“An unusual metaphor for Los Angeles,” I observed.
He looked puzzled, then dropped my hand. “Comments like that go right over a jury’s head,” he said with a faked smile.
I made a noise that could be interpreted as assent.
“Who’s the judge?” he asked.
“Patricia Ryan.”
“Good. Very good,” he replied judiciously. “I’ll call her for lunch next week.” He beamed at us. “I’m neglecting my duties. Let me get you a drink.”
“Thanks, but I don’t drink,” I said.
His eyes narrowed and he nodded. “Oh, that’s right. Perrier, then?”
“Nothing, thank you,” I replied. I felt a flash of irritation at Larry who had obviously told Fein I was an alcoholic.
“What about you, Larry?” Fein asked.
“Not just yet. I think I should take Henry around.”
“Of course,” Fein said, and stepped aside. “I’ll talk to you later.”
We started across the hall and Larry said, in a low voice, “I know what you’re thinking but I didn’t tell him.”
“Then how did he know?”
“He’s like God, only richer. So I’d watch the wisecracks if I were you.”
For the next hour we worked the room. The crowd consisted of well-dressed, expensively scented men and a few women all of whom, like Fein, had found ways to slow time’s passage. Larry and I fell into a routine. He would introduce me. Someone would inevitably ask what I thought of Jim’s chances. I would launch into a lengthy explanation of the concept of presumption of innocence. At some point — before a member of the audience actually fell asleep — Larry would break in to make a pitch for money. As we moved away from one group, I heard a man stage whisper, “She’s pretty but someone should tell her to lighten up.”
I turned to Larry, who had also heard, and said, “I need a break.”
“I’ll come and find you.”
When he left I found myself near the center of the room. A short, stocky man stood a few feet away staring up at the ceiling. I followed his gaze to the chandelier. It was a sleek metallic thing lit with dozens of silvery candles. The man and I exchanged looks. He smiled.
“At first,” he said, “I wondered why Elliot couldn’t afford electricity. Then I realized the candles must be much more expensive.”
There were faint traces of an English accent in his voice. His face was square and fleshy and showed its age. His was the first truly human visage I’d seen all night.
“It’s less conspicuous than burning hundred-dollar bills, I guess.”
He laughed. “I heard you introduced, Mr. Rios. My name is Harvey Miller.”
“Henry to my friends,” I replied, shaking his hand. “Are you part of this crowd?”
“Am I rich? No. I work at the Gay and Lesbian Center on Highland. Elliot’s on the board. Do you know about the Center?”
“Sure,” I said. “You do good work.”
“So do you, I hear.” He accepted a glass of champagne from a passing waiter.
I shrugged. “It’s my Catholic upbringing. The world’s troubles weigh on my heart. Mea culpa.”
He sipped from the glass and lowered it. “You seem a bit brittle, Henry.”
“This isn’t my natural habitat. I was going outside for some air. Join me?”
“I’d like that.”
We made our way through the clumps of oversized furnishings and past the squadrons of rented waiters carrying trays of food and drink, to a door that let us out onto an immense patio. We walked to its edge and looked out over the city. Streams of light marked the major boulevards which were crammed with the tail end of rush-hour traffic. The spires of downtown probed the ashen sky. Lights of every color — red, blue, silver, gold — twinkled in the darkness as if the city were an enormous Christmas tree.
I made this comparison to Harvey.
“It is like a Christmas tree,” he replied, “but most of the boxes beneath it are empty. For a lot of gay people, anyway.”
I looked at him as he finished off the contents of his glass. “What exactly do you do at the Center?”
“I’m a psychologist,” he replied, smiling at the city.
“Well,” I said, “for a few gay people some boxes, like this house, are crammed full.”
“No, not really.” He set the glass down on the ledge of the wall. “It’s not easy for anyone in this society to be gay.”
“I wouldn’t waste much sympathy on the rich,” I said. “Even compassion has its limits.”
He moved a step nearer. “Are you always the life of the party?”
I smiled. “Sorry. Yesterday I was sitting in a filthy little room trying to pry some truth out of Jim Pears and tonight I’m at Valhalla meeting the gay junior league. When the altitude changes this fast I get motion sick.”
“Why do you have such a low opinion of us?”
“I don’t. It’s just that it’s not my profession.”
“What?”
“Homosexuality.”
“No,” he said, feigning a smile. “You’re a lawyer, right? Never mind that the law oppresses us.”
“I thought we were going to be friends, Harvey.”
“You can’t isolate yourself in your work.”
“I’m not trying to,” I said. “But Jim Pears is a client, not a cause. If I can save his life, I’ve done my job.”
“And if not?” he asked, leaning against the wall. “Have you still done your job?”
“By my lights,” I replied.
He picked up his glass. “I’m disappointed that your lights have such a narrow focus.”
I shrugged. ‘‘In my work, someone is usually disappointed.”
‘‘Good luck,” he said and went back inside.
When I went back in, the party was breaking up. I spotted Larry standing with a fat man in a shiny suit. Not an old suit. A shiny one. Larry signaled me to join them. The fat man’s face shone like a waxed apple. A fringe of dyed hair was combed low over his forehead. He fidgeted a smile, revealing perfect teeth.
“Henry, this is Sandy Blenheim,” Larry said.
I shook Blenheim’s hand. It was soft and moist but he compensated with a grip that nearly broke my thumb. Before I could say anything, Blenheim started talking.
“Look, Henry, I’m running a little late.” He jabbed his hand into the air, as if to ward off time’s passage. “So if we could just get down to business.”
“What business is that?”
“I’m an agent. I have a client who’s interested in buying the rights to the trial.”
“Jim’s trial?” I asked.
Blenheim gave three rapid nods.
“Why?”
“To make a movie,” Larry interjected.
I looked at Blenheim. “A movie?”
“It’s great. The whole set-up. Gay kid exposed. We could take it to the networks and sell it like that.” He snapped his pudgy fingers. “We tried talking to the kid’s parents but they won’t deal. The kid won’t even talk to me. So you’re our last hope.”
“I really don’t understand,” I said.
Blenheim spread his hands. “We buy your rights, see, and if you can bring the kid and his folks around, that just sweetens the deal. What about it?”
“It’s a bit premature, don’t you think?” I said. “There hasn’t actually been a trial.”
“But there will be,” Blenheim insisted. “We can give you twenty,” he continued. “Plus, we hire you as the legal consultant. You could clean up.”
“I’m sorry,” I began, “but this conversation is not-”
“Okay,” Blenheim said, affably. “I’ve been around lawyers. You guys are cagey. Tell you what, Henry. Think on it and call me in a couple of weeks. Larry’s got my number. See you later.”
He turned, waved at someone across the room, and walked away. I looked at Larry. “Have I just been hit by a truck?”
“No, but you might check your wallet.”
“What was that all about?”
“Just what the man said,” Larry replied. “He wants to make a movie.”
“About Jim? That’s a little ghoulish, isn’t it?”
Larry shrugged. “He gave me a check for five hundred dollars for Jim’s defense,” he said. “I figured that was worth at least a couple of minutes of your time.”