The Life and Adventures of Lyle Clemens

by John Rechy

  The woman next to him stirred. She looked like someone else now. So it would be like making it with another woman.

  It was.

  “You’re a great fuck, cowboy,” the woman said. “Now I gotta go to work or you’ll kill me. I’ll drive you wherever you need to go.”

  The Cadillac was gone from the garage. He didn’t ask why she had pretended to be Babette; he assumed it was some kind of fantasy, and that had been all right with him—and, too, it still left his yearning for the real Babette intact.

  The woman drove him down in a station wagon, the radio on loud, canceling any possibility of questions. She dropped him off in front of the Chinese Theater. “Good luck, Mystery Cowboy,” she said. “I hope you won’t think too badly about me.” She whizzed away in her station wagon.

  6

  The revelation of duplicity.

  MYSTERY COWBOY, PREVIOUSLY THE LORD’S COWBOY, FUCKS FANTASY POSTER WOMAN!

  For a price, subscribers would be offered the film on the Internet, the film Max Renquist had taken last night. Later, when excitement spread on the Net, a tape version would be put out for expensive sale. An event! Cutting edge! An Internet sensation—and consistent with Mrs. Renquist’s dedication to broadening the scope of that most denigrated of the art forms, intercourse films.

  In her spacious Encino home—often called a mansion—Mrs. Renquist waited in her plush living room, sipping a cool fumé blanc. With Detective Seagrim (drinking—what else?—a beer)—a bother that he was there, but what could she do?—she was waiting for Mr. Renquist to emerge from his home office with what would make them a tidy fortune and put them back in the galaxy of erotic art. They had involved no outsiders—except for this barbarously hairy detective waiting to be paid the last installment for his services, and that would occur as soon as Mr. Renquist emerged with the treasure. Soon, a loyal contact at Variety, who owed her money, would carry the item she was already fashioning in her mind.

  Those still looking for the Mystery Cowboy, (formerly known as The Lord’s Cowboy in evangelical circles) may stop searching. He has been found by enterprising erotic film producers Mr. and Mrs. Renquist of R&R Productions. Now everyone may see the legendary cowboy—with his boots and his cowboy hat!—at www.mysterycowboy.com—when he “performs” with—

  All professionally elegant, Mrs. Renquist assured herself—not like those murky, coarse Rob Lowe tapes, nor those even worse things with Pamela Lee and whatever-was-his-name, with all those vile tattoos. Trash, yes, but estimates were that they had made over a million dollars. What a brilliant idea, too, Mrs. Renquist congratulated herself on her enduring cleverness, to hire that actress to enact the poster woman all the trades and television segments claimed the Mystery Cowboy was obsessed with; she herself had chosen the expert detective—never mind that he sat there now studying her as if her face would yield something scandalous he might use against her. Let him stare; there was nothing he could find.

  Mrs. Renquist sipped her wine, delighting in its dryness, studying its delicate shadings, fumé shadings—and ignoring the squalid presence waiting with her.

  “Gone. Nothing.”

  Mrs. Renquist looked up to see Mr. Renquist in his most hideous yellow-striped shirt. “Gone? Nothing? What? Must you always speak in riddles, must you?”

  “The motherfuckin’ camera. Fuckin’ shit thing fucked up.”

  “You mean—?”

  “It didn’t record a fuckin’ thing,” Mr. Renquist said.

  “You idiot!” Mrs. Renquist rose from her chair, toppling the glass of chilled wine she had been about to celebrate her accomplishment with. “You’ve bungled! Again! Just like with the Dorothy Hotchkins film!”

  “Dorothy Hotchkins,” Detective Seagrim repeated.

  “Pay this man,” Mrs. Renquist ordered. “Pay him so he’ll get out of my sight! You idiot!” she said to Mr. Renquist and rushed up to her bedroom, her temples pounding, pounding, hammering, beating, pulsing, throbbing, pummeling, trouncing, grinding—

  7

  Thoughtful moments, a twinge of sadness, and a familiar voice.

  When he returned his apartment, Lyle lay in bed, pensive. He’d have to admit he was a little exhausted. Was this what his life was destined to turn into?—a series of sexual encounters with beautiful women? Was this all there was—?

  On second thought, that wouldn’t be exactly bad.

  Still, there had to be more, much more to life, including matters he needed to resolve. There was his love for Maria, to whom he had never been unfaithful where it mattered, in his heart—Rose certainly had convinced him that was where it mattered, only there.

  He longed for Maria, the sweetness of their kisses—longed for her with all his heart. He would, of course, marry her, the sooner the better, and she would be the only one then. He also longed for the tart wisdom of Clarita, who wrote him frequently, in the careful, correct English she was so proud of having learned so well. Her letters were full of love and concern: “Are you learning about life, which can be as baffling and complicated as a beehive?” she seemed to read his thoughts. Well, he was sure as hell trying to, and it damn sure was complicated. She always went on to assert that Sylvia loved his letters, would soon answer them all. Soon. Soon. But no letter came from Sylvia; she was a mystery that deepened. Often—like now—he tried to replay the scene of accusations that had finally flared between them, to see whether in his memory of it he might find a missed clue. “You can never understand.”

  Tired, tired. He closed his eyes, only to be jolted awake by an urgent voice at the door calling, “Lyle, Lyle, help me!”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  1

  A sordid development to be resolved. Mr. Scala in pursuit.

  Raul!” At the door, Lyle reacted with pleasure at the sight of the kid he had whisked away from Brother Dan’s “exorcism” that time at the Lord’s Headquarters. Immediately he was angry, “What the hell are you doing still here? You were supposed to go back to Texas, I gave you bus fare.”

  “I’ll tell you all about that later.” He kept looking around, wanting to hide. “Let me in quick!” Already he’d pushed past Lyle into the apartment. “Wow, this is cool!”

  “How the hell did you find me?”

  “Hanging out on the Boulevard, I saw you and followed you, but I didn’t have the nerve to talk to you then. Hey, Lyle, what were you doing with that peacock?”

  Damn, had everyone seen that picture? “Now who the hell are you hiding from?”

  “Scala, the guy me and my friend work for, the guy who drives us out to street corners to sell these—” He showed Lyle a sheaf of folded printed papers.

  “Maps to the Stars’ Homes,” Lyle read aloud.

  “Fuckin’ shit kept cheating us, and so me and my friend went to another corner to sell the maps and pay ourselves, ya know?”

  The kid had put on some weight, grown a couple of inches; he didn’t look scrawny any more; and damn if he wasn’t wearing an earring—only one—and his hair was sort of spiky, with blondish tips. Lyle wasn’t sure whether he looked terrific or terrible. Terrific, he told himself. He intended to sound stern: “Did you steal from that guy?”

  “Me? No way. He stole from us. My friend Buzzy’s the one who got the idea to go into business for ourselves at another corner. Holy shit!” he said when they heard another voice outside:

  “Let me in, Raul!”

  At the door Lyle saw a skinny boy, Raul’s age, with bursts of freckles and strawy cropped hair that curved inward toward his cheeks so that occasionally he reached out with his tongue to touch the tip of one side or another. As long as everybody was coming here, why not him? Lyle let him in.

  “That fuckin’ Scala caught up with me, but I ditched him again,” the new visitor blurted.

  “I told you!” Raul said to Lyle. “The mean fucker’s after us, he’ll kill us.” Formally, he introduced: “This is my friend I told you about. Her name’s Buzzy.”

  Buzzy was a girl? “Buzzy?” Lyle
said.

  “That’s what I call myself,” said the freckled girl. She squatted on the floor, as if daring to be moved.

  Lyle wanted to believe they were getting cheated and so went into business for themselves. Look how scared they were—well, Raul looked scared, not Buzzy. Sure, he’d hide them, and if—

  A loud rap at the door! Buzzy tried to squeeze under the bed, but didn’t fit, thin as she was. She followed Raul into a closet.

  Lyle faced a red-faced man—his shirt was open to reveal a tangle of bristly black hairs matted with urgent sweat. He pushed inside the suddenly crowded apartment. “Who the hell are you?” Lyle asked him.

  “Tony Scala! That’s who, and I guess you’ll be answering who you are when they question you about harboring a coupla criminals. I saw them running in here when I was circling the block in my car. Damned parking is a fuckin’ killer!” He marched to the closet door, opened it.

  Raul and Buzzy rushed out.

  The flustered man swatted at them with hairy hands.

  They screamed shrilly.

  Lyle heard doors opening along the courtyard.

  The man flailed at Raul and the girl with his fists and feet. Every time he connected, they screamed louder.

  “Whoa,” Lyle stood before the angry man. “Hey, Mister, you watch who you try to hit. They’re kids, ya know. And they’re my guests,” he added.

  “Keep out of this!” The man chased Raul, who would pause, let Scala advance, and then would dash away. When the man cornered Buzzy, her skinny body slithered away. Standing securely next to Lyle, Raul held his ground: “You didn’t pay us, you crook. We’ll turn you in to the cops—”

  “Yeah, and who the fuck do ya think the cops’ll believe? Me, Tony Scala, a fuckin’ reputable citizen and businessman—or a fuckin’ faggot spic and a ratty little dyke?” the man shouted.

  That word again—dyke. He’d heard it before. Lyle said earnestly to the blustery man, “Sir, what is a dyke?”

  “You want me to spell it out? A dyke is a girl-faggot—and over there with her is a boy-faggot-spic.”

  “Sir”—Lyle put one hand almost gently on the man’s shoulder—“I hate to be disrespectful, but—” He held out a hand to shake courteously in introduction, but the other hand closed into a fist and punched the man.

  “Hit the fucker again for all the times he’s cheated us, Mystery Cowboy!” Buzzy encouraged, offering her own tiny fists.

  “And for selling fake maps—” Raul caught himself, adding in a quick whisper to Lyle: “We didn’t know they were fakes when we went into business for ourselves, honest.”

  “Son of a bitch, that hurt!” Scala rubbed his jaw. “But this’ll hurt more.” He rushed at Lyle, jabbing at him.

  Both of Lyle’s fists shot out, and punched. The man reeled back. Lyle steadied him before he could fall to the floor. “You okay, sir?”

  “No, you son of a bitch! I’m not! What are you? Some kind of faggot yourself, harboring two thieving queers. I bet you’ve never even ridden a horse.”

  “How’d you know that?” Lyle asked, genuinely pleased not be asked where his horse was.

  Taking advantage of Lyle’s surprise, Scala attempted to strike out at him again, but he stumbled on Raul’s outstretched foot and connected only with Lyle’s shoulder.

  “Sir,” Lyle said politely, though his fists remained readied. “Maybe you’d better get out—”

  “—and never come back!” Raul yelled.

  “—and if you try callin’ the cops, you’d better remember that we’re underage!” Buzzy warned

  Were they? Raul was only about a year younger than him, Lyle figured; but Buzzy looked like a kid. Screw it, both looked like they might be underage.

  “Fuckin’ faggot queers!” the man grumbled as he tried to leave without encountering Buzzy’s fists striking at his butt.

  When the man was gone, “Now what?” Lyle asked Raul.

  Buzzy was adjusting her hair, which had whipped out every which way during the ruckus. “I guess we’ll just have to stay here with you, brave Mystery Cowboy,” she said.

  2

  A timely meaning of the word “dolls.” Tarah Worth recognizes another person, herself.

  “—High Holy Days—”

  “What?” Tarah had begun to think that nothing Lenora did or said would surprise her, but what she had just said did.

  “I said that I didn’t call you back because we were celebrating High Holy Days.”

  “You’re not Jewish!” Tarah shouted at her. The creature had waited two days to answer the urgent question on a recording machine that growled like her.

  “You lower your voice, doll.”

  That much was good. The new meaning of “dolls” was settling in. Tarah was talking on the telephone in her living room, where the reflection from the pool at this time cast a soft, comforting light on her face. “I’m glad to hear you using the term ‘doll’ that I reintroduced to Hollywood.”

  “You reintroduced? Hell, doll, I’ve been using that word for years.”

  Oh, the creature!

  “About your question concerning the script update. They’re thinking of having Helen Lawson die during the kidnapping, and that’ll take place very early in the movie, before the credits.”

  “They can’t kill her!” Tarah screamed. She wanted to kill, someone, anyone. Preferably Lenora, this hideous creature who stalked the earth and brought terrible news, which her malicious astrological chart—she hadn’t been able to resist it, merely glanced at it—had suggested: “Difficult endings bring big challenge you may not overcome.”

  “When I know more about the scene—who’s involved and how—I’ll let you know, and when you hatch your big gimmick, let me in on it and I’ll throw in my million bucks’ worth. You gotta do it, doll, gotta make them know you’re still out there, ready for a big role, not ready to be killed in the first seconds.”

  “I don’t intend to do other than make them know I’m ready for my big role, Lenora,” Tarah said. She heard a steeliness in her voice. She tested the voice again: “I’ll get that role, whatever I have to do.” It was there, the steeliness. She would let it stay. She was in the Valley of the Vultures, after all, and she had meant it, the harsh affirmation that, whatever she needed to do, she would get the attention she needed. And deserved, godammit!

  Even Lenora detected the powerful, steely resolve, Tarah knew, when the crusty creature merely signed off, sounding—impossible!—not entirely cruel:

  “Ciao, Tarah, ciao.”

  3

  The new Tarah Worth moves forward with her plan; an emergency call to her psychic.

  “Riva!”

  “Tarah!”

  Riva wasn’t one of those frauds on late-night television. She was an inspired psychic, a specialist in problems connected with Hollywood. The entire cast of The Young and the Restless had consulted her in one mass reading. Riva was exclusive, she didn’t give readings to just anyone; she interviewed prospective clients—“consultees”—before she accepted them, by certified mail. She read the tarots, looked at palms—outlining invisible signs with a blue pen; she made copious entries that she kept in locked files. In emergencies only, she was available by telephone, following a strict procedure: her name spoken by the consultee on the telephone, then the consultee’s name spoken back by her. That asserted a strong, uncluttered connection, and that was occurring now.

  “Riva!”

  “Tarah!”

  This was the next step: Tarah waited long, intense moments, concentrating—eyes closed, breathing deep, deep, assuming a smooth rhythm—so that Riva would immediately begin receiving psychic “beeps.”

  In preparation for her psychic session, Tarah had run carefully through her plan after Lenora had called back with more specific details about the crucial scene. She had prepared her questions, questions she was now asking Riva, mute questions, barring nothing. Now she waited, allowing psychic energy to carry those questions on invisible currents to Riva’s
arboretum, where she received her most profound illuminations. (“Plants are the earth’s children,” she had thrilled Tarah by informing her, “and their flowers are their grandchildren.”) Tarah signaled that the requisite steps were over:

  “Riva!”

  “Tarah!” More moments of silence. “Do it, just do it, doll!” Riva said.

  The woman was absolutely amazing! She had delivered the answer she sought and the assertion that “doll” had a new meaning, which she had donated. Simply amazing—wasn’t it?—how she recognized consultees instantly by the way they spoke her name, just one word—although once she had called her “Sarah” but explained that a departed consultee named Sarah had come in on her, Tarah’s, psychic waves, eager to contribute her own input, that’s how close she felt to her.

  Emboldened by Riva’s superb advice, Tarah called Rusty Blake. “Come over now,” she said in her new voice, which still fascinated her.

  “Uh, like, why?” started Blake. “I was, like, purging my horizon, ya know? L. Ron says—”

  “I said come over now if you want that role in The Return.”

  She hung up, and waited, making herself up to look like the beautiful version she would be of Helen Lawson in the decisive scene.

  Blake arrived a few minutes earlier than Tarah had anticipated. She greeted him in her living room. She didn’t offer him a drink. Look at him, slouching on her favorite couch—assuming that everyone wanted to make love to him—and he was facing the pool where she had sat, in the best reflected light. “I have a plan that will guarantee us the roles we both want. All the signs are in place.”

  “Ya know, Tarah,” Rusty mused, “I don’t, like, get you with all that, like, psychic stuff, man. L. Ron says that—”

  No time for his silly nonsense. “Just listen, Rust!” Tarah chopped his name.

  “Uh, like, what is it, man?” He soothed his frown.