He eyeballed his gold-and-black Rolex. 4:45 PM. Less than half an hour before showtime. Where was he? He’s the one who forced him to be here. Now he was. Where was Ricky?
As Ian browsed unexciting trash at the one souvenir shop on the boardwalk that ravenous tourists ignored, he jointly spied on Fantabulous! a couple of blocks down but unmissable in the Venice chaos as its sidewalk transformed into an arena of police, protestors, and mourners. Jake himself wouldn’t recognize his patio, jammed with wilting flowers, flickering votive candles, and handwritten notes occupying every surface. Without question, the customers loved Jacob Monk. With their patchwork quilt of subcultures, a story within a story, all queer, they’d patiently waited for Fantabulous! to open to honor him. But their calm and tears amplified the crudeness and the hate of the protestors beside them. Their simplistic signs insisted: “FAGS BURN IN HELL!,” “GAY IS NOT OK!” and “DON’T BRAINWASH OUR CHILDREN!” carried by a child in an Ernie and Bert t-shirt. If you missed the message, they jabbed them to heaven and chanted, “Only One Love. Only One Love. Only One Love…”
Was that the name of their particular group? Standing out from the swirling, angry OOLers was a dark-haired, black-clad man, in obviously brighter spirits. With his severely clean-cut looks and warm smile, he seemed to chant the opposite. They looked at him for validation now and then. You’d easily mistake him as a mourner except for his head-scratcher sign: “1 MILLION EX-GAYS BROKE IT. YOU CAN TOO.” Definitely poisonous, though it lacked the overuse of exclamation points. What did they break? What could Ian break, too? More importantly, was he an ex-gay?
Such a Tommy Glock thing to go and snoop. Get into trouble. Invite danger. It had been six years since he walked in his shoes–enough time to discover his own motivations. Not always smart, as the beginning of the year proved. At least, his own. His fight-or-flight instincts were initiated after he’d left Ricky’s car at the valet. All he could stomach the rest of today was his boyfriend’s justified caginess. As soon as he surfaced at Fantabulous! He’d grab him, go inside, and face the music with the gung-ho dyke, red-hot go-go boy, and token drag queen Jake left behind. The names changed, but Jacob Monk was true to type.
He lowered his head and pressed his face close to a mesh rack of Venice Beach surfboard keychains. He pretended to shop while in reality, he spied. He earmarked a hundred to blow on hats, tees, and other garish mementos as long as the 50-something clerk kept their silent devil’s bargain. She recognized Tommy Glock or Ian Hornsby as soon as he set foot into her store. As fast as he spotted Detective William Beecroft in plainclothes, an out-of-style brown double-breasted suit he wore to rare Glock formal-please events. Then again, 70s and 80s retro was now a thing. In his opinion, anything but grunge was okey dokey.
Detective Bee was out of uniform but commanded the dozens of uniformed officers who separated the mourners and the protestors. He stood near the back of the line, a stern sentinel blending into the crowd but never letting up. There was a lot more gray in his dark, curly hair, but the same watchful black eyes. By the way he wrinkled his forehead, Ian wouldn’t be surprised if Bee had spotted him by now. Even in his late 20s when Glock started, he missed nothing despite the havoc of their set. What had he told him about murderers? They always came back to the scene of the crime. Jake’s murderer was at Fantabulous!
His neck muscles tensed as the angry, rhythmic chants of Only One Love pummeled his ears. Behind each frustrated shout, he felt the single-minded hate, pictured the suffocating violence of the murderer. Since New Year’s Eve and his failed mission, Ian wondered if he had just left when they took Jake’s life. Surely, he’d have heard something. Felt something. He should tell Bee like he’d come clean with Ricky, but what would that accomplish? He was outside the bar, waiting in the taxi with the driver. He wasn’t sure who he’d been trading texts with that night. Jake had ignored him the week before. Was he being set up? He could think of only one person who got in between him and Jake. Perhaps, like all murderers, he’d come back.
What if they were there all along? Now Ian’s nostrils flared at the prospect that one of Jake’s chosen family had killed him. One of the bar staff. One of the customers. One of the neighbors. He’d heard news reports that he’d been shot while he stood behind his bar. No sign of struggle. That meant he knew his murderer. Trusted them. Perhaps even loved them? He hoped Bee could share a few more details about the crime scene, the ghostly residue of Tommy Glock, come back to haunt their former advisor.
He peered at his watch one last time. Five minutes before the memorial. His stomach tightened into a cold knot. He’d given Ricky too much time to think. He’d for sure abandoned him. Maybe his relatives had already fetched him, taken him back into protective custody. Ian wouldn’t blame them. It was likewise his first instinct as he finally caught sight of Ricky strolling from a narrow backstreet behind Fantabulous! He grinned from ear to ear as if he’d walked out of danger. Ian bolted for him before the protestors recognized him as that Judas, Tommy Glock’s other half. Because of his lies, he’d made the man he loved and wanted to forever protect into another target for their hate. Their venom. What if one of them carried a knife or a gun? Maybe the same gun that shot Jake.
At long last, he reached Ricky. He grabbed his hand to drag him inside, where it was safer. At least for his boyfriend. Chills ran up his spine as he felt the hateful gazes from the OOL horde around them. The otherwise innocent act of holding his lover’s hand drew the fanatical cries of “Tommy Glock, you’re a sinner!” and “Your friend got what was coming!”
“Leave us alone!” he screamed. In his panic to get Ricky to safety, he’d been slow to work out they meant Jake. His earlier suspicions reared their ugly head. Ian glared at all of the protestors. “Admit it! One of you shot Jacob Monk, the man you loved as Joey. A man you hated because he was gay!”
“You Hollywood perverts destroy each other!” Someone too close for comfort yelled back behind them. “It’s bad enough you push your sick agenda by kissing another pervert in public. Now you’re holding hands in front of our children.”
“Forget about them, Ian,” Ricky whispered from behind. “We’re late for Jake’s memorial.”
He inspected the sea of faces that blocked them from Fantabulous!’ entrance. It was evident in their communal expression. He’d disappointed them as he had Ricky. Betrayed them like he betrayed Jake once upon a time. It wasn’t over. What he was doing now was also a slap in the face. He heard Mazzy Star’s Fade Into You faintly playing behind the doors. So close yet so far. As he looked back to consult Ricky, he saw more eyes stare back at him with righteous fury.
Then he approached, the golden-haired man with the kind words for his cultists, but who carried the paradoxical “Ex-Gay” sign. He looked a bit like Michael Landon from Highway to Heaven. Too good to be true. Their lives in danger out in the open, where they could be stabbed or shot, Ian would welcome Touched by an Angel’s Roma Downey and Della Reese because they’d assuredly swarm them instead. Their knight in shining armor ordered, “Let the mourners through, folks. We’re here to share Jesus’ word, not harm others.” He regarded Ian, Ricky, and the others of queer persuasion lined up to get inside. Like Moses parting the Red Sea, he’d let them through. He smelled like minty seawater. Davidoff. Cool Water.
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