Simple Justice (22 page)

It was a few minutes past midnight, technically Sunday and the anniversary of Jacques’s death.

I felt more lost than I ever had without him.

With the Billy Lusk story to work on, I’d begun to feel like maybe I was useful for something again. I’d even had the self-deluding notion that I might somehow save Gonzalo Albundo from himself and whatever demons were driving him to self-destruction, the way Jacques had once saved me.

And now, in simple journalistic jargon, I was off the story.

I walked aimlessly along the boulevard, weaving through the Saturday night crowd.

An old Russian immigrant couple trudged along in front of me, worn out from their long day’s labor, keeping their eyes straight ahead. Bus drivers in brown uniforms walked home from the nearby depot carrying empty thermoses, or waited to catch buses to other neighborhoods. Restaurant workers, mostly young and Latin, waited with them, their pockets filled with tips and their heads with thoughts of sleep.

For hundreds of others on the street, though, the night was just beginning.

I stopped for a moment in front of the club where Jacques and I had met for the first time ten years earlier. Maurice liked to say that the search for love had been Jacques’s religion, the disco his temple, the dancing his sacrament. The first time I laid eyes on him, it had certainly seemed that way. I’d come in out of the rain for a drink, to see him gyrating on the strobe-lit dance floor like a dark spirit, lost in the music, so graceful and gloriously sensual I knew I had to have him.

The name on the club was different now. So were the faces in the line outside. And the dual notions of HIV and the need for protection added an undercurrent of caution that hadn’t been there a decade ago. Yet the crackle of sexual energy and the rush of romantic expectation were the same.

I thought seriously about going in, straight to the bar for a double Cuervo Gold and to hell with what happened after that. And I almost did.

Then I saw a man not much older than me standing alone at the bar, surrounded by men close to half his age, hoping one might want him. He’d taken a position near the door, where he could watch the faces and bodies coming in, picking out the ones that met his specifications. He had a drink in one hand, a cigarette in the other, and a thin, false smile that looked propped up by alcohol and desperation.

I knew I was looking at myself a few years from now, or tomorrow, if I walked through that door tonight.

I turned away and made myself keep moving.

I cut up Larrabee Street, past the trendy video bar on the corner, past the upstairs clinic that counseled gay and lesbian couples, past the video store with special sections near the front for Judy Garland, Bette Davis, and Joan Crawford and another near the back for gay porn.

Jacques and I had hiked up this street too many times to count, heading toward Sunset Boulevard, on our way to Book Soup to browse, or to Tower Records, or farther on to Queens Road to wind our way for miles up into the dark hills, where we could watch the city spread out below us like an ocean of lights.

“Look,” Jacques had said the first time he’d seen the Queens Road sign, “they named a street for us!”

I passed two men kissing at the next corner, as openly as straight couples elsewhere in the city. Then more couples, mostly male, out walking their dogs.

In the next and steepest block, I stopped to stare into a second-floor apartment, feeling like an intruder but unable to pull myself away.

The curtains were open and the lights were on. A man with a metal walker struggled to cross his living room, trying to reach his kitchen, unconcerned about who might see.

I guessed his age at roughly forty. He was chalk white and deathly thin, a walking cadaver in diapers that clung, just barely, to his emaciated body. Each step was followed by half a minute’s rest, during which he sagged against the rails, gasping for air.

Ten minutes passed before he reached the border of his kitchen, and a few more before he managed the several feet to his refrigerator door. He opened it and forced something into his mouth with a spoon, getting down a few swallows. Then he turned the walker around for the long journey back.

So many men, so little time.

“It’s better that you went as quickly as you did,” I said to Jacques. “It’s better that you didn’t end up this way.”

I headed back down the hill, using the alleyways and side streets to work my way home, free of the crowds.

It seemed like a good time to get out of West Hollywood. A good time to move on, before Harry changed his mind and came around again, trying to draw me back into his life with a lightweight assignment and new rules. Before Paca Albundo called to pressure me for more help getting her little brother out of jail. Before Templeton tried to put her hooks deeper into me, for reasons even she might not understand. Before I figured a way to run into Paul Masterman, Jr., one more time, playing out my silly adolescent fantasies.

I had at least three hundred dollars remaining from the advance Harry had given me. The Mustang was running pretty well. I could throw some clothes together and grab Jacques’s photograph, and Elizabeth Jane’s, and be driving up the coast or across the desert or down to Mexico before the bars were closed.

The house was dark when I got there. Before going to bed, dependable Fred had swept up the glass and boarded up the broken windows.

I found Maurice sitting in a wicker rocker on the patio out back. He’d bundled his dead cat in a blanket and clutched it like a parent who’d lost a child to starvation or war, but wasn’t ready yet to give up the body. The other two cats curled at his feet, as if they sensed what had happened and knew it was their duty to keep him company.

Maurice and Fred had given Jacques more comfort and security than he’d imagined was possible. They’d tried to do the same for me. I felt I should say something to Maurice, some kind of good-bye.

I pulled up a chair and we sat for awhile without speaking, listening to a possum rummage in the trash cans beside the garage. One of the cats jumped into my lap to be scratched. As she curled there peacefully, I wondered why it was that certain animals could coexist with such ease, when human beings found it so difficult to accept each other’s differences.

We heard the rattle of a trash can lid and saw the possum waddle down the driveway, dragging its ratty tail.

The cat opened an eye, then closed it again. It nuzzled my hand for more attention and I scratched it under the chin, where it liked it most.

“I miss Jacques,” Maurice said. “I miss him so very, very much.”

His face bore his sadness plainly, but it was also beatific with age and wisdom. Jacques had always said that if he could be like anyone when he got older, it would be Maurice.

“I’d give everything,” I said, “for just one more minute with him.”

“Yes, I know.”

“I could say so much in just one minute.”

Maurice patted my leg with his bony hand.

“He hears you, Benjamin.”

I put the cat down and wandered out into the yard, shoving my hands deep in my pockets and listening to the quiet.

I knew I wasn’t ready to leave West Hollywood, not yet.

I wasn’t ready to leave the streets where Jacques and I had first walked and talked. The streets where he’d reached down and taken my hand as we strolled, unconcerned about who might see. The streets where we’d marched side by side in political rallies, or laughed together over silly things only the two of us could understand, or ducked beneath awnings to get out of the rain and impulsively kissed. The streets where we had made our plans, in the rare and wonderful moments when things had felt right between us.

I sensed that he was still here, in the one place he’d always felt safe, and when I left I wouldn’t know him anymore. I wasn’t yet prepared to say good-bye.

Through the open upstairs door, I heard my phone ring.

I didn’t move, preferring to keep the other world out of this one.

It rang again.

“Better get it,” Maurice said. “You never know.”

I took the stairs two at a time and caught the phone on the fourth ring. It was Jin Jai-Sik.

He was drunk, but when he told me he had something for me, he sounded clear and determined.

He gave me an address where I could find him in Koreatown.

The signs along Vermont Avenue were mostly in hangul, so I followed street numbers.

They led me to a club that was tucked deep into the corner of a mini-mall and looked unimposing from the outside.

Inside, the place was stylish and expansive, opening up to dining rooms on one side and a polished parquet dance floor on the other, with contemporary art on the walls and a tall vase of exotic flowers in almost every corner.

In the middle of the dance floor, a young couple kissed, dancing slowly to a tune heard only in their own hearts. Nearby, a sharply dressed deejay in an elevated glass booth packed up his music for the night. Three more young couples passed me going out, speaking animatedly in Korean. I was the only Caucasian in the place, but no one seemed to care or even notice.

Jin Jai-Sik sat alone at the front bar, mumbling over an empty shot glass, while an attractive female bartender dutifully listened. He was dressed in a dark sport coat and light slacks, and, in his lap, clutched a black shoulder bag large enough to contain the box of photos I’d come for.

When he saw me, he straightened up, his face suddenly ebullient.

“My friend, Benjamin Justice!”

He stood, wobbling, and placed the shoulder bag carefully on the bar stool next to him. He bowed decorously, shook my hand, and glanced at the bartender.

“Teresa, this my friend, Benjamin Justice.”

I shook her hand, and he pushed me onto an empty stool.

“Drinks for us,” he told her, “and one for you.” He laughed. “Because you so beautiful.”

She smiled patiently, glanced at her watch, and reached up at the end of the bar. Crown Royal bottles crowded the top shelf, filled to varying levels, each marked with a different name or set of initials. She found one marked “JJS’’ that was nearly empty, brought it back, and set it on the bar.

Jin spoke to her in Korean, and when she shook her head, he raised his voice.

She hesitated, looking unhappy. Then she reached under the bar and brought out a fresh bottle, which she placed beside the other.

Jin pushed a finger into my shoulder.

“You drink with us,” he said.

I asked the bartender for a glass of white wine.

“No pussy drink!” Jin shouted. “If you want me give you something, you drink man’s drink!”

I glanced at the shoulder bag on the stool beside him, then at the bartender watching me. I nodded and she skillfully poured three shots, equal levels in the small glasses, finishing off the old bottle.

The liquor was amber, gemlike. I held it up to the light, appreciating the color and the feel of the smooth, solid glass in my fingers.

I hadn’t tasted hard liquor in several months, and felt my insides caving in.

I set the drink down and pushed it away.

“You want what I have?” Jin said. “You drink with me.”

I looked into his eyes. There was nothing soft in them, nothing yielding.

I picked up the glass. Jin raised his to mine, and the bartender joined us. My hand trembled.

“To my two good friends! Teresa and Benjamin!”

We threw our heads back and emptied the liquor into our throats. As it went down, my body shuddered gratefully and immediately demanded more. I pushed my glass across the bar.

The bartender opened the new bottle and poured. I drank quickly, without bothering to toast.

Jin craned his head toward Teresa.

“She pretty, yes?”

I nodded.

“You single. She single. Maybe she like you.”

He turned to her.

“You want to go out with this Caucasian guy? He got big dick.”

I put a hand on his wrist.

“Jin, let’s go.”

He pulled his arm free.

“We go when I say! Not when you say!”

He pointed to the empty shot glasses. She filled two of them, but whisked hers out of sight below the bar.

I could feel the alcohol flowing through me now. Everything was slowing down, feeling good.

“This time you say toast how,” Jin commanded.

I lifted my glass.

“To my friend, Jin,” I said, looking into his narrow dark eyes. “Whose sorrow I hope to one day understand.”

The fierceness suddenly went out of him. His shoulders slumped, and he hung his head, letting it bob drunkenly.

“You make me feel bad. Why you do that to Jin?”

I held my glass upraised until he lifted his head and tapped my glass with his. We downed our drinks, and he put a hand on my shoulder to keep from falling. I felt his warm breath on my face.

“They’re closing, Jin. It’s almost two.”

He peered into my eyes, and the cruelty returned.

“More drinks!”

“I’ve had enough.”

I could hear how weak and unconvincing I sounded. It made me feel ashamed, and I seized on it to help fight the craving that was eating away at me inside.

Jin clutched the shoulder bag with one hand. With the other, he picked up his glass and held it between our noses.

“You have enough when I say.”

I put a hand on his leg, high inside his thigh, where the bartender couldn’t see. I reached deep and stroked him through the thin material of his pants, until I felt him stiffening.

“I think we should go,” I said. “Right now.” He looked at me like he hated me. I kept stroking him, and gradually saw desire overcome the anger in his face.

He nodded dumbly and pulled out his wallet. Inside were three singles, nothing more.

“You got money?”

My wallet was fat with the remainder of Harry’s advance. Jin plucked out two twenties and pushed them at the bartender for the bottle. Then he took another, slipping it toward her for a tip.

“Because you so beautiful, and I want marry you,” Jin told her. Then, to me: “She beautiful. Yes?”

“Yes, she is.”

“He like you,” Jin said, getting to his feet. “I think he like to take you out. You want to take her out?”

The bartender and I exchanged an understanding look. I reached for the bag, but Jin grabbed it first.

“This mine. You want it, you do something for me later.”

He grabbed the bottle of Crown Royal and shoved it into the bag. “This go with us.”

The young couple from the dance floor shuffled toward the door, still necking, and we followed them out.

*

I turned toward the car in the parking lot, but Jin staggered away toward a side street, disappearing around a corner.

I went after him, catching up as he weaved along the sidewalk, caroming off parking meters.

“It’s after two,” I said. “The clubs are closed.”

“This Koreatown. Never close.”

He stumbled on for another block, then turned into an alley. He found an unmarked door imbedded with an electronic eye and pushed a buzzer.

A young woman opened the door, balancing bottles of OB beer and glasses on a tray. When she recognized Jin, a cautious smile appeared on her face, and they spoke in Korean.

We went in, and she locked the door behind us.

Inside it was warm and noisy; the air was heavy with cigarette smoke. Koreans of all ages, from sleeping babies to toothless grandparents, filled the booths and tables and little side rooms. Waitresses scurried about with bottles of beer and orders of food, and customers moved from table to table, greeting friends.

Around the main room, television sets were suspended from the ceiling, all showing the same karaoke video: a young Korean couple walking hand-in-hand on a pristine beach while romantic string music played in the background.

A balding, strongly built man stood at his table gripping a microphone and singing the lyrics that appeared in hangul beneath the scenes.

The waitress led us to an empty booth. Along the way, Jin boisterously greeted old friends. Most were courteous and responsive, but wary.

As we slid into the booth, the song ended, and the crowd rewarded the singer with polite applause.

Jin placed an order. The waitress went away and returned quickly with two small glasses, which he filled with whiskey.

He pushed one at me. The air had sobered me up a little and sharpened my sense of shame, and the booze started to look as poisonous as it did inviting.

“What about the photos, Jin?”

“First, we drink more whiskey. Eat. Drink some beers. Then I go with you and you get what you want.”

He drank his whiskey down at once. I held my glass to my lips and waited.

His head fell forward, almost to the tabletop. I dumped my drink into a small vase of plastic flowers and reached across to touch his face.

His head bobbed up.

“We go your place soon.” His words slopped together now, and his voice was full of contempt. “I give you back your dirty pictures.”

“They’re not mine, Jin.”

“They yours. I find under your bed.”

“Why did you take them?”

“I see them and think maybe my picture there too. That you get my picture when I sleep and put it with all your other lovers.”

“I didn’t take those photos, Jin. They don’t belong to me.”

He reached across the table, grabbing at my shirt but missing.

“You lie!”

“They’re not my pictures, Jin.”

“So why you have them, then?”

“They belonged to Billy Lusk.”

“Who that?”

“The man who was killed at the bar.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“He slept with those men, not me. He took those photos.”

He looked at me stupidly, barely able to keep his head up.

“You say the truth?”

“Yes.”

“Why you keep them, then?”

“I need to find something.”

“Find what?”

“I don’t know. Maybe nothing. But I have to look.”

“They really not your pictures?”

“Not my pictures.”

His head weaved strangely, and his eyes roved the table, fixing on me only fleetingly.

“I sorry, then.”

He picked up his glass and managed to find his lips with it. When he discovered it was empty, he shouted in Korean to the waitress, who was nearby. She hurried toward the kitchen.

“Jin.”

His eyes had glazed over like those of a dead fish. I thought he might pass out or throw up, or both.

“Are you sure your photo wasn’t with the others? And that you didn’t remove it?”

“I tell you!” he shouted. He thrust his chest angrily against the table. “I never sleep with that man! Only shoot pool!”

“But you still haven’t told me where you were on Monday night, just before he was murdered.”

He looked away, growing sullen.

The waitress arrived with beer and sandwiches. As she left, Jin shouted angrily after her, and she hurried off again, returning moments later with a microphone. Jin chewed at his sandwich and watched the TV monitor closest to us.

A minute later, the video he’d requested appeared on the screen: a young Korean couple with a small child, walking hand-in-hand through the tree-lined streets of Seoul.

As the music came up and the lyrics appeared on the screen, Jin swallowed some beer and raised the microphone to his lips.

When he sang, the slurring seemed magically to disappear. His voice was clear and steady, deep and resonant.

He sang in Korean, with strength and passion, but also unabashed tenderness. Tears welled up in his eyes, but his voice never quavered, and his eyes never left the screen.

I thought at that moment that Jin Jai-Sik was the most beautiful man I’d ever seen. Impossible to know or befriend, perhaps, but immeasurably beautiful.

The room grew quiet, and he sang as if totally unaware of anything around him, lost in the images of a homeland that was still part of him, but only a memory and a dream.

The others seemed to sense what he was feeling, and to share it. As he finished, they erupted into enthusiastic applause. Several men stood and raised their glasses to him, shouting their praise in Korean. A few wiped away tears.

Jin laid the microphone on the table, and looked at me passively, as if everything had been resolved for him.

“We go now. I got no more money. You pay. I sorry.”