God Save the Child

“Yes, you may,” I said, “but it would involve wrinkling your dress.”

“Did you wish to make an appointment with Mr. Witherspoon, sir?”

“Doesn’t he mind wrinkling his dress?”

She said, “I beg your pardon.”

I said, “Never mind. I would, in fact, like to see Mr. Witherspoon.”

“Did you have an appointment?”

“No, but if you’d tell him Spenser is here, I bet he’d see me.

“What is it you wish to see him about?”

“I’m posing for the centerfold in the December Jack and Jill and wondered if Race would be willing to handle the photography.”

She picked up the phone and pressed the intercom button. “Mr. Witherspoon? I’m sorry to bother you, but there’s a man here who says his name is Spenser. He said something about posing for some pictures in Jack and Jill. I’m not familiar with it. Yes sir.” She hung up and said to me, “Mr. Witherspoon says to come in. He’s right through that door.”

“Jack and Jill,” I said, “is a magazine that celebrates the heterosexual experience.” She looked at me without expression and said, “Why don’t you shove Jack and Jill magazine up your ass.”

“Class will out,” I said and went into the Studio.

It was white: floor, ceiling, walls, rugs, except one wall which was covered in uninterrupted black velvet. Opposite the door the room bellied out into the pentagonal bay I’d seen from the street. There were black velvet drapes gathered at each side of the windows. On a Victorian-looking black sofa a very thin girl reclined with her head propped on one elbow and a rose in her teeth. She was wearing a billowy diaphanous white gown, very red lipstick, and nail polish. Her black hair was very long and very straight. Surrounding her was a cluster of light poles and bounce lighting. Extension cords tangled around the floor near the sofa. Around her moved a graceful man with a Hasselblad camera.

Race Witherspoon was six feet tall, slim, tanned, and entirely bald. I never did know whether he was naturally bald or if he shaved his head. His eyebrows were black and symmetrical, and a blue shadow of closely shaved beard darkened his jaw and cheeks. He had on tight black velvet pants that rode low on his hips and tucked into white leather cowboy boots. His shirt was white silk, open almost to his belt. The sleeves were belled. His tanned chest was as tight-skinned and hairless as his head, and a big silver medallion hung on a silver chain against his sternum. Susan had an outfit like it. But Race’s was more daring. He moved fluidly around the model with the Hasselblad, snapping pictures and cranking the film ahead.

“I’ll be with you in a minute, old Spenser, my friend.” He spoke while he shot. He wore a large onyx ring on his right index finger, and a black silk kerchief was knotted around his throat. Outside the bright bath of the photography lights, the room was dim, and the misting rain that had begun while I walked up Newbury Street had become a hard rain that rattled on the windows. I sat on the edge of an ebony free-form structure which I took to be a desk.

“All right, Denise, take a break while I talk to the man.”

The model got up off the couch without any visible effort, like a snake leaving a rock, and slunk off through a door behind the velvet hangings on the far wall. Witherspoon walked over to me and put the camera down beside me on the desk.

“What is it I can do for you, Chickie?” he said.

“I’ve come for one last try, Race,” I said. “I’ve got to know. What is your name, really?”

“Why do you doubt me?”

I shook my head. “No one is named Race Witherspoon.”

“Someone is named anything.”

I took out my photo of Vic Harroway and handed it to Witherspoon.

“I’d like to locate this guy, Race. Know him?”

“Hmm, fine-looking figure of a man. What makes you think I might know him?”

“I heard he was gay.”

“Well, for crissake, Spenser. I don’t know every queer in the country. It’s one thing to come out of the damned closet. It’s quite another to run a gay data bank.”

“You know him, Race?”

“I’ve seen him about. What’s your interest? Want me to fix you up; maybe you could go dancing at Nutting’s on the Charles?”

“Naw, he’d want to lead. I think I’ll just stay home and wash my hair and listen to my old Phil Brito albums. What do you know about Harroway?”

“Not much, but I want to know the rap on him before I say anything. I owe you some stuff, but, you know, I don’t owe you everything I am.”

“Yeah,” I said. “You don’t. Okay, there’s a missing boy, about fifteen. I saw him with Harroway. I want the kid back, and I would like to ask Harroway about a murder.”

Witherspoon’s thick eyebrows raised evenly. “Heavy,” he said. “Very heavy. A fifteen-year-old kid, huh? Harroway was always a damned baby-raper, anyway.”

“He’s got no record,” I said.

“I know. I didn’t mean literally. He’s the kind of guy who likes young kids. If he were straight, he’d be queer for virgins, you know.”

“He is gay, then?”

“Oh hell, yes.”

“Where’s he hang out?”