Chapter 13 #2
“Essentially. From birth, he fed them a fanatically balanced diet, emphasizing animal protein, grains, and amino acids. He had them tested at six months, for coordination and athletic aptitude. They were homeschooled by a select coterie of scholars, psychologists, and trainers. Elki showed early promise in diving, although his performance at the last Olympics was a disappointment. This year will most likely be his final opportunity.”
“And his twin?” I asked, meaning the straight one.
“Arne is troubled. He’d excelled at gymnastics and cross-country skiing, and he was Henrik’s favorite, until he rebelled.
He dropped out of every competition, stopped speaking to his father, and works as a nature guide in Sweden.
He issued a public statement, about refusing to be positioned as, in his words, ‘a master race automaton.’ ”
“And the jewels?” said Reggie.
“If Henrik has the Lachesis Ruby, something I’m not at all convinced of, Elki could pinpoint its location. He’s his father’s most ardent pupil. He lives to make him proud.”
“So Elki gets us to Henrik,” Reggie speculated.
“Perhaps,” said Fleming, his smirk returning. “And by the by, how is our illustrious First Lady? I’m told she had a most productive chat with His Holiness.”
“Fuck you, Fleming,” said Reggie, evenly. “Ms. Pershing is doing fine, despite the best efforts of your criminal buddies.”
“Which is why you need me. And Timothy, I understand you’ll be offering tube socks and a very special pair of torn sweatpants. I’d like to be moved to the top of the list.”
“I’ll try,” said Timothy. “But last time you’d maxed out your PayPal. So I’ll need cash or a money order.”
“Young people,” said Fleming, “always so impatient.” As before, dealing with Fleming was like juggling slime. Outside the club, Reggie took me aside, informing me, “Nice work. But this was a one-shot deal. I’m still worried about you.”
“I’m fine. Just lending a hand. My good deed for the day.”
“Uh-huh,” said Reggie, glancing at Edwin loitering nearby.
With a dirty smile, Reggie took off, to consult with Marcus over verifying Fleming’s claims. Brock and Timothy were done for the night, and Edwin offered to walk me home.
As we strolled, I asked him, “How did you get involved with all this? With the Tuxes?”
“My mum was a journalist embedded with an English military patrol in Afghanistan. She was kidnapped and would’ve been executed, but Reggie and three other Navy SEALs saved her life. They infiltrated a Taliban encampment, under heavy artillery fire. Reggie rescued Mum and an American aid worker.”
“So you owe him?”
“I respect him endlessly. I was getting my doctorate at Harvard when he contacted me. He asked if I’d be interested in becoming an eccentric-yet-brilliant inventor of advanced spyware for an off-the-books queer special ops unit.
I wasn’t certain I was qualified, but he said, ‘I can offer you a vintage blackboard and enriched uranium.’ ”
He grinned, which had to be his most lethal weapon.
“How long ago?”
“Five years now. You’re just a baby.”
This was true. Edwin equipped the Tuxes with lifesaving innovations. Tonight had been a blip, a reminder of why I’d left the organization. My participation was ephemeral at best: all I’d done was get hit in the head and sing in public.
“You’ve got a great voice,” I told Edwin.
“I’m a bit rusty. You covered for me.”
“Do you have… No, I’m not going to ask that. It’s so pushy.”
“Do I have a boyfriend? A husband? An other? No. I believe this is where I mention how taxing my job is, with so little time for a private life. Although that’s not why my last, brief whatever-it-was disintegrated.”
“So what happened?”
“He was a tenor.”
“How are you still alive?”
We were outside my building. The evening was topsy-turvy, since we’d already kissed, as stipulated by the crowd at the Hot Note.
I had the choice of making a more serious play for Edwin, which might mean fully reconnecting with the Tuxes, or holding firm in my resolve to lead a less jeopardized life.
I was standing on a mist-shrouded dock in Marseille, or a dust-billowing Casablanca airfield, parting from my it-wasn’t-meant-to-be heartthrob.
“We mustn’t,” said Edwin, delving into my star-crossed, black-and-white final-reel fadeout.
“We can’t.”
“I’m no good for you.”
“It would only end badly. We both know that. But years from now,” I asked, “when you hear our song, or bitch-slap another closet-case senator, will you think of me?”
“Always. I’ll never forget you, Kevin.”
I was momentarily affronted. Edwin was fiendishly smart, waywardly adorable, and he’d just revealed a sense of humor. But I thought about Luc, and what his fraudulent near-death had put me through. I recalled being assaulted by vicious cardinals. I saw myself lying unconscious in a Roman street.
“So this is goodbye,” I said.
“No, it’s not goodbye. I’m English. So it’s toodle-oo.”
“We’ll always have our exploding power bars.”
“Good night, Jasper.”
Edwin leaned in, kissed me lightly, and hurried away, past the Dunkin’ Donuts, the twenty-four-hour vape shop, and the heroin addict vomiting next to a hydrant.
I cued the swelling of melancholy-yet-stirring orchestral music, but the spell was broken by a teenage girl loudly squawking to her friends, “So I says to him, ‘Get lost, Derek, I’m not sucking you off in the bathroom at Taco Bell. You’re not that special! ’ ”
The next day, my sort-of agent had scheduled me for a rare audition.
Brett Framing was an up-and-coming employee at a midrange agency.
He’d been at one of my improv nights and agreed to represent me on an informal basis, which was a worrisomely mild form of interest. I hadn’t heard from him in months, but his assistant had sent me to read for a new play at a not-for-profit theater.
I’d paged through the script multiple times and memorized the requested scenes, where I’d be playing several characters.
The playwright had attended a prestigious drama school, received several highly sought-after grants, and her play had already been workshopped at two out-of-town conferences.
As far as I could tell, it covered a young woman’s psychologically abusive relationship with her withholding mother, a bad recent breakup with a video-game designer who’d misspelled her name in a tattoo, and her compulsion to write songs expressing her rage over climate change and getting dumped for a thinner, blond Peloton instructor.
I was playing the young woman’s dog walker, a FedEx delivery guy, and someone called Douchebag At Bar.
None of these characters had more than two lines but prompted the young woman to enter what the script called a “liminal space” where she would sing her fraught childhood memories.
(The lyrics included “My mother’s polished fingernails / my lonely trips to Bloomingdale’s.
”) I couldn’t tell if the play was brilliant or like someone reading their dream journal aloud at a slumber party, but I did my best to craft interior lives for my mostly silent roles, while my mind kept darting, to the whereabouts of the ruby, and kissing Edwin.
The casting director thanked me for coming in, and on the subway, I told myself that maybe her muting her phone during my audition had been a hopeful sign.
As I headed back to the candle shop, I forced myself to be upbeat and not dwell on the five other actors my age who’d been seated in the waiting area.
As I was unboxing the latest delivery of summery products, with names like Freshly Cut Grass and Triple Sweetberry Serenade, my phone buzzed: Reggie had texted to ask if I’d ever swum competitively.
What was he talking about? I’d done laps in neighborhood pools and ventured a few yards into the Atlantic, sticking close to the shore in fear of riptides, sharks, and being compared to preening guys with eight-packs (I’d counted).
But what was Reggie after? I almost texted back, but strengthened my choice to disengage. I was done.
That night, as I was scrolling through a news site (and congratulating myself for not doing shirtless searches on the cuter first-term politicians), there was a “Breaking Story Alert” about how Reata’s Washington motorcade had been sideswiped by a drunk driver.
Reata hadn’t been injured, and the driver, who so far hadn’t been linked to any terrorist cells, was in custody.
If I was being honest, I’d loved reconnecting with the Tuxes at the Hot Note, and this was major: Reata’s life had been threatened, again, in a very close call. That’s why Reggie had gotten in touch.
I especially like it when my most high-minded motives overlap with my more selfish impulses.
I’d once volunteered at a food pantry because I got a free tote bag and there was a hot guy whose sinewy forearms spoke to me as we handed out canned goods.
And now I could break my vow of keeping the Tuxes (plus Edwin and Luc) at a distance.
Reggie had made the first move, after all.
I had a truckload of well-reasoned objections, but the Tuxes needed me. And vice versa.
I was at the headquarters by 7 p.m., seated alongside Brock, Timothy, and Marcus, with the late arrival of Terry Swanberg and Miles Hespers, the architect/athlete pair I’d found alarmingly esteemed, as the sort of couple whose Style section wedding photos show their coordinated-yet-not-matching custom Prada outfits and well-groomed rescue mutt as the ring bearer.
Reggie hurried in, but where was Edwin? Maybe naming a reconnaissance gizmo after me, as our “love drone”?
“Everyone,” Reggie began, “we have one week.”
“The Tokyo Olympics begin next Monday,” added Marcus. “Under the tightest security in history.”
“But here’s how we’ll be sequestered inside the Olympic Village,” said Reggie. “As alternates in diving, the shot put, and gymnastics.”