Harry stepped up to the bar and caught the eye of a burly bartender.

  “What’ll it be, Mac?”

  “Just a Coca-Cola, please.” In response to the barman’s lifted eyebrows, Harry shrugged. “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 never been off the wagon. In any case, it seemed good enough now. The bartender poured the bottle into a glass and handed it to Harry, who gave him a dime and told him to keep the change.

  Glass in hand, Harry prowled the floor. The agents at the Bureau had shown him several photos of Swan, but none of the men at the Harbor Club resembled him. They didn’t mind Harry’s close scrutiny, though, and many of them eyed him back. Several smiled, and a few even beckoned, but Harry continued his slow circling.

  He noticed a few customers—all of them men—going up and down the back stairs, some alone and others in pairs. Heart beating fast, Harry climbed.

  There were few lights in the mezzanine, and cigarette smoke collected there, turning the dark air murky. Sounds rose from the corners and edges: moans, skin moving against fabric and skin, soft laughter. Many of the couples were too engrossed in what they were doing to notice Harry as he strolled by, but some of the men looked at him hungrily, their expressions propositioning and 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 the scents—booze, smoke, sweat, the musk of male sex—so evident. Harry moved through the mezzanine as if in a dream, his head swimming and his cock hard. Nobody he saw resembled Swan.

  When he descended to the main floor, another circuit proved fruitless. He left his half-full glass on a table and hurried out the door, then stood at the corner and gulped the cold, clean air. Maybe Townsend was right; maybe Harry wasn’t cut out to be an agent. He couldn’t even keep himself together during a simple walk through a cocktail lounge.

  The next place on his list was Kokich’s Tavern up on Ninth, several blocks away. Instead of driving, he walked and was glad for it; the exercise helped refresh him. This bar 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 building houses. Here the interactions were more subdued—just men talking quietly to each other across a table or on adjacent stools. There was no mezzanine, and although some of the men may have fucked in the bathroom, they were discreet about it.

  Swan wasn’t at Kokich’s either.

  The third stop lay a few blocks north, near Twelfth and Stark, in the lobby of the Willamette Hotel. The hotel had probably once been grand but now looked past its prime, with faded wallpaper and dusty chandeliers. The bar was nice, though. Dark wood and well-polished brass, the colorful carpet only a little threadbare, the bartender and waiters in tuxedos. Again, all the customers were male, but they were better-dressed than Kokich’s patrons. Older on the average too. They smoked and drank and spoke in subdued tones.

  Harry spied Swan almost at once. He sat at the bar, his coat and hat on the stool beside him. He wore a gray pinstriped suit with a white shirt and a gray-and-blue patterned tie. His light brown hair, slicked carefully into place, showed gray near the temples, and his thin face with high cheekbones was more handsome than the photos had implied. Swan rested his right elbow on the bar, a cigarette held between two fingers. His gaze caught Harry’s, and Swan didn’t look away.

  Although Harry felt terribly awkward, he feigned casualness as he crossed the room. He even put an extra touch of swagger in his stride. The best way to catch a perp is to make him want to catch you. That advice was from one of the Bureau’s agents, and Harry kept it in mind, imagining himself as desirable and hoping it showed through. He was like a male version of Lana Turner or Rita Hayworth, he told himself—sexy, a little dangerous. Irresistible.

  Maybe the self-coaching worked, because Swan wasn’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 upholstered chair at a nearby table. A waiter took his order for a club soda—Harry was tired of Coke—and brought the drink promptly. Harry nursed it, wishing he smoked, furrowing his brow as if he were solving all the world’s problems.

  When he glanced up, a smiling Swan stood beside the table holding two glasses of amber liquid.

  Damn. As easy as that. But only the first step, Harry warned himself.

  “May I join you?” Swan’s voice was deeper than his slender frame suggested.

  Harry shrugged. “Suit yourself.”

  “Thank you.” Swan set the glasses on the table. Although he moved with delicacy and grace, his handshake was as firm as a teamster’s. “Arthur Swan.”

  “I’m Harry Lowe.” Townsend told him to use his real name. No real reason not to, and it was easier than remembering an alias.

  “Delighted.” Swan sat opposite him and pushed one of the glasses closer to Harry. “Please allow me to buy you a drink.”

  Harry wanted to tell him that he never drank. But if Harry refused, Swan might reject him, in which case Harry had no idea how to make the next move. So he nodded his thanks, clinked glasses with Swan in a silent toast, and took a sip.

  “You’re not a fan of bourbon?” Swan sounded amused rather than annoyed.

  “I just ain’t….” Harry winced. “I’m not used to it. I’m from a dry county.” He was pleased with himself for manufacturing that lie on the spot.

  “Then allow me to get you something that will go down more easily.” Before Harry could protest, Swan was on his way to the bar, where he had a conversation with the bartender. Swan returned several minutes later with a stemmed glass containing a darker liquid topped by a lighter one.

  “What’s this?” The contents of the warm glass smelled like coffee.

  “Just try it. Drink it right through the layer of cream.”

  Harry did, and… it wasn’t bad. It tasted of coffee, sweet but with an underlying kick he assumed was the liquor. His second swallow was more confident.

  Swan leaned back in his chair. “Ah. I see I’ve found the right note for you, Mr. Lowe. Or may I call you Harry?”

  “Harry’s fine.”

  Smiling, Swan finished his own bourbon, reached for Harry’s rejected glass, and took a healthy slug. “So tell me, Harry. Where is this dry county from which you originate, and what brings you to the City of Roses?”

  This line of questioning felt comfortable; Harry had practiced it with the agents. “I’m from Missouri.”

  “The Show-Me State.” For some reason Swan seemed amused by this. “Excellent.”

  “I suppose. But I’ve been in California for a little while. Los Angeles.”

  “Let me guess. You migrated in hopes of obtaining employment in the motion picture business.”

  “Yeah. How’d you know?”

  “With a beautiful face such as yours, it seems a natural choice.” Swan tilted his head, reminding Harry of the hawks that perched on power lines at home, scanning the fields for prey. “You were not as successful as you’d hoped?”

  “My goals changed. I… met someone.”

  “Ah. What sort of someone?”

  Harry took a large swallow before answering. “A man. He and I were… like-minded, right? He had some money. He hired me as his personal assistant.”

  Swan was rubbing the heels of his hands together. He leaned forward. “How personal, Harry?”

  “Real personal.”

  “I see.”

  While Swan regarded him, Harry finished his drink. The liquor still burned, but less so by now. When the glass was empty, Swan turned slightly and signaled to the bartender, then resumed staring at Harry. “You’ve answered only part of my question. How did you get from sunny California to the sodden Northwest?”

  “The man, my… employer? He died. Car wreck.” Harry bit his lip and let his head droop. His version of sorrow must have looked authentic, because Swan reached across the table to lay his hand over Harry’s. An onlooker might have interpreted it as a sympathetic gesture, but it felt possessive. And Swan’s hand was cold.

  When the waiter appeared a moment later with another drink for Harry, he didn’t show any surprise that they were touching. Harry immediately took a long sip, burning his tongue in the process, but he didn’t pull his hand from Swan’s grip.

  “What happened after your mentor passed away?” Swan finally asked.

  “He left me a little money. Not a lot—I guess his family got most of it—but some. Plus his most precious possession.” Harry cut his eyes to the side slyly, as if he had a delicious secret, and then he forced a grin. “I decided to come up here for a fresh start. Too many memories in LA. Now I’m settling in a little. Hoping to get to know some people.” He downed all the rest of his drink in one burning draught.

  Swan squeezed Harry’s hand and finally let go. “Well, look. You’ve succeeded at that already, haven’t you? We’re getting to know each other quite nicely.”

  “I don’t know anything about you.”

  “Oh, there’s not much to know. I was born and raised here. I attended college back East of course—Yale—but returned to my hometown. Portland is not a cosmopolitan city, but it has its charms. Now that you’re here, it has one more.”

  Lana Turner, Harry reminded himself. He tried for the type of mysterious smile she’d have when pursued by a handsome older man. “What do you do for a living, Mr. Swan?”

  “Please, it’s Arthur. I have investments. But I like to fancy myself a scientist and inventor.”

  Harry widened his eyes and bent closer. “Really? Mr. Lord—my boss—he did that too.”

  “What sort of work did he pursue?”

  “Um… biology?” He twitched as if he were nervous—which didn’t take much acting, really. “I’m not supposed to talk about it. How about if you tell me about Portland instead?”

  Although Swan looked slightly peeved, that expression fled quickly, replaced by a smooth smile. “I’d be delighted. But you need another drink first.”

  After that, Swan went on at length about restaurants and mountains, about the coast, about the best places to shop and his favorite theaters. Harry did a lot of smiling and nodding, but the words flowed meaninglessly over him, especially after he began his fourth drink. Irish coffee. That’s what Swan said they were called.

  “I gotta piss,” Harry said suddenly, interrupting a monologue about Swan’s travels in New York City. He stood on shaky legs, looked around blearily, and spied the sign for the gents. He managed to make it all the way without tripping, which he considered quite an accomplishment.

  But after he’d zipped up his fly and as he held his hands under the faucet, the bathroom door opened and Swan sailed in. In this light, brighter than the bar, his pallor seemed as profound as John’s and his brown eyes less human. He waited for Harry to dry his hands. Then Swan maneuvered Harry’s back against the door and pressed against him, pinning him in place. Swan captured Harry’s head between his hands and leaned down for a fierce kiss.

  Harry had fucked other men, but he’d rarely kissed them; he’d never much wanted to. He didn’t want to kiss Swan either, but the alcohol messed with his head and made him weak, so he didn’t resist. Besides, wasn’t it his goal to get close to this man?

  Swan pulled away at last, then traced a thumb across Harry’s lower lip. “Delicious.”

  “I… I….”

  “No, no need to be alarmed. I only wanted a taste. For tonight, at any rate. I find that a meal is all the more savored when one must wait for it. But I couldn’t help but sneak a bit of an appetizer.”

  “I ain’t your dinner.”

  Swan stroked him again. “Of course not.” He took a step backward and straightened his jacket and cuffs. “In fact, I propose we meet tomorrow evening for a shared repast. Have you been to Huber’s yet?”

  “No.”

  “I’ll meet you there at seven.” One last touch, this time to Harry’s cheek, and Swan left.

  Harry stayed in the bathroom for some time. He leaned against a wall and then, gathering himself enough to move, splashed cold water on his face. When he emerged into the bar, he saw no sign of Swan. But the man must have paid the bill before he left, because the waiter and bartender ignored Harry as he put on his coat and hat and then, weaving a little, left the Willamette Hotel.

  During the walk back to his car—made longer by a couple of wrong turns—Harry had time to think. He should have been pleased with the evening’s events. After all, he’d found his fish and hooked him with ease. But instead of happy, Harry felt dirty. As if he needed another long bath. As if some kind of corruption had taken hold the minute he’d agreed to Townsend’s plan.

  So he thought about booze instead, the way it heated his stomach and made his brain feel wrapped in layers of cotton batting. The way it made the world seem far away, as if Harry were one of the clouds floating through the night sky. The disconnection from reality didn’t frighten him tonight; if anything, it was a comfort.

  He found his car and, with great concentration, managed to steer it over the bridge to the east side of town. Before he reached his duplex, though, he spied a little grocery that was still open. He parked crookedly near the curb. At the pay phone outside, he made a quick call to the number Townsend had given and left a message with a woman, saying he’d found Swan. Inside he discovered that hard liquor was sold only in state-run shops and that none stayed open late. But since grocers could sell beer and wine, Harry bought a six-pack of beer called Henry Weinhard’s. Then he got back into his car and drove home.

  Chapter Nine

  John savored every page of the book, which told a story of soldiers stationed in Hawaii as a war with the Japanese began. He didn’t know anything about such a war, so he couldn’t tell whether the tale was true. And with Frankenstein as his only comparison, he couldn’t tell whether this was a good book. But he enjoyed it very much because it was his and because he’d been granted the great luxury of reading it.

  One luxury among many, of course. He also had comfortable surroundings, nice clothing over a clean body, and the joy of seeing a great many wonders he’d only imagined. And he had Harry, who’d never once hurt him or made him feel like anything less than a man.

  Ah, but John was not a man. When he finished the book and sat in the comforting puddle of lamplight, he again faced some painful truths and their corresponding questions.

  What use did Harry intend to make of him? What would happen to John once Harry was done? Those were the practical questions. But more fundamentally, he wondered what it meant to be a monster. When he wore clothes, read books, conducted conversations, was he only fooling himself? Did he actually possess human qualities? What if he, like Frankenstein’s monster, turned murderous in the end?

  And what did he want? What driving force kept him animate in a lifeless body? He thought he might know the answers to those questions, but the answers were far too uncomfortable to face. Perhaps that made him a coward.

  Lost in contemplation, he startled when the front door opened. A moment later, Harry came stumbling into the room with his coat poorly buttoned, his hat askew, and a carrier with six brown bottles grasped in one hand. His cheeks looked ruddier than usual; his eyes, usually soft and warm, appeared dull and flat. “You’re still here,” he said.

  “You told me to stay.”

  “Yeah.”

  Harry left the room for a few minutes, although John could hear him rummaging in kitchen drawers. When he returned, he’d shed the coat and hat, and he held one of the brown bottles. He collapsed heavily onto the couch before taking a long draw. “Blah,” he said, face twisted in disgust. “The Irish coffee was better.” But he drank more anyway.

  After some time passed, Harry sighed. “What’d you do tonight?”

  “I read one of the books you gave me. Harry, was there really a war with the Japanese?”

  “Yeah. Germans too. My Uncle Jimmy died in it.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Yeah. I liked him.” He sniffed. “You don’t remember that war?”

  “I know of… the Great War. That was against the Germans, I think.”

  “That was over forty years ago. World War Two ended eight years ago. Now we’re fighting in Korea instead.”

  John shook his head in confusion. There was so much he didn’t understand. During the silence, Harry drained his bottle. He left the room and returned to the couch with a full one.

  “I’ll prob’ly be sick in the morning,” he said thoughtfully. “I used to think the word hangover was kind of scary. Made me think of a corpse hanging from a noose.” He glanced quickly at John and then away.

  “Is there anything I can do to help you?”

  “No.”

  Maybe if John were a real person, he’d know what to do. He understood that something distressed Harry but had no idea what, or what actions he should take. It was possible that John himself was the cause of Harry’s misery. Surely it was repugnant to spend time so close to a monster. John worried about Harry—and worried about himself as well. Harry had brought him so much freedom and happiness. What would become of John if Harry abandoned him?

  Harry held his half-empty bottle aloft, peering into the liquid depths. “Do you s’pose there’s demons in there?”

  “Demons?”

  “Townsend said that one demon keeps his ex-agent from going wild, so I guess maybe some demons ain’t so bad. Unless Townsend lied.”

  Unable to make sense of this, John simply listened.

  After taking another swig, Harry wedged the bottle between his thighs and stared down at it. “Mama used to tell us that Daddy was a good man. She said the Devil got into him during the Depression, when Daddy lost his job at the feed store and we were poor as dirt. When he— Those things he did, those weren’t really him, she told us. They were the Devil’s work. If we all prayed real hard, Jesus would chase the Devil away.” He looked at John. “We went to church every Sunday and said our prayers every night. But Jesus never did nothing.”