“Oh, indeed I do.”
“But willing to keep sampling as I search, one might say.”
“I suspect one might. You’ve come in, ordered one drink, took your time drinking it, and then left without a word to anyone.”
“I never thought anyone noticed me.”
“Oh, please. An attractive man like yourself? Surely you felt the eyes, mine among them. But you never seemed to be looking for company.” He is silent for a moment. Then he says, “I have someone at home.”
“I see.”
“But that’s not always where I want to be.”
“And just where would you like to be now, Alden?”
“At the moment,” he says, “I’d like to be precisely where I am. Right 264
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here in this congenial atmosphere, engaged in conversation with a very personable and attractive gentleman.”
“You’re very kind.”
“It’s no more than the truth. The only problem—”
“Oh, I hope there’s not a problem.”
“Only that it’s getting close to closing time.” Selwyn looks at his watch, a Tourneau with a thin case and an oversize dial. “It is,” he agrees. “And where would you like to go when they close this pop stand?” And, when he hesitates, “What was it your great-great-great-great-great-great-grandmother said? ‘Why don’t you speak for yourself, Alden?’ ”
He has lowered his eyes. Now he raises them to gaze directly and openly into Tom Selwyn’s. “I’d like to go back to your place,” he says.
The lobby attendant is seated at a desk on the left. He has anticipated this, and contrives to be on Selwyn’s right as they enter the building, letting the big man screen him from the attendant’s view. The two exchange greetings. (“Evening, Mr. Selwyn.” “A lovely evening, Jorge. I see Sammy hit one tonight.”)
In the elevator Selwyn pushes Nine and sighs as the door closes.
“Sammy Sosa,” he explains. “He and Jorge hail from the same village in the Dominican Republic. Although it may not be large enough to be called a village. What’s smaller than a village?”
“A hamlet?”
“Perhaps. Or it may be more of a coriolanus. Do you follow baseball?”
“No.”
“Neither do I, but I contrive to find out what Sammy Sosa has done, so Jorge and I will have something to talk about. He’s with the Cubs. Sosa, that is. Not Jorge. The Cubs play in Chicago, in the stadium that didn’t have lights, but now it does. And here we are.” The apartment consists of one large high-ceilinged room, perhaps thirty feet square, with a small kitchen alcove. Except for the king-size platform bed, piled high with pillows, the furnishings are antique.
There’s a large abstract oil on one wall, with a simple black gallery frame, and groups of prints and drawings on the other walls. It is, he decides, a All the Flowers Are Dying
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very pleasing room, and a great improvement on Joe Bohan’s apartment; it’s a shame he won’t be able to stay here very long.
“I have Scotch,” Selwyn says.
“Maybe later.”
“Ah. Someone doesn’t wish to wait.”
“Someone doesn’t even wish to talk,” he says, and begins taking off his clothes. His host raises an eyebrow, then unbuttons his own shirt, takes it off, steps out of his trousers. His clothes had concealed some of his bulk; naked, it’s evident just how heavy he is.
“I was always shy about disrobing,” Tom Selwyn says. “You can imagine how I hated gym class. In recent years I’ve learned that there are people who don’t mind a Rubenesque figure. And it would appear you’re one of those, wouldn’t it? My word, no wonder you don’t want to waste time on drink or small talk. You’re fully prepared, aren’t you? Not to say splendidly endowed. And speaking of preparation, the drawer there holds a supply of rubber goods. You’ll find the large ones on the left. But here, let me help you get dressed. If I may?”
Selwyn offers a bit of artful oral homage before fitting him with the condom, then kneels at the side of the bed, his forearms planted on the mattress, his enormous buttocks on display. There’s nothing attractive about the sight, nothing about Selwyn to make him a desirable sex object, and yet he finds himself consumed with the need to have this man.
First, though, he gets the knife from his pants pocket, concealing it in his hand. Then he does what is expected of him, bringing Selwyn to climax while holding back his own orgasm.
Selwyn’s breathing returns to normal, and he starts to get up, but a hand on his shoulder keeps him where he is.
“My goodness,” he says, “you’re still hard. You haven’t finished, have you? Do so, by all means. I want you to come.”
“I can’t.”
“Is it physiological? A drug or something? Because if there’s anything I can do—”
“I won’t let myself finish,” he says. “I’m saving it for a woman on the fourteenth floor.”
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mouth at last to say something, but he never gets the chance. The hand moves, the knife moves, and blood gouts from his slashed throat. His body bucks and heaves, twisting violently this way and that, and blood spurts everywhere.
Fortunately, the bathroom is magnificently appointed, the shower a great luxury. And afterward there’s a sofa, untouched by blood spatters, and if it’s not as comfortable as the king-size bed might be, well, surely it’s more than satisfactory.
His sleep comes easily. It’s deep, and of course untroubled.
The alarm wakes him at six. He’s had four hours sleep, and he’d like one or two more. Morning, though, is the best time.
Suppose he stays here another twenty-four hours? It seems unlikely that anyone will come looking for Selwyn. On the other hand, the man’s continuing presence will make the place increasingly unpleasant. The air-conditioning is doing what it can, but still the air is heavy with the sweet reek of decomposing flesh and blood. In another twenty-four hours—
No, it doesn’t bear thinking about. And he’d have to stay, because once he leaves he won’t be able to get back in. He would need Selwyn at his side in order to gain access to the Parc Vendôme, but Selwyn’s not the buoyant companion he was a few hours ago.
Time to go.
He doesn’t even make an attempt to clean up, to erase traces of his presence. By now they’re sure to have a full set of his fingerprints from Joe Bohan’s apartment on West Fifty-third Street. He’d followed his usual policy of not touching surfaces unnecessarily, but his prints were all over his laptop and the table on which it had rested, and what difference does it really make? They have his prints, and now they’ll get his DNA from the towel he used after his shower, and all that means is that they’ll be able to identify him if they ever get their hands on him.
And they would anyway. There are too many people who’ve seen him and would be able to pick him out of a lineup. If they catch him, if they pick him up for drunk driving in Wisconsin or Wyoming, a routine fingerprint check is all it will take to end his career, if not his life.
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But he never gets drunk, and never drinks before driving.
So it won’t be that. It may be something else, sooner or later, but it’s all far in the future—or near in the future, but in any event not in the present. And the present, after all, is what time it is now, and now’s the only time it ever is. And when all is said and done, really, what do you get?
You get what you get.
There are staircases at either end of the building, but it seems simpler to take the elevator. It’s empty when it arrives on Nine, and the only thing that concerns him is the possibility that someone who might recognize him—Scudder, Elaine, the black youth, some police officer—will be waiting for the elevator when the door opens on Fourteen. But it’s early, it’s not seven yet, and that reduces the likelihood substantially.