Cactus Garden

by Ward, Robert

  There at the door was a large black woman with a trash can and broom.

  “Lutitia,” Michaels said, “you startled me.”

  “Startled you?” the big friendly cleaning woman said, smiling. “Man, I thought you was Carlos Guzman the Drug King in here.”

  They both laughed.

  “What chu doing here so late all by yourself?”

  “Just waiting for some information from Mexico. But I think it’s going to come tomorrow,” he said.

  “Mexico,” she said. “While you sitting here waiting, you know they drinking tequila and eating tacos.”

  “I’m afraid you’re right. I might as well close up shop tonight,” Michaels said.

  They both laughed. She smiled at him and dumped a trash can into the larger one. He picked up his holster and laid it over his shoulder, then backed up his work and locked the floppy disc in his desk.

  Walker, he thought. Walker is all right. He suddenly wished he’d shared what he knew with Jack.

  What if something happened to him?

  Nonsense. No one knew anything.

  But what if they did? They knew so much. He was almost sure that, at certain times, lately, someone was following him—not every minute and not with the same car. But last night at dinner and the night he had talked to Walker at his apartment, there had been somebody there. He was almost certain of it.

  Whom could he trust?

  He looked across the room at Walker’s office. He didn’t dare leave anything in there. He wished he could leave it on Walker’s computer at home. Now, that wasn’t a bad idea. He could break into Walker’s place, leave the stuff there.

  But what if Walker didn’t make it back? Jesus, he was getting spooked.

  Suddenly the phone rang; both he and Lutitia jumped. “DEA, Michaels.”

  “I love it when you sound so official.”

  Michaels sat down on the edge of the desk. Lutitia waved to him and left the room, wheeling her trash can with a grace Michaels knew he would never have.

  “Where are you and what are you doing?” Michaels said.

  “I’m sitting in my apartment watching an ancient Dick Van Dyke show. Ask me what I’m wearing.”

  Michaels felt the beginnings of a blush come over him.

  “Go ahead. Are you afraid … Agent Michaels?”

  “I, ah … well.” Christ, Michaels thought, this is perfect.

  “You’re just playing me, aren’t you, Ted? Come on, admit it. I like it when a man uses a little misdirection.”

  “What are you wearing?” Michaels said, and blushed.

  “My little green bathing suit,” the voice said. “The same little suit I was wearing the night I met you by the pool. I was under the impression you liked it.”

  “You were right,” Michaels said. “I liked it very much.”

  “I thought you did.”

  Michaels felt his pulse racing. It had started six months ago, at a party given by a real estate friend, Tod, in the Hollywood Hills. Michaels had seen the boy standing on the high dive, a glass of champagne in his hand. He had been wearing a green racing Speedo bikini suit. He had a perfectly flat stomach and long handsome legs, and he smiled, tossed the drained glass down to a surprised Michaels, who caught it and watched the boy make a perfect half gainer, creasing the water with no splash. When he came to the surface, Michaels stared at him and felt his stomach flip. The boy pulled himself out of the pool, and Michaels handed him the glass.

  Their fingers touched, and there was electricity between them. “Let me get you some champagne,” the boy said. Michaels had watched him walk away, the curve of his ass, the soft blond hairs on his leg.

  Still, Michaels had tried to avoid what he knew could be a collision course. He’d turned and walked out of the party, without even getting the boy’s number.

  But it was too late. The next day he had called Tod at his office and asked for the number. Tod had told him the boy’s name, Jeffrey, and said he’d just broken up with an older man, that he was sweet, sexy, an Olympic swimmer.

  Michaels had waited for two weeks, during which time he couldn’t sleep or eat. He found himself obsessed with memories of the boy on the board, of the graceful arc he made in the air. Finally he could stand it no longer. He called Jeffrey and asked him to a private after-hours club called Rey’s on La Cienega.

  It was a very posh, very private place, with an excellent wine list. But neither of them had been able to eat. It was an effort even to get through the appetizers, and suddenly, shy, cautious Michaels had found himself putting his arm around Jeffrey as they left the club (having left their dinners practically untouched) and running his hands through his hair as they walked around the corner.

  Two minutes later they were in the front seat of Michaels’s car, Jeffrey’s head bobbing in his lap.

  In spite of this wild beginning, they had been discreet, though Michaels often felt out of control just thinking of him.

  He had become so worried about his own obsession with Jeffrey that he had tried to cut off their relationship. With his other worries about the Agency, with his dark suspicions, he couldn’t afford to lose his concentration.

  But he had missed Jeffrey, terribly.

  He had called him again two nights ago, but only talked to his machine.

  Now Jeffrey was calling him back. Playing games with him right here at the office. It was risky, insane. In the past phones had been tapped. God, if anyone found out? But it made Michaels’s pulse race, his lips wet.

  He was so tired, so very tired of being secret, circumspect Ted Michaels. This risk made him feel alive. Jeffrey made him feel alive.

  “Going to take a dip?” Michaels said, scarcely aware of what he was saying, his heart was beating so fast.

  “No, I just came back from swimming,” the boy said. “Now I’m going to put on my … new Levi’s and take a little car trip.”

  “Where?”

  “To Mulholland Drive. I’m going to stand up on Mulholland Drive and watch the stars come out. And I’m going to drink champagne. That’s still legal, isn’t it, Officer?”

  “You’re crazy,” Michaels said. “Completely crazy.”

  “Sounds like fun. Why don’t you come up and apprehend me, Officer? You could snap the cuffs on me.”

  Then Jeffrey’s voice lost its playful edge.

  “I’ve missed you, Teddy,” he said. “I can’t sleep without you around.”

  “Me too,” Michaels said.

  “Can’t you come meet me?” Jeffrey said, and there was a deep yearning in his voice. “I want you to.”

  “Stay where you are. I’ll be there in thirty minutes, and we can ride up together,” Michaels said.

  “That would be nice,” the boy said.

  Michaels hung up the phone, smiling. Mulholland Drive, champagne, the stars. This wasn’t him. This wasn’t him at all. Or rather, it was him, it was the him that he had always known existed under the fastidious little bureaucrat.

  It had taken this boy … this twenty-three-year-old boy to bring him out.

  He strapped his shoulder holster tightly, picked up a copy of the disc.

  This was crazy. Only minutes before he had been obsessed with his work, and now he was heading out of the office to a romantic rendezvous with his boy lover.

  It was mad, but it brought a smile to his face because it occurred to him that it was real life—sloppy, wild, two impossible situations overlapping one another. Life was accidental in the end, Michaels thought. He had dedicated his whole life to minimizing the risks and heading off the accidents, but when it came to passion, it was no use.

  Jesus, what was happening to him? Maybe it was the pressure.

  He hurried from the office, thinking of the boy, in his Levi’s, under the stars on Mulholland Drive. He wished, God how he wished, that that was all he had to think about. But there was Walker down there in Mexico. He had to somehow try and keep his mind on Walker as well. He stopped, remembered the information he had, his id
ea of leaving it in Walker’s house. It still seemed a sensible plan. He picked up the packet marked “Cactus” and put it in his briefcase.

  He’d go see Jeffrey, then he’d make a late-night trip to Walker’s little apartment on Cherokee.

  Michaels smiled in spite of himself. Maybe this was more than just one aberrant evening. Maybe this was the start of a new person, a looser, friendlier Ted Michaels. Why not?

  “Would you like another drink?”

  “No…. Okay. One more.”

  Ted Michaels sat on a rock at the highest perch of the Fryman Canyon overlook and stared down at the twinkling lights of the San Fernando Valley below.

  “Clear tonight,” he said.

  He could feel Jeffrey’s presence next to him, smell his aftershave lotion. The boy put his head against Michaels’s shoulder. “You look tired tonight,” he said. “I am tired,” Michaels said.

  “I’m sorry,” Jeffrey said. “Your work. It must be exhausting.”

  “It is,” Michaels said. “Especially right now.”

  “I won’t ask why,” the boy said.

  “Good. You know I couldn’t tell you anyway.”

  “Yes. But I know you’re doing something dangerous.”

  “I’ve already told you too much,” Michaels said. “Believe me, you don’t want to know any more about this.”

  Michaels handed him the champagne, and the boy laid his hand over the agent’s fingers.

  Michaels turned and looked at him, and the boy smiled.

  “Like they say in the soap operas, ‘this is madness,’ “ Michaels said.

  “So what?” the boy said. “I like soap operas.”

  He smiled innocently and took Michaels’s face in his hands and kissed him on the lips.

  Michaels kissed him back and felt an intense rush of happiness. It was an emotion he was so unaccustomed to that it made him laugh.

  “God,” he said, “we’ve drunk a whole magnum of champagne.”

  “Yes we have,” the boy said. “But fortunately the Perrier-Jouet people have been kind enough to make a never-ending supply of it. And I have another bottle in the car.”

  “No, no,” Michaels said. “No more for me. You go get it if you want. I’m just going to sit here and look at the lights of the city.”

  “I bet I can change your mind,” the boy said.

  He squeezed Michaels’s thigh as he got up. Michaels turned and watched as Jeffrey headed back to the parking lot, watched his trim body, his slightly pigeon-toed athletic stride.

  Then he remembered Walker, realized that he’d better not get much drunker or he wouldn’t be able to break into his apartment.

  Then he laughed again. Of course he would be able to break into Walker’s apartment. He was very good at breaking into places—something else most of the guys at the office didn’t know about him. He’d served his time in the field, and he was as capable as any of them. So fuck them, fuck them all….

  He stared down at the Valley, saw the lights of Laurel Canyon Boulevard stretching out into the Valley, the rows of cars crawling along. It was quite beautiful, he thought, just being here, sitting in the nice cool evening breeze, his feet hanging over. It was really lovely. He wanted to have more moments like this one. Christ, he didn’t want to let it all pass him by without feeling anything.

  Where was Jeffrey? Where was the boy who brought a smile to his face? Where the hell? …

  He had begun to feel tired. This wasn’t good, not at all…. He still had to get to Walker’s somehow. So he had to stay awake. Only he felt as though he had a weight on him, crushing him….

  When Michaels had fallen on his side, the boy came back and gently picked him up. He carried the agent to Michaels’s car. Michaels was light, the boy thought, very light in his arms.

  The door was already open, so he wouldn’t have to go through that hassle.

  He quickly put him in the passenger’s side of the car and shut the door. He fished into Michaels’s pocket, took out the key, then walked around to the other side and got in the driver’s side. He turned on the ignition and drove the car out of the parking lot.

  The boy took a right on Mulholland and drove Michaels up to another overlook, about a mile higher than Fryman Canyon. It was nothing more than a small pull-off, surrounded by high scorched brown brush this time of the year. A person could drive right past it and never even see a car off the side of the road. He had chosen this spot for its privacy and for the convenient fact that there was no guardrail.

  From the bushes, the boy picked up the can of gasoline and brought it around to the driver’s side.

  Then he put on the emergency brake, shoved the car into neutral, and dragged the sleeping Michaels behind the wheel.

  He quickly dowsed Michaels with gasoline.

  This was going to be very simple, he thought. He thought so right up until Michaels’s hand reached out and scratched his face.

  The boy jumped back and smashed Michaels’s head with the can. Michaels groaned and his eyes opened slightly.

  “Jeff,” he said softly. “What?” There was tenderness in his voice, tenderness and startled disbelief.

  “Fuck you,” the boy said. “My name’s not Jeff.”

  He smashed Michaels’s head again, and the agent fell back inside the car.

  The boy waited for a minute, his nerves singing. If anyone came…. He had to fight back the urge to run.

  He reached inside and grabbed Michaels’s briefcase. Oh, he was going to get a nice fat bonus for this, no doubt about it.

  He reached in again and took off the emergency brake and pushed the gear into drive.

  Then he dropped a lit match on the floor next to the unconscious Michaels. The gasoline caught at once, and he stepped outside and gave the car a little push. The hill was only six inches away, but it was still difficult to get the car rolling. He looked inside and saw the flames spreading into Michaels’s sleeve. God, he had to hurry. He didn’t want him to wake up.

  But he was too late. It happened. Michaels awoke and saw the flames just as they engulfed his suit.

  He turned and looked out the window directly at the boy. His eyes were wide open, and there seemed to be tears coming from them, his mouth wide open in a horrifying scream.

  Christ, let the car start rolling, the boy thought. He pushed, and he saw Michaels’s hand come up and smash against the window.

  “Jeff!” he was screaming. “Jeff!”

  The boy saw Michaels’s skin start to melt.

  Then the car was going, rolling down the hill, with a horrible sound.

  The boy watched it go and heard the explosion. Then he walked a few feet to the grass, where the Harley was hidden. He pulled it upright, put on his helmet, pulled down his visor, and kick-started it. The engine roared, and he stuffed Michaels’s briefcase into his knapsack. Without looking at the flames below, he sped east on Mulholland, then turned right and headed down the winding canyon road, driving fast, leaning into all the curves, trying not to see Ted Michaels’s burning face in his mind.

  Chapter 23

  Jack felt himself slowly blurring into consciousness. There was something wrong with his right eye; it was as though someone had stitched the lids together. He tried desperately to open it more than a crack, but felt an intense searing pain, which radiated up into his temples. There was something clinging to his right cheek, a bug with suction cups. It was as though an insect were sucking the flesh away from his cheekbone. He wanted to reach up and swat it away, but when he tried, he realized his hands were tied at his sides. He clenched his teeth and sucked in the fetid air, tried to focus his thoughts. It was no good to give in to fantasy here; the reality was bad enough. There was no insect, he told himself. The trouble was, he had a problem believing it. He tried to work his jaw, and again there was pain on both sides, and he slowly realized that when he had fallen, they had probably kicked him in the head a few times before getting him out of the street.

  “Well, well, Sleeping Beauty awak
ens,” Wingate’s voice said.

  Jack tried turning his head, but the pain in his neck stopped him cold. There was nothing to see anyway. He seemed to be in a pitch-black room.

  Then, suddenly, an intensely painful narrow shaft of light poured into his eyes.

  He shut his eyes tight, but suddenly someone was behind him, and rough hands pried his eyelids open, as a tight steel band was clasped around his forehead. Now he could no longer shut his eyes at all, nor could he turn away. The light was unbearable; it felt like liquid acid, poured into raw nerves.

  “Let there be fucking light,” Wingate said.

  “Fuck you, fat man,” Jack said.

  “Oooooh, meaner than an ole razorback hog,” Wingate said. “Well, that’s part of good agent training, I hear tell. Always resist when being tortured. Keeps the will up and the spirit strong. Keeps a man from identifying with his oppressors. Ain’t that right, Jackie?”

  Jack said nothing. It was also part of training to never agree with them on anything. Never.

  “Well, Jack,” Wingate said. “You sure almost made me look bad. See, the Mexicans and the Colombians, they don’t hardly ever deal with Americans. You got to have earned their trust, baby, and that’s hard to do. Taken me a lifetime of goodwill to pull it off, and you come in and just trick the hell out of me. I mean, I am in danger of losing all credibility with these lads. Now, tell me the truth, Jackie, just between you and me … was that car-jacking in front of Mann’s Chinese Theater … was that a setup or did you jest get lucky and decide to try and ride it out?”

  Jack tried to laugh at him but choked instead.

  “You’ll go to your grave not knowing, Buddy.”

  “Oooooh. Can’t he talk nasty?” Wingate said. “You know I feel for you, I really do. ‘Cause you double-cross a guy like me, I got a certain sense of humor about it … a sense of sportsmanship. I mean, I got to give it to you…. The whole setup was brilliant. Oooooh, and the guys at Tahoe, the guys who ‘came after us’ … the guys you pretended to shoot to win me over … I guess that was all part of the setup too, right? Goddamn, that was fucking brilliant. And I jest bet it was you who thought of it all, ‘cause I know most of the agents in the DEA, and let’s face it, them boys don’t have no more imagination than a pimple on a fly’s ass. No, sir … I’m sure you musta set that up. Come on now, Jack, why don’t you tell me the truth?”