Michael Nava - Goldenboy

“And if not?” he asked, leaning against the wall. “Have you still done your job?”

“By my lights,” I replied.

He picked up his glass. “I’m disappointed that your lights have such a narrow focus.”

I shrugged. ‘‘In my work, someone is usually disappointed.”

‘‘Good luck,” he said and went back inside.

When I went back in, the party was breaking up. I spotted Larry standing with a fat man in a shiny suit. Not an old suit. A shiny one. Larry signaled me to join them. The fat man’s face shone like a waxed apple. A fringe of dyed hair was combed low over his forehead. He fidgeted a smile, revealing perfect teeth.

“Henry, this is Sandy Blenheim,” Larry said.

I shook Blenheim’s hand. It was soft and moist but he compensated with a grip that nearly broke my thumb. Before I could say anything, Blenheim started talking.

“Look, Henry, I’m running a little late.” He jabbed his hand into the air, as if to ward off time’s passage. “So if we could just get down to business.”

“What business is that?”

“I’m an agent. I have a client who’s interested in buying the rights to the trial.”

“Jim’s trial?” I asked.

Blenheim gave three rapid nods.

“Why?”

“To make a movie,” Larry interjected.

I looked at Blenheim. “A movie?”

“It’s great. The whole set-up. Gay kid exposed. We could take it to the networks and sell it like that.” He snapped his pudgy fingers. “We tried talking to the kid’s parents but they won’t deal. The kid won’t even talk to me. So you’re our last hope.”

“I really don’t understand,” I said.

Blenheim spread his hands. “We buy your rights, see, and if you can bring the kid and his folks around, that just sweetens the deal. What about it?”

“It’s a bit premature, don’t you think?” I said. “There hasn’t actually been a trial.”

“But there will be,” Blenheim insisted. “We can give you twenty,” he continued. “Plus, we hire you as the legal consultant. You could clean up.”

“I’m sorry,” I began, “but this conversation is not-”

“Okay,” Blenheim said, affably. “I’ve been around lawyers. You guys are cagey. Tell you what, Henry. Think on it and call me in a couple of weeks. Larry’s got my number. See you later.”

He turned, waved at someone across the room, and walked away. I looked at Larry. “Have I just been hit by a truck?”

“No, but you might check your wallet.”

“What was that all about?”

“Just what the man said,” Larry replied. “He wants to make a movie.”

“About Jim? That’s a little ghoulish, isn’t it?”

Larry shrugged. “He gave me a check for five hundred dollars for Jim’s defense,” he said. “I figured that was worth at least a couple of minutes of your time.”

“Okay, he got his two minutes.” I looked at Larry; he was pale and seemed tired. “I think we should get you home.”

“Fein’s invited us for dinner,” he replied. “There’s no tactful way out.”

“Then let’s not be tactful,” I said.

He began to speak, but then simply nodded. “I am tired,” he said.

Fein accepted my excuses with a fixed smile and later when I said good-night he looked at me seemingly without recognition. But the boy who had parked our car remembered me.

“Enjoy yourself?” he asked, opening the car door for me.

Thinking of Fein and Harvey Miller and the fat agent, I said, “It wasn’t that kind of party.”

I returned to the jail day after day to talk to Jim Pears. We sat at the table in the room with the soiled walls beneath the glaring lights. As far as I knew, he had no other visitors. Jim showed no interest in preparing for the coming trial beyond repeating his stock claim of innocence. He answered my questions with the fewest words possible unless I asked him about the events leading up to the killing. Those he wouldn’t answer at all, maintaining loss of memory.

One late afternoon a week after our first interview, I said, “Tell me the last thing you remember about that night.”

His blue gaze drifted past my face. “I was at the bar.”

“Before Brian got there.”

“Yes.”

“Do you remember seeing him arrive?”

Jim shook his head. I drew a zero on my legal pad. A blue vein twitched at his temple. His eyes, the same throbbing blue, scanned his fingertips.

“Did Brian ever threaten you?”

He looked up, startled. “No.”

“Demand money?”

“No.”

“Did you tell him to meet you at the restaurant that night?”

His eyes were terrified. “No.”

“Did he tell you he was coming there?”

“No,” he replied, drawing a deep breath.

“But once he got there you assumed it was to see you, didn’t you?”

“I don’t know.”

“Don’t know what?”

“What I thought.” He shifted in his seat.

I drew another zero on the pad. “Tell me about the guy who picked you up the night Brian saw you in the car. Had you ever seen him before?”

“No,” he replied.

“What did he look like?”

“That was a long time ago.”

“You must remember something,” I snapped.

He slumped in his chair. “He was old,” he said finally, and added, “Like you.”

Ignoring the gibe, I asked, “Was he tall or short?”

“Average, I guess.”

“I’m not interested in your guesses. What color was his hair?”

“Dark.”

“What about his eyes?”

He was quiet for a moment, then he said, in a voice that was different, almost yearning, “They were blue.”

“Like yours?” I asked.

“No, different,” he replied in the same voice. He was seeing those eyes.

“Tell me about his eyes,” I said, quietly.

“I told you,” he replied, the yearning gone. “They were blue.”

“How did you end up in his car?”

“He told me to meet him.”

“Where?”

“In the lot behind the restaurant.”

“Then what happened?”

He stared at me, color creeping up his neck.

“You got in the car and then what happened?”

“We talked.” It was almost a question.

“Is that what you were doing when Brian came up to the car, talking?”

He shook his head. “He was — sucking me.”

“That’s what Brian saw?”

“Yeah.”

“What did Brian do?”

“He opened the car door,” Jim said, talking quickly, “and yelled ‘faggots’. Then he ran back across the lot of the restaurant.”

“What did you do?”

“I got out of the car. The guy drove off. I went home.” “Did he tell you his name?”

“No.”

I looked at him. No, of course not. Names weren’t important.

“Brian threatened to tell your parents,” I said. “Did that worry you?”

“Sure,” he said, “but-” He stopped himself.

“But what?”

“He didn’t.”

“The D.A. will say that he didn’t because you killed him. What’s your explanation?”

“I didn’t kill him.”

“Why didn’t he tell your parents?”

“I don’t know,” he replied, his voice rising. “Ask him.” “He’s dead, Jim. Remember?”

“Yeah, I remember. Why aren’t you trying to find the guy that killed him?”

“Why don’t you tell me the truth?”

“Fuck you,” he replied.

“This isn’t getting us anywhere,” I observed in a quiet voice. “Are you sleeping better?”

“They give me pills,” he said, all the anger gone.

I frowned. I had had Jim examined by a doctor to see what could be done to relieve his anxiety. Apparently the doctor chose a quick fix.

“How often?”

“Three times a day,” he said.