Double Blind (18 page)

God, that hurt all the worse, to hear that clumsy confession—from Randy, from
Randy
the poker player, the casual, don’t-you-love-hedonism Randy—and to have to admit that Randy had given Ethan in less than twenty-four hours, really, more real tenderness than Nick Snow ever had.

He figured he owed Randy at least the full story, for that.

“He took the money,” he whispered into Randy’s neck.

“I know, baby,” Randy said.

“No—” Ethan swallowed and gathered himself, because this was becoming important to say out loud. “He took the money from the account. That we’d saved together. For later. For—” But he couldn’t do it. He couldn’t finish.

Randy finished for him. “For when he would leave his wife someday, and you would be together always, finally, like he’d promised.” He hugged Ethan closer a little awkwardly. “Oh, Slick. Oh, baby.”

It was a good thing the knife was on the counter, because Ethan wanted to put it into the middle of his own chest. “I’m so stupid,” he whispered. “I was so stupid to think—”

“You are not stupid,” Randy said, interrupting him. His hands tightened on Ethan’s shoulders. “You are
not stupid
, Slick.”

“It’s not that he took the money,’ Ethan said, babbling now, the pain pouring out of him, a wound that would surely bleed him to death, but he couldn’t stop. “It was that he took the money for
them,
the money for
us
for
them.
” He sobbed again. “And then I feel so awful, because they’re kids, and she’s his wife, and they’re all so beautiful, and I’m—”

The hands on his arms became painful. “
Don’t.
Don’t you even fucking finish that, not even in your head. You’re beautiful, too, Slick.
You.
Fine, they’re cute kids, and she’s a nice wife. He’s the fuckwad who’s gay and thought he could have it both ways.”

“It’s his religion,” Ethan whispered, “He can’t—”

“Do
not
defend him
.
He can so fucking leave his church. Yes, it would be hard. Yes, he’d lose his family. But he’d fucking get to be himself for the first fucking time. He probably was his real self with you, or close, but he was using you, Slick. It wasn’t about you. It was about him. That’s why he took the money. And that’s why it hurts.”

Ethan felt so heavy. He thought he must be having a heart attack, because his chest was so tight, so full of pain that he kept thinking any second he would die, but it just kept going on and on and on.

“It hurts so much,” he whispered.

“I know, baby.” Randy rocked Ethan gently from side to side. “I know. And I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

For several minutes they just sat there on the floor, Ethan wrapped in Randy’s arms, bleeding out. And then they were rising, Randy not quite carrying Ethan but lifting him and doing most of the work, and then they moved through the house and back toward Randy’s bedroom, which Ethan noted, absently, had only sort of been cleaned.

Randy shut the door, reached for a remote on the top of a bookshelf, and took Ethan back into his arms as soft music filled the room.

“You have to cook dinner,” Ethan protested, but weakly, because Randy’s mouth was moving along his jaw toward his ear.

“I have to make love to you first,” Randy said, and he pushed Ethan back onto the bed.

What Ethan remembered most about it later, especially as he stood there tricked out in his pleated trousers and pinpoint ironed shirt and lint-free jacket, smelling like Randy’s soap and aftershave, waiting for Randy’s gangster and part-time lover to come through the door, was how much time Randy had taken with him, how thoroughly and leisurely he had kissed him, had licked him, had loved him. He remembered the maddening patience with which Randy had removed every last piece of their clothing—first Ethan’s and then his own. He remembered the smell of vegetables he’d known every time Randy’s fingers had come near his face, which had been often, because though he explored every crevasse and plane of Ethan’s body, he kept coming back to Ethan’s face, taking it tenderly in his hands before kissing him deeply, tenderly.

Ethan remembered the way Randy had braced an arm behind him, lifting him up so that he could kiss him while he worked lube-slicked fingers inside, opening Ethan with an insistent but careful touch that made his insides yield along with his muscles. When Randy finally slipped inside him, Ethan wrapped his arms around him as he opened himself, taking Randy in above as well as below, and in the middle as well, letting cock and tongue and heart pierce him, taking him deep even before Randy lifted one of Ethan’s legs and pressed it between them. Randy stretched Ethan to his erotic limits as he thrust inside, rough but loving—more loving than Ethan would have asked of him, more loving, probably, than he should receive from a lover of a single day.

This can’t last,
he’d scolded himself.
It’s too fast, too improbable and, above all, too strange.
But he was lonely, and empty, and greedy for what Randy offered him, so he hadn’t resisted at all, just took him, every part of him, body and heart and soul.

Randy had stayed with him awhile after, but Ethan had let him go, knowing he wanted to get back to work. Frankly, Ethan had wanted to be alone with those feelings. He took a long, hot shower and got dressed. Then he stayed in the sanctuary of Randy’s room, sitting on the floor by the door with his back to the wall, staring straight ahead and breathing.

And now it was seven, and the door was opening, and Crabtree was here.

He did not, Ethan thought a bit stiffly, look like Randy’s type at all. Not that he was really in a position to judge that, but still—this man was not for Randy. He was big, too big—he was fat, frankly, and normally Ethan wouldn’t care, but it was something to judge the man on, and he took it. Because there wasn’t anything else, except that maybe he was too old. He looked kind, though, and he was handsome. Ethan had been ready to see a ridiculous creature dressed in a striped suit, but no, Crabtree wore expensive but conservative clothes: gray pants and jacket with a lemon-yellow shirt, and a pink and blue scarf that should have been ridiculous but actually was natty. He did look like Santa Claus, not in a silly way but just in a way, and it suited him.

And yes, Ethan caught the occasional glint of his many gold-capped teeth, and he remembered what Randy had hinted about how they’d gotten there.

Crabtree’s jacket should have made him sweaty in the desert heat, but Randy had turned down the air to near arctic temperatures, and they were all quite comfortable. All except for Mitch, who had come back from the bar still agitated but calmer overall, and who now sat beside his husband, who looked beautiful in a simple suit with a blue shirt beneath his jacket. Mitch looked like an overstuffed piece of pasta inside his tan blazer, but he was quiet, and he behaved.

Randy wore a suit as well: dark gray with a crisp white shirt, no tie, unbuttoned at the collar. He’d shaved and smoothed his hair. He looked as good as the dinner he had prepared, which he served with elegance and panache, laying down beautifully arranged salads—the asparagus spears had been blanched, and he arranged them in five points coming out of the lettuce. He did all this without so much as missing a beat in the conversation, which was almost entirely between himself and Crabtree. It ranged from business at Billy Herod’s to the elections coming up in city government to whether or not it was wise for the casinos to keep putting such deep discounts on their hotel rooms. Ethan just sipped at his wine, mostly, and listened. But he noticed that whenever Crabtree began to engage Ethan, always prying at the edges of his past, Randy swooped in and yanked the conversation back deftly, but with an edge that made him think Randy was telling his former lover to back the fuck off.

And then they reached dessert.

“What is this?” Crabtree demanded when Randy placed a cup of steaming, fragrant coffee before him and the martini glass of dessert. He picked up one of the ladyfingers and glared at it. “
Store-bought
cakes, just in berries?”

Randy, who had leaned over Sam to reach the next martini glass of desert, glared at his guest. “Look, you invite yourself over on short notice, you don’t get the full monty.” He slammed the glass in front of Mitch before placing another in front of Sam.

“Yes, but—” Crabtree snorted and scooped up some of the fluffy white from the side. “Whipped cream
from a can?
”

Randy placed another glass in front of Ethan, but more gently, and as he replied, his tone silky, he rested his hands on Ethan’s shoulders. “Yes. I gave my good stuff to somebody else this time.”

For a second Ethan thought he had to have heard that wrong, that Randy couldn’t possibly have said what he’d thought he just said—and then he heard a choke-snort of laughter and saw Sam, eyes watering and dancing, coughing into his napkin to hide his smile. Mitch didn’t bother, just grinned what could only be called a “shit-eating” grin, and for the first time Ethan realized the expression came from watching someone else eat the shit.

Randy’s hand slid off Ethan’s shoulder, and he went back to the counter to pour the rest of the coffee. Ethan dared, through what courage he couldn’t say, to look up at the gangster at the other end of the table.

Crabtree was looking right back at him, his gaze ten times sharper and more dangerous than any scrutiny Ethan had ever borne under Randy. The gangster was not angry, just studying. Partly out of unease, partly out of sheer weariness, Ethan stared back, and he waited.

For one brief second, he thought he saw Crabtree’s smile. Then it vanished.

“Hmpf,” Crabtree said, then bent his head and focused on his dessert.

Ethan watched him for a second longer, just to be sure whatever had passed between them was fully over, and then he reached for one of the ladyfingers himself, murmuring thanks as Randy set a cup of coffee before him and sat back down again.

After
dessert Randy cleared the table, and Mitch helped him. Ethan tried to help too, but Randy pushed him right back down in his chair. He reappeared with a G&T for Ethan, a beer for Sam, and a scotch neat for Crabtree.

Crabtree took his drink with a nod of acknowledgment, leaned back in his chair and regarded Ethan for several seconds. Ethan tried to meet the stare, but he was suddenly possessed by an image of this man—how had Randy put it?—tying Randy up, and really his mind refused to let that go any farther, but the cost was that he had to look away.

With a quiet chuckle, Crabtree turned to Sam. “So, Mr. Keller. I hear you’ve graduated. Congratulations.”

“That’s Keller-Tedsoe,” Mitch said gruffly as he picked up a plate from the table.

“Ah, yes.” Crabtree threaded his fingers over his stomach. “Graduated and married. Where are you working, son?”

“Valley Hospital.” Sam sipped at his beer. He seemed a little nervous about Crabtree, but it might have just been deference. “I’m going to be working in pediatric oncology.”

Crabtree nodded. He was interested but not at all lecherous, just as Randy had predicted. It was almost as if he were Sam’s grandfather or uncle, showing thoughtful interest. “When do you start?”

“In a week and a half,” Sam said.

Crabtree’s eyes flickered to Mitch. “And the other Keller-Tedsoe—I understand you’ll be traveling to Kentucky soon?”

There was no mistaking the cloud that came over Sam’s face or the chill in Mitch’s reply. “Taking a special order piece of machinery from LA to Bowling Green. Should lead to some good steady contracts in both places later.”

“I see, I see,” Crabtree said. There was a funny tone in his voice as he added, “Will it be an oversized haul?”

Mitch passed a platter to Randy as he shook his head, but Ethan thought he looked slightly wary. “No, it’s regulation. I’ll have to take a particular route because of the weight, though.”

“What will you be bringing back west?” Crabtree asked.

Now there was no mistaking the apprehension in Mitch. “I’ll pick up a contract, probably from the company there.”

He seemed to be tensing for something, but Crabtree said nothing more, just nodded and said, “Good, good.”

Randy picked up the last of the dishes. “Sam, would you take Ethan and go get the table?”

It was an odd question given that they were currently sitting at one, but Sam only nodded and rose, excusing himself quietly to Crabtree, who raised his glass in a silent acknowledgment and continued to lounge in place, untroubled. Ethan didn’t excuse himself, but he found he couldn’t help but nod to the older man as he passed. It was hard not to like him, and even if he hadn’t gotten that earful about his awkward position from Randy, it would have been hard not to show respect. Though the idea that he’d been Randy’s lover did frequently get in his way no matter how he tried to dislodge it.

He pushed Crabtree from his mind and focused on fetching the mystery table, but once he was in Sam and Mitch’s bedroom peering inside the closet, Ethan laughed. Of course. They were fetching the poker table.

It was essentially a regular card table, except that it was an octagon, had a padded rail, and was covered in green felt. A large piece of cardboard cut from the box of a large appliance was propped carefully against the front, clearly to keep the felt from being dinged accidentally from other items in the closet—a real statement, as the front was also placed facing the back of the wall. Ethan followed Sam’s lead and bore the table out carefully into the living room, where Mitch and Randy had already moved aside the coffee table and couch and set the chairs from the dining table around the perimeter, waiting for the table to be set up.

Mitch saw to the setup without being asked, and while he did that Randy brought out three collapsible trays and set them up strategically between the chairs. During all this, Crabtree sat off to the side, watching. But once everything was in place, he rose, took a seat, and with only glances and nods for indicators, he seated the rest of them. He seated Sam on his right, Randy on his left, Ethan to Randy’s left, and Mitch to Sam’s right. Then Randy handed a sealed deck to the gangster, which Crabtree inspected, nodded at in approval, and cracked open.

“Mr. Keller,” Crabtree began, winking at Mitch as he corrected himself before turning back to Sam. “Excuse me. Mr. Keller-Tedsoe. Have I ever told you the Parable of the Cards?”

Mitch made a quiet grunt, and Randy smiled enigmatically and leaned back in his chair.

Sam, too busy watching Crabtree to catch any of this, shook his head. “No, you haven’t.” He grinned a wry, impish grin. “But you did tell me I should never play poker with anyone but you and Randy.” His hand slid over to his husband’s leg. “Well, and Mitch.”

“That’s because you’re practically a book of tells,” Randy murmured, but Crabtree waved a hand to silence him. As he shuffled the deck with a casual and expert hand, he spoke, and Ethan knew immediately where Randy’s lectures came from.

“We divide the deck into numbered and face cards, and so we divide the types of men. The numbered cards are the underlings, the parasites of the world. When you play a man who is a numbered card, he is looking out only for himself, using the game to better himself. But he has no consciousness that others are in the game with him. If you wish to be kind, you can say that these men are the subordinates of the world, but they are parasites all the same. They attach themselves to someone greater, learning if they are young or inexperienced enough, leeching if they are strong or experienced enough to know better but would rather remain weak. They don’t contribute to the world. They only take from it, and if a man remains in this state, he is no better than a sheep. The numbered men should be regarded to be as disposable and interchangeable as the animals they mimic.”

Crabtree bridged the cards, shuffled them together, then continued to pass them over one another between his hands as he went on with his lecture.

“The face card men, now—these are men who have seen the way the world works, and they know that the only way to survive is to kill or be killed. These men, for our analogy, are the cannibals. They drive and lead the parasites, bluffing them into traps and bleeding them when necessary for their own survival or for that of the parasites they have chosen to protect. Or, depending on what level of face card they are, they may bleed them to serve those that they in turn owe allegiance to. This is the way of the world, young man. You may find it harsh or overly simplified. But in the end you will find that these are your choices. You may be a face card, or you may be a number. These are your choices, but the power to choose is yours.”

Ethan said nothing, only watched Sam, who seemed to be considering this carefully.

“Well, I guess I’m a parasite then,” he said, a little chagrined.

Predictably, Mitch did not like this. He grimaced and said, “Just ignore him, Sunshine.”

But Sam was tapping his index finger on the table. “No, it’s okay. I mean, how can I be anything else right now? I’m just out of school, I’m just married, and I’m just starting my first job. And I’m the youngest.” He looked thoughtfully at Ethan. “I don’t know how old you are, but I know you’re older than me. I’m always the youngest now that I’m with Mitch. And I really am dependent on other people.” He tapped his finger again, staring hard at the felt. “But I don’t want to stay there. I hadn’t really thought about it like that, but—” His lips flattened into a determined line. “No. I don’t want to stay there.”

“You’re fine, Sunshine,” Mitch said, and ran a hand down his husband’s back. “You’re just fine the way you are.” He glared at Crabtree. “You don’t have to rush anything.”

“But neither does he need to remain forever where he is,” Crabtree replied.

Mitch grunted and took another drink. Randy was still leaned back in his chair, his finger tracing idly around the edge of his whiskey sour. Ethan studied him a moment, a thought nagging at the back of his mind, something telling him that staring at his lover would bring it to the front of his mind. It did.

He looked at Crabtree. “What about aces? Are they a number card or a face card?”

Crabtree looked pleased. For that matter, so did Randy. Mitch, however, just rolled his eyes.

“Aces are unique,” Crabtree said, “because they can be both a face card and a numbered card. But no matter what they are, they will always be the lowest of the low or the highest of the high—and because of this, they will always be alone. A man who moves from parasite to cannibal moves up a ladder, making an evolutionary progression. An ace is always by his very nature both. He does not evolve, but rather he constantly explores his dual nature. When he leads, he is acutely aware of his underlings, and he is more likely to empathize with them, unable to truly use them with the casualness that his fellow face cards will do. When he is brought low, he is equally aware of the thin veil that separates him from where he is supposed to be, and he sees, often with bitter cruelty, how he and his fellows in servitude should be treated. An ace is seldom truly at home unless he is with his own kind, and many fall into despair and find themselves wedged quite firmly in the low side of their nature. There are few aces in the world, and so most aces, no matter who they are with, feel alone.”

Mitch coughed and shifted in his chair, looking unhappy.

Crabtree resumed his shuffling. “And that, my children, is the Parable of the Cards. Take it to heart, because the secret to life lies within it.” He turned to Randy. “What’s the game? Draw? Seven?”

Randy shook his head and took a sip of his drink. “Hold ’Em. Slick needs the practice, and Seven-Card Stud is too difficult for Peaches.”

Crabtree didn’t appear to like this, but to Ethan’s surprise, he nodded and began to deal. “Would you get the chips please, Randy?”

Randy reached behind him to the drawer of an end table. “Money to the mobster, please. What’s the buy-in, Crabtree?”

“Is one hundred too rich?” Crabtree asked. He was looking at Mitch, who didn’t look irritated at all this time, just shook his head and reached for his wallet.

Ethan’s eyebrows rose. They were actually going to play for money? And that much?

“Limits?” Mitch asked, as he plunked down a wad of twenties in front of Crabtree.

Crabtree looked at Randy. “Well?”

Randy paused with the tray of chips in his lap. “Three/six dollar open, no limit?” Crabtree nodded. Sam looked panicked, and Ethan empathized.