When the Stars Come Out (16 page)

And then
. . .
nothing. Nothing, that is, besides a handful of cameos on guest-star-heavy television shows. Bart hadn’t shortened Quinn Scott’s professional resume as Noah had suspected; if anything, he had performed the amazing feat of making it seem much

fuller than it really was.

Noah carefully looked up each of Quinn Scott’s dozen or so

movies, finding the usual combination of roles an actor aged

twenty-four through thirty-six would have played during the era.

He split time between playing the good guy and bad guy in a half-

dozen forgotten film noirs—
The Fresh Kill
;
Port Richmond—
during the 1950s and early ’60s. He fought alongside John Wayne in
Attack
on Tottenville
, and acted with Kitty Randolph in several musical romances toward the end of his career. Then came the three brief

television credits and then
. . .
nothing.

The only thing Noah found especially notable was that, despite

Quinn Scott’s filmography and famed costars, each and every film

he appeared in was a decidedly lesser work. It was as if Kitty

Randolph, John Wayne, and Ray Milland—seeing the handwriting

on the wall, and recognizing that they had signed on for a cine-

matic flop—had grudgingly conceded to the casting of young Quinn

Scott, recognizing that since a better and more marketable talent

wouldn’t be able to save the project, they might as well save the pro-106

R o b B y r n e s

duction some money. Even when he did television, his costars were

low-rent. In fact, at its high-point—his appearance on an episode

of
Murder, She Wrote
in 1990 –Angela Lansbury didn’t even appear on camera, offering only a voice-over.

Noah also found a few pictures of the actor in his relative youth.

Quinn Scott was, as he remembered from watching
Philly Cop
in syndication on weekday afternoons, blandly handsome. Even in stills from his “villain” roles, he was clean cut, without a stray tuft in his jet-black head of hair, his jaw jutting impressively toward the camera. What’s more, there was little cinematic evidence that he ever cracked a smile. Even in a Technicolor photo of Quinn as he romanced Kitty in 1969’s
Sweet Svetlana
, he was dour, while Kitty—

dressed in a fluffy pink
something
—brightened things up with an ear-to-ear smile. The only still Noah found of Quinn Scott smiling was from the John Wayne oater
Attack on Tottenville
, in which he stood behind The Duke, grinning at a bloody, body-strewn battle-field.

So Quinn Scott
was
capable of smiling, but apparently only if he shared the scene with a few dozen dead Injuns.

Noah began to feel sorry for the actor, without quite knowing

why. A dozen-year career had dried up overnight, save the ex-

tremely rare TV spot, and now he was all but forgotten. All because he was gay and chased from Hollywood by his ex-wife, a
true
star.

Noah found that sad.

Damn
, he thought.
The poor guy didn’t even have a fan club!
There wasn’t even a Web site out there maintained by some film buff

where someone, feeling a slight moment of nostalgia, had asked,

“Whatever happened to Quinn Scott?”

Nothing. He was forgotten.

Noah shook off his contemplation of the actor’s banishment. It

was sad, and it wasn’t fair, but it was also thirty-five years in the past, and everyone had apparently moved on. But, still curious about

why anyone, let alone his father, would want to read Quinn Scott’s biography, he began searching for more information on the other

members of the family; people who had retained or created their

fame during the computer age, and were therefore far more Google-

able.

Sure enough, Kitty Randolph and Quinn Scott Jr. were
every-

W H E N T H E S T A R S C O M E O U T

107

where
on the Internet. There was so much information, in fact, that Noah limited the notes he started taking to only the most basic bi-ographical details.

While Quinn’s marriage to Kitty was his only trip down the aisle,

he was her second of three husbands. The marriage lasted, de-

pending on the source, either four or five years, and resulted in the birth of the only child either of them had ever had. Quinn Scott

Jr.—familiarly, Q. J.—was now in his mid-thirties and starring in the hit television comedy
The Brothers-in-Law
, and his mother had been making infrequent guest appearances on the show for each of the

five seasons it had been on the air.

Kitty Randolph was now married to talent agent Dean Henry

who—to Noah—certainly
looked
gay, even if he wasn’t. Since they had kept their May-December marriage together for seventeen

years, he gave Dean Henry the benefit of the doubt. For his part,

Quinn Jr. seemed to date an awful lot of flight attendants, according to several gossip sites, but he had yet to take the plunge into holy matrimony.

Web page after Web page flickered across the monitor, and, as

he read late into the afternoon, the idea of a Quinn Scott book never left his head. There was a lot of information—maybe too much—

out there about Kitty and Q. J., but Noah’s mission had nothing, really, to do with them, and everything to do with the words of his

father that still echoed in his brain.

The story of Quinn Scott. Now that is a book I’d want to read.

And even though no one out there was asking it, Noah wanted

to answer the question of “whatever happened to Quinn Scott?” He

wanted to somehow let the world know that the Philly Cop was still alive and kicking.

He was into his fifth hour on the computer and his second hour

reading dull fan sites devoted to Quinn Scott Jr.—and what was it

about teenage girls that the Web pages they designed were invari-

ably glaringly pink?—when Tricia’s head popped into the alcove.

“Are you going to do that all day?”

Noah’s eyes were dry. “I’m finishing up shortly.”

“I just thought you might want to go out for a drink . . .”

He looked away from the screen, mock horror on his face. “Oh

my God, Tricia! You’re addicted to Bar 51, aren’t you?”

108

R o b B y r n e s

“No!”

“Yes, you are!” Noah looked back at the pink screen and the

photo of Quinn Jr., who was apparently his father’s son, but didn’t look it. “Okay. Give me ten minutes.”

Doctor Golden once again assumed caregiver duties, and Noah

and Tricia set off for Bar 51. When they walked through the front

door, they noted that the Sunday Happy Hour crowd was almost as

large as it had been on Friday. Painfully Young Jason poured their glasses of wine and they retreated to a space against the back wall, mostly out of the way of the other patrons.

“So what was up with the Internet?” asked Tricia, once they were

settled in.

Noah shrugged, almost embarrassed to admit that his father was

the inspiration for a day spent researching Quinn Scott. But he had to say
something
, so he told her.

“That’s perfect,” she said. “That gives you a great reason to call Bart!”

“Oh, Tricia . . .”

“Why not?”

“Because for one thing, I have to get back to DC.”

“Oh, right,” she said dryly. “Back to your writing.”

“Uh . . .” Was that really all he had waiting for him in Washing-

ton? He sighed, realizing that it was.

After another glass of wine, she finally wore down his last stub-

born trace of resistance. And once he let it slip that he liked Bart a bit more than he expected—even though their physical distance almost certainly precluded a
real
relationship—she was relentless.

And Noah did intend to call him, didn’t he? Maybe his intent

hadn’t been to call a mere seven hours after Bart had left his fa-

ther’s apartment, but still
. . .

Bart picked up his ringing cell phone and smiled when he saw

Noah’s name appear on the caller ID.

“Miss me already?” he asked, without so much as a hello.

Noah laughed. He was standing outside on the sidewalk, away

from the noise of the bar. “The hours have passed like
. . .
hours.”

“So you’re a poet, too.”

“Is there anything I can’t do?” Noah waited for an ambulance, its

W H E N T H E S T A R S C O M E O U T

109

siren blaring, to pass before continuing. “So, listen, I was wondering if you want to get together soon?”

“Of course! That’s a stupid question.” Bart thought for a minute

before adding, “But I don’t know when I’ll be able to get back into the city.”

“I was thinking of going out there.”

There was silence, and Noah wondered if he had lost the con-

nection before Bart’s voice was back on the line. “To Southampton?”

“Sure. Why not?”

He practically gushed. “Okay! Yes!”

“Is next weekend too soon?”

Damn
, Bart thought.
Noah certainly started slow then came on strong,
didn’t he
? But if he wanted to come out to Southampton in five days, that was fine with Bart, and he told him that.

“What about your boss? Will he be okay with it?”

“Don’t worry about Quinn,” said Bart. “Let me take care of

that.”

And then it was late afternoon on Friday. Bart borrowed a car

and drove up to the highway, where he patiently waited in a park-

ing lot for the slightly delayed bus. When the Jitney finally arrived and he saw Noah step out, small overnight bag in hand, his heart

raced.

“Hey, handsome,” he said, as Noah let himself in the passenger

side door, then kept moving across the seat until he was almost on top of Bart. Their lips met, and both men closed their eyes, oblivious to the other disembarking passengers who had walked off the

bus and straight into the private world of Noah Abraham and Bart

Gustafson.

After a long time, although not quite long enough for the men,

Bart playfully shoved Noah back to his seat with instructions to belt himself in.

“No fooling around,” he said. “I’m trying to drive here.”

The engine turned over and Bart cautiously merged into the

heavy traffic, then made the second right. After he was off the highway he turned to Noah and said, “You can’t believe how happy I am

that you’re here.”

Noah smiled. “I think I can.”

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R o b B y r n e s

As they drove south, the houses and properties continued to

grow larger. Noah watched the landscape pass, wondering how

early Quinn Scott had bought into the Hamptons real estate boom.

Bart had termed him a financial genius, a description that must

have been on target if this was the company he was keeping.

Thinking of Quinn Scott—not an infrequent occurrence for

Noah over the past week—reminded him:

“So listen, I have an idea for a new project.”

“You’re giving up on the book about Congress?”

“For now.” He leaned back in his bucket seat. “I was thinking

that your boss might be a good subject.”

Bart laughed out loud. “Quinn? Get out of here.”

They had talked every day since Noah asked for the invitation to

Southampton, but he never knew quite how to bring up the sub-

ject. For one thing, he genuinely liked Bart, and he didn’t want

him to think he was using him—even though he was. For another,

he knew how protective Bart could be of Quinn. But if this idea—

this
project—was going to have legs, Bart would have to know what was on Noah’s mind.

“No, I’m serious. Think about it: here’s this major star who’s

married to another major star, except he’s gay. So he gets himself thrown out of Hollywood. But it’s not a tragedy, because he finds

true love. It’s
. . .
it’s . . .”

“It’s not going to happen.”

Noah turned to look at Bart. He was smiling, but Noah could tell

that he meant what he said.

“Sorry to burst your bubble, baby, but I’ve been with Quinn and

Jimmy for a few years and I can tell you that they are
very
private people. There is no way that Quinn will let himself be your project.

I’m just warning you up front.”

Noah looked distractedly out his window. “Well, do you mind if I

mention it?”

“I don’t mind. I just don’t want you to get your hopes up.”

Noah was determined to be optimistic, but promised to take

those words to heart.

Bart put on the right-turn signal and slowed as the car approached a break in a hedgerow, then eased into a turn. They drove through

the open gate and up a double-wide driveway toward a large, if

unassuming, white house.

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111

“Welcome to Casa Scott,” said Bart, looking straight ahead.

“Nice.”

“You should see the inside. The place doesn’t look like much

from here—well, except
big
—but it’s pretty interesting inside. I’ll take you on a tour once we get settled.”

Bart pulled the car up to the front of the three-car garage af-

fixed to the right side of the house. Noah grabbed his overnight

bag, then followed Bart through a windowed door into the garage.

Inside, a pair of gleaming Mercedes—one hunter green, one sil-

ver—were parked side by side. They walked past the cars to another door, this one leading into the house, and, after Bart unlocked it, entered a short, dark entryway. One wall was overstuffed with outer-wear bulging off wooden pegs, leaving little room for them to ma-