Exclusive Excerpt – Lambda Award Finalist – Jameson Currier’s “A Gathering Storm”

An excerpt from A Gathering Storm, a novel by Jameson Currier, published by Chelsea Station Editions.

Chapter 54

Thursday

The room is four walls, white, plaster flaking where moisture has invaded, warmed, and dried. The floor is beige linoleum tiles full of scuff marks, black and brown from boots, wooden chairs, the metal legs of the table in the room. It is chilly, a musty smell hangs in the air. The lighting is fluorescent, artificial, heartless. On the table top sits a microphone, wires that lead to a tape recorder, and an ash tray.

“We went to Joe’s first,” he says. “Sloppy Joe’s. That’s the place on Market.” He doesn’t attempt to lean into the microphone. The orange jumpsuit he wears is the brightest thing in the room. It highlights the redness in his eyes, only half-open because he feels heavy, tired. “We had a pitcher of beer there, then Rick said he wanted to go somewhere else.”

“The beer was all you had?” Teddy asks. He sits across the table from the suspect. His hands rest on the table top. A pencil and a notepad are in front of him but he doesn’t write anything down. A lawyer sits next to his client. Kurt Vong. He is in a dark suit, hair slicked back. There is a sharpness to him that his client does not have. Another man stands watching at the door. The town prosecutor. Cal. Cal Marram. Like Teddy, there is a lumpiness to him. Bald, mustache, something of a gut. Wears a jacket, tie.

“To drink, yeah,” A.J. answers. “We ran out of crank that morning.”

“Crank?” Teddy asks.

“Yeah,” A.J. answers. “We used up a bag the day before. Toked it.”

“So you had nothing other than the beers that night?” Teddy asks.

“Yeah,” A.J. answers. “We had a pitcher at the Starlite, too.”

“So you weren’t looking for any drugs?” Teddy asks.

“Sure, we were looking,” A.J. says. His eyes swivel, then steady. “We’re always looking. But we were both broke. Rick had spent what he had at Joe’s. We barely had enough money to get the pitcher at the Starlite.”

“What time did you arrive at the Starlite?” Teddy asks.

“It was about 11:30,” the suspect answers. “I didn’t have any money on me except some change. We paid for the pitcher with change. Rick did.”

“So you walked into the Starlite. Got a pitcher. Saw you didn’t have any money. And decided to rob someone.” Teddy says. “Because you needed some money?”

The lawyer does not offer an objection. His expression is tense. Wavy lines in forehead. Flat lips. A meeting before this one he agreed to let his client talk. Confess. Tell his side of the story.

“No. Not at first,” he says.

“What happened first?”

“We played a game of pool,” A.J. says. “We didn’t even know anything about the guy. We were just shootin’. Rick wanted a cigarette so he asked a couple of guys at the bar. The queer dude had one. They talked a bit before I came over.”

“So he introduced himself to you?” Teddy asks.

“I got his name,” A.J. replies.

“Did the college boy—did Danny offer you any drugs?”

“Nope,” A.J. answers. “If he’d had anything like that we’d probably wouldn’t be here.”

“Here,” Teddy says. “In this room.”

“Yeah,” A.J. answers. “We were strung out because we were coming down from the crank. From the night before.”

“So all you had were the beers. A pitcher at Joe’s. A pitcher at the Starlite.”

“That’s it,” A.J. says. “That’s what I said before.”

“So you had a lot to drink. Two pitchers. You were drunk then?”

“On a pitcher?” A.J. laughs. “Don’t think so.”

“So you wanted some more,” Teddy says. “So you and your friend, Rick, decide to hit on someone to get some more beer.”

“No,” A.J. answers. “Not beer. We wanted the money.”

“You wanted money,” Teddy says. “But not for beer. Drugs, maybe? So you could score some drugs?”

“Maybe,” A.J. says. “Or maybe another pitcher. We weren’t sure. We’d been cranked up since Friday night. We sorta wanted to come down a bit.”

“So when you met Danny at the bar,” Teddy says. “Did he identify himself as homosexual to you?”

“Well, he looked like fag to me,” he answers. “From the way he was talking and stuff.”

“What do you mean?” Teddy asks. “That he looked feminine?”

“Yeah,” he answers. “He looked like a sissy boy.”

“And that’s when you decided to rob him,” Teddy asks.

“No,” he answers. “We went to the head. Rick said we could give him a ride home and jack him then.”

“So it was Rick’s idea to rob him?”

“That’s what I said.”

“And he left the bar with you because you were giving him a ride home?”

“That’s what I said.”

“Did you give him any indication that you were homosexual?” Teddy asks him.

“I ain’t queer,” he answers quickly, an edge in his voice. His eyes are wider now, a blackness to the pupils, as if it is drawing in anger. “You know that.”

“But did he think you were?”

His eyes shift a bit uneasy. He looks for something to alight on, to deflect his expression, but there is nothing in the room except the suit by the door, staring down at him. He casts his eyes uneasily at the table. “He might have. Rick was being flirty.”

“Flirty?”

“Dancing a bit,” he says. “The music was playing. Rick was sort of dancing as he smoked. Like he was showing off for the guy or something.”

“And it was sexual?”

“Depends on how you look at it?”

“So he thought you were a homosexual?”

“He was askin’ Rick if he’d been to a place in Richmond,” he says. “Said he’d gone there over the weekend. He said it was a place for queers.”

“He used that word—queer?” Teddy asks.

“No, he said ‘gay.’ He said it was a gay club. He started talking about the music they played there.”

“And your friend, how did he respond?”

“He played it real cool,” he says. “Said he wanted to go there sometime and check it out. The queer guy said he’d go with him, if Rick wanted.”

“And did he?” Teddy continues.

“He was being friendly with him,” A.J. answers. “He was leading the guy on. That’s when he asked the faggot if he wanted a ride home.”

“Danny?”

“Him.”

“And then what happened?” Teddy asks.

“We left together,” he says. “Walked out to the car.”

“And where were you headed?”

“Rick was driving,” he answers. “I let Rick pick the spot.”

“So Rick was driving your uncle’s truck?”

“That’s the way it was,” he answers. His voice is again steady, unrattled, sleepy.

“And that left you free to beat the guy?” Teddy asks.

There is a pause, as if A.J. is aware that he is offering a confession. He tilts his head toward his lawyer, then back. “I didn’t do anything to him till he grabbed me.”

“He grabbed you?”

“That’s right,” A.J. answers.

“Where did he grab you?”

“He sort of ran his hand along my thigh,” he says. “And he was close to my crotch.”

Teddy is surprised by the answer, but tries not to show it. He thinks the suspect is taunting him, mocking him. That this part was rehearsed with the lawyer. “And this was when you hit him?”

“He was coming on to me,” he answers. “I let him know I wasn’t that way.”

“And then what happened?”

“He tried it again. Said ‘please.’ I gave him a good punch. That’s when I took his wallet.”

“And Rick was driving during this.”

“That’s right,” he answers. “He was sort of laughing. That’s when we pulled over and drug him out of the car.”

“Did he try to defend himself?”

“Well, yeah,” A.J. says, as if it is the dumbest question he has been asked all day. “But he won’t much of a fighter. Too much a girl. He kept saying ‘please, please,’ real soft like. Like a sissy would.”

“And that made you angry?”

“He was coming on to me,” A.J. says, his voice rising. “He was all over me.”

“I think my client has established that he panicked,” the lawyer says. It is the first thing he has said, except for clearing his throat when he arrived to the room. He folds his hands across the table, an edge of a lip pulled up into a smile.

Teddy returns to A.J. “And your friend, what was his reaction?”

“He was laughing at first,” A.J. says.

Teddy looks down at the pad, thinks a moment, then asks, “How long were you out there—at the fence?”

“Maybe ten minutes,” A.J. says. “Seems like longer.”

“Did he ask you to stop?”

“Well, yeah, he was getting the shit beat of him,” he answers. He gives a little laugh. Then decides it is the wrong thing to do, turns his head toward his lawyer, then back. “I wanted to take him home but Rick got a rope from the truck and said to tie him up to the fence and leave him there.” He thinks some more about his story, then continues. “It was like someone else was doing it. I don’t know what was going on with me.” He looks over at the detective, searching out his eyes for the first time since he entered the room. “He’s bad off, isn’t he, Mr. DeWitt? Is he gonna die for sure?”

“I think so,” Teddy answers. He doesn’t give A.J. the satisfaction of returning his gaze.

A.J.’s expression changes. His cheeks flush, then the corner of his lip turns downward, into a pout, like a bad boy mad that he got caught. “I didn’t mean to kill him. I can’t believe it happened. I just blacked out. I felt possessed. You know, he was coming on to me.”

“Is that why you were afraid of him, A.J.? Because he made you think you were gay?”

“I ain’t gay.”

“You beat him and took his money and his coat,” Teddy says. “Because he made you scared about yourself. Is that why you took his shoes? Because he scared you?” Teddy asks.

“His shoes?” he answers. His voice is rusty. Like it is a stupid question. “Don’t know. When is this ending? This is making my head hurt, you know. I don’t know why we took the shoes. You should ask Rick. Rick was behind all this. Why haven’t you asked Rick all these questions?”

____________

Jameson Currier is the author of ten works of fiction. In 2010 he established Chelsea Station Editions, an independent press devoted to gay literature (located on the Web at www.chelseastationeditions.com). Books published by the press have been honored by the Lambda Literary Foundation, the American Library Association GLBTRT Roundtable, the Saints and Sinners Literary Festival, the Gaylactic Spectrum Awards Foundation, and the Rainbow Book Awards.