Kiki

Chapter 1

♦

Clay

My phone rang, my private number, not something that happened often.

“Hello?”

“Clay?”

I started to say yes, then paused. I thought I recognized the voice, though it had been over ten years since I’d last heard it. Then, it had usually sounded angry and always dictatorial. Now? I wasn’t sure what it was; hard to read much in just one word, but there was some emotion that didn’t jibe with who I thought was calling. What this voice didn’t sound was angry, which it so often had been back then. Then, facing the anger, I’d not replied. It had become a learned behavior. Maybe that was what I should do now: keep on not replying. Probably wisest. But I was intrigued. More that ten years of silence. Ten years.

“Clay? That you?” The voice was persistent.

I sighed, mentally shrugged, and said, “Hello, Dad.”

It was his turn to hesitate. I forestalled him. “How’d you get this number? It’s not listed.”

“Hired someone.”

I didn’t respond. His dime. And I had nothing to say to him.

“Can we talk?”

I wasn’t accustomed to him sounding tentative. Or asking me for anything. Tentative and my father: the combination was as improbable as Abe Lincoln having a chat with the Three Stooges.

“Sure,” I said and then couldn’t help myself. “You’re the one who didn’t want any communication.”

“Well,” he said after a momentary pause, “time passes; things change.”

Still his dime—what an anachronistic phrase these days! Anyway, he’d tell me why he’d called when he got around to it. He didn’t need any prompting from me. Not my job to smooth the path for him.

“I need to talk to you, and over the phone isn’t the way to do this. Can you come here?”

“To New Haven? You’re kidding, right? Why would I even consider that?”

“Because I have things to say to you.” His tone of voice was a bit forced. I had the impression he’d wanted to say something else, something more in his character, like a demand, but he was not allowing himself to speak freely. Or to let his voice reflect his feelings.

I hadn’t spoken to him since I was eighteen. He’d been in charge then and could speak any way he desired; usually what he said was strong, commanding, immutable. And angry. But that was beyond a decade ago. He wasn’t my keeper any longer, he had no hold on me at all, and using a preemptory voice would be out of place and even sound daft. Perhaps that was why he was trying to keep that tone from his voice.

I had no problem keeping my own tone neutral. “So say these things you want to say now. But, if the phone is that uncomfortable for you, and as you found my number, you can certainly find my address. You can come here and say what you want. Call before coming, though. I may not be home.”

Another pause. He was sizing me up. That was what he had always been good at, reading people. He could tell from how I was speaking to him that I was not the same person he’d last dealt with. Back then I was, well, if not timid, at least tractable. I was that no longer that.

But backing down from anything he wanted wasn’t his style.

“Come there? Don’t be ridiculous! You owe me this at the very least.”

“Owe you? You believe that? I don’t owe you shit! If this is all you have to say, then goodbye.”

“Wait!” He yelled, hoping my thumb hadn’t ended the call yet.

I waited.

“Okay. Okay. I have to rethink this. How about meeting halfway. Des Moines, maybe. Chicago.”

“You own things in both places. If we’re going to talk, it won’t be on your home ground. And I still haven’t heard any reason at all to meet you, and certainly not to inconvenience myself to do so. No, as far as I’m concerned, you tell me what this is about, and if I see any point in talking to you about it, I’ll agree to meet—when you come here.”

His voice was calmer when he spoke again, which was after a longer pause. I wasn’t used to him giving in. And never, ever, had it been to me in the past. His way or the highway, and it had been the latter the last time we’d spoken. I’d taken that highway and never returned.

“All right, okay, this is important; if it has to be like this, we’ll do it your way. I’ll come there. Tomorrow.”

“Not until you give me some idea of what this is about.”

“Fine. It’s about Kiki.”

Now that stopped me. This was something I didn’t expect. Now he had my interest. “Tomorrow, then. Late. I’m busy all day and have a dinner appointment, too. I’ll be free by nine o’clock. Oh, and forget about getting my address. You’re not welcome at my house. I have no desire to see you, and certainly not at my home. This is what you do: get a suite; the Beverly Wilshire is good. We’ll talk. I’ll come there after my dinner meeting.”

He agreed, and we disconnected. I grinned. That suite at one of L.A.’s most expensive hotels would cost him over two grand for one night. That would have galled him back when I knew him. But even then, he’d pay what he had to when it meant getting what he wanted, and I was sure that he’d never even notice the expenditure. He had more money than God. Spent it more frugally, too.

) 0 (

I had dinner the next evening with a producer and director. We argued, but then, we always argued. Artistic differences. Just arguing, not livid aggression. We simply were expressing differing thoughts, dissenting visions. I was more in tune with the director, Grant Bellingly, than the producer, Jonathan Sims. Grant was probably my best male friend here on the coast. He insisted I be part of every one of his pictures. Well, he’d only made three, but I’d been part of each of them, and he said that would continue.

Jon, who provided the money and common-sense advice when it was needed, was much concerned with costs and only slightly with quality. With us, he shouldn’t have been worried about costs. All three of the films Grant had created and I’d been involved with had made millions over costs. Many millions. Still, Jon’s nature was to be cheap. It was a battle he always lost with Grant and me. He knew, though. that if he didn’t fund us, we’d go somewhere else, and he’d watch some other producer walk away with a fortune. Besides, he liked both of us. We were hot. And young. L.A. seemed to be a young person’s town and we were the current flavor of the month. Or maybe the year.

Jon was never happy that we refused to allow him the penny-pinching he wanted but did smile as the cash rolled in. He was smart enough not to let the quibbling get rancorous or personal.

We were between projects at the moment. Grant, the director, had a couple of ideas he’d wanted to float, and he wanted me there to help him sell them.

We’d finished dinner-cum-discussion by eight-thirty, and it was only a short distance to the Beverly Wilshire. I took a cab. The aphorism that no one walked in L.A. was given credence one more time.

I thought of stopping at the bar before taking the elevator up, but we’d finished off two bottles of a respectable Cab at dinner, and I didn’t need more alcohol. It was tempting, though. Being a bit lubed before meeting my dad had great appeal. It would be a mistake, however, and I knew it.

I decided to go on up to the suite and bypass temptations. Everything at the Beverly Wilshire was top drawer. From the floor to the ceiling high above the reception area, you knew you weren’t in a Holiday Inn. Even the elevators were ornate. Also silent and fast.

I told the security concierge I had an appointment in the penthouse suite and gave him my name, Clay Admanson. He checked his schedule, found my name, and told me which elevator to take. I rode up to the top; the door opened into an anteroom with the rest of the suite behind it. Standing in the anteroom was my father.

He was older now. I’d been eighteen the last time we’d been together. He’d been 48 then and hadn’t shown his age. At over 60 now, that could no longer be said about him. He had a full head of hair still, but instead of mahogany, now it was gray. He had lines on his face, too. It was an angular face, made more so by a sharp bone structure and hair that was worn very short. His eyes, so dark brown they seemed black in some lights, were as hard as I remember them.

He was a tall man and still slim, a paean to his abstemious nature. He was wearing a dark-blue business suit, and he had a drink in his hand. That was for show; he didn’t drink but did like people to think he did and might be more gullible because of it. Perhaps he thought I’d be taken in and believe he was lit for this meeting.

The suite itself was lavish. Flowers everywhere, expensive furniture and carpeting, wide open space. A wet bar with bottles of top-end liquors of all sorts. A giant TV screen, off at the moment. A grand piano. We walked to the central room of the suite. City lights glittered far below us through floor-to-ceiling windows. A pair of glass doors led onto an expansive balcony with tables and chairs that invited occupants to enjoy the soft, warm nights that L.A. boasted throughout most of the year. A lighted, penthouse pool added to the invitation.

Just the sort of place where Dad looked most at home and was most comfortable.

“Clay,” my dad said. He didn’t approach me, didn’t offer a hand, just stood looking at me from about fifteen feet away. I looked back. I’d always found it easier with most people to let them start the conversation. I’d learned that while still young. It was a must when I was with my father.

I wasn’t dressed as formally as he was, but then, I lived in L.A., and I conformed to its dress code, which for the most part could be defined as comfortable. Few people wore suits and ties here except maybe alpha-dog business people who felt the need to show their status in the community and workplace. I had on slacks, a polo shirt and a sport coat, along with leather shoes— my normal evening attire. Angelinos rarely dress up; what we do and say defines our character and substance; what we wear is of minor importance.

We looked at each other, neither speaking after he’d said my name, a silence long enough that it was becoming awkward. He finally spoke.

“You want a drink?”

“No, I want to know why it was important for you to come here. I want to know how it involves Kiki.”

He took a sip of his drink, then motioned for me to sit down. Play-acting. He sat in one of the comfortable chairs, of which there were quite a few set in conversational groupings. I sat down at right angles to him.

He turned to face me and met my eyes. “You seem very hard. I take it that you don’t forgive or forget. It’s been a long time. The world’s moved on, changed.”

I nodded. Then, thinking that refusing to speak was childish, I said, “I haven’t forgotten, no. But I’ve moved on along with the world. No reason to remember former unpleasantness, grievances.”

He shook his head and grimaced. “Well, I see no reason to apologize. That was then, and it was the way things were.”

“No, it was the way you were. Your values were wrong then and are unlikely to have changed. Unless you yourself have made major adjustments in your behavior, which seems very unlikely. In any case, you didn’t come here to talk about that. As you say, that was then. If in fact you did come to hash out the past, if it was to extend an olive branch, then there’s no reason for me to stay.”

He took another sip, a larger one this time. I was pretty sure it was ginger ale. Then he stared at me again. I met his eyes and remained quiet.

“You’ve made out well,” he said. “So what I did had no effect on you. You might even say it was at least somewhat responsible for what you’ve achieved.”

At that I had to smile. “You think so? You think being thrown out of my house at eighteen had no effect on me? You think my severe, austere and loveless upbringing before that didn’t matter? You think I was better off having nothing when I left and facing an uncertain future was a lark? That sort of nonsense is what they call creative thinking out here.”

He didn’t respond, so I kept speaking. “What achievements I’ve had, however I was able to succeed, whatever struggles I had and overcame, the results are mine. That they are in any way something you feel you should get credit for is ludicrous. I’ll say one thing: your ego certainly hasn’t changed.”

He got up and poured himself another drink. I was wrong about his not drinking. Unless he’d gone so far as to fill the scotch decanter with ginger ale. He poured out three fingers at least. This was new. I wondered if it had anything to do with why he now had lines on his face.

He tossed in a couple of ice cubes, then came back, sat down again, then said, “This isn’t the way I wanted this to go. I thought we could be cordial at least.”

I didn’t soften my tone. “I’m waiting to hear why you’re here. My reason for coming is very provisional, and if I’m not going to be let in on why you mentioned Kiki, I’ll be going.”

“You’re really angry with me, aren’t you?”

“No. I was, for a long time. A very long time. Then I simply forgot about you. Haven’t thought about you at all for several years. You being here is bringing back memories and emotions I’d rather not entertain. I’m living a happy and productive life; I’m enjoying myself. None of that was true when I had to deal with you, with the life you provided me. None of it. That you threw me out was just another of many things I don’t want to remember. Relive. You’ve always been a bully. Narcissistic, too. Immense wealth made you that. I had no affection for you long before I left home. I see no reason to be cordial now.”

He wanted to argue. He’d always enjoyed that. “It wasn’t like you had nothing when you left my house, you know. You had a college scholarship. You used it.”

“You want to argue how I felt, being homeless and basically penniless at eighteen? Yeah, I did have a scholarship. A full ride that I worked my ass off to get because I was sure that if you deigned to pay for my college, it would come with conditions. I wanted to be rid of you long before you threw me away. You did that with no ties at all, but that meant you couldn’t exert any conditions at all. That was the one good thing about our separation.”

“Look,” he said, standing up and pacing. “I’ll admit, by today’s standards, what I did was wrong, kicking you out of my house. Back then, I didn’t want to believe I’d produced a gay son. Hey, I had a reputation to uphold. I didn’t want anyone knowing about you. I guess my thinking was, a couple of days on the street or at a friend’s house, then you’d come back, tail between your legs, and reconsider your position. Frankly, I was shocked you were able to do what you’ve done. I didn’t know you were as strong as you’ve shown yourself to be.”

That was crazy. I’d shown him strength when living with him. Obviously, it hadn’t resonated. That shouldn’t have surprised me, though; he’d always been unaware of who I was. He had no insight or empathy; it wasn’t in his nature. But I was the only one of his kids who’d argued with him. The others had had their lawyers do it. I’d done it by myself. He should have known I wasn’t weak.

I didn’t respond to that comment. Didn’t want to. Instead, I said, “Kiki?”

He sighed. “I guess I deserve your enmity. I ended our relationship, and I can’t restore it if you’re not going to meet me at least part way. I’ll have to live simply knowing I tried. And that this time, that it was you who rejected me.”

He was good at trying to keep an argument going, but I’d grown up battling him. I knew his tactics, and I knew how best to deal with him. There was a sure way to handle this, and I used it. I remained mute.

He took a decent pull on the scotch, obviously hoping I’d say something, then sat back down. As the silence grew, he shook his head, but when I started to rise, he got down to business, probably the only business of his I would find interesting.

“Okay, okay, I’m stalling, and it’s because this is hard. I’ve never asked anyone for help. That feels weak to me, and I’ve always been the strong one in any confrontation or business dealing. Never felt the need for assistance with anything. This time, though . . .”

He stopped. I stared at him.

“I need your help,” he finally uttered.

“You have some nerve asking,” I said. No point in making it easier for him. He’d never made anything easy for me.

“Yeah, and it’s difficult. But, well, here it is. I’ve got a lot of money. Other people know that and try to think of ways to get some of it. I have security, both at my house and when I’m out. Also in this hotel—a different room—and I’ll call for them to join me before I venture out from this one.

“So, anyway, I’ve been threatened, and it scares me. The threat isn’t against me; I’ve gotten personal threats for years, and they’ve all been nonsense or thwarted. But this one, it’s about Kiki. It’s that if I don’t pay up, Kiki’ll be abducted and I’ll never see him again. Nor will I know what’s happened to him, but I am to understand it’ll be horribly unpleasant.”

“So why do you care? You’ve never cared about any of us.”

He stood up and paced, taking sips as he did. Then he turned to me. “Kiki’s special. Yeah, look, I grew up with a distant father and no mother. Warm family feelings, love of kids—those aren’t part of my life. I got by without them; I figured all of you could, too. But Kiki is different. Somehow, he’s gotten through my shell. He’s so. . . well, you‘ve met him. You must have seen how he is. He’s special. Everyone likes him. I do, too.”

I didn’t want to talk about that; I needed to hear what he was thinking, why he was here. “Why come to me? What do you want me to do about this? This is a police matter. They deal with this sort of thing all the time. Plus, you already have security. Double it. You can afford it.”

“Don’t be an asshole! Even with all the security in the world, he can get shot. But I can prevent that: he won’t be either kidnapped or shot if no one knows where he is. I want him to stay with you. Secretly. I’ll get the word out I sent him to friends I have in Australia. But he’d in fact be here with you—and close enough that I could visit occasionally. He’ll be safe with you—if no one knows that’s where he is. You seem to be doing all right. I checked.”

“Tell me about this threat.”

“I got a note. You need to read it.” He handed me a plastic-encased piece of paper. I looked at him, then the note:

I handed it back to him after reading it twice. “What was in the guest bedroom?”

“A dead sheep. I have no idea how it could have been put there. The housekeeper had been in there the day before, just dusting and vacuuming. There are always security personnel in the house. There’s a state-of-the-art alarm system at night, and more people in the house during the day. How does anyone get a dead sheep into the house and up the stairs? It was big enough that it’s more than doubtful one person could have carried it up there.”

“And where is Kiki?”

“He was with me in the house when I read the note. I brought him with me to L.A., telling no one I was doing so. He and I came together along with two security guys on my private jet. The men who came with us—I’ve known them for years. Kiki is here; he’s with them somewhere else in the hotel.”

I sighed. This wasn’t my problem, and I wasn’t set up to deal with it. I had my own home, a single house in Bel Air. Bel Air-Beverly Crest—a gated area of estates in Bel Air—had condos and houses that provided luxury and security, both of which I enjoyed. I’d paid in the neighborhood of a million dollars for my 1,450 square foot piece of heaven. Back when I was new to L.A. I’d have laughed at the thought of being able to afford such a place. Only a few years ago, not long out of school, my life as a gay bachelor was just beginning. Owning an expensive home in an exclusive enclave was the last thing on my mind.

I gave my father a look. His ‘he’ll be safe with you; you seem to be doing all right’ remark was echoing in my head. He had a problem and was turning it over to me. Making it my problem. Typical of him.

I wasn’t about to be used by him, but there was another factor at play here: Kiki.

I didn’t know Kiki well. Just like I didn’t know my several other brothers and sisters well. Dad had sired us but not raised us. He wasn’t in the habit of marrying their mothers. When he’d kicked their mothers loose, the kids went, too. He had no use for kids. He liked women but got tired of them quickly. None of his relationships had lasted more than two years. I had quite a few half-siblings, none of whom I’d spent much time with. There were eight half-brothers and five half-sisters, and I’d had only the slightest of relationships with any of them.

I was the only one who’d lived with Dad during my formative years. He’d slept with women during that time, bringing them home and bedding them, but no other family lived with us in his mansion.

Mostly I’d met all his progeny, my halfs, at legal proceedings. Dad had constant lawsuits and lawyers’ meetings and court appearances, the purpose for each being to wrench more support money from Dad. Those times were when I first met his kids, most of them, and then, when we’d all met that way, there were a very few and occasional get-togethers arranged by the more gregarious of us.

Kiki was the youngest of Dad’s children. He too had somehow managed to grow up in Dad’s house. I’d left before Kiki was older than a toddler. I really didn’t know him any better than I did any of my other half-siblings. I did know that the feelings of my sibs toward my dad were rancorous. All the lawsuits verified that. In thinking about it, a couple of things suggested that one of these people was the one making the threat I’d just read. In fact, it could be more than one, that two or several could be working together. The sheep even suggested that.

If it really was one of Dad’s kids that was extorting him, I had no idea which one.

♦

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