by Greg Herren
“What makes you think I need work?”
“You’ve got felonies, including one for violence. Maybe more, after I took off.”
“Not even for jaywalking. I’m clean, kid. I plan to keep it that way.”
“Still, it can’t be easy, finding a decent job. Not with your record.”
I felt myself softening, not a condition I’m comfortable with. But Randy was right, I did need steady work. Hell, I needed more than that, a lot more.
“Arthur’s a writer,” Randy said. “You wanted to be a writer once, Jack.”
“That was a long time ago.”
“You took a couple of writing classes, before you quit college. Whatever happened to that novel you were working on?”
“Drop it, Randy.”
“Seriously, I think you two might hit it off. I helped Arthur get his novel published last year. Maybe I could do the same for you.”
There’d been a time when getting a novel into print had been the most important thing in my life. But I was one of those dreamers who couldn’t keep his butt in the chair long enough to finish anything or be any good at it. Not my novel, not anything else. Now this phone call. Like a gift, a second chance.
“This Arthur,” I said, “he won’t see me as an intruder, sniffing around his pretty young man?”
“I’m not pretty.”
“Yes, you are, and you know it.”
I laughed, so did Randy. It was almost like old times. Almost.
“Will you come up?”
“Just friends,” I said. “That’s it?”
“I’d hate to think we can’t at least be that.”
“I don’t want to get between you two. I can’t afford trouble.”
“I understand. But it would be a shame if—”
“If what, Randy?”
“If we never saw each other again.”
That one hit hard. Every voice inside me—and there were plenty—urged me to tell him no, to leave the ashes undisturbed. But loneliness and longing can turn a strong man weak, and hope can knock him to his knees.
“Tell me where you are,” I said, “and how I get there.”
*
I got a late start the next day—engine problems—and drove up the 101 in my ’74 Dart, hoping the gaskets held.
It was late afternoon when I took the cut-off for Mira Costa, the little town along Highway 1 where Randy and his sugar daddy had settled down to play house. It was a pretty spot, set at the foot of rolling hills developers had turned into a manicured landscape of vineyards and horse ranches for comfortable pensioners who like to pretend they’re living the rugged outdoor life. There was a main street of pricey cafes and shops that overlooked a small bay where surfers carved up waves that flung off sparkles of light. Scenic, charming, idyllic—those were the words the tourism brochure would have used, leaving out the dirty parts that money always hides.
I followed Randy’s directions up to the house, winding along a paved road that took me high into the hills, past expansive properties cleanly defined by white rail fences. Near the top, I saw open gates under a wrought iron arch formed by two mustangs rearing up on their hind legs, their front hooves clashing. On a post was a number I’d been told to watch for. Coming out was an old pickup with a saddle in the bed. Behind the wheel was a leathery Hispanic man wearing a cowboy hat that had some years on it.
I turned in, kicking up pea gravel. A pleasant breeze stirred the sweet aroma of yellow roses that clung in blossoming bunches to the long fence rails; somewhere in the mix was the pungent smell of horse manure. From the west, the sharp sunlight slanted across a sky of scattered clouds; the ocean lay in an endless gleam. Not a bad place, I thought, to spend one’s golden years with a beautiful young man who didn’t mind liver spots and sagging flesh and being owned like a chrome-plated trophy wife.
Randy was waiting in front of the house, and the sight of him sent my blood pumping to all the right places. He was dressed in sandals, shorts, and a tank top that showed off his lithe frame but also firm muscles he didn’t have the last time I saw him. He was more handsome now than pretty, with a hard, defined chest tautening the tank and a coarser beard adding some character to his narrow, boyish face. The brown eyes were as wide and warm as I’d remembered them, the grin as heartbreaking as ever. He was the kind of man, I thought, who would look good for decades if he took care of himself, turning heads and causing cocks to swell, as mine was doing now.
He waited where he was as I climbed out, making me come to him.
“Jack. You made it.”
We hugged briefly. Touching him again caused me to lose my sense of time and place for a moment. I let go reluctantly, my fingers lingering on his bare arms, on his sun-warmed flesh.
“We’re about to fix drinks,” he said. “I know better than to offer you anything with alcohol.”
I glanced at my watch. It was half past five.
“The cocktail hour,” I said.
Randy shrugged. “Arthur likes his martinis.”
“I’ll take an iced tea, if you’ve got it.”
“Whatever you want, Jack.”
He met my gaze head-on for a long moment. Then he turned toward the house, hollering a name: Liselle. A middle-aged woman appeared at the doorway, straight-backed and severe, graying hair pulled tight in a bun, white apron over a plain dress.
“Yes, Mr. Devlin?”
“Iced tea, please, for the two of us.”
“This is the gentleman you spoke of?”
“Yes, this is Jack.”
She studied me with cool eyes. “Will he be staying for dinner?”
Randy faced me again. “Will you, Jack?”
“If I’m welcome.”
“I suppose we could set another place.”
He made it sound like an imposition. But his back was to Liselle and he winked as he said it.
“We eat at seven,” she said curtly, and turned back inside.
*
I followed Randy into the house for the obligatory tour, preparing myself to meet the man he now shared a bed with, or at least a home.
It was a rambling, one-story place, faux Santa Fe, right down to the terra-cotta lamps, howling wolf sculptures and potted cacti that almost looked real. Arthur’s study occupied a far corner of the house, its shelves laden with Wild West paperbacks. A vintage Underwood sat on an antique desk. Next to it was a tall stack of white paper with a hand-typed title page on top.
BLOOD ON THE TRAIL
by Arthur Cavendish
“He still works on a manual typewriter?”
“Insists on it,” Randy said. “Says it’s more pure that way. Personally, I think he’s intimidated by computers. He doesn’t even use the Internet.”
“This is the novel that was published?”
“No, that was Bullets on the Trail.” Randy grimaced as he spoke the title, as if in apology. “This is the new one.”
A gruff voice boomed behind me.
“He keeps telling me it’s not ready! Says it needs more work!”
I turned to see a stooped and wrinkled man in the doorway, using the frame for support.
“Second novels are often more difficult for a new author,” Randy said gently. “If you’ll just keep at it, darling, I know you’ll get it right.”
Arthur Cavendish was nearly my height—six feet—but looked bent and shrunken, as if he’d once been inches taller. He was on the stringy side, deeply tanned, luxuriant white hair worn long and brushed back, blue eyes that had gone rheumy. Even in his feeble condition he was a striking man, I thought, although he looked a bit silly with his snakeskin boots and a silver belt buckle the size of Texas.
Randy introduced us. Arthur gripped my hand with probably all the strength he could muster, which wasn’t much.
“He tells me you’re a writer, too,” he said.
I smiled uncomfortably. “Pipe dreams, that’s all.”
“Just the same, I need a second opinion on this manuscript.” He picked it u
p with palsied hands, struggling with the weight. “This one’s my masterpiece. Randy keeps at me to do more with it. I need feedback from somebody who knows something about writing.” He thrust it at me. “Read it, tell me what you think.”
“I’m not sure my opinion counts for much.”
He shoved it harder into my gut.
“Just read the damn thing and give me an honest appraisal, that’s all.”
I caught a look from Randy and accepted the pile of paper.
“Of course,” I said. “I’d be honored.”
“I’m glad we got that settled.” Arthur slapped me on the shoulder like he’d known me forever. “Now let’s do some drinking. The sun’s going down, for God’s sake.”
“Jack doesn’t drink,” Randy said, but Arthur was already hobbling down the hall, bellowing for Liselle to bring him a martini.
*
It took about two minutes for Arthur to drain the stemmed glass and Randy to get another into his arthritic hands, brimming with high-octane vodka. Arthur took his martinis straight up, extra dry, the time-honored way for a respectable alcoholic to get a fast evening fix without looking like a cheap drunk, a discretion I’d never bothered with.
We all sat on the terrace in the sunset glow, Randy and I sipping iced teas while Arthur anesthetized himself with a third hard one and I fought the urge to join him. The wind had kicked up and Randy brought jackets for both of us, one of Arthur’s L.L.Beans for me and a western-style leather model with fringed sleeves for Arthur, along with a fancy Stetson that must have set him back a few hundred bucks. Then we left for a stroll along a path at the north end of the property, Arthur leaning on a cane.
The narrow trail ran along the edge of a ravine whose steep slopes descended to a boulder field and a dry creek. Between us and the rim was another stretch of white railing. We reached a section of splintered boards that looked like a horse might have heaved into it without quite breaking through. Despite Arthur’s grumbling, Randy put himself protectively between the old man and the damaged fence, offering his arm for support. The path took a turn, ending at the stables; beyond were a corral and a grassy pasture, divided by more white borders.
Randy showed me several horses, including his favorite, a muscular black mare he called Dark Streak. Arthur stayed behind, outside the barn; he was uneasy around horses, Randy said, and rarely went in. After a while, we heard Arthur grousing about needing a fresh cocktail, so we started back to the house.
By the time we took our seats in the dining room at seven sharp, the old guy had put down five martinis and had his eye on a bottle of cabernet airing on the table. As Liselle served dinner, she cast a hard look at me like I was there to steal the silver. Randy poured a glass of the cab for Arthur and himself, while Arthur did most of the talking. His conversation swung to his ungrateful children and their spoiled kids, how they never came to visit, how they spoke rudely to Randy on the phone, saying terrible things, although Arthur apparently had never heard any of it himself.
“They know better than to say anything like that in front of me,” he roared, while Randy tried to calm him. “I’d box their damn ears, that’s what I’d do.”
“It’s okay, Arthur,” Randy said soothingly. “It doesn’t matter.”
“The hell it doesn’t!” Arthur turned toward me, anger flickering in his cloudy eyes. “I’ll tell you this, they’ll get a surprise when I’m gone. They won’t get one red cent out of me, or one piece of my property. It goes to Randy, every bit of it.”
Randy flushed.
“Eat your steak,” he said, cutting Arthur’s meat into small sections. “And your vegetables, at least the carrots. No more wine, though. You’ve had enough.”
“I’ll decide when I’ve had enough,” Arthur snarled, reaching for the bottle. When he had trouble getting the wine into his glass, Randy poured it for him.
By the time we got to the dessert, Arthur’s speech was slurred and rambling. He went on about the travails of the writer’s life, in particular his frustration trying to get another novel finished and out while his first one was still hot, as he put it.
“That’s why you want your second book to be your best effort,” Randy said, touching Arthur’s bony wrist sympathetically. “You need to be patient, sweetheart.”
Arthur didn’t hear him. He’d nodded off, his head bobbing perilously close to his pecan pie. Randy roused him, got him to his feet and trundled him off to bed, while Liselle glared from the kitchen. A minute later she was clearing the table, working briskly around me like I wasn’t there.
“It’s nice that Arthur has Randy to look after him,” I said, trying to make small talk.
“Mr. Cavendish has other people who could do that,” she said sharply, keeping her hands busy and her eyes on her work. “His sister, his children, his nieces and nephews. But that’s not likely to happen, is it?”
“Apparently they aren’t interested in seeing him.”
She sneered.
“They call but Mr. Devlin always takes the phone. He keeps Mr. Cavendish stuck in that room, always writing, then rewriting what he wrote the day before. It never ends. No phone in there, of course. Mr. Devlin claims it would be a distraction from Mr. Cavendish’s work. Mr. Devlin handles all the finances, all the correspondence. He makes sure that Mr. Cavendish is cut off from anyone who has his best interest at heart.”
I felt the blood rise in my neck.
“It was my impression that it’s Randy who feels isolated.”
“Is that what he told you? More lies.” She snorted. “I knew he was trouble when I first met him. I could see how he corrupted Mr. Cavendish.”
“If you’re uncomfortable with their relationship, why are you still here?”
“I won’t be, after tonight. I gave notice two weeks ago. I can’t bear to be a part of it any longer, the goings-on in this house. At least I’m free to speak my mind now, little good it will do that foolish old man.”
“I think you’ve said quite enough.”
She turned on me, her eyes fierce.
“And what is it you’re after, pestering Mr. Devlin and showing up here where you’re not wanted? He warned me about you. At least he has the decency to have you in for dinner, before sending you packing. I’ll give him that much.”
“I’m afraid you’ve got it wrong,” I said, but she was on her way back to the kitchen, unwilling to hear another word.
*
She was gone within the hour, taking a check for three month’s pay that Randy didn’t have to give her. I could almost hear her hissing on her way out.
“She never liked me,” he said, after I’d mentioned some of what she’d told me. “Never approved of my relationship with Arthur. Never could accept the idea that a man who’d been married with children for thirty years could be queer.”
We were sitting opposite each other in the living room, candles flickering on the rustic wood table between us. Without the background noise of the city, the house seemed deathly quiet. I was surprised Randy had lasted so long up here, away from anyone with whom he felt a kinship.
“She claims you deliberately cut Arthur off from his family.”
Randy shook his head, smiled painfully. “The only thing you can believe from Liselle is that dinner will be served at seven sharp, and you’d better be at the table.”
I laughed, Randy tried to.
“I’ve pressed Arthur to revise his trust, to include his family in it,” he went on. “But he won’t have any of it.” His voice was bitter but tears brimmed in his eyes. “If I didn’t care about him so much, I’d pack my things and leave. Disappear and let them have everything, even the horses.”
After that, he grew pensive and the silence got to me, so I mentioned the long drive and how worn out I was. I got my bag from the car and he showed me my room. When I was alone, I stripped down to my boxers, crawled into bed, and turned off the lamp on the nightstand. I was still awake when I heard a light tapping on the door and switched on the lamp. Ra
ndy peeked in, his hair and bare shoulders damp from a shower.
“I just wanted to tell you how grateful I am that you came up.” He opened the door wider; he’d drawn a towel around his narrow waist. “It means a lot, Jack.”
The moist hairs on his torso glistened in the lamplight, which caught the contours of his cock beneath the towel. Like his plated chest, his stomach was hard with new muscle, framed by prominent hipbones that tapered like perfect sculpture into his lower belly and groin. The towel was knotted low in front, allowing a glimpse of pubic hair, just enough to make me want to see more of him, to touch him the way I once had, when we’d been crazy for each other.
“Sleep well,” he said, stepping back and closing the door softly behind him.
I barely slept at all. The image of him standing in the doorway stirred up all the old feelings, sexual and otherwise. A sleepless hour passed, then another. I finally gave up, turned on the lamp again, and did a hundred push-ups, four sets of twenty-five. When that didn’t work, I picked up Arthur’s manuscript from the nightstand and began reading.
I’d never claimed to be much of a critic, but I’d read enough to know that no reputable publisher would be interested in Blood on the Trail, not at this stage. The characters were cardboard, the descriptions flat, the dialogue clunky, the plot ridiculously contrived. Never mind all the spelling and grammatical errors. If this was Arthur’s masterpiece, as he’d declared, I was mystified by how the first one had gotten published, and why Randy urged Arthur to keep at it. Even more, it caused me to question my own worth as a writer, and whether Randy’s encouragement was equally misguided.
It bothered me enough that I lay awake for hours thinking about it, along with other things. Finally, just before dawn, I settled into a troubled sleep.
*
Late the next morning, Randy went out riding on Dark Streak, cantering her across the bridged ravine before urging her into a gallop as the land opened up before them.
I didn’t mind horses, as long we both kept our feet on the ground. So I stayed behind, admiring Randy’s grace atop all that surging power, the way he controlled it so deftly with his light touch on the reins. After he disappeared over a distant ridge, I took a stroll around the property, circling back just as he was dismounting and turning his panting mare over to Jorge, the stable hand I’d passed on my way in the previous day. Randy introduced us but Jorge spoke little English, so our meeting was brief.