Los Angeles Noir

in front of him as he jammed his erection down Ron’s throat. Force-feeding was Ron’s favorite position and Ben had assumed it countless times, fearing the day when he would be too heavy for Ron to accommodate him without cursing. From what Ben could remember, the kid had almond-shaped blue eyes, enormous bleached teeth, and a compact body that was still one-quarter teenager. The night Ron tipped the kid so handsomely, Ben had gone online and found out that the kid’s professional name was Mike Ellis and his most recent credits included The Boners and Farewell My Daddy. In terms of output, the kid’s career was outpacing Ben’s two to nothing.

The bedroom door was open. His fingers going numb as he gripped the edge of the doorframe, Ben peered in and saw the lower half of his lover’s body, his back resting against the bed’s footboard, his legs splayed on the carpet in front of him. The white soles of his sneakers stared back at Ben like eyes without irises. Ron’s head and torso were blocked by the towering figure standing in front of him. The exertion of the guy’s thrusts drove his baseball cap back over his mop of shoulder-length hair. Ben couldn’t see the stranger’s hands but he figured they were gripping the back of Ron’s head.

Ben had left the back door open behind him. He stepped out of it, just as silently as he had entered, when Ron let out a sharper, more high-pitched sound that suggested the activities being carried out in the bedroom had grown more penetrating. Ben made it to the box hedges that concealed the back fence, then he fell to his knees and threw up. After he caught his breath, he realized what a tragic irony it was that he had rid himself of all the chemicals that could have kept him numb during this.

TV movies had taught him that there would be certain pivotal moments in his life, so like a good little actor, he had rehearsed for them. The emotional press conference he would have to give after his adopted daughter was abducted off their front lawn. The moment when Ron finally sank down on one knee and officially proposed. And, of course, the black day when he would walk in on Ron in bed with someone else.

Where was the tearful rage he had practiced? What had become of the venomous one-liners he had meant to hurl at the offending home-wrecker as he made a mad dash from the bedroom? Indeed, it was Ben who had headed straight for the back door, not the tall baseball cap-wearing stranger. Now, down on his knees in a dark corner of his own backyard, he tried to read some meaning into his own strange instincts.

Why had he run? Why was he still hiding? Because it wasn’t a confrontation he wanted. He had to get a good look at the man who had led Ron to stray. He had to observe him. Pinpoint just what qualities the man had that Ben had squandered. Maybe Ben could get some of those things back, even if he had already lost Ron.

He drew his knees to his chest and wedged himself between the back fence and the box hedge, readjusting until he was in a position that allowed him to see the back door. After only a few minutes of this, his back started to tense up, and his stomach clenched at the thought that Ron might ask this stranger to spend the night with him in their bed. Their friends Phil and Tom had been in an open relationship together for years, but both of them were always eager to recite their number one ground rule: Never in our bed. If the wait became unbearable, Ben would use his cell phone to call the house, claim that he and his agent had had it out and he had pulled over to collect himself on the drive home. Would be there within minutes. Surely that would send the tall dark stranger racing out the back door.

The stranger had been too tall to be Mike Ellis, prince of the sweaty jock strap. That left the blond Yale Law graduate he and Ron had met at a fundraiser cocktail party for the Equal Liberties Defense Fund two weeks earlier. Yalie had made a beeline for Ron after spotting him across the buffet table. The arrogant little prick didn’t even bother to extend his hand to Ben when Ron finally introduced them after several agonizing minutes of small talk. Like every other twentysomething queen fresh off an American Airlines flight from JFK, Yalie heaped generous amounts of disdain on a city that had already granted him a flawless tan and the most spacious apartment he had ever lived in, all while undressing Ron with sparkling chestnut eyes.

Overboard. That was the expression Ron had used when Ben had vented his annoyance about the little son of a bitch on the ride home. When he saw the look on Ben’s face, Ron had tried a sheepish grin and said, “Relax. I said overboard. Not over thirty.”

The touch of cold steel brought Ben back into his body, and he realized he was standing in front of the garden shed, fingering the padlock on its doors. The lock had been left open and the gas-powered leaf blower abandoned on the dirt floor inside. Another image struck him. Ron hearing the phone ring over the leaf blower’s dull roar, tossing it inside the shed before he ran back inside the house, steps quickened by arousal and anticipation. A set of manual hedge clippers hung from a nail inside the shed. Ben could just make out their silhouette, knew that if he opened the doors a few more inches the security light over the back gate would throw them into sharp relief, transform them into an invitation he might not be able to turn down. When Lorena Bobbit cut off her husband’s dick, it didn’t actually kill him, Ben thought. Ergo, while cutting a man’s dick off is a very dangerous thing, it doesn’t always end in death. Castration and attempted murder are two different things.

He was growing impressed with this quick logic when the back door to the house slammed shut. Ben spun around just in time to see a shadow streak through the security light’s halo and out the side gate. The hedge clippers forgotten, Ben took off after the guy.

By the time Ben reached the sidewalk, the stranger was a block away, moving at a steady clip with his shoulders hunched forward and a backpack jostling against a puffy waffle-print coat that was too heavy for the spring evening.

The stranger somehow sensed that he was being pursued and whirled around. Ben threw himself behind a sycamore tree before he could be seen. He listened to the man’s frenzied whispers, tried to make out his words but couldn’t. After surveying the lay of shadows all around him, he decided to venture a peek. Half a block away, the stranger rocked back and forth, his head pivoting as if he had been scanning the sidewalk behind him and some internal gearshift had gotten stuck. A nearby porch light illuminated his matted shoulderlength hair but not his face.

The stranger backed up until he was at the mouth of an alleyway that ran behind the businesses on Santa Monica Boulevard, a once-important West Hollywood thoroughfare that had born the nickname Vaseline Alley before the sheriff’s department had planted traffic barriers at either end to keep the predators from cruising it after dark. When the stranger saw this new path of escape, he turned on his heel and entered it.

As soon as he reached the mouth of the alleyway, Ben called out to the stranger, who backed away from a dumpster he was trying to open with one hand.

“Jawbone,” Ben whispered.

The resident lunatic stared back at Ben with cue-ball eyes, chapped lips parted over yellowing teeth. Not a porn star. Not an Ivy League graduate. A deranged drug addict. He held a bulging black backpack in his right fist. The front flaps of his waffle-print coat were smeared with blood and it looked as if the bag was as well, even though the color partially masked the stains. Jawbone’s lips were moving rapidly, forming words Ben could barely hear.

“’Cause he wasn’t listening none, that’s why. ’Cause that thing was a-blowin’ and he wasn’t listenin’ none to what I say, so I had to… had to… had to…”

Displaying both of his palms at waist level, Ben started moving toward the man, trying to put nothing but supplication on his face even as he strained to hear the content of Jawbone’s frenzied speech, made even less intelligible by his heavy Southern accent.

“See I was tryin’ to get him to come out and see that there wasn’t somethin’ in his trash. Somethin’ movin’, alright? But he couldn’t hear me none over that blower…”

The leaf blower. Ron had been using that damn leaf blower and for some reason Jawbone, blitzed out of his head, had come into the yard, wanting his attention.

A few steps away from Jawbone, Ben lifted a hand and opened his mouth to speak. But before Ben made a sound, Jawbone spun, pulled the dumpster’s lid open with one hand, and tossed the black backpack inside. Then he took off running.

Everything inside of Ben seemed to rear up, trying to force him to chase Jawbone down the alley. But by the time this physical intention resolved itself into a coherent thought, Jawbone was gone. Go back to the house, Ben told himself, even as he pried open the dumpster’s lid with both hands. They weren’t fucking. Go back to the house now. But a more reasonable-sounding voice in his head told him that Jawbone had simply robbed them, that the blood stains all over him had been old, probably the result of some accident, and who knew what stereo equipment or old watches were stuffed inside the bag he had been so