Larry lit a cigarette. He squinted slightly as the smoke rose into his eyes and said, “It was Tony.”
“How do you know that?”
“He called again that night,” Larry replied, tapping an ash into his plate.
“Why didn’t you tell me then?”
He shook his head. “I didn’t know he’d called before,” he said, “and I wouldn’t have had any reason to think he’d be calling you.”
“But he would call you?” I asked.
Larry nodded. “I’ve known Tony for a long time,” he said, smiling without humor. “And in many capacities. A drunken call in the middle of the night is about par for the course.”
“What did he tell you?”
“Nothing,” Larry said. “I mean nothing about you or Jim Pears. We just talked.” He looked at me guiltily.
“You’re sure?”
“Believe me, Henry, I had no idea.” He pushed his plate away. “I told him I was sick.” He shrugged. “That’s what we talked about.” He paused. “He went on a crying jag, but I’m sure he didn’t mean anything by it.”
“You didn’t answer my question about whether you’re taking a trip.”
He picked up his plate and took it to the sink. “As a matter of fact,” he said, sticking his cigarette beneath the tap, “I’m going to Paris on Friday.”
“Day after tomorrow?”
He nodded, his back still turned to me.
“Why?”
“To check myself in at an AIDS clinic,” he replied, coming back to the table.
“Isn’t this kind of precipitous?”
He rolled up one sleeve of his turtleneck and held his arm out. There was what appeared to be a purple welt on his forearm, but it wasn’t a welt. It was a lesion. I stared at it.
“Kaposi?” I asked.
“That’s right,” he said. “The first one appeared two weeks ago.”
He covered his arm and slumped into a chair.
21
The kitchen clock had rattled off a full minute before I spoke. “Why Paris?”
“Anonymity,” Larry answered, resting his chin on his hands. “And for treatment, of course. It’s one of the centers of AIDS research.”
“Then why anonymity?”
He rubbed a patch of dry skin at the comer of his mouth. “That’s just my way,” he said. “I’ve always done things in secret.”
“But you’re out,” I replied. “You’ve been out for five years.”
He looked at me with a helpless expression. “Henry,” he said, “you don’t understand. This has nothing to do with being out. This is about dying.”
“No,” I said, “I don’t understand. Everyone who loves you is here.”
“In this room,” he replied, and looked at me. “You’re all there is. Ned is dead. My family…” he shrugged dismissively. “My dying would be grist for the gossip mill but no one would really care. I couldn’t stand it, Henry. Not the curiosity-seekers.” His lips tightened. “Not to be an object lesson. I want some privacy for this. Some dignity.”
“By crawling back into the closet to die?”
He winced.
“I’m sorry,” I said.
“It’s okay. I didn’t expect you to understand. You’re young and healthy and in love.”
I felt as if I’d been cursed.
“Don’t go,” I pleaded.
“I’m afraid I-” The phone rang. Larry reached around and picked up the receiver. A moment later he said, “It’s for you.”
I took it from him. He got up and lit another cigarette.
“Hello,” I said.
“Hi, handsome.” It was Tony Good, returning the message I’d left on his machine.
We made arrangements to meet that night at ten at a bar in West Hollywood. I got up from the table and put the phone back. Larry was in his study, going through a pile of papers. Watching him, it occurred to me that I hardly knew him at all. It was as if all these years I’d been seeing him in profile and now that he turned his face to me, it was the face of a stranger.
“I have a million things to do before I leave,” he said. “Some of them I’m going to ask you to finish for me once I’m gone.”
“Sure. Of course.”
He sat down behind his desk. “Don’t take all this so hard.”
“We’re friends,” I replied.
He didn’t answer but picked up a folder, flipped through its pages, and withdrew a sheaf of papers.
“This is a copy of my will,” he said, handing me the papers. “You’re my executor. Take it, Henry.”
Numbly, I accepted.
Freeman Vidor stepped into the Gold Coast wearing a pair of hiphuggers, a pink chenille pullover and about a dozen gold chains. He sauntered toward me, stopping conversation with each step.
“Jesus,” I said, when he reached me. “This is a gay bar, not the Twilight Zone.”
Freeman looked around the bar. There were a lot of Levis and flannel shirts, slacks and sweaters, even the odd suit, but his was the only chenille sweater to be seen in the place-*
“Back to R. amp; D.,” he said. “Is Good here yet?”
“No, I doubt if he’ll be here any sooner than eleven,” I replied. “Ten o’clock was just a negotiating point.”
“How about a drink?”
“Sure. Pink lady, okay?”
“Screw you,” he said, and in his deepest voice ordered a boilermaker.
“I want to talk to Good alone for a while,” I said, when the drink came. “Then you join us.”
“What am I supposed to do in the meantime?”
I looked at him and said, “Mingle, honey.”
Tony Good walked in the door at five minutes past eleven. I watched him stand unsteadily, just inside the doorway, and swing his head around. I raised my hand and he nodded. He made his way through the crowded room until he was beside me. He was even better looking than I remembered. Black hair, blue eyes. Model perfect features. Only his teeth spoiled the package. They were small, sharp, and yellow. He climbed up onto the bar stool next to mine and ordered a Long Island Iced Tea. The bartender started pouring the five different liquors that went into the drink.
“You’re not drinking?” Tony asked, indicating the bottle of mineral water in front of me.
“No,” I said. “You go ahead.” I paid for his drink.
“Here’s looking at you, kid,” he said in a tired Bogart voice, and knocked off a good third of the drink in a single swallow. “So,” he said, crumpling a cocktail napkin, “is this a date or what?”
“You wanted to see me, Tony.”
He squinted at me for a second, then said, “You called me, remember?”
I looked away from him and poured some mineral water in my glass. “Not the first time,” I replied.
He took a sip of his drink. “You’re cute, Henry, but not cute enough to play games.”
“The first time you called,” I said. “Back in October. You told me that you knew who killed Brian Fox.”
