The Dark Farewell (11 page)
It was increasingly warm inside the barn as people got up to dance. Half the men were in their
shirtsleeves by now, and Flynn loosened his tie and slipped out of his jacket, hanging it on the back of his chair.
Julian raised eyebrows at this lack of decorum.
“Half the fellas in this place have their jackets off,” Flynn observed.
The people around them seemed like a cross-section—although there were no old people—an even
mix of middle-aged couples and bright-eyed kids. Some of them, especially the girls, looked way too young to have been served hooch in a saloon, but nobody was asking questions at the Dance and Dine Inn.
Scattered here and there were a few single guys hoping to meet the girl of their dreams or getting up the nerve to shell out cash to the ladies of the evening casually strolling about or demurely seated by twos and threes near the edge of the room.
Flynn could easily pass for such young men. Julian…Flynn glanced across the table. Julian was
staring alertly at the crowded dance floor as though these were the fascinating customs of South Sea Islanders.
Flynn felt an odd surge of emotion. Amusement? Affection? He wasn’t sure.
A muted cornet sang out over the chattering crowd, and a good imitation of Paul Whiteman’s version
of “If I Could Be With You” rang off the rafters of the old barn.
The drinks were strong and the music was good but suddenly Flynn was wondering what the hell they
were doing there.
Julian sipped his drink. His lashes lifted and he gave Flynn such a direct, naked look that Flynn’s
heart seemed to leap and then seize.
A scream—more of a squeal—broke the spell. Flynn spotted two young men at the edge of the dance
floor flailing away at each other. Close by was a would-be vamp in a red dress wringing her hands and yelling at them.
Before the knights errant could do much damage, two rough-looking country boys in their first ties
and jackets came sailing across the empty dance floor and yanked the combatants apart.
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Josh Lanyon
One of the portly Saint Louis-type gangsters, cigar clamped tightly between his teeth, joined them,
and it was clear even from across the tables what was happening.
Flynn opened his mouth and Julian said, “Yes. Let’s go.”
Flynn shrugged back into his jacket, and they made their way through the crowded tables.
The tenor on the bandstand started a song made familiar to Flynn from the war. A few of the boys at
the tables began to sing. That impromptu male chorus sent a funny chill down his spine as he and Julian strolled out through the wide doorway into the warm moonlight. The voices faded behind them.
There’s a long, long trail a-winding
Into the land of my dreams,
Where the nightingale is singing
And the pale moon beams.
There’s a long, long night of waiting
Until my dreams all come true,
Till the day when I’ll be going down
That long, long trail with you.
60
Chapter Seven
The Model T jogged and bounced across the mowed field, past the hoods in the straw hats, down the
gravel drive, and then they were on the main highway headed back for Herrin. Julian scooted over in the seat next to Flynn. The wind whipped his hair back from his forehead. He was smiling that private smile.
Despite the ripe golden moon hanging low in the sky, it was dark and the road was mostly deserted.
Flynn took a chance, pulled Julian closer and put his arm around him. Julian snuggled nearer, the heat of his body warming Flynn all down one side of his body.
“I like this.” Julian’s warm breath against his ear sent shivers across Flynn’s scalp. “I like flying through the darkness like an arrow in the night.”
“Do you know how to drive?”
Julian shook his head.
“I’ll teach you,” Flynn said recklessly. “It’s not hard.”
There was a funny pause and Julian faced forward in his seat again. After a moment, he said, “I don’t expect we’ll be here long enough for that.”
It caught Flynn off guard. He should have expected it; of course The Magnificent Belloc would not be staying long in any one place. That wouldn’t be lucrative. Or wise. He was only here for a short while himself.
“When are you leaving?”
“Monday morning.”
Flynn nodded. He didn’t know what to say.
The bobbing headlights stabbed into the pitch-black night, and the breeze felt good against his face as they sped along. The wall of woods flashed by, tree trunks white in the headlights.
By the time they crossed the bridge over Crab Orchard Creek, Julian was back to business, his nimble fingers caressing Flynn’s crotch, making it difficult to keep an eye out for deer or other wildlife.
He risked a glance at Julian’s bent profile. Even in that poor light he could see Julian was smiling.
Julian’s lashes lifted. He murmured, “Flynn, stop the car.”
As though he’d been waiting for that signal, Flynn yanked the wheel and the Model T bounded to a
rough idling halt on the dirt turn-off. He turned off the engine, the lights winking out. It was only the two of them sitting in the dark, listening to the breeze whispering in the leaves of the wall of trees a yard or so away. In the distance a fox was barking.
Josh Lanyon
“Come on.” Julian vaulted out of the automobile, waiting till Flynn followed. Frogs croaked
accompaniment to the crunch of their footsteps as they crossed the clearing to the shelter of the trees.
Flynn glanced uneasily over his shoulder at the car sitting in the moonlight. The road was dark and
empty both ways for as far as he could see. He ducked under the low branches.
Julian had found a soft place beneath the trees and ferns. They undressed and lay down in the cool
grass and wild mint. The pleasure of coming together, naked and unfettered, was almost unbearably sweet.
They held each close and kissed without haste or fear.
“Let’s try it this way,” Julian said abruptly, sitting up.
“What?” But Flynn followed Julian’s silent command. They stretched out alongside each other, cock
to mouth, mouth to cock. It was far too dark to see anything beyond the pale outline of the other, so they were reduced to a kind of night writing, a sensual brailing as they touched and tasted, fingertips tracing, lips exploring the textures of silky hair and smooth skin, of bones and muscles, teeth and fingernails, nipples, eyelashes, balls…everything seemed fantastic and unknown in the Delphian shadows scented of sex and
damp earth and decaying leaves.
At last they settled down to it, hot, wet mouths closing over each other’s rigid hardness. It was
unreasonably difficult to concentrate on anything but the intense pleasure building in his groin and swelling cock, but Flynn tried. He tried to give as good as he was getting—what he was getting was very good
indeed. Julian used everything from his warm breath to the slick tip of his tongue. He sucked hard and fiercely and then so soft and sweetly…
It was torture and delight to have this done to him at the same time he was trying to return the favor, growing hot inside and out, skin glazing with honey dew. Flynn buried his face in Julian’s crotch and breathed in the damp, musky male scent. He traced his tongue around Julian’s balls, and they were tender as sweetmeats, sweet as cherry cordials, those sweet intoxicating sacs…
Julian made a strangled sound but kept pulling and sucking like a trooper, and the great, rolling wave far out in the distance built speed, growing in height, a wall of pleasured release sweeping inland, knocking down all restraint, all thought, all considerations. That tidal wave of wild delight crashed into Flynn, washed him along in its powerful current. There was nothing like it, flooding him from the ends of his hair to the soles of his feet.
And at the same time he became aware that he had burst the cherry, a wet, salty-sweet rush filled his mouth, like tears of laughter or life-bringing primordial tide. He sucked and gasped for breath and sucked some more.
Later they lay entwined, hearts calming, breath evening, and watched the fireflies flickering overhead and heat lightning flashing along the distant ivory clouds to the south. The only sounds were the crickets and the katydids and the faint splash of the river far behind the trees.
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The Dark Farewell
The river’s keening song reminded Flynn that a madman was prowling only a few miles away, and
that it might not be wise to linger. He kissed Julian’s warm, salty mouth. “We ought to think about getting along home.”
“I wish we could stay here all night,” Julian murmured.
“Be more comfortable in my bedroom.”
Julian shook his head. “Not tonight.
Grand-père
will be watching.”
“How can you live like that?”
Julian said calmly, “People live however they must.”
“Why don’t you tell him you don’t want to perform anymore? Take your money and go open your
café.”
He was shaking his head.
“Why not?”
“It’s not that simple.”
“Why shouldn’t it be?”
Julian said irritably, “In case you haven’t noticed, I don’t actually
know
how to run a café. I can’t read or write or cook. I know how to do one thing.”
“Con people?” Flynn hadn’t meant to say that, it slipped out.
Julian pulled out of his arms and sat up. He said in a silky tone that raised the hair on the back of Flynn’s neck, “Oh, it’s not all a con. I could tell you things if I wanted to.”
“What things?” Flynn was sitting too, reaching automatically for his trousers.
Julian didn’t answer, and he repeated harshly, “What things?”
Julian was on his feet now, dressing quickly, ignoring Flynn. He said finally, “I know you don’t think so, but it helps people to say farewell to their loved ones.”
“But they’re not saying farewell to their loved ones. You’re making it all up. You’re pretending
you’re hearing voices.”
“Sometimes I am hearing the voices.”
“But most of the time you’re not, you admitted it today to the sheriff. Most of the time you’re lying to them.”
Julian made a small sound of contempt. “Oh, you’re so smart, Mr. Big City Newspaper Man, and yet
you don’t understand the simplest thing. Didn’t you ever notice funerals aren’t for the dead? They’re for the
living
.”
He slipped his shoes on and started back for the flivver.
Flynn caught him up in a few steps, fingers sinking into Julian’s arm. “What do you mean, you could
tell me things if you wanted to?”
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Josh Lanyon
Julian stared at him. In the weird moonlight his eyes looked like the black holes in a skull. Flynn
dropped his arm.
Julian said in a low, spiteful tone, “Do you really want me to contact Paul for you? Are you
sure
you want to know what he would say?”
“You
sonofabitch
.” Flynn leaped forward, fist raised, and Julian stepped warily back. Flynn grabbed him by his shirt collar, but at the last minute he shoved him down rather than punching him in the face.
Julian sprawled on the ground. Half propped on an elbow, he stared up at Flynn. He said mockingly,
“That’s what I thought.”
“I should let you walk back to town.” Flynn turned away. He crossed the clearing in long, angry
strides to where the Model T sat outlined in silver moonlight. Behind the trees the night sky flashed with lightning, like an electrical short behind a purple black curtain.
Climbing inside, he slammed the door and waited. Julian joined him a few moments later, brushing
his clothes down.
Flynn cupped the crank handle, started the engine. Neither spoke on the rest of the drive back to
Herrin.
~ * ~
It was late when Flynn woke on Saturday morning. He had a bad headache and his body ached as
though he’d been rolling around on pebbles all night. For a time he lay there wincing as he thought over the events at the shank of the evening.
The fan on the dresser was still droning. A light rain had left the morning cool and fresh. His anger seemed a distant, vague thing now. He was ashamed of having shoved Julian.
He washed his hands and face and followed the smell of coffee down the hallway to the kitchen where
Amy was sitting on her own. She looked up and smiled at him.
“How about some flapjacks? I still have batter left.”
“Sounds good.” Flynn dropped down at the big maple table, avoiding looking directly at the bright
sunlight flooding through the open window How could birds be
so
loud?
“You all didn’t drop in on one of those illegal roadhouses last night, by any chance?” Amy inquired, readying the heavy iron skillet.
“Perish the thought.”
Amy chuckled sentimentally. “Now if Mrs. Hoyt were still with us, she’d be dishing up the Demon
Rum sermon right about now.”
“It was more like Demon Gin.” Flynn asked belatedly, “How’s Joan today?”
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The Dark Farewell
“Poor kid.” Amy flicked water on the skillet and the beads sizzled. She poured the batter into the pan.
“She’s taking it hard. She hasn’t got anyone here. There’s an aunt in Missouri. She’ll be coming out for the funeral I guess. She could stay on at the house, of course. Joan, I mean.”
Amy went on chattering about Joan and Joan’s future. Flynn listened with half an ear. What he really wanted—and dreaded—was to ask about Julian. The words wouldn’t come.
He realized that Amy had fallen silent. Her back was to him as she flipped the flapjacks in the hot
skillet with brisk efficiency.
Flynn stared at the wide, comfortable outline of her. He said, surprising himself, “I’m sorry I didn’t come down after Gus died. I should have been here. To pay my respects.”
