The Peter & Charlie Trilogy

by Gordon Merrick

  Jeff gazed at it and crooned a paean of praise. “This is the first time I’ve seen a man with even the beginning of an erection. It must be absolutely enormous. It’s huge right now. Staggering. It’s so smooth and so—so powerful, long and straight like a dagger. No wonder I’m queer. How could anyone help worshipping such mystery, such beauty. Oh, God, Peter, there are so many things I’d like to do with it but looking is enough. I know now men are really made like this. It isn’t all my imagination.”

  “Well, that’s it, as far as I’m concerned. I’ve shown you all I can.” Peter gave the boy a pat on the shoulder and moved back from him. He flipped the sarong over his shoulder. “I’ve got to be ready to cover up. I’m sort of hoping Costa may turn up.” He saw the boy’s expression cloud as he finally tore his eyes from him and turned away nervously.

  “I have to be going,” Jeff said as he pulled on his shirt without tucking it in and stepped into his sandals.

  “There’s no rush.”

  “No, I have to see Dimitri about something.”

  “I’ll be waiting to hear all about it.”

  Jeff faced him. The ghostly smile was on his lips. He seemed tense and withdrawn again. “Yes. I wouldn’t be surprised if the best part is telling you about it. Can I come see you again tomorrow after lunch?”

  “You can come see me any time you like, love. Just don’t let him upset you.”

  “This has been the most wonderful hour of my life. I’ll never forget it.”

  They looked into each other’s eyes and then Jeff’s dropped inevitably to the sacred area as they moved toward each other and remained there as Peter put his arm around his shoulder and walked him to the door and unlocked it. Jeff gave him a last lingering look and turned with a growled “so long” and slouched out.

  Peter turned back into the room and stretched his whole body. Sex. Sex. Sex. His damn cock was beginning to get on his nerves. He thought of the girl again. If there was ever a girl he would gladly chase, she was it. That extraordinary look. The way the features were so delectably put together. Thoughts of the girl accomplished what Jeff had not. In one long deep satisfying surge, his cock lifted and locked into erection. So that was what was the matter with him. He looked down at himself and laughed. Poor Jeff had missed the finale. He must tell Charlie that he hadn’t forgotten his duties to heterosexuality. He threw down the sarong and trotted to the bathroom and got under a cold shower.

  Fragmentary thoughts skipped through his mind. Something was eluding him. Something about Jeff’s reluctance to keep the date with Dimitri. He felt as if he knew more than he could coherently formulate, as if some information had been passed on to him that he hadn’t quite grasped.

  He decided that if Costa didn’t turn up soon, he should go look for him. There was something fishy going on. He could feel it in his bones. And because usually there was so little going on, fishy or otherwise, he suspected that it all linked up in some way—George’s money, Costa’s uncharacteristic threats, Jeff and Dimitri. He added the letter he had flushed down the toilet to his little collection of anomalies. Could the stolen pictures have something to do with it too? It was the sort of thing Dimitri might have a finger in. He hoped Jeff had been telling the truth. He felt responsible for the boy. The juxtaposition of naked bodies, even chaste, struck resonances beyond ordinary human intercourse. He marveled briefly at Charlie’s miracle, marveling that he could get through such an encounter without even a twinge of temptation. He would do what he could to keep the boy out of whatever mischief was afoot.

  George and Mike lay side by side on towels spread out on a cement platform in the shade of a rock, apparently mending the strands of intimacy which had bound them so long ago, while Mike’s determination hardened to break through the facade George had erected for him; his picture of life here was too idyllic to be convincing. He suspected that George intended to make his own successful life seem empty and meretricious.

  “You’re living in a dream world,” Mike insisted. “Do all your kindred spirits here live in palaces like yours? Incidentally, how does a whole family, and guests too presumably, manage with just one bathroom? I’d go out of my mind.”

  George laughed. “God bless America. Do you realize that there wasn’t a single bathroom on the island when we arrived? Well, the Mills-Martins were first but no matter. You’d be amazed at the things you can get along without.”

  “No, I wouldn’t be. When I was a kid, we had an outhouse in the backyard. We didn’t even have electricity until I was twelve. We got along. But who wants to? There’s something unnatural about turning your back on progress.”

  “Progress doesn’t mean anything if it bypasses the human spirit. I remember you saying something of the sort years ago.”

  “I used to talk a pretty fancy line in the old days. I doubt if it was any more profound than the things most kids say.”

  “I think it was. It meant a lot to me. I left the States because of certain feelings I thought we shared. I’m not sure of things the way everybody is over there and being famous all of a sudden didn’t help. I found myself getting fixed in a set of public attitudes when I wanted to go on exploring. I didn’t want life to get flattened out for me, all neat and simple and sanitary, the way it tends to get in the States. If there’re any rough edges, go to a psychiatrist. He’ll smooth them out.”

  “As a matter of fact, he probably will. What’s wrong with that?”

  “Oh, Mike, what about the struggle? What about hopes and dreams? What about suffering and happiness? What about death?”

  “You sound as if you’d caught the European disease of self-flagellation. It’s so self-defeating. Frankly, you wouldn’t have to worry about being famous any more. You may be able to live here on what you make, but you couldn’t in the States. Not comfortably. You’re not earning up to your potential. There’s something wrong there. It may not sound stylish intellectually, but money counts.”

  “Of course it does, but not in any of the important ways.” All the money in the world wouldn’t help him get back to Sarah. Money. It would soon be time to do something about it. They had been lying here for nearly two hours, with frequent dips in the sea, and he had been surprisingly successful at keeping his mind off the money. Now he felt his nerves knotting. A drink would help. Watch it, he warned himself. No drunkenness while Mike was here.

  He felt increasingly that Mike was seeking the confrontation he had envisaged that morning and dismissed as being without valid grounds. He could feel him probing, trying to catch him out in some way. Was he trying to force some acknowledgment from George for his glittering achievement, or was he so unsure of it that he had to demonstrate that it was at least greater than George’s? George had felt flashes of malice in him and they had so saddened him that he had tried to ignore them. Once upon a time he might have enjoyed meeting him head on, heaping him with scorn, and taunting him for having so readily come to terms with the commercialism that had earlier been a target of his invective, but he felt no fight in himself now. He was struggling for his own survival; he had no energy to spare for a conflict that was basically foreign to his nature. He had loved Mike; something worth preserving must remain.

  They both stirred at the same moment and sat up and wiped sweat out of their eyes.

  “I’m about ready for another dip,” George said, “and then I’m going to have to think about getting along to the police.”

  “What’s this big police deal?” Mike asked, rising.

  “Oh, nothing. Just helping out a young American with some business.” He was reticent about telling Mike about the money. It was just the sort of thing he could seize on; such a lot of fuss about a miserable two thousand dollars. He was probably bound to find out about it, but Costa might yet come through with something, something might happen at the police station that would put an end to it.

  His heart accelerated. There was an emptiness in the pit of his stomach. Just one drink would do no harm. He stood beside Mike, looking down on hi
m and relishing his physical superiority. Stripped of expensive clothes, Mike lost his new elegance. He had a sturdy farm boy’s body, trim and vigorous, a boxer’s body. The paunch George had imagined this morning was definitely not in evidence. His looking so like he used to look endeared him to George and stirred memories of their intimacy when they had shared girls.

  “Is there any crime in your ideal community?” Mike asked idly.

  “Damn little. The police are political agents more than anything else.”

  “I’ve heard as much. Well, that’s one advantage of being an expatriate. You can sit back and shrug at what’s going on around you.”

  “Nonsense, Mike. If this is a police state, it’s because we’ve encouraged it to be one. There was a civil war here after our war, apparently a pretty nasty one. A lot of people are prepared to put up with strong-arm methods to avoid any repetition of it. I don’t pretend to like it and I do everything I can to resist it. There’s no such thing any more as expatriation in the way you seem to mean it. We’re all part of the same world.”

  “I wonder. I’m quite active politically at home. I have some voice in what’s going on over there. I wouldn’t have much scope here, would I?”

  “As a foreigner, of course not.”

  “There you are. Isn’t that another indication of your abdication? You’re accepting too many limitations, George. It’s bound to affect your work.”

  “I don’t want to be in politics, dammit,” George said with more heat than he had intended. Mike had touched a sensitive area; he had given it a good deal of thought and had decided that so long as he wasn’t cramped by the system, he had no obligation to take a stand against it, any more than he would at home. “A man has just so much time. I’ve always felt that my work was more important than anything I could do as an amateur politician. Everybody agrees that things are more or less the same here as they’ve always been. Until the Greeks get fed up I don’t feel any need or right to mount the barricades.”

  “Old Juggernaut George. No wonder we want you back.” Mike covered his retreat with laughter. He had no taste for heavy debate; hit and run was more his style. He had George on the defensive. It would be interesting to see where it would lead.

  They clambered over the rocks together down to the edge of the sea. On the way, George noticed Pavlo had arrived and nodded distantly to him. He was flaunting his body as usual in the smallest bit of bikini the law would allow. He didn’t matter. He hadn’t liked finding Sarah sitting with him this morning, but he knew that she couldn’t be interested in such a blatant hunk of exhibitionistic flesh. Dreamy young intellectuals were more her line.

  Disagreeable things happened in his chest and stomach, but he got a grip on himself. Farther along, he saw the fancy little Swiss faggot they had all been laughing at frollicking with a group of cadets from the merchant marine school. His sense of possessiveness toward the island came to the surface and he frowned. If he had his way, he’d set up a control on the port and turn away the undesirables. They brought their civilized sicknesses with them and left a trail of corruption behind them. He was aware that plenty of homosexuals were decent human beings, but they were beginning to give the island a definite flavor.

  He dived into the leaden sea. He and Mike returned to their bit of shade. He lay again long enough to get dry; then he rose and pulled his trousers on over his trunks and put on his shirt and sandals. “You want to stay on a bit?” he asked Mike.

  “I might as well. There’s no point in getting any hotter than I am already.”

  George frowned again as he looked down along the rocks to where the Swiss was still surrounded by cadets. “That looks like trouble,” he said. “Some of those cadets are tough. They lead the boys on and then beat the hell out of them.”

  Mike propped himself on an elbow to see what George was talking about. He smiled up at him. “They look to me as if they were enjoying themselves. You really feel you own this place, don’t you?”

  “Perhaps, in a way. You see, there wasn’t much here until we came.”

  “And now you control the police.”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “Don’t you? How could you help this American if you didn’t?”

  “Oh, I see. No, you misunderstood. I’m just going to interpret for him. I’ll meet you afterwards at that grocery-tavern I pointed out to you. You’ll recognize it. Just look for the statue of the admiral. I’ll be along about seven or so. We’ll have dinner at home.”

  Mike nodded agreement and they lifted their hands to each other in farewell. George climbed up the rocks to the rough road that led into town. He didn’t pause to admire the panorama as he rounded the last steep spur of rock that hid the port. The compartment of his mind in which he had somehow managed to confine his anxiety about the money had totally collapsed and he was plunged into harassing thought. He was doing the only thing he could do. He had given Costa a chance. If he brought the money, or some news of it, well and good. He knew everything that went on here. Nobody could steal two thousand dollars without his hearing of it. The money was all that mattered.

  The money. The word jangled in his mind like a torn nerve. He couldn’t understand how he had got through the day with such apparent calm. What did he think they were going to do without money? Peter, in his usual sweet thoughtful way, had made his offer, but did he mean he would cover all of it? It would never occur to anybody that that was all the money he had. If Mike were still the same old Mike, he would have been a godsend but he couldn’t even tell him about it now. Mike and his dogs. Christ. He wiped his sweating palms on his trousers and ran his fingers through his hair.

  Entering town along the western arm of the port, he passed the Americanized tourist bar where Jeff was frequently to be found lounging with his friend Dimitri, but it was deserted now. He turned onto the wide quai facing the harbor and saw Joe Peterson sitting at Lambraiki’s, a pile of books beside him, a glass in front of him.

  “Have you tried this Greek vermouth?” said Joe in greeting. “It’s not bad as an afternoon drink.”

  “I admire your unflagging spirit of inquiry. Come on. Finish that thing and let’s get it over with.”

  “You really think this is the best way to handle it?”

  “It’s the only way. I told Costa what we were going to do. What’s the matter? Have you changed your mind? Do you think one of your beats could’ve taken your money, after all?”

  Joe flushed but answered without hesitation. “Oh, no. No question about it. It was Costa. I just hate to call in the coppers. It seems unethical somehow.”

  “I don’t think you’ll amount to much in the pulpit. Come on.” He stood nervously rocking a chair while Joe drained his glass.

  “Okay. I might as well leave my books here.” He stood up and moved into position at George’s side and they set off for the police station. It was up a side street at the end of the port. When they reached it, they found Peter waiting in front of it.

  “Well,” George exclaimed, not happy to have Peter as a witness to this not very felicitous occasion. “A gathering of the clan. What are you doing here?”

  Peter nodded to them both and addressed George. “I’ve been looking all over for Costa. I hoped he might be here.”

  “So did I. It’s past six.”

  Peter’s usual ebullient high spirits were shadowed by concern. “He’s usually around somewhere. His boat’s there. I wonder what he’s up to.”

  “Do you think I gave him a scare and he’s run off with the loot?”

  “On the contrary. I’m more and more convinced he had nothing to do with it. I’ve got a hunch, but it’s too vague to talk about. If I’m on the right track and Costa knows, I can understand his wanting to stay out of it.”

  “You’re sounding very mysterious, chum.” George put his hand on Peter’s shoulder, unnecessarily but compulsively, and gave him a little shake. “Why don’t you tell me what’s going on in that beautiful head of yours?”

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p; Peter smiled briefly. He remained preoccupied. “What are you planning to do?”

  “Two thousand dollars has disappeared. I’m going to report it to the police. If somebody picks it up I want them to know it’s mine.”

  “That’s fair enough. But for God’s sake, be careful how you bring Costa into it. I like the guy. I’m sure he didn’t take it.”

  “I like him, too, but I can’t afford to be sure of anything. I tried the trick with the trousers. The bundle of paper I used was bigger than the money. You couldn’t really see it.”

  “I see.” Peter studied the ground for a moment. “I wish you’d wait till I find Costa.”

  “I told him what I was going to do. If he had anything to add to what he said at noon, he’d be here now.”

  “That’s true,” Peter admitted with evident reluctance. “Jeff came by a little while ago. He thinks you might have put the money away somewhere and forgotten it. It didn’t sound very likely to me.”

  “Thanks.” George spoke with an ironic edge in his voice. “You’ll learn, if you haven’t already, that children never credit their parents with any sense. I’m sometimes hazy when I wake up in the morning, but I’ve never gone through a day without remembering the major events of the night before. Putting two thousand dollars away would count as major to me.”

  “But——” Peter began, but found there was nothing he could say that wouldn’t risk betraying Jeff’s confidence. George could be trusted to act fairly. “Sure. You’re right. You’d better go tell the police. Good luck.”

  Peter and George parted with affectionate taps on the back. Peter nodded to Joe and left. George and Joe entered the police station.

  The door gave onto a long flight of wooden steps that thundered underfoot so that there was no danger of the police being taken by surprise. At the head of it was a sort of common room with doors opening off it. When George and Peterson thundered up to it, they found two old men waiting stiffly on a wooden bench, but a policeman greeted George by name and he was immediately ushered into the captain’s office. A woman in black sat huddled in front of the captain’s desk, but she was prodded to her feet and ordered out. Was this what it meant to control the police? Or was it only the normal extravagant courtesy shown any foreigner? The captain rose, crisp and resplendent in a tan uniform, belted, buckled, beribboned, and shook hands with George across the desk. He nodded severely at Joe. Orders were barked, chairs were shifted, the two foreigners and the captain sat down.