“Yep.”
“And, like me, you know that it’s not rational.”
“Just like you,” I said.
“I think you’ve never quite altogether forgiven yourself for that woman in Los Angeles all that time ago.”
“Candy Sloan,” I said.
Susan nodded.
“Only time I ever cheated on you,” I said.
“Makes it that much worse, doesn’t it?” Susan said.
“I’m not sure it makes any difference,” I said.
Susan smiled the smile she used when she knew I was wrong but planned to let me get away with it.
“It’s frustrating to have so many questions,” Susan said.
“It gives me a lot of handholds,” I said. “I keep groping long enough I’ll get hold of an answer.”
“Yes,” Susan said. “You will.”
“You too,” I said.
Susan smiled at me.
“We persist,” she said.
The waitress came to ask if we needed anything. Susan shook her head. I ordered another beer.
“And another bowl of nuts,” I said.
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.”
