Chapter 2: Pursuit
The Two Pence Pub was small, dark, and crowded. It's ornate drop ceiling with faux metal tiles covered in fleur-di-lys gave one the impression of being below ground. Or, if you were claustrophobic, of being trapped inside a very small box. It was meant to be intimate. All dark wood and flickering candle light and a bar area almost too small to be believed. There were mirrors behind the bar, true, but they did almost nothing to create the illusion of more space. Probably because they were mostly covered up by a large collection of stein mugs, all made to look like the heads of British royalty and other various English historical figures. Churchill, Queen Elizabeth (I and II), Henry VIII, Margaret Thatcher, and Shakespeare were all hanging out together in ceramic bliss behind the beer taps. A wilted British Flag-also covering half the mirror-and a large stuffed bull dog wearing a bobby's uniform topped off the back bar's somewhat questionable decor.
"You think Margaret Thatcher ever drank lager?"
A punch to the arm jarred O'Malley out of his reverie. "Pay attention, O. Not everything's about booze," said the young man sitting next to him, who went by the first? last? name of Sherman. He was short and stodgy, with black curly hair hidden beneath a plaid golfer's cap. What O'Malley thought of as a 'fat guy's hat.' "I was talking about that picture of St. John the Baptist Cathedral-it wasn't too overdone, was it?"
O'Malley wanted to say that a canvas that fucking big was going to look overdone no matter what, but what he said instead was, "I thought it was very Caspar Friedrich." O'Malley often spoke in short blurbs when it came to other artist's works. Because everyone enjoyed a good blurb. And a blurb which compared the artist to an even better artist was especially good. O'Malley could "blurb" all day without even half-thinking about it...
"Oh god, it really does suck, doesn't it?" O'Malley watched as Sherman literally pitched his forehead onto the table, causing everyone's drinks to slosh. O'Malley grabbed up his drink in an attempt to save it. He caught Danny's eye over the top of the other young man's plaid head and mouthed the words: "Emo bitch." And Danny started laughing, which only caused the other man to lift his head and say, "Are you laughing at me?"
"Sherman, you worry way too much. Why do you do these showings if you can't stop all the hand-wringing?"
"I don't know. I just can't help it. I'm just not sure..."
"Nobody's ever 'sure,' so just get over it," said O'Malley stoically. He went back to staring at the stein-heads behind the bar.
O'Malley tuned out both Sherman and Danny as the two of them continued to natter on about Sherman's latest showing at the Symposium. Mostly the conversation consisted of Sherman being insecure about his work, with Danny reassuring him-over and over again-that everything was okay. After a while it got kind of...repetitious. Like a more irritating kind of leitmotif. Luckily, O'Malley had started drinking early, and was already three sheets to the wind before even hitting the gallery doors. Social lubricant for a socially distasteful situation. Could anyone really blame him for it though? How was he supposed to deal with such a whiny, high-maintenance artist/acquaintance otherwise? Was this how Ari felt when dealing with him? God help her, if she did...
"...O is always sure," declared Sherman with just a tiny hint of green coloring his words. "Did you see that self-portrait of his in Photography Today magazine? Might as well have had the slogan 'Pimpin' Ain't Easy' blazed across the top of it."
"-I thought you didn't do self-portraits?" interrupted Danny, brows furrowing.
"It was Ari's fault. The whole issue was about the "Top Five Hottest Photographers Working Today." They wanted a self-portrait for each. And Ari had already made the commitment..."
"Yey, but they put his picture on the cover," said Sherman, this time with more than just a hint of green. O'Malley ignored the insinuating tone in Sherman's words. Getting the cover had been easy. Why? Because Juliet Anslow had the face of a horse. And Phaedon Miller looked like he should be hanging out under a bridge. And Kerry and Varner...well, both their works-and their faces-were both too bland to even be considered for the cover. Which only left Mr. Hot Irish Guy with the Clever Picture to take the honors.
In the end, it all boiled down to cold, hard aesthetics...
"Hey-what's with the map in the background anyway? That wasn't in the original version of "The Procuress?" said Sherman, rudely waving his empty glass at a passing waitress.
"What's a 'Procuress'?" asked Danny.
"It's a painting by Vermeer," explained Sherman. "O'Malley did his own version for the magazine. Mr. Smarty Pants. Changed the symbols around, though. Like I said, it might as well have had 'Pimpin' Ain't Easy' spelled out across it."
"Maybe the map stands for 'International' or 'Global Pimp'," offered Danny.
Even O'Malley laughed at that one.
"Hey, O'Malley-isn't that the guy who shot you down in the Symposium the other day?" O'Malley's head swerved to follow Danny's line of sight. Through the Pence's front picture window O'Malley caught sight of shoulder-length blond hair, the shade jacked up several watts by the unforgiving fluorescence of an overhanging street light. He watched as the figure headed straight for the Pence's front door, holding his breath as he waited for it to swing open...
Damn, he was acting like a school kid with a crush...
And O'Malley never acted that way.
"Somebody turned down O?" asked Sherman, with a little more excitement than O'Malley would have liked. "Who? Where? Oh, I gotta see this rare flower..."
"Just walked through the door," muttered Danny. All three men at the table watched surreptitiously as the leather-wearing blond walked by the front hostess's station and made a bee-line directly for the bar. The very crowded bar. The young man was forced to squeeze in between some jowly guy in a three piece suit and an overly tanned woman tricked out with too much gold jewelry. The drink order he yelled over at the bartender was lost in the din of clinking glasses and food orders and multiple, simultaneous conversations. O'Malley found himself staring again. The bar's lighting was doing wonders for the young man; his skin and hair practically glowed against the glossy backdrop of black leather. All the studs, buckles, and rivets on the motorcycle jacket he wore gave him a kind of hard edge-toughened up what could have easily been a too-feminine look. And the eye-liner-absent from before-was the crowning glory: the boy's pale eyes looked positively electric within the oval frames of those smudged, black borders.
O'Malley was up and out of his seat before he even knew it.
He was calculating, strategizing like a five star general as he made his way over to the bar. First, get rid of one of the nit-wits on either side of him. Second, find out what he was drinking and order another. Third, literally charm the pants off the blond. The execution of these three things wasn't beyond his skill set. Oh, no-far from it. On the attractiveness scale, O'Malley ranked himself a nine, maybe an eight on a bad day. Again, it all boiled down to cold, hard aesthetics. And aesthetic facts were incontrovertible. There was no way in the world he shouldn't be able to score here. The numbers were firmly set in his favor. And even if the boy was a ten, well...he could always count on his camera to act as the Great Equalizer. As it always had been.
If only he could find out why the kid was so opposed to being photographed...
O'Malley took a chance and tapped the overly tanned woman on the shoulder. "Excuse me, but someone ran into your car out in the parking lot."
The woman, obviously inebriated almost to the point of no return, muttered, "Shit." She then stubbed out her cigarette, grabbed her matching gold purse off the bar, and walked-albeit in a wobbly fashion-towards the front door.
Phase one completed.
O'Malley glanced down at the blond's drink as he squeezed in next to him. "Another chocolate martini over here, Wendy," called O'Malley, gesturing at the blond's near empty glass. O'Malley's eyes met the blond's in the long, hanging mirror against the back wall, over the ceramic heads of Shakespeare and Churchill and Elizabeth. The boy's expression was closed off, revealing nothing, but it was obvious that the boy recognized him, knew who he was. And on the bright side, he hadn't told him to go to hell yet, so O'Malley was hopeful.
"You didn't have to do that," the boy finally said, in a voice almost too low to hear. Again, O'Malley found himself liking the low, scratchy sound of it. Dark and flowing, like expensive Scotch-on-the-rocks.
O'Malley adored Scotch-on-the-rocks.
Phase two completed.
"Consider it a peace offering. I apparently pissed you off the other day with that photo offer."
O'Malley watched in the mirror as the blond smiled a small, yet secretive, smile. He was looking down at his drink. "You thought that I was pissed off? That was definitely not me being pissed off. You would have known if I was really pissed off." The blond lifted his eyes to the mirror again. There was the hint of a threat there.
O'Malley ignored it.
"I'm not going to pose for you," said the boy, effectively cutting off O'Malley's words before he could even form them.
"Why not?"
Silence.
Then: "What's your name?"
More silence.
"Is it because you think...my work's probably not good?" probed O'Malley. He tried to come up with a logical, rational explanation for the boy's reticence. No, it couldn't be insecurity. Not from this one. There wasn't a single insecure thing about him. So maybe, he thought he was some sort of hack, an amateur. Or...
"You think this is my version of 'wanna come up and see my etchings'?" asked O'Malley. He was rewarded with the bright sound of laughter from the blond. O'Malley watched the young man's expression change in the mirror.
"Might have crossed my mind," the blond admitted, smiling again. O'Malley smiled back as their eyes caught and held in the reflection.
"I really do take pictures, you know. And I really, honestly want to take yours," and, as O'Malley pronounced the words, he realized that this was true. He really, really wanted to take this boy's picture...
The boy's mouth closed into a tight line, and he merely shook his head. He dropped his gaze to the bar's surface as a second chocolate martini was placed in front of him. O'Malley felt the moment beginning to slip...
Damn, he really was going to have to work for it.
Only now, O'Malley was confused as to exactly what 'it' was...
Was it a roll in the hay? Or was it a photograph? Which was more important? Or more intriguing?
Whichever was the hardest to obtain...
The blond glanced down at his watch and promptly said, "I gotta run." O'Malley watched as he picked up the glass in front of him and downed it all in one go. Then O'Malley said: "Where are you going?"
"Work thing," replied the blond abstractly.
What the hell-it was ten o'clock on a Friday night? So O'Malley asked: "Oh? What kind of work?"
"Mergers and acquisitions," replied the boy, in what was obviously a bullshit answer. So: no name, and no job. O'Malley had absolutely nothing on the kid.
As the boy turned to go, O'Malley, in a random act of desperation, said: "Do you want to go to a ball tomorrow night?"
The boy froze, and turning to face O'Malley, said, "A what?"
"A ball. Well, actually it's a vampire ball. A freak fest. Kind of stupid really. It's being held at a place called Club Ten downtown. I'm supposed to be there for my job," O'Malley's tone suggested that he would rather be anywhere but there. "My agent signs me up for these things..." he simply allowed the words to trail off.
"Hmmm...maybe," said the boy with a shrug. Then he promptly turned and stalked out the pub's front door. O'Malley watched his ass as he went, vaguely mesmerized.
Well...it wasn't a 'no.'
And maybe now O'Malley had something to look forward to tomorrow night...
End Chapter 2.