If Michelangelo had seen him first, he would be in the Sistine Chapel and not in Mandate.
One summer afternoon in 1984 I received a phone call from a potential model. The man wanted to drop by and let me take a look at him.
Remembering the scary incident with the “model” back in Chapter One — the character who resembled a Wanted for Murder poster more than a centerfold — I demurred. “I’m sorry, you’ll have to send a photo. If we’re interested, I’ll get in touch.”
“I’m an actor,” he said. He mentioned a scattering of way-off-Broadway plays that he hadn’t quite appeared in but had auditioned for. He dropped a couple of familiar names. Well, I thought, you do have a sexy voice…and a style as smooth as molasses in July…and if you really look like what you’re telling me…
“One of my colleagues and I will see you tomorrow evening at six,” I said.
I asked associate editor George De Stefano to stay late. While awaiting our caller, we imagined tomorrow’s lurid New York Post headlines: PORN RUBOUT IN SOHO; HE GOT TWO BOYS WITH ONE BULLET; THE MODEL CAME C.O.D. (cash on death). We must have sounded like Boy Scouts telling ghost tales around a campfire.
I expected the model to telephone so that George and I could go to the front and open the door. That day, however, a member of the office staff, working late, admitted our visitor.
George saw him first. Glancing down the corridor, he gasped, “He’s gorgeous!”
An instant later I thought: Why the fuck do I have a chaperone? I could handle this one quite well on my own. As much as I liked George De Stefano, for a brief moment I wished he were somewhere else.