“That's some gift!” Paul looked impressed. At his age, he had bought a clunker for seventy-five dollars, but his parents weren't Ward and Faye Thayer, and he didn't live in Beverly Hills. He had come to California from Buffalo when he was twenty-two, and life had been beautiful ever since, especially in the past three years. His career had taken off meteorically, at first thanks to one fortuitous romance with a major producer in Hollywood. But after that, the breaks he got were thanks to his own strengths and abilities. There was no denying it, and few did. No matter what you thought of Paul Steele, he was damn good. But most of the people who had worked with him didn't have ugly things to say about him. He was a decent man, fair to work with, he kept to himself most of the time, and if you got to know him well, he could be fun. Between films, he was a wild man sometimes, smoking a lot of dope, snorting a little cocaine, he was into poppers, and there were rumors about orgies at his place, and kinky sex, but he took advantage of no one, no one got hurt, and working as hard as he did, he had to do something to let off steam, and he was still young after all.
He took Lionel to Hamburger Hamlet on Sunset, and had him follow him there in his car, driving carefully. For some reason, he found himself anxious about the kid. He didn't want him to get hurt, physically or in any other way. He liked him, more than he'd liked anyone in a while. It was just a damn shame that he was only eighteen. That was rotten luck. He was so damn beautiful and so fucking young. He couldn't take his eyes off him as they ate, and afterwards they stood outside, Lionel not even sure how to thank him for the honor and the rare treat, Paul dying to invite him up to his place, but afraid of how it would sound so they stood there, awkwardly, as Paul looked at him. He wished he knew what Lionel knew of himself, but he still wasn't sure of that. If the boy knew, maybe it would be different, but if he didn't even suspect as yet … just looking at him, Paul was already sure, but was Lionel? And then suddenly, as they stood there in the parking lot, Paul knew he had to take the bull by the horns, so to speak. Maybe he'd even ask him eventually. Maybe he was wrong. Maybe they could be friends. But he couldn't let him go … not yet … not now … not quite so soon.
“I know this sounds dumb. But would you like to come to my place for a drink?” He was almost embarrassed to say the words, but Lionel's eyes grew wide with delight.
“I'd love it.” Maybe he did know … Paul was going crazy trying to figure it out, and there was no way to guess.
“I live in Malibu. You want to follow me again, or leave your car here? I could drive you back afterwards.”
“Wouldn't that be a lot of trouble?” Malibu was an hour from there.
“No, not at all. I never go to bed very early. And I may not go to bed tonight at all. We shoot at four A.M. tomorrow, and I work better on calls like that without going to bed.”
“Will my car be safe?” They looked around, and decided that it would. The hamburger place was open all night, so people would come and go, and no one would dare break into it with people around. And that decided, Lionel slid into the passenger seat of Paul's Porsche and instantly felt that he had died and gone to heaven. It was like being lifted into another world, sitting on the smooth black leather seats, the dashboard looked like the panel of a plane and with a shift of gears they took off, and Paul turned the stereo on as the music of Roger Miller singing “King of the Road” filled their ears. It was almost a sensual experience getting to Malibu. Paul was dying for a joint, but he didn't want to smoke dope in front of the boy, and he was a little bit afraid of what he might do if he did, so he refrained, and they talked from time to time on the brief drive, listened to the music as they flew along, and by the time they reached the house on the beach, Lionel was totally relaxed with his new friend.
Paul put his key in the lock, and let them in, and the house just continued the same mood. There was a full ocean view with soft lights, a sunken living room filled with couches and soft cushions, huge plants and recessed lights that highlighted a few pieces of art Paul loved. There was a handsome bar, a wall of books, and a stereo that seemed to fill the whole world with soft music as Lionel sat down and looked around. Paul threw his leather jacket on the couch, poured them each a glass of white wine, and came to sit down with him.
“Well,” he smiled, “you like?” He had to admit, he was proud of it. For a poor boy from Buffalo, he had come a long, long way, and he was happy here.
“My God … it's so beautiful….”
