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“More.”
“He says he was in love with the guy.”
“That’s not evidence of anything.”
“No. But it’s a reason to look for evidence.”
“I didn’t realize you were such a romantic.”
“Me neither.”
Cindy came over and picked up our plates. “I’ll get your check in just a minute,” she said, before she sped off to the kitchen.
“When you go to see Richie, don’t tell him I’m the one who gave you his address. I wouldn’t have, but I know you’d have found him eventually.”
“I think he’ll figure it out, don’t you?”
Lydia didn’t have time to answer. Cindy was back with the check and she grabbed it. “This is on me. It was a work breakfast. Mostly.”
She handed Cindy her American Express. Then looked back at me and asked, “Was it lonely? Becoming someone else?”
“Sometimes.”
2
Summer 1990
“You ever go by Nick?”
One night that summer, I was bartending at the Gauntlet, a leather bar in Silverlake. The guy looked completely out of place. He was wearing a leather jacket, but it was the wrong kind. Brown and blousy. If you told me his mother bought it for him, I’d have believed you. He looked to be in his late twenties, attractive but nothing to write home about. He’d ordered a tequila sunrise, meaning he didn’t know where he was. I only had half the ingredients, which meant he got a shot of tequila with a Bud Light.
“I’ve always been Dom,” I said, giving him my most charming smile. It wasn’t the first time I’d been asked, but I always hated it.
“It’s Domi-nick, though, right?”
“It is.”
“So, you could go by Nick.”
“But I don’t. Like I just said.”
“I’m looking for a guy named Nick.”
“Most of the guys in here aren’t that specific. Wait, I take that back. They’re specific, just not about names.”
“I need to find this Nick because I’m writing a book and he knows the people I’m writing about. I’m a journalist.”
I had a Johnny Walker Red on the rocks under the counter, so I pulled it out and took a sip. It was about my third that night. It might have been a Wednesday, or a Thursday. It wasn’t that busy. I wasn’t drunk, but I might have been a little stupid.
“You know I think you’d be better off playing the Lotto. Your odds would be better.”
“Oh, I don’t think so. The guy I’m looking for was a private detective in Chicago, but he sometimes worked as a bouncer or a bartender. And he’s gay. See, I figure he’s going to be doing something familiar, like bartending, in a place he feels safe, like a gay bar.”
“It’s a good thing for you there’s only two or three of those in the world.”
“I spent three weeks in New York and two in San Francisco. Now I’m in L.A.”
“Where to next?”
