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Here at Padme's Library I feature all genres but followers have probably noticed that 90% of the posts and 99% of my reviews fall under the LGBT genres, so for this year's Pride Month I am showcasing 20 of my favorite M/M historicals in no particular order. You'll find many different eras facing all kinds of drama with one thing in common: homosexuality was not only considered immoral but also illegal, not a factor that is often the whole of the story and sometimes not mentioned at all but you just know the danger is always lurking. The heart always finds a ray of light like a beacon in the dark. Though we have a long way to go, in these stories you not only are entertained but you get a better understanding of just how far society has come towards equality.
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Summary:
Los Angeles, 1943
Reporter Nathan Doyle had his reasons to want Phil Arlen dead, but when he sees the man's body pulled from the La Brea tar pit, he knows he'll be the prime suspect. He also knows that his life won't stand up to intense police scrutiny, so he sets out to crack the case himself.
Lieutenant Matthew Spain's official inquiries soon lead him to believe that Nathan knows more than he's saying. But that's not the only reason Matt takes notice of the handsome journalist. Matt's been drawn to men before, but he must hide his true feelings—or risk his entire career.
As Nathan digs deeper, it becomes increasingly difficult to stay one step ahead of Matt Spain—and to deny his intense attraction to him. Nathan's secrets may not include murder, but has his hunt put him right in the path of the real killer?
Reporter Nathan Doyle had his reasons to want Phil Arlen dead, but when he sees the man's body pulled from the La Brea tar pit, he knows he'll be the prime suspect. He also knows that his life won't stand up to intense police scrutiny, so he sets out to crack the case himself.
Lieutenant Matthew Spain's official inquiries soon lead him to believe that Nathan knows more than he's saying. But that's not the only reason Matt takes notice of the handsome journalist. Matt's been drawn to men before, but he must hide his true feelings—or risk his entire career.
As Nathan digs deeper, it becomes increasingly difficult to stay one step ahead of Matt Spain—and to deny his intense attraction to him. Nathan's secrets may not include murder, but has his hunt put him right in the path of the real killer?
When you can enjoy mysteries and noir even better the second time, that takes talent because going in remembering who did it normally would take a little away but not here. STILL LOVE IT!!!
Original Review July 2014:
Amazing! More! Vintage! Noir! These are just some of the words that come to mind when I think of how to describe this book. The characters are very vintage, intriguing, and burrow their way into your heart. I don't do spoilers so that's about all I'm going to say other than just WOW! and definitely MORE of Doyle & Spain is needed to be written.
RATING:
Summary:
Secret Service operative Emlyn Strickland may be new to field work, but his talent for identifying counterfeit bank notes, honed over ten years at the Treasury, has given Sing Sing’s population a respectable boost. When counterfeiter August McKee takes illegal advantage of a sinking silver market, his former confederate Darrow Gardiner shares that information with Agent Strickland so they can track down the once-friend who left Darrow to rot in prison.
Promised his freedom in return, Darrow’s after something more. He wants possession of his best work, the flawless fifty dollar plates still in McKee’s hands. And with a little maneuvering, he’ll have the one thing a vengeful McKee may consider fair barter: the Secret Service operative whose testimony sent them both up the river.
It seems an objective within Darrow’s reach after he rescues Emlyn from an assassin, earning a measure of his trust in the process. But on the cross-country journey in search of McKee, another attempt on their lives leaves operative and outlaw stranded miles from Denver, with no one to rely upon but each other. Beset by turncoat agents, angry miners, and the burgeoning threat of a wealthy and powerful McKee, Darrow and Emlyn discover that standing on opposite sides of the law doesn’t safeguard them from the dangers of friendship—or a deeper attraction that may force Darrow to choose between the real and the counterfeit as he’s never done before.
Some might call this enemy to lovers sub-genre, for me Emlyn & Darrow are not quite enemies to begin with but they are definitely what I would call adversaries. At first, I wasn't sure that I was going to be able to "get into" this story right now as it wasn't really the time frame I was searching for but it only took the first chapter and I was hooked. Emlyn might be out of his depth as a field agent but he sure does know his money. Darrow may be a convict looking for his way out but he too knows his money or how to create it anyway. Together they have a common foe in their sites but watching them find a way to work together is interesting and immensely entertaining. Once again, Tamara Allen has captured the era with precision and created characters that burrow their way into your heart in both loving and not-so-loving ways. A great read for anyone who loves historicals but also for those who love a great story.
RATING:
Summary:
Gaslight Mysteries #1
Gay retro with a twist...
Two unlikely men meet in 1923 Ireland.
Michael McCree seems to be a newspaperman, running from a past in Boston. He's a lover of men and a drinker of whiskey, and yet one with some surprising depths and one huge secret.
Simon Hart is a surly, angry, altogether closeted and touch-me-not fellow, a Cambridge-educated private investigator whose business partner has been murdered. He meets Michael in a newspaper shop when turning in an obit notice.
They clash. Fisticuffs fly. And before Simon knows what's happened, he's gained a new flat-mate, a new business partner, and a wanna-be lover. It's the "wanna-be" that drives the present story...and all that follow.
Saturday Series Spotlight: The Gaslight Mysteries
Gaslight Mysteries in another one of those series that even knowing who did what, why, and how it still gets me sitting on the edge of my seat. Simon and Michael may be polar opposites when it comes to attitude and how they face life but at the heart of it all they are a perfect match. The offset each other in a way that only makes them stronger. I'll definitely be revisiting this investigative duo more than once in the upcoming years, perhaps not annually but I'll say hi to them again.
Books #1-3
Original Review May 2014:
I read all three books and since the time frame from page 1 of Heart to Hart to the last page of To the Bone only covers about two to three weeks, I'm going to do an overall review for these entries. I won't lie, the beginning was a bit tricky to get into with the Irish slang of the time but I was able to become comfortable with it after only a chapter or so. As I write this I am thinking that it had more to do with me not letting go of the previous book before starting this series and less of the slang language, but whatever the reason, after that first chapter I was hooked. Simon and Michael grabbed my heart and didn't let go. I loved the humorous banter between the new found partners. I found them to be very enjoyable and likeable despite their moments of infuriating debates. At times, they reminded me very much of the banter and bickering of Bogey and Bacall in The Big Sleep. The mysteries are quite intriguing and definitely hold the reader's interest as does the humor and the obvious attraction between the pair. Michael McCree and Simon Hart are a captivating pair that I look forward to read many times over.
RATING:
A Night at the Ariston Baths by Michael MurphySummary:
In rural Pennsylvania, Theodore McCall lives on his family’s farm and works as a clerk at the local general store. While his best friend, Martin Fuller, thrives in New York City, Theodore trudges through life. But on New Year’s Eve, 1902, Theodore’s world is turned upside down, and big changes call for bold action.
Theodore, who has never ventured more than eight miles from home, undertakes the daunting journey to New York City to join Martin. But the Martin he finds in New York is a stranger, a different man, doing things Theodore finds shocking. After just two months in the City, Theodore’s world is upended again as he an, d Martin are swept up in the events at the Ariston Baths.
Haunted by his experiences in New York, Theodore returns home, wondering whether he’ll ever find happiness in life. When he meets Jasper Webb, Theodore must boldly risk everything for the love he so longs for.
A Night at the Ariston Baths is a roller coaster of emotion. Theodore McCall leads a pretty mundane life in a small Pennsylvania town, thinking he wants more out of life, he heads to New York City where his best friend, Martin now lives. Once there, it's not what Theodore expects. The Ariston Baths were a part of history I knew nothing about so after reading this I looked it up and was delighted at the detail the author put in. As a fan of historicals and a bit of a history buff, when authors devote their time and talent to meld history and fiction together with such a passion, I get a thrill and definitely take note. I've never read this author before but I will definitely be keeping Michael Murphy on my watch list. If you enjoy a great tale that brings life full circle with tons of emotion than A Night at the Ariston Baths is definitely one you want to check out.
RATING:
Something Sinister by Olivier Bosman
Summary:
DS Billings Victorian Mysteries #2
On the 21st November 1890, Julius Dunne-Smythe – a wealthy coffee manufacturer – his wife, his sister in law and his butler creep quietly out of their home in the middle of the night, sneak into a carriage and drive off, never to be seen again.
When a few weeks later Dunne-Smythe’s business partner discovers some discrepancies in the company’s book keeping, Dunne-Smythe is suspected of embezzling the company and running away. The case is swiftly handed over to Detective Sergeant John Billings of Scotland Yard.
As Billings delves deeper into the case, he finds that all the clues to the mysterious disappearance lead back to one man; the enigmatic German butler who had recently been employed by Dunne-Smythe. The butler appears to have had a disproportionate amount of influence on the family. After looking into the butler’s past, Billings discovers a dark and disturbing secret which may well put the lives of Dunne-Smythe and his relatives in danger. What initially seemed like a simple case of theft, now looks like something far more sinister.
Saturday's Series Spotlight
I am going to jump right out of the gate and start by saying as much as I enjoyed the first two entries in this series, Something Sinister is mystery at its finest and knocking on the door of 1940s style noir with a little present day creepiness factor added, so basically if you love suspense then this is the one for you. Will the missing Dunne-Smythe family be found? Do they want to be found?
I always have a hard time when it comes to doing reviews of mysteries because even though I don't ever do spoilers, so often in a mystery even the little things can be a plot giveaway. So lets focus on Billings himself. He still hasn't accepted himself and when he does verge on giving into his desires fate has other plans, but even that may lead to answers he wasn't aware of so perhaps fate knows what she is doing after all. His determination and passion to solve the mystery his way is inspiring but if there is one wish I have for him it would be to find some true happiness in his personal life using that same determination and passion.
There are so many factors that will keep you on your toes trying to figure out what each new page will bring, if you love mystery then Something Sinister is one you do not want to miss. It may be the third installment in the series but it can be read as a standalone but I highly recommend reading the first two if only to get a little insight into Billings mind and job.
RATING:
Snowball in Hell by Josh Lanyon
"Hell of a thing," Jonesy said for the third time.
Matt agreed. It was a hell of a thing. He turned his gaze from the gaggle of reporters smoking and talking beside the grouping of snarling cement saber-toothed tigers, and returned his attention to the sticky, bedraggled corpse currently watching the birdie for the police photographer.
Whoever had dumped the dead man had counted on the body sinking in the black ooze of the Brea Pits, and in the heat of the summer when the tar heated up and softened...maybe. But it was December, a little more than a week before Christmas, and it had been raining steadily for two days. No chance in hell. The body had rested there, facedown in the rainwater hiding the treacherous crust of tar beneath, until the museum paleontologists excavating the site for fossils had made the grisly early-morning discovery.
"Looks kinda familiar," Jonesy remarked gloomily, as the plastered hair and drowned eyes were briefly illuminated in the white flash of the camera.
Matt bit back a laugh. "Yeah? Must be the fact that he's dead."
Jonesy looked reproachful, although after thirty-three years on the homicide squad, he'd seen more than his share of stiffs. They both had, though Matt had seen more violent death and destruction during his seven months in the Pacific than he had in his eleven years on the force.
"No identification on him at all?"
"Nope. Even the label was cut out of his jacket. No sign of his hat or shoes."
Matt considered this. Soaking in water and tar hadn't done John Doe's clothes much good, and they'd have to wait 'til everything dried before they could hope to get much from an examination. How much they would get then was doubtful, but that suit didn't look particularly old or worn, and the tailoring was the kind that showed its worth even in the worst conditions—which these were.
Laughter drifted from the circle of statues where the reporters and a couple of photographers waited impatiently. Matt knew most of them: Williams from "The Peach," Mackey from the Times, Cohen from the Mirror and Tara Renee of the Examiner. The only one he didn't recognize was the slim man lighting Tara's cigarette. Thin brown fingers cupped the lighter against the damp breeze; lean, tanned cheek creased in a smile as Tara flirted with him. Tara flirted with everyone, but she was a good little crime hound.
"Who's that?" Matt asked Jonesy, and Jonesy looked up from the meticulous diagrams he was making of the crime scene and followed Matt's stare.
"Doyle. Tribune-Herald. Heard he was with the Eighth Army in North Africa 'til he picked up a case of lead poisoning." Jonesy grinned his lopsided smile. "Got hit by machine-gun fire in Tunisia."
"Yeah, well, there's a lot of that going around." But Matt's interest was unwillingly caught. "So he's English?"
"Nah. Hometown boy, Loot."
"Doc's here, Lieutenant," one of the uniformed officers said as the police ambulance bumped its way over the grassy verge.
Matt nodded and then nodded again toward the reporters. "Tell 'em I want to see Miss Renee and..." He thought it over. "Doyle."
The Road to Silver Plume by Tamara Allen
Chapter One
The sun was too goddamned bright. The afternoon, for that matter, too cold and windy. The wood plank under him would rattle his bones from their sockets even before Grand Central fell from view, and Sergeant Fulton was hitting every damned bump and hole in the road. Deliberately.
Still, the September day—so far—had more to recommend it than the Mount Pleasant accommodations Darrow had said farewell to, hours before. And one hell of a farewell salute it had been from his suddenly sentimental cellmates. His head pounded yet, his stomach rocking with the wagon's sway. He didn't know whether to blame the last whiskey or the first.
The play of morning light on green leaves and the rushing gleam of the Hudson had only occasionally distracted him from his misery on the train trip downriver. Now, in the half-forgotten territory of home, he raised his aching head to peer through the bars. Manhattan hadn't changed much since ’87. The buildings stood higher than he remembered. Traffic ran thicker and faster; but maybe it seemed so because the only traffic he'd seen in six years were police wagons, arriving with clockwork regularity, and the occasional closed carriage concealing uneasy visitors. But the unrelenting clamor of the city hadn’t changed. He was home and he was free.
Almost.
Fulton eased the wagon from the meandering line of horse-cars winding down Park Row and angled for the broad stretch of curb in front of the post office. The four stories of overwrought granite bearing up under a bulbous roof of dark slate resembled nothing so much as a pompous government official with a derby atop his bald head; or more pertinently, the two men at the curb who seemed to be waiting on Darrow’s arrival. As Fulton opened the wagon doors, the older man—a division chief, most likely—peered inside. "Darrow Gardiner?"
"That's him," Fulton said grimly, and unlocked the chain that ran through the shackles. "Come on out, you son of a bitch."
Darrow smiled in the sergeant's scowling, gray-bearded face. Fulton wouldn't get under his skin. A juicier fish waited to be skewered and fried; one smug, self-assured Secret Service operative by the name of Emlyn Strickland, who had sauntered into the courtroom six years ago to swear that only one person in the world could have engraved the near-perfect twenty dollar plates on damning display at the exhibit table.
The case had won Strickland fawning accolades from every city official and praise from every journalist. Sentenced to a dozen years in Sing Sing, Darrow had that day decided to make Strickland regret the testimony; but not with a fist or a gun—no, he wasn't going back to prison, not with a chance to walk free.
It was a freedom so near, not even the shackles on his wrists could dampen his anticipation. The two operatives now apparently in charge gave him a cursory once-over before heading inside, leaving Fulton the task of making sure he kept up. Glad to be free of the leg irons, Darrow kept apace down the marble corridor, past niche after niche of lock-boxes, to the elevators. Few people glanced his way. When they did, they looked away again, seeming startled by the sight of a man with his wrists manacled.
The elevator doors opened upon a fourth floor labyrinth of austere offices. Cells, too, Darrow mused; if not as dark and narrow as the one he'd called home. An inscription at the door read, "Secret Service Division." Below that, for good measure, someone had thought to add, "Positively No Admittance." That didn't apply, by virtue of the information in his possession, to him. He followed the operatives into an office warmed by a wood-fire and busy with the hustle of clerks. Rows of Wanted photographs scowled from the walls, and bulky safes—no doubt stuffed with confiscated evidence—stood, indifferent, beneath them.
A door at the far end led into an interior office. A lone desk occupied the room, and the name on the deskplate, Charles Bishop, belonged, Darrow knew, to the lanky figure lost in reverie at the window, a file under his arm forgotten as he gazed out on Broadway. Fulton offered a gruff good-morning and the man turned, his prominent, raw-boned features set in what Darrow sensed was a perpetual state of wry humor—except perhaps when his genial limits were tested. Darrow suspected Bishop was, then, as capable as a prison guard of putting any man in his place. And Darrow had tested his share.
"Take a seat, Mr. Gardiner." Bishop sat at the desk, his assistant finding a less settled perch on the low cabinet behind him. "This is Franklin Lahey, my personal secretary."
Lahey took Darrow in, head tilted like a curious crow. "Before you share your information, Mr. Gardiner, I must admit I'm curious to know how you came by it."
Fulton, at Darrow's shoulder, hovered all the more emphatically, as if daring Darrow to overstep in the slightest. Darrow ignored him. "Where's Strickland?"
Fulton grunted, clearly unimpressed with the mild tone. Bishop only smiled. "Mr. Strickland went down for some of the evidence in storage from your trial, in case we wanted to review any of it." He leaned forward, arms on the desk, fingers laced. "I'm as curious as Mr. Lahey, I’ll confess. You say you’ve evidence of an undetected counterfeit in circulation. Evidence you’re willing to share.”
“With conditions.”
Bishop’s smile didn’t waver. "Of course you’ll be compensated for your trouble."
Darrow smiled back. "Meaning a discharge of all obligations to the state?"
"Mind yourself," Fulton grunted.
"Yes, Mr. Gardiner, as we discussed. Sentence commuted, and the usual sum to start fresh. But first we must know what particular knowledge you possess that the Secret Service does not."
Darrow sat back and folded his own arms as well as he could with irons around his wrists. “I’m sure you have a good eye for fakes, but this one is going to call for Strickland’s expertise.”
“You have one of the bills?”
“Coin.”
Bishop’s eyebrows rose. “Indeed. I suppose we would benefit from Mr. Strickland’s presence.” He turned to Lahey. "Where the devil is he?"
Lahey appeared to have no satisfactory answer. “Shall I go—“
“No, let’s be efficient about it. Sergeant, if you’ll gather up your charge, we’ll track down our missing party.”
They made a peculiar procession, judging by the inquisitive glances of visitors, clerks, and operatives they passed. Bishop strode at the lead, Lahey scurrying along aside, and Darrow could hear their every word.
"Sir, we might be wiser leaving Gardiner behind—"
"The sergeant will keep Mr. Gardiner in hand, should it be required."
"Yes, sir. But Emlyn—he's had so little field experience—"
"I'm aware of that, Mr. Lahey."
"Yes, sir. My concern is..." Lahey's backward glance at Darrow completed the thought.
Bishop chuckled. "Mr. Strickland has been in New York how long?"
“Three weeks, sir."
"Yes. Perhaps it's time to broaden his horizons."
Darrow couldn't help noting that however much respect the Service might have for an operative with a knack for identifying counterfeits, they didn't show it by situating the man in any of the busier front offices. Several twists and turns from Bishop's headquarters, a narrow hall led past a handful of unoccupied rooms to an unmarked door at its end. Bishop entered without knocking, into an office that appeared to serve as secondary storage—or perhaps first. In an atmosphere thick with the mustiness of old furniture and older books and files, dust motes floated in the meager shafts of sunlight, waiting their turn for a resting spot.
Over a desk pushed under the room's single window, Emlyn Strickland sprawled like a sunflower seeking more light. There, the sun obliged, catching the paler shades in Strickland's brown hair and falling warmly on the cream-colored waistcoat and tweed backside hemmed in by stacks of books all over the desk. Strickland looked amiable and innocuous—to anyone who didn't already know what an arrogant, exacting son of a bitch he could be.
At Bishop's gentle throat-clearing, Strickland sat up, knocking over several books in the process. One book fell open on the floor, exposing a collection of counterfeit bills as neatly arranged as a stamp collector's scrapbook. And some of the bills, to Darrow's amusement, were not unfamiliar. Noting the papers Strickland had in one hand, the magnifying glass in the other, he wondered why the Service couldn't buy the man a damned lamp.
But Strickland didn't seem troubled by it. Maybe he was accustomed to putting up with the poor light. If it bothered his eyes, there was no sign in the clear gaze that fell warily on Darrow. The son of a bitch remembered him...
And Darrow remembered him; no trouble to look at, with features still too frankly expressive for a Secret Service agent, Strickland was probably just past thirty and still as leanly built, though he did most of his Service work behind a desk—or on top of it, apparently. His gaze, gray as the coldest day in winter, sat somberly on Darrow as if he'd concluded Darrow's early release from Sing Sing would not be in the best interests of the world at large.
Darrow let one corner of his mouth curl into a smile with more than a thimble's worth of triumph. "You didn’t figure on seeing me again so soon."
"Not in custody, no.”
That dry, even tone Darrow remembered. The tone of a man who could bring down judgment on others without a moment’s regret. “Don’t tell me you thought I’d escape?”
“Considering the direction in which your talents lie, I fully expected you’d forge your own pardon.” Strickland’s glance slid assessingly over the second-hand suit before rising even more somberly to meet Darrow’s gaze. "You've lost weight, Mr. Gardiner."
Caught off-guard by the personal remark, Darrow lifted his shoulders in a careless shrug. "Live on mush and molasses for six years and you won't grow fat."
"I suppose not." Strickland's attention strayed to Bishop and a fleeting grimace crossed his face. "I beg your pardon, sir. I got caught up. Those bills First National turned over to us..." He bent to scoop up the fallen books. "The artist is Edward Johnson. Just as you thought."
Darrow snorted. "What did he misspell this time?"
Strickland looked startled—then unexpectedly laughed. "He didn't. But he still can't resist a flourish where nonesuch exists." He plucked a bill from the book and raised it before their eyes. "The line engraving isn't as steady as it should be. The shading's lacking—"
"Might be Hill's," Darrow said.
Strickland hesitated. "I don't think so..."
"Taylor?"
"Taylor's a much better hand at the vignettes."
"Well, it's not one of mine."
“Indeed, no. Your work is superior,” Strickland said ruefully. “Far superior.”
“Which returns us to the matter at hand...” Bishop glanced around. "You've no chairs in here, Em?”
Strickland frowned as if he’d only just noticed their absence. “I could’ve sworn—“
"I believe the office next door is adequately furnished," Lahey put in on a dour note.
"We'll settle in there," Bishop said, already heading for the door. "Mr. Gardiner has imparted little yet.” He stepped into a smaller office, empty but for a desk and three chairs. "If you would like to continue, Mr. Gardiner..." He steered Lahey to the chair behind the desk and remained standing as Fulton less than gently invited Darrow to sit. Strickland took the third chair, the dubious light in his gaze as irksome as the amusement. The son of a bitch thought himself made of better clay by virtue of his badge, same as Bishop and Lahey. The same as every goddamned government agent.
And yet here they were, waiting for his help.
Darrow savored it a moment before digging the dollar from his waistcoat pocket. He’d kept close care of the coin for a good five weeks—no easy thing in prison—until he’d been able to get word to Bishop and secure an interview. Now the coin was going to buy him his freedom and more.
He tossed it onto the bare desk, where it landed beside Lahey’s notebook. Lahey paused in mid-scrawl to glance at it, but Bishop picked it up. He examined both sides and finally fished a quarter from his own pocket to test the ring. The fake rang cleanly and Bishop pinned a reproachful gaze on Darrow. “If you hope to persuade us this coin is filled…”
“It’s not.”
Bishop’s stare sharpened. “Do explain yourself, Mr. Gardiner.”
Darrow turned to Strickland, whose curiosity shone as plainly as Bishop’s skepticism. Rising, Strickland held out his hand and Bishop passed him the coin. Strickland had already produced a small brass magnifier from his waistcoat pocket, and coin in hand, moved to the window.
Bishop was apparently not in the mood to wait for a verdict. “Mr. Gardiner, let me just remind you that you’re not dealing with laymen. We’re all quite aware of the fact that you and your fellow engravers find the means to persist in your trade even in Sing Sing. If this coin is a creation of yours, we will discover it.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And when we do discover it, you may be sure neither we nor the governor will be inclined toward leniency.”
Strickland had a shoulder pressed against the glass, his head bent over the coin with the same intense, single-minded concentration Darrow remembered from the trial. If he followed the conversation, there was no sign of it. Bishop was paying him no mind, having taken to pacing back and forth behind Lahey’s chair as the secretary scribbled furiously to keep up.
“Furthermore, Mr. Gardiner, do not imagine you may, upon being found out, claim it was merely a simple mistake.” He silenced both tongue and stride long enough to cast a stern glance at Darrow over Lahey’s head. “We’re dealing with no layman, ourselves. We know as much.”
“Yes, sir.”
“So if you have altered this coin, however minutely, in order to arrange an early release, you may as well confess it—“
“Good heavens.”
Strickland’s exclamation ended the invective, to Darrow’s relief, but Bishop and Lahey had no more than given him their attention before he abruptly bounded from the room. Bishop cast a puzzled glance at Lahey, as if he might provide an explanation, and Lahey snorted softly. “Ten years in the Redemption Bureau, sir. Addles a fellow some, I expect.”
Bishop’s lips twitched, a hint of long-suffering in his sigh. “Mr. Lahey, kindly retrieve Mr. Strickland.”
“Yes, sir.”
Lahey had only reached the door when Strickland bounded back in, cradling a coin scale and a fruit jar brimming with silver. Without preamble, he poured the silver onto the desk and began to dig through it, his urgency sparking what Darrow guessed was a rare uneasiness in Bishop’s eyes. “Emlyn, what—“
“Eighteen ninety-two.” Strickland plucked the shinier coins from the silver pool, to as quickly discard them after checking the date. “Do either of you have an eighteen ninety-two?”
“It’s counterfeit, then?” Lahey looked awed, Bishop dismayed. Both dug into their pockets, but turned up only a decade-old dollar between them.
Darrow had expected some measure of concern once they’d caught on, but nothing quite so satisfying as this alarmed scramble. The only annoyance was Strickland, who seemed more fascinated than apprehensive. He’d found his prize, Darrow knew, when his fingers curled around a bright bit of silver. As Lahey and Fulton hovered, Strickland passed the magnifier and both coins to Bishop. “The weight’s near-perfect. Off by a few grains, at most.”
Bishop laid the coins side by side on the desk and bent over them with the magnifier. After a long minute, Strickland cleared his throat. “The lettering,” he prompted.
“‘In God we trust.’ It’s not aligned as precisely.”
“Yes, sir. Without the magnification, it’s nearly impossible to tell. The vignette isn’t quite right, either. But I expect the metals are all in proper proportion. Forty cents’ worth of silver in one almost flawless dollar.”
Bishop straightened, chin dropping to his chest, gaze fixed yet on the coins.
“Silver’s still at sixty-three? So he’s making sixty cents on every coin he passes.”
“It may be useful,” Lahey ventured, “to ask just who he is.”
When the three of them turned in his direction, Darrow let loose a soft laugh. “You don’t know?”
The question, directed at Strickland, provoked a raised eyebrow from Bishop. “Mr. Gardiner, I realize it’s tempting, in your position, to engage in a bit of cat-and-mouse, but this can be construed as obstruction of justice—“
“Mr. Strickland’s already got a list of suspects in mind.” Darrow settled back against the comfortable leather. “He was putting it together the minute you handed over that coin.”
“The quality does narrow down the list,” Strickland acknowledged. “I know of five or six men, off-hand…” He leaned against a corner of the desk, arms folded. “August McKee?”
Darrow rocked the chair back and forth. Treasury men had it soft. Mighty soft. All the same, they could be damned smart. “You cut that down quick.”
“You’ve known McKee fifteen years.”
“Sixteen. But I’ve known others as long.”
Strickland’s mouth curved with a hint of reproof. “Sixteen years of friendship and he bid for his freedom with your engravings.”
“I gave him those plates a long time ago. He could do what he liked with them.”
“And your fifty dollar engravings? Where are they?”
“You’ll have to ask McKee.” Fourteen months of painstaking care had gone into the making of those plates. The pride he'd felt on presenting the plates to Gust was as powerful as it had been seven years ago. Gust had called them works of art—and so they were, as thoroughly as any Rembrandt or da Vinci. He’d thought as highly of the tens, but he’d readily traded them for a commutation, two years into his own twelve-year sentence. Where the fifties languished, Darrow could fairly guess. But after six years in prison, he’d lost any expectation Gust was going to bargain for his release, too.
And that was something Strickland had no need to know. “McKee doesn’t owe me. I don’t owe him. If he’s the one minting those dollars—“
“If?”
“I don’t know it for a fact. But men come and go in Sing Sing. Gossip’s about the most valuable thing they’ve got on them. That, and a little spare change.”
“Let us assume August McKee is our craftsman in this instance.” Bishop scooped a handful of silver and dumped it into the jar. “Might you have an idea of his whereabouts?” His gaze on Darrow was as assessing as Strickland’s, if not as shrewd. The deal to trade freedom for information depended, Darrow knew, on how useful the information proved to be. And Bishop had the power to decide if it wasn’t quite useful enough.
There was little point in the cat-and-mouse. But being too forthcoming was as risky. Once Bishop had all he wanted, he’d toss Darrow into the Tombs for safekeeping. Gust would be arrested, the engravings confiscated. Darrow couldn’t allow either, if he wanted both his freedom and his fifties back.
“I don’t know McKee’s whereabouts, no. But it should be easy enough to come up with a list of possibilities.” Darrow straightened in his chair. “A man setting up his own mint is going to need plenty of metal.”
Bishop’s brows rose. “Are you suggesting McKee has come into possession of a silver mine?”
Darrow shrugged. “He’ll want to keep an eye on every step. If he’s digging up his own bullion, he has control from start to finish.”
Lahey looked up from a notepad crisscrossed with calculations. “If McKee’s minting coin straight out of his own mine, he must be making a fortune. Even a meager production of ore will make him quite wealthy—“
“Mr. Lahey, we’ll need a list of silver mine owners as quickly as you can put it together.” Bishop turned to Strickland. “You think you can track him down through his other counterfeits?”
“If he’s still making use of Mr. Gardiner’s engravings, yes. The banks have sent in a good many letters I haven’t had the chance to file yet. You know, if McKee has acquired a mine, his ownership may be listed under a confederate's name." Strickland's considering gaze rested on Darrow. "A name Mr. Gardiner may recognize."
Bishop seemed satisfied. "Mr. Lahey will make inquiries and I suggest you begin going over the letters from the banks." He smiled faintly, almost as if embarrassed. "I think you're going to need more light and space. I'll have another office set up for you. Sergeant Fulton, if you will return Mr. Gardiner to his temporary quarters—"
"I beg your pardon, sir." Strickland pushed away from the desk, straightening. "Mr. Gardiner can identify counterfeits as well as I can. The work will go twice as fast if he remains."
Bishop sent a dubious glance in Darrow’s direction. "I assume, Mr. Gardiner, that you prefer to stay and assist?"
Sorting through counterfeit bills sent in from banks all over the country… That promised to be an arduous task. An afternoon in the Tombs might be preferable. But he had to keep an eye on things, himself. "I'm at your command, Mr. Bishop."
"Good. Sergeant, kindly release Mr. Gardiner from the irons and turn him over to us for the time being."
Fulton obeyed without a word, but the look he gave Darrow was both warning and promise. Darrow gave the threat no further thought once the irons were removed. With that dead weight off his wrists, he was still under guard, perhaps, but another step closer to being a free man.
He rubbed his wrists, at the same time stretching aching shoulders as he joined Strickland in the dusty storage room. Despite the seemingly haphazard organization, Strickland needed only a minute to locate the bank lists and Reporter journals. He filled one box, then a second from the file cabinets, only hesitating as he passed the first box to Darrow. "It's a little heavy—"
"I was carting barrows full of marble three days ago." Darrow took the box. "You can trust me."
"We're trusting you with a great deal more than bank journals." Strickland picked up the second box. "Whatever you can tell me about McKee...”
Darrow glanced at him sidelong as they stepped into the corridor. “That’s why you asked Bishop to have me stay.”
Strickland met his glance and again unexpectedly laughed. “No insult intended, Mr. Gardiner. I do believe your eye for counterfeits is nearly as good as mine.”
“Took you at least a month to pin down those twenties.”
“And less than an hour to determine you were the artist.” Strickland shifted the box to one arm and turned, meeting him eye to eye. “I recall my testimony as well as you do. And whether I’d taken one month or a dozen, you’d have gone to Sing Sing.”
“Thanks to your testimony, I did.”
“That you spent six years in prison was your doing, Mr. Gardiner. Not mine.”
Darrow let an indifferent smile form. “No regrets, then.”
“None so far.”
“Give it a little more time.”
Strickland brandished the silver dollar between thumb and forefinger, as grave-faced as Liberty herself. “You’ve nearly won your release. You won’t trade it for a moment’s satisfaction.”
“No? A man can find lifelong satisfaction in some moments.”
Strickland’s lips parted, then firmed into a disapproving line. “Employ that philosophy and you may find yourself with very little life left to enjoy.”
“Bishop will track me down?”
“Do you imagine he won’t?”
Darrow broke into a grin. “I expect he might. Even for the sake of a Redemption Bureau coin shuffler.”
That sparked annoyance in the gray eyes. “If you’d prefer to go back with Sergeant Fulton—“
“You can’t afford to send me back, unless you want August McKee to flood your Treasury with these.” He plucked the dollar from Strickland’s hand and tossed it, letting it land flat on his palm. “Gust’s best work to date, really.”
Strickland didn’t offer an opinion, nor any further discussion until they’d found their way to the office Bishop had ordered set up. It was considerably larger than any Darrow had yet seen, with room for two desks—and a long table, in case the desks fell short. Darrow claimed the desk nearest the window and found some mild entertainment in sorting through the counterfeits, increasingly amused by the outraged or exasperated letters from cashiers who couldn't fathom the number of fake bills that had ended up in their accounts. Most of the fakes, Darrow recognized. One or two originated from plates he'd made long ago, plates he assumed were in Gust's possession.
The farther down the list he went, the clearer it became that Gust was somewhere near Denver. "I've seen almost all these bills before. I know which are coming from Gust's operation. Odds are he’s in Colorado."
Strickland rose. "I'll give you more letters—"
"Don't bother. I'm convinced and you are too. Or you should be."
"I know it's not the most enjoyable of tasks—"
Darrow snorted. "Reading letters from a bunch of tellers who don't know what they're doing?"
"What makes you think they don't know what they're doing?"
Darrow lifted one of the bills that had been sent along with the letter. "They're posting these fakes up where anyone can see them, aren't they? Damned kind of you folks to point out a fellow's mistakes. Likely the engraver's already putting out a much better copy."
"How would you suggest we warn depositors of counterfeits in their possession?"
"Don't warn them. You're enlisting them to do your work. Maybe if you did a better job if it—"
“You, of all people, should know what we’re up against. For every fake coin we ferret out, you pass another dozen to take its place.”
“A good engraver doesn’t pass his own work.”
Strickland breathed a laugh. “Sidestep all you want. The more evidence we gather from banks, depositors, disloyal passers—anyone who's had one of McKee's bills or coins in hand—the more likely we can narrow down just where he’s hiding."
“I can narrow it faster.”
That won him a guarded glance. “What do you have in mind?”
“I have friends who can probably tell us just about anything we want to know.”
“Where are these friends of yours?”
“Around town. Most of them frequent Huber’s. If I can talk to them—“
“Huber’s Beer Garden? In the Bowery?"
"You've been there?"
Strickland cleared his throat. "I've passed through the Bowery once or twice."
"No one just passes through the Bowery. That's like a man in the desert crossing a river without stopping for a drink." Darrow leaned his chair back, propping his boots on the desk. "Even Secret Service operatives find their way there. For another sort of field work," he added with a low laugh.
A frown flattened Strickland’s mouth, but he couldn’t seem to hide his curiosity. “You’re suggesting we go roaming the Bowery. Just the two of us.”
“You won’t be recognized. Any friends of mine you’ve sent up are probably still in prison. I don’t bide my time with housebreakers and pickpockets.”
“And yet you perform the same service, relieving a man of the coin in his possession.”
“He can spend mine as readily as he likes.”
“Not if he wishes to remain in the bounds of the law.”
“So you think of me as a pickpocket?”
“You’ve put the false coin in his purse.”
“And you haven’t? You’re passing silver for far more than it’s worth—“
“We do not ‘pass’ silver, Mr. Gardiner. We stamp and issue it.” Despite the amused note, Strickland still seemed uneasy. “I think I want a word with Mr. Bishop. You’d best come with me.”
Heart to Hart by Erin O'Quinn
Simon got out of bed and found a towel in his linen closet. Drawing his robe on, he tied the sash and left for the small cast iron bathtub down the hall.
He turned the handle, expecting if the room were in use it would not yield to his pull. But it yielded, and he stepped inside.
There, like a grizzly bear immersed in a tiny honey pot, sat Michael McCree in the small claw footed bathtub.
Again Simon felt the pounding of blood in his face and he turned to leave.
“Nay, Simon. Bolt the goddamn door, man, an’ stay. We don’t have all day to bugger around with fine courtesies.”
“I…am sorry…about last night.”
“Get in the tub, lad.”
“No, I—”
“Damn ye, Simon, grow a pair of testicles, will ye? Do I look like a mad rapist?”
...Simon stepped into the tub. The water was pleasingly warm, not soapy. He stood a moment looking down at the hair, like corn silk, which fell almost to Michael’s shoulders. He sat. Both of them had their knees drawn up in an attempt to fit inside the small enclosure.
Michael began to run his hand up and down Simon’s shins in a slow caress. He made no attempt to pry his legs apart, now locked together as if glued in place. “I don’t ask ye to suck me, lad. I don’t ask if I can sink me flesh into your honeyed rump. All I want is to have ye to wash it. Will ye?”
Simon swallowed carefully. “Yes.”
Michael handed him a small cake of soap and a washcloth. Then he rose from the water like a god rising from the sea, water cascading off his hips and down his large thighs.
For the first time, Simon gazed on the full, erect phallus of Michael McCree.
His own imagination hadn’t been far off the mark. He seemed big as a stud stallion. The shaft was a trellis of purple veins. The cowl seemed almost like a coil of heavy rope wrapped around his shaft. His testicles were long and darkly gold, cobwebbed with fine hairs, pendulous and full.
“Do it,” Michael whispered.
A Night at the Ariston Baths by Michael Murphy
Prologue
THE EVENING news usually didn’t make Theodore jump up and try to dance and do a cheer, but it did on Saturday evening, June 28, 1969.
“Theodore, stop!” Jasper warned. “You’re going to fall and break a hip.”
But Theodore didn’t care. “They did it. By God, they did it!” he said as he thrust the fist at the end of his skinny arm into the air.
“Who did what?” Jasper asked, confused.
“Our people,” Theodore gasped out, as he fell back into his chair. “Our… people.”
“Mr. McCall, you having trouble breathing, baby?” a health aide asked anxiously when she saw Theodore panting for breath.
“The old fool was just trying to dance a jig or cheer or something ridiculous,” Jasper said critically but with a hint of concern. “What were you thinking? You’re nearly ninety years old. You can’t do things like that anymore. Especially after being in the hospital just two weeks ago.”
“Oh, hush,” Theodore said. “This is a day… that will go down in the history books. And I lived to see it. I’ve dreamed of this, but I was afraid I wouldn’t live long enough. But I did. What a glorious day.”
“What are you talking about?” Jasper asked, looking more concerned about Theodore than he was about having an answer to the question he’d just asked.
“That last news story. Didn’t you hear it?”
“I must have, but I couldn’t tell you what it was about.”
“There was a riot last night—this morning, I suppose.”
“Who rioted about what?” Jasper asked.
“Our people. The homosexual youngsters.”
“Where?”
“Right here in New York. Some place called the Stonewall Inn.”
“Have you been there?”
“No. And you know that, because you haven’t been there, and you and I go everywhere together. We have for more than sixty years now.”
The health aide had been taking Theodore’s pulse while they talked. “You’ve known each other how long?” she asked.
“More than sixty years now,” Theodore said.
“Sixty-five years,” Jasper corrected.
“Good Lord,” she said admiringly. “My mama wasn’t even born yet when you two met. I’m not even sure if my grandma was alive yet.”
“That’s because we’re older than dirt,” Theodore said.
“Hey,” Jasper said, “speak for yourself, old man. I’m younger than you are.”
“Only by a couple of months,” Theodore said. “It’s not like I robbed the cradle.”
“Whatever you say, oldster.”
The health aide laughed. “You two are too much. My job wouldn’t be half as much fun if I didn’t have you guys here.”
“Thank you,” Jasper said.
“How did you meet?” she asked.
“I hired him to work in my store in 1904,” Theodore said. “Best decision I ever made too.”
Looking at Jasper, she asked, “Now don’t you know you’re not supposed to have workplace romances?”
“I was the only employee. It was him and me. We didn’t have any rules like that back in our day. And let me tell you,” Jasper said, leaning forward as if to share confidential information, “if you could have seen him… oh, my goodness. Just the sight of him made my heart race. The man was quite a looker.”
“You weren’t so bad yourself,” Theodore added.
“We were much more focused on living without attracting a lot of attention. It was hard to be homosexual back then,” Jasper said.
“Hell, it’s never been easy to be gay in this country. Doesn’t matter that we’ve been here right from the start, a part of every single generation that made this country what it is today.”
“We had to conduct business, live our lives, and help everyone believe they couldn’t see and didn’t know what was going on between us. Everybody knew, but God forbid their safe little worlds be disrupted by something that didn’t fit their concept of what was what.”
“Everybody had their heads buried deep in the sand. Sometimes I wondered how they managed to breathe,” Theodore said.
“You spoke about something going down in history. Gentlemen, you are history.”
“You trying to say we’re old?” Theodore asked with a smile.
“I didn’t say anything about you being old,” she said. “I said you two are history, not historic.”
“This day, today, what just happened last night, is finally our people not quietly letting the cops beat us down and abuse us and treat us like less than dirt. This is for Martin.”
“Well, one of you better start and tell me that story.”
“Well, you see, it started on the last day of 1902, New Year’s Eve. But let me back up a little. It was Christmas Eve, 1902….”
Chapter One—Christmas Eve 1902
“STEP CAREFULLY, Mrs. Robinson,” Theodore said as he helped her into her buggy after loading her purchases. It wasn’t a big step, but she was an old woman.
“Thank you for your help, Theodore,” she said, once she was seated. “I hope you and your family have a very happy holiday.”
“You as well, Mrs. Robinson.”
Theodore hurried back inside the store with an involuntary shiver. His height made it easy for him to reach things off high shelves, but his slenderness didn’t give him a lot of insulation from the winter cold.
Not only was the day dull and gray, but the wind was also biting cold. It had been frigid that morning when he’d walked to work in the dark, and the arrival of daylight had done little to make the day any warmer.
Had he been planning to walk more than ten feet from the store’s front door, he would have grabbed his jacket before going outside, even for a moment, but they had been so busy that day he hadn’t wanted to waste the time.
He wasn’t back inside with the door completely closed before he heard his boss, Mr. Hoffman, calling to him. “Theodore. Mrs. Moscrip needs help getting her items to her wagon.”
Inwardly he groaned, but outwardly he planted a smile on his face and grabbed the box filled with her purchases.
“And hurry back, Theodore. There are other purchases to be carried out.”
“Yes, sir, Mr. Hoffman,” he said, even though he wondered where he might dally outside without a jacket, had he been so inclined. He wanted to say, “Step lively, old woman,” but of course he could not, nor would he ever say that.
All day that December 24th, Theodore was in and out of the store, helping to carry items to wagons and carts and buggies. Every two minutes it seemed Mr. Hoffman was calling him to assist someone. He’d lost track of how many times he’d been outside.
When Mr. Hoffman closed and locked the store doors at six that evening, pulling the blinds down to signal they were closed, Theodore wanted to fall on the floor and give thanks. He was exhausted, but somehow Mr. Hoffman, more than twice his age, seemed perky and energized.
“We’ve had a most lively season of holiday shopping this year, haven’t we?”
“Yes, sir, we have.”
“We have shelves to stock, Theodore.”
Theodore groaned silently. He’d stayed late nearly every night that week, and he was not in the mood to do it again. It was Christmas Eve, and he just wanted to go home and sleep.
Either Mr. Hoffman read that on his face, or he’d been toying with Theodore. “But that can wait until after Christmas,” he said, giving Theodore, his one and only employee, a smile.
“Thank you, sir,” Theodore said, immediately moving to grab his coat and hat to bundle up and prepare to make the long trudge home.
Mr. Hoffman had disappeared somewhere in the back, so when a loud rapping sounded on the front door, Theodore was left to shout, “We’re closed.”
Either the person did not hear him or did not choose to hear him, because the rapping repeated.
“I said, ‘We’re closed,’” he shouted a little louder. Surely the person could hear him or at least read the sign prominently displayed in the middle of the door announcing the time of their closing that day. But the person apparently did neither, and the loud knocking came yet again.
Usually unflappable, his overall fatigue made Theodore more easily irritated. After striding to the door, he yanked back the shade that Mr. Hoffman had lowered and was about to shout once again that the store was closed, when he beheld a sight for sore eyes.
“Martin,” Theodore squealed with delight. His best friend stood on the other side of the door and stared in through the glass, a huge smile on his face.
He unlocked the door and admitted Martin, then quickly locked it again before throwing his arms around his friend and hugging him so hard he was surprised he didn’t do damage.
Martin wasn’t as tall as Theodore, but he was more solidly built—not stout but muscular.
“What are you doing here?” Theodore asked. “I didn’t know you were coming home. I’ll have a word with my mother for keeping that from me. I didn’t know she was capable of keeping a secret.”
“She didn’t know,” Martin said.
“You mean your mother didn’t tell her?”
“No,” Martin told him. “No one knew I was coming home. I didn’t even know until this morning when I decided. Plus I need to tell you all about the big bad world and try to rescue you from a slow death here in the back of beyond.”
“What do you mean?” Theodore asked.
“Those last few letters you wrote sounded morose. I was seriously worried about your state of mind.”
Theodore cast his gaze downward, embarrassed, and shrugged, trying to act as if there was no problem. “I’m fine.”
“I know, because I’m here,” Martin joked.
“Sounds like city living has given your confidence a boost,” Theodore remarked.
“Oh, Teddy, you have no idea. But fear not, your fairy godfather is here to save the day.”
“Excuse me?” he asked.
“Come on. Let’s get out of here and get home.”
“Theodore?” Mr. Hoffman said.
Theodore turned, amazed the man had crept up on them without him noticing. “Yes, sir.”
“I have a little something for you.” Mr. Hoffman handed him an envelope.
Theodore looked inside and was astonished to see cash—a surprising amount of cash.
“What’s this, sir?”
“A Christmas bonus, son. I know how busy the last several weeks have been, and I also know how hard you’ve worked. Business has been good, and I’ve made an acceptable profit this month. Of course that profit has to sustain us throughout the rest of the year when business is slower, but still, I wanted to share something with you as a way of saying thank you for all of your hard work.”
Theodore was astonished. In previous years, there had not been a bonus, Christmas or otherwise. “I don’t know what to say, Mr. Hoffman. Thank you so much. It is most appreciated.”
“It’s good to see you back home, Martin. How is city life?”
“Great, Mr. Hoffman. I love it.”
Turning back to Theodore, Mr. Hoffman said, “Go home, Theodore. Enjoy the holiday with your family, and I’ll see you back here on the 26th, bright and early.”
“Yes, sir,” he answered before he and Martin left the store and started the walk to their families’ farms.
Chapter Two—The Long Walk Home
THE SUN had long since set by the time Theodore and Martin exited the store. With no moonlight, they had to walk slowly and carefully to avoid ruts.
Martin stopped suddenly and sniffed the air. “What is that?” he said.
“What?” Theodore asked.
Martin wrinkled his nose. “It smells like… manure?”
“Oh, you city boy. You just stepped in horse shit in the road.”
“Disgusting,” Martin said.
Theodore wanted to commiserate but couldn’t suppress a chuckle. “Come on. Pick up the pace. It’s cold out here.”
“I know it’s cold. I can barely feel my toes.”
“Then step lively, man. I can’t believe it’s really you.” Theodore looped his arm around Martin’s waist and held him close as they continued their trek home.
“I missed you terribly and was worried when I read your letters.”
“Was I really sounding that terrible?” Theodore asked, feeling embarrassed.
“You sounded like a man trapped in a bad situation.”
After a moment, Theodore answered simply, “That’s because I am. My life isn’t really a life. It’s more of an existence. I get up, go to work, come home, eat, fall asleep, and get up and do the same thing the next day. Over and over and over again. My job is not remotely challenging.”
“Oh, Teddy, I’m sorry you’re feeling so bad.”
“Me too. But enough about that. How long are you staying?” Theodore asked.
“Long enough to get a solution for your problem. And I have a good one in mind.”
“You do? What?”
“In due time.”
“Tell me, please,” Theodore begged.
“Not tonight.”
“No fair,” Theodore complained. “You can’t tell a fellow something like that and then keep him waiting.”
“Yes, I can. I just did.”
“I hate you,” Theodore joked, withdrawing his arm from Martin’s waist and giving him a shove.
“Hate me or love me, it’s your choice. But I think you’re going to love me—just like so many men have loved me since I moved to New York City.”
Coming to a complete stop and lowering his voice so no one could possibly hear their conversation—even though there wasn’t another person anywhere within a mile—Theodore whispered, “Really?”
Martin excitedly nodded. “Oh, Teddy. New York City is an amazing place. There are men like us there.”
“You’ve found others like us?” Theodore breathlessly asked. He had dreamed of such things.
“Oh, yes. Many, many, many other men like us. I’ve wanted to write to you about this and tell you how many of our kind there are, but I was afraid your mother would read my letters and that she’d find out about you or me or us.”
“You’ve met some of those men?” Theodore asked, lowering his voice, partly from a desire for secrecy and partly from excitement at the idea of finding other men like him and Martin.
Martin smiled. “Oh, yes, Theodore. Oh, yes. I’ve met a good many of them. But even with all of those men, I’ve barely scratched the surface. There are just so many of our kind there.”
“Have you… have you… been… with any of these men?”
“You mean, have I had sex with them? Yes. With many of them.”
“You have? You’ve been with other men… since… me?”
“Of course,” Martin said.
His words stung. Theodore knew he had no right to feel upset, but he had always fantasized about Martin off in the city, pining for him as he was for Martin. But he knew he had no claim on Martin, and his friend was growing in ways that were not an option for him.
“I’ve learned some new things that I can’t wait to show you,” Martin said, pulling Theodore from his reflections.
Theodore snorted. “Well, that will have to wait until summer. There is no way I’m disrobing outdoors in temperatures like what we’ve had lately.”
“I would never ask you to do such a thing.”
Theodore quickly looked around to make sure no one was about.
They took advantage of their isolation and wrapped their arms around each other again. Martin rested his head against Theodore’s shoulder. Had it not been such a bitterly cold night, they would have lingered longer, but a gust of wind encouraged them to move along.
They came to Martin’s family’s farm first.
When they walked up to the front of the house, Martin hid while Theodore went to the door and knocked.
Mr. Fuller, Martin’s father, opened the door after a moment.
“Theodore! This is a surprise. What are you doing out on such a cold night?”
His wife was right behind him, echoing his feelings. “What a surprise,” she said.
Theodore smiled, barely containing his excitement. “I wanted to stop by on my way home and wish you both a very Merry Christmas and to ask you a question.”
“All right,” Mr. Fuller told him after glancing curiously at his wife.
“What would you like Santa to bring you for Christmas this year?”
Mr. Fuller laughed, but his wife seemed to be considering the question. She answered, “Probably for Martin to be home for the holidays.”
“Well, ho, ho, ho.” Theodore’s imitation of Santa Claus wasn’t very good, but he tried. “Merry Christmas.”
Martin stepped out from the shadows and stood beside him. They put their arms on each other’s shoulders and were nearly bursting with delight at the response they got from Martin’s parents. Both his mother and father cried out at the sight of their son.
Martin’s mother wrapped him in a huge hug, and his father patted his back.
“You boys get in here. You’re letting all the heat out,” Mr. Fuller ordered.
Theodore was tired but decided a few minutes wouldn’t hurt, especially since the alternative was leaving Martin when they’d only just been reunited. After coats were hung and boots removed, Mrs. Fuller ushered them into the kitchen and parked them at the table. Mr. Fuller tagged along and took a seat before asking, “Why didn’t you let us know you were coming, Son?”
“I didn’t know myself until today. I got up this morning and just decided it was time for a visit, so I hopped on an early train and just got in a short while ago. I stopped by Hoffman’s Store to pick up this one,” Martin said, reaching over to playfully tousle Theodore’s hair. It was a system they had worked out over the years so they could enjoy each other’s touch while surrounded by people. That and the arm thrown around the shoulder were their most common moves.
Mrs. Fuller produced a plate of cookies along with the offer of tea or coffee. Her cookies were legendary in the valley. Martin and Theodore both took a cookie and practically moaned on the first bite.
“Oh, how I’ve missed these,” Martin told his mother, words that made her smile.
“It must have cost you a fortune to get a train on Christmas Eve,” Martin’s father commented.
“It wasn’t cheap, but there were a few empty seats on the train. Don’t get me wrong, there weren’t many—the train was mostly full. I guess everyone who wanted to go home had gone earlier in the week.”
“What a wonderful surprise to have you here with us for Christmas,” Mrs. Fuller remarked again. “Since it’s just the two of us, we haven’t put up any decorations or anything festive. I’ll have to go up into the attic and see what I can find.”
“No, please don’t,” Martin instructed. “Please, sit with us, talk with us. I’ve missed you folks.”
“So what is life like in the great big city?” his father asked.
“Wonderful. I love it. My job is good. I’ve got lots of friends.”
Theodore sat up straighter at that. What friends? Martin had not mentioned any friends in his letters. But then he suddenly remembered how little Martin had actually been able to say in his carefully worded letters.
“And do you have a steady gal?” his father inquired.
“I’ve got many friends, and I don’t want to tie myself down with anyone right now.”
“You’re not getting any younger, Son. A fine young man like you should be finished with sowing his wild oats and should be getting settled down with a nice wife and then some children.”
Martin’s happy look was slipping away. Theodore knew Martin had had this same talk with his parents on a number of occasions. They had never understood his desire to move to New York in the first place. Martin’s return to see his parents for the first time since he’d left their valley two and a half years earlier opened him up for a revisiting of that conversation.
“A family takes a lot of money, Papa. My job is good but not that good just yet. I need to become more established and more secure in my profession before I even consider something like that.”
Theodore watched his best friend and his father debate. He knew the script that each man would follow, but he still paid close attention to their words.
“It’s time to become a man and do what a man is supposed to do.”
“I am a man, Papa. A man is responsible, but he has to have the resources to take care of a family.”
Their conversation went back and forth for some time, with both sides remaining fully entrenched. Martin seemed uncomfortable and was becoming increasingly annoyed. Theodore suspected this conversation was one of the reasons Martin had not returned home.
After a quick check of his pocket watch, Theodore knew he needed to get on to his own home. “I’m afraid I must head home. My mother will be waiting. She will not go to bed until I’m home each night.” Rising, he said his good nights, lingering perhaps a moment longer than necessary with his hug for Martin. Once again he felt the telltale stiffening in Martin’s midsection, a feeling he had so desperately missed during the time they had been separated.
“My mother is cooking a feast tomorrow,” Theodore announced. “She still cooks as if there is a huge family to feed, but they all have their own families now and no longer come home for the holidays. There is just entirely too much for my father and I to possibly eat. So, why don’t you all come over and join us?” Theodore took a chance with his invitation. He knew he should clear such a thing with his mother first, but he wanted more time with Martin, and that was about the only option he could come up with on short notice.
“No, we wouldn’t want to impose,” Mrs. Fuller protested.
“No imposition. You weren’t planning on having a houseguest, especially one who can eat his own weight in a single meal,” Theodore joked, taking his turn at tousling Martin’s hair. “I won’t take no for an answer. Tomorrow at 2:00 p.m. I’ll be highly offended if you don’t attend.”
Mr. Fuller responded for himself and his wife, “We weren’t planning to do anything special for the holiday,” he explained. “We’d be delighted.”
“Wonderful. I’m off. We’ll see you tomorrow.”
Partly due to the cold and partly due to his excitement, Theodore ran the rest of the way home. When he told his mother he’d invited the Fullers to dinner the next day, he was met with all sorts of protestations.
“Theodore, how could you?” she demanded. “This house is a mess. I was only planning on three for dinner.”
“Mother.” Theodore gave her a sweet smile.
“You and that smile of yours,” she said, trying to be angry and failing. “You know I can’t say no to you, my boy.”
“Why would you? I’m so sweet,” he joked. “You still cook like we were a much larger family, even though I’m the only one left at home.”
“I can’t help it. I cooked for so many for a lot of years. It’s hard to make the switch to cooking less.”
She swatted him as she headed into the kitchen to check on Theodore’s dinner.
They all retired for the night, Theodore excited at the prospect of time with Martin the following day, and his mother and father with checklists of things they wanted to do before guests arrived.
"Hell of a thing," Jonesy said for the third time.
Matt agreed. It was a hell of a thing. He turned his gaze from the gaggle of reporters smoking and talking beside the grouping of snarling cement saber-toothed tigers, and returned his attention to the sticky, bedraggled corpse currently watching the birdie for the police photographer.
Whoever had dumped the dead man had counted on the body sinking in the black ooze of the Brea Pits, and in the heat of the summer when the tar heated up and softened...maybe. But it was December, a little more than a week before Christmas, and it had been raining steadily for two days. No chance in hell. The body had rested there, facedown in the rainwater hiding the treacherous crust of tar beneath, until the museum paleontologists excavating the site for fossils had made the grisly early-morning discovery.
"Looks kinda familiar," Jonesy remarked gloomily, as the plastered hair and drowned eyes were briefly illuminated in the white flash of the camera.
Matt bit back a laugh. "Yeah? Must be the fact that he's dead."
Jonesy looked reproachful, although after thirty-three years on the homicide squad, he'd seen more than his share of stiffs. They both had, though Matt had seen more violent death and destruction during his seven months in the Pacific than he had in his eleven years on the force.
"No identification on him at all?"
"Nope. Even the label was cut out of his jacket. No sign of his hat or shoes."
Matt considered this. Soaking in water and tar hadn't done John Doe's clothes much good, and they'd have to wait 'til everything dried before they could hope to get much from an examination. How much they would get then was doubtful, but that suit didn't look particularly old or worn, and the tailoring was the kind that showed its worth even in the worst conditions—which these were.
Laughter drifted from the circle of statues where the reporters and a couple of photographers waited impatiently. Matt knew most of them: Williams from "The Peach," Mackey from the Times, Cohen from the Mirror and Tara Renee of the Examiner. The only one he didn't recognize was the slim man lighting Tara's cigarette. Thin brown fingers cupped the lighter against the damp breeze; lean, tanned cheek creased in a smile as Tara flirted with him. Tara flirted with everyone, but she was a good little crime hound.
"Who's that?" Matt asked Jonesy, and Jonesy looked up from the meticulous diagrams he was making of the crime scene and followed Matt's stare.
"Doyle. Tribune-Herald. Heard he was with the Eighth Army in North Africa 'til he picked up a case of lead poisoning." Jonesy grinned his lopsided smile. "Got hit by machine-gun fire in Tunisia."
"Yeah, well, there's a lot of that going around." But Matt's interest was unwillingly caught. "So he's English?"
"Nah. Hometown boy, Loot."
"Doc's here, Lieutenant," one of the uniformed officers said as the police ambulance bumped its way over the grassy verge.
Matt nodded and then nodded again toward the reporters. "Tell 'em I want to see Miss Renee and..." He thought it over. "Doyle."
The Road to Silver Plume by Tamara Allen
Chapter One
The sun was too goddamned bright. The afternoon, for that matter, too cold and windy. The wood plank under him would rattle his bones from their sockets even before Grand Central fell from view, and Sergeant Fulton was hitting every damned bump and hole in the road. Deliberately.
Still, the September day—so far—had more to recommend it than the Mount Pleasant accommodations Darrow had said farewell to, hours before. And one hell of a farewell salute it had been from his suddenly sentimental cellmates. His head pounded yet, his stomach rocking with the wagon's sway. He didn't know whether to blame the last whiskey or the first.
The play of morning light on green leaves and the rushing gleam of the Hudson had only occasionally distracted him from his misery on the train trip downriver. Now, in the half-forgotten territory of home, he raised his aching head to peer through the bars. Manhattan hadn't changed much since ’87. The buildings stood higher than he remembered. Traffic ran thicker and faster; but maybe it seemed so because the only traffic he'd seen in six years were police wagons, arriving with clockwork regularity, and the occasional closed carriage concealing uneasy visitors. But the unrelenting clamor of the city hadn’t changed. He was home and he was free.
Almost.
Fulton eased the wagon from the meandering line of horse-cars winding down Park Row and angled for the broad stretch of curb in front of the post office. The four stories of overwrought granite bearing up under a bulbous roof of dark slate resembled nothing so much as a pompous government official with a derby atop his bald head; or more pertinently, the two men at the curb who seemed to be waiting on Darrow’s arrival. As Fulton opened the wagon doors, the older man—a division chief, most likely—peered inside. "Darrow Gardiner?"
"That's him," Fulton said grimly, and unlocked the chain that ran through the shackles. "Come on out, you son of a bitch."
Darrow smiled in the sergeant's scowling, gray-bearded face. Fulton wouldn't get under his skin. A juicier fish waited to be skewered and fried; one smug, self-assured Secret Service operative by the name of Emlyn Strickland, who had sauntered into the courtroom six years ago to swear that only one person in the world could have engraved the near-perfect twenty dollar plates on damning display at the exhibit table.
The case had won Strickland fawning accolades from every city official and praise from every journalist. Sentenced to a dozen years in Sing Sing, Darrow had that day decided to make Strickland regret the testimony; but not with a fist or a gun—no, he wasn't going back to prison, not with a chance to walk free.
It was a freedom so near, not even the shackles on his wrists could dampen his anticipation. The two operatives now apparently in charge gave him a cursory once-over before heading inside, leaving Fulton the task of making sure he kept up. Glad to be free of the leg irons, Darrow kept apace down the marble corridor, past niche after niche of lock-boxes, to the elevators. Few people glanced his way. When they did, they looked away again, seeming startled by the sight of a man with his wrists manacled.
The elevator doors opened upon a fourth floor labyrinth of austere offices. Cells, too, Darrow mused; if not as dark and narrow as the one he'd called home. An inscription at the door read, "Secret Service Division." Below that, for good measure, someone had thought to add, "Positively No Admittance." That didn't apply, by virtue of the information in his possession, to him. He followed the operatives into an office warmed by a wood-fire and busy with the hustle of clerks. Rows of Wanted photographs scowled from the walls, and bulky safes—no doubt stuffed with confiscated evidence—stood, indifferent, beneath them.
A door at the far end led into an interior office. A lone desk occupied the room, and the name on the deskplate, Charles Bishop, belonged, Darrow knew, to the lanky figure lost in reverie at the window, a file under his arm forgotten as he gazed out on Broadway. Fulton offered a gruff good-morning and the man turned, his prominent, raw-boned features set in what Darrow sensed was a perpetual state of wry humor—except perhaps when his genial limits were tested. Darrow suspected Bishop was, then, as capable as a prison guard of putting any man in his place. And Darrow had tested his share.
"Take a seat, Mr. Gardiner." Bishop sat at the desk, his assistant finding a less settled perch on the low cabinet behind him. "This is Franklin Lahey, my personal secretary."
Lahey took Darrow in, head tilted like a curious crow. "Before you share your information, Mr. Gardiner, I must admit I'm curious to know how you came by it."
Fulton, at Darrow's shoulder, hovered all the more emphatically, as if daring Darrow to overstep in the slightest. Darrow ignored him. "Where's Strickland?"
Fulton grunted, clearly unimpressed with the mild tone. Bishop only smiled. "Mr. Strickland went down for some of the evidence in storage from your trial, in case we wanted to review any of it." He leaned forward, arms on the desk, fingers laced. "I'm as curious as Mr. Lahey, I’ll confess. You say you’ve evidence of an undetected counterfeit in circulation. Evidence you’re willing to share.”
“With conditions.”
Bishop’s smile didn’t waver. "Of course you’ll be compensated for your trouble."
Darrow smiled back. "Meaning a discharge of all obligations to the state?"
"Mind yourself," Fulton grunted.
"Yes, Mr. Gardiner, as we discussed. Sentence commuted, and the usual sum to start fresh. But first we must know what particular knowledge you possess that the Secret Service does not."
Darrow sat back and folded his own arms as well as he could with irons around his wrists. “I’m sure you have a good eye for fakes, but this one is going to call for Strickland’s expertise.”
“You have one of the bills?”
“Coin.”
Bishop’s eyebrows rose. “Indeed. I suppose we would benefit from Mr. Strickland’s presence.” He turned to Lahey. "Where the devil is he?"
Lahey appeared to have no satisfactory answer. “Shall I go—“
“No, let’s be efficient about it. Sergeant, if you’ll gather up your charge, we’ll track down our missing party.”
They made a peculiar procession, judging by the inquisitive glances of visitors, clerks, and operatives they passed. Bishop strode at the lead, Lahey scurrying along aside, and Darrow could hear their every word.
"Sir, we might be wiser leaving Gardiner behind—"
"The sergeant will keep Mr. Gardiner in hand, should it be required."
"Yes, sir. But Emlyn—he's had so little field experience—"
"I'm aware of that, Mr. Lahey."
"Yes, sir. My concern is..." Lahey's backward glance at Darrow completed the thought.
Bishop chuckled. "Mr. Strickland has been in New York how long?"
“Three weeks, sir."
"Yes. Perhaps it's time to broaden his horizons."
Darrow couldn't help noting that however much respect the Service might have for an operative with a knack for identifying counterfeits, they didn't show it by situating the man in any of the busier front offices. Several twists and turns from Bishop's headquarters, a narrow hall led past a handful of unoccupied rooms to an unmarked door at its end. Bishop entered without knocking, into an office that appeared to serve as secondary storage—or perhaps first. In an atmosphere thick with the mustiness of old furniture and older books and files, dust motes floated in the meager shafts of sunlight, waiting their turn for a resting spot.
Over a desk pushed under the room's single window, Emlyn Strickland sprawled like a sunflower seeking more light. There, the sun obliged, catching the paler shades in Strickland's brown hair and falling warmly on the cream-colored waistcoat and tweed backside hemmed in by stacks of books all over the desk. Strickland looked amiable and innocuous—to anyone who didn't already know what an arrogant, exacting son of a bitch he could be.
At Bishop's gentle throat-clearing, Strickland sat up, knocking over several books in the process. One book fell open on the floor, exposing a collection of counterfeit bills as neatly arranged as a stamp collector's scrapbook. And some of the bills, to Darrow's amusement, were not unfamiliar. Noting the papers Strickland had in one hand, the magnifying glass in the other, he wondered why the Service couldn't buy the man a damned lamp.
But Strickland didn't seem troubled by it. Maybe he was accustomed to putting up with the poor light. If it bothered his eyes, there was no sign in the clear gaze that fell warily on Darrow. The son of a bitch remembered him...
And Darrow remembered him; no trouble to look at, with features still too frankly expressive for a Secret Service agent, Strickland was probably just past thirty and still as leanly built, though he did most of his Service work behind a desk—or on top of it, apparently. His gaze, gray as the coldest day in winter, sat somberly on Darrow as if he'd concluded Darrow's early release from Sing Sing would not be in the best interests of the world at large.
Darrow let one corner of his mouth curl into a smile with more than a thimble's worth of triumph. "You didn’t figure on seeing me again so soon."
"Not in custody, no.”
That dry, even tone Darrow remembered. The tone of a man who could bring down judgment on others without a moment’s regret. “Don’t tell me you thought I’d escape?”
“Considering the direction in which your talents lie, I fully expected you’d forge your own pardon.” Strickland’s glance slid assessingly over the second-hand suit before rising even more somberly to meet Darrow’s gaze. "You've lost weight, Mr. Gardiner."
Caught off-guard by the personal remark, Darrow lifted his shoulders in a careless shrug. "Live on mush and molasses for six years and you won't grow fat."
"I suppose not." Strickland's attention strayed to Bishop and a fleeting grimace crossed his face. "I beg your pardon, sir. I got caught up. Those bills First National turned over to us..." He bent to scoop up the fallen books. "The artist is Edward Johnson. Just as you thought."
Darrow snorted. "What did he misspell this time?"
Strickland looked startled—then unexpectedly laughed. "He didn't. But he still can't resist a flourish where nonesuch exists." He plucked a bill from the book and raised it before their eyes. "The line engraving isn't as steady as it should be. The shading's lacking—"
"Might be Hill's," Darrow said.
Strickland hesitated. "I don't think so..."
"Taylor?"
"Taylor's a much better hand at the vignettes."
"Well, it's not one of mine."
“Indeed, no. Your work is superior,” Strickland said ruefully. “Far superior.”
“Which returns us to the matter at hand...” Bishop glanced around. "You've no chairs in here, Em?”
Strickland frowned as if he’d only just noticed their absence. “I could’ve sworn—“
"I believe the office next door is adequately furnished," Lahey put in on a dour note.
"We'll settle in there," Bishop said, already heading for the door. "Mr. Gardiner has imparted little yet.” He stepped into a smaller office, empty but for a desk and three chairs. "If you would like to continue, Mr. Gardiner..." He steered Lahey to the chair behind the desk and remained standing as Fulton less than gently invited Darrow to sit. Strickland took the third chair, the dubious light in his gaze as irksome as the amusement. The son of a bitch thought himself made of better clay by virtue of his badge, same as Bishop and Lahey. The same as every goddamned government agent.
And yet here they were, waiting for his help.
Darrow savored it a moment before digging the dollar from his waistcoat pocket. He’d kept close care of the coin for a good five weeks—no easy thing in prison—until he’d been able to get word to Bishop and secure an interview. Now the coin was going to buy him his freedom and more.
He tossed it onto the bare desk, where it landed beside Lahey’s notebook. Lahey paused in mid-scrawl to glance at it, but Bishop picked it up. He examined both sides and finally fished a quarter from his own pocket to test the ring. The fake rang cleanly and Bishop pinned a reproachful gaze on Darrow. “If you hope to persuade us this coin is filled…”
“It’s not.”
Bishop’s stare sharpened. “Do explain yourself, Mr. Gardiner.”
Darrow turned to Strickland, whose curiosity shone as plainly as Bishop’s skepticism. Rising, Strickland held out his hand and Bishop passed him the coin. Strickland had already produced a small brass magnifier from his waistcoat pocket, and coin in hand, moved to the window.
Bishop was apparently not in the mood to wait for a verdict. “Mr. Gardiner, let me just remind you that you’re not dealing with laymen. We’re all quite aware of the fact that you and your fellow engravers find the means to persist in your trade even in Sing Sing. If this coin is a creation of yours, we will discover it.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And when we do discover it, you may be sure neither we nor the governor will be inclined toward leniency.”
Strickland had a shoulder pressed against the glass, his head bent over the coin with the same intense, single-minded concentration Darrow remembered from the trial. If he followed the conversation, there was no sign of it. Bishop was paying him no mind, having taken to pacing back and forth behind Lahey’s chair as the secretary scribbled furiously to keep up.
“Furthermore, Mr. Gardiner, do not imagine you may, upon being found out, claim it was merely a simple mistake.” He silenced both tongue and stride long enough to cast a stern glance at Darrow over Lahey’s head. “We’re dealing with no layman, ourselves. We know as much.”
“Yes, sir.”
“So if you have altered this coin, however minutely, in order to arrange an early release, you may as well confess it—“
“Good heavens.”
Strickland’s exclamation ended the invective, to Darrow’s relief, but Bishop and Lahey had no more than given him their attention before he abruptly bounded from the room. Bishop cast a puzzled glance at Lahey, as if he might provide an explanation, and Lahey snorted softly. “Ten years in the Redemption Bureau, sir. Addles a fellow some, I expect.”
Bishop’s lips twitched, a hint of long-suffering in his sigh. “Mr. Lahey, kindly retrieve Mr. Strickland.”
“Yes, sir.”
Lahey had only reached the door when Strickland bounded back in, cradling a coin scale and a fruit jar brimming with silver. Without preamble, he poured the silver onto the desk and began to dig through it, his urgency sparking what Darrow guessed was a rare uneasiness in Bishop’s eyes. “Emlyn, what—“
“Eighteen ninety-two.” Strickland plucked the shinier coins from the silver pool, to as quickly discard them after checking the date. “Do either of you have an eighteen ninety-two?”
“It’s counterfeit, then?” Lahey looked awed, Bishop dismayed. Both dug into their pockets, but turned up only a decade-old dollar between them.
Darrow had expected some measure of concern once they’d caught on, but nothing quite so satisfying as this alarmed scramble. The only annoyance was Strickland, who seemed more fascinated than apprehensive. He’d found his prize, Darrow knew, when his fingers curled around a bright bit of silver. As Lahey and Fulton hovered, Strickland passed the magnifier and both coins to Bishop. “The weight’s near-perfect. Off by a few grains, at most.”
Bishop laid the coins side by side on the desk and bent over them with the magnifier. After a long minute, Strickland cleared his throat. “The lettering,” he prompted.
“‘In God we trust.’ It’s not aligned as precisely.”
“Yes, sir. Without the magnification, it’s nearly impossible to tell. The vignette isn’t quite right, either. But I expect the metals are all in proper proportion. Forty cents’ worth of silver in one almost flawless dollar.”
Bishop straightened, chin dropping to his chest, gaze fixed yet on the coins.
“Silver’s still at sixty-three? So he’s making sixty cents on every coin he passes.”
“It may be useful,” Lahey ventured, “to ask just who he is.”
When the three of them turned in his direction, Darrow let loose a soft laugh. “You don’t know?”
The question, directed at Strickland, provoked a raised eyebrow from Bishop. “Mr. Gardiner, I realize it’s tempting, in your position, to engage in a bit of cat-and-mouse, but this can be construed as obstruction of justice—“
“Mr. Strickland’s already got a list of suspects in mind.” Darrow settled back against the comfortable leather. “He was putting it together the minute you handed over that coin.”
“The quality does narrow down the list,” Strickland acknowledged. “I know of five or six men, off-hand…” He leaned against a corner of the desk, arms folded. “August McKee?”
Darrow rocked the chair back and forth. Treasury men had it soft. Mighty soft. All the same, they could be damned smart. “You cut that down quick.”
“You’ve known McKee fifteen years.”
“Sixteen. But I’ve known others as long.”
Strickland’s mouth curved with a hint of reproof. “Sixteen years of friendship and he bid for his freedom with your engravings.”
“I gave him those plates a long time ago. He could do what he liked with them.”
“And your fifty dollar engravings? Where are they?”
“You’ll have to ask McKee.” Fourteen months of painstaking care had gone into the making of those plates. The pride he'd felt on presenting the plates to Gust was as powerful as it had been seven years ago. Gust had called them works of art—and so they were, as thoroughly as any Rembrandt or da Vinci. He’d thought as highly of the tens, but he’d readily traded them for a commutation, two years into his own twelve-year sentence. Where the fifties languished, Darrow could fairly guess. But after six years in prison, he’d lost any expectation Gust was going to bargain for his release, too.
And that was something Strickland had no need to know. “McKee doesn’t owe me. I don’t owe him. If he’s the one minting those dollars—“
“If?”
“I don’t know it for a fact. But men come and go in Sing Sing. Gossip’s about the most valuable thing they’ve got on them. That, and a little spare change.”
“Let us assume August McKee is our craftsman in this instance.” Bishop scooped a handful of silver and dumped it into the jar. “Might you have an idea of his whereabouts?” His gaze on Darrow was as assessing as Strickland’s, if not as shrewd. The deal to trade freedom for information depended, Darrow knew, on how useful the information proved to be. And Bishop had the power to decide if it wasn’t quite useful enough.
There was little point in the cat-and-mouse. But being too forthcoming was as risky. Once Bishop had all he wanted, he’d toss Darrow into the Tombs for safekeeping. Gust would be arrested, the engravings confiscated. Darrow couldn’t allow either, if he wanted both his freedom and his fifties back.
“I don’t know McKee’s whereabouts, no. But it should be easy enough to come up with a list of possibilities.” Darrow straightened in his chair. “A man setting up his own mint is going to need plenty of metal.”
Bishop’s brows rose. “Are you suggesting McKee has come into possession of a silver mine?”
Darrow shrugged. “He’ll want to keep an eye on every step. If he’s digging up his own bullion, he has control from start to finish.”
Lahey looked up from a notepad crisscrossed with calculations. “If McKee’s minting coin straight out of his own mine, he must be making a fortune. Even a meager production of ore will make him quite wealthy—“
“Mr. Lahey, we’ll need a list of silver mine owners as quickly as you can put it together.” Bishop turned to Strickland. “You think you can track him down through his other counterfeits?”
“If he’s still making use of Mr. Gardiner’s engravings, yes. The banks have sent in a good many letters I haven’t had the chance to file yet. You know, if McKee has acquired a mine, his ownership may be listed under a confederate's name." Strickland's considering gaze rested on Darrow. "A name Mr. Gardiner may recognize."
Bishop seemed satisfied. "Mr. Lahey will make inquiries and I suggest you begin going over the letters from the banks." He smiled faintly, almost as if embarrassed. "I think you're going to need more light and space. I'll have another office set up for you. Sergeant Fulton, if you will return Mr. Gardiner to his temporary quarters—"
"I beg your pardon, sir." Strickland pushed away from the desk, straightening. "Mr. Gardiner can identify counterfeits as well as I can. The work will go twice as fast if he remains."
Bishop sent a dubious glance in Darrow’s direction. "I assume, Mr. Gardiner, that you prefer to stay and assist?"
Sorting through counterfeit bills sent in from banks all over the country… That promised to be an arduous task. An afternoon in the Tombs might be preferable. But he had to keep an eye on things, himself. "I'm at your command, Mr. Bishop."
"Good. Sergeant, kindly release Mr. Gardiner from the irons and turn him over to us for the time being."
Fulton obeyed without a word, but the look he gave Darrow was both warning and promise. Darrow gave the threat no further thought once the irons were removed. With that dead weight off his wrists, he was still under guard, perhaps, but another step closer to being a free man.
He rubbed his wrists, at the same time stretching aching shoulders as he joined Strickland in the dusty storage room. Despite the seemingly haphazard organization, Strickland needed only a minute to locate the bank lists and Reporter journals. He filled one box, then a second from the file cabinets, only hesitating as he passed the first box to Darrow. "It's a little heavy—"
"I was carting barrows full of marble three days ago." Darrow took the box. "You can trust me."
"We're trusting you with a great deal more than bank journals." Strickland picked up the second box. "Whatever you can tell me about McKee...”
Darrow glanced at him sidelong as they stepped into the corridor. “That’s why you asked Bishop to have me stay.”
Strickland met his glance and again unexpectedly laughed. “No insult intended, Mr. Gardiner. I do believe your eye for counterfeits is nearly as good as mine.”
“Took you at least a month to pin down those twenties.”
“And less than an hour to determine you were the artist.” Strickland shifted the box to one arm and turned, meeting him eye to eye. “I recall my testimony as well as you do. And whether I’d taken one month or a dozen, you’d have gone to Sing Sing.”
“Thanks to your testimony, I did.”
“That you spent six years in prison was your doing, Mr. Gardiner. Not mine.”
Darrow let an indifferent smile form. “No regrets, then.”
“None so far.”
“Give it a little more time.”
Strickland brandished the silver dollar between thumb and forefinger, as grave-faced as Liberty herself. “You’ve nearly won your release. You won’t trade it for a moment’s satisfaction.”
“No? A man can find lifelong satisfaction in some moments.”
Strickland’s lips parted, then firmed into a disapproving line. “Employ that philosophy and you may find yourself with very little life left to enjoy.”
“Bishop will track me down?”
“Do you imagine he won’t?”
Darrow broke into a grin. “I expect he might. Even for the sake of a Redemption Bureau coin shuffler.”
That sparked annoyance in the gray eyes. “If you’d prefer to go back with Sergeant Fulton—“
“You can’t afford to send me back, unless you want August McKee to flood your Treasury with these.” He plucked the dollar from Strickland’s hand and tossed it, letting it land flat on his palm. “Gust’s best work to date, really.”
Strickland didn’t offer an opinion, nor any further discussion until they’d found their way to the office Bishop had ordered set up. It was considerably larger than any Darrow had yet seen, with room for two desks—and a long table, in case the desks fell short. Darrow claimed the desk nearest the window and found some mild entertainment in sorting through the counterfeits, increasingly amused by the outraged or exasperated letters from cashiers who couldn't fathom the number of fake bills that had ended up in their accounts. Most of the fakes, Darrow recognized. One or two originated from plates he'd made long ago, plates he assumed were in Gust's possession.
The farther down the list he went, the clearer it became that Gust was somewhere near Denver. "I've seen almost all these bills before. I know which are coming from Gust's operation. Odds are he’s in Colorado."
Strickland rose. "I'll give you more letters—"
"Don't bother. I'm convinced and you are too. Or you should be."
"I know it's not the most enjoyable of tasks—"
Darrow snorted. "Reading letters from a bunch of tellers who don't know what they're doing?"
"What makes you think they don't know what they're doing?"
Darrow lifted one of the bills that had been sent along with the letter. "They're posting these fakes up where anyone can see them, aren't they? Damned kind of you folks to point out a fellow's mistakes. Likely the engraver's already putting out a much better copy."
"How would you suggest we warn depositors of counterfeits in their possession?"
"Don't warn them. You're enlisting them to do your work. Maybe if you did a better job if it—"
“You, of all people, should know what we’re up against. For every fake coin we ferret out, you pass another dozen to take its place.”
“A good engraver doesn’t pass his own work.”
Strickland breathed a laugh. “Sidestep all you want. The more evidence we gather from banks, depositors, disloyal passers—anyone who's had one of McKee's bills or coins in hand—the more likely we can narrow down just where he’s hiding."
“I can narrow it faster.”
That won him a guarded glance. “What do you have in mind?”
“I have friends who can probably tell us just about anything we want to know.”
“Where are these friends of yours?”
“Around town. Most of them frequent Huber’s. If I can talk to them—“
“Huber’s Beer Garden? In the Bowery?"
"You've been there?"
Strickland cleared his throat. "I've passed through the Bowery once or twice."
"No one just passes through the Bowery. That's like a man in the desert crossing a river without stopping for a drink." Darrow leaned his chair back, propping his boots on the desk. "Even Secret Service operatives find their way there. For another sort of field work," he added with a low laugh.
A frown flattened Strickland’s mouth, but he couldn’t seem to hide his curiosity. “You’re suggesting we go roaming the Bowery. Just the two of us.”
“You won’t be recognized. Any friends of mine you’ve sent up are probably still in prison. I don’t bide my time with housebreakers and pickpockets.”
“And yet you perform the same service, relieving a man of the coin in his possession.”
“He can spend mine as readily as he likes.”
“Not if he wishes to remain in the bounds of the law.”
“So you think of me as a pickpocket?”
“You’ve put the false coin in his purse.”
“And you haven’t? You’re passing silver for far more than it’s worth—“
“We do not ‘pass’ silver, Mr. Gardiner. We stamp and issue it.” Despite the amused note, Strickland still seemed uneasy. “I think I want a word with Mr. Bishop. You’d best come with me.”
Heart to Hart by Erin O'Quinn
Simon got out of bed and found a towel in his linen closet. Drawing his robe on, he tied the sash and left for the small cast iron bathtub down the hall.
He turned the handle, expecting if the room were in use it would not yield to his pull. But it yielded, and he stepped inside.
There, like a grizzly bear immersed in a tiny honey pot, sat Michael McCree in the small claw footed bathtub.
Again Simon felt the pounding of blood in his face and he turned to leave.
“Nay, Simon. Bolt the goddamn door, man, an’ stay. We don’t have all day to bugger around with fine courtesies.”
“I…am sorry…about last night.”
“Get in the tub, lad.”
“No, I—”
“Damn ye, Simon, grow a pair of testicles, will ye? Do I look like a mad rapist?”
...Simon stepped into the tub. The water was pleasingly warm, not soapy. He stood a moment looking down at the hair, like corn silk, which fell almost to Michael’s shoulders. He sat. Both of them had their knees drawn up in an attempt to fit inside the small enclosure.
Michael began to run his hand up and down Simon’s shins in a slow caress. He made no attempt to pry his legs apart, now locked together as if glued in place. “I don’t ask ye to suck me, lad. I don’t ask if I can sink me flesh into your honeyed rump. All I want is to have ye to wash it. Will ye?”
Simon swallowed carefully. “Yes.”
Michael handed him a small cake of soap and a washcloth. Then he rose from the water like a god rising from the sea, water cascading off his hips and down his large thighs.
For the first time, Simon gazed on the full, erect phallus of Michael McCree.
His own imagination hadn’t been far off the mark. He seemed big as a stud stallion. The shaft was a trellis of purple veins. The cowl seemed almost like a coil of heavy rope wrapped around his shaft. His testicles were long and darkly gold, cobwebbed with fine hairs, pendulous and full.
“Do it,” Michael whispered.
A Night at the Ariston Baths by Michael Murphy
Prologue
THE EVENING news usually didn’t make Theodore jump up and try to dance and do a cheer, but it did on Saturday evening, June 28, 1969.
“Theodore, stop!” Jasper warned. “You’re going to fall and break a hip.”
But Theodore didn’t care. “They did it. By God, they did it!” he said as he thrust the fist at the end of his skinny arm into the air.
“Who did what?” Jasper asked, confused.
“Our people,” Theodore gasped out, as he fell back into his chair. “Our… people.”
“Mr. McCall, you having trouble breathing, baby?” a health aide asked anxiously when she saw Theodore panting for breath.
“The old fool was just trying to dance a jig or cheer or something ridiculous,” Jasper said critically but with a hint of concern. “What were you thinking? You’re nearly ninety years old. You can’t do things like that anymore. Especially after being in the hospital just two weeks ago.”
“Oh, hush,” Theodore said. “This is a day… that will go down in the history books. And I lived to see it. I’ve dreamed of this, but I was afraid I wouldn’t live long enough. But I did. What a glorious day.”
“What are you talking about?” Jasper asked, looking more concerned about Theodore than he was about having an answer to the question he’d just asked.
“That last news story. Didn’t you hear it?”
“I must have, but I couldn’t tell you what it was about.”
“There was a riot last night—this morning, I suppose.”
“Who rioted about what?” Jasper asked.
“Our people. The homosexual youngsters.”
“Where?”
“Right here in New York. Some place called the Stonewall Inn.”
“Have you been there?”
“No. And you know that, because you haven’t been there, and you and I go everywhere together. We have for more than sixty years now.”
The health aide had been taking Theodore’s pulse while they talked. “You’ve known each other how long?” she asked.
“More than sixty years now,” Theodore said.
“Sixty-five years,” Jasper corrected.
“Good Lord,” she said admiringly. “My mama wasn’t even born yet when you two met. I’m not even sure if my grandma was alive yet.”
“That’s because we’re older than dirt,” Theodore said.
“Hey,” Jasper said, “speak for yourself, old man. I’m younger than you are.”
“Only by a couple of months,” Theodore said. “It’s not like I robbed the cradle.”
“Whatever you say, oldster.”
The health aide laughed. “You two are too much. My job wouldn’t be half as much fun if I didn’t have you guys here.”
“Thank you,” Jasper said.
“How did you meet?” she asked.
“I hired him to work in my store in 1904,” Theodore said. “Best decision I ever made too.”
Looking at Jasper, she asked, “Now don’t you know you’re not supposed to have workplace romances?”
“I was the only employee. It was him and me. We didn’t have any rules like that back in our day. And let me tell you,” Jasper said, leaning forward as if to share confidential information, “if you could have seen him… oh, my goodness. Just the sight of him made my heart race. The man was quite a looker.”
“You weren’t so bad yourself,” Theodore added.
“We were much more focused on living without attracting a lot of attention. It was hard to be homosexual back then,” Jasper said.
“Hell, it’s never been easy to be gay in this country. Doesn’t matter that we’ve been here right from the start, a part of every single generation that made this country what it is today.”
“We had to conduct business, live our lives, and help everyone believe they couldn’t see and didn’t know what was going on between us. Everybody knew, but God forbid their safe little worlds be disrupted by something that didn’t fit their concept of what was what.”
“Everybody had their heads buried deep in the sand. Sometimes I wondered how they managed to breathe,” Theodore said.
“You spoke about something going down in history. Gentlemen, you are history.”
“You trying to say we’re old?” Theodore asked with a smile.
“I didn’t say anything about you being old,” she said. “I said you two are history, not historic.”
“This day, today, what just happened last night, is finally our people not quietly letting the cops beat us down and abuse us and treat us like less than dirt. This is for Martin.”
“Well, one of you better start and tell me that story.”
“Well, you see, it started on the last day of 1902, New Year’s Eve. But let me back up a little. It was Christmas Eve, 1902….”
Chapter One—Christmas Eve 1902
“STEP CAREFULLY, Mrs. Robinson,” Theodore said as he helped her into her buggy after loading her purchases. It wasn’t a big step, but she was an old woman.
“Thank you for your help, Theodore,” she said, once she was seated. “I hope you and your family have a very happy holiday.”
“You as well, Mrs. Robinson.”
Theodore hurried back inside the store with an involuntary shiver. His height made it easy for him to reach things off high shelves, but his slenderness didn’t give him a lot of insulation from the winter cold.
Not only was the day dull and gray, but the wind was also biting cold. It had been frigid that morning when he’d walked to work in the dark, and the arrival of daylight had done little to make the day any warmer.
Had he been planning to walk more than ten feet from the store’s front door, he would have grabbed his jacket before going outside, even for a moment, but they had been so busy that day he hadn’t wanted to waste the time.
He wasn’t back inside with the door completely closed before he heard his boss, Mr. Hoffman, calling to him. “Theodore. Mrs. Moscrip needs help getting her items to her wagon.”
Inwardly he groaned, but outwardly he planted a smile on his face and grabbed the box filled with her purchases.
“And hurry back, Theodore. There are other purchases to be carried out.”
“Yes, sir, Mr. Hoffman,” he said, even though he wondered where he might dally outside without a jacket, had he been so inclined. He wanted to say, “Step lively, old woman,” but of course he could not, nor would he ever say that.
All day that December 24th, Theodore was in and out of the store, helping to carry items to wagons and carts and buggies. Every two minutes it seemed Mr. Hoffman was calling him to assist someone. He’d lost track of how many times he’d been outside.
When Mr. Hoffman closed and locked the store doors at six that evening, pulling the blinds down to signal they were closed, Theodore wanted to fall on the floor and give thanks. He was exhausted, but somehow Mr. Hoffman, more than twice his age, seemed perky and energized.
“We’ve had a most lively season of holiday shopping this year, haven’t we?”
“Yes, sir, we have.”
“We have shelves to stock, Theodore.”
Theodore groaned silently. He’d stayed late nearly every night that week, and he was not in the mood to do it again. It was Christmas Eve, and he just wanted to go home and sleep.
Either Mr. Hoffman read that on his face, or he’d been toying with Theodore. “But that can wait until after Christmas,” he said, giving Theodore, his one and only employee, a smile.
“Thank you, sir,” Theodore said, immediately moving to grab his coat and hat to bundle up and prepare to make the long trudge home.
Mr. Hoffman had disappeared somewhere in the back, so when a loud rapping sounded on the front door, Theodore was left to shout, “We’re closed.”
Either the person did not hear him or did not choose to hear him, because the rapping repeated.
“I said, ‘We’re closed,’” he shouted a little louder. Surely the person could hear him or at least read the sign prominently displayed in the middle of the door announcing the time of their closing that day. But the person apparently did neither, and the loud knocking came yet again.
Usually unflappable, his overall fatigue made Theodore more easily irritated. After striding to the door, he yanked back the shade that Mr. Hoffman had lowered and was about to shout once again that the store was closed, when he beheld a sight for sore eyes.
“Martin,” Theodore squealed with delight. His best friend stood on the other side of the door and stared in through the glass, a huge smile on his face.
He unlocked the door and admitted Martin, then quickly locked it again before throwing his arms around his friend and hugging him so hard he was surprised he didn’t do damage.
Martin wasn’t as tall as Theodore, but he was more solidly built—not stout but muscular.
“What are you doing here?” Theodore asked. “I didn’t know you were coming home. I’ll have a word with my mother for keeping that from me. I didn’t know she was capable of keeping a secret.”
“She didn’t know,” Martin said.
“You mean your mother didn’t tell her?”
“No,” Martin told him. “No one knew I was coming home. I didn’t even know until this morning when I decided. Plus I need to tell you all about the big bad world and try to rescue you from a slow death here in the back of beyond.”
“What do you mean?” Theodore asked.
“Those last few letters you wrote sounded morose. I was seriously worried about your state of mind.”
Theodore cast his gaze downward, embarrassed, and shrugged, trying to act as if there was no problem. “I’m fine.”
“I know, because I’m here,” Martin joked.
“Sounds like city living has given your confidence a boost,” Theodore remarked.
“Oh, Teddy, you have no idea. But fear not, your fairy godfather is here to save the day.”
“Excuse me?” he asked.
“Come on. Let’s get out of here and get home.”
“Theodore?” Mr. Hoffman said.
Theodore turned, amazed the man had crept up on them without him noticing. “Yes, sir.”
“I have a little something for you.” Mr. Hoffman handed him an envelope.
Theodore looked inside and was astonished to see cash—a surprising amount of cash.
“What’s this, sir?”
“A Christmas bonus, son. I know how busy the last several weeks have been, and I also know how hard you’ve worked. Business has been good, and I’ve made an acceptable profit this month. Of course that profit has to sustain us throughout the rest of the year when business is slower, but still, I wanted to share something with you as a way of saying thank you for all of your hard work.”
Theodore was astonished. In previous years, there had not been a bonus, Christmas or otherwise. “I don’t know what to say, Mr. Hoffman. Thank you so much. It is most appreciated.”
“It’s good to see you back home, Martin. How is city life?”
“Great, Mr. Hoffman. I love it.”
Turning back to Theodore, Mr. Hoffman said, “Go home, Theodore. Enjoy the holiday with your family, and I’ll see you back here on the 26th, bright and early.”
“Yes, sir,” he answered before he and Martin left the store and started the walk to their families’ farms.
Chapter Two—The Long Walk Home
THE SUN had long since set by the time Theodore and Martin exited the store. With no moonlight, they had to walk slowly and carefully to avoid ruts.
Martin stopped suddenly and sniffed the air. “What is that?” he said.
“What?” Theodore asked.
Martin wrinkled his nose. “It smells like… manure?”
“Oh, you city boy. You just stepped in horse shit in the road.”
“Disgusting,” Martin said.
Theodore wanted to commiserate but couldn’t suppress a chuckle. “Come on. Pick up the pace. It’s cold out here.”
“I know it’s cold. I can barely feel my toes.”
“Then step lively, man. I can’t believe it’s really you.” Theodore looped his arm around Martin’s waist and held him close as they continued their trek home.
“I missed you terribly and was worried when I read your letters.”
“Was I really sounding that terrible?” Theodore asked, feeling embarrassed.
“You sounded like a man trapped in a bad situation.”
After a moment, Theodore answered simply, “That’s because I am. My life isn’t really a life. It’s more of an existence. I get up, go to work, come home, eat, fall asleep, and get up and do the same thing the next day. Over and over and over again. My job is not remotely challenging.”
“Oh, Teddy, I’m sorry you’re feeling so bad.”
“Me too. But enough about that. How long are you staying?” Theodore asked.
“Long enough to get a solution for your problem. And I have a good one in mind.”
“You do? What?”
“In due time.”
“Tell me, please,” Theodore begged.
“Not tonight.”
“No fair,” Theodore complained. “You can’t tell a fellow something like that and then keep him waiting.”
“Yes, I can. I just did.”
“I hate you,” Theodore joked, withdrawing his arm from Martin’s waist and giving him a shove.
“Hate me or love me, it’s your choice. But I think you’re going to love me—just like so many men have loved me since I moved to New York City.”
Coming to a complete stop and lowering his voice so no one could possibly hear their conversation—even though there wasn’t another person anywhere within a mile—Theodore whispered, “Really?”
Martin excitedly nodded. “Oh, Teddy. New York City is an amazing place. There are men like us there.”
“You’ve found others like us?” Theodore breathlessly asked. He had dreamed of such things.
“Oh, yes. Many, many, many other men like us. I’ve wanted to write to you about this and tell you how many of our kind there are, but I was afraid your mother would read my letters and that she’d find out about you or me or us.”
“You’ve met some of those men?” Theodore asked, lowering his voice, partly from a desire for secrecy and partly from excitement at the idea of finding other men like him and Martin.
Martin smiled. “Oh, yes, Theodore. Oh, yes. I’ve met a good many of them. But even with all of those men, I’ve barely scratched the surface. There are just so many of our kind there.”
“Have you… have you… been… with any of these men?”
“You mean, have I had sex with them? Yes. With many of them.”
“You have? You’ve been with other men… since… me?”
“Of course,” Martin said.
His words stung. Theodore knew he had no right to feel upset, but he had always fantasized about Martin off in the city, pining for him as he was for Martin. But he knew he had no claim on Martin, and his friend was growing in ways that were not an option for him.
“I’ve learned some new things that I can’t wait to show you,” Martin said, pulling Theodore from his reflections.
Theodore snorted. “Well, that will have to wait until summer. There is no way I’m disrobing outdoors in temperatures like what we’ve had lately.”
“I would never ask you to do such a thing.”
Theodore quickly looked around to make sure no one was about.
They took advantage of their isolation and wrapped their arms around each other again. Martin rested his head against Theodore’s shoulder. Had it not been such a bitterly cold night, they would have lingered longer, but a gust of wind encouraged them to move along.
They came to Martin’s family’s farm first.
When they walked up to the front of the house, Martin hid while Theodore went to the door and knocked.
Mr. Fuller, Martin’s father, opened the door after a moment.
“Theodore! This is a surprise. What are you doing out on such a cold night?”
His wife was right behind him, echoing his feelings. “What a surprise,” she said.
Theodore smiled, barely containing his excitement. “I wanted to stop by on my way home and wish you both a very Merry Christmas and to ask you a question.”
“All right,” Mr. Fuller told him after glancing curiously at his wife.
“What would you like Santa to bring you for Christmas this year?”
Mr. Fuller laughed, but his wife seemed to be considering the question. She answered, “Probably for Martin to be home for the holidays.”
“Well, ho, ho, ho.” Theodore’s imitation of Santa Claus wasn’t very good, but he tried. “Merry Christmas.”
Martin stepped out from the shadows and stood beside him. They put their arms on each other’s shoulders and were nearly bursting with delight at the response they got from Martin’s parents. Both his mother and father cried out at the sight of their son.
Martin’s mother wrapped him in a huge hug, and his father patted his back.
“You boys get in here. You’re letting all the heat out,” Mr. Fuller ordered.
Theodore was tired but decided a few minutes wouldn’t hurt, especially since the alternative was leaving Martin when they’d only just been reunited. After coats were hung and boots removed, Mrs. Fuller ushered them into the kitchen and parked them at the table. Mr. Fuller tagged along and took a seat before asking, “Why didn’t you let us know you were coming, Son?”
“I didn’t know myself until today. I got up this morning and just decided it was time for a visit, so I hopped on an early train and just got in a short while ago. I stopped by Hoffman’s Store to pick up this one,” Martin said, reaching over to playfully tousle Theodore’s hair. It was a system they had worked out over the years so they could enjoy each other’s touch while surrounded by people. That and the arm thrown around the shoulder were their most common moves.
Mrs. Fuller produced a plate of cookies along with the offer of tea or coffee. Her cookies were legendary in the valley. Martin and Theodore both took a cookie and practically moaned on the first bite.
“Oh, how I’ve missed these,” Martin told his mother, words that made her smile.
“It must have cost you a fortune to get a train on Christmas Eve,” Martin’s father commented.
“It wasn’t cheap, but there were a few empty seats on the train. Don’t get me wrong, there weren’t many—the train was mostly full. I guess everyone who wanted to go home had gone earlier in the week.”
“What a wonderful surprise to have you here with us for Christmas,” Mrs. Fuller remarked again. “Since it’s just the two of us, we haven’t put up any decorations or anything festive. I’ll have to go up into the attic and see what I can find.”
“No, please don’t,” Martin instructed. “Please, sit with us, talk with us. I’ve missed you folks.”
“So what is life like in the great big city?” his father asked.
“Wonderful. I love it. My job is good. I’ve got lots of friends.”
Theodore sat up straighter at that. What friends? Martin had not mentioned any friends in his letters. But then he suddenly remembered how little Martin had actually been able to say in his carefully worded letters.
“And do you have a steady gal?” his father inquired.
“I’ve got many friends, and I don’t want to tie myself down with anyone right now.”
“You’re not getting any younger, Son. A fine young man like you should be finished with sowing his wild oats and should be getting settled down with a nice wife and then some children.”
Martin’s happy look was slipping away. Theodore knew Martin had had this same talk with his parents on a number of occasions. They had never understood his desire to move to New York in the first place. Martin’s return to see his parents for the first time since he’d left their valley two and a half years earlier opened him up for a revisiting of that conversation.
“A family takes a lot of money, Papa. My job is good but not that good just yet. I need to become more established and more secure in my profession before I even consider something like that.”
Theodore watched his best friend and his father debate. He knew the script that each man would follow, but he still paid close attention to their words.
“It’s time to become a man and do what a man is supposed to do.”
“I am a man, Papa. A man is responsible, but he has to have the resources to take care of a family.”
Their conversation went back and forth for some time, with both sides remaining fully entrenched. Martin seemed uncomfortable and was becoming increasingly annoyed. Theodore suspected this conversation was one of the reasons Martin had not returned home.
After a quick check of his pocket watch, Theodore knew he needed to get on to his own home. “I’m afraid I must head home. My mother will be waiting. She will not go to bed until I’m home each night.” Rising, he said his good nights, lingering perhaps a moment longer than necessary with his hug for Martin. Once again he felt the telltale stiffening in Martin’s midsection, a feeling he had so desperately missed during the time they had been separated.
“My mother is cooking a feast tomorrow,” Theodore announced. “She still cooks as if there is a huge family to feed, but they all have their own families now and no longer come home for the holidays. There is just entirely too much for my father and I to possibly eat. So, why don’t you all come over and join us?” Theodore took a chance with his invitation. He knew he should clear such a thing with his mother first, but he wanted more time with Martin, and that was about the only option he could come up with on short notice.
“No, we wouldn’t want to impose,” Mrs. Fuller protested.
“No imposition. You weren’t planning on having a houseguest, especially one who can eat his own weight in a single meal,” Theodore joked, taking his turn at tousling Martin’s hair. “I won’t take no for an answer. Tomorrow at 2:00 p.m. I’ll be highly offended if you don’t attend.”
Mr. Fuller responded for himself and his wife, “We weren’t planning to do anything special for the holiday,” he explained. “We’d be delighted.”
“Wonderful. I’m off. We’ll see you tomorrow.”
Partly due to the cold and partly due to his excitement, Theodore ran the rest of the way home. When he told his mother he’d invited the Fullers to dinner the next day, he was met with all sorts of protestations.
“Theodore, how could you?” she demanded. “This house is a mess. I was only planning on three for dinner.”
“Mother.” Theodore gave her a sweet smile.
“You and that smile of yours,” she said, trying to be angry and failing. “You know I can’t say no to you, my boy.”
“Why would you? I’m so sweet,” he joked. “You still cook like we were a much larger family, even though I’m the only one left at home.”
“I can’t help it. I cooked for so many for a lot of years. It’s hard to make the switch to cooking less.”
She swatted him as she headed into the kitchen to check on Theodore’s dinner.
They all retired for the night, Theodore excited at the prospect of time with Martin the following day, and his mother and father with checklists of things they wanted to do before guests arrived.
Josh LanyonBestselling author of over sixty titles of classic Male/Male fiction featuring twisty mystery, kickass adventure and unapologetic man-on-man romance, JOSH LANYON has been called "the Agatha Christie of gay mystery."
Her work has been translated into eleven languages. The FBI thriller Fair Game was the first male/male title to be published by Harlequin Mondadori, the largest romance publisher in Italy. Stranger on the Shore (Harper Collins Italia) was the first M/M title to be published in print. In 2016 Fatal Shadows placed #5 in Japan's annual Boy Love novel list (the first and only title by a foreign author to place on the list).
The Adrien English Series was awarded All Time Favorite Male Male Couple in the 2nd Annual contest held by the Goodreads M/M Group (which has over 22,000 members). Josh is an Eppie Award winner, a four-time Lambda Literary Award finalist for Gay Mystery, and the first ever recipient of the Goodreads Favorite M/M Author Lifetime Achievement award.
Tamara Allen resides in the piney woods north of Houston with her cozy family of husband, son, and cat. Her primary occupation is keeping them out of trouble, but on the side she likes to make up stories, for the pleasure of living briefly in an era long gone by.
Erin O'Quinn
Using the pen name Erin O’Quinn, I have written more than 40 titles. I have published (or in some cases, re-pubbed) all of them on my own New Dawn Press; and all but aroumd ten of them are M/M novels/novellas. I have also designed the covers for all but the first two “Nevada Highlander” novels.
Michael Murphy
In a world of so many things, how do you settle on just a few? All my life I've been interested in everything around me, wanting to see new places, meet new people, tell new stories. Writing has been the culmination of a long term dream. Being a part of the Dreamspinner family is priceless beyond compare. Anytime I'm asked the question of who I am I have to stop and try to decide how in the world to answer. I might biologically be middle age, but inside I feel like a randy teenager anxious to explore the world. Dreams of writing have been a part of my life since I was five years old. Two of the greatest influences on me as I was growing up were my two grandmothers. Both were strong women who had unbelievable burdens thrust upon them when they were widowed very early in life. Both of these incredible women loved stories. They loved reading stories and telling stories, and the stories they had to tell were incredible. For as long as I can remember I've been writing stories. What has been different over the last five years is that I've finally been brave enough to allow someone else to read what I'd written. When that happened I found that others liked what I'd written which made me beyond happy. In addition to writing, my other love is photography. Taking photos of some of the beautiful men of the world is my current focus. With any luck, one of those photos will grace the cover of a Dreamspinner novel in the near future. My partner and I have traveled the world, trying to see as much as possible. When not traveling, we live in Washington, DC with our best friend, a throw-away dog we adopted twelve years ago. To pay the bills, I am Director of Information Technology for a national organization based in Washington, DC. While I'd rather be writing full-time, I haven't figured out how to make that a viable option - yet.
Erin O'QuinnUsing the pen name Erin O’Quinn, I have written more than 40 titles. I have published (or in some cases, re-pubbed) all of them on my own New Dawn Press; and all but aroumd ten of them are M/M novels/novellas. I have also designed the covers for all but the first two “Nevada Highlander” novels.
In a world of so many things, how do you settle on just a few? All my life I've been interested in everything around me, wanting to see new places, meet new people, tell new stories. Writing has been the culmination of a long term dream. Being a part of the Dreamspinner family is priceless beyond compare. Anytime I'm asked the question of who I am I have to stop and try to decide how in the world to answer. I might biologically be middle age, but inside I feel like a randy teenager anxious to explore the world. Dreams of writing have been a part of my life since I was five years old. Two of the greatest influences on me as I was growing up were my two grandmothers. Both were strong women who had unbelievable burdens thrust upon them when they were widowed very early in life. Both of these incredible women loved stories. They loved reading stories and telling stories, and the stories they had to tell were incredible. For as long as I can remember I've been writing stories. What has been different over the last five years is that I've finally been brave enough to allow someone else to read what I'd written. When that happened I found that others liked what I'd written which made me beyond happy. In addition to writing, my other love is photography. Taking photos of some of the beautiful men of the world is my current focus. With any luck, one of those photos will grace the cover of a Dreamspinner novel in the near future. My partner and I have traveled the world, trying to see as much as possible. When not traveling, we live in Washington, DC with our best friend, a throw-away dog we adopted twelve years ago. To pay the bills, I am Director of Information Technology for a national organization based in Washington, DC. While I'd rather be writing full-time, I haven't figured out how to make that a viable option - yet.
Born to Dutch parents and raised in Colombia and England, I am a rootless wanderer with itchy feet. I've spent the last few years living and working in The Netherlands, Czech Republic, Sudan and Bulgaria, but I have every confidence that I will now finally be able to settle down among the olive groves of Andalucia.
I'm an avid reader and film fan and I have an MA in creative writing for film and television.
Josh Lanyon
SMASHWORDS / iTUNES / SHELFARI
EMAIL: josh.lanyon@sbcglobal.net
Tamara Allen
iTUNES / SMASHWORDS / AUDIBLE
EMAIL: writer.mara@gmail.com
Erin O'Quinn
Michael Murphy
EMAIL: writer@gayromancewriter.com
Olivier Bosman
Snowball in Hell by Josh Lanyon
The Road to Silver Plume by Tamara Allen
Heart to Hart by Erin O'Quinn
B&N / KOBO / SMASHWORDS
iTUNES / GOODREADS TBR
A Night at the Ariston Baths by Michael Murphy
Something Sinister by Olivier Bosman
AMAZON US / AMAZON UK / GOODREADS TBR
iTUNES / GOODREADS TBR
A Night at the Ariston Baths by Michael Murphy
KOBO / GOOGLE PLAY / iTUNES
Something Sinister by Olivier Bosman
AMAZON US / AMAZON UK / GOODREADS TBR
