The Lure (25 page)

Out of the dimly lit garage they saw how soiled and torn their clothing was from the scuffle. As he pressed for the elevator, Eric said, “The last person like you that I trusted nearly got me killed.”

Noel tensed again.

“Your father?”

“Get in,” Eric said, as the elevator door opened. “No. I was never infatuated with my father.” His eyes searched Noel’s for something. Noel couldn’t be sure what—sympathy, mockery?

“What happened to him, the guy you trusted?”

The elevator opened onto the second floor. The party burst in on them. Eric quickly pressed the button to close it. It was quieter on the third floor, although noise from below still reached them. Eric led Noel to the door opposite Alana’s room. This suite also had a sitting room, bedroom, dressing room, and bath.

“You’d better change that shirt,” he said, fingering a long tear in Noel’s shirt. “Here. This one.” He held up an antique Viyella Black Watch plaid that picked up Noel’s coloring. “It looks good. Keep it.”

Eric washed his hands and face at the little sink, and he, too, changed clothing. As they were stepping out of the room he turned to Noel. “I think Randy is over by the DJ’s booth.”

“You didn’t answer my question.”

“What question?”

“What happened to the last guy you trusted?”

“What do you think?” Eric said with a half smile. “He was murdered.”

“You already knew where Dorrance lives?”

“We’ve known for a month,” Loomis said flatly.

“Why didn’t you tell me? You let me go after him and almost get myself killed trying to return the goddamn car.”

“Who told you to go after him?”

“You said to stick close to him.”

“At the party. I didn’t say to go home with him.”

“Not exactly in those terms, but you said I was exactly his type which was why I was chosen in the first place.”

“Mr. X’s type. It looks like Dorrance isn’t Mr. X after all. Redfern is. You said so yourself.”

“I didn’t say he was. I said it seemed more likely.”

Loomis refused to budge. “One of them probably is Mr. X. Right?”

“Agreed.”

“Dorrance doesn’t look at you, couldn’t care less about you, even though you are precisely Mr. X’s type. Right? We watch Dorrance every night for a month. He goes home to his white frame house in Queens and doesn’t come out again until morning when he returns to Redfern’s. He has a wife, a teenage daughter, an older son in school somewhere in Indiana. Right?”

“If you say so.”

“I do. Whereas we can’t even begin to trace Redfern’s comings and goings. Where is he today?”

“Eric? In France. Cannes. That’s what Randy said. Eric and Alana were going to the Riviera for a week or two.”

“That’s what I mean. Now, Redfern is a noted sadist, right? He’s rich. Whereas Dorrance seems to be nothing more than an employee—an administrator. So, Redfern must be the silent partner, no?”

“Could be.”

“Let’s go slower. He’s just opened Bar Sinister. You went to the opening night party. Do you know who the owner of Bar Sinister is?”

“Chaffee?”

“No, Chaffee’s just another employee, as you are. It’s owned by Altamira Enterprises, located in West Hollywood, California.”

“The company opened the new club, I don’t know for certain that Eric did,” Noel corrected.

“He’s suspicious of you, has been from the beginning,” Loomis went on. “Yet he admits he’s infatuated with you. Right? Also Randy Nerone, who is your exact type, was his boyfriend. And you told me he murdered someone. What else do you need?”

“He said the guy was murdered. He didn’t say he murdered him.”

“What’s the difference?”

“There’s a difference. Why all of a sudden is Eric X and Dorrance not?”

“Because one and one never made three, but one and one and one again
do
make three,” Loomis said. “That’s why. Now what is this offer he made you?”

“I’m to leave the Grip and work for Eric. I’ll be going with him and Alana on trips, chauffering them, helping to entertain, going out with them to parties, working out with him down in the gym. Sort of a glorified steward and companion.”

“And you’ll live in the house?”

“On the fourth floor, in a guest suite: bedroom, sitting room, dressing room, bath. Except on my day off, once a week, when I can either remain in the house or not.”

“It’s perfect, Lure, perfect. Exactly where you should be: in his house, on the spot, to tell me anything that’s going on, as it’s going on. How much is he paying you?”

“Five hundred dollars a week.”

“You were doing what, about three hundred clear at the bar?”

“Three-fifty. Look! I don’t give a shit about the money. I don’t like this setup.”

“You’re scared, Lure. You go and do a stupid, fake, courageous asshole stunt like stealing his goddamn car to follow Dorrance but you won’t live with him, which is necessary, even for a good salary? I say you’re scared. Scared shitless.”

“Maybe I am… I won’t have any privacy.”

“You’ll have privacy. You just told me you have a suite on the guest floor. Who else is there?”

“No one right now.”

“Try it, Lure. Tell Redfern you’ll try it a few weeks. Then stick to him like a second skin.”

“I won’t go to bed with him.”

“Who asked you to?”

“He did. Sort of…”

“Better that you don’t. String him along. Keep him dancing thinking about it. Think of it, Lure—fancy cars, movie stars, parties, vacations in the sun. Little snot probably has houses all over the place. When are they coming back?”

“Next week sometime.”

“Tell him you’ll try it out, all right, Lure?”

“I’ll think about it,” Noel said.

“You already know the garage,” Eric said, tapping the metal door. “You’ll be given a key. It’s generally kept locked from the inside.”

“To prevent your guests from stealing cars?” Noel asked.

Eric ignored the remark. “These doors lead to the laundry, spare servants’ rooms, a storage space, room for air-conditioning and heating equipment,” he said, tapping doors on either side of the corridor until they arrived at a double door straight ahead. “This is the gym.”

When he flipped on the light they were on a balcony overlooking a room the width of the house and about one third its length. When the foundations had been put in, this floor had been dug one story lower. Rows of high windows opposite where they stood provided good light and some ventilation.

The gym was completely equipped. One section had barbells, rods, weights, and several pulley systems for back, shoulder, and leg exercises built into the wall and floor. Here were four press benches, a series of wall-height mirrors, and caramel-colored carpeting underfoot. Elsewhere the floor was wood parquet for resilience. Perhaps a half dozen ropes hung from the ceiling, bound in twos and threes. Another pair had rings and coils on sliding loops for aerial gymnastics. There were also padded horses, parallel bars, and a pile of heavy mats for tumbling. An open door at ground level led behind them to the pale blue tile of a large bathroom.

“I’ve never seen such a well-equipped gym, not a private one, anyway,” Noel said, surprised.

“Everything but a track, if you’ll accept the pool for lap swimming,” Eric replied. “We all use these facilities. Okku, Alana. I work out every day,” he said, leading Noel to the ground level. “I’m here at least an hour. Usually before noon. I’ll want you here then to spot me with the weights. You’re free to use the gym whenever you care to.”

Noel peeked into the bathroom. It was huge with urinal, sinks, toilet, bidet, a large stall shower, a steam room, and smaller sauna. Two doors—closets? Noel opened one—shelves full of towels. The second was locked.

“What’s in there?”

“That’s not important,” Eric said.

Noel kept looking at the door. “Evidently it is important.”

“Strip down,” Eric said; he’d already discarded his clothing. “Let’s work out now.”

“I didn’t bring any shorts.”

“There are several pairs in the closets. One ought to fit you.”

Noel sorted through them until he found a worn blue pair that seemed likely to fit.

“I’m going to warm up,” Eric said and went out to the gym.

Noel undressed, dropping his clothing on the bench as Eric had done. He had just turned the blue shorts around, preparatory to pulling them on, when he saw a faded name tag sewn in. He held the shorts and read, R. Landau. The dead disco-owner! Could Landau have been the murdered man Eric had spoken about?

“Jesus!” he said, dropping the shorts as though they were on fire.

“I thought you were wearing the blue ones?” Eric said when Noel emerged from the dressing area.

“Changed my mind.”

“Those look better anyway. Spot me on this bench press.”

Noel stood behind the bench. Eric lay down, his head directly in front of Noel. Built into the bench were two abdomen-high metal bars with semicircular grips for resting both ends of the barbell rod. Noel lifted the weight—a considerable two hundred and fifty pounds—onto the rests and stood watching Eric’s hands reach up to lift the weight, hold it parallel to his chest, then drop it slowly so that the bar brushed his nipples, then up again, a dozen times.

As Eric worked out, the muscles of his abdomen bulged until they looked as though they’d burst the skin. His breath came briefer, harder with every press, filled with little grunts that got louder toward the end of his set.

Noel’s job was to be there to take the weights off Eric in case he became suddenly exhausted and couldn’t reach the barbell rest with the great weight, or in case his arms locked with the barbells in midair, always a frightening possibility.

There was a real trust implied in spotting for Eric, Noel thought, watching him begin his second set of presses. A fallen barbell with this weight could smash a skull like a boulder cracking a robin’s egg.

“Your turn,” Eric said, sitting up and exhaling forcefully.

“I’m not into weights,” Noel said. “I’ll use some other equipment when we’re done here.”

“Suit yourself. But you’ll never get the sheer strength you get from weights, you know.”

Eric only required Noel’s aid three times more during the next half hour. Most of the excercises didn’t require spotting.

Noel couldn’t help but notice how diligent, orderly, Eric was. Evidently he’d set up a system. From the looks of his tightly knit body, he’d been using the weights for several years. Had Robby Landau once spotted for Eric? That seemed likely given the gym shorts in the closet. Had he been the only other man whom Eric had trusted? It gave Noel the creeps.

Noel was turning and swooping on the rope rings, thinking about Landau, and it made him dizzy. He executed a twirl and jumped down. Feeling better, he hoisted himself onto the parallel bars and tried to recall the routine he’d used years before. Most of the figures came back, and he did them not gracefully, but at least without knocking the poles down.

Why was Eric so obsessed with the weights? He had a good enough body not to need a daily workout, a good enough physique to attract even the most physically oriented gay sex partners. Was it for strength, as he had said? He
was
incredibly strong for his size and weight. But that too must be compensation. For what? For being grotesquely undeveloped as an adolescent? Had Eric been a skinny mama’s boy: or a fat one? Or did it have to do with his father. That had come up twice so far—once with Dorrance, and again when he and Eric had fought in the garage.

Eric had stopped watching Noel and gone into the bathroom. Noel waited until the shower stopped before entering. Eric was dripping wet, a small, damp towel wrapped around his middle.

“You aren’t taking any chances, are you?” he asked.

“What do you mean?” Noel asked, all feigned innocence.

“Afraid I’ll jump you in the shower? Go on, take off your shorts. For what I’m paying I figure I’m at least entitled to take a look at what I can’t touch.”

He watched Noel undress, and continued watching until Noel had showered and was drying off.

“I’ll need another towel,” Noel said; “this one’s too wet.” As though unaware of what he was doing, he reached for the handle of the locked door. “Oooops! Forgot. Wrong door.”

Eric was dressed, leaning against the tile wall, arms across his chest, his eyes narrowing in a way that Noel now knew meant anger, irritation. displeasure.

“You don’t stop, do you?”

“Because I tried to get in here? What’s behind this door anyway, the family crypt or something?”

“You don’t want to know.”

“Of course I want to know. You’ve opened every goddamn door on this floor and purposely kept this one locked. What is this, a replay of Bluebeard’s castle?”

“You’re not ready.”

“I know what it is anyway,” Noel said. “I’ve heard all about it at the Grip. It’s Eric the Red’s Red Room. Right?”