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Authors: Marc Laidlaw

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It took him
a moment to answer, to pull himself up. “Yeah.”

“Jesus. I’m
sorry.”

Ryan got to
his feet. “I’m okay.”

“You could
have broken your neck. You almost went down the stairs!”

Ryan looked
down. He had never quite seen the stairs in such a light before. It was hard to
imagine falling and injuring himself in such a way, but now that Mike had
planted the idea in his head, he couldn’t get rid of it. He kept seeing himself
slamming hard against the wall at the bottom, lying there limp with his eyes
rolled up in his head and blood trickling from his mouth.

Dead, he
thought. I could be dead right now.

Then he
thought,
No way!

Backing away
from Mike, he pretended to trip on the stairs. While holding tight to the rail,
he windmilled one of his arms and let out a yell. Mike’s panicked expression
made him laugh. He bounded down the stairs, half expecting his brother to pursue
him.

When he hit
the floor, he heard a man’s voice speaking outside the door: “It was murder!”

Upstairs,
Mike’s door slammed shut. He had gone back into his lair.

Ryan put his
eyes to the spyhole and saw two men in the tub, arms spread out along the rim,
heads lolling back. A bottle of champagne and three glasses rested on a shelf
near the edge. A third man, naked and covered all over with curly hair, gasped
as he lowered himself gingerly into the steaming water, moaning as the bubbles
came up to his neck. He went all the way under for a moment, then burst to the
surface, shaking water from his hair, wiping his eyes.

“So you
heard about Sal?” he said. His voice, a growl as deep and loud as a radio
announcer’s, carried over the rumble of the tub.

“I still
can’t believe it,” said one of the other two. “He was doing so much good for
our community.”

The third
man worked his finger in an ear, as if to drain it. “The thing that gets me is,
you know the papers won’t mention any of the details.”

“Denny’s
covering it for
The
Advocate,”
said the second man. “You can bet
the truth’ll come out there.”

“Preaching
to the converted. John Q. Public won’t know it was pure homophobia.”

“He wouldn’t
care anyway. He’d applaud!”

“But the
details are so grisly. I should think the newspapers would eat them up.
Besides, there’s the whole drug-dealing angle.”

“Right, the
drugs,” said the deep-voiced man. “As if that was the only thing he did. Forget
about his community service, the help he gave to those confused kids, the
runaway shelters he funded. The drugs are a tragedy because they cloud the
truth. They’re convenient propaganda already in place for the papers to paint
him as a villain.”

“And once
the
cops
figure out that Sal was a dealer, not to mention gay, they won’t
even bother with an investigation.”

“Yeah,
they’ll conveniently forget he had a steel crucifix shoved up his ass. As if it
were an insignificant detail.”

“The only
thing that could have made it plainer would be if the cross had been burning.”

The name Sal
finally called up a picture. Wasn’t Sal the Kung Fu Faggot, the guy who drove
the black van that all Ryan’s friends knew to avoid? It had to be. Could there
be another queer Sal in Bohemia Bay?

“Well, we
can’t expect miracles from the Bohemia police. This’ll never turn into a civil
rights test case. They caught the bastard who did it, and that really is the
main thing right now.”

“I hear
Randy found him.”

“Randy? Oh
my god, that poor kid!”

“Yes. He
told Kent he sent the cops straight to the killer. He knew who did it, that
biker-preacher from the canyon. He’d been making threats . . . 

“I always
knew there was something dangerous about him.”

“Tell me
about it. Some of his boys came after me once on the beach below the Lobster.
They almost killed me.”

“I remember.
And what did the cops do about it?”

“Absolutely
nothing.”

“That’s what
I’m afraid of now.”

“Well, the
evidence is undeniable, from what Randy said. Strong enough to keep him in jail
for a while, anyway.”

“I hope he
rots there.”

“Poor Sal.
Do you know—has anyone heard if he . . . you know?”

“If he still
had his balls?”

“Oh, Lord,
please don’t!”

“Isn’t that
what everyone’s wondering? It has to be the same guy, doesn’t it? That other
kid, the one they found in the Central Beach tunnel, wasn’t he one of those
gang boys?”

“So?”

“Don’t you
see the connection? This preacher character must be seriously repressed,
surrounding himself with boys. Sound a little familiar? Maybe there was
something between him and that boy, something he couldn’t handle. Maybe Sal
confronted him on it.”

“Well I
haven’t heard a thing about the state of Sal Diaz’s testicles, and I hope I
never do. It’s the whereabouts of the champagne I’m concerned about . . .”

Ryan raced
for the stairs, taking them three at a time, and launched himself at Mike’s
door. He threw it open without knocking this time, and surprised Mike at his
desk, the drawer pulled half open, a flash of pink briefly glimpsed before his
brother slammed the drawer shut.

Mike rose
up, enraged. “What do you want? I told you to knock!”

“Whoa, wait
till you hear!” Ryan was so excited he didn’t even care about the magazines.
“They caught the guy who killed Craig Frost!”

“What?”
Mike’s face flooded with color. His eyes seemed to fill the lenses of his
glasses.

“I just
heard them talking about it at the party.”

“What did
they say?”

“He killed
somebody else. You know Sal, the fag up the hill, with the black van?”

“Yeah?” Mike
said slowly.

“The karate
guy?”

“I know who
you mean!”

“Well, he’s
dead, and the same guy did it, but this time the police caught him. He stuck a
cross up—a cross up Sal’s butt!”

Mike stared
at Ryan as if he were insane.

“Swear to
God! The guy’s in jail. Can you believe it? A murder two blocks away!”

Mike sat
down hard on his bed. His whole body trembled and he let out a huge sigh.
“Man,” he said, shaking his head. “I can’t believe it. . . .”

“Isn’t it
cool?”

“Yeah . . .
yeah, really cool.” Mike began to laugh. “They really caught him? You’re sure?”

“Everybody
says so.”

“They know
who it was?”

Ryan
shrugged. “It’ll be in the papers. Wait’ll I tell Dirk!”

Suddenly the
clock radio caught his eye. “Hey,
Night of the
Living Dead
is starting. You gonna come watch?”

Mike shook
his head and lay back on the bed. “I’m going to draw, I think. Suddenly I feel
inspired.”

Ryan
suppressed a comment about the magazines. If he let on he’d seen them, Mike
might make them harder to find. He closed the door behind him, then went
upstairs to the kitchen. With a half-gallon drum of ice cream in one hand and a
spoon in the other, he descended to the TV room and threw himself into a
beanbag chair before the set. Seymour, the mysterious gravel-voiced old joker
in a cape and black gaucho hat, introduced the movie with a bunch of
wisecracks. Ryan methodically stirred his ice cream into sludge, the way he
liked it.

By the
second commercial break, he had finished the tub. He walked back up the three
flights to the kitchen and tossed the empty carton in the trash. The party next
door was still going strong; he could hear his mother’s laughter above the
thumping of the music.

The massive
infusion of milk and sugar had made him logy. Yawning, he headed for the stairs
again, still seeing how easy it would be to trip and fall two flights from up
here—fall to his death. Broken neck, bloody mouth . . . the movie was making
him nervous.

As he
grasped the stair rail, extra cautious, he heard a sound at the front door, and
stopped.

There was a
grating noise. The knob rattled.

It must be
Jack, drunk and fumbling with his keys.

Ryan reached
out and opened the door.

There stood
a boy, probably older than Ryan though he couldn’t be sure. Maybe Mike’s age.

Seeing Ryan,
he stiffened and jerked his fist back.

“Hi,” he
said, in a small voice that made Ryan wonder if maybe he was younger than he
looked. “I was just about to ring the bell. Is Mike home?”

Ryan nodded
anxiously. The movie would be starting any second now and he’d already been too
long. He wasn’t about to let one of his brother’s dorky friends make him miss
any.

“Come in,”
he said. “Just hurry!”

 

24

 

SEASCAPE, WITH DEAD STEPFATHER

Being:

A C●medy,

Alth●ugh nightmarish to its participants (And particularly
its Narrator,

One Rupert Giles ●f Balmy Beach, California;

Age 15)

 

152 (●ne

hundred and fifty-tw●)
stairs lead d●wn a sheer cliff t● the Naked Beach. H●w many
times hath my stepfather Wally tumbled the wh●le flight, t● land
smashed and bleeding at the sandy b●tt●m, ●nly t● summ●n
his last ergs f●r a crawl t● the t●p, s● that I may
push him d●wn yet again? “A myriad,” I am happy t● rep●rt.

Ancient steps they are, all ●f crumbling gravel embedded in
a matrix ●f sandst●ne and c●arse cement like that which enc●ffins
Wally’s feet in my merriest dreams, when he sinks beneath the kelp beds,
gulping with diminishing cause at the p●is●n-finned sculpin and
circling lurid garibaldi. “O b●ny day-Gl● ●range beautiful
yet inedible STATE FISH OF CALIFORNIA!” the killing ●f which is a
fear-ridden pleasure akin t● that derived fr●m ripping tags ●ff
mattresses ●ne has n● intenti●n ●f purchasing; th●ugh
within each garibaldi (“N●t t● menti●n Wally,” he said, menti●ning
him) are g●bbets ●f green, br●wn and liver-c●l●red
g●●, s● much nastier than mattress stuffing. G●d f●rbid
we sh●uld c●mmit such icthycide beneath the Balmy Beach cliffs where game wardens and rangers daily sit their unpredictable vigils, bin●culars
trained ●n
us
, always engaged in vi●lati●n ●f s●me
state c●de ●r ●ther
--
mussel murder mayhem, f●r instance. As rewarding as
garibaldi (●r Wally) assassinati●n, th●ugh lacking the
thrill ●f ●utright illegality, ●ur f●rmer mad hunts f●r
mussel pearls entailed the wh●lesale slaughter ●f live mussels by
the sc●re. Y●u sh●uld have seen them, helpless m●llusks,
t●rn in weedy clumps fr●m sear●cks bared by ●utrushing
waves, then smashed t● pieces in small tidal p●●ls until the
miniature cisterns were creamy with s●ft ●range intestinal matter,
a filter-feeder’s lunch, n●w sustenance f●r lucky crabs and anem●nes;
f●r which savageries we were rewarded with a (very) ●ccasi●nal
tarnished nacre●us gray pebble the size ●f several sand grains
glued t●gether, and ab●ut as valuable. I ●nce pried ●pen
a mussel and ate it, liberally sm●thered in cafeteria tac● sauce
squirted fr●m a plastic packet, crunching a pearl between my teeth s●
hard it chipped a filling. “Just revenge f●r earlier massacres!” piped a
v●ice fr●m the mussel beds. S● I crushed them all, gathering
up their shattered shells f●r that ultimate day ●f gl●ry when
I shall embed them individually in Wally’s skin and f●rce him t● r●ll
in a tub ●f k●sher salt liberally mixed with rusty jacks and br●ken
micr●sc●pe slides, symb●lic ruins ●f my inn●cent
childh●●d, fr●m which Wally has wrenched me f●rever. (I
feel I sh●uld als● menti●n, n●t as an aside but f●r
c●mpleteness’ sake, that hermit crabs were ●ften pulled fr●m
their shells and fed t● the friendly (else why always waving?) anem●nes,
which fattened ●n ●ur attenti●ns, benefiting s● greatly
fr●m human ass●ciati●n that they still sh●w affecti●n
and kiss my t●es stickily when I visit tidal p●●ls. S●
d●n’t pity the mussel al●ne. Pers●nally, I feel crabs were s●meh●w
the m●st pathetic ●f ●ur victims, f●r they had p●pping
eyes and useless claws that gnashed futilely and little guts that dripped all ●ver
everything when we’d been t●● r●ugh in extracting them fr●m
their shells, as, sadly, we usually were. Perhaps it is because ●f crabs
that we left ●ff pestering crustaceans and turned ●ur attenti●n t● fulltime harassment ●f the nude, s●metimes badly
sunburnt bathers, wh● were mature humans and theref●re able t●
defend themselves, m●re ●r less.)

But I must speak n●w, with gr●wing excitement (can y●u
n●t hear the quaver in my v●ice), ●f Wally,
Wally,
wh●
lies festering in the sun ●n a black terrycl●th shr●ud, magg●ts
w●rming in his gut and cringing with a sizzling s●und each time he
gulps fr●m a tankard ●f lem●n-scented Pepsi. P●●r
magg●ts! Hearing my typewriter, Wally l●●ks up fr●m his
Har●ld R●bbins n●vel, emitting a fart which scarcely relieves
the purulent swelling ●f his abd●men, gase●us result ●f
his well-deserved decay. S●●n I will take this l●ng, p●inted
instrument especially designed f●r cleaning black c●tt●n lint
fr●m the inky small “●” ●f my typewriter (currently dedicated
t● a m●re imp●rtant task), ●r the sharp edge ●f ●ne
●f my mussel shards (d●es that have the same res●nance?), and
prick him. Or perhaps the feeding insects, with their sharpened m●uth-saws,
will d● the w●rk, letting him burst expl●sively, spattering
the ●ther sunbathers with the bypr●ducts ●f Wallyesque r●t,
all●wing me finally, and in g●●d c●nscience, t●
clean these keys . . .

 

Mike had
already roughly sketched Wally’s corpse half buried in sand at the base of the
crumbling flight of stairs. You could actually count all 152 steps. He began to
work at the splintered bones poking out of Wally’s skin. Maggots were next. He
tried not to make “Wally” look too much like Walter—in case Walter happened to
see the illustration when he sent it to Scott.

Ryan’s news
had flooded him with freed energy. He had been ruled by fear for longer than
he’d realized. And fear had locked his thoughts up tight, put clamps on his
imagination, so that he was afraid to dream, afraid to turn his mind loose for
fear of where it might wander. When he narrowed his eyes, he could still almost
see the whorls of his acid trip, shadows tipped with fangs, but such moments
were fading. A wave of unreality had covered his life, and as it slipped away,
it had threatened to leave him in a world far worse than the one he’d inhabited
before the trip. For days there had been room for only one terrible thought in
his head:

He was bait.

Since Hawk
had seen the hand grenade, everything had changed. Suddenly Mike was the center
of the One-Way Gang’s attention. At first he wasn’t sure what had made him so
important, but gradually he’d realized that he was only a means to an end.
Hawk’s real goal was Lupe; and Mike was just a convenient way of luring him in.

Whenever
Mike thought about it, the plan infuriated him. Why should he be the bait? Why
couldn’t someone else sit and wait for the psycho to pay them a visit?

He’d even
wondered if the whole plan weren’t Hawk’s revenge on him for helping Maggie
write that letter . . .

But now all
that was over. He didn’t have to question anyone’s motives. Lupe was in jail.
His life was his own again. He could say goodbye to Hawk and Dusty and Stoner,
to Kurtis Tyre and Mad-Dog Murphy and Howard Lean. He could even say so long to
Edgar, whenever he showed his face again, though Mike had a feeling Edgar was
on the road, maybe hitching in Mexico by now. Somewhere the Bohemia cops
wouldn’t follow.

All the
subconscious power he’d wasted on worry, diverted to thoughts of Lupe and his
own survival, now came rushing back free and clear. It was as if a lever had
been thrown, switching his mind to full power. He could think of no better use
for the fresh energy than drawing. He didn’t need to fish for ideas, either.
Dozens of them had been wriggling morbidly away in the back of his head, sprung
from the text of Scott’s novel. So he had pulled out the dogeared manuscript,
refreshed himself with the first few pages, then set to work.

The sound of
footsteps on the landing above didn’t distract him for more than a second, nor
did the murmur of voices. It was one of Ryan’s friends, or someone from the
party next door.

The next
thing he knew, the footsteps were right over his head, as he worked at the desk
in the closet. He found himself hesitating, listening as they paused on the
landing outside his door.

Someone
knocked, and Ryan peered in. “Hey, a friend of yours is here.”

It must not
be Edgar or he would have said so. Puzzled, Mike put the pencil down and went
to the door.

The hall was
dark. He didn’t recognize the kid at Ryan’s shoulder, even when he stepped
toward the light.

“I don’t—”

A silver
gleam stopped the words in his throat. The boy held one hand up, offering the key.
“I thought you might want this.”

Mike abruptly
grasped that everything he believed was based not on truth, but on desire; his
world was a fake. One moment, believing one thing about this world, he’d been
frigid with terror; the next moment, believing something far more insubstantial,
he’d felt relaxed and vigorous. How was he supposed to feel now?

Ryan was
already halfway down the stairs, leaving them alone. He called back, “Show’s
just getting good, I gotta hurry!”

Mike stood
facing the stranger. The boy? Lupe.

He took a
step back before the other stepped forward. Lupe came into the room, holding
the key ahead of him. He brushed the door, closing it quietly behind him.

“You can
have it back,” he said.

In the
brighter light, among the painted hills, Mike could only stare. Not a boy after
all, it seemed. Not quite a man either. It was hard to be sure about anything.
The sharp, unpleasant smell of sage flowers filled the room—it was stronger
than the animal smell of sweat. Lupe’s face was round and smooth, full-cheeked,
dark Spanish eyes set in nut-brown skin, swept by dark oily hair that looked
freshly combed. He had the body of a pioneer—one who had hiked ten thousand
miles, cut down sequoias in the North woods, broken boulders with his hands.
But it just didn’t go with that babyish face. The voice was especially wrong.

“Go on,” he
said, soft and fluting. “Take it.”

Mike reached
out automatically, desperate to regain the stupid key that had started all
this. As his fingers closed on the tiny bit of metal, he felt much more than
that pressed into his hand. Lupe grabbed his wrist, seized it tightly, and
forced his fingers closed around something he couldn’t see, but which he knew
by feel.

It hadn’t
been that long, after all, since he’d held the other hand grenade.

He managed
to choke back words, knowing they would only get him into trouble and solve
nothing now.

Lupe worked
quickly. He had a length of string, thick scratchy jute, which he wound around
and around Mike’s hand and the grenade, binding them together. Mike waited like
a spectator to see what would happen next.

“Okay,” Lupe
said, apparently finished. Without releasing Mike’s wrist, he turned the hand
palm-upward, as if showing off his workmanship. He had left the trigger free.
Now he curled Mike’s fingers around it, forcing them down tight.

“Don’t let
go,” he said, as he pulled out the pin. “You see how I tied it? You can’t throw
it away now. And you can’t untie it without letting go, not one-handed anyway,
not till I put the pin back in.”

“Please . .
.”

“You’ll be
fine.” He held up the pin, grinning. “I’ll give this back, too, when we’re in a
better place.”

“What—what
did I ever—” Mike’s voice rose to a high-pitched shriek until Lupe clamped a
hand over his mouth and put the pin to his lips.

“Shhh.
You don’t want to go making a lot of noise.”

Mike backed
toward the window. Lupe didn’t stop him. The key lay on the floor between them.
The disco music thudded steadily, but he could hardly hear it over his
heartbeat. For an instant his mother’s laughter pierced the spell. He looked
down at his hand. It was white as marble, and shaking. If he relaxed his grip,
the room would vanish; a huge hole would appear as if by magic. This house, and
probably those on either side, would be destroyed. His mother, Jack, Ryan
downstairs—how many would die in addition to himself? All for the sake of
killing Lupe.

Lupe grinned
at him, tossing his head toward the moon wall. “I like this a lot. You did it?”

Mike tried
to shake his head. It came out as more of a spasm.

Lupe looked
disappointed. “No? But you’re an artist, right?”

Mike choked.
“S-sometimes.”

“Only
sometimes? You mean you can turn it on and off?” He shook his head. “I wish I
could do that.”

Why isn’t he
in jail? Mike thought, oblivious to Lupe’s words, remembering suddenly the news
Ryan had brought, which he had relied on. Craig Frost’s killer . . . and now
Sal’s, too. The cops were supposed to have him, but here he was.

Who was in
jail, then? Who had really killed Craig and Sal?

Lupe spun
the pin on his fingertip to catch Mike’s eyes.

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