“Sure. I was wise to you, too.”
“And tactful.” Reeder turned toward the rigging, watching Mario as he swung off, demonstrating to the teenagers the facility with which he could turn, change hands at any point in his swing. After the amateurs, his grace was spectacular; Tommy, even now, was stunned by it. After a minute Mario dived into the net, called Phil down, and said, “That’ll do for today, kids. See you Thursday. Go and get changed before you get chilled.” Slinging a towel around his neck, he came toward Reeder. “Hello, Bart, still want to try?”
“Sure. I know it can’t be as easy as it looks, though.”
“It isn’t,” said Mario, rubbing his neck and upper torso with the towel, “but it’s not that hard, either. Johnny says he can break a kid into a flying act in six weeks if the kid does what he’s told. I like to take a little longer than that, myself. But there’s a lot of crap talked about how terribly hard flying is. Question is, what kind of shape are you in, what are your muscles like?”
“My muscles are in marvelous shape, darling,” Bart said in falsetto.
“Cut out the crap, Bart. I don’t want you to break your neck.”
“Why, I didn’t know you cared, sweetheart,” Bart said, then quickly added, “Relax, I was kidding. I do judo, I work out with weights every day at a health club, and I take ballet class once or twice a week. See for yourself, if you want to.”
Mario felt his stomach muscles, as impersonally as a doctor. “Not so bad. You could probably get the hang of it without much trouble.”
Bart squirmed away from his touch, saying, “You tickle, darling!”
Mario looked at him warningly, not smiling. “Look, Bart, you start that stuff here and I’ll break your goddamn neck myself.”
“What the hell, Matt! Tommy’s wise—”
“Tommy, sure. But the kids in there—and my brother Johnny—you watch yourself, okay?”
The smile slid off Reeder’s face. “Okay, Matt. I get you. Sorry.”
“I’m sorry I had to come on strong like that. Tommy, take him in and show him where he can change. Bart, did you bring along a pair of tights?”
“Yeah, and a sweat suit.”
Stripped to tights, Reeder was impressive, with an athlete’s grace. Like many men with impressive musculature, in street clothing Reeder looked weedy and thin, but his tights displayed the bulging calves of a dancer, and his shoulders were broad, with strong pectorals. Tommy could not keep from a quick glance of admiration, but was annoyed to realize Bart had seen it. He made his voice brusque.
“You ever been on a fly bar, Mr. Reeder?”
“Bart, please. No, but I used to work out on parallel bars when I was a youngster, and I did some tumbling.”
Mario was waiting for them. He nodded in approval when he saw Reeder’s black tights; they were well-worn and shabby, obviously for use, not for show. “Not scared of heights, are you, Bart?”
“Good God, you think I’d be trying to get this part if I was?”
“You never can tell,” Mario said dryly. “Angelo told me about a big-name cowboy star who’s scared stiff of horses. Okay, I guess the first thing you have to learn is how we climb the ladder. Did you ever notice?”
Reeder went and grasped it with both hands, then set one foot on the bottom rung. The ladder twisted sideways, and Mario said, “Nope. That’s how an outsider would do it. Like this, up the outside of the rope, putting your toes around both sides. Watch.”
Mario went ahead; Reeder, following unsteadily, soon grasped the trick of it. Tommy sat down to have a cigarette. It was apparent that in this first session Reeder would learn only a few professional tricks: how to climb the ladder, how to balance and seem at ease on the high platform. But Reeder was a quick study, and Tommy watched him with frank pleasure.
“Okay,” Mario said, “you better learn to fall into the net without breaking your neck.” He explained the process carefully, then dived down to watch as Reeder came off in a dive, rolling up and landing in an awkward ball. He uncoiled, wincing.
“Ouch! Now I know where you got all those scars on your arms, Matt,” he said, wading clumsily to the edge of the net.
“You got a nice net burn,” Mario said, looking it over. “Take him in and get some stuff on it, Tom.”
“Not yet, okay? I want to try that again.”
“Sure, go ahead.” Mario watched Reeder climb the ladder. He did it the right way this time, placing his toes delicately around the outside rope, and Mario said, “Anyway, he learns fast.”
Tommy said, “He’s better looking than Parrish ever was.”
“Oh, I don’t know about that.” Mario’s smile was reminiscent. “When I was a little kid, I thought Parrish was God. Once he gave me a lollipop. I never did eat it, just kept it in a drawer to look at now and then. Christ! It kills me, to think I never even recognized him, that time . . . .”
“I guess nobody did, Mario. He must have changed an awful lot.”
“God, yes! When I was about seven years old—Cleo was working with Parrish then—I keep remembering him as being about seven feet tall. I was crazy about him. I hated Cleo because she was in the act with him and I wasn’t old enough. I used to hang around showing off so he’d look at me, even if he yelled at me. I think maybe that was why I wanted to fly.”
It was rare for Mario to reveal himself this way, and Tommy would not for worlds have interrupted him, but behind them the practice room door opened, and Johnny came in. “Still down here, Matt? I thought the kids had gone home.”
Bart came down hard, grunting as he landed in the net and it drove the breath from his body. He rolled over and said, “How the devil do you get out of this thing?”
“Show him, Tommy.” Mario held out a hand; Tommy leaned on it for a moment, vaulted up into the net, and demonstrated the flyer’s neat downward somersault over the edge. Bart followed suit, not too badly for a first time.
“Good work—you’ll look like a pro in a week or two,” Mario said. “I want you to meet my brother Johnny. John Gardner. Bart Reeder.”
Bart shook his hand. “I saw your television thing.”
“I did some doubling for you once,” Johnny said, “but you probably don’t remember me. I mean, who notices a stuntman?”
Bart laughed and said, “As it happens, I do. I started out as a stuntman myself. Doing another circus documentary?”
“Right. Angelo said you were going to be in the Parrish movie.”
“I hope so. But nothing’s signed yet.”
“What are they calling it?”
“Nothing’s settled. Somebody suggested Flying Demon, but my agent said that sounded like a kids’ horror show—you know, Frankenstein Meets the Demon, Curse of the Demon, whatever. The front-office people will think something up.”
“You’re doing your own flying in the movie? That might be good publicity,” Johnny said, and Bart laughed ruefully.
“No chance I could get good enough for that! Even if the front office would let me. They make it very clear, I pull a muscle or sprain an ankle, and the whole cast goes on overtime. But your brother says he can help me look right for the part.”
“If anyone can do that, Matt can.”
“I know. I’ll put in a word with the studio for Matt to do the doubling. Matt, you did do Parrish’s big trick, didn’t you, the triple?”
“Yeah.” Mario looked strained. “I haven’t done it for a while, though.”
“We’re just started rehearsing this new documentary,” Johnny remarked, deliberately redirecting the conversation
Bart quickly picked up his cue. “Any chance I could get to sit in on a couple of rehearsals? Just to get the feel of it—the way people move, the way they stand . . . .”
“Sure, why not?”
Reader’s grin was charming. “And some day this week I’ll bring along some cameramen. I figured out that if it got around I was taking lessons from a real pro, it would do me some good. The Flying Santellis are a well-known act.”<
br />
Tommy, watching at a distance, realized that Reeder had found the proper bait to charm Johnny, too. God, can that guy turn on the charm, like a faucet! But he’s not a phony, either. He realized that he liked Bart Reeder, and was annoyed with himself for admitting it. Charm, yes—the man was an actor, it was his business to be charming. And he looks damn good in tights, sexy as hell. And because it was almost his first experience with that kind of raw sexual attraction, he was furious and embarrassed at himself. Like some jerk in the Army drooling over some goddamn pinup girl!
After Reeder left, Johnny, exuberant, went to the kitchen to tell Stella. “Listen, Stel, guess who’s coming to watch us rehearse Flight Dreams . . . .” He told her, to an audience that included not only Stella and Lucia but Angelo, who had come in and paused before going up to change his shirt for dinner.
“Reeder carries a lot of weight with the studio,” Angelo confirmed, “and of course he has a big following at the box office, so if it gets around beforehand that he’s going to play Parrish, that’s good publicity, too. You know he’s using you—it’s going to do him a lot of good, that the Flying Santellis would agree to teach him flying.”
Johnny chuckled. “Sure. But we’re using him right back. Any way you slice it, that kind of publicity won’t do us anything but good.”
“Well, you watch yourself,” Angelo warned, good-humored. “He’s the biggest fag in Hollywood, like I said. How he can keep that up when he’s married to a luscious broad like Louise Lanart, damned if I know, but you better stay out of reach!”
“You shouldn’t talk that way,” Lucia reproved. “Angelo, haven’t you worked in Hollywood long enough not to listen to slanderous gossip about the actors? They will say anything, and if they have nothing to say, they will invent something!”
“He’s very handsome,” Stella said shyly.
Johnny put his arm around her. “Well, thank God Reeder’s private life is no business of mine. I’m not his confessor. And if the guy is queer, I don’t have to worry about him making passes at Stella, even if she goes around swooning—”
“Oh, Johnny!”
He laughed and hugged her. “I was kidding you, babe. You can look at all the good-looking guys you want to, and I’ll look at the good-looking girls. No harm in looking, huh? Matt, have you known Bart Reeder long?”
“Years ago, at the ballet school. Tom and I ran into him the other day and had a drink with him.”
“Well, it could lead to a lot of good publicity. And maybe more. If,” he added with a hard glance at Mario, “you ever get back that goddamn triple of yours!”
“Johnny, willya quit crowding me? Not till I’m good and ready!”
“Christ Almighty,” Johnny said, regarding him with disgust, “when are you going to grow up? A chance like this and you’re still pulling temperament on us!”
“Look, Johnny—” Stella began.
“Keep out of this, Stel. Matt, are you going to louse us all up again?”
“I haven’t even got a catcher!”
Johnny was really angry now. “It wouldn’t be the first time I’d caught you on a triple. What’s the matter, I’m not good enough for you?”
“You’re not Lionel Fortunati!” Mario snarled.
“No,” Johnny said, “and catching you isn’t exactly my idea of fun. You’re one hell of a handful, Signor Mario. But I can do it if I have to, so what’s all the fuss about?”
“Look, kids—” Angelo began.
Mario turned on him angrily. “This is your fault, Angelo! You quit right when I had it going right! All Papa Tony worked for, and you let it go—”
Oh, God, Tommy thought, that’s all we need, for him to tangle with Angelo right now . . . . but the look Angelo turned on the younger man was gentle, affectionate. “I’m sorry, kid,” he said. “I know how you feel about that. But I couldn’t get back to it now even if I wanted to. And I don’t. I’m sorry, kid, but I don’t.”
“Not even to help me get the triple back again?”
“Ah, come on, Matt.” Angelo laid a hand on Mario’s shoulder and shook it gently. “You know better than that. No blackmail, okay? I’m not the only catcher in the family, ragazzo.” His voice was gentler than Tommy had ever heard it. “Matt, don’t keep lookin’ at me like I’d kicked you in the balls. We went all over this years ago, kid.” He pulled Mario close to him in a rough but tender hug. “Take it easy, okay? You’ll get your triple back. You don’t need me. Give yourself time. Johnny, you lay off him, hear me?”
He let Mario go, and Mario left the room without a word. “Something’s boiling over!” Lucia exclaimed and hurried to the stove. Tommy started down the hall to take a shower. Johnny, behind him in the hall, muttered angrily that if he’d known it would set old Matt off like that, he’d never have mentioned the damned triple!
“I wish to Christ Barney Parrish had never invented the goddamn trick!”
When Tommy reached their room after his shower, Mario was sitting on the bed, glowering and sullen. Tommy recognized the storm signals and was helplessly, wordlessly frightened.
Anything I do is going to be wrong. Anything I say is going to set him off. Temporizing, playing for time, he took off his bathrobe and rummaged in the closet for a clean shirt.
“It’s not a wake,” Mario said, nervously stabbing out his cigarette. “You scared to mention the triple, too?”
And if I don’t say anything, that’s going to set him off, too. His stomach knotting with cold panic, Tommy pulled his T-shirt over his head. “What’s to say? I can’t nag you about it, Mario. Like Angelo said, you’ll get it back when you’re ready.”
“Fuck Angelo!” Mario snarled.
Tommy felt the hairs rise on his forearms. Oh-oh. This is it. Now what do I do? Desperately trying to turn it off as a joke by clowning, he said, deliberately imitating Bart Reeder’s falsetto, “Sorry, darling. He’s really not my type!”
“Listen, you son of a bitch—”
Still in the clutch of the cold panic, Tommy knew what he had to do. It was that, or face something that would exclude them from the Santelli house as they had been thrown out of Woods-Wayland. Once again, Mario was courting danger and disaster. He was too trained, he had been too disciplined, to do it on the rigging. But he would do it here.
“Spoiling for a fight again, Mario?”
“What the hell do you mean by that crack?”
“This.” Tommy went to the door and locked it. “Not this time. For once you got me wrong.” Deliberately, he advanced on Mario and gave him a hard backhand slap across the face.
“You damn little—”
Tommy hit him again, hard. “I decided for once I’d give you a real good excuse,” he said between his teeth. Mario lunged at him, and they grappled in a silent, deadly struggle. Mario’s fist went into Tommy’s stomach; he grunted, hit back, and they went to the floor together, fighting, struggling. But awareness surged in Tommy as he locked Mario hard in a wrestler’s grip. For the first time it was not a desperately unequal, impotent struggle. He was stronger than Mario; his strength flowed like a dam bursting inside him as he grabbed Mario around the waist and pushed him down to the floor.
Mario struggled violently, dazed by the savagery of the attack.
“Tommy, God damn it, what—”
“Get up,” Tommy said between his teeth.
Tommy rushed him again, hitting him three times with deadly accuracy—ribs, eye, and the side of his head. Mario got in a couple of swings, then Tommy hit him, hard, a slamming blow on the jaw that dumped him on the floor. Tommy sat on him.
“Okay, damn it,” he said, breathless, “the worm’s turned for good. I’m not doing this in front of anybody else. But once and for all, Matt Gardner, if you ever take your fists to me again, the neck that gets broken isn’t going to be mine. I thought I’d show you that, just once. If you want to pitch me out of the house and down the stairs, I’ll go. Or if you want to fight some more, okay, I’ll prove it all over again that I can b
eat the shit out of you any time. But one way or the other, this is the last fight we’re going to have. Get me?”
Mario lay still on the floor, pale and amazed. His mouth was bleeding, and a trickle of blood was coming from his nose.
“Let me up, Lucky,” he said at last.
Tommy released him, and Mario sat up, bracing himself with both hands, not moving. Finally he got up and sat on the bed. He thrust out his hand.
“Shake on that, Lucky. I guess I deserved it.”
Tommy took his hand but winced as Mario’s closed over his own. Mario turned Tommy’s hand over and looked at it “I guess I’ve been asking for that for a long time, kid.”
They sat side by side on the bed, curiously peaceful, as if in reaffirmation of an old pledge. Then Tommy laughed.
“Go on, Matt. Wash your face. Or what I’ll get from Lucia won’t be supper!”
Mario unlocked the door, picked up a towel, and started across the hall. Abruptly he stopped and turned back to Tommy.
“What did you just call me?”
Tommy blinked. “Matt,” he said slowly, surprised.
“Do you know, you never did before?”
“Yeah. I know.”
“You’re growing up, I guess. You’re not my kid anymore.”
Tommy walked over to him, took Mario’s hand in his own, and held it for a minute. “I guess I’ll always be your kid. Some ways, anyhow.” Then he gave him a rough push.
“Go on, Matt. Wash your face.”
They went down the stairs, shoulder to shoulder. In the dining room, Angelo, pouring wine into glasses, turned and stared at Mario’s swollen mouth, at the darkening bruise over Tommy’s eye.
“Gesu e Maria! Che—what the hell happened to your eye, Tom?”
“I ran into a door,” Tommy said.
Angelo shook his head. “That don’t look like—what happened to your mouth, Matt? You been—”
Mario said, flatly, “I ran into a door.”
“In other words, mind my own goddamn business. Okay, ragazzi. Have it your own way. Matt ran into a door. And Tommy ran into a door. That must have been some door.” He surveyed them both, shaking his head.
The Catch Trap Page 62