He set the drink
down and said, “Yeah, I knew all about Sandy’s troubles.”
“Why didn’t you
turn him in?” I asked. “The man’s a murderer.”
Rennie set her tea
down with a clatter. “Don’t say anything, Tom,” she said. “Not without a
lawyer.”
“Henry is a lawyer,”
Tom replied. To me he said, “So it’s like talking to a priest. Right?”
“If you tell me you’ve
committed a crime, then I’d advise you to turn yourself in, but I wouldn’t do
it on my own.”
“See, Rennie,” Tom
said, smiling. “These lawyers got all the angles covered.” Tom looked at me. “I
told you I did time in the joint, well, I was there more than once. It was a bad
scene. I would kill myself before I went back there again.”
I remembered he had
told me the same thing that afternoon at Malibu a few days earlier. “Go on,” I
said.
“They picked me up
for burglary,” he said. “I managed to make bail.” He picked up his drink and
drank from it. “I split.”
“Where was this?”
“A little town in
Oklahoma,” he said. “Shitsville. I did some hard years there, Henry. That’s not
important. The important thing is, I jumped bail.” He finished his drink. “Sandy
knew.”
“He blackmailed you,”
I said.
“Yeah, that’s about
the size of it,” Zane said, rising. He walked over to the bar and poured
himself vodka and lime. Rennie lit a cigarette.
“But you’re on tv,”
I said. “Aren’t you afraid of being recognized?’’
“It was fifteen
years ago,” Tom said, walking to the window that faced the terrace. “Hell, I
could walk down the streets of that town and my mama wouldn’t know me.” For the
first time I heard a twang in his voice.
“How old were you?”
I asked.
He turned from the
window. “Twenty-two.” He smiled, bitterly. “I already done two years by then at
a state pen. Got raped every night for the first six weeks till I married me
some protection — a guy with a forty-inch chest and biceps I could swing from.
That’s how I stayed alive.”
I glanced over at Rennie.
Her cigarette had burned down to the filter and a chunk of ash dropped to the
floor. She stared at the wall, her face without expression.
“You could use some
protection now,” I said. “You’re Sandy’s last hope. He’ll be back looking for
you.”
“We can’t very well
go to the police,” Rennie said, suddenly. She dropped the remnant of her
cigarette into an ashtray.
“I understand that,”
I said, “but—”
“But nothing,” Tom
said. “I’ll take care of Sandy if he comes back. In the meantime, Henry, you
just don’t worry about us. We’ll be all right.”
He stepped behind
the chair where Rennie sat and rested his hands on her shoulders.
I stood up to
leave. “You weren’t Tom Zane, then,” I said.
“No. I used to be
Charlie Fry,” he replied. “Poor little Charlie. He never had a chance.”
“I guess you’ve
met,” I said.
Josh said, “I hope
you don’t mind that I came here.”
“Not me. Larry?”
Larry smiled. “I’m
glad I finally met you, Josh.” He looked at me. “What happened this morning?”
I summarized what I
had seen at Tony Good’s apartment and gave them an edited version of my
conversation with the Zanes. I concluded, saying, “Blenheim could be anywhere.
They may never catch him.”
“Well, I guess I
was wrong,” Larry said.
Josh looked
puzzled.
“Larry didn’t think
it was Blenheim,” I said.
“Who did you think
it was?” Josh asked.
“Jim,” Larry said.
“But you’ve been
helping him,” Josh said.
Larry smiled at
him. “Have Henry explain it to you sometime, Josh.” He looked at me and said, “I’m
closing up the house tomorrow. Of course you can stay as long as you want,
Henry, but I imagine you’ll be wanting to stay with Josh, anyway.”
“You’re really
going through with it, then?” I asked.
“Yes,” Larry said.
Josh looked back
and forth between us. “What’s going on?”
“I’m going on a
trip,” Larry said brightly, “to Paris.”
“Great,” Josh said
enthusiastically.
Larry looked at me,
then stood up. “Excuse me.” He picked up their plates and carried them to the
sink.
“Is something
wrong?” Josh asked.
Larry rinsed the
plates, set them in the dishwasher and said, “I’m going to Paris for treatment,
Josh. I have AIDS.”
Then he left the
room.
Josh stared at me. “Is
that true?”
“Yes.”
“You can’t let him
go.” His voice was spooked.
“I can’t stop him,”
I replied.
He started to speak
but said nothing. I could tell he was thinking about himself, about us. Finally
he asked, “Would you let me go?”
“It won’t come to
that,” I said firmly.
“But if it did?”
There was fear in his face.
“No.” I put my arm
around him.
“I’m sorry about
Larry,” he said.
“I know,” I
replied. We sat in silence for a minute. “Josh, after Larry leaves, I’m going
home.”
He nodded. “I’m
going with you,” he said.
*****
The next morning we
drove Larry to the airport. He gave me the number of the clinic in Paris where
he would be staying and a list of errands he had been unable to finish. We
walked him to the gate. I remembered that all this had begun at another airport,
in San Francisco. As the crowd swirled around us, we stood and looked at each
other, not knowing what there was left to say.
He turned to Josh
and said, “Take care of him.”
“I will,” Josh
replied. “Goodbye, Larry.”
They embraced like
old friends.
Then he looked at
me and said, “And you take care of Josh.”
I knew I would
never see him again. “Goodbye. I love you.”
We embraced. “I
love you, too,” he said, and his lips brushed against my cheek. “Goodbye.”
When we got back to
Josh’s apartment, I called Freeman Vidor and told him that I would be leaving
for San Francisco in a couple of days.
“I have one last
job for you, though,” I added.
“What’s that,
Henry?”
“I want you to keep
your eye on Tom Zane for a few days, make sure nothing happens to him.”
“You think Blenheim
will be looking for him?” Freeman asked.
“If he’s anywhere
close.”
“He could be in
Tahiti by now,” Freeman replied. “That’s what the cops think.”
“But just in case
he’s not.”
“Sure, Henry,” he
replied. “Give me a number where I can reach you up there.”
I gave him both my
office and home numbers. “Listen, Freeman,” I said, “it’s been good working
with you.”
I could almost see
him smile. “I travel, too,” he said. “Anywhere, anytime. You just call.”
“I’ll do that.”
*****
We left Los Angeles
one week before Christmas, choosing to drive up, the coast in Josh’s vw. We had
made no plans about how long he would stay with me,- he simply arranged to be
away from the restaurant for a couple of weeks. Although things were vague, I
wasn’t worried because it seemed to me that the decision to be together had
already been made and the mechanics would work themselves out.
As we drove out of
L.A., my sense of belonging with Josh grew keener. It was partly the departure
itself because, unlike other cities, one leaves Los Angeles by increments, from
the crowded central city, over the canyons, through thickets of suburbs, until
the tracts of houses thin into the remotest outskirts and then there are hills
and sky and the freeway narrows to a two-lane road lined by eucalyptus, and the
L.A. radio stations fade in and out, and it becomes possible to hear birds and
smell the sea.
We stopped at a
roadside produce stand and bought apples and oranges. Back in the car we drank
coffee from a thermos and were silent, my hand in his when I wasn’t shifting
gears. The sky was clear and cold and the sun cast a rich winter light. Josh
whistled under his breath, fidgeted in his seat, read to me from the L.A.
Times, yawned, peeled an orange, carefully dividing the sections between us,
closed his eyes, napped. I glanced up in the rear-view mirror and saw that I
was smiling. I felt his eyes on me, looked at him. His lips parted slightly,
and his forehead was creased by shallow lines. I tightened my hand around his
and returned my attention to the road.
“I used to play a
driving game with Larry,” I said, “back when we were traveling around the state
speaking against the sodomy law.”
“What’s the game
called?” he asked.
I rolled my head
back and forth to relieve the tension. “We called it ‘Classic or Kitsch.’ You
know what kitsch is?”
“Sure,” Josh
answered. “My aunt’s rhinestone glasses.”
“Perfect example,”
I said. We were coming into San Luis Obispo. The traffic was heavier and the
sky was clouding over. “The way it’s played is, one of us chooses a category,
like movies, and gives the name of the movie and the other one says if it’s
classic or kitsch.”
Josh stretched and
yawned. “What if you don’t agree?”
“Then you have to
say why.” I glanced at him. “That’s really the point of the game, the
disagreements. You can learn a lot about someone that way. For instance, Larry
and I argued all the way from Sacramento to Turlock about whether All About Eve
was a classic or kitsch.”
Josh looked at me. “What’s
All About Eve
?”
“Are you serious?”
I asked, turning my head to him.
He nodded. “Is it a
movie?”
“Twenty-two,” I
muttered under my breath, grinning. “I can see your gay education has been
sadly neglected.”
“You mean there’s
more to it than — “
“Don’t, Josh, I’m
driving.”
He moved his hand. “No,
really, the game sounds like fun.”
“Why don’t you find
a radio station,” I suggested as it began to drizzle.
He fiddled with the
radio until he found one that was audible above the static. He had tuned in the
tail-end of a news broadcast and moved to find another channel. Then the
announcer said, “... in other news, accused killer James Pears died today in an
L.A. area hospital.”
“Turn it up,” I
said.
The announcer’s
unctuous voice filled the little car as he continued. “Pears, a
nineteen-year-old, was accused of killing another teenager, Brian Fox, almost a
year ago today. Fox reputedly threatened to expose Pears as a homosexual. Last
October, Pears attempted suicide before he could be brought to trial and he had
been in a coma since that time. He died today of natural causes. Closer to
home...”
Josh clicked off
the radio. I turned on the windshield wipers and tried to focus on the road,
but all I saw was Jim’s face and all I heard was his voice, telling me he was
innocent.
Josh said, “I can’t
believe it.”
“This will make his
parents’ lawsuit more valuable,” I replied, bitterly.
“What lawsuit?”
I shook my head. “Nothing.”