hoping to see who the other drink was for, but I lost sight of him midway through the room. Also, I was blocking the doorway for other drinkers, so I continued on through into a fairly small room with yellow-and-white wallpaper, antique-looking white sideboard and hutch, and a long table against one wall covered with glasses and bottles and a couple of ice buckets. Half a dozen guests were grouped at the table, and it seemed as though every time one left with a replenished drink, another one would take his place. But none of them the people I was interested in.
I moved on, and in the kitchen I found Jerry Weissman washing glasses. Up to his elbows in dishwater. He grinned at me and called, “Hi! You just get here?”
“A few minutes ago.” The noise level was way down in the kitchen, making it possible to speak in normal tones.
Jerry Weissman held his soapy hands up for me to see, saying with humorous resignation, “Isn’t it always the way? People drink a drink halfway, put their glass down, forget where they put it, and go make another drink in another glass. So you’ve got to keep on washing glasses all the time. You could wind up with dishpan hands.”
Since he had undoubtedly volunteered for the job, and since in all likelihood it was unnecessary—there had seemed to be plenty of clean glasses still on the table in the other room—I didn’t waste time sympathizing with him, but said, “I don’t seem to be finding the people I want.”
“Really?” He frowned, puzzled. “I think they’re all here.”
“I saw Remington, and Bruce Maundy. And I caught a glimpse of Cary Lane.”
“The others are here. David is always nearby to Cary. And Leo and Henry have to be around someplace.”
“Leo was the one who let me in. Actually, Henry Koberberg is the only one I’m not sure of. I don’t know what he looks like.”
“Do you want me to come point him out?”
“If you would, I’d appreciate it.”
“Sure.” He shook suds from his hands and reached for a towel, then stopped and said, “Hey, I know where he is. Upstairs.”
“Upstairs?”
“Up in the library. He doesn’t really like parties, he comes because of Leo. But then he heads for whatever room has books.”
“And that would be upstairs?”
“You know the door you came in? Not the outer door, the one to the living room.”
“Yes.”
“Right next to it there’s another door. That leads to the stairs. The library’s to the back.”
“Second floor?”
“Yeah, we’ve only got the two. Stew rents out the top two.”
“Thank you.” I started for the door.
“He has a beard,” Weissman said.
“Thanks.”
11
I INTERRUPTED A COUPLE necking on the stairs. They weren’t embarrassed, and in fact both made jokes about it while I stepped over them, suddenly all knees. And one of them was so completely in female drag that I was past them before it occurred to me that both were men.
I thought, I should feel disgusted, but I didn’t, I felt nothing about it at all. I had as much reaction as I would have to seeing an automobile go by in the street. But then, as I neared the top of the stairs, I finally did have a reaction of sorts: surprise. At myself. I had always thought that in eighteen years on the New York police force, I had seen just about everything there was to see, but I had never before in my life seen two homosexuals kiss. And now that I had, the only reaction I could dredge up was surprise at never having seen it happen before.
At the head of the stairs I was distracted by the sounds of voices. They weren’t screaming, but they were harsh; two men were in an argument together, and there was just something about the voices that sounded as though it was a longterm argument, one that had started long ago and would not be settled now, not here, not tonight.
They were in the direction I’d been told to go. I went through a doorway, across a rather ordinary bedroom—particularly considering the rooms I’d been seeing
I moved on, and in the kitchen I found Jerry Weissman washing glasses. Up to his elbows in dishwater. He grinned at me and called, “Hi! You just get here?”
“A few minutes ago.” The noise level was way down in the kitchen, making it possible to speak in normal tones.
Jerry Weissman held his soapy hands up for me to see, saying with humorous resignation, “Isn’t it always the way? People drink a drink halfway, put their glass down, forget where they put it, and go make another drink in another glass. So you’ve got to keep on washing glasses all the time. You could wind up with dishpan hands.”
Since he had undoubtedly volunteered for the job, and since in all likelihood it was unnecessary—there had seemed to be plenty of clean glasses still on the table in the other room—I didn’t waste time sympathizing with him, but said, “I don’t seem to be finding the people I want.”
“Really?” He frowned, puzzled. “I think they’re all here.”
“I saw Remington, and Bruce Maundy. And I caught a glimpse of Cary Lane.”
“The others are here. David is always nearby to Cary. And Leo and Henry have to be around someplace.”
“Leo was the one who let me in. Actually, Henry Koberberg is the only one I’m not sure of. I don’t know what he looks like.”
“Do you want me to come point him out?”
“If you would, I’d appreciate it.”
“Sure.” He shook suds from his hands and reached for a towel, then stopped and said, “Hey, I know where he is. Upstairs.”
“Upstairs?”
“Up in the library. He doesn’t really like parties, he comes because of Leo. But then he heads for whatever room has books.”
“And that would be upstairs?”
“You know the door you came in? Not the outer door, the one to the living room.”
“Yes.”
“Right next to it there’s another door. That leads to the stairs. The library’s to the back.”
“Second floor?”
“Yeah, we’ve only got the two. Stew rents out the top two.”
“Thank you.” I started for the door.
“He has a beard,” Weissman said.
“Thanks.”
11
I INTERRUPTED A COUPLE necking on the stairs. They weren’t embarrassed, and in fact both made jokes about it while I stepped over them, suddenly all knees. And one of them was so completely in female drag that I was past them before it occurred to me that both were men.
I thought, I should feel disgusted, but I didn’t, I felt nothing about it at all. I had as much reaction as I would have to seeing an automobile go by in the street. But then, as I neared the top of the stairs, I finally did have a reaction of sorts: surprise. At myself. I had always thought that in eighteen years on the New York police force, I had seen just about everything there was to see, but I had never before in my life seen two homosexuals kiss. And now that I had, the only reaction I could dredge up was surprise at never having seen it happen before.
At the head of the stairs I was distracted by the sounds of voices. They weren’t screaming, but they were harsh; two men were in an argument together, and there was just something about the voices that sounded as though it was a longterm argument, one that had started long ago and would not be settled now, not here, not tonight.
They were in the direction I’d been told to go. I went through a doorway, across a rather ordinary bedroom—particularly considering the rooms I’d been seeing
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