These people were both calculating and delusional, and it was becoming clear that the worst they were likely to do was shame and embarrass an old lady whose additional years of experiencing embarrassment and moral shame were limited. But they weren’t limited quite enough. Mother Rita was, according to Hunny’s friend Antoine, still eighty-two percent there on some days. And she apparently cared what people thought of her, as did her family — Hunny, his sister Miriam and her husband Lewis. Nelson, who had hooked up with a man who dealt in tranches and derivatives, seemed ready to forgive and forget and to be more philosophical about swindling the unwary. Not so, the more orthodox-Methodist Van Horns, and not so Hunny, who seemed willing to do almost anything to keep his adored and CoCkeyed 69

adoring mother from being humiliated, if not hauled into court.

The store room we were standing around arguing in was uncomfortably hot without air-conditioning. It occurred to me to invite the Brienings over to the nearby Subway outlet for a cool drink, and where I might shove both of these vicious little creeps into the cooler compartment, if Subway had one, and jam the door shut. But they might not die. They might wrap themselves in coats made of doughy sub buns and survive on American cheese. And I would be convicted of attempted murder.

So instead I said, “Rita Van Horn is missing from the nursing home. She left this morning around eight, and no one knows what has become of her. A search has been organized. If you wrote her a letter that precipitated some kind of emotional crisis in Rita, you will bear a heavy responsibility for whatever has happened to her.”

They gawked. “Nobody escapes from those places,” Clyde said. “Rita must be hiding on the premises.”

Arletta added, “Have they checked the bookkeeper’s office?

If the safe is in there, where they keep the residents’ valuables, that would be the first place I would look.”

I said, “Do you people seriously believe that Hunny Van Horn might actually turn over half a billion dollars to you?”

“We not only believe it,” Arletta said, “we are counting on it.

We are expanding our store here in the fall, and we have been in touch with Crossgates about leasing space at the mall. In addition, as we told Nelson, we are planning to build a lovely retirement home in Florida. And — not that it is any of business of yours — we plan to make a major contribution to an excellent organization in Albany that is protesting the lottery commission paying out all that taxpayer money to a man as immoral as Hunny Van Horn.”

“You’re talking about fPAAC?”

Looking smug, Arletta said, “You betcha.”

“But if the lottery commission revokes Hunny’s winnings, you won’t get a dime.”

70 Richard Stevenson

Clyde stood looking serene, and Arletta smirked some more. “Well, of course they aren’t going to take Hunny’s billion dollars back. The lottery commission is run by a bunch of big-government liberals who support the radical homosexual agenda.

So I am confident that Hunny will keep his billion dollars, and I am just as confident that Clyde and I are going to end up with our fair share. That would be half.”

I said, “Of course, if something bad has happened to Rita Van Horn, you people are up the creek.”

“Has she really run off?” Clyde asked, looking nervous.

The two of them stood watching me with sudden apprehension, and that’s when I concluded that even if they hadn’t snatched her, the letter they had sent her renewing their threats had shoved Mrs. Van Horn into some awful tailspin that was likely to end up badly hurting her as well as everyone else involved.

ChAPteR ten

Back at the house on Moth Street, Hunny sat by the kitchen table chain-smoking. He gazed up longingly at the wall phone as if he might will it to ring and someone on the other end of the line would happily announce that Rita Van Horn was safe and sound. In anticipation of such a call, Hunny had sent out for champagne and clam dip. Nelson and Lawn had come by briefly and then driven over to join Hunny’s sister Miriam and her husband Lewis at Golden Gardens, the epicenter of the search.

Friends had gathered at Hunny and Art’s house to offer comfort. Schuyler and Tyler were there, off in a corner where Marylou Whitney was helping them with their homework. They were students at Hudson Valley Community College, Art told me, and were planning to switch their major from corporate communications to pre-med since Hunny had offered to finance their educations.

Mrs. Whitney, whose real name, Art confided to me, was Guy Snyder and who was an accountant in the New York State Department of Taxation, was also serving as press liaison. For word had spread that the aged mother of the lottery billionaire had gone missing and reporters were gathering out front on the sidewalk. Among them was a crew from Focks News that included the field producer Jane Trinkus, as well as a new cameraman and two armed bruisers from the Focks security department in New York. They spent much of their time palavering with the two Gray Security guards Hunny had hired at my suggestion. The wounded cameraman was still under treatment at Albany Med and was said to be recovering from his back injury. Trinkus had told Hunny that Bill O’Malley himself might be coming up to Albany, and Hunny should consider having an attorney present for the interview.

Other media representatives had also been in touch, Hunny told me, including a man from the All-Too-Real Channel who 72 Richard Stevenson

had seen Hunny on The Today Show and wanted to talk to him about doing a reality show. Cameras would be installed around the house, the man said, and Hunny and Art would live normally except for the addition of some “plot points,” such as screaming matches over who had left the shower curtain outside the tub and jealous fits over either Hunny or Art coming on to a uPs man.

Hunny had also been contacted by someone from a gay cable channel called Oh Look! TV about the channel’s doing a movie of Hunny’s life. A writer from the network had already called and said he planned on dramatizing Hunny’s experiences in the first Gulf War and his encounters with vampires.

I said, “Hunny, were you actually in the military?”

“Define in. ”

Art said, “When we lived in New York, a soldier who hung out at the Stonewall used to drive us over to Fort Dix and sneak us in to cheer up the troops. That’s how Fort Dix got its name.

Hunny and I named it.”

“We thought about calling it Fort Cox.”

“Or, if the Army found that too risqué, Fort Erection.”

“I don’t see how they can say gays in the military would be bad for morale,” Hunny added. “From what we saw, having a few pecker lovers around can be excellent for morale. The fighters in the Taliban should be so lucky.”

“I’m surprised,” I said, “that none of your old Stonewall pals have turned up in recent days to lend support. Or maybe just looking for a handout like so many others.”

“A few have called with congratulations,” Hunny said. “But so many of the vets have passed on. Not many made it through the eighties and the plague. And of course there are the ones who are now major Ceos or archbishops or whatever who would never let on that in 1968 they liked getting fucked in the toilet at the Stonewall or blew the nyPd sergeants who came in for their weekly payoffs.”

Art said, “We haven’t heard either from the ten thousand people who said they were there that night but actually weren’t.

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Or from the ones who stood on the other side of Christopher Street in nicely dressed little groups going tsk-tsk-tsk, why are these tawdry queens misbehaving like this, why don’t these embarrassing lowlifes go home and write their congressman?”