The Orchid Eater (15 page)

Mike backed
up and sat on Scott’s bed, numb, dizzy and cold. He closed his eyes and let the
grayness close over him. It felt like a familiar friend.

When he came
back to himself, Scott was shoving magazines in his face. Slick ones, with an
odd musty smell. The pictures flashing from the pages made Mike come suddenly
awake.

“Here,”
Scott said. “I’m bequeathing these to you.”

It was
hardcore pornography, some Danish magazines Scott had been hoarding.

“Wh-what?”

“Go on. I
can always swipe more from Walter. It’s a crime you don’t have any decent
stroke-books.”

Mike
blushed, staggering to his feet and pushing them away. “Get out of here.”

“Go on, take
’em.”

“No, I don’t
want—”

“Sure you
do.” Scott shoved them into his hands.

At that
moment, someone pounded on the door. Walter shouted, “Scott!”

Heart
pounding, Mike jumped up to hide the magazines in his backpack.

“What do you
want?” Scott said sourly, a challenge in his voice.

“Open this
fuckin’ door before I kick it down.”

“Go ahead,”
Scott said under his breath, but he crossed the room slowly all the same. He
unlatched the door, leaving Walter the work of opening it.

Walter was
even taller than Scott, so he didn’t bother entering the room. Bent, he peered
in at them, grinning when he saw Mike.

“James the
man. Helping out the Scooter-Pie?”

“A little,”
Mike said. Walter was scariest in his jolly moods.

“Far out.
Work up an appetite and stay for dinner. Think we’re gonna barbecue tonight. Have
us a bon voyage party.”

“That sounds
good,” Mike ventured.

“You bet it
is. Ever eat goat before?”

Mike glanced
out the window. The goat still swung from the lemon tree. Flies were circling.

“I—I don’t
know if I can stay,” he said. “My mom, ah . . .”

“Suit
yourself,” Walter said and walked off chuckling. “Scott, I’m gonna need a hand
butchering this baby, so when you two are through . . . 
”

“I’m going
to do him like that goat,” Scott whispered, kicking the door shut again.
“There’s lots of places to hide a body in Texas.”

It struck
Mike then with terrible finality that Scott was really leaving, and nothing the
two of them did, no harebrained plot they hatched, was going to change a thing.
As long as Scott was a minor, Walter controlled his fate. Scott, his best
friend, whom he’d assumed he would know for the rest of his life—or at least
throughout high school—was leaving. He was practically gone.

“I’ll kill
him if it’s the last thing I do,” Scott swore.

Three days
later, he
was
gone.

13

The windows
of Raymond’s Porsche were tinted so dark that Lupe could almost convince
himself it was evening rather than noon, but the illusion was spoiled by
exhausted tourists shambling past in swimtrunks and sandals, looking beaten by
the sun. Their children slouched by, dragging plastic sand shovels. The
spear-point eucalyptus leaves along the avenue dangled straight down without
stirring. He kept the air conditioner turned all the way up.

Finally the
door of Bohemia Travel, Raymond’s agency, flew open. Raymond came grinning
toward the car, tipping up his sunshades to peer in at Lupe. He carried piles
of bright brochures.

Lupe leaned
over to unlock the driver’s door.

“Aloha!”
Raymond said, slipping in.

He dropped
the brochures in Lupe’s lap, letting his hand rest on Lupe’s thigh a moment
before drawing it slowly away.

“Do you know
how long it’s been since I’ve had a week’s vacation—let alone a month? You’d
think a travel agent would get away more often. But the place doesn’t run
itself. I hope I can forget about it long enough to relax.”

Lupe leafed
through the pamphlets, repelled by photographs of leafy green tropical forests,
exploding volcanoes, snowy mountain peaks, sunny beaches. He’d had all he could
stand of beaches and sunshine. Bohemia Bay was bad enough. If he’d thought they
might actually make it to Hawaii, he would have been itchy with dread.

“The condo
reservations are all squared away, everything’s set. Are you as excited as I
am?” After a moment, Raymond looked over and caught Lupe gazing at the sidewalk
where a tall tan boy was striding past, swim fins hooked on a finger. “Rico?”

Lupe nodded
slightly.

“Rico . . .
what’s wrong
now?
”

Lupe
shrugged. He was thinking of all he had yet to accomplish before their “trip”
could begin. He had convinced Raymond to take a whole day packing and setting
last-minute things in order so they wouldn’t have to rush for the plane. The
flight didn’t leave until tomorrow evening; he had until then to finalize his
plans.

“If you’re
getting in one of your moods again, let me warn you:
Don’t.
I won’t put up with them
today—they’re inappropriate. We should be celebrating! When I see you like
this, I start to doubt everything. I mean, if you’re going to sulk for the
whole trip, I’d just as soon stay home and work. At least there I feel useful.”

“I’m not
sulking,” Lupe said. “I’m thinking about how much fun we’re going to have.”

“I hate it
when you lie to me. And you’re so blatant about it!”

“Don’t tell
me you know what I’m thinking, Ray. You’re not a mind reader.”

Raymond
twisted the key; the car roared to life then settled down to a purr. “We need
gas.” They backed out of the space. A station wagon idled behind them, waiting
for the spot. “I mean, if you would only communicate a little more—make an
effort to tell me what you’re thinking, instead of playing these moody guessing
games. You can’t blame me for expecting the worst. Sometimes all I do is open
my mouth and you’re out the door, running off into the hills. What you do out
there for hours at a time, I can’t imagine. How do you think that makes me
feel?”

“I told you,
I need time to myself. I need my own space.”

“I leave you
alone all day! There’s nothing you have to do, you’ve got a room of your own,
and I never bother you even when I
am
home! I mean Christ, Rico, I give you everything you could need
or want. I’d give you so much
more
if you would only trust me. . . .”

He must have
sensed Lupe’s tension winding tighter now. They had been down this path before.
If they’d been at home, Lupe would be heading for the door now; as it was, his
hand kept straying to the handle.

“Not that I
mean to pressure you,” Raymond added quickly. “I have too much respect for you
to . . . to impose on you. But I can’t help feeling,
sometimes, just the slightest bit, that you’re—you’re using me. I mean, if you
only showed a little appreciation once in a while. But instead, with you, it’s
just nothing. Nothing!”

The Porsche
had pulled into a gas station. Raymond shut off the engine at the pumps. His
words were becoming too much to stand: the whining in his voice, his subtle
hints of how everything could be better between them if only Lupe would give
himself away. For a moment he felt that it wasn’t worth it, that this whole
routine was nothing but trouble. He could do without Raymond’s house if he had
to. He had no intention of initiating the man, bringing him into the gang. His
death would therefore be needless, wasteful, and Lupe hated waste. He should
get out now, before the luxuries of life with Ray made him totally soft and
indecisive.

Go on, he
told himself. Do it alone, the hard way, like you always have before. It’s
cleaner. Less mess.

He put his
hand on the door and opened it.

“Where are
you going?”

“This isn’t
working out.”

Raymond’s
face went white. “No, Rico, wait, I’m sorry. I’m sorry!” He stretched across
the car, grabbing at Lupe’s arm. “Please don’t go. I didn’t mean anything, I
didn’t mean it. Just sit down, please. Stay!”

Half out of
the car, Lupe hesitated. It was hard to give up everything he’d been
constructing for these past few weeks. The security of a house with fully
stocked cupboards, conveniently located in the hills. And a stretch of at least
one month ahead of him, free and clear, during which he would have the whole
place to himself, and no one would come nosing around since everyone knew that
Raymond was away . . .

He could
give it all up; it was only a plan. Still, he was proud of the situation
because, after all, it was his creation. He had invented Rico for Raymond to
fall in love with. Rico had coaxed Raymond into planning a month-long Hawaiian
retreat for the two of them, hinting that in Hawaii Rico might finally let go
of his inhibiting fear and mistrust—might finally give himself to a man who had
done so much for him, and received so little in return.

Raymond was
desperate to receive his reward. He was utterly in Rico’s power.

Yes, it was
hard to let go of that. Very hard.

Yet . . .
wasn’t it better alone, living by his own resources, close to the edge of
things?

Lupe
wondered if he was going to have to pry Raymond’s fingers from his arm. The
long nails were digging into his flesh.

Hoping for
an omen, some sign of his own mind, he looked up and saw where he was.

It was the
same gas station he had visited his first morning in town. There was the phone
booth where the Pump Jockey had seen him ripping out a page. And here came
another station attendant, dressed just like the Pump Jockey, in the same blue
uniform and cap. For an instant he thought it
was
the Pump Jockey, appearing
without warning in the full light of day.

The realization
that it was an older man, a living man, did little to calm his racing heart.
The thought of the Pump Jockey had already shaken his determination. Things
were never completely in control, no matter what he thought. It could all get
out of hand if he wasn’t careful.

That was why
he should hold on to Raymond’s house and stick to his plans for the month
ahead. Nature guaranteed nothing, apart from what he could scavenge for
himself. His whole life was proof of that. He needed something to fall back on.

The man came
right up to him, stared him in the face. For a cold moment, Lupe thought they
recognized each other, though he could not say how. It was a fleeting
impression, maddening.

“What can I
get you?”

He turned
away, stammering, and slid back into the car, pressing himself deep into the
leather seat. He pulled the door shut. Raymond looked grateful, as if Lupe had
just given him a gift. The attendant went around to the other side, where Raymond
was holding a bill out the window. As the man leaned over to ask Raymond what
he needed, his eyes reached into the dark interior, glancing again at Lupe.
Yes, there was recognition there. Something to be feared. Something
unpredictable.

Lupe sank
deeper into the seat, knowing he should never have let Raymond talk him out of
leaving the house. He shouldn’t be seen in public at all for a while.

It was weak
of him, he realized, to hold on so desperately to Raymond’s things. He was
becoming as weak as Raymond; such was the older man’s influence.

Well, it
wouldn’t matter after tomorrow. Raymond’s house, without him in it, was no
threat. Lupe would rule there, restored to himself, alone except for his boys.

And even if
the man in the blue uniform had recognized him, what could he possibly do?

***

Hawk and
Alec sat in the cramped space of the trailer, in stifling afternoon heat that
drew the smell of gasoline out of Alec’s stained blue uniform. The sixth can of
a sixpack stood on the Formica table between them. It sat unopened, and Hawk
kept staring at it, waiting for Alec to make his move. Alec had drained the
other five himself. Somehow Hawk’s restraint seemed to trouble him, since he
couldn’t convince Hawk to drink. Hawk was not even tempted. Alec’s cigarette,
though . . . He had quit a year ago, but they were always a temptation.
Especially when the trailer was chokingly full of the smoke, and there seemed
nothing left to say. It would have been easy to occupy his mouth with a
cigarette, reverting to idle chatter. But he had asked Alec to stop spouting
and wait, asked him to hold it and keep the picture fresh in his mind while
they waited for their guest. They had been waiting for almost an hour. It was
nearly dusk, but sometimes the trailer stayed hot until late at night. The sea
breezes didn’t seem to cool this year.

At last Hawk
heard a car pulling into the lot. It could have been anyone—people were
dropping in on him all the time—but he got up and swung open the door, and it
was Randy all right. He got out of his pickup truck and stood looking at the
trailer. He wore a Stetson, blue jeans, polished Western boots, and a red
bandanna around his neck.

When he saw
Hawk, Randy came loping forward, his hand out. “Hawk,” he said. His smile was a
bit suspicious, but he had no real reason to doubt Hawk. Nothing had ever gone
bad between them; Randy had simply moved on.

Hawk shook
his hand and led him into the trailer. When Randy saw Alec, he hesitated on the
threshold.

“Saved this
one for you,” Alec said generously, lifting the final can.

“Uh, no—no
thanks.” Randy stepped inside and pulled the door shut. His Stetson bumped the
ceding. He took it off, casting Hawk a quizzical glance.

“Have a
seat, Randy,” Hawk said. “How’ve you been?”

Randy looked
at the choice of seats. Apart from the unoccupied bench opposite Alec, there were
two unmade beds at opposite ends of the trailer; one was Hawk’s, the other
Stoner’s “temporary” heap on the couch. Randy leaned against the wall instead.

“Good
enough,” he said.

Hawk nodded.
“Listen, I called you—well, I had a feeling I should talk to you instead of
Sal.”

“What about
Sal?” Randy said, moving off the wall, taking a subtly defensive stance.

“It’s just—I
think I have better rapport with you. I don’t know how Sal would take this.”

“Take what?”
Randy looked at Alec, who flicked a look at Hawk. Hawk nodded for him speak.

“I saw a guy
at the station today,” Alec said. His voice was slurred and phlegmy. “A kid,
really—sort of Mexican looking, real young but built. Pretty memorable, now
that I think of it. But somehow I never remembered him till then.”

Randy looked
curious. “Remembered him from when?”

Alec popped
the beer for himself, and took a swallow. “The day before Craig Frost, you know . . . 
”

Randy apparently
saw where this was leading. He moved closer to the table.

“See, I sort
of remember Craig and this Mex kid—or somebody who looked damn like him—I
remember them getting into a thing that morning.”