Monday, January 30, 1995
His gold-and-black Rolex read 2:00 AM. Ian grinned from ear to ear as total exhaustion crushed him. It was an hour he rarely spent outside their California King Stearns & Foster bed or alone. Instead, he snuggled under a Peacock Alley duvet with Ricky. A warmth spread through him at the memory of it, the familiar comfort of his lover’s cherished CK One scent and the myriad ways they chased away the chilly desert mornings. But the warmth quickly dissipated as he stepped back onto the emptying Venice Boardwalk. He buried the letter from Jake deep in his jacket pocket and walked back towards Fantabulous!, his Fantabulous! now, and turns out, all along. He’d find a way to convince Ricky without the letter. Ricky, whom he’d left at the bar. He hoped he’d fallen more in love with it and those people. Vice versa. It would facilitate his defense, ease his guilt.
Switching on his Glock instinct, Ian immediately found the spot Ricky mentioned he got lost at, the place where, completely lost, he’d first seen the Godsent poster–good old Catholic Ricky’s adjective, not his. Ian was an atheist. No, they had another term for what he was: an agnostic. Because the big guy’s existence was moot, he could still enjoy The Ten Commandments and Ben-Hur with his partner without irritating commentary. His ears pounded a steady drumbeat as he investigated what Ricky had described. Fantabulous! The advertisement proclaimed in vibrant, rainbow hues, promising hope. Then his gaze finally fell on the desecration, and the barrage heightened. His hands trembled as he touched the bloodstained OOL crudely spray-painted over hope in chicken scratch. What was their motive in making the grim correction today of all days? Ricky said it was some kid barely in his teens. If he saw him again at Only One Love’s equally juvenile protest outside the memorial, he would’ve pointed him out. How dare they violate a poster, Jake, knowing him, hung himself. Possibly the last poster for his baby. Their baby. It was still difficult to admit. He’d let it sit for a while before sharing it with Ricky. First, break the news. It was difficult enough.
First things first, he’d tell Detective Bee himself about the violation of his friend’s memory.
Bee would get to the bottom of it. And if that disgusting hate group, which misguidedly used “Love” in their name, commanded kids to ruin Jake’s day further, there’d be hell to pay. It included that “Michael Landon”-type protestor he spotted. An older man whose smile was too eager, too bright, too knowing. The ex-gay, as his sign declared, was one of one million who broke something. Now, Ian could break it, too. Laughable if not for the man’s unsettling wholesomeness. Someone who probably played high school football and now coached it. He and Jake used to share a knowing laugh when they filmed at a real high school and met guys like the ex-gay. Ragged on them but secretly fantasized about them. That was high school. But the man didn’t belong with the group. With his ear-to-ear smile, he was untainted by the bitterness that flashed in their eyes. His eyes twinkled. Had he been swept up in the moment, handed a random sign, and ordered to play a part like the Sesame Street kid beside him to make it look worse? The man looked like an actor, like Ian himself, only in his mid-to-late 40s. Someone desperate to pay the bills. So, what’s his story?
“If you don’t want any trouble, I suggest you pay me right away,” a familiar voice yelled into the receiver, then hung up. His back to him, the man was at a pay phone across from where he stood.
He smelled like Grossman but cheaper. He recognized his old Glock buddy instantly. Although they’d only been reintroduced at Jake’s–Jacob! Bee insisted–memorial hours ago, Detective Bee had surprised him, somehow he’d evolved in the six years since they said goodbye at the wrap party. Far from the “fuddy duddy” Ian fondly described him as. Bee asked Ricky if he preferred to be identified as boyfriend or lover. They often used the vague “partner” to avoid friction and, ironically, to make friends. Even in the unconventional environment of Palm Springs, it was a painless way to be a good neighbor, minus politics.
On top of the enraged voice, he recognized the consistently vigilant stance of his colleague, the way Detective Bee always leaned in even as he spun around. He must not have noticed Ian and took off walking in the opposite direction. “Bee?” Ian shouted.
He peered at his watch. “Thought you and Richard would be out for the count in your four-poster bed by now. Back in your Palm Springs mansion.”
“You’re the second person today to call our home a mansion.” He sighed at Kitty’s sermon. That was before he learned about the letter. Jake’s letter forgave Ian his many trespasses. The drinking. The torn-up bar. The disappearing act. The drinking. Everything she’d accused him of. If only sharing the letter with anyone else at Fantabulous! wouldn’t do more damage. Breaking Ricky’s heart wasn’t worth wiping that smugness off her lips. His first love’s last words were that he never stopped loving him. The love of his life. He hadn’t yet processed how he’d felt about Jake. His death confused his feelings. Someday, he’d share even the letter with the love of his life. Ricky. Was it because he was still alive?
“You were lost in thought, Ian.” Bee snapped his fingers. “I asked what you call it then? My wife was drooling over your gourmet kitchen, sun-soaked terrace, and Olympic-sized pool on Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous. Sometime in 92.”
“Home.” He only said. “How is Mrs. Bee? I miss her oatmeal raisin cookies.”
“Ex-Mrs. Marjorie and I got divorced that year. You can’t have champagne wishes and caviar dreams on a cop’s salary. You know what I’m saying, son?”
“It sounded like you were arguing with somebody. I wasn’t eavesdropping. Was it Marjorie?”
“That woman robbed me blind in alimony,” Bee said, his chin trembling. “It’s why I’m trying to collect a late payment from New Life Corporation. I moonlight as a vitamin salesman. My day job pays the bloodsucker. My night job is for Jade’s tuition. Can’t be late on that. It’s her last year at USC.”
“She was a teenager when I last saw her.”
“Well, she just turned 21 last month.” Bee beamed. “I sold tons of their damned products. All I ask is that they mail the check on time.” His eyes darted to Ian’s wrist and the Rolex.
“If there’s anything I can do.” He pulled at his sleeves to hide it. He knew he was too proud to take the helping hand Ian genuinely offered. Would rather endeavor in the MLM waters to pay the bills. No handouts for William Beecroft! A Republican through and through. “At least let me buy a couple of boxes.”
“I left them in the car.” He scratched his nose. “And you should go home before trouble finds you and Richard.”
“Ricky.” His pulse hastened. “It’s short for Ricardo, not Richard. I was afraid he’d come looking for me.”
“It isn’t safer back at the bar.” Bee glanced nervously at Fantabulous!’ direction. “Jacob proved that. Why did you leave Ricardo’s side? Did you fight?”
“No.” He patted his chest and heard the letter faintly crackle. The posthumous conversation wasn’t the shocking news of the day. Ian reached for the right words. “You’ll hear the news soon anyway. Jake left me Fantabulous!”
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