Goldenboy hr-2

by Michael Nava

“With the ether,” Cresly said, sounding interested in spite of himself.

  “Right. Then he saw it was Pears,” I said. “He dragged Pears into the room where he had killed Fox, smeared Pears with blood, put the knife in his hand, and let himself out through the back door.” I paused, remembering another detail of Andrea Lew’s testimony. She’d said she’d looked for Jim out back. That meant the door had been left unlocked — by Zane. In that detail was the whole story, if only I’d paid attention. “Jim came to and then the waitress found him,” I continued. “Jim claimed he didn’t remember anything. The reason was because there was nothing for him to remember. But that didn’t occur to anyone, so we all wrote it off as traumatic amnesia.”

  From his silent corner, Josh whispered, “He was innocent.”

  We all turned to look at him. “That’s right,” I said. “Innocent but with no way of explaining why.”

  “So that’s Pears,” Cresly said. “What about Good and Blenheim?”

  “Blenheim first,” I said. “Blenheim knew everything. Irene Gentry — Zane’s wife — told me that Blenheim was acting crazy toward Zane just before Good’s murder. She was lying, mostly.” I stopped and the implications of what Rennie knew sank in for the first time. I pushed it aside for now. There would be time to think it all out later, but there was no denying that it hurt. “But there was some truth in it — Blenheim was probably pushing Zane around, a kind of blackmail, to get Zane to do things that would line Blenheim’s pockets.”

  Cresly squinted. “What, taking money from him?”

  I shook my head. “No, working him. Milking Zane for all he was worth because Blenheim got his cut, and it was probably more than ten percent.”

  “So Blenheim had to go,” Freeman said. “But first Zane set it up so that it looked like it was Blenheim who killed Fox and who killed Good.”

  “Zane and his wife,” I corrected. “She came to me the night Good was killed, saying Zane was in terrible danger. I chased through Hollywood looking for Zane while he was taking care of

  Blenheim and Good. I was part of the alibi.”

  Cresly smiled, nastily. “Zane’s wife, huh? You bi, or what?”

  I let it pass.

  “Zane had the motive to kill,” I said, “and when Freeman told me that he liked to beat up his pick-ups, well, then it seemed like he had the capacity, too.”

  Cresly belched, softly. “No way to prove any of this unless Zane or his wife start talking. They won’t,” he added with dead certainty. “Even if we bust him for what he did tonight. Why should he?”

  By the look on Freeman’s face, I could see that Cresly’s questions had stumped him, too.

  “Nope,” Cresly continued, picking up his beer. “Old Zane’ll hire someone like you, Rios, to cut a deal with the D.A. If he pleads to anything, he’ll walk with probation. Or maybe just continue the case until our victim there,” he jutted his chin in the direction of the bedroom, “disappears.”

  He drained his beer and set the bottle down with a thud.

  After Freeman and Cresly left, Josh and I made up the couch in the living room and got into it. We lay there in the dark. I thought of Jim Pears who said he was innocent, and was, and Irene Gentry who pretended to be, and wasn’t. Depending on what she knew she was an accomplice to at least two of the murders.

  Now I let myself think about Rennie. She had played me for a fool with consummate skill. It was a flawless performance. Her task had been formidable: the seduction of a gay man. Since sex, the most direct avenue, was closed to her, she had had to resort to other methods. But she was a brilliant actress, keenly observant of the emotional states of those around her and capable of seemingly profound empathy. She understood me immediately from our first meeting when she told me I had the face of a man who felt too much. A born do-gooder. A rescuer. All she had to do was play a lady in distress.

  Her role jibed with what she and Zane had planned from the outset, to divert the suspicion to Blenheim. They must have worked it all out months earlier, when I first came to town to defend Jim Pears. When Blenheim approached me about buying the rights to Jim’s story, what he really wanted was to find out how much Jim remembered and what I knew. The three of them had conspired together at first.

  Then, later, Rennie and Zane saw their chance to get rid of Blenheim and close the book on the Fox murder once and for all. So Rennie made Blenheim out to be the bad guy. Fortunately for her I disliked Blenheim enough to be an easy convert. After that, it was just a matter of timing.

  But now things had unraveled. Why? Rennie was fearless but Zane proved to be the weak link. Another fragment of remembered conversation passed through my head, the actress at the cocktail party who referred to the Zanes as the Macbeths. There was a crucial distinction, though. Lady Macbeth goaded on her husband out of her own ambition. Irene Gentry acted from love. The only time I had ever seen her break character was the day she told me she loved Zane. What a terrifying love that must be to lead her into such darkness.

  “You’re thinking,” Josh said.

  “I know. I can’t sleep.”

  “Me neither,” he replied. There was a pause. “Do you want to make love?”

  I kissed his forehead. “I don’t really feel like it.”

  “Okay,” he said. “What are you thinking about?”

  I couldn’t think of a way to tell him about the darkness, not yet, anyway, so I said, “Tom Zane told me he skipped out on a court appearance fifteen years ago. There’s a warrant for his arrest out somewhere. I’ll have to tell Cresly about it.”

  There was a long silence and then Josh said, “Is that all you were thinking about?”

  “No.” I turned and faced him, trying to make his face out.

  “It’s about Jim, isn’t it?” he asked. “You feel bad because you didn’t believe him.”

  I held him close, not answering.

  “I feel the same way,” he whispered. “I feel terrible about him.”

  “Not your fault,” I murmured. Then we were quiet again, each with his own thoughts. A long time later we slept.

  Someone was tugging at my shoulder. I opened my eyes to Josh’s worried face and a sunny room.

  “Robert’s gone,” Josh said.

  I pulled myself up and stared at him. “What?”

  “I got up and went into the bedroom to get to the bathroom. He’s gone.”

  “Shit.” I swung my feet over the edge of our makeshift bed to the floor. I got up and walked into the bedroom. The bed was disheveled but empty. “What time did you come in here?”

  “Just now. I mean, ten minutes ago,” Josh said, coming up behind me. “He took some things, too.”

  I looked at Josh. “What?”

  “All the money in my wallet. Some clothes.” He paused and sucked in air. “The leather jacket you gave me.”

  “I’m sorry, Josh,” I said.

  Josh attempted a smile. “He left me his.”

  “Great.” The boy’s jacket, cheap vinyl, was tossed across a chair. “I’d better call Cresly. They might be able to find him.” “They won’t,” Josh said, softly.

  I nodded and went to make my call.

  Cresly and Freeman arrived just before noon. I put down the tuna sandwich I was eating and answered the door. Their faces were grim.

  “No luck?” I asked, as they came into the kitchen.

  Cresly’s eyes were at their iciest. “I can’t believe the kid just fucking walked out of here,” he said.

  “We were asleep,” I said.

  “Yeah,” he replied, accusingly. “Asleep.”

  “Look, Cresly, if you’d put him in a hospital instead of bringing him here-” I began.

  “Cut it out,” Freeman snapped. “The kid’s gone.”

  “What about the warrant?” I asked, having earlier told Cresly about Zane’s flight from the robbery charge in Oklahoma.

  He shook his head. “Oklahoma went on computer just a couple of years ago with warrants,” he said. “For fifteen years ba
ck they have to do a hand search. Could take weeks, if they still got the records.”

  “So now what?” I asked.

  Cresly and Freeman exchanged a look. I didn’t like it.

  Freeman cleared his throat. “The cops want to set up a decoy,” he said. “Bust Zane in the act.”

  “Put someone out on Santa Monica?” I asked.

  “Yeah,” Freeman said.

  “Those boys don’t wear many clothes,” I said. “You won’t be able to wire them for sound. Especially if Zane likes to cuddle before he beats them up.”

  “That’s what the cops figure,” Freeman said. “Besides, they’re not going to get those kids to cooperate.”

  Cresly, who had been ominously silent, added, “Yeah, look at the kid who was here last night.”

  “So use cops,” I said.

  “We plan to,” Cresly said, “but you know how it is. Put a cop in jeans and a tank top, teach him how to mince and lisp and he still looks, walks, and smells like a cop.”

  I glared at him. “Do you think this stuff up in advance or does it just come to you?”

  “He’s got a point,” Freeman said.

  “What’s going on here, Freeman?”

  “Maybe you noticed how much that kid last night looked like Josh,” he said.

  “Oh, no,” I replied, shaking my head. “Absolutely not.”

  Freeman said, “Look, Henry. I’ve watched Zane in action. Josh is exactly the type he goes for.”

  “The cops get paid for it.”

  “You want to get Zane or what?” Cresly said.

  “Not that much.”

  “Maybe Josh should decide,” Freeman said quietly. “Where is he?”

  As if on cue, the front door opened and Josh walked in wearing the black jacket that Robert had left. He smiled, uneasily, and tossed the mail on the coffee table.

  “What’s up?” he asked.

  “I’ll do it,” Josh said, simply, after Freeman and Cresly finished their pitch. We were sitting around the kitchen table again. The ashtray had filled with butts as the afternoon wore on.

  “No,” I said, quietly. “You won’t.”

  “I want to help,” Josh said, looking at me with his dark, serious eyes.

  I shook my head in response. The others were silent.

  “I owe it to Jim,” Josh said.

  “Getting yourself killed won’t be doing him any favors,” I replied.

  Cresly said, “No one’s gonna get killed here.”

  I turned on him. “We’re dealing with a guy who’s already killed three people.”

  Cresly lit a cigarette. The smoke curled upward into the frosty winter light. “We don’t know that he killed anyone yet,” he said. “Anyway, he don’t kill his dates. And we’ll be there.”

  “How?” I demanded. “You can’t wire Josh.”

  “We’ll wire the car Zane rents,” Cresly said, exhaling a snaky stream of smoke. “As soon as they get out of the car, we’ll be there.”

  “See, Henry,” Josh said.

  “Bullshit.”

  Freeman said to Cresly, “Let’s go for a walk, Phil. Let them talk.”

  Cresly smirked, but got up from the table. “Yeah, you guys talk,” he said, “but let me give you something else to think about, Rios. Something washed up on Venice Beach last night. It used to be Sandy Blenheim.”

  He stalked out of the room.

  “We’ll be back in a while,” Freeman said, following him out.

  “You can’t do this, Josh,” I said. “Cresly’s using you. I don’t trust him.”

  “How else are they going to catch Zane?”

  “There are other ways,” I insisted.

  “Like how?” he asked, lighting a cigarette.

  “The warrant.”

  He smiled, wanly. “Cresly says they might never find it.”

  “Cresly could tell me the sun was going to set tonight and I’d still want a second opinion.”

  “Why do you hate him?” Josh asked, flicking a bit of ash from the sleeve of his sweater. “‘Cause he’s a homophobe? The world’s full of them,” he continued, and added, “I was one. I called Jim Pears a faggot, just like the other guys at the restaurant.” He looked at me, his lips a tight line. “I owe him.”

  “Not that much, Josh.”

  “If they had asked you, you’d do it. Wouldn’t you?”

  I didn’t have to say anything because we both knew the answer.

  27

  Two nights after New Year’s, I was sitting in an unmarked police car on Santa Monica Boulevard with Cresly, Freeman, and an officer named Daniels. The strip of the Boulevard between Highland and La Brea, usually packed with hustlers, was almost empty, the result of an earlier sweep by the L.A.P.D. The only hustlers left were actually cops with one exception… Josh. He stood at the same corner where Robert had stood, wearing tight jeans, a polo shirt and the black vinyl jacket that Robert had left behind. He ran a hand through his hair and shifted his weight from one foot to the other.

  A flat male voice described Zane’s progress from Hollywood Boulevard, where he had just rented a Chevette rigged for sound. We and three other cars in the area would be able to monitor what went on in the car within a four block radius. Now there was nothing to do but wait.

  ‘He looks real good out there,” Cresly said, referring to

  Josh.

  The radio crackled. “Subject is approaching on Sycamore. You should have him in sight momentarily.”

  Daniels said, “There.”

  I looked to where he was pointing. The Chevette turned right and started, slowly, toward La Brea. Cresly fiddled with the monitoring device and the next thing we heard was a rock song.

  “What’s that?” Freeman asked.

  I listened. “Talking Heads.”

  Freeman looked at me blankly. Zane made three passes on the boulevard between Highland and La Brea, coming in and out of the range of the radio. Each time he seemed to slow a little when he passed Josh. The fourth time he signaled a turn onto the side street where Josh stood, turned, and pulled up at the curb. I watched Josh walk over to the car, just as Robert had, and stick his head into the window.

  Josh said, “Hi. How’s it going?”

  “Can’t complain,” Zane replied, his voice watery from drinking. “You waiting for someone?”

  There was silence.

  Zane spoke again. “You wanna go for a ride? I’ve got some grass here.”

  “Sure,” Josh said. My stomach clenched. I looked up and watched as he climbed into Zane’s car. We heard the engine start up and then the Chevette drifted lazily down the street.

  A match was struck. We heard someone sucking in air and then, in a tight voice, Zane said, “Take it.”

  More sucking noises. Cresly said to Daniels, “Follow them.”

  We pulled a turn across four lanes of traffic and drove down the street where the Chevette had gone. The only noises we heard were of the joint being smoked. A moment later, we got the Chevette in sight. It pulled over to the curb. We passed it. I resisted the temptation to glance over at Josh.

  “So,” we heard Zane say, “what’s your name?”

  Josh said, “Josh. What’s yours?”

  “Charlie,” Zane said. “What are you into, Josh?”

  We turned up the first street and headed back to Santa Monica, then turned back, making a circle, toward the Chevette. Cresly instructed Daniels to park just before we got to the street where the Chevette was parked.

  Josh was saying, “Whatever, you know. Anything you want.”

  Cresly glanced at me without expression.

  There was a movement in the Chevette. Josh laughed. “That tickles,” he said.

  Zane said, “Does this tickle?”

  There was squeaking, rapid breathing, silence, then a slow breath and a sigh.

  Daniels asked, “What’s going on in there?”

  “They’re making out,” I said. Daniels stared at me.

  “Gross,” he muttere
d.

  Zane said, “That was nice. How come I haven’t seen you around before?”

  “I just got into town,” Josh replied.

  “I know someplace around here we can go,” Zane said. “I’ll give you a hundred bucks if you let me — “ A sudden wave of static drowned out the rest of his sentence.

  “Okay,” Josh said.

  We heard the engine start up. Cresly told Daniels, “Go around again.”

  We edged up to the intersection of the street where the Chevette was parked. Just as we turned, and the Chevette started moving, a black-and-white appeared from still another street.

  “What the fuck,” Cresly said, and yanked the transmitter from the radio, trying to signal the black-and-white It passed beneath a streetlight as it slowly approached the Chevette. It wasn’t L.A.P.D. but the county sheriffs who had, apparently, drifted across the county line into the city. A flashlight flared from within the black-and-white as it pulled up beside the Chevette.

  Zane said, “Shit.” He gunned the motor and made a run for Highland. The black-and-white’s red lights flashed and we heard it order Zane to pull over.

  We pulled out behind the sheriffs. Cresly was screaming into the radio trying to stop them from giving chase.

  “Clear out!” Cresly was yelling. Abruptly, the black-and- white stopped. Over the radio, someone was asking for clarification. The Chevette, however, was gone.

  We came up beside the sheriffs. Cresly rolled the window down and continued screaming at the driver. A couple of minutes later he slumped into the seat, breathing hard. He picked up the transmitter and canvassed the other L.A.P.D. cars in the area. Finally, he turned to me and said, “We lost them.”

  “What!”

  “I said we lost them, goddammit. Put out an APB,” he snapped at Daniels.

  I listened as Daniels gave an urgent description of the Chevette and its passengers.

  Cresly looked at me again. “Where would he go, Rios? Home?”

  “Not likely if his wife is there,” I replied, trying to keep my panic in check. ‘Maybe he’ll just drop Josh off and call it a night. You might have someone watching the car rental place.”

  “That’s covered,” he said. “Anywhere else you can think of?”