The Little Death (12 page)

“I
don’t know. I’d like to talk to him though.”

“It’s
easier to see the Pope,” Grant said, “and probably more fun.”

“What
do you mean?”

“Smith
is a recluse. You’d never get past the palace guard.”

“Could
you?”

“I’d
have to know why I’m trying.”

“I
think Robert Paris had Hugh murdered.”

Grant
sipped his wine. “You’re crazy,” he remarked cheerfully. “Smith would throw
you out the minute you uttered those words.” Grant shook his head. “Sorry, I
can’t help you.”

He
finished his wine and set the glass down on the floor.

“I’m
perfectly serious, Grant.”

“That’s
your forte,” he said, “but even so you don’t go to someone like John Smith to
accuse a member of his family of homicide. That’s what the police are for.”

“They’re
not interested.”

“Then
perhaps you should take your cue from them,” he said, rising. “I’m going out to
get some dinner. Want to join me?”

“I
can’t tonight, but I’ll take a rain check.”

“Suit
yourself,” he said. “I’ll call you.”

Rising
to leave I said, “It was good to see you again, Grant.”

A
smile, at once cynical and tender, flickered across his lips. “What amazes me
most about you,” he said, “is your sincerity.”

“I’m
afraid that it’s my only social skill.”

“Good
night, Henry,” he said, letting me out.

I
stepped out of Grant’s building, passing the doorman who acknowledged my
departure with the slightest of nods. I had parked down by the piers on
Embarcadero and had walked, first to Abrams’ office and then to see Grant. Now
as I returned to my car, walking beneath the freeway, the streets around Embarcadero
Plaza were deserted. It was only the racket from the freeway and the lumbering
noise of the buses as they screeched to a halt at the nearby bus yard that gave
an illusion of activity.

It
was the road noise that kept me from making out my name the first time it was
shouted by a voice behind me. The second time I heard it distinctly, stopped,
and turned around. A man, my height but considerably more muscular, hurried
toward me. He wore tight levis and a leather bomber jacket over a white
t-shirt. As he stepped beneath a streetlight, I saw he was carrying something
in his right hand. A gun. Aimed at my stomach.

“Henry,”
he said in a friendly voice, “I’ve been shouting at you for the last block.”
His dark hair was cut short and he wore a carefully clipped moustache. He was
good-looking in an anonymous sort of way. A Castro clone.

“I
don’t think I know you,” I said.

“Well,
we’re going to be good friends before the night is over.”

He
kept the gun on me while he raised his left hand in the air and motioned toward
us. A moment later a car — black, Japanese, four-door, with its lights out and
no license plate — crept up beside us. Two other men were in the front seat and
one in the back. The two in the front and my friend with the gun were not only
dressed identically but, as far as I could see, might have been a set of
triplets. The man in the back seat differed from the others only in that he was
a blond. He stepped out of the car and approached us.

“Hello,
Henry. Just relax and do what you’re told and everything will be fine.”

“Sure,”
I said, as the car came up directly behind me.

The
blond reached into his back pocket and pulled out a black bandana, of the kind
allegedly used by some gay men to indicate their sexual specialties. I didn’t
think that he was signaling me for a date. Smiling, he brought the bandana over
my eyes and tied it at the back of my head.

“Put
your hands out, please,” he said.

I
put my hands out slowly. They were bound with rough twine. I was led by the arm
into the back seat, where I was wedged between the two men. Lest I forget who
was in charge, the dark-haired man pushed the nozzle of the gun against my
side, just below my ribs.

The
motor started and the car jumped forward. It was pretty quiet outside, so I
assumed we were traveling on the periphery of the city. I had no sense of time.
Finally, we stopped and the only noise I heard was the sound of the sea as
someone unrolled a window and the windswept in.

It
occurred to me that I was about to be killed. I wondered if it would hurt. I
wondered if there was an after-life. I supposed that I was about to find out.
It was too bad I hadn’t gone to dinner with Grant.

“Who
sent you?” I asked.

A
voice that I recognized as belonging to the blond said, reasonably, “Don’t ask
questions you don’t expect answers to.”

My
arms were pulled out in front of me. I felt something cold and liquid dabbed at
the inside of my arm at my elbow. The smell of alcohol filled the car.

“Nice
biceps,” the blond said. “You lift weights, Henry?”

“No,”
I said. “It’s heredity.”

“You’re
lucky then,” he replied. “I have to lift pretty hard to stay in shape.”

The
needle hit me with a shock, and I jerked my arms back.

“Steady,”
the dark-haired man said, holding the gun against my neck. “Stay cool.”

“What
is it?” I asked.

“We
have some questions for you,” the blond replied. “This will make it easier for
you to answer them.”

Minutes,
or hours, passed. My tongue felt heavy in my mouth. Things stopped connecting
in my head. I struggled to stay awake but it was like trying to keep my
exhausted body afloat in a warm sea. It was so much easier just to give up and
go under.

“Sodium
pentothal,” I muttered in a voice that I vaguely recognized as my own. “Truth
serum.”

“Very
impressive,” the blond said. “Now relax.”

“It
doesn’t work,” I murmured, half to myself. “Results aren’t admissible in court.
I won’t tell you — anything I — don’t want to-”

“Quiet
now,” one of them was saying. I couldn’t tell which anymore. “Rest. Later we’ll
talk.”

I
heard a roaring in my ears that was either the ocean or the sound of my blood.

Something
scampered across my ankles. I opened my eyes in time to watch a rat’s tail
disappear between one of the two garbage cans I was wedged between. It was
still dark. There was a wall behind me, a street-lamp far away, and even more
distant, the noise of traffic. My head felt like glass, as if the slightest
unplanned move would shatter it. I turned my wrist and slowly brought my watch
to my face. It was one-thirty. I had left Grant’s apartment just before ten —
three and a half hours lost. I tried to remember. We had driven around a lot
and someone asked me a lot of questions but I couldn’t remember what had been
said or whether I’d responded. And then I passed out. And now I was awake.

Sort
of.

I
lifted myself up and found that I was standing in an alley that dead-ended into
a brick wall. At the other end, I saw a light and started moving toward it. The
light seemed to move away and I kept running into things, trash cans, piles of
boxes, the wall. This is not a dream, I told myself, though the atmosphere was
as fetid as a nightmare. Finally, I reached the lamp-post and hugged it,
closing my eyes and waiting for things to stop spinning. When I looked again,
everything was more or less still as I tried to get my bearings.

There
was a wide, dimly lit street beside me and warehouses all around. The spire of
the Transamerica pyramid, surrounded by the other downtown skyscrapers, loomed
ahead of me. Judging by distance, I concluded that I was somewhere south of
Market. I made my way up to the first intersection and read the street signs,
Harrison at Third; one block south of Folsom and about eight blocks east of the
gay bars where I might find help. I headed north to Folsom and turned left,
feeling worse with each step as I became more conscious of my nausea and my
aching body. The street was full of shadows and silences, and the darkness
seemed unending. Had I been in less pain, I would have been terrified.

As
I walked down the street, I attempted to puzzle out the identity of my
abductors. All roads led to Robert Paris. They had been waiting for me when I
came out of Grant’s building. Whether Abrams had called them or they’d followed
me into the city, it was clear that my nosing around had not gone unnoticed.
Aaron had warned me I was being watched. Until this moment I hadn’t believed
him. The judge wanted to know how much I knew about Hugh’s murder. Apparently, I
didn’t know enough to be gotten rid of. Yet.

Ahead
of me I saw men walking up and down the street. I came to a corner and looked
up. There was a red neon sign on an angle above a door. It said Febe’s. I
crossed the street and stood at the open doorway. Directly inside the entry was
a brown vinyl curtain that reached to the floor, and beyond it I heard muffled
noises. I pushed through the curtain just in time for last call at one of the
most notorious leather bars in the city.

Two
men were playing at a pinball machine on my left. One of them wore black
leather pants, shiny in the dim light, and a leather vest. The other wore
jeans, a t-shirt and a collar around his neck studded with metal spikes. He
sipped from a bottle of Perrier. To my right there was a curved bar bathed in
red lights. All heads turned toward me. In my slacks and gray polo shirt I was
in the wrong clothes for Febe’s. The atmosphere began to change from curiosity
to hostility.

I
had now been standing at the door for more than a minute. The bartender,
undoubtedly thinking I was a tourist, scowled and started to come out from
behind the bar. I took a couple of steps toward him and then passed out.

I
was awakened with a hit of amyl nitrate.

“Jesus
Christ,” I muttered, pushing the donor’s hands out of my face. “Enough.”

The
hands withdrew and a voice asked, “You all right?”

“I’m
better,” I said, sitting up from the floor.

The
bartender knelt beside me. He was wearing a tight pair of levis and a pink
bowling shirt with the name Norma Jean stitched above the pocket. Most of his
face was lost behind a thick beard, but the concern in his wide blue eyes would
have done justice to my mother.

“Good,”
he said. “I’ll just call a cab and you can go back to the St. Francis or
wherever you’re staying and sleep it off.”

“I’m
not drunk,” I said, slurring my words. “Drugged. I was drugged.”

“Against
your will?”

I
nodded.

“Honey,
that musta been some scene.” He smiled. “He hurt you?”

I
shook my head.

“Did
he take your money?”

“No,”
I said, “they just drove me around and asked me questions.”

“Now
that’s bizarre. Should I get the cops?”

“No,
I’d like to call a friend.”

“Oh,
are you a local?”

I
nodded.

“Hell,
the way you came in here staring I thought you were a tourist who’d taken the
wrong turn at Fisherman’s Wharf.”

“Next
time,” I mumbled, “I’ll remember you have a dress code. Help me to the phone,
okay?”

“Sure,”
he said, rising to his full height. I grabbed his extended hands and he raised
me up, effortlessly. The bar was empty and all the lights were on, revealing a
homey and rather shabby tavern. Apparently I’d cleared the place out. He led me
around the bar to the house phone. “You make your call. I’ve got to clean up.”

“Thanks.
I know your name’s not Norma Jean.”

“Dean,”
he said, grabbing a broom.

“Thanks,
Dean. I’m Henry.” He nodded acknowledgement while I dialed Grant’s number.

Grant
picked up the phone on the second ring, and I remembered he was a light
sleeper. I told him, briefly, what had learned and asked if he would come and
pick me up. Wide awake, he told me to wait and that he was on his way. I hung
up.

Dean
brought me a glass of brandy and had me sit on a stool behind the bar as he
went back to his work. I watched him lifting boxes of empty beer bottles and
stacking them against the wall.

Someone
was knocking at the front door. Dean glanced over at me and then went to answer
it, behind the curtain. He emerged a second later followed by Grant Hancock.
With his Burberry overcoat and perfectly groomed hair, Grant looked as if he
had just stepped off the pages of a fashion magazine. Dean winked at me,
approvingly.

Grant
came up and inspected me. “You look terrible, Henry. Should we get you to a
hospital?”

“I
think everything’s working,” I said. “I just need a ride back to my car.”

“Your
car? What you need is sleep. Come on.”

I
got up and followed him out. Dean walked us to the curb where Grant had parked.

“Thanks,
Dean.” I reached out and patted his arm awkwardly, wanting to say more but not
sure what.

“Come
back sometime,” he said, smiling. I climbed into Grant’s car. We drove through
the soundless streets to his building.

“I
really should get back home tonight,” I said.

“Henry,
it’s three-thirty in the morning,” Grant replied as he steered into the
underground garage and parked in a numbered stall. “No one has to do anything
at three-thirty, especially you. You’re hardly awake now. I doubt that you
could make it all the way back.”

“You’re
probably right,” I said. “I’ll stay.”

“Of
course you will,” he replied, getting out of the car.

When
we got to his condo, I took a hot shower, changed into borrowed clothes and
asked for a drink. We sat on the floor in the living room drinking brandy by
candlelight. The room was very still as Grant had me explain the events which
occurred after I left his apartment.

“I
think,” he said, “that you are lucky to be alive.”

“I
agree, and now I know, beyond any doubt, that the judge was responsible for
Hugh’s death.”

“So
now you can stop and go on with your life.”

“What?”

Grant
swirled the brandy in his glass, watching it streak and run down the sides. “The
mystery is solved.”

“But
I still have to prove the solution.”

“To
whom?”

“The
police, to begin with, and maybe, at some point, a jury.”

“Are
you serious?” he asked, putting his glass down. “You think you can prove this
against Robert Paris? Do you know anything about the man?”

“As
a general proposition? No.”

“You’re
talking about one of the most powerful men in the state,” he said. “You’re
talking about a man who declined appointment to the United States Supreme
Court.”

“I
didn’t know that,” I said.

“That’s
the point. Think of it this way, Henry. You and the judge both have piles of
stones to throw at each other. You’ve pretty much used yours up but he hasn’t
even started. He’s been playing with you.”

“Schoolboys
throw rocks at frogs in sport,” I quoted, “but the frogs die in earnest.”

“No,”
Grant said. “Not for sport. For power. I know Robert Paris,” he continued,
staring into his glass. “You don’t stand a chance.”

“Is
this the voice of experience talking?”

Grant
looked up. “My father,” he began, “got it into his head that he wanted to be
mayor of this city. Have you met my father?” I nodded. My recollection was of
an elegant but rather dim patrician whom Grant inexplicably idolized. “Robert
Paris was backing another candidate who would have trounced my father anyway.
But just to make sure,” he set his glass down and looked away, “they told my
father I was gay and that if he persisted, the whole town would know. That’s
how my father found out his only son was homosexual. My father is a man,” he
continued, “who still thinks gay is a perfectly acceptable adjective for
divorcees. Or did, anyway. It broke his heart,” Grant said. “It really did.”

“Grant,
I’m sorry.”

He
shrugged. “That’s water under the bridge,” he said, “but the moral is: Don’t
fuck with Robert Paris. Hugh’s dead. You’re not.” And then he added softly, “I’m
not.”

“But
if it had been you rather than Hugh, I’d do the same.”

He
smiled a little. “You miss my meaning.”

“No,”
I said, reaching out to touch his hand, “I don’t.”

*
* * * *

“What
time is it?” Grant mumbled, turning over in bed.

“A
little after six,” I replied, buttoning my shirt.

“You’re
leaving?”

“Yes,
there’s someone I have to see.”

“Your
associates keep odd hours.” He sat up in bed, watching me tie my shoes.

“Will
you call Smith for me?” I asked.

He
thought about it a second.

“I
still don’t see the point of it,” he said.

“The
police wouldn’t reopen their investigation without pressure from somewhere.
Who better than Smith?”

“If
you could only give me something more concrete,” he said.

“If
I didn’t know you better, Grant, I’d say John Smith intimidates you.”

“He
does. It’s not often I ask for an audience with a local deity.”

“Okay,”
I said, “then don’t.”

“I’m
sorry, Henry. I just can’t see getting involved at this point.”

“You’ve
already been helpful, Grant.”

“Thanks.”

We
looked at each other.

“Is
this it, then?” he asked.

“No,”
I replied. “No.”

I
leaned over and kissed him.

“All
right,” he said.

*
* * * *

An
hour later I was finishing breakfast in Terry Ormes’ kitchen. She cooked well
for a cop, I thought as I swallowed a forkful of scrambled eggs. It occurred to
me that I could not remember when I had eaten last. The eggs were good — she
put tarragon in them. She was talking on the phone, explaining to someone why
she would be late for work. I got up and cleared the table, rinsing dishes and
stacking them in the dishwasher. Her kitchen was long, sunny and narrow.
Everything was in its place but this bespoke an orderly presence rather than a
fussy one. She finished her call and came back into the kitchen carrying a
manila folder. She sat down at the kitchen table. I joined her there.