The Mole and I stepped back so the iron grate could swing out.
We walked past the man inside, waited while he bolted the grate shut and closed the door. We were in a rectangular room, much longer than it was wide. The floor was highly polished dark wood, setting off overstuffed Victorian furniture, upholstered in a blue-and-white floral pattern. Only one light burned off to the side, flickering like it was gas instead of electricity.
“May I take your coats?” the man said, opening a closet just past the entranceway.
I shook my head “No.” The Mole wasn’t wearing anything over his jumpsuit.
“Please …” the man said, languidly waving his hand to say we should go up the stairs before him. I went first, the Mole right behind me. We were breaking all the rules for this human.
“To your right,” I heard him say. I turned into a big room that looked smaller because it was so stuffed with things. A huge desk dominated the space, standing on thick carved claws at each corner. An Oriental rug covered most of the floor—it had a royal-blue background with a red-and-white design running from the center and blending into the borders. A fireplace was against one wall, birch logs crackling in a marble cage. The windows were covered with heavy velvet drapes the same royal blue as the rug. Everything was out of the past—except for a glowing amber video terminal on a butcher-block table parallel to the desk.
“Please sit anywhere,” the man said, waving one arm to display the options as he seated himself behind the big desk. I took a heavy armchair upholstered in dark tufted leather. A large flat glass ashtray was on a bronze metal stand next to the chair. The Mole sat on the floor, blocking the door with his bulk, putting his satchel on the ground. He looked from the man to where I was sitting, making it clear that we had an agreement and he expected me to honor it. Then he pulled out a sheaf of papers and started to study some of his calculations—taking himself somewhere else.
“Now, then,” said the man, folding his hands in front of him on the desk. “May I offer you some refreshment? Coffee? Some excellent sherry?”
I shook my head. The Mole never looked up.
“A beer perhaps?”
“No,” I told him. I’d made a deal not to do anything to him, not even to threaten him, but I didn’t have to pretend I was his pal.
The man reached for a cut-glass decanter on his desk. Something that looked like a silver leaf dangled from just below the neck of the bottle, attached by a silver chain. He poured himself a wineglass of dark liquid from the bottle, held the glass up to the light from the fireplace, took a small sip. If he was any calmer he would have fallen asleep.
It was hard to make out his features in the dim light. I could see he was very thin, balding on top, with thick dark hair around the sides of his head. Heavy eyebrows jutted from his skull, hooding his eyes. The face was wide at the top, narrowing down to a small chin—a triangular shape. His lips were thin. His fingers were long and tapered, with a faint sheen of clear polish on the nails.
“Now,” he said, taking a sip from his glass, “how may I help you, Mr.…”
“I’m looking for a picture,” I told him, ignoring the request for my name. “A picture of a kid.”
“And you think I have this picture?” he asked, his heavy eyebrows lifting.
I shrugged. I should be so lucky. “No. But I hope you can tell me about that kind of thing in general. Give me an idea where to look.”
“I see. Tell me about this picture.”
“A picture of a kid. Little chubby blond-haired boy. About six years old.”
The man sat behind his desk, patiently waiting, making it clear I hadn’t told him enough.
“A sex picture,” I said.
“Um …” he mumbled. “Not such an unusual picture. Little boys in love do things like that.”
Something burned inside my chest. I felt the Mole’s eyes on me, got it under control, stuck a cigarette in my mouth, my teeth almost meeting in the filter. “Who would have a picture like that?” I asked him.
“Oh, just about anyone. It all depends on why the picture was taken.”
“Why?”
The man made a tent of his fingers, his semi-Bri t accent making him sound like a teacher. “If the picture was taken by his mentor, then it wouldn’t be circulated commercially, you understand?”
“His mentor?”
“A mentor, yes. One who teaches you, guides you through life. Helps you with problems … that sort of thing.”
I looked at him, picturing a little dot of cancer inside his chest, keeping my hands still. I raised my own eyebrows as a question.
“Men who love boys are very special,” the man answered, his voice reverent. “As are the boys who love them. It is a most unique and perfect relationship. And very little understood by society.”
“Could you explain?” I said, my voice flat.
“When a boy has a sexual preference for men, he is at grave risk. The world will not understand
