appointments.”
“Is this a bribe?”
“You always did see things in the worst possible light,” he said. “No, it’s not a bribe. I checked out your references. I understand you’re a very fine lawyer when you’re sober, and since that isn’t a problem any more we can use your talent.”
I looked away from him, past the smeared window to the balmy December day and thought about the uncertain state of Josh’s health and how neither one of us had health insurance.
“I don’t want your help,” I said.
“You won’t need it for long,” he said. “Pretty soon you’ll have more business than you can handle and we’ll be even.”
I looked back at him. “What are you talking about?”
“You helped me once, remember? You saved my career and possibly my family. I’m paying you back.”
“And that’s why you wanted to see me alone, to pay me back a debt you never told anyone you owed?”
“I’m trying to wipe the slate clean, Henry, so that we can be friends again.”
“What about Bay?” I said. “Is that slate clean?”
“I would never do anything to hurt Bay or Joey. Would you?”
I took the 987 appointments he threw my way and I called Bay and we resumed our friendship and I kept Chris’s secrets which, after a time, seemed less like secrets than youthful indiscretions. As I turned off Sunset onto King’s Road, I suddenly understood that the reason he had not told me about Zack or leaving Bay was because of how hard he had worked to convince me that he had changed. He was a “recovering homosexual.” It would have been as humiliating for him to admit to me he was involved with Zack as it would have been for a recovering alcoholic to admit he’d started drinking again. But maybe if he had told me, I could’ve helped him and he might still be alive.
I followed the winding roads up the hill, past low walls overgrown with bougainvillea, until I came to the address that Bligh had given me and parked at the end of his dead-end street. I walked back to the house, which was at the end of a driveway behind a locked gate set into a brick wall. I buzzed the intercom in the wall. A staticky voice, not Bligh’s, said, “Hello.”
“It’s Henry Rios,” I said. “I have an appointment to see Mr. Bligh.”
The intercom clicked off and for a moment nothing happened. Then the front door opened and someone began walking toward me, a tall boy in a pair of faded gym shorts. He was blond and his skin was a deep golden brown. There was not an ounce of spare fat on his perfectly proportioned body. From a distance, he looked barely out of his teens, but when he came to the gate I saw he was much older, but in an undefinable way; his face showing not age, but wear. There was a touch of leatheriness to the skin and his mouth was bracketed by deep lines. Puffiness showed beneath his eyes, as if he had just awakened, and his eyes were narrow blue slits. His hair, I now realized, was bleached and the dark roots had begun to grow out. If his body belonged on a beach, his face would have been more at home in a bar, where the darkness would have erased its flaws and he could have passed for twenty-three. In the sunshine, with his mop of improbable hair, he looked a hard decade older.
“Mr. Rios,” he said, in a soft, faintly southern drawl. “We weren’t expecting you till later.”
“I take it you’re not Sam Bligh.”
He showed me a mouthful of expensive orthodonture. “I’m Tommy Callen,” he said. “Sam’s assistant.”
“My meeting finished early,” I said, “and I was in the neighborhood. It seems pointless for me to drive home and then come back. Can I see Mr. Bligh?”
“He’s in the middle of something just now.”
“I won’t keep him,” I said.
His smile turned slightly feral. “It’s really not a good time.”
A voice crackled over the intercom. “Tommy?”
“Yeah, Sam.”
“I need you in here,” Bligh said.
“Mr. Bligh,” I said. “I’m trying to explain to
“Is this a bribe?”
“You always did see things in the worst possible light,” he said. “No, it’s not a bribe. I checked out your references. I understand you’re a very fine lawyer when you’re sober, and since that isn’t a problem any more we can use your talent.”
I looked away from him, past the smeared window to the balmy December day and thought about the uncertain state of Josh’s health and how neither one of us had health insurance.
“I don’t want your help,” I said.
“You won’t need it for long,” he said. “Pretty soon you’ll have more business than you can handle and we’ll be even.”
I looked back at him. “What are you talking about?”
“You helped me once, remember? You saved my career and possibly my family. I’m paying you back.”
“And that’s why you wanted to see me alone, to pay me back a debt you never told anyone you owed?”
“I’m trying to wipe the slate clean, Henry, so that we can be friends again.”
“What about Bay?” I said. “Is that slate clean?”
“I would never do anything to hurt Bay or Joey. Would you?”
I took the 987 appointments he threw my way and I called Bay and we resumed our friendship and I kept Chris’s secrets which, after a time, seemed less like secrets than youthful indiscretions. As I turned off Sunset onto King’s Road, I suddenly understood that the reason he had not told me about Zack or leaving Bay was because of how hard he had worked to convince me that he had changed. He was a “recovering homosexual.” It would have been as humiliating for him to admit to me he was involved with Zack as it would have been for a recovering alcoholic to admit he’d started drinking again. But maybe if he had told me, I could’ve helped him and he might still be alive.
I followed the winding roads up the hill, past low walls overgrown with bougainvillea, until I came to the address that Bligh had given me and parked at the end of his dead-end street. I walked back to the house, which was at the end of a driveway behind a locked gate set into a brick wall. I buzzed the intercom in the wall. A staticky voice, not Bligh’s, said, “Hello.”
“It’s Henry Rios,” I said. “I have an appointment to see Mr. Bligh.”
The intercom clicked off and for a moment nothing happened. Then the front door opened and someone began walking toward me, a tall boy in a pair of faded gym shorts. He was blond and his skin was a deep golden brown. There was not an ounce of spare fat on his perfectly proportioned body. From a distance, he looked barely out of his teens, but when he came to the gate I saw he was much older, but in an undefinable way; his face showing not age, but wear. There was a touch of leatheriness to the skin and his mouth was bracketed by deep lines. Puffiness showed beneath his eyes, as if he had just awakened, and his eyes were narrow blue slits. His hair, I now realized, was bleached and the dark roots had begun to grow out. If his body belonged on a beach, his face would have been more at home in a bar, where the darkness would have erased its flaws and he could have passed for twenty-three. In the sunshine, with his mop of improbable hair, he looked a hard decade older.
“Mr. Rios,” he said, in a soft, faintly southern drawl. “We weren’t expecting you till later.”
“I take it you’re not Sam Bligh.”
He showed me a mouthful of expensive orthodonture. “I’m Tommy Callen,” he said. “Sam’s assistant.”
“My meeting finished early,” I said, “and I was in the neighborhood. It seems pointless for me to drive home and then come back. Can I see Mr. Bligh?”
“He’s in the middle of something just now.”
“I won’t keep him,” I said.
His smile turned slightly feral. “It’s really not a good time.”
A voice crackled over the intercom. “Tommy?”
“Yeah, Sam.”
“I need you in here,” Bligh said.
“Mr. Bligh,” I said. “I’m trying to explain to
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