Beauty Queen

old days when Al Seedman, brother Jew, was chief of NYPD. He had many friends, but they were all on the force.
    Mary Ellen knew him for another honest cop—which was not an easy thing if you had brother officers on the take. Time and again, while bringing him coffee, she had walked in on the tail end of a conversation where Sam was busy refusing a bribe from some desperate motorist. She wondered why such an intelligent cop had been given a flop— transferred—into this dump. She wondered if he had once been too honest, if he had made an enemy of some dishonest chief up the line somewhere—if maybe he was an unsung Serpico. But he had never talked about it, and she had never dared ask. In so many ways, he was like her father.
    Sam was also gay. Mary Ellen didn't know much about that. When he was on the night shift, from midnight to 8 A.M., he was the only soul in that huge echoing place, and he liked to while away the hours of the wolf by reading, with his feet propped up on the little electric heater, and a cat dozing on the desk. One time he had asked her to find his gloves in his locker, and as she fished around in there, a paperback book had fallen out of his jacket pocket. It fell open to the flyleaf, and she clearly saw the library's stamp: the Mattachine Society, which was one of the oldest gay organizations in the city. The book was The Last of the Wine by Mary Renault.
    Sam saw her notice the flyleaf, saw her change of expression, and flushed—the only time she ever saw him lose his cool.
    Quickly she had said, "The Mattachine, that's a good library. I go there sometimes too."
    "You do?" said Sam, looking like he was on the verge of a coronary.
    After a little more cautious conversation, Sam had been given to understand that knowledge of his library habits would go no further than Mary Ellen. So he relaxed.
    Afterward, now and then, they talked about it in an oblique way. Sam never used the word "gay." He seemed to have come to his self-awareness late in life. He had never— apparently—had a real lover. "Who's going to want an old guy like me?" he scoffed. He avoided bars and most gay organizations, partly because he was still in the closet, partly because he was shy. At home, off duty, he fed his cats, fixed himself some bacon and eggs, lay on the sofa and read books. He could talk about Radclyffe Hall and Willa Cather and James Baldwin and Christopher Isherwood as intelligently as a New York Times reviewer, even if his language was somewhat more flavorful. "A bee-yoo-ti-ful book" was his best accolade.
    As they walked back toward the office, the alarm rang again. A young hippie type with long lank hair and owlish spectacles was there, with his auto release in his hand, very respectful, probably a kid from a good home who was now working hard to support himself.
    Mary Ellen sat in the office looking sadly at the now-cold hamburger while Sam told the young man where to find the car and took his driver's license to start his paperwork.
    When they were alone again, Sam turned to a new page in his ledger and said, "Well, I see they're making another try with the bill." By "the bill," she knew he meant Intro Two.
    "Yeah," she said. "Whaddya think?"
    "Not a chance," he said. "Not in this town." He shrugged. "Doesn't affect me anyway. Freedom is for the kids."
    "It does affect you, Sam."
    As if he hadn't heard, he said, "Tell you what does affect me. My library is out of business."
    "You're kidding."
    "I'm not. The Mattachine went bankrupt, and they are going to auction the books."
    Mary Ellen felt a sick feeling in the pit of her stomach.
    The alarm went off outside—the kid had walked in front of it. When he came back in, he had bad news. His car had a dead battery and two flat tires.
    "Kid," said Sam, "the daytime guys have got jump cables for your battery. But flat tires we can't help you with."
    He studied the kid's desperate face.
    "What if I leave it here till tomorrow?" the kid asked.
    "Then," said Sam, "you gotta go through the line at Pier Ninety-five again and pay another five dollars' storage."
    The kid's face reflected an ultimate despair.
    "Tell you what," said Sam. "Find a garage around here somewhere and see if they'll come over and fix your flats. If you can get that car out of here by eleven tonight, it's all yours."
    "Do you recommend anybody in particular?" said the
    kid.
    "Nope," said Sam. "I can't recommend nobody. The department can't be liable for anything they do to your car."