“I wonder if the Everard Baths are still in operation, Derby.”

“I don’t know; it was ten years ago, Mala, and we can’t afford to get caught there.  We’ve had a very close shave with the police already; we don’t know how lucky we are.  It might be raided and then where would we be?”

“Yes, you’re right of course, although I don’t think they sell alcohol.”

“Well, we don’t want to get your name in the papers; you know what the American reporters are like.  Your life would be ruined; even if you avoided gaol, you wouldn’t be allowed back in the United States again.”

“And there is the threat of blackmail—gangsters and the police themselves I should imagine,” contributed Martin.  “Do you suppose they secretly photograph people going in and out?”

“It would be hard at night, but in the daytime it is possible, although I can’t see why the owners of the baths would allow it to continue.”

“Well, in any case we won’t be going back there.  That’s all over and done with.”

“Yes, we won’t even bother walking past to see if it’s still open after Rio Rita. 

***** 

The Everard Baths were much as before with the old green lantern over the door.  Martin was still humming The Kinkajou as he mounted the steps two at a time.  Stephen was following him.  They signed the book and paid their dollar and were given the keys to a locker and a few more coins purchased towels.

They ascended the wooden stairs to the dimly lit upper room with its rows of cubicles.  They passed other people on the stairs and in the public spaces, but faces tended to be averted, except by the most brazen.  Martin was a little brazen, for he wanted to see what class of person came here, but it was hard to tell as they were not dressed.  Older men, however, tended to outnumber the young and attractive.

Stephen went into one cell and Martin was just about to find an adjacent one when Stephen called him in a low voice: “Mala, have a look at this.”

Martin entered Stephen’s cubicle, it was too crowded to shut the door easily so it stood ajar. Stephen was indicating a hole in the partition that could be for only one purpose. If there was any doubt, there was graffiti and crudely drawn illustrations scratched into the paintwork to inform the occupant.  Martin recalled a book at home that was a complete survey of the writings and drawings found on the walls of the brothels and baths of ancient Pompeii.  He liked doing the Latin translation and it seemed to bring the Romans alive in a way that they never were at school.  The drawings were better than those at the Everard Baths too.

“Should I put my cock through it, Mala?” said Stephen in an excited whisper, his eyes shining in the gloom like automobile headlamps.

“You’ve never been shy, Derbs.”

“Supposing someone bites it?”

“They’d have to get their mouth around it first.”

“Stay with me to see what happens.”

Martin did, managing to close the door on them both while the next cubicle remained empty for some while.  Martin tried to keep his lover in the mood with kisses, although Stephen needed little help.

Then there was the sound of the door being closed and the slightest clearing of a throat from beyond the wall.  Stephen looked at Martin, full of excitement and Martin nodded eagerly. Stephen was a good way along to being quite hard and his cock stood out magnificently before him.  He waddled closer to the wall and found he had to spread his legs wide to lower himself to the hole.  Perhaps there were other cubicles for taller men and this was part of some refined system for height preferences; but no, the Everard Baths was nothing if not straightforward.

Stephen’s member was pushed through.  Was there an audible gasp from the other side? Stephen trembled.  “He’s licking it like you do,” he hissed to Martin.  Martin watched the facial expressions change on Stephen and he tried to imagine what was happening to cause each one.  Stephen was now less inclined to vocalise.  It was quite funny really.

Martin wanted to become involved.  He stood behind Stephen and pressed his buttocks until Stephen was flat against the partition.  He locked his hands over Stephen’s and spread his arms on the wall.  Stephen now resembled a St Andrew’s cross or perhaps a man on a scaffold.

“Let me put your balls through the hole for the gentleman, Derbs,” said Martin quite loudly. He imagined that if he was on the other side of the wall that was what he would like to play with…

“Martin, Stephen, is that you?” said a shy voice— a slightly familiar voice—through the boards.

“Yes, it is,” confessed Stephen who, for no good reason, retracted his person from the aperture.

“Wait, I’m coming round.”

A couple of seconds elapsed, no doubt while the man’s towel was being wrapped around himself. In this interval Martin and Stephen wracked their brains.

A tap at the door signalled for Martin to open it.  There stood Joe Lyendecker, the artist.

“Joe,” cried Martin, “I was nearly going to say, ‘What are you doing here,’ but I won’t.  We wrote to you in New Rochelle.”

“I have a studio here in Chelsea and we haven’t been home since last weekend—your letter is probably waiting there.  I did read you were in town— or rather I saw you pretending to be the King of Portugal with the Mayor.”

“Yes, there’s a story in that.”

“And I should have recognised Stephen,” he said with a laugh, but still trying to be quiet.  I never forget a ‘face’— not one that I’ve drawn.”

Kisses, delayed, were given and received. “Do you come here often?” Stephen asked.

“Sometimes.  Charles has gone to see a talking newsreel at the Roxy — Lindbergh’s flight.  I was bored so…”

“He’s a nice looking young man that Lindy,” said Stephen.  “Do you think he sleeps with boys?”

“I fear not, but I would sure like to draw him.”

“Well…,” said Martin.

“Well…,” said Lyendecker.

“Charles, I do think you should finish what you started.  I was just enjoying it when the magic was broken,” said Stephen.

“Well, I was enjoying it too.  If we could begin again…?”  

***** 

It was only some short time later that the three of them found themselves walking briskly south to W. 22^nd Street where Lyendecker had a studio on the top floor of a brownstone. They were full of good humour and Lyendecker was full from Stephen’s ejaculation as delivered through the convenient aperture in the wall. Martin had found an empty cubicle and had been visited by a very obliging streetcar conductor who was between shifts. Martin had worn his cap.

The studio was a less sybaritic workplace than the Plunger’s one in the namesake district in London and certainly a far cry from the big estate in New Rochelle where Joe and Charles entertained lavishly.

Around the walls were drawings and magazine covers. Martin and Stephen had already stared up at the handsome man in the illuminated advertisement for collars in Times Square. Even more than in 1917, this open space was alive and shrieking with electric lights and billboards.  London had nothing like it—although it seemed to suit New York better than it would older cities, thought Martin.  They had stood there bathed in the golden light of American abundance, watching glasses of soft drink filling and emptying and giant hats being raised and lowered.  From an oversized mouth, cigar smoke puffed out in rings while a pendulum on a clock swung madly.  Spelled out in blinking lights were the theatres and the names of the shows, often with the names of their stars in the biggest letters of all.  On the Times Building the news of the day and the stock prices, reduced to the barebones, appeared in a lighted band that seemed to run around the building like a ribbon as one tried to read it quickly.  But everything in New York happened quickly and New Yorkers would have no trouble in digesting the moment’s events this way.

In his studio Joe was explaining some of his commissions for men’s clothing, automobiles and breakfast foods.  There was a number of amusing ones featuring children.  He seemed to be very busy and he said that he was ably aided by his sister and Charles in keeping his head above water.

They were sipping on their drinks when Charles Beach entered.  He greeted the boys with enthusiasm.  Charles was now 40, but still very good-looking.  There was a dusting of grey in his hair and his face was a little more fleshy, but he still had the body of a college athlete and certainly Joe never let the marks of time intrude in his drawings—which were always a little bit of Charles— whether they were for Willes motorcars or Interwoven ‘sox’.

They settled down with drinks and discussed what had passed since the heady days of 1917. Joe was still distressed by the death of his brother in 1924 but continued to entertain lavishly out in New Rochelle, but found it convenient to have a studio in Manhattan to be near clients, although the Saturday Evening Post had its grand offices down in Philadelphia as Martin and Stephen well remembered.

Joe got out some charcoal and idly sketched the profiles of Martin and Stephen as they drank their beer.  He then decided on something more ambitious.  “I’d like to draw you and Charles,” he said to Stephen.  Stephen knew well what this meant and stood and removed his coat and tie and started to unbutton his shirt.  Charles Beach laughed and did the same while Lyendecker and Martin dragged a mattress to the centre of the room.

Martin looked at Charles.  Yes, he was still desirable, but he had more body hair than he remembered from a decade ago and there was some grey there too.  Martin wondered what Stephen would look like when he was forty— the year 1935 seemed a long way off.  If the worse came to the worse, he would make him dye his hair.  Then, with a shock he thought: And me? What will I look like in 1935?  It was too painful to contemplate so he pushed it from his mind and concentrated on how beautiful Stephen was right now, even if he was more mature in bone and flesh than the boy of 16 who was photographed in his boxing togs¾Martin’s favourite picture.

Stephen and Charles sized each other up.  Joe had already seen some of Stephen that night, but he looked too.

“Kiss our visitor, Charles,” said Joe, with humour.  Charles walked over, feeling his own cock, and kissed Stephen on the lips.  Stephen responded by wrapping his arms around his strong neck and kissing him deeply.  “Onto the mattress,” directed Joe.  They dropped down, still holding each other. Charles grabbed Stephen’s low hanging balls in his big hand and gently squeezed them and then gave them a twist.  Martin knew Stephen would like this. Stephen responded by grabbing Charles’ chest and clawing.

“Yeah!” said Beach and Stephen pawed other parts of his body.  Stephen’s rump received a slap, which left a red mark, but the muscles didn’t move.  They went on wrestling in this rough manner, like two bulls, Martin thought— the old and the young bull of so many stories.  Charles got Stephen in a headlock and with his spare hand stroked Stephen’s half-hard cock.  It was a delicate balance between aggression and desire, violence and tenderness.

“Hold it there!” cried Joe and the men froze in their combat while Joe busied himself with pencil and conte

It was hard to hold this pose and they both began to laugh and release their grips.  “Oh keep doing that, Charles!” cried Stephen and so Beach stroked the big cock while Stephen used the headlock to deliver some tender kisses to the parts of Beach that he could reach.  Martin looked over Lyendecker’s shoulder and saw the most marvellous composition of undulating lines and body parts.  “They could be wrestlers in ancient times,” observed Martin.

“I was thinking of a college wrestling team,” said Joe as his pencil worked rapidly to shade the parts of the interlocked bodies in the umbra of the lamplight.  “Of course I would add some costumes, perhaps a fig leaf of gold and blue for Notre Dame— the Fighting Irish,” he added with a smile.

The combat was largely forgotten now and Charles Beach worked on the younger man’s big cock, sliding his hand up and down the shaft in the slack of Stephen’s foreskin, while Stephen worked on Charles’ short but muscular-looking appendage (for that is how Martin thought of it), making him sweat and tense his muscles which Lyendecker caught nicely with his HB pencil.

A sound from Stephen told Martin that he was spilling and Beach cruelly kept up the motion of his hand until Stephen begged for release, admitting defeat, with tears in his eyes that he wiped away with the back of his free hand.  He apologised profusely for the small load he produced, explaining that he had only recently spilled.

“I sucked him off at the Everard,” said Lyendecker matter of factly without looking up from his drawing.  Martin smiled at this bluntness; Lyendecker had been born in Germany after all.

This did not seem to worry Charles Beach who took over from Stephen and, kneeling, finished himself off, spilling onto Stephen’s chest where he smeared his offering before rising and returning with towels.

They all gathered around Joe as he completed the drawing, indeed adding the outline of costumes, which seemed to only enhance the physique of the two models as shoulders and muscles strained against slender and inadequate straps and abbreviated trunks.

It was late and time to go, but they arranged to meet the following night.  Martin was anxious to see Good News at the Forty-second Street Theatre.  He already had the gramophone records of the hit songs and had been humming The Best Things in Life Are Free all afternoon.  Lyendecker was keen to go too as the story concerned a handsome, but stupid, college footballer and hopefully there would be some nice locker room scenes. 

***** 

Stephen slipped out of bed early and padded to the hotel window.  He parted the heavy curtains and gazed out onto a dewy Central Park just catching the first rays of the early morning sun.  It was going to be a lovely day and the sky was a tender blue.  He looked back at Martin who was quietly snoring and smiled. It must be his own snoring that he can hear when he accuses me so foully of snoring.  I don’t snore.

Stephen didn’t wake Carlo but found his new sports’ clothes himself.  There was a top and a bottom made of thick fleecy cotton.  The trousers were like pyjamas with a cord and no fly. The top was a crew neck jersey.  It was all very comfortable, thought Stephen as he pulled on a pair of Plimsolls.  He bounced on his toes in front of the looking glass and realised the problem so he searched through his trunk for the leather restraining strap purchased from Mr Weintraub’s emporium.  Stephen untied his trousers and fitted the strap to his left thigh. There was another loop that went around his cock and held it more or less flat against his leg. He did up the buckles and press-studs.  With his trousers raised once again, he bounced on his toes.  Yes, not quite so obvious now.  I will be able to cross the Plaza lobby.  Stephen’s cock actually felt good, held firm and caressed by the hair on his own warm, meaty thigh.

Nevertheless, the sight of a guest so informally dressed raised early morning eyebrows in the hotel.  The doorman held the door open for Stephen and he jogged across W.59^th Street to the Park, aiming to do a circuit of the reservoir.

It was more than an hour later when a very sweaty Stephen returned to the hotel and made for the lifts.  “Good day for it bud,” said the liftboy.

“For what?” asked Stephen, still breathing hard.

“For airing the basket in the park.”

Stephen did not know what he meant, but a slight glance from the cheeky fellow in the direction of Stephen’s groin made it clear.  There was a huge bulge in the soft material where Stephen’s cock, teased beyond endurance as he had jogged, was straining painfully at the confines of Mr Weintraub’s fiendish device.  Stephen had to find relief quickly and had been sorely tempted to remove the strap and seek an early resolution to his torture in The Ramble, but there was a ‘cop’ nearby so he ran on.

Stephen jumped on the bed.  “Mala, help me, it’s an emergency!” Martin awoke with alarm and saw how gloriously sweaty Stephen was, with his black hair having fallen forward and now plastered over one eye.  Stephen pulled the top over his head and Martin was just anticipating an exploration of Stephen’s sweaty chest and armpits when Stephen snapped the cord to his trousers (the knot having become stuck).  “Get it off, please!” he cried and Martin’s fingers got to work on the buckles and studs.  In a trice Stephen’s cock bounded free, some drops of delicious clear liquid lashing Martin’s face.  “Just the tip, Mala!” said Stephen urgently and stroked himself furiously while Martin placed his lips over the penultimate portions and probed the slit, already enflamed from the friction of the past hour, with his tongue. “Get ready,” Stephen thoughtfully warned him and just at that moment he erupted with a cry.

Martin felt the powerful jets in his mouth and started to cough and splutter when the fourth one hit the back of his throat, but he was determined to keep to his post.  At last Stephen subsided.  “Oh thank you Mala.  There’s a lesson for me.”  Martin opened his mouth to show Stephen how full it was; Stephen liked this.  “Good boy,” Stephen said as Martin swallowed. Stephen leaned down for a kiss, tasting his own seed.  He put his arms behind his head and let Martin feast for a few minutes.  “I must have a bath now, Mala,” he said.  “Where’s Carlo?”

“Here I am, sir”

“Could you draw my bath Carlo?  And I think this strap should be locked away, it’s dangerous.”

“Well I think it’s wonderful,” said Martin, moving so he could kiss Stephen’s balls, which had proved so productive.

Stephen stood and removed his Plimsolls and ‘track trousers’, his dripping cock swinging freely.

“In America it is customary to tip the staff, sir,” said Carlo impassively in the manner of Chilvers.

“Oh I see,” said Stephen, catching on.  “Go ahead.”

Carlo knelt and sucked the remaining semen that still oozed from under Stephen’s foreskin. “By rights it should be at least ten percent, but it’s a start,” said Carlo rising with a big grin. 

***** 

The remaining days passed in a whirl.  Fearing what The Plunger would say, the boys spent a morning at the Metropolitan Museum and did a quick survey of the paintings.  “We’ve got a better one of those at home,’ said Martin, pointing to a Zoffany portrait of girls on a swing with his stick.

“Is that the one in my dressing room next to my dart board?”

Martin nodded. “Do you think I should ask if they want to buy it?”

“Perhaps if times get tough, you may have to sell, Mala.”

“That’s ‘we’, Stephen,” “it’s half yours.”

There were invitations that had to be accepted— old ladies who had been so hospitable back in 1917—and Martin made sure he accepted the ones for theatre parties.  He saw Funny Face and was amazed that its stars were the brother and sister who had danced so marvellously at Croome only last year.

At the big fight they were greeted by Mayor Walker, and Pearl and Zeralda were more than willing to share their peanuts and chewing gum with their old friends and didn’t seem too devastated that Legs on Lexington had closed after such a short run —the Police Chief —or to be more precise, Mrs Warren, apparently finding some objection to its production.

Every day the newspapers were full of the most exciting financial news and every American believed that their country was booming under the stayed hand of President Coolidge.  In Times Square they watched in the indigo light of dusk the closing stock prices quoted in moving lights and on their last day in the miraculous city they ventured down to Wall Street and stood outside the Greek temple that was the Exchange and apparently the scene of frantic activity within.  There was not much to actually see there outside its walls, but men of business were everywhere in the streets and the lobbies and the lifts—like ants in the giant anthills of the Financial District—and none of them strolled. 

***** 

Chicago had been transformed equally if not more so than New York and this was apparent as their taxi threaded its way through the heavy traffic along Michigan Avenue, past the Blackstone where they had stayed in 1917 and across a new bridge and into a monumental new boulevard that was rapidly being lined with fantastic new skyscrapers and elegant shops.  The foremost of these towers, it was proudly pointed out by their driver, was for the Tribune newspaper and its neighbour was the headquarters of a manufacturer of chewing gum, a sweet that Americans were inordinately fond of and it was clearly a lucrative addiction.

Jack Rabberts Wilbur (Bunny to his friends) and Dr Dwight Sleeper Hoyt III (Rip to Bunny) had moved, as restless American were wont to do, to a newer and grander apartment building further up Lake Shore Drive— what Chicagoans and real estate agents referred to as the ‘Gold Coast’.  Since 1917, when their old apartment tower stood rather alone on this prairie frontier, this area had become solidly built up as far as the eye could see looking north and, looking back to the beach at Oak Street, could be seen the vast bulk of the Drake Hotel and the towers of Michigan Avenue and the Loop behind it.  A steel frame was rising for the new headquarters for a manufacturer of soap, they were told, and it was to be surmounted with a powerful searchlight to sweep the skies as an aid for aeroplanes.  “We’re living in the air age, buddy,” said the driver to Stephen.  “First it was Lindy and soon it will be all sorts of folks flying everywhere and I’ll be out of a job.”

Bunny and Dwight were not at home the lift boy informed them as he took them up to the 10^th floor, but they were expected, he had been warned.  The fellow was about 16 and very sharp and conversational and both Martin and Stephen wondered how long such a dull occupation could hold him.

At the door of the apartment the manservant, Moses LeRoy, whom Carlo had found for Bunny and Dwight in 1917, greeted them.   Moses had been a Pullman porter and had been unfairly dismissed, and besides, he objected to being called ‘Jackson’ which was not his given name.  Moses was delighted to see them and shook their hands democratically and hugged Carlo, thumping him on the back.  He excitedly showed them to their rooms and drew their attention to the feast he had prepared in the dining room, lest the Twentieth Century had let the travellers go hungry.

The apartment was certainly a large one—only two per floor in the 18-storey tower and the principal rooms looked out across the vast lake.  Martin recalled how they had crossed it more than once ten years ago: when they had made their escape from hostile crowds in Milwaukie and again when they went over to Grand Rapids on their speaking tour.  From the drawing room balcony could be seen the green patch that was Lincoln Park where there was another bathing beach, a zoo and shady driveways while down below automobiles and taxicabs passed in a never ending stream.

There was a large dining room where a dozen people could be seated comfortably.  “Mr Jack and Dr Dwight don’t entertain much, suh,” said Moses by way of explanation.  “Some of this furniture came from Mr Jack’s father’s house after the poor gentleman passed away.”

Beyond this room there was Moses’ butler’s pantry with a nickel sink and glass fronted cupboards for the cocktail things.  Then there was the modern kitchen that had so impressed Chilvers on his visit after the War.  A second elevator was next to the fire stairs—clearly the owners did not want servants—especially coloured ones— using the main lift from the foyer. There were two small bedrooms, one of which would be Carlo’s, and then there was the library, which contained two desks, companionably side by side.  Martin was reminded of Victoria and Albert’s desks at Osborne and was touched.  The guest bedroom had a bathroom off it and a closet that was almost a room in itself and had its own electric light.  It was all very nice but perhaps even modest considering that Bunny was now a rich man in charge of many varied businesses.  Dwight’s family were also wealthy, Martin reflected.

It was Dwight who arrived home first.  He looked very much the prosperous medical professional with his black bag and immaculate white shirt cuffs.  He greeted the boys enthusiastically and inquired after their trip.  They had already drunk several glasses of beer when Bunny walked in.  Apparently he worked late downtown practically every night and struggled to get home for supper with Dwight.  Nevertheless Bunny was bouncing with joy and hugged the boys and slapped them on the back.  “Beer for me, Moses!” he cried and threw himself into an armchair, still grinning.

“You don’t have any trouble getting beer?” asked Stephen.

“Lord no,” replied Bunny, “we have a good bootlegger, a Mr Teehan, and Andy the lift boy is our intermediary.  Of course he takes a cut, but he’s very reliable.”

“Yes we’ve met him; very sharp.”

There was a meal prepared by Moses with the assistance of Carlo who claimed to have peeled the potatoes, and the four talked until late in the evening when they went, chastely, to their respective bedrooms.

It was quite exciting to go down into the Loop with Bunny.  Chicago men started the day early and they were in a taxicab just after 7:00, Bunny having given away the streetcar since he had succeeded his father in the family business.  Bunny’s new office was grander too and there seemed to be more people dancing attention on him than before.  Bunny went to his big, efficient desk, which sat on a modern and silent floor laid with polished rubber, and looked at some papers that a lady secretary had just set out.

“Excuse me a minute, boys, I just need to do something here.” Martin and Stephen sat down to wait and watched the people moving to and fro.  On Bunny’s desk were two telephones and an electric button for summonsing the secretary.  To one side was a machine for recording dictation—the sort that Martin had wanted to buy for Myles.  In the background was an incessant clacking, distinct from the typewriters at work in the outer office.  Martin and Stephen looked at each other with puzzled expressions and swivelled their heads about looking for the source of the irritating sound.  There, in an alcove behind the door, were two brass machines under glass covers nosily printing out long paper strips.

“They’re stock tickers, you fellows,” said Bunny looking up.  “One is New York prices and the other is for here in Chicago.”  The boys rose and looked more closely and they quickly deciphered the shorthand and the ‘buy’ and ‘sell’ quotations.

When Bunny had finished with his papers and had spoken to someone on the telephone, he crossed the room to where the boys were still examining the paper tapes.  “Since my father’s passing I’ve taken the business in a new direction.  We’ve sold the Tunnel Company— too much union trouble.  You saw all the new development along North Michigan and Wacker Drive?”

“Our taxi took us along Michigan Avenue, but we didn’t really see Wacker Drive, although our driver talked about it,” said Stephen.

“Well, you’ll love it Stephen; it’s a marvel of engineering and I will show you this morning. Anyway, our company has invested in many of the new developments there and we have done well out of it.  We’ve also been buying stocks in a diversified range of companies, particularly foodstuffs and oil, and these have done even better.  We had the foresight to buy Shredded Wheat at $1.25 and it is now at $4.50.  And Colombia who make ‘Eezo’ has gone from $2.30 to $3.10.”

“$3.25,” said Martin.  “I read it on the ticker.  I believe there will be a takeover offer.”

“Do you, by Jove,” said Bunny, impressed, and made a note with a pencil.  Martin wondered if he should have kept quiet, but it was too late.

They waited half an hour for Bunny to do some work and spent the interval looking out the windows at the growth of the city.  At last Bunny had the promised hour free and they descended back to the street.  Bunny pointed out the great stone pile where Dwight had set himself up in private practice, specialising in diseases of the skin.  Apparently doctors did not live above their professional rooms (or ‘offices’ as they were more fittingly called in this business-minded nation) as they did in England and Bunny assured them that Dwight was building a good practice and allergies were now all the fashion.

He then directed their steps to the Mercantile Exchange where noisily on the floor butter, eggs, pork and grain were traded without so much as a glimpse of anything so mundane as would make a bacon sandwich or a soufflé.  Nearby was the enormous bulk of the Stock Exchange, which was entered under a beautiful decorated arch, like a rainbow of commerce. “I made a killing on Pure Oil,” said Bunny.  “Bought them at just a few dollars and now they are worth $15 and if I sold them today I would have realised nearly $30,000.  It was so easy. But I won’t sell— they’ll go higher.” Martin and Steven did a silent calculation between dollars and pounds and thought of all the things they could do with an unexpected and unaccounted for sum of money like that.  “Carbon and Carbide is my tip for a growth stock.”

It was very exciting, but Bunny dragged them away to look at Wacker Drive.  “Is this the work of the Mr Wacker who was so vocal against the War, Bunny?”

“That’s him, but that’s all forgotten now.  Wacker was the one who pushed it through and realised Daniel Burnham’s vision.”  Indeed it was something to boast about.  Where a muddy riverbank had once served as wharfage along the Chicago River, now there was a wide boulevard with permanent limestone edges to the poor, much-straightened watercourse.  Here motor trucks and wagons slowly laboured to the warehouses that lined it.  However the remarkable thing was that this was only the lower level, for there was a parallel road open to the sky above it for fast motor traffic and pedestrians and the warehouses were seen to be topped by magnificent skyscrapers that disappeared into the clouds. It was like a vision from the pen of H.G. Wells.  “This is only the first section,” said Bunny.  “Eventually it will run right along the river down to the Stock Yards.”

“It’s wonderful,” exclaimed Martin as Stephen went off to look more closely at how the whole thing was put together.  “I think the sculpture by the bridge reminds me of a modern Paris.”  Just as he spoke there was a bell and the traffic was halted and the twin bascules spanning the river to North Michigan Avenue began their majestic rise to allow a coal scow to pass up river.

“Where do you want to go tonight?” asked Bunny as they walked briskly back in the direction of his office.

“Well, we’re seeing a matinee today—Chicago and it is about a woman accused of murder. Could we go to that beer garden on the Midway?” suggest Martin.

“It’s closed and will be torn down—a casualty of prohibition, I’m sorry to say.”

Martin was truly shocked at how callous the whole thing was, but recovered himself.  “Well, is the Dil Pickle still open?”

“Yes it is, Martin,” said Bunny with a grin, “and I’m glad to say it is unchanged and there’s no prohibition there, although you might have to drink your liquor out of teacups.”  

***** 

Their evening at the Dil Pickle was indeed entertaining, starting with an incomprehensible play being put on by some of the members.  Later there was a jazz band that played the soulful ‘blues’.  Suddenly Martin saw Bunny freeze.  They looked to Dwight who had the same rigid expression.  A young man was walking towards them.  He had an untidy mop of brown hair and a large chin below a wide nose.  His clothes didn’t seem to properly fit his raw-boned frame, however it was his eyes that were the most alarming— cruel eyes, fired to a fierce gaze.

To Martin’s alarm he approached him and leaned down placing his knuckles aggressively on the table.  “Are you called Lord Branksome?” he asked.  English may have been his first language, but it had the coarseness of Slavic origins.

“Yes, I am,” admitted Martin, seeing no reason to deny it.

“I tought so.  I saw ya picha in the paper when you arrived in Noo York.  A real lord huh?”

“Yes, I suppose so, Mr..?”

“Weiss, Hymie Weiss.  Ya cousin said you’d be coming tah Chicago and I just tought I’d pay mah respects.”

“Well that is very decent of you, Mr Weiss.  This is our second visit; we were here during the War.”

At the mention of the War, Weiss’ eyes blazed and Stephen thought he might assault Martin or at the very least injure the table, but it passed.

“We are having a good time,” continued Martin evenly, “and we love this club.  Which of my cousins, Mr Weiss?” asked Martin coolly.

“Why Count Osmochescu, naturally.  He was in Chicago just last week, but he’s up in Canada now. We wuz doin’ a little business, him and me, but I’m not surprised he don’t mention it.”

“I haven’t seen him for some time,” said Martin truthfully.

“Well, if he’s back next week we shud all go oud togetha.”

“That would be nice,” lied Martin.

Hymie Weiss nodded and then returned to his table where there were two other men and two tarts enjoying their teacups of bootleg alcohol.

“Don’t say anything,” hissed Dwight between his teeth.  “Act naturally.”

Martin knew something was ‘up’ as they said here and fiddled with his cup and blew his nose and pretended to be absorbed at the paintings on the wall until the other table had lost interest in them.

“That was Hymie-the-Pole,” said Dwight.  He’s a cold-blooded killer and runs the mob here on the North Side.”

“He’s probably trying to get Jack Jones to pay him ‘protection’ from the police, or if not the police, from someone who would smash the place up or burn it down,” contributed Bunny.

“Why don’t the honest police arrest him?” asked Stephen.

“It’s not as simple as that.  Let’s go right now while they’re not looking.”

****** 

Back at the apartment Dwight and Bunny gave a local’s breakdown of the internecine warfare between the rival mobs of ‘gangsters’ and the powerlessness of the forces of law and order.  Martin could not imagine anything like that happening on this scale in a British city, but, he reflected, everything in Chicago was on a gigantic scale and obviously crime was no exception.  In return Martin told what little he knew of his unwanted ‘cousin’ the Romanian count.  Some of the tale impinged on British security, but Martin felt he had to get it off his chest.

Moses and Carlo appeared with beer and sandwiches.  Possibly they had been drinking in their masters’ absence, for they were just a little unsteady and inclined to giggle.  They boys ate and drank and listened half-heartedly to the wireless as they talked about sports and their various doings.

“Why are you scratching?” Dwight asked Stephen.  Indeed Martin had noticed that Stephen had been scratching and squirming all day.

“I don’t know Dr Hoyt,” said Stephen pleasantly, “I have a bit of a rash…”

“I’d better have a look at it,” said Dwight in a grave professional voice that made Bunny smile. “Come into the bedroom.”

“You can look here if you like; I don’t mind.”  Martin rolled his eyes, for Stephen could never resist an opportunity to remove his clothes in front of other people, probably guessing rightly that it was for wider enjoyment and edification.

In a trice Stephen’s trousers were down and his shirt and tie were hoisted up.  All eyes turned to Stephen’s groin.  “My balls are itchy and red and I have this bumpy rash up here.”

Dwight got in closer and turned the standard lamp in Stephen’s direction. “Hmm,” he said and then was silent.  Bunny and Martin looked at each other, questioningly.  Stephen was looking down at the top of Dwight’s head.

“Hmm,” said Dwight irritatingly once again.  He hefted Stephen’s cock to one side.  “Hold it up out of the way please.”

“What is it doc?” asked Stephen, starting to panic.

“Humm,” he repeated, then:  “Your tunica dartos is enflamed and your raphe is irritated.”

“Is that bad?”

“Well…”

“What does it mean in layman’s language, Rip?” asked Bunny in exasperation.

“His balls and groin have a slight case of barber’s rash.  When did you shave down there?”

“Carlo shaved me this morning,” said Stephen, brightening.  “I like my balls smooth and so does Martin.”

“Well tell him to use more shaving soap and a sharper razor.  We’ll put some Eezo on them for now.”

“Rip,” said Bunny.  “Do you think there would be a market for special shaving soap and special razors for this kind of work?”

“For ladies too?” responded Dwight.

“Do ladies also like to shave?” asked Bunny.

“I’ve seen some,” contributed Stephen.  Martin looked at him.  “But not very many,” he added hastily.

These business possibilities were left to maturate in Bunny’s fertile brain while the Eezo was applied to Stephen.  “As your physician, I’d better apply it,” said Dwight airily as he squeezed some onto his palm and he smoothed it all over Stephen’s scrotum.  “We’ll put plenty here too,” continued Dwight as he was now stroking Stephen’s shaft.  “It may help prevent a spread of infection.” Stephen groaned.  “It seems to be doing some good,” said Dwight, turning to the others and giving a very non-professional wink.

“Lower, Doctor,” gasped Stephen and they watched as Dwight used his other hand to massage the perineum. “Yes just like that.” This two handed consultation continued until a noise from Stephen indicated that the good doctor had slipped an index finger inside Stephen. Seeking a second opinion, Dwight inserted his middle finger as well.

Had Stephen been able to open his eyes for long enough, he would have seen that Bunny and Martin were feeling themselves blatantly through their trousers and two pairs of brown eyes were peeking through the crack in the door.

“Bring him off, Rip!” cried Bunny.

Dwight continued his oily ministrations and suddenly Stephen erupted in half a dozen powerful jets, hitting his own face, staining his shirt and tie and coating his exposed abdomen and groin.

“Oh that was pretty good result Stephen,” laughed Dwight, “but I think you almost broke my fingers he said as he slowly withdrew them and gave them a shake.”

The rest of Stephen clothes were removed and were taken away by Carlo (who conveniently appeared) to be sponged.

“Am I cured, Doc?” asked Stephen when he had caught his breath.

“We may need to repeat the procedure and a further consultation is advisable.”

Stephen put his arm around Dwight.  “Mala, Bunny, I think I might need to sleep with my physician tonight.  Is that alright with you?”

“Just don’t hurt him,” said Martin who was used to Stephen’s sudden needs. “He needs to work tomorrow.”

“And don’t hurt our guest,” said Bunny.  Martin though that this was unlikely.  “It looks like its you and me, Martin,” continued Bunny.  Martin did not mind at all.  Bunny was good-looking and had a fine set of shoulders from his days as a college footballer and Martin felt a pleasant tingle of anticipation in his loins.

“There are some rules, Dwight that I must first explain…” began Stephen with his big arm resting heavily on his shoulders as he walked him to the bedroom. 

***** 

The next morning Dwight was up and dressed early and eating his Shredded Wheat in the dining room and doing his bit to increase the value of Bunny’s stock when Martin wandered into the dining room. “Good morning,” said Martin. “Are you alright Dwight?”

“Swell, Martin, perfectly swell.”  Then he gave a goofy smile.  “Well, I am dreadfully tired and I have a lot of patients to see today.  I did have a nice time though,” he added shyly.

Just then Stephen entered.  He’d put on the pair of silk pyjama bottoms whose colour and disposition were well known.  “You’re not the only one who’s tired, Dwight.  I’m exhausted.”  He gave a wink to Martin as Dwight hurriedly swallowed a glass of orange juice and half a cup of coffee with no interval in between the two.

“Hurry up Bun, the cab’s waiting!” he called.  Bunny rushed into the dining room pulling on his coat and Moses appeared and handed him his brief case.

“Ring me boys, we might be able to have lunch downtown and we’ve got the dinner for the Chicago Civic Opera tonight.”  He dashed out the front door where Andy the liftboy was holding the doors and Dwight was already standing inside.

Stephen gave an inward groan.  He was not overly fond of opera, although the dinner might be good, he reflected.

“How was your night, Mala?” he asked.

“Quite nice, Derbs.  Bunny is very affectionate, but insisted on keeping on his ‘BVDs’ as he called them and I had to fish around to get at the good stuff.   What about you?”

“I don’t think our Dwight will forget it in a hurry.  He can be quite insatiable when he gets going and he must be full up to pussy’s bow this morning.  Do you want to go back to bed?”

“Will there be anything in it for me?”

“Give me an hour and some ‘shut-eye’ as they say and there might be.  Shave first, Mala, I don’t want your rough whiskers on my inflamed tunica dartos.”

Martin and Stephen spent a pleasant day doing things separately and together, coming and going from the apartment as if it were their own home and gossiping with Andy when there were no passengers for his vehicle. At one point they stood on the kerb at Lake Shore Drive and marvelled at the veritable Concours d’Elégance before them.  “Your motor is nearly ten years old, Derby.  Have you thought about getting yourself a new one?” said Martin.

“I like my Pan, Mala, but it is true that Louch can’t get the parts to repair it since the company went broke.  Maybe next time we come here I will look at American cars and compare them to our own.”

“We will be coming back?”

“Yes, Mala, I’d like to —maybe next year or the year after?  What about your Rolls Royce; it’s older than my Pan?”

“That’s true, but I think an aristocrat is expected to drive a British motorcar— like the King.”

“And you would never do something a British aristocrat wouldn’t do, Mala” said Stephen sarcastically, “like taking a boy from the village as your lover?”

“That’s quite different Derby.  Besides, you are like a Rolls Royce in your own way.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment.” 

***** 

The opera reception was held in the beautiful Auditorium Hotel, which overlooked the Lake on Michigan Avenue and was above the hall that was the current home of the company and now deemed to be inadequate for big productions.  Martin and Stephen were persuaded to wear their white ties and tail coats.  “Americans expect British nobility to dress like this all the time,” explained Bunny.  Carlo was pleased at this, as he liked his masters to be turned out well and fretted when they went out in just dinner jackets.

The driving force behind the Civic Opera Company was the millionaire Samuel Insull.  They had met Insull and his diminutive wife, a former actress, in 1917 when Insull was providing Chicago with cheap electric power.  Now he was promoting a new opera house with an office building above it.  The rents from the offices would allow the opera to continue to pay the highest salaries in the country to visiting singers.  It was a very Chicago solution.  Stephen talked briefly to Insull about the electric power ‘grid’ in Britain.  Insull shook his head at the backwardness of his former countrymen.

There was no opera, but the great Russian basso, Feodor Chaliapin and the Scottish-born darling of Chicago, Mary Garden, sang a duet from one.  Then there was music from an avant-garde opera called, mysteriously, The Love For Three Oranges and Martin recognised it as having been played at The Plunger’s studio some years before.

At the dinner, Martin was seated next to a charming middle-aged woman who introduced herself as Mrs Marion Deering McCormick.  “One can’t visit Chicago without knowing the importance of the Deerings and the McCormicks,” said Martin pleasantly.

“Yes, they call us the aristocracy of the Middle West,” she laughed, “but not always kindly so.  My husband’s grandfather was Cyrus McCormick’s brother and his uncle was the founder of the Opera Company.  The Deerings made farm machinery too and I might as well tell you we are also related to the Rockefellers.  But lest you think we are all money grubbers, my father was, like my husband Charles, interested in European art — I won’t say more than business, but at least equally.”

Martin was beginning to like her very well and her frankness and self-deprecation made him laugh.  He had to confess that while he owned a great many pictures, he knew little about painting and he decided to draw a discreet veil over his collection of jazz gramophone records.

“And you have been all over the United States, but never to Florida!” cried Mrs McCormick at one point.  “Why you’ve missed the best part.  Imagine the south of France, but warmer and less crowded.  You can swim winter and summer and eat oranges right off the trees.  Of course there are alligators and hurricanes…”

“Derby,” said Martin quite excitedly when the company started to hop from table to table when the coffee was served.  “Would we like a few days in Florida?  Mrs Charles McCormick has invited us to use her empty house there.”

“Tell me about it, Mala,” said Stephen who had been explaining cricket to the director of the Art Institute.

“Well it appears that the house belonged to her uncle James who recently died.  It is said to be the most beautiful house and garden in the whole country and it’s right on the water.  No one lives there now except the caretaker— but there is a village built for the estate workers, just like at Croome!  It’s full of beautiful things Mr Deering had collected from his years of travel in Spain and Italy.”

“It sounds as if you’re quite keen Mala,” said Stephen smiling.

“I suppose I am, and it will give me an excuse for missing Count Osmoschecu and Mr Weiss next week.  Mrs McCormick is asking Bunny and Dwight if they’d like to go— she knows Bunny very well.” 

***** 

It was all arranged quite quickly.  Mrs McCormick telegraphed instructions to the staff at Miami and Bunny and Dwight promised to take the following week off, even if it meant cancelling appointments.  Martin was most grateful and invited the McCormicks to Croome, when they were next in England.

Bunny and Dwight worked harder than ever for the remainder of the week and Martin and Stephen were left to their own devices, Stephen spending mornings at Bunny’s ‘exclusive’ athletic club and Martin reading the sensational Chicago papers and making mysterious trips down into the Loop.

“What’s the matter, Derby?” asked Martin as Carlo was dressing them for the theatre.  Stephen had an uncharacteristic preoccupied look upon his face.

“Mala, I have a confession to make: I’ve done something reckless.”

“What?” asked Martin, brushing Carlo aside so he could better look at his friend.

“Mala, someone at the Athletic Club— a broker—gave me a good tip for the stock market and I invested a $1000 in a stock called Anaconda Copper.  I don’t know how I could have been so reckless and I can’t imagine how I will tell Daniel Sachs.  I got carried away I’m afraid.  I suppose I can sell them again.”

“Don’t be silly Derbs, they went up three points today.  Well I have something to tell you too, Derbs: I’ve been reading about all these marvellous shares and how it was a golden opportunity to invest now that America was growing in all directions and I bought stock in Cities Service.  They’ve gone up five points since Tuesday.”

“Well, we are a pair!” said Stephen, laughing. “How much?”

“ A thousand.”

“Well, you’ll have to be careful, but I suppose you can afford a thousand dollars, Mala.”

“Not dollars, Derby, pounds.”

“Oh dear,” said Stephen and went very quiet.

“The trouble is I don’t even know what Cities Service does.”

“They’re a company that owns a lot of other companies in oil and gas have what they call ‘gasoline stations,’ your lordship,” said Carlo operating the whisk on Martin’s dinner jacket. “They lost a point this afternoon.  May I ask who put you onto them?”

Martin was a little huffy and was just about to rebuke Carlo, but he reddened and confessed, “It was Andy.”

“Yes I thought so.  He put me on to Goldman-Sachs and I invested $300.”

“Carlo,” said Martin in horror, “where did you get $300?”

“Oh I didn’t your lordship.  I only had to pay up $30 and when they go up I can sell them at full price—less the broker’s fee of course.  I didn’t like the look of City Services myself.”

“Carlo!” exclaimed Stephen, “You mean to say you have bought shares on margin?  With money you don’t have?”

“But if they rise…”

“What if they fall?  Then your broker will be calling you for the other $270.”

“Oh!” he said in sudden realisation.  There was a dreadful pause. “I suppose we have been rather foolish—Moses and I—he invested too, you see,” said a now-chastened Carlo.

“Carlo, I blame myself for being greedy,” continued Stephen.  “We’ve all been foolish, but if you get into trouble I will pay the call, Carlo.  You must promise to see me if that happens. You two must do as you like, but I am leaving my investment to rise or fall as it will and will sell at whatever price they’re at when we return to this country next.  If I’m lucky I will have paid for my trip.  In the meantime I do not want to see another board or hear another stock ticker.  I’m going to try to forget it if I can.”

Martin and Carlo agreed to follow suit and Martin made a mental note to cancel the instrument he had ordered for Branksome House. 

***** 

The four boys and Carlo who would act as cook and general factotum in the empty house boarded the Dixie Flyer at Dearborn Station on the Sunday evening.  It was a jolly train full of people heading for their ‘vacations’ in the state made famous for palmetto palms, orange blossom and the real estate boom.  Stephen was intrigued to hear that there were no state taxes.

The horrors of American trains were born with fortitude and humour.  Martin buoyed himself with the thought of the perpetual sunshine as he climbed into his awkward and lonely upper berth where he tried to undress behind the annoying curtains.

The next day, the cigar chomping men of business who occupied the ‘club car’ were treated to some entertainment put on by the railroad company and the owners of a large hotel in Miami.  Children and ladies were decently excluded and then a parade of attractive young ladies was held in a competition to find ‘Miss Personality’ who would go on to compete in further events to be held in Miami.  At first the winsome young women paraded in their fashionable day clothes, with an emphasis on legs, stockings and shoes.  Then, to better judge their personalities, they returned one at a time in bathing costumes, some of them twirling the handles of their Japanese parasols between their fingers in a suggestive manner.

As someone who was used to judging the Agricultural Show at home, Martin was asked to be an adjudicator, but he demurred in favour of Stephen who set to work with furrowed brow, making careful lists and scribbling cryptic figures alongside his entries. In the end, Martin saw that the winner was the fluffy dyed blond with shapely legs and a rather too well developed bosom (Martin thought) for a lass of such tender years. She received a satin sash and a number of prizes, which included a string of Ciro pearls, two weeks at the Biltmore Hotel at somewhere called Coral Gables and a gilt-edged Bible with concordance.  It was a happy choice as the young lady was the mistress of the Bible salesman.

That evening there was dancing to a wireless, which picked up local stations along the way. Miss Personality had several dances with Stephen while Martin gently reminded him to share his favours with the other girls who must have been disappointed.

The pine forests and cotton fields of the more northerly states gave way to bluer skies, palm trees and densely vegetated mangroves and by the middle of the next day they were in the boom town of Miami.  The weather was hot when they alighted in the blinding sunlight with all their luggage and it required three taxicabs to convey the party along the smooth concrete roads, past the endless rows of ‘Spanish’ bungalows screened behind lush palm-filled gardens that had literally been blasted out of the shallow coral rock and where the roots of great banyan trees had found a hold.

The other notable feature was the countless hoardings advertising charming houses for sale and, even more enticingly, new estates and indeed whole new cities, that were to be constructed, all, apparently, overlooking the ocean. Some of these signs were now rather battered and tatty and so were eloquent in their own way.

The house was in a district called Coconut Grove and was well known to the driver and they seemed to take some minutes to drive past the ornamental boundary wall, which was festooned with colourful climbing vines that only allowed tantalising glimpses of the splendours within.  They swept through impressive entrance gates and into a driveway lined with exotic vegetation and statuary and then the palazzo (for indeed it was one) loomed into view. Viscaya proved to be a beautiful Italian courtyard villa cleverly designed so that rooms opened to both the outside and the inside, with lovely arcaded loggias that allowed the breezes to penetrate deep into the shaded central square that was surrounded on all sides by the three storied villa.

The housekeeper took them on a tour and showed them to their accommodation, but told them they had a free run of the empty house.  She apologised for the absence of servants, who had been dismissed following the death of their master, but the house was kept in perfect condition.  Like Croome, room after room was filled with marvellous old furniture, paintings and tapestries, but these had been collected in just one man’s lifetime and Martin had to keep reminding himself that this Renaissance villa was less than ten years old and indeed the convenience of a lift and electric light and its solid construction were, in many respects, distinct improvements on something genuinely old.

The gloomy dining room was perhaps less successful than the light and breezy loggias decorated with mosaics and here a colonnade of tall marble columns had been made fast with iron stays as the house had suffered in the recent hurricane and there had been much damage when a great wall of water smashed into the unprotected structure.

On the garden front a terrace descended to a water garden like at the Villa d’Este, except that here the plants were not European and the great quantity of stone was local coral and limestone.  There were pools and grottos and fountains aplenty and at the end of an axis from the house was the ‘casino’— an outdoor room of excellent proportions and taste.

Equally impressive was the west front to the wide gold-and-blue expanse of Biscayne Bay where windows opened on to an even vaster terrace which stepped down to the sea flanked by two stone moles jutting out towards the sunset over the Miami skyline, with delightful kiosks at their termini.  The main feature, however, was a great stone ‘barge’ that formed a breakwater just off shore. With its balustrades, struts and decorated prow and stern it would have looked at home in Venice, perhaps hosting a reception for the Doge.  “I want to swim out to there,” declared Stephen immediately when he saw it.

They spent hours, undisturbed, exploring the house and grounds and Carlo managed to provide a meal of cold chicken sandwiches and beer— the first of many, which they elected to consume in the attractive, rosy loggia where the curtains flapped in the breeze off the bay.

They sat outside as the golden sun went down and the purple evening descended, still remaining very warm.  They moved from terrace to terrace and pavilion to pavilion, judging the merits of each while Carlo came and went with cooling drinks.

When it was time to retire, Stephen, who was slightly drunk and very happy, suggested that it might be best if Bunny and Dwight were to join Martin and him in the gigantic bed that occupied the room they had selected for themselves.  There were no objections and Bunny’s BVDs were disposed of— Carlo retrieving them the next morning from the terrace where they had floated down after Stephen had cast them out of the window.

The next morning Bunny, Dwight and Martin went to walk as far as the ‘village’ which Mr Deering had built for his staff and gardeners, for there was a productive farm dating from the time, just a decade ago, when Miami could not be relied on for supplies.

It was already hot at 8 o’clock when Stephen swaggered out of the bedroom and summonsed Carlo to draw his bath.  “I’m pretty sweaty Carlo; I think one needs to bathe three times a day down here.”

“Did you sleep well sir?” inquired the valet innocently.

“I won’t say I did Carlo, but I think I left everyone satisfied, if that’s what you mean.”

“Surely not everyone, sir.”

Stephen looked at him for a minute.  “Oh Carlo, have you been missing out?  I thought that perhaps Moses had been satisfying you in Chicago.”

“Yes, sir, he had and I him.  It was most…satisfying.  A satisfying arrangement all round, you might say,” he said as he turned on the taps.

“I’m sorry Carlo, but there was his lordship and then Mr Hoyt and then Mr Wilbur and then his lordship wanted to suck on me first thing this morning and…”

“Yes sir, I could hear it all through the door, but that is of little help,” he said mournfully.  “I suppose it’s unfair to compare your virility to that of Moses who is only 26 and it is probably too much to ask, but…”

“Oh Carlo, you devil!  How can you say that?  Leave the bath and I’ll see what I can do.”

Carlo grinned. “Perhaps we could use this empty bedroom through here, sir.” said Carlo opening a door.  “If you just stand there I think I know how to warm you up sir, if that’s the right expression in such a tropical clime.”

When the others returned they found that Stephen had gone back to bed and Carlo reported blandly that he had expressed a wish not to play tennis that morning.  Stephen emerged at last at 2:00 in the afternoon and put on his swimming trunks.  He dived into the Bay and swam powerfully out to the stone barge where he climbed up and explored its intricate design.

The Venetian barge became the favourite spot for swimming and lounging over the next few days.  Carlo was induced to row out in the skiff and set up for picnic meals.  He had been sent in a taxi into Miami to buy supplies and to find a bootlegger, which he did with little difficulty.

“Stephen, you should cover up.  The sun is very strong and the skin down there is very tender; you don’t want to burn,” said Dwight with professional concern.  Stephen grumbled but pulled on the pair of navy-and-white swimming trunks without a tank top that were his favourite.  “You should put on a shirt, Martin,” continued Dwight, “because your English skin is so fair.”

“He has beautiful golden hair and skin,” said Stephen with pride.  Martin, once again, did not regard this as an unalloyed compliment. “See how pink his nipples are?  I love that,” said Stephen with genuine feeling pulling aside Martin’s straps and enhancing their hue with a tweak. “And his cheeks are so rosy I just want to bite them,” said Stephen giving him a little smack on the gluteus maximus.  He saw that Martin was annoyed.  “Sorry Mala, I can’t’ help it; you are beautiful and it gets me excited.”

“Well he should cover up to protect his complexion. So should you.”

“We have nice skin because we don’t smoke.  I’ve found that people, particularly girls, who smoke cigarettes…”

“That’s nonsense,” said Dwight severely.  “Cigarettes can’t hurt you if you are an adult, in fact they can be good for asthma, for example.  Besides, I think Bunny looks very sophisticated when he smokes; he looks…”

This train of medical opinion was cut short by a frantic waving from the shore.  It was Carlo. He looked agitated and was holding an envelope.  “I hope it isn’t Anaconda Copper,” said Martin.  They boarded the skiff, except for Stephen who swam back.  In a few minutes Stephen was grasping the telegram in his wet hand.  He opened it and read.

“It’s Titus, Mala. You remember my stepfather,” he said to Bunny and Dwight. “He has died.” His mouth was set in a tight line and his eyes were brimming.  Martin embraced him, holding the big fellow as tight as his arms would allow, wondering what more could be done to comfort the cruelly bereaved.

To be continued…