by Michael Nava
“Hello, Henry. Just relax and do what you’re told and everything will be fine.”
“Sure,” I said, as the car came up directly behind me.
The blond reached into his back pocket and pulled out a black bandana, of the kind allegedly used by some gay men to indicate their sexual specialties. I didn’t think that he was signaling me for a date. Smiling, he brought the bandana over my eyes and tied it at the back of my head.
“Put your hands out, please,” he said.
I put my hands out slowly. They were bound with rough twine. I was led by the arm into the back seat, where I was wedged between the two men. Lest I forget who was in charge, the dark-haired man pushed the nozzle of the gun against my side, just below my ribs.
The motor started and the car jumped forward. It was pretty quiet outside, so I assumed we were traveling on the periphery of the city. I had no sense of time. Finally, we stopped and the only noise I heard was the sound of the sea as someone unrolled a window and the wind swept in.
It occurred to me that I was about to be killed. I wondered if it would hurt. I wondered if there was an after-life. I supposed that I was about to find out. It was too bad I hadn’t gone to dinner with Grant.
“Who sent you?” I asked.
A voice that I recognized as belonging to the blond said, reasonably, “Don’t ask questions you don’t expect answers to.”
My arms were pulled out in front of me. I felt something cold and liquid dabbed at the inside of my arm at my elbow. The smell of alcohol filled the car.
“Nice biceps,” the blond said. “You lift weights, Henry?”
“No,” I said. “It’s heredity.”
“You’re lucky then,” he replied. “I have to lift pretty hard to stay in shape.”
The needle hit me with a shock, and I jerked my arms back.
“Steady,” the dark-haired man said, holding the gun against my neck. “Stay cool.”
“What is it?” I asked.
“We have some questions for you,” the blond replied. “This will make it easier for you to answer them.”
Minutes, or hours, passed. My tongue felt heavy in my mouth. Things stopped connecting in my head. I struggled to stay awake but it was like trying to keep my exhausted body afloat in a warm sea. It was so much easier just to give up and go under.
“Sodium pentothal,” I muttered in a voice that I vaguely recognized as my own. “Truth serum.”
“Very impressive,” the blond said. “Now relax.”
“It doesn’t work,” I murmured, half to myself. “Results aren’t admissible in court. I won’t tell you—anything I—don’t want to—”
“Quiet now,” one of them was saying. I couldn’t tell which anymore. “Rest. Later we’ll talk.”
I heard a roaring in my ears that was either the ocean or the sound of my blood.
6
SOMETHING SCAMPERED ACROSS MY ANKLES. I opened my eyes in time to watch a rat’s tail disappear between one of the two garbage cans I was wedged between. It was still dark. There was a wall behind me, a street-lamp far away, and even more distant, the noise of traffic. My head felt like glass, as if the slightest unplanned move would shatter it. I turned my wrist and slowly brought my watch to my face. It was one-thirty. I had left Grant’s apartment just before ten—three and a half hours lost. I tried to remember. We had driven around a lot and someone asked me a lot of questions but I couldn’t remember what had been said or whether I’d responded. And then I passed out. And now I was awake.
Sort of.
I lifted myself up and found that I was standing in an alley that dead-ended into a brick wall. At the other end, I saw a light and started moving toward it. The light seemed to move away and I kept running into things, trash cans, piles of boxes, the wall. This is not a dream, I told myself, though the atmosphere was as fetid as a nightmare. Finally, I reached the lamp-post and hugged it, closing my eyes and waiting for things to stop spinning. When I looked again, everything was more or less still as I tried to get my bearings.
There was a wide, dimly lit street beside me and warehouses all around. The spire of the Transamerica pyramid, surrounded by the other downtown skyscrapers, loomed ahead of me. Judging by distance, I concluded that I was somewhere south of Market. I made my way up to the first intersection and read the street signs, Harrison at Third; one block south of Folsom and about eight blocks east of the gay bars where I might find help. I headed north to Folsom and turned left, feeling worse with each step as I became more conscious of my nausea and my aching body. The street was full of shadows and silences, and the darkness seemed unending. Had I been in less pain, I would have been terrified.
As I walked down the street, I attempted to puzzle out the identity of my abductors. All roads led to Robert Paris. They had been waiting for me when I came out of Grant’s building. Whether Abrams had called them or they’d followed me into the city, it was clear that my nosing around had not gone unnoticed. Aaron had warned me I was being watched. Until this moment I hadn’t believed him. The judge wanted to know how much I knew about Hugh’s murder. Apparently, I didn’t know enough to be gotten rid of. Yet.
Ahead of me I saw men walking up and down the street. I came to a corner and looked up. There was a red neon sign on an angle above a door. It said Febe’s. I crossed the street and stood at the open doorway. Directly inside the entry was a brown vinyl curtain that reached to the floor, and beyond it I heard muffled noises. I pushed through the curtain just in time for last call at one of the most notorious leather bars in the city.
Two men were playing at a pinball machine on my left. One of them wore black leather pants, shiny in the dim light, and a leather vest. The other wore jeans, a t-shirt and a collar around his neck studded with metal spikes. He sipped from a bottle of Perrier. To my right there was a curved bar bathed in red lights. All heads turned toward me. In my slacks and gray polo shirt I was in the wrong clothes for Febe’s. The atmosphere began to change from curiosity to hostility.
I had now been standing at the door for more than a minute. The bartender, undoubtedly thinking I was a tourist, scowled and started to come out from behind the bar. I took a couple of steps toward him and then passed out.
I was awakened with a hit of amyl nitrate.
“Jesus Christ,” I muttered, pushing the donor’s hands out of my face. “Enough.”
The hands withdrew and a voice asked, “You all right?”
“I’m better,” I said, sitting up from the floor.
The bartender knelt beside me. He was wearing a tight pair of levis and a pink bowling shirt with the name Norma Jean stitched above the pocket. Most of his face was lost behind a thick beard, but the concern in his wide blue eyes would have done justice to my mother.
“Good,” he said. “I’ll just call a cab and you can go back to the St. Francis or wherever you’re staying and sleep it off.”
“I’m not drunk,” I said, slurring my words. “Drugged. I was drugged.”
“Against your will?”
I nodded.
“Honey, that musta been some scene.” He smiled. “He hurt you?”
I shook my head.
“Did he take your money?”
“No,” I said, “they just drove me around and asked me questions.”
“Now that’s bizarre. Should I get the cops?”
“No, I’d like to call a friend.”
“Oh, are you a local?”
I nodded.
“Hell, the way you came in here staring I thought you were a tourist who’d taken the wrong turn at Fisherman’s Wharf.”
“Next time,” I mumbled, “I’ll remember you have a dress code. Help me to the phone, okay?”
“Sure,” he said, rising to his full height. I grabbed his extended hands and he raised me up, effortlessly. The bar was empty and all the lights were on, revealing a homey and rather shabby tavern. Apparently I’d cleared the place out. He led me around the bar to the house phone. “You make your call. I�
��ve got to clean up.”
“Thanks. I know your name’s not Norma Jean.”
“Dean,” he said, grabbing a broom.
“Thanks, Dean. I’m Henry.” He nodded acknowledgement while I dialed Grant’s number.
Grant picked up the phone on the second ring, and I remembered he was a light sleeper. I told him, briefly, what I had learned and asked if he would come and pick me up. Wide awake, he told me to wait and that he was on his way. I hung up.
Dean brought me a glass of brandy and had me sit on a stool behind the bar as he went back to his work. I watched him lifting boxes of empty beer bottles and stacking them against the wall.
Someone was knocking at the front door. Dean glanced over at me and then went to answer it, behind the curtain. He emerged a second later followed by Grant Hancock. With his Burberry overcoat and perfectly groomed hair, Grant looked as if he had just stepped off the pages of a fashion magazine. Dean winked at me, approvingly.
Grant came up and inspected me. “You look terrible, Henry. Should we get you to a hospital?”
“I think everything’s working,” I said. “I just need a ride back to my car.”
“Your car? What you need is sleep. Come on.”
I got up and followed him out. Dean walked us to the curb where Grant had parked.
“Thanks, Dean.” I reached out and patted his arm awkwardly, wanting to say more but not sure what.
“Come back sometime,” he said, smiling. I climbed into Grant’s car. We drove through the soundless streets to his building.
“I really should get back home tonight,” I said.
“Henry, it’s three-thirty in the morning,” Grant replied as he steered into the underground garage and parked in a numbered stall. “No one has to do anything at three-thirty, especially you. You’re hardly awake now. I doubt that you could make it all the way back.”
“You’re probably right,” I said. “I’ll stay.”
“Of course you will,” he replied, getting out of the car.
When we got to his condo, I took a hot shower, changed into borrowed clothes and asked for a drink. We sat on the floor in the living room drinking brandy by candlelight. The room was very still as Grant had me explain the events which occurred after I left his apartment.
“I think,” he said, “that you are lucky to be alive.”
“I agree, and now I know, beyond any doubt, that the judge was responsible for Hugh’s death.”
“So now you can stop and go on with your life.”
“What?”
Grant swirled the brandy in his glass, watching it streak and run down the sides. “The mystery is solved.”
“But I still have to prove the solution.”
“To whom?”
“The police, to begin with, and maybe, at some point, a jury.”
“Are you serious?” he asked, putting his glass down. “You think you can prove this against Robert Paris? Do you know anything about the man?”
“As a general proposition? No.”
“You’re talking about one of the most powerful men in the state,” he said. “You’re talking about a man who declined appointment to the United States Supreme Court.”
“I didn’t know that,” I said.
“That’s the point. Think of it this way, Henry. You and the judge both have piles of stones to throw at each other. You’ve pretty much used yours up but he hasn’t even started. He’s been playing with you.”
“Schoolboys throw rocks at frogs in sport,” I quoted, “but the frogs die in earnest.”
“No,” Grant said. “Not for sport. For power. I know Robert Paris,” he continued, staring into his glass. “You don’t stand a chance.”
“Is this the voice of experience talking?”
Grant looked up. “My father,” he began, “got it into his head that he wanted to be mayor of this city. Have you met my father?” I nodded. My recollection was of an elegant but rather dim patrician whom Grant inexplicably idolized. “Robert Paris was backing another candidate who would have trounced my father anyway. But just to make sure,” he set his glass down and looked away, “they told my father I was gay and that if he persisted, the whole town would know. That’s how my father found out his only son was homosexual. My father is a man,” he continued, “who still thinks gay is a perfectly acceptable adjective for divorcees. Or did, anyway. It broke his heart,” Grant said. “It really did.”
“Grant, I’m sorry.”
He shrugged. “That’s water under the bridge,” he said, “but the moral is: Don’t fuck with Robert Paris. Hugh’s dead. You’re not.” And then he added softly, “I’m not.”
“But if it had been you rather than Hugh, I’d do the same.”
He smiled a little. “You miss my meaning.”
“No,” I said, reaching out to touch his hand, “I don’t.”
“What time is it?” Grant mumbled, turning over in bed.
“A little after six,” I replied, buttoning my shirt.
“You’re leaving?”
“Yes, there’s someone I have to see.”
“Your associates keep odd hours.” He sat up in bed, watching me tie my shoes.
“Will you call Smith for me?” I asked.
He thought about it a second.
“I still don’t see the point of it,” he said.
“The police wouldn’t reopen their investigation without pressure from somewhere. Who better than Smith?”
“If you could only give me something more concrete,” he said.
“If I didn’t know you better, Grant, I’d say John Smith intimidates you.”
“He does. It’s not often I ask for an audience with a local deity.”
“Okay,” I said, “then don’t.”
“I’m sorry, Henry. I just can’t see getting involved at this point.”
“You’ve already been helpful, Grant.”
“Thanks.”
We looked at each other.
“Is this it, then?” he asked.
“No,” I replied. “No.”
I leaned over and kissed him.
“All right,” he said.
An hour later I was finishing breakfast in Terry Ormes’ kitchen. She cooked well for a cop, I thought as I swallowed a forkful of scrambled eggs. It occurred to me that I could not remember when I had eaten last. The eggs were good—she put tarragon in them. She was talking on the phone, explaining to someone why she would be late for work. I got up and cleared the table, rinsing dishes and stacking them in the dishwasher. Her kitchen was long, sunny and narrow. Everything was in its place but this bespoke an orderly presence rather than a fussy one. She finished her call and came back into the kitchen carrying a manila folder. She sat down at the kitchen table. I joined her there.
“More coffee?” she asked, pouring herself a cup.
“Sure,” I said, noticing for the first time that the backs of her hands were covered with faint freckles.
“How long have you been a cop?” I asked, continuing our earlier conversation.
“Seven years, going on twenty.”
“Tough life?”
“It’s what I always wanted. My dad was a cop. He got as high up as captain before he retired.”
“Did he want you to join the force?”
“He never came out and said it, but he was happy that I did.”
“And your mother?”
“She’d have been happier if I’d gone into something more feminine. Schoolteaching, for instance, like my brother.” She sipped her coffee. “What about you? Was your dad a lawyer?”
“No, he was foreman of the night crew at a cannery in Marysville. I’m the only lawyer in my family.”
“The scuttlebutt around the station is that you’re good.”
“I am,” I said.
“But you’re not a great cop,” she said, “judging from what happened to you last night. The first thing we learn is not to take unnecessary risks.”
“And how do you know
when a risk is unnecessary? I was playing a hunch going to see Abrams. I didn’t think much would come from it. I was wrong.”
“I’ll say. Why don’t you run your next scheme by me and let me decide if it’s an unnecessary risk?”
I laughed. “Are you my partner or my mother?”
“I guess that depends on what you need most,” Terry said. “Let’s get to work.”
She opened the manila folder and handed me a thin sheaf of papers.
“What’s this?”
“Hugh Paris,” she said. “Everything I could get on him.”
“Doesn’t seem like much.”
“It isn’t. He didn’t have a California driver’s license so I ran his name with DMV and came back with nothing. The only criminal record he has was his arrest in July. No credit cards, no known bank accounts. He leased his house from something called the Pegasus Corporation, one of those companies that owns companies.”
I’d been going through the papers as I listened to her. “These are his phone bills?”
“For the last six months. Service was in his name. An unlisted number.”
A fair number of the calls were to Portola Valley—the judge—and even a couple to my apartment. It was odd to see my phone number there and I wondered if anyone else had obtained these records. And then I noticed a number of calls made to Napa. I asked Terry about them.
“They were made to a private mental institution called Silverwood. You know anything about that?”
“His father is a patient there,” I replied, writing the number down. I came to the last page. “I thought there’d be more.”
“So did I. I get the feeling he was deliberately lying low.” I nodded agreement. She took out a bundle of papers from the folder and pushed them across to me. “I had better luck with the grandmother and uncle,” she said. I had asked her to find out what she could about the car crash which had killed Hugh’s grandmother, Christina, and his uncle, Jeremy, twenty years earlier. Hugh had maintained that his grandfather was responsible for those deaths.
Terry had obtained copies of the accident report prepared by the CHP, written within a couple of hours of the collision. She had also gotten the coroner’s findings based on an inquest held in San Francisco three days after the accident.
