EasyRory
JUB Addict
Chapter Forty-Two
“Let's stop for a drink,” Curtis said abruptly; he braked hard and pulled up next to 'The Orange Canary', a country pub with few customers at the late hour. The silence of the drive had been edgy and uncomfortable, leaving both men wishing the distance to Alfred's house had been less. Alfred's suggestion that the night was late was ignored. They sat at a quiet table.
“We can't go to work tomorrow without answering a few questions first. Your questions ... my questions … “
“I don't really have any questions, Curtis. It was an odd evening, but it shouldn't upset our work.” Alfred didn't want to go over the evening with a microscope; but obviously Curtis did.
“This place used to be called the Orange Cannery, after a marmalade producer, but the cannery is gone and the name changed a bit. They do a nice cod fish pie,” Curtis temporized, delaying the start of his Q&A session until his brandy and Alfred's half-pint arrived.
“I didn't invite you tonight for my wife's amusement,” Curtis began.
“Yes, you did. You knew it would happen. I don't mind.”
“I knew it might happen; but my first impulse was just to get to know you, since we're going to be working together.”
“Good thought, but a restaurant – this place - might have been better.”
“This place is surprisingly expensive.” Curtis stated.
“Oh … well, there's a McDonald's near ...”
“Alfred, please be serious.”
“Do we really need to be? Can't we just laugh this off as a crazy night.”
“It was the best sex Emily and I have had in years. And ...”
“...and you want me up your bum every night?”
“... and I love her. I can't lose her. Nights like this aside, we have a good marriage.”
“Where is the problem? She enjoyed it. You were in her; I was in you. By mistake, I admit, but that's what is was.”
“That was the first time, almost since our honeymoon, that I was enough for her. And it was the first time I've ever been so … ardent or aggressive or I don't know what to call it. And I think it was because of you.”
“Because I misunderstood what you wanted. 'Put it in, Alfred' was not the clearest order I've ever been given. I'm still not sure what you meant.”
“I thought we could both fit into Emily and ...” Curtis left the rest unsaid. Alfred decided not to mention the fact that he had been in Emily, warming her up for Curtis. Her abandon, her heat and slick tightness, which was not like a man's grip at all, had been exciting; he had nearly come in her.
First Curtis smiled, then he laughed. “If we had a recording of this conversation, we could sell it for comedy.” He sipped his drink. “You really aren't too much bothered by it all, are you?” Alfred shook his head. “Emily's not bothered, either. I'm the one who is. You did fuck me, mate. I guess I can call you mate, eh? After tonight.”
“What happened happened. All we can do is laugh about it.”
“You weren't the first man we'd been with. But the others didn't … they fucked Emily. Not me.”
“I'm sorry ...”
“Don't be. I didn't mind; it was a shock at first, but ... it wasn't so bad and it seemed to inspire me.”
“Not going to happen again, though.” Alfred decided he needed to make that clear. He was afraid Curtis was leading up to another invitation.
“No. Of course not,” Curtis agreed.
Although their conversation hadn't resolved anything, the rest of the drive was relaxed and both of them were happier to discuss accounting.
“You're up late,” Alfred's mother commented when he came in.
“Co-worker invited me home for dinner,” Alfred said as he headed for his room.
Linda Booth approached her son and sniffed the air. “Quite a dinner,” she said dryly and waited for Alfred to respond. He didn't.
Theirs was not a close mother-son relationship; she tolerated but couldn't understand his homosexuality. As a mother, she had done her part, paying responsibly close attention to him until he was eighteen. Thereafter, it was hands-off; and, after her husband's death two years ago, she began leading her life for herself again. She helped with his school bills, but expected to be paid back. Still, the smell of a woman on Alfred was an intriguing novelty. She couldn't leave it alone.
“Just the two of you?”
“No, it was Curtis and his wife Emily.” Before any more questions arose, Alfred said goodnight with a comment about an early morning and closed the door to his room. He waited until his mother had retired for the night and took a shower. Lying in bed, waiting for sleep, he wondered if the night was really something he and Curtis could ignore. His personal surprise wasn't that he had fucked Curtis; it was the fact he preferred Emily.
'I like fucking your wife.' How was he supposed to tell that to his new mentor or, as Curtis put it, his new mate?
The new security programming took longer than Tom expected and then there had to be a testing period. He killed time by demonstrating the product to the De Young Museum. It wasn't a hard-sell, just a demo of what Berkeley, Stanford, and a part of the Smithsonian were doing. The De Young was not the best funded museum on the planet, but they might have an eventual interest, Tom figured.
While the building built to be impervious to earthquakes, it achieved this feature at a cost. It was aggressively ugly on the outside and boring on the inside. Its art collection lacked important pieces and was often dismissed as decorative except by certain cognoscenti; in the De Young's case, the cognoscenti were a specialists in arcane fields.
His contact, Coit Vermeulen, was sitting at his desk talking into his cellphone. It sounded as if he was talking to someone about a new job. His attitude was negative from the start.
“Is this a bad time?” Tom inquired politely about the appointment.
“No, it's fine. I've got De Young-itis this morning.” He didn't hide his interest in Tom and was further distracted watching Heiko set up the presentation.
“DeYoung-itis? Is it catchy?” Tom asked and got the tiniest of smiles in return.
“It's this new building. When the fog is right, it looks almost exactly like a pile of shit and it feels like it, too. We all get depressed.”
“Maybe some decorations?” Tom suggested.
“Starting with dynamite? Or maybe we could hire your assistant. He's decorative.” Vermeulen watched Heiko remove his outer shirt before running an extension cord to the projector. Bending over and crawling along the cords path, taping it down, Heiko provided handsome perspectives on human architecture.
“You can't have, Heiko,” Tom joked. “He's a student at Stanford and works for my company part-time.“
Despite initial indifference, Vermeulen payed attention to Tom's presentation and saw some advantages for the de Young. “The trouble is our collection is undistinguished – I didn't say that! - and our sponsored research is minimal. While the connectivity is great, it's not essential for us. Um, would Heiko be part of the installation team?”
“Depending on timing, he could manage any project here. He's that good. But his school schedule in September would mean he wouldn't have the time.” With that red herring Tom signed the De Young to an installation for a modest query capability. It was trivial in terms of money, but it was the most Vermeulen had approval authority for and signing another museum was good for the product.
“Would you like to get together later?” Vermeulen asked when the business was concluded. His question seemed aimed at either Tom or Heiko. Tom declined, but Heiko said he'd like to tour the museum when the installation was complete. He called his host Mr. Vermeulen.
“Call-me-Coit” was delighted. “I could show you the Legion of Honor, too, if you want. And the MoMA. That's close to my apartment.”
“I think your ass sold that deal. What is it about you and museum workers?” Tom joked as they walked to the parking lot.
“Next time I should wear tighter pants, maybe. I will scare up the gear and install it Monday. I think there are boxes and monitors left over from something the medical group was doing. Coit wants some instruction time for himself and a couple of others.”
“Coit wants more than that. What about your friend Cooper?”
Heiko just grinned. “Cooper lives in South Bay. Coit lives in the Mission,” he said.
“How much installation time did you budget?”
“Just a day. That's all the equipment money he had. But he had three days of training money,” Heiko grinned.
Back at the office, Tom related to Rory the small piece of business he had captured. “Museum workers and Heiko. I don't get it … I can't keep them apart.”
“I think it's the nerdiness,” Rory suggested. “Heiko is a nerd in a jock's body; it's irresistible. We're all kind of that way.”
“Well, you do the hiring, boss. Got any other discoveries out in the parking lot?”
“I wish we could get Darren full time, if that's ok with you.” Rory paused and looked at Tom. “Didn't you and he …?”
“Not a problem. I might not be around anyway. I'm kind of looking for a way to stay in England, uh, you know, maybe.”
“Alfred's a big deal?”
“Very.”
Brent and especially Lucky preened. The Apartment C installation was completed without a hitch and was previewed for the Freer Gallery's Board of Trustees and a few congressional staffers important to the musuem's funding. The trouble began almost immediately. Some of the Smithsonian's managers felt the explicit sex depicted wasn't appropriate for the Smithsonian's PG-rated image. There were leaks to the press and unofficial reports to the politically sensitive Board of Regents pointing out the most lurid aspects of the new display.
“We aim at a family tourist trade. We don't want to offend the moms and dads of America by showing pornography to their children,” one senator who was also an Institute regent, complained. Experts' reports saying it wasn't pornography meant nothing to a senator up for election. “I can't countenance the celebration of every kind of perverted sex imaginable at public expense. It's one thing to show it in a private museum in Manhattan. It's another to put it on the nation's Mall.”
The official opening was repeatedly delayed. What was conceived as a brilliant art coup became a career-threatening monster. Other museums in Washington got dragged into the controversy. The ones that were large enough to accommodate the installation refused and the ones that would accept it were tiny publicity-seeking nonentities. The Washington Post decried the sanctimony of the critics while splashing the most lurid descriptions of the exhibition all over their front page day after day. Pastors preached and bishops blasted. The end of all moral order was predicted. The helpless little children, the innocent civilians in this Washington war, had to be protected. Eventually the Post obtained some grainy photos of the paintings which were displayed with specific anatomical features pixelated while leaving no doubt even in the mind of a five-year-old about the acts depicted.
It took all of Brent's political instincts and bureaucratic skills to maneuver nimbly, He pointed out independent valuations of the art, terms of the donation, the charter of the Freer, and the opinions of experts, without ever revealing his own opinions or advocacy. He successfully portrayed himself as a hapless and helpless minion, caught up in events beyond his control.
Lucky wasn't so lucky. His relationship with Mike was publicized. His accidental exposure at the Cathedral – in front of the children! tutted the Post - was shown in blurry videos during the six o'clock news. His string of girl friends was always published in counterpoint to a photo of Mike. To reduce the mayhem at the museum offices, he was put on a leave of absence. The Merridell art trove had turned into a career-threatening monster.
“At least they're paying you,” Al said. “What will I say to my unborn child? Your father was a lovable pornographer?”
“Your what? When did you find out? Al ... Really? So, it will be next March sometime? That is such good news! Couldn't be better. How do you feel? Sit down!” Lucky shotgunned Al with orders and congratulations. He was instantly lifted out of his funk - he was overjoyed.
“I'll stand, thank you. I'm fine. The prediction is Saint Patrick's Day, but the doctor's Irish,” Al shrugged. “What about you? How are you taking this pornographic museum business?”
“I've already had some job offers. Not as good as what I have, but not so bad either.”
“Maybe you should open a museum of pornography. That might work.”
“It's already been done. More than once. Back to important things. Are you really feeling good? Morning sickness?”
A honking horn interrupted them and a taxi sped up the driveway. Mike got out and climbed the outside steps to the porch.. He was disgusted. “I want a drink and I want a fuck.”
“I'll take care of the drink,” Al said. She went into Tom's apartment for the makings.
“What's the matter?” Lucky asked.
“It's bad enough I'm taking Apartment C down and putting it into storage. Now I can't even get in my own driveway. I had to hire a taxi to bulldoze through the crowd on Macomb Street.”
“Assholes,” Lucky muttered. “As soon as the word gets out that we're storing the thing, they'll lose interest. Something else will come along and this will all blow over. Washington can only handle one crisis at a time. You want some good news?”
“Yeah ...” Mike was disgusted with the world.
“I still love you,” Lucky said.
“Yeah?” Mike smiled.
“I'm still going to marry you ... eventually.”
“Really?” Mike beamed and hugged Lucky.
“And I'm gonna have a baby.” Mike's mouth fell open. “I mean Al is. Al's going to have a baby.”
Al returned with two gin and tonics strong enough soften leather and a third barely flavored with alcohol for herself. Mike pulled away from kissing Lucky. “I've been congratulating the expectant father. Can I congratulate the expectant mother?” Al smiled and got a more reserved kiss.
Matt and Rawson tromped up the stairs. “Being a twin sucks!” Matt snarled.
“He was mistaken for Mike and some woman tried to spit on him,” Rawson explained. “She called him a pander and the guy next to her wanted to know what panthers had to do with porn.” Rawson tickled an annoyed Matt and got shoved away. “She didn't know how to spit. It just kind of dribbled down her chin.” Matt smiled a little. “Matt told her panthers drool too and the guy next to her asked, 'Panther? Is that like a code word for penis?' And she hit him.” Rawson had Matt giggling in his arms as a visibly pregnant Debbie hove into view, holding her back.
“Damn stairs aren't getting any easier,” she growled and looked at Al as if Al had got her pregnant.
Ann arrived last in time for Al's second announcement of her pregnancy. After the congratulations ended, Ann smiled and said, “I'm pregnant, too.”
Al and Debbie looked accusingly at the assembled men and asked her, “Who's the father?”
“I, er … ahem, that is … I have no idea.” Ann hoped her defiant look would rule out any further questions. It didn't, of course.
Her final answer was, “It seemed like a good idea.” She burst into piteous and inconsolable sobs.
Alistair's relapse left him alone after a couple of days; the health horror crept back into its cave. He was back at work eager to see the start of Tom's project. “You know, Percy, my health comes and goes these days. I've really got to finish up some of these things. I haven't got forever anymore. I used to have forever, but not any more.”
Persephone tolerated the use of her nickname and shushed Alistair. “Let's not be planning the memorial service just yet. What did the doctor say?”
“Bah! What do doctors know?”
“Alistair, you can be talking of dying and ignoring ...”
“Who's talking of dying? Retirement is what I'm considering. The only predictable thing about my health is I don't handle pressure well and London life is a pressure autoclave. I think quieter times would suit me. Maybe sell a painting or two to pad out the pittance the Museum will give me.” Alistair pondered briefly and then returned to the day's reality. “When is Tom getting back? I miss him. He's so American and positive about everything. If I were younger, I wouldn't be pushing Alfred at him. Do I have to go to that luncheon today? I wish I could set aside one day a week to eat and ignore food all the other days. Especially, luncheon. What a terrible meal. It disrupts everything.”
“Tom's due back not later than next week. I'll cancel the luncheon. Who is Alfred?”
“The artist who did that new one. Where? Ummm, the riverscape over there.” Alistair pointed to the drawing Alfred had given him that now hung on his wall.
“You're promoting something with Tom?”
“More than promoting,” he announced with the pride of a new father. “I've done it. They're totally smitten. A match for the ages. Even Edmund agrees and you know how reluctant he is to believe anything will last.”
“Smart man, your Edmund.”
Alistair's thoughts had already moved on. He was reading a revised directive which restated the British Museum's policy on accepting controversial donations. “Poor Brent. Have you read about the hornet's nest at the Smithsonian?”
“Yes, I wish there were some accurate photographs of exactly what the murals are. It's hard to guess why they're all abuzz.”
“The Americans are amazingly tolerant of blatant things that they can pretend to overlook; but if you wave a red flag in their faces, they feel obliged to react in very bullish ways. Could you get him on the line for me?”
“Too early. I think it's six in the morning there. I'll try after that meal which must not be named.”
“Oh, alright. I'll go to the blasted luncheon.”
The blasted luncheon was for middle and upper level museum officials at the Royal Automobile Club an inconvenient distance from the Museum; it was a bit far to walk in a hurry and too close by for a frugal man to take a taxi. So Alistair left early and walked, hoping for a raspberry dessert. The rest of the meal he knew would be hopeless.
His illness had convinced him that modern civilization revolved around a lot of people eating a lot of meals nobody really wanted. They'll call it lamb, but it will be mutton, he predicted. The sauce will contain enough mint to sweeten dog's breath. The peas … no, it's summer. The broccoli will be grey. Or maybe courgettes, cooked to disintegration. What do Americans call them? Zoo-something.
Contemplating the catering made the distance fly by, Alistair thought as he left Saint James's Square and crossed Pall Mall. The traffic was light on a grand boulevard laid out to go nowhere. The hulking Club building lay ahead. The exercise had improved his mood. On signal, he began crossing only to be shunted out of the way by an ambulance van with flashing lights. “Oh for God's sake, some royal must be attending!” He was tempted to turn around and return to the Museum.
It wasn't a royal arriving; it was a guest departing, feet first. The shoes stuck out from under the blanket covering a corpse, quite respectable shoes that had been resoled at least once, Alistair noted. A strange bulge in the blanket made Alistair wonder about the old fable that men died with erections.
“A nice old chap ...” one onlooker muttered.
“But ga-ga for at least the last ten years,” his companion added.
The corpse had been a mid-level functionary at the National Trust, Alistair learned. He wasn't sure if he had met the man, but it seemed probable that he would have at some point or other.
“Now maybe that office will get some work done ...” another voice whispered.
“Superannuated old buffoon. The only thing he read in detail were the honours lists that he was never on,” an arch young man answered.
Alistair resolved to retire at that moment. It was a liberating decision. Immediately he felt above the fray, hors de combat, bullet-proof. His mood brightened, his step became bouncy, and he sought conviviality at the bar.
“Let's hoist one to old whats-his-name,” said a friend from the Tate.
“An brilliant idea. Then let's hoist one to me,” Alistair answered.
“To you?”
“To my retirement,” said the most bubbly person in the large room.
“We're still ok?” Curtis asked as he slunk into his chair. He was late for work. It had been noted by Huxley.
“We're ok. Huxley, maybe is not. He was looking for you,” Alfred answered.
“I can handle him,” Curtis sighed and sorted through his mail.
“Curtis, this florist, considering all his losses of inventory, shouldn't he have a larger bill for trash removal? His drayage and disposal costs are constant, while his inventory losses vary. What happens to dead flowers?”
“I believe they are fed to Princess Anne for fodder.” Curtis turned to Alfred with a hint of desperation in his eyes. “Will you come to dinner again? Soon?”
“But these books make no sense. Can we talk to the owner? Could we visit his shop?”
“Dinner, Alfred! Yes?”
Alfred semi-accepted the invitation in a vague indefinite way and left early for lunch. He sat next to his friend at a bar and ordered fish. “Dylan, you look different,” he observed. “Well, to business. Do you remember China's friend, Crispin?”
“Do I? You bet I do. Where do you think I've been spending half my nights?”
“You and China? You and Crispin?”
“Yes, a little, to the first. Yes, a lot, to the second.” Dylan was dying to tell all. “She's willing but reserved. He's wild. He'll try anything. And so far there isn't anything he doesn't like. When's Tom coming back?”
“I don't know. Are you with China and Crispin all the time?”
“Can you believe this? There's also this guy, Henry, who's interested in me. He works in a clothing store; he gave me this shirt.”
“Good for you. Two guys and a girl.”
“Well, there's Daniel. He's the one I really like. We're going to watch Norwich play Real Zaragoza.” Dylan leaned close and whispered in Alfred's ear. “It took a lot of persuasion, but I got him to fuck me.” Then he resumed a normal tone. “He's not completely comfortable with it yet. Not comfortable at all, But, Alfred … I think he's the one.” Dylan looked as if his heart would burst.
Alfred's focus was flowers. “Dylan, back to Crispin for a minute. Is there anything odd about him?”
“Plenty odd. He makes China watch us fuck. I think he gets off on it. I don't think he's really doing much for her at all any more, physically.”
“No, I mean financially. Does he have more money than a florist's assistant should?”
“How much is a florist's assistant supposed to have? He's living in China's apartment and I've never actually seen him buy anything. I could describe his body in complete detail, but I don't really know much else about him.”
“Anything odd about his body then? And as long as we're on that subject, you're looking pretty posh.”
“Thanks to your man Tom. Crispin's body … Hmm … Pretty ordinary in size and shape. All the right things are present in the right number. He's got a couple of tattoos in Chinese – no idea what they say. Scars on his hands and wrists. He says they're from cutting flowers. I think he dies his hair darker. He got lots of freckles on his body, like a ginger. It all works out better than I'm making him sound. He's flat out sexy, in fact. I like the freckles. Tried to count them once.”
Alfred took in the facts and let Dylan return to the subject of Daniel, the first crush of Dylan's life who was crushing back. “He's like a puppy, Alfred. You just want to hug him all the time. And he likes being hugged!”
“What does he think about Crispin and Henry?”
“Uh … he doesn't. He doesn't know about them.”
“I think you're going to hurt him very badly then.”
“Why? We don't have any arrangement. I mean, we would … I'd be willing, but he's so new to this. He's still getting used to the sex part. It's a major adjustment for him. He still won't see me more than once or twice a week. When he does he's a passion pit all by himself, but then he feels guilty when we're done.”
“All the more reason not to hurt him. If he finds out he's only one of a long line of ...” Alfred stopped in shock. My God, he thought. Would Tom feel the same way?
“Let's stop for a drink,” Curtis said abruptly; he braked hard and pulled up next to 'The Orange Canary', a country pub with few customers at the late hour. The silence of the drive had been edgy and uncomfortable, leaving both men wishing the distance to Alfred's house had been less. Alfred's suggestion that the night was late was ignored. They sat at a quiet table.
“We can't go to work tomorrow without answering a few questions first. Your questions ... my questions … “
“I don't really have any questions, Curtis. It was an odd evening, but it shouldn't upset our work.” Alfred didn't want to go over the evening with a microscope; but obviously Curtis did.
“This place used to be called the Orange Cannery, after a marmalade producer, but the cannery is gone and the name changed a bit. They do a nice cod fish pie,” Curtis temporized, delaying the start of his Q&A session until his brandy and Alfred's half-pint arrived.
“I didn't invite you tonight for my wife's amusement,” Curtis began.
“Yes, you did. You knew it would happen. I don't mind.”
“I knew it might happen; but my first impulse was just to get to know you, since we're going to be working together.”
“Good thought, but a restaurant – this place - might have been better.”
“This place is surprisingly expensive.” Curtis stated.
“Oh … well, there's a McDonald's near ...”
“Alfred, please be serious.”
“Do we really need to be? Can't we just laugh this off as a crazy night.”
“It was the best sex Emily and I have had in years. And ...”
“...and you want me up your bum every night?”
“... and I love her. I can't lose her. Nights like this aside, we have a good marriage.”
“Where is the problem? She enjoyed it. You were in her; I was in you. By mistake, I admit, but that's what is was.”
“That was the first time, almost since our honeymoon, that I was enough for her. And it was the first time I've ever been so … ardent or aggressive or I don't know what to call it. And I think it was because of you.”
“Because I misunderstood what you wanted. 'Put it in, Alfred' was not the clearest order I've ever been given. I'm still not sure what you meant.”
“I thought we could both fit into Emily and ...” Curtis left the rest unsaid. Alfred decided not to mention the fact that he had been in Emily, warming her up for Curtis. Her abandon, her heat and slick tightness, which was not like a man's grip at all, had been exciting; he had nearly come in her.
First Curtis smiled, then he laughed. “If we had a recording of this conversation, we could sell it for comedy.” He sipped his drink. “You really aren't too much bothered by it all, are you?” Alfred shook his head. “Emily's not bothered, either. I'm the one who is. You did fuck me, mate. I guess I can call you mate, eh? After tonight.”
“What happened happened. All we can do is laugh about it.”
“You weren't the first man we'd been with. But the others didn't … they fucked Emily. Not me.”
“I'm sorry ...”
“Don't be. I didn't mind; it was a shock at first, but ... it wasn't so bad and it seemed to inspire me.”
“Not going to happen again, though.” Alfred decided he needed to make that clear. He was afraid Curtis was leading up to another invitation.
“No. Of course not,” Curtis agreed.
Although their conversation hadn't resolved anything, the rest of the drive was relaxed and both of them were happier to discuss accounting.
“You're up late,” Alfred's mother commented when he came in.
“Co-worker invited me home for dinner,” Alfred said as he headed for his room.
Linda Booth approached her son and sniffed the air. “Quite a dinner,” she said dryly and waited for Alfred to respond. He didn't.
Theirs was not a close mother-son relationship; she tolerated but couldn't understand his homosexuality. As a mother, she had done her part, paying responsibly close attention to him until he was eighteen. Thereafter, it was hands-off; and, after her husband's death two years ago, she began leading her life for herself again. She helped with his school bills, but expected to be paid back. Still, the smell of a woman on Alfred was an intriguing novelty. She couldn't leave it alone.
“Just the two of you?”
“No, it was Curtis and his wife Emily.” Before any more questions arose, Alfred said goodnight with a comment about an early morning and closed the door to his room. He waited until his mother had retired for the night and took a shower. Lying in bed, waiting for sleep, he wondered if the night was really something he and Curtis could ignore. His personal surprise wasn't that he had fucked Curtis; it was the fact he preferred Emily.
'I like fucking your wife.' How was he supposed to tell that to his new mentor or, as Curtis put it, his new mate?
The new security programming took longer than Tom expected and then there had to be a testing period. He killed time by demonstrating the product to the De Young Museum. It wasn't a hard-sell, just a demo of what Berkeley, Stanford, and a part of the Smithsonian were doing. The De Young was not the best funded museum on the planet, but they might have an eventual interest, Tom figured.
While the building built to be impervious to earthquakes, it achieved this feature at a cost. It was aggressively ugly on the outside and boring on the inside. Its art collection lacked important pieces and was often dismissed as decorative except by certain cognoscenti; in the De Young's case, the cognoscenti were a specialists in arcane fields.
His contact, Coit Vermeulen, was sitting at his desk talking into his cellphone. It sounded as if he was talking to someone about a new job. His attitude was negative from the start.
“Is this a bad time?” Tom inquired politely about the appointment.
“No, it's fine. I've got De Young-itis this morning.” He didn't hide his interest in Tom and was further distracted watching Heiko set up the presentation.
“DeYoung-itis? Is it catchy?” Tom asked and got the tiniest of smiles in return.
“It's this new building. When the fog is right, it looks almost exactly like a pile of shit and it feels like it, too. We all get depressed.”
“Maybe some decorations?” Tom suggested.
“Starting with dynamite? Or maybe we could hire your assistant. He's decorative.” Vermeulen watched Heiko remove his outer shirt before running an extension cord to the projector. Bending over and crawling along the cords path, taping it down, Heiko provided handsome perspectives on human architecture.
“You can't have, Heiko,” Tom joked. “He's a student at Stanford and works for my company part-time.“
Despite initial indifference, Vermeulen payed attention to Tom's presentation and saw some advantages for the de Young. “The trouble is our collection is undistinguished – I didn't say that! - and our sponsored research is minimal. While the connectivity is great, it's not essential for us. Um, would Heiko be part of the installation team?”
“Depending on timing, he could manage any project here. He's that good. But his school schedule in September would mean he wouldn't have the time.” With that red herring Tom signed the De Young to an installation for a modest query capability. It was trivial in terms of money, but it was the most Vermeulen had approval authority for and signing another museum was good for the product.
“Would you like to get together later?” Vermeulen asked when the business was concluded. His question seemed aimed at either Tom or Heiko. Tom declined, but Heiko said he'd like to tour the museum when the installation was complete. He called his host Mr. Vermeulen.
“Call-me-Coit” was delighted. “I could show you the Legion of Honor, too, if you want. And the MoMA. That's close to my apartment.”
“I think your ass sold that deal. What is it about you and museum workers?” Tom joked as they walked to the parking lot.
“Next time I should wear tighter pants, maybe. I will scare up the gear and install it Monday. I think there are boxes and monitors left over from something the medical group was doing. Coit wants some instruction time for himself and a couple of others.”
“Coit wants more than that. What about your friend Cooper?”
Heiko just grinned. “Cooper lives in South Bay. Coit lives in the Mission,” he said.
“How much installation time did you budget?”
“Just a day. That's all the equipment money he had. But he had three days of training money,” Heiko grinned.
Back at the office, Tom related to Rory the small piece of business he had captured. “Museum workers and Heiko. I don't get it … I can't keep them apart.”
“I think it's the nerdiness,” Rory suggested. “Heiko is a nerd in a jock's body; it's irresistible. We're all kind of that way.”
“Well, you do the hiring, boss. Got any other discoveries out in the parking lot?”
“I wish we could get Darren full time, if that's ok with you.” Rory paused and looked at Tom. “Didn't you and he …?”
“Not a problem. I might not be around anyway. I'm kind of looking for a way to stay in England, uh, you know, maybe.”
“Alfred's a big deal?”
“Very.”
Brent and especially Lucky preened. The Apartment C installation was completed without a hitch and was previewed for the Freer Gallery's Board of Trustees and a few congressional staffers important to the musuem's funding. The trouble began almost immediately. Some of the Smithsonian's managers felt the explicit sex depicted wasn't appropriate for the Smithsonian's PG-rated image. There were leaks to the press and unofficial reports to the politically sensitive Board of Regents pointing out the most lurid aspects of the new display.
“We aim at a family tourist trade. We don't want to offend the moms and dads of America by showing pornography to their children,” one senator who was also an Institute regent, complained. Experts' reports saying it wasn't pornography meant nothing to a senator up for election. “I can't countenance the celebration of every kind of perverted sex imaginable at public expense. It's one thing to show it in a private museum in Manhattan. It's another to put it on the nation's Mall.”
The official opening was repeatedly delayed. What was conceived as a brilliant art coup became a career-threatening monster. Other museums in Washington got dragged into the controversy. The ones that were large enough to accommodate the installation refused and the ones that would accept it were tiny publicity-seeking nonentities. The Washington Post decried the sanctimony of the critics while splashing the most lurid descriptions of the exhibition all over their front page day after day. Pastors preached and bishops blasted. The end of all moral order was predicted. The helpless little children, the innocent civilians in this Washington war, had to be protected. Eventually the Post obtained some grainy photos of the paintings which were displayed with specific anatomical features pixelated while leaving no doubt even in the mind of a five-year-old about the acts depicted.
It took all of Brent's political instincts and bureaucratic skills to maneuver nimbly, He pointed out independent valuations of the art, terms of the donation, the charter of the Freer, and the opinions of experts, without ever revealing his own opinions or advocacy. He successfully portrayed himself as a hapless and helpless minion, caught up in events beyond his control.
Lucky wasn't so lucky. His relationship with Mike was publicized. His accidental exposure at the Cathedral – in front of the children! tutted the Post - was shown in blurry videos during the six o'clock news. His string of girl friends was always published in counterpoint to a photo of Mike. To reduce the mayhem at the museum offices, he was put on a leave of absence. The Merridell art trove had turned into a career-threatening monster.
“At least they're paying you,” Al said. “What will I say to my unborn child? Your father was a lovable pornographer?”
“Your what? When did you find out? Al ... Really? So, it will be next March sometime? That is such good news! Couldn't be better. How do you feel? Sit down!” Lucky shotgunned Al with orders and congratulations. He was instantly lifted out of his funk - he was overjoyed.
“I'll stand, thank you. I'm fine. The prediction is Saint Patrick's Day, but the doctor's Irish,” Al shrugged. “What about you? How are you taking this pornographic museum business?”
“I've already had some job offers. Not as good as what I have, but not so bad either.”
“Maybe you should open a museum of pornography. That might work.”
“It's already been done. More than once. Back to important things. Are you really feeling good? Morning sickness?”
A honking horn interrupted them and a taxi sped up the driveway. Mike got out and climbed the outside steps to the porch.. He was disgusted. “I want a drink and I want a fuck.”
“I'll take care of the drink,” Al said. She went into Tom's apartment for the makings.
“What's the matter?” Lucky asked.
“It's bad enough I'm taking Apartment C down and putting it into storage. Now I can't even get in my own driveway. I had to hire a taxi to bulldoze through the crowd on Macomb Street.”
“Assholes,” Lucky muttered. “As soon as the word gets out that we're storing the thing, they'll lose interest. Something else will come along and this will all blow over. Washington can only handle one crisis at a time. You want some good news?”
“Yeah ...” Mike was disgusted with the world.
“I still love you,” Lucky said.
“Yeah?” Mike smiled.
“I'm still going to marry you ... eventually.”
“Really?” Mike beamed and hugged Lucky.
“And I'm gonna have a baby.” Mike's mouth fell open. “I mean Al is. Al's going to have a baby.”
Al returned with two gin and tonics strong enough soften leather and a third barely flavored with alcohol for herself. Mike pulled away from kissing Lucky. “I've been congratulating the expectant father. Can I congratulate the expectant mother?” Al smiled and got a more reserved kiss.
Matt and Rawson tromped up the stairs. “Being a twin sucks!” Matt snarled.
“He was mistaken for Mike and some woman tried to spit on him,” Rawson explained. “She called him a pander and the guy next to her wanted to know what panthers had to do with porn.” Rawson tickled an annoyed Matt and got shoved away. “She didn't know how to spit. It just kind of dribbled down her chin.” Matt smiled a little. “Matt told her panthers drool too and the guy next to her asked, 'Panther? Is that like a code word for penis?' And she hit him.” Rawson had Matt giggling in his arms as a visibly pregnant Debbie hove into view, holding her back.
“Damn stairs aren't getting any easier,” she growled and looked at Al as if Al had got her pregnant.
Ann arrived last in time for Al's second announcement of her pregnancy. After the congratulations ended, Ann smiled and said, “I'm pregnant, too.”
Al and Debbie looked accusingly at the assembled men and asked her, “Who's the father?”
“I, er … ahem, that is … I have no idea.” Ann hoped her defiant look would rule out any further questions. It didn't, of course.
Her final answer was, “It seemed like a good idea.” She burst into piteous and inconsolable sobs.
Alistair's relapse left him alone after a couple of days; the health horror crept back into its cave. He was back at work eager to see the start of Tom's project. “You know, Percy, my health comes and goes these days. I've really got to finish up some of these things. I haven't got forever anymore. I used to have forever, but not any more.”
Persephone tolerated the use of her nickname and shushed Alistair. “Let's not be planning the memorial service just yet. What did the doctor say?”
“Bah! What do doctors know?”
“Alistair, you can be talking of dying and ignoring ...”
“Who's talking of dying? Retirement is what I'm considering. The only predictable thing about my health is I don't handle pressure well and London life is a pressure autoclave. I think quieter times would suit me. Maybe sell a painting or two to pad out the pittance the Museum will give me.” Alistair pondered briefly and then returned to the day's reality. “When is Tom getting back? I miss him. He's so American and positive about everything. If I were younger, I wouldn't be pushing Alfred at him. Do I have to go to that luncheon today? I wish I could set aside one day a week to eat and ignore food all the other days. Especially, luncheon. What a terrible meal. It disrupts everything.”
“Tom's due back not later than next week. I'll cancel the luncheon. Who is Alfred?”
“The artist who did that new one. Where? Ummm, the riverscape over there.” Alistair pointed to the drawing Alfred had given him that now hung on his wall.
“You're promoting something with Tom?”
“More than promoting,” he announced with the pride of a new father. “I've done it. They're totally smitten. A match for the ages. Even Edmund agrees and you know how reluctant he is to believe anything will last.”
“Smart man, your Edmund.”
Alistair's thoughts had already moved on. He was reading a revised directive which restated the British Museum's policy on accepting controversial donations. “Poor Brent. Have you read about the hornet's nest at the Smithsonian?”
“Yes, I wish there were some accurate photographs of exactly what the murals are. It's hard to guess why they're all abuzz.”
“The Americans are amazingly tolerant of blatant things that they can pretend to overlook; but if you wave a red flag in their faces, they feel obliged to react in very bullish ways. Could you get him on the line for me?”
“Too early. I think it's six in the morning there. I'll try after that meal which must not be named.”
“Oh, alright. I'll go to the blasted luncheon.”
The blasted luncheon was for middle and upper level museum officials at the Royal Automobile Club an inconvenient distance from the Museum; it was a bit far to walk in a hurry and too close by for a frugal man to take a taxi. So Alistair left early and walked, hoping for a raspberry dessert. The rest of the meal he knew would be hopeless.
His illness had convinced him that modern civilization revolved around a lot of people eating a lot of meals nobody really wanted. They'll call it lamb, but it will be mutton, he predicted. The sauce will contain enough mint to sweeten dog's breath. The peas … no, it's summer. The broccoli will be grey. Or maybe courgettes, cooked to disintegration. What do Americans call them? Zoo-something.
Contemplating the catering made the distance fly by, Alistair thought as he left Saint James's Square and crossed Pall Mall. The traffic was light on a grand boulevard laid out to go nowhere. The hulking Club building lay ahead. The exercise had improved his mood. On signal, he began crossing only to be shunted out of the way by an ambulance van with flashing lights. “Oh for God's sake, some royal must be attending!” He was tempted to turn around and return to the Museum.
It wasn't a royal arriving; it was a guest departing, feet first. The shoes stuck out from under the blanket covering a corpse, quite respectable shoes that had been resoled at least once, Alistair noted. A strange bulge in the blanket made Alistair wonder about the old fable that men died with erections.
“A nice old chap ...” one onlooker muttered.
“But ga-ga for at least the last ten years,” his companion added.
The corpse had been a mid-level functionary at the National Trust, Alistair learned. He wasn't sure if he had met the man, but it seemed probable that he would have at some point or other.
“Now maybe that office will get some work done ...” another voice whispered.
“Superannuated old buffoon. The only thing he read in detail were the honours lists that he was never on,” an arch young man answered.
Alistair resolved to retire at that moment. It was a liberating decision. Immediately he felt above the fray, hors de combat, bullet-proof. His mood brightened, his step became bouncy, and he sought conviviality at the bar.
“Let's hoist one to old whats-his-name,” said a friend from the Tate.
“An brilliant idea. Then let's hoist one to me,” Alistair answered.
“To you?”
“To my retirement,” said the most bubbly person in the large room.
“We're still ok?” Curtis asked as he slunk into his chair. He was late for work. It had been noted by Huxley.
“We're ok. Huxley, maybe is not. He was looking for you,” Alfred answered.
“I can handle him,” Curtis sighed and sorted through his mail.
“Curtis, this florist, considering all his losses of inventory, shouldn't he have a larger bill for trash removal? His drayage and disposal costs are constant, while his inventory losses vary. What happens to dead flowers?”
“I believe they are fed to Princess Anne for fodder.” Curtis turned to Alfred with a hint of desperation in his eyes. “Will you come to dinner again? Soon?”
“But these books make no sense. Can we talk to the owner? Could we visit his shop?”
“Dinner, Alfred! Yes?”
Alfred semi-accepted the invitation in a vague indefinite way and left early for lunch. He sat next to his friend at a bar and ordered fish. “Dylan, you look different,” he observed. “Well, to business. Do you remember China's friend, Crispin?”
“Do I? You bet I do. Where do you think I've been spending half my nights?”
“You and China? You and Crispin?”
“Yes, a little, to the first. Yes, a lot, to the second.” Dylan was dying to tell all. “She's willing but reserved. He's wild. He'll try anything. And so far there isn't anything he doesn't like. When's Tom coming back?”
“I don't know. Are you with China and Crispin all the time?”
“Can you believe this? There's also this guy, Henry, who's interested in me. He works in a clothing store; he gave me this shirt.”
“Good for you. Two guys and a girl.”
“Well, there's Daniel. He's the one I really like. We're going to watch Norwich play Real Zaragoza.” Dylan leaned close and whispered in Alfred's ear. “It took a lot of persuasion, but I got him to fuck me.” Then he resumed a normal tone. “He's not completely comfortable with it yet. Not comfortable at all, But, Alfred … I think he's the one.” Dylan looked as if his heart would burst.
Alfred's focus was flowers. “Dylan, back to Crispin for a minute. Is there anything odd about him?”
“Plenty odd. He makes China watch us fuck. I think he gets off on it. I don't think he's really doing much for her at all any more, physically.”
“No, I mean financially. Does he have more money than a florist's assistant should?”
“How much is a florist's assistant supposed to have? He's living in China's apartment and I've never actually seen him buy anything. I could describe his body in complete detail, but I don't really know much else about him.”
“Anything odd about his body then? And as long as we're on that subject, you're looking pretty posh.”
“Thanks to your man Tom. Crispin's body … Hmm … Pretty ordinary in size and shape. All the right things are present in the right number. He's got a couple of tattoos in Chinese – no idea what they say. Scars on his hands and wrists. He says they're from cutting flowers. I think he dies his hair darker. He got lots of freckles on his body, like a ginger. It all works out better than I'm making him sound. He's flat out sexy, in fact. I like the freckles. Tried to count them once.”
Alfred took in the facts and let Dylan return to the subject of Daniel, the first crush of Dylan's life who was crushing back. “He's like a puppy, Alfred. You just want to hug him all the time. And he likes being hugged!”
“What does he think about Crispin and Henry?”
“Uh … he doesn't. He doesn't know about them.”
“I think you're going to hurt him very badly then.”
“Why? We don't have any arrangement. I mean, we would … I'd be willing, but he's so new to this. He's still getting used to the sex part. It's a major adjustment for him. He still won't see me more than once or twice a week. When he does he's a passion pit all by himself, but then he feels guilty when we're done.”
“All the more reason not to hurt him. If he finds out he's only one of a long line of ...” Alfred stopped in shock. My God, he thought. Would Tom feel the same way?
