The Catch Trap

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The Catch Trap Page 61

by Marion Zimmer Bradley


  Listening, Tommy realized his scorn was overdone. Angelo had made Liss wear one, the year they had auditioned for Fortunati. Johnny knew it, too. “I’m letting Stel try a two-and-a-half, and I don’t want her to get any bad falls right now.”

  “Why not? It’s the best way to learn.”

  Johnny shrugged. “Your Spartan methods are way out of date. This way she’ll get it without half the trouble, till she really catches the timing. Why expose her to some damn silly accident while she’s getting it just right?”

  “If she uses that thing, she never will get it right. It’s all done for her.”

  “Bullshit,” Johnny said, dismissing the argument as not worth the breath it took to argue about it. “Tommy, you don’t do a two-and-a-half, do you? I bet with the mechanic you could learn it in about half the time.”

  Tommy looked thoughtfully at the device. “I wanted to try the two-and-a-half, the year we were with Woods-Wayland; Papa Tony wouldn’t let me.”

  “If you do it,” Mario said testily, “you’ll learn it right, and you won’t do it with any damn mechanic, either; you’ll learn how to fall and come out of it without breaking your neck. And if you give a damn about Stella, Johnny, that’s the way you’ll make her learn it—the right way!”

  Johnny’s eyes blazed. “God damn it, Matt, I’ll train my wife and you train your”—he hesitated just half a second too long—“your partner. And none of your goddamn supercilious wisecracks, either, Signor Mario!”

  “My way was good enough for Barney Parrish. Maybe it isn’t good enough for you and Stel, but I’m sticking to it!”

  Clay was the most enthusiastic convert. Mario would not yet allow him to fly, restricting him—as Tommy had been restricted in his first months of training—to swings and drops into the net. With Johnny’s connivance, however, Clay began learning a few of the simpler tricks in a mechanic, and soon was able to discard it and soar to Johnny’s hands with a quarter of the falls Tommy had had at his age,

  “So what?” Mario said when Johnny pointed this out. “Sure, he does all right, but he hasn’t built up that clock inside that runs on split seconds. He doesn’t really even know how to fall yet. Oh, sure, he can fall if everything’s all right, but it’s not instinct yet. I’ve lived through falls that should have got me killed, because I’ve had so much practice in falling from every kind of mistake you can imagine. Knowing how to fall—really knowing—was all that kept Joe and Lucia from getting killed that time. Clay doesn’t know it, and you’re fixing it so he never will.”

  Johnny started to reply, then visibly held his temper. “Okay, Matt. You train your way, I do it mine. We’ll just have to wait till Clay is Tommy’s age, and see which of them is better.” Mario would have said something further, but Johnny cut him off. “Knock it off, Matt, I’m not going to argue with you about it.”

  ~o0o~

  A few days later, Tommy took an early stunt call at the studio. It turned out to be a fairly simple shot, calling for the actor’s stand-in to plunge through a pane of “candy glass”—which would cut, if you were careless, but not shatter—and he was finished before noon. After picking up his check in the office, Tommy telephoned Mario to come down and pick him up in their car.

  He was waiting outside the main gate when a slightly-built, good-looking young man in his thirties, with a face Tommy found vaguely familiar—but did not recognize—came through the gate behind him, started to walk toward the parking lot, and stopped, glancing at Tommy with a faint smile.

  “I seem to be out of matches. Got a light?”

  Tommy dug into his pocket. “I don’t smoke much, but I might. Wait a minute.” While he was rummaging, the man studied him with an intense scrutiny which he recognized from his years in the Army. Tommy, who had accepted the request in good faith, was suddenly annoyed. Nuts! The oldest line in the book, and I didn’t spot it! But in the Army, too, he had learned how to make a tactful brush-off, and the best way was to act as if the request were genuine, give the guy a match, and walk off, never conceding by word or look that you knew you were being approached. He looked up, and saw Mario coming toward him. He said neutrally. “I’m out of matches, but maybe my brother’s got some, or a lighter.”

  Mario came up and said, “I had to park around the corner, Tom, There’s a couple of big trucks—” He broke off as the stranger looked up, with a grin of recognition.

  “Matt! Where you been hiding out these days?”

  Mario stared blankly, then his eyes focused. “Bart! I didn’t recognize you for a minute!” They shook hands. “Tommy, you know Bart Reeder?”

  Bart Reeder said, his eyes lingering on Tommy, “I was trying to get to know him.”

  Mario chuckled. “Your technique must be slipping, darling. Bart, this is Tommy Zane.”

  Tommy blinked at that, with a flare of resentment. Mario had made such a point, outside the house, of calling him “my kid brother.” Then he remembered.

  Bart had known Mario for years. Tommy had guessed that they had been something more than casual friends. Bart would have known how many brothers Mario had. And he would have known their names.

  He took the hand Reeder offered; it was shapely and well manicured, but felt muscular. Reeder held his hand for just a moment too long to be casual. “A pleasure. Matt, are you in this new musical they’re making here, by any chance?”

  “I’m not dancing now. Just drove down to pick up Tommy.”

  “Nice work,” Reeder murmured. Tommy caught the inflection, clearly. You grew a sixth sense for that sort of thing; you developed perfect pitch for certain tones of voice, certain words an outsider would never use but would never notice, either. You had to. A mistake could mean disaster: at best, embarrassment; at worst, arrest. Every homosexual learned to live with that.

  Yeah. Johnny called him the biggest fag in Hollywood.

  He listened to the conversation, with all the old revulsion against the deliberate, exaggerated effeminacy of the jargon. He understood it now, of course. He had used it himself, in the Army; it was a way of giving cues without making any unwise betrayals when you were not sure of your listener. A way of exchanging passwords: name, rank, and serial number. But he still didn’t like it.

  “I tried to hunt you up, years ago, but you’d dropped right out of sight. Where have you been?”

  “Oh, bumming around.”

  Bart was still looking sidewise at Tommy. “You kids in a hurry? Can I buy you a drink somewhere?”

  Mario glanced at Tommy. “Okay with you?”

  “Sure, why not.” Much as Tommy disliked the chatter of this particular underworld, it was good to see Mario actively interested in anything again.

  “My car’s in the lot over there.” Reeder gestured.

  It was a small, shiny silver-painted MG, and Tommy felt, against his will, a flicker of interest. He had not been in an MG since the day Stella had taught him to drive her battered old one. His worst regret had been that his saved-up Army pay would not—quite—buy him the kind of car he had really wanted.

  Reeder saw the admiring gleam in his eyes and asked, “Want to drive?”

  Tempted, Tommy would not accept the gambit. “Thanks, but I’m not sure I could handle it.”

  “It is small,” Reeder murmured. “We’re going to have to sit on each other’s laps.”

  Mario and Tommy crowded into the small bucket seat on the passenger side, and Reeder drove them to a small local bar. “This place is fairly square. There’s a clause in my contract specifying a few places I have to keep out of.”

  Mario said dryly, “I can imagine. I heard rumors.”

  “Oh, and I’ve been such a good boy, and so careful!”

  The bar was darker than usual, the jukebox silent. At this hour it was virtually deserted, except for two young men sitting in one of the booths at the far end; even in the dark Tommy could see that they were holding hands. He told himself that his distaste was irrational.

  What in the hell do you think you’re try
ing to hide? Reeder spotted you even before he recognized Mario. He told himself it was only the blatancy that bothered him, then was angry at his own hypocrisy. They’re more honest than you are, that’s all!

  “Let’s find a table. What are you fellows having? Beer, Tommy? Yours was gin and tonic, wasn’t it, Matt?”

  “You’ve got me mixed up with some other fellow—I’m the guy passes out on the hard stuff, remember? Beer.”

  “No accounting for tastes.” Bart ordered himself a whiskey and soda, but Tommy noticed he only sipped at it. “Your folks used to be circus people, didn’t they, Matt?”

  “Still are.”

  “You do know there’s a movie being made of the life of Barney Parrish?”

  “I know there was one,” Mario said. “My brother Johnny and my uncle Angelo did some of the doubling. Only Angelo said they never finished it—ran out of money or something.”

  “That’s right, only there’s a guy making it again,” Reeder said. “Angelo Santelli—he’s some relation to you? He does a lot of stunt work here. Now, there is a gorgeous hunk of man!”

  “Don’t tell him that,” Mario said, on a note of mock-warning. “He’s the original fairy-slugger!”

  “What a waste,” Bart sighed. “Are you sure, sweetheart?”

  Mario chuckled. “Try if you want to, but don’t come crying to me if he kicks your teeth right down your throat. My brother Johnny did some kind of circus documentary for television—Circus Days and Nights, something like that . . . .”

  “But I saw that!” Bart interrupted him. “Was that your brother? The studio people were sore because he did a scene about Parrish, and they wanted to get going again on the Parrish movie. I watched it—you know I’ve always been kind of a nut on circuses. Was your brother one of the flyers in it?”

  “He produced it. Johnny Gardner.”

  “I know the name,” Reeder nodded. “The grapevine says he’s one of the coming guys in the field. What’s he doing now?”

  He seemed genuinely interested, so Mario told him a little about Flight Dreams.

  “And you’re both in that?” Reeder asked, turning to Tommy and trying to bring him back into the conversation. “If they’re making a film about Barney Parrish,” Tommy said, “They must have found out what happened to him, then? Last I heard, nobody even knew if he was alive or dead.”

  Was that what Mario had done? In conscious, or unconscious, imitation of the great flyer who had preceded him, was this why he had tried to lose himself so completely that no one knew where he had gone? Preoccupied, Tommy lost track of the conversation, then heard what Reeder was saying:

  “. . . late forty-six, forty-seven, found him dead. He’d been working with some small show—Woods, Wills, something like that—as a what-do-you-call-it, roustabout—he was crippled up bad. One day they found him shot to death. Suicide. Nobody’d known who he was, he just worked around the show, but after he died they knew—”

  “Woods-Wayland?” Mario said.

  “Yeah, that was it.”

  Tommy felt Mario, crowded against him at the table, shudder, a deep shudder that went all the way through to the bones. Forgetting caution, he reached for Mario’s hand under the table and squeezed it hard. He knew they were both remembering the same thing, a small, sandy-haired man with a faint trace of accent: I have been hearing that one of the young flyers was doing a triple nowadays, so I traded work with Sandy for this morning so I might perhaps have a chance to see him rehearsing.

  Bart asked, “Did you know him?”

  “I knew him when I was a kid,” Mario said. “He was—was an old family friend. He’s dead? He—he shot himself?”

  “Through the head. They said the only thing he had with him, except his British passport, was one of his old publicity pictures and a clipping about some young flyer who had been smashed up doing his big trick. The triple, was it? I didn’t know anyone was doing triples, these days.”

  “They’re not, I guess.” Mario’s voice sounded strained. “I did, for a while, but not now.”

  “That was really what I wanted to talk to you about,” Bart said. “Lucky I ran into you. I told you, they’re starting to remake that movie about his life, and my agent’s negotiating to get me the part. You still do trapeze work, don’t you?”

  “If we can get a catcher, Tom and I are going on the road this spring.”

  “Well, listen, Matt, I think it would do me good if it got around that I was taking lessons in trapeze—flying, you call it?—from a real circus pro. How about giving me some lessons?”

  “For real, Bart? Or for the publicity?”

  “Both, I guess,” Bart said with a chuckle. “The more I look like I know what I’m doing on the flying trapeze, the better my chances are! Of course, they won’t let me do any flying in the movie—the insurance people wouldn’t stand for it. But if I can look convincing up there . . . . Anyway,” he added, nudging Mario gently in the ribs, “you were always trying to tell me how good I looked in tights!”

  “That’s for sure,” Mario said with a grin.

  “Seriously, Matt. My agent would handle the publicity. We might even manage to get in a plug for your brother’s television special.”

  “Well, I’m teaching some kids to fly, why not you, too? I’ll talk to Johnny.”

  “Give me your phone number, and I’ll call.”

  “We’re in the book. The listing is for Mrs. Lucia Santelli.”

  As they talked, Tommy realized that Reeder was crowding against him, had been crowding against him for some time, but he put it down to the closeness of the small chairs around the tiny table. Now, suddenly, he was aware of Bart Reeder’s leg and thigh, subtly moving against his own.

  “Here,” Bart said, sliding a small leather-bound notebook across the table, “write it down in my little black book, darling.”

  Tommy was reluctant to withdraw too suddenly; anyhow, the small chairs were flimsy enough that a quick movement might have tipped them both over onto the floor. Now he felt Bart’s hand lightly, carefully traveling up his thigh. Still unwilling to make any rude withdrawal—Hell, you can’t blame a guy for asking!—he remained quiet, pretending to be unaware of the touch. It wasn’t the definite brush-off he had in mind, but it wasn’t response, either. And then, almost against his will, he remembered a younger Tommy, a younger Mario, in the back seat of the Santelli car.

  Who did I think I was kidding? I knew perfectly well what he was up to. Mario and Reeder were still talking about times and places, but Tommy’s mind was divided between Reeder’s hand, inching toward the groin, and the compelling memory. Abruptly, almost awkwardly, he pushed his chair away from the table, letting it tip backward, then making a leap to catch it.

  “Damn flimsy little chairs!” He turned to Mario. “I ought to get to the bank before it closes—suppose I go deposit that check, while you stay here with Bart and make the arrangements you want to get made.”

  But the interruption had served its purpose. Reeder reached out and caught the chair, steadying it. “Not hurt, are you? I can’t figure out why in the world they make chairs this size for grown men! Matt, I’ll drive you two back to where your car is parked. I’ll call you in a day or two.”

  After Bart started the car, he turned to Tommy and asked, “You’re keen on cars? Ever do any racing?”

  Tommy shook his head.

  “The insurance people at the studio won’t let me race now, but rally driving’s something else—you can’t get hurt in a rally unless you’re some kind of stumblebum. It’s kid stuff, driving against a clock, but kind of fun. You might take in one with me someday, all right? I’ll be in touch.”

  When they reached the lot, Mario and Tommy jumped out, then waved as they walked toward their own car. “Looks like you made a conquest, kid,” Mario remarked laughingly.

  “Oh, hell, you were his old flame, weren’t you?”

  “That’s ancient history, Tom. Very ancient.”

  Tommy shrugged. “Anyhow, that�
��s one hell of a car he’s got”

  “Maybe someday we can get you one like it. Meanwhile, you might take up that invitation,” Mario said, and Tommy chuckled.

  “I reckon he was mostly pitching a line of bull.”

  He had not really expected anything to come of the meeting, but to his surprise, a few days later Bart Reeder did call, turning on the charm with Lucia so that she forgot her original reservations about “a man like that.” That afternoon he arrived at the house, during Mario’s lesson time.

  Down in the practice room, Mario was on the platform with Bobby and Clay. Tommy, at the catcher’s end of the rigging, was calling instructions to Phil Lasky.

  “Not so high, slow down a little—you want to get right in time with the bar—okay, okay, that’s better—” He broke off and turned as the door opened.

  Lucia asked, “Okay to have somebody watch?”

  Mario looked down and called, “Bart! I’ll be right down—”

  “No, it’s all right—I’ll just watch for a while, try and get the feel of it, okay? Just go ahead with what you’re doing.”

  “We’ve got about twenty minutes to go, then,” Mario said, and turned back to Clay on the board.

  “Okay, go ahead. Wait for my call. Then turn around on the bar for a foot catch. Phil, you ready? One, two—wait, wait—all right—go!”

  Reeder walked over beside Tommy, watching silently as Clay went off the platform, swinging from the bar. He watched while Phil Lasky caught Clay’s ankles securely in his grip, swung with him, then released him. “It looks so easy from down here,” he said.

  “Yeah. That’s the whole point of good flying.”

  “Like ballet,” Reeder said, “or fencing. It has to look like you’re doing it for fun.”

  “That’s what Mario always said.”

  “How long have you known Matt?” Reeder asked.

  “I’ve been in the act since I was a kid.”

  Reeder asked under his breath, “You are gay, aren’t you?” Tommy had never heard that word before, but the connotation was immediately obvious. Reeder added, “No, you’re not that easy to spot. But . . . in the bar. I saw you were wise to what kind of place it was.”

 

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