Stef looked at the covers, then at their alleged author. “Can I see some ID?”
“Gil Rafael is my pen name. I don’t have ID for him.”
Stef put the books down in his lap and crossed his arms. “I don’t know about this, man. Could be a line you lay on people.”
“Fair enough.” Jav reached into his inside pocket, then handed Stef his phone. “Open my email, search for Lorraine Merril. She’s my agent. Look for something from her back in July. With ‘contract’ in the subject line.”
Stef took the device with a weird thrill. It was a startlingly intimate overture. These days, being granted access to someone’s phone was like being invited into their pants.
Easy, dude.
He scrolled through Jav’s email, finding dozens from Lorraine Merril. He tapped on an attachment and a PDF opened. Turning the phone horizontally, he read the first lines under his breath.
“Book publishing contract for agreement between Javier Landes, ‘author,’ a.k.a. Gil Rafael, ‘pseudonym,’ and Cathedral Rock Press, ‘the publisher’ in regards to the creative work The Chocolate Hour, ‘the work’… Holy shit.”
“Nice to meet you.”
“It’s weird to meet you. I never met an author in my life.”
“I never met anyone carrying my book in their bag.”
Stef held up Client Privilege. “I’d love to say I’m a big fan but so far I’ve only read this.”
The color was up high along Jav’s cheekbones and his head bobbled around like he was looking for a graceful exit from the conversation. “What happened to your eyebrow?”
Stef reached up to touch the scar that bisected through his left brow, intrigued Jav had noticed it. “Knife fight.”
“For real?”
“No. I fell and hit my head against a filing cabinet.”
“I like the knife fight better.”
“It’s more badass.”
“You said you live in Chelsea?”
“Yeah. I kind of live with my mom, which isn’t as pathetic as it sounds. She owns the townhouse. I rent the garden apartment.”
“What does she do?”
“She’s retired now, but she was a psychologist and a sociology professor at NYU.”
“Why d— I ask a lot of questions.”
“I don’t mind.”
They asked, answered and talked all the way down the Saw Mill, across the Henry Hudson Bridge and along the length of Manhattan. When the conversation took a rest, they sat still, looking out their windows, listening to classic rock. When Springsteen’s “Out in the Street” came on, Stef leaned to turn up the volume.
“This is so high school,” he said. “Friday night theme song.”
“I haven’t heard this in years,” Jav said. But naturally, any Springsteen song heard once was coded in your DNA forever, and soon they were both singing lustily, letting their voices go all rough and raspy to get to the high notes.
“It works on a Tuesday,” Stef said. “Who knew?” An excitement coursed in his veins. Curious, but tempered. On tune, but a little rough on the high notes.
“I like your ink,” Jav said, flicking his chin toward Stef’s forearm.
“Thanks.” He turned it up and then back again, letting Jav see the intricate design of winged horses and centaurs, each composed of stark, stylized geometric shapes. All interlocking together, rotated and fitted into one seamless pattern.
“Does it have a story?” Jav asked.
“More like a fascination.”
“Why’s that?”
“I guess because I was born both a Finch and a Sagittarius. So I look at a winged horse and something in me goes, Yeah.”
“I’m a Taurus,” Jav said. “Something in me likes to make up bullshit.”
“You always been a writer?”
“Been making up bullshit since I was a kid. Then I did a lot of web copy. Speaking of which, if you do want a site for the exhibit, I can hook you up with my friend Russ. He’s more the design guy.”
“Great, I’d appreciate that.” They were moving beyond the blocks of the Upper West Side, where Jav said he lived. “Dude, you don’t have to take me all the way downtown.”
“I don’t mind.”
Stef didn’t either, already constructing a casual way to feel out if Jav was interested in getting together.
Following Stef’s directions, Jav turned off Eleventh Avenue onto 19th Street. Up Tenth Avenue for a block and onto West 20th Street. The General Theological Seminary loomed on the left side of the car.
“It’s four-twelve,” Stef said. “The red brick cluster on the right there.”
“Are you kidding me,” Jav said. “You live on Cushman Row?”
Stef laughed. “Mom prefers to say I squat on Cushman Row.”
Jav double-parked and leaned on the wheel, looking past Stef at the seven red-brick townhouses. They were among the oldest homes in Chelsea, and considered to be the best examples of Greek Revival architecture in the city.
“You grew up here?” Jav asked.
“No, on Roosevelt Island. This was my maternal grandparents’ townhouse. Mom inherited it when they died.”
“Jesus.”
Stef hesitated. “You want to come in?”
Still leaning on the steering wheel, Jav looked at him. “Maybe someday.” His full lips parted in that shy smile, and Stef’s own heart curled inward, hiding behind his ribs, just as bashful.
“All right. Well, great to meet you. In a lot of ways.”
“Same.”
They shook hands. “I’ll give you a call about that website?”
“Sure.”
Stef got out and shut the door. Both men threw a palm up in a wave and Jav drove away.
Stef watched the SUV reach Ninth Avenue just as the light turned green. It crossed the intersection and slowly disappeared in traffic. Stef counted to thirty, then took his phone out of one pocket and Jav’s business card from the other.
Thanks for the ride, he texted to the number on the card.
Five seconds later, from the depths of his messenger bag, came an electronic chime he’d never heard before.
“Shit,” he said, digging around inside. He found Jav’s phone sandwiched between the two books, Stef’s text flashing on its display.
“I took his fucking phone,” he said.
He looked down the block, then back at his hands, each holding a phone. Slowly he sank onto the front steps, laughing under his breath. “This could either be brilliant or a disaster.”
He waited, following a hunch and fighting the temptation to snoop in Jav’s phone. It felt heavy and sleek and sensual in his palm.
Five minutes passed.
He wondered what Jav would feel like in his palm.
You’re insane.
After ten minutes, the black SUV came down 20th Street again and Stef felt a smile crack his face open.
Gotcha.
The passenger window slid down as Jav pulled up. He sat back from the wheel and crossed his arms, eyebrows raised. Stef got up and approached, wiggling the phone in front of him.
“Yours, I believe?” he said.
“Mine.”
“I lied about the art therapy thing,” Stef said. “I’m a professional thief.”
“I’m not a writer. I’m an assassin.”
“I knew it.”
“Glad I got your card. I may have a job for you.”
Laughing, Stef handed the phone over. “Let’s try this again. I’ll give you a call.”
“Okay.”
They both paused, holding eyes. The evening was a beautiful thing. A golden New York moment full of promise.
“Get out of here,” Stef said. He thumped his fist on the car’s roof and stepped back. Once more, he watched until the car disappeare
d past the intersection, then he turned to go up the stairs.
Lilia Kalo, his mother’s lover, was coming up the street, wearing her grubby red quilted jacket and carrying a cloth totebag in each hand.
“Hello, Pony,” she said, using his childhood nickname.
“Mom went to dinner,” he said, taking the bags from her. “She’ll get a car service home.”
“Yes, she told me. They had beautiful apples at the market. I brought you some.”
Stef loved apples. “You’re my favorite.”
“You look happy.” Her thick Hungarian accent made a goulash of happy.
I met someone, he thought.
The Cushman Row townhouses were each five stories high. Most owners rented the uppermost floors and Stef’s mother, Rory Finch, was no exception. She and Lilia lived on the parlor and third floors, while Stef had the garden apartment. The fourth and fifth stories were rented to professional couples without children or pets. The attic had a small bathroom and technically could be used as living space, but it was filled with Rory’s junk at present and she had no desire to haul it out.
The townhouse had been in Rory’s family since the 1850s. Stef’s father, Marcus, had no claim to it during the divorce, but brotherly tensions were tight and bitter from the unspoken understanding the property would be left to Stef someday. Stef knew it was just as likely Rory could leave the house to some charity or turn it into a museum. It was best never to get too set on what you thought Rory would do with her life.
Still, it was a beautiful apartment and Stef took exceedingly good care of it. In turn, it soothed and comforted him after long, hard days at sea, navigating terrified young men.
The American Finches who made pianos descended from Danish Finks who made cabinetry and furniture. An eye for a clean, classical line was in Stef’s DNA, and his minimalist taste let the open floor plan and garden view speak for themselves. Clutter and frills irritated him. The only reckless mess he liked was the creative process. Where he lived, ate and slept, he liked it neat.
He popped a beer and took to the sectional couch with his laptop, answering a few emails. He always sat on the side oriented toward the fireplace, not the one facing the TV. Stef didn’t watch much primetime. His job was stressful enough without getting bogged down in the problems of fictional characters. His visual nature sucked him into a storyline while his analytical, insightful nature started digging into and sorting out imaginary angst. Internalizing all the drama and brooding about it far beyond the final credits. It was like working a second shift he didn’t get paid for and could never cure. He stuck to books, which he could put down, or the radio, which he could turn down. More often than not, he chose silence.
He jumped in his skin when his phone rang, thinking it could be Jav. It was Deborah Cenk, an optometrist he’d met at a party last weekend. Did he want to have dinner tomorrow? Catch a movie?
“Sure,” he said, remembering shiny curls, big breasts and an infectious laugh.
He dealt with a few more emails, then shut his laptop, put it aside and closed his eyes, exhaling. His mind combed through the day’s images, sorting and lingering on little details. The couch put arms around him. His mind unraveled at the edges and he slept.
The ping of an incoming message dumped him out of the snooze. He lunged for the phone. It squirmed out of one hand and through the other, laughing in his face as it slid between two sections of the couch and clattered onto the floor beneath. He had to shove aside the coffee table and hit the deck on his stomach, thrust an arm under to drag it out. All that hassle and it was only Thomas, wanting to hang out.
Still foggy with sleep, Stef chewed his bottom lip and ran fingers through his hair. He knew Thomas from grad school days. They networked professionally and their social circles overlapped in a few places.
He was also something of a fuck buddy.
Stef considered the invitation. The buzz of meeting Jav was still crackling in his veins, and no doubt a few beers would take it from pleasant high to horny itch. Part of him was hesitant to dilute the day’s pleasure with Thoma-drama. It seemed…cheap.
Honestly, it felt like cheating.
Which was the dumbest thing he’d ever heard of.
I don’t know, he typed back, hedging. Long day. Kind of beat.
Thom persisted, as Stef knew he would. Come on, it’s been forever since I saw your cute ass.
A sucker for being validated, he agreed to meet up for a beer. Just one. Maybe two.
Of course, some other buddies showed up and he had about five. A good time, but he kept catching himself watching the door, as if Jav were due to show up as well. Typically annoyed by people who couldn’t keep their noses out of their devices in public, he kept reaching for his phone, wanting to text Jav. Wanting to make sure Jav hadn’t texted him.
Christ, who is this guy?
As he predicted, the euphoria gave way to an itchy, frustrated and fretful burn. He was hungry.
Thirsty.
“Want to split?” Thomas said, sliding a hand down Stef’s spine, into a back pocket and squeezing.
The yes stumbled on the tip of Stef’s tongue, looking over the edge into the abyss. Instead of beckoning with a seductive, crooked finger, the maw of desire crossed its arms and gave him a long, considering look.
You’re better than this.
Stef squirmed under the reproach. At the same time, something deeper within his consciousness agreed.
Wait. Just wait. Walk away. Go home. Give it a chance.
Give what a chance, he argued to himself. He’s probably straight. It was a meet, not a…thing.
But it feels like a thing.
His shoulder twitched the exchange off, annoyed. He didn’t need this shit, he needed to get laid. Yet as he stared over Thomas’s edge, into the depths beneath, he knew what he sought wasn’t down there.
He smiled at Thomas and gently shook his head. “I’m beat and I’ve got work in the morning,” he said.
“Wow, you’ve never turned me down before.”
Stef flicked his eyes toward the ceiling and finished the last of his beer.
“What’s his name?” Thomas said, his hand still caressing Stef’s ass.
“Deborah,” Stef said. “She’s an optometrist.”
Now the hand came out of the pocket. “I see.”
Stef laughed and punched Thom’s shoulder. “Good one.”
Stef sat with Max Springer at the art room’s sand table. After five weeks of therapy, he was beyond pleased with the boy’s progress. He was less moody, more verbal. But today, with the unveiling of the new sand table, Max was…Max.
He plunged both hands in, up to the elbow. He practically climbed into the sand to push and dig and build and demolish. Round and round the table he moved, talking nonstop, a field general plotting a war. He gave Stef constant orders: mix this, spoon that, dig here. Stef followed directions and waited between tasks. He only touched and participated with permission. He listened as Max made rules for the elaborate games and justified them with, “Because I said so.”
“Your game, your rules,” Stef said, the game of course being a metaphor for Max’s own body.
“My rules.”
Max buried a dozen fake gold coins in the sand, then had Stef help him heap more sand on top, building a mountain. Pouring water and packing it down before adding more, they made it high.
“Now we dig a tunnel,” Max said, handing Stef a spoon. “You go that side, I go this side. We meet in the middle and find the treasure.”
Each started burrowing from their side.
“In, in, in,” Max chanted, flinging spoonfuls.
Stef was hyper-attentive. Holes and things that went into holes were a not-so-subtle metaphor for what Max suffered at his stepfather’s hands.
“It will go in and you will feel it,” Max said.
“Does it hurt the mountain when we dig?” Stef asked.
“Yes, but it’s a secret.”
“Is the mountain afraid?”
“It’s really afraid and it wants to run away but it can’t.”
“Can anyone help the mountain?”
“No. Nobody comes.”
A clatter as Max threw his spoon aside and started digging and scraping into the tunnel with his hands. Stef did the same, up to his elbow, until through the wall of sand, he felt wiggling. The tiny round tips of Max’s fingers poked through and touched his. Stef went still, letting the boy feel him out.
Max giggled as he wrapped his hand around two of Stef’s fingers. “Is that your peepee?”
“No,” Stef said mildly.
“You’re lying.”
“I always tell you the truth.”
“You’re not supposed to tell.”
“What will happen?”
The grip around Stef’s fingers tightened. “She’ll die,” he said. His voice sank into a strange monotone. Older. Deeper. Speaking scripted lines he’d memorized. “She’ll die in the war. She’ll get blowed up into pieces. You can’t tell or the bad soldiers in ear cook will win.”
“But she didn’t die,” Stef said. “You told the truth and she came home.”
Max stared at him. Unblinking. Like a snake about to strike.
“You told the truth,” Stef said again. “It was the bravest thing in the world. As soon as you did, your mother came home and started to make it stop. She came home as soon as she knew. Right?”
A long pause. “Take it out,” Max said, his voice transformed into a hiss. “Take it out right now. You’re not supposed to touch. Get out.”
Stef pulled his hand back through the tunnel.
“You don’t ever go in again,” Max said, punching the top of the mountain. Stef squinted against the flying sand as the tunnel collapsed and the mountain imploded beneath Max’s onslaught. With fists, spoons and cups, Max hacked and chopped at the hilltop.
“We need some water,” Max said. “We need to make it rain and make a river.”
For another forty minutes, they dug holes in the dead mountain and poured water. Holes expanded to join with other holes and become ponds. Then lakes. Then a river cutting the sandy land in two and exposing gold coins. Stef had to dig out every one and deposit them in the bank of Max’s hands. Max counted them, then washed them carefully. The coins went back into their net bag. Then Max directed Stef in raking all the sand flat within the box. The floor was swept and the collected sand sifted through a sieve, like a fine sugar coating.
A Charm of Finches Page 12
