Lying Eyes

by Robert Winter

  Damn, I need to get laid.

  Monday was looming, and he predicted Danny was going to be upset when he headed out in his leather. But dammit, Mondays were Randy’s play time, and he was getting horny. He’d skipped the previous week, but he needed to cut loose. Get his nut with a willing stranger. That was his love life these days (well, these years), and the private club he liked to frequent had a strict leather dress code.

  Maybe Danny would be gone by Monday anyway. Joe had struck out repeatedly but he remained hopeful, so Randy was able to put off concerns about what they’d do if no shelter bed turned up. He also tried not to think about what it would be like to return to a dark, empty house at three o’clock every morning.

  Over their eleven a.m. breakfast on Saturday, Randy said, “How about I finally take you to get some clothes today? Truth to tell, I’m getting sick of that purple sweatshirt.”

  Danny dipped his head and smiled a bit. “I’m pretty tired of it too. Where would we go?”

  “I get that you don’t want anything new and flashy. There’s a thrift store on Route 50, not too far away. You could probably score a warm jacket, maybe some shoes and a few shirts there.”

  Danny focused on his breakfast. “What do you think of these waffles? They’re made mostly from protein powder, not flour.”

  Randy raised an eyebrow. “No kidding? I couldn’t tell that.” He took another bite and said with a full mouth, “I like ’em.”

  “I was going through some of your body building magazines yesterday and I came across the recipe. I figured you probably could use a break from all those protein shakes.”

  “My magazines, huh?” Randy grinned and caught Danny’s eye. “I hope the pages aren’t stuck together.” Danny blushed crimson and Randy laughed. “Shit, I’m just teasing you. Thanks for doing this.”

  Danny moved his food around with his fork, then looked up at Randy. “I’ve been wondering about all the art on the walls. The pictures are real, right? Not posters, or whatever they call them? Like, from Bed Bath and Beyond?”

  “You’re probably thinking of prints. You’re right, though. Most of what I have are original works, not copies. I collected these when I traveled a lot for my old job, before I opened the bar.”

  “You’re really into art, huh? You have tons of books on it.” Danny blushed again. “I wasn’t being nosy. I just saw them all on the shelves in the study.”

  “It’s not a problem. Yeah, I really dig fine art. Mainly European masters, but also some Asian works, some contemporary stuff. It’s what I studied in college for a while.”

  “Oh? Why’d you give it up?”

  Randy hesitated. He didn’t want to get into the real reason. He and Danny were already too cozy and comfortable. It was going to be hard enough—on both of them—when Joe came through and it was time for Danny to leave. Keeping some boundaries was important against that inevitable day. “I decided that a career in art wouldn’t pay well enough, I suppose,” he deflected.

  “There are so many pictures. Maybe you could, uh, tell me about some of them? Some time?”

  The request made Randy nervous. It implied a longer term than he was prepared to acknowledge. On the other hand, he couldn’t resist the opportunity to share a bit with Danny, like Uncle Kevin and his partner Luc always had with him when he was a kid. What could it hurt, really, to let Danny see a bit of his passion?

  “Actually, this is just part of my collection. I have a lot more paintings and other original work that I put up at Mata Hari.” And stored with friends, and up in Luc’s house in Portland. Yeah, he had too much art. It was an addiction. “Anything here appeal to you in particular?”

  Danny considered the room and his gaze landed on a rustic scene painted on wood panels. “I like that one.”

  “Uh-huh. I found that when I went to an auction in Maine, where I’m from. The artist was active in the 1920s and ’30s, and she painted on reclaimed wood before it became a fad.”

  “It seems, I dunno. Homey.”

  “It does,” Randy agreed. “See that young girl heading into the hen house? Think about the way the fall of her skirt mirrors the lines of the house and also of the trees you see beyond. I believe that was the artist saying that the girl belongs right there. She’s part of the essence of it all.”

  Danny chewed his lip. His gaze moved to the next painting on the wall. “What about that one? The colors are really pretty.”

  Randy smiled. “You caught me. That’s one of mine.”

  Danny quickly turned back. “You paint? Is that what you do in the garage at night?”

  He chuckled ruefully. “Yeah, that’s my studio. It normally relaxes me, though I’m having trouble getting my current one right.”

  “Oh? What are you painting?”

  “Actually, it’s going to be a portrait of you, sitting in Del’s Diner. Well, it’s still in the sketch stage now, but I’ll paint it when I know I’ve got it right.”

  “Me?” Danny blushed. “Why would you want to paint me?”

  “Your eyes have this interesting expression I want to get down. Would you mind sitting for me for an hour or so? I think I could get the sketch right then.”

  “If you want. What would I have to do?”

  “Oh, just sit still. Maybe later today, or tomorrow morning when the light’s good. I’ll just have you sit by the window and gaze out. It might be boring for you, but we can play music and stuff to pass the time.”

  “Sure. Whatever.” Ah, the classic teenage response. Randy had to smile.

  “C’mon. Let’s go get you some clothes.”

  • • •

  Randy left Danny with a list of additional chores around the yard and the house. It wasn’t much—a few hours’ work at most—but Danny seemed happy when he was kept busy. It was a relief to see him in a different shirt, pants, and sneakers. Randy left the house to the image of Danny turning and twisting in the mirror, admiring his new-to-him Fall jacket. It was eggplant-hued, another shade of the purple color he seemed to favor. Randy tried not to think about him having to deal with a bag of belongings when he moved to a shelter. Or back to the Beach, if Joe couldn’t score a bed.

  For Danny, having something he loved meant something he could lose.

  Randy’s stomach rolled over unpleasantly as he climbed into his truck. Not yet. I won’t worry about it yet. His thoughts turned instead to Jack Fraser. He still had the business card in his wallet that Jack had offered the previous Sunday evening. Perhaps he should give a call. Hey, just wondering if you found what you wanted in New York or Philly.

  No, that sounded pathetic. Never mind. Think about Monday, he ordered himself.

  But he couldn’t deny his surge of excitement when the door to Mata Hari opened at five-thirty and a dark-haired, bearded man in a narrow tailored jacket and slim-cut jeans walked through. There was no mistaking the desire in Fraser’s eyes when he found Randy behind the bar, and he quickly crossed the floor. Randy nodded a greeting and tried to keep his own face neutral.

  “Jack,” he said evenly, but he caught a glimmer of a smile as Jack noted that he’d finally used his first name.

  “Hello, Randy. I was strolling the neighborhood and I thought a pint of that Flying Dog would go down well.” The casualness Jack affected sounded false, but he drew the beer and placed it on a coaster. Jack took a sip and murmured, “Yes, that’s quite nice.”

  “So you’ve just been hanging around DC today?” Randy asked, reaching for a mild tone.

  “Yes, the weather’s been smashing these few days.”

  “You’ve been back for a while then.” It came out too quickly, with a tinge of hurt, and Randy cursed himself for his eagerness. Jack’s lips curved into a real smile as he flicked a glance up at Randy with those eyes.

  “Since Wednesday. The New York lead didn’t pan out and then my appointment in Philadelphia was rescheduled for next week.”

  A snarky comment about Jack making another run at him in the interim crossed Randy’s
mind, but he cut it off. His wariness remained in place, yet he couldn’t lie to himself and pretend he wasn’t glad to see Jack again. No need to go antagonistic. “What have you been doing with yourself?” he asked instead.

  Jack took another sip of his beer, then dabbed some foam from his mustache with a paper napkin. “Mainly I’ve been enjoying the museums here. The variety is truly impressive.”

  One of Randy’s favorite things to do on a free Sunday was to drag Thomas, and often Zachary, through various museums, so he couldn’t help but ask, “Which ones have you hit so far?”

  “Since most of the museums I’m familiar with in London feature European art, I’ve been exploring those here that seem peculiarly American instead.” He gave Randy a grin. “The National Museum of the American Indian was fascinating.”

  “It’s kind of eye-opening,” Randy agreed. “At least if you were raised in the public school system here on the Founding Fathers. When I was growing up, they never taught us about the Native diplomats who tried to negotiate treaties.”

  “Try visiting a museum in Mumbai about British colonial rule. That will shake your assumptions as well.” Jack drank and leaned forward with his elbows on the bar. “The Air and Space one on your Mall is unlike anything I’ve seen in Europe. We have the Imperial War Museum with its collection of World War II military aircraft, and there’s a nice one in Le Bourget, but I find their collections rather narrow and focused. I can’t say I’ve ever been particularly keen on flying, but a few hours at your Air and Space and I came away with a new appreciation of the breadth of the subject.”

  Randy found himself nodding. “It’s a great museum. There’s a companion facility out in Virginia called Udvar-Hazy that houses an even larger collection. I haven’t been in a few years but the last time I was there, they had a decommissioned space shuttle and the Spirit of St. Louis.”

  “That’s the one Lindbergh flew solo across the Atlantic, correct?” Jack shuddered. “I’m too claustrophobic to think that would have been a fun trip.”

  Randy chuckled. “I dunno, a little jaunt over the pond sounds like a good time.”

  Jack rolled his eyes. “Honestly, no one says ‘the pond’ except in the films or on telly.”

  “Noted.” He dried a few glasses and stored them for easy reach as he asked, “Have you been to the National Gallery of Art? That’s my favorite.”

  “I went to the east building portion. I’m not particularly a fan of the modernists yet I was captivated by the Villareal light sculpture. By many of the exhibits, in fact.”

  Randy found himself engrossed in a discussion of a variety of the artists whose works were displayed as he and Jack compared their tastes and attitudes to different media. Their conversation paused periodically as he absent-mindedly served a few customers who came in, but the bar stayed relatively low-key for a Saturday. As soon as Malcolm clocked in, Randy gestured for him to handle some new arrivals gathered around a sofa so he could keep talking with Jack.

  Even with Thomas and Zachary, Randy couldn’t engage in the kind of in-depth discussion he craved. They were interested enough in the major works and artists that Randy showed them but he was always aware of his tendency to go overboard and held back for fear of sounding like a lecturer. With Jack, though, Randy could speak in the same language and let his passion show.

  Yet as much as they shared in relaxed talk, Jack didn’t mention the Sunrise painting once after he arrived, and Randy began to wonder about that. Was the omission contrived to get Randy to lower his guard? Was Jack just trying to get his friendship as better leverage to renew the request?

  A dark suspicion tried to intrude on Randy’s enjoyment. He thought Jack was attracted to him, but maybe that was an act as well. Like with…

  Nope. Not going there. Forget Trevor.

  Jack inadvertently gave Randy an opening. He took the last swallow of his beer, and as he returned the glass to the counter, he observed, “We have the Tate Modern in London, of course, but the artists on exhibition here seem to come from an entirely different perspective.”

  That was just what Randy needed to test his theory about Jack. He commented casually, “I read recently that the Tate is bringing in a show dedicated to queer artists next year.”

  Sure enough, Jack’s face instantly shuttered again. Dammit. Straight, or at least deeply in the closet. He has to be.

  “That’s, uh, yes, I believe I read about that as well.” Jack kept his face angled down toward the bar and pushed nervously at the empty beer glass. Randy couldn’t resist poking a little, to see what might slip out.

  “Will you go? To the queer artists exhibition?”

  “Oh, well, perhaps if I find the time.” Jack sounded strangled. He looked left and right as if noticing for the first time that Mata Hari had begun to fill with customers while he and Randy talked. “I can tell you’re getting ready for the rush so I’d best not keep you any longer.” He reached for his wallet but Randy rapped on the bar counter.

  “No charge. I enjoyed talking with you about the museums.”

  “Oh. Well, thank you. Perhaps…”

  Randy waited with his head tilted, wondering if Jack would suggest getting together outside of the bar. He could read the conflict in Jack’s eyes, and it irked him. Just like the not-quite-right tailored clothes and the almost-too-precise London accent, Jack seemed unable to deal honestly with a man he apparently desired. Which wouldn’t have been a problem normally, except Randy was increasingly aware that he wanted more time with the enigmatic art historian. If Jack walked out, though, Randy had a sense the last opportunity would be gone.

  So keep him talking.

  Jack apparently cancelled whatever he’d been trying to say and turned away from the bar. Think, Vaughan.

  “I’m surprised, Jack,” he blurted out. “You didn’t ask me this time about seeing Sunrise.”

  Well, that was about as graceful as a herd of elephants, but it did the trick. Jack turned his head back toward the bar, then his whole body. A flush crept up his neck, but whether it was embarrassment or anger, Randy couldn’t tell.

  “To be honest, I saw no point in raising the subject again.” Jack tried to sound nonchalant but there was no hiding the flash in his brown eyes or the hunger that leaked into his face. “You know I want to see it, you have my number, and if you decide to permit access you know I’d be very grateful.”

  “Still thinking about it,” Randy said casually, as if he hadn’t deliberately tossed a conversational bomb. He wasn’t entirely sure why he refused to just show Sunrise to Jack. Randy gained nothing by being an asshole, yet he couldn’t seem to help himself. Sure his ego had been bruised when Jack dismissed his curating within Mata Hari. It had stung to have Jack shocked that an ox of a man like Randy considered himself a collector. Was he really that fragile that he would churlishly turn his back on art scholarship because his pride had been hurt?

  Except he won’t tell me why he wants to see the painting. He doesn’t trust me.

  Jack held his stare for a moment longer before shaking his head and turning away. “I wish you a successful evening, Randy,” he called back. Then he was gone, taking the chance to explore his mysteries with him.

  Chapter Seven

  Friday evening was a success in business terms. The stream of customers increased steadily, and Randy barely had time to acknowledge his friends Joe and Terry, so they moved over to the piano to sing with Miss Ethel and her crowd. Thomas and Zachary came in a little later after having had dinner in the neighborhood, but they could tell Randy was in the weeds and didn’t try to engage him.

  A wave of people kept Randy hustling for another solid forty minutes. When a lull finally hit, his friends were still there and he stopped by their stools to take a breather. “What’s up with you two?” he asked.

  Zachary turned glowing eyes on Thomas, a question on his face. Thomas grinned at him and said, “Go ahead.”

  He turned back to Randy. “I’m moving into Thomas’s condo.”
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  “No shit?” Randy grabbed three shot glasses and poured a round of tequila. “That needs a toast.” They all downed their shots, and Randy slammed his glass on the bar. “I’m really happy for the both of you.”

  “Thanks, Randy,” Thomas said. “Zach stays over most nights anyway, so I’m kind of used to him. He’s promised to keep his graphic novels and comic books corralled in the den, though.”

  Zachary laughed. “Don’t think I haven’t noticed the bookmark creeping through my Y the Last Man editions. Admit it, Thomas. You’re hooked!”

  “Well, that one is pretty good. Randy, do you think you’d have some time to help us pack boxes and move a few things next week? There’s lunch in it for you at Momofuku afterward.”

  “I can give you a few hours. No sweat. I’m surprised you aren’t just hiring movers.”

  Thomas turned soft eyes toward Zachary again and smiled sweetly. “We could, I suppose, but it seems more momentous if we do this ourselves.” Zachary stroked a hand through Thomas’s dark hair. Randy watched his fingers comb and wondered how soft Jack’s hair would feel.

  Nope. The ship has sailed. “Hey, if you don’t mind a tagalong, I might have someone else I can bring to help with the packing and moving.”

  Zachary whipped his head back and his eyes went wide. “Are you seeing someone? I can’t wait to meet him. I’ve been wondering for months about your type!”

  Randy snorted. “It’s nothing like that.” He explained about Danny and how he was helping out around his house until Joe found a placement for him. By the time he finished, Zachary was beaming but Thomas appeared concerned.

  Randy rolled his eyes. “Go ahead, buddy. Get it off your chest.”

  “Are you sure this is a good idea? You bringing in a homeless boy, a stranger. You’ve never even had a roommate, have you?”

  Trevor, sort of. But Randy didn’t say that out loud. “I trust my instincts. Danny’s a good kid. I’ve left him alone for several days now and nothing’s missing.”

  Thomas shook his head. “That isn’t what I mean. Of course your instincts are good. But I can’t see you spending this much time with someone and then cutting him loose to live in a shelter or on the streets again.”