Another issue: Who knew how much this wild goose chase would cost? We weren’t prepared for this kind of investigation—no hidden camera equipment, no crack research team. As the producer of Sophie’s Voice, Andrew had to consider the bottom line on things like that.
On the one hand, Andrew had all these arguments and more he could make against my mother’s wacky scheme.
On the other hand, he’d like to stay employed.
“No reason at all,” he agreed, sounding less believable than Megan Fox in a Michael Bay movie. By now, he’s completely unfurled the paper clip he’d been mangling, turning it into a thin, straight, pointed rod. He discreetly pressed it against the skin of his palm while looking at my mother with a, literally, pained smile. “Sounds like a great idea to me.”
Back in my office, I stewed for a while. Then I brooded. I followed up this productive activity with some pouting, gnashing of teeth, and an imagined argument with my mother for her harebrained and, on some deeply psychological level, unsettling scheme. That was followed by an interior monologue in which I berated Andrew for agreeing to it.
Unfortunately, in real life, I knew he had no choice but to indulge my mother’s folly. It was his job to keep her happy, and if helping her play Girl Reporter was what it took, that’s what he had to do.
No, it would be up to me to convince her otherwise. Unfortunately, my mother was like a toddler when it came to being denied something she wanted. You couldn’t reason with her. Would you ever try to convince a two-year-old it was genuinely not in her best interest to eat the whole bag of cookies at one time? No. You’d give her one and put the rest somewhere she couldn’t reach them.
Taking away my mother’s determination to go through with her plan wasn’t an option, though. There was no metaphorical cabinet in which I could hide her crazy.
However, as my volunteer work as a teacher at the Sunday school program at my Unitarian church plus my time with Rafi taught me, there are other ways to forestall a child’s tantrum when you want to take away something they want that might harm them.
Method number one?
Distraction.
My mother wanted a story she could sink her teeth into. She’d forget about the adoption agency if I could get her interested in something else. Something juicy. Something sexy.
Which brought me back to Brent.
What was that story he’d promised me before he disappeared? Could it even be the cause of his disappearance? I had to track him down.
Where had I left things? The owner of SwordFight Productions and its most successful director both claimed they didn’t know where he was. To his credit, though, at least the latter had given me a lead.
Brent’s boyfriend, Charlie.
What did I know about him? Brent told me he really liked Charlie, but that Charlie hated Brent’s working in porn. It had gotten to the point where Brent was feeling so pressured he was considering breaking up with Charlie.
What if things went the other way? Maybe, in the end, Brent decided to keep Charlie and give up the films. It would explain Brent’s dropping off the radar.
The too-tasty-by-half Kristen LaNue told me where Charlie worked as a bartender. The place only employed extremely good-looking young men. Charlie was probably quite the looker. He’d have that going for him.
What else did he bring to the table? Was it enough to convince Brent to walk away from the fame and fortune he’d been achieving in adult films? More important, did he know where Brent was and would he be willing to tell me?
Only one way to find out.
If you need to go to the bathroom or grab a snack, you might as well do it now.
It’s time for Intermission.
Memories light the corners of my mind. Misty watercolor memories. Of the whore I was.
The verse repeated itself in my head as I neared Intermission’s discreet street-level entrance in an elegant but otherwise typical Upper West Side town house.
I pitied the poor manager who had to hire the bouncers that manned the door. He or she had to find just the right combination of men muscular enough to intimidate, handsome enough not to be a turn-off, but not so good-looking as to get hit on all night. It was a delicate balancing act.
I nodded at the two on duty as I passed by. They nodded back.
I was wearing charcoal-gray Hugo Boss dress slacks, a white button-down Calvin Klein shirt, and a baby-blue cashmere V-neck Versace sweater I’d been told brought out the color of my eyes. I wanted to look good, but not too good. Just enough to get me in the door. Not so much that I had to decline offers all night.
Had I been dressed more provocatively or too casually, the bouncers wouldn’t have been so friendly. Intermission was what Bogart would have called a “classy joint.” It might have been a hustler bar, but it was a tony one. No streetwalkers in short-shorts or too-tight denim need apply. Anyone who gave off the vibe of a reporter, paparazzi, or private detective was similarly discouraged. The buyers here were rich and powerful, the merchandise polished, expensive, and, generally, worth it.
Through the doors, the ambiance was similarly low-key and posh. I’d arrived at seven-thirty, planning my visit for the quietest time of the evening. It was the small window after the “just off from work and looking to pick up some takeout” crowd had left and before the “went home, had dinner, and now it’s time for my favorite dessert” customers would arrive.
As I hoped, the place was almost empty. There were men at only two of the twenty or so tables, and another couple in the equal number of booths that lined the walls.
I headed straight for the dark mahogany bar that ran the length of the back. Only one of the brown leather stools there was occupied. An older gentleman was nursing an amber-colored drink in a low tumbler while eyeing two young men at a nearby table. Clearly vexed by analysis paralysis, his glance shifted from blond to brunette and back again. What to choose, what to choose?
The boys, obviously friendly but aware of the competition, chatted amicably while attempting to casually put forward their best faces. They squared their shoulders, sucked in their stomachs, and frequently shared smiles not meant for the other.
“Be a sport,” I wanted to tell the indecisive buyer, “spring for them both. They look even cuter as a pair, and I bet two plus one will more than equal three.”
So as not to interfere with the emerging deal, I sat at the far end of the bar. There was only one bartender on duty and his back was to me as he sliced lemons by a small utility sink. From behind, he looked good. He was tall, a few inches over six feet. A squarish head with neatly groomed reddish-brown hair sat on a neck thick with muscles. A burly upper body, plump ass, and something about the way he stood, stolidly wide-stanced and confident, as if braced for impact, gave the impression he’d played a lot of football. He’d fill out a uniform nicely.
Probably wouldn’t look too bad out of one, either.
Then I noticed behind him a bar-cruiser’s best friend: a mirrored panel against the wall that allowed me to observe his front without his noticing. With his chin tucked toward his chest while he worked, I had free rein to study his fine features. His oval eyes, long eyelashes, and full lips would have been pouty on a less masculine man. Rosy, fine-pored skin that suggested at least a little Irish in him. Pronounced pecs stretched out his standard white waiter’s shirt, and dome-shaped biceps confirmed my sense he was a high school athlete, or maybe a current school player if he was attending college while not tending bar.
I pictured him with Brent. They’d be a handsome couple by any measure. Smaller, swimmer’s-build Brent would fold nicely into this beefy bohunk.
Assuming this was Charlie, that is. Finding out was the first order of business. I cleared my throat to get his attention.
The bartender looked up and saw me in the mirror. His face transformed from an expression of lemon-slicing indifference to a hugely excited and relieved smile in the space of a second. Pivoting gracefully on one foot, he turned around, positively beaming wi
th joy.
Either he was inordinately happy to see another patron, or he’d mistaken me for someone else.
“There you are!” he exclaimed, louder than appropriate in the quiet room. He fast-walked over to me, eyes alight with the eager prospect of reunion. “I’m so glad to see you! I was so . . .”
Charlie, who I was now sure this was, let his voice trail off as he realized his error.
He wasn’t the only person who’d noticed how alike Brent and I appeared, but he was the first who looked like the resemblance was going to bring him to tears. His face crumpled like a little boy’s who runs downstairs on Christmas morning to find not only no presents under the tree, but no tree. His naturally pink cheeks flushed an alarmingly bright red.
“I’m s-sorry,” he stammered, embarrassed both by his miscalculation and his inappropriate outburst. Intermission was a sedate establishment that encouraged a certain level of exaggerated decorum. Shouting, even when joyful, was not expected from the staff.
“It’s just—I thought you were someone else,” he explained. He’d continued his approach and was now across the bar from me. As if to make up for his earlier gaffe, he spoke in a library whisper.
I gave him a sympathetic smile. “It’s okay,” I said. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”
Under normal circumstances, that last part would have made no sense. Nothing I did could have been construed as startling, unless it was generally shocking to see a customer seated at the bar. But a dazed Charlie nodded as if he knew what I meant.
So, now I had two questions answered. One, yes, this was the boy Brent had been dating. Two, it was clear from his reaction that he didn’t know where Brent was, either, and probably hadn’t for a while.
“So, um, what can I get you?” Charlie still regarded me with a cautious curiosity, as if at any moment his vision might clear and I’d be revealed as his erstwhile lover.
“Information,” I said. “I think you and I are looking for the same person. Maybe if we put our heads together, we can find him.”
16
Prince Charming
Charlie’s rapidly shifting expression now assumed an aspect of suspicion. His full lips narrowed. So did his eyes.
“I don’t know what you mean,” he said. “But I can get you a drink.”
“I’ll have a cola,” I said. “Then maybe we can talk.”
“I’m working,” he said, grabbing a glass with one hand while reaching for the soda-dispensing wand.
I looked around the near-empty room. “I think you can spare a few minutes. Bring the lemons over. I’ll help.” I gave him the reassuring smile I used to give my nervous, first-time clients.
Charlie was recovering some of his cool. “I’m pretty sure that would break a few health code violations. You’ve already gotten me in enough trouble for the night.” He flushed again. While there was definitely a pecking order here, one which allowed Charlie to treat the working boys, which I knew he assumed I was, with more informality than he’d address the older customers, he still had to behave professionally.
“Not that you did anything wrong,” he added, plopping my drink down as if it were a live grenade he was glad to be rid of. “It’s just, like I said, for a moment . . .”
“You thought I was Brent,” I finished. I knew he’d never say it.
Once again, his expression wavered like the surface of a pond with a rock skimming across it. Sadness, confusion, concern.
The suspiciousness was back, too.
I could see he was considering how directly to confront me. He decided discretion was the better part of valor.
“I better get back to those lemons,” he said with forced good humor. “You have a, uh, productive night. Good luck.”
I was surprised by his reaction. While I didn’t expect to be welcomed with a hug, what was the problem with my expressing concern about a mutual friend? If he was truly worried about Brent, why wouldn’t he be glad that another person cared about his whereabouts?
Then it came to me—I wasn’t a mutual friend. Charlie had no idea who I was or why I was asking about his boyfriend.
Brent had told me about how his fans sometimes confused his public persona with his real one, imagining a connection that didn’t exist. Had there been other times Charlie had been approached by overzealous men trying to get to Brent through him? When your lover made his living getting fucked and sucked on film, did it make you overprotective of whatever privacy you could preserve?
“Wait,” I called, as he turned to leave.
“It’s no problem,” he said, already facing away. “The drink’s on the house.”
“No,” I said. “Can we talk? Just for a minute?”
Charlie didn’t turn around. But he stopped walking away. “Like I said, I’m working.”
“Listen,” I said to his back, “I understand why you’re being careful. But I also know you’re worried. About Brent. So am I. I promise you—I’m not a stalker or anything like that. I really am a friend. I want to help.”
It wasn’t until I saw Charlie’s broad shoulders drop that I realized how tightly he’d been clenching them. He turned around.
“I get off at one,” he said, somewhat begrudgingly. “If you’re still around, we can talk then.”
“I’ll come back,” I said.
Charlie looked around the bar. “I know it’s quiet now, but give it an hour and this place will be bursting. Sure you don’t want to stick around and see what you can drum up? I haven’t seen you here before, but I can tell you you’ll be in the top five percent in terms of looks around here. Fresh meat always does well even when it isn’t as cute as you are. You should do well tonight.”
“I’m not here for that,” I told him. “I just came to talk to you, Charlie.”
He cocked his head. “Did I tell you my name?” His guard was back up.
“No,” I said. “Brent did. In the same conversation when he told me how much he cared for you.”
Another quick shift in character. Charlie’s defensive posture shifted to that of a man overcome with unexpected emotion. Then, his face settled into the expression of a man ready to take action. “One minute,” he directed me. “Don’t move.”
He spun on his heels and disappeared into a door hidden behind the bar. A minute later he emerged wearing a black leather jacket over his uniform and followed by another staffer who took his place behind the bar. Charlie took my arm.
“We’re getting out of here,” he said.
I allowed myself to be dragged behind, suddenly conscious of just how big and imposing a fellow Charlie was.
It occurred to me that if I’d told Tony who I was meeting tonight, which, by the way, I did not, he might have pointed out that when a guy disappears, his disapproving boyfriend, whom he was possibly about to dump, might not be entirely innocent in the matter.
Naw, I thought. Charlie looked genuinely happy to see me. When he thought I was Brent, I mean. If he’d hurt Brent, or, I might as well just say it, killed him, that wouldn’t have been his reaction.
Unless he was insane, that is.
He squeezed my arm harder as he hurried me out of the bar. Which he was leaving in the middle of his shift. In what, I supposed, could be called an alarmingly impulsive rush.
After I’d come in and started asking nosy questions about his missing partner.
Had I gotten in over my head again?
At five feet three, that happened to me a lot.
Oh well, it’s not like it’s ever gotten me killed.
Yet.
“Did you just quit your job?” I asked as Charlie continued to drag me after him. We had just gotten out of earshot of the guys guarding the door, and it seemed like as good a question as any with which to start.
It was a tough economy. If he’d really walked out that suddenly, it would be the surest sign yet that he was crazy. In which case, I was ready to kick him in the balls and run back to the protection of the bouncers posthaste.
Charlie
slowed down, as if the sound of my voice reminded him there was a person attached to the other end of his arm. “Naw. It was a slow night. I asked my buddy Cliff to cover for me so we could talk. I should be good for an hour or so.”
“I don’t want you to get into trouble,” I said. “I really could just come back at one. I don’t mind.” Actually, I kind of did. I couldn’t imagine what I’d tell Tony I was doing leaving at that time of night. Or morning, as it were. But I figured I’d deal with that later.
“No,” Charlie said. “I couldn’t wait—couldn’t work all night—thinking that you might know something about where Brent is.”
He turned to face me and his eyes were wet. “Do you? Do you know where he is?”
His lips quivered with a boyish vulnerability that made me want to throw my arms around him. If he was a killer, he was the sweetest one ever.
“I don’t. I wish I did, though.” The night was getting chilly. I rubbed my hands over my arms.
Charlie’s eyes widened. “Brent used to do that same thing. You . . . you must know this . . . you look so much like him.”
“I know,” I said. “I’m sorry.”
“Sorry?” Charlie was puzzled. “Why would you be sorry?”
It would be totally inappropriate for me to hug him, but I couldn’t resist reaching out to rest my arm on his. “I’m sorry because I know that thinking about him is causing you pain. I’m sorry for hurting you.”
A single tear formed in the corner of Charlie’s right eye. He wiped it away before it fell.
There’s something about seeing a big guy like him cry that just breaks my heart. Even more so when he struggles to hold it in.
“There’s a coffee shop down that block,” Charlie said, resuming his forward march. “We can talk there.”
Over a chai tea and an improbably delicious raspberry/white chocolate chip scone, I told Charlie how I’d come to know Brent and what I’d been doing to track him down.
Charlie listened intently, occasionally sipping his black coffee. “It doesn’t surprise me those bastards at SwordFight weren’t any help,” he observed bitterly. “Brent’s not a real person to them. He’s a thing they made. A product they use and bleed until it runs dry. Then they throw it away.”
Third You Die (Kevin Connor Mystery) Page 12