Part 20 (1/2)
”Talk,” was all I said.
”Oh, G.o.d, I'm so ashamed,” and he started crying. I stood and watched him for a moment, then looked for some Kleenex. I finally found some paper towels in the kitchen and handed him one.
”It's not the police,” he repeated. ”It's my family. If they ever found out...” He trailed off into a sob.
I grabbed him by the lapels and gave him a jerk.
”Grow up, little boy. There's a kind, gentle woman with two kids lying in a coma. The men who did that to her are going to jail. I don't care if you b.u.t.tf.u.c.k aardvarks. Whatever it is, I'll find out and I'll tell your family. Now, you going to help me?”
I shook him again for good measure. I would feel sorry for this boy when and if Barbara ever got out of the coma. In the meantime, I would do what I had to do.
”Please don't hurt me.”
I let go of him and backed away to give him some room to speak.
He got up, unlocked his desk drawer and took out a key. With that key, he unlocked a chifforobe in the far corner of the room.
”Take a look,” he said, ”and you'll think I'm sick, too.”
I looked.
”So you wear dresses,” I commented. I had expected to see piles of kiddie p.o.r.n, considering the way he had been acting.
”I'm sick,” he said, still shaking.
”If everyone who wore a dress was sick, this country would be in trouble. What do you think the president's wife wears at a White House dinner?”
”But women are supposed to.”
”Women are required to.”
”You're not disgusted?” he asked. He seemed to find the idea that anyone might not be revolted by him impossible to believe.
* 137 *
”No, of course not,” I answered. ”Is this what they have on you?”
”Yes, I used to work for the legit part of Jambalaya. Like you, like...”
”Barbara,” I supplied.
”Yeah. I'm real sorry about her. She was always very nice to me.
Jambalaya was my first job; I'd just gotten out of school. I have a law degree and an accounting degree, so I'm pretty useful to someone like...”
”Milo.”
”Yeah. He found a...a you know...bra in my desk. but I didn't put it there, I swear. I don't know how it got there.”
”He set you up.”
”I guess. He seemed nice at first. Said it wasn't a problem if I didn't make it one. All I needed to do was help him out occasionally and he'd forget about it. But...uh...he never forgot. Every time I wanted to stop helping him, he'd tell me how sorry my parents were going to be when they found out I was a...a...” He stopped.
”Transvest.i.te,” I said.
”Sissy f.a.ggot,” he finished, taking a deep breath.
”Milo never minces words, does he?” I said.
He seemed to think that was the lessor crime. ”My parents would never forgive me. You see, I'm the oldest of three sons. My other two brothers played every single kind of sport there was. My dad was a Marine and after that coached football. He once said that he was so disappointed in me that he had to get my mother pregnant again twice just to be sure he had one real son.”
Just the sort of real man you have to admire. He should have bought a bunch of G.I. Joe dolls instead of having children.
”And that was because I didn't want to play football in fifth grade.
I don't think I've ever done anything right in his eyes. He said one of his sons had to be an accountant and one a lawyer, so I did them both. But I don't guess it ever made up for not being the quarterback.” Hesitant at first, the words were now coming out in a jumble. I wondered if any sympathetic ears had ever heard his story. ”My dad couldn't stand it if he found out I like to wear women's clothes. And it would kill my mother.”
”Your dad is an a.s.shole,” I had to say.
* 138 *
”No, you've got it wrong. He really loves me and he wants what's best for me.”
”No, he wants you to be a robot replica of himself,” I answered.
”He doesn't always do the best thing, but he wanted to make me a real man, not the pathetic sissy that I am.”
”What's your name?” I asked. I couldn't call him sissy f.a.ggot.
”Franklin Fitzsimmons. Frankie.”
”Okay, Frankie.” This guy had problems, but they were going to take a long time to solve. I wondered if the witness protection program could relocate him to San Francisco. He needed to get as far as possible from his warped family and to meet the thousands of other men who could help him with eyeliner. ”Will you help me?”
”I can't. If Milo doesn't tell my dad, then he'll probably kill me if he finds out I've told anyone.”
”He'll do that anyway,” I said, giving Frankie a dose of reality.
”As soon as he has no further use for you, you're dead. Or did you plan to work for Milo and Company until you retired? Retirement usually means floating downstream.”
He looked stricken, like it was something he'd never thought of.
He probably hadn't.
”How many more murders are you going to be accomplice to until it's time for yours? You think Milo's goons wouldn't jump at the chance to kill a sissy f.a.ggot? He probably planted that bra in your desk and is still laughing about it.”
Frankie was crying again. I handed him a paper towel. ”What do I do?” he finally said. ”I want out of this, I want out of this so badly.”
”Get me the evidence on Milo. And whoever's behind him.”
”But they'll know. They would know I took the books.”