A Shock to the System

"Yes."
"And you went to Crockwell with the pictures of all this and you—"
I nodded.
"No. No, you can't."
"I did."
"You blackmailed him into shutting down his program? Forever?"
"I negotiated a settlement in lieu of cash for my services rendered in getting him clean off the hook in Paul Haig's murder and Larry Bierly's shooting."
"But—that's appalling!"
"No it's not. You're appalled, but it's not appalling. Think of the hundreds of gay men I'm saving from Crockwell's torture chambers and his lunacy. I should get the Nobel Prize for mental health."
"But people go to Crockwell voluntarily, Don. It's education, education—education about the nature of sexuality and about homophobia—that will save people, not—not some sleazy type of blackmail."
"Both have their places," I said, "with people as dangerous and unsalvageable as Crockwell. Timothy, I fear we're never going to agree on these things."
He said, "No, Don. We're not." Then he sat quietly for a few minutes while he finished off the fish vindaloo.
Breaking his sulky silence, Timmy finally said, "So what's Crockwell's new profession? Or didn't you have the nerve to hang around and ask?"
"Oh, Vernon and I had a real nice visit," I said. "He grew up in Chicago, but he said he'd always had a hankering to head out west to the wide open spaces. His wife's from Wyoming originally, and she's talked for a long time about resettling there. So Vernon sees this move as an opportunity. He said he thought he might try his hand at ranching."
Timmy looked at me carefully. "You're making this up."
"I am not."
"Okay then. What kind of ranching?" He was starting to brighten up again.
"Llama," I said, and I could tell he didn't know whether to believe me or not.