by Michael Nava
“There’s four copies,” he replied. “One for the manager and his two assistants and one they leave at the bar.”
“Were they all accounted for?”
“Everyone checks out, except for one. The day manager, a kid named Josh Mandel.”
“The prosecutor’s star witness,” I said.
“That’s him.”
“No alibi for that night?”
Freeman nodded, slowly. “He says he was out on a date.”
“You have trouble with that?”
“Let’s just say he don’t lie with much conviction.”
9
The next day I called the Yellowtail and learned that Josh Mandel was working the lunch shift. I headed out to Encino at noon on the Hollywood Freeway. October brought cooler weather but no respite from the smog that hung above the city like a soiled, tattered sheet. Hollywood Boulevard looked more derelict than usual, as if the brown air above it were its own gasps and wheezes. The movie money had migrated west, leaving only this elegant carcass moldering in the steamy autumn sunlight.
The air was clearer in the valley but there was decay here, too; but with none of the fallen-angel glamour of Hollywood. Rather, it lay in the crumbling foundations of jerry-built condominium complexes, condemned drive-ins and bowling alleys, paint blistering from shops on the verge of bankruptcy. The detritus of the good life. It was easy to feel the ghost town just beneath the facade of affluence.
The Yellowtail anchored a small, chic shopping center comprised of clothing boutiques and specialty food stores, white stucco walls, covered walkways, tiled roofs, murmuring fountains, and grass the color of new money. I pulled into the parking lot beside the restaurant and walked around to the entrance. Heavy paneled doors led into a sunlit anteroom. A blonde girl stood at a podium with a phone pressed to her ear. She looked at me, smiled meaninglessly, and continued her conversation.
I walked to the edge of the anteroom. The restaurant was basically a big rectangular room with two smaller rooms off the main floor. The first of these, nearest to where I stood, was the bar. The other, only distantly visible, seemed to be a smaller dining room. The entire place was painted in shades of pink and white and gray. Behind the bar there was an aquarium in which exotic fish fluttered through blue-green water like shards of an aquatic rainbow.
There were carnations in crystal vases on each table. Moody abstracts hung from the walls. Light streamed in from a bank of tall, narrow windows on the wall opposite the bar. The windows faced an interior courtyard, flowerbeds, and a fountain in the shape of a lion’s head. Above the din of expense-account conversation I heard a bit of Vivaldi. The waiters were as handsome as the room they served. They seemed college-age or slightly older, most of them blond, wearing khaki trousers, blue button-down shirts, sleeves rolled to the elbows, red silk ties. The busboys were similarly dressed but without ties. They swept across the tiled floor like ambulatory mannequins.
“Excuse me, are you waiting for someone?” It was the girl at the podium. I looked at her. She was very nearly pretty but for the spoiled twist of her lips.
“I’d like to see Josh Mandel.”
“Are you a salesman?” she asked, already looking beyond me to a couple just leaving.
“No, I’m Jim Pears’s lawyer.”
Her eyes focused on me. Without a word, she picked up the phone and pressed two numbers. There was a quick, sotto voce conversation and when she put the phone down she said, “He asked for you to wait for him in the bar.”
“Fine. By the way, is Andrea Lew working today?”
The girl said, “She quit.”
“Do you know how I can reach her?”
“No,” she said in a tone she probably practiced on her boyfriend.
“Thanks for your help,” I replied, and felt her eyes on my back as I made my way to the bar. I found an empty bar stool and ordered a Calistoga water. Andrea Lew was right; it was impossible for anyone to enter the restaurant without being seen from the bar. Assuming, of course, that someone was watching.
I was about to ask the bartender about Andrea when I heard someone say, “Mr. Rios?”
I looked up at the dark-haired boy who had spoken. “You’re Josh,” I said, recognizing him from court.
He nodded. In court he had seemed older. Now I saw he was very young, two or three years out of his teens, and trying to conceal the fact. The round horn-rimmed glasses didn’t help. They only called attention to green-brown eyes that had the bright sheen of true innocence. His hair was a mass of black curls restrained by a shiny mousse. He had a delicate, bony face, a long nose, a wide strong mouth and the smooth skin of a child. “Why don’t we go down to my office,” he said, and I was suddenly aware that we had been staring at each other.
“You mind showing me around the place first?” I asked, stepping down from the bar stool. I was about an inch taller than he.
He frowned but nodded. “You’ve already seen all this,” he said, jutting his chin at the dining room. “I’ll show you the back.”
We made our way across the big room and pushed through swinging double doors.
“This is the waiter’s station,” he told me. We were in a narrow room. The kitchen was visible over a counter through a rectangular window on which the cooks placed orders as they were ready and clanged a bell to alert the waiters. In one comer was a metal rack with four plastic tubs filled with dirty dishes. A busboy took the top tub and carried it out through another door behind us. Pots of coffee bubbled on the counter. Cupboards held coffee cups, glasses, napkins, and cutlery. One of the blond waiters walked in, lit a cigarette and smoked furiously.
“Put it out, Timmy,” Josh said as we passed through the door where the busboy had gone and stood at the top of a corridor that terminated at the back door. Josh walked toward it. I followed.
“Dishwasher,” he said, stopping in front of a small room where a slender black man wearing a hair net pushed a rack of dishes into an immense machine.
We walked back a little farther. “Employees’ locker room,” Josh said. There were three rows of lockers against a wall. Opposite the lockers were two doors, marked men and women. A bench completed the decor. “This is where we change for work,” he said.
We went back into the corridor.
“Back door,” he said, pointing.
I looked at the door and realized, for the first time, that the lock which Andrea Lew had talked about was an interior lock. Inspecting it further I saw that it could not be unlocked from outside at all but only from within. I asked Josh about it.
“It’s for security,” he replied. “It can’t be picked from outside.”
“You keep it unlocked during the day?”
“Uh-huh, for deliveries. Night manager locks it up when the kitchen closes at ten.”
“So if anyone was back here after ten he’d need a key to get out?”
“Uh-huh,” he said.
“But there’s a key at the bar.”
He looked at me and blinked. “Yeah, for emergencies.”
“Show me the cellar,” I said.
I followed him back down the corridor and around the front of the walk-in refrigerator. We passed briefly through the kitchen and then went down a rickety flight of stairs into the cellar. We stood in a big, dark room that had a damp, fruity smell. Behind locked wooden screens were hundreds of bottles of wine. The room was otherwise bare. He showed me two smaller rooms adjacent to each other. The door to one of them was open, revealing a cluttered desk. The door to the other was closed.
“That’s where they found Jim,” he said. “You want to go in?” His voice indicated clearly that he didn’t.
“Maybe later,” I said, giving him a break.
We went into his office. He sat in a battered swivel chair behind a desk made of a thick slab of glass supported by metal sawhorses. There was a phone on the wall, its lights flashing.
He closed a ledger on the desk before him and offered me a cup of coffee. I declined.
“How’s Jim?” he asked.
‘‘Surviving.’’
“I’m really sorry about what happened,” he said, defensively. “They told me I had to testify.”
“Of course you did,” I said soothingly. “You seem pretty young to be managing this place.”
“I’m twenty-two,” he protested, and must have caught my smile. “I usually just manage the floor but Mark — he’s the head guy — he’s out sick today.”
“Have you worked here long?”
“Six years. I started as a busboy.”
“You go to school?”
He picked up a paper clip. “Two years at UCLA. I dropped out.”
“Why?”
He flattened out the paper clip. “Is that important?”
“I won’t know until you tell me.”
He set the paper clip aside. “I didn’t know what I was doing there,” he said. “I never was much for school.”
I accepted this, for the moment. “What was Jim like to work with?”
He was visibly relieved by the change of subject. “He was a hard worker,” Josh said. “Reliable.”
“You ever see him outside of work?”
He shook his head and picked up a pencil.
“Were you surprised to find out he was gay?”
Our eyes caught. “What do you mean?”
“Didn’t Brian tell you Jim was gay?”
“Yes.”
“Did you believe him?”
He put the pencil down. “Yes.”
“Why?”
He looked at the desk. “I don’t know. I just did.”
I let his answer hang in the air. He picked up the paper clip again.
“And later you heard Brian threaten to tell Jim’s parents.”
“It wasn’t exactly like that,” he said, softly.
“No?”
“It was more — like a joke,” he said, raising his head slowly. “Brian said something like, ‘You want your mama to know you suck cock?’ like the way little kids insult each other.”
“And Jim? Did he know it was a joke?”
“I think so,” he replied. “He kind of laughed and said, ‘I’ll kill you first.”‘
“Where did this happen?”
“The locker room. We were all changing for work.”
“This was the only time you ever heard them say anything to each other like this?”
“Yes,” he said, and bit his lower lip.
“You know, Josh,” I said, “this sounds entirely different than it did when you testified at the prelim.”
“I told the prosecutor but he kept saying that Jim really meant it because, you know, he did kill Brian. I guess he convinced me.”
“Do you think Jim killed Brian?” I asked.
“That’s what they say. All the evidence looks pretty bad for Jim.”
“Do you think he did it?” I asked again.
Josh took off his glasses and cleaned them with his handkerchief. “I don’t know,” he said, finally.
“Can you think of anyone else who would have a reason to kill Brian Fox?”
He shook his head quickly.
“Where were you the night he was killed?”
He looked shocked. “On a date.”
I looked at him until he looked away. He was lying. “Who with?”
Recovering himself he said, “The D.A. said I don’t have to talk to you.”
“But you are going to have to testify again,” I said.
“I’ll tell the truth,” he replied, his face coloring. It was useless to push him.
“You won’t have any choice, Josh,” I said. I wrote Larry’s number on a slip of paper. “If you want to talk later you can reach me here.”
He looked at the paper as if it were a bomb, but took it and slipped it into his pocket.
Larry’s car was in the driveway though it was only two-thirty. That worried me. Except for a certain gauntness, Larry gave no sign of being gravely ill, but his condition was never far from my mind. I knew it preoccupied Larry, too. Sometimes he became very still and remote. It actually seemed as if some part of him were gone. When I mentioned it, he smiled and said he was practicing levitation. What he was actually doing, I think, was practicing dying.
I found him in his study on the phone. He saw me and motioned me to sit down.
“Sandy,” he said to his caller, “you really can do better than Rogers, Stone.”
I recognized this as the name of a well-known entertainment law firm. Larry put on his patient face. I could hear his caller’s voice across the room.
“That’s true,” Larry said, “but I’m not available.” He listened. ‘‘I know you think he walks on water, Sandy, but the guy’s a one-season sensation. Next year you’ll be pushing someone else.” He picked up a pen and started to doodle on a legal pad. “Look,” he said finally, “I’ll think about it, and get back to you. No, I really will think about it. What? Yeah, he’s right here.” He pushed the mute button on the phone and said, “It’s Sandy Blenheim. He wants to talk to you.”
“The fat guy at Fein’s party?”
Larry nodded. “The one who wants to make you a star.”
Reluctantly, I took the phone. “Hello, this is Henry Rios.”
“Henry,” Blenheim said, all oily affability, “You think about my proposal?”
“No, not really. I haven’t had much time.”
There was a disappointed silence at his end of the line. “What is it, Henry? The money?”
“Look, Mr. Blenheim…”
“Sandy.”
“Sandy. I don’t think this is going to make a good movie.”
“There’s a lot of kids out there in Jim’s position,” Blenheim said. “Kids in the closet. Kids getting picked on. This picture could show them there’s a right way to come out and a wrong way. You know what I’m saying?”
I shot a glance at Larry. He smiled. “Sure, I understand,” I said. “But this isn’t the right — “ I searched for the word, “ — vehicle,” I said.
Larry nodded approvingly.
“Come on, you’ve talked to the kid. You know what’s going through his head. That’s the good stuff. Like how did he feel when he pulled the trigger-”
I cut him off. “Actually, he doesn’t remember.”
“What do you mean he doesn’t remember?”
“Just what I said,” I replied, “and I’ve really told you more than I should but it’s just so you know that this isn’t the story you think it is.”
“Maybe if we talked some more,” he suggested.
“I’m sorry,” I replied. “It wouldn’t serve any purpose. Do you want to talk to Larry?”
“Yeah, put him back on.”
I handed the phone to Larry. “It’s for you.”
“Yes, Sandy,” he said. I heard the angry buzz of Blenheim’s voice complaining about my intransigence. Larry broke in and said, “He doesn’t want more money, Sandy. He wants to try his case in peace.” More angry buzzing. “Well,” Larry said, shortly, “I think it’s called integrity. You might look it up in the dictionary.” There was a click on the other end. “If you can spell it,” Larry added.
“I didn’t mean for him to get mad at you, too,” I said.
Larry put the phone down. “Big finishes are a way of life around here. He’ll be over it by tomorrow.”
“You’re home early.”
He lit a cigarette. “Yeah. I was having a terrible day — about the two millionth since I passed the bar, and then it occurred to me, what the hell am I doing?” He smiled and drew on his cigarette. “I’m not into terrible days anymore.”
“Maybe you should just quit.”
“And do what, die?” He looked at me and smirked. “Was that tactless?”
“Yes,” I replied. “A sure sign you’re getting better.”
“Did you see the waiter?” Larry asked, putting out his cigarette. I noticed that he had only smoked it half-way down.
“Yeah.”
“And was he a rabid queer-baiter?”
“Didn’t seem the type,” I said, thinking of Josh Mandel’s eyes. “I could be wrong, of course. He did lie to me.”
“About anything important?”
“It was about what he was doing the night Brian was killed,” I replied. “I don’t know yet if that’s important. On the other hand, I’ve figured out why Jim insists he didn’t kill Brian Fox.”
“Why?” Larry asked.
“Because they were lovers.”
10
“Really?” His eyebrows flicked upwards.
I told him what I had learned about Brian Fox’s sexual escapades. A penchant for voyeurism, and budding pedophilia was of a different order than fumbling in the back seat with more-or- less willing partners of the same age. Yet how different were these activities from Jim’s excursions into bathrooms and parks? To me, they revealed a kind of sexual despair. I could understand that in Jim’s case; he was gay and his fear drove him underground. But what about Brian Fox? Maybe it didn’t matter. What was important was that Brian was unusually sensitive to Jim’s sexual secret. My guess was that what drew Brian to Jim was not antipathy as much as fascination — one sexual loner’s recognition of another.
“I don’t think Brian followed Jim out into the parking lot because he wanted to embarrass him,” I said. “I think he wanted to know for sure whether Jim was gay.”
“Are you saying Brian was gay, too?” Larry asked.
“God, I hope not. Let’s just say he was — “
“A pervert?”
“That’ll do for now.”
“That’s the pot calling the kettle beige.”
I walked to the window and looked past the terraced garden to the shimmering lake. “Jury trials demand a sacrifice,” I said. “And if it’s not going to be Jim, it has to be Brian.”
“You still haven’t explained why you think they were lovers.”
“The first thing is why Brian didn’t tell anyone about Jim.”
“Didn’t he tell Josh Mandel?”
“But not Jim’s parents,” I replied. “The obvious reason seemed to be blackmail, but there’s a limit to how much you can extort from an eighteen-year-old busboy.”