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“I don’t know.”

“Are you going to tell me I’m getting my money for my condo?”

“Yes and no.”

Brad brightened up. “Yes? There’s a ‘yes’ involved?”

“Well, no.”

“You said ‘yes and no.’”

“Mr. Miller, we need the space here in Pasadena. We have been more than happy to let you be our guest for these months, but now it’s time to leave. To help you do that we can offer you twenty-five thousand dollars.”

“Twenty-five thousand dollars? That’s shit. That’s all I’m going to get for my condo?”

“This is not a payment for your condo. We will advance you this money against the time when the payments will be worked out for Los Angeles property, which as far as we can tell is not in the near future. But with this money, which you won’t have to pay taxes on, we would like you to move somewhere else, and free up space for others who haven’t been as fortunate as you.”

“Fortunate? That’s a joke, right? Now I’m fortunate. Go figure. I thought when my entire life was taken from me that that was a bad thing; little did I know I was fortunate. I’ll have to remember your way with words so if I ever deliver a eulogy, I can say how fortunate the person is to be lying in the dirt.”

Mrs. Yellin smiled. She’d had to put up with people being sarcastic her entire life. She was used to it. This was still better than her last job, working for that crap airline in Louisiana that was never on time and had just five planes, with two always in repair. Oh, the bitching she heard all those years.

“Mr. Miller, I only meant that there are people like you whose lives were turned upside down who are still sleeping in parks. They have trouble finding food to eat.”

“Well, if they come here, warn them about the egg salad. Personally, I would rather eat in the park.”

Mrs. Yellin ignored his sarcasm. “So do we have a deal?”

“What is the deal?”

“We will advance you twenty-five thousand dollars and you will leave in one week.”

“And if I decide to stay?”

“You would lose the money and be thrown out anyway.”

“Deal,” Brad said. “Let me try and make some arrangements.”

As he walked back to the tent, he actually felt better than he thought he would. Hell, they were going to kick him out no matter what; at least he had twenty-five grand. He went back to his bunk, looked one last time at the worn-out brochure, and called his son.

* * *

“So you have a date?”

“I don’t have a date. I’m taking a client to a football game,” Paul said.

His partner, Owen Stein, was not buying it. They had not been getting along for the last six months. No sex, no laughing, just some quiet dinners with nothing to say. Owen thought something might be going on.

“Nothing’s going on,” Paul said. “We’ve both been under a lot of pressure, that’s all. Life isn’t always full of roses.”

“What the fuck does that mean?” Owen asked.

Paul remembered the first time he saw Owen. He was shopping for a mirror and went into an antiques store, and the man who came up to him and asked if he needed help smelled so good. And he looked pretty good, too. He was younger than Paul by eight years. He had gray sideburns and blue eyes and thick hair that didn’t seem styled. It just grew correctly. And he was tall. Taller than Paul by two inches. Normally Paul didn’t go out with younger guys—he liked older men or men his own age—but he and Owen started dating.

Paul didn’t like the effeminate type. He liked guys who could pass for straight, as he could, and he liked guys who kept in shape. Owen exercised religiously and at forty-two he looked thirty; the only thing that showed his age was the gray in his hair. They both went to the gym, and they liked the same movies, art, and music. There was nothing really wrong with the relationship, but Paul wasn’t in love the way he wanted to be. When they had moved in together he’d felt that maybe that would do the trick, but years had gone by and the magic that was barely there to begin with was fading. Owen liked Paul more than Paul liked him. And Owen was the jealous one.

“So who exactly are you taking to a football game? What kind of client?”

“It