Текст книги "The Hell Yo "

Автор книги: Josh lanyon

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The music blasting above our heads changed again, a driving beat that seemed to

ricochet off the black walls. I caught flashes of Betty in the lightning strikes of the pulsing

strobe.

She plowed her way through the dancers, but I was catching her up fast. Belatedly, I

wondered if she was armed – this was LA, after all.

Narrowly managing to avoid falling over three more downed dancers squirming and

rolling on the slick floor like earthworms on crack, Betty scooted past the DJ, darted around

the corner, and disappeared down a cramped hallway.

I plunged after her. A single bare bulb cast stark shadows over the graffiti-covered

walls. She paused at a doorway, turned back to me. I thought she was flipping me off, but

instead she made this funny flicking gesture with her hand. Had she given me the Evil Eye,

or was there something my hairdresser should have told me?

She wheeled and disappeared into the room optimistically labeled LADIES.

“Damn!”

“Where’d she go?” Guy yelled into my ear. I hadn’t realized he was right behind me.

I pointed to the restroom. He shook his head, apparently indicating game, set, and

match.

“It’s an old building, there’s probably a window.”

He shook his head again, apparently not understanding.

I indicated that he should stay and watch the door. I continued down the hall and out

through the back exit.

The dented door swung shut. I found myself in a long and badly lit back street. A low

wall separated this alley from an adjoining parking lot. The businesses on the other side of

the wall were all dark, though the parking lot was packed. I guessed that patrons of Hell’s

Kitchen were parking over there and then dropping over the alley wall.

I skirted along the outside of the throbbing building, looking for a window. After a

couple of minutes, I found one. It was unlit, the glass frosted, so that I couldn’t see inside.

Was this an office or was it the restroom? Was it the right restroom?

There was another window several feet down. It was also dark, but it stood open about

a foot. The screen appeared to have been kicked out.

Of course, she might have been hiding inside with the lights off, pretending she had

split.

If she had crawled out, where did she go? I looked up and down the alley. She had a

couple of seconds’ head start. How had she totally disappeared?

She had to have gone over the wall.

At the other end of the alley a car’s engine roared into life. Headlights flashed on. The

glare was blinding.

Oh, shit.

I started toward the Hell’s Kitchen back door.

With a screech of rubber on pavement, the car hurtled toward me. Zero to sixty in less

than a minute; I couldn’t believe how fast it traveled. I was never going to make it….

I zigged across the alley, jumped for the wall and swung myself up as the car charged

past. I felt the car’s exhaust like hot breath on my back. I struggled to pull myself over the

top, lost my balance, and fell. I crash-landed on the hood of an already battered Toyota

truck, bounced off, and hit the asphalt – hard.

In the distance, I heard the scrape of a car chassis slamming down on pavement, and

then the squeal of tires vanishing into the night.

For a moment I lay there, gulping in the smoggy night air, waiting for my achy breaky

heart to blow up.

I must be out of my mind, I thought. Angus isn’t worth this. No one is worth this.

What am I doing?

I stared at the rafters of black rain clouds. Felt a bit of wet on my cheekbone.

Let’s recap, I thought. How did I get from dropping a word in the right ear to chasing

teenage thugs down alleys? Maybe Jake had a point after all. Was Angus any better off for

my interference? Was I?

From the other side of the wall I heard the surge of music. A door slammed. Guy called

quietly, “Adrien?”

I opened my mouth, then didn’t speak.

Not to be unduly paranoid, but what the hell took him so long? What was the deal

with that stricken look he had given Betty and her blithe spirits? This field trip had been his

idea. Had he led me into a trap?

But how could anyone predict that I would run out the back exit?

My mind was spinning – only partially due to hitting my head on the pavement.

Guy called again, louder this time. I listened to the crunch of his feet on gravel as he

walked along the alley.

Was he looking for my body?

Or was he – naturally enough – wondering where I’d disappeared to?

I sat up carefully, drew a couple of experimental breaths. My heart, though still in

overdrive, showed no sign of slipping out of rhythm. I pulled myself up. No bones seemed to

be broken, although I was going to have a set of colorful bruises by tomorrow.

The car alarm in the Volkswagen parked next to the Toyota went off, splintering the

stillness.

Definitely not my night.

At the mouth of the alley I spotted Guy. He ran toward the sound of the alarm.

A lot more slowly than the first time, I climbed back over the stone wall.

“Adrien!” exclaimed Guy. “What the hell happened?”

I dropped down, and he reached out to steady me. I pulled away from him, and we

stepped back from the shrieking alarm system.

“What happened? Where did you go? Why are you limping?”

I finally had my breath back. “Where’s Betty?”

“She must have gone out the back. A couple of girls went in, and the bathroom was

dark. You didn’t see her?”

“No.”

“What happened? Why are you limping like that?” He wrapped a hand around my

elbow.

I pulled away. “Somebody in a blue sedan was waiting for me in the alley.”

Guy stopped walking. “What?”

“You heard me.”

“That’s impossible. No one could know you were going to walk into that alley.”

“Did you tell anyone we were coming here tonight?”

“Of course not!” I couldn’t see his features in the dark alley, but I knew that tone.

“You’re lying.”

He gasped. “Are you nuts? I didn’t tell anyone.”

“But?”

His lips parted, but no sound came out.

“Come on, Guy, there’s more.”

Slowly, he said, “I spoke to a friend. I asked if he knew of a club where kids involved in

the occult scene might hang out.”

“Who was this friend?”

“What does it matter? You don’t know him. He’s not involved in this. Look, I didn’t tell

him we were coming here, let alone that we were coming tonight. He gave me the name of a

couple of clubs.”

But the news that Betty Sansone could be found at this particular club on Monday

nights had been communicated during that conversation, so how hard would it have been to

guess that this would be the night Guy and I would show up?

Guy said, “Did you get the registration plate of the car that tried to run you down?”

“Did I –?” I sputtered, “Well, no, in my rush to stay alive, I failed to note the license

number. It sort of looked like a Mercury Cougar, but I wouldn’t want to testify to that. Does

your friend happen to drive a blue sedan?”

“Not that I know of.” He glanced back at the club; the walls seemed to be vibrating

with the din from inside. “What do you want to do now?”

I wanted to talk to Jake. Since that was impossible for a couple of reasons, I wanted to

go home.

“I don’t think there’s any point hanging around here now.”

“We could try to talk to the others.”

I shook my head. “I don’t think so. I need to approach this from another angle.” Prone.

In my own bed.

He stayed silent as we walked the rest of the way back to his car. He unlocked my side,

went around to his own. I lowered myself gingerly into the leather seat, massaged my sore

knee.

“Did you hurt yourself?” he asked stiffly.

“Mostly my ego.”

He started the engine, but did not pull away from the curb. “His name is Peter

Verlane,” he said.

“What?”

“The friend who told me about this club. His name is Peter Verlane. He’s a former

student and a – well, that doesn’t matter.”

I suspected what that unfinished sentence was and felt an unexpected ripple of

jealousy. Disconcerting. “Is this Peter Verlane the ex-student who you spoke to about

harassing Angus?”

“Yes.”

“You still think he’s not involved?”

“Do you imagine everyone interested in the occult is involved in this?”

“You must have thought of him for a reason.”

Guy said reluctantly, “I thought it would be pleasant to see him again.”

Oh.

I heard myself say coolly, “And was it pleasant?”

“Yes. It was. It always is.”

The first rain drops splattered against the windshield, trickled crookedly down the

glass.

I didn’t have an answer. I didn’t care anymore. I just wanted to go home.

When I didn’t say anything, Guy put the car into gear.

Chapter Nineteen

The alarm went off on Tuesday morning, and I slapped it off the nightstand. Every

bone in my body ached. My head throbbed. And that was the good news. I could as easily

have wound up pain-free in the morgue. What had I been thinking for the past two weeks? I

was not up to this shit. I imagined what Jake –

No.

I didn’t want to start thinking about what Jake would or wouldn’t say. Thinking about

Jake was not useful. In fact, thinking about Jake was liable to lead to pulling the covers over

my head and canceling the day due to lack of interest.

This was one time when I was not going to examine and analyze and rationalize and

agonize. He was right. I knew the score. He’d never pretended it was other than it was –

whatever the hell that was. I had never kidded myself there was really a chance for us. Well,

not often anyway.

I guess my mistake had been in believing that he was too smart and too honest not to

eventually realize…

Not his feelings for me – because I didn’t think what he felt for me was that

significant – but his own true nature. How could he deny who he was? How could he

choose to live such a profound and cancerous deception?

I didn’t begin to understand. It was better not to try.

Throwing aside the blankets, I sat up. Every muscle screeched protest. There were

bruises on my hips, legs, ribs. My knee was definitely wrenched. My wrist felt sprained.

This verged on self-destructive.

I showered and dressed and hobbled downstairs.

* * * * *

It was a quiet day. Business was brisk, but unexceptional. When lunchtime came, I

decided I had better things to do than sit at the computer feeding more horror stories into

my brain. I grabbed a falafel at King Tut’s on West Colorado and limped around Old Town in

a kind of blank abstraction, threading my way down sidewalks crowded with holiday

shoppers and street performers and tourists.

I reminded myself that while Angus might not be a murderer, he wasn’t exactly an

innocent bystander either. I remembered our fleeting phone conversation before I had

headed over to his house and the discovery of Kinsey Perone’s mutilated body. That

revealing I didn’t have anything to do with it.

Maybe he hadn’t participated in what happened to Tony Zellig or Karen Holtzer, but

he also hadn’t done anything about it.

Yes, I understood that he had been frightened, but there was a difference between

ignoring someone wrongfully parked in the handicapped zone and ignoring murder.

Velvet was on the phone when I walked in after two. Immediately, she replaced the

receiver.

“Who were you talking to?”

“Er – my mother.”

She turned away. I felt an unfamiliar surge of anger. “Then why did you hang up? Why

is it you hang up every time I walk in on you making a phone call?”

She stared at me owlishly. “I thought you might not like it.”

“You’re right. The next time I catch you making a personal phone call during work

hours, you’re fired.”

She gaped at me.

“Just kidding,” I said. I walked back into my office, sat down at the desk, and put my

face in my hands.

* * * * *

I was tempted to cancel the Tuesday night writing group. But then I’d been tempted to

not get out of bed that morning. I knew the drill. I’d been through it before. All I had to do

was keep to the routine, stay busy, not stop to think – not drink too much – and before I

knew it, it would be in the past. A dull, distant ache that would be easy to put aside and

ignore.

It couldn’t possibly hurt worse than Mel, and I’d managed to get past that. Mel and I

had been together for five years. Jake and I hadn’t lasted one. This shouldn’t take long at all,

if I put my mind to it.

So when the Partners in Crime started arriving, I was ready for them. The coffee was

made, pastries set out, the chairs circled, pencils sharpened. I was able to meet Chan’s

awkward gaze like nothing was wrong.

Thank God, being heterosexual, he wasn’t going to sympathize or ask how I was doing.

“Man, Adrien,” said Max, arriving late as usual, “is there a jinx on this place or what?

First, your old pal Robert gets bumped off, then Angus turns out to be a serial killer.”

“Whatever happened to innocent until proven guilty?” I said.

They all gave me different versions of the same all-knowing sympathy.

“You’re such a nice person, Adrien,” Grania said, patting my shoulder and reaching past

me for the last cheese croissant.

What was the point of arguing? For all I knew, they were right.

We went through the stories, one by one, starting with Max’s new chapter. Against my

best intentions, I found myself considering whether it might be possible to find this Peter

Verlane without Guy’s help. Would it hurt to ask a question or two?

Maybe Guy was right, maybe Verlane was floating on the fringe. Or maybe Guy was

wrong. Or maybe, as little as I liked the idea, Guy was involved.

I needn’t pursue what I discovered, but I couldn’t deny that I still wanted answers.

Now that I had a name, I could try to track this latest lead through the university. For that

matter, I could try Information. I wondered if I was spelling Verlane correctly. Maybe it was

supposed to be like the poet Paul Verlaine.

Jean’s soft voice penetrated my consciousness.

“Avery walked across the lobby of the Biltmore hotel…”

“What is Avery doing at the Biltmore Hotel?” I interrupted.

“He’s following the guy who he thinks killed the mime,” Grania said, through a

mouthful of cheese croissant.

“He ought to leave that to the police,” Chan muttered, adding another red mark to a

page that already looked like he had bled onto it.

“No. Why is he at the Biltmore?”

Jean met my gaze. Bit her lip. Her cheeks were scarlet.

“Sheesh, Adrien, relax,” said Ted, looking from me to his wife. “Why not the Biltmore?

It’s a great location.”

“I can change it,” faltered Jean.

“Yeah, I think you should.”

Grania and Max exchanged a look which suggested I needed to take a pill. Or two. Or

maybe the entire bottle.

I bit off the rest of it and sat back. Jean returned to reading. Her voice was slightly

unsteady.

* * * * *

When the group had cleared out for the evening, and I’d finished cleaning up, I

dragged upstairs to discover that Guy had left a message. I weighed calling him back, then

decided maybe it was better to let that ride.

Dimming the lights, I put on Peter Davison’s Adagio and went slowly through my tai

chi exercises. I focused on deep breathing and relaxing every muscle. It had been awhile. I

was stiff and sore, but as I went through the routine, I felt better. More limber in body, if not

spirit.

Of course, Jake’s idea was that I should focus on cardio stuff and forget the tai chi.

But it didn’t matter what Jake thought or didn’t think. That was my new mantra.

The phone rang. I listened to it ring, then right before the machine picked up, I

abandoned my combat pose and grabbed it.

“Hello there,” Guy said, elaborately casual. “I wondered how you were recovering from

last night.”

My heart slowed. “I think the wine did more damage than the crash landing. I’ve had a

headache all day.”

“Me too.” He gave an odd laugh. “I’ve been placed on administrative leave.”

“What does that mean?”

“In effect, I’ve been suspended pending the outcome of the police investigation into the

death of Tony Zellig.”

Phone propped between my shoulder and ear, I poured myself a brandy and sat on the

sofa. I should have known Jake wouldn’t abandon his original line of inquiry. This must

mean that the police were now openly and officially connecting Kinsey Perone’s death with

the others. I wasn’t sure if that was good news or bad news for Angus. Good news if he could

prove his alibi for the night Kinsey had died.

“So Zellig was a student?”

“Yes. Practical Magic 101.”

Funny, I’d thought to ask him about everyone except Tony Zellig.

“I’m sorry,” I said.

“Me too. But you don’t have anything to be sorry for. My impression is that the police

pushed for this, and the administration was relieved to have the decision made for them.”

I said, “I’m sure it will all work out.” I wasn’t sure of any such thing, but I had no idea

what to say to him.

There was a silence that lasted too long, then he said, “I tried to get hold of Peter today.

I wanted to ask whether he would be willing to speak to you, but he’s out of the country.

He’s celebrating the holidays with his parents in Germany.”

It was possible. Lisa and I had celebrated Christmas in Germany when I was eighteen.

It was the year before I’d started college. The year before I met Mel.

“I appreciate that.”

“What will you do next?”

“I don’t know. I’m running low on ideas.” And I was completely out of enthusiasm. I

had no proof that my inquiries hadn’t made everyone’s situation, including mine, worse.

Maybe the biggest favor I could do myself was to butt out.

“I see,” he said quietly.

Once again there was an unnatural silence.

Once again Guy broke it. “If there’s anything I can do to help, I wish you’d let me

know.”

“I’ll let you know,” I said.

* * * * *

Rewind Tuesday, hit play: that was Wednesday.

When it was over at last, and my wish to be alone again – silent and barricaded in for

the night – was finally granted, I realized I was too restless to stay home.

I couldn’t do tai chi all evening. I had no desire to write. Less desire to read. Sitting

home with the brandy bottle was not a good plan in any case.

What did single people do on Wednesday nights? I didn’t seem to remember, although

technically I had never stopped being single. Did they sit home and watch TV, or did they go

to clubs, bars, single events? I was pretty sure the majority of them did not run around trying

to solve murders.

I decided to get my hair cut. You know, stiff upper lip. Standards must be maintained.

Here in the African bush we dress for dinner.

I decided if I couldn’t wrangle an appointment with Paolo, I’d settle for Super Cuts, but

the risk turned out to be minimal. When I walked into That Jones Boy, the place was empty.

One of the stylists was kicked back in his chair reading GQ, and Paolo and a third kid were

leaning on the front desk.

Paolo is about as Italian as I am British. He’s tall and thin with blue black hair – more

blue than black – and permanent eye makeup. He’s one of this new generation of gay guys

who seem to be totally apolitical and essentially fear free – about everything except getting

fat.

He nudged the Asian boy with a shaved head who stood beside him and greeted me.

“Look what crawled out of the train wreck!” The Asian stylist met my eyes. Winked.

“Sweetness, do you have to wait till you look like Beethoven’s baby brother before

you’ll come and see me?”

I slipped off my coat, draping it over one of the brass hooks. “I know you enjoy the

challenge.”

A young, platinum blonde manicurist was summoned from the tanning room where

she had been toasting herself midsummer brown. I sat in the styling chair; the manicurist

wheeled her nail station over to me. Paolo positioned himself behind me, comb in hand, like

the maestro about to conduct the symphony.

“So, are we doing something different?”

“No.”

“Sweetness. You know, hair style has evolved through the centuries.”

The girl buffing my nails snickered.

I tuned out while Paolo fluted on about waxing my eyebrows, his strong clever fingers

massaging my scalp with what I had to admit was hypnotic skill.

“Why so gloomy, Heathcliff?” he asked finally.

Someone who sounded a lot like me answered, “My boyfriend dumped me.”

The crispy manicurist squeaked and dropped her nail file. The stylist to the right of me,

still poring over GQ, raised curious eyes over the glossy pages.

Paolo exclaimed, “The heartless bastard. Right before Christmas!”

But I was listening in horror to the echo of my own words. Had I actually said that? I

don’t think I ever permitted myself to think of Jake as my boyfriend even when we were

seeing each other. Now here I sat spilling my guts to my hairdre – er – stylist.

When I tuned back in, Paolo was going on about honey almond masks and mango deep

conditioning. “Sweetness, you are having the works. My Christmas present to you. Or are

you Jewish? I can never remember. I didn’t know you were seeing anyone.”

“Just the cut and the manicure, really.”

“Maybe we should dye your lashes,” he mused.

“No. Really –” As I spoke, the manicurist, bent industriously over my fingers, sniffed

dolefully. A tear drop splashed hotly on my hand. I met Paolo’s gaze in the mirror. He said

cheerfully, “Don’t mind Jemma. She got dumped too.”

“Sorry, Jemma.”

She nodded without looking up.

“Just the cut,” I reiterated to Paolo.

He pouted. “You are so butch, sweetness.”

Oh, yeah. Watch out, Arnold, ’cause I’ll be back. With a great haircut and skin

smoother than a baby ’s butt.

Paolo reached to clip a stray hair, and I noticed his ring. A chunky silver ring with

what I first took to be a leaf design. A moment later, I realized it was the All-Seeing Eye.

“Are you into that stuff?” I inquired. “The occult?”

“Hmm?” He tilted his head, studied me. Snipped again. “Not actually. I used to know a

guy.”

“There’s a lot of that going around.”

He whacked me lightly with his comb, like a fan-wielding Regency debutante.

“Sex magick, sweetness. Very kinky.” He made a face. “Too kinky, actually. Peter was

one thing, but his friends…ultra creepy.”

“Peter? Peter Verlane?”

Paolo smiled an Oracle of Delphi smile. “Oh-ho, you know him.”

Talk about six degrees of separation.

“No. I’d like to.”

“Drop your shoulder. Better. He’s not your type, sweetness – although he did have a

thing for older guys.”

Older guys…

“I’m interested in the – er – the occult. That sex magick stuff.”

“No! Are you really?” He leaned his head and thoughtfully nibbled his comb. “I think I

still have his number. Tell you what. Let me try something new with the do, and I’ll give you

Peter’s number.”

* * * * *

It was around eight by the time I escaped from Paolo’s clutches. Still unready to face

the silence and solitude of home, sweet home, I decided to wander around the Paseo and

maybe get something to eat.

I wondered if Paolo would be able to put me in contact with Peter Verlane. I wondered

if he was the right Peter Verlane. How many occult-involved Peter Verlanes were there in

Los Angeles County? If Paolo did get me Peter’s number, would I act on it? Hadn’t I

convinced myself yesterday evening that hanging up my deerstalker would be my wisest

move?

The night air was scented with flowers and cooking. A group of carolers entertained a

crowd as I walked through the courtyard, past the apartment buildings and fountains and

boutiques decked out for the holidays.

Once again I had that weird feeling of being watched. I paused in front of one of the

shops, watching the reflections of people passing to and fro behind me, smiling and laughing,

toting their shopping bags. No one seemed to be paying me any attention.

I caught my own image in the window, momentarily startled. The change was subtle,

but definite. Not bad. Maybe that lavish tip hadn’t been too much after all.

I started walking again.

I wasn’t really hungry, and there was nothing I needed to buy. I settled for a cup of hot

cocoa and listening to the carolers finish off their evening’s performance with “Have

Yourself a Merry Little Christmas.” It’s not that great a song for caroling, and I found the

message sort of depressing, although the crowd seemed to enjoy it.

I finished my cocoa, found my car, and drove back to Cloak and Dagger.

Pulling into my parking place, I waited a minute to make sure there was no one lurking

by the side entrance. Turned off the engine.

I got out, locked the car. As I went around to the side door, I felt a twinge of unease. I

glanced behind myself. Nada. I put my key in the lock, thinking that something didn’t feel

right. I turned the key and pushed the door open, stepping inside.

Behind me, I heard the scrape of a sole on asphalt. I spun around as someone

whispered, “Adrien…”

Angus stepped out of the shadows of the building.

Chapter Twenty

My heart paused. Paused. The feeble parking lot lights swirled, and I reached out for

the doorframe.

Bad timing.

“Adrien, it’s me,” a voice said from a long way off.

The ground tilted back the other way. I rested my cheek against the peeling paint,

breathed deeply of night air tasting of smog and trash, waiting for things to level out.

“Are you okay?”

I got control of myself. Opened my eyes. The continental plate seemed to have steadied

once more. Look, Ma, no hands! I nodded. “Great,” I managed. “What are you doing here?”

Angus hugged himself against the cold, his thin hands looking skeletal against the dark

flannel shirt. “They released me. My alibi held.”

“Why are you here?” I repeated.

His glasses winked blindly in the lights above the parking lot. “I need a place to stay.”

I stared, uncomprehending.

“I can’t go home. It’s a crime scene. My landlord won’t let me back anyway.”

“What about Wanda?”

He shook his head. “She’s staying at her parents. They don’t want me.” He swallowed.

“It’s over for us.”

Welcome to the Heartbreak Hotel. I could have shown more sympathy for a fellow

sufferer. I said, “There must be someone…”

“There’s no one I can trust. Only you.”

I wished I felt the same way.

Moving aside, I let him into the shop. He walked onto the main floor, staring around at

the tall shelves hungrily, as though he had been gone a million years.

I shut the side door, leaned back against it. I felt shaky, but otherwise okay – all things

considered. It occurred to me that I needed to get the locks changed.

As I stood there, clearly unsure of what to do next, he said pleadingly, “Can I crash

here?”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“But why? You helped me before –”

“Angus….” I raked a hand through my beautiful new hair cut. “That was before I

realized that you were involved in murder.”

“I have an alibi!”

No protestation of innocence, unfortunately. I said, “You have an alibi for Kinsey’s

death. Her murder was designed to implicate you, to punish you. It doesn’t absolve you from

the other two murders.”

“The police released me.”

Again, no plea of innocence. Why did I always work so hard to avoid seeing what was

right in front of me? Wearily, I said, “Because they haven’t been able to pinpoint the dates

that Karen Holtzer and Tony Zellig died. They can’t connect you – yet.”

He licked his lips, then gave a weird giggle. “Well, guess what, Adrien, I’m not their

lone suspect!”

“I know. And I know I have you to thank for throwing suspicion my way. You told

them you thought Jake and I were involved, didn’t you?”

“Thought? It doesn’t take a detective.” He looked away from me. “Anyway, it was that

bastard Riordan I wanted to get, not you.”

“But you expect me to put you up now?”

He stared at me dumbly.

“Is there a reason I should involve myself any further in this goddamned mess?”

His pale mouth quivered. “Adrien, I’m begging you. Let me stay the night. I’m scared.”

Me too, I thought, but I was supposed to be the grown-up.

“Please…”

He did look terrified, and he probably knew better than anyone if he had reason to be.

“One night,” I said finally. “And you’re going to have to sleep down here.”

“Thank God,” he whispered. He looked toward the front windows – the dark street

beyond – and shivered.

I opened my mouth, then shut it.

“Have you eaten?” I asked finally.

He shook his head.

“Come on.”

I took him upstairs and defrosted one of the steaks I’d bought for a dinner with Jake

that was never going to happen.

While the steak cooked, Angus sat at the table drinking a beer. He had lost weight in

jail. He looked like an undernourished adolescent. Harmless, vulnerable.

I asked, ““What happened to Holtzer and Zellig?”

“I don’t know.”

“You’re lying.”

He shook his head. Wiped moisture from the corner of his eye.

“How would you have gotten involved in that?”

He gave me an impatient look. “Someone like you wouldn’t understand.”

“Because I’m gay?”

He tittered. Shook his head.

Maybe it was a silly question. I’d learned from my research that it wasn’t only lonely,

ignorant, insecure, or troubled kids who were lured in by the promises of charismatic

cartoon-character-like evil. One point most of the experts stressed was that people don’t join

cults, they join interesting groups that seem able to satisfy their desires and dreams. Members

were recruited based on skills and abilities and the needs of the group. That’s why it wasn’t

unusual to find doctors and lawyers and CEOs and movie stars involved in some of the more

powerful and sophisticated cults. Cult members rarely understood the hidden agenda of their

leaders. Everyone has their vulnerabilities. Cult recruiters knew exactly how to exploit them.

I contemplated Angus. He was already tipsy with exhaustion and nerves. One beer had

oiled him nicely; I was pretty sure that a second one would slide him right over the edge. I

went to the fridge, uncapped another brew, and put it before him.