Goldenboy by Michael Nava Page B

way of life around here. He’ll be over it by
tomorrow.”
    “You’re home early.”
    He lit a cigarette.
“Yeah. I was having a terrible day — about the two millionth since I passed the
bar, and then it occurred to me, what the hell am I doing?” He smiled and drew
on his cigarette. “I’m not into terrible days anymore.”
    “Maybe you should
just quit.”
    “And do what, die?”
He looked at me and smirked. “Was that tactless?”
    “Yes,” I replied. “A
sure sign you’re getting better.”
    “Did you see the
waiter?” Larry asked, putting out his cigarette. I noticed that he had only
smoked it half-way down.
    “Yeah.”
    “And was he a rabid
queer-baiter?”
    “Didn’t seem the
type,” I said, thinking of Josh Mandel’s eyes. “I could be wrong, of course. He
did lie to me.”
    “About anything
important?”
    “It was about what
he was doing the night Brian was killed,” I replied. “I don’t know yet if that’s
important. On the other hand, I’ve figured out why Jim insists he didn’t kill
Brian Fox.”
    “Why?” Larry asked.
    “Because they were
lovers.”

10
     
    “Really?” His eyebrows flicked
upwards.
    I told him what I
had learned about Brian Fox’s sexual escapades. A penchant for voyeurism, and
budding pedophilia was of a different order than fumbling in the back seat with
more-or- less willing partners of the same age. Yet how different were these
activities from Jim’s excursions into bathrooms and parks? To me, they revealed
a kind of sexual despair. I could understand that in Jim’s case; he was gay and
his fear drove him underground. But what about Brian Fox? Maybe it didn’t
matter. What was important was that Brian was unusually sensitive to Jim’s
sexual secret. My guess was that what drew Brian to Jim was not antipathy as
much as fascination — one sexual loner’s recognition of another.
    “I don’t think
Brian followed Jim out into the parking lot because he wanted to embarrass him,”
I said. “I think he wanted to know for sure whether Jim was gay.”
    “Are you saying
Brian was gay, too?” Larry asked.
    “God, I hope not.
Let’s just say he was — “
    “A pervert?”
    “That’ll do for
now.”
    “That’s the pot
calling the kettle beige.”
    I walked to the
window and looked past the terraced garden to the shimmering lake. “Jury trials
demand a sacrifice,” I said. “And if it’s not going to be Jim, it has to be
Brian.”
    “You still haven’t
explained why you think they were lovers.”
    “The first thing is
why Brian didn’t tell anyone about Jim.”
    “Didn’t he tell
Josh Mandel?”
    “But not Jim’s
parents,” I replied. “The obvious reason seemed to be blackmail, but there’s a
limit to how much you can extort from an eighteen-year-old busboy.”
    “To how much money,”
Larry said, revelation in his voice.
    “Exactly. But the
other thing that might’ve interested Brian was sex. Sex on demand.”
    “You think it didn’t
matter to him that it was another guy?”
    “A blow job is a
blow job is a blow job.”
    “Pace Gertrude
Stein,” Larry murmured and leaned back into his chair. “You said lovers, Henry.
This scenario is not my idea of a romance.”
    “Agreed, but then —
what did Auden say — ‘The desires of the heart are as crooked as the corkscrew.’
Josh Mandel described the scene where Jim supposedly threatened to kill Brian.”
I related Josh’s version from that afternoon.
    “Puts things in a
different light,” Larry said, extracting a cigarette from his pack of Kents.
    “Doesn’t it,” I
agreed. “It sounds like post-coital banter.”
    “Who have you been
sleeping with?”
    “You know what I
mean.”
    Larry lit the Kent.
He blew out a jet of smoke and nodded. “You think some affection developed
between those two.”
    “It adds up.”
    “So am I to infer
that Jim didn’t kill Brian?” Larry asked, tapping ash into a crystal ashtray.
    “No, the evidence
is inescapable. It only