Boulevard (23 page)

The door pushed open—and Casey knew. Dr. Lee sat across from them and talked just like every other doctor. He said things like, “It's important that we look at the entire HIV picture,” and “Paul, naturally, at this instant your emotions are running very high. It's completely normal. But we should take a moment to look at your situation in the context of treatment, safe sex, and what's the best way to take care of your health in the future.” Paul was silent. He rocked back and forth on the table. Casey held his hand still tighter. His breaths were fast and deep, like he was trying to pull in as much air as he could.

Dr. Lee kept talking. Soft and nice. But it's easy to be nice when you're on that side of room, Casey thought. Try being like Paul over here, and you're seventeen and it's time to start thinking about dying. Try looking out the clinic window and see a street full of people who are going to make it to fifty, sixty, seventy, eighty. They're going to have millions of laughs, millions of kisses, millions of good times. They'll get to do something with their lives. Casey ached like she never ached before. She felt like she was in some kind of movie and she was playing somebody else's part—only this was real. And you couldn't walk outside into the sun and forget it all.

Dr. Lee continued talking in his caring doctor's voice, but she and Paul only heard only one word, which pounded over and over like a hammer—AIDS.

They didn't check out of the Chateau after all. This was one night they weren't going to spend on the street. Paul sat on the bed, flicking through the channels. He stopped at
Mr. Rogers' Neighborhood.

“I used to love this show.”

“Me too,” Casey said.

“He's such a dork, but there's something about him that's … I dunno …”

“Real?”

“Yeah. Real. And he's not ever gonna lie to you. You can always trust him.”

Paul's pager started beeping. Casey picked it up from the table beside the bed and read the number to Paul.

“It's Lodge,” Paul said. “Fuck him.”

Her thoughts exactly.

Casey turned towards Paul. He was staring at Mr. Rogers. A toy train was going around a track. Mr. Rogers was talking about
always, always, be kind to the people around you. It will make their day brighter, and yours.

A few minutes later the pager went off again—this time with 911 at the end. Casey didn't care how many times the thing went off, they were never going to answer it. But then she said, “Hand me the phone.”

“You're not gonna call him?” Paul said.

“Yeah, but not for what he thinks.”

When Lodge answered, he was pissed he got her and not Paul. He wanted to know where Paul was. Casey felt like screaming at him. Instead she said, “He's too sick to talk right now.”

“What do you mean, sick?”

She hated his voice. He sounded rich and smooth. But so what? In reality, he was just another pimp.

“Really sick. He's been throwing up all day.”

Paul leaned in close to hear.

“Let me speak to him,” Lodge said.

“He can't.”

“Can't? Oh please.”

“He's in bad shape. Listen, he needs some money for a room.”

“I'm starting to get it.”

“Get what?”

“The shakedown. How long are we talking?”

“I don't know. A week? He's in bad shape.”

“When he's better, tell him to call me.”

Paul lifted his hands and pushed them closer, to say, ‘make it smaller.'

“Look, Casey said, “even a few days would help.”

“Really?” Lodge said.

“Yeah.”

“I'll tell you what … I think he's full of shit. I think you—whoever you are—is full of shit, too.”

Paul heard the answer, got off the bed and paced the room.

Asshole, Casey thought.

“There's one other thing,” she said. “Paul wanted to let you know, if we can't get any money for a room, we might have to see if anyone's interested in hearing his story.”

Silence … scary silence. She held her breath, too nervous to breathe. She looked at Paul. Their eyes met as they waited …

Finally, he exhaled and followed it with, “You give Paul a message from me, okay? You can tell him he's a fucking street hustler and there's nobody out there who'll care about his story. You tell him to get well soon, or he can forget the car, forget the biggest paydays I guarantee he's ever seen. He's going to be back selling his ass on Santa Monica with all the other hustlers, and when he comes begging to come back, I'm not going to take him—”

Casey slammed down the phone. She was shaking.

“Fuck!” She felt like crying. She hated herself. “I'm sorry.”

“Don't be,” Paul said. “You tried. He's just a complete asshole.”

Mr. Rogers walked to the coat rack at the door and took off his red sweater. He was singing.
It's a beautiful day in this neighborhood, a beautiful day for a neighbor. Would you be mine? Could you be mine?

Paul walked to the widow and looked out over the Strip.

“You know, I hate every john I ever did. They're all freaks. But what am I gonna do, infect them?”

“You can't,” Casey said.

“They deserve it.”

“You can't. Right?”

“My hustling days are over. And what do I got?”

“Let's get outta here.”

“Sure,” he said in a whisper.

“Yeah. Come on. Let's do it.”

“What?”

“Get outta here. Go to Montana.”

“And do what there?”

“I'll get a job babysitting or working in a preschool.”

Paul leaned his head against the balcony door.

“Come on …” Casey said, “let's not just sit around letting shit happen to us. We'll go and—”

“Right. Go to Montana to die. Just what I need.”

“No, jerk. People live a long time with this. Ten, twenty years. Or more. That's what the girl doctor who saw me said.”

“But you didn't test positive.”

“It doesn't mean she wasn't right. It's a long time. Ten years ago, where were you?”

Paul looked at her. A smile came to his face—the first one she had seen in a while.

“I was seven. It was my first year of Little League T-ball. I loved it. I was pretty good. Whenever I got a home run my teammates would jump up and down like crazy and run over to high-five me at the plate …”

His smile faded. “A lot happens in ten years.”

“It's a really long time,” Casey said, “We'll make it a great ten years. They'll have a cure for AIDS by then. They gotta. And we'll be so far from Hollywood, it'll seem like some kinda dream. What do you say?”

“We're both through with dates, right?”

Casey nodded.

“So we're going to be poor as shit?”

“I'm used to it,” Casey said.

“Then let's go in style.”

48
Jimmy

J
immy and Erin snaked through the mob at the SR club. Girls were swinging around poles on three stages, mind-numbing techno was cranking. At first, Jimmy didn't want to tell Erin where he got the tip—he figured he would seem like some crummy cliché, cop pushing forty dating a starlet-stripper half his age. On the other hand, it was the truth, and thanks to Dani, they had a lead which might actually go someplace. But the main reason he told Erin, was maybe, if somehow, the planets miraculously lined up, he might have a tiny prayer of a chance with her, and this time he wasn't going to screw it up by telling half-truths and leaving things out. Those days were behind him.

When he told Erin, she gave him a mischievous smile which he thought might be saying, he was yet another guy-going-gray taking advantage of the local beauties—pretty sad. But the look also could have meant that she understood what he had with Dani was only a substitute until the real thing came along.

Dani was off tonight, thank God. Jimmy scanned the crowd, trying to spot Tara. It was also time to rattle the boss' cage. Every hell had its Cerberus, and Jimmy saw Sean, who waved for them to come to his usual booth in the back room. Jimmy leaned over and whispered in Erin's ear, “After he shakes your hand, count your fingers.”

Sean had a Guinness in front of him and was wearing a Manchester United jersey.

“My partner, Erin,” Jimmy said.

“Moving up,” Sean said.

“I feel like that every time I come in here,” Jimmy said.

“Load of bullshit, mate.”

“Hey. Would I pull your chain? I was thinking about you the other night.”

“More shit,” Sean said.

“Nah. I was watching a special on the 80's on VH1. Your old band was there.”

“Jesus, that was on at three in the morning. I thought I was the only fucker in the city watching.”

“Least two of us. Feel like helping one of your fans out?

“Always.”

“Let's not get carried away.”

Jimmy showed him a picture of Lodge. He was standing next to the mayor at some trendoid party on the beach in Malibu. Jimmy could have used a shot with just Lodge, but he figured having the mayor in the picture, would crank the pressure.

“Know this guy?”

“From the paper,” Sean said.

“Nothing else?”

“Nothing.”

“If you had seen him, you'd tell me, right?”

“Sure, I would. You're dating one of my girls. You're family.”

Not my family, Jimmy thought.

“We've got someone putting him in here the night before he was killed,” Erin said.

Good move,
Jimmy thought. Completely untrue, but it would be nice to know how Sean would take it.

“Lots of people come in here, missy.”

Your basic non-denial denial.

“When he came by, he ever taste?” Jimmy said.

Sean leaned back into the booth and lit a Dunhill. He shook out the match and said, “Guys, whoever told you he was in here—he's got it wrong.”

“He's reliable,” Erin said.

“Your guy may have seen him, missy. I sure as shit didn't.”

A six-foot tall girl in a zebra print bikini came over, took Sean's bottle and replaced it with a fresh Guinness. Jimmy looked around and thought, what would happen if they did an old-fashioned raid to nail this prick for the underage girls? They'd probably bag a couple, but the prick would say, they had I.D. when he hired them, he had no idea. Jimmy could probably shut the place down. The underage girls would be given court dates which they'd never make, and the legal ones would scatter to the other clubs. The celebs would find a new hang. Two weeks later, the place would reopen with a new name. Same set-up, brand new girls. A raid would be a dumb fuck thing to do, but still, it frothed him that this asshole got away with whatever he wanted.

“How's business? Jimmy asked.

“See for yourself.”

“I can. And I gotta tell you, we keep getting calls from the neighborhood, complaining about the noise, traffic, and drunks getting out at 2 A.M. and pissing on their lawns. And now they got this idea that you've got underage girls working. For the old folks around here, that's too much.” In truth, a month ago they had two calls, and both were about people pissing on lawns.

“They got their facts wrong, mate.”

“That apply to the underage?”

“Absolutely.”

“Seems like everyone we talk to has it wrong about you.”

“Mates, I'm in the pretty girl business, not the going to jail business. I don't need that kinda headache.”

“Then you don't mind if we ask around?”

“Ask away.”

They got up and started for the main room, where on the center stage a redhead was on her stomach, naked and slithering like a snake.

Sean called after them.

“Jimmy, why you doing this shit?”

“Why? Because call me fucking old fashioned—but I think you should be able to go to the Chateau without someone sticking a knife in you twenty-nine times.”

As he walked away, Jimmy exhaled. He thought about the autopsy x-ray that Christian showed him his first day on the case. All those stab wounds, and how the guy must've died. LA is a fucked place, and who knew what Lodge was up to, but murder is murder. Take a life, you pay the price. Jimmy wanted to know what happened, but more than that, he wanted to catch whoever did it. One way or another the perp deserved to be in jail—and he'd use everything he had to make it happen.

They found Tara as she was about to enter the dressing room. She was small and cute, with long black hair and beautiful blue eyes. Most of the young girls slather on the heavy makeup, affect the attitude, and do everything they can to seem older. Not her. She
was
young, looked young, and was playing it for what it was worth. She had just finished her turn on the pole and was holding two fistfuls of bills. Mostly twenties. She didn't look happy to see Jimmy and Erin.

Across the street, in a booth at Moon Coffee, Tara wore a leather jacket over a silver bikini. A couple of kids with large cobalt blue cappuccino cups were by the front window, surfing the net. The place was nearly empty, and the girl who made the coffee sat at the counter typing on her laptop, her face lit by a faint blue-white light from the screen. Tara sipped a hot chocolate loaded with whipped cream.

“You know I'm a friend of Dani's,” Jimmy said.

“She told me.”

“Then you don't mind talking to us?” Erin said.

“Nah.”

“How do you like working at the club?” Erin said.

“It's great.”

“Good money?”

“Most nights,” Tara said.

“Looks hard, though.”

“Not, really.”

“How long you been doing it?”

“I just started. Like less than a year.”

“That's still a long time,” Erin said.

“Not compared to some of the other girls.”