Object of Desire

by William J. Mann

  “Damn it!” Mom shouted when I hung up the phone. “How can he go to work when his daughter is missing? God damn it!”

  “Mom,” I said. “What did the person on the phone tell you about Becky?”

  “He saw her!” Her eyes were still big and wet and wild. “He saw her on Cape Cod! Near where the Kennedys live!”

  “You mean Hyannis Port?” Chipper asked.

  “No! I said Cape Cod! Weren’t you listening?” Mom’s face was really red. She looked down at her notes and began reading them off. “This man—he said his name was Warren—saw her on Cape Cod on Sunday, and she was with a man who had a bald head and a beard and who was wearing a Led Zeppelin T-shirt.”

  I didn’t think my mother knew what Led Zeppelin was, but she must have asked the guy how to spell it, because she pronounced it correctly.

  “But how did he know it was Becky?” Chipper asked.

  Mom looked at him as if he were crazy. “Because he’d seen her pictures! In the newspapers! On all the telephone poles I’ve stuck them on!” She looked again at her notes. “This man—Warren—is a motorcycle rider. There was some kind of motorcycle rally on Cape Cod on Sunday, near where the Kennedys live. On Sunday afternoon on the main street of the town, he saw a couple get off a motorcycle. The girl had long dark hair, and she was arguing with the bald-headed man, and he grabbed her arm and told her to do what he said and not to argue anymore.” Mom looked as if she might cry at that moment. I felt horrible for her. I wanted to cry myself. “The bald man forced the girl to cross the street, and that’s when Warren lost sight of them.”

  “What’s Warren’s last name?” Chipper asked.

  Mom shook her head. “He didn’t want to give me his last name. He says the bald-headed guy is in some rival motorcycle gang, and he doesn’t want retribution.” She shuddered. “But he had to call me, he said. He was shocked by the way the man treated the girl. And when he got back home here to Connecticut, he began seeing Becky’s photo everywhere, and he recognized her!”

  “Where does he live?” Chipper asked.

  Mom shrugged. “I don’t know that, either. But this is good information. It’s a real lead.”

  Chipper seemed dubious. “Lots of people have called saying they’ve seen Becky. What makes you think this Warren guy is for real? Did he talk to her—”

  “Get out of the way,” Mom said, pushing past us to get to the phone herself. “I need to call Peter Guthrie. He’s got to get on this right away and get in touch with the Cape Cod police.” She began dialing.

  “Is she calling Patsy?” Nana asked, a little voice from the couch.

  I looked over at her. She seemed so small sitting there. As always, Nana was wearing stockings and those big black shoes and a bright floral-print dress, which Aunt Patsy had probably picked out for her this morning. I still didn’t know why Aunt Patsy had been taken away by ambulance. I just knew that whatever had happened, it had no doubt irritated Mom, and, most likely, my aunt had had to call the ambulance herself. I walked over to Nana and sat down beside her. She looked at me with those tired, old, confused eyes.

  “Remember this, Nana?” On the side table I had placed the photo she had given me. I lifted it now and showed it to her. “Tell me who these people are again.”

  She seemed to calm down when she saw faces from her past. “Well, those are my grandparents, Nana and Papa Horgan,” she said, pointing with her arthritic forefinger. “They came from Ballyhooley, in County Cork. And those are my parents.”

  “I was named after your father, right?” I asked.

  Nana looked at me oddly for a moment, and then something seemed to click. “Oh yes, that’s right.” She smiled. “Danny.” Her eyes brightened. “Danny off the pickle boat.”

  I laughed.

  “And that’s your father,” she continued, “in the christening robe.”

  “Four generations,” I said.

  She was nodding. “And someday, when you have children, we’ll take another picture—”

  “I need to talk to him noooooow!”

  Mom’s voice startled all of us.

  “I don’t care if he’s on another call,” she screamed into the phone. “I need to talk to him right away! He is the detective in charge of investigating the disappearance of my daughter, and I have information for him! I need to talk to him right this fucking minute!”

  I had never, in my entire life, heard my mother, good Catholic that she was, use the F word. We were all stunned into silence, even Nana.

  “I gotta be getting home,” Chipper finally said, approaching us.

  I nodded.

  “But, you know, if you find out anything…”

  “I’ll call you. Thanks for the ride.”

  He nodded uncomfortably. “See ya later, Mrs. Fortunato.”

  Nana’s eyes flickered up at him. She was confused again.

  “And Danny…” His words trailed off as he looked at me with those big dark eyes of his, so deep you could just topple over into them. “Remember. You gotta take care of yourself. I’ll take care of you while I’m still here, but after that…” His words trailed off.

  I looked at him. Chipper Paguni. Offering to take care of me.

  Chipper shuffled around uncomfortably in front of us for a few moments, then turned and hurried out the front door.

  “I am still waiting for Detective Guthrie,” Mom spit into the phone.

  “Where’s Patsy?” Nana asked me in a whisper.

  “She’s just taking a rest,” I told her. “She’s fine.”

  This seemed to soothe Nana a bit, and she sat back, folding her hands in her lap.

  Chipper Paguni had said he’d take care of me. I’ll take care of you while I’m still here.

  In that moment, despite everything that was going on around me, I was the happiest boy in the world.

  That night, for the first time, I took Chipper’s underpants out of my drawer and held them in my hands all night as I slept.

  PALM SPRINGS

  Randall called them the Gods of Palm Springs. Many of the guys filing out of the movie theater, where we had just seen Donovan’s latest opus, were huge and hulking. Massive shoulders, ropes for veins, big, hard protruding bellies. Gods, Randall called them. Gays On Disability and Steroids.

  “Remember when people with AIDS were skinny and wasted?” he whispered in my ear.

  “Not anymore,” I said.

  “The hulking look has been fetishized,” Hassan said, with a photographer’s observant eye. “Among the HIV community, I have discovered, the big veins and the prominent gut are considered erotic.”

  “I would never want to look like that,” Randall said. We were heading across the theater’s parking lot toward my car. The various Gods had dispersed in different directions, after noisily kissing each other on the lips. “I just would never, ever take steroids.”

  “You would if you had wasting,” I said, opening the door of my topless Jeep Wrangler and sliding in behind the wheel. “I know you, Randall. If your face or your arms suddenly started going all hollow on you, you’d be shooting up faster than Courtney Love with an unlimited supply of heroin.”

  Randall took the passenger seat beside me as Hassan climbed over the side and into the back. “Yes,” my old friend admitted, “I would probably take something for facial wasting, but not to look like that.” He looked around to make sure they all were gone. “I mean, come on. They actually think they look good. Have you seen them strutting around the gym?”

  I started the ignition and steered the Jeep onto the street. “Well,” I said, “as Hassan points out, that very disproportion in body shape is now eroticized by the men who have it. And good for them. I mean, if you’ve got a big gut and enormous veins, it’s better to have them considered sexy than unattractive.” I took a right onto Highway 111, back toward Palm Springs. “I spent way too long beating myself up for not making it as an actor, never recognizing that I could, in fact, do something else better. So I’ve learned my le
sson. You need to make the best of what you’ve got. It’s either that or spend your life being miserable.”

  “You are wiser than I first thought, Danny,” Hassan told me.

  I laughed a little, embarrassed.

  “It’s true,” Randall said. “He’s becoming quite the sage. Sometimes I barely recognize him. Since moving out here, he’s become Danny the Serene, Fortunato the Unflappable.”

  “Then the desert has been very good to him,” Hassan observed.

  I just laughed again.

  We were quiet for a while. I was pleased that Randall and Hassan seemed to be connecting. Randall had made a couple of trips down to the desert already to see him, heading out of L.A. as soon as the last kid had run screaming from his dentist’s chair. I hoped this latest romance would last a while. Too many boyfriends came and went for Randall in rapid succession. He needed somebody to stick around a little longer this time.

  I glanced in the rearview mirror. Hassan was sitting with his hands behind his head, looking up at the sky. It was a flat, dull black, without any stars that I could see. The night was hot; summer wasn’t releasing its grip on the desert any time soon.

  I wondered if Randall’s reaction to the Gods of Palm Springs reflected his own fear of what might become of him. So far, he’d avoided any major physical complications from the virus or the meds. He was lucky. I imagined he must worry sometimes that one morning he’d wake up to discover a hump on his back or deep hollows in his cheeks. He rarely spoke of such things. He hardly ever made mention of his HIV.

  We stopped for the light in Cathedral City, almost on the border of Palm Springs. I noticed Hassan sit forward and take Randall’s hand, holding it down by the stick shift. I smiled.

  “So what did you guys think of Donovan’s movie?” I asked as the light turned green. “You’ve been curiously silent on the topic.”

  “I did not mean to be silent,” Hassan said. “I thought it was wonderful. I thought the actress you call Posey was quite marvelous.”

  “I love Parker Posey,” Randall said.

  “It was a great cast,” I admitted. “Judith Light was terrific.”

  “I love Judith Light,” Randall agreed.

  “And that other girl?” Hassan asked. “From the TV show…”

  “Tori Spelling,” I said.

  “I love Tori Spelling,” Randall said.

  I laughed. “But did you love the movie?”

  Randall looked over at me, with a sly grin. “Did you?”

  I groaned. “I hate that I always love Donovan’s movies.”

  “Me, too,” Randall said.

  “Why is it that you two have such antipathy for this man Donovan Hunt?” Hassan asked. “He produces fine movies and invites you to the premiere parties, even allows you to bring guests like me. I would think you would adore him.”

  “That’s the problem,” I said, turning right on Cherokee and into the driveway of Le Parker Méridien. “He’s completely adorable, and therefore, everyone adores Donovan. I guess Randall and I just prefer not to follow the crowd.”

  “Here’s the thing,” Randall explained. “Donovan has everything. Fabulous homes, expensive cars, and boys hanging from every chandelier.”

  “Then your antipathy would seem to be rooted in envy,” Hassan said.

  “Yeah, it would seem so, wouldn’t it?” I laughed, pulling the Jeep up to the front door. “But I also can never forget that he’s married to a woman, and he uses that status to move through conservative society in places like Dallas and Nantucket, where having a boyfriend just wouldn’t do.” I turned and faced Hassan, a man from a world where arranged marriages were common and boyfriends among men were unimaginable. “You see, it didn’t have to be that way for Donovan. I knew him when he was young, when we both were young, living in West Hollywood. He could have chosen a different life. But he didn’t.”

  I switched off the ignition. A handsome young man in a pink jacket was immediately opening the door for me. “Welcome to the Parker,” he said. “Are you here for Mr. Hunt’s party?”

  “That we are,” I replied, sliding out of the Jeep, leaving the keys for him. The young man handed me a tag, which I slipped into my back pocket. The three of us made our way inside.

  “I never know if I’m supposed to tip before or after,” I whispered.

  “Before, you idiot,” Randall said. “Go back. Give him a five. Otherwise, he’ll scrape up the car.”

  “No,” Hassan said. “Tipping is for a job well done. You give a tip when the job is completed.”

  “Oh, well, too late now,” I said.

  We walked into the foyer. To our left stood a shiny suit of armor. Above us exotic tapestries fell in random patterns like in the great hall of a medieval castle. Neon pink pillows competed with bright yellow curtains for attention. From the ceiling hung gold chains, which tinkled in the slight breeze.

  “Rather eccentric this place is,” Hassan said, looking around.

  I laughed. “Wait till you meet our hosts.”

  We turned and ambled into the dining room. Donovan was standing right beyond the curtain as we entered, wearing a double-breasted black blazer with gold buttons and a big white peony in his lapel. No sunglasses tonight. His eye had healed, though I detected a lingering puffiness. Suddenly I wondered if maybe he’d deliberately spread that whole story about getting beaten up; it was certainly a far more exotic scenario than admitting to yet another eye lift. Because, believe me, Donovan Hunt had had almost as many eye lifts, cheek implants, and chin tucks as Joan Rivers, and everyone knew it. It was a wonder he could still smile at all.

  But smile he did when he saw us. “Danny! Randy!” he exclaimed.

  His arms opened wide to embrace us, but I saw his eyes had latched onto Hassan like lasers. But of course. Hassan was new meat—and a well-packaged slab at that.

  “Donovan, your movie was absolutely fabulous,” Randall was saying. “I loved Parker Posey!”

  “And Judith Light,” I said.

  “And Toni Spelling,” Hassan added.

  I saw Donovan’s eyes sparkle. “It’s Tori, darling, but you can call her anything you like.” He extended his hand. “I don’t think we’ve met.”

  “Donovan Hunt,” Randall said, and I could hear the reluctance and trepidation in his voice, “Hassan Masawi.”

  They shook hands. “I am most pleased to meet such a talented filmmaker,” Hassan said, infuriatingly polite and obsequious.

  “Oh, please, sweetheart, I’m just the moneyman.” Donovan did not immediately release Hassan’s hand. “The director is the true artist. I just write the checks.”

  “Well, Mr. Moneyman,” I said, anxious to break up their little tête-à-tête, “are any of the stars here?”

  Donovan finally let go of Hassan’s hand and looked over at me. “Sorry, angel puss. It’s just us desert rats here tonight. I thought maybe I could get Judith to come down, but everyone was busy.”

  That was usually Palm Springs’ luck. Once in a while, like during the big, glitzy film festival in January, the town was able to lure a bunch of A-list stars. But most often we were left with our own homegrown celebrities, like Penelope Sue. I glanced around the room. I was right. Donovan had made sure his wife was in attendance. She was surrounded, as usual, by a gaggle of queens, all wearing black blazers and white peonies in their lapels. Must’ve been the theme for the night. Nobody had told me.

  “So where’s Frank?” Donovan asked, placing an arm around my shoulder. “Don’t tell me you’re a single boy tonight.”

  “That I am,” I said as we headed into the party. “Frank had a faculty meeting. The semester’s just started, you know, and he just couldn’t get out of it.”

  Frank had, in fact, wanted to attend the premiere even more than I had. He’d heard good things about the movie, and he didn’t share my—what had Hassan called it?—antipathy for Donovan. But, in fact, right about now I felt guilty for being so hard on him. With his arm around my shoulder, it was hard t
o feel negatively toward Donovan. Hassan was right to say that I was envious. That was where the hostility came from. I’d be fooling myself to deny it.

  In truth, Donovan wasn’t so bad. He could have iced me out after I’d rejected him, but he kept inviting me to his soirees, making sure I was on the guest lists for his parties and premieres. The little devil who sat on my shoulder, with his cloven hooves and pointy little pitchfork, was forever whispering in my ear that Donovan did all that merely to show off and rub my nose in the kind of life that could have been mine if I hadn’t turned him down. But if that was true in the beginning, it certainly couldn’t be true anymore. I was far too old to still be on Donovan’s radar: his boys were all youngsters, occasionally wide eyed and innocent but usually hard edged and shrewd. Boys who had not only been around the block a few times but around the globe—often in Donovan’s private plane—and who understood the terms of the deal very well. They were required to look pretty, to put out when required to do so, to be charming at parties, and to never, ever upstage Penelope Sue. If they did all that, their reward was the good life.

  Oh, and one other thing. They had to be gracious when their time was up. Those who dared to resist the end by putting up a fight were coldly cut out of Donovan’s life. But those boys who accepted their exits gracefully were rewarded with BMWs or something else equally as shiny and flashy. Suddenly I felt resentful that I couldn’t buy Ollie—my trick who drove all the way down from Sherman Oaks in his rusty old Toyota Corolla whenever I snapped my fingers—a brand-new snazzy car.

  “I didn’t realize this was dinner,” Randall said as we approached the table.

  “But of course,” Donovan replied. “I presumed no one had had a chance to eat.”

  On our way to the theater, the three of us had wolfed down burritos at Baja Fresh, but now we were confronted with a large, round table, dominated by an enormous spray of magnificently aromatic white peonies. At least twenty chairs were arranged around the table, and busboys in black aprons were depositing leafy green salads at each place setting. Across from me I watched as Penelope Sue took her seat, Donovan holding out her chair for her. He sat to her left. A slim, doe-eyed, freckled redhead—Donovan’s latest boy, I assumed—was sitting beside him.