Michael Nava - Goldenboy

At the top of the hill, Larry began a left turn past immense wrought iron gates opened to reveal a driveway paved with cobblestones. A moment later a house came into view. It seemed to consist of a single towering box though, as we slowed, I could see there were two small wings, one on either side. A boy in black slacks, a white shirt and a lavender tie directed us to stop. Another boy, similarly dressed, opened my door.

“Good evening, sir, how are you?” he asked as I stepped out of the Jaguar.

“Fine, thanks, and you?”

“Oh, fine, sir.” He seemed startled that I’d bothered to reply.

Larry came around to me and said, “Ready, counsel?”

“Let’s go.”

The first thing I noticed when we stepped into the house was the size of the room we had entered. Its walls were roughly the dimensions of football fields and to say that the space they enclosed was vast exhausted the possibilities of the word. The second thing I noticed was that the far wall, except for a fireplace that could easily have accommodated the burghers of Calais, was glass. The city trembled below.

“Where do the airplanes land?” I whispered to Larry as we entered the room. Little clumps of people, mostly men, were scattered amid the white furnishings.

“None of that,” he replied. “Here comes our host.”

I expected the owner of the house to be dwarfed by it, but Elliot Fein didn’t even put up a fight. He was a shade over five feet and his most distinctive feature was his glasses. They were perfectly round and bright red. His skin was the color of dark wood, his hair was glossy black and his face was conspicuously unlined. I guessed, from his effort to conceal it, he must be nearing seventy.

“Larry,” he said in a wheezy voice. They exchanged polite kisses.

“This is Henry Rios,” Larry said.

“Why haven’t I met you before?” Fein asked by way of greeting.

I couldn’t think of any reason except the absence of twenty or thirty million dollars on my part. This didn’t seem to be the tactful answer so I said, “I don’t know, but it’s a pleasure, Justice Fein.”

He took my extended hand and held it. “Elliot to my friends. We’re all so glad you agreed to take the boy’s case.”

“Thank you.” I attempted to regain possession of my hand but he wasn’t through with it yet.

“You know,” he said confidentially, “I sat in the criminal division of superior court for years before I was elevated. From what I know about Jim Pears’s case, it’s going to be rough sledding.”

“An unusual metaphor for Los Angeles,” I observed.

He looked puzzled, then dropped my hand. “Comments like that go right over a jury’s head,” he said with a faked smile.

I made a noise that could be interpreted as assent.

“Who’s the judge?” he asked.

“Patricia Ryan.”

“Good. Very good,” he replied judiciously. “I’ll call her for lunch next week.” He beamed at us. “I’m neglecting my duties. Let me get you a drink.”

“Thanks, but I don’t drink,” I said.

His eyes narrowed and he nodded. “Oh, that’s right. Perrier, then?”

“Nothing, thank you,” I replied. I felt a flash of irritation at Larry who had obviously told Fein I was an alcoholic.

“What about you, Larry?” Fein asked.

“Not just yet. I think I should take Henry around.”

“Of course,” Fein said, and stepped aside. “I’ll talk to you later.”

We started across the hall and Larry said, in a low voice, “I know what you’re thinking but I didn’t tell him.”

“Then how did he know?”

“He’s like God, only richer. So I’d watch the wisecracks if I were you.”

For the next hour we worked the room. The crowd consisted of well-dressed, expensively scented men and a few women all of whom, like Fein, had found ways to slow time’s passage. Larry and I fell into a routine. He would introduce me. Someone would inevitably ask what I thought of Jim’s chances. I would launch into a lengthy explanation of the concept of presumption of innocence. At some point — before a member of the audience actually fell asleep — Larry would break in to make a pitch for money. As we moved away from one group, I heard a man stage whisper, “She’s pretty but someone should tell her to lighten up.”

I turned to Larry, who had also heard, and said, “I need a break.”

“I’ll come and find you.”

When he left I found myself near the center of the room. A short, stocky man stood a few feet away staring up at the ceiling. I followed his gaze to the chandelier. It was a sleek metallic thing lit with dozens of silvery candles. The man and I exchanged looks. He smiled.

“At first,” he said, “I wondered why Elliot couldn’t afford electricity. Then I realized the candles must be much more expensive.”

There were faint traces of an English accent in his voice. His face was square and fleshy and showed its age. His was the first truly human visage I’d seen all night.

“It’s less conspicuous than burning hundred-dollar bills, I guess.”

He laughed. “I heard you introduced, Mr. Rios. My name is Harvey Miller.”

“Henry to my friends,” I replied, shaking his hand. “Are you part of this crowd?”

“Am I rich? No. I work at the Gay and Lesbian Center on Highland. Elliot’s on the board. Do you know about the Center?”

“Sure,” I said. “You do good work.”

“So do you, I hear.” He accepted a glass of champagne from a passing waiter.

I shrugged. “It’s my Catholic upbringing. The world’s troubles weigh on my heart. Mea culpa.”

He sipped from the glass and lowered it. “You seem a bit brittle, Henry.”

“This isn’t my natural habitat. I was going outside for some air. Join me?”

“I’d like that.”

We made our way through the clumps of oversized furnishings and past the squadrons of rented waiters carrying trays of food and drink, to a door that let us out onto an immense patio. We walked to its edge and looked out over the city. Streams of light marked the major boulevards which were crammed with the tail end of rush-hour traffic. The spires of downtown probed the ashen sky. Lights of every color — red, blue, silver, gold — twinkled in the darkness as if the city were an enormous Christmas tree.

I made this comparison to Harvey.

“It is like a Christmas tree,” he replied, “but most of the boxes beneath it are empty. For a lot of gay people, anyway.”

I looked at him as he finished off the contents of his glass. “What exactly do you do at the Center?”

“I’m a psychologist,” he replied, smiling at the city.

“Well,” I said, “for a few gay people some boxes, like this house, are crammed full.”

“No, not really.” He set the glass down on the ledge of the wall. “It’s not easy for anyone in this society to be gay.”

“I wouldn’t waste much sympathy on the rich,” I said. “Even compassion has its limits.”

He moved a step nearer. “Are you always the life of the party?”

I smiled. “Sorry. Yesterday I was sitting in a filthy little room trying to pry some truth out of Jim Pears and tonight I’m at Valhalla meeting the gay junior league. When the altitude changes this fast I get motion sick.”

“Why do you have such a low opinion of us?”

“I don’t. It’s just that it’s not my profession.”

“What?”

“Homosexuality.”

“No,” he said, feigning a smile. “You’re a lawyer, right? Never mind that the law oppresses us.”

“I thought we were going to be friends, Harvey.”

“You can’t isolate yourself in your work.”

“I’m not trying to,” I said. “But Jim Pears is a client, not a cause. If I can save his life, I’ve done my job.”