Roxanne eyes Manning wryly, then says to David, “I’m supposed to ask you about your taste in women.”
Unprepared for the topic, David stammers.
Changing the subject, Manning pulls out a chair for David and tells him, “Join the party. Did he card you?”
“Nope,” says David, distributing the drinks, “he was so stooped-over, he never even looked me in the eye. Hey, time for a toast.”
They all raise their glasses. Roxanne says, “For starters: To the successful completion of your big story. May a Partridge Prize await you.”
Manning returns the courtesy. “To the successful resolution of this crink in your relationship with Carl. May your worst suspicions prove unfounded.”
“And to Neil,” says David. “I wish he could be here with us.”
“Here here,” says Roxanne.
“To Neil,” says Manning.
And they all drink.
Just as they are about to settle into some frivolous conversation, having exhaustively discussed plots and counterplots all afternoon, Manning feels the tingle of the pager on his belt. He unclips it and reads the number. “Speaking of Neil,” he tells the others, “a summons from the home front. It might be important, and besides, I’d like to talk to him.” He rises. “Do you mind?”
“No,” they assure him. “Not at all.”
He picks up the glass that he has barely sipped, to take it with him to the cabin. “I don’t know how long this’ll take, so don’t wait around for me. If I don’t see you later, Roxanne, sleep tight.” He steps to her side of the table and leans to kiss her cheek. “Behave yourself,” he says into her ear.
“I’m not the one who’s drinking,” she reminds him, tapping her water glass.
He squeezes her shoulder, tells David to have fun, and leaves the lounge.
It’s noticeably darker outdoors now, cooler too, and Manning paces briskly toward the cabin, only a few hundred yards away, carrying his icy drink. Underfoot, the asphalt paving changes to gravel driveway. His shoes crunch the stones as he approaches the cabin, guided by the glow of a yellow bug-light near the door. Arriving on the stoop, he fishes for his key and turns the lock. (After that incident on the bay, he decided he’d been too lax and trusting. It was stupid to leave the cabin unlocked earlier. To everyone’s relief, there were no signs of intrusion during their afternoon absence. There was little worth stealing anyway—Manning’s computer, files, and notes were all safe in the trunk of his car.)
Entering, he switches on lights, crosses to the bedroom desk, and sets down his glass. Through the picture window in the living room, he sees the evening’s last glint of orange on the water. Even the indoor air is chilly now, so he leaves his jacket on, but doesn’t take time to fuss with the heat—he wants to return Neil’s call. The message light on the phone is blinking—but Neil comes first. Manning sits at the desk, unbuttoning the top of his shirt. He flips open his reporter’s notebook and sets his capped pen next to it, in case Neil has business. He sips his vodka, then dials.
The other phone rings four times, then the answering machine starts its spiel. Manning glances at his watch. Damn. Then Neil picks up the phone, interrupting the machine. “Hello?” He sounds winded.
“Hi there. Did you just walk through the door?”
“I just jumped out of the shower,” Neil tells him.
“Going out?” asks Manning, trying not to sound as if he’s prying. “You usually shower in the morning.”
“Rest easy, Mark. It’s been another hellacious day, and I had a few errands to run this evening. Just trying to cool off. They say better weather’s on the way.”
“It’s already here.” Manning huddles into his jacket. “It’s cold tonight.”
“Then you’d better build a fire.”
Manning relaxes in the chair, stretching his legs. “Matter of fact, there’s one ready to go. There’s a wonderful stone fireplace—none of that gas-log nonsense.”
Neil is impressed. “Sounds great.”
“Everything’s lovely, kiddo. I wish you were here to share it.”
“Me too. Here in the loft, I enjoyed having some ‘personal space’ for a change—for an hour or two—but the flush of independence faded fast. I want you back here.”
Manning sips his drink. “Come morning, David and I will be on our way.”
“How is the lad?”
“Fine. He’s over at the cocktail lounge with Roxanne.”
“And what about Rox—what was so urgent that you had to hightail it up there?”
Manning leans forward on the desk, as if inching closer to Neil. “Get this: Carl was called into town for a board meeting of the Christian Family Crusade.”
“What?”
Manning cups the receiver to his mouth, as if speaking into Neil’s ear. “It gets even screwier. Zarnik himself was apparently at the same meeting. Roxanne suspects the worst: Carl is involved with the CFC, and they’re all knee-deep in the Zarnik scam. Plus, I can’t help wondering about Cliff Nolan’s dossier on Carl.”
“There’s got to be some other explanation,” says Neil, his voice laced with doubt. “This is starting to sound way too sinister.”
Manning is tempted to tell Neil about the eavesdropper on the pier, but that would only worry him, and right now he has pressures of his own to fret over. Manning says, “You’re probably right. Even if Roxanne has correctly concluded that Carl Creighton is somehow associated with the CFC—he is, after all, a lawyer, and I’m sure the Crusade pays plenty of them—I can’t think of any plausible connection between a bunch of irrational fundamentalists and Zarnik, a man of science. Granted, he’s just putting on an act, but why?”
“Oh!”—Neil remembers—“The reason I called. Did Victor Uttley phone you?”
Manning looks at the winking red light. “I’m not sure. There’s a message.”
“Victor phoned you here at home tonight, and I gave him your number up there. You guys have been missing each other’s calls, right? He wouldn’t tell me exactly what he wanted, but he did say to let you know that he needs to talk to you about something important. In turn, I told him that you, too, have something to discuss with him—access to the laser projectors. He seemed to think he could pull some strings; he wants you to call him about it. Then, after we hung up, it occurred to me that he has theatrical connections all over the city.”
Manning swirls the ice in his glass. “So?”
“What did Claire Gray tell you? The man posing as Zarnik must be a professional actor, right? Maybe Victor could help put the finger on him.”
Manning has begun taking notes. He stares at them in silence for a moment. “Thanks, Neil. That’s an interesting angle. Remember, though, that Uttley ran those ads, so he already has something of a professional investment in Zarnik. He may not enjoy hearing that he’s involved the mayor’s office in perpetrating a hoax.”
“That’s a valid concern,” admits Neil. “But knowing Victor, I’d characterize him as a publicity hound. He’d love making headlines, even if they proved he was injudicious in running those ads. He could claim he was ‘victimized.’”
Manning laughs. “You’ve got this all figured out, haven’t you?”
“No one to talk to but myself tonight—I’ve been giving it a lot of thought.”
Manning hears the key in the door, then David enters, along with a rush of cold air. He carries a fresh cocktail with a lime in it, probably gin and tonic. David tells Manning, “Our lounge lizard started in again on Stevie Wonder’s greatest hits. Roxanne and I couldn’t take it, so we called it a night.”
“Shrewd move.” Through the phone, Manning tells Neil, “David’s back.”
“So I hear.” Then Neil shouts, his voice buzzing through the earpiece, “Hello, David!”
David laughs, having heard it clearly. “Hey there, pal! Wish you were here.”
Manning holds the phone at arm’s length, avoiding the crossfire. With his other hand, he lifts the glass and finishes his
vodka.
Neil shouts, “Be sure to tuck Mark in for me tonight.”
“You got it.” Crossing past the desk, David picks up Manning’s empty glass and heads into the living room, where he switches on a lamp and closes the blinds at the big window.
Manning tells Neil, “He’s left the room. You can scream yourself hoarse, but it’ll be for naught.”
Neil laughs. “Thanks for the tip. By the way …” He cuts himself short, then asks in a secretive tone, “Can David hear you?”
“I think so, yes.”
“Then just answer yes or no. Have you gotten a look yet at the whole ‘package’?”
Manning smiles. “No.” David has moved from the living room farther into the cabin, to the bathroom or his bedroom.
Neil says, “You’re on a mission, remember. And I expect a full report.”
“Yes, sir,” Manning answers dryly. “I’ll do my best.”
There’s a pause. Neil says, “I love you. And I miss you. So hurry home.”
“I love you too, Neil. We’re heading home first thing in the morning. And thanks for the information—sorry to force you into secretarial duty. ’Night, kiddo.”
They hang up, and Manning sits for a moment, simply savoring their contact, counting himself a lucky man. The message light continues its persistent winking. As he reaches for the phone and dials the front desk, David returns from the other end of the cabin wearing workout shorts, bulky sweat socks, and an old Northwestern sweatshirt with its arms cut off. It’s an athletic, grungy frat-house look that contrasts sharply with the refined design of his eyeglasses.
He steps in from the living room and tells Manning, “I didn’t feel like bed yet,” referring to his change of clothes. “Can I get you another drink?”
“Sure,” says Manning. Why not?
As David returns to the bar in the living room, the desk clerk answers Manning’s call.
With pen poised over his notebook, Manning asks if he has a message. There was a call from Victor Uttley. He makes note of the number and hangs up, checking his watch. Nine-thirty. It is indeed too early for bed, but probably too late to be phoning people on business. Besides, Neil has already delivered the gist of the message. He’ll return the call tomorrow.
David reappears in the doorway, carrying two glasses. Setting one on the desk in front of Manning, he tells him, “As I suspected, they don’t have your Japanese brand in the minibar. And I had to recycle your old orange peel.”
“This is fine,” Manning assures him, raising his glass. They exchange a casual toast. As they drink, Manning eyes David’s bare legs and arms. “Aren’t you cold?”
“Actually, yes.” David laughs. “I thought I’d start the fire. Do you mind?”
“Not at all. Good idea.” Manning rises. “Need some help?”
“I think I can handle it—it’s all set to go.” He retreats into the living room.
Manning follows, watching as David squats before the hearth, strikes a long match, and sets it to the newspapers crumpled beneath the grate. The room instantly fills with the glow and warmth of burning paper and kindling. As Manning removes his jacket and drapes it over the back of a chair, he asks, “Are you sure the flue is open?” The room already smells smoky.
“Oh, Christ,” David mutters, scampering to turn the mechanism in the chimney. “Better open the door awhile.”
There’s a door from the living room that leads out to a small terrace overlooking the water at the back of the cabin. Manning unlocks it and fans it back and forth, drawing in fresh air. After a minute or two, the smoke has cleared, but the room is colder than it was before they lit the fire.
“Sorry,” says David, turning to Manning from where he still hunkers by the hearth. “I’m starting to get the hang of reporting, but I’d make a terrible pioneer.” He rises, smiling. Reflected flames cavort in the lenses of his glasses.
Manning closes and locks the door, reminding him, “Pioneers didn’t have chambermaids, either. All you have to do is strike a match. Those guys had to rub sticks together.” He returns to the center of the room carrying his drink, which he sips. Noticing David’s glass on the coffee table, he picks it up and offers, “Here.”
David crosses to Manning. “Thanks,” he says, taking the glass, which looks suddenly small in his beefy hand. The room is warming up again, but the glass is icy, and as David drinks from it, Manning sees the little hairs on David’s upper arms standing erect in their follicles—he has goose bumps on his biceps.
“You’re cold,” Manning tells him.
“I’m fine.”
“I’d suggest you bundle up, but …” Manning hesitates. Dare he broach this? He doesn’t want to send the wrong signal, but he’s curious. It has gnawed at him since their conversation in the car. “There’s something you haven’t shown me yet.”
David stands no more than a foot from Manning and can easily read the confusion in his hero’s eyes. “I’m not shy,” David tells him. “Just say when.”
So it’s come to this—it’s Manning’s decision. It could stop right here, and it probably should. Or, Manning could ask the kid to take off his shirt. Big deal. David regularly shows more of himself when he goes to the gym, thinking nothing of it. It doesn’t mean anything. This isn’t an overture. It’s not as if Manning is interested. Just curious. He needn’t feel accountable, let alone guilty, for an inquisitive foray into the cultural identity of a younger generation. That’s all it is, really. And besides, only two minutes ago, Neil actually encouraged him to get a look. Neil couldn’t possibly object to this, could he?
Manning hesitates, then whisks his eyes from David’s waist to his face, commanding quietly, “Show me.”
David’s lips curl. It’s not exactly a smile, not exactly smug. It’s a grin, expressing not victory, but relief. He hasn’t tried to conquer Manning—he’s simply been eager to display what he’s done to his body. Of course he finds the situation erotically charged. So what? There’s nothing dirty, nothing seedy, nothing underhanded about this. He’s twenty-four and built. He’s always horny. So David gives his drink to Manning (who now holds one in each hand) and removes his Armani glasses, which he sets with care on the coffee table. Then he lifts the remnants of the sweatshirt over his head, shakes his hair, and tosses the shirt to the floor.
There, precisely as he described them, are the pierced nipples, a ring through the right, a little barbell through the left. Both bits of jewelry are made of silver, flashing with the fire mirrored by their curved surfaces. The nipples themselves are cold and hard, like the metal running through them. David stands proud, gently flexing his biceps, pectorals, abs—or is that merely the play of firelight on his skin? His eyes ask, Well, what do you think?
But Manning isn’t looking at David’s eyes. He stares, transfixed, at the bizarre body ornaments. Though David had described them in detail, Manning was utterly unprepared for the sight of them, for the visions they conjure of David willingly enduring the pain of their installation. The intensity of Manning’s stare is dreamlike, unreal, out-of-body. He tries to analyze the situation, to weigh what might, could, should, or shouldn’t happen next. He tries to ask himself what Neil would advise at this point, but his brain is now focused solely on David’s nipples. In his mind’s eye he watches himself—from high in a corner of the cabin’s ceiling—watching David.
David again asks the question, this time verbally, “Well, what do you think?”
There’s no answer. What could Manning possibly say? He cannot even think about what he is seeing. He can only react. Even Neil would surely understand—wouldn’t he?—that this situation allows for, indeed demands, but one response.
Manning watches from the ceiling as he himself steps toward David, lowers his head, and drags his tongue across the barbell. David stands perfectly still, except to drop his head back on his shoulders and gasp. From on high, Manning watches David’s eyelids flutter. Then the man on the floor puts his mouth over the barbell, closes his lips, and
draws it into his mouth. He tastes the metal, discerns its shape with his tongue, hears it click against his teeth, feels signals from deep within his jaw, like some inbred alarm—caution! don’t swallow! there’s a bolt in your mouth! But it’s not a bolt, and there’s no danger of swallowing it because it’s attached to David’s nipple. Manning tongues the fleshy knob that stretches around the barbell’s shaft. David pants. A tremor, a shudder, ripples through his chest. But he remains standing still, taking it.
Manning sees his tongue glide to David’s right breast, the one with the ring. It seems intended for one purpose. Manning takes it into his mouth, grabs it with his teeth, and gives a tug. David yelps, placing his hands on Manning’s head. But it’s a restrained protest, and as soon as Manning releases the ring, David guides Manning back to it. While Manning explores it with his tongue, David kneads Manning’s hair.
From the ceiling, Manning watches, dazed, as the man on the floor takes the two icy cocktails, one in each hand, and touches them to David’s nipples. As David laughs, his jewelry clacks against the glassware. With his hands still in Manning’s hair, he pulls his hero’s face to his own. He gets the glasses out of Manning’s hands, sets them nearby on the mantel, then returns his attention to Manning’s face, blindly rubbing his open mouth around the other man’s features until their tongues meet.
As they kiss, Manning tweaks David’s nipples, fingering the silver ornaments that hang there, inserting the tip of his pinkie into the ring, pulling. When David opens his mouth wider to emit a deep, guttural groan, Manning forces his own tongue farther into his assistant’s throat.
In David’s mind, this is mere foreplay. He’s heating up for some serious sex, the most energetic orgasm of his young life, the fulfillment of a fantasy he’s harbored for over two years.
Manning’s mind, however, is blank. If he could rationally classify what he’s doing, he’d know that it is not foreplay, not sex. And even though he likes the kid, it is certainly not love. No, it is simply a form of passion—instinctive and unwilled, a response to an overpowering stimulus, utterly beyond his control. He is no more able to back off right now and hand David his shirt than he is able to doubt for an instant his love for Neil. They are equally impossible.
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