They finished one game, started on another. And refilled their glasses. Tim took it in, every facet of Todd's life.
“You were married?” asked Chase as Todd neared the end.
“Yeah, for a number of years.” He hesitated, then added, “And I've got a kid. A son.”
“No shit. How old?”
“Well… it happened when I was in college, so actually he's in his early twenties now.”
“Wow.”
“Unfortunately I don't know him very well. It's a long story, and something I need to take care of, but…”
No, thought Todd, I'm not going to toss in the fact that my son has a daughter, which obviously means I'm also a grandfather. Instead he went on to tell the story of his coming out, which was when Todd realized he had Tim Chase completely hooked. As Todd told the star how he was outed when Michael was murdered, Tim put down his pool cue, picked up his glass of wine, and stared at Todd, his face etched with sympathy and understanding.
“Oh, my God,” Tim muttered several times throughout the telling. “How horrible. It must have been…”
“Hard, but ultimately good.”
Why was it, Todd wondered, that coming-out stories held such universal appeal to gay men? Was it simply the common experience? The same plunging of the soul for the inner truth, a truth of character that straight people were rarely forced to discover? And why did it seem that Tim Chase was now listening to Todd's story, judging it for how it might reflect on his own life? Was he vicariously understanding what it would be like for him to come out, to put everything he had worked for at risk simply so that he could assert his own identity and inner sense of honesty? Or was he simply a truly kind man?
Tim Chase was already one of the very biggest stars, the kind like Henry Fonda and Cary Grant, a star who was destined to live on as an icon for generations. Todd, in comparison, was a mere speck, if that, yet as he talked Todd couldn't help but feel that they had something in common. No, Todd wasn't particularly intuitive, not by any means, yet he couldn't help but think they were very similar in one regard, that they both held a deep-seated fear of what people thought of them. Without any evidence and despite knowing the man but for a very short while, Todd supposed that Tim Chase had gone into acting not only as a way of escaping himself, but as a way of projecting a larger-than-life image of the person he longed to be: a true hero, a true heterosexual hero. Maybe he was straight, maybe he wasn't, Todd had no answer to that simple question, but he did know that Hollywood was a citadel of homophobia, a place where people feared one thing almost above all others: that a particular truth would kill their careers.
The sushi arrived. Vic, the bodyguard, didn't make much of a waiter, but he brought in two Styrofoam containers and then silently disappeared. Todd and Tim started in on the food, and then Tim dashed off for another bottle of Nicholson's best. As Tim poured Todd his third and soon fourth glass of wine, Todd wondered if Chase felt it too, this sense that the two of them could be genuine friends. Or did Chase just naturally exude that aura, was that part of his star charm, the ability to make everyone feel comfortable around him? Was the magic of his appeal simply based on his ability to make everyone like him?
“So what about your love life?” asked Tim, stuffing a tuna roll into his mouth. “You mentioned this guy, this cop. Is he your Mr. Wonderful?”
Todd picked up a California roll, draped it with a piece of pickled ginger, then dipped it in wasabi and soy sauce. As he took a bite, he glanced at the other man, who was bent over and focusing on a shot. Could Chase be checking Todd out to see if he was available, or was he really just asking about Todd's life? And how should Todd answer? What the hell was going on here?
“Rawlins and I are pretty involved.” His mood increasingly dictated by the wine, Todd decided to leave the door open, and he added, “But we've recently run into a major bump.”
“I see.”
Todd found himself looking at Tim Chase's broad hands, his muscular wrists. And the clean-shaven cheeks. He studied the other man's eyes and eyebrows. His ears, the back of his neck.
And then he turned away, reached for his glass of wine.
“Your shot,” said Chase.
As he took a sip, then put down the glass and reached for his pool cue, Todd realized he could ask the one question he loved to ask straight people—if in fact Chase was straight. In an attempt to keep the issue on the table, he could pose the fairly non-threatening: Have you ever had a same-sex encounter? Probably sixty or seventy percent of the men Todd had asked had said yes, but how would Chase respond?
Instead, Todd backed down. “So do you think you'll have a hard time playing a gay man?”
“No. I mean, why should I? I'm an actor. I've played lawyers, I've played murderers. And could I defend someone in court? Hell, no. Could I kill someone? Absolutely not. This is just a continuation of my work, that's all.”
“But you don't think you'll have any trouble pulling it off?”
Somewhere off in this huge house the phone rang, and it made Todd realize how utterly quiet it had been up to this point. There'd been no music, no distant voices. Only the slow dance of their conversation and the occasional chattering of pool balls.
Staring off into the rest of the house, Tim said, “Shit, I wonder who that is. Hardly anyone has this number.” When someone picked it up midway through the third ring, he shrugged and said, “Oh, well.”
Todd leaned over, focused on a red striped ball that was hugging the side. If he did it carefully enough he could just tap it with the white ball and get it to roll slowly to the corner pocket. Squinting, he took careful aim, then took a shot, and moments later the ball slipped into the pocket.
“Very nice,” said Chase.
Todd came around, saw that the green striped ball was his only chance. But how the hell was he going to get it in that far corner? With force or a slight tap? Squinting, he bent over. And then felt hands on his hips. His entire body tensed, his heart flew into a rush of a panic.
Slowly enveloping him from behind, Tim Chase said, “So what do you think, can I pull it off?”
“I… I…”
“Don't forget, TV boy, this is off the record.”
Todd took a deep breath, felt the hands come around his hips and move seductively across his waist, then he quietly gasped, “Maybe.”
Todd felt the other man's crotch press against his ass, and Todd's body rushed with a double shot of fear and desire as powerful as a tall glass of tequila. The pool cue rolled out of his hands, dropped onto the green felt. And he stood motionless as Tim Chase started to dry hump him from behind. Jesus Christ, was this really happening?
“You've got a nice body.” He kissed Todd on the back, once, twice, then slowly moved his hand upward to Todd's chest, and said, “I think this is how you make love to another man, right?”
“Yeah, I think… I think, ah, you've got the hang of it.”
Oh, fuck. Was he playing with Todd or really coming on to him? Was one of America's biggest idols, the same star Todd had seen on the huge silver screen, now riding him from behind with true lust or—
“Just let me do the work,” cooed Chase into Todd's right ear.
Like silky magic, Chase's broad hand slid down Todd's stomach, over his belt buckle, then flew briefly across his lusty crotch. Oh, my God, what was going on here? This guy's wife was right upstairs. Rawlins was probably waiting for him at home. But… but this guy was so sexy. So amazingly gorgeous. And if Rawlins had been screwing around, why the hell shouldn't he? They weren't married. There was no dictum that said, no, don't do this. Right. This was the benefit of being gay, of never being bound, legally or otherwise, to another, of…
From behind Chase grabbed onto Todd's left nipple and twisted. The delight shot through him, and he thought, if this is a game, I'm not going to be his toy. And he thrust back with his ass, nudging Chase slightly away, then spun around. Their eyes caught and held and it scared the crap out of Todd. The next second they were ba
ck together, clutching each other. Todd felt Chase's lips on his neck, felt his tongue drawing a moist line upward to his chin. And Todd was rubbing his hand across that hard stomach, not merely massaging it, but determined to probe beneath the belt, to read the only true thermometer of what was now—
A voice from the edge of the room said, “The reviewers have always said my timing is my best quality. I almost think they're right, don't you?”
As if Todd had been caught stealing a bucket of priceless jewels, he flew back against the pool table. Glancing over, he saw her, Gwen Owens. She was standing in the doorway, leaning against the jamb, a wily smile on her face, the same smile in fact that he'd seen her sport at the Academy Awards. He turned, looked at Tim Chase, who was grinning back at her. What was this, some kind of dream?
Chase wiped his mouth with the back of his right hand, and said, “Just doing a little rehearsing, sweetheart.”
“Of course you are. After all, we all know what a stickler you are for details.” She shrugged, turned, and sauntered off, calling over her shoulder, “Oh, and Brian's on the phone. Says there's something wrong with the script, something that you guys have to work out tonight so the shooting schedule doesn't get all fucked tomorrow. Actually, I wouldn't be surprised if he wants to come right over.”
Turning to Todd, his mouth pursed in a naughty grin, Tim said, “Oh, brother, that's the director. Sorry, but I gotta take this call. I'm afraid it's going to be a while, it always is with Brian. Do you mind letting yourself out?”
“Ah… ah, no…”
The naughty grin blossoming into one of his megawatt smiles, Tim Chase asked, “So what do you think, can I pull it off, can I act the role of a gay man? Did I convince you? I did, didn't I?”
Todd stood there—was that all this was, just a game?—and before he could reply Tim Chase turned and trotted out of the billiard room. Had any of this really happened? Todd looked over at the pool table, saw his cue lying there. He glanced at the half-eaten sushi. Yes, he'd just met with Tim Chase. They'd had wine. And there, those were their wineglasses. And—
Ducking his head back in, Tim proffered a small, naughty grin. “Say I got a couple of more research questions for you. Why don't you come back tomorrow night, say about seven thirty? How's that sound?”
Wondering what in the hell he meant by that, at first Todd said nothing, just stared at him, and then hating himself, eagerly replied, “Sure.”
23
Sitting in his grandfather's worn red leather chair in the living room of his own apartment, Rawlins took a long drink of beer and tumbled into a black hole of worry. What would he do without Todd? Was he destined to always be alone? Was the stereotype of the lonely old queen prophetic? Oh, God. He didn't know when or if HIV would eventually overtake his life, and that of course worried the hell out of him, but he'd always feared the double curse of growing old and being lonely.
Just a short while ago he'd followed Todd all the way to that huge house on Mount Curve. He'd watched Todd, all dressed up in his hippest, get out of his car and go up to the gate, and then proceed to the massive front door. At first Rawlins told himself that Todd was merely going to a party, but then he realized there were scant cars on the street and that, apparently no one else was coming. So who lived there? Was it some wealthy homosexual, some Spam heir or plastic surgeon from the Mayo or one of the queens who'd sold a gajillion of those ceramic Christmas houses? Was some fag with buckets of money trying to steal handsome Todd away from him, a lowly cop whose health was questionable?
Rawlins, whose temper could be rageful, had been about to go up there and either shove his way through the gate or climb over the fence. The anxiety had been building like steam in a boiling kettle, and he pictured himself bursting into the huge house. Then, however, the gate on the drive had opened and a white car had come speeding out. It was so dark that Rawlins thought Todd was in the passenger seat, and so, madder than hell, he'd sped after the vehicle. At the very first stop sign on the next block, Rawlins had pulled up alongside the car and stared right in, only to look at a man with a shaved head, who was the only one in the vehicle. As that car then sped away, Rawlins pulled over, shook his head in disgust, then pressed on the gas and somehow managed to get himself to his home, this apartment on the second floor of a duplex.
No, I won't cave, thought Rawlins, now sitting there. I won't go to Todd's, not tonight. They hadn't slept apart in months, but Rawlins wasn't going to give. He didn't want to lie next to Todd and wonder where he'd been, what he'd done, whom he'd perhaps kissed, because of course he'd go absolutely and completely ballistic. He also couldn't go there because… oh, shit… because he didn't want to tell him about Andrew. Yes, the next time Rawlins saw Todd he'd have no choice. He was going to have to tell Todd exactly what had happened on that afternoon only hours before that young kid was killed.
Oh, shit. How could he have been so stupid?
Rawlins ran his left hand through his short dark hair and pulled at the roots. Clutching the cool beer bottle in his right, he raised it to his mouth and took another swig. And then he got up and went to his old brown leather coat, which hung on the back of one of the old chairs at the dinner table. He reached into the inside pocket and pulled out the small spiral notebook. Staring at the small booklet that contained so many confessions, so many fears, so many hopes, Rawlins recalled their last conversation that had taken place early that afternoon.
“You don't understand,” Andrew had said as tears filled those beautiful blue eyes. “My entire life is so unbelievably fucked up. You're the only good thing. Don't you understand how much I need you?”
“But, Andrew…” Rawlins had tried to protest.
“You can't imagine what happened today. You can't imagine who came by this morning. I mean, I just want to kill myself. I just want to throw a belt over that pipe up there and just string my—”
“Stop it! Don't talk like that! You're fine. Everything's going to be okay.”
“But—”
And then Andrew was falling into Rawlins's arms. No longer the butch farm boy, he was sobbing like a lost child.
Yes, that was how it had happened, how it had begun. Rawlins should have just turned and walked out of there. No, he should have flown as fast as a bat out of hell. But how could he have left him? He was so upset, so lost. Rawlins remembered looking up, seeing that old pipe, and imagining Andrew hanging himself. Everyone had let that kid down, and Rawlins was determined not to, particularly when he was at his lowest low. But then Andrew had started it, groping Rawlins, rubbing his chest, kissing him, and ripping open his own pants and broadcasting his own eagerness.
Recalling that net of seduction that Andrew had thrown over him, Rawlins now clutched the diary and returned to the old red leather chair. But wait, thought Rawlins. He'd been so focused on those few minutes that had followed, so terrified what the police department and Todd and the world would think—if in fact they ever found out— that he'd all but forgotten what Andrew had said: “You can't imagine what happened. You can't imagine who came by this morning.”
What the hell had Andrew been talking about? Who could that have been? And could it, Rawlins now wondered, somehow be related to the murder that had taken place a mere few hours later? Absolutely. And could that secret be hidden here in these pages of a lost boy's confession? Quite possibly.
His hands all but shaking, Rawlins flipped through the diary, stopping at that fateful day.
The only true love of my life will be here in a few hours. He means so much to me, so much more than Jordy ever did. And today I'm going to tell Rawlins how much I love him, how much I need him. Especially after today
Reading those words, Rawlins shook his head. Obviously he'd done something to encourage Andrew, but what? What words, what looks? What false messages of interest had he broadcast?
I need him now more than anything because now I understand everything and just how perverted this world really is. I don't know if I can take it. The truths of t
his world are too weird, too twisted.
Rawlins remembered the first crush he'd ever had on another man, his high school gym teacher. All but nine years older than Rawlins, who'd been seventeen at the time, he thought Mr. Stevens was the handsomest, sexiest thing around, his voice so deep, his arms so powerful. He'd fantasized the two of them going out, having a couple of beers, and then… But of course Mr. Stevens had been straight, nothing had even remotely happened, and he had, in fact, gotten married the next year.
This morning I was out in front of the apartment building, just raking like I was supposed to. That's when I noticed that guy—he was sitting in a car and staring at me. He scared me right away because he was kind of creepy-looking. He was bald and wearing sunglasses and he didn't look very friendly. I just kept raking, but he didn't take his eyes off me. Finally I heard this car door shut, and I looked up and saw him coming over. I kind of wanted to run, and I was about to when he called out my name.
“Andy, you're Andy, aren't you?”
I didn't say anything. I mean, I was sure I never saw him before. I mean, I've done it three times exactly. Three times I took money—once this married guy paid me fifty bucks to let him suck me. Another time this guy, this businessman, was here for some kind of dentist convention, and he paid me seventy-five to go back to his hotel room. Then another time, this old guy, he was gay for sure, he paid me twenty-five bucks just to let him watch me jerk off. But what was I supposed to do? I was hungry. I needed the money But this guy, all I could think was, Who's that old troll?
And then he said, “You got to be Andy—you look just like your dad.”
I kind of freaked. I mean, I probably shoulda just taken off. Instead I just kind of tried to look, you know, tough.
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