Thomas grasped Philip’s shoulders. “No. No second thoughts.”
“Okay then, but . . . I do have a few conditions.”
Flo was at their side. “Conditions? That’s rich. You get the opportunity to sponge off your betters and you dare to mention conditions.”
“Flo, shut up.”
“Tee,” Philip said. “Actually, he’s right. I mean, it looks like I’m a grifter homing in on the ham, but I’m not. I couldn’t live that way. I try to always pay my own way.”
Flo spluttered. “I bet you do.”
“No, not that way.” Philip understood Florian’s reaction. It was a sourer version of Sprakie’s, based on the same concerns. Philip couldn’t disregard Flo’s reaction, now that he knew that this was Tee’s former lover. There would always be tough turf between them. “No, I mean in a way that doesn’t give me a free ride.”
Thomas glared at Flo, and then settled cross-legged on the Ottoman. “What did you have in mind, Philip?”
“You mentioned that I could get credit — some assurances, you said.”
“Assurity,” Thomas said. “Of course.”
“Based on what?” Flo asked. “You need property for assurity and if you had property you wouldn’t be on his doorstep. Or did you win the lottery?”
Sprakie’s words echoed in Philip’s head. Yes, Flo was nothing more than an older and sourer version of Sprakie. However, Philip hadn’t revealed his hand to Sprakie, so why should he do it for Flo? Unfortunately, that choice was lost to him, because Thomas smiled and latched onto Philip’s backpack.
“Is it still in here?”
Philip let the pack fall, and Thomas dove into it, unleashing the book with the flourish of a game show host.
“What do we have here?” Florian said. Tee handed the first edition up, watching Mr. Townsend’s eyes squint as he recognized the genuine article. “I’ve seen this before. Tee, why would you give this street . . . person your valuable first edition?”
Thomas flew to the bookshelf for the other copy. “No. Mine is still here. This one came with the . . . the street person. It is truly his.”
Florian’s cheeks flushed. He held the book up like Exhibit A. “Where did you get this?”
Philip remained silent. He wasn’t about to announce that he had turned a trick for an old geezer, who was a nice old geezer, who had tipped him with this old, but rare book. There was no need to introduce the age controversy into this conversation. However, Thomas again trumped Philip’s choice.
“Philip got his copy in the same place I got mine.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“Believe it.” Thomas snapped the book from Flo before it fell. He returned it to Philip.
Florian turned away, his eyes cast to the ceiling. “Uncle Dean?” he said.
“Yes, your Uncle Dean.”
2
Philip clutched his first edition and bounced into a chair — the red Chippendale. Something was operating here, and above the surface. So why couldn’t he figure it out? Flo snapped closed the proposal, and then marched into the office. He slammed the door.
“What’s with him?” Philip asked. “I chalked it up to jealousy, but now?”
“It still is jealousy, Philip.” Thomas hunkered down beside the chair resting his first edition on Philip’s. “I do not have a degree in psychology, but I would say you are seeing a supreme display of jealousy.”
“But you said . . .”
“It is not entirely this thing between you and me. No, no, no, no. That is just a residual of the ruin abandoned. No. Florian feels that everything that his uncle has is, by rights, his own.”
Philip gazed down at the book. “He wants my book?”
“He wants my book too, but Uncle Dean is a shrewd man. He uses his assets to fulfill his desires and, perhaps, his fantasies. I believe he has pulled you and me together in some small way that I do not object to, but that Flo resents wholeheartedly.”
Philip gazed toward the office. “I don’t know whether I like having my strings pulled.”
“Nor I. Pinocchio is not my style either, but Dean Cardoza is a master at it. In fact, I find it amusing that he could spin all three of us in consternation around his gift giving.”
The door opened and Florian emerged again as if nothing had happened. He was reading another proposal. “We have business, Tee, or did you forget?”
Thomas stood. “I did not forget. My new friend here has proposed that I extend him credit based on his possession of this singular example of incunabula.”
“Not so singular,” Flo said. “Given that I see two of them and know of two more.”
Thomas gathered his own book and returned it to the shelf. “One fourth of the whole is worth more than an entire library. I think my wherewithal can make due here to put this brave new worlder on his feet.”
Philip arose to those feet. “It’s not charity. I mean to work.”
“By all means,” Thomas said. “So we need an agreement.”
“In writing,” Philip quipped.
Thomas smiled. “Well, Philip, we are in the presence of one of the finest contract spinners in my acquaintance.”
Flo smirked. “I’ll see to it. Just tell me how much and the terms and you can spread as much ink on it as you want. It’s your money.”
“True,” Thomas said. “But it is Philip’s credit.”
Philip was still uneasy. He could see that despite Flo’s sudden compliance, the earthquake still trembled in the recesses of his soul. Philip was unaccustomed to tension. He had been subjected to his father’s outbursts and the need to eke an existence from hand to mouth, but that stress was his own — life’s little dole, a birthright from the cave dwellers. This, on the other hand, was a refined stress, one that whittled at the nerves, setting them to simmer beyond their relevance. Philip looked to Thomas for a sign — a love wink or a friendly grin. However, as long as Flo played sentinel on the threshold, the tension continued to simmer.
“Perhaps I should go,” Philip said. He looped his backpack in the crook of his arm.
“Perhaps you should,” Thomas said.
Philip halted. He wasn’t sure whether he had heard Thomas’ voice wrapped around those words. The words wounded him. He hitched his breath, and then gazed at Thomas. “I will then,’ he said.
“I meant,” Thomas said coolly, “perhaps you should go and check your room out. Settle in. We can finish this business later.”
Philip smiled. “I can still stay then?”
“There was never any doubt.”
Flo shuffled his papers. “Well, I should go then. You’ve set me to a task and you do pay my salary.” Flo nodded to Philip. “You see, I’m on the clock now, and if you’re going to work, as you say you are, perhaps you should gear up. What’s that pretty thing you do?”
Thomas frowned. “He does a very pretty thing, Flo.”
“No I don’t,” Philip said. He settled back into the chair. “I mean, I did. I like what I do. It’s nothing to be ashamed of, but I told Sprakie to give the . . . the proprietor my notice.”
Thomas applauded. “So you mean to follow my leads and connections.”
“If it’s okay. If the offer still stands.”
Flo shook his head. “I’m out of here.”
Thomas waved goodbye, but then snapped his fingers. “By the way, Flo. Could you call Miriam for me?”
“Miriam Kelso or Miriam Duncan?”
“Duncan.”
“Really? Is that necessary?”
“Yes,” Thomas said. “I think we need a modest, but lavish celebration.”
Flo’s eyes closed. Philip wished the man would disappear. In fact, Philip closed his eyes hoping that when they reopened the dour Mr. Townsend would be gone. His wish was granted.
3
Simultaneous with the departure of Florian Townsend, Thomas Dye wrapped his arms around Philip like a jellyfish in heat. Philip expected no less, but didn’t want to start the arrangement with a m
isconstrued down payment. He kissed Thomas fervently, and then opened the book. Thomas plopped to the carpeting, appearing quite content by the turn of events, although Philip knew that they could have headed straight to the bedroom for a late morning lark.
Philip was tired now — very tired. Between the night of conversation and the high-tension wires of Florian’s antics, he could use a nap — a real one, unaccompanied by this lovely man who spoke like the minister in the Whaleman’s pulpit. Therefore, Philip hoisted the signal flag and yawned.
“I need a nap,” he declared.
“So do I,” Thomas countered. “Shall we?”
Philip stood. “Actually, Tee, I really do need to sleep, and I think you do too. Which room is mine?”
Thomas grinned. “Take your pick, but if I were you, I would select the first door on the left.”
“Why? Does it have a secret passage to your room?”
“No. We will be quite remote.” He winked, and then gathered himself to the Ottoman. “In fact, you go take a nap and I shall visit the gym, unless . . .”
“No. You go. I want you fit. No heart attacks under me.”
“When I return, we shall go shopping — for a new wardrobe. If I am to have a party, you must shine resplendently. Then, you can take me to an early dinner. We shall start using your credit wisely, and what better way than working it up for a buff, mature author.”
“MacDonald’s?”
“No. I know just the place.”
“But Tee, I mean to pay you back, you know.”
“Absolutely. In fact, the reason for the celebration is to introduce you around to some folks that might be able to help in that regard. I said I would get you to work around books, and that is the plan.”
Philip kissed him, and then gazed down the hallway. “First door on the left, you say.”
“As I say.”
Philip sauntered past the kitchen. He had had the grand tour and had already seen the guest rooms. They were all spacious, larger than most full apartments. At the time, however he hadn’t noticed anything special about the first door on the left. As Philip approached the door, he gazed back at Thomas, who still sat on the Ottoman, smug and self-satisfied.
“Go ahead,” Thomas said.
Philip puckered, and then grasped the doorknob. One push and a cool breeze rushed him. The windows were awash with the rippling wind. The sunlight danced over the tan satin sheets like butter on pancakes. Pillow mounds jumbled at the bed’s head. They sang to Philip a song he knew, the one beckoning him to coast over the waves and scoot across the pristine sea. Then, he noticed it. On the bed sat a teddy bear — a strange besotted thing with a wooden leg. It wore a Nantucket slicker.
“Ahab,” Philip muttered. He lapped it into his hands and held it high in the breeze. “I love it.” He thought to run back and thank Tee, but the breeze caught his face and, instead of the city noises and odors, he heard the bo’sun’s whistle and sensed the clam beds as his bark rounded the reef, steering him over the shoal water. He tossed the backpack aside and plowed into the pillows clutching Ahab to his heart — clutching Ahab to his mind. Philip had his assurity and, like most commitments of this sort, it was as safe as the shoal water that he navigated.
Chapter Twelve
Brave Old Worlds
1
Philip spied Ahab in the mirror, the little Teddy bear propped on a pillow sea. It had been an eventful week — a week without comparison in Philip’s life. He winked at the cute peg-legged ursine mariner, and then stepped back for a full glance of his own fashion picture. He was head to toe different. His new hairdo cropped short a la Brad Pitt befitted the tan three-buttoned double-breasted suit. The tie, which he didn’t know how to knot, draped over his open collar like a thin prayer shawl. He had creases in his pant. Pants. He couldn’t remember wearing anything better than cheap jeans or hand-me-down shorts. He puckered and blew himself a kiss. It had been an astonishing week.
Tee had given Philip the grand tour of the best haberdasheries on Fifth Avenue, and although Philip had never pictured himself in such finery, Thomas helped with the selection, from cashmere sweaters (for the autumn), some sportswear (for those every day encounters), beach wear (for . . . well, for the beach, particularly Provincetown, where they would be taking what Tee called The Annual Pilgrimage) and, of course, dinner wear (for the theater and parties, like the one that was about to unfurl in the Dye flat). Thomas introduced Philip to a variety of different cuisines, some of which Philip thought would be a one-time tasting. Eating the Injerian tablecloth at an Ethiopian restaurant was harsh despite the fun monkey-fur seating.
There was business also. Florian presented them with a contract in the form of a credit loan. It mystified Philip, who had never even had a credit card. Now he had a collateralized loan and a bank account. In fact, he called Sprakie to announce that the rent check was in the mail. Sprakie seemed to have gotten over Philip’s departure and minimized the Porn Nazi’s reaction. In fact, Kurt was glad to replace him, or so Sprakie said. That bothered Philip. He had performed well at manluv despite the occasional tardiness . . . hell, lateness, but he more than made up for that. Philip wondered whether Asspounder and Papuppy missed him. Such thoughts were bound to occur in the wake of Sprakie’s no big deal, hon comments.
“Tee is throwing me a party,” Philip said.
“Well, isn’t that special,” Sprakie twittered over the cell. “Will he be serving the Sarsaparilla? Did he hire a clown?”
“You never give it a rest. And here I was going to invite you.”
“Moi. You were going to invite moi? Won’t the old man object?”
“No. He told me I could invite anyone I wanted. You immediately came to mind.”
“Jesus Marie, you know I‘d be there in a flash. Is it jock straps only or fancy dress?”
Philip chuckled. He missed Sprakie and there was no reason they still couldn’t be friends. Thomas didn’t own him. In fact, Philip was a man of apparently independent means. If he wanted to invite the Porn Nazi to the soiree, he could — not that he would.
“Wear your best bowling shirt,” Philip said. “No tux now.”
“I don’t own a tux.”
“Well, don’t rent one.”
“Can I bring a date?”
Philip didn’t expect this. “Will you rent one?”
“Smart ass. No. Mama Sprakie can find just about anything on or off the rack to bring to a fancy do cocktail party — even at a moment’s notice.”
“Of course. Bring whoever you want.”
“Maybe he’ll get lucky with all those rich pickings.”
“Maybe,” Philip said. He thought of his own luck, but somehow was unsure how much fate was propelling him forward. His collateral may have been sown — in fact, if Thomas was to be believed, it was. Still, how lucky was that?
As warm as Thomas’ arms were and no matter how much Philip basked in the glory of his smile, there was one change that stirred Philip to pause. The book — the open bark that carried him beyond the harbor over sea spume under the rigging — was closed now. He tried to dive in again, but every time he pondered its worth. He worried that he might tear the edges as he turned the pages. His fingers were now stain makers, depreciating the collateral with each reading. Soon, the book sat on his nightstand, and then in the drawer and finally, at his own prodding, in a safety deposit box with Mother Chase. He bought the Penguin version, but it felt foul, the spine unyielding — the type like soldiers fighting a distracting war on the margins. Thomas noticed this development and offered his own copy up as replacement, but the same fundamental issues prevailed. It was a fucking first edition and would fetch much on eBay. Therefore, Thomas settled Philip back in the dim evening light and read to him in golden tones:
“Nor did I at all object to the hint from Queequeg that perhaps it were best to strike a light, seeing that we were so wide awake; and besides he felt a strong desire to have a few quiet puffs from his Tomahawk. Be it said, that though I had fe
lt such a strong repugnance to his smoking in the bed the night before, yet see how elastic our stiff prejudices grow when love once comes to bend them. For now I liked nothing better than to have Queequeg smoking by me, even in bed, because he seemed to be full of such serene household joy then. I no more felt unduly concerned for the landlord’s policy of insurance. I was only alive to the condensed confidential comfortableness of sharing a pipe and a blanket with a real friend. With our shaggy jackets drawn about our shoulders, we now passed the Tomahawk from one to the other, till slowly there grew over us a blue hanging tester of smoke, illuminated by the flame of the new-lit lamp.”
Philip was there again, in spades. He knew that the words drew him, but now the voice drew him also. It was good. It was better. He would reach the journey’s end clutching a warm heartfelt bosom. Fate? Luck? Manipulation? He didn’t care. The figure in the mirror was the same one he had always known, just clad in fresh sailcloth.
A gentle knock. “Are you ready, dear lamb?”
“Yes, Tee.”
“The guests are on their way up.”
“One moment more.”
Now Philip would play the host. He had great expectations that before the evening was out, he would know what enterprise would anchor him. He spied Ahab again on the pillows and smiled, illuminated by the flame of the new-lit lamp.
2
The living room buzzed with Thomas’ friends and acquaintances, all perched in various poses, drinks in hand and canapés on plates — each vying for a slot in the many conversations, that mostly revolved around shop talk — the latest review or the snappiest blog. Interspersed between these mavens were two waiters that peddled crab cakes, shrimp balls, salmon pate and caviar. And betwixt these buoys on this becalmed ocean, Philip drifted unmoored in the doldrums. He was introduced to Thomas’ publicist, Madeleine Frankel, who smiled dimly and pinched his cheek like some distant aunt. She then babbled on about the possibility of debuting Thomas’ next book on Oprah, but beyond that Philip was lost. There was the international agent, Sylvia Hogarth and her husband Matt Planck. Philip didn’t quite understand how Sylvia managed to maintain a different last name as her husband, but since she was loquacious and he as silent as Tut’s tomb, Philip never found out. Philip was also puzzled that Florian was not the exclusive agent, but Thomas explained that some contracts called for separate international representation and Sylvia was well connected in Europe and South America.
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