Ambulances coasted in and out through the mist, the Tuesday night torn and traumatized delivered as swiftly and silently as Fed-Exed envelopes. Somebody was probably working on a way to fax them in. Rutka's wound was to his right foot, which he lifted from the pavement a few inches, his right arm over Sandifer's shoulder for support, while he described the incident. As I listened, I tried to concentrate on the narrative and not become distracted by Rutka's wandering left eye, which, in his excitement, was now all over the place.
The loose eye was Rutka's one physical imperfection, the flaw that confirmed the beauty of his sturdy frame and curly-headed Byronic good looks. Watching Rutka was sometimes like looking at a Romantic poet as rendered by a cubist, and you had to be careful not to let the visual spectacle get in the way of Rutka's spiel, which was forceful in its single-minded way but lacked the quirky surprises of his appearance.
Eddie Sandifer listened with eyes half closed to Rutka's recitation, nodding occasionally as Rutka backed up to clarify a point or add a detail; this was probably the third or fourth time in the past three hours that Rutka had told the story of the shooting, and esthetic considerations were already starting to color the reportage.
From time to time, Sandifer reached up to wipe the purple sweat from his face and head; though in his early thirties, like Rutka, Sandifer was nearly bald, his dome glistening. Bathed in the weird light, the stocky, fair-skinned Sandifer looked like a big, masculine, radioactive baby. Both were wearing jeans and yellow-and-black Queer Nation T-shirts, the two of them composing a walking-and-talking embodiment of postmodern gay liberation ideology: We're queer and we're here to stay and you'd damn well better get used to it.
At about four-thirty that afternoon, Rutka said, he had walked out of his house on Elmwood Place, a few miles up the Hudson from Albany in the town of Handbag. He crossed the front porch, started down the front steps, heard a loud crack, and suddenly found himself sprawled on the walkway leading down to the street. His breath was gone and his foot was screaming with pain. Rutka said he hadn't noticed anyone-Elmwood Place was a dead-end street with just nine houses along it- but he thought he heard a car driving away fast.
The car sounded as if it had a defective muffler. When he caught his breath, Rutka shouted Eddie's name several times. John wants Donald to find out and nab who shot him, before the perpetrator finishes the job. Latest Gay Additions Edit Item. CGiii Rating. Public Rating. Strachey abandons bodyguard duty when he feels that Rutka is staging the threats against himself.
When Rutka turns up dead, Strachey is faced with an extensive list of enemies all with enough motive to kill. After the mysterious demise of a client, private detective Donald Strachey infiltrates a therapy group for gay people who want to become straight.
He takes on the group's founder to prove that his client's death was not a suicide. Donald Strachey is a gay private investigator who learns of a local school's decision to chastise a lesbian teacher for speaking openly about her sexuality.
Discovering that her home has been vandalized, Donald starts to look into things and discovers there is more going on than appears on the surface. After his long-time partner, Tim Sebastian Spence , asks him to uncover the source of an anonymous and generous donation to the Albany youth center, he gets caught in a whirlwind of deceit and danger.
When the lawyer who presented the donation turns up dead, the hard-boiled Strachey must race against the clock to capture the killer before he strikes again. You need to be logged in to continue. Click here to login or here to sign up. We use cookies to help give you a better experience on TMDB. You can review our cookie policy to learn more. By continuing to use TMDB, you are agreeing to this policy.
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