David flumps back in his seat, exhaling a heavy sigh, convinced by Manning’s argument. “Who
is
he, then?”
“Beats me. But the State Department helped bring him here, and I doubt if he could bluff
them.
What’s more, he didn’t even
mention
Cliff Nolan’s murder, which has been all over the headlines for the past two days. He met Cliff, remember, only hours before the murder, and he made no secret of not liking the man. I smell something very fishy here.”
David tells Manning, “I smell a major exposé.”
by Mark Manning
Journal Investigative Reporter
J
UNE 26, 1999, CHICAGO IL
—
Dr. Pavo Zarnik, the renowned Eastern European astrophysicist who stunned the scientific world on Monday with his claimed discovery of a tenth planet in the Earth’s solar system, has demonstrated the verity of his claim by means of a sophisticated “graphic realization,” a computer-generated television image.
Meeting with this reporter in his observatory at Civic Planetarium on Wednesday, Zarnik explained that while the planet cannot be seen, its existence is deduced from its movement, which in turn is calculated from its measurable effect upon the polar wobble of Pluto as well as perturbations (disturbances) in the gravitational fields of both Neptune and Pluto.
To track the movement of the new planet, data are collected from both satellite-borne and earthbound antennae, then systematically compared in real time to produce a “live” image on a computer monitor. In the television picture, planet Zarnik appears as a pink speck in the black cosmos, traveling along a giant elliptical path, an estimated distance of 7 billion miles from the sun. The video demonstration was exhibited to this writer and a colleague on Friday, during a brief period described by Zarnik as an “astronomical oculus.”
The methods employed in Dr. Zarnik’s research are unprecedented in radio astronomy. How much computer power is required to accomplish this near-magical feat? “
Pfroobst,
” replied Zarnik, lapsing into his native dialect, “I do not know. The computers were installed in phases, designed as an open-ended variable.”
Zarnik came to Chicago via Switzerland less than a month ago with help from the State Department, and his revolutionary methods have drawn recent interest from the Pentagon. The source of the funding that backs Zarnik’s research project was not determined at press time.
“WHAT THE HELL
is
this
?” snorts Neil, flopping the late-Saturday edition of Sunday’s paper onto the kitchen counter next to Manning, who turns from the last-minute clutter he’s washing in the sink. Neil has been out to get a few forgotten items needed for tonight’s party. He begins unloading them from a supermarket bag. “You told me Zarnik was a quack. I thought you’d rake him over the coals. Instead, you’ve sent him a valentine.”
Manning turns off the water. “I need a little time,” he tells Neil, wiping his hands on a dish towel. “I’m buying time.”
Neil stacks several cans of Sterno and turns to face Manning. His accusing tone is softened by its underlying jest. “Is that fair to your readers, Mr. Ethical?”
Aware that Neil has targeted the core issue, Manning tells him, “I had to print
something,
and I don’t yet have sufficient facts to tell the whole story, the real story. I hope the public’s ‘right to know’ will ultimately be better served by my temporary willingness to play along with Zarnik. It was a tough call—one I’m not entirely comfortable with—but the decision’s made, so I have to run with it.”
“How?” asks Neil, folding the paper bag.
Manning stows the newly washed utensils in a drawer. “I’m not sure. That’s why I invited Zarnik here tonight. Till now, I’ve met him only on his own turf, in his lab, where he’s secure in his act. This’ll be different.” He looks out from the kitchen into the main space of the loft. “This is
our
territory, which may allow me to catch him off-guard. With any luck, he might enjoy a drink or two. Maybe he’ll let something slip.”
“Shame on you,” says Neil, mocking disapproval, “getting that kindly old man liquored-up—a foreigner, no less—so you can have your way with him.”
“Don’t forget,” says Manning, “that ‘kindly old man’ is a liar to the core who had an ax to grind with Cliff Nolan. What’s more, he’s no foreigner.”
“Regardless of what he isn’t, I know what he
is
.” Neil steps across the kitchen aisle and drapes his forearms over Manning’s shoulders. “He’s a celebrity, at least for now, till you blow his cover. He’ll add a certain—what … cachet? star quality?—to our big evening. Thanks for snagging him.” Neil gives Manning a genial peck on the lips.
“You’re welcome.” Manning pecks back. “But
you’re
center stage tonight, kiddo. We’re unveiling our new home. It’s a showcase of your talents, and I couldn’t be prouder.” Manning pulls Neil tight, and their casual embrace turns serious. As their lips press together, Manning’s passions rise, but his thoughts of impromptu lovemaking are dashed by the door buzzer.
“Curses,” says Neil, “foiled again.” He gives Manning’s crotch a gentle squeeze, then reacts to what he finds there. “Good heavens—save that thought.”
“Count on it,” Manning tells him, pulling him close for a last hug.
Neil glances toward the door. “That should be the caterers. You go put yourself together. I need to review some details with the boys from Happy Happenings.”
“Don’t forget to tell them about the peanut butter.”
“Yes, Mark.” Neil rolls his eyes—Manning’s plot to bait Zarnik with peanut butter seems far-fetched at best.
Manning gives him a thumbs-up, then crosses to the far end of the loft and climbs an open stairway that leads to their sleeping area and the bath beyond.
Neil buzzes open the lobby lock. A minute later, a crew of buffed young men files through the door bearing an array of chafing dishes, cooler chests, and racks of glassware. Their white polo shirts sport the
Happy Happenings
logo. Their uniforms are finished off with baggy tan shorts and black combat boots with an inch of white socks protruding from the tops. The procession winds its way toward the kitchen, punctuated by laughter, hoots, and occasional shrieks that belie the paramilitary look of its ranks.
“Hi there, hon,” one of them calls to Neil. He’s older than the others and far from lean. It’s the boss.
“Hello, Henry,” says Neil. “Your troops are looking better than ever. Where do you
find
these guys?”
“Hah!” says Henry with a toss of his head. “Wouldn’t
you
like to know.” He shoos a couple of straggling beauties from the hall toward their clones in the kitchen.
Upstairs in the bathroom, Manning steps from the shower—no molded plastic stall, but a room in itself, tiled with black Carrara glass—and pauses while toweling himself dry. The man reflected in a wall-high mirror looks back at him, then winks. In spite of the sobering events of this past week, the man in the mirror seems pleased with life, pleased with himself.
Though not at all religious—Manning lost the faith when he was twenty-something—he feels moved at this unlikely moment to count his blessings. He’s healthy. He’s attractive, not only for a man in his middle years, but judged against any standard. These thoughts make him wonder, Am I that vain? Narcissistic? Maybe. But objective. If I refuse to delude myself with denial of my foibles, denial of reality, why should I deny my own virtues?
Virtue
—funny word for a physical trait, a blessing.
Blessing
—funny word for dumb luck. Amazing how the God-folk have managed to claim a lexicon of their own, restricting a rational society in the use of its native tongue.
Manning recognizes that he enjoys other blessings that are not the booty of luck, but the reward of his own efforts. The success of his career is the most obvious of these blessings, attested to by the respect of his peers and the growth of his readership. With it has come material blessings—the marble-floored bath is a good example. The car. The comfortable lifestyle. What he wants, he buys.
His affluence, he knows, is not entirely the result of his reporting skills and his
Journal
paycheck. There was the cash reward for his work on that high-profile missing-person case—but he “earned” that, didn’t he? There was the inheritance from his uncle in Wisconsin—okay, that was dumb luck. And there has been the pooling of resources with Neil, an architect with a thriving career of his own.
Ah yes, Neil—the greatest of Manning’s blessings. Did he earn such a gift? Was it chance? How can he account for the affections of another human being, for the melding of two minds, for their mutual past and their planned future, for the proprietary right they have granted each other to share their bodies in bed, or after a run, or whenever they feel the spark. How can he account for love?
It
was
luck. He might never have met Neil, who turned out to be the right man at the right time. But Manning also earned their love. He willed it. The accumulated frustrations of his heterosexual life before Neil, while disturbing, were not sufficient to nudge him into the arms of the first willing man who came along. Manning’s frustrations were accompanied by the emotional baggage of a lifetime, by definitions he had set for and of himself, by a gut-deep fear of
queer
and
faggot
and all those other labels. There were mind-dragons to fight, demons to conquer before he could banish uncertainty and redefine himself. But he did it. And he has never looked back.
The man in the mirror has an erection. Manning laughs, wraps the towel around his waist, and works his fingers through his hair, deciding that a wind-tossed look will suit the evening’s festivities better than his usual comb-and-brush style. He says to his reflection, “Lots of blessings, ample sunshine. No clouds on the horizon?”
The man in the mirror frowns. What about the clouds of his dreams? The pretty pink clouds of planet Zarnik are not what they seem. Their playful tendrils are wisps of unknown gases that might sear the lungs if swallowed. Caution. Manning reminds himself that tonight’s celebration will be tempered by the arrival of a mystery guest, the man who claims to be Pavo Zarnik. And there is still the great looming question of Cliff Nolan’s murder.
“What’s wrong?” asks Neil, reacting to Manning’s frown as he enters the bathroom. Ready for his own shower, he wears only lounge shorts. “A Happy Happening is in the works—and Henry has assembled a crew of first-class eye candy.”
Manning smiles. Hugging Neil, he tells him, “You’re all the eye candy I’ll ever need. I’m a lucky man—who just happens to be momentarily put-off by his work.”
Neil peers at him. “Don’t let this get to you, Mark, at least not tonight.”
“Nope,” says Manning, tracing his thumbs along Neil’s pectorals, “tonight’s a celebration. If I happen to glean a stray tidbit from Zarnik, all the better.” He crooks his head to lick one of Neil’s nipples, then kisses the other.
Neil says into his ear, “Get dressed. Our guests are due. But save that thought.”
A few minutes later, Manning stands in the dressing area of the balcony, deciding on an outfit for the evening. Pleated khaki slacks—no surprise, though these are gabardine, a dressier version of the twill variety he always wears to the office, an easy decision. But the top half vexes him. Jacket and tie? That’s what he’d normally wear, but Neil won’t, not at home—too stuffy. Then he thinks, Why not try a T-shirt with a vest? He’s seen younger guys wear such outfits. Hell, why not?
“That looks great,” says Neil, padding out from the bath.
“Think so?” asks Manning, needing reassurance. “I’m not … too old for it?”
“Hardly,” says Neil. “You’ll be the hottest man in the room.”
“What about the catering boys?” Manning asks.
Neil pauses. “They don’t count. They’re paid to be here.”
A few minutes later, Neil is dressed, and he and Manning head downstairs to await their first arrival. As they cross the main room toward the kitchen, a voice from behind asks, “Can I get you guys a drink?” Manning turns to find one of the Happy Happenings waiters standing there with a tray. He wears an engraved plastic name tag,
Justin,
not on his shirt, but below his belt, on his hip. Neil was right—this kid’s a knockout. “Something before your guests arrive?”
Manning and Neil eye each other with a look that asks, Should we? Neil tells the waiter, “We’ll both have vodka on the rocks—the Japanese brand—with a twist of orange, just the peel.”
Manning nods his agreement and watches the waiter strut away to fill their order. The knotty muscles of Justin’s calves bulge from the top of his boots.
Music is playing now, and it sounds great—a familiar, nameless cocktail tune—but there’s some sort of commotion in the kitchen. “I’d better keep an eye on things,” says Neil, following Justin.
Manning stands alone in the center of the room, telling himself that all is ready, that he looks just fine—when the buzzer yelps, shattering his fragile confidence. He looks about, wondering who’ll answer the door, then realizes that the task has fallen to him. He assumes that all the staff has arrived, that whoever has buzzed must be the first guest. Manning swallows, crosses to the door, and swings it open.
“Happy new home, gorgeous!” says Daryl, flinging his arms around Manning for a full-body hug. A herd of other copy kids and
Journal
interns piles in behind him—the party has begun.
Justin nudges through the crowd with his little silver tray balanced overhead on the prongs of his fingertips. “Your cocktail, Mr. Manning.”
“Thank you.” Manning takes the drink—needing it—having managed to disentangle himself from Daryl, who now stares at the waiter with wide, unbelieving eyes, like a lucky cat who has stumbled upon a fat, fated mouse.
Justin asks the guests, “What can I get you?”
“Honey,” says Daryl, brushing up next to him, “you’ve got it all backwards. What can I do for
you
?” In the same breath, he has his arm around Justin’s shoulder and walks him away from the group to explore the loft.