In the City by the Lake

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In the City by the Lake Page 4

by Taylor Saracen


  “I don’t want your popcorn,” I scoffed, shoving it back to him. I paused for a moment to take another handful before leaving it with him. “I want something else.”

  “Anything,” he promised. “You can have anything, Vik.”

  “Your discretion. I want that.”

  “You already have it,” Maks stated, aghast at my suggestion.

  “Would I have had it if I didn’t tell you I’d think about giving you a couple of the clubs?” I asked, narrowing my eyes at my cousin.

  “Of course,” he assured. “I won’t take them if you don’t believe me. You don’t owe me anything. I wasn’t intending to threaten you, in case you interpreted it that way …”

  “I don’t even know what you’re talking about,” I replied, finished with the conversation. “Let’s watch the Cubbies.”

  “Let’s,” he grinned, settling into his seat. “Beginnings are the best, don’t you agree, cousin?”

  “I do,” I nodded, feeling ready for something new, in business or otherwise. “You optimistic fucker.”

  “I have so much to feel good about now, thanks to you,” Maks complimented. “Robin Hood.”

  “You’re hardly poor,” I admonished.

  “Yet,” he added. “According to Ig, I’m one dollar away from despair.”

  “According to Ig, we all are, and guess what …”

  “What?”

  “We’ll be doing fine,” I promised, patting my cousin’s leg.

  “What about the Cubs? Do you think they’ll be fine too?” Maks asked as Clyde Beck swung for his third strike.

  “I think you should ask me in a few months,” I replied, not wanting to put a hex on my team.

  “Today is a lucky day,” Maks decided. “Anything discussed today will be golden.”

  I let out a heavy sigh to show Maks I thought he was full of shit and sat back in my seat to watch the rest of the game.

  The Cubs lost.

  5

  July 1930

  Freedom. It was a theory more than a promise, yet on the Fourth of July, the citizens of America celebrated theirs, somehow believing they truly possessed it. Having violently emancipated themselves from England, they were convinced they had fought for liberties they would not have otherwise, while functioning and floundering under the rule of the greatest tyrant—capitalism. With their noses to the grindstone, Americans worked hard, slaves to a system that would let them down, a system they revered while it crumbled around them.

  I was led by money as well, though I’d found a way to earn it outside of the press of convention, a fact that had me wondering if perhaps I was inching closer to independence than those gaily lighting sparklers at Burnham Park. They were happy, though, and maybe their joy naturally made them freer than me. What I considered my ability to be pragmatic and realistic, others, such as my cousin, saw as pessimism. Perhaps it was my commonsensical qualities that tied shackles around my wrists and bound me down. Regardless, I preferred to be weighted by reason rather than floating on dreams. The fall was much farther from the sky.

  Though patriotism was alien to me, news out of The Soviet Union had me wondering if the farce of freedom in America was somehow still superior to the corrupt communism continuing to crop up in the country of my bedeviled birth. Between forced collectivization and political repression, Stalin was saturating the blood stains Lenin left on Russia, making me wonder if my father wasn’t running only from his demons when he brought us to America but theirs as well. While the two countries were disparate in their ideologies, they proved to me that there wasn’t just one way for a government to fuck its citizens and had me wondering if I would be an anarchist if I wasn’t painfully uninspired.

  Lying back in the warm, grainy sand of the beach in Streeterville, I watched as the fireworks above Navy Pier bloomed and boomed in the sable sky, streaks of sparkling light burning bright before dissipating gracefully into a pale blue smoke. The toe of a boat shoe tapped my shoulder, and I craned my neck to see who it belonged to.

  “Alright,” I decided, taking in the stranger’s strong body and square face.

  As I stood up, I smoothed my Bush shirt and linen pants then followed him toward the hulking structure at the end of the beach. It was understood what we all came to Streeterville for, so I saw no need for conversation. I was glad he didn’t either.

  He worked his way down my body as soon as I’d leaned my shoulders against one of the pier’s many support beams. He was good, and I attempted to burrow my fingertips into the splintering board of wood behind me while he sent shocks of electricity through me. The din of the crowd gathered above me rang in my ears as flashes of light from the fireworks illuminating the night coaxed open my eyes even when I wanted them closed. The stranger finished me off, and I considered not reciprocating, as I rarely felt compelled to do so. The sticky, hot air coupled with the energy surrounding us filled me with a desire that didn’t typically take over, and I dropped to my knees, ready to please.

  When the deed was done, I wiped my mouth and avoided his gaze, wanting to go as quick as I had come.

  “Joshua Green,” he greeted awkwardly, holding his hand out for a shake.

  “This seems backward, Joshua,” I stated, clearing my throat as I zipped my pants. “Seeing as how we didn’t find it necessary to establish introductions beforehand, I don’t think we need to at all.”

  “Okay,” Joshua nodded. “Some guys are looking for more nowadays, so it was worth a try.”

  “I’m not that guy, but good luck finding him,” I said honestly.

  Sex was easy to get, but a relationship between men that held greater depth was a challenge I didn’t want to know anything about.

  Giving him a slight wave, I climbed up the embankment to the pavement above, weaving through the hordes of people crowding the street. The sweet scent of cotton candy, carried by the balmy summer breeze, found its way to my nose and had my mouth watering. Deciding to indulge for the second time that night, I made my way to a small booth at the end of the pier, handed the man behind it a nickel, and received the cloudlike confection.

  As I walked to the L stop, I alternated between taking bites of the spun sugar and drags of a cigarette. Though I rarely found balance, I often sought it and figured, at the very least, I could keep my vices in harmony.

  While I’d known my family hadn’t planned to partake in public Fourth of July festivities, I hadn’t expected to find them sitting on our apartment’s terrace in their nainsook union suits, pissed on whiskey. It wasn’t uncommon for my uncle Grygoriy and Maks to be at our place; it was, however, out of the ordinary for them to be at our apartment in their underwear.

  “I’m overdressed,” I noted, resting my back against the bricks of the building as I regarded the four men skeptically.

  “And ugly,” Grygoriy added with a smirk.

  “Not quite,” I tsked, quite aware that I had a catalogue of shitty qualities, my looks not being one of them.

  “You’ve got to give it to the kid. He has confidence,” my father laughed.

  “You would, too, if you looked like him, Uncle Taros,” Maks said, giving me a wink. “He’s a regular Gary Cooper.”

  “Viktor does look like me,” my dad insisted, swigging his drink as he assessed me, double-checking. “More than Igor does, anyway.”

  “Viktor is all Anastasia,” my aunt Yekaterina stated, sliding the glass door closed behind her before placing her delicate hand on my cheek and patting it gently. “Every beautiful bit is his mother.”

  I watched my father’s face fall as he traced his finger along the rim of the glass. It seemed he had lost a fight with his conscience when he uttered: “You did not have any complaints about my looks when we were lovesick teenagers, Katya.”

  The statement hung in the air like a foreboding fog enveloping all of us. In my attempt to remain stoic, I didn’t glance at the faces of my family, but I could feel the thick tension between the older Mikhailov men and from my father to my aunt, who un
beknownst to me, may have spent time between the brothers before. Though I was aware that aunt Kat had grown up with my father and uncle in the small village of Myshkin, Russia, I’d never thought there was a romance, save the relationship my aunt and uncle had eventually shared with one another. With his lips loosened by libations, my father had indicated otherwise, thus rendering all of us speechless. At least for a beat.

  “The best thing about the past is that we can leave it there, right, brother? For the present is the most beautiful gift,” Grygoriy said, holding his cup out toward my father, who reluctantly raised his as well. “Na Zdorovie.”

  “Na Zdorovie,” my father sighed, venturing to peek at Yekaterina, who quickly looked away and excused herself from the terrace.

  “So, wait,” Igor began. “Dad and Aunt Kat?”

  From the way Maksim nodded, I realized my brother and I were the only ones not privy to the knowledge.

  “How about we talk about anything but this?” I interrupted, clicking my tongue that still tasted of candy, cigarettes, and Joshua. “We can pick from any one of the cheery topics we discuss, like banks crashing, our pending poverty, or Capone’s Outfit.”

  “How about we talk about your fairies then?” Grygoriy suggested. “You gave Maks three; how about three for me?”

  “How about that’s not going to happen?” I scoffed.

  “How about you ingrates stop saying ‘how about’?” Igor groaned, rubbing his forehead dramatically. “It’s annoying.”

  “How about you go get us another bottle?” my father retorted, gesturing to his empty glass. “And get a cup for your brother,” he called after Igor, who had stood up as soon as Dad asked. “My successful son.”

  “It seems like I’m not the only one angling for a piece of the Towertown action,” Grygoriy chuckled, grinning when my father winked at him.

  “You can all shove it up your asses,” I chided.

  “It is what they do in Towertown,” Maks quipped, earning howls of laughter from the older men.

  “Son,” my father started, once he regained his composure. “If it’s three for Maks, three for Grygoriy, and three for me, it still leaves six for you. It is very lucrative to have six establishments in this day and age.”

  “It’s even better to have twelve,” I remarked.

  While I wasn’t greedy about money, I was about privacy. My living situation didn’t lend itself to having much of anything of my own. Towertown was mine, a place where I was able to feel an iota more open than I typically did, and the last thing I wanted to do was bring my father into the fold. The thought that he might want to combine our rounds caused my jaw to clench. I had been spending time at the beaches but come autumn they’d be empty, and it would be back to picking pansies at the parlor. I didn’t want to dodge my dad while I tried to get my rocks off.

  “Since when are you a shark, Viktor?” Grygoriy asked, eyeing me down, impressed.

  “He is his father’s son,” my dad remarked, grunting his “thank you” to Igor, who reappeared to refill his glass.

  Though my father wasn’t a fan of Igor’s educational endeavors, it had always been clear that my brother was the perennial favorite. It seemed, however, that my newfound success had me edging Igor out in regard to my dad’s affection. I would have appreciated the swell of endearment if it hadn’t come along with increased attention. The only time I wanted eyes on me was when I chose to be seen.

  “None for me,” I decided when Igor offered me a cup. “I’m tired.”

  “Twenty-two going on eighty-nine,” Maks teased, grabbing for the full glass. “I’ll take his.”

  “You could learn from Viktor’s work ethic,” Grygoriy told his son.

  “Last I checked, Father, I had three homo clubs, and you have none,” Maks sassed, drawing a punch in the arm from Grygoriy.

  “You’re lucky my brother is a pleasant drunk, Maks,” my father said. “Perhaps we are both lucky for that.”

  Having had enough of the dysfunctional dynamics for one evening, I headed into my bedroom and locked the door behind me. Though the thought of my father and Aunt Kat having a love affair made my stomach turn, I couldn’t stop myself from being curious about what had happened between them. Fortunately, I was blessed with a cousin who had a big mouth when it didn’t count and tight lips when it did. I would urge Maks to abandon his discretion in the morning, at least about old family flames.

  6

  December 1930

  I had been haunted before, not by a ghost but by a feeling. It didn’t happen often, though it was pervasive and bone-chilling when it did. It wasn’t nostalgia as much as the presence of dread, a cumbersome apprehension of things to come, things I could not put my finger on but anticipated nonetheless. Perhaps it was the fact that my walk through Towertown was darker than the year prior that had me troubled. An area of the city that had been decked with lights was dim, and I feared it was a sign of the times. Maybe Igor and the calamitous crash conversation weren’t far off.

  The Gallery on State, however, was packed with people decked out in their New Year’s best, a sea of sequins draped on men and women alike. Prisms of light bounced off the fancy frocks, casting rays of rainbows over happy faces while bodies moved like undulating waves to the Negro jazz performer on the stage. The room was alive with an erratic energy, with patrons so intent on letting loose that their focus was oppressive, like time was slipping away and they were clawing to capture it. It was the first time I’d felt the winds of economic worry that whipped outside the walls of the club crack through the mortar and find their way inside.

  I walked toward the bar, where Abraham was slinging drinks, handsome as ever. “What’s going on, Egg?” I greeted, shaking his hand.

  “Vik!” he exclaimed, smiling wide. “I’m glad you made it. You don’t come around enough for fun anymore.” He flipped a glass, filled it with ice, and poured the Canadian Club from a few feet above it, letting the whiskey splash out of the cup without a worry.

  “I’ve been busy,” I stated, gesturing toward the crowd. “It seems like you have been too.”

  Abraham winked. “Let’s get you zozzled.”

  I didn’t protest.

  As I drank, I took in my surroundings, finding a very pleasant sight to rest my eyes on. Though the club had a breath and the dance floor a pulse, everything lacked the life Abraham’s Peach encompassed when he threw his head back to laugh at something the rosebud-lipped chorus moll had said. I don’t know what was more astounding, the idea that the melancholy little man had the capacity to be funny or the way the room froze as soon as the Peach smiled. The shiny, joyful people lost their luster, becoming shadows, just negative space to his freckled face, a frame to feature him.

  When Abraham had told me months earlier that the Peach was his muse, I hadn’t understood what he meant. While I knew the club owner considered himself an artist, I hadn't understood why a hobby he loved would need any sort of inspiration until I saw how boundlessly the Peach provided it. I wondered if Abe had the talent to capture his inspiration’s charisma on canvas, if he saw him the same way I did. If everything quieted around him for Abraham the way it did for me. Though I didn’t want to let my meandering mind run away and theorize about Abraham’s connection with his muse, it rarely settled the way I wanted it to. They fucked. They had to fuck. It would be natural for two good-looking men who liked men to like each other, especially when they were in a mutually beneficial relationship. I let my eyes travel over his strong body, urging the ounce of creativity I possessed to paint him into memory.

  As intrigued as I was by so much of him, I was equal parts confused. He was nothing more than an opportunistic belle, like the rest of the hungry harem who hung onto Abe, and that should have turned me off. I wasn’t attracted to someone who needed to be saved. If I’d wanted a damsel in distress, I would have been with a dame. Still, he didn’t seem damaged like the rest of the queens who hung out in Abe’s studio. The Peach looked as though he balanced the planet on hi
s pinky and regarded the population with a sentient smirk. It was too much. I was too attracted to him, and he was too powerful, more terrifying than Al Capone for varying reasons, the most apparent being how weak he made my knees. It was impossible to stand up to a man when he hit you in the knees. It was fighting dirty as far as I was concerned.

  I shook my head, aggravated by the thought of him and his guerrilla tactics, ambushed by his attractiveness and my subsequent weakness. Sipping my whiskey, I eyed down Abraham, who was greeting patrons at the end of the polished bar. Not only did the club owner have a successful speakeasy, he had a horde of handsome men who fell at his feet. As much as I hated the trait, I couldn’t deny I felt jealous of what he’d built for himself. While my family members were fiending for a piece of fairy action, I was salivating over a slice of the Peach. I wanted him. I’d never looked at another man and coveted him the way I did Abe’s muse, and I hated both Abe and his love interest for it. How exhausting it was to feel so much and to know the redhead so little. I suppose it was better that way. After all, playing with fire would get me hot, and I could not afford to flame out the way he made me want to. It was better to never get in his path rather than to end up a section of scorched earth beneath his heat.

  Fuck, I had a crush. The last time I’d gotten so hot and bothered by a guy was when I was twelve. It was Sweetbread Bailey, the Cubs’ pitcher. The baseball player was tall, strong, and everything wet dreams were made of. I would know since he gave me enough of them. Abe’s Peach had a body like a baseball player with his broad shoulders and narrow waist. I wanted to punch him in his pretty face. Goddamn.

  Chugging the remaining contents of my glass, I slid it across the bar top toward an empty space, knowing it would not be long before Abe took care of a refill. I needed to be way more inebriated than I was to cope with the fucked-up fantasies I was having about my best client’s man.

 

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