from the carpet.
“And this is Wayde,” I said, a host to my fingertips. “Her clothes are on loan to the children of Bosnia.”
“Aren’t you pretty,” Orlando said.
“Some girls are,” I said, watching Wayde with fascination. She was blushing.
“I’ll just get dressed,” she said, backing onto the roof.
“Get dressed?” I asked.
“Not for me, I hope,” Orlando said. He turned to me. “Where have you been hiding? I called last night, but you weren’t home.”
“He was undergoing surgery,” Eleanor said.
His brow furrowed. “Nothing serious, I hope.”
“Having an arm removed,” I said. “But I thought better of it.” I pulled up my sleeve and showed him my orange forearm.
“I used to love the color of Mercurochrome,” Orlando said. “I painted my whole body once, when I was around six. Sonia about killed me.”
“Have you heard from them?” That was Eleanor, always first with the niceties.
“Actually, that’s why I called. Where’s the coffee?”
“Oh, boy,” Eleanor said to me. “Invite the lad in, offer him coffee, and then stand there showing off your wounds.”
“Hi, again,” Wayde said from the doorway. She was still naked. She looked down at herself and then up at Orlando. “My dress is really ugly.”
“It’s hard to imagine a dress that would be an improvement,” Orlando said gallantly.
“Gee,” Wayde breathed.
“Black, right?” said the creaking old man, from the kitchen.
“Fine,” Orlando said. “You’ve got a beautiful neck, you know?“
“Thanks,” I said.
“My neck?” Wayde asked, blinking.
“You should wear something with a little scoop in front, something to accentuate the line of your neck. I’ll bet it’s twice as long as mine.”
“Your neck,” Wayde said shyly. “Your neck is swell.”
“Don’t lead her on, Orlando,” I said, handing him one of my few matching cups and saucers.
“You doddering old poop,” Eleanor said reprovingly.
“You lack essential information,” I told her in a superior tone.
“I doubt things have changed that much,” Eleanor said. “Sit, Orlando, don’t wait for Simeon to invite you. Wayde, why don’t you come all the way in? We can see more of you that way. What’s the word from Hawaii?”
Orlando sat on the far end of the couch, haloed by the light through the window, and Wayde stood there and gaped. “You’ve got an attractive uvula, too,” Eleanor said.
“Huh?”
“Close your mouth, dear. You look hungry that way.”
“Sorry,” Wayde said, sitting on the floor. Her belly didn’t even wrinkle.
“Sonia called yesterday,” Orlando said. “It’s rained nonstop, and Al keeps hauling her out in it.”
“To do what?” Eleanor asked.
“Visit cops,” Orlando said. “The only thing Sonia’s seen is the inside of the hotel room and the Honolulu police station. Al brought letters from a bunch of L.A. cops, and he’s determined to meet everybody.”
“Poor Sonia,” Eleanor said sympathetically.
“No, she’s enjoying it. She’s as bad as Al, you know. She can’t wait to get to Maui, meet a whole new bunch of cops.”
“Who are we talking about?” Wayde asked.
“Orlando’s sister is a, um, policeperson,” Eleanor said. “Married to another policeperson.”
“My parents hate cops,” Wayde said. “They hate cops and politicians and the guys who own stores and everybody, and they’ve got these big love signs all over the house.”
“I talked to Al,” Orlando said. “I told him about that sheriff, that Spurrier, and Al said to stay away from him.”
“Who’s Spurrier?” Eleanor asked alertly.
“I’ll tell you later,” I said.
“Al said he was a motherfucker,” Orlando continued, the word sounding awkward in his mouth. “He’s been brought up for disciplinary action a bunch of times for pounding on people, especially queers.”
“ Orlando.” Eleanor sounded shocked.
He looked from her to me. “You didn’t tell her?”
Eleanor turned cool eyes to me. “Tell me what?”
“That I’m gay,” Orlando said, a bit defiantly.
A long hiss escaped Wayde. Her mouth was open, and she leaned forward, gazing at Orlando with a look of pure loss. Then she felt our eyes on her and sat up. “Way cool,” she said in a very small voice. I wanted to lean over and kiss the top of her head.
“When did you meet this Spurrier?” Eleanor asked, deciding for the moment to glide over Orlando’s revelation.
“After the wedding,” I said. “When was that, the day before yesterday?” It seemed like a week ago.
“I have to pee,” Wayde announced brokenheartedly. She got up and left the room.
“And why are you being told to stay away from this man?” Eleanor demanded.
“He beat Simeon up,” Orlando said.
“Is he the one you’re afraid of?” she asked.
“One of them,” I said.
“Orlando,” she said, “why don’t you and I go out on the roof and you can tell me what’s going on. Mr. Strong-but-Silent here is saving it for the third act.”
“Sure,” Orlando said promptly, standing up. So much for male bonding.
“And you,” she said to me, “can wash the cups and figure out what we’re going to do about lunch.”
“I thought I’d just eat some raw beef,” I said, getting stiffly to my feet. “And ladyfingers for Orlando and you girls.” I toted the coffee cups obediently into the kitchen and turned on the tap, getting the usual mysterious clanking noises before the water made its appearance. I was leaning against the sink, counting silently to twenty and waiting for the water to turn hot, when someone behind me said, “Knock, knock,” and I jumped about three feet and came down facing the door.
It was open, and Ike Spurrier stood in it.
“Guilty conscience?” he asked. A uniform, considerably taller than he, stood behind him, peering in at me as though the cabin were the Snake House at the Zoo.
“What do you want?”
“In the neighborhood,” Spurrier said, not bothering to make it sound true. He wore the same yellow tweed jacket, but today’s polo shirt was a particularly unappetizing shade of orange that emphasized the colorlessness of his eyes. He leaned forward and gave the kitchen and living room an uninterested once-over. Then he licked the red lower lip. “Guess being a gay detective doesn’t pay all that well, huh?”
“I’d ask you in,” I said, “but I don’t want to.”
“That so,” Spurrier said, coming through the door. “Well, don’t bother. I’m already in. Wally,” he said, “take a hike down the hill. Look around, see if there’s another door.”
The uniform didn’t move, so Wally was presumably someone else. Spurrier put both hands in his jacket pockets and smiled at me, the red lip stretching unappealingly beneath the mustache. “Hot, isn’t it?”
I could feel the edge of the sink pressed against my back, and I forced myself to step forward. “Do you have a warrant?”
“In this heat,” he said, “I’m surprised to see you in a long-sleeved shirt. I had you figured for a T-shirt kind of guy.”
I buttoned the cuff I’d opened when I showed Orlando my arm. “Did you.”
“Sure. All you buff guys, that the word? Buff? Like to show off your biceps. All that work in the gym, looking
