Well, that should be interesting. And then there was the last thing that voice on the TV had said the story of the year on the AIDS epidemic. George shook his head. It was too much of a coincidence.
Michael Silverman, the Gay Slasher, the AIDS epidemic.
Someone had tied a few loose ends together.
The real question for George concerned Michael Silverman's announcement. The police already knew about the connection between the murder victims and the AIDS clinic, so it had only been a matter of time before it leaked to the press. But what did it have to do with Sara Lowell's husband? Was Michael Silverman connected with the murders? And if so, how?
Careful, George. Your job is to eliminate them, not figure out why.
True, but a man had to watch his back. George was being forced to take greater risks than normal. The Gay Slasher had become high-profile stuff. Now that the scrutiny was intensifying, logic dictated that he should learn more about the "why" of these killings in order to protect himself.
Damn it, why hadn't he checked this whole thing out beforehand?
Sloppy work, George. Very unprofessional.
George sprang up off the floor as the commercial ended. He' sat on the edge of the large bed and watched as Michael and
Sara walked toward the podium. Sara Lowell was very beautiful.
Incredible looking. Turning his gaze to Michael, George felt a sharp pang of envy.
That lucky son of a bitch slept with Sara Lowell every night.
George shook his head. Sometimes life was just not fair.
"I'm home," Max Bernstein called out.
"I'm in the bedroom," Lenny replied.
"Did you pick up some milk?"
"Yep. And a six-pack of Diet Coke."
Lenny walked into the den and kissed Max lightly on the lips.
"Tired?"
"Exhausted. How about you?"
Lenny nodded, taking the bundle from Max's arm.
"I spent seven hours in court for a case that was never called."
"What happened?"
"My client didn't show."
"Skipped his bail?"
"Seems so."
Bernstein shrugged.
"We cops catch them. You lawyers let them go."
"Yeah, but without us you'd be out of a job. By the way, I ordered a pizza. I figured you wouldn't want to go out."
"You figured right."
Lenny carried the bag to the kitchen.
"Are you going to be working this weekend?"
"Huh?"
"Stop biting your nails for two seconds and listen. Are you going to be working this weekend?"
"Probably, why?"
"It's my weekend with Melissa."
Melissa was Lenny's twelve-year-old daughter.
"I'll try to be around."
"I'd appreciate it. Oh, I rented that movie you wanted to see."
Max picked up the phone and dialed.
"Can't watch it tonight.
Newsflash is on in a few minutes."
"I almost forgot." Lenny came out of the kitchen.
"Max?"
"What?"
"Get your fingers out of your mouth before I shove them down your throat."
"Sorry."
"And who are you calling?"
"My apartment."
"Such a waste."
"Lenny, don't start."
"Why have you kept that empty apartment for six years? All you have in there is a telephone and an answering machine."
"You know why."
"Oh, that's right. You're afraid someone is going to find out you live with gasp-oh-gasp! a man. That you're an honest to-God, screaming faggot."
"Lenny.
"So you keep your swinging bachelor pad on 87th Street for show no, because you're paranoid. Wouldn't it be cheaper just to tell everyone that we're two single, homo studs who happen to live together?
Something like in Three Men And A Baby."
"What are you babbling about?"
"Three Men And A Baby. You remember the movie. Tom Selleck, Ted Danson, and Steve Guttenberg were all single and sharing an apartment and nobody worried about their sexual preferences. And what about Oscar and Felix on The Odd Couple?
Murray the cop never thought they were getting it on."
No messages on the machine. Max hung up the phone.
"You're a nag."
"And trim your mustache already. You look like Gene Shalit."
"Nag, nag. Did you feed Simon yet?"
"A few minutes ago. He ate eight goldfish the other day and he's downing another half dozen now. Want to watch?"
"I think I'll pass."
Lenny shrugged.
"He's your snake."
Max had bought Simon, a harmless garden snake, on a whim two years ago.
He thought it would be kind of cool to own a pet snake. Max, however, had overlooked one small problem he was scared to death of snakes. He loved Simon, liked to watch him slide about his cage and slither up to the screen on the top.
But he was afraid to touch him or go near him, for that matter.
And worse, the only thing Simon ate were live goldfish, which he caught in his laser-quick mouth and swallowed whole. You could actually see the outline of the struggling fish as it slid down Simon's thin body.
Gross.
Luckily, Lenny had taken a liking to Simon a rather sick liking, as a matter of fact. Lenny enjoyed inviting friends over to watch the feeding; they bet on which fish would be the last one eaten.
Very gross.
The doorbell rang. Lenny opened the door, paid the delivery boy, and brought the pizza into the den. Max watched him, remembering how his life had changed when he first saw Lenny's gentle eyes seven years ago.
1984, a year of transition.
The nights of anonymous sex, orgies in Soho, leather bars, and Caligula-like bathhouses were beginning to melt away under the blistering heat of the AIDS epidemic. Though he had lived in constant fear of being found out, Max had participated in it all.
How many lovers had he had? He had lost count. How many friends had he lost to the AIDS virus? That number too he had lost count. So many taken away, and now the dead were little more than a blurry blend of faces, vivacious young men whose lives had been suddenly, painfully, snuffed out. They were gone now and too often forgotten.
Why, Max wondered, did we all gorge ourselves on nameless, faceless sex? Was it merely for the physical thrill or was there something more? Were we trying to rebel? Or were we just releasing the pent-up anxieties of living too repressed for years in a straight society? What were we looking for in that mass of flesh? Or more important, what were we running away from?
Over the past seven years Bernstein had had more than twenty AIDS tests performed on himself all under assumed names and all negative. A stroke of luck and yet sometimes he felt guilty for not having contracted the virus, like an Auschwitz survivor wondering why he was still alive.
Lenny, on the other hand, had come from a conservative family. He married his high school sweetheart at the age of nineteen and they had a daughter a year later. He tried to suppress and deny his true sexual orientation, and for a while it worked. But by the fourth year of their marriage, he and his wife Emily knew that the heterosexual facade had finally cracked and broken away. The truth was revealed to their families, and Emily and Lenny parted as friends.
Max turned on the television. The two sat quietly on the couch, watching the television and holding hands.
Lenny leaned his head on Max's shoulder.
"I'm the best thing that ever happened to you, you know."
"Yeah, I guess you are."
A few minutes later they watched Michael and Sara walk toward the podium.
"Dad?" Cassandra called.
John Lowell did not respond. He continued to stare down at the old photograph.
"What are you looking at?" she asked softly.
He sighed deeply and placed the photograph down gently as though it were delicate porcelain.
"Nothing," he replied.
Cassandra crossed the room. As she suspected, her father had been staring at a picture of her mother. Tears flooded her eyes.