Beauty Queen

his notebook, the one he always took on his walks, and told A1 he was going downtown to do some poking around.
    He got into his Lancia and drove across town to the First Presbyterian Church on Seventh Avenue, to attend the Sunday services at the Metropolitan Community Church.
    As usual, he parked the car several blocks from the church. He was dressed in old jeans and a cheap-looking shirt, and left his glasses in his pocket, because with them off, he looked quite different.
    He slipped into the church at the last moment, just as the congregation was singing the first hymn, and sat in the very last row, alone.
    Every Sunday, it never failed to amaze him—the contortions he had to go through in order to attend a worship service where he felt truly at home.
    The Metropolitan Community Church had now spread to many U.S. cities, and even abroad—to Canada, Australia, England. While a number of straight churches now had their gay splinter groups, the MCC was still one of the largest, oldest and best-organized of the interdenominational gay churches. They enjoyed a good relationship with the First Presbyterian, which allowed them to use their premises. Bill had once heard the First Presbyterian minister (who was straight, of course) lament the fact that the gay congregation was larger and more active and gave more money than his own.
    Yet Bill wasn't truly at home, was he? He had never dared to make friends at the MCC, had never dared to attend the coffee hours or the seminars, had never dared to become involved in the MCC's activities. And of course he always came alone because Marion preferred to attend the evening service held by Integrity, the gay Episcopal group, at the Episcopal church on lower Fifth Avenue. There was no gay Baptist group, as far as Bill knew, and often he wished that somebody would start one.
    Thanks to his hiding in the back as "John," and to his avoidance of publicity as William Laird, Bill was sure he had never been recognized here. At least, he hoped and assumed he hadn't.
    He sat gazing fuzzily at the pulpit, for he could hardly see anything, and listened to the sermon. It was an okay sermon. But Bill hungered to hear the Word of God preached as only a gay Baptist preacher could have preached it. Hurling gay lightning bolts from the gay Sinai!
    First the Reverend Martin Erickson said: "Once again, a reminder that our general conference is being held in Washington, D.C., two weeks from now. If you haven't planned to come, please think about it. It will be a blessed and exciting time to worship, and to share ideas and experiences, with our brothers and sisters from all over the country. At the back of the church, we have flyers available . .
    Then he launched into the sermon.
    Predictably, the sermon was about Jeannie Laird Colter's attacks on the gay community, and on Intro Two. The preacher deplored, of course, all the things that Jeannie Colter was saying and doing. But he also deplored all the violent talk that was flying around town, among gays. He deplored the threatening phone calls and threatening letters that Jeannie Colter had received. He deplored the talk of a riot, of trashing and burning Jeannie Colter's headquarters. "Acts like this," he said, "will only confirm the straight world's mistaken opinion that gay people are criminals."
    The preacher wound up by saying: "The city council will be voting next week. I have been in touch with the National Gay Activists Alliance, and they tell me that we are still short six votes to get Intro Two passed .... so please do make your opinion felt by the City Council, but in a peaceful and Christian way . . . ."
    As he listened, Bill felt his head coming out of joint. He stopped paying attention, and started looking distractedly around the church.
    Five rows ahead of him, he noticed two young women together, very much the pair of lovebirds, sitting with their shoulders pressed together. Something about the crisp blonde curls of the one on the right, something about her straight back and almost military air was familiar.
    Then, when the congregation rose to sing the final hymn, she turned as she rose, searching for her hymn book on the seat beside her. He saw her face.
    He recognized her instantly, even without her uniform hat. It was the woman police sergeant who had come to Catherine Slip when he found the dead tramp. Good God, a woman cop, here in this church, looking so cozy with another woman, could mean only one thing. When Jeannie talked