The Orchid Eater (17 page)

“Tyler!” he said.

“Hey, Sal.” Tyler glided over. “How are you?”

“Great. Can
I talk to you a minute?”

“Sure, you
want a menu?”

“No, I have
a sort of personal question.”

“Oh,
really?” Tyler’s eyebrows lifted humorously. “And I thought I was too old for
you.”

Sal laughed,
and tilted his head so that Tyler would lean in closer. The man next to them
got up, leaving them alone at the end of the bar. With the sound of disco music
thudding out of the restaurant, he doubted anyone would overhear them.

“I know this
is asking a lot, but do you remember a night a few weeks ago—”

“Oh, Jesus.”

“No, really,
you might remember. You were waiting that night; you were in and out from the
patio.”

“I know
exactly the night you’re talking about.”

“Please.
This is important.”

“Sorry.” Tyler bent closer, as if he had finally picked up on Sal’s intent.

“There was a
guy out here at a table. Latino. Looks a lot like me, in fact, but much
younger. Baby-faced sort of kid. And there was someone with him, an older man—a
regular, I think, because I used to see him all the time sitting right where I
am now.”

Tyler
was already nodding. “Sure, I remember. I was going to card the
kid, except he only wanted a salad.”

“Yeah, he’s
a vegetarian.”

“Well, sure,
I remember him. But if it’s a phone number you want, you’re out of luck.”

“It’s not
him I’m after.”

“No? He
seemed like just your type.”

Sal let this
slide. “The older guy, who would that have been?”

“Jealous,
Sal?”

“Please . .
.”

“Well,
there’s one regular inhabitant of this stool I haven’t seen around here lately.
I think he’s finally got something going, a steady relationship, so there’s no
reason to sit here and troll every night. I’m glad for him, really. He was such
a sad case. Nice man, but you know, not exactly Ganymede.”

“Do you know
his name? Where I might find him?”

“Sure, it’s
Raymond Mankiewitz. He owns a travel agency downtown. Bohemia Travel, I think.
You should ask Miller—you know, the owner? Ray set up a whole Hawaiian package
deal for him last year—condo, car, everything.”

“This is
great.” Sal scribbled on a cocktail napkin, then pulled a roll of bills from
his pocket. Tyler stopped his hand. “Please, don’t insult me.”

“I’m just
paying for my drink.”

“Oh. Well,
next time I actually
serve
you, you can leave an extra big tip.”

“I’ll do
that. Thanks again.” He left a bill on the table and got up.

“Got to get
back to work. That heat lamp will only keep a hamburger hot for so long.”

“Oh, one
more thing. Do you know what kind of car this guy drives? This Mankiewitz?”

“Do I ever.
He usually parks it right out there in the alley when he comes around. It’s
only my
dream
car. A beautiful creamy white Porsche.”

Tyler
waved a goodnight and dived back into the restaurant.

Sal started
toward the exit, then realized what time it was. He would do no more detecting
tonight. He went back and sat down at the bar, just where Raymond Mankiewitz
had always sat. When the bartender looked his way, he ordered a margarita.

He was no
less alone than Raymond tonight, he supposed; most of his friends were too
young to drink.

14

A strong
smoky smell saturated the neighborhood. One of Raymond’s neighbors was firing
up a barbecue. Lupe fought the urge to gag, since there was nothing he could do
about it. Fortunately, the warm wind coming up from the canyon kept the smells
from overwhelming him; and indoors, in the guest bedroom, it wasn’t too bad.
These suburbanites were constantly burning meat. Why couldn’t they just eat it
raw?

Lupe owned
almost nothing he would have needed in Hawaii, aside from clothes Raymond had
bought for him. His knapsack, containing all his true possessions, was stashed
in a small niche down in the canyons, where there was no chance of Raymond
going through it. Still, to keep up with pretenses, he had been slowly stuffing
a small duffel bag, while wondering how and when he would finally make his
move. He had tried to work himself up to it the night before, but had found it
impossible to concentrate. Raymond had had music going, lights on, was running
around singing and dancing until late; when he had finally passed into a
drunken sleep, it should have been very easy to finish him, but something held
Lupe back. His own mild intoxication, perhaps. He wanted his mind to be crystal
clear for the killing.

As it turned
out, he was glad he’d held off. Since waking, Raymond had kept remembering all
sorts of things that needed doing, people who had to be called and reminded
that he would be away, business that must be tied up so that nothing could go
wrong in his absence. Lupe would not have been able to take care of all this
alone; so now he was determined to wait until the last possible minute. When
the car was packed and Raymond was making a last survey of the house to check
on the locks and the lights, that would be the best time. He would be excited
and hurried; he wouldn’t notice what was coming.

Lupe did not
imagine anyone would start to worry about Raymond for at least five weeks. The
mail and newspaper deliveries had been stopped. Utilities were paid in
advance. Raymond’s affection for the suburbs apparently went unrequited, since
his neighbors in the cul-de-sac had shown only squeamish hostility in the few
interactions Lupe had witnessed. He supposed they would be the last ones to
question Raymond’s absence. As for himself, Lupe planned to sleep during the
days. It was a more comfortable schedule for him; he had suffered the daylight
for Raymond’s sake, in order to promote his plan. Consequently, he had seen his
boys rarely in the past weeks—no more than a few fleeting glimpses while he
roamed the hills late at night.

Well, soon
the house would be full of them.

At the
thought, Lupe felt a quickening in his entire being—the promise of some great
fulfillment or metamorphosis. It was like electricity in his soul; he could
almost hear the humming. He closed his eyes, trying to prolong the sense of a
door about to open. Just then, Raymond came into the room behind him. He felt a
soft touch on his back. “Are you excited, Rico?”

Lupe forced
himself to respond, though his nerves were screaming for solitude. “Yes.”

“It’s going
to be wonderful to have time alone together, away from all this craziness.”

“Uh-huh.”

“I thought .
. . I’m all packed myself. I’m fixing lunch, and afterwards I thought maybe we
could take a little nap.”

“I’m not
really tired.”

Raymond sighed,
looking down at Lupe’s bag. He clutched Lupe’s hand briefly, letting go when
the pressure was not returned. He walked back into the hall. “Lunch’ll be
ready soon.”

Should he
use the switchblade? He hadn’t thought about that. Sal had given him the knife
when he was getting out of the hospital. He had only used it for initiations,
and Raymond was no one he wanted for his gang. Too old and . . . wrong. Worn
out. He didn’t have what Lupe wanted in a follower. The wrong sort of adulation
filled his eyes, the kind that made Lupe uncomfortable no matter how long he
endured it.

He zipped up
the duffel bag. A kitchen knife would do just as well. The kitchen was probably
the best room for it anyway. Linoleum tiles were easily mopped.

Out on the
deck, Raymond was whistling. Lupe had started to whistle a few notes of his
own, to no particular tune, when he heard a sizzling sound. Meat on a hot
grill. It was too near to be a neighbor. He checked a scream, swallowed his
bile, already heading for the living room.

He had
warned Raymond
—warned him
—

Out on the
deck, Raymond stood over a low hibachi grill, adjusting a seared steak with a
long fork. Fat spat in the fire, hissing and burning, joined by the thick, rank
smell of charred meat.

Lupe’s head
caved in, cutting off light and oxygen. He gasped out a suffocated shriek and
rushed at the deck, seeing it as though through tinted glass.

Raymond saw
him coming and leapt back with the fork dangling from his fingers by a leather
cord. “Rico!”

As he
stepped onto the deck the wind shifted, wrapping him in coils of sickening
smoke, stuffing it down his throat, stinging his nose and eyes, bathing him in
the stench of burning. Smothering him.

He lashed
out at the source, kicking the hibachi across the deck. Hot coals went tumbling;
the grill plates rattled away.

Lupe
snatched the fork from Raymond’s fingers, grabbed him by the back of his neck,
and forced him down on his hands and knees.

Raymond
begged desperately, as if he had no idea what he’d done wrong. But he should
have—must have—known. How many times had Lupe told him he couldn’t stand meat,
cooking meat, burning meat? How many times had he forbidden him to cook it, on
threat of Lupe’s instant departure?

“Please,
Rico, please . . .”

He had
pressed Raymond’s cheek to within an inch of a heap of coals.

“I told
you,” Lupe raged. “I told you!”

“It was only
for me, a little steak, I thought out in the air—”

“Shut up!”

He couldn’t
let go of Raymond’s neck, or even ease off a fraction of an inch. The steak had
stopped cooking but the smell was still overpowering. His fingers were locked
in Raymond’s flesh. He brought the fork with its three-inch tines right up to
Raymond’s gaping eye. Raymond struggled away from the fork. Lupe forced them
steadily closer together.

“My god . .
. my god . . .” Raymond blubbered. Weak. Pitiful. When the boys begged like
this, it spurred him on; but Raymond’s debasement gave him no pleasure. He only
wanted to end it quickly. He rolled the fork in his hand, wondering at the best
way.

Then the
stink began again, far worse than before, because far more familiar.

Raymond’s
hair was fuming in the coals. Lupe loosened his grip, setting Raymond free. As
Raymond groped for balance, his hand went down among the embers, his full
weight pressing on the hot grill. Raymond screamed and flesh sizzled and hair
continued to burn.

It was all
too much. Lupe threw himself at the railings, spewing vomit. Behind him, even
before his retching subsided, he heard the sliding glass door bang shut.

He turned,
wiping his mouth, to see Raymond latching it, locking him out.

“What are
you doing?” he asked miserably.

Raymond
backed into the living room, holding his burned hand to his belly. One side of
his face was blistered, hair singed from the temple.

Lupe threw
himself at the glass.

“Stop it!”
Raymond shrieked.

Lupe forced
himself to smile. Relax, he told himself. Calm down.

“Raymond . .
. please. I told you I couldn’t stand you doing that. I warned you more than
once. Didn’t I?”

“That’s no
excuse,” Raymond gasped hoarsely. “My God, look what you did!” He raised his
scarred hand in recrimination. “What were you going to do to me?”

“It’s not my
fault. You have to believe me—it’s uncontrollable. Just . . . please just let
me in, and I’ll explain.”

“You would
have killed me!”

No duh,
Lupe thought, fighting down a grin. He was hysterical. The stink
clung to his nostrils. How could he think through it?

“No,” he
said. “No, I—I wouldn’t hurt you, Raymond. I—God, this is hard for me to say.
It’s so hard to believe that you—you don’t want to hurt me. I’ve been hurt
myself, Ray. I could never do that to anyone. I know what it’s like and I’m
sorry. I want to . . . to make it up. Please just let me
apologize.”

Raymond put
a finger tenderly to his cheek. Bitterness and grief welled from his eyes. For
an instant Lupe truly did regret what had happened—and all that was yet to
come.

“Ray, I . . . I
love you.”

Through the
depths of pain and fear, he saw that Raymond was still dragging along a
deathless load of hope. It just might get him through the door. Raymond started
tentatively forward, but then his hand or his face must have twinged, reminding
him of what had just happened.

“Please,
Ray. I feel terrible. It just comes over me, when—when I smell meat burning.
I’ll tell you why. I’ll tell you what happened, if you’ll just let me in. I’ve
never told anyone, but I’ll tell you. I trust you, Ray. I need you. You’ve done
so much for me.

“The—the
steak was for me,” Raymond said faintly, weakening though he hadn’t realized
it yet. “I know you don’t eat meat. I know that, Rico. I was going to make
vegetables for you, a shishkebab, that’s all. I thought it was okay to make a
steak for myself.”

“It’s all my
fault,” Lupe said. “It’s a huge misunderstanding.”

The fork
still dangled from his fingers, hanging out of sight behind his leg.

“Please,” he
said again.

Raymond came
forward.

In his
eagerness, Lupe moved rapidly to meet him and saw another, stronger look of
dread pass over Raymond’s face as the fork swung into sight from behind Lupe’s
leg. Lupe jerked his hand to hide it again, but that guilty movement betrayed
him further.

Stupid!

Raymond took
his hands from the latch.

“Fuck,” Lupe
said. “Come on, Goddamn it. Open the fucking glass!”

At that
moment, the doorbell rang. Lupe froze. Raymond turned and stared across the
living room, in disbelief.

“Open the
door,” Lupe hissed. “If you love me . . .”

But Raymond
was turning away, grateful for the interruption. The fucking cavalry had
arrived. Lupe banged on the glass but Raymond ignored him, walking down the
hall to the front door. He backed away from the glass, not wanting to be seen
out here, telling himself that it must be the mailman or a paper boy. Once they
went away he would still be out here, waiting for Raymond, cooler and more
convincing than before. Yeah . . .

The door was
hidden from his sight, but he saw light flood the hall when it opened. Raymond
spoke loudly, for his benefit: “Please come in.”

Someone else
said, “Thanks very much. I don’t mean to intrude, but—”

Without a
thought, Lupe sprang in a single fluid motion over the nearest end of the
balcony. He hit the hillside rolling, got to his feet, and ran downhill,
abandoning in that instant of panic everything he’d planned, everything he’d
created by sheer will.

Maybe it was
better this way. Heading for the safety of the deep canyons, that voice echoing
in his ears, he felt a giddy eagerness, as if some great event was just about
to occur.

Maybe, down
there, he would finally find the cave of his dreams, the cave he could smell
when the evening winds shifted. How had he ever fooled himself into thinking
any other life was worthy of him?

***

While
Raymond Mankiewitz was staring at Lupe’s photograph, Sal looked past him into
the dark house. He could have sworn he’d heard Lupe’s voice as he was walking
down the driveway. He was tensed for confrontation.

Raymond
looked up at Sal, worried, then he too glanced back quickly into the house. He
said loudly, “Please come in.”

“Thanks very
much,” Sal said. “I don’t mean to intrude, but I have reason to think you know
him, or did.”

“I have
to—to get a better look at this.” He moved toward a table lamp and switched it
on, holding the photograph under the light. “Yes, this is Rico, but . . . much
younger.”