Good to the Last Kiss (22 page)

There was nothing he could do tonight. He hadn’t been able to pick up his Camaro. Tomorrow was the earliest. If he could get the bucks.

He would try harder. He lit the candles, put on the CD. He slipped off his underwear and slid into bed, uncovered, trying hard to clear his mind. He didn’t like the feel of his body. It was softer. Too soft.

Earl Falwell could tell. He couldn’t get it, couldn’t get the thing going that would bring him rest. Must be because it’s his first day out. The cop questions. Got him all jumbled up inside his head. Got him thinking about things he didn’t want to think about. He got to thinking about his sister and about what his dad did to her. And what he did to him. About jail. About Cobra. Earl didn’t want to think about this shit. If he couldn’t get it off his mind lying there, he’d have to get out.

He slid over the edge of the bed, dressed. It would be cold outside. He couldn’t remember a warm, San Francisco night. And there had been precious few dry ones.

Even so, he wasn’t prepared for the hard rain.

It was still dark in San Francisco. Five a.m. Earl Falwell had not yet slept. He dressed in the near dark, faced the dark outside when he opened the front door. He walked north on Stanyan, past Haight and the entrance to Golden Gate Park, to Page Street, then headed east. It was cold. The rain angled at him. Pellets stung his face. It felt good. He walked through the darkened street.

Most of the homes and buildings were dark; but there were lights on here and there. Earl wondered what was going on in all those rooms. He attempted to imagine all the rooms in the city, in the country, in the world and how many different things were going on. People eating, sleeping, pissing, bathing, working, watching TV, fucking, killing. He wondered if anyone was being killed now. He was sorry he did not have his car.

He cut over to Oak Street, then headed east again. He saw someone on the grassy strip known as the Panhandle, which, if you looked on a map, was a kind of rude finger of Golden Gate Park sticking back into the city between Oak and Fell. Earl moved toward the figure. It was hooded and hunched against the rain, but facing Earl as he approached.

At first Earl thought it was a girl. The figure was slight.

‘What’s up?’ Earl asked.

‘Not much. How about you?’

‘Bored. Just walking.’ The face was young, male. So was the voice.

‘Yeah, me too. Bored.’

‘And lonely?’ Earl asked.

‘Who isn’t?’

Earl wasn’t sure how the guy meant it. ‘So, enjoy the night, huh?’ Earl moved past him.

‘Wait,’ the guy said. ‘You have to be somewhere?’

‘No,’ Earl said, turning back around.

‘Why don’t you come to my place?’

‘Why?’ Earl said.

‘We’ll figure out something,’ the guy said.

‘I’m not into drugs.’

‘We don’t have to do drugs.’

‘What are you into?’ Earl asked.

‘What do you like?’ The guy lit a cigarette.

Earl noticed the guy had that sad, pained look around the eyes. Eyes that looked older than the rest of his soft face.

Rain was coming down. The guy’s face was wet. Almost looked like he’d been crying. The guy looked agitated, frightened, confused.

Earl felt an odd stirring in his brain. He didn’t feel as he had before – with his sister and the others. Not exactly. Whatever way he had felt before, there was anger in it now.

Gratelli found the same parking spot he’d had earlier – a minor miracle despite the short time he was gone – and pulled the Taurus into the small space. The light was still on in McClellan’s apartment. In the dim street lamps across the street he saw two figures, talking to each other in the rain. Noticed one of them lighting up.

‘Smoking’ll kill you fella,’ Gratelli said aloud but to himself. Conversations this time of night, Gratelli thought there was no doubt a more dangerous deal being struck – drugs more likely. Sometimes after dark this wasn’t the best of neighborhoods. A little crack, a little meth, a little heroin. And who knows what goes down.

Gratelli tried to shrug off the wetness once inside the building’s entry hall. He went to McClellan’s door. It was unlocked. He went inside. It was still. Too still. McClellan was not in the main room.

‘Mickey?’

There was no answer. No one in the kitchen. The door to the bathroom was ajar. There was light behind it. He looked at the bedside table. The pistol was missing. Gratelli knew what he’d find. There was really no need to open the door. He did. He had to.

Earl followed the young man into the rear entrance to the apartment building. Only a little light filtered down the dingy stairway from the landing above. Earl put his hand on the fellow’s shoulder before the first step.

‘Here,’ Earl said. ‘I don’t want to go up.’

‘What?’

‘I said I don’t want to go up.’

‘Just for a few minutes,’ the guy said. ‘You don’t have to do anything.’

‘Take off your coat.’

The young man turned, took off his coat. Before he showed a nervous anticipation. Now he showed a nervous caution.

‘It’s warmer up there,’ the young man said. ‘We can relax.’

‘I don’t wanna relax.’

‘Something to drink maybe?’

‘No,’ Earl said, taking the guy’s coat and throwing it on the steps. ‘Drop your pants.’

‘Hey, I want to do it with you, but not like this.’

‘C’mon.’

‘Hey, maybe this isn’t a good idea.’

‘Turn around,’ Earl said, grabbing shoulders and forcing the guy to face the other way. Then Earl put his arm around the guy’s neck, holding him firm. ‘Drop the pants.’

‘I don’t mind getting a little kinky,’ the guy said. ‘But this isn’t . . .’

‘Shut up,’ Earl said, increasing the pressure on the stranger’s neck. He heard the rustle of the pants fall. He felt powerful, really powerful. ‘I’m getting tired of getting fucked,’ Earl said. ‘About time somebody else did.’ He didn’t know whether he said this out loud or just thought it.

‘Use a condom,’ came the strained voice. ‘Please use a condom.’

Earl felt the boy’s warm body against his own, pushed in, felt the warmness engulf his flesh. It was as if it was this that caused his trembling to stop. Now he had the power. This time for real.

Gratelli went out to the car, made the call. Then he went back inside. There was a note. It read: ‘Fuckin’ awful thing to do to you, I know. Remember, nothing you could have done. Nothing anybody could have done. I was past all that.’

Gratelli wadded up the paper torn from McClellan’s notebook and stuffed the wad in his pocket. He sat down on the edge of the bed. Mickey had tried to minimize the mess. The tile in the bathroom was far easier to clean than mattress and carpeting. A deadly dose of something might have been easier; but Gratelli didn’t know of too many cop suicides done with pills. That just wasn’t the way. You ate your gun. That was the way.

Stupid. All of it was stupid.

Gratelli tried to figure out what he felt. He was stunned. Perhaps he was in shock. He looked around the room. Pretty anonymous. ‘End of the line,’ McClellan had said. If Gratelli had been a bit sharper, he would have seen this coming. His visit, the friendly, not-too-personal chatter fell way short. McClellan had needed professional help.

Gratelli would have to tell Beth. He didn’t know her that well. McClellan had been right. They didn’t have dinner together. They didn’t visit each other. They weren’t close. Only accidental glimpses into each other’s lives.

Still, it was up to him to break the news. No one else was any closer. McClellan had alienated most of his peers and virtually all of those in charge. If he hadn’t made Homicide before making so many enemies, somebody would have found a way to get him off the force. Nobody knew McClellan very well, Gratelli thought. Including McClellan.

Gratelli went outside to wait for the cops to arrive, noticed one of the figures from before crossing the grassy divide back the other way. Whatever was going down had gone down, Gratelli thought.

Two cop cars pulled up. Lights flashed, but there were no sirens. In the back of one was the lieutenant.

‘Who’d a guessed? Jesus!’ he said, covering up his neck with the collar of his long coat. ‘You OK, Vince?’

Earl knew something had changed while he was in jail. No question. He couldn’t have explained it even if he’d had someone to explain it to. Maybe he grew up.

Lying in bed, he had no urge to light the candles, to feel his own body, to listen to music. There was a dullness in his mind, but he wasn’t confused anymore. The baby monster grew up to be a real one. Eat or get eaten. At first he never figured Cobra to be that smart, but Cobra had it right. Cobra hadn’t tried to help him. He just took what he wanted. But Earl learned something. There was nobody to help. Just get tough. Don’t take any shit. Get what you need. Take what you want if you figure you can get by with it. Be a little smarter than Cobra. Don’t get caught.

What happened in that back stairway was done by someone he was becoming. Someone who wasn’t lonely anymore, wasn’t sad anymore, who wouldn’t worry about the rightness or wrongness of what he had done. He still couldn’t sleep. He didn’t care. Earl Falwell had found a new power, not over unsuspecting women; but over whoever he wanted to have power over. Earl Falwell wasn’t frightened anymore. He was in charge. Like Cobra. Like his father and stepfather. Prison, however brief it was, was a turning point. Things would be different from now on.

TWENTY-ONE

H
elluva time for Bradley to call, Paul Chang thought. He had thirty-five minutes to get to the airport to pick up Julia, and Bradley, very unlike him, wanted to talk. And Bradley, also very unlike him, didn’t come to the point.

Something about opportunity. Change.

‘What! Bradley tell me what. Or wait until you get back and we’ll have dinner and drinks and we’ll talk until dawn.’

‘I’m not coming back,’ he said. ‘I’m staying here. In Florida. I’ve got an invitation to spend some time in New York.’

A brick drops inside Paul’s stomach. Heart flatlines. He hadn’t thought about that possibility.

‘Oh,’ he managed.

‘You’ve got a life, right?’ Bradley said. ‘Julia’s coming back . . .’

‘Yes . . . yes . . . um yes, as a matter of fact, she’s nearly here.’

‘I mean, it was you and Julia, anyway, wasn’t it?’

‘Well yes,’ Paul said, puzzled. ‘She’s my friend.’

‘And you’ve got her back after all.’

‘I guess you could say that.’

‘I guess I did say that. Listen, Paul, this is kind of really abrupt, you know?’

‘Go on.’

‘I’ve met someone.’

‘Oh.’

‘His name is Chen. He’s a model. From Vietnam. Chinese actually from the Cholon district. It’s very exciting.’

‘I see,’ Paul said. ‘That’s not a surprise, you know.’

‘I know. And I’m being an ass. Maybe that will make it easier.’

‘It’d be strange if it were a Moscowitz or O’Brien or even Rodriguez. I’m sorry, don’t worry about it. Enjoy . . . have a good . . . what the fuck . . . have a good whatever. I mean it, don’t worry about it.’

‘I hate to do this by phone.’

‘Well, I’ll box up your stuff and you can let me know when . . .’

‘Just my leathers,’ Bradley said.

‘All right.’ Paul tried hard to keep emotion out of his voice. Not too cool, though. Friendly.

‘You’re really being nice about this.’

Paul looked at his watch. He felt a little hypocritical.

‘I am disappointed,’ Paul said, knowing he was about to launch into something. ‘The really sad part of this isn’t our going our separate ways. The sad part is that we’re going to continue to go the same way. You’ve found another almond-eyed, dark-haired, smooth-bodied exotic creature. And me? I will no doubt begin my search for another pretty blond. I won’t even care if he can read or write.’

‘Ouch,’ Bradley said.

‘Ouch, ouch. One for each of us. I’m serious. The mind won’t matter. The heart won’t matter. I know better. Don’t you?’

‘Me?’ Bradley said. ‘What do I know. I’m just a pretty face. Just a blond. I better go too.’

‘Chen awaits?’

‘Could be. Yes.’

‘I wish I could say “goodbye” in Chinese, at least.’

‘What can you say in Chinese?’ Bradley asked.

‘Kung Pao Chicken. How’s that?’

‘Bye.’

‘Not good enough,’ Paul said, then clicked off the phone.

Julia Bateman sensed the differences immediately. The people and the pace. At the San Francisco airport, the generally slow-paced vanilla world of an insulated Midwest was replaced by the largely fuel-injected swirl of humanity here at the shaky edge of the continent.

Paul was never on time. Sometimes early, sometimes late, but either he was shorted a sense of time and got lost in it or it was a characteristic of his passive-aggressive personality. Or both. She loved him dearly. She was pretty sure he was the one she most longed to see. But there was still a question about Thaddeus. She couldn’t get him off her mind.

When Paul finally arrived, the moment of awkwardness she feared didn’t materialize.

‘When we get back I’ll make myself scarce so you can acclimatize,’ Paul said.

‘Not for long,’ she said. ‘I want to jump in. Tonight I want to go to that Thai restaurant across from Hamburger Mary’s and have Thai beer and something hot and spicy.’ Her excitement broke. ‘Oh God, I bet you have plans. I always do that. I’m sorry.’

‘I don’t have plans.’

‘Tonight’s not a Bradley night?’

‘Bradley who?’ Paul said.

‘What?’

‘He found another Asian youth . . . one from the old country. Or some old country. Vietnam.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘So tonight is yours. We’ll have a feast. But remember I’m allergic to coconut.’