“Yeah, they tried chemo and some other stuff,” he said vaguely. “But the lesions keep spreading. Got some in my stomach now. That’s why I’m so skinny. Nothing stays down.” He grinned. “When I think how I used to worry about my spare tire. Shit, I’d pay to have it back.”

“But they can cure you, can’t they?” Bill asked.

“Sure, Billy,” Pete replied. “Don’t stress, baby. I’ll be good as new in no time.” He smirked at Waldo. “There’s this orderly here, some Chicano kid. His ass? One of the seven wonders of the world.”

“He give you a sponge bath?”

“I wish. You know what I miss most in here? Cigarettes and sex.”

“Well, I ain’t got any cigs on me but I can give you a hand job?” Waldo said.

“Seriously?” Pete said, smiling. “Not even sure I can get it up.”

“Honey, I can get a dead man hard,” Waldo said. He turned to Bill. “Go stand by the door. If anyone tries to come in, block it.”

“Waldo, you’re not gonna…”

“Go watch the goddamn door,” he snapped. Then he turned to Pete, slipped his hand beneath the sheet, fumbled and said, “Now what’s this orderly’s name?”

“Luis,” Pete murmured, and closed his eyes.

Taped to the door of The Hide ’n’ Seek was a homemade sign that read, Closed for a private event. Inside, the place was as packed and noisy as ever. In the center of the bar was a framed photograph of Pete, a vase of roses and the bronze urn that contained a handful of his ashes. The day before, a group of his friends, including Waldo, had carried out Pete’s wish and scattered most of his ashes at his favorite cruising spots, Land’s End and Buena Vista Park. Those that remained in the urn were mixed with glitter and at the stroke of midnight would be tossed like confetti over the revelers at the bar.

Bill stood in a corner, his arm around Nick, as the crowd grew drunker and louder. Sylvester’s Mighty Real blasted from the jukebox and men rubbed against each other to the beat in what was more simulated sex than dancing. Someone fired up a joint, adding to the stink of cigarette smoke, beer and cologne. Bill was sober—a glass of Perrier sat within his reach—and the smell and noise distressed him. He pulled Nick closer.

“I’ve had enough. Let’s go,” he said.

“Isn’t someone going to say something about Pete?” Nick asked.

“Like what? Pete was a slut, he caught something and he died. End of story.”

Nick looked at him. “Pete was your friend.”

“That was a long time ago.”

Waldo elbowed his way through the crowd to them.

“We’re leaving,” Bill said.

“Before they toss his ashes?”

“Yeah, that’s disgusting.”