When I come to, I’m in the car, and it’s moving. Outside I see neon lights, but my vision is blurry. I don’t think I’ve been out for more than a few minutes. I blink and look around the rest of the car. I’m lying on the floor in what I think is a limo, or at least is a big enough car I can lie on the floor and the man sitting in front of me doesn’t have his feet on me, though the toes of his black oxfords are banging against my knee with every bump. I look up, there’s a screen between here and the driver. I can’t see him. I don’t know if he could hear me, but he probably saw me getting shoved in the back, so calling for help won’t do much.
“Ah, you’re awake. Sorry about that, didn’t mean to be so rough,” the man says with a chuckle. I look up at him. He’s big, tall; massive really, with broad shoulders crammed into a dark suit—I can’t tell in this light if it’s black, gray, or navy. White shirt, dark tie. Very well put together. Too put together to just be the muscle for someone else, even if he’s got enough of it.
He’s smoking, a window rolled down slightly to let the smoke escape. He looks down at me, and his face is surprisingly gentle for a man who just knocked me out and threw me in the back of a car.
I sit up. My hands aren’t tied, so I rub the back of my head where I got smacked. No blood.
“If you didn’t mean to be so rough, what did you mean?” I ask.
“Honestly, I was just going to shove you in here with me, but … old habits.” He shrugs. “Instincts took over. I’ve thrown a lot of men into the back seat of cars, if I’m being honest.” He chuckles again. It’s a sound that would be sweet under different circumstances. It’s got the low depth of molasses. “I don’t mean that romantically,” he says. “Though…” He shrugs again, and inhales on his cigarette. He focuses his eyes on me, and we roll by a white neon sign that shines on him like a spotlight for a moment. Clean-shaven, green eyes, fifties, with some gray in his hair, and very handsome.
“I really am sorry,” he says. “I mean for this to be polite.”
“All right,” I say. “I’m not sure all is forgiven, but why don’t you tell me, politely, what you want.”
“Oh, I thought you knew,” he says, with a big smile. “I wanted to give you the opportunity to give me my pictures back.”
I rub the back of my head again. I don’t know this guy from the photos I found in the locker. “Pictures?” I ask.
“I heard you were giving them back tonight, and then you put on quite a show, lighting some film on fire at Shelly’s. I can’t go to Shelly’s, of course, but I have people who do, who tell me things.”
“Why do they do that?”
He chuckles again. “So, I assume you have them all, and you’re giving them back to everyone. A good Samaritan. You don’t see it every day. I admire it, Mr. Mills. Truly. I already went through your briefcase. You don’t have the photos on you, so should I take you back to the Ruby? I can’t go in with you, but I can wait out here while you bring them down.”
I shake my head. “I don’t have your pictures.”
We pass under another neon light just as his expression flickers, so fast I’m not sure if it’s real or the lights and my head. It’s like he goes from pleasant, affable, to something much more dangerous, like one of those elegant housecats when he suddenly tears the head off a bird.
“How did you come across the other photos you returned today?”
“I was working a case, stumbled on them.”
“They were all photos of Danny Geller with various men, correct?”
“How would you know that?” I ask.
“I’ve been doing my own little investigation. Not nearly as successful as yours, though. I didn’t find anything.”
“Who are you?” I ask.
He leans forward a little. “I’m someone who’d like his pictures back,” he says. “Now, do you have them? Or have you not looked at all the photos you recovered? If so, you can go up to your office at the Ruby and find mine, and everything will be just swell.”
“I’ve seen all the photos. I’ve returned them all. You weren’t in them.”
His face goes dangerous again, and this time I know it’s not a trick of the light. He reaches out, and slaps me, hard, across the face, so fast I can’t stop him.
He sighs and shakes his head. “I really did want to keep this polite.”
My hand raises to my face, rubbing at the red mark he certainly left there. “Did you?” I ask.
“I did. I just wanted you to give me my photos. I know Danny took them. I know you have Danny’s photos. Therefore, you must have my photo. I’m not sure why you’d keep it from me when you’re giving the others back. But if you killed Danny for his photos—and I don’t mind that, we’ve all had to kill at some point—and you plan on using them on me the same way, I’ll tell you what I told him: I can’t be blackmailed. If you try, it won’t end well for you.”
He says it so matter-of-fact that my throat goes dry.
“Then why are you so keen to get them back?”
“You misunderstand me. You can try to blackmail me. But anyone you sent those photos to, even if you knew where to send them—I could intercept them. The only thing I’m trying to prevent is the exertion it would take me. And of course, if you tried, I’d find you, and I’d make sure you stopped. But that’s the annoying way. So much energy spent by both of us, for nothing. You’re already giving back the photos, Andy. Just keep doing that. For me.”
“I’m really sorry,” I say, trying to sound as genuine as I am. “I don’t have your photos.”
This time, when he reaches out, his hand is closed. I raise my own hands to stop him, but he’s fast and I’m still woozy. His fist hits me like a brick in the face, knocking my teeth back over my tongue.
“Don’t you dare spit your blood in this car,” he says. He hands me a plain handkerchief, and I wipe my face with it, then spit the blood in my mouth into it. It smells slightly of lemons and oranges, faint memories of cologne.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I really just don’t—”
He hits me with a backhand this time. I taste blood again, and now I’m angry enough to try fighting back, to lunge at him, but he catches me around the throat with his other hand, dropping the cigarette out the window and pinning me to the floor in one movement, his face going angry again, twisted. He seems to feel it, though, and it settles back into a polite smile.
“I understand why you want to fight back,” he says, squeezing my throat enough I start wheezing. “But this would be much easier if you just stopped lying.”
“But I’m not,” I say, though my throat is so tight now that the words come out of it like knives. “I didn’t kill Danny.” I wonder if this is the man who killed Donna, asking her about her brother, trying to find him.
He uses his free hand to punch my side now, harder than he did my face.
“Mr. Mills, that’s not an acceptable answer. If you don’t have my photos, then who does? Who did you give them to?”
“I’ve never seen them,” I say.
He punches the other side. My body feels hot, already swelling up, and I can’t get enough air.
“Mr. Mills, do you see where this is going? Again, where are my photos?”
I stare at him, his face so passive, still wearing that polite smile, as he crouches over me, cutting off my air.
“I’ll get them,” I say, to buy myself some time. At least I’ll be alive. And maybe I can find them.
His grip releases and he sits back in the seat. “Good.”
“It’ll take me a few days,” I say.
He raises an eyebrow, then takes out a cigarette case. He offers me one, but I shake my head, touching my mouth where he split my lip.
“Four days,” he says, lighting his cigarette and putting the case away. “I’ll be in this car, outside the Ruby, in four days, at midnight exactly. You will come downstairs and hand me the envelope with the photos through the window. You’ll wait as I confirm that the film is with them, and then my car will drive away. Then we’ll be done. If you ever see me again, you’ll pretend you don’t know me. Which is a shame, because under different circumstances, I think we could have had some good times. You’re an attractive man, Mr. Mills.” He pauses and looks at me. “Or you were before you insisted on lying.”
The handkerchief he gave me is on the floor where I dropped it when he strangled me. He leans forward and picks it up and offers it to me. “If you fail to do any of these things, I will find you, and kill you, and then I’ll destroy whatever is in my way to find the photos. That would start with the Ruby, of course, as I assume that’s where you’ve hidden them. I’ll burn the whole building down.”
I swallow, thinking of Elsie, Gene, Lee, everyone in the building who dances and laughs.
“I’ll get them,” I say, wiping my face again with the handkerchief.
“Excellent,” he says. He leans forward and knocks on the panel between us and the driver, then gazes out the window. “It’s a lovely night, isn’t it? I love when it’s so late everyone has gone to bed, even the revelers. When the neon is the only sound.”
I glance at my watch—it’s late. Past midnight. I must have been out longer than I thought. And he was just driving around, smoking and taking in the scenery as I lay at his feet, unconscious.
“What’s your name, anyway?” I ask, blotting my lip with the handkerchief again, smelling the way the lemon of the cologne mixes with the iron of my blood.
“No, no, Mr. Mills. I’m not foolish. If you want, you can call me Jonathan, though that isn’t my name.”
“Jonathan,” I say, lifting myself up and sitting next to him. “How’d you even end up with a guy like Danny?”
He looks over at me, and I can tell he’s deciding if he’s offended or amused.
“How does anybody end up with anybody? I was drinking with friends, they went home, Danny was there. He was young, attractive. It’s not like I was new to this. This isn’t even the first time anyone has tried blackmail. But it’s never worked. It’s a shame. I liked Danny. He was arrogant and had a smart mouth, and I like that in someone who’s about to service me. He gave me what I wanted, I gave him what he wanted. If he’d wanted more, he could have asked. But he had to go and take pictures. And now you’re bleeding. It’s a shame how these things happen, one thing leading to another, to another, and someone perfectly innocent like you ends up hurt. Well.” He shrugs, inhales on his cigarette, and blows the smoke out the window. The car comes to a stop and I look outside. There’s the neon sign for the Ruby, glowing directly in front of me.
“Maybe once I have my pictures I’ll change my mind,” he says to me. “If you’d like, of course. I don’t force myself on anyone. But you’ll be attractive again in four days, I think. I pay better than any of your cases do, I’m sure. You should consider it.”
“Sure,” I say, opening the door. “But you’re already fucking me and I don’t love it, so I don’t see myself saying yes.” I turn to close the door, but almost fall as the pain from his beating hits me. I grunt.
“Smart mouth,” he says, smiling. “That’ll get you in trouble.”
“Always does.” I resist the urge to clutch my side where it’s throbbing.
“Four days,” he says, pulling the door closed before the car drives off. I watch it, but the plates are covered. Once he’s out of sight, I take a deep breath, feeling every bruise that’s forming on my sides and face, the red-hot marks that’ll be purple tomorrow, especially the ones around my throat. He left my legs alone, so standing isn’t so bad, it’s just having working organs that’s making me ache.
I need ice, to make everything numb and keep it from swelling too bad. So I take the elevator to the second floor, where the Ruby is, instead of the third, where I live. Inside, the place is calm, just a small group dancing to the band, someone passed out at the bar, and Gene, who looks up when the door opens and starts running the moment he sees my face.
“I’m okay,” I tell him, walking toward the bar. “It’s worse than it looks.”
“It looks pretty bad,” he says, taking me under the arm.
“I can walk fine, he left my legs alone,” I say, but he doesn’t stop, and I lean into him a little. He feels nice, pressing into my side. Warm.
“He?” Gene asks. “One guy?”
“One real big guy.” We get to the bar and I sit down on one of the stools. “Really, though, I just need some ice.” I can deal with who he is later.
“Take off your shirt,” he says, going to the bar and filling a towel with ice. “Everyone else, we’re closing up, time to head home.”
The sleeping woman at the bar shakes herself awake and leaves some money on the bar as she and the other stragglers leave. The band on stage starts to pack up. I unbutton my shirt and look down at my torso—bright red bursts on either side of me, like I’ve run through fire. Gene looks at me and gasps, then makes another ice pack. He comes back holding them both.
“You hold these against the bruises,” he says, handing them to me. “I’ll get another for your face.” I take the wrapped ice and hold it on the developing bruises, where it makes me shiver but also eases the burning pain a little. Gene comes back with another pack of ice and presses it against my eye. “What the hell happened?”
“Apparently, word is out I’m returning pictures, and someone thinks I’m still holding on to his,” I say, my voice rough, and I cough.
“What? How can that be? Did you give them back to him?”
“I don’t have them.” I look up at him with my one good eye. “I went through all of them, and this guy wasn’t in any.”
“So he beat you up?”
“Every time I tried to tell him the truth.”
“How’d you get away?”
“I lied,” I say, swallowing, then flinching at the pain. Gene’s eyes flicker down to my throat.
“He strangled you, too?” he says, reaching out and gently touching my neck. His fingers feel like fire.
“Yeah,” I say, and try to swallow again. It’s like trying to force a rock down.
“Did you fall unconscious from it?”
“No,” I say. “Though I did earlier when he greeted me with a smack on the back of my head.”
Gene frowns and moves his hand to the back of my head. He touches a tender spot, then takes the ice and moves it there. He looks down at me, still holding two bundles of ice against my sides, my shirt open, and sighs.
“I’m going to need to wrap everything up,” he says. “And you might have a concussion.”
“Sorry,” I say.
He laughs. “Why are you sorry?” he says, going back behind the bar and getting more ice and the first aid kit he keeps down there. He comes back around and puts some ointment on my lip and starts wrapping the ice in place on my sides. “Hold this one to your eye.” He hands me another bundle of ice while he presses a fourth against the back of my head, and a fifth he gently moves against my neck. “You’re going to be purple all over tomorrow.”
“Not my most flattering color.”
“And you’ll need someone to watch you sleep tonight, make sure you don’t stop breathing.”
We’re quiet. He did that for me before. Lay next to me in bed.
“Maybe Elsie,” I say softly.
“She’s gone for the night. You don’t want to ask me?”
“I didn’t want to presume.”
“I don’t mind,” he says. “I’m not working until late tomorrow. Plus I haven’t seen your apartment yet. This is a good excuse.”
“That an accusation?” I ask, smiling.
“Just a fact,” he says, moving the ice around my throat.
“I thought it would be a little too forward.”
“To invite a friend over?”
“Well…” I tilt my head, which makes my throat ache, and I hiss in pain.
“Andy, you’re way too beat up to be flirting,” he says, amused.
“I’m best at flirting when I’m nursing bruises, makes me mysterious.”
He laughs. “Are you okay, though? Aside from the bruises?”
“I was feeling amazing, honestly,” I say. “Right before I got knocked out. I gave all those guys their photos back, and they were all so happy. Burned them, too. I probably still smell like smoke.”
He puts his nose in my hair and sniffs. “A little. Blood, mostly. And exhaust.”
“I was in a car when the guy started smacking me around. Back seat of a limo. A very classy and scenic beating.” I cough again, and Gene laughs.
“Well, I’m glad you got rid of all those photos.”
“Me too,” I say, taking the ice off my eye for a moment. “It was really … good.”
“I wish someone had done that for me, y’know?” Gene says, eyeing the bruise on the back of my skull again. “When I was in med school, I mean. If some stranger had just shown up, handed me the photos, and said, ‘Someone was going to blackmail you with these, but I found them, so you can do whatever you want with them…’” He pauses, sighs. “I would have had a whole different life. I would never have been able to thank that guy enough.”
“One guy bought me a drink,” I say.
“That’s not enough, you ask me.”
“It was more than enough, really,” I say, putting the ice back on my eye. “After everything I could have done before, and didn’t … it was enough.”
The last of the band has packed up and left, waving as they headed out. We’re alone in the club. Some voices drift down from upstairs, male and female impersonators changing, maybe one of the stockboys moving stuff around.
“We only get these quiet moments together when you’ve been beat up,” Gene says softly.
I nod. He’s right.
“I guess I didn’t know you liked them,” I say. “When I talk to you at the bar, I’m sharing you with everyone, y’know? And so I don’t know…” I shake my head, flinch at the pain. “Elsie says I should just ask you out to get a drink. I guess I didn’t know if you’d say yes. Why you’d say yes.”
He smiles. “I’d say yes … but…”
“But?”
“But I know you had that ex of yours spend the night. Stan saw you two go into your room together, said the door was still closed when he left. I don’t want to intrude on something, if you’re … rekindling or…”
I sigh. “I don’t know,” I say. “That’s the truth. I didn’t think it was anything more than … memories, y’know? A moment. But then I gave him back his photos and he said he was going to make sure we were in each other’s lives. I think he was just giddy with relief, though.”
“Do you want him?” Gene asks, looking down at me. “In that way?”
“No,” I say. The word comes out without me even having time to process the question, before I have time to know if it’s a lie. Want him? Maybe, some part of him—some memory of him, our bodies. But who he is now? I don’t even really know him. Gene I know. Gene I want. Maybe I want them both.
He laughs. “You sure you mean that, and it’s not just that I’m in front of you, nursing your wounds? I know you get romantic after someone’s knocked you out.”
I smile; I don’t know if he’s right. “I can’t promise that, no. But … I don’t even know James anymore. It’s been seven years.” That at least is true. “Maybe I never really knew him. I’m not sure. The war made all of us different. Made us work. I don’t see us working without it.”
“Do you want to, though?” Gene asks, taking the ice away. “That’s the question.”
I take the ice away from my eye. Gene is smiling, but it’s sad. He knows I don’t know the answer, even if I want to.
“C’mon,” he says, putting his arm under mine and lifting me up. “Let’s get you upstairs.”
“I can walk fine, really.” Still, he doesn’t move away, helping me over to the elevator.
“So what did you lie about to make him stop hitting you?” Gene asks, as we ride it up a floor.
“I told him I’d get his photos.”
“But you don’t have them. What happens when you don’t give them to him?”
“He kills me and burns this building down.”
I feel Gene go slack. It’s a good thing I wasn’t lying about my legs being fine.
“Don’t worry,” I tell him. “I’ll find the pictures.”
“Andy…”
“I’ll find them,” I say firmly. The elevator doors open and I walk out with his support to my apartment. A few folks are in the hallway and they stare at me, shirt still open, black eye, and bandages around my sides.
“Tony, can you clean up downstairs?” Gene asks one of the stockboys. He nods.
I unlock my door and go inside, Gene following. My bed is made at least—years of navy training made that a habit. It doesn’t look too messy. It’s not really big enough for mess.
“Lie down,” Gene says, pointing at the bed. I slip off my shoes and do as he ordered. Then he starts poking around, looking at stuff. He focuses on my record collection first, flipping through it. “Good taste,” he says. He chooses a record and puts it on. “Linda” by Buddy Clark.
Then he starts poking around the rest of my room, looking at the photo of my parents, and then my bookshelves.
“You have Prince Caspian, but not The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe,” he says. “You have to read that one first.”
“Oh,” I say, blushing a little. “I didn’t know. I only got it ’cause I saw you reading it. But I haven’t cracked it open yet.”
He looks over at me and smiles, then shakes his head. “I’ll lend you mine. Now lie back. Rest. I’ll monitor your breathing.”
“You going to snoop while I sleep?”
“Absolutely. How often does a guy get to play detective in the home of a real detective?”
“Fair enough,” I say, lying back and closing my eyes. “Don’t judge me too harshly. I’m still moving in.”
He comes over and sits down on the edge of the bed, next to me. “You’re going to find the pictures, right? I don’t want you to die, and I’d rather not have my place of employment burn down.”
“Yeah,” I say, going through where they could be in my mind. I searched the locker as much as you can search a locker, so I’m sure I didn’t leave anything behind. The only people who saw the photos besides me were Lee and James, and there’s no reason either of them would want pictures of a guy they didn’t know. Which means they were probably kept separate from the others. Special. Maybe because they knew how dangerous this “Jonathan” was. With Danny missing and Donna dead, I don’t have many leads. I searched Danny’s apartment and didn’t find anything. The only thing I can think of is the mystery apartment Donna brought Helen to. I need to find Danny or figure out who killed Donna, and if they did it for Jonathan’s photos.
Gene brushes my hair back, then runs his hand down my arm. “Relax. Your brain needs to rest now. If you start thinking too much you’re just gonna hurt yourself.”
“Gene…” I can feel myself drifting off.
“You gonna ask to kiss me again?” he asks. “Because I already told you—”
“Just hold my hand until I’m asleep,” I say, my eyes closed. “Please.”
He doesn’t say anything, but I feel his fingers weave between mine. I squeeze his hand, feeling grateful he’s here, and knowing if I don’t find these new photos, then he and this apartment, and everything else is going to burn away like the film in the ashtray—with a bad smell and a lot of smoke, but forgotten just hours later.