by Kris Ripper
I went to Club Fred’s at least once a week. The tradition—custom? habit?—stemmed from my parents, who used to mandate I go out for two hours each week to somewhere other people would be.
I’d argued that high school was enough mandated social interaction, but they’d told me that I didn’t have to interact, I just had to be, which was an opportunity not really allowed at St. Patrick’s. Certainly not being me, in any case.
By the time they died when I was twenty-four, I didn’t mind going out once a week. And I’d never have gone to Club Fred’s for any other reason. I occasionally met men there, but I actually preferred the understandable communications ascent of internet dating to the murky in-person variety. Emailing, phone calls, the awkward coffee date. It took me some time to work out how to present myself as a man interested in dating before hooking up, but now that I was comfortable asserting myself, I’d had a few decent (if brief) relationships resulting from my online forays.
Club Fred’s was about something else. Sometimes I talked to people, but most of the time I sat at the bar and read whatever book I currently favored on my Kindle app. I ordered exactly one drink, a Scotch on the rocks, and sometimes I barely spoke to anyone. Because social interaction wasn’t mandatory.
Except, on the Friday after my first somewhat disastrous attempt to introduce An Affair to Remember, I happened to hear a familiar laugh as I let Rebecca wash over me. Something about du Maurier got to me so deeply that I couldn’t even say I loved her books. From the minute I opened them until I put them down, I felt a slightly painful tightness in my chest, no matter how many times I’d read them before, and it was so . . . present. So real. I hardly had to pay any attention to Rebecca, I’d read it so many times; my eyes scanned the pages and the book played out in my mind as if it were a film. (Not the adaptations, which might be all right, but were nothing compared to how viscerally I became immersed in the book.)
There I sat, nursing my single drink, lost in Manderley, when I heard Josh’s laughter somewhere nearby.
There was something magnetic about each of them, or maybe it was about both of them together. I heard his laugh and immediately searched for him in the crowd, finding Keith’s fair hair first.
They touched each other so much. Not in such a way that it seemed to be an advertisement, a flashing neon sign of righteous couple-hood. The way the two of them touched wasn’t merely subtle, it was practically invisible. Josh might drag his knuckles across Keith’s jeans, at the side where his hand happened to hit, almost a subconscious I’m here. Keith might sit in a certain way so that their arms met for a second, a split second, probably so quick and gone that no one who wasn’t watching specifically for it would notice.
I watched. I’d watched in the lobby, but at Club Fred’s I watched with intention, to prove or disprove my theory about how frequently they touched. I tried not to be creepy about it—I hardly knew them, and they were clearly younger than I was, and clearly devoted to one another—but I wanted to understand how it worked, that kind of togetherness. I’d had the odd boyfriend here or there, but I’d never made it to moving-in status. I’d hardly made it past spend-the-night status, and that had been . . . rare.
And distantly past. My mind could not make it back to the new Mrs. de Winter, as alluring as she was in her determinedly unalluring way. I could, of course, go home. I’d left the theater in the care of my loyal staff, who didn’t expect me back in tonight. I enjoyed being alone in my apartment, listening to traffic, reading or browsing my usual online haunts for new films to lease. Not new in the sense of recent, of course. New in the sense of I haven’t shown them before.
But I didn’t want to go home. Josh laughed again, and I turned on my stool to see them more clearly than I could with a glance.
Laughing with Obie and Emerson, whom I at least knew. I could approach, say hello.
But why? Social interaction wasn’t mandatory, after all. And I’d already talked to Tom the bartender for a few minutes.
Still, I did want to say hello. I couldn’t figure out the reason I felt drawn to them, or what it meant, but I could now sense their presence in the room and I didn’t want to let go of that awareness.
What would Cary do?
Find an angle, of course. The way he did everything. I wasn’t Cary Grant, though; I was odd, slightly awkward Cameron Rheingold, who read at the bar and counted nontheater social interactions per week in single digits.
Of course, the entire point of the film series was for me to start reaching out more, cultivating the theater as the kind of community hub it had been when my parents ran it. That this wasn’t the theater seemed beside the point.
Social skills were social skills, and I could practice them wherever I liked.
I stood up, embracing the way my brain visually dimmed the rest of Club Fred’s until I could focus on the small group of men standing at a high table. I would say hello. If it was intolerably awkward, I’d then say good-bye. Having a reputation for being a little strange meant there wasn’t that far to fall in other people’s opinions, so I made my way over and braced myself for eye contact.
Keith saw me first. Keith, whose blue eyes had penetrated my protective grayscale. He smiled. That was it, nothing overwhelming. He smiled in greeting, or in welcome, and I smiled back without thinking.
“Cameron, hey,” Obie said. “You’ve met the QYP guys, right?”
“I have.”
Josh grinned, his all-out tooth-baring grin, and slightly inclined his head toward Keith’s. “Babe, we’re ‘the QYP guys.’ How cool is that?”
“It’s cool. Hi, Cameron. Nice to see you again.”
I shook hands all around and stood beside Obie’s entertainingly prickly boyfriend, Emerson. Where you would look at Josh and Keith and see an unassailable air of projected togetherness, you’d look at Obie and Emerson and wonder how two such different people even managed to have a conversation, let alone a relationship.
It was always so fascinating to study people. Obie and Emerson gave me a lot to watch.
“Did you see I wore the tie on Saturday?” I asked Obie. He was one of the people I hadn’t managed to say hello to for longer than a moment after An Affair to Remember.
“Of course I did! You looked great. Are you excited about this week’s movie?”
“You can’t go wrong with North by Northwest,” Josh said. “We’re looking forward to it.”
“It doesn’t matter how many times you’ve seen the crop duster scene,” Keith added. “You always think that this time he might, you know, not get out of that field.”
I blinked, a little impressed they knew the upcoming film. “Yes. I planned the film series hoping to seduce people with a few pictures they already know they like in the beginning.”
“And lock them in,” Obie agreed. “Sounds good.” He poked Emerson. “Shouldn’t we be seduced by Cam’s film festival?”
“We’re watching James on Saturday.” Emerson didn’t exactly look heartbroken. I enjoyed the idea that he’d prefer the company of an infant to being out in public. Having never been around children, I couldn’t say if I’d make the same choice, but maybe I would.
Of course, the movie theater didn’t feel like “public” to me. It was more like a large extension of my living room. Especially when I was showing Cary Grant.
“Will you tell me more about QYP?” I asked a few minutes later, after Obie and Emerson excused themselves to the dance floor. I’d hesitated—the role of third wheel is often more acutely tricky than that of fifth wheel—but neither Keith nor Josh seemed inclined to be irritated by my presence.
“Fair warning,” Josh said. “If you open that door, we might not be able to control ourselves.”
That strange bubbling sensation in my chest, which usually only arrived when I was flirting—or considering it—made no sense in the current context of Josh’s smile. He and I could not be flirting. And why did the bubbling intensify when Keith laughed?
“So true. Josh’s mom sai
d we’re like people with a new baby except we have fewer pictures.”
“But not none.” Josh pulled out his phone and paged through before holding it out to me.
I obliged him by taking it. “That’s . . . a very nice kitchen.”
“It’s the kitchen at the center. We cook there as much as possible, since it’s way better than ours.”
“Oh.” I looked more closely. The long peninsula seemed like the perfect place to sit. I wondered if the rest of the room held up to the kitchen’s large scale. “I think someone said you’re down in the Harbor District?”
“At the edge of it, yeah, in one of the warehouses down there. You should really come by, Cameron.”
Keith nodded. “We’re open noon to nine, though we’re hoping to expand those hours at some point.”
“And get staff coverage.”
They smiled wryly at each other.
“Is it just the two of you at the moment?”
“Mostly.” Josh shifted his beer on the table, marring the damp ring it had made. “We have some volunteers, but we’re just not established yet. And we definitely aren’t in a position to hire anyone, which is what we’ll need to do eventually, as my chief financial officer keeps telling me.”
Keith elbowed Josh. “Don’t call me that unless you’re paying me like a CFO.”
“Partner, partner. My significantly more financially astute partner.”
“It’s not financial, anyway. But I know that you and I together can’t work twelve-hour days six days a week without burning out.”
“Do you actually take a day off?” I knew that routine. I’d done it after my parents died, running myself into the ground.
“Well, we don’t open to the public on Sundays,” Josh said. “I go to church. Keith goes to the center and does paperwork.”
Keith shot him a look. “Paperwork can be sacred. It’s a ritual, anyway. What about you, Cameron? Do you take days off from the theater?”
Both of them had said my name, and I liked the sound of it in their voices.
“I do.” I fought, with every fiber of my being, the flush that wanted to steal over my skin. So ridiculous. They were simply kind, and attentive, and absolutely not interested in me, no matter what my unusually overheated body seemed to think. “We’ve had the same Thursday, Friday, Saturday, Sunday crew for years, so I can work shifts on those days without worrying about opening or closing, filling in where I’m needed.”
“So which day do you actually take off?” Keith had dimples—not wildly flashing dimples, just two little points that showed up with each smile and promptly disappeared again.
I needed to stop thinking about his dimples.
“Oh, whenever we have coverage. We changed over to the digital projector about five years ago, which makes it somewhat easier to staff.”
“Because newer equipment means less training?” Josh asked.
“I served as projectionist a lot before, since I’d grown up doing it and knew how to fix things if they stalled out in the middle of a picture. Or if the projector decided not to run. But the digital system is much less fussy, so we have a lot more folks who can run it.” Their eyes didn’t appear to be glazing over—yet—but I was still relieved when people suddenly crowded our table, eager to say hello.
Zane, Jaq, Jaq’s girlfriend Hannah. People I knew. Jaq and Zane were bickering as usual, and I scooted closer to Josh so they could all squeeze around the table.
“I’m just saying it’s too big a risk,” Jaq argued. “Philpott! Anderson Philpott, get your skinny ass over here!”
We made room for one more, and I smiled apologetically at Josh as I accidentally brushed against him.
“Hon, you can’t save people,” Hannah said. “Even canceling the Halloween event won’t save people.”
Zane, from Keith’s other side, leaned toward us. “Jaq’s on kind of a rampage, don’t mind her.”
“I’m not on a rampage, damn it. Philpott, back me up— Don’t you think the only thing that makes sense is to cancel the next Club Fred’s theme night, you know, since people keep getting murdered at them?”
“Technically they’re murdered after them.” Philpott nodded around at all of us, standing a little apart from our table. “And I assume unless Fredi closed the bar completely, the killer could still recruit a victim here.”
“Then why doesn’t she close the bar?”
“Oh my god,” Zane said. “We had this fight last time.”
“And someone fucking died.”
Hannah put a hand on Jaq’s arm. “Breathe, Jaq.”
“I’d close the bar if I owned it,” Josh said. “But I don’t think it would have any effect on what’s going on here. They, whoever they are, would still find someone to target, don’t you think?”
“So why would you close the bar?” Philpott asked, raising his eyebrows.
Zane added, “Close it for good, or just for that night?”
“Just for that night, since it’s already been promoted, though I guess I’d hate for Fredi to lose business on a Friday night. And I’d do it for my own peace of mind.” Josh gestured to the bar. “After Tom getting arrested, and information coming out that the victims were all here the night they died, Fredi looks older.”
Jaq nodded. “Like presidents at the end of their term, not the beginning. She looks grayer. Than she used to.”
“No doubt it’s taking a toll, but I’m not sure how even closing for the night would impact anything.” Philpott shrugged. “A serial killer doesn’t stop killing because their favorite hunting ground shuts down for a night. They simply hunt on a different night, or in a different place.”
“Plus,” Keith said, “someone needs to mention acceptance of risk. We’re sitting here now knowing that someone’s out there thinking about the next person they want to hurt.” He made a space-limited gesture at the table. “We’ve all knowingly accepted the risk, haven’t we?”
“Risk aware and consenting,” Philpott agreed. “I’m with Keith on this one. I think the only thing we can do is be vigilant and watch out for each other, and hopefully defeat this guy that way. It seems clear that people willingly accompany the killer at least part of the way, so the best thing is to work it from that angle.”
Jaq shook her head incredulously. “Are all of you nuts? If there’s a direct connection between theme nights and people dying, how can you sit here and say we keep having theme nights? I just— What else can we fucking do?”
I thought about something Ed had said to me the last time we talked about it. “But if they keep killing on theme nights, that might actually help catch the person. There are only so many people who come here, and most of them use credit cards.” Ed had told Fredi and Tom to pay attention to anyone using cash, though they said enough people did so they couldn’t remember them all. I decided not to share that with the group. Jaq might scream.
“That’s grim,” Josh murmured. Philpott nodded and seemed on the verge of speaking, then didn’t.
Jaq’s fingers drummed on the table. “So we’re bait. That’s the silver lining?”
“Well, we aren’t bait,” Hannah said. “You’re not going anywhere with anyone who isn’t me.”
“You know what I mean.”
We all knew what she meant. And for a moment we all looked around, thinking about that.
Josh shifted, slightly, not in a way that anyone would notice unless they were physically standing against him. I glanced down in time to watch him skim his fingers over Keith’s. “And on that note, we’re dancing. Anyone else?”
“You betcha.” Hannah finished off her wine. “C’mon, sugar.”
Jaq might have stayed longer, but Hannah tugged her, and she went. Josh and Keith waved good-bye, and I waved back.
“I’m dancing too,” Zane said. She eyed me, then Philpott. “Let me guess: that’s a no from both of you.”
“I don’t dance.” He grinned.
She rolled her eyes. “Cameron? Keep a girl company?”
“I’m about to head home.” Which was true. I mentally reminded my parents that they hadn’t mandated dancing, either. I’d been on the dance floor at Club Fred’s a few times, with various dates, but not generally if I could help it.
“I’ll have to dance alone, I guess! Bye, boys!” With a flip of her purple hair over the shaved part of her head, she was off.
“Are you really leaving?” Philpott asked. He wasn’t quite smirking. “Or can I ask you about your film festival?”
“Ask away.”
“Tell me you’re showing Notorious.”
“That’s how we’re closing out the series. You like Hitchcock?”
“I do like Hitchcock, but Notorious is my favorite Cary Grant. I think because his role could have been played by any leading man–type actor, but he brings it more depth than it had at the textual level.”
“I completely agree. You could plug in any man and Ingrid Bergman would still have sailed through the story. But the way he plays passionate and snubbed and aloof all at once is perfect.”
“I’ve never seen it on the big screen, so I can’t wait.” He drained his beer. “See you around, Cameron.”
“You too.”
He turned away and a young man I didn’t recognize sidled up to him. Both of them smiled, familiarly. I’d never seen Philpott with anyone, though I’d always assumed he was gay, or bi, or queer in that way people are now when they don’t define themselves. I sometimes wish I’d been slightly less certain so early on, that I’d embraced a wider idea of who I could be.
But perhaps I would have always ended up the way I ended up.
I walked out of Club Fred’s and shivered in the chill, though not exclusively because of it. Five people had died. I knew this only because I paid a very small amount of attention. You didn’t have to be that up on current events to know the basic facts, which were that on five separate occasions, over the last eight months, Club Fred’s held theme nights that ended in deaths.
