Boys of Two Cities Page 13

  “I couldn’t help overhearing you. You’re looking for someone?” He peered at the photograph. His eyes flicked with recognition. “Hey! I know this guy. The other, that’s you, huh? Smoocheroony… Oh, hi, I’m Tommy.”

  “Hi, I’m Mike. You’ve seen him?” he asked eagerly.

  “Hell-o Mike. Yeah…lemme think. Yes, the first time was some months back…yeah I remember. I was with some pals down on the Boardwalk at Venice and he walked by. We all went, ‘Wow,’ and kinda picked him up. Came this way to WeHo and…” Tommy trailed off, as if cautious about saying more about the night in case he caused an upset. “What’s he to you?”

  Mike explained briefly.

  “Sure, he was a nice guy. I gave him my address and number, but he never called me.”

  Mike gritted his teeth. “Did he give you his?”

  Tommy shook his head. “Nah, he seemed kinda into himself, if you know what I mean. Pleasant but unconnected. Tell you what, why don’t you check out Venice Beach. That’s where I saw him last time. That was about a month back, and we only chatted for a minute then. Haven’t seen him since.”

  Day four. He got up early and, even though he suspected there would be little in the way of life at that time of the morning, Mike took advantage of the lighter Saturday traffic and made Venice Beach without much hassle. He found a space in the car park off Ocean Front Walk.

  The Boardwalk was deserted other than by a few joggers, so he walked some blocks and found a diner offering breakfast. He tried out the photograph on the young woman serving, who shook her head. “Good looker,” she smiled, and Mike wasn’t sure to whom she was referring, him or Gil. When she brought him a plate piled with two eggs, bacon, and a stack of pancakes, her flirtatious attitude suggested her interest in him.

  “He your brother, American cousin, or what…?” She pinned the photo to the table.

  Mike hitched his shoulders noncommittally. “Someone I knew when he was in London.”

  She took a closer look at the two monochrome figures, arms around each other’s shoulders. “Your boyfriend?”

  Mike’s slight inclination of his head answered her. “I’ve been all over L.A. looking for him.”

  “He run out on you and come home, hon?”

  “Something like that.”

  She put down a cup of coffee and an orange juice. “Well if he’s local, your best bet in this district is the Roosterfish bar on Abbot Kinney. It’s where all the gay guys hang out around here.” She told him how to find it. “You can’t miss it, it’s painted an eye-searing blue. But it’s a bit early in the day, though. They open around eleven in the morning, but I reckon it’s not busy until much, much later.” She sighed theatrically, looking over her shoulder as she went toward another customer. “Jeez, why are all the cutest guys gay these days?”

  Mike began eating, feeling a bit brighter at the thought of having something concrete to do. He whiled away a few hours walking the cement snake of the Boardwalk. There were a few interesting men about, but he only had his mind on the Roosterfish and what it might hold. He knew it would be sensible to wait until much later in the day, but soon after noon he retrieved the car and drove north to Westminster Avenue and then east to the intersection with Abbot Kinney Boulevard.

  After a few minutes’ slow cruising he spotted the blue building on the right. There was plenty of parking on the wide road. He got out, locked up the rental, and stood staring at the bar’s blank and not particularly welcoming front. But something felt right here and the thought that he might soon see Gil filled his fluttering breast with waves of trepidation. Surprisingly, the Roosterfish was pretty busy, perhaps because of the weekend, he thought. At the bar he waited to be served, took a short beer, and produced his photo. The bartender gave it a cursory glance and shook his head.

  “Hold it there a moment,” the guy said. He picked up the print and turned to another older man farther down the bar. “Hey, Lewis—this kid’s looking for someone. You ever seen the blondie in here?”

  Lewis took the picture and came up to Mike, giving him an appraising once-over. “Not seen you in here before.”

  The minute Mike admitted to being from England, the atmosphere lightened up considerably. “Always good to have strangers in,” Lewis growled. He took a good long look at both Mike and the photo. “Yeah, that kid’s been in a few times, usually later on, although I haven’t seen him recently. But then, it gets pretty crowded. Hang about, you might hit lucky.”

  “Thanks, I will. But I wonder, if I wrote out a phone number for where I’m staying, could I leave it with you and if he comes in…?”

  Lewis handed the picture back. “Whattaya think we are, a dating agency? Running a bar here, man.” He relented. “Okay, but I can’t promise anything.”

  Mike wrote out the details hurriedly on a small pad he had with him for the purpose. He ripped off the sheet, and Lewis took it, stuck behind a bottle on the back shelf. “No promises, now.”

  Mike spent the next few hours in a fever of despair and anticipation, looking up every time a new customer sailed in through the door. The noise of voices, jukebox music, and pool table boisterousness increased in volume. He went out onto the patio to get some fresh air and lit a cigarette to try and calm his nerves. Once he had smoked it, he went back. Roosterfish was even more packed and smoky as the afternoon became evening.

  Two older guys bitched beside him, one wistfully eyeing up a boy who, by his bright boardies and naked torso, must be a surfer. “I bet that boy still has his cherry,” the man sighed archly. The other gave a badly stifled laugh. “Puh-leaze, he’s lucky if he still even has the pit that came with it.”

  The first man noticed Mike hovering uncertainly. “Oh baby, from which paradise on earth did you spring from?” My, you are fit—”

  “I’m waiting for someone,” Mike said hurriedly, looking around desperately.

  “You’re from England! I adore English boys with that sexy accent.”

  He was unsure how much more of this—quite probably hopeless—waiting he could put up with and being cruised by what was beginning to feel like every unattached male in the bar. That’s when he saw a familiar figure propping up the bar. With a curt nod to the two men, he elbowed his way through. “J-Jeff?”

  The man swung around, eyes going wide as he realized who was addressing him. “Well, by the holy balls of Saint Sebastian, if it isn’t young Mike Smith. What in hell brings you here of all places in this gin-soaked world? Are you working in Hollywood now?”

  “Gosh, Jeff, but am I pleased to see you. No, worse luck, but I’m not looking for work, something much more important.”

  “Hey, let me get that.” Jeff ordered Mike a drink, then placed a friendly arm around his shoulder. “So tell me, what’s so important? No…let me guess…” he glanced up at he ceiling, dragging out the moment. “It wouldn’t be Gil Graham you’re after, would it?”

  Mike felt as though he was melting and his heart pounded away. He hardly dared ask. “Do you know where he is?”

  Jeff’s broad grin faded. “What makes you think he’ll want to see you? He told me what happened.”

  Mike dropped his head and sighed heavily. “I dunno. I just hoped he might.” He looked up into Jeff’s eyes. “There was a reason for what I did, and I think you might know what that was. After all, you knew Rosen as well as anyone, and you know what happened in Rome that time. The way he took me and Gil getting together.”

  “And now the fucker’s dead.” Jeff paused, then asked: “Did he have anything over you…other than you being one of his handy party pieces?”

  Mike clenched his jaw angrily. “Yeah. Gil.”

  Jeff’s narrowed his eyes and he nodded his head once in understanding. He placed a hand on Mike’s shoulder and squeezed it sympathetically. “Well, I don’t know how Gil would take it, you turning up out of the blue, but I wish you luck. He sure as hell isn’t over you, but that doesn’t necessarily mean he’ll be over the moon to see you again. I know how he feels
because we’ve been working on the same movie.”

  So where does he live? Please, Jeff. I have to try.”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  A Crock of Bullshit

  From the kitchen window, Eunice Graham had spotted the cheap rental parked against the opposite sidewalk. It had been there for more than an hour. That would not of itself be particularly odd, except that its driver had not gotten out of the car in all that time. Maybe a saleman taking a snack break. She turned back to the kitchen island to finish up a lasagna ready to bake for later.

  Mike sat glued to his seat, literally, since with the engine off the air conditioning wasn’t running. It was the first time he had been in a residential area, and under the broad coppery-blue sky, the promiscuous houses looked frighteningly different to anything he had ever known. He kept giving the one-and-a-half-story house over the street nervous glances. Was Gil in? Probably not. Should he go over and ask? Probably not. But he could not continue sitting here either.

  Eventually, he plucked up the courage and got out. Checking for traffic, he crossed the four lanes and proceeded up the short pathway between the well-watered lawns as though going to his execution. It still took five minutes of nail biting before he reached out and pressed the bell. A knell-like chime sounded. A shape appeared in the rippled glass square. The door opened cautiously and a woman peered at him through the gap.

  “Yes?”

  Mike cleared his throat. “Erm, I’m looking for Gil?”

  She reacted to the British accent and opened the door a tiny bit more. “May I ask who wants him?”

  Mike swallowed and then squared his broad shoulders. “It’s Mike Smith, Mrs. Graham?”

  “Oh my, you’re that friend of Gil’s from London.” She opened the porch door fully. “Have you come all that way? Gil mentioned you when he telephoned from London. On the one or two times he managed it.” She stepped back, inviting him in. “Gil’s still at work, but come on in and wait. He should be back in about an hour, unless there’s a problem with the scene they’re working on. But I expect you know all about that kind of thing.”

  “Thanks, Mrs. Graham.”

  “Please, call me Eunice. We’re so much less formal than you nice English folks.”

  Mike felt as though he were intruding into a dangerous space, but his motor nerves took control and he obediently stepped up into the wide hallway. It opened onto a large kitchen on the left and a living area on the right. Ahead, a hallway led deeper into the house and a staircase climbed to the upper floor. He smelled cooked tomatoes and herbs as he followed her into the kitchen.

  “You look hot, Mike. Can I get you some iced tea? Then you can tell me what you’re doing all the way over here.”

  Eunice indicated a small table with four chairs, and he seated himself uncomfortably on one. She bustled around and produced a tall, frosted glass of tea. Mike thanked her and made up a story of why he was in Los Angeles, hopefully looking for work and just thought he’d look up Gil while here.

  In turn, she spoke proudly of how Gil had been working on some new science-fiction movie, with a street location not very far away from where they were. “Oh goodness. I have to feed the fish. Norman—that’s my husband, Gil’s father—has some prize carp in a pond in the backyard. I’ve totally forgotten their dinner. If you don’t mind…? I won’t be long.” She went out through the utility door.

  Mike got up as he heard the outer door close and wandered about the kitchen, taking in the appliances. They seemed uniquely different in subtle ways to what he was used to. A part of him wanted to flee the house while she was outside, and he was still considering it when the noise of a key in the front door froze him to the spot. He turned slowly toward the opening onto the hallway, heart palpitating.

  And that is where Gil found him.

  Mike had no time to compose his face, either calmly or in a welcoming smile, but at least he had the advantage of knowing he was here.

  Gil did not.

  The boy stepped into the hall, automatically turning his face to the kitchen as he pushed the front door shut behind him. He turned to stone. His recently tanned face blanched and his gray irises became circles of shock in white. His lips parted, but no sound issued. For the briefest of moments it was clear that he failed to grasp what he was seeing—a gaunt copy of Mike…

  Their eyes locked. Mike’s gaze held affection and terror in equal parts; Gil’s sheer incomprehension. They might have stayed like that forever had it not been for Eunice coming back in through the rear door. She walked up behind Mike and saw Gil in the hallway. “Good, you’re back on time, and look who’s come to visit.”

  Gil swallowed and broke the stare. He unslung a backpack and dropped it on the floor tiles. Mike took a step forward, but halted the second Gil looked up again and flinched.

  Eunice must have seen the uncertainty that lingered like a bad smell in the air. Her next words took on a motherly bright tone. “Now don’t you boys be shy. I’ve got things to do in the snug, so I’ll leave you two to catch up. You will stay to eat with us, won’t you Mike?”

  Mike looked at Gil for some sign, but his friend gave no comfort. “Uh, thanks, Mrs. Graham. But I don’t want to intrude.”

  “Oh, don’t be silly. It’s no bother! I’ve made enough lasagna to feed an army, and Gil wouldn’t want you to go without some food—would you Gil?”

  Finally, Gil spoke softly. “Sure. Stay, if you want.”

  “There, see? We’ll be glad to have you! Why don’t you two go have a talk until your father gets home. Then we’ll have some cocktails before supper.”

  Gil picked up his backpack and, without another word, turned and walked stiffly to the stairs. Mike followed, turned at the top and went through the bedroom door. He stepped inside the generous room, took in the organized chaos, the bed, the music center, wall posters—everything unfamiliar, so not connected to the Gil he knew.

  The door shut firmly. Gil leaned against it, white-faced, breathing heavily, eyes wildly darting around. Mike was utterly tongue-tied. He turned to face Gil. All the speeches he had rehearsed for weeks had flown. The reality of Gil was just too much. After a long, uncomfortable moment, Mike opened his mouth.

  “Gil…?”

  “What the fuck are you doing here?”

  It was Mike’s turn to flinch at the hoarse hostility in the whispered question. “I…I needed to see you—”

  Gil’s voice rose suddenly and cracked. “Why? Trevor not enough for you?” He stepped forward and without warning backhanded Mike across the cheek.

  Taken by surprise, Mike staggered and tripped back onto the bed.

  “You shit! You think you can just waltz in here and say ‘Hi’ like nothin happened.”

  Mike sat up, dazed by the unexpected blow, and wiped at the corner of his mouth. Then he threw up his hands as a whirlwind smashed into him. Spitting and snarling obscenities, Gil wrestled him down, punched his arms and stomach, and aimed at his chin, but Mike managed to fend off the worst blows to his face. He was forced to retaliate in self-defense and they struggled furiously, their hard bodies clashing like cords of lashed timber.

  Then suddenly the fight went out of Gil and he collapsed limply part across Mike. They were both panting, as much from the shock of reunion as the effort.

  Mike felt wetness on the back of his hand, and licked at the salty taste of Gil’s tears. He heard the muffled voice buried in the bedclothes. “Fucker, fucker, fucker.”

  Very tentatively, Mike lifted a hand, reached out to lightly stroke Gil’s silky hair, hardly daring to believe that he would be allowed to. Gil endured it a moment and then looked up with a streaked face, blinking tears from his eyes. “Why? Why are you here?”

  Mike dared to continue stroking Gil’s head, almost as if he were calming a dangerous animal. “I had to, Gil. You don’t know how it’s been. Why should you? I’ve been in hell these months. There hasn’t been a minute, a second, I haven’t thought of you, tortured myself with thinking of you and w
hat you might be doing…and with whom.”

  Gil’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. “What about Trevor?”

  Mike gave a bleak laugh. “He wouldn’t talk to me for weeks after I…made him do it.”

  Gil’s frown deepened. “Do what?”

  “Act up, pretend to be my new love.”

  “I don’t believe this!” He slapped his thigh angrily. “But why, for fuck’s sake?”

  “You know Rosen’s dead, killed in an air crash?”

  Gil glared, taken by surprise at the abrupt change of direction. “Of course, the whole industry knows that, but what’s it got to do with anything?” He wiped the last moisture from his eyes, and sat part way up, putting distance between himself and Mike.

  Mike let his hands drop into his lap. “Gil, it has everything to do with it.”

  “I don’t wanna hear it.”

  After a pause, Mike plowed on. “You remember at the Subway in New York, when I went missing for an hour and came back with a split lip?”

  Gil nodded sullenly, still unwilling to give an inch.

  “That was no dizzy queen swiping me with a studded wrist band, like I said. One of Rosen’s goons did that. He was there, in New York, in the Subway.” Mike watched as Gil narrowed his eyes to disbelieving slits, accompanied by the slightest shaking of his head. Mike pursued the story desperately. “Rosen set up the entire film thing with the club so’s to get us both over there. It was his revenge on us. He said I had to give in to him otherwise…other—Oh shit…” Mike closed up to bury his head on Gil’s shoulder, shuddering. “Please forgive me, please Gil. He said I had to get rid of you and go back to being his property or he would have you killed if I didn’t. And he meant it.”

  Gil remained rigidly unbending, incredulous. “And you believed him?” His voice and expression looked more sad than wondering.

  Mike sat up and took Gil’s head in both hands, gazing right into the gray eyes. “Because Angelo helped us save you from Fantini in Rome, Rosen had him murdered.”