by Maureen Orth
WHEN ANDREW MET Lincoln Aston and started to frequent Lincoln’s gay salon, he also began to network in hopes of finding a way to be kept. He was perfectly at ease with these men at least thirty years older than he was, either in groups or one on one. He was particularly adept at discerning and then reading up on whatever his targets’ interests might be—literature, art, flying. He did this whether those he targeted were younger or older.
Like a geisha, Andrew could converse knowledgeably, make entertainment arrangements, and provide comfort, sexual or otherwise. But few men found him sensual—his feelings had been long buried, and he was generally perceived as unemotional and largely cerebral.
With people his own age, he made comments about sex that were usually rough and easily dismissed. He was also known to make wicked asides, which could be very amusing if one was not the target. Lincoln Aston, who had spent many years living in San Francisco and who referred to San Diego as “Omaha by the bay,” saw Andrew as a budding bon vivant, a young sophisticate. He would tell friends, “Andrew is the smartest young man I ever knew.”
“It was like Andrew was the king of England. He threw out a platinum card to pay for dinner,” says one fiftyish La Jolla man who was treated to expensive meals by Andrew on three occasions. A Bishop’s graduate who had married but had eventually made his way to Hillcrest, the man listened to Andrew DeSilva tell what had become his “story” for the more established set: He was half Portuguese-Jewish and half Filipino, had once been married to a Jewish princess, and was the father of a little daughter. He loved to ride in his grandmother’s Rolls-Royce. He had gone to Choate and to Bishop’s and had spent two years in the Israeli army. His wealthy parents, who lived in Rancho Santa Fe and Manhattan, had thrown him out when they learned he was gay.
Andrew’s careful re-creation of his life was designed to place him as the social equal of his betters, brilliant and exotic, certainly not some boy toy who could be easily dismissed. “Andrew DeSilva” could elicit sympathy from older men who had once been married themselves or who had had to give up a family and suffer in order to become who they were. Yet Andrew was so careful not to appear to be wanting anything that his Bishop’s alumnus dinner guest says that it was only in retrospect that he realized what Andrew was up to: “I think these dinners were come-ons to see if I had money and would bite on the hook, which never occurred to me.”
Andrew was definitely trolling, though, and in mid-1994, he caught a big fish. Through a long-established gay couple in La Jolla, whom Andrew had met with Lincoln, Andrew was invited that July to a dinner with Norman Blachford. Like his hosts and Lincoln, Blachford was a member of Gamma Mu, known as the “pink Mafia,” a private, exclusive gay men’s fraternity which Armistead Maupin makes fun of in Tales of the City, disguising it as “the Millionaires Club.” It was the perfect group for Andrew to penetrate—secretive, slightly snobbish, and filled with potential sugar daddies.
Tall, with reddish-brown hair, a long face, and an aqui-line nose, Norman Blachford, then fifty-eight, looked as if he preferred to be outdoors, working the land. He was reserved, soft-spoken, extremely conservative, and very, very rich. Norman’s home was in Phoenix but he traveled frequently to La Jolla, as so many of the well-off of Phoenix do, flying over in less than an hour. La Jolla is Phoenix’s East Hampton. Although rich Texans prefer nearby Del Mar for the races in July, the “Zonies” gravitate to La Jolla. Norman owned a condo in a choice building on Coast Boulevard overlooking the ocean, two minutes away from Bishop’s School.
Norman’s partner of twenty-six years had recently died of AIDS, so Norman was alone and very eligible. His fortune came from selling the company he had owned, which developed special sound-insulation equipment for the film industry; the company had once received an Oscar for technical achievement. Norman was rumored to be worth scores of millions of dollars—a fact Andrew’s friends say Andrew researched thoroughly. In Phoenix, Norman was a significant donor to the symphony. He was also very much interested in art, so Andrew was quickly able to impress him. Norman, however, was cautious by nature and did not part easily with his money, which was a source of frustration to Andrew from the start.
The relationship did not spark all at once. Andrew continued to spend evenings with Lincoln, deal drugs, and remain a fixture at Flicks and Rich’s, as well as at the upscale restaurant next door to Flicks, California Cuisine, where he always requested a table next to the window. It was not unknown for Andrew to dash out into the street and haul in a cute boy he’d seen passing by, whom he’d invite to join his group for dinner. Then he might try to fix him up with somebody as a favor and leave a tip for the waiter—sometimes $200 for a $400 dinner for eight. Andrew had it down pat. He would leave a small tip on the credit card slip, a larger amount in cash, and then, when everybody could see, he would press more cash into the waiter’s hand on the way out—godfather style.
Andrew was so fond of California Cuisine that on Mother’s Day he arrived with flowers for Stella Kalamaras, the owner, telling her, “You’re my family.” His own mother nearby was ignored. Stella’s husband had owned a restaurant in Chicago, and she and Andrew would discuss the Windy City—he seemed to know it well. He told Stella that he was part Italian. She was surprised, however, when Andrew described the part of Italy he said his family was from; she told a friend she recognized it as a penal colony!
On the weekends, Andrew would sometimes travel with Jeff. They would take advantage of Southwest Airlines’ policy of giving two tickets for the price of one full fare. One of the places they liked to visit was Chicago, near Jeff’s hometown of De Kalb. Andrew was nothing if not well traveled.
In the fall of 1994, for example, Doug Stubblefield was surprised to run into Andrew at the San Francisco Opera with “an old man” he passed off as “a friend of the family.” Doug recalls, “It really shocked me to see him with a sugar daddy.” But Andrew finessed it, and once he had made the introductions he joined Doug and his friends for drinks. Yet from then on, says Stubblefield, “his material circumstances were very odd. He was always driving different people’s cars and staying at different people’s houses, with never much explanation or friendly conversation about them.”
Stubblefield was one of those who always saw Andrew’s behavior as “very druglike. He was erratic, and he had his up and down times.” Doug says, “He was always flighty and strung out, so that stood out.” No one in San Francisco ever thought Andrew was a dealer, though. “A lot of people questioned whether he was doing drugs—no one questioned that he was selling them.”
While Norman and Andrew were becoming acquainted, Norman continued to reside in Phoenix, and Andrew would visit him there. Andrew set out to show Norman how valuable he could be as the ultimate passkey to gay culture. They traveled together to Europe, and Norman was amazed by how much Andrew knew about architecture and paintings. Andrew took care of the details and organized the travel plans. He was a lively traveling companion, and for someone like Norman, who was naturally subdued, Andrew was also a great connector. In San Diego, particularly, Andrew knew virtually all of gay society. If Andrew’s stories gave Norman any pause, he did not appear to be bothered. When they were with other people, Norman would listen to Andrew tell his tales without comment.
On his own turf, Andrew was a walking Baedeker. He knew the best places to see and be seen, the correct fund-raisers to attend. Andrew proved himself an adept acolyte of Lincoln, who continued to teach him a great deal. “Andrew was always at the right social functions and always tried to impress people,” says Dr. Russell Okihara, who observed him on the social circuit. For Norman, as Robbins Thompson, Andrew’s closeted surfer friend from UCSD noted, Andrew would be the perfect wife.
Nevertheless, whenever Andrew attempted to gain sympathy from one of the pretty young boys he tried to lure at the same time he was going after Norman—mostly by buying them drinks and dinner—he would complain that he was their victim. He said he thought they used him. With Ron Williams, the young
man he had once helped nurse and had had quite a crush on at the time, Andrew would drop his happy-go-lucky pose and become very morose.
“We went out to dinner and dancing and we kissed, never anything more. He wasn’t my type; he liked me, I didn’t like him,” Williams explains. “He was hurt. He thought people hung around him because he had money. He felt if he stopped paying, he’d lose all his friends. I put it to him once—he didn’t answer me directly. I always thought he was insecure and wanted to be the life of the party. He was an A-lister, wanted only pretty boys around and only sparkling personalities. I told him, ‘I’ve seen people like you paying everyone’s way. You’re good-looking.’ He didn’t think he was good-looking. I said, ‘You think unless you [pay] you’ll be out sitting in a corner eating mud. Why waste your money on these people?’ He wouldn’t answer me, and changed the subject. A couple of times he said, ‘I could leave today and nobody’d know I was gone.’ He had pretty down times.” But such sentiments Andrew would never display in front of older men.
In April, Phil Merrill picked Andrew up and they drove to Los Angeles so that Andrew could be the godfather at the christening of Phil and Lizzie’s son. By then it seemed that Andrew was wearing out his welcome with Lincoln, and in May 1995 Lincoln Aston was murdered by the male hustler. Before he died, “Lincoln had begun to tell people they should avoid Andrew,” says a close friend of Lincoln’s, who heard Lincoln say that Andrew would have to be “at least ten years older than he was to have done everything he said he had done.”
For Andrew, losing Lincoln meant losing a lifestyle and a part-time piggybank. He quickly quit his job at Thrifty Drug and moved out of San Bernardo. In July 1995, two months after Lincoln’s death, Andrew moved into Norman’s condo in La Jolla. It had been exactly a year since they’d met. “They both knew what they were getting into,” says Robbins. “This is not a situation of an older guy taking advantage of a younger guy. If anything, it was the other way around.” It certainly was. “Andrew was kept before Norman,” says Jeff Trail’s friend Michael Williams, the restaurant owner. “Jeff told me there were others. I said, ‘How did he become involved with these people?’ Jeff said, ‘He investigated them and put himself in those circles with them.’”
Andrew’s departure left his mother high and dry. Contrary to the stories Andrew spun of a rich mother staying with her husband just so that her children could have their inheritance, MaryAnn was practically penniless. That November, Pete Cunanan suddenly stopped having his $650 navy pension checks sent to MaryAnn because, he says, they were intended for Andrew’s schooling. Unable to afford the rent without help, in December 1995 MaryAnn moved back to Illinois, where her two eldest children lived. She later went on public assistance.
Meanwhile, Andrew enjoyed the swell life. After years of trying, he had finally landed someone to support his dreams. “In the gay community, Andrew opened every door he set out to open,” says Robbins admiringly. Norman was generous with Andrew. He paid his credit cards and gave him a new, $33,000 Infiniti to drive around in, and an allowance of $2,500 a month. Andrew was also allowed a measure of freedom to travel on his own to see his old friends. Norman still had his house in Phoenix, which Andrew didn’t much care for and eventually convinced him to sell. They continued to fly back to Phoenix for social events. From the beginning, however, Andrew’s relationship with Norman was a cautionary tale of “be careful what you wish for.”
“When he moved in with Norman, he basically knew he was going in there on a strictly financial basis,” says Robbins. “There was obviously a great deal of affection. There was no question about that. But they were both clear-thinking guys, and they knew what was going on.” Still, Andrew kept his new life largely a secret, and he did not like to admit that he was no longer in control or that his relationship with Norman included sex.
Shane O’Brien remembers being taken to the La Jolla condo by Andrew once while Norman was out of town. “I got to the bedroom and I said, ‘Andrew, why are there two beds in here?’ He told me they didn’t sleep together. These were twin beds like you see in an eight-year-old’s room—in the master bedroom. They used the other bedroom as a study. These two teeny beds on the opposite ends of a huge room—really weird. Andrew said, ‘He doesn’t expect that, he doesn’t want that.’” Shane was incredulous when Andrew insisted, “No, I’ve never had sex with Norman.” “I know that wasn’t true,” says Robbins. “I think that’s what Andrew had hoped. They had a very close relationship, and basically it got to the point where, ‘Hey, we’re in a relationship and that’s part of a relationship. Either we’re going to have a relationship or it’s going to end.’”
Caught in a trap, Andrew never gave Norman a clue about his S&M leanings or his need for pornography. He busied himself being the decorator. At a cocktail party Norman and Andrew threw, one guest remembers Andrew saying, “I just hate living on the beach. I’d like to live up on Mount Soledad.” The highest hill overlooking the bay in La Jolla, Mount Soledad is topped by a large white cross, and the views are spectacular, particularly at sunset. It was only about three weeks later, the friend recounts, that Andrew told him, “Norman’s bought a house for me on Mount Soledad.” The condo at the beach, Andrew said, would be kept for guests. What he failed to mention was the identity of the new house’s previous owner—Andrew was moving into the house that had belonged to Lincoln Aston.
Almost immediately the backbiting queens started to gossip, says a friend of both Norman’s and Andrew’s, who defends the couple, saying, “I remember them in group situations exchanging fond glances across the room.” He concedes that in Norman’s circle of stable professional people, wealthy retirees, and “tight couples who travel together and have been aligned for forty-five years,” Norman and Andrew were an anomaly. “There was no other couple like that—a man that rich with a guy that young.”
Rumors began making the rounds in Hillcrest that Andrew had found himself a rich sugar daddy. Only close friends were supposed to know about Norman. There was still a stigma attached, on the surface at least, to being kept. But Andrew managed to convince his younger friends, such as Tom Eads, that he was actually doing Norman a favor. By dedicating himself to Norman, he said, he was forgoing his family inheritance.
Norman and Andrew shopped on Melrose Avenue, Los Angeles’s expensive Decorators Row, for furnishings and rugs, real antiques and expensive reproductions. Jeffrey Marks was the official interior designer, and he remembers Norman introducing Andrew to him as “a friend of mine helping me pick out art.” Andrew, he says, knew quite a lot about how a period of architecture related to a period of furniture, and was extremely intelligent about history and architecture for someone his age.
Still, Andrew would complain to his friends that Norman was cheap. He was always pushing Norman to do more, repaint everything, buy more expensive accessories. That wasn’t Norman’s nature. For his part, Norman kindly urged Andrew to continue his studies and acquire a profession. He would gladly have paid for Andrew to do either—he wanted Andrew to put his brain power and talent to work. But Andrew refused.
Too many years of hustling and dope had made Andrew both lazy and greedy—he had the classic narcissist’s preoccupation with image and no interest in earning his way; it was easier to exploit others and to feel sorry for himself.
Andrew professed to be bored with studies and said he didn’t want to start a business. Anything less than total success would have ruined his image. Chafing more and more at being so much in the quiet company of older men and having to account for his time, Andrew started looking for ways to get out of the house at night. He found Project Lifeguard, a San Diego AIDS Foundation HIV-prevention and safe-sex instruction program. Andrew’s job was to visit bars to pass out literature, give away condoms, and snag people for meetings.
Project Lifeguard may have had special significance for Andrew, who more than once feared that he might have AIDS, even though he wouldn’t get tested for HIV at the time, according to Ronnie Mascar
ena, to whom Andrew once confided, “I think I’m sick.” It was also good cover for Andrew when he wanted to hit the bars. Andrew had apparently never stopped using or dealing drugs, and after he moved in with Norman word of his dealing began to reach old friends like Stan Hatley and others. And his ex-travagant spending had begun to be noticed by at least one of Norman’s contemporaries, a longtime friend of Lincoln’s who says that Andrew was now spending “far more than twenty-five hundred dollars a month,” Norman’s allowance.
So distinct were Andrew’s two worlds that for Andrew’s twenty-sixth birthday, at the end of August 1995, Norman gave him two parties: one for people his own age and one with their mutual friends. Perhaps because Norman’s party for their older friends came first and included a curator for the Smithsonian, Andrew saw the party with his friends as an opportunity to shine in front of Norman. He left nothing to chance. Andrew told Jeff Trail not to say that he was in the training program for the California Highway Patrol but to say that he was an instructor there. He handed Jeff a brand-new pair of expensive Ferragamo shoes still in the box and told him, “Give me these shoes.” Jeff was supposed to wrap the Ferragamos and present them as his birthday gift. Andrew still wasn’t finished. He then gave Jeff yet another pair of Ferragamos and ordered him to wear that pair, saying, “You can’t afford them—say you’re a doctor.”
Another invited guest, a flight attendant who was supposed to pretend he was a country western singer, balked. He said, “I’m proud of what I do,” thereby annoying Andrew, who ignored him the whole night.
IN THE FALL, Gamma Mu was having its semiannual fly-in to Seattle, and Norman, who would become a Gamma Mu board member in 1997, was taking Andrew. At last, Andrew would be in the inner sanctum. Gamma Mu fly-ins are always elaborate. The fee is $300—the cost of drinks—and members pick up their own hotel and travel. The schedule never varies: Wednesday night is the early-bird cocktail party. Thursday night is the first official cocktail party. Friday is the traditional, dressed-up businessman’s lunch where new members are introduced along with their sponsors. Saturday morning there is another brunch, and Saturday night is the gala. For the stragglers, there are more cocktail parties on Sunday. At registration, members can pick up packets listing daytime activities such as sails and shopping tours, and each host city tries to outdo the others in the lavishness of the spreads laid out and the beauty of the decor and locations where the parties are held.