The Zanes were at home. Rennie, in a gray silk robe, arranged herself in a chair near the fire. The maid brought her tea. Tom was having his morning pick-me-up, a tall Bloody Mary that he mixed himself. He brought his drink into the living room and sat in the chair beside his wife. The two of them, blond, handsome, could have been brother and sister. They watched me with still, blue eyes. A fire crackled in the fireplace, releasing the scent of pine into the air. A Christmas tree had appeared in the corner, near the Diego Rivera, with expensively wrapped gifts piled beneath it.
I told them about Tony Good and Sandy Blenheim’s disappearance. They said nothing though Rennie blanched-when I described the manner of Tony’s death.
I looked at Tom. “You knew Sandy killed Brian Fox,” I said. “How do you figure?” he asked, a lazy smile curling the edges of his lips.
“You produced the play,” I said. “Blenheim couldn’t have given Tony the part of Gaveston unless he cleared it with you. Isn’t that right?”
He took a swallow of his drink. “You’re a smart man,” he said. “You knew,” I repeated.
He set the drink down and said, “Yeah, I knew all about Sandy’s troubles.”
“Why didn’t you turn him in?” I asked. “The man’s a murderer.”
Rennie set her tea down with a clatter. “Don’t say anything, Tom,” she said. “Not without a lawyer.”
“Henry is a lawyer,” Tom replied. To me he said, “So it’s like talking to a priest. Right?”
“If you tell me you’ve committed a crime, then I’d advise you to turn yourself in, but I wouldn’t do it on my own.”
“See, Rennie,” Tom said, smiling. “These lawyers got all the angles covered.” Tom looked at me. “I told you I did time in the joint, well, I was there more than once. It was a bad scene. I would kill myself before I went back there again.”
I remembered he had told me the same thing that afternoon at Malibu a few days earlier. “Go on,” I said.
“They picked me up for burglary,” he said. “I managed to make bail.” He picked up his drink and drank from it. “I split.”
“Where was this?”
“A little town in Oklahoma,” he said. “Shitsville. I did some hard years there, Henry. That’s not important. The important thing is, I jumped bail.” He finished his drink. “Sandy knew.”
“He blackmailed you,” I said.
“Yeah, that’s about the size of it,” Zane said, rising. He walked over to the bar and poured himself vodka and lime. Rennie lit a cigarette.
“But you’re on tv,” I said. “Aren’t you afraid of being recognized?’’
“It was fifteen years ago,” Tom said, walking to the window that faced the terrace. “Hell, I could walk down the streets of that town and my mama wouldn’t know me.” For the first time I heard a twang in his voice.
“How old were you?” I asked.
He turned from the window. “Twenty-two.” He smiled, bitterly. “I already done two years by then at a state pen. Got raped every night for the first six weeks till I married me some protection — a guy with a forty-inch chest and biceps I could swing from. That’s how I stayed alive.”
I glanced over at Rennie. Her cigarette had burned down to the filter and a chunk of ash dropped to the floor. She stared at the wall, her face without expression.
“You could use some protection now,” I said. “You’re Sandy’s last hope. He’ll be back looking for you.”
“We can’t very well go to the police,” Rennie said, suddenly. She dropped the remnant of her cigarette into an ashtray.
“I understand that,” I said, “but-”
“But nothing,” Tom said. “I’ll take care of Sandy if he comes back. In the meantime, Henry, you just don’t worry about us. We’ll be all right.”
He stepped behind the chair where Rennie sat and rested his hands on her shoulders.
I stood up to leave. “You weren’t Tom Zane, then,” I said.
“No. I used to be Charlie Fry,” he replied. “Poor little Charlie. He never had a chance.”
24
Josh’s vw was parked in front of Larry’s house. I found them at the kitchen table, talking quietly over the remains of lunch, and sat down.
“I guess you’ve met,” I said.
Josh said, “I hope you don’t mind that I came here.”
“Not me. Larry?”
Larry smiled. “I’m glad I finally met you, Josh.” He looked at me. “What happened this morning?”
I summarized what I had seen at Tony Good’s apartment and gave them an edited version of my conversation with the Zanes. I concluded, saying, “Blenheim could be anywhere. They may never catch him.”
“Well, I guess I was wrong,” Larry said.
Josh looked puzzled.
“Larry didn’t think it was Blenheim,” I said.
“Who did you think it was?” Josh asked.
“Jim,” Larry said.
“But you’ve been helping him,” Josh said.
Larry smiled at him. “Have Henry explain it to you sometime, Josh.” He looked at me and said, “I’m closing up the house tomorrow. Of course you can stay as long as you want, Henry, but I imagine you’ll be wanting to stay with Josh, anyway.”
“You’re really going through with it, then?” I asked.
“Yes,” Larry said.
Josh looked back and forth between us. “What’s going on?”
“I’m going on a trip,” Larry said brightly, “to Paris.”
“Great,” Josh said enthusiastically.
Larry looked at me, then stood up. “Excuse me.” He picked up their plates and carried them to the sink.
“Is something wrong?” Josh asked.
Larry rinsed the plates, set them in the dishwasher and said, “I’m going to Paris for treatment, Josh. I have AIDS.”
Then he left the room.
Josh stared at me. “Is that true?”
“Yes.”
“You can’t let him go.” His voice was spooked.
“I can’t stop him,” I replied.
He started to speak but said nothing. I could tell he was thinking about himself, about us. Finally he asked, “Would you let me go?”
“It won’t come to that,” I said firmly.
“But if it did?” There was fear in his face.
“No.” I put my arm around him.
“I’m sorry about Larry,” he said.
“I know,” I replied. We sat in silence for a minute. “Josh, after Larry leaves, I’m going home.”
He nodded. “I’m going with you,” he said.
The next morning we drove Larry to the airport. He gave me the number of the clinic in Paris where he would be staying and a list of errands he had been unable to finish. We walked him to the gate. I remembered that all this had begun at another airport, in San Francisco. As the crowd swirled around us, we stood and looked at each other, not knowing what there was left to say.
