Free The Only Good Priest by Mark Richard Zubro

to the paper. She told us she’d send Priscilla up to talk to us. She picked up the phone receiver, punched several buttons, and requested Priscilla’s presence.
    A few minutes later Priscilla stomped in. She did not sit. She gripped the back of a chair hard enough to turn her knuckles white.

    â€œWhat is it?” she demanded after Monica left. “I’ve got work to do.”
    â€œDid you know Sebastian tested positive for the AIDS anti-bodies?” I asked.
    â€œThe old bastard had AIDS? I don’t believe it. He was so moral. I can’t believe he’d ever have sex with anybody. Who’d want to? Still, he was the only politically correct male I knew. Don’t know how he pulled that off.”
    â€œWhy’d you go downstairs to see Sebastian on Sunday?”
    The question set her off. For five minutes she berated us as incompetent males and unwanted outsiders. Scott got up and walked to the window halfway through the tirade.
    When she paused for breath, I said, “Did you kill him?”
    She switched instantly from macho pig insults to deadly calm. “You heard of Lesbians for Freedom and Dignity?”
    I nodded.
    â€œWe don’t put up with insults from men.”
    â€œIt wasn’t an insult, just a question.”
    She waved a finger in my face. “You’ll be sorry, fucker,” she said and stomped out of the room, slamming the door behind her.
    â€œI refuse to deal with that shit,” Scott said, coming back from the window.
    We walked downstairs. The cleaners had reached the second floor by now, but it still looked to be unusable for days. Downstairs, a few computers hummed, repair trucks sat outside, tie-clad men peered into the insides of terminally ill machines. Repair men in hours, that was power and money at work.
    We’d promised to pick up Bartholomew at two. He had given us his phone number and address the day before. We called ahead to make sure he was home. No answer. We drove over. Bartholomew lived above a straight bar on Lincoln Avenue, just south of Diversey. No Bartholomew waiting outside, as he promised the day before. We banged on the downstairs door and pressed the buzzer. Still no answer. We tried the first-floor
tavern. Behind the bar, a bald little guy with a towel draped over his left shoulder had his bookie receipts spread out on the bar top. A cigarette with a one-inch ash dangled from his lips. I watched him as he deftly moved his beer glass two seconds before the ash dropped. The ash received a swipe with a fist, and the beer returned to its rightful place. “Help youse?” he said, not looking up.
    We stood on the other side of the bar, waiting. Finally he looked up at us. He gaped. “Scott Carpenter.” His cigarette plopped into his beer. “Whatever you want, it’s on the house,” he said.
    â€œWe’re looking for the old man upstairs, Bartholomew Northridge. Know him?”
    â€œYou mean the cranky old fruit?”
    Scott tapped him gently on his flabby chest. “You mean the kind old gay man,” he said softly.
    The bartender looked at the finger and smiled weakly. “Yeah, sure, sorry. Who’s prejudiced?”
    â€œHave you seen him?” I asked.
    â€œNope. Should be up there. Most days he stops in here around noon. Not always.”
    With only a little prodding from sports hero Scott Carpenter, the guy gave us his key. Again he offered us any free drink in the house.
    â€œAnother time,” Scott told him.
    A long single flight of linoleum-covered steps led up to Bartholomew’s room. The linoleum might have been bright green upon installation fifty years ago, but no longer. We called from the outside the door, but no one answered. Unlocking the door and entering, we found Bartholomew at the kitchen table staring into a cold cup of coffee.
    It took little more than a glance to take in his whole apartment. His living space depressed me. The walls were bare.