by Dorien Grey
Bruno again beamed like a small boy who’d just been complimented in class.
“Thank you. I do what I can.” Glancing at the young man to whom he’d been talking, who was in the same spot he had left him, watching him and smiling, Bruno turned back and said, “Go—have a drink. We’ll talk later.”
When he left, Steve smiled and said, “I see you and Bruno share a love of Old Spice.”
Elliott merely grinned.
As they turned toward the bar, the fifty-something, drink in hand, moved toward Bruno with his two companions in tow. Elliott heard the man say, “Bruno, I’d like you to meet Cal and Turk…” before the rest were lost in the general murmur of conversation.
Elliott recognized the bartender immediately from one of the bars, though he couldn’t immediately recall which one. They exchanged greetings, and Steve ordered a bourbon-Seven.
“Make it two,” Elliott said.
Behind the bartender was a serving cart stacked with glasses and liquor bottles, and by the refrigerator, a man Elliott assumed was the caterer was taking deviled eggs from a large Tupperware container and arranging them on a platter. The entire counter near him was lined with containers of various sizes and shapes.
On the top of the serving cart Elliott noticed various saucers of garnishes—lime slices, maraschino cherries, cocktail onions, and cannonball olives.
“Can I get a couple of those olives?” he asked.
The bartender didn’t bat an eye. Steve looked at him quizzically. “Olives in a bourbon-Seven? That’s a first,” he said.
“What do you mean,” Elliott replied casually. “I do it all the time.” Steve gave him a raised eyebrow.
“Uh-huh.” Turning to the bartender, he said, “Me, too. But give ’em to him.”
Skewering several of the huge olives onto two toothpicks, the bartender placed them on a napkin rather than putting them in the drink and handed it to Elliott, who smiled his thanks.
“Can’t fool a good bartender,” he said as they moved to check out the buffet. Indicating his skewered olives, he grinned at Steve. “Want one?”
*
While Steve knew none of the guests, and had met Bruno only once, Elliott had the advantage of knowing three or four people who also lived in the building. He envied Steve’s natural ability to appear perfectly at ease surrounded by strangers. Elliott had worked at it over the years, but he doubted he’d ever be as good at it as Steve.
Bruno, he noted, was surrounded by four or five very attractive and attentive younger guys, including the two who had ridden up on the elevator with Elliott and Steve. All of the young men seemed to hang on Bruno’s every word and laughed a lot, and it didn’t escape Elliott that the fifty-something who had accompanied them seemed to keep a close eye on them. Though he estimated at least thirty people were at the party at one time or another, Bruno had very little time to spend with anyone other than his circle of admirers.
Button and Paul showed up shortly after ten, walking in with the tall red-head Bruno had introduced to Elliott as his sensei, Dr. Clifford Blanton. Both Blanton and Button were dressed to the nines in expensive-looking casual suits. Spotting Elliott, Button came right over, Paul on his heels. Blanton headed for Bruno, leading Elliott to think their mutual arrival was coincidental.
“You made it!” Button exclaimed happily as the four exchanged handshakes. Looking around, he said, “Well, he’s done it again. I don’t know where all these people come from. I’ve never seen three-quarters of them before, and for me, that’s saying something. I thought I knew everybody in Chicago. I suspect Bruno imports them. I must talk to him about that. And people will come out of the woodwork for free booze.” He smiled brightly and added, “Of course, you’ll notice I’m here, too.”
“Where’s our host?” Paul asked.
Steve made a head-up gesture toward where Bruno was talking with the fifty-something and one of the man’s young companions. The rest of the clique that had surrounded him now stood clumped together several feet away.
“Ah, yes,” Button said. “Rudy and…what’s his name? …Turk. Turk dances at the Lucky Horseshoe and Crossroads. He really should never wear clothes. They hide his best assets.”
“And who is Rudy?” Steve asked.
Button smiled. “Rudy Patterson. He’s the Heidi Fleiss of Boys Town. A…matchmaker…if you will. I’ve told Bruno to watch out for him, now that he has money. Rudy operates a limousine service and has a large stable of attractive and enterprising young men he hires as drivers. He also introduces them to gentlemen of means, who show their appreciation in the form of a donation to Rudy’s favorite charity—Rudy. I didn’t know Turk was part of his stable. I must be slipping.”
“Do you know the guy who came in when you did?” Elliott asked.
“The red-head? Yes. He’s one of Bruno’s new acquisitions, and I’m not quite sure what to make of him. Perhaps I’m just being overly protective. Bruno isn’t gullible, but he’s an antelope at the watering hole for the sort of predators who can smell money from a mile away. Bruno told me about him, but I’ve not met him before. I’ll wager he bought that suit in Taiwan. I can always spot them.”
Elliott didn’t know if that was meant as a compliment or a slam, so let it pass without comment.
Paul, as usual, didn’t say much, but Elliott could sense he was very taken with Steve, as were a couple of the other guests. He was at first oblivious to the covert attention he himself was being paid by one of the members of Bruno’s clique, but Steve noticed and called his attention to it with a grin.
Elliott shrugged. “When ya got it, flaunt it.”
“So, how’s the construction business?” Button asked.
“Keeps me busy.” Though he’d never told Button or Paul he owned his own business, the fact he lived in this building probably gave them a clue he wasn’t just “in construction” as a laborer.
“And what do you do, Steve?” Paul asked.
“I’m a painter.”
“Do you work with Elliott?”
Steve grinned. “Well, we do work well together, but, no. I’m a commercial artist for an ad agency.”
“And far too modest,” Elliott added. “He’s a damned good painter, and he’s got some of his work on display in a River North gallery.”
“Really?” Button appeared genuinely interested. “Which gallery?”
“Devereux,” Steve said.
“One of my favorites!” Laying a hand lightly on Steve’s arm, he said, “I’m impressed. Beauty and talent! I’ll have to look for your work next time I’m there.” He paused, then added, “Your last name is Gutierrez, right? I’m so bad with last names.”
Steve grinned. “Well, for only having heard it once, I’m flattered you remembered it at all.”
They left the party around midnight. Elliott had hoped to at least mention to Bruno that they’d gone by his old building and to say he might be interested in talking with the owner if the man was, in fact, thinking of selling. However, they only had a chance to exchange an occasional few quick words in passing, so he had shifted his concentration to the party and talking with Button, Paul, and several other guests.
*
Over the next few days, Elliott began to question just how much of his enthusiasm for the Armitage building was due to his liking it for itself—which he did—and how much he was being influenced by how much he knew Steve liked it, and by how much Steve wanted his own art gallery. He was a bit concerned Steve might think he was using the building as a spider web to trap him. That was the last thing in the world he wanted.
But he also saw his concern as yet another indication of the need for a serious talk with Steve about where they were headed.
That the Armitage building just happened to come along when it did was, he finally concluded, strictly a coincidence. His current project was at the point where he was starting to look around for the next one anyway. He had tried to contact Larry Fingerhood, his real estate broker, the week before to tell
him to start looking for properties, only to learn Larry was on vacation and would be gone for another week.
*
Monday evening, while checking his mail after work, he ran into Bruno in the lobby, holding a large stack of envelopes.
“Thanks for the party,” he said. “We had a great time.”
“I’m sorry I didn’t have more time to spend with you. I do apologize.”
“Not necessary. You were busy. I would have called to thank you, but I don’t have your number.”
“Do you have a pen?”
Reaching into his pocket, Elliott extracted a pencil stub. “Will this do?”
Smiling, Bruno took it. “Sure.” He wrote a number on the back of one of the envelopes and handed it and the pencil to Elliott.
“Don’t you need this?” Elliott asked, indicating the envelope.
“It’s just someone wanting money. Screw ’em.”
They got on the elevator and began the ride to their respective floors.
“Steve and I drove by your old building,” Elliott said. “It’s got a lot of potential.”
“Doesn’t it? The purple is ghastly, but it was painted that color before the present owner bought it.”
“Well, I wouldn’t mind seeing the inside.”
“I’d be happy to call Marvin—the owner—and see if he’s still thinking of selling. And if he is, perhaps I could give him your number.”
Elliott realized that, just as he hadn’t had Bruno’s number, Bruno didn’t have his.
“Got another envelope you can spare?”
Bruno’s smile was more rueful than happy. “Pick one. They’re all junk.”
Elliott took the top one, retrieved the pencil from his pocket and wrote down his phone number.
“Aren’t you curious?” Bruno asked.
“About what?”
He indicated the stack of mail. “About all this crap.”
Elliott shrugged. “I didn’t figure it’s any of my business.”
“Right. Sorry. It’s just that it would be nice to get a real letter sometime from someone who didn’t just want money.”
The look on Bruno’s face struck something in Elliott, and on the spur of the moment, as the elevator stopped on 35, he said, “Would you like to stop in for a drink? I’ve seen your place, but you haven’t seen mine yet.”
Bruno looked just a bit surprised, but then said, “Sure. That would really be nice. I’ve never been in anyone else’s condo here before.” Again Elliott got the distinct impression of loneliness.
Entering through the kitchen, they continued into the living room. Bruno looked around slowly, taking everything in.
“Very nice,” he said. “It’s really strange how two identical floor plans can look so different. All this…” He made a small gesture with the envelopes he was holding, “…looks like it…belongs. Not like my place.”
“There’s nothing wrong with your place,” Elliott said. “You’ve got a lot of really nice things.”
Bruno shrugged but said nothing.
Elliott moved into the kitchen. “What would you like to drink?”
“Whatever you’re having’s fine.” Bruno stopped by the balcony doors and looked out over the city.
“Bourbon-Seven?”
“Fine. You know,” he continued without turning around, “sometimes I really think I’m out of my element here.”
“How do you mean?” Elliott reached into the freezer for ice cubes. He could observe Bruno’s expression by watching his reflection in the glass of the sliding doors.
Bruno’s gesture took in the apartment and the panoramic view beyond.
“All this. It’s not me. I never would have dreamed in a million years I’d be able to afford all this. Hell, I had a devil of a time just making my rent at the old place. And now…it’s all kind of overwhelming.”
Returning to the living room, Elliott handed him his drink, gesturing him to the sofa. He took a facing chair.
“I can imagine,” he said. “But you seem to be handling it all right.”
Bruno shrugged. “Glad it looks that way. I really am trying. One of the first things I did after—I assume you do know I won the lottery.”
Elliott nodded.
“The first thing I did was to get a financial manager to handle the money so I didn’t blow it. The first thing he did was ask me if I had a will, and when I told him I’d never felt the need, since I’d never really had anything of value, he insisted I make one immediately. It was he who told me about this building, by the way. He lives here, on thirty. Maybe you know him? Walter Means?”
Elliott knew him. Means was the multi-term president of the condo’s board. He was officious and condescending and, to Elliott’s mind, thoroughly dislikable. Means’ wife, with whom he and Bruno had ridden the elevator a week or two earlier, was one of the building’s more flamboyant characters, noted for her flaming red hair, her whippet Alexi, and her penchant for wearing mink whenever the temperature dipped below sixty.
Means had approached him when he first moved into the building about representing him as a financial manager, and he had been invited to a small cocktail party at the Means’ condo. The invitation had been handwritten on embossed vellum by Mrs. Means, who prided herself on her calligraphy.
Luckily, Bruno didn’t wait for a reply.
“Anyway, I’m really not an extravagant guy. My only indulgence, prior to…all this…was my stamp collection. But even with a financial manager and my being on the equivalent of an allowance, it’s still one hell of a lot of money to deal with. And let’s face it, when you’ve never had much, to suddenly have more than you ever dreamed of is kind of fun. I can give parties and make new friends—I’ve always been something of a loner, not so much through desire as circumstance. I’m so glad I have Sensei to keep me balanced.”
Elliott resisted the temptation to ask exactly how that worked and instead said, “Well, judging from the people at your party Saturday, you seem to be doing quite well as far as making friends goes.”
Again a slight shrug, accompanied by a wry smile.
“Having handsome young men falling all over me isn’t all that bad, I guess. But I certainly don’t kid myself as to why. They wouldn’t have given me the time of day six months ago.”
“Don’t sell yourself short,” Elliott cautioned.
“I’m not. I’m just being realistic. And it’s kind of nice being the center of attention for a change.”
“What about the friends you had before?”
“To be honest, I’ve never had many. I’ve always been pretty much a loner, and I’ve always been intimidated by practically everybody. I think that’s why I started collecting stamps when I was a kid. Stamps weren’t judgmental or didn’t make me feel I was constantly being measured against others. I’m only now learning how to be comfortable around people, thanks to Sensei, and I hope you won’t think I’m being arrogant when I say that knowing I can buy and sell most of the people I’ve always been intimidated by is oddly empowering.”
“I was into stamps when I was younger, too,” Elliott said. “We traveled a lot, and I took to collecting stamps from every country we visited. I really enjoyed it, but got out of it around the time I started college. I gave them to my sister Cessy for her kids, and I suppose she still has them. So, are you still collecting?”
Bruno gave him a strange little smile. “Yes. Next time you come up, I’ll show you my pride and joy, if you’d like to see it.”
Though he wasn’t quite sure what Bruno was referring to, he nodded. “I’d like that.”
“How about you?” Bruno asked. “Do you have any hobbies now?” Elliott was rather surprised, not by the question but by the realization that the answer was no.
“I guess my work’s my hobby, come to think of it,” he said. “I really love what I do.”
“Well, I hope you’ll decide to take on my old building. As much as I like my condo, it’s not the same. The old place had…I don’t know…a…ch
arm, a warmth, a feeling these newer places simply can’t match.”
“Do you know anything about its history?” Elliott asked. “I see it was built in eighteen-ninety-six, probably by someone named Brisson.”
Bruno nodded. “Right. The people who owned the building when I moved in were named Taggert, but the wife was the granddaughter of the man who built it. I understand the architect was another relative, who later went on to design several Chicago landmarks. It stayed in the family until about five years ago, when the Taggerts’ only son convinced them to sell and move to Phoenix, to be near him.
“Mrs. Taggert was the one who told me the ground floor was originally a grocery store, and was converted to an apartment when the store closed right after World War Two. It still has its original pressed-tin ceiling, and I think she told me they just paneled over the pressed-tin walls. But the upstairs apartments haven’t changed all that much since the place was built. They showed me a black-and-white photo of the exterior taken around nineteen hundred. It was really beautiful.
“It was the son who decided the outside should be painted before they sold it. Unfortunately, the guy must be color blind and have no taste, plus he had a friend who ran a paint store and gave him a real deal on the purple and rust-brown. I know the Taggerts weren’t at all happy, but the son thought he was doing them a favor by saving them a lot of money.
“The guy who bought it, Marvin Lamb, is the one who has it now. He works for some brokerage firm, and I think he was hit pretty hard when the bottom fell out of the stock market. As I told you, one of the reasons I left was because I thought he’d probably try to sell it. But maybe he’s holding off listing it in hopes the housing market will pick up.”
“Good luck with that one,” Elliott said. “But I wouldn’t mind taking a closer look at it, so if you want to check to see if he is considering selling, you might just mention that you know someone who might—emphasis on might—be looking, and see what his reaction is.”
The conversation then wandered off in other directions until Bruno finished his drink.
“Would you like another?” Elliott asked.
