Meet Nicholas Williams. At 21, he inherited a vast fortune from his Great-Uncle Paul Williams, a notorious rake who put the word “Gay” in the phrase “The Gay 90’s.”
Now the richest homosexual since Alexander the Great, Nick spends his time as a private investigator. These days, he’s turning away clients because he doesn’t need the money. And he doesn’t like it when they refer to their soon-to-be ex-husbands as a “fairy” or a “fruit.”
The Williams clan isn’t known to be warm and friendly. Nick’s father hasn’t spoken to him in years. Nick is friendly with his sister, but even they hardly speak but a few times a year.
At home, Nick lives with his lover Carter Jones, a Georgia boy who is a firefighter for the City and who is currently hobbling around on a bum knee following an unfortunate encounter with a firetruck.
At the office, Marnie Wilson keeps track of Nick’s meager number of clients, keeps the bills paid, and keeps knitting because, frankly, there ain’t a lot to do around the place.
And Nick’s lawyer, Jeffrey Klein, Esquire, brings him a few clients, particularly the kind who get caught up in police raids on Polk Street.
Long before the Summer of Love, pride parades down Market Street, and the fight for marriage equality, San Francisco in 1953 was all about the Red Scare, F.B.I. investigations, yellow journalism run amok, and the ladies who play mah jong over tea.