She tugged at my hand. “Come and meet Tom.”
Tom Zane stepped forward from the people he had been talking to and said to his wife, “You’re trying to make me jealous. “
This close, he looked to be in his mid-thirties. Small lines puckered the edges of his eyes and lips. His skin, still tanned, was faintly freckled. Clusters of broken veins had begun to surface around the edges of his nostrils, the sure sign of a drinker. He gave off the scent of an expensive cologne. His eyes were a deep, serene blue. Though he cast a blond’s golden glow it was diluted by his hard, false cheerfulness.
Irene said, “Tom, this is Henry Rios. Jim Pears’s lawyer.’’
Zane looked at me blankly for a moment, then said, “Oh, the gay kid. Sandy talked to you.”
“Briefly.”
Zane smiled. “You’re too good-looking to be a lawyer. You look more like a wetback gigolo.”
“I was at the play,” I said, ignoring the comment. “Your last scenes were very moving.”
“Or maybe a diplomat. Come on, Rennie,” he said, and took her from me.
“Join us, Henry,” she said, as her hand slipped from my fingers.
A circle of well-wishers formed around us and I stood at the edge of conversation as the Zanes received them. Irene — Rennie — handled them as skillfully as a politician and it appeared that she truly did not forget faces. Or names, or names of spouses, children, or dogs. She told funny stories on herself and listened to less funny stories which she made comic by her superbly timed reactions. Now and then, she’d lift her eyes and smile at me as if we shared a secret.
Tom Zane, on the other hand, seemed talented only at being admired. When he wasn’t being praised he looked off with a vague smile to the other side of the room. He drank three glasses of champagne and was about to take a fourth when Sandy Blenheim intercepted it. Tom surrendered the glass with a shrug. He nibbled at a plate of food that Blenheim brought him. He seemed both bored and bewildered. I excused myself to look for Larry.
“Don’t leave without saying goodbye,” Rennie said.
“I won’t.”
Larry was talking to Tony Good, the actor who had played Gaveston. Tony Good was drunk. I complimented him on his performance.
“It’s not easy playing against T. Z.,” he said. “He’s lousy. Who are you anyway?”
“Henry Rios,” I said.
“Oh, yeah. Another gay lawyer? You’re kinda cute, Henry. You gotta lover?” He reached for a glass of champagne from a passing waiter and tipped the tray, spilling the drinks on himself. The room was momentarily still.
“Shit,” he said. A red jacket rushed over with a napkin and tried to dry Good’s shirt. “Never mind the shirt,” he said. “How about another drink.”
Larry said, “You’re drunk enough, Tony.” To me he said, “I’m going to drive him home.”
“Fine.”
“Come on, Tony,” Larry said. “It’s time to go.”
Tony Good smiled. “Will you tuck me in?”
“Not if you’re still charging by the hour,” Larry replied.
“Bitch,” Tony said. To me he said, “You come, too. We’ll make it a threesome.”
“Another time,” I said.
“Lemme give you my number,” Tony said.
“I’m sure Larry has it,” I said.
“No,” Tony said. “Just take a minute.” He scribbled a number on the back of a card that he fished out of his pocket and shoved it at me.
“Thanks,” I said, accepting it.
“Call me,” he shouted as Larry hustled him out the door.
Remembering the hangovers I got from champagne, I felt very sorry for Tony Good. I checked my watch; I had already overstayed the hour I had allowed myself. I looked around for Rennie to say goodbye, but neither she nor Zane were in the room. Sandy Blenheim was standing at the bar talking to the bartender. I approached them.
“Hello, Sandy,” I said.
He glanced at me with annoyance. The bartender looked relieved and slipped away.
“Hi,” he said. “Enjoying yourself?”
“The party’s fine but I’ve got to go. I wondered if you’d say goodbye to Miss Gentry for me.”
“Yeah, I saw you talking with her,” he said. “You two know each other?”
“Not before tonight.”
He picked up a tall glass from the bar and drank. When he set it down he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “What did you talk about?”
“This and that,” I replied, disliking him.
“Yeah,” he said. “You’re gay, right?”
“I don’t make a secret about it.”
“Just making sure,” he said. “Tom’s the jealous kind.” Having seen Zane in action earlier with another woman, I doubted this, but said, “He has nothing to worry about from me.”
“So,” Sandy said, lowering his voice, “what are you doing later?”
I smiled. “I’ve got a date.”
“And after that?”
“Just say goodbye to Rennie for me,” I said.
“Sure,” he replied, already losing interest. His glance drifted back to the bartender. “Hey, Nick, another drink.”
On my way out I stopped at the men’s room. As I stood at the urinal I heard the door open. When I went to wash my hands I found Tom Zane stooped over the marble counter that held the wash basins. He lifted his eyes to the mirror and saw me.
“It’s the ambassador,” he said. He inhaled a line of coke, straightened up, tilted his head back and sniffled. “Want some?” “No thanks.” I turned on the tap and ran my hands beneath the water. He did another line.
“Is that safe to do here?” I asked.
“Are you gonna tell?”
“No.”
“Good.” He did a third line and stood up, putting his arm around my shoulder. “As long as you’re not one of Sandy’s spies.”
“I’m not.”
“He says you’re gay. Is that right?”
“Yeah,” I replied.
Zane dropped his arm to just above my waist and we looked at each other in the mirror. In the dim light he looked almost as he had in the last scene of the play: heroic, dissipated, and beautiful.
“We should get together sometime,” he said.
Before I could think of an answer to this, the door opened again. He dropped his arm to his side and stepped away. I dried my hands. Sandy Blenheim came in, looked at us and scowled.
“Listen, T. Z., there’s some important people out there wanting to meet you.”
“Don’t I get to take a leak?”
“What’s he do,” Blenheim said, pointing at me, “hold your dick?”
I said, “Looks to me like that’s your job, Sandy.”
“That’s telling him, Ambassador.”
“Come on, T. Z., you’re wasting time.” Blenheim grabbed Zane’s arm and dragged him out.
I watched them go, then finished drying my hands. I looked at myself in the mirror. Zane’s proposition hadn’t meant anything more than Tony Good’s or Sandy Blenheim’s had. They were empty gestures, the kind it was beginning to seem that these people were full of. As I adjusted the knot in my tie, I tried to imagine Tom Zane as me, and burst out laughing.
15
The Hawk occupied a space in a row of stores between a deli and a manicurist. A blue awning over the entrance was the bar’s only distinguishing feature. I parked on the street and made my way over to the bar. A couple of men in 501s and flannel shirts were standing at the entrance drinking from bottles of Budweiser. I was wearing a gray suit, a maroon tie, and wingtips. We exchanged friendly nods as I pushed through the upholstered door.
The front room was a long, narrow rectangle with the bar running the length of it. Opposite the bar, stacks of beer boxes were pushed up against the wall. The room was packed and there was only a small aisle between the men lined up against the bar and those leaning against the beer boxes. The place smelled of spilt beer and cigarettes and was lit in red by spotlights above the bar. Dolly Parton was belting out a song from the overhead speakers and everywhere mouths moved, singing along with her. I wedged my way down the room looking for Josh Mandel.
There was a pool room behind the bar. A green-shaded light hung over the pool table. A thin boy with a bad complexion waited while his opponent, a lumbering bear of a man, calculated a shot. Josh Mandel was sitting on a bar stool beneath a chalkboard that listed the order of players. He wore jeans and an old white button-down shirt and his glasses dangled out of his pocket. A red sweater was spread across his knees. He was smoking a cigarette with one hand while the other grasped a bottle of beer. He looked too young to be either smoking or drinking. I came around the room until I was standing beside him.