by Michael Nava
“Hello, Sandy,” Larry replied, disengaging his hand. “You remember Henry Rios.”
“Hello,” I said.
Blenheim took me in with a reptilian flick of his eyes.
“You were that kid’s lawyer,” he said. “Too bad about him. It would have been a great movie.” To Larry he said, “Wasn’t T. Z. fabulous?”
“He got better toward the end,” Larry replied.
“The last scene,” Blenheim went on. “Perfect. You know it was his idea to do it with just the jock strap.”
“That last scene wasn’t in Brecht,” I said. “Brecht has Lightborn suffocate Edward.”
“T. Z., again,” Blenheim replied. “Someone told him that’s how the guy really died, so he wanted to do it that way.” He looked at me. “It’s kinda sexy, huh?”
“Yes,” I allowed. “It was.”
Blenheim smiled again as if confirming something about me. I could imagine what it was. I knew a tribesman when I saw one. So, it seemed, did he. He wagged a finger between Larry and me. “You two dating?”
Larry cut him off. “We’re friends, Sandy.”
“Well, why don’t you and your friend come over to Monet’s. Tom and Rennie are having a little party.”
“Henry?”
“Sure,” I replied, thinking that I might meet Irene Gentry there.
“That’s great,” Blenheim said. “Maybe you and me and Tom can get together about that contract, Larry.”
“Okay,” Larry replied without enthusiasm.
“See you there,” Blenheim said. He favored me with another narrow smile, and bounced off shouting the name of his next victim.
“Who’s Rennie?” I asked.
“Irene Gentry. The name Irene doesn’t really lend itself to abbreviation, but everyone calls her Rennie.”
“Rennie,” I repeated.
“Let’s go meet her.”
*****
The sky was clear but starless. Only a trickle of water in the gutters gave any clue of the day’s rain. Santa Monica Boulevard was clogged with traffic — brake lights flared in the darkness, wheels squeaked to a halt — and the air was choked with exhaust fumes. Larry cadged a cigarette from a passerby and lit it.
“Monet’s isn’t far,” he said. “Let’s walk it.”
It was Friday night and the bars were doing brisk business. Country-western music blared from one in which, through smoked windows, male couples did the Texas two-step. Outside another bar a gaggle of street kids offered us coke. At a fast food shack, painted bright orange and lit up like a birthday cake, Larry stopped to buy a pack of cigarettes. A boy with stringy hair downed the house specialty, a pastrami burrito. I found the phone and called Josh Mandel. He answered on the second ring.
I explained that I was going to a party. “If you still want to get together,” I added, “I could meet you in about an hour.” I wanted him to say yes.
“Okay,” he said. “That’s fine.”
“Your place?”
“Where are you now?” he asked.
I stuck my head out of the booth and looked in vain for a street sign. “On Santa Monica,” I replied. “There’s a Mayfair market across the street.”
After a moment’s pause he said, “Oh, King’s Road. There’s a bar just east of Fairfax called the Hawk. South side of the boulevard. I could meet you there.”
“All right. In about an hour.”
“Mr. Rios?” he began, awkwardly.
“Yes, Josh?”
“It’s a gay bar.”
Larry came up and tapped on the phone booth.
“I’ve got to go now,” I said. “I’ll see you then.”
I hung the phone up and stepped out of the booth.
“Josh Mandel is gay,” I told Larry as we resumed walking down the street.
“The guy who testified against Jim?”
“The star witness,” I replied.
*****
Monet’s was a squat windowless building painted charcoal gray next to a porn shop. Marble steps led up from the filthy sidewalk to double wooden doors presided over by a man in a red jacket. He opened the door for us. Inside, at a plexiglass lectern, stood another red jacket. A huge Motherwell hung on the wall behind him. Two halls led off from the small foyer. The familiar sounds of a restaurant were absent. Instead, expensive silence reigned.
“Gentlemen?” the red jacket inquired.
“Zane party,” Larry said.
“Very good,” he said, just like in the movies, and summoned a third red jacket. “The Morgan Room.”
We were led down one of the halls. In the coppery light I saw that the walls were marble.
“What is this place?” I asked Larry.
“A membership restaurant,” he replied, lighting a cigarette and flicking the match to the carpeted floor. “You come in and you’re assigned a private dining room.”
“Is the point privacy?”
“No,” Larry said. “The point is status.”
We came to a door. The red jacket opened it and stepped aside to let us pass. The room looked like the conference room of a particularly stodgy law firm; all dark paneling and copper fixtures, Winslow Homer paintings on the walls and even brass spittoons. There were a lot of people inside, including some of the cast members, milling around with the provisional air of people waiting for a party to begin.
“This is going to be business for me,” Larry said. “You mind being on your own?”
“No. I’m leaving in about an hour anyway.”
“Come and find me on your way out.”
I went over to one of two tables set with food. A dark-haired waiter asked me what I’d like. All that the various dishes had in common was that they were fashionable. There was sushi, crepes, antipasto, pasta salads, rolled sandwiches in pita bread, crudités, ham and smoked turkey, cheeses, and breads. I ate a bit of sushi. It wasn’t fresh.
Beside me a woman said, “Stick to the raw vegetables.”
I looked around. “Hello,” I said.
The woman who had spoken to me smiled. She had a round, pretty face. Her dark hair was streaked with two colors, burgundy and red. She was not, perhaps, as young as she looked. “You were in the play,” I said. “You played Edward’s wife.” “You came in with Larry Ross,” she replied, helping herself to a radish.
“You know him?”
“Only by reputation. He’s out of my league. Are you a lawyer, too?”
“Yes, but not that kind.”
“Expensive?” She bit into the radish with preternaturally white teeth.
“No, entertainment. I practice criminal defense.”
She drew in her cheeks a bit. “Who’s in trouble?”
“I’m not here on business,” I replied.
“Don’t be absurd. Everyone here’s on business. My name is Sarah.”
“Henry,” I replied. “You were very good as Anne.”
“I hope you’re a better lawyer than a critic,” she said, examining a piece of cauliflower. Suddenly there was applause around the door. The Zanes entered with Sandy Blenheim hard on their heels. As they swept past me, Irene Gentry and I caught each other’s eyes. She seemed to smile.
“The Macbeths,” Sarah said, dryly. She dropped the unfinished radish back on the tray and joined the Zanes’ entourage.
I turned my attention to Irene Gentry. In a black cocktail dress she moved across the room like an exclamation mark. Her long hair was swept over a bare shoulder. There were diamonds at her neck. Blenheim directed her and Tom Zane to a little group dominated by a white-haired man in a tweed jacket who was making a big show of lighting a meerschaum pipe. I moved closer to watch her. She laid a hand lightly on the man’s wrist as he spoke and his shoulders seemed to inflate. Her husband, meanwhile, had backed himself against the wall with a pretty girl. Blenheim watched them for a moment, then broke them up and brought Zane back into the group.
I was standing behind the man to whom Irene Gentry was speaking. She looked past his shoulder a
t me. Our eyes met and her face formed a question. A moment later she excused herself and came over.
“I know you, don’t I?” she asked in her famous voice.
“I wish I could say you did, Miss Gentry.”
“My friends call me Rennie.” She gazed at me intently and without embarrassment.
“Weren’t you the lawyer for Jim Pears?” she asked.
“Yes. Henry Rios. How did you know that?”
She smiled. “Sandy was very interested in buying the rights to the story as a property for Tom. Didn’t he approach you?”
“Yes,” I replied, “but he didn’t say who he was working for.”
“Tom’s his biggest client,” she said, absently.
“Well,” I replied, “I don’t know anything about acting but your husband seems a bit old to play Jim Pears.”
She seemed puzzled for a moment, then laughed. “I think the idea was for Tom to play you.”
“Me?”
“The boy’s lawyer,” she replied. “Of course, we didn’t know it was going to be you until we saw it on the news.” She glanced around the room. “It’s odd to find you here.”
I explained that I had come with Larry Ross.
“Oh, Larry,” she said. “He’s our—” She looked at me, as if for help. “Who was the Greek who carried the lamp looking for an honest man?”
“Diogenes,” I replied, guessing that she’d known that all along.
She said, “I’m not making fun of him, Henry. I admire him. More now than ever.”
I felt the heat rising to my face from my neck. “I don’t understand.”
She looked at me, tenderly. “Of course I know he’s ill,” she said. “We all know.” Her glance swept across the room.
“He doesn’t know that.”
She laid her hand across my wrist. “He won’t find out from me.”
“Thank you.”
“Did you enjoy the play?” she asked, dropping her hand, her voice light.
“Toward the end, especially.”
“Not because you thought it was ending, I hope.” She moved a bit closer. She smelled of roses.
“Your husband seemed to get his bearings in the second half.”
“Tom’s not a stage actor,” she replied. “But on the whole I don’t think he did too bad a job of it.”
“You would have been perfect to play Anne.”
Her smile was charming and wise. “Discretion is often the better part of marriage.”
Her skin glistened, faintly, as if moistened by dew. I felt an overwhelming desire to touch her. I took her hand. “Do you mind?”
“Of course not,” she replied, but then I suppose she was used to men wanting to touch her. “Tell me about Jim Pears. What will happen to him now?”
“The charges against him were dismissed,” I said. “He’ll never regain consciousness. Eventually, he’ll die.”
She studied me silently, then said, “You have the face of a man who feels too much.”
As there was nothing to say to this, I said nothing.
She tugged at my hand. “Come and meet Tom.”
Tom Zane stepped forward from the people he had been talking to and said to his wife, “You’re trying to make me jealous. “
This close, he looked to be in his mid-thirties. Small lines puckered the edges of his eyes and lips. His skin, still tanned, was faintly freckled. Clusters of broken veins had begun to surface around the edges of his nostrils, the sure sign of a drinker. He gave off the scent of an expensive cologne. His eyes were a deep, serene blue. Though he cast a blond’s golden glow it was diluted by his hard, false cheerfulness.
Irene said, “Tom, this is Henry Rios. Jim Pears’s lawyer.’’
Zane looked at me blankly for a moment, then said, “Oh, the gay kid. Sandy talked to you.”
“Briefly.”
Zane smiled. “You’re too good-looking to be a lawyer. You look more like a wetback gigolo.”
“I was at the play,” I said, ignoring the comment. “Your last scenes were very moving.”
“Or maybe a diplomat. Come on, Rennie,” he said, and took her from me.
“Join us, Henry,” she said, as her hand slipped from my fingers.
A circle of well-wishers formed around us and I stood at the edge of conversation as the Zanes received them. Irene — Rennie — handled them as skillfully as a politician and it appeared that she truly did not forget faces. Or names, or names of spouses, children, or dogs. She told funny stories on herself and listened to less funny stories which she made comic by her superbly timed reactions. Now and then, she’d lift her eyes and smile at me as if we shared a secret.
Tom Zane, on the other hand, seemed talented only at being admired. When he wasn’t being praised he looked off with a vague smile to the other side of the room. He drank three glasses of champagne and was about to take a fourth when Sandy Blenheim intercepted it. Tom surrendered the glass with a shrug. He nibbled at a plate of food that Blenheim brought him. He seemed both bored and bewildered. I excused myself to look for Larry.
“Don’t leave without saying goodbye,” Rennie said.
“I won’t.”
Larry was talking to Tony Good, the actor who had played Gaveston. Tony Good was drunk. I complimented him on his performance.
“It’s not easy playing against T. Z.,” he said. “He’s lousy. Who are you anyway?”
“Henry Rios,” I said.
“Oh, yeah. Another gay lawyer? You’re kinda cute, Henry. You gotta lover?” He reached for a glass of champagne from a passing waiter and tipped the tray, spilling the drinks on himself. The room was momentarily still.
“Shit,” he said. A red jacket rushed over with a napkin and tried to dry Good’s shirt. “Never mind the shirt,” he said. “How about another drink.”
Larry said, “You’re drunk enough, Tony.” To me he said, “I’m going to drive him home.”
“Fine.”
“Come on, Tony,” Larry said. “It’s time to go.”
Tony Good smiled. “Will you tuck me in?”
“Not if you’re still charging by the hour,” Larry replied.
“Bitch,” Tony said. To me he said, “You come, too. We’ll make it a threesome.”
“Another time,” I said.
“Lemme give you my number,” Tony said.
“I’m sure Larry has it,” I said.
“No,” Tony said. “Just take a minute.” He scribbled a number on the back of a card that he fished out of his pocket and shoved it at me.
“Thanks,” I said, accepting it.
“Call me,” he shouted as Larry hustled him out the door.
Remembering the hangovers I got from champagne, I felt very sorry for Tony Good. I checked my watch; I had already overstayed the hour I had allowed myself. I looked around for Rennie to say goodbye, but neither she nor Zane were in the room. Sandy Blenheim was standing at the bar talking to the bartender. I approached them.
“Hello, Sandy,” I said.
He glanced at me with annoyance. The bartender looked relieved and slipped away.
“Hi,” he said. “Enjoying yourself?”
“The party’s fine but I’ve got to go. I wondered if you’d say goodbye to Miss Gentry for me.”
“Yeah, I saw you talking with her,” he said. “You two know each other?”
“Not before tonight.”
He picked up a tall glass from the bar and drank. When he set it down he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “What did you talk about?”
“This and that,” I replied, disliking him.
“Yeah,” he said. “You’re gay, right?”
“I don’t make a secret about it.”
“Just making sure,” he said. “Tom’s the jealous kind.” Having seen Zane in action earlier with another woman, I doubted this, but said, “He has nothing to worry about from me.”
“So,” Sandy said, lowering his voice, “what are you doing later?”
I smiled. �
�I’ve got a date.”
“And after that?”
“Just say goodbye to Rennie for me,” I said.
“Sure,” he replied, already losing interest. His glance drifted back to the bartender. “Hey, Nick, another drink.”
On my way out I stopped at the men’s room. As I stood at the urinal I heard the door open. When I went to wash my hands I found Tom Zane stooped over the marble counter that held the wash basins. He lifted his eyes to the mirror and saw me.
“It’s the ambassador,” he said. He inhaled a line of coke, straightened up, tilted his head back and sniffled. “Want some?” “No thanks.” I turned on the tap and ran my hands beneath the water. He did another line.
“Is that safe to do here?” I asked.
“Are you gonna tell?”
“No.”
“Good.” He did a third line and stood up, putting his arm around my shoulder. “As long as you’re not one of Sandy’s spies.”
“I’m not.”
“He says you’re gay. Is that right?”
“Yeah,” I replied.
Zane dropped his arm to just above my waist and we looked at each other in the mirror. In the dim light he looked almost as he had in the last scene of the play: heroic, dissipated, and beautiful.
“We should get together sometime,” he said.
Before I could think of an answer to this, the door opened again. He dropped his arm to his side and stepped away. I dried my hands. Sandy Blenheim came in, looked at us and scowled.
“Listen, T. Z., there’s some important people out there wanting to meet you.”
“Don’t I get to take a leak?”
“What’s he do,” Blenheim said, pointing at me, “hold your dick?”
I said, “Looks to me like that’s your job, Sandy.”
“That’s telling him, Ambassador.”
“Come on, T. Z., you’re wasting time.” Blenheim grabbed Zane’s arm and dragged him out.
I watched them go, then finished drying my hands. I looked at myself in the mirror. Zane’s proposition hadn’t meant anything more than Tony Good’s or Sandy Blenheim’s had. They were empty gestures, the kind it was beginning to seem that these people were full of. As I adjusted the knot in my tie, I tried to imagine Tom Zane as me, and burst out laughing.
