Free Revision of Justice by John Morgan Wilson

his slim frame. At its base, large, droopy testicles were furred with soft curls. When I touched them, I heard Teal draw in his breath sharply through clenched teeth.
    We got each other off standing up, my right hand on his cock, his right hand on mine. There was nothing remotely sweet or gentle about it; it was all heat and desire and burning pleasure, driving us into a single, frenzied rhythm of which we were both well-practiced masters.
    Teal groaned and erupted, gasping as he came. I followed seconds later. We clung to each other for a few moments more, Teal’s fingers grasping the thick hair on my chest, my hands molded to his tight, smooth buttocks, until the momentary madness of sex had subsided.
    Then he pried himself away, speaking crisply.
    “That went well. Towel?”
    I handed him one, he cleaned up and put his clothes quickly back together.
    “I guess this means we’re not getting engaged.”
    He smiled a little and turned toward the door, buckling his belt.
    “See you around.”
    “One more question, Teal.”
    He waited with his hand on the doorknob.
    “Dylan Winchester went to the party tonight looking for Reza JaFari.”
    “I believe we already established that.”
    “Roberta Brickman and a screenwriter named Leonardo Petrocelli were there for the same reason.”
    “So?”
    “It strikes me as quite a coincidence—three different people looking for the same man, an unimportant one at that, who later turns up dead.”
    “Not really.”
    “I don’t follow.”
    “To outsiders, Hollywood may seem like a big place. But it’s actually a very small world, built on the most unusual relationships. You might even say incestuous.”
    “Thanks for your insight.”
    “Not at all.”
    He stepped out the door and trotted down the stairs.
    I watched him until he reached the end of the driveway, disappearing as he hit the street.
    Back inside, I found a notebook and filled several pages with what Teal had told me.
    Then I took a shower, trying to wash away the smell of him, the memory.

Chapter Eight
     
    I woke Sunday morning to a telephone that wouldn’t stop ringing, no matter how long I ignored it.
    When I finally answered, I wasn’t surprised to hear the grating voice of Lieutenant Claude DeWinter at the other end.
    He had read Templeton’s news item in that morning’s Sun , called her at home, then called me. He wasn’t happy.
    “She wrote that Dylan Winchester was at the party last night. The movie guy.”
    I let out a monstrous yawn.
    “How interesting, Lieutenant.”
    “She tells me she got the information about Winchester from you.”
    “True enough.”
    “Where did you see him?”
    “In Gordon Cantwell’s downstairs hallway. Later, outside the house.”
    “Where outside?”
    “The south side.”
    “Where the terrace is located.”
    “That general area, yes.”
    “What was he doing?”
    “Leaving.”
    “When was this, roughly?”
    “Nine thirty-two p.m., roughly.”
    “Why are you so sure about the time?”
    “I looked at my watch.”
    “Why?”
    “I wanted to know the time. Look, Lieutenant—”
    “Why didn’t you tell me this last night?”
    “You didn’t ask.”
    “That’s not how it works, Justice.”
    “On the contrary, Lieutenant. You told me in no uncertain terms to butt out until I was asked. Like I said, you didn’t ask.”
    “I don’t put up with this kind of shit, Justice. I bring the hammer down on jerks like you.”
    “If you want people to cooperate, Lieutenant, maybe you should be more careful how you talk to them. For starters, I’m not enamored of the word fag . Not when it comes from someone who isn’t one.”
    “How about punk ?”
    “Sorry, don’t care for that one, either.”
    “I could toss your ass in the can for obstruction. You know that, don’t you?”
    Another yawn got away from me.
    “I haven’t had my morning coffee, Lieutenant. Can’t this wait?”
    “Where can I find Winchester?”
    “What am I, his agent?”
    “Suppose