Secrets and High Spirits: Secrets, Book 4 (8 page)

Bruce tore his gaze away and gestured at the selection of clothes. He swiveled his chair so he’d face the window, but every pore of his being was focused on the sounds behind him. Damp towel dropping on the floor; faint swish of fabric. Not much, but in his mind, he saw the naked figure bending, stretching, muscles flexing under smooth skin. He desperately needed to adjust himself, but he didn’t dare move. “All right,” he heard at last and spun the chair back.

Teag stood in the middle of the room in stocking feet. The shirt hung below his waist, and he’d had to roll up the legs of the pants.

A chortle escaped Bruce. “Looking good.”

Teag narrowed his eyes but said nothing, visibly stuck between the obligation to be thankful and the desire to retort.

What would he say if he’d let go, Bruce wondered. “Do you really think I’m smug?” Bruce stood and took a step forward.

Teag blinked, and his eyes widened. “Nnno… Not exactly.”

“Then why did you say it?” Another step.

For a second, Teag swayed between opposing urges of flight and fight, but then he stood his ground. “I don’t know. Apparently, I have no control over what comes out of my mouth around you.” His face flushed in synch with the burst of heat Bruce felt on his own.

But Bruce skirted the trap of double entendres and salacious quips. “Control is a big thing for you, isn’t it.” Another step, and they were face-to-face.

Teag frowned. “Do you really think I’m uptight?”

“Yes.” Ignoring signs of disgruntlement from Teag’s direction, he went on. “You’re tenser than a man about to walk the plank because you keep such a tight grasp on yourself. What are you afraid of?”

“I’m not afraid.”

“Really? Then tell me, what’s on your mind right now?”

“You want me to say something to hold over my head later.”

Bruce shook his head. “No. Say whatever you want. No reproaches, no repercussions. I swear.” Teag’s lips pressed into a razor-thin line, but his eyes grew ever darker. “C’mon. What would you do, what would you say right now, in this moment, if you dared to let go?”

Bruce’s insides turned slowly to jelly watching the shift—it started with Teag’s eyes but gradually encompassed his whole body. Nervous, uncertain irritation melted, giving way to a confident and commanding stance.

The growl came from deep inside Teag’s chest and coalesced into sharp, brash words. “On your knees. NOW.” With a dizzying intake of breath, Bruce dropped to his knees and stared up, waiting for further commands. Teag pulled one end of the string keeping his borrowed sweatpants up, and the knot came loose. The pants slipped to his ankles and his cock sprang forward in its unabashed glory. “Suck it, big boy.”

It was all the encouragement Bruce needed. Teag had a fine cock, good size but not overly large. A treat to wrap one’s lips around. Bruce started slow, teasing and savoring the textures and flavors, but Teag grunted discontent, dug his fingers into Bruce’s hair and held firm while he thrust his hips forward.

Unable to resist the urge any longer, Bruce popped the buttons of his fly open and took himself in hand. It was a hasty and frantic affair, Bruce wanking furiously while Teag fucked his mouth with single-minded purpose.

Bruce moaned with his release, his forehead resting against Teag’s thigh, Teag’s come still trickling down his throat and dribbling on his chin. Sadly, even in his postcoital fog, he knew the minute Teag’s fingers released their hold that Teag was pulling away again, retreating.
Shit
.

The drive to Purlieux was fairly short, and that was about the most positive thing to be said about it. Teag made as if deeply absorbed in matters of great importance were unfolding on his phone, even if it meant reading the same spam email three times. He responded to Bruce’s attempt at conversation only with noncommittal grunts, and, thank heavens, Bruce gave up after a couple of tries.

When the truck finally pulled up behind the nightclub, Teag hastily said good-bye and rushed through the employees’ entrance.

Saying he was troubled would’ve been putting it mildly. His thoughts and emotions were stuck on spin cycle. What he and Bruce had done… Well, a blowjob, no biggie, right? But he hadn’t been so…forceful with anyone, ever. It so wasn’t him. He’d prided himself on being a considerate lover. Unselfish. But Bruce had brought some primitive caveman out of him, and all he’d wanted was to show Bruce who was the boss. He knew it had been wrong, but it had felt disturbingly good.

Damn the man!
The memory of the rush of excitement as he’d fucked Bruce’s mouth—it made him feel ashamed and dirty. He was furious at Bruce for goading him into it in the first place. It must’ve been part of some twisted mind games. But at the same time, the memory of all that masculine power under his control made goose bumps race up and down his skin.

Even Eddie, his replacement-in-training, noticed his distracted state. “Are you all right?” he asked.

“I’m fine. Why do you ask?” Teag bluffed.

“You just put crème de menthe in the chocolate martini.”

“Shit.” Teag dumped the drink. “Can you take over? I need five.”

“Sure thing, man. Go,” Eddie said, already reaching for the ice.

Grabbing his phone from under the cash register, Teag dashed into the employees’ locker room, hoping to be alone for a few minutes and screw his head back on straight.

There was a message from Leo. Leo, who was an exact opposite of Bruce—nice, tattoo-free, agreeable, friendly, sensible. Bland. But in a good way, right? Someone who Teag wouldn’t in a million years want to fuck roughly against the wall in a dark alley. And where the hell did that idea even come from? Fucking hell, he needed brain bleach.

Whenever an annoying song got stuck in Teag’s head, he’d flushed it by listening to music he actually liked. He figured the same approach should work with men. He texted Leo:
Can you pick me up after work?
Leo’s eager yes arrived within a minute.

Teag girded his loins and dialed a different number. “Hello there, boss.” Bruce’s voice filled the air like fine wood dust.

“Are you sanding?” Teag asked reflexively.

“Yup. Second pass. I want to get it done today. What can I do you for?”

“Right. What we did earlier…”

“You mean me sucking your dick like it was a lollipop?”

Teag was glad Bruce couldn’t see him going red. “Yes. It was a strictly one-time deal. I hope you understand.”

“No, not really.”

Even though Bruce sounded more baffled than belligerent, Teag was in no mood for long arguments. “We’re planning to run a business together—it’s not a good idea to mix in sex. We need to keep a professional relationship.”

“You sound very sure.”

“I know what I want.”

“Do you really?”

“Yes.”

“As you wish.”

Teag heard the whine of the sander come on even before Bruce hung up on him. This had been too easy. He’d expected more resistance from the man, more fight. Something to work up a righteous indignation over. The easy victory had stolen the wind out of his sails.
Damn the man
.

B
ruce had zero intention of give up so easily. But he had to admit the oral assault had been the wrong approach. He knew from firsthand experience how hard it was to accept certain truths about yourself when they went against the grain of everything you’d been taught. Someone as tightly wound as Teag couldn’t give in to his own secret desires so easily. But they were there, Bruce knew that now for sure.

He spent the rest of the day sanding the floor with finer and finer grit sanding disks, and trying to figure out how to approach Teag now. The monotony of the work and the buzz of the machine proved most stimulating. He should proceed the old-fashioned way, he decided, slowly but steadily courting the object of his desire. Prove first he wasn’t a threat, and find common ground.

Teag was into the classic, pre-Prohibition bar stuff, and Bruce had already started reading up on the subject. The craft cocktail movement had been gaining popularity, and while Bruce hadn’t paid much mind, he had no objection to it either. However, to dazzle Teag, he needed something more special than learning the basics of a subject Teag was doubtlessly expert on.

By the time he finished and swept up most of the dust, he had a plan of action. He rolled the heavyweight builder’s paper out till it covered the entire floor. He even put blue painter’s tape over the edges so nobody would trip over them and rip off the protective covering. As he stood in the doorway, surveying the room, a sense of accomplishment and optimism for the future flooded him. The bar would open soon, and he’d find a way to loosen those tight reins Teag kept on himself.

With his phone, he took a photo of the floor and sent it to Teag, hoping it would be received as the peace offering he meant it to be. The reply arrived some twenty minutes later:
See you Saturday a.m
.

Bruce ignored the prick of disappointment.
Patience, Grasshopper
. His buddy Erik would be here on Saturday to take care of the electrical, and there wasn’t much else to do till then. They’d been working hard and could give themselves the next two days off. Perfect. He had so much to do.

C
hapter Six

T
eag spent the last couple of hours of his shift in a much improved state of mind. Not quite at peace, but he managed not to mess up any more drinks. After work, he didn’t bother to change. The idea of putting on Bruce’s clothes didn’t appeal. So he left the restaurant still in his skintight black pants and white shirt. He hadn’t even taken the bow tie off.

Leo was in the parking lot behind Purlieux. He beamed like a halogen lamp as Teag slipped onto the soft leather seat of the Beemer. “You look sexy.”

A twinge of annoyance came and went. Teag knew that being eye-candy was as important a part of his job description as being able to mix drinks. But unlike Dylan, he didn’t revel in being the focus of everyone’s drooling attention. It was silly, though, to get mad at Leo, who was not your usual slobbering customer. It must’ve been Bruce still on his mind to make him so touchy.
Damn the man
. He wanted to— No, he didn’t.

Teag gave Leo a tired smile. “Thanks. I’m worn out, though. This doing the renovation, then going to work is murder. I feel like I could sleep for a week.” At least he had a couple of easy days ahead of him—until Saturday, at least.

They spent an amiable time driving back to Eagle Rock, chatting about renovations, the housing market, the importance of having the right contractors to do stuff like plumbing and wiring. As Teag slumped deeper into the soft embrace of the seat, he said less and less, but Leo picked up the slack and nattered on. When they arrived, he leaned across the seat and pressed his lips to Teag’s.

The kiss was inoffensive, and Teag returned it, but when Leo slipped a hand into Teag’s lap, Teag broke the contact. “I’m truly tired.”
And too old for fumbling handjobs in cars
, he added to himself. Most of all, he wanted to do it properly with Leo, go slow. “Tomorrow’s my night off at the restaurant. Want to have dinner?”

Leo, who—unlike some other men—wasn’t a Neanderthal, drew back obligingly. “Where do you want to go?” he asked with an easy smile.

“Surprise me.”

“I accept the challenge. I’ll pick you up at six.”

“It’s a date.” Teag hopped out of the car and, with a final wave, walked up to his sister’s house.

Helen was still up, watching one of the late-night talk shows. She muted the TV as he tromped in and slumped onto a comfy arm chair. “You look like the main event after an especially busy bachelorette party,” she said, taking in the sight of his work uniform.

“Har-har. I’m beat, Sis, and I’m taking tomorrow off. Bruce can handle it alone for a couple of days.” The earlier text to Bruce sprang from the desire not to see the man for a couple of days, but he needed the rest. “How was your day?”

She snorted. “It must be a full moon or something, because we were twice as busy as usual. Stabbings, a shooting, car accidents. On top of everything, the costumed characters in front of the Chinese Theatre got into a fight with each other and a group of tourists who wouldn’t tip for their photos. We had a concussed Chewbacca, two people from Idaho who needed stitches, and Dumbledore almost died again. The knife the stormtrooper pulled on him barely missed an artery. It was all on the evening news.”

“Crazy.”

“You’re telling me.”

B
ruce started early on Thursday by firing up his laptop and plunging straight into Google. He quickly found out that Blue Parrot also happened to be the name of a popular gaming headset. Not remotely useful. The second discovery was the sheer number of bars across the country called Blue Parrot. However, he found zero information about the one in Hollywood, no matter what combination of search words he used.

Along the way, he discovered that the painted bird on their wall was probably a hyacinth macaw—he filed this information away for later. The final and last lesson he learned was that if he kept up long enough, all Internet searches eventually led to either YouTube or X-tube.

Frustrated over the wasted hours, he took a lunch break and contemplated his options. The original Blue Parrot had predated the Internet by about half a century, so no wonder he hadn’t found anything, but there had to be some sort of documentation of its existence somewhere. Right? If nothing else, property records. Down at City Hall, perhaps? There was one person among Bruce’s friends and acquaintances who’d know where to look, being a journalist of the old-school variety.

Bruce was about to dial Toby Thurgood when one last idea popped into his head—probably because he was thinking of newspapers. Old issues of the Los Angeles Times must’ve been kept in archives at the Central Library. The question was whether on microfiche, or if they’d been digitized.

The latter, he found out quickly and to his relief. To get access to them, he had to get a library membership first, but it took only a minute through the website.

Unfortunately, searching for a needle in the haystack of articles, ads and announcements going back to the nineteen-twenties was only marginally less tedious than googling. But he kept to it doggedly, and his perseverance earned him a reward at last. A tiny one in the form of a police report from March 1950.

HOLLYWOOD
—
Police arrested William Johnson, 28, who attempted to rob the Blue Parrot bar this afternoon. Johnson entered the bar through the front door carrying a single-barrel sawed-off shotgun. He demanded that bartender Alvin B. Smith, 42, hand over all the cash from the register. He also took the wallets of customers Derrick G. Carlyle, 46, and Cecil Y. Goodchild, 23. A third customer, Velma Kincaid, 38, unnoticed by the gunman, exited through the back door and ran for help. The arriving police found the robber disarmed and subdued by bar owner, Quinn Worton, 36.

It wasn’t much. If someone had gotten shot, the article doubtlessly would’ve been longer, with more detail, perhaps even a photo. But at least Bruce had the identity of the owner—Quinn Worton—and a few more names. Considering the ages given, Cecil Y. Goodchild and maybe the robber himself could still be around and kicking. Bruce tossed William Johnson aside—name too common and wasn’t likely to have been a regular.

Goodchild had to be 84 if he was still alive, but he had a nice, uncommon name, and this gave Bruce a jigger of hope. Bruce turned to Google again, but only to get a list of people-finder sites. He tried several with no results, but the fourth one delivered. The site provided not only an address and phone number for one Cecil Goodchild, but also age (80-85) and previous addresses, complete with Google maps. It was kinda scary.

Bruce dialed the number, still half expecting a dead end, so to speak, but a raspy-voiced old man answered. Cecil Goodchild was more than a little surprised by Bruce’s inquiry, but happily agreed to see him that afternoon.

T
he assisted living facility on Chandler Boulevard looked a lot like the army of apartment buildings lining both sides of the street, only with more old folks loitering in the lobby.

Ignoring the elevator, Bruce jogged up to the second floor and knocked on the door of apartment 206.

Cecil Goodchild had a face like the topographic map of the Smoky Mountains and scant white fuzz on the top of his skull, but his eyes had a lively sparkle to them. He was clearly thrilled to have Bruce there, and to rehash the old days. “My goodness, the Blue Parrot. Those were some merry old times. Come on, sit down.” He waved Bruce to one of the chairs flanking a small table. He tottered to the other one and gingerly lowered himself into it. “What spurred you to dig into such ancient history, young man?”

Bruce took the offered seat. “My partner and I bought a commercial building in Hollywood to turn it into a bar, and during renovation, we uncovered a parrot painting with the name. You can imagine how surprised we were to learn the location used to be a bar once. And we thought it would be cool to learn more, but it’s been a long time—you have no idea how glad I am to have found you. I’d love to hear anything you have to tell about the old place.”

Cecil nodded and folded his bony hands in his lap. “Long time indeed. I was a young man back then, working as a stagehand at Pantages Theatre. After a show, we customarily stopped at the Frolic Room or the Blue Parrot for a drink or two. You know, to unwind and spend time with the other boys and girls.” He winked.

“The Frolic Room is famous, but I’ve never heard of the Blue Parrot before.”

“That’s because the Parrot closed in sixty-five. Or was it in sixty-four? Big cities have short memories. Back in the day, the Parrot was just as popular. Maybe even more. Because of Quinn, of course.”

“Quinn Worton, the owner?”

“Yeah, he was a real character, like I haven’t seen since, and I’ve met lots of Hollywood types in my life. There were all sorts of rumors about him.”

Bruce’s curiosity hit a high point at something juicy he could bring back to Teag. “What kind of rumors?”

Cecil gave a conspiratory smile. “Some folks swore Quinn used to be a gangster back East. Ronny Park reckoned Quinn was a hit man for the Chicago outfit, cooling his heels in Los Angeles under a fake name. I personally didn’t give much credence to this blarney, because if I was a mobster trying to hide, I wouldn’t be opening a bar in Hollywood. You know what I mean?”

“You got a point there,” Bruce agreed.

“Now, other theories put Quinn in Normandy on D-day, and he was the right age for it too. Though nobody could agree if he was a paratrooper or an infantry man. But all agreed Quinn had seen some heavy stuff in the ward and did God knows what himself. Like he shot prisoners of war and such.”

“You think it was true?”

Cecil’s shoulder twitched in a feeble attempt at a shrug. “It was a war. Many things happen in a war. I don’t even know if Quinn served, but he must have. Quinn scarcely ever said more than three words in a row, but he had a presence. A true hard edge to the way he’d look at you. If you told me he’d cut some German’s throat in cold blood, I would’ve believed you. Quinn was that kinda guy. Like that robbery you found the article about.”

“I’d love to hear how it went down,” Bruce said.

Cecil rubbed his right earlobe, and it clearly helped him to remember. “I wasn’t even supposed to be there, but I ran into Derrick on the street. He and I were old buddies but hadn’t seen each other for a while. He insisted on buying me a beer. He had a bird with him.”

“Velma Kincaid?” Bruce asked after a moment of confusion over the term
bird
.

“Yeah, Velma, that was her name. Not a spring chicken, mind you, but a fine bird still. Red hair and curves to make a man’s mouth water…” The old man trailed off, eyes clouding with memories.

“So you went to the Blue Parrot,” Bruce prodded, feeling a little guilty over interrupting the old guy’s reminiscing.

Cecil blinked the fog away. “We were the only customers. The place just opened. Velma went off to powder her nose while Derrick and I were catching up, when that thug came in. He wanted our money, and he had a shotgun, so we gave it to him. Never argue with a man with a gun, I always say. And the guy was sort of twitchy. The sooner he left, the better, I thought.”

“But Quinn overpowered him somehow?”

“He sure did. Eeriest thing I’d ever seen. Quinn came from the kitchen, and of course the thug waved the shotgun around and demanded money. Quinn, though, he wasn’t scared at all. His eyes got like… I dunno… Very cold, like freeze-your-blood-in-your-veins cold. He took three steps, grabbed the barrel with one hand and slugged the guy on the jaw with the other. The hoodlum fell over, just like that. Quinn punched his lights out.”

“It must’ve taken some guts. Quinn could’ve gotten killed.”

“Well, he wasn’t scared at all, only angry. Even angrier when it turned out Velma called the cops. I’m telling you, the robber was lucky the police took him away. God knows what Quinn would’ve done to him.”

“Tough guy.”

“No shit. He and Og made a strange pair.”

“Og?”

“Ogden, but everyone called him Og. He and Quinn knew each other somehow, from a long way back, maybe from the war. I don’t know, because as much as Og liked to talk, he never said a damn word about Quinn. It was the one subject he’d never touch. Of course, it made the enigma of Quinn all the thicker.”

“Then how can you be sure they’d known each other before?”

“Because Og drank free,” Cecil crowed triumphantly. “Quinn never gave out a free drink or held a tab for anyone. You could’ve been Cary Grant and he still would’ve made you pay. But Og never put down a dime, and he was there every night drinking whiskey sours. No matter how early you went in or how late you left, Og was sitting on his stool at the very end of the bar.” Cecil wrinkled his brow. “Come to think of it, he was there during the robbery, passed out over the counter.” He shook his head. “Can’t say if he was starting early or sleeping off the night before. He might have even spent the night there, for all I know. I never saw him leave or arrive.”

The memory of the witch woman with her spinning crystal crept into Bruce’s mind. He recalled Mme. Layla standing close to the wall, the once-ago bar marked by the lighter wood at her feet. “Did you say Og always sat at the end? Always the same place?”

“Yes. You know, as the bar curves.” Cecil made a gesture indicating the curve. “The very last stool by the wall. He only left to use the can. Nobody else took his stool, even after he died.”

“That’s some devotion,” Bruce joked.

“I’ll say. He even died there,” Cecil announced with glee.

“Did he really?” This was getting very interesting.

Cecil nodded. “I was there that night too. You could say I spent a lot of time at the Blue Parrot. Og was slumped over the counter, and we all thought he was napping. By the time we realized he was sleeping the big sleep—as the saying goes—he’d been dead for an hour at least.”

“It must’ve been a shock to you.”

“Well, a surprise, I admit, but not exactly a bombshell, considering the amount of hooch Og put away. And nothing could’ve been more fitting than him passing away right there where he spent most of his time. Even after he died…”

“Yes?”

Cecil hesitated and rubbed his ear again. “Well, I don’t want you to think I’m superstitious, but it was like he hadn’t quite left. I would sit there drinking, having a conversation, and see Og at his spot and think nothing of it at first, but then I’d remember that Og was dead. So I’d look again, and I’d see nothing out of the ordinary. And I wasn’t the only one to whom this happened either. Strangest thing—you could see Og only when you weren’t looking.”