Best Friends (40 page)

“Sid, I'm sorry.”

“Sorry's not enough. Sorry's”—Sid waved his hand—“sorry's nothing.”

He was right. And maybe if I'd stopped Sally from buying heroin, Ben would be alive today. But Sally, in a real way, was better off without him. And what did Sid want of me now?

“I've always been a good friend to Sally,” I said hotly. “I've always loved her.”

“That true?” Sid exhaled loudly and looked away into the room. “Funny way of showing it.” His eyes wandered from table to table. “I'll tell you,” he said, “your not talking to her about Ben sure left a hell of a mess for me.” He straightened up, blinked, and leaned forward over the table, looking me straight in the eye. “I killed him,” he said slowly.

“What?” I thought I'd misheard him.

“Ben. My son. I killed him.”

I sat for a moment, trying to sort out the implications. “That's ridiculous. You can't be responsible for every self-destructive decision your child makes.”

“Listen to me, I'm telling you something. I killed him. Directly, myself, it was”—he held up his hand in front of me—“my hand.”

“In Mexico?” I said, stupidly.

Sid nodded.

“Did you get really angry at him? Did you hit him and not realize—”

“Of course I got angry! I'm calling Sally, he said, she'll get me out of this hellhole. She'll bring me some junk. She always brings me junk, he said. Just like that, whiny just like that. I don't like your tone, I said. What business is that of yours? he said. You'll call your sister over my dead body, I said. Fine, he said, I'll try not to trip.

“And he called her! After all that, he called her.

“We had him totally drug-free down there, he was detoxed all the way, and then he calls up Sally and asks her to bring him heroin. He gets her back into it! I'm dying, he tells her, I'm a prisoner, they're not feeding me, I can't go to the bathroom by myself. . . . All that crap. He was fine. He was living like a prince in a palace. He had videos, he had a pool, we even had a cook down there, an American cook that could make him hamburgers.

“And the worst thing was, Sally fell for it. She was going to come! She was going to risk everything she had and carry him a suitcase full of heroin. It was sitting in the trunk of her Volvo in her driveway in West Hollywood. Fifty bags or sacks or whatever they call it. For Ben she'd ruin her life. She'd get in that car and ruin her life.”

Of course, Sid knew Sally was coming. He'd tapped the phone. I found my voice, accusatory, angry: “Why did you listen in on them? Why couldn't you give Ben his privacy? Why did you have to interfere?”

“How could I
not
interfere?” Although his words were exploding within me, I realized he was speaking in no more than a whisper. “You don't think they'd catch her? Some sweet-young-thing American lawyer crossing into Mexico with a suitcase full of drugs? Think about it. Think what they'd do to her. In Los Angeles they'd ruin her career, she'd end up disbarred, bad enough, but in Mexico . . . Listen, she'd be dead in a second, or taken hostage and they'd be calling me for ransom, or thrown in some jail and raped ten times a night by all the guards. You know what those Mexican police are like. That's an old joke—is it worse to meet a cop or a criminal in a dark alley down there? I know those people. I used to sell down there. You wouldn't believe what they buy. The sort of stuff you went apeshit over. The sort of stuff you showed Sally back when, back when . . .” He couldn't seem to finish.

The torture magazines. The magazines from the med center's dirty drawer.

“I was doing everything I could think of to save him. But finally it was him or her. That was my choice. Him or her.”

I saw the final scene dimly in my mind, Sid screaming at Ben, hitting him, Ben drawing up his scrawny arms.

“You think it was easy?” Sid whispered. “I'm the one who woke him up early, said come on, Ben, I'm showing you something, and walked him out of town and up that hill. It was awful. Where we going, Pops? he said. You know how he talked. He didn't even sound curious, that was just something to say. Just keep going, I said, I want to show you something. He went up like a lamb. I think he even thought I had something stashed for him, some drug I'd decided he could take, buried under a pine tree or something. He got short of breath walking up the hill. I could make it up the hill easier than he could, isn't that strange? But he went right up. There, I said, isn't that a beautiful view. Not bad, he said.” Sid's voice choked. “He was my sacrifice. I was like Abraham up there, I kept waiting for God to save him. But God—”

“What, you slit his throat?”

“I'm not a barbarian! I shot him.”

“Jesus.”

“Back of the head, very clean. I had the pistol in my pocket. It didn't hurt him.”

“This is some sick joke, I know it is, you're, you're . . .”

Sid spread out his hands in a querulous gesture. “I had to do it, okay? I had no choice. And he didn't have a life, anyway. If he'd had a life, God would have saved him. I asked God to save him. I said, God, if Ben should stay alive, give me a sign.”

I realized my mouth was open, so I shut it.

“Pretty day,” Sid went on. “Pretty day, not many clouds, a little breeze off the ocean. It's the western coast of Mexico, same coast as here. Quiet, peaceful, no one around.”

“What kind of sign were you looking for?”

A burst of laughter rolled from the booth behind us. “You dog, Jake,” a boisterous voice said. “You dog!”

“That!” Sid said, pointing in the direction of the laughter. “I don't know, anything. Clap of thunder, plane overhead, somebody walking up a path. A chipmunk, I would have taken a chipmunk! We were standing beside this spindly little tree, high up, right on the edge, looking right over the ocean. I was waiting for a sign. But there was nothing. Not a thing. So I did it.”

“What did you do with his body?”

“He didn't weigh much, you know. Not eating, drugs, wasting away. I picked him up and kissed his forehead and tossed him out over the cliff. I thought someone would find him, you know, and then maybe they'd suspect me, at least come ask me about it. But no one found him. He must've just gotten washed out by the tide. I ended up telling the doctor down there that I'd seen him jump.”

“This is true?”

“Look, I did it for Sally. It's like business, okay? Sometimes you have to divest something to keep the company solvent. And Sally's better off now, right? You think she'd be married with a kid now if Ben was still alive? I mean, it was a terrible price, but she's definitely better off.”

“You're evil,” I breathed, not even realizing I was thinking it.

“Yeah, maybe.” Sid frowned, conceded. “But basically, I'm a realist. Not many people can stand to look reality straight in the face.”

He always said he could do the deed.

I thought of the woman in the magazine, her twisted face, the flesh beneath the branding iron. One man holding her down, the other above her. Look, Sid said, I'm a realist. I'm giving people what they want. There's a market! Can't a fellow target for a market?

“What about the Ten Commandments?”

His response was quick: “Honor thy father and thy mother.”

I shook my head. I knew why he had done what he did. I understood his rationalizations.

“Why are you telling me this?” I said. “Do you expect me just to listen to you and say okay? Don't you think I'll get right back to Sally's and call the police?”

“It was in Mexico. And there's no proof. You think if someone asked me I'd admit it?

“And this is why I wanted to tell you, because you were involved, because you're the one who knew what Sally was doing. Your best friend! And you didn't even try to stop her. Why didn't you say, Sally, you're acting crazy? Why didn't you say, Sally, by everything you hold near and dear, swear to me you'll stop this? But you didn't ask her to stop at all. You drove with her to that rat-hole Chinese place in Encino. Left your baby daughter with Sally's maid, who can't speak English! How a mother can leave her baby daughter with a Mexican maid to go buy heroin is beyond me.”

“I didn't want to lose her,” I said, but I couldn't speak, the words came out in a broken whisper.

“What?”

I pressed my lips together, swallowed, blinked my eyes. “I didn't want to lose her,” I repeated, the words like an infant's bleat. I felt as if I'd plucked my soul out of my chest and was handing it, small and quivering, across the table to Sid.

He didn't seem to recognize it. “Insanity,” he spat. “You were participating in insanity.”

I felt a spurt of anger. “No more insane than shooting your own son.”

“It wasn't easy!” Sid's voice rose briefly, then he whispered again. We were, after all, in a public restaurant. “It wasn't easy, and it wasn't what I wanted. But when I found out Sally was coming down with that suitcase, I knew exactly what I had to do. I told you, I'm a realist. You know what I think of it, ultimately? I think I bought Sally her future.

“He wasn't quality,” Sid said. “He would have died anyway. An overdose, an argument over money. Could have caught AIDS like those sad sacks you work with. At least this was quick. And we were right by the sea, we were looking over the sea. He didn't know what was happening.”

“Why are you telling me this?”

“I told you,” Sid said with impatience, “because it's your fault too! Oh, I know what you're thinking; ‘Me? Me? I'm an AIDS doctor, I work with the poor, I did mouth-to-mouth on that disgusting Sid Rose. I'm a perfect person. I'm Ohio's own Mother Teresa.' ”

“I don't think that.”

“You don't? Oh come on, baby. Every time I turn around, Sally's telling me how virtuous you are. You don't charge people, you go to their houses, you sit up late with them till they die. You can hardly make it out here anymore to see your best friend, your patients keep you so busy. But listen to me, Florence Nightingale, I asked you to make Sally stop taking drugs to her brother. You were the one who could have stopped her, the only one—she's not a girl with friends, she's private, like me—and instead, you're driving with her through Beverly Hills tittering away, la-de-da and little waves like the queen makes, that's what you were doing. You rode with her to get Ben drugs, you got out of the car and stood with her at the counter.”

“How do you know?”

“You think I didn't have a private detective?”

“I don't believe this.”

“Then you were the one who said take Ben down to Mexico. Remember that? Get him away, you said, get him out of Sally's hair. Your suggestion! Get rid of him, you said. So that's what I did. You should thank me. You didn't lose her after all, did you? Because I saved her.”

Sid sat up straighter, looked down at the table. “It's not that I don't miss him,” he said, his voice suddenly thick. “On the dirt on the hillside I found, I found . . .” He faltered, reached in a pants pocket, and tossed a tiny zippered plastic bag, the size used to store a ring or earrings, on the table. “Here,” he said. “My memento.”

I picked up the bag automatically, glanced uncertainly at its contents. It looked like a fleck of swiss cheese.

“It's a tooth,” Sid said. “It's part of one of Ben's teeth.”

I dropped the bag on the table. He had shot his own son in the back of the head and blown out his teeth.

Sid picked up the bag and gazed at it. “It's a comfort to me,” he said. “I know it's crazy, but it's physical evidence I had a son. I take it everywhere.”

“Here's your Mexican omelet,” the waitress interrupted, shifting Sid's plate up her arm and sliding mine to the table.

“Thanks,” I said automatically.

“How can you eat all that fat?” Sid slipped the tiny bag back into his pocket. He had a slice of melon and a muffin. “You're a doctor!”

Eggs, cheese, sausage. A dribble of salsa. He was right. “I don't know,” I said. I couldn't believe he was talking about food, and as seamlessly as if we'd been talking about the weather. I pushed the plate away. “I can't eat.”

“I think that's why I had that problem at Sally's wedding. Remember? I ate that lobster ravioli, and my internist says lobster's higher in cholesterol than eggs.” Sid leaned forward. “Did you really think I was dying?”

“Yes.”

“And you wanted to save me, huh?” Sid grinned and wiped his mouth with his peach napkin. “I'm flattered.”

“You're Sally's dad,” I said. I felt as if I couldn't breathe, the tables and chairs and banquettes were splintering in front of me, the chair legs and tables at ungodly angles, the water glasses glinting in shards.

“I love her,” Sid said, his voice cracking. “She's a wonderful daughter. Ever since she was a little girl, we've had this bond, Sally and me. What I did, that Ben thing, I did it for her. But she can never know, because she misses her brother—I don't blame her, he was her only brother—and if she knew why I took care of him, she'd blame herself. And I won't have her blaming herself. Never. She's been through enough. But you, you had to know. You see, Clare? I'm teaching you something: things have consequences. You had a chance to set Sally right. Why didn't you? I can't figure that one out. You're her best friend. Did you think it was glamorous, driving around Beverly Hills with that little box of heroin? You don't think that stuff was killing Ben? You're a doctor. Why didn't you say, Sally, this stuff is poison to your brother? Couldn't you tell that just to look at him? Sally admires you, she thinks you're some kind of a saint, working with those people you work with, and it looks to me like you think you're a saint, and I want to tell you, you're not a saint at all. You know what you are?” He leaned forward.