About Frank Callahan, the Gay Detective
Frank Callahan is a detective, second class, in the West Los Angeles Police Division. Born and raised in Philadelphia, PA, he knew early on that he didn’t want to be a working stiff, a nine to fiver like his old man. Get up, go to work, and bust your ass all day, come home, have a couple of brews, watch the tube, fight with your old lady, and go to bed. And then do the very same thing the next day. No, that wasn’t for him.
As a result, he bummed around a lot while growing up, spent summers in Atlantic City or Wildwood washing dishes, smoking pot, knocking down while working as a counterman at hot dog stands, panhandling the boardwalk, cruising, shoplifting, and even catering to chicken hawks on occasion when things got really tough. A three-sport athlete in high school, he enjoyed the celebrity of being a jock and was the apple of his old man’s eye. That is, until Callahan announced he was gay, and then all that changed.
Since his father was a great one for insisting the family eat the evening meal together, Callahan decided to come out at the dinner table. He had thought about it long and hard and knew it would be one of the most difficult tasks he had ever done. But he also knew it had to come out sooner or later, so he might as well get it over now. Knowing his father, he figured he would probably disown him. Yet that couldn’t be helped. He couldn’t go on living a lie just to please him. He patiently waited until everyone was finished and then dropped the bombshell.
Well, his father simply laughed at first in that stunted, hesitating way of his, thinking it was just a sick joke. Then he had gone into denial, insisting it wasn’t true. He told Callahan he was only a child and didn’t know what he was talking about. He joked about it, suggested that Callahan was just going through some sort of phase that lots of young men go through and would get over it.
When Callahan vowed it was true, the old man tried to talk him out of it. It was only that now that Frank had graduated from high school, he was a afraid to go out into the world, get a job and get married; that sort of thing. That was perfectly natural. Hell, he had been scared, too, when he went looking for his first job. It was nothing to be ashamed of. He would take him to see Father Malloy, and they could all sit down and hash the thing out. It would be all right. Frank would see.
The discussion or argument or whatever it was must have gone on for several hours. Callahan’s poor mom had just sat there without a word, simply looked at Callahan and his father with a woe-begotten expression as if she had no idea what they were talking about. Callahan knew she would still love him and not turn her back on him. She was his mom, and she would always be his mom no matter what. It was as simple as that.
As for his younger brother, Harry, he naturally took the old man’s side. But it was more than that. He knew that Harry now looked upon him as the enemy, much as the other boys in the neighborhood would when they heard the news. His own brother a fag, a queer, a cocksucker? Harry would never live it down.
When it finally sunk in that the horrendous nightmare he was experiencing was true, his father had sat in stony silence. Callahan’s brother was long gone but his mother was still in her original spot at the dinner table. And then the old man began to cry. Callahan hadn’t expected that. Yell, yes. Scream bloody murder and carry on as if all hell had broken loose, okay. But cry? No, his father was too proud and strong willed to do that. And such a torrent of tears it was too. He blubbered and wailed as if his heart was broken. And maybe it was. Callahan was so shaken he began to cry too. He could have handled anything but seeing the old man cry like that. He didn’t know why it had affected him so deeply but it had.
The next day his father ordered him out of the house. Callahan took off for L.A., a magical place he had often dreamt about, and never looked back. He had not talked to the old man since.
He loved being on the street. It simplified life, reduced it to its basics. There were only two things he had to worry about each day: how he was going to eat and where he was going to sleep. No car payments to make, credit card penalties, or any of that other stupid crap. Do-gooders and bleeding hearts make a big mistake when they think all homeless kids are dying to get off the street. Many of them love it as much as he did. Sure, it was hard, and there was a lot of petty bullshit to put up with, plus the unspoken fear of being hurt or killed. Yet at the same time, there were also fun, excitement, the confidence that came from knowing you could handle it, bonding, loyalty, and even love.
His friends and companions, particularly the gay ones, were shocked when he told them he wanted to be a cop. The same guy who had always bucked authority, was constantly in trouble, and would fight at the drop of a hat. It was either that or someday wind up in the joint himself. By becoming a cop, he could have it both ways. He could still be on the street where the action was, but he would be on the right side for a change and once more be paid for it. In addition, although he would never admit it, he was a bit of an idealist and had a sense of right and wrong he had gotten from his mother. And perhaps, from being on the street, he has seen how the world was full of bad guys and how unsafe and precipitous life can be for the average Joe and Jane and wanted to do something about it.
Upon graduation from the Police Academy, he became a beat cop in the Hollywood Division. At the time, he was still enamored with his blues. He liked the way they fit and smelled and looked. They made him feel clean and content, happy to be one of the good guys. In addition, he liked the way civilians looked at him and treated him with respect, but at the same time he knew he was instant poison to the bad guys. It hadn’t taken him long to realize he was vastly unnumbered and already he had adopted an us-against-them attitude.
At the time, he was working the street on the graveyard shift. It wasn’t very glamorous keeping an eye on stores and shops like a rent-a-cop. And it was boring, especially in the dead of night. He used to pray for a call: a fight, a burglary, even a drunk or a domestic to break the monotony. Most of all, he daydreamed about making a pinch of a famous criminal or killer. Something that would make him standout from the crowd, make the Department realize he was truly someone special, even earn him a medal or citation.
He had just crossed Gower and gone a short ways down when he came upon an alley that was between a row of shops and a restaurant that he liked. Some kind of disturbance was going down, a struggle or a fight or maybe even a rape. He could hear the sound of blows and excited voices and the muffled groans of someone in distress.
The alley was kind of spooky, covert and narrow with high walls on both sides. And it was dark. Drawing his revolver, he started in. After he had gone about twenty yards or so, the alley opened up into a driveway. And there under a single overhead streetlight were two of LAPD’s finest taking batting practice on some poor-ass chump who was bouncing along the ground.
Wham, bang, slap, the batons rang out, flashing up and down in the dim light. The two Judge Dredds were so engrossed in their work they didn’t even hear or see him. Hell, he could have wasted both of them before they cleared leather. He returned his Beretta to its holster and walked over.
“What’s going on?” he said, after one of the officers, a barrel-chested guy, had delivered a savage blow to the poor devil’s forearms that were crossed over and protecting his head.
The officer straightened up, saw Callahan, and smiled. “We’re just giving this dirty, turd-mouth a little attitude adjustment, teaching him the error of his ways.”
Callahan glanced at the wretch of a man writhing on the asphalt. His face was an ugly ball of sweat and tears and had lines of blood crisscrossing over it like a highway road map. “What he do?” he asked.
“Oh, he didn’t do anything, yet,” the second blue knight said. “We apprehended this piece of dog shit cruising down at the other end of the alley, and we thought we’d teach the lousy cocksucker an object lesson.” He laughed. “The fucking, fairy bastard deserves it. We’re the home team and it’s our turn at bat.” He laughed again, turned back, and delivered a shocking blow with his baton across the suspect’s legs.
Deserves it? Deserves it for what? For liking men and looking for some causal sex? What would they do if he told them he was gay, turn around, and beat the living shit out of him, too? What would they say if he waded in and started to beat the snot out of them? How would they like to have their heads split open simply because they liked to go down on women and have sex with them. For two cents, he’d get their badge numbers and turn the bastards in.
Oh, but he didn’t. That was before the Rodney King era and the department wasn’t as sensitive about senseless beatings as it was now. He knew what cops thought of someone who broke the blue wall of silence and turned in one of their own. He was considered a traitor. Hell, he was only a rookie. It would be his word against theirs. And he in no way in hell wanted to go all through that nightmare with internal affairs. Besides, if they found out he was gay they would nail him to the cross and he would probably lose his shield. They weren’t as accepting of queers in those days.
No, he didn’t turn them in. He didn’t try to stop them or talk them down or anything else. He had simply put his tail between his legs and skedaddled out of there. He didn’t like feeling like a mutt or a coward and vowed it would never happen again. That poor faggot on the ground begging for his life could just as easily have been him.
Shortly after that fateful night, he met Car. The first time he saw him he was instantly smitten. And who wouldn’t be? Car reminded him of that movie star, the one he had read about, the one who had played Tarzan in the flicks. Lex Barker was his name. He had looked him up on the web. He had gotten into trouble when he was married to the Lana Turner for allegedly molesting the actress’ daughter. And it was Lana Turner’s daughter who had stabbed and killed the wise guy, Johnny Stampanato.
Well, he quickly found out that Car was no child molester. Sex with him was out of this world. They had gone home for a cup of coffee, spent the night together, and had barely slept a wink. It had taken him a full week to get over it, to get back on an even keel. It had been one of the most erotic experiences of his life. The after effects had hung on him like a bomb suit. He just couldn’t stop the replays in his head. They simply keep going over and over until he thought he would lose his mind.
He and Car then become fuck buddies. They went to bars together, picked up tricks, and screwed everyone under the sun in a series of sex orgies that would make a red neck’s toes curl. Carlton, as was his proper name, was absolutely fearless when it came to cruising. He’d hit on anyone at anytime or any place. And if that didn’t work out, he’d move onto the next. Life was like an endless chapter out of The Satyricon. Then he and Car agreed to shack up together.
That was right after a weekend they spent in Laguna. They had picked up two surfer boys in the Boom-Boom Room. Afterwards, Car confessed he had been so jealous when Callahan was getting it on with the dude in the next bed, he realized then and there that he didn’t want to share Callahan with anyone. In addition, he was scared shitless when he brought it up, afraid Callahan would say no.
Funny, Callahan had been thinking the same thing, but he had been too scared to bring it up. Car was such a horn dog in those days, he couldn’t imagine him ever settling down with anyone. And no wonder. He was an Adonis, so beautiful fags were lining up and hitting on him all the time. Hell, he could have had anybody he wanted.
Meanwhile, while working as a patrol officer in a black and white, Callahan had taken night classes in criminal justice and forensic science in community college, and after several years of superior work effort in the field, he was promoted to detective third class. When he arrived in the homicide bureau of the West LAPD, he had created quite a stir. He had lied all through the LAPD application process and had kept his sexuality under wraps at the Academy and long after that. But after that fateful night he had witnessed the gay beating, he decided not to lie any longer and take his chances.
Generally, the other peace officers were pretty upfront about it. However, there was one detective, a brute of a man named Moose Koehler, who made gay bashing remarks every chance he got. Finally, Callahan had enough, and he took Moose on one night in the parking lot of the dugout, a sports bar in Silverlake, and whipped his ass pretty good. After that, Moose had backed off. And while Callahan and he never become fast friends, Moose was a lot easier to live with after that.
Over the years, Callahan learned his craft so well he became a pretty fair detective. However, there was one flaw for which he always had to be on the lookout. Sometimes when he got on a case such as the DVD Murders, he simply didn’t seem to have time for anything else. It consumed him and anything else such as working out or even Car seemed to be a luxury he couldn’t afford. He had always been like that, all through high school and everywhere else. It may have helped in sports to be so focused, but it sure screwed up other things, especially his love life. It was a monomania he always vowed to work on. Yet once he got into one of those funks, it was always so time consuming it never crossed his mind that he was at it again.
