The Right Thing to Do by Jonathan Kellerman Page B

down to sleeping on the living room couch of his Beverly Hills apartment and insisting Malcolm use the bed. And, disappointingly, a female presence never intruded on the time the brothers spent together. Though Malcolm did find a drawer full of rubbers in the bathroom, some of which were in strange colors and had fringes around them. There were also nudie magazines in a little floor rack next to the toilet and Malcolm was pleased that Steve had left them there for him to see, maybe he was finally regarding Malcolm, thirteen years his junior, as a man. Or at least capable of becoming one.
    During the entire week Malcolm spent in Los Angeles in ’58, Steve made sure he ate a solid breakfast, took him to good restaurants for lunch and dinner, and saw to it that they covered the usual tourist spots, driving all over town in the blue Eldorado, the top down when weather permitted, which was usually. At red lights, people regarded the Cadillac with admiration. The driver, too, it was apparent to Malcolm. Steve reciprocating with The Smile, that sudden flash of perfect white teeth. The sparkle in his dark eyes that went with it.
    After one particularly intense smile session with a blonde in a T-bird, Steve turned to Malcolm. “Like the pearlies, kid?”
    “Yeah, they’re great.”
    Steve tapped an incisor and lit up a Camel. “Courtesy, Dr. Weldon Markowitz, the best damn dentist on Bedford Drive. Cost me a damn fortune but, you know, tools of the trade. Thank God I’m a guy, you should see what chicks have to do.”
    —
    The summer of ’58, they cruised all over the city, Steve showing him Olvera Street, a strange little outpost right in the middle of downtown L.A. but looking like an old Mexican village. Then over to the Watts Tower, which was beyond different but actually pretty interesting as an example of a hobby taken to the extreme. Next came the vulgar, overgrown polychrome pagoda that was Grauman’s Chinese Theatre on Hollywood Boulevard, where Malcolm was pretty sure Steve started moving especially slowly. And glancing around more than usual.
    Hoping someone would notice him?
    No one did, but Steve didn’t display any disappointment. Not Steve’s style, with him it was either good cheer or strong silence. But that changed when Steve came upon Gary Cooper’s footprint and autograph in the sidewalk and Malcolm was certain he saw his brother grimace for a second, then look kind of wistful and turn away, as if needing a moment to himself.
    But then, a second later, Steve was happy and confident and talkative again and they were off to a restaurant on the Boulevard called Musso & Frank to gorge on shrimp cocktails, gigantic steaks, an extra plate of a fish called sand dabs “for the table,” mountains of home fries, sides of creamed spinach, Lyonnaise potatoes, brussels sprouts, macaroni au gratin, and two slabs of spumoni for each of them as dessert.
    Washing all that down with Martinis for Steve, extra olives on the side, and four bottles of Coke for Malcolm.
    Steve had polished off half his steak when he said, “Try this,” and unfolded a menu to block them and offered Malcolm a sip of the cocktail. The taste reminded Malcolm of the smell in Dr. Rosetti’s office when it was time for a booster shot.
    He said, “Delicious,” and Steve cracked up and ate an olive.
    That night, lying in bed, Malcolm wondered why seeing Gary Cooper’s star had caused his brother to get a little down. His best guess was that it had something to do with the fact that Steve had only worked on one picture with the star.
Springfield Rifle,
back in ’52, not long after Steve’s arrival in Hollywood.
    Not a big part, Steve had been just another Union soldier in a film that got mostly bad reviews and pretty much faded away. But Malcolm told his classmates they had to see it, it was the greatest movie of the year.
    In one of the few letters Steve wrote to Malcolm, he noted that Cooper was a “man’s man. In every meaning of the