Dramatization of Threats

My greetings to the workers that morning were returned with cold stares. It was clear that everyone heard the news about Wayne’s hospitalization and either ignored, agreed with or chose to disbelieve the reports of what his son had done to me.

To make matters worse, the undergarments supplied by Simon had long since soaked in the stench of the jeans. And it wasn’t just me. The stench had soaked into the mattress, so the whole foyer had taken on an intolerable odor.

At noon, Simon came running in. "You’re not going to like this," he said.

"What?" I replied, hearing the fear in Simon’s voice.

"I was thumbing through the radio dial this morning and hit a talk show. They were talking about you."

"And that should bother me because…?"

"The callers were talking about organizing a posse to get you out,” continued Simon. “One guy suggested that somebody should just go in and shoot you. And guess what the announcer said?"

"He agreed?"

"Not exactly. He said to the caller, 'you've been calling up and suggesting that for the last three days. Think of something more original.'"

I chuckled, but it was half-hearted. "It's funny, when I came down here, I was prepared to die. Now, with passage of the bill and the exposing of the Picardy’s, it no longer seems like the best option."

"These hoodlums aren’t going to do it in broad daylight, not with all the workers in City Hall. Why not spend the nights with me? Just sit here during the day. That way, you can at least get clean."

I was glad Simon mentioned cleanliness as something desirable. "No. I promised I would sit here until I won my demands or was arrested and they won’t arrest me until the Mayor gets back.”

"By that time, you’ll be dead,” said Simon. “Look, you've uncovered a lot. Chalk that up as a victory."

"I have to keep to my promise,” I replied. “Besides, if you stay with me tonight, Samantha, Ellen and some other GRAC people will be down tomorrow for the whole weekend. On Sunday, Mayor Singer will be back from his conference."

"No offense, but I hope you’re arrested as soon as he gets back. This posse talk sounds too serious."

"There’s no doubt I’ll be arrested, soon. The whole town is up in arms. Those fools believe I’m killing their beloved city clerk and his son.”

Since the revelation, I found myself alternating between anger and humility like that optical illusion: the faces or the vase.

“The place stinks so bad,” I continued, “it wouldn't surprise me if the city workers went out on strike. According to Alderman Sandberg, the Mayor is being lambasted for not having me arrested before he went to the conference and giving the order that I was not to be arrested unless a criminal act beyond trespassing was committed."

"Perhaps he expected you would leave after finding out about the Picardys," suggested Simon.

"Probably, but there are still too many unanswered questions. And what do I have to show personally for this whole mess?” I was confused about whether to leave or to stay. “On the other hand, they passed the gay rights bill and I know the reason behind the cover-up. Three years ago, either one of those would have been sufficient. Frankly, I don’t know what to do.”

"If they arrest you, you'll call it a victory and leave?"

“Probably…I don’t know…I’ll see what Samantha and Ellen have to say.” I pondered for a few moments. "There probably wasn't a day in the past three years that I wasn't somehow haunted by the events of April, 1972. The violence, the rage, maybe it's all over now.” I shrugged. “Hey, when the two of us had sex there was no problem."

"Too bad,” said Simon. “When I read about your problem in the paper, I thought, 'hey, this sounds pretty kinky.'

"Fuck you," I said, plucked a bagel out of the sack and threw it in his face. We both laughed.

---

Late Thursday afternoon, the phone in the foyer rang and I answered.

A male voice: "Listen you faggot. If you don't get the fuck out of there, you'll be dead meat." Then he hung up.

"A wrong number?" asked Simon.

"Very wrong,” I replied. “A death threat." I glanced out at the plaza and once again recalled the assassination attempt that made me flee my dorm room.

---

It was 11:45 at night. Simon and I were playing cards on the mattress. Every minute or so, I glanced over the darkened plaza, through our reflections in the glass. The shadows were no different than any other night, but somehow seemed more menacing.

"With that door to the police station thirty feet away,” I said, trying to reassure myself, “I don't think any of the vigilantes are daring enough to try something."

"You told the police about the talk show?” asked Simon.

I nodded. "The cop at the desk didn’t seem to find anything wrong with a bunch of citizens discussing how to kill me on the radio. When the press asked the City Administrator if I would get police protection, he told them I would be treated no differently than any other citizen."

"Meaning no," said Simon.

---

A few minutes later, with one card needed for gin, I noticed two figures coming up the steps to the plaza. "Someone's coming," I said, sounding the alarm and the two of us put down our hands.

The lights revealed one of them to be a woman of medium height with platinum-blond hair flowing past her shoulders. With a short and tight skirt, a bright and opulent top and heels, she could easily pass as a hooker. Behind her was a man, six three, muscled, wearing jeans and only a dark tee-shirt despite the chilliness in the air. They walked without hesitation, across the plaza and into the foyer. The man followed two steps behind the woman.

"Hello," I said, doing the best to hide my concern.

She looked at Simon and me sitting on the mattress, then gazed back and forth as though she were scoping out the situation. "Have you ever heard of the Broadway Tavern?" she asked.

I relaxed; this wasn't an out-and-out attack. Simon shook his head. "Sorry," I replied, "We never heard of it."

"I'm the owner, Donna Bumpers," she said. "I also own fourteen other business establishments in Urbana and I happen to be the girlfriend of DeWitt Hatfield. He is very upset that his name is being dragged through the mud."

I thought about the mustachioed manager of what was once the Wigwam, the Keystone cop look-alike I had bopped in the nose. I had forgotten that it wasn’t just the Picardys whose names were in the news. The Wigwam’s owner Tom Brewster and his manager, DeWitt Hatfield, had the privilege of seeing their past regurgitated in the press. "He should have thought of that when he threw beer all over me and several other gay people, tripped a crippled guy going out the door, and dumped ash trays on gay people's laps," I told her.

She was not placated. "You people have your own places. Nobody bothers you there. Why don't you stay where you belong?"

"Is that the new official policy of the Wigwam, or I should say its replacement, the Round Robin?” I asked. “In 1972, Brewster issued a statement of non-discrimination. In fact, Urbana now has a law against discrimination, covering all fourteen of your establishments."

"We don’t give a shit about the fag laws. That's my opinion, DeWitt's opinion and the opinion of a number of us at the Broadway Tavern."

I tried to hide the intimidation I felt. Simon, though he said nothing, was keeping up a good face, too. I figured it was best to just keep on talking. "So DeWitt's not working for Brewster anymore?"

"He was the scapegoat. Brewster told him to handle the fag problem. Then when it all blew up, DeWitt got the boot. Now he works for me.” Her words reminded me of the movies where the villain reveals all, giving the hero extra time to save himself. “And frankly I’m the law at the Broadway Tavern,” she continued. “If DeWitt throws some fag out, good for him." The big guy behind her said nothing. He just stood there apparently staring at his own reflection in the glass, with arms folded over his chest, muscles bulging. If only I had a tape recorder.

"What do you want with us?" Simon asked, breaking his silence and trying hard to appear in control.

"Do you know Orville Jolly?" she asked.

"No," I said, wondering where this was going.

"Orville calls the prison in Vandalia his second home. He's done some serious battery." The big guy with the folded arms smiled for the first time, revealing blackened teeth. "Orville has a group of four guys, like my friend here," she continued, pointing at the behemoth behind her. "You have twenty four hours to get out. Tomorrow night at this time, Orville and his friends are coming and they'll take you someplace nobody will ever find your body." She pointed at Simon, "You too, if you’re here." She turned to leave.

I regretted more than ever that a tape recorder was not secretly recording beneath the detritus of newspapers and wrappers. "Thanks for the info," I said, sarcastically, hiding my fear.

"Listen," she yelled. "I'm telling you this because I've seen what Orville can do. Consider it a favor. I didn't have to come here at this time of night. You just be thankful I'm a good person." She gave a haughty shake of her head and left with her muscle in tow.