The Last Temptation

by Gerrie Ferris Finger

  Drat. “If you think I’m going to a church, you sent the wrong damn clothes.” This city of millions is like a goddamn small town in south Georgia.

  “I, too, am a searcher, Miss Dru.”

  “Very funny, Sircher, but you can guess until the cows come home, I’m not telling.”

  “Here’s a tip for your next research project. Take your tiny thread and follow the bloggers.”

  “The internet gossips? I wish I had the time.”

  “It’s worth your while. Will you tell me if you are successful in your little quest?”

  “Maybe you can tell me, before I know.”

  “Just remember, the walls have ears.”

  * * * * *

  When Bellan didn’t call, I picked out his cell number. The answering voice told me to leave a message or a page. I did both, then went to the shower. I’d practiced again with the putty, this time with a sense that I had to get it perfect or I’d be a dead duck.

  Lake called and I told him about Sircher’s “little notion.”

  “Bloggers,” he said. “The department is trying to get a geek for minimum wage to sit and monitor the blogs.”

  “Ought to be a cinch for such a lordly sum,” I said. “Even with the blogger hint, I think Sircher got her notion somewhere else.”

  “You gave her enough hints. You said you wanted to fool men, therefore, men-only places.”

  “There have to be tons.”

  “Not when you start cutting out the obvious. There’s the Atlanta Men’s Bondage Club, but you assured her it wasn’t a sex thing. Or the Men’s Garden Club of America, Atlanta chapter.”

  “There is such an animal?”

  “Bet your pocket full of posies. You wouldn’t be infiltrating the Federated Jewish Men’s Club, would you?”

  “She gave me a Roman nose.”

  “The Cloisters is the only club of its kind that I know of in Atlanta, or in all of Georgia, for that matter, that is strictly men only. Sircher would know that.”

  “Mea culpa.”

  “On that note, good night, sweet princess.”

  Before I could think of a comeback, he disconnected.

  I tried Bellan’s number three more times. Was it time to worry yet?

  41

  Now that I was back on Whitney’s payroll, I had to answer the SOB’s phone calls.

  A petulant Whitney asked, “And just when am I going to get a written report of your activities?”

  I checked out the people walking on the sidewalk fifteen stories below my office. “When I write it up.”

  “You haven’t much time left on the judge’s extension, and I’m getting nervous.”

  “You’re just now getting nervous?”

  After more unsatisfactory exchanges, I rang off and looked in on Webdog.

  “I need you to find out where Arlo Cameron lives in Los Angeles—his address, phone number, where he likes to dine, etcetera.”

  “You got it.”

  I called Bellan again. He didn’t answer again.

  This is not good.

  I tried Dartagnan. No answer.

  An hour later, I tried Bellan again, no answer.

  I tried Dartagnan again, no answer. My nerves were oozing through my skin.

  That afternoon, Lake called.

  He’d received the invitation to The Cloisters in the mail.

  “We’re to be there promptly at seven—not seven-fifteen—and we’re to dress for dinner. No names. We’ll be given names.”

  “Woooo-hoooo.”

  * * * * *

  Lake arrived half an hour before we were to leave. He wore a dark blue silk suit. His shirt was very pale mauve, and his tie was deep maroon with tiny blue stripes. He’d gelled his thick hair slightly and combed it straight back. He looked oh-so-stylish, but it was the man himself who had me dry-swallowing.

  As he studied me, the look on his face was priceless. He said, “You’ve mutated magnificently.”

  “Honest?”

  “How’s your eyesight?”

  I adjusted the round, rimless glasses. “Magoo, to you.”

  “You look like a Jewish scholar. If you had on digger clothes, you could be squatting over an archeological pit.”

  “But will I pass at The Cloisters?”

  “Absolutely. The day-old beard looks as if, in your learned state, you’d forgotten to shave. And that shiny suit! Ten years out of date, but what’s time to a brain-above-fashion?”

  “It’s a diLeon. Very retro. Very in. What about my nose?”

  “Not too hooked, not too wide. Just right, I’d say.”

  “I modeled it after yours.”

  He reached out to grab me playfully, but quickly backed off with his hands up. “Too fragile,” he said. “I hope you don’t melt.”

  Me, too.

  * * * * *

  A tall, befittingly dressed butler opened the door. Wordlessly, and with a graceful wave of a white-gloved hand, he gestured us into a rotunda. The opulent place glowed in the dim golden light. The marble floor looked like white satin. Beneath a massive crystal chandelier, a flowing fountain stood. In the center, on a pedestal, a nude Eros wielded his lethal love weapon. “Interesting,” I muttered. In the fountain, water to their knees, winged girls and boys looked up at the God of Love with naked adoration. The alabaster children looked starkly virginal.

  Off this rotunda, I counted four rooms with vaulted openings. From one, piano music and men’s voices floated into the rotunda. The butler led us around the fountain and through a door. The mahogany horseshoe bar had a grand piano stuck into the opening of the horseshoe. A handsome pianist played Gershwin. Six men sat in twos at polished wooden tables. The atmosphere was superficially masculine. Missing was the ineffable scent of testosterone that makes a bar a bar. The butler seated us. “I’ll tell Mr. White you have arrived.”

  A waiter came. We ordered martinis—a Blue Sapphire for me, and Grey Goose for Lake. Earlier, we’d flipped a coin to see who got the Sapphire. Couldn’t look too cozy with each other. “Place’s nice,” Lake said.

  I almost snickered. “Indeed,” I murmured, touching the Waterford vase holding a white fragrant rose. I mouthed, “Wired?” Lake nodded. I asked, “Would it be too gauche to ask who their decorator is?”

  “Probably not,” Lake said, and looked approving. We’d been practicing my vocals. Luckily, my voice is low-pitched, and I’m a natural mimic.

  Sircher had been keen on getting my vocals right, too. She had explained, “Southern men seem to have atrophied larynxes. Draw out your vowels more than you normally do, and forget the r at the end of words. Practice saying ‘buddah’ for butter. Just remember, when people see a man they expect to hear a man. Don’t break into a Tiny Tim and you’ll be all right.”

  A man walked into the room quietly. He stood to my left. He was broad-shouldered with a midsection paunch that protruded from his gray linen jacket. His tie, too, was gray, as was his hair and thin mustache. He wore tortoiseshell glasses that magnified his gray eyes.

  “Mr. Chapman and Mr. Barton,” he said, looking from me to Lake. “Good evening. I am Mr. White.”

  “Good evening, Mr. White,” we answered at the same time.

  I am Mr. Chapman.

  Mr. White took a seat. “You are our only guests this evening. The others here are regulars.” He studied me for an instant as if he were making up his mind about something. Perhaps it was only paranoia on my part. He went on, “We have two guest nights a month. A guest may visit The Cloisters twice within a year. After that, he will be asked to join us—or not. The financial details are worked out, and will be presented to you by your sponsor. Suffice it to say, if you have to ask, you can’t afford us.”

  I looked at Mr. Barton and Mr. White. Mr. White’s glance lingered on my face. “We are a men’s club. We do not discourage gay guests or members, but we forbid homosexual activities here.” He nodded at me, and I back at him, meaning he’d caught me out. Or not. He went on, “Tonight for your intr
oduction, you will follow the routine all members follow before being invited to join us. First you have your pre-prandial aperitifs in this room. When you’ve finished, you will go into the dining room, across the hall. You will see the small gold plaque at the door. Reservations for members are made a week ahead. Following dinner, you advance to the smoking room for post-prandial brandies, if you so choose. You may remain there as long as you wish, smoke whatever you wish—as long as it’s legal. You may wish to depart the club from the smoking room if you feel your evening has been satisfactory. Many find the atmosphere here, the evening meal and the gathering of friends, quite fulfilling in and of itself. But if you want more enjoyment, you are free to go on into the nightclub. The ladies there will guide you through the rest of the evening, but guests cannot choose an exclusive female companion.” He pressed his lips into a wry smile and waited a few tics before he said, “Members must be off the premises by four in the morning. Guests must leave by eleven. No money exchanges hands. In a week, you will receive a note with a figure on it. You will pay your sponsor. Any questions at this time?”

  “No,” I said, taking the lead. “All perfectly clear.” Ah-llll peh-fec-lee cleee-ah.

  Lake nodded his response.

  “What do you drink after dinner?” Mr. White asked and looked at me first.

  “Benedictine,” I drew out.

  “That’s fine for me, too,” Lake said.

  “Very nice, then.” Mr. White stood and adjusted the knot in his tie. “Bon appétit.” At the door, he looked back briefly.

  “What a niiiiiice gennelman,” I said.

  “I like this place,” Lake said. We sat back and enjoyed our drinks, then rose, nodded to the two remaining people in the room, and left.

  “What do you think?” I whispered as we crossed the foyer to the dining room.

  “You’re damned good with that voice, but I think Mr. White is suspicious.”

  “It’s the nose. He smells a rat.”

  “It’s not the shape. I think he wondered about the makeup.”

  “He suspects I’m gay.”

  “Let’s hope that’s all he suspects.”

  42

  Dinner was scrumptious and artfully served in the white and gold room—field greens with a mustard vinaigrette, leek soup, filet mignon, potatoes lyonnaise, asparagus stir-fried with tarragon. For dessert, raspberry torte and strong coffee laced with Bailey’s Irish Cream. We’d eaten in silence like the other diners. Perhaps it was the custom—forget the repartee, take pleasure in the food.

  I sneaked my torte onto Lake’s small plate, and when he’d swallowed the last bite and wiped his mouth, Mr. White appeared to escort us into the smoking room. Since his timing was precise, I was certain there were peepholes in the paintings. Behind Mr. White’s back, Lake winked, which was probably seen by someone, too.

  Inside the smoking room, I leaned into Lake. “Elvis would love it heah.”

  “I’m partial to red, too,” Lake said.

  Mr. White chuckled as he led us across oriental rugs scattered on the parquet floor. At a burgundy sofa, he waved us to sit. “Enjoy the Benedictine,” he said, and bowed and walked away. Stems of the divine liquid sat on brass coasters.

  The varying shades of red provided the ambience in the long, low-ceilinged room, and despite the reds, it had a soothing quality. Recessed overhead lighting and dim lamps helped. About two dozen men were grouped in twos and threes, with an occasional solo sitting in a chair reading, or just listening to the soft banter. Nothing harsh spoken here and no TVs with ball games blaring to pumping fists.

  Crystal and bottles of brandy sat on chests and drink trolleys. On the leather-topped coffee table, next to our brandies, little silver dishes held candies, in case your sweet tooth hadn’t been filled. Lake reached for a chocolate mint.

  A large man came into the room and poured himself a brandy. I blinked several times to make sure he wasn’t Orson Welles. He looked down on us and everyone turned in our direction. Orson raised his brandy glass. “Welcome to The Cloisters, Mr. Barton and Mr. Chapman.” The men nodded and held up a glass to our being amongst them. The fake Orson, with an equally fake stentorian voice, said, “I trust you supped well?”

  Lake answered, “Wonderful food.”

  With a nod, I said, “I mus saaay.”

  Orson said, “Be our guests and don’t hesitate to help yourself to whatever pleases you.” He placed his glass on the trolley and weaved out of the room. He’d evidently come in for the sole purpose of leading the toast.

  I quick-glimpsed everyone, careful that my eyes didn’t linger on any one person. Mr. White stood like a sentinel in a far corner. Then he walked to a trolley and prepared a brandy. When he lifted the stem, it must have slipped from his hand because it dropped on the parquet. “A Swarovski,” he cried. He waved a hand and called out, “Boy.”

  A boy who looked to be about fifteen came running from a small door in the opposite corner. He said, “Yes, Father White.”

  At that very moment, my mouth actually dropped open. Dr. Brommer was sitting by the door, at an antique secretary. The commotion had caused him to look up from whatever he was writing. I looked away quickly.

  Noticing my consternation, Lake asked quietly, “Something the matter?”

  “Later.” La-tah.

  We stayed for another half hour and listened to a mildly animated discussion about the upcoming election and what effect it would have on the stock market. Dr. Brommer never looked up again, not that I saw.

  “Shall we partake of the entertainment,” Lake said at last.

  “It’s now or nevah.”

  “Hum a few bars for The King,” Lake said, standing.

  “It’s now or nevah, come hold me tight.” It was the two Benedictines.

  Mr. White was suddenly at our side. “What shall it be, gentlemen? An early evening, or onward to the theater?”

  43

  We followed Mr. White through the back part of the house to a pair of ebony doors. He opened them and ushered us into the annex, the building I had spotted above the original building. My initial impression was The Blue Angel and Marlene Dietrich in sooty black-and-white. There were black-draped stages around three walls and catwalks extending into the center of the large, but, incongruously, intimate, room. In the next instant, the movie image ended. This was not a 1930s German cabaret, but an artfully staged sex show. Young beautiful women in white gossamer—no undergarments—danced on their toes on the catwalks. As we moved up a path made by tiny strings of stage lights, Lake leaned into me and whispered that the wisps the young lovelies wore made them more sensual than if they were buck naked. I had to trust the masculine point of view. The music was consciously ethereal—sounds I’d heard during expensive spa massages—sounds from nature: the sea washing ashore, whales singing, breezes through the pines.

  I whispered back, “Ballet slippers, no five-inch hooker heels here. No ‘heartache tonight, I know.’”

  Lake poked me like he would a comrade sharing an off-color joke. “Where’re the garters? Got my twenties, they got no garters.”

  When we were seated, a man dressed in a tuxedo rose and went to a girl who had swooned into a back-bend so far back her long golden hair almost touched her heels. He beckoned, and she slid from the platform into his waiting arms. “Ah, I get it,” Lake said. “They’re auditioning.”

  “I got to get out of here,” I said, the sticky feeling of decadence weighing on my spirit.

  Lake laughed. “See what you got yourself into?”

  A woman came to the table wearing a short, shear Roman toga. Very sheer, very short. I could see where her thighs ended. I saw Lake swallow. I ordered a Benedictine. Lake ordered a brandy Alexander. “What?” I whispered. “Mama used to drink those fifty years ago.”

  Roman Toga served us, and then pulled a chair close to Lake. Hair white-blonde, eyes green, she smiled at Lake, that kind of smile his groupies give him. Lake introduced himself as Mr. Chapman. Hey, I thought
that was me.

  Lake introduced “Mr. Barton,” but Toga barely glanced at me.

  Shouldn’t I feel pissed? I would have been were I not intrigued. As Lake and Toga exchanged barroom talk, I studied the theater. I hadn’t seen the second-story balconies before now, nor had I noticed the glass-domed ceiling. I was looking at stars and the moon. Then I saw the back wall, where there was no stage. A Celtic cross, fifteen feet high, stood, with an altar in front of it. My ancestors, as Whitney had pointed out, were Celts, but the altar and the cross gave me the creeps.

  I said to Lake and Toga, “If you’ll both excuse me, I’ll find my way to the john.” Don’t know about other men, but that’s what Lake called it when he was in polite company.

  Toga pointed to the right of the altar. “Through the door, down the hall, second on the left.” She sounded like a hick from the mountains.

  Once I was out of the theater, my instinct was to draw myself in and tiptoe down the red-carpeted hall. The wall sconces were dim and the atmosphere cold, just right for sneaking.

  Walk like a man.

  I straightened and strode past a door marked FEMMES DRESSING ROOM and came to the men’s room. Twenty feet up the corridor I saw that doors went off right and left, like in a hotel. I walked that way and listened at a few. The doors appeared stout, perhaps soundproof. I turned to hurry back the way I’d come.

  A faint cry came from behind, like a cat mewing. I looked back and saw a tall red-haired woman hurrying forward. She wore a tailored black pants suit over a black turtleneck sweater. She was slim, going on forty, with auburn hair done up in combs, and her white complexion smoothed by makeup. Her eyes were lined with black kohl and mascara. Maroon blush highlighted her cheekbones. I wondered where she’d come from so suddenly.

  Four feet away, she stopped, cocked a hip and spoke from her throat. “Are you lost, handsome?”

  Shaking my head no, I murmured like an idiot. “Men’s. Passed it.”

  Her black eyes roved over me, and I damn near panicked. A woman knows her own.

  She said, “You didn’t find anything in the theater that took your fancy?” I gave a defeated sigh, and she moved closer. She reached for my hand, and I let her take my fingers. She didn’t need to be feeling the back of my hand, the artificial veins and hair. “So soft,” she said, gliding her long fingers over my palm. “No heavy lifting, hmm, sugar?”