drunken client who wanted to break my legs. He might have, too, had he not passed out while we were talking.
There was another knock, louder and more urgent. I peered through the peephole. Hugh Paris stood shivering in the dark. He wore a pair of jeans and a gray polo shirt. I was startled to see him but not surprised. In the two weeks since I’d seen him at the jail, I’d thought of him often, the way one thinks of unfinished business. The thought of him nagged at the back of my mind for a lot of reasons, not the least of which was his beautiful, calm face. One could ascribe any kind of character, from priest to libertine, to his remote and handsome face. A breeze blew his hair across his forehead. He touched his knuckles to the door and rapped harder. I opened it enough for him to see me.
“Don’t turn on any lights,” he said. “I think I was followed.”
“Come in.” I opened the door a little wider and he slipped through. I ordered him to stand still and patted him down for weapons. He wasn’t even carrying a wallet. “All right,” I said. “Come over to my desk. I have a reading lamp that will give us enough light without attracting attention.” He followed me and sat down. I touched the light switch and his face leapt forward from the darkness like a flame.
He said, “I could use a drink.”
“First tell me how you got my address.”
“I called your office yesterday, and when they told me you quit I convinced the receptionist that we’d gone to college together and I was passing through town and wanted to surprise you.” He shivered I went over to the kitchen counter and brought back a bottle of Jack Daniels and two glasses. As he drank, I noticed for the first time that he was about my age — not younger, as I’d remembered. The skin beneath his eyes was pouched with fatigue, as though he had awakened from a long sleep. He set his empty glass on the desk, and I moved the bottle toward him. The liquor brought the color back to his face.
“When someone comes to visit me at this hour, I assume it’s not just to chat,” I said.
“I need a place to stay tonight.”
“And you don’t have any better friends?” He poured himself another drink. I caught the glint of his watch. It was very thin and elegant, mounted on a black leather strap. I had seen watches like that before. They went along with trust funds, prep schools and names ending with Roman numerals.
Hugh was saying something. I asked, “What?”
“You asked me if I had any better friends and I said no. I came down from the city.”
“And you were followed? By whom?”
“It’s a long story,” he said, and, as if as an afterthought he added, “I only need the bed for the night.” His inflection was sexual and I thought about it for a second before responding.
“As flattering as it is, I can’t believe you came here to proposition me,” I said, “which is not to say that couldn’t be part of the deal. But why don’t you tell me what you really want.”
He smiled, charmingly, ruefully. “All right, Henry. I may not look like it but I come from money. Old and famous money. A lot of it has been spent to keep me out of San Francisco.”
“Why?”
“My grandfather controls the money, and he hates me.”
“Because you’re gay?” “That probably has something to do with it,” he said, lightly. “There have been other problems through the years.”
“Drugs?” I guessed, remembering the circumstances of his arrest.
“You’ve seen hypes before?” I nodded. He held his right arm out beneath the dim yellow light. I saw bluish bruises clustered at intervals up and down his vein. They were faint and there were no recent marks or scabs.
“You stopped using?”
“Six months ago. I told my grandfather. He was not impressed.”
“Who is he?”
“Robert Paris,” he said, as if each syllable was significant.
I thought for a second the name meant something to me but recognition faded as quickly as it came.
“The name is not familiar.”
“No? It doesn’t mean anything to most people but I thought you might recognize it.” I shook my head and he shrugged. “I think he had me followed tonight.”
“Why? If he hates you, why should he concern himself with your whereabouts?”
“Money. I have certain rights to the family fortune,” he said, lifting his glass. “My grandfather would like to extinguish them.”
“You mean with some legal action?”
“No,” he replied, softly, “I mean murder.” He drained his glass. I knew at once that he believed what he was saying, but I did not believe it. From my experience, I did not believe in premeditated murder any more than an agnostic believes in God and for the same reason; there never was any proof. Whether a killing occurs in an instant or years after some remembered slight, no killer is ever in his right mind when he kills. For me, that ruled out premeditation.
“You’re exaggerating,” I said.
“No. He’s killed before.” He smiled, bleakly. “I’m not making this up. You don’t know my grandfather.”
“Rich people don’t go around planning to kill each other. They use lawyers, instead.”
Hugh laughed and said, “Not someone who thinks he’s above the law. Henry, I don’t mean he’s going to kill me himself or hire someone to shoot me in broad daylight. I’m sure it would be arranged to look like an accident or a suicide.”
I shook my head. “That’s unbelievable. I’ve known murderers. I’ve represented them and one or two I even got off. The perfect passionless murder does not exist. Killing is a sloppy business.”
“Have any of your murderers been rich?” I told him no. He continued, “I didn’t think so. Money buys a lot of insulation and silence. My grandfather could have us both killed and no one would ever suspect him.” He poured himself another drink and said, “I see by your face you don’t believe me.”
“I believe that you think you’re in danger. I’m not sure what you want from me.”
“You heard me out,” he said. “That’s all I wanted. And a bed. Wasn’t that the deal?”
“I guess so,” I said, aware, suddenly, of the nearness of his body and the noise of his breathing and the darkness of the room around us. We rose, wordlessly, and went into the bedroom.
I woke up alone and lay back, watching the shadow of the tree outside the window sway across the wall. The only noises were the clock ticking and the wind. The sheets and blankets were kicked back and over the foot of the bed. A wadded up towel lay crumpled on the floor among Hugh’s scattered clothes. The detritus of passion. I sat myself up against the wall and studied my nakedness impassively. I kept myself in shape out of habit and thought about my body only when it was sick, hurt, or hungry.
Once as an adolescent and twice as an adult, I had been in love, the last time having been four years earlier. Except for those times, sex was largely a matter of one-night stands. It wasn’t the best arrangement, but, I told myself, it was all that I had time for. Now that my career had come to an abrupt halt, there was a lot of time, more time than I’d ever had as an adult. Enough time to go crazy, or fall in love again. I got out of bed and dressed.
Stepping into the living room I saw him, wearing an old blue robe of mine, pacing the patio. From where I stood, he looked like a figure projected on a screen, luminous, distant and larger than life. He seemed to me at that moment the sum of every missed opportunity in my life. I let the feeling pass. He saw me, smiled, drew open the door and came into the room.
“You’re finally awake.”
“Yes, I like watching you. Hungry?”
“No, but how about some coffee?” I told him I would brew a pot. “I guess I should get dressed.” He disappeared into the bedroom emerging a few minutes later pulling on his shirt.
I handed him a mug of coffee and said, “Let’s go back outside.” We stepped out on the patio to a brilliant day. The smells of the potted plants hung in the air, musky and carnal. “What are you going to do?”
“Go back to the city.”
“And your grandfather?”
“He’ll find me when he wants to.” He sipped his coffee. “And you?”
“I’ve decided to set up my own practice and there’s a lot to be done to get ready.”
