good. Dave Brandstetter, Vern Taylor. Vern's just turned up after seventeen years. How about that?" Owens's eyes smiled at the man. Gently affectionate. As at a backward child.
"We were in high school together. West L.A." Taylor came around the bed to shake Dave's hand. "Lived on the same tacky street. Both our dads sold appliances at Sears." He looked Dave up and down. It gave Dave the feel of being wistfully priced, like candy behind glass. Taylor smiled a sixth-birthday smile that was marred by bad silver dentistry. "Now he's a big-time architect. Is that what you are too?"
"Insurance," Dave said. "Claims investigator."
Something happened to Taylor's smile. He said guardedly, "Oh? Yeah?" He worked up his euphoria again. "Well, it must seem crazy to a stranger but I'm really excited. Nobody else in our class turned out to amount to a damn. Me especially." His laugh didn't even try for irony. "I've got failure down to a system. Like my dad. But look at this." He lifted his hands and let them fall. "Just look at it! Isn't it great? Last time I saw him, he was stumbling over hurdles in gym, just like the rest of us. And where do I see him next? On a big TV talk show. Magazine color spreads —beach homes for movie stars, swanky town-house condominiums. He's a celebrity." He grabbed Owens's hand and shook it hard. "Listen, Tommy—I'll come back. But you're busy. I mean, important people. What time have you got for nobodies like Vern Taylor?" At the room door he turned back. He pleaded, "We had some laughs, though, didn't we? Talking over old times?"
"It was a good morning," Owens said. "Do it again."
"Get better, now." Taylor lifted a hand, went away.
Owens told Dave, "Sit down." His voice was heavy. Dave put himself in one of a pair of new director's chairs —orange canvas, varnished pine. Owens said, "So now you've found out where he lived. Does it matter? Does it have to matter? He wanted to keep it secret."
"Wanted to and did," Dave said. "Why?"
"To protect me," Owens said. "You've probably got an opinion about Larry. Everybody has. The same one. A hustler. No morals. Well, it's not so."
"What was he doing in Rick Wendell's bed?"
Red flared in the taut skin across Owens's cheekbones. "That's not what I'm talking about. I don't know but I know he would have explained it."
"And you'd have accepted what he said?" Dave asked. "A nice arrangement. For him."
"I meant he wouldn't kill anybody. He didn't have it in him."
"Why did he go with Wendell?" Dave glanced around. "I've seen the Wendell place. Johns was better off here. You kept him, right?"
Owens said defensively, "He'd never had a family. Father deserted his mother when he was born. Mother put him in a home, then vanished. He got passed from hand to hand until he was old enough to go out on his own. No education to speak of, no opportunities. I wanted to turn things around for him."
Dave said, "Every hustler on Hollywood Boulevard tells that story."
"Maybe it's true." Owens was combative. "Maybe that's why they're on Hollywood Boulevard."
Dave grunted, leaned forward, held out his cigarette pack. "Was Wendell a friend of his? Or did he just get lonely for the life, walk out on the highway, stick out his thumb? And Wendell stopped. He was supposedly on his way to see a film with his mother."
"I don't know." Owens had taken a cigarette. He rolled it in long, knuckly fingers, watching it grimly. "If you think I've been able to sleep for wondering, you're wrong." Dave clicked a slim steel lighter and Owens hung the cigarette in his mouth and turned his head against the pillows for the flame. "Thanks. Maybe the coffee in that thing is still hot." On a pivot table next to the bed pottery mugs waited beside a stout plastic vessel with a handle. Dave went to it, turned the screw top, poured into two mugs, screwed the top back. Owens worked a button on the bed frame that set a small motor humming and got him into a more upright position. Dave handed him a mug.
"We were in high school together. West L.A." Taylor came around the bed to shake Dave's hand. "Lived on the same tacky street. Both our dads sold appliances at Sears." He looked Dave up and down. It gave Dave the feel of being wistfully priced, like candy behind glass. Taylor smiled a sixth-birthday smile that was marred by bad silver dentistry. "Now he's a big-time architect. Is that what you are too?"
"Insurance," Dave said. "Claims investigator."
Something happened to Taylor's smile. He said guardedly, "Oh? Yeah?" He worked up his euphoria again. "Well, it must seem crazy to a stranger but I'm really excited. Nobody else in our class turned out to amount to a damn. Me especially." His laugh didn't even try for irony. "I've got failure down to a system. Like my dad. But look at this." He lifted his hands and let them fall. "Just look at it! Isn't it great? Last time I saw him, he was stumbling over hurdles in gym, just like the rest of us. And where do I see him next? On a big TV talk show. Magazine color spreads —beach homes for movie stars, swanky town-house condominiums. He's a celebrity." He grabbed Owens's hand and shook it hard. "Listen, Tommy—I'll come back. But you're busy. I mean, important people. What time have you got for nobodies like Vern Taylor?" At the room door he turned back. He pleaded, "We had some laughs, though, didn't we? Talking over old times?"
"It was a good morning," Owens said. "Do it again."
"Get better, now." Taylor lifted a hand, went away.
Owens told Dave, "Sit down." His voice was heavy. Dave put himself in one of a pair of new director's chairs —orange canvas, varnished pine. Owens said, "So now you've found out where he lived. Does it matter? Does it have to matter? He wanted to keep it secret."
"Wanted to and did," Dave said. "Why?"
"To protect me," Owens said. "You've probably got an opinion about Larry. Everybody has. The same one. A hustler. No morals. Well, it's not so."
"What was he doing in Rick Wendell's bed?"
Red flared in the taut skin across Owens's cheekbones. "That's not what I'm talking about. I don't know but I know he would have explained it."
"And you'd have accepted what he said?" Dave asked. "A nice arrangement. For him."
"I meant he wouldn't kill anybody. He didn't have it in him."
"Why did he go with Wendell?" Dave glanced around. "I've seen the Wendell place. Johns was better off here. You kept him, right?"
Owens said defensively, "He'd never had a family. Father deserted his mother when he was born. Mother put him in a home, then vanished. He got passed from hand to hand until he was old enough to go out on his own. No education to speak of, no opportunities. I wanted to turn things around for him."
Dave said, "Every hustler on Hollywood Boulevard tells that story."
"Maybe it's true." Owens was combative. "Maybe that's why they're on Hollywood Boulevard."
Dave grunted, leaned forward, held out his cigarette pack. "Was Wendell a friend of his? Or did he just get lonely for the life, walk out on the highway, stick out his thumb? And Wendell stopped. He was supposedly on his way to see a film with his mother."
"I don't know." Owens had taken a cigarette. He rolled it in long, knuckly fingers, watching it grimly. "If you think I've been able to sleep for wondering, you're wrong." Dave clicked a slim steel lighter and Owens hung the cigarette in his mouth and turned his head against the pillows for the flame. "Thanks. Maybe the coffee in that thing is still hot." On a pivot table next to the bed pottery mugs waited beside a stout plastic vessel with a handle. Dave went to it, turned the screw top, poured into two mugs, screwed the top back. Owens worked a button on the bed frame that set a small motor humming and got him into a more upright position. Dave handed him a mug.
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