“Lars,” Max said. “I think I’ll shove off. I have your number.”
Lars stared at him. “Glad to make your acquaintance, Mr. . .”
“Thanks for the good time.”
“I’m honored to have been . . . to have had this opportunity to . . .”
Max suppressed a chuckle, and then bowed out.
2
Despite Max Gold’s amusement at Lars Hamilton’s condition, he found his own balance severely challenged as he staggered toward the door. He had started drinking with Sprakie in the afternoon and continued at the party, and now, under the wing of the older actor, was in this club, under-aged and miraculously not carded. Two things kept him from walking through the doors. Florian Townsend loitered on the threshold, and Max had reservations about the man. For one thing, Flo fit perfectly in with the clientele, but was sober. How odd was that? Flo’s sour puss and gravedigger hands were repulsive to Max. In fact, Flo made his skin crawl.
The other reason to deflect from the main exit was an urgent need to piss. So, Max spun about looking for the T-Room, knowing that it was a precarious place for him to explore, but it was either there or in the alley behind the bar. Now that was an idea, especially since the line to the men’s room was five deep and mostly men in leather and chain mail. He scanned the edges of the club looking for a back door. Then, he saw the bar runner wheeling a keg in from behind a curtain. That had to be it.
Max checked to see that no one watched, and then tentatively felt his way behind the curtain into a grimy hallway. One door led to a storeroom — another to the kitchen, and a third . . . that was the ticket. He plowed through this door and into the alley, pausing to adjust his eyes. The place stunk, but Max knew he would be adding to the stink as soon as he could get to the wall and fire away. He scooted from the door and past a sentinel of dumpsters. He couldn’t hold it much longer. He unzipped, whipped out his tool of the trade and let an evening of drinking flow onto the black, stone wall — splattering and steaming. Relief. A low moan. He thought he’d never stop. Even when he finished, Max let the breeze coax the last few drops over his shoes.
Suddenly, he thought he heard something stirring in the dumpster. Rats? He zipped up and stared beyond it — at the door. He turned quickly toward the alley’s end. He thought he saw someone coming. Door? Alley? Which way to go? The bar might now be the safest bet, but Max realized that the alley was clear. Too much drink made for fallible perceptions. He took a few faltering steps toward the street, but then sensed someone behind him.
He knew. Drunk or not, he knew that this was not a phantom. He could hear the breathing. Was it his own? If so, it was now a duet. Then, he heard a quick crack, like a whip exploding on horseflesh, but far off, somewhere out in the harbor. It gave him pause. Silence. His ears were muffled. The alley fizzled, and he felt faint. So he turned about to confirm what he already knew. As he pivoted, he felt a sharp pain in his chest. It wasn’t a devastating pain. More like heartburn. Still, he shifted his hand to his shirt. Wet. Warm and wet. He glanced at his fingers. They were coated with tar — something gummy and black. No. Deep red. His shirt was covered with it. He began to tremble, because he knew.
When Max Gold realized that he was shot, he noted it calmly. Incredibly. More like an aside in an old drama, perhaps O’Neill’s. He saw the man. He clearly saw the man and could name him, only words failed, as screams also failed. The ground swelled now and Max fell to one knee, gasping for the urine soaked air to keep him afloat. One moment more. It failed him. He struggled hard to keep his hold on life, but the red tar was pouring from his chest like a blanket of honey. His eyes shut, but his mind raced.
He was on his back now. He sensed the man closer — hovering, but there was not enough energy to open eyes and see that face again. Max felt a tug on his shoulders. He was moving, or being moved. Perhaps, someone was saving him. Perhaps some person surprised the man and was taking Max to the hospital, dragging him to safety. It was rough travel, scraping over the pavement, without a care for how many times the curb hit his head. The pain was less, now.
As he traveled over the gravel and what felt like wood, Max faded to dreams. He saw his mother and his aunt and his cousin and his second grade teacher and Bill Clinton and Tom Cruise and his last trick and . . . Then, suddenly, the ground disappeared. He was falling — falling forever, engulfed in fluid — like being born again in reverse, in wonderful healing brine. He plummeted, the sounds of the night muffled, consumed by the fluid. He saw a great shimmering light, rippling under his closed lids. Then, Max Gold forgot everything he had ever known and was thankful for it.
One less hypoglycemic child on this earth. One less wannabe actor on life’s stage.
Chapter Seventeen
Detective Kusslow
1
“Careful does it, Sonny Jim,” croaked the concierge.
“Why, Jesse?” Philip asked, briefly hesitating by the check-in desk. “You haven’t harassed me in a while.”
Jesse shook his head and hacked a laugh that sounded more sideshow than genuine. “Me, harass ya? It’s none of my beeswax what the high and mighty do within their golden palaces. But I’ll tell you this, Sonny Jim.” He leaned forward, Philip meeting him halfway. “We haven’t had a visit from the police in many a year, and I figure when they come to question old-time residents like Mr. Dye, there must have been some change in his circumstances.” He grinned. “Now, I would say, you can be called a recent change. So listen here. This is a respectable place. I’m proud — mighty proud to serve in this here lobby. Been here for twenty years and mean to stay for twenty more. So, Sonny Jim, when I say careful does it, I mean careful does it.”
Philip didn’t bother to argue with Jesse. In the short time that he had been coming through these portals, he had learned it was a waste of breath. However, the message sent was clear. Philip’s mind now raced. The police were here.
“Are the cops still up there?”
“Cops? No such flash for this establishment. These are detective types — smart suits and lots of swagger. Only the best for Papillon Arms, Sonny Jim. Only the best.”
Philip shifted his eyes to the ceiling as if he could see though the floors. He moved toward the elevator, and then absently pressed the call button.
“Careful does it,” Jesse mumbled, and then spluttered on about who knew what — not Philip, because he darted into the car, rode up to the third floor and hopped into the hallway. He grabbed his key, but hesitated before inserting it into the golden lock. He heard voices mumbling on the other side — a drone that included Thomas and Flo. What happened? Was there a complaint about the party? The noise level was under control. Tee did say that his neighbors were old farts. But detectives? He braced his hand on the key, and then did the deed.
2
Philip’s entry put a dash in the conversation. Tee sat on the Ottoman. Flo lounged near the balcony. Both turned when Philip came across the threshold. However, the most pronounced acknowledgement came from the two men who sat on the Chippendales. Philip knew these must be the detectives; careful does it, Sonny Jim. One was thin, perhaps in his early thirties, wore a charcoal grey suit and cracked his knuckles. He was a shadow compared with the other, a broad shouldered stocky bulldog, who, despite the blue suit and the crimson tie, hadn’t been too far from the beat. He had a pencil thin mustache and a pencil in his hand bearing down on a small spiral pad. He had been scribbling when Philip entered and he scarcely stopped note taking, perhaps recording Philip’s entry, anticipating his first words.
“Tee?”
“Philip,” Tee said. He stood and, as if attached to guidelines, the two detectives stood. “There is some bad news.”
“Please, Mr. Dye,” said the stocky dick. “Let me pursue this interview without . . . prejudice.” He cocked his head, switched the pencil and pad to his left hand, and then extended his right. “Detective Kusslow.” Philip shook his hand, but then Kusslow flashed his badge from inside his jacket. The other detective did l
ikewise, but didn’t offer Philip his hand.
“Detective Karnes.”
“And you are?” Kusslow asked. His voice rasped, probably a smoker, Philip thought.
“Philip Flaxen. What’s going on? What’s happened?” He glanced at Tee, and then to Flo, both remaining silent as per orders.
“Have a seat, Mr. Flaxen,” Kusslow said. “Just routine. There’s been a . . . death.”
Philip gasped. He thought of manluv being off-line and Sprakie out of communication range. He sat with a thump. “A death? Who died?”
“Maximillian Goldenheart.”
“Max Gold? Oh, my God. I just saw him . . .”
“Exactly,” Detective Karnes chimed in.
“Yes,” Kusslow slurred. “I do believe that he went by the name Max Gold at that sleazy Internet establishment. In fact,” Kusslow flipped through his notes. “I saw your name on the list of employees that . . . well, worked at that place. Just how old are you, Mr. Flaxen?”
“Twenty. What does that have to do with . . .”
“Just checking. We have temporarily suspended the operating license at manluv. We’re questioning the scuzzball who operated the joint, given the track record and the open case log.”
“Max died at manluv?”
“Did he now?”
Thomas was trying to signal Philip to be silent, but Philip’s mind raced like a mouse in a rubber room.
“Well, how did it happen?” Philip asked, recovering.
“That’s a good question,” Kusslow said.
“Good question,” Karnes echoed.
“That’s what we’re trying to find out. There’s been a rash of this sort of thing, you know.”
Philip didn’t know. Suddenly, he felt under suspicion. Kusslow’s eyes pierced Philip’s chest. “You don’t think . . .”
“No. No, nothing like that, Mr. Flaxen. May I call you Philip? Phil?”
“Philip.”
“Philip then. Your friend was found floating in the Hudson. Not a pretty sight.”
“He wasn’t really my friend,” Philip said, thinking about Max dancing about the corridor at manluv, and offering him half of his tuna fish sandwich. What a nice guy he was. Philip choked at the thought and wondered why. They were never close, but . . . it could have been me, he thought. “We just worked . . .” He sniffled, a tear welling. Thomas gathered him into his arms and rocked him, as the full weight of the event cashed in.
Kusslow looked to Karnes. “Not a friend.” He jotted a note, and then extended a handkerchief to Philip, who grasped it with both hands. It smelled of filterless Camels, still it mopped well. Kusslow waved his hand in Thomas’ direction. “Might I ask, Mr. Dye, why you had not one, but three employees of manluv.org here last night?”
“I no longer work there,” Philip stammered.
“Oh,” Kusslow remarked, making a note. “When did you last . . . do that thing you do?”
“Over a week ago. I work at Cardoza’s Book Store now.”
Philip saw Flo’s eyes roll, while Thomas sighed. Kusslow glanced at Karnes and made another note.
“You still haven’t answered my question, Mr. Dye.”
“We had a get together. Friends. Philip invited his friend; and his friend brought a date.”
“Would that friend be Robert Sprague?”
“Yes,” Philip said. “Is Sprakie okay?”
Kusslow smiled. Another note. “Sprakie. I saw that name on the Internet schedule. Yes, Mr. Sprakie is just fine, if not devastated with grief.”
“He did go on,” Karnes said.
“That’s to be expected,” Philip said.
Kusslow took another note. “Yes. Expected. And Mr. Dye, what was the occasion?”
“Just a dinner party. In my line of work, we have these soirees periodically.”
“You mean to promote your books and such?”
“Exactly.”
“And I suppose Mr. Sprague and Mr. Gold and . . . Philip here are avid readers.”
“What are you saying?” Philip snapped.
“Just routine. We cover all the bases.”
“All the bases,” Karnes said.
Philip felt like kicking Detective Karnes in the slats.
Tee cocked his head. “Frankly, I do not see . . .”
Flo interrupted. “Detective,” Flo said. “You’re fishing in the wrong place. I think that you suppose that we needed a little entertainment at the party and invited these boys up for a peepshow.”
“Flo,” Thomas said.
“I’m listening,” Kusslow said, closing the pad.
“You’re off base,” Flo snapped. “Philip has just moved in and Thomas decided to have a few friends over to meet him. Nothing more.”
“And you say that your friend . . . Sprakie, was dating Max Gold?”
“Not really,” Philip said. “He just brought him.”
The pad opened again. Note, note and another note. Then, Kusslow flipped through the pages, probably locating his interview with Robert Sprague at the premises of manluv, just before the detective cleared those premises of its proprietor. He stood. Everyone stood as if attached to this man in charge.
“I’ll need a complete list of your guests, Mr. Dye.”
“Is that necessary?”
“Just routine.”
Thomas sighed. “Flo?”
“I’ll contact Miriam.”
“Miriam?”
“My party planner.”
Detective Karnes drifted to the hall, while Detective Kusslow snapped the pad shut and pocketed the pencil. When his hand reemerged, it held a stack of business cards. He gave one each to Thomas, Philip and Flo. “If you recall anything, no matter how unimportant you might think it, contact me. And I wouldn’t leave town.”
Thomas frowned.
Kusslow grinned. “That came out wrong, didn’t it?” He chuckled. “I meant, stay around, all of you, in case I need to tie up loose ends.”
“Well, we will be going to Provincetown in a few weeks,” Thomas said.
“Where’s that?”
“Massachusetts,” Flo said. Annoyance conveyed. “Cape Cod.”
“I know where Massachusetts is Mr. Townsend. I meant taking a quick trip to Argentina.” He chuckled again, and then turned away. Karnes was already out the door, when Kusslow suddenly turned. “Just one more question.” He pointed first to Philip and then to Thomas. “What exactly is the relationship between you two?”
“I do not understand,” Thomas said.
“Same-sex Union? Distant relatives? Tenant and landlord?”
“Fuck buddies?” Flo snapped.
Detective Kusslow scowled. He turned, and then followed his partner over the threshold. The door slammed behind him.
3
“Why did you say that?” Thomas asked.
He was furious. Philip hadn’t seen him furious yet.
“The truth was in order,” Flo said. “Can’t you see that by dabbling in this Internet shit, you wound up with crap on your boots?”
Philip was furious now also.
“Who are you calling crap?” he yelled.
“Flo,” Thomas said. “As usual, you have gotten it all wrong. You only understand your narrow, perverted view of things.”
Flo trembled. “Well, your fucking lucky I kept my mouth shut.”
Both Philip and Thomas froze.
“What?” Thomas said. “Do you know something that that bastard cop could have used?”
Flo strolled into the living room. He got as far as the bookshelves, and then turned. “If I opened my mouth, there would have been hell to pay.”
“Spill it, Flo.”
Philip approached Flo. He wanted to throttle this ungainly flea. Max Gold was dead. Their lives were tousled by suspicion and still, Flo played games. Philip stood before him and placed his hands on Flo’s collar.
“I don’t like you,” Philip said.
“And I’m just wild about you. It’s bad enough we’ll be in P’Town toget
her, but I’ve endured Tee’s young whims before. I’ll bear up again.”
“Enough,” Thomas snapped. “I can’t deal with both of you.” The fact that he was forced to speak in a contraction was enough to make both contenders desist. “Now, Flo. Spill it.”
Florian sat. “I saw Max Gold last night after the party.” He had their attention now. “At the Bantam.”
“On the borderlands?” Philip asked. “I wouldn’t set foot in there.”
“Neither should he have.”
“Was he with Sprakie?” Thomas asked.
“No. I don’t know where that obnoxious queen went off to. The Bantam isn’t his style, is it? No. Gold was with the actor.”
“Lars Hamilton?” Philip asked. “You don’t think . . .”
“He was too far gone to get his ass up from the bar. Most unlikely.”
“Then,” Thomas said.
He was ruminating. His eyes twitched. His breath hitched, and then he drifted away, at first mentally, and then physically, sauntering into his office. The door slammed.
“Then what?” Philip asked Flo.
Flo shrugged, but his demeanor had suddenly changed. He glanced toward the closed office door. Something unsettled him.
“Then what, Flo?”
Flo snapped his head, glancing into Philip’s eyes. The look burned. “Bright Darkness, that’s what. Why did you ever come into our lives?”
Flo marched into the hallway. Another door slammed.
Philip was shaken. He shimmied to the Ottoman, slumping over the bolsters. Kusslow’s handkerchief was still on the cushions, redolent of Camels. Philip clutched it to his nose and felt bitterly ill. He stared at the shelves where Thomas’ first edition sang to him. It caroled — Sail away. He was so happy this morning — post party, fully sated by this man he was coming to treasure. He was free of the Internet, drifting in a world of promised binders and bleach. He had his own dory to row, complete with a stuffed Captain Ahab teddy bear. In a flash, everything was tainted. Max was dead. Sprakie was distant. Manluv was temporarily closed. The agent was insufferable. The police, devious, and Tee now fumed behind a locked door. What squall was this that splashed across Philip’s life?
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