by Lanyon, Josh
Somehow her expression managed to look both polite and like she thought I was losing it. Then she brightened. “Oh, sí. Mr. Moran. He take something off the table. You ask heem, Mr. Fairchild.” She smiled to show me there were no hard feelings and returned to scrubbing the inside of the stove.
I walked over to the sliding door and stared out through the screen. Chaparral stirred in the wind. The hillside was bare of anyone.
Dan was late getting home—and that was not usual.
I told myself to get used to it. I’d done enough cop shows to know that detectives keep irregular hours—even when they’re not working.
It was five thirty when the screen door suddenly slid open. I nearly jumped out of my skin, but Dan didn’t seem to notice, walking out on the deck and kissing me hello.
“Sorry I’m late. Traffic was a bitch down PCH.” He handed me a bottle of wine and a flat brown-wrapped parcel.
“It’s okay.” I glanced at the wine—a very nice chardonnay—and took the parcel. “Are we celebrating?”
“Aren’t we?” Just for a moment his smile was unsure.
“I guess we are.” I picked at the string of the package. “What’s this?”
“Something for you.”
“Yeah?” I couldn’t remember the last time somebody bought me a gift Just Because. When you’re the guy with the money, people just assume you’re picking up the tab.
I tore open the wrapping and studied the indigo-blue cover: Ella Fitzgerald’s profile faced the New York nightscape. The original 1957 Verve recording of Ella Fitzgerald Sings the Gershwin Song Book.
“My God, where did you find this?”
“That little place in Santa Monica where you buy the phonograph needles.”
“I…thank you.” I turned the cover over and studied the play list. “‘The Man I Love,’” I read aloud. “‘Nice Work if You Can Get It.’” I smiled at him.
“Ain’t that the truth.” He leaned forward and kissed me again. Fresh male with a hint of mint. If this kept up I would soon be addicted to the flavor of him. “Want me to put it on?”
I nodded, handing it over and following him inside to unwrap the scallops sitting on the counter. Looking through to the living room I could see Dan’s suitcases sitting by the staircase.
I was smiling as Ella launched into “But Not for Me.” Wrong this time, Ella.
I washed the scallops while the chopped onion and garlic sautéed. Dan poured himself a martini and refilled my glass.
“So what did you do today?”
I shrugged. “Relaxed mostly.”
“Good. That’s what you need.”
I bit back my first response. He didn’t mean anything; he was thinking of the last couple of weeks, that was all. And I couldn’t really blame him. By the time Steve had persuaded me to go to the police, panic attacks were becoming part of my daily routine—right there with all the grooming aids.
I replied, “Then I got what I needed. I worked out. Read. Steve brought the script by.”
I measured out white wine and chicken stock, poured them into the frying pan, turned the heat down to a “smiling boil.” I love that phrase: smiling boil. The aroma of the cooking garlic, onion, and wine worked their magic. Cooking as therapy.
“How’s old Steve?” Dan settled on the bar stool across the counter, sipped his martini. Not that many guys can carry off a martini glass, but he had that kind of ‘50s cool that enabled him to drink martinis and still look tough.
Adding the Pernod to the pan, I reduced the heat. “Okay. Like usual.”
I hesitated. I wanted to tell him about the guy that looked like Paul Hammond, but I knew what he would think. And I knew that Paul Hammond was dead.
I did know that, it was just…
“So what did you think of the script?”
“I’ve only started reading it. I like the choices they’ve made so far.”
He picked up the plate of scallops. “You want me to start these?”
I nodded. He went outside and I added more Pernod to the sauce and took the rice off the burner. The asparagus had been perfect ten minutes earlier, but there was no way of fixing that.
When I stepped outside Dan was seated on the railing, staring out at the sunset. The water looked dark and purple, the sun orange, like a Malibu postcard. I didn’t want to think about postcards.
He glanced my way and asked, “So you think you’ll want to do it?”
I knew what he meant. “I think so, yeah. Assuming Lenny Norman can stomach the idea of me playing the lead in one of his films.”
He held his glass out and we clicked rims.
“You get restless not working,” he observed. “Cooking is not much of a diversion. And God help you if your metabolism ever slows down.”
“I’ll become the forty-ninth most beautiful character actor in Hollywood.” My metabolism would never slow down. No one in my family was fat.
Or gay.
“Those are ready,” I said, nodding to the scallops sizzling away on the grill.
According to Dan, any cooking that didn’t involve charcoal or a spatula was out of his class. He claimed he had two dishes he served for dates: his secret recipe spareribs and his eggs Benedict special. I had the impression these usually followed one another closely in his social calendar. He hadn’t fixed either of them for me yet; I wasn’t sure if that was a promising sign or not.
He rescued the scallops, handing the plate over to me. “Are we eating inside or out?”
Evenings were chilly here on the coast, but I liked being outside, liked the sound of the waves a few yards away, liked looking up at the stars. It felt like we were a million miles from town—just about far enough.
“Out.”
Dan brought down sweaters and we ate by the flickering candlelight, listening to Ella through the open glass door.
I talked to him about the script. In one of my rare pauses for breath it occurred to me that he didn’t have much to say tonight—but then Dan chose his words carefully. I wondered if he liked it this way or if I needed to give him more chances to get a word in edgewise.
In a way it had been easier a week ago when we were just dealing with being attracted to each other—now that we were embarking on a relationship—and we were embarking, the luggage in my front room made it official—it was suddenly much harder. I found myself worrying about stuff I’d never previously considered—like was he liable to suddenly notice that I was boring and self-absorbed?
I mean, I played make-believe for a living—and earned (when I did manage to get paid) a ridiculous amount of money for it. Dan was a real-life hero. He had saved lives. His job made a difference—he made a difference.
“You’re quiet all at once,” he observed.
“Makes a nice change, doesn’t it?”
He shook his head a little as though that wasn’t worth answering. “So what’s the deal with this movie? Why do you want to do it so much?”
I shrugged. “It’s hard to explain. The book was a big influence on me. You’ve never read it?”
“No.”
“It’s beautiful. It’s by Mary Renault, the one who did all those historical novels about ancient Greece. This one is contemporary—well, it was when she wrote it. Kind of a wartime romance. I probably can’t explain it without making it sound trite.”
“What’s it about?”
“It’s about a wounded English soldier who falls in love with a conscientious objector during World War II.”
“Sounds like fun.”
“Telling you the plot doesn’t really explain it properly.”
“I’m guessing they’re both gay?”
“That’s kind of the point of the novel. Coming to terms with their sexuality. Laurie knows he’s—”
“Laurie?”
I had the sinking feeling that if he kept interrupting, or worse, if he mocked the book, it was going to change the way I saw him, the hopes I had for what was happening between us.
I took
a deep breath. Tried again. “Short for Lawrence. Mostly he’s called Spud. Anyway, he knows he’s gay, but the kid, Andrew, who is a Quaker as well as a CO, doesn’t. Doesn’t know that he’s gay. Actually, he doesn’t know that Laurie’s gay either.”
I hesitated, expecting another interruption. Dan said nothing.
“And then there’s also Ralph who was Laurie’s house master or whatever they called it when he was at school. Public school—which in Britain is private school. Laurie was sort of in love with Ralph, without realizing it. Because back then, he was like Andrew. Laurie, I mean, not Ralph. So his feelings for Andrew mirror his own relationship with Ralph, but they aren’t realistic. They aren’t real life love, see? And the book is really about that, about balancing the needs of the soul between the earthy and the ideal—and about living your life with honor and dignity. It’s based on one of Plato’s dialogs, Phaedrus, and Renault refers back to the metaphor of a charioteer trying to control two horses, a white one and a black one.”
I was babbling. But Dan nodded as though I was making great sense.
“So, anyway, Ralph comes back into his life and Laurie has to choose between Ralph and Andrew.”
“Who does he choose?”
“He chooses the dark horse. He chooses life with all its complexities and contradictions and disappointments and…delights.” I half swallowed on the last word, surprising myself by my own intensity. I tried to explain, “I read it when I was…ill.”
I met Dan’s eyes. In the wavering candlelight his gaze was attentive, understanding. I had to look away. Maybe it would have been easier if he had just laughed.
Hurriedly, I said, “I don’t know how good a film it will make because it’s a lot of talk and a lot of Laurie thinking. And it’s a period piece. And it’s a gay romance.”
“But you want to do it anyway.”
I nodded. “It…helped. The book, I mean. It helped a lot. It convinced me that there were people out there like me. Men like me. And that they were decent and honorable and courageous, not the warped diseased things that my parents believed in.”
God, how much had I drunk? I couldn’t believe I’d told him that. I wished he would say something. I felt naked; I had said too much. I shrugged. “I can’t put it into words. It struck a chord with me. It struck a chord with a lot of people. It’s considered a classic.”
“I’ll have to read it one of these days.” He covered my hand with his.
“Or maybe you can just see the movie.” Belatedly I was the one trying for lightness.
“I’ll be in the front row.” He lifted my hand and kissed the inside of my wrist, his lips sending little frissons over the sensitive scar tissue.
* * * * *
Later, when we were undressing for bed, I said impulsively, “I thought I saw Paul Hammond today.”
Dan, mid-shooting his boxers into the dirty clothes hamper, halted and turned my way. “Where?”
“On the hill behind the house.”
I knew immediately it had been a mistake to tell him. He continued to study me for a long moment, not saying anything, just assessing the situation like a good detective.
I said quickly, “I know it couldn’t have been him. It just…spooked me. It looked like him from a distance.”
“What was he doing?” I knew that neutral tone.
“Nothing. I mean, I guess he was looking out at the ocean. He waved to me.” Dan’s face changed. Before he could say anything I qualified, “I mean, I was staring his way and he waved to me, so obviously he couldn’t have been Paul Hammond. Especially since he’s dead.”
Okay. Shut up now.
Dan said, “It’s natural after a year of that bullshit that you’re still keeping an eye out for him. And it’s natural that somebody with Hammond’s build or coloring would remind you of him.”
I nodded. Was he trying to reassure me or himself?
Chapter Three
There was another postcard in the mail the next day.
Vintage colored pencil drawing of the old “movie star colony” on Roosevelt Highway. I stared at the little white houses with their red and green roofs as though I could see my poison penpal sitting inside plotting his next move.
The message on the back was in Hammond’s writing.
Soon…
I rang Dan at work.
He listened in silence as I finished, “If it’s not Hammond, then who’s sending these? The postmark is Malibu.”
He said quietly, “It’s probably some nutcase who read about you and Hammond in the papers.”
“How would he get the beach house address?”
“It might be someone local. Malibu has its share of whack jobs like anywhere else.”
“Great. So now what? I have another psycho after me? Have they found Hammond’s body?”
“It’s not Hammond.”
I clamped my jaw on a lot of things that I knew I would regret saying later.
“Fine. It’s not Hammond. So who is it? And, by the way, what did you do with the postcard from yesterday?”
I heard him draw in a breath. He said very patiently, “Okay. Look, do you want me to come home?”
I did, but hearing him say it brought me back to Earth fast. Maybe it was the word “home.”
“No.”
“Are you sure? I know this is the last thing you needed right now.”
Maybe he meant because I was in the middle of reading a script for a movie no one wanted me to do. Or maybe he meant because I wasn’t bouncing back as quickly as he’d hoped from my last psycho-stalker bout.
“I’m okay. I just don’t understand why this is happening again.” What the hell were the odds of attracting two stalkers within a year? Was it my aftershave?
“I promise you, if I thought this was a genuine threat—”
“What did you do with yesterday’s postcard?”
Did he hesitate? I couldn’t tell. He said, “I’m having it analyzed.”
So was that reassuring or not? He obviously thought the threat was real enough to investigate—or maybe he was just being careful. He was a very careful guy.
“Well, how long will it take before you know anything?”
“It’s not like TV or the movies. It takes time.”
“I know that. How long do you think?”
“A couple of weeks maybe.”
“Weeks?”
He said matter-of-factly, “It’s not high priority, Sean. I’m doing it for confirmation, that’s all.”
Into my silence, he asked again, “Are you okay or do you need me to leave work early?”
There was only one appropriate answer. I said, “I’m fine. I’ll see you this evening.”
Swimming makes me ravenous. I was raiding the fridge after a late morning dip when the phone rang. I poured OJ into the glass Maria handed me, and passed her the plate with zucchini-walnut muffins to heat in the microwave.
“Dude, you’re not going to believe this,” Steve began as I picked up. “I think someone shot at me yesterday afternoon!”
“You’re kidding me.”
“No shit. There’s what looks like a little bullet hole in the Sebring’s windshield.”
“When did it happen?”
“I don’t know. Sometime after I left your place yesterday afternoon.”
“Have you called the cops?”
“Dude. What would I tell them? I don’t know when it happened, let alone where or who might have done it. It’s probably kids screwing around. It looks like a BB hole to me, to tell you the truth.”
“You should probably report it, though.”
“Uh, yeah. Sure.”
On impulse, I said, “Are you doing anything this afternoon?”
“Yeah. I’m taking a meeting at Warner Bros and then I’m driving down to Santa Anita Park.”
“On a weekday?”
“You’re kidding, right? The Oak Tree meet runs all this month.”
“Could you postpone the race track and meet me for lunch?�
��
I thought for a moment Steve’s cell phone had cut out, then he said with unusual seriousness, “What’s up? Something with Dan?”
“Dan? No. No, it’s complicated.”
“Okay. Yeah. I can meet you. At the house?”
“No, I want to get out of here for a little while. Maybe Pt. Dume? We could eat at Coral Beach Cantina. I like the crab enchiladas.”
“Yeah,” said Steve. “‘Cause nothing goes with crisis like crab enchiladas. Okay, but I can’t be there before two thirty.”
“That’s fine. It’s past Heathercliffe on PCH. Down the big hill.”
“I remember,” Steve said. “I’ll call you if I’m running late.”
I said, “You’re already running late. I’ll wait.”
* * * * *
Sitting on the tree-shaded patio of the Coral Beach Cantina, I ordered a microbrew and nachos. The jukebox was playing “Boys of Summer” by Don Henley, and I was counting the disproportionate number of blonds, both male and female, filling the seats around me, when Steve dropped into the chair across the table.
“Dude, you’re so mysterious. It must come from living with a cop.”
I summoned a weak smile.
“So what’s up?” He reached for a tortilla chip. Gooey strings of cheese stretched a foot from the platter.
“You want to order first?”
Steve grimaced and waved the waitress over. We ordered and then Steve sat back in his chair. “Okay, come on, Sean. You’re starting to make me nervous. Are you looking to change representation?”
“Of course not.”
“So what’s the deal?”
I said, “I think Paul Hammond is still alive.”
Steve swallowed his beer the wrong way. He set the mug down shakily, coughing into his bare arm. When he had his voice back, he questioned, “Why the hell would you think that?”
“Because they still haven’t found his body.”
“Because his car crashed into the aqueduct.”
“So what? There should still be a body.”
“It washed down the aqueduct.”