While dance bars ruled the night, chance encounters called for coffee. The Imperial Coffee Mug was a fine place to exercise such protocols. Facing the street with a broad window where the java juiced could watch the strollers parade, passers-by could glimpse at the coffee mavens and their wares. Philip, Sprakie in tow, shuffled by the window and gazed inside. The place was packed — mostly young men to middling, but there were a few croakers hunched alone over their brew cups. Thomas Dye was one of them, to be sure. The question was . . .
“Now, there’s a question,” Sprakie mused. “I bet it’s that old troll in the corner.”
Philip frowned. Probably was, he thought. He was the only one in the joint that was old enough to remember how to write in complete sentences.
“I told you so,” Sprakie said. “Loser or serial killer.”
Philip poked him in the ribs. “I’m chancing it.”
“Oh, I forgot. You go to the geezers instead of the Public Library. I hope your Library card doesn’t expire before you do.”
Philip glared at Sprakie. His heart sank to the bottom of some imagined ocean. “That can’t be him.”
The old croaker was shabby as if he had darted in for a coffee break between panhandles. Philip was surprised the establishment even served him, but The Imperial Coffee Mug was, at one time, The Potherer, a famous beatnik coffee house, which often looked like skid row on a Saturday night. Perhaps this elderly gent had been coming here for years, and if so, he could very well be the illusive Thomas Dye, writer and possible ex-beatnik.
“What the fuck,” Philip declared.
“You’re not really going through with this?” Sprakie cackled. “I mean, distance is his friend. Why dispense with your only ally?”
Philip’s eye roved to another older gent; one who looked about forty, although Thomas said he was forty-eight. However, in chat you could be any age you wanted as long as the blinders were in place. As Philip gripped on the door handle, Sprakie returned the rib poke.
“Remember, Miss Romantic Notion, he knows what you look like. Once in, the Dye is cast, excuse the pun, and then if you need to blow him off, you’ll waste energy better spent dancing at Splash.”
Philip hesitated, and then pulled the door open. “I can’t afford the cover at Splash.”
The place reeked of cigarettes, even though the law said otherwise. Years of heavy smoking housed a permanent tobacco aroma within the wallpaper. This was mixed with a blend of various coffees from across the seven seas. A delicious and enticing blend drew Philip past the coffee bar to the window seats. As he approached, the old shabby troll raised his eyes. He had been reading a tattered newspaper. He tucked it under his arm and stood.
“Shit,” Philip mumbled.
“Too late,” Sprakie giggled.
The man shuffled from his table and walked toward Philip.
“Philip,” came a voice and it wasn’t from croaker, who had passed him by. “Philip. Over here.”
Philip turned. To his delight, the man who harkened was neither shabby nor withered. He had a short-cropped goatee and a hairline sufficiently receded as to qualify for bald, but he was a looker. His eyes sparked blue. His lips bowed a smile over sail white teeth that had a slight space that beckoned Philip even at this distance. The Flaxen One delivered himself tableside, a mate eager to be whistled aboard.
“Thomas?” Philip queried, and hoped, but knew, because he knew the voice.
“Ishmael?” Thomas countered. He arose and gave Philip a friendly hug.
First contact and Philip felt a surge. He had never felt such a homecoming as this, and he had been beyond a hug in every port.
“Ishmael?” Sprakie said. “Wrong guy, Philip. Nice meeting you sir.”
“Shut-up Sprakie,” Philip said. “You wouldn’t understand. It’s from my book.”
“Oh, the Book. Well, pardon me for breathing.”
Philip pulled Sprakie aside — just a brief aside and well within Thomas’ earshot. “Don’t fuck this up for me,” he whispered. He then turned back to Thomas. “Thomas, this is my sister, Sprakie.”
“Sprakie? I’ve seen you. Robert? From manluv?”
“Just call me the chaperone,” Sprakie said.
Philip jostled Sprakie before he could get on a roll. “I wasn’t sure what you looked like,” Philip jabbered. “I mean, you’ve seen me . . .”
“From top to bottom,” Sprakie snapped. .
“I’m just glad it’s you,” Philip stammered. “I mean . . .”
He glanced at the departing croaker.
Thomas roared. “You thought that that older gent was . . . Then, I take it you are surprised that I am not on my last legs.”
“Told you he’d have a wooden leg,” Sprakie said.
“Shhh. Thomas, don’t pay him any attention.”
“I never do,” Thomas said, showing that glorious dental space.
“Ouch,” Sprakie said. “That’s a low blow. It may turn out that I like you after all.”
Thomas invited Philip to sit. Sprakie, fulfilling his chaperone duties slid into the fray like a Duenna at a bullfight. Thomas raised an eyebrow, and Philip shrugged.
“Coffee?” Thomas asked
“Never touch the stuff,” Philip said.
“Then why here?”
“Welcome to Hustle Central, Mr. Dye,” Sprakie said.
“They call it that,” Philip said, “but that’s not necessarily true in all cases.” He didn’t want Thomas to think that he was a common hustler. In fact, he was an uncommon hustler and places like The Imperial Coffee Mug was not his cup of tea when it came to pinching the herd.
“Well, maybe something sweet then?” Thomas asked. “A turnover?”
Philip smiled. A turnover would be just the thing. “Apple, if you please.” He winked as Thomas scooted to the coffee bar.
“Well, Ishmael,” Sprakie said, “he’s obviously passed the looks test — not by my standards, but you cruise on a bell curve. So since you’re going to play this forward, follow Aunt Sprakie’s next rule of thumb. Find out whether he has any marketable securities.”
Philip chuckled, but leaned close to Robert Sprague’s diamond bejeweled ear.
“Actually, when he gets back, you’re going to tell me that you have a hot date and need to leave right away.”
“You bitch,” Sprakie said, and not unkindly. “You won’t even let me come along and watch the double scoop of ice cream for dessert? I can make change, you know. Who’s going work the credit card machine? Who’s going operate the winch to pry you two apart?”
“A hot date,” Philip said underscoring the directive with a pout and an astringent glare. He meant business. “You have . . . a hot . . . hot date.”
“Well, little Ishie,” Sprakie said. “If you insist. What’s this hot date look like? Well, whoever he is, he’ll be age appropriate.”
Philip rapped the table. “Why are you pestering me about his age? It isn’t the first time I’ve seen an older man.”
“This one’s much older than he looks. If I didn’t know better, I’d say he’s been cruising Miss Abelard’s schoolyard every day.”
“Shhh. He’s coming back.”
Thomas returned fumbling turnovers in waxy napkins.
“What, none for me?” Sprakie said.
Thomas shrugged, and then sighed. Sprakie seemed determined on dampening the occasion. Suddenly, Thomas broke off a piece of his turnover and offered it across the table.
“I’m on a diet, Professor Dye.”
“I am not a Professor. I am a writer.”
“I know. I know. But don’t you author types wind up professing somewhere? You know, when the book sales hit the skids and sell on the used racks only.”
Thomas smiled. “My book sales are doing just fine.”
“Gee, I haven’t seen one of them.”
“Vagrant Hollow.”
Sprakie flinched. “You wrote that one.” He turned to Philip. “I take it all back. You’ve hit the mother lod
e. Sprakie approves.”
Philip sighed. He hadn’t heard of Vagrant Hollow by T.D Dye, but if Sprakie had, the more ignorant he. He wanted his roommate to disappear instantly. Another cutting word and Philip was determined to pull the leg of the chair out from under him.
“Robert,” Thomas said, his eyes dancing like an imp’s now. “May I inquire why, with the entire world’s wide list of nicknames, you would chose such a glottal atrocity as Sprakie.”
Sprakie stood. He suddenly appeared imperious to the point of demoting The Imperial Coffee Mug to a mere Cup and Saucer. “My name is Robert Sprague.” He cocked his nose. “My Dahddy used to call me the little sprig. That became Little Spraguey, and that became a little pukey. So I changed it to Sprakie. It stuck. It’s my tiara for mere mortals to admire from afar.”
Philip laughed. He couldn’t help himself. No matter how much Sprakie was interfering with the natural flow of this coffee ceremonial, his natural, sisterly love for this man, who had ushered him through harsh times, had to be taken into account.
“Be careful,” Sprakie said, “Little Ishie can stick too.” Philip wiggled his nose and twitched. Sprakie immediately glanced at his watch and feigned surprise. “Oh, shades of Judy Garland, I forgot. I have a date.”
“A date?” Thomas said, with hope in his voice.
“Yes. Why should that surprise you? I met this wonderful guy last night and I promised him a blow job at . . .” he glanced at his watch again, “at ten forty-eight on the dot. And here it is ten thirty seven.” He winked. Thomas laughed. “Go ahead and doubt me. If I don’t go now, he’ll start without me. If you don’t mind, I’ll slip out gracefully. Onward I go.” He stepped away, but returned just as fast. “I hope this hot date of mine is not married, but what’s that to me. If you can’t make a new family, break one up. That’s my motto — break one up.”
Sprakie glided out of the Imperial Coffee Mug like the Empress of Russia. He nearly clashed with a man who lurked in the foyer — a man who sneered at him and hissed like a coiled viper. But what did Sprakie care. He was headed home as angry as a plucked chicken that he couldn’t stay and watch the events to their natural and foregone conclusions.
2
“Is he always . . .” Thomas asked.
“Always.”
“I mean, is he always with you?”
Philip grinned and shuffled his glance toward the turnover. “He’s with me a lot. We’re just good friends. He helped me when I first came out. He’s guided me to better things. I was in a bad spot.”
“And now?”
“A better spot.” Philip gazed into those brilliant blue eyes and thought of an even better spot.
“You are not a couple?”
“Me and Sprakie?” Philip laughed. “No, we’re just friends.”
Thomas blinked. “I thought I saw the comfort of a couple between you.”
“Comfort? Yes, I guess we mesh well.”
“Do you mesh around?”
“We have, but name me friends who haven’t.”
Thomas sniffed. “You have me there. I suppose if friends were to keep boundaries neat and square, the soul would not be capable of reaching a reasonable plateau.”
Philip giggled and fidgeted with his napkin. “And what is a reasonable plateau?”
“The protection of a family.”
Philip sniffed now. He guessed that Sprakie was his only family, and he was as protective as any parent in his own precious way. “He is that, but he’s gone now. Does that mean I’m exposed to danger?”
“Dire danger,” Thomas said, smiling broadly. “When the curtain rises beyond the home, danger lies along the path.”
“Do I have anything to fear from you?”
“Do I terrify you?”
“Does it look like I’m trembling, Mr. Dye? Sprakie’s protection is never that far off that I can’t whistle for him.”
Thomas broke his spell, diverting his eyes to the pastry. “Do tell.”
Philip chowed down on the turnover. It was sweet and he hadn’t realized just how hungry he was, only having his hollow filled with Max Gold’s sandwich.
Thomas watched the crumbs fall, flaking down Philip’s lips. “Do you know what I like most about you?” he asked.
Philip stopped his ravenous feed. He looked around the café as if one of the other patrons would run over and whisper the answer in his ear. Finally, he set the pastry down on the napkin and scratched his head. “My eyes, I suppose, although you’ve seen most all of me.” He clicked his tongue, but it was pasted to his palate.
“How did you know?”
Philip sighed. “Everyone likes my eyes. I’ve been told they’re . . . compelling.”
“There is that word again. They told you wrongly. Your eyes are beyond compelling.”
Thomas reached across the table touching the back of his hand to Philip’s cheek. Stroke. It felt good, like a soft glove warming chilled fingers. Still, despite the moment, Philip knew the maneuver — a gentle, yet foraging introduction to the dance. How many young cheeks have you stroked, Mr. Dye? Philip grasped the hand, and then kissed it.
“Sweet man. Gentle man.” He pushed temptation away. “And do you know what I like about you?”
“The business I bring to your little den of iniquity?”
The moment was broken. Philip felt it slide from the dry dock into the shallows — beached, perhaps never to be recuperated.
“How can you say that? I’ve a good mind to leave you and turn you over to these hustlers.” Philip waved his hands toward the various disengaged customers. This was Hustle Central, was it not? Of course, Philip couldn’t deny having set this meeting in a most convenient and incriminating place.
Thomas frowned and looked down, somewhat apologetic, but not quite. “Philip, you have been honest with me. Since our Internet contact, you have put it squarely as a client arrangement. But tonight, the meter was not running, and I wondered why?”
Philip snapped his fingers. “Every once and a while I like to go beyond the peek-a-boo crap. Sometimes I like to touch. And I do touch, but it always winds up a business arrangement, as you put it. Just once I’d like to touch and feel something real.” His breath hitched and a tear welled up unexpectedly. From the expression of Thomas’ face, he hadn’t expected it either. Thomas reached across again, but Philip recovered. “I was about to say, what I like about you is that you have not asked me the question?”
“What question?”
“You know which question.”
“Trust me; I have not the slightest notion.”
“Notion.” Philip heaved a deep sigh. Perhaps, he had struck the well of weirdness. Here was a man of letters, one who didn’t have the common decency to contract a single word — one who commanded speech like Dickens or Cartland, but one who couldn’t figure out the question that every oily man seeking a nights pleasure would ask a fallen fairy.
“You don’t know the bastards I meet in this business,” Philip said.
“I can imagine.”
“Imagine away then, because in your wildest moment, you couldn’t do more than scrape the surface.”
“Well, I guess I have been put in my place.” He stirred.
Philip thought he was leaving. He latched onto Thomas’ hand and pouted.
“No. Don’t go.”
“I had no intentions of going.”
“Good.” Philip sniffed again. He was trying to hold back that tear. The last thing he wanted from Thomas Dye was sympathy. It wasn’t his style and the tearful days were over . . . or so he thought.
“I do not mean to patronize you, Philip, and do not misconstrue that word, because although I have been a patron, I am not a patron now and . . .”
Philip squeezed his hand. “No need to babble like woodpecker.”
“Babble like a woodpecker? Are you positive you do not write?”
“Shut-up for a minute. I was trying to explain stuff. You see, since the Internet’s been around, it’s been a helluva lot
safer for us guys. It’s better when you don’t see the customer. Safer. Less scary.”
“Like dropping bombs from ten-thousand feet.”
“Excuse me?”
“Ignore me. Go on.”
“Well, I’ve developed a sixth sense.”
“You see dead people?”
Philip just stared at him. The man was impossible. He just liked to hear his own voice — his own wit. “If you don’t shut-up and listen, you will never find out.”
“Go on.” Thomas locked his lips and threw away the key.
“Whenever I hitch up with someone that I feel could be special, he asks me the question. The one about why I sell myself?”
“How judgmental.”
“Exactly. I like what I do. I can do dozens of other things, but I like to show my body and let others pay for the pleasure. I have fun. It gives me a sense of worth.” Thomas was staring at him now. “I have the same good feeling about you, but you haven’t asked that question yet.”
Thomas grinned, the space in his teeth filled with the tip of his tongue.
“What is a girl like you doing in a place like this?” Thomas finally asked.
“Bitch,” Philip laughed. “You’re catching on.”
“That’s the question is it not? How about another? Why is a man like me looking for a girl like you?”
Philip launched across the table and hugged the man.
“Exactly,” Philip whispered.
He weighed anchor just as a shadow was cast across the table.
Chapter Five
The Agent
1
Thomas tried to ignore the shadow. He knew it well. It could have been his own shadow, and at times, he thought it was. He did not need to gaze up to see the gaunt man who owned it.
“Flo,” he said. Philip straightened and reengaged his turnover.
Turning Idolater Page 5