“And that’s where Max-”
“Not entirely. Close, though.” He seated himself at the computer and did something fast and practiced. “Look here,” he said.
TALK TO THE THERAPIST glowed in the middle of the largest screen.
“I’ll be damned,” I said. “Max?”
“Therapist and psychic,” Jack said. “All-around emotional handyman. Some of the strangest questions you ever read. That was one of the things I loved about him: Nothing struck him as weird. If someone said to him that he needed his aura fluffed, Max would have figured out a way to fluff the man’s aura. He dealt with some pretty disgusting stuff here, too, but Max never got disgusted.”
“Nothing human disgusts me,” I said.
Jack gave me a skeptical glance. “Or Max.”
“That’s a Tennessee Williams line,” I said. “Actually, I disgust fairly easily.”
On the screen, I read:
I’m thirty-eight years old, and lately I’ve been fantasizing sex with women. My dreams are totally peculiar, but I wake up with a big woody anyway. My lover is beginning to suspect something is wrong. Do you think you can help?
Beneath it was the Therapist’s-Max’s-reply:
You lucky boy. It’s a new world. Don’t be afraid of facing it. Look at it this way: It doubles the number of possibles. Anyway, it may only be a phase. I’d suggest that you talk to your lover about it. He might actually like it if you suggested he run down to Victoria’s Secret and buy a little-
Beside me, Jack gave a kind of gasp, like someone exhaling a knot.
— peignoir or something. Of course -
“Holy Jesus,” Jack said, and I swiveled to look at the screen in front of him. Words were scrolling past, black on the white display. Jack turned wide eyes to me and put a hand over the screen as though it were emitting heat.
“It’s from Max,” he said.
8 ~ Eat at Mom’s
There’s a lot of money in Boys’ Town.
The recently incorporated city of West Hollywood nestles up against the southern base of the Hollywood Hills, where tidy little hillside chateaus begin around $750,000 and climb into the double-digit millions. Lots of people from the entertainment industry-agents, directors, actors, writers, producers, poseurs, parasites, Picassos of the pitch- drive down the hills in the morning and up them again in the evening, where they join their new Iranian neighbors in worrying about fire all summer and mudslides all winter.
The north-south streets, streets like Miller Drive and Sunset Plaza Drive, empty into the Sunset Strip. If you think of Boys’ Town as a sort of cultural toupee planted cosmetically onto the map of Los Angeles, the Strip would be the part in the hair, dividing the hills from the flatland. It’s the thoroughfare the white people from Beverly Hills use to go east in the morning in their Rolls-Royces and Mercedes, passing the brown people from Central America going west on the bus to clean houses and tend other people’s children.
The shops along this section of Sunset are small and precious, selling imported flowers, new furniture that’s been artfully slammed with chains to make it look old, designer outfits with exotic sequins, designer shoes, designer sound equipment, and designer everything else. Alternating with the shops are a great many sidewalk cafes that cater to young, slender, aggressively attractive types who toss their hair back a lot. People who spend several hundred dollars a month on their hair want it to glimmer, and it’s hard to make hair glimmer when the sunlight striking it seems to have passed through an ocean of iced tea. So they sit there in the beige sunshine and toy with their Caesar salads and toss their hair back whenever they sense a stray sunbeam. Or, at night, a headlight.
Below Sunset, in the apartment complexes and small houses that stretch south on the flats to Santa Monica Boulevard and beyond, is the workaday Boys’ Town. The classic old apartments, high-ceilinged and spacious, that housed the stars of the thirties and forties, and the postmodern concrete steamships disguised as condominiums house a politically significant community of gays and lesbians who haul themselves out of bed every day to face the same kinds of jobs that wear people out in Dubuque, Medicine Hat, and Little Rock. They count other people’s change in stores, cash other people’s checks in banks, sell ugly shoes for other people’s feet, deal in second trust deeds on other people’s property, fix watches, clean teeth, and dispense medicine. And when the day is done, many of them go home and dispense care and love to people who need them. People who are sick or dying.
In the past I’d attended community meetings here, I’d hauled friends to Alcoholics Anonymous and Cocaine Anonymous meetings here. I’d seen gatherings delayed for moments of silence in remembrance of the just dead. I’d seen guys who looked like the Masters of the Universe come into rooms supporting men who were almost transparent with illness. I’d seen those transparent men rise to give love and support to the healthy-looking ones as they wrestled with their addictions, and I’d come back months later to see the healthy ones weep over the transparent ones who were no longer there. I’d seen courage and heroism.
To the casual glance, West Hollywood looked prosperous and happy, and it was happy, most of the time, for most of the men who lived there. They’d fled communities in the heartland, in the wheat belt, in the Bible Belt, in other belts less appealing than the thirty-one-inch variety that seemed to circle most of the waists in Boys’ Town. They’d established the City of Gratified Desire, a place where they could lead the lives they wanted to lead. Like everyone else did.
The Fig Tree fronted on Sunset, looking out onto the street through plate-glass windows etched with trailing branches and leaves. The clientele, visible through the frosty foliage, was almost exclusively male, almost exclusively young.
Two days ago-the day Christopher Nordine had first come to my house-Max had taken the Farm Boy into The Zipper. The receipt from The Fig Tree was dated two days ago. The kid had been described as a “tourist,” and I was willing to bet that Max had been giving him a guided tour of West Hollywood’s hot spots.
As much as I wanted to go into The Fig Tree, it wasn’t a sound idea. Spurrier’s men would have accessed Max’s credit-card records first thing, and if the Sheriffs hadn’t already been here, they would be soon. Spurrier had been very convincing about not wanting me anywhere near the case.
So I sat at the curb, letting Alice idle for fifteen minutes or so, pushing my sore back into the upholstery and thinking about Christy. Spurrier again, and thanks for the thought, Ike. He’d chosen Christy as the Boy Most Likely, and it would have made a lot of sense to someone who hadn’t met him. The heir threatened by a new affection, the long-term planner hiring someone to establish in advance his fear that Max’s life was in danger. He’d shown up at my house with a gun in his hand the night following Max’s death: second thoughts? Panic? Get rid of a potential witness?
Against all that, I had my conviction that his grief for Max had been real.
But there was also the fact that someone had been in Max’s house when I was there, someone Max hadn’t wanted me to see. Not Christy: He wouldn’t have been there when I was coming, not if he was afraid to talk to Max about the Farm Boy himself. He would have waited a few hours to give Max some time to absorb it all.
Since there was a reasonably hygienic phone booth on the corner, I left Alice to the mercies of the parking patrol and called Marta Aguirre, the housekeeper, again. I got the same indignant lady, with the same indignant mix of Spanish and English. Marta wasn’t around and wasn’t ever likely to be around, and why didn’t I get a job or something and stop bothering people in the middle of the day?
Max’s message-another therapist’s column, sent over the phone lines to Jack’s computer more than twenty- four hours after his death-needed attention, but that would be better left until dark. Ike Spurrier was the type who
