Revision of Justice (30 page)

I was not being an exemplary model for the white race. I had to try to think through my actions more clearly.

Next time, I’d be sure to piss on the big-shot driver.

I continued up Robertson to the supermarket on Santa Monica Boulevard, where I found a fifth of Cuervo Gold for eleven bucks with a two-dollar rebate coupon hanging like a noose around its slender neck.

It was amazing how much salvation eleven bucks could still buy.

I staggered over to Hilldale Avenue with the bottle in a paper bag. I drank a third of it sitting on a low wall in the skimpy shade of a sickly-looking bottlebrush tree. It was staked up pathetically to keep it from falling, someone’s idea of city landscaping. Across the street was an art gallery whose rooftop was split architecturally like curling paper by a huge, plunging blade.

Cutting edge. Clever.

I tried to focus again on my notebook. The answer had been right there on the page; I could vaguely remember that much. But it was slipping away from me again, farther and farther away as I dipped deeper and deeper into the bottle.

Men floated past me on their way down to the boulevard. Men in shorts and tank tops and tight jeans. Trim, good-looking men, most of them. White, black, brown, Asian. A wave of men, heading to the bars while the gusting wind stirred up lust along the streets like whirlwinds of dust.

I pulled off my shirt and felt the hot air ruffle the hair on my chest and belly and arms. It felt almost as good as a man’s hands, the way it had felt on the ride to Palm Springs with Danny beside me. But now Danny was rotting in a hospital bed he couldn’t leave. I couldn’t be with Danny, couldn’t touch him, couldn’t even talk to him.

I could have Lawrence Teal if I wanted him, though. Teal lived only two blocks away. I got to my feet, wanting him.

I would go to Teal’s apartment and fuck him so hard he would beg me to stop and when I did he’d beg me to start up again.

I was stupendously drunk now. I wanted sex. The elixir, the solution, the escape.

I turned up Hilldale, trying to walk a straight line and looking ridiculous the way self-deluding drunks always do. I drank my way to Teal’s front door, and pounded on it with the empty bottle.

I’d decided not to fuck Teal after all.

I would get him all worked up, hard as a rock, slip a condom on him and pull him into me, his big cock all the way up my ass, as deep as it would go. I’d close my eyes and grab his ass with both hands, and pull him all the way in and make him keep plowing, until he became Danny Romero in my mind, until his strong, dancer’s legs became Danny’s legs, and I was crazy with pain and pleasure and filled with the fantasy that it was Danny inside me and no one else.

Teal would give me his body and in the process give me Danny Romero without knowing it. That’s what Teal would do for me.

The problem was, Lawrence Teal wasn’t home.

I smashed the bottle on his doorstep, then peed into the planter outside his door, deciding what to do next. I would hike, up into the hills above the noise and lights and madness.

I stashed my knapsack behind the planter and weaved my way up to Sunset Boulevard. Bright neon was flickering on all along the Strip, a blur of neon, with the cars going past in a rush of motion that created its own impersonal music.

Then I was crossing from the House of Blues to Queens Road, just before the Comedy Store, climbing, feverish and numb, the relentless winds shaking the trees around me, turning the weeds and brush to kindling.

I was far too drunk to realize I was being followed as I staggered up the odd, disjointed section of Hollywood Boulevard that took me west toward the highest ridges. Too blitheringly blasted to sense the danger, even as darkness settled over the hills and the headlights flicked on a hundred yards behind me.

The driver waited until I was near the top, on a stretch where the houses were few and the road the darkest, before making a move.

By then, I was deep inside myself, staring out at a million city lights. The car rolled slowly past. I glanced over, mildly interested in the manner of desultory drunks. It was a utility sports vehicle, gray, with windows tinted so densely that nothing was visible within.

When it was gone, I gazed out again at the vast plain of lights, wondering how many people were out there—in homes and hospitals and hospices, alleyways—taking their last gasp of breath, their last gulp of life at that exact moment.

How would Danny go? Where? In the jail ward of County-USC, shackled to his bed? On an operating table, while they hacked off his legs, trying to keep him alive long enough to stand trial? In a jail cell, huddled in a corner, legless and alone?

From the edge of the hillside, I screamed until my lungs ached. Dogs started barking in the canyons and I screamed again, grinning as their howls answered back.

Then I sensed the headlights on my face and turned to see the gray wagon coming at me.

It came off a curve faster than it had reason to, accelerating on the straightaway that we now shared.

There was no doubt that it was coming for me.

I dashed across the road, falling to my knees, scrambling up, flinging myself against the hillside, clutching at the highest roots, pulling myself up.

The car swerved, coming across the road. I pulled myself higher, hugging the crumbling earth.

The wagon sped by, caroming off the hillside, missing me by inches.

I slipped to the road and looked around for escape. There was nothing but open roadway before me and behind me, with steep slopes up and down on either side.

The car had turned around and was speeding back.

I ran along the edge of the road, slipped behind a boulder as the car came screaming back, its front left bumper and headlight clipping the rock, crunching metal, shattering glass, making sparks.

It disappeared around a curve but I could hear its shifting transmission and knew it would come again.

Down the road, maybe two hundred yards, I saw the lights of a house suspended on stilts out over the canyon.

I ran for it, stumbling, falling, getting up, running on.

Behind me, the headlights reappeared and I knew the house might as well be in Omaha.

The car bore down on me as I reached a section of road where the mountain was steepest. There was no climbing up.

It kept coming, angling toward me as I stood at the edge of the downslope, the ground around me growing brighter as the headlights closed the space between us.

The moment before I would have been struck, I flung myself over the side.

It felt less like falling than ground coming up at me, something huge and alive that was determined to punish me for being so stupid and self-destructive. Basketball-sized rocks pounded my body, thorny brush ripped at my skin.

I grabbed at anything I could to slow my fall, tearing the fleshy parts of my hands, banging and bruising the bones.

Then I wasn’t moving anymore.

I lay facedown, my head pointed up toward the road, arms and legs splayed, mouth tasting the gritty powder of arid earth.

I was surprised by how sober I felt, how clear everything around me had suddenly become.

From my awkward position, I could see the vehicle that had almost killed me taking curves as it sped its way down the hillside. I watched the taillights until I couldn’t see them anymore.

My body suddenly convulsed and my mouth erupted with vomit. I turned my head, spewing bile into the dry soil, until nothing more came out of me.

Then I began the long crawl back up to the road.

“My God, Justice. What happened?”

I heard Templeton’s voice, opened my eyes, and immediately wished I hadn’t. The pain was almost as bad when I raised a tender hand to ward off the punishing light.

Templeton sat on the edge of the bed like an angel come to take me home. I made the mistake of moving my battered lips. “I took a swan dive up in the Hollywood Hills.”

Out on the landing, Harry sucked on a burning cigarette as if he’d never given them up. He was wearing his rumpled blue-gray suit and a narrow tie that was decades old, which told me it must be a workday.

I pulled a pillow over my eyes, resisting the urge to throw up.

“The door was open,” Templeton said, “so we came in.”

“We’ve been calling.” It was Harry’s voice, from the doorway.

“You haven’t been answering.”

“As you can see, I’m a bit under the weather.”

“You want to tell us what happened?”

I lifted the pillow. Templeton’s face was still there, peering down at me with concern.

“I spent the evening with my old friend Mr. Cuervo. Had a grand old time. Then someone tried to redesign my body with their grillwork.”

Templeton’s eyes widened.

“Someone tried to kill you?”

“Diligently.”

Harry tossed his butt down, ground it out with his foot, and stepped inside.

“What the hell’s going on, Ben?”

“You’re smoking again, for one thing. Those high-risk lifestyle choices can be dangerous, Harry.”

“Cut the crap. Talk to us.”

“Take it easy, Harry. He’s hurt.”

“Stop coddling him. He’s reeling from a binge. Otherwise, he’s got a few scrapes and bruises.”

Templeton looked me over.

“More than a few.” She wrinkled her nose. “But you do smell something awful, Justice.”

Harry stood over me, hands on hips.

“This kid Romero was placed under arrest last night for murdering Reza JaFari. You knew about it. We never heard squat from you.”

“On
suspicion
of murdering JaFari, Harry.”

When Templeton spoke, some of the sympathy was gone from her voice.

“He’s right, Ben. You didn’t call either of us. The only reason we found out in time to make this morning’s paper—”

“You put Danny’s name in the paper?”

“He’s under arrest.”

“He’s dying.”

“That doesn’t make him less of a suspect,” Harry said. “You should have called us, dammit. Lydia Lowe devoted her entire column to it—beat everybody with the best details. Even though we run the damn column, her contract requires us to credit her for anything she breaks. I got scooped in my own paper by a second-rate New York gossip monger.”

Lydia Lowe. The best details. Lawrence Teal. The notes I’d stashed behind his planter. I’d fucked up again. And this time Danny had paid.

“You don’t know the half of it, Harry.”

His voice rose.

“Suppose you fill me in.”

“Sorry, Harry. I’m not using Danny to fill another news hole for the
Sun
. Call it irresponsible sensitivity, if you must. Flagrant decency. But I’m opting out.”

“You’re a reporter, Justice.”

“Was.”

Harry turned away, fumbling for his pack of smokes. When he turned to face me again, an unlit cigarette dangled from his lips, bouncing like a conductor’s baton while he talked.

“I tried to help you out, Ben. Get you some work. We both did. This is how you pay us back?”

“I’m working on a story for
Angel City
, Harry. A feature story, not news, which may or may not have Danny Romero’s name in it, depending on how Templeton and I decide to write it. That’s the difference between a news story and a magazine article, Harry. It’s not hard, cold facts, cut and dried for quick public consumption. We’ll tell it from our perspective, the way we choose to, the way we see it.”

“I don’t need any Journalism 101 lectures, especially from you, Justice. If anybody has a right to climb up on a soapbox, it’s me.”

I propped myself up on sore elbows and leveled my bloodshot eyes at him.

“I’ve got no obligations to the
Sun
, Harry. Or to you.”

Harry spun on the heels of his old loafers and made for the door.

“Fuck him. Let’s get out of here.”

“Harry, wait!”

Templeton stood, taking a position halfway between the two of us.

“He didn’t mean it. He’s hungover, that’s all.”

I pushed myself up farther on my swollen hands and eased my aching back against the wall. My face was on fire, my head roaring with pain. Templeton slipped a pillow behind me.

“Harry’s right about one thing, Ben. Danny’s part of the story now. You can’t change that.”

“DeWinter called you, didn’t he?”

She nodded.

“You two engaged yet?”

“Let’s not start up again, Justice.”

“How much did he tell you?”

“Not a lot. Just that Danny had been arrested, based on evidence found in his apartment. He was vague on the details. We only got twelve inches out of it.”

“What page?”

“Inside,” Harry said. “Page three.”

“Photograph?”

“We didn’t have a shot of Romero. I wanted to send a photographer to the hospital. Templeton talked me out of it.”

“And they say reporters have no heart.”

Harry plucked the cigarette from his lips, his gray eyes fixed on me from the middle of the room.

“We’re not asking you to write the damn story, Justice. Just give us the leads when they come your way. Templeton can handle it at the news end.”

“Harry’s got a point, Ben. We’re working as a team. I have a right to know what’s going on.”

“Fine.” I closed my eyes, feeling the nausea rise in me like a fast tide. “From now on, I’ll keep you posted on all the sordid little details.”

Harry stepped closer to the bed.

“Let’s start with last night, when some guy tried to flatten you like the roadrunner.”

“I didn’t say it was a guy, Harry.”

“A guy, a broad, whatever. Does it have something to do with this JaFari business or not?”

“I didn’t have time to ask. I was too busy throwing myself off the side of a cliff.”

“Stop pulling my chain, Ben. It’s time to tell us what you know.”

“No, Harry, it’s time to heave again.”

I rolled out of bed and stumbled into the bathroom, just in time to deposit a fresh batch of bile into the toilet bowl. I stayed there for several minutes, on my knees, wretching up a noxious liquid that added a new band to the color spectrum. When there was nothing left, the dry heaves took over, each convulsion wringing my guts a little tighter.

When that was past, I looked up to find Harry standing in the doorway. Vomit dripped from my chin. I wasn’t feeling particularly proud of myself.

“Templeton went for coffee and muffins.”

“God bless Templeton.”

I staggered to the shower, turned it on, stripped off last night’s clothes. My body was scraped and bruised from forehead to feet, sticky with dirt-caked blood. I soaped down, wincing as I washed the rawest spots, then rinsed my rancid mouth and spit enough times to clear away the taste.

Harry was holding a towel for me as I stepped out. Being a nervous heterosexual, he didn’t quite know where to put his eyes. He took the opportunity to go to the sink and inspect my medicine chest.

As I toweled off, the shakes set in. I couldn’t remember how much I’d had to drink the night before, but judging by the violence of my tremors, it was obviously too much by plenty.

Harry came back with cotton balls, a small bottle of antiseptic, and Band-Aids, and began dabbing at my wounds. It was the first time Harry had ever seen me naked, and physically the closest we’d ever been. I found something touching in that, even though I was worried I might throw up on him.

“I guess you and this Romero kid are pretty tight.”

“I’d say that’s accurate.”

“You’ve known him what, two weeks?”

“Not quite.”

“He’s a prime suspect in a murder case, for Christ sake.”

“Maybe that’s part of the attraction.”

“Then you need a good shrink.”

“That goes without saying.”

Harry hesitated a moment, showing a bad case of nervous eyes.

“Plus, from what I hear, he’s got AIDS.”

“Advanced, as a matter of fact.”

I tucked the damp towel around my waist, moved around Harry to the sink, found a toothbrush and toothpaste, and scrubbed out my putrid mouth. My eyes were glassy, my skin pale. The shakes hadn’t stopped. Whoever had tried to kill me last night, I thought, had probably saved my life.

Harry followed, stretching a Band-Aid across a ragged cut on my shoulder.

“Doesn’t sound like the kind of relationship that’s going to help you get your life back on track.”

“You’re offering advice to the lovelorn now, Harry?” I spit into the sink. “Harry Brofsky, who’s been married three times—each blessed union more truncated than the one before?”

“I’ll concede I’m no expert in that department—”

“It’s always nice when we agree on something, isn’t it, Harry?”

I bent to rinse my mouth with a cupped hand. When I raised my head, I saw Harry’s eyes in the mirror looking for mine.

“I can probably get your name somewhere on this story, Ben. A tag credit, something. It could be a fresh start in the news business.”

“I’m no good for it anymore, Harry. The kind of reporting where you feel no connection to the people or events you’re writing about. Even if somebody wanted me for it.”

“I want you for it.”

“I know, Harry. I appreciate it.”

“You’ll work more closely with Templeton? Get this cop involved if things get dangerous again?”

“Yeah, I guess I can do that.”

I grabbed a brush, turned to the mirror, took a few swipes at my disappearing hair. Then I went back out and looked through a basket piled with clean laundry while Harry stood behind me in the doorway.

“So what the hell are you going to do with your life, Ben?”

“I don’t know, Harry.” I threw him a weary smile over my bandaged shoulder. “But thanks for asking.”

I found a clean pair of briefs, unhooked the towel, and dropped it to the floor just as Templeton came through the front door.

“Didn’t see a thing,” she said, and turned quickly into the kitchen.

I wasn’t sure if I should be grateful or insulted. I slipped into the briefs, then jeans and a T-shirt, and joined Harry and Templeton in the kitchen.

We washed down the muffins with coffee standing up at the counter because there was no table and no chairs. I gave them details on the JaFari story, not everything but enough to help, wishing more than ever that I hadn’t left my notebook where Lawrence Teal had surely found it.

“I’d keep close tabs on the death of Leonardo Petrocelli,” I said. “It’s a Bev Hills case, but they’re in touch with DeWinter on it. I’d be shocked if the two deaths aren’t connected.”

“DeWinter didn’t mention that to me,” Templeton said.

“Maybe you should start sleeping with him.”

“Why? Because it works for you?”

Harry glanced at his watch, then at us, looking impatient.

“Let’s not fight, children. Ben, anything else?”

“Not until I get the right answers from the right people.”

“Any names I know?” Templeton said.

“Roberta Brickman, for one—the agent.”

“What makes you think she’ll talk to you again?”

“My irresistible charm.”

“Who else?” Harry said.

“Hosain JaFari.”

“The victim’s father?”

I nodded.

“I’d like to know why a Muslim who prays to Allah five times a day has a six-pack of Grolsch beer cooling in the fridge, with two bottles gone.”

Templeton’s beeper sounded. She put her muffin aside, wiped her fingers on a paper napkin, and checked the number. She called back, listening intently, nodding more than she talked.

Then she hung up, gulped some coffee, and grabbed her handbag all in one fluid motion as she spoke to Harry.

“We’ve got to go.”

“What’s up?”

“Major fire in the Hollywood Hills. The desk is holding two columns and a banner on the front page. They need me at the scene and you downtown.”

She was on her way to the door. Harry followed with a question.

“What part of the Hollywood Hills?”

Her answer seemed intended for both Harry and me, and came with an echo of curiosity, maybe something more.

“Beachwood Canyon.”