* * *
Gates sweated like he'd never sweated before. He'd locked the office door from the inside, not even trusting himself to tell Madeline to leave him alone. Not trusting his voice. He had some heavy thinking to do, some decisions to lie down and quickly. Who the fuck did that guy think he was, and what, by the way, was he doing to Hiram's mind?
Damn Greve, anyway, damn him to hell and back again. Hiram was drinking scotch like water and staring at the wall, then at the photos on his desk, then at the wall again, slamming drink after drink and cursing in a steady stream. He'd been that way since Greve dropped the phone, since those damned words had insinuated themselves into his thoughts. Those dark, seductive words that wouldn't quit whispering themselves over and over in his ear, wouldn't quit working on the tattered shreds of his sanity and molding his traitorous vision.
"You think about that . . . the beauty that lies beneath the surface, waiting to come out . . ."
Damn him. He'd been staring at one of the photos of the younger girl, the first girl, as he'd spoken to Greve, admiring it and running his fingers over the glossy surface of it. As Greve had spoken, as those sick, demented words had slipped over the phone line and into his unsuspecting ear, ending in that deafening click of silence, the image on the photo had blinked out as well.
He'd seen it. The bastard had somehow flashed that small bit, that one mental image across time and space, invading his mind with it. Either that, or Hiram was beginning to get a little vision of his own. It wasn't a thought he wanted to dwell on. He liked his own brand of vision just fine, liked the way he'd come to judge feminine beauty well enough without embellishment or depravity.
Madeline's face had been on that photo. Her hair had been brushed back, tied with yellow bows that dangled at perfect angles to her face. Her eyes had that empty, arrogant look, that unattainable beauty that permeated all of Greve's photos. Her skin had been smooth as glass, fragile, as though it might shatter to the touch. He shuddered, slammed another scotch, and tried to erase the image from his mind.
There was a soft knock on the door, so light that at first he wasn't certain that he'd heard anything. He pretended that he had not, prayed that she would walk away, that he would not have to face her, not with that image in his mind, not with so much going on between them.
"Hi?" It was Maddy. He gulped in huge mouthfuls of air, turned and hurriedly gathered the photos, pulling them toward him and into the drawer, locking them away. The scotch he left out. No way could he hide his drunkenness, but the pictures he could wipe away. Maybe he could use the alcohol to excuse himself from intelligent conversation. It was worth a shot, anyway.
"Hi, is there something wrong?" She sounded worried, and the tone of her voice cut into his heart. Only short moments before he'd been sitting there, his hand in his crotch, imagining what she would look like dead and made up like a mannequin in a department store, pliant and empty. Now she was there, concerned about his well being and wanting to help him, and there was nothing he could do to let her in.
He sensed her warmth, felt again how she'd lain in his arms the night before. He knew her eyes would be wide, trusting and full of honest concern for him. He knew as well that he did not deserve that attention. Christ.
"Yes," he croaked, pouring another glass and staggering to his feet. "Just a minute, Maddy."
He stumbled across the room, fumbled clumsily with the dead bolt and drew the door inward, leaning heavily against it for support. He'd had more scotch than he'd thought. He was having trouble just standing up.
Madeline slipped into the room, took in the scene at a glance and hurried to his side. She supported him as he swayed back to his desk. He leaned into her, concentrating on her scent, her warmth, concentrating on the vitality and grace of her movements, memorizing them.
He wanted to replace the cold, lifeless images, wanted to regain his fascination with the life that coursed so brightly through her veins. He wanted to hear her voice, to see the love in her eyes. Yes, he told himself, "love." That was what he felt, even if he hadn't managed to say it yet. Another failing.
"What are you doing in here, Hi?" she asked, eyeing the bottle and the glass and turning back to him with a perplexed frown. "This just isn't like you. What's wrong?"
He wanted desperately to tell her. He wanted to yank open the drawer, pull free the shots of Cherie, who he knew Maddy would recognize despite what Greve had done with the girl. He wanted to tell her about how he couldn't get the images out of his head, how he'd played with himself shamelessly for days, staring at the pictures, sharing them with perverts throughout the city. He wanted to tell her, but he did not and could not.
She had always been the one there for him, the one who could make a situation like this right. He had no one else to turn to, no one who wouldn't take the information and make use of it or take advantage. He felt trapped and helpless, and he felt like an asshole for losing his control.
"I've just got a lot on my mind," he said lamely, reaching for the glass of scotch on the desk. She was quicker, sliding it away and downing it herself.
"You're shutting me out, Hi," she said, and he could hear the hurt in her voice. "If this is what it means to be closer to you, I'm not sure I wasn't happier before, when you trusted me to understand whatever came along."
He stared up at her, and tears welled in the corners of his eyes, one of them dripping down his cheek. He talked to her then, not what she wanted to hear, but with sincerity, and she accepted it. He focused on everything he wanted to say that was wholesome, that wasn't dark and frightening.
"So many things are changing, Maddy. You and I, we've been together a long time, too long for me not to have noticed how you felt, or how I felt. I love you, Maddy. I guess I always have loved you, and I took advantage of that. So much lost time, so many lost years.
“That girl, Cherie, the one that was here the other day, she's dead. No chance at what I've had in front of me all this time and taken for granted. That's a part of it. There are a lot of parts to it. She has no days left at all. It could happen to me. I could be hit by a car, could have a heart attack, you could leave. I feel so wasteful, and so empty.
"It just got to me all of a sudden, that's all." He rose again, moving to her side and pulling her close. "I felt like I had to do something, and the closest thing to do was that bottle of scotch. Would you like to do the rest of it with me?"
She looked up at him, her eyes melting as she saw the tears in his own, and pressed herself into his side, supporting him again, accepting him. "I'd like that a lot, Hi," she said softly, "but I want you to remember something. When you need to let off steam, or you feel like things are closing in, you have more than one answer. You have me."
He gazed into her eyes, and he lifted the glass, pouring it full once more and taking a sip this time instead of a gulp. He held it out to her, but she didn't take it. Instead, she grabbed his hand and tipped the glass to her lips – trusting him. It was painful, the love he felt emanating from her, the depth of her emotion. He felt as if he were betraying her, even as he fell into the depths of her eyes and lost himself in her soft smile.
He smiled then himself, and some of the cold melted from his heart. For just a second, looking down, he saw her reflection in the scotch. It was smooth, empty, wavering and surreal. He closed his eyes, blanking it, and tipped the glass up again.
"I know," he whispered, setting the glass aside and pulling her into his arms, crushing her against his chest, "I know, and I love you."
TWELVE
Christian's shopping trip took longer than he'd anticipated. He got caught up in the spell of it, the "difference" of it, and in the end he barely made it home in time to dress and to make his appointment at Sid's.
As he rushed along, he cursed himself for a fool for chancing a missed opportunity, but at the same time he was thrilling to the changes he’d begun. He'd worn some of the clothes home from the men's store, not wanting to put back on his jeans and disturb the image he'd see
n in that store's mirror. Part of that image, he knew, was due to the deft descriptions and salesmanship of the clerk who'd sold it to him, but it was an image, no less, for all that. A good image.
He wore a grey, double-breasted suit coat with a soft pink shirt beneath it and a grey and salmon striped tie. The tie was held in place by a single gold ornament, a tie clasp in the shape of a camera. It had been an extra he couldn't resist. He’d seen it in the center of a display of literally hundreds of other clips, some silver, others with stones, plain and gaudy; his eyes had latched onto this one immediately.
"I'm a photographer," he'd explained to the smiling clerk as he pulled it free of the case, "an artist."
Every inch of his appearance had changed, and he felt it wash through him, effecting his movements and his thoughts. He was still the same man inside the clothing, and yet at the same time he was not. It was like his photos. This Christian was an adaptation of the old, an improvement.
He felt more confident. When he passed a group of people, they looked and they noticed him. Not only did they notice, but more than once someone had spoken to him, or waved. There were no sneers, no names. Christian walked as if on a cloud. The fact that the changes in his appearance were responsible did not change things. It didn't matter that they didn't know or respect him; they would know him soon enough.
He had other things, magazines, a book or two, cigars; he'd been in several different shops, picking up whatever touched his fancy. There were a great number of things he'd wanted to have over the years, things he'd wondered about, but had never bothered to really consider in any serious way.
Now, somehow, it seemed that he needed to be worldlier; needed to grow into the new image that was presenting itself to him. It occurred to him that as long as he continued to dress and act like the loser his mother had dubbed him, the longer that image was likely to impose itself onto his reality. It was a blow struck for independence and control.
The most conspicuous moment of the afternoon had been when he'd crawled back behind the wheel of the old Dart. In all the years he'd owned that car, he'd never once considered trading it in, or buying another one. It got him to work and back, and that was its function. There had never seemed any need to have something without it being a necessity.
Now he wanted something that would make people look the way his new clothes did, something that would not be laughed at. He was very tired of being laughed at. He thought it might be nice, for once, to flash by a car filled with young people and have them whistle in appreciation at his own vehicle, and at the image of the man behind the wheel, rather than jeering and laughing.
Christian dropped his things off at the house and rushed back out, looking both ways to be sure nobody noticed him getting into the old Dodge as he left. He felt silly worrying about it, but couldn't help himself. There was no time to do anything about the car that night.
It was 6:45, and he pushed the accelerator a bit harder than he normally would have, thrilling to the thought that he might get a ticket, that they might walk right up to the window of his car and not realize that they were taking the driver's license of the "Kodak Zodiac."
The evening's shadows were just beginning to slink from the cracks and to fill in the spaces the sun was vacating.
Christian parked in a deserted lot across the alley behind Sid's. It was dark, not a good place to be alone at night, but it was early still, and it would be the next morning before he came back for the car. He didn't want to leave it in the bar's own lot. He didn't want to be associated with it. He'd be leaving in a much more impressive fashion, and the image was important. So was the anonymity.
When he'd made certain that the coast was clear, he slipped out and retrieved his camera bag and the satchel with his makeup kit out of the trunk. Then he locked the car and crossed the alley. Christian couldn't help wondering if he should have changed the bag as well, maybe gotten a newer case for the rest of the equipment. Nothing to do about it now.
The lights were just coming on on Broadway, the night-life swarming out to engulf the streets and the regular citizens closing in on themselves like shell-fish, or mice, burrowing in to wait out the storm. Christian took a deep breath, stepped onto the sidewalk and looked about, seeing things through new eyes and with new perspective.
It didn't feel as threatening as it usually had in the past. He was a part of it now, he knew. The city didn't know it yet, but he and they had become one. He was home.
He almost strutted as he walked toward the door to Sid's, watching to see what kind of reaction his "new look" might bring, and being disappointed by the result. A lot of important people of one sort or another frequented Sid's. Here he was nothing special again, though he noticed that the girl inside the door, the pretty one with the bright smile that had always ignored him in the past, came right forward to take his jacket. He almost wished he'd bought a hat.
"I'm expecting a car to be waiting,” he said, trying to make his voice sound forceful, authoritative. He wasn't sure if he'd succeeded, but the girl nodded, reaching for a clipboard behind her desk. At least she was taking him seriously. That was something.
"Your name?" she asked, smiling at him.
"Chri . . . Art," he corrected, "Artemis McLean."
"Okay, Mr. McLean, I have your name here. Your driver tonight is Ralph, and he'll be on call from this station at all times. If you need him for anything, just send one of the waitresses back here, and we'll let him know. Enjoy your evening."
He thanked her and stepped into the club, his mind sinking back into the reality of the moment. There weren't many people there yet, but it was important that he avoid as many as possible, all the same. It was, as Gates had mentioned, no game they were playing. If he did something stupid, he'd end up taking pictures of the inside of a prison cell for the rest of his life.
Christian bypassed the bar and the empty dance floor and walked straight to the booths in back. He picked the same booth that he and Gates had sat in a few nights back, for luck, he told himself. He didn't have to wait long before the same young girl who'd waited on him that night strutted over to the table. Christian watched her eyes, but there wasn't even a flicker of recognition in them. The clothes, the way he'd combed his hair straight back instead of to the side, it was so much of a change that she didn't even know who he was. That was good, he supposed. If she couldn't place him in the bar, then she wasn't a danger.
"Can I help you, sir?" Her eyes asked more questions than 'do you want a drink,' and Christian's heart took a quick flutter. Another first, a girl who thought his favor was worth cultivating.
"Scotch," he said softly. "Just a glass of your best scotch, please."
"Would Glenlivet do, sir?" She asked, pausing with the pen above the pad, waiting for his approval.
He smiled and nodded, and she returned the smile, twisting quickly so that her hair bounced up in the air behind her and spun away. He watched her go, realizing that she was exaggerating the already provocative swing of her hips that she was glancing over her shoulder at him every few steps, sizing him up and wondering if he were worth a lot in tips, or even more.
If clothes and hair could make this much difference, how much more would a nice car, a bigger apartment, and a larger bankroll mean? All things to consider, to mull over and give plenty of thought to.
He saw the girl pick up his drink from a tall, dark-haired woman behind the bar. The woman was strikingly attractive, and she exuded an aura, a presence, that he sensed, even from clear across the room.
Christian gazed at her, and suddenly her eyes met his, capturing them. They locked like that for a long moment, and then she turned away, moving gracefully down the bar. The contact had been strong, electric.
"Your scotch, sir?" Christian glanced up sheepishly at the waitress who'd returned while he was busy staring. He reached for his wallet, but she stopped him.
"I'm afraid you caught me wool-gathering," he babbled.
She just smiled at him and waved his money away."I
'll just keep track, you can pay on your way out, if you like, sir."
He shook his head, fishing the bills out quickly. "I may be in a hurry later," he explained, giving her enough for the drink and a good bit more, waving it all away with a quick smile. "I'm meeting someone here. Work.”
He liked the way the tip made her eyes light up. This was a lesson, he reflected, that his mother had actually taught him, but he'd not paid enough attention. She'd always been particularly easy to get along with after one of her "boyfriends" gave her a present. It was also a lesson that Gates might have taught him, if they were on better terms.
That was going to have to be addressed soon, he knew. One way or the other, his work would go on. If he had to go on without Gates, he'd have to find a way to get rid of the man altogether. Gates been very helpful, invaluable, even, but Christian was learning every day, and things were not as they had been. He didn't need that much help anymore. If Gates didn't come around, Christian would have to replace him.
It was invigorating to think in these terms. All his life things had stood in his way and threatened his happiness. He'd avoided them, run from them, and withstood the humiliation of them. Now he knew there was another choice. He could remove them. No way could he let Gates know as much as he did, exert so much control, if the man was not involved himself.
Christian noticed a small commotion, and he turned his head, following the eyes all the others in the room. When he turned toward the dance floor, looking beyond it to the edge of the bar, he saw that a tall, striking blonde had walked in and was talking to the dark haired woman, who pointed almost immediately in his direction.
Damn Gates, anyway, he thought, even as his mind was re-sculpting the woman's perfect lines, molding the smile that floated across the room toward him atop five-inch heels and endless legs. She was supposed to know what seat he'd be in. It was supposed to be discreet.
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