Right to Die

Concerned women with rosaries, their husbands in poorly tailored sport jackets, index fingers between collars and necks, trying to expand a sixteen to a sixteen and a half. The rest of the crowd looked like the sort of people you wouldn’t stop to ask for directions.
    I’d just spotted Walter Strock confiding in a cornsilk blonde who had “Kimberly” written all over her when I felt a strong hand on my shoulder.
    I looked up the sleeve into the face of Alec Bacall, a slim black man hovering behind him.
    “John! Glad you could make it. May we join you?”
    “Sure.”
    I stood to let them go by me, communion style. Bacall was wearing double-pleated trousers again. They billowed as he shuffled his feet.
    Bacall sat himself between his companion and me, saying, “John Cuddy, Del Wonsley.”
    Wonsley leaned across Bacall, extending his hand. His complexion was deep black, looking almost spit-shined under the strong house lights. The nose was aquiline, a pencil mustache under it and a mushroom haircut above it. Wonsley wore a red sweater with maize horizontal stripes over a knit shirt, collar turned up. His slacks were cavalry twills, the creases sharp.
    Bacall said, “We could sit closer if you’d like, John. The first few rows are reserved for family and friends.”
    “Better view from up here.”
    “Oh. Yes, of course.”
    Wonsley said, “Alec told me about you. Can you believe the turnout for this?” *
    He had a flat Chicago A in his voice.
    I said, “Do we know who else is on the program?” Bacall said, “A doctor from Mass General and a minister from a Protestant church.”
    Wonsley waved to a middle-aged black man in a lower row, who from the expression on his face curdled cream for a living.
    Wonsley said, “Oooo-ooh, the look he gave me. For sitting up here in Sodom and Gomorrah country instead of down there with the Children of God.”
    Bacall patted Wonsley’s forearm. “The best is yet to come, Del. The Hitler Youth make their grand entrance.” I was turning as Bacall said it, because I could hear the clumping on the floor. Five white kids, heads shaved, were stamping their boots just enough to attract the attention of the cops. The cops couldn’t do much when the kids stopped their noise and held up their hands in mock innocence. They took three seats a few rows below us and two more seats immediately in front of the three. All wore brown leather flying jackets over white T-shirts and studded blue jeans, the jeans bloused into the boots like army fatigue pants. Body language suggested that the kid in the middle, a redhead from his eyebrows, was the leader. One of the others called him “Gun.”
    Maybe short for “Gunther,” as in Gunther Yary, the author of the white supremacist hate letters in the Andrus file.
    I said to Bacall, “Know them?”
    “No.”
    “See anybody else I ought to worry about?”
    Bacall murmured something to Wonsley, and they both craned forward, scanning the room. Each hesitated on a few places as people turned to talk to each other or stood to remove another layer of clothing. Wonsley looked at Bacall, shook his head, and settled back.
    Bacall did the same but pointed toward the sashed area. “I can introduce you later, but the striking man sitting next to Manolo and Inés is Tucker Hebert.”
    Hebert was turned sideways, deep in conversation with his wife’s secretary. He had broad shoulders under a dull rose blazer. His hair was dishwater blond, but the cleft in his chin caught you even from the bleachers.
    Del Wonsley said, “First time I saw him in tennis shorts, I cried myself to sleep.”
    The only empty spaces were around the skinheads. A few late arrivals chose to stand rather than sit near them.
    Without fanfare, a side door on the stage opened, and the crowd began to applaud. A man and three women, one of them Maisy Andrus in her yellow sweater dress, walked out in a line. The man and one of the other women were white and wore suits. The third woman was black and wore a choir robe.
    The skinheads made hooting noises. One of them said, “Christ, Gun, check out old Maisy in the yellow horse blanket.”
    Gun said, “Fuck all, Rick. She didn’t shave her legs, I’da thought she was a Clydesdale.”
    Rick said, “Maybe the guy drives the Bud wagon knocked off a little early, y’know,” then ducked his head and shrank from the look Gun gave him. Like it was one thing to feed Gun a line and another to top his joke.
    The white member of the police