I had to wonder at Andy Baugh’s reason for being there. His brother had died just two days ago. Certainly there were arrangements to make for a funeral or memorial service, his parents to console, and other obligations. Why visit the ACL?
I pulled open one of the two massive glass doors and entered the stunning two-story foyer. Designed in the fashion of a 1940’s era movie theater lobby, large framed posters of the classics lined its walls—Casablanca, Citizen Kane, Gone with the Wind, It Happened One Night, and more. I drooled a bit, since my dream was to someday have a room in my house just like this, dedicated to the movies. Right. When I won the lottery.
A perfect replica of a refreshments counter served as the front desk where a pretty woman sat at a computer and typed while holding a phone to her ear with her shoulder. I waited while she finished her call, which luckily didn’t take long.
She returned the phone to its cradle and smiled at me. “Welcome to the American Cinema League. Can I help you?”
I told her I was looking for Jorge Borrego and was hoping he was in.
She winced slightly. “He is, but I think he’s in a—”
“Barb! What brings you by today?”
I spun around to see all six foot and some three or four inches of Jorge Borrego moving toward me with his hand extended. We shook and I marveled at his class. His grey suit probably cost as much as six of Howard’s put together. It reeked of designer extravagance and when I spotted gems on his cuff links, I guessed they were the real deal. Even his fingernails were perfect—there was no doubt he made regular visits to the manicurist.
Jorge was a stunningly handsome man with adorable dimples that arrived with his naturally warm smile. His Latino features had a dark intensity that I’m sure made many women swoon until they found out that he preferred men. He didn’t swish like Liberace, but was very open about his homosexuality, serving on more than one AIDS non-profit organizations.
I liked Jorge and it seemed most people did. He had a way of making people feel comfortable at the American Cinema League—a place he obviously cared about as if it were his own home.
I was about to ask him if we could talk privately. During my long drive, I had made a mental list of questions for Jorge. I’d start by asking him if he had been in the kitchen at all on the night of Kurt Baugh’s death. Maybe he saw the bottle that disappeared then magically reappeared. But when I opened my mouth to speak, a voice interrupted me.
“Curly! You beat me here.”
Colt was at my side before I could even register relief that he was okay. He put one arm around my waist and held his other out to Jorge for a greeting. “Colt Barron. Nice to meet you.”
For a nanosecond, I detected a break in Jorge’s smooth public veneer, but he didn’t hesitate in shaking Colt’s hand and offering his own introduction.
“Jorge Borrego—president of the DC Chapter of the American Cinema League. You two know each other, I assume?”
“Yes. Yes,” I stuttered, not sure why Colt was here or why he thought I was expecting him. “Colt is a friend.” Think fast. “I told him I was coming here today.” What else? “And he wanted to join—to see the place for himself.” Yeah. That’s the ticket.
The smile and dimples appeared in all of their glory. “You know,” Jorge said with a chuckle, “it’s kind of funny, because Colt isn’t really that common of a name, yet our newest projectionist here is named Colt, too.”
I nodded and thought about Clarence. “Speaking of projectionists, Jorge, I was wondering if Clarence was here today. I had a couple of questions for him.”
Jorge looked puzzled. “Clarence? Who’s Clarence?”
“You don’t have a projectionist named Clarence?”
He shook his head.
“Are you sure?”
“Barb, it’s hard not to be sure. We only have two projectionists—Dan Zane and Colt . . .” he seemed to be searching his memory banks. He addressed his receptionist. “Leslie, what’s Colt’s last name?”
“Heatherington, Mr. Borrego. Colt Heatherington.”
Someone called from the second floor. “Did someone say my name?”
Colt and I both looked up at the same time to see Clarence hanging over the polished wooden banister at the top of the staircase. When our eyes met, Clarence’s nearly popped out of their sockets.
“Clarence?” I yelled.
“That’s my projectionist, Colt,” Jorge said, obviously confused.
Meanwhile, Clarence had