equipment; the happy strains of “Yankee Doodle” filled the air.
C.C. had originally considered “Hail to the Chief” but was talked out of it. He had also wanted balloons to drop down from the ceiling, but it would have been too short a drop to be practical.
As if on cue—which was, in fact, the case—the chief’s family moved forward to embrace him warmly. It did not escape me that a few of the younger children appeared to be totally confused by this unfamiliar outpouring of familial love.
The two bands of supporters simultaneously moved in from both sides of the stage for congratulatory photo-op handshakes and back-pats, and I suddenly realized that the chief actually thought he could use this orchestrated outburst of wild enthusiasm—which was limited entirely to the stage—as a smoke screen to signal that the “press conference” was over.
Making sure that C.C. wasn’t looking, I gave the sound man a signal to fade out the music. The moment it died, the reporters began jostling forward, shouting questions in an attempt to be heard over the other shouted questions. The chief and C.C. looked a bit startled, and C.C. glared at me, but I merely looked at him innocently as if to say “What?”
Reluctantly, the chief returned to the podium as the rest of the throng on stage moved back, distancing themselves from the journalistic onslaught.
“Chief!” the reporter closest to the stage shouted, “The Dog Collar was a gay bar, and the twenty-nine victims were presumably all gay men. Is your investigation centering on known hate groups?”
The chief had obviously been prepared for that one.
“As I stated in my opening remarks,” he said, both hands gripping the edges of the podium, “this is an ongoing investigation in a crucial stage of development, and I cannot at this point speculate on the motivation behind the blaze.”
I’m sure that was all he was supposed to say, but being the chief, he had to add a little something of his own.
“Hate groups, a jealous boyfriend…I simply cannot speculate.”
A jealous boyfriend? Did he say that? Did he actually say that? I turned, almost knocking over the chair behind me in my hurry to leave the room. I didn’t know whether to yell or cry, but I did neither. Instead, I went to the bathroom to splash cold water on my face and pull myself together.
I can’t do this , I told the obviously shaken me in the mirror. I can’t put up with this shit one single minute longer!
Yeah, you can , the me in the mirror replied. You have to. You’re the only one who has any idea of what’s going on inside that pocket-Hitler’s little clique. And if you blow it by making it obvious you’re gay, who’ll be there to try and stop him?
He was right.
I wanted a cigarette but knew I’d probably been gone too long already, so I returned to the conference room. I don’t know what the questioning had been like while I was gone, but it appeared the chief was holding his own, although I could tell from the way he was clutching the edges of the podium and the narrowing of his eyes that he was mentally making an enemies list of reporters for future reference.
At last it was over. The chief thanked everyone for coming and reminded them that his door was always open to the press.
Yeah, I thought, like the door’s always open to the bank vault.
He turned, awkwardly hugged his wife, put out his hand to Mary, his youngest, who took it with ill-concealed trepidation, and together, the family left the stage, followed by the remainder of the party. The reporters gathered up their gear and departed, leaving me to clear up the mess.
Chapter 8
The next week and a half went by fast—way too fast. At this rate, I figured, I’d be 97 years old before I knew it.
Bob and a few close friends—Chris and I were touched to be asked to be among them—had a simple memorial service for Ramón at the local M.C.C. on Thursday night, and his body was then sent to his parents the next day
C.C. had originally considered “Hail to the Chief” but was talked out of it. He had also wanted balloons to drop down from the ceiling, but it would have been too short a drop to be practical.
As if on cue—which was, in fact, the case—the chief’s family moved forward to embrace him warmly. It did not escape me that a few of the younger children appeared to be totally confused by this unfamiliar outpouring of familial love.
The two bands of supporters simultaneously moved in from both sides of the stage for congratulatory photo-op handshakes and back-pats, and I suddenly realized that the chief actually thought he could use this orchestrated outburst of wild enthusiasm—which was limited entirely to the stage—as a smoke screen to signal that the “press conference” was over.
Making sure that C.C. wasn’t looking, I gave the sound man a signal to fade out the music. The moment it died, the reporters began jostling forward, shouting questions in an attempt to be heard over the other shouted questions. The chief and C.C. looked a bit startled, and C.C. glared at me, but I merely looked at him innocently as if to say “What?”
Reluctantly, the chief returned to the podium as the rest of the throng on stage moved back, distancing themselves from the journalistic onslaught.
“Chief!” the reporter closest to the stage shouted, “The Dog Collar was a gay bar, and the twenty-nine victims were presumably all gay men. Is your investigation centering on known hate groups?”
The chief had obviously been prepared for that one.
“As I stated in my opening remarks,” he said, both hands gripping the edges of the podium, “this is an ongoing investigation in a crucial stage of development, and I cannot at this point speculate on the motivation behind the blaze.”
I’m sure that was all he was supposed to say, but being the chief, he had to add a little something of his own.
“Hate groups, a jealous boyfriend…I simply cannot speculate.”
A jealous boyfriend? Did he say that? Did he actually say that? I turned, almost knocking over the chair behind me in my hurry to leave the room. I didn’t know whether to yell or cry, but I did neither. Instead, I went to the bathroom to splash cold water on my face and pull myself together.
I can’t do this , I told the obviously shaken me in the mirror. I can’t put up with this shit one single minute longer!
Yeah, you can , the me in the mirror replied. You have to. You’re the only one who has any idea of what’s going on inside that pocket-Hitler’s little clique. And if you blow it by making it obvious you’re gay, who’ll be there to try and stop him?
He was right.
I wanted a cigarette but knew I’d probably been gone too long already, so I returned to the conference room. I don’t know what the questioning had been like while I was gone, but it appeared the chief was holding his own, although I could tell from the way he was clutching the edges of the podium and the narrowing of his eyes that he was mentally making an enemies list of reporters for future reference.
At last it was over. The chief thanked everyone for coming and reminded them that his door was always open to the press.
Yeah, I thought, like the door’s always open to the bank vault.
He turned, awkwardly hugged his wife, put out his hand to Mary, his youngest, who took it with ill-concealed trepidation, and together, the family left the stage, followed by the remainder of the party. The reporters gathered up their gear and departed, leaving me to clear up the mess.
Chapter 8
The next week and a half went by fast—way too fast. At this rate, I figured, I’d be 97 years old before I knew it.
Bob and a few close friends—Chris and I were touched to be asked to be among them—had a simple memorial service for Ramón at the local M.C.C. on Thursday night, and his body was then sent to his parents the next day
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