Michael Nava - Goldenboy

I took it from him. He got up and lit another cigarette.

“Hello,” I said.

“Hi, handsome.” It was Tony Good, returning the message I’d left on his machine.

We made arrangements to meet that night at ten at a bar in West Hollywood. I got up from the table and put the phone back. Larry was in his study, going through a pile of papers. Watching him, it occurred to me that I hardly knew him at all. It was as if all these years I’d been seeing him in profile and now that he turned his face to me, it was the face of a stranger.

“I have a million things to do before I leave,” he said. “Some of them I’m going to ask you to finish for me once I’m gone.”

“Sure. Of course.”

He sat down behind his desk. “Don’t take all this so hard.”

“We’re friends,” I replied.

He didn’t answer but picked up a folder, flipped through its pages, and withdrew a sheaf of papers.

“This is a copy of my will,” he said, handing me the papers. “You’re my executor. Take it, Henry.”

Numbly, I accepted.

Freeman Vidor stepped into the Gold Coast wearing a pair of hiphuggers, a pink chenille pullover and about a dozen gold chains. He sauntered toward me, stopping conversation with each step.

“Jesus,” I said, when he reached me. “This is a gay bar, not the Twilight Zone.”

Freeman looked around the bar. There were a lot of Levis and flannel shirts, slacks and sweaters, even the odd suit, but his was the only chenille sweater to be seen in the place-*

“Back to R. amp; D.,” he said. “Is Good here yet?”

“No, I doubt if he’ll be here any sooner than eleven,” I replied. “Ten o’clock was just a negotiating point.”

“How about a drink?”

“Sure. Pink lady, okay?”

“Screw you,” he said, and in his deepest voice ordered a boilermaker.

“I want to talk to Good alone for a while,” I said, when the drink came. “Then you join us.”

“What am I supposed to do in the meantime?”

I looked at him and said, “Mingle, honey.”

Tony Good walked in the door at five minutes past eleven. I watched him stand unsteadily, just inside the doorway, and swing his head around. I raised my hand and he nodded. He made his way through the crowded room until he was beside me. He was even better looking than I remembered. Black hair, blue eyes. Model perfect features. Only his teeth spoiled the package. They were small, sharp, and yellow. He climbed up onto the bar stool next to mine and ordered a Long Island Iced Tea. The bartender started pouring the five different liquors that went into the drink.

“You’re not drinking?” Tony asked, indicating the bottle of mineral water in front of me.

“No,” I said. “You go ahead.” I paid for his drink.

“Here’s looking at you, kid,” he said in a tired Bogart voice, and knocked off a good third of the drink in a single swallow. “So,” he said, crumpling a cocktail napkin, “is this a date or what?”

“You wanted to see me, Tony.”

He squinted at me for a second, then said, “You called me, remember?”

I looked away from him and poured some mineral water in my glass. “Not the first time,” I replied.

He took a sip of his drink. “You’re cute, Henry, but not cute enough to play games.”

“The first time you called,” I said. “Back in October. You told me that you knew who killed Brian Fox.”

Tony had worked his way down to the bottom of his drink. The bartender, without asking, starting pouring him another.

“Who the hell is Brian Fox?” he asked.

“Now you’re playing games,” I said, looking at him. I flicked my head and Freeman came across the room until he stood behind Tony. Tony looked over his shoulder and got an eyeful of pink chenille.

“Jesus, what’s this?” he asked.

“Don’t ask me to show my badge,” Freeman said in a low voice. “It’s bad for business.”

Tony looked at Freeman and then at me. I waited for him to call Freeman’s bluff. Instead, he picked up his drink, gestured to the bartender and told me, “Pay the man.”

I paid for the drink. “So who was it, Tony?”

He churned his drink with a swizzle stick and answered, “Sandy.”

“I want details,” I said.

“First we gotta make a deal,” he said. “I tell you what I know but it stays here, between us. You nail him some other way.” He looked defiantly at Freeman and me.

“Okay,” I said. “Go ahead.”

“It was back about a year ago. We were in rehearsals on Edward. I came out back for a smoke and saw this kid hanging around the parking lot.”

“Fox?” I asked.

He took a swallow of his drink and nodded. “Yeah, but he didn’t say his name. He was kind of cute, so I started talking to him. I asked him what he was doing there, thinking maybe he was a hustler. He goes, ‘I’m waiting for Goldenboy.’“

“Goldenboy?” Freeman asked.

“That’s what I said,” Good continued. “He points to Sandy’s Mercedes. He’s got this license plate on it — “

“It spells out Goldenboy,” I said.

“You’ve seen it,” Good said. “He tells me he’s got to talk to Goldenboy, so I go, ‘Don’t you know his name?’ The kid says ‘Yeah, it’s Sanford Blasenheim.”‘

“Is that Sandy’s real name?” I asked.

“Does that sound like a stage name to you?” Tony asked, smiling snidely. “Anyway, I know this kid doesn’t know Sandy ‘cause no one calls him by his real name.”

Freeman asked, “So how did Fox know it?”

Tony had finished the drink and signaled the bartender for a third. “This is thirsty business,” he said to me.

“How did Fox know?” I asked.

“He gave me some bullshit story about breaking into DMV’s computer and running the license plate,” he said.

I looked at Freeman. “Is that possible?”

“The kid knew his computers,” Freeman said, “but that sounds like too much trouble. All’s he had to do was call DMV and say he was in a hit-and-run with Blenheim’s car and ask them to run the plate.”

“DMV’s pretty generous with their information,” I observed.

“They don’t get paid enough to care,” Freeman replied.

Tony, who had been listening, broke in, “But how did he know about the license plate? He wouldn’t tell me that.”

“The parking lot,” I said, still speaking to Freeman. “When he followed Jim and Sandy out to the car, he saw the license plate.” I turned back to Tony. “What else happened, Tony?”

“Nothing,” he said. “I tried to make a date with the kid, but he says he wasn’t gay. So I told him, then you don’t want to know Sandy, ‘cause you’re just his type. After rehearsal I came back outside and the kid was in the front seat of Sandy’s car with Sandy. Then they took off.”

“Is that the last time you saw Fox?” I asked.

“I saw his picture in the paper,” Good said, slowly, “the day after he was killed.”

“Why didn’t you go to the cops?” Freeman asked.

Tony looked at me. “You saw me in the play. What did you think?”

“You were good,” I said.

“Damn right,” he said, easing himself off the bar stool. “I’m a fucking good actor. All I need is a break.” He picked up his drink, took a gulp, then put it down. “I started out in that play as one of the soldiers in the first scene. Big fucking role. Two lines, two minutes. And I had to fuck Sandy to get even that. That pig.”

“But you ended up as Gaveston,” I answered. “You fuck Sandy for that, too?”

He smiled, showing his jagged little teeth. “Yeah, you could say that. I told him I knew about the kid. I told him what he could give me to keep my mouth shut.”

I nodded. “Then why did you call me?”