Home Again

Hell was after death.

Not hell on earth, not a heart transplant, not half a life.

“This is stupid,” Angel said. “I refuse to worry about it anymore. What does some low-rent doctor in a backwater hospital in the middle of nowhere know about cutting-edge technology? He probably wouldn’t know a heart transplant patient if he backed over one with his car.”

“Oh, and you would.” Val crushed the empty cigarette pack. “So when do you have the surgery?”

“I’m not going to.”

Val frowned. “Don’t be a jerk, Angel. If you need a new heart, get one. It’s probably a breeze now.

Hell, they separate Siamese twins and turn men into women. What’s the problem?”

“I may not be Albert Schweitzer, Val, but I think a new heart would change your life just a little.”

“Death might be a harder adjustment.” Val tried to look casual, but Angel could see the fear in his friend’s eyes. It was frightening, that look, for Val was fearless, the only person Angel knew who played as close to the edge and lived as recklessly as Angel did. A dilettante bad boy who handled the careers of some of Hollywood’s most famous people.

Angel wanted to look away, but he couldn’t. “Did you see that movie The Hand, with Michael Caine? The one where he was a pianist, I think, and he lost his hand. They sewed a ‘donor’ hand on the end of his stump. Catch was, it was a serial killer’s hand. Caine went around killing everyone he saw.”

“Oh, for God’s sake, Angel.”

“Well? It could be true, it could happen. What if I get some namby-pamby heart, and after the surgery my biggest dream is to dress like Doris Day?”

Val let out a bark of laughter. “I don’t know. You’ve got a hell of a pair of legs. I could probably book you in some La Cage aux Folles nightclub. You could be Liza Minnelli.” As soon as the words were out, Val stopped smiling. Then he leaned forward and drilled Angel with a hard look. “The point is, your heart’s a goner. That’s a fact.”

“Easy for you to say.”

“Easy?’ Val echoed the word, a small frown tugging at his full lips. “You’re my best friend. None of this is easy.”

“What about my career? The New York Times said my acting had heart.”

Val didn’t look away, though Angel could tell that he wanted to. “Acting is the least of your worries. I got you more money than God for that piece-of-shit action picture.”

Angel stared at the empty cigarette pack in Val’s hand. He wanted a cigarette, a shot of tequila. Anything that would magically take this moment and transform it into something else. He wanted it to be yesterday, last month, last year.

He wanted not to be dying.

But with every breath, every aching, pain-riddled breath, he felt the truth. His heart was throwing in the towel. The realization brought a gnawing sense of loss and frustration. “I don’t want to go public with this, man. I’ll feel like a freak.”

“I’ll leak a story that you’re exhausted—they’ll think you had a drug overdose, but that’s no big deal.” Val waited a minute, obviously thinking, then he leaned toward him, looking as serious as Angel had ever seen him. “But, Angel, you’ve gotta get your head straight. Image is not your biggest problem.”

An uncomfortable silence fell between them. Angel didn’t want to say anything, didn’t know what to say, but the quiet ate through his nerves until he couldn’t stand it. “I want to be mad at God, you know? But if there’s a God, there’s a hell. And if there’s a hell, my whole life has been a race into the fire.”

Val winced. “Let’s not get philosophical. I’ve got two women and a bag of coke in the limo downstairs.” He smiled, but the look in his eyes was sad.

And suddenly Angel knew what Val was thinking. The two of them had done the same drugs, screwed the same women, walked the same razor’s edge. If Angel was dying, Val wouldn’t be far behind.

What would this do to their friendship?

Angel felt a fluttering of panic. Suddenly he understood the price of his recklessness, and for a second he wished he could take it all back, change the way he’d lived. Anything so that he had friends right now, real, honest-to-God friends who cared about him….

“Sorry, pal,” Val said in a quiet voice. “But it’s over. Over. The booze, the drugs, the parties—they’re gone. I don’t care if you have the operation or not, those days are gone. I’m sure as hell not going to party with you again. Christ, you could snort a line and drop dead on the coffee table.” He shivered at the thought, then moved closer to the bed. “I know you’re scared, and when you’re scared you get belligerent and pissed off, but you need a clear head about this, Angel. We’re talking about your life.”

“Some life. And you haven’t heard the best part—they’re sending me to Seattle for the ‘procedure.’ Seattle.”

“Good.”

Angel frowned. “What the hell is good about it?”