The Lure (18 page)

“I’m Eric,” the newcomer said to Noel, without a hint of friendliness in his voice. His eyes weren’t black as Noel had first thought, but a deep blue, almost purple, in this lighting. Strange eyes.

Noel said his name and both men sat back and sized each other up.

“I hear you’re doing real well at the Grip,” Cal Goldberg suddenly said. It took Noel a second to realize the question was directed at him. It was casually said. Too casual? Noel didn’t know whether he or the business was meant by the comment. Whether it was a pleasantry or a challenge.

“It’s a steady crowd,” he admitted.

“I heard it’s really gotten hot lately.”

“A little. Of course it’s nothing like the Wall.”

What were Eric and Alana doing at what Rick had called a company dinner? Everyone else here was obviously allied with the company. Were they? Where was Rick? Still on the phone? And Dorrance. “Marge” had said everyone was here. Did that mean Dorrance wasn’t going to show up?

“They pack ’em in all right,” Geoff was saying of the Window Wall. “What was your crowd last week? Two thousand?”

“Fifteen hundred,” Cal said. “We limit.”

Was Clouds not doing as well as the downtown club? Noel wondered. Or was this the usual internecine banter?

Every time he looked across the table, he saw Eric staring back. Once when Noel met his eyes, the other held his gaze for a long time before saying something to Alana too low for Noel to catch. It made him even more unsettled, but he had to control his annoyance, he had to. Not that he expected to be assassinated before dinner. Mr. X was too slick to do anything as stupid as that even with good cause. But because everyone in the room was a potential informer.

Rick suddenly appeared, in surprisingly good spirits. He’d probably had an argument with Jimmy. Rick was always in a better mood after a good fight.

Chaffee became the focal point of the room as he and then Cal and Burt, then Tim and Geoff and Hal, too, talked about the complexities of opening a club.

They shared experiences in hiring help, setting up schedules, dealing with construction crews, commiserating over plumbers and electricians, the inadequacies of DJs and lighting engineers.

Still no sign of Dorrance. If he didn’t show up, Noel’s nerves tonight would have been for nothing. Loomis would be philosophical. But the contact would still not be made. Noel knew how important it was that it be made—by him.

Eric seemed impatient, as though he, too, were waiting for Dorrance. Alana listened, refilled hers and Eric’s wineglasses, lighted joints of grass to pass around, and generally acted as hostess.

When she spoke, the low-toned, accented, rippling voice sent shivers through Noel. “Tell me, Rick. You are going to make this new club raunchy, like Le Pissoir?”

“Worse,” he said.

“Far worse,” a few of the others put in enthusiastically.

“If that is so, it will be very exciting,” she replied, her lovely dark eyes lighting up with mischief. “It will become very popular with the beau monde. If you want I will make certain they come. Claude. Dee Dee. Azia. Women will be allowed, yes?”

“You’re always welcome, Alana,” Rick said. “But except for special events, it will be only guys.”

“Why don’t you send a few of those numbers you’re always posing with?” Tim asked. “You know who I mean.”

“Oh, they will never come,” she declared. “They are all so uptight.”

“Some of them might,” Eric said. “Sometimes the prettier they are, the more they like to have their faces pushed in shit, no?”

There was no doubt the question was directed at Noel, a personal insult. He knew why, too, as a putdown in front of Alana. Nothing more. What had Miguel called Eric? One of the hottest sadists in the city? That might be so, but not at Noel’s expense. And not in front of Alana, either. Besides, all this might just be one of Mr. X’s tests for Noel. More than likely Eric was just a hanger-on of the group—tolerated for whatever reason. If Noel were to have any respect from the others in the future, he’d have to do something.

No one else said anything for a short, embarrassed time. Noel took up the challenge. “I understand you’re really into that scene?”

“You?”

“I don’t believe in one bag. Too limiting. Keeps the lid on personal growth and consciousness, no?”

He saw Alana’s hand go to Eric’s thigh, as if to restrain him. But Eric smiled as he answered. “I forgot you Californians are really into all that high consciousness crap.”

“It’s a lot easier to clean up than the other kind.”

“Not always. Your problem is you haven’t found anyone good enough to show the other side of sex, little buddy. If I thought you had half a mind, I might be persuaded to give you a lesson.”

The tension in the room was thick as smog.

Alana frowned, the others didn’t move, didn’t say a word Eric was plainly enjoying the exchange. And Noel—though he was beginning to feel he might have underestimated Eric’s status in the group—wasn’t complaining either. It was a relief from all that laid-back business he’d walked into, filled with possible snipping and digs he might not be aware of. A release, too, from the jitters. Besides, sadist or not, Eric was just another faggot. Noel wasn’t afraid of him. He couldn’t afford to be now.

“Somehow,” Noel said, deliberately slowly, “I seriously doubt that you could show me anything worth my time.”

“If a lady weren’t present, I’d give you a taste.”

“I wouldn’t think a small inconvenience like that would bother you,” Noel shot back.

“Eric,” Alana said in a small voice, “please. Stop.”

“Why? He loves it,” Eric said, eyeing Noel. “It’s probably the only way he can get off. Or can you get off anymore?”

“Not on you, I can’t.” Noel reached for his glass of wine.

Eric’s hand lashed out, grabbed Noel’s before he reached the glass, jerked it toward his mouth. Noel followed, pulled out of his seat and half across the table before he realized what was happening. The wine spilled, the glass rolled onto the carpet.

Without a word, Eric pulled Noel’s hand closer. Noel was balanced now and pulled back, a test of strength so wrenching that Noel lost. Eric put the thumb inside his mouth.

“Hey! Come on, you guys!” Tim said. Everyone sat up. Alana was crouching away from them.

Eric’s grip was like steel. He took the thumb out of his mouth long enough to say, “Sit down, ‘Marge’!” then hunkered down on the other end of the coffee table and inserted Noel’s thumb again, this time lightly biting its edges.

For an instant Noel was certain from the crazy glitter in Eric’s eyes that he would bite it off. Instead, Eric took the thumb out again, looked at it, and with exaggerated relish began to suck on it as though it were a piece of candy. His eyes narrowed to slits, staring level across the table at Noel. Then Eric closed his eyes and released his grip. Noel slowly withdrew his thumb.

“Jesus!” Rick said next to him, but somehow miles away. “That was hot!”

Eric sat back on the sofa and laughed.

It was a few seconds more before Noel realized his hand was free. His heart thumped like a bongo drum. He stood up and fell back onto the sofa.

“Oooh eee,” “Marge” said, slapping his thigh. “That was sexy!”

All of them were suddenly laughing and chatting.

Alana gave Noel a napkin. He must have looked as baffled as he felt, because she began to wrap it around his thumb.

“I’m not hurt.”

That made Eric laugh again.

“Wipe it,” she commanded.

Noel did, still trying to figure out what had happened, why he felt so drained.

“I told you I’d give you a taste,” Eric said, standing up. “You’ll be back for more.”

He pulled Alana up to him.

“You can see how much I enjoyed it,” Eric said, holding the obvious erection through his pants. “How about you, little buddy?”

When Noel didn’t answer, Eric took Alana’s hand and held it there.

“I’m bored,” he said, wrapping his arms around her, forcing her closer. “Let’s go fuck.”

She didn’t protest. Noel knew it was all show, for him.

There was a tinkling from above.

“Dinner is served.”

Noel looked up. The servant was on the balcony, a sliding panel opened behind him to the dining room.

“Where’s Dorrance?” Geoff asked.

“He’ll be here in a minute,” Eric said. He and Alana were dancing a slow arching tango. Her head was thrown back, her liquid laughter entwining them.

“You coming up?” Rick asked Noel.

Something indefinable had happened; Noel wanted to puzzle it out longer. But he followed the others. At the top of the stairs, he heard Alana’s voice saying softly from the living room, “Thank you, darling.”

“What for?” Eric asked.

“For not being cruel.”

“Don’t be stupid,” Eric said tonelessly, without rancor. “Let’s go eat.”

Dorrance wasn’t in the dining room.

They seated themselves haphazardly around the large, circular, white-topped table, leaving two seats empty, one next to Eric and one next to Alana. She was playing hostess, easy, almost childlike, in her element. Eric was quiet, brooding again. Noel wondered what Alana’s relationship to Dorrance was. What it was to Eric. His mistress? His nursemaid? His plaything? What was Eric to Dorrance? Could he have been in that warehouse, keeping the cigarette lighter flame high? Or had he slashed at Kansas? If the past five minutes were any indication, that role would fit Eric’s taste. Noel’s right thumb still felt odd, as though some subtle venom was in Eric’s saliva.

“I chose the wines tonight,” Alana declared. “This one, for the appetizer, is from California. If I didn’t tell, you would never guess.”

Conversation centered on the decor of this room. Only Cal and his lover had been there before.

It was the most unusual dining room Noel had ever been in, a half circle, cantilevered over the terrace and glass enclosed. A circular skylight five feet in diameter had been cut into the ceiling.

On a clear night like tonight, one could look up and see the constellations. Pale, diaphanous curtains uncovered enough glass to show trees swaying slightly close by. Serving bars had been built in. The table was built in, too, its center a two-foot hollow containing chromium hot plates and food warmers. There were deep, firm-cushioned armchairs, fine bone china, and more silver utensils than Noel could imagine would be needed for one meal, all bathed in pale amber from recessed lights on the ceiling and under the edge of the table.

Dorrance’s taste? Or Alana’s? Everyone seemed to be giving her the credit.

“You’re French, Alana,” Tim began a question, “how do you find the Parisian discotheques?”

“She’s Belgian,” Eric corrected: his first words since they had sat down.

“They are not like here, Tim,” she said, pronouncing his name “Teem.”

“They are all so chic. Everyone is afraid to move too fast, afraid they will blur when a photograph is taken. They are not funky at all.”

Dorrance had just stepped onto the balcony.

“There you are,” Alana said. “We were waiting.”

“You needn’t have,” he said in a thin, reedy voice.

Behind him was a large, very handsome young man wearing the usual macho gay getup: vest, plaid shirt, faded denims. Neither he nor Dorrance seemed in a good mood. The young man was introduced to Noel as Randy Nerone, manager of Le Pissoir. He looked especially white-faced, tense, as though they had just completed, to neither’s satisfaction, an intense altercation.

Dorrance sat between Alana and Tim. The only other empty seat was between Eric and Geoff. Hesitating, Randy took that one.

Dorrance was in his fifties, slender with a fine-boned New England face. His silver hair was cropped close to his head, his temples indented, as though crushed by a pair of giant pincers. His eyes were large, a watercolor blue, his lips thin. He was evidently concerned about his appearance. Dressed in an openneck fine sports shirt, seersucker jacket, and dark trousers, he gave the immediate impression of a Catholic priest out of uniform: a cool, even-tempered demeanor, slightly world-weary, possibly cynical and witty.

The pale blue eyes surveyed the table and came to rest on Noel.

“You’re the new one. Neal, is it?”

“Noel. Noel Cummings. I’m helping Rick.”

“That’s right. Doing rather well, too. Keep it up. Geoff. Tim. Burt, Cal. I see every nook and cranny are represented tonight. Nice to see you all under one roof and not in any apparent mischief.” He took Alana’s hand. “Thank you. This was a good idea, all of us together.”

And that was all. Not five words more of conversation throughout the remaining five courses of dinner, and those only to ask for the salt or how someone was enjoying some dish.

Business was casually done—Rick’s problems at the new club, minor annoynaces at Clouds or Window Wall. Not a word more to Noel.

Despite his disappointment, Noel observed Dorrance, trying to understand him without benefit of intimacy. Not a hint, not a clue to his personality or methods of operation.