Widows' Watch (9 page)

“Where do you figure you got it?” Leo asked.

Lance shrugged. “One of the students, I guess.”

“Maybe we should check the clinic,” Leo said to Elena. “See if any students have flu.”

“You want to see anyone besides Dr. Mallory?” Lance asked, mouth tight.

“Who's in?” said Elena.

“I'm in,” said Angus McGlenlevie, breezing into the departmental office. “Did you finish those proofs, Lance?”

“Someone had to,” said Lance.

“And a fine job you do,” said Gus. “I'm sure the printer won't mind waiting the extra day.” He squinted at Elena and Leo. “I remember you,” he said. “You're the cops who didn't offer me any protection last spring when Karl Bonnard was trying to kill me.”

“We caught him before he got to you, didn't we?” said Elena.

“Well, he killed poor Howard. I'm having a hard time hiring post docs now. They think they're going to get murdered. I had two turn me down this fall.”

Lance muttered something under his breath, which Elena took to be uncomplimentary. “Perhaps we could speak to you for a minute, Professor McGlenlevie,” she said, and they trailed him down the hall to his office.

“Rapture on the Rapids,” he said, gesturing to page proofs on his desk. “Should be out by Christmas.”

“We'd like to ask you a few questions about Lance Potemkin,” said Leo.

“He's not my lover.”

“Whose lover is he?” asked Elena bluntly.

“Couldn't say. He and Donald Mallory were an item for a couple of years, but that broke up about six months ago.”

“Do you know anything about Lance's family?” asked Elena.

“Didn't even know he had one,” said Gus. “Are you still seeing Sarah?”

“We have dinner occasionally,” said Elena. She didn't like the way he put it. Sarah was a friend, not a lover.

“Don't believe everything my ex-wife tells you about me,” said Gus.

Elena grinned. “I don't have to. Everyone I interviewed on the acid bath case told me about you.”

“All ladies, I presume. All good, I hope.” Gus beamed at Elena. “I am popular with females—young and old.”

“Except for Sarah,” Elena murmured.

“Ah well, Sarah.” Gus shrugged dramatically. “Sarah is a fine woman. Just a bit uptight about matters sexual.”

Like flagrant infidelity in a husband, thought Elena.

Thursday, September 30, 7:30 P.M.

Harmony discovered, among those she met before Lance Potemkin's standing-room-only poetry reading, members of the English Department and students at Herbert Hobart University, poetry lovers who were familiar with Lance's sexual orientation, and bicycle racers who were expecting Lance to do them proud on the High Road to Taos. Lance had no sooner read his last line of verse, received enthusiastic applause, and been congratulated by English Department Chairman Raul Mendez and Professor Donald Mallory, who was chairing the session, than hands began to wave in the audience.

“I see we're going to have a lively discussion,” said Professor Mallory.

Without waiting to be called upon, a young man in a pleated shirt rose to his feet and said, “Is it true, Lance, that the police are harassing you about your father's death?”

“Gay activist,” murmured Ferdie Baca to Harmony. He was a graduate student in creative writing at the state university. After being introduced to Harmony, Ferdie had stuck to her as if he'd found his one true love. “His name is Orion Massine. He's the lead male dancer in the Border Ballet.”

Lance flushed. “They're questioning me,” he admitted.

“What's this?” Professor Mallory looked alarmed. “I didn't know anything had happened to your father.”

“You've been at the M.L.A. meeting. He was murdered Monday,” said Lance. “Probably a robbery.”

“Of course, it was,” said Orion, “but are they looking for a robber? No, they're after a gay.”

Harmony was glad to see that she wasn't the only person convinced of Lance's innocence.

“Look, Orion—” Lance protested.

“Your civil rights are being violated,” said the dancer, “and it's because you're homosexual.” A murmur of assent rose from the gay activist contingent.

“There are three charges of discrimination against the police department by gay and lesbian officers,” said a young man with the muscles of a body builder.

Harmony peered at him with interest.

“And there's Mac and Lennie,” said a thirty-fivish woman with a Dutch-boy haircut and plaid knee socks. “They were asleep when some narcotics team kicked down the wrong door. Then when the cops didn't find any drugs, they arrested Mac and Lennie for being in bed together.”

“That's one lawsuit we're going to win,” said Orion.

“They've been raiding the Sappho Club ever since you filed that suit,” complained the woman.

“Lesbian social club,” murmured Ferdie. Harmony nodded. She'd never been to a lesbian social club. How interesting! Would Elena agree to visit?

“They've even been nosing around my store.”

“Feminist bookstore,” Ferdie murmured.

“As if a book about matriarchal society is going to corrupt the morals of American youth.”

“Those of us who know you, Lance, know that you wouldn't have killed anyone, even your father, who probably deserved it. We've all agreed that we'll kick in for your defense fund,” said Orion.

“I don't need a defense fund.” Lance had turned pale.

“Have they brought you in for questioning?” asked Professor Mallory.

“Twice,” Lance admitted. “Yesterday and today.”

“Typical,” said Orion. “They don't have enough to arrest you, so they make a spectacle of you in front of your colleagues.”

“That's not the worst of it,” said a man who was painfully lean with a weathered face and a receding hairline. “They won't let him race at Chimayo.” Rumbles of indignation circulated among the bicycle contingent.

Lance looked miserable. “One of my mother's neighbors saw a bicycle in the alley the day my father was killed, so the police confiscated both of mine as evidence.”

“Lance is Los Santos' only hope to bring the cup home from that race,” said the president of the Los Santos Cycle Racers' Association, who sported an aerodynamic crew cut and a double-breasted navy sport coat. “A local athletic hero, and he's being kept from bringing glory to the city. As all of you know, I don't hold with unnatural sex but, by God, when the police start interfering with serious bicycle racing, it's time to stand up and be counted.”

“Thanks, Hoke,” said Lance dryly.

Harmony thought the remark about unnatural sex rather tactless.

Then Gus McGlenlevie with his frizzy red beard and combat fatigues stood up and said, “You've got it all wrong if you think he's being harassed because he's gay.”

“Sit down,” yelled the gay activists.

“It's because he's a poet,” shouted McGlenlevie. “Those police are vigilantes when it comes to people in the arts. For instance, last spring someone was trying to kill me, but the police wouldn't even give me protection.

“And before that, my ex-wife exploded a snail on my plate at dinner, and do you think they arrested her? They did not. And I didn't meet a single policeman or woman during that investigation who had read a word of Erotica in Reeboks, my best-selling poetry collection. I doubt any of them will read my book of poems on non-homosexual male bonding, Rapture on the Rapids, which should be in the bookstores in December just in time for Christmas. Nineteen ninety-five. Published by the Mile-High Press of Denver, Colorado.”

“For God's sake,” said Professor Donald Mallory, “we have a serious problem here, and you're using it to promote your book. And besides that, you misused the word vigilantes. Vigilantes are people who take the law into their own hands. By definition they can't be police officers.”

“I was using it metaphorically, you twerp,” snapped McGlenlevie and started pushing his way toward the lectern.

“Twerp!” shouted Mallory. “That from a man who writes pornographic doggerel.”

“Is that your critical opinion? You, who've never written a line of original poetry in your life.”

“I'm a renowned Elizabethan and Jacobean critic,” snarled Mallory.

“With a following of four or five moldering old scholars who've read your pitiful efforts—”

“I'll have you know—”

“You wouldn't know a good poem if you—”

“If you'd stop screwing female students, maybe you'd find time to write some decent—”

“Would you be happier if I was screwing male students like you do?”

The dignified Professor Mallory raised his fist. Lance grabbed him and tried to pull him away while the chairman of the English Department rose from the front row and said, “Angus, this is beneath a poet's dignity.”

“A poet's dignity is couched in the beauty of his verse,” howled McGlenlevie.

“Let go of me, Lance,” Mallory ordered.

Lance was still hanging onto his former lover, saying, “Come on, Don. This isn't helping anything.”

“Gentlemen,” said the chairman, “I'd appreciate it if you'd stop this embarrassing argument.”

“He misused vigilantes,” grumbled Mallory.

True, thought Harmony, and she didn't like McGlenlevie's aura—or his personality.

“I used it as a poet would—metaphorically,” said McGlenlevie.

“Shut up,” said the chairman.

“If I could have the floor,” said the president of the bicycle racers.

“We're adjourning the meeting,” said the chairman.

“It's obvious that, for whatever reason, Lance Potemkin is being unfairly treated by the police,” shouted Hoke Mitchell.

“Right,” Orion agreed. “I think we should mount a demonstration. Let them know that the public won't put up with the harassment of innocent citizens. While they're picking on Lance, the real murderer's getting away because the police are fixated on gays.”

Once the bicycle racers had conferred, their president said, “We'll support a demonstration. When and where?”

“Police Headquarters tomorrow morning,” said Orion with noisy agreement from the gay activists.

Harmony perked up. She did love a protest.

“I'll be happy to support a fellow poet,” said Angus.

Lance didn't look happy to receive that particular offer, and Harmony wondered whether he disliked McGlenlevie, who seemed quite dislikable, as well as aura-impaired.

“Are you coming, Mallory? How about you, Dr. Mendez? Is the English Department behind us?” asked Angus.

Lance, looking alarmed and embarrassed, stammered, “Look, I really don't—”

“Oh, stop being so nice, Lance,” said Orion. “We're supporting you whether you want it or not.”

Harmony stood up. “If I might make a few suggestions—”

“Who are you, madam?” asked Dr. Mendez.

“I'm Harmony Waite Portillo, a weaver from Chimayo, New Mexico, and an admirer of Lance's poetry.”

“If you plan to suggest that we stay home,” said the bookstore owner in the Dutch-boy haircut, “let me point out that it's about time women took their places in the front lines protesting police harassment.”

“My dear young lady,” said Harmony, with some heat, “I was in the front lines of the Berkeley Free Speech Movement before you were born. I collected my share of bruises opposing the war in Vietnam. As an experienced protester, my suggestions are of a practical nature. First, if you want to get radio and TV coverage, you should hold your protest in the afternoon so you can co-opt the lead story on the six o'clock news. Second, I can promise more protesters if I have the morning to round them up.”

“Who?” demanded Orion Massine suspiciously.

“Socorro Heights senior citizens.” There was muttering about that idea. “Lance's mother is a member. None of them think Lance killed his father, but people at the center are extremely worried because the police are investigating Lance instead of looking for these daytime robbers who have killed several elderly men. I think the senior citizens would be delighted to join you at Police Headquarters.

“My third suggestion,” continued Harmony, raising her voice over the hubbub, “is that you need training in safe protest tactics, which I am willing to provide right now to this group and tomorrow morning to the seniors.”

“What kind of training?” asked Hoke.

“How to go limp so the police have to drag you away. That makes good TV footage. If they're using nightsticks, how to fall safely, protect your head and vital organs.”

“Madam,” said Donald Mallory, “surely you don't anticipate—”

“One never knows what the police will do, Professor. I was attacked by them in my younger days. I'd hate to think that any of us might be seriously hurt.”

“Injuries might help Lance's case,” said Orion.

“I don't want anyone hurt on my behalf,” said Lance.

“Well, I think she's got it right about the time. How about two, tomorrow afternoon? Anyone object?” asked Orion.

No one did. “Good,” said Harmony. “Now if those who are planning to join the protest will just move away from their chairs, I'll demonstrate some of the tricks.”

Bicycle racers and gay activists joined Harmony's class enthusiastically and were soon dropping to the floor under her directions, rolling up in balls to protect their heads and vital organs, going limp in one another's arms. The English faculty stayed aloof until their chairman, Raul Mendez, had introduced himself to Harmony and suggested that people might be injured during the lessons.

“Why, you're the renowned critic of Latino literature!” said Harmony. “What a pleasure to meet you.”

After that, every English professor or student who hung back got a sharp look from the chairman. For lack of room, Harmony soon moved her class out into the halls of the Humanities building, although one professor pointed out that the university's insurance might not cover those who were injured while learning how to keep themselves from injury.

As they were driving home, Lance said hesitantly, “What's your daughter going to think of this protest?”

“Elena's known me all her life,” said Harmony cheerfully. “This is just what she'd expect.”

Lance sighed. “I've always liked to keep a low profile. It seems to me that after this, everyone in town will know the police think I killed my father.”

“The media will get hold of it anyway, and in the meantime, maybe we can force the police to let you attend your bicycle race.”

“Really?”

“Absolutely. There's nothing like a good protest to get the blood running and shake up the power structure. Enough so that they'll make concessions to shut us up.”

“I hope they don't put me in jail to shut me up,” said Lance. “People of my sexual orientation have a hard time in jail.”

“Well, dear, if they arrest you, we'll insist on solitary. Then you'll have all that time to write poetry. Think of what going to jail did for Oscar Wilde.”

“Yes,” said Lance. “He had to exile himself after he got out, and he died in a French apartment with dreadful wallpaper.”

“You went to that poetry reading, didn't you?” asked Elena when her mother got home. Harmony had been gone when Elena returned from work, late as usual.

“Of course, I did,” said Harmony. “And his poetry was delightful. It was a very interesting meeting.”

“I don't want to hear about it,” muttered Elena. “Did Dimitra go?”

“No, she had a date.”

“She went out with Omar again?”

“No, she went to a country-dancing club with a Mr. Tyler from the senior citizens center.”

“She can't dance,” said Elena. “She's in a walker.”

“I realize that, dear, but she'll enjoy the music.”

“For Pete's sake, Boris died Monday, and she's already had two dates. They're not even burying him until tomorrow. Isn't she supposed to be at the funeral parlor greeting the mourners?”

“She decided to cancel the visitation. The graveside ceremony's in the morning at Fort Bliss. Ten o'clock. I think you should try to be there, Elena.”