by Feliz Faber
Sampson’s article didn’t add much to what the retired reporter had already conveyed during their telephone call, except for a whole lot of venom. For whatever reason, the old man really seemed to hate this Frenchy guy’s guts. Still, it brought Will another step forward, putting proper names on the jockey, Louis Merov, and the trainer, Nicolas Pithiviers. Both names were unusual enough that Will saw fit to enter them into another Google search, groaning when his computer screen filled with line upon line of findings in a dozen foreign languages, most of which he didn’t speak. As far as he could tell, though, all of his findings were about some medieval ruling dynasty, the Merovingians, and a guy named Seigneur de Pithiviers who recorded their history.
He called Trevor’s contacts again, but to no avail. Prompted with Sampson’s article, one of them even recalled the actual events, but had no idea of how to find either Merov or Pithiviers. The only useful thing Will learned from his second round of calls was that Carrick had died a couple of years ago.
It was late by the time Will reached that point, and since it was a Friday night, the editorial office was almost deserted by then. Leaning back, Will rubbed his eyes, which burned from staring at the monitor screen for hours on end. With a sigh, he reached for his coffee and grimaced as he sipped the cold, bitter brew. Once again, he scrolled through his Google search results a page at a time. He let his thoughts wander, idly playing “guess the language” with himself as he tried to figure out another angle of approach. Skimming over another indecipherable line that consisted mostly of consonants, he noticed the familiar letter string of the name Pithiviers and then read the next word: Meerow. The realization hit him like a blow, and he almost choked on a mouthful of coffee. Meerow, not Merov.
He clicked the link, holding his breath while the page slowly loaded, revealing pictures of horses; a race; a close-up of a grim, mud-splattered face, eyes hidden behind dirty goggles, mouth open in a shout. “Damn your analphabetic ass, Sampson,” Will grumbled as he typed +meerow+horse racing jockey into the Google Search box.
After that, it was a piece of cake. Everything was there, Meerow’s rides and wins, along with race reports from all over Europe, Asia, and even Australia—statements of a champion jockey’s glorious career. Even better, he found out Pithiviers had been Meerow’s agent since 1988. In Meerow’s entry in a French jockey register, Will eventually found a contact telephone number and address.
The same number and address were given as Pithiviers’s.
It was too good to be true. Could just as well be a setup to smokescreen Meerow’s privacy. But Will’s gut feeling told him otherwise, and his fingers itched to dial the number immediately and find out for sure.
He consulted the clock on his computer screen. Just after 7:00 p.m., which made it three in the morning in France. Common sense told him to postpone the call to a less ungodly hour or, better, until after he’d run his findings by Trevor. He had to make sure Meerow and Pithiviers were what Trevor had in mind anyway. Besides, after that week, Will figured he was entitled to a treat. In his favorite club he’d surely find something that ought to do the trick. Quite literally.
He drew up a suitable summary of his findings, threw his writing into Trevor’s inbox, and went on the prowl.
Three hours and as many Cuba Libres later, though, frustrated because the guy he’d hooked up with turned out to be too plastered to do anything useful with, Will unfortunately stopped listening to the voice of reason, returned to the office, and made a phone call to France.
Two
IT TOOK Will all weekend to recover from the disastrous phone conversation and the ensuing drowning of his embarrassment in more booze. On Monday morning, he was still somewhat off-kilter. The curious glances he caught from his coworkers only added to his queasy state of mind. Shortly after he’d sneaked behind his desk as unobtrusively as possible, the door to Trevor’s office opened for a very sophisticated-looking black gentleman in a dark, pinstriped Zegna suit, cream shirt, and honey-colored tie. One glance, and Will found himself unable to tear his eyes away. It wasn’t so much the man’s face, though it was certainly memorable, with prominent cheekbones and an aquiline nose above full lips. But it was the way he carried himself that immediately got to Will, how the visitor’s tall, lean body moved with a big cat’s measured grace, and how his night-black eyes swept across the open-plan office with cool detachment, as if he were used to being stared at and couldn’t care less about it. Self-confidence was a major aphrodisiac in Will’s book.
Sweet Jesus, he’s coming my way. Will became aware he’d been biting his lip and forced himself to stop when six-foot-two sex on legs came to a halt in front of his desk.
“Excuse me—William Yeats?” the stranger asked in a deep, melodic voice. Will could only nod dumbly, and the supernatural being dealt him a shiny white smile and a small white business card.
“My pleasure, Mr. Yeats. I’d appreciate it very much if you could make time for me tonight. My assistant will call you later to arrange an appointment.” He wafted away on a cloud of Egoïste, leaving a ripple of whispers and turned heads in his wake.
Then Trevor hollered, “Yeats! In my office, now!” and everybody fell silent as Will ran the gantlet through the rows of his colleagues’ desks.
“Close the door,” Trevor said, his calm voice boding ill. “And sit down. Don’t feel like scraping you off the floor once I’m done with you.”
Uh-oh. Will sat, and Trevor tossed him a legal folder with a single sheet of paper inside. “Explain this to me. You better be convincing.”
Will opened the folder to find a cease-and-desist warning regarding the invasion of the privacy of Mr. Nicolas Pithiviers, La Thillaye, France, attempted on Saturday, February 5, 2005, by William Yeats, Los Angeles, United States. Further legal measures pending accordingly. The representing lawyer’s name was the same as on the business card that crumpled away in Will’s damp palm: Francis LeBon.
Completely perplexed, Will looked up. “But I didn’t even talk to this Pithiviers, only to Meerow. Who should be prominent enough that public interest outweighs his privacy. That’s what I told him when he didn’t want to come clear about his relationship with….” He trailed off, paling. “Oh, holy crap.”
“Indeed. What exactly did you say?” Trevor cut in, still dangerously calm.
Will swallowed hard. “Well, he said he didn’t want his private life blazed about, and he didn’t want any old stories dug back out either. He said it could hurt his and his partner’s businesses. I said… well, I may have implied I’d write my article anyway, with or without his consent, so it’d be in his and his lover’s best interest if he’d tell me his version as long as he had a chance….”
“Have you fucked out your last two brain cells over the weekend, Yeats? That Meerow guy may be a celebrity, but his boyfriend certainly isn’t! Ever thought about that? And besides, blackmailing someone with outing him? Who do you think you are, Perez Hilton? You’re not with some redneck hillbilly rag anymore, you’re with the Flag! We don’t out people! We defend our own! Will you get it into that thick skull of yours already?” Trevor paused, red-faced and wheezing softly. Will knew better than to point out that Trevor, in marked contrast to his claim, had definitely outed a celebrity or two in his time. Not in recent times, granted. Wisely, Will hung his head and didn’t say a word.
“You realize calling him at all was beyond stupid, don’t you?” Trevor continued. Will nodded without looking up. “You should’ve asked me first, cupcake. I’d have told you to go ahead and write it from what you’ve got. Hearsay and speculation can’t violate anyone’s privacy if you put it right, as you should damn well know. Now”—he sighed—“I won’t have my gay jockey drama. A pity. That story could have been juicy in the right hands.”
Surprised at his easy tone, Will looked up. “Aren’t you mad at me?”
Trevor’s eyes shot daggers. “Who says I am not?”
Will promptly went back to playing turtle.
“You
better keep your head down and work your lily-white ass off in the next few weeks, ’cause you will very well write that goddamn article. That old mess is plenty enough to work from. They don’t want to play nice, well, they’ll find they’ve caught a Tartar.”
Will lifted his head again. Caught a Tartar? Who the hell talked like this?
A predatory gleam in his eyes, Trevor forged ahead. “They won’t shut me up by throwing their lawyer at me. They feel they need to, shows me they’ve got something to hide, and I’ll be damned if I won’t drag their skeletons out of their closets and beat them round their heads. Besides, a nice lawsuit is good for the business, isn’t it?” He turned back to Will, grinning maliciously. “You, Willy-boy, you’re going to dig up every little scrap about that damn race, and if that means you’ve got to blow someone, you’ll do it, and you’ll swallow.”
That sounded an awful lot like outing someone, but again Will knew better than to argue. He just nodded, and Trevor gave a halfway approving huff. “Glad you’re with me here, because I’m indeed pretty pissed at you. Another such stunt, and I’ll kick your bubble-butt out before you can say fuck me, sir. Got that? Buck up, then. I don’t pay you for sitting around!” Will received a dismissive flutter of well-manicured, ring-bedecked fingers. “Shoo! And Yeats”—the latter when Will was already half out the door—“see you make it worth my while.”
Will nodded, ducked his head, and made himself scarce.
By the time his phone rang that afternoon, Will was deeply into research again. He answered the call without looking away from the monitor screen.
“This is Heather Wilks from Leeland, Myers, and Partners,” a blasé female voice said. “I’m Mr. LeBon’s personal assistant. Mr. LeBon would appreciate it very much if you could meet with him tonight at the Café Pinot, Mr. Yeats. Will eight o’clock be convenient?”
For a moment Will was too flabbergasted to react. Then he sat up straight and cleared his throat. “Well, hrrrmm….”
“Excuse me?” the woman said. Will heard a clicking sound; he couldn’t help picturing a scrawny blonde with an expensive hairdo drumming her claw-like, red-lacquered fingernails impatiently on a shiny tabletop.
“Umm, yes, uh, it would. Uh, be convenient, I mean,” Will stuttered.
“Fine!” Ms. Wilks’s voice warmed almost to the point of thawing. “Mr. LeBon will meet with you there at eight o’clock sharp. Thank you for your time, Mr. Yeats.”
“You’re welcome,” Will told the dial tone.
He pondered keeping his meeting with Mr. LeBon a secret from Trevor, but immediately decided against it. Surprisingly, Trevor didn’t object. Quite the contrary.
“What’s all this crap?” Trevor mused, pacing his office. “Why’d he meet with you at some dubious joint rather than his office? If this doesn’t smell fishy. You’ll give me the blow-by-blow tomorrow, do you hear me? I’m really curious what Mr. I’m-so-sexy-it-hurts is up to with you!” He gave Will a once-over and a frown. “Oh, and for Pete’s sake, boy, go get yourself a haircut and make sure you put on a decent suit. We wouldn’t want to violate Mr. LeBon’s refined tastes, now would we? Shoo! Shoo!”
For the second time that day, Will found himself hustled out of Trevor’s office with an impatient hand gesture. It was starting to get old.
THANKS to Trevor’s sensibilities, Will got to enjoy an early day off from work. After making the requested visit to his hairdresser’s, Will took a shower, pulled on tight black boxers and black socks, and then sat down on his bed with his laptop. The meeting he’d been invited to—or rather, summoned to—made him feel suspiciously like Daniel about to walk into the lion’s den, and Will had every intention to gird himself to the best of his abilities.
He leafed through his wardrobe while his laptop powered itself up. He’d already taken a look at Leeland, Myers, and Partners’ homepage earlier this afternoon, learning that they dealt mainly in trade and commercial law. LeBon was one of a half dozen partners; his specialty seemed to be warding off damage claims. His professional profile featured an impressive array of successes as a litigator and an even more intimidating list of corporate clients he’d represented. A high achiever, if there ever was one. He was thirty-four, nine years older than Will, and for all Will had seen so far, the man’s tastes were indeed as refined as Trevor made them out to be, so a suit was definitely in order. But why would someone who worked at a firm like LM&P have to put up with petty matters like drawing up a C&D, much less hand-delivering it? Why the hell had LeBon bothered? The question floated around in the back of Will’s mind as he pulled out a dark, pinstriped Armani that fit him like he hadn’t bought it second-hand off eBay, and hooked the hanger over the top of the open closet door before putting on the slacks.
Returning to the bed bare-chested, he scrolled through LeBon’s bio again. BA from Dillard University, year abroad at the Sorbonne University in Paris, law degree from UCLA. There was the French connection, so to speak, but how was that supposed to give Will a handle on the man? Will pondered this as he buttoned the dark purple dress shirt he’d chosen, tied an iron-gray tie around his neck, and slipped on the suit jacket.
And then he took stock of his reflection in the mirror. Gah. Full panoply might work with some random susceptible soul, but for all he knew, LeBon was anything but. As a seasoned litigator, LeBon would likely look right through what Will was fully aware was nothing but a disguise. He turned his back to the mirror and doffed tie, jacket, and shirt, leaving them in a heap on the bed as he switched to Google on his laptop.
He needed to catch LeBon off his guard. Disarm him. Charm the man, if possible. Surely, there had to be something about him Will could use….
Bingo.
Apparently, LeBon wasn’t quite the corporate drone his professional profile made him out to be. Far from it. Via the homepage of a gay rights organization that proudly boasted LeBon as its legal adviser, and only a few clicks beyond the more readily accessible info, Will found a picture of a very young, very flamboyant LeBon marching at Gay Pride New Orleans. Right in the thick of it. Holding hands with a blond cutie whose head barely came up to LeBon’s shoulder.
Damned if Will couldn’t do twink.
Quickly, he put on a dark silk T-shirt, topped it with a black leather sports coat, and stepped into black dress boots. For a fleeting moment he considered replacing the slacks with tight jeans, but dismissed the thought out of hand. He was going for stylish, not slutty.
Decidedly more pleased with his mirror image now, Will ran a hand through his newly cut hair, smartening the blond spikes on the top of his head a little. With a wink at himself, he turned, grabbed his car keys off the dresser, and went about bearding a lion.
THE Café Pinot, LeBon’s choice of venue, came as a bit of a surprise. Sitting at the bar and glancing around himself, Will couldn’t help feeling somewhat overdressed after all. The Pinot wasn’t the square-plate, highbrow dive he’d been prepared for, given its Westwood location; it looked more like something of a cross between a bar and an old-style diner. Granted, the booths and bar stools were real leather rather than vinyl, the tables had tablecloths, and the staff were dressed sleekly in black all over rather than wearing tacky apron combos. Still, Will couldn’t quite picture LeBon in this place’s laid-back atmosphere.
The delicious smells of the Cajun food the Café Pinot served made Will’s stomach grumble. Now, if this was an actual date, he could partake in this long-missed taste within a few minutes. As things stood, he’d be lucky if the kitchen was still open once LeBon was through with whatever spiel he intended to give.
For now, Will ordered a Coke (hold the Bourbon, please—there’s nothing like learning from one’s own idiocy). Between sips, he absently toyed with his car keys, stroking the scuffed photo fob he had on them and twirling the ring around his finger. He only realized what he was doing when the keys slipped from his hand, landing on the top of the bar with a loud clatter. The bartender’s head whipped in Will’s direction.
Ducking
his head, Will left the keys alone and reached for his glass again. His colleague and friend Gary teased him about his fiddling habit often enough. However, when Will was nervous, his hands apparently tended to take on an independent existence.
Will considered his wristwatch, frowning. What took LeBon so long? When he looked up again, the very man he’d been thinking about stood before him as if conjured out of thin air, smiling and holding out a hand.
LeBon had changed, too. He now wore a soft-looking black suit and a crisp white shirt, open at the neck, and Will was suddenly very glad about his own choice of attire. The lawyer looked like a million bucks, easily.
“Good to see you, Mr. Yeats. Thank you for coming.”
“My pleasure, Mr. LeBon.” Their hands met and held longer than convention required, LeBon’s palm firm and cool against Will’s.
“I’m so sorry for making you wait. May I treat you to dinner by way of apology?” LeBon finally let go of Will’s hand. Their gazes remained fixed on each other, though, LeBon’s inconveniently enticing lips curling with a hint of a smile. It was Will who lowered his eyes first, feeling his cheeks heat with a blush and unable to do anything about it.
“Thank you very much, but you really don’t have to. It’s fine,” he said, busying his hands with his glass.
LeBon clicked his tongue. “Ah, but I must insist. It’s no trouble at all, since I planned on eating here anyway. Unless you aren’t hungry…?” He left the question hanging between them, and Will, suddenly tired of walking on eggshells, looked up with a grin.
