Beauty Queen

Christians," she said, "today we celebrate..."
    She started in a low key, speaking of the new Y.W.C.A. itself, and what it would mean to New York City—fit bodies and fit minds for thousands of decent young Christian women. Then she slowly broadened her focus, speaking of the resurgence of Christian faith across the country, and the moral problems in the great decayed urbanopolis that was becoming typical of America today. When she began to speak of homosexualism, she caught the fire and the cadence of her best speeches, and her strong voice rolled over the crowd like an ocean breaker, sweeping everything before it.
    "At this very moment," she intoned, "we have before our city council a bill that would grant specific civil rights to the worst element in this city of ours—the homosexuals. A bill that would grant them the right to work wherever they wish, to live wherever they wish. It is curious that these homosexuals should ask for total access to our world, for in a sense they already have it. They are everywhere. They are legion."
    Her voice cracked out over the crowd like a whip. Even the cops on the street were listening to her.
    "It is no secret that our city has become one of the homosexual capitals of the United States. The city is riddled with their unsavory meeting places—their bars, their bathhouses, their stores where they cater to each other's perverted tastes. And yet on top of this, they ask for freedom. The freedom to teach your innocent children in any school in the city. The freedom to work side by side with your Godfearing young sons and daughters on any job in the city. The freedom to live next door to you in any neighborhood of any borough of this city. In other words, the freedom to make the acquaintance of your sons and daughters, and to seduce them into the homosexual way of life."
    She was aware of the TV cameras zooming in on her, the reporters scribbling notes, checking their tape recorders to make sure the tape reels were turning. They knew the beginning of a Jeannie Colter attack when they saw one.
    "... And so I urge you to let the city council know how you feel about this bill. Write them, wire them, telephone them. Urge the unions or organizations to which you belong to speak out. If you are in any doubt as to how to contact them, call my office or drop by, and my friendly staff will do anything they can to help you . . ."
    Now she was very excited, her body vibrating all over, and her clenched fist hammering at the air, in a gesture that people knew as her trademark. A hundred flashbulbs went off, capturing that raised fist in a blurred still. Now she was back on the stage, devouring the audience with a passionate monologue, feeling a personal relationship with every person in the house—back on the spotlight stage in the Miss America contest, rocking the place with her modern rewrite of
    Iphigenia about to be sacrificed by her father (and why the judges had awarded her the runner-up spot and not the Miss America crown for that, she would never understand as long as she lived).
    The crowd was applauding wildly, cheering. A stout woman, poorly dressed, with a baggy sweater—she looked like a Grand Central Station charwoman—came rushing up with a tiny bunch of daisies that she had probably bought from a sidewalk vendor, and shoved them into Jeannie's hand. She took them, smiling, clasped the woman's hands, kissed her on her damp cheek, trying not to notice the woman's sour-fish smell of sweat, and said, "God bless you."
    The reporters were racing for telephone booths.
    Then Tom Winkler came up with a young policewoman who carried a notepad. "This young lady is scheduled to interview you for the police magazine," he reminded Jeannie.
    "Oh yes," said Jeannie, trying to disguise her disapproval of the girl's uniform. She didn't think the Police Department was a good place for women. "Why don't we go inside and sit down?"
    In the precinct station house, Danny Blackburn caught the tail-end of the Colter woman's speech as he came through the locker room.
    PO Benny Forbes had a little transistor radio in his locker, and he always tried to catch the news if he was around. Mary Ellen had the day off and Danny had been put with Det. Martin Garapullo on an undercover assignment because of a shortage of detectives. He was unshaven, dressed sloppy and dirty like the type of bum who hangs out in warehouse areas, hoping to find an oil drum to make a fire in, and a dry comer to sleep in. The