house but we really came to know him later, I through AA and Josh through Act Up.
At the front of the room was a podium and on either side of it were floral wreaths on easels. In the center of each were photographs of Cullen. One showed him as a boy of six or seven, bristly-haired and freckled. The other had been taken when he was in his mid-thirties, probably, a glossy head shot of a rather ordinary-looking man lighted and airbrushed into centerfold pulchritude. My own image of him was as a man with thinning red hair, very pale skin, mouth set in a moue, eyes wide with hot dish. Just another faggot, funny and sweet, just another sissy whose only sin had been not to be ashamed of himself.
At the podium, Cullen’s best friend was saying, “The last time I went to see him, he’d gone completely blind. So I sat down and held his hand and said, ‘Honey, I’m so sorry.’ And Cullen squeezed my hand and said, ‘Girlfriend, you don’t know the half of it. I never learned how to put lipstick on in the dark.’”
I was laughing and crying at the same time, and then I saw Josh. He was weeping on the shoulder of the man sitting next to him. Steven. Steven lifted Josh’s face and kissed his forehead, like an old lover. I got up quietly and left the room.
I was on the sidewalk, heading to my car when I heard someone call, “Henry.”
It was Timothy Taylor, my AA sponsor, tall and thin, a sprig of lilac drooping from the lapel of his white silk blazer, his graying blond hair swept back in dramatic planes from his narrow, inquisitive face.
“I thought I saw you skulking in,” he said, “and I definitely saw you skulking out.”
“Back to work,” I answered, not wanting to talk to him.
He put his arm through mine. “Could you believe that Rita Hay-worth shot of Mary Louise? All she needed were castanets. Josh talked to me earlier.”
“Oh,” I said.
“Is there something you’d like to tell me?”
“I’ve been dumped, Tim, that’s all.”
“Mm,” he replied. “Must hurt.”
“Of course it hurts.”
“So what are you going to do about it? Run away, just like you did when you saw Josh with Steve?”
“Is that such an unusual reaction?”
We were at my car. “I thought you came here to remember Cullen.”
“I’ll call you, Tim.”
“Don’t wait until you’ve had a drink before you do it,” he replied.
Back at my office, I pretended to work, reading the same page of a reporter’s transcript over and over, while entertaining murderous thoughts toward Steven. I was relieved when the phone rang. Emma said, “Senator Peña’s on the line. We’re coming up in the world.”
“Just put him through, OK?”
“Excuse me, Mr. Rios,” she replied.
“Sorry, Emma, I—”
“Who’s Emma?” Gus Peña asked, jovially. “Your girlfriend?”
“My secretary, Gus. Are you still in town? I thought the senate was in session.”
“Right now I have more important things to think about,” he said. “Like an arraignment.”
I closed the reporter’s transcript and pulled out a legal pad. “I take it this is a business call.”
“Listen, Rios, I got a lawyer up in Sacramento who doesn’t know his ass from a hole in the ground. I’ve been asking around and I hear you’re good. Take my case, all right?”
People versus Peña, I wrote at the top of the pad. “What do you want to do about the case, Gus? From what I hear they got you cold.”
“That’ll be the day,” he laughed. “First thing is, I want the trial moved down here, to LA. The papers up in Sacramento already got me convicted and serving time.”
Change of venue, pre-trial publicity, I wrote. “Moving the trial doesn’t change the evidence.”
“You haven’t even seen the evidence,” he said impatiently.
“You were arrested at the scene, weren’t you?”
“There were two of us in the car, Rios, me and one of my aides. We were driving back from dinner. I wasn’t driving. He was.”
I put down my pen. “I beg your
At the front of the room was a podium and on either side of it were floral wreaths on easels. In the center of each were photographs of Cullen. One showed him as a boy of six or seven, bristly-haired and freckled. The other had been taken when he was in his mid-thirties, probably, a glossy head shot of a rather ordinary-looking man lighted and airbrushed into centerfold pulchritude. My own image of him was as a man with thinning red hair, very pale skin, mouth set in a moue, eyes wide with hot dish. Just another faggot, funny and sweet, just another sissy whose only sin had been not to be ashamed of himself.
At the podium, Cullen’s best friend was saying, “The last time I went to see him, he’d gone completely blind. So I sat down and held his hand and said, ‘Honey, I’m so sorry.’ And Cullen squeezed my hand and said, ‘Girlfriend, you don’t know the half of it. I never learned how to put lipstick on in the dark.’”
I was laughing and crying at the same time, and then I saw Josh. He was weeping on the shoulder of the man sitting next to him. Steven. Steven lifted Josh’s face and kissed his forehead, like an old lover. I got up quietly and left the room.
I was on the sidewalk, heading to my car when I heard someone call, “Henry.”
It was Timothy Taylor, my AA sponsor, tall and thin, a sprig of lilac drooping from the lapel of his white silk blazer, his graying blond hair swept back in dramatic planes from his narrow, inquisitive face.
“I thought I saw you skulking in,” he said, “and I definitely saw you skulking out.”
“Back to work,” I answered, not wanting to talk to him.
He put his arm through mine. “Could you believe that Rita Hay-worth shot of Mary Louise? All she needed were castanets. Josh talked to me earlier.”
“Oh,” I said.
“Is there something you’d like to tell me?”
“I’ve been dumped, Tim, that’s all.”
“Mm,” he replied. “Must hurt.”
“Of course it hurts.”
“So what are you going to do about it? Run away, just like you did when you saw Josh with Steve?”
“Is that such an unusual reaction?”
We were at my car. “I thought you came here to remember Cullen.”
“I’ll call you, Tim.”
“Don’t wait until you’ve had a drink before you do it,” he replied.
Back at my office, I pretended to work, reading the same page of a reporter’s transcript over and over, while entertaining murderous thoughts toward Steven. I was relieved when the phone rang. Emma said, “Senator Peña’s on the line. We’re coming up in the world.”
“Just put him through, OK?”
“Excuse me, Mr. Rios,” she replied.
“Sorry, Emma, I—”
“Who’s Emma?” Gus Peña asked, jovially. “Your girlfriend?”
“My secretary, Gus. Are you still in town? I thought the senate was in session.”
“Right now I have more important things to think about,” he said. “Like an arraignment.”
I closed the reporter’s transcript and pulled out a legal pad. “I take it this is a business call.”
“Listen, Rios, I got a lawyer up in Sacramento who doesn’t know his ass from a hole in the ground. I’ve been asking around and I hear you’re good. Take my case, all right?”
People versus Peña, I wrote at the top of the pad. “What do you want to do about the case, Gus? From what I hear they got you cold.”
“That’ll be the day,” he laughed. “First thing is, I want the trial moved down here, to LA. The papers up in Sacramento already got me convicted and serving time.”
Change of venue, pre-trial publicity, I wrote. “Moving the trial doesn’t change the evidence.”
“You haven’t even seen the evidence,” he said impatiently.
“You were arrested at the scene, weren’t you?”
“There were two of us in the car, Rios, me and one of my aides. We were driving back from dinner. I wasn’t driving. He was.”
I put down my pen. “I beg your
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