is he?”
“His name appeared frequently in the judge’s personal calendar, the one he kept in his desk at the court. His number was in the judge’s Rolodex, also at his office, but not the one he kept at home. Mrs. Chandler had never heard of him. I ran his record. He has a half-dozen arrests, mostly juvenile, all for prostitution. Ring any bells?”
“No,” I said.
She frowned and stood up, smoothing her skirt. “Why would someone like Judge Chandler befriend a hustler?”
“I don’t know,” I replied.
“I think you do,” she said. She moved to the fireplace and picked up the picture of Josh and me. “Being out of the closet is a luxury that many gay people can’t afford. Maybe you can’t understand that, but it’s something I think about.” She put the picture down and looked at me. “If Judge Chandler paid for being in the closet with his life, I’d think you’d want to help me find his killer before another gay man pays the same price.”
“Are you trying to tell me you’re a lesbian?” I asked her.
“I’m trying to tell you I think we have a common interest here,” she said. “You’re a criminal defense lawyer. You know the drill in a homicide investigation. There are always two detectives assigned to a case.”
“And you’re here on your own,” I said.
“I can promise you discretion,” she said.
“I’m sure you could,” I replied, “but I can’t help you.”
“Thank you for the coffee,” she said. “Here’s my card. Call me if you think of anything that might help my investigation.”
I tucked the card into my shirt pocket. “I’ll do that.”
“Appreciate your time,” she said.
I smiled insincerely. “No problem.”
She was no sooner out the door than the phone rang. I picked it up, still running my conversation with McBeth through my head, and it took me a moment to recognize the woman’s voice on the line saying, “Henry, it’s Selma Mandel.” Josh’s mother. She and his father lived in Claremont, about an hour’s drive east. She said, “I called you earlier, but you were out. I’m afraid Josh is in the hospital again. They took him this morning.”
“What happened?”
“He woke up having trouble breathing. He’s here at Midtown.”
“I’m on my way,” I said, and only then did I notice the half-dozen messages on my answering machine from the morning.
The fourth floor of Midtown Hospital—the AIDS ward—had become as familiar to me as the floor plan of my own house. Once I’d come to visit one friend and bumped into another strolling down the hall, dragging his IV along with him. My AA sponsor, Tim Taylor, had died in one of these rooms in a hospital gown and handmade Italian slippers. He’d left them to me. I could neither wear them nor throw them out, so they gathered dust in the back of my closet.
Josh was sitting up in bed with an oxygen mask pressed to his face, watching The Simpsons. His mother, Selma, sat in a chair beside the bed, knitting. I kissed him on the forehead.
Selma said, “Hello, Henry.”
“Hi,” I said. “How are you feeling, Josh?”
He lifted the mask long enough to say, “Like shit.”
“That’s the spirit,” I said.
Selma got up. “Sit down, Henry. I need to call Joshua’s father.”
“Tell him I’m okay,” Josh said.
She kissed his cheek. “Don’t talk too much.”
After she left, I sat on the edge of the bed and reached for his hand. “Is it pneumocystis?”
He flicked the mask to his forehead impatiently. “They don’t know,” he said. “They shot me up with antibiotics just in case. I’ll just be here a couple of days, but now Dr. Singh thinks there’s something wrong with my kidneys—” He pulled the mask down, took a couple of deep breaths and lifted it again. “I’m backing up, like a broken-down toilet.”
“What’s he recommend?”
“More drugs,” Josh said, disgustedly. “I swear to God, it’s the drugs that are killing me, not the infections. I cannot take
“His name appeared frequently in the judge’s personal calendar, the one he kept in his desk at the court. His number was in the judge’s Rolodex, also at his office, but not the one he kept at home. Mrs. Chandler had never heard of him. I ran his record. He has a half-dozen arrests, mostly juvenile, all for prostitution. Ring any bells?”
“No,” I said.
She frowned and stood up, smoothing her skirt. “Why would someone like Judge Chandler befriend a hustler?”
“I don’t know,” I replied.
“I think you do,” she said. She moved to the fireplace and picked up the picture of Josh and me. “Being out of the closet is a luxury that many gay people can’t afford. Maybe you can’t understand that, but it’s something I think about.” She put the picture down and looked at me. “If Judge Chandler paid for being in the closet with his life, I’d think you’d want to help me find his killer before another gay man pays the same price.”
“Are you trying to tell me you’re a lesbian?” I asked her.
“I’m trying to tell you I think we have a common interest here,” she said. “You’re a criminal defense lawyer. You know the drill in a homicide investigation. There are always two detectives assigned to a case.”
“And you’re here on your own,” I said.
“I can promise you discretion,” she said.
“I’m sure you could,” I replied, “but I can’t help you.”
“Thank you for the coffee,” she said. “Here’s my card. Call me if you think of anything that might help my investigation.”
I tucked the card into my shirt pocket. “I’ll do that.”
“Appreciate your time,” she said.
I smiled insincerely. “No problem.”
She was no sooner out the door than the phone rang. I picked it up, still running my conversation with McBeth through my head, and it took me a moment to recognize the woman’s voice on the line saying, “Henry, it’s Selma Mandel.” Josh’s mother. She and his father lived in Claremont, about an hour’s drive east. She said, “I called you earlier, but you were out. I’m afraid Josh is in the hospital again. They took him this morning.”
“What happened?”
“He woke up having trouble breathing. He’s here at Midtown.”
“I’m on my way,” I said, and only then did I notice the half-dozen messages on my answering machine from the morning.
The fourth floor of Midtown Hospital—the AIDS ward—had become as familiar to me as the floor plan of my own house. Once I’d come to visit one friend and bumped into another strolling down the hall, dragging his IV along with him. My AA sponsor, Tim Taylor, had died in one of these rooms in a hospital gown and handmade Italian slippers. He’d left them to me. I could neither wear them nor throw them out, so they gathered dust in the back of my closet.
Josh was sitting up in bed with an oxygen mask pressed to his face, watching The Simpsons. His mother, Selma, sat in a chair beside the bed, knitting. I kissed him on the forehead.
Selma said, “Hello, Henry.”
“Hi,” I said. “How are you feeling, Josh?”
He lifted the mask long enough to say, “Like shit.”
“That’s the spirit,” I said.
Selma got up. “Sit down, Henry. I need to call Joshua’s father.”
“Tell him I’m okay,” Josh said.
She kissed his cheek. “Don’t talk too much.”
After she left, I sat on the edge of the bed and reached for his hand. “Is it pneumocystis?”
He flicked the mask to his forehead impatiently. “They don’t know,” he said. “They shot me up with antibiotics just in case. I’ll just be here a couple of days, but now Dr. Singh thinks there’s something wrong with my kidneys—” He pulled the mask down, took a couple of deep breaths and lifted it again. “I’m backing up, like a broken-down toilet.”
“What’s he recommend?”
“More drugs,” Josh said, disgustedly. “I swear to God, it’s the drugs that are killing me, not the infections. I cannot take
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