for burial. Bob was holding up very well, under the circumstances, but there was a definite change in him.
On Saturday, one week after the fire, a huge impromptu silent memorial for all the victims was held on the street in front of the Dog Collar. Thousands of gays, lesbians, and straights, alerted by word of mouth, gathered in silence at sundown to lay flowers in front of the yellow barricades outside the gutted bar, paying the dead the respect the chief of police and aspiring gubernatorial candidate had refused them. In an act of defiance by the community, no police permits were obtained in advance, even though the crowd filled the street and completely blocked traffic.
While the police were in evidence, their presence seemed mostly—and unnecessarily—to be intended to keep anyone from entering the cordoned-off area. Nothing was done to interfere with the memorial. Not even the chief would have been stupid enough to try.
When we heard that Bob planned to attend the service, we insisted he go with us, and we kept a close watch on him. But he just stood with everyone else, staring into what remained of the open door of the Dog Collar. There were many tears shed in the crowd, but none from Bob.
The “ongoing investigation” into the fire remained ongoing. I had spoken to Tom briefly on the phone. He couldn’t say much, of course, but I got the impression the arson squad, at least, was sincerely doing its best to piece the puzzle together. I had several questions I wanted to ask him, but they would have to wait.
We tentatively planned to meet at the memorial on Saturday, but there were so many people there, we missed each other. I called him again the following Monday and left a message on his machine.
On Thursday, the newspapers and TV stations headlined the story that an arrest had been made in the Dog Collar fire—the bar’s owner, for “criminal endangerment” of his patrons by exceeding occupancy limits, for putting up the toxic mesh, and for not providing more than one exit from the basement, where most of the victims had died.
As for the arrest of the actual arsonist…
Chris had bought his tickets and would be leaving on the morning of the twenty-fifth, the day I was to head up to the police chiefs’ meeting. Our plans for his going-away party had changed drastically, of course. We still wanted to have all our friends over for one last time, but the emphasis had definitely shifted from party to gathering.
My days at work were hectic, as C.C. got out his drums and whips to beat us into rowing the chief’s barge ever faster. Endless press releases, lengthy phone calls to newspapers throughout the state offering fill-in-the-dots-with-local-color stories; requests for interviews with the chief were declined on the grounds of his deep involvement in the fire investigation. Personal appearances were kept to an absolute minimum with the same excuse—the fire had, in fact, given the chief a perfect alibi for not having to run the risk of facing real people.
Stories were “leaked” by the chief’s insiders as to how profoundly he regretted not being able to be out there among the voters, but that his commitment to his duties and to protecting the citizens of his home city had to take precedence over politics. Made him seem noble as all shit.
Only a few contacts with Kevin, all by phone. He was spending much of his time making quick trips around the state, speaking to church groups and various conservative organizations on his father’s behalf, trumpeting the message of the chief’s deep concern for the restoration of law, order, and moral values. Sue-Lynn and the baby accompanied him whenever possible, of course, and anyone seeing them together would have had little doubt they epitomized everything America—and, therefore, the chief—stood for.
The bars were suffering huge financial losses, their business down by as much as eighty percent. Even the lesbian bars were affected, although none of them
On Saturday, one week after the fire, a huge impromptu silent memorial for all the victims was held on the street in front of the Dog Collar. Thousands of gays, lesbians, and straights, alerted by word of mouth, gathered in silence at sundown to lay flowers in front of the yellow barricades outside the gutted bar, paying the dead the respect the chief of police and aspiring gubernatorial candidate had refused them. In an act of defiance by the community, no police permits were obtained in advance, even though the crowd filled the street and completely blocked traffic.
While the police were in evidence, their presence seemed mostly—and unnecessarily—to be intended to keep anyone from entering the cordoned-off area. Nothing was done to interfere with the memorial. Not even the chief would have been stupid enough to try.
When we heard that Bob planned to attend the service, we insisted he go with us, and we kept a close watch on him. But he just stood with everyone else, staring into what remained of the open door of the Dog Collar. There were many tears shed in the crowd, but none from Bob.
The “ongoing investigation” into the fire remained ongoing. I had spoken to Tom briefly on the phone. He couldn’t say much, of course, but I got the impression the arson squad, at least, was sincerely doing its best to piece the puzzle together. I had several questions I wanted to ask him, but they would have to wait.
We tentatively planned to meet at the memorial on Saturday, but there were so many people there, we missed each other. I called him again the following Monday and left a message on his machine.
On Thursday, the newspapers and TV stations headlined the story that an arrest had been made in the Dog Collar fire—the bar’s owner, for “criminal endangerment” of his patrons by exceeding occupancy limits, for putting up the toxic mesh, and for not providing more than one exit from the basement, where most of the victims had died.
As for the arrest of the actual arsonist…
Chris had bought his tickets and would be leaving on the morning of the twenty-fifth, the day I was to head up to the police chiefs’ meeting. Our plans for his going-away party had changed drastically, of course. We still wanted to have all our friends over for one last time, but the emphasis had definitely shifted from party to gathering.
My days at work were hectic, as C.C. got out his drums and whips to beat us into rowing the chief’s barge ever faster. Endless press releases, lengthy phone calls to newspapers throughout the state offering fill-in-the-dots-with-local-color stories; requests for interviews with the chief were declined on the grounds of his deep involvement in the fire investigation. Personal appearances were kept to an absolute minimum with the same excuse—the fire had, in fact, given the chief a perfect alibi for not having to run the risk of facing real people.
Stories were “leaked” by the chief’s insiders as to how profoundly he regretted not being able to be out there among the voters, but that his commitment to his duties and to protecting the citizens of his home city had to take precedence over politics. Made him seem noble as all shit.
Only a few contacts with Kevin, all by phone. He was spending much of his time making quick trips around the state, speaking to church groups and various conservative organizations on his father’s behalf, trumpeting the message of the chief’s deep concern for the restoration of law, order, and moral values. Sue-Lynn and the baby accompanied him whenever possible, of course, and anyone seeing them together would have had little doubt they epitomized everything America—and, therefore, the chief—stood for.
The bars were suffering huge financial losses, their business down by as much as eighty percent. Even the lesbian bars were affected, although none of them
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