Page 14 of By Any Means

In society or in industry?

“Ah. He won you over?” Timelines, timelines. August’s arrival had caused ripples of sensation, and T. F. Raberding had clung on to him from the beginning. Would he admit it?

“Oh, fairly immediately. Me, as everyone. More so. He was a charmer. An angel. Enemies closer and all that; he succeeded.” He smiled, sad and conspiratorial. “He couldn’t have read it, do you think? I didn’t find out about the French until we were well into it, emotionally.”

As deceptions went, mere bilingualism—or not having read The Art of War—seemed hardly villainy. Not worth killing a lover for.

“You called him a liar. Why did you feel deceived by him?”

“Well.” There was a long pause. “It was mostly…” He paused, restarted again. “This is… embarrassing to admit. It was nothing serious.”

Laurie sipped more coffee, keeping his gaze steady. It was true the man was embarrassed; he could hardly look at Laurie.

“I… It is truly the silliest thing. I don’t think he ever returned my feelings. He said so, but… there were others. Not just the beards. Other men. I know there were. I don’t find it to be a necessarily exclusionary thing, being with others and loving one—monogamy strikes me as very normal—but then…”

There was whore. Laurie said softly, “Then he died.”

“And then he died! And I shall never know if he loved me.” He looked up. “It feels very good to say it aloud to someone; you have no idea.”

Laurie bet it was cathartic. So was flinging names at a former lover who’d abandoned you. A dead lover. Liar, whore, thief. What was thief?

He leaned in. “I might have an idea.” Not that he’d ever told a man he loved him before, but he was very good at being sympathetic.

Raberding gave him a shaky smile. He mirrored Laurie’s lean. “Of course. Of course. As normal as you look… That’s why I’ve let you into my apartment; you understand. It’s hideous to have to conceal one’s true grief, isn’t it? And then to be hounded by all the rags…the regular folk wanting to be paid to witness… a witness to what? A lone tear in my eye? I couldn’t even wear mourning—too out of character. I’ve never cursed my love of a stripe more. It isn’t fair.”

Laurie dealt with inequality and unfair things every day. This unfairness wasn’t something he could give a scare headline to. He wished he could.

“When did you find out he’d passed away?”

“When? Don’t you know? Oh, Laurie.” Tears welled up and overflowed. “I’m the one who found him.”

Raberding had been by August’s side in the hotel for most of the night he’d died, gaming and drinking and putting on the usual normal show. He’d been unaware August was using opiates—that night, at least—and it was far from unusual for him to retire with two girls on his arms. “He never had actual relations with women,” Raberding confided. “He had a terrible fear of syphilis.” Laurie refrained from comment.

Raberding didn’t know if it was pills or pipe or hypodermic needle that’d killed him. He hadn’t seen anything of the scene but August, faceup: his blue, hypoxic lips; his limp limbs being tugged by his two distressed—female—bedmates. The ice-cold, purple fingertips, briefly brushed by his own.

He’d staggered from the room, called down for the porter and police, and then been sick in a cigarette bin by the elevators.

“The worst part was keeping it together. Women are allowed a breakdown, even if barely acquainted—they could touch him… pull at him… clutch him to them…”

Not the right moment to get into the usually ironclad constitutions of women, to speak of hysteria and breakdowns and prejudice therein. Raberding was hardly the audience, and more to the point, he wasn’t exactly wrong.

“Not that I wished to touch him more. He was so… cold. It was horrific.” Raberding swiped at his eyes. “I’m sorry to say I fled.”

Laurie muttered a denial of blame. He was by then seated much closer, had pulled a damask ottoman up to Raberding’s armchair. At some point, they’d both discarded their gloves, Raberding probably from fear of salt and wet, Laurie because he was good at his job; Raberding had snatched his hand. Laurie couldn’t help but notice Raberding’s were pure gentleman’s hands. A contrast to Chary Wright’s: the rough, callused palm that Laurie had swiped his finger across—stroked, really. Had felt compelled to touch.

A strange thing, that compulsion. Strange he didn’t feel it now. Laurie, when he was honest with himself, preferred a man’s smooth, slim hand to a rough one, a draping wrist to a fist. Everything that Raberding was beside him, unto the elegant snuffling and big, wet-lashed eyes.

“I’m sorry to cry all over the place. I hope some of this blabbing has been helpful for you.”

Laurie made a noncommittal noise. He was more convinced than ever that there was no story there. August Wright hadn’t been murdered. He’d only been wild and reckless. Nothing Laurie could, or wanted to, write about. “Don’t worry about it. Hey, can I be honest with you?” More echoing.

“Of course.”

“Not every source is useful. Some don’t seem as though they’ve been helpful until much later.” He shrugged.

Not the answer Raberding had been looking for. He laughed but detached his hand from Laurie’s.

“That must’ve been honest, Laurie Tulley. Ouch. I am offended.”