It’s over,” Harry said. “You’re off the story.”
We stood in the parking lot of the sheriff’s West Hollywood substation, where Luis Albundo had been booked for attempted murder, among other charges.
Harry had come down to talk with the deputies when they’d learned that I had no press credentials from the Sun. Before they’d reached him, he’d also gotten calls from the Sun’s publisher and from Queenie Cochran.
“You can’t pull me off the story now,” I said.
“I just did.”
Harry climbed behind the wheel of his Ford Escort. I stood between him and the door so he couldn’t get away.
“Why? Because Queenie Cochran’s pissed and the Sun might not get to do any more puff jobs on her clients? That’s stupid, Harry.”
“I’ll tell you what’s stupid. Trespassing on private property and spying on Samantha Eliason, that’s stupid. Antagonizing this Albundo guy until he tries to do a drive-by on you, that’s stupid. Forcing your way into an interview with Margaret Devonshire, now that’s really stupid. Her husband plays poker with the publisher, for Christ sake!”
“A disrupted poker game! Oh, Harry, however can I make amends?”
“You’ve put the entire Billy Lusk coverage in jeopardy.” He pushed me aside and pulled the door closed. “Not to mention my goddamn job.”
“I was doing my job, Harry. The one you gave me to do.”
“You’re a loose cannon, Ben.”
“I’ve always been a loose cannon.”
“You don’t get it, do you? You can’t get away with it anymore. Six years ago, you screwed up big time and everybody’s watching you now. I warned you to take it slowly, keep a low profile. But you didn’t listen.”
He switched on the ignition. I reached through the open window and turned the key, shutting the engine off.
“Harry, I know Gonzalo Albundo didn’t murder Billy Lusk.”
“No, you don’t know that. You think it, maybe. For your own personal reasons, whatever they may be.”
“In my gut, I know it.”
“Have you forgotten that he’s an admitted gang banger? That a witness puts him at the scene? That blood on his clothes places him with the body? That he confessed, for Christ sake! Those are the facts, Ben!”
“You always taught me to look beyond the obvious, Harry. Assume nothing, check everything. Remember?”
“All right,” Harry said tersely. “We’ll go through this one more time. Tell me exactly what you know.”
“First of all, Gonzalo Albundo is not a member of any gang we can find. Everybody who knows the gangs in that area says he didn’t run with one. Everything in his past indicates complete antipathy toward gang-banging. He was raped in jail, no gang protection there. And no tattoos on his body, except for some he crudely scratched on himself, after the fact. He doesn’t fit the profile of a gang banger, Harry. Not even close.”
Harry wiped his glasses on a handkerchief, something he often did when he was about to end a discussion.
“So why was he down there, Ben, hanging around a gay bar?” He said it calmly, and it felt faintly patronizing. “And why did he confess?”
He slipped his glasses back on and said, “I’m waiting, Ben.”
I decided to play my hand, while there was still time.
“Because he’s gay.”
Harry slumped a little behind the wheel, shaking his head. “And just how the fuck do you know that?”
“For starters, I found a gay magazine and a package of condoms hidden in his bedroom.”
“Which proves nothing.”
“He may not be active yet. But he’s at least curious, and probably much more than that. His sister told me he’s become withdrawn in the past year, no communication. It sounds like he could be in deep conflict about his sexual feelings.”
“This is psychobabble, Ben. It’s not your field.”
“Hear me out, Harry.”
He found a cigarette, lit it, and stared out at the brick wall in front of him. Over its top, I could see the baseball field across the street. In between, a stream of men sauntered from their cars to the clubs.
I kneeled down to Harry’s level.
“I think that Gonzalo sneaked out late that night, dropping from his bedroom window. When his sister showed me his room, I found the screen unlatched. He probably rolled his car down the hill with the ignition off to avoid waking anyone, then drove to The Out Crowd.
“He got there in a matter of minutes. He hung around outside in the shadows, trying to meet a man or just see what was going on. That’s when he heard Billy Lusk arguing with someone, then a gun go off. He might even have seen Billy go down. It’s even possible he could identify the real killer.”
“What about the blood on his clothes?”
“In his bedroom, I saw Boy Scout merit badges for first aid training. He probably went to Billy’s side instinctively, to help. That’s when he picked up the blood, and when Jefferson Bellworthy saw him kneeling over the body.”
“If he wanted to help, why did he run?”
“He realized that if he stayed and was questioned as a witness, he’d be exposed as a homosexual. When he saw Bellworthy, he panicked and took off.”
“That doesn’t explain the confession.”
“He’d rather confess to murder than admit to his family and friends that he’s queer.”
“That’s nuts.” Harry finally looked at me. “You don’t choose to rot in jail or die by lethal injection just because you like boys instead of girls.”
“You do if you grew up with an older brother who was violently homophobic. If the idea of living a gay life goes against everything within your cultural and family traditions. If your parents are Catholic, and you love and respect them more than you respect yourself.”
“Sorry, Ben, I don’t buy it.”
“Gonzalo Albundo is a frightened, confused teenager, Harry. He feels he has no rightful place in the world. That he’s all alone. No hope, no future. It’s the reason so many gay kids commit suicide. Gonzalo Albundo is just one more of those suicidal kids, Harry, self-destructing in a different way.”
“That’s all conjecture, and not terribly convincing.”
Harry stubbed the cigarette out in his ashtray.
“Look around, Ben. We’re in West Hollywood. If the kid’s gay, he comes down here and meets a thousand guys like himself.”
“This is the last place some people would ever want to come, Harry. It’s a strange world to a lot of guys. It scares away more gay kids than it attracts.”
“OK, then he joins a gay church or one of those gay rap groups or gets some counseling at those gay centers they have. But he doesn’t take the blame for a murder he didn’t commit. You can’t sell me on that one, Ben.”
“Damn you!”
I stood and pounded the meaty side of my fist hard enough on the Ford’s roof to make Harry jump.
“Damn you and your white heterosexual arrogance. Like you know everything. Like the story begins and ends with how Harry Brofsky sees it. Damn you and the rest of the media that’s owned and run by men like you!”
I whirled away from the car, frustrated almost to tears, then turned back on him.
“You remember what it was like to be sixteen or seventeen, Harry? How confused you were about some things? How terrified? Now imagine what it’s like to be that age and know you’re a faggot in a world that hates faggots. Some of those kids would rather die than face the truth about themselves or reveal it to someone else.”
At least he was meeting me with his eyes; I was getting that much respect, anyway.
“I know something about this, Harry. I know how desperate it can feel.”
“I admire your compassion,” Harry said, and I knew right then that I’d lost. He started the engine. “But I think your personal feelings are clouding your objectivity.”
“Fuck objectivity! How often have I heard you say that? There’s no such thing as objectivity, only fairness.”
“You’re off the story, Ben.”
“Harry, don’t.”
He was backing out. I held on to the car, moving with it.
“I have to, Ben. You’re too close to it. It’s making you do crazy things, and neither one of us can afford for that to happen again.”
“You got me into this, Harry. You’ve got to let me finish it.”
He shifted gears, out of reverse.
“Go home, Ben. Get some sleep. We’ll talk in the morning.” I kicked the side of his car, leaving a dent deep enough to serve soup in.
Harry hit the accelerator and sped to the exit, where his left turn signal blinked at me like an obscene wink.
I watched his taillights disappear down San Vicente Boulevard, becoming small red blurs through my angry tears.