Revision of Justice (19 page)

Minutes passed that way, and more minutes. Then Danny was mercifully touching my shoulder, telling me we could go.

When we were walking back down the carpeted hallway, he said simply, “I have to go into the hospital.”

My insides felt like the bottom had dropped out. We reached the elevators. Danny pushed the down button.

“When?”

“Monday.”

“Why?”

“Tests and treatment.”

His way of not being too specific.

We both knew what anyone close to AIDS knew—that a trip to the hospital, even the first, might be the last. The elevator doors opened, we entered, and Danny pushed the button marked P2, our level. As our doors started to close, the doors across the way slid open.

A woman stepped quickly out, her slim legs descending from a gray business suit with gold buttons into sleek maroon pumps. Her head was bent deliberately low and covered with a large silk scarf; her eyes were hidden behind immense dark glasses.

She hurried toward the hallway and turned right, never slowing. I stuck my hand between our doors just before they closed.

“Hold the elevator, Danny.”

I made a hasty exit and crossed into the corridor, just in time to see Roberta Brickman reach the end, where she opened the clinic door and stepped inside.

Aurelio dropped off Danny’s dinner from Project Angel Food while Danny and I were sitting on his apartment landing, watching the sun go down.

It was one of those evenings when the heavy pollution has the ironic effect of enhancing and transforming the colors of the western sky, what Angelenos like to call a “smog sunset.”

As we watched the colors deepen, Danny became talkative and reflective.

“I miss seeing the stars, Ben. Down here in the city, what with the pollution and all the lights, it’s like there’s no stars at all anymore.”

“We’ll get to the mountains, Danny. Soon.”

“You think so?”

“Promise.”

I stayed while he ate, swapping fishing and hiking tales that were at least half true, while dusk helped camouflage the grubbiness of the neighborhood, though not the drone of traffic, television sets, and bickering voices rattling out of the surrounding apartments like verbal gunfire.

He fell asleep on the couch with Maggie at the other end. I laid a blanket over him, kissed him gently, then drove to Canter’s Delicatessen in the Fairfax district to grab a bite of my own.

The big downstairs rooms were filled with the usual chatter of customers and bustle of busboys and the mingled odors of corned beef, steamed cabbage, and lox. I had a small booth to myself near the back and one of the older waitresses who had worked at Canter’s for three or four decades. She wore a faded paper flower pinned to her rayon uniform, talked fast like she was annoyed with me, and called me sweetie.

I spent the next couple of hours bent over my notebook, working out possible scenarios in the Reza JaFari case, while I gnawed on a pastrami on rye smothered with horseradish hot enough to make my eyes water.

On the page where I’d drawn my chart of names, I inked in another broken line between Danny Romero and Roberta Brickman. Above it, I drew a question mark, along with the words
AHF Clinic
in parentheses.

Collecting the facts was only part of the job. The other was linking them, along with the people involved. Connecting the dots, Harry called it—figuring out what held all the information together.

Who. What. Where. When. Why. How.

The elements of every reporter’s story.

I had the who, what, where, and when—Reza JaFari’s unexplained death the previous Saturday night on Gordon Cantwell’s terrace roughly between 7 and 8 p.m. If it was murder, though, I needed a second who, along with a why and a how.

Unless, of course, the who was Danny Romero, as Lieutenant DeWinter wanted to believe. If that was the case, only how remained.

I closed my notebook sometime after ten, asking myself if someone as decent as Danny could take a human life, and already knowing the answer. Any of us, even the most gentle, is capable of killing, if pushed to it. Armies are filled with gentle men, prisons with gentle women. I’d been a gentle boy before grabbing my father’s police revolver at the age of seventeen and emptying it into his chest for raping and degrading my little sister. I knew as well as anyone how quickly one can cross the line, how blindly and insanely, into that dark, cold territory of righteous, vengeful violence. I knew how wonderful it could feel for the moment, like an orgasm arising from the most troubled region of the soul, before the deed was finished and the haunting set in.

Danny, a man with AIDS, face to face with the horror of the disease. JaFari, an infected man who was knowingly exposing others to the virus. Motive, opportunity, lack of alibi. It wasn’t hard to connect the dots, as DeWinter already had.

I paid the check and drove from Canter’s feeling unsettled in all kinds of ways, and badly in need of a drink.

Back in West Hollywood, the Norma Triangle was dark and quiet. So was the house on Norma Place as I pulled into the driveway.

As I trudged toward the rear stairs, I sensed movement in the yard. The leg of a patio chair scraping concrete, perhaps. Or a foot.

It could be one of the cats, jumping from the chair with its back paws. Or a possum sniffing around.

I stopped at the comer of the house.

“Maurice? Is that you? Fred?”

No one answered, but a shadow moved. The edge of a shadow, really, as a figure pulled into the deeper night shade beneath the big jacaranda and the vine-covered lattice awning.

I backed up a few steps to the Mustang, laid my notebook on the hood, pried a brick from the border of the front garden.

When I edged slowly back up the drive, it was along the far side, close to a neighboring fence.

As I came even with the back side of the house, there was movement again. This time, the figure stepped boldly from the shadows toward me.

“I’ve been waiting for you, Justice.”

Christine Kapono took another step or two until she was recognizable in the dim light of the distant streetlamps.

“Why didn’t you answer when I called out?”

“I wanted to remind you what it feels like to be uncomfortable—even scared.”

I set the brick aside.

“I guess you succeeded.”

“Good.”

Kapono was dressed all in black—a black T-shirt that showed off her muscular upper body, black pants, black Doc Martens that gave her feet a military look.

“What’s going on, Christine?”

“I want you to lay off Roberta.”

“Templeton and I have a story to put together.”

“There are other people you can talk to for your story.”

“But no one who had quite the relationship with Reza JaFari that Roberta did.”

Kapono’s narrow eyes narrowed even further.

“That’s her business, not yours.”

“Maybe. Maybe not.”

“I saw you spying on us the other day. Outside Eleanor’s Secret.”

“That was unfortunate.”

“That you were spying on us? Or that you got caught?”

“Both.”

“I also heard about your breakfast meeting at Hugo’s, the way you questioned her.”

“Roberta confides quite a lot in you, doesn’t she?”

“I’m serious, Justice. Leave her alone.”

“She strikes me as a highly capable person who can handle things on her own.”

“So am I. As a female, I grew up fighting for my place in the water, demanding my right to catch waves. As a dyke, I had to fight even harder. When I’m forced to fight back, I’m not afraid to let it get ugly. So don’t underestimate me.”

“Believe me, I don’t.”

“Roberta’s dealing with some personal problems right now. She doesn’t need any extra stress.”

“There are things about Reza JaFari I need to know.”

“Why is it so important that you write about him?”

“Because he was at Gordon Cantwell’s party—the center of a lot of people’s attention. He’s dead. There are a lot of unanswered questions in the balance. Call me goofy, but I have this thing about unanswered questions.”

A few seconds passed while she regarded me with angry, unblinking eyes.

Finally, she said, “I’ll make you a deal.”

“I always listen to offers.”

“Leave Roberta’s personal life out of your story and I’ll help you any way I can.”

“Roberta’s a successful agent, Christine, associated with one of the biggest agencies in town. I don’t see how her personal life—”

“Have you ever been to the bar at the Peninsula after five p.m., Justice?”

“Can’t say I have.”

“It’s filled with movie people. You know what they’re talking about?”

“Oscar ad campaigns?”

“Other people. Who wrote what, and what star is interested in it. Who did a great rewrite job, who screwed one up. Who botched a pitch meeting, who’s out of favor with such-and-such a studio, who snorts too much crystal. Who’s got herpes, and who’s got a three-picture deal.”

“What’s that got to do with Roberta Brickman?”

“She could be badly hurt by a story like this, in ways you may not even suspect.”

“The truth is always the best policy, Christine.”

Kapono laughed curtly.

“Maybe in your business. In my business, a friend is someone who stabs you in the
front
. If you can’t tell the right lies to the right people at the right time, you’re considered an amateur.”

“Lovely business.”

“If I help you, you’ll lay off Roberta?”

“I’ll be as sensitive as I can.”

She turned away from me and stared into the shadows of the yard as if looking for ideas, answers—anything to lead me away from Roberta Brickman.

“You care a lot about Roberta, don’t you, Christine?”

“I think you already know that.”

“Are you in love with her?”

“Roberta doesn’t feel about me the same way I do about her.”

“Meaning you’re just good friends.”

Kapono faced me, a small woman who managed to seem considerably bigger.

“For the record, Justice, Roberta is not a lesbian. I am, and I don’t give a damn who knows. There was a time in the industry when gay women survived only if they did the lipstick number and played it straight. Those days are pretty much past, except for the leading actresses, the ones who depend on men’s romantic fantasies to make a living. So I don’t give a flying fuck who knows about my private life.

“But Roberta’s got enough to deal with right now without having rumors circulating that she’s a dyke.”

“I’m interested in facts, not rumors.”

“Maybe I can pass some your way. If you’re willing to give Roberta some space.”

“I’ll do my best, Christine. But if I feel I need to talk to her again, I will.”

A distant fury colored Kapono’s face and voice, the way an approaching storm darkens an island sky.

“Be careful what you ask her, Justice. And how you ask it. I don’t like to see Roberta get hurt—not by anyone.”

“Is that how you felt about Reza JaFari when you learned what he’d done to her?”

The darkening storm settled in Kapono’s eyes, which settled in turn on me. Then I was watching her black-clad figure march down the driveway, where the night quickly swallowed her up.

My watch told me it was close to midnight. Up in the apartment, a jug of wine waited with my name on it. All I had to do was mount the stairs.

Instead, I climbed back into the Mustang and flicked on the headlights.

Then I was heading back to Beachwood Canyon, where nothing beyond the gothic-looking gates seemed to follow a straight line, not even the legendary Hollywood Sign.

I passed the white mailbox marked Fairbridge without slowing.

House lights blinked at me from inside the leafy fortress. I wondered what Constance Fairbridge might be doing up at this hour, and made a mental note to check on her when my work up the road was done.

When I reached Ridgecrest Drive, I turned right and climbed. Moments later, I was looking at the nine-letter sign spelling out H-O-L-L-Y-W-O-O-D just below the highest ridge of Mount Lee. Several twists in the road later, Gordon Cantwell’s house came into view.

During my last visit, Kapono had indicated that the city picked up the trash on Cantwell’s street on Thursday mornings. That made tonight “trash night” in city jargon. Large plastic bins with hinged lids were lined up alongside the road.

I slowed as I approached the medieval silhouette of Cantwell’s house.

There were no vehicles visible in his driveway or along the immediate roadway. Lamplight glowed dimly from behind drawn curtains. I sensed no movement inside or around the house.

Two oversized trash bins stood next to the driveway. Next to the bins were four plastic trash bags stuffed almost to bursting and bound at the top.

I continued up the hill past Cantwell’s property line, switched off the headlights, then shifted into reverse and backed the Mustang quietly down until Cantwell’s trash collection was just behind me.

A car approached from down the hill but moved past without slowing.

I got out with a flashlight, checked for more cars coming, saw none, and went to work.

The first bin was all yard waste. The second held what appeared to be everyday trash, along with the pile of old paperwork Kapono had left behind, but nothing that looked like the remnants of Saturday night’s party. I’d dug through it to the bottom when a pair of headlights appeared down the road. I killed the flashlight, stashed it, and leaned against the Mustang as as if I were waiting for Cantwell to return.

The car slowed to a stop. The driver was an older man wearing a Dodgers baseball cap. He lowered the passenger window and leaned across the front seat.

“Car trouble?”

“Waiting for Gordon.”

“The fella in the funny house there?”

“That’s the one. Thanks for asking, though.”

He gave me a small salute and drove on.

When his taillights had disappeared over the hill, I went back to work.

It might have taken hours to properly go through the four fat trash bags that remained, and I would have left a mess besides. I glanced at my watch and decided to simply take them all with me.

I opened the Mustang’s trunk and stuffed a trash bag into it. Then another and another, until there was no more room.

Headlights appeared again from below. I pushed the trunk shut, grabbed the last trash bag from the roadside, and tossed it into the backseat.

The headlights approached slowly.

I leaped into the Mustang and glanced back, hitting the ignition switch at the same time. I flicked on my lights.

The approaching car seemed to respond, speeding up. In the dark, from this distance, it was impossible to make out the shape or model of the vehicle. All I could see were two bright headlamps reflecting off my rearview mirror.

I turned the wheel and pulled away from the curb, one eye on the road and one on the lights behind me.

They came faster, then suddenly stopped where Cantwell’s driveway met the street.

At the top of the hill, I slowed almost to a halt.

The other car sat right where it was, its headlights watching me like the eyes of an animal whose nest has just been robbed.

I drove over the rise, turned around, shut down my headlights, and came slowly back.

The twin beams on the other car were no longer visible. I glimpsed a pair of red taillights just before Cantwell’s garage door came down electronically, sealing the vehicle in.

Logic told me that Gordon Cantwell had seen me hauling away his trash in the middle of the night, or seen someone. Whether he had recognized me or not, I couldn’t know.

I kept my lights off until I was past his house and taking a curve. I flicked them on without slowing, quickly putting distance between myself and Cantwell’s place.

*

When my high beams hit the white mailbox, I slowed and turned into the drive.

I rolled the Mustang slowly under the heavy canopy of leaves, listening. I heard nothing except the crunch of gravel beneath the tires.

Then I was in the clearing at the end, facing the ramshackle garage with the rusty gas pump next to it. To my left was the old house. A porch light was on above the steps. Another light burned inside, on the lower floor.

I shut off the ignition and climbed out.

“Mrs. Fairbridge?”

Then I noticed the bottles. The prettiest ones still lined the window ledges inside the house, but those along the porch and railings were gone. The shopping cart, filled to capacity, had been pushed across the small clearing and sat in a narrow grassy space between the dilapidated garage and the antique gas pump.

“Mrs. Fairbridge?”

I remained still for several seconds, listening for her voice. What I heard instead was a solid
thunk
on the back of my skull that was followed by a roar of pain.

I turned, raising my arms. Constance Fairbridge was at the other end of her ax handle, bringing it down for another blow. I snatched it from her brittle fingers.

“Mrs. Fairbridge!”

Her eyes were all rage and fear, without a sign of recognition or reason.

“Thief! Devil!”

She was backing toward the house, keeping her wild eyes on me. Brambles, leaves, and twigs covered her heavy coat; dried mud caked her running shoes. Her hair was a tangled, filthy mess.

“It’s me, Benjamin Justice.”

“There is no justice but the Lord’s!”

I felt the back of my head. There was no blood that I could find, but a bump was rising fast. My neck felt stiff; my head throbbed.

“Let me talk to you, Mrs. Fairbridge. We’ll talk about the silent movies.”

She was up the steps, on the porch.

“Go away!”

“Constance Fairbridge, star of stage and screen. Remember saying that to me yesterday, when I came to visit?”

She raised her voice to a shriek; the power behind it amazed me.

“Sodomites! Whores! Murderers!”

I watched her creep along the porch toward the front of the house, pointing a skinny finger at me.

“Go and repent while time remains!”

“I’m going, Mrs. Fairbridge.”

“The cities must be destroyed!”

I placed the ax handle at the foot of the steps, climbed into the Mustang, and backed it down the drive. Back through the dark zone beneath the oaks. Back to the road, to the city.

Away from the woman named Constance Fairbridge, who now dwelled in a frightening world created by her own troubled mind, where I clearly wasn’t welcome.