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  “Interested?” she asked. “I thought so. It needs a lot of work, though. Sam’s never did have the kind of decor to attract clones—or anybody else, for that matter. The other thing is, the three apartments above the bar are ours, if we want them.”

  Valentine wrinkled his brow.

  “Ours free,” she went on. “I’m going to take the two-bedroom. Life is hard when you’re an ambitious, dedicated student of corporate law, and I’ve decided that a rent-free two-bedroom flat in an up-and-coming neighborhood is just the sort of thing to keep up my spirits during my first semester. You can have the one-bedroom. It’s a little smaller than the place you’ve got now, but you’re going to be so busy setting up the bar that you’re not even going to notice. And the good thing is, we can move in immediately—or as soon as I evict the gypsies.”

  Valentine groaned.

  “Are you interested?”

  Valentine nodded.

  “Very interested?”

  He nodded again.

  “Are you willing to sign papers?”

  He hesitated.

  “As I said, Noah is leaving for Morocco tomorrow, so everything has to be done tonight. I’ve already typed up the forms and I know a notary public who’ll make a hospital call and so forth. Listen, there’s really nothing to worry about. You’re only signing away your life. No matter what happens in the end, you won’t be any worse off than you are at this very moment.”

  He glanced at her skeptically and slowly lifted the mask. “I’ll sign,” he murmured huskily, “on one condition.”

  “What?”

  He gasped for the oxygen. “That you”—he gasped again—“give up smoking.”

  Clarisse, overtaken with horror, allowed the mask to snap smartly back. Valentine, breathing stertorously, fell back against the pillow.

  “You’re serious, aren’t you?” she said, aghast. “Give up cigarettes?” she whispered.

  “I’ll be tempted every time I see you light up,” said Valentine gravely. “Besides, I won’t be able to do it unless I know you’re suffering, too.”

  Clarisse stood up, thrust her shoulders back, dropped the book of matches to the floor, and ground it beneath her heel. She took the pack of cigarettes from her jacket, held it in both hands, and twisted it until the cellophane wrapping split and loose tobacco sprinkled out of the open end onto the sheet over Valentine’s legs. She went over to the trash can and ripped the pack apart, showering paper, cellophane, foil, and tobacco over Lana Turner. She took a deep breath and turned back to Valentine. “I swear, Valentine, not one more milligram of tar will smudge my lungs. I will be as healthy as the day is long. Come to think of it, I don’t think I could smoke in court anyway.”

  Linc, finished with his telephone call at last, pulled back the curtain once again.

  “Linc,” said Clarisse, turning toward him, “entertain this man until I return.”

  “I will,” he promised.

  “I’ll be back this evening, Val,” said Clarisse, her shoulders still thrown stiffly back, with the air of a moral martyr, “with Noah, a notary, and five thousand pieces of paper for you to sign. This is the beginning of a whole new existence for us—new careers, new styles of life, and new health for our poor, abused lungs.”

  “Goodbye,” said Linc. “It was nice meeting you.”

  Clarisse went to the head of Valentine’s bed, touched his cheek with her knuckles, and turned bravely away. Taking up her briefcase, she rushed from the room, ran down the corridor, and slipped between the closing doors of the elevator. Downstairs, she flew across the lobby and stiff-armed her way through the revolving door. Outside, she tripped on the curb and nearly fell under the wheels of the taxi she had flagged. Flinging herself into the back seat, she slammed the door shut and exclaimed breathlessly, “Take me to the nearest cigarette machine!”

  Chapter Two

  BAY VILLAGE WAS CHARACTERISTICALLY quiet on the crisp Saturday morning in October when Clarisse turned wearily onto Fayette Street. Valentine’s neighborhood was alarmingly picturesque: small mid-Victorian row houses exquisitely maintained, clean narrow streets, and baroque music from a first-floor flat the only sound. The sun was bright in a cloudless sky. Just out of sight of Valentine’s building, Clarisse yawned and dropped her cigarette onto the brick sidewalk. She crushed it out beneath the heel of her riding boot and flicked it into the gutter with the toe.

  Valentine’s lungs had cleared after eleven days in the hospital, and he had apparently remained firm in his decision never to smoke again. For one thing, he wouldn’t be able to afford to, considering the size of his medical bill. Clarisse, without the impetus of double walking pneumonia, was having difficulty maintaining her promise to him. When they were together, she often sneaked smokes in restaurant restrooms or leaning out of his kitchen window. She grimly noted that she never really enjoyed these cigarettes or smoked more than half of them. And Valentine often complained of the heavy, nauseating lavender odor from the air freshener that hung in her apartment.

  She now popped a green breath mint into her mouth and paused for a moment until it began to melt on her tongue. She nodded a sleepy smile to an elderly man walking a snarling Doberman.

  When she entered the narrow foyer of Valentine’s building, she regarded her reflection in the glass of the inside doors and groaned. She looked as if she hadn’t slept or changed clothes in twenty-four hours. In fact, this was the case. She straightened the coral sweater beneath her waist length leather jacket and pressed her thumb against Daniel’s buzzer.

  “Yes?” Valentine’s voice came immediately and with a cheery tinniness through the small speaker in the middle of the four mailboxes. It was early in the morning, and she had so very much expected a long delay in his answering that she was at a loss to say anything.

  “Who is it?” Valentine repeated patiently.

  “A victim of caffeine withdrawal,” Clarisse croaked at last.

  “Madam,” said Valentine, “this is not a drug crisis center.” A moment later the inner door buzzed, automatically releasing the catch. As Clarisse pushed through the heavy oak door, her eyes fell upon a single work boot lying in the corner of the foyer. It was much scuffed, but the thick red laces were new. Glancing around the hallway but not finding its mate, she placed the boot neatly atop an advertising circular on the small deal table beneath the entrance hall mirror. On her way up to the second floor, she noticed a number of coins of various denominations scattered over the carpeted stairs.

  On the second landing, Valentine’s apartment door was open for her. She went inside. Sitting on the edge of the sofa was a man wearing a yellow construction hat, a loosely fitting brown-plaid flannel shirt over a long-sleeved red T-shirt, and faded blue jeans that snugly defined his muscular legs. One foot was encased in a work boot with red laces, and the other showed only his thick gray woolen sock.

  He looked up at her and smiled. “Hello, Clarisse.”

  “Your other boot is downstairs,” she returned with her own smile, though she hadn’t the least idea in the world who the man might be. “I put it on the table.”

  “Thanks,” he said. “Thought I might have left it in the taxi.”

  “And your subway fare is scattered on the stairs,” she added, looking with curiosity down the narrow hall to the back of the apartment. “That was Valentine who buzzed me in, wasn’t it?”

  “Be out in a second,” Valentine called from the bedroom.

  The construction worker stood up, a little off-balance in only one boot. “Tell him I’ve gone to the market for juice. Does he like orange or grapefruit?”

  “Orange,” answered Clarisse. She stepped aside as the man stepped past her with a sheepish grin and went to gather up his coins on the way down the stairs. Below, she heard him as he struggled into his boot and then threw himself with a crash out the door.

  Barefoot, Valentine appeared in the hall, threading a leather belt through the loops of his jeans.

  “Who was that?” demanded Clar
isse, stabbing a thumb toward the hallway. “He knew who I was.”

  “Lincoln Hamilton,” said Valentine. He motioned her to follow him into the kitchen.

  “Good Lord,” breathed Clarisse after a moment’s reflection. “That was the man next to you in the hospital? I didn’t recognize him at all. Is the construction drag real?”

  Valentine nodded with satisfaction. “You want a cup of coffee, I assume.” He took three mugs from the cupboard.

  “Just give it to me in a hypodermic,” said Clarisse, sitting at the table by the window. “The caffeine will work faster that way. Did you two make this date in the hospital?”

  “No, I ran into him last night over at Chaps. I went there because I knew I’d come home alone. Attitude City. When somebody gets picked up at Chaps, the DJ stops the music, a woman in a red velvet harness swings down from the ceiling, the bartenders pass out cigars, and the bouncer pounds a star into the floor. Anyway, Linc was there, and the rest you probably don’t want to hear about in any kind of detail.”

  “I certainly don’t,” said Clarisse peevishly. “Valentine, I want you to know that while you were here doing whatever it was that you two were doing all night long, I suffered through a night of living hell. I was psychologically abused, placed in mortal physical danger, and cursed in an obscure foreign tongue.”

  “You had another date with that Swedish architect?”

  “No,” said Clarisse balefully. “I spent the evening evicting the gypsies. I’ll tell you something, Daniel Valentine: I am very angry with my uncle.”

  “What did Noah do?”

  “Well, if you remember—while you and he were having a fine old time signing agreement papers in the hospital, he casually mentioned that I would have the pleasant task of persuading an entire tribe of squatters to vacate the building they’ve called home for the past five years.”

  “I remember, vaguely. Maybe he should have done something about those people before now.”

  “Noah didn’t care! It was just a tax write-off for him. One of those upper-bracket dodges that nobody but a tax accountant really understands.”

  The door buzzer sounded, and Valentine went into the front room to buzz Linc inside. A few moments later, they both came back into the kitchen. Linc had bought not only orange juice but Danishes.

  Clarisse nodded pleasantly to Linc and then continued talking to Valentine. “Somehow, Noah made more money not collecting rent from them than he would have if they had paid on the first of the month.” Clarisse sighed. “I guess I shouldn’t complain about what I had to do—after all, he’s giving us the place free.”

  “Is this the bar you want to open?” Linc asked, leaning back and stretching out his legs. He pushed his construction hat back on his head.

  “I told Linc about your railroading me into this,” Valentine said to Clarisse. He took a bite of Danish. “When do we get to move in?” He looked around him doubtfully, as if unsure he was ready to give up his present apartment.

  “Not quite yet,” said Clarisse vaguely. “The former tenants left a bit of a mess. It may take a little while to get things in shape.”

  “How many people were living there?” asked Linc.

  “Seven adults, nine children. Of course that was just the top-floor apartment.”

  “You threw sixteen people out onto the street?” Valentine exclaimed.

  “Well,” Clarisse conceded, “maybe not that many, but they were moving so fast that I probably kept counting them over and over. But don’t waste your time feeling sorry for them—remember how long they’d been there without paying rent. Not to mention that half the neighborhood was out there cheering me on. These were not people who made a lot of friends during their freeloading tenure.”

  “You make it sound like you routed the PLO. Exactly how did you perform this eviction?”

  “Don’t make me relive it, please,” groaned Clarisse, slugging down the last of her coffee. “Maybe someday I’ll be well enough to tell you about it.” She staggered to her feet and wandered toward the coffeepot again.

  Linc nudged Valentine’s bare foot with the steel toe of his boot. “You want to show me around your new bar?”

  “Sure,” said Valentine.

  “Now?” said Clarisse. “Couldn’t you make it later? Like next month or something? I thought I’d spend a pleasant Saturday morning hiding between sheets. I tried to make it home this morning, but my feet started sending out distress signals.”

  “I’m a carpenter,” Linc explained to her. “I love to see unrenovated buildings. I think it helps to sharpen my technique.”

  “As far as I’m concerned,” said Valentine, “your technique is just fine.”

  “Maybe I can give you some ideas,” said Linc. “About the renovations, I mean.”

  “How much do you know about modern demolition techniques?” Clarisse asked and drained half the mug of coffee.

  Twenty minutes later, Clarisse, Valentine, and Linc Hamilton stood in front of the District D police station, staring across Warren Avenue at the two buildings owned by Clarisse’s uncle, Noah Lovelace. Warren Avenue was typical of many streets in Boston’s South End, where restored elegance stood in direct, jarring contrast to decaying ruins. Those who lived there claimed this contrast was part of the area’s charm; others longed for the hour when gentrification would be complete. The trio stood on the sidewalk in front of the large brick and stone station house. Policemen went in and out with spasmodic regularity. Once, a docile but handcuffed prisoner was wrenched out of the back seat of a squad car and hustled up the short flight of steps into the building.

  The two buildings owned by Noah Lovelace, and now in Valentine’s care, were the sole structures on one end of a narrow, triangular block formed by Warren Avenue, Tremont Street, and Clarendon Street. Not too many years before, the houses on either side had been torn down. Beyond the vacant lot on one side was the gray stone back of the Boston Center for the Arts, extending all the way up to Clarendon Street. On the other side, a small, abandoned playground was littered with beer cans, liquor and wine bottles, smashed hypodermic syringes, cans of Lysol and Sterno, cigarette butts, and stained sanitary napkins.

  The two buildings were four-story town houses whose ground floors had long before been given over to commercial ventures. A weathered metal sign for Sam’s Bar and Grill swayed gently above the shadowed recess of the wide doorway to the bar. The windows on either side of it had been painted black. A narrow doorway to the right of this opened onto a stairwell leading to the apartments on the upper floors.

  The storefront of the adjacent building was occupied by Mr. Fred’s Tease ’n’ Tint. Its large plate-glass window was dark. Behind it there was a suggestion of purple and lime-green decor.

  “I wouldn’t think he had much off-the-street trade,” said Linc, looking doubtfully at a large border of sun-faded Agfacolor photographs, circa 1963, of women modeling “exotic hairdos.”

  “You’d be surprised,” said Clarisse. “At any rate, the street is where most of his customers have their trade.”

  “Oh,” said Linc. “I see.”

  “You know,” said Valentine at last, “this city doesn’t really need another gay bar.”

  “Ummm…” Linc agreed.

  “No,” Clarisse granted, “it certainly doesn’t need just another one, but it sure could stand a really good one—the kind of bar you’d like to go to yourself.”

  “How do we know Boston wants a good bar? I could be back on the unemployment line by Christmas. Except this time I’d be neck-deep in debt.”

  “When was the last time you ever heard of anybody with a liquor license going bankrupt?” Linc asked.

  “That’s right. You could make money out of a Dempsey Dumpster if it had a liquor license,” Clarisse added.

  They crossed the street. The line of police cars had obscured their vision of the sidewalk in front of the bar. Perplexed, Valentine stopped short. In front of the bar was a scattering of broken pottery, a smashed tele
vision set angled into the gutter, and a pile of heavily soiled and torn garments wrapped high around the pole of a parking meter. Two large boxes of food lay split open and spilled in the recess of the doorway. Everywhere there was broken glass.

  “What the hell happened here?” asked Valentine.

  “This,” said Clarisse meaningfully, “was the battlefield.” She pushed through the wreckage to the door of Sam’s Bar and Grill, then took a large ring of keys from her pocket and began trying one after another. “I meant to mark which of these was which,” she grumbled.

  Linc looked up at the facade of the building. Some of the broken glass had evidently come from windows smashed out above. Dirty red curtains billowed through the broken panes.

  “I thought you said you got everybody out,” he remarked.

  “I did.”

  “Well, there’s somebody upstairs. I just saw them step back from the window.”

  “Me too,” Valentine said.

  “Third or fourth floor?”

  “Third,” Valentine and Linc answered.

  “Oh, that’s all right. That’s Julia Logan and Susie Whitebread. They have the third-floor front. You’ll be neighbors.”

  “Whitebread?” Valentine repeated incredulously. “How cute can you get?”

  “Well, I don’t actually think it’s her real name,” Clarisse admitted. “But it’s how she signed her lease.”

  Valentine eyed her warily. “I want to know more about this one.”

  Clarisse shrugged. “She claims she was a slave in a former existence and that Whitebread was the name her cruel master gave her.”

  Valentine groaned. “What you mean is that she’s a white woman with a black fetish. And I’ll bet she talks like she just walked in from the cotton fields, right?”

  “Something like that…”

  “Is the other one black? Julia?”

  “Yes,” said Clarisse uncomfortably.

  “I’m moving in next door to a walking cliché.”

  “They always pay their rent on time,” said Clarisse. “Julia repairs swimming pools for a living. She gets flown all over the country at a moment’s notice. She’s the best in her field.”