Full Release by Marshall Thornton (classic books for 11 year olds txt) 📕

later, a short, chubby little woman in her early forties came to the door. She had dyed black hair and caramel skin; she’d probably been a real beauty when she was young.

“Yes? What do you want?” she asked, in a thick Spanish accent.

I stood there stupidly. This was obviously Eddie’s mother, and I had no idea what to say to her. “I knew your son,” I said, because there wasn’t much else to say.

Her faced turned sour. “Did you owe him money?”

“No, why would you--I came to say how sorry I am.”

She gave a little shrug. “If you owe him money, I will take it.”

“But I didn’t owe him money. I just said that.” I realized I didn’t know whether or not she still thought Eddie was a suicide. “Is this Eddie’s apartment? Did you live here with him?”

“Why do you care? Is not your business.”

“I’m just, I’m trying to figure out what happened to Eddie.”

“Some maricon killed him.” Then she narrowed her eyes as though she thought I might be that maricon. That’s when I realized she knew what Eddie did for a living. Had Tripp told her? Or had she known before?

“Why do you think that? Why do you think a gay person killed him?”

“Who are you?” she asked.

I didn’t want to explain who I was, so I repeated, “I was friend of Javier’s.”

“A funeral is expensive. A friend would pay.”

My God, what kind of friend did she think I was? Did she think I was Eddie’s boyfriend? Or was she just the kind of woman who asked everyone to pay for her son’s funeral until someone did? She wasn’t going to be any help. That was clear. Well, unless I offered to pay, that is. I looked her up and down and said, “I’m sorry I bothered you.” Then I walked away.

When I got back to my house, I sat in the car for a good five minutes. Just sat there. I could barely think, but I forced myself to decide what to do next. I knew I needed to talk to more of my neighbors, but it seemed futile. One of the odd things about Los Angeles is that people seldom live near where they work. Several of my neighbors worked on the far side of the valley, a couple worked on the Westside, and one even worked down in Orange County. That meant it took them ages to get home. They might not have gotten home until, say, seven-thirty. And would probably have been too frazzled from traffic to notice whether I was home.

Two doors down from me lived Simon Willow. He worked nearby. He was always home by six thirty, walking his dog. I got out of the car and walked down to his house. It was mid-century and similar to mine, except bigger and excessively decorated. The front yard was over-landscaped, with an asymmetrical stone path leading from the street to the front door and exotic grass that grew in mounds everywhere. The house itself had been painted a designer blue that was probably called something like Midnight in Aruba.

I walked up his driveway, bracing myself to knock on his door. Simon Willow and I were not what you’d call friends. He was the kind of queer who based his entire life on the advertisements in GQ, The Advocate, and Details. Even though he was past forty, he was still into clothes, circuit parties, and designer drugs. He spent enough time at the gym that he could unashamedly strip off whatever expensive outfit he wore and drop it on the floor at a moment’s notice. And, from the way he talked, often did.

I couldn’t deny that he was good looking. At just over six feet, his body was trim and elegantly muscled. His eyes were dark, his hair was professionally highlighted, he had an eagle tattooed onto one shoulder. He was famous in the neighborhood for his yearly Pride Party. On Pride weekend, he borrowed a thirty foot long RV and parked it out in the alley. He filled his backyard with as many delectable young things as possible, passed out gallons of liquor, presumably a similar amount of sex enhancing drugs (though in the three times I went to the party, I never actually saw any) and then waited until it was very late to lure as many stragglers as he could into the RV for a sort of impromptu sex club.

When he opened the door, he wore a pair of cargo shorts and nothing else. The yellow dog, whose name was something like Esmeralda, barked behind him. “Well, hello. Aren’t we the social butterfly?”

“I’m sorry?”

“I happened to notice you coming out of Mrs. Enders house last night. Drinking away our troubles?”

“I’m checking with the neighbors to see what they saw the other night, when my friend died,” I explained.

“Really. And what did the old drunk see? Not much I imagine. At least not much she could remember, right?” Simon and Mrs. Enders had a long-standing feud. Jeremy told me what it was about one time, but I’d forgotten.

“I’m afraid she wasn’t much help.”

He laughed as though I’d told a joke, then stood back from the door. “Come on in, sweetheart.” He led the yellow dog out to sliding glass doors and eased her onto the patio. After he came back into his living room, he perched on a dramatic but uncomfortable looking leather chair. I hovered behind the sofa.

“So, did you happen to notice when I came home?” I asked, still fishing for some kind of alibi.

“No. I actually went out around seven. Happy Hour at Wrath.”

“Good. At seven, did you see my car in the driveway, or any indication that I was at home?”

“I’m sorry, I don’t remember,” he said. “Is that important?”

“Can you tell me anything you did see, between about five thirty and the time you left… even if seems completely normal.”

“How’s that horrible ex of yours?” Simon asked sociably.

“He’s fine.”

“I can’t stand guys like that. All charm