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Authors: P. A. Brown

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BOOK: L. A. Heat
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Several seconds of silence floated down the phone
line. David was sure the man was going to hang up, then he sighed again.

“Fine, come by my office at two. I’ll keep my
calendar clear for the rest of the day.”

*****

Richard Blake was a heavy-set,
dark-haired man of at least thirty-five who wore his custom-made suits with ill
grace. He looked more like a beefy truck driver than an entertainment lawyer
with a wealthy, if uncultured, clientele.

He came around the melamine desk and held out his
hand. David took it. Blake’s handshake was firm. He waved David to a chair.

David flipped open his notepad. “First of all,
would you have a recent photograph of Jay?”

“Sure, I can probably dig one up.” Blake grimaced
and pressed his fingers together. “Sorry. I just keep thinking of Jay...Jesus!
Who could do something like that to another human being? I guess you see this
sort of thing all the time. You must be used to it.”

“No, sir,” David said. “You never get used to it.
Never want to.”

“Poor Jay. He wasn’t the brightest bulb, but he
really was a sweet kid. Guys used to tell him he was cute and sexy.” He shook
his dark head. “He always thought he was going to meet some swank angel who
would take him in and rescue him. I told him the kind of guys he met out there
weren’t interested in saving anyone. He’d always say sure, he knew that, but
then another opportunistic troll would whisper a few sweet words in his ear and
he’d be off again.”

“You know the names of any of these men?”

“No. Never wanted to.” Blake leaned forward, his
elbows on the gleaming desktop. “You have to understand, I never approved of
Jay’s lifestyle, but he was my brother. I wasn’t going to abandon him, too.”

Blake’s fingers worried the silver pen, as though
they would snap it in two.

“My—our parents could never reconcile themselves
to what Jay was. They were old-fashioned. I think they blamed themselves for
his ‘condition,’ like those old notions that homosexuality was caused by a weak
father and a domineering mother, which if you ever met my family is a laugh.
Mom couldn’t dominate a strand of spaghetti and there was never anything weak
about my father. He worked in the merchant marines during the war, then stayed
on the ships until we were born, when he took a job down at the docks. Jay
never could do anything to please the old man. You have children, detective?”

“No, I don’t.”

“I have two. Boys. And let me tell you, detective,
I can’t say either one of them is what I would have expected in any child of
mine. But that doesn’t stop me from loving them with everything I’ve got.”

“Did they know your brother?”

“Sure, Jay loved those kids. I guess he knew he’d
never have any of his own.”

“Jay have problems with people?”

“He was a gay teenager,” Blake said dryly. “What
do you think?”

“He have trouble with anyone in particular? Get
into fights, that sort of thing?”

“I wouldn’t say he got into fights. He got beat up
a lot in high school—all those civilized savages who thought it was cool to
bash a kid because he was different.”

“Anyone ever get into trouble for that?”

“You wondering if some homophobic asshole got
revenge on Jay for getting him in trouble?”

“It happens.”

“I’m sure it does. Just not to Jay. He never would
point fingers. He’d just shrug and say he knew what he was, and he knew what
they were and anyone who thought he was the loser missed the point all together.”

“You gave me the names of a couple of friends last
time. Can you think of anyone else I might speak with?”

“You really think you have a hope in hell of
finding this guy?”

“I intend to try, sir.”

*****

Leroy Gillie was a slight,
taciturn youth wearing a clown-motif T-shirt and baggy jeans that rode so low
they exposed several inches of red and black boxers. According to Richard
Blake, he had been Jay’s closest straight friend.

Leroy barely glanced at David. He fed coins into a
Coke machine, popped the tab on his drink, and slid sideways into a molded
plastic chair.

“You the cop?” Leroy took a deep drink of Coke,
his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down with each chug. He wiped his mouth with
the back of his hand. “Richie said you’re on Jay’s case.”

“How well did you know Jay?” David asked.

“We were best buds in school. At least until he
started letting on that he was, you know, gay.” Leroy made a face and glanced
away. “After that, we didn’t really hang out much.”

“Why is that?”

“He was gay. If we were buds, everyone’d think I’m
gay.”

“And you’re not. Gay, that is?”

“Shit no.” Leroy looked around frantically as
though someone might overhear the question. “I’m not a fag.”

“Did it surprise you that Jay was?”

“I knew this guy for years, man. We were in first
grade together. How could he be a faggot?”

“That bother you?”

Leroy chugged the rest of his Coke, crushing the
can with one fist, and tossed it into a nearby garbage can. “Yeah, I hated not
being buds anymore. But what could I do? Assholes were already calling me names
cause they knew we was friends.”

David scribbled. “These assholes got names? Any of
them ever give Jay a hard time?”

“They’re assholes. What do you think?”

“It ever go beyond name-calling? Any of them ever
get physical?”

Leroy shrugged, his skinny shoulders rolling
loosely. “Jay’d show up with a black eye or a split lip. But he’d never say who
done it. He’d always say he might be a faggot but he weren’t no pussy,” Leroy
said “He took a lot of shit.”

“Think any of them might have got more serious?
Maybe someone who thought Jay was hitting on him.”

“You think one of them pussies kacked Jay? Not a
chance.”

“Ever see Jay with anyone?”

“Like a boyfriend?”

“Like that.”

Leroy fidgeted in his chair, plucking at the short
strands of hair on the side of his head. His face twisted into a grimace. “Me
and Jay went into Hollywood once,” he said. “We was going to a new Vin Diesel
flick. Coupla guys stopped him on the street. Real friendly like. One of them
wanted Jay to go with him. But me and Jay wanted to see this movie, so he said
no. One guy, he weren’t very happy ’bout it.”

“What did they look like? Do you remember?”

Again Leroy’s face screwed up. “One was a black
guy, but it was the other one that got nasty when Jay said no.”

“Was he black too?”

“Him? Nah, he was blond, looked like a West
Hollywood pansy. All dressed up fancy, expensive shit. Jay told me later his
jeans cost eight hundred bucks. Who the hell spends eight hundred bucks on a
pair of fuckin’ jeans?”

“Was he driving or did you see them on the
street?”

“They was walking, like us.”

“When did this happen, Leroy? How long ago?”

“Last summer, I think. It was after we graduated.
I think maybe my girl was back in school—she’s in grade eleven this year, only repeated
one grade. Like Jay ’n’ me.”

“So she was back in school.” David steered him
back to the topic at hand. “So it had to be after September, that right?”

“September? Sure. Musta been. Before Halloween,
though. That was the last time Jay ’n’ me did anything together.” Leroy
fidgeted and grimaced. “He wanted us to go to West Hollywood for the Halloween
parade, but why would I wanna see a bunch of flaming queens goin’ down the
street dressed as girls? Buncha sickos. I told him I ain’t doin’ that.”

“Did Jay go anyway?”

“He stayed here, but I could tell he wasn’t happy.
After that we stopped hangin’ out so much.”

“This guy you saw in Hollywood. Would you
recognize him again?”

“I dunno. It’s been awhile. You think he might’ve
had something to do with Jay?” Leroy straightened. “Think he’s the one did Jay?
No way, man, he was too fuckin’ soft. A real queer boy.”

“At this point I’m just trying to find anyone who
might have known Jay. That’s all. What about specific bars Jay hung out in. He
ever give you any names?”

David watched as the younger man dug into his
memory. His eyes squinted as he stared over David’s left shoulder.

“There was one place...Nosh something. Dumb name.
Pit, the Nosh Pit, that was it.” Leroy plucked at the loose folds of his jeans.
“You really think you gonna find out who killed Jay? You do, I want five
minutes with him.”

“Thank you, Mr. Gillie. I appreciate you giving me
this time.”

He seemed reluctant to let David go.

“Think you’ll find him?”

David tucked his notebook back into his pocket. “We’ll
find him.”

“What’s gonna happen to him when you do?”

“He’ll get due process.”

“Sure,” Leroy said. “You gotta say that, don’t
you? After what he done, he don’t deserve—what’d you call it?—due process.”

David handed over one of his cards, and watched as
Leroy labored over the printed words. His lips moved over David’s full name and
rank.

“If you think of anything else,” David said,
“you’ll let me know?”

“Sure.”

“If I come by with some pictures, would you look
them over and see if there’s anyone you recognize?”

“Like a lineup? Could you get me into a real
lineup? You tell me who to finger and I’ll make sure the asshole don’t walk.”

“It doesn’t quite work that way,” David said
gently.

“I won’t tell.” Leroy stared down at the painted
cement floor. He sighed. “You’re not gonna get him, are you?”

The kid seemed so downhearted, David had to
reassure him. “Sure we will. We’ve already got some leads—”

“No!” Leroy sprang to his feet. David tensed.
“Even if you do, my dad says the bleeding-heart liberals will make everyone
feel sorry for the ass-wipe and let him off. He ought to die for what he done
to Jay, but you watch, they won’t do nothing to him. You watch.” Leroy sniffed
and wiped his face with the sleeve of his T-shirt. “They’ll let him off. Like
they always do.”

Return to Contents

 

CHAPTER
10

Monday,
6:35 pm, The Nosh Pit, Hyperion Avenue,

Silver
Lake, Los Angeles

THE NOSH PIT was jammed. The air
was thick with testosterone, poppers, and a dozen conflicting colognes. The bar
was packed two deep, the mood still jovial, without the taint of desperation
that crept in as last call approached. Ramsey was wiping down the spotless
mahogany and leather bar with a rag. He waved at Chris and pointed off to his
right.

Des had grabbed a table along the far wall and
successfully defended a second seat, which Chris now slid into. Under a giant
poster of a manic-looking Bette Davis, clichéd darling of the drag-queen set,
tormenting Joan Crawford in
Whatever Happened to Baby Jane?
, he leaned
down over and kissed Des. He eyed Des’s
Mojito
sitting in a damp circle
on the red and white chintz tablecloth.

“Been here long?” he shouted.

Des offered his familiar lopsided grin, the one
that set off his white teeth perfectly against mocha-colored skin.

“Not that long,” he shouted back. He waved
languidly at Ramsey, who held up two fingers and barely waited for Des’s nod
before he grabbed bottles off the top shelf and began mixing Chris’s Cîroc
martini and another
Mojito
. Des bounced to his feet. “I’ll get those.”

“Thanks,” Chris said when Des returned and handed
him his drink. He leaned closer so he wouldn’t have to talk so loud. “Where do
you want to—oh, shit, what’s he doing here?”

Kyle, the boyish, twenty-one-year-old dancer Des
was hooked on like bad smack, appeared at the end of the bar.

“He asked to come.” Des sucked on his drink,
avoiding Chris’s eyes. “His audition went sour. He didn’t want to be alone
tonight. You know his parents threw him out when he came out. He didn’t have
family like yours that left him expensive homes when they passed on.”

“Well aren’t you a fucking ray of sunshine. You
know I never asked my grandmother for anything.”

“But you got it anyway,” Des said. “Just like my
folks didn’t disinherit me. You ever think how it might have turned out if they
had?”

“I got to school under my own steam. You could
have, too.”

“And done what? I took philosophy and English lit,
for Christ’s sake.”

“Then you’d have taken a different major if push
came to shove.”

Des shook his head. “I’m not smart like you. The
only thing I’m good at is retail. That would have meant minimum-wage rag jockey
down on Melrose. At least Kyle has talent. I want to see him make something of
himself.”

Like that was ever going to happen. Hollywood was
full of talented wannabes and never-weres. “There are better guys out there.
Guys who can appreciate you—who don’t think you owe them.”

“And I guess you’d know that better than anyone,
wouldn’t you, Miss Queen of the One-Night Stands.”

“Hey, not fair. They’re not all one-night stands.”

“Oh?” Des said. “When was the last time you went
to bed with the same guy two nights in a row?”

Chris stared into his martini, groping through his
memory for a rebuttal. “It happens.”

“You don’t remember, do you?” Des made a point of
looking around them.

“If you really know where all the decent men are,
why are we here?”

“Just because you like being alone,” Des said,
“you think everyone does.”

Movement by the front door caught Chris’s eye. As
though on cue, Bobby the actor made his entrance. A peacock couldn’t have
strutted any prouder before a yard full of squawking hens.

“Is that one of those better guys?” Des jerked his
chin toward Bobby. “Because I know what that one is, even if you don’t. You are
such a hypocrite, Bellamere.”

Chris looked away from Bobby. He was startled by
Des’s anger and was tempted to deny knowing the guy. But one look at Des’s face
told him the lie would not fly.

BOOK: L. A. Heat
9.87Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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