Simple Justice (7 page)

“I have a minute,” he said. His voice was cordial but neutral, giving away little. “Why don’t you tell me more about your assignment?”

“It’s nothing, really. Background for a follow-up piece.” From behind my dark glasses, I studied the pleasing textures of his face, and the way the pattern of his beard accentuated the sharp contours of his chin and jaw. He would have looked good with one or two day’s growth, I thought. Especially in the morning, upon waking, in a bed warm with lust. “I’m actually more interested in your father’s campaign. You seem pretty involved.”

“I wanted some time off before I start preparing for the bar.” He shrugged as if it weren’t all that important. “Working on the campaign is good experience.”

I remembered his mother’s charges in earlier years that her then-husband had rarely made time for their son.

“It also gives you a chance to spend some time with him,” I said. “That must be nice.”

“Are you collecting material for a story, Mr. Justice? Like the one you wrote nine years ago about my parents’ marriage?”

“You do have quite a memory, don’t you?”

“You really hurt my father with that article. Not just politically, but personally.”

“He never challenged me on my facts.”

“I guess that makes it OK, then.”

“Maybe you were the one it hurt.” I saw his eyes shift uneasily. “You must have been, what, nineteen at the time?”

“About that.”

“Your father was a public figure, Paul. He was denouncing homosexuals for their immoral lifestyle, coming out hard against crime. So we decided his own philandering and record of domestic abuse deserved looking into. I’m sorry if you got hurt.”

His face relaxed, to a smile shaped by irony, and maybe a little sadness.

“I’m actually glad you wrote it,” he said. “It made me face some things about him I hadn’t wanted to see.”

Then, after glancing at the notebook in my hand: “I shouldn’t be talking to you like this.”

“I’m not here to grill you about your father, Paul.”

I tucked the notebook behind me, between my waistband and the small of my back, and left it there.

“Besides,” I said, “I’m no longer in a position to get anything sensitive into print. I’m gathering background on a murder case, that’s all.”

“For a story someone else will write?”

I nodded.

“That must be tough,” he said.

“It is and it isn’t.”

He looked away, as if thinking the situation over. I sensed a need in him to talk, and kept my mouth shut, letting the silence work for me. After nearly a minute, with the tension winding tighter, he turned back to me.

“Even before Dad divorced Mom,” he said, “there wasn’t much chance for us to be together. It’s like you wrote in your article. He always had something more important to do than spend time with his family. Sometimes it was his career. Sometimes other women. I guess that’s no big secret, is it?”

“And you resented that. Maybe even more than your mother.”

“I wanted more than anything to feel close to him.” Emotion found its way into his voice. “I didn’t just want it. I
neede
d it.”

“It’s what every son needs.”

“Maybe I needed it more than most.” He made it sound like a confession. “I acted out in some pretty inappropriate ways.”

“So did I when I was younger.” I looked straight at him as I spoke, trying to reel him in as close to me as I could. “For the same reasons.”

For the first time, I saw trust in his eyes.

“You understand, then.”

I nodded, and when he smiled it was like clouds parting.

Suddenly, Paul Masterman, Jr., seemed within reach, attainable. The rivulets of perspiration I felt trickling down my sides had more to do now with anxiety than the heat.

I wasn’t ready for his next question.

“Are you and your dad on good terms now?”

“Not exactly,” I said. I felt memories rising to the surface like a corpse coming up from dark water. “He’s been dead for twenty years.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I’m not.”

It spurted from me like venom, and I instantly regretted it.

“Now it’s my turn to be sorry,” I said. “You didn’t deserve that.”

“I’ll survive.”

“Like your dad.”

His smile widened. Things got brighter again.

“Yeah. Like my dad.”

Our brief relationship had taken a seismic shift; in a matter of minutes, we’d become friends. At least that was how it felt to me.

I glanced at the crew loading up the last pieces of video equipment and getting ready to move on, then at the senator talking earnestly on his cellular phone.

“He covers a lot of ground, doesn’t he?”

“Dad? Yeah. He’s amazing.”

“So what exactly is it that you do for him?”

“I’m in charge of his schedule. And I scout locations and do the detail work for the TV spots.”

“They’re very clever.”

I tried to keep the sarcasm out of my voice, but I must have failed, because his smile disappeared.

“They help get our message out,” he said. “That’s the important thing.”

His words were those of a future politician, but they sounded awkward and insincere, which I appreciated. Unlike his father, he wasn’t all that good at deception yet; maybe there was hope.

I decided to push a little, to see how much hope there was.

“I guess this gay-bashing death is pretty convenient, then.”

“How’s that, Mr. Justice?”

“Your father’s finally found a way to win the hearts and minds of gay voters, while still appealing to the mainstream.”

“We weren’t hoping that someone from the gay community would become a victim of violence,” he said evenly. “But Dad wanted very much to find a way to reach out to gay voters before election day.”

“How inclusive. And how smart, in such a tight race.”

Caution creased his face.

“You don’t like our TV campaign, do you?”

“Not much.”

“Tell me why.”

“My opinion isn’t important, Paul. It stopped being important six years ago.”

“Try me anyway.”

“The hard truth?”

He nodded.

“The spots are shallow, cynical, and exploitative,” I said. “They play on people’s emotions while offering not a single specific about how your father intends to implement change. The entire TV campaign is symptomatic of a shabby trend to manipulate instead of enlighten. Your father and every politician like him should be ashamed.”

“I see.” He peered somberly at me with his remarkable green eyes. “Now tell me how you really feel.”

Then the green eyes twinkled, followed by a grin that showed off his perfect white teeth, about as infectious a grin as I’d ever encountered.

We both laughed at exactly the same moment. I hadn’t laughed in a long time.

“You’re right,” he said, growing more thoughtful. “The spots are everything you say they are.” The look on his face deepened to a kind of sadness. “And what’s worse, Dad knows it.”

“Then why does he do it?”

“Because it works. And that’s the worst part of all.”

I think it was at that moment, as I heard the honesty in his words, that I realized how easily I could fall in love with Paul Masterman, Jr.

“Maybe, when your time comes,” I said, “you’ll find a way to do it differently.”

I felt instantly foolish for trying so hard to make him like me. But I didn’t really regret it, either. It felt good, to be taking a chance after so many years. It felt good to want someone again.

“Maybe I will,” he said.

Our eyes locked.

It was only a moment, the kind between two men that may not mean much to a straight man but usually means more than it should to a gay man who’s had no one in his life for too long, and who suddenly connects with someone in a way that makes him feel no longer alone.

I was about to tell him how much I liked him, to just get it said and to hell with the consequences, when the assistant returned.

She handed him a form to sign, and he turned to go over it while I looked on over his shoulder.

As he jotted his signature, I studied the lovely veins that ran the length of his forearms and stood out prominently on the backs of his hands. I’d always had a thing for well-veined arms. Jacques had made jokes about it during trips back from the hospital, telling me I appreciated good veins even more than his nurses, who always were searching for a new place to stick a needle.

I stared longer and harder than I should have, my eyes eventually going to the papers Paul was signing, and he caught me looking.

He smiled and raised his shoulders in his familiar shrug.

“It’s just a form from the city’s film permit office, Mr. Justice.”

“Actually, I was admiring your ring,” I lied.

I braced myself against the tide of disappointment I felt washing over me. “Married long?”

“A year last month.” He held up his left hand proudly to show off the gold band. “Our first baby’s due in September.”

“Congratulations.”

“Thanks. It’s a girl. Mom’s already got the nursery decorated.”

The assistant, who was hovering impatiently, reminded him that they needed to stay on schedule. Paul extended his right hand to shake mine.

“I enjoyed talking with you,” he said. “It’s always nice to get a fresh perspective.”

“Perhaps we’ll have the chance to do it again.”

“I hope so.”

I watched him climb into the big Buick with his father, and pull the door closed without looking back. Then he was gone, like all the other men I’d bumped into in my life who might have meant something but never would.

I went into The Out Crowd to talk to the witness who had fingered Gonzalo Albundo for the murder of Billy Lusk, feeling more than a little unsettled by my encounter with Senator Masterman and his beautiful married son.

Jefferson Bellworthy was the kind of man who created an instant and indelible visual impression.

Like Alexandra Templeton, he was African-American, but even darker; his skin had the rich, lustrous look of fine ebony, as if God had performed the final polishing.

Bellworthy looked to be in his early thirties, with a good face, and he stood an inch or two over six feet. His powder-blue nylon running shorts were split up the sides to accommodate massive, muscular thighs, and an apricot-colored tank top showed off a gym-sculpted upper body that could justifiably be called magnificent.

My personal taste ordinarily ran to men with lighter frames. Had he shown the slightest interest, however, Jefferson Bellworthy would have been an easy exception.

He was behind the bar when I entered, toweling glasses that looked tiny and inconsequential in his big hands.

The Out Crowd was air-conditioned and cool, with walls painted flat black, like the exterior. Here and there, a poster promoted an AIDS fundraiser or some other event of special interest to the gay community. A George Michael tune played over the sound system, and at opposite ends of the long bar, two older white men nursed drinks. In a side room, a well-dressed Asian man, thirtyish and nice-looking, practiced pool shots alone, sending balls about the table with clean, graceful strokes. Otherwise, the place was empty.

I slipped onto a bar stool. Bellworthy nodded amiably and asked what I wanted to drink. My rule was no alcohol before 5 P.M. It was close enough. I ordered white wine and turned my attention to the dapper, dark-haired pool player.

He was close to my height and slender as a reed, wearing a dress shirt and pleated slacks that appeared to be tailored meticulously for his supple body. His necktie, a rarity in any Los Angeles gay bar, was neatly knotted inside a starched collar. As he moved around the table, deftly making his shots, his smooth, angular face remained expressionless. I guessed his background as Korean or Chinese, but I couldn’t be sure.

“You a rice queen?”

I looked over. One of the older men had slid onto the stool next to me. He was bald and paunchy, with mottled skin on the backs of his hands and tufts of white hair sprouting from his ears like cotton. He smelled like scotch ordered cheap from the well.

“Rice queen,” he repeated. “You know, partial to Asian boys.”

Bellworthy placed a cocktail napkin in front of me and a glass of Chablis on the napkin. I laid three more of Harry’s dollars on the bar. Bellworthy took two of them away.

“Or maybe you go for older guys,” the drunk said, examining me up and down with bleary eyes the way a chef might study a side of beef hanging in a meat locker. “I could sure go for you.”

He leaned closer and reached for my knee. I pulled it away, and he caught hold of the rail to keep from falling.

I drank half my wine, slipped off my stool, and carried my glass around to the middle of the bar, where Bellworthy was putting the two dollars I’d just given him into the register.

“I’m Benjamin Justice,” I said. “I called earlier today. From the Sun.”

“Oh, yeah.” He looked me over quickly. “I’m off in a few minutes. We can talk then.”

I finished my wine, set the empty glass on the bar, and wandered over to the pool table. The player barely glanced up, continuing his solitary shots. I noticed two empty beer bottles nearby, and next to them, one that was half finished.

He took another shot and looked my way.

“You play?”

“Not really.”

He finished clearing the table, caught the cue ball before it dropped, and slipped a quarter into the slot. When the balls clattered down, he collected them, racking them quickly and precisely.

He tipped and drained his bottle, put it aside, and drew the stick back to make another of his perfect strokes. The break was almost surgically clean, scattering balls in all directions and dropping one or two.

“I do not think I see you here before,” he said as he moved around the table, sending balls into pockets. Though his English was fairly good, his accent was heavy, softening his diction to an interesting verbal mush.

“I don’t get out to the bars much.” I added that I was there on business. Not surprisingly, he didn’t pry.

A minute later, he asked if he could buy me a drink. It was spoken like proper etiquette, without a hint of sexual interest.

“Thanks. White wine.”

His eyes, already sparkling from alcohol, registered surprise.

“You do not look like the kind of man who like the white wine.”

“I’m not,” I said. “That’s why I drink it.”

He went away thinking about that and returned a minute later with my wine and a fresh beer for himself.

“To your good luck,” he said, and finally smiled a little. His cheekbones arched so high that his eyes seemed to rest on them like dark moons rising over hilltops.

We toasted, touching bottle to glass.

“My name Jim,” he said, like someone meeting formally for business. He put out his hand and we shook.

“Jim Lee.”

I told him my name, and that I thought he was very handsome.

“You very forward.” He laughed uneasily and picked up his pool stick. “Americans, they very forward.”

Then, diplomatically: “That can be good, sometimes, I guess.”

He began circling the table again, chalking his stick between shots, which he continued to make routinely.

I asked him if he came to The Out Crowd regularly.

“I come maybe two or three days in week.” The alcohol had begun to erode his diction further, and to loosen his tongue. “I not like the West Hollywood bars. I think here is more friendly.”

“Monday nights?”

“Sometimes. Not many people here Monday nights.”

“Is that good or bad?”

“That depends on what you want, I guess.” He bent over to better see the line of his next shot. “Sometimes, I like to shoot pool in the day, when it more quiet. At night, they turn the music up very loud.”

As he leaned over the table, the thin fabric of his suit pants stretched tight across his backside, revealing the form of his lower body. I imagined my hands around Jim Lee’s narrow waist, or sliding up his slender frame.

When he’d taken the shot, I asked casually, “Did you happen to be in on Monday night?”

His eyes searched the table for his next shot, taking longer than before.

“You ask many questions.” He glanced over, not so friendly this time. “You policeman?”

“No.”

“You say you here for some business.” His eyes turned back to scan the pool table again.

“I’m gathering some information for a newspaper. The
Sun
. Do you read it?”

“I read only the Korean papers.”

“Yet you speak English quite well.”

“I am in this country since I am sixteen. But in our house, we were permit only to speak Korean.” He took a shot. His sure stroke was gone, and he missed by an inch or two. “My father, he want to preserve the Korean ways.”

“Did you know someone was killed in the parking lot early Tuesday morning? A customer named Billy Lusk?”

“Yes, I hear.”

He took another shot, missing badly.

“I just thought you might have seen or heard something.”

He stood up, ramrod straight, his head held high. There was an unwavering sense of decorum about him, even if he was unable to look me in the eye, and even while he was on the verge of being drunk.

“As I say before, I not here Monday.”

He unscrewed his stick into two sections and placed them in a narrow leather case, which he zipped closed.

“Did you know Billy Lusk?”

“We play pool.” He slipped into his jacket and slung the leather case over one shoulder by its strap. “One or two times only.”

“Yet you remember his name.”

“It the polite way, to know man’s name.” He shook my hand and said, “Excuse me, please, Mr. Justice. I go now.”

I thanked him for the drink, but he was already gliding out. He passed Jefferson Bellworthy coming my way, looking even bigger and more imposing now that he was loose from behind the bar.

“I can talk now,” Bellworthy said. I watched Jim Lee slip through the heavy curtains that protected the entrance to The Out Crowd from the late afternoon sunlight.

A sudden sliver of brightness, and he was gone.