When the Stars Come Out (42 page)

Dean poured himself a vodka and tonic, noting unhappily that

the bar was garnish-free; then, without taking an order, poured

Quinn a stiff scotch and water. When he was done mixing he took

both glasses and pivoted, offering the scotch to Quinn, and said,

“Sit down.”

Quinn hesitated, so Dean became a bit more forceful. “You know

I own this dressing room, so please sit down.”

Stunned by Dean’s brashness, Quinn obeyed and sat back on the

bench, this time facing away from his elderly reflection.

“So you know,” said Dean, his eyes darting everywhere but to

Quinn as he slurped his clear, fruit-free liquid.

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“Know what?”

Dean smiled, but looked at his shoes instead of Quinn, pretend -

ing to inspect them for an invisible scuff. “You know about PorchStar.”

The stony-faced Quinn merely said again, “Know what?”

This time, Dean looked up, and, although his glance was fleet-

ing, he
did
make eye contact.

“I know you know, Quinn. There aren’t a lot of secrets around

here. I also know you don’t like me, but—trust me—I’m not stu-

pid.” He paused. “You’re fighting back. That fascinates me.”

Quinn didn’t give him the satisfaction of an answer. He just

looked at him
. . .
not with anger, and not with curiosity. He looked at him with nothing but indifference.

Dean tried to match his stoicism, and managed to hang in there

for thirty seconds or so, but finally he cracked.

“Okay, you don’t have to talk,” he said, tapping his index finger

against his glass of vodka. “
I
know you know and that’s what’s important here.” Dean made another attempt to make eye contact;

this one lasted only for a few seconds before it fell away. “Anyway, I just wanted to say
. . .
I’m sorry.”

Quinn cocked his head.

“I don’t know what to tell you, Quinn. Things had to happen.”

Again, there was silence, broken only by the faint ticking of a

clock.

Dean played with his swizzle stick. He had expected anger, maybe

even violence. Although he had hoped there would be no violence,

because even though Quinn had a good twenty to twenty-five years

on him, he knew that there was a good likelihood that the older

man could pound him to a bloody pulp. Still, a good beating would

have been preferable to the sphinx that sat a short two yards from him, inscrutable and unanswering.

Until the sphinx finally spoke.

“What I don’t understand,” said Quinn slowly, “is why.”

“Why?”

“Why. Why did you go to such lengths to
. . .
well, to humiliate me? Why not just ignore me?”

With his free hand, Dean smoothed his pant leg.

“Honestly,” he said, “that was my advice. But . . . she had other

ideas.”

“I see that now. She wanted me gone.”

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Dean nodded.

Quinn held his stony expression and sat, unspeaking.

“You know how she is,” Dean finally said, stirring his drink, but

not actually drinking. “She wants what she wants, and she gets it. In this case, she wanted to drive you into silence.”

“But she didn’t get it,” Quinn said finally.

“She didn’t?”

“Maybe she got the humiliation
. . .
yeah, she got the humiliation. But she didn’t get the silence. Never the silence.”

Dean gently crossed his legs at the ankle. “Here’s the deal, Quinn.

She won. Understand? She got the humiliation, and maybe she

can’t physically shut you up, but she’s essentially silenced you. After the
Brothers-in-Law
debacle, who’s going to listen to you?”

“Lots of people,” said Quinn, hoping his bluff was not too trans-

parent.

“No one,” snapped Dean. “It’s not an accident that
HHS
is on the set this week. Thanks to Kitty, everyone thinks you’re a doddering old fool who’s being manipulated by other people for
. . .
whatever reason. And I’m sure she’s already thought of that reason, too.

Money
. . .
fame
. . .
one of those things that holds a peculiar fascination for people, but ultimately comes off as a big negative. She’s always ten steps ahead of you, Quinn. She always has been.”

“So you say.”

“No, this is something I know. Because she’s always ten steps

ahead of
me
, too.” And finally, in the way a nervous man can only do with someone who is in the same boat, Dean Henry made eye

contact. “But back to the main question: who is going to listen to Quinn Scott now? Larry King? I heard that booking fell through.

Barbara Walters? No chance. Are you going to get booked on Leno

or Letterman? Hell no. They’re openly mocking you on
The Daily
Show
, for chrissakes! Four nights in a row! Last night they said that you weren’t even gay, that you just forgot you’re heterosexual.”

Dean again smoothed his pants against his leg and shook his head

sadly. “The sad thing—the knife-twist that Kitty really did well—is that when the talk shows stop talking to you, they’ll be thinking

that they’re doing you an act of kindness. Because the doddering

old man can’t make a fool of himself if no one will interview him.”

Quinn nodded, digesting the completeness of Kitty’s plot. She

had indeed cut him off, even more effectively than she had ban-

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ished him thirty-six years earlier. He looked at Dean, who was still, remarkably, maintaining eye contact, and asked, “Why are you

telling me this, Dean? Why now?”

“My conscience.”

“An agent with a conscience?”

Dean had to smile at that. “You want the truth? Here’s the truth:

I never would have told you if I didn’t know you had already fig-

ured it out, okay?”

“Go on,” Quinn prompted him.

“Listen, we all know that she’s a horrible person. We all know

that what people see on the screen is an illusion. A Kitty Randolph biography would make
Mommie Dearest
look like
The Sound of Music
.

Your book proved that
. . .
well, in those few weeks in which anyone was taking you and your book seriously, that is. But we have to live in the world as it is, and—in this world—Kitty Randolph is the

queen.”

“It doesn’t sound as if you like her very much,” said Quinn, with

more understanding in his voice than should have been there.

“I have to live in the world as it is, too.”

“I used to know that feeling.”

Dean broke eye contact and stared into his drink.

There was silence in the room for a moment, until Quinn rose

from the bench and cleared his throat.

“Queens fall, Dean. Regimes are toppled. Leaders are forced

into exile. And Kitty Randolph is only as powerful as you let her be.

If you stand up to her, your world won’t come to an end. I did, and mine didn’t.”

“Yours didn’t? It looks that way to me.”

“I have love, Dean. Katherine can take a lot away from me, but I

own that. And what do you own? A few things, yes, but not love,”

Dean waved the sentiment away. “Love is overrated.”

“Spoken like a man who’s never had it and doesn’t expect it.”

It was Dean’s turn to clear his throat. He noticed that his leg was shaking slightly. “She would scream if she knew I was here talking to you right now. That’s not standing up to her?”

“You skulked in here,” said Quinn. “You made sure that no one

was looking and slipped right through the door. That’s standing up to her? I don’t think so.”

The agent hunched forward, resting his forearms against his

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281

legs, consciously risking wrinkles in his suit pants to emphasize his feigned comfort and at least partial sincerity.

“I’m just another guy she’s got by the balls, Quinn. You get kicked enough, you get a little gun shy. That’s all. Yes, I suppose I’m afraid of her just a bit, but not as much as you seem to think.”

Quinn leaned forward, mimicking Dean’s posture until their

faces were too close for Dean’s comfort.

“If that’s true, let me ask you a question.”

“Shoot.” There was a slight hesitation in Dean’s voice.

“Why don’t you just come out?”

Stunned into silence, Dean froze in position until he finally found his voice. “Ex . . . ex
. . .
Excuse me?”

“Just come out.”

“C-c-c-come
. . .
come out from where?”

“Come out of the closet.”

“B-b-b-but I’m not in. In a closet, that is.”

Quinn shook his head. “You mean, she knows?”

“Kn-kn-knows what?”

“That you’re gay.”

Dean sat up sharply in his chair, almost—but not quite—spilling

his drink, and squealed, “
What?!
”

“So
. . .
wait,” said Quinn. “I’m confused. Does Kitty know you’re gay? Or not?”

“I’m not gay!!” Dean shrieked.

Now it was Quinn’s turn to be confused. “You’re not?”

“No! What would make you think . . . ? I am
not
a homosexual, Mr. Scott. I am 100-percent heterosexual! In fact, I’m
. . .
I’m
. . .

I’m
shocked
that you think I’m gay. What would ever . . . ? Okay, yes, I’m a bit fastidious. But that doesn’t make a man gay.”

“Well, you set off my gaydar . . .”

Dean was sputtering. “Gaydar? What the hell is gaydar?”

“It’s that feeling gay men have that tells them someone else is

gay.”

Dean fumed, fumbling for words. “That’s the problem of the gays.

Not me. I don’t do anything
. . . gay
. I am totally non-gay. Uh
. . .
un-gay.
Whatever
!” He stopped for a moment, then squinted at Quinn.

“Were you just trying to pick me up?”

“Of course not,” said Quinn, appalled. “Don’t insult me.”

“Insult
you
?!!” Dean surprised even himself with his fury, let alone 282

R o b B y r n e s

the words spilling out of his mouth. “Why would
you
be insulted?

Am I somehow undesirable? Unworthy of you?” He stopped himself

and smoothed his lapels, then, calmed by the grooming ritual, con-

tinued. “Because I’m not, Quinn. If I weren’t so heterosexual, I’d be a great catch for any gay man.”

Quinn waved him away. “I’m sure you would be. In your own

way. But it’s not that,” he said, although, in part, it was. “Not every gay man wants sex from every other gay man. That was the insult.

I’m sure some people would find you attractive.”

“But not you.”

“Not me,” confirmed Quinn, before adding, “No offense.”

“None taken.” Dean stewed for a moment, then asked, “Just out

of curiosity,
why
not me? Do you think I’m unattractive?”

“Shut up, Dean,” said Quinn with finality. “We aren’t going down

that road.”

“I should hope not.”

“We aren’t.”

“Good.”

“
Shut the fuck up for two seconds!
” Dean shut up. “If I offended you, I apologize. But we’re getting sidetracked. What we should be talking about is how you can reclaim your very heterosexual life from

Katherine.”

“You seem to be more certain than I am about that.”

“Let me tell you what I see,” said Quinn, talking a gulp from his

glass of scotch before continuing. “I see a man who wants to be

free, but is afraid of the consequences. A man who is a lot like I was, back when I was married to her. Am I right?”

“I told you,” said Dean. “I am not gay.”

“And I believe you,” said Quinn, not quite convincingly. “But

there are many more reasons to want freedom besides coming to

terms with your sexuality. Take being your own man, for one. Being your own
heterosexual
man.”

“I’m quite content.”

“You say that. But I think the reason you came here this after-

noon had nothing to do with your conscience. You came here be-

cause you don’t want Katherine to win. Not this time, at least.”

Dean thought about that. In truth, he wasn’t quite sure why, ex-

actly, he had come to Quinn’s dressing room, except that, thanks

to Q. J., he knew that Quinn had figured out the PorchStar con-

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nection and some damage control would be necessary, and the

only way he could control the damage was by giving Quinn a warn-

ing. He just didn’t expect that warning to be turned back on him.

Or did he? Unsure of his own motivations—unsure about any-

thing, except his 100-percent unquestionably heterosexual status—

Dean chose not to challenge Quinn’s hypothesis. Instead, he

nodded vaguely and said, “For better or worse, Kitty is my wife. I live in her world, and we know what that’s like.” He stood and

straightened himself. “Consider this nothing more than a heads

up, Quinn. And an apology. It isn’t right—I
know
it isn’t right—but this is the way things are. It’s over.”

As Dean began walking to the door, Quinn stood up from the

bench and stopped him with, “Let me tell you something, Dean.”

Dean glanced at his watch. “Quickly.”

“I’ve waited thirty-five years for my comeback, and you can wait

for five more minutes.” When Dean timidly nodded his acquies-

cence, Quinn continued. “I have missed this business—missed act-

ing—for almost half my life. This
Brothers-in-Law
show isn’t much, but it
is
my last hurrah. In thirty years, I’ll probably be dust. No one will remember me, or my movies, or
. . .
or even this show. They won’t remember you, they may not even remember Katherine.”