know him, or did two of your security people follow us?”
I glanced as casually as I could. When the man saw my look, he got up off his stool and approached our table. I tensed immediately.
He looked to be around fifty and about seventy-five pounds overweight. He wore a red windbreaker, a blue, crew-neck T-shirt with a pocket, and white Bermuda shorts. He poked a finger at me. “You’re Scott Carpenter.” He began to reach into his pocket.
Oscar was there in seconds. The man was supine on the floor in less time than that. The befuddled man looked up and held out a pen. “I wanted your autograph.”
Oscar helped him up. The guy was embarrassed and pissed.
I apologized, signed the autograph, and offered to get him a baseball signed by the whole team. Finally, mollified, he waddled away.
Kearn said, “If you’re going to bring protection to our meetings, then they will have to be much less obvious. And you’ll have to hire a firm with better operatives. I spotted your guy within two minutes.”
“Then why did you keep talking to me?”
“I want an exclusive interview. I’m looking for any angle.”
I gazed at him carefully.
He continued, “I’m in a profession that is ruled by tabloid journalism, but after what I’ve been through, I’m not sure that should be all. I’m looking for human interest with dignity, not sensationalism. They haven’t snuffed out every shred of my integrity.”
I guess I wanted to believe him. More for his sake than mine. I looked at his overly coiffed hair, his professionally manicured fingers, and his perfectly cut clothes. Being clean and neat is not a sure sign of corruption or of being gay, but too many things about this guy were a little too perfect. Rollingin the mud in tattered blue jeans, worn sneakers, and a ripped T-shirt aren’t qualifications for sainthood, but I know which one I trust more. He got up to leave, and I stood up with him. We shook hands.
“I’m just offering you some help,” Kearn said.
“I’m interested, but I’m not sure who to trust.”
“When I get information, I’ll share it with you. I’d appreciate it if you’d call me when you know anything.” Kearn handed me his card. “That’s got my home, work, and pager number on it. Call anytime.”
I got back to the hospital around six. Tom’s mother was on duty. A couple of relatives were getting a bite to eat. In the next couple hours numerous people from Tom’s work stopped by. Meg Swarthmore, one of his best friends at school, stayed for an hour. She filled me in on more gossip about the people at school than I ever cared to remember. She kept saying, “Be sure to tell him this when he wakes up.”
I must have given an annoyed sigh at one point because she finally ran down. “I guess I’m rattling on,” she said, “because I’m scared. I want him to wake up.”
“I’ve been talking to him while he’s asleep,” I said. “I understand the impulse.”
Edwina Jenkins, his principal, came by. I told her, even if he woke up in the next five minutes, he wouldn’t be in the rest of the week. She made sympathetic noises and left as quickly as was decently allowable.
Several of our gay friends showed up around eight—they were sweet and sympathetic. Then the phone rang about eight-thirty. It was the switchboard. They said they had an urgent call from someone named Myrtle Mae. Before I could tell them to take a message, I heard him say, “It is absolutelyvital that I speak to them.” His drag-queen persona was on high shrill and fast-forward. Maybe for some people it’s hard to say no to a drag queen on a mission, not me. I hesitated, trying to think of a polite way to tell him to shove it. Unfortunately, the operator took my silence for a yes. She put him through.
“I found something out that you might be interested in knowing, and I know Tom will be when he wakes up.”
“What?” I could barely get the word through gritted teeth.
“Dr. Susan Clancey was supposed
I glanced as casually as I could. When the man saw my look, he got up off his stool and approached our table. I tensed immediately.
He looked to be around fifty and about seventy-five pounds overweight. He wore a red windbreaker, a blue, crew-neck T-shirt with a pocket, and white Bermuda shorts. He poked a finger at me. “You’re Scott Carpenter.” He began to reach into his pocket.
Oscar was there in seconds. The man was supine on the floor in less time than that. The befuddled man looked up and held out a pen. “I wanted your autograph.”
Oscar helped him up. The guy was embarrassed and pissed.
I apologized, signed the autograph, and offered to get him a baseball signed by the whole team. Finally, mollified, he waddled away.
Kearn said, “If you’re going to bring protection to our meetings, then they will have to be much less obvious. And you’ll have to hire a firm with better operatives. I spotted your guy within two minutes.”
“Then why did you keep talking to me?”
“I want an exclusive interview. I’m looking for any angle.”
I gazed at him carefully.
He continued, “I’m in a profession that is ruled by tabloid journalism, but after what I’ve been through, I’m not sure that should be all. I’m looking for human interest with dignity, not sensationalism. They haven’t snuffed out every shred of my integrity.”
I guess I wanted to believe him. More for his sake than mine. I looked at his overly coiffed hair, his professionally manicured fingers, and his perfectly cut clothes. Being clean and neat is not a sure sign of corruption or of being gay, but too many things about this guy were a little too perfect. Rollingin the mud in tattered blue jeans, worn sneakers, and a ripped T-shirt aren’t qualifications for sainthood, but I know which one I trust more. He got up to leave, and I stood up with him. We shook hands.
“I’m just offering you some help,” Kearn said.
“I’m interested, but I’m not sure who to trust.”
“When I get information, I’ll share it with you. I’d appreciate it if you’d call me when you know anything.” Kearn handed me his card. “That’s got my home, work, and pager number on it. Call anytime.”
I got back to the hospital around six. Tom’s mother was on duty. A couple of relatives were getting a bite to eat. In the next couple hours numerous people from Tom’s work stopped by. Meg Swarthmore, one of his best friends at school, stayed for an hour. She filled me in on more gossip about the people at school than I ever cared to remember. She kept saying, “Be sure to tell him this when he wakes up.”
I must have given an annoyed sigh at one point because she finally ran down. “I guess I’m rattling on,” she said, “because I’m scared. I want him to wake up.”
“I’ve been talking to him while he’s asleep,” I said. “I understand the impulse.”
Edwina Jenkins, his principal, came by. I told her, even if he woke up in the next five minutes, he wouldn’t be in the rest of the week. She made sympathetic noises and left as quickly as was decently allowable.
Several of our gay friends showed up around eight—they were sweet and sympathetic. Then the phone rang about eight-thirty. It was the switchboard. They said they had an urgent call from someone named Myrtle Mae. Before I could tell them to take a message, I heard him say, “It is absolutelyvital that I speak to them.” His drag-queen persona was on high shrill and fast-forward. Maybe for some people it’s hard to say no to a drag queen on a mission, not me. I hesitated, trying to think of a polite way to tell him to shove it. Unfortunately, the operator took my silence for a yes. She put him through.
“I found something out that you might be interested in knowing, and I know Tom will be when he wakes up.”
“What?” I could barely get the word through gritted teeth.
“Dr. Susan Clancey was supposed
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