On the way downtown, I considered the possibility that I might end up once again in the ill-starred Italian restaurant. It would have made, at least, for a kind of gruesome symmetry. But my father, as it happened, was in his hotel room, with several other men. Dimly we could hear them laughing as we came down the worn plush in the cool, faded hotel corridor. My cheeks tingled from exercise and anxiety. And then Cleveland astonished me: When I stopped at the numbered door and for a last look of encouragement turned to face him, he drew a necktie from the pocket of his leather jacket and began to loop it around his shirt collar. The tie was gray-brown, with an intricate pattern of unusual squares and ovals.
"Rattlesnake," said Cleveland.
Another round of guffaws from the other side of the door. I waited, so as not to cause an ominous, abrupt cessation of laughter; when I heard the final sound of my father clearing his throat, I knocked. After the several seconds that it took them silently to discuss and to delegate, a man opened the door, one of Them. I tried to look into the room, but there was a white vestibule-a bench, a mirror, and a gladiola in a vase-and nothing else. The man, in shirtsleeves and suit pants, had a pale face and an uncool haircut. He recognized me, and I wondered how many times I had seen him before. He smiled and stepped out into the hall, shutting the door behind him.
"Hey," he said. "How do you like that? It's Joe Bech-stein's boy." He shook my hand. "Jimmy. Jim Breezy. Last time I saw you, you were a kid. Say, Art, listen." He put his hand on my shoulder and pulled me a little toward him, and a little away from the door, then he looked over my shoulder and seemed to notice Cleveland for the first time. "This a friend?"
"Yes; right. It is good to see you, Jimmy."
"Say, Art, listen-your dad's kind of busy right now, you know, he's talking to some people. So. He's busy."
"Oh, no."
"Yeah, you know? I think maybe you better come back in an hour, like an hour and a half, maybe."
"Oh. Okay, Jimmy, sure. Five o'clock, say?"
He said sure, without looking at his watch, and went back in; the door shut.
"Oh, well," I said, "five o'clock. My dad's busy."
Cleveland rolled his eyes.
"You're jelly, Bechstein, you're like fish jelly," he said, and knocked on the door.
"Yeah?" Jimmy Breezy said this time, still smiling.
"Couldn't we see Mr. Bechstein now, and not at five o'clock?" said Cleveland.
"Who are you?" said Jim, smileless now.
"I'm the friend. Cleveland Arning."
"Send them in," I heard my father say.
Jim Breezy swung out of our way, like a gate.
There were seven men in the room, not counting Them, sitting in a variety of armchairs around a long, low coffee table, on which lay a read and refolded newspaper, a key, and my father's airplane ticket: my father, dressed for golf and looking hard but relaxed; Uncle Lenny, also in white shoes and big pastel pants; and five other men, one of whom, also pale-faced, sat bolt upright when he saw Cleveland. He had to be Frankie Breezy, a bit surprised to find his motorcyclist employee in the same hotel room as he. Frankie was a frail-looking man who wanted you to know, I saw at once, that he had a lot of money invested in his clothes. He was the flashiest thing in the room, which was, like the whole hotel, old, stale, elegant, and large. The men were enjoying their long cigars and their drinks; my father and Lenny had the usual glasses of iced coffee, all the other men something ginger or clear with a twist; and everyone had his smile on, with the exception of Frankie Breezy.
"Hello, Dad; hello, Uncle Lenny," I said, deciding against going over to kiss my father's cheek. I nodded to the other men, who nodded to me. "I'm sorry to bother you. And this is my friend Cleveland."
My father rose toward me, and he gave me a kiss. He shook hands with Cleveland.
"Joe, I know Cleveland," Frankie said, in an intentionally very strange tone of voice. My father looked at me.
"I'm very glad to meet you, Mr. Bechstein," said Cleveland. "And it's really all my fault that we're interrupting you this way. I wanted to meet you."
"Glad to meet you," said my father quietly.
"He's one of mine," Frankie said.
"Why don't you and Cleveland amuse yourselves downtown for a couple of hours, Art. Then I'll take you both to dinner." He did not blink.
"Yeah, some of us ain't got a summer vacation, Art," said giggling old Lenny. "Some of us have to work even on the hottest day of the summer."
"All right, fellows. I'm busy. Good-bye."
"Aw, Joe, let them stay a minute," said one man, an older, balding once-blond man with friendly water-blue eyes and a nose destroyed by boxing. He picked up the newspaper and laid it beside him. This was Carl "Poon" Punicki, although I didn't know it at the time. Three other things I did not know then about him were, first, that he was a big-time jewel fence; second, that he and Frankie Breezy had been feuding all year over a small piece of the Monongahela Valley; and third, that he had a son, whom he prized and ate dinner with every Sunday afternoon, who was a biker. "I never met your boy, Joe."
My father had been required to do business with this man; he turned and put his arm around me.
"Arthur, this is Mr. Punicki."
He went all around the room. I shook a bunch of hands; so did Cleveland. I saw Mr. Punicki eyeing with paternal amusement Cleveland 's snakeskin tie.
"So?" said my father at last. "You just wanted to drop by?"
"Yes," said Cleveland. "That's it."
"No," I said. "There's a reason, actually."
Cleveland and I must have exchanged a pair of real Hayley Mills now-what-do-we-do looks, because everyone laughed.
"This guy doesn't belong in here. He's a squeeze," Frankie said. "He's an employee."
"Pops, Cleveland wants a job," I said.
Frankie Breezy stood up and made two partial but probably automatic fists. " Cleveland needs a job," he said.
"This is very foolish," my father said.
"I'll give Cleveland a job," Mr. Punicki said. He took a pen out of his pocket and wrote on the colored paper folder of my father's airplane ticket. He tore off a neat corner and handed it to Cleveland.
"I'll see you at five," my father said to me, in a near whisper. His forehead was so furrowed with anger that it was as though he had only one long eyebrow, running all the way across. He was very red. "Alone."
I felt, momentarily but acutely, that I had gone too far, this time, even to bother with another goddamn dinner.
"I can't, Dad," I said. "I have things to do. I'm sorry." I started to cry, then stopped; it was like a yawn. "Come on, Cleveland. "
"And I'll bet it'll be a much more fun job too," said Cleveland softly as we went out through the pretty vestibule. "More suited to my zany tastes and idiosyncrasies."
We waited a long time for the elevator. It was very quiet in that chill hallway. At last the brass doors slid open. On the way down, Cleveland, directly under the NO smoking $500 FINE sign, lit a cigarette, which struck me, for once, as an unnecessarily theatrical thing to do.
I swallowed half a beer without noticing. Cleveland and I were both dazed, though his daze was a kind of nervous reverie, whereas mine was more akin to torpor. When I finally remarked the pale bread flavor of the beer in my mouth, I looked around the bar and did not remember having come in. I was on the last stool by a window and could see out into the bright day and sunny red bricks of Market Square, and I allowed myself to be relaxed momentarily by the warm air that blew down from the lazy fans, and by the tranquil, salt exhalations of dead shellfish that filled the air. Carl Punicki went past the bar, without looking in the window. As he vanished, he ran a hand through his thinning yellow hair and shook his shoulders once. An inch of ash fell from the tip of my trembling cigarette.
"Oh," said Cleveland. "Art. It just hit me. I'm sorry."
"Ha," I said. "Thanks."
"Really. This is going to damage things with your old man?"
"Yes. I don't know. No. Things were already damaged. "
"Are you mad at me, Bechstein? Don't be." The white eyeglasses gave him an impish look, and he said, flatly, "I've got a glorious feeling." He finished his beer. "Everything's going my way. The corn is as high as an elephant's eye."
I laughed and, at last, looked at him. Sometime during that day at the boiling end of July, which broke the all-time record set in I926 or something like that, my friendship with Cleveland began to take on some of the characteristics of a détente, that uneasy willingness to laugh things off.
"I have to call Phlox," I said, thinking: I have to call Arthur. I slid from my barstool and went through the old photographs and men to the back of the bar, fingering the coins in my pocket.
"Hello?" said, my God, Phlox.
"Oh, hello!"
Operator, Operator, there's been some kind of mistake!
"Oh. It's you."
"Hello, Phlox. I feel really terrible and I don't want to talk about this. How are you?"
"Angry." She tapped. "Where are you?"
"I'm downtown. With Cleveland."
"Fine. Stay there."
"How about if I come see you right now?"
"No," she said, more quietly. "I don't think so." Her voice was cold. "Why don't you call Arthur?"
"Phlox! Fine. I will."
"No, Art, come over!"
"No, I'll call Arthur, like you said." There was a pause. The computer inside the pinball machine to my left simulated the sound of a woman in orgasm. I felt how stupid was the thing I'd just said to her.
"Fine."
"Oh, Phlox, let me just come over, right now."
"No," she said. "I'm too angry to see you right now. I might say things I don't mean. Come over later."
Things were happening too quickly for there to be a later.
"I'll leave right now."
"Don't," she said, and hung up the phone. When I called back, I got a busy signal. So I called Arthur, woke him up from a nap. He said to come right over. I went to tell Cleveland, but he had gone, leaving a note and a couple of crumpled dollar bills. I read the note, stuffed it in my pocket, and went to catch a bus to Shadyside.
Arthur chuckled in sympathy when he saw me, held out his hand generously. I threw my arms around him and clasped him to me. We parted. His face was sunburned and newly wide awake, a tiny flake of sleep in the corner of his blue left eye. He had bought himself a bottle of citron Christian Dior. I was so glad to see him.
"Poor guy," he said. "You look miserable."
"I am," I said. "Hug me again."
"You must have had an especially disturbing day."
"I'm disturbed. Arthur, can I…?"
"Please do."
It wasn't all that different. He has just eaten a plum, I thought.
He pushed me lightly away, then held on.
"Are you in full possession of your faculties?"
"I can't be certain; no."
"Well, it's about time," he said. He pinched my ear-lobe. "Let's go exhaust all the possibilities."
"Could we please do it slowly?"
"No," he said, and he was right. We did it very rapidly, in the Weatherwoman's bed, passing from toothed kisses through each backward and alien, but familiar, station on the old road to intercourse, which loomed there always before me, black and brutal and smiling, more alien, more backward, and more familiar than anything else. Then, perhaps ten or fifteen minutes after my arrival at the house, with a hard, spongy fistful of him in my right hand, and my left hand flat against his stomach, I was overcome with a feeling that made our black destination cease to seem looming. My heart was simultaneously broken and filled with lust, I was exhausted, and I loved every minute of it. It was strange and elating to feel myself for once the weaker.
"Here," I said. "Right here."
"Are you sure?"
"Yes. Please. This is okay. Now or I'll never do it."
"We need some slippery stuff."
"Hurry."
He scrambled out of bed and ran around the bedroom, tossing newspapers everywhere, rummaging through drawers, then disappeared into the bathroom. I heard the medicine chest squeak open, then slam. He flashed naked out the bedroom door and I heard him thump down the steps, stumbling with haste at the bottom. I lay on the uprooted sheets and blanket of the bed, looking without a thought of time at the hands of the alarm clock. My sides ached with rapid respiration and this feeling of a heedless desire to be fucked. The clock moved, the loose old screen on the window billowed; I heard Arthur's footsteps again on the stair. He came back into the bedroom, gasping for breath, but grinning and carrying a bottle of corn oil.
"Slippery stuff," I said, and my laugh was like an iridescent bubble rising to the surface of a pool of molten tar. "Come on."
"Relax, I'm all out of breath, give me a minute, give me a kiss," he said.
It hurt a great deal, and the oil was cold and strange, but when he said that he had finished, I did not want him to stop; I asked him not to stop, and he did his best, but then I started to cry. He held me, I stopped crying, and we were laughing again about a sound he said I had uttered, our faces inches apart, when his eyes grew round and he sat up abruptly, then came back in for a closer look.
"Your nose is bleeding," he said.
He stood up and went to the tall, wide bedroom windows, parted the drapes, and threw open the panes. A breeze and the late sunlight came through the wrought-iron rail into the room, and a row of thin shadows fell across the floor. There was blood on my pillowcase. When I got up to find Kleenex for my nose, Arthur purposefully stripped the stained linen from the pillow and went to the window with it. When I came back, he stood by the sill, grinning with the wondrous news he had just published to the neighborhood.