This man had loved Seth deeply and truly. Of that, Jonathan had no doubt.
âAll right,â he said finally. â If I can get in, I'll take you with me."
âYou can get in. You can examine him tomorrow. It's already arranged. And of course we'll need to discuss your fee.â Peyton named a sum that would pay the rent on Jonathan's midtown office for a year.
As Peyton let himself out, Jonathan sat with his head in his hands. He felt poleaxed. Every day he passed people living on the street in refrigerator boxes, for Christ's sake; he'd always thought of himself as well off. Now, for the first time, the curtain had been drawn aside and he had seen the smooth machinations of what real money could do.
* * * *
It was another weird kind of dissonance for Jonathan, riding across the bridge to Riker's Island in Peyton's limousine. It wasn't a stretch limo or anything, but it was a hell of a lot nicer than any other car Jonathan had ever ridden in. Along for the ride was one of Peyton's lawyers, a pit bull of a man in a merino wool suit.
Jonathan had to keep his emotions on a tight rein while examining Ray Brinker. The doughy-faced killer neither protested his innocence nor admitted any remorse for his actions. Quite the contrary, he seemed to think he had done humanity a favor. âNothing wrong with one less fag in the worldâ was a common refrain. Jonathan emerged from the interview convinced that the man was legally sane and prepared to testify so in court.
Only then was Peyton allowed into the room. He did not invite Jonathan to stay, nor did he bring his lawyer in; but there were two armed prison guards present, so Peyton would not have been able to injure Brinker even if he had managed to smuggle a weapon past security. But Peyton did not seem inclined to violence. He simply stood before the killer and spoke quietly to him for several minutes as Jonathan and the lawyer watched through two layers of scratched and smeary Plexiglass. The contrast between the two men was striking: Brinker in cuffs and leg irons, prison-grimed, anger wrenching his pudgy body into a strange shape, his face not so much unattractive as unfinished -looking (Jonathan thought the man looked rather like a fetus); Peyton slim and clean and straight-spined, his beauty exaggerated in this place of ugliness, his face calm, almost serene.
He finished speaking to Brinker, made a little bow, and turned to leave the room. The guards parted for him, and one stopped him to ask for an autograph. The psychiatrist, the lawyer, and the rock star rode home in silence.
Jonathan was hardly surprised when he saw the headline the next morning: GREALY'S ASSASSIN KILLS SELF IN PRISON . Despite the usual precautionsâand, given public sentiment about this case, Jonathan doubted whether there had been many of the usual precautionsâBrinker had fashioned his pants into a kind of noose and hanged himself in his cell.
Jonathan would not have dreamed of telephoning Peyton. But when he received Peyton's call that night, it surprised him little more than the headline had done.
âThank you for getting me in,â said Peyton without preamble. âI'm not sure I could have gone on without that."
âI think you can do just about anything you decide to do,â said Jonathan.
A short silence, not an angry one. âYou may be right,â Peyton said finally. âI'd love to think you are. In this case, anyway, I did what I had to do. Nothing more."
Jonathan's curiosity overcame his professional reserve. âWhat in the world did you say to him?"
âI simply told him that he'd given Seth the thing he wanted most: a martyr's death. He turned Seth into a kind of queer angel. Before, people looked at us and saw a happy coupleâand that was goodâbut now they see a grieving lover and a martyred angel. It will give them courage. It will show them that love is worth dying for. Do you know what the last thing I said to him
âAll right,â he said finally. â If I can get in, I'll take you with me."
âYou can get in. You can examine him tomorrow. It's already arranged. And of course we'll need to discuss your fee.â Peyton named a sum that would pay the rent on Jonathan's midtown office for a year.
As Peyton let himself out, Jonathan sat with his head in his hands. He felt poleaxed. Every day he passed people living on the street in refrigerator boxes, for Christ's sake; he'd always thought of himself as well off. Now, for the first time, the curtain had been drawn aside and he had seen the smooth machinations of what real money could do.
* * * *
It was another weird kind of dissonance for Jonathan, riding across the bridge to Riker's Island in Peyton's limousine. It wasn't a stretch limo or anything, but it was a hell of a lot nicer than any other car Jonathan had ever ridden in. Along for the ride was one of Peyton's lawyers, a pit bull of a man in a merino wool suit.
Jonathan had to keep his emotions on a tight rein while examining Ray Brinker. The doughy-faced killer neither protested his innocence nor admitted any remorse for his actions. Quite the contrary, he seemed to think he had done humanity a favor. âNothing wrong with one less fag in the worldâ was a common refrain. Jonathan emerged from the interview convinced that the man was legally sane and prepared to testify so in court.
Only then was Peyton allowed into the room. He did not invite Jonathan to stay, nor did he bring his lawyer in; but there were two armed prison guards present, so Peyton would not have been able to injure Brinker even if he had managed to smuggle a weapon past security. But Peyton did not seem inclined to violence. He simply stood before the killer and spoke quietly to him for several minutes as Jonathan and the lawyer watched through two layers of scratched and smeary Plexiglass. The contrast between the two men was striking: Brinker in cuffs and leg irons, prison-grimed, anger wrenching his pudgy body into a strange shape, his face not so much unattractive as unfinished -looking (Jonathan thought the man looked rather like a fetus); Peyton slim and clean and straight-spined, his beauty exaggerated in this place of ugliness, his face calm, almost serene.
He finished speaking to Brinker, made a little bow, and turned to leave the room. The guards parted for him, and one stopped him to ask for an autograph. The psychiatrist, the lawyer, and the rock star rode home in silence.
Jonathan was hardly surprised when he saw the headline the next morning: GREALY'S ASSASSIN KILLS SELF IN PRISON . Despite the usual precautionsâand, given public sentiment about this case, Jonathan doubted whether there had been many of the usual precautionsâBrinker had fashioned his pants into a kind of noose and hanged himself in his cell.
Jonathan would not have dreamed of telephoning Peyton. But when he received Peyton's call that night, it surprised him little more than the headline had done.
âThank you for getting me in,â said Peyton without preamble. âI'm not sure I could have gone on without that."
âI think you can do just about anything you decide to do,â said Jonathan.
A short silence, not an angry one. âYou may be right,â Peyton said finally. âI'd love to think you are. In this case, anyway, I did what I had to do. Nothing more."
Jonathan's curiosity overcame his professional reserve. âWhat in the world did you say to him?"
âI simply told him that he'd given Seth the thing he wanted most: a martyr's death. He turned Seth into a kind of queer angel. Before, people looked at us and saw a happy coupleâand that was goodâbut now they see a grieving lover and a martyred angel. It will give them courage. It will show them that love is worth dying for. Do you know what the last thing I said to him
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