Detour was on Sunset Boulevard, a small building with a large parking lot between it and the street. The front door was hung with several long strips of thick black rubber. I don’t know if that was to keep bugs out or if it was a strange kind of sobriety test. Seriously, you had to be sober enough to get through it and if you weren’t you didn’t get in.

I almost didn’t make it.

Inside, a large rectangular bar sat in the center of the room ringed by stools. I wobbled my way to the bar telling myself I was just there to walk through and then I’d go home. There was just one thing I—

The bartender asked me if I wanted something to drink so I ordered a Miller Lite and a shot of Cuervo. When he set the order in front of me, I handed him a ten and downed the shot.

“I was going to ask if you wanted salt and a lemon with that,” he said.

“I guess not,” I said, as I picked up the beer and walked away. I think I left him a really good tip. The crowd at Detour was different than the Gauntlet but not by much. There were some guys in leather, guys who would end up at the Gauntlet or Cuffs later on. But then there were a lot of guys in Levis and T-shirts. T-shirts with logos for favorite bands or sports teams or political statements. There were at least two guys wearing Silence = Death T-shirts. I hoped they talked to each other; it would be ironic if they didn’t.

Then I saw the person I was looking for, Detective Javier O’Shea. He looked completely out of place. There was no way he was gay, I was sure of it now. Yeah, there were always gay guys who were a little out of step—I was probably one of them—but he wore a yellow alligator shirt, jeans and a pair of top-siders; perfect for a cocktail cruise out of Marina del Rey but completely wrong for a Levi/leather bar in Silver Lake. I walked over and said, “Hello. What’s a nice boy like you doing in a place like this?”

He backed up and waved a hand in front of his face. “Wow, I know what you’ve been doing since this afternoon.”

“Oh, well excuse me. I’m in a bar smelling of alcohol. Heavens.”

“Yeah, well, no one else in here will notice. Did you drive here?”

I held my finger up in front of my lips and shushed him. “Don’t tell anyone. It’s okay though, it’s only a few blocks and I drive really slow.”

“I’ve heard that one before.”

“You don’t drink?”

“Not on duty.”

Drunk as I was, that didn’t compute. If he was a dangerous cop like Guy said he was then why was he following the rules? Dangerous cops didn’t follow rules. That’s part of what makes them dangerous.

“Are you going to arrest me?” I asked.

“I’m not on patrol anymore. I don’t arrest drunk drivers. I do think you should take a cab home.”

“Whatever.”

“So, do you know which of these men were friendly with Guy Peterson?”

“Oh my God, no. I almost never come here.”

“Why did you come tonight?”

He had me there. I wasn’t going to say ‘To figure out if you’re really dangerous,’ so I said, “I’ve had a few drinks and it was on the way home.”

“So who could tell me who Guy Peterson’s friends are?”

“Maybe the bartender,” I said.

“Okay, thanks.”

He started to walk over to the bar, but I grabbed his arm. “Hey wait a minute. I have two questions. Number one, why didn’t you just get Guy’s address book from his apartment?”

“There wasn’t one there. We think it might have burned in the fire at the camera store.”

“Oh, that sucks.”

“And…”

“And it sucks a lot?”

“You had a second question.”

“Oh, that’s right. Why does it matter? Why do you have to talk to Guy’s friends? It was the riots, right? I mean, that’s why the store got burned down. So, why do his friends matter?”

“I can’t discuss an active investigation with you.”

“Okay, but what are you going to ask his friends?”

He looked at me sharply. “You knew Guy better than you’re letting on, didn’t you?”

“Okay, you can go talk to the bartender.”

“Listen, I don’t think you’ve done anything wrong. I just don’t think you’re telling me everything you know.”

There was an understatement.

“Do you have any idea why Guy went to the camera store that afternoon?”

“No.”

“Have you heard any rumors?”

“No.”

“Do you know anyone who might want to kill Guy?”

Since the truth was, “You,” I didn’t say anything right off. Then I thought about what he was asking me. “You don’t think this has anything to do with the riots, do you?”

Answering would be discussing an active investigation and I could see him trying not to do it.

“What do you think?” he asked.

“If you thought this was related to the riot you wouldn’t be in here on a Saturday night.”

I wondered if it might be safe to tell him that Guy was alive. Four words and the whole thing would be over. They were on the tip of my tongue when he said, “I’ve heard that you have two boxes of Peterson’s photos. I’m going to need you to give those to me.”

My mouth was dry. He wanted the photos. That meant he was probably as dangerous as Guy said.

“Why? His family was just throwing them out.”

“Yes, I know. They shouldn’t have done that. Everything was so chaotic after the riot. Procedure fell apart. We should have searched his apartment long before we did.” He seemed disinterested, casual, and the conversation was anything but.

“Well, if you’re working I’ll leave you to it,” I said, trying to meet his casualness.

“You don’t have to run away,” he said.

“I’m not. Your investigation is much more serious than I thought. I shouldn’t get in the way of it.” Or, become the target.

“How do you know?” he asked.

“How do I know your investigation is serious?”

“No, how do you know who likes you and how do they know you like them?”

“I don’t think it’s much different than how you pick up a woman.”

“It looks different. It looks a lot different.”

I shrugged. “It’s about the eyes. You look at a guy you like, and keep looking until he sees you looking. Then you look away for a second, and then look back to see if he’s still looking at you. You do that for a bit until one of you smiles. Then you go over and start talking.”

“What do you say?”

“Stupid stuff. You talk about the bar and how you don’t come here very often, even if you come every night. You pay each other compliments; those don’t have to be truthful either. If all you want is sex you ask if they live nearby pretty quickly.”

“Do you talk about…”

“The kind of sex you want? Sometimes. But that can get dicey. There are guys who mostly just want to talk about sex. And then there are other guys who want you to be something specific but asking you to be that ruins it for them, so you’re kind of guessing.”

“That is different than with a girl.”

“Is it really?”

“You never…with a woman?”

“I’m a gold star faggot.”

He looked uncomfortable when I said that but went on anyway. “With a woman, yeah, there’s the eye thing, but it goes on and on. Sometimes when a woman’s interested in you she’ll refuse to look in your direction, but at the same time she’ll flip her hair or tip her head like she’s having a photo taken. You can tell she knows you’re looking at her. And then when you talk to her, even if all she wants is a one-night stand, she’s got to act like it’s a date, like she’s interested in more. You pay her compliments, that’s the same. But if you talk about sex too soon or sometimes even at all, that’s it, you’re blown out of the water.”

I didn’t quite understand the look on his face or why the conversation had taken this turn. I was desperate to get away from him but not ready to go home.

“So, do you live nearby?” he asked.

That sent a jolt up and down my spine. Was he asking? No, he couldn’t be. It was a joke. Wasn’t it?

“Good night, Detective. I’m going home now,” I said and walked away.

Why had he asked if I lived nearby? He would already know where I lived. I mean, after questioning me at the video store he’d have found out that much for the file, at least?

Was he serious? Or was he just teasing?

* * *

I drove down to Pinx and parked in the lot behind the store. Then I walked a few blocks south to Cuffs and got in line outside the bar. I was number five, meaning I’d have to wait for four people to leave before they let me in. I slumped against the building and asked myself why I didn’t just go home. Going home would be the smart thing to do. I was drunk and there wasn’t anything inside that was going to change my life. Or at least not change my life in a positive way. Cars were going by. It was well after midnight. Where were they going? Why were so many people still awake? Who was—

A gray Crown Vic passed by on the opposite side of the street. For the briefest moment, I was sure I saw Detective Nino Percy in the driver’s seat. I saw a flash of his face and then he was gone. Had I really seen him? I wondered. Or was I just that drunk?

I’d never been to Cuffs before. The first thing that people told you about the bar was that things happened there in the corners. Nasty, dirty things that were worth showing up in the middle of the night for. What they didn’t tell you was how tiny the place was. It was really just one not very big room with a square bar in the middle. Oh, and wall to wall people. Very few of whom were actually sexy.

By the time I got inside, I’d realized something very important about gay bars in Silver Lake. They all had bars in the center of the room, unlike New York, New York, which had a bar on one side. At first I thought that was coincidental, but then—as I jumped into the stream of men walking one way round and round the bar looking at a different stream of men walking around the other way—it hit me: cruising. A bar in the middle of the room promoted cruising. A bar on one side discouraged it, because it was full of awkward turnarounds.

In front of me, an older gentleman in full leather smiled at whoever was behind me and said, “Hello, counselor.”

Behind me a voice said, “Lovely evening, your honor.”

I wanted to spin around and get a look at whatever he was wearing, but that seemed a bit obvious. And that was something I knew not to be at Cuffs. Obvious.

Men were reaching out and squeezing my shoulders, touching my chest. I began looking for a place to stand still—and unaccosted. People leaned up against the postage stamp bar in the center of the room, but there didn’t seem to be any room. Some other people were just standing around on the far side of the bar. I made for them.

The music was harsh, sharp-edged techno; really not much more than a drum, a snare and some random notes flitting around the steady beat. Eventually, I squeezed myself into a nonmoving corner where some guys were talking like they already knew one another. I watched the cruisers walk by and thought about struggling through the crowd to buy a Calistoga, but it seemed like too much trouble.

A guy passed by, catching my eye. He was over six foot, in his early forties, had curly hair with a few flecks of gray, and mustache straight out of seventies porn. There was something about him I liked, or maybe there was something about me he liked. I wasn’t too sure which it was.

I watched as he made his way around the bar, picking him out as he weaved in and out of the mob. When I really looked around, I decided that the line outside was more to do with marketing than the fire code. There already were clearly too many people in the bar for the fire code. Making people wait to get in was just about getting more people to want to get in.

And then the tall guy was standing in front of me. Just standing. Looking down at me. Waiting for me to say something. Finally, I asked, “Do you have a name?”

“Of course I have a name, but does it matter?”

“Do you live around here?”

“No,” he said, as he leaned in to kiss me.

The last man I kissed was Guy Peterson and that seemed like ancient history. This guy was aggressive, his tongue exploring my mouth, his hands wandering over my body. Before I knew it they were in my jeans. Unzipping them. Then—

This was what Cuffs was about. Little bits of sex shoved into the corners. No one could really see what you were doing. It was too dark and too crowded. It was a place so public it was private.

—I shoved away from him, zipped my jeans and roughly pushed my way out of the bar. Once out in the street, I was breathing heavily, shaking a little. I felt awful. Whatever I’d been trying to cure by coming to Cuffs had not been cured. And even though I’d just run away from it like a scared little bunny, I knew that I missed sex.

I missed it. And I loathed it.