Page 30 of The Happy Month
I didn’t know either. John wasn’t right, I knew that much. But I thought he was close. Whoever Hadrian was, he was ancient. When we got back into the Jeep, I grabbed a little notebook and wrote down Ivan Melchor’s dates and the name Hadrian.
When we got home, which took quite a while given that rush hour was in full force by the time we got onto the 710, I suggested we have a pizza delivered.
“Oh God,” John said. “I can’t have take-out twice in the same day. I’ll make spaghetti. It’s simple enough.”
“I think there’s salad fixings.” Junior said. He’d run down to greet us the minute we walked in. He looked at Ronnie, assuming he’d make the salad. Knowing what was in the fridge was often Junior’s contribution to meals.
John and Ronnie went into the kitchen leaving me with Junior. “What have we here?” he asked of the things we’d brought in with us.
“I told you I’m looking at the Vera Korenko murder. Well, supposedly she was engaged to this lawyer named Patrick Gill. Patrick is saying he killed her. Or at least he feels responsible for her murder. I think they were both gay and were helping each other out.”
“So where did you get all this… no offense, junk.”
“When they put him into a home, his family sold his house and moved his things to three lockups. We spent the day looking through his stuff.”
“And this is all you found?” Peeking into the Fred Segal bag he said, “Matchbooks?”
“Somebody got there before us.”
“Ominous.”
“Probably not,” I said. I had a pretty good idea who removed everything ‘gay’ related.
Junior was picking through the matchbooks. “Oh my God, a lot of these are gay bars. Look. Studio One.” He was holding a purple matchbook with a silver logo. “I used to go there and dance. It was a fabulous place. The boys, oh, you would die—and then one night, I was suddenly too old. They wanted twelve pieces of identification and a promise to stand in the shadows. One of the worst nights of my life. I remember people were always complaining that they didn’t let minorities or women into the disco, but the thing is,they did. Well, not women. But they did let Black and Asian and Hispanic boys in if they were beautiful. Which was also the criteria for White boys, by the way. It’s just that no one ever formed a civil rights group for the ugly.”
“Sounds like a great place,” I said, facetiously.
He must have missed my tone though, because he said, “Oh, it was. It was a dream.”
Then something occurred to me. “I wonder how Patrick got it? I mean, he’s decades older than you are and if they wouldn’t let you in.”
“Money, I’m sure. Nothing makes you look younger than a hundred-dollar tip.”
He was pawing through the matchbooks again. “Windup, I’ve heard of that, Roosterfish, Gauntlet…”
“I used to work there.”
“No, this is a different one, years before that. On Highland, I think. Gaslight. Playpen. Madness, Inc. The Blue Fox—that was on Sunset somewhere. Before I was old enough to drink. Circus. You know, he can’t have gone to all of these places. I mean, they’re very different sorts of places.”
“Maybe friends brought them to him, knowing he collected.”
“That could be.” Then he stopped. “Oh my.”
“What.”
“The Black Cat.”
“Okay.” Didn’t ring a bell for me.
“The police raided it in the sixties, late sixties. That made people angry and they started protesting. It was a big deal. Then New York came along a few years later and stole our thunder. Now everything is Stonewall this and Stonewall that when they really should be Black Cat this and Black Cat that.”
Of course, Stonewall Democratic Club—of which I’m sure there were many—had a better ring to it than Black Cat Democratic Club. Strange how things like this can come down to something as simple as a word.
Then Junior asked, “Exactly how are these helping you find Vera Korenko’s killer?”
“I’m not really sure I need to find her killer. I just need to figure out why he’s saying he killed her.”
“It sounds easier to find her killer.”
