Owens said, "Wendell owned a gay bar. Larry might have known him."
"The Hang Ten," Dave said. "Were you ever there?"
"No. I've seen the sign. On the beach in Surf."
"That's it. Did Johns ever mention it?"
"Not that I remember." Owens sipped at the coffee, tightened his mouth, shook his head. "Larry was vague about a lot of things. Including how long he'd been on the scene here. I didn't pry, I didn't care. I was too happy to have found him."
"Let me guess," Dave said. "He was the first."
"There were baths, back seats of cars, cheap motels. When it got unbearable." Owens laughed sadly without sound. "But yes, the first at home. We were in pretty close quarters, Gail and Trudy and I." He looked at the spacious room. "It seems like a bad dream, remembering. The way we used to live. Mostly on unemployment. I'd get a draftsman's job. Government projects —county, state, schools, hospitals. I'd last till some so-called architect handed me something too stupid. I wouldn't say anything. That's not my style. I'd just walk out and hunt another job. Nights, I kept designing stuff on my own." He gave a shamed shrug. "Sure, I dreamed of a Larry Johns but it wasn't rational. I hadn't the time. To say nothing of money. I had a family to look after."
"You raised Trudy?" Dave said. "That was kind." Owens brushed the words aside. "It was the way things worked out. She was four when her father died in Korea. Not in the war. Afterward —the occupation. Jeep accident. His lieutenant's pension wasn't big enough for the two of them to live on. Gail would have had to work. She had no skills. Anyway, there was no one to leave the baby with."
"Then she wasn't a baby anymore," Dave said, "and you had time. And money. And privacy. So there was a Larry Johns, right? Where did you find him?"
Owens flushed again, looked away, mumbled, "Hitching a ride at a freeway on-ramp. I'd been to an AIA dinner. I was smashed." He looked back. "In the morning it would figure I'd be sorry, wouldn't it? I wasn't."
"Are you sorry now?" Dave asked. "You didn't exactly jump to help him."
"I picked up the phone when I saw the eight a.m. news Tuesday." He eyed a neat television set on one of the empty shelves. "Gail grabbed the phone and set it out of reach. Just as she hung up on you yesterday. She's always known what was best for me." He grimaced. "I've let her get away with it too long. Over the years it's become a habit. A bad one. For both of us."
"She's trying to protect you," Dave said. "You respect that in Johns."
The yellow eyes blinked. "Okay —touche. You're right. She loves me. In her she-bear way."
"You were going to phone a lawyer?" Dave asked.
Owens nodded. "All Gail could see was that I'd be smeared. Scandal. Homosexuality. Murder. I didn't care. I love him. He loves me."
Dave said, "He went to Wendell."
"But he loves me." Owens was stubborn. "The way he kept my name out of it proves that. And day by day — There are things you can't fake."
"That depends who's watching." Dave turned to the window, drank from the mug. Trudy crouched over the tape deck on the rocks while the dogs wagged around her and Dimond stood in the swirling surf holding a microphone. "Where did he tell you he was going that night?"
"He didn't. I'd taken pills." He nodded at his casts. "The itching can drive you crazy. When I woke, he wasn't with me. Wasn't in the house at all. Trudy was home. I had her look for him."
"What happened to Trudy's face?"
"She smashed up her mother's car. A Vega, less than six months old, never given a bit of trouble. Then —the brakes failed. She and Mark were up the canyon, headed for a rock festival. Totaled the car but they got off. He cracked some ribs, she lost those teeth, blacked her eyes. But considering—"
Dave frowned. "When was this?"
"Week ago Sunday. Two days later, I fell." Owens finished off his coffee. "I'd had a lot of luck. Suddenly it reversed itself. Still —I'm alive, the kids are alive. Gail might have been
"The Hang Ten," Dave said. "Were you ever there?"
"No. I've seen the sign. On the beach in Surf."
"That's it. Did Johns ever mention it?"
"Not that I remember." Owens sipped at the coffee, tightened his mouth, shook his head. "Larry was vague about a lot of things. Including how long he'd been on the scene here. I didn't pry, I didn't care. I was too happy to have found him."
"Let me guess," Dave said. "He was the first."
"There were baths, back seats of cars, cheap motels. When it got unbearable." Owens laughed sadly without sound. "But yes, the first at home. We were in pretty close quarters, Gail and Trudy and I." He looked at the spacious room. "It seems like a bad dream, remembering. The way we used to live. Mostly on unemployment. I'd get a draftsman's job. Government projects —county, state, schools, hospitals. I'd last till some so-called architect handed me something too stupid. I wouldn't say anything. That's not my style. I'd just walk out and hunt another job. Nights, I kept designing stuff on my own." He gave a shamed shrug. "Sure, I dreamed of a Larry Johns but it wasn't rational. I hadn't the time. To say nothing of money. I had a family to look after."
"You raised Trudy?" Dave said. "That was kind." Owens brushed the words aside. "It was the way things worked out. She was four when her father died in Korea. Not in the war. Afterward —the occupation. Jeep accident. His lieutenant's pension wasn't big enough for the two of them to live on. Gail would have had to work. She had no skills. Anyway, there was no one to leave the baby with."
"Then she wasn't a baby anymore," Dave said, "and you had time. And money. And privacy. So there was a Larry Johns, right? Where did you find him?"
Owens flushed again, looked away, mumbled, "Hitching a ride at a freeway on-ramp. I'd been to an AIA dinner. I was smashed." He looked back. "In the morning it would figure I'd be sorry, wouldn't it? I wasn't."
"Are you sorry now?" Dave asked. "You didn't exactly jump to help him."
"I picked up the phone when I saw the eight a.m. news Tuesday." He eyed a neat television set on one of the empty shelves. "Gail grabbed the phone and set it out of reach. Just as she hung up on you yesterday. She's always known what was best for me." He grimaced. "I've let her get away with it too long. Over the years it's become a habit. A bad one. For both of us."
"She's trying to protect you," Dave said. "You respect that in Johns."
The yellow eyes blinked. "Okay —touche. You're right. She loves me. In her she-bear way."
"You were going to phone a lawyer?" Dave asked.
Owens nodded. "All Gail could see was that I'd be smeared. Scandal. Homosexuality. Murder. I didn't care. I love him. He loves me."
Dave said, "He went to Wendell."
"But he loves me." Owens was stubborn. "The way he kept my name out of it proves that. And day by day — There are things you can't fake."
"That depends who's watching." Dave turned to the window, drank from the mug. Trudy crouched over the tape deck on the rocks while the dogs wagged around her and Dimond stood in the swirling surf holding a microphone. "Where did he tell you he was going that night?"
"He didn't. I'd taken pills." He nodded at his casts. "The itching can drive you crazy. When I woke, he wasn't with me. Wasn't in the house at all. Trudy was home. I had her look for him."
"What happened to Trudy's face?"
"She smashed up her mother's car. A Vega, less than six months old, never given a bit of trouble. Then —the brakes failed. She and Mark were up the canyon, headed for a rock festival. Totaled the car but they got off. He cracked some ribs, she lost those teeth, blacked her eyes. But considering—"
Dave frowned. "When was this?"
"Week ago Sunday. Two days later, I fell." Owens finished off his coffee. "I'd had a lot of luck. Suddenly it reversed itself. Still —I'm alive, the kids are alive. Gail might have been
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