by Dorien Grey
“Yes, but I thought I’d wait for you before I opened it.”
“Are you ready for it now?” I hoped to hell it didn’t sound to him quite like the double entendre I heard the minute it left my mouth.
He rose from the chair and went into the bathroom.
“We’ll have to use the glasses in here.”
“No problem,” I said, going over to the wet bar for the wine.
I know it’s considered gauche, but I like my wine—any wine—chilled. However, not knowing Kevin’s preferences, I hadn’t put it into the small refrigerator under the wet bar. I did check to see if there were ice cubes and was surprised to discover there were. Fancy place.
I suddenly realized we didn’t have a corkscrew. Kevin, returning with the unwrapped glasses, saw my look of confusion and deduced the problem.
“The Boy Scouts to the rescue.” He set the glasses on the small table near the window and moved to his dopp kit, from which he extracted a large Swiss Army knife. “These things do come in handy,” he said, producing a corkscrew from the assortment of slots.
The television had a music-only option, which Kevin selected, adjusting the volume to listenable but not intrusive. We sat at the table, and he poured the wine, then held up his glass.
“Cheers.”
I raised my glass and clicked it lightly against his.
“L’chaim.”
We actually had a nice conversation, and he was considerate enough not to let his religious enthusiasms run wild. He talked of his childhood with Patrick, and of how close they had been until puberty, when Patrick’s behavior began its downward slide. While he didn’t come directly out and say so, it wasn’t hard to deduce that he and Patrick had provided for one another the affection they did not get from their parents.
Oddly, I got the distinct impression Kevin was almost envious of Patrick’s rebellion against them, and resentful of the attention that rebellion brought his brother.
He talked of meeting Sue-Lynn, the daughter of Mrs. Rourke’s college roommate, and how strongly, with Patrick not only gone but gay, he felt the obligation to provide his parents with the grandchild they expected of him.
“Sue-Lynn and I have a very special, loving Christian relationship,” he said, but I did not get the impression true love had that much to do with it.
And of course, he worshipped Sean.
His work with Salvation’s Door took up the vast bulk of his time, and he again said that being away from it as frequently as was now necessary was not something he enjoyed.
Above all, I was aware that he never once mentioned having a real friend of his own. I sensed an intense loneliness in him, and that, in turn, made me feel strangely sad.
It was after eleven—obviously his prayer and meditation routine was not written in stone—when we finished the wine, and I could tell Kevin was feeling it. We decided to call it a night, since he had to get up early, and I wanted to be back in the city by noon.
So when he went into the bathroom, I stripped down to my shorts and climbed into bed. I was surprised to see him come back into the room wearing just his shorts.
“I spilled something on my pajamas,” he explained. I observed, as he got into bed, how nicely he filled out the front of the shorts.
“Good night, Dick.”
“Good night, Kevin.”
He turned out the light.
Just as I was about to drift off, I again heard sounds from the other bed. A moment later, I felt my sheets lifted and realized Kevin was climbing into bed with me. I turned over onto my back and started to sit up.
“Kev—”
He was lying beside me, one hand on my chest.
“Shhhhhhh,” he said, and his hand moved down my chest, across my stomach, and under the waistband of my shorts.
I just lay back in total surprise and felt his mouth and tongue follow the path his hand had set. I raised my hips so he could slide my shorts down.
“Kevin, are you sure…?” I whispered.
“Oh, God, yes,” he whispered in return, and I couldn’t suppress a long moan as I felt warm wetness engulf me.
I gave myself up completely to the sensations, and it wasn’t long before I felt the earthquake coming. My arms were flung out at the sides, and I grabbed the sheet with both hands, trying to hang on, trying not to let it happen yet. It didn’t work, and finally, I just gave into it.
As I regained my breath, he moved back up and kissed me gently on the lips. I reached down, fumbling for him, but he pushed my hand away.
“No,” he said, and slipped quickly out of my bed and back into his own.
The silence was broken only by the sound of our breathing, and after a long, long time, I drifted off to sleep.
*
I awoke once again to the sound of the shower and took a reflex look at my watch; it was again six-forty-five. I lay in something of a stupor, thinking about the previous night. What in hell had that been all about?
Not that I was unhappy with what had happened. Far from it—Kevin had a definite talent outside of his day job. But…
The sound of the shower shutting off cut my thoughts short, and I just lay there, thinking nothing at all. Finally, Kevin emerged from the bathroom.
“Good morning, Dick,” he said, flashing me a big smile.
“Good morning, Kev.”
“Patrick used to call me that when we were kids. No one’s called me ‘Kev’ in a long, long time.” He was silent a moment, then said “How did you sleep?”
“Never better,” I lied. And then something prompted me to ask, “And you?”
“Like a baby. I guess that wine really relaxed me. I hardly remember lying down.”
Oh-oh, I thought, not the old “I was so drunk I don’t remember a thing” routine.
But then I had the almost frightening feeling he wasn’t lying. And it didn’t have anything to do with being drunk.
Chapter 12
All the way back to the city I tried to keep my mind off Kevin Rourke, Chief Rourke, Patrick Rourke, and the entire Rourke clan. They were, without a doubt, a truly fucked-up family.
In a strange way, particularly after the previous night, I felt strong empathy for Kevin. I suspect if a good psychiatrist ever got hold of him, he’d have material for about ten books. The pressures on him were almost incomprehensible to me.
The question of whether Kevin was or was not gay had been, as far as I was concerned, pretty well resolved by last night’s little episode. What kept niggling at me was whether Kevin knew he was gay.
With a father like Chief Rourke, it was no wonder Patrick and Kevin had taken two totally opposite paths. Kevin was desperate to please, to live up to what he thought was expected of him. Patrick had had that extra ounce of whatever it takes to say “Fuck this!” and to do something about it.
Well, that was their problem, and the sooner I got a life of my own back, the better I’d like it.
*
I went directly to the office, where I was told C.C. had called to announce he would not be coming in at all that day. Of course, he didn’t give an explanation. Explanations are for the little people.
I had received that morning a phone message from Charles McNearny, who was Joseph Goebbels to the chief’s Adolph Hitler, and was one of the major puppeteers of the chief’s bid for governor. McNearny, I’d learned through the office grapevine, was a close golfing buddy of C.C.’s and was probably far more instrumental in C.C.’s getting the PR assignment than C.C. would ever admit. I decided to give him a call immediately so C.C. would know I hadn’t wasted another whole day of his time.
McNearny was executive director of the state’s Grading Contractors and Engineers Association, an incredibly powerful lobby in the state capitol. Funds for road construction had, under the current governor, been significantly cut back, the governor preferring to fritter away the state’s money on frivolous things like schools.
I reached McNearny’s secretary, who, after I identified myself, rather surprisi
ngly put me directly through to the man himself.
“Mr. Hardesty!” The voice was warm, sincere, and confident—the kind of voice that makes me want to check to see if my wallet’s still there. “I’m really glad you called.”
I explained that I’d just returned from the SAPC meeting, which, of course, he knew without my telling him.
“Wonderful. We all appreciate the work you and Carlton are doing on the chief’s campaign.”
“That’s kind of you to say,” I said, but my mind was telling me this was a man to watch out for.
“Young Kevin tells me you have an idea for a fundraiser for Salvation’s Door that might help boost the chief’s image in the public’s eye.”
“Yes, sir.” This was a man I did not want to alienate. “It seems like a good way to show Chief Rourke’s involvement in community projects.”
“Well, it is an interesting idea. Tell you what, why don’t you and I and Kevin get together—for dinner, let’s say—and talk about it?”
“That would be fine, Mr. McNearny, if you can find the time.”
“When it comes to putting Chief Rourke into the governor’s seat, Dick—you don’t mind if I call you Dick, do you?” He did not wait for a reply. “I can always find the time. How about tomorrow evening, say around seven, at the Imperator?”
“That will be fine, sir. I look forward to meeting you in person.”
“And I you, Dick…and I you. See you there, then,” and he hung up. Step into my parlor, said the spider to the fly.
The Imperator was definitely not my kind of place. It’s one of those restaurants where the guests are given menus without prices. I had never been inside the doors, nor had anyone else I knew. Still, being invited to dine there was intriguing, and an obvious effort to either impress or intimidate, depending upon the host’s intentions.
I pretty much knew what this host’s intentions were.
I still couldn’t figure out why. Why I was dragged along to a big meeting of police chiefs where I did practically nothing. Why Kevin should be so strongly on my side—well, the reason for that one wasn’t all that hard to figure out, I guess. Why C.C. should have appointed me to be, in effect, Kevin’s little friend?
I told our secretary I would be working at home for the rest of the day and left.
*
It was a strange feeling, walking into the apartment for the first time, knowing Chris was gone. An odd, empty feeling. But I told myself this was the way it was going to be, and I’d better get used to it. I set my suitcase inside the door and went directly to the answering machine. Quite a few calls, two of them from Chris.
He’d arrived on time Saturday and had called from the airport to let me know, even though he knew I wouldn’t be home. The second call was Sunday night, when he thought I might be home. He’d spent the day going through the “Apartments for Rent” ads and was totally depressed. He’d known that going from paying half the rent here to paying all the rent in New York would take a huge bite out of his raise but hadn’t realized just how huge a chunk that was likely to be. He was afraid he’d end up with less money than he’d been making here.
I started to pick up the phone to call him but realized he’d undoubtedly be out, meeting people from the store or apartment hunting. So, I decided I’d give him a call later on to offer moral support. Besides, I wanted to hear his voice.
There was a call from Bob asking me to join him for dinner that night, and I called him right back to accept. I didn’t feel like spending much time in the apartment just yet. We agreed to eat out, since neither of us had begun to adjust to the bachelor’s life.
*
I called Chris just before leaving to meet Bob and caught him just as he was heading out to see The Fantastics. It was his first time in a New York theater—off-Broadway, but the excitement was still there. He had spent the day apartment hunting to no avail but was determined to keep at it.
So we just had time to exchange quick encapsulated bits of news and hung up, promising to talk later in the week.
My dinner with Bob was nice, and I think it did us both a lot of good. Up until the night of the Dog Collar fire, we’d never spent any time together except as a foursome. He and I had usually spent a lot of time talking with one another while Chris and Ramón did the same, but it was different to be just the two of us. I got the distinct impression we were going to become pretty good friends.
Bob’s big news of the evening was that he had heard at long last from his insurance company, and it seemed they were fairly close to getting off the fence—although he still wasn’t sure which side they’d come down on. I told him about my weekend, leaving out the part where Kevin crawled into bed with me, and of my growing Reptile House fascination with the whole Rourke family. I also, of course, didn’t mention that Patrick was alive.
*
C.C., apparently suffering from selective short-term amnesia, came blustering through the office on Tuesday morning, nearly knocking me over as I headed back from the copy machine with a stack of press releases. I didn’t expect an “excuse me” but thought he perhaps might have recognized me as the guy who’d just given up his weekend for the team. Silly me.
Then, about ten seconds after I’d returned to my desk, my phone rang.
“I want to see you in my office.”
I did my little knocking-twice routine and got the usual curt “Come.”
I took my usual stance—emphasis on stance—just inside the door, about halfway between it and C.C.’s enormous desk. Its polished top contained one telephone, one Rolodex, one mahogany thermidor, one photo of Mrs. C.C. and C.C Junior, for whom I had the utmost sympathy, one pen holder with pen, and one sheet of paper, to give the impression C.C. was busily at work. I rather suspected it was always the same sheet of paper but never got close enough to check.
“You’re having dinner with Charles McNearny tonight,” he said.
Yes, I know, I thought, but I’d learned C.C. had an aversion to question marks. I think he thought it would make him appear vulnerable.
“The Imperator, no less. You’re swimming with some pretty big fishes now, Hardesty, and you’d damned well better not do anything to embarrass this firm.”
Does that mean I can’t wear my bib overalls? I said nothing.
“The important thing for you to understand here is that what Charles McNearny says in regards to what will or will not be done to promote the chief is the way it will be. If you disagree with anything he says, you just keep your mouth shut and nod your head. You got that?”
“Got it.”
He gave me the palm-down flick of his fingers that so subtly indicated our lesson for the day was over. I turned and walked out the door without looking back.
*
I arrived at the Imperator at exactly seven o’clock. Of course, I’d gotten to the place fifteen minutes earlier, parked in a public garage, and just sat there for awhile in order to time my entrance to the minute.
I must admit I was impressed. It reeked of elegance but didn’t overpower you with it. Lots of heavy, richly carved wood, soft lighting, walls hung with pictures you knew automatically were not prints, thick burgundy carpets with a subtle blue pattern of some sort. I stepped to the maître d’s podium, announced myself and asked if Mr. McNearny or Reverend Rourke had arrived. I was impressed again when, although he looked the stereotype, he was actually friendly and smiled readily.
Since seven p.m. is practically the break of day for most of the Imperator’s patrons, the dining room was relatively empty. As soon as the maître d’ led me down the short staircase into the main room, I spotted Kevin seated with a man I’d seen only in photographs. Both men stood up as I approached the table. Kevin and I shook hands, and then I was introduced to Charles McNearny.
“Dick Hardesty,” McNearny said, voice deep with warmth and good fellowship. “A pleasure to meet you!”
“Thank you, Mr. McNearny, it’s a pleasure meeting you, too.”
As we sat, McNearny ga
ve a nod to no one in particular, and a waiter appeared as if out of a genie’s lamp, a bottle of wine wrapped like a baby in white linen cradled in one arm.
“I hope you don’t mind,” McNearny said, nodding again to set the waiter into his uncorking and decanting ritual, “but I’ve always enjoyed this particular vintage and took the liberty of ordering it for us.”
I took stock of Charles McNearny. Deeply tanned, impeccably groomed and dressed; quite handsome by corporate boardroom standards. I recognized immediately that he gave new meaning to the word confidence. He practically oozed it, and it was undoubtedly the reason he headed up one of the state’s most powerful lobbying organizations.
“So, tell me, Dick,” he began, “are you married?”
“Separated,” I said truthfully. I caught Kevin’s sidelong glance, but it was so swift I hoped McNearny hadn’t noticed.
*
The dinner conversation was casual, wide-ranging at first and finally funneling down to the chief’s campaign. The bulk of it was between Kevin and McNearny, of course, since they’d known each other for some time. My own contributions were mainly generalizations.
The food was superb; the service a perfect balance of anticipation of needs without being intrusive. When the dessert cart was brought over, filled with such wonders as to make the arteries harden just by looking at them, I was too full to take advantage of it, and opted just for coffee, as did Kevin and, after encouraging us to change our minds about dessert, McNearny.
Finally, McNearny decided it was time to get to the point.
“Kevin tells me you don’t think too much of Chief Rourke’s public image.”
Pushing aside a mental image of C.C. toppling over in apoplexy, I plunged right in.
“It’s not what I think that matters. It’s what the rest of the voting public thinks and, frankly, since the chief is so…private a person…the average man on the street only knows what he reads in the newspapers and sees on TV. To him, the chief is little more than an imposingly authoritarian figure in a police chief’s uniform—with all the negative images those things bring to mind.”
