Worst Luck

Chapter 11, Part 1

2007-11-12T14:40:00.000-08:00

Danny's final meeting with Rodney Casterman before they went to court took place in Danny's dressing room. Danny had intended to look his very best for his court date, and had laid out his finest handmade French suit, handmade English shirt, handmade Italian shoes, and a thousand-dollar platinum silk necktie that Valerien had just given him.

Casterman, on the other hand, wanted Danny to run down to Macy's and buy something blue and unbranded off the rack... he wanted Danny to not look like a pampered prince, but rather a "regular guy." Danny was horrified by the suggestion, and flatly refused to wear a blue suit with a red tie in any case; they therefore spent an hour combing through Danny's wardrobe seeking a compromise.

Eventually they decided on a Brooks Brothers tweed jacket and grey slacks with cordovan loafers that filled Danny with misgivings ("It's so casual, no one will take me seriously"), a button-down Oxford shirt and his Stanford school tie. With his hair combed back and no jewelry ("Don't you own anything simple? Buy yourself a Timex, for God's sake"), Danny looked incredibly young and rather painfully naïve, which is exactly the look Casterman wanted for his client.

This last piece of defense established, the great attorney wished Danny a good night's sleep and left him to entertain the Aunt Ems and Mademoiselle Marnie, as well as Officer Pete Kelley, all of whom had been flown down from Vandervere in Valerien's private jet.

The Aunt Ems were simply delighted to be out of Vandervere, and had made a holiday of the trip, even going so far as to wear festive corsages on the shoulders of their matching flowered silk dresses. They were identical twins, a pair of frail birdlike creatures, plump and quick with small heads and teased white cotton-candy hair. The only way to tell them apart was that Aunt Maude was left-handed, so her corsage was on her right shoulder; closer study also revealed that Aunt Myrtle was slightly plumper, being even more fond of sweets than her sister.

Mademoiselle Marnie seemed uncomfortable with the august old ladies, or just uncomfortable to be away from home; she worried a crystal rosary in her hand and kept making nervous gestures around her frizzed henna-red hair. She was dressed quite formally in a shapeless black wool gown and several strands of glass beads, with clunky black shoes making her legs look even skinnier than they already were; she was also very small and birdlike, but thin as a rake, with a slightly beaky nose and brilliant round black eyes.

Officer Kelley was even more uncomfortable in the presence of his "social betters" (eight years spent in the feudal atmosphere of Vandervere had taken its toll on him) but the Aunt Ems had taken a shine to the kind-faced officer and made a pet of him, asking his opinion on every topic under the sun, complimenting him endlessly on his unusual green-brown eyes and freckles, and treating him as a newfound beau. He greeted Danny with a hearty handshake and expressed his gratitude at being called and brought to San Francisco in such luxury.

Danny took the four of them to dinner at the Palm Court, as he always did with out-of-town visitors, and they enjoyed themselves over a long and lavish meal. Danny had quartered them all in suites at the Palace, so he was able to escort them from the restaurant to their rooms without the bother of cars.

Returning home late and alone for the first time in a long time, Danny poured himself a relaxing glass of wine and sat down in the wing-chair by the fireplace for a couple of hours, just enjoying the beauty of his living room and appreciating his life as it stood... he was terribly conscious that he could lose his freedom tomorrow, and wanted to be prepared for it: in a way, he was saying good-bye to his life, just in case.

He didn't expect to get any sleep with so much on his mind, and so he was quite shocked when the alarm-clock went off and he discovered he'd had a full eight hours of dreamless sleep. He actually felt quite cheerful as he made his coffee, groomed himself for the day, and wolfed down a fairly hearty breakfast, even going so far as to scramble some eggs and eat them on toast.

Valerien picked him up at nine, dressed in a rather conservative (for him) dark blue pinstripe suit; only on closer inspection did one notice that it was cut in the Edwardian fashion, with a double-breasted waistcoat and a deep violet necktie that was so wide it was almost an ascot. Danny smiled at the foppishness of the little bunch of violets in the buttonhole, the silvery suede gloves and shoes, and the silver-headed walking-stick.

"What are you wearing?" Valerien was aghast at Danny's carefully-chosen clothes, "And what happened to the Sulka tie I got you the other day? I thought you were going to wear it for me."

"I was," Danny grimaced with regret, "But Mr. Casterman put the kibosh on it and made me wear this mess instead. But it could have been worse... can you believe he actually wanted me to buy something off the rack? Blue with a red tie?"

"Quel horreur!" Valerien exclaimed without humor, genuinely disturbed by the idea of his friend dressing like a poor politician.

"Still, it's better than an orange jumpsuit," Danny remarked grimly, still worried about the possibility of having his bail revoked.

"Actually, I thought you looked quite nice in that jumpsuit," Valerien said, giving Danny's hand a reassuring pat, "Orange is definitely your color."

"Where are we going?" Danny wondered, looking out the window.

"Oh, I forgot to tell you," Valerien was distressed, "I hope you don't mind, but Marquesa's coming along with us this morning. He was called as a witness, too."

"I don't mind," Danny said truthfully, "I don't want to keep avoiding Marquesa... I'll never get over him if I never see him."

"That's a very sensible approach," Valerien patted his hand as they pulled into the courtyard of Marquesa's building.

The building was a very grand Art Deco tower on a very steep side of Nob Hill, flanked by three-storied garages, with a blue canvas marquee stretching out to a circular drive that wrapped itself around a dancing fountain. Marquesa was waiting at the door with the liveried doorman, dressed in a very simple black suit with a black Persian lamb coat slung over his shoulders like a cape, black boots and gloves, a pearl dog-collar and a Victorian diamond brooch, and a smart black cloche hat with a little spray of black feathers on one side.

"Darling, you look like a schoolboy," Marquesa said to Danny, planting a lipstick kiss on the side of his face as he entered the car.

"Lawyer's orders," Danny replied, pulling out his handkerchief to wipe off the paint, "He thinks this makes me look innocent."

"Well, he should know. Valerien, good morning... do you have any coffee in this hearse?"

The rest of the drive passed in silence while each sipped coffee and worried over his own part in the courtroom drama that was coming; Valerien and Marquesa had been called as witnesses to Danny's behavior upon leaving Marshall's apartment, as well as witnesses to Danny's character, and both were nervous about putting the most flattering light on their friend without appearing dishonestly fulsome.

Eventually the car pulled up at the Hall of Justice, where Danny was greeted by his Aunts, his former nanny, and his policeman friend. The Aunt Ems were dressed in identical Chanel suits of gray tweed with black velvet edging and triple-strand pearl necklaces, riotous lavender orchid corsages fluttering on their shoulders and old-fashioned flowered hats with veils perched on their fluffy white heads. Mademoiselle Marnie was in the same dress she'd worn the night before, but without the rattling beads, and had a much more cheerful aspect than when she'd arrived ("I did your cards, mon petit, and it's all going to turn out splendidly"). Officer Kelley wore his uniform and looked quite dashing.

The group filed together through the metal-detectors, where Valerien was relieved of his walking-stick and Marquesa had to surrender a small handgun ("Damn, I forgot to take that out of my purse...sorry.") and into the same drab and ugly courtroom where Danny's bail had been set.

The courtroom was packed with photographers, all of whom swarmed around Danny and his retinue as they entered the courtroom. The Aunt Ems were thrilled and did their best not to actually pose for the cameras. Danny went and sat beside Mr. Casterman (who was wearing a blue suit with a red tie) at the Defense table, and stole glances back at his friends and family for reassurance every now and then.

During one of those looks backward, Danny caught sight of someone who struck him as familiar, but he couldn't think why... he was a rather nondescript young man, with a thin mouth and small eyes, medium brown hair buzzed to military shortness, dressed in a tan suit and a brown tie. He was sitting next to Cissie Marshall, so Danny assumed that it was her son, and that the familiarity was based on his inevitable resemblance to Drayton Marshall, but there was something else about him that nagged Danny's memory... he'd seen that young man before, in another context, but where?

The arraignment began with Assistant District Attorney Reese Moon calling for testimony from the arresting officers. Detective Spevik was stiff and obviously uncomfortable, while Detective Varajian was smooth and competent; it was clear from the testimony which officer believed in Danny's guilt and which didn't; the Prosecution made much of Danny's initial mistaken confession, while Casterman focused on the initial interview and Danny's stated belief that he'd killed Marshall by accident, and the complete lack of mention of knives and stabbing in the confession.

Next on the stand was Medical Examiner Marriott Griggs, who rambled on at some length, and spent a great deal of time discoursing on unrelated information. He was obviously hostile to the prosecution and friendly to the defense, but the evidence (once boiled out of the discursive descriptions) was nevertheless damaging. ME Griggs was asked by the Prosecution to repeat several times that Danny's fingerprint and DNA were found on the murder weapon; Casterman asked him to repeat that there were no boot-prints found in the kitchen, as well as taking him through the issue of the bleached toilet and hallways several times from different angles of inquiry.

Danny had a hard time guessing what the judge might be making of all this contradictory information: Judge Everard Manning had a smooth and completely expressionless face that gave absolutely nothing away. He was one of the socially ambitious judges whom Marquesa and Valerien had influenced over Danny's bail hearing, but there was no way of knowing whether the man would be swayed by such considerations during something as serious and career-affecting as a brightly publicized arraignment.

The final piece of evidence that the Prosecution presented was the video of Danny's violent behavior with Marshall; the judge elected to view that video in chambers rather than in open court, and a short recess was called. Danny breathed a sigh of relief that his aunts wouldn't be forced to see the very indelicate goings-on of the tape; it was bad enough that the thing existed, but to have even the R-rated portions broadcast in public would be too humiliating to bear.

During the recess, Danny kept one eye on Marshall's son, trying to figure out where he'd seen the man before. Danny was sure they'd never actually been introduced, and was equally certain he'd never been pointed out before. Danny so prided himself on his social memory, though, that this gap in recognition drove him quite mad. When court was resumed after the judge returned (looking distinctly embarrassed) from viewing the tape, Danny found it difficult to concentrate on the proceedings, distracted by trying to remember where he'd seen Drayton Marshall IV (assuming that's who the young man was) before.

With the video off its hands, the Prosecution turned the floor over to Casterman, who called Aunt Myrtle, and then Aunt Maude to the stand to give identical and quite endearing portraits of Danny's childhood and youth, both swearing up and down that Danny didn't have a violent bone in his body. The Prosecution, who knew better from the video, wisely declined to cross-question the sweet little old ladies. However, ADA Moon did cross-question Mademoiselle Marnie, who gave almost the exact same testimony as the Aunt Ems, and he made much of her vagueness and eccentricity by asking indirect and slightly confusing questions.

Casterman next called Valerien to the stand to give an account of Danny's behavior when they met on the elevator... Valerien swore that he seemed quite as composed as one could be, covered in oil and confronted with two strangers in an elevator. He did not observe any blood on his person, other than from the cut on Danny's hand from the broken elevator button.

The Prosecution tried to discount Valerien's testimony with a rather clumsy ploy: in hopes of irritating Valerien into a state of hauteur that might make him look bad to the judge, he mangled his name, addressing him as "Mister Segwamount"

"Baron de Seguemont, if you don't mind," Valerien replied, correcting him with a gentle smile.

"The court doesn't recognize foreign titles," ADA Moon responded.

"Very well," Valerien shrugged and smiled again, blinking submissively, refusing to be drawn.

Moon and Valerien went back and forth in this vein for quite some time, the ADA continuously trying to rile Valerien's famous prideful temper, but Valerien was almost cloyingly polite as he went through his testimony again, repeating himself almost word-for-word, and speaking very slowly as if to someone who hadn't been listening the first time. The whole exercise made the ADA look rather foolish.

Valerien was dismissed and his place taken by Marquesa; after Casterman walked him through their meeting in the elevator, as well as describing their subsequent friendship and Danny's character as he saw it, ADA Moon tried again to discredit the witness by irritating him into a fury.

"Your legal name is Marc-Antony Wilkes?" Moon asked in a rather condescending tone, his eyes raking over Marquesa's dress and hat.

"That is my birth name; my legal name is Marque Willard-Wilkes," Marquesa said, a hint of the desired irritation in his voice. And though he was hostile toward Moon during the cross-examination, Marquesa answered all of his questions and underlined that Danny was a nonviolent and generally even-tempered person, and that he'd never even seen the defendant angry.

The last witness called was Officer Kelley of the Vandervere Police, who gave a glowing testimonial to Danny's kindness and gentleness; when cross-examined, he (with a disarming blush) also gave an account of Danny's one brush with the law when he was liable to a charge of indecent exposure and committing a lewd act in a public place; he explained that the charges were never brought because of Officer Kelley's friendship with the defendant, but stressed that such a friendship would have been terminated if Danny had ever been caught doing something violent or cruel, as his brother and cousins often had been.

ADA Moon tried to undermine this last statement with questions about why charges were never brought against the other Vanderveres who had committed violent or cruel acts, but Officer Kelley was so open about the state of things in Vandervere and the Vandervere family's control of the workings of the town, pretty much ensuring that he wouldn't remain much longer in his position there, that it was impossible to doubt him.

With this last witness finished, the judge recessed the court for lunch so that he could review and deliberate on the evidence presented.

When Danny stood and turned to join his friends for lunch, he was surprised by Drayton Marshall's son glaring at him in a manner that was instantly familiar.

"It's the purple-haired kid!" Danny whispered to Casterman.

"The who?" Casterman responded distractedly.

"The purple-haired kid! Right there, standing next to Cissie Marshall. He's the kid I saw at The Brat, the one who called himself Cort Johnson... of course! It's not Cort with a C, it was Quart with a Q! As in Quartus! The fourth! It's a common prep-school nickname. It all makes sense!"

"What are you babbling about?" Casterman turned to follow Danny's gaze toward Drayton Holyfield Marshall IV, who was now leading his mother from the courtroom.

"That man there is the purple-haired boy, Cort Johnson!" Danny repeated, his mind becoming dazzled by the implications, "Which means that he might have killed his father. And he appeared on Marshall's tapes, too, which means his own father handcuffed and fucked him without even recognizing him! That's disgusting."

"Now, wait a minute," Casterman grasped Danny's elbow, "Are you absolutely certain? This is a serious thing you're saying."

"I'm completely sure," Danny replied, excited, "I never forget things like this, I was only distracted because he looks so much like Marshall now, as obviously he would; but then when he looked directly at me, I recognized him immediately. That's Cort Johnson! The Purple-Haired Kid. Aunt Tittie's houseboy. I thought that Mexican alibi was weak. He was here the whole time!"

"Now, don't get ahead of yourself. Let me talk to RJ about this, and see what we can find out. Go have lunch with the Baron and Mr. Willard-Wilkes, but don't talk about this until I have a chance to get some preliminary investigation underway, do you understand?"

"I can't tell Valerien and Marquesa?" Danny asked, wondering what else he'd be able to talk about in his excitement.

"Yes, but don't let anyone hear you. If you accuse Marshall's son of his murder, even indirectly or casually, and we can't back it up, we could have a libel case on our hands."

It wasn't necessary to lower their voices, after all, as Valerien had arranged a picnic lunch in the back of his limousine, so Danny was able to discuss this new development with his friends uninterrupted.

"It's a brilliant plan," Danny enthused as he puzzled out how Marshall's son had done it, "All he'd have to do is go down to Mexico for a week or two, establish himself somewhere and bribe some people to say he'd never left, then sneak back across the border in disguise."

"Is it that easy?" Marquesa wondered, "I mean, you hear about illegal immigrants all the time, but I don't feature a Marshall allowing himself to be smuggled across the Rio Grande in a melon truck."

"It's super easy... all he'd have to do is come back on a tour bus on a busy weekend, nobody'd ever recognize him. Americans have free entry, they don't even require passports at the border crossings."

"But doesn't that make the whole alibi weak?" Valerien asked, "He couldn't really prove he'd gone in or come out at any particular time."

"He could if he flew. Airlines have so much security, and such detailed records, that they make perfect alibis. And if he got fined for something, like trying to bring in some tequila without paying duty on it, that would cement his presence in the airport security's minds... he probably made a spectacle of himself going in the first time and coming out for his father's funeral, but snuck quietly in and out as Cort Johnson without calling any attention to himself at all."

"It must have been awfully risky, living here in town for all those weeks without anybody recognizing him," Marquesa said.

"Not really," Danny replied, "Consider how stratified this city is... if he was hanging out on Polk Street and living with Aunt Tittie, nobody he knew, except his father, would ever see him. And his disguise was enough to make his father not recognize him."

"Are you really that sure? If his own father didn't recognize him, how can you?"

"Because I have that kind of memory, I learned a long time ago to memorize eyes and noses, they tend not to change, when hair and clothes do. If he hadn't stared at me so fixedly at The Brat, and then again in the courtroom, I never would have noticed him except as a purple-haired kid or as Marshall's son; but since he did call himself to my attention by staring at me, the same way both times, I took the time to memorize his features. And I'll bet Aunt Tittie will recognize him, too. I learned the eyes-and-nose trick from her in the first place, it's how you recognize a drag queen out of drag."

"I have a hard time believing that Marshall didn't recognize his own son. That's so unlikely," Marquesa put in after thinking quietly for a few moments.

"Why? If I put on purple hair and a pair of sunglasses, my father wouldn't recognize me, either... he never really looked at me, he just glanced my way and glanced away again. Marshall was probably the same way, and didn't look directly at the kid if he could help it. I doubt he looked directly at most of the hustlers he brought home, they were just fodder for his fantasy and didn't matter as individuals."

"I just can't imagine living life that way," Marquesa shrugged, "Not noticing things. I notice everything, all the time."

"So do I," Valerien said, "as does Danny. But in this, as in so many things, we are not average. I've known people to not recognize someone just because he put on a hat. I think most people don't see details, particularly really self-involved people; they just see a fuzzy overall picture of other people, focusing only on the salient points that they consider important, not the people themselves in their entirety."

"But why bother with such an elaborate scheme, anyway?" Marquesa asked after digesting that idea, "It would be so much simpler for Marshall Junior to just hire someone."

"Hiring someone always leaves you open to blackmail," Danny countered, "And if he really hated his father, as I'm sure he did, he'd want the pleasure of killing him himself."

"We'd better get back inside," Valerien warned, looking at his watch.

As the crowds reassembled in the courtroom, Danny tried to get another look at Drayton Marshall VI, but it seemed that the young man had left... Cissie Marshall was still there, but she was alone and looked rather put-out. Had the younger Marshall realized Danny had recognized him? Danny knew his own face concealed very little in the way of emotions, and that recognition had probably been quite readable; but someone who had the nerve to show up in the first place at the arraignment hearing for a crime he had himself committed, even though another stood as defendant, might have been expected to brave out such a recognition.

"Having reviewed all of the available information," Judge Manning began, once the court had been called to order, "I find that, although the defendant is an unlikely candidate, the physical evidence is far too compelling to dismiss the charges. Marcus Daniel Vandervere IV, you are hereby accused of murder in the second degree. How do you plead?"

"Not guilty, your honor," Danny replied as convincingly as he knew how.

"Very well," the judge went on, "A trial will be scheduled at the earliest opportunity, the principals will be informed of the dates by the end of business tomorrow. I understand the People have a motion regarding bail?"

"The People move that bail be revoked," ADA Moon said with a certain hopelessness in his voice, "We believe that the flight risk has increased significantly since the original bail hearing."

"Considering that the defendant has so far abided by the terms of his bail, I see no reason why it should not be continued. Motion denied. This court is adjourned. Thank you, everyone."

"Fuckety-fuck!" Danny swore under his breath.

"Well, it's no less than we expected, though less than we hoped for, and certainly better than it might have been. At it gives us a few more months to trace this Cort Johnson Drayton Marshall IV connection, and see if we can't hand the SFPD a better suspect."

"I suppose so," Danny sulked, "But I'm sick of having this hanging over my head."

"We all have our crosses to bear, dear boy. Buck up, and RJ will be in touch with you as soon as he finds something."

"I swear, I'm going to get that guy," Danny vowed to himself as he made his way out of the court behind his attorney, "if it's the last thing I ever do."

Chapter Ten, Complete

2007-10-24T14:35:00.000-07:00

The next few weeks passed in a blur as Danny experienced two completely new elements of life: working at a real job and participating in a real relationship.

Nothing about his work with Poppy was completely alien to him, he was an expert at schmoozing rich people and already knowledgeable about interior design; his college career had certainly prepared him for clerical work like note-taking, transcription, and writing instructional letters; but showing up at nine every morning, ready to answer phones or take notes or harrass contractors was a delightful novelty that did not stale with custom.

The work itself was immensely satisfying: Danny loved getting up with an alarm-clock and driving to work in the mornings wearing a jacket, answering the phone with a brisk and cheerful "Ermengratz Design Associates, this is Danny, how may I help you?" and visiting some of the most beautiful houses in the City with a view of making them more beautiful. He learned an enormous amount from Poppy about interior design, and felt that his suggestions were taken seriously and appreciated.

Danny became very close to Poppy in those weeks, as they were constantly together, visiting clients and having lunch, then working out together before spending the afternoon doing clerical work in the office. Poppy tacitly adopted Danny as a sort of nephew/protégé and constantly advised him on his life and his wardrobe.

Danny found this relationship even more satisfying than the job. Poppy was very wise, having not only lived in different eras but in different lifestyles and several different important cities: he'd come of age in the time of the Stonewall Riots and lived that exciting ensuing decade in the heart of Manhattan; after Toddy Ermengratz died in '81, he'd rocketed around Europe and South America, cravenly (by his own admission) avoiding the worst of the AIDS crisis; he'd lived in Hollywood and Miami and Seattle during the 90s, and moved to San Francisco on the eve of the Millennium. He'd quite literally been everywhere and seen everything, and was fond of reminiscing about all these different times and places.

More importantly, he'd observed and synthesized a great deal about people and the way their minds worked. He was a genius of human behavior, and Danny delighted in having people explained to him... especially himself. Poppy saw through every mannerism and quirk Danny exhibited, such as his tendency to hoard shoes and his insatiable need for attention, and would root out the cause and desire behind each one. It was very much like having a psychiatrist and an agony-aunt at one's beck and call.

Poppy's most aired advice had to do with Valerien. Poppy had met Valerien on the occasion of the latter's eighteenth birthday, when the Comtesse had Valerien's rooms at the Chateau redecorated for him by Poppy. Valerien was enchanted by Poppy's funny camp mannerisms, and Poppy was entranced by Valerien's fairy-tale beauty and innocence. They became good friends during the time of the redecoration, and so Poppy was the obvious choice of decorator when Valerien moved into the "bachelor apartment" that his family owned, where his father and grandfather had each lived before marrying and moving into the family's Pacific Heights mansion.

Poppy understood Valerien perhaps better than anyone, and was indulgent of his foibles to the point of foolishness. For example, Valerien's refusal to learn to drive a car or use a computer, as well as his unblinking prejudice against any form of music or art that came into existence after the assassination of Archduke Ferdinand, was considered the cutest little quirk rather than a potentially sociopathic eccentricity.

"He's my Little Proust Princeling," Poppy would explain, "Or my Little Prince Proustling? He simply refuses to participate in the modern world, and who can blame him?"

"What about disco and gay rights?" Danny would counter, bringing up two of Poppy's favorite topics.

"That sort of thing is important for people who have to live in this time, or who like living in this time, like you and me. For people like Valerien, who have always had the power to be gay whenever they want and the money to rearrange their reality to the exclusion of anything they don't want, it just doesn't matter. He's like a period movie come to life, isn't he? I love him to pieces."

While Danny wasn't sure that this head-in-the-sand approach to reality was wise, he loved Valerien, too. And though Danny had many affairs, he'd never been in what he and the other party considered a serious relationship. He spent all of his free time with Valerien, and all of their activities were the type considered "romantic."

Every morning, there was a new bouquet of Leonidas roses and alstroemeria lilies waiting on Danny's desk, and Danny always met Valerien wearing one of each in his buttonhole. Every afternoon, Valerien picked Danny up at the Ermengratz offices, then they had sex before preparing for an evening out. Every evening, they dined together in posh restaurants, went to parties and the theatre and the opera together; they even danced together at a charity ball and took moonlit walks along the beach or through one of the City's many parks (with two security goons in close attendance, of course). Every night they slept together in either Danny's or Valerien's apartment, taking turns as host, with Valerien's valet Henri running back and forth between the apartments with one or the other's clothes for the next day.

Unfortunately, Danny realized after only a few days that, though he loved Valerien dearly, he wasn't in love with him and would never fall in love with him. Having experienced the sensation of falling head-over-heels for Marquesa, he knew what it was supposed to feel like, and he knew that this wasn't It.

Nor did Danny believe that Valerien was in love with him. Their relationship felt a little like play-acting, the romantic activities seemed a trifle contrived, and their sex was more fun than fierce... instead of true lovers, they'd become more like fuck-buddies who happened to be monogamous.

There was a certain lack of intimacy in their conversations: though he'd gleaned little bits of biography from passing comments and Poppy's trove of information (such as the touchy subject of Valerien's parents, that his father had murdered his mother during a drug-induced hallucination), Valerien never talked about his own past the way Danny and Marquesa had over that weekend in the hotel.

He chatted freely about his current activities, little experiences at the offices of his family's bank or a new purchase at the auction galleries or something to do with his horses in the country... but never anything about his inner life, his emotions, or his dreams for the future. Nor was he particularly interested in hearing about Danny's; though he asked questions about Danny's activities and listened patiently when Danny spoke of anything important to him, he didn't encourage any kind of conversation that had to do with anything that was not of-the-moment...and so Danny, being a natural people-pleaser, tended not to speak of such things.

There was also the issue of money. Valerien was constantly buying Danny expensive gifts, jewelry and clothes and extravagant little trifles like a sable teddy bear or a case of rare wine; he even gave Danny a credit card, insisting that he use it frequently lest he hurt the giver's feelings. And though Danny most frequently used the credit-card to buy gifts for Valerien, these things put him right back into the Courtesan role he had tried to escape in favor of the role of Lover.

However, it was enough. Between the novelty of working and the novelty of Valerien, Danny was very nearly as happy as he'd been during that weekend with Marquesa... not quite bliss, but the very next best thing, and a good deal happier than he'd been before he met Valerien and Marquesa.

During this period, Danny and Marquesa very seldom met. As Danny and Valerien were always a couple at the social events that Valerien and Marquesa had been accustomed to attend together, Marquesa chose other men from their social set to escort him to those events, rather than act as a third wheel. Danny would have worried that he was coming between Valerien and Marquesa, except that Marquesa spent every weekend with Valerien at the Château de Seguemont near Sonoma, where Danny could not follow... the terms of his bail required him to remain at all times within the City and County of San Francisco.

Instead, Danny spent his weekends swimming and being pampered at the spa, going out dancing (to the newest music), chatting with old friends (many of whom had returned, apologetically, after the scandal of his arrest had dimmed in the public memory... though a number of them, including Aunt Tittie, remained distinctly chilly), and catching up on the sleep he missed by keeping such odd hours during the week.

In betweentimes, he shopped for Valerien. The young baron was indecently difficult to shop for, being already supplied with all the world could provide by way of luxuries. But Danny considered that a challenge, and was always on the prowl for little bibelots and curiosities to delight Valerien.

And it was at an auction-house, where Danny had gone to bid on a miniature on ivory purportedly of the Marquise de Pompadour (a favorite historical figure and ancestress of Valerien's), that he was reminded, once again by force and surprise, of his impending murder trial: right beside him in the auction-room was Rodney Casterman, Esquire, bidding on several pieces of seventeenth-century Judaica.

"I wanted to congratulate you," Mr. Casterman said to Danny after that auction had ended and conversation was again possible, "The suggestions for avenues of investigation were very helpful to my son. Several have borne very useful fruit. You may have a future as a detective, yourself."

"That's very gratifying," Danny replied, "I'd like to hear about some of this fruit someday."

"I must arrange a meeting with you and RJ, then. I think your perspective will be useful in piecing together the evidence thus far. Also, I need to meet with you in the next two or three weeks, your arraignment date has finally been set for July 11th, and I have to go over the procedure with you."

"I'll have to ask my boss for time off," Danny laughed delightedly, "I've never had to do that before. It's great fun, having a job!"

"I'm glad you enjoy it," Casterman responded dryly but indulgently, "Shall we say the twenty-third of June? I think that's the Monday. I'll have my secretary call you. And RJ will contact you directly about discussing the evidence. Perhaps next weekend?"

"That would be delightful."

The bidding started up again, and Mr. Casterman took his leave with the receipt for a beautifully jeweled silver spice-box while Danny waited around for his ivory miniature to be snatched away by an absentee bidder at an amount higher than his own credit cards and Valerien's combined could bear.

Danny later discovered, when Valerien gave him the Pompadour miniature, that he'd been beaten by the intended recipient.

***

Danny was surprised to meet Detective Varajian again, having no knowledge that he and RJ Casterman had been working together for the last few weeks: Varajian was able to supply all sorts of official information to which RJ didn't have free access while RJ was able to provide the footwork and surveillance that Varajian's department couldn't afford. The two had become romantically involved, as well, the older man finally giving way to the forceful flirtations of the younger, and Danny was very amused by the way they treated each-other... like a father and son nursing an embarrassing secret.

They had gathered at Danny's apartment on the Saturday following his chance meeting with Rodney Casterman, and the two detectives spent some time wandering about studying and appreciating its beauties while Danny put the finishing touches on a very elaborate afternoon tea complete with pastries and little sandwiches. This was brought out on an immense silver tray with silver pots and gold-rimmed china, and placed on the large cocktail table in the center of the room.

"Your question about the identity of the parrot-shirted man, and whether or not he and Aunt Tittie were the same person, has yielded interesting results," RJ said around a mouthful of scone, handing Danny a blue leather folder, "They are indeed the same man, and more importantly, Thomas Carmichael AKA Lady Titania Cunard lives in the same apartment building as Marshall and the Baron, two floors above the murder scene."

"Small world," Danny remarked, fascinated, as he flipped through the dossier on Aunt Tittie, which included recent pictures of him out of drag and leaving The Brat in the early afternoon, sometimes with a young man in tow though more frequently alone, which would probably make excellent blackmail material.

"More interesting, considering some of the physical evidence dug up by the Medical Examiner," Varajian put in, "The boy with the purple hair you saw with Mr. Carmichael was his houseboy, Cort Johnson, who'd been living with him for nearly a month. There were purple hairs found in the service hallway that commands a view to both of Marshall's apartment doors, and so he is a perfect candidate for questioning. Unfortunately, he disappeared two days after the murder."

"That seems inconsistent with a murderer's actions, doesn't it?" Danny wondered, looking up from the folder, "You'd think he would want to disappear immediately."

"If it were an unplanned murder, yes," RJ answered, "But there is evidence of premeditation that is extremely consistent with such a scenario. Cort appears on one of the tapes in Marshall's playrooms about three weeks before the murder, it would make sense that he'd sit tight over the weekend after he'd already invested so much time, particularly since you were the prime suspect."

"Well, that's great!" Danny enthused, "Opportunity, access, motive... a perfect alternate suspect."

Varajian coughed and put down his teacup, "Sadly, the purple-haired Cort does not exonerate you, or even shift suspicion from you. Though there's no real reason his hair should be found on a different floor from where he was living with Carmichael, there's also no very compelling reason why it shouldn't. He was just another hustler, which puts him in an entirely different category than you. Plus we can't prove he was even in the building that night, he didn't show up on any of the cameras until the following morning. Unless we can find him, you're still on the hook."

"But that's remediable," Danny shrugged, "I'm just glad to know what movement is going on. Now, you said the purple-haired kid was on the videos... was there anyone else of interest? Anyone else from The Brat?"

"Just about everyone from The Brat," RJ laughed, "Marshall was prolific and apparently paid well. Most of the kids didn't mind Marshall's antics, his drugs were good and he paid promptly. A few had been upset by being handcuffed and then fucked, but they get a lot worse out there."

"How grimly repetitive, handcuffs and barebacking," Danny sneered.

"Marshall was a creature of defined habits," RJ opened the blue leather folder containing the interviews of the hustlers from The Brat, "He would go on a jag of a particular sex act and repeat it for some three or four months with different boys each time. Then he'd tire of it and start on another one. He was due for a change in routine, which makes the professionals on the circuit very poor suspects... they knew they'd be getting another turn with him soon, and he paid twice the going rate."

"How very vexing," Danny fell back in his chair pettishly, "We need something concrete. Returning to the purple-haired kid, did you get any way of tracing him? DNA or fingerprints or what-have-you?"

"I can't get a warrant on such slim evidence," Varajian admitted sadly, "And Carmichael knew nothing about the boy besides his name, which could very well be fake."

"And I wasn't able to induce Mr. Carmichael to allow me to fingerprint the apartment voluntarily," RJ smiled ruefully.

"Well, I bet I can. She owes me, especially the way he's been cold-shouldering me lately," Danny was quite furious, knowing that Aunt Tittie, whom he'd always counted as a close friend, would withhold this kind of information from him on purpose, "Get your Medical Examiner to meet us at Tittie's apartment at his earliest convenience, and I'll slap the lashes off that old hag if I have to. I'll get Val to threaten her with eviction, or threaten to show these pictures of her leaving a hustler bar in broad daylight alone."

"You're vicious when riled," RJ marveled admiringly at the hot flush in Danny's cheeks, "Remind me not to cross you, ever."

"I'm sorry, I'm not usually so intense," Danny laughed with embarrassment, trying to recompose himself, "I just get so angry when people behave dishonorably."

"As well you should," Varajian said gravely, "I only wish more people had your will to see justice done. Most people in your position would be making up alibis and poking holes in the prosecution, not pursuing the truth. That more than anything else has convinced me of your innocence."

"High praise indeed," RJ rolled his big amber eyes comically at Danny but put his hand over Varajian's affectionately. Varajian blushed as darkly as a fifty-year-old man of Armenian descent can blush, and hastily pulled his hand away and excused himself to the restroom to compose himself.

"Isn't he the cutest thing in the world?" RJ asked confidentially after Varajian was out of earshot.

"You make a very sweet couple," Danny said in a conspiratorial tell-me-everything tone.

"Oh, I wouldn't go so far as 'couple,'" RJ explained, "Aside from the fact that I have heretofore found monogamy quite impossible after a month or two, but also David's embarrassed to be seen out with me, just because I'm half his age. Plus, he doesn't like that I'm bisexual, or that I'm a PI instead of a 'real' cop, or that I tend to bite in the heat of passion."

"It looks like rather more than a fling from where I'm sitting," Danny observed, "I think he might very easily fall in love with you if you're not careful."

"It's a little late for 'careful,' I think," RJ sucked his front teeth thoughtfully, "But I'm a bit of a brat. I have to have what I want, and I wanted him the moment I laid eyes on him. Sexiest daddy ever."

"If I didn't know your father, and know that he's absolutely nothing like Detective Varajian, I'd suspect you of quite deliciously Freudian motives," Danny camped a little in the sing-song voice and purple diction he'd picked up from Poppy.

"Oooh, grrrrrl, you got a dirty mind!" RJ camped right back, which caused another blush of consternation from Varajian, who'd just reentered the room.

"I think we'd better be going and let Mr. Vandervere enjoy the rest of his Saturday in peace," Varajian intoned in a very unpleasantly stern voice, like a displeased father.

"I'm right behind you, Daddy," RJ replied teasingly, "Danny, I'll get back to you ASAP about hassling Aunt Tittie into letting us search his apartment for traces of the mysterious Mr. Cort Johnson. Thanks so much for the tea!"

"Do you have to act like that?" Varajian demanded of RJ when they'd reached the sidewalk.

"Oh, don't come all over closeted," RJ teased some more, "It's not like Danny's going to cause you a scandal. Besides, he'd figured it out for himself. It's pretty obvious I'm crazy about you. And Danny thinks you're falling in love with me. Are you?"

"If you'd stop embarrassing me, I might," Varajian growled, but was secretly pleased to hear that the younger man was 'crazy about' him, "And maybe if you stopped dressing like a jet-set playboy, and got a real job instead of working for your father, well..."

"But then you wouldn't like me at all. Unemployed and badly dressed, I never even would have met you. Unless I killed someone. Did you know Danny only lived two blocks away from your place?"

"Of course," Varajian was suddenly wary of that last question, which not only carried a slight tone of jealousy but came too closely on the tail of a suggestion of murder, "He told me his address when we questioned him."

"Before that, though," RJ persisted, "You've seen him around the neighborhood, haven't you? You must have noticed him."

"Of course I noticed him, I notice everything. I'm a detective."

"So am I, though you like to pretend I'm just Daddy's Little Sinecure. When you first arrested him, you recognized him as a near neighbor, didn't you?"

"Of course. Why are you so interested in whether or not I ever saw Vandervere before?"

"Because I can see you're attracted to him, and that makes my fingernails itch just a bit," RJ stopped walking and grabbed Varajian's elbow to make him turn around.

"You can't possibly be jealous, can you?" Varajian was amazed.

"I can so possibly be," RJ replied petulantly, "And I don't see why I shouldn't be."

"If for no other reason than because I haven't got the money to interest a boy like Danny Vandervere. He'd never give me the time of day. He in fact has passed my door a number of times without so much as looking at me."

"I don't believe you," RJ's eyes narrowed to dangerous slits, "You're a hot man, and he's not blind, or even nearsighted."

"I'm hot, am I?," Varajian tickled him to make him lighten up, "You're the only one who seems to think so anymore."

"Can I help it if the rest of the world is stupid? And seeing as how we're so close to your apartment, I want you to show me exactly how much I shouldn't be jealous of Danny Vandervere."

"You are a spoiled brat," Varajian said evenly, though the light of sex was already glowing in his eyes.

"That's why you maybe-love me," RJ pecked him on the mouth and led the way up 16th Street to Varajian's door.

***

The Invasion of Aunt Tittie's Apartment, or "T.A. Day" as Danny called it, started with an informal meeting over afternoon coffee in Valerien's penthouse on the following Friday. Detective Varajian and Medical Examiner Griggs gawked openly at the eighteenth-century splendors of the vast salon, while RJ Casterman and Charlie Putnam merely appreciated them with the vaguely blasé air of people who'd grown up among similar splendors.

"Do you think Aunt Tittie will mind all of us showing up like this?" Danny wondered, a sense of misgiving infecting his desire to get the truth out of Tittie... it was one thing to threaten her, another thing entirely to come banging on her door backed by a delegation of five men.

"I don't care if Carmichael minds it or not," Valerien responded quietly but angrily over the edge of his cup, "I'm the majority owner of this building, I'll do what I like in it. I only wish I'd put 'obstructing justice' as a termination clause in his co-op agreement. Then we could evict him."

"Oh, don't do that," Danny pleaded for his friend, completely reversing his own stance of the Saturday before, "She probably didn't mean any harm, she's just protecting her privacy."

"Privacy, faugh!" Valerien responded, a little more heatedly, "This practice of bringing strange boys into the building and giving them keys and letting them run loose is dangerously idiotic and has to be stopped. I pay a lot of money for security, and I want this building secure, goddammit, not infested with purple-haired hustlers. Especially if they're going to go around killing the other tenants."

"I'm sure Mr. Carmichael's intentions were not dishonorable," RJ put in soothingly, "And I do agree that perhaps we might not all have to interview him at the same moment. Perhaps if you and Danny would go talk to him first, while we wait in the wings to take his statements and hunt for traces of Cort Johnson afterward, things might go a bit more smoothly."

"I suppose so," Valerien put down his cup and stood to leave, "But never underestimate the power of intimidation."

"Unfortunately, it's illegal," Detective Varajian said, "And I certainly wouldn't want to put you in a tenuous legal position by being present and having to take official notice of an illegal act."

"Besides," Griggs piped in, "an unwilling witness is an unhelpful witness. Mr. Carmichael is more likely to cooperate, and less likely to hold things back, if you soft-soap rather than hard-ball him."

"Hmph," Valerien snorted contemptuously; he'd be damned before he'd pander to the likes and dislikes of Thomas Carmichael.

"Are we sure he's home?" Danny wondered, finally shrinking from the confrontation that he'd been spoiling for all week.

"We've been watching him ever since we connected him to your visit at The Brat," RJ replied, "I know when he farts, if you'll pardon my language, much less leaves his apartment. He's home right now, most likely at the makeup table."

"Oh," Danny sighed reluctantly and followed the angry Valerien out of the apartment to the elevator; it was nearly four, Tittie was bound to be in the very middle of making up for the evening, and wouldn't relish the intrusion. But the thing had to be done, and with everyone else waiting, he certainly couldn't put it off to a more convenient time... besides, once he'd gotten Valerien involved, the whole thing had gone out of his control: Valerien was accustomed to treating the residents of his building as tenants rather than co-owners, and was more enraged by the hustler/houseboy part of the matter than Aunt Tittie's betrayal of Danny's friendship.

"Mr. Carmichael?" Valerien knocked loudly on Aunt Tittie's door, which was on the tenth floor and at the opposite end of the building from Marshall's, "It's Baron de Seguemont. I want to talk to you."

"I'm indisposed," came an irritated voice from far inside the apartment, "Bugger off."

"I will speak to you now, if you please," Valerien seemed to grow larger with his rage at being treated so dismissively, "Don't make me get the passkey."

"Well of all the motherfucking nerve..." Danny heard Tittie banging about in the apartment and swearing as he made his way to the door, "I own this goddamned apartment, how dare you threaten me with passkeys? What in the hell do you want?"

Aunt Tittie threw the door open and then stepped back, more than surprised to see Danny standing just behind Valerien. He was dressed in a very large silk kimono with cranes painted all over it, his sparse hair covered with a stocking cap, his face a blank mask of foundation with one eye dazzlingly lined and painted in peacock hues.

"Oh, hello, Danny," he had the grace to smile uncomfortably and lower his voice, "What's this all about?"

"I'm sorry to barge in on you at this hour, Aunt Tittie," Danny said apologetically while smoothly entering the apartment and giving him a peck on the cheek, "But we need your help."

"It's not a very effective way of winning friends and influencing people," Aunt Tittie observed dryly, trying to regain her cool, "Threatening people with illegal entry."

"I could swear I heard you calling for help," Valerien said in an offhand way, "And your behavior is not going to sit very well with the co-op board, of which I happen to be the president, as you well know."

"Val, please," Danny gave Valerien his most potent puppy-dog eyes, "Don't be antagonistic. Aunt Tittie will understand once I've explained it to her. See, the thing is, we need your help finding your ex-houseboy, Cort Johnson."

"Are you responsible for those PIs and SFPDs harassing me about Cort?" Aunt Tittie nearly bellowed, "I would have thought better of you, Danny Vandervere."

"Honestly, I didn't know about the detectives until recently, and you've not spoken to me once since that weekend when I was arrested," Danny turned the puppy-eyes on Tittie and evinced a welling of tears, "I would have come to you directly if I'd known that was you in The Brat with the purple-haired boy."

"I'm sorry, but that's not good enough," Tittie was regretting his behavior but didn't want to admit it just yet, "You could have come to me directly with your questions, even if I was cold-shouldering you, which I assure you I was not."

"I'm sorry, but who comes to whom with questions is beside the point," Valerien inserted himself into the conversation hotly, "The point is that you had an unauthorized tenant of unknown origin on the weekend that a murder was committed in this building; furthermore, you withheld that information even though it would help someone who considers you a friend, for reasons I cannot comprehend. That is the point."

"Well, how the hell was I supposed to know it would help? Cort isn't even connected to this. And what do you want me to do about it, anyway?" Tittie was defensive again, "I don't know where the little shit went, and if I did I'd happily turn him over to you. He stole money from me."

"But you can still help," Danny put himself between Tittie and Valerien and grabbed Tittie's hand pleadingly, "You can let the medical examiner and my detective friend look for traces of Cort, so that if he is found we can place him at the scene with forensic evidence."

"You want to turn my apartment upside-down for fingerprints? I think not."

"I'll pay for the cleaning, naturally," Valerien said scathingly.

"You wouldn't find anything if I did let you," Tittie huffed, "I have cleaned during the last few weeks, I'm not a pig. And besides, he didn't leave anything behind."

"Still, please let them look. I'm desperate," Danny almost cried, "Please?"

"Oh, all right," Tittie relented and walked back into his apartment, "You might as well get on with it. I'm going to go finish putting my face on."

Valerien went off to fetch the detectives while Danny followed Tittie through an apartment crowded with beautiful antique furniture and cluttered with a multitude of movie-themed porcelain collectibles ranging from Gone With The Wind plates to Wizard of Oz figurines.

"Why have you been so distant with me, lately?" Danny asked gently as Tittie settled down at a messy and brightly-lit dressing table in a very untidy bedroom, "I thought our friendship meant something to you."

Tittie looked at him steadily in the mirror for some moments before answering, "I didn't know what to think, whether you were a killer or not. So I decided it was best to just wait and see without getting involved. I'm sorry if that hurt your feelings."

"If it helps anything, I am innocent," Danny offered with a small forgiving smile.

"You think Cort killed the guy? Why?" Tittie was intent on painting his other eye.

"There were purple hairs found in the stairwell near Marshall's apartment, which had been bleached down immediately after the murder. The entire stairwell and all the hallways between that floor and this were bleached, which suggests Cort was watching Marshall's apartment, and didn't want anyone to be able to prove it."

"Well, maybe Cort is your killer... he cleaned this place spic-and-span before he took off with the contents of my wallet and a few of my favorite silver antiques, leaving not a wrack behind."

"You didn't ever take a picture of him?" Danny wondered.

"I did, when he was sleeping, but he found it and took it."

"What about underwear?"

Tittie gave Danny a long, somewhat angry but also begrudgingly admiring look, reached into a drawer at his right, and pulled out a pair of generic white briefs with a few telltale stains of wear, size Medium, "I was hoping you wouldn't ask for that, but since you did, I hope they help."

"You're the best, Aunt Tittie. When you're done getting dressed, can I take you for a drink? I have my car here."

"Some other time, perhaps. But why don't you get going so I can finish putting on my face, I don't want to be here when your myrmidons are tearing my apartment apart. And if they break the tiniest bit of lace off the meanest piece of my Royal Doulton, I'm going to bill your prissy little Baron for it."

"Oh, Valerien's not that bad, he's just a bit autocratic when he's angry. He'll make it up to you when he's calmed down," Danny stood and kissed Tittie on the top of his head, "Thank you so much for your help. I'll take you to dinner any time you're free, OK? And I'll send over a pair of my underwear in exchange for these."

"Mmm-hmmm..." Tittie was putting on lip-liner so couldn't make a more distinct answer.

***

"Nothing, absolutely nothing," Griggs nearly screamed in disgust the next morning when he reviewed the last report of the evidence taken from Aunt Tittie's apartment.

Nothing in the way of hair or bodily fluids was found in Aunt Tittie's apartment, but the smell of bleach still lingered in some of the crevices and corners. The DNA samples found in the underpants had looked so promising, but they didn't match anything in any of the identity databanks; and after dusting every single surface in a fairly large apartment crowded to bursting with surfaces, only four sets of fingerprints were recovered: one belonging to Tittie, two belonging to known hustlers whose movements on the night of the murder were easily established, and a fourth set found on a lightbulb in a closet belonging to someone completely unknown to law enforcement agencies. The mysterious Cort Johnson was, forensically speaking, a non-person.

Nevertheless, the evidence was sealed and stored in connection to the Drayton Marshall files, just in case Cort Johnson ever turned up... which didn't seem very likely. Medical Examiner Griggs reluctantly turned his attention to the several other cases on his desk and put the plight of Danny Vandervere out of his mind.

***

Danny took the news lying down, literally and figuratively. He was enmeshed in his latest pastime, posing for a portrait with Jacky Alvarado, when RJ Casterman and David Varajian came to tell him about the outcome of the forensic search of Aunt Tittie's apartment and the complete lack of identity for Cort Johnson.

"At least we know he was there," Danny shrugged from his position on the dais; he was lying face-down and nude on a velvet-draped mattress in the pose of Waterhouse's Narcissus, staring at the painter through the mirror that lay beneath his head, "And if he does commit a crime somewhere, it will show up in the database, won't it?"

"That's a pretty big 'if,'" Varajian sighed sadly, resting his eyes on Danny's perfect back and buttocks; he couldn't decide if he was more turned on by the nudity or by Danny's complete disregard for who saw him, but was more interested in keeping his arousal hidden from RJ, whose jealously now knew no bounds. Varajian could see, out of the corner of his eye, the younger man flexing his fingers angrily as if wishing to crush somebody's windpipe.

"But isn't it a truism that criminals can't help but get caught eventually? Don't they always get sloppy or return to the scene of the crime, or something?"

"Only in fiction," RJ said, trying, in his turn, to decide if he were more angry at Danny for continuing to pose nude in front of David, at David for continuing to stare at Danny like a hungry dog, or at himself for being jealous of either of them, "In real life things aren't usually so tidy."

"Still, it's better than nothing," Danny shrugged a little but was hissed at by the painter for moving.

"In the meantime," RJ continued, "My people have been canvassing the Tenderloin and all of the customers of The Brat about our mysterious young Cort. It seems he never tricked while he was there, he was just hanging out, pretending to be a hustler. The only person he was ever seen leaving with was Carmichael, I mean Aunt Tittie, and that one time with Marshall. He lived in a cheap hotel before he hooked up with Tittie, so the boys all assumed he was a runaway and hadn't completely used up all his money yet."

"And absolutely nobody has any idea where he went," Varajian put in, "He never said where he was from, or where he wanted to go. But hustlers are like that, they're very of-the-moment, no past, no future, so nobody thought it was odd."

"Gentlemen, do you mind?" Jacky Alvarado came out from behind his painting, his hazel eyes flashing with irritation, "You're breaking my concentration."

"I'm sorry, Jacky," Danny apologized without moving, "RJ, David, thank you for coming by and letting me know about the results."

With a few more words of good-bye, the two detectives left, and Danny lapsed back into the indescribable boredom of sitting for an oil portrait.

At first, spending time with the artist was a lot of fun. Jacky was a very handsome young man, with an admirable Latin-American angel's face, delicate bones, big eyes and a succulent mouth, all on top of a small wiry body simply bursting with energy most of the time. When they'd first met, Jacky rhapsodized over Danny's beauty, photographed him for three hours solid, and threw out a thousand ideas for portrait poses.

But then came the actual posing, first for sketches as the artist tried out different compositions and styles (Jacky had declared him a "pure pre-Raphaelite" and tried out Burne-Jones, Leighton, and Morris Hunt before deciding on Waterhouse); at those times, Jacky lapsed into an intensely still concentration, neither talking nor allowing Danny to talk. And though the recumbent pose that was finally decided upon allowed Danny to go to sleep whenever he got too bored, the minute he moved Jacky would yell at him irritably and spend a few minutes making sure he was back in place before returning to the silent painting.

When the two- or three-hour session was over, Jacky would come alive again, snapping pictures with his camera as Danny moved around the studio getting dressed (all of the pictures he shot belonged to Valerien, by the terms of his contract for the painting, and so Danny was able to relax in the knowledge that they would never get out to the general public). He was a wonderful chatterer, and could spin running jokes out of the most mundane pop-culture material; Danny just wished that this liveliness was part of the posing as well as the before and after.

Danny was also worried a little by the fact that these sessions were cutting into his early evenings with Valerien; he didn't miss the hour or so of Valerien's company, but had to wonder if Valerien missed him... or if this portrait were an excuse to have time away from Danny. He didn't dare ask Valerien to declare his intentions, for fear that their escapade would come to an end; and though he was not in love with Valerien, either, he loved their relationship and feared its cease... and so he let the worry fester inside of him, especially during the still hours of his posing.

More worrisome was the fact that his filial relationship with Poppy had turned carnal a few days after the painting was started. One afternoon when he and Poppy were working together in the studio, Poppy had let out a low growl and, as promised weeks before, pounced on Danny without so much as a by-your-leave. Despite all his previous protestations about his preferred type and his rule against fucking employees, he stripped Danny naked and fucked him silly on the couch, and then repeated the performance, with a number of variations, almost daily thereafter.

This new sexual relationship, though wildly enjoyable (Danny discovered that he really liked being held down, and Poppy kept him laughing all through the strenuous act with jokes and tickling, which lent another element of pleasure to sex that he'd never before experienced), worried him on two counts: first, how would Valerien react if he found out; and second, what had Valerien told Poppy about their relationship that made the older man feel free to pounce on Danny... would Poppy do something that might conceivably take away from Valerien something that Valerien valued, or did Poppy know that Valerien was no longer particularly interested in Danny and was just letting things ride until someone better came into view?

However, even with these worries and the boredom of posing, Danny's life was satisfying enough to keep him quite happy... all of his worries were new worries, and his boredom was a new boredom, and all of it kept him distracted from thinking about his uncertain immediate future. His remaining time spent with Valerien was still carefree and romantic, and his work with Poppy was developing into something that Danny considered he might actually make a career of. And he looked forward to the completion of the painting, a form of immortality that he'd always wanted (though he was aware that the immortality would depend largely on whether or not posterity would think as much of Jacky Alvarado as he and Valerien did).

As the date of his arraignment neared, however, Danny had new worries to consider in his still hours: Mr. Casterman painted a very bleak picture of the evidence that would come out at that proceeding; and also outlined the extremely slim but still real chance that Danny's bail could be revoked at that time if the judge were to come to believe Danny was dangerous or that he was more of a flight risk than the ten-million-dollar bond could guarantee.

Though he would ordinarily be inclined to keep the arraignment restricted to a simple plea of Not Guilty, Casterman was aware that the Prosecution was going to call character witnesses to underline their conviction that Danny was the killer; with such a ploy already on the board, Casterman had decided to take it a step further in hopes that a parade of character witnesses could lead to a dismissal before a plea had to even be entered.

The downside of this ploy, however, is that the Prosecution could turn some character witnesses to its own ends, and undermine Danny's respectability... especially since it was known that they already had wind of his past filled with mercenary romances.

"While this is certainly not my usual advice," Casterman advised Danny in the Victorian mahogany-paneled confines of his downtown office, "I want you to be perfectly candid about the gifts your various lovers have given you. The Prosecution will use those gifts to paint you as vicious and conniving, and I want the judge to get a load of you at your most disarmingly honest... you're a good enough actor to lie well, but you tell the truth so much better. And besides, you've done nothing illegal, only morally questionable."

"OK," Danny said vaguely, more intent on the notes he was taking of the meeting than of the tone of Casterman's remarks; his time with Poppy had habituated him to writing everything down and then thinking it over later.

"I also want to bring your great-aunts down from Vandervere, but not without your consent."

"Oh, I don't know about that," Danny looked up from his notebook, "I'm not sure I would want them to hear all those details about my sex-life, you know?"

"They'll read about them in the papers next day, anyway," Casterman reasoned, "And they and your former nanny would, I think, be the best witnesses to your character."

"Aren't my friends enough?"

"Your friends here in town have all known you less than two years," the attorney got up and walked aimlessly around his office, "and none of them really knows you all that well, you must admit. Besides which, many of them would look a little shady to a judge... no, I think that we should concentrate on people who've known you a good long time."

"But you should know that the Aunt Ems and Mademoiselle Marnie are all just a bit touched in the head. They don't do reality, if you know what I mean."

"Nevertheless, they've known you since you were a child, and would be in a position to know your character better than anyone else. If there were other people we could call with similar knowledge, I would certainly do so."

"Just don't ask my parents," Danny shrugged and returned to his notes, "I doubt they'd give a very glowing report of me."

"Unfortunately, the Prosecution might drag them, and some of your more disreputable friends, into the courtroom to give an account of you. What would your parents say about you?"

"That I'm lazy and sneaky, probably," Danny sighed, "That's what they always accused me of. They assumed I didn't get in trouble, when my brother always did, because I was better at subterfuge... it would never have occurred to them that I was simply well-behaved. My brother Tay was an absolute terror. He still is, as far as I can tell."

"That's another thing that will come up... it's being whispered that your family has the town of Vandervere in such a grip that you could have run around killing babies and eating puppies in the town square without official notice being taken."

"Well, that's true to an extent," Danny laughed at the image of a baby-and-puppy barbecue in the gingerbread bandstand of Vandervere Town Square, "Though nobody ever did more than speed a little or get rowdy in a bar. We are WASPs, after all; even our sins are boring."

"Nevertheless, it would be convenient to have a bad report of you from the Vandervere Police to balance that out. Were you ever caught doing anything?"

"Having sex with another boy in the park at night," Danny answered immediately, "The officer let us both off with a warning and never said a word about it to my parents. But I bet he'd be willing to talk about it if it would help me. He's something of a friend."

"How close of a friend?" Casterman asked sternly.

"Just a friend. I was nice to him when he was new on the job and gave him a tour of the town once; Vandervere can be a very hostile place, and I made him feel welcome. Nothing sexual. He's straight as a board."

"I have a feeling that even boards bend a little when exposed to you," Casterman joked.

"Can I help it if I'm lovable?" Danny joked back, though he wondered if he were bending his attorney in any way... he really didn't have the energy, between Poppy and Valerien every weekday, and the casual tricking he'd recently resumed over the weekends, to entertain another affair.

***

Soon after the painting was finished, Valerien organized a party to celebrate and unveil the masterwork. Though it would eventually be hung in Valerien's library, due to its greenish color scheme, it was displayed for the first time in the very center of the long salon, a pair of bright lamps on either side of it and a drape of golden damask over the top.

The painting itself was breathtaking, soft and yet dramatic, filled with dappled light that looked quite real: one felt as if there were slight warmth coming off the canvas. Danny was represented in a perfection that was almost impossible, but the artist swore that he had not idealized one square inch, it was all exactly what was there; and since it was an angle he'd never seen of himself, Danny was fascinated by this new facet of his own beauty.

The painting was not a copy of the original, but rather an homage: it showed Danny laying out on the sloped bank of a clear pond, his chin resting on his crossed arms, his legs splayed negligently, a wisp of silky vermillion material draped over his left shoulder and lower thighs and spread out under him like a blanket; his face was reflected clearly in the pond's mirror-like surface, and the whole attitude of the body and face was one of relaxed enjoyment rather than intent study.

In his usual manner, Jacky Alvarado had inserted a few sly additions into the painting that Waterhouse's original lacked: first, the subject was not staring at himself in the reflection of the pond, he was regarding the viewer intently, and the dark brown eyes had been painted in such a way that they seemed to follow the viewer quite eerily; the background vegetation was shaped in such a way as to suggest inorganic objects, vases and pictures and bits of furniture that actually existed in Danny's living room, and there were pieces of Danny's own jewelry secreted in the grass and the bottom of the clear pond. The artist himself was mum on what these little additions were supposed to mean, preferring to let the viewer draw his or her own conclusions.

To Danny it was a revelation... he had always thought of himself, in his darker moments, as vain and materialistic, and the pose of Narcissus certainly reinforced that opinion of himself. But this Narcissus, gazing out at the world through a mirror of vanity, or rather through a window of beauty, seemed much more interested in the people who looked at him than in himself or the things people gave him. It rang of truth, and it made Danny like himself a little better.

The reception, however, brought him crashing right back down. It was attended by the very highest cream of society, the outside hall was crammed with bodyguards, and people who were famous for never going anywhere were seen there that night; however, though everyone was perfectly charming to him, Danny overheard whispers about himself, and the whispers weren't very flattering. Nobody said anything outright against him, nobody would dare speak in opposition of Valerien's and Marquesa's sponsorship and support; but there was an undertone to their private conversations that demonstrated a widespread belief that Danny had "hooked" Valerien, that he probably had killed Marshall and would also probably get away with it because of his looks and his willingness to grant sexual favors in exchange for whatever he wanted.

Though the Alvarado portrait showed him as a sensitive and lonely soul, the portrait Society saw was the same old surface of the high-end hustler, more whore than courtesan, sharply on the lookout for what he could get, and not very nice at all. To drown the sting of this unflattering interpretation of the painting, Danny drank far more wine than was good for him and was quite drunk only halfway through the evening.

Another sting that sent him running for the bottle was seeing Marquesa there with Richard Allenwhite; though they had arrived separately and alone, they spent their time at the party together, side-by-side, an accepted couple. It was vividly clear, even from the furthest distance of the vast salon, that Marquesa was besotted with Richard, insanely happy just to be standing next to him in a public place; Danny felt the unfamiliar gnaw of jealousy in his heart.

Richard Allenwhite was so godlike that Danny couldn't blame anybody for being in love with him. He was extremely tall and broad with muscle, with golden skin and bright gold hair, bright gold eyelashes around brilliant blue eyes, so dazzlingly handsome that it almost hurt to look at him; he was in his mid-forties, his face lined with laughter and outdoor sport, but he was so vital in his personality that he seemed much younger. He fairly glowed with divine light, and Danny could imagine himself falling in love with the man.

But at the same time he hated him intensely: for no matter how much he tried to convince himself otherwise, he was deeply and painfully in love with Marquesa, and Richard stood implacably between them. Marquesa seemed almost diminished by his proximity to Richard: though they didn't touch or in any way act like a couple, Marquesa's whole attitude was one of devotion to the godlike creature beside him; the stunning black satin sheath dress and galaxy of diamonds he wore were presented as an offering rather than the frame and fitting pedestal for the intense personality that Danny loved. It hurt him to see Marquesa like that, and he foolishly tried to drown the hurt in champagne.

By the time everybody had gone home and Valerien and Danny were in bed together, Danny was so drunk that he couldn't perform. Frustrated and depressed, he broke into tears and spent half an hour just wailing inconsolably into Valerien's neck. And though Valerien tried his best to comfort Danny, he was unequal to the task... he'd never himself experienced an emotion so strong as to inspire such heart-wrenched weeping, and felt rather inadequate in the face of Danny's obvious pain.

"Nobody loves me," Danny finally said pathetically when his tears had slowed enough to allow speech.

"I love you," Valerien said, trying to soothe him.

"But you're not in love with me, are you?"

"No, I guess not. But I do love you."

"I love you, too; but I'm not in love with you, either," Danny sat up, suddenly feeling almost sober after his tantrum, and accepted the towel Valerien handed him.

"I never thought you were," Valerien said seriously after a period of thought, "Why are you bringing it up now? I thought things were going well."

"I thought so, too, until I saw Marquesa with Richard tonight. They're in love with each other and I'm in love with Marquesa, and it hurts like you wouldn't believe."

"I'm sorry," Valerien put his arm around Danny's neck and kissed him gently, "I didn't know."

"I didn't know either, until tonight," Danny said, though not entirely truthfully... he'd known all along that his love for Valerien was a pale shadow compared to his love for Marquesa, but he tried to talk himself into loving Valerien just because he was available while Marquesa wasn't. But he didn't like to admit he was using Valerien in such a manner, so hadn't allowed himself to think about it.

Valerien was silent for a long time before asking in a small, unsure voice, "Do you think about him when we're together?"

"Oh, God, no!" Danny was quick to reassure his friend, "I only think about you when I'm with you. And myself, of course. Why, who do you think about?"

"Nobody in particular," Valerien answered with a sly smile.

"Does this mean we're breaking up?" Danny wondered after another long silence.

"I don't see why we should. I'm happy. Are you happy?"

"Mostly. It's 'the next best thing to love,' isn't it?" Danny sang the lyric to one of his favorite torch songs.

"Then let's make a pact: we'll go as we are until we get bored with eachother or 'until the real thing comes along,'" Valerien sang back, surprising Danny with the knowledge of a pop song's lyrics, something he wouldn't ordinarily admit to knowing.

Danny had discovered that Valerien secretly liked a lot of things that he pretended not to for some strange reason... once Danny woke up in the night to find Valerien listening to music on Danny's handheld, demonstrating both an enjoyment for pop music and a knowledge of how to operate a small electronic device, two things he publicly disdained. Danny found this strangely endearing, though he was always puzzled by why Valerien would bother to be so vocally against something that he actually liked. And since they were being so candid with each-other, Danny decided to ask.

"Why do you pretend you don't like pop music?"

"Oh, I don't know," Valerien replied, "I'm just proud and stubborn. And I guess I just don't want everyone to know all about me. I like to have secrets."

"Really? I never would have thought anybody'd make a secret of anything so everyday as music."

"Well, I don't have any big secrets, I have to make due with little ones."

"Tell me another little secret," Danny nestled down beside Valerien like a small child asking to be told a story.

"My father isn't dead, or institutionalized," Valerien said quickly, "He lives at the château with a nurse. He's completely insane, but harmless."

"That's a pretty big secret," Danny said, admiringly, pleased that Valerien had entrusted him with something like that.

"But it's not really my secret, it's the family's; so I make mysteries of my likes and dislikes," Valerien shrugged and turned off the light, then settled down in the bed to go to sleep, "Do you have any secrets?"

"I've been sleeping with Poppy for a few weeks, now," Danny admitted warily.

"That's not a secret, I've known about that all along. In fact, Poppy very cutely asked my permission to, as he put it, 'take a poke' at you. I never considered sexual fidelity a part of our relationship. Tell me a real secret."

"Well, I guess I don't have any. I can keep other people's secrets, but I can't keep any of my own. If it happens to me, I have to tell someone. I've always had a problem with chronic disclosure."

"I think it's cute," Valerien said, smiling in the dark.

"I think your secrets are cute," Danny smiled back, his cock finally behaving as it was supposed to, his hands drifting around Valerien's waist, "I think your ass is cute, too."

"Incorrigible little satyr," Valerien laughed, turning the lights back on; he loved to watch Danny making love to him.

"Who're you calling little?" Danny teased, climbing on top of Valerien and pressing their cocks together. Suddenly Danny was happy again, all his doubts, fears, and worries forgotten as he frolicked in bed with his wonderful fuck-buddy friend.

***

9,688 Words ~ 16 Pages

John William Waterhouse's Narcissus.

Chapter 10, Part 2

2007-10-15T09:40:00.000-07:00

The Invasion of Aunt Tittie's Apartment, or "T.A. Day" as Danny called it, started with an informal meeting over afternoon coffee in Valerien's penthouse apartment on the following Friday. Detective Varajian and Medical Examiner Griggs gawked openly at the eighteenth-century splendors of the vast salon, while RJ Casterman and Charlie Putnam merely appreciated them with the vaguely blasé air of people who'd grown up among similar splendors.

"Do you think Aunt Tittie will mind all of us showing up like this?" Danny wondered, a sense of misgiving infecting his desire to get the truth out of Tittie... it was one thing to threaten her, another thing to come banging on her door backed by a delegation of five men.

"I don't care if Carmichael minds it or not," Valerien responded quietly but angrily over the edge of his cup, "I'm the majority owner of this building, I'll do what I like in it. I only wish I'd put 'obstructing justice' as a termination clause in his co-op agreement. Then we could evict him."

"Oh, don't do that," Danny pleaded for his friend, completely reversing his own stance of the Saturday before, "She probably didn't mean any harm, she's just protecting her privacy."

"Privacy, faugh!" Valerien responded, a little more heatedly, "This practice of bringing strange boys into the building and giving them keys and letting them run loose is dangerously idiotic and has to be stopped. I pay a lot of money for the security of this place, and I want it secure, goddamnit, not infested with purple-haired hustlers. Especially if they're going to go around killing the other tenants."

"I'm sure Mr. Carmichael's intentions were not dishonorable," RJ put in soothingly, "And I do agree that perhaps we might not all have to interview him at the same moment. Perhaps if you and Danny would go talk to him first, while we wait in the wings to take his statements and hunt for traces of Cort Johnson afterward, things might go a bit more smoothly."

"I suppose so," Valerien put down his cup and stood to leave, "But never underestimate the power of intimidation."

"Unfortunately, it's illegal," Detective Varajian said, "And I certainly wouldn't want to put you in a tenuous legal position by being present and having to take official notice of an illegal act."

"Besides," Griggs piped in, "an unwilling witness is an unhelpful witness. Mr. Carmichael is more likely to cooperate, and less likely to hold things back, if you soft-soap rather than hard-ball him."

"Hmph," Valerien snorted contemptuously; he'd be damned before he'd pander to the likes and dislikes of Thomas Carmichael.

"Are we sure he's home?" Danny wondered, finally shrinking from the confrontation that he'd been spoiling for all week.

"We've been watching him ever since we connected him to your visit at The Brat," RJ replied, "I know when he farts, if you'll pardon my language, much less leaves his apartment. He's home right now, most likely at the makeup table."

"Oh," Danny sighed reluctantly and followed the angry Valerien out of the apartment to the elevator; it was nearly four, Tittie was bound to be in the very middle of making up for the evening, and wouldn't relish the intrusion. But the thing had to be done, and with everyone else waiting, he certainly couldn't put it off to a more convenient time... besides, once he'd gotten Valerien involved and irritated about the whole thing, it had gone out of his control: Valerien was accustomed to treating the residents of his building as tenants rather than co-owners, and was more enraged by the hustler/houseboy part of the matter than Aunt Tittie's betrayal of Danny's friendship.

"Mr. Carmichael?" Valerien knocked loudly on Aunt Tittie's door, which was on the tenth floor and at the opposite end of the building from Marshall's, "It's Baron de Seguemont. I want to talk to you."

"I'm indisposed," came an irritated voice from far inside the apartment, "Bugger off."

"I will speak to you now, if you please," Valerien seemed to grow larger with his rage at being treated so dismissively, "Don't make me get the passkey."

"Well of all the motherfucking nerve..." Danny heard Tittie banging about in the apartment and swearing as he made his way to the door, "I own this goddamned apartment, how dare you threaten me with passkeys? What in the hell do you want?"

Aunt Tittie threw the door open and then stepped back, more than surprised to see Danny standing just behind Valerien. He was dressed in a very large silk kimono with cranes painted all over it, his sparse hair covered with a stocking cap, his face a blank mask of foundation with one eye dazzlingly lined and painted in peacock hues.

"Oh, hello, Danny," he had the grace to smile uncomfortably and lower his voice, "What's this all about?"

"I'm sorry to barge in on you at this hour, Aunt Tittie," Danny said apologetically while smoothly entering the apartment and giving him a peck on the cheek, "But we need your help."

"It's not a very effective way of winning friends and influencing people," Aunt Tittie observed dryly, trying to regain her cool, "Threatening people with illegal entry."

"I could swear I heard you calling for help," Valerien said in an offhand way, "And your behavior is not going to sit very well with the co-op board, of which I happen to be the president, as you well know."

"Val, please," Danny gave Valerien his most potent puppy-dog eyes, "Don't be antagonistic. Aunt Tittie will understand once I've explained it to her. See, the thing is, we need your help finding your ex-houseboy, Cort Johnson."

"Are you responsible for those PIs and SFPDs harrassing me about Cort?" Aunt Tittie nearly bellowed, "I would have thought better of you, Danny Vandervere."

"Honestly, I didn't know about the detectives until recently, and you've not spoken to me once since that weekend when I was arrested," Danny turned the puppy-eyes on Tittie and evinced a welling of tears, "I would have come to you directly if I'd known that was you in The Brat with the purple-haired boy."

"I'm sorry, but that's not good enough," Tittie was regretting his behavior but didn't want to admit it just yet, "You could have come to me directly with your questions, even if I was cold-shouldering you, which I assure you I was not."

"I'm sorry, but who comes to whom with questions is beside the point," Valerien inserted himself into the conversation hotly, "The point is that you had an unauthorized tenant of unknown origin on the weekend that a murder was committed in this building; furthermore, you withheld that information even though it would help someone who considers you a friend, for reasons I cannot comprehend. That is the point."

"Well, how the hell was I supposed to know it would help? Cort isn't even connected to this. And what do you want me to do about it, anyway?" Tittie was defensive again, "I don't know where the little shit went, and if I did I'd happily turn him over to you. He stole money from me."

"But you can still help," Danny put himself between Tittie and Valerien and grabbed Tittie's hand pleadingly, "You can let the medical examiner and my detective friend look for traces of Cort, so that if he is found we can place him at the scene with forensic evidence."

"You want to turn my apartment upside-down for fingerprints? I think not."

"I'll pay for the cleaning, naturally," Valerien said scathingly.

"You wouldn't find anything if I did let you," Tittie huffed, "I have cleaned during the last few weeks, I'm not a pig. And besides, he didn't leave anything behind."

"Still, please let them look. I'm desperate," Danny almost cried, "Please?"

"Oh, all right," Tittie relented and walked back into his apartment, "You might as well get on with it. I'm going to go finish putting my face on."

Valerien went off to fetch the detectives while Danny followed Tittie through an apartment crowded with beautiful antique furniture and cluttered with a multitude of movie-themed porcelain collectibles ranging from Gone With The Wind plates to Wizard of Oz figurines.

"Why have you been so distant with me, lately?" Danny asked gently as Tittie settled down at a messy and brightly-lit dressing table in a very untidy bedroom, "I thought our friendship meant something to you."

Tittie looked at him steadily in the mirror for some moments before answering, "I didn't know what to think, whether you were a killer or not. So I decided it was best to just wait and see without getting involved. I'm sorry if that hurt your feelings."

"If it helps anything, I am innocent," Danny offered with a small forgiving smile.

"You think Cort killed the guy? Why?" Tittie was intent on painting his other eye.

"There were purple hairs found in the stairwell near Marshall's apartment, which had been bleached down immediately after the murder. The entire stairwell and all the hallways between that floor and this were bleached, which suggests Cort was watching Marshall's apartment, and didn't want anyone to be able to prove it."

"Well, maybe Cort is your killer... he cleaned this place spic-and-span before he took off with the contents of my wallet and a few of my favorite silver antiques, leaving not a wrack behind."

"You didn't ever take a picture of him?" Danny wondered.

"I did, when he was sleeping, but he found it and took it."

"What about underwear?"

Tittie gave Danny a long, somewhat angry but also begrudgingly admiring look, reached into a drawer at his right, and pulled out a pair of generic white briefs with a few telltale stains of wear, size Medium, "I was hoping you wouldn't ask for that, but since you did, I hope they help."

"You're the best, Aunt Tittie. When you're done getting dressed, can I take you for a drink? I have my car here."

"Some other time, perhaps. But why don't you get going so I can finish putting on my face, I don't want to be here when your myrmidons are tearing my apartment apart. And if they break the tiniest bit of lace off the meanest piece of my Royal Doulton, I'm going to bill your prissy little Baron for it."

"Oh, Valerien's not that bad, he's just a bit autocratic when he's angry. He'll make it up to you when he's calmed down," Danny stood and kissed Tittie on the top of his head, "Thank you so much for your help. I'll take you to dinner any time you're free, OK? And I'll send over a pair of my underwear in exchange for these."

"Mmm-hmmm..." Tittie was putting on lip-liner so couldn't make a more distinct answer.

***

"Nothing, absolutely nothing," Griggs nearly screamed in disgust the next morning when he reviewed the last report of the evidence taken from Aunt Tittie's apartment.

Nothing in the way of hair or bodily fluids was found in Aunt Tittie's apartment, but the smell of bleach still lingered in some of the crevices and corners. The DNA samples found in the underpants had looked so promising, but they didn't match anything in any of the identity databanks; and after dusting every single surface in a fairly large apartment crowded to bursting with surfaces, only four sets of fingerprints were recovered: one belonging to Tittie, two belonging to known hustlers whose movements on the night of the murder were easily established, and a fourth set found on a lightbulb in a closet belonging to someone completely unknown to law enforcement agencies. The mysterious Cort Johnson was, forensically speaking, a non-person.

Nevertheless, the evidence was sealed and stored in connection to the Drayton Marshall files, just in case Cort Johnson ever turned up... which didn't seem very likely. Medical Examiner Griggs reluctantly turned his attention to the several other cases on his desk and put the plight of Danny Vandervere out of his mind.

***

Danny took the news lying down, literally and figuratively. He was enmeshed in his latest pastime, posing for a portrait with Jacky Alvarado, when RJ Casterman and David Varajian came to tell him about the outcome of the forensic search of Aunt Tittie's apartment and the complete lack of identity for Cort Johnson.

"At least we know he was there," Danny shrugged from his position on the dais; he was lying face-down and nude on a velvet-draped mattress in the pose of Waterhouse's Narcissus, staring at the painter through the mirror that lay beneath his head, "And if he does commit a crime somewhere, it will show up in the database, won't it?"

"That's a pretty big 'if,'" Varajian sighed sadly, resting his eyes on Danny's perfect back and buttocks; he couldn't decide if he was more turned on by the nudity or by Danny's complete disregard for who saw him, but was more interested in keeping his arousal hidden from RJ, whose jealously now knew no bounds. Varajian could see, out of the corner of his eye, the younger man flexing his fingers angrily as if wishing to crush somebody's windpipe.

"But isn't it a truism that criminals can't help but get caught eventually? Don't they always get sloppy or return to the scene of the crime, or something?"

"Only in fiction," RJ said, trying, in his turn, to decide if he were more angry at Danny for continuing to pose nude in front of David, at David for continuing to stare at Danny like a hungry dog, or at himself for being jealous of either of them, "In real life things aren't usually so tidy."

"Still, it's better than nothing," Danny shrugged a little but was hissed at by the painter for moving.

"In the meantime," RJ continued, "My people have been canvassing the tenderloin and all of the customers of The Brat about our mysterious young Cort. It seems he never tricked while he was there, he was just hanging out, pretending to be a hustler. The only person he was ever seen leaving with was Carmichael, I mean Aunt Tittie, and that one time with Marshall. He lived in a cheap hotel before he hooked up with Tittie, so the boys all assumed he was a runaway and hadn't completely used up all his money yet."

"And absolutely nobody has any idea where he went," Varajian put in, "He never said where he was from, or where he wanted to go. But hustlers are like that, they're very of-the-moment, no past, no future, so nobody thought it was odd."

"Gentlemen, do you mind?" Jacky Alvarado came out from behind his painting, his hazel eyes flashing with irritation, "You're breaking my concentration."

"I'm sorry, Jacky," Danny apologized without moving, "RJ, David, thank you for coming by and letting me know about the results."

With a few more words of good-bye, the two detectives left, and Danny lapsed back into the indescribable boredom of sitting for an oil portrait.

At first, spending time with the artist was a lot of fun. Jacky was a very handsome young man, with an admirable Latin-American angel's face, delicate bones, big eyes and a succulent mouth, all on top of a small wiry body simply bursting with energy most of the time. When they'd first met, Jacky rhapsodized over Danny's beauty, photographed him for three hours solid, and threw out a thousand ideas for portrait poses.

But then came the actual posing, first for sketches as the artist tried out different compositions and styles (Jacky had declared him a "pure pre-Raphaelite" and tried out Burne-Jones, Leighton, and Morris Hunt before deciding on Waterhouse); at those times, Jacky lapsed into an intensely still concentration, neither talking nor allowing Danny to talk. And though the recumbent pose that was finally decided upon allowed Danny to go to sleep whenever he got too bored, the minute he moved Jacky would yell at him irritably and spend a few minutes making sure he was back in place before returning to the silent painting.

When the two- or three-hour session was over, Jacky would come alive again, snapping pictures with his camera as Danny moved around the studio getting dressed (all of the pictures he shot belonged to Valerien, by the terms of his contract for the painting, and so Danny was able to relax in the knowledge that they would never get out to the general public). He was a wonderful chatterer, and could spin running jokes out of the most mundane pop-culture material; Danny just wished that this liveliness was part of the posing as well as the before and after.

Danny was also worried a little by the fact that these sessions were cutting into his early evenings with Valerien; he didn't miss the hour or so of Valerien's company, but had to wonder if Valerien missed him... or if this portrait were an excuse to have time away from Danny. He didn't dare ask Valerien to declare his intentions, for fear that their escapade would come to an end; and though he was not in love with Valerien, either, he loved their relationship and feared its cease... and so he let the worry fester inside of him, especially during the still hours of his posing.

More worrisome was the fact that his filial relationship with Poppy had turned carnal a few days after the painting was started. One afternoon when he and Poppy were working together in the studio, Poppy had let out a low growl and, as promised weeks before, pounced on Danny without so much as a by-your-leave. He stripped Danny naked and fucked him silly on the couch, and that performance was repeated almost daily thereafter.

This new sexual relationship, though wildly enjoyable (a good deal more enjoyable than his sexual relationship with Valerien), worried him on two counts: first, how would Valerien react if he found out; and second, what had Valerien told Poppy about their relationship that made the older man feel free to pounce on Danny... would Poppy do something that might conceivably take away from Valerien something that Valerien valued, or did Poppy know that Valerien was no longer particularly interested in Danny and was just letting things ride until something better came along?

And even with these worries and the boredome of posing, Danny's life was satisfying enough to keep him really quite happy. His remaining time spent with Valerien was still carefree and romantic, and his work with Poppy was developing into something that Danny considered he might actually make a career of. And he looked forward to the completion of the painting, a form of immortality that he'd always wanted (though he was aware that the immortality would depend largely on whether or not posterity would think as much of Jacky Alvarado as he and Valerien did).

As the date of his arraignment neared, however, Danny had new worries to consider in his still hours: Mr. Casterman painted a very bleak picture of the evidence that would come out at that proceeding; and also outlined the extremely slim but still real chance that Danny's bail could be revoked at that time if the judge were to come to believe Danny was dangerous or that he was more of a flight risk than the ten-million-dollar bond could guarantee.

Though he would ordinarily be inclined to keep the arraignment restricted to a simple plea of Not Guilty, Casterman had decided that a parade of character witnesses could lead to a dismissal before a plea had to even be entered. The downside of this ploy, however, is that the Prosecution could turn some character witnesses to its own ends, and undermine Danny's respectability... especially since it was known that they already had wind of his past filled with mercenary romances.

"While this is certainly not my usual advice," Casterman advised Danny in the Victorian mahogany-paneled confines of his downtown office, "I want you to be perfectly candid about the gifts your various lovers have given you. The Prosecution will use those gifts to paint you as vicious and conniving, and I want the judge to get a load of you at your most disarmingly honest... you're a good enough actor to lie well, but you tell the truth so much better. And besides, you've done nothing illegal, only morally questionable."

"OK," Danny said vaguely, more intent on the notes he was taking of the meeting than of the tone of Casterman's remarks; his time with Poppy had habituated him to writing everything down and then thinking it over later.

"I also want to bring your great-aunts down from Vandervere, but not without your consent."

"Oh, I don't know about that," Danny looked up from his notebook, "I'm not sure I would want them to hear all those details about my sex-life, you know?"

"They'll read about them in the papers next day, anyway," Casterman reasoned, "And they and your former nanny would, I think, be the best witnesses to your character."

"Aren't my friends enough?"

"Your friends here in town have all known you less than two years," the attorney got up and walked aimlessly around his office, "and none of them really knows you all that well, you must admit. Besides which, many of them would look a little shady to a judge... no, I think that we should concentrate on people who've known you a good long time."

"Just don't ask my parents, I doubt they'd give a very glowing report of me."

"Unfortunately, the Prosecution might drag them, and some of your more disreputable friends, into the courtroom to give an account of you. What would your parents say about you?"

"That I'm lazy and sneaky, probably," Danny shrugged and sighed, "That's what they always accused me of. They assumed I didn't get in trouble with Mademoiselle Marnie, when my brother always did, because I was better at subterfuge... it would never have occurred to them that I was simply well-behaved. My brother Tay was an absolute terror. He still is, as far as I can tell."

"That's another thing that will come up... it's being whispered that your family has the town of Vandervere in such a grip that you could have run around killing babies and eating puppies in the town square without official notice being taken."

"Well, that's true to an extent," Danny laughed at the image of a baby-and-puppy barbecue in the gingerbread bandstand of Vandervere Town Square, "Though nobody ever did more than speed a little or get rowdy in a bar. We are WASPs, after all; even our sins are boring."

"Nevertheless, it would be convenient to have a bad report of you from the Vandervere Police to balance that out. Were you ever caught doing anything?"

"Having sex with another boy in the park at night," Danny answered immediately, "The officer let us both off with a warning and never said a word about it to my parents. But I bet he'd be willing to talk about it if it would help me. He's something of a friend."

"How close of a friend?" Casterman asked sternly.

"Just a friend. I was friendly to him when he was new on the job and gave him a tour of the town once. Nothing sexual. He's straight as a board."

"I have a feeling that even boards bend a little when exposed to you," Casterman joked.

"Can I help it if I'm lovable?" Danny joked back, though he wondered if he were bending the great attorney in any way... he really didn't have the energy, between Poppy and Valerien every weekday, and the casual tricking he'd recently resumed over the weekends, to entertain another affair.

***

Soon after the painting was finished, Valerien organized a party to celebrate and unveil the masterwork. Though it would eventually be hung in Valerien's library, due to its greenish color scheme, it was displayed for the first time in the very center of the long salon, a pair of bright lamps on either side of it and a drape of golden damask over the top.

The painting itself was breathtaking, soft and yet dramatic, filled with dappled light that looked so real you felt as if there were slight warmth coming off the canvas. Danny was represented in a perfection that was almost impossible, but the artist swore that he had not idealized one square inch, it was all exactly what was there; and since it was an angle he'd never seen of himself, Danny was fascintated by this new facet of his own beauty.

In his usual manner, Jacky Alvarado had inserted a few additions into the painting that Waterhouse's original lacked: first, the subject was not staring at himself in the reflection of the pond, he was regarding the viewer intently, and the dark brown eyes had been painted in such a way that they seemed to follow the viewer quite eerily; the background vegetation was shaped in such a way as to suggest inorganic objects, vases and pictures and bits of furniture that actually existed in Danny's living room, and there were pieces of Danny's own jewelry secreted in the grass and the bottom of the clear pond. The artist himself was mum on what these little additions were supposed to mean, preferring to let the viewer draw his or her own conclusions.

To Danny it was a revelation... he had always thought of himself, in his darker moments, as vain and materialistic, and the pose of Narcissus certainly reinforced that opinion of himself. But this Narcissus, gazing out at the world through a mirror of vanity, or rather through a veil of beauty, was actually more interested in the people who looked at him than in himself or the things people gave him. It rang of truth, and made Danny like himself a little better.

The reception, however, brought him crashing right back down. It was attended by the very highest cream of society, the outside hall was crammed with bodyguards, and people who were famous for never going anywhere were seen there that night; however, though everyone was perfectly charming to him, Danny overheard whispers about himself, and the whispers weren't very flattering. Nobody said anything outright against him, nobody would dare speak in opposition of Valerien's and Marquesa's sponsorship and support; but there was an undertone to their private conversations that demonstrated a widespread belief that Danny had "hooked" Valerien, that he probably had killed Marshall and would also probably get away with it because of his looks and his willingness to grant sexual favors in exchange for whatever he wanted.

Though the Alvarado portrait showed him as a sensitive and lonely soul, the portrait Society saw was the same old surface of the high-end hustler, more whore than courtesan, sharply on the lookout for what he could get, and not very nice at all. And to drown the sting of this unflattering view of the portrait, Danny drank far more wine than was good for him and was quite drunk only halfway through the evening.

Another sting that sent him running for the bottle was seeing Marquesa there with Richard Allenwhite; though they had arrived separately and alone, they spent their time at the party together, side-by-side, an accepted couple. It was vividly clear, even from the furthest distance of the vast salon, that Marquesa was besotted with Richard, insanely happy just to be standing next to him in a public place; Danny felt the unfamiliar gnaw of jealousy in his heart.

Richard Allenwhite was so godlike that Danny couldn't blame anybody for being in love with him. He was extremely tall and broad with muscle, with golden skin and bright gold hair, bright gold eyelashes around brilliant blue eyes, so dazzlingly handsome that it almost hurt to look at him; he was in his mid-forties, his face lined with laughter and outdoor sport, but he was so vital in his personality that he seemed much younger. He fairly glowed with divine light, and Danny could imagine himself falling in love with the man.

But at the same time he hated him intensely: for no matter how much he tried to convince himself otherwise, he was deeply and painfully in love with Marquesa, and Richard stood implacably between them.

By the time everybody had gone home and Valerien and Danny were in bed together, Danny was so drunk that he couldn't perform. Frustrated and depressed, he broke into tears and spent half an hour just wailing inconsolably into Valerien's neck. And though Valerien tried his best to comfort Danny, he was unequal to the task... he'd never himself experienced an emotion so strong as to inspire such heart-wrenched weeping, and felt rather inadequate in the face of Danny's obvious pain.

"Nobody loves me," Danny finally said pathetically when his tears had slowed enough to allow speech.

"I love you," Valerien said, trying to soothe him.

"But you're not in love with me, are you?"

"No, I guess not. But I do love you."

"I love you, too; but I'm not in love with you, either," Danny sat up, suddenly feeling quite sober after his tantrum, and accepted the towel Valerien handed him.

"I never thought you were," Valerien said seriously after a period of thought, "Why are you bringing it up now? I thought things were going well."

"I thought so, too, until I saw Marquesa with Richard tonight. They're in love with each other and I'm in love with Marquesa, and it hurts like you wouldn't believe."

"I'm sorry," Valerien put his arm around Danny's neck and kissed him gently, "I didn't know."

"I didn't know either, until tonight," Danny said, though not entirely truthfully... he'd known all along that his love for Valerien was a pale shadow compared to his love for Marquesa, but he tried to talk himself into loving Valerien just because he was available while Marquesa wasn't. But he didn't like to admit he was using Valerien in such a manner, so hadn't allowed himself to think about it.

Valerien was silent for a long time before asking in a small, unsure voice, "Do you think about him when we're together?"

"Oh, God, no!" Danny was quick to reassure his friend, "I only think about you when I'm with you. And myself, of course. Why, who do you think about?"

"Nobody in particular," Valerien answered with a sly smile.

"Does this mean we're breaking up?" Danny wondered after another long silence.

"I don't see why we should. I'm happy. Are you happy?"

"Mostly. It's 'the next best thing to love,' isn't it?" Danny sang the lyric to one of his favorite torch songs.

"Then let's make a pact: we'll go as we are until we get bored with eachother or 'until the real thing comes along,'" Valerien sang back, surprising Danny with the knowledge of a pop song's lyrics, something he wouldn't ordinarily admit to knowing.

Danny had discovered that Valerien secretly liked a lot of things that he pretended not to for some strange reason... once Danny woke up in the night to find Valerien listening to music on Danny's handheld, demonstrating both an enjoyment for pop music and a knowledge of how to operate a small electronic device, two things he publically disdained. Danny found this strangely endearing, though he was always puzzled by why Valerien would bother to be so vocally against something that he actually liked. And since they were being so candid with each-other, Danny decided to ask.

"Why do you pretend you don't like pop music?"

"Oh, I don't know," Valerien replied, "I'm just proud and stubborn. And I guess I just don't want everyone to know all about me. I like to have secrets."

"Really? I never would have thought anybody'd make a secret of anything so everyday as music."

"Well, I don't have any big secrets, I have to make due with little ones."

"Tell me another little secret," Danny nestled down beside Valerien like a small child asking to be told a story.

"My father isn't dead, or institutionalized," Valerien said quickly, "He lives at the chateau with a nurse. He's completely insane, but harmless."

"That's a pretty big secret," Danny said, admiringly, pleased that Valerien had entrusted him with something like that.

"But it's not mine, so I make mysteries of my likes and dislikes," Valerien shrugged and turned off the light, then settled down in the bed to go to sleep, "Do you have any secrets?"

"I've been sleeping with Poppy for a few weeks, now," Danny admitted warily.

"That's not a secret, I knew all about it. I never considered sexual fidelity a part of our relationship. Tell me a real secret."

"Well, I guess I don't have any. I can keep other people's secrets, but I can't keep any of my own. If it occurs to me to say something, I usually say it. I've always had a problem with chronic disclosure."

"I think it's cute," Valerien said, smiling in the dark.

"I think your secrets are cute," Danny smiled back, his cock finally behaving as it was supposed to, his hands drifting around Valerien's waist, "I think your ass is cute, too."

"Incorrigible little satyr," Valerien laughed, turning the lights back on; he loved to watch Danny making love to him.

"Who're you calling little?" Danny teased, climbing on top of Valerien and pressing their cocks together. Suddenly Danny was happy again, all his doubts, fears, and worries forgotten as he frolicked in bed with his wonderful fuck-buddy friend.

Chapter 10, Part 1

2007-10-05T11:10:00.000-07:00

The next few weeks passed in a blur as Danny experienced two completely new elements of life: working at a real job and participating in a real relationship.

Nothing about his work with Poppy was completely alien to him, he was an expert at schmoozing rich people and knowledgeable about interior design, and his college career had certainly prepared him for clerical work like note-taking, transcription, and writing instructional letters; but showing up at nine every morning, ready to answer phones or take notes or harrass contractors was a delightful novelty that did not stale with custom.

The work itself was immensely satisfying: Danny loved getting up with an alarm-clock and driving to work in the mornings wearing a jacket, answering the phone with a brisk and cheerful "Ermengratz Design Associates, this is Danny, how may I help you?" and visiting some of the most beautiful houses in the City with a view of making them more beautiful. He learned an enormous amount from Poppy about interior design, and felt that his suggestions were taken seriously and appreciated.

Danny became very close to Poppy in those weeks, as they were constantly together, visiting clients and having lunch, then working out together before spending the afternoon doing clerical work in the office. Poppy tacitly adopted Danny as a sort of nephew/protegé and constantly advised him on his life and his wardrobe.

Danny found this relationship even more satisfying than the job. Poppy was very wise, having not only lived in different eras but in different lifestyles and serveral different important cities: he'd come of age in the time of the Stonewall Riots and lived that exciting ensuing decade in the heart of Manhattan; after Toddy Ermengratz died in '83, he'd rocketed around Europe and South America, cravenly (by his own admission) avoiding the worst of the AIDS crisis; he'd lived in Hollywood and Miami and Seattle during the 90s, and moved to San Francisco on the eve of the Millennium. He'd quite literally been everywhere and seen everything, and was fond of remeniscing about all these different times and places.

More importantly, he'd observed and synthesized a great deal about people and the way their minds worked. He was a genius of human behavior, and Danny delighted in having people explained to him... especially himself. Poppy saw through every mannerism and behavior Danny exhibited, and would root out the cause and desire behind each one. It was very much like having a psychiatrist and an agony-aunt at one's beck and call.

Poppy's most aired advice had to do with Valerien. Poppy had met Valerien on the occasion of the latter's eighteenth birthday, when the Comtesse had Valerien's rooms at the Chateau redecorated for him by Poppy. Valerien was enchanted by Poppy's funny camp mannerisms, and Poppy was entranced by Valerien's fairy-tale beauty and innocence. They became good friends during the time of the redecoration, and so Poppy was the obvious choice of decorator when Valerien moved into the "bachelor apartment" that his family owned, where his father and grandfather had each lived before marrying and moving into the family's Pacific Heights mansion.

Poppy understood Valerien perhaps better than anyone, and was indulgent of his foibles to the point of foolishness. For example, Valerien's refusal to learn to drive a car or use a computer, as well as his unblinking prejudice against any form of music or art that came into existence after the assassination of Archduke Ferdinand, was considered the cutest little quirk rather than a potentially serious sociopathy.

"He's my Little Proust Princeling," Poppy would explain, "Or my Little Prince Proustling? He simply refuses to participate in the modern world, and who can blame him?"

"What about disco and gay rights?" Danny would counter, bringing up two of Poppy's favorite topics.

"That sort of thing is important for people who have to live in this time, or who like living in this time, like you and me. For people like Valerien, who have the power to be gay whenever they want and the money to rearrange their reality to the exclusion of anything they don't want, it just doesn't matter. He's like a period movie come to life, isn't he? I love him to pieces."

While Danny wasn't sure that this head-in-the-sand approach to reality was wise, he loved Valerien, too. And though Danny had many affairs, he'd never been in what he and the other party considered a serious relationship. He spent all of his free time with Valerien, and all of their activities were the type considered "romantic."

Every morning, there was a new bouquet of Leonidas roses and alstroemeria lilies waiting on Danny's desk, and Danny always met Valerien wearing one of each in his buttonhole. Every afternoon Valerien's Rolls picked Danny up at the Ermengratz offices, then they had sex before preparing for an evening out. Every evening, they dined together in posh restaurants, went to parties and the theatre and the opera together; they even danced together at a charity ball and took moonlit walks along the beach or through one of the City's many parks (with two security goons in close attendance, of course). Every night they slept together in either Danny's or Valerien's apartment, taking turns as host, with Valerien's valet Henri running back and forth between the apartments with one or the other's clothes for the next day.

Unfortunately, Danny realized after only a few days that, though he loved Valerien dearly, he wasn't in love with him and would never fall in love with him. Having experienced the sensation of falling head-over-heels for Marquesa, he knew what it was supposed to feel like, and he knew that this wasn't It.

Nor did Danny believe that Valerien was in love with him. Their relationship felt a little like play-acting, the romantic activities seemed a trifle contrived, and their sex was more fun than fierce... instead of true lovers, they'd become more like fuck-buddies who happened to be monogamous.

There was a certain lack of intimacy in their conversations: though he'd gleaned little bits of biography from passing comments and Poppy's trove of information (such as the touchy subject of his parents, that his father had murdered his mother during a drug-induced hallucination and was institutionalized as criminally insane), Valerien never talked about his own past the way Danny and Marquesa had over that weekend in the hotel.

He was forthcoming about his current activities, little experiences at the offices of his family's bank or a new purchase at the auction galleries or something to do with his horses in the country... but never anything about his inner life, his emotions, or his dreams for the future. Nor was he particularly interested in hearing about Danny's, and didn't encourage any kind of conversation that had to do with anything that was not of-the-moment.

There was also the issue of money. Valerien was constantly buying Danny expensive gifts, jewelry and clothes and extravagant little trifles like a sable teddy bear or a case of rare wine; he even gave Danny a credit card, insisting that he use it frequently lest he hurt the giver's feelings. And though Danny most frequently used the credit-card to buy gifts for Valerien, these things put him right back into the Courtesan role he had tried to escape in favor of the role of Lover.

However, it was enough. Between the novelty of working and the novelty of Valerien, Danny was very nearly as happy as he'd been during that weekend with Marquesa... not quite bliss, but the very next best thing.

During this period, Danny and Marquesa very seldom met. As Danny and Valerien were always together at the social events that Valerien and Marquesa had been accustomed to attend together, Marquesa chose other men from their social set to escort him to those events rather than act as a third wheel. Danny would have worried that he was coming between Valerien and Marquesa, except that Marquesa spent every weekend with Valerien at the Chateau de Seguemont near Sonoma, where Danny could not follow because the terms of his bail required him to remain at all times within the City and County of San Francisco.

Instead, Danny spent his weekends swimming and being pampered at the spa, going out dancing (to the newest music), chatting with old friends (many of whom had returned, apologetically, after the scandal of his arrest had dimmed in the public memory... though a number of them, including Aunt Tittie, were distinctly chilly), and catching up on the sleep he missed by keeping such odd hours during the week.

In betweentimes, he shopped for Valerien. The young baron was indecently difficult to shop for, being already supplied with all the world could provide by way of luxuries. But Danny considered that a challenge, and was always on the prowl for little bibelots and curiosities to delight Valerien.

And it was at an auction-house, where Danny had gone to bid on a miniature on ivory purportedly of the Marquise de Pompadour (a favorite figure and ancestress of Valerien's), that he was reminded, once again by force and surprise, of his impending murder trial: right beside him in the auction-room was Rodney Casterman, Esquire, bidding on several pieces of seventeenth-century silver Judaica.

"I wanted to congratulate you," Mr. Casterman said to Danny after that auction had ended and conversation was again possible, "The suggestions for avenues of investigation were very helpful to my son. Several have borne very useful fruit. You may have a future as a detective, yourself."

"That's very gratifying," Danny replied, "I'd like to hear about some of this fruit someday."

"I must arrange a meeting with you and RJ, then. I think your perspective will be useful in piecing together the evidence thus far. Also, I need to meet with you in the next two or three weeks, your arraignment date has finally been set for July 11th, and I have to go over the procedure with you."

"I'll have to ask my boss for time off," Danny laughed delightedly, "I've never had to do that before. It's great fun, having a job!"

"I'm glad you enjoy it," Casterman responded dryly but indulgently, "Shall we say the twenty-third of June? I think that's the Monday. I'll have my secretary call you. And RJ will contact you directly about discussing the evidence. Perhaps next weekend?"

"That would be delightful."

The bidding started up again, and Mr. Casterman took his leave with the receipt for a beautifully chased Kiddush cup while Danny waited around for his ivory miniature to be snatched away by another bidder at an amount higher than his own credit cards and Valerien's combined could bear.

Danny later discovered, when Valerien gave him the Pompadour miniature, that he'd been beaten by the intended recipient.

***

Chapter Nine (Complete)

2007-09-28T14:04:00.000-07:00

Danny woke up when the phone rang, disoriented by the unaccustomed location and the unmeasured passage of time. He groggily reached over for the instrument and mumbled into it.

"Monsieur Vandervere?," came a crisp French-accented voice, "Mademoiselle Willard-Wilkes's manservant is here. May I send him up?"

"Mmmph," Danny didn't want to see the man, but knew that Marquesa would want his clothes and jewelry back, "Okay."

"Very good, m'sieu."

Sitting up in the bed, Danny wondered if he should just stay where he was and pretend to be asleep, or if he should hide in the bathroom; but by the time Danvers knocked, he realized he'd have to let the man into the suite. So he put on his bathrobe, knotted the cord firmly, and opened the door.

"Good afternoon, sir," Danvers bowed slightly, though not as crisply as he had before, and his expression was softer, not so disapproving, "I hope I'm not disturbing you."

"I was just going to take a shower," Danny walked out of the room with what he hoped was an air of unconcern, locking the bathroom door behind him. He turned on the water but didn't get in; instead, he sat on the little bathroom stool in the corner and listened to the manservant moving around in the bedroom, wishing he would leave so Danny could go back to bed.

After half an hour, there was a quiet knock on the bathroom door that startled Danny out of the trance of blank waiting he'd fallen into. The room had filled up with steam, and he couldn't see anything.

"Is there anything I can do for you, sir?" Danvers's voice came softly through the door.

"I can't hear you, I'm in the shower," Danny lied.

"Very good, sir," the servant said loudly, then dropped his voice to a low rumble that could barely be heard, "Though I can't help but notice your voice came from the opposite side of the room from the shower, and that water makes a different sound falling on a body than on an empty floor."

Danny blushed crimson, humiliated to be caught out in the lie, but didn't answer.

"I've put your clothes away, sir," Danvers resumed in his louder professional voice, "and laid out something suitable in case you choose to go to the lounge for tea, as well as your dinner clothes. Mr. Willard-Wilkes sent some cash for tips and incidentals, it's in an envelope on the table in the foyer. Good afternoon, sir."

"Thank you," Danny called out, getting hastily into the shower so that he wouldn't have to admit that he hadn't been there in the first place; he wanted to say something more articulate in gratitude for Danvers' thoughtfulness, but the words didn't come. When he did finally get out of the shower, he put on a good deal of body-lotion and combed his hair with undue thoroughness before returning to the bedroom, killing time to make sure the man was gone.

Danvers had laid out a very nice outfit on the bed, a snappy blue-and-white striped shirt with a dull red silk sweater and tan linen pants, with socks and underwear lying on top and a pair of cordovan loafers neatly placed on the floor. The dinner-suit was laid out with equal precision on the other side of the bed, with a navy blue satin tie and waistcoat.

Danny put on the afternoon clothes, for no reason other than that they were there, since he didn't intend to leave the suite any time soon. The dinner-suit he put back in the closet, not wanting to look at it... it had happy memories attached to it, and Danny didn't want to think happy thoughts.

The envelope of money gave him a sting of pain: it contained a stack of twenties and another stack of fifties, full inch-thick US Mint hundred-count packets with the denomination bands unbroken, more money than he could possibly hand out in tips if he stayed at the Queen Charlotte all summer. This was clearly the "walking-around money" or "cab-fare" or "pick out a present from me" that stood as a euphemism for the amateur prostitute's fee.

Seven thousand dollars was a pretty good fee for a weekend, and Danny had to smile at the generosity; but this unnecessarily large sum underlined for Danny the fact that this had been just a weekend fling for Marquesa. They could still be friends, as close as Danny usually was with his moneyed tricks; but considering the two packets of cash for "incidentals" along with the hotel bills and the new wardrobe from Saks, not to mention half of the million-dollar bail bond, there was simply too much expenditure involved for Danny to ever feel on equal footing with Marquesa. He was irrevocably cast in his usual role of Courtesan instead of his desired role of Lover.

Dropping the cash negligently into a drawer, Danny lay down on the couch and watched television for a few hours, changing channels with an impatient sneer when anything even remotely romantic came on, slipping occasionally into a deep sleep and waking with a start when something loud happened on the TV.

When he eventually got hungry, he ordered up a selection of canape-sized comfort foods, baby quiches and tiny shepherd's pies and sinfully cheesy crab-puffs, along with a couple of bottles of oaky white wine, so that he wouldn't have to think about food for a while, he could just nibble and sip whenever the mood took him.

The waiter set up some of the food on the coffee table between the couch and the television, and put one of the bottles of wine in an ice-bucket to chill, then took the rest into the little wet-bar/kitchen Danny hadn't realized was there, hidden beside the little foyer behind a folding wall-panel. As soon as the waiter left, with a nice crisp fifty tucked into his pocket, Danny resumed his vigil on the couch, flipping channels pointlessly, occasionally turning over to stare at the ceiling or the upholstery, dozing off every now and then as he'd been doing all day.

He felt (he decided after a long time casting about for the right word) bleak. Bleak and empty, like a Nevada salt-flat in winter... he was no longer especially sad, the hurt of the morning had dulled to a dreary numbness, and he simply didn't want anything... didn't want to eat, didn't want to read, didn't want to talk, didn't want to move, didn't want to feel pleasure, didn't want to think.

But he did think: he thought about how stupid he'd been to believe that Marquesa was falling in love with him as he'd fallen in love with Marquesa; he thought about the matter-of-fact way Marquesa had recommended going after Valerien instead, and the cavalier attitude about the "tips and incidentals"; he thought even more about how that coldness had excited him in the first place; he thought about all the time he'd wanted to fall in love without having the tiniest idea how much it could hurt; he thought about what a fool he was.

Sometime in the very early hours of the next morning, however, Danny finally got bored with his inertia. His was a nature that was ill-suited for wallowing in unhappiness... he could be unhappy, but he was incapable of lying around with it for very long. He had to get up and do something to take his mind off it. He got up and peeled out of the stale wrinkled clothes he'd been wearing for over twelve hours, then opened the window and leaned out for some fresh air, feeling his skin come alive in the chilly damp.

Leafing through the little book of the hotel's amenities, he was pleased to discover the place had a small gymnasium and swimming pool in the basement that would open at 6 a.m. Checking the little clock on the desk, Danny was irritated to find that it was only 4... but then decided that a couple of fifties could probably get a helpful desk-clerk to open them up for him. Calling downstairs, he discovered that the night manager would be delighted to accomodate Monsieur Vandervere regardless of the hour (news of his increased tipping power must have already been circulated among the staff).

Rummaging through the dresser that had been arranged with a neatness that was almost pathological, Danny selected a scandalously brief white swimsuit, a pair of tight underwear-thin grey fleece shorts, and a thin zip-up black hoodie that was two sizes too small and clung to his torso like paint. The sneakers Andrew had sent weren't the kind Danny liked, but they were sufficient, and the little white socks had cute Japanese anime penguins embroidered on them.

Running down the stairs to the basement, Danny felt a rush of physical well-being: his heart might be broken, but his body was still a beautiful perfect machine capable of all sorts of pleasures. The night-manager was clearly taken aback, both by Danny's slutty attire and by the four bills Danny pressed into his hand (he was determined to blow through at least one of the stacks of money, and had perversely settled on the higher denomination), and led a brief tour of the small but luxurious facilities, pointing out the Art Deco mosaic murals imported from a bath-house in Paris, turning on all the lights, the televisions, and the stereo before taking his leave.

Danny stripped off his hoodie, grabbed the biggest bottle of water he could find in the cooler, and got up onto an elliptical machine, bopping his head to the beat of the generic Top-40 dance music that came pouring out of the hidden speakers, and lost himself in the rhythm of his own heartbeat and breathing. It was infinitely more worry-suppressing than watching television, and he wondered why he hadn't thought of this simple expedient sooner.

After forty minutes of cardiovascular exercise, he did a circuit of the weight machines, not pushing himself very hard since he was alone in the gym and didn't have a spotter; and once every muscle in his body had been worked over and was glowing with warmth, he pulled off his gym-shorts and dove into the long narrow pool.

The water was deliciously cool and shocked his sweaty skin refreshingly. He swam laps, freestyle to one end and backstroke to the other, pushing himself until he was so tired that he had to get out of the pool for fear of drowning. He flopped face-first onto a towel-draped chaise-longue, completely exhausted and wonderfully free of nagging thoughts, and went right back to sleep.

"Hey, are you OK?" Danny felt a hand shaking his shoulder.

"Just sleeping," he replied quietly, peeking at the stranger through one eye; it was a rather pretty boy, Danny guessed him to be eighteen or nineteen, with straight black hair and starry blue eyes, spanked pink cheeks and a soft red mouth. His face was square and his cheekbones perfect, but there was an endearing sense of the unfinished to his features that was very appealing.

"Oh," the boy looked embarrassed, his smooth cheeks deepening to carmine, "You were kind of whimpering, I though you were sick."

"Whimpering?" Danny raised himself up on both elbows to take a better look at the boy, running his eyes over the narrow, tight-muscled boyish frame in a pair of very baggy red boardshorts, his luminescent pink skin and charmingly awkward movements, "How mortifying."

"I'll leave you alone, then," the boy sounded disappointed and started to get up.

"Don't go away," Danny heard a note of begging in his voice and strove to master it with a more confident and seductive tone, "What's your name?"

"Jared," the boy happily sat cross-legged on the floor and put out his hand.

"I'm Danny. Pleased to meet you," he rolled over onto his side, artlessly displaying his half-hard cock taking up far too much room in the front of the tiny white bikini, but smiling happily as the boy's eyes bugged out and his mouth dropped open, "Where are you from, Jared?"

Jared tore his gaze from Danny's crotch with some effort, gulped loudly, and stammered out, "Cincinnati."

"Are you here with your family?" Danny reached down and pushed his erection back down under the waistband as if it were the most natural thing in the world to do, smirking to himself as Jared's erection sprang up and tented his red shorts.

"He's supposed to be my uncle," Jared murmured, his eyes riveted back onto Danny's cock.

"Supposed to be?"

"Oh! I mean," Jared looked alarmed, his eyes big and the blush deepening again on his cheek, "I mean I am here with my uncle."

"Oh, don't worry, baby, I have plenty of 'uncles' myself. Does your uncle mind you playing around?"

Jared gulped again and stared mutely for a few moments before shaking his head no. Danny pulled him to his feet and led him by the hand through the empty locker-room and into the billowing steam of the wet sauna. Once the door was closed securely, he was on the boy with a passion, raping his mouth and wrapping both hands around the boy's long cock. Jared put his hands on Danny's body, first on his arms, then his waist, then his shoulders, as if he weren't sure where they should be; eventually he settled on the hips and seemed particularly fascinated with the line of the pelvic girdle.

Since the bathing facilities in the Hotel Queen Charlotte weren't the type to keep great bowls full of prophylactics on every table and counter, Danny kept their activities limited to oral and frottage... more the latter than the former, as Jared couldn't keep his teeth out of the way; the boy was passionate but had no skill whatever. Streaming with sweat, they slid around together on the sauna bench like eels; the boy shot off twice before Danny came, making an adorable squealing sound each time that made Danny laugh. Spent and sticky, they lolled in silence for a little while, Jared trying to catch his breath and Danny nearly falling asleep again.

"I really wish you'd fuck me," Jared finally broke the silence in a timid voice.

"I'd love to, baby, but I don't have any condoms here," Danny replied, his face buried in the boy's neck, "and nothing personal, but I'd really rather not take you back to my room."

"Do have a fake uncle in your room, too?" Jared wondered, his mind finally cleared enough of sex to return to their previous conversation.

"Not at the moment," Danny laughed, pulling back on one elbow to look down at the boy, tracing the pretty features with his index finger, refusing to think about why he didn't want to take someone back to the room where he'd fallen in love with Marquesa, "But I just don't feel right about it. Let's go take a shower, we're all sticky."

Crowded warmly into a single stall, Danny and Jared washed each-other carefully and a little too thoroughly; soon they were inflamed to passion, and they thrashed and writhed their way to another climax.

"What's your uncle's name?" Danny asked conversationally, shaking off the sleepiness that was threatening again.

"I probably shouldn't tell you," Jared sighed after a long silence, stepping out of the shower.

"Why not?" Danny laughed, "Is he that closeted?"

"No... I mean, he's not obvious or anything, but he doesn't hide that he's gay."

"Then you must be underage," Danny reasoned, toweling his hair, "How old are you?"

"Eighteen," Jared said without conviction, his eyes darting about with comic guilt.

"You don't lie very well, little one," Danny shook his head in mock exasperation, "But I guess it doesn't matter now, after the fact. You can't unbreak an egg and you can't unfuck a teenager."

"But you haven't fucked me...yet," Jared teased.

"Nor am I going to, Little Miss Lolita," Danny ruffled the boy's hair playfully, "But I will take you to breakfast. Why don't you go upstairs and get dressed, and I'll meet you in the lobby."

Danny felt very nearly happy again as he returned to his suite and selected a kicking-around outfit of artfully distressed jeans, vividly striped narrow-cut dress shirt, and suede sandals. The sorrow had been blown apart by the physical pleasures of exercise and sex, and the bleakness was submerged in the delight of a new person to experience.

He returned to the lobby before Jared, so Danny took a moment to visit the concierge and order immense and ridiculously expensive flower-arrangements sent to Marquesa and Valerien with thank-you notes, as well as more subdued tributes to Mr. Casterman and the Aunt Ems. With a hefty gratuity to Phillipe, the bundle of fifties was satisfactorily dented by this exercise.

Tucking the roll of bills into his pocket next to his loose cock, which made him feel wonderfully dirty, Danny went back out to the lobby to find Jared waiting for him; the boy looked acutely embarrassed, shifting from one foot to the other with his eyes on the floor.

"Where shall we eat, baby? The grill-room here, or shall we go exploring instead?" Danny hooked a finger into the boy's belt-loop.

"I can't go," Jared rolled his eyes in exasperation, "Crosby insisted on meeting you. He wants me to invite you to have breakfast with us."

"Crosby's a smart man," Danny threw his arm around the boy's shoulder and led him into the grill room, a high square chamber paneled in dark wood, with white-clothed round tables and tall windows facing the street, "If I was him, I wouldn't let you out of my sight for a minute. But before I meet him, did you tell him what we did this morning?"

"No, of course not!" the boy blushed again.

"He'll probably know. I mean, look at me... who could say 'No' to all this?" Danny struck a glamorous pose, making Jared laugh, "And I doubt he'll mind. You should never be dishonest in your relationships, Jared. It always leads to trouble. Let's go meet Uncle Crosby."

Crosby Hungerford looked like somebody's uncle... comically avuncular, with a perfectly round little head on top of a perfectly round little body, rendered jaunty by a pointed Vandyke beard on his small-featured face and a bright Tartan waistcoat peeking out of his soft tweed suit. He appeared to be in his mid-fifties, and had the comfortable blasé air of a dilettante with very old family money.

When he rose to meet his protege's new friend, he was clearly taken by surprise... his jaw dropped and his little black eyes widened in alarm. Danny was of course accustomed to such reactions, it was the price of being so shockingly beautiful; and as he always did in such situations, he turned on his most polished social charms to try to put the man at his ease.

"Good morning, Mr. Hungerford," Danny put out his hand enthusiastically, "It's so good to meet you after hearing so much about you from Jared."

"Thank you," Crosby said somewhat shakily, then made an obvious effort to pull himself together, "Won't you sit down, Mr... Vandervere, was it?"

"Please, call me Danny," he took the chair Crosby indicated, "Thank you so much for inviting me to breakfast. One gets a little lonely staying in a hotel on one's own."

Conversation became less strained and rather general quite quickly; between Crosby's and Danny's combined breeding and manners, the interaction remained on a very smooth surface of small-talk and pleasantries. But all the while, Danny was watching Crosby, wondering what it was that was making him so uncomfortable underneath his Society veneer... for the little man was unmistakably anxious about something: his eyes darted back and forth between Danny and Jared, and his hands fiddled nervously with the tableware. Was he anxious that Danny was going to steal Jared away from him?

It didn't seem likely, though, that Crosby would have attained the age and suavité required to keep a young boyfriend without understanding that kept boys don't leave their keepers for other boys, they don't give up security and luxury for mere hot sex. It simply isn't done. Was Jared so unpredictable that Crosby would fear losing him to a beautiful stranger in a hotel?

On the other hand, Danny understood that he wasn't the usual pretty-boy one meets on the circuit... he was expensively dressed and expensively educated, he was staying in an expensive hotel alone... to all appearances, he could be someone who could provide both the hot sex and the security that a boy like Jared would want.

And so to alleviate his fears, Danny focused most of his attention, with a subtle undertone of flirtation, on Crosby; he included Jared in the conversation and the flirtation, but he did everything he could to indicate that he wasn't interested in stealing Jared away. He actually started plotting how he could get a three-way going with Jared and Crosby together, which would certainly make the rest of the day pass rather pleasantly.

But it was not to be. When he had finished his very French breakfast of dense bread and soft cheese, and downed the last of the very strong coffee, he offered to take the pair sight-seeing... though they had probably been all over town during their vacation, it's always special to be shown around by a local who knows some of the hidden beauty-spots and interesting local history.

"No, thank you, Danny," Crosby said, wiping his mouth fastidiously and smiling uncomfortably, "We're leaving soon, and I need to get to the packing."

"Oh, come on," Jared protested, "We're not leaving until tomorrow afternoon. Besides, the valet will do the packing, won't he?"

"I need to supervise," Crosby offered lamely.

"Well, can I go?" Jared asked, a tone of impatience in his voice.

"I'd really rather you didn't," Crosby said in a very parental tone, a tone that begged a child to stop pursuing the question.

"Why not!?" Jared demanded.

"Well, really, Jared, you put me in a most awkward position," Crosby finally relaxed a little and shook his head, "I didn't want to hurt Danny's feelings. But I cannot let you go out alone with a suspected murderer."

Silence engulfed the little table after this bombshell. Danny was completely staggered... after all of the emotional upheaval of his weekend with Marquesa, he'd quite forgotten about that problem. Jared stared thunderstruck, and Crosby looked horribly embarrassed to have said something so inescapably rude.

"I am sorry, Mr. Vandervere," Crosby eventually turned to Danny, "You're a very charming young man, and I am loath to suspect you of such a foul crime; but I have a duty to protect Jared, and that has to come first."

"I completely understand," Danny breathed out, still reverberating from the shock.

"What are you talking about?" Jared almost screamed, "Danny's not a murderer! I've been with him all morning!"

"Jared, please," Crosby pleaded quietly, reaching across the corner of the table and taking the boy's hand, "I'm sure he's innocent, but the suspicion is there, and I can't take a chance with your safety."

"That's ridiculous, I'm not in any danger," Jared shook off Crosby's hand and crossed his arms sulkily over his chest, with a little pout of impatience that was so completely adorable that Danny wanted him even more. It made him sad that he wouldn't be able to experience more of the boy.

"No, Jared, Crosby's right," Danny slowly pushed back from the table and dropped his napkin on his plate, "He's responsible for you, and it would be remiss of him to let you go out with someone he has reason to suspect. I understand completely. And Mr. Hungerford, I hold you no ill will; in fact, I hope we can meet again once my innocence has been established. Thank you very much for breakfast."

With all the sangfroid he could muster, Danny got up from the table, gave Jared a little peck on the cheek, shook Crosby's proffered hand, and left the grill room; leaving the room, he could hear Jared's continued protestations and Crosby's quiet refusal to be budged. Passing the concierge's desk, he ordered a fruit-basket to be sent to Mr. Hungerford, along with his calling card, and asked that a valet be sent to pack up his clothes: he was going to check out immediately.

"Murder Suspect," Danny sneered at himself in the mirror upon returning to his suite, mourning the cozy adventure with Jared and Crosby that he'd been planning but which was snatched away from him by those two nasty words, "Danny Vandervere, suspected murderer. God damn it!"

Danny kicked hard at the wainscoting, forgetting that he was wearing sandals, and fell cursing to the floor when the pain of a stubbed toe shot up his leg. He was huddled up on the floor crying and swearing, more from temper than from hurt, when the valet came in and silently started packing Danny's clothes for him in the two Vuitton suitcases Danvers had left for him.

The valet was done in a matter of minutes; the clothes had been folded so neatly by Marquesa's manservant that is was only a matter of transferring them from closet and drawer to suitcase; Danny pulled himself together enough to tip the valet, and leave a few more bills on the dresser for housekeeping. He put all his loose objects, his handheld and the rest of the money, into a small shopping bag, and said farewell to the suite with a sad little sigh. Making his way back to the lobby, he asked for a cab to be called, then sulked into the dark and empty bar; it wasn't actually open, but Phillipe took pity on the obviously depressed young guest and slid behind the bar to pour Danny a generous brandy, then left him alone to wait for the car that would take him home.

But while Danny was depressed by his situation, the many unhappy upheavals of his recent past, the sadness was quickly being subsumed by a simmering rage... not toward Crosby Hungerford, whose behavior was completely reasonable, but rather toward whoever had killed Drayton Marshall.

He hadn't thought about Marshall for days, but now that the murder had been brought back to his attention, he was simply furious: killing the unsavory Marshall he could understand, and maybe even forgive; but pinning the murder so securely and deliberately on an innocent bystander bespoke a disregard for other people that should not go unpunished. Danny was enflamed with a desire to hunt down the killer, not just for his own sake, either for establishing his innocence or exacting his revenge, but for the sake of Justice itself.

Warmed by the resonance of this sentiment, as well as by the large brandy, Danny felt his anger resolve into a purpose. Fishing his handheld out of the little shopping bag, he started making notes to follow up on various questions concerning Marshall's life and death, such as the whereabouts of Marshall's son on the night of the murder, as well as some barely-remembered oddities about his meeting with Marshall in The Brat... the identity of the parrot-shirted man, the peculiar behavior of the purple-haired boy who stared at him so, Marshall's well-known predilection for hustlers, and the wide variety of drugs in his apartment.

This sense of purpose carried Danny all the way out of the hotel and into the waiting towncar without a backward glance at the Hotel Queen Charlotte. He continued making notes as he rode home, and was a little bit startled when the car came to a stop.

A lone reporter was lurking outside Danny's door, beside an enormous man who could could best be described as a "goon," an impressively ugly hulk in a dark suit and darker glasses standing at ease right in front of the gate.

Danny had to produce identification before the goon would let him pass; and all the while Danny was rummaging around for his wallet and producing his driver's license, the weedy little reporter threw importunate questions at him in a small whiney voice.

"Why did you kill Drayton Marshall?" was the one question out of many that actually caught Danny's attention. He turned to look at the little man, sweeping his eyes disdainfully over the rumpled dust-colored clothing, scrawny awkward phsyique, and a face that made Woody Allen look downright pretty by comparison.

"I didn't kill Drayton Marshall," Danny said slowly and clearly, as if speaking to a recalcitrant child.

"Then why were you hiding? Where have you been all week?"

"I've been staying in a hotel, avoiding people like you. Good afternoon."

"Then who do you think did kill him?" the reporter called after Danny as he passed through the iron gate onto the outside stairs.

"I really don't know," Danny said, turning on the last step and facing the reporter with some interest, "But I'll tell you what I do know: I'm going to do whatever I can to find out who did kill him. Print that in whatever ghastly little rag you represent."

Smiling happily to himself, though realizing that Mr. Casterman would probably scold him fiercely for that overly dramatic statement, Danny hurried into his apartment and closed the door behind him. The air smelled stale, as if nobody had been through the place in a while. His cleaning-lady probably hadn't come since she knew he'd been away and there was nobody to clean up after, but he'd assumed she'd come in and air the place anyway.

Danny went through the apartment opening windows, shaking curtains, and shuffling objects around on tabletops to get rid of the stale feeling, then poured himself a glass of his most expensive red wine and settled down in front of his computer to do some research.

With his wine on the right and his handheld on the left, he started following up all the questions he'd jotted down since leaving his hotel room; unfortunately, he lacked the search-engine skills, not to mention the legal and illegally hacked access to confidential data, that Detective Spevik possessed, and so his research was frustrated more often than not by a complete dearth of information that would be of any use to him.

The information on Drayton Marshall III was little more than he'd already gleaned from the news broadcasts. Absolutely nothing about his rather baroque sexual tastes had ever appeared in print, not even a gossipy blind item in a giveaway paper. The latest available photograph of Marshall's son was ten years old, and showed only a peculiarly nondescript boy with his father's medium hair and his mother's squinty eyes. Mrs. Marshall, who was rather more frequently photographed, was a typical Society matron with a death's-head grin and turkey-neck, whom Danny knew by sight from the Social circuit. Nothing he was able to find out put him any farther ahead in his understanding of Drayton Marshall's life, nor who would likely want him dead.

Giving up on Marshall and pouring himself another glass of wine, Danny settled down to find out if he could discover anything about Aunt Tittie's male identity. But nowhere was any connection made. With the proper access, Danny might have been able to track down the title or the liquor license on the Parrot Pub, but such access is not readily available to the average citizen.

The third glass of wine accompanied Danny through a lengthy email to Rodney Casterman detailing all of the questions he'd thought of. He was fairly sure that the investigators working on his case would have already thought of most, if not all of those questions, as well as a good many more, but Danny felt that he needed to do something before he gave up on his thwarted investigation.

By the fourth glass of wine, Danny was feeling fairly sorry for himself, a mood frequently brought on by a surfeit of frustration and the drier reds, and so he decided to get good and drunk, decanting two more very expensive bottles into a sangria pitcher to breathe while he finished off the large decanter he'd already started.

Shedding his clothes on the way, he carried the wine and two glasses (in case he broke one) back to his bedroom, opened the mirrored closet doors to reveal the enormous television that took up the entire space, put on a variety of porn in the DVD-changer, and crawled under the covers to have a nice long binge of self-pity and -abuse.

*****

"So, what exactly are you proposing?" Detective Varajian asked the young private investigator who'd invited him and his partner to lunch at the noisy local cop-filled diner.

"A pooling of resources, of course," R.J. Casterman, Jr., shrugged in a graceful palms-up gesture that showed off his long elegant hands. He was a strangely beautiful man, with his father's aquiline profile, wild auburn hair, and dramatically elongated figure, but his mother's strong pointed chin, wide voluptuous smile, and slanted amber eyes...his resemblance to a young wolf was startling, especially since he elected to leave his eyebrows unplucked so they met in the middle and crept down toward his nose; his unusually long canine teeth completed the picture of sly lupine menace.

"We know what we have," Detective Spevik mumbled around a mouthful of hamburger, his small eyes darting distrustfully over the young man across the table, hating him passionately, particularly hating his stainless-steel Rolex watch and his tan goatskin Gucci shoes and his brown superfine Cavalli suit and his dark orange Donna Karan cashmere sweater; Spevik didn't know any of those names, but was uncomfortably aware that the combined cost of the outfit nearly equaled his own annual salary, "But what can you offer us?"

"Let's put it this way," R.J. leaned forward onto the table eagerly, "You have the might of the law behind you, and you have one of the best forensic scientists in the world working for you. But you have limitations, checks on your activities, which do not bind me. You have to justify your budget, while I have access to nearly unlimited funds; you have to turn in full reports that become public record, and to comply with a lot of rules about harassment and brutality, under the scrutiny of your superiors and the press, while I have the freedom to bend those rules in complete anonymity, so long as I stay within the letter of the law. You have other cases on your desks, and only yourselves to rely on; but all I have in the world to do is work on this one case, and I have five investigators to do my footwork and three librarians to do my research. I have a lot to offer you."

"But why do you need us if you have all the money and freedom we don't?" Spevik wondered.

"Because you have an authority that I do not possess, witnesses are likely to spill information to a cop that they would hide from a PI. You also have access to information that I do not possess. Now, you have to disclose everything you find to the Defense, that's the law; but you don't have to do it gladly, or in as timely a manner as my father might wish. You don't have to devote as much attention to this case as Mr. Vandervere might require. What I'm proposing is cooperation instead of contest."

"What happens if you find something that implicates Vandervere?" Varajian smiled at young Casterman, enjoying the charisma and enthusiasm that radiated from him like an inner light.

"Ah, a very wise question, sir," R.J. smiled warmly at the older detective, "I am naturally duty-bound to report all of my findings to my father, who will of course have Attorney-Client Privilege with Mr. Vandervere, so I can't just give you anything non-exculpatory; but as a mere adjunct to my father's case, that Privilege becomes a very gray area: my information belongs to the client and is therefore confidential, but I am not exactly under the Seal of Confession, as it were. Between us, as a gentlemen's agreement, if I do learn something that you might have found out, if you'd only known where to look or whom to ask, I can drop a few five-pound hints over a friendly burger without compromising anybody's position."

"But what guarantee do we have?" Spevik insisted, his suspicious nature picking persistently at the offer, "Everything we find will eventually get to you; like you said, it's the law. But how will we know you've been giving us what you find out? You could keep quiet until the trial and we'd never know."

"Well, gentlemen, I really don't believe that's going to happen," R.J. leaned back against the banquette with a smirk that was somehow friendly and vicious at once, "My father didn't get where he is by not knowing whether or not his clients are guilty, and he is absolutely confident that Vandervere is innocent. However, if I did find evidence of Vandervere's guilt... well, I have a vindictive nature. My Dad believes in this kid; if it turns out that he's managed to pull the wool over Dad's eyes, I'll want revenge. Family honor, you know: nobody makes a fool of a Casterman and gets away with it. Does that comprise a satisfactory guarantee?"

"Honor!" Spevik snorted, "I don't believe in honor."

"Do you believe in trust? I'm going to trust you; you can trust me in return."

"I believe in facts. Give us something we can use."

"Naturally," R.J. pulled a thick sheaf of bound paper out of a Fendi leather messenger-bag that no messenger in the world could possibly afford, "Would you be interested in a complete breakdown of who was and wasn't in the apartment building the night Marshall was murdered? My team has already reviewed all of the security tapes, that's about two hundred and fifty hours of video, and can account for the exact population of the building for nearly a week before, and forty-eight hours after, Marshall's death. Plus a few transcript interviews with anybody in the building who might have had a motive, however dim."

"And what would you like in exchange?" Varajian asked, dumbfounded by such a valuable gift... the video analysis alone saved him a requisition of resources that would be impossible to get approved by a cash-strapped police administration.

"All of your evidence to date, including the complete forensic report, and some face-time with Dr. Griggs. Extra tissue samples, if they exist, the tapes of your interviews with Vandervere, and complete records of all criminal activity in and around that building, and the bar where Vandervere met Marshall for, say, six weeks before the murder?"

"Are you fucking nuts?" Spevik almost shouted, shocked by the sudden feral gleam in the young investigator's eyes, "We can't give you confidential police records!"

"Look," Casterman dropped all pretense at friendliness, "my father can subpoena those records, just as the DA can subpoena this dossier I'm giving you. But that will take weeks, and I don't think you want to wait through all the delaying tactics my father is capable of employing when he chooses. I could very easily mail this document to Kazakhstan instead of the Hall of Justice, 'oops, silly me', and none of us would be any farther forward than we are right now. I'm offering you cooperation in exchange for cooperation. You have nothing to lose."

"Except our badges," Spevik retorted.

"Nonsense!" R.J. resumed his engagingly casual facade, "While I would never suggest anything as filthy as blackmail, I do happen to have a taped conversation between my predecessor in the firm and your chief from her days as a detective, doing exactly what I am proposing you do. She will, I'm sure, applaud rather than censure your efforts in furthering this case. And if she doesn't, you can always gently remind her of her not-so-distant past: I happen to have a copy of that tape right here in my pocket, if you're interested."

"We have work to do," Spevik was so disgusted by this conversation, hurt by the revelation of corruption in his captain's past and sickened by the idea of blackmailing a fellow cop, that he only barely restrained himself from punching the contemptible young man in the mouth. He stood abruptly and started toward the door, "Come on, Varajian."

"I'll catch up with you, Spev, the bill hasn't come yet," Varajian answered smoothly.

"Your partner is a trifle hot-headed," R.J. smiled at the retreating Spevik before returning his attention to Varajian.

"I think you offended his sense of honor; he does believe in honor, but only ours. Lawyers and PIs are automatically dishonorable in his eyes; and I have to say, you are a very slippery young man," Varajian said with a certain note of admiration, "but I like the way you think. I believe we can arrange to have the records you request sent over. But let's keep this as above-board as possible: have your office draft a subpoena, and I'll make sure the records are ready for transport on its arrival, and on their way to you before anybody thinks to stop me. Fair enough?"

"A dream come true," R.J. arched an eyebrow in a manner that looked, to Varajian, like flirtation, "I'm very glad you don't share your partner's rather monochromatic views of right and wrong. Would you like the tape?"

"I'd love it," Varajian replied with a sly smile of his own, "I've been wanting something to hold over Captain Morris's head for years."

"I like the way you think," the young man dropped his voice and bit his lower lip gently; nobody could doubt that he was flirting with Varajian.

"But just so you know," Varajian pulled himself back, almost bodily, from the young man's furtive advances, "If you cross me, I will make it my life's mission to have your license revoked and your father brought under Bar review. Neither of you will be able to cross town without getting pulled over for speeding or suspicion of DUI, and bright lights will be shone into every corner of your lives. I know quite well how to avenge myself on someone 'within the letter of the law,' trust me. And if I find out that you've recorded this conversation for leverage against me when I'm captain, I will wring your pretty head off your skinny neck with my bare hands."

"My, but you really know how to sweet-talk a boy, don't you?" R.J. licked his teeth hungrily.

"I know how to watch my own ass," Varajian smiled sweetly as he stood up and buttoned his jacket, "Thanks for lunch."

"Woof," R.J. whispered to himself, watching Detective Varajian's nicely compact ass as he strutted manfully out of the diner with that peculiarly self-assured gait that all policemen share, "I could seriously fall for that one."

*****

Danny swam up through layers of unconsciousness, worried by the sound of a woman screaming in terror; but when he poked his head out of the covers, he realized it was his own doorbell screaming for his attention at ten-second intervals, eight seconds on and two seconds off. Cursing freely, he stumbled painfully out of the bed, pulled the duvet around himself for warmth, and went shambling down the hall, losing his balance twice, to make the noise stop.

"What in the hell do you want?" he bellowed into the intercom.

"Why, to come in, silly! Isn't that what a doorbell usually indicates?" the voice was deep and gravelly but lilting with a fruity sing-song quality that one ordinarily associates with very old queens.

"Who are you?" Danny wondered, a little less angrily.

"Theo Ermengratz," the responding voice had dropped its fruitiness and sounded a little intimidating.

"Oh!" Danny exclaimed with surprise, which made his head throb, "I'm sorry, please come up."

Danny turned toward the hall closet to get some clothes on, but didn't have time before his visitor was pounding loudly on the door. He wrapped the down-filled duvet more closely around his naked body and clutched the edges together with one hand, reaching out to open the door with the other.

The man standing on the doormat looked a great deal like Marlon Brando circa Last Tango in Paris, but much smoother; he had a large square head with craggy Roman features, and receding iron-grey curls carefully arranged in the Caesar style, but his olive skin was sleek and supple, making it impossible to discern if he was forty or sixty or somewhere in between. His double-breasted buff shantung suit was extremely baggy and draped on him much like a toga, the wide legs of the pants nearly obscuring the beautifully crafted snakeskin shoes, and a flowing scarf of golden damask closed the floppy collar of the sky-blue silk shirt instead of a necktie. His overall mien made Danny think of one of the nellier Roman emperors.

"Well, are you just going to stand there gawking," Theo said in his queeny sing-song voice, one hand in his jacket pocket and the other floating airily at shoulder level, "or are you going to invite me in?"

"Oh, sorry," Danny apologized again, stepping clumsily backward to allow entrance to this strange apparition, "Please do come in. Would you like some coffee?"

"No thank you, dear, I've had mine," Theo Ermengratz swept past him like a ship in full sail, looking Danny up and down as he did so, before stopping to study the living-room with a practiced eye, "But this room is lovely! Who did it?"

"Stan Ogilvie," Danny answered vaguely, following in the wake of the famous decorator as he flitted through the room, trying to figure out if the man was fat or if it was an illusion caused by all that drapery: there was an awful lot of fabric covering an awful lot of body, but the way he moved was not the way a fat man moved, his gait was sturdy and even his airiest gestures carried a threat of power.

"Stan Ogilvie is a contractor, darling," Theo turned and pinned Danny with an interrogative eye and a return to the intimidating voice, "I meant who is your decorator?"

"Oh, I didn't have a decorator," Danny admitted with a touch of embarrassment, "But Stan did the paint and the fixtures and the upholstery."

"So you're telling me you did this yourself? The colors, the arrangement, the actual objects?" the decorator was busy sneering at the carved caryatids on the Victorian desk chair.

"Most of it. Some of the pieces were gifts."

"Please tell me this unspeakable chair was a gift. Yes? Oh, thank God. And now tell me that you aren't terribly attached to it and won't mind if I take it outside and set it on fire?"

"A very good friend gave that to me."

"Was he an oil-rich cowboy who liked to pretend to be an Old West cattle baron?"

"No, a computer programmer. He knew of my love for antiques, but he didn't know what kind. I think it's sweet."

"Hmph. Well, with the exception of your weakness for sentiment in the form of questionable Renaissance Revival desk-chairs, I see a very promising eye at work here," the hand was fluttering again, big and square but rendered effete with glossy nails and a pinkie-ring glittering with small diamonds, indicating the room around them.

Danny continued to follow Mr. Ermengratz as he stalked into the dining room, examining the antique silver on the sideboard as if it were for sale. After nodding with grudging approval at the rather whimsical chandelier of wrought iron and mismatched antique French crystals, the decorator began examining Danny the same way he'd examined the rooms.

"And you're really remarkably beautiful," Theo grasped Danny's chin in a soft-skinned but surprisingly strong hand, "Perfect Italian features and flawless English skin. You know, if your eyes were blue, you'd be hatefully dazzling, but those puppy-eyes have an air of innocence that one cannot but forgive."

"One does one's best," Danny answered, blushing slightly at the arousal he felt at being handled and described so objectively.

"Saucy," Theo slapped him playfully on the cheek and turned toward the kitchen, "Why don't you go take a shower and drink a lot of water, you smell like the bottom of a wine bottle. Expensive wine, but stale dregs all the same. I'll amuse myself in the meantime."

Danny showered as quickly as he could, without once thinking it odd that he was following rather peremptory orders from a perfect stranger. He gulped down half a gallon of water with a fistful of aspirin, brushed his teeth, and practically ran into his dressing room for some clothes. Much to his surprise, he encountered Theo Ermengratz there, riffling through his closets and tossing garments out onto the ottoman in the center of the room.

"You have excellent taste, child," the decorator sang out from the depths of Danny's suit closet, "Ah, here's what we need, the classic navy blazer. I hope you don't mind, I took the liberty of choosing an outfit for you."

"I don't mind," Danny admitted, dropping his towel and stepping into the white boxer-briefs that had been laid out for him, then the crisply tailored tan chinos.

"I like you," Theo confided as he buttoned Danny's shell-pink Oxford shirt for him, "Custom-made but machine-washed and un-ironed, very preppy. No, don't tuck it in, you want that basket to make cameo appearances only. You're so wonderfully docile, but you've got a brain and good taste, a perfect combination in an assistant. If you weren't so disturbingly beautiful, I think I would have hired you without Baron de Seguemont's asking me."

"You mean, I really do have a job with you, Mr. Ermengratz?" Danny smiled, "I thought that was just a cover."

"Are you telling me that you're letting me push you around in your own home without knowing that I'm your boss? You're delightful! And call me Poppy, all my friends do," Poppy Ermengratz helped Danny into the blue blazer, "Cuffs out, don't button them, I love that look, The Sloppy Fop. But I'm an honest man, surprising as it may seem... if I can turn a lie into the truth, I will, and I wouldn't say I'd hired an assistant without doing so... if I could help it. Now, what kind of shoes? Ah, here we are, some nice airy huaraches, no socks... my dear, ostrich huaraches? You are an expensive article. I won't be paying you anything near enough to keep you in ostrich huaraches... but I will introduce you to enough horny old millionaires to make up for the shortfall. Do you swing both ways? That would be ideal, so many of my clients are women."

"What?!" Danny flushed angrily, surprised by the man's matter-of-fact crudeness.

"Ah, there's your boundary. I knew I'd find one eventually," Poppy ran his fingers proprietarily through Danny's wet hair, "Don't mind me, I'm just pushing buttons to see what happens. I know all about you, punkin': some of your elderly beaux are my clients, and old queens always kiss and tell."

"I'm not a whore," Danny said, sullenly defensive.

"Potayto-potahto, honey. Oh, my, but you are devastating when you pout! Don't for a moment think I disapprove. If it weren't for rich old men, and one rich old man in particular, I'd still be Theo Popadopoulos, most likely slicing souvlaki with my brothers in the Bronx. But if you're fucking a lot of trolls, it doesn't matter if you do it for loose change or for ostrich huaraches," Poppy dropped the sing-song, took Danny by the shoulders and looked him squarely and commandingly in the eyes, "Celebrate what you are, lovebucket, and don't quibble about the words."

"You were a...kept boy?" Danny asked, taking back possession of his person by turning to the mirror to comb his hair.

"I like the word 'whore' better," Poppy replied, moving off to rummage in the dressing-table drawers, "But yeah, I started hustling when I was eleven... I was an early bloomer. A little Greek godling with just a touch of the peasant for flavor, Ganymede with a big dick and a little feather mustache. Old Toddy Ermengratz of the Fifth Avenue, Newport, and Palm Beach Ermengratzes adopted me when I was seventeen. And left me a rather considerable fortune. He was a hideous little thing, like something a cat's been chewing on, but he was a sweet dear old man."

"The same story as Parker Weintraub," Danny thought aloud, "Adopted by a wealthy older man."

"You know Parker? Of course you do, nobody of your beauty lives long in this town without meeting Parker Weintraub and being invited to decorate his little spa. Nowadays you become domestic partners, I suppose, and before that it was 'palimony,' but in my day adoption was the usual arrangement. It's a recognized paradigm of homo history, the old man with money and the young man with beauty. And if they're good at what they do, the young men with beauty turn into old men with money. Like me, like Parker... it has a lovely symmetry, don't you think?"

"But I already have money of my own," Danny defended himself; he liked to think of himself as a gold-digger, but he didn't like for other people to think of him as such.

"Not nearly enough," Theo shrugged, taking a seat at the vanity table and sniffing at the bottles of cologne, "Your trust fund couldn't possibly have paid for all the clothes in this room... WASP trusts are to make you independent, not wealthy. But it does keep you in a state of want, rather than need. I suspect that's why you haven't settled down into a nice kept-boy position. You don't need to be taken care of, you just like it."

"I'd rather be in love," Danny said, more to himself than to Poppy.

"Love is very nice, but if I had to choose between love and money, I'm pretty sure I'd take the money. But maybe that's just because I've never been in love and don't know what I'd be giving up. Are you quite ready?"

"I need to take my vitamins, and I can't function much longer without coffee," Danny admitted.

"Well, then, let us retire to the kitchen, where I can nose through your cupboards and insult you some more."

While Danny put on a half-pot, assembled his bowlful of capsules and tablets, and mixed his fruit-and-supplement smoothie, Poppy rummaged around without restraint, critiquing the china, admiring the appliances, and keeping up a running commentary on the history and nobility of amateur prostitution.

“My dear, is all that really necessary?" Poppy demanded, swirling a finger through the bowl of pills, "Or are you just a hypochondriac?"

"I guess I like to feel like I'm keeping myself in good condition," Danny answered, "And this is easier and more pleasant than eating healthy all day."

"Good point, I might just try that philosophy sometime," Poppy replied thoughtfully, "But I always feel such an old man when I have to take pills. Now, are you quite up and running? I need to take you by the office first, and I'm putting you immediately to work with one of my clients. I want you to sneer politely at her current furnishings in a purebred WASP manner that will fill her with shame, and dazzle her with your beauty at the same time, so she doesn't notice the numbers at the bottoms of the invoices I need her to sign. She's got more money than God, but she hasn't got anything better to do with her time and energy than quibble about pennies."

Danny followed obediently as Poppy led him downstairs, past the morning-shift security goon (who accorded Poppy a respectful, even fearful nod) to the flamboyantly blue vintage T-Bird convertible that was parked arrogantly across Danny's driveway. Poppy drove at a terrifying breakneck pace, chattering all the time (now on the topic of rich women who can't tell the difference between bargain-hunting and chiseling) and fiddling with the stereo while casually flipping the bird at anyone who dared chastise him with blaring horn or screaming voice.

Eventually the car pulled up at a blank wall of corrugated iron that rolled back to reveal a hidden driveway between two derelict-looking warehouses.

"That's my rental warehouse," Poppy said, indicating the warehouse on the right while unlocking a heavily barred door to the warehous on the left, "One of the services I provide is temporary fabulousness for the transient rich. I see it as a grand way to put my acquisitive nature to work, I've been buying furniture and decorations since God-knows-when, and with this service I can use it without selling it. But here is where the real work happens."

Poppy led Danny into what looked like a combination furniture showroom and airplane hangar: it was a vast open space with spots of light pouring down from a high black ceiling onto precious little tableaux of gorgeous antique furniture.

"And this is my 'testing kitchen,' where I try out different combinations and effects. I have a sadly deficient imagination when it comes to balance and scale, so I like to arrange things before I deliver them to a client. And over here," Poppy led the way through a sliding hangar door to a bright and airy loft space, with raw cinderblock walls and a glass greenhouse ceiling; on the right was a kitchen underneath an exercise loft, on the right was a glass-brick-walled bathroom and dressing room with a bedroom above it, and in the center was a living room/office; the furniture, in strange contrast to everything else about this man that Danny had seen so far, was stark and modern and masculine, chrome and glass and black leather furniture, dazzling electronics, stainless steel and black granite fixtures, "This is where I live."

"Wow," was all Danny could think of to say. Though he preferred the fussier antiquity of the 'testing kitchen' styles, he was quite impressed by the sense of balance and light, but even more impressed by the intimacy and comfort elicited in this too-airy space with such hard materials. For all its industrial modernity, it was strangely inviting.

"Through that door is the shopfront and offices, but we're not going in there today," Poppy settled himself at a glass-and-chrome desk and shuffled some papers on the black leather blotter, "I can't let the fussy old queens get a look at you and then leave them alone for the rest of the day. No work would get done. Do you have a driver's license and Social Security card? How about a passport? I'll copy these for your personnel file, and you fill out that W4 form and sign that contract and confidentiality agreement, and you'll be an honest-to-God wage-earning employee."

"That's very exciting," Danny replied without much enthusiasm, puzzling out the language of the W4 form.

"Would you like some more coffee?" Poppy fluttered off into the kitchen area and started banging around among the appliances.

"Yes, please," Danny sat down on the cube sofa to read carefully through the very simple contract that outlined his schedule, salary, and responsibilities, all of which sounded fairly straightforward and simple.

"I only have espresso," Poppy brought two demitasses and sat down next to Danny on the sofa, "I've never had the patience for brewing coffee, it has to be practically on tap."

"I love espresso," Danny replied, taking the cup and sipping gratefully.

"Of course you do, darling," Poppy cooed, massaging Danny's knee in a bedroom-comedy manner, "I'm sure you like everything anybody gives you."

"Well, I don't like cheap gin," Danny replied, casting about in his mind for something he really didn't like... Poppy had read him well, there was very little in the world he didn't like, which made him both adaptable and popular.

"Does anybody? Cheap booze is for people who need it, not those who like it."

"Is this where I'll be working?" Danny asked, indicating the vast space with its lofts and glass, "Or in the front?"

"Ah, of course, back to business," Poppy squeezed his leg again, a little farther up this time, "I think you'll work wherever I am. I'll bring in a desk here for you, and one in my office out front. Do you have a laptop? Well, I'll get you one, a handheld isn't quite enough, though that is a handy little gadget you have there. May I see it?"

Danny handed over his handheld computer and Poppy admired it lavishly, then went on to chatter aimlessly for a few minutes about how hopeless he was with technology.

"It's very easy to use. The computer programmer who gave me that desk chair programmed most of the applications in there. I found it very easy to learn."

"Yes, well, you're young," another grope on the leg, close enough to the crotch to brush Danny's fly, "your mind is still flexible."

"Are you trying to seduce me, Mrs. Robinson?" Danny asked coyly, looking down at Poppy's hand practically in his lap.

"Oh, heavens no, child," Poppy gave Danny's thigh a fatherly pat, closer to the knee, "I would never try to seduce you. For you, I would just pounce, like a hungry tiger. But don't worry your pretty little head, you're totally not my type. I prefer little roughnecks, young and stupid with callused hands. Besides, I never fuck my employees. But if I ever fire you... whoa, Nellie! Hang on to your hat!"

Danny laughed with delight, and the tension passed; he was starting to get used to the strangeness of Poppy's conversation, his alternations between intensity and silliness. And knowing that their relationship would not be sexual allowed Danny to relax and enjoy the flirtatiousness without plotting the next appropriate response, as he normally did with someone in whom he was interested.

After finishing their paperwork and coffee, Poppy led Danny back through the warehouse and into the Thunderbird, and they were soon rocketing off toward Presidio Heights, where Poppy's newest client lived. The car came to a screeching halt in front of a large five-story house on a corner, built in the 20s but with huge and uncomfortable-looking picture windows on the top stories that had obviously been added sometime later.

"I particularly want to convince this broad to replace those sheer horrors with proper paned installations," Poppy advised as he went up the steep front stairs like a springbok, "So sneer like hell at the windows."

"I won't go anywhere near those windows," Danny panted, "They'll give me vertigo."

"Even better...and if you can turn a delicate shade of green, I'll give you a raise. Oh, and don't forget her heirlooms... they're unspeakably tack-o-rama, suggest putting them in the pool-house of her weekend place."

Mrs. Derrick Stempler ("please, call me Marjorie") was so typical of her class, age, and location--complete with rictus grin, flat yellowy-brown hair, and scrawny neck, David Yurman jewelry and Anne Klein loungewear--that Danny was sure he'd never remember having met her; he found a small kidney-shaped mole on her neck to memorize so that he would recognize her if he met her again socially, and hoped that she wouldn't have it removed.

It wasn't remotely difficult to sneer at the furnishings already in place as Danny followed Poppy and wrote down his ideas ("I see chintz here, with pickled pine... Here there must be a hooded porter chair... you'll want cherry for the dining-room table but ebony for the chairs"), as the furniture was extremely ugly, Edwardian pretending to be Georgian and only succeeding in being frumpy.

Neither was it difficult to turn white (though he couldn't manage green) and stagger shakily away from the windows: the view was spectacular, but the drop was terrifying; the entertaining spaces were on the top floor of a very tall house perched atop a very steep hill, and there was a hundred-foot drop under the living-room windows.

And Mrs. (Marjorie) Stempler was absolutely fascinated by Danny, watching him instead of Poppy as they wandered through the really beautifully proportioned house, hung on his every word (few though they were), and very nearly apologized for the furniture and windows when she saw his polite but unmistakeable reactions to them.

All of which worked exactly as Poppy had wished: not only had Marjorie agreed to replace the huge plate glass sheets with costly custom-made eighteen-paned windows, she also agreed to little French balconies to mitigate the sheer drop; she agreed wholeheartedly to ship her grandmother's treasured furniture off to the retreat in Bohemian Grove, and didn't even look at the contracts and invoices she was signing.

"You were brilliant," Poppy crowed when they returned to the car, planting a big sloppy kiss on Danny's mouth, "She was putty, absolute putty! A hundred thousand dollars of construction before we even got to the furniture, on your delicate complexion alone!"

"Well," Danny temporized, "Your suggestion that other guests would feel the same way is what convinced her. Lots of people get vertigo from windows like those."

"Funny thing is, she probably bought the house thinking to impress people with those vertiginous views, and paid a premium for them, too. This calls for a celebratory lunch. Where do you like having celebratory lunches?"

"The Palm Court," Danny answered without thinking, "at the Palace Hotel."

"You're going to break me, you are," Poppy laughed, "But then you also just made me an extra thousand or two in commissions and fees for those balconies and windows, so I guess it evens out."

Once they'd arrived at the historic hotel, Poppy turned on his fruity demeanor full-blast, flirting outrageously with the male staff and camping loudly at the females; nevertheless, he commanded and was accorded a good table, in a corner with privacy and a good view of the room, and the service was deferential to the point of servility: it was clear that Poppy was known and respected in this place.

"I bring so many of my old-lady clients here," Poppy said when Danny remarked on this, "It's such a wonderfully old-lady room. I'm surprised you like it, young buck that you are; but then again I'm not really surprised... I've come to see in such a short time that you're a hopeless romantic. And speaking of Romance, tell me all about you and Marquesa Chillard-Chills."

"There's not much to say," Danny instantly threw his guard up at the mocking name applied to his beloved.

"Is it as big as I've heard?"

"I don't know what you're talking about," Danny said frostily.

"Oh, come, don't be coy with me," Poppy slapped Danny's hand playfully, "I'm just being crude, as is my wont. My point is, do you love him?"

"Yes," Danny answered truthfully before he could stop himself, then thought better of it, "I mean, I thought I did. I don't suppose I really did. Just infatuated."

"As big as that, eh? As you may have guessed, I'm not in Marquesa's fan club. She's such an ice-queen, she never lets her hair down... she never lets herself have feelings, as far as I've seen. I find that very off-putting."

"I find it very attractive," Danny defended, "An air of mystery, a sense of reserve and elegance."

"Valerien, on the other hand, is a perfect pet. I've done both their apartments, but I feel like a mother toward little Val, and his happiness is important to me. That's why I'm asking you about how you feel about Marquesa... I want to know what chance Val has with you before I let him fall in love with you."

"Could you stop him?" Danny wondered, smiling at the very maternal tone Poppy had adopted the moment he'd turned the subject to Valerien.

"No, but I could stop you, I think. Threats of bodily harm if nothing else. I'd go for the face, too, if you hurt him... that's how I feel about Valerien."

"And do you know how Valerien feels about me?"

"He's fascinated by you, and he is attached to you. That's enough to be getting on with, don't you think? What are your feelings?" Poppy toyed with a butter-fork in a stagily threatening manner.

"I'd say it was mutual... fascinated attachment," Danny replied after giving the question a few moments' honest thought, "I think I could love him, but I don't know for sure. I would certainly never hurt him, regardless of your threats."

"Threats? Moi?" Poppy camped, putting down the butter-knife and picking up a menu, "I wouldn't hurt a fly. Except maybe yours. The very idea! Now tell, how big is Marquesa, really? Is it the true foot-long?"

"As near as makes no difference, I expect," Danny replied, laughing and blushing a little, "But I didn't have a ruler with me."

"And you can still walk after a whole weekend of that? You're made of stern stuff. So, shall we be utterly sinful and have the fondue appetizer? Then we can work out at my place before I start getting you settled in the office."

"Sounds perfectly divine."

The luncheon passed happily, Poppy ate voraciously without ever interrupting his conversation, which revolved mostly around Valerien's many charms and endearing qualities, which included loyalty, kindness, generosity, and an innocence that only the rarest of infants would be able to equal. He kept Danny laughing the entire time, and insisted on ordering dessert, "We've already sinned unforgiveably, we might as well make a day of it... to sin only partially is like cheating on your lover with an ugly person... no point to it whatsoever."

After lunch, they drove back to Poppy's apartment between the office and warehouses, where they changed into workout gear and performed a quite grueling regimen on the equipment above Poppy's kitchen. Undressed, Poppy was incredibly impressive: though thick around the middle and barrel-chested, which lent to the illusion of obesity when he was dressed, he was solidly packed with huge muscles that stopped just short of body-builder bulk. The fact that he was hung like a bull seemed expected with such a physique.

And though Poppy flirted and even groped a little, it was the kind of flirtatious groping that straight athletes indulge in the lockerrooms after a game: his attitude toward Danny was distinctly nonsexual, which Danny found very refreshing and fun.

Dressed and fresh, Danny was led into the office, where he was introduced to Poppy's staff, a quintet of very thin middle-aged men with high fluting voices, prissy clothing, and hair that had been altered in some way or another, either dyed or completely replaced by fairly obvious toupees. They all goggled at Danny comically, giggled when he spoke to them, and behaved like a gaggle of undersexed geese introduced to a young new gander.

Poppy had ordered a beautiful and delicate Queen Anne writing desk installed in his own office behind the larger front office, which was decorated in the florid cluttered English Country House style that he professionally espoused, with a heavily carved walnut desk and battered biscuit-tufted leather chairs and sofa, its walls lined with books and its ceiling painted with a fifteenth-century map of the "known" world; Danny's desk in the Spartan loft apartment, however, was a gorgeous piece of Louis XV marquetry, liberally encrusted with ormolu and cameo mounts, which glittered in the midst of all that black leather and chrome like a drag queen at the Eagle.

The young men who brought these things from the warehouse had also been dispatched to the nearest electronics store to procure a laptop computer, a top-of-the-line jewel that Danny loved to just hold, it was so pretty. Danny was instructed by one of "The Boys" (all, Danny later found out, ex-lovers of Poppy's) how to use the various programs; he was instructed by some of "The Girls" (all of whom had worked for Poppy since he opened his interior design business twenty-five years before and were deadly loyal to him) on how to access the building and what verbal formulae to use when answering the phone.

The whole thing was very bewildering to Danny, who'd never held a job in his life and found the whole thing very adventuresome. He took lots of notes in the leatherbound notebook Poppy had bought him, made a point of remembering everybody's names, and wore himself to a nub ingratiating himself to everyone.

When five o'clock rolled around, the Girls started packing up, gossiping about their plans for the evening ahead, and watering plants. Poppy had a huge album of fabric swatches open in front of him on his desk, grumbling about trying to make plaid and French Provincial come together peacefully. Danny felt at rather a loose end suddenly, not knowing when he was expected to leave, whether or not Poppy expected him to make his way home alone or planned to drive him back.

"Oh, Valerien wanted to give you a ride home," Poppy said when Danny asked him what time he was expected to clock out, "though in general I'd expect you to stay until six, assuming you start at nine and take an hour for lunch. But we can work that out as we go, some days I'll need you longer, some days I'll let you go early. But Val told me he'd be here at five, and it's five, so I suspect he's out on the curb waiting for you. See you in the morning."

Leaving the office by the front door, his notebook and laptop tucked under his arm, Danny saw Valerien's chocolate-and-gold Rolls Royce parked right in front. As soon as the office door closed behind him, the chauffeur stepped out and opened the car door, revealing Valerien lounging back against the camel upholstery in a mauve silk three-piece suit and a white straw hat.

"So, working-boy, how did your first day go?" Valerien asked after planting a warm kiss on Danny's mouth.

"It was kind of confusing, but satisfying," Danny admitted, "Thank you for arranging this job for me."

"Poppy should thank me, I think you'll be a brilliant assistant for him. Where would you like to have dinner? Though I should warn you I just flew in from Brazil this afternoon, so I'd rather not deal with anything elaborate."

"Why don't we stay in, then?" Danny asked, the first sultry note of seduction surfacing in his voice... he had decided at lunchtime that a relationship with Valerien was the best route to pursue, and he intended to pursue Valerien hotly.

"That's good. I've been away for several days; my chef gets rusty if I don't eat at home at least three nights a week. Do you need anything from your place first?"

"Would an overnight bag be presumptuous?" Danny purred, his hand on Valerien's thigh.

"No, not presumptuous at all," Valerien's violet eyes glowed in the dim cab of the limousine as he moved closer to Danny, "Though I'd rather send Henri for some things rather than wait while you pack."

"That suits me right down to the ground," Danny pushed Valerien down onto the seat and kissed him passionately, while Valerien reached out and pressed the button that caused the enameled coat-of-arms to rise up and screen them from the chauffeur.

*****

20 Pages ~ 12,578 Words

Chapter 9, Part 3

2007-09-24T12:51:00.000-07:00

Danny swam up through layers of unconsciousness, worried by the sound of a woman screaming in terror; but when he poked his head out of the covers, he realized it was his own doorbell screaming for his attention at ten-second intervals, eight seconds on and two seconds off. Cursing freely, he stumbled painfully out of the bed, pulled the duvet around himself for warmth, and went shambling down the hall, losing his balance twice, to make the noise stop.

"What in the hell do you want?" he bellowed into the intercom.

"Why, to come in, silly! Isn't that what a doorbell usually indicates?" the voice was deep and gravelly but lilting with a fruity sing-song quality that one ordinarily associates with very old queens.

"Who are you?" Danny wondered, a little less angrily.

"Theo Ermengratz," the responding voice had dropped its fruitiness and sounded a little intimidating.

"Oh!" Danny exclaimed with surprise, which made his head throb, "I'm sorry, please come up."

Danny turned toward the hall closet to get some clothes on, but didn't have time before his visitor was pounding loudly on the door. He wrapped the down-filled duvet more closely around his naked body and clutched the edges together with one hand, reaching out to open the door with the other.

The man standing on the doormat looked a great deal like Marlon Brando circa Last Tango in Paris, but much smoother; he had a large square head with craggy Roman features, and receding iron-grey curls carefully arranged in the Caesar style, but his olive skin was sleek and supple, making it impossible to discern if he was forty or sixty or somewhere in between. His double-breasted buff shantung suit was extremely baggy and draped on him much like a toga, the wide legs of the pants nearly obscuring the beautifully crafted snakeskin shoes, and a flowing scarf of golden damask closed the floppy collar of the sky-blue silk shirt instead of a necktie. His overall mien made Danny think of one of the nellier Roman emperors.

"Well, are you just going to stand there gawking," Theo said in his queeny sing-song voice, one hand in his jacket pocket and the other floating airily at shoulder level, "or are you going to invite me in?"

"Oh, sorry," Danny apologized again, stepping clumsily backward to allow entrance to this strange apparition, "Please do come in. Would you like some coffee?"

"No thank you, dear, I've had mine," Theo Ermengratz swept past him like a ship in full sail, looking Danny up and down as he did so, before stopping to study the living-room with a practiced eye, "But this room is lovely! Who did it?"

"Stan Ogilvie," Danny answered vaguely, following in the wake of the famous decorator as he flitted through the room, trying to figure out if the man was fat or if it was an illusion caused by all that drapery: there was an awful lot of fabric covering an awful lot of body, but the way he moved was not the way a fat man moved, his gait was sturdy and even his airiest gestures carried a threat of power.

"Stan Ogilvie is a contractor, darling," Theo turned and pinned Danny with an interrogative eye and a return to the intimidating voice, "I meant who is your decorator?"

"Oh, I didn't have a decorator," Danny admitted with a touch of embarrassment, "But Stan did the paint and the fixtures and the upholstery."

"So you're telling me you did this yourself? The colors, the arrangement, the actual objects?" the decorator was busy sneering at the carved caryatids on the Victorian desk chair.

"Most of it. Some of the pieces were gifts."

"Please tell me this unspeakable chair was a gift. Yes? Oh, thank God. And now tell me that you aren't terribly attached to it and won't mind if I take it outside and set it on fire?"

"A very good friend gave that to me."

"Was he an oil-rich cowboy who liked to pretend to be an Old West cattle baron?"

"No, a computer programmer. He knew of my love for antiques, but he didn't know what kind. I think it's sweet."

"Hmph. Well, with the exception of your weakness for sentiment in the form of questionable Renaissance Revival desk-chairs, I see a very promising eye at work here," the hand was fluttering again, big and square but rendered effete with glossy nails and a pinkie-ring glittering with small diamonds, indicating the room around them.

Danny continued to follow Mr. Ermengratz as he stalked into the dining room, examining the antique silver on the sideboard as if it were for sale. After nodding with grudging approval at the rather whimsical chandelier of wrought iron and mismatched antique French crystals, the decorator began examining Danny the same way he'd examined the rooms.

"And you're really remarkably beautiful," Theo grasped Danny's chin in a soft-skinned but surprisingly strong hand, "Perfect Italian features and flawless English skin. You know, if your eyes were blue, you'd be hatefully dazzling, but those puppy-eyes have an air of innocence that one cannot but forgive."

"One does one's best," Danny answered, blushing slightly at the arousal he felt at being handled and described so objectively.

"Saucy," Theo slapped him playfully on the cheek and turned toward the kitchen, "Why don't you go take a shower and drink a lot of water, you smell like the bottom of a wine bottle. Expensive wine, but stale dregs all the same. I'll amuse myself in the meantime."

Danny showered as quickly as he could, without once thinking it odd that he was following rather peremptory orders from a perfect stranger. He gulped down half a gallon of water with a fistful of aspirin, brushed his teeth, and practically ran into his dressing room for some clothes. Much to his surprise, he encountered Theo Ermengratz there, riffling through his closets and tossing garments out onto the ottoman in the center of the room.

"You have excellent taste, child," the decorator sang out from the depths of Danny's suit closet, "Ah, here's what we need, the classic navy blazer. I hope you don't mind, I took the liberty of choosing an outfit for you."

"I don't mind," Danny admitted, dropping his towel and stepping into the white boxer-briefs that had been laid out for him, then the crisply tailored tan chinos.

"I like you," Theo confided as he buttoned Danny's shell-pink Oxford shirt for him, "Custom-made but machine-washed and un-ironed, very preppy. No, don't tuck it in, you want that basket to make cameo appearances only. You're so wonderfully docile, but you've got a brain and good taste, a perfect combination in an assistant. If you weren't so disturbingly beautiful, I think I would have hired you without Baron de Seguemont's asking me."

"You mean, I really do have a job with you, Mr. Ermengratz?" Danny smiled, "I thought that was just a cover."

"Are you telling me that you're letting me push you around in your own home without knowing that I'm your boss? You're delightful! And call me Poppy, all my friends do," Poppy Ermengratz helped Danny into the blue blazer, "Cuffs out, don't button them, I love that look, The Sloppy Fop. But I'm an honest man, surprising as it may seem... if I can turn a lie into the truth, I will, and I wouldn't say I'd hired an assistant without doing so... if I could help it. Now, what kind of shoes? Ah, here we are, some nice airy huaraches, no socks... my dear, ostrich huaraches? You are an expensive article. I won't be paying you anything near enough to keep you in ostrich huaraches... but I will introduce you to enough horny old millionaires to make up for the shortfall. Do you swing both ways? That would be ideal, so many of my clients are women."

"What?!" Danny flushed angrily, surprised by the man's matter-of-fact crudeness.

"Ah, there's your boundary. I knew I'd find one eventually," Poppy ran his fingers proprietarily through Danny's wet hair, "Don't mind me, I'm just pushing buttons to see what happens. I know all about you, punkin': some of your elderly beaux are my clients, and old queens always kiss and tell."

"I'm not a whore," Danny said, sullenly defensive.

"Potayto-potahto, honey. Oh, my, but you are devastating when you pout! Don't for a moment think I disapprove. If it weren't for rich old men, and one rich old man in particular, I'd still be Theo Popadopoulos, most likely slicing souvlaki with my brothers in the Bronx. But if you're fucking a lot of trolls, it doesn't matter if you do it for loose change or for ostrich huaraches," Poppy dropped the sing-song, took Danny by the shoulders and looked him squarely and commandingly in the eyes, "Celebrate what you are, my love, and don't quibble about the words."

"You were a...kept boy?" Danny asked, taking back possession of his person by turning to the mirror to comb his hair.

"I like the word 'whore' better," Poppy replied, moving off to rummage in the dressing-table drawers, "But yeah, I started hustling when I was eleven... I was an early bloomer. A little Greek godling with just a touch of the peasant for flavor, Ganymede with a big dick and a little feather mustache. Old Toddy Ermengratz of the Fifth Avenue, Newport, and Palm Beach Ermengratzes adopted me when I was seventeen. And left me a rather considerable fortune. He was a hideous little thing, like something a cat's been chewing on, but he was a sweet dear old man."

"The same story as Parker Weintraub," Danny thought aloud, "Adopted by a wealthy older man."

"You know Parker? Of course you do, nobody of your beauty lives long in this town without meeting Parker Weintraub and being invited to decorate his little spa. Nowadays you become domestic partners, I suppose, and before that it was 'palimony,' but in my day adoption was the usual arrangement. It's a recognized paradigm of homo history, the old man with money and the young man with beauty. And if they're good at what they do, the young men with beauty turn into old men with money. Like me, like Parker... it has a lovely symmetry, don't you think?"

"But I already have money of my own," Danny defended himself; he liked to think of himself as a gold-digger, but he didn't like for other people to think of him as such.

"Not nearly enough," Theo shrugged, taking a seat at the vanity table and sniffing at the bottles of cologne, "Your trust fund couldn't possibly have paid for all the clothes in this room... WASP trusts are to make you independent, not wealthy. But it does keep you in a state of want, rather than need. I suspect that's why you haven't settled down into a nice kept-boy position. You don't need to be taken care of, you just like it."

"I'd rather be in love," Danny said, more to himself than to Poppy.

"Love is very nice, but if I had to choose between love and money, I'm pretty sure I'd take the money. But maybe that's just because I've never been in love and don't know what I'd be giving up. Are you quite ready?"

"I need to take my vitamins, and I can't function much longer without coffee," Danny admitted.

"Well, then, let us retire to the kitchen, where I can nose through your cupboards and insult you some more."

While Danny put on a half-pot, assembled his bowlful of capsules and tablets, and mixed his fruit-and-supplement smoothie, Poppy rummaged around without restraint, critiquing the china, admiring the appliances, and keeping up a running commentary on the history and nobility of amateur prostitution.

“My dear, is all that really necessary?" Poppy demanded, swirling a finger through the bowl of pills, "Or are you just a hypochondriac?"

"I guess I like to feel like I'm keeping myself in good condition," Danny answered, "And this is easier and more pleasant than eating healthy all day."

"Good point, I might just try that philosophy sometime," Poppy replied thoughtfully, "But I always feel such an old man when I have to take pills. Now, are you quite up and running? I need to take you by the office first, and I'm putting you immediately to work with one of my clients. I want you to sneer politely at her current furnishings in a purebred WASP manner that will fill her with shame, and dazzle her with your beauty at the same time, so she doesn't notice the numbers at the bottoms of the invoices I need her to sign. She's got more money than God, but she hasn't got anything better to do with her time and energy than quibble about pennies."

Danny followed obediently as Poppy led him downstairs, past the morning-shift security goon to the flamboyantly blue vintage T-Bird convertible that was parked arrogantly across Danny's driveway. Poppy drove at a terrifying breakneck pace, chattering all the time (now on the topic of rich women who can't tell the difference between bargain-hunting and chiseling) and fiddling with the stereo while casually flipping the bird at anyone who dared chastise him with blaring horn or screaming voice.

Eventually the car pulled up at a blank wall of corrugated iron that rolled back to reveal a hidden driveway between two derelict-looking warehouses.

"That's my rental warehouse," Poppy said, indicating the warehouse on the right while unlocking a heavily barred door to the warehous on the left, "One of the services I provide is temporary fabulousness for the transient rich. I see it as a grand way to put my acquisitive nature to work, I've been buying furniture and decorations since God-knows-when, and with this service I can use it without selling it. Here we are."

Poppy led Danny into what looked like a combination furniture showroom and airplane hangar: it was a vast open space with spots of light pouring down from a high black ceiling onto precious little tableaux of gorgeous antique furniture.

"And this is my 'testing kitchen,' where I try out different combinations and effects. I have a sadly deficient imagination when it comes to balance and scale, so I like to arrange things before I deliver them to a client. And over here," Poppy led the way through a sliding hangar door to a bright and airy loft space, with raw cinderblock walls and a glass greenhouse ceiling; on the right was a kitchen underneath an exercise loft, on the right was a glass-brick-walled bathroom and dressing room with a bedroom above it, and in the center was a living room/office; the furniture, in strange contrast to everything else about this man that Danny had seen so far, was stark and modern and masculine, chrome and glass and black leather furniture, dazzling electronics, stainless steel and black granite fixtures, "This is where I live."

"Wow," was all Danny could think of to say. Though he preferred the fussier antiquity of the 'testing kitchen' styles, he was quite impressed by the sense of balance and light, but even more impressed by the intimacy and comfort elicited in this too-airy space with such hard materials. For all its industrial modernity, it was strangely inviting.

"Through there is the shopfront and offices, but we're not going in there today," Poppy settled himself at a glass-and-chrome desk and shuffled some papers on the black leather blotter, "I can't let the fussy old queens get a look at you and then leave them alone for the rest of the day. No work would get done. Do you have a driver's license and Social Security card? How about a passport? I'll copy these for your personnel file, and you fill out that W4 form and sign that contract and confidentiality agreement, and you'll be an honest-to-God wage-earning employee."

"That's very exciting," Danny replied without much enthusiasm, puzzling out the language of the W4 form.

"Would you like some more coffee?" Poppy fluttered off into the kitchen area and started banging around among the appliances.

"Yes, please," Danny sat down on the cube sofa to read carefully through the very simple contract that outlined his schedule, salary, and responsibilities, all of which sounded fairly straightforward and simple.

"I only have espresso," Poppy brought two demitasses and sat down next to Danny on the sofa, "I've never had the patience for brewing coffee, it has to be practically on tap."

"I love espresso," Danny replied, taking the cup and sipping gratefully.

"Of course you do, darling," Poppy cooed, massaging Danny's knee in a bedroom-comedy manner, "I'm sure you like everything anybody gives you."

"Well, I don't like cheap gin," Danny replied, casting about in his mind for something he really didn't like... Poppy had read him well, there was very little in the world he didn't like, which made him both adaptable and popular.

"Does anybody? Cheap booze is for people who need it, not those who like it."

"Is this where I'll be working?" Danny asked, indicating the vast space with its lofts and glass, "Or in the front?"

"Ah, of course, back to business," Poppy squeezed his leg again, a little farther up this time, "I think you'll work wherever I am. I'll bring in a desk here for you, and one in my office out front. Do you have a laptop? Well, I'll get you one, a handheld isn't quite enough, though that is a handy little gadget you have there. May I see it?"

Danny handed over his handheld computer and Poppy admired it lavishly, then went on to chatter aimlessly for a few minutes about how hopeless he was with technology.

"It's very easy to use. The computer programmer who gave me that desk chair programmed most of the applications in there. I found it very easy to learn."

"Yes, well, you're young," another grope on the leg, close enough to the crotch to brush Danny's fly, "your mind is still flexible."

"Are you trying to seduce me, Mrs. Robinson?" Danny asked coyly, looking down at Poppy's hand practically in his lap.

"Oh, heavens no, child," Poppy gave Danny's thigh a fatherly pat, closer to the knee, "I would never try to seduce you. For you, I would just pounce, like a hungry tiger. But don't worry your pretty little head, I never fuck my employees. But if I ever fire you... whoa, Nellie! Hang on to your hat!"

Danny laughed with delight, and the tension passed; he was starting to get used to the strangeness of Poppy's conversation, his alternations between intensity and silliness. And knowing that their relationship would not be sexual allowed Danny to relax and enjoy the flirtatiousness without plotting the next appropriate response, as he normally did with someone in whom he was interested.

After finishing their paperwork and coffee, Poppy led Danny back through the warehouse and into the Thunderbird, and they were soon rocketing off toward Presidio Heights, where Poppy's newest client lived. The car came to a screeching halt in front of a very tall house on a corner, built in the 20s but with huge and uncomfortable-looking picture windows on the top stories that had obviously been added sometime later.

"I particularly want to convince this broad to replace those sheer horrors with proper paned installations," Poppy advised as he went up the steep front stairs like a springbok, "So sneer like hell at the windows."

"I won't go anywhere near those windows," Danny panted, "They'll give me vertigo."

"Even better...and if you can turn a delicate shade of green, I'll give you a raise. Oh, and don't forget her heirlooms... they're unspeakably tack-o-rama, suggest putting them in the pool-house of her weekend place."

Mrs. Derrick Stempler ("please, call me Marjorie") was so typical of her class, age, and social set--complete with rictus grin, flat yellowy-brown hair, and scrawny neck, David Yurman jewelry and Anne Klein loungewear--that Danny was sure he'd never remember having met her; he found a small kidney-shaped mole on her neck to memorize so that he would recognize her if he met her again socially, and hoped that she wouldn't have it removed.

It wasn't remotely difficult to sneer at the furnishings already in place as Danny followed Poppy and took notes of his ideas ("I see chintz here, with pickled pine... Here there must be a hooded library chair... you'll want cherry for the dining-room table but ebony for the chairs"), as the furniture was extremely ugly, Edwardian pretending to be Georgian and only succeeding in being frumpy.

Neither was it difficult to turn white (though he couldn't manage green) and stagger shakily away from the windows: the view was spectacular, but the drop was terrifying; the entertaining spaces were on the top floor of a very tall house perched atop a very steep hill, and there was a hundred-foot drop under the living-room windows.

And Mrs. (Marjorie) Stempler was absolutely fascinated by Danny, watching him instead of Poppy as they wandered through the really beautifully proportioned house, hung on his every word (few though they were), and very nearly apologized for the furniture and windows when she saw his polite but unmistakeable reactions to them.

All of which worked exactly as Poppy had wished: not only had Marjorie agreed to replace the huge plate glass sheets with costly custom-made eighteen-paned windows, she also agreed to little French balconies to mitigate the sheer drop; she agreed wholeheartedly to ship her grandmother's treasured furniture off to the retreat in Bohemian Grove, and didn't even look at the contracts and invoices she was signing.

"You were brilliant," Poppy crowed when they returned to the car, planting a big sloppy kiss on Danny's mouth, "She was putty, absolute putty! A hundred thousand dollars of construction before we even got to the furniture, on your delicate complexion alone!"

"Well," Danny temporized, "Your suggestion that other guests would feel the same way is what convinced her. Lots of people get vertigo from windows like those."

"Funny thing is, she probably bought the house thinking to impress people with those vertiginous views, and paid a premium for them, too. This calls for a celebratory lunch. Where do you like having celebratory lunches?"

"The Palm Court," Danny answered without thinking, "at the Palace Hotel."

"You're going to break me, you are," Poppy laughed, "But then you also just made me an extra thousand or two in commissions and fees for those balconies and windows, so I guess it evens out."

Once they'd arrived at the historic hotel, Poppy turned on his fruity demeanor full-blast, flirting outrageously with the male staff and camping loudly at the females; nevertheless, he commanded and was accorded a good table, in a corner with privacy and a good view of the room, and the service was deferential to the point of servility: it was clear that Poppy was known and respected in this place.

"I bring so many of my old-lady clients here," Poppy said when Danny remarked on this, "It's such a wonderfully old-lady room. I'm surprised you like it, young buck that you are; but then again I'm not really surprised... I've come to see in such a short time that you're a hopeless romantic. And speaking of Romance, tell me all about you and Marquesa Chillard-Chills."

"There's not much to say," Danny instantly threw up his guard at the mocking name applied to his beloved.

"Is it as big as I've heard?"

"I don't know what you're talking about," Danny said frostily.

"Oh, come, don't be coy with me," Popply slapped Danny's hand playfully, "I'm just being crude, as is my wont. My point is, do you love him?"

"Yes," Danny answered truthfully before he could stop himself, then thought better of it, "I mean, I thought I was. I don't suppose I really am. Just infatuated."

"As big as that, eh? As you may have guessed, I'm not in Marquesa's fan club. She's such an ice-queen, she never lets her hair down... she never lets herself have feelings, as far as I've seen. I find that very off-putting."

"I find it very attractive," Danny defended, "An air of mystery, a sense of reserve and elegance."

"Valerien, on the other hand, is a perfect pet. I've done both their apartments, but I feel like a mother toward little Val, and his happiness is important to me. That's why I'm asking you about how you feel about Marquesa... I want to know what chance Val has with you before I let him fall in love with you."

"Could you stop him?" Danny wondered, smiling at the very maternal tone Poppy had adopted the moment he'd turned the subject to Valerien.

"No, but I could stop you, I think. Threats of bodily harm if nothing else. I'd go for the face, too, if you hurt him... that's how I feel about Valerien."

"And do you know how Valerien feels about me?"

"He's fascinated by you, and he is attached to you. That's enough to be getting on with, don't you think? What are your feelings?" Poppy toyed with a butter-fork in a stagily threatening manner.

"I'd say it was mutual... fascinated attachment," Danny replied after giving the question a few moments' honest thought, "I think I could love him, but I don't know for sure. I would certainly never hurt him, regardless of your threats."

"Threats? Moi?" Poppy camped, putting down the butter-knife and picking up a menu, "I wouldn't hurt a fly. The very idea! Now tell, how big is Marquesa, really? Is it the true foot-long?"

"As near as makes no difference, I expect," Danny replied, laughing and blushing a little, "But I didn't have a ruler with me."

"And you can still walk after a whole weekend of that? You're made of stern stuff. So, shall we be utterly sinful and have the fondue appetizer? Then we can work out at my place before I start getting you settled in the office."

"Sounds perfectly divine."

The luncheon passed happily, Poppy ate voraciously without ever interrupting his conversation, which revolved mostly around Valerien's many charms and endearing qualities, which included loyalty, kindness, generosity, and an innocence that only the rarest of infants would be able to equal. He kept Danny laughing the entire time, and insisted on ordering dessert, "We've already sinned unforgiveably, we might as well make a day of it... to sin only partially is like stealing something nobody wants... no point to it whatsoever."

After lunch, they drove back to Poppy's apartment between the office and warehouses, where they changed into workout gear and performed a quite grueling regimen on the equipment above Poppy's kitchen, then showered and dressed again. And though Poppy flirted and even groped a little, it was the kind of flirtatious groping that straight athletes indulge in the lockerrooms after a game: his attitude toward Danny was distinctly nonsexual, which Danny found very refreshing and fun.

Dressed and fresh, Danny was led into the office, where he was introduced to Poppy's staff, a quintet of very thin middle-aged men with high fluting voices, prissy clothing, and hair that had been altered in some way or another, either dyed or completely replaced by fairly obvious toupees. They all goggled at Danny comically, giggled when he spoke to them, and behaved like a coop of undersexed hens introduced to a new rooster.

Poppy had ordered a beautiful and delicate Queen Anne writing desk installed in his own office behind the larger front office, which was decorated in the florid cluttered English Country House style that he professionally espoused, with a heavily carved walnut desk and battered biscuit-tufted leather chairs and sofa, its walls lined with books and its ceiling painted with a fifteenth-century map of the "known" world; Danny's desk in the Spartan loft apartment, however, was a gorgous piece of Louis XV marquetry, liberally encrusted with ormolu and cameo mounts, which glittered in the midst of all that black leather and chrome like a drag queen at the Eagle.

The young men who brought these things from the warehouse had also been dispatched to the nearest electronics store to procure a laptop computer, a top-of-the-line jewel that Danny loved to just hold, it was so pretty. Danny was instructed by one of "The Boys" (all, Danny later found out, ex-lovers of Poppy's) how to use the various programs; he was instructed by some of "The Girls" (all of whom had worked for Poppy since he opened his interior design business twenty-five years before and were deadly loyal to him) on how to access the building and what verbal formulae to use when answering the phone.

The whole thing was very bewildering to Danny, who'd never held a job in his life and found the whole thing very adventuresome. He took lots of notes in the leatherbound notebook Poppy had bought him, made a point of remembering everybody's names, and wore himself to a nub ingratiating himself to everyone.

When five o'clock rolled around, the Girls started packing up, gossiping about their plans for the evening ahead, and watering plants. Poppy had a huge album of fabric swatches open in front of him on his desk, grumbling about trying to make plaid and French Provincial come together peacefully. Danny felt at rather a loose end suddenly, not knowing when he was expected to leave, whether or not Poppy expected him to make his way home alone or planned to drive him back.

"Oh, Valerien wanted to give you a ride home," Poppy said when Danny asked him what time he was expected to clock out, "though in general I'd expect you to stay until six, assuming you start at nine and take an hour for lunch. But we can work that out as we go, some days I'll need you longer, some days I'll let you go early. But Val told me he'd be here at five, and it's five, so I suspect he's out on the curb waiting for you. See you in the morning."

Leaving the office by the front door, his notebook and laptop tucked under his arm, Danny saw Valerien's chocolate-and-gold Rolls Royce parked right in front. As soon as the office door closed behind him, the chauffeur stepped out and opened the car door, revealing Valerien lounging back against the camel upholstery in a mauve silk three-piece suit and a white straw hat.

"So, working-boy, how did your first day go?" Valerien asked after planting a warm kiss on Danny's mouth.

"It was kind of confusing, but satisfying," Danny admitted, "Thank you for arranging this job for me."

"Poppy should thank me, I think you'll be a brilliant assistant for him. Where would you like to have dinner? We'd both have to change if we go out."

"Why don't we stay in, then?" Danny asked, the first sultry note of seduction surfacing in his voice... he had decided at lunchtime that a relationship with Valerien was the best route to pursue, and he intended to pursue Valerien hotly.

"That's good. I've been away for several days, my chef gets rusty if I don't eat in at least three nights a week. Do you need anything from home first?"

"Would an overnight bag be presumptuous?" Danny purred, his hand on Valerien's thigh.

"No, not presumptuous at all," Valerien's violet eyes glowed in the dim cab of the limousine, "Though I'd rather send Henri for some things rather than wait while you pack."

"That suits me right down to the ground," Danny pushed Valerien down onto the seat and kissed him passionately, while Valerien reached out and pressed the button that caused the enameled divider to rise up and seal them off from the chauffeur.

Chapter 9, Part 1

2007-09-13T13:39:00.000-07:00

Danny woke up when the phone rang, disoriented by the unaccustomed location and the unmeasured passage of time. He groggily reached over for the instrument and mumbled into it.

"Monsieur Vandervere?," came a crisp French-accented voice, "Mademoiselle Willard-Wilkes's manservant is here. May I send him up?"

"Mmmph," Danny didn't want to see the man, but knew that Marquesa would want his clothes and jewelry back, "Okay."

"Very good, m'sieu."

Sitting up in the bed, Danny wondered if he should just stay where he was and pretend to be asleep, or if he should hide in the bathroom; but by the time Danvers knocked, he realized he'd have to let the man into the suite. So he put on his bathrobe, knotted the cord firmly, and opened the door.

"Good afternoon, sir," Danvers bowed slightly, though not as crisply as he had before, and his expression was softer, not so disapproving, "I hope I'm not disturbing you."

"I was just going to take a shower," Danny walked out of the room with what he hoped was an air of unconcern, locking the bathroom door behind him. He turned on the water but didn't get in; instead, he sat on the little bathroom stool in the corner and listened to the manservant moving around in the bedroom, wishing he would leave so Danny could go back to bed.

After half an hour, there was a quiet knock on the bathroom door that startled Danny out of the trance of blank waiting he'd fallen into. The room had filled up with steam, and he couldn't see anything.

"Is there anything I can do for you, sir?" Danvers's voice came softly through the door.

"I can't hear you, I'm in the shower," Danny lied.

"Very good, sir," the servant said loudly, then dropped his voice to a low rumble that could barely be heard, "Though I can't help but notice your voice came from the opposite side of the room from the shower, and that water makes a different sound falling on a body than on an empty floor."

Danny blushed crimson, humiliated to be caught out in the lie, but didn't answer.

"I've put your clothes away, sir," Danvers resumed in his louder professional voice, "and laid out something suitable in case you choose to go to the lounge for tea, as well as your dinner clothes. Mr. Willard-Wilkes sent some cash for tips and incidentals, it's in an envelope on the table in the foyer. Good afternoon, sir."

"Thank you," Danny called out, getting hastily into the shower so that he wouldn't have to admit that he hadn't been there in the first place; he wanted to say something more articulate in gratitude for Danvers' thoughtfulness, but the words didn't come. When he did finally get out of the shower, he put on a good deal of body-lotion and combed his hair with undue thoroughness before returning to the bedroom, killing time to make sure the man was gone.

Danvers had laid out a very nice outfit on the bed, a snappy blue-and-white striped shirt with a dull red silk sweater and tan linen pants, with socks and underwear lying on top and a pair of cordovan loafers neatly placed on the floor. The dinner-suit was laid out with equal precision on the other side of the bed, with a navy blue satin tie and waistcoat.

Danny put on the afternoon clothes, for no reason other than that they were there, since he didn't intend to leave the suite any time soon. The dinner-suit he put back in the closet, not wanting to look at it... it had happy memories attached to it, and Danny didn't want to think happy thoughts.

The envelope of money gave him a sting of pain: it contained a stack of twenties and another stack of fifties, full inch-thick US Mint hundred-count packets with the denomination bands unbroken, more money than he could possibly hand out in tips if he stayed at the Queen Charlotte all summer. This was clearly the "walking-around money" or "cab-fare" or "pick out a present from me" that stood as a euphemism for the amateur prostitute's fee.

Seven thousand dollars was a pretty good fee for a weekend, and Danny had to smile at the generosity; but this unnecessarily large sum underlined for Danny the fact that this had been just a weekend fling for Marquesa. They could still be friends, as close as Danny usually was with his moneyed tricks; but considering the two packets of cash for "incidentals" along with the hotel bills and the new wardrobe from Saks, not to mention half of the million-dollar bail bond, there was simply too much expenditure involved for Danny to ever feel on equal footing with Marquesa. He was irrevocably cast in his usual role of Courtesan instead of his desired role of Lover.

Dropping the cash negligently into a drawer, Danny lay down on the couch and watched television for a few hours, changing channels with an impatient sneer when anything even remotely romantic came on, slipping occasionally into a deep sleep and waking with a start when something loud happened on the TV.

When he eventually got hungry, he ordered up a selection of canape-sized comfort foods, baby quiches and tiny shepherd's pies and sinfully cheesy crab-puffs, along with a couple of bottles of oaky white wine, so that he wouldn't have to think about food for a while, he could just nibble and sip whenever the mood took him.

The waiter set up some of the food on the coffee table between the couch and the television, and put one of the bottles of wine in an ice-bucket to chill, then took the rest into the little wet-bar/kitchen Danny hadn't realized was there, hidden beside the little foyer behind a folding wall-panel. As soon as the waiter left, with a nice crisp fifty tucked into his pocket, Danny resumed his vigil on the couch, flipping channels pointlessly, occasionally turning over to stare at the ceiling or the upholstery, dozing off every now and then as he'd been doing all day.

He felt (he decided after a long time casting about for the right word) bleak. Bleak and empty, like a Nevada salt-flat in winter... he was no longer especially sad, the hurt of the morning had dulled to a dreary numbness, and he simply didn't want anything... didn't want to eat, didn't want to read, didn't want to talk, didn't want to move, didn't want to feel pleasure, didn't want to think.

But he did think: he thought about how stupid he'd been to believe that Marquesa was falling in love with him as he'd fallen in love with Marquesa; he thought about the matter-of-fact way Marquesa had recommended going after Valerien instead, and the cavalier attitude about the "tips and incidentals"; he thought even more about how that coldness had excited him in the first place; he thought about all the time he'd wanted to fall in love without having the tiniest idea how much it could hurt; he thought about what a fool he was.

Sometime in the very early hours of the next morning, however, Danny finally got bored with his inertia. His was a nature that was ill-suited for wallowing in unhappiness... he could be unhappy, but he was incapable of lying around with it for very long. He had to get up and do something to take his mind off it. He got up and peeled out of the stale wrinkled clothes he'd been wearing for over twelve hours, then opened the window and leaned out for some fresh air, feeling his skin come alive in the chilly damp.

Leafing through the little book of the hotel's amenities, he was pleased to discover the place had a small gymnasium and swimming pool in the basement that would open at 6 a.m. Checking the little clock on the desk, Danny was irritated to find that it was only 4... but then decided that a couple of fifties could probably get a helpful desk-clerk to open them up for him. Calling downstairs, he discovered that the night manager would be delighted to accomodate Monsieur Vandervere regardless of the hour (news of his increased tipping power must have already been circulated among the staff).

Rummaging through the dresser that had been arranged with a neatness that was almost pathological, Danny selected a scandalously brief white swimsuit, a pair of tight underwear-thin grey fleece shorts, and a thin zip-up black hoodie that was two sizes too small and clung to his torso like paint. The sneakers Andrew had sent weren't the kind Danny liked, but they were sufficient, and the little white socks had cute Japanese anime penguins embroidered on them.

Running down the stairs to the basement, Danny felt a rush of physical well-being: his heart might be broken, but his body was still a beautiful perfect machine capable of all sorts of pleasures. The night-manager was clearly taken aback, both by Danny's slutty attire and by the four bills Danny pressed into his hand (he was determined to blow through at least one of the stacks of money, and had perversely settled on the higher denomination), and led a brief tour of the small but luxurious facilities, pointing out the Art Deco mosaic murals imported from a bath-house in Paris, turning on all the lights, the televisions, and the stereo before taking his leave.

Danny stripped off his hoodie, grabbed the biggest bottle of water he could find in the cooler, and got up onto an elliptical machine, bopping his head to the beat of the generic Top-40 dance music that came pouring out of the hidden speakers, and lost himself in the rhythm of his own heartbeat and breathing. It was infinitely more worry-suppressing than watching television, and he wondered why he hadn't thought of this simple expedient sooner.

After forty minutes of cardiovascular exercise, he did a circuit of the weight machines, not pushing himself very hard since he was alone in the gym and didn't have a spotter; and once every muscle in his body had been worked over and was glowing with warmth, he pulled off his gym-shorts and dove into the long narrow pool.

The water was deliciously cool and shocked his sweaty skin refreshingly. He swam laps, freestyle to one end and backstroke to the other, pushing himself until he was so tired that he had to get out of the pool for fear of drowning. He flopped face-first onto a towel-draped chaise-longue, completely exhausted and wonderfully free of nagging thoughts, and went right back to sleep.

"Hey, are you OK?" Danny felt a hand shaking his shoulder.

"Just sleeping," he replied quietly, peeking at the stranger through one eye; it was a rather pretty boy, Danny guessed him to be eighteen or nineteen, with straight black hair and starry blue eyes, spanked pink cheeks and a soft red mouth. His face was square and his cheekbones perfect, but there was an endearing sense of the unfinished to his features that was very appealing.

"Oh," the boy looked embarrassed, his smooth cheeks deepening to carmine, "You were kind of whimpering, I though you were sick."

"Whimpering?" Danny raised himself up on both elbows to take a better look at the boy, running his eyes over the narrow, tight-muscled boyish frame in a pair of very baggy red boardshorts, his luminescent pink skin and charmingly awkward movements, "How mortifying."

"I'll leave you alone, then," the boy sounded disappointed and started to get up.

"Don't go away," Danny heard a note of begging in his voice and strove to master it with a more confident and seductive tone, "What's your name?"

"Jared," the boy happily sat cross-legged on the floor and put out his hand.

"I'm Danny. Pleased to meet you," he rolled over onto his side, artlessly displaying his half-hard cock taking up far too much room in the front of the tiny white bikini, but smiling happily as the boy's eyes bugged out and his mouth dropped open, "Where are you from, Jared?"

Jared tore his gaze from Danny's crotch with some effort, gulped loudly, and stammered out, "Cincinnati."

"Are you here with your family?" Danny reached down and pushed his erection back down under the waistband as if it were the most natural thing in the world to do, smirking to himself as Jared's erection sprang up and tented his red shorts.

"He's supposed to be my uncle," Jared murmured, his eyes riveted back onto Danny's cock.

"Supposed to be?"

"Oh! I mean," Jared looked alarmed, his eyes big and the blush deepening again on his cheek, "I mean I am here with my uncle."

"Oh, don't worry, baby, I have plenty of 'uncles' myself. Does your uncle mind you playing around?"

Jared gulped again and stared mutely for a few moments before shaking his head no. Danny pulled him to his feet and led him by the hand through the empty locker-room and into the billowing steam of the wet sauna. Once the door was closed securely, he was on the boy with a passion, raping his mouth and wrapping both hands around the boy's long cock. Jared put his hands on Danny's body, first on his arms, then his waist, then his shoulders, as if he weren't sure where they should be; eventually he settled on the hips and seemed particularly fascinated with the line of the pelvic girdle.

Since the bathing facilities in the Hotel Queen Charlotte weren't the type to keep great bowls full of prophylactics on every table and counter, Danny kept their activities limited to oral and frottage... more the latter than the former, as Jared couldn't keep his teeth out of the way; the boy was passionate but had no skill whatever. Streaming with sweat, they slid around together on the sauna bench like eels; the boy shot off twice before Danny came, making an adorable squealing sound each time that made Danny laugh. Spent and sticky, they lolled in silence for a little while, Jared trying to catch his breath and Danny nearly falling asleep again.

"I really wish you'd fuck me," Jared finally broke the silence in a timid voice.

"I'd love to, baby, but I don't have any condoms here," Danny replied, his face buried in the boy's neck, "and nothing personal, but I'd really rather not take you back to my room."

"Do have a fake uncle in your room, too?" Jared wondered, his mind finally cleared enough of sex to return to their previous conversation.

"Not at the moment," Danny laughed, pulling back on one elbow to look down at the boy, tracing the pretty features with his index finger, refusing to think about why he didn't want to take someone back to the room where he'd fallen in love with Marquesa, "But I just don't feel right about it. Let's go take a shower, we're all sticky."

Crowded warmly into a single stall, Danny and Jared washed each-other carefully and a little too thoroughly; soon they were inflamed to passion, and they thrashed and writhed their way to another climax.

"What's your uncle's name?" Danny asked conversationally, shaking off the sleepiness that was threatening again.

"I probably shouldn't tell you," Jared sighed after a long silence, stepping out of the shower.

"Why not?" Danny laughed, "Is he that closeted?"

"No... I mean, he's not obvious or anything, but he doesn't hide that he's gay."

"Then you must be underage," Danny reasoned, toweling his hair, "How old are you?"

"Eighteen," Jared said without conviction, his eyes darting about with comic guilt.

"You don't lie very well, little one," Danny shook his head in mock exasperation, "But I guess it doesn't matter now, after the fact. You can't unbreak an egg and you can't unfuck a teenager."

"But you haven't fucked me...yet," Jared teased.

"Nor am I going to, Little Miss Lolita," Danny ruffled the boy's hair playfully, "But I will take you to breakfast. Why don't you go upstairs and get dressed, and I'll meet you in the lobby."

Danny felt very nearly happy again as he returned to his suite and selected a kicking-around outfit of artfully distressed jeans, vividly striped narrow-cut dress shirt, and suede sandals. The sorrow had been blown apart by the physical pleasures of exercise and sex, and the bleakness was submerged in the delight of a new person to experience.

He returned to the lobby before Jared, so Danny took a moment to visit the concierge and order immense and ridiculously expensive flower-arrangements sent to Marquesa and Valerien with thank-you notes, as well as more subdued tributes to Mr. Casterman and the Aunt Ems. With a hefty gratuity to Phillipe, the bundle of fifties was satisfactorily dented by this exercise.

Tucking the roll of bills into his pocket next to his loose cock, which made him feel wonderfully dirty, Danny went back out to the lobby to find Jared waiting for him; the boy looked acutely embarrassed, shifting from one foot to the other with his eyes on the floor.

"Where shall we eat, baby? The grill-room here, or shall we go exploring instead?" Danny hooked a finger into the boy's belt-loop.

"I can't go," Jared rolled his eyes in exasperation, "Crosby insisted on meeting you. He wants me to invite you to have breakfast with us."

"Crosby's a smart man," Danny threw his arm around the boy's shoulder and led him into the grill room, a high square chamber paneled in dark wood, with white-clothed round tables and tall windows facing the street, "If I was him, I wouldn't let you out of my sight for a minute. But before I meet him, did you tell him what we did this morning?"

"No, of course not!" the boy blushed again.

"He'll probably know. I mean, look at me... who could say 'No' to all this?" Danny struck a glamorous pose, making Jared laugh, "And I doubt he'll mind. You should never be dishonest in your relationships, Jared. It always leads to trouble. Let's go meet Uncle Crosby."

Crosby Bremerhaven looked like somebody's uncle... comically avuncular, with a perfectly round little head on top of a perfectly round little body, rendered jaunty by a pointed Vandyke beard on his small-featured face and a bright Tartan waistcoat peeking out of his soft tweed suit. He appeared to be in his mid-fifties, and had the comfortable blasé air of a dilettante with very old family money.

When he rose to meet his protege's new friend, he was clearly taken by surprise... his jaw dropped and his little black eyes widened in alarm. Danny was of course accustomed to such reactions, it was the price of being so shockingly beautiful; and as he always did in such situations, he turned on his most polished social charms to try to put the man at his ease.

"Good morning, Mr. Bremerhaven," Danny put out his hand enthusiastically, "It's so good to meet you after hearing so much about you from Jared."

"Thank you," Crosby said somewhat shakily, then made an obvious effort to pull himself together, "Won't you sit down, Mr... Vandervere, was it?"

"Please, call me Danny," he took the chair Crosby indicated, "Thank you so much for inviting me to breakfast. One gets a little lonely staying in a hotel on one's own."

Conversation became less strained and rather general quite quickly; between Crosby's and Danny's combined breeding and manners, the interaction remained on a very smooth surface of small-talk and pleasantries. But all the while, Danny was watching Crosby, wondering what it was that was making him so uncomfortable underneath his Society veneer... for the little man was unmistakably anxious about something: his eyes darted back and forth between Danny and Jared, and his hands fiddled nervously with the tableware. Was he anxious that Danny was going to steal Jared away from him?

It didn't seem likely, though, that Crosby would have attained the age and suavité required to keep a young boyfriend without understanding that kept boys don't leave their keepers for other boys, they don't give up security and luxury for mere hot sex. It simply isn't done. Was Jared so unpredictable that Crosby would fear losing him to a beautiful stranger in a hotel?

On the other hand, Danny understood that he wasn't the usual pretty-boy one meets on the circuit... he was expensively dressed and expensively educated, he was staying in an expensive hotel alone... to all appearances, he could be someone who could provide both the hot sex and the security that a boy like Jared would want.

And so to alleviate his fears, Danny focused most of his attention, with a subtle undertone of flirtation, on Crosby; he included Jared in the conversation and the flirtation, but he did everything he could to indicate that he wasn't interested in stealing Jared away. He actually started plotting how he could get a three-way going with Jared and Crosby together, which would certainly make the rest of the day pass rather pleasantly.

But it was not to be. When he had finished his very French breakfast of dense bread and soft cheese, and downed the last of the very strong coffee, he offered to take the pair sight-seeing... though they had probably been all over town during their vacation, it's always special to be shown around by a local who knows some of the hidden beauty-spots and interesting local history.

"No, thank you, Danny," Crosby said, wiping his mouth fastidiously and smiling uncomfortably, "We're leaving soon, and I need to get to the packing."

"Oh, come on," Jared protested, "We're not leaving until tomorrow afternoon. Besides, the valet will do the packing, won't he?"

"I need to supervise," Crosby offered lamely.

"Well, can I go?" Jared asked, a tone of impatience in his voice.

"I'd really rather you didn't," Crosby said in a very parental tone, a tone that begged a child to stop pursuing the question.

"Why not!?" Jared demanded.

"Well, really, Jared, you put me in a most awkward position," Crosby finally relaxed a little and shook his head, "I didn't want to hurt Danny's feelings. But I cannot let you go out alone with a suspected murderer."

Silence engulfed the little table after this bombshell. Danny was completely staggered... after all of the emotional upheaval of his weekend with Marquesa, he'd quite forgotten about that problem. Jared stared thunderstruck, and Crosby looked horribly embarrassed to have said something so inescapably rude.

"I am sorry, Mr. Vandervere," Crosby eventually turned to Danny, "You're a very charming young man, and I am loath to suspect you of such a foul crime; but I have a duty to protect Jared, and that has to come first."

"I completely understand," Danny breathed out, still reverberating from the shock.

"What are you talking about?" Jared almost screamed, "Danny's not a murderer! I've been with him all morning!"

"Jared, please," Crosby pleaded quietly, reaching across the corner of the table and taking the boy's hand, "I'm sure he's innocent, but the suspicion is there, and I can't take a chance with your safety."

"That's ridiculous, I'm not in any danger," Jared shook off Crosby's hand and crossed his arms sulkily over his chest, with a little pout of impatience that was so completely adorable that Danny wanted him even more. It made him sad that he wouldn't be able to experience more of the boy.

"No, Jared, Crosby's right," Danny slowly pushed back from the table and dropped his napkin on his plate, "He's responsible for you, and it would be remiss of him to let you go out with someone he has reason to suspect. I understand completely. And Mr. Bremerhaven, I hold you no ill will; in fact, I hope we can meet again once my innocence has been established. Thank you very much for breakfast."

With all the sangfroid he could muster, Danny got up from the table, gave Jared a little peck on the cheek, shook Crosby's proffered hand, and left the grill room; leaving the room, he could hear Jared's continued protestations and Crosby's quiet refusal to be budged. Passing the concierge's desk, he ordered a fruit-basket to be sent to Mr. Bremerhaven, along with his calling card, and asked that a valet be sent to pack up his clothes: he was going to check out immediately.

"Murder Suspect," Danny sneered at himself in the mirror upon returning to his suite, mourning the cozy adventure with Jared and Crosby that he'd been planning but which was snatched away from him by those two nasty words, "Danny Vandervere, suspected murderer. God damn it!"

Danny kicked hard at the wainscoting, forgetting that he was wearing sandals, and fell cursing to the floor when the pain of a stubbed toe shot up his leg. He was huddled up on the floor crying and swearing, more from temper than from hurt, when the valet came in and silently started packing Danny's clothes for him in the two Vuitton suitcases Danvers had left for him.

The valet was done in a matter of minutes; the clothes had been folded so neatly by Marquesa's manservant that is was only a matter of transferring them from closet and drawer to suitcase; Danny pulled himself together enough to tip the valet, and leave a few more bills on the dresser for housekeeping. He put all his loose objects, his handheld and the rest of the money, into a little shopping bag, and said farewell to the suite with a sad little sigh. Making his way back to the lobby, he asked for a cab to be called, then sulked into the dark and empty bar; it wasn't actually open, but Phillipe took pity on the obviously depressed young guest and slid behind the bar to pour Danny a generous brandy, then left him alone to wait for the car that would take him home.

But while Danny was depressed by his situation, the many unhappy upheavals of his recent past, the sadness was quickly being subsumed by a simmering rage... not toward Crosby Bremerhaven, whose behavior was completely reasonable, but rather toward whoever had killed Drayton Marshall.

He hadn't thought about Marshall for days, but now that the murder had been brought back to his attention, he was simply furious: killing the unsavory Marshall he could forgive, or at least understand; but pinning the murder so securely and deliberately on an innocent bystander bespoke a disregard for other people that should not go unpunished. Danny was enflamed with a desire to hunt down the killer, not just for his own sake, either for establishing his innocence or exacting his revenge, but for the sake of Justice itself.

Warmed by the resonance of this sentiment, as well as by the large brandy, Danny felt his anger resolve into a purpose. Fishing his handheld out of the little shopping bag, he started making notes to follow up on various questions concerning Marshall's life and death, such as the whereabouts of Marshall's son on the night of the murder, as well as some barely-remembered oddities about his meeting with Marshall in The Brat... the identity of the parrot-shirted man, the peculiar behavior of the purple-haired boy who stared at him so, Marshall's well-known predilection for hustlers, and the wide variety of drugs in his apartment.

This sense of purpose carried Danny all the way out of the hotel and into the waiting towncar without a backward glance at the Hotel Queen Charlotte. He continued making notes as he rode home, and was a little bit startled when the car came to a stop.

A lone reporter was lurking outside Danny's door, beside an enormous man who could could best be described as a "goon," an impressively ugly hulk in a dark suit and darker glasses standing at ease right in front of the door.

Danny had to produce identification before the goon would let him pass; and all the while Danny was rummaging around for his wallet and producing his driver's license, the weedy little reporter threw importunate questions at him in a small whiney voice.

"Why did you kill Drayton Marshall?" was the one question out of many that actually caught Danny's attention. He turned to look at the little man, sweeping his eyes disdainfully over his rumpled dust-colored clothing, scrawny awkward phsyique, and a face that made Woody Allen look downright pretty by comparison.

"I didn't kill Drayton Marshall," Danny said slowly, as if speaking to a slow child.

"Then why were you hiding? Where have you been all week?"

"I've been staying in a hotel, avoiding people like you. Good afternoon."

"Then who do you think did kill him?" the reporter called after Danny as he passed through the iron gate onto the outside stairs.

"I really don't know," Danny said, turning on the last step and facing the reporter with some interest, "But I'll tell you what I do know: I'm going to do whatever I can to find out who did kill him. Print that in whatever ghastly little rag you represent."

Smiling happily to himself, though realizing that Mr. Casterman would probably scold him fiercely for that overly dramatic statement, Danny hurried into his apartment and closed the door behind him. The air smelled stale, as if nobody had been through the place in a while. His cleaning-lady probably hadn't come since she knew he'd been away and there was nobody to clean up after, but he'd assumed she'd come in and air the place anyway.

Danny went through the apartment opening windows, shaking curtains, and shuffling objects around on tabletops to get rid of the stale feeling, then poured himself a glass of his most expensive red wine and settled down in front of his computer to do some research.

With his wine on the right and his handheld on the left, he started following up all the questions he'd jotted down since leaving his hotel room; unfortunately, he lacked the search-engine skills, not to mention the legal and illegally hacked access to confidential data, that Detective Spevik possessed, and so his research was frustrated more often than not by a complete dearth of information that would be of any use to him.

The information on Drayton Marshall III was little more than he'd already gleaned from the news broadcasts. Absolutely nothing about his rather baroque sexual tastes had ever appeared in print, not even a gossipy blind item in a giveaway paper. The latest available photograph of Marshall's son was ten years old, and showed only a peculiarly nondescript boy with his father's medium hair and his mother's squinty eyes. Mrs. Marshall, who was rather more frequently photographed, was a typical Society matron with a rictus grin and a scrawny neck, whom Danny knew fairly well from the Social circuit. Nothing he was able to find out put him any farther ahead in his understanding of Drayton Marshall's life, nor who would likely want him dead.

Giving up on Marshall and pouring himself another glass of wine, Danny settled down to find out if he could discover anything about Aunt Tittie's male identity. But nowhere was any connection made. With the proper access, Danny might have been able to track down the title or the liquor license on the Parrot Pub, but such access is not readily available to the average citizen.

The third glass of wine accompanied Danny through a lengthy email to Rodney Casterman detailing all of the questions he'd thought of. He was fairly sure that the investigators working on his case would have already thought of most, if not all of those questions, as well as a good many more, but Danny felt that he needed to do something before he gave up on his thwarted investigation.

By the fourth glass of wine, Danny was feeling fairly sorry for himself, a mood frequently brought on by a surfeit of frustration and the drier reds, and so he decided to get good and drunk, decanting two more very expensive bottles into a sangria pitcher to breathe while he finished off the large decanter he'd already started.

Shedding his clothes on the way, he carried the wine and two glasses (in case he broke one) back to his bedroom, opened the mirrored closet doors to reveal the enormous television that took up the entire space, put on a variety of porn in the DVD-changer, and crawled under the covers to have a nice long binge of self-pity and -abuse.

Chapter 9, Part 1 (v.1)

2007-05-02T15:07:00.000-07:00

[NOTE: This is the first draft of this section, which I decided to change about halfway through...the introduction of Jared caused me some problems, and I think you can see why when (if) you get to that section...RM]

Danny woke up when the phone rang, amazed that he'd slept for so long, that the shadows were all in a different position that when he'd lay down. He groggily reached over for the instrument and mumbled into it.

"Monsieur Vandervere? Mademoiselle Willard-Wilkes's manservant is here. May I send him up?"

"Mmmph," Danny didn't want to see the man, but knew that Marquesa would want his clothes and jewelry back, "Okay."

"Very good, m'sieu."

Sitting up in the bed, Danny wondered if he should just stay where he was and pretend to be asleep, or if he should hide in the bathroom; but by the time Danvers knocked, he realized he'd have to let the man into the suite. So he put on his dressing-gown, knotted the cord firmly, and opened the door.

"Good afternoon, sir," Danvers bowed slightly, though not as crisply as he had before, and his expression was softer, not so disapproving, "I hope I'm not disturbing you."

"I was just going to take a shower," Danny walked out of the room with what he hoped was an air of unconcern, locking the bathroom door behind him. He turned on the water but didn't get in; instead, he sat on the little bathroom stool and listened to the manservant moving around in the bedroom, wishing he would leave so Danny could go back to bed.

After half an hour, there was a quiet knock on the bathroom door that startled Danny out of the trance of blank waiting he'd fallen into. The room had filled up with steam, and he couldn't see anything.

"Is there anything I can do for you, sir?" Danvers's voice came softly through the door.

"I can't hear you, I'm in the shower," Danny lied.

"Very good, sir," the servant said loudly, then dropped his voice to a low rumble that could barely be heard, "Though I can't help but notice your voice came from the opposite side of the room from the shower, and that water makes a different sound falling on a body than on an empty floor."

Danny blushed crimson, humiliated to be caught out in the lie, but didn't answer.

"I've put your clothes away, sir," Danvers resumed in his louder professional voice, "and laid out something suitable in case you choose to go to the lounge for tea, as well as your dinner clothes. Mr. Willard-Wilkes sent some cash for tips and incidentals, it's in an envelope on the table in the foyer. Good afternoon, sir."

"Thank you," Danny called out, getting hastily into the shower so that he wouldn't have to admit that he hadn't been there in the first place; he wanted to say something more articulate in gratitude for Danvers' thoughtfulness, but the words didn't come. When he did finally get out of the shower, he put on a good deal of body-lotion and combed his hair with undue thoroughness before returning to the bedroom, killing time to make sure the man was gone.

Danvers had laid out a very nice outfit on the bed, a snappy blue-and-white striped shirt with a dull red silk sweater and tan linen pants, with socks and underwear lying on top and a pair of cordovan loafers neatly placed on the floor. The dinner-suit was laid out with equal precision on the other side of the bed, with a navy blue satin tie and waistcoat.

Danny put on the afternoon clothes, for no reason other than that they were there, since he didn't intend to leave the suite any time soon. The dinner-suit he put back in the closet, not wanting to look at it... it had happy memories attached to it, and Danny didn't want to think happy thoughts.

The envelope of money gave him a sting of pain: it contained a stack of twenties and another stack of fifties, full inch-thick US Mint hundred-count packets with the denomination bands unbroken, more money than he could possibly hand out in tips if he stayed at the Queen Charlotte all summer. This was clearly the "walking-around money" or "cab-fare" or "pick out a present from me" that stood as a euphemism for the amateur prostitute's fee.

Seven thousand dollars was a pretty good fee for a weekend, even for a professional, and Danny had to smile at the generosity; but this unnecessarily large sum underlined for Danny the fact that this had been just a weekend fling for Marquesa. They could still be friends, as close as Danny usually was with his moneyed tricks; but considering the two packets of cash for "incidentals" along with the hotel bills and the new wardrobe from Saks, not to mention half of the million-dollar bail bond, there was simply too much expenditure involved for Danny to ever feel on equal footing with Marquesa. He was irrevocably cast in his usual role of Courtesan instead of his desired role of Lover.

Dropping the cash negligently into a drawer, Danny lay down on the couch and watched television for a few hours, changing channels when anything even remotely romantic came on, slipping occasionally into a deep sleep and waking with a start when something loud happened on the TV.

When he eventually got hungry, he ordered up a huge and random selection of hors-d'ouerves, along with a couple of bottles of wine, so that he wouldn't have to think about food for a while, he could just nibble whenever the mood took him.

The waiter set up some of the food on the coffee table between the couch and the television, and put one of the bottles of wine in an ice-bucket to chill, then took the rest into the little wet-bar/kitchen Danny didn't know was there, hidden beside the little foyer behind a folding wall-panel. As soon as the waiter left, with a nice crisp fifty tucked into his pocket, Danny resumed his vigil on the couch, flipping channels pointlessly, occasionally turning over to stare at the ceiling or the upholstery, dozing off every now and then as he'd been doing all day.

He felt (he decided after a long time looking for the right word) bleak. Bleak and empty, like a Nevada salt-flat in winter... he was no longer especially sad, the hurt of the morning had dulled to a dreary numbness, and he simply didn't want anything... didn't want to eat, didn't want to read, didn't want to talk, didn't want to move, didn't want to feel pleasure, didn't want to think.

But he did think: he thought about how stupid he'd been to believe that Marquesa was falling in love with him as he'd fallen in love with Marquesa; he thought about the matter-of-fact way Marquesa had recommended going after Valerien instead, and the cavalier attitude about the "tips and incidentals"; he thought even more about how that coldness had excited him in the first place; he thought about all the time he'd wanted to fall in love without having the tiniest idea how much it could hurt; he thought about what a fool he was.

Sometime in the very early hours of the next morning, however, Danny finally got bored with his inertia. His was a nature that was ill-suited for wallowing in unhappiness... he could be unhappy, but he was incapable of lying around with it for very long. He had to get up and do something to take his mind off it. He got up and peeled out of the stale wrinkled clothes he'd been wearing for over twelve hours, then opened the window and leaned out for some fresh air, feeling his skin come alive in the chilly damp.

Leafing through the little book of the hotel's amenities, and was pleased to discover the place had a small gymnasium and swimming pool in the basement that would open at 6 a.m. Checking the little clock on the desk, Danny was irritated to find that it was only 4... but then decided that a couple of fifties could probably get a helpful desk-clerk to open them up for him. Calling downstairs, he discovered that the night manager would be delighted to accomodate Monsieur Vandervere regardless of the hour (news of his increased tipping power must have already been circulated among the staff).

Rummaging through the dresser that had been arranged with a neatness that was almost pathological, Danny selected a scandalously brief white swimsuit, a pair of rather slutty red mesh gym-shorts, and a thin zip-up black hoodie that was two sizes too small and clung to his torso like paint. The sneakers Andrew had sent weren't the kind Danny liked, but they were sufficient, and the little white socks had cute Japanese anime penguins embroidered on them.

Running down the stairs to the basement, Danny felt a rush of physical well-being: his heart might be broken, but his body was still a beautiful perfect machine capable of all sorts of pleasures. The night-manager was clearly taken aback, both by Danny's pornographic attire and by the three bills Danny pressed into his hand (he was determined to blow through at least one of the stacks of money, and had perversely settled on the higher denomination), and led a brief tour of the small but luxurious facilities, pointing out the Art Deco mosaic murals imported from a bath-house in Paris, turning on all the lights, the televisions, and the stereo before taking his leave.

Danny stripped off his hoodie, grabbed the biggest bottle of water he could find in the cooler, and got up onto an elliptical machine, bopping his head to the beat of the generic Top-40 dance music that came pouring out of the hidden speakers, and lost himself in the rhythm of his own heartbeat and breathing. It was infinitely more worry-suppressing than watching television, and he wondered why he hadn't thought of this simple expedient sooner.

After forty minutes of cardiovascular exercise, he did a circuit of the weight machines, not pushing himself very hard since he was alone in the gym and didn't have a spotter; and once every muscle in his body had been worked at least once, he pulled off his gym-shorts and dove into the long narrow pool.

The water was deliciously cool and shocked his sweaty skin refreshingly. He swam laps, freestyle to one end and backstroke to the other, pushing himself until he was so tired that he had to get out of the pool for fear of drowning. He flopped face-first onto a towel-draped chaise-longue, completely exhausted and wonderfully free of nagging thoughts, and went right back to sleep.

"Hey, are you OK?" Danny felt a hand shaking his shoulder.

"Just sleeping," he replied quietly, peeking at the stranger through one eye; it was a rather pretty boy, Danny guessed him to be eighteen or nineteen, with straight black hair and pixieish blue eyes, spanked pink cheeks and a soft red mouth.

"Oh," the boy looked embarrassed, his smooth cheeks deepening to carmine, "You were kind of whimpering, I though you were sick."

"Whimpering?" Danny raised himself up on both elbows to take a better look at the boy, taking in his narrow frame in a pair of very baggy red boardshorts, his luminescent skin and charmingly awkward movements, "How mortifying."

"I'll leave you alone, then," the boy sounded disappointed and started to get up.

"Don't go away," Danny heard a note of begging in his voice and strove to master it with a more confident and seductive tone, "What's your name?"

"Jared," the boy happily sat cross-legged on the floor and put out his hand.

"I'm Danny. Pleased to meet you," he rolled over onto his side, displaying his half-hard cock taking up far too much room in the front of the tiny white bikini, and smiled as the boy's eyes bugged out and his mouth dropped open, "Would you care to join me in the steam-room, Jared?"

Jared tore his gaze from Danny's crotch with some effort, gulped loudly, and nodded assent. Danny pulled him to his feet and led him by the hand through the empty locker-room and into the billowing steam of the wet sauna. Once the door was closed securely, he was on the boy with a passion, raping his mouth and plunging his hands into the boy's shorts. Jared put his hands on Danny's body, first on his arms, then his waist, then his shoulders, as if he weren't sure where they should be.

Since he didn't have any condoms, Danny kept their activities limited to oral and frottage...more the latter than the former, as Jared couldn't keep his teeth out of the way. Streaming with sweat, they slid around together on the sauna bench like eels; the boy shot off twice before Danny came, making an adorable squealing sound each time that made Danny laugh. Spent and sticky, they lolled in silence for a little while, Jared trying to catch his breath and Danny nearly falling asleep again.

"I really wish you'd fuck me," Jared finally broke the silence in a timid voice.

"I don't have any condoms here; we'd have to go up to my room," Danny replied, his face buried in the boy's neck.

"We don't need those," the boy reasoned, "I've never been with anyone before."

"Well, I have," Danny pulled back and looked the boy square in the eyes, "You shouldn't go around offering yourself for unsafe sex. You'll end up sick."

"Well, can we go up to your room, then?" the boy tried a different tack.

"In a minute. We'd better clean up, first. This is a classy hotel, you know," Danny sat up and ruffled the boy's hair, "So, you're a virgin?"

"I don't know, am I still?" Jared looked confused.

"I guess it depends on the definition," Danny thought about it for a minute, "But I wouldn't count you as one. I'm just surprised you've never been with anyone, as cute as you are."

"There aren't any other gay boys at my school," Jared told him sadly.

"Oh, I bet there are, you just haven't...wait a minute. School? How old are you?"

"Eighteen?" the boy said without much conviction, his eyes darting around in a comically guilty manner.

"You don't lie very well," Danny laughed, "How old are you really?"

"I'll be sixteen next month," he admitted after a long silence.

"Jesus Christ!" Danny yelled, practically leaping away from the boy, "As if I'm not in enough trouble already. You're fifteen?!"

"I'm sorry," Jared hung his head.

"Well, I guess it's not your fault," Danny conceded, looking the boy over, seeing where he'd made his mistake about the age, thinking the boy was just skinny and smooth rather than barely pubescent; he had more body-hair than Danny, a sparse black fur covering his legs and arms, but Danny frequently forgot that his own hairlessness was the exception rather than the rule; the features Danny had thought charmingly smooth were actually still unformed; and the boy's cock was a lot bigger than one would expect on anyone so young, bigger even than one might expect on most full-grown adults, "You're rather well developed for fifteen."

"Really?" the boy looked down at himself with a pleased smile, "It's not as big as yours."

"Yes, well... the Washington Monument's not as big as the Empire State Building, but it's still plenty big."

"Are you mad at me?" Jared asked.

"No, I guess not. When I was your age, I was fucking my math teacher and our gardener, so I don't have room to talk. But statutory rape isn't something I particularly want to go to jail over. I mean, fifteen's not even legal in Europe."

"I won't tell anyone," Jared promised.

"Be that as it may," Danny got up and moved towards the door, then turned back and smiled at the boy, "I think we'd better hit the showers and dispose of the evidence, don't you?"

"Can we still go to your room?" Jared tried to be seductive, sidling up to Danny and running a hand over his cock, "I mean, we already broke the law, doing it again can't hurt."

"I already broke the law, Baby-doll," Danny pushed the boy gently away, "You were just an innocent victim, as far as the police are concerned."

"Maybe if you don't take me to your room, I will tell," Jared ducked under the restraining hand and wrapped his arms around Danny's waist.

"You rotten little blackmailer!" Danny laughed, this time with genuine amusement, running his hands through the boy's hair and kissing him on the forehead, "I wish I'd thought of that when my math teacher quit his job to get away from me. Come on, let's get cleaned up, and we'll go have breakfast, OK?"

"Oh, all right," the boy pouted as he followed Danny into the shower room.

I just can't seem to stay out of trouble this week, Danny thought to himself as he stood under the hot water soaping himself thoroughly, I need to get this kid dressed and out of here before I forget he's fifteen and fuck him into next week.

"Hey, little boy," Danny called out after rinsing off.

"I'm not little!" Jared called back.

"No you're not. But I take it you're staying with your parents?"

"Just my Mom."

"On vacation, or what?"

"Vacation. Why?"

"I bet you've seen nothing but tourist traps all the time you've been here. Chinatown, Pier 39, Union Square, like that?"

"Yeah," the boy sounded disgusted, "plus visiting my Aunt Justine in Atherton."

"Poor baby! Why don't I take you to the Castro, see what a gay ghetto looks like?"

"Really? That would be great!"

"But I have to go back to my room to get dressed, I can't go anywhere in my gym clothes," Danny stepped out of the shower and toweled off vigorously.

"I came down here with a t-shirt and my board-shorts. I can go anywhere in that. Including your room," Jared added slyly.

"Well, I can't be seen with someone so shabbily dressed," Danny looked down his noise at the boy, "So go back to your room and get dressed, and tell your mother you met a local staying here at the hotel who's going to show you around town. But for God's sake don't tell her that I'm twenty-two!"

"You're twenty-two?" Jared mock-sneered at him, "I didn't know you were so old!"

"Smartass," Danny threw his wet towel at the boy and stepped into his swimsuit, "Get on out of here, and I'll meet you in the lobby in about half an hour, OK?"

Taking Jared out to the Castro would serve a dual purpose: not only would he get the boy out of the hotel and into a public place where he could no longer chip away at Danny's resolve, but he would also be able to scout his neighborhood on the sly to see if he could go home yet. So, as he rummaged through the opulent clothes in his suite, he tried for a disguise, tried to make himself look as much like a suburban teenage boy as possible so that he would blend with Jared and therefore be less noticeable.

His excessively fashionable wardrobe did not really allow for this...everything was much too grown-up, cut to accentuate his fully-developed body, and terribly expensive-looking. After picking through the cashmeres and silks in frustration, Danny's eyes fell on the rumpled clothes he'd discarded earlier in the morning, the blue-and-white striped dress-shirt and tan linen pants, which the maid had put into a plastic laundry bag to be taken away later by the hotel valet. They were a mess, bearing the evidence that they'd been slept in, and were perfect for a teenager.

Danny put on the pants without a belt so that they hung a little too low, put the shirt on negligently over a white undershirt, half-buttoned and untucked to obscure his torso, and stepped back into his gym-shoes with no socks. He looked perfect, dressed exactly the way his brother used to dress; but he smelled a little stale, so he spritzed a cloud of cologne into the air and walked through it. His hair was as messy as it could get, uncombed since some time the day before, but he carefully washed and moisturized his face to look as young as possible.

I need a hat Danny decided after checking himself out in the full-length mirror, and some sunglasses. After a few moments of wondering what to do, he remembered Marquesa's orders about using services, phoned the concierge, and asked for a baseball hat, a beat up Abercrombie & Fitch if possible, and a pair of black Ray-Ban Wayfarers, to be picked up at the front desk.

Arriving in the lobby a few minutes later, Danny found Jared dancing from foot to foot, acutely embarrassed, dressed in a pair of baggy gray cargo shorts and deck shoes with a huge faded red hoodie over a black t-shirt advertising a band Danny had never heard of.

"My mother won't let me come unless she meets you, first," Jared complained, rolling his eyes in exasperation.

"I wouldn't let you out of my sight, if I was your mother," Danny laughed at Jared's discomfort and was glad that he'd dressed as a teenager; he didn't imagine the mother of such a boy would be pleased to see her son go off with a full-grown man, "But wait a minute, what's her name?"

"Janet."

"Her last name, dummy. I'm not going to call your mother Janet."

"Hayes, Mrs. Brian Hayes. You're not going to suck up to her and be all goody-goody, are you?" Jared curled his lip in disgust.

"Honey, I'm gonna kiss her ass so hard she won't be able to sit down comfortably for a week," Danny punched him playfully on the shoulder, making an effort to take on the character of a teenage boy, "And where do Mrs. Brian Hayes and her beautiful son Jared live?"

"Cincinnati," the boy blushed at the compliment, "Why?"

"Because I want your mother to think that we talked about more than the size of your cock when we met at the pool this morning."

Following the furiously blushing Jared into the small grill-room at the left of the lobby, facing the street, he was confronted with a tall brunette version of his own mother, a clench-jawed debutante in a rigid oversized coiffure and a cashmere twinset that was the wrong shade of green for her taut salon-tanned skin.

"Good morning, Mrs. Hayes, I'm Danny Willard," Danny lied extempore, suddenly realizing that his own name might be recognized and connected to the scandal, "I'm pleased to meet you."

"Good morning, Danny," Mrs. Hayes allowed him to shake her soft, bony hand, which she presented to display a ring that was clearly a family heirloom, dull rose-cut diamonds in gold filligree around a rather apologetic opal, "Would you care to join us for breakfast?"

"No thank you, ma'am," Danny smiled engagingly and launched into a portion of truth, "If you don't mind, I was going to take Jared to this cafe in my neighborhood, maybe introduce him to some of my friends."

"I'm sure that sounds very nice," the lady smiled primly, almost condescendingly, "My son tells me you live locally. Do you live here in the hotel?"

"Oh, no, ma'am. We live on Russian Hill," Danny chose a neighborhood that he was sure an outlander would recognize as posh, "Mom and I are just staying here while the decorators are painting the house."

"Painters are always such an inconvenience," Mrs. Hayes sympathized with a little tilt to her head that made Danny want to slap her.

"I don't mind them, but Mom's allergic to paint fumes. We won't be able to go back home for at least a week," Danny was enjoying the lies he was spinning to lull this snobbish creature into letting him take her baby boy out on the town, "But she told my school we were going to Palm Springs to stay with my grandparents, so I get to play hookey."

"And where do you go to school, dear?" the woman was clearly fishing for information that she could look up in the Social Register. He wished he could see her face when she discovered that the only Willards in there were Marquesa's great aunts.

"I go to Winterhalter Academy," he'd already borrowed Marquesa's name, he figured he might as well borrow his alma mater as well.

"I hope I can meet your mother before we leave tomorrow," Mrs. Hayes put out another feeler.

"I'm sure she'd want to, ma'am, I'll ask her at dinner. She's at work today," Danny made up the excuse wanting to avoid having to produce a whole fake mother, but had to suppress a laugh when he saw the snobbish light go out in Mrs. Hayes's eyes; but if he wanted to get Jared out of this hotel, he'd have to keep laying on the WASP honey, "She's on the board of the Legion of Honor, and their meetings sometimes last all day."

"Committees can be so tiresome," Mrs. Hayes agreed, warming back up... she'd been to the Palace of the Legion of Honor just the day before and could finally relate Danny's story to a concrete credential, "I'll let you boys run along. Don't stay out too late."

"We'll be back before dinner, Mrs. Hayes, I promise," Danny rose and shook her hand again. Jared dismissed her with a bare nod and led the way out of the grill room.

"God, she's such a bitch," Jared moaned as they walked out onto Geary Street.

"Well, she's nicer than my mother," Danny shrugged, pulling on the pre-frayed baseball cap Phillipe had produced for him, "Though mine has nicer jewelry."

"That ring was her great-grandmother's," Jared agreed, delighted to dish his mother, "Mom acts like it's the Hope Diamond or something."

"And breakfasting with no pearls," Danny laughed, laying a hand on his own neck as if searching for a missing necklace, "the horror! Don't even get me started on that helmet-hair."

They made their way down to Market Street, joking about mothers in general and WASP mothers in particular; Danny couldn't help but notice that Jared's mother genuinely loved him despite all her stuffy airs. The very idea of loving mothers always made Danny just a little bit sad; but he shook it off and led Jared through the crowds to a bank where he could change one of his fifties into quarters and small bills.

It was a perfect day for showing someone San Francisco: invigoratingly sunny and clear, warm but with a refreshing cool wet breeze. There was a holiday atmosphere out on the streets, the businessmen had a spring to their steps, the shoppers had a swing to their bags, even the bums and crazies seemed to be happy. And Danny had never felt more at home in his adopted city as he did showing it to Jared, who drank it all in with enthusiasm.

Boarding an F Market streetcar to the Castro, Danny delighted in showing his young friend the landmarks along the way, telling him stories of events in history or his own life that had happened in various places, and describing the Gay Pride Parades he'd seen marching up that very avenue.

Chapter 9, Part 2

2007-05-01T10:37:00.000-07:00

Author's Note:

I'm going out of order here, because I've had this scene batting around in the back of my mind for a few weeks now, ever since I started work on Chapter 8. I first thought about making this scene the beginning of Chapter 9, but decided that the tone was all wrong, and introducing a new character after all the ups and downs that precede it would be unwise... the whole scene is too jarring to come immediately after the rather sad end of Chapter 8.

On the other hand, I didn't want to leave this bit hanging around until I finished the first part of Chapter 9, which I am working on now. So here, for your entertainment, is "Chapter 9 Part 2"... a preview, if you will.

R~M

***

"So, what exactly are you proposing?" Detective Varajian asked the young private investigator who'd invited him and his partner to lunch at the noisy local cop-filled diner.

"A pooling of resources, of course," R.J. Casterman, Jr., shrugged in a graceful palms-up gesture that showed off his long elegant hands. He was a strangely beautiful man, with his father's aquiline profile, wild auburn hair, and dramatically elongated figure, but his mother's strong pointed chin, wide voluptuous smile, and slanted amber eyes...his resemblance to a young wolf was startling, especially since he elected to leave his eyebrows unplucked so they met in the middle and crept down toward his nose; his unusually long canine teeth completed the picture of sly lupine menace.

"We know what we have," Detective Spevik mumbled around a mouthful of hamburger, his small eyes darting distrustfully over the young man across the table, hating him passionately, particularly hating his stainless-steel Rolex watch and his tan goatskin Gucci shoes and his brown superfine Cavalli suit and his dark orange Donna Karan cashmere sweater; Spevik didn't know any of those names, but was uncomfortably aware that the combined cost of the outfit nearly equaled his own annual salary, "But what can you offer us?"

"Let's put it this way," R.J. leaned forward onto the table eagerly, "You have the might of the law behind you, and you have one of the best forensic scientists in the world working for you. But you have limitations, checks on your activities, which do not bind me. You have to justify your budget, while I have access to nearly unlimited funds; you have to turn in full reports that become public record, and to comply with a lot of rules about harassment and brutality, under the scrutiny of your superiors and the press, while I have the freedom to bend those rules in complete anonymity, so long as I stay within the letter of the law. You have other cases on your desks, and only yourselves to rely on; but all I have in the world to do is work on this one case, and I have five investigators to do my footwork and three librarians to do my research. I have a lot to offer you."

"But why do you need us if you have all the money and freedom we don't?" Spevik wondered.

"Because you have an authority that I do not possess, witnesses are likely to spill information to a cop that they would hide from a PI. You also have access to information that I do not possess. Now, you have to disclose everything you find to the Defense, that's the law; but you don't have to do it gladly, or in as timely a manner as my father might wish. You don't have to devote as much attention to this case as Mr. Vandervere might require. What I'm proposing is cooperation instead of contest."

"What happens if you find something that implicates Vandervere?" Varajian smiled at young Casterman, enjoying the charisma and enthusiasm that radiated from him like an inner light.

"Ah, a very wise question, sir," R.J. smiled warmly at the older detective, "I am naturally duty-bound to report all of my findings to my father, who will of course have Attorney-Client Privilege with Mr. Vandervere, so I can't just give you anything non-exculpatory; but as a mere adjunct to my father's case, that Privilege becomes a very gray area: my information belongs to the client and is therefore confidential, but I am not exactly under the Seal of Confession, as it were. Between us, as a gentlemen's agreement, if I do learn something that you might have found out, if you'd only known where to look or whom to ask, I can drop a few five-pound hints over a friendly burger without compromising anybody's position."

"But what guarantee do we have?" Spevik insisted, his suspicious nature picking persistently at the offer, "Everything we find will eventually get to you; like you said, it's the law. But how will we know you've been giving us what you find out? You could keep quiet until the trial and we'd never know."

"Well, gentlemen, I really don't believe that's going to happen," R.J. leaned back against the banquette with a smirk that was somehow friendly and vicious at once, "My father didn't get where he is by not knowing whether or not his clients are guilty, and he is absolutely confident that Vandervere is innocent. However, if I did find evidence of Vandervere's guilt... well, I have a vindictive nature. My Dad believes in this kid; if it turns out that he's managed to pull the wool over Dad's eyes, I'll want revenge. Family honor, you know: nobody makes a fool of a Casterman and gets away with it. Does that comprise a satisfactory guarantee?"

"Honor!" Spevik snorted, "I don't believe in honor."

"Do you believe in trust? I'm going to trust you; you can trust me in return."

"I believe in facts. Give us something we can use."

"Naturally," R.J. pulled a thick sheaf of bound paper out of a Fendi leather messenger-bag that no messenger in the world could possibly afford, "Would you be interested in a complete breakdown of who was and wasn't in the apartment building the night Marshall was murdered? My team has already reviewed all of the security tapes, that's about two hundred and fifty hours of video, and can account for the exact population of the building for nearly a week before, and forty-eight hours after, Marshall's death. Plus a few transcript interviews with anybody in the building who might have had a motive, however dim."

"And what would you like in exchange?" Varajian asked, dumbfounded by such a valuable gift... the video analysis alone saved him a requisition of resources that would be impossible to get approved by a cash-strapped police administration.

"All of your evidence to date, including the complete forensic report, and some face-time with Dr. Griggs. Extra tissue samples, if they exist, the tapes of your interviews with Vandervere, and complete records of all criminal activity in and around that building, and the bar where Vandervere met Marshall for, say, six weeks before the murder?"

"Are you fucking nuts?" Spevik almost shouted, shocked by the sudden feral gleam in the young investigator's eyes, "We can't give you confidential police records!"

"Look," Casterman dropped all pretense at friendliness, "my father can subpoena those records, just as the DA can subpoena this dossier I'm giving you. But that will take weeks, and I don't think you want to wait through all the delaying tactics my father is capable of employing when he chooses. I could very easily mail this document to Kazakhstan instead of the Hall of Justice, 'oops, silly me', and none of us would be any farther forward than we are right now. I'm offering you cooperation in exchange for cooperation. You have nothing to lose."

"Except our badges," Spevik retorted.

"Nonsense!" R.J. resumed his engagingly casual facade, "While I would never suggest anything as filthy as blackmail, I do happen to have a taped conversation between my predecessor in the firm and your chief from her days as a detective, doing exactly what I am proposing you do. She will, I'm sure, applaud rather than censure your efforts in furthering this case. And if she doesn't, you can always gently remind her of her not-so-distant past: I happen to have a copy of that tape right here in my pocket, if you're interested."

"We have work to do," Spevik was so disgusted by this conversation, hurt by the revelation of corruption in his captain's past and sickened by the idea of blackmailing a fellow cop, that he only barely restrained himself from punching the contemptible young man in the mouth. He stood abruptly and started toward the door, "Come on, Varajian."

"I'll catch up with you, Spev, the bill hasn't come yet," Varajian answered smoothly.

"Your partner is a trifle hot-headed," R.J. smiled at the retreating Spevik before returning his attention to Varajian.

"I think you offended his sense of honor; he does believe in honor, but only ours. Lawyers and PIs are automatically dishonorable in his eyes; and I have to say, you are a very slippery young man," Varajian said with a certain note of admiration, "but I like the way you think. I believe we can arrange to have the records you request sent over. But let's keep this as above-board as possible: have your office draft a subpoena, and I'll make sure the records are ready for transport on its arrival, and on their way to you before anybody thinks to stop me. Fair enough?"

"A dream come true," R.J. arched an eyebrow in a manner that looked, to Varajian, like flirtation, "I'm very glad you don't share your partner's rather monochromatic views of right and wrong. Would you like the tape?"

"I'd love it," Varajian replied with a sly smile of his own, "I've been wanting something to hold over Captain Morris's head for years."

"I like the way you think," the young man dropped his voice and bit his lower lip gently; nobody could doubt that he was flirting with Varajian.

"But just so you know," Varajian pulled himself back, almost bodily, from the young man's furtive advances, "If you cross me, I will make it my life's mission to have your license revoked and your father brought under Bar review. Neither of you will be able to cross town without getting pulled over for speeding or suspicion of DUI, and bright lights will be shone into every corner of your lives. I know quite well how to avenge myself on someone 'within the letter of the law,' trust me. And if I find out that you've recorded this conversation for leverage against me when I'm captain, I will wring your pretty head off your skinny neck with my bare hands."

"My, but you really know how to sweet-talk a boy, don't you?" R.J. licked his teeth hungrily.

"I know how to watch my own ass," Varajian smiled sweetly as he stood up and buttoned his jacket, "Thanks for lunch."

"Woof," R.J. whispered to himself, watching Detective Varajian's nicely compact ass as he strutted manfully out of the diner with that peculiarly self-assured gait that all policemen share, "I could seriously fall for that one."

***

Chapter Eight (Complete)

2006-12-08T11:05:00.000-08:00

Danny woke up on Monday morning happier than he'd ever been in his life. He was sated with sex and with sleep, wallowing in creature-comforts, and luxuriating in the ecstasy of being in love.

Being in love was everything he'd always hoped, fervent and joyous and just a little bit scary; and he discovered that making love to his beloved was so much more supremely satisfying than just having sex — it was a difference of intensity, the difference between surfing a twelve-foot breaker and splashing about in a swimming-pool; the latter was a lot of fun, but the former was ravishing.

Raising himself up on one elbow, Danny looked down into his beloved's face and experienced another all-consuming rush of emotion; he wasn't sure if he wanted to laugh idiotically or burst into tears, to start singing or screaming or hyperventilating. Instead, he kissed Marquesa lightly on the arm and got out of bed gently, careful not to wake him.

Slipping into the feather-light aubergine silk dressing-gown that Saks had sent up for him, Danny moved silently into the sitting room, pulling the door to behind him... Marquesa had been awake much later than Danny had, still on his own internal clock while Danny had gone completely off-schedule from the many upheavals he'd experienced over the weekend, sleeping profoundly but in short snatches and waking up at odd hours.

He called room-service and ordered some coffee, as well as croissants and jam for himself and a platter of fruit and breakfast cheeses for Marquesa (who he now knew was on a low-starch diet and wouldn't eat bread at all), then sat down at the desk and turned on his recharged PDA so that he could check his email and phone messages.

Danny was deeply disappointed that so few people had tried to contact him over the weekend. Perhaps they knew he wasn't home, since the reporters camped outside his house would have reported as much; but that was a fairly weak excuse, since he always gave out his wireless number and email address as well as his landline. It seemed that people were simply distancing themselves from him until the dust settled and they knew what to believe; it was this lack of immediate loyalty that hurt Danny the most. When a person has more than two hundred contacts in his address book, more than half of whom he counts as personal friends, a paltry collection of messages that could be tallied on one's fingers was sorely disappointing.

The Aunt Ems had called, however, shouting pathetically into the device with worried well-wishes, and the family lawyer made a perfunctory-sounding offer of legal advice if needed; the rest of the Vandervere clan and retainers apparently couldn't be bothered... no less than he expected, though it gave him a small pang of pain to be reminded of how little his family regarded him.

Danny wrote a note to the Aunt Ems on hotel stationery rather than attempt a return phone call... they were both a little hard of hearing and had a certain mistrust of machines, so telephone communications with them were always unsatisfactory; notes on nice stationery, though, were cherished by the old ladies, tied with satin ribbons and stashed in tiny escritoire drawers with a sprig of lavender from the garden. Then he called the family lawyer and left a message that his defense was well in hand but the consideration was appreciated. He also sent off a few emails from his PDA, laboriously doodling the letters on the little screen, in response to the few calls and emails he'd received over the weekend.

He handed his letter over to the waiter who brought breakfast, along with his last four oily dollars. As soon as the waiter was gone and the suite returned to silence, Danny turned his attention back to Marquesa, taking his coffee and sliding the bedroom door open, moving an armchair around so that he could sit and gaze at the beloved while he sipped.

The sleeping Marquesa was yet another side of the man that Danny was coming to understand: the pure physical beauty without the dazzling personality driving it was something wonderful to look at, the chiseled body lying loose, the powerful hands palm-up with the long manicured fingers curled negligently, the glittering aggressive eyes closed and tender, the glorious auburn hair spilling untidily over the pillow, the precise mouth slack and snoring quietly. It is a cliché to compare sleepers to innocent angels; but Marquesa looked exactly like an angel fallen to earth, a little disheveled and no longer innocent, yet ready to resume his wings and return to his place on an Italian altarpiece at any moment.

This Sleeping Angel Marquesa was one of numerous different facets that Danny had discovered in his beloved over the last two days; these personalities were so different from each-other, or at least so unexpected in relation to each-other, that Danny had been forced to revise his Marquesa/Marc-Antony paradigm and start coming up with new names for each. And what amazed him the most was that each of these were somehow contained within the others, that the Sleeping Angel Marquesa laying there had all of those other Marquesas lurking inside of him, ready to delight or unsettle but never bore.

What made the whole thing so unnerving was that there were facets within facets: for example, the Glamour-Queen Marquesa, already well-known to Danny, had a sub-persona that he'd dubbed Glamour-Artist Marquesa, the exceedingly focused and rather peremptory craftsman who created that glamour. Danny had encountered this personality on Saturday afternoon, when Marquesa's manservant, Danvers, arrived to assist in the creation of Glamour-Queen Marquesa for the evening.

Danvers was rather a surprise in himself: Danny had envisioned the usual bland functionary, a featureless Jeeves type specially designed to melt into the background; but Danvers was shockingly attractive, tall and burly and ruggedly handsome; and though he was as stoic and correct as anyone could wish in a well-trained English servant, predictably dressed in a flat black nothing suit, there was an impossible-to-ignore smoldering in his steel-blue eyes and a dangerous little smirk barely suppressed on his muscular mouth; the drab black suit was boxy and loose but could not disguise the truly impressive physique beneath, more expected in a marble-quarry than a transvestite's boudoir.

He arrived promptly at six, carrying a large leather makeup case and a slightly smaller jewel-case in his white-gloved hands, leading two bellboys with three large garment-bags and two smaller suitcases — enough luggage for most people to take on a long cruise rather than a short weekend. He greeted Danny with a militaresque little bow and a slightly disdainful flash of his piercing eyes, narrowing on the bath-towel loosely knotted low on Danny's hips, then started setting up shop at the large dressing-table in the bedroom. Marquesa instructed Danny to go out into the sitting-room, order some afternoon tea, then stay there.

Danny had obeyed, though he was curious to watch Marquesa getting dressed, making himself comfortable at the desk in order to check messages and call his tenants about the noise in front of the apartment building, then moving over to the couch to watch television. He dozed for a few minutes, waking with a start when the bellboys returned with a large tea-trolley crowded with silver and crystal and pastel cakes, as well as several shopping bags and a suit-bag from Saks.

Andrew at Saks had completely outdone himself, inspired no doubt by the legendary depth of Marquesa's pockets, sending up more clothes than Danny could wear in a week packed with social engagements, much less holed up anonymously in a hotel. All of the pieces were the highest quality and most expensive items available, several of which Danny had been eyeing for some weeks and which Andrew had remembered he wanted. The dinner-suit in particular was absolutely gorgeous, silk and cashmere sharply tailored to hug his hips and accentuate his shoulders, accompanied by several different types of shirts and five sets of ties and waistcoats (Danny had never cared for cummerbunds, which he imagined made him look fat).

Some little time after the bellboys left, no doubt dismayed by the paltry tip Danny managed from the little bit of cash he had in his County Jail property envelope, Danvers reappeared from the bedroom. Danny, no stranger to public nudity, felt uncomfortably naked under the penetrating gaze of the man, and held the hanging dinner-suit in front of himself defensively.

"Do you require any assistance dressing, sir?" it was so nearly a sneer, with a wry arch to his left eyebrow and a small quiver of his right nostril, that Danny felt like a little boy tracking mud on the carpet.

"No, thank you," Danny got out with some effort, trying very hard not to hang his head and shuffle his feet.

"Very good, sir," Danvers made up a tray with a cup of coffee and a glass of sherry for Marquesa, then returned to the bedroom, leaving Danny to sigh with relief.

After lingering over his tea and nibbling dainty pink cakes while gazing out the window at the people walking on the roof-garden across the way, Danny decided he'd better start getting dressed; he laid out his suit, choosing a tie and waistcoat of heavy chocolate satin embroidered with sky-blue chrysanthemums, a stiff white shirt without pleats or ruffles, a set of heavy topaz links and studs set in dark gold, and black eel-skin opera-pumps with embroidered black socks.

He wondered if he could settle for getting dressed in the sitting-room, but decided his face felt a little stale despite his recent bath, and that his hair was a trifle frizzed and needed wetting; gathering up all the garments he planned to wear and the rather large ostrich-skin dop kit (Andrew knew him well enough to not pack shaving things, though he included a few essential cosmetics that aren't normally found in gentlemen's toiletries), Danny went to the bedroom door and knocked gently.

"What," came Marquesa's voice, an impatiently brusque demand rather than a question.

"I need the bathroom, I want to wash up a little before I get dressed," Danny pushed the door open a crack to peek in. Marquesa was seated at the dressing table, wearing a voluminous off-the-shoulder black taffeta smock that pooled in baroque folds all over the floor around him, dabbing some invisible something on his left eyelid with a long-handled sable brush; Danvers stood behind him, carefully removing long silver curlers from Marquesa's hair and letting the tamed locks dangle and bounce.

"Uh-huh," Marquesa more-or-less grunted, not taking his eyes off the task in the mirror; Danvers spared him a scathing how-dare-you-importune-the-divinity kind of glance as he dropped a handful of silver pins into the open makeup case.

Surprised and a little hurt by this unexpected coldness, Danny retreated into the bathroom and reinforced his dented ego with a thorough inventory of his own beauty, turning this way and that in the mirror; he reminded himself that he was something extremely special, and repeated it until his reflection smiled agreement. Thus reassured, he focused instead on the business of making himself even more beautiful.

He spritzed his dampened hair with a heavy mink-oil conditioner and worked the fluff of curls down into a wavy helmet with a fine-tooth comb, then dabbed royal jelly around his eyes and slapped a thick mask of avocado and clay onto his face. He brushed and flossed his teeth to glittering perfection, slathered his body with sandalwood-infused shea butter, went over his fingernails and toenails with a chamois buffer, washed the mask off with an astringent toner, and brushed the oil out of his hair with a fine boar brush until it gleamed like polished walnut and curled softly down the nape of his neck. A dusting of darkly golden powder around his eyes to make them smolder, a slick of clear gloss on his mouth to make it wet, just the barest whisper of golden mascara to soften the nearly solid line of his lashes, and he pronounced his face complete.

Not willing to put his head back into the lion's mouth quite so soon, Danny took his time getting dressed, waiting until his skin was entirely dry first, then applying pats of talc and dabs of white-linden cologne to various corners of his body as he waited; sliding slowly into the underwear and shirt, he tied his tie seven different times, trying various effects, deciding finally on a softly mussed arrangement that looked a little like a flower. Unfortunately, even the slowest dresser gets into a waistcoat, dinner suit, and shoes with very little time consumed, and there are only so many ways one can only fold a handkerchief; to kill a little more time, Danny sat down on the little stool and went over his fingernails again, filing the edges and pushing back the cuticles before buffing them to a glassy sheen.

"Good God, darling, aren't you dressed yet?" Marquesa called cheerfully from the bedroom.

"Just finishing up," Danny called back, hastily putting away the manicure set and getting to his feet.

Danny stopped short in the door, stunned by the impact of Marquesa's goddess-like magnificence. He was regally robed in a Grecian gown of cornflower-blue chiffon, his waist bound tight by a corset of crisscrossed satin ribbons that gathered into an elaborate bow before trailing off into the voluminous folds of the skirt. His hair was piled high in the Edwardian manner, a fancifully curled and braided chignon studded with diamond stars set on springs to tremble and glint with his every movement; an enormous cabochon sapphire hung from a dainty diamond lavaliere around his throat, with long sapphire pendant earrings winking at his ears and a diamond starburst brooch glittering on his shoulder, his wrists heavily shackled in several wide diamond bracelets.

"Ah, gaping silence, my favorite reaction to a new dress," Marquesa laughed lightly, swinging the fabric of his skirts as if he were about to start waltzing.

"Would it be pointless to say you look fabulous?" Danny finally stuttered out.

"Compliments are never pointless," Marquesa tilted his head forward as Danvers dropped an evening cape over his shoulders, a stiff white satin casing of rather ecclesiastic shape with a standing collar of white coq feathers. He waited for Danvers to hand him his handbag, a crystal-paved Judith Lieber in the shape of an apple, "And you look quite delicious, yourself, so sleekly elegant; and I love you in that waistcoat. Are you ready to go? Thank you, Danvers; that will be all."

With that, Marquesa swept out of the suite, Danny following in his wake like the tail of a comet, down the hall and into an elevator whose operator seemed to be waiting for them; they hadn't even paused in the foyer of the restaurant before the maître-d' appeared to escort them to a perfectly-situated table beside one of the tall French windows with enviable views of both the city and their fellow diners. Danny marveled at the deference that was shown his companion in this hotel, concierges and maîtres-d' falling all over themselves, bellboys and elevator-men rushing to his service without needing to be summoned. Such subtle demonstrations of Marquesa's power were a heady aphrodisiac to Danny.

L'Aurente at dinner was a very different place from L'Aurente at lunch... though the pastoral theme was inescapable, it seemed as if the garden's day had progressed to early evening: the chandeliers were dimmed to give off no more light than a flurry of fireflies, and dark purple spots concealed behind the cornice turned the painted ceiling a twilight violet and rendered the yellow silk wall-panels a deep viney green; the tables and chairs were draped and slip-covered with deep wine damask, and the centerpieces were dark old silver epergnes filled with purplish roses, near-black orchids, miniature eggplants, glossy green laurel, and a half-dozen white candles flickering romantically on each side.

With his gown achieved and appreciated on all sides (there had been an audible gasp when he'd entered the dining-room), Marquesa settled down to be charming and talkative, showing Danny his Society-Hostess persona, a blithe creature of light conversation and almost musical small-talk. Though his beauty remained intoxicating, framed in dark flowers and glimmering candlelight, his gaze was friendly and his expressions flirtatious, his topics limited to clothes, food, and the arts, his questions easily answered and his statements entertaining but unrevealing, putting Danny completely at his ease as they worked their way slowly through a seven-course banquet.

Marquesa had ordered without even looking at the menu, though he appealed to Danny for agreement and wine advice at each course, eschewing sauces and breading of any kind; the food that came was delicious, savory and substantial, whimsically garnished but otherwise quite plain: oysters on the half-shell embedded in ice, clear onion soup with slivered vegetables and a quail's egg floating at the bottom, a duck-liver mousse shingled with truffles and chanterelles, sole braised in goat's-milk and fines herbes, a butter-lettuce salad dressed with fresh mint and lemon, a pork-roast in a nest of steamed rainbow chard studded with tiny onions that didn't seem to have any seasonings on it at all but nevertheless tasted divine, and a selection of light fruits and white cheeses with honeyed walnuts for dessert.

"Well, I'm stuffed," Marquesa admitted, setting down his coffee-cup with an air of finality and leaning back in his chair, "I'm glad the waist of this dress is reinforced, else I'd be sporting a maternity profile."

"I'm sleepy," Danny yawned behind his napkin, "too much protein and too many different wines."

"Shall we go dance, then?" Marquesa stood, placing a hand on his tiny waist as if soothing the ache of a full stomach, and picked up his handbag.

"Dance? Where?"

"There's a ballroom down on the first floor, didn't you know?" Marquesa allowed the maître-d' to drape him in his white cape, then led the way back across the restaurant to the elevators.

The ballroom was a magical place, with mirrors and crystal and pastel allegorical paintings set into gilded rococo plasterwork; a twenty-piece orchestra in a shell-like stage took up one end of the room while a mirror-image shell at the opposite end housed a glittering cocktail bar. The floor was an intricately-patterned parquet, bare in the middle and surrounded by linen-draped tables and little gilded chairs; tall French windows opened onto a rose-garden filled with dancing fountains and voluptuous statues, glowing with fairy-lights and paper lanterns.

The ballroom was sparsely populated, with only a few uninspiring couples staying at the hotel and a smattering of Social locals scattered around the dance-floor; nobody was dancing, though the band was playing a sprightly jazz standard.

"Could you ask the band to play some ballroom for me, Bertrand?" Marquesa discreetly slipped a folded packet of bills into the head-waiter's hand as they were seated at a little table in the first ring around the dance-floor.

"Bien-sûr, Mademoiselle Willard-Wilkes," the man bowed deeply and scurried off to the band-shell to give orders.

"You do know how to dance, don't you, darling? Ballroom, I mean?" Marquesa asked.

"Of course," Danny laughed, "It's still part of the WASP regimen, at least in our remote corner of the world. I'm not very imaginative with the tango, but I can manage most of the standards."

"Well, then, when they play a tango, I'll lead. Shall we?" he reached out his hand and hauled Danny to his feet, leading him into the very center of the floor as the band launched into a lusty rendition of Strauss' "Emperor Waltz."

This isn't just love, Danny exulted as they whirled around the dance-floor in the giddy rhythm of the opulent Viennese tune, this is romance! It was the kind of love one sees in old movies, full of glamour and excitement and beauty, perfectly chaste but with the promise of fantastic pleasures to come. He felt almost sick from a surfeit of happiness.

After the waltz, they danced a fox-trot, a beguine, a samba, a fairly tame jitterbug, and a perfectly spectacular tango (with Marquesa leading, as promised); breathless and laughing after their performance, they collapsed into their chairs and summoned a waiter while the band, equally exhausted, took a well-deserved break.

"Would you like liqueurs or champagne?" Marquesa asked, fanning himself with the little menu card from the table, "Or perhaps coffee?"

"Why choose?" Danny asked after some thought, "How about a coffee liqueur with a champagne chaser?".

"Trying to get me drunk, are you? I should warn you, I can outdrink any sailor. Two Sabrosos, Louis," Marquesa turned to the waiter, "and a bottle of... what? Veuve Clicquot, I suppose."

"No Domaine de Sequemont?" Danny asked, remembering Valerien's family winery.

"Oh, God no," Marquesa rolled his eyes and lounged into his chair, one elbow perched on the back with the other arm extended to the table, a pose that Danny was beginning to recognize, "I have to drink that swill whenever I'm with Val, I'll be damned if I'll drink it when I'm not."

"I'd hardly call it swill," Danny smiled, gently defending their mutual friend, "it's well-known as the finest California champagne."

"Yes, well, California champagne... I'm only kidding, of course. But I really do have to drink an awful lot of it, Valerien simply won't let anyone have anything else. On another topic," he stood abruptly and snapped up his handbag, "I'm dying for a cigarette; would you join me for a stroll in the garden while we wait for Louis to find a bottle of Sabroso?"

The garden was freezing, but they were so overheated from their dancing that the slap of chill against their skins was quite refreshing. They walked slowly and silently around the perimeter while Marquesa smoked a pungently fragrant black cigarette, interlacing their fingers and bumping shoulders occasionally, smiling into each-other's eyes and simply wallowing in the romance.

Returning to their table, they proceeded to get very silly and giggly over two bottles of Veuve Clicquot and five Sabrosos each, taking to the dance-floor whenever the band played something they both liked, singing to each-other when they knew the words, and generally overplaying the part of a courting couple with a good deal of zest.

The romance took an abrupt turn when they got back to the suite, whereupon Marquesa suddenly discarded the Society Hostess persona — along with the blue dress, the jewels, and the convoluted coiffure — revealing another facet of his personality: gone was the light conversation and subtle allure, to be replaced by a focused and fearsome intensity, a deliberate and merciless creature who ripped Danny's clothes off of him without ceremony, dragged him bodily onto the bed, and had his way with him. After the first three hours of being subdued, manipulated, and generally worked over in a most satisfying manner, Danny decided to call this personality "Power-Top Marquesa."

When Danny and Marquesa were together the first time, Valerien's presence had lightened and diffused Marquesa's intensity, making him fun and frolicsome; the second time his intensity had been limited by the narrowness of the bathtub. But alone and with a whole room in which to operate, the intensity was ferocious, coolly calculating but fiercely heated.

Marquesa was in complete control, not only of his own body but of Danny's as well, intent on eliciting specific responses from both of their bodies and on orchestrating their pleasures with mathematical precision. He didn't talk, or croon, or cuddle: he fucked, simply and completely, with all of his attention and resource; if he wanted Danny to move, he moved him, and if he wanted Danny to give something, he took it without asking. He was gentle but implacable, slow of movement but relentless in purpose.

And though it was a little frightening at times, having no control over what was happening, Danny absolutely loved being dominated in this way by this man. It was a domination that didn't have to rely on cheap tricks of bondage (though silk scarves and asphyxiation did come into play during the third and fourth rounds) to create a pretense of domination: it was the domination of a forceful will over a more pliable will, the domination of a strong body over a body of nearly equal strength... and though Danny submitted gladly, he couldn't quite escape the feeling that, if he hadn't, Marquesa would have done exactly as he pleased anyway.

In between these strenuous episodes, however, they shared the fragrant black cigarettes (which Marquesa imported from England, made-to-order from pipe-tobacco), snacked on lavish trays of food ordered down from l'Aurente, bathed together in deep hot bubble-baths, and dozed together loosely intertwined on the rumpled bed. In these quiet in-between periods, Marquesa relaxed his formidable facade, giving over to yet another personality: the Sensitive Boy.

Sated and dreamy, he talked about his childhood, of growing up alone in a cluttered, crumbling pink mansion that had been frozen in time since the 'Twenties, his only companions his eccentric elderly great-aunts and a couple of equally elderly servants. Aunts Eulalie and Eugenia had educated him, only allowing him outdoors to play alone in the back garden between lessons, and he never set foot through the front door of the house except on Sundays, when he and the Aunts bundled into an old Packard limousine in order to attend services at Grace Cathedral. The Aunts never went out, otherwise, and never imagined that the little orphan boy in their care would want to.

It wasn't until he was eleven years old that he was let out for a social education: a dashing German prince and his beautiful ten-year-old daughter moved into the little white marble palace across the street, causing a great deal of flutter in Social circles; the little Princess was considered a fit companion for the Last of the Willards (the Aunts actually called him that), so he was allowed to play with her and share her dancing and riding lessons, learning to swim and shoot at her country-club, and being introduced to her other carefully-chosen friends.

Then at fifteen, he was finally sent to school; the Aunts sold off a trio of townhouses from the two little blocks of Richmond District property that remained of their once-vast fortune, and used the proceeds to send him to the most exclusive private school in the city; there he was expected to receive the finishing touches of a gentleman's education with such pursuits as literature, history, politics, and fencing. It was there he met Valerien, who became his first lover and then his closest friend, the nearest thing to brotherhood that either of them had ever experienced.

Marquesa told Danny all these things with an air of having never told anyone before, his narrative full of pauses as he searched for the right word or untangled a skein of suppressed memories; Danny dozed off during the stories quite frequently, his dreams building themselves around the sound of Marquesa's voice, illustrating the words as if in a film: Danny could see the lonely little boy, a delicate sprite with flaming hair and glittering eyes, buried alive in a spooky old mansion with a pair of dusty Miss Havishams; he saw the little German princess, whom his imagination turned into Shirley Temple in Heidi, and the first taste of society and freedom at the country-club; he saw the teenaged Marquesa and the teenaged Valerien banding together in a mock-Gothic school filled with pedigreed boys, pedantic professors, and pederastic chaplains.

He didn't think it was possible to love Marquesa more than he already did, but this revelation of the lonesome little boy who was the precursor to the awesome multifaceted divinity, this rare show of vulnerability, touched Danny's heart deeply.

Even more touching, Marquesa didn't dominate the conversation, he instead stopped his own stories to ask about Danny's life at the same ages; he listened closely while Danny shared everything about his own childhood, the lonely feeling of being different from the rest of his family, dark where they were fair, pretty where they were handsome, and sweet-natured where they were arrogant; he talked of the offhand brutality with which his brothers and cousins excluded him from their pastimes and ridiculed him for his peculiar ephebic beauty, the distant coldness of his disapproving parents, and the distrust of the townies for the entire Vandervere clan.

Danny also talked of his delight at being taken over by the Aunt Ems, the wonderful novelty of being loved and paid attention and taught deportment and grace; he spoke too of his unending quest to be loved by everyone he met, his efforts to charm the townies into liking him despite his name, his desperate need to enchant teachers and neighbors and tradesmen, even the family servants.

Most of Sunday passed in talking and eating and fucking and bathing, and Danny was still almost nauseated by the overwhelming bliss of being in love with such a remarkable creature, and more importantly of being loved by such a remarkable creature... for though they did not speak of love, Danny felt absolutely certain that this was, at long last, Love with a capital L...the thing he'd been dreaming of all his life.

Late on Sunday evening, Danny woke from a rather deep sleep, startled to find himself alone on one side of the bed... it was the first time in almost twenty-four hours that Marquesa hadn't been touching him somewhere.

He turned over the find his beloved, squinting against the light of the bedside lamp, and was a little bit shocked by the new persona Marquesa had adopted in the meantime: the Serious Businessman. He was wearing a white hotel bathrobe, his hair pulled back tight, sitting comfortably against the head of the bed with a pair of reading glasses perched on his nose, a yellow wooden pencil clutched in his teeth, and a blue-enameled pen in his hand. A large leather folio lay open on his lap, and a variety of important-looking papers were fanned out around him.

"You're wearing glasses," Danny blurted out a little stupidly.

"Farsighted," Marquesa admitted, looking at Danny fondly over the top of the tortoise-shell frames, "I need them to read. I'm surprised you didn't notice before, you're usually so observant."

"I noticed that you never read menus," Danny sat up and crossed his legs under him to peer over at Marquesa's papers, "but I didn't attribute it to eyesight, I thought you just didn't care. What are you doing?"

"Comparing estimates. The summer repair season is coming up, and most of my buildings need maintenance of one kind or another. These estimates are for roofing, and no two roofers ever write their estimates the same, so I have to go over them very carefully to get a complete picture of the relative costs."

"What kind of buildings?" Danny wanted to keep the conversation going, slightly chilled by Marquesa's withdrawal from him.

"Apartment buildings, mostly, and a few blocks of townhouses, a handful of large commercial properties, stuff like that. Rental property is just details, details, details. Every block is a series of houses, every house is a series of rooms, every room is a series of fixtures... and then you put people in all of them, and the details multiply exponentially. It never ends," he stated dispassionately, punching numbers into a calculator while making notes on several different papers.

"Why don't you have someone else do it?"

"Because then I wouldn't know where my money was going, nor where it was coming from," he said without looking up or stopping his note-making, "and I'd be bored silly. I leave my money assets to my accountants, but I like to keep my finger on the pulse of my real estate. It's really quite fascinating; it's in my blood, you know, the Willards have always been involved in land development. We built this hotel, even. I don't own it, it's one of the things we lost in the Crash, but there's a Roman 'W' carved into the cornerstone nonetheless."

"Well, now I know who to ask for advice on my own little properties," Danny lounged down onto the bed in what he hoped was a sufficiently provocative pose to tear Marquesa's attention away from his estimates.

"My advice would be to sell them to me at a very cheap price," Marquesa smirked, taking off the glasses and folding them into the folio with all the papers, "You must never ask advice from a competitor, darling. Now, let's see if we can find some better occupation for your mouth than idle chatter."

After a brisk thirty minutes of being fucked into the mattress with Marquesa's tongue shoved down his throat, Danny curled up against his beloved and went back to sleep; once he'd caught his breath, Marquesa drew his folio back into his lap and continued his business one-handed, his other hand stroking Danny's hair.

***

Danny was so enrapt with his memories that he didn't notice that Marquesa was awake and staring back at him.

"Why do you stare at me so?" Marquesa wondered, not moving from his sleeping position.

"You're so beautiful and fascinating," Danny answered truthfully, a little surprised by the sloppy emotionalism audible in the statement.

"I guess that's a good reason," Marquesa sat up and smiled, patting the empty spot on the bed where Danny had recently been asleep, "But I'd rather you stared at me from here."

"Can't you see me better from a distance, Four-Eyes?" Danny teased.

"Of course, but as long as my cock is, I don't think you can reach it from all the way over there."

"You can reach it yourself, can't you?"

"So I can," Marquesa admitted, kicking aside the bedclothes and pulling gently at his immense cock, bloated but not hard, his eyes riveted to Danny, "Can you reach yours? Show me."

Danny and Marquesa sat and watched eachother masturbate for a few minutes, but neither of them got completely hard nor seemed particularly interested in the exercise.

"Well, I didn't think it was possible," Marquesa let go of his cock and let it drape heavily across his thigh, "But I think we're both completely fucked out. Another round might kill us both."

"But what a way to go," Danny replied, a little bit disappointed in his body for giving up like that, and crossed the room to lay down on top of Marquesa in hopes of reigniting the flame.

"Honestly, child, you're insatiable! Why don't you go take another shower?" Marquesa got out of bed and put on the white bathrobe, "You're the mos' showerin-est man I ever done met."

"Why don't you join me?" Danny sat up and wrapped his arms around Marquesa's waist, nuzzling his face into the folds of the robe.

"I need to make some phone calls," Marquesa replied, his voice returning to the dispassionate Businessman tone as he pulled Danny's arms away and stepped back, "Leave me alone for a few minutes, OK?"

"Okay," Danny grumbled, thrusting out his lower lip and making puppy-dog eyes.

"I'll join you in a minute," Marquesa relented, grabbing a fistful of Danny's hair and shaking his head around.

"Hooray!" Danny cried, bouncing out of bed and into the bathroom.

As he stood beside the tub adjusting the faucets, Danny could faintly hear Marquesa dragging the phone onto the bed and tapping the buttons with his long nails; and though he couldn't hear the words, there was a strangely soft tone in his voice that he'd not heard before, a tone that arrested Danny's attention and drew him back toward the door; he didn't intend to eavesdrop, but he was curious, trying to guess who Marquesa could be talking to in that sinuous voice.

"I don't care what people are going to think," Marquesa was saying... was he sulking or smiling? Danny couldn't tell, "What difference does it make? I'm helping him because I want to, and the rest is nobody else's business... yes, but I don't care... I know... Yes, I know... I told you, I like him, I like him a lot... of course not! You know I'd never... you know I love you, Richard. I like Danny a lot... yes, maybe I do love him a little... a little! That doesn't change how I feel about you."

Danny didn't really attend to the rest; he heard a promise to tell this Richard person "all about it" over lunch the next day, and he heard Marquesa sign off with a softly passionate "I love you, Richard" before hanging up and starting another phone-call; but it only barely registered against the clanging, shattering, obliviating disappointment Danny experienced as his dream of love fell to a million jagged pieces. He didn't know how long he stood there, turned to a pillar of salt, tears streaming silently down his face; but he was still standing there when Marquesa came in and found him in the doorway.

"Darling, what's wrong?" Marquesa asked in alarm, reaching out to touch the tears on Danny's face.

Danny wanted to sit down on the floor and wail, but he knew that Marquesa would try to comfort him, and he didn't think he could stand that.

"You have a lover," he finally croaked out, looking down at the floor instead of at Marquesa.

"Well, of course I have! I thought you knew," Marquesa took a step backward as the slow realization of Danny's confusion became clear to him, "Everybody knows about Richard and me. I'm sure I mentioned him to you."

"I guess you did," Danny turned away, remembering the three or four mentions of 'a lover,' which he'd tricked himself into believing was a generality rather than a specific person, "I guess I didn't want to hear it, so I didn't hear it."

"Oh, my poor darling," Marquesa finally understood that Danny had been dreaming of an exclusive relationship between them, that he'd thought this was the beginning of romantic love rather than of carnal friendship, "If I had any idea you didn't know, I would have said something before."

"Richard who?" Danny asked, stalling for time as he tried to regain his footing.

"Richard Allenwhite. You've probably met him around town."

"No. He's married, though, isn't he? With kids?"

"Yes," Marquesa sounded defensive, "I take it you disapprove?"

"No, I guess not," Danny shrugged. And thinking about it, he didn't have room to disapprove, he'd screwed his share of married fathers before and not thought much of it... aside from a vague pity for the wives and children who potentially had a nasty surprise in their future, "Does his wife know about it?"

"Honey, everybody knows about it," except you he stopped himself from saying.

"She doesn't mind?" Danny glanced into the mirror at Marquesa standing behind him, trying to put himself into this other family's situation instead of feeling his own pain.

"I suppose Cornelia pretends to mind when people tell her the gossip, she certainly never lets on that she knows all about me and always has. We're actually friends, after a fashion... but we don't speak in public."

"How very cosmopolitan," Danny caught himself sneering and shook himself out of it, "I'm sorry, I didn't mean that. I'm just disappointed. I hoped for more. I wanted more."

"Well, if it's a relationship you want," Marquesa resumed his businesslike tone, but wrapped his arms around Danny from behind, "You should go out with Valerien. He's unattached, and very romantically-inclined. And I know he likes you a lot. I like you a lot, too."

"So I heard," Danny quipped bitterly, then immediately hated himself for it, "I'm sorry...again. Too many emotions the last few days, I'm falling apart a little bit."

"Maybe I should go, give you some space to pull yourself together," Marquesa picked up a brush and a handful of hairpins, deftly taming his jumbled hair into a smoothly braided coil at the back of his neck.

"That's a good idea," he said reluctantly after watching silently as Marquesa fixed his hair, "I need some time to process."

"You and I are going to be very good friends, aren't we?" Marquesa sounded slightly unsure of himself for a moment, catching Danny's eyes in the mirror.

"Of course," Danny threw his arms around Marquesa's waist and kissed his cheek. I can still be friends with him, it isn't all over, he told himself, and I can fall in love with Valerien instead, "I think I'll take my shower now."

"Good, darling; I'm going to go get dressed."

Danny stood under the water until it went tepid, crying quietly as he let the disappointment rip through him; he was hurt in exactly the same proportion as he'd been happy earlier, perhaps even a little moreso, and the feeling of heartbreak was as new to him as the feeling of love had been. He tried, as he had with the love, to encompass it with reason, to analyze the feelings as they rampaged about; but he couldn't wrap his mind around the enormity of it all. He eventually gave up, and since his crying had stopped and the hot water was all gone, he got out of the shower and returned to the bedroom.

"You look so yummy wet," Marquesa observed while clipping a large square amethyst to his earlobe. He was dressed in a rather equestrian suit of dark violet peau de soie trimmed in glossy black satin, his slender calves sheathed in tall black boots, and a soft black scarf around his throat fastened with an Art Deco amethyst brooch. An abbreviated black top-hat and veil lay on the bed alongside a pair of black gloves and a black handbag.

"And you look yummy in that suit," Danny smiled; no matter how hurt he was, he was still an admiring slave to the exquisite beauty that Marquesa created, "All you need is a riding crop, and you could be on horseback, chivvying a fox."

"The skirt's to narrow for riding," Marquesa laughed, glad that the gloominess in the bathroom had passed and they were back on happy terms, "And I've never hunted fox. Deer, rabbit, and pheasant, sometimes duck though I don't like hiding in a covert. Do you hunt?"

"I've been deer-hunting," Danny admitted, sitting on the bed and watching Marquesa put on the hat and gloves, "but I'm too squeamish about it. The sight of blood freaks me out, and I hate the sound of guns."

"Oh, deer-hunting with a gun is for pussies. You can't shoot a gun from horseback, anyway. I use arrows for game."

"Do you wear a Greek tunic and a crescent moon in your hair?" Danny giggled at the picture in his mind of Marquesa in the voluminous Classical evening gown of Saturday night, on horseback with a silver bow and arrow.

"I usually wear a simple blue habit," Marquesa replied distractedly, his attention devoted to arranging the net veil around his face, "velvet for cool weather and poplin in the summer."

"Sensible," was all Danny could think of to say.

"The deer don't see me coming, they're color blind, you know; but other hunters see the blue and don't shoot," he picked up the handbag, checking to make sure it contained everything he'd need, "You'll be OK by yourself won't you? You know you can stay as long as you like, you can call downstairs for anything at all you might need."

"I'll be fine," Danny got up and followed Marquesa into the sitting room.

"Don't be afraid to ask for whatever you want, I'll have no independent-minded reticence from you," Marquesa put his arms out and Danny melted into him automatically, "Danvers will be coming by later this afternoon to pick up my luggage. I'll instruct him to bring some suitcases for your use, as well. Do you want anything from your apartment?"

"No, thank you," Danny said into Marquesa's shoulder... Marquesa was now taller than him in the stiletto-heeled boots. Marquesa kissed him, intimately but without passion, and left. Danny stayed there leaning in the doorframe for a quite a while, until he realized he was standing naked in the hallway for a five-star hotel, and decided to go back to sleep.
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14 Pages ~ 7,178 Words

Chapter Seven (Complete)

2006-11-17T15:05:00.000-08:00

Danny sat quietly on his bunk, his ankles crossed in front of him and a magazine in his lap; his hair was neatly combed back to fluff out behind his ears, parted on the side with a rakish wave of loose curls over his forehead; his big wondering eyes were bright and clear, his smooth cheeks blushed becomingly, and a patient smile curled the corners of his cupid's-bow mouth; his t-shirt glowed white and clean against his pale skin, his orange jumpsuit looked crisply ironed, his blue shoes stood neatly beside his bunk — he presented a picture of such patent innocence that the inmates and deputies who glanced in at him as they passed his windows wondered what kind of cosmic injustice had landed such an angel in the county jail.

But Danny had already tired of thinking over the cosmic injustice of his incarceration, and was now engaged in trying to decide if he were bored, or if it was just his impatience with waiting that was marring an otherwise deliciously relaxing morning.

There was a kind of luxury inherent in having no choices: even the smallest decisions require a certain amount of energy and consequence, imagination and responsibility; but Danny hadn't had to make a single decision since entering the jail.

His breakfast was delivered to his cell as his dinner had been, a made-up tray chosen by someone else; and though the morning meal wasn't as well-prepared as the evening meal had been — the scrambled eggs were overcooked, the bacon too thick and hard, the white toast sadly limp, the orange-juice bitter and thin, and the one cup of coffee pitifully weak — it was very pleasant to eat a meal that he'd not had to expend the tiniest effort toward nor take any responsibility for.

After breakfast, a forbiddingly silent deputy named Broussard arrived to take him to the showers; and though he instinctively tried to charm the stone-faced deputy and draw him into conversation, and was a little hurt by his indifference, Danny eventually gave up the effort and adopted the deputy's silence as his own. It was distinctly creepy to do something as intimate as showering while being watched by so disinterested an audience, but it was also very restful to not have to make any kind of social effort, or even pay any attention to anything or anyone around him... all he had to do was wash himself and then dry himself.

Once he was delivered back to his cell, there was no period of wondering what to wear or what to do with his day; he had just the one outfit and absolutely nothing to do until Deputy Broussard returned to take him to court... which would be shortly before eleven, giving him two hours to kill. Danny turned on the television for noise and color, and read the last of his magazines, but he was spared the necessity of actually thinking of a way to kill the two hours — everything was out of his hands.

However, the comfortably structured nature of incarceration left one thing to be desired: the knowledge of what came next. Though he knew that he'd be taken to court at eleven, he didn't know what would happen there, what would be required of him or what outcomes were desired, how to prepare or when it would be over. His sense of adventure had waned in the tedium of the uneventful morning, and now he was left with an impatience to get on to the next thing, a need to have something decided.

Eventually the impatience won out over the relaxation, and Danny started to fidget. He still had an hour to kill, and he'd already read every word in every magazine he had, including the advertisements and mastheads. After remaking his bed with military precision, and carefully fanning out his magazines in alphabetical and chronological order, as well as ordering his toiletries from smallest to largest on the little shelf over the multipurpose plumbing fixture, he started doing calisthenics just to work off the pent-up energy.

After the first few sit-ups, Danny realized that he was going to wrinkle his jumpsuit, and that he wouldn't be able to change his t-shirt if he stained it with sweat, so he stripped down to his shorts, feeling self-conscious doing so in the rather public little cell that people invariably looked into when they passed. After warming up with standard exercises like push-ups and squats, he settled down to go through everything he could remember of his Pilates routine.

His body was grateful for the exercise, since he'd missed his workout the day before (Fridays were usually devoted to thighs and pecs, followed by an hour's swim before he went upstairs for pre-weekend grooming), the ensuing endorphin rush improved his mood dramatically, and the hour simply flew by; he even had time to wash up again at the sink/toilet and get himself dressed and primped before Deputy Broussard turned up to take him to court.

Danny was handcuffed and led through another maze of corridors and elevator trips, or perhaps the same route he'd come the day before... he couldn't tell. He wondered out loud how the deputy knew one long linoleumed hallway from another, but received no answer, nor even a flicker of emotion, from the stolid Broussard. They finally came to a stop at a little barred window in a short narrow passage, where Danny's wrist-band was read and checked against a clip-boarded list; he was told to sit down, not talk, and wait for his number to be called.

There were eleven other handcuffed detainees sitting on the plain wooden benches in the small square room, each one in an orange jumpsuit and blue shoes, each one fidgetty and nervous but sitting silent and still. Two deputies stood guard, one by the door Danny had come through and one by the door at the opposite end of the room, their batons at the ready.

After a few minutes, a third deputy came in through the opposite door and called a number, to which a large and ostentatiously ugly Samoan man responded; he was led out of the room, and returned after only five minutes. The next "contestant" (as Danny decided to think of them) was a rickety old man with leathery purple-black skin and whispy white hair, who was gone for more than a quarter of an hour. And then the next, and the next, working through the twelve detainees at an average speed of ten minutes each; when they came back in and resumed their seats, they looked relieved, or angry, or defeated, but no longer nervous and fidgetty.

Danny passed the time by making up stories about his fellow detainees, trying to guess what their names ought to be, whether or not they had jobs or cars or children, and of what crimes they were most likely accused. In his inveterate niceness, he didn't care to ascribe violent crimes such as murder, battery, or rape; instead he made up stories about minor drug-possession, petty theft, fraud, drunk-and-disorderly, and the like for the ordinary-looking men, and fancifully exotic crimes like operating opium dens, smuggling archaeological artifacts, and unauthorized iguana-farming for the more unusual-looking (the Samoan man in particular was good fodder for such imaginitive crimes, and Danny convicted him of everything from ostrich-rustling to indecent acts with the elephants at the zoo).

And though this sort of mental game-playing was fairly entertaining, it was simply torture for Danny to sit in the little square room without talking to anybody, with nothing to read or watch or do, for the better part of two hours. When his number was finally called, he was so stupefied with boredom that the deputy had to repeat it twice before Danny realized they meant him.

After so much stillness and quiet, Danny was staggered by the noise and movement in the courtroom; his entrance was greeted by the sounds and lights of two dozen cameras going off at once, and an excited murmuring could be heard under the cacophanous snapping and clicking. The judge, irritated by the sudden hubbub but immersed in a file he was reading, banged distractedly with his gavel, merely adding to the racket.

Despite the chaos in the courtroom, Danny's eye was immediately drawn to Marquesa and Valerien sitting in the front row on the aisle; even if they hadn't been directly in the center of his field of vision, he would have been drawn to their bright beauty and radiant glamour... they were dressed in pale brilliant colors with sharply tailored lines and beautifully draped fabrics, and they exuded a sort of expensive aura, almost as if they had their own light-source, that separated them from the dim and uninteresting people around them.

They waved at him discreetly, just a raised hand and a little smile each, and Danny felt overwhelmingly comforted by their presence. Marquesa was dressed in creamy beiges, a slim jacket and skirt of nubby amber-and-ivory silk tweed with fawn boots and gloves and a snap-brimmed natural straw hat, a rich drape of pearls around his neck and a voluminous scarf of shimmering champagne silk dotted with golden butterflies slung around his shoulders; Valerien wore a dove-gray linen suit with a mauve damask waistcoat and a soft silvery tie, with a foppish silver pocket-square and a tiny mauve orchid in his buttonhole... they both looked fresh and cool and absurdly young; and though they were obviously out of their element in that dun-colored, over-lit courtroom, they carried a sense of rightness and belonging with them, as if the room itself and everyone in it was completely wrong.

All the time Danny was studying and taking comfort in Marquesa and Valerien, he was being led through the court to the Defense table, where Rodney Casterman was waiting for him; turning his regard from his glamorous friends, he finally took in the rest of the courtroom and his attorney.

"What a pretty tie!" Danny said to his lawyer, his eyes shying away from the ugly flat panelling and flourescent lighting of the courtroom, and the rather frightening people around him, resting his attention instead on something he could understand, the knot of rich sapphire-blue jaquard silk that plumped forth between the crisp white linen of the lawyer's tall collar and the smooth chalk-striped navy worsted of his high-buttoned suit.

"Thank you, but please focus," Casterman spoke in an urgent undertone, gently grasping Danny's elbow, "There are some answers you'll need to questions they may ask. In particular, if asked, you have a job. I thought it would look better for your bail if you were employed, so the Baron arranged it."

"I wondered what that was about," Danny admitted, "I heard on the news that I work for a design firm?"

"Specifically, you work for Ermengratz Design Associates, you are Theo Ermengratz's assistant. Can you remember that?"

"Oh! Wow," Danny replied, blinking in surprise; Theo Ermengratz was the most important interior designer in San Francisco, so famous that his work would invariably be featured in Interior Digest (frequently on the cover), and he spent much of his leisure time making proud socialites and would-be celebrities grovel at his feet to obtain his fame-inducing services.

"You didn't tell the police you had a job," Casterman went on when he was sure the information had sunk in, "because you haven't started yet, you were just hired... you interviewed with Mr. Ermengratz on Wednesday of last week, you were hired on Thursday of this week, and you're due to report for duty on Wednesday of next week. Do you know those dates?"

"Yes, the sixteenth, twenty-third, and thirtieth."

"Excellent, my clever child. Other than that, you can just tell the truth. Hopefully they won't ask you any direct questions at all. They shouldn't; bail decisions don't usually require any questioning of the defendant. But you never can tell; this judge is a trifle unpredictable."

"But isn't this where I say 'Not guilty, your honor'?" Danny asked, confused that this didn't jibe with the proceedings he'd seen in movies and TV shows.

"No, that's for your arraignment," Casterman explained patiently, "That won't be for a few more weeks. Today is just for your bail."

"I don't see why they can't do both, it would save time," Danny frowned at this information, then smiled again, trying to lighten the sinking feeling he felt in his chest, "And it's really too bad, I've been practicing 'Not guilty, your honor,' all morning... with and without gestures."

"Silly boy," the attorney smiled back at him and jiggled his elbow, "Don't worry, you'll be out of here today, and then we can deal with arraignment in our own good time."

"Docket number 7144588, the People v. Marcus Daniel Vandervere IV, to set bail," the bailiff called out in an admirably stentorian voice, silencing the room.

"About freakin' time," the judge said under his breath, though loud enough for the microphone to pick up, starting a ripple of supressed giggles in the courtroom. Judge Michael Drummond wasn't one of the socially and politically ambitious judges who'd been dragooned by Marquesa and Valerien into working on a Saturday; he was the judge who usually worked Saturdays, all by himself, and he resented all this interference from the public and the press.

A thick and florid troll of a man with great spumes of white eyebrow over fearsome coal-black eyes, Judge Drummond was nevertheless amused by the resentable situation, and was ready to have a good laugh at someone else's expense. Staring portentously at the pretty defendant until he shrank fearfully behind his attorney, the judge called out, "Proceed!"

"The People move that the defendant be held without bail," Assistant District Attorney Reese Moon said in a deceptively vague and distracted tone that was expertly pitched to reach the farthest corners of the room. He was a very shiny man, his round hairless head, salmon taffeta shirt-and-tie set, and sleek charcoal sharkskin suit reflecting a great deal of light; he also had a lubricious voice and an oily manner that went so well with his overall sheen.

"And the Defense will no doubt move that the defendant be released on his own recognizance?" Judge Drummond peered at Casterman over his rimless reading-glasses.

"Of course. Though accused of a violent crime, Mr. Vandervere is a model citizen," Casterman declaimed with an elegant blend of grandeur and intimacy, like John Barrymore performing a love scene, "A property-owner, gainfully employed, with many ties to the community. He has no criminal record whatever, nor any record of violent or criminal behavior of any kind. He is furthermore a gentlemen, honor-bound to see his trial through. He should be released on his own recognizance."

"The People are not prepared to prove anyone's honor or lack thereof; but the facts are that the defendant has lived in San Francisco for less than two years and hasn't even started this new job," ADA Moon rebutted, producing a rattling sheaf of papers from his briefcase and gesturing for the bailiff to convey it to the judge, "Though he is indeed a property-owner; the report I am submitting to the Bench is compiled from the defendant's bank records, city tax rolls, and insurance accounts."

"Mmm-hmmm..." Judge Drummond adjusted his reading-glasses and scowled at the paperwork.

"These figures show that the defendant owns almost five million dollars' worth of rental residential property in the city," the ADA continued, handing another copy to Casterman, "He also has substantial liquid assets, over a hundred thousand in cash accounts as well as jewelry, antiques, and other valuables insured to the sum of four and a half million dollars. He is entitled to a quite considerable income on his family's Trust, which can easily be paid to offshore accounts."

"How do they know so much about me that I didn't know?" Danny whispered to his lawyer in amazement, dazzled by the surprisingly high estimate of his own wealth.

"Shush," Casterman whispered back harshly, handling the sheaf of papers delicately by one corner and then dropping them on the table in a prissily disdainful manner that was calculated to irritate the ADA.

"The Defendant is furthermore known to enjoy the friendship of a number of wealthy individuals in the international community," Moon went on, "many of whom have diplomatic influence. It would be far too easy for Mr. Vandervere to abscond to, and exist quite comfortably for the rest of his life in, any of several countries without extradition to the United States. He therefore represents a serious flight risk and should be held without bail."

"My client is innocent, and is anxious to clear his name," Casterman sounded hurt and offended, an eloquent hand laid dramatically on his chest, "And though only resident in our fair city for two years, he has lived in California all his life, as have six generations of his ancestors; he has left the state only three times in all his twenty-three years, has never once been out of the country, and does not even own a passport."

"Passports aren't difficult to come by, if you can pay," the ADA shrugged.

"Be that as it may," the defense attorney continued with a fastidious shiver of revulsion, "To incarcerate a young man who is and must be presumed innocent — a young man unaccustomed to hardship and without even a suspicion of a criminal record — for untold months or even years, for no other reason than that he has some property and a few wealthy friends, would be cruelly unjust."

"Mmm-hmmm..." Judge Drummond looked from one attorney to the other, and then to the defendant (who had turned quite white and was trembling a little at the thought of spending months or years in that tiny cell), "I agree, Mr. Casterman, that indefinite incarceration might, in this case, constitute punishment prior to conviction; however, Mr. Moon is quite correct, in that the defendant could leave the country with greater ease than the average citizen."

The judge leaned back and studied the papers provided by the ADA in silence for some minutes, grunting and huffing as he settled into himself like a sleepy owl. The room started to rustle slightly in the prolonged suspense, but the judge went on reading and thinking as if he were quite alone in the court. Finally, he shuffled the papers together and placed them neatly on the desk, then looked up with dramatic suddenness.

"I think we can strike a compromise: we shall give Mr. Vandervere sufficient material incentive to remain for trial, without having to resort to incarceration. Bail is set at ten million dollars," Judge Drummond banged his gavel and closed the docket folder with a decisive gesture.

"Ten million?!" Danny screamed in disbelief and horror, "I haven't got ten million dollars!"

"Shut up!" Casterman gave Danny a savage pinch on the arm that made him yelp.

"I could make it 'cash, not bond,' if you prefer," Judge Drummond smiled viciously.

"I'm sorry, your honor, I didn't... mean to..." Danny's meek apology petered out in confusion as he tried to puzzle out what 'cash, not bond' meant.

"I didn't think so," Drummond chuckled grimly, "And that makes a nice dozen. Court is in Recess for lunch."

"All rise!" the bailiff bellowed.

"But how am I going to make bail?" Danny moaned to Casterman under the covering noise of the court shuffling to its collective feet, "I really haven't got ten million dollars! The Trust won't pay that much, and I'll never be able to sell everything to raise the money from in here!"

"Pull yourself together, child," Casterman chucked him lightly on the chin, "It's already taken care of, the Baron and Mr. Willard-Wilkes have arranged your bail."

"What?" Danny's knees buckled from surprise, and he put out his hands to steady himself against the table, "Why?"

"I really couldn't say why," Casterman turned to place his papers into his briefcase, "Except that they like you, they believe in you, and they have the resources to help you. Now don't keep the deputy waiting any longer. You're to be released immediately, I'll meet you at the other end."

Speechless with gratitude, Danny waved weakly at his benefactors as he was led out of the courtroom. Valerien waved back excitedly, and Marquesa blew a big movie-star kiss, before they were lost to view.

The Release process was almost exactly like the Intake process, but in reverse, and Danny met many of the same deputies as he was led back through. Though he tried to be cheerful with them, he had far too much on his mind, and the effort was a little strained; and now that Danny's identity and background were known, the deputies were a little more distant with him as well... a pretty boy in trouble is one thing, but a pretty rich-kid in trouble is something else altogether, something to instinctively resent and distrust.

His first stop was his cell, to strip his bed for the laundry and retrieve whatever he'd bought from the commissary, then back down to the booking rooms to relinquish his prison clothes and retrieve his own garments. The deputy in charge of Property had rather more to give back than Danny had given up the previous afternoon, as his wallet, keys, and PDA had been entered into property by Detective Spevik while he was being booked; it was the money from his own wallet that had been deposited for his use in jail (though the money from his boots had blood and oil on them and so were still considered evidence).

Danny was also given another brief medical examination to make sure nothing untoward had happened to him in jail; but instead of fresh fingerprinting and DNA-sampling, he was given a multi-page questionnaire to fill out, requiring every conceivable address at which he could be reached, as well as soliciting his opinion of how he had been treated, whether or not he had been given his proper rights and offered services in a timely manner... he was even invited to share his thoughts on what the San Francisco Sheriff's Department might have done to make his stay more pleasant. After filling out all the bubbles in glowing affirmatives, Danny was officially released.

Once again dressed comfortably and elegantly in his new earthtone cashmere and linen, with his belongings in a large paper envelope and the white wristband still attached to his wrist, he wandered dazedly into the Release lobby, where he spotted Casterman waving at him near the door.

"There, now," Casterman greeted him warmly with a handshake and a pat on the head, "That wasn't so bad, was it?"

"No, it was a lot nicer than I expected," Danny allowed with a smiling shrug, "The only really painful experience I've had so far is when you pinched me. You left a bruise!"

"I'm afraid I forgot myself," Casterman laughed, putting his arm paternally around Danny's shoulder and leading him toward the exit, "And you were being a jackass, yelling like that in a court of law. The news media is going to serve your outburst to the hungry millions for dinner tonight. You simply must remember the cameras from now on!"

"Sorry," Danny looked at his feet and blushed, ashamed of his undisciplined behavior; he had completely forgotten about the cameras, and had not considered what effect his perfectly understandable but quite inappropriate reaction might have on his case.

"It's absolutely no fun scolding you, my dear child," Casterman relented, reaching out to tug gently on Danny's forelock, surprised at the warmth he felt for the young man, "You're so charmingly submissive."

He didn't like to get attached to his clients, but Casterman couldn't help falling a little bit in love with this boy. There was something so trusting and beatific about him, something tender and fragile that was neither weak nor insipid. The attorney, inured over long years of criminal defense to mankind's turpitude and wickedness, responded to the beauty in Danny's nature that was even greater than his physical beauty; and the thing that separates the civilized man from the barbarian is the desire to adore and protect beauty rather than consume and destroy it.

"Now," Casterman stepped back and straightened Danny's hair and sweater fussily, as he would for his own son, "there will be reporters outside: do not speak to them. Just act confused by all the voices and flashbulbs... which should be easy, as you no doubt will be confused by all the voices and flashbulbs. Any sane person would be. Be careful to not look frightened or guilty; hold a smile, nod graciously, shrug apologetically as required."

"Like so?" Danny asked, nodding graciously and shrugging apologetically while holding a benign and noncommital smile.

"That's perfect, you're a born actor. If we get separated, just head for the Baron's car, it's that brown-and-gold Rolls parked out on the street, do you see it? Bascombe will let you in and ward off any reporters who get too close. Don't run under any circumstances, just walk steadily and don't talk. Ready? Break!"

The deafening, blinding maelstrom of voices and flashbulbs took Danny by surprise, despite Casterman's warning, and it was very easy for him to not talk to anyone as he was hustled through the clamoring throng to the waiting car... he didn't even understand any of the questions, they came so fast and furious. He felt Casterman's arm slide off his shoulders and heard the attorney's distinctive voice adding itself to the din, but he slipped through the crowd like a greased fish and found himself quite suddenly enveloped in quiet as the car-door closed behind him.

"This is so exciting!" Valerien cried as he pulled Danny down onto the deep divan-like seat between himself and Marquesa, then grabbed his neck and kissed him passionately on the mouth; when Valerien eventually pulled back, he looked up into Danny's eyes with his heart-fluttering worshipful expression, "I've never rescued anyone from prison before!"

"It's just a county jail, you daft frog, not the Château d'If," Marquesa drawled, putting out a gloved hand to touch Danny's cheek gently, "Are you all right, darling? They didn't hurt you in there, did they?"

"I'm fine," Danny said, the tears shining in his eyes again, "I can't thank you both enough for getting me out of there. I mean, ten million dollars! It's too much!"

"Nonsense," Marquesa dismissed the magnitude of the gesture with an airy wave of his hand and rummaged in his handbag for cigarettes, "It's just a bond, we only had to put ten percent on deposit. We were prepared for worse, Val's bank had everything set up for several contingencies before close-of-business yesterday."

"Still, it's an awful lot," Danny took Marquesa's flashy diamond-crusted platinum lighter and held the flame steady for him, "Taking even a million out of circulation will represent a net loss of tens of thousands of dollars, if this trial drags on."

"Hark at you," Marquesa laughed, blowing out a cloud of smoke, "'Net loss,' indeed... you sound like an accountant! Darling, the amount of money we stand to lose is less than what I routinely give to grovelling little charities I've never even heard of. Ten thousand here or there isn't going to break either of us."

"But you could lose the whole ten million if I skipped bail," Danny reasoned, "I am so grateful I can't even express myself. You have to let me sign over my property, or some kind of promisory note, as security."

"We know perfectly well you'd never skip bail. You're our friend," Valerien turned Danny's face to his, "And we know you're innocent. The money simply isn't important, you're to put it out of your mind this instant. Marquesa, peek outside and see if Casterman's finished with the press yet; I want my lunch."

While Marquesa pulled back the window-shade an inch or so, Danny was able to look around at the car; he hadn't seen it very clearly from outside, but was pretty sure it was a Silver Cloud limousine of 1950s vintage. The interior was cavernous, plush with camel-beige velvet and gold fittings, with a sheepskin rug and two jumpseats facing the deep backseat on either side of a walnut cabinet containing a stereo system and a miniature wet-bar; all the windows were covered in parchment shades, and the driver's seat was sealed off beyond a padded partition inset with an elaborate enamel coat-of-arms.

"Here he comes," Marquesa called out after a few moments of watching, "Bascombe is elbowing out a passageway for him. Where should we have lunch?"

The noise of reporters and cameras exploded into the luxurious cabin as the door opened and the lawyer darted in, and stopped just as suddenly when the door slammed shut. The car rocked a bit as it started up, though no noise of a running engine could be detected, and the chauffeur nudged the great Rolls carefully out of the crowd.

"I was thinking L'Aurente," Valerien answered before turning to the attorney, "You'll join us, Mr. Casterman?"

"L'Aurente?" the attorney repeated the name in surprise; it was the most expensive and exclusive French restaurant in town, perched atop a little-known but extremely posh hotel on Geary halfway between Union Square and the Theatre District, a favorite after-shopping or pre-show destination for the see-and-be-seen element of Society, and sure to be crowded on a Saturday afternoon, "Isn't that awfully... public?"

"It would be absolutely fatal to be thought to be hiding at this juncture," Marquesa intoned seriously, gesturing with his cigarette, "Danny must be seen lunching with us quite innocently in order to be believed innocent. The rumor mill must be controlled immediately."

"You don't mind, do you?" Valerien asked Danny, concerned for his feelings.

"Of course not," Danny smiled happily, not understanding why everyone was worried about it, "I love lunching at L'Aurente!"

"Grenier, we're going to L'Aurente," Valerien spoke into a little gilded microphone he'd plucked off the wall by his arm, "Please call Annalise and let her know there will be four of us for lunch; and a table by the door for yourself and Bascombe, of course."

"Oui, M'sieu," came a crackly voice from the little device, "Merci bien."

"Who is Bascombe?" Danny wondered about the person he'd heard mentioned so frequently without ever seeing.

"My driver and bodyguard," Marquesa told him, practically whispering the second descriptor as if embarrassed by it, twiddling distractedly with his pearls, "He's following in my car. He goes with me everywhere, especially if I'm wearing good jewels."

"Oh," Danny replied, wondering suddenly where Bascombe had been when they'd all spent the night at Valerien's, and if he'd know anything about who killed Marshall. But he was too overwhelmed with new ideas and worries to really consider this information, so he filed it away for later use.

"What fun!" Casterman enthused, clapping his hands gleefully to mask the strange burning anger he felt at the knowledge that, despite his own hard-earned fame, he'd have had to make reservations at L'Aurente a week in advance, and would have been given a table in the rear beside the bussing station if he did get a reservation; yet the Baron de Seguemont, twenty-five years his junior and without a single known accomplishment to his name, could just have his chauffeur call in at the last minute and expect two separate and excellent tables, "A Saturday lunch at L'Aurente! I'm thinking of the ris de veaux with a lovely crisp Meyer-Fonné. And I hope you'll let me expense-account this... I love taking things off my taxes!"

"You're very kind," Valerien accepted the offer with a gracious nod.

The rest of the ride was dominated by a discussion of various wines and the practicalities of reds or whites with organ meats. Danny wondered why they were riding with the blinds down, feeling a little claustrophobic (though after his night in jail he no longer feared small spaces with an immediate panic, he still didn't like being closed in) but he didn't dare ask that they be opened... he felt too raw and shaky to talk, and too deeply indebted to ask any further favors, so he just sat quietly and looked at the three people who had taken it upon themselves for their own mysterious reasons to save him.

"You're all so kind," Danny whispered, a grateful tear spilling down his cheek; but nobody heard him, enrapt in a tense argument about the relative adaptibility of French versus Italian whites for fusion cuisines.

***

"This is useless," Marriott Griggs growled at the oil-stained berber carpet covering the late Drayton Marshall's hallway.

"Uh-huh," Charlie Putnam mumbled from the nearby darkened bathroom, where he was crouched beside the toilet, scrutinizing the area behind the fixture with an ultraviolet flashlight in search of any clues that might have escaped notice during the initial investigation; a pitiful few of such had surfaced during this second investigation, the kinds of seemingly insignificant bits of human detritus, hair and skin and dried fluids, that make such impressive appearances in television crime dramas but don't do much to further a real-life investigation. A small heap of plastic evidence bags and swabs had already been sealed and labeled, the niggardly reward of looking under every cushion, behind every picture, around the edges of every rug, and within every book and dish and box in the apartment.

"Damned inconsiderate of him," Griggs complained of the dead man, "putting a flat woven carpet right next to a crime scene. But I suppose if you plan to have a lot of vegetable oil trailing around, you don't want to put down a deep pile that's hard to clean."

"Uh-huh," Charlie repeated, reaching a long swab into the crevice between the baseboard and the tile floor under the toilet, a spot most people neglect in their cleaning; but it yielded nothing, not so much as a speck of dust, thanks to the maddeningly thorough Mrs. Espinosa.

"But here’s something odd," Griggs stood up creakily and examined the wall, first with his eyes and then with a camera, "there’s a smudge in one of Vandervere’s handprints on the wall… like two fingertips, but no print, just a smudge. One of those flatfooted cops might have done that yesterday, but it looks like a gloved fingertip."

"Mmmm," Charlie crawled into the bathtub and started spraying the drain and fixtures with Luminol, but found nothing, "Damn that cleaning-woman! I’ve never seen such a sterile bathroom!"

"Did you Luminol the toilet bowl?" Griggs appeared in the bathroom doorway, switching out the memory card in his camera.

"The toilet bowl?" Charlie sat up and stared at the fixture in question, pushing his glasses up on his nose, "Why the toilet bowl?"

"We've been going about this all wrong, groping about for evidence of any other persons in this apartment," Griggs crouched down beside the toilet and peered at it inquisitively, "So let's take a different tack, let's create an alternate theory and see if we can make it fly."

"Okay," Charlie crawled out of the bathtub.

"Let us posit, for the sake of argument, that Vandervere was telling the truth, that he didn’t kill Marshall; it would naturally follow that someone killed Marshall, because the man is inescapably dead; therefore, there had to be a second visitor that night, and it appears that this second visitor did not leave any obvious clues behind. To achieve such a dearth of evidence, the second visitor would have to want to leave no clues to his or her identity behind."

"I see,” the young man followed the train of thought while turning off the water supply and draining the toilet bowl, "So we try to think like the second visitor, and wonder how best to avoid leaving evidence that anyone would find, looking for a pattern in the method."

"Precisely. So say this Second Visitor managed to get into this apartment, sneaking up on the victim without leaving any bits and pieces behind, or even disturbing the numerous bits and pieces Vandervere left behind — which can't have been difficult, they were so plain; but when he or she drives a knife into the victim’s chest, some blood will undoubtedly spray out, staining the killer’s knife-hand at the very least. There are no serious bloodstains anywhere in the apartment except in the vicinity of the victim, so that blood had to go somewhere. The techs tested the sink yesterday, that’s the obvious place, but nothing in the drain, just the same tiny traces Vandervere left all over the apartment after breaking Marshall’s nose. You just tested the bathtub with no result at all. The only place left, the only logical place to wash off blood without taking a chance of dripping it anywhere else, would be in the toilet."

"Well, I’ll be damned," Charlie breathed, delighted by the dim ghost-blue glow emerging in the toilet bowl, dimly at first as the Luminol picked up the blood trace, then brightly as it cross-reacted to the other chemicals in the toilet, "Blood. But very faint… and it wasn't solid, it looked like streaks down from the rim."

"The blood came down from the tank!" Griggs exclaimed, "Now, that is clever! Who would think to look for evidence of blood in a toilet tank? Get that lid off… gently, and spray it before we get into the tank… hmm, nothing on the lid at all. Let’s see if our Second Visitor left anything in here! I suppose a bloody glove would be too much to ask."

"A bit," Charlie agreed, peering into the tank. It was quite clean, as he had come to expect, and smelled strongly of bleach; but with the water drained, the Luminol revealed that there had been a fair amount of blood in the tank.

"Is that a hair beside the drain?" Griggs reached out with a long tweezers to pluck an almost invisible thread away from the pipe, then held it up under his flashlight magnifier, "It looks like it’s been bleached all to hell, no chance of DNA. But it appears to have some color left? Gray? Blond? I can’t quite tell."

"Dark blond, I’d say, but faded out from the bleach," Charlie suggested, leaning over the ME’s shoulder.

"And perfectly straight, it can’t be Vandervere’s, it must be the victim’s. The second visitor didn’t leave any hair anywhere else, there’s no reason to believe he or she would leave one here. There’s no reason to believe that anyone would leave a hair in the tank, except maybe a plumber or the maid. We know it's not the maid's hair, hers is quite black, I guess we'll have to check and find out if any plumbers have been in here."

"The post-mortem indicated that the killer grabbed Marshall’s hair with one hand and stabbed him with the other. He would be bound to have hair on that hand, which would be washed off in this tank along with the blood."

"He or she, Putnam. Let’s not jump to any conclusions yet, even if only semantic. You start calling the killer ‘He’ and you start believing that the killer is a man; then you start subconsciously excluding the possibility that the killer is a woman," the Medical Examiner took a round of photographs of the toilet, though the bleach cross-reaction had already rendered the toilet tank useless as evidence, and then gestured to his trainee to replace the lid, "This is becoming very interesting, indeed. So we can posit now that the theoretical unknown killer washed his or her hands, which we can readily assume were gloved in surgical latex (hence the complete lack of prints), in this toilet tank; he or she must have known that there would be blood to wash off after the murder, and so removed the lid in preparation, as there was no blood trace on the lid. Then he or she threw in some bleach, maybe flushed a few times to get rid of the visible traces like hair and clots... such a clever and far-thinking person would have brought the bleach, no?"

"Or more likely just took it away with him... or her," Charlie corrected himself, "There are no bleach bottles in this bathroom, nor do I recall seeing any in the kitchen; a place this ridiculously clean would be bound to have at least one bottle of bleach in the cupboards."

"That's very suggestive," Griggs sat down on the edge of the bathtub, "Let’s think about why someone would take the bleach away. Aside from possibly leaving blood evidence on the bottle."

"Perhaps it was needed elsewhere?" Charlie hazarded.

"Perhaps, perhaps. But where? And why? Let’s say that the killer, after washing his or her hands in here, scampered out of the apartment, being very careful to not touch anything on the way. What need would he or she have for bleach after that?"

"To clean up someplace else? Someplace where he or she might have left evidence behind? Perhaps the area where he or she waited for the opportunity to enter the apartment?"

"Of course!" Griggs jumped up and started towards the front door, Charlie trailing him closely, "Let’s say the killer knew that Vandervere was here, knew somehow that the boy would leave at some point and the door might be left open. Or suppose that he or she had been staking out this apartment for some time, waiting for an opportunity to enter. If he or she is as clever as we are being led to believe, there would be a need for the bleach to clean up any evidence of lurking. So let’s look for a good lurking-place and see if we’re right about the bleach. If I were waiting for an opportunity to enter this apartment, where would I lurk?"

"That service door," Charlie pointed to the narrow door with a frosted-glass upper panel just past the bend of the corridor, which if left ajar commanded a clear view of the apartment’s front door as well as the kitchen entrance around the corner.

"Perfectly placed, isn't it? Let's have a look," the ME and his trainee entered the the service area, an odd-shaped hallway with concrete floors and walls, a plain sash window leading onto a fire-escape at one end, a laundry room and janitor's closet on the right, and the straight narrow service stairs along the left wall, "One could lurk here for hours, all you'd need for a cover-story is a load of laundry."

"It stinks of bleach," Charlie sniffed the air.

"And rather more than the adjacence of a laundry room can account for. Unfortunately, this scene has most likely been contaminated," Griggs sighed, "Though this wasn't the stairwell used in the general stampede yesterday morning, it's still a public space… there's no way of knowing how many people have traipsed through here since our mysterious Second Visitor might have mopped the place with bleach."

"But that makes it easier, doesn't it? Anything with bleach on it will predate the bleaching."

"A very good idea... unless, of course, bleach is routinely used to clean these service areas. I'm inclined to doubt it, but we'll have to consult the maintenance staff. Still, we may as well have a look around and see what's here. My old knees can't deal with this cement, so I'll take the high road and you take the low road, and we'll both get to Scotland sooner or later."

The next half-hour passed in relative silence as the two men scrutinized the hallway's surfaces, first with the unaided eye, then with ultraviolet flashlights, and then with fingerprint powder. Griggs was uncharacteristically quiet, only grunting occasionally with disgust, unable to find anything; Charlie found a few things of interest but, accustomed to speaking only when spoken to, he didn't mention them.

"Not one single solitary fingerprint!" Griggs finally exclaimed after completing the circuit of the hallway, "Not on the doorknobs, not on the windowsills, not on the railings, not on the walls or light-fixtures. Somebody cleaned this place but good, and nobody but us has touched anything since. Anything down there?"

"A couple of hairs stuck behind this conduit pipe," Charlie indicated a small painted-over metal pipe that ran alongside the baseboard, carrying either gas or old electrical wires, "Different colors but similar lengths, so I bagged them separately. Some white fibers caught in the corner of the stair-tread there, I think it's from the mop. And a tiny corner of a black foil wrapper, I can't tell what it wrapped, but it was lodged under the wood of the doorsill. It all smells of bleach, there's no chance of DNA."

"Well, let's see about the laundry room," Griggs shrugged and hauled his kit into the sweet-smelling triangular room, "Luminol that sink, see if anything bloody was washed there. And the insides of the washers, too. I'll dust for fingerprints."

"Nothing," Charlie reported after spraying and examining all of areas where someone might conceivably wash something.

"But there are a zillion prints. Overlapping, smudged, every possible size, impossible to separate. I don't think our mysterious Second Visitor was in here at all."

"So where did he or she get the water for the mop? Not from another floor, surely."

"That's a good question," Griggs went back out into the hallway and looked up and down the open stairwell, "I assume there are laundry rooms on every floor, it wouldn't be too difficult. Let's see how far up and down the bleach-cleaning goes."

Charlie went up the stairs, sniffing for bleach and dusting the railing as he went, and counted three floors without any fingerprints, and a sudden plethora of indecipherably overlapping prints starting on the railing of the last flight of the staircase, rising from the eleventh floor and ending at an access to the roof of that wing. Griggs, however, found fingerprints on the next floor down.

"The cleaning stops at the seventh floor," Griggs shouted up the stairwell as he began his ascent.

"And the eleventh," Charlie shouted back down, "Why farther up than down, do you think?"

"Because he or she came from up there, would be my guess, and was anxious to not leave any evidence of his or her identity. If the Second Visitor holds to a pattern, I would say that he or she entered this stairwell on the tenth floor, and cleaned up one and down one to confuse things. But a truly clever person would have mopped out the entire stairwell, or equal distances in each direction. Perhaps he or she is a trifle lazy."

"Or didn't have time," Charlie suggested, rejoining his mentor on the eighth floor, "Though nobody has been through here since it was cleaned, there's no guarantee that nobody would come through here. Or perhaps he or she was counting on traffic through this stairwell to cover the evidence of cleaning."

"Oh, I don't think so... if he or she knew there was a lot of traffic, that would make this spot undesirable for staking out the victim's apartment."

"But doesn't the cleaning leave more evidence of his or her clandestine presence?"

"I think that our Second Visitor was more anxious to leave nothing traceable behind, rather than to leave no evidence at all. He or she seems to be particularly sensible to the properties of DNA and fingerprint evidence. Perhaps he or she has a police record. Let's have a look at those fibers, I wonder if they came from a household mop or an industrial mop."

"They look industrial to me," Charlie offered the clear plastic evidence bag, "Coarse cotton, more gray than white. Household mops are usually whiter and finer."

"We'd better get the keys and look through all the janitors' closets up and down this stairwell and find out if bleach had been used on any of the mops."

"They're not locked," Charlie observed, opening the nearest door.

"There's no mop in here," Griggs peered into the dark and jumbled space, "Try the floors above and yell if you find a mop."

The Medical Examiner found the light-switch and began examining the contents of the closet while the trainee leapt up the stairs to investigate the other closets. He found several bottles of clear green cleaning fluid that were most likely what the maintenance staff used to mop the building, and wondered briefly why the Second Visitor hadn't used it to wash away the evidence... but then discovered upon reading the ingredients list that it was mild organic cleanser that might not properly break down DNA evidence with the alacrity of bleach.

"Very clever, very clever," Griggs murmured admiringly. He began dusting for fingerprints, but again found none... though it didn't appear that the inside of the closet had been bleached, and hadn't even been cleaned in a good long time. Finding a small stool in the corner, the Medical Examiner sat down to think.

"There are two mops in the tenth-floor closet," Charlie reported breathlessly, skittering excitedly down the stairs, "And one of them not only reeks of bleach, but had some hairs in it! And they match one that I found behind that pipe down here! Look!"

"Very good, Charlie, my boy!" Griggs clapped the young man on the back and took the evidence-bag from him, holding it up to the light to see the hair inside better, "What color is that? Blue? Red?"

"It used to be dark purple, I think," Charlie squinted at the bag, glowing with pride, "It's faded, but I think it was once dyed a deep violet, maybe a wine color. We'll know once we get it under a microscope. And unless these hairs belong to a janitor, I think this very likely belongs to the Second Visitor."

"Were there prints on either of the mops?" Griggs wondered, thinking again of the dirty but strangely printless eighth-floor closet."

"No, it's the wierdest thing," Charlie explained, "Not one fingerprint on the door, inside or out, nothing on either mop, nothing on the buckets, nothing on the cleaning supplies. But I don't think it was cleaned out, it looks simply as if the person who ordinarily uses the closet always wore gloves."

"Ah, that would explain it," Griggs resumed his stool and thought for a while, "The concierge wears gloves; I bet the janitors wear gloves, too. A building like this would have gloves and well-pressed uniforms and hypoallergenic cleaning solutions."

"I wonder why the Second Visitor didn't just wear gloves as well... why go through all the trouble of bleaching the floors and walls and railings?"

"If the Second Visitor isn't a janitor, he or she wouldn't want to be seen lurking around with gloves on. But I nevertheless find it very suggestive that such care was taken to remove DNA evidence, but I can't quite see what it suggests."

"At least it lets Vandervere off," Charlie shrugged, putting his kit back together.

"You jump ahead too far!" Griggs admonished his protege with an impatient stamp of his foot, "All we've proved is that some blood was in a toilet tank, that somebody bleached that tank and that somebody left a hair in it. We can't even prove that they were the same somebody. We've further proved that somebody bleached several floors of this stairwell using the mop from this closet, who might very easily have been an entirely different somebody. We have not proved the slightest connection between this stairwell and Marshall's apartment... the presence of something as common as bleach doesn't prove anything at all, more's the pity."

"But doesn't this show that somebody else was in that apartment? Doesn't anything we found support Vandervere's story?"

"I'll let you crawl the floor between this stairwell and that apartment door and find out if any bleach was spilled between here and there, it's the only way to prove such a thing. You can also take some swabs of this bleach and of the inside of the toilet tank, on the outside chance that the bleach was unusual in some way. Otherwise, there isn't the tiniest connection between these two scenes."

"But why else would anybody mop up and down stairs like this, destroying evidence so well, without having something important to hide?"

"My dear Putnam, there are probably hundreds of different people who have some degree of access to this stairwell... residents, visitors, staff, servants, delivery-people. Any one of them could have a hundred reasons for doing any number of even more bizarre things. Marshall himself might have dumped blood into that toilet-tank, for all we know. The man was obviously a freak, and I don't use such terms lightly. Until we know more about the evidence we have, and until we know a lot more about the people who live in this building, all we have is some theories that wouldn't stand ten minutes of outside scrutiny."

"And what about the blood? Vandervere didn't have enough blood dripping off of him to be consistent with a stab wound, you said yourself that the blood in the apartment was in very small amounts."

"That doesn't let him off, either. Remember, he was already covered in oil and had already left DNA in the playpen; all he'd have to do is wiggle his hand in the oil to remove most of the blood from the stab-wound, only a little would remain trapped in the oil already on him, and we'd never know the difference. He also already had Marshall's hair on him, we found it in his clothes, he could have gotten it when he pulled the victim up by his hair in the portion of their interchange that was videotaped, and he might have got them while gripping the victim's hair while stabbing him. Both scenarios are equally likely, but the body of evidence still points to Vandervere and no one else."

"Why couldn't the Second Visitor have washed his or her hand in the oil as well?" Charlie wondered.

"Because there would be dripping. If the Second Visitor is a different size from Vandervere, we'd have noticed the difference in oil-stain placement. This Second Visitor is smarter than that. If he or she even exists, which we simply cannot prove."

"Well, fuck!" Charlie kicked the plastic-bagged mop he'd brought down from the tenth floor.

"All is not lost, my boy," Griggs struggled to his feet and helped gather up the evidence bags, "We haven't got any proof of anything yet, but we have opened up a number of new lines of investigation. Who mopped this hallway? Who bleached that toilet? How might a person enter an apartment, commit a murder, and leave no trace behind? And, I think most importantly, why would someone be so sensitive to the possibility of leaving DNA evidence behind?"

"It's a lot more work," Charlie sighed.

"Hard work is good for the soul," Griggs said with mock gravity, "Besides, I feel a lot better about our evidence now that there are more questions than there are answers. Yesterday's 'slam dunk' never really felt right, although it was very exciting at the time. Now I feel fully confident that we have retrieved every possible piece of evidence from this scene. If anything of even the tiniest import has escaped our attention this time, I will eat my lab coat."

***

L’Aurente buzzed like a kicked beehive; a sensational entrance in that vertiginously exclusive eatery was extremely rare, populated as it was by a class of people who mostly knew each other socially and would rather die than admit otherwise, and was usually marked by a mild susurration of well-bred whispering, comparable to a light breeze in a willow-tree, rather than an agitated roar better compared to the audience of a hotly contested prize-fight.

But the moment Danny entered the room, flanked by Marquesa and Valerien with Casterman bringing up the rear, the normal mild clatter of silver against china and murmur of urbane conversation rose to an appalling Babel of startled conjecture and irritable speculation. And not only did the majority of lunchers neglect to lower their voices when discussing the import and surprise of Danny’s appearance, but some people even forgot themselves to such an extent as to point.

The Hotel Queen Charlotte, atop which L’Aurente perches, is not the sort of place where one raises one’s voice or points one’s fingers; the hotel and restaurant are so select in their clientele that they refrain from advertising, forbid photographs or media mentions, do not display their name on the side of their building, and even keep their telephone numbers unlisted. Unless you know someone who is Someone, you can’t so much as get through to the information desk. Reporters and paparazzi are bribed and threatened to stay away, and no restaurant critic or travelogian has ever crossed the threshold.

The dining room of L’Aurente is a long and lofty space with an elaborate tinkling fountain under an immense floral porcelain chandelier at its center; a long wall of tall arched windows opens onto a narrow terrace lined with little topiary lemon trees in porcelain tubs; the windows are echoed on the back wall by false windows of flattering smoked mirrors behind bronze lattices. The paneled walls are a sunny yellow limned with ivory and gold, and the ceiling is a pale sky-blue dotted with mauve-bellied clouds and dawn-colored birds, bordered by a trompe l’oeil trellis laden with pastel fruits and blooms. The chandeliers and sconces are faded antique Limoges, the furniture is French Provincial honey-varnished pine, and the floor is paved in warm Caën stone; the unusually large tables are placed as far apart as possible, the napery is pure thick white, the place-settings are heavily simple, and the flower-arrangements are whimsically wild. If Marie Antoinette were to give a luncheon in the Orangerie at Versailles, it might have looked a bit like L'Aurente.

"Are you holding up all right?" Marquesa asked Danny solicitously as they were led to the most conspicuous possible table in the room, right next to the fountain on the window side.

"I’m fine," Danny lied, trying on a confident smile. He was in fact mortified by the attention, but even more terrified by the full realization of his situation: when he’d been in police custody, it had all been entirely unreal, a strange and sometimes frightening adventure that was nothing at all like his own life; but here, in a restaurant he knew, among people he recognized, he was confronted with a sudden clear vision of how his arrest and the suspicion of murder that hung over him was going to affect his day-to-day existence.

Even if the charges were dismissed, Danny was now notorious. No longer would he be on the periphery of a crowd, admired and noticed but still able to move about with some anonymity, able to see as well as be seen; neither would he be a safe companion for the closeted old queens who had heretofore paid for so many of his pleasures. And then, if he was not cleared entirely, if he got off on a technicality or remained under suspicion, he might no longer be welcome at all in the society to which he was accustomed. No matter what happened, his life was going to change completely, there was nothing he could do to stop it, and he was scared out of his wits.

"That’s my brave boy," Marquesa saw through the lie but accepted it at face value as he settled himself elaborately into his chair, taking off his gloves with snappy gestures, slapping them down onto his large flat handbag (though he retained a lady's prerogative in keeping his hat) and turning his rings around so the immense sapphires and diamonds were back at the tops of his fingers before accepting the menu from the captain, "It’s always unpleasant to be gawked at, and I am quite shocked by this display of bad manners. But this little exercise is very important, we have to have you firmly established in Society before Cissie Marshall starts yapping."

"Do you suppose she will yap?" Valerien wondered, "It's not like she gave a fig for her husband. I rather suppose she'll be glad he's gone and can no longer blight her existence with all the rumors of his tacky behavior."

"Nevertheless, I believe she'll consider it her duty to defend her husband and malign Danny," Marquesa replied, glancing over the menu without really reading it, "particularly since maligning people is something of a hobby with her. But if Danny is championed and sponsored by the two of us, she won't dare take the latter course. Of course she will want to defend her husband, but if she cares about her Social standing (and if I know her, she cares for little else), she won't wish to court a feud between herself and us by casting doubt on Danny's innocence; she may be a Porthault by birth and a Marshall by marriage, but the Willard name and the de Seguemont prestige outweigh her by a wide margin. With our support and Cissie's silence on the matter, Danny will be considered innocent by Society. His place will be assured, I dare say elevated, and that will help his defense."

"How so?" Rodney Casterman wondered, not taking the eccentric young transvestite's Social machinations seriously but always interested in fresh perspectives on a potentially tricky defense.

"I know what you must be thinking, Mr. Casterman... all you see is a room filled with chattering overdressed women and chattering idle men," Marquesa discarded the menu and leaned forward onto the table, "They are largely irrelevant, in themselves: but those overdressed women chatter to their husbands, and those husbands are captains of industry, directors of finance, and key players in local politics; the idle men chatter at their clubs, playing golf or racquets or cards with those same captains of industry, directors of finance, and key players in local politics. They have the ears of powerful people in this city. A little push here, a bit of pressure there, some influence coming from unexpected quarters, these will all help Danny’s defense."

"And they say Justice can’t be bought," Casterman laughed, going back to the menu.

"Not bought, but certainly influenced. See that woman over there, the one in the regrettable pink-and-black Chanel? Her husband is the Editor-in-Chief of the San Francisco Sun. And that weak-chinned boy over by the fireplace? His father owns Channel 24. We’ll already have the Bugle and the entire weight of the National News Network on our side, if we have the Sun and other key local news carriers, too, we will have public sentiment. And you well know that public sentiment is very valuable in a city that elects its judges and District Attorneys."

"If only we got to elect our juries, as well," Casterman laughed.

"Ah, but juries are elected, chosen by you and the prosecution from the public," Marquesa continued, warming to his topic, "and public opinion sways juries more than even the best jury-selection procedures can safeguard against. Consider some of the recent murder trials where the defendant was tried in the press, and the juries did not diverge one whit from public opinion."

"What about the Simpson case? The jury found him Not Guilty despite the majority of public opinion," Casterman countered.

"Public sentiment remained mixed throughout, if you'll remember, and Not Guilty just isn't the same as Innocent... I bet every member of that jury thought he was guilty as hell, but the defense was so confusing that they couldn't get beyond the shadow of a doubt."

"Well, what do you think about the Menendez case..." as Casterman and Marquesa plunged deeper into a detailed discussion of media-circus murder trials, Valerien dismissed them with an indulgent smile and turned his attention to the rather more important issue of food. With the briefest lift of one finger, he summoned the waiter and sommelier to his side, and began to converse with them in French so effortless and idiomatic that Danny could barely follow along.

The fear Danny felt on his arrival at the restaurant was beginning to dissipate as he surveyed his companions. He could tell by the look on Casterman's face as he argued with Marquesa that the attorney was deeply impressed by the socialite's unexpected legal analyses; and though he hadn't been able to follow all of what Valerien said to the restaurant staff, he caught enough of the words to understand that the young baron had not only divined Danny's tastes without having to consult him, but had also remembered everything Casterman had said about ris de veaux with Meyer-Fonné and was constructing four separate two-course luncheons and a dessert around that particular vintage.

Moreover, the noise of the restaurant had returned to its usual happy hum, and though people still stole glances at Danny whenever possible, nobody stared or pointed. The verdict was obviously in, as far as Society was concerned: if Marquesa Willard-Wilkes and Valerien de Seguemont were satisfied that Danny was innocent, then obviously Danny must be innocent. He must also be rather more important, better pedigreed than they'd once thought, if he could command the loyalty of such irreproachable luminaries. Such would be the content of a hundred conversations over cocktails later in the evening.

"...and besides," Marquesa summed up his argument by grabbing Danny by the chin and squeezing his mouth into a comic pucker, "how could any jury convict anyone with a face like this? Nobody with two eyes would believe Danny could hurt a fly."

"Be that as it may," Casterman took a sip of the light amber-colored wine that had been poured into his glass, "Heavenly! Be that as it may, the best defense is a better suspect."

"Isn't that how Perry Mason always won?" Valerien observed, "He invariably unmasked the true killer, who just happened to already be sitting in the courtroom."

"So," Danny said while watching the waiters slipping empty plates off the table and replacing them with the first course using balletic flourishes, "by the rules of fictional murder, the real killer had to have either hated Marshall or wanted his money."

"He was so eminently hateable, that side would be impossible to narrow down," Marquesa put in, "Everybody hated him, except maybe his cleaning-lady and his vegetable-oil vendor. I wonder how long it will take for us to find out who gets his money."

"The wife and son would be my guess," Valerien shrugged, investigating his aiguillettes de canard with a connoisseur's eye, "unless they had a family trust. A little nosing around from my bank people will find that out. Marshall wasn't the type to leave anything to charities or servants."

"Too bad the wife and son were both out of town," Casterman pointed out before forking up a mouthful of sweetbreads and losing himself in sensations of pure delight.

"Oh, twaddle," Marquesa stabbed a hunk of sauceless poached salmon and a spear of steamed baby asparagus with violent precision, "Anybody can be 'out of town' at an important moment if they put their minds to it. It's a different matter to prove it. I think we should start looking into their alibis. I'll bet at least one of them is fake."

"You know, I still get paid even if you do all my work for me," Casterman joked, "and I already have a team working on those alibis. Mrs. Marshall's is watertight: she was, and still is, in England at a house-party with twenty witnesses. The son is somewhere in the Yucatán interior and hasn't been reached yet. The Mexican alibi will be the one we'll concentrate on poking holes in."

"Even so, we can't ignore the masses of on-site people who might have just as good of reasons to do Marshall a mischief. How many investigators do you have working on this?"

"I've devoted my entire in-house staff," the attorney answered, "five investigators working under my son."

"Your son is a private eye? How exciting!" Danny surfaced from the ecstasy of his roulades de poulet au grenades, "It sounds like the perfect scenario for a TV crime drama."

"You are of course authorized to hire more as needed," Valerien said with an air of finality, closing the sordid subject of business, "How are you enjoying your lunch? Your suggestion of the Meyer-Fonné was brilliant. The next course is built around a very light, fragrant Chambolle-Musigny that I think you'll like."

For the rest of the meal, under Valerien's subtle direction, the conversation centered on the food and wine, general talk about cuisine and favorite restaurants, and passing commentary on current events and public figures. The second course and wine were praised enthusiastically, and following a palate-cleansing salad of escarole and butter lettuce, the cheese and fruit caused a sensation served with a light crisp champagne from Valerien's family's own winery, Château de Seguemont; the elaborate lunch wound down with strong Turkish coffee and a plate of Belgian chocolates, which Marquesa chose to forego in favor of a solitary post-prandial cigarette on the terrace.

"I had better get on the road," Valerien said, throwing down his napkin and standing when Marquesa returned to the table, "There's bound to be traffic, and if I'm not to the château before tea, Grandmère will start worrying; she's already irritated that I didn't come up last night. Mr. Casterman, may I offer you a lift home? Pacific Heights is on my way."

"No thank you," Casterman replied with a courtly bow, "After such a feast, I think I had better have a brisk walk; besides, I'm going back to my office downtown. Thank you, Baron, for arranging lunch, and please convey my warmest regards to your grandmother the Comtesse."

"It will be my pleasure," Valerien returned courtly bow of his own, "Danny, you're a little out of my way, but I would be happy to drop you home."

"I'll take Danny home," Marquesa said, "I have nowhere to be this afternoon, it will be no trouble."

Valerien and Marquesa exchanged a tense glare for a moment, conducting a silent transaction in their friendship that Danny and Casterman couldn't begin to comprehend: they considered Danny a joint possession, and without even discussing the question had already engaged in a friendly but nonetheless fierce competition for ascendancy in Danny's affection. That Marquesa would take an advantage while Valerien was forced off the field by family duty struck the latter as unsporting and the former as perfectly fair.

The tension passed without anyone else taking much notice, and the quartet moved to the elevators and down through the lobby to the entrance, where Valerien's Rolls and Marquesa's double-length vintage midnight-blue Mercedes were double-parked, chauffeurs at the doors, serenely incognizant of the traffic that was building up noisily behind them. After a flurry of hand-shaking and cheek-kissing, Casterman strode energetically down the hill towards his office, Valerien slipped quietly into his car to travel to his grandparents' estate in Napa, and Danny followed Marquesa into the cavernous rear of the Mercedes.

Settling back into the deep blue velvet upholstery, Marquesa fell silent and simply gazed at Danny; and Danny gazed back, fascinated by Marquesa's beauty and relieved to be free from the need to make conversation. He picked up Marquesa's hand and just held it, feeling grateful and happy and protected.

"Excuse me, sir," the glass partition came down to reveal the back of the driver's head, "but there seems to be a gathering of some kind on Mr. Vandervere's street. Shall I drive past?"

"Yes, Bascombe... let's see what it is," Marquesa sat up attentively and peered through the tinted windows as the long car turned onto Danny's narrow, tree-lined, normally quiet street and negotiated its way between cars, pedestrians, and a surprising collection of large vans.

"Reporters, sir," Bascombe observed dryly, "and paparazzi. At least fifty people standing, and another dozen pedestrians rubbernecking."

"Danny, darling, do you want to muscle through that crowd? Bascombe can help you if you want to get inside."

"What in the world do they want?" Danny wailed, studying the milling press outside his own front door.

"They want to take part in your drama, of course," Marquesa replied coolly as the car slid past the scene, "ask you rude and idiotic questions, and take billions of pictures hoping that one of them will make you look like you're crying, or guilty, or both. I'll take you back to the Queen Charlotte, you'll be safest from the press there."

"Oh!" Danny was surprised by the perfection of this solution, and automatically tried to object, "But what about my messages? My phones must have been ringing off the hook all day. And my PDA's battery is dead. And I don't have any clothes. And those reporters are blocking my tenants and neighbors, I should contact them."

"Really, darling," Marquesa laughed at him while pulling his cigarette case out of his handbag, "Philippe can take care of all that for you. That's what concierges are for. You can access your messages remotely, can't you? You'll hide out at the hotel and rest up from your struggles for a few days, until the press gets bored and moves on to some other poor victim. Bascombe, call Philippe and have him get a suite ready for Mr. Vandervere. Oh, and get the police and a private security detail down here to make sure Mr. Vandervere's neighbors have free access to their homes."

"Yes, sir," the chauffeur/bodyguard replied, closing the partition.

"I don't need a suite," Danny protested, fretting over the astronomical expense of such a luxury, "a small room would be fine."

"Nonsense," Marquesa dismissed this concern with a wave of his cigarette, "you can't sit around in one little room all day for several days. Of course you need a suite. And the bills will go to me, so don't worry about using room service or the minibar."

"You're going to spoil me," Danny smiled, shyly and gratefully, taking Marquesa's hand again.

"Nothing could spoil you, sweetheart," Marquesa blew a smoke ring, "You're too good."

"But how do you know?" he worried aloud, still wondering why Marquesa and Valerien had invested so much trust and so much money in him after only one night's acquaintance.

"I just know," Marquesa shrugged, "I always know. It's a knack I got from my father... I know that you are good, honest, and kind just the way my father knew that fluffy musical beach movies would make millions in the Sixties and grimly underlit psychodramas would make millions in the Seventies."

"Your father is a producer?"

"He was a producer; you've probably heard of him, Jack Wilkes? But he died," Marquesa squashed out his cigarette in the pocket ashtray, glancing casually out the window, "when I was five. He and my mother had a skiing accident in Gstaadt; there was a rock-slide on the slopes and they went over a cliff. Their bodies weren't found for several days."

"Oh! I'm so sorry!" Danny was dismayed to have brought up such a painful subject.

"Don't be... they died instantly, and together, which I'm sure is what they would have wanted. Aside from not dying at all, of course. And they left me a whole shitload of money, well-invested, four houses, and some really spectacular jewels. These were my mother's," Marquesa flashed his right hand, displaying a big square-cut sapphire flanked by starbursts of baton diamonds on his finger and a rock-crystal bracelet set with cabochon sapphires on his wrist, "I didn't know about any of it until I was eighteen, though. My aunts considered Father's fortune tainted and refused to touch it while raising me. My father was a Jew, you know; he was born Herschel Finkelstein. The second half of my name is entirely made up."

"What's wrong with that?"

"To the Last of the Willards (meaning my crazy old-maid aunts), being a Jew is about the worst thing you can be without stooping so low as to be Black or Mexican; and taking a pseudonym is even worse, it absolutely reeks of the wicked stage. They're just old-fashioned bigots; they don't really mean anything by it, they're simply set in their outdated modes of thought. They're both in their nineties, you know, so their thinking is practically Victorian. They're really my great-aunts, my grandfather's much older sisters. My grandfather died young, too, in the War, and Aunt Eugenia and Eulalia raised my mother, as well as raising me. I can't say they did too bad of a job, nutty though they are."

"I was raised by great-aunts, too!" Danny enthused, "Well, not really raised by them, I lived with my parents; but I spent every afternoon and most weekends with the Aunt Ems... Mathilda, Myrtle, and Maude. Myrtle and Maude are twins, and Aunt Mathilda left me her money when she died two years ago."

"That's quite a coincidence," Marquesa observed, smiling warmly, "and perhaps the root of my and Val's instant liking for you. It's one of the things Val and I have in common, you know, losing our parents young and being raised by elderly relatives. And though you didn't lose your parents, you have got the requisite elderly relatives. I've noticed that young men raised by old women have a certain something, a courtly gentleness and a maturity beyond their years, that is very appealing. Ah, here we are again!"

Further conversation was curtailed by the business of disembarking and reentering the hotel, where they were greeted immediately by an exquisitely tailored middle-aged Frenchman, Philippe the concierge. He behaved in a manner that perfectly blended obsequiousness and pomposity while Marquesa took charge and led Danny through the formalities of signing the register and explaining what kind of charger his PDA required; Marquesa also directed Philippe to send to Andrew at Saks for an overnight selection of fresh clothes, and all the necessary toiletries as well. Danny was amazed by the speed and ease with which every minor detail was resolved; and with very little fuss he was ushered into a front-facing suite on the sixth floor, whose windows overlooked the roof-garden of the hotel across the street.

The rooms at Hotel Queen Charlotte are spacious and well-proportioned, but not grand in any way. There are no acres of parquet flooring, no elaborate marble fireplaces, no crystal chandeliers or dazzling artworks or ormolu mountings; the furniture is of the highest quality, but quite plain, crisply upholstered and highly polished but unexceptional, and only the vaguest of patterns can be observed in the hangings and carpets. The colors are all soothing pale earth-tones, which made Danny feel quite at home, and the decor consists mostly of wood-framed mirrors, parchment-shaded bronze lamps, and small glass vases of simple cream-white roses.

"This looks quite adequate," Marquesa pronounced, taking the keys and dismissing the concierge with a lavish tip.

"It's beautiful!" Danny exclaimed, sliding open the double pocket doors into the bedroom and peeking through to the bathroom, which in keeping with the style of the rooms was quite simple... no sunken whirlpool tub or gold faucets or telephones in the shower, but well-appointed for comfort and paved in creamy Italian tile.

"Well, why don't I leave you to rest, and I'm sure you'll want to have a nice hot bath after the day you've had," Marquesa pulled his gloves back on and started for the door, "And I'll go home and change. I'll be back at eight to take you to dinner upstairs. Philippe will have a dinner-suit delivered to you by seven so you can dress."

"Please don't leave me!" Danny begged almost hysterically, sudden panicked tears choking his voice at the very thought of being left alone; and for the third time in as many days, Danny completely broke down, a wellspring of stifled emotions dissolving him into a soggy mess of saline and mucus.

Marquesa responded as he had the first time, the same way that Deputy Lasciewicz had done as well, in fact the only thing one can do with an hysterical child of twenty-two years: he took a firm hold on Danny and pulled him down onto the sofa, rocking him back and forth and making little cooing noises to calm him down. But bawling naked in a running shower and bawling fully dressed on a hotel sitting-room sofa are entirely different things, and Danny made an effort to pull himself back together when he noticed he was staining the shoulder of Marquesa's silk tweed suit.

"What an ass you must think me," Danny croaked into a great wad of tissues that Marquesa had pulled from the box on the side-table, "crying my eyes out at the drop of a hat. I swear I'm not like this all the time."

"Don't worry about it, darling," Marquesa soothed, his arms still around Danny's shoulders, his right hand combing slowly through Danny's curls, "A good cry is just as good as a hot bath for washing away the horrors of the day. In fact, I envy you your ability to vent your emotions so readily. I don't even remember the last time I produced so much as a single tear, it must have been years ago."

"I still feel like an idiot," Danny sighed, "Thank you for being so kind to me."

"It is my absolute pleasure," Marquesa replied, standing up and pulling Danny to his feet, "Now you go take a bath like I told you, and I'll call Danvers and have him bring my dinner things here, OK?"

"OK," Danny moved closer to hug Marquesa and give him a quick affectionate peck; but the moment their lips touched, Danny's entire body caught fire, and the kiss became intensely passionate. He wanted to kiss Marquesa so hard that they would meld together, he wanted to force his entire self into Marquesa's mouth; but Marquesa pushed him away after a few short moments.

"Whoa, boy," he laughed, putting a finger to Danny's quivering wet mouth to wipe off a smudge of his own lipstick, "Plenty of time for that after I take care of my clothes. Go take your bath."

Danny went obediently into the bathroom and started drawing a bath, choosing a hyacinth bubble-bath from the array on the shelf, and pulling off his clothes. Sinking into the hot foamy water, Danny tried to order his fevered, racing mind by making a list, an exercise that always saved him from the curse of disordered thinking.

The hotel bathroom was well-supplied for such exercises, the bathtub being fitted with a wire tray straddling the tub and equipped with a notepad and pen as well as the usual shaving mirror and book-holder. Armpit-deep in hot scented water, Danny drew a pro-and-con table on the pad, delineating his current position in life in as much detail as his jumbled mind could summon.

CON	PRO
I’m under suspicion for murder.	I have the best defense attorney money can buy.
I spent a night in jail.	I’m out now... and it wasn’t all that bad.
I’m going to lose a lot of friends.	I have two great new friends who believe in me.
I can’t even get into my own apartment.	I get to stay in a suite at the Queen Charlotte.
Life as I know it is over.	Something new is beginning.

It all looked pretty even, every bad thing balanced by a good thing, and not so terribly confusing in black and white. Danny felt much calmer, felt the anxiety floating away from him on the scented hot water. He took a deep breath and sank farther down into the tub, closing his eyes and letting the water cover his ears, blocking out the entire world outside of his body.

Danny floated like this for some minutes until a shadow crossed his closed eyelids and the sound of a distant voice crossed his conscience. Opening his eyes and sitting up, he saw Marquesa standing over him, naked, his face clean and shiny from washing, his coppery hair loose and wild, his shocking horse-cock canting out heavily from his pelvis.

"Do you think this tub is big enough for the two of us?" Marquesa asked, removing the wire tray and setting it on the floor.

I love you, I love you, I love you sang through Danny's mind. He'd always wondered how one would know that one was in love, and had been told by experienced friends that one simply knows; he'd never really believed that one can simply know something, until he himself knew, that very moment, gazing at Marquesa and knowing, completely and unambiguously, that he was indeed in love.

"Why are you looking at me like that?" Marquesa asked, noting Danny's silence and the stunned look on his face.

"Like what?" Danny wondered, still staring.

"Like you've been hit on the head."

"That's pretty much how I feel," Danny admitted, not adding that he also felt as if his heart were being pulled out of his chest through his ribcage with a stout fishing-line.

Pulling back his legs to make room for Marquesa to get into the water, Danny tried to rationalize and analyze his feelings, trying to encompass these unfamiliar emotions with familiar intellect. He realized that when armored in his couture and jewels and makeup, Marquesa was amazing, fascinating, and powerful, a goddess to be worshipped; but naked, he was all of those things, but also loveable, with touching human frailties, a hero to be adored. Summing up the whole thing into a phrase with which he could label the affair, he decided that he stood in awe of Marquesa Willard-Wilkes, but he was in love with Marc-Antony Finkelstein.

With that piece of logic filed away for future reference, he gave himself over to the business at hand, namely making love to a fairly tall man in a rather narrow bathtub.

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14,287 Words ~ 24 Pages