Hush Money

He was a spare man with a gray crew cut and half glasses. His light tan summer suit looked a little small for him, but you could see that he was not a rube.

“The recommendations of this committee, when they are made, are just that, recommendations,” he said. “They are not binding on the university.”

Tillman glanced over his half glasses at Bass Maitland. He didn’t change his expression, but I got the sense that he and I would agree on Bass.

“But they are not to be cavalierly disregarded either,” Tillman said. “There is considerable at stake here.”

“I’ll try not to lie,” I said.

Tillman smiled very slightly.

“Thank you,” he said. “We have all, I’m sure, read the papers, but I would like to hear from you what you know, as succinctly as you can. And since I am the chair of this committee, I guess I can. You may remain seated there unless you wish otherwise.”

The various professors gathered around the long conference table shifted in their seats a little. Several of them seemed interested. Lillian Temple and Bass Maitland looked resigned to suffering fools as gladly as they could.

“There are police reports,” I said. “Both from the Massachusetts State Police who did some of the initial questioning, when Amir Abdullah and Milo Quant were arrested, and from the Boston Police Homicide Unit in whose jurisdiction the murder of Prentice Lamont took place and to whom the state cops turned them over. I assume you all have copies.”

Everyone did.

“Okay, here’s what I know.”

“Excuse me,” Bass Maitland said, “I think we’d all be more comfortable if you were a bit more precise in your choice of words. This is what you surmise.”

I looked at Bass Maitland for a minute without saying anything. Then I looked back around the table.

“Okay,” I said, “here’s what I know.”

Maitland started to say something and Tillman gestured him to be quiet.

“Prentice Lamont ran a newspaper called OUTrageous which, as the name might imply, was in the business of outing closeted gay people. He was also having a sexual affair with Amir Abdullah. Prentice started out high-mindedly, hoping to improve the lot of gay Americans by forcing prominent people who were gay to publicly proclaim themselves. But in a while – Amir has admitted that it was his suggestion – this became a vehicle for blackmail, and made both Amir and Prentice a considerable profit. Amir, however, ever the romantic, lost interest in Prentice and took up with Milo Quant, the head of an anti-gay, anti-black, anti a whole bunch of stuff group called Last Stand Systems, Inc. Prentice, the jilted lover, threatened to out them both if Amir didn’t return to his arms. This would work very badly for the man whose official position was white and heterosexual. Amir was frightened about what Milo might do, so without telling Milo, he asked a couple of Milo’s security people to shut Prentice up. He swears he thought they’d rough Prentice up and frighten him into silence. The security guys say Amir told them to kill Prentice. Which they did, leaving a kind of all-purpose suicide note.”

A thin wiry woman with short very curly hair raised her hand at the far end of the conference table. I nodded at her.

“Did the Last Stand whatchamacallit know about their boss and Amir?”

“No. Just the personal bodyguard. They would smuggle Amir up to a motel near the Maine headquarters, usually, but sometimes to other places, where he would rendezvous with Milo.”

“Classic fascist ambivalence,” the speaker was a small man with longish tan hair and horn-rimmed glasses, “to lust in private after everything they despise in public.”

“You bet,” I said. “So Amir decided that since he had a corpse handy, blame Robinson Nevins for it, and get a twofer.”

“Excuse me?” Bass Maitland said.

“Two for one,” Tillman said brusquely. “Go ahead, Mr. Spenser.”

“Well, why on earth would he do that?” Maitland said.

“Amir is pretty pathological,” I said. “He couldn’t stand any competition, let alone competition from a black scholar as accomplished and as fundamentally decent as Robinson Nevins.”

“Nevins never had an affair with Prentice Lamont?” the wiry woman said.

“No. Robinson isn’t even gay,” I said.

I looked at Lillian Temple. Her face showed nothing.

“Well, for God’s sake, why didn’t he say so?” Maitland said.

“Because he felt that since the charges were specious regardless of his sexuality, proclaiming his heterosexuality was both undignified and perhaps in some way hostile to the interests of his many gay friends.”

“Bass wouldn’t understand that,” Harmon said.

“Tommy, please,” Tillman said.

“I resent that,” Maitland said.

“Bass,” Tillman said.

“To prove his heterosexuality would have required women to testify that they’d been intimate with him,” I said. “Several of them were not free to be. He declined to put them on the spot.”

Again I was looking at Lillian Temple. Her appearance remained rigidly unchanged.

“My God,” said the little guy with the big glasses, “he sounds like one of nature’s noblemen. And we’re denying him tenure?”

“Do you know who any of these women are?” the wiry woman asked.

“Yes.”

“May we know?”

I shook my head. Lillian Temple’s expression remained unchanged. She was so still that she was barely there.

“How do we know that this man is telling the truth?” Maitland said.

“Bass,” I said, “I don’t wish to appear uncouth, so I’ll let it slide that you’re kind of calling me a liar. But if you do it outside of these august proceedings, I will knock you on your Harris tweed tookus.”

Tommy Harmon chuckled. Maitland flushed.

“Mr. Spenser,” Tillman’s voice was like the thin edge of a piece of ice. “Whether or not these proceedings are august, they are serious. Bass, everything Mr. Spenser has said is corroborated in the police reports, generally in Abdullah’s own words.”

“I haven’t had a chance to read the reports,” Maitland said sullenly.

“They were distributed three days ago. We all had the chance,” Tillman said. “I took advantage of it, you didn’t. Do you have anything else to tell us, Mr. Spenser?”

“I have a couple of guesses. One, I think Amir was begi

“Foresighted,” Tillman said.

The committee asked me maybe a dozen questions. Tommy Harmon spoke about the injustice that they were trying to avert. Bass Maitland made a formal statement about the danger of taking these decisions from the hands of the department. Lillian Temple concurred.

“Are we ready for a vote?” Tillman said.

They were.

“Very well,” Tillman said. “Mr. Spenser, will you step outside, please. Professors Temple, Harmon, Maitland will join him please.”

All the time we stood outside in the corridor nobody said anything. I looked at Lillian Temple. She stood as close as dignity permitted to Bass Maitland and looked at something else. Anything else. I was sort of hoping Bass would call me a liar again. He didn’t. Maybe I could put an eraser on my shoulder and dare him to knock it off. I thought about explaining that to Susan afterward, and decided not to dare him.

In about twenty minutes the committee came out in ones and twos and dispersed without saying anything to us. Tillman came out last.