LITMIR.BIZ

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them up and said, “Yes, the right to a truly private life. One where the government and the church aren’t down on their knees outside the bedroom door peering through the keyhole and clucking in disgust. Within a few years Hay had been tossed out of Mattachine and it was taken over by what our QUEER comrades would call assimilationists.” He smiled, showing cigarette smoke-stained teeth. “The irony, of course, is that we need both groups. The bomb throwers and compromisers. But they rarely see it that way.” He sighed. “Sadly.”

      I imagined when the QUEER kids looked at him all they saw was a musty old man with a big heavy body, a lined face, and a crepe-y neck and thinning white hair. They had no idea of how he had put his life on the line for them long before they were born and what he had sacrificed to do it.

      “Those kids owe you,” I said, bitter on his behalf.

      He laughed. “Oh, darling, nothing exists for the young but each other.”

      “Narcissists,” I said, dismissively.

      He shook his head. “Biological imperative, but thank you. What was I saying? Oh, yes. AIDS has only sharpened the division among us. With our lives now literally at stake, some of us see that the only solution is to cooperate with the politicians and the medical people to find a cure while groups like QUEER are convinced the pols and the doctors are bent on genocide. When something like 54 comes up, it’s harder to write those views off as paranoia.”

      A deep voice boomed, “Is this viejo filling your head with stories about the good old days?”

      I looked up and extended my hand. “Hello, Laura.”

      Laura Acosta casually crunched my hand. “Hey, Henry, how’s your head?”

      “I’ll live. Madison was telling me about QUEER.”

      She smirked. “I bet. Listen, whatever he says, he’s wrong. We’re committed to peaceful civil disobedience. That’s what I need to talk to you about.”

      Madison got up. “I’ll excuse myself now. Henry, Laura.”

      She gave him a bear hug. “You know I love you, viejo. Thanks for organizing this.”

      “Try to stay out of jail.”

      She laughed. “I wouldn’t be doing my job right if I did. Anyway, that’s why we need Henry.”

      “Need me for what?” I asked, after Madison departed.

      She sat down and spoke urgently. “Everyone’s got to fight this pinche proposition in their own way. The lawyers in the courts, the political consultants with their ad campaigns. We’re going to fight it in the streets. We’re planning a bunch of demos and protests between now and November, and some of them,” she grinned, “might cross a legal line or two. We need lawyers to observe the cops during the demos and to get us out of jail and represent us in court, if need be. What about it, Henry?” She leaned forward urgently in her chair. “Will you help?”

      “No violence.”

      “Not from us,” she replied. “Cross my heart.”

      “Do you run QUEER?”

      She laughed loudly. “No one runs QUEER, hombre. We’re a collective made up of smaller affinity groups. The affinities propose the actions and we talk about them. Endlessly. Then we reach a consensus whether or not to support the action as a group.”

      “What if the consensus goes against the action?”

      She shrugged. “We can’t stop it if that’s what you’re asking. All we can do is issue a statement saying it doesn’t represent the group.”

      “So, if someone wants to throw a bomb or two, you can’t prevent it?”

      “We’re angry, not stupid. No one’s going to be throwing any bombs.”

      “What about the guy who started the ruckus where I ended up with a head wound?”

      “Theo? Ah, he’s a speed freak, that’s all. Was probably high tonight. Gets aggressive when he’s high.”

      “There a lot of drug use in QUEER?”

      “Who am I, the DEA? Look, Theo’s loud but harmless. Freddy keeps him in line.”

      “Freddy?”

      “His boyfriend. The Chicano dude.” She got up. “Can we count on you?”

      “Yes.”

      “Cool. Come to our meeting on Monday at Plummer Park and you can see how we operate. It starts at eight and goes until— well, plan on a late night.”

      ••••

      I turned the doorknob to let myself into the house from the garage and saw the phone number Josh had written on the back of my hand. It was a sweet, childlike gesture, as if we were little boys and he’d grabbed my hand to tug me to the playground. I hadn’t been on the playground for a long time. The numbers were starting to blur. I dropped my keys into the bowl where I kept them, went into the kitchen, and wrote his name and phone number on a message pad. I’ll give him a call sometime, I thought. Sometime? What was I waiting for? I picked up the phone and dialed.

      THREE

      Max Taggert had built his church on a drab, industrial section of South La Brea Boulevard, buying up warehouses and vacant lots and converting them to the landscaped grounds and the glass-and-concrete structures that made up the Ekklesia compound. Taggert was not a man for subtlety or nuance and the compound reflected his personality.

      The sanctuary, built for up to 800 worshippers, was a jutting, soaring edifice that looked like an immense grouping of stalagmites. The entrance was plate-glass windows and doors that looked into a foyer paved with marble. A second set of doors led into a chapel paneled in mahogany, carpeted in plush gold wall-to-wall, and illuminated by stained-glass windows and dripping crystal chandeliers. The rows of well-padded, red-upholstered seats descended in a semi-circle to the raised platform of the altar. Throne-like chairs for the church elders made a semicircle behind the raised pulpit. Hidden in the rafters, TV cameras recorded and broadcast Sunday services on a Christian network to tens of thousands throughout California.

      Behind the sanctuary was a courtyard bounded north and south by two long buildings. The north building held meeting places and administrative offices; the south building was a K to sixth-grade school. The courtyard between the buildings was divided in two. Half of it was a grassy playground, and the other half a rose garden in the center of which was a sculpture of a weeping angel in Carrera marble that marked the tomb of Max Taggert. The eastern boundary of the courtyard was marked by an ivy-covered wall and behind it was the church’s parking lot. The entire compound was surrounded by immaculately kept lawns and flower beds. Over the entrance were enormous letters spelling out “Ekklesia,” which at night blazed the name in blue neon, like a road sign to Heaven.

      ••••

      Daniel pulled into his parking space in the lot behind the church, noting that his wife’s car was already in the spot reserved for the pastor’s wife. Those were the words painted on her spot: “Reserved for the pastor’s wife.” His read: “Reserved for Pastor Herron.” He was always more keenly aware of these tiny affronts to her dignity after he’d returned from seeing Gwen who would not have suffered them in silence. Jessica never mentioned it, but that didn’t mean she hadn’t noticed. He had learned early on in their marriage that Jessica noticed everything that affected her status as founder’s daughter and pastor’s wife, but she chose her battles carefully. Chose them not only for their significance to her, but whether the terrain was favorable to her particular battle techniques.

      Jessica was coaxing, adaptable, and deferential. Her arguments often began with references to “my father,” a reminder she was, after all, his only child, the last direct link to him. She never claimed this entitled her to special privileges. Rather, she would suggest her participation in this or that committee or initiative

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