Chapter Eight
"I wasn't expecting you."
Sam moved past Arthur into his apartment. It scarily resembled Curt's, being bare of almost any personal effects. At least Curt had his music. This man had nothing except what Sam saw: bare furniture, notebooks and books, and a small stereo and TV set.
Arthur watched Sam as he moved about the room, then asked, "Can I get you something? Coffee?"
"Nah," Sam said. "I'm sorry about earlier. I know it was pretty abrupt, just saying-"
"It was abrupt. And also very strange. Why would anyone want to kill me?"
Sam ignored him, instead walked to the small desk. "What are you working on?" he asked, staring down at the notebook. He barely got a glimpse of a half-erased sentence bearing Curt's name before Arthur grabbed it.
"None of your business."
"It about Tommy Stone, isn't it? Or Brian Slade, whichever you'd prefer."
Arthur nodded. "Yeah. I'm a journalist. It's my job, so if you've come to talk me out of doing it out of some bizarre loyalty to that bastard-"
"No." Sam grabbed Arthur's arm to stop his retreat. "That's not why I'm here."
Without hesitation, Arthur moved forward, capturing Sam's lips with his own in a short kiss. He pulled back, stared at him a moment, as if searching for something in Curt's eyes- something he wouldn't find in Sam's. "You really don't remember." Arthur trailed off, blinking and stepping away. "I mean, I didn't expect you to, not right away, but I thought… I don't know what I thought." Arthur looked down, "So why are you here?"
Sam had no idea what he was talking about when he talked about remembering him, so he said, "I wasn't kidding when I said someone was trying to kill you. Tommy- Brian- whatever… He can't let you publish that article. He's going to send someone after you."
Arthur cocked his head quizzically. "How do you know this?"
Sam shrugged. "I have contacts… And I know Brian," he finished quickly when Arthur started to look doubtful. "Image is important to him… He lost his fame once; he won't lose it again."
Arthur sighed. "I need a drink."
*
Curt owned a bar. Arthur hadn't known that. Of course, there were plenty of things Arthur didn't know about Curt- his favorite color, song, movie, book… The list went on. Curt had asked him all those questions that night on the rooftop. Perhaps if Arthur had taken the time to answer them, the gorgeous blond creature at his side would remember him.
Arthur felt a pang of sadness when he thought about Curt's obvious confusion when he'd touched on that night. *That* was the reason Arthur hadn't mentioned it in the bar. Deep down, he'd known that Curt had forgotten him; had known it since he'd woken alone on a rooftop in Northern London close to dusk one day in 1975.
Almost as soon as they walked into the bar, Curt was flagged down by a bright-eyed brunette, who looked at them both like they were insane. "Curt, I don't believe you! What are you doing here?"
Curt blinked, looking blank. "I own 'here'," he said, as if it should be obvious.
She rolled her eyes. "No, why are you here *now*? You're supposed to be at the club." When Curt didn't reply, she continued with, "You're supposed to be playing tonight? Is this ringing any bells?"
"Um…" Curt said. "I must have forgotten."
"Evidently. Well, if you hurry you can get there in time." Curt didn't move; the brunette slapped his arm. "Go!"
"To where?" Curt asked.
"Granite Club, off 32nd. You've been there a thousand times! What is with you today!"
Curt looked over at Arthur. "You mind?"
Arthur felt a shiver pass through him. "No."
"I wasn't expecting you."
Sam moved past Arthur into his apartment. It scarily resembled Curt's, being bare of almost any personal effects. At least Curt had his music. This man had nothing except what Sam saw: bare furniture, notebooks and books, and a small stereo and TV set.
Arthur watched Sam as he moved about the room, then asked, "Can I get you something? Coffee?"
"Nah," Sam said. "I'm sorry about earlier. I know it was pretty abrupt, just saying-"
"It was abrupt. And also very strange. Why would anyone want to kill me?"
Sam ignored him, instead walked to the small desk. "What are you working on?" he asked, staring down at the notebook. He barely got a glimpse of a half-erased sentence bearing Curt's name before Arthur grabbed it.
"None of your business."
"It about Tommy Stone, isn't it? Or Brian Slade, whichever you'd prefer."
Arthur nodded. "Yeah. I'm a journalist. It's my job, so if you've come to talk me out of doing it out of some bizarre loyalty to that bastard-"
"No." Sam grabbed Arthur's arm to stop his retreat. "That's not why I'm here."
Without hesitation, Arthur moved forward, capturing Sam's lips with his own in a short kiss. He pulled back, stared at him a moment, as if searching for something in Curt's eyes- something he wouldn't find in Sam's. "You really don't remember." Arthur trailed off, blinking and stepping away. "I mean, I didn't expect you to, not right away, but I thought… I don't know what I thought." Arthur looked down, "So why are you here?"
Sam had no idea what he was talking about when he talked about remembering him, so he said, "I wasn't kidding when I said someone was trying to kill you. Tommy- Brian- whatever… He can't let you publish that article. He's going to send someone after you."
Arthur cocked his head quizzically. "How do you know this?"
Sam shrugged. "I have contacts… And I know Brian," he finished quickly when Arthur started to look doubtful. "Image is important to him… He lost his fame once; he won't lose it again."
Arthur sighed. "I need a drink."
*
Curt owned a bar. Arthur hadn't known that. Of course, there were plenty of things Arthur didn't know about Curt- his favorite color, song, movie, book… The list went on. Curt had asked him all those questions that night on the rooftop. Perhaps if Arthur had taken the time to answer them, the gorgeous blond creature at his side would remember him.
Arthur felt a pang of sadness when he thought about Curt's obvious confusion when he'd touched on that night. *That* was the reason Arthur hadn't mentioned it in the bar. Deep down, he'd known that Curt had forgotten him; had known it since he'd woken alone on a rooftop in Northern London close to dusk one day in 1975.
Almost as soon as they walked into the bar, Curt was flagged down by a bright-eyed brunette, who looked at them both like they were insane. "Curt, I don't believe you! What are you doing here?"
Curt blinked, looking blank. "I own 'here'," he said, as if it should be obvious.
She rolled her eyes. "No, why are you here *now*? You're supposed to be at the club." When Curt didn't reply, she continued with, "You're supposed to be playing tonight? Is this ringing any bells?"
"Um…" Curt said. "I must have forgotten."
"Evidently. Well, if you hurry you can get there in time." Curt didn't move; the brunette slapped his arm. "Go!"
"To where?" Curt asked.
"Granite Club, off 32nd. You've been there a thousand times! What is with you today!"
Curt looked over at Arthur. "You mind?"
Arthur felt a shiver pass through him. "No."