Blush

Chapter 1

1.

When the escapologist met the rat-trap salesman, they were standing in line, waiting to sell their blood. The salesman breathed a question into the escapologist’s ear.

Floyd twisted from the waist up; over his left shoulder he said, ‘Pardon me?’

‘Just wondered how you’re doing,’ the stranger next in line replied.

‘Fine?’ Now that Floyd worked in clubs like Dantes-off-Broadway, his face was better known. ‘What about you?' His round black face smiled genially. The teeth were lambent, the laughter lines deep; a skittish nervous quality played about the eyes – maybe one that only another paranoid Manhattanite would notice.

‘Think I know you, don't I?' the man continued.

Heads did not turn to see the two men speaking, but everyone in the waiting room listened. Floyd sensed the combined attention; it felt oppressive. He couldn’t say: No, you don't know me. Too standoffish, too aloof; he didn't want this guy to think he was a snotty prima donna. Then again, he couldn’t say yes either. You've probably seen me in a club; I'm on a long-term contract at Dantes at the moment. Too presumptuous; bigheaded. What if the stranger’s opening line was always 'Think I know you, don't I?' Floyd didn't want to give the man any ideas at all.

‘Not sure. We met?'

'I know you,' the other man tried to confirm, though his tone suggested he had yet to convince himself of the fact.

In the seconds that followed, Floyd watched the man's tortured attempts at recollection. To his shame Floyd felt a blissful charge of supremacy; felt somehow less accused as the man's face flexed in the anticipation of discovery.

‘You're that guy gets outta boxes and trunks! Am I right or what?'

Feeling scared and flattered Floyd nodded his head. Floyd studied the man who had recognized him. ‘You’re right. I'm Floyd.'

The man snapped his fingers, eyes widened. 'Floyd Acclune!'

'That's right.'

'I'll be!' The man shook his head as if this meeting bordered on the religious. A watery chuckle seeped out from between his lips.

He was taller than Floyd, slightly thinner. From the ground up, it was brown, expensive but neglected shoes; a light grey suit with white shirt and no tie; a coat. His white face was thin and had been prickled pink in several places by the howling chill outside. His nose, a quarter circle; his greying eyebrows bushy. Two or three days' worth of stubble dusted the loose skin of his jaw. Eyes brown, one larger than the other. Because of his recedence, he kept his grey hair short; lagoons of skin shone on his hairline, sweetly fragrant with hair-restoration ointment. He was about thirty-seven.

Holding out his hand he said, ‘Spencer. Spencer Thorne. Pleased to make your acquaintance, Floyd Acclune.'

2.

Analiese woke from an evening nap.

She had dreamed of her birthplace – Valparaiso, Indiana – and images from the dream swarmed around the apartment for a few seconds. She rode in the back of a car, staring out the window at a clear blue sky; a boy her own age shared the back seat, while a man in a dark suit – Mr X – sped them from Illinois to Indiana along Interstate 48. Signs announced restaurants a mile from the next exit; toll booths gobbled up Mr X's change; and Analiese felt as though the spaciousness would pull her into a void... Pictures of color-drained cornfields, with stalks both lanky and top-heavy, only shriveled and disappeared when Analiese shook her head roughly. She hated Indiana.

Wearing expensive pajamas, the legs gently swishing, Analiese wandered around the apartment. Every couple of minutes she whispered with feigned jollity: 'Come on, Floyd!' Meaning: Open the door. Be here. Alternately wringing her hands together and then inspecting the state of her nails, Analiese willed her husband a safe journey home. If Floyd had gone anywhere other than the blood bank tonight, she might not have felt so apprehensive, but for Analiese the blood bank was a room of horrors. What could have happened to make him so late coming back?

Floyd did not dread the blood bank as Analiese did, and for that reason – that stubborn refusal to comply with her expectations – she sometimes despised him. Tonight had been the same old drill. Voice infuriatingly levelled, Floyd had explained about the increasing need for blood supplies. He went on in a similar vein until Analiese started to feel guilty. 'What if someone needs it tonight?' he demanded, his voice remaining calm. Because Analiese couldn't control Floyd's decision, the only option available was to despise him for it. Now, she simply wanted him home. He had left the apartment in the heavy silence of an abandoned argument.

Analiese did not want TV. Too wired to read, she wrung her hands some more; she waited on the sofa, her legs and two-toned feet tucked under. Her next hour included a pot of tea, a shower, a magazine, a phone call (to Marianne, her best friend), and a sandwich. Then a panic attack. A few tears, two songs from a swing CD she'd bought that morning, and finally a stiff gin and tonic.

It was ten o'clock when Analiese, in the marital bedroom, heard the skittering rattle of a key in the front door. She sat up on top of the sheets, with the TV lobbing shadows against the walls and against her face. The sound was on zero: Analiese hadn't wanted to listen to anything bar her own thoughts. She had not made a phone call since calling Marianne, but neither had anyone rung her. Compulsively, like a murderess returning to the scene of her crime, Analiese had checked – every ten minutes of so – she'd correctly positioned the phone's receiver back onto the cradle. The thought of the police or a hospital trying to call her, and getting a busy signal, was atrocious.

Analiese had treated herself to a second gin-and-tonic, somewhat stiffer than the first... and then a third; and then a fourth, incrementally stronger, because each one she could taste less than the one before it. A combination of nerves and the fact she’d napped a few hours earlier meant she couldn’t sleep. Not that she particularly wanted to sleep: in a spirit of incandescent chagrin, she rehearsed what she'd say to Floyd the next time she saw him. At the sound of his key in the lock, she got to her feet, trampled over the wreckage of today's abandoned clothing, and switched off the TV. There followed a mercifully brief falsetto whine; the picture rolled, folded itself up and disappeared. Analiese was left alone with the darkness, a good ten strides from the door.

For some reason the darkness terrified her; her scalp prickled, a sensation only cancelled out by the sound of Floyd closing the door and moving about in the apartment. He did not call for her; he knew he was late. She'd be worried and angry. He probably wouldn't guess drunk as well, so they each had a surprise for the other.

Analiese opened the bedroom door. She wanted Floyd to shout her name, check she was okay: she could ignore the apostrophe and make him worry.

Floyd was not in the lounge; he'd already moved through into the kitchen. Outrageous! Analiese stood on the bedroom threshold, rehearsing her lines as her eyes adjusted to the lounge's sudden glare. Not only had Floyd failed to address her; he had also failed to arrive at her bedside with apologies, tears, proclamations of love.

Analiese strode to the kitchen. Afforded this rare and piquant pleasure of being able to demand And where the hell have you been? Analiese began the sentence loudly.

That treat was snatched away from her; her lungs grasped back her breath.

The man in the kitchen was not Floyd.

3.

Floyd lay on a narrow bed, a needle in his arm.

This part – the donation – Floyd always considered oddly calming; this evening, even more so than usual. He had left the crazy man behind.

Spencer Thorne...

Floyd's blood-iron test was fine and he rested on one of the six beds in the room that passed for the surgery. This was Floyd's time to think. Lying back, squeezing the rubber tube to make the blood flow more freely into the pack, he anticipated the rewarding cup of tea, the cookie, and of course the eighteen dollars.

Thorne wouldn't attempt to keep the conversation going here – but what about outside, in the cold rain and the remarkable wind? Floyd made up his mind he would get through that snack at the end as quickly as possible.

Twenty minutes later he was waiting for the elevator. Twenty-five, and he stood in the lobby, trying to prepare himself for the winter weather. After buttoning his coat, he tied his scarf tighter and pulled on his driving gloves. He felt woozy.

Re-entering the chill didn't help; nor had his preparations been to any effect. New York winters will neither be denied nor pacified by ridiculous layers of clothing. Wind punched Floyd in the face. Teasingly the door behind him closed on smoothed electronic hinges, letting out last gasps of warmth. Before Floyd saw his breath coolly blossom, he saw a dancing flurry of loose snowflakes, torn from the roof of a car parked close by.

Floyd wished it was his car, but as he did every month, he'd gone on foot to the blood bank. Descending the stone steps, his eyes stinging, cheeks raw, he pocketed his hands. The air was sopping – a halfway point between drizzle and snow. Floyd's stride was long and heedless of sidewalk ice, and every pedestrian Floyd saw hurried in a similar fashion, heads down against the chill, mouths blowing on numb fingers. 72nd Street drivers took little care; in addition to the noise of everyday traffic was the endless shush of tires on wet roads. Floyd frowned; the rooms in his head (so he liked to think) were full of little people shouting their lungs out! The radar...

Tuned as Floyd was (to a frequency called Paranoia) it took only a few seconds before he realized there was a problem. There being no colder it could get, Floyd's body informed him of danger in the opposite way: a hot flush, a blush, little stars of perspiration on his neck. His body felt so hot his coat seemed dangerous: the lagging around a rattling boiler threatening to explode. Steam rose from a grille by a hydrant, and made Floyd feel even hotter. Basements breathed out mist and scents.

A few meters behind Floyd’s back, a car followed – the one parked by the blood bank. Floyd did not look over his shoulder; but he knew the vehicle was there, crawling along like an uncertain predator.

Floyd refused to turn. His radar blips came as fast as telephone numbers on automatic redial. The car hummed closer. Floyd wished he hadn't begun his walk at such a long-legged breakneck pace. Without actually running, this was as fast as Floyd got; and running might be a mistake. Puffing out steam, he curbed his velocity. Out the corner of his eye, then with a slow twist of the head, Floyd saw the car pull alongside.

A Pontiac. Out-dated; a little battered; burnished gold. The driver within leaned over, keeping the steering wheel steady. It occurred to Floyd he might actually know the driver. The window wound down in rolling jerks.

Woozier than before, Floyd stopped and strained his eyes to see the face framed above the door. The face smiled; this did not make Floyd feel stronger or more assured.

'Need a ride?'

Floyd's eyebrows pinched together. Uncertainly he said, ‘Hi, Spencer.'

'Cold night to be walking, man. Hop in.'

'No, I'm good.' Floyd pointed. 'I'm not far.'

'Don't be stupid. Let a fan give you a ride. I'd consider it an honor.'

This was one of Floyd’s nightmares; ironically Floyd wished he'd had more time to speak with Thorne at the bank. If all had gone well, perhaps he could have bored the man senseless about escapology, and Thorne wouldn't be offering his services now. At the very least Floyd might know something about Thorne's temperament.

Trying to avoid attention once more, Floyd hoped his smile didn’t stretch too far. 'It'll take me five minutes to walk it. I need the exercise. But thanks.' He raised a gloved hand to wave goodbye and leaned into his first stride.

'Don't insult me.' Thorne's voice had changed. Maybe only a true paranoid would have noted the distinction. It made Floyd want to get away even faster.

In his head Floyd went through a checklist. He'd been courteous, unalarmed (apparently unalarmed), and he'd stuck to his guns. Of course, he'd also lied and on several counts. Need the exercise he did not. Floyd was at his physical peak, his skin as taut and defined as contoured body armour. Neither tall nor stocky, he was muscular and fit. That said, even he could not have made it to his apartment block in five minutes – not with rollerblades on his feet – and he could not accept the ride without his chauffeur questioning the fact he'd lied.

Floyd walked. Once again, the car trailed.

'Wossa madder?' Thorne cackled. 'Ride no good for ya?' Thorne's accent thickened up like gravy; his anger the coagulant. 'My car no good for ya?'

It wasn't possible Floyd could have felt more at risk than he did now; but his body at such times knew something worse than fear. Fear developed into physical pain – or spawned physical pain, because the fear didn't go anywhere. But the pain did; Floyd's pain had wanderlust. It started in the gut; moved inchingly, leaving its ashes of crispy twinges, as it followed the gunpowder in his chest. Floyd's pain slugged along, making Floyd wince frequently; past the lungs, then a dog's-leg to the kidney; a double-take trackback to ride the roller coaster of his intestines; and a splash – wheee! – in the stomach's pool of acids and goo. Pain colonized him.

Floyd had to do what pain wanted. He stopped walking. Floyd's eyes scanned desperately for a cop, or somebody Floyd thought trustworthy. Several meters away an old white man sat on the kerb with mittened hands wrapped round something covered in brown paper; even seated, the man swayed. Floyd faced the car; he lashed a smile to his face, thinking: If he drives me anywhere but home, I'll jump out.

'A ride might be good.'

'That's more like it.'

There was no gentle joy in the words, and Floyd felt the helplessness of having been manipulated; of having had his opinions subtly altered. Thorne was a man used to getting his own way, and more: the ease with which Thorne lost his anger suggested the anger had been acted. Floyd didn't know what he preferred: the idea of Thorne being obsessed or the idea of him being calculating and precise.

In one respect Floyd thought himself lucky: Thorne hadn't been violent as yet. What was the best he could wish for? He thought of Analiese. If he got in the car, as Thorne invited him to do, Floyd knew it could be a kidnap. Then again, the chance remained that Thorne intended to drop Floyd off at the apartment and nothing else. More than ever, though, Floyd didn't want Thorne to know where he lived.

He got into the car.

4.

'Who are you?'

The man in the kitchen turned to face Analiese's question.

'Hi there.' A smile. 'Name's Spencer. Spencer Thorne.'

When people ask Who are you? in situations like this, what they really mean is What are you doing here? Analiese didn't want a name; she wanted an explanation.

'You must be Analiese. Sorry if I scared you.'

'I am, and you didn't... What the hell are you doing in my kitchen?'

'About to make a cup of tea. I hope you don't…'

Analiese shook her head. 'How did you get in?' She stood on the threshold; Thorne took a step toward her. Analiese flinched and Thorne stopped in his tracks; he held up his hands.

'I should explain. I met Floyd at the blood bank.'

'Where is he?' – a sliver of something hard and sharp in her voice.

Thorne looked embarrassed. 'I'm afraid I revealed him but he's coming soon.' From his pocket Thorne pulled out a small leather keyring, a few keys attached. 'Floyd said go in, make myself at home. He'll be here when he's finished signing autographs.'

Struggling for comprehension, Analiese had already formed an opinion. Floyd would never have given his keys to a stranger. Floyd? So the question was, how could Analiese get this man out of her apartment, and how she could discover the truth about what had happened to her husband?

'Look. I can see how this appears.' Thorne offered a winning though oddly childish smile. 'just gotta say – this is gonna get weirder in a second. Bear with me.'

Analiese didn't see why she should; but would Thorne try to talk his way out of a situation if his intentions were violent? She doubted it. She tried to think as Floyd thought, but all she could do was summon up his smiling round face.

Thorne spoke. 'You've got a brother called Dollar, right?' he asked.

Analiese frowned, caught off guard. When she said 'What's it to you?' she really wanted to ask how Thorne knew this. He answered her unvoiced question.

'I know him.'

'Dollar?' Analiese contemplated a dash for the telephone. Coincidentally (I suppose) Thorne was also thinking of the telephone: or more specifically, of how he'd taken it off the hook when he entered the apartment.

Sadly nodding Thorne said, 'I'm not proud of it. But we did time together...'

He's a criminal, thought Analiese.

'... few years back. I was in for fraud but I'm straight now. I sell traps.'

'Traps?'

'Mainly rodents, but guy once wanted some jaws to catch a bear. In Wyoming.'

'You're a travelling trap salesman,' said Analiese.

'Yeah.' If Thorne sensed her skepticism he didn’t show it. ‘Met Dollar in the pen; we get along good. Soon he's telling his life story and all. Says he got two sisters...'

Analiese interrupted. 'What does he look like?'

'Dollar? Six-two, thin.' Thorne showed no sign of being annoyed. 'Ask me anything if I need to prove I know him. We ain't got to the good bit yet.'

'And what would the good bit be?' For the first time Analiese was acutely aware of standing in front of a stranger in her pajamas. The fear she felt divided; one half of it turned into a feeling of vulnerability and cheapness. She resisted the temptation to pull her jacket collars together to cover the brown V pointing down between her small breasts. Staying as she was, however, that skin was exposed. Analiese felt cold.

'It's like this,' Thorne went on; he sounded as though he'd learnt a script. 'I'm talking to Dollar one day and he tells me all about you and yours. Floyd Acclune? The escapologist? See, I seen your hubby one time – in Newark.'

'Why?'

'Why did I see him? Travelling salesman needs entertainment much as anyone else. Just read his name in the Local Attractions pages, thought I'd give it a try.'

Analiese recalled the only show Floyd had ever done in Newark. 'Can you remember the name of the place?'

'The club? No way. If you wanna check up on me though, I can tell you it was a five minute cab ride from the Pocomo Inn, where I's staying.'

'You remember the names of motels and not clubs?'

Thorne smirked. 'What can I say? Motels are my life, Analiese. You don't mind if I call you Analiese do you? I stay in motels all over the country, though mainly in the north. I'm from Brooklyn.'

'Is there really so much demand for traps these days?'

'You'd be surprised.' Thorne nodded. 'We currently got a rodent epidemic the likes which we ain't seen before. I know what you're thinking: I never see any of the bastards. Pardon my French. Well, rats these days are smart. They wised up. And in my experience your everyday rodent ain't gonna be fooled by no chunk of cheese. Forget that... They know they're despised, see. They're a paradox. They prey and they also are prey. Rats eat each other; eat anything smaller than themselves. Try to eat a cat if it gets too close; sure as hell they'll take a bite outta me if I get careless: always hungry... I think it's just they don't know how to kill a man: it's not they ain't thought of it. So in learning to adapt, they've learnt how to hide. Better than ever. Some people don't even know they got 'em. But they're growin' somewhere. Simple.’

'I see. Shall we go through, out of the kitchen?'

'Would you mind if I just made myself that tea? It really is very cold out there.'

Analiese took a step into the blizzard light. 'Where are my manners? Go through; I'll make you tea.'

‘Very good of you.' Thorne shuffled past his hostess and reentered the lounge.

This separation stopped both Thorne's and Analiese's lies dead; they reverted to honesty. Analiese went about making tea. Her expressionless face belied the network of fast-moving thoughts within her head – she was like a dead TV screen, behind which the components crackled. Analiese did not ask her uninvited guest how he liked his tea. She automatically made it as if for Floyd...

Meanwhile Thorne calmly stepped to the phone; he thought for a moment and then placed the receiver back on the cradle. He would have to take the chance.

It certainly wouldn't be Floyd calling.

5.

Thorne sat down and looked at the rack of CDs.

When Analiese brought the tea things in on a tray, she wished Thorne had asked for something stronger. She could use another gin. She tried to imagine what sort of drinker Thorne was - bourbon man? red wine? Maybe he joined the elbows at some of the bars downtown, vodka and milk sold to the hopeless. Analiese bumped into the answer – or so it felt – as she put the tray on the coffee table. Spencer Thorne (like Floyd) did not drink: not ever. Like Floyd, Thorne would be upset if Analiese poured herself a hit. Likewise if she lit up one of the cigarettes from the packet in the laundry room that Floyd didn't know she had not thrown away when he’d asked her to.

'Thanks.' Then Thorne resumed his simple tale of coincidences: Thorne learning that Floyd was Dollar's brother-in-law, and Thorne saying to Dollar he'd seen Floyd perform. Dollar asked Thorne, who was getting out earlier, if he would pass on a message to Floyd, but especially to Analiese.

'What sort of message?'

'Well I don't wanna get too into family business here, but it seems though...'

'We've disowned him. Yes.' Analiese nodded. 'If you were Dollar's confidante I'm sure I don't need to tell you about the turmoil he threw into our family the first time he was thrown in the clink, let alone all the times since. My brother is a kleptomaniac, but he's not even one with a good personality anymore. I don't want anything to do with him.'

'Sorry. But he wants something to do with you.'

'What would that be?'

'The way he tells it,’ said Thorne, ‘for a long time it was just your sister and your parents writing to Dollar in the slam.'

Analiese nodded. 'We were never close, Sam and I.' It sounded – she thought – like an apology. Did Thorne blame her for something?

'And then it was just your sister.'

'Yeah. After the first time, even Mom and Dad chose not to forgive. It's one of the few strong things they've done.' That sounded cruel; she hadn't meant it to be cruel. ‘I’m not sure why I’m telling you this.’

'You approve of their dismissal?'

Analiese shrugged. 'He brought it on himself. How far do you push your parents?'

'So you approve?' Thorne asked again.

'What is this? My therapy?'

'Just curious.'

‘Well I don't like to talk about it.'

In the gap between their sentences Analiese studied her emotions. Finally Thorne broke the silence. 'I have a question,' he said. 'It's a good one. Are you ready?'

Analiese sipped her drink.

Thorne said, 'You've all but disowned him now…'

This came as a surprise. 'Carrelle's stopped writing?'

'He's on his own, which is why I'm here, Analiese. But my question is this: What if you've all given up on him...' a pause '...and he's innocent?'

The suggestion did not require much thought. 'Innocent what time?’ Analiese asked rhetorically. ‘I don't even know how many times he's been in jail.'

'What about one time?'

'Hardly relevant is it? He did it all the other times.' Surprise fluttered through the layers of her skin – surprise she hadn't considered the possibility before. 'Dollar's in New York, isn't he?' she said coldly.

Thorne shook his head. 'I'm coming to that.'

'Come to it now. Where's my brother and what are you doing here?' She was horrified and appeased by the concerned outrage that flashed across Thorne's face. ‘New York’s no place to trust strangers,’ she added quickly.

‘When was the last time you saw your brother?'

'Ten years?'

‘Bit long to bear a grudge, isn't it?'

'It's not a grudge. It's apathy.'

Thorne shook his head. 'That's a sad reflection on the condition of American families, if you don't mind me saying so.'

'It's reality. Floyd's the same with his.' Analiese wished she hadn't said that: what she revealed about herself was one thing, but she knew how touchy Floyd could be about his past. She hoped Thorne wouldn’t choose to pick that particular scab further.

He did not; what he said shocked anyway. 'I know.'

'You know what?'

'About Floyd's family. And yours, Analiese.'

She searched quickly for meaning, for understanding. Thankfully it came.

'From Dollar, of course,' she said with some relief.

'Partly. I've got other sources.'

'Are you a reporter?'

'I've told you what I do.'

'Sell rat-traps.'

'What I do is irrelevant here,' Thorne insisted.

‘Now where's my husband?' Analiese demanded.

'I told you. I left him at the blood bank.'

'Signing autographs?'

'That's right.'

'He's not that famous, Spencer. Where is he?'

Thorne found this amusing. 'Ain't my story holding water?' he said in a lightly whiny voice.

'This is some sort of joke, isn't it?'

'No. I couldn't be more serious, Analiese.’

Standing up, Analiese placed her teacup on the low coffee table, on top of a copy of Vogue. 'What are you being serious about?' she demanded.

'An experiment. A conspiracy.'

Analiese could only shake her head. 'I think you'd better leave now. I'm going to call the hospitals.'

'You don't need to,' said Thorne, coolly as before.

'Please tell me where he is.' Analiese didn't like it Thorne had made no effort to move when she'd asked him to leave.

'Will you write to your brother again?'

'Yeah, okay. So where's Floyd?'

'Do you know where he is, to write to him?'

'No I don't. Where is he?'

'New Orleans.'

Analiese smiled