“Good point!” said Stephen.
Rusty replied that though Rex’s recall might not be 100 percent accurate, Stephen’s pillow talk left few doubts as to what he and Oscar were up to. He also noted that we were trying to have it both ways, arguing on the one hand that Rex had forged the tape and on the other that he’d drunkenly imagined what he’d seen. Which was it?
Claire, unruffled, said she preferred to focus for now on the charge that Moira was running a brothel.
“Is there any point on the tape where the subject of money or payment is broached, even obliquely?”
“No,” conceded Grimes, “but the tape starts with Stephen getting it on with a Les Étoiles masseur.”
“Does it? We only have Rex’s word for that. I didn’t hear anything but a lot of moaning and grunting—noises perfectly consistent with a man getting a deep-tissue massage.”
“You’re forgetting we have Rex’s confession that he himself purchased sex at the spa.”
“Ah,” said Monty, “but he didn’t.”
“Okay,” snapped Rusty, getting testy. “Technically he says you picked up the tab as a birthday gift.”
“Balderdash!” said Monty, who then turned to Claire. “May I?”
“Please.”
“I paid for Rex to have a massage. Nothing less and certainly nothing more. It so happened the masseur, an aspiring actor, recognized Rex from his show and, hoping to further his career, offered his favors. Rex told me all about it, boasting in the most nauseating manner about his ageless sex appeal. Finally, to shut him up, I told him that the spa was a discreet brothel, that I’d arranged and paid for the sex as a surprise gift, and that when the masseur had laid eyes on Rex he’d doubled his fee. A bit mean of me perhaps, but you’d have done the same if you’d just spent an hour watching Rex fluff his curls and admire his shapely ankles.”
Monty then faced Moira, his manner abashed and contrite. “I should have realized a gossip like Rex would repeat my cruel fib to others. I never dreamed though that it would gain such wide currency. Forgive me, Miss Finch, for giving birth to the scurrilous rumors that have plagued your fine establishment.”
“Apology accepted,” said Moira magnanimously.
“So,” continued Claire, “I’d guess your other star witness, the junkie, got wind of the rumors and, when he landed in hot water, decided to exploit them to save his skin. Still think you have enough to charge Moira?”
“Damn right I do!” snarled Rusty, but his assurance seemed more forced now and his cocksure grin had vanished. “If you don’t mind, Miss Simmons, this whole damn sideshow began with my asking you a simple yes-or-no question. Is that your voice on the tape or not?”
“Oh, yes, of course it’s me,” said Claire lightly. “It’s all of us.”
“You traitor! ” howled Diana, rising in fury. “How DARE you suggest such a thing!”
Stephen too sprang to his feet, stunned by his savior’s apparent betrayal.
“This is bullshit! ” he shouted. “I want my lawyers back in here!”
“No! Just hear her out!” I beseeched him, tugging pathetically at his sleeve. To be honest, I was miffed at Claire myself for doing such a bang-up job of exonerating Moira while merely complimenting Rusty on the excellence of his case against Gilbert and me. But surely she was going someplace with this bold admission.
Claire approached Stephen, placed her hands on his shoulders, and gazed intently into his eyes. Her voice was firm yet soothing, as though she’d had years of experience as a star whisperer.
“I know this is hard for you, Stephen, but he’s forced our hand. Trust me. This is the only way we can put this whole affair behind us once and for all. Now sit down please and let me finish.”
Stephen obeyed but his hollow eyes suggested that he did so less out of any real faith in Claire than from a bitter conviction that all was lost and there was no sense struggling while they fastened the electrodes. Claire then turned to Grimes, her gaze crisp yet courageous like Emma Thompson playing Portia.
“It’s clear to me that from the beginning this whole case has not been about pandering or extortion, neither of which crime occurred. It’s been about your hatred of Stephen and determination to ruin his life and career.”
“Like hell!”
“It never occurred to you that by pursuing your vendetta you might bring great harm and embarrassment to others as well, people who’d done nothing to warrant your scorn or to suffer from your obsession. We’ve done everything in our power to protect these people. But we can do so no longer.
“Yes, your so-called evidence captures Stephen in the throes of passion with another man. But the man was not a prostitute, nor was he unknown to Stephen. What you have on that tape is a simple massage interrupted by a surprise romantic tryst, abetted by Moira, who, like hoteliers the world over, was discreetly catering to the romantic needs of a VIP guest. Excuse me please.”
She exited to the outer office, where we heard her ask Dottie to fetch Grimes a cup of coffee. “Don’t bring it in though. He’ll come out for it.”
We heard the door to the hallway open and close. Then Claire returned. She gave Stephen a strange smile, at once wry and compassionate, then, looking back to the outer office, beckoned for someone to enter.
Into the room walked Oscar.
Or, at least, Oscar from the neck up. The expressionless gold mask completely covered his head but beneath it he was clad in a navy turtleneck and jeans. But as soon as the door closed behind him he swiftly peeled off the turtleneck, revealing his magnificent gilded torso.
It was an electric moment and one that triggered a wide range of responses, from Stephen and Gina’s saucer-eyed horror to the Grimes boys’ irate confusion. Diana teetered on the brink of a picturesque swoon while Lily clapped her hands like a little girl who’s seen a magic trick. Monty and Gilbert just stared transfixed at the golden pectorals, their faces ablaze with curiosity as though wondering, “Do the pants come off too? Will he dance? ”
“What kind of cheap fucking stunt is this?” bellowed Rusty, red-faced and truculent.
“This ‘stunt,’ ” replied Claire, “is the person we’ve been trying to protect — Stephen’s former lover. I think it’s time he introduced himself.”
She nodded to Oscar, who whipped off the mask, revealing the freckled, defiantly smiling face of Billy Grimes.
“WHAT THE FUCK!” remarked Dad.
Stephen stared a moment, vaguely recognizing him but unable at first to place him. Then it hit him and a smile exploded on his face, for he’d instantly grasped the simplicity and genius of Claire’s plan to save him.
“Stephen!” cried Billy.
“Darling!” throbbed Stephen, who’d never been good with names.
“Billy!” I exclaimed for Stephen’s benefit. Gilbert and I exchanged a euphoric glance, for we too saw in a flash how masterfully Claire had checkmated the enemy.
At last all the morning’s mysteries were rendered clear. Claire had gone to Moira to get the costume and she’d needed the disk to show Billy. She’d known the steamy footage would stir him profoundly. She’d known too that it would illustrate the peril his hero now faced, a peril from which Billy alone could save him. How noble of Billy, how selfless to fall on the grenade of his father’s wrath in order to rescue his unworthy idol!
“Who the fuck is this?” asked Gina with understandable pique.
“It’s my goddamn son, that’s who!” hollered Rusty, who now resembled an enraged tomato.
Stephen, bashfully facing Gina, said, “This is Billy. He and I had...we were—”
“Boyfriends,” said Billy with a dash more pride than was quite seemly when informing the missus.
“What kind of bullshit is this?!” demanded Hank.
“It’s the truth,” said Claire. “What we’ve been trying to keep quiet for both Stephen and Billy’s sake while you’ve been trying to splash it all over the front page.”
On hearing the words “Billy,”
“Stephen,” and “front page” so alarmingly juxtaposed Rusty recoiled and sat as though suddenly dizzy. Spinning his chair, he cast an anxious eye out the window at the street below where the ever-growing press mob was clamoring for news and filling the airwaves with greasy conjecture. He shut his eyes tightly like a toddler about to throw a tantrum.
“NO! NO WAY! I’M NOT FUCKING BUYING THIS!”
“It’s the truth!” proclaimed Billy, throwing a gilded arm around Stephen. Again, an understandable impulse, but bad form in front of the wife.
“Show him the picture,” said Claire and Billy produced a laminated photo and presented it proudly to his father. I caught a glimpse and saw that it was the photo I’d taken at the Finch/Donato launch party. There they were, the picture of young love, with Billy grinning up a storm as Stephen planted a big smooch on his cheek. It was a good thing Billy had laminated his keepsake, as Dad’s first impulse after wincing in disgust was to tear it up. He clawed helplessly at the plastic and Billy snatched it away.
“That’s my property!”
“Take it! And put your damn shirt back on!”
Rusty wheeled menacingly on Stephen, who regarded his nemesis with manly defiance but seemed nonetheless eager to keep the desk between them.
“You sick fuck, Donato! You did this just to get back at me!”
Stephen, who’d never had more riding on a performance, threw himself into his role with passionate intensity.
“You think everything’s about you, don’t you, Rusty? Well it’s not! This was about Billy and me finding each other!”
“You tell him, Stephen!”
“I could have cleared this all up weeks ago but I didn’t ’cause I was determined to protect Billy from you, you smug, self-righteous bigot!”
You may recall that when Billy first poured Stephen and me drinks at Vici I remarked on his uncanny ability to teleport himself across the bar in his eagerness to serve his idol. This gift clearly ran in the family because Rusty now popped across the room like a bad edit and decked Stephen with a right hook that sent him careening onto the coffee table, landing painfully on a small replica of a Sopwith Camel.
“Assault!” shouted Lily.
“More like attempted murder!” cried Gilbert.
“You all saw that!” declaimed Diana, and Moira said she’d gotten a picture on her camera phone.
“You keep your filthy hands off him!” said Billy, fearlessly leaping between his father and the fallen star.
As he knelt and helped Stephen to his feet, Gina, who’d been looking a tad bilious since Stephen had addressed Billy as “darling,” rose and announced she was going to be sick. Grimes, remarking that she wasn’t the only one, said that Dottie would see her to the ladies’ room. Diana volunteered to accompany her, though I sensed from the leery glance she and Stephen exchanged that she was less concerned about Gina’s well-being than the risk of her buttonholing the first stranger she met and wailing, “My husband cheated on me! WITH A MAN!”
With the ladies now gone Stephen and Billy sat boldly together on the couch, Stephen rubbing his jaw as Billy rested a comforting hand on his knee.
“I know you’re upset about this, Dad, but you have no one to blame but yourself! You’re the one who brought us together!”
“You’re blaming this on me?! ”
Billy explained that they’d met at the bar the night that Rusty had traded barbs with us. Billy, embarrassed by his father’s rudeness, had introduced himself and apologized. Then, said Billy, I’d left and he and Stephen had talked more.
“We felt this immediate attraction.”
“Instant!” agreed Stephen. “Which was really weird for me ’cause I’d never been with a guy before —”
“Phmph!” said Lily, covering her mouth. “Sorry. Go on.”
Billy, his powers of invention honed by years of Stephen-themed fantasies, sweetly unfolded the tale of their brief, idyllic romance. He spoke of their great love, their unquenchable physical passion, and many shared interests and beliefs. The need for secrecy had, of course, been paramount, and they’d had trouble at first finding safe places to meet. This problem was solved by the genially discreet Moira, whose spa’s treatment rooms provided ideal trysting spots.
As Billy spoke we all listened with gently sympathetic smiles, save, of course, for the Grimes boys, who could not have looked queasier had they been watching a male-to-female sex change on the Surgery Channel. But their disgust didn’t faze Billy. Nothing could mar his rapture at sitting thigh to thigh with his dream man, spinning stories of their love and hearing each detail tenderly corroborated.
“I was so excited for Stephen ’cause I was sure he was going to win an Oscar for Lothario. Remember?”
“You always believed in me, Billy.”
“Whenever I’d tell him that, he’d just look at me and say, ‘You’re my Oscar, Billy. You’re the only prize I want.’ ”
It was this remark that had inspired Billy’s idea to surprise Stephen by showing up for a tryst costumed as an Oscar. Knowing that Moira had security cameras, he’d asked her to film this encounter, claiming he wanted to present it to Stephen as a keepsake. The truth, he sheepishly conceded, was that he’d wanted it for himself.
“You see,” he confessed, eyes misting at the memory, “we knew by then we’d have to end it soon. Stephen was married. The scandal could’ve ruined his whole career and I loved him too much to let that happen. We finally said goodbye after he got nominated. The attention was so crazy by then we’d have been nuts to think we could keep going and not be found out.”
Not long after they’d parted, explained Billy, he and I had met for drinks. He’d talked about the affair (which I, of course, knew of, having been under the table) and unwisely mentioned his filmed memento. Agog, I’d begged to see it until Billy, less wisely still, relented. We watched it on my laptop, and unbeknownst to Billy, I’d copied the file onto my hard drive.
“So you could blackmail Stephen!” accused Rusty.
I maintained, blushing prettily, that my motives had been purely recreational. I then confessed that I’d later loaned my copy to Monty, who, most foolishly of all, had screened it for Rex.
“So there you have it,” said Claire, summing up for the jury. “No prostitution, no extortion — just a star-crossed romance and a very personal keepsake passed around a damn sight too freely.”
“Chin up, old man!” said Monty, giving Rusty’s shoulder an avuncular pat. “We know this is quite vexing for you, as witness your face, which resembles a bowl of steaming borscht. But do try, if you can, to learn from your error. This all might have been avoided if you’d been less hidebound on matters of sex and raised your son in a loving, broad-minded home — one in which, if asked how his weekend had gone, he’d not have hesitated to reply that his tips had been sluggish but, on the bright side, he’d done it with a movie star. I hope this experience will open a dialogue that in time may—”
“Fuck off, you snotty old queen!”
“Ah, well. Baby steps.”
“So that’s it, huh?!” sneered Rusty, his jowls gratifyingly aquiver. “You think I’m just going to buy all this crap and let you waltz out of here?”
“You’d better,” warned Billy. “Because if you arrest any of my friends I’ll go downstairs and tell that whole mob how you squandered thousands in taxpayer money in a dumb-ass effort to frame my boyfriend!”
“And we don’t want that!” yiped Stephen.
“No,” Claire said to Rusty. “No one does, least of all you. If this comes out you can kiss the governor’s mansion goodbye. The last thing your party wants is a candidate mired in scandal—or a bumptious oaf who set out to uncover a crime ring and found nothing but his own son in a gay love nest. Which is why I doubt you’ll be charging these two for their little caper with Rex. Not when they’ll be forced to defend themselves by explaining they were trying to keep him from exposing your son’s affair with Stephen.”
“You’ve got it all work
ed out, don’t you, Missy!” said Rusty, spittle flying, as Prudence Gamache would have observed, from his enraged, incensed, livid, furious, unhappy lips. “Well, what if I just don’t buy it? Huh? What if I think the whole story’s one big fat lie?”
“Well, in that case,” Claire said blandly, “we’ll show you the DVD.”
I gasped and my eyes swiveled to Stephen.
Speaking strictly as Cavanaugh the historian, I confess that the greatest challenge I’ve faced in recounting this tale is that, in the course of it, both I and the other dramatis personae suffered so many abrupt and hair-raising reversals of fortune that the further along I get the more I fear I’ve exhausted the vocabulary of rude surprise. I assure you though that at no point in the whole harrowing journey was anyone quite so unhappily startled as Stephen was by Claire’s breathtakingly casual offer. He rocketed from his chair like a pilot from an ejector seat and his face was that of a man struck by lightning while eating a bad oyster.
“WHAT? HAVE YOU LOST YOUR FUCKING MIND?!”
“I know you’d prefer not to, Stephen, but if it’s the only way to convince them—”
“You can’t!” thundered Diana. “The film doesn’t exist! The copies have all been destroyed!”
“Not mine,” said Monty, winning a fond look from sis.
“It’s not like they’ll show it to anyone,” argued Billy, the complete altruism of whose motives I was beginning to question.
“You brought it with you?” marveled Hank.
Monty explained that no, we did not have a copy immediately at hand. Billy, determined to protect Stephen, had destroyed his own. The sole remaining disk was the one he’d borrowed from me and he’d sent it to a friend in Key West for safekeeping. He could have it Express Mailed back today and have it on Rusty’s desk by noon tomorrow. Would that be satisfactory?
Rusty, who’d sooner have identified his son in a morgue than in a skin flick devoid of ladies, just glowered murderously at the grinning dandy. His brother placed a hand on his shoulder and said, “You don’t have to watch it, Russ. I’ll check it out.”