Turning Idolater (19 page)

Philip perused the various icons, most of which were
as boring as the filing, except one labeled
ML
.
Could it
be?
He rubbed his hands together and took the plunge. The
hourglass came up — slow as shit — then:

HTTP Error 404. File not found.

He gazed at the browser line. It was clear.
www.manluv.org
, the dirty old
man. He clicked again. Same result.

“What gives? Server down?”

He dove into his pocket for his cell and found the
speed dial.

“C’mon Sprakie. Pick up.”

He tried again with the same result. Sprakie always
answered his cell, especially if it was Philip. Philip tried the
computer again, but the site was definitely down. He sighed. It
would have been fun to spend some money on this side of the plank —
perhaps tease the lads. He would have loved to show Max Gold a good
time using a wildly ribald name like
Felchlover
.

Suddenly, the door opened.

“Have you figured out the billing yet?”

Philip was glad the
404
screen was showing.
He minimized the folder and double-clicked the correct icon, a
spreadsheet form popping into view with a dizzying array of gray
buttons along the top.

“Not yet, but we’ll get there.”

“Well, it’s almost lunchtime, so don’t get too
engrossed. Take your ease for an hour or so on Nassau Street. There
are many great street delicacies to entice a hungry lad — the Globe
or, my favorite, Whyte’s. Might I recommend the
falafel
?”

“Sounds good,” Philip said. “I’ll try it.”

Dean Cardoza cocked his head as if he waited for
some additional input from his new employee. Perhaps he knew he had
dodged Philip’s questions and was giving him an opening to ask away
now, but Philip was distracted. Therefore, when the boss
disappeared behind the croaker of a door, Philip dialed Sprakie
again, but with the same result.

“Strange,” he said to the spreadsheet.

Philip blinked, and then went to lunch.

Lars Hamilton towered over every event, whether at a
party or at a crowded club. Even seated at the bar, he was head and
shoulders above other patrons. Max Gold found the man fascinating
and, even though the director of the New Family Players had the
look of a vampire, he represented a possible break into a
theatrical career, a path that Max Gold had always fancied.
Therefore, Max had lost Sprakie somewhere between Thomas Dye’s
party and the West Village, and then tagged behind Lars Hamilton to
The Bantam
, a pick-up bar on the borderlands.

Max slumped onto the bar, his eyes gazing up at
Lars, the thespian meandering through snippets of Marlowe and
Fletcher, depending on the alcoholic content of the current
drink.

The bar, thick with an eclectic crowd — leather men,
old trolls, and a contingent of Goths, was not Max’s general haunt.
He preferred
The Monster
. Younger crowd. Dancing.
Thumpa-thumpa
.
The Bantam
placed Max on the margins
of his own grazing fields. In any other venue, he might have
attracted the attention of buff young men and some Wall Street
slummers. However, the patrons here favored grizzly bears and
Bohemians, not that a Twink couldn’t satisfy a Chicken Hawk. Still,
Max Gold was far out of his range.

The Bantam
reeked of stale beer, a good many
leagues from the pinkie tipping Cosmo set. Some clubs catered to
drag queens, while others spun glitter for disco. There were ethnic
bars, pink ghettos and purely bear clubs. There were a few gentle
collegiate establishments that, beneath the surface, were actually
crocodilian. Even a fairy Chinese restaurant that seasoned the Moo
Shoo Pork with a quick grab and feel. However,
The Bantam
was on the borderlands — near the docks — prone to rough trade.

Lars had just finished Othello’s
Farewell to
Arms
speech, or at least a muddied paraphrase of it, and then
raised a shot glass over his beer mug, depth charging the bugger to
the murky bottoms. Then, it was bottoms-up and a loud belch. Max
laughed and nibbled at the edges of his own beer.

“Don’t you think you’ve had enough to drink?” came a
tense voice.

Lars careened about nearly falling off his stool.
“Who art thou, sir?” he gargled, more like Long John Silver than
the Moor of Cyprus. “Oh. It’s Mr. Florian Townsman . . . Townshine
. . . Town — whatever. Have you met my new colleague and fellow
actor, Mr. Gold?”

“We just came from their party, Lars,” Max said.

“Not
my
party,” Flo complained. “My friend
has developed an infatuation for the twink.”

Lars spluttered, and then wrapped his arm around
Max. “So have I. Not this twink, I should hope, sir. Not this
twink.”

Max giggle, eating up the attention. “No, Lars. I’m
not into writers. I like stars.”

“Well, you’re in the wrong place for that,” Flo
snapped. “In fact, I think you’re in the wrong place altogether.
This is hogs hollow. Any pig’ll do yer.”

“Then what brings you here?” Max asked, drawing a
sharp glare from Florian.

“Good question?” Lars slurred. “I was just about to
ask it myself, but I thought perhaps you’d volunteer the reasons
behind your presence at such a place in such a time . . . and . . .
I need another drink.” He raised his hand, and then rapped the bar
forcefully. “Gideon Crawl,” he shouted.

The bartender, who answered to an assortment of Lars
Hamilton names as long as it meant another $6.60, refilled the shot
glass and spun forth another golden brew. Max stared at Florian.
Suddenly he felt uneasy with the man. If Max had paid attention to
the surroundings, to the sultry Goth boy who eyed him from across
the room, to the hulk in leather who licked his chops, or to the
one armed troll who winked and scraped to get his attention, Max
would have realized that Florian’s comment could perhaps be
misconstrued as concern. Max looked away.

“You’ve had too much,” Flo said. “And, if you want
my advice . . .”

“I don’t,” Max snapped. This glumkin was ruining his
good time. Lars Hamilton was amusing and had promised him a part in
the O’Neill. Max knew he might still have to put out for the role,
but such was the casting couch’s requirement. Still, at the rate of
shots cannonballing into the mug, that requirement would mostly
likely be rain checked. Max swiveled about, but Florian had
disappeared into the crowd. Max finally noticed just how vulnerable
he was, sitting here with a tottering drunk, who would be passing
out after the next round. Max felt like Luke Skywalker at Mos Eisly
without an Obi-wan Ka-no-bi in sight.

“Another drink for the twink?” the bartender asked
Lars, but Lars was fading.

Max signaled to the barkeep that he had reached his
limit, although he
was
well past it. Lars blinked, his eyes
lidding. Max imagined that the eminent Mr. Hamilton was probably
reviewing his own dazzling portfolio, because the actor was
suddenly distant.

“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.

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.

“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.