New York, New York was located in a square little building that sat in the middle of a dusty parking lot. That Friday, the parking lot was full and it was hard to find a place to put the Sentra. Finally, I found what might have been the last spot. I was running late. It was almost seven. Denny had screwed up a charge and each time he tried to fix it, it added another charge instead. I’d ended up chatting with VISA for about twenty minutes trying to get it all reversed.

New York, New York was a relatively simple place. The bar with its line of green vinyl stools was on the left as you came in. There was a large, open space where there were bar-height tables and stools. In the back were restrooms and a storage room, and maybe an office. The big feature, though, was a black iron silhouette of the New York City skyline, which was attached to the long wall across from the bar.

It was packed when I walked in. George Michael was singing “Father Figure” over the stereo system. Most of the crowd wore business suits. In front of me was a sea of gray and blue wool, crisply laundered cotton shirts and loosened silk ties in a rainbow of “power” colors. I looked out of place in a pair of stonewashed jeans and a black cashmere V-neck sweater. I squeezed my way to the bar and ordered a Stoli and tonic from the overflow bartender. I would have preferred a glass of chardonnay, but it would have left me feeling even more out of place. I waved down the bar at the other bartender, Red. Red worked most of the shift on his own. He only had help during happy hour.

I paid my three dollars plus a one buck tip, picked up the two Stoli and tonics the bartender made for me, and sloshed my way around the bar looking for Marc and Louis. I found them in the corner by the music, then set one of the drinks on top of the jukebox.

“So Guy’s boyfriend came into Pinx yesterday,” I yelled over the music and chatter.

“Really?”

“What’s he like?”

“He looks like a model. There are probably pictures of him in one of the boxes.”

“Was he devastated?” Marc asked.

“He was freaked out, but I wouldn’t say devastated. He told me to stop.”

“Stop what?”

“Being curious, I guess.”

“There must be something he doesn’t want you to know.”

“That’s what I think,” I said. “But I have no idea what.”

“Did he look like a killer?” Marc asked.

“What does a killer look like?” Louis wanted to know.

Marc rolled his eyes. “I know anyone can be a killer, but there’s usually something. Every time I see a picture of a killer in the newspaper, I think, oh yeah, that makes total sense.”

“He seemed too nervous to be a killer,” I said. “He was actually shaking.”

“Well, if he’s not hiding that he killed Guy, he must be hiding that he knows who did,” Marc suggested.

“But if he knows who killed Guy why isn’t he telling the police?” Louis asked.

Behind me someone said, “What are you doing here?”

My drink soured in my stomach and I turned around to see my former friend, Robert. In his early-thirties, Robert was tall and pink with a fuzz of blond hair floating around his head. He worked as a costumer, which inevitably meant his fashion choices were doubtful. That evening he wore a six-foot long white, tasseled scarf wrapped over and over around his neck. He lived for Latin boys and if you weren’t a Latin boy there were times he didn’t even see you. In fact, I was surprised he was seeing me at all.

Next to him stood his best friend—and my onetime friend—Tina. Small, blonde and ethereal, she was dressed in a floral-patterned drop-waist dress with a white T-shirt underneath and demi boots. It was the uniform of D-girls, which she aspired to be.

“Nice to see you, too, Robert.”

“Tina, look what the cat dragged in,” he said.

“I saw. My cat drags in dead chipmunks. Somehow this is worse.” She had a hurt look in her eyes when she said that, like it was terrible of me to make her be mean.

“This is my neighborhood, you know. If you want to avoid me you should stick to your side of town.” They were both committed Westsiders, and wouldn’t have been caught dead in Silver Lake unless someone—probably the LA Weekly—had convinced them it was the place to be.

“I’m so sorry if you got the idea we were trying avoid you, Noah,” Robert said, drolly. “Avoiding you implies we actually care one way or the other, and believe me we have absolutely no interest in you.”

Just then Louis poked his head around me. “Aren’t you going to introduce us to your friends, Noah?”

“Oh, they’re not friends of mine. They’re just people I once knew.”

“Now I’m even more interested. I’m Louis and this is my partner Marc. We’re Noah’s neighbors. How do you know him?”

“We’re friends of Jeffer,” Tina said, with as much drama as she could muster.

“Oh yes, the dead boyfriend,” Louis said. Then he turned to me and said, “You seem to know a lot of dead guys.”

I opened my mouth to object, but I did a quick count—Guy, Jeffer, my father, one our first employees at Pinx, a couple of guys I waited tables with, this guy I dated for a month or so before—and I had to admit, I knew a lot of dead guys.

“Well,” Robert said. “We need to go. It was unpleasant running into you.”

“Where did you meet such awful people,” Louis asked me, loud enough that people actually turned around to gape.

“We’re not awful people,” Tina said. “We’re loyal people.”

“If it’s any of your business, Noah treated Jeffer horribly at the end,” Robert said.

“That’s not true,” I said weakly.

“Whatever,” he said. “I don’t care anymore.” Though obviously he did. Paula Abdul began singing “Rush, Rush” as they walked away. A few minutes later I saw them walking out of the bar. I wondered if my car would be keyed when I went out to go home.

“They were charming,” Louis said.

“Yes, I want a set of my own,” Marc said.

“Do you want to tell us why they hate you so much?”

“Not really,” I said. Then Louis did something I was grateful for. He left me alone and changed the subject. “Oh, Marc found something in the newspaper.”

“I did, that’s right. I even cut it out so I could bring it, but then I left it at home.”

“Is it Guy’s obituary?”

“Better,” Louis said. “They’re having a memorial for Guy tomorrow at one. It’s in North Hollywood, so the three of us will have to leave by noon.”

“I don’t know if that’s such a good idea,” I said. Ted’s nervousness weighed on me.

“It’s a great idea. You’re going and not another word about it,” said Marc. It was too loud to really argue, so I did the easy thing and agreed.

An hour later, the bar had nearly cleared. Marc and Louis went to pick up a pizza, while I stayed to finish my drink. There was a spot at the bar, so I went and took a stool.

Red came down and asked if I wanted another drink. I declined but took the opportunity to ask, “You know everyone, Red, did you know Guy Peterson?”

“Guy the Camera Guy? Yeah, I guess. He’d come in every couple of weeks. He offered to take some classy nudes of me once. I said sure but managed to be busy every time he tried to set it up.”

“You don’t want photos like that for posterity?”

“Posterity can go screw itself. He was just trying to get into my pants.”

“Did he do that a lot? Try to get guys to model?”

“I wouldn’t say a lot. But fairly often. Every now and then some kid would get super excited thinking it was their big break.”

“Do you think any of those kids might want to kill Guy?”

He shrugged. “People say they want to kill each other all the time. I never take them seriously. Why are you asking that? I thought Guy died in a fire?”

“He may have. He may not have.”

“A man of mystery. Come on, let me buy you a drink.”

I let him. I didn’t mind cold pizza one bit.

* * *

I was having a dream about Jeffer; I had them a lot. In this one I was angry and screaming at him. I couldn’t tell what I was screaming. Sound was coming out of my mouth but no words. A raging emotion coming out of my mouth and speeding toward Jeffer, making him cower. And then he pushed his way forward, his hand closing over my mouth, silencing me—

I woke up. It was very dark. Someone was sitting on top of me, straddling my chest, a hand over my mouth. I couldn’t get enough air to scream or yell. I struggled a moment and he shushed me.

“If you promise not to yell I’ll take my hand away.” I recognized the voice. My eyes must have gotten very wide. It was Guy Peterson. Alive. And on top of me. “Do you promise?”

I nodded my head. He removed his hand, I gasped for breath. As soon as I was able, I hissed, “You’re not dead.”

“No, I’m not.”

“Who is dead? Who did they find in your store?”

“It’s not safe to tell you that.”

“Did you kill him?”

“It’s not safe to tell you that either.” My guess was he did kill whomever it was they found in his store. If he hadn’t it would be safe to tell me. The question was, did he kill the man in self-defense?

“Did you have to kill him?”

“Stop asking questions. Stop poking around.”

“Why won’t you—Ted Bain has been hiding you, hasn’t he?”

“You need to mind your own business.”

“He can’t hide you forever. Eventually the police will figure out he’s your boyfriend.”

“Yeah, well, don’t be the one to tell them. In fact, don’t even talk to them.”

“I can’t—” I stopped. What would Guy do if I told him I’d call the police the minute he left? Was he threatening me? That didn’t seem likely. “Why shouldn’t I talk to the police?”

“Because they’ll kill you.”

It was a shocking thing to say. Not just because of what it meant, but because of the way he said it. With such certainty. He was sure they’d kill me.

“You can’t tell anyone you saw me. Everyone who knows I’m alive is in danger.”

“Well, thanks for stopping by, then.”

“You were already in danger. You’re asking too many questions. Don’t ask any more.”

Then he got off me, and walked out of my apartment. I waited a moment. My heart was pounding and I had a little trouble catching my breath. Calmer, I walked out into the living room. One of my windows was wide open and the screen was off. That was how Guy had gotten in. I went to the corner windows over my desk and looked down. I could see down to the street. A little red sports car was illegally parked in front of the garage. I couldn’t see who was in the car, but I didn’t need to.

Ted Bain.