“To tell us what? The names of his doctors? Anyone could’ve known Louden’s blood type,” I said. “It’s not only his doctors; it’s anyone who worked for his doctors. Or it could be a blood-lab technician or anyone who worked with that technician. Are we really going to interview each and every one of those people?”
“Have you got a better idea?” she asked.
“Not yet, but I will.”
“You will? Oh, that’s just great, Reinhart. When exactly do you plan on having this better idea? Please—the suspense is killing me. When will you know?”
“When he wants me to know,” I said.
“What does that mean?”
“Think about it.” I walked to the curb to hail a cab.
“Wait: where are you going?”
“I’ve got lunch plans,” I said.
Chapter 10
“I’LL TAKE a pound of the drunken spicy shrimp boil, one big-ass pork plate, a skirt steak with extra chimichurri sauce, an order of curried succotash, some crispy coleslaw, and a side of roasted whipped sweet potatoes with spicy nut topping,” I said. “Oh, and let’s add a couple of slices of your chocolate icebox pie.”
“Anything else?” joked the woman scribbling my take-out order at the Dinosaur Bar-B-Que up on 125th Street in Harlem. She looked like Lauryn Hill during her days with the Fugees. Great hair, beautiful eyes.
“No—that oughta do it,” I said with a wink. “Thanks.”
Tracy had gone to bed devastated and woke up devastated, blaming himself for ruining our chances of becoming parents. The mission now was to cheer him up with his favorite comfort food, and there was only one way to go about it. Shock and awe.
Lunch in hand, I walked two blocks north into the offices of Harlem Legal House, which was actually just a guitar shop that had gone out of business a few years back. It was small and run-down, but on the plus side the acoustics were excellent.
“Is he with anyone?” I asked Miss Jacinda, the receptionist who doubled as mother hen to all the staff members. Some of them were working attorneys volunteering on the weekends, while others were law school graduates who weren’t currently practicing. Or, as in Tracy’s case, never did practice.
“Yeah. He’s got someone with him, but go on back,” said Miss Jacinda. “They should be finishing up any minute.” She leaned forward over her desk, her deep voice dropping to a whisper. “Is our guy okay?”
“Is it that obvious?” I asked.
“Only to me, sweetheart,” she said. “He’s still smiling, but there’s pain in those baby blues.”
Pushing seventy, with every one of those years spent in Harlem, Miss Jacinda was more on the ball than anyone I’d ever met. You can’t teach intuition.
I lifted the bag from Dinosaur’s, one of the corners already soaked with some leaking barbecue sauce. “Let’s hope it’s nothing that a few thousand calories can’t fix,” I said.
I made my way back to Tracy’s office, somewhat glad that he was with a client. He hates when I do this, but I always eavesdrop a bit outside his door, listening to how good he is at helping people who really need his help. There’s never an insincere moment, never a false note.
If only casting directors felt the same way.
Ladies and gentlemen, may I present Tracy McKay, the most genuine struggling actor in all of New York City.
Which is not to say he never gets work. He does. There have been commercials, the occasional off-Broadway play, a two-week stint as the “handsome stranger” on a soap opera. They’ve all paid, and in the case of a few national spots, paid very well. They just haven’t led to his big break yet, let alone a role that has some real meat on it. He truly deserves it. Thankfully, when I tell Tracy how talented he is, I actually mean it. Half the battle for him now, though, is remaining as convinced of that as I am.
“Is it too late to apply to Juilliard?” he’s joked more than once.
For sure, not many head shots out there have Columbia Law School listed on the back. Then again, not many gay men went there because their parents were perhaps too accepting of their sexuality.
It almost sounds like a brainteaser, but that’s what happened. Tracy caught the acting bug when we were at Yale together as undergrads. He squashed it, though, to pursue law. He thought he would be pleasing his parents. What he was really doing was overcompensating.
Tracy’s parents—born-and-bred Iowans who aren’t exactly your Brie-eating, Chardonnay-sipping, Utne Reader readers—were so supportive and accepting of his coming out in high school that his biggest fear became disappointing them with his career choice.
“Besides, it doesn’t get any less original than an unemployed gay actor in Manhattan,” he told me during his senior year. He was going to go to law school and become a lawyer. His father is a lawyer.
So what changed his mind?
Six words from his father, ultimately. Not unlike Miss Jacinda at the front desk, Mr. McKay could tell that his son wasn’t truly happy after graduating from law school.
“I love you no matter what,” he told Tracy. Six beautiful words.
Of course, then there’s what my father said when I told him I was gay after college. “Are you sure?” he asked.
Thanks, Dad.
But that’s a whole other can of therapy.
Chapter 11
“THAT’S NOT very polite, you know,” said a little voice. “You’re eavesdropping.”
I turned around outside the door to Tracy’s office, totally busted. Then again, the kid looked to be around six or seven. If he could believe in Santa Claus, what else could I make him believe?
“I’m not eavesdropping,” I whispered.
“You are, too,” he whispered back. “I caught you!”
Okay, so maybe he did. “It’s not what you think,” I said.
“Yes it is,” he insisted. “And my mother says it’s rude.”
I was getting schooled by a pair of mini Air Jordans and cargo shorts, although it was the T-shirt that mostly caught my eye. On it was a picture of Questlove, the drummer for the Roots—or, if you happen to be really, really white, “that drummer” for the Tonight Show band.
Either way, it was pretty cute. The kid and Questlove had almost matching afros.
“Who’s your mother?” I asked, still whispering.
“In there,” he said, pointing at Tracy’s office. That figured.
“What are you doing out here?”
“I had to go to the bathroom.”
“Are you going to tell on me?” I asked.
He shook his head. “Mom says I shouldn’t do that, either, because no one likes a tattletale.”
“You’ve got a smart mother.”
“Yes, he does,” came another voice. Christ, busted again.
I turned to see the kid’s mother standing next to Tracy in the doorway of his office.
“Ms. Winston, I’d like you to meet my husband, Dylan,” said Tracy.
“Oh,” said the woman.
However, this “oh” was the exact opposite of the one we got out of Ms. Peckler, from the adoption agency. This was, “Oh, isn’t that nice?” No two ways about it.
She extended her hand. “Nice to meet you, Dylan,” she said. “I see you’ve met Miles.”
“I’m named after Miles Davis,” the kid said proudly as he offered up a fist bump. “He played the trumpet.”
“Boy, did he ever. Like nobody else,” I said. “Did you know I’m named after a musician, too? His name’s Bob Dylan. Do you know who that is?”