearing pressed shirts, crisp slacks, and shiny lace-up shoes. They were the forgotten studs of the ‘80s, men who were young twenty years ago. They were the regulars, the bar trolls, the middle-aged men who never danced but always bought the young guys drinks. In their bathroom mirrors, they still saw fresh faces, but as the years rolled by, cruising the bars had become as routine as driving to work every morning.
The regulars knew everybody’s name.
The regulars were always glad you came.
The regulars usually sat with the same people, in the same clubs, on the same nights, typically on the same side of the bar. Though they never said “no” to a one-nighter, they looked more for companionship than sex. They cruised the clubs because it was what they’d always done. They found reassurance in the familiar, the same friends, the same places. The regulars made easy targets for escorts, gigolos, addicts, and cute young losers who were hoping to score a sugar daddy.
This was especially true when the bartender yelled, “Last call!”
* * * * *
There was a third path that could take a gay man’s life, and in a strange sort of way, that was how Frankie met Tina.
Beyond the mainstream clubs, a few streets west of Halsted, The Eagle waited for the men who were still too virile to reminisce of better days. There were no showtunes on the sound system, no Member’s Only jackets at the bar. The Eagle was the gateway to a private world, the gathering place for experienced men to mingle with the young. The Eagle’s code of conduct was unlike any Boystown dance bar, and in order to pass the bouncer, one had to embrace its rules.
The first rule was simple: age does not equate unattractive. Maturity meant practiced, a quality the younger men respected.
The Eagle blurred the 1970s with the Internet, where the men of thirty years ago shared a bond with those today. Sex was common ground. Knowledge was delivered with tradition, discipline, and the skills of seasoned masters. The Eagle was selective with whom it allowed to enter, and unlike the bars of Halsted, it was not for the faint of heart.
Sometimes, a middle-aged gay man did leave Halsted before he became a regular. Though he wasn’t ready to settle down, his libido was strong, and he wanted to play. For a man like that, the Eagle was a natural progression, the alternative to the type of repetitive vanilla sex that killed a cock through boredom.
And for a man like Frankie, whose sex drive was driven by games rather than intimacy, the Eagle allowed growing up to be put off for another eleven years.
* * * * *
“You look like you’ve had a rough night,” Tina had said on the morning she first met Frankie. “Welcome to our church. We have a social hour on Sundays. Would you like to stay for a cup of coffee?” Tina had smiled before gently adding, “You really look like you could use one.”
Two hours earlier, after an especially heavy bender, Frankie had woken up in a near state of panic. It was the day after Paul’s burial, and Frankie had been shit-faced for a solid 48 hours. He vaguely remembered bringing a trick home the night before, and though Frankie had blacked out sometime during the act, the state he found his bedroom in showed the aftermath of behavior he could never forgive himself for.
I fucked up bad, he had thought. I let myself lose control.
Looking in the bathroom mirror that morning, he didn’t even recognize the man looking back. After puking up his guts, Frankie threw himself together and left his apartment as quickly as possible. He had done something unthinkable, and he needed to get his head together before tackling the mess left behind. He got in his car and drove, his memory as lucid as a blackout, with no destination in particular.
He just needed to leave.
To go.
To get the hell out of there.
To put as much distance as he possibly could between himself and the evidence.
In hindsight, it must have been fate that morning. Frankie hadn’t been in a church since his parents took him as a kid. He couldn’t even remember why he’d driven to Oak Park in the first place. But when he’d seen the big prairie-style building through his windshield, he could hear himself say, “No one would ever look for me in a church.”
Inside the cathedral, Frankie felt all eyes on him when he sat down in a pew by the exit. Tina joined him a few minutes later, taking an aisle seat so she could pass the collection baskets later in the service.
She smiled at me, Frankie remembered. Her smile had been enough to keep him seated for the duration. Later on, after inviting Frankie for coffee, Tina had introduced him to several parishioners, leading him through the church basement like the first time Paul had shown him the Eagle. In the hour that followed, Frankie gave Tina a heavily censored recap of his past, including his search for another job and maybe some meaning in his life. When he was finished, Tina told him of a vacancy at OldPlaces and suggested he send his resume and samples of his writing. The next day, Frankie did just that. Three days later he found himself in a formal interview with Norton. And two weeks after that, Frankie started his new job. Tina showed him around the office, introducing him to the staff.
She had been so damn kind at first.
It was Tina who had given him a chance, and for the past few years, OldPlaces had provided a stability that few employers could deliver. Though Frankie still wrestled with his “nighttime behavior,” it was his job that kept him grounded, an anchor that kept the boat from drifting. Most important, it had been Tina’s kindness on that morning after Paul’s funeral which gave Frankie the courage to return to his apartment and deal with the mess.
But now, that anchor was unmoored.
* * * * *
Sitting on his sofa, Frankie felt trapped in his own apartment. He was a suspect in a murder, his job was clearly in jeopardy, and he felt like a pawn in events that were about to spin out of control. And now, with the message from Norton, he knew that his life could never be the same.
No more stability.
No more comfort in routine.
No way to change his mind.
No way to close Pandora’s Box.
Staring out his living room window at the Chicago skyline, Frankie twisted the cap off a full bottle of whiskey. He didn’t even hear the seal break.
He took his first drink directly from the bottle.
* * * * *
Detective Kellie Hogan stared at the contents of the 1980 evidence box. She had spread the bags of physical items out on the table: blood-soaked sheets, leather restraints, bags containing old Coca-Cola bottles and clove cigarettes, and crime scene photos taken in William Delorenzo’s apartment. The similarities between the two murders were undeniable, down to the position of the bodies, the arrangement of the rooms, and the elaborate bondage used to restrain and torture the victims. More important, the deaths were identical in cruelty, the same sexual deviance shared by one individual killer.
This was no copycat. It had been done by the same person.
But how can the fingerprints be the same? How can the DNA be the same?
The DNA had come back from Andy Conner’s death this morning, and less than an hour ago, preliminary tests from Delorenzo’s murder were available. The same semen was found at both crime scenes. Further tests were underway to confirm the 27-year-old Delorenzo findings, but it was looking good for a match. The lab was 90% sure the samples came from the same man.
Same men, Kellie thought. There were two men at each crime scene. Frankie is the obvious suspect for last night’s killing, but what about Delorenzo’s death in 1980? Frankie Downs was still a child.
“It’s still going to take some time,” Rollings announced, entering the room. “The lab wants to be sure, so they’re being very careful, but I can honestly say you’ve peaked their curiosity, Kellie. I’ve never seen them so excited about a case. It’s like watching an episode of CSI.” He stared at the evidence on the table.
“You didn’t tell me that an ashtray was emptied into Delorenzo’s mouth,” Rollings said.
“What?” Kellie looked up.
“An ashtray,” Rollings repeated. “Emptied into Delorenzo’s mouth postmortem. After the murder. After the fact.”
Kellie seemed puzzled. “An ashtray?”
“That’s what I said.”
“An ashtray was emptied into his mouth?” she repeated.
“Don’t sweat it, Kellie,” Rollings said. “Like you said, it’s an old case, before you were even on the force. You said you just heard the story, so you probably didn’t have all the facts. They’re all here, though. In the report.”
“But I think I would have remembered a detail like that,” Kellie said. “You did just say an ashtray was emptied into his mouth?”
“Kellie, chill. Just read it a little closer. And look at these.” He pointed to the crime scene photos, close-ups of the body still tied to the bed. “Sometimes you can get just as much from the visuals.” His finger stopped at Delorenzo’s open mouth, stuffed with ashes and used cigarette butts.
“We found the contents of his mouth,” Rollings continued, “but DNA is inconclusive. It’s a combination of saliva from the victim and saliva from the smoker, the assumed killer. But the sample wasn’t stored very well to begin with, and after sitting on the shelf for almost thirty years-”
“We can’t get a match.” Kellie finished his sentence for him. She stared at the picture.
“I can’t believe I missed that,” she said.
“It’s all right, Kellie.” Rollings reached over her shoulder and pointed to the original detective’s report:
The contents of an ashtray with twelve smoked clove cigarettes appeared to have been emptied into the victim’s mouth post mortem.
“It’s an old report,” Rollings told her. “And you said you already had an idea of what was in it. So you probably just skimmed it and missed the part about the ashtray. No sweat. You just needed a fresh set of eyes, that’s all.” He looked at her and smiled faintly. “The question now is what do you want to do with this?”
Silence.
Detective Kellie Hogan couldn’t answer at first. She was staring at her computer screen, which now displayed Frankie Downs’ drivers license photo.
She had seen this man before.
* * * * *
Work on the story, Frankie told himself. No matter what’s happening, you need to keep moving forward.
With a fresh drink in hand, Frankie returned to the sofa. He had been pacing his apartment all afternoon. After replaying Norton’s message a few times, he realized that he wasn’t officially fired, just on a brief leave while the investigation unfolded. His buzz helped keep that thought intact.
See what you can find on Bill Roanoke.
Turning to his laptop, Frankie minimized Word before signing online and pulling up his saved searches on Beekman Place. The first one was a basic search, general information on the name, with numerous hits on One Beekman Place at the northeast corner of Mitchell Place in New York City. This was Auntie Mame’s building, the setting made famous in Patrick Dennis’s novel and subsequent movies and musicals.
SEARCH: Beekman Place
The Midtown Book...Sutton Place area
One Beekman Place
by Carter B. Horsley
The most prestigious Beekman Place apartment building is, appropriately, One Beekman Place, which was designed by Sloan & Robertson and Corbett, Harrison & MacMurray and completed in 1929.
Sipping his drink, Frankie reread the history of Manhattan’s Beekman Place apartments. Nothing out of the ordinary there, just descriptions of the building and the architectural firms that built her. As Frankie had explained to Libby, Peoria’s Beekman Place had been completed almost a decade before its New York counterpart. There was no mention of Bill Roanoke in any links on this search, nor was Roanoke involved in the Manhattan construction. Frankie moved to the next file.
SEARCH: Beekman Place Peoria Illinois
Peoria Area Information-Comprehensive Web portal, Live, Work, Play, Shop...
McLean Co., Illinois Obituaries-HW Everest, Eli Fischer and many others were often in the home of JE Beekman...1991 Source: Peoria Journal Star...Illinois St. Andrew Society Members-Membership Applications for the Illinois St. Andrew Society 1900-1967; Beekman Place, New York, NY...<B>Once is not enough for ICC<B>-East Peoria-Just two days before Illinois Central College’s...
Twenty-three hits of nothing, Frankie thought. The same was true for searches in The Peoria Journal Star, the City of Peoria’s municipal archives, The Historical Society of Greater Peoria and East Peoria, and all of Frankie’s usual databases. Frankie even had a friend in Peoria who had spent the better part of three days digging through the physical records of the Peoria County Registry. No luck, and Frankie owed him dinner and drinks for his time.
Closing the Beekman Place files, Frankie thought back to Libby and his tour of her apartment building. “Ah, Mr. Roanoke,” she’d said. “He was a special friend of mine, you know.”
He Googled Bill Roanoke.
Bill Cochran’s Outdoors-Sportsman invited to talk issues-the Roanoke Times on the web: News of Roanoke, New River Valley, Virginia Tech Hokies...
Bill’s Auto Sales-Automotive-Roanoke, VA 24013-1455-Citysearch...
Mr Bill’s Hairstylist-Beauty & Fitness-Roanoke, VA 24011...
Nothing.
Frankie tried several more variations of Bill Roanoke, combining the name with Peoria, Beekman, Illinois, Manufacture, Family, Building, and every other variation he could think of. On a whim, he typed Bill Roanoke Whiskey into the search box.
There was a hit.
His eyes widened when he saw the subject line:
The Queen-Pin of the Underground Railroad:
Bill Roanoke and the Smuggling of Prohibition Whiskey
by Darrel Conner
Photographs by Andy Conner
Seeing Andy’s name startled Frankie. He clicked on the story, finding a locally published article in a defunct college paper. From the credits, Darrel Conner was listed as a Bradley University history professor. Andy, it appeared, was his son.
In the sobering days that followed Prohibition, the Chicago mafia was faced with a dilemma: who could supply the liquor for a growing network of speakeasies and illegal drinking establishments? With frequent raids and aggressive early law enforcement, the Chicago-based suppliers had proven unreliable, frequently changing locations in an effort to avoid detection. It would be many months before the mafia found effective control of the police, but in the meantime, the Chicago kingpins were forced to look outside their city for a supplier who kept the liquor flowing, unaffected by the spotlight. That supplier was Bill Roanoke. (1-A)
Bill Roanoke was the only child of Charles Roanoke (1-B), a Lithuanian immigrant who owned three breweries and one distillery in Peoria Heights in the late 1890s. In the era when sons were expected to follow their father’s footsteps, Bill disappointed Charles in numerous ways, the least of which was an initial lack of interest in the family business. This was especially troubling for a man who had sacrificed a lifetime to build a legacy for his family. In order to understand Bill’s partnership with the mafia, one must first understand his relationship with his father.
Frankie continued reading:
Charles Roanoke arrived in America at the age of twenty-seven. With a “fortune” of $472, he worked his way to Illinois, settling in Peoria in 1852. (1-C) Ambitious and intelligent, Charles supported himself as a laborer (treating and sealing whiskey barrels), working long hours with little pay. As time went on, Charles caught the attention of his supervisors, who gave him more responsibility. Recognizing Charles’ potential, the distillery owner provided opportunities toward higher & better positions. As of 1864, Charles had saved enough money to open a small distillery (1-D), an operation that flourished due to later expansion into Chicago (utilizing the Illinois River as a means to transport products). (I-E) By 1885, the Roanoke Beverage Company rivaled the largest distillery in Peoria.
It is believed that Charles Roanoke met Elizabeth Armstrong (I-F) sometime in the summer of 1871. A brazen woman, Elizabeth was an odd match for Charles. He was a devout Catholic, forty-seven years old, while Elizabeth was a free-spirited agnostic, twenty years his junior. The two wed in 1872, after Elizabeth converted to Catholicism (an act that was largely regarded as for show), and as a wedding gift, Charles named a street after the family, commissioning a home that overlooked downtown Peoria. In 1874, Elizabeth gave Charles a son, whom they named William. Sadly, Elizabeth died during childbirth, and Charles was left to raise Bill alone. He found the duty impossible with his demanding business schedule.
Alone in his father’s house, Bill Roanoke was raised by nannies (I-G), many of whom had been hired by Elizabeth in the months before her death. The young Bill Roanoke enjoyed the solitude that came with his father’s absence. He was often seen playing in the yard, talking to himself and parading in Charles' top hats and overcoats. As Bill was an effeminate child, Charles worried about his son’s direction in life. In 1888, fourteen-year-old Bill was enrolled in The Addison Institute For Boys in Chicago (I-H), an act that Charles hoped would both toughen Bill up and groom him to run the family business. Unbeknownst to his father, Bill’s experience in the city would have the opposite effect.
Frankie raised an eyebrow. Though he had come across references to Bill Roanoke’s sexuality in earlier searches, Darrel Conner’s story had more information than all searches combined. This was exactly what he needed to find.
The Addison Institute was a strict, military-style school. Though the education it provided was impressive, the Institute had no tolerance for Bill’s flamboyance and free-spirited thinking. As Chicago rebounded from the Great Fire, Bill watched its Bohemian residents from behind the restrictive college gates. Over time, young Bill Roanoke found ways to sneak out of the Institute and spend many nights finding comfort (and companionship) within the city’s growing Red Light districts, specifically those places frequented by gay men. In 1891, Bill Roanoke was expelled from the campus for indecent, immoral behavior. Though the specific charges remain unclear, it is believed they involved Bill’s obvious homosexuality. Within three days of the expulsion, Bill returned to Peoria. Charles Roanoke refused to accept his son’s sexual deviance; he kept Bill at his side, teaching him the liquor business while keeping an eye on him. (1-I)
Having allowed others (none of which shared Charles’ own sense of right and wrong) to raise his son, it was ironic that Charles assumed such an active role in Bill’s coming of age years. Charles knew his son needed guidance, and despite the strained circumstances surrounding Bill’s return, teaching Bill the business was a way for Charles to bond with his straying son. Though the next eight years were far from easy, Charles succeeded in encouraging Bill’s own potential, forming over time a civil (but precarious) father & son relationship. Unfortunately, tragedy would prevent the two from fully reconciling their differences.
Frankie finished the last of his glass.
In 1899, Charles Roanoke died after suffering a stroke. The now-incorporated Roanoke Beverage Company was willed to Bill, the only heir. (1-J) Bill Roanoke had never wed, of course, and he suddenly found himself in a position of great personal & financial freedom. Though Peoria was a booming town, it offered little for a gay man who had tasted life in the big city. Bill seized the opportunity to take the money and run.
Entrusting the business to the oversight of the corporate Board, Bill returned to Chicago (1-K) and to the Bohemian neighborhoods he missed so much. For the next twenty years, Bill Roanoke had little to do with his father’s company. Like a child in a playground, Bill lived the life of a playboy in the night-oriented Chicago gay scene in the days leading up to Prohibition. At the age of forty-five, Bill briefly returned to Peoria, to attend the grand opening of The Beekman Place Hotel. (1-L)
Frankie clicked on the 1-L photo link. His computer screen blinked, opening a black and white photograph that appeared to have been taken in an old Chicago nightclub. It looked like some sort of gala, with balloons and streamers and a banner across the back wall that read Happy New Year 1919. The tuxedoed men overwhelmingly outnumbered the women in beaded flapper dresses , and the figure in the center of the photo in black tie and starched collar, with a full champagne glass in his hand, was clearly Bill Roanoke.
Frankie examined the picture closely. Noting Bill’s salt and pepper hair and devious smile, Frankie pegged him to be around forty-five at the time. The men immediately surrounding Bill were all obviously gay, with the childlike expressions of Stan Laurel from the old Laurel & Hardy comedy team. As Frankie stared at their faces, he imagined the excitement of the party and wondered what kind of opening they were celebrating.
And then he saw the answer.
Though the background was dark, he could just make out the wall where the banner was hung. It was hard to see at first, but once his eyes made the connection, details became clearer, visible between the bodies of the revelers. Frankie saw the elevator doors, and the circular hissing cat logo. Immediately behind Roanoke’s coattails, he could just make out the letters “R-A-D” and “L-D” on the closed elevator doors. Frankie was quite familiar with that logo. Bill Roanoke was standing dead center in front of the words Radio World.
This photo was taken when Beekman Place was new.
Frankie leaned back into his sofa, holding his chin with his hand. He sat there for several minutes as the sounds of the long-forgotten party echoed through his mind like ghosts. It took a few moments for a second, even more important discovery to emerge from the picture. In the photo’s background, left of center and almost directly behind Bill Roanoke, stood a woman in a black cocktail dress. Her shape had almost been lost in the grainy image, but it was definitely there, hidden among the black tuxedos. When Frankie looked closer, he could even make out the shape of her shiny, black cigarette holder poking out from behind someone’s shoulder. Her face was undeniable, and the sound of her Penguin voice seemed to rise up from the picture.
“Libby, exactly how old are you?”
Pouring another drink, Frankie gazed out the window before continuing to read about Bill Roanoke’s disappearance.
* * * * *
Detective Janeane Lavinski sat at the desk inside her tiny squad room cubicle. She was a 38-year-old woman, with wavy black hair pulled back in a ponytail. People often mistook her for Italian, until they heard her last name. Her face was void of makeup, with angry eyes glaring from behind tortoise shell glasses.
She cringed.
“Do you have to eat that here?” she asked, disgusted. “We have a table by the vending machines. It has a vinyl tablecloth. It’s like a dropcloth, especially if you tuck it in like a bib.”
“Mmmm, I’m fine.” Detective Taft’s lips were wet with sour cream. He made no effort to cover his mouth when he talked.
Janeane threw a box of Kleenex at him. “Wipe your mouth.”
“Thanks, Darlin’.”
“I’m not kidding, Willie. You look like a rabid dog.”
Taft grinned seductively. “Is that you way of tellin’ me, ‘woof?’”
“Woof, Willie? What are you? Twelve?”
“I got twelve inches for ya, Darlin’.”
“Jesus,” Janeane muttered, closing her eyes and rubbing her temples. It was people like Taft who made her transfer to the Belmont night shift in the first place. The good ol’ boys who grew up downstate, she thought. Rednecks, pigs, close-minded hicks, farmers who married the first girl they fucked . . .
The men I grew up with.
“So, is this your daddy?” Taft licked his fingers before reaching for the framed picture on the corner of Janeane’s desk. The photo, a young cop in his early days on the force, had been taken professionally in the 1960s. A 22-year-old John Lavinski appeared both stern and happy as he posed with pride in his crisp dress blues.
“Can you please not get spit on my father’s picture?” Janeane snatched the frame from Taft. She gently returned the photograph to its proper spot, next to a second, smaller picture of a different young man who also wore a uniform. The two photos were the only personal items kept on her desktop, and from the way she displayed them, it was clear they meant a great deal to her.
“That your boyfriend?” Taft pointed to the smaller photo. “Is he into all this science fiction crap, too?” Taft scanned Janeane’s work area, staring at the collection of Star Wars, Star Trek, Xena, and Battlestar Galactica memorabilia that shared the walls with old case notes. Though her desk was clean and functional, the walls were a cluttered mess.
“Yer boyfriend a cop, too?” Taft asked as he wadded his burrito wrapper into a ball. The smaller picture seemed much newer than her father’s, though he didn’t recognize the uniform.
"That’s my brother.” Janeane voice was flat.
“Your brother’s a cop?” Taft asked.
“No,” Janeane answered. “My brother’s dead.”
“Whoops. Sorry, Darlin’.” Taft was too uncouth to be embarrassed. “So, was he a cop before he died, then?”
Janeane gritted her teeth. “Willie, let’s not get too personal here,” she said, stopping the questions. “We’re not going to be partnered for long, so there’s no real need to get to know each other.” She thought a second. “How long are you supposed to be here, anyway?”
“Don’t know.” Taft picked at his teeth. “The Capt’n just put this together today.”
“You’re working on a murder investigation?” Janeane directed the conversation to the case.
“Yeah,” Taft said. “Some homo got killed downstate night before last. Hooked up with the wrong dude and ended up tied to his own bed like them guys in that leather bar on Belmont Avenue.”
“Lincoln Avenue,” Janeane corrected.
“What?”
“Lincoln Avenue,” she repeated. “The bar is on Lincoln Avenue, not on Belmont.”
“Whatever.”
“Did the murder happen in your jurisdiction?” Janeane asked. “Is that why you’re here with me?”
“Naw,” Taft said. “Happened in Peoria, but the suspect lives up here. We questioned him at his job this mornin’, but he lawyered up and walked. Fuckin’ lawyers.”
“So why, exactly, are you here?” Janeane asked bluntly, cringing again at the thought of sharing a car with Taft. She had barely started her shift when Captain Novak told her she would be paired with a detective from a neighboring precinct. Her former partner had resigned last week, opting for a warmer climate and a spot with the Phoenix Police, or at least that’s what she’d told Janeane the day before she committed suicide. Janeane had been looking forward to desk work for the next few weeks, while her Captain scrambled to find her a compatible replacement. Detective Janeane Lavinski wasn’t exactly the easiest person to get along with these days.
“I’m here cuz I guess there’s more to the case than just a rotten fruit,” Taft joked, shrugging his shoulders. He settled back into his chair before adding, “The Capt’n must have thought that ya needed a big boy to help you out tonight.”
Janeane stared at the bursting buttons on Taft’s unironed shirt. She wondered how he passed the department’s fitness tests.
It was time to set some ground rules. “Detective, you should know that I take offense to derogatory terms about gay men. I would appreciate it if you didn’t use words like fruit and homo.”
“So you’re one of them sens’tive gals, are ya?” Taft, again, missed the point completely.
“I also take offense to the word gal,” Janeane added.
“Meow, Darlin’.”
Novak interrupted. “Sorry about the wait, Detectives. “I’m still on the phone with Peoria, but here’s what’s been put together so far.” He handed a file to Taft. “We’ll have a formal briefing in my office in about ten minutes. You can look over the file in the meantime.” He turned to face Janeane. “Lavinski, you’ve met Detective Taft?”
“Unfortunately.”
“Good,” Novak said. “You two will be partners for the next couple of nights, but I’m letting Willie take the lead since he’s already familiar with the case. He’s also questioned the suspect. We’ve got to move fast on this one, Detectives. This man is connected to two separate murders.”
“What man?” Janeane, angry at learning she had been relegated to subordinate, wanted to be up to speed.
Opening the file, Taft pushed it across the desk. He pointed at the photo from a 2000 DUI. “Him,” Taft said. “Frankie Downs.”
Janeane’s face lost color when she saw the file’s mug shot.
“Briefing in ten,” the Captain said on his way out.
Taft had noticed Janeane’s reaction. “You know this guy?”
Janeane shook her head. “He’s not one of the men in my life right now, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“Well, that’s a relief.” Taft stood from his chair and shot the crumpled wrapper into the trash can. It stuck to the side for a moment, leaving a wet spot when it fell in. “Cuz let me tell you, he sure ain’t your type.”
He patted Janeane on the shoulder. “C’mon, Darlin’. Time for us to rustle up a bowl of fruit loops.”
He left the office.
A moment later Janeane heard him yell to her from down the hall: “You comin’, Darlin’?”
“Give me a second!” she called back, still taken off guard by the mug shot. Janeane’s body went numb as she stared at the photo.
The crew cut. The clean shaven face. Eyes still fuzzy from a night’s worth of drinking.
It had been three years since she had last seen Frankie’s face, above a black suit and tie, hidden behind sunglasses. The last time she had looked at Frankie was the moment Paul’s coffin had been lowered into the ground. She had been unable to speak, so her eyes talked for her.
You caused this. You are the reason this happened. And I will never forget what you did to me!
It was the face of the man who had killed her brother.
Music inspires my imagination.
When I hear a good song on the radio, it triggers a video in my head, a story of my own creation set to the playing music. Sometimes it follows the lyrics, but more often than not, the song is just a jumping point. Whenever I hear Gary Newman’s “Cars” for example, I’m back in 1980, at the Landmark Theater in Peoria.
Back in the day, I was a big fan of The Pet Shop Boys. “Being Boring” is still one of my all-time favorite singles. Unlike most of their hits, Being Boring was a somber tune, a ballad about the past that required repeated listenings to be fully understood. The lyrics tell of how people change as they grow older: their dreams fade, values blur, friends slowly disappear. The story opens in the 1920s, before moving on to the ‘70s. It closes around 1996, when many people are “missing.”
Being Boring is by far the most touching piece about AIDS I have ever heard. And the video it triggers is so gut-wrenchingly sad, only the spectacle of the clubs can distract my imagination.
It gives it something to focus on.
“Good morning, Frankie. May I have a word?”
Frankie had barely closed the reception room door when Tina was at his side. She looked very concerned. The mood of the office was tense this morning. He sensed it the moment he stepped in.
“Is there a problem, Tina?”
“Yes, Frankie. I’m afraid there is.”
Whatever Tina wanted, it couldn’t be a complaint about how he looked. Frankie had risen early, twenty minutes before his alarm, plenty of time to primp. He wore polished black boots, starched beige khakis, and a crisp red, awning-striped oxford that smelled so strongly of lemon starch, it could have easily been mistaken for bleach. Frankie always wore red the day after a bender. The color of the fabric offset the redness in his face.
Frankie held out his arms like Jesus, his black wool trench coat fanning out like a cape. The movement of fabric sent a gust of cologne, soap, deodorant, Oil of Olay, and styling gel sailing directly toward Tina’s nose. He was clean enough to give Martha Stewart a hard on. “Is this going to be like airport security?” he asked.
“Frankie, please, you look fine,” Tina insisted. Her voice was brimming with urgency. “It’s something else.”
There was a commotion down the hall.
“Who are those people in my office?” Frankie could see the door was open and his light was on. A man was rummaging through the drawers of his desk. “What’s going on?” Frankie voice was rising.
“We have a situation,” Tina said.
“Are those men police?” Frankie asked in disbelief, now straining to see his desk. The men weren’t wearing uniforms, but Frankie caught a quick flash of a badge as one of them passed the crack in the door.
“Yes, they’re police, and NO, they don’t have a warrant,” Gale said from the corner of the reception room. She was staring directly at Rose.
Tina shifted uncomfortably. “I gave them permission to look in your office,” she admitted. “I thought it better than having them come back later with sirens and newspaper reporters.”
The officers were methodically sifting through Frankie’s desk.
“Tina, what the hell is this about?” Frankie demanded. “If this is your idea of having me escorted from the premises, so help me God, I’ll-”
“Frankie, I need you to keep your voice down,” Tina warned.
“Are you firing me?” Frankie asked.
“Of course not,” Tina said, a bit too quickly.
“You mean of course not YET,” Gale added.
“Tina?”
“We’re sure this is just some crazy coincidence,” Tina told Frankie. “Norton is on his way right now. I know the detectives will straighten this silly mess right out, as soon as they’ve had time to talk with you.”
“Get to the point.” Frankie was angry.
Tina’s next sentence was spoken with such deliberateness, it seemed like she was forcing each individual word from her mouth. “Frankie, we just know you had nothing to do with the murder.”
Frankie stared at his boss in total disbelief.
“Where did this come from?” he asked, aghast. “Tina, no offense, but you’ve been in your office inhaling those damn Yankee candles a little too long.”
“I had no choice,” Tina said quickly. “The detectives told me what happened in Peoria yesterday, and allowing them to look through your office was necessary.”
Libby must have told her, Frankie thought, stepping back. “Tina, please. I can explain.”
“No, Frankie, an explanation is not important right now.” Tina was trying hard not to become flustered. “Though what happened at the hotel was horrific, as I said, we just know you weren’t involved. The police are just doing their jobs right now, and I’m sure that when they talk to you, we’ll all have a good laugh . . . err, that is, we’ll . . .” Tina stumbled on her words once she realized she was about to make light of a brutal death.
She cleared her throat. “What I’m saying, Frankie, is that we’ll all know for certain you couldn’t possibly be involved in the murder. The police will just ask you a few short questions.” Tina quickly added, “And I apologize for being insensitive to the dead.”
Someone is dead.
“Tina, seriously . . . I have absolutely no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Please, Frankie.” Tina did her best to smile reassuringly. “Just talk to the police.” She turned to Rose. “Rose, would you mind paging Frankie’s extension?”
“Officers!” Rose yelled from her desk.
Frankie’s office door swung open.
Detectives Willie Taft and Vern Collekis galloped into the reception room like horses. “Frankie Downs?” Taft asked Frankie, winded from the short sprint.
“Yes, Officer, that’s him.” Rose was such a suck-up. Tina frowned at her.
“Frankie Downs?” Taft repeated, the grin on his pudgy lips clearly showing amusement over the room’s demeanor. He flashed a badge in Frankie’s face, holding his coat in such a way they all saw the gun holstered near his enormous stomach.
“I’m Frankie Downs,” Frankie told him. “What’s the problem here?”
“Mr. Downs, we need to talk to you about the murder of Andrew Conner.” The room fell quiet as Taft retrieved a small notebook from his pocket, crinkling junk food wrappers in the process. “Were you at the Beekman Place Apartment Building in Peoria, Illinois last night, Mr. Downs?” There was a drawl in his voice that exuded Central Illinois.
“I was,” Frankie confirmed.
“You were there on office business?” Taft asked. “As a representative of this here magazine?”
“That’s correct,” Frankie said.
“And you drove there yerself?” Taft continued, his drawl slipping through. Despite his best efforts to sound professional, he was unsuccessful at hiding his rural background. “In your own car. By yerself. All the way from Chicago. To Peoria.”
“Yes, that’s correct.” Frankie looked him over, sizing up his intentions. “I left Chicago around 7:30, and got to Peoria late morning, before noon.”
“Long drive, was it?” Taft asked.
“Not particularly.”
“Traffic thins out once you get south of Joliet,” Taft said. “I’ve made that drive myself many times.”
“Okaaaay . . .” Frankie was confused by where Taft was going with this. “Course, by the time you drive through rush hour in Chicago,” Taft continued, “then down all them quiet roads in the middle of the state, it does end up being a long drive.” Taft paused on purpose, so his next statement had more impact. “I always get a little thirsty in the car, myself. I like to bring something to drink on the road.”
Frankie tensed.
“How ‘bout you, Mr. Downs?” Taft asked. “Did you bring a little something to drink on the road yesterday?”
Shit.
“I always take a bottle of water in the car with me,” Frankie answered. “Just like anyone who travels.”
“That all you took?” Taft raised an eyebrow. “Water?”
“Why are you asking about my drive?” Frankie took the direct approach to change the subject. “And what were you doing in my office just now?”
“Mr. Downs, did you have any contact with Andy Conner while you were in Peoria?” Taft asked. “Young boy. Lived by himself. If I had to guess, I’d say he was a good fifteen years younger than yerself.”
“I spent time with a lot of people,” Frankie said. “That was the reason for my trip.”
“But Mr. Conner in particular,” Taft wanted Frankie to stay on topic. “Andy Conner was his name. You did spend some time with this boy, isn’t that correct? Later in the evening? After most people went to bed?”
“Andy . . . yes,” Frankie replied with caution. “But I didn’t get his last name.” He paused as Taft’s words sunk in. “I’m sorry. Did you say that Andy is dead?”
“As a doornail, Mr. Downs. And it seems that apparently you were the last person to see him alive.” Taft grinned broadly. “We understand you and Conner spent a great deal of time together yesterday evening. You boys had drinks together, went back to his apartment together. Got to know each other.”
“We spoke briefly at a reception,” Frankie corrected, sensing where this was going. “It was an impromptu thing, organized by Libby, the building’s owner.”
“Libby . . . Libby,” Taft pretended to search his notes for a reference. “Libby Kaslauskas?”
“Yes. She’s the landlady.”
“She was the elderly woman who gave you a tour of the building?”
“Yes.”
“The elderly woman who even showed you the inside of her own apartment?”
“Well, yes,” Frankie said. “I suppose so.”
“You know, Mr. Downs, this Libby told us you were drinkin’ when you arrived at the building. Said she thought you might have been drinkin’ in the car. In fact, from what this woman said, you pretty much spent the entire afternoon drinkin’ in front of her. She said you even passed out drunk on the floor right there in the lobby. Is that true?”
“Oh, Frankie,” Tina muttered.
Frankie frowned.
“Yep, right there on the floor,” Taft continued, working the room. “Boy, if ya ask me, that sure is an unprofessional way for someone to be actin’ on a business trip. I mean, I’ve heard of businessmen stayin’ at the Ramada while attendin’ business conferences and such. Ya always hear stories about how these married boys behave when they’re alone in the Tiki bar, and their wife ain’t around. How ‘bout you, Mr. Downs? Do you have a wife?”
Frankie glared at the detective. This man has it out for me.
“There was an evening cocktail reception.” Frankie answered only the first part of Taft’s question, carefully choosing his words. “Arranged - and attended - by the building’s owner. Like everyone else in the room, I had a few drinks. Everyone, including Libby, I might add.”
Taft stared directly at Frankie. “So, ya don’t have a wife, then?” He was purposely making a scene.
“I don’t see how that’s relevant,” Frankie said.
“Oh, it is relevant, Mr. Downs. Very relevant, in fact.”
“Willie,” Detective Collekis, a little uncomfortable at Taft’s tone, cut in. “Maybe we should do this at the station.”
Taft ignored him. “Did you boys have sexxx?” Taft emphasized the word, making sure it could be clearly heard by all, even those in the offices down the hall.
Someone gasped. Frankie wasn’t sure if it was Tina or Rose.
“Tina, call the lawyer,” Frankie said.
“Err . . . Frankie . . . yes, I would,” Tina stammered, “but this seems to be a personal matter.”
“Personal matter?” Frankie couldn’t believe her response. “Tina, are you kidding me?”
“It’s awfully early for an innocent man to be lawyerin’ up like that, Mr. Downs,” Taft said. “Doesn’t look good when you do that, no siree.”
“Willie,” Collekis said, “Mr. Downs just asked for a lawyer.”
“I didn’t hear them exact wordss,” Taft said. He pronounced words with a lisp.
“Stop talking to him like that!” Gale snapped at Taft, loud enough to get his attention. Taft turned toward Gale, amusement dancing all over his face. “Who is this?” he chuckled. “You talkin’ to me, Sweetheart?”
“Does it look like I’m talking to myself?” Gale stepped forward.
“Aw, ain’t she cute?” Taft said to the room. He peered at Gale. “You a friend of this man, Darlin’?”
“Yes, I am.”
“You been his friend for a while, I take it?”
“Yes, I have.”
“Y’all spend time after work together? Goin’ shoppin? Goin’ antiquin’? Things like that?”
“Stop trying to humiliate him!” Gale said. “Even a half-assed TV detective has better manners.”
“Gale, language,” Tina begged.
“Vern, you wanna get this lady a glass of water?” Taft asked his partner. Collekis came around to Gale, but looked as though he agreed with her, though not quite enough to challenge his colleague. At least not yet.
“Why don’t you sit down, Darlin’?” Taft suggested.
“It’s okay, Gale,” Frankie said, staring directly at Taft. He was starting to realize what was actually happening here, but it couldn’t be done in this office. The location needed to change. “I can take care of this myself,” Frankie said to Gale. “I’m fine.”
“A man who does them kind of things to another man ain’t nowhere near fine.” Taft turned to Gale. “And it really makes me wonder what kind of ladyfriend would hang out with him. It really does. Especially one who swears at a policeman.”
Rose cleared her throat loudly.
Frankie quickly changed the focus.
“Tina, call Ms. Stein!” he yelled, pulling the attention back to himself. He was only just starting to grasp what must have happened after he left Peoria, but for the immediate moment, these public questions had to stop.
Looking directly at Taft, Frankie went on the offensive. “I believe what Gale was trying to say is that your line of questioning, and the manner in which you’re asking them, is highly inappropriate for the office of a Christian magazine. If there was a crime after I left, then of course I’ll cooperate fully with anything you need to ask, provided that you ask them in an appropriate manner, in the appropriate setting.”
Frankie quickly added a page from Tina’s playbook. “There is a certain decorum we maintain in these offices, Detective, and today you have broken that decorum. Because of your behavior, you have left me no choice but to seek legal council before I answer any further questions.”
Turning to Tina, Frankie addressed his boss directly. “Tina, I went to Peoria on magazine business, on an assignment that you gave me yourself. As I was acting in an official capacity, I expect official representation in this matter. Please call the lawyer - now.”
Frankie could see Tina weighing options in her head. She had no other choice.
“Rose, call Penelope.”
Frankie glared angrily at Taft. “This ends now,” Frankie informed him. “I want to see my lawyer.” He lowered his voice before adding, “And the next time you speak to me, Detective, I expect to be called Sir.”
* * * * *
Penelope Stein scowled as she sat with her legs crossed behind the wooden table. Her body was rigid, poised and icy calm, and her black Chanel suit made a dark contrast against the interrogation room’s dingy yellow walls. She was a drop-dead ringer for Lillith on Fraiser.
“Captain Adams, is my client under arrest?”
Sitting quietly next to Stein, Frankie watched Detective Collekis and his Captain, Marshall Adams. Though Taft had tried to participate in the session, Stein had forced him to leave, using phrases like bigoted, homophobic, and jaw-droppingly unprofessional to describe his behavior. She had already opened the questioning by threatening a lawsuit if disciplinary action wasn’t taken for Taft’s “wildly inappropriate” initial contact with Frankie. She meant it, too. Though Taft was no longer physically in the room, Frankie knew he was watching from behind the mirrored glass window.
Adams explained. “Multiple witnesses place Frankie Downs as the last person seen with Andy Conner before he was murdered. There was evidence of S&M-style sexual activity, and Mr. Downs’ fingerprints were matched to numerous leather items that were found at the scene.”
“I pulled your fingerprints from the data base,” Collekis told Frankie. “They were taken during your arrest for DUI on Harlem Avenue.”
“Mr. Downs, do you have a drinking problem?” Adams asked. He was alluding to Libby’s statement on how much Frankie drank at Beekman Place.
“I’m a social drinker,” Frankie conceded.
“You don’t consider your drinking a problem, then?” Adams asked.
“Absolutely not.”
“Then how do you explain your DUI? To most people, a DUI is a pretty good indicator that a person might have a drinking problem.”
“My DUI wasn’t that bad,” Frankie said, a bit defensively. “I was rated a Level 1, the lowest of five levels. I’m sure you can see that on my record.”
“There is no such thing as a good DUI,” Adams said. “The level of a DUI doesn’t matter. Any DUI means you were arrested for driving drunk.”
“That was seven years ago,” Frankie pointed out.
“And you’re telling me you’ve never driven drunk since?” Adams was relentless.
“What my client means to say,” Stein interrupted, “is that after receiving a low-level DUI in 2000, he successfully completed court-supervised monitoring almost seven years ago. His record has been clean since that time.”
“So, you haven’t been caught driving drunk in the last seven years?” Adams reworded the same question.
“Captain?” Stein tried to redirect the discussion. “I believe we’re here to discuss a murder.”
“Were you drunk when you left Andy Conner’s apartment?” Adams asked pointedly. “Did you drive home in that condition?”
“I had a drink in his apartment, but I was sober when I left.”
“Quiet, Frankie,” Stein took control. “The Peoria Coroner’s Office puts the time of Conner’s death somewhere around 4:30 in the morning. My client left Peoria at 3:30 a.m. He purchased gas at a Morris truck stop at 5:47 a.m., as well as coffee and a breakfast biscuit at a Morris Hardee’s. Both transactions were made by debit card, and I’m sure that Frankie is visible on at least three different security cameras at the gas station, as well as the camera at Hardee’s drive-through window. Tell me, Captain, how does one travel from Peoria to Morris in less than ninety minutes?”
She waited for an answer.
“You’ve got a big car with a big engine,” Adams told Frankie. “It’s a Cadillac, right? One of those old Eldorados? I remember those cars being pretty fast.”
Frankie’s silent glare pierced holes in the captain’s feable accusation.
“Anyone familiar with this state,” Stein continued, “knows there is no direct route from Peoria to Chicago. There are many different state routes one can take. Some are faster than others, but all involve two-lane, sheriff-patrolled highways. And even at that time of night, one is still impeded by darkness, changes in highway numbers, and small towns with aggressive speed limit enforcement.”
“That doesn’t mean he couldn’t have made it.” Adams was stubborn.
“Even under the best of circumstances, Morris is at least two hours and fifteen minutes from Peoria,” Stein insisted. “I don’t care what was found in Andy Conner’s apartment. It is not humanly possible for my client to have committed this murder.”
Settling back in his chair, Captain Adams released a slow, audible sigh. She’s right, he thought. Downs couldn’t have made it back that fast.
Penelope Stein didn’t miss a beat. “Now, returning to Dectective Taft’s behavior in the OldPlaces offices-”
Thump, thump, thump!
Someone knocked on the mirrored glass window. Excusing himself, Adams gestured for Collekis to follow, leaving Frankie and his attorney at the table.
The Captain closed the door behind them when they left.
* * * * *
“His story checks out,” Taft grumbled, handing over faxed copies of time-stamped security camera photos from a Morris truck stop. He looked through the interrogation room’s observation window, where Stein was whispering in her client’s ear. “We also pulled his credit card activity, and just like the bitch says, he gassed up at Mobil and bought food down the street.”
“You mean the lawyer?” Adams asked.
“Yesss,” Taft stretched his words. “The law-yer.”
“What should we do, Captain?” Collekis asked. “The timeline doesn’t coincide with the amount of time taken for the murder, or the time of death itself.”
“Well, Downs is definitely involved somehow.” Adams studied Frankie through the glass. “If he’s not the actual murderer, then he must be affiliated with the murderer. A friend, maybe. Or a drinking buddy. Someone from his circle in the city.”
“Ya want us to hold him?” Taft asked.
“No,” Adams grumbled. “We don’t have solid evidence. Not yet anyway. And certainly not after his laywer files her harrassment complaint.” Adams gave Taft a disapproving glare. “That, we will address in the privacy of my office.”
“Where should we go with this, Captain?” Collekis asked. “How should we proceed?”
“Pull his records,” Adams said. “See where Downs spends his money. Pull his credit. See what online service he uses. Search everything. You know the drill.”
“Will do,” Collekis said.
“Willie,” Adams said, making a hitchhiker’s thumb over his shoulder. “I want you out of sight when Downs and his lawyer leave.”
“I will, Capt’n. And, sorry.”
“Captain Adams?” Lisa, the front desk officer, popped her head into the observation room. “There’s a Detective Kellie Hogan on the phone for you. She says it’s urgent.”
“I’ll take it in my office,” Adams told her before turning to Collekis.
“Frankie Downs is free to go.”
* * * * *
Penelope Stein’s Mercedes splashed a puddle as it slowed to a stop in front of the OldPlaces offices. Stein turned to Frankie before he opened the door. “Just so we’re clear on this, my assistance today was only because this incident took place on OldPlaces property.”
“I understand,” Frankie nodded. “And thank you for that.”
“I am a civil attorney and a friend of Tina and Norton,” Stein continued. “I no longer represent clients in criminal court, and I strongly advise that you find council for yourself immediately.”
“I will,” Frankie’s head kept bobbing.
“Call this man.” Penelope gave Frankie a colleague’s card. “He is an excellent attorney, familiar with issues that relate to the men in your community.”
“Penelope, this isn’t a gay thing,” Frankie said a bit defensively, but stopped when he remembered how Taft’s behavior gave Stein the advantage in the interrogation room. He took the card. “Okay, then.” He opened the passenger door. “Thanks for your help. And the ride.”
“One more thing,” Stein got his attention before he left.
“Yes?”
“Until this matter is resolved,” Stein warned, “I strongly urge you to stay at home. Refrain from any behavior that might call attention to your nighttime activities. Good luck, Mr. Downs.”
“Thanks.”
The Mercedes pulled away. A few moments later, Frankie’s Eldorado did the same, jumping onto the Stevenson and heading uptown in the rain.
Two cars behind him, an unmarked sedan followed.
* * * * *
Alone in his office, Captain Adams hung up the phone. His face was ashen, and his eyes wide with worry, almost disbelief. For the past twenty minutes, Detective Kellie Hogan had shared a story that was no less than incredible, X-Files-like. He stared at the notes he had made on a yellow legal pad.
They read like a mystery.
In November 1980, a young gay man named William Delorenzo had been murdered in Peoria’s old Beekman Place Hotel, the same residence as Andy Conner. The crime scene from 27 years ago was hauntingly similiar to Conner’s murder, including Coca-Cola and clove cigarettes that forensics swore were at least seventy-five years old. If that wasn’t strange enough, there was another, more confusing similarity: Frankie Downs’ fingerprints were present at both murders.
“Impossible,” Adams was incredulous, but Hogan was insistent. She would send over reports that verified her findings as soon as the lab work was complete. Obviously, someone had erred, for in 1980 Frankie would have been only eleven years old. The 1980s fingerprints were those of an adult male, not a child.
Still, they do match, Adams thought. And that means that Frankie was connected to both murders, even if he wasn’t the one who actually performed the acts.
It had to be a relative.
“Jesus, Capt’n! This fruitcake’s into some weird fucking shit.” Taft entered the office without knocking. He held up a stack of freshly printed computer copy, and read them aloud like a shopping list. “Number 1, $750 for leather restraints from a place called Fetter’s - sheepskin lined, with double padlocks; Number 2, bondage videos from three different companies in San Francisco, $400; and Number 3, renewals to online magazines that specialize in bondage, discipline, and boys who like to be tied up and spanked.”
Taft added snidely, “Sounds like fun.”
“It also sounds like the perfect M.O. for our killer.” Adams was too lost in thought to criticize the wisecracks. He picked up his desk phone. “Downs lives on the north side, right?” he asked Taft while he buzzed Lisa.
“Spittin’ distance from Boystown, Capt’n.”
“That’s Belmont’s jurisdiction,” Adams pointed out.
Beep!
“Homicide,” said the voice through the speakerphone.
“Lisa, get me the Belmont Precinct. I need to talk to Captain Peter Novak. He generally works the night shift.”
“One moment, Captain.”
Thunk, thunk! Collekis knocked on the door politely but walked right in without waiting. He was carrying a stack of papers. “Captain, these are online records for Frankie Downs. Chatroom activity. He goes by the screen name CityRopes.”
“Got a screen name profile?” Adams asked.
“Yeah, but I’ll let you see it,” Collekis said. “I’m not going to read this out loud.”
“He on your buddy list, Vern?” Taft snickered.
“Willie, I’m sending you home.” The Captain was clearly irritated. He gestured for Taft to hand over Frankie’s bank statements.
“Jeez, Capt’n,” Taft complained. “I didn’t mean to piss off the lawyer.”
“That’s not it,” Adams said. “The smart-ass remarks have to stop. Do you understand? They stop NOW.”
“Yes, Sir.”
“Go home and get some sleep,” Adams continued. “Call me tonight at seven o’clock. You’re going on graveyard.”
Beep!
“Captain Adams?” Lisa’s voice sounded tinny on the speakerphone. “Captain Novak is not at work yet. Do you want to speak to the Captain on duty?”
“No, I really need to talk to Novak on this one.” He sighed before adding, “Call him at home, Lisa.”
“Okay. Hold on.”
“Vern, you stay here,’ Adams said to Collekis. “I’ll get with you once I’m finished talking to Belmont.” Adams turned to Taft. “ "Willie, go home. This isn’t a punishment, but something’s changed and I need you here tonight. It’s only temporary.”
“Aw, Capt’n-”
“Deal with it, Willie.”
Beep!
“Captain Novak is on Line 3,” Lisa announced. “And he says this better be good.”
Adams picked up the phone’s receiver, but didn’t immediately take the call. “Vern, gather everything we’ve got on Frankie Downs. Also, see if Peoria has uploaded their files on the 1980 Beekman Place murder yet. Some of those old cases aren’t in the system. Get ahold of Detective Kellie Hogan. She’ll know what to do.”
“Yes, Sir.”
“And close the door!” Adams yelled as Taft and Collekis left the office together.
The door clicked shut. Inhaling deeply, Adams gathered his thoughts before talking to the Belmont Captain on his home line. Even though Novak was a colleague, he clearly felt entitled to a higher level of respect, even admiration. He was hard enough to talk to at the station.
* * * * *
“Frankie? It’s Norton,” came the thick European accent on voicemail. “I’ve just finished speaking with Penelope Stein. She has alerted me to your situation and to the events in our office this morning.”
There was a pause.
“Frankie, both Tina and I have decided that it would be best for all involved if you don’t come into the office for a while. You can do your work from home.”
Well, they sure didn’t waste any time, Frankie thought.
“Tina also feels it best to hold off on your Beekman Place story. Perhaps you could write about something else,” Norton continued. “If you feel like writing, Tina suggested Lockport, maybe the old Dellwood Park dam, near Joliet? Anything is fine, Frankie. You’ve always had good judgment on what we consider appropriate subject matter. Whatever you choose to write, just send us the files through email. There is no need for you to come into the office.”
Norton’s voice took on an even more serious tone.
“Frankie, today was indeed unfortunate. Both Tina and I are praying for a swift resolution. Take care of yourself. Open your heart to God. Allow Christ to be your strength. But remember, you must ask Him for His help, yourself. You must be the one to take the first step. The Lord be with you, Frankie. You are in my prayers.”
Click. “End of new messages.”
Shutting off the phone, Frankie laid the receiver on the coffee table next to his laptop. Settling back on the couch, he stared blankly at the television, where a young Jake Gyllenhaal was talking to a man in a rabbit mask: “Do you really want me to wear that stupid bunny suit?”
“Watch the movie now, Donnie. I have something that I want to show you.”
Frankie covered his eyes with his hand.
Focus.
Frankie tried to relax, but his thoughts kept returning to Taft and the spectacle in the office that morning. In particular, he thought about Tina, and how his drinking had again directly affected her life, causing embarassment for her as well as himself. Frankie had known Tina for almost three and a half years now. She had always been kind to him, even when he didn’t deserve it. He had put Tina in a very bad position today, and whatever course of action she decided to take would be completely his fault.
Completely.
* * * * *
When Frankie first came to Chicago, he had planned on returning to college. He did have a few years of community college under his belt, but no degree, so he got a job as a waiter, the typical path for gay men in his situation. It all started out well and good. Frankie planned to save tuition money, finish his associate’s, and hopefully transfer to Columbia where he could pursue his passion for writing. But saving money wasn’t as easy as expected, and he ended up waiting tables for almost three years before landing his first writing job, still with no degree.
Back in 2004, Frankie joined Gay Chicago Magazine. The pay wasn’t much, and despite his familiarity with the scene, he really hated the assignments he was given. He had never wasted time in trendy nightclubs, and he especially disliked the frivolous “special events” at these places, affairs that required his attendance in order for him to write about them later. From drag shows to pride parades, each experience seemed worst than the last, and Frankie had to keep telling himself, “It pays the rent . . . it pays the rent . . . it pays the rent . . . ”
Gay Chicago.
What was he thinking?
It was kind of funny, looking back on that job. Frankie would submit a story about a new club or a sidewalk festival, but he always found ways to tie in the neighborhood’s history, telling what a building was before it became a club, or how a new gay-owned business affected lifelong residents whose street was changing with the times. The underlying theme to almost all Frankie’s Gay Chicago articles was that the modern city had been built on the recycled sites of older, more interesting places. Writing for the magazine brought in a steady paycheck for a couple of years, but eventually Frankie’s boredom got the best of him. He desperately needed something more satisfying, a job that made him feel like he wasn’t wasting his life.
So he sent out resumes.
Oddly enough, it hadn’t been OldPlaces where Frankie first met Tina. He met her at a church of all places, an Oak Park cathedral designed by Frank Lloyd Wright. It was hard to remember now, but on the morning Tina introduced herself, Frankie was acting like a “foxhole Christain,” recovering from the aftermath of an especially disturbing bender. He was so hung over on that specific morning, he had no idea Tina was interviewing him for a job.
By that particular Sunday, Frankie had ten solid years of alcoholism under his belt. He had started drinking in his early twenties, and like many gay men who grew up in rural Illinois, he picked up the pace when he relocated to the city. Chicago was an exciting place for any single man to live, but its thriving nightlife was a dangerous temptation for an alcoholic. Between busy bars and easy sex, it was not uncommon to lose days, weeks, or in Frankie’s case, months at a time.
* * * * *
For a drunk in the gay scene, one of three things could happen. The first outcome was by far the best: sober up, settle the tab, and find a life partner who had grown out of the clubs. Boystown was a trap, a modern Twilight Zone where time never changed. As long as a man stayed in reasonable physical shape, it didn’t matter how old he was. The liquor flowed and the bartenders were friendly.
The Halsted clubs were packed nearly every night of the week, with crowds that ranged from 20-year-old twinks to men in their forties fighting time with low-carb diets and daily workouts. In their song In Denial the Pet Shop Boys accurately called gay life “a fantasy world,” where the “queens and fairies and muscle Marys” fueled a false reality that existed only at night. And if a man didn’t wise up in time, he would find himself in the second, more somber phase of gay life, where the spiral quickened into a whirlpool.
Or more specifically, down a drain.
* * * * *
Even if he wasn’t conscious of his choice, if a gay man hadn’t quit the clubs by his 35th birthday, it was almost impossible to avoid turning fifty on a bar stool. Diet and excercise were all well and good, but if he was still a heavy drinker at thirty-five, little could be done to reverse what he’d enabled.
On any given night, Chicago’s clubs were filled with well-dressed men wearing pressed shirts, crisp slacks, and shiny lace-up shoes. They were the forgotten studs of the ‘80s, men who were young twenty years ago. They were the regulars, the bar trolls, the middle-aged men who never danced but always bought the young guys drinks. In their bathroom mirrors, they still saw fresh faces, but as the years rolled by, cruising the bars had become as routine as driving to work every morning.
The regulars knew everybody’s name.
The regulars were always glad you came.
The regulars usually sat with the same people, in the same clubs, on the same nights, typically on the same side of the bar. Though they never said “no” to a one-nighter, they looked more for companionship than sex. They cruised the clubs because it was what they’d always done. They found reassurance in the familiar, the same friends, the same places. The regulars made easy targets for escorts, gigolos, addicts, and cute young losers who were hoping to score a sugar daddy.
This was especially true when the bartender yelled, “Last call!”
* * * * *
There was a third path that could take a gay man’s life, and in a strange sort of way, that was how Frankie met Tina.
Beyond the mainstream clubs, a few streets west of Halsted, The Eagle waited for the men who were still too virile to reminisce of better days. There were no showtunes on the sound system, no Member’s Only jackets at the bar. The Eagle was the gateway to a private world, the gathering place for experienced men to mingle with the young. The Eagle’s code of conduct was unlike any Boystown dance bar, and in order to pass the bouncer, one had to embrace its rules.
The first rule was simple: age does not equate unattractive. Maturity meant practiced, a quality the younger men respected.
The Eagle blurred the 1970s with the Internet, where the men of thirty years ago shared a bond with those today. Sex was common ground. Knowledge was delivered with tradition, discipline, and the skills of seasoned masters. The Eagle was selective with whom it allowed to enter, and unlike the bars of Halsted, it was not for the faint of heart.
Sometimes, a middle-aged gay man did leave Halsted before he became a regular. Though he wasn’t ready to settle down, his libido was strong, and he wanted to play. For a man like that, the Eagle was a natural progression, the alternative to the type of repetitive vanilla sex that killed a cock through boredom.
And for a man like Frankie, whose sex drive was driven by games rather than intimacy, the Eagle allowed growing up to be put off for another eleven years.
* * * * *
“You look like you’ve had a rough night,” Tina had said on the morning she first met Frankie. “Welcome to our church. We have a social hour on Sundays. Would you like to stay for a cup of coffee?” Tina had smiled before gently adding, “You really look like you could use one.”
Two hours earlier, after an especially heavy bender, Frankie had woken up in a near state of panic. It was the day after Paul’s burial, and Frankie had been shit-faced for a solid 48 hours. He vaguely remembered bringing a trick home the night before, and though Frankie had blacked out sometime during the act, the state he found his bedroom in showed the aftermath of behavior he could never forgive himself for.
I fucked up bad, he had thought. I let myself lose control.
Looking in the bathroom mirror that morning, he didn’t even recognize the man looking back. After puking up his guts, Frankie threw himself together and left his apartment as quickly as possible. He had done something unthinkable, and he needed to get his head together before tackling the mess left behind. He got in his car and drove, his memory as lucid as a blackout, with no destination in particular.
He just needed to leave.
To go.
To get the hell out of there.
To put as much distance as he possibly could between himself and the evidence.
In hindsight, it must have been fate that morning. Frankie hadn’t been in a church since his parents took him as a kid. He couldn’t even remember why he’d driven to Oak Park in the first place. But when he’d seen the big prairie-style building through his windshield, he could hear himself say, “No one would ever look for me in a church.”
Inside the cathedral, Frankie felt all eyes on him when he sat down in a pew by the exit. Tina joined him a few minutes later, taking an aisle seat so she could pass the collection baskets later in the service.
She smiled at me, Frankie remembered. Her smile had been enough to keep him seated for the duration. Later on, after inviting Frankie for coffee, Tina had introduced him to several parishioners, leading him through the church basement like the first time Paul had shown him the Eagle. In the hour that followed, Frankie gave Tina a heavily censored recap of his past, including his search for another job and maybe some meaning in his life. When he was finished, Tina told him of a vacancy at OldPlaces and suggested he send his resume and samples of his writing. The next day, Frankie did just that. Three days later he found himself in a formal interview with Norton. And two weeks after that, Frankie started his new job. Tina showed him around the office, introducing him to the staff.
She had been so damn kind at first.
It was Tina who had given him a chance, and for the past few years, OldPlaces had provided a stability that few employers could deliver. Though Frankie still wrestled with his “nighttime behavior,” it was his job that kept him grounded, an anchor that kept the boat from drifting. Most important, it had been Tina’s kindness on that morning after Paul’s funeral which gave Frankie the courage to return to his apartment and deal with the mess.
But now, that anchor was unmoored.
* * * * *
Sitting on his sofa, Frankie felt trapped in his own apartment. He was a suspect in a murder, his job was clearly in jeopardy, and he felt like a pawn in events that were about to spin out of control. And now, with the message from Norton, he knew that his life could never be the same.
No more stability.
No more comfort in routine.
No way to change his mind.
No way to close Pandora’s Box.
Staring out his living room window at the Chicago skyline, Frankie twisted the cap off a full bottle of whiskey. He didn’t even hear the seal break.
He took his first drink directly from the bottle.
* * * * *
Detective Kellie Hogan stared at the contents of the 1980 evidence box. She had spread the bags of physical items out on the table: blood-soaked sheets, leather restraints, bags containing old Coca-Cola bottles and clove cigarettes, and crime scene photos taken in William Delorenzo’s apartment. The similarities between the two murders were undeniable, down to the position of the bodies, the arrangement of the rooms, and the elaborate bondage used to restrain and torture the victims. More important, the deaths were identical in cruelty, the same sexual deviance shared by one individual killer.
This was no copycat. It had been done by the same person.
But how can the fingerprints be the same? How can the DNA be the same?
The DNA had come back from Andy Conner’s death this morning, and less than an hour ago, preliminary tests from Delorenzo’s murder were available. The same semen was found at both crime scenes. Further tests were underway to confirm the 27-year-old Delorenzo findings, but it was looking good for a match. The lab was 90% sure the samples came from the same man.
Same men, Kellie thought. There were two men at each crime scene. Frankie is the obvious suspect for last night’s killing, but what about Delorenzo’s death in 1980? Frankie Downs was still a child.
“It’s still going to take some time,” Rollings announced, entering the room. “The lab wants to be sure, so they’re being very careful, but I can honestly say you’ve peaked their curiosity, Kellie. I’ve never seen them so excited about a case. It’s like watching an episode of CSI.” He stared at the evidence on the table.
“You didn’t tell me that an ashtray was emptied into Delorenzo’s mouth,” Rollings said.
“What?” Kellie looked up.
“An ashtray,” Rollings repeated. “Emptied into Delorenzo’s mouth postmortem. After the murder. After the fact.”
Kellie seemed puzzled. “An ashtray?”
“That’s what I said.”
“An ashtray was emptied into his mouth?” she repeated.
“Don’t sweat it, Kellie,” Rollings said. “Like you said, it’s an old case, before you were even on the force. You said you just heard the story, so you probably didn’t have all the facts. They’re all here, though. In the report.”
“But I think I would have remembered a detail like that,” Kellie said. “You did just say an ashtray was emptied into his mouth?”
“Kellie, chill. Just read it a little closer. And look at these.” He pointed to the crime scene photos, close-ups of the body still tied to the bed. “Sometimes you can get just as much from the visuals.” His finger stopped at Delorenzo’s open mouth, stuffed with ashes and used cigarette butts.
“We found the contents of his mouth,” Rollings continued, “but DNA is inconclusive. It’s a combination of saliva from the victim and saliva from the smoker, the assumed killer. But the sample wasn’t stored very well to begin with, and after sitting on the shelf for almost thirty years-”
“We can’t get a match.” Kellie finished his sentence for him. She stared at the picture.
“I can’t believe I missed that,” she said.
“It’s all right, Kellie.” Rollings reached over her shoulder and pointed to the original detective’s report:
The contents of an ashtray with twelve smoked clove cigarettes appeared to have been emptied into the victim’s mouth post mortem.
“It’s an old report,” Rollings told her. “And you said you already had an idea of what was in it. So you probably just skimmed it and missed the part about the ashtray. No sweat. You just needed a fresh set of eyes, that’s all.” He looked at her and smiled faintly. “The question now is what do you want to do with this?”
Silence.
Detective Kellie Hogan couldn’t answer at first. She was staring at her computer screen, which now displayed Frankie Downs’ drivers license photo.
She had seen this man before.
* * * * *
Work on the story, Frankie told himself. No matter what’s happening, you need to keep moving forward.
With a fresh drink in hand, Frankie returned to the sofa. He had been pacing his apartment all afternoon. After replaying Norton’s message a few times, he realized that he wasn’t officially fired, just on a brief leave while the investigation unfolded. His buzz helped keep that thought intact.
See what you can find on Bill Roanoke.
Turning to his laptop, Frankie minimized Word before signing online and pulling up his saved searches on Beekman Place. The first one was a basic search, general information on the name, with numerous hits on One Beekman Place at the northeast corner of Mitchell Place in New York City. This was Auntie Mame’s building, the setting made famous in Patrick Dennis’s novel and subsequent movies and musicals.
SEARCH: Beekman Place
The Midtown Book...Sutton Place area
One Beekman Place
by Carter B. Horsley
The most prestigious Beekman Place apartment building is, appropriately, One Beekman Place, which was designed by Sloan & Robertson and Corbett, Harrison & MacMurray and completed in 1929.
Sipping his drink, Frankie reread the history of Manhattan’s Beekman Place apartments. Nothing out of the ordinary there, just descriptions of the building and the architectural firms that built her. As Frankie had explained to Libby, Peoria’s Beekman Place had been completed almost a decade before its New York counterpart. There was no mention of Bill Roanoke in any links on this search, nor was Roanoke involved in the Manhattan construction. Frankie moved to the next file.
SEARCH: Beekman Place Peoria Illinois
Peoria Area Information-Comprehensive Web portal, Live, Work, Play, Shop...
McLean Co., Illinois Obituaries-HW Everest, Eli Fischer and many others were often in the home of JE Beekman...1991 Source: Peoria Journal Star...Illinois St. Andrew Society Members-Membership Applications for the Illinois St. Andrew Society 1900-1967; Beekman Place, New York, NY...<B>Once is not enough for ICC<B>-East Peoria-Just two days before Illinois Central College’s...
Twenty-three hits of nothing, Frankie thought. The same was true for searches in The Peoria Journal Star, the City of Peoria’s municipal archives, The Historical Society of Greater Peoria and East Peoria, and all of Frankie’s usual databases. Frankie even had a friend in Peoria who had spent the better part of three days digging through the physical records of the Peoria County Registry. No luck, and Frankie owed him dinner and drinks for his time.
Closing the Beekman Place files, Frankie thought back to Libby and his tour of her apartment building. “Ah, Mr. Roanoke,” she’d said. “He was a special friend of mine, you know.”
He Googled Bill Roanoke.
Bill Cochran’s Outdoors-Sportsman invited to talk issues-the Roanoke Times on the web: News of Roanoke, New River Valley, Virginia Tech Hokies...
Bill’s Auto Sales-Automotive-Roanoke, VA 24013-1455-Citysearch...
Mr Bill’s Hairstylist-Beauty & Fitness-Roanoke, VA 24011...
Nothing.
Frankie tried several more variations of Bill Roanoke, combining the name with Peoria, Beekman, Illinois, Manufacture, Family, Building, and every other variation he could think of. On a whim, he typed Bill Roanoke Whiskey into the search box.
There was a hit.
His eyes widened when he saw the subject line:
The Queen-Pin of the Underground Railroad:
Bill Roanoke and the Smuggling of Prohibition Whiskey
by Darrel Conner
Photographs by Andy Conner
Seeing Andy’s name startled Frankie. He clicked on the story, finding a locally published article in a defunct college paper. From the credits, Darrel Conner was listed as a Bradley University history professor. Andy, it appeared, was his son.
In the sobering days that followed Prohibition, the Chicago mafia was faced with a dilemma: who could supply the liquor for a growing network of speakeasies and illegal drinking establishments? With frequent raids and aggressive early law enforcement, the Chicago-based suppliers had proven unreliable, frequently changing locations in an effort to avoid detection. It would be many months before the mafia found effective control of the police, but in the meantime, the Chicago kingpins were forced to look outside their city for a supplier who kept the liquor flowing, unaffected by the spotlight. That supplier was Bill Roanoke. (1-A)
Bill Roanoke was the only child of Charles Roanoke (1-B), a Lithuanian immigrant who owned three breweries and one distillery in Peoria Heights in the late 1890s. In the era when sons were expected to follow their father’s footsteps, Bill disappointed Charles in numerous ways, the least of which was an initial lack of interest in the family business. This was especially troubling for a man who had sacrificed a lifetime to build a legacy for his family. In order to understand Bill’s partnership with the mafia, one must first understand his relationship with his father.
Frankie continued reading:
Charles Roanoke arrived in America at the age of twenty-seven. With a “fortune” of $472, he worked his way to Illinois, settling in Peoria in 1852. (1-C) Ambitious and intelligent, Charles supported himself as a laborer (treating and sealing whiskey barrels), working long hours with little pay. As time went on, Charles caught the attention of his supervisors, who gave him more responsibility. Recognizing Charles’ potential, the distillery owner provided opportunities toward higher & better positions. As of 1864, Charles had saved enough money to open a small distillery (1-D), an operation that flourished due to later expansion into Chicago (utilizing the Illinois River as a means to transport products). (I-E) By 1885, the Roanoke Beverage Company rivaled the largest distillery in Peoria.
It is believed that Charles Roanoke met Elizabeth Armstrong (I-F) sometime in the summer of 1871. A brazen woman, Elizabeth was an odd match for Charles. He was a devout Catholic, forty-seven years old, while Elizabeth was a free-spirited agnostic, twenty years his junior. The two wed in 1872, after Elizabeth converted to Catholicism (an act that was largely regarded as for show), and as a wedding gift, Charles named a street after the family, commissioning a home that overlooked downtown Peoria. In 1874, Elizabeth gave Charles a son, whom they named William. Sadly, Elizabeth died during childbirth, and Charles was left to raise Bill alone. He found the duty impossible with his demanding business schedule.
Alone in his father’s house, Bill Roanoke was raised by nannies (I-G), many of whom had been hired by Elizabeth in the months before her death. The young Bill Roanoke enjoyed the solitude that came with his father’s absence. He was often seen playing in the yard, talking to himself and parading in Charles' top hats and overcoats. As Bill was an effeminate child, Charles worried about his son’s direction in life. In 1888, fourteen-year-old Bill was enrolled in The Addison Institute For Boys in Chicago (I-H), an act that Charles hoped would both toughen Bill up and groom him to run the family business. Unbeknownst to his father, Bill’s experience in the city would have the opposite effect.
Frankie raised an eyebrow. Though he had come across references to Bill Roanoke’s sexuality in earlier searches, Darrel Conner’s story had more information than all searches combined. This was exactly what he needed to find.
The Addison Institute was a strict, military-style school. Though the education it provided was impressive, the Institute had no tolerance for Bill’s flamboyance and free-spirited thinking. As Chicago rebounded from the Great Fire, Bill watched its Bohemian residents from behind the restrictive college gates. Over time, young Bill Roanoke found ways to sneak out of the Institute and spend many nights finding comfort (and companionship) within the city’s growing Red Light districts, specifically those places frequented by gay men. In 1891, Bill Roanoke was expelled from the campus for indecent, immoral behavior. Though the specific charges remain unclear, it is believed they involved Bill’s obvious homosexuality. Within three days of the expulsion, Bill returned to Peoria. Charles Roanoke refused to accept his son’s sexual deviance; he kept Bill at his side, teaching him the liquor business while keeping an eye on him. (1-I)
Having allowed others (none of which shared Charles’ own sense of right and wrong) to raise his son, it was ironic that Charles assumed such an active role in Bill’s coming of age years. Charles knew his son needed guidance, and despite the strained circumstances surrounding Bill’s return, teaching Bill the business was a way for Charles to bond with his straying son. Though the next eight years were far from easy, Charles succeeded in encouraging Bill’s own potential, forming over time a civil (but precarious) father & son relationship. Unfortunately, tragedy would prevent the two from fully reconciling their differences.
Frankie finished the last of his glass.
In 1899, Charles Roanoke died after suffering a stroke. The now-incorporated Roanoke Beverage Company was willed to Bill, the only heir. (1-J) Bill Roanoke had never wed, of course, and he suddenly found himself in a position of great personal & financial freedom. Though Peoria was a booming town, it offered little for a gay man who had tasted life in the big city. Bill seized the opportunity to take the money and run.
Entrusting the business to the oversight of the corporate Board, Bill returned to Chicago (1-K) and to the Bohemian neighborhoods he missed so much. For the next twenty years, Bill Roanoke had little to do with his father’s company. Like a child in a playground, Bill lived the life of a playboy in the night-oriented Chicago gay scene in the days leading up to Prohibition. At the age of forty-five, Bill briefly returned to Peoria, to attend the grand opening of The Beekman Place Hotel. (1-L)
Frankie clicked on the 1-L photo link. His computer screen blinked, opening a black and white photograph that appeared to have been taken in an old Chicago nightclub. It looked like some sort of gala, with balloons and streamers and a banner across the back wall that read Happy New Year 1919. The tuxedoed men overwhelmingly outnumbered the women in beaded flapper dresses , and the figure in the center of the photo in black tie and starched collar, with a full champagne glass in his hand, was clearly Bill Roanoke.
Frankie examined the picture closely. Noting Bill’s salt and pepper hair and devious smile, Frankie pegged him to be around forty-five at the time. The men immediately surrounding Bill were all obviously gay, with the childlike expressions of Stan Laurel from the old Laurel & Hardy comedy team. As Frankie stared at their faces, he imagined the excitement of the party and wondered what kind of opening they were celebrating.
And then he saw the answer.
Though the background was dark, he could just make out the wall where the banner was hung. It was hard to see at first, but once his eyes made the connection, details became clearer, visible between the bodies of the revelers. Frankie saw the elevator doors, and the circular hissing cat logo. Immediately behind Roanoke’s coattails, he could just make out the letters “R-A-D” and “L-D” on the closed elevator doors. Frankie was quite familiar with that logo. Bill Roanoke was standing dead center in front of the words Radio World.
This photo was taken when Beekman Place was new.
Frankie leaned back into his sofa, holding his chin with his hand. He sat there for several minutes as the sounds of the long-forgotten party echoed through his mind like ghosts. It took a few moments for a second, even more important discovery to emerge from the picture. In the photo’s background, left of center and almost directly behind Bill Roanoke, stood a woman in a black cocktail dress. Her shape had almost been lost in the grainy image, but it was definitely there, hidden among the black tuxedos. When Frankie looked closer, he could even make out the shape of her shiny, black cigarette holder poking out from behind someone’s shoulder. Her face was undeniable, and the sound of her Penguin voice seemed to rise up from the picture.
“Libby, exactly how old are you?”
Pouring another drink, Frankie gazed out the window before continuing to read about Bill Roanoke’s disappearance.
* * * * *
Detective Janeane Lavinski sat at the desk inside her tiny squad room cubicle. She was a 38-year-old woman, with wavy black hair pulled back in a ponytail. People often mistook her for Italian, until they heard her last name. Her face was void of makeup, with angry eyes glaring from behind tortoise shell glasses.
She cringed.
“Do you have to eat that here?” she asked, disgusted. “We have a table by the vending machines. It has a vinyl tablecloth. It’s like a dropcloth, especially if you tuck it in like a bib.”
“Mmmm, I’m fine.” Detective Taft’s lips were wet with sour cream. He made no effort to cover his mouth when he talked.
Janeane threw a box of Kleenex at him. “Wipe your mouth.”
“Thanks, Darlin’.”
“I’m not kidding, Willie. You look like a rabid dog.”
Taft grinned seductively. “Is that you way of tellin’ me, ‘woof?’”
“Woof, Willie? What are you? Twelve?”
“I got twelve inches for ya, Darlin’.”
“Jesus,” Janeane muttered, closing her eyes and rubbing her temples. It was people like Taft who made her transfer to the Belmont night shift in the first place. The good ol’ boys who grew up downstate, she thought. Rednecks, pigs, close-minded hicks, farmers who married the first girl they fucked . . .
The men I grew up with.
“So, is this your daddy?” Taft licked his fingers before reaching for the framed picture on the corner of Janeane’s desk. The photo, a young cop in his early days on the force, had been taken professionally in the 1960s. A 22-year-old John Lavinski appeared both stern and happy as he posed with pride in his crisp dress blues.
“Can you please not get spit on my father’s picture?” Janeane snatched the frame from Taft. She gently returned the photograph to its proper spot, next to a second, smaller picture of a different young man who also wore a uniform. The two photos were the only personal items kept on her desktop, and from the way she displayed them, it was clear they meant a great deal to her.
“That your boyfriend?” Taft pointed to the smaller photo. “Is he into all this science fiction crap, too?” Taft scanned Janeane’s work area, staring at the collection of Star Wars, Star Trek, Xena, and Battlestar Galactica memorabilia that shared the walls with old case notes. Though her desk was clean and functional, the walls were a cluttered mess.
“Yer boyfriend a cop, too?” Taft asked as he wadded his burrito wrapper into a ball. The smaller picture seemed much newer than her father’s, though he didn’t recognize the uniform.
"That’s my brother.” Janeane voice was flat.
“Your brother’s a cop?” Taft asked.
“No,” Janeane answered. “My brother’s dead.”
“Whoops. Sorry, Darlin’.” Taft was too uncouth to be embarrassed. “So, was he a cop before he died, then?”
Janeane gritted her teeth. “Willie, let’s not get too personal here,” she said, stopping the questions. “We’re not going to be partnered for long, so there’s no real need to get to know each other.” She thought a second. “How long are you supposed to be here, anyway?”
“Don’t know.” Taft picked at his teeth. “The Capt’n just put this together today.”
“You’re working on a murder investigation?” Janeane directed the conversation to the case.
“Yeah,” Taft said. “Some homo got killed downstate night before last. Hooked up with the wrong dude and ended up tied to his own bed like them guys in that leather bar on Belmont Avenue.”
“Lincoln Avenue,” Janeane corrected.
“What?”
“Lincoln Avenue,” she repeated. “The bar is on Lincoln Avenue, not on Belmont.”
“Whatever.”
“Did the murder happen in your jurisdiction?” Janeane asked. “Is that why you’re here with me?”
“Naw,” Taft said. “Happened in Peoria, but the suspect lives up here. We questioned him at his job this mornin’, but he lawyered up and walked. Fuckin’ lawyers.”
“So why, exactly, are you here?” Janeane asked bluntly, cringing again at the thought of sharing a car with Taft. She had barely started her shift when Captain Novak told her she would be paired with a detective from a neighboring precinct. Her former partner had resigned last week, opting for a warmer climate and a spot with the Phoenix Police, or at least that’s what she’d told Janeane the day before she committed suicide. Janeane had been looking forward to desk work for the next few weeks, while her Captain scrambled to find her a compatible replacement. Detective Janeane Lavinski wasn’t exactly the easiest person to get along with these days.
“I’m here cuz I guess there’s more to the case than just a rotten fruit,” Taft joked, shrugging his shoulders. He settled back into his chair before adding, “The Capt’n must have thought that ya needed a big boy to help you out tonight.”
Janeane stared at the bursting buttons on Taft’s unironed shirt. She wondered how he passed the department’s fitness tests.
It was time to set some ground rules. “Detective, you should know that I take offense to derogatory terms about gay men. I would appreciate it if you didn’t use words like fruit and homo.”
“So you’re one of them sens’tive gals, are ya?” Taft, again, missed the point completely.
“I also take offense to the word gal,” Janeane added.
“Meow, Darlin’.”
Novak interrupted. “Sorry about the wait, Detectives. “I’m still on the phone with Peoria, but here’s what’s been put together so far.” He handed a file to Taft. “We’ll have a formal briefing in my office in about ten minutes. You can look over the file in the meantime.” He turned to face Janeane. “Lavinski, you’ve met Detective Taft?”
“Unfortunately.”
“Good,” Novak said. “You two will be partners for the next couple of nights, but I’m letting Willie take the lead since he’s already familiar with the case. He’s also questioned the suspect. We’ve got to move fast on this one, Detectives. This man is connected to two separate murders.”
“What man?” Janeane, angry at learning she had been relegated to subordinate, wanted to be up to speed.
Opening the file, Taft pushed it across the desk. He pointed at the photo from a 2000 DUI. “Him,” Taft said. “Frankie Downs.”
Janeane’s face lost color when she saw the file’s mug shot.
“Briefing in ten,” the Captain said on his way out.
Taft had noticed Janeane’s reaction. “You know this guy?”
Janeane shook her head. “He’s not one of the men in my life right now, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“Well, that’s a relief.” Taft stood from his chair and shot the crumpled wrapper into the trash can. It stuck to the side for a moment, leaving a wet spot when it fell in. “Cuz let me tell you, he sure ain’t your type.”
He patted Janeane on the shoulder. “C’mon, Darlin’. Time for us to rustle up a bowl of fruit loops.”
He left the office.
A moment later Janeane heard him yell to her from down the hall: “You comin’, Darlin’?”
“Give me a second!” she called back, still taken off guard by the mug shot. Janeane’s body went numb as she stared at the photo.
The crew cut. The clean shaven face. Eyes still fuzzy from a night’s worth of drinking.
It had been three years since she had last seen Frankie’s face, above a black suit and tie, hidden behind sunglasses. The last time she had looked at Frankie was the moment Paul’s coffin had been lowered into the ground. She had been unable to speak, so her eyes talked for her.
You caused this. You are the reason this happened. And I will never forget what you did to me!
It was the face of the man who had killed her brother.
Chapter Eleven
SPOILER ALERT: This is a chapter from deeper into the story
The City That Never Sleeps
How strong is your imagination?
Is it as active in adulthood as it was when you were young?
And I’m not asking the usual suspects: photographers, writers, cartoonists, theater guys – you know, creative types. I’m speaking to the average Joe: waiters, college students, policemen on the street. I’m thinking of the old ladies at church who’ve embraced the modern world; and I’m thinking of the big brown-truck drivers who read books on their breaks, in between running parcels.
A strong imagination is the perfect place to escape. Just because you don’t have a “creative” job, it doesn’t mean you don’t daydream to get through the stress of the day. I guess when it comes down to it, we’re all pretty much the same in that regard. We each have our own individual ways to cope, just in varying degrees.
But imagination’s not always a positive thing, especially when it’s a shelter to hide from genuine grief. When used in that capacity, it’s an addiction as devious as alcoholism, only harder to overcome because its bottle is internal. In a way, it’s like cancer, eating out our guts before finally reaching our skin. By the time it’s visible in the mirror, it’s become part of our reflection. We’ve been changed by grief, distorted by living with sadness. And it fills us with rage because it happened so gradually, the people in our lives assume it was there all along.
Assume we were always that mean;
always that drunk;
always talking to ourselves;
and always, always wanting to atone for a night eleven years ago that was just too sad to imagine . . .
Radio World
Her conscious mind flickered like bad fluorescent lighting.
The cabin was sideways.
There was grit in her mouth.
While the elevator was moving she had been blinded by pain - from her head, from her stomach, and from the place in her arm where the bone pinched the meat like scissors.
It hurt to move.
It hurt to breathe.
It hurt to try to see clearly.
More than anything, it hurt to even think, especially about the shard in her chest as her heart continued beating, straining to push blood through the damage.
So the mind wouldn’t let her go there, at least not at first.
The mind knew her body’s limits.
The mind knew her limits.
Ultimately, though, it knew its own limits, and that the real world continues, even with the brain offline. Crisis doesn’t need a cognizant eye to see it. The mind knows it’s there and can sense its approach like an instinct.
And it does what it must to protect itself.
Wake up, wake up, wake up . . .
The elevator stopped. The detective opened her eyes.
Ding!
The doors opened.
Snap, snap!
Shiny shoes and starched red pants. A glossy floor. A button from above stopped the doors halfway.
“Mr. Roanoke,” a voice above the shoes said, startled. “Are you all right?”
The man who took her was standing over her. “Yes, I’m fine.” The sound of dollar bills being peeled from a roll. “I do have a little situation here, though.”
The floor was marble. The walls behind it were marble, too. Money changed hands. “I’ll summon the doctor,” the shoes said.
More cash crinkled. “Oh, I don’t think that’s really necessary,” the man said. He sounded nervous. “I have a doctor at my bungalow. We can take care of her there.” There were other shoes in the hallway, passing by. Women’s heels, men’s oxfords, old-fashioned flats with buckles.
Money was shoved into the shoes’ shirt pocket.
“Mr. Roanoke, this is highly irregular.”
“I know, and I’m really sorry about this. My friends here . . . well, they’ve had a little too much champagne. And the ride got a bit bumpy.”
Women in beaded dresses. Wall sconces shaped like martini glasses. A waiter in a tuxedo. Two bellhops, pointing, approaching.
“Mr. Roanoke, with all due respect, a mechanical failure is a very serious matter. If you are suggesting-”
“Listen, Jeeves.” The man leaned close to the shoes. “May I call you Jeeves?”
“You may call me whatever you wish, Mr. Roanoke, but this woman is in need of a doctor!”
A bankroll of money was pressed into the shoes’ hand. When the man who took her next spoke, he kept his voice as quiet as possible. “Jeeves, I will make it worth your while if you save my friends from the embarrassment of calling a doctor.”
The shoes were still. More shoes stood behind them now. They were shiny with waxed laces.
“Again, Mr. Roanoke, this is HIGHLY irregular.”
Janeane noticed how the shoes had lingered on the name Roanoke.
“And I sincerely appreciate your discretion, Jeeves.”
Stay awake, stay awake, stay awake . . .
The shoes hesitated a moment, then stood on their toes and clicked their heels twice. He addressed someone behind him. “Get a wheelchair while I contact Mr. Roanoke’s Concierge.”
Then all the shoes went away.
“God DAMMIT!” the man who took her said, dropping his wallet on the floor. When he stooped down to retrieve it, he leaned on her injured arm to support his weight.
Black.
* * * * *
Snap, snap!
Like an appliance on a dolly, she found herself sitting, being wheeled down stairs, through what looked like a restaurant kitchen. Her head bounced like a rubber doll. She was behind two bellhops in purple uniforms with matching hats. On their shoulders they carried a man.
They were in a garage now, a large underground structure where many cars were parked. The cars looked strange, though. Old-fashioned. Elegant. The kind seen in old movies. There were people in the garage. Not many. All wearing different types of uniforms. No one looked at her, but when a limousine screeched around the corner and honked its goose horn, they got out of the way.
The limo pulled up alongside the bellhops. The man who hurt her was waiting by the curb. He was shaking the white-gloved hand of the shoes, a man who was wearing a bellhop’s uniform himself, only his was red. She shifted in the wheelchair.
The limo stopped.
It was an old automobile, from the ‘20s. A Rolls Royce. She could tell by the hood ornament. The man in red opened the car door. Frankie was gently placed inside. The bellhops in blue clapped their hands, getting off dust? They turned around. Came toward her. Lifted her. They tried to be mindful of her bleeding arm, butBlack-
* * * * *
Lights.
The first things she saw were lights.
She opened her eyes to a window. She was in the backseat of the Rolls. The vehicle was working its way through busy city traffic, passing buildings wrapped in neon, as colorful as the Vegas strip. There were twinkling signs and elaborate marquees, flashing nameplates, and the vibrant sparkle of fiber optics. Each street seemed more bustling than the last. As the limousine traveled, even its darkened windows couldn’t stop the passing lights from making shadows dance across her face. The buildings towered like those in Chicago, but she didn’t recognize the neighborhood or the manner of dress of the people on the sidewalks.
All of the cars are so old, she thought.
Turning at an intersection, the limousine seemed to be on a route leading away from the city. The buildings weren’t any less dense or colorful, but from her vantage point, Janeane could see an approaching darkness where the lights just seemed to stop, as though someone had built a downtown then forgot to add suburbs. She could barely make out trees in the glow of the acorn-shaped streetlights reflected in the river.
“How’s that arm of yours doing?” the man who took her asked. He was sitting beside her. “You enjoying the ride, Detective?”
Rich squeezed her cast intentionally.
Once again, Janeane’s world went black.
* * * * *
Pfft…!
When Janeane regained consciousness, her mouth was full of carpet.
She lifted her head with difficulty, as the blood from her ear had started to coagulate, adhering to the shag carpeting. She had been left face down on the floor, with the cast underneath her stomach.
Forcing herself upright, she rested her weight on her good shoulder. Her eyes focused.
She was in a gym, with workout equipment and mirrors along one wall. It was definitely the fitness center of a rich man. The room itself had upscale décor, with pale blue wallpaper and Tiffany lighting. Even the weight set looked expensive.
She felt for her gun, but her weapon, wallet, and badge had been taken. She sat for a moment to gather her strength, then rose to her feet and stumbled toward the door. As she suspected, it was locked.
Turning back toward the center of the room, Janeane took in more details of her confinement. In addition to the fitness gear, there were several white mohair chairs and a Ruhlmann cabinet that would fetch a hefty price at an antique store. Stumbling to the case, she found it locked as well. Her attention then moved to the window on the far wall.
Janeane was on the second floor of a large mountainside home, too high up to escape through the window. It was dark outside. I must have been out for a while, she realized. Despite her familiarity with the suburbs, she didn’t recognize this neighborhood at all.
Maybe I was taken north, past Waukegan .
Then the landscaping along the driveway caught her attention.
Palm trees?
She could see them in the headlights of an approaching car.
Pressing her hand against the glass, Janeane watched as a different vintage limousine came up to the house by way of a long, tree-lined driveway. The tall, slender palms were unmistakable in the beam of the headlights, evenly spaced and crowned with clusters of shiny leaves. They started at the road and came all the way to the house.
Focusing on the limo, Janeane could see a uniformed chauffeur steering the open-topped vehicle with white-gloved hands. The woman seated in back was black and well dressed. Even from this distance, she did not look happy.
The car disappeared from view when it stopped at the house’s main entrance.
The detective stumbled back. What happened to me?
Staggering to the door, she put her ear to the wood. Nothing. It’s too thick.
Facing the room, Janeane looked at the weight set, then to her plaster-encased arm. She couldn’t feel her wrist anymore, and the tips of her fingers were frighteningly purple. If she had been unconscious for as long as she suspected, she risked permanent damage if she didn’t receive medical attention immediately.
I have to get out of this room.
* * * * *
Her first thought was to use one of the weights to smash the lock, but when she tried to lift it, her legs buckled, forcing her to her knees in violent heaves. Her vomit came in spasms, soiling the carpet with bile and blood. She shivered and she coughed. The wall her mind had erected to mask the pain was quickly crumbling.
She didn’t have much time.
Crawling back to the door, Janeane examined its construction, noticing it was solid but built with old-fashioned hardware. The doorknob was glass, with a turn of the century lock that required a skeleton key.
She instinctively felt her body, searching for anything missed by her captors. It only took a moment before Paul’s credit card was pinched between her fingers. In another moment, the card was jiggling the bolt mechanism between the doorknob and the molding.
Click.
The lock popped. The detective opened the door and pulled herself out onto the landing. She forced herself to her feet.
* * * * *
The rectangular liquor bottles arranged behind the counter resembled a skyline. They were tall and transparent, with utilitarian patterns that looked like little windows within the glass. They had been lined in orderly rows, the smallest in front, and each was corked with an atom-shaped silver topper to keep its contents as fresh as possible.
And when Rich’s reflection came up to them, it reached right for the whiskey.
“Aches-cuze me My-ster Row-ah-noke. Meeez-Eye-vah’s ear to see Ya!” Standing in the foyer, Ms. Lovett, the housekeeper, spoke in an accent so irritating, it was enough to make Dickens cringe. Rich uncorked the bottle and swallowed several deep gulps before wiping his mouth on his shirt. He glared at the woman.
“Must you talk like that?” he complained, angrily. “I thought we had this conversation before.”
“We died. An om spikin’ the Qwine’s Eyengleesh. Jist like ya iced.”
Rich frowned. “I asked you to speak English,” he said, “not talk like some cum-burping gutter-slut who hasn’t had a day of schooling in her life!” He held the bottle to his forehead, but it wasn’t cold enough.
Lovett clasped her hands behind her dress, pushed her chin out, then asked politely for clarification. “An ow wood My-ster Rowanoke pryfer to ave me tawk then?”
Rich couldn’t hold back. “How about American English, you stupid cunt? Do you think you could pull that off? Huh? Pretend you’re a businesswoman? A good, old-fashioned, college-educated American businesswoman? Do you think that maybe, instead of the shit that just fell out of your mouth, you might try braining it up a bit?”
Silence.
Lovett understood completely. “Is this acceptable, Mr. Roanoke?” she purred in a deep, icy, almost bitchy tone. Placing a fist on her hip, she now stood with confidence. She had shifted one of her heels so it was slightly angled. “Is this the type of woman Mr. Roanoke prefers?”
She was being sarcastic, but at least he could understand it. “Much better,” Rich grumbled. “Thank you.”
He brought the bottle to his lips again. And again. “Now, what was it you were trying to tell me?” he asked when he was finished.
“Ava’s here,” Lovett said indifferently, turning her head when the front door closed behind her. Footsteps approached. Lovett raised a snide eyebrow. “Oh, look. She’s already inside.”
Ava entered the stateroom, beaming. “Hell-lo, Ms. Lovett! And how are you today?”
“Perhaps you should ask Mr. Roanoke,” Lovett seethed before pivoting on her heel and leaving. Her demeanor was dominatrix-like.
Ava smiled slightly as she adjusted her glasses. “Love-ly woman,” she said.
“I was just about to call you,” Rich said a bit too enthusiastically, ducking behind the bar. Ava heard the sound of ice falling into glasses, followed by pouring liquid. She smiled politely.
“And what a coincidence, Mr. Roanoke,” she said. “I was just about to call you! But then I thought, Why call? Why not just drop by!”
“And here you are,” Rich muttered.
Ava was a black woman in her forties, attractive and full-figured, with a scarf above her forehead that complimented her form-fitting black dress. She wore understated jewelry and high-heeled boots that stopped just below the knees. Her attire was the perfect cut to show off a sizeable bosom and well-defined bottom, and her movements were both stern and sexy, as if to say “You can look, but I’ll bite your hand if you touch.” She reminded Rich of a young Queen Latifah - not in appearance, but in the confidence with which she carried herself.
Never take Ava lightly.
“What are you drinking, Ava?” Rich set a glass on the counter. “How about a Manhattan? I’m having one myself. Should I make enough for two?”
“Oh, no,” Ava protested. “I’m really not much of a drinker, but thank you so much for offering.” Walking slowly behind the sofa, Ava ran her fingers along its posh, shell-shaped cushions. She had pasted a smile on her face. Her eyes darted around the room like a custodial supervisor making sure the staff had cleaned.
“Have I ever told you just how nice your house is, Mr. Roanoke?” she asked. “I mean, really nice. I’ve been inside lots of Hillside bungalows in my time, but yours just takes the cake. It’s so elegant. Forgive me for gushing but, well, this place is fabulous!”
“A tonic and lime, Ava?” Rich asked nervously. “Or maybe a Coke?”
“Oh, thank you again Mr. Roanoke, but I’d be afraid I’d spill something on this stunning white carpet. Just look at it! It’s so soft and cashmere-like. I can hardly see my shoes! I just want to get down on the floor, you know, and just . . . roll all in it!”
“A bottle of water?” Rich offered.
“And the color of these walls,” Ava went on. “It’s just so damn classy. It’s blue, but it’s more than blue at the same time. It’s just perfect against the white, and all the silver! I forget. What do you call this color again, Mr. Roanoke?”
Silence.
“Blue?” Rich guessed.
Cloudy day,” she said flatly.
“It is a little depressing,” Rich attempted to joke.
Ava tilted her head in an exaggerated slant and forced a smile so tight, it pinched her cheeks. “You know, Mr. Roanoke, I think I will have a bottle of water. If you don’t mind, of course. I am feeling a tad parched.” She fluttered her fingers by her throat. “I’m just as dry as a bone. You know,” Ava made some lizard-like movements with her tongue, “cottonmouth.”
Rich hid in the refrigerator. “Got it right here,” he said.
“How about you?” Ava asked, talking to his ass. “Are you parched, Mr. Roanoke? You seem somewhat disheveled today. I sincerely hope you’re feeling all right.”
I know I look a little rough, Ava. I had a long night.”
“I didn’t say look, Mr. Roanoke,” Ava corrected. “I used the word seem. There is a distinct difference. Listen to it: Look. Seem. Two totally different words with two totally different meanings.” She walked to the French doors and looked out. She could see the city lights just beyond the perfect hedge. “Nice view.”
Rich cleared his throat.
“Let’s talk about that long night, shall we?” Ava said.
“Ava, I can explain.”
“Get your ass out from behind that bar!”
Silence.
“What . . . the fuck . . . did you think you were doing . . . Bill?” Ava said the name Bill, clearly knowing it wasn’t real. She was well aware of this man’s true identity. She had been watching the Roanoke account for eleven years and was very familiar with its recent revisions, particularly those involving a Rich Pelonis.
“Did you think I wouldn’t notice?” she asked. “Do you think I’m not aware of where you’ve been going?”
“Please Ava, let me explain.”
“Do I need to go over the rules again, Rich? I know your membership is well established, but even our most long-term customers have times when we must gently remind them of how things are to be done.”
“I know the rules, Ava.”
“Do you?” she asked.
“Yes,” he said.
“Do you, really?
“Absolutely.”
“Then you understand that even though you don’t need to check in each and every time you use the elevators, you still need to tell me when you bring a guest.”
“I told you about Frankie a week ago.”
“I mean the woman, asshole,” Ava’s pleasantries vanished, “who . . . the hell . . . needed to be taken by wheelchair through the goddamn room service kitchen! Who is she, Rich? And where is she now?”
“Upstairs,” Rich said. “She’s really not feeling well.”
“I understand she’s in need of a doctor,” Ava said. “I’ve also noticed you haven’t called one yet. Did you forget how to use the Headline?”
“Of course not. I just haven’t had a moment to-“
“To call up the Headline?” Ava was outraged. “Oh, this must be a special woman, if she made you forget that. When can I meet the lucky lady? This woman who now gets to tell her friends that you’re her catch?”
Rich cleared his throat uneasily. “I said she’s not feeling well.”
“Oh, that’s right,” Ava remembered. “She’s sleeping upstairs. I am so sorry, Rich. Let me call that doctor for you.” Ava went to snap her fingers.
Rich stopped her. “Please don’t do that. I don’t want to embarrass her.”
“You mean being with you is embarrassment enough?” she asked. “What restaurant bar did you pick up this one at? Was it a Denny’s?”
“She’s a friend.”
“I love friends.”
“She’s a . . . you know. An unexpected friend.”
“Oh, those are the best kind!”
“Tomorrow?” Rich thought on his feet. “You can meet her tomorrow. Just let her get a good night’s sleep and-”
“And give you time to change your story?” Ava didn’t bite. “Not this time, Rich. You’re not going to hide behind ‘status’ again.”
Rich looked at the floor. “Well, since you mentioned status, I was led to believe the membership was unlimited.”
“Though the membership might be un-lim-ited,”Ava snapped, “you Sir, are not. Everyone follows the rules. No one is above them, not even those with upper-level accounts. Everyone understands this - especially Mr. Bill Roanoke.”
Silence.
Rich tried a different approach. “And you do work for Mr. Roanoke, right?” He kept his hand behind him so she couldn’t see it trembling.
“Don’t even try that shit with me, boy,” she seethed. “Now show that woman to me NOW or I will, quite literally, see that you disappear!”
Ava will help you.
“Ava?” a soft voice called from behind.
The black woman turned around.
The white woman swayed in the foyer.
“Sweet Jesus, child!” Ava said to Janeane. “Are you alright?”
“(no)” Janeane’s whisper was barely audible. Her face was the color of paper. “I th- think I n-need t-t-to g-go-” Janeane collapsed.
Ava spun on her heels. “JEEVES!”
A car door slammed, and the chauffeur ran into the house. “Put her in the car!” Ava told him. “Hurry!”
The driver swept the detective into his arms and ran to the limousine. Ava quickly followed, briefly pausing at the door for one last look at Rich. “This is so over!” she snarled, disgusted. And then she vanished.
A car door slammed again. Tires squealed.
Rich watched the car from the window, finishing his drink before calling up the Headline.
* * * * *
With the bungalow now behind them, the black Pierce Arrow shot down the sharp pitch of the driveway. Its tires shrieked as they turned onto the road, and the chauffeur drove much faster than was safe for the dangerous curves.
This area was the most exclusive in the city, the best of the best, inaccessible even to those who stayed in the private bungalows below. The street hugged a ledge that had been carved into the cliff’s natural terrain. When they reached the bottom, a gate opened automatically, clearing the way to Hillside Drive, the primary route off the mountain.
Streetlamps and windows whizzed by in smears of light. The chauffeur clutched the wheel like a NASCAR driver, taking curves so rapidly the car nearly tipped over.
Hillside Drive descended another half mile, and as they neared the base of the mountain, the road widened into a grand residential entrance. A long, stair-stepped fountain followed the final plunge to the bottom, stopping where a granite nameplate announced Hillside Estates.
The limo began to turn. “Floor it, Jeeves!”
A white spat stomped down on the pedal. And the big engine roared.
Janeane was jarred awake by her back hitting the seat. Her vision swirled in waves of light, color, and pain so intense it played tricks with her emotions. The limousine blared its horn, passing slower vehicles like a train. Her brain regained its focus, and when it did, she held her breath.
Her brother was suddenly the foremost thing in her mind.
I miss you so much!
And her first glimpse of the city was viewed through eyes of grief.
* * * * *
From her vantage point on the road, Janeane was just beginning to grasp the scope of her surroundings. Her hair flapped like a flag in the wind as the long car raced along the water of Outer Lake Shore Drive, overtaking vehicles that were at least seventy-five years old. She could now see the city lights glistening on the canal that circled the buildings like a moat. It was like Manhattan in the old days, when Rockefeller Center was new and the Empire State Building was the tallest on the island. The sight was literally breathtaking, and her brain had yet to decide if what it saw was real or a hallucination brought on by pain.
Stay awake, stay awake, stay awake . . .
The city was built in an almost perfect oval-shaped valley. The steep landscape of Hillside Estates was only part of a massive, single mountain wall that wrapped around the entire downtown area, with bungalows positioned like seats in a stadium. The mountain’s slope started gradually at its base, but grew sharper and steeper the higher it went. Hillside Drive was just one of many individual neighborhoods, all set in a way that allowed unobstructed views of the city.
Look closer.
By watching house windows and seeing where the streetlights ended, Janeane guessed that none of the roads had access to the valley’s uppermost rim. The further the limousine traveled, the more apparent it became that this place was completely enclosed, cut off from the ground above it, with no traditional ways in or out - by road, by rail, or even by air.
The rim had a definite edge, and Janeane could just make out a faint neon purple glow beyond the lip. From below, it almost looked like the valley had a roof, a sort of concave superdome ceiling. It feels like we’re underground, she thought. But didn’t the elevator go up?
She saw stars. A red bubble popped in her mouth. Spit drooled from the corner of her lips, and her teeth now tasted like metal. And she soiled herself.
“Jeeves!” Ava yelled. “Tell the hospital we have an emergency!”
“Already done, Ma’am!” the driver called back. He had dialed up the Headline the second they left the house. The chauffer pointed ahead, where police were blocking the entrance to the bridge. They had cleared a path for the limo.
With Janeane’s back against her chest, Ava held her as close as she dared. We only just met each other, Ava thought, closing her eyes. I’m not going to let death be my last memory of you!
“Hang on, Ma’am!” White-gloved hands wrenched the steering wheel sideways.
Screeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee…!
Tires squealed as the speeding limo fishtailed, accelerating through the turn and taking the bridge so fast it nearly went airborne. A hubcap went flying and sparks exploded like fireworks. The front bumper nailed the concrete, followed by the chassis. The limo quickly recovered, then raced beneath the neon gate that welcomed visitors to the city:
R A D I O W O R L D
Shh…No Talking!
The chauffeur sped onward until the car disappeared into the busy downtown streets.
* * * * *
“Did you ever see that movie Westworld, starring Richard Benjamin and Yule Brenner? I know - it was released waaaaay back in 1973, but some of you may remember it. And if you do, it’s a great way to explain the city.”
Janeane didn’t realize she was making a face at the Headline. Even Mrs. Brady wasn’t as syrupy as this narrator. The cheery way she spoke was literally making Janeane sick again. The detective shifted uncomfortably in her hospital bed, bringing her arm to her face, still amazed it had been repaired.
Completely repaired.
It was as though nothing had ever happened to it. There wasn’t even a scar. The Headline continued:
“Like Westworld, Radio World is a sort of futuristic amusement park with accommodations, dining, activities, and entertainment, all presented in the spirit of the Roaring Twenties.”
Mrs. Brady made a hand gesture to emphasize the word roaring. Janeane made a hand gesture of her own.
“You know, they say New York is the city that never sleeps. Well,” Mrs. Brady chuckled, “whoever came up with that slogan must have spent some time in Radio World. Not only is Radio World open twenty-four hours a day, but you may have noticed, it’s always night outside. And as we all know, nighttime is the best time to experience a place like Las Vegas, New Orleans, or in our case, Manhattan.”
Bored with the video, the detective’s eyes explored the hospital room. It was surprisingly large and almost completely white: white walls, white floor, white chairs, white table, and white examination bed. She saw no traditional light source; the walls themselves seemed to glow from within. It had been hours since Janeane had given up trying to make sense of this place. As far as she was concerned, all that mattered was that the doctors were knowledgeable and that they had made her feel better quickly.
Even if they did use Star Trek gadgets.
The detective had also given up on the irritatingly perky woman on the Headline, who clearly had been modeled after a commercial for Wesson cooking oil.
“So, don your top hats, gentlemen, and take your ladies by the hand. It’s time for a tour of Radio World, the greatest amusement park you’ve ever imagined!”
“Oh, God - make it STOP!” Janeane cried, looking for something to throw.
“Had your fill?” Ava’s legs asked, stepping through the two-dimensional screen, which hovered in the very air itself. The video played behind her, unaffected by her movements. “Should I shut it off?”
"YES!”
Ava snapped her fingers. The screen vanished.
“You remember how to work it?” she asked.
Janeane shook her head.
“It’s easy,” Ava explained. “You just point, snap your fingers, and say Headline.” She demonstrated, pointing a finger at the base of Janeane’s bed.
“Headline!” Snap!
A 6” x 12” square appeared in the air. It flashed blue for a second, before displaying the Radio World home page.
“Use your finger as a curser,” Ava said, touching the image. “You can drag the corners of the screen to make it bigger or smaller.” She adjusted the page to a 4’ x 8’ size. “And you can move it.” Ava grabbed the screen’s top and brought the entire image to the side of Janeane’s bed, then positioned it over her bed like a sex mirror. “You can open links with your fingers, or you can talk to it. But it’s easier to use your fingers at first to get used to it.”
"And I can do this anywhere?” Janeane asked, amazed.
“Anywhere in the city,” Ava said. “It’s like having a laptop that you never have to carry. And to turn it off-” she snapped again. The screen disappeared.
“See?” Ava said. “It’s simple. Now you try.”
“Headline.” Janeane said, snapping, pointing at the ceiling. The screen returned.
Ava looked up. “Okay, turn that off, Sweetie. Your doctor’s here.”
An Asian woman in a white coat came up to the bed. If their clothes were more stylish, the three women would have looked like a United World of Bennington ad.
“Hello, Ava,” the doctor said, then turning to Janeane, “Hello, Detective Lavinski. You had quite a nasty spill.” She touched Janeane’s arm. “Is there any pain?”
“A little,” Janeane admitted. “But really, not much.”
The doctor seemed unhappy. “I was afraid of that. You had significant damage to the nerves around your bone, and recovery time will be excessive. Possibly as much as three days.”
Janeane blinked twice. Three days - excessive? “I’ll try to cope.”
The doctor snapped by Ava’s chest, bringing up hospital records. She touched the screen a few times, then said, “Patient Lavinski, Janeane.”
A release form appeared on the screen.
“Sign here, please,” the doctor pointed. “And here.”
Ava signed with her finger.
Touch, snap! “Enjoy your stay, Ms. Lavinski.” The doctor left, smiling.
“Enjoy my stay in the hospital?” Janeane asked, after the physician was gone. When she looked back to Ava, the woman was grinning ear to ear.
“No, Sweetie,” Ava told her. “Enjoy your stay in the city. Now, let’s get you cleaned up.”
* * * * *
This page is missing.
“Why am I doing this again?” Janeane whined.
Ava smiled from behind her, reflected in the mirror. “I told you, you have to dress the part. Now, stop complaining and pick your ass out something to wear!” I am sooo getting tired of this.
Like a bride in a dress shop, Janeane stood in front of a three-way mirror, her arms outstretched like Jesus, a frown on her face. This was, quite literally, more painful for her than being crucified, even without the crown of thorns.
Ms. Lovett, the saleswoman, stood back to let her customer admire herself. “I think it’s just lovely,” she said, fluffing the ruffles. “And the color is stunning on you.”
“Do I look like Baby from Dirty Dancing?” Janeane snarled.
Lovett gave Ava an irritated look.
“I think what she means is no pink,” Ava politely explained. Sitting in her chair, Ava pushed the Headline aside to get a better view of the detective. She looked ridiculous.
“Perhaps a pant suit would be more appropriate,” Lovett snipped.
“Perhaps,” Janeane repeated. Holding her dress like a can-can dancer, she stormed into the changing room.
Ava smiled to herself, returning the Headline to her lap. She had just finished reading the file on Detective Janeane Lavinski, Chicago Illinois, 2007, and had noticed the asterisk at the bottom. She touched it, and was linked to an Associated Members screen.
Her smile disappeared when she read the file on Janeane’s brother.
“Might the lady prefer a style like this?” Lovett asked, a few minutes later. Janeane was in front of the mirror again, this time wearing a fitted gray jacket with matching pants.
“It’s a Chanel,” Lovett informed her.
“I feel like Kim Novak in Vertigo,” Janeane complained.
“Kim Novak was much prettier than you,” Ava told her, looking the suit over. “Now, quit the damn Siskel & Ebert and take a look at yourself. I think you look nice.”
“Well . . .” Janeane turned and peered over her shoulder into the mirror. The suit needed altering of course, but it sat well on her shape. And her butt looked good. That was important. “I think I can live with this,” she admitted.
Ms. Lovett seemed relieved. “Please step back into the dressing room, Miss. We’ll make the alterations while you wait.”
“I’ll need some shoes,” Janeane heard herself say, still admiring her reflection. “Maybe something black.”
Lovett smiled at Ava as if to say, thank fucking God! Ava had already done so.
“Excuse me, Ma’am.” A deliveryman approached and handed Ava a sealed envelope.
“Thank you, Jeeves.”
The page gave a quick nod then left.
While Janeane was in the dressing room, Ava opened the package and removed a newly issued credit card. Janeane Lavinski was embossed in shiny gold type, just below the logo. She put it aside.
Ten minutes later, Janeane again stood in front of Ava. “What do you think?”
The tailored suit now fit perfectly. Ava saw that Janeane had chosen a sensible pair of leather ankle boots, with a small heel and laces up the front. She smiled again, genuinely happy with how this turned out. “Now don’t you look nice!”
Ava stood and stepped up to Janeane, put her hands on her shoulders, and turned her to face her reflection. The detective was smiling now. Ava ran her fingers through Janeane’s long hair. “You have such pretty hair.”
Janeane blushed.
“Get me one of those hairclips,” Ava told Lovett. “One that looks like a bug.”
“Does Madame mean the scarab?” Lovett asked.
“Yes, please. The scary one,” Ava said.
Lovett scurried off again.
With her hands still on Janeane’s shoulders, Ava placed her own head next to the detective’s. They looked in the mirror together, their eyes side by side. “You know you look good,” she said to Janeane’s reflection.
Janeane knew.
“Here you are.” Ms. Lovett handed Ava a velvet box.
Ava opened it and took out a shiny blue and gold dung beetle with turquoise wings that hid a long clip. Pulling Janeane’s hair back, she brought the long curls together with the pin. Once secured, she stood back and smiled. “Done!”
“Will this be on Ms. Lavinski’s account?” Lovett asked.
“This one’s on me,” Ava said, handing Lovett her personal card.
The clerk smiled happily, before disappearing again.
“What do you think?” Ava asked Janeane. “You like?”
“I love,” Janeane admitted, still unable to pull herself from the mirror. She had never had a suit this nice before. She rarely bought clothes anywhere other than Kohl’s. “How much is this going to set me back?” Janeane asked. “I don’t expect you to pay for this.”
“As I said,” Ava repeated, “this one’s on me. One outfit. If you buy anything else, you’ll need to use your own card.” Ava handed it to her. With the exception of the name, it was identical to the one from her brother’s wallet.
“Everything purchased in the city must be done with a Radio World card,” Ava explained. “Clothes, food, drinks - anything you buy. You can tip with cash, or you can add tips to the card. But you can’t use cash to pay. You have to use the card.”
“Why is that?” Janeane asked.
“It’s just how it works,” Ava said. “The card covers your bill, but it also has a membership designation.” She pointed to where the account number ended in B.
“B means basic membership. You have access to everything on the public streets, including restaurants, casinos, hotels, and tourist activities. Any place you see from the sidewalk, you can enter. There are places, though, where a premium membership is required,” Ava went on. “You’ll know them when you see them. We try to post requirements on the outside, so guests aren’t embarrassed if they’re turned away.”
“You mean like those signs outside dirty bookstores?” Janeane asked. “The ones that say Must be 21 to enter?”
“Actually, I like to think it’s more like a bouncer outside a club,” Ava chuckled. “Some people just don’t belong in certain places.”
“How do you become a premium member?” Janeane asked.
“You pay a shitload of money,” Ava answered.
“Oh.”
“It’s like any amusement park,” Ava added. “The more you pay, the more perks you get.”
“And who’s paying for this?” Janeane held up her new card. “I don’t think I can afford this suit. Not on my salary, at least.”
“I’ve arranged for a small credit line for you,” Ava told her. “You are now, officially, a business expense for me. I’ll take care of the bill, Sweetie, but just do me a favor and try not to go crazy, okay? My expense report is audited like everybody else’s.”
Silence.
The detective looked at Ava before turning back to herself in the mirror.
Janeane’s face paled.
“Is something wrong, Sweetie?” Ava asked.
Silence.
Behind Janeane’s reflection in the mirror were three detectives.
“Ava, where are we?”
“In a dress shop, of course,” Ava smiled.
Silence.
“No, I mean where are we?” Janeane repeated. “I know this is a dress shop, but . . . well, I guess what I’m asking is where is this dress shop located?”
“We’re in the Galleria,” Ava said.
“The Galleria?”
“The hotel’s shopping mall,” Ava explained. “In the Grand Beekman Place Tower.”
“And where’s the hotel?” Janeane asked.
“In the city, of course,” Ava said.
“The city?” Janeane repeated. “You mean we’re in Chicago?”
“Nooo . . .” Ava said cautiously, watching the detective’s body language.
Silence.
Janeane’s head was spinning now. “Then what city are we in?” she asked.
Silence.
Ava did her best to smile reassuringly. “Maybe it’s best if I just show you.” She held out her hand. “Please, Sweetie, why don’t you just come with me.”
* * * * *
Lights.
The first thing she saw were lights. And the first thing she heard were conga drums, maracas, coconut shells, marimbas, flugelhorns, woodwinds, trumpets, and a keyboard with bass guitar. The whole arrangement had a disco beat. And Janeane recognized the tune immediately!
The name was Lola, she was an usher…and she had yellow feathered hair and a coat with room to share-
She worked the lobby, and swept up popcorn…and though her dreams were in the stars, her boyfriend cared more for his car…
Across the crowded lot-
He had his favorite spot-
They didn’t really like each other, but the sex was hot-
At the Copa…Err, I mean the Landmark…”
Of course, the song lost its impact when sung by a Winston smoker.
COUGH! COUGH! COUGH!
Squish.
Janeane could actually visualize the nicotine snot hitting the handkerchief. And Ava winced.
“Maybe this isn’t the best way to show you the city,” Ava said, giving the detective a friendly pat on the shoulder.
“I’d like to strangle whoever invented the karaoke machine,” Janeane heard herself say.
“Be careful what you wish for,” Ava said playfully. “And believe me, Sweetie, what we’re hearing is not karaoke!”
High above the two women, the lights of the downtown skyscrapers twinkled from beyond the ceiling skylights. The buildings of the city completely filled the windows, and the skylights themselves ran the length of The Galleria at Beekman Place, an upscale shopping mall reminiscent of The Forum Shops at Caesar’s Palace. Though Janeane and Kellie had only seen a small, unfinished portion of what the Chicago tower would become, the detective could tell it had been modeled after this building, Radio World’s Grand Beekman Place Hotel.
The Tower, as Ava called it.
After leaving Le Femme, Ava and Janeane joined the Galleria’s shoppers. The Galleria itself was a plaza of marble and glass, with posh boutiques that specialized in whatever visitors might need during the course of a stay - clothing, hair styling, luggage, fragrances, and a gift shop with magnets and cheesy skyline snow globes. The only major difference between this mall and any big Chicago hotel was that the merchandise had a retro feel. Modern goods were made to look older.
The liquor store was called, of course, The Speakeasy.
“Do you need a drink?” Ava asked, gesturing toward the Tiki Bar in the Galleria’s center, where an oasis of fake palm trees and Hawaiian décor were clustered together like a deserted island. The lounge’s tables formed a circle around a raised bamboo stage, where guests were laughing hysterically at the worst Barry Manilow they had ever heard. Even the totem poles cringed.
There was noise from a final gunshot, but just…who…hit…who…?
“Maybe not here,” Janeane said, a bit overwhelmed. She couldn’t help but stare at the spectacle, both inside and outside the mall. It reminded her so much of Vegas. Everywhere she looked, there were flashing lights and tourists. “But I would like to sit down for a second,” she added.
“Let’s go over there.” Ava pointed to a seating area further away from the lobby. Janeane noted it was near a fountain. She nodded okay. As the women walked, the detective took in the surroundings.
“Lots of people, aren’t there?” Ava smiled.
Janeane took a moment to answer. “Ava, where are we?”
“We’re in the Tower’s Galleria,” Ava said with pride. “It has some of the best shopping in the entire city.”
“But where is the city?” Janeane asked. “I mean, one moment I’m in Chicago…and the next moment I’m…here.” The two had arrived at the fountain now.
“Where is here?"
Still smiling, Ava shook her head apologetically. “I can’t answer that right now,” she said. “There are things about this place that visitors must learn for themselves.” She paused before adding, “Don’t worry about it, though. It will all come to you when the time is right.” She motioned for Janeane to sit on the fountain’s ledge.
“Rest, Sweetie,” Ava told the detective. “Take a moment to gather your thoughts.”
The two women sat. The fountain’s water splashed soothingly behind them, and the air smelled faintly of chlorine. The fountain itself was a bronze of Hermes, the Greek god who moved between the worlds of real and divine. Janeane felt better just being near it, and she took a moment to feel its slight spray on her face.
Her head was starting to clear.
“Ava,” Janeane said, a few moments later, “why can’t you answer me? Why won’t you tell me where we are?”
“Because there are rules,” Ava answered politely, like a mom with a toddler. “And those rules are very important.”
“What kind of rules?” Janeane asked.
“Well, the most important one is all around us,” Ava said, nodding toward a jewelry store window and pointing to the hissing cat logo just below its nameplate. Like all other signs in the Galleria, it had the same phrase, similar to a copyright.
RADIO WORLD
Shh…No talking!
“If you look around you, Sweetie, you’ll see this little phrase repeated over and over,” Ava explained. “Words are important, and this particular line has been purposely repeated in all prominent places.”
Ava paused for a moment so Janeane could take this in.
“Shh, no talking,” Janeane read out loud.
“And if you look carefully, you’ll see it wherever you go.” Ava gestured for Janeane to notice what was all around her. Indeed, Shh…No talking! was printed on every single sign, nameplate, and boutique awning. It was even embossed on the shopping bags carried by passing guests – guests who slowed as they passed Janeane, pointing to her discreetly and whispering quietly to themselves.
“It’s everywhere,” Janeane realized.
“And when you know what to look for, it’s really not that subtle,” Ava admitted. “It’s supposed to be subliminal, I guess. It’s a concept that’s always right there in front of you, but never in your face. Are you following me on this?”
“I…I think so,” Janeane said, though her hesitation said otherwise.
“Take your time,” Ava told her. “I know this is a lot to take in.”
The two women sat quietly for a moment as more guests walked past, as though trying to catch a glimpse of the detective.
“But what does Shh, No Talking mean, really?” Janeane asked Ava, oblivious to the stares.
“It’s law enforcement,” Ava said. “Like when you see security guards in buildings.”
“But I don’t see any guards,” Janeane said.
“You’re not supposed to,” Ava explained. “Remember, Sweetie, Radio World is a getaway, a place to let your guard down and have a little fun. Guest service is our primary responsibility. Our visitors are here to escape from their lives for a while, and we have to see to their security in a way that’s not obtrusive.”
“And Shh, No talking does that?” Janeane asked.
“In a way, yes,” Ava told her. “It’s sort of like the honor system. The repetition of the phrase is a gentle reminder that we all must follow the rules of the city. It’s no different than a swimming pool’s No Diving sign, or a No Parking sign by a handicapped space. Just because you can’t see a police officer standing right next to you, it doesn’t mean you should break the law.”
More guests walked by, and Janeane realized she was being watched. Her attention was drawn to a man who looked like Tom Cruise from Vanilla Sky, but before she could make eye contact with him, she noticed a nearby kiosk that sold trashy paperbacks. The vendor’s name was a double entendre: Read Between the Lines. Just beneath its nameplate, Janeane saw the hissing cat logo…and the words Shh, No Talking.
The phrase gave Janeane pause for a moment. Ava noticed this.
“Tell me what you’re thinking,” Ava said.
“Why is everyone looking at me?” Janeane asked, suddenly feeling uncomfortable. Her eyes darted from guest to guest, and all seemed to look her squarely in the eye before purposely turning away. It made her feel unwelcome, on display. It almost made her feel like a character in a horror movie, where her car had broken down in a place that hated outsiders.
A waiter appeared, holding a tray with trumpet flute glasses. “Would you care for some champagne?” he asked, locking his eyes with Janeane’s.
The detective was on her feet in seconds.
“Ava, what’s going on?!” Janeane snapped, backing away from both people. More guests walked by, more stares, more avoidance. Janeane could feel the hair on her neck rise, a policewoman’s gut instinct that something unpleasant was about to happen.
“Take it easy, Sweetie,” the Concierge said, rising quickly and gesturing for the waiter to leave. Ava tried to touch the detective’s shoulder, but Janeane pulled away fast and instinctively reached for her gun – which of course, wasn’t there.
The waiter was gone in a flash, and it seemed that the guests themselves were suddenly giving the two a wide berth. Janeane’s breath came short and shallow, and after taking a fast glance around, her eyes settled on Ava – who was approaching her slowly, like an officer calming a suspect.
“Sweetie, calm down!” Ava told her.
“Don’t sweetie, me!” Janeane shot back. “I want you to tell me right now where the fuck I am! I want a location! And I want my gun back! And I want a phone!”
“I can’t do that, Janeane,” Ava said, calm and firm. “And I know this is a lot for you to take in right now, but I need you to just…calm…down. And,” she added, “I also need you to trust me.”
“Trust you!?” the detective scoffed. “Are you fucking kidding me? I was kidnapped! From a crime scene no less! One moment, I was in Chicago…and the next moment, I was…was…I’m here!”
“Janeane, please-”–
“WHERE AM I!?” Janeane yelled, her voice echoing throughout the Galleria. For just a split second, all guests in earshot seemed to freeze. But then, a moment later, like machines on an assembly line, they resumed their respective movements and continued on to their destinations, as though nothing was happening. And this behavior frightened Janeane even more.
What’s happening to me? Janeane thought, near panic. Where am I? What is this place? And why won’t you give me a straight answer
“Listen to me!” Ava’s voice rang in Janeane’s ear. The Concierge had grabbed the detective’s head with both hands, and was now holding her face an inch from her own. Janeane could feel Ava’s hot breath as she spoke.
There was no time for small talk.
“I can’t give you a straight answer because you’re not supposed to be here!” Ava told her bluntly. “And I wish I could tell you more than that, but I can’t. I’m sorry. It’s dangerous for you to know as much as you already do!”
The detective pulled away from Ava’s grasp and staggered backwards a few feet before regaining her footing. She found herself surrounded by guests within one of the Galleria’s public thoroughfares. Unfamiliar people passed and stared, every single one of them making direct eye contact. Their behavior was chilling, and Janeane couldn’t help but think of Denzel Washington’s movie Fallen, where a single demon jumps from person to person, an unseen individual using the eyes of many. It was terrifying.
Time, oh yeah time, is on your side – that it is!
Ava’s hand was on Janeane’s shoulder again, pulling her back toward the Hermes fountain. As soon as the women were clear of the crowd, Ava hustled Janeane toward the Galleria’s exit. Her words were to the point.
“You’re not supposed to be here, Detective. But right now I can’t send you back. There is someone else coming, though – another Chicago detective. Until she gets here, however,you are in great danger. And for your own safety, I need you to leave the Tower right now. Don’t ask questions. Don’t ask me why things are the way they are. Just know that whatever happens, none of this was ever your fault.”
“Ava!” Janeane tried to stop her. “What are you talking about?”
“Remember the rules of the city,” Ava cut her off. “And here, take this. You’ll need cash to move about.” The Concierge pressed a roll of cash into the detective’s hand. “The card I gave you is to gain entry into places that require an ID. I don’t want you to use it to actually pay for anything. Don’t leave a trail. And use the Headline for directions only.”
Ava’s tone grew unexpectedly serious. “Listen to me, Sweetie. Whatever you do, don’t ask the Headline any specific, personal questions. Keep inquiries light. Stick to public places. I’m sorry to leave you on your own like this, but as I said, someone else is coming. And I need to be ready when she gets here.”
Janeane could hear the splash of Hermes in the background. Beyond the fountain, Barry Manilow had been replaced by a drunkard singing Hotel California.
The Concierge went to leave, but the detective reached out to stop her.
“Wait!” Janeane called, forcing Ava to turn around. The detective’s face was desperate. “You can’t just leave me like this,” she pleaded. “After all that’s happened, you can’t just patch me up - dress me up - give me a wad of cash, then tell me to go have fun, like I’m in some casino!” Two fast steps, and her face was next to Ava’s. “What am I supposed to do? Are you telling me you want me to hide” – she gestured toward the doors leading to the city – “out there?”
Once again, the Concierge’s words were tender and blunt.
“I don’t expect you to hide, Sweetie,” Ava told Janeane softly, stroking the woman’s cheek. “I expect you to find your brother.”
And then she was gone.
How strong is your imagination?
Is it as active in adulthood as it was when you were young?
And I’m not asking the usual suspects: photographers, writers, cartoonists, theater guys – you know, creative types. I’m speaking to the average Joe: waiters, college students, policemen on the street. I’m thinking of the old ladies at church who’ve embraced the modern world; and I’m thinking of the big brown-truck drivers who read books on their breaks, in between running parcels.
A strong imagination is the perfect place to escape. Just because you don’t have a “creative” job, it doesn’t mean you don’t daydream to get through the stress of the day. I guess when it comes down to it, we’re all pretty much the same in that regard. We each have our own individual ways to cope, just in varying degrees.
But imagination’s not always a positive thing, especially when it’s a shelter to hide from genuine grief. When used in that capacity, it’s an addiction as devious as alcoholism, only harder to overcome because its bottle is internal. In a way, it’s like cancer, eating out our guts before finally reaching our skin. By the time it’s visible in the mirror, it’s become part of our reflection. We’ve been changed by grief, distorted by living with sadness. And it fills us with rage because it happened so gradually, the people in our lives assume it was there all along.
Assume we were always that mean;
always that drunk;
always talking to ourselves;
and always, always wanting to atone for a night eleven years ago that was just too sad to imagine . . .
Radio World
Her conscious mind flickered like bad fluorescent lighting.
The cabin was sideways.
There was grit in her mouth.
While the elevator was moving she had been blinded by pain - from her head, from her stomach, and from the place in her arm where the bone pinched the meat like scissors.
It hurt to move.
It hurt to breathe.
It hurt to try to see clearly.
More than anything, it hurt to even think, especially about the shard in her chest as her heart continued beating, straining to push blood through the damage.
So the mind wouldn’t let her go there, at least not at first.
The mind knew her body’s limits.
The mind knew her limits.
Ultimately, though, it knew its own limits, and that the real world continues, even with the brain offline. Crisis doesn’t need a cognizant eye to see it. The mind knows it’s there and can sense its approach like an instinct.
And it does what it must to protect itself.
Wake up, wake up, wake up . . .
The elevator stopped. The detective opened her eyes.
Ding!
The doors opened.
Snap, snap!
Shiny shoes and starched red pants. A glossy floor. A button from above stopped the doors halfway.
“Mr. Roanoke,” a voice above the shoes said, startled. “Are you all right?”
The man who took her was standing over her. “Yes, I’m fine.” The sound of dollar bills being peeled from a roll. “I do have a little situation here, though.”
The floor was marble. The walls behind it were marble, too. Money changed hands. “I’ll summon the doctor,” the shoes said.
More cash crinkled. “Oh, I don’t think that’s really necessary,” the man said. He sounded nervous. “I have a doctor at my bungalow. We can take care of her there.” There were other shoes in the hallway, passing by. Women’s heels, men’s oxfords, old-fashioned flats with buckles.
Money was shoved into the shoes’ shirt pocket.
“Mr. Roanoke, this is highly irregular.”
“I know, and I’m really sorry about this. My friends here . . . well, they’ve had a little too much champagne. And the ride got a bit bumpy.”
Women in beaded dresses. Wall sconces shaped like martini glasses. A waiter in a tuxedo. Two bellhops, pointing, approaching.
“Mr. Roanoke, with all due respect, a mechanical failure is a very serious matter. If you are suggesting-”
“Listen, Jeeves.” The man leaned close to the shoes. “May I call you Jeeves?”
“You may call me whatever you wish, Mr. Roanoke, but this woman is in need of a doctor!”
A bankroll of money was pressed into the shoes’ hand. When the man who took her next spoke, he kept his voice as quiet as possible. “Jeeves, I will make it worth your while if you save my friends from the embarrassment of calling a doctor.”
The shoes were still. More shoes stood behind them now. They were shiny with waxed laces.
“Again, Mr. Roanoke, this is HIGHLY irregular.”
Janeane noticed how the shoes had lingered on the name Roanoke.
“And I sincerely appreciate your discretion, Jeeves.”
Stay awake, stay awake, stay awake . . .
The shoes hesitated a moment, then stood on their toes and clicked their heels twice. He addressed someone behind him. “Get a wheelchair while I contact Mr. Roanoke’s Concierge.”
Then all the shoes went away.
“God DAMMIT!” the man who took her said, dropping his wallet on the floor. When he stooped down to retrieve it, he leaned on her injured arm to support his weight.
Black.
* * * * *
Snap, snap!
Like an appliance on a dolly, she found herself sitting, being wheeled down stairs, through what looked like a restaurant kitchen. Her head bounced like a rubber doll. She was behind two bellhops in purple uniforms with matching hats. On their shoulders they carried a man.
They were in a garage now, a large underground structure where many cars were parked. The cars looked strange, though. Old-fashioned. Elegant. The kind seen in old movies. There were people in the garage. Not many. All wearing different types of uniforms. No one looked at her, but when a limousine screeched around the corner and honked its goose horn, they got out of the way.
The limo pulled up alongside the bellhops. The man who hurt her was waiting by the curb. He was shaking the white-gloved hand of the shoes, a man who was wearing a bellhop’s uniform himself, only his was red. She shifted in the wheelchair.
The limo stopped.
It was an old automobile, from the ‘20s. A Rolls Royce. She could tell by the hood ornament. The man in red opened the car door. Frankie was gently placed inside. The bellhops in blue clapped their hands, getting off dust? They turned around. Came toward her. Lifted her. They tried to be mindful of her bleeding arm, butBlack-
* * * * *
Lights.
The first things she saw were lights.
She opened her eyes to a window. She was in the backseat of the Rolls. The vehicle was working its way through busy city traffic, passing buildings wrapped in neon, as colorful as the Vegas strip. There were twinkling signs and elaborate marquees, flashing nameplates, and the vibrant sparkle of fiber optics. Each street seemed more bustling than the last. As the limousine traveled, even its darkened windows couldn’t stop the passing lights from making shadows dance across her face. The buildings towered like those in Chicago, but she didn’t recognize the neighborhood or the manner of dress of the people on the sidewalks.
All of the cars are so old, she thought.
Turning at an intersection, the limousine seemed to be on a route leading away from the city. The buildings weren’t any less dense or colorful, but from her vantage point, Janeane could see an approaching darkness where the lights just seemed to stop, as though someone had built a downtown then forgot to add suburbs. She could barely make out trees in the glow of the acorn-shaped streetlights reflected in the river.
“How’s that arm of yours doing?” the man who took her asked. He was sitting beside her. “You enjoying the ride, Detective?”
Rich squeezed her cast intentionally.
Once again, Janeane’s world went black.
* * * * *
Pfft…!
When Janeane regained consciousness, her mouth was full of carpet.
She lifted her head with difficulty, as the blood from her ear had started to coagulate, adhering to the shag carpeting. She had been left face down on the floor, with the cast underneath her stomach.
Forcing herself upright, she rested her weight on her good shoulder. Her eyes focused.
She was in a gym, with workout equipment and mirrors along one wall. It was definitely the fitness center of a rich man. The room itself had upscale décor, with pale blue wallpaper and Tiffany lighting. Even the weight set looked expensive.
She felt for her gun, but her weapon, wallet, and badge had been taken. She sat for a moment to gather her strength, then rose to her feet and stumbled toward the door. As she suspected, it was locked.
Turning back toward the center of the room, Janeane took in more details of her confinement. In addition to the fitness gear, there were several white mohair chairs and a Ruhlmann cabinet that would fetch a hefty price at an antique store. Stumbling to the case, she found it locked as well. Her attention then moved to the window on the far wall.
Janeane was on the second floor of a large mountainside home, too high up to escape through the window. It was dark outside. I must have been out for a while, she realized. Despite her familiarity with the suburbs, she didn’t recognize this neighborhood at all.
Maybe I was taken north, past Waukegan .
Then the landscaping along the driveway caught her attention.
Palm trees?
She could see them in the headlights of an approaching car.
Pressing her hand against the glass, Janeane watched as a different vintage limousine came up to the house by way of a long, tree-lined driveway. The tall, slender palms were unmistakable in the beam of the headlights, evenly spaced and crowned with clusters of shiny leaves. They started at the road and came all the way to the house.
Focusing on the limo, Janeane could see a uniformed chauffeur steering the open-topped vehicle with white-gloved hands. The woman seated in back was black and well dressed. Even from this distance, she did not look happy.
The car disappeared from view when it stopped at the house’s main entrance.
The detective stumbled back. What happened to me?
Staggering to the door, she put her ear to the wood. Nothing. It’s too thick.
Facing the room, Janeane looked at the weight set, then to her plaster-encased arm. She couldn’t feel her wrist anymore, and the tips of her fingers were frighteningly purple. If she had been unconscious for as long as she suspected, she risked permanent damage if she didn’t receive medical attention immediately.
I have to get out of this room.
* * * * *
Her first thought was to use one of the weights to smash the lock, but when she tried to lift it, her legs buckled, forcing her to her knees in violent heaves. Her vomit came in spasms, soiling the carpet with bile and blood. She shivered and she coughed. The wall her mind had erected to mask the pain was quickly crumbling.
She didn’t have much time.
Crawling back to the door, Janeane examined its construction, noticing it was solid but built with old-fashioned hardware. The doorknob was glass, with a turn of the century lock that required a skeleton key.
She instinctively felt her body, searching for anything missed by her captors. It only took a moment before Paul’s credit card was pinched between her fingers. In another moment, the card was jiggling the bolt mechanism between the doorknob and the molding.
Click.
The lock popped. The detective opened the door and pulled herself out onto the landing. She forced herself to her feet.
* * * * *
The rectangular liquor bottles arranged behind the counter resembled a skyline. They were tall and transparent, with utilitarian patterns that looked like little windows within the glass. They had been lined in orderly rows, the smallest in front, and each was corked with an atom-shaped silver topper to keep its contents as fresh as possible.
And when Rich’s reflection came up to them, it reached right for the whiskey.
“Aches-cuze me My-ster Row-ah-noke. Meeez-Eye-vah’s ear to see Ya!” Standing in the foyer, Ms. Lovett, the housekeeper, spoke in an accent so irritating, it was enough to make Dickens cringe. Rich uncorked the bottle and swallowed several deep gulps before wiping his mouth on his shirt. He glared at the woman.
“Must you talk like that?” he complained, angrily. “I thought we had this conversation before.”
“We died. An om spikin’ the Qwine’s Eyengleesh. Jist like ya iced.”
Rich frowned. “I asked you to speak English,” he said, “not talk like some cum-burping gutter-slut who hasn’t had a day of schooling in her life!” He held the bottle to his forehead, but it wasn’t cold enough.
Lovett clasped her hands behind her dress, pushed her chin out, then asked politely for clarification. “An ow wood My-ster Rowanoke pryfer to ave me tawk then?”
Rich couldn’t hold back. “How about American English, you stupid cunt? Do you think you could pull that off? Huh? Pretend you’re a businesswoman? A good, old-fashioned, college-educated American businesswoman? Do you think that maybe, instead of the shit that just fell out of your mouth, you might try braining it up a bit?”
Silence.
Lovett understood completely. “Is this acceptable, Mr. Roanoke?” she purred in a deep, icy, almost bitchy tone. Placing a fist on her hip, she now stood with confidence. She had shifted one of her heels so it was slightly angled. “Is this the type of woman Mr. Roanoke prefers?”
She was being sarcastic, but at least he could understand it. “Much better,” Rich grumbled. “Thank you.”
He brought the bottle to his lips again. And again. “Now, what was it you were trying to tell me?” he asked when he was finished.
“Ava’s here,” Lovett said indifferently, turning her head when the front door closed behind her. Footsteps approached. Lovett raised a snide eyebrow. “Oh, look. She’s already inside.”
Ava entered the stateroom, beaming. “Hell-lo, Ms. Lovett! And how are you today?”
“Perhaps you should ask Mr. Roanoke,” Lovett seethed before pivoting on her heel and leaving. Her demeanor was dominatrix-like.
Ava smiled slightly as she adjusted her glasses. “Love-ly woman,” she said.
“I was just about to call you,” Rich said a bit too enthusiastically, ducking behind the bar. Ava heard the sound of ice falling into glasses, followed by pouring liquid. She smiled politely.
“And what a coincidence, Mr. Roanoke,” she said. “I was just about to call you! But then I thought, Why call? Why not just drop by!”
“And here you are,” Rich muttered.
Ava was a black woman in her forties, attractive and full-figured, with a scarf above her forehead that complimented her form-fitting black dress. She wore understated jewelry and high-heeled boots that stopped just below the knees. Her attire was the perfect cut to show off a sizeable bosom and well-defined bottom, and her movements were both stern and sexy, as if to say “You can look, but I’ll bite your hand if you touch.” She reminded Rich of a young Queen Latifah - not in appearance, but in the confidence with which she carried herself.
Never take Ava lightly.
“What are you drinking, Ava?” Rich set a glass on the counter. “How about a Manhattan? I’m having one myself. Should I make enough for two?”
“Oh, no,” Ava protested. “I’m really not much of a drinker, but thank you so much for offering.” Walking slowly behind the sofa, Ava ran her fingers along its posh, shell-shaped cushions. She had pasted a smile on her face. Her eyes darted around the room like a custodial supervisor making sure the staff had cleaned.
“Have I ever told you just how nice your house is, Mr. Roanoke?” she asked. “I mean, really nice. I’ve been inside lots of Hillside bungalows in my time, but yours just takes the cake. It’s so elegant. Forgive me for gushing but, well, this place is fabulous!”
“A tonic and lime, Ava?” Rich asked nervously. “Or maybe a Coke?”
“Oh, thank you again Mr. Roanoke, but I’d be afraid I’d spill something on this stunning white carpet. Just look at it! It’s so soft and cashmere-like. I can hardly see my shoes! I just want to get down on the floor, you know, and just . . . roll all in it!”
“A bottle of water?” Rich offered.
“And the color of these walls,” Ava went on. “It’s just so damn classy. It’s blue, but it’s more than blue at the same time. It’s just perfect against the white, and all the silver! I forget. What do you call this color again, Mr. Roanoke?”
Silence.
“Blue?” Rich guessed.
Cloudy day,” she said flatly.
“It is a little depressing,” Rich attempted to joke.
Ava tilted her head in an exaggerated slant and forced a smile so tight, it pinched her cheeks. “You know, Mr. Roanoke, I think I will have a bottle of water. If you don’t mind, of course. I am feeling a tad parched.” She fluttered her fingers by her throat. “I’m just as dry as a bone. You know,” Ava made some lizard-like movements with her tongue, “cottonmouth.”
Rich hid in the refrigerator. “Got it right here,” he said.
“How about you?” Ava asked, talking to his ass. “Are you parched, Mr. Roanoke? You seem somewhat disheveled today. I sincerely hope you’re feeling all right.”
I know I look a little rough, Ava. I had a long night.”
“I didn’t say look, Mr. Roanoke,” Ava corrected. “I used the word seem. There is a distinct difference. Listen to it: Look. Seem. Two totally different words with two totally different meanings.” She walked to the French doors and looked out. She could see the city lights just beyond the perfect hedge. “Nice view.”
Rich cleared his throat.
“Let’s talk about that long night, shall we?” Ava said.
“Ava, I can explain.”
“Get your ass out from behind that bar!”
Silence.
“What . . . the fuck . . . did you think you were doing . . . Bill?” Ava said the name Bill, clearly knowing it wasn’t real. She was well aware of this man’s true identity. She had been watching the Roanoke account for eleven years and was very familiar with its recent revisions, particularly those involving a Rich Pelonis.
“Did you think I wouldn’t notice?” she asked. “Do you think I’m not aware of where you’ve been going?”
“Please Ava, let me explain.”
“Do I need to go over the rules again, Rich? I know your membership is well established, but even our most long-term customers have times when we must gently remind them of how things are to be done.”
“I know the rules, Ava.”
“Do you?” she asked.
“Yes,” he said.
“Do you, really?
“Absolutely.”
“Then you understand that even though you don’t need to check in each and every time you use the elevators, you still need to tell me when you bring a guest.”
“I told you about Frankie a week ago.”
“I mean the woman, asshole,” Ava’s pleasantries vanished, “who . . . the hell . . . needed to be taken by wheelchair through the goddamn room service kitchen! Who is she, Rich? And where is she now?”
“Upstairs,” Rich said. “She’s really not feeling well.”
“I understand she’s in need of a doctor,” Ava said. “I’ve also noticed you haven’t called one yet. Did you forget how to use the Headline?”
“Of course not. I just haven’t had a moment to-“
“To call up the Headline?” Ava was outraged. “Oh, this must be a special woman, if she made you forget that. When can I meet the lucky lady? This woman who now gets to tell her friends that you’re her catch?”
Rich cleared his throat uneasily. “I said she’s not feeling well.”
“Oh, that’s right,” Ava remembered. “She’s sleeping upstairs. I am so sorry, Rich. Let me call that doctor for you.” Ava went to snap her fingers.
Rich stopped her. “Please don’t do that. I don’t want to embarrass her.”
“You mean being with you is embarrassment enough?” she asked. “What restaurant bar did you pick up this one at? Was it a Denny’s?”
“She’s a friend.”
“I love friends.”
“She’s a . . . you know. An unexpected friend.”
“Oh, those are the best kind!”
“Tomorrow?” Rich thought on his feet. “You can meet her tomorrow. Just let her get a good night’s sleep and-”
“And give you time to change your story?” Ava didn’t bite. “Not this time, Rich. You’re not going to hide behind ‘status’ again.”
Rich looked at the floor. “Well, since you mentioned status, I was led to believe the membership was unlimited.”
“Though the membership might be un-lim-ited,”Ava snapped, “you Sir, are not. Everyone follows the rules. No one is above them, not even those with upper-level accounts. Everyone understands this - especially Mr. Bill Roanoke.”
Silence.
Rich tried a different approach. “And you do work for Mr. Roanoke, right?” He kept his hand behind him so she couldn’t see it trembling.
“Don’t even try that shit with me, boy,” she seethed. “Now show that woman to me NOW or I will, quite literally, see that you disappear!”
Ava will help you.
“Ava?” a soft voice called from behind.
The black woman turned around.
The white woman swayed in the foyer.
“Sweet Jesus, child!” Ava said to Janeane. “Are you alright?”
“(no)” Janeane’s whisper was barely audible. Her face was the color of paper. “I th- think I n-need t-t-to g-go-” Janeane collapsed.
Ava spun on her heels. “JEEVES!”
A car door slammed, and the chauffeur ran into the house. “Put her in the car!” Ava told him. “Hurry!”
The driver swept the detective into his arms and ran to the limousine. Ava quickly followed, briefly pausing at the door for one last look at Rich. “This is so over!” she snarled, disgusted. And then she vanished.
A car door slammed again. Tires squealed.
Rich watched the car from the window, finishing his drink before calling up the Headline.
* * * * *
With the bungalow now behind them, the black Pierce Arrow shot down the sharp pitch of the driveway. Its tires shrieked as they turned onto the road, and the chauffeur drove much faster than was safe for the dangerous curves.
This area was the most exclusive in the city, the best of the best, inaccessible even to those who stayed in the private bungalows below. The street hugged a ledge that had been carved into the cliff’s natural terrain. When they reached the bottom, a gate opened automatically, clearing the way to Hillside Drive, the primary route off the mountain.
Streetlamps and windows whizzed by in smears of light. The chauffeur clutched the wheel like a NASCAR driver, taking curves so rapidly the car nearly tipped over.
Hillside Drive descended another half mile, and as they neared the base of the mountain, the road widened into a grand residential entrance. A long, stair-stepped fountain followed the final plunge to the bottom, stopping where a granite nameplate announced Hillside Estates.
The limo began to turn. “Floor it, Jeeves!”
A white spat stomped down on the pedal. And the big engine roared.
Janeane was jarred awake by her back hitting the seat. Her vision swirled in waves of light, color, and pain so intense it played tricks with her emotions. The limousine blared its horn, passing slower vehicles like a train. Her brain regained its focus, and when it did, she held her breath.
Her brother was suddenly the foremost thing in her mind.
I miss you so much!
And her first glimpse of the city was viewed through eyes of grief.
* * * * *
From her vantage point on the road, Janeane was just beginning to grasp the scope of her surroundings. Her hair flapped like a flag in the wind as the long car raced along the water of Outer Lake Shore Drive, overtaking vehicles that were at least seventy-five years old. She could now see the city lights glistening on the canal that circled the buildings like a moat. It was like Manhattan in the old days, when Rockefeller Center was new and the Empire State Building was the tallest on the island. The sight was literally breathtaking, and her brain had yet to decide if what it saw was real or a hallucination brought on by pain.
Stay awake, stay awake, stay awake . . .
The city was built in an almost perfect oval-shaped valley. The steep landscape of Hillside Estates was only part of a massive, single mountain wall that wrapped around the entire downtown area, with bungalows positioned like seats in a stadium. The mountain’s slope started gradually at its base, but grew sharper and steeper the higher it went. Hillside Drive was just one of many individual neighborhoods, all set in a way that allowed unobstructed views of the city.
Look closer.
By watching house windows and seeing where the streetlights ended, Janeane guessed that none of the roads had access to the valley’s uppermost rim. The further the limousine traveled, the more apparent it became that this place was completely enclosed, cut off from the ground above it, with no traditional ways in or out - by road, by rail, or even by air.
The rim had a definite edge, and Janeane could just make out a faint neon purple glow beyond the lip. From below, it almost looked like the valley had a roof, a sort of concave superdome ceiling. It feels like we’re underground, she thought. But didn’t the elevator go up?
She saw stars. A red bubble popped in her mouth. Spit drooled from the corner of her lips, and her teeth now tasted like metal. And she soiled herself.
“Jeeves!” Ava yelled. “Tell the hospital we have an emergency!”
“Already done, Ma’am!” the driver called back. He had dialed up the Headline the second they left the house. The chauffer pointed ahead, where police were blocking the entrance to the bridge. They had cleared a path for the limo.
With Janeane’s back against her chest, Ava held her as close as she dared. We only just met each other, Ava thought, closing her eyes. I’m not going to let death be my last memory of you!
“Hang on, Ma’am!” White-gloved hands wrenched the steering wheel sideways.
Screeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee…!
Tires squealed as the speeding limo fishtailed, accelerating through the turn and taking the bridge so fast it nearly went airborne. A hubcap went flying and sparks exploded like fireworks. The front bumper nailed the concrete, followed by the chassis. The limo quickly recovered, then raced beneath the neon gate that welcomed visitors to the city:
R A D I O W O R L D
Shh…No Talking!
The chauffeur sped onward until the car disappeared into the busy downtown streets.
* * * * *
“Did you ever see that movie Westworld, starring Richard Benjamin and Yule Brenner? I know - it was released waaaaay back in 1973, but some of you may remember it. And if you do, it’s a great way to explain the city.”
Janeane didn’t realize she was making a face at the Headline. Even Mrs. Brady wasn’t as syrupy as this narrator. The cheery way she spoke was literally making Janeane sick again. The detective shifted uncomfortably in her hospital bed, bringing her arm to her face, still amazed it had been repaired.
Completely repaired.
It was as though nothing had ever happened to it. There wasn’t even a scar. The Headline continued:
“Like Westworld, Radio World is a sort of futuristic amusement park with accommodations, dining, activities, and entertainment, all presented in the spirit of the Roaring Twenties.”
Mrs. Brady made a hand gesture to emphasize the word roaring. Janeane made a hand gesture of her own.
“You know, they say New York is the city that never sleeps. Well,” Mrs. Brady chuckled, “whoever came up with that slogan must have spent some time in Radio World. Not only is Radio World open twenty-four hours a day, but you may have noticed, it’s always night outside. And as we all know, nighttime is the best time to experience a place like Las Vegas, New Orleans, or in our case, Manhattan.”
Bored with the video, the detective’s eyes explored the hospital room. It was surprisingly large and almost completely white: white walls, white floor, white chairs, white table, and white examination bed. She saw no traditional light source; the walls themselves seemed to glow from within. It had been hours since Janeane had given up trying to make sense of this place. As far as she was concerned, all that mattered was that the doctors were knowledgeable and that they had made her feel better quickly.
Even if they did use Star Trek gadgets.
The detective had also given up on the irritatingly perky woman on the Headline, who clearly had been modeled after a commercial for Wesson cooking oil.
“So, don your top hats, gentlemen, and take your ladies by the hand. It’s time for a tour of Radio World, the greatest amusement park you’ve ever imagined!”
“Oh, God - make it STOP!” Janeane cried, looking for something to throw.
“Had your fill?” Ava’s legs asked, stepping through the two-dimensional screen, which hovered in the very air itself. The video played behind her, unaffected by her movements. “Should I shut it off?”
"YES!”
Ava snapped her fingers. The screen vanished.
“You remember how to work it?” she asked.
Janeane shook her head.
“It’s easy,” Ava explained. “You just point, snap your fingers, and say Headline.” She demonstrated, pointing a finger at the base of Janeane’s bed.
“Headline!” Snap!
A 6” x 12” square appeared in the air. It flashed blue for a second, before displaying the Radio World home page.
“Use your finger as a curser,” Ava said, touching the image. “You can drag the corners of the screen to make it bigger or smaller.” She adjusted the page to a 4’ x 8’ size. “And you can move it.” Ava grabbed the screen’s top and brought the entire image to the side of Janeane’s bed, then positioned it over her bed like a sex mirror. “You can open links with your fingers, or you can talk to it. But it’s easier to use your fingers at first to get used to it.”
"And I can do this anywhere?” Janeane asked, amazed.
“Anywhere in the city,” Ava said. “It’s like having a laptop that you never have to carry. And to turn it off-” she snapped again. The screen disappeared.
“See?” Ava said. “It’s simple. Now you try.”
“Headline.” Janeane said, snapping, pointing at the ceiling. The screen returned.
Ava looked up. “Okay, turn that off, Sweetie. Your doctor’s here.”
An Asian woman in a white coat came up to the bed. If their clothes were more stylish, the three women would have looked like a United World of Bennington ad.
“Hello, Ava,” the doctor said, then turning to Janeane, “Hello, Detective Lavinski. You had quite a nasty spill.” She touched Janeane’s arm. “Is there any pain?”
“A little,” Janeane admitted. “But really, not much.”
The doctor seemed unhappy. “I was afraid of that. You had significant damage to the nerves around your bone, and recovery time will be excessive. Possibly as much as three days.”
Janeane blinked twice. Three days - excessive? “I’ll try to cope.”
The doctor snapped by Ava’s chest, bringing up hospital records. She touched the screen a few times, then said, “Patient Lavinski, Janeane.”
A release form appeared on the screen.
“Sign here, please,” the doctor pointed. “And here.”
Ava signed with her finger.
Touch, snap! “Enjoy your stay, Ms. Lavinski.” The doctor left, smiling.
“Enjoy my stay in the hospital?” Janeane asked, after the physician was gone. When she looked back to Ava, the woman was grinning ear to ear.
“No, Sweetie,” Ava told her. “Enjoy your stay in the city. Now, let’s get you cleaned up.”
* * * * *
This page is missing.
“Why am I doing this again?” Janeane whined.
Ava smiled from behind her, reflected in the mirror. “I told you, you have to dress the part. Now, stop complaining and pick your ass out something to wear!” I am sooo getting tired of this.
Like a bride in a dress shop, Janeane stood in front of a three-way mirror, her arms outstretched like Jesus, a frown on her face. This was, quite literally, more painful for her than being crucified, even without the crown of thorns.
Ms. Lovett, the saleswoman, stood back to let her customer admire herself. “I think it’s just lovely,” she said, fluffing the ruffles. “And the color is stunning on you.”
“Do I look like Baby from Dirty Dancing?” Janeane snarled.
Lovett gave Ava an irritated look.
“I think what she means is no pink,” Ava politely explained. Sitting in her chair, Ava pushed the Headline aside to get a better view of the detective. She looked ridiculous.
“Perhaps a pant suit would be more appropriate,” Lovett snipped.
“Perhaps,” Janeane repeated. Holding her dress like a can-can dancer, she stormed into the changing room.
Ava smiled to herself, returning the Headline to her lap. She had just finished reading the file on Detective Janeane Lavinski, Chicago Illinois, 2007, and had noticed the asterisk at the bottom. She touched it, and was linked to an Associated Members screen.
Her smile disappeared when she read the file on Janeane’s brother.
“Might the lady prefer a style like this?” Lovett asked, a few minutes later. Janeane was in front of the mirror again, this time wearing a fitted gray jacket with matching pants.
“It’s a Chanel,” Lovett informed her.
“I feel like Kim Novak in Vertigo,” Janeane complained.
“Kim Novak was much prettier than you,” Ava told her, looking the suit over. “Now, quit the damn Siskel & Ebert and take a look at yourself. I think you look nice.”
“Well . . .” Janeane turned and peered over her shoulder into the mirror. The suit needed altering of course, but it sat well on her shape. And her butt looked good. That was important. “I think I can live with this,” she admitted.
Ms. Lovett seemed relieved. “Please step back into the dressing room, Miss. We’ll make the alterations while you wait.”
“I’ll need some shoes,” Janeane heard herself say, still admiring her reflection. “Maybe something black.”
Lovett smiled at Ava as if to say, thank fucking God! Ava had already done so.
“Excuse me, Ma’am.” A deliveryman approached and handed Ava a sealed envelope.
“Thank you, Jeeves.”
The page gave a quick nod then left.
While Janeane was in the dressing room, Ava opened the package and removed a newly issued credit card. Janeane Lavinski was embossed in shiny gold type, just below the logo. She put it aside.
Ten minutes later, Janeane again stood in front of Ava. “What do you think?”
The tailored suit now fit perfectly. Ava saw that Janeane had chosen a sensible pair of leather ankle boots, with a small heel and laces up the front. She smiled again, genuinely happy with how this turned out. “Now don’t you look nice!”
Ava stood and stepped up to Janeane, put her hands on her shoulders, and turned her to face her reflection. The detective was smiling now. Ava ran her fingers through Janeane’s long hair. “You have such pretty hair.”
Janeane blushed.
“Get me one of those hairclips,” Ava told Lovett. “One that looks like a bug.”
“Does Madame mean the scarab?” Lovett asked.
“Yes, please. The scary one,” Ava said.
Lovett scurried off again.
With her hands still on Janeane’s shoulders, Ava placed her own head next to the detective’s. They looked in the mirror together, their eyes side by side. “You know you look good,” she said to Janeane’s reflection.
Janeane knew.
“Here you are.” Ms. Lovett handed Ava a velvet box.
Ava opened it and took out a shiny blue and gold dung beetle with turquoise wings that hid a long clip. Pulling Janeane’s hair back, she brought the long curls together with the pin. Once secured, she stood back and smiled. “Done!”
“Will this be on Ms. Lavinski’s account?” Lovett asked.
“This one’s on me,” Ava said, handing Lovett her personal card.
The clerk smiled happily, before disappearing again.
“What do you think?” Ava asked Janeane. “You like?”
“I love,” Janeane admitted, still unable to pull herself from the mirror. She had never had a suit this nice before. She rarely bought clothes anywhere other than Kohl’s. “How much is this going to set me back?” Janeane asked. “I don’t expect you to pay for this.”
“As I said,” Ava repeated, “this one’s on me. One outfit. If you buy anything else, you’ll need to use your own card.” Ava handed it to her. With the exception of the name, it was identical to the one from her brother’s wallet.
“Everything purchased in the city must be done with a Radio World card,” Ava explained. “Clothes, food, drinks - anything you buy. You can tip with cash, or you can add tips to the card. But you can’t use cash to pay. You have to use the card.”
“Why is that?” Janeane asked.
“It’s just how it works,” Ava said. “The card covers your bill, but it also has a membership designation.” She pointed to where the account number ended in B.
“B means basic membership. You have access to everything on the public streets, including restaurants, casinos, hotels, and tourist activities. Any place you see from the sidewalk, you can enter. There are places, though, where a premium membership is required,” Ava went on. “You’ll know them when you see them. We try to post requirements on the outside, so guests aren’t embarrassed if they’re turned away.”
“You mean like those signs outside dirty bookstores?” Janeane asked. “The ones that say Must be 21 to enter?”
“Actually, I like to think it’s more like a bouncer outside a club,” Ava chuckled. “Some people just don’t belong in certain places.”
“How do you become a premium member?” Janeane asked.
“You pay a shitload of money,” Ava answered.
“Oh.”
“It’s like any amusement park,” Ava added. “The more you pay, the more perks you get.”
“And who’s paying for this?” Janeane held up her new card. “I don’t think I can afford this suit. Not on my salary, at least.”
“I’ve arranged for a small credit line for you,” Ava told her. “You are now, officially, a business expense for me. I’ll take care of the bill, Sweetie, but just do me a favor and try not to go crazy, okay? My expense report is audited like everybody else’s.”
Silence.
The detective looked at Ava before turning back to herself in the mirror.
Janeane’s face paled.
“Is something wrong, Sweetie?” Ava asked.
Silence.
Behind Janeane’s reflection in the mirror were three detectives.
“Ava, where are we?”
“In a dress shop, of course,” Ava smiled.
Silence.
“No, I mean where are we?” Janeane repeated. “I know this is a dress shop, but . . . well, I guess what I’m asking is where is this dress shop located?”
“We’re in the Galleria,” Ava said.
“The Galleria?”
“The hotel’s shopping mall,” Ava explained. “In the Grand Beekman Place Tower.”
“And where’s the hotel?” Janeane asked.
“In the city, of course,” Ava said.
“The city?” Janeane repeated. “You mean we’re in Chicago?”
“Nooo . . .” Ava said cautiously, watching the detective’s body language.
Silence.
Janeane’s head was spinning now. “Then what city are we in?” she asked.
Silence.
Ava did her best to smile reassuringly. “Maybe it’s best if I just show you.” She held out her hand. “Please, Sweetie, why don’t you just come with me.”
* * * * *
Lights.
The first thing she saw were lights. And the first thing she heard were conga drums, maracas, coconut shells, marimbas, flugelhorns, woodwinds, trumpets, and a keyboard with bass guitar. The whole arrangement had a disco beat. And Janeane recognized the tune immediately!
The name was Lola, she was an usher…and she had yellow feathered hair and a coat with room to share-
She worked the lobby, and swept up popcorn…and though her dreams were in the stars, her boyfriend cared more for his car…
Across the crowded lot-
He had his favorite spot-
They didn’t really like each other, but the sex was hot-
At the Copa…Err, I mean the Landmark…”
Of course, the song lost its impact when sung by a Winston smoker.
COUGH! COUGH! COUGH!
Squish.
Janeane could actually visualize the nicotine snot hitting the handkerchief. And Ava winced.
“Maybe this isn’t the best way to show you the city,” Ava said, giving the detective a friendly pat on the shoulder.
“I’d like to strangle whoever invented the karaoke machine,” Janeane heard herself say.
“Be careful what you wish for,” Ava said playfully. “And believe me, Sweetie, what we’re hearing is not karaoke!”
High above the two women, the lights of the downtown skyscrapers twinkled from beyond the ceiling skylights. The buildings of the city completely filled the windows, and the skylights themselves ran the length of The Galleria at Beekman Place, an upscale shopping mall reminiscent of The Forum Shops at Caesar’s Palace. Though Janeane and Kellie had only seen a small, unfinished portion of what the Chicago tower would become, the detective could tell it had been modeled after this building, Radio World’s Grand Beekman Place Hotel.
The Tower, as Ava called it.
After leaving Le Femme, Ava and Janeane joined the Galleria’s shoppers. The Galleria itself was a plaza of marble and glass, with posh boutiques that specialized in whatever visitors might need during the course of a stay - clothing, hair styling, luggage, fragrances, and a gift shop with magnets and cheesy skyline snow globes. The only major difference between this mall and any big Chicago hotel was that the merchandise had a retro feel. Modern goods were made to look older.
The liquor store was called, of course, The Speakeasy.
“Do you need a drink?” Ava asked, gesturing toward the Tiki Bar in the Galleria’s center, where an oasis of fake palm trees and Hawaiian décor were clustered together like a deserted island. The lounge’s tables formed a circle around a raised bamboo stage, where guests were laughing hysterically at the worst Barry Manilow they had ever heard. Even the totem poles cringed.
There was noise from a final gunshot, but just…who…hit…who…?
“Maybe not here,” Janeane said, a bit overwhelmed. She couldn’t help but stare at the spectacle, both inside and outside the mall. It reminded her so much of Vegas. Everywhere she looked, there were flashing lights and tourists. “But I would like to sit down for a second,” she added.
“Let’s go over there.” Ava pointed to a seating area further away from the lobby. Janeane noted it was near a fountain. She nodded okay. As the women walked, the detective took in the surroundings.
“Lots of people, aren’t there?” Ava smiled.
Janeane took a moment to answer. “Ava, where are we?”
“We’re in the Tower’s Galleria,” Ava said with pride. “It has some of the best shopping in the entire city.”
“But where is the city?” Janeane asked. “I mean, one moment I’m in Chicago…and the next moment I’m…here.” The two had arrived at the fountain now.
“Where is here?"
Still smiling, Ava shook her head apologetically. “I can’t answer that right now,” she said. “There are things about this place that visitors must learn for themselves.” She paused before adding, “Don’t worry about it, though. It will all come to you when the time is right.” She motioned for Janeane to sit on the fountain’s ledge.
“Rest, Sweetie,” Ava told the detective. “Take a moment to gather your thoughts.”
The two women sat. The fountain’s water splashed soothingly behind them, and the air smelled faintly of chlorine. The fountain itself was a bronze of Hermes, the Greek god who moved between the worlds of real and divine. Janeane felt better just being near it, and she took a moment to feel its slight spray on her face.
Her head was starting to clear.
“Ava,” Janeane said, a few moments later, “why can’t you answer me? Why won’t you tell me where we are?”
“Because there are rules,” Ava answered politely, like a mom with a toddler. “And those rules are very important.”
“What kind of rules?” Janeane asked.
“Well, the most important one is all around us,” Ava said, nodding toward a jewelry store window and pointing to the hissing cat logo just below its nameplate. Like all other signs in the Galleria, it had the same phrase, similar to a copyright.
RADIO WORLD
Shh…No talking!
“If you look around you, Sweetie, you’ll see this little phrase repeated over and over,” Ava explained. “Words are important, and this particular line has been purposely repeated in all prominent places.”
Ava paused for a moment so Janeane could take this in.
“Shh, no talking,” Janeane read out loud.
“And if you look carefully, you’ll see it wherever you go.” Ava gestured for Janeane to notice what was all around her. Indeed, Shh…No talking! was printed on every single sign, nameplate, and boutique awning. It was even embossed on the shopping bags carried by passing guests – guests who slowed as they passed Janeane, pointing to her discreetly and whispering quietly to themselves.
“It’s everywhere,” Janeane realized.
“And when you know what to look for, it’s really not that subtle,” Ava admitted. “It’s supposed to be subliminal, I guess. It’s a concept that’s always right there in front of you, but never in your face. Are you following me on this?”
“I…I think so,” Janeane said, though her hesitation said otherwise.
“Take your time,” Ava told her. “I know this is a lot to take in.”
The two women sat quietly for a moment as more guests walked past, as though trying to catch a glimpse of the detective.
“But what does Shh, No Talking mean, really?” Janeane asked Ava, oblivious to the stares.
“It’s law enforcement,” Ava said. “Like when you see security guards in buildings.”
“But I don’t see any guards,” Janeane said.
“You’re not supposed to,” Ava explained. “Remember, Sweetie, Radio World is a getaway, a place to let your guard down and have a little fun. Guest service is our primary responsibility. Our visitors are here to escape from their lives for a while, and we have to see to their security in a way that’s not obtrusive.”
“And Shh, No talking does that?” Janeane asked.
“In a way, yes,” Ava told her. “It’s sort of like the honor system. The repetition of the phrase is a gentle reminder that we all must follow the rules of the city. It’s no different than a swimming pool’s No Diving sign, or a No Parking sign by a handicapped space. Just because you can’t see a police officer standing right next to you, it doesn’t mean you should break the law.”
More guests walked by, and Janeane realized she was being watched. Her attention was drawn to a man who looked like Tom Cruise from Vanilla Sky, but before she could make eye contact with him, she noticed a nearby kiosk that sold trashy paperbacks. The vendor’s name was a double entendre: Read Between the Lines. Just beneath its nameplate, Janeane saw the hissing cat logo…and the words Shh, No Talking.
The phrase gave Janeane pause for a moment. Ava noticed this.
“Tell me what you’re thinking,” Ava said.
“Why is everyone looking at me?” Janeane asked, suddenly feeling uncomfortable. Her eyes darted from guest to guest, and all seemed to look her squarely in the eye before purposely turning away. It made her feel unwelcome, on display. It almost made her feel like a character in a horror movie, where her car had broken down in a place that hated outsiders.
A waiter appeared, holding a tray with trumpet flute glasses. “Would you care for some champagne?” he asked, locking his eyes with Janeane’s.
The detective was on her feet in seconds.
“Ava, what’s going on?!” Janeane snapped, backing away from both people. More guests walked by, more stares, more avoidance. Janeane could feel the hair on her neck rise, a policewoman’s gut instinct that something unpleasant was about to happen.
“Take it easy, Sweetie,” the Concierge said, rising quickly and gesturing for the waiter to leave. Ava tried to touch the detective’s shoulder, but Janeane pulled away fast and instinctively reached for her gun – which of course, wasn’t there.
The waiter was gone in a flash, and it seemed that the guests themselves were suddenly giving the two a wide berth. Janeane’s breath came short and shallow, and after taking a fast glance around, her eyes settled on Ava – who was approaching her slowly, like an officer calming a suspect.
“Sweetie, calm down!” Ava told her.
“Don’t sweetie, me!” Janeane shot back. “I want you to tell me right now where the fuck I am! I want a location! And I want my gun back! And I want a phone!”
“I can’t do that, Janeane,” Ava said, calm and firm. “And I know this is a lot for you to take in right now, but I need you to just…calm…down. And,” she added, “I also need you to trust me.”
“Trust you!?” the detective scoffed. “Are you fucking kidding me? I was kidnapped! From a crime scene no less! One moment, I was in Chicago…and the next moment, I was…was…I’m here!”
“Janeane, please-”–
“WHERE AM I!?” Janeane yelled, her voice echoing throughout the Galleria. For just a split second, all guests in earshot seemed to freeze. But then, a moment later, like machines on an assembly line, they resumed their respective movements and continued on to their destinations, as though nothing was happening. And this behavior frightened Janeane even more.
What’s happening to me? Janeane thought, near panic. Where am I? What is this place? And why won’t you give me a straight answer
“Listen to me!” Ava’s voice rang in Janeane’s ear. The Concierge had grabbed the detective’s head with both hands, and was now holding her face an inch from her own. Janeane could feel Ava’s hot breath as she spoke.
There was no time for small talk.
“I can’t give you a straight answer because you’re not supposed to be here!” Ava told her bluntly. “And I wish I could tell you more than that, but I can’t. I’m sorry. It’s dangerous for you to know as much as you already do!”
The detective pulled away from Ava’s grasp and staggered backwards a few feet before regaining her footing. She found herself surrounded by guests within one of the Galleria’s public thoroughfares. Unfamiliar people passed and stared, every single one of them making direct eye contact. Their behavior was chilling, and Janeane couldn’t help but think of Denzel Washington’s movie Fallen, where a single demon jumps from person to person, an unseen individual using the eyes of many. It was terrifying.
Time, oh yeah time, is on your side – that it is!
Ava’s hand was on Janeane’s shoulder again, pulling her back toward the Hermes fountain. As soon as the women were clear of the crowd, Ava hustled Janeane toward the Galleria’s exit. Her words were to the point.
“You’re not supposed to be here, Detective. But right now I can’t send you back. There is someone else coming, though – another Chicago detective. Until she gets here, however,you are in great danger. And for your own safety, I need you to leave the Tower right now. Don’t ask questions. Don’t ask me why things are the way they are. Just know that whatever happens, none of this was ever your fault.”
“Ava!” Janeane tried to stop her. “What are you talking about?”
“Remember the rules of the city,” Ava cut her off. “And here, take this. You’ll need cash to move about.” The Concierge pressed a roll of cash into the detective’s hand. “The card I gave you is to gain entry into places that require an ID. I don’t want you to use it to actually pay for anything. Don’t leave a trail. And use the Headline for directions only.”
Ava’s tone grew unexpectedly serious. “Listen to me, Sweetie. Whatever you do, don’t ask the Headline any specific, personal questions. Keep inquiries light. Stick to public places. I’m sorry to leave you on your own like this, but as I said, someone else is coming. And I need to be ready when she gets here.”
Janeane could hear the splash of Hermes in the background. Beyond the fountain, Barry Manilow had been replaced by a drunkard singing Hotel California.
The Concierge went to leave, but the detective reached out to stop her.
“Wait!” Janeane called, forcing Ava to turn around. The detective’s face was desperate. “You can’t just leave me like this,” she pleaded. “After all that’s happened, you can’t just patch me up - dress me up - give me a wad of cash, then tell me to go have fun, like I’m in some casino!” Two fast steps, and her face was next to Ava’s. “What am I supposed to do? Are you telling me you want me to hide” – she gestured toward the doors leading to the city – “out there?”
Once again, the Concierge’s words were tender and blunt.
“I don’t expect you to hide, Sweetie,” Ava told Janeane softly, stroking the woman’s cheek. “I expect you to find your brother.”
And then she was gone.