Ken Douglas - Dead Ringer

Her T-shirt was dirty and damp. She couldn’t do anything about that. It might even be ruined. She tried to straighten her hair, but gave up after a few tries and went back to join Gordon at the bar.

“I had no idea I looked like that.” She picked up her drink, took a sip.

“You don’t seem any worse for the wear, except for that bruise,” Gordon said. “What happened?”

She told them about Horace and Virgil and how Virgil grabbed onto her shopping cart in the Safeway. Then how she’d seen Horace with the ferret face dancing in the Lounge.

“And that didn’t bother you?” Gordon interrupted.

“Not really, I didn’t think about it. I see the same people all over in the Shore. It’s not like it was a great coincidence or anything.” Then Maggie told how Horace and Virgil had come after her and how the men under the pier had frightened them away.

“Big black man, the other crazy looking, dirty beard out to here?” Jonas held his open hands about half a foot from each side of his face. “Looks like Rasputin, starved and wild-eyed?”

“That’s them.”

“Darley and Theo.”

“Yeah, that’s their names.”

“You’re lucky you got away from that pair in one piece.”

“They were plenty scary, but they didn’t threaten me in the least, in fact they escorted me back to where I’d left my shoes.”

“Well, it sounds like an out of the frying pan and into the fire kind of story to me,” Gordon said.

“I don’t think they’re dangerous.”

“That’s why you came straight here instead of going home,” Jonas said. “Because you feel safe and secure?”

“I’ll bet there’s a story behind those guys, something Nick could use.”

“Don’t even think about it,” Gordon said.

“Why not? They could be a great story. Two men who roam the back alleys of Belmont Shore by day, living on what John Q. Public tosses in the trash, sleeping under the pier in the cold and damp by night. If he did it right, it’d be a great human interest piece. He could trace their lives, show how they got to be where they are. It could really tug at the heart strings.”

“It is the kind of stuff he likes to do,” Gordon admitted.

“What if one of them had been successful, then gone bankrupt?” Maggie sighed. “What if one of them was a vet? What if one was laid off after twenty years on the job? The homeless are everywhere now. Nobody notices them anymore. They’ve become part of the background, the same as a lamp post or a tree. If Nick did a story on them, it could help change all that. Really wake Southern California up.”

“I don’t think they want to wake up,” Jonas said.

“I think he’s right,” Gordon said. “Nobody wants to know about the homeless.”

“Your friends are calling,” Jonas said.

Gordon turned. One of the young men in front of the chess set was waving. “Gotta make my move.” Gordon started for the back of the bar and the chess game.

“That’ll take him about a second,” Jonas said.

“He’s really good,” Maggie said. “I won’t play him anymore.”

“The best this bar’s ever seen. It’s good to have him back at the game again. In the old days, before Ricky passed away, people came from all over to play him. He was great for business.” Jonas picked up a wet rag and wiped the counter.

“So, you think I should be afraid of those characters under the pier?” Maggie picked up her drink, finished it.

“Absolutely. I’m a big man. I used to box in Sweden, trained for the Olympics. Not much scares me, but I’m afraid of them.” Maggie took in his broad shoulders, the rippling biceps the long sleeved shirt couldn’t conceal. He was in great shape, despite his age.

“Maybe you’re right.” She watched as Gordon picked up a piece, moved it, then started back for the bar. He didn’t even sit, spent less than a minute looking at the board.

“What’d I miss?”

“I convinced your girlfriend to stay away from Darley and Theo,” Jonas said.

“That calls for another drink.” Gordon smiled at Maggie, but he had a warning look in his eyes as he reached for his wallet. She knew the look, he was telling her to be careful.

“No, sir. Your money’s no good tonight,” Jonas said and he set them up with another round. “I’m gonna have one, too.” He poured a draft Coors for himself. “Here’s to ya, Harvey.” He raised his class to one of the giant photos on the wall, then took a long pull.

“Harvey who?” Maggie stared at the picture.

“Harvey Milk,” Gordon said. “He was assassinated.”

“What’d he do?”

“I can’t believe it,” Jonas said. “All the times you’ve been in here and we never talked about Harvey Milk. I toast him every time I take a drink.”

“I’ve never seen you drink,” Maggie said.

“Yeah, well I usually don’t during business hours.”

“So, there you go,” she said. “Now tell me, who’s Harvey Milk?”

“He got elected to the San Francisco Board of Supervisors,” Jonas said.

“He was a cut above the rest of us.” Gordon stared up at the photo. Harvey Milk smiled back. He was a handsome man, dark hair, smile so wide his eyes were squinting. He was sitting, one leg over the other, by the side of a brick building, wearing Levi’s, work boots and a plaid shirt, kind of like the one Jonas was wearing. His arms were folded over his knee, newspaper dangling from his hands. He looked like he needed mothering. He looked fragile.

He was in another photo with a young black woman. Milk’s white skin contrasting sharply with her dark face. Her Afro wild, her smile serene. Maybe Maggie didn’t know who Harvey Milk was, but she knew all about Gaylen Geer. An in your face black feminist who raged against everything. Maggie was surprised she hadn’t noticed the photo before, but then the walls were covered with black and white shots of the ’60s and the ’70s.

Milk was in a third photo, sitting on the top of a car, legs dangling through the sun roof, right hand raised in a fist, in his left he was holding up a sign. “I’m from Woodmere, N.Y.” it said. He was wearing a white T-shirt, a garland of flowers hung from his neck. His mouth was open wide, he was yelling something. A crowd of people were marching behind the car. He looked like he was about to be swept up by a hurricane.

“Gay pride parade, he wanted folks to know gays come from everywhere. My sign said I came from Stockholm.” Jonas took another pull from his beer.

“Mine said I was from Thief River Falls, Minnesota,” Gordon said.

“Was he the first gay elected to the board of supervisors?” Maggie said.

“He was the first openly gay man elected to anything on the planet,” Jonas said. “He brought us into the human race.”

“You should know that,” Gordon said.

“When was he killed?”

“Nineteen seventy-eight.”

“I was a baby.”

“You know about those other guys.” Gordon pointed to the photos of John, Bobby and Martin. “You weren’t even born when they were killed.”

“I know about George Washington and Abe Lincoln, too. Come on, guys, it’s not the same.”

“It is,” Jonas said.

“If it isn’t, it should be,” Gordon said.

Maggie wanted to protest further, but she saw they were serious, so she bit back her words.

“Harvey Milk faced death every day. Back then gays weren’t just discriminated against, they were persecuted. We were beaten, defiled and jailed. Sure, Martin Luther King was hated by a lot of stupid people, but it wasn’t against the law to be black.”

“Harvey said in his will, ‘If a bullet should enter my brain, let that bullet destroy every closet door,”’ Gordon said. “He knew it was going to happen, but he kept on anyway, stayed in front of the public and the cameras, showing the whole world it was possible to be gay and do your job.”