Page 12 of By Any Means

New theories—assumptions, really, at this point—writhed up and took root. August Wright’s closest friend. The two of them hardly ever seen apart.

(Two Wright heirs queer? Both of them?)

Hiram had some explaining to do. There, maybe, was how he had been able to get Laurie, “lowly journalist,” his invitation. Not with his name or his reputation or the Appeal’s; possibly with Laurie’s face. Or the promise of it.

But this wasn’t a basement bathhouse setup, it was Laurie’s goddamn job. His real name.

Laurie took a moment to feel betrayed, then turned and smiled anyway. “Investigation, Mr. Raberding? This is an afternoon call between bachelors.” He didn’t offer to shake hands. Neither did Raberding. High society didn’t shake hands, and one of them had ambitions of entering it.

“My goodness. In that case...” Raberding lowered his voice. “Library or parlor?” He tilted his head beguilingly, confirming everything Laurie needed to know.

“Which one’s the turret I can see clear from the Bowery?”

“From the Bowery?” Raberding’s lips twitched. “That will be the parlor.”

“That one.”

“By all means.” He led the way, not very far, and they passed the (shelves-half-full) library on the way. The parlor was round, with three windows on the exposed half-moon, all with colorful leadlighting, the one in center flanked by electric candle sconces. The mahogany theme continued there, too, trim and wainscoting; one electric, crystal chandelier glimmered overhead.

Raberding jerked the bell pull for the maid. She appeared almost immediately.

“Tea and coffee, please.” He sat, and turned to Laurie, cross-legged. “You don’t even have a pen and pad,” he teased. “You’re sure you are the journalist I was promised?”

“Who were you promised? No, don’t answer. Whoever he was, I’ll stand in for him.” Top-speed flirt. No reason why not. However unwillingly given, he had built-in rapport.

Raberding laughed, grin spreading wide. No, not even a full-color supplement-issue portrait could’ve shown how magnetic the man was. Ship-launching gorgeous, with deep, buried-treasure blue eyes.

“I was promised a sort of rough—brash—pushy kind of fellow. Now I think our Mr. Sumner was having me on. You are not any kind of rough, Mr. Tulley. Not with hair like that.”

“I feel a little set up myself,” Laurie admitted. He couldn’t tell if Hiram hated him or loved him. He knew Laurie’s tendencies, so maybe he thought of it as a boon. Either way, he was probably laughing still. Damn your scruples, L.

Refreshments were delivered: tea, cake, coffee, sugar-crusted digestive biscuits. When the maid had disappeared, Raberding spoke again.

“Not to worry, Mr. Tulley; the walls are a foot thick. Concrete. We can speak freely.” Other things freely too, maybe, from the gleam in his eyes. “I should explain. I don’t mean to ambush you.” He distributed tiny plates and tinier cakes. “You see, I was also promised discretion, guaranteed by a sort of… mutually assumed risk. You understand?”

Yeah. Hiram had been forthcoming, all right.

“Sure, I got that. Sounds like insurance. Or maybe that Hiram had an apoplexy and forgot we’re journalists.”

Raberding laughed. “But no. I’ll tell you whatever you wish to know about dear August. More than the police got, for certain, or any of the twelve other rags asking me about his death. Our ‘friendship,’” he said significantly. “I’m not wholly sure how it will fit into your socialist arsenal, but I trust you’ll know how to utilize the answers you seek.” He paused. “You do understand me?”

Laurie did. He said nothing. Rich men and their pleasant threats.

“Cake? Coffee?” Laurie nodded thanks, and Raberding paused to pour before trying again. “I should think our preference for men is not at all interesting, newsworthy, or… hm, relevant, to August’s death. Yes?”

Laurie would be the judge of that himself, thank you. But…

“I don’t out queers.” Even rich ones. “Everything else about them, sure. Not that.”

“There cannot be so many queers to expose in industry, anyway.”

“No kidding.” Laurie had thought it himself, half-joking: three glassworks heirs, all queer, it defied statistics. What the hell had been in the water the glass-baron sires had drunk, twenty, twenty-five years before? The city supply came from Croton, he’d thought. Maybe the elite imported some other kind—bottled? (Obviously, the water had nothing to do with it. Laurie was from farther upstate. Grown on well water.)

“Is that to do with being an anti-capitalist?” Raberding said curiously, leaning in. “Some kind of free-and-moral prerogative?”

“Um.” Laurie swallowed the cake. “No. It’s to do with being human.” And having an editor with an actual moral code that mostly aligned with his own—though he was beginning to wonder.

“Oh.” Raberding seemed nonplussed. “Then you must consider more than a few of our fellow men as beasts.”