by Mark Zubro
I glanced around. Romeo and Juliet were oblivious. The moon and stars kept quiet.
It would have been awkward for Kyle to carry the step stool and ride his bike on the dirt paths in the orange groves. The bike didn’t have a carrying device of any kind on the back. Maybe he’d lost the bike earlier, or it had been stolen or taken sometime before and dumped in the canal. The bike didn’t prove anything, but as Singleton would say, it was out of the ordinary. Its presence sure added weight to the idea that he’d been murdered.
Since I’d already touched the bike, I figured I’d put the damn thing in the trunk, call Singleton tomorrow, and hope he had a smart suggestion.
Because of the screwed up front spokes, the tire wouldn’t turn correctly. Being careful not to put too much weight on my left foot, I began moving toward the trunk. I wound up having to carry the damn bike. It was cumbersome but not heavy.
I glanced toward the convertible. It was pulling back with its lights off. I got to the trunk, opened it, hopped on one leg to get better leverage, and began to lift the bike.
That’s when I heard footsteps coming toward me. I swiveled my head. The car with the romantic couple was gone. I looked the other way down the canal.
Two forms appeared to be about forty feet away. I had been listening for possible trouble, but fumbling with the bike had made more noise than it should have. I didn’t know how long they’d been there. These two didn’t make any pretense of approaching quietly.
They began to run toward me.
I wasn’t about to take on two unknown attackers, with who knows how many helpers nearby. Could it be Frank and a friend? I didn’t think he could have followed me. I hadn’t noticed any other cars when I drove up.
I decided, screw the bike. I heaved it towards the bushes. The two guys were coming awful fast. I put my foot down to rush to the car door.
Unfortunately, it was my left foot. The obvious danger and rush of adrenaline combined to make me forget about my ankle. While it didn’t hurt so much this time, it still threw me off balance. The soft ground gave way. I stumbled and fell to the dirt. It took maybe an instant to get to my feet, but it was an instant too long. I felt hands grab me.
Fear cancelled out all pain. The only thing I can say is that it was like going nuts, but in slow motion. My thoughts were absolutely clear, but the action couldn’t have taken more than a few seconds.
With one hand, I grabbed one guy by the hair and yanked and twisted and held on. He yowled satisfyingly.
The other guy tried to get me in a bear hug from behind. He must have been big because I felt myself lifted, feet almost leaving the ground. This was kind of good, because I didn’t have to lean on my bum ankle to get a purchase to swing out my right leg and bash my heel back into his shin. He dropped me.
Pain shot through my ankle. I ignored it. I let go of the other guy’s hair and took off.
The turf in the orange groves is not made for racing. It was like running through sand, but I’d practiced enough wind sprints and long distance running to make decent speed. Unless they were track stars, I should be able to leave them far behind, if my ankle held out.
I swung around orange trees, this time pivoting on my good ankle. I stumbled over ridges of dirt and hidden obstacles.
I figured to run in a straight line, with luck they’d follow, and then I could make a large circle, winding up back at my car.
I heard labored breathing. I looked behind. They were stumbling after me and not making a lot of quick headway. Good, they weren’t in great shape.
What with trying to dodge and using the trees for cover, in a few minutes I was no longer sure of which way to go. One orange tree is pretty much like another, especially when you’re running like hell in the dark with an ankle that could completely give out at any minute.
In baseball, I’d gotten used to playing with pain. Even though my ankle throbbed, I settled down to a reasonable pace.
When I could no longer hear them behind me, I slowed and turned to examine the path I’d taken. I thought I saw movement, but it was distant now. I began taking turns that might take me to the canal road.
Agonizing minutes later, I came to the water’s edge. I glanced both ways. Moments later I realized I was about one hundred yards from my car and I was hidden by the curve of the canal. I peered into the groves from where I’d come, nobody.
Sticking to the edge of the road and using the trees for as much cover as I could, I made my way toward the car. Twenty feet from my goal, I stopped. A body detached itself from the stand of bushes behind which I’d hidden the car. He glanced in my direction. I didn’t see the other guy anywhere.
I didn’t stop to think about my ankle or pain. I sprang forward and built up a head of steam.
“Hey,” the guy in front of me called.
About three feet from him, my ankle gave out. I bellowed a scream and launched myself at him as best I could. I rammed into him at about half speed. The impact of our collision threw him halfway across the road. An object flew straight up in the air and thudded down next to me.
I’d landed half on top of him. My right elbow smashed into his gut. He whooshed and lay gasping.
I searched around next to me. I picked up a gun.
I got myself onto my good foot, kept the gun in one hand, hobbled to the car, got the door open, threw myself into the seat, held onto the gun, started the car, put it in gear, and tromped on the gas.
Dirt flew from the tires. The car slewed left then right, then the wheels caught. The car lurched forward. I spun the steering wheel, got the car turned, and roared away.
I checked the rearview mirror. One guy knelt next to another guy sprawled on the road. Between the darkness and fear, I hadn’t seen their faces clearly. I’d never be able to make a definitive identification.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Tuesday 11:14 P.M.
My dad was reading the paper in his favorite chair when I stumbled through the front door. In minutes they had ice on my ankle, cops in the living room, and paramedics on the way.
I gave the police all the details, especially about finding the bike. I was pretty excited so I included a lot of information about how it could be connected to Kyle’s death. I left out the part that happened with Frank earlier though.
Nobody was happy about the presence of the gun. Neither was I. It was still in the car. The cops took it when they left to investigate.
The paramedics asked if there was severe or uncontrolled pain. While waiting for them, I’d taken a couple aspirins, and the ache was definitely only at the edge of a minor throb. I could move the ankle, and I could walk carefully. They pressed the boney bumps on each side of the ankle, no pain. I had feeling in my foot and toes. The upshot was they didn’t think it was broken.
The cops came back while the paramedics were leaving. I wasn’t eager to have all the visitors out of the way. Mom and Dad were waiting for their turn.
The cops said they’d searched the area. They found no bike, no guys lurking around, and no suspicious footprints or tire tracks.
They reported that the gun had no registration. I repeated my story. On the third time around, my dad said, “That’s enough. He’s told the truth. We don’t own a gun. It’s not his gun.”
Whether or not the cops believed me or my dad, or they thought we were lying, they dropped the subject. They promised to look again in the morning.
After everybody left, I got lectured. Mom and Dad seldom yelled, but they were pissed, more than they’d been in years. I endured it while shifting the towel with the ice on my ankle at regular intervals.
My mom finished her part with, “I don’t want you going out into the orange groves again. It’s dangerous. You don’t want to get mixed up in anything like this. I’m not sure I want you hanging around Mr. Singleton. He may be famous, but I don’t want you in danger.”
My dad finished with, “We’ve been able to trust you, and you’re pretty level headed and responsible. But we’ll need to monitor
you a bit more for a while. Leave the investigating to the police.”
I was tired and my ankle hurt. I nodded agreement with my parents. It was pointless to argue. I had to think and then decide what I wanted to do in the morning.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Wednesday 8:00 A.M.
I drifted into school on five hours of sleep. The paramedics had left a temporary splint I could use if the ankle bothered me. They also left a pair of crutches. If the pain got worse, I was to go to the doctor for x-rays. I took a couple aspirin and didn’t feel that bad.
Ian cornered me at my locker. He was almost the last person I wanted to see. “Word is Frank Boyer is out to beat your ass. I hope you got insurance buddy, because what Frank says, happens. I wouldn’t want him as an enemy.”
I wanted to say, “And I don’t want you in my presence ever,” but I kept my mouth shut.
As I limped down the hall, Jack caught up with me. He said, “I heard what happened with Boyer. You okay?”
“The ankle is a little sore. It should be okay in a few days. I can still work out just not leg stuff or running. I’m a little worried about Boyer.”
“I heard you made him look stupid last night. There was this big fight at a Burrito Palace Drive In.”
I gave him the non-rumor version, and told him I’d see him after school for our limited workout. I was determined to tell him I was gay. I wanted to do it today before I lost my courage.
I found Darlene in the newspaper office at noon. Wednesday was usually the quietest day around the office. Even old Trumble seldom showed up.
I told her everything.
She surprised me a little after I finished. She hugged me, and said, “It must be tough to be in high school and be gay. I’m glad you told me.”
It was a tremendous relief to just be sitting in the newspaper office discussing my sexual orientation as if it was an okay topic of conversation.
The bell rang for the end of the period. Darlene reached out, pressed my hand and said, “I’m worried about Boyer doing you some harm. I shouldn’t have sent you.”
“Don’t feel bad. I learned some important stuff.”
“Are you going to do anything about avoiding him?”
“If I have to, I’ll confront him. I won’t back down.”
“He’s more likely to try something nasty and furtive.”
“He’s not all that bright,” I said. “My guess is a frontal assault is more his style. I want to find out if there were other kids out in the orange groves Sunday night. Someone might have seen or heard something.”
“Tough job,” Darlene said. “Not going to do any good to make an announcement on the P.A. system.”
“I know guys from the team who are into drinking, anytime, anywhere. I’ll start with them. They’ll know the most popular places to drink. They may even have heard about Kyle’s offers of pleasure.”
Bert Blaire, the master of the obnoxious, bounced into the room. “How’s the man most likely to be beaten into insensibility?”
I asked, “How’s the richest twit in the school?”
He narrowed his eyes at me. “Maybe I’ll be part of Frank Boyer’s cheering section.”
Darlene scowled. “Grow a pair, you moron.” She and I left.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Wednesday 2:33 P.M.
I sat out gym class because of my ankle. I decided I’d meet with Singleton at least today to fill him in on what happened. I called and he agreed to meet after school.
I asked a few questions in the locker room and buttonholed a few of the guys while they hung around trying to look busy under basketball hoops around the gym. Coach Delahanty sat at a table at a desk near the doors to the locker room, graded papers, and rarely took notice of the action around him.
I figured it might be easier to narrow down who was there because Kyle died on a Sunday night. A Friday or Saturday night and there might have been way more kids. Or maybe that’s why Kyle picked Sunday, fewer chances of being stopped.
It didn’t take much for me to get a few leads about who went drinking where on most weekends. The rumor about my presumed doom from Frank got mentioned by about half the guys I talked to. More than a few of them congratulated me on beating him. I’d earned status as being a tough guy. I tried to say, I’d only landed one punch to his crotch, but that was more than anyone had ever landed on Boyer, so I guess it was a big deal in their eyes.
A couple also expressed their view about my lack of brains in standing up to him. The consensus among these guys seemed to be that I was lucky the first time, but the second time, I’d be dead meat.
The student rumor mill had wildly different versions of what had happened. In several Boyer had put me in a hospital and I was in a coma. My hobbling around must have been a revelation to the reality challenged.
By the end of class, I had the names of three kids, all excellent possibilities, for giving me information about drinking in the orange groves last Sunday night.
After school I had to talk to the three guys whose names I’d gotten, work out with Jack, and meet Singleton.
Terry Calavecci, a sophomore, said, “It was me and three buddies, but we were out near Mockingbird Canyon Lake. We had to beat it the hell out of there about ten because the cops came through. We didn’t go near the place they found the body.” Calavecci, who had driven, dropped off people one by one then went home. His buddies were all freshmen, and Calavecci claimed they’d never heard about anybody offering sex to people out drinking.
Jim Pembroke, a senior, said, “Me and four guys drove around a lot from about eight until eleven. Up and down all the streets.” They drank as they drove.
I asked him if they’d noticed anything at all unusual.
Being a Sunday, they’d consumed only a couple of six-packs between them, and they’d pretty much concentrated on that. He had heard about a guy who gave head in the groves, but thought it was just one of those urban legends.
The last guy was Dave Brunswick. He was one of the top pitchers in the state at the high school level. Only a junior this year, but as a sophomore, he’d dazzled a lot of people, including me. While I was the only one on our team who consistently hit his pitching during practice, he was tough, and I wouldn’t want to face him every day. He was maybe five foot seven, and incredibly thin, with beautiful dusky-rose skin.
Whatever meat he had on his bones was muscle. He worried a lot about growing so he’d be big enough for pro baseball. He gorged himself at every opportunity and never gained an ounce.
I found Dave just outside the weight room. He sometimes worked out with us. He lived only half a mile from me and was probably my closest friend next to Jack. Dave was a gregarious, friendly guy, but he seemed real wary when he found out that I wanted to talk about Sunday night.
Readily enough, he admitted he and five buddies had taken his van and spent a few hours Sunday night working their way through a few cans of beer.
He got real vague about where they’d been drinking. I’d only ever seen him do that once before, back when we were kids. He’d lied to his dad about going after a baseball in a neighbor’s backyard where he managed to ruin a bunch of prize-winning rose bushes.
I guessed Dave and his buddies had either seen or heard something.
I asked if he’d seen Kyle that night or any other night out in the groves.
He hesitated briefly and wouldn’t look me in the eye as he mumbled a no.
I explained the details as I knew them. “I found out from Frank Boyer that Kyle would go through the orange groves and offer guys sex, blowjobs. Lot of guys don’t care who’s doing them as long as they get their rocks off.”
Dave blushed. “Well, yeah. You get a little drunk and you’re in the mood. Look, I’d rather not talk about this.”
“The cops are beginning to think Kyle was murdered.” This was a stretch, but I wanted him to confide in me. “I’ve talked with Bill Singleton and the cops.” Everybody knew Riverside’s most famous reporter. Dave s
eemed impressed. “If you tell me, I might be able to give them information without involving your name.”
He hesitated.
I added, “Come on, Dave, we’ve been friends for years. You know I’m not going to go around yapping to people about what you say. If you saw something out there, it could be important.”
He looked at the ground then glanced in each direction but stayed silent.
I said, “What you tell me could help solve the murder. Even if it didn’t happen that night, if you know something about Kyle, it might help. You could be a hero, maybe, and get yourself on television.”
Dave said, “I thought he committed suicide.”
I explained why I thought it could be murder and what the police might be checking out even as we spoke.
“Wow,” he said.
“So, if you could tell me something, anything about Kyle or how he worked to get guys to let him do stuff or anything.”
He examined the hallway to make sure nobody was around and then said, “You can’t tell anybody this.”
I gave my word.
“It only happened three times when I was around. The first time when I was a freshman. I went out with my older brother and a couple of his friends. They were seniors. I thought they were making it up when they talked about some kid going around offering to do guys.
“One of my brother’s friends had to take a leak, and I did too, so I sort of followed him, but it was my first time, and you know how dark it is out there. I got a little lost, although I could still hear the sound from the car stereo.
“I stopped to unzip my pants when I heard voices ahead of me. I was curious so I walked about ten paces forward and there behind one of the trees was that senior getting it from a much younger kid. I guess it was Kyle, but I’d never seen him. I only watched for a second and then slipped away.
“The guy came back a few minutes later. He must have given some kind of signal, because then my brother left to go piss. At least that’s what he said. When he came back, he was all smiles. I found out later that they made Kyle pay them twenty bucks apiece.”
