It Takes Two (15 page)

When the
Indianapolis
was hit, killing Mike and nine hundred shipmates, I went to the bottom with her, emotionally, I mean. By the time the medics got me calmed down, the war was over, and there was nobody to talk to about it anyway. So I figured those were the breaks. I also figured I had nothing else to lose. And I told myself I wasn’t going to play anybody else’s get-married game—or even date women as camouflage—because there had to be another Mike out there.

Passing through San Francisco in 1948, three years after Mike’s death, I picked up a copy of the controversial Kinsey report,
Sexual Behavior in the Human Male
, and sailed through the good parts overnight. Mike and I were part of a small but scientifically recognized minority group, the Report stated, and thousands of American men behaved more or less the way we did. That such lovemaking was illegal in most of the land of the free and the home of the brave, to say nothing of the U.S. Navy, well, that was a fact of life that could be gotten around. What couldn’t be so easily gotten around was the difficulty of finding the other members of our ten-percent statistical cluster, men who love only men.

I’ve already explained how I ran through a pack of potential Ensign Rizzos at the New Victory Club. But I never found another Mike, just pieces of the guy—a shoulder, a shapely neck, a low drawl or simply a man with a hungry need to sleep spooned up against my backside. Often, it was scars and healed-over bullet holes, “battle damage,” that caught my attention. Unfortunately, mixing it up with such men usually brought on the nightmares. Mike had gone into battle with me, lost his life and now returned only in nightmares. To my mind, Bud’s scars were a fair indication of bravery in the face of almost certain death. But he caused me no unhealthy dreams.

There was one main problem. Bud Wright fit all too comfortably into Kinsey’s middle column, men who move uneasily from men to women, though with a preference. Bud risked getting naked with me but he never quit worrying about trouble just around the corner. Even after he’d been seeing me for four months, he was still screwing the waitress.

“Folks are gonna talk if I jilt her sudden,” he explained as the two of us grilled hot dogs over a campfire out on Sanibel Island. “See, Dan, the lady takes me for some kind of war hero. I figure if I taper off seeing her, she’ll gradually lose interest. And I’ll be the gentleman and just let her walk away. Instead of me doing the walking, jilting her like some kind of heel.”

“Jilting
her?
Thanks a hell of a lot, Sarge.”

He just laughed and punched my shoulder. “Anyhow, don’t I need a gal to take to the department Christmas party? It don’t do no harm for the boss and some of the guys to see me with a good-looker once in a while. And it don’t change the situation with me and you.”

“No,” I said, reaching over and pulling him close. “Except you’re giving her my stuff.”

“Could be you need a girl yourself,” he laughed. “For parties and all. And don’t you worry. I got plenty of
stuff
to go ’round.”

Bud Wright, in other words, was a lot more in tune with the moral conventions and evasions of America than I was.

He and I ate lunch together that Tuesday after my talk with Bruce Asdeck. At Bud’s suggestion, we met at the Arcade Café on First Street, right in the center of downtown Fort Myers. The Arcade, a local institution, was the special preserve of cops, lawyers, title-search specialists, bail-bond dealers and similarly mid-level courthouse types. They treated the place as a meeting hall and hideout from wives and ground-level staffers. Precinct bosses and election officials sometimes negotiated close races in the coffee shop’s windowless back room. Legal briefs were argued informally across the oilcloth-covered tables and opening and closing statements tried out in what amounted to a pay-by-the-day clubhouse.

The exclusivity of the Arcade was practically guaranteed. Clerks, secretaries and hourly office help, by universal agreement, took breakfast, lunch and coffee breaks at Wallace’s Drugstore two blocks away. County commissioners, the mayor and business leaders frequented the ultramodern coffee shop at the old Bradford Hotel. The Arcade was therefore almost as private for regular customers as a judge’s chambers.

I arrived to find Bud seated alone at a four-top table in the otherwise empty back room, his attention focused on Slim Nichols. Zipped into a nylon waitress uniform that afforded not an inch of breathing space, she was almost glued to his side.
Now why didn’t I expect this?
I wondered.
I set out to meet my Clark Gable for lunch and find him two-timing me with Gloria Grahame
.

Glancing my way for half a second, then returning her attention to Bud, Slim said over her shoulder, “How you be, sugar pie? Take a seat over there, if you like. Will that be coffee or ice tea?”

“Coca-Cola,” I answered, and slid into the chair facing Bud. Unwilling to give the woman an inch, I added, “With lemon, thanks. And do you want to tell me what the extra-specials are today?”

Slim pulled a folded menu from under her arm and flipped it open to the meat-and-three list. “Try the baked Spanish mackerel with tartar sauce and lemon butter,” she advised. “And stewed Ruskin okra. That’s what I was just telling Bud here. Be sweet and I’ll save you back the best slices of our butterscotch cream pie.”

She knew her trade, that’s for sure. “Do it,” I answered, glancing at the mimeographed menu. “With baby lima beans and green salad.”

“Same here,” Bud echoed. “Forget the okra. Whatever else you think I can handle.”

“Woo, boy. They tell me you can handle about anything,” she retorted, then cut her eyes down at me. “Little joke,” she said, touching her collar.

“Better put a basket over that pie,” Bud said, looking up and grinning. “I might be up to two slices.”

A bell rang in the next room. Beaming, Slim turned toward the kitchen. “Be back with bread in two shakes, sweethearts.”

“And the Coke,” I called after her.

OK, I was a little jealous. Bud bantered with Slim in ways he wouldn’t risk with me. Not in public. Still, I wasn’t overly worried. Slim had a toothpaste smile and knew how to use it, but she also had at least five years on Bud. And her good looks were essentially dime-store stuff—hair-net, Woolworth’s face paint, crimson claws and matching lipstick. Aside from an added inch to my college waistline, I looked a lot less the worse for wear. And my goods were a darn sight better.

Slim was efficient, though, God knows. She could balance a coffee pot, two ice waters and a cream jug in one hand while handing out menus with the other. As housewife material, she had me beat cold. On the other hand, I could offer free room service.

Bud flipped open his menu, then closed it and set it aside. “Goddamn fucking shit, Lieutenant,” he whispered, his voice pitched just above a growl. “What are you doing? You danced in here and sat right down like you was my fucking wife.”

Mystified, I leaned back and stared. “Huh?”

“You don’t show no sense sometimes.” His voice was low and shaky, his tone edging toward barely controlled panic.

“You invited me to lunch, right? What’s this about getting married?”

“Keep your voice down, goddamn it. You’re putting ideas in her head. She’s calling us sweethearts. Next thing you know it’ll be homos or something.”

I lifted a hand to comfort him.

“And don’t you go touching my arm neither. People’ll start to talk.”

“She’s a waitress,” I said. “She calls everybody ‘sugar pie’ and ‘sweetheart.’ It doesn’t mean anything.”

“You’re livin’ in a dream world, Lieutenant. This is Fort Myers. Slim’s my lady friend. And now she’s calling me…oh, shit, I don’t know. Maybe we ought to just get out of here right now.”

“Did you get any sleep?” I asked. “You sound like a cat that’s been lapping up Maxwell House.”

“Told you. I can’t be too careful. Nor you either. Maybe I’m imagining something.”

It should have been obvious that Bud wasn’t thinking right. Fat chance some waitress with baked hair was going to imagine her muscular stud-horse as a pansy, much less the steady sexual partner of another reasonably well-developed, hard-working man. It wasn’t possible, not with Bud fucking her as well and as often as he implied he was. For all Slim knew, Bud might have been keeping her as happy as a well-fed clam while taking on the entire Ethiopian Army twice a week.

“What about I pinch her ass when she comes back?” I said. “Or we could all get in bed together sometime. You can have your cheesecake and eat it too.”

“Show some respect, Lieutenant. She’s not that kind of girl.”

“Me neither,” I answered, winking at him. “Do you think?”

Relaxing a little, Bud sugared his tea. “You sleep OK?” he asked, stirring the tea with the spoon from the sugar bowl. “The Klan party send any of your Yankee guests packing?”

“All quiet so far. I’ve still got twenty rooms empty, same as yesterday. And this is winter season. Over in Miami Beach, I hear they’re full up.”

“What are you doing about it? Hiring Alexander’s Ragtime Band?”

“Empty beds don’t worry me,” I said. “But that cross-burning sure does.”

Slim returned, set down my Coke, a basket of corn bread and crackers and four pats of butter, then turned on her high heels and marched away.

I waited two beats before whispering, “Wish you could have stayed over last night. What about if I come by your place after supper? We could wrestle a little.”

Bud’s previously jocular voice sank again. “Keep it down. Christ knows what kind of bird dog might be waving his ears around here. I can’t afford people talking. Nor you, if you think about it. So don’t kid, OK?”

The room was still empty except for the two of us. Slim was out front loading a tray at the kitchen’s pass-through window. But I knew Bud was partly right. We couldn’t get in the habit of talking like bedmates in public. His defensive panic made me mad, though. Maybe this was what Asdeck seemed to be warning against. I shot back a smartass answer and I didn’t keep my voice down.

“How’s this, Sarge? How about you stick to beer instead of Bacardi next time? Watching you puke your guts up is nobody’s dream come true.”

The man’s hurt surprise crackled back at me. He swallowed and shook his head.

Quick as radar, I regretted what I’d said, and started to sputter out an apology.

Bud took a quick, deep breath and cut me off. “You must be really worried, Dan. I can understand that. We’re both working like goddamn field hands and under a lot of pressure.”

He paused, leaned closer and dropped his voice. “So I’m not gonna deck you for mouthing off. Not this time.” He leaned back, suddenly barked a laugh and swiped his open hand across my face, missing my nose by an inch, playful once more. “Never gonna touch that rotgut rum again,” he said, snapping his fingers. “Let me put your mind at rest about that too. OK? OK, mister?”

I tried to grab his hand but he was too fast for me. Relieved that my tense mood and nasty mouth hadn’t made him angry, I looked up and winked. “If anybody’s gonna be decked, it’s gonna be Coach’s little Buddy. You got that?”

Bud laughed again, and nodded.

I finished my apology, keeping my voice down. “I’m worried as hell. I didn’t sleep much last night. Those Klan bastards could go crazy and set fire to the hotel next time. And I’m sorry about what I said a minute ago. I’m just lonely and, you…know.”

“Right. Yes. I do,” Bud answered, nodding again. “Hell of a weekend all around. Hasn’t quit yet,” he said, picking up a wedge of corn bread and downing it in two bites.

He washed the bread down with tea. “It ought to get better. I squeezed my snitch this morning. Courthouse clerk name of Featherstone.”

“First name Leon? I remember you pointed him out.”

“Took the ratty little shithead aside for a cup of java first thing. He like to pissed himself when I mentioned seeing through his Sunday-go-to-meeting dis-guise at the march Saturday and again last night. Sort of tried to deny it at first.”

“He’s not got what you might call Stonewall Jackson’s backbone?”

“Nor supposed to be engaging in political activities either,” Bud answered primly. “So long as he’s a public employee.”

“So why did the bastards burn a cross outside my hotel?”

Bud buttered another wedge of corn bread. “Remember the name Willene Norris?”

“Sure. I never forget the people who shoot at me.”

“Well, she’s the reason. Her county commissioner daddy was a Klanner. And she knows ’em all. Once she got home Sunday afternoon, her friends all started coming by to give her aid and comfort. And once the thing was in the paper yesterday, more of ’em came over. I guess once they got together they decided something ought to be done. And she convinced ’em all her husband’s killing was just part of the rack and ruin that’s going on in Lee County generally. And they ought to take a stand.”

“Rack and ruin. As in?”

“As in there’s immoral, un-Christian behavior going on, latest example being the mixed-race drinking and carousing at the Caloosa.”

“And that’s why they marched? Because I employ a colored pianist? Hell, we’re all but white. Most of the old colored waiters were let go. We’re replacing them with young women—white, so far, though I hadn’t thought about it.”