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I DIDN’T BOTHER ENTERING my own hotel room, but instead went next door to Keane’s. He was unceremoniously hunched over the little desk never made for a man more than one and a half meters, let alone two inches over six feet. I threw myself dramatically onto the sofa and tossed an arm over my eyes.
“Brendan Keane, you are an awful, horrible man and I hate you terribly.” My companion tried to swing his long legs around to face me, but the quick motion became a slow, methodic task of extracting his knees from beneath the wooden table and stretching them out straight as he twisted his torso in my direction. His thin, silver spectacles he occasionally wore slipped along the bridge of his nose. “I hate you horribly.” I announced again, with a little more theatrical conviction than the last time, before allowing my voice to falter and fall to a whisper. “I hate you for what you have done to me. I find cigarettes are bearable: even, heaven forbid, enjoyable. Especially compared to Indian cigars.” The chuckle began as a thin wisp of understanding, growing louder as the full weight of my words settled over the room. Keane’s voice only bothered to appear when his laughter sputtered between a few short breaths.
“I don’t believe I’ve ever smoked Indian cigars.”
“And, if I have any say in it, you never will. Here,” I reached a hand into my jacket pocket and threw the package of cigarettes at Keane’s chest before laying back and dropping my hat over my face. “Take them, and may you have more luck with them than I do.” The package disappeared beneath a pile of papers etched in his handwriting as my companion stood; gradually working the knots out of his shoulders. There was the soft thud of agile footsteps blended with the rustle of those horrid first drafts. He pinched the hat from my head, glanced down at my face, and dropped it again.
“Have you eaten? Doesn’t matter, lunch or dinner. Did you have either? I thought not. Come.” I let my hat fall to the floor in time to catch Keane’s reflection in the mirror as he did up his waistcoat buttons and shrugged into an elegant, dark jacket. The simple necktie, which had been dangling from his neck, had been replaced by one infinitely more obnoxious in both color and pattern. It fairly exploded from the dark contrast of yet another new suit. Modest, but expensive. Dark, but not depressingly so. I caught the first breath of a sigh as he adjusted his lapels and did up the jacket’s bright buttons. “I shall be glad to return to my tweeds.” He announced with a final glance toward the looking glass as he cajoled me out the door.
As I had come to expect carefully chosen restaurants accentuated with fine dishes and old wine, it was rather a shock when Keane vered off the paved walkways toward a small deli. I waited outside and watched the infamous oddities of the world up until the moment my companion reemerged with a paper bag clutched in his hand. With the other set of fingers, he casually steered me toward a nearby park. The first flickers of evening had just begun to shift along the green grasses. As Keane farely knocked me onto a poor old bench, the results of our last visit to the point of imagined paradise had ended in frustration, irritation, and confusion. But that couldn’t very well happen twice. Certainly not. We were—in all eyes, save our own—two men. Two normal, ordinary men. Keane tossed the parcel onto the bench and lowered himself beside it, peeling away the paper wrappings to reveal two grand sandwiches, well off with slices of thick beef and cheese. While I tore into mine ravenously, my companion was infinitely more patient, chewing thoughtfully as though each bite was an algebraic equation to be meticulously solved. He had barely made a dent in his meal when I paused to mop my hands on the oily, white creases of the wax paper.
“How was the business meeting? Any unusual psychiatrists?”
“None.” I started a little, believing he was joking, or at least trying to coax me toward some tempting jest of fate, which might finish with some hilarious tale of a mad scholar with long, wild hair and a funny mustache.
“None?” I repeated. “Surely there was someone. Never have those conventions occurred without some exciting tale. How could there be none?” Keane glanced at his sandwich then squinted up toward the darkening sky, and I immediately knew whatever he was about to say would have little to do with the subject of psychoanalysis or dedicated intellectuals.
“Strange how easily things can be hidden, yet they are so bloody difficult to find.” I almost choked. He had not fallen from the country of conversation, nor even the continent.
He had fallen from the earth.
“What the devil do you mean by that? I’m not denying that there may be some truth in that statement, but what does that have to do with meetings and—” I stopped, catching the tilt to my companion’s long head and the glimmer as he glanced at me from the sides of those two twinkling oceans. I shut my mouth hard and, once my poor abused teeth had ceased their rattling, I opened it again; my voice slowly unfurling itself into a single, coherent sentence.
“You didn’t go to that business meeting, did you?” A cigarette appeared at his lips.
“Lawrence, would you believe I spent the better part of this afternoon within a mile of yourself.”
“You couldn’t have. I would have recognised you.” Would I? Was I able to recall every muddled face wandering about in the tobacco haze? Scars may be replicated and added just above real skin. Facial hair may be glued. Theatrics could go unnoticed.
“Not if I was a floor below you.” Keane stated simply, his voice muffling slightly as he held the cigarette in his mouth as he fished about for a pack of matches. “There is no doubt in my mind that those photographs are somewhere in that house; however, where is something I am having a bloody hard time finding.” It was difficult to imagine my companion having a ‘bloody hard time’ of anything. There had never been a failure to him. A real failure. Something that was so horrible it made me hate him. It is incredibly—damnably—hard to hate someone who makes the world a bit more logical. A bit more secure. A bit more substantial.
Beyond Keane, it was insanity.
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KEANE AND I HAD MADE plans to return to the noise and bustle of the casino late that night. As usual, this theatrical debut required another one of Keane’s new and extravagant suits to be whittled down to accommodate my smaller, and far less masculine, frame. It also meant a great deal of poorly concealed sulking from my generous comrade. I adjusted my silk necktie.
“Really, Keane, if you are going to be so intolerable about this, stop buying such expensive suits.”
“Leslie McCormic would not wear anything less than the best.” My companion declared with a villainous wave of his comb. His jacket had been laid neatly over the back of a chair, leaving him in his white shirtsleeves with black suspenders crossing his back and climbing over his shoulders. God, even those must have cost enough to feed a family of seven. The comb dove toward his head. “Devon English, however—”
“What about Devon? Wouldn’t he wear nice clothes as well?”
“A former boxer?” A rough scoff tumbled to the floor. “Surely you jest.” I finished tying up the laces to one shoe, pausing briefly to glance up at my companion’s back.
“Come now. They could be hand me downs from some well-off friend.” Keane swiveled around like an office chair, with the same grace as well oiled wheels. I couldn’t quite tell if he was smiling, or about to run me through with the jagged teeth of his comb.
“Hand me downs? My dear Lawrence, I hadn’t even gotten to wear that suit before you hauled it off to the tailor’s.”
“Good. That means no one can suspect another man is wearing your clothes. Now wouldn’t that cause a scandal?” I bent down to tie my laces, ready to be pummeled by every selection of verbal insults, or the possibility of something that carried more force. Keane, being a gentleman, would never dare hit a woman, although I was not certain how far those rules of chivalry came when applied to me. One does not create a seven year friendship with one of the opposite sex and follow all social expectations.
But he again surpassed all logical expectations when he merely shot a single, sharp ‘Ha!’ and once more leaned over the mirror to smooth the last silver wave of hair into place along his temple. He was a magnificent actor—incredibly so—but I had known him too long to miss that brief smile in the reflective glass.
To every dawn there is a sun, and to every dusk there is a star.
It had been planned that we would arrive in separate taxies; Keane first, then myself a little over thirty minutes later. Were two actors, such as it were, to enter upon a stage together; mouths agape with carefully pasted words. His name could not be tied to mine by more than a mutual acquaintance. Our paths were not to cross more than a few times; muddled together until they were of no particular importance. When I at last arrived at the casino, it did not take more than a few glances to find my companion, for I had learned that such places made dynamic masculinity obvious and cowardice the dirt of humanity. Good or bad, moralist or villain, there was a sense of impending danger among all the gamblers.
They could win or lose everything.
I didn’t bother laying any bets or catching any cards in fear of winning more money than I already had. It was a shame how much I had collected in my visits, though I suspected it was only pennies in comparison to Keane’s growing treasury. Every now and again I recognised some finely dressed man or scarcely dressed woman. I recognised them, but rarely knew their names. I didn’t care to know. The only person I had met more than a passing glance was Sam Barker, who had settled himself at one of the card tables near to the bar, but not so awfully close that a visit might gain his attention. As one of the brightly dressed staff mechanically walked passed, I gave him some polite instructions before shoving off toward the bar.
It is a pleasant thing to allow the world to shift around you without having to lift a finger to make it so. Wheels turned, cards were dealt, and money was frequently passed from hand to hand; lingering only when some fortunate chap struck a thin vein of luck before blundering it all back into the eternal abyss of odds. I ordered something strong enough to dull the pain of life, but not anywhere near the border of intoxication. That done, I moved again toward the only space of the room where there really wasn’t anything more than frustrating conversations to rattle the sanity of life. It was an ocean; thousands of fish swimming up against each other with long strings of incoherent words to tie those loose pieces of fabric into a quilt so gaudy it was repulsive. A quilt of life. A quilt of memories. And all of it beneath an eternal fear.
A fear of sharks.
It was easier to find Keane maneuvering through that crowd than it would have been for him to find me. One can always find achieved greatness, but a young fledgling clinging to success may be lost to the darkened depths of time. The only thing to set me apart from those around me was the simple fact I had no intention of becoming like them. I had not been born anything wonderful or worthy of life’s breath, but circumstances—horrid circumstances that strangled me from any hopes of a pleasant childhood—made me willing to fight until I had nothing left to believe in.
I met my companion at last and wordlessly pulled him to a slightly less claustrophobic part of the room in direct sight of the bar and card tables. It was a placement perfect in every form; however, even in perfection, there is always that daunting question to be asked.
“Keane, do you trust me?”
“Lawrence—”
“Do you?” My companion gazed down at me as a teacher whose student had asked whether the world was round. An unquestionable assurance.
“I believe you know the answer. I have always trusted you.” I knew he would say some such declaration, but it was one of the rare times in my life where reassurance was vitally necessary for those wild whips of ideas flitting through my head.
He trusted me.
He trusted me.
God, how daunting a thought to have a soul—noble and, I often believed, infallible—to rely on one’s own shoulders. It was a burden too monstrous to carry.
I jerked my thoughts into something more coherent. He trusted me. That was good. Very good. But of course, there was a test: an obstacle.
“Then I need you to hit me.” Keane’s shoulders went rigid.
“Good God, Lawrence. Are you certain?” Are you certain I should hit you? Are you certain I will not hurt you? Are you certain you have a plan? I turned my chin up a bit and pointed to my right cheekbone.
“Right here. And make it a good one, not some halfhearted fling of a mollycoddle.” My companion took a sharp indraw of breath, and for one sinful moment, I walked in the footsteps of Thomas. It was not until a crushing blow sent me hurling backwards that I believed. I had the foresight to move with his knuckles, but the hand still connected with a crack. I took my stance, fists raised and feet balanced. I had rarely lost a match in my boxing days, and those were only when I had been shoved into the ring with men three times my size (not to mention eight stone heavier). This was not quite so unequal as those other bouts had been, though I would have shuddered to challenge his tall, guard-like frame under any other circumstances. It was a dance, taking turns twisting our heads as the other’s bare fist approached, while trying to ignore the blood pouring from cuts and a sore nose. It was not until the staff peeled us apart that the fighting ceased. It took two men to drag Keane off to one side, while only one came to take me away. I suspected I would be the one thrown out onto the streets. I was a new addition to their world—practically a stranger—where Keane had ingrained himself into their lifestyle nearly a fortnight before. Of course I would be thrown out. I suspected it. I knew it.
But even Peter, having cut off Malchus’ ear, did not know it would grow back.
And yet the savior of the world was not who healed my wound.
“Let the young one stay, Jimmy.” A voice sauntered through the crowd. “It was the old man—McCormic—who took the first punch. He can come back tomorrow once he cools down.” Sam Barker appeared from the crowd and the fist at my collar immediately deteriorated into my own sweat. The salt of labor mingled intimately with the blood on my face, causing the sparse stripes of red to smear into the boisterous shouts of murder. A handkerchief—reeking of common perfumes, watered down for economic purposes—was shoved into my hands, along with the instructions to wipe my nose. (So that was where the blood was coming from.) Another gruff voice declared that I looked like shit. I was not inclined to disagree.
Sam pulled me along to the bar and ordered something that was infinitely stronger than I would have chosen myself. I poured a good dose of the vodka down my throat, coughed, and finished the drink, having learned the good of it.
“Alright?” He asked. I nodded and smacked the drained glass onto the counter. The sudden thrash of noise shook the pain tingling at the base of my skull. I was in no condition to embark upon a conversation that must be created upon carefully planned falsehood after falsehood. Sam Barker; however, was uncomfortably eager to open the gates and let the horses run rampant through my brain.
“That was quite a fight. What about?”
“I don’t see it is any of your business what happens between that son of a bitch backstabber and me.” It was a careful blend of anger and curses. So perfectly mated it caused my stomach to lurch. The man in front of me ran a finger along the rim of my glass.
“You forget, I could have you thrown out of here on your ass.”
“You? I thought Mickey owned this place. You know, that you only work for him sort of thing.” Sam Barker shot up indignantly.
“I don’t work for anybody if I don’t want to. Just like you ain’t working for that other guy you hang around with.”
“Me? Work for that bastard? Not on your life.”
“See. I’d bet you are fuck’n furious for showing you up in front of all the men around here. Well, ain't’ ya?” What was it with American’s and that dreaded contraction that ought to have been thrown the instant of its creation? I ordered something weaker from the bartender. I would need it.
“You have no idea.”
“And you want to get back at him. Right?”
“O’course I do.” Henry Higgins would have washed my mouth with soap, but the man leaning mere inches from me appeared to be drinking every word of my Americanisms with a daunting vigor.
“Then, tell me what the fight was about. C’mon. He had to have done something.”
“Something my aunt fanny.” I choked out. “He told me he wouldn’t pay for . . . for my part of our little business arrangement, even though I’ve been the one risking my neck for our customers. Owes me half a hundred thousand, and says I’m not seeing a lick of it.” The mention of such a large sum of money meant nothing to the wealthy young man. No, his attention wavered on only a single word.
“Business? What kind of business?”
“The kind the rich can afford, the poor despise, and the soldiers need; Hydrocodine, cocaine, opium, and . . . other things.” I had seen the devil countless times throughout my years on this earth, but they might have all been the angelic Lucifer in comparison. Gone was the carefree Sam Barker I had met at the edge of a clear, rinkling swimming pool. Gone was the conviction he did not work. All of it—the entire American dream of idle glory and glamour—had dissipated into dust equivalently worthless and common as pyrite. There was nothing special anymore about his relaxed demeanour, his countless wealth that steadily grew, or even the house he kept well populated with the figures as popular with society as they were with police records.
Sam leaned forward, his dark hair spiking ever so slightly at the temples to the point they might have been confused for horns.
“Do you have any photographs?” I shrugged, pushing the man’s serpentine resemblance far out of my mind’s invasive reach.
“No. No, I don’t. But I could make some—photos, that is—and bring them to you here. Or at your house.”
“Do that. Who knows,” He grabbed the glass half filled before me and threw the entire thing back with no loss of conviction to its mercies.
I will drink, and right freely, just because you tell me not to.
“And who knows,” He began again. “We might get your money out of that old Leslie McCormic after all.”