Revision of Justice (32 page)

“I realize that now. Christine helped me to realize it. She’s been a godsend.”

“That doesn’t rule her out as a suspect.”

Her voice grew cool, distrustful again.

“I suppose we’re all capable of murder, under the right circumstances. But in my gut? I don’t believe she did it, not for a moment.”

“You’ve thought about it, though.”

“If you have any other questions, Mr. Justice, you’d better ask them.”

“Did you call the Kemmermans, warning them that Reza JaFari was infected with HIV?”

“I’d heard some buzz that Raymond had struck some kind of production deal with Bernard Kemmerman. The lawyers were putting together a deal memo and word leaked out. It didn’t make sense. As far as I knew, Raymond had never written a script. If he had, he would have shown it to me, asked me to sell it for him.”

“You started putting two and two together.”

“Everyone knew that Kemmerman was desperate for a kidney. By then, I knew how far Ray would go to get what he wanted. Yes, I guess you could say I put two and two together.”

“This was after you introduced Farr to Leonardo Petrocelli?”

“A month or so later.”

“Is it possible that Petrocelli was using JaFari as a beard?”

“You mean—?”

“A front—someone to pitch his ideas for him, work as a cover. Someone younger, with lots of energy and a gift for gab. Someone who could gain access to producers who wouldn’t give the time of day to a screenwriter with white hair.”

“In exchange for a piece of the action, if they happened to cut a deal.”

“I imagine that’s how it works.”

Brickman considered it a moment, her eyes wandering.

“It would have been humiliating for someone like Leo. On the other hand, he was rather desperate. The business has been quite hard on him in recent years. I suppose I’ve played my part.”

“Then he and JaFari may have had some kind of private arrangement?”

“It’s certainly a possibility.”

“He may have had access to Petrocelli’s latest work.”

“Again, it’s possible.”

I stood. “I’m sorry I had to be so tough on you, Roberta.”

“It’s a reporter’s job, I guess.” She reached toward the table. “I assume you’ve seen Lydia Lowe’s column.”

“May I?” She handed me the newspaper. I scanned the column from the top.

As if AIDS hasn’t caused enough tragedy on its own, the deadly virus has now played a dramatic supporting role in a sordid murder carried out amid the glitter and glamour of Hollywood.

The murder victim was a handsome, talented young screenwriter named Reza JaFari, the 27-year-old son of poor, hardworking Iranian immigrants, who was known to the Hollywood community by his adopted name, Raymond Farr.

JaFari’s dreams of creating movie magic and giving his beloved parents a better life died with him earlier this month when he was poisoned at a showbiz party high in the Hollywood Hills, literally in the shadow of La-La Land’s famous Hollywood Sign.

Attending the party thrown by legendary screenwriting teacher Gordon Cantwell—now working on a major project with Tom Cruise—were such Hollywood luminaries as director Dylan Winchester, ITA agent Roberta Brickman, and veteran screenwriter Leonardo Petrocelli, a two-time Oscar nominee who himself died in ill health only yesterday.

Initially, the cause of JaFari’s death was attributed to AIDS complications. Since then, the police have uncovered new evidence, and further lab tests have pointed to cyanide poisoning.

Yesterday, the police arrested the victim’s roommate, an unemployed drifter named Daniel Romero, also 27, on charges of murdering JaFari.

What the police are not telling you—and what we are reporting exclusively in this column—is that they discovered cyanide among Romero’s possessions in the low-rent Hollywood apartment the suspect shared with the victim.

Even more shocking: Romero is believed to have carried out the heinous crime in a crazed attempt to eliminate JaFari because his blood was tainted with the HIV virus.

Romero, who is currently hospitalized with AIDS, was arrested eight years ago for the attempted murder of another HIV-infected man, charges later reduced in a plea bargain to simple assault.

According to confidential sources, Romero argued violently with JaFari the night before his death.

Police have offered no motive for Romero’s violent behavior, but sources close to the case have indicated the troubled young man may harbor a deep animosity toward anyone afflicted with HIV, somehow blaming them for his own condition.

Police also refuse to speculate on how many more victims may have fallen at the hands of Romero over the years, crimes that may have gone undetected.

AIDS is already one serial killer visiting untold tragedy on Hollywood and the rest of the world. Let’s hope that Daniel Romero doesn’t prove to be another.

“She’s quite the spin artist, isn’t she?” I looked up from reading the column and thinking about what I was going to do to Lawrence Teal when I got hold of him.

Roberta Brickman was standing halfway between me and the open door, where Christine Kapono waited loyally in the background.

“Is there anything else, Mr. Justice? I have a rather busy schedule.”

“Any chance you could get me a copy of Gordon Cantwell’s manuscript—the one he sold to Paramount Pictures and Tom Cruise?”

“
Nothing to Lose
?”

I nodded.

“May I ask why?”

“It may provide another piece of the puzzle.”

Brickman’s eyes shifted with curiosity. So did Kapono’s.

“You really don’t believe Romero killed Raymond, then?”

“Maybe I just don’t want to.”

“He’s a friend?”

“More than that.” I glanced at Kapono. “So perhaps you understand.”

“I know some people at Paramount,” Brickman said. “I’ll see what I can do.”

Kapono stepped away to let me by, her eyes burning holes in my back as I left the office. When the elevator doors opened, she was standing at the other end of the hall, making sure I used them.

I stepped in to find Jake Novitz inside, also on his way down.

“How’d the meeting go?”

“All things considered,” I said, “pretty well.”

“It’s all a fucking head game, a goddamn crapshoot. Remember what Bill Goldman wrote in
Adventures in the Screen Trade
?”

“I’m afraid I don’t.”

“Sure you do! Most perceptive line about the business to ever come out of a screenwriter’s mouth! ‘Nobody knows anything.’”

Jake Novitz, the wealthiest screenwriter in Hollywood, roared with laughter.

“That’s the secret—none of the bastards knows a fucking thing!”

By late afternoon swirling winds had dispersed the smoke from the Beachwood Canyon fire, and much of it was filtering down over the Norma Triangle.

I could smell it as I pulled up in front of Lawrence Teal’s apartment.

The front door was open and a grandiose opera was blasting from his stereo. I stepped in without bothering to knock. The smoky light outside cast a lovely, decadent pall over the spartan living room and the life-sized portrait of Teal dancing self-worshipfully for the camera.

He was in the bathroom, shaving at the sink. His back was to me, and he watched my reflection in the glass as I came up behind him. His hair was wet and his body damp; a towel was knotted at his narrow waist, hugging his hips and showing off his butt like the short, tight skirt of a shapely woman.

I reached around, pulled the towel free, and let it drop to the floor.

“You looked at my notes.”

He glanced at me in the mirror but kept shaving, saying nothing. As the blade drew clean strokes upward through the white foam, my hands drew downward strokes along his sides and hips.

Then I reached around the front of him and found his big, droopy testicles.

“I’m talking to you, Teal.”

He lifted his chin and began scraping at the hairs on his neck.

“You looked at my notes, then relayed the choicest information to Lydia Lowe.”

He turned his chin to one side, shaving carefully in the area around his Adam’s apple as if I weren’t there. I squeezed his balls hard enough to force a squeal out of him.

“Bastard!”

Blood seeped through the foam on his neck, turning it pink.

I tightened my grip.

“Finish shaving, Teal. The world’s out there waiting breathlessly to see your perfect face.”

He hesitated, trying to gauge the extent of the anger in my eyes.

“I’m finished.”

“No, you’re not.”

I made my fist smaller still. He shut his eyes until the shock of pain had passed. Then he raised his chin again, and lifted the razor reluctantly to his neck.

He was taking his third stroke when I closed my fist as tight as I could. He sounded like a wounded castrato when he cried out. Fresh blood streaked his neck.

He dropped the razor into the sink, and gripped the rim with both hands, hissing for air, fighting the pain.

“Please.”

“All done, are we?”

He nodded rapidly. His eyes in the mirror were fearful, but just as arrogant and angry, which pleased me.

When I let go, he sagged over the sink, breathing erratically.

“We were talking about my notes, Teal.”

“Lydia didn’t write anything that wasn’t true.”

“Just used the facts creatively.”

“I guess you could say that.”

“I did say that.”

“So what’s your point?”

“They were my facts, Teal. Not yours. Not hers.”

He bent to rinse his face. When he reached for a towel, he made sure to keep some distance between us. A degree of confidence returned to his voice, as if he was testing me, even challenging.

“If your notebook was so important, Justice, maybe you should have been more careful with it.”

He moved cautiously around me to the mirror, where he patted his face dry before sticking the nicks with tiny pieces of tissue. I ran my fingertips over his smooth buttocks, then up the golden valley in between, as if his physical gifts had overpowered me yet again.

“At any rate,” Teal said, growing almost cocky the more I touched him that way, “there’s nothing we can do about it now.”

Above the sink, the expensive-looking bottles and jars stood gleaming. Teal opened one, shook some drops into one hand, set the bottle on the sink, rubbed his hands together, and began applying the lotion to his face.

I smacked the bottle with my open hand, sending it flying against the tiled shower wall, where it shattered loudly.

“That was Clinique!”

“I’m an Aqua Velva man myself.”

With one sweep of my arm, I sent the rest of the jars and bottles crashing.

Teal’s eyes flashed foolish defiance.

“Go ahead, Justice. Break everything! It can all be replaced with the check I get from Lydia Lowe.”

I grabbed his biceps, which was small and hard.

“Maybe I’ll break your arm, Teal. Think that’s fair? For what you did to Danny Romero?”

He mustered more defiance, pulling free, thrusting out his chin.

“Who cares? Danny Romero’s a walking corpse.”

My fist caught him flush on the nose. He took two steps backward and plopped down on the toilet seat. A fat drop of blood appeared at each nostril, then broke, starting twin streams.

He sat for a minute holding his hand to his face, then stared into his cupped hand, which was filled with blood.

“You broke my nose!”

He reached for a towel, pressed it to his face.

I took a step forward, causing him to cower.

“When you gave Lydia Lowe that information, you knew she’d crucify Danny.”

“You broke my nose!”

I hated the notion that he could not see anything, anyone beyond the limits of himself. I backhanded him hard across the middle of his face. He began to cry.

“Get up, Teal.”

He huddled against the toilet, trying to hold back his tears. Crimson drops fell into his crotch, where the hair he’d shaved away was beginning to grow back, looking like a two-day beard.

“Leave me alone!”

I grabbed him by the arm and hauled him to his feet.

“I killed a man once, Teal. You didn’t know that, did you?”

“No.”

His voice quavered.

“He hurt someone I loved very much. The way you hurt Danny.”

“I didn’t know Lydia would write the column like she did. I swear I didn’t.”

I pulled him so close I could see the tiny gold flecks in his blue eyes. Snot thickened the red streams pouring from each nostril; he tried to suck it back.

“So what do you think I should do to
you
, Teal?”

A sob escaped him.

“Please—don’t hurt me any more.”

I flattened a hand on his back and slammed him into the wall. He started wailing.

“Shall we get out your toys, Teal? Your handcuffs and whips? Would you like that?”

His voice was small, a child’s.

“No.”

“We don’t need those, do we?”

“No.”

“You bet we don’t.”

He was wailing again as I dragged him into the bedroom. I flung him against the white walls, causing him to groan each time he hit, leaving a bloody swipe where his face had landed.

The opera was swelling, filling the house. A booming baritone and kettledrums behind it. I kept grabbing and slamming Teal until there was a swath of blood connecting every wall in the room.

Then I pulled him through the apartment, out the front door, and threw him in a weeping pile down the steps.

He scrambled to his feet and dashed into the street, where he stood naked, waving his arms, crying out for help. His scrotum and penis were tiny now, shriveled from fear and adrenaline, like those of a little boy.

The last of my pleasurable rage dissipated, replaced with a sense of shame that felt heavier and more deeply a part of me.

I’m still my father’s son. I’ll always be my father’s son. I have to hurt people to feel strong.

Police sirens grew loud, coming up the hill. I turned back into Teal’s apartment to find my notebook while I still had time.