An Idol for Others (28 page)

“You’re declaring war, are you, young fellow?” Washburn said, oblivious of the violence he had so nearly unleashed. “You shouldn’t have been so careless with your money. You’ll need a lot of it if you’re going to take me on.”

“I’m not going to take you on. I’m leaving you off?’ He loaded his words with disdain. If he couldn’t hit an old man, he could at least mortally insult him. “You play no part in my plans for the future, Aleck. I don’t think there’ll be much of a war. Don’t forget, the heir to the dynasty is going to be called Makin. I’ll teach him to despise you and everything you stand for as thoroughly as I do.” He didn’t wait to enjoy the effect of his words. He made for the door in good order, although his heart was pounding and his stomach churning. His trembling became more pronounced as he strode down the corridor. He was aware of Peters holding the door open for him and of their exchanging routine words of farewell. Then he was in a hotel bar a block away with the better part of a double whisky inside him.

Once he had calmed down, he wasn’t greatly alarmed by the interview. He didn’t think Aleck could, or would, hurt him; the Washburns’ sense of family would compel him to keep the rift out of sight. It simply marked the end of Walter’s thinking of himself as in any way a Washburn, the end of regarding Clara as specially privileged. She was a girl who happened to be his wife. It was time he taught her a lesson. How dare she make a crack about his being an arty faggot? Had she said something to her father that made him feel free to refer to his partner as a “nelly boy”? What about McClaren? Why all the queer references all of a sudden? He wasn’t going to put up with it. In a few more years she would have several million dollars of her own (he was looking forward to them more than he had expected), but meanwhile, if he wanted children, she would damn well have them. She would show decent respect for his partner, who also happened to be his dearest friend. When she was rich, he might consider a new set of rules.

He reminded himself that he was due for lunch soon with one of the influential men Aleck had mentioned and ordered another drink. He was aware that a youngish man standing near him at the bar was trying to pick him up. This didn’t happen often outside the theater district. He looked at himself in the mirror behind the bar to see if he could spot anything that suggested he was an easy mark, a “lily.” His clothes were original but not extreme. He wasn’t remotely pretty. If he was attractive-looking, it was in a slightly odd but wholly masculine way. He hadn’t adopted any of the camp jargon that was current in the theater, so there was no risk of his saying something that would give people the wrong idea. He looked ridiculously young, but since he was only 25, there was nothing he could do about that.

The scene with Aleck hit him in the bladder. He felt as if he were bursting. He took a hasty swallow of his fresh drink and left it on the bar and went to the men’s room. He was standing relieving himself when he heard the door open behind him and realized that his move might be interpreted as an invitation. He was jostled slightly as somebody moved in close beside him at the urinal. It was the young man from the bar. He was good-looking in an all-American way, slightly reminiscent of Harry and about the age that Harry would be now, with a curious quality of slightly worn glamour as if he were used to people paying attention to him. All this Walter had noted at the bar without really looking at him.

Walter kept his eyes front and shifted his hands slightly to conceal himself. His time in the Army had taught him to take this sort of thing in stride. In a world of young men, uprooted, in uniform, on the move, unorthodox sexual advances were commonplace. His neighbor put a hand on his hip and nudged him with his elbow. Walter’s eyes strayed involuntarily. He tried to pull them away, but they were held by the size of the organ that was being displayed. The hand on it fondled it discreetly, making it lengthen astonishingly. When it looked as if it were getting out of control, it was somehow returned to cover.

“I’m staying here,” the young man said quietly. “Would you like to come up to my room?”

Walter was prepared to be indignant but found that he wasn’t Perhaps his wife’s and his father-in-law’s practically calling him a faggot had exhausted his indignation. His wife had murdered his child; she had reduced their lovemaking to an act as empty as anything he might do with a man. He had always wondered if the stories he’d heard about 12 and 14 inches were possible. His neighbor’s curiously glamorous air, however worn, attracted and intrigued him. He had half an hour to kill. “Why not?” he said.

“I’ll meet you at the elevators.”

Walter heard the door open and close while he was fastening himself up. He remembered things he had been told about blackmailers. Never fall for a setup. If anybody had reason to expect him at this bar at this hour there might be cause for caution. He had turned into the first bar he had come to, scarcely knowing where he was. The young man was apparently as intent on discretion as Walter should be. They wouldn’t be seen leaving here, or the bar, together. This was a first-class hotel room, not a hangout for hustlers. He returned to the bar and swallowed down his drink and paid and took the door leading to the lobby. The young man was waiting for him without appearing to do so, and they rode up silently in an elevator.

In another few moments a hotel room door closed behind them, and they were undressing. Walter found that his exhibitionism remained a dependable stimulant. He was simultaneously naked and erect when his companion darted past him to a bureau. He turned back with a camera in his hands. Walter heard a click before he could duck behind a chair.

“Hey, what the hell are you doing?” he demanded.

The young man laughed. “Don’t worry. I’ll develop it myself. You’re the new star of my collection.”

Walter postponed deciding what to do about a stranger’s having such a photograph while he took in the anatomical phenomenon on display before him. The young man’s pleasing body was dwarfed by the instrument that was slowly lifting before it. Inch was added to inch, but it had yet to achieve full erection. It seemed to Walter too big for any practical purposes, but it was an extraordinary spectacle, a monument to the male organ.

They met in the middle of the room, in preliminary exploration of each other. His partner’s erection became staggeringly complete when he touched it. Walter felt a sense of achievement in having produced such a monumental response. As his eyes grew accustomed to it, he guessed that it was probably about a foot long, but ordinary terms of measurement didn’t seem to apply. A foot of rope was nothing. A foot of cock looked bigger than the body to which it belonged. His own was modest by comparison.

When they lay together in bed, Walter couldn’t deny that he was enjoying himself. Although it was no longer something he would seek, he still felt a. special edge of excitement in being like this with a man. By being outside the norm, it seemed to entail a more than normal exposure of being. He suddenly felt closer to this stranger than he did to some of his closest friends. He looked into his eyes and saw old wounds in them and a spark of fear in their depths. He would make it his business to erase that look for a little while. Their bodies reveled together. His partner’s body was trim, supple, well-proportioned except for the phenomenon that swung against him like a truncheon while its owner did avidly expert things with his mouth.

When Walter looked at him again, his hair was awry with his exertions. His eyes were peacefully intent with pleasure. Years had fallen away. Walter’s memory was jolted with a shock of recognition.

“My God,” he exclaimed. “You’re Frank Farley, aren’t you?”

“Didn’t you recognize me before?”

“I knew there was something.” Walter remembered an extraordinarily beautiful youth who had appeared in a few films when he was at college and had soon dropped from view. Now that he knew, he could see the beauty still lingering beneath the coarsening of time. “My goodness. You gave me some very peculiar dreams when I was a kid. Had I but known. Not in my wildest imagination–” He reached for the monument, and they laughed together. Time had run out. He let Frank bring them both to climax. When it was done, he pulled himself out of bed and headed for his clothes.

“I’ve got to get going,” he said, starting to dress. He had to get the photograph and wondered how to go about it. He was aware of Frank Farley’s moving about the room while he put his socks on. Farley came and stood close to him, combed, wearing a dressing gown, looking his age again.

“When are we going to see each other again,” Frank asked.

“I don’t know. I’m awfully busy.” Walter hoped it didn’t sound too dismissive. He didn’t want to be stuck with a faded Hollywood starlet.

“I want to see you again. I’m not used to begging. People have offered me a lot of money just to see my cock. You did a lot more than see it.”

Walter felt a stirring of uneasiness. He glanced at Farley, assessing the shorter, slighter figure. He could handle him. “You aren’t suggesting I should pay, are you? I’ve never paid for sex in my life.”

“I shouldn’t think you’d have to. Your body–it’s absolutely fabulous. Most boys would envy that cock. I liked us together. How about making a date?”

Walter smiled more comfortably. He had been imagining things. “Well, sure. I liked it too. We’ll see. I know it’s not possible for the next week or two. I’m in town on business.”

“No, you’re not, Walter. Why tell me a thing like that?”

Walter’s uneasiness became active alarm. He was a blasted idiot to think he could indulge in little adventures as if he were still an unknown kid. “Well, I’ve been away,” he amended. “You know who I am, do you?”

“Of course. That’s another reason I’d like to talk to you. I thought we could discuss your production plans.”

“You mean for a job? If you know my work, you know I never use stars.” It wasn’t the first time he’d used the line. Actors were so flattered by it that they didn’t notice they were being turned down. He had to handle Farley with kid gloves. Although he spoke quietly, something about his manner suggested danger, something corrupt, perhaps unbalanced. He hadn’t forgotten the photograph. “Of course, if you want a reading like everybody else, I could arrange it when the time comes.”

“No, I wouldn’t like that. As you say, I’m a star. I don’t take money, but everybody needs help at times. Considering what’s happened, I sort of hoped we’d be friends. I can’t wait to see that photograph.”

The hint of a threat was unmistakable. This was turning into a nightmare. Only minutes ago he had felt something close to tenderness for this man. He cursed himself for being a sentimental ass. Here was a face that was definitely going to get smashed, but he wanted to accomplish his purpose before permitting himself that pleasure. “I didn’t say anything about not being friends.” He would fire an actor who read a line with so little conviction. He had been about to put on his shirt but dropped it again. Perhaps a bit of nakedness would rekindle a sexual spark and give him an advantage. He moved closer to his adversary and tried to pump up his charm. “I’m counting on your letting me have that photograph, including the negative. You took it without asking. That’s not the sort of things friends do.”

“I didn’t make you take your clothes off and get a hard-on. Lots of people have told me you’re straight, having a wife and all, but I can spot a gay guy when I see one. I guess you’re anxious for people not to know. I don’t blame you. I thought it couldn’t hurt me, but the studio cracked down when I got careless. If people knew who took that photograph, it could be bad for you.”

Walter’s scalp crawled. His heart gave a leap of fear. His blood turned to ice. He glanced quickly at the bureau. He had the impression that Farley had left the camera there. He didn’t see it. He remembered hearing drawers opening and closing while he was putting on his socks. He made a dash for the bureau, prepared to demolish Farley if he tried to interfere. He pulled open the top drawer and ran his hands through the socks and handkerchiefs and underwear he found there. He shoved it closed and pulled open the second drawer and created disorder among some shirts.

“Here, Walter.” Farley spoke from behind him.

He swung around almost with a swagger at having succeeded so easily and found himself facing a gun. Farley was standing near the bedside table pointing it at him. The nightmare had become an impossible real-life melodrama.

“I’m not a muscle boy, but I know how to take care of myself,” Farley said. “Do you want me to call the house detective and tell him you made a pass at me and are trying to make trouble? I think you’d better go before something happens we wouldn’t want. When I develop the picture, I’ll get in touch, and we’ll have a talk.”

Walter stood without moving a muscle, trying to convince himself that somebody was actually pointing a gun at him. The only certainty was that he had to get the photograph. He didn’t think Farley would want to kill him. If he got wounded, he wouldn’t be in a worse mess than he was in already. He took a quick breath and sprang forward, expecting a bullet to rip into him at any moment and wondering what it would feel like. The shot made a sound like a cork being pulled. A shout of protest gathered in him as he prepared to feel the sting of pain, to be brought to a standstill, but his forward rush carried him on. He knocked the little gun aside with one fist and drove the other into Farley’s face. Farley toppled back onto the bed. Walter was on him, pummeling him furiously. He felt his knuckles crack as they smashed into bone.

“Not my face,” Farley cried.

“Where’s the camera, you son of a bitch,” Walter gasped. “Give me the fucking camera, or you won’t have any face.” His aching fists continued to pound flesh while his victim thrashed about under him and tried to cover his head with his arms.

“In the wastebasket,” he cried. “Under the desk.”

Walter landed a final blow and wrenched himself up and lurched to his prize, spent, shaking violently, his chest heaving. He found the camera and clawed at it with trembling fingers until he found the right knob and it sprang open. He tore at the film and ripped it out and sent it unrolling across the floor. He dropped the camera and returned to the chair where he had left his clothes.