Baja Honeymoon

by Roland Graeme

  “Disgusting,” Ken muttered under his breath, although he couldn’t help smiling. Nor could he help feeling a bit smug and superior, given his own more refined choice of reading material.

  He was in a good mood. He had enjoyed meeting Rick Decareau. He wondered if he’d run into him again. This was a close-knit neighborhood, so in all probability he would.

  As he began to walk home, Ken munched on another of Rosa Sereni’s cookies. Maybe he wasn’t rich and famous, like the celebrities who were written up in the tabloids, and maybe he wasn’t romantically involved with anyone at the moment. But life still offered its occasional consolations.

  CHAPTER TWO

  FISH TO FRY

  FISH TO FRY

  ONE OF the advantages of being self-employed was being able to set one’s own hours. One of the disadvantages was that, when the weekend arrived, it didn’t necessarily seem like the weekend.

  It was Friday evening, but Ken, who often had things to keep him busy on both Saturday and Sunday, had no specific plans. He supposed he’d make himself something simple for dinner, and then, if there was nothing interesting on TV, he could always pop a porno DVD into the player and enjoy a quick jerk-off session before he went to bed. Ah yes, he thought. Friday night in the big city. Hundreds of horny men out on the prowl, ready to hook up with each other. And here I am, sitting at home alone.

  When his cell phone buzzed, he didn’t recognize the number on the display.

  “Ken?”

  “Speaking.”

  “This is Rick Decareau. We met the other day. Maybe you don’t remember me?”

  “Of course I do.”

  “Am I calling at a bad time?”

  “Not at all. What’s new with you? Are you getting settled in?”

  “Yeah, bit by bit. One of the things I’ve been doing is walking around the neighborhood, getting myself oriented. I was curious if you could recommend any bar or restaurant around here that has a decent Friday night fish fry.”

  “A fish fry? What’s that?”

  “That’s what we call it back East, where I come from. You know, a big slab of battered fried fish, with french fries and coleslaw on the side.”

  “Oh. Out here, we call that ‘fish and chips,’ like the British do. And I know just the place. Gallaghers. It’s not far from where we had coffee.”

  “Oh, I’ve walked past that place. I made a note to myself to check it out sometime. So it’s good?”

  “Everything on their menu is good, not just their fish fry.”

  “I’m definitely going to go there, then. Hey, if you’re not doing anything tonight and you haven’t had your dinner yet, why don’t you join me?”

  “I’d love to.”

  “Perfect. From the street, Gallaghers doesn’t look like too dressy a place.”

  “It’s not. It’s a typical Irish pub. It tends to attract a blue-collar kind of crowd, with a few token yuppies mixed in.”

  Rick laughed. “Then I should feel right at home, because I’m sort of dressed down at the moment. I won’t bother to change.”

  “Neither will I.”

  “It’s within walking distance of both our places,” Rick pointed out. “But should I drive over to your place and pick you up?”

  “Don’t bother on my account. I’ll walk.”

  “Then so will I.”

  “Give me half an hour. If you get there first, grab a table.”

  “I will. See you there.”

  Ken checked himself in a mirror to confirm that he was reasonably presentable, at least by the freewheeling standards of a drinking establishment like Gallaghers. He wasn’t a clotheshorse, and when he didn’t have some special occasion to dress up for, he tended to affect a blue-collar look. He wasn’t particularly vain, either, but as he scrutinized his image in the mirror, he wondered if he should take the time to shave. His sandy blond hair could use a trim, and the combination of the slight shagginess and the beard stubble made him look rather unkempt at the moment. He hesitated, then shrugged. This wasn’t a date, after all, not in the sense that he was meeting another gay man whom he hoped to impress and get into bed. He was just going to have an informal dinner with a pleasant straight guy.

  Ken took to the streets to make the short walk to the pub.

  It was a pleasant evening, not too hot, and the sidewalks had more pedestrian traffic than usual. As Ken rounded a corner and began to make his way up the street that led to the pub, he noticed a car parked at the curb a few paces ahead of him. It was a nondescript, beat-up vehicle, and he might not have given it a second glance, except for the fact that the man in the front passenger seat was leaning out the car’s open window and, with his back turned to Ken, was aiming a camera with a long telephoto lens at something farther up on the street.

  Ken came up alongside the parked car and naturally turned his head to get a closer look at its occupants. The photographer, engrossed in whatever he could see through his viewfinder, was oblivious to Ken’s presence. But the driver gave Ken the kind of hard, searching look that advised a seasoned urban dweller like Ken that any further eye contact would be unwelcome. A bit flustered, Ken walked on.

  He was no expert in photography or photographic equipment, his own picture-taking being strictly of the point-and-shoot variety. But he guessed that the camera he’d just seen was a very professional and expensive affair, which belied the decidedly scruffy appearance of the two men in the car.

  He walked on, wondering what the guy was taking pictures of. Nothing ahead of him on the street or the sidewalk seemed at all out of the ordinary or worthy of preservation on film. Then, up ahead of him on the next block, Ken caught sight of a man standing on the sidewalk in front of a storefront, looking at the window display. He had his back turned to Ken. It was curious that though Ken had spent only a little time in Rick Decareau’s company, something about this man’s body language—the way he carried himself and tilted his head to examine whatever was in the window—instantly suggested to Ken that it was none other than Rick. The baseball cap and sunglasses were, admittedly, another tip-off.

  Ken quickened his pace, but some instinct prompted him to look back over his shoulder. The dude with the camera was still aiming his lens in the same direction, and in all probability Ken was now inadvertently blocking his shot. Well, that’s his problem.

  Ken continued on his way and soon got close enough to confirm that the guy loitering in front of the store display was Rick.

  “Hey, Rick,” he called out softly when he was within earshot.

  Rick turned and smiled at him. “Hi, Ken! I figured I might see you walking from that direction. I didn’t want to get to the restaurant too soon ahead of you, so I thought I’d wait and see if you’d catch up with me.”

  As Rick spoke, the old wreck of a car passed them on the street, moving slowly. Rick didn’t seem to notice it, but Ken saw that the business end of the long telephoto lens was now being pointed directly at them. The car drove on, still not accelerating.

  There couldn’t be much doubt about it. The guy was taking photos of Rick. Unless he was taking photos of passersby on the street at random, which Ken doubted.

  “Are you ready to go eat?” Rick was saying.

  “Sure. But listen, Rick. I may be paranoid, but I could swear there are a couple of guys in a car following you. One of them keeps aiming a camera at you.” As Ken looked up the street, the car made a U-turn and headed back in their direction, then pulled into a parking space up ahead on the other side of the street. “I’ll be damned,” Ken muttered. “They’ve turned around. And the son of a bitch with the camera is now practically sitting in his buddy’s lap, aiming the camera at you through the window on the driver’s side.”

  Rick seemed neither surprised nor perturbed. He didn’t even bother to look where Ken was looking. “Let me guess. They both look like potheads or tweakers? The one with the camera has long, stringy black hair and a mustache and goatee. And his buddy looks like the kind of geek who still lives
at home with his parents, collects comic books, and has never been laid?”

  “That just about describes them. Do you know them?”

  “Unfortunately, yes. Relax. They’re not criminals or undercover cops. Which is kind of too bad, because at least that would be interesting. They work for one of the tabloids. The guy with the camera is a paparazzo, obviously, and the geek is a reporter who writes the crap to go along with the pictures.”

  “You mean they’re stalking you?”

  “I guess that’s one word for it. They’re not very good at it, in the sense of not being too obvious about it, since you spotted them right away.”

  “But why are they after you? Are you some kind of a celebrity?”

  “Theoretically. I suppose it’s time for me to ’fess up. I’m an actor.” Rick smiled, a bit sheepishly. “An actor you’ve never seen or heard of, obviously.”

  “Oh shit. When you told me you worked in television, I assumed you meant you did something behind the scenes.”

  “Sometimes I wish I did. Come on, let’s go to Gallaghers. Ignore the audience.”

  As they walked the short distance to the pub, though, Ken couldn’t quite bring himself to ignore the two men who were observing his companion so intently. He glanced back over his shoulder. “Fuck. Don’t look now, but they’ve gotten out of the car and crossed the street, and they’re walking toward us. I can’t believe their nerve.”

  “I can,” Rick said dryly. “Should we make a run for it, or should we stand our ground?”

  “What do you want to do?”

  “Oh, I’ll talk to them for a minute, if you don’t mind putting up with their nonsense. Sometimes, if I throw them a bone, they’ll back off and leave me alone. Let me do the talking.”

  The two men approached Rick and Ken. The photographer now had his camera balanced on his shoulder and kept snapping away nonstop.

  “Hey, Deke!” the other guy yelled.

  Deke? Who’s Deke?

  “What’s up, guys?” Rick asked very casually and politely, given the circumstances, Ken had to admit. “Slow news day?”

  “You’re always news,” the journalist said. Ken now saw that he held a small digital audio recorder in his hand. “How about a quote, Deke?”

  “Sorry. I’m fresh out of intelligent things to say.”

  “Where are you off to?”

  “Just having dinner with a friend.”

  “I guess you have to do something to distract yourself while Eva is in New York, going out on the town with her former boyfriend. Or is he all that much of a former boyfriend? I heard the two of them were seen getting it on together pretty hot and heavy in a nightclub the other night. I heard he’ll do just about anything to get her back. How do you feel about that? Are you okay with your girlfriend seeing another man?”

  The guy was trying to bait Rick, Ken realized, trying to get a rise out of him.

  Rick, however, smiled sweetly. “No comment.”

  The photographer now spoke up. “How about taking the baseball cap off, Deke, so I can get a decent shot of you?”

  “I’m having a bad hair day,” Rick joked. “But sure, go ahead.” He removed his cap and posed, looking completely relaxed as the photographer clicked off a few shots, as though he was accustomed to this sort of thing. Ken saw that he had enviably straight, glossy hair, which fell into place, perhaps as the result of an expensive styling. But Rick still made a point of raising a hand and brushing his hair back from his forehead as he posed. “Now that you’ve got your pictures, you’ll have to excuse me. My buddy and I want to go eat.”

  The photographer turned his attention to Ken and took a close-up photo of him without asking his permission. Ken scowled at the camera.

  “Come on, man. Smile,” the photographer coaxed.

  “This isn’t the zoo,” Ken said, “and I’m not a monkey in a cage.”

  “Who are you?” the photographer asked Ken. And then he actually added, “Are you anybody?”

  “Who, me? The last time I checked, I was somebody,” Ken retorted. Despite his annoyance, he was beginning to find humor in the situation.

  “This is my drama coach,” Rick said, lying so convincingly that Ken was momentarily taken aback.

  “Oh yeah? What’s your name?”

  I’m damned if I know, Ken almost blurted out. I didn’t even know I was a drama coach until a minute ago.

  Without altering his deadpan expression, Rick came to his rescue. “His name is Alexander Dargomizhsky.”

  “How do you spell that?”

  Don’t ask me, Ken wanted to say. But Rick patiently spelled out the surname as the reporter wrote it down.

  “Come on, Alex,” Rick said, taking Ken by the elbow and steering him toward the entrance to the pub before either the photographer or the journalist could say anything further. “I’m starved—and you guys can quote me on that.”

  They retreated into the pub, leaving the two men outside on the sidewalk.

  It was early for the dinner crowd, and the Please Seat Yourself sign was out.

  Rick was looking around. “Oh, this does seem like a nice place. Let’s sit in one of those booths in the back. Where those idiots won’t be able to see us from the street.”

  “I wouldn’t put it past them to follow us in here and sit down and watch us while we eat.”

  “I wouldn’t put it past them, either, except that they’re probably too cheap to pay for a drink, let alone a decent meal. On what that rag pays them, they live on fast food and takeout, at least when they’re on the job. They’ll probably sit in their car waiting for us to come out. Sorry about that whole scene, by the way.”

  “Oh, don’t apologize. I find this fascinating.”

  Rick grimaced. “Because you’re new to it. Trust me, the novelty wears off fast, and so does the fascination.”

  They sat down in a booth, and the waitress brought them menus.

  “I’ll have a Guinness stout,” Rick told her.

  “And I’ll have an Amstel. Do you want to go with the fish and chips, Rick, or would you like to try something else?”

  “Give me a minute to see what else is on the menu.”

  Ken allowed him to do so, and took advantage of the opportunity to get his first good look at Rick without his baseball cap and sunglasses. He really was a handsome guy. His brown hair, carelessly tousled at the moment, was as long as Ken’s, but had benefited from a recent and obviously expensive styling. Rick had what Ken always thought of as “bedroom eyes”: warm and inviting, and a peculiar pale hazel in color.

  The waitress brought them their drinks, and then they both ordered the fish and chips after all.

  Ken leaned comfortably against the back of his seat. “Okay, now spill. What’s this drama coach bit, for starters?”

  “I made it up on the spot. We call it improvisation, in the trade.”

  “So I assume there really is a guy named Alexander Dargomizhsky.”

  “Yeah, only he’s been dead for about a hundred and fifty years. He was a Russian composer. Not one of the more famous ones. It was the first name that popped into my head, for some reason. Won’t those jerks be surprised when they run his name through their computer to try to get the lowdown on him. Unless there really is a drama coach with the same name. Here in LA, anything is possible.”

  “So you know a lot about Russian music, do you?”

  “It’s one of a lot of things I’ve acquired a superficial knowledge of. One of these days I’m going to have to go through the list and pick out just one or two things to really focus my attention on.”

  “And this guy Deke? Is he another figment of your imagination?”

  Rick seemed slightly embarrassed. “It’s a stage name, obviously. Richard Decareau is my real name. Unlike some guys in the industry, I haven’t bothered to change it legally. Using my real name in my private life has the advantage of helping to throw people like those two jerks outside off the track. My first agent thought that ‘Decareau’ sounded
too pissy, for some reason. He played around with it and came up with ‘Deacon Rowe.’ I never really cared for Deacon, but luckily most people shorten it to Deke, which I’ve learned to live with. I fired that agent, eventually, and found myself a new one. But the stage name has stuck, for better or worse. Do me a favor, Ken, and promise me you’ll never address me as anything other than Rick.”

  “It’s a deal.”

  Rick took a sip of his ale, then looked at Ken and smiled. “You’re not terribly impressed by the fact that I’m an actor, are you?”

  “Sorry. I didn’t mean to give that impression.”

  “Oh, don’t you dare apologize. I think it’s great. I get fed up with having people fawn all over me. If they behave like that around a beginner like me, I can’t imagine what it must be like for the real stars.”

  “I haven’t had time yet to absorb what you do for a living. And I don’t really know that much about the entertainment industry.”

  “Good for you. Take my advice and keep it that way. You’ll be much better off.”

  “Still, it must be nice to be a success at what you do.”

  “You’re taking for granted that I’m a success.”

  “You must be, to be so newsworthy and have the press following you around.”

  “Ha! That’s a laugh. Oh, don’t get me wrong. I’m grateful for what I’ve been given. It’s just that I can’t see why you can’t work as an actor for a living and still have some semblance of a private life. It’s incomprehensible to me that people will pay to see photos of me going about my everyday business, getting in and out of my car or walking down the street. Tonight’s a perfect example. I’m walking down the street on my way to meet you to grab some dinner. And here the two of us are, sitting here sucking down our brews and waiting for our food. We’re no different from any of the other people here in the restaurant. In what way is what I’m doing right now even remotely newsworthy? What’s the big fascination?”