 Re-reading the Little Death after its publication reminds me that I never intended to begin a series. It was meant as a one-off, a way to teach myself how to write fiction and an inversion of the noir fiction of the tough guy writers of the 30s, 40s and 50s, particularly Raymond Chandler. Chandler loomed large in my mind for a number of reasons. Like countless other readers, I was captivated by his inimitable style, a style as distinctive as William Faulkner's and a lot more fun to read. Then, too, Philip Marlowe was not only an outsider, but an outsider with whom he gave way could I particularly identify. Marlowe, for all his tough talk, was an honorable man who embodied the virtues that society purported to honor, but rarely displayed, loyalty, courage, integrity. And because of his status as a private eye was the object of society's contempt. Nonetheless, despite their contempt for him, he was the person to whom the hente desente turned to in their times of trouble and to whom they revealed the squalid secrets that lay beneath the surface of respectable society. This gave him a ringside seat to society's hypocrisies. Gee, I thought, who does that remind me of? Oh, right, me. Like Marlowe, my inner experience of myself as a decent person was wildly at odds with society's characterization of gay men and the contempt in which it held us. This very contempt fueled my determination to be productive, honest, and ethical. I would not give in to society's hatreds of gay men by fulfilling its stereotypes. Then, too, like Marlowe, I was privy to society's hypocrisies, in my case, those affecting sexuality and sexual orientation. Gay men were feared as sexual predators who preyed on the weak, especially children. But as a prosecutor, I knew that the vast majority of sexual predators, child molesters, rapists, were heterosexual men. Gay men were said to hate women, but the battered women who showed up in my courtrooms had been beaten by their husbands and boyfriends. Moreover, it was male misogyny that oppressed women, not my sexual disposition toward other men. Thus, I saw that the private eye in noir fiction could work as a metaphor for the position gay men occupied in straight culture. That's the end of the lecture. Now we get to the pulp. So I'm reading from chapter one. I'm going to start at the bottom of page five. In the classic noir novel, you have the PI sitting in his dank shadowy office smoking cigarettes with a bottle of bourbon in the desk drawer, and then an attractive blonde who's inevitably described as having legs up to her neck, walks in with an implausible story and asks him to take a case that he agrees to because subtextually he wants to fuck her, although they couldn't really say that in the 30s and 40s, but it's there. So this is my version of that. My detective is a gay Latino criminal defense lawyer named Henry Rios, who as we meet him in chapter one has been expelled from felony trials because he had a meltdown during a death penalty trial and has been banished to a small public defender's office in a university town that very much resembles Palo Alto. So Rios has shown up at the jail in the morning. His job is to interview people who've been arrested the night before to determine whether they meet the criteria for public defender services and just to get a general idea of what their crimes were. So he meets the blonde whose name is Hugh Paris. So that's I think all the introduction I need. So he's initially handed by the sheriff's deputy whose name is Novak, he's handed the arrest report. The suspect's name was Hugh Paris, five foot eight, blonde hair, blue eyes, 26 years old, New York license. He declined to give a local address or answer questions about his employment or his family, no rap sheet. I studied his booking photo. His hair was like a cox comb, his eyes were dazed and he was ghostly white. Blonde white boys are not my usual type, but Hugh Paris was beautiful. I closed the file before Novak could notice how intently I was looking at the photo. How do you know he's gay? I asked. They picked him up outside that fag bar in Cupertino. I nodded. The bar was called The Office and its match books were inscribed. If anyone asks, tell them you are at The Office. It drew a mixed crowd of gay guys but was more preppy than anything else. Not the kind of place where you'd expect to find someone high on a poor folks drug like PCP. In order to Hugh Paris look like a typical PCP user, I'd have guessed white wine and maybe a little pot on the weekend. The deputy brought him into my office in handcuffs and a pair of oversized jail blues that fell from his shoulders and covered the tops of his bare feet. My first thought was five, eight, not likely. He was five, six, maybe five, seven in shoes. His eyes were focused and his color had returned but his hair still stuck out from the top and sides of his head. The deputy shoved him into a chair across from me and left the room. Mr. Paris, I said, I'm Henry Rios from the Public Defender's Office. How are you feeling this morning? He frowned as if how he felt should be obvious. He raised his cuffed hands. Are these really necessary? His voice was soft and slightly sibilant. Security measures, the deputies insist. Oh, you're bigger than me, he pointed out. I couldn't hurt you if I wanted to, which he added with a small smile, I don't. I just wanna get out of here. I summoned the deputy and told him to remove the cuffs. Better, I asked after the deputy left us. Much, he said. He rubbed his wrists and smoothed his hair, buttoned the top buttons of his jail jumpsuit and pulled himself up in the chair. He smiled, revealing a set of expensively maintained teeth. The small gestures restored his dignity and turned him back into a person instead of a prisoner, a really attractive person. What am I doing here? He asked conversationally. You were arrested last night at the office, I replied. I read him the charges. Gee, I had some kind of night, didn't I? He said, too bad I don't remember any of it. I can tell you though, Henry, I didn't do any drugs. I'd been called many things by the men who'd sat in huge chair but never by my first name as if we were a couple of pals chatting over a drink. That showed a level of self assurance I associated with the rich boys I'd gone to school with. That in his nice teeth made me wonder, who's this guy? You're sure about that? He shrugged. I split a joint in the parking lot with a friend. After that, it all gets kind of cloudy. What's the last thing you do remember? I was at the bar having a drink. He said, I must have gone outside because I remember street lights and then I woke up here. Where are my shoes, by the way? What about the shirms the cops found on you? The what? You don't know what a shirm is? He frowned. If you told me there was going to be a quiz I would have studied. No, I don't know what a shirm is. Sherman is a brand of cigarettes or dipped into PCP. That's usually how it's sold. He shook his head, I don't smoke at all and I've never used PCP. You said you split a joint with someone before you went into the bar. Who was he? He appraised me for a moment before he answered. He was a trick, Henry. He said his name was Brad. Did you meet him at the office? He shook his head. We hooked up at a bathhouse in the city last week and he called me out of the blue and asked me to meet him at the bar. I had a good enough time with him to make the drive. Do you have a way of reaching this guy? I might have his number somewhere, he said, then asked lightly, how much trouble am I in? You're looking at a misdemeanor use and possession charge. Not too serious unless you've got a record somewhere else, do you? Opiate possession in New York, he said. Oh, and a couple of solicitation arrests, but no convictions. Don't look so shocked, Henry. I can't be your first junkie whore. They're usually not white and male, I said. What can I say, darling? He replied with hard-hottingness, I'm an overachiever. He looked like a trust-fund baby and sounded like a street queen. Hugh Parris had me flummoxed. I'm not a current user, Henry, he said, reverting to his soft tone. I've been clean for nine months. That's why I told you no drugs, well, pot, but that doesn't really count, does it? He gave me a dazzling smile. I mean, I bet even upstanding lawyers smoke a joint now and then. And now he was flirting with me. I pushed his booking photo across the table. You were on high on more than pot last night. He studied the photo, God, I look terrible. He raised his head, his blue eyes wide and sincere. Honestly, Henry, I didn't touch anything last night but grass on the glass of bad Chardonnay. The joint could have been dipped in PCP without you knowing, I said. Why would Brad do that, he said. He didn't have to drug me to get laid. I was ready to give it up. He jerked back in the chair and said, oh, fuck. What? Nothing, he said, but it was clear something disturbing had occurred to him. You remember something about last night? What is it? I think I was set up. Are you saying this guy, Brad, drugged you intentionally and planted the PCP on you? I thought he was just a guy you tricked with. He looked scared, then angry, but said nothing. Hugh, what's going on? I need to make a call, he said. When we're done, I replied, are you going to tell me what happened last night? You wouldn't understand, he said, regretfully. If you don't talk to me, you'll sit in jail until they'll reign you this afternoon. Since you refuse to give a local address, you'll probably be remanded and wrought here until they're remembered to give you a trial. Is that what you want? Oh, don't worry about me, darling, he said lightly. I've been in worse scrapes. I just need to make that call to fix it. Okay, I said. Have it your way, I guess we're done here. Wait, his eyes locked into mine, searching it seemed, and then having found what he was looking for, he said, you're gay. That's not relevant, I replied. I suspected you might be when I started talking about bathhouses and tricks and you didn't look like you wanted to wretch like a straight guy would, but then you don't sound or act like one of us, except when you look at me. I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable, I said, Abash, he laughed. Uncomfortable, you didn't notice, I'm looking back. If we were anywhere else, I would have jumped you 10 minutes ago. I grinned, good thing the camera in this room doesn't record sound, too. I've never met a gay lawyer before, he said. Are you in the closet at work? I could have ended the interview, but his tone suggested more than mere curiosity. I recognized that tone. It was a signal from one lonely traveler to another. We moved through a world so inescapably and aggressively straight that coming across another gay man in an unexpected circumstance was like stumbling into a refuge where for a moment it was possible to lower our shields and breathe. I'm not to my employer, as I said, but not my clients. Why not tell them? It's not necessary for me to do my job and some of them might have a problem with it. I need for them to trust me, by lying about who you are. I'm sure I don't have to explain to you how complicated being gay can be. You're right, he said, I'm sorry. Do you have anyone, Henry? He asked. You mean like a boyfriend? No. He grinned, that's hard to believe. My job keeps me busy, I said. It was my automatic response. And alone, he said quietly. The words seemed to echo in the little gray walled room. It was just talk, I told myself. He hadn't meant anything much by it. Certainly he couldn't have known how deeply those words cut at the moment. Do you have anyone, Hugh? He shook his head. God know who'd have me. You're from New York. From here originally, he said, I came back to take care of some things, family things. I see, I said, I wish you luck. We caught each other's eyes again and then he said, you think when you come out your life will be less lonely, but it isn't. You can find guys for sex, that's easy. Sex is how gay guys shake hands. Don't get me wrong, Henry, I'm not knocking sex, but it costs so much to come out. You'd think there'd be something more at the end of it than another guy's dick. My problem is I never figured out what that something more is. To be loved, I suggested. Hugh said, I'm not sure anyone could love me, I've been such a fuck up. I'm trying to put my life back together. I got off junk, that's a start. Until last night, I said, I told you Henry, that wasn't intentional, I was set up. I'd like to get you out of here if I can. Tell me what happened and let me help you. I appreciate that, he said, I really do, but last night was part of a long, long story. You wouldn't believe me even if I told you. Try me, he shook his head. I wish we hadn't met like this. I took my business card out of my pocket, turned it over, wrote my home phone. Here, call me anytime. He took the card, looked at it. For legal advice? For whatever you need, I replied. After that, there was nothing left to say, but neither of us moved or looked away. His lips were slightly parted, a blue vein beat in his pale neck. The hard, overhead light picked out darker strands of gold in his pale hair. Something about this soft voice, mysterious, pretty little man, slipped past my defenses and reminded me that desire was the uncomplicated moment when two people look into each other's eyes and each one thinks, yes, you. I saw the ascent in his eyes and I knew he saw it in mine, but we were sitting in the gray room in a jail, on opposite sides of a table that separated the lawyer from inmate. He had refused the only help I could offer and now he was on his own. Still, I could not restrain myself from reaching across the table and taking his hand. He was startled, but then he threaded his delicate fingers into mine and we sat there for a moment holding hands. You're sweet, he said, tightening his grip. Not usually, I replied. Then I remembered the camera in the corner and Novak sitting in the booking office and let go of him. Last chance, I said, let me help you, Hugh. You have, he replied. I shrugged and called the guard and to take him back to his cell and went off to see about getting him his phone call.