Turning Idolater (17 page)

“Sprakie,” Philip said, but he was laughing.

Florian jerked his hand up just short of Sprakie’s
neck.

“Flo,” Thomas warned. “He is company.”

“I don’t care,” Flo said. “I’ll wipe my feet on this
gutter snipe and won’t give a crap whether his ears stay on his
head when I detach it.”

“Jesus Marie.” Sprakie turned to Thomas. “Did he
escape from your la
bor
atory? Aren’t we supposed to wait for
a storm before we unleash the experiments?”

“I am sorry,” Thomas said, “but what exactly do you
want me to do?”

“Raw meat always works.”

Flo took another step forward, but Philip
intervened. He pulled Sprakie from the hallway into the mock
auditions in the living room.

“Behave yourself,” he snapped at Sprakie, who
pouted.

“Who is that beast, really?”

“He’s Tee’s agent and a former . . .”

“Oh, I see. I take it back. Mr. Dye’s superior
tastes are confined to the furniture only.” Sprakie heaved a
genuine sigh, and then spotted Max Gold pacing about with a book on
his head. “What a collection of freaks,” Sprakie stammered.

“No so loud. You’re the one who brought him.”

“I don’t mean Max. Although he
is
a
Narcissus.”

Look who’s talking?
Philip thought. Then he
had a disturbing image. Sprakie might decide to audition for the
spry Lars Hamilton.
That
would bring the
soiree
to a
close. If the
yak-and-babble
set hovered only for the sake
of
h’ors d’oeuvres
and
faux pas
, the Sprakie and Max
show would place them on the pinnacle of joy.

“Let’s get some air,” Philip said.

“Don’t mind if I do,” Sprakie agreed.

They drifted through the human stanchions and onto
the balcony.

Philip closed the balcony door buffering the
revelers from the street symphony. Sprakie stretched over the
railing looking both ways.

“Not much of a view,” he commented. “But it’s better
than the view inside. What a collection of trolls.”

Philip decided that this quarantine was wise.
Sprakie had already cataloged the room and had each guest
pigeonholed to the appropriate reject slot. Still, the night seemed
to swallow Robert Sprague as if it were his mistress, demanding his
strict allegiance.

Philip leaned over the railing, his short-cropped
hair kissed by the breeze. “During the day, you can see Central
Park . . . just.”

Sprakie rolled his eyes and blew a dismissive puff
through his lips. “If it makes you happy.”

“It
does
make me happy. Tee’s been good to
me.”

“It’s only been a week, Jesus Marie. The first
week’s always heaven. Hell comes with time.”

Philip sighed. “Aren’t you happy for me?”

“I’m worried about you. These people are scary. You
have no idea what they
really
want, and when you find out,
it might be too late.”

“I can take care of myself.”

“Can you?” Robert punched Philip’s arm. “Can you,
little Ishie?”

“You don’t know them.”

“Neither do you.”

Philip didn’t like Sprakie’s tone. Authority inbred
knowledge, and that begged a question, didn’t it?

“Tell me,” Philip asked. “Just what was that
business in the kitchen with the old man? Do you know him?”

Sprakie chuckled, a nervous laugh as if he had
inadvertently plowed into the wrong cornfield. “Not exactly.”

“That’s no good,” Philip said. “I saw you flinch,
and I saw
him
flinch too
.
I might be an ignorant
son-of-a-bitch
, but I’m not blind. You know him, don’t
you?”

“Not by name. I’ve seen him around.”

“Where?”

“He sometimes hung around the studio.”

“
Manluv?
”

“Not inside. Outside. In the street. Actually, I’d
rather not say.”

Philip whipped Sprakie about. “Listen, guy. I might
be working for him as of tomorrow, so you better say.”

“That’s not a good idea.”

“What? Working for him, or you spilling the
beans?”

“Both, probably.” Sprakie pushed Philip away.
“What’s with you tonight? You’ve been exposed to this artsy-fartsy
crowd and suddenly you’re the crown princess of bitch. I worry
about your ass.”

“I know you do, but if you don’t tell me something,
how are you helping me?”

Sprakie bobbed his head like a chicken —
pick-a-little, peck-a-little
. “It’s just a hunch, that’s
all. That old geezer sometimes loitered on the corner of
10
^th
Avenue . . . waiting for Jemmy.”

“Jemmy?”

“You see. If I said Guy or Max, you’d shrug it off.
But mention a corpse and you get all antsy.”

Antsy
? Philip felt chilled from toe to nose.
Didn’t Uncle Dean just state that he was
not in the custom of
surfing the porn sites?
However, wasn’t hanging out on street
corners considered
surfing
.
Or was that just
cruising?
Philip quickly regained his composure. He didn’t want
Sprakie to know that
this
old geezer had also met
him
on the corner of 10
^th
Avenue. Philip couldn’t suffer
that
lecture.

“But you never met him before now?” Philip asked.
Sprakie hesitated. “I mean, he recognized you.”

“Anyone who has a web browser can look up my skirts,
dear. No, I just don’t trust voyeurs who unmask.”

“That would include my Tee.”

“Your Tee? It’s only been a week, Lambikins, and
already you’re joined at the hip . . . and other places, I’m sure.
In fact, you’re joined at the wallet too.”

Sprakie drove his hand into his pocket and flipped
open a folded check.

“You got the rent,” Philip said. “I wasn’t sure you
would.”

“You used a stamp, didn’t you? The mail must always
go through. But . . . I won’t take
his
money.” He pushed the
check at Philip.

“But it’s not Thomas’ money. It’s mine.”

“Ishie, Ishie, Ishie. You may think it’s your cash,
but you’re just the laundromat. Do you think that any of this is
really under your control?”

Philip frowned. Sprakie was a stiff pill to swallow
sometimes, and he certainly was well intentioned, or so he said,
but now he had crossed the line.

“I wish I hadn’t asked you here tonight,” Philip
said.

“Why, because I’m bursting your bubble?”

“It’s not a bubble. Tee has taken to me.”

“Like a middle-aged crisis to a dildo.”

Philip headed for the sliding door, but Sprakie
overruled him, grasping his hand as he tried to pull the
handle.

“Listen to me.”

“No. I don’t want to.”

Sprakie latched onto Philip, his hands around his
waist, pulling him close. Philip tried to push him away, but
Sprakie tightened his hold, and then . . . he kissed Philip smack
on the lips. Philip pushed him away — hard. He slapped Robert
Sprague, and then suddenly realized that Sprakie, for all his
chicanery, wasn’t deserving of that.

“Now look what you made me do,” Philip stuttered. He
turned toward the railing and sucked in the night air. He expected
Sprakie to slip away quietly, ending the friendship on a low note,
but soon, repentant hands crept over his shoulder.

“It was a sisterly kiss that, you know,” Sprakie
said.

“I know,” Philip stammered, although he wasn’t sure
that it was.

“I love you like . . .”

“I know. Like your best set of luggage, which I must
say is a ragged collection of junk.” He laughed, stifling the
tears.

“What does that say for you?”

They hugged.

“I’m sorry I . . .”

“Don’t be. I’m just glad that your hand was open. We
wouldn’t want to bruise the assets, but I’ll take it as payment for
a lecture half-delivered — the price for me being a mother hen. And
give me back that rent check. If you really
did
earn it,
I’ll put it in the till.”

“You still have it in your hand.”

Sprakie gazed at the powder blue payment and
smirked. “Well, so I do. Now listen to me, and stop making faces.
If you think that Mr.
Good Ship Lollipop
threw this party
for the Second Coming of Christ, think again. They came here to
scrutinize you, to satisfy their curiosity as to why their
illustrious scribbler is shacking up with an Internet twinkie.”

Philip frowned again. “Maybe so, but I don’t give a
fuck.”

“Well, then, the matter’s settled. You’re as jaded
as I am. Good for you. The world needs another . . .”

The door slid open. Thomas stood in the
threshold.

“Another drink, Sprakie?” Thomas asked. “Are you
behaving yourself?”

“That depends,” Sprakie said. He marched toward the
threshold coming nose to nose with Mr. Dye. “Has my date found the
sugar daddy of his dreams yet? Is there one in there for me?”

Thomas grunted, and then stepped aside, allowing
Sprakie to rejoin the fray.

“He is such a joy,” Thomas said.

“Not tonight,” Philip remarked.

“Well, do not let him spoil your fun. It is your
night.”

Is it?
Philip turned, leaning on the railing.
Thomas joined him in silence. The night echoes trumped them — the
taxi horns, the subway rumbles and the low hum of revving buses.
Philip was weighing his options. He seemed to be weighing his
options a great deal lately. The world was complex and
claustrophobic. Everyone knew everyone in this city of the twelve
million — a statistical impossibility, but it depended on which
circle of purgatory you traversed, Philip guessed.

“Tee, thank you for tonight.”

“The night is not over.”

Philip gazed back at the guests. They were like
mannequins in Macy’s window, posing and immaculately draped in the
latest fashion. It was as theatrical as Lars Hamilton and his New
Family Players.

“I know,” Thomas said. “They are quite a menagerie.
We let them out to eat and be watered and pray they do not crap on
the rug. And guess what? Sometimes they do.”

Philip chuckled. “It’s new to me.”

“It is new to me too.”

“What?”

“I have never really acclimatized to it — the party
set. However, in my line of business, it is a requirement. It is
what it is.”

Philip hooked his arms around Thomas’ neck and drew
him down into a kiss. He felt eyes on him. He was sure that Sprakie
was distracted from the center-stage, and he could guess that Flo
lurked somewhere near the curtains blinking at the sight. In that
kiss, Philip’s doubts flew . . . a temporary flight, but one
returning him to a safe harbor.

Suddenly, he spied something quite extraordinary, at
least unusual through the city lights. The moon — a full one,
enlarged by the atmosphere and tinted gold by the pollution.

“Wow,” Phillip said. “That’s a beauty. It must be a
sign or something.”

Thomas smiled. He raised his head toward the orb and
then, unbidden, lifted his arms toward the sky.

“
Purty
,” he said. “
Purty
.”

All doubts flew to the horizon — the city’s horizon,
somewhere beyond the invisible Central Park.

Philip rarely went south of Houston Street. There
was never a need, unless he wanted Chinese food. Past the Municipal
Building and City Hall pulsed finance and commerce, something that
Philip did not count within his ken. However, in the shadow of the
Brooklyn Bridge and the old converted buildings along Park Row hid
New York’s oldest continuously operated bookstore. As Philip
strolled beside Thomas along what was once New York’s publishing
district, his attention was caught by the transformation of this
block of respectable buildings into something less dignified. Pace
University was the only edifying occupant of the lofts and offices
here. Most of the old iron ceiling print houses were fettered now
with electronics outlets — DVD and CD vendors that hawked rap music
to the passers-by competing with the stale pretzel and stinky
sausage curbside cooks. It reminded Philip of the loft where
manluv
was warrened. Still, as Philip scanned the garish
glass fronts that housed the latest tunes and reflected City Hall
Park across the street, he saw nothing that looked remotely like a
bookstore. He
did
see two adult bookshops, but didn’t think
these held first editions of anything short of
Deep
Throat
.

“Here we are, Philip,” Thomas said halting at the
corner of Ann Street.

Philip gazed down this narrow lane. The only sign he
could discern was
The Globe Deli
and it looked like it also
accommodated a sleaze shop in its upper recesses.

“Is this a real street?”

His question was answered by a taxicab that careened
off Park Row and down the lane. Thomas laughed and pulled Philip
deeper down this byway. About halfway between the traffic zone and
Nassau Street was an alley. It had to be an alley, because it had
no name. Neither did the sun shine here and it sported original
cobblestones between narrow sidewalks, just wider than a curb.

Philip finally saw it — a flat glass pane, so smoked
with grime that the lettering on the window was barely legible.
“Cardoza’s Book Store,” Philip said in amazed tones. He could only
read every other letter, but he guessed at what it should say. Now
that he examined the storefront, there were two glass windows
separated by a recessed doorway. A short wooden stair raised the
entryway from the cobblestones.

“Well, go in,” Thomas said.

Philip opened the door, a flutter of tinkle bells
announcing him as a customer. A most un-New York aroma struck him —
a mixture of old wood and bindings. It was also hotter inside than
in the lane, a condition that forced the perfume out. An overhead
fan helped. Suddenly, Philip felt detached from Thomas. He
turned.