your assistant here that I only need a minute of your time.”
“Who is that?” Bligh demanded.
“Henry Rios,” I said. I looked at Tommy, who now wore a guilty grin. “Didn’t Tommy tell you I was here?”
“What the hell’s going on out there?” Bligh said.
“I’ll take care of it, Sam,” Tommy said, unlatching the gate. “Come on. I’ll take you to him.”
As we walked up the driveway to the house, I asked, “Why didn’t you tell him it was me at the gate?”
“You’ll see,” he said, opening the door to let me pass.
There were mirrored walls in the small entrance hall that reflected a miniature of Michelangelo’s David on a black marble plinth. Beyond that was a large, sun-filled room furnished in white. I could see through glass doors a terrace and a pool. The terrace was landscaped with potted palms and exotic flowers. The pool was an irregular circle, rimmed with porous stone. At the far end of the terrace, beneath a vine-laden gazebo, there was a sunken hot tub. It took me a moment, but I recognized the pool as the set in Asshole Buddies.
“Over here,” Tommy said, walking ahead of me, through the white room.
I followed him into a smaller room dominated by an oversized TV on which a soundless video was running, showing half a dozen men having sex on board a boat. In the center of a room, watching the film, was a tall, powerfully built old man grasping the railings of a wooden platform, his legs encased in metal braces. Beside the platform was a motorized wheelchair. The platform was arranged at an angle so that I saw him in profile. He wore a red-and-white striped shirt and white slacks pulled tight by the straps of the braces around his wasted legs. He was bald, except for a fringe of long white hair, and he sported a goatee.
“Mr. Bligh?”
He craned his neck to face me. He was round-faced and ruddy. Beneath wire-rimmed glasses, his eyes were bright blue and he might have passed for a department-store Santa Claus but for the hooded intelligence in those eyes; they were the eyes of a bird of prey.
“Mr. Rios,” he said, in his deep, booming voice. “You’re early.” He reached for a remote control on the railing and switched the TV off. “Get me down, Tommy.”
Tommy Callen unstrapped him and helped him into the wheelchair. When he was settled, he said, “Sit down, Mr. Rios. Tommy, bring us some coffee.”
I sank into an overstuffed chair. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to intrude on your physical therapy.”
“What, that?” he said, glancing at the platform. “It’s not really therapy. It helps the circulation in my legs and it feels good to be upright for a while, but it doesn’t improve my condition.”
“How long have you been in a chair?”
“Ten years,” he said. “Industrial accident. I’ll spare you the details, but the settlement bought me this house and helped me start up my production company. So I suppose it was a fair trade.” His eyes beamed irony. “Though I might have been asked first.”
“You own Wilde Ride outright?”
“Lock, stock and barrel,” he said.
“How does someone get into your business?”
He crinkled a smile. “You exude distaste, Mr. Rios, and that surprises me after everything you’ve done for the community.”
“What community is that?”
“The gay and lesbian community,” he said. “I’m a big contributor to a lot of the organizations, and after I talked to you I made some calls. You’re a contributor yourself. I’m surprised we haven’t met before at the Center dinner or an APLA party.”
“Those functions seem awfully self-congratulatory to me,” I said.
“And why shouldn’t they be?”
“To congratulate yourself on your own generosity seems a little immodest, wouldn’t you say?”
“I don’t see it that way,” he said, amiably. “I see it as a celebration of our survival as a people.”
“I’m not sure we would agree on who our people are,” I said. “I’ve seen one of your
“Who is that?” Bligh demanded.
“Henry Rios,” I said. I looked at Tommy, who now wore a guilty grin. “Didn’t Tommy tell you I was here?”
“What the hell’s going on out there?” Bligh said.
“I’ll take care of it, Sam,” Tommy said, unlatching the gate. “Come on. I’ll take you to him.”
As we walked up the driveway to the house, I asked, “Why didn’t you tell him it was me at the gate?”
“You’ll see,” he said, opening the door to let me pass.
There were mirrored walls in the small entrance hall that reflected a miniature of Michelangelo’s David on a black marble plinth. Beyond that was a large, sun-filled room furnished in white. I could see through glass doors a terrace and a pool. The terrace was landscaped with potted palms and exotic flowers. The pool was an irregular circle, rimmed with porous stone. At the far end of the terrace, beneath a vine-laden gazebo, there was a sunken hot tub. It took me a moment, but I recognized the pool as the set in Asshole Buddies.
“Over here,” Tommy said, walking ahead of me, through the white room.
I followed him into a smaller room dominated by an oversized TV on which a soundless video was running, showing half a dozen men having sex on board a boat. In the center of a room, watching the film, was a tall, powerfully built old man grasping the railings of a wooden platform, his legs encased in metal braces. Beside the platform was a motorized wheelchair. The platform was arranged at an angle so that I saw him in profile. He wore a red-and-white striped shirt and white slacks pulled tight by the straps of the braces around his wasted legs. He was bald, except for a fringe of long white hair, and he sported a goatee.
“Mr. Bligh?”
He craned his neck to face me. He was round-faced and ruddy. Beneath wire-rimmed glasses, his eyes were bright blue and he might have passed for a department-store Santa Claus but for the hooded intelligence in those eyes; they were the eyes of a bird of prey.
“Mr. Rios,” he said, in his deep, booming voice. “You’re early.” He reached for a remote control on the railing and switched the TV off. “Get me down, Tommy.”
Tommy Callen unstrapped him and helped him into the wheelchair. When he was settled, he said, “Sit down, Mr. Rios. Tommy, bring us some coffee.”
I sank into an overstuffed chair. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to intrude on your physical therapy.”
“What, that?” he said, glancing at the platform. “It’s not really therapy. It helps the circulation in my legs and it feels good to be upright for a while, but it doesn’t improve my condition.”
“How long have you been in a chair?”
“Ten years,” he said. “Industrial accident. I’ll spare you the details, but the settlement bought me this house and helped me start up my production company. So I suppose it was a fair trade.” His eyes beamed irony. “Though I might have been asked first.”
“You own Wilde Ride outright?”
“Lock, stock and barrel,” he said.
“How does someone get into your business?”
He crinkled a smile. “You exude distaste, Mr. Rios, and that surprises me after everything you’ve done for the community.”
“What community is that?”
“The gay and lesbian community,” he said. “I’m a big contributor to a lot of the organizations, and after I talked to you I made some calls. You’re a contributor yourself. I’m surprised we haven’t met before at the Center dinner or an APLA party.”
“Those functions seem awfully self-congratulatory to me,” I said.
“And why shouldn’t they be?”
“To congratulate yourself on your own generosity seems a little immodest, wouldn’t you say?”
“I don’t see it that way,” he said, amiably. “I see it as a celebration of our survival as a people.”
“I’m not sure we would agree on who our people are,” I said. “I’ve seen one of your
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