by Hailey Lind
Then I did something I should have done two days ago: I called every scrap metal yard I could find in the phone book, promising a reward, no questions asked, for Resting Hermes. I wasn’t going to spend much time and energy on the search, but it seemed like the least I could do.
Next I called Pedro to see if he’d had any luck locating Kyle Jones.
“He’s not listed anywhere. He moved years ago from the address you gave me from the police report, and disappeared. I’m doubting Kyle Jones is his real name, or else he moved out of state.”
“Rats.”
“But here’s something interesting: Catrina Yeltsin, née Watts, was an excellent student at Cal until she took off on a student exchange program to India, and never returned to school.”
“I don’t think it’s that unusual. A lot of people get sidetracked, don’t finish up their degree.”
“I guess so. Still, seems suspicious to me.”
“Everything seems suspicious to you. What was her major at Berkeley?”
“Chemistry.”
That surprised me. “You’re sure?”
“Yup. She even worked for a lab in India for a while.”
The fax machine beeped. Still on the phone to Pedro, I picked up the incoming message. A note from Norm: FNA on the picnic picture, nope on the wallpaper samples. You obsessed with wallpaper now, or what?
“Pedro, what do the initials ‘FNA’ stand for?”
“Fuckin’ A.”
“Seriously?”
“Yup.”
One day I was going to have to join the modern world, before everyone I knew left me behind.
Okay, so what did I know at this point? Anton had painted a forgery years ago for a club member, Victor; then Elijah had tried to sell that forgery as authentic, and then was killed in the mansion while I was working there. Anton was poisoned, but I couldn’t be sure there was a connection. There appeared to be tunnels running under the Fleming Mansion and perhaps connecting to old tunnels to Cameron House. Other paintings perhaps were stolen from the club while I worked there, despite Frank’s security system, and Geoffrey McAdams had asked Norm to hire me.
All in all, this wasn’t looking great for True/Faux Studios, much less Bacchus Art Associates. Or for Frank DeBenton’s professional reputation, for that matter.
* * *
I felt the need to talk to someone keyed into the gossip of the City. My old friend Bryan Boissevain and I had been through quite a few adventures over the past few years, including tampering with evidence in a drug smuggling case, tracking down a Chagall he was suspected of helping to steal, and ruining a beautiful ball gown that had belonged to a gorgeous transvestite who, it turned out, held a grudge. But unlike me, Bryan both paid attention to, and remembered, stories about Who’s Who in San Francisco.
Bryan works from home, so unless he’s under deadline he relishes the chance to get out during the day. I made a phone call and invited him to a late lunch/early dinner.
An hour later we were sitting cross-legged on the floor of my studio in front of a sushi feast. Bryan, as was his wont, had brought a picnic basket full of rectangular ceramic painted dishes—white with delicate sprigs of flowers in blue—tiny cups, and chopsticks, along with a chilled bottle of sake and cloth napkins. He laid a beautiful steamer trunk–turned–coffee table.
“I thought I was taking you to lunch,” I had told him when he arrived at my door with basket in hand.
“I had a yen for sushi. Get it?”
“Bryan, you keep ’em rolling in the aisles.”
“Don’t I though? Anyway, you know the sushi bar right under my apartment has the best spicy tuna in town, so I took the liberty of ordering for you.”
I’m one of those people who love to have people order for me. Since I’m an equal-opportunity gourmet, I almost always appreciate whatever’s put on my plate. And I’m a Libra, so I have a hard time making decisions, especially in times of stress. And I was feeling just a tad stressed at the moment. Bryan noticed my funk, but I put it down to being tired. He didn’t believe me, but we’d been friends for so long that he didn’t push it.
“What do you know about the Fleming-Union?” I asked as we started in on our meal.
“Oooh, that place. No women, no liberals, no reporters,” said Bryan, “they take it seriously, God love ’em. I can see them now, bunch of wrinkly old white guys, smoking cigars and rattling their canes.”
“Women aren’t allowed through the front door.”
“That’s ’cause you’ve got cooties,” Bryan said as he used his chopsticks to gracefully spear a glistening white rectangle of himachi. “And you’re not the only ones. There’s an old saw: if there were only five men left in the world, three would sneak out behind the house and form a club, and not allow the other two in. And I don’t have to tell you which side of that wall I’d be on.”
Bryan was gay and African American, and though he and his financier husband lived a comfortable life in an expensive city, they were neither rich nor powerful in Fleming-Union terms. “Three strikes, I’m out” was how Bryan usually phrased it. The only F-U membership qualification he held was being male, and since that applied to roughly half the world I suspected his engraved invitation to join had been lost in the mail right alongside mine.
“Do you know any of the members?” I asked as I helped myself to a disc of spicy tuna roll.
“The membership list is secret, though in many cases it’s an open secret. Plenty of the city’s movers and shakers, the older and more conservative the better. But there’s a younger contingent, as well, I understand, the up-and-coming power brokers. I don’t know anyone personally, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“I need to find a way in there.”
“Why?”
“It’s sort of complicated.”
“Uh-oh.” Bryan put his chopsticks down on the edge of his plate and leaned back against the couch. “When you say something’s ‘sort of complicated’ that usually means someone is going to post bail soon.”
“Very funny.”
“I’m not kidding.”
“It’s important. Too bad I didn’t think to leave a window unlocked or something,” I mused. “I was working there until a couple of days ago.”
“What were you doing?”
“Stripping wallpaper in one of the attic rooms. I was supposed to reproduce the historical pattern in paint. But then they hired someone else.”
“They kicked you off a job? What’d you do?”
“Why do all my loyal friends assume I did something to deserve having my services cancelled?”
He just gave me a Look.
“It wasn’t my fault,” I insisted, trying to keep the whiney note out of my voice. “I happened upon a body the other day. No one I had anything to do with.”
“So why are you getting involved now?”
I told him about Elijah Odibajian, and Anton, and the Gauguin fake that turned up at auction. I left out the part about getting attacked by goons in the stairwell.
“I can’t stop thinking that if I had a chance to look around the club, I would find something that would help explain things, maybe prove something?”
“Like what?”
Good question.
“Well...for one thing, I’d like to get the spectrometer up to the room Elijah was staying in and test that wallpaper, if there’s any left.”
“Let me get this straight: the place is full of a bunch of ethically challenged, incredibly rich men, and is also a current murder scene. And you want to poke around without even knowing what you’re looking for?”
Bryan was loyal to a fault, loving and generous, and one of my dearest friends, but he was not what most people would refer to as the most level-headed of men. If he was doubting my schemes, maybe I really was going around the bend a bit.
“I—”
Mary flung open the studio door and stepped in, Wesley in tow, a small bandage placed over his left eye.
I jumped up. “
Wesley, how are you feeling?
“No concussion,” Mary said before Wesley had a chance to respond. “But we’re supposed to keep him awake.”
“Why?” I asked.
Mary shrugged. “That’s what they always said at camp. Keep them awake.”
“Did the doctors tell you to stay awake?” I asked Wesley.
“Not exactly, but that’s okay,” he said with an enthusiastic note in his voice. “I’ll just stay with you, if you really don’t mind.”
“He’s been threatened,” Mary said. “He doesn’t want to be alone.”
“Of course,” I said. “Hang out with us. This is my friend Bryan.”
The men shook.
“Care for sushi? There’s more than enough,” Bryan offered. As Mary and Wesley joined us on the floor, Bryan looked pointedly at Wesley’s bandage, then at me, but had the grace not to ask what had happened.
“Hey, you haven’t heard anything about Michael, have you?” I asked Bryan.
“You mean Michael X. Johnson, as in your finer-than-fine business partner?”
“Yeah, where’s he been lately?” Mary asked.
Bryan shook his head. “His name doesn’t pop up much. He plays his cards close to his chest, as I believe you know from personal experience.”
“Do I ever.”
“I don’t know why you two don’t just sleep together and get it out of your system,” Bryan said. “I would sleep with him if he were playing for my team.”
Wesley gawked openly. Mary leaned over and whispered, “Bryan’s gay.” Bryan, unfazed, just looked over at the pair and winked. Wesley’s eyes widened, and I wondered whether he was among the last people in the City by the Bay to become accustomed to alternative lifestyles.
“Liar,” I said to Bryan. “You wouldn’t sleep with Michael. You’re too loyal to Ron.”
“Yeah, well...if I weren’t married to Ron, and I were a straight woman, you bet your boots I’d have slept with him already. Long time ago.”
“That’s what I said,” Mary said. She leaned over to Wesley. “No offense.”
“None taken,” he said, looking up at her eagerly.
“You think that’s the way it works?” I asked, busy chasing a slippery piece of plump pink tuna around my little rectangular ceramic plate. “Like if I slept with him, I would get him out of my system and I wouldn’t have to think about him again?”
“Sure,” Bryan said. “Maybe he’s bad in bed.”
I looked up at Bryan, and Mary looked over at me. We all started laughing.
“That’s a good one,” I said.
“Yeah, you’re right,” Bryan said. “One night with that man, presuming you survived, and you’d be ruined for anyone else.”
The phone rang. I picked it up to hear Cathy Yeltsin’s cheery voice.
“I found some wonderful design ideas for my basement!” she declared. She gave me a website address which I dutifully jotted down, but I made no promises as to when I would get back to her with drawings. It was going to take a much healthier frame of mind than I currently possessed to actually work on the design of a dungeon, faux or otherwise.
“Also, I have to tell you the strangest thing. My Victor seems to have gone missing.”
“Really.”
“I haven’t seen him since you were here. Remember how he disappeared without saying good-bye? What do you suppose could have possessed him?”
“Has he dropped out of sight before?”
“Oh, no, never. Perhaps for a night at a time, but nothing like this. If you’re going to the Power Play, could you keep an eye out for him? I would go myself but I don’t have childcare.”
“I wasn’t really planning on—”
“Tonight’s really your best bet to catch Kyle in action,” she mentioned. “He’s always there Thursdays.”
I didn’t like the sound of that. Or the visual, more precisely. On the other hand, trying to find a way into the Fleming Mansion might be too crazy, even for me. I was still moving slowly due to the bruises I had just obtained, and the goons’ warning still reverberated in my battered brain. But Kyle-the-houseboy didn’t have anything to do with the F-U directly, right? Surely tracking him down in the Power Play wouldn’t be overly dangerous, beyond possibly seeing much more of him than I’d like.
“What does Kyle look like?”
“Late twenties, light hair, blue eyes, medium height. Pretty.”
“Okay,” I said. “I might go. And if I happen to see Victor, I’ll tell him to phone home.”
I turned back to my little group of friends, old and new: Bryan, Mary, and now poor smitten Wesley. My eyes alighted upon Bryan.
Bryan is a big, buff, gym-toned man, but given his gentle character and easy smile, it was easy to forget he could be formidable. I had seen him in action, however: when he wanted to be intimidating, it was an easy feat.
“Would you be willing to go to the Power Play with me tonight?” I asked Bryan.
“The Power Play?” Bryan said, nearly choking on a slice of unagi. “What, has all this talk put you in the mood?”
“Not exactly. I need to talk to someone there.”
“Why does it have to be there?”
“I don’t know where he lives, but he’s supposed to be at the Power Play tonight. I really don’t want to go alone.”
He looked at me for a long moment, his mouth pulled tight with disapproval.
“I’ll go, but under protest. Personally, I think you should reconsider this art investigation business. Faux finishes are more up your alley.”
I’d heard that before.
“No way you’re going to the Power Play without me! I wanna go!” said Mary. She leaned over and jabbed an elbow at Wesley. “You up for it, Wes?”
“Oh, I, er...” he sputtered.
“Great. We’ll all go. It’ll be an outing,” said Mary.
I could use all the company I could get, but somehow I couldn’t imagine Wesley in a sex club. I could barely imagine myself in a sex club. Mary, on the other hand...well, let’s just say I wouldn’t be surprised if she already knew the way there.
“Are you sure you want to come, Wesley?” I asked.
“I—”
“Of course he does,” put in Mary. “After what he’s been through, he needs to be with his friends. Don’t worry, Wes, I’ll look out for you.”
Wesley remained mute, but looked over at Mary with eager adoration shining in his eyes. I had a feeling I now knew who Wesley’s “type” was.
Just then our Bosnian friend, Pete, walked into the studio, flushed with happiness. “Evangeline, she said yes!” he said. “She will go out with me tonight!”
“No way,” said Mary.
“Way,” responded Pete.
“I could help you dress there, homeboy,” said Bryan. “It’ll be like Queer Eye for the Straight Guy.”
Pete looked worried. “What kind of eye?”
“Never mind,” Bryan said with an encouraging smile. “On second thought, you’re cute as a button just as you are.”
“Speaking of which, what does a person even wear to a sex club?” I wondered aloud.
“You’re going?” Pete asked. “When?”
“Tonight, say around nine?” I suggested to my Power Play entourage.
“Could Evangeline and I accompany you?”
“Are you sure?” I asked. “It might be a bit much for a first date.”
“We will be with all of you. Please. That way I won’t be so nervous.”
The Power Play seemed pretty much like the opposite of their kind of place, but I guessed Pete didn’t want to be left out. Besides, Pete was a big, hulking man, and Evangeline was no wilting waif herself. I could use the backup.
“Sure, come along. What the heck,” I said, giving in to the absurdity of the situation. I had no idea what we’d find at the Power Play, but given the excursion participants it was bound to be interesting. “The more the merrier. Anyway, back to the important stuff: what should we wear?”
Mary met my eyes.
“Jeans,” we said in unison.
“No easy access,” Mary said.
“Amen to that.”
“And boots.” My assistant always wore boots, but that in no way diminished the wisdom of her suggestion. “Big boots.”
* * *
We met on the street in front of the Power Play: Bryan and me and Wesley and Mary and Pete and Evangeline. Boy girl, boy girl. Bryan’s partner Ron refused to participate, citing any number of reasons; chief among them, decency and sanity.
Clearly I wasn’t the only one who decided jeans and boots were de rigueur at a sex club. Five of us could form a band. Only Wesley had dressed, as usual, in an ill-fitting tweed blazer and brown loafers. Meanwhile, typically mild, sweet Bryan looked like the quintessential sexy bad boy in his bulky black leather jacket, worn jeans stuffed into heavy black boots.
Perfect.
“Don’t accept drinks from anyone,” Bryan ordered, his agitation ratcheting up the closer we got to the entrance. He looked around and scowled. “You’ve all heard of roofies?”
“They don’t serve alcohol here,” I mentioned.
Bryan stopped in his tracks and gave me a horrified look. “We’re supposed to get through this without a drink?”
Bryan’s never been a big drinker, but I had to admit I was wishing I’d thought to have a shot or two of tequila before arriving tonight. It would help to have something to take the edge off, I thought as I noted the hand sanitizer dispensers mounted at frequent intervals on the wall. Next to them was a large sign that read: TOUCHING SOMEONE WITHOUT PERMISSION WILL RESULT IN IMMEDIATE EJECTION FROM THE CLUB.
“Well, see there? That’s good news,” I said with a falsely cheerful ring to my voice.
“Oh, look,” Mary said, eyeing Pete. “Women get in cheap, but men have to pay more. Ya gotta love that. But guys get in for half-price if they take off their clothes and just wear a towel.”
“Annie,” Pete said with a sense of urgency, drawing me aside. He was blushing; behind us, Evangeline just lurked, silent and agog. “What kind of place is this?”