The Informers - Bret Easton Ellis [16]
“You … are … awful,” I say.
“You’re not much better,” he says, pulling me along.
William talks to an actor who has a new movie opening next week and we are standing next to a pool and there is a very young tan boy with the actor and he’s not listening to the conversation. He stares into the pool, his hands in his pockets. A warm black wind comes down through the canyons and the blond boy’s hair stays perfectly still. From where I’m standing I can see the billboards, tiny lit rectangles, on Sunset, illuminated by neon streetlights. I sip my drink and look back at the boy, who is still staring into the lit water. There is a band playing and the soft, lilting music and the light coming from the pool, tendrils of steam rising from it, and the beautiful blond boy and the yellow-and-white-striped tents that stand on a long, spacious lawn and the warm winds cooling and the palm trees, the moon outlining their fronds, act as an anesthetic. William and the actor are talking about the rock star’s wife who tried to drown herself in Malibu and the blond boy I’m staring at turns his head away from the pool and finally begins to listen.
4
IN THE ISLANDS
I am watching my son through a mirrored window from the fifth floor of the office building I own. He is standing in line with someone to see Terms of Endearment which is playing across the plaza from where I work. He keeps looking up at the window I am standing behind. I’m on the phone with Lynch and he’s talking about the finalities of a deal we worked on last week in New York even though I’m not listening to him. I stare through the glass, relieved that Tim can’t see me, that we can’t share a wave. He and his friend just stand there waiting for the line to be let in. His friend—I think his name is Sam or Graham or something—looks a lot like Tim: tall and blond and tan, both wearing faded jeans and red USC sweatshirts. Tim raises his eyes to the window again. I put my hand up to surprisingly cool glass and hold it there. Lynch says that since it’s Thanksgiving maybe I would like to join O’Brien, Davies and him down in Las Cruces and do some fishing this weekend. I tell Lynch that I’m taking Tim to Hawaii for four days. Graham whispers something in Tim’s ear and Graham’s movement and subsequent grin seem almost lascivious to me and the idea that they are sleeping together passes and Lynch says maybe he’ll talk to me after I get back from Hawaii. I hang up, taking my hand off the window. Tim lights a cigarette and looks up at my window again. I stand there, staring down at him, wishing he wouldn’t smoke. Kay calls from her desk, “Les? Fitzhugh’s on line three,” and I tell her I’m not here and I stand at the window until the line goes in and Tim disappears through the lobby doors and when I leave the office early, around four, and I’m in the underground parking garage, I lean against a silver Ferrari and loosen my tie, my hands trembling with the effort it takes to unlock the car’s door, and then I’m driving away from Century City.
I have repacked the one major piece of luggage I’m taking many times, uncertain of what to bring even though I have been to the Mauna Kea often, but tonight, right now, I’m having trouble. I should have something to eat—it’s after nine—but I’m not too hungry due to Valium I took earlier this evening. In the kitchen I find a box of Triscuits and tiredly eat three. The phone rings while I’m rearranging the suitcase, refolding a couple of dress shirts.
“Tim doesn’t want to go,” Elena says.
“What do you mean, Tim doesn’t want to go?” I ask.
“He doesn’t want to go, Les.”
“Let me talk to him,” I ask.
“He’s not here.”
“Let me talk to him, Elena,” I say, relieved.
“He’s not here.”
“I’ve made reservations. You know how goddamned hard it is to get reservations at the fucking Mauna Kea during Thanksgiving?”
“Yes. I do.”
“He’s going, Elena, whether he wants to or not.”
“Oh, Les, for God