I handed the kid a five for a bunch of flowers and drove away as the light turned green, leaving him the change, a couple of measly bucks that probably made him very happy.
*
As I pushed the buzzer at Horace Hyatt’s gate, I heard what sounded like someone sobbing over the gently splashing fountains beyond the fence.
I called out Hyatt’s first name and the sobbing ceased. A moment later, he pulled open the gate, wiping away tears. He smiled tentatively, thanked me in his neat British accent for dropping by, and closed the gate behind us. His hard frame, for all its taut musculature, seemed oddly heavy, almost sagging.
“You’ll have to excuse me. I’m a bit out of sorts.”
He gestured toward a marble bench, set just off a walkway in the warm shade.
“Shall we sit in the garden? I’d rather prefer it.”
We settled down side by side, surrounded by dense, fragrant greenery and speckled golden light. The flock of wild parrots had moved on but a few smaller birds chirped above us, less noisily, and the water from the fountains offered a steady counterpoint as it flowed slowly in downward steps like the shallow, meandering outlets of a mountain meadow stream.
Hyatt took a moment to compose himself, resting his arms on his knees as he stared straight ahead, emitting a sigh so deep it came out in gasps like a shudder.
Then, without looking at me, he said simply: “Mike’s dead.”
“Mike—the boy who was here Saturday?”
Hyatt nodded.
“The police were by this morning to question me. They found my name and number in Mike’s pocket, along with fifty dollars in cash. I suppose it was what he had left from the money I gave him to get a room.”
Time seemed to stop in the garden, pressing the two of us closer, between the previous moment and the next one.
“Actually, Horace, I gave him that money.”
Hyatt’s head came around fast, his blue eyes focused and questioning.
“You?”
“I saw him on the street Saturday night. I bought him some dinner and gave him some cash to answer a few questions.”
“That’s all? Just some questions?”
I nodded.
“The last time I saw him, he was on Santa Monica Boulevard, doing the stroll.”
“And you left him there?”
“I went around the block to get him, thinking I might bring him here for the night, but somebody had already picked him up.”
Hyatt laughed hideously.
“My God. His life came down to a matter of seconds, a pause at a stop sign, a press of the accelerator. It’s all so fucking hilarious, isn’t it?”
“Life happens that way now and then.”
“Yes, doesn’t it? Especially for boys like Mike.”
Hyatt bent over, held his head in his hands, silent.
“They think he was killed doing a date?”
Hyatt breathed deeply, took a moment, then talked with less emotion.
“Mike was found in a Dumpster. To be more accurate, he was found in several Dumpsters. Different body parts, you know, scattered about.”
His lower lip trembled, then his chin.
“His head was in a plastic bag, all by itself.”
He rose suddenly and rushed away from me, pressing himself into the thick, white trunk of a ficus tree, weeping again, clutching the tree as if it were human. He went on like that for a minute or two, and when he was done he turned around, leaning against the hard trunk, looking spent.
“I sometimes wonder if there are any limits to the cruelty and depravity of which human beings are so capable.”
“The same thing’s crossed my mind once or twice.”
He glanced around.
“I created this garden as a sanctuary, a tiny haven within a darker, more dangerous world. I suppose that’s what we all try to do in our own way, isn’t it?”
“I suppose.”
He surprised me with a smile.
“Once, I tried to get Michael to sit out here with me, listening to the sounds, enjoying the colors, the quiet. I wanted him to understand that there was goodness in the world, a place where he could be safe. He only lasted a minute or two. Then he was up, needing stimulation, something to do. You know how young people are these days.”
Hyatt’s smile grew wan.
“I’m glad I got those pictures of him Saturday. That’s nice, that he’s memorialized that way, although I suspect the police will come back to get the negatives. I probably should make some dupes before they take what’s left of Michael away from me.”
Hyatt’s eyes drifted around, then up into the leafy canopy above us.
“I hope he didn’t suffer terribly before they were finished with him, whoever they were. At least he’s at peace now, free of the horror of this life.”
Then: “You were a journalist once, weren’t you? The one who had the trouble.”
I nodded.
“It came to me the other day, after you left. I had the feeling I was being grilled by a reporter.”
“I was hoping you might change your mind and talk to me more openly.”
“That’s why I called, actually. In light of Michael’s death, my shame seems dreadfully petty and unimportant.”
He shifted his short, muscular frame away from the tree.
“Could you come inside for a moment?”
*
Hyatt had set up two easels in his upstairs studio, directly under the skylight. A photo was displayed on each, blown up to eleven by fourteen inches and matted on stiff backing.
One was the shot I’d found in Rod Preston’s file of Randall Capri, slender and shirtless at thirteen. The other was of another dark-haired child, naked but discreetly posed, who looked slightly younger—so slim, flawless, and beautiful that discerning gender was impossible.
“When I asked you to leave on Saturday, we’d been discussing a photo session I’d once been involved in. This was one of the portraits I shot when Rod Preston brought the boy to me twenty years ago, when he’d just turned twelve.”
“He was a lovely child.”
“Wasn’t he? One can understand wanting photographs of a child so beautiful, unclothed and natural, just as God created him. Particularly parents, I think, who wish to preserve their child’s image for all time. If most of us weren’t so prudish about such things.”
“But Rod Preston wasn’t the boy’s father.”
“No.”
“Which apparently causes you some discomfort about the matter to this day.”
Hyatt nodded tightly, his eyes downcast.
“That’s part of it, yes.”
“You felt some guilt accepting Preston’s financial offer even though you suspected his interest in the boy might be sexual.”
Hyatt’s eyes rose slowly, as if reluctantly, with nothing at all like the directness I’d seen in them when we first met.
“There was something else, something that troubled me terribly. Yet I did nothing about it. I was afraid that if I went to the authorities, I might be personally implicated in some way. I worried that my reputation, which was just being established, might be ruined. Worse, I feared I might end up in jail. So I simply kept quiet about the whole thing and tried to forget what I saw that day.”
“But you said the boy was always draped or discreetly positioned.”
“It’s more complicated than that, I’m afraid.”
Hyatt turned to the two photographs.
“You can see a strong general resemblance between the young Randall Capri and the other boy—they might have been brothers. The boy’s name was George Krytanos. A few years ago, I happened to see Krytanos again, grown to manhood. I was up in Montecito at the invitation of friends to attend a polo match, and Krytanos was there, handling Rod Preston’s horse. I was stunned when I saw him, mortified.”
“By how young he looked? Or by his even stronger resemblance to Capri?”
“I realized that Krytanos had undergone a good deal of cosmetic surgery over the years. It occurred to me that Rod Preston had acquired the younger boy as a lookalike substitute for Randall Capri—as Capri matured, he turned the other boy into a clone. I was well connected to the gay cultural underground, and I began making inquiries. I was told that Rod Preston had an obsessive fascination with Randall Capri before he started to mature, that Capri had been his favorite. Capri, in turn, was utterly enamored of Preston, seeing him as both a lover and a father figure. I was told, and I must say this is strictly hearsay, that for many years, well into his twenties, Capri kept busy procuring young boys for Preston as a way to stay close to him.”
Hyatt cleared his throat uneasily.
“Again, just gossip. But from what I’ve heard, Capri didn’t get over his love for Preston for many years, not until he began writing those sleazy Hollywood biographies and they had a falling-out.”
“And you blame yourself for not trying to stop it twenty years ago?”
A grim smile twisted the corners of Hyatt’s mouth, raising his silver-tipped mustache.
“Unfortunately, you haven’t heard the worst of it.”
He lifted the photo of George Krytanos from its easel, studying it more closely.
“During the photo session twenty years ago, I happened to glimpse the boy naked for a fleeting moment. Preston was posing him, and I was behind my camera, checking my light and adjusting my focus. Preston stepped away for a moment, and it was then that I saw the boy in full, and realized just what kind of a monster I was dealing with—how far Rod Preston would go to satisfy his darkest compulsions. In fact, I ended the session right there. I told him to keep his money and go, and to never contact me again.”
He shook his head furiously, almost like a weeping man.
“I should have notified the authorities, of course. I know that, and I’ll never forgive myself for lacking the courage.”
“What was it you saw, Horace?”
Hyatt touched the face of the boy in the photograph, lost in time two decades back, as if making a belated attempt to give George Krytanos comfort.
“Through my lens, I saw that the poor child had no testicles.”
Hyatt’s conflicted eyes found mine.
“He’d been surgically emasculated, you see. Rod Preston had turned the boy into a castrato.”
The Delgado Center for Enhanced Beauty and Well-Being was located in a courtyard building in downtown Beverly Hills, on the fringes of the fabled Rodeo Drive shopping district.
According to its full-color, fold-out brochure, the Delgado Center offered not only cosmetic surgery consultation at $250 per hour, but a full roster of more natural services such as massage, facials, aromatherapy, yoga, and guided meditation. The center occupied one of the neighborhood’s newer buildings, designed after a traditional Spanish cathedral, like the Civic Center, but not quite pulling it off. The stucco was a little too smooth, the red-roof tiles a bit too synthetic, and the patio not comprised of tiles at all but grooved concrete that was dyed an earthen color with too much orange in it. There was a fountain at the center of the courtyard, with a square pool tiled in bright blue and yellow, and a centerpiece of ornate statuary that spouted enough water every half minute to wash a stretch limo. The water erupted in a mighty froth, twisting and turning to throw off droplets that sparkled like fake diamonds on a cheap woman jiggling her shoulders to show off her tits. I half-expected to see Zorro come riding in at any moment with a rose between his teeth, or maybe a pearl-handled scalpel.
I stepped through the arched entrance, listening to birds singing pleasantly among the potted banana palms, and didn’t realize I was hearing a recording until I’d reached the interior entrance across the courtyard to my right. At that point, as I stepped inside, the recording of the birdies gave way to one of gentle harp music so soothing it had me thinking of a nap. Around the spacious waiting room, ladies of a certain age lounged on plush sofas in fancy pants suits and tasteful jewelry, chatting with quiet energy as they sipped from mugs or crystal beverage glasses. In front of me stood a small sign:
MEDITATION AND THERAPY ROOMS IN USE. PLEASE OBSERVE TRANQUILLITY
.
Using my most tranquil voice, I checked in with the young woman behind the reception desk, informing her of my appointment with Sonja, a “beauty enhancement consultant” with whom I’d spoken on the phone that morning. The receptionist offered me a choice of herbal tea or mineral water while I waited. I opted for the water, and by the time it was handed to me, a svelte, well-groomed, middle-aged blond woman was waltzing down the faux marble staircase and introducing herself as Sonja in an accent that might have been Swedish.
“Welcome to the Delgado Center, Mr. Justice. I hope you came with plenty of questions.”
“I certainly did.”
“I’ll do my best to answer every one.”
We were on the stairway, moving up, and I had a smile on my face that I hoped looked as tranquil as the one on Sonja’s. I asked her how long she’d been associated with Dr. Delgado and the center, and her healthy pores seemed to ooze contentment.
“Sixteen years, Mr. Justice, sixteen years.”
“That’s what I call loyalty.”
“Most people who come to work at the center tend to stay. We’re like a family here—it’s that kind of place.”
“Pretty tranquil, I guess.”
“Outer beauty and inner peace, that’s our goal.”
“I’ll bet that if anyone knows what goes on here, Sonja, you’re the one.”
“Believe me, Mr. Justice, you’re in the right hands.”
A minute later, we sat in a small consultation room, facing each other across a desk with nothing on it but a single, perfect rose in a crystal bud vase. On one wall were detailed charts of the human face and anatomy; on the other, before-and-after photos of men and women who presumably had gone under Dr. Delgado’s knife. If the photos were genuine, and I assumed they were, Delgado’s skills had to be considerable; the results of the surgeries were strikingly successful, with bumpy profiles reshaped more classically and, from necks and faces, years of sagging flesh, unsightly veins, and age lines erased.
Sonja folded her hands in front of her, her placid smile intact, while the harp music continued playing hypnotically in the background.
“On the phone, Mr. Justice, you mentioned some dissatisfaction with the way you look.”
“I’ve worked hard on my inner self, Sonja—I think you should know that.”
“So important, Mr. Justice.”
“Now I feel it’s time to work on the exterior, to bring my self-realization into perfect balance, what I like to think of as the Total Me.”
“I understand completely. But on the phone, you weren’t quite sure exactly what you wanted to change.”
“Frankly, I was hoping to remove a few years of worry lines, that kind of thing. Maybe some reshaping for a more youthful look.”
Sonja cocked her head this way and that, studying my face.
“You’re relatively young, Mr. Justice.”
“Forty-one, but I’ve been around the block a few times.”
“Still, you’re not even middle-aged.”
A balder lie seemed in order, bald being especially appropriate in my case.
“I’m a screenwriter by trade, Sonja. In Hollywood, a screenwriter past forty is almost ready for pasture.”
Her smile broadened.
“A shame, the way Hollywood treats older people—not that you’re older, of course. But we do have our share of clients who work in the industry. We understand the pressure to preserve a youthful image.”
“I saw what Dr. Delgado did for Rod Preston years ago. Marvelous work.”
She seemed pleased.
“You knew Mr. Preston?”
“I knew his daughter, Charlotte.”
Suddenly, Sonja’s inner peace seemed less blissful. She tightened the screws to keep her smile in place, while her voice lost a trace of its warmth.
“Was it Charlotte who referred you to Dr. Delgado?”
“She spoke highly of him before she died.”
“A tragedy, what happened to Charlotte.”
“Did you know her well, Sonja?”
“We were acquainted, certainly. She worked here for a number of years.”
Sonja rose, becoming businesslike, coming quickly around the desk to examine my face more closely. A minute later, when she was seated again, she told me she thought I was still too young for a face-lift, but that a dermabrasion might be in order, or perhaps a chemical peel, and she explained what those were. She lectured me briefly on skin care, recommending regular facials, special scrubs and emollients for use at home, a change in my nutritional habits, a good sun block applied every morning, and a lifetime regimen of vitamin E. Then she ran through a number of surgical techniques—rhinoplasty for the nose, chin and facial implants, lip augmentations—that could alter the shape and look of my face, if that was something I ultimately desired. She outlined the costs, which ran into the tens of thousands, informed me that there were never any guarantees of success, and explained the possible risks.
“As you know, Dr. Delgado is recognized as one of the country’s finest cosmetic surgeons. He’ll certainly do his best to give you the results you want.”
I explained to Sonja that I had a problem with pain.
“There are three basic types of anesthesia, Mr. Justice, depending on the surgical procedures involved. We might give you a local injection, which numbs only the immediate area to be operated on. This is used mainly for less invasive procedures. Probably the most common form of anesthesia during plastic surgery is a local injection plus sedation, which allows you to remain awake yet relaxed the entire time. General anesthesia, which lets the patient sleep during the surgery, is usually called for when the doctor is operating on larger areas of the body.”
“I understand doctors sometimes order a muscle relaxant first, to reduce the amount of anesthesia involved.”
“I believe that’s true, yes.”
“If I’m not mistaken, curare is sometimes used for that purpose, in minute doses.”
“That’s a question you’d have to ask the doctor, during your final consultation.”
“If I decide to go ahead with the surgery.”
“Yes, if you decide.”
“Did you know that Charlotte died of curare poisoning, Sonja?”
Once again, I saw her draw the corners of her mouth taut into a rigid smile.
“No, I didn’t.”
“I guess she wasn’t feeling too tranquil that day.”
“We were all terribly shaken by her death.”
“Especially Dr. Delgado, I imagine.”
“All of us.”
“But Charlotte and Dr. Delgado must have been particularly close.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Working side by side for so many years, spending so many hours together.”
“I believe Charlotte had known the doctor since she was a teenager. Charlotte’s father was one of Dr. Delgado’s first celebrity clients. He was instrumental in helping Dr. Delgado build his business. So, you see, the friendship between Dr. Delgado and Charlotte goes back many, many years.”
“He must have cut an attractive figure for a sensitive teenage girl like Charlotte, who worshiped her own father but didn’t see him all that much.”
“I certainly wouldn’t know anything about Charlotte’s girlhood feelings. Did I mention our payment plan for the surgeries, Mr. Justice?”
“I suppose Charlotte got her job here with her father’s help.”
Sonja worked hard to maintain her genial mood, emitting a tiny sigh.
“Charlotte was a skilled anesthesiologist, Mr. Justice. She could have worked almost anywhere she chose.”
“But she chose to work with Dr. Delgado.”
“I’m not sure I see your point.”
“They must have been very good years for Charlotte, working here.”
“Yes, I’m sure Charlotte was quite happy while she was with us.”
“
Wonderful years,
no doubt—those were the words you used earlier when speaking of yourself. Like a family, you said.”
“Very much so, yes. What’s your point, Mr. Justice?”
“Why would Charlotte leave such a comfortable position, Sonja?”
A stammer cracked her placid surface like a gust of wind on a calm lake. “I—I imagine she had other opportunities.”
“But she left suddenly, without having another job lined up. Never worked again, as a matter of fact.”
“I really wouldn’t know about that. I’m not sure I should be speaking about Charlotte at all.”
“She’s persona non grata now?”
Sonja cocked her head slightly. “You said you were a friend of hers?”
“Did something happen that caused Charlotte to quit her job, Sonja, or to be fired? Some imbalance in the center’s natural harmony, perhaps?”
“I really couldn’t say. I have nothing to do with personnel matters.”
“Is it possible Charlotte and Dr. Delgado were having an affair that Dr. Delgado’s wife found out about it and forced her husband to give Charlotte the heave-ho?”
Sonja folded her hands more tightly.
“This discussion has taken a most inappropriate turn.”
“Did Charlotte carry a torch, Sonja? Did she try to stay in contact, becoming a nuisance to Dr. Delgado and his wife?”
Sonja glanced at her watch.
“I’m afraid our time is about up, Mr. Justice.”
She opened a drawer, handed me a thick, illustrated booklet that outlined in detail the medical points she’d just gone over, then rose from her chair.
“Any last questions, as long as they have nothing to do with matters that are none of my business, or yours?”
“You wouldn’t want to adopt a cute little Lhasa apso, would you? Adorable face, wiggly little tail?”
Sonja was moving briskly, pulling open the door, showing me another constricted smile. “I’m afraid I’m a cat person, Mr. Justice.”
*
I was descending the staircase to the lobby when I saw Martin Delgado and his wife, Regina, entering the lobby from the courtyard. He was wearing a light spring suit with an open collar that showed off a thatch of curling dark hair at his throat. She was in a short jacket and even shorter skirt that showed off the legs that gave her so much of her height. It was a few minutes past three, and since she was laden down with bags bearing Cartier and Gucci logos, I assumed they’d been to lunch and then done some shopping.
Regina noticed me before her husband did, and I saw a flash of recognition in her dark Latin eyes. She stopped in the middle of the lobby, clutching the handles of her bags with tight fists, looking furious.
“That’s the son of a bitch with the dog!”
She said it loudly enough that several of the waiting clients looked up from their herbal tea and mineral water. Dr. Delgado touched his wife’s shoulder.
“I’ll handle this, Regina.”
“Like hell you will.”
Each of us took several steps forward until we formed a tight triumvirate at the foot of the stairs.
“I’m surprised you’re not at the hospital, Doctor, making someone beautiful.”
“I had a cancellation, but I’m due back at four.”
“I won’t keep you long, then. Just a few questions.”
“I have no interest in speaking with you. I believe I made that clear at the funeral.”