Title	Mahu Men
Author	Neil Plakcy
ISBN#	978-1-60820-130-3 (ebook) $6.99
Release Date	March 2010
Cover Artist
Paperback:	212 pages
Available At:	MlrBooks (ebook)
	Amazon.com (paperback)

Mixing mystery and erotica, the stories in Mahu Men take readers into the world of openly gay Honolulu homicide detective Kimo Kanapa’aka. Moving from pickups to murders, Kimo surfs the waves of his professional and personal lives in a sexy, sensual tropical paradise, where danger and desire lurk behind every palm tree.The stories fill the gaps between Neil Plakcy’s Mahu novels, showing Kimo dating as well as solving cases and establishing a relationship with his new detective partner. Mixing the sensuality of Plakcy’s erotica with the sharp-edged attitude of his mysteries, Mahu Men is a chance for new readers to meet Kimo, and for fans to delve more deeply into his world.

********************************

I Know What You Did

Dark clouds were massing over Tantalus as I responded to the discovery of a murder victim at the Vybe, a gay club on University Avenue in the Mo‘ili‘ili neighborhood of Honolulu, near the M?noa campus of the University of Hawai‘i. But it was sunny on the H1 highway, and I wasn’t worried that rain would damage the crime scene. Our island is composed of microclimates, and if you don’t like the weather where you are, just drive a few minutes away. It will change.

What does not change is that people commit murders. I am a homicide detective, and that means there will always be a job for me. A few months before, after six years on the force, I came out of the closet, the first openly gay police detective in Honolulu. I’d been to the Vybe before, for the Sunday afternoon tea dance. My friend Gunter liked the Vybe’s outdoor patio area, which had a good dance floor, a couple of bars and a stage. If I hadn’t been on duty, I might have been at the club myself, dancing and having a good time.

When I pulled up across from the club, I spoke to the first cop on the scene, a middle–aged Chinese guy named Frank Sit. We shook hands, and then he nodded toward the corpse. “911 got an anonymous call, reporting a man injured in the parking lot here.”

Sit had already cordoned off the immediate area around the body, and called for backup to help us conduct a search. “Looks like a bashing,” he said. “Poor guy was coming out of the bar, and somebody came along and started whaling on him.”

I kneeled down to examine the body. He was a haole, or white male, in his early thirties, lying face down on the ground. He had been beaten extensively around the head and upper body. Head wounds are often big bleeders, and this case was no exception. Blood had pooled around the man’s head, running in a single stream down toward the curb. His skull had been fractured, but there was no brain matter exposed, a small favor for which I was grateful.

I took a couple of pictures with my digital camera, memorializing the scene and the way the body had been found. Then I stepped aside to let the medical examiner’s guys do their work.

Four uniforms showed up to help search the immediate area for the weapon. “Look for any kind of blunt object, or anything that looks like blood drippings. We can get the crime scene techs to spray with luminol if we can’t find anything else.”

They walked off, and I looked toward the small crowd of men in short shorts and tank tops who clustered just beyond the crime scene tape, speaking in low tones to each other. Most of them were in their early twenties, probably students at UH.

It was just after six, and the tropical sun was turning the sky orange as it began its descent over Sand Island and the Ke‘ehi Lagoon. The air was heavy with humidity, exhaust from the highway, and the faint scent of plumeria blossoms coming from a discarded lei on the ground nearby.

“My name is Kimo Kanapa‘aka, and I’m a homicide detective,” I said, to the crowd at large. “I assure you I’m going to do everything possible to find out what happened here this evening.” I pulled out my pad and pen. “Any of you know the victim?”

A muscular guy in his late thirties, with a brush cut and combat boots, said, “I danced with him but I never got his name.”

A slim Japanese guy said, “His name was Jimmy. He was here every Sunday.”

I worked my way through the crowd, one by one. No one could recall any incidents involving the victim, no one claimed to know him well, and nobody remembered seeing him leave. The crowd had been sparse at the tea dance, and the rest of the businesses in the area were closed on Sunday evening, so no one had seen anything outside.

By then, the medical examiner was finished with the body, and I pulled on a pair of plastic gloves and knelt down. I carefully turned the body over. The victim was wearing a silver chain with a St. Christopher’s medal on it, and a couple of silver rings. One of them was in the shape of a snake, wrapping around his right index finger. I found his wallet in his front pocket and extracted it.

There was $18 still in it, along with his identification: James Fremantle, 31, a Waik?k? resident. So his assault wasn’t a robbery, which lent more credence to the idea of a gay bashing. Since I had come out, I’d started paying closer attention to crimes against gay men and lesbians, and I’d noted that gay bashings were on the rise—just a few days before, a couple of teenagers from Aiea had been caught in Waik?k?, punching a gay man who they said had made advances toward them, and that was by no means an isolated incident.

I stood up and told the ME’s team that they could take the body away. Then I walked inside the Vybe. It was decorated in Pan–Asian neon, all paper umbrellas, earthenware ashtrays embossed with ideographs, and electric signs like those in Tokyo’s Ginza.

The bartender, a blonde woman with a bouffant, told me Fremantle was a regular, and that afternoon she had served him a couple of Cosmopolitans. Her name was Peg, and she’d been working at the tea dance since opening. Fremantle wasn’t one of the first to arrive, but she knew he’d been there at least two hours.

Within about fifteen minutes, I’d spoken to anyone who had anything to contribute, and I walked back outside. Sit called me over; he had found a bloody baseball bat in a dumpster down the alley from the club.

The bat was brand–new, and though I couldn’t see any fingerprints, there were several smudges in the blood consistent with a perpetrator who used plastic gloves. “Something here doesn’t seem right,” I said to Frank. “The new bat, the gloves. That sounds like premeditation.”

“Bashing’s an impulse crime, in my experience,” he said.

“Mine, too.” Usually a bunch of guys got liquored up and went out looking for trouble. Sometimes they found prostitutes, and sometimes they got into traffic accidents or other minor scrapes. And sometimes they found some innocent gay guy, by himself or with a friend, and they used their fists and whatever debris they found handy. Buying a new baseball bat and a pair of gloves didn’t fit.

I spread some newspapers on the floor of my truck and gingerly placed the bat there. The last thing you want to do with something that’s wet and bloody is put it into a plastic bag and seal it up, particularly in a hot, humid climate like ours. You do that, and very soon you get bacterial growth that wipes out any DNA evidence.

Then Sit and I walked the parking lot, looking at the position of the building, the cars, the street light. “At this point, I don’t want to assume that Fremantle was the victim,” I said. “We don’t know if the killer targeted him, or he was just at the wrong place at the wrong time.”

I looked around. “If Fremantle was a target, then the killer needed a place he could stay out of sight, but with a good view to who came out of the club.”

The Vybe fronted on University, with an alley on one side. Across the alley was the back door of a photocopy place where no one would notice you, and yet you’d have a clear line of sight. Sit and I searched the immediate area around the back door, finding a couple of fresh Juicy Fruit gum wrappers, which I placed in an evidence bag.

It was dark by then. I pulled out my cell phone and got Fremantle’s number from directory assistance. When I called, I discovered he had a roommate, who said he’d be home for the next hour.

Waik?k? is gay headquarters for Honolulu and the island of O‘ahu. Most of the gay bars are there, and the hotels and stores cater to gay tourists. I lived there, along with lots of other gay men, particularly those who have been in the islands only a few years, and who work in some kind of service industry. Waiters, store clerks, personal trainers and hotel employees live two, three or four to an apartment in the towers and rundown low–rises between Ala Moana and the Ala Wai canal. More affluent or educated gay people, such as businessmen, teachers and so on, tend to live a little farther out in the suburbs, but they still come to Waik?k? for a social life.

Fremantle had lived in a high rise on Kal?kaua, about two blocks from its intersection with Ala Moana. From my days as a detective in Waik?k?, I knew that the area was busy, noisy, and moderately unsafe. There were drug deals regularly at the convenience store, and the tricky confluence of streets made for a lot of minor traffic accidents. I had trouble finding a parking spot and ended up walking four blocks.

When he answered the door, Fremantle’s roommate wore only a pair of white Calvin Klein briefs. He was a queeny boy in his early twenties, with pouffed up blonde hair that came to a stylized point above his forehead. He was waifishly thin, but his arms and legs were muscular.

“You’re the gay cop!” he said, when he saw me. “Oh, darling, I’m so excited.” Before I could react, he leaned forward and kissed me on the lips. His breath tasted sweet and somehow familiar. “Oh, now I can say I kissed the gay cop!” He danced backwards a little, leading me into a living room furnished with Salvation Army castoffs. Dirty clothes littered the tattered sofa, and were strewn over the no–color carpet and a couple of dubious–looking chairs. A big old TV squatted in one corner, one of the talk show hosts encouraging some poor soul to bare his problems.

The boy, whose name was Larry Wollinsky, sprawled on the sofa, knocking a jumble of shorts and T–shirts to the floor. “Come sit by me,” he said, patting a place on the sofa next to him. “I’m just crushed by all this, you know.”

I sat in an armchair across from him, and he pouted. “Tell me about James Fremantle,” I said. “Was he your lover?”

Larry laughed. “Jimmy? My God, no. Although,” he leaned forward, “there was this one time, after a volleyball game at Queen’s Surf, when we were both so horny. I mean, you know what that’s like, you just have to do something about it. But no, we were just roommates.”

Queen’s Surf was the gay beach; I’d been there myself a few times, but had not yet joined in a volleyball game. “Not friends?”

“Not really. Jimmy was kind of a loser. He didn’t have a lot of friends.”

I learned that Jimmy Fremantle was from Nebraska, employed in store merchandising, what I’d be tempted to call window dressing. He’d worked his way west doing that: Lincoln, then Denver, then San Francisco. He’d come to Honolulu about two years before, working first as a clerk at Liberty House, then moving up to merchandising again once the chain was bought out by Macy’s. Wollinsky gave me Fremantle’s boss’s name and the store phone number.

“So he kept to himself?” I asked. “You said before he didn’t have many friends.”

“Not for want of trying,” Larry said. “You’ve got to give the boy credit, though. He was out there all the time. He caught every strip night at every club. He’d be at Fusion one night, then Trixx, then the Rod and Reel Club, then Windows, then Michelangelo.” He leaned forward like he was confiding a secret to me. “He even started country and western line dancing. I mean, really!”

“Can you tell me some other people he knew?”

He gave me a couple of names and phone numbers. “I swear, it’s not safe to go out anywhere without a police escort.” He leaned back on the sofa and casually moved his three–piece set from one side to the other through his Calvins. “How about you, detective? Would you like to escort me to a club some night?”

I ignored the overture. “You have any problems with him?” I asked. “Any reason why you might want to see him dead?”

Wollinsky shook his head. “Like I said, I wasn’t exactly his best friend, but I didn’t hate him.”

“Know anybody who did?”

“I’m sure people got annoyed with him—he was an annoying kind of guy.”

“Where were you this afternoon?”

“Here. Asleep. A boy’s got to get his beauty rest, you know.”

“I appreciate your help,” I said, standing up. “If we need any more information, an officer will be in touch with you.”

Larry Wollinsky stood up and trailed me to the door. “At least he had his fifteen minutes in the spotlight.”

“You mean getting killed?”

“No, silly, being on TV. He was on The Shirley Ku Show last week.”

I turned around and nodded him back toward the sofa. “Tell me about The Shirley Ku Show.”

“Only if you sit next to me.”

I sat. He looked at me and I scooted over a bit, so my left leg was next to his right one, close enough that I could feel heat rising from it. His skin was as smooth as a baby’s. “Talk,” I said.

Shirley Ku was a Chinese–American woman with a trash talk show in the middle of the afternoon on KVOL, the island–based station my older brother Lui manages.

“You never know what she’s going to do,” Larry said. “I’m like a total Shirley Ku addict. I work nights, I’m a dancer, so I watch her every day. Jimmy was sick one week, a cold or something, and he was home with me, watching. They announce ideas they have for future shows, and they ask you to write in if you want to be on. One day she said they were going to do a show on “I know what you did.” They wanted people who had secrets about other people to come on and tell them. On TV. Can you believe it?”

I believed it, and I had a sinking feeling that I knew what was coming. Larry shifted next to me, resting one pale hand on my thigh. Through the khaki I felt my skin tingle.

Gently, I lifted his hand off. “What did Jimmy know?”

“There’s this guy he used to work with at Liberty House,” Larry said. “The guy was like, totally homophobic. He used to make jokes about fags, Jimmy said. He was mean.” His gaze drifted for a minute. “Poor Jimmy. I guess nobody was really as nice to him as he deserved.”

I spoke gently. “What did Jimmy know about him?”

“Jimmy was at the store late one night, changing a display, and he went back to a storeroom to get something. He saw this guy, Vince, giving a blow job to another guy.” He smiled. “Vince quit the next day and Jimmy didn’t know what happened to him. But just before he caught that cold, he saw Vince working at a store somewhere.”

I shifted my leg from Larry’s. “And that’s what he did? He went on this Shirley Ku show and said he’d seen Vince giving this guy a blow job?”

Larry nodded. “But it was more than that. They’d tricked Vince into coming on the show, too, and they kept him in a soundproof booth while Jimmy told his story. Then they brought Vince out, and when they told him what happened, he looked like his world had fallen apart.”

I knew what that felt like; I’d been outed in the press while investigating a murder case. I sympathized with Vince, but at the same time I could see a motive for murder forming.

“You know where I can reach Vince?”

Larry shook his head. “But The Shirley Ku Show, I’m sure they know where to find him.”

I stood up, and Larry stood with me. “You think Vince killed him?”

“I’m going to find out.” I stopped at a framed picture of Jimmy and Larry. They both looked happy. “Can I borrow this? I might need to show Jimmy’s face around.”

“Sure.” He picked it up and handed it to me, and then walked me to the door. “Jimmy was just my roommate. Like I said, we weren’t really friends. But I miss him already.”

“You’ll find another roommate.” I took his hand in both of mine. “Think good thoughts about Jimmy.”

Since I was already in Waik?k? and it was the end of my shift, I called in a brief report and went home. The next afternoon when I got to my desk I found the autopsy report on Jimmy Fremantle. He was dead by the second or third blow to his head. The rest had just been insurance. It was sounding like somebody had a real beef with him.

I called Fremantle’s boss, and the couple of friends whose names Larry Wollinsky had given me. No one knew anyone who had a grudge against Jimmy, or any reason to dislike him. I started to get a picture of Jimmy and the lonely life he must have led.

A production assistant on The Shirley Ku Show told me that the show was about to go on, for its daily four p.m. live broadcast. “But I can get you in with Shirley at five, when she comes off,” he said. The studio was just a couple of blocks down from headquarters on South Beretania and it was a gorgeous fall afternoon, sunny and crisp, so I walked over there.

I showed my badge at the door and was allowed to slip into the back of the audience, where I caught the last half hour of The Shirley Ku Show. The guests were caregivers who had sex with their elderly patients. The audience laughed loudest when an elderly lady commented on the size of her beefy male nurse’s member. She was a frail little thing with white hair pulled up like Pebbles and tied with a pink bow. “I been around the block a few times, and let me tell you, he’s got a big one,” she said. I was afraid for a minute that Shirley was going to ask him to prove it.

The other two patients were both elderly men cared for by young, attractive women. One said she had to use a vacuum pump to help her patient perform, and the other said she sat on her patient’s face so that he could lick her. The audience roared and Shirley Ku made a few funny comments.

Shirley was a tiny woman, barely five feet tall, with a thousand–megawatt smile. There was a small step that the camera never showed that helped her get up onto the barstool where she sat, her legs demurely crossed, while her guests revealed their innermost secrets.

When the show was over, the retirees, middle–aged women and teenagers in the audience filed out and I went backstage. A grip pointed me down the hall to a door that had Shirley Ku’s picture in the center of a big red star.

She was sitting at a counter taking off her makeup when I walked in. Just beyond her was what I could only call a shrine to Connie Chung–– a life–sized cutout, and dozens of candid and posed photos of the former network newswoman. “You like Connie?” Shirley asked when she saw where I was looking. “Shirley Ku is her biggest fan. Someday, Shirley is going to be a big star, just like Connie.”

“I wanted to talk to you about a show you did recently,” I said. “It was called I know what you did.”

“Good show. What about it?”

I explained that Jimmy Fremantle had been killed, and that I wanted to know more about his appearance. “It may be related to his death.”

Shirley looked stunned. “We had four guests on that day. A mother confronted her teenaged daughter about having sex. A clerk at a lingerie store downtown identified a man who admitted to shoplifting lace panties there. Jimmy Fremantle was the third guest. The last was a woman who revealed that her sister had an abortion when she was a teenager.” She continued taking off her makeup. “The sister is married to Councilman Yamanaka,” she continued. “You know, the one who makes such a fuss about Christian values.”

She looked back at me. “Great ratings for that one. And you know something, the next day Councilman Yamanaka resigned from the anti–abortion group he chaired and it fell apart.” She stood up and walked to a Japanese screen painted with a silver egret standing amidst green reeds. At the edge she stopped and said, “So you see, Shirley Ku does some good things, too.”

She stepped behind the screen and began changing her clothes. “Tell me about Jimmy Fremantle,” I said.

“I guess you know the basic story,” she said from behind the screen. “We brought the other guy in saying someone had a secret crush on him.” She stuck her head around the screen. “I think that was a little true.” She disappeared again. “We kept him in a soundproof room while the audience heard Jimmy’s story. We got hold of his personnel record from Liberty House, which showed he quit the day after Jimmy saw him. Then we brought him out.”

She emerged from behind the screen wearing a sleeveless white blouse and a pair of pink shorts. “He wasn’t happy, but he didn’t go crazy either. He admitted he’d done it–– you know, had sex with that other guy in the storage room. He said, “So I did it. So what?” And then we cut to commercial. We came back to Councilman Yamanaka’s sister–in–law.”

“Do you have a last name and an address for Vince?” I asked.

“My assistant will get it for you. I’m sure we had him sign a waiver before he went on the air.” She paused. “Anything else?”

“How about a copy of the tape? I’d like to see it for myself.”

“You never saw it? How’d you know to ask about it?”

“Fremantle’s roommate, Larry Wollinsky. He told me about it.”

“Wollinsky? He was Jimmy Fremantle’s roommate?” She looked like she was ready to spit.

“You know him?”

“He submits ideas for the show every week. Dozens. Stupid ideas. He’s a drag queen, you know? He does Edith Piaf. Who wants to see Edith Piaf in Hawai‘i? He’s not even very good. We finally had him audition for one of our makeup tips shows. He was terrible!”

I thanked her, and she found her assistant, who copied the episode onto a DVD and gave me an address for Vince Gaudenzi in Mo‘ili‘ili. “I think he works at that big bookstore in the Ward Warehouse,” she said. “You might be able to catch him there.”

“Thanks.” I walked back to headquarters and retrieved my truck from the garage. I drove over to the Ward Warehouse, fighting the rush hour snarl, and found Vince Gaudenzi behind the bookstore’s information counter. I showed him my badge and asked if there was somewhere private we could talk.

Title	The Wages of Sin
Author	Alex Beecroft
ISBN#	978-1-60820-125-9 (ebook)
Release Date	January 2010
Paperback:	230 pages
Available At:	MlrBooks (ebook)

Charles Latham, wastrel younger son of the Earl of Clitheroe, returns home drunk from the theatre to find his father gruesomely dead. He suspects murder. But when the Latham ghosts turn nasty, and Charles finds himself falling in love with the priest brought in to calm them, he has to unearth the skeleton in the family closet before it ends up killing them all.

********************************

Moonlight sucked the colour from damp grass and silvered rising wisps of dew. The deer-park lay dim and still to Charles’ left, receding to a black horizon. To his right, the Latham family chapel loomed dark against the lead-colored sky.

Sultan’s hooves whispered across the verge as Charles rode past the private graveyard’s wrought iron gate and averted his eyes from the white glimmer of Sir Henry’s mausoleum. It was one thing to laugh together over newspaper reports of vampires in Prussia while reclining in the comfortable lewdness of an actor’s garret—lamps blazing, the magic revealed as greasepaint, squalor and hard work—quite another to think of it here, beneath a slice of pewter moon, in a silence so huge it annihilated him.

A fox cried. Sultan snorted, ears flicking. His own heart racing, Charles gentled the horse over the gravel drive that swept up to the white Grecian pillars of the mansion. They turned towards the stable-yard—coach houses, stalls and groom’s quarters arranged about an enclosed square, entered by a short cobbled tunnel beneath the stable-master’s rooms. Both of them balked at the darkness beneath the arch, Sultan sidestepping as Charles dismounted. He wrenched his wrist, landed with a slap and slither loud enough to conceal the footsteps of a thousand walking corpses and stood propped against the horse’s strong shoulder, gathering himself. Sultan’s warm, straw-scented breath spiralled up comfortingly into the pre-dawn sky.

“Easy there, Sultan. Nothing to worry about.”

Thanking God that no one was watching his folly, Charles slung an arm about Sultan’s neck, took the hilt of his sword in the other hand. Emboldened by the feel of it, he urged Sultan forwards, towards his own stall and rest.

In the pitch black under the gatehouse the several pints of inferior porter he had drunk at the theatre made their presence known again. The night swayed about him and the world receded, until all his reality was the horse hair and leather beneath his hands. Falling asleep on my feet. Just the state of weakness most likely to attract the devil, or his minions… Or my father.

There was a more rational threat. As he took off Sultan’s tack, fumbled around in the dark making sure the weary animal was supplied with hay and water, the thought of Ambrose Latham drove away all other terrors. “You wastrel,” his father would bellow, loud enough to echo in the kitchens and make all the servants sit up in glee. “You mother’s milk-sop boy with your clever friends and your expensive women. Do you think I built up this family’s fortune only to have it squandered by you, sirrah? Do you?”

Having drunk, Sultan nudged his shoulder, leaving a smudge of dirty water and horse-snot on the jonquil silk of his jacket, pulling him up again from his reverie. He still had to get inside without being seen, and it was now less late at night than very early in the morning. If his luck was bad, those very servants might have already begun to wake. They could be standing, watching him as he rolled through the front door with his wig in his pocket and his blond hair singed and sooty from sitting too close to Theo Tidy’s spike of tallow candles.

What did you expect, sir, when you sent me to University? That I would slake my appetite for learning in a mere three years, and be content to rusticate thereafter, among a company whose highest pinnacle of wit is to describe their new carriage for four hours together? I honour you for opening my mind to a wider world, but I cannot now go back to the provincial concerns from which you raised me.

A small pain, dull and heavy as a shotgun pellet, caught him just below the breastbone at the thought. Truth was he didn’t want to be a disappointment to Ambrose Latham, Fourth Earl of Clitheroe. He didn’t want to be a drain on his family’s resources or a blot on their reputation. But, forbidden as he was to join army or church, in case George should crack his head hunting and a spare heir be required, what else was there? If he could find some subject on which to become an authority, perhaps? If he could get himself invited by the Royal Society to give talks, his erudition the toast of newspapers and coffee-houses all over London? But what subject interested both the learned gentlemen and himself? They had no taste for plays.

Annoyed by his own hopeless thoughts, Charles nudged Sultan’s nose towards the basket of hay, reeled out of the door. By God, did he only have a choice of pathos or fear? Was he to be a coward as well as an embarrassment?

Four steps out of the stables, away from the horses’ drowsy whickering, and the answer seemed to be “yes.” Silence arched over the world like a collector’s dome pressed over a doomed insect. The shift of pebbles beneath his feet sounded obscenely loud. Something snapped a twig as it walked beneath the distant oaks, and it might have been a pistol shot. He tried to think of Theo—actor manager, wit, raconteur. If he could only have some of Theo’s relentless cheer to armour him now. It was foolish, childish, to find himself with clammy hands, muffling his breath in case it made him miss the faint noise of the creature shambling behind him… Oh damn!

He stopped, rejected the thought of returning to the stables to sleep. He was not a coward! Summoning up Theo’s filthiest anecdote, the one he didn’t fully understand, he put his head down and walked—walked mind you—out to the drive.

As he turned towards the house, Theo failed him. Charles’ imagination populated the lane behind him with horrors. What if they did exist? In this silence, anything that fed on blood should sense his heart speeding in his chest. Would they make a noise as they prowled? Would he hear anything before the creature’s hand came out of the darkness, dragged him to its insatiable mouth?

No, it was nonsense. Absolute tosh. No rational man could possibly believe… And yet, would the Prussians really send officials to dig up graves, make observations and write reports if there wasn’t something in it?

He swallowed, panting, and thought about what his father would have to say about this. But even that threat failed. Truth was he’d be glad if Clitheroe slammed open the door, lantern in hand, and gave him a piece of his mind. Please do, father. A nice long peroration to follow me up to bed and banish my own thoughts. Come down and shout at me. Please.

But the façade of the house remained shut. Did the marble portico and the sweep of stairs up to the entrance look gloomier than they had? Well, what of it? The moon must simply be going down.

Stopping again, he bit his lip until the blood flowed. Then turned. He clutched at his sword hilt, and slowly, shakily let it go. Yes, the moon had gone behind cloud. The trees of the park sighed in the wind, and that man-like pale shimmer beneath them… was only the statue of General Percival Latham attired in the robes of a Roman senator.

Leaning over to prop his hands on his knees in the weakness of relief, Charles gave a small spasm of laughter. As he did so the wind strengthened, the trees roared, and terror rose out of the ground around him like a fog. His breath hung white in the black air. Cold bit through alcoholic haze, jacket and flesh, piercing him to the bone. The skin across his shoulders and down his arms rippled as the hair stood up, and the little voice of reason within him blew out like a candle flame.

Chest heaving, his shallow breath scorching his throat, he turned again. There was something wrong with the house; darkness oozed over it like a coating of oil. A shadow sucked away from the stone and came flooding out towards him in a whispering tide. His legs locked. His bowels froze. He lifted an arm to push the black tide away, and so it touched his hand first. Burning cold. Faintly gritty. Sticky as cobwebs. It slid up his fingers, around his palm, burrowed beneath his cuff. Clammy strands touched the inside of his elbow, the pit of his arm, and then it flowed over his face.

No! Oh God! He pinched his eyes and mouth shut. Strands of it, like the tendrils of long filthy hair, brushed across his lips. Then something groaned by his ear. He heard the wet noise of an opened mouth. Shuddering, he let out a little ‘nnn!’ of terror, groping for his sword, his hand pushing through the cloud as if through sand. The thing by his face giggled, and dust pattered on his eyelids. He bit down hard on the mounting desire to scream. God forbid he should breathe it in!

Dimly, beyond the voice whispering with gleeful hatred in his ear, came a sound like racing hooves. Was it the wind or his own blood stoppered in his breathless body thundering in his ears? Dizziness swept through him and his locked knees gave way. He staggered forward, his lungs screaming for air, agony shooting along his ribs, and thought again of Theo; that half-joking, half-challenging offer of a kiss. Maybe he should have taken the man up on it after all. Sin aside, it seemed a shame to die, never having been kissed.

His fingertips grazed his sword hilt. A final push and he could close clumsy fingers around the hilt. He drew the blade, and as he did so something hit him in the back so hard it lifted him off his feet. For a moment he thought he would crack between the two forces like a louse between fingernails. Then the night air was clean again, and with a confused rush, a red pain in his cheek and shoulder, he was suddenly lying on the drive with a face full of gravel and two men pulling at his coat.

“What? What? Did you see it?” He batted their hands away, scrambled up and made a frantic circle, searching for the thing. Was it gone? Let it be gone!

Doctor Floyd’s landau stood with lanterns swinging and open doors, all glorious green leather and brass, just in front of him. Beside him, Dr. Floyd—almost a perfect sphere in his greatcoat—reached out a glacially cautious hand as if to restrain him. Charles turned, grabbed the man by his black velvet collar and shouted again, “Did you see it!”

A colourless, fat man, whose professional life seemed to have prematurely embalmed him, Floyd leaned away. He blinked, slowly as a torpid lizard, while propriety and self preservation warred behind his eyes.

“We almost run you over, Mr. Charles.” Floyd’s groom spoke with the reassuring tone he used to his horses. Protectively, he interposed his beaming red face between Charles and his master, put a gnarled but gentle hand on Charles’ wrist. “What you doing out here in the road in the dark anyway? Come to get us, was you? You’d’ve done better wait in the hall.”

Charles shook his head, tried to speak and could not force words past the chattering of his teeth. His grip on the Doctor’s coat gave way, and he would have fallen if the two men had not moved in and caught him in their practiced grip.

“The blanket, Sam, and less of your chatter. Here, Mr. Charles, take a drink of this.”

A heavy blanket around his shoulders and a long drink of brandy later, Charles let Sam tuck him into the corner of the carriage, concentrated on trying to stop trembling. As he did so, Floyd clambered in beside him.

“I’m most terribly sorry, Mr. Charles. Your brother’s message was so urgent. We weren’t expecting… And I must say I was looking towards the house. I saw nothing in the road until Jewel clipped you as she passed.”

Charles wrapped his arms around himself and chafed his biceps to get some warmth into them. Cold radiated out from the marrow of his bones. But the old felted blanket around him glowed in the lantern light with blue, yellow and red stripes, speckled with dog hair. He basked in wet dog smell, brass polish, leather wax, and Floyd’s orange-flower-water cologne. These things and the terror that had passed could not exist in the same world, surely?

“A cloud,” he said, in a reedy, shocked voice. “There was a cloud. A black cloud. It… rushed at me, and…”

“Most probably the dust cloud from the landau, sir.” Sam spoke over his shoulder as he flicked the whip encouragingly above Jewel’s ears.

“No it…”

“Yes, that would account for it. Undoubtedly why we neither of us saw the other coming.” Floyd nodded, fished out a handkerchief and wiped his cheeks and forehead with fingers only a little less unsteady than Charles’. “You, um. You fell upon your head, sir. And, mm, if my nose doesn’t guide me wrongly, have already imbibed a fair amount of… mm, conviviality. No doubt you are also distressed about your father. I think we need look no further for the cause of a temporary, understandable, overturning of the wits.”

“That’s not how it…” Charles clutched the blanket more closely, trapped a pawprint between his knee and the seat. The dried mud flaked off and scattered to the floor, and a convulsive choke of disgust forced its way out of him at the patter of falling soil. He smeared it underfoot, looked down blankly for a moment before the words finally penetrated his understanding.

The landau swept through the great curve before the marble steps of the portico. Lights now glimmered in the hall, and as they drew up George flung open the door. His candle showed a white, sickened face, its distinguished lines set in strain.

“My father?” Charles rose to his feet, holding tight to the calash of the landau as it sprayed gravel with the speed of its stop. A fist of dread tightened beneath his breastbone and the waves of shivering returned full force. “What’s wrong with…?”

George ran down the stairs. The light shone on his open shirt and bare feet as his scarlet silk banyan trailed behind him. His uncovered hair shone silver-gilt. It was the first time in years Charles had seen his brother so careless of his appearance, and his wild unconscious beauty added a new terror to the night.

Flinging down his candle, George caught Dr. Floyd as he bent to retrieve his bag and hauled him bodily out onto the grass. Floyd raised an eyebrow at the treatment, while George in turn gaped at the sight of Charles leaping down beside him.

“Oh I do have a brother then? No, say nothing, this isn’t the time. You’d best come too.”

Charles followed his brother’s impatient strides past the stone pineapples on the sweep of white stairs. Their footsteps echoed and re-echoed like a volley of rifle-fire against the chequered black and white marble of the entrance hall. A candelabrum set on a table within lit Doric pillars and the portraits of his ancestors with a bubble of amber light. The door up from the kitchen stood partially open. Blurs of white faces, above white shifts, showed ghostlike in the crack.

On the landing, George’s valet Sykes stood waiting with a candlestick in his hand, his cravat lopsided and his chin shadowed by an aggressive growth of black stubble. Another twist in the garrotte of fear about Charles’ throat. They were normally both of them so impeccable. “George! What’s…?”

“Just,” George flung up a hand, “be quiet.” He took the candle and whispered to Sykes. “Stand outside the door. Mrs. Latham’s rest is not to be disturbed under any circumstances. Should Mrs. Sheldrake awaken, you may inform her, but you will not permit her to come in.”

“I understand.”

They hurried down the passage, their feet silent now on the runner of blue and white carpet. Outside the windows at either end of the corridor, the night pressed inwards. As they stopped outside his father’s room, George dropped a hand to the doorknob and bent that exposed, vulnerable head. “I feel I ought to warn you. It isn’t… Ah. Well. See for yourself.”

Candlelight caught the cream and gold plastered walls, glittered like the ends of pins in the tassels of the bed-curtains and the gold embroidered comforter that lay in a kicked off crumple against the claw-footed legs of the bed. The fire had been made and burned clear yellow in the grate.

Soberly, imagination finally at bay, Charles did what his soldier ancestors would have expected of him. He walked forward into the line of fire, looked down.

Ambrose Latham, Earl of Clitheroe, lay on his back in his nightgown, his limbs fettered by the sheets, his swollen face purple. His open mouth brimmed with vomit. Across his nose, lips and chin the mark of a woman’s hand stood out in livid white. His nostrils were stopped with earth.

Two men: one with memories he can’t escape, the other with memories he can’t recapture — both trusting strangers who lie.

Amnesiac Peter Killian, suspected art thief, can’t understand why LAPD detective Michael Griffin takes his memory loss so personally.

American expatriate Jack Stoyles, exiled in a distant Atlantic outpost, is suddenly in love with a stranger who kisses him — and then dies. With good reason Jack calls his place “Heartache Cafe”.

*******************************

You wouldn’t think it even gets hot in a place like this, but let me tell you, brother, it does. Around the middle of July, the fog clears away, and the sun comes out, hot enough (as they say around these parts) to split the rocks. It’s a different sort of place, not like anywhere I’d ever been before, but when you have to leave home as suddenly as I did, you don’t much care. You just pick a direction on the map and head out and hope things turn out okay. Twelve hundred miles as the crow flies to St. John’s, Newfoundland, from my hometown of Philadelphia; I slept nearly the whole way, never mind the roaring of the airplane engines. Some things hit harder than others, and I’d been dealt a knockout punch.

When we landed at the airstrip in this little town called Torbay, I felt like I’d come to the end of the world. Nothing much to see except trees, black spruce and tamarack and scrub pines, and the red gravel airstrip. I got out of my seat and climbed down, stiff and sore, feeling like I’d been run down by a truck. I guess I was still in shock a little bit. The air was colder than I was used to; even Philadelphia winters don’t have this kind of soggy bite. All I wanted was to get inside the little terminal and maybe get a cup of coffee. I had five hundred bucks, American, in my wallet, a passport and a copy of my discharge papers from the army. I guess I should have felt ashamed, because here was Hitler stomping his jackbooted way across Europe, and there was nothing I could do about it. Unfit for active service. Yeah, that’s me — thirty-eight years old and already broken beyond repair.

This — all of this — was a blur to me. I was seeing other streets and hearing a different accent, and I was remembering walking into Moe’s first thing in the morning for a cup of joe, sitting down at the counter to look over the newspaper before I went outside and took a sharp left toward the waterfront. Maybe that’s what drew me to this place: the promise of cold salt air and the tang of the sea in my nostrils, the bustle of the waterfront, and ships coming and going at all hours of the day and night. I loved the idea that I could do the same, just go whenever I wanted to, anywhere I liked in the world, and not have to answer to anybody. If I felt like it, I could hop a freighter to some other place and work my way across the world. It was something Moe and I had talked a lot about whenever I was in there. You thinking of going somewhere? He’d always refill my coffee cup without my having to ask, and I’d always leave a tip. Thinking of leaving old Philly, huh? Right up until the last, I wasn’t sure. Even after it happened, I figured I could just keep on the way I was, doing all the things that I’d been doing. I figured I was strong enough to take it, right up until I stood on the Delaware River Bridge one morning, looking down into the swirling water and wondering if I had the nerve.

You want to know what stopped me?

Egypt. Yeah, you heard me: Egypt. See, I’d always wanted to go, and standing there on the bridge with the wind whipping me around, I figured if I followed through with what I had in mind, I’d never get to go. I’d never get to see the pyramids and ride a camel and do all that stupid, touristy stuff that people do. Pretty dumb, huh? Maybe, but it was enough to get me down off the bridge before the cops came, and it was enough to make me understand that if I ever wanted to see the pyramids at Giza or stroll the native quarter in Cairo, I had to get out of Philly. I had to go somewhere far away and try my best to forget about it.

“Passport?” She was young and pretty, the girl behind the counter, with dark red hair worn in rolls at the sides of her head. She smiled at me like she meant it. “Welcome to Newfoundland, Mr. Stoyles. If you follow that corridor and turn right, there are taxis out front to take you into town.”

“Is it…” Goddammit, it was starting again. I took a deep breath and tried to get hold of myself. “Is it far, into town? I have a room booked at the hotel, I just…” I fumbled in my pockets and found the scrap of paper. “Yeah, I have a room at this hotel downtown.”

She looked it — and me — over and smiled again. She sure was pretty — and nice, in that way that women hardly ever are anymore. She looked at me like she was interested in more than how much money I had on me or where I was likely to go in life once the war was over.

Listen, Jack — why don’t you come up to Newfoundland with me? They’re building all kinds of stuff up there and the whole place is ripe for the picking.

Frankie Missalo, an old army buddy of mine; we’d both joined up long before the whole thing went to hell at Pearl Harbor. Only thing was, he stayed in while I’d gotten kind of…waylaid. Lots of Army contractors up there, and lots of Yanks like us needing somewhere to get a proper cup of coffee. Come on! Ain’t you always said you wanted to have your own place?

So I did what he said and bought my ticket, and here I was. All I wanted now was to live a quiet life, waiting out the war to the best of my ability and minding my own business. I wasn’t interested in anything but that.

◊ ◊ ◊ ◊

I spent three days at the hotel while Frankie and me scouted around for an empty space downtown. I’d just about given up hope when a real gem came on the market: a little storefront with lots of room for chairs and tables and a piano. The space was longer that it was broad and flared out nicely toward the back. Already I was making mental nips and tucks, adding a pot of flowers here, some ornaments and paintings there, and over here the bar, with its rows of bottles and a big mirror behind it. I found a cash register for cheap in a consignment store, and when Frankie showed up with a truckload of café chairs and tables, I didn’t ask him any unnecessary questions. I just got busy moving in.

“Whatcha gonna call it, Jack?” Frankie spread his hands out in front of him and squinted. “Whatcha want’s a big sign, neon lettering. JACK’S CAFÉ.”

“Naw, that’s been done. I want something that people are gonna stop for, something that’ll really bring ‘em in.” I slung a towel over my shoulder and came out from behind the bar. “Something catchy, you know?”

“Yeah.” Frankie shook his head and lit a cigarette. “Something like Moe’s Place?”

I faked a punch at his jaw. “Keep it up, mug.” We both laughed. “How about a beer?” I couldn’t stop touching the shiny brass taps; it was hard for me to believe that this was my place, my very own.

“You, ah…” Frankie’s eyes skidded away from mine. “You having one, Jack?”

“Nope.” I got a glass for him. “What’ll it be?”

“Whatever you got’s none too good for me.” He sat down at a table near the bar and stretched his long legs out in front of him. “So, here you are, Jack. Lock, stock, and barrel, huh? An honest-to-God property owner.” He thanked me for the beer as I sat down. “How much trouble they give you about the license?”

“You kidding me?” I sipped from the glass of ice water I’d poured for myself. “They couldn’t give it to me fast enough. Anybody woulda thought I was the Second Coming or something.”

Frankie, a lifelong Catholic, grimaced. “Yeah, cut that, okay?” He glanced around and nervously raked a hand through his sandy hair. “Don’t be bringing bad luck on yourself before you’ve even started.”

I didn’t answer him. Yeah, I’d been brought up in the church, too, but on me it never stuck the way it stuck to Frankie. I’d known him since we were kids, when he was serving at mass and singing in the choir. He wasn’t what I’d call superstitious, but he sure had a healthy respect for the church.

“So tomorrow’s the big day?” He laid the beer glass down.

“Yeah. Tomorrow’s the big day.” I spread my arms wide. “Welcome to the Heartache Café.”

http://www.mlrbooks.com/Bookstore.php?bookid=T38MILSM
http://search.barnesandnoble.com/The-38-Million-Dollar-Smile/Richard-Stevenson/e/9781608200139/?itm=1&usri=1

Gadfly scion of Albany old money Gary Griswold goes missing in Thailand, and his ex-wife wants him found – with his 38 million dollars. Soon Albany’s only gay PI, Don Strachey, is out of his element, and lover Timmy is out of his comfort zone combing the Land of Smiles for a man with unerring weakness for the poorest possible choice and a daft plan to buy 38 million dollars worth of good karma.

*****************************

Chapter One

“Mr. Strachey, do you believe in reincarnation?”

“I’ve never given it much thought.”

“So you won’t mind my telling you, I think the whole idea is perfectly absurd.”

“Go ahead.”

It had been Ellen Griswold’s idea to meet in the bar at the Albany airport at six thirty. She was picking her husband up from the US Airways flight from Washington that theoretically got in at seven forty but sometimes arrived around nine or ten. So we had plenty of time for going over the mysteries of life.

“I know you’ve spent time in Southeast Asia,” she said. “So I assume you know something about Buddhist philosophy.”

She was nicely turned out in a beige linen suit, the sea green silk wrap she had been wearing against the early April chill now slung over the chair next to her. Still on the underside of fifty, I guessed, Mrs. Griswold was raven haired, with clear dark eyes, a handsome beak, and apparently had had some minimal cantilevering and other structural work done on her chin and cheeks, though nothing that would have overtaxed Le Corbusier.

I said, “I was in the war there, so I know a little. But even in Army Intelligence, my thinking was focused and practical. The larger questions relating to the Asian psyche were left to the deep thinkers at the Pentagon. How did you know I was in Vietnam?”

“Bob Chicarelli told me.”

A lawyer I knew. “I’ve done work for Bob.”

“And have played squash with him. He also says you’re gay. That’s good, because so is my ex-husband, who is the problem here, I think.”

“Ah, the problem.”

I liked that she drank beer. She had a large bottle of Indian Kingfisher she was working on, savoring each sip but without making a spectacle of it, like Timmy’s and my lesbian friends who drink beer while they inexplicably watch men play football on television.

Mrs. Griswold said, “My ex-husband, Gary, believes that in a previous life he was Thai. What do you make of that?”

“Thai, as in a person from Thailand?”

She sipped her Kingfisher, and I sipped my Sam Adams.

“Gary not only believes that he was Thai, but that he will be Thai again in his next life. This is a man I was married to for six years.”

“It sounds as though he may have been problematical for you on multiple fronts.”

This got a little half smile. “Well, yes. We were married on January seventeenth nineteen eighty-one. I should have known. It was three days before Ronald Reagan was inaugurated.”

“An auspicious week, as a sometime-Thai like your former husband might say.”

A curt nod. “I think he would say that, yes. Not back then necessarily. But now Gary would think of it in exactly those terms. Astrology, numerology, karma, reincarnation, the whole nine yards. All that new age hooey. It’s really disappointing. When I married Gary, he had his obsessions, which were generally harmless — bicycle racing, and so on. But he was also one of the most rational people I knew.”

I said, “East Asians don’t think of karma and reincarnation as new age hooey. They think of them as the way the universe is ordered.”

I meant this as a point of information, not a lecture, and she seemed to take it that way, unperturbed. “That’s fine if it works for the Asians. I’ve lived and worked abroad, and cultural relativism is fine with me. But for Gary, Eastern ideas turned into a kind of trap, I think.”

“How so?”

“As a way of avoiding responsibility.”

“Uh-huh.”

“I don’t think of myself as an overly materialistic person,” she said. “But I do believe in managing the assets you have like a grown-up. Whether you earn it or you inherited much of it, as Gary and Bill did, flushing your money down the toilet I find totally incomprehensible.”

“Who is Bill?” I asked.

“My husband, Bill Griswold. Gary’s older brother.”

This was getting complex. I said, “What did the Reagans make of all this?’

She smiled rather sweetly. “Around the time Gary’s and my marriage was unraveling — largely because of his coming to terms with his being gay — Bill’s fell apart, too. He had married a Long Island jap of a certain type when he was nineteen — a looker, a serious shopper, and not much else — and Bill needed somebody more stimulating. We had always liked each other, and we both liked to read and travel. For fun, we took a trip to Budapest together, and that was it. It’s been as good a marriage as anybody could hope for, overall.”

“And your husband’s first wife was not Japanese?”

“Jewish American Princess. You’ve heard the term, I’m sure.”

“It could have been another Asian in the picture.”

“I would not have used Jap that way.”

Her cell phone played what Timothy Callahan might have identified as the opening strains of Gluck’s overture to Orpheus and Eurydice, but for all I knew could have been Andrew Lloyd Webber. She flipped it out of her handbag and told me with an apologetic shrug, “It’s either one or the other.”

Ellen Griswold’s end of a brief conversation included the words please don’t more often than I normally use them on the phone.

“That was Amanda,” she said, putting her phone away. I noted a diamond on one finger that, while not quite ostentatious, did not hide its light under a bushel, as well as a demure ruby on a nearby digit.

“Amanda is thirteen,” Mrs. Griswold said. “Mark is fifteen. They’re both good kids, but they are kids. They pretty much have their feet on the ground, but there are times when I have to try hard not to scream.”

“These are Bill’s children, not Gary’s?”

“That’s right. Do the math.”

“Gotcha. But we’re not here to talk about Amanda and Mark, apparently.”

“No.”

“On the phone, you said you believed that a family member was in trouble, and you wanted my help in getting him out of it. So we’re talking about your former husband and current brother-in-law?”

This was the moment when, in the olden days, Mrs. Griswold would rummage in her handbag for a cigarette, and I would light it for her and then fire up one of my own. Now we both had to make do with a barely perceptible tightening of her facial restructuring and a swig of beer for me.

Watching me with no particular expression, she said, “Gary has vanished in Thailand with thirty-eight million dollars. I’d like you to find him, check to see if he is all right, and help him out if he isn’t. And if Gary is alive and hasn’t gone completely around the bend, help us talk some sense into him.”

I said, “That sounds simple enough.”

“Look, don’t laugh. I know it’s a big job. Bob Chicarelli said you could do it.”

“Okay.”

“I could hire an international private investigations agency. I know that.”

“You could. It’s what most people would do.”

“Or, Bob told me he could locate some reputable private detective in Bangkok, if such a thing exists.”

“I’ll bet such a thing does.”

She thought for a moment and said, “You could farm out some of the work to people there. That would be up to you. But I’m more comfortable paying someone who is known and trusted by someone Bill and I know and trust. And since you’re familiar with that part of the world, it’s a huge advantage, no? Plus, of course, you presumably would have easier entrée to the Thai gay scene, a good place to start looking for Gary. He went over there on vacation two years ago, and in addition to reincarnation, apparently discovered some gay Shangri-La. He never really came home, except to sell his condo in Key West and then fly straight back to Bangkok. But Thailand has not turned out to be a paradise for Gary. At least not from where I’m sitting, it hasn’t.”

Where she seemed to be sitting was pretty. A second portion of a sizable family fortune remained intact if I was hearing her correctly. I said, “Please tell me (a) about the rather large sum of money Gary took along — can I assume he didn’t earn it over there? — and (b) about his vanishing, as you put it.”

This got a look of mild surprise. “So you’re interested in taking this on?”

“Maybe.”

“I was beginning to think you wouldn’t. You seem so skeptical about everything.”

“Not everything. My, no.”

“But,” she said, “I think you’re skeptical about me.”

“A little.”

“Why would you be?”

I noticed that the flat-screen television set over the bar was tuned to cnbc, where a reporter who looked something like Mrs. Griswold was mouthing words that I supposed concerned the day’s main news topic, the crashing dollar. If I had been able to read lips I might have phoned my bank immediately and converted everything into Burmese kyat.

I said, “Mrs. Griswold —”

“Please call me Ellen. I think we’re more or less contemporaries.”

“Yeah, more or less. Ellen, this thirty-eight million dollars — which, by the way, might now be worth somewhat less than it was worth ten minutes ago — this thirty-eight million your ex-husband has or had in his possession — to whom does it belong?”

“To Gary, of course. But the point is, there are indications — and I’ll get to those — that Gary is throwing his money away. That’s the issue.”

“Well, it is and it isn’t. That’s where a lot of my skepticism — you’re right about that — comes in. Your gay ex-husband-brother-in-law may well be over in the Land of Smiles, as the brochures call it, spending thirty-eight million dollars on things you would not necessarily spend thirty-eight million dollars on. Beach houses, money boys, dried squid on a stick, who knows what. But spending money foolishly is what some people do. And while the spectacle can be upsetting to others, nauseating even, especially to the spendthrift’s loved ones, there’s rarely anything anybody can do about it. Or needs to. Hiring a private investigator is seldom called for — even when it’s a family member who appears to have gone off the rails, fiscally speaking.”

She was looking increasingly unhappy. “So Bill and I should just — sit back?”

I said, “When you say your ex-husband has vanished, what do you mean by that?”

“It means what it sounds like. No one has heard from Gary for nearly six months. He doesn’t respond to e-mails. His snail mail letters don’t get answered. His home phone and Thai cell phone accounts have both been shut down. He just seems to have — you know.”

“I know.” Fallen off the face of the earth. She heard herself thinking the cliché and decided she was not someone who would use it.

“Gary was never much for staying in touch,” she said. “Even during his Key West years, he rarely e-mailed or phoned. Business matters with Bill, but little else. And after his and Bill’s parents died, we saw very little of Gary. Even though I think he was basically happy that Bill and I had gotten together — at some level, relieved even — he seemed to feel awkward around us. He had a couple of boyfriends in Key West — one of them fairly long-term — but we never met them or knew exactly who they were. Whether it was internalized homophobia or something else, I don’t know. What I do know is, Gary didn’t seem to fully come out and grow up as a gay person until he went to Thailand.”

She blinked a couple of times, realizing she may have blundered.

“So your ex-husband is not a grown-up, and at the same time he is a grown-up?”

“What I meant,” she said, recovering handily, “was that on the one hand Gary seems finally to have found a way of being comfortably gay. While on the other hand, his long-term happiness and well-being have been seriously jeopardized by his fiscal irresponsibility, his susceptibility to Eastern religions — there was at least one sizable investment decision Bill and I learned was suggested by his astrologer — and by his choice of boyfriends over there. The last one he mentioned to me — in a short note about some estate business before we stopped hearing from him — was a Thai man named Mango.”

“That’s vivid.”

“You’ve been there, and you may know better. But I would find it very difficult to take seriously a man named Mango.”

I said, “On some Bangkok R and R from Saigon, I once spent a pleasant weekend with a Thai man named Bank. He had a brother named Book. Thais sometimes give their children English nicknames of objects they value. So I wouldn’t make too much of that.”

Mrs. Griswold took a good swallow of beer and said, “Well, then, Don, let me run a very different name by you, and let’s see if this gets your attention.” She waited.

“Ready when you are.”

She said, “Algonquin Steel.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Max J. Griswold.”

“Oh, so you all are those Griswolds. If you were Thai, you might have named your son Blast Furnace. Or your daughter.”

“The company Gary and Bill’s grandfather founded is publicly traded now,” she went on. “But Gary and Bill both retained substantial holdings. Last August, Gary sold his shares for thirty million dollars and change. Bill learned this from Alan Rainey, the company treasurer. Alan also told Bill that when Alan questioned him, Gary said he had been offered an investment opportunity that was too good to pass up and would lead to his recouping his investment many times over in a short period of time. It was easy enough, also, for Bill to learn from Angie Hogencamp at Hughes-Weinstock, our brokerage, that Gary had liquidated all of his remaining eight million in assets and had all of it — thirty-eight million in toto — wired to a bank in Bangkok.” She eyed me coolly and waited for my reaction.

I said, “Remind me never to do business with Hughes-Weinstock if I want my portfolio activity kept confidential.”

She ignored this and added, “All of this bizarre and potentially disastrous financial activity coincided with the arrival of Mango on the scene and came a little less than a month before Gary…”

She waited and I said it. “Seemed to fall off the face of the earth.”

“And by the way,” Mrs. Griswold said. “Blast Furnace would not be an appropriate Griswold name. The company has steel wholesale and fabricating facilities in eleven states — plus, of course, the nationwide Econo-Build home and building supply chain of stores — but no actual steel mills. Anyway, most of the steel sold and used in the United States these days comes from Japan, Korea, Russia and Brazil. I think it’s safe to say few Griswolds have ever laid eyes on a blast furnace.”

I did not reply that Bill and Ellen Griswold might then have considered naming their only son Middleman. I thought about it quickly and said, “I guess I have to agree, Ellen, that the situation you have described to me does sound worrisome.”

The House of the Dead: a mortuary whose directors are drop dead gorgeous and terminally horny-and one of them up to mischief. Stanley and Tom try to separate the naturally dead from the murdered dead and find themselves awash with coffins-until they come to the one Stanley’s name on it.   Deadly Slumber indeed.

***************************

Chapter ONE

The House of the Dead.

He hadn’t known, when he made the appointment, how appropriate that old sobriquet would be before the day, before the hour, even, was out.

That’s what they had called Bartholomew’s Mortuary when David Solomon was growing up just a few blocks from here—never dreaming that one day he would be standing outside like this, looking up at the pseudo-Italian palazzo, and summoning his courage to go inside for a job interview.

“You’re going to work at the House of the Dead?” his sister Rose had asked, laughing.

“I hope. And live there too, if I get the internship.”

“Won’t you feel, you know, icky? All those dead people?”

“Dead people are just dead, Rosie. You want icky, I’ll take you to a gay dinner party or two. You’ll come to welcome a non-bitchy corpse.”

He’d been so used to seeing the building, though, that as anachronistic as it was here in San Francisco’s near-Mission, midst crumbling mansions and almost mansions, he had long since ceased to take any particular notice of it.

Today, however, perhaps because it had taken on a new significance in his life, or maybe it was only a trick of the early morning sunlight, but when he came around the corner from 17^th Street, he saw it with new eyes, the way you catch sight of a different you in a store window’s glass. Pausing outside to really look at the mortuary’s facade, he could suddenly fully appreciate it for the beautiful monstrosity that it was, in a way he’d never done before.

Built for a gold field millionaire whose fortune had vanished as quickly as it accrued—apparently before he’d spent so much as a single night in his new mansion—the palazzo looked, as wags sometimes put it, “about as Venetian as an amusement park funhouse.” It was generally said, though, with an affectionate scorn. It was bastard architecture, to be sure, but fascinating in its own way.

The millionaire who’d commissioned the building had quickly vanished into obscurity, and the palazzo’s subsequent history had been checkered: an expensive bordello, a brief and unsuccessful stint as a hotel (Victorian era guests apparently shied away from sleeping in a former bordello), a gambling casino, a speakeasy, a bordello again (“A whorehouse,” some insisted this time), and for a year or so a boarding house, after which it had sat empty for ten years or more before Percy Bartholomew Senior, looking about for a place to establish a business, had seen it and said, “There, that will be Bartholomew’s Mortuary.”

The building was enormous, and for years Bartholomew’s had needed only the first floor. The top three floors were used for storage and an apartment in which the thrifty Percy lived when he was not hard at work, which was seldom. It had been then a one-man operation, Percy serving as his own embalmer, funeral director, grief counselor, maintenance man, and accountant.

That remained the case for years, and might have continued for the life of the mortuary, had it not been for one twist of fate: the AIDS epidemic.

“It’s an ill wind,” Percy had been fond of saying, though this wind did not blow until after his demise.

When the AIDS plague first struck, many mortuaries did not want to deal with the bodies of its victims. The families of many of those who died conspired with the funeral homes in ordering hasty cremations, often with no kind of service, often without even posted obituaries. People just disappeared. They were there and then they weren’t.

“No services,” was the order of the day.

Enter Bartholomew’s. Percy Bartholomew Junior, son of the now deceased founder, made a momentous decision, which he trumpeted throughout San Francisco’s gay community: “Bartholomew’s will provide full funerary services for AIDS victims, just as with any other deceased.” An announcement, as it happened, heard round the world.

The ill wind of AIDS had been the making of the mortuary’s fortunes. Additional slumber rooms, in the old fashioned terminology still in use at Bartholomew’s, were opened. A growing list of interns came here to work for little more than slave wages while they finished their schooling, and served their apprenticeships.

Even when an intern did not eventually join the firm, everyone knew that an internship at Bartholomew’s was worth its weight in gold at any mortuary anywhere in the country.

“Be gay,” was a sort of unofficial motto for those applying for internship. It was generally understood, though rarely discussed openly, that being gay was a bonus for an applicant. At the very least, one must be fully comfortable with gay clients. Being especially good looking, and gay oriented, was practically a call to apply.

David Solomon, having completed his first year in mortuary school, and blessed with the sort of good looks that made passersby stop on the street and stare after him, had heard the call.

§ § § § §

The first of the tour busses was just pulling up outside Mission Dolores, down the street. The early morning breeze was strengthening to a wind, tossing David’s dark curls, and making his blazer billow out behind him.

He pushed his way through the wrought iron gate, climbed the wide, shallow steps, and shoved open the elaborately carved front door. The vestibule in which he found himself, and that he had never seen before, was no less fantastic than the building’s exterior. Elaborately inlaid marble covered the floor in an intricate pattern of sand, ocher and umber. In the very middle of the space, an airy staircase of black wrought iron spiraled upward, and when he glanced up he saw, four floors above, a domed ceiling painted in garishly impressive frescoes.

He stood for a long moment, craning his neck to study with a guilty sense of pleasure what surely must have been inspired by the Sistine Chapel, if it had fallen well short of its inspiration. It reminded him of the cheap plastic replicas of Michelangelo’s David that one saw in the tawdrier souvenir shops at Fisherman’s Wharf, but on a much more grandiose scale. Kitschy, but not unlikable. Like the building itself, really.

Someone cleared his throat. David tore his attention from the artwork overhead, and looked to his right. A tall man, whose good looks were just beginning to fade, with pale blond hair so carefully arranged and with so bright a sheen that it might have been made of ceramic, came from behind an ornate teak counter.

“Mister Solomon?” he said.

“Yes.” David came forward, hand outstretched. “I’m David Solomon.”

“Cyril Bartholomew.” Cyril Bartholomew looked him up and down, seeming pleased with what he saw. “Jewish.”

“Yes. Non practicing.” And was immediately embarrassed to have said it. What did that have to do with anything? It was something entirely private, wasn’t it, whether or not he practiced his family’s religion?

“I don’t think we’ve had a Jewish director before. Our directors, of course, are chosen for qualities other than their religious practices. Or non practices, as it may. My Uncle Percy will be interviewing you this morning. He’s the managing director of the firm. Come with me, please.” He turned in the direction of the reception desk and the doors that opened behind and on either side of it, and hesitated.

“Normally,” he said, “we’d take the elevator or the stairs from the business wing. But, this being your first visit, perhaps you’d prefer the scenic route, through the public spaces?”

“I would, actually.”

Cyril nodded, as if in approval, and led the way to the curving stairs.

“What are they?” David asked.

The blond man paused with one foot on the first step. “I beg your pardon?”

“What are the qualities for which your directors are chosen?”

Cyril took a moment to look him over again, slowly, from head to toe, and back. He might have been smiling faintly, but his face was a mask. It was difficult to be sure. Certainly there was a gleam in his eye that came from something more than the gilded chandelier above them.

“You have the look,” he said, and started upward.

David followed, resisting the temptation to take another glimpse at that outrageous ceiling overhead, and kept his eyes instead on Cyril Bartholomew’s ramrod straight back. Cyril was ahead of him up the stairs, though, with the result that his buttocks were practically on a level with David’s eyes. David found himself looking at them, then, rather than Cyril’s back.

Nicely sculpted buttocks they were, too, as David was altogether aware, with lush curves like a ripe peach, a similarity enhanced by the tawny silk of the trousers encasing them. David could not help thinking that, like a peach, they invited one to sink one’s teeth into them. He was mesmerized by the play of muscles as their owner climbed upward, and found himself actually leaning toward them. He caught himself with a start.

What a way that would be to begin his experience at Bartholomew’s, he thought, laughing silently at himself—biting into the butt of one of the directors! He wasn’t altogether sure, though, whether that would be a bad thing for his career, or a good one. The invitation they offered did not seem entirely unintended. It appeared to him Cyril Bartholomew wore nothing between his flesh and the silk of his trousers.

He made a mental note to observe if this state of dress was unique to Cyril alone, or indicated a style suggestion for staff members. After all, he very much wanted to fit in—if he got the job. And, he thought his own buttocks were rather nicely shaped. They’d look just fine, he felt sure, in tightly fitted silk, without the hindrance of underthings. He wished in fact that he’d thought of that beforehand. Everyone in the industry understood looks mattered when it came to Bartholomew’s, and he had a notion that his own butt was one of his best features.

Once, Cyril looked back over his shoulder and smiled, and David had the impression that he was not at all unaware of the sight he was presenting to the young man following him up the stairs.

They reached the second floor. David had a glimpse of a chapel, filled with flowers, the perfume of roses and lilies and chrysanthemums seeming to flow out the open door like a fog of scent.

“Our original slumber rooms are on the ground floor. Of course, everyone wants them. The selection room is there as well, and the embalming room. I’ll skip that for today. The newer parlors are here, on second,” Cyril said, waving a hand at the second floor corridor. “They’re a bit smaller, but also more up to date. Depending upon your interview, we can look at those later. The offices and the staff rooms are on the next level, along with a small kitchenette and cafeteria for our employees, and a quite good coffee shop for our guests.” He started up another flight of stairs. “The top floor, that would be the fourth, is the dormitory for our interns.”

David was suddenly aware of the silence that surrounded them. It seemed total. The thick carpet on the stairs swallowed up their footsteps, and when Cyril spoke, it was in little more than a whisper, though it had the effect almost of a shout. No breeze stirred the thick forest green brocade of the draperies. The air was not just still, it seemed gelid, as if they moved through it only with effort.

His mother would have said his imagination was running away with him. The atmosphere here was supposed to be hushed. Except in ghost stories, the dead weren’t given to clatter.

They reached the third floor and went down a long corridor, past an open door where two or three well-dressed and handsome men were having coffee. They glanced at David with some interest as he went by but no one spoke, and Cyril did not pause for introductions.

He knocked at a tall mahogany door at the corridor’s far end, waited for a respectful moment, then knocked again, a little louder. Finally, he pushed a door open, tentatively.

“Uncle Percy?” he said, stepping into the room, and then, in a sibilant whisper, “Oh, Jesus!”

Crowding in behind him, David first saw the enormous desk centered before the two green draped windows, the morning sunlight streaming in so boldly that for a few seconds he was all but blinded. It was another moment before he followed the direction of Cyril’s wide-eyed gaze, and saw the man stretched out on the roan leather sofa against one wall.

He was dead. Even with only a year of training at the San Francisco Mortuary College, David could tell that at a glance. Eyes were open but unseeing, and a small trail of vomit had trickled from his mouth, staining one cheek. His shoes were on the floor beside the sofa, and near them, a large liquor bottle, on its side; a smaller bottle also, with a prescription label on it, too small to read at this distance, an empty glass and—tellingly—a syringe.

Cyril Bartholomew stepped to the corpse. One hand clutched a sheet of paper. Cyril took it from the lifeless fingers and, unfolding it, glanced at it briefly before folding it again and slipping it into the pocket of his suit jacket.

“Suicide?” David said.

“Obviously,” was the answer. “You’d better go down to the reception desk. Take that elevator there, it’ll be quicker. Matt’s office is just behind reception. Tell him to come here. And stay there yourself, to welcome any guests. Mister and Mrs. Bunderson are due shortly. Escort them into the front parlor, the Rose Room, and make them comfortable. There’s a bell pull there. If you need anything, coffee or whatever, ring for Armando. He’ll take care of it.”

David knew then that he had gotten the job.

Title	Conspiracy of Ravens
Author	William Maltese
ISBN#	978-1-60820-061-0 (ebook)
Release Date	June 2009
Cover Artist	Deana C. Jamroz
Paperback:	174 pages
Sexual Content:	Rated Explicit
Available At:	MlrBooks (ebook)

Inside the grounds of the infamous Tower of London. Patrick whose Irish lover, Ian, was killed by an English homicidal butcher behind the wheel of a speeding car. Tad whose American parents have sent their erring son to live with Brit relatives, one of whom is a Tower yeoman. Six Tower Ravens, the subjects of legend that predicts-they gone, the British Empire soon to follow. A man and five Tower Ravens murdered. One man determined to see the sixth bird dead, no matter the consequences.

*****************************

Title	Drag Queen in the Court of Death
Author	Caro Soles
ISBN#
Release Date	June 2009
Cover Artist	Deana C. Jamroz
Paperback:	253 pages
Available At:	MlrBooks (ebook) B&N — coming soon Amazon–coming soon

Was his ex-lover really a twisted killer?

While cleaning out his dead ex-lover Ronnie’s apartment, staid history professor Michael Dunn-Barten makes a grisly discovery–a mummified corpse in a trunk. Suddenly Michael must travel back 25 years to find answers by revisiting everybody who knew Ronnie. Back to the 1960s, back to the realization of his sexuality and the boy he loved. Back to the troubling time when his wife threw him out and his family disowned him. Back to uncover disturbing answers amidst drag queens and murky memories–and to reveal whether or not his first real love was truly a twisted killer. Drag Queen in the Court of Death is a taut thriller about a man who needs to face his past in order to forge a future. He must unravel a mystery that’s a quarter century old–no matter how painful the truth may be.

*****************************

Chapter One

The last time I climbed up these stairs was exactly three weeks ago. I would have stayed away longer, but Ellis was insistent, pining over all those gorgeous gowns and shoes and wigs; imagining great bolts of flashing silks and glittering lengths of magical cloth that ran through your hands like a sigh.

“And the makeup,” Ellis said, behind me on the stairs. “There’s probably mountains of the stuff.”

“No doubt,” I said. “Remember, he left most of it to Wilde Nights.”

“Well, I’m in Wilde Nights,” Ellis said.

“So am I.” That was his friend. Some young thing named Jaym or Jayce. A non-name. An effort at re-creation that I might have appreciated in my younger days. Now it just annoyed me.

I paused at the landing, the key warm and moist in my hand. The air danced with dust and heat. I didn’t understand why Ronnie had stayed so long in this place, the top-floor apartment of an old converted rooming house in a part of the city that was finally becoming fashionable again. When he had moved in, he was just a student. In my homeroom. It was the ’60s, and we thought anything might happen. Anything might become something else entirely. Something wonderful and engaging and strange. Like Ronnie himself. At least, to me.

“Come on, Michael.” Behind me, the heat from Ellis’s tight body radiated close to my back. “I’m dying here.”

Immediately he caught his breath and I felt the air go still. Dying. But it was Ronnie who was dead.

For a moment I rested my hand flat against the painted door. The deep purple surface was warm. I put the key in the locks, all three of them, and stepped back. The door opened outward, making it awkward for a moment, balanced on the steps. Behind me, the other two muttered and shifted to make room as the plum door swung to the left and I walked into Ronnie Lipinsky’s apartment.

Hot, dust-filled air hit me in the face. It was like pushing into a wall of solid heat.

Ellis coughed. “Hell on wheels! Air! Air!” He rushed towards the full-length window, which opened onto the fire escape. We used to sit out there on hot nights, Ronnie and I, wrapped safe in the darkness and liquid emotion, talking the night away. Ellis struggled with the old, much-painted wooden sash and finally forced it open. He stood for a moment, panting in the heat, the sunlight dancing on the frosted tips of his short hair.

Beside me, Jaym was looking around at the eccentric decor, his dark eyes taking in every detail. “Cool.”

Some time ago, Ronnie had remodeled the top floor, which was originally three separate rooms, into a small apartment. I didn’t understand why he’d bothered, but he loved the place. It had memories, he said. Associations. It gave him back the roots he had voluntarily broken when he left the US and came here twenty-five years ago at the age of seventeen. Technically, he was not a draft dodger, since he hadn’t been called up yet. But he would have been. Here, in this eccentric top floor of an old house in Toronto, he re-created himself over the years, till at last, when I met him again, he was a different person.

The sloping walls were a deep midnight blue, the ceiling silver. The furniture was all upholstered in white, with painted cushions on the sofa and piled on the window seat. Near the dormer window hung five or six mobiles Ronnie had made from bits of colored glass and crystals and sparkling ornaments. They moved gently, emitting a soft tinkling sound that set my teeth on edge.

“What’s that about?” Jaym asked, pointing at one wall. It was covered with pictures of angels and saints, Madonnas and plaster cherubs and dried flowers with dusty ribbons hanging from their stems. There were pictures of men, some formal, some snapshots. Some were very old. There were also antique in memoriam cards bordered in thick black, with people’s names in spiked Gothic script. On the floor stood two large painted wooden candlesticks, holding squat beeswax candles.

“It’s a memorial to friends who have died of AIDS,” I said.

“It’s creepy,” said Ellis, with a mock shiver.

I shrugged. It was just another theatrical touch in a room filled with dramatic flair. “The gowns are through here,” I said, opening the door to the room at the back of the house.

This one was painted white, with a wall of mirrors along one side. The lighting was bright but muted, so that the effect in the mirrors was flattering. Rows of clothes hung in plastic bags along both sides of the room.

Ellis descended on the gold mine with cries of delight. Jaym merely stared as the light bounced off the sequins and satins, the bugle beads and seed pearls. It was as if the room winked at us.

I left them to it and went into the bedroom across the hall. Here the walls were sky blue. Someone had painted clouds on the ceiling. A mobile of stars hung in the window. This closet, I knew, was filled with sober, expensive suits, which Ronnie wore to work at the accounting firm of Shaw and McGinnis. It was not one of these suits he had chosen to be buried in, but a gown of old rose with beadwork on the bodice and a high, almost Victorian neckline. I knew because I had taken it to the funeral home, per his request.

Across the hall I could hear Ellis’s laughter, his delighted exclamations, the ohhhs of appreciation. Jaym’s low voice answered him, and occasionally he would laugh too. I pulled myself together and collected the mail from the box downstairs, took it back to the living room to sort. There was the usual junk, some bills that needed attention, a few letters and notes I put aside to answer later.

My concentration kept wandering, and I soon gave in. I wasn’t ready for business. I took a box of photos from the top of the desk and sank into the couch to look through them. Some of the pictures I recognized, but they were mostly of people I didn’t know, taken in bars and during drag shows, at parties where Ronnie smiled and talked with wide-shouldered transvestites and men holding wine glasses or cans of beer.

Ellis and Jaym were piling selected gowns on the brightly painted chest in one corner of the living room. I vaguely remembered the chest, a trunk, really. In the old days, it had stood in the middle of the room, used as a coffee table. Seeing it now brought back unpleasant memories of our breakup, an abrupt and painful wrenching apart of something I had assumed solid. I was a fool, but I had never really been in love before, and Ronnie’s sudden, erratic behavior was incomprehensible to me.

The laughter and screams of delight from the other room had faded now as the two became serious in their winnowing of the treasures that crammed the racks. I raised my head to watch, catching alluring glimpses of Ellis posturing and pouting in one gown after another, his short, spiky blond hair almost glittering in the bright light. Occasionally Jaym would try something on, but mostly he seemed to see his role as valet, the one who puts everything away, smoothing out wrinkles and zipping up the garment bags. I was glad he had come along.

“What a bitchin’ collection,” Ellis said, arms akimbo as he looked at the gowns he had piled on top of the old trunk. “How the hell can I choose just three?”

“Find a way,” I said. Three had been an arbitrary number, but having chosen it, I felt bound by my own careless words, something that often happened to me.

“Shit,” said Ellis. He passed several of the gowns to Jaym, who obediently hung them up. I was sure in the exact same place they had come from. “I’ll have to shorten them,” Ellis went on, “but other than that they fit great. What’s in the trunk?”

I shrugged. “How would I know?” I glanced pointedly at my watch.

“Okay, okay. Just let me take a look in case he was keeping some gems hidden, for some reason. Jaym, give me a hand here. It seems to be stuck or something.”

I watched the two of them struggle with the trunk for a while. Irritated that it was taking so long, I got up and went over to help. The lock had sprung open, but the top refused to budge.

“What the hell has he got in here?” Jaym asked. “His tiara collection?”

“Hold on.” I went into the tiny, immaculate kitchen and came back with a screwdriver and a hammer. I resented that trunk. It had always been there, changing slowly as Ronnie changed, painted, repainted, covered with pictures or draped with shawls, while I had been banished, my life broken apart.

As I tried to force the screwdriver under the lip of the top of the trunk, I realized Ronnie had sealed it with something.

“Weirdness,” murmured Ellis.

Jaym had discovered the end of a tape and slowly and carefully removed it. Underneath was another kind of sealant, but with three of us working on it, we chipped and peeled it off too. By now, we were all determined to discover the treasures within. I felt the faint beat of an excitement I hadn’t experienced for many years. Anticipation. Adventure. I smiled at Jaym as he handed me the hammer. It was warm from his touch.

“One more whack should do it,” he said. “Go for it.”

I did. The top swung open with a creak. They cheered. Paint chips from the hinges flaked onto the deep blue rug. A heavy smell of dust and mold rose from inside.

Ellis pulled back, coughing. “I don’t think I want anything that’s been in here,” he said.

“Don’t be too hasty,” I said, pulling out the heavy green tapestry material that lay on top. It was just material, nothing else. Underneath was something that looked like old leather, cracked and brown, discolored with neglect. I tried to pull this out too, but it wouldn’t move. Jaym reached in to help, and we both pulled at the thing, finally getting it half out. It appeared to be sewn together, so that the entire bundle filled the large trunk in a mass of stiff, dusty leather.

Ellis coughed again. “What it this? Bondage gear?”

“You wish,” said Jaym, his dark eyes dancing. He flashed a sudden grin. “Let’s heave it out on the floor.”

It wasn’t that heavy, no more than you would expect from a package of leather, but I was beginning to sweat. Something wasn’t right about this. I had never heard of Ronnie being into anything leather before. The thought that there was a lot about Ronnie I might not know was surprisingly painful.

We crouched on the floor, looking at the awkward package. Whatever it was, it had been in there a long time.

“Turn it over,” Ellis said.

When we did, he pointed to a row of heavy stitches. “So where are the scissors?”

I shrugged.

Jaym got up and went into the room where all the gowns hung. There was a sewing machine in there. He had remarked on it earlier. Now he went unerringly to the box where the scissors and such things were, and came back triumphant.

“Piece of cake,” he said, and began to snip away. When the scissors proved too slow, he picked out a utility blade and sawed through the thick stitches.

The heavy leather peeled away from the package slowly, almost reluctantly. It took a while, turning the bulky package around, moving it farther into the room to give us more space. The dust was heavy, smelling strongly of mothballs now. I turned away to sneeze.

Ellis screamed.

Jaym dropped his side of the bundle and jumped backward, knocking over the telephone table.

I swung around and stared. The air rushed out of me, as if someone had hit me hard in the stomach. Staring up from the leather cocoon was a mummified face, the skin shriveled and brown, pulled back over yellowed teeth.

“Christ!”

Jaym rushed to the window and opened it. I thought for a moment he might crawl through to the wide ledge outside, but he didn’t. Ellis had scooted back till he was against the farthest wall. He held both hands over his mouth, still staring at the corpse.

“Holy Christ,” I said, my mind whirling in confusion.

A body. A mummified corpse forced into the confines of Ronnie’s trunk. A full-grown man crammed into a space that would barely fit a child. Or so it appeared.

There was no rational explanation for this atrocity. All I could think of was seeing this trunk all those times over the years when I had visited Ronnie. Was this monstrosity inside while we made love on the floor beside it years ago? I felt my insides well up, and rushed to the bathroom. Nothing came up.

I threw cold water on my face, went back into the living room, and dialed 911.

Jason Zachary finds himself with a map straight into a murder rap when he runs afoul of Santa Barbara detective Alexander Spider, charged with the murder of a man he’s never met.

****************************

I threw my arms over my face to block out the brilliant light that flooded my eyes. I yelped at the sharp burst of pain it brought on and sat up in bed.

“What the fuck-?”

Under me the bed rocked and rolled. Outside I could hear the high-pitched wail of a gull scream and the gentle, slap of water against fiberglass hull. I was on a boat. Whose? I rolled over to escape the relentless light and bumped up against warm flesh. Oh shit, what had I done this time? Another black out? My last memory was leaving the Vault near midnight. I could have sworn I was alone. Wait – hadn’t some cute, hunky blond guy waylaid me in the parking lot? The guy beside me was definitely not the blond from last night.

I blinked and stared into his slack face, searching for a clue as to who he was and why I was in bed with him.

I blinked again. I tried to place the face. He was old. At least sixty. Wrinkled face. White mat of chest hair over a flabby paunch, tiny shrunken cock. Faded tats up and down his skinny chest and arms. A leather dog collar. Black leather harness strapped to his thin chest and nothing else. Not the type I usually slept with. Not the type I ever slept with. What would ever possess me to let a loser like this fuck me? I don’t think anyone had that much money.

Then a flash of ice poured down my spine and lodged in my gut. The old man was dead.

I scrambled back, but didn’t get very far before hands grabbed me under my armpits and hauled me off the bed. I squawked and tried to swing at my attacker who spun me around and threw me to the floor. One hand shoved my face into the teak deck, redolent of varnish and wood, the other one pinned my arms behind my back. Cold metal snicked around my wrists. What-? A knee landed on my kidney knocking the breath out of my lungs, stopping my protest.

Before I could refill my lungs I was jerked to my feet and found myself staring into a pair of cold gray eyes behind wire frame glasses. He had full lips and a lean, lightly freckled face below a harsh Marine cut. He was a redhead. The freckles didn’t fit. They gave him a boyish quality that didn’t go with his grimness. He was taller than me by several inches. He had a massive chest that would have split bricks.

“Who the fuck are you?”

“Detective Alexander Spider. SBPD. Who are you?”

I gaped at him. “What the hell kind of name is Spider?”

“My father’s,” he snapped.

I tugged at the handcuffs holding my arms behind my back. My shoulders ached from the unnatural position.

“Who is he?” Spider asked.

It took me about two seconds to realize he meant the body on the bed. I glanced over at the dead man but still didn’t recognize him. Not enough to put a name to him. So how had I ended up in bed with him? And whose bed was it? Not mine. I lived in a dump on Los Cerrados Street. I worked at the harbor, at Channel Charters taking tourists out to the Channel Islands for bird-watching trips. I had snuck a trick onto one of the boats more than once. It always impressed the cute twinks and guaranteed a hard fuck, but I hadn’t done anything like that last night. Had I?

Spider pushed me around, forcing me to look down at the corpse.

He looked over my shoulder, toward the galley. I caught movement there and realized a second cop was busy photographing everything in sight, including me.

“Who is he?” The detective’s voice broke through my confusion. I jerked around to look at him, thinking frantically.

I searched my memory for something, anything that would tell me who the dead guy was and why I was with him. As distasteful as the thought was I even took minute stock of my own body trying to detect any signs I’d been fucked by the guy. Nothing. I couldn’t see any signs of sexual activity. So whoever the blond guy I thought I had been with, we hadn’t done anything either. No half empty drinks. No used condoms. Thank God there were no lines of coke anywhere or those little glassine packs I get my beans and Oxy in. I could just imagine how that would go over with this law jockey.

He jerked my arm up. Shards of pain shot up my shoulders. “Who is he?” he shouted.

Finally I found my voice. I tried to shake him off, but his grip was like a steel band. “Let me go. I haven’t done anything-”

“You always sleep with corpses?” He leaned in so close I could see the dark rims of his irises behind his glasses. His nostrils flared and he showed the tip of his teeth in a feral grin. “Who is he? Why did you kill him?”

“Kill – I didn’t kill anyone. And I don’t know who he is.”

“What are you doing here? You meet him here or did he bring you? Where’d he find you? Hades? Wildcat? The Vault?”

If I’d been thinking straight I might have wondered how he knew so much about the local bondage scene, but I was too confused, and face it, scared. I was in the middle of something I didn’t understand, being grilled by a man who, it was fast becoming clear, wanted to pin this mess on me.

I glared at him, trying to look tough. “Why would I kill somebody I don’t know?”

“We’ll get to that. What is your name, sir?”

That threw me a bit. I’m not used to being called sir by too many people. Under normal circumstances I might have looked behind me to see if he meant someone else. Instead I opened my mouth to tell him to fuck off. He pulled at my aching arms again, stopping the words in my throat.

“Don’t bother,” he said. “What’s your name? Or do I need to pat you down and find your ID myself?” His gaze slid down my skintight, pocket-less pants and bare chest and his mouth twisted in a grimace. “Guess that would be a waste of time. One last time. Who are you? I want your name.”

“Jason,” I said. When that didn’t satisfy him I added, “Jason Aaron Zachary.”

Another cop entered the cabin. Female this time. She ignored me.

“ME’s here,” she told Spider. “You ready for him?”

“Sure,” he said. “Let’s get this mutt out of here.”

“This mutt isn’t going anywhere without a lawyer,” I said, bracing my feet as though I thought I could keep the two of them from moving me. It didn’t help that Spider looked amused and totally unthreatened.

“Oh, don’t worry. You’ll get your phone call. You can make two or three for all I care.”

“Am I under arrest?”

Spider looked genuinely puzzled at my obtuseness. “Yes,” he said, then read me my rights off a card he pulled from a leather folder. When he asked if I understood, I numbly nodded yes.

I vacillated between apathy and terror. I darted glances at the body of the old man on the narrow bunk. It lay on top of a dark navy sheet, which I belatedly realized had darker spots smeared on it. I looked down at my latex-clad legs. Striped Parade pants was about all I had on. What the hell? I only wore my fetish gear on hot dates when I was enticed by someone with deep pockets. My shirt, socks and brand new Captoe boots had vanished at some point. My gaze fell to my crotch and saw the same dark spots. It was the red smear on my stomach that tipped me over. I stared at it in horror. I was covered in still wet blood. His? Mine? Dizziness swept through me. I swayed on my feet, hyperventilating. My stomach threatened to empty itself. Spider grabbed my shoulder and shoved my head down.

“Bend over. Head between your knees. Take deep breaths.”

I did as he ordered and the dizziness and nausea faded. I took a final deep breath and straightened, refusing to meet his gaze, sure I’d see contempt there. Or worse, pity.

“Come on,” he said gruffly. “We’ll talk down at the station.”

“Let me get dressed, at least-” I looked around for the rest of my clothes. I couldn’t have come here like this, could I have? It had been cool last night. Where was my shit?

They both ignored me.

I protested the whole time they dragged me through the cockpit, out onto the carpeted deck and the stern loading platform. I squeaked with every step I took. The sound was loud in the enclosed boat. It didn’t get much better when we stepped out on the deck. The rising sun was a curdled lozenge of yellow light over the mountains. A nearby forest of masts rose through the early morning fog. It must have been around seven. Around us, the sounds of an awakening dock were muffled by the dense air. Boat engines rumbled and turned over, voices shouted orders. Metal squeaked and booted feet slapped the wooden pier. A pair of pale-blue costumed figures carrying cases threaded through the clutter on the docks,. They passed us then disappeared into the belly of the ship. They looked like space aliens.

Tendrils of fog curled around my bare feet. A large, white-headed glaucous-wing gull hovered off the port bow then drifted toward shore. Its familiar kak-kak-kak followed us as Spider pulled me off a boat I now recognized: Cutting Edge, the Catalina 50, largest yacht in Phil’s fleet. We moved so fast I kicked and tripped over gear and flotsam left out on the dock. They showed no regard for my rapidly bruising bare feet. I was stuffed into a black and white cruiser under the curious eyes of the entire population of Santa Barbara. I saw Phil Collins, Channel Charter’s owner. My boss. My former boss, by now.

With my hands cuffed behind me, I had to lean forward on the already uncomfortable seat, which smelled vaguely of piss and vomit. The strain on my shoulders increased with each pothole and manhole we hit. Ten minutes of silence and growing fear later, we pulled up in front of a white stucco two-story building. I was dismayed to see a Channel 3 news truck and a cluster of people with cameras and microphones. How’d they get here so fast? The uniformed driver in front of me swore, then Spider was beside my door. He pulled me out into the glare of lights and shouting voices.

“Is it true you were found with the body of George Blunt?” someone shouted.

I stared at the woman who had thrown out the question. George Blunt? Who was George Blunt? Was I supposed to know the name?

I’d never been to the Santa Barbara police station. Lucky me. Spider led me past a front desk manned by a big-bellied desk sergeant, and through a warren of offices and cubicles. Posters and public service announcements covered the walls. A cacophony of ringing phones and voices filled the crowded room. A cool wash of air blew in whenever the main doors swung open. I was shivering by the time Spider led me into a tiny closed-in room. A woman in a white smock came in after us and used swabs to collect blood from my stomach and hands. When she produced a needle, I balked.

Spider shook his head. “I will compel you to give us blood for tox testing. You’re under arrest. You can’t refuse.” Then he nodded at the white smocked woman who deftly withdrew a vial of blood and slapped a band-aid over the puncture mark. I glared at Spider. After she was gone Spider pointed at a chair on the other side of a small metal table. I sat, the back of the chair cool on my spine. My latex leggings clung to my thighs but provided no warmth. I felt naked – hell, I damn near was naked. My shriveled dick pressed up against the latex. It was obvious I had no underwear on.

At least the cop came around and took the cuffs off. I leaned over the table, rubbed my wrists and tried to look tough. He took the seat opposite me.

A long-defunct gay activist group seems to be threatening radio shock jock Jay Plankton. As The J-Bird, the man’s hate-filled rants offend Strachey deeply. Among the subjects Stevenson tackles in this series entry is homophobia in modern police services like the NYPD, where coming out carries more than its usual share of costs.

***********************************

Chapter One

The 24-across clue was “‘The Oblong Box’ writer,” and the answer was looming just over the hazy horizon of my Friday-morning mind when the man in the Amtrak seat next to me whipped out his cell phone, punched in some numbers, and announced, “Ed, it’s Al.”

I looked up from the folded-in-quarters arts section of the Times and said to the back of the seat ahead of me, “Ed, it’s Al.”

Missing just a fraction of a beat, Al said, “I’m on the train. I’ll see Quinn when I get there, and I’m having lunch with Margaret Wills.”

While Al listened to Ed’s reply, I said, “I’m on the train. I’ll see Quinn when I get there, and I’m having lunch with Margaret Wills.”

Al peered over at me, and I peered back. Then he told Ed, “Listen, there’s a guy in the seat next to me who…”

Like a simultaneous-translation whiz at the UN, I was right behind him. “Listen, there’s a guy in the seat next to me who…”

I grinned as I said it, and Al’s look of annoyance was turning to apprehension. This would make a good story when he met Quinn and then when he dined with Margaret Wills —”Would you believe, I was sitting next to this prick on the train who…” — but for now it must have been starting to seem to Al that I could be dangerous.

“Hang on a second,” Al told Ed. He gathered up his laptop, flipped up and secured his tray table, stood, retrieved his nicely folded suit jacket from the overhead rack, and looked my way but avoided eye contact. He muttered, “Asshole,” and strode up the aisle with his belongings.

Al found an aisle seat near the front of the car, where he disappeared from view if not entirely from earshot. Over the next few minutes, I still caught a word from time to time over the train’s low whoosh and steady clickety-clack, although now Al was another unlucky passenger’s voluble neighbor.

I went back to the crossword puzzle, but “The Oblong Box” writer’s name was still beyond my reach. It was just three letters and should have been obvious. Amy Tan? Carolyn See? It didn’t sound like either one. Myrna Loy? Eddie Foy? Not writers. I jumped down to 26-across: “spawn.” Again, three letters. Kid? Doubtful. The Times puzzle makers could be slangy, but never imprecise.

I gazed out the window at the broad Hudson flying by, the blue Catskills hazy beyond the far shore. We sped south past a tanker pushing upstream to Albany, fuel for the state office workers’ Subarus and minivans and the Pataki administration limos. A shirtless man and a woman wearing a green halter and red headband paddled downriver in a yellow canoe closer in to the near shore. The mountains across the water lolled like hippos in the July sun.

Another couple of words flew back from noisy Al, and I wondered how long it would take before Amtrak felt enough customer pressure and segregated cell phone yakkers the way it once had smokers. Would mounting numbers of letters and phone calls do it, or would a media-worthy “incident” trigger the regulations? Poughkeepsie — A Schenectady man was roughed up by three Amtrak passengers, and his cellular telephone flushed down the lavatory toilet by a fourth.…

Or would public cell phone high-decibel palaver come to be seen as a First Amendment issue, with the Supreme Court forced eventually to rule on what ought to be a question not of constitutional law but of manners, and with the ACLU left in the awkward position of defending not endangered free speech but mere pains in the ass?

The question of genuine social harm versus simple obnoxiousness was of more than passing interest to me, for I was about to — maybe — take on as a client a man six or eight million Americans considered an exhilarating breath of fresh air, while others — I was one — thought of him as, if not a social menace, then certainly a tiresome gasbag.

Like cell phone boorishness, the caustic iconoclasm of Jay Plankton —”the J-Bird” to his radio fans — seemed to me a social phenomenon to be avoided but no threat to the republic. I even knew intelligent and perfectly sane people who found Plankton delightful — none of them black or gay, although more of them women than I could readily comprehend.

And unlike Howard Stern and Rush Limbaugh, both basically entertainers with crude gimmicks — bathroom and sex jokes in the one case, inflaming hinterland right-wingers in the other — the J-Bird actually seemed to hold convictions, however confused and ill-informed. He regularly lured public figures, sometimes elected officials, onto his seven a.m. to ten a.m. show, where they spoke more candidly — or at least with a more shrewd approximation of candor — than they did in other public venues. And they engaged in the uniquely American form of humor that’s the democratic alternative to Shavian wit, guys joshing one another.

Plankton did, however, maintain such a gift for sour invective — people he didn’t like were “diseased toads” and “maggot mouths” and “lying sacks of bull puke” — that some of his targets or their admirers occasionally became furious. And his rants, egged on by an on-air claque of like-minded but less talented men whose job opportunities elsewhere might have been limited, sometimes even triggered physical threats against the J-Bird.

That’s where I came in. Plankton’s producer had learned of a minor encounter I’d once had with a radical group, the Forces of Free Faggotry, that had been making the J-Bird’s life miserable for several months and now threatened to make it even worse. Would I, could I, go to work for this man? Maybe not, although I was curious to learn what the FFF was up to, and of course to get a firsthand look at a widely popular man I couldn’t stand. So here I was, headed south at seventy-eight miles an hour, eight seats back from Al, and flummoxed by 24-across.

The FFF, I thought, had fallen apart sometime in the seventies. And yet apparently it was back, a band of self-described queer revolutionaries in the era of Will & Grace. The cognitive dissonance was considerable — or would have been if I hadn’t listened to the J-Bird’s show the day before and renewed my appreciation of how this guy might inspire violent rage in some people.

The FFF had not been violent in its earlier incarnation; in the late sixties and early seventies the group specialized in rescuing young gays and lesbians from mental institutions their parents had put them in to have them “cured” of their homosexuality. The FFF had employed brash and sometimes illegal methods, but all the viciousness had been on the other side. It seemed unlikely that the old FFFers had at this late date turned into cryptoterrorists — most revolutionaries mellow in middle age — but the J-Bird seemed to think they had.

I gave the crossword puzzle a rest from its exertions, and by the time I made my way back to my seat with a foam cup of Amtrak’s extraordinarily rich and flavorful coffee, the train, due at Penn Station in forty minutes, was close enough to the city for me to pick up the J-Bird’s show on Timothy Callahan’s radio.

This was the radio with earphones that Timmy used when he lounged on the deck behind our Crow Street house in Albany on warm summer Friday evenings to listen to the concerts broadcast from Tanglewood. He used the earphones because, he said, the neighbors might not be as crazy about Schumann as he was. In his consideration for others, an admirable anachronism was Callahan. Of course, he also relied on the earphones to mask the sounds of neighbors with stereos who were more in tune with the times than he was, and of the carrying-on around our kitchen table whenever I could lure in the elderly lesbian couple who lived two doors down the street for a raucous game of hearts.

“Gore is ridiculous, just ridiculous, and that… that smirking, no-good weasel Bush is no better …” The J-Bird was in hyperrant, his famous barroom-loudmouth-at-two-a.m. slurred snarl at full throttle. “I might not vote at all. I might just… leave the country before I pull the switch for either one of those two… sorry losers.”

To the approving chortles of his studio buddies — the newsreader, the sports reporter, and two other attendants whose roles were murkier — Plankton fumed on. He had supported John McCain and Bill Bradley in the spring primaries, and the J-Bird was beside himself with frustration over the electorate having been left to choose between the two unworthies, George Bush and Al Gore. That the policy ideas of McCain, a conservative on every subject except campaign finance, and of Bradley, the largely unreconstructed liberal, were diametrically opposed was of no concern to Plankton, who seemed to judge people not by their ideas, or even their behavior necessarily, but by their degree of “guyness.”

Guyness to the J-Bird mainly meant a style built around hurling insults, usually involving physical characteristics, at people who enjoyed the abuse — or at people who didn’t like it at all and when they said so could be called “politically correct” whiners. People like Bradley, who didn’t necessarily relish this form of discourse but good-naturedly went along with it, were okay guys too. It helped that Bradley was tall. Short was bad and fat even worse. Despite the antigay tone of the show — one of the hangers-on crooned and lisped whenever the subject came up — the weird obsession with weight and body shape on the J-Bird show was reminiscent of a bevy of West Hollywood gym queens. It was one of the show’s odder inconsistencies.

On this Friday morning, the J-Bird blustered on about the deficiencies of George W. Bush — who affected guyness but who was such a privileged brat that his guyness was inauthentic and therefore beneath contempt — and of Al Gore, who was regarded as plastic and slippery and not nearly rough-hewn enough, despite his having been to war and back, an opportunity for guyness that the J-Bird had chosen to forgo.

“Having to pick between these two sniveling pipsqueaks sucks, it just sucks!” the J-Bird sputtered on. “And Nader — he’s no better. That priss, that whiner. Although at least he’s got some guts. He did take on… back in the sixties… who was it? Was it Chrysler?”

“It was General Motors,” the newsreader put in.

“General Motors, then.”

“Rear-end collisions on the… what was it? The Corvair? The Pinto?”

“A pinto’s not a car; it’s a bean,” the J-Bird said.

“The musical fruit.”

“Like Elton John,” came another voice, one of the J-Bird’s Greek chorus.

“What?” The J-Bird didn’t get it at first.

“Elton John, the musical fruit.” More chuckles all around.

“Is he running for president? He couldn’t be any worse than the pathetic bozos we have to pick from now.”

“I do tholemnly thwear, Mary, that I will uphold the Conthituthun…”

This brought cackles, and I had just about decided to skip the meeting with Plankton, have a pleasant lunch in the park, and board the next train back to Albany, when the laughter on the radio suddenly stopped.

“Hey, what the eff…!” It was Plankton’s voice, but then it was gone too, and a commercial came on for a New Jersey Toyota dealer. This was followed by a short silence, then a second ad, and a third. Then the J-Bird returned briefly — from another studio, he said — to announce that the rest of the day’s show would be a recording of an earlier show, and he would explain it all the following Monday. It was hard to understand all of the J-Bird’s words, for he seemed to be choking.

Lovers and Other Strangers by Josh Lanyon Recovering from a near fatal accident, artist Finn Barret returns to Seal Island in Maine to rest and recuperate. But Seal Island is haunted with memories, some sweet, some sad; three years ago Finn found his lover in the arms of Fitch, Finn’s twin brother. Since that day, Finn has seen neither Conlan nor Fitch. In fact, no one has seen Fitch. What happened to him? Did Fitch run away, as everyone believes? Or did he meet a more sinister fate? To put the past to rest – and see if there’s any chance of a future with Con – Finn must discover the truth. But the deeper he digs, the more reason he has to fear Con is the only one who knows what truly happened to Fitch…

Body Art by Jordan Castillo Price His lover has betrayed and swindled Ray Carlucci out of everything he valued, including a tattoo business. Hounded by creditors, weary of heart, he accepts the job of chauffeur and body man for the dying owner of a remote estate. The island, minus its wealthy summer colony, is colorless in winter and Ray thinks he understands why staff on the estate periodically desert. But, he’s baffled by, then drawn to, Anton, the eccentric artist who haunts the forest, bringing strange life to bizarre and disquieting sculptures amidst the ice and trees. When the body of a man who once held Ray’s job rises from the frosty earth, Ray wonders what part Anton’s wildness has in the escalating violence.

*********************************************

Chapter One

If he had been painting the scene before him, he would have used only four colors: Permanent Rose alkyd for the pink streaks in the fading sunset and the reflections in the water; Dioxazine Purple alkyd for the shadows lengthening on the creamy sand, the crevices of the rocks, the glint and gleam of water, the edges of the pier; Cadmium Yellow alkyd to blaze from windows, for the dimples in the sand, to limn the rocks, to gild the tips of scrubby, windblown grass, more reflections in the water; Indigo oil for the tumbling waves, for the indistinct forms of the buildings beyond, for the swift coming night.

For the first time in weeks, Finn felt the desire to take a palette knife and mix color, to pick up a brush and try to capture what he saw. For the first time in weeks, he felt a flicker of something close to interest, to emotion.

Maybe it was the salt air, maybe it was the cold – the briny wind whipping off the ocean stung his face – maybe it was the smell of wood smoke with all the warm memories it conjured. Or the cries of the gulls, the slap of the waves, the mingled fragrance of pipe smoke and car exhaust as he waited in the old station wagon for Hiram to carry his bags from the dock. Maybe it was all these things.

But it was the color he felt most intensely. Luminous color seeping into his consciousness, the hues and values, the shadows and lights, the dull tones, the vibrant – he was waking up. It was not a comfortable process, and Finn huddled deeper into his leather jacket.

Hiram strode to the car and threw Finn’s bags in the back. Coming around to the front, he climbed in behind the wheel. Starting the engine, he glanced briefly at Finn as he backed the car, narrowly missing a leaning tower of stacked lobster traps.

“Guess it looks pretty different after all this time?”

Seal Island didn’t look different at all in the purple dusk, but Finn said, “Three years is a long time.”

“Ay-yup,” Hiram said. “Your uncle Thomas is going to be happy as a clam at high tide to see you.”

Finn’s smile twisted. Everyone was being very kind. Especially considering what a pain in the ass he was to show up with almost no warning.

The station wagon crunched its way slowly over sand and shale, past the shadowy buildings and boats, the faded, peeling signs.

“‘Course Thomas is in France right now. Some art show or another.”

Finn murmured something. He didn’t need to say anything. Hiram was happy to fill in all the blanks. There were a lot of blanks after so long.

“Martha’s arthritis is giving her heck. Well, we’re all gettin’ older. Mr. Peabody’s gone now. Pneumonia. Last month. Miz Landy took over the general store.”

The car reached the surfaced road that ran around the island – smoother in some places than others. By now the amethyst dusk was falling back before the onslaught of night. Finn felt tension growing inside, his stomach knotting up with his fists. It was irrational. Irritating. Fear of the dark? At his age? It was cold, though – bitingly. After a short battle with himself, he reached for the rough plaid car blanket that smelled of a million journeys and spread it over his left leg, which had started aching.

“Not used to the cold anymore,” he muttered, but Hiram took no notice, still palavering about people and things Finn had stopped caring about – tried to stop caring about – a long time ago. Ay-yup, what a pleasant surprise – shock, translated Finn – it had been to hear from Finn. Martha had been in a twitter ever since she got his message. And what a surprise Thomas had waiting for him when he got home. What a surprise it was going to be for everyone.

Finn almost asked then. But it was too much effort, and he wasn’t sure even now he could take the answer, so he smiled politely and stared out the window as though he had newly arrived from another planet, which was pretty much how it felt.

Stands of pine trees stood stark and sharp against the dusk as the car climbed slowly, winding up through the rolling hills. The pines looked black against the lowering sky, but that was an illusion. He’d start with a sketch, using a No. 0 watercolor brush. For the sky and water, he’d use a blend of Cadmium Yellow Medium, Cadmium Red Light, and Titanium White. For the upper sky, he’d choose French Ultramarine, Dioxazine Purple and more Titanium White…

White.

He had a sudden recollection of blazing white walls and the sun bouncing off pale sand – too much light, and a brightness that hurt the eyes. The white beneath a silent gull’s wingspan, the white of the craggy clouds, the white of the tiny wildflowers growing beside the white speckled stone walls.

The lighthouse was on the other side of the island. No need to see it at all if he didn’t choose to – and why the hell would he ever want to see it again?

Hiram was saying, “Miz Estelle won first prize at Union Fair for her wild blueberry sour cream cake.”

Finn felt an unexpected twinge of hunger. “I still remember those cinnamon-sugar biscuits she used to make.”

The old man nodded in heartfelt agreement.

The car turned off the main road and ground its way up the steep last stretch. The house was called The Birches. One of those charming turn-of-the-century, ten-bedroom “cottages,” it stood in a grove of white birches overlooking Otter Cove. Green lawns swept down to the rocks at the water’s edge, ancient, gently tilting pines framed sunsets so beautiful they made the heart ache. In the failing light, the house looked eerily untouched by time.

Hiram pulled up in front of the long front porch. Lights shone welcomingly from several downstairs windows.

“Ain’t no place like home,” he said, and Finn made a sound in his throat that was supposed to be humor but wasn’t.

Hiram got out of the car. The front door of the house flew open, and Martha came bustling down the shell-strewn path as Finn climbed carefully out of the station wagon. Tears glittered on Martha’s wrinkled cheeks, and she hugged him tight, pulling him to her ample bosom like he was a child again.

“Look at you, you young rascal!”

Finn didn’t have to do much more than smile and permit himself to be hugged again; Martha was doing all the talking – although afterward he had no idea of anything she’d said. He was literally overwhelmed with memories and unwelcome emotion.

Hiram went to get the bags, and Finn was being urged inside the house to warmth and comfort – the prodigal returned. By then he was exhausted. He should have brought the cane; he was hobbling badly, not used to walking any distance yet, and the plane flight and boat ride not helping any. Maybe he was more crocked up than he wanted to admit – he was certainly in more pain.

The house smelled familiar. It smelled of baking and wood fire – and the invariable ghostly hint of oil paint, although it had been decades since anyone in the house painted with oils. It smelled like his childhood: safe and warm and loved. He stared curiously as he was hustled past a familiar painted chest, wing chairs upholstered in pale gray roses, white bookcases, well-remembered paintings. It felt odd to see these things again – like he was visiting a museum.

Ushered into the kitchen, he was ensconced in the old rocker and ordered to stay put near the enormous gas stove where Martha had cooked breakfast, lunch, and dinner for the Barrets for the past thirty years. That suited him fine. Gave him a chance to catch his breath and get control of himself.

Martha and Hiram conferred outside briefly – he could imagine how that went – and then Martha was inside the kitchen and chattering a mile a minute, banging pots and pans around to relieve her feelings.

Finn eyed her curiously from the perspective of his years away. She was in her late sixties now, a small, very plump woman with silky white hair – it had been white since her early thirties – and soft dark eyes. Something about her had always reminded him of a dove, though doves were fairly stupid birds and Martha was a far-from-stupid woman.

“Now that you’ve been living in New York, I suppose you won’t be happy with fiddleheads and potatoes anymore? It’ll be fancy curries and nouveau cuisine you’re used to, I reckon.”

Finn laughed – he lived on peanut butter sandwiches half the time – and said, “I haven’t had a decent bowl of chowdah since I left here.”

She stopped chattering then, coming to him, putting her hands on either side of his head. She turned his face to the light, examining him closely. The only damage that showed was the one scar – still healing – on his temple. What didn’t show was the horrific long gash from his hip to the middle of his calf. Torn muscles, damaged nerves, but oddly no broken bones. He had been left with one hell of an ugly seam down his leg, but he knew how lucky he had been. And aside from the scars, he was going to be as good as new eventually. That was why he had to stop dwelling on the might-have-beens. The close call didn’t matter, because he was going to be all right – as soon as the headaches stopped.

Martha was staring into his eyes as though trying to read his mind. He blinked up at her, and her eyes filled with tears again. She kissed him – something he couldn’t remember her doing since he had been very small. She was clearly horrified at herself. Not as horrified as he was, though – not that she had kissed him, but that he had been so moved, his throat closed and he had to look away.

It was only for an instant. Nothing more than the aftermath of the accident – and probably his meds. It did something to you, nearly dying. And dying sometimes felt like the least of it.

“Your uncle Thomas will be here tonight,” she said.

That snapped him out of his self-consciousness. “Uncle Tom? I thought…”

“Why, I phoned him the minute I heard from you,” Martha said a little defiantly – because Finn had expressly told her not to bother Thomas. “Of course he’d want to know! Of course he’s coming home. And while I’m thinking of it, that friend of yours phoned up. Mr. Ryder. He’s coming day after tomorrow.”

The funny thing about the spell the island cast, the silken weave of childhood memories, was that he’d already forgotten he’d asked Paul to come along and lend moral support. Now he wondered why. Paul was going to be a fish out of water here, and Finn was going to have to expend energy he didn’t have in trying to keep him amused. Paul took a lot of amusing.

He brooded over this while Martha rattled cheerfully on, finally surfacing to hear her say, “…Barnaby Purdon retired from school teaching.”

“Do he and Uncle Tom still get together to play checkers once a week?”

“Every Wednesday when your uncle is here. What else? Oh, Miss Minton took first place at Union Fair for her wild blueberry sour cream cake.”

“I heard that. Is she still taking painting lessons from Uncle Tom?”

“No. No, she gave up on that idea. Your uncle Tom doesn’t teach anymore, you know. Too busy judging art shows and writing his books.”

She brought him a mug of coffee. Finn took the yellow cup, sipping cautiously. It was boiling hot, but creamy and sweet – the way he had liked it when he was a kid. Creamy and sweet – and spiked with something.

“What’s in this?” he asked. “I’m on pain pills, you know.” In fact, he urgently needed medicating. His back was beginning to ache – his leg never quite stopped – and his head was starting up again despite the muted light and warmth.

“A little something to warm your bones,” Martha told him. “It won’t do you any harm. Might put a little color in your face.”

Finn raised his brows but kept drinking. It was good. Martha’s version of an Irish coffee perhaps. All at once he was so tired he thought he might fall asleep at the fireside wrapped like an ancient granny in these cedar-scented blankets. Martha chattered comfortably on about this and that person, the changes he would soon see in the island – and of course, in Martha’s view, none of the changes were for the better.

He smiled to himself and sipped his coffee.

His smiled faded as she said, “Mr. Carlyle has a new book coming out.”

She was not looking at him, which was just as well, since he couldn’t think of anything to say.

“He’s not here now. He was in England for the six months doing research for the one he’s writing now. It’s supposed to be a murder mystery about the princes in the Tower. And then he went on a book tour for the last one. It’s hard to keep ‘em all straight. I don’t expect we’ll see him back till next month sometime.”

That was a relief. More than he wanted to concede. “I’ll be long gone by then.” His voice came out flat.

Martha still didn’t look at him. “Well…that’s all right so long as you don’t take three years to visit again.”

She spoke cheerfully, but he could hear the strain and knew that he had to make the effort. For his own sake, if nothing else. Had to prove that he could say it and not…well, what? That he had moved past it. That it was over and done with, chapter closed. Not forgiven, not forgotten…but old history. Con should appreciate that.

So he said, “How’s Fitch?”

And after a funny little pause, Martha said, as though the name were unfamiliar to her, “Fitch?”

“Is he…?” He tried to make his voice light, but he was never good at that kind of thing. Fitch was the old pro at games and deceiving. “Are he and Con… Did they… Are they still together?”

“Fitch and…Mr. Carlyle?” She said it almost wonderingly.

Finn remembered belatedly that this was a small island, a backwoods sort of place really, and that while a romantic relationship between two men might be silently tolerated and civilly ignored, it was never going to be openly acknowledged and condoned. But his nerves were on edge, he was tired and much more raw than he had realized; he simply blurted out, “Or did he split?”

Martha said, “Didn’t Fitch come to you in New York?”

“Come to me?” That made him blink. What a funny idea – but maybe not so funny, because Fitch wouldn’t see what he had done wrong, would he? He would expect to be forgiven as he always was by his – his words – better half.

“Didn’t Fitch follow you to New York?” asked Martha again, and she was staring at him hard now, as though only realizing that something was very wrong. But Fitch had always been her favorite. Fitch was everyone’s favorite for all he shocked and appalled people with his outrageous – but God, yes, funny – antics. The things he did and said. It was impossible not to love Fitch.

Even when you hated him.

Finn said, “He didn’t follow me to New York.”

Had that been Fitch’s intention? Had better sense prevailed? It must have hurt Fitch too; he must have felt the same persistent ache that was almost physical pain, the pain of being cut off from your other half. A phantom pain, like losing a limb. It had never happened to them before: a break so deep, so wide, there was no bridging it. Oh, they had fought, fallen out – what brothers didn’t quarrel? Finn had always forgiven Fitch, because…he loved him. And he couldn’t do without him. Until he could.

Until Con.

Because there was no forgiving that. Con had been different.

Not that Con wasn’t every bit as much to blame.

But then Finn hadn’t forgiven Con either. Never would.

Anyway, it was a long time ago. He was never going to see Con again. So what did it matter? As for seeing Fitch…he had always accepted that Fitch knew how seriously he had transgressed, because he hadn’t followed his twin to New York.

And that was just as well, because as lonely as he had been, there was no forgiveness in Finn.

Not then. Maybe not ever. Something had died in Finn that summer. That last day of summer.

But now he sat in the kitchen of the house he had grown up in, the home he had shared for twenty-three years with his twin. Slowly, he worked it out, tried to absorb what it meant. He said, “Fitch isn’t here?”

And Martha shook her head slowly, her bright, birdlike eyes wide.

Reading her expression, Finn smiled reassurance, because it seemed ridiculous – like they were talking at cross purposes and they would soon realize what the other actually meant. In a moment they would laugh as the misunderstanding was straightened out. “You mean no one’s seen him since…?”

“No.”

“No?” He took it in slowly, absorbing it much like the heat soaking into his chilled body or the alcohol wending its way through his bloodstream – a gradual realization that he was warm and tipsy and…alone in the world.

He said carefully, “No one has seen or spoken to Fitch in three years?”

“No.” And Martha looked…frightened. It was her fear that woke Finn to the belated realization that his twin brother was missing.

“Come here, Huckleberry,” Con murmured. His pale hair was wet and dripping from their swim, his bare brown skin shining in the sun. His dark eyes laughed into Finn’s, and his mouth – covering Finn’s – was sweet with the taste of the berries. His skin smelled like the sun and clean sweat and deep water.

From overhead came a burst of laughter -

A hand on Finn’s shoulder woke him. He jerked, opened his eyes, and his uncle Thomas was gazing down him. Uncle Tom was smiling, but his eyes were grave.

“Welcome home, Finn.”

“Hi,” Finn said. It was probably a little anticlimactic after three years, but he was fogged from sleep, disoriented to suddenly find himself in the kitchen at The Birches. He straightened, wiped his eyes with the heel of his hand. “I must have fallen asleep.”

Martha chuckled, although her voice had that strained note again. “Sleep is exactly what you need!”

“Sounds good to me,” Uncle Thomas said, sounding and looking weary. He was tall and very thin with the bony features and red-brown hair that distinguished the Barrets from the rest of the small population of Seal Island. Now in his sixties, he was going silver at the temples, which perfectly suited his image as an esteemed art critic.

“I didn’t intend for you to be dragged home from Paris,” Finn apologized.

His uncle was looking at him as though he were speaking a foreign language. Translation having failed, Uncle Thomas said, “Martha told me about your accident. Said you insisted you didn’t want anyone there at the hospital. You’re all right?”

“A few bumps and bruises.”

“Well, you’re staying here till you’re back on your feet.”

Finn chuckled. “I’m on my feet now.” Or he would be if he could unfold from this rocker without landing on his face.

“You know what I mean.” Uncle Thomas said it firmly; that was the polite fiction they had all played. That Uncle Thomas was actually in charge. He had been, at best, an absentminded guardian, but he was fond of them in his own way, and Finn and Fitch had certainly never lacked for anything growing up. Well, possibly attention. But then they had always had each other, so nothing else really mattered.

“Yes,” Finn said. “Thank you.”

“This is your home,” Martha said sharply. Both men looked at her, having forgotten for a second that she was in the room, and she blushed. But she said stubbornly, “It’s not right, you and Fitch gone all these years and never coming back for so much as a visit.”

“Now, Martha,” Uncle Thomas said in his easy way. “He’s here now.” To Finn he said, “It’s too late for talk tonight. We’ll catch up in the morning. Did you need some help getting to bed?”

“I’m okay. Is it really that late?” Finn looked automatically for the old wall clock, shaped like a ship’s wheel, but it was gone, replaced by an efficient and modern titanium square.

“Nearly midnight,” Uncle Thomas said. “I meant to be here much earlier, but my flight was delayed.”

Nearly midnight? Could that be right? Could he really have been sleeping for over six hours? “Hell. You really shouldn’t have dropped everything to come home for this.” Finn was growing more awkward by the minute. “I didn’t mean to disrupt everyone’s life. I just…”

Just needed time to rest and recover. Time to come to terms with how close he had been to dying. To losing everything. Time to regain his strength and natural optimism; he was still astonishingly, aggravatingly weak. In fact, as he forced himself up out of the comfortable rocker, he was made painfully aware of how feeble he still was.

“Nonsense,” Uncle Thomas and Martha both said – and then looked at each other.

Martha said, “But you’ve neither of you had any supper.”

“I ate on the flight,” Uncle Thomas said, which happily distracted her while Finn stood swaying, biting his lip against the myriad aches and pangs and throbs.

Uncle Thomas said with unexpected determination, “I think I’ll give you a hand upstairs anyway.”

Finn nodded. No point pretending he didn’t need it. Uncle Thomas wrapped a strong arm around his waist, and Finn hung on to him as Martha bade them good night.

“I’m stiff from sitting so long.” Finn explained as they passed slowly through the hall with its lilac sprig wallpaper. “I really am fine now.”

“Of course you are. You’ll be working again in no time.”

Ah. Of course. In this house, the work was paramount. Well, it was to Finn too.

They crossed the dining room with the long formal table and harp-backed chairs where they had all eaten dinner when his grandfather was alive, across the back hallway, and then up the narrow staircase with the gleaming banisters Finn recalled sliding down as a child. Or was it Fitch who had slid down the banisters and Finn who watched? Sometimes it was hard to separate Fitch’s adventures from his own memories.

Uncle Thomas’s voice jarred him out of his preoccupation. “Martha said your friend was killed in the accident.”

Finn nodded tightly.

“Was he…was your friend…?”

Uncle Thomas floundered awkwardly, and Finn said, “He was a friend, that’s all. A good friend. He yanked the wheel at the last minute so that his side of the car took the worst of it.”

The stairs seemed to take forever. Finn could have cried in gratitude by the time they reached the upper landing – then the final leg to his old room, the room that had been his since his teens. Fitch’s room was on the other side of the adjoining black-and-white checked bath.

There was no sign of Finn’s bags, but his pajama bottoms and robe were lain across the foot of the dark wood sleigh bed. He bit back a tired smile. Martha would have unpacked while he slept downstairs. There was no privacy in this house. Lucky thing Finn had no secrets. Not anymore.

Uncle Thomas helped him undress. It was embarrassing, but Finn really was exhausted beyond action now. With his uncle’s help, he pulled on knit sleep pants – and though the older man said nothing, Finn saw his face tighten up at the terrifying scar down the left side of Finn’s body. One inch more, and Finn would have died with Tristan.

“You won’t be warm enough like that,” Uncle Thomas said. “You’ve forgotten how cold the winters are here. I’ll get you one of my pajama tops.”

He was gone down the hallway, and Finn sat looking around the room. Once again he had that weird sensation of looking at an exhibit in a museum. Books and model ships… He stared at the framed photographs on the bookshelves: pictures of himself and Fitch sailing and climbing and fishing and swimming. A skinny eleven-year-old Fitch’s arm looped around his neck in a friendly choke hold, himself giving the eighteen-year-old Fitch an impromptu piggyback. People said they couldn’t be told apart, but Finn never had to wonder who was who in the pictures – not even in the earliest photographs of them.

Uncle Thomas returned with a striped flannel pajama shirt, and Finn shrugged into it, did up the buttons.

“Is it true Fitch left the island when I did?” he asked, eyes on the buttonholes.

“Yes.”

“And no one’s heard of him since?”

“I don’t think that’s so surprising,” Uncle Thomas said grimly. Finn wasn’t exactly sure what he meant. Surely no one knew the full story of what had happened that day? But he was too tired to question.

He crawled into bed, rediscovering the pleasure of clean flannel sheets that smelled faintly of the crisp ocean breeze. Stretching out gingerly, his spine seemed to unkink like a Slinky. He was astonished when his uncle shook the folds out of the quilt at the foot of the bed and spread it over him.

“Good night,” he said politely, wondering if he was about to be tucked in and kissed.

He was spared that much. The bedside lamp went out, and his uncle said quietly, “Good night, Finn. I’m glad you’ve come home.” He went out. The door closed silently behind him, shutting Finn into the darkness.

His heart began to pound, turning over sickly in his chest. Finn waited, sweat breaking out along his hairline as he listened. Through the dormer windows, he could see the mutable darkness that was the sea; stars glittered on the waves, pinpoints of light.

No need for panic. There was plenty of light. Moonlight, starlight, reflected light…

His uncle’s footsteps died away down the hallway. Finn sat up and turned on the lamp.

He relaxed, let out a long breath. In the mellow glow, the books and toys of his childhood looked very old, very fragile.

He stared at the photos of his cheekily grinning twin and whispered, “Where are you, Fitch?”