The Erection Set

The only one there was a middle-aged butler obviously awaiting our arrival. I didn’t recognize him. “Fine reception,” I said.

Hunter nodded and hefted his attaché case. “You aren’t exactly a cause célèbre and I am simply a family retainer, I’m afraid. And, of course, Miss Cass here is an outsider. Nothing to require a formal reception.”

“Just tell me one thing, Counselor. Am I expected?”

“Of course not,” he told me. “Do you think I want to spoil all the fun?”

I grinned at him, then the grin broke into a taut laugh. I said, “I have the feeling you’re going to drag this out as long as possible.”

“You feel right, Dog. Until now, my relationship with the Barrin family has never been what you’d call fun. I think it’s about time I had a little.”

Sharon shook her head and stared at both of us. “Look, maybe it would be better if I waited in the car.”

“Kitten,” I said. “after all the trouble of sneaking onto Grand Sita. I think you deserve seeing what the Barrin clan is really like.”

The butler’s name was Harvey, and he took our hats, ushered us to the polished walnut doors of the library, slid them open ceremoniously and stepped forward to announce us.

Somehow the years fell away again for another brief instant and it was like peeking into the same room when something of momentous portent was being acted upon. There were other people then and Cameron Barrin would be seated behind the hand-carved desk. Now there were seven faces, five oddly familiar, and one was behind the desk. The butler’s voice had the same intonation old Charles’s had had and there was that same casual, almost disdainful turning of the heads as we were announced.

Harvey said, “Mr. Leyland Hunter, Miss Sharon Cass and Mr. Dogeron Kelly.”

It was funny. No ... it was damned well hilarious. Oh, they saw us all at once and were willing to grant Hunter a degree of recognition with supercilious smiles, then offer Sharon an expression of semipolite curiosity, but when my name sank in there were five people there who damn near shit in their pants.

Dennison stared at me from behind the desk, his beady little eyes almost popping out. Alfred stiffened in his chair and knocked over an ashtray. Veda had a drink halfway to her mouth, didn’t know what to do with it and set it on the floor like some harridan in a Bowery barroom. Pam and Lucella just gave each other open-mouthed expressions before they looked at me again.

Only Marvin Gates, the husband Pam kept on the marital leash, was able to smile. He was half drunk, impeccably dressed like an outdated Hollywood director and he raised his drink in my direction. “Ah,” he said, “the family skeleton has come out of the closet. Welcome home.”

Pam snapped out of her shock as though she were being awakened from a bad dream. The voice that used to be shrill was coarse now and she snapped, “Marvin!”

“Sorry about that, dear,” he told her. “Thought it was the proper thing to do, y’know?” He took another pull at his drink and grinned again.

“Don’t bother getting up,” I said to the room in general. I took Sharon by the arm, led her to a leather wing-back chair and sat her down. Behind me, I knew Leyland Hunter was watching the entire tableau with satisfaction, so I put on the rest of the show.

Somehow Dennison had struggled to his feet and was standing there, still glassy-eyed, and reluctantly held out his hand. “Dogeron ... I thought ...”

I squeezed his hand and saw him wince. “No, I’m very much alive, Dennie.” I ran my eyes over his pudgy body. “You’ve gotten fat, kiddo.” I dropped his hand, looking down at the remains of the slob who had made my life so miserable those long years ago. He was four inches shorter than me, weighed just as much, but it was all in front and back of him, bulging through his clothes. I said, “How’s your pecker these days, Dennie?” Behind me I heard a couple of sharp gasps and Hunter covered his laugh with a cough.

Cousin Alfred didn’t bother offering his hand. That snaky face of his glared pure hatred at me, but he didn’t chance staying seated and having me yank him out of his chair. He stood up, a lanky caricature of a ferret with the same expression he had the day he clipped me with his new roadster. He said, “Dogeron,” with a voice veiled in sarcasm, wishing I’d drop dead on the spot.

“Still got a sore ass, Alfie?” I asked him.

“That broken arm ever give you troubler?” he said with quiet venom.

I grinned at him, a nice, slow, easy grin that was all teeth and half-lidded eyes. “Not a bit, Alfie.” I bent down, picked up the brass ashtray he had flipped over and squashed it double in my fist. “See?”

Not a muscle moved in his face. “Good. I often worried about it.”

“I thought you would,” I said deliberately. “It makes me feel better to know you were so concerned.”