is in the street—that’s where you have to ask whatever you want to know. You gonna ask a liar if he lies? How would you know anything comes from my mouth is righteous? Either go with what Vincent told you, or get somebody else, friend.”
The guy who called himself Lincoln glanced around the room like he was taking a vote. I couldn’t see anyone respond, but he went on like it had been unanimous.
“We want. . . the man who’s killing all the. . . gay-bashers. The ‘Avenger’ or whatever name the tabloids are calling him this week.”
“You
want
him. . .?”
“We want to find him,” Lincoln said. “We want to. . .” He glanced around the room again, waited until he was satisfied. “. . . to help him get away.”
T he whole place went quiet, like a bomb had just dropped and they were waiting for the smoke to clear to determine the body count. But I’d had a lifetime of knowing how to answer the question he never asked, so I aborted their pregnant pause and said: “Why tell me?”
Then they
really
went quiet.
Another mistake. I just sat there—a frog on a lily pad, waiting to see if they were flies. I reached down, scratched behind Pansy’s ears, my face just this side of bored.
Waiting.
“Vincent told us—” Lincoln started.
I held up my hand in a “stop” gesture. “Vincent’s not here,” I reminded him.
“Not about. . . you. Vincent was the first one who. . . Look, gay-bashing is. . . lynching, okay? Like that poor kid in Wyoming. I mean, what happened to him, it’s always happened. But it doesn’t get reported much. Not for what it is. And—”
“And you’re all over the map,” I cut in. “Lynching is when they string a guy up for stealing horses without waiting for a trial. When they total a gay guy for
being
gay, that’s a hate kill. And those’re never about individuals.”
“I—”
“He’s right, Lincoln,” the brunette in the tank top said, her voice harder than her face. “Save the politics, okay? If I listen to one more dumb-fuck discussion about whether we’re ‘queers’ or ‘gays’ or ‘homosexuals,’ I’ll hurl. Just tell him what Vincent told us. . . told
some
of us, anyway—I wasn’t there.” Reminding him. A smart, tough girl, that one. I couldn’t tell where she was from. There’s no such thing as a “New York” accent. Brooklyn, Queens, the Bronx. . . they all carry speech-markers. Her voice didn’t have any of them.
Lincoln made a gesture like he was wiping sweat off his brow, but he wasn’t sweating, so I took it for some kind of prelude-habit. Then he said: “Vincent said it was never going to stop by itself. He said we had to. . . hit back.”
I waited, but he’d obviously said his piece. Or thought he had, anyway.
“Is this supposed to be some kind of test, pal?” I asked him. “Am I supposed to guess the rest? Or maybe you want some. . . what, credentials? Look, far as I’m concerned, you can all—”
“Vincent said that,” he cut in. “That’s what he said about you. He said you were the most unprejudiced straight man he ever met in his life.”
“So you went through all this to give me some kind of award?”
“What Vincent said,” he continued, like he hadn’t heard me, “was that you just plain didn’t give a fuck. One way or the other.”
“That hasn’t changed,” I told him. “So what? You got something to say, let me hear it. And it better end in cash.”
“To maintain your wardrobe?” some little twerp in a Godfather-movie gangster suit threw in.
I looked over at him, still patting Pansy. “No, pal. To feed my dog. She eats a lot. And she’s not the only bitch in this room, I see. Look, I don’t do dish, okay? Show me some cash or show me the door.”
“That’s enough, Sean,” Lincoln told the twerp in the gangster suit. “Mr. Burke, what Vincent told us was that we needed to. . . practice violence. Deliberate violence, not self-defense. That we needed to
The guy who called himself Lincoln glanced around the room like he was taking a vote. I couldn’t see anyone respond, but he went on like it had been unanimous.
“We want. . . the man who’s killing all the. . . gay-bashers. The ‘Avenger’ or whatever name the tabloids are calling him this week.”
“You
want
him. . .?”
“We want to find him,” Lincoln said. “We want to. . .” He glanced around the room again, waited until he was satisfied. “. . . to help him get away.”
T he whole place went quiet, like a bomb had just dropped and they were waiting for the smoke to clear to determine the body count. But I’d had a lifetime of knowing how to answer the question he never asked, so I aborted their pregnant pause and said: “Why tell me?”
Then they
really
went quiet.
Another mistake. I just sat there—a frog on a lily pad, waiting to see if they were flies. I reached down, scratched behind Pansy’s ears, my face just this side of bored.
Waiting.
“Vincent told us—” Lincoln started.
I held up my hand in a “stop” gesture. “Vincent’s not here,” I reminded him.
“Not about. . . you. Vincent was the first one who. . . Look, gay-bashing is. . . lynching, okay? Like that poor kid in Wyoming. I mean, what happened to him, it’s always happened. But it doesn’t get reported much. Not for what it is. And—”
“And you’re all over the map,” I cut in. “Lynching is when they string a guy up for stealing horses without waiting for a trial. When they total a gay guy for
being
gay, that’s a hate kill. And those’re never about individuals.”
“I—”
“He’s right, Lincoln,” the brunette in the tank top said, her voice harder than her face. “Save the politics, okay? If I listen to one more dumb-fuck discussion about whether we’re ‘queers’ or ‘gays’ or ‘homosexuals,’ I’ll hurl. Just tell him what Vincent told us. . . told
some
of us, anyway—I wasn’t there.” Reminding him. A smart, tough girl, that one. I couldn’t tell where she was from. There’s no such thing as a “New York” accent. Brooklyn, Queens, the Bronx. . . they all carry speech-markers. Her voice didn’t have any of them.
Lincoln made a gesture like he was wiping sweat off his brow, but he wasn’t sweating, so I took it for some kind of prelude-habit. Then he said: “Vincent said it was never going to stop by itself. He said we had to. . . hit back.”
I waited, but he’d obviously said his piece. Or thought he had, anyway.
“Is this supposed to be some kind of test, pal?” I asked him. “Am I supposed to guess the rest? Or maybe you want some. . . what, credentials? Look, far as I’m concerned, you can all—”
“Vincent said that,” he cut in. “That’s what he said about you. He said you were the most unprejudiced straight man he ever met in his life.”
“So you went through all this to give me some kind of award?”
“What Vincent said,” he continued, like he hadn’t heard me, “was that you just plain didn’t give a fuck. One way or the other.”
“That hasn’t changed,” I told him. “So what? You got something to say, let me hear it. And it better end in cash.”
“To maintain your wardrobe?” some little twerp in a Godfather-movie gangster suit threw in.
I looked over at him, still patting Pansy. “No, pal. To feed my dog. She eats a lot. And she’s not the only bitch in this room, I see. Look, I don’t do dish, okay? Show me some cash or show me the door.”
“That’s enough, Sean,” Lincoln told the twerp in the gangster suit. “Mr. Burke, what Vincent told us was that we needed to. . . practice violence. Deliberate violence, not self-defense. That we needed to
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