through all the fakery and fucking he performed, through all the varying degrees of hygiene and taste that he put up with, this regular Wednesday appointment made up for it all.
He rounded a long curve in the freeway and slid down the offramp. He turned up into the hills, humming to himself as he went. Luther’s house was at the end of a private road, removed from most neighbors and traffic. A lovely house, Peter thought for the nth time as he parked his bike to the side of the garage. When he walked around to the front door, Luther was already there, waiting for him.
—Peter.
—Hey, Luther.
They kissed.
—Come in. I made chook. Hope you’re hungry.
Here was another thing: Luther Pickett seemed to be the only clip in the history of Hennington Hills to make dinner for the entertainment.
—Smells good.
—I hope so. I’m a little worried about the spices.
They stopped at the entrance to the kitchen for a longer embrace and kiss.
—It’s good to see you.
—I’m very glad to be here.
And there was the sad look again, the look that had caused Peter to fall.
—What’s wrong?
A laugh.
—Oh, you know, the usual.
—Yes, but you never tell me ‘the usual'.
—Just a little personal failure today. Nothing to worry about. Here, take off your jacket. Get comfortable.
—Do you like this shirt?
—Sure.
—You don’t have to lie.
—Then, no.
—I don’t like it either. Banyon insisted I wear it. Said it was all the fashion, as if he would know. Do you have a T-shirt I could borrow?
—Absolutely.
Luther disappeared for a moment and returned with a shirt. He watched while Peter changed. He sighed.
—Are you sure nothing’s up?
—I’m sure. Don’t worry about it. We’re here to have a good time.
‘We', thought Peter.
—Why don’t we eat then? And after that, I can help you relax.
—I’m all for that plan.
Luther smiled, and there was genuine warmth in it, Peter was sure.
—Good veal. Your room service has performed well, Eugene. —First I’ve ever had.
—First room service?
—First veal. I’m Rumour. We don’t normally go for veal.
—Oh, that’s right. It’s seafood or nothing, isn’t it?
—The Official Entrée of the Rumour Nation.
—And what nation would that be?
—A hypothetical one, so far.
—So far? There are ambitions afoot to make it not hypothetical?
—If you believe my father.
—Do you?
—Do I what?
—Believe your father.
—Before or after he died?
—Either.
—Then no and no.
—Ah, the bitterness of youth. We’re ignoring the, what is this?, crumb cake would be my best guess. —Blueberry-cinnamon bundt.
—How very exact.
—I work here. I’ve seen the menu.
Jon cut his way into the bundt with a knife. A quivering blueberry goo slumped out of the middle of the slice.
—I think that’s as far as I’m willing to go.
—You’re not going to eat it?
—Look at it.
—It looks good.
Eugene cut himself an enormous piece. He seemed so pleased while eating it that Jon could have sworn he heard him humming. He was humming. A tune, even.
—What are you humming?
—What?
—That song. What are you humming?
—I’m not humming.
—Yes, you were. Just now.
—No, I wasn’t.
Said with an unusual sternness that Jon took as a dismissal of the subject. So be it.
—All right then. You weren’t.
—It’s almost eight. I should be going.
—There’s no need for that just yet.
—I thought you had somewhere to go, too.
—Not tonight.
—Why would you spend the first night of your vacation in a hotel room?
—It’s not a vacation. I told you, I’m visiting an old friend.
—Well, still. Why stay here? Why not visit your friend?
—I have found out she’s occupied this evening.
—She?
—She. Old passion from my past, I’m afraid.
—And she doesn’t know you’re coming so that’s why she’s occupied.
—How very observant from one who has seemed heretofore so opaque. I mean that as a friend.
—No, I know fuck all about most things. My girlfriend just dumped me.
—?-ha. So you’re currently attuned to the caprice that is occasionally named ‘woman'.
—What?
