Goldenboy hr-2

by Michael Nava

  “You know,” he said confidentially, “I sat in the criminal division of superior court for years before I was elevated. From what I know about Jim Pears’s case, it’s going to be rough sledding.”

  “An unusual metaphor for Los Angeles,” I observed.

  He looked puzzled, then dropped my hand. “Comments like that go right over a jury’s head,” he said with a faked smile.

  I made a noise that could be interpreted as assent.

  “Who’s the judge?” he asked.

  “Patricia Ryan.”

  “Good. Very good,” he replied judiciously. “I’ll call her for lunch next week.” He beamed at us. “I’m neglecting my duties. Let me get you a drink.”

  “Thanks, but I don’t drink,” I said.

  His eyes narrowed and he nodded. “Oh, that’s right. Perrier, then?”

  “Nothing, thank you,” I replied. I felt a flash of irritation at Larry who had obviously told Fein I was an alcoholic.

  “What about you, Larry?” Fein asked.

  “Not just yet. I think I should take Henry around.”

  “Of course,” Fein said, and stepped aside. “I’ll talk to you later.”

  We started across the hall and Larry said, in a low voice, “I know what you’re thinking but I didn’t tell him.”

  “Then how did he know?”

  “He’s like God, only richer. So I’d watch the wisecracks if I were you.”

  For the next hour we worked the room. The crowd consisted of well-dressed, expensively scented men and a few women all of whom, like Fein, had found ways to slow time’s passage. Larry and I fell into a routine. He would introduce me. Someone would inevitably ask what I thought of Jim’s chances. I would launch into a lengthy explanation of the concept of presumption of innocence. At some point — before a member of the audience actually fell asleep — Larry would break in to make a pitch for money. As we moved away from one group, I heard a man stage whisper, “She’s pretty but someone should tell her to lighten up.”

  I turned to Larry, who had also heard, and said, “I need a break.”

  “I’ll come and find you.”

  When he left I found myself near the center of the room. A short, stocky man stood a few feet away staring up at the ceiling. I followed his gaze to the chandelier. It was a sleek metallic thing lit with dozens of silvery candles. The man and I exchanged looks. He smiled.

  “At first,” he said, “I wondered why Elliot couldn’t afford electricity. Then I realized the candles must be much more expensive.”

  There were faint traces of an English accent in his voice. His face was square and fleshy and showed its age. His was the first truly human visage I’d seen all night.

  “It’s less conspicuous than burning hundred-dollar bills, I guess.”

  He laughed. “I heard you introduced, Mr. Rios. My name is Harvey Miller.”

  “Henry to my friends,” I replied, shaking his hand. “Are you part of this crowd?”

  “Am I rich? No. I work at the Gay and Lesbian Center on Highland. Elliot’s on the board. Do you know about the Center?”

  “Sure,” I said. “You do good work.”

  “So do you, I hear.” He accepted a glass of champagne from a passing waiter.

  I shrugged. “It’s my Catholic upbringing. The world’s troubles weigh on my heart. Mea culpa.”

  He sipped from the glass and lowered it. “You seem a bit brittle, Henry.”

  “This isn’t my natural habitat. I was going outside for some air. Join me?”

  “I’d like that.”

  We made our way through the clumps of oversized furnishings and past the squadrons of rented waiters carrying trays of food and drink, to a door that let us out onto an immense patio. We walked to its edge and looked out over the city. Streams of light marked the major boulevards which were crammed with the tail end of rush-hour traffic. The spires of downtown probed the ashen sky. Lights of every color — red, blue, silver, gold — twinkled in the darkness as if the city were an enormous Christmas tree.

  I made this comparison to Harvey.

  “It is like a Christmas tree,” he replied, “but most of the boxes beneath it are empty. For a lot of gay people, anyway.”

  I looked at him as he finished off the contents of his glass. “What exactly do you do at the Center?”

  “I’m a psychologist,” he replied, smiling at the city.

  “Well,” I said, “for a few gay people some boxes, like this house, are crammed full.”

  “No, not really.” He set the glass down on the ledge of the wall. “It’s not easy for anyone in this society to be gay.”

  “I wouldn’t waste much sympathy on the rich,” I said. “Even compassion has its limits.”

  He moved a step nearer. “Are you always the life of the party?”

  I smiled. “Sorry. Yesterday I was sitting in a filthy little room trying to pry some truth out of Jim Pears and tonight I’m at Valhalla meeting the gay junior league. When the altitude changes this fast I get motion sick.”

  “Why do you have such a low opinion of us?”

  “I don’t. It’s just that it’s not my profession.”

  “What?”

  “Homosexuality.”

  “No,” he said, feigning a smile. “You’re a lawyer, right? Never mind that the law oppresses us.”

  “I thought we were going to be friends, Harvey.”

  “You can’t isolate yourself in your work.”

  “I’m not trying to,” I said. “But Jim Pears is a client, not a cause. If I can save his life, I’ve done my job.”

  “And if not?” he asked, leaning against the wall. “Have you still done your job?”

  “By my lights,” I replied.

  He picked up his glass. “I’m disappointed that your lights have such a narrow focus.”

  I shrugged. ‘‘In my work, someone is usually disappointed.”

  ‘‘Good luck,” he said and went back inside.

  When I went back in, the party was breaking up. I spotted Larry standing with a fat man in a shiny suit. Not an old suit. A shiny one. Larry signaled me to join them. The fat man’s face shone like a waxed apple. A fringe of dyed hair was combed low over his forehead. He fidgeted a smile, revealing perfect teeth.

  “Henry, this is Sandy Blenheim,” Larry said.

  I shook Blenheim’s hand. It was soft and moist but he compensated with a grip that nearly broke my thumb. Before I could say anything, Blenheim started talking.

  “Look, Henry, I’m running a little late.” He jabbed his hand into the air, as if to ward off time’s passage. “So if we could just get down to business.”

  “What business is that?”

  “I’m an agent. I have a client who’s interested in buying the rights to the trial.”

  “Jim’s trial?” I asked.

  Blenheim gave three rapid nods.

  “Why?”

  “To make a movie,” Larry interjected.

  I looked at Blenheim. “A movie?”

  “It’s great. The whole set-up. Gay kid exposed. We could take it to the networks and sell it like that.” He snapped his pudgy fingers. “We tried talking to the kid’s parents but they won’t deal. The kid won’t even talk to me. So you’re our last hope.”

  “I really don’t understand,” I said.

  Blenheim spread his hands. “We buy your rights, see, and if you can bring the kid and his folks around, that just sweetens the deal. What about it?”

  “It’s a bit premature, don’t you think?” I said. “There hasn’t actually been a trial.”

  “But there will be,” Blenheim insisted. “We can give you twenty,” he continued. “Plus, we hire you as the legal consultant. You could clean up.”

  “I’m sorry,” I began, “but this conversation is not-”

  “Okay,” Blenheim said, affably. “I’ve been around lawyers. You guys are cagey. Tell you what, Henry. Think on it and call me in a couple of weeks. Larry’s got my number. See you l
ater.”

  He turned, waved at someone across the room, and walked away. I looked at Larry. “Have I just been hit by a truck?”

  “No, but you might check your wallet.”

  “What was that all about?”

  “Just what the man said,” Larry replied. “He wants to make a movie.”

  “About Jim? That’s a little ghoulish, isn’t it?”

  Larry shrugged. “He gave me a check for five hundred dollars for Jim’s defense,” he said. “I figured that was worth at least a couple of minutes of your time.”

  “Okay, he got his two minutes.” I looked at Larry; he was pale and seemed tired. “I think we should get you home.”

  “Fein’s invited us for dinner,” he replied. “There’s no tactful way out.”

  “Then let’s not be tactful,” I said.

  He began to speak, but then simply nodded. “I am tired,” he said.

  Fein accepted my excuses with a fixed smile and later when I said good-night he looked at me seemingly without recognition. But the boy who had parked our car remembered me.

  “Enjoy yourself?” he asked, opening the car door for me.

  Thinking of Fein and Harvey Miller and the fat agent, I said, “It wasn’t that kind of party.”

  8

  I returned to the jail day after day to talk to Jim Pears. We sat at the table in the room with the soiled walls beneath the glaring lights. As far as I knew, he had no other visitors. Jim showed no interest in preparing for the coming trial beyond repeating his stock claim of innocence. He answered my questions with the fewest words possible unless I asked him about the events leading up to the killing. Those he wouldn’t answer at all, maintaining loss of memory.

  One late afternoon a week after our first interview, I said, “Tell me the last thing you remember about that night.”

  His blue gaze drifted past my face. “I was at the bar.”

  “Before Brian got there.”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you remember seeing him arrive?”

  Jim shook his head. I drew a zero on my legal pad. A blue vein twitched at his temple. His eyes, the same throbbing blue, scanned his fingertips.

  “Did Brian ever threaten you?”

  He looked up, startled. “No.”

  “Demand money?”

  “No.”

  “Did you tell him to meet you at the restaurant that night?”

  His eyes were terrified. “No.”

  “Did he tell you he was coming there?”

  “No,” he replied, drawing a deep breath.

  “But once he got there you assumed it was to see you, didn’t you?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Don’t know what?”

  “What I thought.” He shifted in his seat.

  I drew another zero on the pad. “Tell me about the guy who picked you up the night Brian saw you in the car. Had you ever seen him before?”

  “No,” he replied.

  “What did he look like?”

  “That was a long time ago.”

  “You must remember something,” I snapped.

  He slumped in his chair. “He was old,” he said finally, and added, “Like you.”

  Ignoring the gibe, I asked, “Was he tall or short?”

  “Average, I guess.”

  “I’m not interested in your guesses. What color was his hair?”

  “Dark.”

  “What about his eyes?”

  He was quiet for a moment, then he said, in a voice that was different, almost yearning, “They were blue.”

  “Like yours?” I asked.

  “No, different,” he replied in the same voice. He was seeing those eyes.

  “Tell me about his eyes,” I said, quietly.

  “I told you,” he replied, the yearning gone. “They were blue.”

  “How did you end up in his car?”

  “He told me to meet him.”

  “Where?”

  “In the lot behind the restaurant.”

  “Then what happened?”

  He stared at me, color creeping up his neck.

  “You got in the car and then what happened?”

  “We talked.” It was almost a question.

  “Is that what you were doing when Brian came up to the car, talking?”

  He shook his head. “He was — sucking me.”

  “That’s what Brian saw?”

  “Yeah.”

  “What did Brian do?”

  “He opened the car door,” Jim said, talking quickly, “and yelled ‘faggots’. Then he ran back across the lot of the restaurant.”

  “What did you do?”

  “I got out of the car. The guy drove off. I went home.” “Did he tell you his name?”

  “No.”

  I looked at him. No, of course not. Names weren’t important.

  “Brian threatened to tell your parents,” I said. “Did that worry you?”

  “Sure,” he said, “but-” He stopped himself.

  “But what?”

  “He didn’t.”

  “The D.A. will say that he didn’t because you killed him. What’s your explanation?”

  “I didn’t kill him.”

  “Why didn’t he tell your parents?”

  “I don’t know,” he replied, his voice rising. “Ask him.” “He’s dead, Jim. Remember?”

  “Yeah, I remember. Why aren’t you trying to find the guy that killed him?”

  “Why don’t you tell me the truth?”

  “Fuck you,” he replied.

  “This isn’t getting us anywhere,” I observed in a quiet voice. “Are you sleeping better?”

  “They give me pills,” he said, all the anger gone.

  I frowned. I had had Jim examined by a doctor to see what could be done to relieve his anxiety. Apparently the doctor chose a quick fix.

  “How often?”

  “Three times a day,” he said.

  “I’d ease up on them,” I cautioned.

  He shrugged.

  “You need anything?”

  He shook his head.

  “I’ll see you tomorrow, then,” I said.

  His face showed what he thought of the prospect.

  There was a knock at the door. I got up from the desk and went downstairs. It was Freeman Vidor, whom I had been expecting. I let him in, found him a beer, and led him up to the study.

  “Nice place,” he commented, sitting on the sofa and looking around the room. He glanced at the piles of paper on the desk. “How’s it going?”

  “The good news is that there won’t be any surprises from the prosecution at trial,” I replied. “The bad news is that they don’t need any.”

  He lit a cigarette and looked around for an ashtray. I gave him the cup I had been drinking coffee from.

  “What about you?” I asked. “Any surprises?”

  He dug into the pocket of his suit and extracted a little notebook. He flipped through pages filled with big, loopy handwriting. “Maybe.”

  “Fox?” I asked, setting a fresh notepad on the desk in front of me.

  “Uh-huh,” he said, and sipped his beer. “There’s a private security patrol in the neighborhood where his folks live. Seems about a year ago they started getting complaints about a Peeping Tom. They kept a look-out and, lo and behold, they find Fox in someone’s back yard. There’s a girl lives there he went to school with. It was just about her bedtime.”

  “What was his story?”

  “He wanted to talk to her,” Freeman said, dropping his cigarette into the coffee cup and pouring a little beer over it. “Only they caught him with his pants down.”

  “What?”

  “Jerking off. He said he was just taking a piss.”

  “Anyone press charges?”

  “Not in that neighborhood,” he said. “Security took him home and told his parents.” He belched softly. “Excuse me. There was some other stuff, too,” he continued. “Seems like Brian was the neighborhood pervert.” />
  “I’m listening.”

  Freeman shrugged. “Now these are just rumors,” he cautioned. “He spent a lot of time with kids who were younger than him — thirteen, fourteen.”

  “Boys? Girls?”

  “Both,” he replied, and finished off the beer. “‘Course, less time with little girls because their folks got kind of suspicious that a high school senior was hanging around them. So mostly he was with the little boys. They thought he was kind of a creep.”

  “And why is that?”

  “A couple of them came over to his house to go swimming when his folks were gone. He gave them some beer and tried to get them to go into the pool naked.”

  “What happened?”

  “They split,” he replied and thumbed through the notebook. “After that, they all pretty much avoided him.”

  “Did they tell their parents?”

  He shook his head.

  An interesting picture was beginning to develop. I asked, “What about kids his own age? Did he have a girlfriend?”

  “Nope,” he said. “Didn’t go out much with girls. He was kind of a loner except for his computer buddies.”

  “The stories in the papers make him sound like the most popular kid in his class,” I observed.

  Freeman lit another cigarette. “The kids didn’t write those stories, grown-ups did. They see a young guy, not bad looking, smart enough, killed by some — excuse the expression — faggot. What do you think they’re going to make of it?”

  ‘“Golden boy,” I said, quoting the description from one of the newspaper accounts.

  “Yeah,” Freeman said, dourly, “Golden boy. Hell,” he added, “the only thing golden about that boy’s his old man’s money. There’s a lot of that.”

  “Rich?”

  “Real rich,” he replied.

  “Then why was he working as a busboy?” I asked.

  Freeman shrugged. “Not because he needed the money. His counselor at the school says he told Brian’s folks to put him to work. Teach him to fit in — no, what did she say?” He flipped through the notebook. “Learn ‘appropriate patterns of socialization,’“ he quoted. He grinned at me. “Some homework.”

  “Did it work? What did they think of him at the restaurant?”

  “That he was a lazy little shit,” Freeman replied. “They fired him once but his old man got him the job back.”

  “Speaking of the restaurant, what did you find out about the keys to the service door?”