Nice

Parhelion

A naked man in your bed: a simple call to action for the naughty. Too bad that, by nature, I’m actually quite nice.

My covers being tugged back woke me up. At the best of times, I’m not the sort of fellow who leaps out of my bed, bright of eye and strong of arm, ready to wrestle the day. In fact, my usual response to being woken is to moan and pull a pillow over my head, one reason I don’t have a valet. Can you imagine subjecting someone to such shenanigans every morning for years? My former wife certainly found it intolerable. In any case, that particular hot summer night back in 1929 I couldn’t seem to locate a pillow, so I settled for moaning.

"Johnny. Johnny, wake up," a familiar, annoyingly persistent baritone kept saying.

"Whoever you are, you’ve obviously mistaken me for my little brother. Please stop doing so, and go away now." That’s what I meant to say, at least. What I actually did say was, "Gah, nooo."

For a moment my approximation of English seemed to work. There was a pause. However then I heard a sound of frantic movement, of someone groping across my bedside table, probably trying to turn on the lamp. Next I heard an all-too-familiar skittering sound, one of the few stimuli that could have galvanized me into action—

"Glasses!" I said, lunging, just as my uninvited bedmate found the chain to the old Tiffany and yanked. Too late. My horn-rims went bouncing across the floor, leaving me sliding across my company. I came to rest eyeing a horrified young face at a range of about a foot.

"Mr. Pacey." He’d had exactly that same tone of appalled awe in his voice after we’d watched an assistant blithely feed power to a cross-wired vacuum-tube circuit, destroying a month’s worth of work in under a second.

"R.J." I blinked a few times to see if the motion would stimulate some blood-flow to my brain. It didn’t. "Precisely whose bright idea was this?"

His jaw firmed and he didn’t say a word. R.J. ran to strong notions about confidentiality, an excellent trait in a research laboratory technician but a bad idea for a young man who’d just climbed naked into his employer’s bed. Still, even handicapped by my abrupt awakening, I could deduce what was going on.

I sighed. By and large, for an affluent and perverse dissipate, my brother Johnny is a good enough sort. But in one way he’s rather nasty. Pour enough bootleg gin into him and both his I.Q. and memory plummet. He’d obviously forgotten my telling him that I was going to be at the cottage this weekend. "Let me guess. Someone told you this room was your bedroom?" Actually, let me guess, Johnny disregarded the fact that his naughty locale for a tryst risked getting you fired, not to mention accused of a perilously illegal act?

"Christ, no." I could almost see the mental wheels spinning. With my glasses, I probably could have. "Johnny didn’t tell me which bedroom I’d be in. But I was so dog-tired after the drive that, by the time I realized there was someone else in the bed, I thought I must have gotten into his room by mistake. I’m really sorry, Mr. Pacey." R.J. thinks quickly on his feet. Or off them, for that matter, but I know my younger brother too well to be deceived.

Of course, that very thought was the cue for my bedroom door to fly open and a familiar, if well-oiled, male voice to announce, "R.J., dear, I’m here! And, look, I brought a friend!" Another, unfamiliar young man staggered into my bedroom and leered.

I took a deep breath. Then I pursed my lips: prissy-looking, but either I could seem prissy or I could commit homicide, an all-too-familiar choice. Assessing the narrowed hazel eyes close to mine, I asked, "R.J., would you please take the robe at the foot of the bed and find me my glasses?" Not exactly heroic stuff, but the best I could do on short notice so soon after being abruptly awoken.

R.J., bless him, donned the robe – an appalling thing gifted to me by my former spouse – and brought me my glasses. Yanking the sheet off my bed, I swathed it around me in worst classical style, put on my moccasins, and went over to the two young men now hanging off each other while discussing exactly what had gone wrong. Then I kicked Johnny in the posterior.

Before I’d lost the momentum gained, I grabbed his trouser seat and suit coat, and ran him out my bedroom door in the so-called bum’s rush. When it came to disposing of Johnny’s fellow, R.J. made himself useful, as is his way. I slammed the door behind Johnny and his friend, and locked it. They knocked, of course, and kept knocking.

Once again I examined R.J. He squared his shoulders, obviously bracing for the worst. His chestnut hair and olive complexion subdued the embroidered red dragons on that robe better than my pale, off-blond self ever had. But the atrocious garment was silk, the lightest I owned, and the night had been swelteringly hot. Even now R.J. was sweating a little, glowing in the lamplight—never mind. More to the point, I’d been sleeping in the buff myself, so at least there was no need to find an excuse for R.J.’s lack of clothing. If I ignored Johnny and his accomplice, all could be safely whitewashed. "I believe the sheets are aired on the bed two doors down. You’re welcome to stay."

"Uh, sure, thanks." R.J. had worked in my lab for almost a year now. He could tell when I was determined to bull past an obstacle.

The knocking had stopped, but now Johnny was calling through the keyhole, "Ben, Benji, I’m sorry. Didn’t mean to be a greedy-pants—"

Wonderful, young Isaac Newton was about to make ignoring the past few minutes impossible. Three quick strides took me back to the door, which I unlocked and yanked open. "Johnny, you’re intoxicated."

Seemingly caught by surprise, Johnny awkwardly straightened from his squat and almost fell over. I steadied him, and he told my shoulder, "Ben, if I’d known you were interested—I’m not greedy, after all." Raising his eyes, he added mournfully, "You could have confided in me, your own brother, my God, Benji—"

I was well past counting to a hundred. "Johnny, go to sleep, by preference in your own bed. Your other friend can take my old room after he’s—" I winced "—finished with that floor vase."

Turning, Johnny started and then said indignantly, "Victor, stop, that’s Aunt Priscilla’s Majolica!"

I shut the door again. There are times when it’s best not to interfere.

*****

While I was attempting to deal with Johnny, R.J. had subsided from wary anger to resignation, not surprising. This sort of incident seems to plague his life. He’d told me, as we were trying to coax a small macaque monkey off of one of our oscilloscopes, that back home his family had eventually stopped calling him Reuben in favor of his middle name, Jonah.

I prefer to think that, in a universe filled with possibilities, a few rare souls must experience more than their share of improbable events. R.J. is certainly one of those beings. Anything odd that can go wrong – or right, for that matter – seems to do so around him. I suppose, knowing this peculiarity of his, I shouldn’t be surprised that his now-evident eccentric tastes in intimate company would somehow strand him naked in my bed.

Not that I could tax R.J. with this night’s bad luck. Three years ago Johnny had taken over as manager of our family firm, a duty he carried out with surprising capacity and zest. Since then, one of the pointless investments – surgical dressings re-designed for women – into which my late father had plowed money had boomed, making us truly wealthy for the first time since Father’s early death during my senior year in college. I’d finally had time to examine my life, and I’d had a revelation. As is my younger brother, and, seemingly, my laboratory technician, I am a pervert, a sodomite, a homosexual.

Crossing to R.J., who’d found his trousers and climbed back into them, I opened my mouth to say something, although I’m not sure what. There was a crash in the room below us. The noise sounded like a harp falling onto a baby grand piano. Grandmother had liked live music, even at the cottage.

"I’d better go down to see what’s going on."

R.J. shook his head, expression sympathetic. "Yeah, sir, I think you’d better." We could both hear the intermittent twangs of someone trying to walk with parts of a stringed frame wrapped around his legs.

R.J. offered me the silk robe. With a sigh, I took it from him, belted it around my waist, and said, "Good night, R.J. Breakfast is at nine."

"’Night, Mr. Pacey." But he said it to my back, because I was already on my way.

My presence was needed. Johnny had shed the remnants of the harp but Victor had decided to don an elephant’s foot umbrella stand. Or perhaps Johnny, in a moment of irritation, had inverted the umbrella stand over Victor’s head to suppress the admittedly atonal rendition of "Varsity Drag" emerging from the elephantine depths.

I didn’t inquire. I merely led them both back to their rooms and, with the help of our now thoroughly awakened housekeeper, her frying pan, her husband our handyman, and his shotgun, managed to get my brother and his guest put to bed. In different beds.

Then I requested breakfast for four. It’s always been my job to think of such things.

On the way back to my own bedroom, I paused by R.J.’s bedroom door for a moment. My hand reached for the knob, and then I sighed again, shook my head, and continued on my way. R.J. was my employee and even, to some degree, my friend. Oh, perhaps, if Johnny hadn’t shown up when he did, I might have garnered the nerve to attempt something. At the very least, I would have let R.J. know that any fears for his job were unfounded. His performance this last year had been excellent, if somewhat odd, and he was slated by the engineering committee to head the vacuum-tube shop when Harry Stevens retired in spring.

I had a brief vision of approaching R.J. after his promotion, and asking him for—a date? I wasn’t even sure of the proper term. In the last few years, starting on Johnny’s behest and continuing on my own, I’d researched perversity, but the library sources were contradictory, dangerous to access, and not very specific. And I was – it had to be faced – too reserved in such matters to attempt field-work. All the romantic overtures during my college days at M.I.T. had come from other parties and all those parties had been distaff, resulting in a rather disappointing range of experiences from losing my virginity to marriage.

I knew my smile was mordant as I went back into my own bedroom and dropped that awful robe on the floor. If only such matters could have been communicated in a schematic, R.J. and I could have discussed the possibilities all night—well, for part of the night, at least.    But as things stood, I would have to settle for feeding him breakfast and seeing him safely off to Manhattan. That, and discussing recent developments with my right hand.

II

Mr. Pacey’s a nice fella. His brother Johnny, who runs the business end of Pacey Electronics, is not so nice but a whole lot more accessible. Johnny’s also the one who got me my job here in Pacey’s personal research lab after we’d had a little talk in a certain social club down on 48^th last year. So I wasn’t surprised when the time finally rolled around that Johnny requested some payoff. I guess I should’ve known that our "romantic" weekend would go haywire. In my neighborhood, something usually does.

Lucky for me, Pacey believes that good coincidences are more common around me than bad ones. He even time-series charted what he calls my serendipity and showed me the results, a neat, best-fit line across the area labeled "good luck" on his graph.   Since the big picture is not something that most bosses can keep in mind when dealing with a shipment of three hundred bagpipes that were supposed to be bin-wipes, I was glad he’d taken the trouble. But I did wonder, Monday morning back in Manhattan, if he was still keeping his data set going, and if he’d opened the schematics drawer first thing and added a point on my graph way off towards the bad luck direction.

That morning he was working on the audio amplifier that would eventually bring in a lot of kale during the early years of the depression. Meanwhile I was double-checking the warm-up time on some new tubes our boys had whipped up, a nice, calming job. But Pacey kept jimmying around with the solder/flux mix he was using on his experimental circuit, and he had three new flux-packed solder coils he wanted to try. He’d taped up a big chart to record the results, arranged his pencils and ruler, had his soldering iron set up on his lab bench, and was starting his second run when his ex-wife showed up.

The Countess Violet was, as the natives liked to put it, quite the swanky dame. A former Ziegfield girl, she had a lot of style. She also had money to back up her style—if not as much as she’d once had, before she found out the hard way that the European nobleman she’d ditched Pacey for was all wind and no cash. I guess she wished she’d either stuck with Pacey’s alimony or settled for Pacey, since she kept dropping by the office with one excuse or another, trying to back the boss into corners while she touched him up for cash.

"Benjamin, darling." Enter the countess, garbed in furs and diamonds. All that was missing to get Hollywood interested was a poodle. I grabbed at my bench, and managed to keep her from sweeping three vacuum tubes onto the floor when she swirled around to embrace Pacey. He’d barely gotten the hot soldering iron back onto its rack in time. "Mwah." That was her, kissing next to his cheek. "I need money."

"I wouldn’t wager on horseflesh, then. You’d be better off with stocks, but I wouldn’t recommend stocks, either."

"Don’t be boring. Can’t you advance me a little something?"

"I could. I just won’t." Pacey sat down on his stool and frowned.

She had nerve; I had to give her that. "You’re tedious." Taking out her compact mirror, she inspected her lips. "You’re so very tedious. But then, you’ve always been tedious."

"If I’m all together too boring for words, there’s always the door." He turned away from her and checked that the heated end of the solder coil was over his flux pot, probably so she couldn’t see his expression.

"Oh, really. There’s no living with you when you’re in one of your moods." Abruptly standing, she rounded and marched towards the exit.

Apparently the boss’s mood didn’t include being rude. He stood politely, and stayed standing while she slammed the door, hard. Then his shoulders slumped. "Good Lord, how I hate public scenes, however brief. They’re unnerving."

"Mr. Pacey—"

"I’m sorry I brought my home-life with me to work, R.J."

"Mr. Pacey, that slam knocked your flux pot off the bench."

We both realized that solder had spattered all down the back of his trousers at the same time.

The rubber floor matting would have to save itself. The boss and I were too busy yanking on his shoes (me) and his trousers (him), trying to get him stripped down before the stuff either caught him on fire or went right through the summer-weight wool. Then I dumped his trousers into the sink over in the corner while he checked the floor.

"This, I’m afraid, is the last straw. Expensive or no, we’re installing emergency showers in the smaller labs, including this one." He sounded pretty calm, considering. "I didn’t save the family firm only to preside over the electronics version of the Triangle Shirtwaist fire."

That’s when I noticed that Pacey’s boxers were smoldering. "Jeez, you’re burning!" The extinguisher was across the room, so I grabbed the nearest non-flammable object to hand, his metal ruler, and swatted at his rear.

Pacey’s hands had flown down to his waistband and stalled there. This wasn’t the time to get shy. "Strip down, strip down!" I yelped, and smacked out another bit of burning fabric. "Shuck ‘em off, would you?"

"Oh, Benji darling, one more thing—" I half-heard the little gasp that ended the Countess Violet’s sentence. For some reason she’d come waltzing back in through the unlocked door to the lab and seen we were busy. But she just turned and left without finishing what she was saying, which was fine because Pacey was still frozen with his thumbs down his shorts. I reached over, grabbed, and yanked. That got him moving, and I was able to get the boxers away from his ankles and stomped out on the lab mats.

Then I straightened up and gave him the once-over. "Did any of that stuff get to your skin?

He was craning over his shoulder. "No, seemingly not. R.J.—"

I’d circled around him to double-check. Yeah, he was okay.

"R.J., am I mistaken, or was that my former wife who came and went?"

I’m used to keeping a kind of mental wall between my work life and my home life, and every once in a while the effort makes me slow. "Sure, that was the Countess Violet again. I don’t see any burns—" —on Pacey’s naked ass. His nicely-muscular, naked ass, fronted by a nicely-sized, naked— While my private self drooled, my public self had taken off my lab coat and handed it over.

He put it on, buttoned it up, and straightened his glasses, before he said, voice thoughtful, "I somehow don’t think that little scene presented itself quite as it should have."

I re-ran the reel of the past few minutes in my head. Then I went over and kicked the nearest item of furniture, his open supply cabinet, hard. A tin rolled off the top shelf, jarred by my kick. I caught it before it hit the floor. I looked at the label on the tin. Some obscure low-temperature flux: just my luck.

"Here, Mr. Pacey, try this. I’m going to lunch." I handed him the flux, grabbed my jacket, and headed for George’s Place, the nearest Speak. Early or not, I needed a drink.

*****

No big surprise that Johnny was there at the bar. He spotted me, folded up his New York Daily News, and said, "Listen, R.J., I’m sorry about Saturday. If I’d had any idea you were previously engaged, let alone with my brother—"

"Nothing to apologize for, sir." Maybe ignoring him would work. I turned away and checked the room. Not much help from the other patrons at this early hour, just a couple of drunks in training and the usual Salvation Army girl making the rounds, looking for donations. So I turned back and said, "Look, Johnny, you’ve got this all wrong. Your brother’s a nice fellow but he’s also my boss. What happened up at your family’s summer house was only a screw-up—"

His turn to interrupt. "Some screw-up." This joint generally hosted a mixed crowd, and was too public for even Johnny to go into details, so he settled for waggling his eyebrows just like Groucho Marx. But Johnny wouldn’t be panicking the crowds at the 44^th Street Theater any time soon. They’d never survive his version of sticking a cigar in his mouth.

This time I tried ignoring him. I’d gestured to the barkeep for a drink when the Salvation Army lass stuck her tambourine under my face. "Brother, would you care to donate?"

"No offense, sister, but shuffle off." I turned back to the barkeep. "Back home in Schenectady, I got enough of that religious stuff."

Johnny had given her a quarter for the excuse to check her looks – he was the kind of fellow who’d take his current direct if he couldn’t get it alternate – but he said, "That’s right, your father was a minister up by Schenectady. Which I’m sure explains something."

It explained where I learned about electronics, what with General Electric being the big local employer and all. But Johnny was referring to the fact that Schenectady was a by-word in Manhattan for Rube-town. Still, if the boss could keep his temper under fire, so could I. I shrugged. "We kids turned out okay."

Johnny kept going. He usually did. "Depends on what one considers ‘okay,’ I suppose. Didn’t your brother become a minister, too?"

"Uh-huh, Seth. Although Pa doesn’t like Seth’s denomination." And there was another reason for my joy this Monday. Seth was due in town real soon, to conduct one of his "save the sinners of this modern Babylon" revivals. He’d be telephoning, wanting to take me out to dinner at some gosh-awful greasy-spoon so he could ask me, yet again, when I was getting married.

Johnny looked back down at his tabloid. "I thought I recognized his name. Your brother’s Seth Leland, isn’t he? The Reverend Seth Leland, that fellow who used to work with Aimee Semple McPherson. When she preached ‘Lord Jesus, your country’s nothing but a House On Fire’, wasn’t he the one who—"

I had learned I saved time by admitting everything. "Yeah. Seth drove her fire engine onto the stage. And he used the hose to fill the baptismal pool during the sermon, and he played it over the candidates afterwards, too. Sister Aimee’s a dunker, not a sprinkler, but she likes to cover her bases."

His face got thoughtful. "Y’know, that Sister Aimee’s quite the looker. But I can see why she’d work with the Reverend Seth. Your brother’s also quite the looker if this photo’s no lie." Johnny flourished his copy of the News. "Maybe that’s why he made the front page today." Johnny read the caption to what was clearly, even from where I sat, a picture of Seth in his old football uniform. "Former College Football Champ intends to score a touchdown against the Fullbacks of Sodom." Johnny paused for a moment, looked at me, looked at the paper, and then looked back at me. "And I thought my older brother was a killjoy." He started to laugh.

I dumped two bits on the bar, grabbed my shot-glass from the barkeep’s hand before he got it put down, drained the contents, and left. It was either leave or launch Johnny, via shoe-leather, after Lindy on another successful solo flight from New York to Paris. And while Mr. Pacey could get away with that sort of behavior, I kind of doubted I could.

So, instead I bought a hot dog and a soda from a pushcart vendor, and spent some time eating them and cooling off before I headed back to the office. But as I was waiting for the elevators in the lobby, here came the Countess again, through the revolving doors from the street. I tried to fade, but of course that didn’t work. She was hauling a big, cut-glass vase full of dahlias, and when she saw me, she let out a scream and whirled the vase around. Two seconds later I was dripping flowers and water.

For a second, I thought about letting her have it in the chops, but what would be the use of that? Anyhow, she loved a scene. So I just hoisted my eyebrows and said, "Christ, lady, couldn’t you at least afford roses?"

Thank God she didn’t send the vase after the flowers. Instead, with a kind of dopplering wail, she went through the doors into reception. I turned around to head for the elevator, and there stood Mr. Pacey, coated in something white. He shook his head, and a little cloud puffed up. "Never mind, R.J., I’ll explain later.   In the meantime, you’d best join me at the Royal baths."

III

Once R.J. had left for his early lunch, I ascertained that my boxers could be brushed off and salvaged, and that my trousers could not. So I borrowed some waist overalls from the wiring shop. No one seemed much surprised by my little industrial accident. The unit secretary even allowed me to use her mirror, after which I returned to borrow a workshirt and jacket. Lab coats, oxford shirts, and waist overalls don’t combine well even to my unfashionable eyes.

Back in my lab, after shifting my tools to my new garb, I examined the flux R.J. had handed me. Not unexpectedly, his serendipity seemed to have triumphed again: the properties listed on its label were interesting. After opening a bag of fire-retardant, as I should have done earlier, I was preparing a solder coil for a revised run when I heard the door open.

"R.J., do we have any of the number-five solder left?"

"I’m afraid you must be mistaking me for my little brother, sir. But you must be his employer, Mr. Pacey."

At the sound of that voice, rich as all the Rockefellers put together, I turned. The sight that met my eyes was amazing. If both the hands of fate reached out to R.J., one sculpting him into the Greek ideal of himself and the other aging him into my contemporary, the result would be what I saw now. This vision, dressed in an expensive if unsophisticated suit, was holding a vase of dahlias. He smiled, revealing perfect teeth.

Ah. R.J. had spoken of the younger Reverend Leland. Somehow it seemed wrong for Seth to so transcend his brother. I’m afraid I distrusted him immediately.

His own gaze dropped to the flowers. "I brought these along for R.J.   He likes flowers." Was that the faintest note of disapproval? "They were a gift to me from one of God’s strayed lambs who I was allowed to help shepherd back into the fold at yesterday’s services." His eyes, a limpid brown and filled with sincerity, rose to meet my own. "Are you a practicing Christian, Mr. Pacey?" Then, as if it were a separate question, he amended, "Do you attend a Manhattan church?"

Since reading the works of Robert Ingersoll at fourteen, I’ve been an agnostic. Reaching up and pushing my glasses back into place, I merely said, "No."

He sighed and shook his head, as if I’d confirmed some long-held suspicion, and placed the flowers on the nearest lab bench. Then he looked about with a critical air. For some reason, I suspected him of trying to ascertain where we’d hidden the burlesque dancers.

"R.J. is at lunch right now, Mr. Leland. If you’d care to leave a message—"

The door slammed open. For a second time, Violet entered my lab. Obviously, my solder comparisons would not be getting done today.

She drew herself up in a fashion with which I was all too familiar, extended one arm, and pointed her white-gloved finger at me. "You!"

Both I and Mr. Leland had risen to our feet, me with resignation, and him with astonishment. Violet tends to have that effect on normal men when they first meet her.

"You—You—Gomorrahian!"

Wrong city of the plain. I’m afraid it was typical of her to choose the complex and erroneous phrase over the simple and correct one she’d know from show business – fairy, I’d imagine. Even Mr. Leland, with his specialist’s knowledge, looked confused. He said, voice as soothing as opium-laced cough syrup, "Dear lady, what disturbs you so? Why all this hullabaloo?"

She whirled, got her first clear sight of him, and her eyes widened. Her tongue darted out and moistened her lips.

I seized my chance. "Violet, the Reverend Seth Leland, of the Church of the Holy Spirit Gospel. Mr. Leland, my former wife, the Contessa Violetta di Orsinni."

"Your former wife?" Mr. Leland frowned like Jove reaching for a thunderbolt. "You divorced this Lily of the Fields?"

"She divorced me."

Without missing a beat, he turned and gave her a look of such melting, heartfelt reproach that no cocker-spaniel could possibly have matched it. "You divorced this man to marry—an Italian?" I’d been unaware the word Italian possessed five syllables. Still, he made the act sound impressively, darkly portentous, rather vamp-like.

"Vittorio’s passed on," Violet said. Her eyes, which had flicked back and forth between his sculpted features, his suit, and his diamond pinky-ring, closed, and the lashes trembled.

"Still, my Sister. All the more reason to renounce Satan’s toils." I can’t imagine her reaction if I’d said that, but she gave a little gasp. He picked the flowers back up and said, "The promptings of the Spirit must have moved me to bring these along." With a manly flourish, he offered them to her. Seemingly dazed, she took them. "Look at these and remember God’s goodness. From sweet nature He calls, inviting you back into His embrace." Turning to me, he said, in a much brisker tone, "I’ll wait for Jonah downstairs in reception." Turning back to Violet he said, "If the Spirit so moves you, come talk with me there." He left, closing the door firmly but quietly behind himself.

How did he do that? I would have sounded ridiculous saying such words—

With Violet, it’s unwise to pause overlong for reflection. She set the flowers carefully aside. Her eyes narrowed. She marched over to my bench. She picked up the fire-retardant and she let fly.

At least I saw it coming in time to get hands over my glasses, nose, and mouth. But when I opened my eyes again, they were as narrowed as my lips were pinched.

Violet left with a great deal more haste than she arrived, I am forced to report, and with chalk-white handprints on certain parts of her anatomy. But I made myself set the flowers down outside the laboratory door, not hurl them after her. Then I went to borrow more clothing.

There weren’t any work clothes left to borrow in my size. Eventually I tried Supplies on the ground floor, where the head clerk stopped suppressing laughter long enough to recommend the local Turkish bath. So I entered our main lobby just as Violet was exiting it, leaving a dripping R.J. behind her.

*****

If I’d known Violet was going to dump those flowers on R.J., I would have lofted them right out the nearest window. The price of a trip to the baths was the least I owed him after her tantrum, and so I said. It took persuasion, and even firmness, on my part, but soon enough we went out, turned right, and walked the block to the Royal Hotel. There, we proceeded downstairs from the lobby to the Turkish baths. But before we went in, R.J. checked his pocket-watch and glanced nervously about.

"As I said, don’t worry about being late. I consider this to be on the clock."

"It’s not the time I’m worried about; it’s who’ll be here." He didn’t explain, but followed me in to the blue-tiled reception hall.

The young man at the desk greeted R.J. with some warmth, and then went behind the desk to secure our valuables and get our robes and towels.

"Are you a regular?" I asked R.J.

"Yeah, you could say that. Later on in the evenings, I am. Frank will brush up our togs a little while we hit the steam room."

"Ah, good."

In my defense, I’ll merely note that my usual fellows during my standard hours at my normal Turkish bath were successful businessmen who tended towards age and rotundity, not to mention cigars. Without acquaintanceship to add piquancy to their company, I was only challenged by the occasional interesting glimpse, which I’d learned to avoid by not wearing my glasses. Obviously this didn’t prepare me adequately for sitting on a wooden bench, wearing only a towel, next to R.J. I blame my subconscious.

Thank the fates I’m very shortsighted. All I could see on the wooden seat by me was a deliciously suggestive blur, alternately veiled and revealed by wreaths of steam. And, for some reason, R.J. was silent, perhaps brooding over the events of the past few days.

I realized that reviewing those events, especially the tactile memories of my first encounter with a naked R.J., were not helping my aplomb, so I firmly turned my thoughts to some ideas I’d been toying with about high-vacuum cathode-ray tubes. Even so, I still had to spend some time reviewing my basic equations to keep from physically embarrassing myself. I’d never thought that R.J. might have an invisible herald, a fresh, masculine scent that insisted on reminding me of his presence. When I found that I was calculating the distance between my hand and R.J.’s loins, I knew it was time to leave the steam room for a very cold shower.

R.J.’s friend had worked miracles on our clothing, although he was surprised that I came up to the desk alone to fetch them. I told him R.J. had decided to linger in the showers, which made him smile oddly even though I was telling the truth. But his smile upon seeing the size of his tip was normal enough, as was R.J.’s air when I returned to the locker room with his clothes.

Even so, as we exited the bath, R.J. seemed to somehow relax. That may be why he was caught by surprise by the young man entering who paused and called out, "R.J.!"

One brief, visible shudder passed over R.J., but he stopped and said, "Hello, Rudy." Brave soul. Young Rudy had violet-scented hair as glossy as patent leather, bag trousers in which he could store multiple hip-flasks, and yellow shoes. He was also wearing – this was the give-away, I’m afraid – the faintest hint of rouge. Rudy said, "You never called me, you flat-tire. What about that show in the Village?" He moved his regard to me in my borrowed garments. "Although now I believe I see why I was stood up. Hello, Mr. Electricity Worker. I’m Rudy."

I was only mildly surprised to find myself feeling flattered. But, in order to spare R.J.’s amour propre, I said, "It’s a pleasure to meet you, Rudy, but I’m afraid that R.J. and I are both due back at work."

"Oh, work," he said, and grinned in a way that made him much more attractive. "Of course. R.J. never misses work. That might mean missing a day with la Pacey."

"Rudy," R.J. said, tone gentle, "this is Mr. Pacey."

There was a moment of sticky silence. Then R.J. turned on his heel and strode off, either looking for a noosed rope or a package of chewing gum, his resort on any day when drinking had already failed his nerves. Rudy stared after him. Turning to me, he squared his shoulders as if expecting a blow – not an unreasonable expectation from most men under the circumstances, I fear – took a deep breath, and said simply, "I’m sorry, sir."

I took my own deep breath. "That’s all right. R.J. is safe enough. I don’t announce it, but I also prefer—" I settled for making a helpless gesture.

"Ah," said Rudy. Then, slowly, he smiled. "I get you. Lucky me. Lucky R.J., for that matter. May I take it, sir, that you’re a late bloomer?"

Impulsively, I asked, "Rudy, is there something I should know about Turkish baths?"

His smile blossomed back into a grin. "Ask R.J., Mr. Pacey. Right now, I’m quitting while I’m ahead." Without another word, he went inside.

I caught up with R.J. in the hotel lobby. He was tucking a half-emptied pack of clove gum in his pocket and his jaws were working furiously. Poor R.J. What could I say? Rudy’s example gave me my cue. Be blunt.

I gathered my courage. "R.J., please stop worrying about these confusions. Johnny and I—share preferences other than our dislike of early awakening. I’m merely—unadventurous." Well, I was almost blunt.

The jaws slowed. His tongue traveled slowly along the inside of his lower lip. Then he swallowed his gum and almost choked. After I’d slapped him on the back he said, "You’re kidding, right?" He waved an impatient hand. "No, forget I said that."

I gestured at the door. He nodded, and we both started back towards the lab.

After about half a block, I said, "Not that I’m trying to presume, or bother you with more of my home life. I merely didn’t want you to worry."

R.J. shrugged. "Thanks, boss." And a few steps later, "You’re not presuming."

We were quiet a bit longer until R.J. asked me how the tin of flux was working out. That was when I told him about his brother’s visit, which had him reaching for what was left of his package of gum. But when I saw who was waiting for us at the door to our building, I wished he’d left a piece for me to borrow.

Johnny spotted me. "Benji, dear! I’m afraid you have another wee problem!"

IV

I was still trying to wrap my head around the notion of Mr. Pacey as a fellow homo when Johnny announced his news. "Right after you left, Violet ran into that minister fella, in reception. They seemed to know each other. Anyhow, she went out on his arm, with him announcing to all and sundry she was going to testify at his meeting about the snares of Sodom." Johnny looked reproachful. "Benji, I know the Reverend’s good-looking, but really."

There was an audible click as Mr. Pacey’s teeth came together. "Fine. Violet can go and say whatever she wants. She will anyhow."

Johnny looked alarmed. "You can’t let her do that!" Then he showed why he was prospering as a big business fella. Five minutes later, he’d stuffed Mr. Pacey and I into a taxicab together, and we were heading for the old Rialto Theater and Seth’s revival.

When we got to the theater, even out front you could faintly hear the choir working on "Jesus is my Radio." Mr. Pacey and I exchanged a look, and he told our driver, "Stage door, please."

I guess he figured bribery might work on the stage doorman, but that wasn’t necessary. The old fella looked us over, his eyes paused on the tools all we workers at the lab carry in our shirt pockets, and he said, "About time. Took you long enough."

Pacey’s smart, all right. Without missing a beat, he said, "We had another job."

"Fine. You just do your other job, and meanwhile we’re stuck here with our fuses blowing out. Today half them microphone gadgets the preacher uses don’t work nor half the lobby lights. We never had these problems before electricity, no we didn’t."

He herded us inside, still muttering about the good old days. I turned up my jacket collar and hoped no one would notice my resemblance to Seth; even backstage, I could hear him thundering about the wrath of God.

"I’ll go unlock that closet they keep the electricity in. Don’t you get lost. Hard enough to find you in the first place." The doorman went off into the darkness.

There was enough light that I could see Mr. Pacey’s fascinated expression as he looked towards the stage. I don’t think he’d ever heard a revival before. Me, I’d heard so many that I knew where they were in the service without thinking. Real soon now Seth would let a few of the riper members of the congregation testify under the supervision of his junior co-preacher while he took a quick comfort break. We’d better be out of here before he came backstage and found me standing around.

Suddenly, Mr. Pacey reached out, grabbed my arm, and dragged me to the very edge of the wings. When I tried to pull back, he leaned in close and hissed, "That’s Violet!"

I whispered back, "Yeah, she’s testifying." Boy, her theater training sure showed. Even with the microphones not working, you could hear every word the Countess Violet was saying. If it had been a normal crowd, you also could have heard a pin drop. As it was, the intervals between cries of "Amen!" and "Tell it Sister" were what the magazines call fraught. But the Countess didn’t seem to be dishing on Mr. Pacey. Instead— I shook my head. She’d sure had an interesting time in Italy.

When the going was getting real good, though, the doorman came tiptoeing over and mimed for us to follow him. I couldn’t wave him off just to hear more ripe stories about a lot of snow-fueled orgies. So we followed him back past the well-lit tech board to a door marked by red danger signs that he’d unlocked for us. We huddled in the doorway, neither Mr. Pacey nor I wanting to go in there first. The doorman snorted without sound, and left.

"How’s she doing?" Uh-oh, I knew that voice about ten feet away, talking in low tones to what must be the stage manager.

"They’re still eating out of the palm of her hand, Reverend."

"Well, I’d best get back out there and announce a hymn before George loses control of her and she give some old biddy a heart-attack. Where’s my Bible? Over by the tech board?"

I didn’t hear the stage manager’s answer. Mr. Pacey shoved me into the closet.

*****

Mr. Pacey pulled the door shut after us. We were crowded into what must have been storage until the building owner’s brother-in-law, or some other cheap juicer, had wired up the place for electricity. It was pretty dark in here, and I couldn’t see what I was banging into, so I dug out my flashlight and turned it on. Half the tiny room was filled with crates full of odds and ends that shouldn’t be stored anywhere near a circuit box. And then there was the amazing mess of the circuit box itself.

He looked around the tight space, caught sight of the circuit box, and frowned. "What in the world…? R.J., please hand me your flashlight."

Without actually touching what looked to be some Rube Goldberg contraption, he stretched up onto his toes and his head shifted as he checked the lines feeding down into the box. Then he got down on his knees and examined what was coming out from below. "I can’t be sure until we crack it open, but I’d be willing to wager that this box has been incorrectly wired, which is what keeps blowing those fuses." I’d side-bet on that wager, even if I didn’t know how he could tell. Scent, maybe; when it comes to electricity, Mr. Pacey has a nose like a bloodhound.

"Do you have an insulated socket wrench?" He shuffled around on his knees. "The same incompetent who did the wiring bolted this box shut."

"Yeah."

Only while he was turning for the wrench did my brain catch up with my mouth. I’d yanked my jacket open to look for my socket wrench, not considering the lingering effect of the baths, danger, too-close proximity, and still-damp trousers. The beam of the flashlight caught me right across the groin, where my privates were trying to erect a pavilion tent in his honor.

When he caught sight of the bulge, his lips parted slightly. His eyes widened a touch, and his breath caught. His fingers must have slackened, too; he dropped the light, and I heard the bulb go when it hit the concrete floor. We were suddenly back in the dark. But me, I was suddenly enlightened.

There was still some faint illumination seeping in around the poorly-fitted door. I looked down at him. He looked up at me: I could see the glint of his eyes. Just like in the moving pictures, our gazes met and held, even in that near-dark. And even over the muffled noise of hundreds of voices singing "Are you Washed in the Blood of the Lamb," I could hear it when he cleared his throat, then wet what had to be suddenly dry lips.

How about that?

Stepping in, I said to him, "Hey, Boss, why didn’t you say something?" This close, he smelled faintly of citrus and rum: his aftershave, I guess. I put one hand on his shoulder, good and muscular under the jacket and shirt.

"What should I have said?" The question wasn’t stalling, I could tell. He genuinely didn’t know. Jeez, hadn’t he ever— My mind raced over what he’d told me, what I’d heard around work in the past year. No, I guess he hadn’t. My pulse sped up a little more. Putting one hand on his head, I stroked his hair. It was soft, sliding silkily through my fingers just like I’d always thought it would. His voice a little more husky, he asked me, "Was there something I should have requested?"

"I can show you easier than I can tell you," I said, moving my other hand onto his head, tangling my fingers altogether into his hair. "That is, if you want me to."

I felt it when his head nodded, and wished I could whoop with joy. Instead, I tugged his head against my groin.

Of course, that was asking too much of my luck. The door opened behind me.

V

There was sudden brilliance. I knew how a squirrel in headlights must feel.

"Now, what’s this here?" The words rumbled out in a gravelly basso profundo against the background tumult of the meeting out front. R.J.’s fingers clamped hard into my hair.

Without missing a beat, R.J. had shifted his hips back slightly so his jacket slid between us. "Shhh," he hissed at the newcomer, and, "So, Lord Jesus, forgive Brother Ben, here, his transgression against Your word before we deal with Your holy gift to mankind of electricity." There was an expectant pause.

I cautiously rolled my eyes to one side, catching a glimpse. Good Lord, Paul Bunyan had shaved, gained weight, and taken a job with Reverend Seth Leland’s Faith Crusade.

"Amen," said the gigantic guard finally, seemingly picking up some cue I was missing.

R.J.’s hands were still firm against my head, keeping my face down. Probably just as well, given the appalled expression I was sure I was wearing. This was not a situation for any self-respecting agnostic to find himself in. But R.J. was intoning, with a strange almost syncopated rhythm, "Don’t strike us sinners down with the justified wrath of Your lightning. Rather, withhold Your hand as in the days of old when You spared the men of Nineveh, the warriors of Judea. Let Your mercy show Your glory, Lord Jesus, so the people may cry as one, Alleluia!"

"Alleluia," the guard agreed. In a much more pleasant tone of voice, he added, "Sorry to interrupt, you the boys here to fix the lights?"

"That’s us. If you’ll excuse us, Brother, so we can finish up and get to work? Brother Ben was struck with a conviction of sin when he dropped his flashlight."

"Oh, sorry. I’ll just come back—" the huge guard pointed with both forefingers to the side and assumed an expression I’d have to call coy, "—after services. You take your time."

"Thank you." R.J. closed his eyes and bowed his head over mine, muttering unintelligibly in an odd, sing-song fashion. I settled for merely closing my eyes. Next to us, the door shut again.

After listening for a few tense seconds in the renewed dim, we both opened our eyes. R.J. tilted his head down towards me. His hands, which had been resting atop my head slid to the sides of my face.

I said, "Now’s our chance. We should probably flee." Why, oh why, did I always have to be responsible, and end up sounding damnably prissy by doing so?

"Only if you want to."

He was drawing me close again, rather tentatively this time, but still— There was a crude Latin insult I’d read in the course of my researches that seemed to hint at enormities. I rested my cheek against the fall of his trousers, felt the hardness, breathed in deeply the mixed scents of seersucker and male sweat, and sensed him tense. His was the tension of excitement, though, not of rejection. I was on the right track. "I’m not sure what to do, R.J."

"Well, boss, I’d have a lot more fun with my fly undone." I could hear the grin in his voice, and I smiled against him even as I reached for his belt buckle.

He wasn’t the only one who had more fun that way. This was the first time I’d held another man’s penis in my hands, and I was surprised at the power of the experience. Smooth, a bit cool compared to the heat of my own palms, alive to my touch: I liked how R.J. pushed against me, how his breathing grew harsh as I explored what I’d found. I traced one finger along his ridge and felt the pulse. Then, with a pleasant sense of inevitability, I parted my lips, leaned in, and tried a tentative lick. Oddly tasty.

"Yeah, that’s good."

So, I lapped at the rest of him, his shaft and testicles – delightfully furred – and the tip of him again. The taste was salty, a bit bitter, but altogether R.J.

"Don’t forget to keep your lips over your teeth." Easy enough, even if he was a bit of a mouthful.

I tried working my lips around him, building up a little suction, and made an inquiring noise.

"You got the idea. Now you—" As his whispered instructions grew more elaborate, his head went back and, even in the dark, I could tell that his eyes closed. One hand shifted from my face to take my hand from his hip and guide me to the possibilities cradled between his legs. A bit later, his other hand, to my surprise, grabbed my free hand and squeezed it hard. Just as the taste of him was growing more intense, he took a deep, shuddering breath and asked, "Do you want to screw me? Up the ass, I mean?"

That caused me to pull away and stare at him. Then, remembering what I was about, I wrapped his saliva-slick penis in my hand and stroked. I may have been a bit rough. I was—compelled by the vision he conjured. In fact, I was achingly uncomfortable. The thought of being with R.J., slotted deep inside him with the heat flowing between the two of us, in this idiotically dangerous situation— Yes. Of course, yes. "Yes, I do."

He freed his hand, reached into a pocket, pulled out a small jar of petroleum jelly handy for use on battery terminals, and flourished it in the faint light from the door. I blinked. He said, "I’ll get myself ready. You get undone." Aha, it was for friction reduction. I clambered to my feet.

Efficient as always, he prepared and then leaned over to brace himself against the largest of the crates. Shadowed or not, I had never in my life seen anything so compelling as that stance. Not ever.

"Gentle insertion, or brisk?" I paused, one hand on each buttock, making sure of my target. No, truly I paused because the mere sight of his tight entrance made me burn.

His voice was ragged. "Easy until you’re sure the connection’s seated right. Then push home."

Once I was firmly seated, I needed no more instruction. R.J.’s responses were my guide.

For once, here was no disappointment. Anything but. The drag of him, the heat of him around me, demanded that I climax. But, as much as I wanted to spend, that never-silent responsible part of me wanted R.J. to spend even more. I found his penis again, and the duel sensations of him clasped in my hand and clenching around me finally proved that there’s a reward for being nice, for being responsible. However, something tells me that, for once, I didn’t look prissy when R.J. tensed and ground against me.

"Ben," he said harshly, and, "Ah, Boss. Fuck, yeah, Ben." When R.J. spilled his seed in my hands, a part of me wanted only to be somewhere I could taste it, mark both of us with his prize. Instead I settled for grabbing his hips and thrusting hard. R.J. panted, and offered an obscene act that I didn’t entirely comprehend but still wanted. Even to consider such things— Just as hard as I’d thrust, I came.

Afterwards, I was torn between wondering if I’d bruised him and wondering if he’d bruise me back if I tried kissing him, when the realization of where we were returned. "Good Lord." Faintly, through the intervening walls, I could hear the noise of the crowd, singing and stomping their feet so hard that the building was shaking a little around us.

"Nah, only my brother’s idea of a good time. He doesn’t know the difference, but I do."

"Hmm," I replied absently, searching the pockets of my borrowed jacket. Ah, as I’d suspected, that lump that kept banging against my leg was a small flashlight. "In any case, as long as we’re here, we should try and fix that circuit box."

"I guess, but first—" He’d handed me the piece of shammy he’d used on himself, and was pulling up his underwear and trousers. "—you’d better get fixed up. Be a heck of a state to get a shock in."

"True." Then I did reach out, find him, and draw him in for a kiss. The first second, his lips were relaxed under mine, seemingly surprised. Then he answered me, briefly but sweetly.

Once I’d cleaned my glasses and we had the box levered open, the difficulty proved to be simple to resolve. Mis-wiring, as I’d suspected. I also opened the door a touch to let in a little light and clean out some of the musk, and we went to work. When the usher showed back up after the performance – excuse me, revival – was over, we were tracing a secondary line, just to make sure no problems remained.

"You boys all done?" The huge man’s tone was benevolent.

"Yeah, for now." R.J.’s voice, in turn, was cheerful. "Thirsty, perilous work, though. Hope you’ll ‘scuse us, Brother, but we’re off for a sandwich and milkshake each at the automat."

"God bless."

Personal doubts or no, one can but hope he was right. However, once out of the theater, we actually headed across the street to the Stomper’s Club. The drinks are more potent there, and I, for one, was distinctly shaken.

I wasn’t really surprised to find Johnny sitting at the bar.

*****

"Am I the only one who smells a skunk here, Boss?" I wished R.J. could call me Ben, but Boss, more intimate than ‘sir’ or ‘Mr. Pacey’, would have to do in public.

"No." I eyed my brother with disfavor. "I’m sorry, Johnny, but I don’t believe you’ve taken to attending religious revivals in your spare time. And, come to think on it, I hadn’t seen you drunk to the point of stupidity in years before this last Saturday."

He was unrepentant, I could tell, which was no real surprise. "I consider this a business expense, an investment in the future of the firm. When I left the show, your former wife was being struck by the spirit of the Lord in the person of Seth Leland, and repenting of her many sins. It was quite the dramatic scene. Even that veteran warrior familiar with the tactics of Satan, the handsome Reverend Seth, seemed impressed. He’ll probably be shoring her up against back-sliding for months."

I raised both eyebrows. Surely Johnny couldn’t be implying— But R.J. was nodding his head in agreement with a glum expression on his face.

"In any case, I’m sure she’ll be too busy to set her sights on you, brother dear, and on your majority share in the family firm. Not to mention," Johnny surveyed the two of us benignly, "you’ll finally be too busy for her."

I knuckled my forehead. Apparently over the past few years, while I’d been searching my soul, I’d missed another metamorphosis taking place close at hand. "And exactly how long have you been sketching out this little schema?"

Johnny started to cavil, and then looked at the two of us and thought better of it. "In part, for about a year. In part, only today. I knew if I just kept trying— And a good business executive can always adjust to circumstances."

Johnny, I could now see, was turning into a very good business executive, indeed. But not quite as good as he thought he was. "So, what’s your suggestion about the personnel issues involved?"

"Rather than waiting, transfer R.J. into the tube shop immediately, so he can try the steering wheel before Harry Stevens retires. Honestly, do I have to start thinking for the engineering committee, too?" Johnny waved a languid hand at R.J. "Sorry to spoil your surprise."

R.J. looked startled, and initially delighted, but then his eyes narrowed in annoyance. Neither of us enjoys being manipulated without his consent.

I could tell my voice was frosty when I said, "Given his changed circumstances, R.J. may want to make his own choices. He may prefer to travel, for example, or take a degree in engineering."

Johnny eyed me, and then told R.J., tone apologetic, "Benji formed his habits with women, I’m afraid. He tends to assume commitments."

"You say that like it’s a bad thing, Mr. Pacey," R.J. said to Johnny. I hadn’t known he could sound so dry. Then he turned to me and added, "There’s no rush to make decisions right now. How about a couple of days off for a personal crisis, though? I could sure use some shoring up against any chance of my brother remembering my existence and deciding to shore me up against back-sliding."

I felt myself smile. "Your attendance record has been exemplary to date, it’s true. Very well." I reached for my coat. "The Colony for dinner, I think. The Colony’s quite nice."

His gaze flicked to Johnny and then back to meet mine again. "Yeah? I’ve always wanted to eat at a place that fancy."

"We’ll stop by my tailor’s. Then dinner, and perhaps a Broadway review. Do you like orchestra seats?" Johnny’s expression was coagulating. "I understand you enjoy flowers. Roses?"

"Roses are classy, true."

"Excellent." I took his elbow and said, in a voice just loud enough for Johnny to hear, "Have you ever considered visiting, say, Tiffany’s? My former wife liked Tiffany’s."

Now that Johnny couldn’t see, R.J.’s eyes were crinkling with amusement. "Hey, I’ll try anything once."

"Benji," Johnny said plaintively, but I ignored him as I steered R.J. out the door.

Were you aware that they have the most modern and overly-sensitive of burglar alarms installed at Tiffany’s? R.J. found that out. I hadn’t known until the same afternoon. But that’s another story. Suffice it to say, the dinner and show that followed were nice, very nice. And I didn’t feel at all nasty later that night.

Naughty. I suppose that is the proper attitude to take with a naked friend in your bed, a naughty one.

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