Page 83 of By Any Means

Raberding sighed. “Unfortunat⁠—”

He didn’t finish. Chary was weightless, tumbling out of Raberding’s grip, then suddenly lying on his back on the car-cab floor, looking straight up at the leather roof, his legs pretzeled into each other. He tried to figure out what had happened, exactly; surely, he was too tall to fit there. The car had been stopped, too fast, all at once, surely before they’d meant to. This wasn’t the Upper West Side. Had they hit something?

“Good God.” Raberding flopped back into the seat, clutching his head and out-of-place hair, his expression dazed. There was a distinct swelling between his eyes. Chary thought he might have been jerked face-forward into the partition glass and bounced back again; there was an awfully familiar spiderwebbed pattern in the clear plate. “What happened? Chauffeur. Chauffeur!”

Despite himself, Chary wheezed with laughter. Don’t you know his name? “Now it’s come around to you.”

Raberding looked down. “What?” he said, then repeated, “What?”

The door opened. It was not the chauffeur. It was August, hatless, hair down, clean-shaven, an upside-down avenging angel in chauffeur’s double-breasted livery. With him came rain-damp industrial smoke, burnt gas, the smell of the East River. Not even close to the Upper West Side. With the shades shut, Raberding hadn’t bothered to check that the chauffeur had been heading where he’d meant to be.

Chary pulled himself up onto the seat. “August! He’s got a gun!”

August didn’t hear him or didn’t care. “You don’t touch my brother,” he snarled.

Tjofabier Raberding screamed as he was pulled out of the car and into the rain.

Midmorning at the docks and just past shift change; no passersby turned around at the noise. It wouldn’t have mattered if they had, anyway; August was not alone. Four large, rough-looking men flanked him—specters from his past—as well as the banged-up Mr. Sumner. Looming behind were the smokestacks of the glassworks, white lettering, East 9th and Avenue D.

August dumped his former lover against the chain-link fencing. It rattled down the length, throwing raindrops.

Chary winced. He wished they were on the opposite side of the city. As it was, he could only clutch a lamppost and hope August wouldn’t lose his head entirely. “August, is this wise?”

“August,” Raberding gasped, “my love, you’re alive⁠—”

“Don’t pretend, Tjo.” August removed his chauffeur’s jacket and yanked at his tie.

Raberding recoiled farther. “What are you— What did you do to my chauffeur?”

“I paid him more than you. Capitalism, hmm?” He rolled up shirtsleeves.

This act had some significance to Raberding; his eyes widened, then narrowed. “Oh, please. You wouldn’t.”

It was more plea than denial. August shrugged and indicated the roughs. “But they might. I’ve fucked all of them, you know. Maybe they are jealous, Tjo. Maybe they are unreasonably fond of me. Maybe they can’t help themselves. Could you imagine that?”

Raberding eyeballed the men. “I knew you were a whore. Not involved with the gangs!”

August laughed. “Did you think that meant I was an island, lonely and conquerable? Who owns the brothels? Who owned me, long before you arrived there?” To his friends he said, “Make sure he isn’t armed.”

The roughs stepped forward. Sumner stayed back, solemn beneath an umbrella. The deadly look was back.

“I don’t!” Raberding shrieked, heels kicking. “I lied! I don’t have a gun! Don’t any of you touch me⁠—”

“Chary!”

Chary turned. Laurie spilled out of a cab on the corner, hardly waiting for it to stop. He left his editor to settle the coins and limped forward. He looked wonderful.

“Reckless bastard,” he said, “crashing the car like that with you in it—you could’ve been killed.” He put his hands carefully up to Chary’s face. “You all right, Chary? You haven’t hit your head again or been sick? Are you cold?”

Chary let himself be held for a moment, then pulled Laurie’s hands away. He wouldn’t want to touch him, not if he knew the truth. “I’m all right. It was only a tumble from my seat. Raberding took the brunt of it.”

“Hope he broke his nose,” Laurie said viciously.

Chary couldn’t really disagree. “Are you all right? Your ankle...”

Laurie shrugged out of his jacket and put it over Chary. “It’s fine,” he said. “Got stomped a few times. Could’ve been worse. You see Sumner?”

The suit jacket was toasty warm, brown wool. “He looks awful.”