The Role Players (30 page)

“You've sure been quiet,” Chris observed, obviously talking to me.

“On the outside,” I said, and I knew he knew what I meant.

“Rod,” he said.

“Rod.”

Actually, all three of the guys had been very patient with my silences and just went about their business enjoying themselves. I did feel more than a little guilty about Jonathan, though. I knew he wanted me to be more
with
him, if you know what I mean. I'd have to figure out a way to make it up to him once we got back home.

I forced myself to not let my thoughts wander off with me as they had been doing and tried to pay close attention to the conversation—and particularly to Jonathan.

*

The Botanical Gardens were very pleasant, and the experience was made more enjoyable for me by Jonathan's enthusiasm. Again, most of the exhibits were indoors, but the various beds around the grounds were picture perfect, and Jonathan was busy with his camera the whole time. Each of the flowerbeds inside and out had specific themes and was done in the style popular at different times and in different places. It again amazed me that Jonathan knew the names of most of the flowers and took close-up pictures of those he didn't, so he could look them up later.

We could have walked back to the ferry landing, but it was getting late, so we hailed a passing cab.

*

The wind was pretty strong—and surprisingly cool—on the ferry ride back, so we stayed inside for the most part. Jonathan kept leaning up against me to keep warm—not that I minded.

Since it was nearly five by the time we got back to the Village, we decided to eat before returning to the apartment. There was a gay restaurant nearby, but when we went in we were told they didn't start serving until six, so we decided on a Mexican place three doors down. Cute-as-hell waiters, and pretty good food, including authentic tamales wrapped in cornhusks, which were something new for Jonathan.

When we got back to the apartment, there was a message on the answering machine from Gene. “Hello, this is Gene Morrison. Since I know Friday is Dick and Jonathan's last day in town, I wondered, if you don't have anything planned, if you would all like to join me for breakfast at my apartment—a small good-bye celebration. Please give me a call either way, if you would. Thank you.”

“What do you think?” Max asked.

“Okay with me,” Chris said.

“That'd be nice,” Jonathan said. “I've never had the chance to talk with him much.”

And I, of course, wanted the chance to talk with him one more time, though I wasn't exactly sure how to handle it. I'd remembered that Gene had told me during one of our first meetings that he had been hearing stories of Rod's promiscuity, but he wouldn't say who told him. I was sure now it was Keith, and I wanted to know what else he might have been told.

I called him right away and said we would be happy to accept his offer. He suggested nine o'clock and I mouthed it to the guys, who all nodded.

“Nine will be fine,” I said. “And thank you again. We're looking forward to it.”

Why did I have the feeling that Gene wanted to talk to me almost as much as I wanted to talk to him? If Keith was calling him in California, I wondered just how much Gene really knew about the dynamics of the Duncan household and exactly what was going on.

Okay,
I thought,
tomorrow's tomorrow, and tomorrow's the end, one way or the other.
Breakfast with Gene, then call Tait—did he say when he was getting in? I don't think so. Tell him everything I know, and offer to go with him to the police with the gun and what I'd found out.

How Tait—or Keith—will react I haven't a clue, but it has the potential to be a little messy. I'll try to meet Tait alone, and away from the apartment.

“So what are you guys going to do tonight?” Max was saying.

“Up to Dick and Jonathan,” Chris said, turning to us. “Any ideas?”

I didn't have any, but not surprisingly Jonathan did.

“Could we go back to Times Square one more time?” he asked. “Maybe we can even get last-minute tickets to see something. We'd still be home by the time Max gets back.”

I looked at Chris. “I suppose so,” I said, “if Chris wants to.”

“Sure,” he said, “but I think the last-minute tickets thing might be kind of iffy. But there's a male strip club a little way off Broadway we could always try. Mostly tourists being daring, but I hear the guys aren't bad.
A Chorus Line
it ain't, but, hey…”

Max, who was ready to leave for the Whitman, paused by the door and looked from Jonathan to me. “Well, you be sure you keep a close eye on Lover-Boy, here. You get him around a bunch of almost-naked guys when I'm not there to smack him down, no telling what he'll try.”

Chris's eyes rolled toward the ceiling. “Yeah, yeah, yeah. Now get out.”

They exchanged grins, and Max left.

Chris, Jonathan, and I made a quick change of clothes and left about fifteen minutes after Max.

Chris was right. By the time we got to Times Square there were crowds in front of all the theaters, waiting to get in, and we didn't want to try to fight through them to reach the box office.

In front of the Imperial, where
Dream Girls
was playing, somebody was standing near the curb offering two tickets for sale. Chris said Jonathan and I should grab them, but Jonathan wouldn't hear of it. I knew he'd like to see it, but not unless we could all go.

I was rather surprised at how little time I spent thinking about the next day and what it might hold.

We decided to try the male strip show, which Chris said he thought began around 8:30, so we headed in that direction. It proved to be more of a large show lounge than a traditional theater, and Chris was right about the clientele—mostly middle-aged-and-up straight couples. We got a table off to one side, reasonably close to an exit—old habits die hard.

The show itself was a sort of combination drag-and-strip show consisting of mini-production numbers featuring the drag queens backed up by scantily clad chorus boys. It was obvious the show was semi-sanitized for the delicate sensibilities of adventurous folks from Cedar Rapids—risqué without being raunchy. Still, it was kind of fun, and several steps above most of the drag shows back home. The drag queens were pretty high-class and pretty talented, and the guys were, well, talented in their own way.

I couldn't help but notice that Jonathan couldn't seem to take his eyes off one of the stripper/dancers—a short, curly-headed Hispanic kid with a face as beautiful as his body was sexy. I reached over under the tablecloth and swatted him on the thigh. He looked at me, startled, then blushed furiously.

“Hey, no problem,” I said with a grin. “You take that one and I'll take the redhead?”

His eyes widened. “I wasn't…” he began, and I realized he thought I was serious!

“It's okay, Babe,” I said, losing the grin. I'd inadvertently triggered a raw nerve and instantly regretted it.

Chris, who hadn't noticed Jonathan's reaction, looked at us both with a mock look of shock. “Well,” he said, “so much for monogamy!”

“For him, maybe,” Jonathan said firmly, “but not for me. While I was hustling I had enough strangers to last me a lifetime!” He looked at me seriously, and I saw both anger and hurt in his eyes.

I ran my hand slowly back and forth over his thigh, awkwardly trying to reassure him.

“I was
teasing
, Babe…just teasing,” I said. “You know we feel the same way about tricking.”

He relaxed a bit and then looked quickly to Chris and gave a not-quite-convincing smile. “Sorry, Chris,” he said.

“Don't be,” Chris said gently. “Monogamy's a touchy subject for a lot of people. You either believe in it or you don't. And if it's any help, I don't think Dick ever tricked on me during the five years we were together.”

“Yeah,” I said. “It was only after Chris left that I became Slut of the Year. I thought I was making up for lost time, and I'm not denying it was fun. Fantasies usually are. But after a while I started realizing that for me, 10,000 ‘tonights' don't add up to one ‘tomorrow.'
You're
my tomorrow, Babe. Hokey, but true.”

Jonathan smiled again, but this time, to my vast relief, it made it all the way.

When the show was over, we walked back to Broadway so Jonathan could say good-bye to Times Square, then went back to the apartment, beating Max home by about ten minutes.

*

Friday, our last full day in New York. I awoke to find Jonathan, his head on my shoulder, watching me.

“Hel-
lo
, Gorgeous!” he said.

I turned my head to kiss him. “Hello yourself,” I answered.

He pulled his head back slightly and looked me in the eye. “You okay?” he asked.

I turned over on my side so we were lying face to face. “I'm fine,” I said, and I realized that I guess I really was. There was an odd feeling of…what? Resignation? What would happen would happen. I'd go to the police with the gun and what I knew even if Tait refused, as well he might under the circumstances. I knew Tait had never hired me to find out that his assistant, his “slave,” his…lover, for all I knew…may have killed Rod Pearce. And I've always dreaded the confrontations that often came with the end of a case.

It bothered me that
I
wasn't going to be able, for sure and for positive, to solve the case. Whether Keith had or had not killed Rod would be up to the police to prove. All I could do was give them the gun and tell them what I knew and what I surmised, for whatever that was worth.

I realized too that I'd told Jonathan and the others nothing at all of what I knew or was sure I knew. They had no idea that Keith had most likely killed Rod.

“Penny,” Jonathan said.

“Thoughts don't go for a penny anymore,” I said, putting my arm around him. “Inflation.”

“Sorry,” he said. “I know it's none of my business.”

I scowled at him. “That's not it. Really. It's just that this might be a pretty rough day in that it could go in several different directions. I just don't want you to be upset or anywhere near as confused as I am. I want you just to be you and not worry. I'll tell you everything as soon as I can. Okay?”

He sighed. “Okay.”

*

We took a cab to Gene's apartment, arriving just before nine. Once again, Gene was standing at the open door when we reached his apartment. He greeted us all and showed us into the living room. The boxes of Rod's things were gone.

“Breakfast will be ready shortly,” he said, inviting us to sit. Max took the chair I'd sat in, and I noticed Rod's photo was missing from the lamp table beside it. Jonathan, Chris, and I sat on the comfortable leather sofa. Gene did not sit down right away, but said, “Since this is a special occasion, I thought we might have a glass of champagne before breakfast. Decadent, I know, but a little decadence now and then is good for the soul.”

Don't ask me why, but I suddenly had the very odd sensation that I was on a stage set, surrounded by actors all playing their assigned parts. Here was Gene, acting as though he didn't have a care in the world—the perfect host in a light drawing-room comedy—but I could almost feel a sense of suppressed sadness radiating from him. Maybe because both Gene and I were Scorpios, I knew how slowly some wounds heal.

He looked at each of us in turn. “Everyone?” he asked.

“Thank you,” Chris and I said at the same time.

Max smiled and said, “I'll pass, thanks. I don't drink.”

“Me either,” Jonathan said.

Gene smiled. “Well, then, how about some sparkling water and lime?”

“That would be fine,” Max said, and Jonathan merely smiled and nodded.

Excusing himself, Gene went into the kitchen. Max, Chris, and I looked casually around the room in silence, the only sound being the ticking of the antique Grandmother's clock at one end of the bookcase. Jonathan got up and walked to the window to look out at the park across the street.

“Nice,” he said to no one in particular. He stood there for a moment, then came back to the couch just as Gene reentered the room with a tray bearing an ice bucket with a bottle of champagne in it, three champagne glasses, and two tall glasses of sparkling water with a small plate of lime wedges, which he set on the low lamp table separating the two chairs. He handed Max and Jonathan their glasses, offering the plate of lime slices, then took the champagne from the ice bucket and filled the remaining glasses. When we all had our drinks, he raised his glass and said, “To pleasant company and safe journeys.”

We were a little too far apart to click glasses all around, so we merely raised them. “Hear, hear,” Chris said.

“You have a really nice place,” Jonathan volunteered after we'd taken our first few sips of our drinks.

“Thank you, Jonathan,” he said. “To be honest, I feel much more comfortable here than I do in California.”

We small-talked until breakfast was ready.

“If you'd like to bring your drinks into the dining room…” he said, rising from his chair and picking up the tray. We all rose to follow him. Gene led us into the dining room where the table was elegantly set with a small floral centerpiece. Jonathan leaned toward me and whispered: “Wow!”