Spider Season (25 page)

“Ismael!”

“I’m right here, Benjamin.”

I turned to see him coming from the bathroom at the end of the hall, shirtless and freshly shaved, with a towel draped over his bare shoulders and a grooming kit in one hand. A weave of fine, dark hair spread lightly across his upper chest, still moist from his shower. The sight of him like that sent a bolt of lust through me; I wanted desperately to touch him. Along the hallway, several men poked their heads out of doorways, eyeing me closely.

“Esta bien, es un amigo,” Ismael said.

I knew just enough Spanish to understand:
It’s okay. He’s a friend.

Ismael opened his unlocked door and I followed him in. It was a small room, with creaking floorboards and a single window open on the far side, looking out on what had once been a bucolic community of gardens, parks, and lovely neighborhoods until the freeway system had cut it up into gritty sections whose residents now lived with the constant din of traffic noise and a cloud of poisonous pollution. Distantly, I could hear the rush of cars, that unsettling sound of humanity surging at high speed past neighborhoods grown impoverished and forgotten in the shadows of the elevated freeways, the kind of places relegated to the grateful poor.

“Welcome to my humble abode,” Ismael said, closing the door behind us.

There was a narrow bed, a dresser, a small writing table, and a wooden chair. Nothing else, except for a crucifix hanging over the bed and a framed picture of the Virgin Mary above the table.

I grabbed Ismael and kissed him fiercely. By then, I’d stopped trying to analyze our relationship, looking for reasons to end it because the pieces didn’t fit together perfectly. Maurice had told me once that the heart knows no logic, that falling in love is not a rational process. It’s a mysterious and crazy thing, he’d advised me, a force beyond comprehending or controlling that makes not a shred of sense. But it’s also the spark that brings two people together, he’d said, the start of something that might work out. And one had to take the risk if it was ever to have a chance at all.

“I’ve missed you, Ismael. I’ve acted like a fool.” I smiled awkwardly. “Nothing new in that, I’m afraid.”

“You confuse me, Benjamin. I don’t really understand what’s going on.”

“I keep forgetting, it’s your first time at this.”

“I’m glad you finally called. I’ve been concerned.” He reached up, touched my face. “It’s good to see you again. But you seem a bit frantic. What’s happened?”

We sat on the edge of the bed and I told him about Lance. Everything, from our initial confrontation to the police report when I’d become aware of his full name for the first time.

Ismael took my hand. “How do you feel about all this?”

“Frankly, it scares me a little. Suddenly finding out I have a kid.”

“Understandable.”

“It’s driving me crazy that I can’t find him.”

Ismael stared thoughtfully at the floor a moment. Then he said softly, “If you’d like, we could pray.”

“Pray?”

I hadn’t spoken a prayer since I was fourteen, and that had been with Father Blackley, our parish priest, who’d made me his “special friend” when I was twelve. We’d always prayed together, kneeling by his bed in his rectory back in Buffalo, just before he undressed me and used me for his pleasure. Ismael knew all about that—I’d spilled it out, sobbing, along with various other dark episodes from my past, when he’d taken my confession five years ago. Looking back, I realized that Father Blackley had inadvertently brought Ismael and me together, that something good had come from my insidious relationship with the long dead priest. But praying—it felt utterly alien to me now.

“Only if you truly feel comfortable with it,” Ismael said.

I decided to at least go through the motions, for his sake if not for mine. And so, after several decades, I found myself on my knees again beside a man of God, as the figures of Christ the Savior and the Virgin Mother looked on. I clasped my hands and closed my eyes, asking God’s help in reuniting me with my prodigal son. I wasn’t completely sold on the prayer business and let Ismael take the lead. But I moved my lips just the same, mumbling a few plaintive words. My desire to find Lance was fervent and sincere, which seemed the most important thing.

When we were done but still on our knees, Ismael reached over and stroked my head, as if to thank me for indulging him. It was a small gesture, but it meant the world to me. Little by little we were getting closer again. Little by little I felt bound to another person, and less alone.

He left his hand on the back of my scruffy neck. Our eyes were locked, inches apart. I could detect the faint scent of shaving cream coming off him, and sensed the moist warmth. I rose and brought him up with me, then pulled him down on top of me on the bed. We slipped easily into each other’s arms, and kissed as if we’d known each other forever. Our kisses grew more urgent, finding their natural rhythm, each one building on the last. I let my hands wander, to his face, his hair, his chest, hearing his breath quicken. I was rock hard by then and could feel him pressing against me just as stiffly. But when my hand strayed below his belt, he caught my wrist and stopped me.

“It’s too soon, Benjamin. I’m not ready for that.”

“I love you, Ismael.”

“I know you do, as much as anyone can so soon. But we’re just beginning to know each other.”

“You don’t trust me?” He averted his eyes. “I’ve told you I’m HIV positive. I’d never do anything to put you at risk.”

“It’s not that,” he said, looking at me again. “I know this sounds hopelessly old-fashioned. But when I make love for the first time, I want it to be part of something deeper, something lasting.”

“Then it is a matter of trust.”

He touched my face and looked into my eyes. “I placed my trust in the Church for nearly forty years, Benjamin, before I realized how seriously it had betrayed me, betrayed so many of us. It’s going to take some time before I’m able to trust like that again. Does that make any sense?”

I remembered what it had felt like at the age of fourteen, when I’d reached puberty and Father Blackley was finished with me, making me promise to keep our special friendship and what we’d done together a secret. I remembered how forsaken I’d felt and, as I grew older and understood the truth, how deceived and used.

“If you need more time, Ismael, then I’ll just have to be more patient.”

He embraced me, holding me close. At that moment, with everything I was going through, it felt better than sex. I fell asleep in his arms, the first good sleep I’d had in many days, as guitar melodies drifted down the hall and into the room.

TWENTY-FIVE

The next morning, Judith Zeitler called from Chicago, the current stop on the latest book tour she’d organized. I was naked, still damp from my shower and about to stick a hypodermic in my thigh. The day was already shimmering with heat, and I had the door and both windows in the apartment wide open.

“It’s about
Jerry Rivers Live,
” she said, sounding excited. “You ready?”

I carried the phone back into the bathroom, where I’d just uncapped and filled a syringe with 200 cc of testosterone. I squirted a drop from the hair-thin needle into the sink and flicked the syringe with my finger to expunge the air bubble.

“With bated breath, Judith.”

“It’s confirmed! You’re booked on
Jerry Rivers Live
!”

I swabbed a fleshy spot on my thigh with alcohol. “That’s terrific.”

I lifted my right leg slightly off the floor, letting the muscles relax, then stuck the needle quickly, pushing it in almost to the hilt.

“Benjamin, this is awesome news! Do you realize how many books you’ll sell because of this?”

“Believe me, I’m grateful,” I said. “If I sound less than enthusiastic, it’s because I’m preoccupied at the moment.”

“Oh, dear. In bed with someone who stayed over?”

“Not exactly. Keep talking, Judith.”

I pressed firmly on the plunger, forcing the chemical out. It stung for a moment as the testosterone entered what fatty tissue I had left on my withered thigh. While the syringe slowly emptied, she filled me in on the details.

I was booked for late September, on a Tuesday, three days after Templeton’s wedding. I was to fly to New York the day before, at my publisher’s expense. The producers had scheduled me for the full hour of the show. To coincide with my appearance, my publisher was planning another printing of twenty-five thousand copies, roughly doubling the number already in print. Not a blockbuster yet, I thought, but edging toward respectability, especially if the new printing sold through. If my appearance on
Jerry Rivers Live
had the desired effect, Zeitler said, and enough viewers ran out to buy
Deep Background
the next day, the concentrated sales would catapult my book onto the
New York Times
Best Seller List.

I knew how it worked from there: Getting on that list gave a book incredible visibility and created its own momentum, generating even more sales, further printings, special media attention, and sometimes prominent displays in the bookstores and other venues where books were sold. Once the hardcover reached bestseller status, solid paperback sales were virtually guaranteed and foreign publication was a strong possibility. Used-book sales on the Internet would erode much of my eventual tally, robbing me of royalties and credit for books sold, something that was killing the careers of countless midlist authors. But if I could reach bestseller status, I realized, hitting the big numbers, I’d have enough cushion to withstand that insidious Internet enterprise. If my official sales were substantial enough, I might earn back my advance, maybe even the offer of another book contract, and the chance to have a future as a writer. Maybe I could become the new Clifford Irving, whose Howard Hughes autobiography hoax paved the way for his downfall but also his later comeback as a fiction writer. For the first time, I allowed myself to get excited about the possibilities.

“It was the video that sealed the Jerry Rivers deal,” Zeitler said. “It’s a great hook, and it gives them something visual for the promos and teases.”

The video—I’d completely forgotten it. It suddenly occurred to me that I could use it to find Lance. I didn’t like the idea of millions more people watching me beat up my kid, but the video was already out there, beyond my control. I couldn’t stop it now, I thought, so I might as well use it to my advantage. I’d contact DishtheDirt.com, let them know it was my son in the video, a son I hadn’t been aware of, an Iraq war veteran no less. It was a great angle, sure to be picked up by the mainstream media after the blog ran with it. The coverage might even force the Veterans Administration to help me track Lance down. And if I still hadn’t found him by late September, I thought, I’d use my appearance on
Jerry Rivers Live
to spur the search. Someone watching was bound to spot him and urge him to get in contact with me. The producers could even set up an 800 number, where viewers could call in with tips. TV shows loved to do that, to reinforce their image of compassion and altruism after they’d milked a poignant story for all it was worth.

I withdrew the needle from my thigh, blotted the bloody spot with a cotton ball, and spoke into the phone as I carried it back to my desk.

“Judith, you’re a genius.”

Or maybe it was my communion with God, I thought. Maybe there was something to this praying business, after all.

I filled Zeitler in about Lance. She screeched so loudly over the phone that I had to hold it away from my ear.

“Benjamin, this is fantastic! It’s a publicist’s dream!”

She told me I’d be hearing soon from a producer for
Jerry Rivers Live
and could give her all the details about Lance. Zeitler also reminded me that I was scheduled for a final interview on Wednesday with Cathryn Conroy, the writer for
Eye.
As Zeitler hung up, I was already sitting at my computer, logged on to the Internet. I saw a new message in my mailbox from my editor, Jan Long, congratulating me on the TV booking and the new printing. I sent her a hasty reply and then logged on to DishtheDirt.com. When I got the blog’s home page, I clicked on a special link for news tips and filled out a form, identifying myself, providing the basic facts about Lance and me, and letting the editors know they had an exclusive, if they acted fast. An exchange of e-mails quickly followed, along with a phone call, as the managing editor confirmed my identity and got more information.

Within the hour, my story had broken on the Internet. By late morning, the local TV news shows had picked it up, along with CNN and FOX News nationally. A producer called from
Jerry Rivers Live
to say that because of the Lance angle they were trying to juggle their schedule to get me on at an earlier date, but it wouldn’t be easy in an election year with November looming.

Then Detective Haukness called. His wife had just seen the story on a local TV news show and phoned him about it. Haukness said he needed to talk to me.

“I’ve been leaving messages for you for more than a week,” I said. “Why the sudden interest?”

“I need to discuss Lance.”

“So discuss.”

“Face-to-face, if you don’t mind.”

I asked him where and when. He said he’d just finished a witness interview in Mount Washington, a cold case he was working on his days off. He could meet me for a bite in Chinatown, he said, if I didn’t mind driving that far. He added that lunch was on him.

“How can I turn down a free lunch from a cop?”

He gave me the name and location of a café he liked and said he’d meet me at the adjoining bar in an hour.

*   *   *

Knowing that Haukness was working a cold case on his own time made me like him a little better, and when I saw the place he’d chosen for lunch I liked him a little more.

It was an unpretentious joint on a slightly grubby side street away from the main drag, not yet overrun with outsiders or the new development that was encroaching on Chinatown from all sides. There was no big neon sign out front with a dragon breathing fire or any of the other flashy electronic claptrap designed to lure in tourists. Just modest gold lettering in the center of one window, proclaiming it the Golden Pearl Restaurant and Bar in Chinese, with the smaller English translation underneath.