Secrets and High Spirits: Secrets, Book 4 (11 page)

On a completely unrelated note, Bruce asked about Teag’s process of recreating pre-Prohibition mixed drinks. Teag launched into a lengthy and impassioned tale of research and experimentation and building flavors. By then, Bruce had done enough of his own research to follow. Fortunately, Teag had had the wisdom to record his results electronically and promised to give Bruce a copy.

On Wednesday, Detective Lipkin called to let Bruce know their place wasn’t under a police seal anymore.

“Thank God,” Bruce said, relieved. He’d been worried he’d have to cancel on Erik again. “Did you find anything?”

“All I can tell you is that there are no dead bodies under your floorboards,” Lipkin replied.

“Did you rip up the floor?” Bruce asked in a fit of panic. Surely, the police wouldn’t do such a thing without talking to him and Teag first. Or would they? Teag would be pissed.

“No. We have dogs for the job.” Lipkin’s words were like aloe to a burn.

“Oh, right, cadaver dogs.” Bruce mentally slapped his forehead.

As soon as the detective signed off, Bruce dialed Teag, but Teag already had the news from Lipkin’s partner. He too sounded relieved and promised to be at the Blue Parrot early on Saturday morning. Bruce had secretly hoped to see him sooner but didn’t push.

On Thursday afternoon, Bruce got a call from Toby, and they arranged to meet for drinks at a place called Perch in Downtown. Bruce had never been there before, but understood the aptness of the name on arrival—Perch was like a garden patio, fifteen floors above street level. Casting his gaze around, he spotted Toby waving from his seat right by the clear glass railing.

“I hope you’re not acrophobic,” Toby said with his trademark roguish grin. He was a short, slender man with a tan and wrinkled face and not much hair, which he made up for in the form of a salt-and-pepper goatee. All in all, he resembled a prune. God only knew what made him irresistible to scores of young men, but Bruce had seen it in person. They flocked to him like moths to a flame.

“I’m good. If I confess to arachnophobia, will you invite me to a spider-themed bar next?” Bruce joked as he parked himself on a wicker chair with thick cushions.

Toby pursed his lips in suppressed laughter, but the lines around his eyes gave him away. His lighthearted spirit constantly bubbling under the surface, ready for pranks and all sorts of naughtiness, might very well have been his allure. “Oh no, not at all. If I shall play the villain, I assure you I’ll go about it with far more originality. Are you really afraid of spiders, by the way?”

“Not in the least,” Bruce assured him. “You have something for me?”

“Do I? I have all sorts of juicy bits here.” Toby tapped the black, leather-bound notebook in his lap.

A waitress swept in to ask if Toby needed his drink refreshed—he did—and if Bruce wanted one of his own. She and Toby seemed on familiar terms, and she laughed and blushed at his shameless flirting. Bruce ordered a beer.

“You old goat,” Bruce said, once she was safely out of hearing distance. “You’re not even into women.”

Toby flicked his wrist. “She knows it.”

“Then why say those outrageous things?”

“To liven up her day, of course. And she’s a lovely girl. She knows I’m a harmless old goat, and we have a good time pretending.”

Bruce suspected Toby would’ve been less harmless if she was a he, but accepted Toby’s reasoning. Toby was a born charmer.

Their drinks arrived, and during their transfer, Toby managed to kiss the tips of the waitress’s fingers and called her a sublime handmaiden of Bacchus. She departed delightedly scandalized, and Toby turned his attention back to Bruce. He raised his glass. “Cheers!”

Bruce clinked his bottle to Toby’s glass. “You said something about juicy bits.”

Toby leaned forward. “This stays between the two of us, understood?”

“And Teag.”

Caution ghosted Toby’s expression. “Can he keep a secret? This is a toothsome two-page Sunday-edition story. If anyone else snatches it up, I’ll be pissed.”

“I trust him explicitly.”

“All right.” He flipped the notebook open but barely glanced at it. He clearly knew the contents by memory. “Here are the facts as I found them: Quinn Worton was born in 1914 in Chicago, into an affluent family. Father, Horace Worton, was in finances. Mother, Philippa, was distantly related to General Robert E. Lee. A respectable lady, hostess of delightful parties and such, no doubt. Younger sister, Lydia. By all indications, they lived a life of comfort and luxury until 1929, when the stock market crashed and they lost everything. Father killed himself. Fairly banal but not unusual story for the times.”

“How do you find out all this stuff?” Bruce asked, duly impressed. It had taken him almost a day to dig up one little news article, and finding Cecil Goodchild was pure luck.

Toby waved his hand airily. “It’s all a matter of public record. You just have to know where to dig. Frankly, my dear, your wonderment stabs me in the heart. As if you expected any less from this old fox.”

Bruce snickered. “Nice act, but I know for a fact you don’t have a heart. You only break hearts.”

“If you’re referring to my sporadic young companions, I can assure you their hearts are safe from me. Shall I go on?”

“Please do,” Bruce said, not wanting to debate Toby’s interpretation of the word
sporadic
.

“Where did I leave off?” Toby glimpsed at his notes. “Ah, there it is—Young Quinn Worton. In 1939, when the Japanese bombed Pearl Harbor, our man worked as a humble file clerk at a law firm.” Toby looked at Bruce, head bowed in a fashion that would’ve been more professor-ish only if he wore glasses. “By the way, did you know that initially the United States was only at war with Japan? It was Hitler who declared war on the US first. If it wasn’t for his hubris, the US might never have entered the European front.”

“I had no idea,” Bruce admitted. “Thank you for making me a smarter person.”

Toby gave a self-satisfied smile. “Very well. Back to our principal characters. Despite being an able-bodied young man, Quinn escaped the draft for years, possibly because he was the sole support of his mother and sister. He was finally conscripted in 1943—just in time to take part in the invasion of Normandy.” He looked up. “You’re probably wondering where this is going.”

“A little,” Bruce admitted. “But I’m sure you’ll get to the point in your own sweet time. I’m in no hurry.”

“Patience is your most admirable trait.” Toby turned his gaze back to his notes. “Let’s see…here it is. Ogden McGinty was a local boy—born and raised in Inglewood. Couldn’t be more different from Quinn: five years older, served a two-year stretch in Folsom.”

“The prison?”

“None other. You see, our friend Ogden was a safecracker by profession, if you can call it a profession, and why not? He avoided going to the slammer for a second time only by ratting out his partners in crime. He joined the army quite possibly to avoid retribution.”

“Let me guess, Quinn and Ogden served in the same unit.”

Toby nodded. “The 4th Infantry Division. Obvious, isn’t it? I know, it all starts sounding like one of those old movies with William Holden or James Coburn. As you correctly guessed, Quinn and Ogden fought their way across half of Europe together. Quinn advanced to the rank of Master Sergeant, but Ogden never got beyond corporal, despite a bronze star. Disciplinary issues. They must’ve formed some sort of bond, however, because they both ended up in Los Angeles in 1947, now as civilians.” Toby’s brows twitched with impending intrigue. “Now here comes the interesting part. While they didn’t have two pennies between them to rub together when they joined up, after the war, Quinn had enough cash to open a bar.”

“Were they business partners?”

“No. Ogden preferred to spend his money on the races. Ponies, dogs.”

“Goats,” Bruce added, remembering the photo.

“Apparently. I managed to locate and talk to his daughter. Rosemary McGinty described dear daddy as a—and I quote—wastrel.”

Bruce hadn’t expected a daughter. “Ogden was married?”

“Briefly.”

“Heh. Any idea how they came to be so flush with money?”

Toby reached for his glass. “Your guess is as good as mine. Rosemary McGinty had no useful suggestion. But she suspects it couldn’t have been anything savory. I don’t expect we’ll ever find out.”

“Okay, so Quinn and Og probably brought back something valuable from Europe, sold it and settled in LA. For a while, Quinn runs the bar, and Og proceeds to pickle his liver in whiskey sours at Quinn’s expense. Then Og dies, and a few months later, Quinn disappears,” Bruce summed up the story so far.

“I checked on Ogden’s death certificate—heart failure. Though, if it wasn’t for his ticker, his liver would’ve finished him in a few short years.” Toby sipped his drink, showing disregard for the state of his own liver.

“Not a surprise.”

“No. Quinn, however, now he’s a mystery. After Ogden’s passing, Quinn sold his home, took a large loan against the bar and cashed it, and well…that’s it. No sign of him again anywhere I looked. He simply vanished like Amelia Earhart over the Pacific.”

“How odd,” Bruce said, a touch disappointed.

Toby nodded. “It is indeed, but wherever he went or whatever he did, one thing’s certain—by now, he’s as dead as Ogden. I found out another interesting detail when I visited your old pal.”

“Cecil?”

“Delightful old man, full of stories. I plan to excavate the depth of his memories and soon. Regarding our little mystery, he recalled a detail he’d omitted while talking to you.”

“Oh?”

“When Quinn disappeared, so did Ogden’s barstool.”

“The what?” Bruce nearly choked on the sip of beer he’d been unwisely trying to swallow.

“You heard me right. Cecil had learned about this when he’d run into a bartender who used to work at the Blue Parrot. He also instructed me to tell you this—he might have misremembered Ogden’s comment. It’s possible Ogden didn’t say they never knew what was
under their feet
, but what they were
sitting on
. Interesting, eh?” Toby shut the notebook.

Bruce was furiously thinking. “But…it makes no sense. Let’s say they hide something valuable inside the seat. Why not simply slash it open and take the loot? Why take the entire damn stool? You saw the photos. The stools were bolted to the floor.”

“My bafflement exactly. Maybe whatever was valuable wasn’t in the seat? I’ll continue ferreting around for information about Quinn, but my expectations are low. In any event, an unsolved puzzle is probably more to your benefit than a solved one. It’ll add an ambiance of mystery to the new old Blue Parrot.”

Bruce sighed with resignation. “I suppose so. If only we managed to finish the renovations already.”

“Oh, that reminds me, what are your plans for the front entrance? I saw it’s boarded up at the moment.”

“Teag is hell-bent on remaking the original facade.”

“Excellent! I have a great idea for an article: We recreate the photo from the old article with you and Teag and Cecil Goodchild in the middle. And a goat. Leave the goat to me—I know an animal trainer.”

“Quinn wasn’t even in that photo,” Bruce pointed out.

Toby did an exasperated little shake of his head. “You don’t have to be so literal. There will be three men and a goat.”

“I’ll have to ask Teag about the goat,” Bruce grumbled.

“You do that.”

C
hapter Nine

T
eag was making cosmos and chocolate martinis for a table of five when he caught the discreet ding of his phone from under the cash register—Purlieux uniforms had no pockets to keep phones in. As soon as he was done, he checked the message and saw it was from Bruce.
Have big news,
it said. Teag handed the reins over to Eddie and excused himself for a bathroom break. But instead, he ducked into the locker room.

“What is it?” he asked as soon as Bruce answered the call. He didn’t even bother with hello.

Bruce took no offense. “How would you like to hear a riveting but rambling story without a proper ending?” His voice bubbled with poorly concealed and highly contagious excitement.

“Someone turned
Twin Peaks
into a radio play?” Teag quipped without thinking.

“Zinger! Sadly, no, but we can dream. This one’s almost as good, though. My friend Toby dug up some interesting stuff on our predecessors.”

“Quinn and Og?” Teag asked, distracted, pretty sure he was hearing Martin with one of the waiters in the hallway.

“Yes, indeed. You got time?” Bruce asked.

“Sadly, no. Not right now.” It was definitely Martin outside. “Friday nights are busy.” It was Teag’s last day, to be sure, but no way was he going to blow it off. It was a matter of pride.

“I tell you what. Why don’t I pick you up after work and tell you all over dinner? I know it’ll be kinda late, but I know an all-night diner in Koreatown. Best kimchi burger you ever had.”

Teag considered the suggestion. The kimchi burger was tempting, but he wasn’t sure he wanted to hear the story at a busy diner at midnight. Not to mention, he and Bruce both needed to get up early tomorrow to meet Erik, the electrician. But what were the alternatives? “Uhm…” he started, not quite sure himself of what he was about to say. “How about I just stop by your place on my way home?” he asked very, very casually.

There was a silence of three heartbeats. “Sure, that’ll work too,” Bruce replied.

And it was done. Teag rushed back to his post and told himself that inviting himself into Bruce’s lair…ehrm, home was simply logical. They’d been getting along nice lately. Bruce hadn’t shown any sign of wishing to break their agreement of non-involvement. There would be no blowjobs tonight.

And even if there were, would it be the end of the world? Surely not. Two men who liked each other, more or less, could have casual sex without wrecking their professional partnership. Right? And he had to admit, Bruce was very skillful with his mouth and tongue. That past encounter with them took root in Teag’s memory like dandelion in grass.

And he really had to get his mind off blowjobs and back to work. His uniform pants left nary a thing to the imagination.

I
t wasn’t in Bruce’s nature to fret and fuss, but even he wasn’t immune to the tension of anticipation. He had hours to kill, but fortunately also had a few pounds of defrosted tart cherries on hand in need of pitting, macerating and putting into jars. He made detailed notes of each individual batch and diligently labeled the jars.

Working thus also gave him the opportunity to mull over the situation and make plans. One thing was sure, he wouldn’t repeat his disastrous mistake from last time. He’d be strictly hands-off, mouth-off and everything-off, keeping their encounter strictly professional. As he’d promised.

“Do you need a safe place to park your scooter? There’s a spot under the fire escape,” Bruce offered when Teag finally arrived.

Teag shook his head. “Nah. I took the bus. My sister’s pulling a double shift tonight, so she can pick me up in a couple of hours.”

“Good. Those things are death traps on wheels.”

“Really? I would’ve pictured you on a Harley.” Teag’s tone was as arch as his brows.

Bruce shook his head. “You couldn’t catch me dead on one of those things. I prefer four solid wheels on the ground.”

“The wonders never cease,” Teag muttered and looked around the multipurpose room as if seeing it for the first time.

“Excuse the mess,” Bruce said, gesturing at the desk where a clutter of books and notepads surrounded his laptop. “I’ve been doing some research.”

“Oh really?” Teag flopped onto the sofa. “Into what?”

“Maraschinos. Let me show you.” He scuttled off to the kitchen and returned with three jars, which he put in front of Teag on the coffee table, before taking the chair.

Teag opened each lid and sniffed the contents. “Homemade maraschinos?”

“Yup. Dylan mentioned how…ehrm…passionate you feel about them in general, and would use only some really pricy variety yourself. So I figured I’d look into making them while the bar was under police lockdown.”

“Dylan talks a lot, doesn’t he?” Teag’s eyes narrowed with suspicion

“One of his most endearing qualities,” Bruce agreed, skirting around danger. “I had to use frozen cherries, of course, since fresh ones won’t be in season till July. I looked into where to get them, and it looks much more complicated than I’d expected.”

“Oh?”

“Hardly anyone grows them in California—something to do with the climate. Easiest would be to get them from Utah, but apparently the ones grown there are sweeter than the ones in the Midwest, but tart cherries don’t do well in long transport, plus the expense. I’d like to go through the options with you sometime.”

Teag was impressed. “You really thought about this.”

“Well, I’m not just a pretty face,” Bruce joked.

“I’m starting to realize that.” Teag’s own face took on a pinkish hue. “Oh! I have something for you.” He dug into his pocket and pulled out a USB drive. “My collection of retrofitted recipes.”

Bruce took the drive, clutched it in his fist and thumped his fist over his heart in a dramatic fashion. “I’ll guard it with my life.”

Teag chuckled. “Careful what you say. We own a haunted bar, remember? God knows what’ll happen next.”

“Good point.”

“You have my permission to reveal my mixology secrets at gunpoint.”

“Phew.” Bruce stood and placed the drive on top of the laptop. “I’ll need some practice with these before we open.”

“Hm. How about we take a week once the bar is stocked to get on the same page?”

“Sounds good. Hey, I have an idea. We should have a soft opening with friends and family only. Kinda like a dress rehearsal.”

Teag took a moment to mull over the suggestion. “I like it. We could also invite everyone who helped with the renovation.”

“All right, we’re in agreement. Can I get you a drink? Since you’re not driving?”

“Sure, why not. What do you have?”

“Wait and see.” Bruce retreated to the kitchen and returned a short time later with two frosty martini glasses. “I present to you the new appletini,” he said, beaming as he held one of the glasses to Teag. A thin wedge of apple clung to its rim.

Teag held up the glass and surveyed its contents with a critical eye. The liquid was pale yellow-green and semitransparent—no neon green glow of Apple Pucker. He took a sip, and Bruce held his breath, waiting for the verdict. “Ginger. And lime,” Teag said and took a longer sip. “This is nice. I mean it. Did you use fresh apples?”

Bruce exhaled. “But of course. And ginger-infused vodka—I made it myself.”

“Well, if there ever was a spirit fit to be infused, it’s vodka. But I’m still putting my foot down at vodka and Red Bull—that abomination shall not disgrace our bar.”

“Fine with me. If the customer wants a pick-me-up, there are all sorts of coffee cocktails.”

“Don’t tell me—you’re already infusing vodka with coffee beans.”

“How did you know?”

“A guess. So what about this story you promised me? I want to hear it.”

“Certainly. May I refresh you drink first?”

Teag squinted at his almost-empty glass.
How did that happen?
“Oh, why not.” He downed the dredges and handed the glass to Bruce.

B
y the time Bruce finished the perplexing story of Quinn and Og, they were on their third improved appletinis. Their culminated effect gave both the room and Teag’s mood a warm glow. “What an odd duo,” he ruminated. “I wonder what brought them together.”

“Circumstances? Necessity and a common goal?” Bruce’s eyelids dropped to half-mast so Teag couldn’t quite make out the tone of his gaze hiding in the shadows of his lashes. “Just look at us. When we first met, you couldn’t stand me.”

“First time we met, you snapped at me and Leo and called us vultures,” Teag said defensively.

“True, and I apologize again. You, though…” Bruce uncurled his index finger from around the stem of his glass and pointed it at Teag. “You have something personal against me. Do I remind you of an ex or something?”

“Absolutely not!” Teag had never been with anyone like Bruce. For better or worse.

“Then what did you mean when you said you knew
my type
? And what is my type, anyway?”

Teag had to think for a moment, first to recall when he said those words, then to try to figure out why exactly. “Well, you know, big, tattooed guys who push others around,” he said vaguely first, but then got his footing as a more specific example came to mind. “Like those kids at school who were bullying others and shoving them into their lockers.”

“Were there a lot of tattooed kids in your school?” Bruce asked in a mildly mocking tone.

“No, of course not. But I’m sure they’ve gotten inked by now. There was especially one kid—I swear, even the teachers were afraid of him.”

“Was it high school?”

Teag thought back. “Eighth grade through eleventh. He owned every kid of the same grade and lower, and half the kids above.”

Bruce’s lips twitched. “Was his name Bruce, by chance?”

“Nah. Bill.” Teag was surprised how easily the kid’s name came to him.

“Ah.”

Teag didn’t know how Bruce did it, get him riled up with one little sound. He felt the need to explain himself. “He used to make me so angry. I just wanted to…”

“Cut him down to size? Show him who was boss?”

Yes, Teag had to admit, maybe he had preexisting prejudices. Bruce smirking like a cat who taught the canary a lesson didn’t improve the situation. He frowned at Bruce. “Okay, you’re definitely smug now.”

Bruce seemed to bask in Teag’s vexation. “Uh-huh. Tell me more about your fantasies about this guy. Was he hot?”

“Who said I had fantasies?” Teag parried, but a flash of heat engulfed him from his chest to the top of his head.

“Didn’t you?” Bruce asked with the self-satisfied expression of a man who already knew the answer.

Teag wanted to… He squeezed his eyes together and tried not to think about the things he wanted to do to the smug bastard. Then he opened them and took a real good look at the mountain of muscle and inked manliness stretched out in the chair.
Truth or dare
, he told himself. “Why are you sitting way over there?”

“Keeping our relationship professional.”

Teag snorted. “Remember what you said last time?”

“Which last time?”

“Last time here.”

“More or less.” Bruce slid his empty glass onto the table without taking his eyes off Teag.

Teag took a deep breath and took the plunge. “Okay, so it’s your turn. Say what’s really on your mind. No reproaches, no repercussions.”

Bruce squinted. “Anything?”

“The truth.”

“The truth is, you’re the hottest thing on legs I’ve met in a long time. Especially when you let go of the preconceptions holding you back.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Has anyone ever called you bossy?”

“Frequently.”

“Well, you’re not bossy enough. Not the right way. When I was a kid, I used to fantasize about comic book heroes. Superman, Batman, Wolverine. Especially Wolverine. In my fantasies, they captured and did unspeakable things to me. At the time, I didn’t quite know what those things were, but I was sure they were very dirty.”

“But—”

“I don’t look the part?”

“No, you don’t.”

“Imagine my predicament. It’s hard enough to find someone man enough to take on someone who looks like me.”

“I don’t think I’m the type.”

Bruce huffed. “There you go again with types. It has nothing to do with physical size and all with attitude, and you, my diminutive friend, have it in spades.”

Diminutive?
Teag was average height. The heat started somewhere deep inside him and rose with the steady inevitability of lava from a ruptured volcano. “You talk too much,” he heard himself say in a gravelly tone. He stood, took two steps forward and, with his hands on his hips, towered over the still-seated Bruce.

The change in Bruce’s expression was minute yet complete. His eyes became big and dark, and his lips parted in a silent exhale. His upturned face radiated surrender and the suspense of anticipation.

Teag knew in his bones he was in charge, Bruce would do anything he asked, anything he commanded. The extraordinary rush of desire seizing him came with an equally extraordinary calm. He wanted everything, to have Bruce every which way and more, but there was no rush.

He reached out and touched his thumb to Bruce’s lower lip, eliciting a shudder. As the digit dragged on plump flesh, it slipped inside and met a moist tongue. Teag pulled his saliva-slicked finger out and rubbed the wetness over Bruce’s lip.

Bruce groaned, and his fingers clenched like talons into the armrest, but otherwise, he remained motionless. Someone must’ve trained him well. Teag felt a stab of irrational jealousy toward this bygone stranger. “Your mouth is mine to fuck,” he claimed, as if addressing all men who dared to do the same before him. With one hand, he unzipped himself. The other, he placed on Bruce’s shorn head and guided it to his groin.

Bruce opened his mouth wide and swallowed Teag’s cock all the way down, choking a little but not trying to pull away. He made desperate, whimpering sounds as Teag fucked his face. His fingers dug deep into the armrest; his whole body strained not to move.

“No,” was all Teag said to this unspoken plea. He wanted to keep Bruce at the edge of desire, without the touch of relief as long as possible. But he also wanted more than just a blowjob. He looked around. The chair Bruce still occupied didn’t have enough heft for what he planned. The couch was a big, bulky thing, but too low. The bed, however, rose atypically high—just perfect.