'Help!' he wailed. The sound reverberated in the emptiness of the dock.
'Please - '
He screamed again.
I put the shoes and socks down and walked away.
Over the next few weeks I made repeated attempts to talk to him, but he shunned me. I played the scene over and over in my head, wondering what I could have done differently, wishing for magic while cursing the limitations of words and pauses.
The more I thought about it, the more I worried about suicide. After much deliberation I broke confidentiality and phoned his uncle. Knowing it was the right thing to do didn't make it any easier.
I talked my way through an army of underlings and finally reached Dwight Cadmus at his office in Beverly Hills. Introducing myself, I kept the betrayal to a minimum, mentioning nothing about homosexuality,
addressing only my concerns for the boy's safety.
He listened without interruption, answered in a voice that was dry and deliberate.
'Hmm, I see. Yes, that is of concern.' A ruminative pause. 'Is there anything else, Doctor?'
'Yes, if you have guns in the house, unload them, hide the ammunition, and put them away.'
'I'll have that done immediately.'
'Lock up your medicines. Try to keep him away from knives - '
'Certainly.'
' -and ropes.'
Strained silence.
'If that's all, Doctor-'
'I want to reemphasise how important it is to get him some professional help. If you need a referral, I'd be happy to provide you with a couple of names.'
'Thank you. I'll discuss this with my wife and get back to you.'
I gave him my number, and he thanked me again for my concern.
I never heard from him.
I PUT the file back and called Canyon Oaks again. Mainwaring hadn't returned to his office, but his secretary assured me he'd got the message.
In the silence of the library my thoughts wandered. I knew if I sat around long enough, they'd return to roost in dark places. Rising, I searched for the cordless phone and found it in the living room. With the phone hooked to my belt, I stepped out onto the terrace and descended the stairs to the Japanese garden.
The koi were swimming lazily, a concentric rainbow. The sound of my footsteps brought them to the rock- edged rim of the pond, gulping hungrily and churning the water in anticipation.
I tossed a handful of pellets into the water. The fish thrashed and bumped against one another to get at the food. Their scales threw off sparks of scarlet, gold, platinum, and tangerine, the roiling bodies fiery amid the tranquil hues of the garden. Kneeling, I fed the more assertive carp by hand, enjoying the tickle of their barbels against my palm
When they were sated, I put the food away and sat cross-legged on a cushion of moss, tuning my eyes to small sounds: the gurgle of the waterfall; the tiny kissing sounds made by the fish as they nipped at the algae coat on the smooth wet rocks that rimmed their pool, a warm breeze gently agitating the branches of a flowering wisteria. Evening approached and shrouded the garden in shadow. The jasmine began to emit its perfume. I watched colours give way to contours and worked at shrouding my mind.
I'd grown meditatively calm when the phone on my belt whistled and beeped.
'Dr. Delaware,' I answered.
'Pretty formal Alex,' said a youthful voice speckled with static. 'Lou?'
'None other.'
'How are you? The formality's 'cause I was expecting someone else.'
'I'm peachy. I trust you're not too disappointed.' I laughed. The static grew louder.
'The connection's weak, Lou. Where are you railing from, ship or shore?'
'Ship. Got a boatload of prospective investors heading for the Turks and Caicos, a hold full of bluefin and wahoo, and enough rum to render the inhibitions flaccid.'
Lou Cestare held a long-term lease on a warm spot in my heart. Years ago, when I was earning more money than I knew what to do with, he'd shown me what to do with it, guiding me through a series of real estate and securities investments that would allow me to live comfortably without ever having to work again - if my life-style remained reasonable. He was young and aggressive, a clean-cut, fast-talking, blue-eyed, northern Italian. At the age of twenty-seven he'd been written up by the Wall Street Journal as a superstar stock picker. By thirty he was top dog in a large investment firm and heading higher. Then, abruptly, he made a change in his life-style, quitting the corporate world, selling a Brentwood spread, packing up a young wife and baby, and moving to northern Oregon to
work for himself and a select group of clients. Most were megarich; a few, like myself, he kept on for sentimental reasons. He alternated, now, between a home office in the Willamette Valley and a hundred-foot yacht christened The Incentive. Both were outfitted with a fortune in computer gizmos that enabled him to talk to an international army of floor traders by modem.
'Your portfolio came up on-screen the other day, Alex. I've got everything tagged, just like a dentist. Time for a midyear checkup.'
'What's up?'
'You've got two hundred eighty K in tax-frees at an average yield of eight-point-seventy-three percent, producing a yearly income of twenty-four thou four hundred forty that Uncle Sam can't touch. Ninety K of that matures over the next few months. It's generally the older stuff with a slightly lower yield - seven-point-nine percent average. The question is, Do you want more munis or should I get you high-yield corporates or T bills? They'd be taxable, but if you're not earning much, the higher rates would put more bucks in your pocket. According to my records, you pulled in forty-two grand last year doing odds and ends. What about this year?'
'I'm working a little more. About six thousand a month.'
'Gross or net?'
'Gross.'
'Any big deducations?'
'Not really.'
'Last year's rentals and interest income were thirty-one K. Any reason for that to change?'
'None that I can foresee.'
'So you're pulling a little over a hundred thou, still in a healthy fifty percent bracket. Unless you need to be liquid or feel like gambling, the munis are the way to go.'
'What kind of gambling are you talking about?'
'Brand-new over-the-counter issues, mostly unlisted. I've got a laser imaging firm based in Switzerland that looks promising, a Pennsylvania scrap conversion
syndicate, and something right up your alley: a Carolina outfit specialising in booby hatches.' 'Booby hatches?'
'You bet. This group - Psycorp - contracts for mental health services in medium-sized communities. Mostly down South and midwest, but it's expanding. Very aggressive marketing, and the demographics look good. Lots of crazies out there, Alex. Bet you never thought of yourself as a high-growth industry.'
'I think I'll stick with bonds. What kinds of rates are you getting?'
'I've got a line on some ten and a half percent stuff at par from an estate sale, but you'll have to go out long- term -thirty years minimum. Your net increase in income will be approximately' - I heard keys clicking in the background -'two thousand three hundred and forty dollars. Don't spend it all in one place.'
'Double A?'
'These are rated triple B - which is still investment quality - but I expect an upgrade to A in a few months. I don't take ratings that seriously anymore; the services have got lazy. Look at the WPPSS debacle - from triple A to the toilet, and they never saw it until it was too late. Best thing is to bird-dog each issue yourself. Which I do - assiduously. The one I've got in mind for you is very kosher. Conservative beach community with a heavy tax base. Long-overdue public utility financing, no controversy. You want in?'
