A More Perfect Union #Mystery #Detective #LGBTQ

Posted: May 26, 2021/Under: Uncategorized/By: Christine Young

A More Perfect Union: African-American lawyer and Brooklyn politician Eddie Hall, father of two, wants to marry Jimmy van Gelsen, who is shot. Was it Eddie’s gun? Who fired it?

A More Perfect Union: Mystery, Detective, LGBTQ

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BLURB: A More Perfect Union

Former ADA Eddie Hill, divorced African-American father of two, plans to marry Jimmy van Gelsen, wealthy gay man who, like Eddie, has been unlucky in love. Eddie is injured in a car accident on the NY Thruway, and Jimmy is shot in the forehead, killing him instantly. Was it Eddie’s gun? If so, with Eddie in the hospital upstate, who pulled the trigger? Hugo, Ruth and Gabriele sort through a thicket of clues—a stolen Bentley, a shabby vacation home on Antigua, a multimillion-dollar co-op in Greenwich Village with fabulous art. Major political demonstrations with thugs and tiki torches, reminiscent of the Charlottesville riots with protesters battling in the streets—one at a prayer vigil, one a “Million Woman March” down Fifth Avenue, another outside the Copley Plaza in Boston. Eddie runs for Congress from a mixed-race district in Brooklyn. Jimmy’s will left a fortune to Eddie, who doesn’t want any of it. Is it a right vs left murder? A gay-bashing murder? A robbery gone wrong? The answers are close to home.

EXCERPT: A More Perfect Union

I decided not to wear a suit to the prayer vigil. It would make me look like a cop or a foreigner, but I decided to dress in dark colors, which comes naturally to the New Yorker in me anyway. So, I put on a pair of black corduroy jeans and an untucked, charcoal gray short-sleeved shirt. I almost always wear a baseball cap, never with a team insignia. Learned about that the hard way. I have an almost-black cap with a painted horse-like image on the front that I bought in a national park in New Mexico. Place where there were cliff dwellings called Bandelier National Monument. My favorite cap. I tucked my smartphone into my left front pants pocket so I could find Ruth and Gabriele when I got to Prospect Park.

I took the G train from a stop about six city blocks from my apartment, direct to the Prospect Park West/15th Street station, which is about a seven-minute walk from the Bandshell. I took an umbrella because it looked like the sky might open up at some point.

When I got there, it was easy to find Gabriele because he was hanging on the sidewalk approaching the Bandshell and he was looking for me. So, he just appeared. Ruth was a little more difficult, but she was on her phone saying that she was standing under a tall oak tree right near where the footpath crossed West Drive near the 15th Street subway station.

She too decided to dress in somber colors, which for her meant a black-and-white classic Chanel jacket and black slacks, with a solid black baseball cap that had ‘Hermes’ on the back where the adjustable strap is. Kiss-kiss.

There was a fairly large crowd assembling. Unscientifically, it looked like there were more people of color than Whites, but there was no way to know for sure, because I could only see the people who were nearby. A lot of people were carrying a flower of some kind—lots of roses, but some carnations. Some were carrying votive candles not yet lighted. There was a choir on the bandshell stage in royal blue choir robes, singing and swaying, with a choir director facing them, back to the audience.

And He will raise you up on eagles’ wings / Bear you on the breath of dawn / Make you to shine like the sun / And hold you in the palm of His hand.

Clearly there were going to be speakers, because there was a podium with microphones and big speakers on both side of the stage. There were what looked like several hundred or a couple of thousand folding chairs arranged in amphitheater rows in front of the stage, but most of the crowd had brought folding chairs, towels, blankets or tarps and were sitting on the grass behind the more traditional seating. I had never been there for a concert, but it was obvious that the seating was ad hoc, depending on the situation. There were a lot of people, and an area up against the stage where many people were putting bouquets, some stuffed animals, some votive candles—hard to tell if they were lighted because it was still daylight.

The choir finished their set and exited, and a near-twin group appeared in red choir gowns, and began singing some Wesleyan hymns. Opening with a rousing version of one of the best-known Methodist hymns, “Christ the Lord is risen today, halleluiah!” That got a lot of people clapping in unison, and a man in a dark suit and tie approached the podium. I didn’t recognize him, but we were standing way back.

The PA system wasn’t working well, so it was hard to hear what he was saying, but I heard Edward Hall’s name. “We are gathered here to pray for the full recovery of our friend, Eddie Hall, a prominent and much-loved member of our community who was seriously hurt in a car crash. We need you back, Eddie. I am glad to tell everyone here that Eddie is now stable, out of Intensive Care, and expected to recover.”

There was a generalized cheer, and the PA system went out, or started to crackle.

There was a commotion behind us, and as I turned, there was a snaking line of men wearing black, walking two-by-two on the footpath to the Bandshell, carrying lighted tiki torches. They were chanting something, and waving flags and banners. The first ones were carrying what looked like Crusader flags with a “Deus Vult” cross in red; basically a plus sign with a cross-bar at the end of all four legs, almost forming a square, but without the corners filled in.

White supremacists. Ruth grabbed my upper arm and squeezed. We were not inside the Bandshell area, but were standing under some trees closer to the West Drive where cars were transiting the park. Ruth and Gabriele started shooting videos with their smartphones. I started looking around to see where the escape routes would be.

There were sirens from several directions, and a swarm of riot-dressed police appeared from behind the Bandshell, with clear tall shields and what looked like automatic weapons.

The marchers kept marching forward two-by-two, pushing aside people who were in their way. What are they trying to do? This is a prayer service for a guy in the hospital.

Suddenly there were vans pulling up to the curbs of West Drive with satellite dishes on them. Cameramen popped out of them like strippers jumping out of cakes. There were television reporters moving toward the marchers and toward the people who had gathered for the memorial. The sky was turning dark gray.

This can’t happen in New York. Where did these goofballs come from?

The marchers were waving a blue flag with a single white star in the middle. There were a couple of Confederate battle flags, the “stars and bars.” Were they singing “Dixie?” There was too much noise. People were starting to throw things at them. Bottles, maybe plastic water bottles? Pine cones, probably some rocks. The marchers kept going, and now they were chanting, “You will not replace us.” Or maybe it was, “Jews will not replace us.”

Ruth and Gabriele were furiously capturing as much as they could on their phones. I grabbed them both and started to move backward.

“We have to get out of here,” I said loudly as the noise level was cresting to sound like a full-fledged riot.

People were throwing food: apples, oranges. The marchers were getting pelted with all kinds of missiles, some baseballs it looked like, some animal feces. They kept marching. The police formed a barrier around the back of the Bandshell, and the marchers kept coming.

Bullhorns. “Stop where you are.”

The line of marchers halted and started waving their torches, which looked like they had been taken from some old-fashioned Polynesian restaurant someplace.

There was an enormous crack of lightning and a sharp smell in the air, like a gigantic klieg light flashing and exploding, then a deafening overhead clap of thunder almost at the same moment, and it started to rain. Hard.

Ruth and Gabriele were ready to get the hell out of Dodge. We backed away to West Drive then began to jog south toward the 15th Street subway station, dripping. I never even unfurled my umbrella. No point. When we got to the plaza where the subway station was, there was a yellow taxi with his light on.

Thank you, God!

I waved and he blinked his light. We climbed in. I gave him my address in Long Island City and he took off. It actually only took us a couple of minutes to be out of the area, and I asked the driver to turn on 1010 WINS. Sure enough, there were bulletins on a disturbance at the Prospect Park Bandshell. Police had made numerous arrests during a pop-up prayer service for Eddie Hall, who had run for City Council, filed papers to run for congress as a Democrat, but was badly hurt in a car crash north of New York City. No mention of James van Gelsen, sadly.

Ruth continued to clench my upper arm. I put my hand on her hand and she relaxed a bit. She was shaking. I kissed her lightly on the forehead.

“What a nightmare,” she whispered.

“Did you get some good video?”

They both nodded without saying anything, started replaying what they had. Ruth stopped shivering.

“Send it to Crowdspark now!”

They both looked questioningly at me.

“Crowdspark. Look it up. It’s a crowd-sourced video and photography service. They’ll farm it out to the news media, and you might even get paid for it. I did some work with one of the companies they bought. It seems for real to me.”

They both started tapping on their phones. Gabriele lighted up. They had accepted his video and would be in touch at his email.

“And you?” I asked Ruth.

“I sent mine to CNN,” she said. “I know somebody there. It’s better.”

I hugged her. “You’re the best, sweetie.”

Gabriele smiled.

Website URL: www.facebook.com/JosephAllen.Author/

Facebook page: www.facebook.com/JosephAllen.Author/

Twitter handle: @josephallenir

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