When he got back to The Big Barn, the crowd was funneling inside. Ahead of him, he glimpsed the cheap red windbreaker and childlike brown hair of Vern Taylor. When he himself got inside and handed money to a rosy-cheeked boy-man in the oiled and hand-rubbed horse stall that was making shift as a box office, Dave turned to search the press of men and boys behind him. In the doorway stood Kovaks and Ray Lollard—Lollard beaming with pride and joy, Kovaks unshaven, in clay-stained bib overalls. Dave chuckled. It was to Lollard he had mailed Kovaks’s gift pot. Tonight at dinner with Madge, Doug had told him that Kovaks was moving his workshop into the carriage house back of Lollard’s old mansion.
The main room of The Big Barn was enormous, propped by splintery posts and overhung by haymows. The wired barnyard lanterns glowed everywhere, amber mostly but sometimes red and green, now and then even white. Sawdust was thick underfoot. Sets of spurs, cracked oxen yokes, lariats coiled and lacquered into uselessness, hung against the walls. Dave’s foot kicked a brass spittoon. Strictly ornamental—it sprouted plastic flowers. This was the West—but only West L.A.
On the room’s far side, long mirrors in old mahogany frames, probably bought on the back lot of some defunct film studio, reflected glittering bottles. Maybe he could get a drink. He began muttering excuses and using a shoulder and an elbow. In five minutes he had reached the long bar that matched the mirrors. Brunswick would probably have been the manufacturer’s name but too many elegantly clad pelvises were in the way—he couldn’t look for the label.
He had to wait awhile but a double Scotch came to him at last. It tasted like a prescription by a dropout pharmacist. But the commingled smells of strong colognes around him overpowered the taste and he drank it. He felt himself grin at the painting above the bar. No buxom Gay Nineties lady on a tufted red velvet sofa but cowboys taking each other’s Levi’s off in a moonlit bunkhouse—cowboys pretty as girls and hung like stallions. A voice at his ear said:
“I haven’t seen you in here before.”
Dave didn’t look around. “Just passing through,” he said. “As quickly as possible.”
The owner of the voice turned away. “You’re right—she’s vice.”
“Vice?” someone else said. “Impossible. She’s wearing matching shoes.”
A change came in the dense warp and weft of talk that stretched across the huge room. He glanced at his watch, then looked toward the end of the place where spotlights fingered down. There on a makeshift stage under the planking of a loft, a slim man in a white tuxedo, shirt ruffles, a silver wig sprinkled with mica, clutched a chrome microphone stand. A sunburst of colored foil backgrounded him. On a table beside him three brass trophy cups gleamed above watches and cuff links in jewelers’ boxes and a display by an expert window dresser of shirts, sweaters, pants, jackets.
The man on the stage moved his mouth but no sound reached across the wide blue lake of tobacco smoke. Laughter and shouts pelted him. We can’t hear you, Vic, darling! He visored his eyes with a hand on which rings sparkled. He peered toward the darkness beyond the end of the stage. Suddenly, electronic feedback howled through the room. There were shrieks. Then, “Welcome!” came from the man in white. It came too loud and folded back on itself in a ringing echo. He stepped away from the mike, laughing, put a hand on his hip and squinted into the darkness again. He tried again. And this time all was well—or as well as could be expected.
“Welcome to the Third Annual Mr. Marvelous Awards! I’m your host, Vic Waverly. These have always been superb evenings. This one will top them all, I promise you, my dears. From the point of view of entertainment, from the stunning quality of the men—and I lay stress on that word, oh, do I lay stress on that word, darlings!—who have become finalists in the competition. You’ll meet them in a minute. But first, I want to ask the judges to stand up so you can meet them. They’re distinguished members of the Southern California Gay Community. Taking them in alphabetical order—”
First was a minister, complete with dog collar, though he’d got his training in backwoods Baptist seminaries in the deep South. Next was a moon-faced man with a belly who had begun as a gay activist at fifty after a lifetime of bailing out likely youths from jail, and now spent his nights on television talk shows explaining the gay mystique, whatever that was. Last was an acne-scarred publisher who served the homosexuals of fifty states with a sleek magazine that glamorized sadism and Texas mass murderers. There wasn’t much applause but Dave knew better than to be gratified—the reason was, everyone held drinks and glossy program books.
Music came through loudspeakers. Hawaiian, of all things. Dave flinched, tilted up his glass, found only ice and asked for another drink. While he waited he ran a troubled look over the room again. And smiled grim satisfaction to himself. There was the white Stetson, the gaudy sarape. He dropped bills on the counter, picked up his glass. The time had come to move. If there was going to be action, he didn’t want anyone hurt. Or dead. He began shouldering his way with apologies through the crowd.
But when he reached the spot by a post with fake cattle brands burned into it where he’d seen Larry Johns, the boy wasn’t there. Dave pushed on, craning to get another glimpse of the hat through the acres of fashionable haircuts, edging and jostling first to one side of the room, then the other. He ended up in an open area in front of the stage. It surprised him. There were even empty chairs, two rows of the folding kind, gray metal tubing, white padded plastic seats. They faced the backs of the judges, huddled over charts and photographs.
A fat little black-bearded man hung with straps and leather cases crouched, flashing camera bulbs at them. Behind the stage more bulbs flared. This space, these chairs, were for the press, of course, when they finished with the shiny-headed contestants back there and the gray-headed managers. Dave glimpsed Ace Kegan’s knotty hands fidgeting with Bobby’s tie. Dave dropped onto a chair and lit a cigarette. Maybe Larry Johns would find him. But it wasn’t Larry Johns who touched his shoulder. He turned and looked up into the silver-marred smile of Vern Taylor. Taylor said:
“I saw you come in and I was pretty surprised. I mean, I knew you were gay—I can always tell. But I didn’t think you’d come for this. I thought your life style would be different. You’d have a lover, somebody permanent. And you’d go places like ballets and operas and plays and art galleries. Together. You wouldn’t cruise bars like this, and baths, and all that.”
“I’m working,” Dave said. “Still trying to find out about Tom Owens’s accident.”
Taylor didn’t answer. He eyed Dave for a moment, then looked at the stage. So did Dave. A trio of slim little Polynesian youths, brown, sleek, smiling, had come out of the dark. They were wrapped to the waist in bright missionary cotton. Their small hands did graceful flower-in-the-wind turns, their narrow hips twisted dreamily. Taylor made a sound. Dave looked at him. His eyes were bright. He licked his lips.
The tempo of the tune quickened. As one, the boys gave slow winks. Slowly, not missing a beat or a gesture, they turned their backs. Slowly their hands found the cloth knots at their sides, twitched them, and the bright print wraparounds dropped. They were naked. Whoops. Whistles. They waggled little brown butts and, still keeping time with the music, slowly turned to face the crowd. Cheers. Jeers. Someone shouted, “My God, it’s an invasion of field mice!” The boys joined in the laughter.
Dave turned to check Taylor’s reaction but Taylor had moved off. The red jacket showed among a knot of people that had formed where steps came off the side of the stage. But Taylor wasn’t watching the dancers. He was watching Dave. From here he looked about sixteen. Except for his expression. Dave didn’t know what it meant. Startlement but something else too—something ugly. And the look wasn’t at him. It was at something past him. He turned. Larry Johns stood there, not sure how much to smile, fingers nervous at his ragged young mustache. He plucked at the bright sarape.
“I did like you asked,” he said. “I don’t know why.”
Dave stood. Maybe simply t
o shield the boy from that basilisk stare of Taylor’s. He said, “Your photo was in the Times. Evidently before Yoshiba got you away from there, reporters came. You were on those long cement stairs down from the Wendell place. Wearing that outfit.”
“Yeah.” Johns’s clear brow wrinkled. “So?”
“Have you thought,” Dave asked, “why someone tried three times to kill Tom—then didn’t try anymore?”
“Oh, wow.” Johns sat down as if maybe his legs were unsteady. He watched the bare brown boys a moment without really seeing them. He blinked at Dave. “No, not really. It’s kind of funny, though, isn’t it?”
“I hope it stays funny,” Dave said. “But I’m betting it won’t. Keep close to me—right?”
“What’s wrong?” Johns looked around, alarmed.
“Take it easy,” Dave said. “I’m working on a hunch. They’re not always reliable.”
The music reached a final whining upslide of guitars, the brown boys snatched up their fallen sarongs and fled the stage, giggling like the three little maids from school. Applause clattered off the wooden walls. For this, people had abandoned their drinks. Confetti showered from the lofts. A few colored balloons wagged toward the high, shadowy rafters. Someone on a loft reached out and punctured one. It popped like a shot.
The man in the white tuxedo returned, applauding, to the microphone. “Our thanks,” he said, “to the management of The Flower Lei for sending us Mei Mei, Tei Tei and Laverne.” Laughter. “Seriously, if that didn’t get you in the mood, lie down, dears—you’re dead. All right. So much for foreplay.” Laughter, his own with the crowd’s. “Now, I know you’re all dying for a look at the stars of the evening—those handsome and talented and sexy finalists for the title ‘Mr. Marvelous.’ What?” He turned from the mike, stepped toward the back of the stage. “Yes, right.” He faced the crowd again. “They’re ready—isn’t that nice? They’ve only had four months. Anyway—take a good look at them with their clothes on. It will be your last chance tonight.” Cocked eyebrow, open hand on breast. “Did I say that? All right—here we go. First, from The Barracks, contestant number one, Skeets McIntyre—five eleven, one sixty, actor, bronco buster, Texan from top to toe. Let’s hear it for Skeets McIntyre!” He backed from the microphone, applauding. McIntyre appeared in the spotlights. His eyes were too close together.
The parade ran on while the smoke thickened and the comments of the M.C thinned and the judges squinted upward appraisingly and made notes with chewed pencils. The biggest applause came for Bobby Reich. But as Dave understood it, appearance was only a step. Somehow or other, as the evening wore on, talent and intelligence were supposed to be displayed. He set his drink between his feet on the sawdust and applauded Bobby. It might be his only honest opportunity. More balloons were loosed. Two of them banged this time. He wished that would stop. Here was a hairy lad in skin-tight wet-look black plastic from The Rawhide. And last, a lissome prince—princess?—from The Queen and Court.
He reached down for his glass and nearly bumped heads with Ace Kegan, who was crouching in front of him, trying to make himself heard over the din of clapping, cheering, stamping, music, the clatter of empty beer cans underfoot. At the same moment, Dave noticed Vern Taylor trying to come back, working his way past the knees and floor-tangled camera cases of the news people who now filled the chairs. Except that no one filled the chair next to Dave. Where the hell was Larry Johns? Dave bent toward the broken face of the little ex-boxer. If this was bad news about Bobby Reich, then his worries about this evening were off target. He cupped a hand to his ear. But what Kegan said was:
“You’re wanted on the phone. By luck I was there when the call came. They won’t page anybody—not with a crowd like this. Too many people afraid the boss might learn where they were. But I heard the dude who took the call speak your name. It’s some kind of emergency. Somebody’s mother. Otherwise I wouldn’t have bothered. You don’t exactly top my list of people I want to do favors for.” He got to his feet, jerked his chin. “Phone’s back of the bar.”
“Thanks.” Dave stood, pushed his chair aside, headed for the mirrors. While he fought his way, he squinted around him, trying to locate Larry Johns. Nowhere. He swore to himself. The phone receiver lay like a stunned thing by a silver-painted wrought-iron cash register halfway along the back bar. Dave worked the trick latch of the gate at the bar’s end. A hefty youth in a leather vest and waxed mustaches blocked his way. He gave his name. The youth went back to the tall, spooled spigot handles and the foaming steins he was supposed to be minding. Dave picked up the phone.
“Get to the pet store, will you?” It was Doug. “On the double, please. Dave, she’s really done it this time. She’s liberated everything. The God damn sky is alive with parakeets and cockateels. Rabbits, guinea pigs, hamsters, white rats down every storm drain, cats and monkeys up every tree. They were political prisoners. She’s Secretary General of the U.N. or something. Declared a worldwide general amnesty. I got the turtles back and a couple of toads. I’m quicker than they are. And, thank God, she didn’t think of the fish. Yes, the fire department’s coming. And the S.P.C.A. They say. But I need you.”
While he listened, Dave watched the stage. The pastor of gay sheep came to the microphone. His sweet, swamp-water tones met a hush of beery reverence. Head thrown back, eyes closed, hands folded demurely at his crotch, he told God what had happened to big, gentle, lovable Rick Wendell. As if God let cases stack up on his desk like Johnny Delgado. The prayer ended. An electronic organ with bronchial problems and a subnormal pulse began “The Lord’s Prayer.” A plump, balding young man stepped up to sing the words.
And a gun went off. Not that near, but near. The sound was nothing like the bursting of balloons. Bad nerves had tricked his memory. The crowd didn’t know the difference. The organ and the off-key baritone wobbled on and they listened. But Dave knew the difference and felt very sick. Larry Johns. Why had he wandered off when Dave had warned him? Where was Vern Taylor? Why had Doug’s disaster had to happen now? He told the phone, “Doug, I can’t. Not now. I’m sorry.” He blundered the receiver into place and ran.
He didn’t bother with apologies now, plowing his way backstage. He ended bruised and with a torn jacket pocket by the time he got there. In dim amber light, the contestants were stripping down to swim trunks. Silent. Out of respect for dead Rick Wendell and their own stage fright. The Big Barn’s owner, bony, bucktoothed, sixty, in a silver-braided baby-blue satin cowboy outfit, was running an electric shaver over the bulging chest of his champion. Tenderly. Dave took it away from him, thumbed the switch to stop the waspish little motor, pushed the shaver into the boy’s hand, took the man’s stringy arm, led him away.
“There’s been a shooting,” Dave said quietly. “Out in back, I think. How do we get there?”
The man blinked, went pale, swallowed hard. But he moved. He led the way around a plank-and-stud partition that made a kind of hallway. To one side, doors were labeled US and THEM. There was a zinc-covered kitchen door with no light, no activity behind it. At the end of the hallway, a red EXIT sign was dim over a door with many bolts and chains. They weren’t fastened. The bucktoothed man pulled the door open. The bulb outside was even dimmer, forty watts in a cage. It threw more shadow than light. There were big, scarred trash modules, stinking galvanized-iron garbage barrels, crates filled with smashed bottles. And in a chain-link fence corner clotted with soggy wastepaper—a man. He lay face down in a puddle that showed rainbows of oil. And something darker. Blood.
“My God!” The bucktoothed man put out a hand.
Dave knelt by Ace Kegan, laid fingers against the big vein in his neck. Life still beat there. But no thanks to Dave. Anger churned in him, disgust. Granted there’d been a lot of ways to be wrong in this case—did he have to try them all? And always too late? He got to his feet. “He’s not dead,” he told the bucktoothed man. “Phone the police. They’ll bring an ambulance.”
“What are you going to do?”
&n
bsp; “I’m going to the beach.” Dave headed for the glare of neons at the end of the alley. “As fast as I can get there. I hope to God it’s fast enough.”
15
BUT HOLLYWOOD TRAFFIC ON a summer weekend night was geared down. There was no way to get through it fast. In a three-block-long jam-up that had lasted through ten minutes of signal changes, he got disgusted. He left the car idling in the middle lane near La Cienega and Santa Monica and closed himself in a telephone booth. It stood against the curved stucco wall of a topless dance place. It smelled of marijuana smoke. He dug in his pocket. And the coins were wrong. Many yards off on an opposite corner, a Rexall drugstore promised change. There wasn’t time. The signal went green. Horns began to blare behind the abandoned Electra. He dodged back to it. It was his turn at last and he made it across Santa Monica, but the achievement meant nothing. Down the long slope of restaurant row, the traffic clogged forever. When after another five minutes he reached a side street, he swung west toward Robertson. He’d phone from the apartment.
He sat on the bed, sweating, working his way out of his jacket, tugging down the knot of his tie, and listening to the phone buzz busy at Tom Owens’s end. He tried twice more. Hopeless. He lit a cigarette and dialed Operator. His shirt was soaked. The night breeze through the big empty rooms made him shiver. “Look, I’m trying to reach this number.” He gave it. “And it’s busy. Can you break in on the line? It’s urgent.”
“One moment—I’ll give you the supervisor.”
The supervisor took more than a moment. And when she did get around to him, it didn’t help. “I’m sorry. That number is out of order. I’ll report it.”
“Oh, no!” Dave said. “Look, the party’s an invalid. Maybe he knocked the phone off the hook.”
“I wouldn’t be able to give you that information,” she said. “You’d have to call Repair Service. They can check it for you. Dial 611.”
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