for years.
Eddie had disagreed. In his opinion, the producers provided a service that many men enjoyed. The video “stars” were adults exercising free will, and if they messed up their lives, they had only themselves to blame. He’d called Don a hypocrite for enjoying the porn while condemning the producers and looking down on the actors. Don and Eddie had argued this point many times in the past, and no doubt, their debate would continue in the years ahead.
Don turned off the television and he crawled under his sheets. He recalled Lance’s comment that Karl hadn’t left WC’s with any guys in a long time and that he’d noticed the same thing. Another memory suddenly surfacing was that Karl had disappeared for whole weekends recently without explanation. Don hadn’t thought anything of it at the time—Karl was a grown man with the right to do his own thing. Taking all of these factors together, though, Karl’s behavior had changed. Most worrisome of all was Karl’s statement tonight.
I want to but there are some things I can’t tell even you.
“Not you too, little buddy.” Don lapsed into a night of fitful sleep.
Eddie’s first observation after entering the room was that his sunglasses were on the floor. Then he spotted his address book askew and opened, leading him to conclude that the stranger he’d invited into his home had been snooping. Eddie’s initial reaction was to throw Stephen out of the house and advise his friends to avoid the good-looking new guy from Baltimore—or who claimed he was from Baltimore. But Stephen’s knowledge that Rocky was a dachshund alerted Eddie that the man’s motive for being in his house was far more sinister than simple nosiness.
He was furious that he’d been so gullible. Outwardly, though, he directed his rage at the lying scumbag sitting on his sofa. The sofa was an antique family heirloom Ray’s parents had given them when Ray became a partner at his law firm. In his mind, he raced through his night’s conversation with Stephen just to be sure. No, he’d never said that Rocky was a dachshund. Eddie’s introverted and reclusive nature prevented him from giving away unnecessary details about his life, and his dog’s breed fit that category. Eddie had to solve this mystery now. His and his friends’ careers and livelihoods were at stake.
That’s when he remembered the gun in the drawer.
As part of his pro bono practice, Ray had represented lesbians and gay men in some high-profile employment and housing discrimination cases. After receiving a number of death threats, he’d purchased the pistol and Don taught him and Eddie how to shoot it. When Ray died, Eddie left the house exactly as it had been. Ray’s clothes hung in the closet, his law books were on the shelves and his loaded gun remained in the desk.
Eddie wondered how he could’ve fallen for Stephen’s “I’m just looking for friends” line. Eddie wasn’t some twenty-year-old just off the bus from Baton Rouge—he knew better or he should’ve known better. Stephen had spied on him—he’d probably watched Eddie’s house for a long time. Maybe it wasn’t too late. If Eddie put the fear of God in the man, Stephen might leave them alone.
“So—Stephen. I’m asking you again. How did you know that my dog, which you haven’t seen—is a dachshund? And why are my sunglasses—which were on top of my address book—on the floor?”
Eddie didn’t plan to pull the gun out. He didn’t think the situation through at all. Going into an anger-induced hypnosis, he leaned against the desk and slid his arm down to the drawer with the gun. He was furious at the world for being so homophobic and bitterly despondent because Ray had died so young. He was enraged at this stranger for spying on him, for being in his house, for snooping in his address book and for sitting on a sofa that had been so special to Ray. Stephen didn’t answer his questions but stared blankly ahead.
Eddie’s eyesight had steadily worsened over the last year and Stephen was slightly out of focus. When Eddie saw him reach into his jacket, Eddie feared he had a gun of his own, a fear that sent Eddie over the edge. Stephen said something but Eddie wasn’t paying attention. In half a second, he opened the desk drawer and grabbed the pistol.
Before Eddie could raise the gun into position, Stephen lunged at him from the sofa, a reaction Eddie hadn’t expected. He jerked away from his attacker, and as he stepped back, his left foot crushed his sunglasses. When the metal frames slid easily across the polished floor, Eddie’s left leg flew out from under his body and he lost his balance. As he fell backward, he pointed the gun directly at Stephen. Before he could pull the trigger, though, Stephen grabbed Eddie’s gun arm, forcing it up toward Eddie’s head.
As Eddie’s forearm hit his chest, he heard the gunshot. He felt nothing as the bullet entered his throat on an upward arc. He never knew that a 9-millimeter piece of metal had penetrated directly into the center of his head, where it tumbled and turned his brains to mush before blasting out the back of his skull. Because it happened so quickly, or because he went into instant shock, he didn’t feel it. In the last seconds of his life, Eddie saw a horrified expression overcome the stranger’s face as he stepped away from Eddie’s dying body in terror. In the background, Eddie heard Rocky bark and he smiled because he knew his friends would take care of the little guy.
9
“Ladies and gentlemen, rounding out our threesome, it’s the fashionably late Colonel Spencer!”
“Glad to see you again, too, Pete,” Leonard said. “At our age, though, we shouldn’t refer to each other as ‘the late,’ fashionably or otherwise. Someone might claim our parking space.”
The other two colonels laughed. “With your wit, you should’ve been a standup comedian,” said Colonel Joseph Watkins. “Or a politician.” As commanding officer of a Marine regiment, Joe was Leonard’s infantry counterpart at Camp Pendleton.
“But not a general?” asked Leonard.
“Hell, no!” said Colonel Peter Williams. Leonard, Joe and Pete—and their wives and ex-wives—had been friends since Vietnam. “Generals don’t need wit. Just a good caddy, a fifth of bourbon and an oxygen tank close at hand.”
“Now, Pete,” said Leonard in a taunting voice. “Are you referring to our boss, General Neville?” Pete, like Leonard, was the commanding officer of a Marine Aircraft Group, but Pete’s MAG consisted of F-18 jet fighter squadrons at Marine Corps Air Station El Toro. Pete’s bull-headedness frequently put him at odds with their superior, the commanding general of the Seventh Marine Aircraft Wing. It had also effectively ended his career in the Marine Corps.
Pete didn’t bite. “You won’t get me started today, you son of a bitch. Are we gonna play some golf or sit here and start the local chapter of the Women’s Christian Temperance Union?”
The men strolled out to their cart and clubs. Looking at the sky, Joe said, “Glad yesterday’s winds died down. Wouldn’t be able to play much of a game today if they hadn’t.”
Leonard climbed into the front passenger seat. “Did you know that in almost every ancient civilization, an eastern wind was a bad omen?”
“Aw, Jesus, Leon!” Pete took his usual spot in the driver’s seat. “We ain’t even made it to the first hole yet and you’re already philosophizin’.”
“I’m serious,” Leonard protested. “The Mayans lived in fear of an ancient prophecy: ‘They shall also be smitten with the east wind.’ The North African proverb was: ‘A western wind carrieth water in his hand; When the east wind toucheth it, it shall wither.’ The Bible is full of dire references to east winds. So is Chinese history.”
