LUCA

Haze looked terrible. His breath was foul, his mood worse. He’d grown even thinner.

“Why don’t you and Martin take off somewhere for a couple of weeks,” Luca told him. “St. Barthes, or Mustique. Lie in the sun, swim, relax.”

“Why would I want to go anywhere with that broken-down old queen? I should have ditched him years ago.”

Luca couldn’t understand why Martin, who from everything he had heard was a kind, decent man, hadn’t ditched him years ago. Luca would have ditched him if it weren’t for the money. He had become accustomed to flying first class, staying in luxury hotels, eating in the best restaurants. It was such a peculiar arrangement, because Haze never touched him, and, recently, even the sexual marathons he once loved to watch no longer interested him.

They were in a suite at the Westin in Dallas. It was the first night of the 1989 tour. Haze had been too ill to perform. One of the other dancers had to fill in for him. Luca had hailed a cab to get him back to their room. He ordered room service. Haze’s food was untouched. They watched a pay-per-view movie and went to sleep. The next morning Haze couldn’t get out of bed.

“This is Suite 2231. I need a doctor and an ambulance,” Luca told the desk clerk. He hung up before she could respond.

He was already dressed. He had his wallet, his keys, and Haze’s credit cards. His bag was packed, and sitting by the door. Haze lay on the bed sweating and shivering, his eyes tightly closed.

“Someone’s coming,” Luca told him. “Someone should be here soon,” he whispered, as he tucked the sheet around him.

He’d tried to cover him with a blanket. Haze kept kicking it off. Luca dropped the room key on the table by the window. It was an overcast day, hazy and—he assumed—hot and humid. Dallas was always miserable that time of the year. The troupe had danced there before. He was going to miss the travel, the camaraderie of the dancers, who had been respectful. They all had Haze horror stories to tell, too.

He checked the bathroom one more time to make sure he hadn’t left anything behind. Then, without looking back at the man in the bed, he grabbed his bag and left.

He’d booked his plane ticket the night before. It was waiting for him at the airport. The flight would take him back to San Francisco, back to hustling. If not that, what?

He had time to kill. He didn’t want to wait at the airport, so he wandered around downtown, looking for a place to eat. He spotted an outdoor café next door to a furniture store. In the window was a chair with exaggerated wings and stainless steel stiletto legs; it was upholstered in thick red fabric. When he pushed on the glass door it swung inward and a bell jangled. The shop girl, health-club fit in a tight black dress, walked from the back of the store to greet him.

“I’d like to see how it sits,” he told her and pointed at the chair in the window. She looked him over. His jeans were tight and pressed. His T-shirt was bright white. The watch on his wrist was a gold Rolex. The bag slung over his shoulder was Louis Vuitton.

“Have a seat,” she said.

He stepped up into the window and sat down.

The chair swallowed him up. The fabric was velvety.

“I’ll take it if you can arrange to ship it to San Francisco.”

“No problem,” she said, and gave him an if-you-want-to-fuck-me-you-can look.

He used Haze’s MasterCard. He figured the chair was hideously expensive. He wasn’t sure exactly how expensive; he didn’t find out until weeks later, when Martin Harold was grappling with taking care of Haze, untangling his financial affairs. Martin found the bill and paid it. In the envelope was a copy of the shipping instructions, to Luca’s name and address in San Francisco. There was also a telephone number. It was another week before Martin broke down and called him.