Secrets and Charms

by Lou Harper

  The light came from the first room. It had to be some sort of office—shelves on the walls, messy desk, computer. All very ordinary, except with the odd metallic scent in the air. Not ordinary were the pair of feet in brown loafers sticking into view from behind the desk. Their position indicated an awfully vertical body, and unless their owner was taking a nap, facedown, behind the desk, they meant nothing good. It was the perfect time to do an about-face and get the fuck out of there, but Rich had to look.

  The man lay in a congealed pool of blood. Rich assumed it was Kane—height and clothing matched, as far as Rich could tell. Kane was very dead with a big fucking dent on the back of his head.

  Rich swallowed down the bile rising in his throat. Just to be sure, he crouched and peeled off one of his riding gloves. There was no fucking way he was going to go anywhere close to the man’s head, but he touched Kane’s ankle. It was cold and stiff. He pulled his glove back on. That was when he noticed the safe in the corner. Not a huge one, but big enough to hold whatever a blackmailer needed to keep their goods in. The safe was open and empty.

  Rich straightened up and, taking another glance at the desk, realized what he’d taken for a mess was a pile of manila envelopes. He moved around to the opposite side from the body and leaned closer. Every envelope had a name on it in thick black ink. Some were vaguely familiar, but he cared about only one. With a gloved finger, he cautiously nudged them till he saw Baker. He picked up the envelope and peeked inside—a DVD in a plastic case. He stuffed the whole thing inside his jacket and left.

  Chapter Eight

  Olly was fuming hard yet again, so much so that he had to pull over before he broke out in road rage. This had started to become a pattern, but he was more than just furious this time. Pain seared through his sternum as if some acid-blooded alien was trying to burst out of his chest. Because when Rich had rushed him¸ he’d been sure they’d had something, a connection beyond lust. He’d felt it. And he’d opened up, let himself be vulnerable. He hadn’t told his true name to many people, even lovers. So the rejection hurt all the more.

  He couldn’t keep this all inside, had to talk to someone. Olly called Jem and unloaded his troubles on his friend.

  “Come over right now,” Jem gave the order. “Nick is incinerating some wieners—” There was an oof! on Jem’s end of the line, and sounds of scuffling and laughter, and Jem came back on the line out of breath. “I meant to say, Nick is barbecuing, and we’d love to have you.”

  “You’re barbecuing on a Monday?”

  “Why not? It’s rare enough Nick and I have the same day off. We have to make the most of it.”

  Olly was tempted, but he didn’t want to be a third wheel. “Shouldn’t you be in bed, fucking each other senseless?”

  “Oh no worries, it’s been taken care of. And at any rate, Nick thinks I have no sense to begin with. Come, I command you. Nick will put another wiener on the incinerator.” The rest of Jem’s words were lost in the sounds of a scuffle.

  Ending the call, Olly decided to take the invitation. He could use spending time with a happy gay couple—or any happy couple, for that matter—to reaffirm his faith in humanity.

  On the way, Olly stopped at a corner liquor store because he didn’t want to arrive empty-handed. But what did one bring to a BBQ? Wine seemed too pretentious for the occasion. He chose beer instead—a six-pack of Bass Pale Ale.

  Jem took the offering at the door and led Olly through the house to the backyard. Jem had moved in with Nick a year ago, right after Nick bought the place. It was a typical house for the neighborhood—plain but cozy, on a big enough lot to have friends over for a garden party, but not to require lots of yard work. Perfect place to relax on a warm summer afternoon like this. A folding table and chairs were set up on the grass under a sunshade, while Nick busied himself at the grill off in the corner.

  “Just in time,” Nick greeted Olly. “The sausages are ready.” He put the plate piled high with them onto the table, next to buns and condiments. “Beer?”

  Olly shook his head. “Just water. The bubbly kind, if you have it,” he said, shifting one of the sausages onto his plate. After the previous night’s excesses, he wanted to take it easy. He bit into the sausage, and the flavor melted in his mouth. “Mmm…good, and not burnt at all.”

  “I parboil them in beer and water,” Nick explained. “And for the record, I only burned them once, and it was his fault,” he added as he placed a bottle of Pellegrino in front of Olly. He and Jem exchanged a knowing look.

  Olly could tell—whatever the story was, it was something intimate. He took a deep swig of his water to douse the flare of jealousy. Jem and Nick were ridiculously happy together, and he should’ve been happy for them, he knew. But it was hard when he felt so miserable himself.

  Later, after eating, Olly poured his heart out to his hosts. He told them the whole thing from start to finish, but in broad strokes, skipping the part about the blackmail and the little investigation he and Rich did. He simply said he and Rich were driving around. He didn’t go into minute details about the sex either, but relayed the gist of it. “Seriously, the guy thinks partial blowjobs and frotting don’t count as sex,” he finished with a huff, his indignation getting a second wind in the retelling.

  “Classic closet case,” Nick declared. “You should steer as far away from him as possible.”

  “Hm.” Jem didn’t appear to share Nick’s sentiment. “I dunno. It seems to me the guy wants to come out but is having a hard time of it.”

  Nick snorted. “Oh, c’mon. He can either be a man or a weasel. It’s a simple choice.”

  Jem shot a defiant glare at his hubby. “No, it’s not. Some guys really struggle with this stuff.” Nick made an if-you-say-so face, and Jem went on. “A lot of it comes down to their family. Just imagine all the pressures and expectations and disappointing the people who mean the most in your life. Did he mention anything about his parents?”

  Olly thought back. “I think he said his parents divorced. And he and Sandy don’t have the same last name. Nothing else I recall. Why are you taking his side all of a sudden?”

  “I’ve been thinking.” Lines between Jem’s brows illustrated his point. “Remember what Mme. Layla said?” he asked, oblivious to Nick’s eye roll.

  Olly did. “It’s a bad sign when a wild parrot shits on you.” He absently pulled the charm from under his shirt and started playing with it.

  Jem shook his head. “No, I mean when she said someone will need your help. And you thought it was Sandy Baker with her house renovation, but what if you were wrong? What if it’s Rich who needs you?”

  Nick sighed. “You’re such an idealist.” He put a hand on the nape of Jem’s neck.

  Jem leaned into the touch. “So I am. I happen to believe a person can make a difference in the life of another.”

  “And you want to throw Olly at this idiot.”

  Jem stared at Nick with indignation. “You make it sound like I was sending him into a lion cage. All I’m saying is, Olly could give Rich another chance, see if he can coax the guy out of the closet.” He turned to Olly. “Assuming you like the guy. Because if you don’t…”

  Olly thought of Rich kneeling in front of him, eyes full of need and vulnerability. A corresponding pang in his chest was the answer. “Yeah, I do,” he admitted with a sigh.

  Jem gave an evil grin. “You and an older man. Oh, the irony.”

  “How old is this guy?” Nick asked with renewed mistrust.

  Jem’s eyes glinted with mischief. “He’s Sandy Baker’s big brother, so has to be at least thirty.”

  “How’s that old? I’m thirty-five!” Nick protested.

  “Almost thirty-six,” Jem corrected.

  Olly nodded. “Practically geriatric.”

  Nick shook his head. “Keep this up, and I’ll send you both to bed without supper.”

  Jem lifted his empty plate. “Too late.”

  It was a lazy, sunny afternoon. The heat and the buzz o
f insects made them sleepy, at least till Jem dragged out an inflatable swimming pool. It was barely big enough for him and Olly to fit into at the same time. Fortunately, Nick preferred his lounge chair under the shade of the orange tree. Olly stayed till dark, driving home in a much better frame of mind than he’d been after leaving Rich. Jem’s words stuck with him—maybe Rich deserved a second chance. However, he wanted to sleep on it first.

  There was one thing, though, he didn’t want to put off. A quick web search on the address of the paparazzo stalking Sandy resulted in a name: Chester Kane. He plugged the name into a fresh search but found nothing particularly useful. On a whim, he decided to look up Richard Willson. A common name, so it took him a while to sort it all out, but he managed to dig up a few interesting things.

  Rich wasn’t exactly who he pretended to be. Olly wanted to have a word with him about this discrepancy.

  Normally, Olly had Tuesdays off—along with Mondays and Wednesdays—but since he’d switched shifts with Barbara, this Tuesday he had a nine-to-six. He didn’t mind it, though. The work was lighter than on weekends. He got a text message right after his lunch break. It said: Sry, was a dick. Dick.

  He chuckled, and an unexpected warmth spread over him. Sandy gave u my nmbr? he texted back.

  Yes. Come by? came the reply.

  Olly paused with thumbs over the screen. Should I? Rich was making an effort, reaching out. Olly could at least hear him out.

  After work, Olly typed quickly and got back to stacking dairy. It was a never-ending job, especially when you wanted to be somewhere else.

  Olly arrived at the house in Silver Lake a little before seven. The lights were on, but only Rich’s bike stood in the driveway. Sandy must not have returned from Santa Barbara yet. For once, he didn’t mind. He hoped for a little time alone with Rich, a chance to sort out where they stood, how he felt, and if Jem had been right.

  Rich opened the door, and the two of them stood there awkwardly. “Come in,” Rich said.

  Stepping inside, Olly got immediately distracted. “Oh my God! The floor!” he squealed. With the disgusting carpet gone, the whole place became bigger and brighter. “You’ve been busy.”

  Rich had a sheepish expression, like he did every time Olly paid him a compliment. “Still needs a finish, but I thought I’d wait for Sandy to get home first. It’ll be faster with more hands on board.”

  “I’ll help,” Olly said without hesitation.

  “It’s tiring work, much of it spent on your hands and knees,” Rich replied.

  Was Rich trying to get rid of him again? Olly put his hands on his hips. “You don’t think I’m tough enough? And I’m pretty sure I have far more experience at being on my knees than you do. Or is that the problem?” He glared pointedly at Rich.

  Rich turned the color of a tomato, but he held Olly’s gaze. “I’m sorry about yesterday. I didn’t handle it well. What I said was pretty stupid.” He still didn’t seem to be able to say the G-word.

  Olly chose to move carefully. “Was it your first time?”

  “Putting my foot in my mouth? No.” Despite the residual redness, Rich kept his face straight, so it was hard to tell if his misinterpretation of the question was intentional.

  “I mean squirting your man-juice all over another guy.” Olly hoped to soften the question with humor.

  The redness returned, but Rich laughed. “Uh-huh.”

  “Is it something you’re interested in doing again?”

  “I…uh… Probably wouldn’t be a good idea.” Rich scratched the back of his head. “Look, you’re a nice guy, and I’d like to be friends. Can we just leave it there for now? And, I dunno, play it by ear?”

  Olly could tell how much effort this much was taking Rich, and he had the good sense to appreciate it. He knew better than to rush the guy. So he shrugged. “Okay.”

  “Okay?”

  “Sure.” There was one more little thing Olly wanted to shed light on. “Where does an investment banker learn house renovation?”

  Rich’s gaze faltered, but he recovered. “Did my sister blab?” His grimace was half jest, half discomfort. “You can’t trust women.”

  Olly set the record straight. “She didn’t say a word. I went on the Internet. Richard Willson is a common enough name, but not many of them are ginger.”

  “Ah. Betrayed by technology. I’ve always thought the steam engine was a mistake,” Rich said, taking Olly by surprise.

  “Did you just make a joke?”

  “It’s possible. So what did you find out?”

  “Not that much, actually. You were working for a small firm in Chicago, until about six months ago, and then you weren’t. What happened?”

  “I’ve told you—I had a dustup with a client.” Rich moved a few steps, craned his head around as if taking in the house from floor to ceiling. “I used to work on construction in the summers, starting when I was still in high school. It was a way to make some money. Hanging drywall, painting, sanding, these are easy things to learn.”

  Clearly, Rich wasn’t ready to open up about Chicago either. It didn’t leave much to talk about. “I looked up Kane too,” Olly said.

  Rich perked up. “And?”

  “Not much. His full name is Chester Kane. He’s been photographing celebrities with or without their permission for a couple of decades. His camera was smashed more than once. A garden-variety asshole.”

  Rich opened his mouth, but before he could utter a single word, someone knocked on the door. More like banged on it.

  “Sir, is that your car parked out front?” Olly heard the authoritative male voice. As far as he knew, the closest car at the curb was his.

  He moved up next to Rich and saw a man in a blue uniform. A few steps behind the cop stood another one, but female. The two exchanged a quick glance, and the female cop said something into the walkie-talkie thing on her shoulder. The whole scene started to remind Olly of a cop show. Law and Order. No, better: Southland.

  What followed was surreal in its normalcy. The cops asked to come inside, then Olly found himself in the kitchen with the female cop, separated from Rich. Soon a couple of plainclothes detectives showed up too.

  One of them—Detective Cooper, a tall, blond man with a somber face—asked if Olly knew Chester Kane. When Olly admitted to it, the detective told Olly that Chester was dead, and politely but firmly suggested that Olly accompany him to the station “to make a statement.”

  And that was how Olly found himself in a tiny room at the Glendale police station with only two chairs, a small table, and a clock on the wall for company. After a wait that seemed like an hour—though only ten minutes, according to the clock—Detective Cooper joined Olly and started asking questions about how Olly knew Chester Kane and so forth.

  Olly had every intention of keeping Sandy out of this mess, but he knew how badly he sucked at lying, so he had to keep it to the minimum. He told the detective about spotting Chester in front of Sandy’s house. The cops were going to find out about Sandy being an actor anyway; there was no way around it. He skipped the whole part about the blackmail and finding Kane. He did his best to make it sound as if Rich was upset about the photographer stalking Sandy.

  “How did you know where to go?” Detective Cooper asked.

  Olly shrugged again and fixed his gaze on the wall behind the detective. “Rich must’ve figured it out.” Beads of sweat were running down his spine.

  “Why did he need you to go with him?”

  “Rich doesn’t have a car.” Olly went on to describe the encounter with Kane, including the neighbor butting in. As he did, it came to him—the old lady must’ve taken down his license plate. She’d looked like the neighborhood-watch type. It was the only explanation of how the cops had found them so quickly.

  The detective was relentless with his questions. “What did you do after leaving?”

  “Well, we drove back to the house.” Olly felt his face heat up but couldn’t bring himself to tell the cop about him and Rich g
etting sticky on the sofa. “I stayed for a while, about half an hour. We were, uhm, talking, and then I drove to Burbank to see my friend Jem and his partner, Nick.” Olly brightened up. “He’s a cop too, you know. Detective Nick Davies—over at the Hollywood station.”

  Unimpressed, Detective Cooper scribbled something into his notebook. “How long did you stay with your friends?”

  “Till about nine. Then I went home, watched a little TV and went to bed.”

  There was a tap on the door. A man Olly hadn’t seen before poked his head in, twitched his eyebrows and disappeared. Detective Cooper excused himself and left Olly to stew in his own juices alone for a good half an hour.

  When the detective came back, he remained standing by the door. “All right, son. Want to tell me the truth?”

  Olly gulped. “I have.”

  “What about the blackmail? Ms. Baker has told us all about it.”

  Olly was certain it had to be a lie. He’d read about this stuff—people thought cops weren’t allowed to lie, but it wasn’t true. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said stubbornly.

  “Uh-huh.” Detective Cooper opened the door wide enough for Sandy to stick her blonde and furious head in.

  “Olly, don’t be an ass! Tell this nice detective the truth,” she snapped.

  The door closed, and Olly cracked. He told Detective Cooper the whole thing, every little detail. Well, except for the sex with Rich. But the detective seemed to know.

  It was past midnight when Olly was let out of the tiny room. Sandy collected him and Rich in the hallway. She was shooting daggers with her eyes and muttering under her breath all the way to the car, but didn’t explode till they all piled in.

  “Have you two lost your fucking minds?” she yelled at them.

  “Sands—” Rich didn’t get far.