Stalking A Killer-Heigh Ho' The Merry O'-The "Murder In The Dell."

FOREWORD

I’m currently blocking out my latest non fiction book that was originally to be called ; A Killing At The Castle, but a further lethal happening in another part of the park has caused me to change the locale and title to, Stalking A Killer-Heigh Ho The Merry O; The Murder In The Dell.

I have so many notes about my true experiences in Central Park that I’m overwhelmed and can’t believe all this actually happened, and for the most part in front of me.

As a matter of fact, I believe I actually have too many experiences for just one book.

In all fairness, I’ve met and enjoyed knowing as many members of the police force as I have met groups of the regular denizens of the park.

I know I have to tell those true vignettes also, to round out the general interests of the more dire events that took place.

I’ve come to the conclusion that I’m going to have to relate a few incidences as monologues in a night club act before the lead character sings his/her song of the performance, as happened to me in true life.

This shows how stranger’s diverse lives can briefly pass each other with most gliding easily past while others just violently collide.

Police abuse and ineptness is a major part of the factual story line however, I also have to work in the humaneness of many of the guys on duty, and relate the funny and personal anecdotes that transpired between me, and the guys on both sides of the badges.

A public voice is a powerful weapon and, as they say; ‘ Words are mightier than the sword.

Perley J. Thibodeau

2013

BOOK ONE

THE MURDER IN THE DELL

CHAPTER 1

NEW YORK CITY NIGHTCLUB

DECEMBER

1998

It’s late December 1998 and the midtown Manhattan night club is still festooned with colored Christmas lights and other ornaments of the both happy, lonely; and nostalgically sad holiday season.

As Perley, the professional female impressionist I’m standing in the spotlight preparing to sing accompanied by a piano, and a drummer working the snare drum keeping the beat of the song with wire brushes.

Dressed in a fabulous red sequined dancing dress with its uneven high in the front and long in the back hem trimmed in lushly thick white feathers. I’m also wearing a matching white feathered Santa Claus Hat and a red sequined loose fitting jacket draped around my shoulders that has a white feathered collar and cuffs. Red sequined high heeled pumps complete the holiday outfit.

With a hand held microphone in my right hand I’m now speaking to the nightclub audience. "All of this reminds me of the Christmastime a few years ago when a friend and I came out of a night club at Ninth Avenue and Seventeenth Street here in Manhattan and I was dressed for the occasion. I stopped and smelled the woodsy scent of a line of Yuletide Fir Trees, looked at the tall handsome young man tending the stand, and told him that they reminded me of my former home in Bangor, Maine, and that with his mackinaw, work boots, and knit cap he was dressed just as I do when I’m not entertaining here in New York City. He smiled nicely as he silently reached and picked up a small but long tip of a branch of a tree and passed it to me as if it were a bouquet of Orchids.

I thanked him graciously and asked him where he was from, and he shyly told me he was from Quebec. People can be so understanding of themselves and others. It’s the ones who aren’t who are the losers in life.

BLUE CHRISTMAS

(Up-Tempo)

I’ll have a blue Christmas without you;

I’ll be so blue thinking about you.

Decorations of red

On a green Christmas tree

Won’t mean a thing if

You’re not here with me.

And when those blue

Snowflakes start falling

That’s when those blue

Memories start calling

You’ll be doin’ all right,

With your Christmas of white

But I’ll have a blue,

blue Christmas

And when those blue

Snowflakes start falling

That’s when those blue

Memories start calling

You’ll be doin’ all right,

With your Christmas of white

But I’ll have a blue,

blue Christmas

(instrumental break)

I’ll have a blue Christmas without you;

I’ll be so blue thinking about you.

Decorations of red

On a green Christmas tree

Won’t mean a thing if

You’re not here with me.

I’ll have a blue Christmas, that’s certain;

And when that blue heartache starts hurting,

You’ll be doing all right

With your Christmas of white,

But I’ll have a blue, blue Christmas

Repeat

I’ll have a blue blue blue Christmas

SUB CHAPTER 1

LATER THAT NIGHT

CENTRAL PARK BENCH

OVERLOOKING

THE

BOATHOUSE

It has been quite a few months since I came over to the Ramble section of Central Park; day or night. But finishing the act early I hurriedly headed home by city bus in full costume, and stage makeup, got undressed as a female, and bundled up in my everyday outfit consisting of tan work boots, grey cargo pocketed sweatpants, a matching grey hooded sweat jacket over a heavy long sleeved sweat shirt, an outer bulky waist length red colored sky jacket, and topping the whole masculine outfit off with a black knit watch type cap that can be pulled down over my ears when the windy late December Manhattan weather gets too piercingly cold

Sitting on my old favorite bench atop a circular path surrounded by ice and snow covered

trees and ground, I again look at the huge rock to the right of the bench facing directly

west and another huge split rock out cropping on the left. The leveled paved pathway

in front of the bench stretches in both left and right directions down over the hill

on both sides.

Behind the bench is a rolling drop off with the ground going down to a lower pathway, and the parking lot of the Boathouse and the Boathouse cafe itself running its length on the East Drive that runs south to north in Manhattan, then swings around and becomes the West Drive that then proceeds from north to south of the park. Sitting on the bench and

facing to the west gives me a winter’s bare leaf glimpse of the rolling terrain down the banking to the pathway below, and the unpaved route down to the peninsula that juts out into the rowing lake.

I barely have time to take note of how many guys are walking on the north to south path below, and disappearing down the gaping entrance to the unpaved pathway to the now iced over rowing lake when a police car, three wheeler police wagon, and an open riding machine drive up, and the police stop their vehicles shining their head lights directly at me, and leave them glaring in my now light blinded eyes. Refusing to get up and walk off as I know they want me to do, however I do turn my eyes away just enough to avoid the full glare. The white older officer tells the young Chinese officer to dim his lights. The Chinese officer and the other officer who is Hispanic leave their cars facing me, and get out to walk down in back of the huge rock to my right, while the older white officer stays by his patrol car. Quite a few minutes later they come back again, and they all drive off in their separate vehicles leaving me still sitting there.

A younger blond man comes up and sits on the opposite side of the bench and continues to smoke a cigarette, and staring down the banking not saying a word to me.

Suddenly strong beamed flashlights go on illuminating the dark tree lined walkway down on the lower level in front of us. Totally surprised, I don’t have enough time to realize what is going on when the dark figures of men come streaming up the embankment with the flashlights bobbing in their hands due to the rough terrain the carriers are walking on. Both the young man and I stand up but we are very quickly surrounded by the figures forcefully confronting us.

Dressed in men’s clothing with long dark stringy hair, the mannish looking and acting young woman of the group points excitedly to the other guy as he walks away, but demandingly shouting at me. Do you know him? Do you know him?

Mystified at the goings on, I reply. No, I don’t. Is that Jimmy Seifert?

Getting me backed up against the high glacial rock on the north side of the summit, the female starts acting extremely masculine

Verbally demanding, while pointing to my black back pack which is slung loosely over my right shoulder. Give me that back pack!

She grabs the back pack forcibly and unzips the zipper then starts to rummage through the pack that contains a towel and a summer bathing suit, as a short blond stocky young guy who is dressed in leg pocketed camouflage trousers and a fatigue hat stands next to her watching what she’s doing. When she gets done she doesn’t bother to close the long zipper on the pack before she pushes it roughly back at my chest

What were the two of you doing? Huh? What were the two of you doing? She screams at me.

We weren’t doing anything. I said calmly, not knowing if this overly aggressive female is an undercover cop, or just another gay basher. He was sitting on one side of the bench and I was sitting on the other end. We didn’t even talk to each other. Continuing, I add, as a way to test her. Tell me, do you know Jimmy Siefert, the Community Affairs Officer?

It’s obvious by the way she looks surprised at the blond guy in fatigues that she knows the name

Speaking in a quiet calm voice he quickly says to the female. Come on, let’s get out of here.

He starts to hurry away toward the pathway on the opposite side that goes down to the Boathouse, as she, and the others start to follow. She turns back to me, and says over her shoulder almost apologetically defiant

We’re only trying to protect you.

While watching all of them walking quickly away, I speak loudly after them. I’ll be sure and tell Jimmy that the first thing in the morning.

They go down to the lower level to join the others of their ilk and with flashlights piercing the darkness amid the cackle of walkie talkies they take the guys down there that the others have rounded up over to the parking lot that runs along side the East Drive back of the Boathouse, where squad cars with their flashing lights are waiting.

Standing on the rise looking down the slope in back of the bench I had been sitting on, I can see the cops forcing the men from the park to put their hands on top of the police vehicles as they search their clothing with plastic gloves on, while the other cops are busy getting the identification from the hapless victims of the police that will allow the officers to continue to write out tickets for whatever they wish to charge the men with.

Never having seen anything like this in the nine years I had been coming over to the park both day and night, I just stand there with a quizzically stunned look on my face that infiltrates all the way down through my motionless body.

The younger guy who had left comes back, in both a blazing and very much loudly complaining show of emotions

In an irate loudly sounding voice, he states. The guy in fatigues almost tripped me by following me so closely when I left and went down to the lower level before the raid there had ended.

Completely bewildered by the whole unexpected happening I answer as best I can. I don’t know who those people are, to tell you the truth. I’ve been busy working nights and haven’t been over here in a while. I know I’ve never seen anything like that go on before; and to tell you the truth, I don’t like it. The guys in here deserve better treatment than that!

‘This has been going on since September. The younger man rants on. Where have you been?"

Explaining as best I can, I reply. I’ve been going down to the dances at the Lesbian and Gay Center on West Thirteenth Street, singing in the local clubs, and doing stand up comedy. But I’ve been thrown out of the Center on Thirteenth Street for unmentionable reasons, so I’ll have more time to come back here like I used in years past. I now pause. So, tell me. What has started all of this to go on? It was never like this before.

Curtis Sliway’ Guardian Angels Group got Mayor Giuliani to let them patrol this section of the park starting a couple of months ago. Then there was a guy killed at the Belvedere Castle back on the second Saturday Night of the month in the middle of September. So, with the fact that Curtis Sliway’s Guardian Angels are now patrolling the park along with the police isn’t enough, they all have orders to drive all of the male park users out of the park.

Thinking quickly, I calculate rapidly in my mind then speak aloud. The second Saturday Night of September was the 19th. I was at Prom Night at the Lesbian and Gay Center on West 13th, Street. I wore a long green gown, and a multi colored flowered hat representing the Wizard of Oz Theme, and was crowned the Prom Queen. Now sighing nostalgically I conclude. A fifty eight year old male Prom Queen.

Well, you must have been the only one who wasn’t in the part that night, as the place was packed crowded with guys walking around, and I swear everybody else was here! The guy continues to speak harshly.

Oh, I remember reading about it in the Daily News the next Monday morning after it happened. I reply, quickly. The headlines said a garment worker Jose Soriano was stabbed to death resisting a robbery. That a homeless man was arrested, but the charges were dropped, and the killing remains unsolved.

That was it. Spoken in almost of a challenging manner, as he adds. "And it’s still unsolved.

And will go down as one of Central Park’s more notorious killings. I say.

Both the guy and I continue to look down over the sharp slope behind the bench to see the progress of the police and Sliway’s gang in processing the guys they’ve rounded up by searching some while their hands are atop the police cruisers and vans, and copying down identification from others, prior to pointing to the East and telling the guys to leave the park

I also noticed that Mayor Giuliani ignored the newspaper reports of the killing when it was being said that the homicide happened at Belvedere Castle which is a well known gay cruising area. I volunteer. But when it came out that Soriano was married with children, Giuliani quickly grabbed his police commissioner, Howard Safir, a police escorted motorcade, and headed straight for the funeral home where the wake was being held in Spanish Harlem in order to get publicity paying his respects to the announced supposedly straight murdered man’s widow.

Sneeringly, the other guy answers curtly. Yeah. That was it, too!

I know that last time I was here in August the park officials were talking about getting Sliway’s bunch of vigilantes in here to walk around the area. I saw a couple of guys in a group, and possibly a bunch of them in a beat up old rusty panel truck at the time, but I didn’t realize they had already started back then. I tell him.

None of them has any police training. He almost spits out. They’re just Sliway’s mid night shift from McDonald’s Restaurant in the Bronx. None of them are trained in law enforcement, but Mayor Rudolph Giuliani and Police Commissioner Howard Safir have empowered them to roam the streets of Manhattan in gangs, and to particularly harass and bully the guys in the Ramble section of Central Park into submission, and forcing them to leave.

Well, I reply. It looks like they think they’re doing a good job for themselves but by the looks of the guys still walking around; I’d say nobody is leaving on account of them.

Just in case you haven’t noticed, he states, accusingly. The black guys have all disappeared from here. They’re afraid of the police, and for good cause. They are always being stopped, and questioned just for walking around, and none of them want a police record, or charges added onto the ones they may already have.

I know what you mean I agree.

The activity starts to stop and the participants begin to disperse, as the last of the guys leave the parking area below walking off or riding away on their bicycles on the north running East Drive roadway with a stern police warning, or a written court summons in their hand.

A cold blast of air whips around the two of us heavily jacketed observers, as both of us are forced to stamp our feet to keep them warm from the bone chilling dampness that is now seeping up through the bottom of our heavy winter boots, and the air that is becoming more and more frigid as the night time hours continue on.

The two of us lose interest in the now slackened activity below, as a new young guy dressed in a heavy winter jacket comes along and stops to talk to us. His soft almost pretty facial features that a lot of Hispanic men have are completely and attractively framed by the grey fur trimmed hood of the navy blue air force type parka that he’s wearing

Wow, it’s getting cold. The newest arrival says, shivering and stamping his feet on the ground while slapping his gloved hands together to keep the circulation going. He talks on to add. Did you two guys get caught up in this latest raid?

His words start Jack into emphatically raving all over again

I did. He insists. I was sitting here on the bench smoking a cigarette minding my own business, and these thugs come along, and start in on this guy here and me.

Volunteering, almost eagerly. Perley; my name’s Perley.

Calming down just enough to barely smile fondly, he says matter of factly. Perley, this is Rolando. Rolando, this is Perley.

Shaking his gloved hand symbolically with my gloved hand, Rolando replies. All the guys in the park know who you are, Perley. And they all like, respect and speak highly of you. Even without a dress on you’re very high profile with the way you dress so butch in tan work boots, pocketed cargo sweat pants, and hooded sweat jacket, with the blue baseball cap in summer or black knit watch cap in winter.,

Enjoying the way Rolando is lovingly describing what I’m wearing to me, I demur saying; Oh, shucks.

Chiming right in Jack adds. And you’re friendly, and talk nicely to everyone.

While looking directly at the two younger men, I say. But not the type anyone would want to have sex with.

Jack and Rolando look questioningly at each other and both answer at the same time

Well, I wouldn’t say that!

Speaking directly to Rolando, I ask So, did you get caught up in the raid this time?

Not so much this time. He states, almost proudly. I saw them coming, and I turned my gaydar off and switched it over to radar.

Smart. I congratulate him. It all took me by complete surprise. I’ve been away for a couple of months, and I didn’t know all of this was going on, and certainly not with this much group intensity.

Talking about intensity. Jack says. Not telling any tales out of school, but just before I came up here, and sat on the opposite side of the bench from you, and then all hell broke loose, I walked past three guys in a heavy three way on the bench right down there. When I returned after they started searching your back pack, I saw they had corralled everybody down there, but apparently Cap had just gotten up, and walked off. So, they got the other two guys, but not him.

I saw the three of them when I walked by on my way down in back of the Boathouse. Rolando volunteers. I’ll say Cap was lucky, but the tall guy on the bicycle who was one of the three is the guy who used to ride around here on his bike last summer with just a tee shirt on, and completely naked below. I could see they caught him this time, too. As a matter of fact, I’m sure they’ve caught him so many times that he’s always being banned from the park for three to six months at a time. If he does wait to return after his time is up, I think nobody knows just what the time frame of the ban consisted of.

I’ve seen him caging signatures on the Upper East Side streets for political candidates, so I’d say he has some fairly important connections. Jack says.

Rolando, Jack and I all nod our heads in unison at Jack’s words

Wistfully, Rolando says. I sure wish someone with political connections would do something to get rid of Sliway’s gang of midnight shift Hamburg flippers, and get the cops back to writing tickets for riding a bicycle on the park’s paths.

It’s this bad all the time, Huh? I now ask, incredulously.

Bad? Rolando questions, and then answers his own question. Ever since Joe Soriano, the Mexican guy got stabbed to death at the castle, they have all really clamped down on us. They even make the guys lie face down on the ground, and tell them to touch it with their noses.

Is that Sliway’s people, or the police? I ask, my eyes screwing up in wonder.

Looking me right in the eye as Rolando speaks. As far as I know; it’s both!

Slowly and thoughtfully spoken, I say. Maybe someone with connections will have a stop put to it. And very, very soon!

CHAPTER 2

TELEPHONE CALL

TO

COMMUNITY AFFAIRS OFFICER

Furious over what had transpired the night before, I get on the telephone the next afternoon and call Jimmy Seifert, the Community Affairs Officer that I’ve been talking to on the telephone with ever since I was robbed a few years prior to this incident on the end of the peninsula that juts out into the rowing pond across from the well known Angel topped Bethesda Fountain on the south shore

Jimmy, this is Perley, When Jimmy answers the phone I announce, in my unmistakable voice that leaves no one ever wondering just who they are talking to. I had an awful lot of trouble with the police in the Ramble last might, and I don’t think that I or anybody else should be treated the way I was.

Non committal, as if he wants to hear my side of the story. Oh?

First off, I barrel on, I was sitting on the bench up over the Boathouse Cafe, and three policemen drove up the small narrow path of the hill, parked their car, three wheeler, and other terrain vehicle so their bright headlights were blinding my eyes from the direct glare caused by their shinning the strong lights right into my eyes, and leaving them there.

With a tone of detachment filling his words. Why didn’t you tell them to turn their lights off?

I continue speaking sternly as I continue. Jimmy. I couldn’t very well have done that. It’s their park and under their police commands, not mine. It was a Chinese policeman, a Hispanic, and a middle aged white cop. I was determined that they weren’t going to make me move, and finally the white cop told the other two to turn their headlights off, which they did. The young Hispanic cop and the young Chinese cop left their vehicles and walked over to and disappeared behind the huge glacier rock on the north side of the path just before it starts downhill, and the older cop stood around in front of me until they returned.

Jimmy laughingly replies. You should have followed the two of them around the rock to see what they were doing.

Firmly stated, I shoot right back. Jimmy, will you be serious? That was some heavy police stuff going on in there last night. I haven’t been in the Ramble in a couple of months now, and I still can’t believe what happened. The first thing was when I entered I came in from the East Drive, across the Great Lawn, and up over the steps to the castle up in back of the Delacourt Theater. When I got up the steps to the court yard landing of the castle there was an older police sergeant standing in front of a bunch of uniformed policemen, and he was quietly giving out orders, and I couldn’t hear what they were. I later realized in the other part of the Ramble that they were orders on how to harass the guys out of the park. I stopped and looked at the sergeant, he turned and motioned to the guys, and they all walked off together, so I wouldn’t know what was going on, and what they were secretly planning. Later, I found out the sergeant and his troops at the castle were mapping out their strategy of harassment.

There’s still silence on the Jimmy’s end of the line. Continuing insistently Jimmy, are you listening to me?

Yes, I am. Keep talking; I can hear you. Jimmy again assures me.

Positive that I still have my audience, I continue on. It was then that I walked over to the pathway that leads down to the peninsula in back of the boathouse, and I was standing with a guy I know on the rise halfway up the small hill, when all of a sudden all twelve or so uniformed policemen marched almost goose stepping in four abreast flank formation back and forth in front of the guys just feet below me. The sergeant from the castle was leading the maneuvers. The whole perplexing action reminded me of movies of Nazi Germany before and during world war two. My voice now gets firmer. I never saw anything like it in real life before, and I hope I never have to see it again. Especially in a public park in the middle of New York City.

Jimmy continues to listen, and doesn’t make any comments all the while I’m talking

Once again I’m forced to demand. Jimmy, are you listening to me?

Quietly reassuring, Jimmy says. Yes, Perley. I’m listening.

Going on in a softer tone of voice. As I’ve just said, I haven’t been in the Ramble for a couple of months now, as I’ve been performing in nightclubs around town doing songs and stand up comedy, but it’s completely changed from the way it used to be.

Before I have a chance to ask again if he’s listening, Jimmy answers. I know it is.

That wasn’t bad enough but there was a high beamed flash light raid by a bunch of thugs that came out of nowhere. One of them was a smallish Hispanic girl with shoulder length dark brown hair. I think I remember wire rimmed eyeglasses, who verbally demanded my back pack, yanked it out of my hands, and rummaged all through it looking at the swim suit, towel, shoulder clogs, umbrella, combs and identification cards in it. When she got done roughly poking around at her leisure, she shoved it back into my chest that made me step backward and banging my back on the huge rock. There was a short blond crew cut rugged guy dressed in army fatigues, a fatigue jacket and visored hat that stood beside us, and watched her doing the whole thing.

Interrupting quickly, Jimmy adds. The fatigue wearing blond guy’s name is Brian Murphy, and he came into my office this morning and reported the whole incident, including what the girl had done.

Remember last fall when we talked to each other last, and I told you about the gang that I thought were gay bashers? I go on, pleased with this bit of information. Well, that’s the bunch who entered the park the previous fall night laughing, and flashing lights in a beat up rusted old white panel van. It scared me so bad that, like I told you at the time, I ran and panicked when the path I took to the open and well lit East Drive was blocked off by the four foot high slatted orange snow fences. I thought for sure they would catch up with me and kill me like three young homophobes did to a young man ten years earlier in my home town of Bangor, Maine. I may be big and fairly strong, but I know I wouldn’t have stood a chance against ten to fifteen young guys out to kill me.

Those are Curtis Sliway’s Guardian Angels group, and they do have permission to patrol the premises, and while they can’t arrest anyone; they do have the powers to detain them until the police get there. He replies, with complete lack of emotion sounding in his voice one way or the other.

Incredulously, I ask him. Detain them because of what?

Almost weakly spoken, he says. Any crime that they might catch them doing in the park.

It only takes a moment for my past public relations experiences to kick into high gear, and I start talking again

Jimmy. I state evenly.

What? He states, just as evenly back to me.

You know that there was a homicide at the castle this past September, and it’s three months later and still unsolved. You have a killing in the Ramble on your hands, and so far nobody is bothering to talk about it in any way that will get the perpetrator safely arrested. Slowly counting them out. Summer, winter, spring and fall. rain, snow, sleet, heat, ten feet of snow, 8 degrees above zero, 40 mile an hour winds, 24 hours a day the gay guys are walking around that area, and they see everything that is going on, but they are so mad at the way the police have been treating them that they are hissing, and won’t tell the police a thing. If they’ll call off the police, and all other harassing patrols, I will find the killer of the man at the castle, and I’ll personally turn him in.

Silent for only a fraction of a minute, Jimmy retorts. Let me talk to my commanding officer about this, and I’ll get back to you within a half hour’s time.

Trustingly, I reassure him now. Okay, Jimmy. I’ll stay here and wait for your call.

I go about doing whatever has to be done around the small apartment I live in and the telephone rings back within a half hour at 6:30 p.m, as promised, and Jimmy Seifert is on the other end of the line

I just got done talking to my superior officer. All of the patrols will be taken out of there immediately.

Gratefully, I simply say. Thank you, Jimmy.

SUB CHAPTER 1

Sheer vengeance for the embarrassing and illegal actions that had been perpetrated on me, and the rest of the guys the night before had me in a mood where I couldn’t wait to get over to the park to see if what Jimmy had promised about the police and other patrols being called off immediately had been accomplished, and so I go right over there to make sure.

Standing in the dark near the entrance to the path down to the peninsula. I’m relishing the feeling of solitude that this particular meal time hour brings as a nightly lull in the both frantic yet casual cruising activities.

A winter rain storm the night before has washed the snow off the ground, and it’s now bare, and with no clouds in the sky to reflect the lights of the city back down to earth, the darkness makes the familiar landmarks of the well traveled area almost indistinguishable

in the otherwise gloomy scene that is barely illuminated from the one old fashioned iron lamp post on the corner of the path that rises up to the bench overlooking the Boat House where I normally sit.

Suddenly, the pathway to the north is illuminated with a car’s headlights, and they are advancing extremely slowly toward me, as they wend their way south ward to where I am standing completely still, making what others have described as a strong and dashing appearance, as I wait for the car to continue to slowly light my six foot frame that is now dressed in the usual tan work boots, but this time black sweatpants, black hooded sweat

jacket, a black waist line hugging hooded winter jacket, and a black knit winter hat placed squarely and macho looking on top of my head.

I have a pretty good idea of who is in the car, and so I’m not completely at a surprise when the car stops about ten feet short of where I’m standing, and just silently sits there with its lights cutting the darkness toward the Boat House down over the small rise. Not moving an inch, I continue to stand right where I am in both a newly acquired self confidence, combined with my usual bravado.

The car starts to inch forward until it stops dead within a few feet of me.

Turning around now and silently acknowledging the car and its occupant’s presence, I can see just whom I expect to see. The longish brown hair of a familiar woman sitting in the passenger’s seat on the side closest to me, and a young good looking guy dressed in plain clothes, but with a police medallion attached to a string hanging around his neck and resting on his chest. I instantly recognize them as the two who have ridden slowly through the area for months now, a couple of times a night in order to flash their police car searchlight all around the area, and particularly in the bushes, and on the gay guys who are sitting on the various park benches talking. Sometimes they stop to talk to the guys in order to just openly harass them

Looking directly at me as she peers up at me from the window of the car. Excuse me. Do you know where you are? She calls out.

Fully aware of the masculine image my clothes and demeanor are giving me, I answer. Of course, I know where I am. I’m in the Central Park Ramble. It’s been written up in National Geographic Magazine, and is world famous as being the biggest and most well known gay cruising area in the world.

Her face reflected in the dashboard lights of the unmarked police car loses its composed inquiring look, and her jaw visibly drops as she flips her head and straight brown hair around to face the almost grinning young blond guy who’s behind the wheel of the car. She quickly turns back to look out and up at me again.

Knowing better, but still having to comment on the familiar plain looking almost mannish features of the women before me, I ask. Are you that Hispanic woman who seized and searched my back pack last night? I ask, pointedly.

For imagined dramatic purposes she quickly snaps her head back to face the young driver, and then just as abruptly turns it quickly back to face me.

Demandingly, in both an equal question and statement tone of voice. She demands. Do I look like her?"

The young guy gets a big silent grin on his youthful face, but he doesn’t answer, as either the answer is yes, or he’s afraid he’s going to crack up completely at the comparison.

Now knowing ultimate power I decide to put the zinger in. Do you know Jimmy Seifert? I ask, in all seriousness.

Snapping her head and hair to look at the driver again, while announcing with almost shock in her voice. ‘Of course, I know Jim Seifert."

The young plain clothes police officer’s face drops at that inside bit of information that is coming from my totally unexpected personal knowledge

Driving the sharp sword of vengeance in to the hilt, I verbally add. I just hung up the telephone with him about a half hour ago, and he promised me that all of the patrols have been hauled out of here, and all of the police personnel, too.

The young driver looks straight ahead as he puts the police car into forward gear, steps hard down on the gas pedal, as the dirt and small rocks kick out from the back tires as the car zooms forward, and quickly retreats around the narrow unpaved path road toward the Boat House, almost taking the bend with it in the haste to get out of the area. I’m now left all alone again standing in complete grey shadowy darkness

With a big grin on my face, and thinking; Sweet retribution is mine!

CHAPTER 3

PARK BENCH

OVER LOOKING

THE

BOATHOUSE

It’s just after dark a week later as I sit on the bench up over the boathouse talking to Peter, a guy nine years younger than me. Peter is in his early fifties, but sitting hunched forward on the bench with his elbows on his knees, his head down in a demure looking position, and being short tends to give him the image of being much younger, and even

more desirable to guys cruising past him where he sits. Of course, he constantly wears a medium blue visored baseball cap, and a thick fringe of medium blonde hair around the ears and neck under it adds to his youthful appearance. No one knows of course that the baseball cap isn’t just worn only as a fashion accessory, but is also there to hide the fact that he’s completely bald on the top of his head. He denies that vigorously, but won’t remove the cap anyway to disprove the park gossip. But there are guys who know him, and are better sure of the fact. Just as they are privy to the first hand gossip and knowledge that says Peter has a very small penis. Which Peter also tries to laugh off with a fervent denial, but again he never goes out of his way to prove the gossips are wrong about that bit of inside information, either!

‘Well, it looks like I really did get the cops called off. I tell him, while looking around at the much appreciated quietness of the surrounding area. But I committed myself to a long stretch of volunteering my future time in doing so."

You mean the cops aren’t going to bother us anymore? He asks.

Admonishingly, I tell him. Two rules of thumb. No sex before dark, and don’t mug the tourists!

Smiling broadly, Peter says. Are you saying the cops like us?

Yes, but they just don’t want us frigging around!

There are plainly no policemen in sight as Peter and I continue sitting on the bench in the semi darkness

Folding his arms across his chest, and spreading his legs and feet straight out in front of him, he says, in total wonderment. Boy, this place is quiet cop wise, all of a sudden.

I thought I told you that I talked to the community affairs officer, and got the cops all called off out of here.

Looking around and laughing appreciatively. If you did then you did a good job because, I haven’t seen any of them in at least three days.

A guy walks by, gives Peter the staring eye, and without a word to me Peter gets up hurriedly from the bench, and follows him off down the hill on the pathway that leads to the narrow broken pavement park road on the lower level.

I now sit there by myself for a few minutes until I see a familiar figure coming around the huge rock on the right of the path. Bill now walks right past with the usual death grip on his right shoulder strapped back pack, slender built, and bent forward at the waist, head pushed further forward, and a very lost in his thoughts seriously dead panned look on his high cheek boned thin face. Dark haired, he looks like a semi bald older Sean Connery without his makeup on. I’m amusedly taking note of Bill’s fast paced briskly walking determined advancement, and can’t help but playing it for a laugh, as I fold my arms across my chest, and start to sing loudly and with gusto; OVER HILL-OVER DALE-AS WE HIT THE DUSTY TRAIL-AND THE CAISSONS KEEP ROLLING ALONG!

Hearing the singing, he turns quickly to me with a deeply serious look on his face, and recognizing me, he gives me a widely spaced huge toothy grin. Hey Perley. That’s you all.

Well, it was the last time I pinched it.

Dropping the back pack down onto the bench, and sitting down beside me, he asks. Have you noticed how the cruising stays the same, but the sexual encounters are much fewer whenever there’s an article in the paper announcing a well known celebrity has died of AIDS?

Sadly, I respond. Yes. I saw in the paper where another one died today.

Letting the answer go by, and opening a new line of chat. I’ll be glad when it’s summer again, and the Boathouse reopens for the season. Glancing quickly over his right shoulder at the building below. Remember last summer when Bobby Short the pianist singer played there and I stood so close to the building right down there that I could see him playing the piano, and hear the song he was singing by watching through the big windows.

Agreeing in full response, I say. Yes, Bobby Short is quite a personable entertainer. I don’t know if he’ll be back this year or not.

Bill, an older guy and southerner from New Orleans is some one that I have known a while; he always talks about old radio shows and movies and their stars. Other than that I only accept what I’m sure I know to be a fact, as Bill has been known to repeat as

personally experienced stories that I have already read that morning in a daily anecdote feature of the print edition of the New York Times.

Through several references have been made, I’m also a bit skeptical as to Bill’s financial and housing status, my coming to the conclusion that he is alternately a volunteer sign in patient at a nearby hospital with a mental clinic and ward for housing in patients. But I also admit that Bill must be a fairly intelligent person to have daily access to the printed edition of the Times, and to read it.

However, I do find it a little difficult to believe that Bill is the medical doctor he once claimed to be before his stated cop out from life, but even I’m not too sure, as I again silently agree that a person never really knows where another person has been, what they’ve been, or just who they know. I just attribute Bill as being fun company, and let the whole thing go at that

Smiling now, and almost in awe of what he is about to reveal to me, Bill says. You know this Peter we talk to? I nod in agreement. Do you know who he is?

He was just here a few minutes ago, I explain. But he left when he quickly followed a guy down over the hill. Taking a pause for breath. No, who is he?

Producing a piece of paper from his pocket, and holding it out to me. He gave me this piece of paper with his name written on it. His name is Peter Mellon. He’s the grandson of Andrew Mellon the Pittsburgh financier who started the Mellon Bank.

Quickly, I state scoffing at the idea of what Bill is saying to me. Well, I’d say that’s a made up story. I remember reading that Andrew Mellon had two daughters, and no sons. So, if he were then his name wouldn’t be Mellon. One of the daughters married John Warner, I understand, and they had only daughters, too. John Warner was divorced by her, and he married Liz Taylor who helped him get elected to the U.S. Senate. Peter’s a little too old to be John Warner’s son, and if he were; he would have once had a stepmother named Elizabeth Taylor.

Bill ponders that one for a few seconds then sheepishly admits that I may well be right

Well, anyway. He told me last week that his father’s bank got him free tickets to the Patti Page Concert at Carnegie Hall, and he wants to take you to it with him.

Warningly, I say. Can it. Here he’s cumin’ ‘round the mountain right now. Looking at Peter who’s now standing in front of me I say evenly. That was quick. What happened to the young guy you followed down over the hill?

Half laughingly amazed. I don’t know. He was all attention to me, and then when we got down there under the lamp post, he just lost interest, and walked off.

Bill and I look at each other and start to laugh knowingly, too! Bill told me that you want to take me too the Pattie Page Concert at Carnegie Hall? I tell him.

Fishing in his pocket and coming out with a newspaper clipping that he proudly hands to me to look at Yes, but it’s too late for that now. The concert was last week. But here’s a picture of Pattie Page at the party after the concert, and I’m in it.

I now hold the press clipping at an angle trying to get a good reflection from the nearest lamp post just down over the hill in back of us.

Examining the picture carefully, I say. I can see Pattie Page, but I can’t see you.

Persistently pointing to the piece of paper still in my hand. That’s me right there. I’m the dark shadow standing right behind her.

Passing the paper back to Peter, I say gently. That’s very nice, Peter. But next time you go to a concert I’d strongly suggest that you bring your own photographer with you.

Taking the paper back, Peter replaces it into his pocket. He now catches the sight of yet another young guy walking past to the near by descending lane to the left of them, and starts to hurry off to follow him. I exchange a quick knowing glance at Bill, and shout at Peter’s fastly disappearing figure

Hey, Peter. Don’t let the guy see you under a lamp post!

Both Bill and I look at each other and proceed to crack up with laughter over that one.

See that guy right there? I ask Bill barely audibly, as a fairly tall slim youngish guy prances past wearing black form fitting leather pants, a tank top, and a black beret type hat perched carefully covering the hairline of his forehead.

Yes, what about him? Bill whispers right back.

I think he’s a holdover from the Sliway gang. I confide. He wears that black beret, looks and acts like a pre conceived stereotypical idea of what gay screamers are thought to be like, and yet he just walks right through and on out of the park over by the Bow Bridge. I start to speak a little more normally now that he’s gone. But in the past he wouldn’t be gone a few minutes when the cops would show up, filter through the area, and take a bunch of guys out with their hands cuffed behind their backs. I almost hiss the words in outright disgust.

I’ve seen the point down there filled with guys in the past and he was mincing around with a big appreciative grin on his face while watching everything that was going on.

And? I ask, simply.

And a few minutes after he left the cops showed up, and led a bunch of guys out of the area with their hands cuffed behind their backs. Bill laughs nervously, but with no sign on mirth showing to his affirming words.

Hmmm! I agree, glancing down over the descending pathway to the right that the obvious flamer has taken on his nightly mission to vindictively clear the park of guys who won’t even give him a second look.

Let’s take a walk down by the Boat House. Bill now suggests.

Agreeing to the suggestion, both Bill and I now stand up, stretch our bodies to a more limber mode, and walk toward the downward pathway that Peter had just taken that leads eventually to the now closed for the season Boat House.

As we get to the narrow road that runs along side both the Boat House on the right and the parking lot on the left facing the East Drive, we hear a male voice calling softly to us. Looking over to the closed and shuttered for the winter season building, we see a fully uniformed policeman dressed in an official long black rubber raincoat, and a clear plastic rain cover fitting carefully over his badge attached visored policeman’s hat, as he stands in the half shadows cast by the building’s wide roof overhang that is still dripping water from the just finished heavy downpour.

Calling softly again, the officer adds. I want to talk to you.

Surprised while not recognizing the uniformed policeman, and looking from the cop to Bill, and then back at the cop, I automatically point to my chest and say. Me?

No, the other guy. He quickly responds.

Feeling both rejected that the strange good looking policeman didn’t want to talk to me ,but Bill instead, and wondering what Bill would have of interest to him that I don’t; Bill starts to walk toward the dark shadowy figure of the rain coat clad policeman standing a couple of thousand yards away

Aside to me, as Bill walks slowly off, he says. I’ll be right back.

Not taking his eyes off the policeman as Bill walks away, I assure him. I’ll wait for you. I remain where I’m standing for the next couple of minutes, and I keep my eyes on Bill and the uniformed cop who are now in close proximity while conferring quietly with each other. Afraid that my friend Bill might be in trouble with the law, I try to make out what’s being said, but that’s obviously being done so that no observer will be able to tell just what the subject of the secret conversation is. After a few minutes, Bill comes back to where I’m still standing and have been waiting, and he rejoins me there.

Concerned, I ask Is everything all right?

With an almost bragging grin on his face and to his attitude, Bill answers. That was an officer I know. Going on to explain. I was sitting on a bench early one morning, and a runner in a tank top and shorts came by. He stopped, gave me the eye, and at his invitation we went over to his apartment, and I sexually serviced him. The next time I accidentally met up with him in the park he was all dressed up in an official policeman’s uniform. I was so surprised that he smiled and said, You didn’t know I was a police officer?"

Anxiously awaiting the full details, I ask, Well, that sounds exciting. How was it?

Completely dismissive, Bill responds dully. Not very exciting. He has a very small dick. Nothing to talk about. But he’s been bothering me by telephoning me ever since trying to get me to do it again, but I won’t.

The two of us start to continue our stroll down the lane and around the Boat House to the high fenced in outdoor, but now closed for the winter season, dining area

Philosophically, I say. Just what I’ve already come to know as a fact. A lot of guys on the force aren’t our enemies. They’re really our competition.

I always found that to be true, Bill gives a big smile, in toothy agreement.

CHAPTER 4

MID FEBRUARY

A VALENTINE FOR JIMMY

THE

CONSERVANCY MEETING

It’s a sunny late afternoon now in mid March, and by pre telephone arrangement John

shows up at the bench, and he and I start to talk.

I’m going to the Park’s Conservancy Meeting at 7:30. Why don’t you come with me? It’s interesting. The police representatives are there, and other concerned park goers attend. They have a brief business meeting, and then they serve a great bunch of sandwiches, soda, and other stuff while everyone stands around and talks.

Doubtfully, I say. I don’t think so. I lived like that when I was in Bangor, Maine, and I don’t feel like living like that here in New York City.

Smiling coaxingly, John adds. I really wish that you would. I feel a little out of place now that I don’t live in the area anymore. I mean, I feel they are all wondering why I’m so interested in the Ramble here on 79th Street when I live all the way uptown in Inwood, and should really be going to Inwood Park.

Agreeing as something that might be interesting to do at least once. Yeah. That really is a stretch considering that Inwood is almost over a two hundred street subway trip away from mid town Manhattan.

John grins while almost giggling. See what I mean?

Yeah. I reply, teasingly. Wouldn’t it explain things to anyone concerned if you just told them you’re interested in the Ramble because you’re gay?

With his typically foolish laugh, John says. They probably already suspect that much. Did I tell you what happened a few weeks ago when I was cruising the Tupelo Lawn; the Fruited Plain at four o’clock in the morning?

No, tell me what happened. I ask, figuring rightly that the happening should well be good for another laugh.

I was over at the Fruited Plain four o’clock one morning last week, and there was no one around. All of a sudden I see this hunky looking guy walking across the lawn toward where I was standing. So, I stood there waiting for him.

As John starts his foolish laughter again, I interrupt. And what happened?

He stole my bicycle, and rode off on it. He continues to giggle.

Trying desperately to suppress a full laugh, I verbally offer. Did you report it to the police?

Still laughing. Of course I didn’t. If I had, they would have given me a ticket for seventy five dollars for being in the park illegally after it was closed. Then I would have been out seventy five dollars, and a bicycle.

Philosophically, and loudly laughing outwardly, I reply. Well, you lose some; you lose some.

Quickly changing the subject, John says. I guess. Tell me, don’t you just hate it when you see a good looking guy sitting on a bench, and you sit down, and he gets up hurriedly, and walks off?

In that case, just hurry up so he’ll notice, jump up and quickly sit down in the spot he was sitting in, as if you really didn’t want him; you really only wanted that particular spot.

That’s just what I do. John says, in an affirming tone of voice.

I always sit at the other end of the bench, and ignore him until he shows he’s interested.

And if he’s not interested? John asks.

Curtly spoken, I reply. Simple. If he’s not interested; then I’m not, either.

John says, starting out on a new tact. I was sitting on the bench there the other day. It was pouring rain and I had an umbrella over my head......

Wistfully, I answer. Now, that’s dedication.

Not missing a beat, John responds. This good looking guy with an umbrella comes walking toward me, looks at me, and keeps right on walking. I mean, how choosy can you be when there’s no one else in the park?

Sounds to me like the both of you were all wet. I say, lightly dismissive.

But John doesn’t hear the last remark from me, as he notices that a black unmarked car like the police brass use sometimes to patrol the area has glided around the corner

of the path, and is slowly rolling westward just below us.

John immediately gets all excited, and starts to run down the incline toward the car. That’s Captain O’Neil, now. Shouting to the car. CAPTAIN O’NEIL! CAPTAIN O’NEIL!

John keeps running toward the car until it slows down, and comes to a complete stop. I’m standing right behind John as a round faced, white haired Irishman in his middle to

late forties, and dressed in a white Captain’s dress shirt sits behind the wheel, and looks up at us with blue eyes now squinting in the late afternoon sun.

Now doing the honors, John says. Captain O’Neil, this is Perley. Perley, this is Captain O’Neil.

The Captain and I silently nod our acceptance of the introduction

I was just trying to talk Perley here into going to the Conservancy Meeting tonight. With an almost urgency. Are you going to the meeting this time, Captain?

Yes. The captain agrees.

Looking directly at the Captain I ask. Do you know Jimmy Seifert?

Almost smiling he answers. Yes, I know him. He’s the Community Affairs Officer.

I’ve been talking to him on the telephone for several years now. I explain. He got the police and Sliway’s gang out of here, and stopped the guys from being harassed. As a matter of fact, he’s such a great guy that I couldn’t help but send him a Valentine Card last week.

Looking straight ahead while pretending to adjust his rear view mirror so that I don’t see the big grin spread across his fair skinned Irish face, and with a discernable chuckle, he replies. Yeah. I know he got a Valentine last week. He was so pleased that he showed it to everybody at the precinct because it was the only one that he got.

John stands there silently grinning while not imagining what to believe as to what is being said between the two of them

Well, it’s starting to get dark, and getting onto towards seven o’clock, and the meeting is at seven thirty. So, I guess we’d better start over to it. You can’t give us a ride over in the car, can you? John asks the captain.

I think that’s a bit presumptuous of John, but I don’t say anything

Starting to roll off, the captain says. I can’t do that. I have to pick the plainclothes guys up, and take them back to the precinct house. It’s time for the shifts to change.

All of the word foreplay with the Captain has now wetted my interest, and I agree to go to the meeting with John

All happy grins now, John says, energetically. "Okay, then let’s walk over to