Free Hostage by R.D. Zimmerman Page B

against smokers and I certainly don’t want to go tangling with any of the tobacco companies, so please don’t repeat this outside of this room… but if somebody—and, I mean, we’re all aware of the health risks—smokes a few packs a day and then gets cancer, just what is the government responsible for? Should my tax dollars go to care for him, should he be eligible for Social Security for the rest of his life? Likewise with AIDS. I mean, gays know how you get it. And they should know how to prevent it. But if some guy goes into the bushes and comes out HIV positive, is the United States government supposed to pay for his medical care? Are American families responsible for homosexual practices? I think not. No, in all these cases I believe it’s up to the individual to take care of himself, to seek and secure private health insurance. We are, after all, a capitalistic society. Insurance companies make money. Drug companies make money. Doctors make money. And so do you good business people. All I’m saying is it’s your money, your country, and you have to decide how it is you want to spend your tax dollars.”
    A round of applause broke out, and Clariton smiled and did his best to look as modest as possible. As the clapping continued, his aide took the opportunity to step up to the podium and whisper in his ear.
    Clariton then said, “I’m sorry, but my trusty aide Carol has informed me that we’re running out of time. I can take a couple of quick questions, and then I’ve got to move on.”
    Without saying anything new, Clariton answered exactly two rather benign questions. And then telling the audience how wonderful they were and how great Minnesota was—“But heed my words, your state taxes are too high, and you can tell the Democrats I said that!”—he was off, moving swiftly out of the room.
    Cindy switched off the tape recorder and stood there beaming. This was too great. A true scoop. Granted, this wasn’t video, only voice, but back at the station Roger was nevertheless going to love it, and on the news tonight her audience would eat it up. Dear God, this could be the break she’d been wanting. They’d run some footage of Clariton’s book-signing this morning, then perhaps a still photograph of Clariton himself with a voice-over from the luncheon. There were some great excerpts, a few things he’d never publicly said—oh, the tobacco companies wouldn’t like it, not one bit—and, yes, this was the stuff of great news.
    As the applause began to subside, Cindy peered around the corner. The five-grand-a-plate lunch was winding up, but a number of these well-heeled executives were lingering over coffee and political gab. Okay, so she’d stick around for a few minutes, see if she could speak to a couple of them, then duck out the way she had come in.
    Oh, this was too incredibly perfect.

10
     
    All Rawlins wanted was to get on that plane and go to New York. Maybe he was reading too much into it, maybe a long weekend in Manhattan wasn’t that big of a deal for Todd, perhaps a mere lark, but Rawlins couldn’t help looking at the trip as a signal, a sign that this was it, the big relationship of his life. He’d had his disco days, he’d had his fuckathon, dating one guy after another, but all he wanted now was one simple but seemingly impossible thing: someone to love who loved him too. And he prayed to God that Todd Mills was that guy at last.
    So he just had to get well, and he had to do it fast.
    But, dear God, his sinuses were killing him. If anything, the pain was getting worse, and now, driving to his doctor’s and gingerly touching his forehead, he had the sensation of walnuts being stuffed up his nasal cavity. Ugh. This time he was going to get down on his knees and beg his doctor for the strongest possible medication. The drugs he’d been taking—a decongestant and an antibiotic—weren’t even touching the pain.
    True, you couldn’t be gay these days and not be a hypochondriac,