“They picked me up for burglary,” he said. “I managed to make bail.” He picked up his drink and drank from it. “I split.”
“Where was this?”
“A little town in Oklahoma,” he said. “Shitsville. I did some hard years there, Henry. That’s not important. The important thing is, I jumped bail.” He finished his drink. “Sandy knew.”
“He blackmailed you,” I said.
“Yeah, that’s about the size of it,” Zane said, rising. He walked over to the bar and poured himself vodka and lime. Rennie lit a cigarette.
“But you’re on tv,” I said. “Aren’t you afraid of being recognized?’’
“It was fifteen years ago,” Tom said, walking to the window that faced the terrace. “Hell, I could walk down the streets of that town and my mama wouldn’t know me.” For the first time I heard a twang in his voice.
“How old were you?” I asked.
He turned from the window. “Twenty-two.” He smiled, bitterly. “I already done two years by then at a state pen. Got raped every night for the first six weeks till I married me some protection — a guy with a forty-inch chest and biceps I could swing from. That’s how I stayed alive.”
I glanced over at Rennie. Her cigarette had burned down to the filter and a chunk of ash dropped to the floor. She stared at the wall, her face without expression.
“You could use some protection now,” I said. “You’re Sandy’s last hope. He’ll be back looking for you.”
“We can’t very well go to the police,” Rennie said, suddenly. She dropped the remnant of her cigarette into an ashtray.
“I understand that,” I said, “but-”
“But nothing,” Tom said. “I’ll take care of Sandy if he comes back. In the meantime, Henry, you just don’t worry about us. We’ll be all right.”
He stepped behind the chair where Rennie sat and rested his hands on her shoulders.
I stood up to leave. “You weren’t Tom Zane, then,” I said.
“No. I used to be Charlie Fry,” he replied. “Poor little Charlie. He never had a chance.”
24
Josh’s vw was parked in front of Larry’s house. I found them at the kitchen table, talking quietly over the remains of lunch, and sat down.
“I guess you’ve met,” I said.
Josh said, “I hope you don’t mind that I came here.”
“Not me. Larry?”
Larry smiled. “I’m glad I finally met you, Josh.” He looked at me. “What happened this morning?”
I summarized what I had seen at Tony Good’s apartment and gave them an edited version of my conversation with the Zanes. I concluded, saying, “Blenheim could be anywhere. They may never catch him.”
“Well, I guess I was wrong,” Larry said.
Josh looked puzzled.
“Larry didn’t think it was Blenheim,” I said.
“Who did you think it was?” Josh asked.
“Jim,” Larry said.
“But you’ve been helping him,” Josh said.
Larry smiled at him. “Have Henry explain it to you sometime, Josh.” He looked at me and said, “I’m closing up the house tomorrow. Of course you can stay as long as you want, Henry, but I imagine you’ll be wanting to stay with Josh, anyway.”
“You’re really going through with it, then?” I asked.
“Yes,” Larry said.
Josh looked back and forth between us. “What’s going on?”
“I’m going on a trip,” Larry said brightly, “to Paris.”
“Great,” Josh said enthusiastically.
Larry looked at me, then stood up. “Excuse me.” He picked up their plates and carried them to the sink.
“Is something wrong?” Josh asked.
Larry rinsed the plates, set them in the dishwasher and said, “I’m going to Paris for treatment, Josh. I have AIDS.”
Then he left the room.
Josh stared at me. “Is that true?”
“Yes.”
“You can’t let him go.” His voice was spooked.
“I can’t stop him,” I replied.
He started to speak but said nothing. I could tell he was thinking about himself, about us. Finally he asked, “Would you let me go?”
“It won’t come to that,” I said firmly.
“But if it did?” There was fear in his face.
“No.” I put my arm around him.
“I’m sorry about Larry,” he said.
“I know,” I replied. We sat in silence for a minute. “Josh, after Larry leaves, I’m going home.”
He nodded. “I’m going with you,” he said.
The next morning we drove Larry to the airport. He gave me the number of the clinic in Paris where he would be staying and a list of errands he had been unable to finish. We walked him to the gate. I remembered that all this had begun at another airport, in San Francisco. As the crowd swirled around us, we stood and looked at each other, not knowing what there was left to say.
He turned to Josh and said, “Take care of him.”
“I will,” Josh replied. “Goodbye, Larry.”
They embraced like old friends.
Then he looked at me and said, “And you take care of Josh.”
I knew I would never see him again. “Goodbye. I love you.”
We embraced. “I love you, too,” he said, and his lips brushed against my cheek. “Goodbye.”
When we got back to Josh’s apartment, I called Freeman Vidor and told him that I would be leaving for San Francisco in a couple of days.
“I have one last job for you, though,” I added.
“What’s that, Henry?”
“I want you to keep your eye on Tom Zane for a few days, make sure nothing happens to him.”
“You think Blenheim will be looking for him?” Freeman asked.
“If he’s anywhere close.”
“He could be in Tahiti by now,” Freeman replied. “That’s what the cops think.”
“But just in case he’s not.”
“Sure, Henry,” he replied. “Give me a number where I can reach you up there.”
I gave him both my office and home numbers. “Listen, Freeman,” I said, “it’s been good working with you.”
I could almost see him smile. “I travel, too,” he said. “Anywhere, anytime. You just call.”
“I’ll do that.”
We left Los Angeles one week before Christmas, choosing to drive up, the coast in Josh’s vw. We had made no plans about how long he would stay with me, — he simply arranged to be away from the restaurant for a couple of weeks. Although things were vague, I wasn’t worried because it seemed to me that the decision to be together had already been made and the mechanics would work themselves out.
As we drove out of L.A., my sense of belonging with Josh grew keener. It was partly the departure itself because, unlike other cities, one leaves Los Angeles by increments, from the crowded central city, over the canyons, through thickets of suburbs, until the tracts of houses thin into the remotest outskirts and then there are hills and sky and the freeway narrows to a two-lane road lined by eucalyptus, and the L.A. radio stations fade in and out, and it becomes possible to hear birds and smell the sea.
We stopped at a roadside produce stand and bought apples and oranges. Back in the car we drank coffee from a thermos and were silent, my hand in his when I wasn’t shifting gears. The sky was clear and cold and the sun cast a rich winter light. Josh whistled under his breath, fidgeted in his seat, read to me from the L.A. Times, yawned, peeled an orange, carefully dividing the sections between us, closed his eyes, napped. I glanced up in the rear-view mirror and saw that I was smiling. I felt his eyes on me, looked at him. His lips parted slightly, and his forehead was creased by shallow lines. I tightened my hand around his and returned my attention to the road.
“I used to play a driving game with Larry,” I said, “back when we were traveling around the state speaking against the sodomy law.”
“What’s the game called?” he asked.
I rolled my head back and forth to relieve the tension. “We called it ‘Classic or Kitsch.’ You know what kitsch is?”
“Sure,” Josh answered. “My aunt’s rhinestone glasses.”
“Perfect example,” I said. We were coming into San Luis Obispo. The traffic was heavier and the sky was clouding over. “The way it’s played is, one of us chooses a category, like movies, and gives the name of the movie and the other one says if it’s classic or kitsch.”