Slate (7 page)

“You know,” Valentine said, “I wondered if we'd get on each other's nerves living so close together—seeing each other all the time…”

“We shared a house in P'town.”

“P'town was different,” he shrugged. “That's a resort. This is the city. But I see less of you now than when we lived on opposite sides of Boston.”

“We're both busy at different things,” said Clarisse. “Me with classes, you with Slate”—she paused significantly—“
and
with Linc.”

Valentine's brow wrinkled. “You're jealous? I thought you had gotten over all that.”

“I couldn't live so close to you if I hadn't,” said Clarisse with a little shrug. “I was just pointing out the fact that Linc has all but moved in with you. No, I'm not jealous. Though I have to admit it's disconcerting to hear you two banging in at half past two on a Saturday night, drunk and happy, while I'm up there going blind, reading. Where is Mr. Hamilton, by the way?”

“He went to pick up some tile samples. He's been working very hard.”

“He's been working hard to please his employer,” Clarisse suggested. Then she glanced over Valentine's shoulder toward the door of the shop. Valentine followed her gaze and saw Paul Ashe come in. His arm was around a tall, muscular, handsome, mustached man dressed in denim and plaid. Leaving Clarisse to fend for herself, Valentine stood and went over to them.

“Sorry I'm late,” said Ashes, “but we had to see a man about a crucifixion.”

Valentine smiled and nodded to Ashes' companion.

“This is Joe,” said Ashes. “Joe, get me a drink, will you?”

“Oh, sorry…” said Joe, jumping to startled attention. He went off in search of the bar.

“Joe's hot stuff,” remarked Valentine.

“He's also a good bouncer,” said Ashes. “And we're going to need one.”

“I don't want to start hiring tricks and trade,” said Valentine doubtfully.

Ashes shook his head. “Neither do I. But Joe's good. I worked with him in Newport. He's as strong as he looks—and he always apologizes.”

“Apologizes?”

“Apologizes when he throws 'em out. ‘I'm really sorry, mister, but you're drunk…' Then
wham
,
bang
, out the door. In fact, some people call him Apologetic Joe.”

Joe returned with drinks, and as he handed one to Ashes he said to Valentine, “I know I wasn't really invited, 'cause I've never even met Mr. Fred, but Ashes said…”

Someone jarred Joe's arm and his drink sloshed onto Ashes' boots. “Oh, Ashes, I'm sorry, I'm so—”

“Just wipe it up,” said Ashes casually, and went on talking to Valentine. “I was thinking today that we ought to fasten some heavy chains on the walls—shackles, that sort of thing. That'd be hot.”

“Would you like to donate a few items from your extensive collection?”

“Oh, haven't you heard, Daniel?” said a snide voice behind and somewhat below them. “King Burn-Out here is dismantling his infamous medieval torture chamber.” Sweeney Drysdale II had pushed through the crowd and was suddenly standing in their midst.

“Does the Society for Historical Preservation know about this?” Valentine asked Ashes with mock alarm.

Joe bumped Sweeney as he rose from the floor where he had been wiping Ashes' boot dry with a yellow kerchief. “Excuse me.”

“I hear,” Sweeney went on, looking up and regarding Joe with undisguised interest, “that Ashes is upgrading his life style. Hoisting it out of the gutter, as it were.” He turned smoothly to Ashes. “What are you going to do with that electric chair?” he asked. “And the stocks?”

“Those I'm keeping,” said Ashes, looking Sweeney straight in the eye. “Just waiting for the right person to drop by. Who invited you here, anyway?”

“Mr. Fred called me up and asked me,” returned Sweeney. “To give the party a little tone.” He adjusted his red glasses and looked around the shop. “And it looks as though it could use some. Be sure you read next week's column—I'll have an item in it about famous Mr. Fred's infamous T 'n' T. A big item,” he added seriously.

“I didn't see an electric chair down there,” said Joe to Ashes. “I saw the stocks, but—”

“It's called hyperbole,” interrupted Sweeney with a sigh. “I was hyperbolizing.
Ex-ag-ger-a-ting
,” he explained with a schoolmarmish smile.

Apologetic Joe's expression darkened. He looked down at Sweeney. “I'm sorry to be rude, but why don't you try folding up and disappearing?”

Sweeney was about to frame a reply but stopped when he saw the anger in Joe's eyes. Instead, he shrugged and edged away into the crowd. “See you in the papers.”

Joe turned to Valentine and Ashes, all his anger suddenly drained away. “I really hate it when people talk down to me. People see my chest expansion, and they automatically talk down to me. People don't talk down to Arnold Schwarzenegger. I'm going for a refill.” He moved off toward the bar.

Valentine was finishing a conversation with a District D policeman when Linc appeared at his side.

“You know him?” Linc asked, as the cop moved off toward the bar.

“To speak to,” said Valentine vaguely. He checked the wall clock. “What took you so long? I thought you were going to make a simple pick-up.”

“The tile place was in Acton. I got caught in traffic on Route Two.”

“Well, you're here. Want to go dancing later on?”

“Sure, but we have to do a little business first. I left the samples for the floor tile next door. I have to get the order in tomorrow, so you'll have to make a decision tonight on the ones you want.”

“Fine,” Valentine agreed. “You know, I was thinking about that today, and—”

“Well,” said Sweeney Drysdale II, suddenly appearing beneath Linc's upraised elbow, “eyes of an angel, mouth of a cherub. Body by Nautilus.”

He stepped around so that he was pressed against Linc and Valentine. Then he pushed back a little, smiled, and remarked to Valentine, while keeping his eyes on Linc, “Well, if it's not Mr. Right, it's certainly Mr. More-Than-Adequate.”

“I thought you'd left,” said Valentine.

“My name's—” Linc began.

Sweeney eagerly grabbed Linc's hand.

“Linc. I know. You're the one who's so handy with tools,” he said, as his eyes fell heavily from Linc's face and down his body, as if dragged irresistibly toward his crotch. Sweeney's gaze lingered there a moment, just below his eye level. Then he looked up suddenly. “Are those blond tresses naturally curly, or did Mr. Fred give you one of his famous perm- and blow-jobs?”

“You're being vulgar,” remarked Valentine.

Unruffled, Sweeney asked, “Tell me, Daniel, do you pay this young man by the hour?”

Linc's mouth dropped, and Sweeney winked at him before stepping away.

“Are you having a good time?” asked Clarisse, stopping Linc with a hand on his arm. She had been talking to Mr. Fred, and Mr. Fred had asked her for an introduction to the carpenter.

Linc stopped and said, “Yes, it's a very nice party.”

“Thank you,” said Mr. Fred.

Clarisse introduced the two men.

“Oh, I've seen you going in and out next door all day long. You must work very hard.”

Linc laughed. “Oh, I do. There's a lot of work to be done before New Year's.”

“I'm sure it's going to be wonderful. Daniel showed me what you've done, and the place already looks a hundred percent better. Have you always been a carpenter?”

Linc shook his head. “No. In school I was pre-med. But I decided that I didn't want to have to deal with that kind of pressure.”

“Where did you go to school?” asked Clarisse curiously.

“Tulane—all the way down in New Orleans,” said Linc. “I had a full scholarship.” He shrugged. “I couldn't have afforded to go to college any other way. See,” he said, blushing slightly, “my family was very poor—this was up in Lewiston, Maine—and they weren't even going to be able to afford to send me to Orono. So when I got that scholarship, it was like the whole world opening up.”

“I bet it was,” said Clarisse sympathetically. “Did you like New Orleans? That must have been a bit of a change after a New England mill town.”

“A
decaying
New England mill town,” said Linc, with a trace of bitterness. “Yes, I loved New Orleans. I came out there. I had my first lover there.”

“The first love is always the greatest,” sighed Mr. Fred.

“It's never the same after the first time.”

“No,” said Linc seriously, “it isn't. I was really in love, too. I was young, but that didn't matter.”

“What happened?” asked Mr. Fred. “Did he die?”

Clarisse looked about uncomfortably. The conversation had suddenly taken a disconcertingly melodramatic turn. She had promised herself that she would have only one drink this evening, but she was now on her third. She wondered if she shouldn't slug down the rest of it and go after another one in order to avoid the remainder of this exchange. No, she decided, she'd stick it out.

“No,” said Linc, “but he was into S&M, and I wasn't, so every time he felt he needed it, he went somewhere else to get it.”

Linc glanced at Clarisse as if he expected her to say something. “Life is very often like that,” she muttered.

“He didn't lie about it or make up stories or anything like that; he just told me outright that he was tricking with these S&M people. I couldn't take it. So after I graduated, I packed up and came back to New England—and I became a carpenter.”

“What a sad story!” exclaimed Mr. Fred. “Do you still sometimes think about your friend?”

“All the time,” Linc said, shaking his head sadly. “In fact—”

Clarisse suddenly threw back the rest of her drink, said, “Excuse me” in a strangled voice, and made her way toward the bar.

Mr. Fred and Linc continued in earnest conversation.

“Where is Susie?” Julia demanded of Valentine. “I want to get out of this place.”

“Over by the door,” Valentine said as he headed that way.

“Let's go,” shouted Julia when she was less than ten feet from Susie, who was in boisterous conversation with three friends.

Susie turned, not pleased with Julia's demand. “I want to stay.” Susie's three friends seemed suddenly ill at ease with Julia among them.

“Susie, let's go!”

Susie planted her feet firmly on Mr. Fred's purple linoleum floor. “Julia,” she said poutingly, “you are acting like a white woman!” Over her shoulder, Susie said hastily to one of her three friends, “No offense, Patsy.” She took a deep breath and said with forced calmness, “Go back home if you're tired, Julia, but I want to stay here and convene with my co-horts. I'm not tired.”

“You're not tired,” Julia snapped, “'cause you don't do nothin' all day 'cept sit at home on your spreadin' ass watchin' TV and waitin' for that goddamn phone to ring.”