Page 38 of By Any Means

Chary began to giggle soundlessly into Laurie’s shoulder. Laurie put the coat back over them haphazardly.

“Okay,” he said. “Okay, you’re all right. You survived; that’s what you did. You survived.”

The bodybuilder and the rest of the crowd melted away. Laurie couldn’t blame them. Somebody had pointed them out to the cops, and two more were coming this way, looking extremely annoyed. Nobody, especially Bowery queers, wanted to get caught in a mess like this.

Chary paused his giggling and took tight hold of Laurie’s shirt. “Don’t go,” he whispered. “Please.”

“Won’t be the first time I’m arrested,” Laurie reassured him. “I’m not goin’ anywhere.”

Someone had tried to murder again—but this time, they’d failed.

After the police bells, and the bullshit rigmarole at No. 300 Mulberry Street that followed, neither of them was charged with anything, not even degenerate disturbance of the peace, to Laurie’s surprise. Or not surprise—money solved a lot of things. Laurie knew a death investigation wasn’t like the detective stories. Real detectives were blackmailing bastards, not vigilante cops. And the seventeenth ward’s political steerings, he knew, were less than liberal. But Chary was a member of New York Society, had acted in defense of his life, and, more importantly, was rich. For all Laurie knew, he had connections, too.

Most importantly, the police cared less about the death of an “obvious Bowery lowlife” than they would’ve if he and Chary had been caught fucking by the landlady.

Waiting for them in the police-station lobby, however, was a horde of reporters. Bowler hats bobbed against the double door’s windows, an eager, many-humped pile of beaver felt. With the daily presses, there were reporters on every corner, before every significant building, every public eatery, lounging in wait for a midnight-printed story. Police bells drew them quicker than anything else. Violence was hot. It sold copies.

“Oh, balls,” Laurie muttered in Chary’s ear. He had blood smeared there, rust-smelling. “I did warn you. Lower your hat.”

Chary raised his chin. “Why? It will be the same as it was eight months ago, when August died. I will weather it.”

He was so damn fearless. “The hell it will. Eight months ago, you didn’t have me. Don’t forget these are all my kind of assholes.”

Beneath the bruising, Chary looked startled.

“We know you’re in there, Laurie Tulley!” called a voice. “You don’t have dibs on a source!”

“See?”

“You needn’t⁠—”

“Too bad,” Laurie said shortly. “I’m doing it. Stay close.” He wrapped his right arm around Chary’s shoulders and opened the left door. Too late, he realized Chary was still wearing his jacket, nothing beneath but a bare chest over suit trousers.

The reporters converged around them, nudging against Laurie’s outstretched arm.

“Mr. Wright! Did you kill a man today?”

“Mr. Wright, would you like to make a statement about the Bowery? Why you were there? What business did you have on the Lower East Side?”

“Mr. Wright, was it a lovers’ quarrel? Didja murder him? Was it self-defense?”

“Was it your apartment, Mr. Wright?”

Chary was taller, but Laurie could still push back against the press of bodies and keep him tucked close. Slowly they moved forward.

“Richard,” he called, “get the hell out of here. What kind of question is that? You can’t even print it.”

Richard (the Herald) glared but backed off.

“Is this man your lover, Mr. Wright? Can’t print that, either, Tulley!” Cackles across the lobby.

Laurie rolled his eyes.

“C’mon, Barney. He’s a source. Associatin’ ain’t a crime.” He absorbed Chary’s flinch against him and resolved to apologize later. “I heard you, Paul from the Sun! No statements!”

“Photograph of the happy fairy couple?”

Laurie put his cap over his face just in time; Chary was less prepared for the puff of flash-bulb.