Second You Sin (20 page)

I think part of the reason I’m successful with clients like The Dentist is because I total y get what they’re going through. The Dentist has his pretend laughing gas and sil y little teacup and I have Tony. We’re al stuck on
something.
Who am I to feel superior?

So, I understood how The Dentist felt, and I made it my job to make his landing as soft as possible.

“That was fun,” I told him, taking the paper towel bib off my neck.

“Real y?”

“Yeah, and look at that load you shot. Pretty hot.

You must have been storing it up for days.” The Dentist smiled. “Sorry about your trousers.”

“It’l wash out,” I assured him.

The Dentist tousled my hair. “You’re such a good kid. Let me get my wal et.”

In the elevator going to the lobby, I took the cash The Dentist gave me from my pocket. A two hundred dol ar tip. Nice. Kindness, I was glad to see, has its rewards.

Freddy and I weren’t supposed to go to Rueben’s until later that night, but I had a pocket ful of cash, a pants leg damp with another man’s jizz, and a song in my heart. Or something like that.

Rueben’s apartment, wel , actual y Ansel ’s apartment, wasn’t far from The Dentist’s, and I didn’t feel like schlepping al the way up to my place just to come back here later. I decided to walk over and see if he was available.

Although Freddy and Rueben’s idea of the three of us as a male crime-fighting team was pretty lamebrained, I was looking forward to hanging out with them.

Maybe it would distract me from the fact that Tony wasn’t available tonight.

Again.

Not that I was dwel ing on it.

After al , it wasn’t my fault he was . . .

OK, maybe I was dwel ing on it.

Focus, Kevin, focus.

Friends of mine were dying or getting hurt.

But were Freddy and Rueben right—was there even a crime to fight?

The more I thought about it, the less likely it seemed that Randy’s accident and the deaths of Sammy White Tee and Brooklyn Roy were related.

Sure, they were al sex workers, but so was I and about a thousand other guys in this city. Other than their hustling, what did they have in common? I thought about them and me and Rueben and realized: not much.

Maybe Tony was right. Just because I had stumbled onto one murder ring a few months ago didn’t mean I had to start seeing intrigue everywhere I went.

In a few minutes, I was at Ansel ’s door. I rang the doorbel and waited. Nothing. I rang again. Al right, maybe dropping by early wasn’t such a good idea.

Did I have Rueben’s number? I fished my iPhone out of my pocket and, just for good measure, rang the doorbel one more time.

“What is it?” Ansel Darling flung open the door.

“What do you want?”

Ansel looked terrible. His normal y pale face was whiter than usual. Exhaustion ringed his red, wet eyes.

Stil not recovered from the party? Or had the reviews not gone his way?

“Sorry to drop by like this. I’m Kevin. Rueben’s friend. We met at your party here the other night.” Ansel looked at me like he didn’t understand a word I said.

“I had a date with Rueben tonight. Wel , not a

‘date’ date. We’re just friends.”

Ansel stil didn’t get where I was going with this.

“Anyway, I’m early, I got off work early, I suppose, and I thought I’d come over to see if he was around.” Nothing. Was he even hearing me?

“So”—I figured if I was very direct maybe I’d cut through whatever haze surrounded him—“is Rueben home?”

“Is Rueben home?” Ansel asked.

“Um, yeah.”

“Is Rueben home? Is Rueben home?”

His flat voice and buggy stare made me think of Paula Prentiss in
The Stepford Wives,
in which she plays the android neighbor of Katharine What-Ever-Happened-to-Her Ross.

In a climactic scene, Katharine stabs Paula in the bel y with a kitchen knife, and a short-circuited, brain-dead Paula paces the kitchen in circles, saying, “I thought we were friends . . . I thought we were friends

. . . I thought we were friends. . . .” Ansel had that same zoned-out robotic glaze.

It’s not a trick question,
I wanted to say, but Ansel didn’t seem like someone up for a joke. So I just waited.

“No,” Ansel final y said, bitterly. “Rueben isn’t
home.
Rueben is
dead.
”
19

Crying Time

“Rueben’s dead.”

I figured Ansel meant it metaphorical y. Like,

“Ruben’s dead wrong on this one;
Buffy
was clearly a better show than
Serenity,
” or, “Ever since he had that affair with the Republican fund-raiser, Rueben’s been dead to me.”

I mean, Rueben couldn’t be “dead” dead, right?

“I’m sorry,” I said pleasantly, “what was that again?”

“Oh, God,” Ansel said, gasping and putting a hand to his chest. “Rueben’s dead. He’s dead!” I took a step closer to Ansel where he stood in the doorway. “Ansel , I . . .”

Ansel ’s face crumpled before me. He gave one great, explosive sob, and the tears came. “Oh God, oh God, oh God,” Ansel cried. “Rueben’s dead and I kil ed him!”

Ansel a murderer? He looked like he barely had enough energy to hold the door open, let alone kil someone.

What he meant, I supposed, was that he’d kil ed his
relationship
with Rueben.

What could he have done?

“Ansel ,” I said, “why don’t we go inside and . . .” Hysterical now, Ansel clasped one hand over his mouth. He pushed me to the side, ran to the street, and promptly threw up in the gutter.

I had no idea what the hel was going on.

Ten minutes later, I was sitting next to Ansel on a long, modern sofa in the cavernous lower level of his tony, chic loft.

The only other time I had been there was the night of his big fashion show. Then, the space had been reconfigured for the party and was fil ed with hundreds of people. The dancehal sized living room seemed glamorous and enviable.

Today, the furniture was back in what I assumed was its usual configuration. I was struck by how huge and bare the space was. With its high ceilings and minimalist furnishings, the room felt cold and empty.

Out of scale for a place in which actual human beings lived. Like a mausoleum.

I put my hand on Ansel ’s back as he continued to cry. I looked around to see if Rueben was around. If so, I didn’t see him.

I patted Ansel gently. “Shhh, shhh,” I said, hoping to calm him enough so he could talk.

Ansel wiped his face with the sleeve of his silk shirt. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m sorry. I don’t even know

. . .”

He stood up suddenly, throwing my arm off him.

He regarded me blankly through bloodred eyes. “I’m sorry, I don’t know who you are.”

His voice was polite and apologetic, as if he’d just forgotten my name at a society fund-raiser. Was he on something?

I reminded him of who I was and how we met at his party.

“Right,” Ansel said, pacing the room. “I remember you now. You were here with your black friend, right?

You two were a real hot number.”

“That’s right,” I said, in the tone I usual y reserved for the toddlers at Sunday school. “That was me.”

“You were Rueben’s friend,” he continued.

“Yes.”

“Rueben didn’t have too many friends.”

“What happened, Ansel ?”

Ansel ’s legs started to buckle. I got up and quickly walked him back to the sofa. “Sit down,” I told him.

“Do you need some water?”

“I don’t know,” Ansel said.

“Listen,” I said. “I don’t know what’s going on here, but you’re clearly pretty upset. You shouldn’t be alone. Is there someone I can cal ?”

Ansel gave a bitter little laugh. “I don’t have too many friends, either.”

“Are you kidding me? I was here two nights ago and this place was fil ed with people. There has to be someone who could come sit with you.”

“Those people? Half of them were there to see how much money I was going to make for them, and the other half were hoping to see me fal flat on my face.”

Not knowing what to say, I said nothing.

Ansel ’s face changed from angry to sad. “Were you real y Rueben’s friend?” His voice broke on the last word.

I took his hands in mine and looked him directly in the eyes. “Yes, Ansel , I am.”

“Well,
you’re
here,” Ansel said, the tears fal ing again. “Can you stay a bit?”

Ansel cried for a while longer, too upset to talk. I held and rocked him in my arms.

I didn’t know Ansel , not even a little, but I was used to touching people I didn’t know. I’ve had clients who broke down like this, because of fear or relief or whatever. When he calmed down a little, I went to his high-tech kitchen and got a cool, wet cloth for him and glasses of water for both of us.

I gave him the towel and he buried his face in it. I put the water on the table in front of us. “Do you want to tel me what happened, Ansel ?”

Ansel sat up straighter. “It was the night of the party. It was late, I don’t know, three or four in the morning. You know the party was like a runway show for me, right?”

I nodded.

“My bril iant idea. Or maybe Rueben’s. I don’t know. A new way to unveil my next line. A party. It’d be fun.

“And it was. It was exciting and glamorous and . . .

it was magic.” Ansel took a deep breath, wil ed himself to go on.

“I wasn’t born Ansel Darling, you know. I mean, no one names their kid ‘Ansel Darling.’ I grew up in Cleveland, Ohio, as Henry Cohen. A skinny, pale kid with a sketchpad under his arm and a kick-me sign permanently stuck to my backside. Might as wel have been.”

Ansel gave another bitter snort, and I thought,
This is definitely a guy with anger issues.

“Al my life, this is what I wanted. This house in New York City, the riches, the fame, the glittering parties, al of it. This is what I wanted.

“Fabulous, right? I wanted to be fabulous. And I am.

“But fabulous takes money, and in the fashion business, you’re only worth as much as your next line. Oh, maybe not if you’re Michael Kors or Donna Karan, but for me, I’m only one season’s sales away from being on the first bus back to Cleveland.

“OK, so back to the night of the party. Like I said, it’s late. I’m al hopped up. The energy of the evening was off the scale, the models looked great, everyone was having a bril iant time. Then my business manager comes over.

“ ‘This is a disaster,’ he tel s me. I ask him what he means. He says that he spoke to the buyers from the most important stores. He said they were al having a wonderful time, but they had no idea what they were looking at. They said they couldn’t tel the difference between my designs and what anyone else was wearing that night. Worse, they certainly couldn’t place orders based on what they’d seen.

‘Maybe,’ one of them told him, ‘Ansel needs to spend a little more time at the design table and a little less time at the clubs.’

“I thought he was exaggerating. I was about to tel him so when the buyer from Bergdorf’s comes over.

‘Sweetheart,’ she told me, ‘you real y must think of changing professions. Forget design, Ansel , you should be planning parties for a living. This is marvelous!’

“‘I’m glad you had a good time,’ I answered. ‘How do you think the line is going to do in your stores?’

“ ‘Oh, who knows?’ she told me. ‘I’m just having such a good time. I didn’t real y notice the clothing.

But let’s get together soon.’

“And she was gone.”

Ansel wiped tears from his eyes. “You have to understand, I was out of my mind. I imagined everything I’d worked so hard on, everything I’d fought and scratched for, gone. I know it showed on my face, because even though he hadn’t been close enough to hear what happened, Rueben walked over and put his arm around me. ‘That’s OK,
papi,
’ he told me, ‘it’l be fine.’

“I just . . . blew up at him. I started screaming that this was al his fault, his stupid idea, and why had I listened to him, why had I trusted a stupid hustler like him in the first place, why had I let him into my home, my business, my life?”

I felt the blood drain from my face as I remembered my conversation with Rueben from that night.
Ansell is everything to me,
he’d told me.

“I cal ed him stupid. I cal ed him a stupid junkie whore who ruined me.” Ansel exploded into another shuddering series of sobs, his shoulders shaking violently as he buried his face in his hands. “Funny thing is, he was so tired of the sex trade, even if we broke up, I knew he’d never return to hustling. One day, we were watching TV, and some guy who hired him comes on the screen. ‘Biggest hypocrite ever,’