in social work, that he was living at an old hotel in East Los Angeles, and that he’d joined a gym for the first time in his life, which explained his trim, firm physique. We turned the corner at Hilldale, heading up to Norma Place, where we turned again. As we approached the house halfway down the block, I remembered that he’d been here once before, years ago. He’d come up to my apartment, where I’d punched him in the mouth and knocked him down because I’d wrongly suspected his involvement in a cover-up of child molestation and murder by high officials within his archdiocese.
“I’m surprised you’d want to be friends with me,” I said, “after the way I treated you five years ago.”
“You were in a lot of turmoil, Benjamin, a lot of pain.”
“Still, I behaved abominably.”
He rubbed his jaw, grinning. “You did pack quite a punch.” More seriously, he added, “It was the first time I’d ever been struck by anyone, ever. It was quite a shock.”
“If I didn’t apologize then, I am now.”
“Apology accepted.”
Maurice reappeared, beckoning from the front door.
“Benjamin, everyone’s waiting for the guest of honor. I believe Alexandra wants to make a toast.”
“Coming, Mother,” I said, as Ismael and I turned up the walk.
* * *
I’ve never been particularly fond of organized parties. They always struck me as overly orchestrated gatherings for people who didn’t know how to enjoy one another’s company and have fun otherwise, without the arranged atmosphere and requisite alcohol. But I must admit I thoroughly enjoyed myself that night and the party seemed to be a rousing success. Even Fred was up and about for much of the night, seeing to drinks and food. Maurice kept the music playing, mostly disco classics and old gay anthems. Half the crowd was dancing at the first beat of a Gloria Gaynor tune, with Maurice leading the way.
He urged me to circulate and I reluctantly let Ismael drift away. I made a beeline for Templeton, to thank her for taking time from her pressing schedule to join us, and for her touching toast that got the evening going. She was sipping a glass of white wine and chatting animatedly with Cathryn Conroy, who was imbibing her trademark whiskey. Listening to them, I quickly realized they’d been acquainted long before tonight. It made sense—two tough-minded female reporters, both operating out of L.A., no doubt crossing paths from time to time. Templeton was effusive and Conroy polite, but Lawrence Kase didn’t even pretend to be happy to see me. I was beginning to think his animosity had to do with more than just my checkered past or sexual orientation—that jealousy might also be behind it, since I’d known Templeton much longer than he had and shared an easy familiarity with her, an intimacy between close friends that some couples never manage to achieve, no matter how long they stay together.
The four of us hadn’t been chatting five minutes when Kase glanced at his watch and said to Templeton, “We really should go.”
I laughed. “The party’s just started.”
“We arrived at the bookstore two hours ago. Alex insisted we be there early.” He extended a hand and shook mine perfunctorily. “Congratulations on the book, Justice. It’s nice to see you turning things around.” Then he was facing Templeton and saying firmly, “We really do need to get going.”
As I saw them out, I bumped into Bruce Steele, a spectacular physical specimen as dark skinned as Templeton who’d brought along his bearish white boyfriend. Steele was a former collegiate and AAU wrestling champion in the upper middleweight classes whom I’d pursued romantically off and on for years, without success. These days, he worked as a successful investment broker but stayed in shape running the West Hollywood Wrestling Club. He’d pestered me for years to drop by one of the club’s Saturday workouts and conduct a clinic. He pressed me again that night and I
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