I never met her brother before, and when he showed up-his flight an hour late, his only bag a tan leather carry-on-I wasn’t sure I wanted to. He was very blond, very tan, and prettier than Linda. He wore a loose-fitting pastel blue shirt and off-white, baggy, pleated linen pants; he also wore huaraches and no socks.
“Sis!” he said, beaming, and hugged her. Then he backed away, with her still in his arms and said, “I’m freezing my nuts off.”
What kind of dildo would fly into Chicago in November dressed like the fucking beach? This kind of dildo.
“Here,” I said, and gave him my plaid hunting jacket. “It isn’t Ralph Lauren, but it’ll keep you warm.”
“Why, thanks, sport,” he said, and he had a nice smile, white teeth in a face as tan as his Gucci carryon. He slipped the jacket on and it fit him fine. Well, in terms of size it fit him fine.
“I thought I’d never get here,” he said, slipping his arm around her shoulder. She looked up at him adoringly. I fell back, following them down the wide aisle toward the main concourse. “All these delays, and the turbulence? I’d have lost my lunch, if I’d eaten any.”
“You look great, Chris.”
“I feel terrific.”
“Are you being careful?”
“I’m being careful.”
She’d never mentioned her brother was gay, but I had figured it out. First he lived in San Francisco, then in Atlanta-both centers of such activity-and he was thirty-five and unmarried. I know you can be thirty-five and unmarried and live in one of those cities and not be gay, but not when you have a succession of male roommates, and particularly not when you have a sister who cries every time she reads about AIDS in the papers.
“Safe sex,” she said, shaking a lecturing finger at him.
“I know, I know.”
“But you broke up with Ray…”
“I’m looking for a monogamous relationship. I’m not by nature promiscuous.”
I stopped listening about then. I wasn’t interested in the conversation, and I was distracted by the sight of Preston Freed’s clean-cut disciples peddling his Democratic Action party magazines and bumper stickers (the latter seemed pro-nuclear energy and anti-Jane Fonda).
I went and got the car, not minding the cold at all, and picked them up amongst the cabs. He squeezed in back, behind me, with Linda’s many packages, and she sat in front but looking his way. They chattered all the way back, mostly about his work (he was an artist, and had had some gallery showings in several cities-an abstract painting in pastels of his hung at the A-frame, and I didn’t mind it). Later in the conversation Linda revealed that she was “expecting,” and he seemed thrilled, maybe even envious. He patted me on the shoulder and I smiled at him in the mirror.
“I’ll make a fabulous uncle,” he said. “I just love kids.”
I wasn’t sure I wanted the details.
Finally, I pulled in the restaurant parking lot, and Linda said, “It’s getting a little late-I’d rather wait till tomorrow to show Chris around the Inn.”
“Why don’t you kids go back and chat,” I said, getting out of the car. “I have something here I want to work on.”
“Jack,” she said, “come with us-we’ll make a fire, have some drinks…”
“I’ll be home by midnight,” I said. “You have a lot to talk about. Family stuff. You’ll both see plenty of me over the next week.”
She seemed a little disappointed, but she smiled anyway, said, “Okay, honey,” and slid over into the driver’s seat. Chris got out of the back and got in front next to her.
Gravel stirred as they pulled out of the parking lot and onto the road. I went into the Inn and settled myself at the bar and watched the Tonight Show and then David Letterman and drank a couple of caffeine-free Diet Cokes. I wanted to sleep tonight.
“You okay, Jack?” Charley wondered. Business was slow and he was sitting on a stool behind the bar, watching TV, too. He was bald and round and wrinkled, a friendly old hard-ass.
“Ungh,” I said.
“Your wife’s brother’s arrived,” he said, smiling on one side of his face, nodding.
“Yeah.” I shrugged.
“That comes with the territory. In-laws.”
“He seems like an okay guy.”
“I’m sure he is.”
“His idea of a good time is sticking his dick in some guy’s hairy asshole, but hey, who am I to judge?”
“Don’t be an asshole, yourself, Jack. We can’t choose our relatives. Besides, maybe he prefers bein’ the stickee.”
“I know, I know. I got nothin’ against the guy.”
“You just don’t like fags.”
“I don’t give a shit about that.”
And I didn’t. I worked with one for many years, and he was, for the most part, as good a partner as any. Why somebody’s sex life should be of concern to somebody else is beyond me, anyway.
“You just like your privacy,” he said.
“Why don’t you polish a glass or something? Do I pay you to watch television?”
“Fuck you, Jack,” he said cheerfully. “You’re just like anybody else. You don’t like being invaded.”
I shrugged again. “Our place isn’t big. Having another human being under foot for a week, well… fuck it, I’ll live.”
“Sure you will. Why don’t you put him up here at the Inn? Business is slow.”
That perked me up. “Not a bad idea. Of course, we got room for him at the A-frame-he was going to crash on the couch in the loft…”
“You want my advice? You got a sweet little girl there. Don’t cause her any trouble. Show her and her brother a nice time-take ’em to Lake Geneva, and Twin Lakes, and do touristy shit-eat at a nice restaurant every night. Days, find work to do up here, give ’em some space. She can drive him around and show him antique shops and shit. She’s going to want to spend time with him, and you can cover for her at the restaurant, or work on cars or do any damn thing you want. We got plumbing problems upstairs, y’know, if you’re ambitious.”
“That makes sense, Charley.”
“And at night, well you send the boy up here where he has a private room. He can even entertain an occasional guest, if he likes. Beats sleeping on a couch.”
“Charley,” I said, and smiled a little, climbed off the stool, “forget about polishing a glass. Watch TV till your eyes burn, if you want. You just earned your keep.”
“No problem, Jack. Just remember that faggot is all the family your little wife has in the world.”
“Well,” I said, thinking about what was growing inside her, “that’s not entirely true, but I appreciate the sentiment. I know I got a good thing going. I’m no fool. I’m not about to fuck it up.”
He nodded and turned his attention back to the tube.
I walked outside and started back home. It was less than half a mile to the turn-in, off of which was my drive. The night was cold, particularly with me minus my hunting jacket, and overcast; the moon was glowing behind some clouds up there, not having any luck getting through. About half-way home I noticed a car parked alongside the road. Headed north. I was walking north, but on the other side of the road. It was a dark blue late- model Buick and the man behind the wheel was pale and blond and skeletal. He wore a black turtleneck sweater. He didn’t look at me as I passed.
There was no reason for him to be parked there. He wasn’t parking in front of a house or anything.
The house he was parked nearest to belonged to Charley, a quarter-mile away, and no other houses were immediately around; it was a gently wooded area near the lake, after all.
His plates were Illinois. Rock Island County. The Quad Cities.
Where the Broker had lived.
Without picking up my pace, I walked into the brush lining the road, wanting to make myself less of a target. I was not armed. My shoulder holster was in the closet; the other guns were in their usual positions in glove compartment and nightstand drawer. But the house was nearby, and all I had to do was get in there first.
