Scott Sherman - First You Fall

He was talking about Tony. “Yeah, wel, that party was over a long time ago. But I understand why you stayed back.”

“I real y am sorry for you,” Randy said. “I mean, Al en was my best customer, but I know he was your best friend. I think it’s great that you’re doing this for him. Trying to figure out what happened. I’m sorry I was such an asshole before.”

“You weren’t an asshole, Randy. You were just doing what you do. And it’s not like I hated it,” I couldn’t help adding.

“Oh yeah.” Randy grinned. “Wel, the offer for a little under-the-table action is stil out there, baby.”

“Maybe some other time.” I smiled back. I was about to say goodbye when I suddenly thought of something.

“Listen, you said that Al en cancel ed because something came up, right?”

Randy nodded.

“And then you said you came back because you thought his meeting might be brief-he did say he was meeting someone, right?”

“Yeah, he said someone had just cal ed and said it was real y important that they talk. ‘In person.’ I remember he used that phrase. He said he didn’t know how it was going to go, though. That’s why he didn’t know how long he’d be.”

“He didn’t say who it was, did he?”

“Yeah, he did.” Randy said. “It was his son.”

“His son!” I shouted. The guys at the next booth turned to look at us. I repeated myself more quietly.

“His son. Did he say which one?”

“Did he have more than one?”

“Why didn’t you tel the cops?”

“How would I have explained what I was doing there?”

I knew the feeling. “Got ya.”

“You’re not gonna tel them, are you?”

I ran my fingers over my chest. “Cross my heart.”

Randy’s foot found its way back into my lap.

“So, what do you say?” he asked. “Do I stil get to sink my hot dog into your toasty buns?”

I stood. As much fun as Randy would be, his revelations inspired me to a different kind of action.

“Not this time, Randy. Can I take a rain check?”

“A check? Naw. You know I only take cash, Kevin.”

“I knew it!” Freddy screamed when I told him about Randy’s revelation. “I knew it was one of those freaky kids of his. It had to be the big one, the religious nut.

Michael. That other one couldn’t throw a basketbal off a balcony, let alone a grown man.”

We were sitting in Freddy’s office, where I headed immediately after my conversation with Randy. I couldn’t wait to tel Freddy my news in person.

“And I’m so proud of you,” Freddy said, ruffling my head. “Charlie’s littlest Angel, Although in the future, I’d prefer if you didn’t come to my office in your underwear. People talk, you know.”

“It’s not underwear,” I protested. “Oh, never mind about that. Al en hadn’t spoken to either of his sons in years. Why would one of them been going over there?”

“Maybe he just wanted to get in there so he could give his dad an impromptu flying lesson.”

I grimaced.

“Sorry about that,” Freddy continued. “But real y, maybe it was al just a setup.”

“Maybe,” I said. “So, what next?”

“Now, I think you cal Tony and tel him what you learned.”

“I’m not speaking to him.”

“Honey, this isn’t a lover’s spat. You have ‘material information in a homicide’. Wel, a possible homicide. I think that’s how they’d describe it on CSJ.”

“And how would I explain how I’d come across this

‘material information,’ huh? Without compromising me or Randy, that is?”

“You haven’t told Tony what you do for a living?”

“Hel, no!”

“Oy,” Freddy sighed. “Then I guess it’s back to Square One: We’re just going to have to solve this case ourselves.”

I sighed. Freddy was enjoying this.

“We need to get a better read on Michael.”

Freddy typed something into his computer. “OK, here’s the schedule for the Center for Creative Empowerment Therapy. And look-tomorrow they’re having a free seminar.” He read on. “Oh, this is too perfect.”

“What is?”

“The seminar. ‘Flight from Homosexuality.’”

“You shitting me?”

“No, and listen to this: ‘Flight from Homosexuality is about breaking the dysfunctional patterns that bind you from leaping boldly into a brand new life. This seminar is the perfect jump-start for those of you brave enough to boldly spring out of the death-style of homosexuality and into the promise of a healthier lifestyle.’”

“‘ Flight from homosexuality,’” I repeated. “Leaping boldly?”

“Don’t forget ‘jump- start,’” said Freddy.

“Kind of heavy on the whole flying metaphor, isn’t it?”

“And kind of coincidental for a guy whose dad supposedly threw himself off a building.”

Shit. This was al getting very complicated again.

“Oh, and look,” Freddy enthused. “Michael Harrington himself is running the workshop. Talk about a hot ticket.”

“So,” I said, “wil you go with me tomorrow?”

“Honey,” Freddy grinned, “I wouldn’t miss it for the world. That hunky white boy’s gonna teach this little fairy how to fly!”

I walked home from Freddy’s office, ignoring the catcal s and come-ons that my skimpy outfit encouraged.

I had a 2:00 date with a regular. That gave me two hours to kil. I decided to go to the gym and run home for a shower. At least I’d feel clean.

Dudley Chambers was one of the top psychiatrists in the entire city-not a bad achievement in a town with almost as many shrinks as taxis. Every month, I’d sit under the handsome fifty-something-year-old doctor’s desk and jerk him off while he participated in the board of director’s conference cal of the North American Analysts for the Advancement of Psychoanalytic Psychotherapy. That name was more than a mouthful, as was his dick, which must have topped nine inches.

With a cock like that, he real y didn’t need to pay for sex, but I wasn’t about to tel him that.

“I swear,” Dr. Chambers said, as he hung up the phone and scooted back to zip up his pants. “Your kind ministrations are the only things that get me through those excruciating cal s. Imagine, seven pseudo-intel ectuals who get paid al week to listen.

By the time they get on the phone, they are so pent up they just can’t shut up. They real y should find a healthier outlet for al those repressed feelings.” He patted my head. “Like I do.”

I grinned.

“Come sit up here, sweetheart,” he said, pointing to his lap. “Tel me what’s up with you.”

“Do you have a minute?” I asked.

“More than that, dear. And anything you have to say wil be more interesting than the posturing of those solipsistic bores I just escaped.”

I told him about how a friend had become involved with The Center for Creative Empowerment Therapy, and about their promises that they could convert gay people to be straight.

“A dreadful sham, it is.” Dr. Chambers shook his head. “Yes, some smal percentage of gay people want very much to change, but why is that, my dear?

Because they’re il? Sick? Of course not! It’s because society puts such burdens on them, because they’re not strong enough to build a life for themselves. Any decent therapist, even one unfortunate enough to work at something cal ed The Center for Creative Empowerment Therapy, would help such an individual to live a life congruent with his natural orientation.

“But some charlatans exploit these poor, tortured souls and take advantage of their desperation. They peddle false ‘cures,’ impossible ‘conversions.’ They push religion or psychiatry as tools to pervert the natural self.

“And what tools do they use? They inflict shame upon their clients, teach them to hate themselves.