Widow’s Walk

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

Race Witherspoon opened his studio door for me looking as if he had just ingested a fat canary. He had the collar of his silk shirt turned up and the brim of a summer straw hat tilted forward over his eyes.

“You’re wearing your hat indoors,” I said. “Is it a gay thing?”

“Race Witherspoon,” he said. “Super sleuth.”

“I gather you have information for me,” I said.

Race sat down in a client chair facing me and crossed one leg over the other. He had on knee-length black shorts and dark leather sandals.

“Nice pedicure,” I said.

“How sweet of you to notice, bubeleh.”

“Years of training,” I said.

“Nathan Smith was a serious chickenfucker,” Race said.

“How nicely put,” I said. “He was drawn to young boys?”

“Early adolescent when he could get them,” Race said.

“How solid is this?”

“Honey,” Race said, “I talked with some of the chickens.”

“He give them money?”

“Yes, but not like it sounds. He was more like a fairy godfather.” Race grinned. “So to speak. He’d pay for dance lessons or music lessons or whatever. He set up scholarships for them to go to college. Paid for counseling. Wish I’d met the dear man when I was younger.”

“So you could have gotten counseling?” I said.

Race snorted.

“How out was he?” I said.

“Way in the back of the closet, darlin‘. Told people at Nellie’s his name was Marvin Conroy.”

“Marvin Conroy?”

“Un-huh. Nice butch name.”

“Nice butch guy,” I said. “Nathan had a sense of humor.”

“So he borrowed some straight guy’s name,” Race said.

“Yes.”

“Bet the straight guy wouldn’t like it.”

“No.”

“Another thing,” Race said. “One of the bartenders at Nellie’s told me that somebody else had been in a year and a half ago asking about the same guy.”

“Nathan Smith?”

“Un-huh, aka Marvin Conroy.”

“The bartender know who this was?”

“Nope, just a middle-aged straight white guy.”

“How could he tell he was straight?”

“Gay-dar,” Race said. “You wouldn’t understand, sweetie.”

“The bartender remember what the guy looked like?”

“Just what I said.”

“What did the bartender tell him?”

“Nothing. I told you, Nellie’s doesn’t stay in business by telling on their clients.”

“Is he sure about the time?” I said.

“It was right after the Super Bowl,” Race said. “The one where the Rams won.”

“People at Nellie’s watch the Super Bowl?” I said.

“All those muscle men in tight pants?” Race said. “All that butt patting? Honey, get real.”

“I never thought of it that way,” I said.

“‘Course you haven’t,” Race said. “You’re much too straight.”

“Unfortunately,” I said, “I’ll think of it now every time I watch football.”

“It’s good to have a queer perspective now and then,” Race said. “How’s Susan?”

“As always,” I said, “beautiful and brilliant.”

“Hot, too.”

“You think?” I said.

“Hot, hot, hot,” Race said. “If I was ever going to jump the fence…”

“But you aren’t,” I said.

“Oh, God, no!” Race said.

“Whew!”