When the Stars Come Out (44 page)

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Honestly, Quinn, why do you want to witness this
. . .
this . . . humiliation?”

Quinn didn’t reply. Instead, he limped toward his lover until he

was close enough to land a blow. Jimmy cringed
. . .
but Quinn merely bent down and retrieved the remote. Then he turned and

zapped the television back to life.

The Tonight Show
audience was laughing about something, but it no longer had to do with him. He watched it for a few moments,

taking none of the words in, then pushed the off button once and

dropped the remote control back to the floor.

Quinn still stared at the dark screen, his back to Jimmy, and re-

mained in that position when he finally spoke.

“I wish you wouldn’t try to protect me from myself.”

Jimmy’s voice was husky; Quinn knew he was trying to fight

tears. “I love you, and I don’t want to see you hurt.”

At that, Quinn turned to him. “Thank you.”

Jimmy finally let the tears flow, and, as he dabbed at his damp

cheeks, said, “Let’s go to bed.”

Grabbing a tissue from a box on the nightstand, Quinn gently

touched Jimmy’s face. These scenes—what he cantankerously

would describe as “the waterworks,” when the moments had passed

and the pain was eased—didn’t happen often, but every time they

did it broke his heart. He knew that Jimmy would die for him,

which is why Jimmy had worked so hard to keep the cruel jokes of

late-night television from him, even after Quinn knew and the

jokes were being told to his face. He wondered if Jimmy knew he

would die for
him
, too; and that, in fact, every time he saw him hurt, he died just a little bit.

Over the years, and increasingly in recent years as they aged,

Quinn had wondered what would happen when one of them was

gone. While they had talked about it over the years, the talks had been built around the practical concerns: life insurance, bank accounts
. . .
the things a surviving spouse would need to know. They had never discussed the inevitable in emotional terms, never discussed how the one of them who was still alive was expected to re-

cover. As he embraced Jimmy, Quinn silently resolved to address

the issue—no matter how difficult it was—before it was too late.

They weren’t young men anymore, but they also weren’t obscenely

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old. Still, the aches and pains were warning signs that their bodies weren’t immortal. And the late-night comedians were warning

signs that, at some point, their minds were fragile, too.

But that would wait for another day. At that precise moment,

Quinn Scott was only interested in comforting Jimmy Beloit, the

man who had tried so hard to comfort
him
.

Jimmy had regained his composure. As the men sat on the bed,

he said, “Sorry about the waterworks.”

Quinn smiled. Jimmy had made a quick recovery. That was one

of the good things about growing old together: they knew each

other well enough not to dwell on things—tempers and setbacks

and general malaise—they had confronted hundreds of times in

the past.

Quinn rolled Jimmy slowly on his back and kissed him, letting

his tongue slide inside his partner’s lips. Those lips
. . .
still as soft as they had been all those years ago, the first time the young actor had been kissed by the younger dancer. His hand slid inside Jimmy’s shirt, brushing his silky, almost hairless chest, every bit as taut and muscled as it had been when he was a professional dancer. In fact, Quinn sometimes had to wonder what, exactly, had aged on Jimmy’s

body as it progressed from its twenties into its sixties. Not his ass; it was as perfect and rounded as it had been in his youth
. . .
not his waist; still only thirty inches, at most, even after a holiday binge. His legs and arms still bent with a suppleness belying his age. Only Jimmy’s hair, gone silvery gray; and his flesh, grown tawny and wrinkled

from years in his beloved sun, showed his age
. . .
but otherwise, this Jimmy Beloit was instantly recognizable as the Jimmy Beloit of 1969

. . .
the cute young dancer caught in the romance of The Glance.

As he slowly undressed, Quinn’s self-appraisal was harsher. His

waistline—always rebelling against him, even in his younger days of physical activity and stardom—was notably thicker, and the rest of the body had softened with it. His chest was still expansive, but now it was also spongy, If he was still an intimidating presence—and he knew that, rumors of his senescence aside, he was—it was because

he knew that clothes could hide almost every flaw. Jimmy could

walk into a room naked and be admired; Quinn could be
. . .
well, perhaps not admired, but he could draw attention. But only if

dressed.

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His hand continued to stroke Jimmy’s chest, and he felt his part-

ner’s hands reach around him, slide under his shirt, and begin

kneading his back. That, too, reminded Quinn of their first time

together
. . .
the way the experienced dancer had put him at ease, walking him through his first homosexual encounter with gentle-ness and understanding. He had spent hours with Quinn, asking

for no more than he was able to give, knowing that time would ultimately prove to be the best teacher. What Quinn would have hun-

grily and awkwardly devoured, Jimmy taught him to savor. That

Quinn was an apt pupil was fortunate, but—even if that had not

been the case—he knew that Jimmy would have waited.

Being together was their destiny in September 1969, and it was

still their destiny, thirty-seven years later. Of the many things Quinn Scott knew, that was the fact of which he was most confident.

On the bed, Quinn pulled away from Jimmy.

“What?” Jimmy asked.

“I’m taking my fucking pants off, you fool.” Jimmy smiled at

that; he was in the mood.

Quinn and Bart arrived at the dressing room at 8:00 AM, both

having had a rather pleasant night of sleep, which was especially

surprising since both men had been up half the night making pas-

sionate love with their respective partners.

On the ride to the soundstage, Quinn had cleared the air with

Bart about the minor deception involved in keeping him in the dark about the repercussions of Kitty’s reign of terror. Bart, not knowing exactly how much Jimmy had told Quinn, wisely kept quiet, beyond

his profuse apologies. Quinn—tired and still possessing a certain

after-sex glow—accepted them and assured him that the matter was

in the past. As long as it never happened again.

Ever.

Quinn’s script arrived. He flipped through it and was pleasantly

surprised that, for once, it was the same script that had arrived

shortly after Dean had left his dressing room the day before, and

which—not with enthusiasm—he had nevertheless rehearsed. Not

that that meant anything, of course, if everyone else was reading an entirely different script. Maybe they
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now. Still, it was progress. He would just make sure that Jason St.

Clair and the others stayed away from it on the set.

Later in the morning, while Bart was away, leaving Quinn to re-

hearse in peace, there were three light raps on the dressing room

door. Quinn already knew Dean Henry’s knock, and, sure enough,

Kitty Randolph’s third husband stood before him when he opened

the door.

“Christ,” said Quinn, looking Dean up and down. “What hap-

pened to
you
?”

“Fender-bender,” said Dean, asking, “Can I come in?” as he en-

tered, without waiting for an answer, his neck braced and forehead bandaged. Quinn closed the door behind him.

“I see you got the correct script today,” Dean said, spotting the

pink pages on the table.

“Or so I hope.”

“No, that’s the right one.” Dean smiled. His teeth were a white

not found in nature. “It’s over, Quinn.”

“What’s over?”

“The games.” He sat in an easy chair, pulled a joint from his

jacket pocket, and asked, “Mind if I smoke?”

“What is that?”

“What Mitchum got busted for.” Without waiting for an answer,

Dean lit up a joint and took a deeper-than-advisable drag.

“Let me guess,” said Quinn, waving away the proffered mari-

juana. “You’re on some heavy painkillers, aren’t you.”

Dean giggled. “’Fraid not. Just this.” He held up the joint with one hand and waved the smoke away from his face with the other. “Not

even last night, after the accident. And believe me, I
asked
for painkillers.”

“So what happened?”

“Some guy hit me. Anyway, I need to make a bit of a confession.

When I left here yesterday, I was ready to destroy you.”

“Uh
. . .
okay.”

Dean, awkward in his neck brace, tried to rest his head against

the back of the chair, but the position wasn’t working for him. “Oh, yeah. I mean, you were the tough guy, and I was the wimp, but I was going to show you who was the boss. Think I’m a milquetoast because I don’t stand up to Kitty? I’d show you. Think I’m gay? I’d

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show you. Uh
. . .
no offense. I mean, it’s great that you’re gay, but that’s not for me.”

“You’re just attracted to much older, domineering, wealthy

women.”

Dean thought about that for a moment, and decided to drop it.

The joint was going right to his head, but still he sensed a trap.

“Anyway,” he said, trying to keep his thoughts clear, “I was totally going to bring you down today. You think the past week has been

rough? I was going to make your name a bigger joke than
. . .

than
. . .
someone with a name that’s a big joke. Um
. . .
Tori Spelling!

Yes, I was going to make you a bigger joke than her! And then . . .”

“What?” asked Quinn, not as curious as he would have been had

he not been distracted trying to think of who Tori Spelling might

be. Wasn’t she the U.S. Secretary of Education?

“Then I had the accident. And while I was sitting there for hours

in the emergency room, waiting for someone to notice I was there,

I got my head together.” Dean painfully turned his neck to get a

better look at Quinn and, making full, unbroken eye contact, said,

“And I realized you were right.”

“You’re gay?”

“
No
!! Not about that! About Kitty!” His voice dropped to a near-whisper as he added, “She’s a bitch. She’s an evil, manipulative,

conniving, abusive bitch.”

“I know,” said Quinn, nodding in agreement and thinking of a

few other words that could be tacked onto Dean’s list of negatives.

“She’s
. . .
well, she’s just plain mean.” Dean took another drag, and again his offer to Quinn was declined. “Mean, mean, mean
. . .

And you know what else?”

“What?”

“She had a boob job when she was sixty-five. How fucked up is

that?”

“Uh . . .”

“Right. Pretty fucked up.” Dean began to giggle again, and

slapped his hand against the arm of the chair. “Just decided to get her titties lifted for whatever reason. Totally fucked up.” He paused and tried collecting thoughts. “Uh . . . so anyway, Quinn, get out there this afternoon and hit one out of the park.”

Quinn looked at his dog-eared script. “I’ll try.”

“You’ll try? Guy, this is
The Brothers-in-Law
, not Shakespeare.

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You’ll be fine.” He dropped the joint into a half-empty water glass and began to struggle to his feet, as Quinn offered him a hand.

“Thanks. And listen
. . .
no harm done, right?”

“I hope not.”

“I’ll make it all good for you. Leave it to me.” Dean stumbled a

few steps toward the door. “Remember: I’m on your side now. And

nothing is going to stop us.”

“Can I ask you a question?” asked Quinn, as Dean started to turn

the doorknob.

“Shoot.”

“What exactly happened last night to bring this on?”

Dean thought back to the accident
. . .
the ride to the hospital
. . .

the long hours in the emergency room
. . .
the way the young Mexican, Raul, now wearing a shirt, had stayed by his side through the entire ordeal. And at those memories, he smiled, turned to

Quinn, and said, “The bitch never even called the hospital to see if I was all right.”

That day on the soundstage, Quinn hit all his marks and knew

all his lines. It was, he thought, like he had never left the business.

While there were screwups—the sort of screwups that sent Mark R.

Cassidy into a rage, Bernie into exasperation, and Jason St. Clair back to his dressing room, where he threatened to not return to

work for the rest of the day—they came from Q. J., that unfortu-

nate spawn of his loins. Quinn wondered if his son would have

stood half a chance if he had raised him, rather than that shrew of an ex-wife and her feckless husband.

Oh, he wouldn’t have become an actor—if Katherine didn’t put

an end to that career option, talent would have—but there were

still a lot of choices for someone of Q. J.’s personal demeanor. He could have been a bank loan officer. Or a car salesman. Or a tele-marketer. Somehow, he would have found a way to survive.

Then again, for better or worse Q. J. had earned two People’s