Grief Street

designer.”
    “Only in New York.”
    “Naturally. The designer decided that Nixon’s soul required extreme purification, and that the bathroom was of course the place where this could best occur. And so he had some co-religionists come by on the eve of the final design stage, the painting. Zen slogans were applied to all the walls, after which there was much chanting—then, an exorcism was performed for the benefit of the wicked president.”
    “And the next day it was all covered up?”
    “Yes, with Dutch tiles and a glaze of royal blue. Nixon was never the wiser.”
    A young blond man with earrings and a deep suntan sidled up next to Godwin. He was maybe twenty-five years old and wore an open purple silk sports jacket, without benefit of a shirt underneath. The wavy golden hair covering his very impressive pectoral muscles was as carefully combed as my head.
    “Oh!” Godwin said. He rose about an inch from the floor on the balls of his feet, as if he had been goosed from behind. He turned to the taller man at his side, smiled, and offered a cheek for a kiss. “Johnny, sweety—meet my new friends.”

    Godwin was kissed on the cheek. He turned and received a peck on the other. To Ruby and me, Johnny offered his shaking hand.
    “Johnny Kay, this is Ruby Flagg, the actress...” Johnny and Ruby shook. “And her husband, Detective Neil Hockaday of the New York Police Department. Watch out, Detec-tlve Hockaday seems to be in the investigative mood.”
    “You look familiar,” I said to Kay.
    “Oh, really?” Ruby asked, curious and amused at once. “I work in Hell’s Kitchen,” Kay complained. “Maybe you’ve seen me around. I work at a little place behind the Us terminal. The Savoy Bar and Grill.”
    “Small world. I was near there last Friday night.”
    The Savoy was a mind-your-own-business after-five waterlog hole with two things in the window: dark curtains and a discreet sign that announced the inside as a place FOR A GAY OLD TIME. On the other side of Ninth Avenue from the Savoy is where a Christian Coalition john by the name of Ralph Irvine and Trixie the tranny were interrupted by the flight of my shadowy quarry.
    “I'm so sorry you didn’t stop in our establishment,” Kay said. He had a smirk on his face, the kind I do not appreciate. “It would have been my pleasure to serve you.”
    “How do you know where I live, Johnny?”
    “You’re a community legend. What with that spread in the New York Post and all.”
    I wanted to go at Kay sideways for a while, to see what it was behind that smirk of his. But Godwin broke it up.
    “Detective Hockaday—please, you mustn't give all my guests the third degree.” Godwin said this with a reedy Noël Coward laugh. Then he took Kay’s arm. “Come now, Johnny, let’s toodle off and leave Ruby and her policeman to mingle with the others. Ruby, dear—we’ll be starting up in about five minutes.”
    Ruby nodded. Godwin and Kay toodled.
    “There’s something about that guy,” I said.
    “Which one?” Ruby asked.
    “Johnny Kay... Something familiar. But I can’t get a fix on him.” So I thought about things, including something I had been meaning to ask Ruby. “Speaking of mysterious, you've been close-mouthed about your day. What’s up?” “Oh, big news, Irish. Really big—”
    “Girlfriend, how are you doing?” This was Quent interrupting, Ruby’s actor friend and the guy at Chelsea Racquet and Fitness Club who was responsible for the wracking pain in my legs, ankles, hips, stomach, and shoulders. He was drinking beer from a bottle. Which he stopped doing while he and Ruby air-kissed like a couple of Hollywood stars. Then Quent asked, “Is your husband mad about my killing him today?”
    “He’s grateful, so am I,” Ruby said, laughing. Quent was smart enough to read off of my face that he should keep his own straight.
    “So,” he asked Ruby, changing the subject, “do you think this play has a chance of actually going up?”
    “Who knows?”
    “It’s a damn good story. And beautifully written.”
    “Not to mention the press it’s getting from the weird con-nection to these murders...”
    “The hell with weird.” Quent finished his beer. “You know how long it’s been since I’ve had stage work?”
    “I’ve been out of it myself.”
    “And here you’re selling your very own theater.”
    “I didn’t want to, I had to.”
    “Had to?” I said, cutting in. “As in the past tense? You mean it’s