“I don’t have a customer until one.”
“You never used to drink like this, not until Chaz left town. I hope you’re not resorting to booze to compensate for lost love.”
“Since when do you lecture me about that?”
“You never let me get away with self-pity.”
“Darling, before you met Rafik, I tolerated your long-suffering dreariness without judgment. Is it so much to ask for a little compassion now?”
She was right. Before my current soap-opera life of doubt, I lived a soap-opera life of frustration. And Nicole had watched every tedious episode, plus the reruns.
“Touché, doll,” I said, and I fetched the bottle of fine champagne cognac from a locked overhead cupboard. I poured a few glug-glugs of the amber-colored elixir into her coffee. If her one o’clock customer even vaguely alluded to the scent of cognac, Nikki would probably offer her a shot as well.
The phone on my desk beeped. It was the receptionist announcing a walk-in request for Vannos.
“Vannos doesn’t work here anymore,” I said.
“He’s a referral,” replied the receptionist.
Whoever it was, I’d have to give him a look at least. The best way to keep a client list exclusive is to take new customers only on referral. I left Nicole in the office and went out to the shop floor. Awaiting me at the reception desk was a tall, virile man in his late forties with a headful of thick pepper-and-salt hair and a matching mustache. He appeared to be what in gay parlance is called a butch-daddy type. He wore standard-issue denims, but they were immaculate and pressed with creases sharp enough to inflict fatal wounds if he walked too fast in them. The shiny black calfskin boots and the massive sterling silver belt buckle meant that this contrived casual look had cost him well over a thousand dollars.
I introduced myself.
He replied, “You come highly recommended.” His voice came out oddly light and breathy for such a tall man with such well-cultivated shoulders.
“What can I do for you?” I asked.
He moved closer to me. “I’d like to try blond,” he said with a quiet giggle. “Donaldson says you’re a wonder with color.”
I didn’t answer for a moment. Donaldson—not Don, not Donny, not even Donald, but Donaldson—was a longtime client of mine whose life as a bottle blond had gone through the entire spectrum of light, lighter, and lightest. Donaldson was also an extremely femme decorator whose fluttery mannerisms would fatigue a desperate mayfly in heat. I stood back and took a cold hard look at the handsome man standing before me. I was partial to his phenotype, that generic, square-framed, masculine quality that some lucky men get from the genes they’re dealt. Then I imagined him a blond. But even with my expert eye, I couldn’t see it. To make this man a blond might suit some other facet of his personality, but it would also ruin the present picture of him, the one I happened to like.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I can’t do it.”
“What do you mean?” he demanded. “Donaldson said you could do anything.”
“Technically speaking, I can, but I think your hair is fine the way it is.”
“Gray like this?” he said. His voice was becoming strident. “It makes me look too old.”
“I wouldn’t touch the color. It’s perfect.”
The man seemed unconvinced. “I can pay,” he ventured.
“I’m sure you can, but I won’t color your hair. I’d be glad to style it—”
“No,” he interrupted. “I want to be blond. Is there anyone else who can do it?”
I paused, wondering how to change his mind, then realized it was hopeless. “I’ll get Ramon,” I said glumly.
An hour and a half later the man was a blond. Ramon had shaved his mustache too, so his horsey upper lip was now exposed, which gave his face a long, sagging, almost sad quality. I may be in the business of beauty and artifice, but I never interfere with nature because of someone’s silly urge to look young.
The day went on. I finished my office work and saw a few customers too. But by the time Nicole and I closed up the place, I had become restive again, probably in anticipation of the evening ahead. Somewhat uneasy, I headed home to begin the Grand Preparation.
Home is a spacious one-bedroom apartment on Marlborough Street. I’m on the top floor, which is a mixed blessing. On the good side, it’s quiet, bright, and airy. On the bad, there’s no elevator in the building. Since I’ve got good legs the four flights of stairs don’t usually bother me, but sometimes I wonder about getting another place. Then I consider what I’d lose if I moved out: The rent is strictly controlled and there’s great solidarity among the tenants. So chances are I’ll live there forever. Besides, I’m high above most of the street noise, and I even have a river view. You have to look out the bathroom window, but it’s there.
I opened the door and was greeted by Sugar Baby, whose short taupe fur is the same color as the candy. I picked her up and cooed to her while I checked my telephone messages, of which there were none that night. Then I carried her purring body to the kitchen, which is where most of my domestic life seems to transpire when I’m home alone. I’ll eat there, talk on the telephone there, watch television there, even read there. It’s probably a family holdover from growing up in working-class New Jersey, where everything happened in the kitchen. Back then the living room was reserved for guests and special occasions. The same is still true for me.
Two big decisions faced me after I’d opened my mail and had mixed myself a frosty martini, my preferred libation once the snow has gone. The first question was which food to serve Sugar Baby. I decided to leave the decision up to her by parading the five cans in front of her and making suitable enticing sounds for each one. I’m sure the gin was enhancing that little vignette. By far the most enthusiastic response, gauged by Sugar Baby’s guttural vocalizing, was elicited by a kidney-and-bacon combination, so that’s what my favorite girl got for dinner that night. I hoped that the menu at Max Harkey’s place would be chosen with more discernment.
The second and more critical decision facing me was what to wear. How should I present myself to a crowd of dancers and related groupies, the most body-conscious of the evolved primates? Should I try to blend in with a slim look, which meant wearing all black, just the way most of them would? But that might appear too contrived. Besides, with my full, healthy figure, attempting the slim look was mostly a vain pursuit. Perhaps I should portray an admiring outsider, which is what I really was anyway. That choice would allow me to wear anything in my closet that still fit. I decided to meditate on it during my shower.
After a thorough scrubbing under a fine, steamy spray with French-milled soap scented with wild fern, my body was rosy and refreshed. I poured myself another cocktail to enjoy while I dried off At one point I caught a glimpse of myself in the dressing mirror. My body is decent enough, though certainly not the stuff of which porn stars and fashion models are made. So what part of it appealed to Rafik? Maybe he liked my square, manly jaw or the full lips adorned with a droopy red mustache that matches my coppery hair. Or was it the green eyes? The big dopey grin? My guess is that it’s probably my naturally good legs and feet that gain the approval of his dancer’s eyes. And my robust backside. And perhaps my equipage too, which ranks high in profile and proportion and friendliness, if not gross dimension. Then again, maybe what Rafik cherishes most of all is my beautiful soul.
I shrugged at another unanswered mystery of love, then went to assemble my outfit. I chose a cotton shirt with broad stripes of turquoise, purple, and gold—all complementary to my short red hair. For slacks I took the pleated and cuffed charcoal-gray twills. Soft black suede slip-ons cushioned my feet. Thanks in part to my long Slavic limbs and the two martinis, the whole package of Stan Kraychik looked pretty good in my dressing mirror. For fragrance I chose an Italian cologne whose piny balsam scent reminded me of a cop I once knew—very straight of very straight. A spritz of that stuff on my neck was as close as I’d ever get to him.
&nbs
p; So, fastidiously douched and dressed, I set out by foot on the evening of that fine spring day, once again heading toward the South End, this time to Max Harkey’s place, where I would rejoin my beloved Rafik and his unbridled animal magnetism.
3
Dinner at Eight
MAX HARKEY LIVED ATOP A FOUR-STORY BROWNSTONE called the Appleton. The building had been gutted and lavishly refitted during the golden days of the Boston Housing Authority, when slum property was proclaimed historic landmark willy-nilly, then mindlessly purged of its history to be rezoned, rebuilt, and reassessed. This one time historic treasure now boasted an architectural disfigurement—a glass-walled penthouse erected upon the original roof. That anachronistic superstructure was Max Harkey’s place, which seemed an appropriate home for the controversial director of the Boston City Ballet. Lesser mortals occupied the original four levels of the building, though my interior-designer friends claim that every flat in the Appleton is a decorator’s dream. The building lies within two convenient blocks of the Boston Center for the Arts on a narrow cul-de-sac dubbed Appleton Mews, a reference to the numerous converted carriage houses that line the street. The location also puts it within a few blocks of Station D, headquarters of the Boston Police Department.
It was almost eight o’clock when I arrived there, fashionably on time. I noticed Big Red parked on the sidewalk outside the building and felt a tingle around my left nipple. Strange what a symbol of love can do.
I entered the foyer and pressed the button for number five. Within seconds a voice with a slight and pleasant accent came over the intercom.
“Who is there, please?”
“Stan Kraychik.”
There was a long pause before he asked, “Your name again, please?”
“Stan Kraychik. I’m with Rafik Panossian.”
After another pause the buzzer sounded and I went in. I hoped I wouldn’t need a passport and visa to get into the penthouse. I found the lobby elevator, which was a small cubicle paneled in bird’s-eye maple. Once inside I pressed the button marked “PH,” which obviously stood for penthouse. Yet the label didn’t seem right for a fifth-floor apartment that had been stuck onto the roof of an old brownstone. Forty-fifth floor, maybe. But I live on a fifth floor, and I sure don’t consider my place a penthouse.
The elevator door closed with a fluid whoosh, and the tiny chamber slid upward noiselessly, without any mechanical sound or vibration. The manufacturer’s name engraved on a brass plate above the panel of buttons explained the odd lack of noise. The elevator had been built by HydraLift Ltd of Liverpool, England. It must have worked by hydraulics instead of motors and pulleys and cables. The elevator came to a smooth stop and bobbed for just a second until the pressurized fluid stopped moving, kind of like a waterbed. The door slid open onto a vestibule from which wafted the scents of dried spice and wool carpeting. Atop a black-lacquered console sat a large vase of winter cherry and three long branches of eucalyptus. Also on the console was a copper-and-glass art deco lamp that gave a soft pinkish glow to the small area. I saw my reflection in a large mirror framed in verdigris-finished wood, and I felt rich.
The door to Max Harkey’s apartment swung open and discharged all the noises and jabber of a party in progress. A small, sturdy-framed young man with tawny skin and bold blue-green eyes stood in the open doorway and greeted me.
“You are Stan?” he said.
I nodded. I could tell he’d paid a lot to have his blond hair waved and colored, and the look suited him.
He said, “I am Rico.” His accent was gossamer and appealing. “Please come in?” he said like a question.
“Where are you from?” I asked.
“Brazil.”
I entered Max Harkey’s apartment and was engulfed by a world of visual art. Covering most of the wall facing me in the large foyer was a panel by David Hockney, one of the famous swimming-pools. Rico beckoned me toward the drawing room, where the other guests were gathered. On the way I passed a small alcove that showcased two pieces—a pair of Roman warriors cast in bronze, each figure about two feet high. The men were poised for battle, with their plumed helmets and unsheathed weapons, but they could have been ready for sex too, with their strongly arched backs and their muscular buttocks tense and exposed.
I continued into the drawing room. Despite the people talking and drinking and chatting energetically in there, my attention was taken by a gigantic Bösendorfer piano, shiny black and as long as a mobile home. It sat regally surrounded by freestanding sculpture, the most notable of which was a large piece in rosewood—a stylized danseur, noble and aloof, perhaps inspired by Max Harkey in his youth. A vague memory from a college art course brought the name Ivan Mestrovic to mind, perhaps because the sculptor was a fellow Slav. Then my eyes wandered to the huge Morris Louis canvas that occupied the far wall. Max Harkey’s place was a goddamn museum and the guests didn’t even seem to notice.
A striking man in his early fifties with a square-angled face and a leonine mane of silver hair approached me. The cleft in his chin looked so matinee-idol that I wondered if it was natural. The skin around his jaw and throat was still taut against the muscles and bones beneath. His pale blue eyes stared into mine with a cold, almost threatening gaze.
“You must be Stan,” he said and extended his hand. “I am Max Harkey.”
I shook his hand and replied, “Thank you for inviting me.”
“And high time,” he said. “I know Rafik so well, I should meet his other half.”
He portrayed the gracious host perfectly, complete with appliquéd sincerity.
He led me to the wet bar, where Rico had already resumed mixing drinks. That young thing certainly moved fast. I ordered a martini and while Rico set it up, one of the other guests came over. Max Harkey introduced him as Marshall Zander, a longtime friend and the major benefactor of the Boston City Ballet. Marshall Zander looked about the same age as Max Harkey, but with thinning brown hair that would be mostly gone before it ever became a distinguished gray. His body seemed lumbering and awkward, unused to any kind of movement. Clearly he had never danced. Though his clothes were obviously expensive, they were dowdy and fit him badly. He was like a big, sloppy dog—one that had a fancy pedigree but lacked any grace.
“What brings you here?” he asked, which seemed an odd question to ask a guest. Perhaps he didn’t know that I was coupled with Rafik, or perhaps he didn’t care, or perhaps it was just his clumsy attempt at friendliness.
“I’m with Rafik,” I replied.
“Oh,” he said without interest and then turned his attention to Rico, who at that moment was placing my martini in front of me. He gestured for me to take the drink, which I did. Then I sipped. It was perfect—super dry and with a twist.
Max Harkey then took me to meet Madame Rubinskaya, whom I’d already seen that morning at the ballet studios. Madame was ensconced in a capacious easy chair upholstered in velvety azure mohair. She’d positioned her legs to show off the calves and ankles and feet, which were exquisite despite her age. She alternated between smoking a long cigarette in an ivory holder and sipping what looked like sweet vermouth poured over ice. When Max Harkey introduced me, the old woman forced a smile.
“Of course,” she said, pronouncing her “r” in two syllables. She offered me her hand while she fixed her eyes somewhere beyond my face. “We have met before.”
I took her hand, not sure whether I should kiss it, shake it, or simply hold it. It was strangely firm and beautiful, strong too, without the slightest bump of arthritis. Her nails had been meticulously enameled with a muted red polish, and the pale crescent moons peeked out near the cuticles. Her face, however, was another matter. Madame had applied a chaotic array of makeup for the occasion, presumably her evening look, one intended to impart a sense of Continental glamour, but which instead made her look like a porcelain doll that had survived a blitzkrieg. It was hardly an improvement on the stark mask she had worn earlier that day, and in a weak moment of esthetic compassion,
I almost offered her a free makeup session at Snips. But I quickly realized my folly and said nothing. I gave her hand a friendly squeeze and released it finally. She placed it back on the arm of the chair, and I caught her ever so slightly wiping her palm against the soft, nappy fabric. Perhaps it was a nervous reflex. Or perhaps she felt contaminated.
Just then I felt a familiar warm arm snake itself around my waist and I knew that Rafik was near me. I turned and looked directly into his handsome face. What luck to love him!
“Hi,” I said.
“Finally you have come,” he said. “I was worried.”
So he did think about me!
“Choosing my outfit took longer than I thought,” I said. I glanced quickly around the room and noted that all the guests except Marshall Zander and myself were wearing black. Sure, there were startling jags of color among the accessories, but the basic color scheme tonight was as I had predicted—black on black.
Hanging onto Rafik’s other arm was Toni di Natale, the conductor whom I had also met at the ballet studios earlier that day. Even Toni’s color choice proved that she belonged properly to this group. She wore a long-sleeved gray silk blouse and a formal evening skirt of black wool crepe. Her concession to color was the silk scarf of variegated bright blues and purples that she’d knotted loosely around the collar of her blouse.
“Good to see you again,” she said with practiced geniality. It was obvious that she was using her high Brit that night. Toni di Natale gave a theatrical toss to her headful of lush red hair. The gesture was already too familiar to me, like an irritating tic. She probably did it a lot when conducting from the podium … or the headboard. I wondered if her friendliness with me was just a ploy to improve her chances with Rafik. It wouldn’t be the first time one spouse had been charmed to clear a pathway to the other.
“Nice scarf,” I retorted with the same mock familiarity, though the scarf was truly gorgeous.
She smiled broadly at me then pulled Rafik away with her toward the wall of glass windows that lined one side of the room. Rafik winked back at me. “See you later,” he said as Toni led him away.
Dead on Your Feet Page 4
