We reached Malibu,
a strip of fast food places, surf shops, and bars. I woke Tom. He directed me
off the highway down a narrow two-lane road that cut between meadows where
horses grazed in the shade of big oaks. Here the light had a nimbus of gold and
poured like a stream through the silty air. Tom had me turn down a dirt
driveway to a small stucco house hidden from the road by a row of overgrown
Italian cypresses. He stretched and opened the door.
“What’s this?” he
asked, picking up a card from beneath his leg. I glanced at it. It was the card
that Tony Good had given me with his phone number.
“An admirer,” I
said.
He inspected the
card, tossed it aside and got out of the car. I followed him to the door of the
house. He fumbled with some keys and then let us in.
The living and
dining rooms were combined into a single space. There was a counter along one
wall, revealing the kitchen. A corridor led off from the main room to bedrooms
and bathrooms. The place smelled of old fires and the fireplace held the
charred remains of the last logs burned in it. The concrete floor was covered
by threadbare carpets. A few sticks of old furniture were scattered haphazardly
through the room. On the whole, the house was dark, chilly and quiet.
Tom looked at me
and grinned. “What do you think?”
“Not exactly what I
expected.”
“I like to be
comfortable. Rennie’s house is like a museum.”
His nap had sobered
him up. I said as much.
“Booze doesn’t have
a big effect on me,” he said as if he believed it. “It’s warmer outside.”
We went into the
kitchen. He opened the refrigerator and pulled out a half-full bottle of
Chardonnay. He led me outside to a covered patio. Weightlifting equipment was
lying here and there, as were pieces of driftwood, sea shells, empty bottles of
wine and beer. A bike leaned against a wall next to a battered surfboard and a
wetsuit. A jock strap hung from a nail above a pile of firewood. Tom sat down
on a canvas chair and invited me to pull up a chair next to him.
“I should get back
to L.A.,” I said.
“You can stay for a
little while.”
I pulled up a
chaise longue and sat. An orange cat appeared at the far end of the yard and
watched us.
“That your cat?”
“Only when she’s
hungry.” He took a swallow of wine and passed the bottle.
“I don’t drink.”
“Never?”
“I’m an alcoholic.”
Tom grinned at the
cat and said, “Isn’t that the point?”
The cat loped
across the yard and came to the edge of the patio. She yawned and began to
groom herself with quick, fastidious flicks of her tongue. Tom leaned forward,
pulled off his blue polo shirt, and then sank back into his chair. His skin was
as tawny as the little cat’s fur. Even at rest, his elegant muscles seemed to
quiver. He was kin to the little calico licking her paws at the edge of the
patio; a great golden cat. He rolled his head toward me, lazily, and sketched
the faintest smile at the comers of his lips. I imagine Narcissus had watched
that smile form on the surface of a lake.
“It’s quiet here,”
I said, to say something. “You come here to think.”
“Thinking’s not
what I do best. That’s Sandy’s job. All my brains are in my face.”
“Rennie doesn’t
much like Sandy,” I observed.
He smiled
distantly. “Sandy’s all right. He knows what I am.”
“And what’s that?”
“A hustler,” he
replied. “Like Gaveston. You don’t need brains to be a whore. Just a little
luck and good timing.”
“Rennie must see
something else in you.”
His face seemed to
darken. “She knows, too,” he said, then added, mockingly, “but she forgives me.”
He picked up his wine bottle and drank some more. “Poor Rennie,” he muttered. “She
brought me out here to shove me in the face of every producer who ever told her
that she didn’t have the looks to be a star. I’ve got the looks,” he said, more
to the cat than to me.
“She thinks she can
turn you into an actor.”
He set the wine
bottle between his legs. “Who the hell cares.”
“You did the play.”
“I knew a guy like
Edward,” he said, lifting the bottle and drinking. “Someone I met in the joint.”
He studied my face and grinned. “Don’t look so surprised, you’re a lawyer — don’t
you know an ex-con when you see one?”
“Not always.”
He tossed the empty
bottle at the cat. She scampered but it caught her broadside. With a shriek,
she hopped into the underbrush.
“I knew this guy,”
he continued, “only he wasn’t a king, more like a queen, understand? A real
lady.” He laughed. “She was pretty and proud, like Edward.”
“Were you lovers?”
He lurched forward
in his chair. “Hell, no. I was just a punk trying not to get raped in the
showers.” He looked at me. “That’s another story. But this queen was married to
this big white dude.”
“What happened to
her?”
“The niggers got
her,” he said. “Beat the shit out of her, raped her, just to get back at her
old man. She walked around for days like she had a broken bottle up her ass.
Her old man didn’t want her anymore. He said she led the niggers on. She never
complained, never said anything bad about anyone.” He stroked his chest,
fitfully. ‘‘She just bought some pills and went to sleep.”
“Suicide?” I asked.
“Yeah,” he said,
looking at me. “Like that kid you were defending. What’s his name, Pears.”
“He wasn’t
successful,” I replied.
“That’s a shame,”
Tom said. “I’d kill myself before I went back to the joint.”
“What were you in
for?”
“Being young and
dumb,” he said. “I’m going to get some more wine.” He stood up.
“I’ve got to get
back into town,” I said, also standing. “You want a ride?”
“What’s your hurry?”
he asked, moving toward me. “You don’t think I brought you out here just to
talk?”
He unbuttoned my
shirt and laid his hand against my chest. I stepped away. His hand dropped to
his side.
“Don’t you want me?”
he asked.
“I wouldn’t much
like myself afterwards.”
“That doesn’t
matter.”
“It does to me.”
He looked at me and
then yawned. “You don’t know what you just turned down.”
“I think I do,” I
replied and walked away.
*****
I pulled out of the
long, dusty driveway and Tom’s house disappeared behind the screen of trees. I
rolled down the windows and the air poured in, blowing the card with Good’s
number across the seat to the floor. At the traffic light, I picked up the card
and examined the drunken scrawl. There wasn’t much to choose between Tom Zane
and Tony Good, I thought, remembering Good’s come-on at the party.
“You’re kinda cute,
Henry. You got a lover?”
No, that’s what
Josh Mandel said over the telephone the night Jim tried to kill himself. I
looked up at the light as it flashed from red to green. That seemed wrong. Even
drunk, Josh would never have said something as obvious as that. I crossed the
intersection and merged into the traffic on the Coast Highway. And then I
remembered something. There had been three calls that night. I had answered two
of them. The third caller hung up before I could reach the phone. A car horn
blared behind me. I glanced at the speedometer and saw that I had slowed to
twenty. But my mind was racing, and, suddenly, I understood.
*****
I stopped at the
first phone I could find, which was in a bar called “Land’s End.” The
receptionist at the Yellowtail informed me that Josh had called in sick and
would give me neither his prognosis nor his home phone number. According to
information, his number was unlisted. The cheerful male voice that gave me this
data was sympathetic but would also not give me his number. The next call I
made was to Freeman Vidor.
“I tried to call
you,” Freeman said, after the preliminaries. “That Mandel kid has run off.”
“What do you mean,
run off?” I asked, pressing a hand against my ear to drown out the background
whine of Tammy Wynette.
“Hey,” Freeman said
impatiently. “He’s gone, man.”
“You’re sure?” A
thin woman in a halter and blue jeans smiled at me suggestively from her bar
stool. I looked away.
“He was going to
meet me this morning to tell me about that key,” Freeman said. “He didn’t show.
The restaurant said he called in sick.”
“Yeah, I talked to
them.” The halter had moved herself back into my line of vision. She gave me
the finger.
“I went over to his
place and looked around.”
“You broke in, you
mean.”
“Whatever,” Freeman
said.
I glanced at my
watch. “I want you to meet me at his apartment in about a half-hour.”
“You don’t believe
me,” he said, with mock offense.
“There might be a
clue to where he’s gone.”
Now, truly
offended, Freeman said, “You think I wouldn’t pick up on that?”
“It’s not just what
you see,” I said. “It’s what you know.”
“If you think
screwing the guy gives you better insight — “ Freeman began.
“I’m sorry,
Freeman. I want to look around for myself, okay?”
“It’s your money,”
he said, unmollified. “Thirty minutes.”
“Right.”
On my way out, the
halter stopped me. She was drunk. Even in the black and red bar light she
looked bad. “You talking to your boyfriend, honey?” she sneered.
“That’s about the
size of it,” I answered.
“Traffic,” I
explained, coming up the stairs.
The door to the
apartment was open. “And here I thought you were just being fashionably late.”
“Is anyone home?” I
asked, indicating the door.
“Come in and see
for yourself,” he said, and led the way. As soon as we stepped in, he disappeared
into the kitchen. A moment later he came back with a bottle of beer. “You go
ahead,” he said. “I’ll take notes.”
There was a
cigarette butt in the ashtray on the coffee table. Not a Winston, Josh’s brand,
but a Merit — what Freeman smoked. Otherwise the living room looked just as it
had two nights earlier. Freeman followed me into the bedroom. The bed had been
hastily thrown together, a blue blanket slipping to the floor beneath a red
comforter, but this looked to be its normal condition. I sat down and examined
the contents of the night stand. They consisted of a paperback edition of Siddhartha,
fourteen pennies, a pack of matches from the Yellowtail, and an empty water
glass smudged with fingerprints, some of them, doubtless, mine.
Freeman picked up
the book and said, “I never could get into this.”
“You just weren’t a
hippie.”
“Can’t say that I
was,” Freeman agreed pleasantly.
I went through the
bureau. The sock and underwear drawers were cleaned out but another drawer held
a few shirts. A couple of other shirts hung in the closet along with some
slacks and a herringbone sports coat.
“He plans to come
back,” I said.
“Good sleuthing,”
Freeman replied, behind me.
I walked into the
bathroom. A moment later I came back out into the bedroom smiling.
“Don’t tell me,”
Freeman said. “He’s in the shower just like Bobby Ewing.”
“He took his dirty
laundry with him.”
“Huh?”
“His dirty laundry.
It was in a hamper in the bathroom. The hamper’s empty.”
Freeman took a slow
swallow of beer, brought the bottle down and smiled. “He’s gone home to his
mama,” he said.
*****
It was a quiet
house on an unremarkable suburban street. I brought my car to a stop and looked
at the place. Above it, the enormous, urban sky was darkening as sunset broke
apart like colored smoke and drifted upward to where a few stars already shone.
The house’s stucco facade was faced with beams of polished wood, giving it a
vaguely Elizabethan look. In the yard, a big willow trickled yellow leaves. I
got out of my car and walked to the door. A small, dark-haired woman with a
face shaped like a heart responded to my knocking.
“Mrs. Mandel?”
“Yes,” she said,
her forehead worried.
“Is Josh here?”
“No,” she lied. “Who
are you?”
I’m his friend,” I
said. “Please, I have to see him.” “Really,” she began, but a hand appeared on
the edge of the door above her head and pulled the door back. Josh was wearing
his red sweater.
“It’s okay, Mom,”
he said. “This is just my friend, Henry.” “Can I talk to you Josh?”
“Come on in,” Josh
said.
He led me back to a
big, well-lit room that smelled of furniture polish and rosewood. A pot of
yellow chrysanthemums matched the blaze in the fireplace. The television was
tuned to a football game and there was a bowl of popcorn on the seat of the
armchair from which Josh had been watching the game. Mrs. Mandel had followed
us into the room.
“Mom, we need to
talk alone.”
“Joshua, who is
this man?”
“I told you, he’s
my friend. He’s here to help me. Right, Henry?”
“Yes.” I looked at
Mrs. Mandel. “I’m a lawyer, Mrs. Mandel. I’m working on the Jim Pears case. Are
you familiar with it?”
“That was the boy
at the restaurant.”
“I’m his lawyer. I
need to ask Josh a few questions.”
She looked back and
forth at us. “I’ll make you some tea,” she said, decisively.
“Thank you.”
She fluttered out
of the room, closing the door behind her.
“She seems nice,” I
told Josh.
“She is,” he
replied and looked at me stonily. “How did you find me?”
“This is the third
house I’ve been to,” I replied. “There are a lot of Mandels in Sherman Oaks.”
He tried not to
smile.
“Why didn’t you go
meet Freeman?”
“You think I killed
Brian, don’t you?”
I drew a deep
silent breath and asked, “Did you?”
There was a lot
working on Josh’s face. I was relieved to see that most of it was anger. “No,”
he snapped.
“I believe you,
Josh.”
“To hell with what
you believe, Henry.”
It was only when he
dropped into an armchair that I realized we’d both been standing. I sat down on
the sofa. He stuck his hand into the cushions and brought up a grungy pack of
Winstons. He lit one.
“Tell me where you were
the night Brian was killed.”
He blew a shaky
smoke ring with all the nonchalance of a ten-year-old and said, “I was with
someone.”
“Am I supposed to
remember all their names?”
“Stop it, Josh. I
know you’re not like that.”
“Doug,” he said. “He
lives in a split-level condo on King’s Road and he has a hot tub on his deck.
We sat in the hot tub and drank a bottle of wine and then he fucked me.” He
glared at me.
“Is that the
terrible secret you wouldn’t tell me the other night?”
“Don’t talk down to
me,” he said, his fingers quivering. “And no, that’s not the terrible secret.
Does it really matter to you?” This time I knew the right answer. “Yes,” I
said.
He put the
cigarette out and all the hardness slipped from his face. “Three months ago I
got this little rash at the base of my — penis,” he said. “I panicked. I was
sure it was AIDS, so I ran out and took the antibody test. The rash was just a
rash — going too long without wearing shorts or something. But the test came
back positive.”
“You know that test
isn’t completely accurate,” I said, to cover the sudden pounding in my ears. “And
anyway it only means you’ve been exposed to the virus, not that you’ll get
AIDS.” My heart slowed down. “Half the gay men in California test positive.”
“Did you take the
test?” Josh asked, glaring at me.
“Yes.”
“Did you test
positive?”
“No,” I said, but
added, “There are false negatives, too, Josh.”
“Is that supposed
to make me feel better?” he snapped.
“I guess not.” I
looked at him. “Look, Josh — “
“That’s why I ran
away,” he interrupted, “because I didn’t want to have to tell you. Because I
didn’t tell you.” He paused. “Before we made love.”
“We didn’t do
anything risky,” I replied.
“No,” he said
scornfully, “it wasn’t worth it.”
“Jesus, Josh, did
you want to infect me?”
He lowered his
eyes. “I’m sorry, Henry. I don’t know what I’m saying.”
“Then be quiet and
listen to me,” I said.
He reached for his
cigarettes.
“And don’t light
another one of those.”
He dropped his
hand. “Sorry,” he said.
“I’ve been driving
all over L.A. looking for you,” I said, “and it wasn’t because I thought you
killed Brian. Not really.” I ran my hand through my hair. “I’m thirty-six years
old, Josh. You have no idea how old that sounds to me, especially when I wake
up in the morning alone.” I paused. This was going to be harder than I thought.
“I just have these feelings for you...” And then I couldn’t think of anything
else to say.
He looked at me. “I
love you, too.”
I nodded. “Then
come here.” He rose from his chair and joined me on the couch.
He sniffed. A
trickle of snot glistened under his nose. I gave him my handkerchief. He blew
his nose gravely.
“I’m so scared,” he
whispered, and began to cry.
I pulled him close
and held him until I could feel the heat of his body through his sweater. I
thought of all the rational things I should say but heard myself tell him, “I
won’t let anything happen to you.”
He pulled away and
looked at me, lifting his sleeve and wiping his nose. His eyes searched mine,
slowly. I didn’t look away. We both knew that what I’d just said was, on one
level, impossible and, therefore, untrue. And yet we both knew I meant it,
which made it true on a different level, the one that mattered between us now.
He brought his face
forward and we kissed.
Just then the door
opened. I saw Mrs. Mandel out of the comer of my eye. Behind her came a man who
I recognized from the picture at Josh’s apartment as Mr. Mandel.
“Joshua,” Mr.
Mandel said, “what is this?”
We moved apart.
Josh said, “Mom, Dad, you’d better sit down. There’s something I have to tell
you.”
*****
Over the next eight
hours, Josh not only told his parents that he was gay but that we were lovers
and about the result of the antibody test. Mr. Mandel ordered me out of the
house, relented, and alternately screamed at and wept for his son. Mrs. Mandel
seemed to have been rendered catatonic.
Then, after the
hysterics came the hard talk. Josh’s sisters were called, one in Sacramento and
one in Denver, and consulted. They came out heavily pro-Josh. His father
brought down the Bible and read to us the passage in Leviticus that condemns
homosexuality. That led to a long, rambling discussion about biblical
fundamentalism which ended, predictably, in a stalemate.
Mrs. Mandel mourned
for her unborn grandchildren. Josh said that he planned to have children. This
silenced her. Silenced me, too. We talked for a long time about Jim Pears and
how having to hide being gay had probably led him to kill someone. We talked
about AIDS. This was the hardest part for all of us.
I argued that AIDS
wasn’t divine retribution on gay people any more than Tay-Sachs disease was God’s
commentary on Jews. Mr. Mandel bristled at the analogy but his wife diffused
the tension with a series of surprisingly well-informed questions about AIDS.
It occurred to me then that she had known Josh was gay all along. Even so, they
both remained worried and frightened. So was Josh. So was I.
In the middle of
all this, Mr. Mandel ordered pizza and we had an involved argument over the
relative merits of anchovies. He and I wanted them. Josh and Mrs. Mandel
resisted. The three of them went through a bottle of wine while I guzzled
Perrier.
And then it was
three o’clock in the morning and Mr. Mandel was apologizing for being sixty-two
and needing his sleep.
Knees creaking and
head throbbing, I got up to leave. “I need my coat,” I said to Josh who was
sitting on it.
“Wait,” he said,
amazement in his eyes. “You’re not going to drive all the way back to Silver
Lake now, are you?”
A long complex
silence ensued.
“It’s not that far,”
I said.
“Come on, Henry.
You’re exhausted.” Josh looked at his parents. “You can’t let him go out at
this hour. The roads are full of drunks.”
“Joshua,” his
father began.
“Dad,” he said in a
whine he must have perfected as a child. “It’s just a matter of common
courtesy. Let him sleep on the couch down here. Mom?”