shrugged. “If Cosmo was alive, he’d be painting. No new paintings have ever shown up. Ipso facto : he’s dead.”
“Everyone seems to think so. What really happened that last day?”
“I don’t remember,” I said. “I didn’t realize he was leaving, so I wasn’t paying attention.”
“Adam remembers. He says he spent the day with you. Or you spent the day with him. He painted and you napped. You shared a picnic lunch and then you napped and he painted. You sound every bit as stimulating company then as you are now.”
I signed him in his native tongue and turned back to the TV.
One thing Brett could not stand was to be ignored. “So you and Adam provide each other with alibis. Sort of.”
“Alibis for what?” Now I was irritated. “You know, Brett, has it ever dawned on you that maybe one reason somebody might want you dead is your habit of sticking your nose into other people’s business?”
Brett scraped at the label of his beer bottle, scowling. “If Cosmo was still alive, do you think the market value of his paintings would fall?”
“I doubt it.”
“Suppose he has been painting all these years and has a truckload of canvases ready to flood the market?”
“I’m no expert on the art market.”
“Come on, Poindexter, an educated guess?”
“Would it ruin the market value of Rembrandt if a cache of Rembrandts were discovered?”
“Rembrandt’s a special case though. One, he really is dead. Two, lots of the Rembrandts we have are doubtfuls, things finished by students or apprentices.”
I was surprised he knew that.
“I think it’s a moot point,” I said. “Cosmo is dead.”
“There is that,” agreed Brett.
At the time I believed that Brett’s fascination with Cosmo’s disappearance was due to the fact that he was an inveterate mystery buff. I’d never known anyone who read as many mysteries as Brett, especially “gay” mysteries. He’d read everything from The Butterscotch Prince through Fatal Shadows . He’d read Jack Ricardo, Stephen Lewis and Steve Johnson. He’d read everyone who’d ever written a gay mystery, and naturally, being Brett, he had an opinion on everything he’d read, and everyone who’d written.
“I read your second book,” he informed me another evening over pepperoni, sausage and black-olive pizza. “I didn’t like it.”
“For Christ’s sake, Brett,” Adam snapped with unaccustomed annoyance. This was one of the rare times Adam joined us. When he had asked me to be a friend to Brett, Adam had apparently meant exactly that. I don’t think he was avoiding me exactly—why should he after all? He had a show coming up in the fall, his first in several years. I think he was anxious. He was sharper with Brett, edgier in general.
“No, it’s okay,” I said. “What didn’t you like about it, Brett?”
“It was silly. I hate silly.”
“It’s supposed to be a comic caper.”
“Yeah. I hate that.”
We were drinking beer out of tall pilsner glasses. When Adam was around we bothered with things like glasses and utensils. We bothered with “please” and “thank you.” Adam was a civilized kind of guy. Now he pushed back in his chair and drained the pilsner to its foamy dregs. He was drinking a lot for Adam.
“Who do you like?” I asked Brett.
“Michael Nava. He’s not afraid to be gay.”
“I’m not afraid to be gay.”
“Yes, you are.” Brett’s lip curled. “You’re very careful not to offend Grandpa Aaron or Miss Irene or the Honorable Mayor.”
“That’s not true—well, it’s true that I try not to offend people, but I still say what I need to say.”
“You don’t get it, Kyle,” Adam said. “Subtlety is lost on Brett. You have to shove his nose in it.”
“Have another beer, Adam,” Brett drawled.
“Thanks, I will. Kyle?”
“No. Thanks.”
Adam got up and walked steadily inside, apparently none the worse for a six pack.
“I’ll tell you what I didn’t like in Nava’s books,” I told
“Everyone seems to think so. What really happened that last day?”
“I don’t remember,” I said. “I didn’t realize he was leaving, so I wasn’t paying attention.”
“Adam remembers. He says he spent the day with you. Or you spent the day with him. He painted and you napped. You shared a picnic lunch and then you napped and he painted. You sound every bit as stimulating company then as you are now.”
I signed him in his native tongue and turned back to the TV.
One thing Brett could not stand was to be ignored. “So you and Adam provide each other with alibis. Sort of.”
“Alibis for what?” Now I was irritated. “You know, Brett, has it ever dawned on you that maybe one reason somebody might want you dead is your habit of sticking your nose into other people’s business?”
Brett scraped at the label of his beer bottle, scowling. “If Cosmo was still alive, do you think the market value of his paintings would fall?”
“I doubt it.”
“Suppose he has been painting all these years and has a truckload of canvases ready to flood the market?”
“I’m no expert on the art market.”
“Come on, Poindexter, an educated guess?”
“Would it ruin the market value of Rembrandt if a cache of Rembrandts were discovered?”
“Rembrandt’s a special case though. One, he really is dead. Two, lots of the Rembrandts we have are doubtfuls, things finished by students or apprentices.”
I was surprised he knew that.
“I think it’s a moot point,” I said. “Cosmo is dead.”
“There is that,” agreed Brett.
At the time I believed that Brett’s fascination with Cosmo’s disappearance was due to the fact that he was an inveterate mystery buff. I’d never known anyone who read as many mysteries as Brett, especially “gay” mysteries. He’d read everything from The Butterscotch Prince through Fatal Shadows . He’d read Jack Ricardo, Stephen Lewis and Steve Johnson. He’d read everyone who’d ever written a gay mystery, and naturally, being Brett, he had an opinion on everything he’d read, and everyone who’d written.
“I read your second book,” he informed me another evening over pepperoni, sausage and black-olive pizza. “I didn’t like it.”
“For Christ’s sake, Brett,” Adam snapped with unaccustomed annoyance. This was one of the rare times Adam joined us. When he had asked me to be a friend to Brett, Adam had apparently meant exactly that. I don’t think he was avoiding me exactly—why should he after all? He had a show coming up in the fall, his first in several years. I think he was anxious. He was sharper with Brett, edgier in general.
“No, it’s okay,” I said. “What didn’t you like about it, Brett?”
“It was silly. I hate silly.”
“It’s supposed to be a comic caper.”
“Yeah. I hate that.”
We were drinking beer out of tall pilsner glasses. When Adam was around we bothered with things like glasses and utensils. We bothered with “please” and “thank you.” Adam was a civilized kind of guy. Now he pushed back in his chair and drained the pilsner to its foamy dregs. He was drinking a lot for Adam.
“Who do you like?” I asked Brett.
“Michael Nava. He’s not afraid to be gay.”
“I’m not afraid to be gay.”
“Yes, you are.” Brett’s lip curled. “You’re very careful not to offend Grandpa Aaron or Miss Irene or the Honorable Mayor.”
“That’s not true—well, it’s true that I try not to offend people, but I still say what I need to say.”
“You don’t get it, Kyle,” Adam said. “Subtlety is lost on Brett. You have to shove his nose in it.”
“Have another beer, Adam,” Brett drawled.
“Thanks, I will. Kyle?”
“No. Thanks.”
Adam got up and walked steadily inside, apparently none the worse for a six pack.
“I’ll tell you what I didn’t like in Nava’s books,” I told
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