was as kind and generous as any man on earth.”
“That’s what might have got him dead, the kindness of a friend.”
“What are you telling me, Mr. Crang?”
“You’re aware of the cause of Ian’s death, Daryl?”
“It was in the death notices in the papers. AIDS. Just terrible.”
“Put it together, Daryl. The way most gay guys get AIDS is from other gay guys.”
“You are saying from somebody else at the Purple Zinnia?”
“Could be.”
Daryl’s lower lip quivered.
“This brings us to the crunch question, Daryl,” I said. “Sorry to be blunt, but did you and Ian, your good and kind friend Ian, did the two of you exchange bodily fluids?”
“Beg your pardon?”
“Sex, Daryl. Did you and Ian have sex together?”
“No, sir.” Daryl did everything to register his indignation except stamp his big foot. “We did not do such a thing.”
“You see why I’ve got to ask?”
“Ask me? I don’t see that at all.”
“Because some friend of Ian’s may be walking around with AIDS.”
“It is not myself, Mr. Crang.”
Daryl’s indignation had wound down in a hurry. Again the lower lip was quivering, and he generally looked miserable.
“Ian was a fine gentleman,” Daryl said with a small tremor in his voice.
“Agreed.”
“I truly mourn his passing,” Daryl said. The tremor in his voice was getting close to earthquake status.
“Uh, Daryl, you okay?”
Daryl looked at me. “What do you think, Mr. Crang?”
“Yeah, right.” Daryl’s hangdog expression, the fault in his voice, was beginning to make me feel like a heel. “Tell you what, Daryl, why don’t we reschedule the rest of this chat for a later date? You know, let you get a grip on the emotions, one thing and another?”
“I’d appreciate that, Mr. Crang.”
“Sure.” I patted one of Daryl’s massive shoulders. It felt hot. “You bet.”
I stood up.
“Get back to you later, Daryl.”
Daryl didn’t say anything, and I walked out of the park’s east side without looking back.
Chapter Seven
Bart the Bulge was in the papers, too. Annie found him.
“Where does that rate on the scale of revolting?” she asked me.
Annie was pointing at an ad in the entertainment pages of the Sun. The ad was for a strip club, and it showed a guy billed as Bart the Bulge. He was dressed in a garment not as small as a jockstrap but not as large as a bikini. The guy’s upper body was coated in oil, and the camera had caught him in the act of grinding his pelvis.
“Think he’s got a codpiece under that scrap of cloth?” I said. “Kleenex stuffed in there?”
“It’s disgustingly unnatural.”
“True to his billing, the bulge.”
“That’s something you’ll find out when you visit the club, the authenticity of the bulge.”
“I’ll find out?”
“At this club, where he’s doing whatever he does with whatever’s under the Lilliputian panties.”
“This time out, kiddo, you accompany me,” I said. “And listen, if the panties are Lilliputian, how can what’s under them qualify as a bulge?”
“You actually want to take me to a seedy joint like that?”
“With you in it, the seediness will dissolve.”
According to the ad, Bart the Bulge was appearing at the Club Eroticarama. It had a Yonge Street address, and the number would put it somewhere south of Bloor. The ad promised nonstop strip action from both sexes, but Bart was the feature attraction. Showtimes on the hour from nine to one in the morning.
“We’re about set, Annie,” Lynne Jordan called across the room.
Lynne produces Flicks, Annie’s show. The time was around ten-fifteen Monday night, and we were in the program’s offices over a Mac’s on the Danforth. Flicks doesn’t rate the budget to afford much studio time rental, which means that Lynne and Annie have to scare up their own locales to shoot some of the program’s segments in. Tonight, things were simple; Annie was going to perch on a desk in the office and say the introduction and sign-off for the next night’s show into the camera. A guy named Ron had a sound camera strapped to his shoulder, and he and Lynne had been working out angles and backdrops.
“Face around this way, Annie,” Lynne said, steering Annie by the waist. “So the poster for Daddy Nostalgia peeks into the frame over your shoulder.”
“Peeks?” Ron said. “You want, like, a hint of it?”
“Peeks, hints, whatever. Just so the audience doesn’t get hit over the head with the damned thing.”
“Sure,” Ron said, huddled into his camera.
“What’re you getting?” Lynne asked him. Lynne was a big, middle-aged woman who had a whisky voice and wore dresses that fit like tents. “You showing enough poster so we can see Tavernier’s name on there?”
“I got, lemme see, a Bogarde, I got a Birkin.” Ron was a lanky guy in his mid-twenties, not movie-wise enough to register the names of Dirk Bogarde and Jane Birkin, but strong enough to wield the heavy camera. “What’s the name you want?” he asked Lynne.
“The director, for Chrissake, Bertrand Tavernier.” Lynne’s voice roughened. “You need me to spell it? Starts with T as in tits …”
“Okay, got it,” Ron said, not flapped by Lynne. “Looks nice. Annie in the middle, poster on the left.”
“Like to run down the intro one time first, Annie?” Lynne asked.
“Let’s go ahead, do a take,” Annie answered. “My hair okay?”
“Perfect.”
It was. Annie wore her black hair cut as close as a cap. Not even a hurricane could blow a strand out of place. Her face was shaped in an old-fashioned oval, her figure was petite. She’s a smidge over five foot two and a couple
