Tongue tied

"Maybe it is the old FFF," Timmy said, "and they're going to put Leo in a mental institution-and try to turn the homophobe gay. Maybe do a poetic-justice job on him like the one in the Paul Haig case you worked on, where renegades from Vernon Crockwell's homosexual-cure psychotherapy group turned on the evil doctor and gave him a kind of dose of his own medicine."

I briefly thought that one over, too, and said, "Timothy, where are you dredging this wild stuff up from?"

"Experience, Donald. Yours, not mine, I should add."

"None of that is totally implausible. It's just that… a simpler set of circumstances is far likelier. You haven't seen the notes these neo-FFFers sent Plankton. They are not the work of sophisticated minds. These people are both crude and borderline loony. So far, I'd say a thoroughly non-byzantine scenario is unfolding. My guess is, word will come from the kidnappers making some weird demand in exchange for Moyle's release. Maybe a demand that Plankton apologize to the homosexuals of America on his show- and then serialize a radio dramatization of The Lord Won't Mind. Anyway, it probably won't be long before we know."

"I hope you're right, but the whole thing sounds to me fraught with more complex possibilities. Maybe it's all being staged by Plankton and his people. How about that? A publicity scam. Have Plankton's ratings been going down? Has he been losing advertisers?"

"Not that I know of. Anyway, that'd be illegal. Staging a kidnapping, especially, would not go down well with the Manhattan DA's office. These people blather about 'edge' and 'pushing the envelope' and radio that's 'dangerous.' But just below the surface they're some of the most clunkily reactionary people in the country. They're Babbitts whose most profound interest is in their own comfort. They would never do anything that risked a big fine-possibly necessitating selling off a chunk of their General Electric stock- or, God help them, the quirky uncertainties of prison life.

For all their bravado, the J-Bird and his gang are not really risk takers."

Timmy said, "Oh, I don't know. They've hired you. For them, that's taking a chance.

Of course, they may not know what they're in for."

"No, I've been up front with the J-Bird and his producer. They know I don't like them-even that I could turn on them."

"That's to their credit, then," Timmy said. "Unless, of course-and we're back to this-they brought you into this because they have something in mind that you're not aware of. Something… duplicitous."

"Timothy, you're making me a little nervous."

"Oh, Don, if I could only believe that," he said in his well-practiced way, "I'd be the happiest man in Albany."

I didn't laugh, just said, "Even beyond keeping me amused, you can be helpful in this."

"How?"

"Check my files on the Blount case and dig out the most recent address for Kurt Zinsser, the old FFF gay who harbored Billy Blount when he was on the run from his parents and the Albany cops. See if Blount himself is in the Albany area, and if you can't find him you might check those two women with the travel agency who were his buddies- Margarita something and Christine something. Christine was a fellow FFF rescuee. They may well have maintained contact with the old FFFers who, after all, saved their sanity and maybe their lives. They may know Thad Diefendorfer too-and he may know about them. I'll ask him. But anything you can do on that end to get the ball rolling, I'll be grateful for."

A little silence. He said, "You know, I'm at work."

"Sure, I know. But it's July. The entire legislature of the state of New York is in repose, on greens and fairways from Montauk to Jamestown. Who are you trying to kid, Callahan? And all of you legislative staffers in Albany are cranking up the air-conditioning, kicking back in your bosses' leather club chairs, and reading Madame Bovary aloud to one another. It's summer at the capitol. I've been around Albany as long as you have, and you can't fool me."

"You are largely mistaken, Donald," he said.

"Uh-huh."

"But when I get home from work at 5:18 P.M., I'll check your files, make some calls, and see what I can do."

"Thank you, Timothy."

"See you around eleven, then?"

"Unless I join the neo-FFF myself and blow up the J-Bird's radio transmitter, sure."

"You won't do that. You're no Babbitt, but you aren't quite as adventurous as you once were, either."

I chose to take a wait-and-see attitude as to whether I would regard Timmy's remark as a mere accurate analysis or as a challenge.

Chapter 7

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