by Andrea Speed
He walked into a lobby of burgundy velvet and warmly polished wood, a scent like brandy and thyme overlaying the char of meat (seventy-five-dollar steaks were big here—who the hell would pay seventy-five dollars for a chunk of beef?) and came up to a maître d’ in black tie and tails. He looked like he’d fallen off a wedding cake.
He raised a slim black eyebrow imperiously, clearly gearing up to tell him he wasn’t suitably attired, but Roan cut him off. “I’m just here to give my partner Dylan his house key. He left it at home, and he’s gonna need it.” This was bullshit, but just saying, “Can I see my boyfriend” wouldn’t get him past the door.
“Partner?” the maître d’ repeated, then scoffed, looking into the restaurant. Over his shoulder, Roan could see the bar, a curve of silver and translucent glass like ice. “I knew he was gay. He’s too good looking to be straight.” He looked Roan over once more, but with new eyes. Oh, he was gay too, wasn’t he? Yep. Of course an upscale restaurant would have to have the stereotypical efficient, obnoxiously fussy gay. It was probably seen as a necessary accessory, like linen napkins and a rageaholic chef. “Fine, we’re slow tonight, you can go see him, but don’t try this when Weaver’s on the floor. He doesn’t like the staff displaying their gayness.” At that, he rolled his eyes, unspoken disgust at Weaver’s policy, and gestured him on with a wave of his hand.
He assumed Weaver was the manager. So, was he a straight who didn’t like gays but hired them anyways, or was he a self-hating gay? He’d have to meet him to know.
It must have been a slow night. The lighting was low, “moody,” but he could still see that only four of the tables in this section (there were at least two others, one a VIP room that no ordinary peon could access) were occupied. There were two people at the opposite end of the bar, a woman in a red dress and a man in a suit who looked like he was either a lawyer or a white collar criminal (or both).
Dylan was behind the bar, looking handsome and posh in a long-sleeved black dress shirt and a silver vest that looked like it was the closest thing the place had to a uniform. (Dylan wasn’t the type to own a silver vest. The only guy he ever knew that might was Paris, and even then, only as a joke.) Roan took one of the tall stools at the empty end of the bar, and that’s when Dylan glanced down and saw him. He gave him a genuine, lazy smile, and said, “I know what you want.”
He was tempted to say, “I doubt it, it’s not on the menu,” but kept the innuendo to himself as he watched Dylan work. It may have been a new bar, with more space and more clothing, but he still moved like he’d always worked there, picking up a crystal highball glass and pouring a scoop of crushed ice into it in one smooth motion, then decanting some juice in it before coming over and placing the glass in front of Roan, on a coaster that looked like it was made of cork and wicker. Dylan leaned on the bar, close but not too close.
“Pineapple juice?” Roan asked. “You couldn’t Irish it up a bit?”
“Since when do you like whiskey?”
“I don’t. I just don’t want to feel like the designated driver.” He sipped the juice. Fancy place or not, it was still the equivalent of store-bought. “How’s it going?”
“Not bad. It’s kind of nice not being deafened, and having a shirt on is a novelty.”
“It’s killing you, isn’t it?”
“No.” He glanced around, perhaps to make sure no other staffer was close, then admitted, “It’s a little staid. It seems a bit unreal, so formal and… regulated. I feel like a butler.”
“This is not your world.”
“Is this anyone’s world? It’s bizarre. I mean… my life is nuts. I guess I got used to nuts.”
“What kind of nuts are we talking about here?”
Dylan raised an eyebrow at that, and had to fight down a smile. “Don’t you start.”
“It was an innocent question.”
“Innocent, my culo,” he replied, using the Spanish word for ass, possibly because this place didn’t like its employees swearing. What a change from Panic, where almost everything was okay, as long as it was consensual and not a violation of the health code (in full view of anyone who might complain). “You are many things, Ro, but innocent has never been one of them.”
“Well, if you’re going to take that attitude, I’ll just go buy my juice at the 7-Eleven. By the way, how much is this gonna set me back?”
“Nothing, I’ll say I drank it. But, if you were a customer, five bucks.”
“For a pineapple juice? This isn’t even a proper glass.”
“It’s an expensive place. The cheapest salad is twenty-five dollars.”
“I hope that comes with extra croutons and a hand job.”
Dylan laughed, and instantly clapped a hand over his mouth to stifle it. He glared at Roan, trying to give him the death stare, but there was too much mirth in his eyes to properly sell it. “Bastard,” he finally muttered. “Making me laugh.”
“What, laughter is a crime in this place? Fuck it then. Let’s blow this pop stand. Better yet, let’s get some of those Improv Everywhere people in here to make them have conniption fits.”
“My first night on the job, and you’re already planning to destroy it.”
“Not destroy, it’s such a harsh word.” He paused, mainly for effect. “I prefer bloodless coup. Or bloody coup, as long as there’s some kind of coup, I’m good.”
Dylan was shaking his head, but he was still smiling. No matter what, Roan knew he could make him laugh, and that was a good feeling. “Did you just come here to sabotage me or what?”
“Curses, foiled again. No, well, besides that, I just wanted to let you know I might not be home when you get home.”
His face fell, and while he tried to smooth it over, Dylan clearly wasn’t happy. “Why not?”
He gave him the shorthand version of what had happened at Club Damage. He seemed as bewildered as Roan felt. “What? How the hell did it get into Damage?”
“That’s what I’d like to know. And that smell… it was like a chemical factory, even counting out the perfume. I haven’t smelled a lot of poison, but it wasn’t anything that seemed possible. All I could think was chemical weapon, but that doesn’t make sense.”
“Are you okay?”
“Superhuman, remember? She never even scratched me.”
“That wasn’t what I meant.”
No, it wasn’t, was it? He was ready to lie, but Dylan’s dark eyes were sympathetic and imploring. With a sigh, he admitted, “I dunno. This is really bothering me, and I can’t say why.”
Dylan briefly put his hand over his before removing it, a quick caress, and probably all the public display of gayness that he dare risk here. “Because it’s a puzzle, and you do love your puzzles.” He said it with a kind of affectionate weariness, like he knew that Roan was going to be preoccupied and busy for the near future.
“I love you too, you know,” he replied.
Dylan gave him a brittle smile. “I know. But if you don’t solve this, it will kill you. I should be used to being a detective’s husband by now.”
“How do you think it is for me, being a bartender’s husband? Especially when that husband will only give me pineapple juice.”
There was an overweight guy approaching the bar, looking like the most harried ad man in existence, so Dylan gave Roan a sly smile as he turned away. “Gotta earn better,” he whispered with a wink.
He should have known—blackmail. Bastard. Husbands were all alike.
Of course the case wasn’t why he’d be home late, it would be Dee chewing him out. But he didn’t want to admit he’d be home late because of an ex-boyfriend, even though there wasn’t a chance in hell they’d ever sleep together and Dylan knew it.
Dee had an apartment in a downtown complex with decent security, although the weather-beaten brick facade made it look more run-down and an easier mark. For a man who hated heights, it was probably ironic that he lived on the top floor (the eighth), but he didn’t like having people over his head (in an ap
artment sense).
As if Roan by himself wasn’t enough to put the lie to the stereotype that all gay men were neat and good decorators, Dee nailed it home. His apartment was generally a mess, a riot of dirty clothes and unopened mail, unwashed dishes and empty cartons. He basically cleaned up when he had days off, so then it looked like less than a pigsty, but during the work week it was like visiting a straight frat boy’s place, and it caused no end of amusement. It even smelled like stale beer and Chinese food starting to go south. He wondered how Luke, his boyfriend, liked this. (But he was a male nurse, just as busy, so maybe his place was similar.)
“Weren’t you two moving in together?” Roan asked, as he moved Dee’s uniform jacket aside and sat down on the ratty blue sofa that Dee had had as long as he had known him.
Dee was obviously just home from work. His hair was still wet from the shower, pasted down to his scalp, and he wore a gray sweatshirt and navy sweatpants. He looked tired but frazzled, which was typical after work. “Luke and I? I don’t know that I’m ready, really. I thought I was, I’m getting old… but I don’t know if I could actually live with another person.”
“How’d you find out?”
Dee fixed him with a bitter look, lips thinning, as he sat down in the recliner that was his game chair (where he sat to play video games). “What, you just assume—”
“Yes.”
He glared at him for a long moment, then sighed. “Fine. We went to Ocean Shores for a weekend, shared a hotel room, and I found out he has annoying habits.”
“Everybody has annoying habits. You just work around them or learn to live with them.”
“Is that what Dylan does with you?”
“Ha. Yes. He and I spend time pursuing separate interests, we both have loner tendencies, and that works for us. He does yoga and paints, and I break heads and become a lion. It’s a win-win.”
“Is it? He seems to think you’re on the verge of a nervous breakdown.”
“He’s a very insightful man. Is there anything else?”
Dee stared at him again, but this time it was suspicious. “Did—did you just admit you were on the verge of a nervous breakdown?”
“What am I going to say at this point, Dee? It’s a slow-motion collapse. The pills keep it at bay, but it won’t hold forever, just like I won’t be Human forever. Got it, don’t need it spelled out for me. But thanks.”
Dee now sat forward, hands on his knees. “What? What was that about not being Human forever? Shit, is this related to Willow Creek? It is, isn’t it? What did you find out?”
Roan knew he should tell Dylan first, but he was tired and a bit headache-y from the partial change. Besides, Dee would understand what he was saying from a medical perspective. So he took a deep breath, and told him what Rosenberg had uncovered, and what she speculated might happen. Dee took it in with growing disbelief, or at least that’s what Roan decided his widening eyes and slightly unhinging jaw were all about.
When Roan finished talking, Dee said breathlessly, “Bullshit. Bullshit! There’s no way—”
“No way what? I’m becoming more lion? I fractured a man’s skull with one punch, and I was trying to go easy on him. I saw the tendons humans don’t have, I saw the bone spurs in my hands. Sometimes, if I press the skin hard enough, I swear I can feel them.”
“You’re not going to turn into a lion one day and not come back. That is not happening.”
“Are you sure? Can you give me a written guarantee?”
“Don’t be an asshole—”
“It’s what I do best.”
“Are you ever gonna stop interrupting me?”
Roan shrugged, and inexplicably felt like he was on the verge of tears. “I know I’m hurting Dylan, and I know that’s what you called to lecture me about, but there’s a danger you’re not aware of. I think I may actually hurt him, physically. I think I’m losing control. I don’t want to hurt him, Dee, but to keep the lion back I need more drugs than I have.”
“You don’t want to hurt him, do you?”
“No, of course not, how can you even ask that? But since he’s the only thing keeping me Human, I think the lion would be glad to have him gone.”
Dee stared at him for an uncomfortably long minute. “You do know how insane that sounds, right?”
He nodded. “If you think it sounds crazy, imagine being me.” He wiped the back of his hand beneath his eyes, getting rid of any lingering moisture.
Dee continued staring at him like he was the craziest person he’d ever met, which was saying something from a paramedic—along with cops and social workers they were often the front line of the crazy brigade. “You’re gonna get angry at me, I know, but people addicted to painkillers can have delusions—”
“It’s not a delusion, Dee. The lion is sneaking out—when I don’t want it to appear, it does. It’s getting stronger and I’m drowning. Rosenberg only confirmed it’s physical, not just mental. Did you know I can feel it? In my shoulders especially. They almost always feel slightly dislocated. It’s not pain, not exactly, it’s just the feeling that they’re loose, not perfectly attached. Whoever glued me together didn’t use enough.”
He grimaced. “Did you talk to Rosenberg about any of this?”
“Of course. She said it wasn’t in my head, it looked like everything has changed since the last time I was scanned, even my brain waves are changing… and she wants me to come back to Willow Creek. She wants to do more tests, more and more, until I’m nothing but tissue samples on a plate. I think she’d be happy to keep me there for the rest of my life.”
“I thought you liked her.”
“I do. But I’m this century’s equivalent of the Elephant Man. I am her medical legacy to the world, and I’d be an idiot not to realize that.”
“That’s kinda conceited, you know.”
“I know. Am I wrong?”
Dee gazed at him steadily, for once at a loss for words, and then stood up, saying, “This is too heavy, I need a drink. Want one?”
“No, but thanks. I oughta get going.” He stood and wondered where he was going. Home, he supposed. Maybe he could stop at the store on the way home, pick some stuff up. Truth be told, he just liked wandering stores after midnight; it was his favorite time to shop. Almost no one was in the store, and those who were seemed as strange as you. It was a gathering place for the lonely, the desperate, and the misanthropic; the bar of the ’00s.
“You have to tell Dylan.”
He sighed heavily. “Yeah, I know, but he’s gonna tell me he loves me no matter what, and I don’t want to hear that. I want him to call me a freak and leave while he still can. Talk to him, see if you can wake up his sense of self-preservation.”
“Didn’t you just say he was the only thing keeping you Human?”
“Yeah, but maybe he shouldn’t. Straddling two worlds is killing me.”
At the door, when Roan was halfway outside, Dee said, “So the virus is progressing. Maybe you just need a little more time to adapt to it. Just ’cause the lion’s winning the battle now doesn’t mean it will win the war.”
Roan didn’t know what to say to that, so he said nothing. It was an interesting theory, but just a theory.
On his way down to the parking lot, his phone hummed in his pocket, and since it was Rosenberg, he answered it. “Yeah?”
“You bastard, you couldn’t let me stay home and have a drink and watch Star Trek repeats, huh? No, you have to get me involved in this farkakt case,” she said, pausing to take an angry drag off a cigarette.
“You watch Star Trek?”
“This from the punk rock nerd. Don’t you start.”
“What’s so farkakt about the case? Besides the obvious.”
“Everything.”
“She still alive?”
“No, you were right, she didn’t make it. Died before I got here. Know what killed her?”
“The poison.”
“You’d think so, but no. Acute agranulocytosis.”
&nb
sp; Roan paused at the bottom stair and sat down. “In English, please?”
“No white blood cells. None. Her bone marrow completely shut down. To be perfectly honest, it was probably a low-level staph infection that killed her, but it couldn’t have if she didn’t have acute agranulocytosis.”
He was now glad he had sat down. “So this was a preexisting condition? Many infecteds can get immune system disorders—”
“Not on her chart. On her chart, she was as healthy as a noninfected, and at twenty-two, you’d kinda hope.”
“You know who she is then?” Stupid question, but no one had told him yet.
“Yep. Ava Pagano, she’s listed as one of the women missing from the bachelorette party. Someone was relatively sober enough to tell the cops they didn’t know where Ava was, and your cop friend was smart enough to track her info down. We got a match. None of her friends—if you can call ’em that—even knew she was infected.”
“A recent infectee?”
“Maybe.”
“So she did enter the club Human.”
“Apparently so. Even the most sober of her friends can’t remember when she saw her last.”
Roan had to move aside as a young black man came down the stairs, also talking on a cell phone. They didn’t acknowledge each other in any way, locked in their own electronic worlds. It occurred to Roan the world was becoming more autistic, people were getting locked into their own little worlds (but voluntarily so, assisted by their machines), but he didn’t know what to do with such an observation, so he kept it to himself. “Okay, so… how did she change in the club without anyone noticing her? Why did her bone marrow shut down? Why did she smell like a chemical weapons factory?”
She snickered. “Chemical weapons factory? Cute. Well, I can’t answer any of those questions, except maybe they’re all related to the substance we found in her bloodstream.”
“Which is…?”
“Fuck me if I know, sport. That’s why you’re a bastard for getting me involved in this farkakt case. I’ll be here all night ’cause of this.”
