Beauty Queen

was talking about. Of course Marion was right. But it didn't make him any happier to think of the trap that Jeannie would be in. It would destroy her attempt at a comeback, and he didn't really want to be responsible for that.
    His shoulders slumped and he didn't say anything more.
    "The only thing we can do," said Marion, "is just sit tight and see what happens. Live one day at a time."
    "Supposing we come out and you lose your job?" said
    Bill.
    Marion shrugged. "I'm a damn good mechanic. What the hell. I'll get a job in a pit crew."
    Bill felt tears stinging suspiciously close to visibility in his eyes.
    "I wish I had your guts," he said.
    Marion wiped a trace of whipped cream off his mouth with his napkin. "What guts?" he asked. "I didn't say I'd drive cars again. Just fix them."
    They paid and left, and hailed a cab.
    In the cab, down on the seat where the cabbie couldn't see, their hands groped for each other and clasped hard— Marion's lean long-fingered hand with the red scar on the palm where he'd gripped the scorching side of the Lotus, trying to jump out, and Bill's big broad hand with silvered dark hair on the backs of the fingers.
    The cab dropped Marion at the gleaming glass Rolls-Royce office. He gave Bill's hand a last secret squeeze, and slowly got out.
    "Have a lovely," he said.
    As the cab pulled away, Bill twisted in the seat and watched him limp slowly into the office building, disappearing amid the hordes of New Yorkers ending their lunch hour. There was a lump in his throat like there hadn't been in a long time.
    Danny Blackburn shrugged a little at his black leather motorcycle jacket, which was sticking to his broad shoulders in the heat. He rounded the corner of 20th Street and Eleventh Avenue and strode toward the doorway of the Steel Spike Bar. He was off duty, but he didn't dare be without a gun. In his pocket, hidden by the jacket, his .38 Detective Special made a bulge in its pocket-holster.
    The bar's entrance did not flaunt itself—a small sign, blacked-out windows, just a wooden door. Across the street were the murky shadows and studded pillars under the West Side elevated highway where trucks were parked. Beyond lay the waterfront and the sooty old piers. The Hudson River sparkled blue in the distance, looking as if it were unpolluted.
    Danny pushed at the door, and walked gratefully into the cool dark interior. After a moment, his eyes adjusted from the glare outside, and he could see the scene so familiar and dear to him.
    He had chosen the Spike for a number of reasons. It was one of the few independent non-Mafia gay bars in town. Also, it was well outside his precinct. Both these factors hopefully lessened the chances of his running into a shoofly. The Spike did not encourage you to push in that door unless you were a man and wore leather and/or denim. Danny was really not sure whether he had become a cop because he liked leather, or the other way around, but he was not one to question himself too much. For Danny, the joy of living, and the risk and challenge of balancing his career on the force with his off-duty lifestyle, was reason enough in itself.
    At this hour, the Spike was nearly empty. That suited Danny fine—it was a third factor that might keep him from meeting a shoofly. But Lenny was there behind the bar polishing glasses, and the jukebox was playing punk rock.
    The place had a dark medieval splendor. Above the bar were masses of glittering trophies won in cross-country races by the local bike clubs, and the ceiling was hung with rich velvet-and-gilt banners encrusted with the proud names and the heraldry of leather men across the country. DETROIT DAMON AND PYTHIAS, said one, with two clenched fists or a sable. MANHATTAN ENTRE NOUS, said another, with a draped chain gules. On the wall, a small sign said, "The dress code of this bar will be strictly enforced." There was a bulletin board with posters announcing beer picnics, dances, bike crosses and personals. On the other side were wooden rails for the men to lounge against, and unsmilingly display their visual splendor to each other.
    Danny slid onto the leather bar stool.
    "Hiya, Danny," said Lenny.
    The bartender reached for the bottle of Wild Turkey. He knew that Danny never touched anything but Wild Turkey. In fact, one of the few things that Lenny didn't know about Danny was that he was a cop. Fun was fun, but Danny was no dummy—you had to be very careful. You had to trust almost nobody.
    Lenny filled the