Day of Confession by Allan Folsom

the blood of a cardinal. I will not bathe in the blood of a pope.”

10
    The Hotel Hassler. Still Tuesday, July 7, 10:00 P.M .
    “GREAT! GREAT! I LOVE IT!… HAS HE CALLED in?… No, I didn’t think he would. He’s where?… Hiding?”
    Harry stood in his room and laughed out loud. Telephone in hand, his shirt open at the neck, sleeves rolled up, shoes off, he turned to lean against the edge of the antique desk near the window.
    “Hey, he’s twenty-four, he’s a star, let him do what he wants.”
    Signing off, Harry hung up and set the phone on the desk among the pile of legal pads, faxes, pencil stubs, half-eaten sandwich, and crumpled notes. When was the last time he’d laughed, or even felt like laughing? But just now he’d laughed, and it felt good.
    Dog on the Moon was a monster hit. Fifty-eight million dollars for the three-day holiday weekend, sixteen million more than Warner Brothers’ highest estimates. Studio number crunchers were projecting a total domestic gross of upward of two hundred and fifty million. And as for its writer-director, Jesus Arroyo, the twenty-four-year-old barrio kid from East L.A. Harry had found six years ago in a special writing program for troubled inner-city teenagers and had mentored ever since, his career was blasting off the planet. In little more than three days he had become the new enfant terrible , his golden future assured. Multi-picture contracts worth millions were being overtured to him. So were demands for guest appearances on every major television talk show. And where was baby Jesus in all this? Partying in Vail or Aspen or up the coast looking at Montecito real estate? No? He was— hiding!
    Harry laughed again at the purity of it. Intelligent, mature, and forceful as Jesus was as a filmmaker, at heart he was really a shy little boy who, following the biggest weekend of his career, could not be found. Not by the media, not by his friends, his latest girlfriend, or even his agent—whom Harry had been on the phone with. No one.
    Except Harry.
    Harry knew where he was. Jesus Arroyo Manuel Rodriguez was his full name, and he was at his parents’ house on Escuela Street in East L.A. He was with his mom and his hospital custodian dad, and his brothers and sisters, and cousins and aunts and uncles.
    Yes, Harry knew where he was, and he could call him, but he didn’t want to. Let Jesus have his time with his family. He’d know what was going on. If he wanted to be in touch he would be. Much better to let him celebrate in his own way and let all the other stuff, including the congratulatory call from his lawyer, come later. Business did not yet rule his life as it did Harry’s and the lives of most everyone else who was a success in the entertainment world.
    There had been eighteen calls waiting for Harry to return when he’d checked in yesterday. But he’d answered none of them, just gone to bed and slept for fifteen hours, emotionally and physically exhausted, the idea of business as usual impossible. But tonight, after his encounter with Farel, work had been a welcome relief. And everyone he’d talked to had congratulated him on the big success of Dog and the bright future of Jesus Arroyo, and had been kind and sympathetic about his own personal tragedy, apologizing for talking business under the circumstances and then—all those things said—talking business.
    For a time it had been exhilarating, even comforting, because it took his mind off the present. And then, as he’d ended the last call, he realized no one he had talked to had any idea that he was dealing with the police or that his brother was the prime suspect in the assassination of the cardinal vicar of Rome. And he couldn’t tell them. As much as they were friends, they were business friends, and that was all.
    For the first time, it came to him how singular his life really was. With the exception of Byron Willis—who was married and had two young children and still worked as many hours as Harry