Temporary Help
By
Parhelion
“I’ve made a mistake,” the heavy-set man says evenly, and turns away towards the mouth of the alley and the light that pools there. Some of the noises from the waterfront speakeasy are still loud through its now-shut side door, but he doesn’t raise his voice. “There are other possibilities—”
“Wait,” the young man replies, his hand darting out to grab the thick weave of the ample overcoat. But he grimaces even as he says the word.
His captive snorts in response, right hand tightening around his walking stick. “You’re claiming that you want this?”
The young man lets go and steps away. They lock gazes, both brown eyes and grey barely visible in the yellow light. Then the young man glances for a moment towards the streetlamp, and towards the piers beyond, before he looks back. His tone wavers somewhere between defiant and sardonic when he says, “I want your money.” His buckeye accent makes the blunt words sharp.
“You state the obvious.” The heavy man’s head twitches in what might be a shake before he sighs. Reaching into his pocket, he takes out a wallet and opens it. The wallet is made from a fine kidskin but it contains only a few dollar bills without any of the other papers that prosperous men in their late thirties usually carry. Removing a single bill, he hands it to the young man, pockets the wallet, and once again starts to turn away.
“I don’t take charity. Especially when...I don’t.” The tenor voice is harsh. “This is enough dough for what you want.”
“I doubt there is money enough anywhere for what I truly want.”
Now it’s the young man’s turn to snort. “Never mind the sermon. A buck will get a fella’s stem wound anywhere in this neighborhood.”
“How you reassure me.” The words are polite. “I’d imagine that the stem in question would belong to you, and would be wound in as detached a manner as possible by me.” These words are less polite. He rubs a hand across his broad face. Then he mutters, “Not that you are to be blamed for the usual mode of these encounters. And I need sleep.”
Burying his hands deep in his trouser pockets against the October chill, the young man sounds a little curious when he asks, “Insomnia?” He pauses, and then adds, “Business problems?”
“You also ask questions.” He shoots the young man a look. “You are new to this.”
“So? I thought that was supposed to make me a red-hot number.”
The full lips stretch slightly. “Have you dallied with any virgins? As an actual trait, inexperience is overly valued.”
In a gesture of impatience, the young man yanks one hand out of a pocket to run it through strawberry blond hair. Even on this cold night he wears no hat, no cap, to block his fingers. “I’ve already been around the long block and down through the alleys, if that’s what you’re asking. Do you care how often?”
“As a matter of fact, no.” The heavy man’s head tilts. “You’re without other recourse?”
“I have a little problem. A fella who's antsy about interest. And I guess I’m not the only one who’s new enough at this to ask questions.” The glare he receives in exchange for his last comment makes him grin.
“Don’t be obnoxious.”
“Pot, kettle, black,” the young man retorts. “Look, I have your dollar. Do you want to do...what you want, or not?”
He’s considered for a few seconds. In the faint light, the large man’s lips seem to shift as he thinks. “Yes, I do. But not here. These surroundings are vile.”
“The rats add something to the atmosphere. The trails of spilled beer and slime along the cobblestones are nifty, too.” As he speaks, the young man is tucking away the single bill inside a flat leather bag worn around his neck beneath his combinations top. When he’s done, he squares his shoulders and continues, “We can’t go back to where I’m sleeping.”
“And you need a bath.”
“I didn’t know I was about to meet Miss Emily Post, or I would’ve found some way to scrub up first.”
“I know of an establishment that rents rooms.”
“I’m not sure how that’ll help your sense of smell.”
“The rooms have private baths.”
“Every room with its own bathtub? Spiffy.” The young man hoists one eyebrow and grins again. “This'll take a while. Four bits more?”
“Not a nickel. I shall, however, buy you dinner afterwards.”
“Okay. It’s a deal.” He doesn’t offer a hand for a shake, though. The heavy man’s head bobs slightly in what might be meant to be a nod of approval. Without another word he turns for a third time towards the mouth of the alley, leaving its other occupant to follow or not as he chooses. The young man’s shoulders hunch, but he doesn’t hesitate.
An hour and a half later, he is pulling frayed suspenders up over the shoulders of his worn white shirt. His hair is now damp, plastered back across his head without the help of pomade.
The heavy man is rolling his shirt sleeves down over surprisingly strong forearms after having dried his hands and arms on a towel thin with use. He looks up to ask, tone once again measured, “Do you still want dinner?”
“You bet.” After stretching with relaxed grace, the young man looks surprised at his own gesture, and adds hastily, “I’m not dumb enough to nix free chow.”
“No, you’re not unintelligent, merely annoying.”
His companion seems to feel his look is response enough.
“My words are not meant as criticism. Not in these circumstances, at least. Annoyance is the surest inoculation against creeping sentimentality.” He studies the young man. “Precisely how much money do you owe your insistent usurer?”
“Some. Not enough to pay for what you’re thinking.”
“Shut up. I doubt you even know what I could be thinking.” For a wonder, the young man does fall silent even if his eyes still speak for him. His own eyes narrowed, the heavy man continues. “How good are your table manners?”
“You’re about to find out.”
Once again, the heavy man’s head twitches in his oddly truncated nod. “You believe that they’ll suffice.” He ignores the young man’s snort and continues, “I’m not speaking of a different kind of intimate encounter but of a different duration of such employment, in different surroundings.” Politely, he ignores the blaze of what might be hope that momentarily burns off his companion’s sardonic expression. “If you can be trusted not to attempt any puerile and petty criminality involving my reputation or my property, I would be interested in engaging your exclusive attentions for perhaps a fortnight.” He bears up to the examination that follows with equanimity.
“Say, you really are having problems sleeping.”
“Yes.”
“But I don’t see you yawning after your recent exercise.”
Brown eyes glint behind lowered lids. “If we need to discuss this topic for long, I’d imagine that you will. Do you have any other questions?”
“Only one. What’s in this for you, other than more bathwater?”
“I am a good judge of character who dislikes entanglements. There is a backlog of minor clerical chores that you could help with if you stay with me, a justification for your presence. Your pay would be adequate, your room and board luxurious enough to save that pay. You could retire your debt and return to whatever preoccupations you prefer when solvent. We could both return to our usual preoccupations free of entanglements.”
The young man visibly relaxes at these words. After a few seconds he goes over to the washstand, picks up the cufflinks resting there, and gestures. When the heavy man stretches out his arms, the young man inserts the gold links. After he helps the heavy man don first his suit coat and then his overcoat, the younger man says, “This late dinner had better be something special.”
“It will suffice. Come along, Mr...?”
“Archie. Not Archibald, Archie.”
“My surname is Wolfe, spelled with an e.” He picks up his hat, gloves, and cane from where they sit on a chair. “Come along, Archie. Dinner may suffice, but breakfast will be more than sufficient.”
“Gosh, I can hardly wait,” Archie says. His steps are firm, though, and his shoulders relaxed as he pulls on his own suit coat before following Mr. Wolfe, his new employer, out of the dingy hotel room.
Return to the index of my other Wolfe slash fanfic