Medium Everything: Collected Writings

By Robin Tamblyn

Medium everything: collected writings

King of Hollywood
A darkly comic tale of a gay Hollywood player's rise-and fall-from grace.

Velocity
An ambitious actor and a rookie racing driver find themselves-and each other-through the fast-paced world of Formula One.

coupling
Twelve erotic tales following the aspirations and encounters of twelve very different gay men.

"Robin Tamblyn is a writer to keep your eye on. Whether tackling show business in King of Hollywood, the backside of Formula One racing (Velocity) or the emotional terrain of love, sex and modern gay relationships in coupling, Robin's masterly use of words and phrases never fails to capture the imagination. Read a book by Robin Tamblyn and be prepared to be highly entertained."
-Michael D. Craig, Author of The Ice Sculptures: A Novel of Hollywood

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Mar 22, 2006
• ISBN: 9780595835317

Robin Tamblyn

Robin Tamblyn, a Spacey fan for 15 years, has published four previous titles with iuniverse, King of Hollywood, Velocity, coupling and Medium Everything. Robin lives in Exeter, England and can be contacted via www.robintamblyn.com.

Book preview

Prologue-1999

Image357.PNG

When Jack Calavitti calls up to tell me that Danny has been found—murdered—in the front room of his Hollywood Hills home, my first reaction is not grief, anger, or even surprise. It is more of a resignation, an acceptance of the fact that Danny’s lifestyle has finally caught up with him, that—like Mel Gibson’s Hamlet—he has at last paid the price for his one fatal flaw. And so I find myself here, in the LA County Morgue, staring at the chilled corpse of the man who has been a lover, friend, enemy, rival, or rather all four; a mass of contradictions, sometimes funny, sometimes flippant, sometimes cruel, never—the worst of all Hollywood sins—dull.

Benny. The hand Jack offers me is shaky. I know the Big J is well past seventy, but he seems to have aged ten years in the three-or-so months since I last saw him. To lose your only son, surrogate or not—I’m glad you came.

It’s good to see you, Jack. If only it were a happier occasion. Horrible cliché! But the very situation itself seems unreal, like everything else in this crazy town. I can visualize the tabs going to work on the hard copy, gloating over the case like vultures congregating above a stinking carcass. It has been a long time since something fitted so perfectly into the Gay Deaths scenario—Whale, Novarro, Paso-lini, Mineo (maybe)—God, Danny was a teenager when they last had a morality play this perfect. Homosexuality Leads to Horrific Homicide. The pathologist, Steel, whose manner is as starkly clinical as his name, estimates that Danny lived for perhaps thirty minutes after his head injury before expiring on the floor, gasping like a speared fish in a pool of his own piss and blood…I glance down at him again. He seems so peaceful, now.

Beside me, Jack is shivering. It’s a bad business, Benny. A bad business. I can’t think who could have done something like this.

You said they had a lead. The boy—

Ah, the boy. Max. He spits out the name. The whore.

He wasn’t a whore. I’m not sure why yet but I feel I should defend him. Maybe at the beginning, but Danny was—well, they had something. A—bond. It wouldn’t seem like murder if he were already dead inside.

Jack reaches down to brush a lock of hair from Danny’s cold forehead. He’d been growing it long for some stupid series. He told you?

No. But he couldn’t hide it. It was Nathan who introduced them. Nate is—was, goddamit!—Danny’s neighbor, a short, flamboyant queen with Eraser-head hair and a voice that could crack Lladro china. He works on Broadway, mostly, so can afford to be out.

Jack is incredulous. Danny got Nathan to get boys for him?

Not usually. I think this one was an accident. Kindafell into his lap. He looks hard at me. Sorry. Bad phrasing. I laugh then, remembering. He would drive Nate crazy. Nate’d try to tempt him with all these pretty models and Dan just wouldn’t go for it. Y’know, one for you, one for me…

I can see Jack is getting edgy. Two guys, exchanging pleasantries over a dead body. How do you set a precedent for that kind of conversation? I am amazed at how calm I am. I think he preferred to pay for it with real money. Less complicated that way. A hustler isn’t going to demand a part in your next movie or want you to read his screenplay.

Mmmm. I suppose this type of talk is new to Jack, though I can’t quite believe that having lived two decades in LA he hasn’t ever known the pleasures of a hooker, especially now he is a widower of five years’ standing. Well, something went wrong.

Yeah. There should be more, but the words won’t come, so I just repeat myself, idiotically. Yeah.

I hope he didn’t suffer. I couldn’t bear that. Jack crosses himself and mutters something in Italian. Sleep with the angels now, my sweet boy.

I feel like I am intruding, watching Jack with his memories—longer than mine, but not by much. I step back a little and look around the huge vault, wondering what other tormented souls lie imprisoned behind those silver doors. How can death be so orderly? I think of my parents’ tiny farm in Trevano, and the crude wooden crosses that mark the passing of generations of their people. I gotta go.

Go? Jack sounds almost scared. Go where?

Back to the house. Danny’s house.

You can’t go there. Definite fear now. From the Big JC? It won’t—it won’t have been cleaned.

A montage flashes through my head. Danny dying. Blood on the carpet. Chalk outlines. I gotta check on the dogs.

The dogs? For a moment he seems confused. Then the frown disappears. Ah. The Alsatians.

Yeah.

How many has he now?

Just the two since Larry got hit by that maniac on Sunset. Danny had been devastated that night. I want to make sure they’re alright. I don’t suppose anyone else will have thought of them.

No. He sighs. Well, you take care of it, then. I’ll call you when I get back to the hotel.

Okay. You look after yourself, Jack. I reach out to shake his hand, then draw back, suddenly understanding what lies between us. I feel sorrow then for the first time. As I gaze at Danny, trying to memorize every detail of the face I will never see again, I find myself thinking that maybe death has saved him from a greater fate. Obscurity.

Image365.JPG

The drive down to Mulholland is a twisty hell, as always. I pull the car into the driveway and turn off the ignition. No sign of LA’s Finest.

A squat little figure on the adjacent grass verge looks to be getting nearer. It can only be Nathan.

Benny! An unwelcome hug. "Oh, Benny, I just can’t believe it. This is just ghastly." He uses that word a lot, usually in connection with burning the vegetables or ripping a hem. Hello, Nate.

"The police were here for hours." He rolls his eyes. They completely ruined the lawn.

Yeah? I’ve just come from the morgue.

Really? Did you see Danny? Did he look—okay? What sort of dumb-assed question is that? "It’s just I have this crazy feeling that Dan would want everything to be perfect—even on the slab."

My fingers itch to slap him, and I have to bite my tongue. Sure, Nate. He looked fine. Like he was sleeping.

A tiny smile. That does it. In fact, if I hadn’t known, I wouldn’t even have guessed that half his brain was pickled.

Nate’s lower lip is trembling. I—I can’t help thinking that I might have been responsible in some way. I mean, that awful boy was a friend of Philippe’s—I brought them together.

Much as I dislike the man, I can’t let him believe that. It wasn’t your fault. Sometimes these things just happen. Maybe we’re all to blame, y’know?

Trashy line, but it makes his eyes shine again. I walk towards the house. Most of these manses have protection systems to rival Fort Knox, but Dan never saw the need. Hell, didn’t do shit for Nicole B., did it? he’d point out, eyebrows raised, as the next slippery salesman tried to pitch him the TotalGard Plus package. I wonder if Nate will follow me, but the imagined horrors of the front room—Nate can’t bear red, wine or otherwise—trap him there on the grass. I pull out the key that Danny had cut for me that time in Maui and unlock the door.

I am right about the dogs. They must have been shut up in the kitchen when the cops arrived and left there, alone and Schmacko-less, for the next two days. Curly and Moe—sans Larry—almost knock me over with their riotous welcome. It’s nice to be appreciated, I think, as a cold wet nose nuzzles my own.

They bound towards the front room. You leading me somewhere, Lassie? I put my hand on the doorknob. The oak paneling creaks like the entrance to a William Castle mansion. Let’s see how bad it is.

I step inside. Whatever mayhem I’ve been expecting to see just isn’t there. Everything looks normal save for the dark patch in the middle of the mohair rug I vaguely remember Danny lifting from the set of Get it Up, a heist movie set in nineteenth-century France, and even that appears strangely benign. As I reach the center of the room, I notice what appears to be a pile of twisted People’s Choice Awards by the mantel. Weird. The golden statuette is gone, bagged and tagged by the LAPD. The Oscar Dan had sacrificed his last love for. Exhibit A.

Image374.JPG

Nathan is still outside. I stride over to him, suddenly hungry for a confession. Tell me everything you know.

Everything? A whine.

Yeah. About Friday night. Start with Max arriving and finish when the cops get here.

Ple-ease, Benny. It was traumatic enough having to go through it for them. What good can it do now, anyway?

I put on my best Solicitous Sage voice, the one I used in Toughlove to tell Patty Duke that her youngest grandson’s cancer was back and which most people find

about as convincing as Keanu Reeves’s English accent in Bram Stoker’s Dracula. Hey, whatdya expect for Guild min? This little diva, though, is easy money. I know it’s hard, Nate. But I gotta get to the bottom of what happened, so’s I can get it all straight in my head. It’s what Dan would have wanted, after all. What I need from you—I am really laying it on thick now—is the truth.

Nate is visibly weakening. Well, okay. But you have to remember that I’m still very distressed about poor Danny, and I might not get everything out quite right.

That’s fine. Just do the best you can.

Nate takes a deep breath. I knew there was something funny about that boy. It was all in the eyes, you know. He had the devil’s eyes, killer eyes. I’d get scared just looking at them. That’s why we didn’t speak much, because it’s pretty difficult to carry out a conversation with someone when you can’t even be in the same room with them for fear they’ll try to hypnotize you like a snake does—

He is babbling. Jesus, Nate. Enough with the poetic descriptions! I think the whole of Southern California knew what you thought of him. Just Friday, okay?

I’m sorry, Benny. My heart is aching. He clasps his hand to his chest with a flourish. I wonder how many times he’s pulled that move on stage. Max turned up around six, like he always did. The impudent boy would march straight across my herbaceous border. Prudence—Nate’s nasty little Pekinese—"got to barking her head off every time, so then I’d know the rascal had arrived.

I went to the window to check he hadn’t trampled any of my petunias, and saw him ring the bell. I do think it strange that Danny never gave him a key. After all—here a sharp glance in my direction—"he seemed to get copies for most of his friends.

Anyway, that was that until a while later—halfeight or nine, I think—when there was some kind of commotion going on. I looked out of the window again and there was the little strumpet on the front lawn, yelling some horrid obscenity to all and sundry. Danny came to the door, they had a few more words and he managed to entice Max back inside. Well, he would pick on the rough trade, I thought. If only he’d just let him go! I—sorry, he adds as a sob escapes his throat. A single forlorn tear drips off the end of his nose. You are coping so much better than me, Benny. I can’t think at all.

He takes out a handkerchief and dabs at his eyes. "It must have been around ten that the screaming started. I was in the bathroom, on the other side of the house, but I could hear it even from there. I thought it must be Danny, I thought what’s that dreadful Max doing to him? Of course, if I’d known, I’d have called the police straight away because he’s probably in Mexico by now and these people have lawyers you know and even if all the evidence points right sometimes they get off

on a technicality or something—" Not so long ago I wouldn’t have been able to follow a word of Nathan’s frenetic speech, but that six months on LA Gunrunners has taught me to appreciate the full glory of the English language in all its variations.

And then, suddenly it all stopped, and Max came racing out of the house like his ass was on fire—excuse me—and off down the road. I swear, Nate continues, "if I ever see that boy again I will beat him to within an inch of his life for what he did to poor Danny."

I have to crack a smile at this. The idea of Nate ever meting out physical justice to anyone is so far fetched as to be ridiculous. I’d put more money on Gloria Stuart to send Max to Cedars. "So when did you get the cops in?"

"Oh then, right then, when I saw Max run away, because he did look so absolutely dreadful and I thought it’s probably nothing, it’s probably just me being silly, but I did and they were here within the hour which is very good for North Hollywood you know, and they knocked on the door and there was no reply so they forced their way in, and I guess that was when—they found him." Nate is crying again. About midnight that was, Benny, about midnight.

Thanks, Nate. You’ve been a real help. The montage in my head is growing into a feature. I reach into my pocket. Here.

His brow furrows. What’s that?

The keys to Danny’s. So’s you can feed the dogs.

Not a welcome offering. "Oh Benny, I couldn’t."

Look, I checked it all out. It’s fine in there. No mess.

Benny—

I even closed the door so’s you wouldn’t have to go in the front room. I gotta get back to Pasadena in case Jack needs me.

Oh, yes. Jack. His head jerks upwards. I watch as the caterpillar brows twitch in his ugly, trusting face. You were a real friend to Danny. And now you have his key. I turn away. Call me if you need to. I walk over to my car without looking back.

Image384.JPG

It is past one before I unlock my front door. I check the answerphone. Kevin. My agent. Some girl calling for Nigel. You were brilliant, baby. Stephen Dorff.

Beep. No Jack. Why does that bother me so? I walk through to the kitchen, take a Bud out of the fridge, and slump down on the couch.

I fumble around for the remote and flick the television on. The news channels are still full of the murder. Nice kid, some queen is saying, nice kid. Just that little ten-percent psycho in him you have to watch out for. Mosta the time he’s real sweet.

I switch over. One more day and the creeps will find some new obsession. One station is showing Danny’s worst film, an action-comedy so dire that even Hulk Hogan had declined to appear in it.

I kill the TV and tip the rest of the beer down the sink. I pad through into the bedroom, yawning, kicking off my shoes. I slide into the warm, comforting bed.

I go to sleep to dream of my lost lover, and know that I will wake to a pillow damp with the disembodied thoughts of furtive encounters and missed opportunities. Danny, Danny, Danny, Danny…

PART

I

THE WILD COUNTRY

CHAPTER 1

Image401.PNG

Winning People Magazine’s Most Eligible Bachelor title twice wasn’t exactly what John and Mary Gibson of Insignificantsville, Iowa had envisaged for their new son when Daniel John Gibson II arrived squalling into the world on December 20,1959 as the decade drew its dying breath. He was named after his grandfather, the top honor already having been bestowed upon his elder brother, John Matthew Gibson Junior, some nine years previously. If John I had let his faith lapse any further, Danny might never have seen the light of day at all; hated from conception was how he would later characterize their relationship. John’s one obsession was to live out the American Dream, and since he already had the Perfect Nuclear Family (one boy, one girl, fridge, car, TV…) for the struggling would-be ad man all this little bundle of joy could represent was a serious setback to his already shaky plans.

Supporting two children was a battle, three, a financial impossibility. When Danny was four John packed up the station wagon and headed West in search of the house with the white picket fences, thus setting in motion a chain of events that would end some three-and-a-half decades later when his youngest boy became the ultimate Hollywood victim. Travel south from the murder scene, six miles as the crow flies, and you’ll find the tiny apartment that was Dan’s first home in the Big Orange.

Danny rarely spoke of those desolate days in Iowa; he remembered little of them. November 1963 was the one exception. The Cold War was raging. Vietnam was beginning. The civil rights movement was gathering momentum. And John F. Kennedy had less than a month to live.

For many people of Danny’s generation, the death of the President was the first event their youthful minds could recall. But a far more traumatic episode

was to occur in the life of this three-year-old, one that would forever taint the memory of his Midwestern infancy. An only child during the day, little Danny would make his own entertainment, trudging aimlessly around the neighboring cornfields under his mother’s all-watchful gaze. He was an inquisitive boy, often getting into trouble—as he always would—for refusing to stay away from forbidden things, never crawling where he could climb and never walking where he could run. He had few friends, even back then, but his fierce love for all the denizens of the animal kingdom sustained him and gave him the emotional fulfillment he could not find elsewhere.

Danny’s particular favorite was a scraggy mutt named Briscoe, a stray that had wandered into the Gibson homestead when Danny was a baby and became tacitly accepted by the family after John Junior threw it some scraps and it refused to leave the porch. Day after day it lollopped round the house after the toddler, Mary watching anxiously as Danny would cling to its shaggy fur, chatter to it, kiss it, pull its tail. All this it bore without complaint. By the time Danny could walk unaided they were inseparable.

The one bleak blot on the doggy horizon was John I. Unlike his wife, he had not grown up with a dog in the house and did not like dogs, trust dogs or see their use beyond rounding up sheep or poachers. But there it was. Danny’s pet.

Briscoe’s precise origins were a matter of some dispute within the family. John II would maintain that he was "descended from them old Injun dogs like you see in Bonanza," Karen that he was an angel God sent to keep watch over us, and John, somewhat less poetically, that he’s an old nuisance best got rid of. As the dog started to age, and the occasional deposits left around the house became more and more frequent, a plan began to formulate in his mind. Matters came to a head when John arrived home after yet another fruitless day’s jobsearching to find his best shirt not only used as a temporary toilet but also chewed up beyond recognition. The older kids were out playing ball in the park. But he had forgotten about Danny.

And so the little boy stood shaking by the window as he watched his father lead the ailing dog into the back yard and put a bullet through its brown muzzle. He covered it with a blanket and bowed his head in mock sorrow to tell Karen and Johnny that their faithful old friend had died in his sleep. An extravagant funeral service followed. And, though many other strays would be adopted, loved and buried over the next thirteen years until Danny left home for good, he never forgot the cardinal sin he had seen his father committing one cold day at the beginning of his last Iowan winter.

Image410.JPG

The Gibson family arrived in LA during the summer of 1964. They moved four times in six years, drifting from suburb to suburb in search of the security that never came. Danny went through eight different schools from age six to twelve, and hated them all. He soon came to hate the City of Angels too, though at the same time it held some morbid fascination for him. Walking to class he would often pass Audrey or Shirley or Jayne, peering out at him from behind the thick glass of their black limousines. A glamorous world. But lonely.

At six, Danny was already developing the forceful personality that would one day captivate the nation. Newbies were apt to be picked on, but Danny’s bearing—a certain presence, a sublime arrogance almost—kept him safe from the taunts of elder boys. He fitted in to these temporary refuges as best he could, becoming so self-absorbed that more than one puzzled principal would think him autistic. Inevitably, most of his classmates resented this apparent aloofness—weird, strange and freakshow were the adjectives most frequently employed in the Danny Spain segment of CBS’s 1996 Childhood of the Stars documentary.

The closest Danny had to a best friend in first grade was a part-Dutch boy named Ross Roebuck, who had started school a year late due to a life-threatening bout of influenza and possessed a heart-shaped face that swayed adoring teachers into forgiving any misdemeanor. Ross had three elder brothers, the firstborn now in the Marines, and would frequently pepper his speech with battle metaphors such as AWOL and take ‘em out. His current favorite was Mission. I’m goin’ on a Mission. Hey, Danny Gibson, you wanna come on a Mission with me? Ross had noticed Danny from the first, his steely determination to survive the Californian scrum impressive to a seven-year-old in search of hardened warriors.

Danny looked up from the Play-Doh that he had been fashioning from one undefined doughy lump into another undefined doughy lump. Huh?

In Jefferson Avenue. Search and destroy.

Jefferson Avenue was two blocks away from Danny’s home. What do you mean?

Ross dropped his voice to a whisper. "There’s this old guy that lives over on Jefferson, right? He’s crazy. My brother Francis used to deliver papers there, and he says he’s got a whole room just full of, like, guns and ammo and weird

pictures and stuff and he keeps it locked, but Francis went round there one time when he was inside of it and looked through the window, and he said it was real mad."

So? Danny pounded the Play-Doh again, imagining it was his father’s head. Bam! Bam!

So?! Ross rolled his eyes. You dummy! He’s obviously working for the Russians.

Just ‘cause he likes guns?

No, there’s other stuff. Like these charts, man, they were all in that funny writing like they use in Russia. Ross had taken his brother’s word for this, barely able to read English himself. He’s a spy, we gotta take him out.

What are you talking about? We can’t do that. If you’re worried about it, you should get your mom to call the FBI.

Yeah, get the Feds in! Ross trilled, squeezing his own piece of Play-Doh. "Kerpow! I’m getting my brother and my cousin to come along, they’ll protect us. Francis is thirteen, almost. We just wanna give him a little scare, that’s all, so’s he’ll know we don’t want him in our neighborhood. You in?"

Danny crushed the Play-Doh in his hand. Pink plasticine squirted out between his fingers. Yeah, okay.

Image418.JPG

Two days later the juvenile army were ready for an assault. Brian Roebuck had indoctrinated his younger relatives well in Red-hatred, so Ross, Francis and William had little doubt that they were doing The Right Thing to protect their country from Soviet scum. Danny was less sure, but curious all the same to intrude so blatantly into the world of grown-ups. We’ll come give you a call about ten, once it’s got dark, Francis instructed. He handed him a can of spray-paint. Be waiting by the window.

What’s this for?

Ross tutted. That’s the ammo, you dummy, so’s we can trash that spyroom. We’re gonna do all over those Ruskie maps of his so’s they’ll get confused ‘bout where to drop the bombs.

Danny gave the nozzle a tentative press. Thick red liquid squirted out onto the pavement. Woah! Cool!

Francis gave him a cuff. Quit messin’. We’ll be round for you later. Don’t fall asleep.

Image429.JPG

Ten ‘o clock, and Danny was kneeling by the window in his Spiderman pajamas, his whole body tingling with excitement in anticipation of this adventure with the Big Boys. If they thought it was cool, it must be okay, mustn’t it?

Suddenly a stone whizzed past his ear and startled him. The three Roebucks were outside. Brimming with pride, he grabbed his bathrobe from the closet, then snuck down the stairs and tiptoed across the hall, careful to avoid the front room in case his parents were still around. He thought it unlikely though, as John and Mary were always religiously tucked up in bed by half-nine on weeknights. He inched round to the front door and pulled a chair over so that he could get it open.

As he swung the door back three disgusted faces glared at him. Jesus!

What’s he—

Dan, are you crazy?

He looked up at them, confused. What’s wrong?

Spiderman p.j.’s, man? The Roebucks were dressed from head to toe in black combats, with William’s mother’s darkest lipstick smeared across their cheeks.

Francis whistled and turned to his cousin. I knew it was a mistake bringing these babies.

Yeah, go back to bed, Danny, Ross snapped. Danny glowered. I will not!

Shhh, kid, you wanna wake your folks? William hissed. Danny stepped outside and closed the door, pulling the bathrobe tight around his incriminating clothing. I wanna come.

Francis raised a resigned hand. Okay, whatever. Let’s do it.

Armed with their paint sprays, the quartet covertly crept over to the block where the fearsome Russian spy lived. That’s his house, with the purple curtains, see?

Despite Ross’s earlier boasts, the original plan had simply been to decorate the porch steps and then leg it, since none of the boys were quite brave enough to include breaking-and-entering in their sabotage operation. William, however, thought it prudent to at least try the front door, and as luck would have it, it had been left unlocked.

It’s like we got God on our side now, men, he announced as they marched into the darkened house. Francis reached out and flicked on a light. Hey! warned William, be careful, he’s probably still up.

Aw shit, he’s a crip, probably spends most of his life in bed. Francis tiptoed over to the mysterious room and tried the door. It was locked.

I’ve seen where he keeps the key. He padded through to the kitchen and emerged a few moments later triumphantly clutching a small silver object. Bingo!

Francis fed the key into the lock and turned it. Danny pushed forward, eager to see what all the fuss had been about. His eyes swept the walls as Francis switched the light on. Elaborate charts did indeed cover them, along with several colorful abstract paintings, but the only guns in evidence were the ones neatly stacked inside a small cabinet on the far side of the room. That was normal, surely? His grandfather had one just like it.

Francis walked over to a stuffed deer head mounted in a corner. He probably shot that when he was taking pictures of nuclear weapons factories in Siberia. He aimed the can squarely at one of the animal’s glassy eyes and fired. A fine red mist appeared over its matted fur.

He threw back his head and laughed. C’mon, let’s bomb the enemy!

They had their signal, and William and Ross went on the attack, gleefully spraying the red liquid over the maps, the pictures, everything in the room. Danny stayed where he was. Those strange paintings were oddly beautiful in their way. It suddenly seemed a shame to destroy them.

Francis slapped his shoulder. Come on, man, see those fucked up pictures he’s done, they’re probably encoded with secret Ruskie messages. You’ll be doing the President a favor if you nuke ‘em! Peer pressure won out, and Danny sadly raised the can and obliterated a portrait of a young boy’s face carved into a tree trunk. Red blood dripped onto the dark bark.

There was a noise from upstairs, and they all froze on the spot. Fuck, Francis whispered as the sound grew louder, the distinctive shuffling of a man supported by a cane. The four of them shrank back further into the mutilated room, watching in horror as a gaunt but still spirited figure with tiny, beady eyes and a shock of white hair emerged from the stairwell.

The boys waited until he was almost on them before making their move. The old man paused in the doorway of his once-sacred sanctuary, eyes flashing shocked, and reached out with one twisted hand for the ringleader. Francis yelped and dropped the can, pushing past him and racing from the house at

top speed. Ugh! He tried to touch me, he’s probably got some sort of chemical disease under his skin so’s he can hurt kids!

William and Ross ran out after him, with little Danny trailing behind. By now the old man had recovered his wits, and as Danny brushed past he closed his bony fingers around the boy’s bathrobe. Ross turned and saw he was trapped, but did nothing to assist, silently refusing to acknowledge the pleading in the younger boy’s eyes. There would be no more cozy exchange of pleasantries over the Play-Doh for these two, and Danny remembered the bitterness of that first betrayal long after he had forgotten his former friend’s name.

The man jerked him back inside the room. Danny fell to the floor, whimpering. His bathrobe fell from his shoulders, exposing the baby pajamas.

With some effort the old man knelt down beside the sobbing child and pulled him to his feet. Tell me why you have done this.

Shivering, Danny attempted to speak. They.Fr-Francis said you were a Russian spy.

"Your friend thought I was a what?"

A spy, Danny gulped, ’cause you got all them charts and stuff, in Rus-Russian.

The man smiled then, and struggled back to a standing position. He limped over to one of the ruined charts, touching it gently with a finger. Russian. That’s what you thought these were?

Aren’t they?

No, no, my boy, these are in Sanskrit, one of the languages of ancient India. It’s one of my hobbies—a study of civilizations of the past. The pictures are mostly my rather weak efforts to reproduce some of the artwork of the ancient world. He gestured to the bark engraving that Danny had violated. In some cultures, before they had thought of paper, they would carve directly onto the wood itself. It could take months, even years, to find the right texture. Don’t you think that’s amazing?

Uh-huh, squeaked Danny. The man’s sharp eyes flicked over his face, probing. What’s your name?

Danny.

And how old are you?

Six-and-three-quarters, Danny reeled off, automatically adding the fraction that is so important to children under ten. The man shook his head. You’re awfully young to have this much hate inside of you. Those older boys should be ashamed of themselves for dragging you along like this.

I wanted to come, the boy retorted. The old man held out his hand to him. My name is Frederick Marshall.

Timidly, Danny took it. Could he really carry chemicals in his skin? He attempted a smile. "My mom and dad are going to be so mad at me."

Well, maybe you should get back home before they notice you’re missing.

"You mean you’re not going to tell?"

Frederick shrugged. Why should I do that? There’s been enough anger spilt in this room already. My suffering would not be any the less if I saw you punished.

Danny glanced at the picture of the young boy again. On his primeval face, the paint was beginning to congeal, hardening into lumps like—like acne, Danny thought, making him look bizarrely like Francis. I’m so sorry for what we did, mister. I really am.

I would like to think so. Go home. And tell your friends that I am not a Russian spy, and that even if I was it would not be their duty to take care of me.

Meekly, Danny departed the house and ran the two blocks back to his own front door. It was still unlocked, as he had left it. He was shaking as he climbed the stairs to his warm, safe bed. Why had the old man let him go? Was it because he was so young? Or rather, because they shared something? Some-thing—what?

Frederick died not long after, and Danny mourned him, a man he had spoken to but once, as he would have a grandfather. When his family quit that neighborhood, for once, he was glad.

CHAPTER 2

Angelenos like to think that New York is full of movie stars pretending to be actors. New Yorkers like to think that LA is full of movie stars who failed to make it as actors and have settled for being movie stars. Daniel Delaney was both—or neither, depending on your point of view. He had come to the Big Orange in early 1967, a filthy-haired student of nineteen with big ambitions and an even bigger vintage Harley Davidson motorbike. He was the nearest thing the straightlaced people of Glendale had to a rebel, and in little Dan he would find a kindred spirit.

Daniel lodged across the street from Danny and was forever trying to win a place at CalArts. It was one hot August morning shortly after his fifth consecutive rejection that the boy first made his acquaintance proper.

For a moment the young man was too engrossed in the mechanisms of his Harley to notice the small figure who had appeared beside him in the garage. His shadow was blocking the tiny sliver of light by which Daniel had been attempting to tighten a ratchet screw. Mildly irritated, he glanced up. Hi.

The boy cocked his head to one side. Whatya doing?

I’m composing a Shakespearean sonnet, what does it look like I’m doing? It was well known that Daniel’s real dream had been to get into Juilliard. I’m fixing up the bike.

Yeah? I’ve seen you out here a lot. It must not go so well.

Must not go so well? I tell ya, kid—Daniel patted the bike’s underbelly affectionately—when this baby’s working right she’ll take you all the way to Texas. Handles like a bitch in heat when she’s flying.

Yeah. Like a bitch! The boy’s eyes widened at the taboo language. Mary wouldn’t even let him say damn in the house. But Ma, Clark Gable said it all the time! The price of raising a Hollywood child.

You bet your ass. Another forbidden word! Daniel had been trying to shock the youngster into leaving him alone, but his colorful speech only intrigued Danny more. Realizing he was trapped, Daniel sighed and extricated himself from the bike’s spiky embrace.

He stood up and wiped his fingers on his jeans. Danny whistled. Man, you sure get dirty working under there.

Comes off in the wash as I recall. Don’t your parents ever tell you not to talk to strangers?

But you’re not a stranger. I live right opposite, 1131, Danny replied with childish logic.

Uh-huh. Nice. You got a name then, neighbor?

Daniel. Daniel Gibson.

No shit? Daniel’s my name too, Daniel Delaney. Only my friends call me DD.

He offered Danny his hand. Danny hesitated, then took it, screwing up his face with distaste as he felt engine grease slide over his palm.

Gotta be smarter than that, Daniel. A wink. Danny frowned, and for a moment DD feared he was about to cry off to his parents. After all, what was the kid, six, seven? Probably still pissing in his bed at night. But then Danny smiled, and rubbed off his hands. DD relaxed. Good kid.

Danny came closer, reaching out to touch the sparking chrome. It’s a cool bike.

It’s a cool bike? I’ll bet you’ve hardly ever seen one! The boy shrugged. And you’ve definitely never ridden pony on one, have you?

Well, no, Danny replied, in a sorrowful tone that implied this was a long-gone-unrequited wish. Imagine showing up at the gates of Disneyland on one of these monsters! Mickey and Donald would just freak.

DD shook his head. Man, the people in this town are unbelievable. What a bunch of stiffs. You born here?

No, Iowa.

You miss it?

"I don’t miss anything," Danny declared, so fiercely that Daniel looked at him in surprise. Realizing the effect his words had had, the boy bit his lip and turned away. DD touched his shoulder. Heyyyy, he said, softly, guess there ain’t a lot round here for you to miss, is there?

Danny kept his face to the wall. A child with no expectations, used to his father’s broken promises. DD stroked the bike. Would you want to come for a ride with me? If your parents said it was okay?

Danny brightened up. Yeah! Then gloom again. But they never would.

Well, let me talk to them, anyway, DD replied, I can be pretty persuasive when I want to be.

Image445.JPG

DD was. He tried the stealth approach: passing by the porch to introduce himself to his new neighbors, talking World Series with John, casting a few admiring glances Karen-ward, and so on. Two Dodgers games later he’d gotten the yes vote. It seemed the young student had gone to a lot of trouble just to give one small child a trip down the freeway, but the fire he had seen in Danny’s eyes that day would have driven him to attempt far greater things for the boy.

It became a Sunday morning ritual, DD revving up outside Danny’s house at eight a.m. sharp and tooting his horn stridently enough to wake half the street if Danny wasn’t down by ten past. Soon these fifteen-minute trips grew into hours and included journeys to the coastline or the Silverlake Reservoir or the Malibu Creek State Park. John and Mary were impressed by DD’s ability to keep their errant son out of trouble. He seemed much more of a big brother figure than the studious John II, his junior by two years, who had spent most of the summer imprisoned in his room cramming for Princeton. And DD genuinely appeared to like the kid, despite the difference in their ages.

Image454.JPG

The child Danny Gibson feared little that was tangible. Feelings, and the misinterpretation of them, was another matter entirely. Mistaking friendship for romance, curiosity for desire, can be a dangerous thing. Danny was beginning to sense there was a twilight world that existed between young adults, one in which the opposite sex tended to figure prominently. He knew it involved kissing, cuddling, holding hands, and—something else. What this else was, he was determined to find out. It must have something to do with down there, where his mother was always warning him not to touch as she gave him his bath. She didn’t towel him dry afterwards anymore. He was eight now, and beginning to do these things for himself.

That Sunday proceeded in the usual way. DD collected him in the morning, and they set off to Topanga to play ball and munch their picnic. When the time came to leave, DD, sitting sideways on the bike, planted a quick kiss on the top of Danny’s head. This he often did, but never before had it struck Danny as important in any way.

Suddenly he saw what he must do. Do that again.

Slightly startled, Daniel repeated the action. Danny attempted to climb onto his knee.

Hey! You’ll tip the bike over.

Quickly now, Danny slid his small hand round to DD’s crotch. I know what this is for.

Jesus, Danny! The ferocity with which DD jerked back shocked them both. "What are you doing?"

Don’t you like it? Plaintive. Daniel looked straight into those strange green eyes. D’you like it when the girls do it to you?

Again he slapped Danny’s fingers away. Stop!

Well, don’t you? Would you let Karen do it? I could, I could be as good as Karen—

DD cut him off. You don’t understand. They’d have me locked up.

I won’t tell. One last desperate gesture, reaching out for a love he could not fully comprehend but knew was part of him. DD’s face bore a look of horror as he pushed him off, and in that moment of rejection Danny came as close as he ever would to discovering the truth about what he was. Intimacy and disgust, forever linked in his mind now. Without another word Daniel swung his leg over the bike and Danny hopped on behind. They rode home in silence.

Image462.JPG

Of course, things could never be the same between the two of them after that. DD moved away the following summer, New York’s irresistible spell drawing him in. He spent a season with the NYC Shakespeare Company and eventually did become champion of two worlds, carving out a successful career both on Broadway and in Hollywood. He even worked with Nate—once. Danny watched with tear-filled eyes as he loaded his worldly goods onto the back of his Harley and rode off down the highway, helmet-less and hair flowing free. I want to go with you, he whispered, only to be met with those damning words: You’re just a kid, Danny. You’re just a kid.

Everyone deals with loss in different ways. For Danny, it was just one more excuse to misbehave. It was as if he couldn’t wait for his childhood to be over fast enough, and resented his siblings for being that much closer to the age of consent than he was.

In particular, he fought with his sister, Karen, a twenty-four carat bitch if ever there was one, at least in Danny’s eyes. Not that it was easy for her, having the Kid Brother From Hell—who scrawled obscenities in your diary, mouthed off to your friends, told the neighborhood boys you had crabs and never put the toilet seat down. Karen’s first real memory of Danny (bar his babyhood and all its attendant cutenesses) was the day he made her cry at a family wedding when he had grabbed her perfect pigtails and attempted to eat them. Danny’s earliest memory of Karen was of her shutting him in the wardrobe for three hours while she swapped confidences with her best friend. This had backfired on her, though, as the imprisoned toddler had answered the call of nature in her favorite shoes. Danny thought Karen represented all the worst things about womanhood—forever obsessing about her clothes or her hair or the boy on the bus she wanted to get intimate with. He liked to play tricks on her, such as shoving her into a puddle on the way to a date. Harmless fun, he supposed. But soon he would go too far.

Image471.JPG

When Karen turned seventeen her parents bought her a special present—a hamster which, Danny noted with contempt, she had chosen to name Fluffy. His special bond with animals did not apply to this particular one, and he was greeted with a sharp nip every time he attempted to put his hand into the cage. Stupid girlie beast. He knew that Fluffy-exploitation was the best way to annoy his sister, and during their frequent fights his favorite ploy (worth risking his fingers for) was to pluck the animal from its plastic home and hide it around the house. But Karen always found her too easily. After one particularly bitter row in which Karen had thrown his autographed baseball cap into the septic tank, Danny resolved to up the stakes a little.

To merely say that he put the hamster in the freezer would not be telling the whole tale. He never meant to take the little creature’s life. The plan, such as it was, had been to leave the animal inside for a few minutes, during which time, Danny’s ten-year-old mind was convinced, it would go into hibernation, thinking it was winter. Then he could pop her back into the cage and watch gleefully as Karen frantically tried to wake her up. But young boys are so easily

distracted, and between his mother yelling at him to take out the trash and the Lakers game