Boys of Two Cities

by Zack

  Something that might have been sadness touched Gil’s expression, but it was gone in an instant, replaced by tenderness and warmth as he ran his fingers over Danny’s temple, then lifted them to tap his own. “I want to keep you here too.” He took Danny’s hand and held it against his heart. “And most of all, right here.”

  They melted into another lingering kiss.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  The Price of Freedom

  A crash of thunder woke Mike from another disturbed night’s sleep. He found it hard to dispel the fragments of tormenting dreams which refused to flee into the pouring rain hammering at his bedroom window. He breakfasted on a cup of tea, dashed wetly to where he’d parked Horny, and drove to work.

  A waist-high to ceiling whiteboard divided into columns showing days and months horizontally covered one side of the Wall’s main production office. The rows were covered with innumerable requirements such as equipment and lighting, props, sets, painters and plasterers, prosthetics and make-up, stand-ins, crew, and actors. Mike was busy examining the details and making an occasional note on a pad. Phones trilled continuously in the background, were answered, and replaced. Someone called out his name and he turned to see a PA holding up one of the receivers.

  “Mike, it’s for you.”

  He put the notepad down on the corner of a desk and gave the girl a puzzled frown. “They say who?”

  “No, but it’s long distance, from America.”

  His heart sank. Surely only one person would be calling him here from the States. He walked down the line of desks and took the phone reluctantly. “Thanks.” He placed the earpiece to his head. “Hello?” The gravelly voice at the other end confirmed his worst fears. He turned around to keep the conversation as private as possible. “James…”

  “Mikey-baby. Are you okay, you sound a bit down.”

  “It’s the connection. I’m fine. What is it?”

  “Aw now,” Rosen wheedled, “don’t be so abrupt. I’m calling to give you some good news. I had to come over to the States for some business, but I’ll be leaving tomorrow morning, should get in early Saturday, and I’d be honored to have you around to my Shepperton place in the evening.” The line really was not particularly good, but even so the dripping sarcasm came through clear and loud. “I already checked your end and you’re not scheduled for overtime, so we can make a weekend of it.”

  “Right.” Mike stared bleakly at the massive production cross-plot he’d been studying. There was no suggestion in Rosen’s voice that he had encountered any problems in Miami.

  “So why don’t you turn up at about…say, seven. And don’t bother bringing any pajamas.” Rosen gave a throaty chuckle at his own humor. Mike stood frozen to the spot. He had hoped that, at least, Mundy might have screwed Rosen up somehow and forced him to stay away much longer.

  “Have a good flight.” Mike replaced the phone on its cradle. Thursday suddenly felt deathly.

  Saturday Mike got up late and after a mug of tea took himself up the hill to Waitrose on Finchley Road to do some grocery shopping. He mooched about the place in a daze, consumed by dread of what the coming evening and Sunday would bring. He only hoped Rosen would be in a less than hyper state. When he got back down the hill to the Aberdare Gardens apartment he discovered his brother had invaded. Will sat on the sofa, idly watching television. He looked around and eyed the plastic bags stamped with the Waitrose logo. “I wondered where you’d gotten to. I thought maybe you had to work anyway.”

  “Just shopping.” Mike went through to the kitchen to put the goods away.

  Will’s voice came from the living room above the sound of the television blaring out the BBC News intro music. “You haven’t forgotten we’re going to my school house reunion for lunch?”

  Mike groaned. He had. Rosen’s call had driven it from his mind. “I can’t think why you want me to tag along.”

  “There are a couple of my former mates attending. I thought you might find them hot.” He laughed.

  Mike came back and clouted Will behind the ear. “Slut-pimp. Sending young Ben around was enough.”

  On the screen the news anchor ran through the morning’s headlines and Mike vaguely caught the words “air crash.”

  “Seriously,” Will went on, “Noel’s probably for the having, if you like his look.”

  “You’d know, would you?”

  “He’s never had a girlfriend that I know of.”

  Mike gave a grunt of exasperation. “Boy! That’s a real surefire guarantee of haveableness…” He trailed off, slowly turning to pay attention to the newsreader’s words as their meaning sank in.

  “There’s more detail coming in about the plane crash off the coast of Miami in the early hours of this morning. The Florida air authorities have released the identity of the aircraft, which was a small jet flying from Kendall-Tamiami Executive Airport bound for Heathrow. The plane, registered in the name of the international film producer James Hetherington Rosen, plunged into the sea only minutes after taking off in the early evening of Friday, local time. Witnesses report seeing a bloom of flame from one of the engines and then what is described as a massive fireball.”

  The screen cut to a hazy night shot, swinging crazily up from some lit buildings and then finding a bright streak plunging toward the blacker line of the distant horizon.

  “A local network crew making a documentary on the offshore island of Key Biscayne managed to get footage of the event. It is feared that Rosen, three other passengers, and the crew of three have all perished.”

  The picture cut to an official of some kind. “The flight was some fifteen minutes out when the incident occurred. The aircraft fell over ten thousand feet into the Atlantic. So far the only remains recovered are fragments of soft furnishings and a few small bags of powder. It’s too soon to speculate on the cause of the accident, but the indicators point to a catastrophic engine failure which blew the aircraft out of the sky.”

  The picture cut to the newsreader. “James Rosen, the producer behind many low- and medium-budget films, has been a regular commuter between America and England, where he was completing his latest production, Fascist Spring, at Shepperton Studios.” He paused. “Prime Minister Margaret Thatcher has denied comments made about the misuse of revenues from North Sea oil…”

  “Mike?” Will’s concern was evident. Mike stood rooted to the spot staring blindly at the TV. “What’s wrong?”

  When Mike turned he saw the look of astonishment on Will’s face at seeing the silly smile beginning to crease his face.

  “What, that?” Will waved at the screen.

  Suddenly, Mike reached down and dragged Will up into a hug, laughing and crying at the same time.

  “Christ, Mike, what’s with you? Hey, that’s the thing you worked on in Rome. You must’ve known him.”

  “Rosen,” Mike gasped. “The very same.” He saw Will’s bewilderment. “It’s a very long story, and I’ll tell you one day.”

  “Oh. I’d think you’d be upset. Didn’t you know him quite well?”

  Mike wiped his eyes, still grinning broadly. “I did, and I know this doesn’t look right, but Rosen is…was, a fuckin bastard of the first order. He made my life a misery and I’m glad he’s dead. You can have no idea how glad.”

  “If you say so,” Will said hesitantly.

  Mike patted Will’s shoulder. “I will tell you all about it at some point. But right now be happy for me that I’m finally free of the fucker. And so…” Mike’s eyes widened, “…and so is Gil.”

  He strode to the phone, still sitting on the floor, snatched up the receiver, and dialed furiously. He drummed fingers impatiently on the wall. “Shit, no one’s in.”

  “It is Saturday,” Will pointed out.

  “Yeah, but someone’s bound to go in to Shepperton, especially after this. There’ll be chaos. Dammit!” He slammed the phone down. “I’ll try later.”

  After several attempts, when suddenly the line was continuously engaged, he got t
hrough. The voice at the other end sounded harassed, but he plowed on “Hello, is Sheila there by any chance?”

  “Who’s calling?”

  “Mike Smith. I really need to talk to her.”

  “She’s pretty tied up right now. Did you hear the news…?”

  “Yes, that’s why I need to talk to her. Please…”

  A moment late Sheila came on. “Mike, sweetheart, I really haven’t got—”

  “Just a quickie, honest. Can you now get me Gil Graham’s contact details? It would only take a moment and I bet you have a spare key to the file cabinet.”

  “Give me your number and I’ll call you back soon’s I can.”

  Mike gave her the number reluctantly, fearing the production assistant would forget.

  The hall was clearly designed to cater to hundreds, but now only some forty men and boys stood around in loose clumps, largely grouped by age, chatting in posh voices. Mike envied the general level of sophistication that allowed the gathering to hold plates of finger food and a glass of wine in one hand, while leaving the other free to gesture or smoke.

  Will, looking unusually neat, dragged Mike over to a cluster of five boys of his age. They still looked like the products of a private education, not yet out of it long enough to have had the smooth edges knocked off. As they drew near, Will surreptitiously pointed out the Noel he had mentioned and Mike saw a tall, thin boy, with long brown hair covering his ears but cut short above his narrow forehead. He was dressed in expensive looking gray trousers and a sporty blazer.

  Mike nudged his brother. “He has a long nose to go with his stature,” he whispered cattily.

  Will smirked. “You know what they say about guys with long noses.”

  “Has he?”

  Will gave a what-do-you-think-I-am? look. “I’ve never seen it jacked up, but it’s pretty big in the shower.”

  Long-suffering Mike wagged his head. “You never said anything to him about me, I hope.”

  “No way! My job’s to set you up, the rest is up to you.” Will ducked the anticipated blow and laughed as he broke into the ranks of his former school friends.

  True enough, Noel did seem interested, but Mike thought that was simply down to being the older brother of a friend. In any case, Mike’s mind was only on one thing: the call from Sheila. And he was anxious to get back to Swiss Cottage as soon as it was polite to leave. After half an hour Will took pity on him and said he should go; he would get a lift with one of the others or catch a 210 bus to Golders Green and a 13 to Finchley Road.

  Mike drove as fast as the traffic between Highgate and Swiss Cottage allowed, found a parking space, and dashed for his apartment. Even as he got the key in the door he could hear the phone ringing. He almost tripped over his feet in his haste to grab it before the caller rang off.

  “There you are. I tried a few times.”

  “Sorry, Sheila, I had to go out. Did you get it?”

  “Well I got something, though I don’t know how much use it is. The L.A. office must’ve taken his details and all they passed on to me was…Mar Vista, L.A. No phone number or anything else. I could do more when I get back home, but I don’t know when that will be. Mitchener’s asked me to stay with him for a future deal he’s got set up. Just as well. The Rosen empire is gonna crack up pretty damn fast, if you ask me.”

  “I’m glad you’ve got something to go to. And thanks for trying.”

  He put he phone down sadly. Over a stiff gin and tonic he began thinking what to do. Now that Rosen was out of the picture, there was nothing to stop him going to find Gil. His recent earnings were more than sufficient for the flight and a few weeks’ stay in Los Angeles. His grimmest thought was what he would find if he succeeded in the quest—that Gil had put him behind, moved on, and found a new partner like…golden hair, in that dream. His gorge rose at the thought, but he choked it down, determined to be optimistic.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Good Gil Hunting

  For the second time in his life, Mike winged across the Atlantic. Last time it had been with Gil to New York City. Now he faced a much longer flight. It seemed strange to leave London at ten in the morning to arrive four hours later at two in the afternoon in Los Angeles, but after a twelve-hour flight in reality. Plenty of time to contemplate his mission.

  It was almost a month since Rosen’s death. In that time he had completed his stint on Pink Floyd: The Wall, regretfully turned down another job, and spent hours poring over a street plan of Los Angeles in an atlas. Hardly any of the districts were labeled, so it wasn’t much use. A good street map of the city would be his first purchase on getting there. Nevertheless, from what he could tell the sheer scale of the place made his search look hopeless. Needles and haystacks came to mind. He looked for the name Sheila had given him, Mar Vista, but it wasn’t marked either.

  He thought he might doze, but the daylight flight made that difficult. After the lunch service, he tried turning his boiling mind off by watching the movie, but that failed because the hissing sound through the useless ear pieces made following the plot impossible. Seated on the aisle of the four-seat center block in the 747, Mike had no sense of progression, but with every mile flown his tension grew, and it was with a deep sense of relief that he felt the huge plane dip and commence its descent.

  Now that they were nearly there, the enormity of his undertaking threatened to overwhelm, but it was too late to give up. Mike gritted his teeth, drew a shuddering breath, and renewed his vow. He would find Gil. He would, whatever it took. As God is my witness.

  There was a brief glimpse of the Pacific through a far window as the Jumbo banked steeply onto its final approach. Minutes later, buildings appeared on either side and the plane thumped down. Mike was in the City of Angels.

  He felt wrung out from the long flight and disoriented by the unfamiliar sounds, sights, and smells. Even the odor of burnt jet fuel and gasoline from all the vehicles smelled different. Mike had not come all this way without arming himself with some preparation: a cheap car rental and some pre-booked nights at the LAX Travelodge. The hotel was hardly ideal, but with a natural fear of driving in a strange city on the wrong side of the road, Mike wanted somewhere close by the airport so he would have some time to get used to the roads and traffic away from the center.

  Half dazed by jet lag, he managed to navigate his way from the rental park to the hotel, checked in, collapsed on the bed in his room, and fell into a deep sleep in spite of the continual whine of jet turbines nearby.

  He woke once to find it dark, checked his watch to see it was just after midnight. He shivered involuntarily at the thought that somewhere in this metropolis Gil would also be in bed…his own or someone else’s? Mike switched off the light and slipped again into sluggish slumber.

  Somewhat refreshed in the morning, Mike tracked down Rosen’s main office address, but when he consulted the map he had bought at the airport and found Glendale, he chickened out of driving and called instead for a taxi. It took an age to cross the eternal sprawl of the city, cutting across to I-110 and then north on I-5. He paid off the cab and looked around.

  Rosen’s office was on West Cypress Street, just off San Fernando Road, but when he found it his hopes of a quick result were dashed. The lobby concierge informed him that Rosen Enterprises had shut down the week before, and all staff, paperwork, and the rest had been moved someplace else. And no, he didn’t have a forwarding address. It had been an expensive trip for nothing.

  At least the concierge had been pleasant and called a taxi for him, and he made the return journey through the city’s hot, dusty streets feeling deflated. He hadn’t expected instant success… or perhaps he had. Well, he had hoped.

  By the time he got back to the Travelodge he felt too enervated to do much else. Next step was to locate the local Union offices and see if they could help. This time he used the telephone, after an hour perusing the directory in the hotel lounge. There seemed to be so many entries and its layout confused him. He drew another bla
nk. No confidential information as to Union members was available unless he was accredited to an affiliate production company.

  Day two dawned and Mike began to think he would have to start checking out L.A.’s gay scene in the hope of finding someone who knew Gil. But when he read up on the subject he realized that it really was going to be like hunting for a needle in a haystack. It was so big, so spread out. Was there any hope of showing the photograph he had with him of Gil in Rome and getting a hit?

  In the late afternoon he decided to risk driving his rental up to West Hollywood to explore the Strip. It all looked hopeless—too many places. Mike started with the cafes and bars, asking servers and bartenders whether they had ever seen the blond guy in the photo. Shaken heads were the invariable answers.

  His dispiriting lack of success extinguished any temptation to try out some of the clubs, but as he carefully retraced his route toward the airport he consoled himself with the thought that tomorrow might be better. He had only touched on a few places today. Back in his hotel room, he drew up a list of bars he hadn’t yet visited.

  After a lonely meal in the attached Denny’s, he wandered along the block a bit, contemplating the uninviting small retail outlets, and came across a liquor store. He purchased a bottle of Gordon’s gin, pleased to see that it was cheaper here on the street than in Heathrow’s Duty Free shop, and some cans of tonic. Then back to the hotel, where he tried not to drown his sorrows so as to be fresh for tomorrow’s trek back to West Hollywood’s gay strip.

  Day three. Given its name, he hit pay dirt at the Gold Coast. A customer lounging against the bar turned to him when he questioned one of the bartenders. “Say, you’re British.”

  Mike gave the young guy a polite smile. “My accent—?”

  “Hell yeah, but when I see a striking looking guy with flashing eyes, neatly trimmed black hair, and what looks like a body to die for under his obviously not-American shirt, I think ‘exotic.’ British. The Levi’s? Well Levi’s are the world over.”

  Mike felt abashed at this unexpected friendliness—and the obvious pick-up line—and blushed. “Well…er, thanks.”