considerable pull to smooth that one over. Marco had spiky hair, orange, and a two-day growth of beard, black. There was a diamond stud in his left earlobe. He wore a flowing black linen shirt, awning-stripe bombachas and no shoes or socks. He seemed edgy, as if he was about to either get violent or break into tears. He was also flushed and rather sweaty. When he handed me my glass his fingers were scalding to the touch.
“I was admiring your suit,” he said to me, his voice unexpectedly hushed and demure. He reeked of that new vanilla scent everyone was wearing. Smelled very much like a bakery.
I thanked him and he sat and the three of us drank and talked about my suit, which I’d had made for me in London at Strickland’s. And then my brogans, which were also made for me in London, by Maxwell’s.
“I’ve just ordered my first pair of customized orthopedics from T. O. Dey on East Thirty-eighth Street,” Marco informed me, mopping at his brow with a red bandanna. “They’re costing me six hundred and fifty dollars, but I can’t believe I ever lived without them. They’re dope. So well made, and just for me. Everyone’s getting their shoes made there now—Sly, Cher, Liza …”
“That’s everyone, all right,” I agreed pleasantly.
Yes, it was all very pleasant. Me, I can drink martinis and talk about clothes, especially my own clothes, for hours.
But Barry’s glass was empty. “Make us another round, would you, dear?” he said, holding it out to Marco.
Marco got to his feet and started back to the kitchen, moving rather unsteadily. The big guy crashed right into a pair of those non-mobile plaster partygoers, knocking them flat and sending himself sprawling. “I’m okay, I’m okay,” he said quickly, scrabbling back to his feet. “Don’t fuss.”
“Poor bastard’s running a fever,” Barry clucked as we watched him stagger from the room. “I just know it.”
“Is it something serious?”
There was a narrow wooden box of small cigars on the table next to him. Barry removed one and lit it. “Do you mean, is it AIDS?” he asked, arching his brow at me. Or trying to. “He won’t go to the doctor to find out. Too afraid. He’s HIV positive, you see.” He puffed on the cigar, watching the smoke rise toward the chandelier. “We both are.”
“I’m sorry to hear that, Barry.”
“Ruth doesn’t know, by the way,” he said airily. “In fact, no one in the family knows.”
“Why tell me?”
“Just felt like it, I guess. Maybe I’ve had too much to drink. We started with wine at lunch and haven’t stopped since. Have you noticed how no one drinks in the afternoon anymore? I do believe there’s a clear connection between the decline of Western civilization and the death of the two-martini lunch. What do you think?”
“I think no one has any fun anymore. Which, I suppose, is another way of saying you may be on to something.”
“It’s not as bad as I thought it would be,” said Barry, drawing on his cigar. “A certain peace of mind comes with knowing it can all end just like that. I spend a lot of my time thinking about what I haven’t done. Do you know I’ve never been to Niagara Falls or the Grand Canyon?” He paused, in case I wanted to toss anything in. I didn’t. “What I’ve come to realize is that there’s no sense getting upset about anything. Just enjoy what and who you have.”
“You don’t have Clethra,” I pointed out.
“I never did,” he countered. “Thor’s her dad.”
“She says you are.”
“Of course she does. It suits her to say that. Otherwise, she’d be doing something terribly dirty, wouldn’t she?”
“I rather thought that was the whole idea.”
“I am her biological father,” Barry conceded. “But he’s the one who’s been there for her through the years—bandaged her scraped knees, wiped away the tears.” He let out a mirthless chuckle. “Awfully strange, the two of them ending up playing hasta la grab ass
“I was admiring your suit,” he said to me, his voice unexpectedly hushed and demure. He reeked of that new vanilla scent everyone was wearing. Smelled very much like a bakery.
I thanked him and he sat and the three of us drank and talked about my suit, which I’d had made for me in London at Strickland’s. And then my brogans, which were also made for me in London, by Maxwell’s.
“I’ve just ordered my first pair of customized orthopedics from T. O. Dey on East Thirty-eighth Street,” Marco informed me, mopping at his brow with a red bandanna. “They’re costing me six hundred and fifty dollars, but I can’t believe I ever lived without them. They’re dope. So well made, and just for me. Everyone’s getting their shoes made there now—Sly, Cher, Liza …”
“That’s everyone, all right,” I agreed pleasantly.
Yes, it was all very pleasant. Me, I can drink martinis and talk about clothes, especially my own clothes, for hours.
But Barry’s glass was empty. “Make us another round, would you, dear?” he said, holding it out to Marco.
Marco got to his feet and started back to the kitchen, moving rather unsteadily. The big guy crashed right into a pair of those non-mobile plaster partygoers, knocking them flat and sending himself sprawling. “I’m okay, I’m okay,” he said quickly, scrabbling back to his feet. “Don’t fuss.”
“Poor bastard’s running a fever,” Barry clucked as we watched him stagger from the room. “I just know it.”
“Is it something serious?”
There was a narrow wooden box of small cigars on the table next to him. Barry removed one and lit it. “Do you mean, is it AIDS?” he asked, arching his brow at me. Or trying to. “He won’t go to the doctor to find out. Too afraid. He’s HIV positive, you see.” He puffed on the cigar, watching the smoke rise toward the chandelier. “We both are.”
“I’m sorry to hear that, Barry.”
“Ruth doesn’t know, by the way,” he said airily. “In fact, no one in the family knows.”
“Why tell me?”
“Just felt like it, I guess. Maybe I’ve had too much to drink. We started with wine at lunch and haven’t stopped since. Have you noticed how no one drinks in the afternoon anymore? I do believe there’s a clear connection between the decline of Western civilization and the death of the two-martini lunch. What do you think?”
“I think no one has any fun anymore. Which, I suppose, is another way of saying you may be on to something.”
“It’s not as bad as I thought it would be,” said Barry, drawing on his cigar. “A certain peace of mind comes with knowing it can all end just like that. I spend a lot of my time thinking about what I haven’t done. Do you know I’ve never been to Niagara Falls or the Grand Canyon?” He paused, in case I wanted to toss anything in. I didn’t. “What I’ve come to realize is that there’s no sense getting upset about anything. Just enjoy what and who you have.”
“You don’t have Clethra,” I pointed out.
“I never did,” he countered. “Thor’s her dad.”
“She says you are.”
“Of course she does. It suits her to say that. Otherwise, she’d be doing something terribly dirty, wouldn’t she?”
“I rather thought that was the whole idea.”
“I am her biological father,” Barry conceded. “But he’s the one who’s been there for her through the years—bandaged her scraped knees, wiped away the tears.” He let out a mirthless chuckle. “Awfully strange, the two of them ending up playing hasta la grab ass
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