"No!"
"Mr. Stewart..."
"Get out."
"Mr. Stewart!"
Arthur bounded out of his seat and made for the door. Bad enough that he was drinking alone on a Saturday night, now Slade had to send lackeys after him? Why couldn't he be left alone? And the man was following him, the loud voice strangely pleading as it pursued him so strenuously that everyone turned to watch the scene. Arthur distinctly heard the word 'fag' muttered by a fat man near the bar. It made him furious. It made him vicious.
It made him turn around to spit, "Listen! I don't want to know, all right? Just go back and tell Stone that I'll keep his little secret."
"But..."
"Fuck off! For fuck's sake!"
The night air was supposed to be crisp and clear. After all, it was New York. It was supposed to be filled with cold wreathes of chilled breath and snowflakes. But it really wasn't. London had been sludge and dirt; New York was no better. Arthur might have felt it more keenly if he hadn't stopped dead to stare at the sight of a limousine parked outside the suspect bar he'd just exited.
"Mr. Stone would like to speak to you."
He pulled himself together enough to snap back to reality. "What accent is that," he griped, "Harvard?"
The man said nothing. He retained a blank look on his blank face and motioned to the limo. Arthur sighed and took two steps towards it. Then he stopped.
The window rolled down.
"Arthur. I was told I could find you here."
"What do you want?" Arthur took a step back.
"To talk, really. Just to talk." Stone seemed uneasy.
Arthur took two steps forward. "Talk? What about , Mr. Stone?"
"About things, Arthur. About this little business of ours."
Arthur took a step back.
"Will you stop dancing in the street and just get in?" Stone growled, pushing open the door and gesturing rudely.
A woman stopped to stare with avid interest at the limousine and at its mysterious occupant. Considering Stone was still dressed as Stone, her eyes went wide and she let out a gasp of shock. The singer, however, remained oblivious to her presence.
Arthur didn't, and Arthur knew just what people would say about famous singers picking up half-drunk men in bad neighbourhoods. It was never pleasant drivel, he imagined. And any suspicion of drugs or gay sex would not help the rumours. So he forced himself to smile, walk forward and get in.
Stone seemed surprised and rather gratified. "Thanks," he said.
"Yeah well, didn't want your public to get the wrong idea," the reporter muttered. At Stone's enquiring look he pointed out the window to the woman walking down the street, still shooting dubious looks back towards the enormous limo. "Why are you here?"
"Because I don't have your reassurance, Arthur."
"Fine. I won't tell."
Stone's grin seemed to come easy enough as he quirked an eyebrow. "Not even your mother?" he joked.
Arthur smirked back coldly. "It would be something to tell my old mum after not speaking to her for ten years, right? She'd laugh. Then my dad'd throw me out again."
"Oh. Shit, I'm sorry."
Those words cracked it. "Look, Stone, I won't tell anyone what I know. You've got my word on that. You want me to sign papers, get your lawyers to send them to me. But it's late; I'm going now."
He got out, hands taking note of the soft leather of the seat he was sliding over, eyes half blinded by the garish glow of the neon sign after the sweet dimness of the limo. And that beautiful pair of grey eyes! Who would ever forget those eyes? All lost, though; hidden in a face only characterized by its angular indistinction. Stone could have been anyone out in the street. He could have been anyone in that bar Arthur had just walked out of.
And ultimately, Stone could have been one of the men that Arthur stared half-heartedly at in the gay club he eventually found himself in.
Except that Stone had no place in any of that. Brian Slade would have found a place here. Arthur liked to imagine that Brian Slade would have enjoyed a gay club. He could just picture the shock of bright blue hair seen at different points on the dance floor, the cat-like grace swaying in a jerky pantomime of ecstasy or joy, pouting lips sending his audience wild with delight.
Arthur shut his eyes and dreamed happily for a while.
And it was beautiful.
Brain Slade in that feather and fur concoction from the poster in that racy mag, June 1972 issue. Brian Slade stalking his prey like the sexual predator he was, grey eyes glowing with fervent bloodlust. Brian Slade fluttering his eyelashes as some man encroached on his personal space without so much as a 'by-your-leave'.
It was nothing new.
These were all recycled images. Images picked up while letting his thoughts run wild when listening to old Grant reading Wilde, or from talking to the outrageous Flaming Creatures during a frequent booze binge. Even a few from the times he'd gone to the club last, and sat there in passive disgust at the crude, tired spectacle around him.
But now was something new. Now he was in the fantasies and of course, Brian Slade never even knew he existed. But Arthur could stand in his corner and stare with rapt admiration...
"Hey buddy, you gonna move, or are you dead?"
He opened his eyes with a start and saw two boys standing in front of him, one clearly drunk, the other just amused. One was dark, the other was blond. Two pairs of blue eyes mocked him blindly. He shrugged and moved, slipping quietly away into the night, ignoring someone who tried to beg a few coins of him.
"Sorry," he muttered, shaking his head, "Don't have anything."
The man- no child, because no man should have that vulnerably helpless look on his face- gave up with a despairing sigh and chased after someone else. Arthur stopped, didn't turn around and groaned. It seemed to tremble up right from his toes to the crown of his head. It was, he thought whimsically, like a sound of cleansing. A deft hand pulled the last of his change from his pocket and he dropped it loudly on the ground.
If the guy asking found it, then that was fine. If he didn't, someone else would. And what did he care anyway? He was only a sodding journalist; he didn't have to save the world! It was just money anyway.
The walk home was rather bland that evening.
And he thought only of Brian Slade.