Beauty Queen

with Armando at the Eagle's Nest for a couple of afternoons, when the bar was empty, and talked to him a lot about all this in a low voice. Finally, grudgingly, Armando saw her point.
    So, on that Tuesday noon in August, she headed for her lunch with Bill Laird with a relatively light heart.
    When she walked into the Sumptuary, Bill Laird was already waiting for her, in the sunny area around the fountain, in the back. Poor guy, she thought, he's really anxious and shook up.
    She sat down, and the waiter took her order for a drink.
    There was an awkward silence.
    Abruptly, she said, "Look, I know you think I'm going to try to blackmail you. Well, I'm not. I just... well, you saw me at the MCC, so you have to be gay, right?"
    Bill was silent, staring at his glass of wine. He didn't deny it.
    "And that's none of my business," Mary Ellen went on, "except that your daughter happens to be very antigay. It's possible I lost my job on the force because they knew I was gay and they were afraid Jeannie would have them investigated. There were four of us, two lesbians, two gay men, who got canned off the force, all at once."
    Bill had one hand over his eyes.
    "Plus," Mary Ellen said softly, "I was a close friend of Danny Blackburn. And his partner on the force."
    "Oh my God," said Bill.
    "So my question is... I mean, obviously you're not out, and Jeannie doesn't know a thing about you, and I'm just curious. To put it bluntly . . . how do you feel about all that?"
    "I don't feel too good," said Bill brusquely.
    Mary Ellen looked him in the eyes earnestly. "Bill.. Unconsciously she had slipped into the easy familiarity of the gay church brethren, where status and age barriers disappeared and everybody was a first name. "Bill, you could stop her. And you're the only one who could stop her."
    "I know," said Bill. "I've known it for weeks, every hour of every day."
    "If her own father came out against her . . . her own father . . . maybe people would begin to understand gays better. And she'd have to stop doing what she's doing. It would defuse her completely."
    Suddenly Bill said, "Now I've got a question for you. What were you doing working on Jeannie's staff?"
    Mary Ellen was silent a moment. Then she said, "I'm going to be very honest with you. Three years ago, my dad was shot and killed on duty. I became a cop mostly because of his example and because he was an incredible guy. My mother is dead. I'm an only child. Aside from my lover, the police force is all I have. And suddenly, because of Jeannie I'm off the force, right? And then suddenly, a guy who is a brother cop and a very dear friend is dead, right?"
    She paused again. "Bill, I was going to harm Jeannie in some way. I changed my mind, and that's all you need to know."
    Stunned, Bill stared into those frank gray eyes of hers. Suddenly, with the force of a blow, he felt her steely courage and her honesty. He found himself admiring it hopelessly, and loving it, and not at all shocked at her confession. After all, the other day he had been within a hair of wringing Jeannie's neck when he found out how she'd been treating the children. He felt a surge of fatherly affection for this singular young woman.
    "Tell you what," he said. "Let's get out of here. I want to show you something. I'm not hungry, and I don't think you are either. We can get a bite a little later."
    They paid for their drinks (she refused to let him pay for hers) and got in a cab.
    "The comer of South Street and Catherine Slip," he said to the cabbie.
    The house was buzzing with activity. The courtyard in the back was full of parked trucks and vans whose tires had smashed all the sunflowers flat. Men were working on the roof. More men were inside; working on the plumbing. Inside, on the first floor, was the precious flooring which had finally arrived—magnificent pecan planks for the whole house, tenderly covered with tarps. New windows sparkled in the stately facade flanked by new shutters. In the arched doorway, the crooked metal door had been replaced by a stout wooden door rich with heavy hinges, just like the one shown in the historic photograph.
    They walked around in the house.
    "If I ever get up the courage to come out," he said, "my lover and I are going to live here. If not, I guess I'll live alone."
    In the South Street house, he found it easier to talk about it. They walked all around his new neighborhood, and he pointed at things, and talked, and told her the story of his life. They walked