The Marital Corporation

Synopsis: Peter's ideas about same-sex marriage is generating a great deal of animosity. His lover, Anne, has given him an ultimatum. Homophobic people have threatened him, planted a cross on his lawn and defaced his front door. In desperation, he has turned to the gay community for help.

Chapter Twelve

The doorbell rang at exactly 7:30. Peter opened the door to Ted Mining and two men he didn't immediately recognize. "Come in, come in," he said.

Mining paused on the threshold, looking meaningfully at the sheet Peter had taped over the spray-painted obscenity. "Can we take a look?" he asked.

Peter shrugged. "Sure, why not?" He loosened the tape and pulled the sheet to one side. The porch light gleamed on the terrible message.

While the men studied the defaced door, Peter examined his strangely dressed guests. It was hard to tell under the porch light, but Mining wore either a black or dark blue turtleneck sweater, dark trousers, and a dark woolen watch cap, which gave him the appearance of a furtive character in B grade gangster film. The older man was similarly dressed, except that instead of a watch cap, he wore a black Greek fisherman's hat.

The youngest of the three, a small giant of a man, was bare headed and wore a dark, unadorned leather jacket and Levis.

The men regarded the door silently. Then Mining turned to the older man standing next to him, and said, "Look familiar, Joe?"

Joe slowly nodded. "Yep. What do you think, Dick?"

Now that he heard the man's voice, Peter recognized Joe as one of the men he had met at the coffee house.

The youngest man shook his head. "I'm not sure," he said reluctantly. Mining said, "I'm sorry, Pete. I forgot you haven't met these fellows; Dick, anyway. You met Joe at the coffee house."

The men shook hands with Peter, who said, "I remember Joe, all right. I'm glad to meet you, Dick."

He ushered the men into the living room. Kenny was sitting on the sofa as they entered the living room. After Peter introduced the young man to his visitors and the usual exclamations over their extraordinary view subsided, Peter asked their guests to be seated. "Lansing filled you guys in on my problem, I take it?"

Mining looked meaningfully at Kenny. Peter hurriedly said, "Kenny's OK; he knows what's going on."

Mining nodded. "OK, if you say so," he said doubtfully. Then he continued, "Yeah, he thinks this is pretty serious. And if the guy that painted your door is who I think he is, Barney's right. This may be our best chance of catching the guy."

"Catching the guy?" Peter asked.

"Sure. If all you want is protection, buy a big dog and keep him on a long leash. That's not why we're here. We mean to nail this bastard's ass, and it happens that the geographic layout of your street offers the perfect opportunity."

Peter looked puzzled, so Mining took a deep breath and continued as if he were addressing a child, "Look," he said, "where's the nearest cross street?"

"Around the curve, about 250-300 yards south I guess," Peter said, pointing in that direction.

"How about the opposite direction?" Mining asked.

"That's a long way, maybe a quarter mile or more."

Mining smiled for the first time. "See? Your house is on a steep hill, and your streets are laid out like contour lines on a topographic map. We can block the road at both ends, and still be out of sight. He'll have to leave his car, and that means we'll have a good chance to catch him, because I'm sure he's unfamiliar with the neighborhood, and won't know how to get to the street below or above. Maybe," here Mining paused and permitted himself a sardonic smile, "if he tries to run downhill, he'll fall and break his goddamn neck. Or if he heads up hill, he might have a heart attack. At least we can always hope so."

Joe broke in. "OK, but remember. We want to have a little chat with him, first; see if we can coax him to tell us where to find his pals." His voice had the resonance and penetrating quality of a rock crusher.

Mining looked annoyed as he said, "Of course, Joe. That's the whole idea. I was just outlining the alternatives for our friend."

"How can I help?" Kenny asked.

Mining looked at the young man and smiled. "I appreciate the offer, Kenny, but the best thing you can do is stay here with Pete and help him hold the fort."

Kenny's disappointment was obvious. "I guess you think I can't take care 'a myself," he muttered.

Mining looked at Peter and raised his eyebrows. Peter turned to the young man. "Kenny, that's not the point. It has nothing to do with your undoubted ability as a street fighter. These men work as a team and you're not a member of that team. It's as simple as that."

Turning back to Mining, Peter went on, "So you think you know who he is?"

Mining said, "We're pretty sure, but we're not positive. There's a radical underground organization called the Phineas Priesthood. This is a real terrorist organization. The operative arm is composed of isolated cells of two or three people to prevent the loss of the entire chapter if a cell member is captured. That's the way the French Resistance was organized during the Nazi occupation in World War II."

This was something Peter hadn't considered. "Then you think this so-called Priesthood is behind our troubles?"

"I'd say there's a good chance of it," Mining replied. "If this guy is who we think, he's a member of a cell that claimed responsibility for the fire bombing of Friends Magazine in Portland a couple of years ago. That was a quarterly magazine serving the gay community in Oregon. Naturally, the magazine had been very outspoken on Initiative 2, and a Molotov cocktail was the perfect way to shut it down. A copy boy burned to death in that fire.

"Nobody was ever arrested, and frankly, we don't think the cops tried very hard; they seldom do when one of us is on the receiving end, unless, of course, the victim has a big name like a Hollywood star.

"In case you're wondering, since you're new to gay politics, Initiative 2 was the anti-gay referendum that the Christian Coalition sponsored in the last election. It was very similar to the one in Colorado.

"The reason we think it might be him is because he or they followed the same pattern in Portland as we have here. That is, the initial threat, followed by a spray painted semi-literate message, followed by, as I said, a Molotov cocktail. That's what a bottle filled with gas and stopped with a flaming rag is called."

Peter told the men about his conversation with Officer Jamison. Mining nodded. "That's good," he said. "He'll see the increased police activity and he won't be looking for us; he'll be looking for cops."

"If you do catch this guy, and you can persuade him to betray his friends, what then?" Peter asked.

Mining smiled again, this time even more grimly. "That's when we'll find out where the bear hit the buckwheat." he said. "Like many molds and bacteria, these hate groups wither and die when they're exposed to sun light. National publicity is the one thing they can't handle. That's why they stay out of sight as much as possible, preferring remote rural areas and the darkness of night." Mining lapsed into silence as if regretting his outburst.

"You mentioned national publicity," Peter said, prompting him.

Mining nodded. "That's the only real weapon we have," he said. "Mobilized public opinion."

"You don't think that Barney Lansing . . . "

Mining shook his head and smiled. "Oh, no. Seattle Alternatives is a fine weekly, but that's all it is. Of course, we have our own wire service, but it feeds the predominantly gay press. No, we have other resources."

He looked at Peter, cocking his head in that characteristic manner of his, as if asking for the answer before posing the question. "Didn't it seem odd to you that the Seattle Post-Intelligencer reported your visit to the coffee house accurately and in such detail?"

Things had been happening so fast that Peter hadn't given it much thought. However, since Mining had raised the question, it did seem peculiar. Peter said so, and Mining replied, "I hope I'm not `outing' him, but the reporter is one of us. If we get a good story out of this, the Seattle PI will print it, and in all probability, the wire services will pick it up. But that means we've got to catch this fellow before the police do."

Mining smiled wryly, adding, "You may find this hard to believe," he said, "but as I said earlier, the police are not entirely sympathetic to us, and if they get him first, we may never have a chance to talk to him."

"What do you want us to do?"

"Nothing. Just act normally, and follow your usual routine, which, by the way, I'll need to know about. I doubt whether he'll come during the day, but he might. In any case, we'll keep an eye on your house for at least a week, unless something happens sooner. I really hope we get this guy. It's very likely that he's operating out of a tiny cell of only two or three people, and he may not know who the leaders are, but any lead is better than none."

By this time, the sun was gone, and city lights blazed outside the window like a million twinkling diamonds. The men stood, silently absorbing the dramatic scene. Finally, with a sigh and a shake of his head, Ted Mining led his little band of vigilantes to the door. They shook hands with Peter again, and disappeared into the darkness.

Three days went by.

While Kenny stayed at home, Marge and Peter had begun keeping regular office hours in their new offices. It's not that they expected clients so soon, but there were certain start-up formalities to be taken care of, such as having the telephones connected, stationery printed, office machinery leased, office supplies delivered, and so forth.

Connie had already arranged to have their firm style painted on the door, and each time Peter saw the crisp new lettering, "Marco & Baylis, Attorneys at Law," he was surprised by the unexpected surge of pride he felt. This was the first time, since his graduation, that his name had been painted on a door.

By mutual unspoken consent, Peter had occupied the larger of the two inner offices, the one previously occupied by the late Mr. Randall, because he expected to spend virtually all of his working time there, while Connie would be out of the office much of the time, in court, interviewing witnesses, doing investigative work, and running errands.

Peter had quickly disposed of the antique set of American Jurisprudence and other out-of-date materials, replacing them with his personal set of the Revised Statutes of Washington, USCA, relevant sections of the Codified Federal Register, the Environmental Law Reporter, and other specialized legal materials.

He was pleased with his predecessor's choice of office furniture. The old leather swivel chair fit him almost perfectly, and when he gazed out the window at the bustling marine traffic in Elliot Bay, against the brooding backdrop of the rugged Olympic mountains, he could feel his youthful zeal for environmental concerns bubble up. The world is such a beautiful place.

Marge seemed to be enjoying the routine office chores; setting up the files, organizing the mail room (replacing the ancient mimeograph with a leased electronic copier), and ordering the appropriate yellow page listings, announcements and stationery, while answering the infrequent phone calls and guarding the sparse entries in the new appointment book on her desk.

Peter belatedly remembered that Anne had asked him to call. For some peculiar reason, he waited until Marge was absorbed in some task involving the files before dialing her number.

"Hello?" Anne sounded sleepy.

"Hi," he said. "This is Pete. Look, I'm sorry I wasn't able to get back to you, but things at our end have been hectic."

"That's OK, Pete." She still sounded sleepy. "Where are you?"

He told her he was sitting in his new office.

"Is anybody with you?"

"No"

"Want to know where I am?"

What the hell? "Sure, I guess so."

"I'm upstairs in bed. A friend is here with me. Are you up for a threesome?"

"Is this one of your `other interests'?"

"Sure is, honey. Ever since Gordon moved out, I haven't had to worry about being interrupted."

"I'd better call you back," Peter said uneasily.

"Oh, come on, Pete. Humor me. This could be fun."

Hoping to soon repeat the afternoon they had spent in the Ambassador, he decided to play along. "OK, now what?"

"Get the picture, Pete. I'm on my back; my friend is holding my legs straight out at a wide angle . . .Ooofff!" She paused for several seconds, and all Peter heard was heavy breathing and the rhythmic creak of the bed springs. It was exciting to hear her moan and her partner gasp. Then in a louder voice, she said urgently, "Harder, Gene, FASTER. Oh God," she wailed, "I'm coming again! OH! OH! OH!"

Marge had entered the room and had quizzically cocked her head. He handed her the receiver. Together, they heard Anne's triumphant orgasmic cry.

Marge couldn't resist it. "Can four play this game?" she asked.

Anne apparently handed her receiver to her `other interest' -- a man obviously named Gene -- because as Peter walked out the door, he heard his wife say, "I'm glad to meet you, too, Gene . . ."

Peter would have liked to have stayed to hear her side of the conversation, but he had an appointment to meet with the lawyers down the hall who shared the law library. After meeting the two partners who were available, he was surprised to learn that the firm comprised three recent law school graduates.

He had assumed that young lawyers would be more comfortable with Lexus and other electronic research programs than with printed materials, but the windowless room they ushered him into even smelled like a library. He was relieved to see that they subscribed to Shepherd's; the one research system he consider indispensable.

Peter also spent a good part of each day calling old friends and classmates all over the country, renewing old contacts from his environmental law days, and letting former classmates know that he had, at last, hung out his shingle.

A trickle of small environmental cases began coming in as a result of those efforts, those and one unexpected visitor. Peter was reading the latest Environmental Law Reporter, when Marge poked her head into the office. "A Mr. Jackson just called for an appointment," she said. "Guess who he works for?"

Peter shrugged. "Who?"

"Pan-Pacific," she said.

Peter searched his memory. It had been nearly five years since the school timber fight, and the only Jackson he could recall was Sam Jackson, who had then headed the lumber giant's legal staff. "When is he coming in?" Peter asked.

"I wanted to give him the impression that you very busy by holding him off until next week, but he insisted that he had to see you tomorrow. He'll be in at 11:00."

Peter found this interesting. Naturally, he had followed the newspaper accounts about the activities of his successor in the Attorney General's office, and his more "creative lawyering," which temporarily gave P-P access to the state school timber, until a conservationist lawyer, using Peter's original opposing brief, had obtained a federal court order permanently enjoining P-P from cutting the virgin timber in the school bloc.

As it turned out, however, Peter almost didn't get to the office the next morning. Secure in the knowledge that their silent guards -- Ted Mining and his crew -- were on the job, Kenny, Marge and Peter had spent an exciting evening in the sitting room upstairs, ostensibly celebrating Kenny's enrollment in an accelerated YMCA high school program.

Marge and Peter enjoyed fantasy games. Depending on their mood, Marge might dress as a schoolgirl, or a nurse, or a hooker, or even revert to type and do a strip. The subject had come up during supper.

Kenny had asked to borrow the car Saturday night; a world class stripper who owned her own club on East Baltimore street in Baltimore, Maryland would be in town, and he wanted to see her perform. Peter was reminded of the exciting shows he used to enjoy during his steamy adolescence in the old Rialto Theater at the corner of First and Madison, where a towering office building now stands.

Marge smiled tolerantly at Peter's grandfatherly reminiscence, but her attention was directed to Kenny. "You've never seen me dance, have you?" she asked.

Kenny looked surprised. "I didn't know you were a dancer," he said. "What kind?"

Marge turned to Peter. "You and Kenny clean up the kitchen," she said. "I'll go upstairs and get ready. Give me half an hour."

She went upstairs, and the men began clearing the table. "I'm afraid what you're about to see will spoil other exotic dancers for you forever," Peter said. "Marge hasn't danced professionally for several years, but she was one of the best I ever saw . . ." His voice trailed off when he saw he had lost the boy.

Kenny was standing in the kitchen, a dirty plate in one hand, a bowl of mashed potatoes in the other. An enormous grin split his young face. Apparently the word "exotic" had seized his attention. "Cool," he said.

The men hurried through the kitchen chores, then went upstairs. Marge had turned the sitting room into an impromptu theater by rolling the area rug up, and placing two chairs against the wall. She had moved a low padded bench to the middle of the room. The overhead light was off. The room was lit by three table lamps set in a large semicircle on the bare floor around the bench, as if they were footlights defining a stage.

Soon, they heard the slow, heavy, sensual beat of The Stripper. Soft at first, the music's volume increased dramatically. Marge glided through the bathroom door. Her sparkling eyes were accentuated by deep eye shadow. Her smiling mouth was a brilliant and dramatic scarlet invitation. She wore her Salome costume.

Peter nudged Kenny's arm. "You're going to like this," he whispered, as Marge, now swathed from her head to her bare feet in the traditional seven brightly colored veils, strutted across the floor, twirled, did a slow bump, and discarded the first veil. Soon, when she flashed an erotically bare breast, Peter saw that she had applied lipstick to her nipples as well. Her head was still covered, but the veils at her waist parted, and the men were treated to a glimpse of a slick, swollen mons.

The men were totally absorbed by the Marge's erotic performance, and Marge's eyes gleamed and her smile grew even broader when she saw her audience's reaction.

She twirled, and flashed, concealed, flashed again, alternatively stroking her bare womanhood, and pinching her nipples until her soft breasts were erotically covered with crimson streaks from the displaced lipstick, and her areolas seemed drawn into hard little spikes. Her skin was flushed, and seemed oiled by a sheen of perspiration, as she seduced her lovers.

When she had only two veils left, she climbed on the bench on her knees, and lowered her upper body so her bare bottom was sticking in the air. Suddenly, Peter heard the crack of a pistol shot followed by a loud shout somewhere out in the street.

Peter dropped to the floor and unthinkingly turned out the lamps. Even as he snapped the last switch, he realized how foolishly this was. The room was in the back of the house, therefore out of sight from the street. Peter rushed into the bedroom, picked up the phone, and dialed 911. He described what he had heard to the operator, and gave her his name and address.

Then he went back into the sitting room. Kenny and Marge were sitting on the bench. Both seemed foggy, unclear what had happened.

"Did I hear a shot outside?" Kenny asked.

"I think so," Peter said. "I'm going to take a look."

"Shouldn't you call the police?" Marge asked.