When the Stars Come Out (43 page)

Dean scoffed. “She’ll make sure they remember her.”

“No doubt.” Quinn ran his hand absently along an old—and, of

course, incorrect—script, perched on the edge of the bureau. “But

this isn’t about Katherine. And it’s not about you, either. For the first time since 1970, this is about Quinn Scott. And it’s
only
about Quinn Scott.”

Dean was silent.

“And you,” added Quinn, jabbing Dean gently in the chest with

one finger, “are going to make this moment happen for me.”

“I don’t think so,” said Dean, shaking his head. “It’s over, and

the sooner you accept that, the sooner you can move on.”

Quinn sat back down. His weary eyes were watery. Dean still kept

his distance, although he now towered above the older man.

“I don’t know what to say, Dean,” said Quinn, resignation in his

voice. “I could fight you—” Dean recoiled “No, not physically fight you. I could fight this debacle on the set. But until you’re willing to give me the same freedom from Katherine that I’ve tried to give

you
. . .
I don’t know what to say.”

284

R o b B y r n e s

Dean nodded. “I know. Me neither.”

And with that, he quietly and quickly left the dressing room, not

bothering to first check to see who might be watching.

Dean thought about their conversation through the entire ride

home, letting it distract him so much that he missed his freeway

exit and had to backtrack. There were things he now wished he

had said, and, as he replayed the dressing room drama, he deftly

inserted his new lines into the conversation, to the point where he started to become confused about what really had been said, and

what was in his head.

“Your time is up, old man.” Dean either said or wished he had

said, “Pack up and hit the road.”

“You’re afraid of her, aren’t you?” Quinn either asked or didn’t.

“I’m not afraid of her, and I’m certainly not afraid of you.” Okay, that was one line Dean was certain he had made up in his head, because he was afraid of both Kitty and Quinn, although for different reasons. Still, it felt good to give the old man his imaginary walking papers and point him in the direction of obscurity. He wouldn’t be dust in thirty years. More like ten.

He slowed as he pulled into the driveway and poked a button on

the dashboard. As the security gate swung open with a metallic

groan, he began to feel indignant that that faded TV cop Quinn

Scott had the audacity to question not only his motives, but his

masculinity.

Gay?
How could he even suggest such a thing? After twenty years in the business Dean knew many gay men and lesbians, of course,

but there was nothing gay about him, and he could not understand

why people kept making that mistake. And if it was bad enough

when some random straight guy was confused about Dean’s sexual

orientation, it was doubly bad when a self-avowed homosexual like

Quinn Scott said it, what with their mythical “gaydar” and every-

thing.

The gate was almost fully open, and Dean decided that he should

take up a sport as a hobby, to butch up his image. Because if people considered him a bit too fey, a bit too
. . .
gaydar-able, a little “butch-ing up” would be a good thing. And what was more butch than

sports? He knew some people who were in a volleyball league . . .

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

285

And then there were Quinn’s allusions to his unhappiness.

True, Dean was not as happy as a man with tens of millions of dol-

lars in the bank was supposed to be, but he was still happy. His marriage to Kitty Randolph had brought him nothing but contacts,

professional success, lots of money, three nice big homes, a

stepchild, an ulcer, migraines, and
. . .
lots and lots of happiness.

And, yes, it
was
happiness, dammit. Just a different kind of happiness.

And as for Quinn, he was obviously transferring his feelings

onto Dean, which made Dean more and more furious as he drove

the Jaguar up the driveway and past Raul, the gardener with the

brown skin and wide shoulders, who today was shirtless and sweat-

ing in the hot—

Dean came to an abrupt stop.

An abrupt, crinkling, shattering stop.

Into the rear of Raul’s truck.

“Fuck!” he muttered, as the shirtless, sweaty gardener ran across

the lawn toward the wreck.

Chapter 13

Sometimes, it’s hard for me to look back and remember that

I was once married to Kitty Randolph. It was a lifetime ago—a

lifetime in which I finally allowed myself to have a life—but the

faint echoes of our relationship still reverberate in my ears.

I feel sorry for the men and women who have found them-

selves in her path over the past thirty-five years, but mostly I feel sorry for Kitty. She has always been a real star, but she has never let herself be a real human being . . .

“T
hey’re all laughing at me,” Quinn told Jimmy as they sipped wine at CarnivALLA, the city’s hottest new restaurant.

“Who?”

“All of them.” Jimmy scanned the celebrity-packed dining room,

not seeing a soul so much as glancing in their direction.

“Honey,” said Jimmy. “You’ve got to take it easy. They don’t even

know who you are.”

“After being in the gossip columns for the past few weeks? They

know who I am. I’m the senile old gay man.”

Jimmy sighed. “Maybe they know the name, but they don’t know

the face. So if they’re laughing at you, at least they think they’re doing it behind your back.”

Quinn put down his fork and glared at Jimmy. “I know what’s

going on. I know what they’re saying on Leno and the other shows.

She’s ruining me!”

“Keep your voice down. Nobody’s saying anything about you,

Quinn, so just relax.”

He shook his head. “I know all about it. Dean Henry told me

things that you–supposedly my partner—won’t tell me.”

Jimmy sat back, trying to control his temper. He was used to

Quinn’s tantrums, but it had been a long time since one was di-

rected at
him
. And the fact that he, along with Bart and Noah, had entered into a conspiracy of silence to keep Quinn in the dark over the jabs on the late-night talk shows mitigated the self-righteousness Jimmy felt at that moment. Instead, he tried a different approach.

“So when did you start believing everything that Dean Henry

tells you?”

“When he started telling me the truth.”

“And how do you know he’s being truthful.”

“Because he didn’t try to sugarcoat what’s been happening on

the set,” said Quinn, once again starting to pick at his steak frites.

“He admitted that it was all a setup, and that Katherine was trying to destroy me. After confessing that, why would he lie?”

Jimmy shrugged, acknowledging Quinn’s point.

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289

“In fact, the only strange thing,” continued Quinn, “was when

he said he wasn’t gay.”

“Really?” Jimmy was genuinely surprised, but not so surprised

that he didn’t think to ask, “Uh
. . .
and how did that topic happen to come up?”

“I encouraged him to come out.”

Jimmy put his head in his hands. “I see.”

“Yeah, I know,” said Quinn. “I went somewhere I shouldn’t have

gone. But he just seems so
. . .
gay. Doesn’t he?”

“Well, yes. But it’s still not your business. That’s between Kitty and Dean, and we should hope they have much misery together.”

“Anyway,” Quinn said, remembering that he was supposed to be

mad at his lover and toughening up his voice. “Dean told me all

about the talk shows and the gossip columns.” He popped a bite of

medium-rare steak into his mouth, chewed briefly, then asked,

“Why did I have to hear it from him? Why didn’t I hear it from you?”

It suddenly occurred to Jimmy that, despite his quickly dimin-

ishing appetite, a bite of salmon would buy him some time. It did, but only forty seconds
. . .
and then it was time to fess up.

“You’re right, Quinn,” he said, realizing that the only way he was going to get out of this with minimal damage was to fall on his

sword right away. “I should have told you. But I didn’t want to distract you.”

“Same with Bart and Noah, I assume.”

“Yes.”

Quinn sighed heavily and returned to his food. The men passed

most of the meal in silence—Quinn spurning Jimmy’s occasional

attempts at conversation—until, over coffee, Jimmy finally said, “I hope this silent treatment isn’t going to last for too long. Will you please accept my apology?”

“I suppose.”

“I know I should have told you, but it was just so trivial and

mean. I couldn’t see how anything good was going to come out of

telling you about it.”

“Maybe not,” said Quinn, dabbing at the corner of his mouth

with a napkin. “But at least I would have known. Now I’m just paranoid.”

Jimmy reached across the table and took his hand. “Don’t be. First 290

R o b B y r n e s

of all, no one here recognizes you. Secondly, well
. . .
you’re filming tomorrow. A nice dinner, a good night of sleep, and you’ll

knock it out of the park. And then the rest of it will be forgotten.”

“We’ll see,” said Quinn. “First, let’s see if the script they hand me tomorrow is the same one I’ve rehearsed, for the very first time this week. Then let’s see if they’ve changed the blocking overnight without telling me, or moved that damn sofa.”

“At least we know your mind is sound,” said Jimmy. “We know

that everything bad that has happened is because of your ex-wife,

not you.”

“We know it. But the rest of the world doesn’t know it
. . .
and they will probably never know it.”

“Then it will be our little secret.”

Fifteen minutes later, after paying the check, as he put his credit card back in his wallet, Quinn asked, “Did you really think it was me? Did you think I had lost it?”

“Well, we know that Kitty . . .”

“No,” said Quinn. “Before we found out about that. Did you think

I was just another old guy who was too far past his prime? Even for a second?”

“No,” Jimmy lied. “I love you, and know what you can do.”

“Okay,” said Quinn, as the wallet slid into his breast pocket. “I’m glad you had so much faith in me. Because I sure didn’t.”

They walked out to the sidewalk, where Quinn gave the valet the

claim check for his car.

“And another thing,” he said, sourly. “This hip. When we get

back to New York, I want to see the doctor. It’s just not right.”

“Yes, dear.”

“Don’t patronize me. It hurts.”

“Mmm-hmm. It hurts? Or are we setting up an excuse?”

Quinn pivoted slightly, so he could face his partner. “I hope you

don’t doubt me.”

“Of course I don’t doubt you. But it’s a fairly new hip, and—”

“I said it hurts, so it hurts.”

Jimmy knew well enough to keep his mouth shut until the car

was brought around. When it arrived, Quinn set off for the driver’s seat.

“Are you sure you want to drive?” Jimmy asked. “I mean, with

your bad hip and everything . . .”

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291

Quinn glared at him over the roof of the car; and, again, Jimmy

fell silent. In fact, they both rode in silence all the way back to the hotel, where it was only in that traditionally silent sanctum—the elevator—that Jimmy finally dared to speak.

“We’re quite a pair, aren’t we?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Two old men who went to LA hoping to capture a bit of the old

glory. You with your bad hip, and me not getting any younger, and

here we are trying to break back into something we haven’t done

since we were young men. Thinking we can reclaim the old glory.”

“We’re young enough,” said Quinn. “As long as we’re not dead,

we’re young enough.”

They fell silent again when someone else got on the elevator,

and stayed that way until they were safely back in their hotel

room.

“What time is it?” Quinn asked, when the door was closed.

“A little after ten thirty.”

“Put on Leno.”

Jimmy shook his head. “Oh, no you don’t. I’m not going to let

you torture yourself.”

“Then I’ll do it myself.” Quinn picked up the remote control

from the bureau, aimed it at the television, and began pushing buttons. Finally, Jay Leno appeared on the screen, and Quinn dropped

the remote on top of the bed.

Dick Cheney joke
. . .
George Bush joke
. . .
Ted Kennedy joke
. . .

another Bush joke
. . .
Martha Stewart joke
. . .
and then . . .

“So I think you’ve heard that Quinn Scott is trying to make a

comeback.” Laughter; a week’s worth of jokes at Quinn’s expense

had already warmed up the audience. “Well, word here in Bur-

bank—” More laughter; Burbank was always good for a laugh. “Yes,

word from here in Burbank is that he’s doing a great job. The only problem is that he thinks he’s appearing in—”

The screen went black.

Quinn was confused for a moment, until he saw Jimmy standing

behind him, remote still pointed at the set.

“What the fuck are you doing?”

“It’s my way of telling you to let it go,” Jimmy said, tossing the remote to the floor. “What did you want to hear him say?
Bedtime for
Bonzo
?
The Boys in the Band
?
Will and Grace
?
Brokeback Mountain
?