Caesar's Fall Read online

  Brad did his best to deflect attention away from himself by offering a toast and congratulations to one of his fellow detectives—his first partner—who was retiring from the force to move to New York.

  Elliott and Steve were the only male couple there. This did not escape the attention of one of the officers, who appeared uncomfortable when Brad introduced them. Noticing the man had his arm firmly around his wife’s waist, Elliott was strongly tempted to slide his around Steve’s, but resisted for Brad’s sake.

  The food more than lived up to Monestero’s reputation, and Elliott ate far more than he’d intended.

  “Hey, slow down,” Steve teased as Elliott got up from the table to head back to the buffet for another slice of ham. “The warden isn’t coming to get you at midnight.” Grinning, he added, “But grab me another roll while you’re there.”

  Brad seemed truly pleased by the tackle box, and the tickets Elliott had gotten him for the next Blackhawks game. He was a huge hockey fan, and Elliott had been tempted to get him season tickets but, like Cessy, didn’t want to flaunt the Smith family wealth.

  *

  They left the party around ten and returned to Elliott’s to spend the night. As they entered the lobby, two men had just been cleared by the doorman and directed to 40J. Somewhat to his surprise, Elliott recognized Button and Paul, regulars at the Anvil, a nearby gay bar. He’d met them there some time before but couldn’t recall when he’d last seen them.

  Spotting him, Button said “Elliott!” in a tone usually reserved for greeting long-lost friends. “What a surprise! Going to the party?”

  “No,” Elliott said, “I live here.” Button, he noted, was, as always, his impeccably groomed self, dressed in a very expensive suit and tie.

  They converged on the way to the elevators, and Elliott introduced Steve.

  “Well,” Button said, “we wondered why we hadn’t seen you in a while.” Giving Steve an exaggerated head-to-toe scan, he added, “Now I see why. Why go out for hamburger when you have steak at home?”

  Steve grinned as the elevator door opened, and they all got on. “So, how do you know Bruno?” Elliott asked.

  “Everyone knows Bruno,” Paul volunteered, the roundness of his face accented by the roundness of his wide-open eyes, which always gave the impression he had just been surprised. “He’s like a shooting star, suddenly appearing out of nowhere to streak across the firmament of the Chicago gay scene.”

  Elliott and Steve exchanged a quick glance, and Button said, “Once a publicist, always a publicist. And he’s hardly a shooting star. I’ve known Bruno for centuries.”

  “Maybe so,” Paul said firmly, “but that’s before he won the lottery.”

  “He won the lottery?” Steve asked, obviously impressed.

  “And not just any lottery,” Paul said. “The MegaBucks, no less! Fifty-nine million!”

  “Wow!” Steve said.

  The elevator stopped at 35, and the door opened.

  “Why don’t you come up with us?” Button asked. “I’m sure you’d be welcome.”

  Elliott, standing in the door to prevent its closing, said, “Bruno did invite us, but we had a birthday party and had to decline.”

  “It’s not too late,” Paul suggested.

  Since Steve had already stepped out of the elevator, Elliott looked quickly to him for confirmation, then said, “Not tonight, I don’t think. Maybe next time.”

  They all exchanged smiles and waves as the door closed, and Button said, “Don’t be a stranger!”

  *

  “Button?” Steve asked as they walked to Elliott’s unit.

  Elliott grinned, taking his keys out of his pocket.

  “I have no idea where he got the name, but I like it. It fits him.”

  Steve just shook his head.

  Feeling Steve might be curious as to how he knew them, as he unlocked and opened the door he continued, “They’re regulars at the Anvil up on Granville. I met them there a while back. Nice guys. Button manages a men’s clothing store on Michigan Avenue. I hadn’t known that Paul was a publicist.”

  “And you didn’t know this Caesar guy had won the lottery?”

  “I didn’t have a clue. But that might explain why he seemed a little out of his element when I first talked to him on the elevator.”

  Going into the living room, Elliott turned on a small light and the stereo system. The overture to The Man of La Mancha subtly filled the room.

  “Want a drink?” he asked.

  “In a minute.”

  They sat on the sofa, facing the sliding glass doors to the balcony and looking out over the galaxy of lights of the city spread out in front of them. It was a sight, as Elliott had told Bruno, he never tired of.

  Steve reached over and took Elliott’s hand.

  “I don’t know whether to envy Caesar or to pity him. From what I’ve heard, winning the lottery isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.”

  “It’s nice to have money,” Elliott agreed, “as long as you know how to handle it. But to have…what did Paul say it was?…fifty-nine million? dumped in your lap out of the blue, that can’t be easy. I just hope he’s smart enough to deal with it. Somehow, I suspect that an endless string of parties isn’t exactly a practical way to do it. Maybe having a guru might help him.”

  “A guru?”

  “Guru, sensei…a long story. I’ll tell you about it if you’re interested. But how about that drink first?”

  *

  Steve left for home at around two o’clock Sunday afternoon, wanting to get back to his painting, and Elliott decided to do a load of laundry. His cleaning lady, Ida, normally did it, but when Steve stayed over, the sheets and towels sometimes got a little extra workout, and he did them separately, leaving the rest for her.

  He’d just started the washer and was heading for the elevator when a man came in with a laundry basket piled so high Elliott couldn’t see who was carrying it. When the basket was set down on a folding table, he saw it was Bruno Caesar, looking more than a little tired.

  “Elliott! Hello!”

  “How was the party?” Elliott asked with a grin, indicating the towering pile of laundry.

  “Wonderful!” Bruno started tossing laundry into a machine. When it was full, he moved on to the next. “I’m so sorry you couldn’t make it. I love parties, meeting new people, making new friends. I’ve always been something of a recluse, and now…well, I’m learning how to really live.”

  Not knowing how to respond, Elliott said nothing.

  “You just have to come next Saturday,” Bruno continued, filling a third machine then retrieving a large bottle of laundry detergent from the bottom of the basket.

  Elliott wasn’t quite sure why the invitation caught him by surprise, but it did.

  “Uh, that would be nice,” he said. “I’ll have to check with Steve, but it sounds like fun.”

  Bruno smiled reflexively. “Yes, they are fun. They aren’t wild or extravagant—no naked go-go boys or couples dragging one another off to the bedroom for sex. That’s not me. They’re just…well, nice.” As he took out his laundry card and went from machine to machine turning them on, he said, “Are you busy right now?”

  “Not until the washer’s done.”

  “Can I invite you and Steve up for a cup of coffee? I just made a pot before coming down here, and I could use a cup right about now.”

  “Steve left for his place a while ago, but, sure, I could go for a quick cup.

  He knew his acceptance had more to do with his curiosity to see what Bruno had done with his unit—which he knew had a floor plan identical to his own—than his desire for coffee.

  “So, tell me about your work,” Bruno said as they got on the elevator. Elliott detected the scent of Old Spice, his own favorite aftershave, though his mother was horrified he would choose something “so common,” as she called it.

  “There’s not much to tell,” Elliott said. “I renovate small older apartment buildings with a lot of chara
cter and sense of history and bring them back to their original glory. Chicago’s losing its architectural heritage at a really alarming rate, and I’m just trying to preserve some of it.”

  “That sounds like a most worthy endeavor,” Bruno said. “You’d love the building I left to move here. I’d been there twelve years and really loved it—I don’t think I realized how much until I moved. Of course, I love it here, but I still don’t really think of this as home yet…not like my last place.”

  “Then why did you move, if you don’t mind my asking?” Elliott asked, although he was pretty sure winning the lottery had a lot to do with it.

  “The owner’s been talking of selling,” Bruno explained, “and I didn’t want to risk being evicted if it he did. Besides, I guess I thought it was time for a change.”

  They reached the fortieth floor and went down the hall to Bruno’s unit. In the years Elliott had lived in the building, he’d only been to one other unit that was a duplicate of his own, and it had been an almost surreal experience to see what was, in effect, his own home with someone else’s furniture and decor.

  Bruno also used the door to the kitchen rather than the front door. Both kitchens were identical except for the small appliances and a number of empty liquor and champagne bottles, glasses, and bowls lining the counters. The dishwasher door was partly open to reveal what appeared to be freshly washed dishes. One sink was filled with soapy water, and a dish rack on the counter held a large number of washed glasses.

  “Sorry for the mess,” Bruno said, “but my…overnight guest…didn’t leave until after noon, and I haven’t gotten everything back together yet. Why don’t you go into the living room and have a seat while I pour the coffee?”

  Setting his laundry basket against the kitchen door, Elliott strolled into the living room, trying to take in as much of it as he could without being obvious. Going to the balcony doors, he was intrigued by the way the view was subtly different from his own. Approximately fifty feet in additional height did make a difference, if only a minor one.

  “Cream and sugar?” Bruno called from the kitchen.

  “Yes, please.”

  Turning back toward the kitchen gave him a chance to take in the whole living/dining area, and again he experienced an oddly surreal sensation. The carpet was a different color than his, and the hallway to the bedrooms was carpeted rather than the hardwood flooring in his unit. The furniture was a strange mix of obviously brand new—and expensive—and older pieces apparently brought from Bruno’s former apartment. The paintings tended toward the modern, and he wondered what Steve would think of them. A large baker’s rack beside the sliding glass doors to the balcony held a number of African violets and spider plants and some species Elliott couldn’t identify.

  “Here we go,” Bruno said, coming across the room with two mugs. “Do you use your balcony much?” Elliott asked. “It’s still a bit cool out there, but I use mine constantly when the weather allows.”

  Bruno smiled. “I’m afraid I never use it. I love the view—from inside looking out—but to actually go out and stand at the railing? It sounds strange, I know. I’ve got three balconies, and I’ve never set foot on any of them. I tried stepping out onto this one once, but couldn’t do it.”

  They moved to matching leather wingback chairs with the distinctive smell of new leather, which creaked as they sat.

  Elliott found it interesting that Bruno had never mentioned the lottery, and while he was curious, he didn’t want be the one to bring it up. They talked, instead, of general things. Bruno had left his job as an actuary at a large insurance company in the Loop three months previously, and while he didn’t give a reason, Elliott assumed it had coincided with his winning the lottery. He did make frequent references to how much his life had changed “recently,” and Elliott clearly sensed confusion and vague disquiet.

  When Bruno asked about his family, Elliott gave the basics without mentioning their wealth. Only his reference to having grown up in Lake Forest gave an indication of money.

  Bruno, he learned, had been born and raised in nearby Rockford and had gone to Northern Illinois University, then returned home to care for his ailing parents. He had an older brother with whom he was apparently not close, though he seemed very fond of his sister-in-law, and had moved to Chicago after his parents died within a year of one another. Elliott got the impression he hadn’t had much of a chance to have a life of his own, which might be why he’d mentioned being somewhat reclusive, and that he apparently didn’t have many—if any—real friends.

  “So, tell me how you came to have a sensei,” Elliott asked. “I gather you’re into Eastern philosophy?”

  Bruno smiled. “Not really. I mean, not until recently. I met Sensei quite by accident—at a stamp show, of all places. I had just cashed in my lottery ticket the week before, and I was still pretty wound up, trying to come to grips with it all. We got to talking, and he gave me his card. He believes stamp collecting is an excellent form of meditation, and calming for the mind. I called him, and we try to get together two or three times a week for our sessions. I really can’t describe how grateful I am to him for helping me cope with all this. I don’t know what I’d do without him.”

  “Exactly what kind of doctor is he, if I may ask?”

  “He has his Ph.D. in metaphysics.”

  Elliott had no idea there was such a thing, but let it pass with a simple “Ah.”

  “You really should consider attending one of his seminars. They’re very popular. You can find a schedule on his website.”

  Before either of them could say anything else on the subject, the grandmother clock on the curio-filled étagère struck the quarter-hour, and Bruno said, “Ah, time does fly when you’re having fun. We’d better go check on the laundry. Yours must be done by now.” As they passed the étagère, he paused and picked up a framed photo. “By the way, here’s a picture of my old building.”

  He handed Elliott the picture—Bruno standing in front of a seen-better-times-but-still-striking old Victorian. The first floor had obviously originally been a storefront, but what caught Elliott’s attention was that what little could be seen of the second floor showed it had an ornate turreted corner, typical of many buildings of the period. There was some sort of bas-relief writing at the bottom of the turret, which he couldn’t make out because of the curve and angle of the photograph, though he could see the number 96.

  “Where is this place?” he asked.

  “On Armitage, not too far from the Brown Line.”

  “How many units?” He handed the picture back to Bruno, who replaced it on the étagère.

  “It’s basically a two-flat, not counting the ground floor,” he said as they moved through the kitchen, where Elliott picked up his laundry basket. “It was originally the neighborhood grocery. It was converted to an apartment, and the owner lives there now. Why? Do you think you might be interested in it? I can give you his number, if you’d like.”

  They’d reached the elevator and pressed the button when Elliott said, “Well, I don’t know. I hate to just call people and ask if they’re planning to sell. That can send the wrong message and make them think I’m anxious to buy—which, in turn, tempts them to raise the price if they were thinking of selling.”

  The elevator arrived, and they got on, pressing the button for the laundry room on the fourth floor.

  “Would you like me to call him and see if he’s still thinking of it? I won’t tell him I talked to you.”

  Elliott shrugged.

  “Tell you what…why don’t I take a drive by and get a look at the place first? Then we can take it from there.”

  “Sure,” Bruno replied as the elevator came to a stop on 30 to admit a red-haired woman with a whippet. They all exchanged greetings and rode the rest of the way to 4 in silence.

  *

  The week passed quickly with the usual number of minor crises at work, phone calls to suppliers and subcontractors, evening calls to and from Cessy and Steve and
various friends. Because both Jesse and Adam worked during the day, his personal contact with them was limited to occasional after-work meetings to consult on details about plumbing and electrical fixtures, siding, doors, windows and appliances. Luckily, they deferred to him with most of his recommendations. He didn’t have to worry about either carpeting or painting, which Jesse and Adam said they’d decide on and take care of themselves just before they moved in.

  He’d mentioned Bruno’s former building to Steve and suggested they might drive past it Saturday on the way to an art store Steve wanted to check out. He heard nothing further from Bruno, but when Steve asked Thursday night if the party was still on for Saturday, he said he had no reason to think otherwise.

  “Even if it’s canceled,” he said, “I’m sure we can find something to keep us entertained.”

  “Yeah,” Steve said. “Maybe something involving latex, a sling, and whipped cream.” They both laughed.

  “Well, thank God you and I are normal.”

  The minute he said it, Elliott felt a quick rush of guilt and wondered for the hundredth time why he’d not told Steve about John.

  It certainly wasn’t as though he didn’t think Steve wouldn’t understand—Steve had often expressed his belief in the paranormal. It was just that coming right out and telling someone—anyone—that he had frequent visits and dream-chats with someone who had died more than a year before was something Elliott simply couldn’t bring himself to do just yet. He’d convinced himself it was similar to what he’d told Cessy whenever she tried to push him into taking his relationship with Steve to the next level—there was no rush. He’d have to tell him about John sometime…just not now.

  While they’d fallen into a comfortable routine of spending most Friday and Saturday nights together, each seemed to be careful not to want to give the other the feeling of being pressured, or of getting into too much of a pattern. So, when Steve said he wanted to spend Friday evening finishing his current painting, Elliott took it in stride, and the conversation ended with the agreement he would pick Steve up Saturday afternoon around four so they’d have ample time to go to the art store, drive by the building on Armitage, and have dinner at Elliott’s before going to Bruno’s party.