"Coffee is Dead," Truman Capote declared in that infuriating, beautiful voice of his. God, that voice. As damaged as the odd little man was, as sloppy and undisciplined as his prose may have been, the mincing elf possessed an instrument of seduction and enchantment in that ethereal bleat.

"My dear boy," he told me, peering over the top of his outsize sunglasses, "Coffee is dead. And the sooner you realize that, the better." He held my gaze for several beats before stabbing a chopstick into a slab of pan-seared maguro. Always so dramatic. When the wasabi-flecked tongue of flesh was within kissing distance of his tremulous lips, it flopped back onto his plate. "Fuck!" he shrieked. With an insectile jerk of his left arm, he freed the table of its burden of food, drinks and silverware, as well as a single daisy resting in a delicate crystal vase. The background hum in the cozy bistro we were in, a place called Zinth's that Truman swore with a rococo flourish of a bloused wrist served the best Pacific Rim cuisine in "all of the Americas," promptly disappeared and was replaced by the plip plip of my coffee greeting the floor.

Truman took several deep breaths, touched the splayed fingers of his left hand to his cheek and announced that he was "very dismayed." I reached across the table and placed my hand over his tiny, puffy fist, which was overrun by liver spots. I intended it as an act of consolation, but when our cold skin touched, I knew it was something more. I realized I ... That voice. That

implement of cruel seduction. Jesus, Truman.

He was, it became clear to me, the eternally consternated, ferociously camp buddy I'd never had (indeed, had never known I'd wanted to have), and when he spoke, rapture. A throttled chicken blowing into the ear.

Let's get out of here, I said huskily.

He threw his head back and let loose a phlegmy cackle that was actually quite disgusting. "No," he finally said after allowing me a long, appetite-destroying look at his bobbing uvula. "No, Romeo, we're going to sit tight and enjoy our lunch." You mean our lunch that's on the floor? I asked. "Coffee and dessert, then," he said with a flaccid wave. "But I think you'd better order decaf this time, mister. It appears the strong stuff is giving you ideas."

Flustered and deeply confused, I nearly bolted. But something about the satisfied grin that played across his (let's face it) reptilian face anchored me to my chair. He commandeered a waiter and ordered two slices of apple pie a la mode and two coffees. "This naughty lad will be having decaf."

You're having coffee? I asked. I thought you said it was dead.

"Nonsense," he slurred. "I was merely trying to goad you into telling me about that project you said you were working on."

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