Our Man in the Dark (14 page)

“Yes, I do,” I respond. “It must be my amiable personality.”

He looks at me, pauses for a moment, and then laughs. “No, I don't think that's it.” He turns to Candice, and in an admittedly elegant gesture, he offers her his hand. “Aaron,” he says, “And now it's your turn.”

“Candy.” She seems instantly comfortable in his presence.

“Of course it is,” he says with a wide grin. “Tell me, Estem. Where did you find this enchanting creature?”

“Oh, we grew up together,” Candice quickly answers.

“So you didn't meet at the hotel?”

“No. We're old friends,” she says.

“Old friends?” he laughs.

“What? We don't seem like old friends?” she asks.

“No, it's just that—forgive me, but yours strikes me as the kind of friendship that was forged recently, one expected to last
temporarily
. You know what I mean, Estem?” he asks without turning to me.

“Well, sir. No, I can't say that I do.” I feel a sudden need to adjust my tie.

“I know what he means,” her top lip disappears completely. “He's saying that I look like a whore for hire. You may think you're talking above my head, but I know when I'm being called a whore.”

“Oh, I'm sure you do.”

A confused and defeated expression conquers her face. Then her eyebrows rise, indicating a sudden realization. “You know, I've seen this before,” she says. “Back in school, when the other girls would pick on the new girl for having nice dresses or being too pretty. It was just plain jealousy that made them so mean. But we're grown now. Let's put the petty schoolyard stuff behind us. We
girls
have got to stick together.”

“Candice, please,” I say.

Gant smiles. “I see I've overstayed my welcome. I apologize if I've offended you. I hope the rest of your evening is pleasant.” He grabs my shoulder, still smiling, and leans in, “Discretion, Estem. Discretion. Remember that.” I have to hand it to him; he was never frazzled. He seemed completely unaffected by Candy's comment. Calm under fire. I never would have guessed that.

He leaves us and disappears into the crowd.

“Candice, that man is my boss.”

“How could you sit there and let him talk to me like that?”

“How could I defend you when you practically called the man a sissy to his face?”

“I said that
after
he called me a whore. I had to protect myself. Sorry, but I'm not used to doing that when there's a man around.”

“Don't stand there and act like a goddamn saint. Maybe you're upset because he saw something you see in yourself.”

“So now you're calling me a whore too? Oh, excuse me, you're saying I
know
I'm a whore. To hell with this.”

As she leaves, I know that I should apologize, but I feel like this is a test. She's angry with me for letting someone else see into our secret world. She's disappointed because I let myself appear to be a coward in front of Gant. That is not the kind of man she wants. I watch her head for the hotel bar. I choose not to follow her. I decide to let the liquor do the hard work for me.

I pass time by walking through the crowd, stopping to hover over the fading remnants of conversations. I look at my watch. She's been at the bar for at least an hour. Enough time to make her forgetful and forgiving.

I leave the event, certain that no one will notice my absence, and
head for the hotel's bar.

She is not there. I look around but all I see are a few men, a piano player who should've given up a long time ago, and women pretending to be guests—working girls well past their prime, who should've given up long time ago, too.

I figure she must have gone to her room, so I head there.

I knock on her hotel room door.

“What do you want?”

A bottle of Night Train has made a final stop at her nightstand. She's good and wasted. No wonder she wasn't down there—she's brought the bar to her room.

“Can I come in?” I ask.

She puts her arm up to block the doorway. “Depends on what kind of news you've got.”

“I told the son of a bitch to go to hell, and if he ever talked to you like that again, I'd do my best to kill him.” I push my index finger against the crease of her arm to move it downward and out of my way.

She knows that I'm lying, but she smiles anyway, showing that she appreciates the effort. She wears only a terry cloth robe. It's carelessly tied, which gives me the impression that she was completely naked only moments before I arrived. Even though the most scintillating parts of her are covered, I can only think of the fading occasion of her bare body.

Men take what they want from her, she once told me. She thought she was with a real man tonight, but I disappointed her. I tell her to take off her robe. She attempts to speak, but I kiss her before she can utter a word.

I guide her to the bed and she offers no resistance. I undo her robe, and even before I've touched her skin, I can feel the heat of her. Every part of her is there and mine for the taking. This makes me nervous, intimidated. Before I realize it, my heart is thumping and I'm breathing hard. She sprawls out at the edge of the bed, and I just place my head on her stomach, feeling the rise and fall of her breathing, like the supple movement of water. I smell her. The mingling of sweat, alcohol, and perfume soothes me. I think I have the courage to move forward.

We are in the throes of passion when I realize that she's just going through the motions and, in a sense, so am I. For some reason, I can only
think of the look on my father's face when the doctors told him that there was a strong possibility that the polio would take away my ability to function sexually. He looked as though he had lost a child. I was no longer his son; I was something other: a shadowy reminder of the man his boy would never become. Thoughts such as these, to put it bluntly, have a dick-curdling effect.

What is wrong with me? I have come this far. Her naked body next to mine should be inspiration enough. She also feels this. She sees the trouble I'm having, but she makes no attempt to arouse me. She only looks away, like she's at a horror movie and waiting for the scary scene to end. I do try to save myself from embarrassment: sneaking my hand to my genitals, pretending the touch is hers.

I try to enter her, but no luck.

I'm tired of struggling with myself.

“I'm sorry,” I say as I get dressed and take my useless prick back to my room.

I feel overcome by hopelessness. I've just embarrassed myself in front of my only friend. I need to talk to someone. Someone who understands me. I pick up the phone and start dialing. As the line starts to ring, I feel embarrassed and exposed by the number I've summoned. I hang up before anyone answers.

I sit at the edge of the bed and light a cigarette. I trap the smoke somewhere between my throat and chest as I lean back into the pillows. The phone rings. I let out a cough before I rise to answer it.

“What is it, John?” As usual, he's all business.

“Hello, Mathis,” I say.

“Hello, John. What's our boy up to?”

There is a long silence between us. The air rustles on the other end of the line. I look at my watch; it's one in the morning back there. Does he sleep in that office?

“Are you married, Mathis?” I manage to ask.

“Excuse me?”

“Married. Do you have a wife, any children?”

“Now isn't the time . . .”

“So there will be a time? A time when this is all said and done, after the winners and losers are designated? Maybe then the two of us could sit
down and have a drink?”

“John, I really don't see that happening.”

“So we retreat to our respective corners?”

“Could it be any other way?”

“You tell me. What side are you on?”

“I'm on the side that serves the best interests of the country.”

“What side is that?”

“The side of order. Stability.”

“I see. And fighting for what you deserve—for what is yours by
birth
isn't—” I can't find the words to continue. There is another long silence.

“Yes, John. I'm married.”

I apologize for calling so late and hang up.

It's strange how bad habits are the hardest to break at night. Before I realize it, I've dressed myself and made my way downstairs to the front of the hotel. I don't snap out of it until I see that my Cadillac is not here. If I were back at home, this would be one of those moments that ends at Count's.

The doorman tips his cap at a guest as the bellboy approaches him and offers to finish his shift. It's late. I doubt that he'll be tipped much. I watch the two men for a moment, and then I realize that I've run out of smokes. I head to the corner store across the street. They don't have my brand, so I grab a pack I've never seen back home. There's a palm tree under the cellophane, but at least they're menthol.

As I leave the store, I see Gant walk out of the hotel. In all areas of performance, I've been coming up short. I should be watching Gant more closely, putting him at ease, making him feel comfortable so he'll drop his guard and make a mistake. But Candy has distracted me. This may be my chance to make up for lost time. I decide to follow him, but following him on foot won't do. He's too fast. I'm too obvious.

He doesn't spot me. I make my way back into the store and its jaundiced lights. I watch him through the store window. He seems to be in a trance, drawing him into the darkness of downtown. He's not sightseeing. He appears to know exactly where he's headed.

When he's a good distance up the street, I step out and hail a taxi. “Follow that man,” I tell the driver, pointing at the solitary figure on the sidewalk. I inform him to keep his distance and drive at a modest speed
to prevent us from being spotted.

He walks for a long while. The driver becomes impatient. “How much longer do I have to follow this guy? You can do that sort of thing yourself in this part of town.”

“Not much longer,” I say. Where is he going? Mathis and Strobe want the goods on him. He could be meeting with his communist counterpart, but other than what the agents have told me, I've seen no evidence of such a connection.

Headlights and neon signs reflect in the sheen of the black pavement. Gant continues to walk, until the atmosphere and surrounding environment begin to take a subtle turn. Swank hotels and banks change into rooms for let, pawnshops, and tattoo parlors with blackened windows. He walks by a young white man leaning against a brick wall in front of Rocky's Pool Hall and Billiards, with his leg bent behind him for support. He wears a leather pilot's jacket that comes to his waist and a fedora that shields his eyes. Gant stops, turns around, and motions with his head toward a nearby alley. I can't confirm from the car if the man is Russian or not, but he could be.

They head into the alley together.

I pay the driver and get out. I then ease to the edge of the wall and peek into the alley. It goes deep into the darkness behind the buildings and then veers to the left. I don't see Gant or the man, so I carefully enter. As I approach the corner wall, two young men scramble out, startling me. They pay me no attention and walk away in opposite directions once they hit the sidewalk.

I take a moment to collect myself, and then I look around the corner. Gant talks to the man, as he reaches into his pocket and looks around to see if anyone is watching. They are backlit by a lamp above a receiving dock at the end of the alley. Their frames cast long shadows that seem to stretch to the street. Gant offers something to the man. Again, he surveys the area. This time I duck. What has Gant given him? What have they exchanged?

When I look again, I see that no sensitive information or material threatening national security has been exchanged. The man is on his knees in front of Gant. Gant tosses his head back in apparent ecstasy. Gant may be many things, but he is no communist.

Upon leaving the alley, I feel as if I've stepped into another world—one that is strange and off-kilter. I had not noticed before, but they are everywhere: men in clinging T-shirts and snug denim, or leather jackets, or simple plaid. They wait silently, like urban scarecrows, under streetlamps and in darkened doorways. The night is their domain, a snare they've mastered—it must be, because other men, on foot and in passing cars, slow for them as if caught in the net of their vigilant gaze.

I know that urge that sends you wandering into the night, I know it all too well. But for men like me, there are safe havens, places of refuge. Not so for Gant. That photograph, shown to me by the agents, said it all: no place is safe. Someone is always watching. I've tried to hate him, I've tried to believe the worst about him, but the sad episode I just witnessed only evokes deep sympathy for the man. It's disturbing to see someone of his stature relegated to being sucked off in a piss-soaked alley. I feel, for the first time, he's been dealt a worse hand than mine—and I need to walk it off.

I need to reassert my manhood after what I just saw. The walk did me some good, and I feel like I can give it one more try with Candy. But when I knock on her hotel room door, she is merciful and does not answer.

I'm still a ball of unspent energy, and my room can do nothing to contain it, so I head back downstairs.

The bellboy is a young Negro of about twenty. He thinks his uniform gives him an air of sophistication, but I detect in his eye the lessons of the street.

“'Night, sir,” he says looking straight ahead.

I walk over to him. “Where can a man go for a good time?”

“Most colored guests go to Lacy's Lounge.”

I need to make him feel more comfortable. “C'mon, Jack. You know that ain't the kinda good time I'm talkin' 'bout.”

He doesn't smile. “Oh, I know exactly what you're talkin' about, and you can get
that
at Lacy's Lounge.”