The Informers - Bret Easton Ellis [17]
“Why doesn’t he want to go?” I ask.
Elena pauses. “He just doesn’t think he’ll have a good time.”
“He doesn’t want to go because he doesn’t like me.”
“Oh damn it, Les, stop feeling sorry for yourself,” she says, bored. “That’s … not true.”
“Then what is it?”
“It’s just that—”
“It’s just what? It’s just what, Elena?”
“It’s just that … he’s probably uncomfortable about …” Elena phrases the rest of this sentence carefully: “the two of you going away together, since you’ve never been away together. Alone.”
“I want to take my son to Hawaii for a couple of days, without his sisters, without his mother,” I say, then, “Jesus, Elena, we never see each other.”
“I understand that, Les, but he’s nineteen, for God’s sake,” she says. “If he doesn’t want to go with you I can’t force him—”
“He doesn’t want to go because he doesn’t like me,” I say loudly, cutting her off. “You know that. I know that. And I know damn well he put you up to this call.”
“If you really think this, then why are you taking him anyway?” Elena asks. “Do you think three days are going to change anything?”
I refold another shirt and put it back in the suitcase, then I sit on the bed, hard.
“I hate to be put in the middle like this,” she finally says, admits.
“Damn it,” I scream. “He shouldn’t put you there.”
“Don’t yell.”
“I don’t give a shit. I’m picking him up tomorrow at ten-thirty whether the little bastard wants to go or not.”
“Les, don’t yell.”
“Well, it pisses me off.”
“I don’t”—she stammers—“I don’t want to do this now. I’m getting off. I hate to be put in the middle.”
“Elena,” I warn. “You tell him he’s going. I know he’s there. You tell him he’s going.”
“Les, what are you going to do if he really decides not to go?” she asks. “Kill him?”
In the background, in their house, in her bedroom, a door slams. I hear Elena sigh, heavily. “I don’t want to do this. I don’t want to be put in the middle. Do you want to talk to the girls?”
“No,” I mutter.
I hang up the phone, then walk out onto the balcony of the penthouse with the box of Triscuits and stand next to an orange tree. Cars move along a freeway, one line of red, another moving strip of white, and after the anger brushes past, I’m left with a feeling of caring that seems strangely, hopelessly artificial. I call Lynch to tell him that I’ll join him and O’Brien and Davies in Las Cruces but Lynch’s girlfriend answers and I hang up.
The limousine picks me up from my office in Century City at ten o’clock. The chauffeur, Chuck, puts my two bags in the trunk after opening the door for me. On the way to Encino to pick up Tim, I pour myself a Stoli, straight, on the rocks and am embarrassed by how quickly I drink it. I pour myself another half glass with a lot of ice and slip a Sondheim tape into the stereo and then I sit back and look out the tinted windows of the limousine as it crawls up through Beverly Glen toward the house in Encino where Tim stays while off from school at USC.
The limousine pulls up in front of the large stone house and I spot Tim’s black Porsche, which I bought him for barely graduating from Buckley, sitting by the garage. Tim opens the front door of the house, followed by Elena, who waves uncertainly at the darkened windows of the limo and then walks hurriedly back into the house and closes the door. Tim, wearing a plaid sports jacket, jeans and a white Polo shirt, holding two pieces of luggage, walks up to Chuck, who takes the suitcases and opens the door for him. Tim smiles nervously as he gets in.
“Hey,” he says.
“Hi, Tim, how ya doin’?” I ask, slapping his knee.
He jerks, keeps smiling, looking tired, trying not to look tired, which makes him look even more tired.
“Um, good, I’m fine.” He stops for a moment, then asks, somewhat clumsily, “Um, how are, um, you?”
“Oh, I’m okay.” I’m smelling something strange, almost herbal, coming off his jacket and I picture Tim in his room, sitting on his bed, this morning, smoking marijuana from a pipe, gathering blind courage. I hope he has not brought any with him.
“This is … great,” he says, looking around the