Her voice was soft.
"I don't know."
"They're going to pay. The world is going to know what they did." His shoulders slumped, and the tired aura surrounded him again.
"It's a constant battle, Sara. It never ends. Bigots, homophobes, naive people. AIDS has so many strikes against it, I sometimes wonder if we will ever be able to rid the world of it."
He moved back to his chair and sat down heavily. He spun the chair one hundred eighty degrees and stared at the photograph of his brother.
"Do you remember when the AIDS scare first began?" he asked.
"Yes."
"There was talk of locking the carriers in concentration camps, remember? There was even talk of quarantining all known homosexuals.
Nazi tactics, Sara. That's what it started with. You don't hear much talk about that now, but in a way the threat to gays is greater now than ever."
"What makes you say that?"
"Guys like Jerry Falwell and Ernest Sanders have become more subtle now. They have the same bigoted aim, but they take a different approach. And it works. People fall for it. We are bombarded by arguments that say AIDS will never become epidemic in the heterosexual community. Respected doctors like your father say it every day. But the larger question is not the severity with which AIDS will strike the heterosexual community, but why we feel it is necessary to argue the point so vehemently."
"I don't understand."
Harvey's voice was both passionate and pained.
"Okay, let's assume for a moment it is true. It's not. But for the sake of argument, let's assume your father is right and that AIDS will be a true epidemic only amongst homosexuals and intravenous drug abusers. So what? If your father and his cohorts are not being discriminatory, as they claim, why should it matter what segment of the population is being killed by the virus? If we found out that AIDS was only killing little girls between the ages of five and twelve, would someone dare come out and say, Don't worry, it won't affect you." Of course not. Homophobia fuels these people, Sara. It's a battle we constantly wage. The tune has changed but the song is still the same."
"So what do we do?"
"We scrape and claw and battle back. We do everything we can to fight them. We go to the media and destroy them."
"But it might make them panic. If they are holding Michael..."
He nodded, stepped back.
"I see what you are saying. Have you told Lieutenant Bernstein?"
"Yes."
"What did he say?"
"Not to do anything until he gets back."
"Where is he?"
"In Bangkok."
"What is he doing there?" "He said he might have a lead on something."
"Christ, I hope so. We could use a break." Harvey leaned forward.
"So what are we supposed to do in the meantime? Sit around and let the murderers stay free?"
"Max isn't so sure that Sanders is behind the murders or the kidnapping."
"Then who?"
"He doesn't know. He just said he has his doubts."
"And what about you, Sara? Do you have your doubts?"
"I guess I do."
"Well, it makes sense to me," Harvey said.
"Sanders kidnapped Michael to stall the clinic, plain and simple.
Markey knew that I was the only person who had worked on Michael "
"And Eric."
Confusion crossed Harvey's face for a brief moment.
"No, Sara, I mean as far as having physical contact with the patient.
I gave Michael all his SRI injections. I always drew his blood. I "
"Eric took his blood too."
Harvey stopped.
"When?"
"I don't know. A day or two before he was kidnapped."
"Are you sure?"
"Of course. I was right there. Is that a problem?"
He shook his head.
"It's just weird," he said slowly.
"I left strict instructions for no one to do any lab work or give any medication to Michael except me."
"Maybe he didn't see them," Sara said.
"Or maybe he forgot."
"Maybe," Harvey agreed, but he did not sound convinced.
"Why don't you ask him?" "I will," he said, "as soon as he gets back." Harvey looked up and tried to smile reassuringly. He failed.
"Don't look at me like that, Sara. I'm sure it's nothing."
"Hey, Joe, you want live sex show? Pea shooting contest, huh?
Sound good, Joe. Pea shooting contest?"
"Pea shooting contest?" Max repeated.
"Yeah, sure, Joe. You like pea shooting contest. She aim straw and bust balloon. Guess what she blows with, huh, Joe?"
Max, no stranger to quirky sexual situations, was not sure he understood what the Thai teenager was talking about. He also wasn't sure he wanted to know, years ago, before he had met Lenny, Max and a couple of friends spent a week in Amsterdam's red light district. They had seen a show where a woman projected various objects across a room using a certain part of her anatomy.
Admittedly, most people would consider Max's sexual orientation bizarre, but he failed to see the show's eroticism no matter which particular sexual persuasion you happened to follow. More like watching an amazing pet trick or a strange magic show.
"What you say, Joe? You want nice woman. Make your head spin all the way around."
An interesting image.
"Which head?"
"Huh, Joe?"
"Never mind. No, thanks."
He forced his way through the clusters of sex merchants, keeping his eye on the pink neon sign that read Eager Beaver.
Two men stood at the door. The smaller man greeted Max with a wide smile and a firm handshake; the larger greeted him with a menacing glare. Mutt and Jeff.
"Welcome," the little one shouted above the loud disco music.
"Please come in. You find everything you want here. No cover charge."
"Thanks."
Max ducked past the sumo-sized doorman and entered the Eager Beaver.
The interior decorator must have worked on the original Dating Game.
Very sixties. Very go-go bar-like. Mod Squad decor. Psychedelic, multicolored lights.
The music was strictly Saturday Night Fever. The singer screamed about a burning, burning, disco inferno. Despite the fast beat, the topless women (a string bikini bottom made then?
topless rather than fully naked) danced slowly on the bar, the same steps over an dover again. Max stared at their faces, but none looked back. Each wore a bored expression dead, unseeing eyes which lit up only when money was jammed into their crotches.
Michael is in here somewhere..."Swing it, baby!" a man yelled.
The girl smiled and obliged. She got 100 Thai baht (four dollars) for her trouble. She lowered herself toward the man, enticing him to add to her booty, but he waved her off.
The crowd was a mix. Hard-core hard-ups. Curious tourists.
Married couples. Thais, Japanese, Americans, Italians, Germans, Australians a horny United Nations. In a corner, people cheered a sexual act that defied both belief and biological realities. Ripley's, Max thought. Or even Guiness. Two naked women were on their hands and knees, one Asian, one black. They were Jesus, he couldn't believe it shooting bananas across the room with their vaginas. Bananas, for chrissake. A man marked the spot where they landed, measuring the distance traveled like he was working the discus toss at the Olympics.
Another man kept loading their vaginas with bananas, as though the two women were human grenade launchers. Banana after banana rocketed across the room to the roar of the crowd.
Max turned away.
Michael is close by... He sat at the bar in a seat that spun all the way around. Max liked it and began to twirl himself like a kid at a diner. Nearly two seconds passed before a Thai girl approached him, dressed in Classical American Hooker Drag. Tank top with satin shorts that not only rode up the crotch but actually dug a deeper crevasse.
The whores varied in age, but this one looked like she had just gotten a hold of Mommy's make-up case.