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Summary
When he sees who is leaning against the wall of the house, he drops his hand again. It's March. He's not wearing a uniform this time, but brown pinstriped pants and a red, short-sleeved polo shirt. A pair of violet-tinted sunglasses are wedged in front of his eyes. That stupid, cocky grin is back on his face, too. He looks so dashing that Healy wants to shoot himself on the spot; like a model in a damn fashion catalog.
Or: The police of Los Angeles makes Healy's life a hell for being a gay man in 1969. March, the handsome new police officer, is the worst of them, and in addition follows Healy everywhere. It's not that Healy had enough problems already.
