Philip turned. “No. No, Tee. It’s me. I see ghosts in shadows.”
Thomas cocked his head. “Under the waves, umbra ink ripples blue water while the white whale emerges to destroy the sun.”
Philip shut his eyes. The words were better than the brew he was too young to legally drink. Although he understood only every other word, the essence was clear. He was being much too sensitive. Then, he heard it.
Purty.
He turned again and saw Sprakie’s date casting his glances toward the balcony, arms outstretched and spouting the great O’Neill.
Purty.
“You didn’t want the part anyway,” Thomas said.
“Don’t be silly,” Philip said. “Don’t you recognize Sprakie’s date? It’s Max Gold from manluv. Don’t tell me you never saw him?”
“No.”
“Well, I bet he’s the star attraction now.”
“Now that you have retired.”
“Retired? Well, I guess so.”
Suddenly, Sprakie sidled up and winked at Thomas. He squeezed Philip.
“You brought Max?” Philip asked.
“Where? Is that Max? I thought it was some character from the Theatre Royal.” Sprakie straightened, and then gave a deep, over the leg bow. “Purty nice speech. I should audition for the part.”
“From what I see,” Thomas noted, “you would tear up the boards.”
“Is that a compliment?”
“Is it, Tee?” Philip asked.
“Of course it is.”
Someone else now crowded into their nook. A throat cleared. Sprakie turned.
“Yikes,” he twittered. “Please don’t eat me. I’ve been a good girl.”
Florian sneered at Sprakie’s histrionics, if not at every inch of him.
“Excuse me,” Thomas said, “where are my manners? Flo Townsend, this is Robert Sprague, who prefers to be called . . .”
“Sprakie,” Robert said, extending his hand toward Flo, offering it up for a kiss. Florian stared at it as if it were a fine example of dog turd. “Grumpy, aren’t we?” Sprakie said.
“You must be one of this one’s friends,” Flo said. “I recognize the same cracker jack box.”
“Flo.”
“That’s quite all right, Tee Dye. I’m sure I have made Mr. Townsend’s acquaintance in the dark. I’m positive he sits all night and watches me, pud in one hand, keyboard in the other. The only mystery is whether he calls himself LittlePeePee or Fidoman.”
“Sprakie,” Philip said, but he was laughing.
Florian jerked his hand up just short of Sprakie’s neck.
“Flo,” Thomas warned. “He is company.”
“I don’t care,” Flo said. “I’ll wipe my feet on this gutter snipe and won’t give a crap whether his ears stay on his head when I detach it.”
“Jesus Marie.” Sprakie turned to Thomas. “Did he escape from your laboratory? Aren’t we supposed to wait for a storm before we unleash the experiments?”
“I am sorry,” Thomas said, “but what exactly do you want me to do?”
“Raw meat always works.”
Flo took another step forward, but Philip intervened. He pulled Sprakie from the hallway into the mock auditions in the living room.
“Behave yourself,” he snapped at Sprakie, who pouted.
“Who is that beast, really?”
“He’s Tee’s agent and a former . . .”
“Oh, I see. I take it back. Mr. Dye’s superior tastes are confined to the furniture only.” Sprakie heaved a genuine sigh, and then spotted Max Gold pacing about with a book on his head. “What a collection of freaks,” Sprakie stammered.
“No so loud. You’re the one who brought him.”
“I don’t mean Max. Although he is a Narcissus.”
Look who’s talking? Philip thought. Then he had a disturbing image. Sprakie might decide to audition for the spry Lars Hamilton. That would bring the soiree to a close. If the yak-and-babble set hovered only for the sake of h’ors d’oeuvres and faux pas, the Sprakie and Max show would place them on the pinnacle of joy.
“Let’s get some air,” Philip said.
“Don’t mind if I do,” Sprakie agreed.
They drifted through the human stanchions and onto the balcony.
2
Philip closed the balcony door buffering the revelers from the street symphony. Sprakie stretched over the railing looking both ways.
“Not much of a view,” he commented. “But it’s better than the view inside. What a collection of trolls.”
Philip decided that this quarantine was wise. Sprakie had already cataloged the room and had each guest pigeonholed to the appropriate reject slot. Still, the night seemed to swallow Robert Sprague as if it were his mistress, demanding his strict allegiance.
Philip leaned over the railing, his short-cropped hair kissed by the breeze. “During the day, you can see Central Park . . . just.”
Sprakie rolled his eyes and blew a dismissive puff through his lips. “If it makes you happy.”
“It does make me happy. Tee’s been good to me.”
“It’s only been a week, Jesus Marie. The first week’s always heaven. Hell comes with time.”
Philip sighed. “Aren’t you happy for me?”
“I’m worried about you. These people are scary. You have no idea what they really want, and when you find out, it might be too late.”
“I can take care of myself.”
“Can you?” Robert punched Philip’s arm. “Can you, little Ishie?”
“You don’t know them.”
“Neither do you.”
Philip didn’t like Sprakie’s tone. Authority inbred knowledge, and that begged a question, didn’t it?
“Tell me,” Philip asked. “Just what was that business in the kitchen with the old man? Do you know him?”
Sprakie chuckled, a nervous laugh as if he had inadvertently plowed into the wrong cornfield. “Not exactly.”
“That’s no good,” Philip said. “I saw you flinch, and I saw him flinch too. I might be an ignorant son-of-a-bitch, but I’m not blind. You know him, don’t you?”
“Not by name. I’ve seen him around.”
“Where?”
“He sometimes hung around the studio.”
“Manluv?”
“Not inside. Outside. In the street. Actually, I’d rather not say.”
Philip whipped Sprakie about. “Listen, guy. I might be working for him as of tomorrow, so you better say.”
“That’s not a good idea.”
“What? Working for him, or you spilling the beans?”
“Both, probably.” Sprakie pushed Philip away. “What’s with you tonight? You’ve been exposed to this artsy-fartsy crowd and suddenly you’re the crown princess of bitch. I worry about your ass.”
“I know you do, but if you don’t tell me something, how are you helping me?”
Sprakie bobbed his head like a chicken — pick-a-little, peck-a-little. “It’s just a hunch, that’s all. That old geezer sometimes loitered on the corner of 10th Avenue . . . waiting for Jemmy.”
“Jemmy?”
“You see. If I said Guy or Max, you’d shrug it off. But mention a corpse and you get all antsy.”
Antsy? Philip felt chilled from toe to nose. Didn’t Uncle Dean just state that he was not in the custom of surfing the porn sites? However, wasn’t hanging out on street corners considered surfing. Or was that just cruising? Philip quickly regained his composure. He didn’t want Sprakie to know that this old geezer had also met him on the corner of 10th Avenue. Philip couldn’t suffer that lecture.
“But you never met him before now?” Philip asked. Sprakie hesitated. “I mean, he recognized you.”
“Anyone who has a web browser can look up my skirts, dear. No, I just don’t trust voyeurs who unmask.”
“That would include my Tee.”
“Your Tee? It’s only been a week, Lambikins, and already you’re joined at the hip . . . and other plac
es, I’m sure. In fact, you’re joined at the wallet too.”
Sprakie drove his hand into his pocket and flipped open a folded check.
“You got the rent,” Philip said. “I wasn’t sure you would.”
“You used a stamp, didn’t you? The mail must always go through. But . . . I won’t take his money.” He pushed the check at Philip.
“But it’s not Thomas’ money. It’s mine.”
“Ishie, Ishie, Ishie. You may think it’s your cash, but you’re just the laundromat. Do you think that any of this is really under your control?”
Philip frowned. Sprakie was a stiff pill to swallow sometimes, and he certainly was well intentioned, or so he said, but now he had crossed the line.
“I wish I hadn’t asked you here tonight,” Philip said.
“Why, because I’m bursting your bubble?”
“It’s not a bubble. Tee has taken to me.”
“Like a middle-aged crisis to a dildo.”
Philip headed for the sliding door, but Sprakie overruled him, grasping his hand as he tried to pull the handle.
“Listen to me.”
“No. I don’t want to.”
Sprakie latched onto Philip, his hands around his waist, pulling him close. Philip tried to push him away, but Sprakie tightened his hold, and then . . . he kissed Philip smack on the lips. Philip pushed him away — hard. He slapped Robert Sprague, and then suddenly realized that Sprakie, for all his chicanery, wasn’t deserving of that.
“Now look what you made me do,” Philip stuttered. He turned toward the railing and sucked in the night air. He expected Sprakie to slip away quietly, ending the friendship on a low note, but soon, repentant hands crept over his shoulder.
“It was a sisterly kiss that, you know,” Sprakie said.
“I know,” Philip stammered, although he wasn’t sure that it was.
“I love you like . . .”
“I know. Like your best set of luggage, which I must say is a ragged collection of junk.” He laughed, stifling the tears.
“What does that say for you?”
They hugged.
“I’m sorry I . . .”
“Don’t be. I’m just glad that your hand was open. We wouldn’t want to bruise the assets, but I’ll take it as payment for a lecture half-delivered — the price for me being a mother hen. And give me back that rent check. If you really did earn it, I’ll put it in the till.”
“You still have it in your hand.”
Sprakie gazed at the powder blue payment and smirked. “Well, so I do. Now listen to me, and stop making faces. If you think that Mr. Good Ship Lollipop threw this party for the Second Coming of Christ, think again. They came here to scrutinize you, to satisfy their curiosity as to why their illustrious scribbler is shacking up with an Internet twinkie.”
Philip frowned again. “Maybe so, but I don’t give a fuck.”
“Well, then, the matter’s settled. You’re as jaded as I am. Good for you. The world needs another . . .”
The door slid open. Thomas stood in the threshold.
“Another drink, Sprakie?” Thomas asked. “Are you behaving yourself?”
“That depends,” Sprakie said. He marched toward the threshold coming nose to nose with Mr. Dye. “Has my date found the sugar daddy of his dreams yet? Is there one in there for me?”
Thomas grunted, and then stepped aside, allowing Sprakie to rejoin the fray.
“He is such a joy,” Thomas said.
“Not tonight,” Philip remarked.
“Well, do not let him spoil your fun. It is your night.”
Is it? Philip turned, leaning on the railing. Thomas joined him in silence. The night echoes trumped them — the taxi horns, the subway rumbles and the low hum of revving buses. Philip was weighing his options. He seemed to be weighing his options a great deal lately. The world was complex and claustrophobic. Everyone knew everyone in this city of the twelve million — a statistical impossibility, but it depended on which circle of purgatory you traversed, Philip guessed.
“Tee, thank you for tonight.”
“The night is not over.”
Philip gazed back at the guests. They were like mannequins in Macy’s window, posing and immaculately draped in the latest fashion. It was as theatrical as Lars Hamilton and his New Family Players.
“I know,” Thomas said. “They are quite a menagerie. We let them out to eat and be watered and pray they do not crap on the rug. And guess what? Sometimes they do.”
Philip chuckled. “It’s new to me.”
“It is new to me too.”
“What?”
“I have never really acclimatized to it — the party set. However, in my line of business, it is a requirement. It is what it is.”
Philip hooked his arms around Thomas’ neck and drew him down into a kiss. He felt eyes on him. He was sure that Sprakie was distracted from the center-stage, and he could guess that Flo lurked somewhere near the curtains blinking at the sight. In that kiss, Philip’s doubts flew . . . a temporary flight, but one returning him to a safe harbor.
Suddenly, he spied something quite extraordinary, at least unusual through the city lights. The moon — a full one, enlarged by the atmosphere and tinted gold by the pollution.
“Wow,” Phillip said. “That’s a beauty. It must be a sign or something.”
Thomas smiled. He raised his head toward the orb and then, unbidden, lifted his arms toward the sky.
“Purty,” he said. “Purty.”
All doubts flew to the horizon — the city’s horizon, somewhere beyond the invisible Central Park.
Chapter Fifteen
Perfect Binding
1
Philip rarely went south of Houston Street. There was never a need, unless he wanted Chinese food. Past the Municipal Building and City Hall pulsed finance and commerce, something that Philip did not count within his ken. However, in the shadow of the Brooklyn Bridge and the old converted buildings along Park Row hid New York’s oldest continuously operated bookstore. As Philip strolled beside Thomas along what was once New York’s publishing district, his attention was caught by the transformation of this block of respectable buildings into something less dignified. Pace University was the only edifying occupant of the lofts and offices here. Most of the old iron ceiling print houses were fettered now with electronics outlets — DVD and CD vendors that hawked rap music to the passers-by competing with the stale pretzel and stinky sausage curbside cooks. It reminded Philip of the loft where manluv was warrened. Still, as Philip scanned the garish glass fronts that housed the latest tunes and reflected City Hall Park across the street, he saw nothing that looked remotely like a bookstore. He did see two adult bookshops, but didn’t think these held first editions of anything short of Deep Throat.
“Here we are, Philip,” Thomas said halting at the corner of Ann Street.
Philip gazed down this narrow lane. The only sign he could discern was The Globe Deli and it looked like it also accommodated a sleaze shop in its upper recesses.
“Is this a real street?”
His question was answered by a taxicab that careened off Park Row and down the lane. Thomas laughed and pulled Philip deeper down this byway. About halfway between the traffic zone and Nassau Street was an alley. It had to be an alley, because it had no name. Neither did the sun shine here and it sported original cobblestones between narrow sidewalks, just wider than a curb.
Philip finally saw it — a flat glass pane, so smoked with grime that the lettering on the window was barely legible. “Cardoza’s Book Store,” Philip said in amazed tones. He could only read every other letter, but he guessed at what it should say. Now that he examined the storefront, there were two glass windows separated by a recessed doorway. A short wooden stair raised the entryway from the cobblestones.
“Well, go in,” Thomas said.
Philip opened the door, a flutter of tinkle bells announcing him as a customer. A most un-New York aroma struck him — a mixture of old wood a
nd bindings. It was also hotter inside than in the lane, a condition that forced the perfume out. An overhead fan helped. Suddenly, Philip felt detached from Thomas. He turned.
“Aren’t you coming?”
“No. You shall be fine. I have work, and if you are amenable to the duties here, you shall have work too.”
Philip wasn’t keen on this; however, he realized that Thomas’ role was to get him to this spot — a spot Philip would not have found on his own. He was about to object, but decided to step into this adventure alone. He nodded, and then closed the door.
Despite the bell, no one appeared. The place seemed deserted. Philip found himself in a small room flanked by a counter and an old manual cash register. There were three short bookstalls arrayed to his right, each with a defining sign — Mysterious Pleasures, Romance Specials andTouches of Class respectively. Directly before him were three rows of library shelving receding to some indiscernible point. These stacks were packed tight with hardcover books — beautiful old books, with a variety of rich bindings. They went to the ceiling, which was dark brown and metal, with rosette patterning. The floorboard creaked as he took a step toward the counter.
“Hello,” he said. His voice was sucked into the bibliofibrous cushion that the place had become. Light was at a premium also, two dim lamps set above the stalls and one brighter sconce with a flickering bulb that Philip was sure that Thomas Edison must have screwed in. Plastered behind the counter, and on the counter, and at the top of each stack aisle were signs in various letterforms, but all imparting the same clear message:
NO SMOKING ON THESE PREMISES AT ANY TIME. NO EXCEPTIONS.
“No shit, Jose,” Philip muttered. “Hello.” Maybe they took an early lunch. Philip moved close to the counter, placing his hands square to another No Smoking sign. Suddenly, a head popped up from behind the counter.
“Can I help you with something?”
Philip clasped his heart and jumped back almost to the Mysterious Pleasure stall.
“How long have you been there?” Philip gasped.
“Not long,” said the man. He was a wisp, about sixty-five with a pointed nose, thick tortoise shell glasses and a visor that said Eat More Cheese along the brim. “How long have you been here?”
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