Limits of Justice, The (16 page)

“He’s infected with HIV and still hustling?”

“Hey, a guy’s gotta make a living, you know? Anyway, some old fucker gave it to him so now he gives it back, right? You don’t want to have AIDS in Mexico, man. Unless you got the big bucks, which Chucho Pernales definitely don’t got.”

“Why doesn’t he come back here, get some help?”

“’Cause he’s scared shitless, man. Like I said, he’s got a really weird story to tell, but he might not want to talk to you, so don’t go expecting nothing.”

“You know where he lives?”

“He’s got family down there somewhere, but I don’t know where. You check out the gay places, the discos and shit, you might run into him. He’s got a tattoo on one arm. It says Lourdes; that’s his old lady’s name, I think.”

“Lourdes.”

“Yeah, Lourdes. His mom.”

I pulled out my wallet.

“I think l owe you a fifty.”

“Not here, man. Give it to me outside, and be cool.”

He got up and went out ahead of me. I left a tip, paid for the check, and found him outside at a phone booth, making a call that he ended as I came up. I thanked him for his help, shook his hand, slipped him the fifty dollars.

*

By the time I was in the Mustang, pulling out onto Santa Monica Boulevard, Mike was on the other side, at the curb, smiling at the drivers passing slowly in the right lane, where they could look him over. I turned left, tooted the horn, but he never acknowledged me.

I hadn’t gone a block when I decided to go back for him. I figured I’d take him to Horace Hyatt’s place and ask Hyatt to put him up for the night. While I was there, I might even get Hyatt to open up a little more about Rod Preston and the questions he’d been so uncomfortable with that morning. I turned right at the first corner, made three more turns to circle the wide block, and came back down Santa Monica Boulevard, which took me about a minute.

A minute turned out to be too long, because Mike was gone.

I woke Sunday morning feverish and shaky, suffering a flash of diarrhea that sent me racing to the bathroom with a fresh set of vials in my hands.

I performed my task with extreme care, getting the volume level in the vials just right. I shook them according to the instructions to begin the chemical process, marked each label correctly, sealed them in a sanitary plastic bag with yesterday’s specimens, then placed the whole thing back in the refrigerator for temperature control. Step by step, no room for error, because after collecting tomorrow’s specimens, I didn’t want to have to go through this demeaning procedure again.

Maurice showed up around ten with Mei-Ling tucked under his arm, to find me back in bed, pale and sweaty. I’d opened the door for some air and he came in without knocking. He set the dog on the bed, then placed himself on the edge so he could study me more closely.

“She wanted to come for a visit.”

Mei-Ling scampered over and began licking my salty arm.

“Benjamin, really.”

“What now?”

“Look at you, for God’s sake. Did you drink last night?”

“No, Maurice, I didn’t drink.”

“You’re sick, then.”

“I’m seeing the doctor tomorrow.”

“Thank goodness for that.”

“Dropping off my stool samples, anyway. I suppose he’ll call me when the lab report comes in, telling me if I’ve got parasites or not.”

“Speaking of lab results, Benjamin—shouldn’t you be asking this doctor about other kinds of treatment?”

“First things first, Maurice.”

Maurice suddenly shouted, something I’d never experienced.

“Damn you, Benjamin Justice! You make me so angry sometimes.”

His wise old eyes brimmed with tears.

“You lie here, in the very apartment where Jacques spent the best years of his life, where the two of you made love so many times—”

“Where he slowly died.”

Maurice threw out a hand at me, as if swatting away a large insect.

“Where he fought for his life right down to his very last breath.”

“That’s enough, Maurice.”

“Don’t you tell me it’s enough, Benjamin Justice. Don’t you attempt to silence me.”

The tears spilled over and ran down his pale cheeks. He was trembling with quiet rage.

“This damned plague has taken so many. Your friends, mine, Fred’s, everyone’s. So many, Ben, because there was nothing for them then, nothing to keep the virus in check.”

“I don’t need a history lesson, Maurice.”

“All we could do was hold them and look into their eyes and let them know we loved them and we’d be there with them when their time came. We knew they were dying, and they knew it, and there was nothing else for us to do. Now, with so many treatments available, so much progress made, you lie here, letting the virus get an early grip on you, just giving up. Do you think we don’t know what’s happening?”

“It’s early yet. I have time to make decisions.”

“Is it? Look at you!”

He stood, backed off a step, inspected me from head to toe.

“How much weight have you lost, Benjamin? How long have you been running a fever? Wake up and smell the coffee, for goodness’ sake.”

“Actually, I could use a cup right now.”

“Stop being smart with me. I don’t appreciate it.”

“OK, I’ll shut up, then.”

He finally swiped at his tears.

“You have no right to throw your life away, that’s all I’m saying. Not after so many died who wanted so desperately to live.”

It seemed he was out of words, at least for the moment. I ran my fingers half-heartedly through the soft fur along Mei-Ling’s back.

“You can leave the dog. I’ll try to bond with her, if that’ll make you happy.”

“You’re telling me you want me to go.”

“You’re depressing me, Maurice.”

“I think you’ve done a most admirable job of that all on your own.”

“Now look who’s talking smart.”

“Damn you, damn you, damn you.”

“The classic rule of three. You should have been a writer, Maurice.”

He raised his head a little, looking at me down the fine slope of his aquiline nose.

“You’re determined to be alone, aren’t you, Benjamin? Determined to push everyone out of your life, even if it takes your total self-destruction to accomplish it.”

“If you say so.”

A moment passed in which he glanced away, then back.

“You’re the worst kind of coward, Benjamin Justice, because it’s living, really living, that you’re afraid of.”

He turned and left the room, out the door and down the steps so quickly and quietly he might have been a wisp of wind. Mei-Ling swiveled her head to watch him go, then leaped off the bed and slipped out the door after him just before the screen banged shut.

*

It’s difficult to sum up how I felt after Maurice’s outburst, after hearing the gentlest person in my life lash out at me that way. Suffice to say, it didn’t make for a cheery Sunday afternoon.

I did what I’ve done so many times when darker truths confronted me: pulled the shades and locked the door. It had been eight days since Charlotte Preston brought so much energy and eager optimism into my small apartment, along with her much needed money; today, had she lived, would have been the ninth day I’d known her. The coroner had decided that the official cause of Charlotte’s death was suicide—Templeton had left the news on my answering machine the night before—and I didn’t expect to be hearing any more from the detectives on the case. Charlotte was old news now. The cops and the media would be moving on to more important matters—gang slaughter, serial killing, rape, school massacres committed by troubled kids, burnt-out employees going postal, self-hating neo-Nazis targeting blacks and queers and Jews for torture and death—the madness and mayhem that has come to color our daily lives, shape our perception of the human race. But I couldn’t get sweet Charlotte out of my mind.

I spent the day and most of the night speed-reading paperback editions of Randall Capri’s lesser-known celebrity biographies, ones he’d written before Sexual Predator. Each famous subject was allegedly a closeted homosexual or bisexual, according to Capri, who made each case with a mishmash of rumor, innuendo, anonymous sources, unattributed quotes, facts without context—the typical weapons of quasi journalists who pile together this kind of trash and manage to make a modest living off it, with the help of ethically challenged publishers out to make an easy buck. The gimmick in most of Capri’s earlier books was a dying bedside confession that could not be proved or disproved, in which his celebrity subject finally came clean and revealed all to the author, blurting out the truth before expiring. By chance, of course, Capri just happened to be there at the end, at the moment of this extraordinary confession, with a notebook but no tape recorder or witnesses to verify or dispute his version of things. The writing in these earlier books was mediocre at best, the content and its presentation so shabby as to be laughable. Once again, I was struck by how rich and detailed, how much more authentic Sexual Predator seemed in comparison to Capri’s other books. Rod Preston’s alleged secrets were certainly shocking, but for once, in Capri’s hands, they had a troubling verisimilitude. I wasn’t surprised that he’d finally been able to sell a book to a major publisher, one that drew crowds to book signings, put him on all the coveted TV talk shows, elevating him in the process from struggling writer to bestselling hack.

Dawn came before I’d shut my eyes, and as the sun came up, I filled the third and final set of vials from the specimen kits for Dr. Watanabe. I showered, shaved, dressed, then walked down to Tribal Grounds for coffee and a muffin while I watched the morning traffic clog Santa Monica Boulevard like a fatty artery. Someone had left a copy of the L.A. Times on one of the sidewalk tables, and there was Randall Capri on the front page of the Southern California Living section, as well groomed and photogenic as ever. Capri had scored a main feature, illustrated with a four-column color photo that showed the brunet glamour boy with a stack of his new book beside him, and, in the background, an old poster for one of Rod Preston’s action-adventure flicks. I scanned the article. The reporter had a nice way with words but had lobbed plenty of softballs during the interview. Capri came off as a hotshot biographer on his way up, with bigger books ahead of him, and not much in the questions or answers to indicate he might be closer to a worm who fed off the dead. Charlotte Preston was mentioned only in passing, a tiny blip on the reporter’s mental radar screen. There wasn’t much of value in the piece, though I did notice that Capri was scheduled to read from
Sexual Predator
and take questions that evening at the Hollywood Public Library. I made a mental note of the time.

*

At nine sharp, I was back at the Miller Medical Clinic, gingerly handing my complete set of stool samples to Ruby, the bosomy black receptionist with the motherly personality. She greeted me warmly from behind her counter window, accepting the bag nonchalantly, as if she’d received similar sets of vials a thousand times before, which she probably had. The waiting room was nearly empty, the phones were quiet, and Ruby was in a talkative mood, telling me about her weekend, asking me about mine. In the background, I could hear a lively Benny Goodman swing tune, which made me think of soldiers going off to the Second World War.

I mentioned to Ruby that I’d attended Charlotte Preston’s funeral on Saturday, and that I’d seen Dr. Miller there, acting as a pallbearer.

“Oh, yes, honey, he and the Preston family go way back.”

“He and Rod Preston were good friends?”

“I wouldn’t know about that, but I know that Dr. Miller was Mr. Preston’s personal physician for many years. Right up until he got his lung cancer, when, of course, a specialist had to be called in. Still, Dr. Miller continued to see him, right to the end.”

“You seem to know quite a bit about Dr. Miller.”

She let out a big laugh, waving at me with a hand of gemstone rings and bright red nails.

“When you have your big behind in this chair like I do every day, child, you tend to hear a lot.”

“He’s an awfully busy man, isn’t he?”

“Oh, yes, darlin’, I should say so.”

“Running his clinics, taking care of celebrity clients. And then there’s his charity work. I think you mentioned something about that the last time I was here.”

Her face grew serious, her tone reverential.

“He’s very devoted to that, honey. Gives free checkups and medical care to needy children, that kind of thing. Mr. Fuentes works with him on that, though they like to keep it kind of hush-hush, since many of the children are undocumented. You know, in the country illegally. But Dr. Miller feels every child deserves medical care, no matter where he was born. He’s a very caring man, Dr. Miller.”

“Mr. Fuentes as well, apparently.”

“Oh, yes, honey, a very nice gentleman. Works with the immigration office, you know—brings the boys in a couple of times a month for their checkups. Dr. Miller doesn’t charge them for his time, not one penny.”

“I guess there’s no formal accounting then.”

“Oh, no, it’s all done very confidential, very anonymous. To protect the children, you know.”

“With all his responsibilities, you have to wonder how Dr. Miller finds time for a personal life.”

“You mean, like someone special in his life, a significant other?”

I nodded, and Ruby thought about it.

“He’s awfully close to his sister. Is that what you had in mind?”

I laughed.

“Not exactly.”

“Frankly, when Dr. Miller gets the chance, I think he likes to kick back out at Joshua Tree, getting himself some quiet time. I sure can’t blame him for that.”

“You’re talking about Joshua Tree National Park, out in the desert?”

She nodded, causing her big hair to ride up and down.

“Dr. Miller’s got a big place out there, real secluded and private, from what I hear. Some big movie star built it back in the thirties, then it was a hotel and spa for a time. Dr. Miller started using it, oh, ten, fifteen years ago, when the clinics got real busy and he needed a place to get away.”

“He owns the place?”

“I couldn’t tell you that, sweetie—Ruby doesn’t know everything!”

“From the way you describe it, it seems an awfully big place for just one man.”

“I think he had plans at one time to turn it into a hospice—you know, back when so many were leaving us so soon. Thank the Lord, we don’t need so much hospice space now. So I guess Dr. Miller has it pretty much to himself.”

Ruby pointed one of her long, painted nails toward a distant wall.

“Those photographs were all taken out that way, out there in the desert. I think Dr. Miller’s sister took ’em, but I can’t be sure about that.”

Ruby’s phone buzzed.

“Gotta go, honey. Ruby’s always talkin’ when she should be workin’!”

She laughed again and reached for the phone, while I turned away to study the framed blowups on the far wall. There were half a dozen, all high-quality black-and-whites printed on high-grade, stippled paper, capturing various aspects of the desert landscape, presumably shot in or around Joshua Tree National Park. The subjects included a solitary, towering Joshua tree in dusky silhouette, its spiked arms all akimbo; two spiny ocotillo cacti, stark against an empty sky, suggesting a pair of lonely but hardy survivors; a desolate road winding through barren terrain with a granite outcropping visible in the distance, shaped by erosion to resemble a hollow-eyed skull. If Dr. Miller’s sister had shot the photographs, as Ruby suggested, she demonstrated a strong sense of composition and a feel for light and shadow that tended toward the darkly atmospheric. And maybe, if the photographs were any indication, an inner landscape as bleak and cold as the one she saw through the camera’s lens.