Turning Idolater (20 page)

Philip’s entry put a dash in the conversation. Tee
sat on the Ottoman. Flo lounged near the balcony. Both turned when
Philip came across the threshold. However, the most pronounced
acknowledgement came from the two men who sat on the Chippendales.
Philip knew these must be the detectives;
careful does it, Sonny
Jim.
One was thin, perhaps in his early thirties, wore a
charcoal grey suit and cracked his knuckles. He was a shadow
compared with the other, a broad shouldered stocky bulldog, who,
despite the blue suit and the crimson tie, hadn’t been too far from
the beat. He had a pencil thin mustache and a pencil in his hand
bearing down on a small spiral pad. He had been scribbling when
Philip entered and he scarcely stopped note taking, perhaps
recording Philip’s entry, anticipating his first words.

“Tee?”

“Philip,” Tee said. He stood and, as if attached to
guidelines, the two detectives stood. “There is some bad news.”

“Please, Mr. Dye,” said the stocky dick. “Let me
pursue this interview without . . . prejudice.” He cocked his head,
switched the pencil and pad to his left hand, and then extended his
right. “Detective Kusslow.” Philip shook his hand, but then Kusslow
flashed his badge from inside his jacket. The other detective did
likewise, but didn’t offer Philip his hand.

“Detective Karnes.”

“And you are?” Kusslow asked. His voice rasped,
probably a smoker
, Philip thought.

“Philip Flaxen. What’s going on? What’s happened?”
He glanced at Tee, and then to Flo, both remaining silent as per
orders.

“Have a seat, Mr. Flaxen,” Kusslow said. “Just
routine. There’s been a . . . death.”

Philip gasped. He thought of
manluv
being
off-line and Sprakie out of communication range. He sat with a
thump. “A death? Who died?”

“Maximillian Goldenheart.”

“Max Gold? Oh, my God. I just saw him . . .”

“Exactly,” Detective Karnes chimed in.

“Yes,” Kusslow slurred. “I do believe that he went
by the name Max Gold at that sleazy Internet establishment. In
fact,” Kusslow flipped through his notes. “I saw
your
name
on the list of employees that . . . well, worked at that place.
Just how old are you, Mr. Flaxen?”

“Twenty. What does that have to do with . . .”

“Just checking. We have temporarily suspended the
operating license at
manluv
. We’re questioning the scuzzball
who operated the joint, given the track record and the open case
log.”

“Max died at
manluv?”

“Did he now?”

Thomas was trying to signal Philip to be silent, but
Philip’s mind raced like a mouse in a rubber room.

“Well, how did it happen?” Philip asked,
recovering.

“That’s a good question,” Kusslow said.

“Good question,” Karnes echoed.

“That’s what we’re trying to find out. There’s been
a rash of this sort of thing, you know.”

Philip didn’t know. Suddenly, he felt under
suspicion. Kusslow’s eyes pierced Philip’s chest. “You don’t think
. . .”

“No. No, nothing like that, Mr. Flaxen. May I call
you Philip? Phil?”

“Philip.”

“Philip then. Your friend was found floating in the
Hudson. Not a pretty sight.”

“He wasn’t really my friend,” Philip said, thinking
about Max dancing about the corridor at
manluv
, and offering
him half of his tuna fish sandwich. What a nice guy he was. Philip
choked at the thought and wondered why. They were never close, but
. . .
it could have been me,
he thought. “We just worked . .
.” He sniffled, a tear welling. Thomas gathered him into his arms
and rocked him, as the full weight of the event cashed in.

Kusslow looked to Karnes. “Not a friend.” He jotted
a note, and then extended a handkerchief to Philip, who grasped it
with both hands. It smelled of filterless Camels, still it mopped
well. Kusslow waved his hand in Thomas’ direction. “Might I ask,
Mr. Dye, why you had not one, but three employees of
manluv.org
here last night?”

“I no longer work there,” Philip stammered.

“Oh,” Kusslow remarked, making a note. “When did you
last . . . do that thing you do?”

“Over a week ago. I work at Cardoza’s Book Store
now.”

Philip saw Flo’s eyes roll, while Thomas sighed.
Kusslow glanced at Karnes and made another note.

“You still haven’t answered my question, Mr.
Dye.”

“We had a get together. Friends. Philip invited his
friend; and his friend brought a date.”

“Would that friend be Robert Sprague?”

“Yes,” Philip said. “Is Sprakie okay?”

Kusslow smiled. Another note. “Sprakie. I saw that
name on the Internet schedule. Yes, Mr. Sprakie is just fine, if
not devastated with grief.”

“He did go on,” Karnes said.

“That’s to be expected,” Philip said.

Kusslow took another note. “Yes. Expected. And Mr.
Dye, what was the occasion?”

“Just a dinner party. In my line of work, we have
these
soirees
periodically.”

“You mean to promote your books and such?”

“Exactly.”

“And I suppose Mr. Sprague and Mr. Gold and . . .
Philip here are avid readers.”

“What are you saying?” Philip snapped.

“Just routine. We cover all the bases.”

“All the bases,” Karnes said.

Philip felt like kicking Detective Karnes in the
slats.

Tee cocked his head. “Frankly, I do not see . .
.”

Flo interrupted. “Detective,” Flo said. “You’re
fishing in the wrong place. I think that you suppose that we needed
a little entertainment at the party and invited these boys up for a
peepshow.”

“Flo,” Thomas said.

“I’m listening,” Kusslow said, closing the pad.

“You’re off base,” Flo snapped. “Philip has just
moved in and Thomas decided to have a few friends over to meet him.
Nothing more.”

“And you say that your friend . . . Sprakie, was
dating Max Gold?”

“Not really,” Philip said. “He just brought
him.”

The pad opened again. Note, note and another note.
Then, Kusslow flipped through the pages, probably locating his
interview with Robert Sprague at the premises of
manluv
,
just before the detective cleared those premises of its proprietor.
He stood. Everyone stood as if attached to this
man in
charge
.

“I’ll need a complete list of your guests, Mr.
Dye.”

“Is that necessary?”

“Just routine.”

Thomas sighed. “Flo?”

“I’ll contact Miriam.”

“Miriam?”

“My party planner.”

Detective Karnes drifted to the hall, while
Detective Kusslow snapped the pad shut and pocketed the pencil.
When his hand reemerged, it held a stack of business cards. He gave
one each to Thomas, Philip and Flo. “If you recall anything, no
matter how unimportant you might think it, contact me. And I
wouldn’t leave town.”

Thomas frowned.

Kusslow grinned. “That came out wrong, didn’t it?”
He chuckled. “I meant, stay around, all of you, in case I need to
tie up loose ends.”

“Well, we will be going to Provincetown in a few
weeks,” Thomas said.

“Where’s that?”

“Massachusetts,” Flo said. Annoyance conveyed. “Cape
Cod.”

“I know where Massachusetts is Mr. Townsend. I meant
taking a quick trip to Argentina.” He chuckled again, and then
turned away. Karnes was already out the door, when Kusslow suddenly
turned. “Just one more question.” He pointed first to Philip and
then to Thomas. “What exactly is the relationship between you
two?”

“I do not understand,” Thomas said.

“Same-sex Union? Distant relatives? Tenant and
landlord?”

“Fuck buddies?” Flo snapped.

Detective Kusslow scowled. He turned, and then
followed his partner over the threshold. The door slammed behind
him.

“Why did you say that?” Thomas asked.

He was furious. Philip hadn’t seen him furious
yet.

“The truth was in order,” Flo said. “Can’t you see
that by dabbling in this Internet shit, you wound up with crap on
your boots?”

Philip was furious now also.

“Who are you calling crap?” he yelled.

“Flo,” Thomas said. “As usual, you have gotten it
all wrong. You only understand your narrow, perverted view of
things.”

Flo trembled. “Well, your fucking lucky I kept my
mouth shut.”

Both Philip and Thomas froze.

“What?” Thomas said. “Do you know something that
that bastard cop could have used?”

Flo strolled into the living room. He got as far as
the bookshelves, and then turned. “If I opened my mouth, there
would have been hell to pay.”

“Spill it, Flo.”

Philip approached Flo. He wanted to throttle this
ungainly flea. Max Gold was dead. Their lives were tousled by
suspicion and still, Flo played games. Philip stood before him and
placed his hands on Flo’s collar.

“I don’t like you,” Philip said.

“And I’m just wild about you. It’s bad enough we’ll
be in P’Town together, but I’ve endured Tee’s young whims before.
I’ll bear up again.”

“Enough,” Thomas snapped. “I can’t deal with both of
you.” The fact that he was forced to speak in a contraction was
enough to make both contenders desist. “Now, Flo. Spill it.”

Florian sat. “I saw Max Gold last night after the
party.” He had their attention now. “At
the Bantam.
”

“On the borderlands?” Philip asked. “I wouldn’t set
foot in there.”

“Neither should he have.”

“Was he with Sprakie?” Thomas asked.

“No. I don’t know where that obnoxious queen went
off to.
The Bantam
isn’t his style, is it? No. Gold was with
the actor.”

“Lars Hamilton?” Philip asked. “You don’t think . .
.”

“He was too far gone to get his ass up from the bar.
Most unlikely.”

“Then,” Thomas said.

He was ruminating. His eyes twitched. His breath
hitched, and then he drifted away, at first mentally, and then
physically, sauntering into his office. The door slammed.

“Then what?” Philip asked Flo.

Flo shrugged, but his demeanor had suddenly changed.
He glanced toward the closed office door. Something unsettled
him.

“Then what, Flo?”

Flo snapped his head, glancing into Philip’s eyes.
The look burned. “Bright Darkness, that’s what. Why did you ever
come into our lives?”

Flo marched into the hallway. Another door
slammed.

Philip was shaken. He shimmied to the Ottoman,
slumping over the bolsters. Kusslow’s handkerchief was still on the
cushions, redolent of Camels. Philip clutched it to his nose and
felt bitterly ill. He stared at the shelves where Thomas’ first
edition sang to him. It caroled —
Sail away
. He was so happy
this morning — post party, fully sated by this man he was coming to
treasure. He was free of the Internet, drifting in a world of
promised binders and bleach. He had his own dory to row, complete
with a stuffed Captain Ahab teddy bear. In a flash, everything was
tainted. Max was dead. Sprakie was distant.
Manluv
was
temporarily closed.
The agent was insufferable. The police,
devious, and Tee now fumed behind a locked door. What squall was
this that splashed across Philip’s life?

Suddenly, hands rested on his shoulders. Philip was
so engrossed in these black thoughts, he didn’t notice that Thomas
had emerged from the office. He now stood behind him.

“I am sorry,” Thomas said. His voice was silvery and
warm. Not a trace of fury to be heard.

Philip placed his hand on Tee’s.

“For what? For using slang?”

“No. I wanted your stay to be unencumbered by my
little outbursts. I am embarrassed.”

Philip kissed his hand.

“That was an outburst? Wait ‘til you see me blow my
cork.”

Thomas came around. He took Philip into his arms and
wept.

“I am sorry.”

“No need to be. That detective would rattle anyone,
and Flo’s an asshole. The sooner I get used to that fact, the
better off we’ll be.”

Thomas kissed Philip’s forehead.

“My brave sailor. It could have been you instead of
Max that they fished out of the Hudson. The thought terrified me. I
am so sorry.”

“Stop saying that, Tee. I’m smarter than that. I
wouldn’t go off with a perfect stranger.” He smiled at this. “Well,
not unless the stranger was . . . perfect.”

“So you are staying? You are not leaving me?”

Philip laughed, and then gave Tee a kiss smack on
the gob.

“What? Leave and miss a trip to P’Town. I want to
see the whales.”

Tee smothered him in his arms. Philip almost
relaxed, but he made a mental note in his own spiral book. Max Gold
was dead. Someone snuffed out his life without hesitation. Still,
life was too short to forgo adventure. Why ever would one go to sea
but not to seek leviathan’s flukes? Philip wanted to see the
whales, and see the whales he would.

The line of sea and sky was broken by the crest of
land that he could see when he pushed to the surface, his blowhole
seeking the crisp ocean air. He winked at his mate as she swam just
beneath him. He would be lashing through the waves toward the sky
soon — a playful game for those small craft he spied nearby. He
knew that on the prow the humans would wave to him and applaud. He
kept his deep blue eye square along the rippling waters. He saw the
distant tower that had been his key when in these waters. It
pricked the cloudless sky like coral, only in the world of air and
sails.

Blow it high so they could see him — a marker of the
deep. Laughter churning to the reef. They were still distant, too
far to lavish their praise. Still the spout would draw them nigh.
It always had. Down through the layers of blacked blue, he felt the
warmth of this sunless world, where the krill swam heedless into
his maw. His mate turned about and over, her flippers stroking the
waters, causing the current to feed them more — to stream the
microcosm into their leviathan bulk. It was ever so offshore and in
season that he and his mate should cleave the chalice of the sea
and then break the cup’s edge into sunlight.