Chapter 12
I spent the rest of my workday selling and gift-wrapping candles, along with accepting empty, blackened jars that cheapskate customers claimed “didn’t work.
” I kept asking myself: Is Luc in any way real?
But Marge had seen him, and I could taste him on my lips.
I left voicemails and texts for Brock, with no response.
And if I was being called into service as a messenger boy, to what end?
What if Luc was some sort of double agent, kissing me into dastardly cooperation?
Why should I jump back into such global uncertainty, when the Tuxedo Society had all but broken me? And politely discarded me?
If I refused to transmit Luc’s urgent words, would that be unpatriotic and disloyal?
But I could do what Luc had asked and then sign off.
I’d keep my guard up, I’d resist any further entanglement, even Dr. Huron in a Fair Isle sweater-vest and a tweed newsboy cap.
And even if Luc had somehow materialized, I wouldn’t entertain even the slightest notion of a sexual rematch.
But why was the Tuxedo Society so rife with romance, as if it were a candle called United Nations Sandalwood Intimacy?
I’m not being asked back, I assured myself after work, on the subway out to the Tuxes’ headquarters in Queens.
I can repeat Luc’s message succinctly and get the hell out of there.
I was no longer a Tux, for good reason. I wouldn’t try to re-insinuate myself, and I wouldn’t hope that Dr. Huron would be wearing rumpled pajamas and a fedora, which was how I’d dressed him during a masturbatory relapse.
Jace answered the door, saying, “Andy! There you are! I’ve heard you were way popular in le Europe! Let me get Reggie!”
I stepped inside apprehensively, and not just because I’d never heard anyone else use the phrase “le Europe.” Reggie appeared and waved for me to follow him.
I hesitated, since I’d promised myself a quick farewell.
But then I wouldn’t get to see Dr. Huron, possibly with his sleeves haphazardly rolled up and suspenders.
So I traipsed after Reggie because I’m le whore.
Marcus was at his bank of computer screens, as Reggie asked me, “So you claim you have a message?”
“From Luc.”
Reggie waited to see where I’d take this. “As I’m sure you know,” I began, “he’s alive.”
Reggie didn’t say anything, which was his tough-guy’s confirmation.
“You were part of it, weren’t you? So why? Why didn’t you tell me? Why did you let me go through that? Waking up with him gone and blood everywhere?”
“Because you’re new. It toughened you up.
You were still able to function. And because Luc had intercepted the diamond, it was imperative that his father think he was out of the picture.
And you were on foreign soil, where you might’ve been questioned by either the police or any number of private interests, and it’s not that I didn’t trust you, I just thought things would be easier if you didn’t have to lie.
We couldn’t risk your being tortured and confessing that Luc wasn’t dead. ”
I was outraged: “So you’d rather me be tortured without any leverage?”
“I’d rather you not be tortured at all, but it was always a possibility.”
“Diet Snapple? Dr Pepper? Coke Zero?” said Jace, returning with a tray of beverages. Seeing my confused and obdurate face, he handed me a bottle and said, “Let’s stick with vitamin-infused smartwater, shall we?”
“So you saw Luc?” asked Reggie.
“He showed up at the candle shop where I work. And he gave me a message for you, which he said I had to deliver in person. ‘The Lachesis Ruby is owned by Jelki Engstromm’s father.’ ”
I took a breath, since I’d reversed syllables. “Elki Jenstromm’s father.”
“On it,” said Marcus, and within seconds, “Elki Jenstromm was the silver medalist in men’s diving, representing Denmark in the last summer Olympics.
He’s competing again, two weeks from now in Tokyo.
His father is Henrik Jenstromm; the family owns a fifth-generation bank in Copenhagen, with suspicious foreign investments.
Elki’s gay with a straight twin brother, who’s competed in the men’s relay and water polo. ”
Brock popped in, asking, “Did I hear the words ‘men’s water polo’?”
I was surprised that thousands of gay men hadn’t begun gathering outside the building, chanting these words. But Brock’s ears are extremely sensitive. He’d once told me, “I can hear a Dartmouth wrestler buying deck shoes at the store while I’m still a block away.”
I should leave. I’d relayed the message. I didn’t know or care about Henrik Jenstromm or Olympic swimmers—okay, that last part was a lie, but I wasn’t attached to this investigation, not anymore. Goodbye. Adios. Have fun in Denmark or Tokyo or wherever. But why wasn’t I moving?
“How would Henrik Jenstromm get his hands on the ruby?” asked Reggie.
“He’s donated tons to the National Museum of Denmark,” said Marcus, as he scrolled, “and his wife’s father is the ambassador to Greece. Henrik’s also an adjunct member of the Constitutional Committee, and he was nominated by Fleming Fairmont, for the international branch.”
Sorry. Not interested. If I catch the next E train I can get home in time for that new HGTV show about flipping rental properties in Des Moines.
A place where no one ever gets shot at by bishops or licked by renanimated French corpses.
Most likely. The door’s just a few yards away. Here I go. Any second now.
“All right,” said Reggie. “We’ll talk to Fleming Fairmont, and by talk I mean squeeze some truth out of his pasty little skull.”
“Fleming’s in town,” said Marcus, glued to his screens. “He’s staying at the St. Regis, which is seriously pricey on a senator’s salary.”
“Fleming takes kickbacks from half the Republican party,” said Reggie. “But we’re not going to his hotel. I can tell you just where he’ll be, and what we should do. Marcus, contact Timothy. I’m not sure of his current last name.”
“He’s just using Timothy this week,” said Marcus. “He says that legends only need one name, like Cher or Madonna or Zendaya.”
“Did you know that Timothy’s tongue has its own Instagram?” asked Brock. “With over two million followers.”
Why was I thinking about checking out Timothy’s tongue Instagram? Shut up, Andrew’s still-healing brain. Get busy, Andrew’s feet. That HGTV show won’t watch itself.
“Good job, Andrew,” said Reggie. “Luc’s information is invaluable. But you’re on permanent hiatus, so we’ll take it from here.”
I’d actually taken a few steps, when:
“Andrew?” said Dr. Huron, who’d not only just joined the meeting but remembered my name.
He was wearing a loosely knotted knit necktie and a corduroy three-piece suit with tasseled old-man shoes.
My erection wasn’t my fault, because he was deliberately done up as British librarian/Nobel finalist clickbait, like Eddie Redmayne in any British biopic where he crosses an Oxford quad in October, hunched from calculating a theorem or composing a sonnet.
With his shy toothy smiles and wind-tossed russet hair, Eddie ratifies a basic show business bylaw: all sexy Englishmen become movie stars, from Ralph Fiennes to Colin Firth to Christian Bale.
They get their teeth fixed and it’s done.
We’ll deal with Idris Elba and Jonathan Bailey later, because they’re so sexy they count as Americans.
“Good morning, Andrew,” said Dr. Huron, adjusting his horn-rims, just to give me a heart murmur. “How’s your cranium?”
For a second I translated this medical term as Latin for “I can’t live without you.”
“Much better, thanks. Good to see you.”
Shut it down, I told myself. You’re infatuated with Luc, especially now that he’s alive, so you shouldn’t be crushing on Dr. Huron, even if Dr. Huron is more immediately available.
Andrew, I mean it, stop thinking with your dick, because your emotional and physical well-being are at stake, even if you just flashed on Dr. Huron splashing naked in the early morning light of a Coventry pond, unawares, in any E. M. Forster adaptation.
“I like your necktie,” I told Dr. Huron, modulating to sound straightforward but coming off as if I’d be leaving a shiny red apple on his desk and maybe a scented candle called House of Lords Sparkle Lube. Brock caught my eye as he subtly mimed giving a blowjob.
“Andrew,” said Reggie, “weren’t you just leaving?”
I was. I am. But I could ask a perfectly innocent question, couldn’t I, on my way out?
“I’m going, but I’m curious—how do you know where Fleming Fairmont is going to be?”
“Because he loves piano bars. So we’ll find someone who can sing to distract him.”
Oh shit. Super oh shit. Not fair. Truly mean. I love to sing.
In fact, I bet Reggie is aware of how much I love to sing. He’s taunting me.
Singing’s a big part of why I became an actor.
I hate to admit this, but there are clips of me on YouTube as a seven-year-old in a sequined vest warbling boy band hits, with full-out choreography and a blond-tipped perm.
My mom also posted my middle school talent night medley of “My Heart Will Go On,” “Quit Playing Games (with My Heart),” and “Shot Through the Heart.” And yes, I’d made a heart shape with my hands.
And glued an iridescent heart-shaped purple teardrop to my cheek.
And fine, I sometimes audition with “As If We Never Said Goodbye” from Sunset Boulevard, because it shows off the octaves I can span.
“Andrew’s a great singer,” said Brock. “He does a one-man version of Wicked, playing everybody, in under ten minutes.”
Because it’s the only way I’ll ever get to do “Defying Gravity.” I once had a dream where I was at an Idina Menzel concert and her throat was scratchy so she said, “Andrew Birnbaum, get up here. Be my Elphaba.”
“But Andrew’s not available,” said Reggie. “We can’t ask him to do this.”
God damn you, Reggie. What’s your game?
“Andrew, here’s the thing,” Reggie continued. “You’re retired, with honors. Although this would be a contained situation, with zero physical threat…”
“I’m available,” I blurted. “If it’s just singing, that’s not a problem.”
“I was a member of an a cappella group at Oxford,” volunteered Dr. Huron, “in the Physics Department, called the Radioactive Isotones.”
“Well,” said Reggie, “what if you guys did a duet? Fleming would have to change his panties.”