Somehow he kept it from them. But on number four some bastard in the Department made sure they heard all about it."
"Friendly," Dave said.
"Well, Christ," Squire said. "Taylor had to know it was a losing game. Didn't he? Dave, what the hell is the matter with those people?"
"They're crazy," Dave said. "Like the rest of us."
"Not like the rest of us," Squire said, "or there wouldn't be laws against it." He sighed and picked up the papers again. "Then, believe it or not, he tried teaching. No shit. Summer term, high school. I doubt they'd ever have found out except a bar was raided. The Black Cat, on Sunset. You remember that?"
"How many arrests did they make that night? Twenty?"
"And all the names got in the papers," Squire said. "Which put an end to his teaching career. And respectability, if that's the word. The next arrest was a 647.B."
"Prostitution?" Dave said.
"I guess he still looked young," Squire said. "Anyway, he was living off it. If you call a room at the Ricketts Hotel living." The place was six sagging stories of dingy brick standing to its knees in a wash of greasy neon on Los Angeles's skid row. "He'd score in the Astor downstairs and take the Johns up to the room. Only one night he chose the wrong trick. A vice squad officer."
"A felony," Dave said. "What did he draw?"
"That woman lawyer, the one with the two Persian cats she always took into court on silver chains," Squire said. "She bargained him out. But it cost him."
"The Duchess," Dave said. "Those Pershing Square faggots worshiped her and she exploited them down to their last rhinestone. We should all have friends like May Sweeny."
"So he tried for a real job again. Through one of those gay social service agencies. They put him in a candy factory run by two old aunties who didn't give a damn about his record. But they only paid a buck an hour."
"I know the place," Dave said. "And how privileged the boys feel. So how did he end in Chino? When?"
"A year ago last December," Squire said. "Christmas Eve, God help us. They busted him on 288.A. In an alley doorway back of a garment place on Broadway. In the rain. Oral copulation in the rain, no less. He came up before Judge Macander and you know what happened. Macander read his record" —Squire rattled the typed sheet at Dave—"and gave him five years and a thousand dollars."
"And he just got out?" Dave asked.
"About a month ago," Squire said. "Back to the Ricketts but not for long. He changed bases and he's in Surf, so I inherited him."
"Macander wanted jail to straighten him out," Dave said. "Forty years of disappointments haven't dimmed his faith in jails. Did it work?"
Squire shut the folder and got up to put it away again and to shut the file drawer. "He thinks it was bad luck. All his life it's been bad luck. Not bad judgment, not stupidity, not failure to learn from life. Just bad luck."
"Yup." Dave rose. "If he'd been born rich, none of it would have happened, right?"
Squire dropped the dime-store glasses on the desk. "You've talked to him. You didn't need all this."
"I guess not," Dave said. "I don't know what to do with it." He went to the office door. "Come on, let me buy you a drink."
"Like old times," Squire said, and came with him.
CHAPTER 9
A square package stood on his desk. Brown paper. Twine. It was alone there. He kept the desktop empty. It was a good-looking desk that he'd hunted a long time to find. Slabs of oiled teak hung in a brushed steel frame. Door whispering shut behind him, he frowned and went grimly down the long, cold room. He kept the thermostat low. Somebody had asked him once, "What do you do —hang beef in here?" Doug, he supposed. Doug had accused him before and since of subnormal warmth.
He put on his horn rims and picked up the package. The label was neatly lettered but without a return address. He held it to his ear. Nothing ticked inside. But maybe this one wasn't meant to tick. Maybe opening it was what would trigger it. He dropped
"Friendly," Dave said.
"Well, Christ," Squire said. "Taylor had to know it was a losing game. Didn't he? Dave, what the hell is the matter with those people?"
"They're crazy," Dave said. "Like the rest of us."
"Not like the rest of us," Squire said, "or there wouldn't be laws against it." He sighed and picked up the papers again. "Then, believe it or not, he tried teaching. No shit. Summer term, high school. I doubt they'd ever have found out except a bar was raided. The Black Cat, on Sunset. You remember that?"
"How many arrests did they make that night? Twenty?"
"And all the names got in the papers," Squire said. "Which put an end to his teaching career. And respectability, if that's the word. The next arrest was a 647.B."
"Prostitution?" Dave said.
"I guess he still looked young," Squire said. "Anyway, he was living off it. If you call a room at the Ricketts Hotel living." The place was six sagging stories of dingy brick standing to its knees in a wash of greasy neon on Los Angeles's skid row. "He'd score in the Astor downstairs and take the Johns up to the room. Only one night he chose the wrong trick. A vice squad officer."
"A felony," Dave said. "What did he draw?"
"That woman lawyer, the one with the two Persian cats she always took into court on silver chains," Squire said. "She bargained him out. But it cost him."
"The Duchess," Dave said. "Those Pershing Square faggots worshiped her and she exploited them down to their last rhinestone. We should all have friends like May Sweeny."
"So he tried for a real job again. Through one of those gay social service agencies. They put him in a candy factory run by two old aunties who didn't give a damn about his record. But they only paid a buck an hour."
"I know the place," Dave said. "And how privileged the boys feel. So how did he end in Chino? When?"
"A year ago last December," Squire said. "Christmas Eve, God help us. They busted him on 288.A. In an alley doorway back of a garment place on Broadway. In the rain. Oral copulation in the rain, no less. He came up before Judge Macander and you know what happened. Macander read his record" —Squire rattled the typed sheet at Dave—"and gave him five years and a thousand dollars."
"And he just got out?" Dave asked.
"About a month ago," Squire said. "Back to the Ricketts but not for long. He changed bases and he's in Surf, so I inherited him."
"Macander wanted jail to straighten him out," Dave said. "Forty years of disappointments haven't dimmed his faith in jails. Did it work?"
Squire shut the folder and got up to put it away again and to shut the file drawer. "He thinks it was bad luck. All his life it's been bad luck. Not bad judgment, not stupidity, not failure to learn from life. Just bad luck."
"Yup." Dave rose. "If he'd been born rich, none of it would have happened, right?"
Squire dropped the dime-store glasses on the desk. "You've talked to him. You didn't need all this."
"I guess not," Dave said. "I don't know what to do with it." He went to the office door. "Come on, let me buy you a drink."
"Like old times," Squire said, and came with him.
CHAPTER 9
A square package stood on his desk. Brown paper. Twine. It was alone there. He kept the desktop empty. It was a good-looking desk that he'd hunted a long time to find. Slabs of oiled teak hung in a brushed steel frame. Door whispering shut behind him, he frowned and went grimly down the long, cold room. He kept the thermostat low. Somebody had asked him once, "What do you do —hang beef in here?" Doug, he supposed. Doug had accused him before and since of subnormal warmth.
He put on his horn rims and picked up the package. The label was neatly lettered but without a return address. He held it to his ear. Nothing ticked inside. But maybe this one wasn't meant to tick. Maybe opening it was what would trigger it. He dropped
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