Chapter Eight
Harry had unsettling dreams, but that was nothing new. At least nobody came to complain that he’d been shouting in his sleep. And when he saw that John had again filled out overnight, his cheeks losing some gauntness and his yellow hair less sparse, Harry wasn’t even surprised.
“You figure if I helped, you could walk to the car? It’s just a few steps from the door.”
John smiled broadly. “I can try.”
As it turned out, Harry had to bear most of John’s weight, but at least John remained upright, his bare feet moving slowly over carpet and then pavement. No way was Harry going to stuff him into the trunk again. They had only a short drive, and if anyone saw John in the passenger seat, they’d probably assume he was a sick man. He no longer resembled a corpse.
John was surprised and delighted to ride up front. “I can look out the windows?” he asked when Harry got into the car. As if it was a big deal. As if it required permission.
“Sure.”
John remained silent during the trip, his gaze tracking their surroundings. By the time they arrived at the house, he looked stunned. “There’s so much to see, Harry! I don’t… I don’t even have names for half of it.”
To Harry, the scenery had been ordinary. Cars. Houses. Shops. Bushes. Some pedestrians splashing down wet sidewalks.
The journey from car to front door was longer at the house than at the motel, and Harry had to nearly carry John up the three steps to the porch. But they made it inside okay. Harry left John on the living room couch while he went out to fetch his suitcase. He returned to find John smiling as he stroked the salmon-colored fabric.
“Meets with your approval?” Harry asked.
“This is what a home looks like. I knew the word but I didn’t… I didn’t understand.”
“It’s just a few rented rooms.” But Harry had an inkling of what John meant. Even though Harry had just arrived and knew he wouldn’t stay for long, this little place felt as if it fit him. None of the boarding houses in LA had felt like that. Hell, neither had the house he grew up in.
“Look, I gotta do some things today. But hang on.” He hurried into the bedroom, returning a moment later with one of John’s new outfits and the book Harry had bought the day before. He set them on the couch beside John. “Those are yours.”
John’s eyes widened. “Mine?”
“Yeah. My clothes don’t fit you. And I thought you might get bored while I’m out, so….”
“I’ve never owned anything.”
Harry shifted uncomfortably. “Now you do.”
“I can’t express…. Thank you.”
Were those tears glittering in John’s eyes? Surely not. Monsters couldn’t cry.
“You can stay on the couch if you want, or there’s a bed in the other room. Can you make it there all right if I ain’t here? You can lean on the walls.” Harry hadn’t given much thought to their sleeping arrangements, actually, but there was no reason why John should stick to the couch when Harry wasn’t home.
“I think so,” John said.
“Fine. If anyone comes to the door, don’t answer. Pretend nobody’s home. But if the landlady comes by—she shouldn’t, but I guess you never know—I told her you’re my cousin. I’m taking care of you while you’re sick.”
John reached up to gently stroke his own face. “She won’t be able to tell what I am?”
“Not unless she looks real close. You’re, um, looking more human, you know?”
“But I’m not human.”
Harry shrugged.
***
It would have been nice if Harry could have simply knocked on Swan’s front door and asked him where he kept the reanimated corpses, but of course that wouldn’t do. Townsend and the other Bureau agents had coached him thoroughly. Take a restrained approach, they said. Get him interested in you first, then pull the details from him. Harry had been skeptical about this plan. For one thing, subtlety wasn’t exactly his strongpoint; he didn’t have the smarts for it. And for another, Swan was going to have to swallow some big assumptions. But in the end, the agents had eroded Harry’s protests. They were the professionals. They knew better than some dumb kid from Missouri.
So today Harry began the roundabout plan by getting a better feel for the city. He parked his car downtown and spent hours tromping around in the light rain, stopping now and then to warm up with a cup of coffee. The Bureau had given him addresses of a few businesses that Swan frequented—a couple of theaters, some bars, a bathhouse—but they wouldn’t open until evening. Harry strolled by them now, wanting to see the outsides and surroundings in the daylight.
When Harry had received the list, he’d been surprised that a city as small as Portland had so many businesses catering to queers and that they seemed to operate more openly than similar establishments in LA. Townsend had explained that Portland officials took a more guarded approach to homosexuals, preferring to have them out in the open rather than hiding from constant raids. Besides, Portland had long been a city where men—loggers, sailors, soldiers—came in search of a little company, and the town fathers must have figured there was good money to be made off of those lonely men.
What would it be like to live in a city where a guy could show his affection for other men openly—at least in carefully selected venues? Maybe if Harry had grown up in a place like that, he wouldn’t have needed to flee. But queerness wasn’t the only demon haunting him, so maybe he’d have run anyway.
And haunting was a good word. Wandering the streets of this gray city, Harry felt like a ghost. Nobody knew him. Nobody spoke to him or spared him a glance. When it came down to it, the only people in the whole damned state who knew Harry existed were Mrs. Reynolds and the dead man waiting for him at home. Wasn’t that a gas.
Only when Harry’s rambles took him to skid row did he feel any kinship to the people he saw. Here men and a few women, each layered in dirty clothes, huddled in doorways or came reeling out of taverns, drunk even though it wasn’t yet dinnertime. The rooming houses looked familiar too. Crumbling buildings where you could rent a cramped, dirty room for a night or two. Maybe you’d consider yourself lucky to at least have a roof over your head.
Not long before the sun set, Harry returned home. John was on the couch, wearing the clothes Harry had bought him, and he greeted Harry with a sunny smile. “The books are wonderful. Thank you.”
Before John, nobody had ever expressed gratitude to Harry. Nobody had ever seemed happy to see him. Harry didn’t know what to do with the warm feelings that resulted, so he scowled and dropped a newspaper onto the couch. “Picked this up today. Guess you can read it too.” Then he went to the kitchen to make himself some dinner.
He couldn’t even remember the last time he’d fixed a meal, and now he found it comforting to putter around the kitchen, searching for the right utensils, chopping carrots and potatoes, cutting up and seasoning a chicken. As a child, the only time he ate chicken was when one of his mother’s hens grew too old to lay. Even stewed for hours, those birds remained tough. But this grocery store chicken looked young and tender. Harry slid the roasting pan into the oven, licking his lips in anticipation of the impending feast.
While dinner cooked, he sat on a hard kitchen chair, sipping Nescafé and watching raindrops course down the window.
His chicken dinner was delicious—even better than he’d expected. But it felt odd to sit and eat alone, knowing John sat in the next room by himself.
After putting the leftovers into the refrigerator, Harry washed the dishes and put them away. Another nice, homey task, although slightly jarring to do by himself. Back in Missouri, washing up was the kids’ group task, which sometimes devolved into battles with soapsuds and towels if his father wasn’t around.
In the bedroom, Harry changed into his flashy new suit. He’d never owned anything so nice or so expensive, and he spent some time admiring his reflection in the mirror. If a stranger saw him dressed like this, he’d assume Harry was a successful young man. One with a high school degree and maybe even some college, with a steady job and lots of friends. It was a good disguise.
Before leaving, Harry stepped into the living room. John had moved to an armchair, where he sat in the darkness with a book in his lap.
“I might be home late,” said Harry.
“All right.”
Harry fidgeted just inside the doorway. “What’ll you do while I’m gone?”
“What do you want me to do?”
“I don’t care.” Then Harry pictured him remaining unmoving for hours. With an unhappy huff, Harry marched across the room and switched on the lamp next to John’s chair. “You can turn lights on and off, can’t you?”
“If you permit it.”
“I…. Shit. I don’t care. Look, just don’t leave the house and don’t answer the door. Don’t wreck anything. Don’t be noisy. Other than that, do what you want.”
Wide-eyed, John nodded at him. “Thank you.”
Harry walked to the entryway, where he donned the nice coat and fedora he’d bought in LA. He should have been focused on finding Swan, but as he got in the car and drove away, his thoughts remained firmly on John. Could a creature like John feel boredom? Loneliness?
Maybe in the morning Harry would buy a little radio to keep at the house.
***
According to the Bureau, Swan often visited two downtown movie theaters. Each of them had a balcony where men met other men. Honestly, Harry was curious to see this, but those dark, cramped quarters were probably not the best place to look for his target. He’d try the bars instead.
The Harbor Club stood at the corner of First and Yamhill. Although a sign on the door proclaimed it off limits and out of bounds to armed forces personnel, the main floor didn’t appear sordid. A long bar with stools ran most of the length of the room, and small tables dotted the tiled floor. The well-dressed men and women inside sipped cocktails and laughed easily. In the back corner near the stairway, a man played the piano. Nothing seemed unusual at first glance, although a closer look revealed that, for the most part, men sat with men, women with women. And many of them were just a bit too close. Here and there a man’s arm lay draped over his companion’s shoulders, or two women held hands.
Harry stepped up to the bar and caught the eye of a burly bartender.
“What’ll it be, Mac?”
“Just a Coca-Cola, please.” In response to the barman’s lifted eyebrows, Harry shrugged. “I’m on the wagon.” It was an excuse he’d used before, and it wasn’t exactly a lie—if you ignored the fact that he’d never been off the wagon. In any case, it seemed good enough now. The bartender poured the bottle into a glass and handed it to Harry, who gave him a dime and told him to keep the change.
Glass in hand, Harry prowled the floor. The agents at the Bureau had shown him several photos of Swan, but none of the men at the Harbor Club resembled him. They didn’t mind Harry’s close scrutiny, though, and many of them eyed him back. Several smiled, and a few even beckoned, but Harry continued his slow circling.
He noticed a few customers—all of them men—going up and down the back stairs, some alone and others in pairs. Heart beating fast, Harry climbed.
There were few lights in the mezzanine, and cigarette smoke collected there, turning the dark air murky. Sounds rose from the corners and edges: moans, skin moving against fabric and skin, soft laughter. Many of the couples were too engrossed in what they were doing to notice Harry as he strolled by, but some of the men looked at him hungrily, their expressions propositioning and challenging. One or two even called to him.
He’d seen similar scenes at Westlake Park, but the activity there hadn’t been as concentrated or the scents—booze, smoke, sweat, the musk of male sex—so evident. Harry moved through the mezzanine as if in a dream, his head swimming and his cock hard. Nobody he saw resembled Swan.
When he descended to the main floor, another circuit proved fruitless. He left his half-full glass on a table and hurried out the door, then stood at the corner and gulped the cold, clean air. Maybe Townsend was right; maybe Harry wasn’t cut out to be an agent. He couldn’t even keep himself together during a simple walk through a cocktail lounge.
The next place on his list was Kokich’s Tavern up on Ninth, several blocks away. Instead of driving, he walked and was glad for it; the exercise helped refresh him. This bar turned out to be smaller than the Harbor Club and less upscale. Only men here, and they drank beer and shots instead of cocktails. They looked as if they spent their days hauling goods or building houses. Here the interactions were more subdued—just men talking quietly to each other across a table or on adjacent stools. There was no mezzanine, and although some of the men may have fucked in the bathroom, they were discreet about it.
Swan wasn’t at Kokich’s either.
The third stop lay a few blocks north, near Twelfth and Stark, in the lobby of the Willamette Hotel. The hotel had probably once been grand but now looked past its prime, with faded wallpaper and dusty chandeliers. The bar was nice, though. Dark wood and well-polished brass, the colorful carpet only a little threadbare, the bartender and waiters in tuxedos. Again, all the customers were male, but they were better-dressed than Kokich’s patrons. Older on the average too. They smoked and drank and spoke in subdued tones.
Harry spied Swan almost at once. He sat at the bar, his coat and hat on the stool beside him. He wore a gray pinstriped suit with a white shirt and a gray-and-blue patterned tie. His light brown hair, slicked carefully into place, showed gray near the temples, and his thin face with high cheekbones was more handsome than the photos had implied. Swan rested his right elbow on the bar, a cigarette held between two fingers. His gaze caught Harry’s, and Swan didn’t look away.
Although Harry felt terribly awkward, he feigned casualness as he crossed the room. He even put an extra touch of swagger in his stride. The best way to catch a perp is to make him want to catch you. That advice was from one of the Bureau’s agents, and Harry kept it in mind, imagining himself as desirable and hoping it showed through. He was like a male version of Lana Turner or Rita Hayworth, he told himself—sexy, a little dangerous. Irresistible.
Maybe the self-coaching worked, because Swan wasn’t the only guy who kept his eyes on Harry.
After reaching the far end of the room, Harry hung his coat and hat on a rack and sat in a red upholstered chair at a nearby table. A waiter took his order for a club soda—Harry was tired of Coke—and brought the drink promptly. Harry nursed it, wishing he smoked, furrowing his brow as if he were solving all the world’s problems.
When he glanced up, a smiling Swan stood beside the table holding two glasses of amber liquid.
Damn. As easy as that. But only the first step, Harry warned himself.
“May I join you?” Swan’s voice was deeper than his slender frame suggested.
Harry shrugged. “Suit yourself.”
“Thank you.” Swan set the glasses on the table. Although he moved with delicacy and grace, his handshake was as firm as a teamster’s. “Arthur Swan.”
“I’m Harry Lowe.” Townsend told him to use his real name. No real reason not to, and it was easier than remembering an alias.
“Delighted.” Swan sat opposite him and pushed one of the glasses closer to Harry. “Please allow me to buy you a drink.”
Harry wanted to tell him that he never drank. But if Harry refused, Swan might reject him, in which case Harry had no idea how to make the next move. So he nodded his thanks, clinked glasses with Swan in a silent toast, and took a sip.
“You’re not a fan of bourbon?” Swan sounded amused rather than annoyed.
“I just ain’t….” Harry winced. “I’m not used to it. I’m from a dry county.” He was pleased with himself for manufacturing that lie on the spot.
“Then allow me to get you something that will go down more easily.” Before Harry could protest, Swan was on his way to the bar, where he had a conversation with the bartender. Swan returned several minutes later with a stemmed glass containing a darker liquid topped by a lighter one.
“What’s this?” The contents of the warm glass smelled like coffee.
“Just try it. Drink it right through the layer of cream.”
Harry did, and… it wasn’t bad. It tasted of coffee, sweet but with an underlying kick he assumed was the liquor. His second swallow was more confident.
Swan leaned back in his chair. “Ah. I see I’ve found the right note for you, Mr. Lowe. Or may I call you Harry?”
“Harry’s fine.”
Smiling, Swan finished his own bourbon, reached for Harry’s rejected glass, and took a healthy slug. “So tell me, Harry. Where is this dry county from which you originate, and what brings you to the City of Roses?”
This line of questioning felt comfortable; Harry had practiced it with the agents. “I’m from Missouri.”
“The Show-Me State.” For some reason Swan seemed amused by this. “Excellent.”
“I suppose. But I’ve been in California for a little while. Los Angeles.”
“Let me guess. You migrated in hopes of obtaining employment in the motion picture business.”
“Yeah. How’d you know?”
“With a beautiful face such as yours, it seems a natural choice.” Swan tilted his head, reminding Harry of the hawks that perched on power lines at home, scanning the fields for prey. “You were not as successful as you’d hoped?”
“My goals changed. I… met someone.”
“Ah. What sort of someone?”
Harry took a large swallow before answering. “A man. He and I were… like-minded, right? He had some money. He hired me as his personal assistant.”
Swan was rubbing the heels of his hands together. He leaned forward. “How personal, Harry?”
“Real personal.”
“I see.”
While Swan regarded him, Harry finished his drink. The liquor still burned, but less so by now. When the glass was empty, Swan turned slightly and signaled to the bartender, then resumed staring at Harry. “You’ve answered only part of my question. How did you get from sunny California to the sodden Northwest?”
“The man, my… employer? He died. Car wreck.” Harry bit his lip and let his head droop. His version of sorrow must have looked authentic, because Swan reached across the table to lay his hand over Harry’s. An onlooker might have interpreted it as a sympathetic gesture, but it felt possessive. And Swan’s hand was cold.
When the waiter appeared a moment later with another drink for Harry, he didn’t show any surprise that they were touching. Harry immediately took a long sip, burning his tongue in the process, but he didn’t pull his hand from Swan’s grip.
“What happened after your mentor passed away?” Swan finally asked.
“He left me a little money. Not a lot—I guess his family got most of it—but some. Plus his most precious possession.” Harry cut his eyes to the side slyly, as if he had a delicious secret, and then he forced a grin. “I decided to come up here for a fresh start. Too many memories in LA. Now I’m settling in a little. Hoping to get to know some people.” He downed all the rest of his drink in one burning draught.
Swan squeezed Harry’s hand and finally let go. “Well, look. You’ve succeeded at that already, haven’t you? We’re getting to know each other quite nicely.”
“I don’t know anything about you.”
“Oh, there’s not much to know. I was born and raised here. I attended college back East of course—Yale—but returned to my hometown. Portland is not a cosmopolitan city, but it has its charms. Now that you’re here, it has one more.”
Lana Turner, Harry reminded himself. He tried for the type of mysterious smile she’d have when pursued by a handsome older man. “What do you do for a living, Mr. Swan?”
“Please, it’s Arthur. I have investments. But I like to fancy myself a scientist and inventor.”
Harry widened his eyes and bent closer. “Really? Mr. Lord—my boss—he did that too.”
“What sort of work did he pursue?”
“Um… biology?” He twitched as if he were nervous—which didn’t take much acting, really. “I’m not supposed to talk about it. How about if you tell me about Portland instead?”
Although Swan looked slightly peeved, that expression fled quickly, replaced by a smooth smile. “I’d be delighted. But you need another drink first.”
After that, Swan went on at length about restaurants and mountains, about the coast, about the best places to shop and his favorite theaters. Harry did a lot of smiling and nodding, but the words flowed meaninglessly over him, especially after he began his fourth drink. Irish coffee. That’s what Swan said they were called.
“I gotta piss,” Harry said suddenly, interrupting a monologue about Swan’s travels in New York City. He stood on shaky legs, looked around blearily, and spied the sign for the gents. He managed to make it all the way without tripping, which he considered quite an accomplishment.
But after he’d zipped up his fly and as he held his hands under the faucet, the bathroom door opened and Swan sailed in. In this light, brighter than the bar, his pallor seemed as profound as John’s and his brown eyes less human. He waited for Harry to dry his hands. Then Swan maneuvered Harry’s back against the door and pressed against him, pinning him in place. Swan captured Harry’s head between his hands and leaned down for a fierce kiss.
Harry had fucked other men, but he’d rarely kissed them; he’d never much wanted to. He didn’t want to kiss Swan either, but the alcohol messed with his head and made him weak, so he didn’t resist. Besides, wasn’t it his goal to get close to this man?
Swan pulled away at last, then traced a thumb across Harry’s lower lip. “Delicious.”
“I… I….”
“No, no need to be alarmed. I only wanted a taste. For tonight, at any rate. I find that a meal is all the more savored when one must wait for it. But I couldn’t help but sneak a bit of an appetizer.”
“I ain’t your dinner.”
Swan stroked him again. “Of course not.” He took a step backward and straightened his jacket and cuffs. “In fact, I propose we meet tomorrow evening for a shared repast. Have you been to Huber’s yet?”
“No.”
“I’ll meet you there at seven.” One last touch, this time to Harry’s cheek, and Swan left.
Harry stayed in the bathroom for some time. He leaned against a wall and then, gathering himself enough to move, splashed cold water on his face. When he emerged into the bar, he saw no sign of Swan. But the man must have paid the bill before he left, because the waiter and bartender ignored Harry as he put on his coat and hat and then, weaving a little, left the Willamette Hotel.
During the walk back to his car—made longer by a couple of wrong turns—Harry had time to think. He should have been pleased with the evening’s events. After all, he’d found his fish and hooked him with ease. But instead of happy, Harry felt dirty. As if he needed another long bath. As if some kind of corruption had taken hold the minute he’d agreed to Townsend’s plan.
So he thought about booze instead, the way it heated his stomach and made his brain feel wrapped in layers of cotton batting. The way it made the world seem far away, as if Harry were one of the clouds floating through the night sky. The disconnection from reality didn’t frighten him tonight; if anything, it was a comfort.
He found his car and, with great concentration, managed to steer it over the bridge to the east side of town. Before he reached his duplex, though, he spied a little grocery that was still open. He parked crookedly near the curb. At the pay phone outside, he made a quick call to the number Townsend had given and left a message with a woman, saying he’d found Swan. Inside he discovered that hard liquor was sold only in state-run shops and that none stayed open late. But since grocers could sell beer and wine, Harry bought a six-pack of beer called Henry Weinhard’s. Then he got back into his car and drove home.