costumes, provided the perfect embellishments for Dennis Hamilton's extraordinary portrayal that made him the first performer in Broadway history to win two Tony Awards for the same performance, albeit sixteen years apart. It made him not merely a star, but a superstar. The success had rapidly accelerated Quentin's and Dex's already burgeoning careers as well, and, in their gratitude, they remained with the revival when it ended its first Broadway run and went on national tour. Dex actually accompanied it as conductor, and Quentin flew to every new city, every new stage, to make sure the cast and show was as razor sharp as Dennis demanded.
'Every single person in that audience has got to believe that they're seeing opening night on Broadway,' Dennis had told Quentin over and over again. 'That's how crisp, how clean, how fresh this has to be.'
And it was. Not a single critic, either in New York or in any of the major cities A Private Empire toured, accused Dennis or the show of flatness or predictability. At least not until the last year, when a few of the more perceptive reviewers suggested that earlier tours had been somewhat more exciting.
Dex stepped off the curb and looked down the alley behind the church once more. 'Not yet,' he murmured, stepping back. 'Jesus, they better get here soon or they'll miss it.'
'They'll be here,' Quentin said. 'I just hope they'll make it before those brilliant investigative reporters realize that this church has a back door.'
There had been five reporters out front when they arrived, one local, three others from the New York City papers, and a fifth from WINS-TV. They were told immediately that no one would have any comments to make, but they stayed nonetheless.
The sound of a car engine induced Dex to step out again. 'They're coming,' he said. Quentin leaned out and looked. A black BMW sedan was moving slowly down the narrow alley, John Steinberg behind the wheel, Donna Franklin at his side. The two shadowy figures in the back seat, Quentin knew, had to be Dennis and Robin. Steinberg pulled the car to the side just enough so that any others could pass, and parked. When Dennis climbed out, Quentin was astonished at how bad he looked.
AIDS. Even though he knew Dennis was neither gay nor a drug user, it was the first thing to go through Quentin's mind. Dennis's skin was sallow, his cheeks were sunken, he looked as though he had lost weight since Quentin had last seen him. AIDS had claimed a dozen of Quentin's friends since the plague began, and three times as many acquaintances. The most recent had been a dancer with whom Quentin had had a brief affair four years earlier. Though Quentin's AIDS tests continued to come back negative, he still lived in fear.
Dex kissed Robin and hugged Dennis, then did the same to Steinberg and Donna Franklin. Quentin advanced slowly and reached out a hand to Dennis, which was grasped weakly, without fire. 'How are you, Dennis?' Quentin asked.
'I've been better.' The response was flat, without a trace of humor.
'Hello, Robin,' Quentin said in greeting. 'Nice to see you again, only not under these circumstances.'
'Hello, Quentin,' she said, and kissed his cheek.
'We'd better go in,' Dex said briskly and with a quick smile, as though a game of tennis and not a funeral was awaiting them. 'It's almost time.'
'Hey hey!'
They all turned at the voice behind them, and were startled by the brilliance of an electronic flash exploding in their eyes. 'Okay, one more,' the voice cautioned, and the flash spat again. A heavyset man in a trench coat walked up to Dennis and stuck out a meaty hand. 'Larry Peach, Mr. Hamilton. The Probe.'
A sick look came over Dennis's face, and he leaned away from Peach. Quentin had seen the latest Weekly Probe with its shrieking headline, 'Emperor Calls Subject to Death!' and the subheading, '`Off With His Head!'' He caught a trace of garlic on Peach's breath.
'Wondering if you got any comment on this kid's death -'
John Steinberg pushed his way between Peach and Dennis. 'Mr. Hamilton has nothing to say to -'
'Why don't you let him tell me that, pal. Hey, Mr. Hamilton, did you really call the kid out and -'
Once again Steinberg interrupted. 'Mr. Hamilton has nothing to say. Now we have a funeral to go to.'
'Well, fine, I'll go too,' Peach said, a condescending grin on his pouchy face. 'Maybe you'll feel like talking inside the church.'
'Look,' Steinberg said reasonably, 'I'll tell you what. I'm John Steinberg -”
“I know who you are. His manager.'
'That's right. And his spokesman. And if you just stay out of the church and don't cause a scene, I'll give you an exclusive story when I come out.”
“Oh yeah?'
'Yes. I promise. Just wait here, and we'll come out the back. But there's no point in making this a circus. If I see you try to get inside that church, no story.'
'Okay,' Peach said. 'I'm a professional, all I want is a story. I'll be nice to you, you be nice to me.'
'That's right.'
'But exclusive. No talking to the Times or the Post or those other guys first.”
“Of course not. For you alone.'
Peach backed up and made a mock bow. 'Be my guests. I'll be here when you come out.'
'Of that I have no doubt,' Steinberg said, and guided Dennis toward the church door. Robin and Donna Franklin followed. Quentin and Dex took up the rear, and Dex whispered, 'My God, he looks awful,' as they went through the door.
Quentin nodded in agreement. In a way, Quentin had always, even when they had become close friends, felt a fearful respect toward Dennis, but the tottering figure going down the narrow hall before him now inspired no fear, only pity. What, he wondered, had become of the Dennis Hamilton he had known, the Dennis who had barked ' Scheiskopf! ” at those who earned his displeasure, the Dennis Hamilton who was always so sure of himself and his talent and his decisions? That Dennis Hamilton had enraged him at times, but it was preferable by far to this season's model.
The small party filially made its way to the narthex, took computer-printed programs from the chipper assistants of the funeral director, and entered the sanctuary. It was imposing, Quentin thought. He'd never seen a stage set as ponderously overwhelming. Dark wood and gray stone predominated, but neither wood nor stone were as deeply imbued with puritanical solemnity as the face of the middle-aged man in the first row, who turned as the Hamilton party came in and sat down in pews at the rear. The man watched Dennis's face intently until the woman seated next to him put a hand on his shoulder, and he turned back toward the casket.
Tommy's father, Quentin thought. Poor bastard. Losing an only child was bad enough, but to have it splashed all over the tabloids made it worse. A ten-day wonder, but those ten days could be hell to get through.
The service seemed to go on forever. A dour-faced minister droned tirelessly away, and Quentin shut his ears to it. He had heard it altogether too many times in the past few years, had seen the caskets of too many friends on too many biers. He wondered glumly how many more he would attend before being the guest star himself.
At last the music and the scripture and the message of comfort were over, the minister intoned his last amen, and the congregation stood. As in a wedding, the front row exited first, and as Tommy Werton's father passed the pew that Quentin, Dex, and the Hamilton party sat in, he glared with undisguised hatred at Dennis, who seemed not to notice, lost in his thoughts. When the time came, they stood, and shuffled along with the rest of the crowd into the narthex, where they found Mr. Werton and the woman who had been sitting beside him, and another man the same age.
'Tommy's aunt and uncle,' Robin whispered to Quentin and Dex. 'His mother's dead.'
The murmured sympathies grew louder as they approached the triumvirate of grief. Robin took the offered hands and spoke the words, and then Dennis was nodding to the aunt, the uncle, and finally, Mr. Werton, to whom he put out his hand tentatively, as if afraid of having it grasped and twisted. He need not have worried. Mr. Werton's hand, clenched in a fist, remained at his side. He was a small man, but the way his mouth twisted in a scowl made him look far larger, more menacing.
'I won't take your hand,' he said. Quentin could see that the man was actually trembling, and for a moment he was afraid that the fist would come up and strike Dennis.
Dennis stood there, his hand halfway up, his mouth partly open as if he was about to say something, but then thought better of it. The hand fell back to his side, and he turned and moved on. Steinberg was next in line, and he grasped Werton's hand and held on to it. 'I was there,' he said gently. 'And Mr. Hamilton had nothing to do with your son's death.'
