Aqua Follies

by Liv Rancourt

  It had taken some coaxing, but he’d persuaded Russell to climb on top. Russell had straddled him, muscular thighs pinning his arms to his body. Skip rubbed a fingertip along his lower lip, still sore from the pounding. He loved starting the day with a dick down his throat. The other stuff? The crappy sadness he’d feel after Russell left? He’d deal with that later.

  Parking the car drove his mood into the ground. The only open spaces were at the back of the lot. The old Buick choked and sputtered for twenty seconds after he killed the engine. Damned carburetor. Skip jogged toward the oversized building, debating whether he should try a side door and make excuses for punching the time clock late. In the end, he headed for the main door.

  He ran straight into the crew chief.

  “Johansen.” Danny’s tone was grim.

  "Sorry, boss." Skip pulled his timecard out of the rack. “Traffic was awful.”

  The crew chief crossed his arms. “You’re out of chances, Johansen.” His scowl would have taken the fizz out of a soda pop. “Next time you come in late, you might as well go straight to the office and get your final check.”

  Skip stifled a joke. Not much made the guy mad, but this was close. He mumbled another apology and headed onto the factory floor, ready to sling airplane parts from one end of the building to the other. The real deal was, he hated anything and everything having to do with airplane parts, hated it almost as much as he hated the disease ruining his mother’s lungs, hated it almost as much as he loved playing his horn.

  If he lived in San Francisco or LA, he’d never have to look at another box of altimeters, wires sticking out the back like a swarm of insects. But if he lived in California, his mother could take a turn for the worse and be dead before he could get home.

  He really didn’t have much choice but to stay.

  ***

  Russell wished he had time to laze in the sunlight filtering through the roller shades. As he lay in bed, relaxation saturated every muscle, a layer of protection against the guilt he was bound to feel. He needed to get to the hospital and check on Phyllis and he needed to find Susie. More importantly, he needed to forget last night, the dancing, the laughter, and all that went with it.

  The first step toward forgetting was a slow climb out of bed. He sponged off, doggedly unwilling to shower away Skip’s touch. The scent of Skip’s pomade clung to Russell’s skin. He wanted it there, though it would make the forgetting more difficult.

  The photographs on the walls of Skip’s tiny apartment didn’t help either. Skip on stage, trim and handsome in a black tuxedo. Skip laughing, surrounded by Lulu and her friends. Skip standing next to an older woman whose frailty enhanced her exquisite beauty.

  Sitting on the edge of the bed, the sheets pungent with sex, Russell’s scattered recollections brought on another raging hard-on.

  Time to go.

  Skip’s tiny kitchen was pretty much empty of real food. Pocketing the spare key, Russell strode briskly down the hall to the building’s main entrance, past a man who stood in the doorway fixing a vacancy sign to a fancy wrought-iron frame.

  “Excuse me.” Russell intended to ask for directions to the hospital and a coffee shop. He had thirty-seven dollars left, and while Skip’s generosity meant he wouldn’t be spending money on a hotel room, some breakfast would help Russell come up with a plan.

  The man, a scarecrow-type constructed exclusively of planes and angles, stopped his project and gave Russell a friendly enough smile. “Yes?”

  Instead of directions, Russell asked a different question. “Your vacancy... What size is the apartment?” He’d never seriously consider moving to Seattle, but just this once, he’d let his curiosity win.

  The man pushed up the sloppy sleeves of his plaid shirt. “One bedroom. You want to see it?”

  Russell offered the man his hand. “Sure.”

  The man introduced himself as the building manager, and Russell followed him back inside, nodding in agreement at every one of the apartment’s selling points. They climbed the carpeted stairs to the third floor. Some of the apartments they passed were quiet, but others nearly exploded with the unchecked enthusiasm of young children. They saw other tenants, most of them men, but a few women. With their baby buggies and knee-high kids, they personified the future he’d anticipated for him and Susie.

  The future they’d spent the last two weeks dismantling.

  “Are you a single man, or is there a missus somewhere?” Eyeing Russell with curiosity, the manager pulled a large loop of keys off his belt and flipped through them.

  Russell had to clear his throat before he could respond. “Single.”

  The man nodded. “Well, this’un’s a one bedroom, but I might have a studio opening up soon.”

  A studio. A premonition of loneliness settled into Russell’s belly.

  The vacant apartment was larger than Skip’s, the windows overlooking the fire station across the street. The wood floors had scuffed trails leading from room to room and the kitchen was separated by a set of glass-paneled doors. The early morning sunlight gave the room a warm glow, inviting happiness.

  When the building manager told him the monthly rent was seventy-five dollars, Russell had to fight to keep his jaw from dropping. “I know. I know.” The building manager patted Russell on the shoulder as if they were long-time friends. “It’s a lot of money, but look at the size of the place.” He gestured around the small living room. “We’ve got a telephone in every apartment and a big antenna on the roof so our television reception is great. Come see the bedroom.”

  Obediently, Russell followed him into a smaller room. The one window overlooked a dim alley, and the room was furnished with a nice-sized double bed. Room enough for two. He and Susie would have fit right in, and on a lawyer’s salary, he could even have afforded the place.

  The building manager kept on talking. “Now some of our tenants double up, share the space and split the rent.”

  Skip’s taste, of spice and faded cigarettes, flooded Russell’s consciousness. His cheeks heated as if the building manager could see right into his mind and know the depravity hidden there. He floundered in a rising flood of frustration, angry at himself for wasting the man’s time. He’d been dumped by his girl, and instead of trying to find her, he’d given in to stupid fantasies.

  Grown adult men didn’t play house.

  “These apartments go fast, so you let me know if you’re interested,” the manager said, offering Russell his hand. Russell took it, too agitated to offer more than a cursory good-bye. He escaped the apartment, escaped the building, and took off blindly.

  After a breakfast tasting mostly of grease, Russell made change for a dollar and used a payphone to call every Ryker in the phone book. When that didn’t work, he found a liquor store and bought a bottle of whiskey. Rationally, he should wire his parents for money and find another hotel.

  He just wasn’t feeling very rational.

  ***

  Skip hated playing with Nicky Bender, but it was a paying gig, and money was money. He’d been hired for three sets at the Camlin Hotel’s Cloud Room, across the street from the Paramount Theater. He liked the space okay. The acoustics weren’t too bad, and there was a nice view from eleven stories above the Denny Regrade. Big windows overlooked a warren of city lights, the top edge of the neon sign on the Paramount splashed cherry-red light on the wall, and the servers had a quick hand with the soda water whenever he raised an eyebrow. Nicky was a grody little greaser, but Skip could put up with him for a chance to play with a trio.

  He unpacked his horn, rubbing smudges off the bell with a soft cloth and blowing through the mouthpiece to clear out any crud. The small stage held a piano, a drum kit, a microphone, and a stool. He set his case on a nearby table so he’d be able to grab his mute when he needed it. The good thing was, Nicky would expect him to use the mute, to mimic Chet Baker’s West Coast cool style.

  “So, Johansen, you’re going to sing tonight, right?” Nicky’s whiny nasal voice flipp
ed him like a bonk on the funny bone. The bad thing was, the dork expected him to sing.

  “Why do you want my raspy voice on the mic?”

  “Because you’re the only one of us who can sing in tune.”

  “Most of the time.” Skip set aside his horn and propped himself with both hands on the stool. “Sure. I’ll sing.”

  “How ’bout five songs over the night?”

  Well, I wouldn’t want to interfere with your piano solos, would I. “You’re the boss.”

  Nicky gave him a smarmy salesman smile. “Write ’em on the set list.”

  Shaking his head, Skip grabbed the stub of a pencil and thought through the list of tunes he knew. “Misty.” “My Funny Valentine.” “Do Nothing Till You Hear From Me.” He grinned and wrote down “I’ve Got the World on a String,” the first song Russell sang the night of the jam. Maybe he’d convince him to sing it here tonight.

  If he showed up.

  All day, Skip had wrestled with nerves. He liked Russell too much, and sometimes the man returned the favor. When he wasn’t fussing about some woman or his own inclinations. If by some miracle Russell decided to stick around, one of those was bound to trip them up.

  Skip tried to ignore his lousy mood. Getting nailed by his supervisor hadn’t helped. He sucked in a breath, fighting the way his gut squirmed. He’d left Russell with a key and a list of places Ryker liked to hang out, and the other man promised he’d find his way here.

  Skip couldn’t do anything except wonder. He would show tonight. He had to.

  Three hours later, Skip was still wondering.

  The room had filled with people drawn in by Nicky Bender’s reputation for quality jazz. The soft, steady, murmur of conversation ebbed and flowed like waves under the music, though Skip struggled to keep his mind on his playing. Far too often, his attention wandered to the doorway, to the shadowy areas of the room, as if Russell had snuck in and hidden from him on purpose.

  No luck.

  Near the end of the third set, Nicky called for “My Funny Valentine.” Skip adjusted the mute covering the bell of his trumpet, then gently blew the opening notes. He had a few solo measures before Nicky joined on the piano. The sad, sweet phrases perfectly echoed Skip’s frame of mind. When it came to his physical needs, he took care of business easily enough, but he held most guys off with a slippery smile and empty promises. Not this time. Russell had so much confidence, so much strength, but his need called to Skip like neon through the fog.

  Damn the man. Skip wanted to hold out his hand and draw Russell in and make him feel safe. The buzz of his horn against his lips reminded him of the rough heat of Russell’s kiss, melancholy and oh so sweet. The band finished the first time through the melody. Time to sing.

  He lowered the horn. Stepped to the microphone. Inhaled. Skip’s voice didn’t match the beauty of his trumpet’s tone, but he knew the trick of letting the truth come through the words. From the crowd’s hush, he could tell he’d grabbed them, and for the first time all night, he let go. Uncertainty, sadness, and longing seeped into the phrases. The piano and drums created a steady foundation for his testimony, the forty people in the seats his witnesses.

  He stared at nothing, let the music take over. Glanced up.

  Russell stood in the doorway, jacket unbuttoned, hands shoved in his trousers pockets.

  The weight of his gaze stripped Skip naked, and he had to pull back from the microphone, let the horn finish the verse. Then the piano took over, and he could step back even further, only responsible for ornamenting the piano’s lead. A waitress directed Russell to a table near the window to Skip’s left. Russell found something fascinating outside, barely acknowledging the pretty young woman who handed him a highball half-full of amber liquid. His jaw was hard, and he tapped the table with one finger, not quite matching the drummer’s beat.

  Skip knew all this because for the final three songs in the set, he hadn’t been able to take his eyes off the table near the window to his left. Not that it was any big secret, but he was gone on Russell. The strength of his feeling made him draw in, close down. It turned his playing tentative and the crowd noise rose as if they all could tell how much he held back.

  Still, people were polite and used applause to encourage an encore. Nicky called for “Lover Man,” a bluesy old Billie Holiday song. The slow and mournful phrases allowed Skip to tell Russell exactly how he felt.

  If Russell was listening.

  Shut up. No more paranoia talking. The man’s here, isn’t he?

  The final notes were lost in a swell of applause. Once talking and laughter replaced the applause, Skip packed his gear, moving slowly, deliberately, forcing his nerves in line. The restaurant’s manager brought Nicky an envelope, and before he left the stage, Skip went over to get his share of the night’s take. Eight dollars. Union scale. Nicky asked him about an upcoming date, and Skip agreed without checking his calendar. Russell was paying his bill, and Skip’s heart dropped lower than the hotel lobby, afraid Russell would leave without even saying good night.

  Crazy thoughts, because Russell still had his spare key.

  Tension buzzed through Skip like a hi-hat going double time. He flipped the hair out of his face and did his best to act casual. He sidled between the tables, attention on the back of the room, where a haze of cigarette smoke shadowed the bar. He shot quick glances at Russell, who sat with his elbows on the table, fingers interlaced, one thumbnail caught between his teeth. Getting a hold of that mouth, those knuckles, would do a lot toward changing Skip’s mood, though the flat withdrawal in Russell’s eyes made him doubt he’d ever get the chance.

  “I knew you were good.” Russell tipped his chin, adjusted his shoulders, shook out his hands. “I was wrong.”

  Skip was slow to pull out a chair, slower still to sit. Russell’s mouth was relaxed, but his eyes were hot, angry, hungry.

  “You’re not just good,” Russell continued. “You’re an artist.” He placed his hands carefully on the table, palms down, fingers spread. “You’re a genius.”

  Skip settled into the chair, nodding at the empty highball on the table. “How much have you had to drink?”

  Russell’s eyelids slid to half-mast, and his grin wiped away most of his anger and tension, leaving only heat and hunger. “Whiskey was cheaper than food.”

  He spoke softly, but the waitress chose right then to lean over his shoulder and set some change on the table. Russell’s gaze dropped to the floor, and his cheeks flushed. Before Skip could figure out what was bugging him, a commotion in the doorway drew his attention.

  Marquise Johnson stood, fussing at one of the waiters. “Yes, I know y’all are closing, but I need to see Mr. Johansen. He’s right over there.”

  After a moment, the waiter gave up and let Marquise in. He sauntered over to their table, tall and lanky and as nelly as any man in the city. On bass or rhythm guitar, the guy kept time like a metronome. He’d been the heartbeat of too many bands for most musicians to pay attention to his eccentricities.

  The throbbing pulse in Russell’s jaw told Skip his visitor wouldn’t cut Marquise the same slack.

  “Darling!” Marquise crowed when he got close to their table. His name suggested he had some colored blood, but his skin was as fair as Skip’s.

  Skip couldn’t keep from grinning at the other man’s flouncing steps. “I haven’t seen you in forever, man. What are you doing here?”

  Marquise spun a chair around and straddled it, facing Russell and Skip. “You been holding out on us, Skippy. Who’s your new friend?”

  Something cracked over in Russell’s direction, and Skip hoped it was a knuckle and not a molar. “This is Russell. He’s just visiting from the Midwest.” And from the look on his face, he couldn’t run home fast enough. Skip exhaled hard. Geez, but he was tired of Russell’s moods. “You didn’t answer my question, Keezy. You should have come by earlier. We could have used you up there tonight.”

  “Nah.” Marquise waved a graceful hand, and R
ussell eased back in his chair.

  “I heard from old Diller down at the Double Header that he heard from Sven Michaelson’s piano player that you were looking for Ryker.”

  Skip blinked, tracking the connections. “You know where he is?”

  “I do indeed.” Marquise pursed his lips, as if he might tease Skip for the information.

  Russell’s chair scraped across the floor, hard enough to be rude. “’Scuse me. I’ll be, uh, back.” The wobble in his step tempted Skip to go after him, at least for the half a second it took anger to spark. Nope, the big guy would have to figure things out for himself. Skip crossed one leg over the other. Yeah, it was a swishy pose. He was a swishy guy. Let Russell chew on that for a while.

  “Skippy?” Marquise patted him on the shoulder. “I heard about your new boyfriend too.”

  Skip bit his lip to keep from saying something snappy. Of course people would talk.

  “My friend, you have got your hands full, don’t you.” Marquise’s pat turned into a shoulder rub. “But Lordy, what a ride that would be.”

  Skip rocked his head back, eyes shut, fighting a laugh. “Shut your trap, Keezy.” He sat up abruptly. “Wait, don’t shut it. Tell me where Ryker is.”

  Before he answered, Russell stumbled back from the direction of the bathroom. “I should go.”

  Skip half stood, reaching out a hand in case Russell went over. “Hang on, buddy.” He shot a glance at Marquise. “Where?”

  After a suggestive lick across his lower lip, Marquise answered. “Word from the bird is he’s out at his cabin in Long Beach. You know where that is, right?” He rose and spun the chair the right way around. “And now, as much as I’d love to stick around and help you two lovers find your way home, I’m going to leave you to your own devices.”