Beauty Queen

much about this, you will go crazy."
    "I know," said Mary Ellen. "I know."
    They sat silent for a moment. Mary Ellen's eyes drifted along the Wall Street skyline, and noted the great black smoke haze rising over New Jersey. An oil fire, she thought. Part of her mind was instantly in her cruiser, taking the radio run, tearing along the streets at Code One speed, responding to such a scene. Part of her was directing traffic at the fire, assisting firemen, helping injured people, holding back crowds.
    "You know," she said, "it's incredible that no lesbians ever get really violent about this. Or gay men either, for that matter. I mean, really violent. Not just yelling and demonstrations and stuff."
    "What do you mean?" asked Liv suspiciously.
    "I mean, straights get violent with us. Straight gangs beating up gay people coming out of bars. And all the quiet violence, like firing us from jobs, and not giving us insurance. And all the verbal violence. Calling us human garbage, and so on. And we yell a lot, and we march, and we write letters to the editor, and we take out our hostilities by fighting a lot among ourselves. But we don't hand that real violence back."
    Liv shrugged. "God says not to kill," she said. "Just because they kill doesn't give us the right to kill. Why should we stoop to be on their level? We should be better than they are."
    "That's true," said Mary Ellen. "All I'm saying is, sometimes I'm surprised that gays don't go bananas and take a little revenge."
    Liv was looking straight into Mary Ellen's eyes. "That is very dangerous thinking, Mary Ellen."
    Mary Ellen flushed a little. She was not even sure why she was flushing. But she felt curiously like a little kid caught beforehand, in the pre-meditation of doing something naughty. In fact, she didn't even know what that naughty thing was. Liv had divined the thought, whatever it was, before she herself had thought it.
    "I'm not thinking anything" she said. "I'm just saying that I'm surprised I never catch a squeal to go to such and such a block, and some gay perpetrator is sitting on the roof playing sniper because she or he's fed up. With all the fed-up homosexuals in this town, you'd think it would happen all the time. But it doesn't."
    To cover her mysterious embarrassment, she got up to water the plants.
    Very industriously, she turned on the faucet and started to spray the geraniums gently. It made Mary Ellen feel a little better, washing the city pollution off the flowers.
    But Liv wasn't through with her yet. With Kikan now sleeping in her arms, she looked at Mary Ellen as steadily as a clairvoyant and said, "Tell me, Mary Ellen, looove. You have the pistol downstairs. When you lose control, who will you shoot first?"
    Mary Ellen stopped dead with the garden hose in her hands. The stream wet the striped canvas screen behind the geraniums. She stared at Liv, shocked out of her mind.
    "Are you crazy?" she said. "Me lose control?"
    Then she recovered herself, on seeing a mischievous sparkle in Liv's blue eyes.
    "Well, let's see," she said. "Uh, I'd have to make a long list. Who would I shoot first? I dunno. But I'd go down the list one by one."
    Mary Ellen scratched her head, burlesquing the moment with an attempt at low comedy. She stood pigeon-toed, and let the hose spray on her sneakers. Liv started to giggle.
    Suddenly Mary Ellen swooped at Liv, yanked her up out of the red iron chair and hugged her, lifting her right off the deck. This was no easy feat, because Liv was as tall as she—five foot nine and weighing 135 pounds. Liv screamed with laughter and let the cat fall gently from her arms. Mildly offended, Kikan stalked off and sat in the shade of the geraniums. Then the two women stood hugging each other, a lesbian hug, breasts between breasts, groins grinding softly, as they rocked warmly back and forth.
    "I do not think," said Liv, "that we should spoil our day off by planning assassinations."
    They held each other's faces, and gave each other a kiss on the lips.
    "Neither do I," said Mary Ellen. "How about something special for breakfast? Strawberries are forty-nine a pint at Gable's."
    Jeannie Colter strode out of the elevator, carrying her mail. Her heeled patent-leather sandals clicked on the marble floor of the tiny fifth-floor foyer. She unlocked the door of her apartment.
    It was that rare thing—a sunny New York apartment. The beautiful old building on East 68th Street was tall enough that it rose above its relatives, and it was