Part 14 (1/2)

The fact of his s.e.xuality wasn't constantly uppermost in Caleb's mind, nor did it color many of his casual relations.h.i.+ps. He met men he found attractive whom he simply recognized as off-limits because they were straight or committed. And there were many he discounted because they were seriously flawed-something he was perhaps quicker to notice because of his profession. He recognized that he hadn't found an intimate because he wasn't looking, hadn't even been haunting places where he might be seen. He didn't frequent bars, in fact, hadn't been in one since before Christopher died. He was becoming like one of his female patients, who read romances and dreamed of tall, dark strangers appearing-like the answer to prayer-to solve her problems and give her drab life meaning. Magical thinking. He would never meet anyone by hiding out in his comfortable routine. And if he wanted to alleviate his awful loneliness, he would have to meet someone.

Not that his social life was lacking. He was often invited out. Couples asked him when they had an extra lady guest, male colleagues frequently asked him to squire their wives, happy he wouldn't seduce them. And he liked women, eighty-year-old grandmothers no less than teenaged ingenues. He enjoyed escorting most of them. But they didn't fill his needs.

Sat.u.r.day, he forced himself to go out despite his misgivings. It took him all afternoon to get up the nerve.

The bar was on Clark, the northeast corner of an X-shaped intersection. He'd been there before, but not for years. Even as he was walking in, he felt great resistance. But what could happen? Some guy might make a pa.s.s? Wasn't that what he was hoping for? Some regular patron might challenge his right to enter? He could deal with confrontation. And the bar was a public accommodation. They'd serve even the most obnoxious h.o.m.ophobe if he didn't start a fight.

He stopped inside the door to a.n.a.lyze his reluctance. He recognized the illogic of his situation. He'd traveled some distance and set aside an afternoon to meet people, but couldn't cross the room to make the final connection. He hadn't thought of himself as shy since the service. After 'Nam, he'd thought he could face anything. But if merely talking to someone was so difficult, getting to the point-to intimacy-seemed a light-year distant.

Two men were playing darts. The bar was moderately full. Its patrons were integrated, a.s.sorted, mostly male, mostly in their twenties or early thirties. A few glanced at him, most didn't notice his arrival.

The decor was Southwestern-cowboy boots and cow skulls, Indian artifacts and old photographs. The music was contemporary and not unbearably loud, the ventilation good-air decent despite a number of smokers. Caleb made his way around the zigzag-shaped bar and took a stool between a papier-mche totem pole and a woman wearing a man's s.h.i.+rt and suit jacket over Levi's. As he took Caleb's order, the bartender-cheerful, middle-aged but well kept-seemed almost too eager to please.

While he waited for his beer, Caleb studied the patrons. A dozen men flanked the north side of the bar in groups of two and three. A young black man in a das.h.i.+ki leaned on the video game by the men's room, talking to an older black man wearing a Bulls jacket. Two women were playing pool in the back of the room, while waitresses hustled back and forth between the bar and the adjoining restaurant. A man with dark-framed gla.s.ses sat by the south window, watching pa.s.sersby out on the street. And an urban cowboy sat at the bar with his back to the window and his arms around his lover.

The couple made him think of Christopher.

He was still discovering what he'd lost when he'd lost Chris. Before that, he'd been able to walk into a strange place and, without hesitation, initiate conversations with strangers. Losing Christopher, he'd lost the feeling that he was unique, that he was loved and treasured by one special person. He was liked well enough, now, by those who knew him, but he was indispensable to no one.

The bartender put a beer and a smile in front of Caleb, then began simultaneously mixing two tall, exotic drinks. The woman sitting next to Caleb watched with the avidity of Freud stalking birds. She had short, dark hair, thick gla.s.ses, and cat earrings by Laurel Burch. Caleb watched her twist her Sharps around in her hands as she visually fondled everyone and everything in the bar. She emptied the bottle and left a dollar for the bartender as she departed.

Before the door closed on her, a familiar figure swung it wide and entered like Melodrama, wearing a full-length racc.o.o.n coat. Ivan.

He minced his way across the room and took the seat the woman had vacated, gesturing to the bartender before giving Caleb a supercilious inspection. ”So-ooo I was right about you. The great Dr. C is one of us after all.”

”Just a bit of the continent.”

Ivan slipped out of the coat and let it fall back over the bar stool. ”Oh, don't go literary on me.”

”Well, then drop the flaming-f.a.ggot routine and let me buy you a drink.”

”I never pa.s.s up a freebie.”

”It's not free.” Caleb leaned into the angle between Ivan and the bar. ”I want something.”

”Me, I hope.” He gave the bartender his order and turned back to give Caleb a simpering smile.

Caleb ignored it. ”I want to know how David Bisti got a showing at the museum.”

”Oh, that.”

They both watched the bartender mix Ivan's drink-an electric-blue concoction-and set it in front of him. Caleb pushed a ten-dollar bill toward the barman, who smiled and nodded and deducted the price.

When he'd moved away, Ivan told Caleb, ”A brilliant bit of misdirection, my dear.”

Caleb waited.

”I showed Andrews the brochure Anita made up for the show at her gallery and let him believe that Blue Mountain Cat was still in his Arizona Highways period.”

”Why go out of your way to promote David?”

”Cultivating my investment. I do own more of his work than anyone, including the widow.”

It made sense. Gus.h.i.+ng on paper about an artist in whose works he'd invested would destroy his carefully crafted reputation for impartial, critical savagery. Instead, he'd guaranteed priceless free publicity by setting up a situation that was bound to cause controversy. A brilliant strategy.

”Naturally, if you quote me, I'll deny it.”

”Naturally.” Caleb sat back and sipped his beer, then said, ”I wouldn't think this was your sort of venue.”

Ivan smiled, then leaned around him to speak to a waitress handing in drink orders on the other side of the totem pole. He pointed to a sign by the restaurant door-PLEASE WAIT TO BE SEATED-and told her, ”My dear, I'm waiting.”

She was a pet.i.te, conventionally attractive brunette. As she raised an eyebrow at Ivan, she seemed to be trying not to laugh. ”Sure thing, hon.” She took her drinks from the bartender and went back in the restaurant.

Ivan continued talking to Caleb as if without interruption. ”It most definitely is not my kind of place. But the sweet young thing I'm dining with won't go near my watering hole.”

”What would that be?”

”My dear, if you have to ask, you're too young...” He took a sip of his drink, managing to put the maximum of s.e.xual innuendo into the gesture. Then, leaving the nearly full gla.s.s on the bar, he picked up his fur, said, ”Ciao,” and minced out. When Caleb turned back around, there was a new occupant on the next stool. Another acquaintance. Rick Patrick.

Nodding in the direction Ivan had taken, Rick said, ”A perfect example of 'What's the use?'” He was wearing a turtleneck and slacks instead of a dress s.h.i.+rt and tie. He looked even more like a model for Dockers. Stunning. Too good to be true. Caleb felt a sensation akin to decelerating sharply in an elevator. His mind fogged and he could almost see the nervous vibes he was emitting. He took a deep breath.

Rick was saying, ”Do you come here often?”

Caleb shook his head then forced himself to say, ”No. First time in a long time.”

”Serendipity, then,” Rick said.

To Caleb's amazement, he seemed content to be making small talk. And he was attending closely to the conversation and to Caleb, not cruising the bar visually, not-apparently-marking time until someone more appealing wandered in. Caleb was almost flattered. But Rick had made it clear at their first meeting that he had an agenda, so Caleb withheld judgment and observed his own discomfort-the dissonance between what he wanted and what he believed possible-with proper scientific detachment.

”I haven't been here in years,” Rick continued.

”What's special about today?”

”Luck?” He smiled, and Caleb imagined his own blood pressure rising. ”I had an interview not far from here, and nothing special to do tonight. So I thought, what the h.e.l.l...”

”And you spotted me and thought you might still get an interview?” Caleb observed his own alarm at the prospect and could see that Rick noticed it, too.

”Are all shrinks so paranoid?” He smiled.

”Why do you ask?” Caleb rolled his eyes from side to side as if looking for enemies.

Rick laughed. Other drinkers looked-stared actually. Caleb didn't blame them. He felt as if he'd won the office football pool. Rick was easily the most beautiful man in the bar.

”Off-the-record,” Rick said. He pulled a little tape recorder out of an inside pocket and offered it to Caleb.

Caleb transferred it to his own and, parodying paranoia, said, ”Where's your backup?”

”In the car. This whole evening is off the record.”

They sat companionably until Caleb's beer was nearly gone. As the bartender approached, Rick said, ”You hungry?”