Murder at Willow Slough Read Online Free Page A

smartest people you can find,’ what business school bullshit. It doesn’t apply in the gay community.
    “Oh, sorry, ‘we have to capitalize Gay too.’ And Black and White because Ebony magazine does, and there is a theory and—spare me. Don’t they know there’s only one thing that matters to faggots? Dick! Nothing else. You want to make money, give ’em dick. Better yet, make ’em think you’re giving them dick. The old strip tease, right? I didn’t invent this stuff. Maybe Jamie did.”
    Louie stopped at a traffic light outside the #2 bar. “Not too many cars here. How nice. Business at my own bar is up 500% now that I have Casey and Jamie. It’s called advertising. Then hire young bartenders for a little tits and ass. It’s real simple, fellas.”
    “Don’t handsome, principled young journalists add to your paper’s cachet?”
    No way Louie would admit that.“I’ve never forgiven Jamie for calling me a profiteer, even though the article was fair overall. I paid to be pilloried in my own paper! It established once and for all that The Times is editorially independent, but it cut me like an incision. I should have fired their asses for insubordination—but they did tell the truth, that the bar makes a very tidy profit.”
    Only later did he realize the article boosted his status; he was a successful entrepreneur. That’s when he started running more fundraisers, like the shitheads wanted all along. It was even good for business, but Jamie was too damn smart.
    Louie went on, “It’s admirable, I suppose, that Foster and Jordan are always trying to make Gay rights some big political thing. They’re right, not that I ever let on. Here lately I even vote the way they want me to, for every high-tax Democrat that comes down the pike. Standing in line with my Times Voters’ Guide like every other fag and dyke in Columbus. There are whole precincts here now—Clintonville, German Village, the Short North—where half the voters are clutching their handy guide out of The Times. It makes voting fun, a town meeting of the Queer Society. Guys whooping it up in church basements while elderly precinct committeewomen try to act like nothing’s happening, ‘Do you still live on Whittier Street?’
    “And a whole chorus screaming, ‘When he’s not on his knees in the park!’
    “At least we’ve got something to show for it. The judges are getting better, and that’s important in the bar business. You never know when some customer—or employee—is going to show up with a tale about being entrapped, abused, beaten up, robbed, hit over the head with a baseball bat. With a real newspaper now, with the hotshots’ precious credibility, we can pressure the cops, tell everyone what happened, warn people even. Go after the bashers, attend their trials, publish their pictures, wave bye-bye as they shuffle off in leg chains.
    “That’s something I don’t mind paying for. Anti-Gay crime is no longer tolerated in Columbus, Ohio. Foster goes after the bashers like a junkyard dog. The Strangler thing was just another anti-Gay crime at first. But that was so long ago, so many dead guys ago, I can’t even remember when it was.”
    “It’s a publisher’s job to be a cheapskate.”
    “Foster’s even got an expense account! If I didn’t think so much of them I’d fire them. Now we just threaten each other with it once a week. Foster will have a tantrum, or Jordan will yank out his contract, and soon I’m talked out of another thousand bucks. God, they can make a racket. Then five minutes later, smooch smooch and we’re back to normal. Just like kids—they always cost money too.”
    His youngest daughter got accepted at Princeton last week. He clutched, so proud of her. But the tuition bills would kill him. He wondered if the customers would tolerate a 10¢ price increase on a Bud.
    He eyed a skyscraper. It wasn’t tall enough to contain his pride.
    “The cops are getting better, too, it helps to have a little