Frank sometimes called Rusty’s heterosexuality into question. Not often, mind, just… sometimes.

Times like these, when Rusty came to the casino bar – somehow always knowing when Frank was on break – and sat down next to Frank, chin propped in one hand and staring into space. He barely touched the drink Frank always bought for him. Rusty didn’t say much. Didn’t move. Like the life had drained out of him.

Looking for all the world like a lover pining away for her husband lost at sea.

Given the man’s unwillingness to talk, Frank wondered why Rusty even bothered to come visit him. Frank figured it was for the company, to have someone to sit with. Frank had known Rusty for an awful long time – before Rusty had met Danny, even.

And Frank knew by now that Rusty wasn’t a big talker – rare, a white man who didn’t like the sound of his own voice more than anything else. Rusty talked, sure, but he preferred to let other people talk.

So Frank did.

“How’s the scene in Hollywood?” Frank asked, as he always did. Frank wasn’t sure what drew Rusty to California. Maybe it was the movie starlets.

No response.

Frank sighed. Okay, maybe it wasn’t. “It’s pretty dead here, too. But just the other day, my boss comes up to me and says –”

“It’s been five months,” muttered Rusty, interrupting.

Normally Frank would let all hell loose at being interrupted, but he let it slide, this time. He let a lot of things slide for this kid, but hell, Rusty was a good guy. Frank had a soft spot for him, even though he’d never admit it. “Yeah, Russ,” said Frank. “I know. But there’s still a lot more to go.”

“Yeah.” Rusty turned around in his stool and leaned back against the bar, chin tilted upwards, staring at the ceiling. “Maybe I can send him something.”

“He liked those cookies you made that time,” said Frank. “In Paris. Remember?”

Rusty smiled, and Frank was surprised to see it. “Yeah,” he said. “Good idea.”