The Little Death by Michael Nava Page B

as a fact?”
    “Good
Lord, Henry, half of the city knows that as a fact.”
    “Then
he’s someone Hugh might have gone to for help.”
    “Help
for what?”
    “I
don’t know. I’d like to talk to him though.”
    “It’s
easier to see the Pope,” Grant said, “and probably more fun.”
    “What
do you mean?”
    “Smith
is a recluse. You’d never get past the palace guard.”
    “Could
you?”
    “I’d
have to know why I’m trying.”
    “I
think Robert Paris had Hugh murdered.”
    Grant
sipped his wine. “You’re crazy,” he remarked cheerfully. “Smith would throw
you out the minute you uttered those words.” Grant shook his head. “Sorry, I
can’t help you.”
    He
finished his wine and set the glass down on the floor.
    “I’m
perfectly serious, Grant.”
    “That’s
your forte,” he said, “but even so you don’t go to someone like John Smith to
accuse a member of his family of homicide. That’s what the police are for.”
    “They’re
not interested.”
    “Then
perhaps you should take your cue from them,” he said, rising. “I’m going out to
get some dinner. Want to join me?”
    “I
can’t tonight, but I’ll take a rain check.”
    “Suit
yourself,” he said. “I’ll call you.”
    Rising
to leave I said, “It was good to see you again, Grant.”
    A
smile, at once cynical and tender, flickered across his lips. “What amazes me
most about you,” he said, “is your sincerity.”
    “I’m
afraid that it’s my only social skill.”
    “Good
night, Henry,” he said, letting me out.
    I
stepped out of Grant’s building, passing the doorman who acknowledged my
departure with the slightest of nods. I had parked down by the piers on
Embarcadero and had walked, first to Abrams’ office and then to see Grant. Now
as I returned to my car, walking beneath the freeway, the streets around Embarcadero
Plaza were deserted. It was only the racket from the freeway and the lumbering
noise of the buses as they screeched to a halt at the nearby bus yard that gave
an illusion of activity.
    It
was the road noise that kept me from making out my name the first time it was
shouted by a voice behind me. The second time I heard it distinctly, stopped,
and turned around. A man, my height but considerably more muscular, hurried
toward me. He wore tight levis and a leather bomber jacket over a white
t-shirt. As he stepped beneath a streetlight, I saw he was carrying something
in his right hand. A gun. Aimed at my stomach.
    “Henry,”
he said in a friendly voice, “I’ve been shouting at you for the last block.”
His dark hair was cut short and he wore a carefully clipped moustache. He was
good-looking in an anonymous sort of way. A Castro clone.
    “I
don’t think I know you,” I said.
    “Well,
we’re going to be good friends before the night is over.”
    He
kept the gun on me while he raised his left hand in the air and motioned toward
us. A moment later a car — black, Japanese, four-door, with its lights out and
no license plate — crept up beside us. Two other men were in the front seat and
one in the back. The two in the front and my friend with the gun were not only
dressed identically but, as far as I could see, might have been a set of
triplets. The man in the back seat differed from the others only in that he was
a blond. He stepped out of the car and approached us.
    “Hello,
Henry. Just relax and do what you’re told and everything will be fine.”
    “Sure,”
I said, as the car came up directly behind me.
    The
blond reached into his back pocket and pulled out a black bandana, of the kind
allegedly used by some gay men to indicate their sexual specialties. I didn’t
think that he was signaling me for a date. Smiling, he brought the bandana over
my eyes and tied it at the back of my head.
    “Put
your hands out, please,” he said.
    I
put my hands out slowly. They were bound with rough twine. I was led by the arm
into the back seat, where I was wedged between the two men. Lest I forget