Hate Crime Page 15

  “Don’t be afraid,” said a small woman with dark eyes. She took my hand and pulled it to her breast. “We just want to help you.”

  I shook her hands away. What, was this supposed to turn me on? Spark my interest in chicks with a messiah complex? It didn’t work. I brought them coffee and stayed away from their table until they finally departed. They left tracts on the table. I threw them away.

  How many times did I have someone read that nasty little verse from Leviticus to me, the one passage in the entire Bible that arguably, subject to differing interpretations, may come down on gays? I’d point out that it was right next to the verse that says children who are disrespectful to their parents should be executed. For that matter, Leviticus prescribes the death penalty for house burglary and adultery. How many of us would still be around if we started enforcing these laws? I’d ask. But I never got anywhere with them. Leviticus also dictates that a mother must make a burnt offering after bearing a child, that a father must prove his daughter’s virginity by displaying a bloody sheet in the town square, that you can’t sow your field with two kinds of seed or put on a garment made of two kinds of material. Who would suggest that these passages should be taken seriously in this day and age?

  The antigay passage rubs shoulders with passages condemning masturbation, or sex during menstruation. For the ancient Jews, reproduction was survival, so any form of sexual activity that didn’t produce offspring was met with disapproval. How long are we going to let ourselves be ruled by four-thousand-year-old laws concocted by primitive Jewish tribes running around in the desert? I’d ask. But they didn’t listen to anything I said, and even if they did, they wouldn’t admit it when they were hanging around with their holier-than-thou friends. Truth was, as I soon realized, that passage in Leviticus was just a smokescreen-a convenient excuse to justify their own prejudice which had its basis in fear and xenophobia, not the Bible.

  “Sodomy is still a crime in some states,” one young tough told me. He was clenching his fists, looking as if he’d enforce the law himself. “God doesn’t like it when you pervert the natural order.”

  Then why the hell did he make me this way? I wanted to scream. It’s not as if I chose to be gay. But you can’t explain that to these people. You can’t explain what’s it’s like, being constantly judged. Having people suggest that there’s something wrong with you because you’re not just like them. Feeling as if you’re on the outside looking in, when all you really want in the world is to belong. To feel part of the gang. Not to be alone.

  21

  Mike was so unaccustomed to letting someone else drive that he didn’t know what to do. He fidgeted with the lighter, played with the electric windows, and scanned the radio dial-Chicago had a lot of stations. He found a Billy Joel song he remembered from college, smart and oh-so-catchy. Now he’d probably have the tune running through his head for days.

  “You know, Swift,” Mike said, “I’m starting to get excited.”

  “Want me to hose you down?”

  “That won’t be necessary, thanks.” Mike gazed at the towering buildings on either side of them, the throngs of people crowding the sidewalks, the hustle and bustle of famed Michigan Avenue. “This is my first time in Chicago and I’m pretty pumped.”

  “I’m excited about the drag racing. Who’da thought? It’s like something out of Grease.”

  Mike watched as Swift steered her car down the busy street. Letting someone else drive went totally against the grain, but it was her car and her city, so he was just going to have to bear it. “Are you the good girl, or the naughty girl? Olivia Newton-John or Stockard Channing?”

  “Who do you want me to be, big boy?”

  Mike smiled. “Why do you do that?”

  “Do what?”

  “All the innuendo. I know you don’t mean it.”

  “Don’t be so sure, slick. I think you’re a darn fine specimen, as men go. And I figure in a job like this, a girl’s got to take her pleasure where she can find it.”

  “Uh-huh.” Mike watched as the skyscrapers whizzed by his window. “You’re aware that you’re driving Baxter crazy, right?”

  “Because we left her at headquarters to do the grunt work?”

  “Because she thinks you’re coming on to me. Constantly.”

  A sheepish grin crossed the agent’s face. “You got a problem with that?”

  “I’m just saying.”

  “That woman’s got more repressed desire than I’ve ever seen. I can’t help but toy with her. It’s my nature.”

  “Well, I’d appreciate it if you’d lay off her a little.”

  “What’s it to you?”

  “It isn’t helping the investigation.”

  “Don’t give me that BS. Do you have feelings for her?”

  Mike bit his lip. He had made Baxter a promise. “She’s my partner.”

  “Don’t hide from the question. Answer it.”

  “I just don’t think you need to be needling her all the time.”

  “Look, Mister Tall, Dark, and Dense, if you and Baxter are romantically involved, or want to be, you should get a new partner.”

  “That isn’t-”

  “And if you aren’t, sugah,” she continued, “I’m available. And my apartment is only a few blocks away.”

  About an hour later, Mike stood at the edge of a drag strip in the middle of an open field pondering the nature of the enduring relationship between a boy and his wheels. Small wonder guys love cars, he mused, as he watched two of them tear off into the distance. It’s all there. Sleek polished hoods, rubber tread, big noisy engines. The thrill of adventure, the hint of danger, the strong scent of sex. Nothing sexier than chrome.

  “Amazing how the automobile has changed human society,” Mike commented.

  “More amazing how the automobile has changed human courtship,” Swift replied. “Did you lose yours in the backseat, too?”

  “I’m afraid that information is classified.”

  “Whatever. Have I mentioned yet that I find this all kind of a turn-on?”

  “Probably. But not to these children, I hope.”

  As Mike gazed around him, he felt as if he were swimming in a sea of teenagers-or people who wanted to pretend they were. Who else would come to the Windy City Sizzlin’ Speedway, which was basically a long paved strip out in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by undeveloped brush and red clay. According to some of the boys in Swift’s office, a local farmer had gotten the inspiration to pave a strip across some uncultivated land. It was a huge success. Drag racing in the city streets sharply dropped overnight-and thanks to the small entrance fee, the farmer made a tidy profit.

  “How many kids have you talked to so far?” Mike asked.

  “I dunno. Seems like a million or so.”

  “And you showed them the picture?”

  “Right. If dear departed Manny had friends, I haven’t stumbled across any of them.”

  Mike nodded. “Keep at it.” He plowed into a nearby group of young people. He made no attempt to be subtle; he knew they could make him a mile away, so why pretend to be anyone other than who he was? Besides, some of these kids had seriously cool cars.

  “So you come here often?” Mike asked a sweet young thing named Tanya. He guessed her to be about sixteen, with hair that looked like a kindergarten finger-painting project.

  “Almost every day when school’s out.” Talk about enthusiasm. She almost bounced when she spoke. “It’s so bad. Totally phat.”

  “I notice you’re one of the few females on the premises.”

  “I don’t know why that is. I live for it. It’s like, you know, like, duuuuude.” She laughed.

  “Yeah, but… why?”

  “Hey, you gotta do something, right? What else is there? This beats going to the mall. Or drinking or doing drugs.”

  “Can’t argue with that.”

  “My car is great-I got a 350 V-8, Tranny, slick as ice, and enough r.p.m. to handle the Indy 500. Where else am I going to
get the chance to challenge every would-be macho stud in the city-and win?”

  “I can see the appeal.”

  “It’s a great way to prove yourself. Once you’re behind the wheel, it doesn’t matter if you’re big or small, male or female. All that matters is how good you are. You turn the ignition-and thirteen hundred feet later, you know who’s hot and who’s not.”

  Mike watched as two more cars approached the starting line. One of them was apparently being driven by a friend of Tanya’s. “Come on, Hootie! Show ’em your struts!”

  Hootie was the lanky boy in the Thunderbird. He glanced at the driver in the neighboring yellow Camaro, then punched it. And they were off-at something like 100 m.p.h.

  “Kind of dangerous, isn’t it?”

  “Better here than on the streets. I have seen a few wrecks, though. Nothing too bad. Some of the slicks bet on the races. Then they start taking it way too seriously.”

  Hootie, alas, did not win his race, which did not surprise Mike, being a former Camaro owner himself.

  “That’s tough. Hootie’s gonna be bummed. I better go.”

  “Just a sec.” Mike had been so absorbed in the racing he almost forgot that he was technically supposed to be investigating. He pulled the photo out of his pocket. “Ever see this guy before?”

  She looked for only a moment. “Yeah, I’ve seen him. I think I raced him. Has an ‘89 Mustang, right? Modified engine. Big wheels.” She grinned. “I knocked his socks off.”

  “What was he doing here?”

  “Far as I know, he was just racing, like everyone else. We get some older guys, sometimes. Fogies trying to recapture their youth with big, souped-up race cars. You know the kind.”

  Mike was suddenly glad he had left his Trans Am back in Tulsa. “Know anything else about him?”

  “Well… I don’t know it for a fact. But some of my homeboys said they thought he was pushing.”

  “As in drugs?”

  “That’s what they said.”

  “Pushing what?”

  “I couldn’t tell you. Nothing too serious, I think.”

  “X?”

  “I don’t know. I’m not into that at all.” She turned back toward the strip. “I just love to race!”

  Tanya scampered away. Mike talked to several of the other kids in attendance, but no one knew more about Manny Nowosky than she had. Mike did, however, learn a lot about drag racing.

  “You’re dying to try it, aren’t you?” Swift said, coming up behind him.

  “I don’t know about dying,” he mumbled.

  “Put it on hold for a minute, Top Gun. There’s someone here you need to meet.”

  Standing beside her, Mike saw, was a young black man, maybe in his mid-twenties. He was solidly built, with strong and well-shaped features.

  “Roger Hartnell,” Swift explained.

  Mike shook his hand. “So you knew Manny Nowosky?”

  “Yes, I did.”

  “What do you do?”

  Swift answered for him. “He’s a head honcho in the Chicago office of ANGER.”

  “Regional director, actually,” he corrected.

  “That’s the gay activist group, right?”

  “Gay and lesbian,” he corrected.

  “Isn’t that like saying, ‘people and women’?”

  Swift laughed. “Sorry, Mr. Hartnell. Major Morelli was an English major. He gets like this.”

  Mike ignored her. “Mind if I have a few words with you?”

  Hartnell shook his head. “Sure. I’ve been quizzed by so many police officers and reporters I could do it in my sleep.”

  “Oh? And why is that?”

  “My close friend was killed. Murdered brutally. Because he was gay.”

  Mike’s eyes widened. “Are you talking about Tony Barovick?”

  Hartnell nodded.

  Mike pulled the man away from the roar of the crowd. Swift followed behind. “How well did you know Tony Barovick?”

  Hartnell thought a moment. “Very well.”

  “Meaning?”

  “We were lovers.”

  “How long had you been together?”

  “About six months. From last November until… We had an apartment near campus.”

  “Must’ve come as quite a shock.”

  “You could say that.”

  Hartnell remained remarkably stoic, but Mike supposed he had talked about his lover’s death so many times he could do it without flinching. Better switch to the investigation at hand. “And you knew Manny Nowosky?”

  “I recognized his picture. I’ve seen him here. And I’ve seen him at Remote Control-that’s a bar where Tony worked and where I used to spend a lot of time. Tony and I used to speculate about what his deal was. Tony thought he was an undercover cop. I thought he was a pusher. Either way, we didn’t like having him around.”

  “Well, I’m happy to inform you that’s not going to be a problem anymore.” Mike gazed at the photo. “I can guarantee he isn’t an undercover cop. The rest I’m not so sure about. Know anything else?”

  “Sorry, no.”

  Mike decided to run with a hunch. “Ever see him talking to Tony?”

  “I think maybe Tony took his order once or twice. He used to help out sometimes on the floor.”

  “Ever see Manny with anyone else?”

  “No. Always alone.”

  “So I don’t suppose you have any idea why someone might want to take him out.”

  “No. I wouldn’t.”

  Mike pursed his lips. This guy was tight-lipped-more monosyllabic than most guilty people he interrogated. Was there a reason for that? Or had he just learned to be careful?

  “And you work for this ANGER group?” Swift asked.

  “It’s a volunteer position, but, yes.”

  “May I ask why?”

  “I just think it’s important that we all make a contribution. Do something to make the world a better place. After what happened to Tony-how can anyone deny the need for this group’s work? I absolutely believe this is the defining issue of our time. A hundred years from now, history will look back on people who disparage homosexuals the same way we look back on slave owners. As primitive, ignorant hatemongers. Bigots. I want to be remembered as one of the good guys.”

  “But this isn’t just altruism,” Swift said, cutting to the heart of it, as usual. “You have a personal interest in this crusade.”

  “Because I’m gay? True enough. Doesn’t make the cause any less important.”

  “What exactly is it you ANGER folks do?” She had to shout to be heard over the zoom-zoom; another race was starting.

  “Our main goal is the dissemination of information. Educate the public, that’s what we’re about. We may be too late to get the old boys who grew up on the farm and learned to hate everyone who’s different from themselves, but there’s a lot we can do with their children. The world is changing.”

  “Is it?”

  “Absolutely. You know how many schools started gay clubs after Matthew Shepard’s murder? Hundreds. Most of the kids in them aren’t even gay-they just want to show their support.”

  “I’m all for education,” Mike said, “but ANGER has done a lot more than that. You guys are the ones who put the active in activism.”

  “We’re not much for sitting on our hands, if that’s what you mean.”

  “You’re not above resorting to violence, either.”

  “What choice do we have?” Mike could see the phlegmatic exterior fading a touch. “We live in a violent world. Do you know how many hate crimes are committed against gay people in this country every year? More than a thousand. The Matthew Shepard case got all the publicity, but that was just the tip of the iceberg. There were a dozen other hate-based murders of gay people that year. People you never heard about.”

  “It does seem to be on the upswing,” Mike admitted.

  “There’s nothing new about hate. Do you know about Claudia Brenner? She was out hiking the Appalachian Trail in Penns
ylvania with her girlfriend, back in 1988. They were minding their own business, having a great time. Too great for some people. Some backwoods hoods showed up with shotguns. They killed her girlfriend. Seriously wounded her.”

  “She became a gay activist, didn’t she?” Swift said.

  “Damn straight. Wouldn’t you? We got killers out there. Frat boys who think hate is cool. Preachers telling young people that God sends hurricanes because of gays. Or that it’s a mental disease that can be cured. That gays will be the downfall of civilization. Hell, one of the kids who killed Tony was a church choirboy! The other one was an Eagle Scout! It’s all around us, and always has been. There’s nothing more hateful than prejudice, whatever its brand. We have to take action-strong, decisive action!”

  Mike had the sense that Hartnell had delivered this speech more than once. “Is that what you told Paul Metheny? Just before he went to the courthouse and shot two people?”

  Hartnell raised his hands. “Hey, I had nothing to do with that. ANGER has officially condemned his act.”

  “But he was a member of your organization?”

  “He was a loose cannon. Paul had always been a little unbalanced. He was bipolar, and had strong sociopathic tendencies. I’m not even sure that was his real name. He was on medication, but I guess he stopped taking it. So he lost his head in the courtroom. Tragic.”

  “Come on. You must’ve applauded when you heard what happened.”

  “I’ve told you. We publicly condemned his action. Immediately.”

  “But you must’ve been privately pleased.”

  “No way.”

  “Those two kids killed your lover!”

  “And I wanted to see them pay, too. I’ll admit it. But not like that. Not vigilante style.”

  Swift cut in. “I’ve read about the graffiti your group inflicted on that law office downtown. The one that’s representing the surviving defendant.”

  “That was not our act, either.”

  “ANGER took credit for it.”

  “No, we released a press statement approving of the sentiment behind it. That’s a vastly different thing.”

  “If you say so.” Mike had done his best to needle the guy, pressure him into saying something he might not otherwise, but it wasn’t working. He checked Swift to see if she had anything more. She shrugged. “So what brings you here today?”