The Orchid Eater

by Marc Laidlaw

  “That was my idea,” Hawk said. “Come on, I’ll stand, you sit down.”

  “I’m fine, Hawk. I’m just choking in here.”

  “We could go outside, but when people see I’m home, they tend to drop by.”

  Randy said, “You still give your sermons?”

  “Sure,” Hawk said. “On the mount.”

  “The hillside, you mean.”

  “That’s the place.”

  “So let’s go up there.”

  They made their way onto the hill behind the trailer, where Hawk could easily see anyone driving into the lot. There was shade, so they were cooler as well as more secluded. Hawk didn’t like Alec drinking up here, or smoking. He didn’t permit his boys to do either. But he wasn’t about to say anything to Alec. Too late to be an influence there.

  “So . . .” Randy said when they had settled down on stumps. “Alec got me thinking,” Hawk said. “Remember the night before Craig’s murder?”

  Randy’s face was unreadable.

  “You know, with that trouble up on the hill?”

  Randy grinned suddenly. “Yeah, I remember.” He chuckled. “Night of the avocado. Your tough little straight boys running from a gang of queens. That was quite a sight.”

  Hawk agreed that it must have been, but he suppressed his own smile.

  “Took two coats to hide that guacamole stain.”

  “Yeah? What it started me thinking was—there was someone else around that night. Remember? I never saw him, but you did.”

  Randy’s face grew serious again. “Sal’s brother? Is that who you’re after?”

  “That’s why I called you. I couldn’t just go up and ask Sal questions like this, make him think we’re looking for his brother.”

  “You saw him today?” Randy asked Alec.

  “I don’t know who I saw. He was kind of unique looking, though, like I said. Memorable.”

  Hawk asked, “What did he look like, Randy?”

  Randy’s eyes drifted toward the trees. “He looked like a boy. Like a young boy. His face didn’t match his body at all. Physically strong, kind of rugged, like he’d been around. It sure wasn’t a kid’s body.”

  “That sounds like the fella I saw,” Alec said. “He ducked in and out of a white Porsche, this older guy I’ve seen before driving it. One of those downtown merchants or real estate agents. One of them flower-shop boys.”

  “Well, Sal’s not—I mean, we only saw him that one time, if it is the same kid. Lupe, that was his name.”

  “Right,” Hawk said. “Lupe.”

  “We figured he took off. He told Sal he’d been traveling all over the country, and we thought he’d gone back to it.”

  Randy sat for a moment, thinking, then looked up sharply at Hawk.

  “You don’t think Sal knows anything about Craig Frost, do you?

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “Because I was with Sal all that morning, man, and other guys too. We were working out.” Randy was on his feet again. “His brother never came around.”

  “Well, this was pretty damn early,” Alec said, and belched.

  “I spent the fucking night in his bed, all right?” Randy shouted.

  Alec looked at the ground, his mouth clamped shut, plainly embarrassed.

  “If you think he’d murder some jerk kid for throwing an avocado through his door—or for anything—you must be crazy.”

  “Hey, hey, calm down,” Hawk said. “It’s just shreds of evidence and nothing clues and a whole lot of suspicions. I’m not thinking anything in particular, except that I’d like to talk to the kid if he’s around. Say, if he shows up at Sal’s place, it’d be helpful to know.”

  Randy narrowed his eyes. “You mean if he shows up when I’m there?”

  “I’m not asking you to do anything you’re not comfortable with, Randy. Not like being a spy or a traitor or anything.”

  “Sal’s my best friend, man.”

  “Right! So you ought to protect him.”

  “From what? Sal didn’t do anything.”

  “I only mean that you should make sure the cops get the right guy.”

  “Why would they make a mistake?”

  “You know Bohemia, Randy. We’ve got like three blacks, two spics, a Chinese family that runs an import shop . . . If anyone else says they saw a vaguely Cholo-looking dude on the beach around the time Craig was killed, they’re gonna descend on Sal. By the time all you boys explain that you were sleeping in his bed and taking his lessons that morning, they’ll have turned everything upside down and inside out. I’m talking about your whole life, Randy. They’ll run you out of town—Marty, I mean Marilyn, and all the rest—once they’ve made an example of Sal. That’s their job, man. They’re bugging me constantly, me and my gang, and most of my boys are right up their alley, attitudewise.”

  Randy stared at the ground, Stetson hat pulled low over his eyes, mouth grim.

  “And you know, Randy, I’m not even talking here about the real trouble Sal could get into. I’m not even mentioning his art sales.”

  Randy swallowed, turned away, paced toward the trees where the sun was setting. The rustling leaves made the sunlight seem to fracture and clash. He looked straight into the glare, then spun back toward Hawk.

  “I can’t do what you’re asking,” he said. “All I can do is tell him what you told me. Anything else, I’d be a snake.”

  Hawk put up his hands in frustration.

  “No, no, just . . .just say you saw Lupe somewhere. Say you heard I suspect his brother or something. Don’t tell him we’ve been talking, Randy. You don’t know how he’ll take that.”

  “Look, if there’s a possibility that Lupe did kill Frost, I want Sal to know about it. If he’s dangerous, people should know. They should be on their guard. All of us.”

  Hawk thought about this a moment. “But if he comes around, and Sal knows I’m looking for him, he’s just gonna protect the guy.”

  “You don’t know that.”

  “He’s not gonna turn his own brother over to me.”

  “To you? I thought we were talking about the cops. No deal, man.”

  Hawk stood up, exasperated. “All right, forget it. I can’t blame you, Randy. Maybe it does sound like betrayal.”

  “No, it sounds like a setup. I’m not joining your little conspiracy. I’m not gonna keep secrets from my best friend just to feed your little power trip.”

  “My power trip? Am I the one with a dozen boys running his . . . errands . . . ?” The words dried up in Hawk’s mouth.

  Randy gave him a sour, ironic smile. “See you ’round.”

  Hawk nodded, feeling flushed and stupid. He put out his hand. “Forget we talked, man. Do what you think is right.”

  Randy didn’t take his hand. “I always do.” He started down the hill.

  “I just want you to know,” Hawk called after him, “we’re on the same side.”

  “Is that right?”

  “And one more thing,” Hawk said. “If you want evidence, stop by Alec’s station, check the phone book. See if the page with ‘Diaz’ is missing.”

  Randy was getting into his truck. “Shit, Hawk, you could have ripped it out yourself.” He slammed the door, backed out of the lot, and tore away down Old Creek Road.

  Hawk turned away, depressed. Another link of trust was broken. He looked to Alec for some support, however meager.

  Alec sat slumped in the dirt, propped against the podium, eyes shut and snoring, beer can empty. A trail of drool glinted on his chin in the late afternoon light.

  ***

  The Rock Lobster was packed, as Sal had expected on such a warm summer night. The men who drank and partied here did not have to worry about rising early; most were on vacation, living in summer homes. Bohemia Bay was sometimes known as Fire Island West. On weekends, gay tourists swelled the crowd past the bursting point, and men spilled out onto the patio, into the alley, and all along the stairs down to the beach.

  Standing on the t
opmost step, Sal saw men packed together on the stairs, laughing and moaning. In the shadow of the cliff, below lampposts that were knocked out methodically each time the town replaced them—guests of the Rock Lobster taking turns with the official wrist-rocket—there was a more intimate but no more furtive seethe of activity. For those who desired it, something resembling privacy was available on the hillside, in caves cut away beneath the hedges.

  Sal moved away from the steps, away from the cliff and the beach. This was no longer his scene, although in moments of extreme (usually drunken) horniness or loneliness he still turned to it, blending into the dark at the edge of the crowd, joining the strangers who waited there in perpetual anonymity. He imagined entering those shadows and switching on a flashlight, interrogating the startled, sweating couples. He had lurked in many such places himself at one time, before he had found other ways of making a living than with his cock and his mouth. He had lived in fear of the probing spotlight on a cop car.

  Tonight he was the one searching the shadows, but he needn’t beat the bushes for his prey. He wouldn’t have been here at all if he hadn’t known exactly what questions to ask, and of whom.

  Sal Diaz, gay detective. He smiled at the thought.

  He crossed the patio and sat at the outdoor bar, under a red floodlight that made a half-drunk beer on the counter look like a glass of blood. The bartender set down a napkin. Sal asked for a club soda.

  As he drank it, he cast his mind back to the night he’d seen Lupe out here, an instant before his brother vanished. Had Lupe noticed him, or had his sudden departure been coincidental? Had Lupe sought out the Rock Lobster deliberately, because he felt comfortable there, or had he only stumbled across it, and not realized what kind of place it was until later? Maybe he had come thinking he might run into Sal, then panicked and fled when he spied his brother.

  He had been with a man, though, and the man had departed just as hurriedly. So it seemed possible that Lupe had come here knowingly, and had left without seeing Sal. Had left with another man, because that was what he wanted.

  Sal rarely visited the Rock Lobster more than once a week, but he had been coming a few nights weekly since then, hoping to spot Lupe or at least the man he’d left with. Sal felt sure the other man was a regular here, a lonely face familiar from many nights of hanging out here at this very bar. But neither Lupe nor his companion had reappeared since Sal had increased the frequency of his visits. And he’d had no reason to pursue the matter any further; Lupe was entitled to his privacy. If he was hiding from Sal for some reason, then perhaps he simply wasn’t ready to be frank with him.

  Or so Sal had told himself until tonight, after hearing Randy’s story about Hawk. Suddenly he had good reason to find out what he could.

  Tonight’s outdoor bartender was new to the Rock Lobster. Sal watched the door to the interior for a minute, until the waiter he’d been looking for came out and set a couple of plates on a table. Sal waved to catch his eye.

  “Tyler!” he said.

  “Hey, Sal.” Tyler glided over. “How are you?”

  “Great. Can I talk to you a minute?”

  “Sure, you want a menu?”

  “No, I have a sort of personal question.”

  “Oh, really?” Tyler’s eyebrows lifted humorously. “And I thought I was too old for you.”

  Sal laughed, and tilted his head so that Tyler would lean in closer. The man next to them got up, leaving them alone at the end of the bar. With the sound of disco music thudding out of the restaurant, he doubted anyone would overhear them.

  “I know this is asking a lot, but do you remember a night a few weeks ago—”

  “Oh, Jesus.”

  “No, really, you might remember. You were waiting that night; you were in and out from the patio.”

  “I know exactly the night you’re talking about.”

  “Please. This is important.”

  “Sorry.” Tyler bent closer, as if he had finally picked up on Sal’s intent.

  “There was a guy out here at a table. Latino. Looks a lot like me, in fact, but much younger. Baby-faced sort of kid. And there was someone with him, an older man—a regular, I think, because I used to see him all the time sitting right where I am now.”

  Tyler was already nodding. “Sure, I remember. I was going to card the kid, except he only wanted a salad.”

  “Yeah, he’s a vegetarian.”

  “Well, sure, I remember him. But if it’s a phone number you want, you’re out of luck.”

  “It’s not him I’m after.”

  “No? He seemed like just your type.”

  Sal let this slide. “The older guy, who would that have been?”

  “Jealous, Sal?”

  “Please . . .”

  “Well, there’s one regular inhabitant of this stool I haven’t seen around here lately. I think he’s finally got something going, a steady relationship, so there’s no reason to sit here and troll every night. I’m glad for him, really. He was such a sad case. Nice man, but you know, not exactly Ganymede.”

  “Do you know his name? Where I might find him?”

  “Sure, it’s Raymond Mankiewitz. He owns a travel agency downtown. Bohemia Travel, I think. You should ask Miller—you know, the owner? Ray set up a whole Hawaiian package deal for him last year—condo, car, everything.”

  “This is great.” Sal scribbled on a cocktail napkin, then pulled a roll of bills from his pocket. Tyler stopped his hand. “Please, don’t insult me.”

  “I’m just paying for my drink.”

  “Oh. Well, next time I actually serve you, you can leave an extra big tip.”

  “I’ll do that. Thanks again.” He left a bill on the table and got up.

  “Got to get back to work. That heat lamp will only keep a hamburger hot for so long.”

  “Oh, one more thing. Do you know what kind of car this guy drives? This Mankiewitz?”

  “Do I ever. He usually parks it right out there in the alley when he comes around. It’s only my dream car. A beautiful creamy white Porsche.”

  Tyler waved a goodnight and dived back into the restaurant.

  Sal started toward the exit, then realized what time it was. He would do no more detecting tonight. He went back and sat down at the bar, just where Raymond Mankiewitz had always sat. When the bartender looked his way, he ordered a margarita.

  He was no less alone than Raymond tonight, he supposed; most of his friends were too young to drink.

  14

  A strong smoky smell saturated the neighborhood. One of Raymond’s neighbors was firing up a barbecue. Lupe fought the urge to gag, since there was nothing he could do about it. Fortunately, the warm wind coming up from the canyon kept the smells from overwhelming him; and indoors, in the guest bedroom, it wasn’t too bad. These suburbanites were constantly burning meat. Why couldn’t they just eat it raw?

  Lupe owned almost nothing he would have needed in Hawaii, aside from clothes Raymond had bought for him. His knapsack, containing all his true possessions, was stashed in a small niche down in the canyons, where there was no chance of Raymond going through it. Still, to keep up with pretenses, he had been slowly stuffing a small duffel bag, while wondering how and when he would finally make his move. He had tried to work himself up to it the night before, but had found it impossible to concentrate. Raymond had had music going, lights on, was running around singing and dancing until late; when he had finally passed into a drunken sleep, it should have been very easy to finish him, but something held Lupe back. His own mild intoxication, perhaps. He wanted his mind to be crystal clear for the killing.

  As it turned out, he was glad he’d held off. Since waking, Raymond had kept remembering all sorts of things that needed doing, people who had to be called and reminded that he would be away, business that must be tied up so that nothing could go wrong in his absence. Lupe would not have been able to take care of all this alone; so now he was determined to wait until the last possible minute. When the car was packed and
Raymond was making a last survey of the house to check on the locks and the lights, that would be the best time. He would be excited and hurried; he wouldn’t notice what was coming.

  Lupe did not imagine anyone would start to worry about Raymond for at least five weeks. The mail and newspaper deliveries had been stopped. Utilities were paid in advance. Raymond’s affection for the suburbs apparently went unrequited, since his neighbors in the cul-de-sac had shown only squeamish hostility in the few interactions Lupe had witnessed. He supposed they would be the last ones to question Raymond’s absence. As for himself, Lupe planned to sleep during the days. It was a more comfortable schedule for him; he had suffered the daylight for Raymond’s sake, in order to promote his plan. Consequently, he had seen his boys rarely in the past weeks—no more than a few fleeting glimpses while he roamed the hills late at night.

  Well, soon the house would be full of them.

  At the thought, Lupe felt a quickening in his entire being—the promise of some great fulfillment or metamorphosis. It was like electricity in his soul; he could almost hear the humming. He closed his eyes, trying to prolong the sense of a door about to open. Just then, Raymond came into the room behind him. He felt a soft touch on his back. “Are you excited, Rico?”

  Lupe forced himself to respond, though his nerves were screaming for solitude. “Yes.”

  “It’s going to be wonderful to have time alone together, away from all this craziness.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “I thought . . . I’m all packed myself. I’m fixing lunch, and afterwards I thought maybe we could take a little nap.”

  “I’m not really tired.”

  Raymond sighed, looking down at Lupe’s bag. He clutched Lupe’s hand briefly, letting go when the pressure was not returned. He walked back into the hall. “Lunch’ll be ready soon.”

  Should he use the switchblade? He hadn’t thought about that. Sal had given him the knife when he was getting out of the hospital. He had only used it for initiations, and Raymond was no one he wanted for his gang. Too old and . . . wrong. Worn out. He didn’t have what Lupe wanted in a follower. The wrong sort of adulation filled his eyes, the kind that made Lupe uncomfortable no matter how long he endured it.