Page 17 of Creature
In the bedroom, Harry changed into hisflashy new suit. He’d never owned anything so nice or so expensive,and he spent some time admiring his reflection in the mirror. If astranger saw him dressed like this, he’d assume Harry was asuccessful young man. One with a high school degree and maybe evensome college, with a steady job and lots of friends. It was a gooddisguise.
Before leaving, Harry stepped into theliving room. John had moved to an armchair, where he sat in thedarkness with a book in his lap.
“I might be home late,”said Harry.
“All right.”
Harry fidgeted just inside the doorway.“What’ll you do while I’m gone?”
“What do you want me todo?”
“I don’t care.” Then Harrypictured him remaining unmoving for hours. With an unhappy huff,Harry marched across the room and switched on the lamp next toJohn’s chair. “You can turn lights on and off, can’tyou?”
“If you permitit.”
“I…. Shit. I don’t care.Look, just don’t leave the house and don’t answer the door. Don’twreck anything. Don’t be noisy. Other than that, do what youwant.”
Wide-eyed, John nodded at him. “Thankyou.”
Harry walked to the entryway, where hedonned the nice coat and fedora he’d bought in LA. He should havebeen focused on finding Swan, but as he got in the car and droveaway, his thoughts remained firmly on John. Could a creature likeJohn feel boredom? Loneliness?
Maybe in the morning Harry would buy alittle radio to keep at the house.
***
According to the Bureau, Swan often visitedtwo downtown movie theaters. Each of them had a balcony where menmet other men. Honestly, Harry was curious to see this, but thosedark, cramped quarters were probably not the best place to look forhis target. He’d try the bars instead.
The Harbor Club stood atthe corner of First and Yamhill. Although a sign on the doorproclaimed it off limits and out of bounds to armed forcespersonnel, the main floor didn’t appear sordid. A long bar withstools ran most of the length of the room, and small tables dottedthe tiled floor. The well-dressed men and women inside sippedcocktails and laughed easily. In the back corner near the stairway,a man played the piano. Nothing seemed unusual at first glance,although a closer look revealed that, for the most part, men satwith men, women with women. And many of them were just abittoo close. Here andthere a man’s arm lay draped over his companion’s shoulders, or twowomen held hands.
Harry stepped up to the bar and caught theeye of a burly bartender.
“What’ll it be,Mac?”
“Just a Coca-Cola,please.” In response to the barman’s lifted eyebrows, Harryshrugged. “I’m on the wagon.” It was an excuse he’d used before,and it wasn’t exactly a lie—if you ignored the fact that he’d neverbeenoffthewagon. In any case, it seemed good enough now. The bartender pouredthe bottle into a glass and handed it to Harry, who gave him a dimeand told him to keep the change.
Glass in hand, Harry prowled the floor. Theagents at the Bureau had shown him several photos of Swan, but noneof the men at the Harbor Club resembled him. They didn’t mindHarry’s close scrutiny, though, and many of them eyed him back.Several smiled, and a few even beckoned, but Harry continued hisslow circling.
He noticed a few customers—all of themmen—going up and down the back stairs, some alone and others inpairs. Heart beating fast, Harry climbed.
There were few lights in the mezzanine, andcigarette smoke collected there, turning the dark air murky. Soundsrose from the corners and edges: moans, skin moving against fabricand skin, soft laughter. Many of the couples were too engrossed inwhat they were doing to notice Harry as he strolled by, but some ofthe men looked at him hungrily, their expressions propositioningand challenging. One or two even called to him.
He’d seen similar scenes at Westlake Park,but the activity there hadn’t been as concentrated or thescents—booze, smoke, sweat, the musk of male sex—so evident. Harrymoved through the mezzanine as if in a dream, his head swimming andhis cock hard. Nobody he saw resembled Swan.
When he descended to the main floor, anothercircuit proved fruitless. He left his half-full glass on a tableand hurried out the door, then stood at the corner and gulped thecold, clean air. Maybe Townsend was right; maybe Harry wasn’t cutout to be an agent. He couldn’t even keep himself together during asimple walk through a cocktail lounge.
The next place on his list was Kokich’sTavern up on Ninth, several blocks away. Instead of driving, hewalked and was glad for it; the exercise helped refresh him. Thisbar turned out to be smaller than the Harbor Club and less upscale.Only men here, and they drank beer and shots instead of cocktails.They looked as if they spent their days hauling goods or buildinghouses. Here the interactions were more subdued—just men talkingquietly to each other across a table or on adjacent stools. Therewas no mezzanine, and although some of the men may have fucked inthe bathroom, they were discreet about it.
Swan wasn’t at Kokich’s either.
The third stop lay a few blocks north, nearTwelfth and Stark, in the lobby of the Willamette Hotel. The hotelhad probably once been grand but now looked past its prime, withfaded wallpaper and dusty chandeliers. The bar was nice, though.Dark wood and well-polished brass, the colorful carpet only alittle threadbare, the bartender and waiters in tuxedos. Again, allthe customers were male, but they were better-dressed than Kokich’spatrons. Older on the average too. They smoked and drank and spokein subdued tones.
Harry spied Swan almost at once. He sat atthe bar, his coat and hat on the stool beside him. He wore a graypinstriped suit with a white shirt and a gray-and-blue patternedtie. His light brown hair, slicked carefully into place, showedgray near the temples, and his thin face with high cheekbones wasmore handsome than the photos had implied. Swan rested his rightelbow on the bar, a cigarette held between two fingers. His gazecaught Harry’s, and Swan didn’t look away.
Although Harry feltterribly awkward, he feigned casualness as he crossed the room. Heeven put an extra touch of swagger in his stride.The best way to catch a perp is to make him wantto catchyou.That advice was from one of the Bureau’s agents, and Harry kept itin mind, imagining himself as desirable and hoping it showedthrough. He was like a male version of Lana Turner or RitaHayworth, he told himself—sexy, a little dangerous.Irresistible.
Maybe the self-coaching worked, because Swanwasn’t the only guy who kept his eyes on Harry.
After reaching the far end of the room,Harry hung his coat and hat on a rack and sat in a red upholsteredchair at a nearby table. A waiter took his order for a clubsoda—Harry was tired of Coke—and brought the drink promptly. Harrynursed it, wishing he smoked, furrowing his brow as if he weresolving all the world’s problems.
