him.
“They asked if he might have had a reason to take his own life, yes, but I told them that was ridiculous. Arthur was a devout Catholic; the very idea of suicide would be inconceivable to him.”
“I’m sorry if I upset you,” I said sincerely. “You didn’t see the death certificate, I assume?”
He struggled to maintain his composure.
“Are you telling me the police believe Arthur committed sui cide ? How could they—how dare they—assume such a thing? I told them about his heart condition.”
“If it is any consolation, I don’t believe Mr. Granger committed suicide.”
Bell leaned forward in his chair.
“Then what are you saying? Why are you asking about these other people? Why would the police ask me about them if they thought Arthur killed himself?”
I’d gotten myself on very shaky ground and was looking desperately for a way to avoid creating any more problems.
“Please don’t leap to any conclusions, Mr. Bell,” I said, hoping I sounded reassuring. “It’s just that we both know the police are sometimes less than thorough when it comes to investigating the deaths of gay men. I’m simply trying to determine if Mr. Granger had any association with the men I’ve mentioned to you. Resolving that issue may lead to more concrete facts.”
Bell did not look completely convinced.
“Perhaps you could tell me a little more about Mr. Granger,” I suggested, hoping to divert him from the path his questions were inevitably taking him.
It seemed to work. Bell took a few deep breaths and sat back in his chair.
“We were very good friends, Arthur and I,” he began. “We were…more than friends…once, for a short time very long ago, but we always remained close.”
He reached to open a small oriental box on one corner of his desk. He took out a thin brown cigarillo and offered me one with a nod and a raised eyebrow. I shook my head no, and he closed the box then reached into his pocket for a gold lighter. He took a long, slow drag, exhaling the smoke in a thin straight line. I had to force myself not to lean forward and inhale it.
“Arthur was, as far as most people were concerned, not particularly likable. He used crudity and crassness as a wall against the world. But for whatever reason, he was one of the highlights of my life,” he continued, one hand in his lap, the other holding the cigarillo an inch or so from his lips. “He was from Ohio—but I suppose you know that—and had a rotten childhood. As a result, he could never keep away from the truck-driver types.
“How we ever got together, I’ll never know. But we did. It was just that we were too different…or perhaps too much alike.” He smiled and reached into a desk drawer for an ashtray.
“If Arthur had one fault, it was his fascination with ultra-butch types without a brain in their heads. I tried to warn him, God knows. I’d beg him to stop going to those S-and-M places, but he’d just laugh. He said he felt safer there than he did walking down the street. It was all just a game, he’d say.”
He took another long drag on the cigarillo, then stubbed it out in the ashtray, half-smoked. He let the smoke from his last drag out slowly, so that it curled up from the entire width of his mouth, as though his tongue were on fire.
“Arthur was responsible for my getting this shop, actually,” he said, looking into the ashtray. “About six years ago, my parents died, and I went back to Missouri to clear up their affairs. My father had a small business there, and I remained in Missouri for nearly three years. Arthur and I kept in close contact, of course.
“Then, about three years ago, he went through some sort of trauma—he never would discuss it with me—and pleaded with me to come back here. Which I did. I sold my father’s business and bought this shop. I’m very glad I did, really.”
“You didn’t live together, though?”
“Only for the shortest of times, shortly after we first met, but our
“They asked if he might have had a reason to take his own life, yes, but I told them that was ridiculous. Arthur was a devout Catholic; the very idea of suicide would be inconceivable to him.”
“I’m sorry if I upset you,” I said sincerely. “You didn’t see the death certificate, I assume?”
He struggled to maintain his composure.
“Are you telling me the police believe Arthur committed sui cide ? How could they—how dare they—assume such a thing? I told them about his heart condition.”
“If it is any consolation, I don’t believe Mr. Granger committed suicide.”
Bell leaned forward in his chair.
“Then what are you saying? Why are you asking about these other people? Why would the police ask me about them if they thought Arthur killed himself?”
I’d gotten myself on very shaky ground and was looking desperately for a way to avoid creating any more problems.
“Please don’t leap to any conclusions, Mr. Bell,” I said, hoping I sounded reassuring. “It’s just that we both know the police are sometimes less than thorough when it comes to investigating the deaths of gay men. I’m simply trying to determine if Mr. Granger had any association with the men I’ve mentioned to you. Resolving that issue may lead to more concrete facts.”
Bell did not look completely convinced.
“Perhaps you could tell me a little more about Mr. Granger,” I suggested, hoping to divert him from the path his questions were inevitably taking him.
It seemed to work. Bell took a few deep breaths and sat back in his chair.
“We were very good friends, Arthur and I,” he began. “We were…more than friends…once, for a short time very long ago, but we always remained close.”
He reached to open a small oriental box on one corner of his desk. He took out a thin brown cigarillo and offered me one with a nod and a raised eyebrow. I shook my head no, and he closed the box then reached into his pocket for a gold lighter. He took a long, slow drag, exhaling the smoke in a thin straight line. I had to force myself not to lean forward and inhale it.
“Arthur was, as far as most people were concerned, not particularly likable. He used crudity and crassness as a wall against the world. But for whatever reason, he was one of the highlights of my life,” he continued, one hand in his lap, the other holding the cigarillo an inch or so from his lips. “He was from Ohio—but I suppose you know that—and had a rotten childhood. As a result, he could never keep away from the truck-driver types.
“How we ever got together, I’ll never know. But we did. It was just that we were too different…or perhaps too much alike.” He smiled and reached into a desk drawer for an ashtray.
“If Arthur had one fault, it was his fascination with ultra-butch types without a brain in their heads. I tried to warn him, God knows. I’d beg him to stop going to those S-and-M places, but he’d just laugh. He said he felt safer there than he did walking down the street. It was all just a game, he’d say.”
He took another long drag on the cigarillo, then stubbed it out in the ashtray, half-smoked. He let the smoke from his last drag out slowly, so that it curled up from the entire width of his mouth, as though his tongue were on fire.
“Arthur was responsible for my getting this shop, actually,” he said, looking into the ashtray. “About six years ago, my parents died, and I went back to Missouri to clear up their affairs. My father had a small business there, and I remained in Missouri for nearly three years. Arthur and I kept in close contact, of course.
“Then, about three years ago, he went through some sort of trauma—he never would discuss it with me—and pleaded with me to come back here. Which I did. I sold my father’s business and bought this shop. I’m very glad I did, really.”
“You didn’t live together, though?”
“Only for the shortest of times, shortly after we first met, but our
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