by Lanyon, Josh
“Very good!” he exclaimed, and he really seemed pleased about it. “Now, my dear, sit down and tell me when exactly you were born, what time and where, and I’ll do your chart. Gratis.”
I couldn’t quite get a handle on Mayfield. He’d canceled our meeting three times and then he’d practically left an engraved invitation on my front door—after he’d already agreed again to an interview. Now that I was here, he seemed all set to distract me with astrology readings and avuncular flirtation.
I said, “That’s very kind of you, but I don’t want to take up your time, and I do have a few questions—”
“Oh, nonsense. We won’t really be able to talk until we know each other. Trust each other.”
Great.
I said, “The truth is, I have no idea what time I was born. It was sometime during the night.”
“You know the day I suppose?”
“December 19.”
“The cusp.” He was frowning. “People are so careless about these matters. Where exactly were you born?”
“Up north. Mendocino.”
“What city?” He sounded a little sharp, like he thought I was holding out on him.
“Mendocino. The city within the county.”
Mollified, he said, “And I suppose you can find out the exact hour of your birth?”
Was he expecting me to phone my parents on the spot? That would make an interesting call. No, I’m not ready to kiss and make up, but can you get my astrologer some info? Probably confirm their worst suspicions. Some of their worst suspicions.
“I can try,” I said. “Later.”
He thought this over for a moment or two and then gestured abruptly to the chair in front of his desk. He retreated behind the desk like a soldier returning to his own foxhole following the Christmas cease-fire.
“Is it all right if I tape this interview?”
He gestured vaguely with his hand.
I turned on the tape recorder, and he said, “First of all, Will Burack did not kill Evie. If that’s what you think, you’re quite mistaken.”
I said, “How do you know Burack didn’t kill her?”
Elbows on the desk, he steepled his hands together. “Burack was a Taurus. An earthy sign but not without its attractions—and appreciative of all things beautiful.”
“Like Eva?” I said, hoping we could skip the horoscope and get straight to business.
“Like Eva,” Mayfield agreed. “Eva, on the other hand, was Leo. Fire, fixed and positive, ruled by the sun. Leo is of the day, a masculine sign. Taurus is a feminine sign and of the night.” He looked at me expectantly.
I said, “I didn’t realize. So they were opposites?”
His eyes seemed to pop. “Opposites? It’s a 4-10 sun sign pattern. Square.”
“Ah,” I said. What I was thinking was, What the hell?
“There would be conflicts, naturally, personality clashes, but violence, no. Never.”
“What about Tony Fumagalli? What sign was he?”
“His sun sign was Scorpio.”
From Mayfield’s expression I got the impression this was a bad thing.
“The scorpion?” I hazarded.
“Jealous, possessive, passion that borders on mania. I’m speaking of Fumagalli in particular, you understand, not all Scorpios. It was also a 4-10 sun sign pattern.” He sighed. “Eva was always attracted to the same sort of man.”
“Do you think Fumagalli murdered her?”
He stared at me as though he didn’t understand the question. Then, finally, he said, “No.”
Right. Because of that 4-10 sun pattern thing. I asked, “Did you suspect anyone in particular?”
He gave an odd smile. “It is, as the Bard said, ‘written in our stars.’”
And if anyone could analyze the handwriting, it was Mayfield. I said, “Could you tell me who you suspect?”
He gave me a chiding look. “No, my dear, I could not. It would hardly do my career good to go around accusing my friends and clients of murder. I have, you see, an unfair advantage.” He looked up at the painted ceiling, his expression soulful.
I decided to let that go. Was I going to hear anything of what Mayfield thought and felt or was everything going to come via starlight? Or was he using the stars as a vehicle for what he personally believed? Was I going to have to do my own astrological research to verify what I was hearing from Mayfield?
“What was Eva like?” I asked. “You knew her better than anyone, didn’t you?”
His stern face softened. “She was very young. We all were. We just didn’t know it, you see? The young never recognize how truly inexperienced they are. How unprepared they are. Eva was not a great actress. She was not an intellectual giant. But she was funny. Very charming. And so incredibly lovely. It was a pleasure to simply look at her, listen to her. I laughed with Eva like I laughed with no one before or since.” He added dryly, “No doubt the champagne cocktails had something to do with it.”
As he spoke, I felt the all too familiar aura sweep over me: my stomach tightened, and with it, that panicky, scared feeling flooded through me. I couldn’t catch my breath. No time to speak, no time to think, and what was there to think except…please, no. Not now. Please…
* * * * *
I came to, terrified. A black bulk leaned over me—I couldn’t think where I was, what had happened, but the sensation of danger was overwhelming. I whimpered, unable to move.
“It’s all right, my dear. You’re all right now. There’s nothing to be afraid of.” I listened to that low croon. Realized it had been going on for some time. How long? I widened my eyes, tried to see his face. Did I know him?
He was chafing my hands. Warm hands, soft palms and soft fingers. Gentle.
It slowly dawned on me that I’d had a seizure. I swallowed. Pulled my hands away. Tried to sit up.
“No, no, my dear. Just rest.” He pressed me back. He’d put a cushion under my head. I was lying on a carpet. Indigo and brown. There was a name for that kind of carpet but I couldn’t remember it. Expensive carpet but not comfortable. I turned my head. There was a pair of red Turkish slippers underneath the desk. That seemed funny, but I felt too weak to laugh. I shifted my gaze. He was kneeling beside me. What was his name? May-something. Mayhew? Mayfield. Roman Mayfield. He wore the expression I had come to dread: that horrible mix of pity and alarm. I couldn’t deal with it.
He stroked my hair back, quite gently. “Have you ever had a seizure before, my dear?”
I affirmed. Closed my eyes. I just wanted to sleep.
“You’re…epileptic, is that it?”
I nodded, not bothering to lift my weighted lids.
“That’s all right then.”
It is? Not really. He was taking it pretty well, though, considering. Poor old guy. I was glad he wasn’t too frightened. I knew exactly what he’d seen. I’d had it described to me in detail a couple of times, and it frightened most people. It frightened me. I’d go stiff as a board, tip over, eyes rolling back in my head, my eyelashes fluttering, and I’d tremble violently for three to four minutes. Then it would stop and I’d gradually come around.
So far I hadn’t pissed myself or thrown up, which was something to be grateful for, but I couldn’t seem to shake it off like a lot of people did. I’d read about patients who had a seizure and five minutes later were back at work—or out to the theater with friends. The epilepsy poster children.
I couldn’t do that. I was exhausted and strung out afterwards. At least I’d stopped crying. That was something else to be grateful for, because at first I couldn’t help it. Every time it was over, I’d cry. I don’t even know why. It’s not like it hurt during a seizure—unless I fell on something hard, furniture or a wall—I wasn’t even conscious during the seizure. The crying was as humiliating as the seizure, but that was mostly under control now. Mostly. What was harder to control was my desire to be held—because the last thing anyone wanted to do was hold someone who’d just had a seizure. The weird thing w
as I didn’t even like being held usually. I was never big on cuddling. But after a seizure I just wanted the reassurance of someone’s arms around me.
It was beyond embarrassing. It was mortifying.
The worst time was the night with Jack. Too little sleep, too much to drink, and whammo. After a night of fooling and fucking, I’d seized, right there in Jack’s bed, waking him out of a deep sleep to…everything I’d prefer not to think about. He was good about it—knew exactly what to do, moving me into recovery position, talking to me, stroking my back. When I’d asked him to hold me, he’d taken me into his arms without hesitation and cradled me until I fell asleep.
It wasn’t until we’d talked later that I’d realized how disgusted and angry he was.
And that was the end of me and Jack. The memory of it was still sharp and painful enough that it dispersed my lethargy, and I opened my eyes.
Roman Mayfield was sitting cross-legged beside me. One of his hands rested on my head and the other was resting on his knee, fingers extended, thumb and forefinger joined to make a circle. His eyes were closed; he appeared to be meditating.
Like this all wasn’t weird enough?
When I moved, his eyes flew open and he smiled at me. “Better now?”
“Sorry about that,” I mumbled.
“There’s nothing to be sorry for.” He crawled out of the way as I sat up and then pushed onto all fours. From there I used the edge of his desk to pull myself up. Mayfield did the same, rising stiffly to his feet. I heard his knees pop. Maybe someday this would be funny. I couldn’t imagine it, but maybe. About a million years from now. I raked a hand through my hair, put shaky hands to my tie.
“Would you like to lie down?” he asked.
I laughed unsteadily. “I think I already did.”
“I mean, have a real sleep.” Those weirdly-colored eyes met mine, and I could see that he was sincere in his offer; I thought he had to be one of the kindest people I’d ever met, even if he was a little screwy.
I said, “Thanks. I think I should be going.” The thought of getting myself out of there, walking back to the bus stop, and the long bus ride, was almost overwhelming. I needed to go while I still could. “Would it be all right if I contacted you with any questions?” I was afraid to ask for another interview.
“Of course.” He gave me an oddly intent look. “I think perhaps we should reschedule, shouldn’t we?”
I nodded. Fumbled my tape recorder into my pocket.
“Now sit down and relax for a moment. I’ll have my car brought around.”
I protested, but he insisted—and he had a lot more energy than I did—so in the end, I was dropped off in front of my apartment building by Roman Mayfield’s white limousine.
* * * * *
Jack must have had the day off because he was swimming in the deserted pool as I wearily passed the courtyard on the way to my apartment. I deliberately ignored the sight of his lean brown body cutting through the aqua water, glistening powerful arms dipping slow and steady in perfect rhythm with the strong kick of his long, tanned legs.
I was going to have to work on my ignoring technique.
I was unlocking my door when I heard him call my name. “Tim!”
Unwillingly, I turned in time to see him hoist himself out of the pool, water raining down on the pavement.
He came toward me, unselfconsciously straightening his red swim trunks. “I’ve got some news.”
“Great.” I pushed my door open, practically weak-kneed with the relief of being home at last. Sanctuary. “I’ll talk to you later, okay?”
He caught the door before it shut on him, just as he had done the other night. The easy friendliness of his face changed. “Hey. Tim, is there some reason why we can’t be friends?”
It was spoken in the same tone that cops ask, Is there a problem here?
And, yeah, there was a problem. The problem was that he was standing too close to me and he smelled of chlorine and bare skin, and I could remember only too clearly the smooth supple texture of that skin, and the salty taste of it, and how it felt to rest my face against it and listen to his heartbeat.
“No,” I said shortly. “No reason. But I’m not feeling too hot right now, so later, okay?”
“Are you all right?” His gray eyes scanned my face with apparent concern—and I lost it.
“Like you fucking care?” I replied. “Don’t worry. It’s not your problem.”
I didn’t shout or anything, I didn’t even say it loudly, but Jack’s eyes narrowed. He glanced around like he thought someone might overhear us, and then he pushed open my door, forcing me back as he stepped inside my apartment.
“Wait. A. Minute.” He snapped each word out. “You’re the one who withheld information. So don’t give me some snotty attitude like I’m not sympathetic to your situation.”
“‘Withheld information’? What, were we on stakeout together? You have no idea what my situation is.” And just like that, I was in his face, yelling.
Jack paled, his lips folding in the way they did when he didn’t like something. His eyes looked black. He yelled back, “You know what I mean. You should have told me you’re epileptic!”
He was always so controlled; his answering anger caught me off guard. More calmly, I asked, “On the fourth date? Would there have been a fifth date?”
“I don’t know. But I do know you should have told me before we spent the night together.”
“Sorry I’m not up on epileptic etiquette,” I said bitterly. “It’s still kind of new to me.”
I watched the anger dissipate from his face and body. “I know. I remember. The accident was eighteen months ago. Look, Tim, it’s not the seizures, okay? You should have been up front with me, but—”
“Can we not do this now?” I interrupted, dropping down on the sofa. My adrenaline-fueled burst of energy was long gone. I said tiredly, “I should have told you. I know. And I know it wasn’t working between us anyway.”
Something in the quality of Jack’s silence made me look up. I couldn’t read his expression.
I said, “And I do want to stay friends, so thanks.” I tried for a smile. “So will you please go away now?”
He seemed to shake off his preoccupation. “Yeah. Of course. Sorry.” He opened the door. “Call me when you wake up. It turns out that Bud Perkins did keep his own private file on the Aldrich case.”
* * * * *
I slept till seven thirty. When I woke, I felt a lot better—a little embarrassed for coming unglued with Jack, but equally relieved to have gotten it off my chest. I showered and hunted around in the cupboard for something to eat—along with lack of sleep and stress, missing meals was another trigger for my epilepsy—and then gave Jack a call while Campbell’s soup heated on the stove.
Jack picked up immediately, and I felt a little self-conscious after our earlier confrontation.
“Hi, it’s Tim.”
“Hey,” said Jack. “Have you eaten? I’m fixing wings.”
I glanced at the canned soup bubbling on the burner. “No,” I said slowly.
“Why don’t you come up and you can look Perkins’s file over while we eat.”
“You’ve got Perkins’s personal file?”
“Yeah. There’s a lot in it, but I don’t know how relevant most of it is. I figured you’d find it interesting.”
To put it mildly. “I’m on my way,” I said.
I turned off the burner, stuck the soup in the fridge. Stopping only long enough to slip on a pair of Vans and drag the comb through my damp hair, I shook my head at my mirrored self. I had a feeling trying to work out a friendship with Jack was a bad idea. I was still too attracted to him. But, unless one of us was planning to move, there didn’t seem much help for it—and he was a valuable resource.
I stepped outside of my apartment and locked the door. The evening air was mild, filled with the hum of the pool generator and air conditioners. The lights were on in the pool, the solar-powered Tiki torches flick
ering in the twilight. I could smell the jasmine in the air—and a hint of tobacco smoke.
I glanced over as I started up the stairs to Jack’s apartment, pinpointing the round orange dot of the cigarette of someone standing in the shadow of the blanket of bougainvillea cascading over the side of the building. I didn’t make anything of it until I saw the cigarette arc off into the night and a bulky silhouette detach itself from the deeper shadows.
“You don’t listen too well,” the shadow said conversationally, walking toward me.
The funny thing is, my initial thought was that he said too well rather than too good. A thug with proper grammar?
He lunged for me, and instead of backing away, I moved forward and delivered an uppercut with all the power I had. Despite the fact that I was off-balance on the steps, it was a good punch; I hadn’t had time to think and so my body was loose and my hand relaxed till the last moment. I put my total body force into that strike, driving my fist squarely into his sternum. It was like punching a bull. I tried to follow through to his chin, but he’d recovered from his initial surprise by then and blocked me, slipping left and countering with a straight punch.
Ducking, I thought, Fuck. He’s a boxer.
Most street fights aren’t about training or skill. They’re about two pissed off men throwing punches until one of them falls down. So a guy who can stay cool and keep thinking, and knows the basics, has an advantage, even if he’s on the slim side. Unless he runs into a bigger guy with a lot more experience and training—which I’d just done.
The punches began to fall, landing on my arms and shoulders. I had my guard up trying to protect my head, but there was no way I could stand up to that onslaught. His fist landed in my gut and I went down on one knee, nearly losing my balance. The stairs and railing prevented me from getting clean away, and that was my only hope at that point. Through the barrier of my arms, I tried to get a good look at him, but it was nearly dark by then. He kind of looked like Mr. Clean: big and bald and sort of jolly. He seemed to be enjoying pummeling me.
