A Collar and Tie (Ganymede Quartet Book 4) (32 page)

“That will do,” Henry agreed. He knocked on the wall of the
cab and the driver pulled to a halt. Martin stood in the street with their
bags, looking utterly disheartened, and Henry paid the driver. Martin followed
Henry into the shop with all the enthusiasm of a condemned man walking to the
gallows.

“How may we help you, sir?” The barber approached Henry with
an obsequious smile. “A shave for you, perhaps?”

“No thank you,” Henry said. “My slave is in need of a
haircut. Not too short, but we need to be rid of this long hair. Something more
conventional.”

The barber looked at Martin's beautiful hair and nodded. “I
see, sir. If you'd just like to choose…” He showed Henry a chart depicting several
styles of gentlemen's haircuts, patrician engravings with elaborate facial
hair. “Number 3 is a good choice for a man with wavy hair,” he suggested.

Henry bade Martin look at the picture and acquiesce, albeit
under obvious duress, before giving the barber the go-ahead. The barber sat
Martin in his great chrome-and-leather chair, put a cape over him, gathered his
hair into a tail, and cut it off all at once, a single harsh snip that Henry
felt in his gut; he couldn't imagine how badly Martin must be feeling, and he
felt terribly guilty. He immediately wanted to reverse his decision, for all
the good that would do. He reminded himself that it would all be for the best.
Martin would blend in with short hair, and it would make everything so much
easier. Surely Martin would see that, too, given a little time.

In the mirror, Martin looked both bereft and furious, jaw
clenched and eyes wet with unshed tears, and it was all Henry’s fault. But it
had to be done—there was no way around it.

The barber must have felt sorry for Martin; he took a great
deal of care with his scissors, shaping everything artistically, and had a kind
smile on his face as he worked. Henry appreciated this more than he could (or
would) say. Martin was no less handsome without his hair than he had been with
it, but Henry was especially surprised to see how attractive his neck was, how
it had an imperious arch when he inclined his head, like some haughty swan, and
somehow he had not seen this before with the tail partially obscuring its length.

But Henry could not disregard the tail entirely. “May I have
it, please?” he asked the barber. “I don't want it thrown away.”

If the barber found the request odd, he did an admirable job
of hiding it. “Of course, sir.”

Henry paid, the tail coiled in his jacket pocket, and gave
the man a nice tip.

As they passed through the door, Henry leaned close to
Martin and whispered, “You look so handsome, Martin.”

Martin frowned. “It's cold without my hair, Sir,” he
complained, although the weather was quite balmy.

Henry wished he could do or say something that would make
Martin less unhappy. Perhaps the best thing would be to get downtown as soon as
possible.

“Martin?”

Martin gave him a cool, narrow-eyed look, not friendly.

Henry leaned close, his lips at Martin’s ear. “I-I love you,
you know that.”

Martin’s lip curled and he turned away without responding.

This was going terribly, much worse than Henry had expected.

Martin hailed them another cab at Henry's request. Henry
told the driver to take them to 14
th
Street.
They climbed in and again Martin settled himself opposite Henry.

“Why, Sir,” Martin asked stiffly, and colder than Henry had
known he could be. “Why are we going to 14
th
Street? What’s there, Sir?”

“You’ll see. It’s the right kind of place for us,” Henry
told him. “At least I think it is. Just for now. Listen, Martin, you're going
to change into one of my shirts and a tie, all right?”

“Sir, no,” Martin shook his head adamantly. “I'm not allowed
to cover my mark, Sir, you know that.”

Why must Martin fight him on every point? “But
I
say
you can, and
I'm
your master, so you need to do what I tell you.
Please.” Henry dug in his case and pulled out a white shirt which he thrust
into Martin’s hands. “If this is going to work, you need to look like a free
man,” he reminded him. He got out the collar box and a red foulard tie which he
held at the ready. Martin sighed but made no further protest. He shed his
jacket, waistcoat, and the collarless slave shirt, and put on the shirt Henry
had given him. He put on the cuffs with practiced ease, but fumbled a bit with
the collar.

“I'm not used to putting one on myself, Sir,” he explained.
He was awkward with the tie, as well, but it looked very fine and proper when
he was done with it.

He was so handsome. With the short hair and the high collar
hugging his elegant neck, Henry could easily picture him as the scion of a
banking empire or heir to an oil fortune. No one who saw him would ever think
such an aristocratic beauty was born a slave.

“You pass,” Henry assured him. “No one would ever guess.”

“I’m not interested in passing, Sir,” Martin said with
haughty disdain.

“Well, you do,” Henry reiterated, trying not to become
annoyed. They just needed to get downtown and he’d make Martin understand that
all of this was for the best. They would make their escape, Martin in disguise,
and Father would never find them. Martin would be safe from any possibility of
punishment, and he’d never be returned to Ganymede. He’d never end up under
Adam Pettibone’s control. Henry told himself these things over and over,
convincing himself of the rightness of his actions. This was what had to be
done to keep Martin safe.

They rode south in stony silence, rolling through the
Wiltons’ neighborhood, past the theater district, and into the area around
Union Square.

The driver stopped the cab and knocked on the wall. Henry
put his head out the window. “Yes?”

“Are you sure this is where you boys wanted to come, sir?”

“Why do you ask?” Henry sounded perhaps a little
belligerent.

“It's not a good neighborhood, sir.”

Henry looked out the window, seeking landmarks. “Are we at
14
th
Street now?”

“No, but we're nearly there, sir.”

“Take us to 14
th
Street,”
Henry said firmly, “and I'll tell you when to stop.”

They drove on a few more minutes before the driver knocked
on the wall again and called out, “14
th
Street,”
still rolling.

Henry had hit upon the idea the other day, recalling a dim
memory from the beginning of the school year. He was looking for No. 36, the
whorehouse featuring men dressed as women from James’ brothel booklet, the one
Louis had shown him. He wasn’t planning on patronizing the establishment, of
course, but he suspected it would be in the right sort of neighborhood. No. 36
turned out to be an ordinary-looking townhouse, but Henry supposed that was
better, more discreet. There was a furtive man scuttling down the stoop as
Henry watched. He felt encouraged.

There were a large number of men walking along the street,
singly or in pairs, and the majority of them struck Henry as being rather
exceptionally stylish. One fellow in a broadly-striped suit wore a long ostrich
plume in the band of his bowler which struck Henry as decidedly celebratory. He
thought Martin would look rather wonderful decorated in such a way and wondered
if he could get him to cooperate with wearing such an extravagant feather once
he got used to the idea of wearing a free man’s clothes. Martin stared out the
window of the cab, seeming to see nothing.

There were bars, a restaurant, a tea room, a shoe shop.
There was a sign saying ROOMS TO LET but the building looked very shabby and so
Henry let it pass by. More promising was a sign for BACHELOR APTS WKLY RATES
next to a large restaurant and dance hall. Henry knocked on the cab wall. To
Martin he said, “We're here.”

“Are you sure, sir?” the driver asked. “I can take you
uptown again.”

“Thank you,” Henry said firmly, paying the man. He turned.
Martin stood on the sidewalk, shoulders slumped, violin case in his hand and
their bags at his feet. “Come along, Martin.”

“Yes, Sir.” Martin picked up both cases, violin wedged under
his arm.

“I can get my own bag,” Henry said, taking it from Martin's
hand.

“But, Sir…”

“It's all right, Martin. And you have to call me Henry in
public from now on, okay?”

“Yes, Si—Henry.”

The building was called the Calamus Apartments and, while
not irredeemably squalid, it was certainly less splendid than what Henry was
accustomed to. The lobby sported worn carpet, a water stain in the corner by
the cornice, a reception desk with bubbled varnish, and a smudged brass
elevator grille. When Henry glanced at Martin’s face, he appeared properly
horrified by the state of the lobby, but Henry reminded himself that Martin
was, after all, something of a snob. He told himself it would be fine. They
wouldn’t be staying here long anyway.

The ostentatiously dapper young man who stood behind the
desk was wearing a geometrically-patterned waistcoat that Henry rather admired.
He smoothed his hair with one hand and smiled at Henry. “Good evening, sir. How
may I assist you?”

Henry set down his bag and dared look back at Martin, who
stood sullenly quiet, arms crossed in judgment. “My, uh, friend and I require a
room.”

The man smiled knowingly. “Just one room, sir?”

Henry felt his face flood with heat. “Uh, yes. One room is
sufficient.”

“Ah-ha. For how many nights, sir?”

“The sign says weekly rates. How much for a week?”

“Ten dollars a week.” The man seemed to expect Henry to
protest this number, but when Henry said nothing, he shrugged and continued.
“Maid service every day, meals up from the restaurant if you like, and—of
course, and most importantly—utmost discretion.”

“That’s fine,” Henry said. He pulled ten dollars out of his
billfold, doing his best to obscure his wad of cash. In exchange, he received a
key for Room 412. He signed the register as Henry Blackwell, belatedly thinking
that he should have chosen a pseudonym. He waited an impatient minute for
someone to come for their bags, then flushed when he realized there was no such
person.

The elevator was very small. It did not seem big enough to
hold Henry, Martin, their bags, and Martin's overwhelming disapproval. “You’re
mad at me, aren’t you?” Henry asked, as the elevator wheezed from the second to
third floor.

“As your slave, I’d have no right, Sir,” Martin said coolly.
“So, therefore, no.”

“You are.” Henry sighed. “And call me by my name. You're a
free man now.”

Martin’s tone was scathing when he said, “A necktie doesn't
make a man free,
Henry
. Neither does a haircut.”

Walking from the elevator to their room, Henry heard odd
sounds coming from behind the doors along the passage, thumps and bumps and
once a distinct moan. But who was he to judge? He wasn't going to judge people
anymore, and they wouldn't be judging him, either.

By the time they got to the correct door, Martin's handsome
face was twisted into an expression of curdling distaste. “What
is
this
place, Henry?”

“Let's just see how the room is, please, Martin?” Henry
said, hoping to placate. He fumbled the key in the lock and dropped it to the
gritty carpet. On the second attempt, he got the door open and hurriedly
stepped inside, praying that it would be clean and not too sordid.

There was a big bed with a saggy mattress, a wardrobe with a
cracked mirror, a nightstand with a lamp, a desk and chair. An open door at the
far side of the room showed the end of a claw foot tub.

Martin strode to the bed and flipped the blankets back, then
bent and examined the sheets. “Hmph. Seems clean enough, I suppose, Sir.”

Henry crossed to where Martin stood frowning at the sheets.
Henry took hold of his shoulders and Martin looked away, reluctant to make eye
contact. “Listen, Martin, it's just for now, all right? Just until we decide
where we want to live, where we’re going.” He could tell by the look on
Martin's face that Martin wanted to live in the Blackwell mansion.

“Why aren't we staying in a
nice
hotel, Sir?”

“We can't stay any place my father might look.”

“He certainly won't look here, Sir,” Martin remarked, acid
in his tone. “This place is entirely beneath his notice.” He set his violin
case on the desk and sat down hard on the desk chair, arms crossed over his
chest and a surly scowl on his handsome face.

“It’s not so bad,” Henry insisted. He perched on the edge of
the bed, which creaked under his weight. “It’s a bit shabby, I’ll admit, but
it’s clean—you said so yourself.”

“Clean
enough
, Henry.”

“Try to think of it as an adventure, Martin,” Henry
suggested, wishing he were more clever, certain there must be some way he could
make Martin recognize there might be some enjoyment to be had in embracing this
freedom. “Besides, we’ll probably only be here a day or two.”

“What exactly are you planning, Henry?” Martin got up from
the chair and went to the wardrobe, flinging the doors wide. “Just where will
we be in a day or two?” There were a few hangers on the rod, dust fluff in the
bottom of the cabinet. Martin opened one of the wardrobe’s drawers and made a
scoffing sound. “Dirty,” he said to himself, sounding as if his worst
suspicions had been confirmed.

“We’ll decide where to go,” Henry told him. “And then…we’ll
go, I guess. We’ll start a life somewhere else, someplace safe.”

“That’s all the plan you have, Sir?” Martin cocked an
eyebrow, disdainful. “That’s all the thought you’ve put into this…
adventure
?”
Henry cringed at the condescension in his tone. Martin put Henry’s case on the
bed and began to unpack it. “I don’t want your suits getting creased, Sir,” he
explained with caustic disdain. “There’s no need for
you
to look shabby
just because we’re staying in a place like this.”