The Hell You Say (2 page)
Which was a damn shame, because I cared for him. A lot.
When we’d first met, he’d been active in the S/M scene. I thought -- hoped -- maybe he was less active in the clubs these days.
What I did know for sure was that he was dating a woman, a female cop named Kate Keegan. He’d been seeing her longer than he’d known me; I didn’t think it was just a cover relationship. But he didn’t discuss it much with me.
“So I hear Chan’s writing a book.”
A few months earlier Jake’s partner, Detective Paul Chan, had joined Partners in Crime, the weekly writing group I hosted at the bookstore.
“Yeah, a police procedural.”
“Is it any good?”
“Uh, well…”
Jake laughed, shoved the basket of chips my way.
* * * * *
I was arranging the front display of Savant’s latest, The Rosicrucian Codex, wondering if I had enough bottles of four-dollar champagne, when I received another call from the dark side.
“Smitten, battered, beaten, torn. I prick at thee as if a thorn --”
6 Josh Lanyon
“Speaking of pricks,” I interrupted, “You’re wasting your time. Angus doesn’t work here anymore.”
“Wh --?” He -- the voice was male -- caught himself. There was a pause, then a click as the receiver slammed down.
I tried *69, but the number was blocked. Not a surprise, I guess. I knew, of course, that it wouldn’t end there.
Sure enough, later that afternoon I got another caller requesting “Gus.” This time the voice was feminine, dulcet-toned. In all the time Angus has worked for me, I’ve only known one female to call him, and that was his girl friend, Wanda. Wanda is not dulcet-toned. She sounds like she was weaned on unfiltered Marlboros.
“Sorry,” I said in answer to the query. “He’s not here.”
“Oh, gosh,” she fretted. “I’ve got to talk to Gus. It’s, like, an emergency.”
“Like an emergency, but not?”
“What?”
“Forget it.” I said, “Look, he’s gone. For real. Spread the word.”
A pause. Then she faltered, “I’m not sure…?”
I decided to try a different approach. “Can I get your name? Maybe he’ll phone me once he gets settled. You’re a friend of Angus’s?”
She laughed a tinkling laugh, a party-girl laugh. “Well, ye-aah! Of course! And I’ve got to talk to him. He wants to talk to me, believe me.”
“Oh, I do,” I said with equal sincerity. “But he’s gone. Skipped. I’d like to help, but…hey, why don’t you leave your name and number, and if he gets in touch with me, I’ll let him know you called.”
Another hesitation. Then she said coolly, “Sure. Tell him Sarah Good called. He knows the number.”
666?
She replaced the phone gently. I followed suit. I caught a glimpse of my rueful expression in the mirror across from the counter. Sarah Good. One of the first of the Salem witches to be hanged. Cute.
Well, on the bright side, at least the kids were getting some history at school.
* * * * *
The Hell You Say
7
Not that it wasn’t great to see people reading. Especially people who looked as though a book would be their last choice of entertainment. I just hoped the evening wouldn’t end with broken furniture or the building struck by a lightning bolt.
Running next door, I bribed the girls closing the travel agency to lend a hand with the crowd control.
By seven-fifteen, our illustrious author was officially late, and the natives were getting restless. There was a line of women waiting to use the washroom and a nasty argument about the origins of the swastika brewing near the “cozy corner.” A local reporter tried to interview me about my involvement in a murder case the previous year. I resisted the impulse to finish off the last of the drugstore champagne and hide in the stockroom.
At seven-thirty, there was commotion at the front door. Several people, clearly part of an entourage, entered the store. Three leggy ladies dressed more like succubae than minions of a reputable publishing house entered. A plump, bespectacled man drew me aside and introduced himself as Bob Friedlander, Gabe’s handler.
Handler? Nice work if you could get it, I guess.
I didn’t catch most of what Friedlander said, because the next instant, the Prince of Sales had appeared. Gabriel Savant stood over six feet tall and was built like a male model --
in fact, he looked like the male half of the illustration on a historical romance: unruly raven hair falling over his tanned forehead, piercing blue eyes, flashing white smile. Were there rhinestones in his teeth? Certainly something shone in his right earlobe. He wore leather jeans and a black cape. Amazingly, nobody laughed.
“But this is charming,” Gabriel assured me, as Friedlander navigated his star in my direction. “Of course, it’s not Vroman’s, but it’s nice.”
“Ambiance,” Friedlander said quickly. “Wonderful ambiance.”
“We try,” I said.
“Of course you do,” Gabriel encouraged. He glanced at his handler. “Bobby, what is there to drink? I’m parched.”
Friedlander cleared his throat uneasily. Along with that musky aftershave of Gabe’s wafted a mix of mouthwash and bourbon. Mostly bourbon.
“There’s brand-X champagne making the rounds,” I said.
You’d have thought I’d offered milk to a vampire. Gabe blanched. Swallowing hard, he said, “Oh, God, let’s get this over with.” He strode over to the antique desk I had set up.
Enthusiastic applause from the waiting audience echoed off the dark beams.
“This book tour has been grueling,” Friedlander told me by way of apology. “Twenty cities in thirty days…radio interviews at four in the morning, cable talk shows, book club luncheons; often we’re doing three bookstores a day. Gabe is exhausted.”
“I bet you both are.”
8 Josh Lanyon
He laughed. Behind the glasses, his mild eyes were unexpectedly alert. “A little. I understand you write also.”
“A little.” Not enough, thank God, that anyone wanted to send me out on the road.
“You’re too modest. I’ve read Murder Will Out. Very witty.”
Either this guy did his homework like nobody I’d ever met before, or he was gay. My books don’t attract many mainstream readers.
“But you need a hook,” he said. “A platform.”
“You don’t think a gay Shakespearean actor amateur sleuth is enough of a hook?”
“No. No way. Look at Gabe. He wasted years producing beautifully written, critically acclaimed literary fiction that no one wanted to read, and then what happens? He comes up with Sam Haynes, the occult detective. The rest is history.”
History, occult, and romance all spelled out in purple prose, I thought as Savant read aloud from his latest masterpiece. He kind of reminded me of a hunky Vincent Price, but the audience loved it. They stayed silent as the proverbial grave while he read. Not a whisper, not a snicker. When he finished reading, he took questions. Lots of questions. His fans wanted to know everything from Where He Got His Ideas (at which he turned up his elegant nose, beckoning for the next question) to Was He Seeing Anyone.
“I’m seeing everyone,” Savant drawled and tapped his forehead, either to indicate the Third Eye or that his busy social life was giving him a headache.
Maybe the bubbly helped, but the fans drank it right up.
Friedlander listened and ate pizza rolls like they were going out of style. Every so often, as when Savant graciously referred to me as “Andrew,” he would smile nervously in my direction.
And then a customer asked what Savant was working on now. Apparently this was the question he’d been waiting for. He rose to his feet, shaking back the cape.
“As you know, I’ve made a fortune telling stories about the occult and its practitioners, but my current project is not a mere work of fiction. During my research, I’ve uncovered evidence of a real-life, secret cult, a sinister organization which has preyed upon the young and naïve for the past two decades. A cult right here in this very city. In my next book, I plan to expose that cult and its leaders to the world.”
Bob Friedlander dropped his paper plate. Pizza rolls scattered across the hardwood floor. I stooped to help retrieve them and saw out of the corner of my eye that Bob was shaking. I glanced up. His round face was white, perspiring; he looked terrified.
I turned. Gabriel Savant beamed at his audience, most of whom were smiling and chattering, delighted to learn that another of those pesky cults was soon to be history -- and a best-selling book. At the back of the room, however, stood a small group of young women.
They were dressed in black, lots of leather and lace, makeup and hair inspired by Halloween.
Elvira: the Early Years. They appeared to be hissing at Savant.
The Hell You Say
9
* * * * *
The first Saturday of each month I had brunch with my mother, at the ancestral ruins in Porter Ranch in the North San Fernando Valley.
The brunch tradition began when I left Stanford and broke it to her that I would not be returning to the nest. It shouldn’t have come as a shock -- or even as bad news -- but as she had chosen not to remarry after my father’s death (despite a legion of eligible suitors), I was all Lisa had in the world. As she rarely failed to remind me.
“It’s a beautiful house,” I agreed.
The house smelled of pine trees and cinnamon and apples. It felt warm and Christmassy. In some ways it still felt like home. I’d taken my first steps in the marble foyer (an initial attempt to make a break for it). I’d learned to drive in the quiet surrounding streets. I’d experienced my first fumbling sexual encounter in the upstairs bedroom beneath the fake open beams and poster of a boyishly grinning Robert Redford in The Natural.
“Although it really is too large for one,” she said, as though she had suddenly noticed those additional sixteen rooms.
“Maybe you should think about moving,” I said heartlessly.
I had underestimated her as usual. “If I were to…move…do you think the house would suit you and Jake?” she inquired innocently.
I inhaled my white-chocolate pear tartlet and spent the next moments wondering if the last thing I saw would be the mental picture of me and Jake picking china at Neiman Marcus.
“Darling,” Lisa gently protested when I could breathe again. “You shouldn’t talk with your mouth full.”
“You’re not serious about Jake and me moving in here,” I said.
“Why not? You seem awfully fond of him, and he’s…he’s…” I could see her searching for something nice to say about Jake. “He’s a very efficient sort of person.”
The “why nots” were so many that I was speechless. The worst part of it all was that for one split second I seriously considered it.
Seeing my moment of weakness, she moved in for the kill.
“It’s wonderful that you’re feeling so well these days, Adrien, but it doesn’t do to push yourself too hard.”
“I’m not.”
She shook her head as though it were all no use. “The economy is so dreadful right now, especially for small businesses.” As though Lisa had the foggiest idea about the challenges of running a small business. “And when you talk about needing to expand, I 10 Josh Lanyon
simply can’t help worrying about the stress and strain of an additional mortgage on you, darling. Whereas this house is paid for free and clear.”
Like a fool, I said, “Even so, there’s no way I could begin to afford the upkeep.”
Her violet eyes widened at my naïveté. “You’re going to be very wealthy one of these days, darling,” she chided. “I know I could prevail upon Mr. Gracen to arrange something with your trust fund.”
“Don’t start that again.” Funny how that money was absolutely untouchable when it was for something I wanted that Lisa didn’t approve of, but right there at my fingertips if I’d give in to whatever she wanted for me.
“If your poor father had realized that you would end up sacrificing your health struggling to make ends meet --”
“Lisa, where is this going?” I broke in. “Are you thinking of selling the house? Is that what this is about?”
I was amazed to see her turn pink.
“Um, sort of,” she said. An un-Lisa-like comment.
When she didn’t continue, I prodded, “And?”
“Actually, I’m thinking of getting married.”
The Hell You Say
11
In the silence that followed her words, I heard one of the Christmas ornaments fall through the branches of the ten-foot noble fir taking up a quarter of the dining room.
“Come again?”
“I’m thinking of remarrying.” Prettily blushing.
“Anyone I know?”
“Councilman Dauten.”
My fork clanged against the brass charger plate.
“Councilman? Is that what you call him? Doesn’t he have a first name?”
“You sound rather waspish, Adrien,” my mother observed. “Do you not like the idea?”
“Of Councilman Dauten? I’m not sure. Have I met this one?”
Lisa’s eyes narrowed. She said carefully and clearly, “Do you have a problem with the idea of my remarrying?”
Did I? I wasn’t sure. Whatever I felt -- and it was sort of a brakes squealing, glass smashing, horns blaring reaction -- it wasn’t logical. Whereas Lisa marrying was perfectly logical. She was still young, considering the fact that she was my mum, and beautiful, considering the fact that she was my mum.
