Chapter 39 - Chicago
Justin stood, observing the organized chaos backstage at Oprah. Thus far, he, Axe and Jared had been escorted on-site efficiently and he had his makeup completed. They were now waiting in the wings for the show to start. He whirled around at the sound of movement behind him.
Oprah stood transfixed, staring at the two paintings in front of her. "Good Lord, are these yours?"
"Yes, you asked us to bring a couple of samples of my work," Justin responded, rubbing his suddenly damp palms on his pants. "I brought these two. I just finished them over the last couple of days. The paint's barely dry." He looked critically at the works in front of him, 'Terror' and 'Joy', the painting he had done the night Brian had been shot and the one from the day the shooter had been taken into custody. Although it made him uncomfortable to evaluate his own work, he knew they were the best he had ever done.
Oprah glanced at him with a slight smile. "Do you always paint two works like this in less than a week?"
"I'm not sure. My hand…" Justin paused, trying to phrase his response correctly. "My hand has gotten better lately, so I'm not sure how much I'll be able to paint. And I was really motivated this week. It's been… unusual."
Oprah gave a small laugh, thinking back to the briefing notes on the young artist in front of her. "I'll bet. How much?"
"Pardon me?" Justin asked.
"How much for the paintings? Are they for sale? They're magnificent."
"Twenty thousand each," Jared's voice came from behind Justin. Justin swirled around in shock at the amount. The most he had ever received for a painting was three thousand. Jared ignored Justin's panicked expression and smiled benignly at Oprah, as if the amount were no surprise at all.
"Done."
Justin spun back around to Oprah, mouth gaping slightly. She chuckled softly, "Don't look so shocked, Justin. They're worth it. Trust your agent." She nodded to both men, "We're almost ready to start. Just wait for me to announce you, Justin and then come on out."
Justin nodded his agreement, still stunned at the speed of the transaction. He watched as four crew members got ready to take his paintings on stage. As the applause died down and Oprah's voice came through strategically placed backstage speakers, he felt his gut clench. He took a deep breath, plastered what felt like a hideously fake smile on his face and walked onstage to shake Oprah's hand.
In a quiet room guarded by a large uniformed officer whose only job was to ensure that the computer didn't leave, Gareth sat keying in the bank transfers needed. He had the data set up from where he'd been working on it for the last two days – ever since Brian and Justin had given the go ahead to hire someone to frame Stockwell. He smiled to himself as he used the money Tilda Avery had supplied to supplement Stockwell's private account, setting up a series of transfers from a well known Pittsburgh criminal who had died in jail just last year. The appearance of kickbacks and bribes wouldn't be enough to arrest Stockwell, but should annoy law enforcement enough that they kept digging.
As he worked, he contemplated the irony. Like Capone, Stockwell had indeed been guilty of the base charge they were working off of – tax evasion. The inheritance he had gotten from an uncle when he had been in his twenties had grown significantly through investments, but Stockwell had never paid a dime in tax. With the income Gareth was adding to the account, there was evidence of significant tax evasion.
As he wrapped up, Gareth controlled his queasiness as he went into Rashid's best customer's computer. This was the part of the job he couldn't risk without Cypher. Fighting the nausea generated whenever he thought of Rashid and his method of earning income, he transferred the child pornography and buried it in the fake account he had set up for Stockwell. The only thing that kept him from throwing up was the knowledge that Rashid would be was going to be arrested soon. An arrest based upon the information supplied by Gareth himself to Interpol only a few months earlier.
He then went to work ensuring that the dates and times all lined up correctly, showing payment for the pornography, showing Stockwell getting more corrupt and less careful over time. He then set up some standard security on the account, simple enough for the police to break through, but sufficient to make it look real.
Gareth stood up, stretched and chuckled as an image of Emmett popped into his head. He was looking forward to his date. It had been a long time since he'd had one.
In a hospital room five hundred miles east of Oprah's studio, Brian sat up his bed with Debbie in a chair beside him, watching the show.
"Look at him, Brian. He doesn't look fucking nervous at all," Debbie babbled.
Brian leaned forward trying to listen through the small hospital speakers. "Shh, Deb. I can't hear them."
Debbie obediently quieted down, leaning forward as well. The rest of the family was watching the show at her house, but she'd wanted Brian to have some company on such a momentous occasion.
In a mansion in New York City, Tilda smiled at John as the Oprah show started. "So Marc has flown to Pittsburgh?"
"Yes. An old friend of his called; needed him for some kind of crisis. Marc isn't one to ignore a friend's call for help."
"No, he wouldn't, would he," Tilda murmured approvingly. She glanced at the television and thought over her decision to wire a million dollars to an offshore account. She looked at the brilliant young man on the screen and knew she had done the right thing.
Oprah smiled as she moved Justin through the standard introductions, pointing out his work to the audience. It was always best to start with simple questions for nervous guests. After the nerves had settled slightly and the audience had learned who painted the art behind her, she started the real conversation. "I've been told you've had a very interesting few weeks, why don't you tell us about it?"
Justin gave a small laugh, looking up to collect his thoughts for a moment. The story that followed describing the art show, Brian's decision to move to New York, Craig's illness, Hobbs' arrest, the shooting and, ultimately, the appearance on Oprah held both the audience and Oprah herself riveted. As Justin wound down, Oprah asked about his history with discrimination.
The audience remained attentive as Justin recounted his life story, covering bullying, bashing, vigilantism, political activism, bombing and finally the shooting. As he wrapped up the answer, Justin's eyes closed over the sheen of unshed tears. "I don't think I will ever forget the sound of the air bubbling out of his lungs through the hole in his chest. It echoes in my nightmares."
Oprah sat for a moment in silence before asking. "How old are you?"
Justin's eyes popped open and he burst out laughing, caught off guard by the question. "Twenty-three."
"Have you thought about slowing down, living a somewhat less hazardous life?"
"Yes, I thought about it." At Oprah's questioning look, Justin ruefully continued. "I almost didn't come on your show. I got the invitation standing in Brian's hospital room the day after his surgery. I said no."
Oprah looked horrified as a thought occurred to her. "You do know that I asked for you before the shooting, don't you?"
Justin choked slightly on the glass of water he was taking a sip from. "God, yes. That never occurred to me. I know you wouldn't call a trauma room for an interview. It's not your style."
"Why did you change your mind?"
"Brian Kinney." Justin leaned back reflectively in the chair. "I don't know if I can explain Brian if you've never met him."
"The background report I got on him was interesting," Oprah offered tentatively.
Justin erupted with laughter again at the thought of the possible content of that report. "I'll bet. He's led an interesting life. Can I get a copy of that?" At Oprah's nod, he continued. "Brian got out of his hospital bed and demanded answers about why I was backing down. He convinced me that I would regret using his shooting as a rationale to quit."
"He did this the day after the shooting?" At Justin's nod, Oprah queried further, "I'm surprised we haven't heard more of Brian Kinney on the gay rights front if he's that persuasive."
"You misunderstood. Brian never pushes you to get what he wants. He doesn't care about gay rights - it's not an issue for him. But he knows I care. That's why he got out of that bed." Justin's eyes went distant as he thought back. "When I was eighteen, he challenged me to be the best homosexual I could be. Last year, he told me I had succeeded. It was the single greatest compliment I have ever received."
Oprah shifted slightly, indicating a change in subject. "Do you believe that the problems with discrimination are similar for blacks and gays?"
"My best friend, Daphne is black and we've talked a lot about that over the years. I think black and gay discrimination present different challenges. For black people, you can never escape the discrimination. It's obvious based upon physical appearance. That's hard. As a gay man, I could go where people don't know me and there isn't an issue." Justin glanced around the studio and grinned. "Maybe not after this appearance, but you can get away from it, you have choices."
At Oprah's encouraging nod, he continued. "But those choices carry their own price. I don't think a black person will get rejected by their family just because they're black. There is no closet and so there are no decisions about coming out. I can remember friends discussing whether or not to pretend they are straight at their children's school to avoid their children suffering discrimination. Those aren't choices if you're black. It's the same in some ways, but there are a lot of differences."
As Brian watched Justin, Debbie watched Brian. She pretended to focus on Justin, but every bit of her attention was really aimed at the man in the hospital bed. When the break for commercial came on, she turned with a huge smile. "He's fucking amazing, isn't he?"
Brian nodded, saying nothing.
"I expect it'll be back to New York for him, soon."
"He's coming back for a couple of days and then he'll probably head back to start the work on the church."
"I heard about that. Are there really angels fucking on the ceiling?"
"I think the artist would call it making love."
Debbie gave a sound from the back of her throat, indicating her disregard for the distinction. "When are you heading out?"
"I'm not sure."
"You're not having second thoughts, are you?" Debbie's fears were coming true. Michael had not understood why she wanted to be alone with Brian to watch Oprah. The excuse she had given about not wanting to tire Brian with too many guests was just that, an excuse. She knew Brian. Every time Justin reached a new height, Brian became convinced that Justin would leave him behind.
"Not really."
"Good. Because Sunshine needs you and he needs to be in New York." Debbie smacked her gum lightly.
"Look at him. He doesn't need anything. He's …" Brian stumbled, at a loss for words.
"Yeah. I know what you mean. Who'd have thought that little twink could grow up into that?" she asked, with a nod at the television. "Except you, of course. You always knew he could do anything."
"He can. He's brilliant."
"And you're starting to wonder what he could really want with you, aren't you, kiddo?"
Brian looked at Debbie sharply, not speaking.
Debbie patted Brian's hand as it rested on the cover of the bed. "You ever hear that song by Bette Midler, 'Wind beneath my wings'? where she sings about flying higher than an eagle," she asked. At Brian's cautious nod, she waved at the television. "You're his wind."
"I give him gas?" At Deb's disgusted look, Brian rolled his eyes with an incredulous laugh. "For God's sake, Deb, how lesbionic can you possibly get?"
"I'm serious, Brian." Debbie nodded. "It happens whenever you're together. He started Rage when you were together, left home, fought Stockwell, went to Hollywood. When you're apart, he's not the same, doesn't take the same chances. Look at him. Can't you fucking see it?" Brian's puzzled glance told her he couldn't. She shook her head, patience wearing thin. "He's flying."