Revision of Justice (22 page)

“Not necessarily.”

“Why is that?”

“He’s not a suspect, Lieutenant. Isn’t that what you just said? On the other hand, he is on my list to be interviewed.”

DeWinter looked at me like he wanted to kick me down the stairs.

“I certainly wouldn’t want to interfere with your journalistic endeavors, would I, Justice?”

I glanced at my watch, then at Templeton.

“Maybe we should find our seats.”

“Would you like to sit with us, Claude? We could save a place for you.”

Templeton’s melodic voice drew DeWinter slowly back. He looked almost dreamy when he spoke to her.

“Unfortunately, I can’t stay. Heavy caseload. Maybe another time?”

“I’d like that. We’ll talk soon?”

“Absolutely.”

DeWinter’s limpid eyes lingered on her as we moved away.

“You’re turning him to jelly, Templeton.”

“I’m just being friendly. I thought you wanted me to soften him up—so he’d cut Danny Romero some slack.”

“You’re tickling his balls, and you know it.”

“When did you get concerned about Claude DeWinter?”

“I just hate to see the guy being set up for such a big fall. Even if he is a sonofabitch.”

“You’re sure you’re not jealous, Justice?”

Her voice was playful, but the words were out of bounds.

“You’re sure you’re not trying to make me jealous, Templeton?”

She stiffened at that but otherwise failed to respond, which told me I was closer to the truth than she liked. She showed a reservation pass to an usher, who pulled away a strip of tape cordoning off one of the upper rows in the middle section.

Our seats allowed us an unrestricted view of the theater, a space well designed for optimum acoustics and sight lines, holding several hundred seats. The aisles were crowded with people gladhanding acquaintances, scanning the audience for familiar faces, or suggesting to others that they get together for lunch. On either side of the stage stood a human-sized replica of Oscar, painted gold, reminding visitors of where they were.

Finally, the theater darkened, the curtains parted, and the music came up. The movie opened with a flashback action sequence in which a medieval knight was chased down on horseback and killed by his enemies, but not before he slipped his treasured medallion into the hands of his young son.

Then came the opening credits.

Monument Pictures Presents

MEL GIBSON

A Dylan Winchester Film

THUNDER’S FORTUNE

The movie was one of those fast-paced, sword-and-sorcery epics featuring state-of-the-art special effects, death-defying stunts, and pumped-up music that makes dialogue largely superfluous and virtually guarantees big international grosses. The story had Mel Gibson in the role of a mystical stud man who wields supernatural powers over evil as long as his father’s magic medallion hangs safely around his neck.

His lust-interest was an athletic young actress with a heaving bosom but not much to do except lop off heads with her jeweled sword and clinch her co-star for a hot kiss now and then between bloodbaths staged with a sensuality more commonly reserved for steamy love scenes. The script also gave Gibson a younger sidekick, played by a gorgeous Hispanic actor whose chiseled face and chest got as many close-ups as the female lead. In fact, the camera lingered lovingly on the anatomy of both men at least as much as it did on hers, and was as much about male power and male beauty as it was a mythical tale of good versus evil. The homoerotic undertones were difficult to miss, no matter how hard Dylan Winchester had worked to create a film that concealed, rather than revealed, his own personal truth.

Yet on its own terms, the picture worked well enough. Its production values were first rate, the story wasn’t half bad, and Gibson’s screen presence was undeniable. I wondered what had happened during the film’s editing to cause Winchester’s banishment by the studio. Whatever the reason, it wasn’t apparent on the screen, at least not to my untrained eye.

At the film’s conclusion, polite if unenthusiastic applause rippled through the theater. After an endless list of credits that indicated nepotism was alive and well in the film industry, the lights finally came up. Templeton was the first to speak.

“I haven’t seen that many shots of Mel Gibson’s butt since
Bird on a Wire.
Not that I’m complaining.”

“You should check out
Braveheart
, then.”

The voice was deep but fey, and unmistakably that of Lawrence Teal. We turned to see him in a seat directly behind us.

“What a coincidence,” I said, in the chilliest voice I could muster.

“Like I told you, Justice—Hollywood’s a small place.”

“What brings you here?”

“Lydia Lowe wanted a report on how the screening went. She’s putting together an item on Dylan’s rift with the studio. I copped a press pass.”

Templeton leaned over the seat.

“You work for Lydia Lowe, the syndicated columnist?”

“Teal feeds tips to one of her assistants.”

“I guess we’re all reporters, then, each in our own way.” Templeton beamed a smile at me. “No wonder you and Benjamin have become such fast friends.”

I returned the smile, but it was the
fuck you
variety that Templeton was so adept at herself.

“Let’s get out of here, shall we?”

To my displeasure, Teal stood with us. We made our way to the aisle and joined the crowd moving slowly toward the exit. Teal positioned himself on one side of me, with Templeton out of earshot on the other.

“I’d like to see you tonight.”

“Thanks, Teal. I’ll pass.”

“You have a date?”

“Something like that.”

He lifted his nose.

“Aren’t we popular all of a sudden. Who’s the lucky boy?”

“No one you’ve slept with, Teal.”

We threaded our way through the upper lobby. Encased behind glass were more of the ubiquitous movie posters, this time promoting film noir classics going back to the forties.
Laura
.
Cape Fear
.
Double Indemnity
.
The Big Sleep
.
Chinatown
.
The Postman Always Rings Twice
.

“Unless I’m mistaken,” Teal said, “you’d like to talk to Dylan again.”

“I wouldn’t mind.”

“I happen to know where he is.”

“I’m listening.”

“He’s got a hideaway, out of town but not that far.”

“I thought you wanted to protect him.”

“The cocksucker hasn’t returned one of my calls since the party. He’s treating me like shit.”

“Even after you removed his cigar from the murder scene? Or doesn’t he know that yet?”

Teal shot me a nasty look.

“Do you want to find him or not?”

“Of course I do.”

“My place, then.”

“I told you, I’m busy.” Then, reluctantly: “It’ll have to be later.”

We started down the stairs.

“How much later?”

“Midnight.”

“I’ll be waiting.”

“And how do I know you have the information I need?”

We crossed the bottom steps and faced each other in the big foyer. Templeton strayed ahead, studying the incomparable face of Dorothy Dandridge on a lobby card from
Island in the Sun
.

“Dylan usually spends his weekends at his ranch near Palm Springs. I heard through the grapevine that he’s been holing up there since that big cop started looking for him. It’s up in the mountains, real private. Famous for its weekend, all-boy pool parties. I used to be invited myself, when I could pass for a teenager.”

“‘The mountains’ covers a lot of territory.”

“You’ll get the exact location tonight.” His voice grew tough, insinuating. “Don’t be late.”

He waltzed away, nodding to Templeton before disappearing into the crowd.

All around us was the sound of Tinseltown buzz—critics jabbering in self-important tones, reporters adding their cynical jibes, publicists standing around nervously, getting paid to smile and say encouraging things about the movie. Everybody behaving as if Hollywood were the center of the universe.

I wanted out, as quickly as possible. When I saw Claude DeWinter crossing the lobby, I wanted out even faster.

He took a place between Templeton and me like he held the deed to it, mashing gum between his busy jaws.

“I thought you’d left, Lieutenant.”

“I did. I came back.”

His eyes settled on Templeton like bees on honey.

“I was hoping we might grab something to eat. That is, unless—”

Templeton shifted her eyes toward me without ever quite removing them from DeWinter.

“As a matter of fact, I’m unexpectedly free.”

Her voice performed a tight wire act with consummate skill, tempting DeWinter while taunting me. For an uneasy moment, she reminded me of Teal.

I flung my next words at her like a handful of well-aimed darts.

“You must take the lieutenant to Spago, Templeton. Introduce him to a good Bordeaux. Although he may want to lose the gum before the first course.”

I turned toward the nearest exit, before Templeton’s glare gave me a bad chill.

Then I was in the Mustang, pulling out of the academy’s underground garage, making a turn, driving hard toward central Hollywood.

Away from the chattering monkeys. Away from the insidious Lawrence Teal. Away from the offensive Claude DeWinter, and the games Templeton was playing with both him and me in an effort to shore up her shattered confidence.

After sacrificing two hours to watch a movie about bloody beheadings and magic medallions that someone had deemed worthy of spending $90 million on, I longed to have contact with something solid and real, something that mattered to me.

It was half past ten when I reached Danny’s apartment on Fountain Avenue. His pickup truck was parked on the street but the windows at the top of the stairs were dark. I found a note on the door, scrawled in pencil by a hand that didn’t look all that strong:

I’m in the garage out back. Danny.

The garage door was down, but I could see light through the cracks. I rapped with my knuckles and heard Maggie’s woof from inside, followed by Danny’s voice.

“Who is it?”

“Ben.”

“You’ll have to pull it open.”

When I did, I found Danny stretched out on a mattress on the concrete floor. He was propped up on big pillows, clad in baggy sweatpants, with an old blanket heaped to the side. Maggie stood guard at his feet, but when she recognized me her tail went into action and she showed me the canine grin peculiar to golden retrievers.

A table lamp sat on the floor near Danny’s head, casting its paltry light over the lower portions of the dingy garage. In his hands was an illustrated guidebook,
California’s Eastern Sierra
, open to a photograph of a small blue lake fringed with pine. Nearby was his pillbox, along with a bottle of juice, a box of tissues, and a bowl of water for the dog.

“You sleeping down here?”

He nodded.

“Worried that somebody might break in again?”

“Naw—it’s my legs.”

“What’s the problem?”

“I can’t get up the stairs anymore.”

At the hospital, they’ll find out why. They’ll stop it, reverse it. You’ll be OK. You have to be
.

I lowered myself to the edge of the mattress.

“Why didn’t you tell me how bad it was?”

“I’m pretty good at taking care of myself.” Maggie snuggled up next to him, resting her chin on his hip. “At least I have been until now.”

“AIDS Project Los Angeles has a buddy program.”

“Yeah, I’ve kinda avoided that.” He tried to laugh, but couldn’t. “I’ve avoided a lot of things, I guess.”

His eyes swept the marginal comforts he’d transported downstairs.

“Aurelio came back after delivering his dinners, helped me haul this stuff down.”

“You should have called me sooner.”

“You’ve got plenty to do without taking care of me.”

“Hey, it’s only temporary—until you get better.”

Danny’s voice had lost any sense of resistance. Yet I heard a different kind of strength; he sounded oddly at peace.

“I’m not afraid of dying, Ben.” He looked away, into the garage, where his finely crafted table took up most of the space. “I’m afraid of dying badly.”

“You’re not dying, Danny. You’re going to get through this. PWAs aren’t dropping like flies anymore. They’re living a long, long time now.”

“Some. The ones that got early treatment, took care of themselves.”

He turned to look straight at me.

“I’m dying, Ben. You’d better accept it. Because I have.”

Then he startled me with a smile.

“At least I got my table finished. I wanted to do that.”

“You’re not dying, dammit!”

He picked a burr from the fur on one of Maggie’s ears.

“I’ve got to find a home for Maggie. Someplace where she has a yard. An apartment’s no good for a dog like her. Even if she is old.”

“A garage is no good for you.”

“It’s not so bad. There’s people with AIDS worse off than me. Living on the street, in the shelters.”

“You’re not sleeping here tonight. Or ever again. Not on a thin mattress on a dirty concrete floor.”

“I don’t have a lot of choices, Ben.”

“You’ve got more choices than you realize.”

I held out my hands to him.

“Come on, get up.”

“Where we goin’?”

“Home.”

*

We arrived back on Norma Place inside the hour. Danny and Maggie sat beside me in front; in the back were his assortment of meds, personal papers, clothes, toothbrush, razor, the guidebook of the eastern Sierra, and a big bag of Maggie’s dry food.

“I feel funny about this,” Danny said. “We should have at least called first.”

“Believe me, it won’t be a problem.”

I knocked lightly on the back door. Fred was asleep but Maurice was still up, watching a videotape of
My Beautiful Laundrette
.

“That Pakistani lad,” Maurice said, after opening the door. “That face! Those eyes! My heart was doing somersaults!”

When I explained the situation he darted past me out the door. By the time I reached the car, he was already helping Danny out.

“A garage floor? When we have an empty bed in the extra bedroom. Shame on you!”

“Danny, meet Maurice.”

“I have,” Danny said, and laughed.

“Warn the dog about the cats,” Maurice said. “Fred and Ginger aren’t terribly friendly with their canine cousins.”

“Maggie’s good with cats. I think she’ll be OK.”

“Oh, my goodness—the cats! That could be dangerous for you, couldn’t it?”

Maurice was talking about toxoplasmosis, which could be fatal for someone with a severely diminished immune system.

“I have to be careful,” Danny said. “Especially around litter boxes—the feces in the dust. But I’ll be all right.”

He was able to walk, but it was an effort. Maurice and I each took one of his arms, while Maggie trotted into the yard and lifted her leg against a honeysuckle vine.

Danny stopped when we reached the back steps.

“It’s going up that’s the biggest problem.”

I bent down and scooped him off his feet, one arm circling his back, the other cradling his legs, while he draped his arms around my neck.

Feeling his weight, his flesh pressing against mine produced a shiver of pleasure that felt bigger and more powerful than my fear of him. He laughed as we crossed the threshold.

“I feel like a bride on her wedding night.”

“The two of you do make quite an attractive couple,” Maurice said. “I’m taking a photograph first thing in the morning.”

I carried Danny through the kitchen and down the hall toward the front of the house, while Maggie followed. Maurice scurried ahead to open the bedroom door and turn down the sheets.

“I can walk on my own now.”

I inhaled Danny’s scent while I still had him close, the musky odor that comes when your last shower and dose of deodorant have worn off and you start to smell human again. It was wildly intoxicating, better than any cologne.

I kissed him on the cheek and set him gently down. He hobbled ahead of me into the bedroom at the end of the hall.

Maggie hopped up on the bed the moment she saw it.

“To the manor born,” Maurice said.

“You don’t have a problem with dogs in the house?”

“Not a bit. Fred loves them. He’s always thought of himself as a dog man. You’ll meet him in the morning—very butch.”

Maurice gave me a wink

“At least he likes to think so.”

Danny stood awkwardly in the center of the small room.

“I don’t know what to say.”

“No words needed, dear. Just make yourself at home.”

Maurice pointed out the TV set and VCR, and a modest collection of feature films that featured humane portrayals of gay male characters—
Ernesto
;
Maurice
;
Victim
;
Another Country
;
Sunday, Bloody Sunday
;
Victor, Victoria
;
La Cage aux Folles
;
Parting Glances
;
My Own Private Idaho
;
Philadelphia
;
Longtime Companion
;
Beautiful Thing
. Films that Maurice found heavily flawed by homosexual stereotype or veiled with homophobia—
Death in Venice
,
Midnight Cowboy
,
Partners
,
A Different Story
—were excluded from his collection. Anything by William Friedkin was banned—Maurice could not forgive the director for
Boys in the Band
and
Cruising
—and
Making Love
was missing because Maurice found it as boring as it was well-meaning. His generous demeanor masked a ruthless, unyielding critic.

“Bathroom’s down the hall,” he said. “I’ll put out a fresh towel. Consider the kitchen your own. If you need anything, Fred and I are on the other side of that wall.”

He gave Danny a hug, and my hand a quick squeeze, then left us, closing the door softly behind him.

“I never met anybody like him before,” Danny said.

“Maurice makes a habit of taking in strays.”

“Are you one of ’em?”

I nodded.

“So was Jacques, before me.”

“You think about Jacques a lot, don’t you?”

“More than I should, probably.”

He looked at his feet a moment, then back up.

“Try to think about me like that once in a while. You know, when I’m gone.”

His eyes suddenly glistened with tears and when I took him in my arms, I could hear him crying softly on my shoulder.

Finally. Finally, he’s letting some of it go
.

“Listen to me, Danny. You’re going into the hospital on Monday. They’re going to find out what’s wrong, then turn it around. After that, you’re coming back here—back where you belong.”

After his tears had ebbed, he separated from me.

“I should get some sleep.”

I glanced at the double bed.

“There’s room for both of us.” I grinned. “If Maggie’s willing to sleep on the floor.”

“I’ll see you in the morning.” He kissed me on the lips, sealing it. “Thanks again for helping me out.”

I left the door ajar on my way out, so Maurice could hear if he was needed during the night.

As I passed through the pantry, the short hand on the kitchen clock was pointed straight up at twelve, the long hand straight down. I was late for my appointment with Lawrence Teal.

I strode down the driveway, out to Norma Place, over to Hilldale Avenue and up to the intersection of Dicks Street, where I knocked on Teal’s door.

He was naked when he pulled it open, except for a leather cock ring binding the base of his scrotum and penis. He’d shaved away all his pubic hair, turning himself into a tightly muscled man-boy.

Each of his nipples was pierced with a silver ring, still swollen from the piercing. He shut and locked the door, faced me, and slapped me hard across the face.

“That’s for being late.”

Various pieces of paraphernalia were laid out in orderly fashion on the living room floor-bondage straps, a leather harness, rubber dildos in a range of sizes, handcuffs, a whip.

Teal ordered me to get on my knees. I kneeled.

“Open your mouth.”

I did as ordered, and he moved toward me. Leading the way was an erection big enough and stiff enough to hang a Stetson on.

I’d never been that fond of role-playing in sexual situations, certainly not the rigidly defined, master-slave variety. But I’d rarely shied away from a new experience, either.

When I left Lawrence Teal’s apartment just before dawn, I knew a great deal more about him, especially his capacity for inflicting pain.

I also came away with directions to Dylan Winchester’s Palm Springs ranch.

The sun was coming up when I finished showering off the sticky remnants of Teal’s dark pleasure, and traces of my own.

I didn’t bother trying to sleep.