When the Stars Come Out (18 page)

the time was right, but Noah preferred to take his opportunities

when and where he found them.

“I think you’ve got a great story in you.”

Quinn frowned.

“Maybe even a book.”

Quinn’s frown deepened. “Bart warned me about you,” he said.

So Bart had tipped him off. Noah opened his mouth to object, but

Quinn silenced him by raising one calloused hand in his direction.

“He told me you think I can be your project.” Looking the younger

man squarely in the eye he added: “Tell me, Noah, do I look like a project?”

Noah thought about what the right answer was, before deciding:

“No.”

“You’re right. I’m not a project. So all I can tell you is that you’re not going to write my book.”

“But your stories,” said Noah, ignoring the still-outstretched

hand. “You’re a part of Hollywood history!”

“I’m nothing. Just one of ten thousand people who had a mo-

ment
. . .
nothing more.”

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“Okay.” Noah sat back in his chair, placing the sunglasses back

on his face. Almost to himself he added, “It just seems like a

shame.”

“I suppose it does. To you.” Quinn thought about that for a mo-

ment. “What do you mean, ‘a shame.’?”

Hidden behind the dark glasses, Noah said, “Ten, fifteen years

in film and TV. There are still a lot of fans who would like to read about those days, those experiences. And thirty-plus years with Jimmy, well
. . .
that’s inspirational.”

Quinn silently agreed. It was, indeed, inspirational. And maybe

this young Noah Abraham was on to something.
Maybe
. “Inspirational?

You think the story of Jimmy and me is inspirational?”

Noah turned to Quinn, slipping off the sunglasses again to bet-

ter convey his sincerity. “More than inspirational. It’s a love story for the ages.”

He regretted those words as soon as they passed his lips.

Quinn’s tone was mocking. “‘A love story for the ages’? Good

fucking God, where did you steal that line of shit from? I haven’t heard anything described like that since
. . .
since
. . .
well, never mind. Son, if you’re going to try to woo me, I’d prefer you’d offer me more than boring clichés.” He closed his eyes and, to himself,

repeated the line. “ ‘A love story for the ages.’ What a load of crap.”

Chastened, Noah closed his own eyes and tried to brainstorm

his way out of the rhetorical hole he had dug for himself. He was a writer, dammit, and he
could
do better than offer boring clichés. In fact, he was obviously going to have to, if he was going to gain Quinn Scott’s trust.

“Listen,” he finally said. “I apologize for the choice of words.

But
. . .
but
. . .
your story is amazing, and I think the world would like to read about it.”

“I don’t think so.”

“I disagree,” said Noah, suddenly feeling that he had just this

small window of opportunity to sell his idea. “The people you’ve

known
. . .
the things you’ve seen
. . .
And let’s not forget your public image. You were the Philly Cop! You were shooting Indians next to the Duke! And all that time, you were gay.”

“Except I wasn’t,” said Quinn. “Not really.”

Noah looked at him, confusion on his face. “You weren’t?”

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“I was, but I wasn’t. Follow me?”

Noah shook his head.

“I was gay, but I wasn’t gay. Now do you understand?”

Noah clearly had still not grasped what he was trying to say.

Quinn sighed and slid down just a bit in his chair.

“It wasn’t as if I was being invited to pool parties at George

Cukor’s house. I wasn’t dating Rock. Maybe I knew I was attracted

to men—at least
some
men—but I didn’t do anything about it. When I married Katherine, I really thought she was the one. Now do you

understand?”

Noah gave him a slight nod. “I think so.”

“A lot of the things I know, a lot of the stories I could tell, are second or third hand. I really wasn’t part of the gay scene back then. It was only when I met Jimmy that, well . . .” His voice trailed off into silence until he concluded with: “I’ve really got nothing for you. In fact, all I have is that fucking ‘love story for the ages’ you were talking about.”

Noah felt his trial balloon start to deflate. If, in fact, Quinn’s life was composed of a short and mediocre career, a brief marriage to

Kitty Randolph, and a thirty-six year gay relationship, the older

man was right: he really had nothing for him. Without a little gossip, there was no hook. Noah could write an interesting book, but

not a book that anyone would go out of their way to read.

Which meant that, again, he had nothing. Nothing for his pub-

lisher and, more importantly, nothing to stoke his creativity.

Again he heard the sliding screen door, and he instinctively

looked in its direction, expecting to see Bart. Instead, Jimmy stood in the doorway.

“Um
. . .
tequila?”

“The boy went to the liquor store,” said Quinn.

“And?”

“Yes, he’s getting limes, too.”

“Good,” said Jimmy. “Because that blender isn’t going to fill it -

self.” He stepped out onto the patio, taking in the bright sunlight and warm afternoon. Turning to Noah, he said, “And will our guest

be joining us for margaritas?”

Noah shrugged. He really wasn’t in the mood, now that he had

to face the sheer mediocrity of Quinn Scott’s life.

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“Oh, come on,” said Jimmy. “If we can’t relax on a Saturday after-

noon, when can we relax?”

Quinn snorted. “What do you need to relax
from
, dear?”

“You, love of my life.” Jimmy took a long look at the unsmiling

Noah. “Is something wrong?”

“Sorry,” said Noah, forcing a smile. “I was just thinking.”

“We don’t
think
around here, Noah. That’s how we keep our san-ity.”

Still forcing his smile, Noah added, “I was trying to convince

Quinn that he had a story to tell. He doesn’t seem to think so.”

Quinn slumped down just a bit in his chair and said, “I have no

story.”

Noah didn’t really mean it, but still he said, “I don’t know about that. A long-term relationship, a high-profile marriage
. . .
Even if you weren’t part of the Hollywood gay scene, you still have a

story.”

“Excuse me?” said Jimmy, planting one hand on his chest. “Did I

miss something? Did my husband regain his virginity when I wasn’t

looking?”

Noah raised an eyebrow and stole a look at Quinn, who slid even

further down in the chair.

“There’s not much to tell,” Quinn grumbled.

Jimmy laughed. “Not much to tell? Oh, Quinn.” He leaned into

Noah and, with a finger pointed at his partner, said, “That old man might have taken his time coming out of the closet, but—let me

tell you, honey—once I coaxed him out he made up for a lot of lost time.”

“Jimmy . . .” Quinn grumbled, but Jimmy ignored him.

“Do some math here, Noah. We met in September 1969, and

that shrew he was married to caught us in the act a few months

later. But we weren’t banished from the industry for another year

or so. And why was that?”

“Jimmy . . .”

“Because
someone
didn’t know the meaning of the word ‘discretion.’ I had to practically attach myself to him to keep him out of trouble.”

“Jimmy . . .”

“Oh hush now,” said Jimmy, flapping a hand at Quinn. “You

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121

know it’s true. If I wasn’t watching you like a hawk, you would have
so
slept with Rock!”

Noah’s eyes were now wide open. “Rock Hudson?”

“He was sniffing after my Quinn for months. ‘I’m having a party;

would you like to come over?’ ‘How about dinner Friday night?’

Let me tell you, Noah, after word got out that hunky Quinn Scott

was gay, half of Hollywood was chasing after him.”

“That’s not exactly true.”

“It is
so
true. And thank God
I
got you first, because if it wasn’t for my charm, skill, and patience, you would have gone through

them like a kid in a candy store.” When Quinn didn’t respond,

Jimmy cocked a hand on his hip and added, “His silence speaks vol-

umes.”

Quinn Scott was not a classically trained actor, but he knew how

to hide the intense embarrassment he was feeling: he abruptly

stood and walked back into the house.

“Call me when the margaritas are ready,” he said in parting.

When he was gone, Noah said to Jimmy, “Those stories are true?”

“Swear to God.”

Noah shook his head. “He told me he wasn’t part of the Holly-

wood gay scene.”

“Well, in a sense, he wasn’t. It’s true that gay men wanted him,

and he did his fair share of hitting the party circuit after we became a couple, but he wasn’t
. . .
well, he wasn’t promiscuous. I do believe that he’s a one-man man.” He looked to the house, to make

sure Quinn was out of earshot. “But they wanted him, and he loved

the attention
. . .
until word got back to Kitty.”

“You said she walked in on you?”

Jimmy was visibly energized, and took Quinn’s vacated deck

chair. “Now
that
was a scene! You know the story of how we met, right?” Noah shook his head. “It was on the set of
When the Stars
Come Out
. He was starring opposite her—and let me tell you, I love Quinn dearly, but he should not have been doing musicals—and I

was a dancer in the big musical number at the end of the show.

Anyway, I had just ended a horrible relationship with an evil, evil man—dead now, God rest his soul—and I didn’t think I wanted to

meet anyone, but we were on the set, and our eyes met, and some-

thing just clicked.”

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“And
. . .
happily ever after?”

Jimmy threw his head back and let out a loud, high-pitched

laugh. “Not exactly. Remember, Quinn was married to the top box-

office draw in the nation, maybe the world. And up to that point,

he had never even admitted to
himself
that he was gay. It was very complicated. Let me give you a brief flashback . . .”

Chapter 5

There are a lot of people in Hollywood who are trapped in

loveless marriages
. . .
relationships that are more like business partnerships than love affairs. I know, because I used to be one

of those people. Quinn Scott was all about his career, social

standing, and financial comfort.

And let me tell you, that is not the way to go through life.

There is nothing quite so liberating as freeing yourself to love,

no matter what the consequences
. . .

Los Angeles, California, September 1969

T
he scene had finally been shot to the satisfaction of the director and star Kitty Randolph alike, and the day was over. The last

tweaks could be addressed in the editing room, and there was no

need to keep cast and crew on the soundstage, eating deeper into a budget that was already keeping the studio executives up at night.

Jimmy changed back into street clothes in the dressing room he

shared with the entire male crew of dancers and, bag over his

shoulder, walked to his car, parked at the far end of the studio lot in a barren, treeless expanse that had been drenched in hot Southern

California sunshine all day. He unlocked the trunk and threw his

bag in, then slammed it shut. Fingering his keys, he walked to the driver’s door, already dreading the furnace inside.

“Hey,” said a deep voice behind him. “Nice work today.”

The voice was familiar. He turned and saw Quinn Scott strut to-

ward him from between parked cars.

“Mr. Scott,” Jimmy said, more than a bit surprised. He heard his

voice rise and tried to keep it in check. “I didn’t expect to see you way out here.”

Jimmy wasn’t just making small talk. He had truly never before

known of an actor of any consequence who had to park in the out-

lying lots
. . .
especially one the stature of Quinn Scott. This parking Siberia was on par with the public transportation that would

have probably dropped him off much closer to the studio gates.

Quinn’s eyes glanced off of him for the briefest of moments be-

fore absently scanning the lot full of heat-seared automobiles. “I think the
‘When the Stars Come Out’
number went well, didn’t it?”

“Oh, yes!” said Jimmy, still vaguely nervous at the encounter.

“Was I
. . .
too stiff?”

Jimmy smiled, wishing he could dare share the double entendre

that was on the tip of his tongue. “Not at all. I mean, you’re not a dancer, but you move well enough. I think you did quite well.”

Quinn wasn’t sure if he was being truly complimented, or damned

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by the faintest of praise. Sensing his discomfort, Jimmy added, “And you did a very good job singing, too.”

The actor smiled. “Well, I don’t think you’re telling me the en-

tire truth. But thank you. Anyway, this is Katherine’s movie, and the rest of us are all window dressing, right?”

“Right. Uh
. . .
Katherine?”

Quinn corrected himself, changing from the legal to the famil-

iar form of his wife’s name. “Kitty.”

Jimmy looked at him. The man was thirty-five or thirty-six years