“Come on, Josh,” I said, taking his hand. We followed her to a little counter where I signed us in. She handed me a heavy brass key.
“Second floor,” she said. “Room 209. Come down later for carols and eggnog.”
“Thank you,” I said.
On the stairs Josh stopped me and said, “What is this, Henry?”
“A Hanukkah gift,” I replied.
“This is great,” he murmured as I led him up the stairs.
Our room had a fireplace. I knelt down in front of it and started a fire. The only other light was cast from the Tiffany lamps and the discreet overhead light above the mammoth four- poster bed. Wings of eucalyptus branches fanned out beneath the mantle of the fireplace, dispersing their rainy fragrance into the room.
This was one Victorian whose rooms fulfilled the promise of its beautifully restored facade. Our walls were papered in deep green with marbled swirls of pink and blue, as if abstracted from a peacock’s feathers. The period furniture was comfortably arranged around the oval of the room. High above us in the dusky region of the ceiling, embossed brass caught the glint of the fire and lamplight. Our window looked out upon downtown’s brilliant spires and a distant prospect of the Golden Gate.
From the bathroom Josh said, “Henry, look at this bathtub.”
I went in. The big porcelain tub was supported by clawed feet. The faucet, set into the wall, was a golden lion’s head.
“Let’s try it out,” I said, putting my hands on his shoulders as he knelt inspecting the lion.
He looked up, smiling a little lewdly, and nodded.
We lit the bathroom with candles ordered up from downstairs and stuck them in the sink, on the toilet, at the edges of the tub. Josh lay with his back against me, dividing the water with his fingers. I kissed his bare shoulder, lay my hands lightly on his groin and felt the jerky movements of his penis. From downstairs we heard singing.
“I guess we missed the carols,” I said later.
“And the eggnog.” He pressed more deeply against me. “Thank you, Henry.”
“The water’s getting cold,” I observed.
“Do we have to get out?” he asked.
“There’s still the bed,” I said.
“You’re right,” he replied, and pulled the plug to let the water drain.
While he was still in the bathroom, I pulled the package from beneath the bed and put it on the comforter. He emerged from the bathroom, drying himself, pushed his glasses up his nose and, with a half-smile, inspected the brightly wrapped box.
“More?” he asked.
“One more,” I replied, sitting in a wing chair, drawing my robe around me. “Open it.”
He tore into the package. “That’s why you went back into the store,” he said, holding up the leather jacket that I had most admired him in. “It’s beautiful, but Henry, it cost so much.”
“Indulge me.”
He slipped the jacket on. The deep brown caught the fading firelight and shone against his skin. But I wasn’t really looking at the coat.
“It looks great on you.” I said. My voice sounded unfamiliar to me.
He took the jacket off and carefully laid it across a chair. “I have a present for you, too,” he said.
“What?”
He got his wallet out of his pants pocket and extracted a package from it. “Merry Christmas,” he said.
I took the package and laughed. It was a pack of condoms decorated with a picture of Santa Claus.
I was awakened by the phone. I groped for it, picked up the receiver and mumbled a groggy hello.
It was Freeman Vidor. I listened to him for a few minutes, and then sat up in bed. “Are you sure?”
“Yeah,” he said, “I’m sure. You better come down.”
Josh reached out and stroked my leg. “Henry, who is it?”
“Shh,” I said. “Not today, Freeman. Give me until tomorrow. Have you told Cresly?”
“I don’t know if he’d buy it,” Freeman replied.
“We need the cops,” I said, swinging my legs over the edge of the bed. “We’ll need all the help we can get.”
He spoke for another couple of minutes and then, wishing me a Merry Christmas, hung up.
Josh was wide awake. “What’s wrong? Is it Larry?”
“No,” I replied. “It’s about Jim. We have to get back to L.A.”
25
Although I could not see his face, I knew that the man coming out of the men’s room at the Texaco station had different color eyes than when he had gone in. In the front seat, Freeman nudged Cresly who was pressing the side of his face against the window, eyes closed. Sitting in the back, I watched Tom Zane get into his Fiat. A moment later, the Fiat’s headlights flashed on and he slipped into the traffic on Highland Boulevard, heading north. Freeman started his car and we got in behind Zane.
Freeman said something to Cresly that I missed.
Cresly replied, “Yeah, let’s bust him for using the toilet without buying gas.” He lit a thin brown cigarette and rolled down the window. “Ain’t this like old times,” he said to no one in particular.
“You and Freeman were partners?” I asked, as we squealed to a stop just below Sunset.
“That’s right,” he said, “and even then Vidor got these hunches and dragged my ass all over town. Right, Freeman?”
“Hey, you’re here, aren’t you,” Freeman replied, as we accelerated forward.
“Maybe,” he said, “depending on what happens. If nothing happens, I was never here. This isn’t police business yet.”
The night sky was a dull red and there wasn’t a flicker of natural light to be found in the heavens. Though New Year’s Eve was four nights away, it was warm and gritty. We turned east on Hollywood Boulevard, a couple of cars behind the Fiat which now turned onto a side street and into the parking lot for the
Chinese Theater. Freeman followed but went past the lot, pulled up to the curb and parked. A couple of minutes later, Zane emerged from the lot and walked back toward the boulevard.
“You’re sure he’ll be coming this way?” I asked.
Freeman said, “He did before.”
He switched on the radio to a classical music station. Cresly tossed his cigarette out the window and whistled beneath his breath. The dark, palm-lined street was deserted. The city looked like a gigantic backlot for Day of the Locusts. All that was needed was for someone to say “Action.”
Headlights appeared in the rear-view mirror as a car crossed Hollywood Boulevard. When it passed, I saw it was an Escort bearing the sticker of a car rental agency on its back window.
“That’s him,” Freeman said, cutting off the last movement of Brahms’s Third Symphony.
Cresly, who had been whistling the melody, sat up. “What are you waiting for?”
“This ain’t a parade, Phil,” Freeman replied.
Cresly spat out the window and muttered, “Feets don’t fail me now.”
When the Escort crossed the first intersection, Freeman started after it. At Santa Monica Boulevard, we turned right. Santa Monica was brightly lit and there was heavy traffic on the sidewalks, young men and boys standing on either side of the street, at bus stops and in doorways, watching the passing traffic. The Escort took a left at La Brea. Freeman let a couple of cars pass before he followed.
Our next turn was left onto Willoughby, a big street about four blocks south of Santa Monica. There were houses on the south side of Willoughby, but on the north side were the gloomy backs of industrial buildings.
“What’s in there?” I asked, pointing at them.
“Office buildings,” Freeman said. “Warehouses. Lots of dark places and no one around. That’s where Zane takes his pick-ups.”
“We’re in West Hollywood now,” Cresly said.
“This is a crazy place,” I replied. “One minute you’re in L.A. and then you cross the street and you’re in West Hollywood, but if you jog north you’re back in L.A.”
“L.A. surrounds West Hollywood,” Cresly said, “and it’s the sheriffs’ turf.”
At Highland, the Escort turned left, back up toward Santa Monica Boulevard, and, at Santa Monica, took another left back toward La Brea.