Chapter Two
Harry Lowe nursed his coffee and wondered if he could get a fourth refill. When he’d arrived, the diner was nearly empty, so nobody had minded him occupying a booth. But now the breakfast crowd was beginning to fill the place, and the waitress—exhausted as she worked through the final hours of her shift—was casting him impatient glares.
The next time she neared, Harry pasted on his most charming grin and held up the mug. “Just one more for the road? Please?”
Her scowl didn’t lift, but she poured anyway. She didn’t leave room in the cup for his generous additions of cream and sugar, so he scalded his tongue as he drank the level down. Fifteen minutes, maybe twenty, and then her patience would end and he’d have to leave. But he’d enjoy the diner’s life and activity while he could. And then… well, he’d face that when he came to it. In the meantime, the jukebox was playing Perry Como’s latest hit.
Staring out the window at the slow parade of traffic, Harry caught movement at the corner of his eye and turned his head, expecting to find the waitress standing there. Instead, a man loomed over him, fedora in hand and suit buttons straining.
“Morning,” the man said.
Realizing his mouth was agape, Harry attempted to pull himself together. “Ch-chief Townsend?”
Instead of answering, Townsend smiled, tossed his hat onto the empty seat, and sat down beside it. Harry wouldn’t have thought Townsend’s bulk would fit, yet he looked comfortable, as if the booth had been intended for him all along.
Before Harry could stammer out any questions, the waitress appeared. “You ordering?” she asked, narrow-eyed.
“Of course, sweetheart. Ham, two eggs over easy, toast, side of bacon—I want that lightly done, now—and coffee.” Townsend thrust his chin toward Harry. “How about you, boy?”
“I, uh—”
“It’s my treat.”
Harry had eaten a hamburger when he first arrived at the diner, but that had been some time ago, and he wasn’t sure when or how he’d find his next meal. So he nodded. “Oatmeal with milk, please,” he told the waitress. “And orange juice.” That would keep his belly full for a while.
The waitress’s frown lifted slightly. Perhaps she was pleased with the unexpectedly large order and hoped for a good tip. Townsend looked as if he carried a lot more money than Harry did.
“So,” Townsend boomed, “how have you been, my boy? It’s been six months since your interview, hasn’t it?”
Actually, it had been six and a half, but Harry didn’t argue. “I’m fine.”
“Have you kept yourself fit? I know you might not have much incentive for it without the Bureau in your sights, but….” Townsend shrugged.
Harry’s anger, never buried too deep, rose at once. “Are you here to rub it in that you wouldn’t hire me?”
Townsend’s smile didn’t fade. “Not at all, not at all. I just hoped we’d have a little chat.”
That was a lie. Harry was certain that nothing Townsend did was unplanned or inconsequential, and the two of them had nothing to chat about. But Harry was getting a free breakfast out of it, not to mention an excuse to stay longer in the diner, so he decided to hear Townsend out. It wasn’t as if Harry had spent much time in conversation lately.
The waitress brought an empty mug for Townsend and an OJ for Harry. She poured Townsend’s coffee and gave Harry a refill before hurrying away. Townsend, sipping his coffee black, watched Harry add sugar and cream. “You like it rich and sweet, huh?”
Harry felt his cheeks heat. “Less bitter this way.”
“Sure. The world is bitter enough already.” Townsend took out a pack of cigarettes, shook one free, and set the package on the table without offering one to Harry. He lit the cigarette with a gold lighter, then tilted his head back to exhale a cloud of smoke.
The morning sun already shone brightly through the windows, because in Los Angeles the sun was always out, even if it had to fight the smog. One of the things Harry had hated about working the graveyard shift was that the sun made it too hard to sleep during the day. Of course, that wasn’t an issue for him anymore.
“What have you been doing with yourself, my boy?” Townsend flicked his cigarette against the dirty glass ashtray.
“Nothing. Working.”
“Let’s see now. You had some kind of a job at the train station, didn’t you?”
“I’m a janitor.” Was a janitor. Now he was unemployed, broke, and about to be homeless. He’d been searching for something else—anything else—ever since he got canned, but although he’d had a few good leads, nothing had panned out. One guy had hired him to pump gas, but when Harry turned up for his first day of work, the man had sent him away. Decided he didn’t need anyone after all, he said.
As Townsend took a few easy drags from his cigarette and swallowed some coffee, Harry tried to guess his age. Townsend had thinning gray hair, heavy jowls and a thick neck, and a nose and cheeks that carried the hectic glow of a long-time drinker. Yet despite the signs of age and excess weight, he moved with a younger man’s grace and sense of power.
Just as Townsend stubbed out his cigarette, the waitress arrived with their food. Harry’s bowl of oatmeal looked slightly pathetic compared to Townsend’s feast, but neither man commented on it. Townsend spread butter and strawberry jam onto his toast, salted his eggs heavily, and then looked up and grinned. “Nothing like a good breakfast to start the day.”
Harry, who had been awake for nearly twenty-four hours, simply stirred his oatmeal.
For several minutes, Townsend occupied himself with cutting, chewing, and swallowing, occasionally chasing bites with gulps of coffee. Harry’s oatmeal was bland but filling, and he enjoyed the juice. He used to imagine that when he moved to California, he’d eat oranges straight off the trees every day. But orange trees were hard to come by on Bunker Hill, and juice had been outside his budget even when he was employed.
By the time the waitress reappeared, Townsend had emptied his plates, although Harry’s bowl remained half-full. “I’ll have a piece of pie, sweetie. You have coconut cream?”
If she was surprised that he was ordering dessert with breakfast, she didn’t show it. “Yeah, we got that. One for him too?” she added, as if Harry wasn’t capable of speaking for himself.
“I’m fine,” Harry muttered, and she gathered the empty dishes and went away.
Townsend was watching him. “It’s a funny thing. You’re from where? Iowa?”
“Missouri.”
“Yeah. So lots of kids like you come to the City of Angels from Missouri, Kansas, Ohio… wherever. And they’re all looking to make it big in pictures. They want to be the next Montgomery Clift or Elizabeth Taylor. But not you. You didn’t come here to be a movie star.”
“I don’t know how to act.”
That made Townsend boom out a laugh. “That doesn’t stop any of them, kid. They figure a pretty face is good enough. And yours isn’t bad.”
Harry’s cheeks burned again. He wasn’t sure if this was a backhanded dig at him and the secret he’d thought well hidden until his last meeting with Townsend. “I don’t want to be an actor,” he said quietly.
“I know. You wanted to be an agent in the Bureau of Trans-Species Affairs. An unusual ambition for a boy from Nebraska.”
Ignoring the misplaced geographical reference, which he suspected was intentional, Harry finished his juice and pushed the glass away. He wiped his lips with a paper napkin and, despite the amount of coffee he’d consumed, felt weighed down by exhaustion. He was too young to be this tired. Maybe the California sun was to blame, or the smog. He ought to give it up and move somewhere else.
“What do you want from me, Townsend?” he asked.
“An honest answer. Why did you want to join the Bureau? And don’t give me more of that claptrap about wanting to serve your country and help people. You could do that by becoming a dogcatcher back home in Cowshit Corners. What’s the truth, Harry my boy?”
Sullen-faced, Harry twitched a shoulder. “What do you care? You already turned me down.”
“That I did. Do you know why?”
Harry lifted his chin. “Because I’m queer,” he growled softly. He thought he’d been discreet, avoiding the frequently raided bars and instead finding temporary company in places like Westlake Park. But he should have known that the Bureau would find out about his darkest secret. During the interview, Townsend had confronted Harry with details of his last few meet-ups, and Harry had known his hopes lay in ashes.
But now Townsend shook his head. “That wasn’t it. In fact, I was impressed that when I asked, you owned up to it.” He paused when the waitress arrived with his pie, and he took a big bite before continuing. “Some of my agents are homosexuals. One of them retired from the Bureau and began doing a private-detective gig with a male demon!” He laughed as if this was the funniest thing he’d ever heard.
“Male demon?”
“He’s harmless enough, nowadays. I guess his partner keeps a check on him. Or maybe it’s the other way ’round—Grimes can be quite a threat himself. Anyway, the Bureau doesn’t disqualify homosexuals as long as they’re honest about their proclivities and they keep their personal lives… unobtrusive.”
Although it was possible Townsend was lying, Harry couldn’t figure out why he’d bother. Just to torment Harry in some inexplicable fashion? Didn’t make sense. Harry wasn’t worth the effort.
“So why didn’t you let me sign up?”
Townsend took two enormous bites and a swallow of coffee before responding. “’Cause you’re not hard enough for it, kid.”
“I’m—”
“Hold on! You’ve got fire in you, I’ll say that. But anyone can get angry. I bet that little gal can throw an impressive tantrum when her ire’s up.” He gestured toward the waitress, who was taking an order three tables away. “But that doesn’t mean she’s cut out to be an agent. I need men with steel inside ’em. Men who won’t fold when something mean and deadly pushes at them.” He shook his head. “I see a softness in you, Lowe, and I can’t afford that.”
Nobody had ever accused Harry of being soft. Headstrong, yes. Stupid. And useless. But although Harry had always feared that a certain weakness lurked in his core, he’d thought the flaw was invisible to everyone else.
He finished the last of his coffee, cold and sickly sweet. “So you tracked me down to gloat?”
“No. But tell me if I’m right: the real reason you wanted to join the Bureau is because you can’t destroy your own monsters—the inner ones—so you figured you’d kill some creepy-crawlies instead.” He pushed away his empty plate and waited, eyebrows raised.
“What are you—an agent or a shrink?”
“A good agent needs to know more than how to fire a weapon. He needs to be able to read his target.”
“I’m your target?” Harry hoped he came across as annoyed instead of afraid.
“In a way, in a way. But not for anything negative.”
Harry had had enough of this conversation and of Townsend in general. He simply wanted to climb into bed and pull the covers over his head. He could still do that—his rattrap of a room was paid for two more nights.
The waitress came by and slapped a bill on the table, but when Townsend handed her a five and told her to keep the change, she almost smiled. She knew full well she’d never have gotten a tip that big from Harry.
While Townsend was occupied with lighting a cigarette, Harry abruptly stood and grabbed his light jacket. “Thanks for breakfast,” he muttered before making a beeline for the exit.
He was halfway down the block when Townsend caught up, latching onto Harry’s upper arm with a grip hard as iron. “Not done with you, boy.”
Trapped in the middle of the sidewalk, Harry glared. “What? You ain’t happy until I spill my guts? Fine. Yeah, I got some ugly stuff inside me, I guess. Dunno if it’s any worse than what the average Joe’s carrying. I figured if I joined the Bureau I’d maybe get to be a better man. That good enough for you?”
Judging by Townsend’s wide smile, it was. But he didn’t loosen his grip. “Very good. Now listen carefully. I have an assignment in mind. It’s important. It’s also a bit delicate in nature. And the agent who takes it on must be very young. I’d originally assigned it to one of my boys, then another, but it didn’t work out.”
“So? I’m not one of your agents.” But Harry’s heart danced a hopeful rhythm.
“This will be a trial run. I won’t swear you in, not yet. But if you can pull off this assignment, well, that’ll prove something, won’t it? You can join the Bureau then.”
Harry jerked his arm away—he’d have bruises there soon—and pretended he possessed pride and dignity. “But you don’t want me, remember? I’m weak.”
“Oh, son, don’t be an idiot. You can pound the pavement looking for another shitty job, and you can spend your last couple of nights with the roaches at the March Hotel. You can fade into obscurity. You’ll end up shriveled and dusty before you know it.” Townsend held out a paw. “Or you can take this one last chance.”
For a long moment, Harry considered running off, even though he knew that no bright future awaited him here in LA or elsewhere. He wasn’t especially smart, he wasn’t especially skilled, and his good looks would be gone after a little more hard living. Maybe he’d just fall into a bottle and never climb out, like his old man. He’d always figured that was his destiny anyway, so why fight it? And he sure as hell didn’t trust Townsend.
But maybe it was true. Maybe he had one final shot.
“Okay.”
Townsend grinned as he gestured at a gleaming red Cadillac parked across the street. “Come for a ride with me, boy.”