P'town Murders: A Bradford Fairfax Murder Mystery (10 page)

Mr. Sebastian O'Shaughnessy arrived late to dinner. He hadn't been trying to make an entrance, despite the gold-trimmed vermilion robe. And, as it turned out, none was made. Not in this circle that had been, done, seen, sniffed, tasted, rimmed, flambéed, and casseroled everything it possibly could.

There was no
nouveau
here, no
entrée
or
ingénue.
But for all its worldliness, it wasn't so much jaded as pale, flat, and stale. It was bread without yeast, diamonds without sparkle, the Supremes without Diana. Worse, it was a surfeit of experience without imagination. And imagination, as Oscar Wilde knew, was the magic ingredient that could turn an eggs-and-bacon sort of life into a scrumptious soufflé of an existence.

Brad lit a cigarette and sat at the end of a long table alongside a dozen other guests, all wearing similar dressing gowns. At the far end, a rugged Marlborough man dominated the room. Silver hair framed his tanned face, the lines of which made him appear powerful rather than aged. This, Brad presumed, was their host, Hayden Rosengarten.

Two guards flanked him. On his left stood a stunning Nubian, mirrored by a spectacular specimen with almond eyes and golden skin standing to his right. The pair made attractive bookends.

The man next to Brad turned and introduced himself as Ted Palaver, a Chicago stockbroker.

"Sebastian O'Shaughnessy," said Bradford, as they shook. "I'm a forensic accountant."

"Oh, very good!" said Ted, staring deeply into Brad's eyes. "I just made half a million this morning. Perhaps you could tell me where to hide it."

Ted stroked Brad's palm. "You have lovely hands," he said. "And no nicotine stains. You must be a careful smoker."

"Very careful," Brad answered, suddenly worried about his cover.

He caught a world-weary gaze across from him. At first glance, the man appeared to be nearing sixty. On closer inspection, he looked considerably younger.

"Sebastian O'Shaughnessy," Brad said, reaching across the table.

"Enchanté," replied a voice that combined the cultivation of Noel Coward with the hopelessness of Kurt Cobain.

He declined to shake. Brad withdrew his hand. The man mumbled something that suggested he was a singer. He was definitely a diva, but his ennui defied any attempt to imagine him on stage, except perhaps as the aging Sarastro in
The Magic Flute.
Brad concluded that he was a culture queen, the most meticulous of queens to converse with. He'd have to trot out the Proust and sprinkle his conversation liberally with references to Arvo Part and the Kronos Quartet.

A door opened and a familiar face entered the room. Flashing a brilliant smile, the man took his place at the table. Is that who I
think
it is? Brad wondered. He was certainly short. Brad looked again. It's
him!
he realized with a start. He was in the presence of Hollywood royalty!

Various film roles in which this man portrayed a pool shark, helicopter pilot, samurai warrior, an everyday dad and even, once, a rabbit, flashed before Brad's eyes. And here he was now, taking on the role of gay sybarite. The rumors were true!

All those cretinous tabloid accusations of tell-all hustlers and betrayals by the dumbfounded ex-wife were based on fact! How many times had he seen this man on daytime talk shows, uttering nonsense about his ongoing belief in the Easter Bunny and other inane, non-threatening remarks. Oprah had treated him like an Elmo doll. He'd made bland seem like a respectable choice.

Of course!
Nobody could be that colorless unless he had something to hide. For the world to know this man was gay would rend the heart of America's Disneyfied conception of itself. He was an icon, an archetype! He was the fantasized purity of America itself. And he was a lie! Then again, Brad reminded himself, just because a man had a wife and kids he could prove were his with a quick DNA test didn't make him straight. Anybody could afford a marriage license and a turkey baster these days.

Off to Brad's left, someone yawned. The actor's entrance had hardly registered. To the world he might be a megastar and a hetero hunk, but to the lot in this room he was just an overrated Muppet.

Brad looked at the men around him. From their conversations he knew they counted among them a cattle baron, the CEO of a multinational IT corporation, and a Nobel Prize-winning physicist. And to his shock, he'd also recognized Gifford Freeman, a garrulous Texan senator renowned for his vitriolic and very anti-gay public stance. To Brad he'd always seemed the epitome of double standards and sleazy politics. He'd just had those feelings confirmed. And, just as they'd accepted the presence of the star, no one in the room seemed the least bit surprised or outraged to find this political chameleon in their midst, either.

The room embodied a wealth of power, prestige, and influence. Yet for all that, the gathering was tawdry and sad. The men with power seemed lonely, the ones with prestige looked insecure, and those who had it all were the worst of the lot, acting bored and dejected as though life's promise had failed them.

These men, Brad knew, were the real power brokers in the room. The others—the
famous
others, like the megastar seated down the table from him—were mere actors and entertainers. Though their names carried the weight of legends, they were of little interest to the power elite.

What intrigued Brad most was how each of these men had risked something by being there—if not their families, then their careers and reputations. Their lives were a grand illusion perpetrated before the public's blind eye, with a history of closeted behavior reaching back as far as King David's passionate love for his 'friend' Jonathan.

So many gays had struggled to be what they were: men who could have sex with other men, and look themselves in the mirror the next morning knowing they weren't immoral or damned, but simply actors in the Theaters of Carnality and Love. Yet the men in this room cowered from the real world, thrashing about in gilded cages that separated their public selves from their private desires. It wasn't enough to have the bird in the cage, Brad knew.
The bird needed to soar!
That was something Ross had taught him.

Brad glanced over the elegant spread. A voluptuous floral arrangement grouped an impressive variety of orchids, ranging from the tiniest fingernail-sized blooms to others as big as a fist. Similarly, the wine boasted labels so exclusive they weren't even listed in most sommelier guides. The half-finished
Cos d'Estournel
sitting before him must have cost at least four or five hundred dollars. A French superstar of wines, it was the Bordeaux equivalent of the celebrity seated just down the table. Brad had been curious about both for years. At least the bottle would be available for sampling.

The food, too, was as extraordinary as it was delicious. A warm bear liver salad was accompanied by a succulent emu pate, though he passed when it came to monkey brains
a l'orange.

The evening's entrée, wild boar stuffed with Asian truffles, was carried out by a bevy of spectacular servers clad only in aprons. Conversation stalled each time they made an entrance, and seemed unable to revive till they left the room again. Perhaps that was what all the exorbitant prices were about, Bradford mused: this conspicuously decadent consumption and these overprivileged men playing at being bad boys.

He found himself stealing glances across the table to Hayden Rosengarten,
auteur
of this risqué engagement. Their host sat smoking a cigar and chatting with his guests. Brad was drawn to the man's forcible presence and the steel-blue eyes that quietly took in everything around him. What exactly, he wondered, could there be to fear from this man?

The team of muscled servers entered yet again, bearing gleaming trays of oysters on the half shell. As one overeager Adonis passed, he stumbled and nearly crashed into the table. With a snarl, their host plunged his burning cigar into the boy's bare chest, pushing him aside with a single action.

"Clumsy oaf!" he bellowed.

"My fault, sir!" the boy mumbled, terrified, as he hurriedly retrieved his tray and ran from the room.

None of the guests seemed startled by the incident. Clearly this wasn't unusual behavior in their social circle.

"Useless servants," Rosengarten griped. "What do I pay these people for?"

"Careful, Hayden," the senator warned, "or they'll be calling you a Republican."

"I've been called worse."

"What's that—a Democrat?"

"You're all the same to me," Hayden snarled. "The bottom line for everyone in this room is power, one way or the other."

Here, Brad saw, was a man clearly unafraid of the wealth and influence surrounding him. His curiosity was beginning to get the better of him. Ross had worked right here during the final months of his life. What part had he taken in this Roman Circus? Had Hayden Rosengarten ever burned him with a cigar?

Money and fame might distinguish the men in this room from the rest of the world, but it didn't make them interesting or principled. It was a gala of the unglad, hosted by the ungracious, for the undeserving.

When the meal was over, the apron-clad beefcakes returned with a variety of chemical substances on trays. The old-looking young man across from Bradford helped himself to three different powders.

"You might want to be more cautious about mixing those," Brad suggested.

The man turned his gaze toward Brad and blinked. His pupils were so dilated the irises seemed to have disappeared. He waved a cigarette in Bradford's direction, as though it were an extension of his arm for making public pronouncements.

"They way I see it," he drawled, "I'll either die happy or have a really good time trying."

He bent to take another snort. His name hadn't rung any bells when he'd introduced himself earlier, and for the life of him Brad couldn't remember it now.

Brad felt a foot steal into his crotch for the second time that day. He looked up to see the old-young man leering across the table. He appeared to be on the verge of a drug-induced coma. How'd you ever get so lost? Brad wondered, feeling like a world-weary mother.

A tray passed before Brad. Beside the lines of noxious substances sat a small dish of groundnut toffee for those who preferred sweet to the savory. Food, sex, drugs—there seemed to be something for every taste. Just how far would the Ice House go to satisfy its guests' desires? Could 'murder most foul' be on an unwritten list of diversions available for a price?

His thoughts were interrupted by his host.

"What's your pleasure, Mr. O'Shaughnessy?" he heard Rosengarten ask.

To know yours, Brad thought.

A smile played over Rosengarten's lips. His eyebrows arched like an eagle waiting to swoop down on an unsuspecting rabbit.

"I trust we can provide whatever you require in the way of pleasure this evening," his host stated.

"I'd rather hold off for a bit," Brad replied, squirming as the singer's foot meandered over his crotch. "I'm planning on making it through till the wee hours."

"Just like an accountant, harboring even time itself," Hayden said. "Perhaps you'd prefer a more mundane indulgence to start?"

He indicated one of the servers, turning the boy abruptly by the elbow and running a hand over his globelike buttocks.

"This delightful flower is named Athens."

"He's practically an Acropolis in his own right," Brad said.

"If he doesn't meet your fancy, we have more than a dozen others."

Brad's eyes moved to the almond-eyed bodyguard in the doorway.

Hayden followed his gaze. "His name is Johnny K., and I can tell you that his penis is legendary. In fact, I believe he has your name tattooed on it."

There were guffaws around the room. Brad managed a smile. "Sounds tantalizing," he replied, "considering the length of my name."

"He's yours for the asking," his host said. "All you have to do is say what pleases you."

"And what if what pleases me most is you, Mr. Rosengarten?"

The smile froze on his host's face. "Ah! Sadly, I would have to disappoint you. Though I thank you for the compliment."

A clock chimed midnight. A curtain parted and the specter of Marilyn Monroe wavered before them. It was Cinder, of course, but judging by how little interest she stirred up, even the return of the real Marilyn would have created less than a ripple of curiosity with that crowd.

The platinum bombshell shimmied through the room in a torrid rendition of "Heat Wave," fastening herself to Senator Freeman, perhaps the closest thing to a Kennedy she could find. She notched up the temperature with "Fever," wafting feathers and dripping diamonds. Not once in his routine did Cinder betray a hint that he'd noticed Brad among the guests.

Despite the bravura performance, the act ended to tepid applause. Her momentary reprise from purgatory over, Marilyn withdrew like the ghost of Hamlet's father at the cock's crowing.

The curtains reopened on another resurrected legend, this one a rugged '80s porn star dressed in a Roman toga. Bradford could recall any number of trenchant performances the man and his famed appendage had given in their prime. His favorite was
Flesh Gordon.
While time had done little to diminish the star's awesome physique, the drugs he'd imbibed over a lifetime of devotion to his art seemed to have done noticeable cranial damage.

The oversized cretin appeared to have no idea where he was or what he was supposed to be doing until a wisp of a youngster appeared beside him. The boy lifted the giant's robe, exposing his legendary member to a round of applause. This part of him, too, Brad noted, had sadly been affected by the drugs and seemed equally ignorant of its purpose before them that evening.

The young man became absorbed in his quest to waken the sleeping giant. Eventually, he was able to inspire a respectable erection on the aging star, eliciting gasps from several of the men at the table. Aroused, it seemed, the beast was still truly formidable.

A small cheer rose from the crowd. The boy smiled as though he'd managed a great feat, but the greater was yet to come. The star, finally seeming to grasp why he was there, grabbed the boy, who squirmed and let out a scream. The giant slapped a hand over his mouth and began his assault on the young man's sphincter.