This is a work of fiction. Names of characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination and are used fictitiously; any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locations is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2011 by Dennis Milholland – All rights reserved. Other than for private, not-for-profit use, no part of this work may be reproduced, transmitted or stored in any form or by any means, other than that intended by the author, without written permission from the copyright holder.

Careful! This is a work of fiction containing graphic descriptions of sex between males and critiques of religion and governments.

Love It or Leave It

by Dennis Milholland

questions and comments are welcome. www.milholland.eu / dennis@milholland.eu

Thirty-three

(Wednesday, October 12th, Thursday, October 13th)

We‘re halfway through our second joint, when Dad and Marty arrive in a huff. Marty seems to be in attack mode, and Seph is smiling tensely.

They both take a toke from my joint, and Seph does the talking. “Dan, you and Raph will have to supervise the move tomorrow. They’ll be here at 6:30 a.m. I’ve written everything down, so there will be no confusion as to where the things are to be shipped.”

I look at the slip of paper which has an address on Sussex Square in Brighton. It’s apparently Seph's, and now our, home of record.

“Martin and I are leaving as soon as your mother gets here. She’ll need the use of Martin’s car until she can get a replacement.” He hands Bob the title. “You’ll be needing these so you can sell them, if you wish.” He then gives him the title and the keys to our car, as well.

Almost as an afterthought, he casually lays a large manila envelope in front of me, which I open and pull out one folder with two one-way plane tickets on TWA from Kansas City to New York, and again one-way tickets on BOAC from New York to London from the other. “The tickets say that they are open and the TWA tickets still are, so you can leave for New York whenever you want. I couldn't book you a seat because their booking office is closed. So much for Kansas City’s being their world headquarters. I did, however, just get through to BOAC’s booking office in New York, and you’ll leave New York at 10 p.m. on Monday, October 17th on BOAC to Heathrow, which they claim is London’s international airport. In my day it was Croydon, but what the Hell, we’ll just have to trust that they know where the Feck they’re flying to.”

Jennette looks skeptical at the surprise departure. “And why the rush?" She picks up her thin briefcase.

Dad grins again, tensed. “I’ve always had a hunch that this was going to happen someday, but had no idea that things would fall into place so perfectly. Time wise, that is. I’ve had a tipoff that the FBI is going to file for a warrant for my arrest. Probably tomorrow or Friday.”

“Charges?” Jennette pulls out her yellow legal pad.

Seph’s smile hardens. “I would imagine that they’ll be thumbing through the Espionage Act of 1917.”

Jennette apparently sees a career opportunity, since she raises her eyebrows in interest. “So, you do work for the Soviet Union.”

Seph, someone, whom I’m becoming increasingly confused about but increasingly fond of, shakes his head. “I may be spying on this country, but I’m not a traitor.”

She looks him square in the eyes. “You’re telling me that Britain spies on the United States?”

“And vice-versa. Don’t forget, we’ve been at war with you lot twice officially and once unofficially as a result of the Trent Affair during your Civil War. That’s more than you’ve ever been at war with Germany and far more than you’ve ever declared war on Japan. So, Her Majesty’s Government decided, many years back, to keep an eye on you.”

“On what in particular?” Jennette lights another well-endowed joint from her handbag.

“Well, since my cover has been compromised, I might as well tell you.” Seph takes a toke off the joint with pleasure and hands it to Marty. “Most, now, I’m talking about more than 70 per cent of all non-atomic parts of this country’s nuclear weapons are produced in or around Kansas City.”

“You have to be joking.” Bob now exhales abruptly.

“Didn’t you ever wonder what Honeywell, General Electric, Pratt and Whitney, Bendix and Westinghouse, not to mention the feckin’ Atomic Energy Commission located at the Bannister Federal Complex, just to name a few, all do here? And why is Kansas City the world headquarters for Trans World Airlines, even if I can’t get hold of them at this time of night?”

“And now that France signed a nuclear co-operation agreement with the Soviet Union yesterday, I suppose the FBI is roundin’ up anyone, who may have European connections.” Joseph sneers and looks at his watch and glances worriedly at Jennette, who is rapidly taking notes.

“And why the cover as a carpenter?” is the major question on my mind.

“A carpenter or handyman, which I was more often than not, working for a construction crew hired out to all the major armaments parts companies blends into the background and can gather information at his leisure.”

“And the musician part?” Raphaël seems to be almost subdued, sad even. Maybe he has doubts about Seph’s feelings for his father. Maybe he has doubts about everything.

“Son, music is a real part of me. Just like your father was. Just like your mother is. Just like you, Dan and Martin are.” He uncorks the whiskey and pours a small amount for everyone. “Not all of my life is pretend and slithering about in the shadows. Some things are real and sacred.” He distributes the glasses and holds his up for a toast. “To our new beginning."

While we nip on the whiskey, Seph starts putting Maurice's urn into a large BOAC carry-on bag. “And by the way, Raph and Dan, have the lads load up your things tomorrow as well.”

“Have you ever stopped to think that Raph and I might be coming back?” My tone is definite, although it is only a question. “After all, the rent is paid for two years.”

“Right, um, of course." Seph is at the end of his rope.

Luckily Bob comes to his rescue. “I can take care of things on this end and have everything shipped, if you don’t come back.” His face drops. “I guess they’ll be taking Marty’s stuff, huh?” For the first time, Bob has realized that his best buddy is leaving for good.

Marty is wiping tears from his eyes as a knock comes from downstairs. « Raphaël, Daniel, où êtes-vous ? » Maman’s familiar voice inquires as to our whereabouts.

« A l'étage, Maman. » Marty replies with only a hint of irony, indicating that we are all upstairs.

Steps are on the stairs, and Geneviève and Jordan appear at the top. « Qui est là ? Was that you, Martin, trying to disguise yourself ? »

« Pas de déguisement, my name is now Mongrain-Bourke. We’re all just one big happy family. » Marty grins and Geneviève returns the smile cautiously, then she greets the others.

Switching to English for Jennette and Bob’s benefit: “So, it finally happened, Jose, the FBI is after you?”

“Yeah, but not the reason, we all thought it would be.” Jennette smirks somewhat. “They’re after him for espionage.”

“Meaning?” Geneviève turns to Seph. “You weren’t silly enough to work for the KGB, were you?”

“Oh, good lord,” He gives me his ‘I-can’t-help-myself’ glance. “no, for the British government.”

“And as what?” Geneviève expresses bewilderment.

Bob jumps in. “He’s James Bond’s wee Irish cousin.”

“So, you won’t be wanted anywhere else?” Maman is tentatively relieved.

“In a nutshell, no. Only in the US.” Seph looks at his watch again. “We have to be going.”

Geneviève kisses both cheeks of Dad and Marty. “Paris in two weeks, then. Do you have Maurice?"

Dad holds up the BOAC flight bag. “Wouldn’t leave without him.”

They wave at the rest of us and hurry down the stairs. When the door closes downstairs, Geneviève turns to us. “Do you have your tickets and passports?” We nod that we do.

“Let me see your passport.” Jordan demands, so Raph produces his dark-blue booklet with the gold lettering out of his jacket pocket. “This is neat.” is little brother’s only remark as he leafs through it.

“That’s basically what I said.” Bob snorts and gets Dad’s whiskey bottle off the counter. He looks at Jennette. “Do you mind?”

“Go ahead. Seph left it behind.” Jennette lights another joint. Talking more to herself than to anyone in particular, she mumbles: "Think I’ll have a word with Seph’s landlady tomorrow about the eviction, and I want to be around for the movers.” She looks at Bob. “Do you mind if I stay over in Marty's room?"

“Go ahead. Marty left it behind.” Bob snickers and smiles at Geneviève, pointing at the bottle.

“Thanks, but no. We have to get home. It’s a school night.” She motions for Jordan to come along and smiles at us. “We’ll see you then on the 24th in Paris.” She gives us her perfunctory kiss on both cheeks and goes for the stairs pushing Jordan ahead of her. She hands Raph’s passport back and pushes Jordan again.

“What’s on the 24th?” Bob wants to know.

“Maurice’s funeral at long last, in a place that has never known segregation. It’ll be at Passy cemetery in a vault Joseph bought for all of us. See you.” She waves from the top of the stairs.

“So, you guys have a family vault in Paris?” Bob pours whiskey for all.

“That’s what she claims.” Raph is as dumbfounded as everyone else. He puts his passport back into his jacket pocket and looks at me.

I have to shrug. “We’re going to have to nail Dad down, when we get to England, and have him tell us our family history.”

“He never let on about any of this?” Jennette is still taking copious notes.

“No.” I shake my head, then look at her. “That would have defeated the purpose, wouldn’t it? Spying is about keeping things secret.”

“Seems to me, that Geneviève knows something.” Jennette defends herself from an attack of logic.

“No,” Raphaël is adamant and underscores his position by shaking his head. “She's a school teacher. They act like they know everything. That’s their job. She’s been using that routine ever since I can remember. Jordan thought that she had the house over on Norton bugged.”

Bob chuckles. “My mother can do that, and she isn’t even a school teacher.”

Raphaël takes a toke on the circulating joint, causing him to cough and spurt as he tries to exhale and yawn at the same time. I pull him in close and pat his back, thinking that something might be lodged in his windpipe.

He turns his face very close to mine: « Ça va, mon amant, c'est d'accord maintenant. » Obviously, he doesn’t care whether Jennette and Bob really get what he’s saying. « Je suis horriblement tired, and all I want is to cuddle with you. » Oblivious of the others, he takes my hand and leads me to our bedroom.

I give Jennette and Bob an apologetic look and hear Bob's voice through hormonal haze. "I'll lock up. See you in the morning."

As I try to set the clock radio’s alarm for five, Raphie is toying with my belt from behind. He finally gets it unfastened and lets my slacks drop with the thud, my wallet and keys make. My boxers are next to slide the length of my legs, being pulled down by my lover’s teeth, leaving me exposed, only in shirt tails along with a sports’ jacket and tie.

When I start undoing the Windsor knot, he puts his hand over mine. « Non, laisse ! », telling me that he, for some reason, wants me to keep the tie on. He kneels behind me and gently gnaws on my butt cheeks. His hands are travelling lightly up and down my legs just tickling the fuzz. As he runs his tongue across that highly sensitive patch just above my hips, my overly hard dick starts to ache and ooze.

His tongue is engaging the backs of my knees; his nimble fingers untie the shoelaces on my wingtips. He removes my shoes and lets me step out of my trousers and boxers, as he kicks off his own and sits on the edge of the bed, setting me astride his legs onto his lap with my back to his belly. His cock is drooling its abundant syrup, which he massages gently into my hole, obsessing about my entry: « J’aime ton trou, et il m’acceptera sans aucun problème. »

« Oui, mon amant, j'en suis sûr. » I whisper, confirming that he will, in fact, be able to enter me without any problems.

He lies back, pulling me down on top, and he spreads his legs with his knees elevated. His hands prop my feet on his knees, and I am able to lower my bottom slowly onto his drooling dick. His purring tells me that it’s as good for him as it is for me.

His strokes inside my butt are slow, deliberate, eventually picking up some speed but never reaching frantic, orgasm-inducing fucking. He is making love. He is sniffing the synthetic cloth of my sports jacket. He is licking my ear, as his long cock leisurely penetrates me.

Then, without warning, he rolls me off him. “We have to talk.” He gets off the bed and retrieves a wooden hanger from the closet and starts to remove his jacket.

“Don’t you want me anymore?” I ask half in jest, but the way in which he broke off our sex has me worried.

He jumps back onto the bed with his jacket still half on half off, kissing and licking my face. « Ne soit pas sot ! » He licks the oozing juice from my cock. “It’s just that we have to decide something important, and we don’t have any time.”

“And what can be so important, that you can’t fuck me?” I play the jilted lover.

“Our future.” He’s hanging up my clothes on top of his. “You told Dad that we might be coming back.”

Since my dick has gone limp, I sit up on the side of the bed and light a cigarette. “Isn’t that a possibility?”

“No.” He is adamant, as he goes to open the window above our bed. My smoke finds its chimney. “You have only a miniscule idea of what my life has been like all these years.”

I’m shocked and a little hurt. “Have I disappointed you?"

“No, no, mon amant. You’ve been my raison d être ever since I’ve known you. It’s not you. It’s here.” Raphaël seems as close to panic as I have ever seen him. He grabs and holds me close, despite the smoke.

“What do you mean?” I put the cigarette out in the ashtray on the night stand and hold him tight.

“When Maman said that Papa was going to be buried in a place that never knew segregation, it startled me. The truth startled me, and now it has started to worry me.” He is beginning to sweat. His voice has gone frail. “If something happened to us before we can get out of here, they would tear us apart. The hospitals are segregated; the cemeteries are segregated!” His voice gains volume and takes on a scared texture. “I’m so god-damned tired of being a fucking nigger, that I may well lose my mind, if we don’t get out of here fast!" Then he succumbs to uncontrollable fits of crying, hugging me as if in a fight for life.

There is no way of really knowing what the love of my life has been through since birth. I’ve witnessed most all of the persecution, and I’ve always tried to be a buffer between him and white supremacy. But, at the end of the day, I’m white myself and can never experience the hatred, frustration, discrimination to the same extent that he has and does.

For example, last season, the Rotunda Theatre produced Othello. My beautiful and talented Raph would have been a natural for the title role. He auditioned and was perfect. His intelligent interpretation brought in nuances of which Shakespeare himself would certainly have approved. Yves-Raphaël has the seldom gift of making Elizabethan English sound as if it were actually conversational and himself sound as if he were thirty years older than he actually is.

But, as we knew he would be, he was rejected, since it would have been morally incorrect to have a real black man play suggested love scenes on stage with a real white woman. Blanche put her foot down, even though the young woman portraying Desdemona had absolutely no objections.

But having said that, some of the curators, being prominent, moneyed, white citizens of the Greater Kansas City Area and financial backers of the theatre, didn’t think it would be appropriate. So, a white guy played the Moor of Venice, who, at dress rehearsal, and at least once during the run, forgot to wear the brown contact lenses to cover up his blue eyes.

“It’s settled, mon amant.” I squeeze his chest to underscore my words. “We’ll leave for New York tomorrow as soon as the movers have been here. And we’re never coming back.”

***

Through my daze and from under Raph’s shoulder, I hear the click and: “In WHB-land at the tone, it’s exactly five a.m.” An electronic buzz sounds. “The temperature reading at street level is 58 degrees. In Kansas City and vicinity for today and Friday, generally fair and mild, high today 66 with a low tonight of 50. The skies are clear, the barometric pressure is 29.87 inches with the wind out of the south southwest at 17 miles per hour, the relative humidity at 39 percent and the current temperature is five eight, 58 degrees. Here’s number 14 on the charts, Johnny Rivers, Secret Agent Man.” Before the rhythm guitar can start with its Bond-like sound, I pull the plug.

“Kill joy.” Raph mumbles under wicked breath and giggles. “Isn’t that disrespectful of our dad?”

“Whose dad are y’all talking about, there, Coon?” Busby’s voice sounds from the doorway to the living room. I look back over my shoulder, and there he stands, holding a gun. “Okay, Faggots, out of bed.”

For some reason, I am not impressed, neither by Busby nor by the gun. I have to grin to myself, when I see that he still has the safety engaged. So, I do as he says and get out of bed.

“Get your hands up!” He yells nervously.

I walk straight toward him. “Fuck you, you stupid bastard.” When I’m standing directly in front of the barrel, I take the gun away from him, and he makes no effort to resist. He smells as if he’d just had an accident in his suit pants. I think about screwing with his head by holding up the gun to his eyebrows and telling him that that’s where I shot his mamma. But, of a sudden, it all seems so futile, so childish.

I walk back to the night stand as Raph watches me with frightened eyes. I light a cigarette, « Calme toi, mon amant. », and go back toward the kitchen, brush past Busby who is still blocking the doorway. I don’t even blow smoke in his face. I just can’t be bothered. I pick up the receiver.

“What do you think you’re doing, Dan?” Busby’s aggressive lawyer’s tone is back.

I ignore the question and phone downstairs. Bob answers on the second ring. “Busby’s here. I already took his gun away from him. Think you should be in on this.” I return the receiver to the cradle.

Busby watches Raphaël get out of bed with a semi-hard on. He seems duly impressed and then glares at mine. Then he looks back at Raphaël’s, comparing the two, and more than likely feeling inadequate.

Raphaël comes into the kitchen area. He doesn’t have to brush by Busby. Busby makes sure that Raph doesn’t touch him. « Devrais-je faire du café ? » Raph poses the redundant question. More appropriately he should have asked whether he should put some whiskey in the coffee or not.

« Oui, ça serait bien agréable, mon amant. » I’m keeping my eyes on Busby while talking to Raph.

Busby gets his usual smirked look and I unlock the safety. It’s as sure as Mildred’s screaming Amen in church that Busby is going to make some sort of filthy, racist remark, and I’m seriously toying with the idea of blowing his fucking head off.

And I can tell by the way he’s opening his crooked mouth that something’s coming. “Can’t that faggot nigger even speak English?”

And I can tell by the way Busby hits the ground that I missed. Couldn’t have been by much though, since his right ear is bleeding.

“Holy Shit!” is Bob’s comment from the top of the stairs as he walks over to where Busby is sprawled. “He’s out cold, Albee. You sure as Fuck do take those racial slurs personally, don’t you?”

I reengage the safety and hand the gun to Bob. “Here’s a souvenir. I never want to touch one of these ever again. I need to take a piss, brush my teeth and get dressed.”

Raph, looking very pallid, hurries after me. “Thought you’d killed him.”

I take my love into my arms. “He isn’t worth the bullet. Anyway, we have to get the Hell out of Dodge, and I don’t want to get locked up because of him.”

By the time we get back out to the living area, Bob and Jennette have hog-tied Busby with clothesline and made breakfast. It’s a quarter to six; Busby is regaining consciousness, and I’m in no-nonsense mode. “Think I’ll just have coffee and a cigarette. Do we call the cops?”

Jennette shrugs. “Seeing that we got some two-bit Mafioso the last couple of times, I suggest that we don’t.”

Bob nods but has reservations. “What do we do with Busby, then?”

“Put the wee fecker in the trunk of his car and drive it off a river bluff on Cliff Drive.” is my suggestion.

Busby isn’t talking, but the panic in his eyes and the smell he's giving off reveal all.

Raphaël comes over with two mugs of coffee to where I’m smoking by the windows behind the couch. “Why don’t we just let him go?”

“What?” Jennette takes a sip of coffee. “And let the violation of a perfectly good restraining order go to waste?” She chuckles and takes a bite of toast.

“Yeah, Raph’s right.” Bob concludes. “He has to get someone to patch up the top of his ear before it gets infected.”

“On the other hand…” I let my voice drift off, as I reconsider. “No. You’re right, mon amant.” I snuff out the cigarette butt in the ashtray on the floor and go around the couch to undo Busby. “I will accompany you to your car, Busby. If you so much as sneer in Yves-Raphaël’s direction, you will have drawn your last breath. Do you understand?”

He nods. “I’m not stupid.”

“After your little performance here this morning, I find that debatable.” I watch him rub his wrists. “You will go to the emergency room at St. Luke's and tell them you got attacked by birds. Is that clear?" He nods again.

Both Jennette and Raph, who know that I think Busby's profile resembles that of Alfred Hitchcock, are trying their best not to laugh. Bob looks puzzled and then gets the connection. He does laugh.

“When do I get my gun back? I have a license for it, you don’t.” His voice is calm but his eyes are excitedly switching between Bob and me.

“As soon as Satan takes up figure skating.” is my evaluation of the time it’ll take for Bob to return it.

Busby nods to concede defeat. He’s looking much older than he did the day Mildred died. He seems unkempt; his suit looks as if he’d slept in it. He descends the stairs slowly, steadying himself as he goes, and he walks out onto the patio like an old man. “Have you seen Dad? He sold the house and didn’t have me draw up the papers.”

“Haven’t you realized by now, that Joseph isn’t your father?” I didn’t know that words could be so injurious. Busby looks as if I had used physical violence on him, not merely a statement of fact. For the first time, I feel sorry for him.

“Did he tell you that?” Busby is now sobbing quietly but trying his damnedest to cover it up.

“He did, when he explained why Mildred isn’t on my birth certificate." I think about putting my hand on Busby's shoulder but reconsider.

“Did he tell you who my real father is?” The man whom I’ve always considered to be my much older brother looks worn, tattered, defeated, and it slowly sinks in that I’m looking at a total stranger. His voice is almost meekly pleading with me. Another first.

“He mentioned that he is one of your clients. A hot-shot realtor, who was having a long-term fling with your mother but couldn’t marry her because of his rich wife.” I wave across the street at the unmarked moving van that is pulling up in front of Blanche’s mansion.

Busby seems to know whom I’m talking about. He hurries to get into his car, when he sees Jennette, Bob and Raph coming down the drive but does take time to roll down the electrically powered window once he starts the engine. "Thanks, Dan. I’ll see you around.”

I watch the brand new Oldsmobile 98 drive off, and I feel relieved at the prospect of never seeing Busby Bourke ever again. My next priority is to supervise our move. The driver is climbing down off his rig, and I cross the street to shake his hand. “Long time, no see.” I chuckle.

“Yeah, it’s been what? All of three days.” His grip is solid; his smile is broad, sincere, Midwestern, and he smells of lye soap, no deodorant but fresh perspiration at the start of an honest day’s work. “I was startin’ to feel neglected.”

And I’m starting to feel horny. “Can’t have that.” But I know that this is just manly bantering on his part.

“Where’s the stuff a goin’, this time?” I hand him the address that Seph gave me. He looks at it and seems a little saddened. “Guess this is good-bye, then, ain’t it.” And maybe I was wrong about this being just male bantering. “Comrade Joe was a real pal, but he always said that he’d be goin’ home, some day. So, this is it, huh?. Sure hate to lose him, though.” He pats my shoulder and squeezes it. My hormones are raging. I motion to Raphaël to join us. His sly grin tells me that he knows what’s about to happen.

The driver instructs the three other men to go with Bob to pack and load Marty’s stuff and I tell them to get the portraits and linen out of our apartment but leave the clothes. “Oh, and help yourselves to anything in the refrigerator.”

“I’m a hankerin' to help myself to som'in’ else.” The driver’s sweet breath whispers into Raph’s and my ears.

Blanche is nowhere to be seen, as I unlock the carriage house. The air inside is stale, the cupboard doors are all open and Seph's dishes and crystal stacked on the counter, ready for boxing. We take the driver upstairs and see that Seph and Marty have taken the clothes with them and stripped the bed before they left. They’re travelling with used bedclothes. Maybe it’s a comfort factor.

Our driver is losing no time. He has his hands on Raphaël’s fly. "Y'all know what a daisy chain is?" And we have to admit that we do not. His explanation is simple, and before we know it, we’re on the bed with our pants down, and he’s sucking Raph, I’m sucking him, and Raph is doing me.

His cock has not been mutilated at the hands of a surgeon, and, like Mack’s, Dad’s and Marty’s, it tastes salty and the texture under the foreskin is slick, not spongy like Raph’s and mine. And yes, I can suck my own.

“Oh, dear!” says the refined voice out in the hall. I turn my head to see Sir Richard with a glowing red face, not knowing what to do.

“C’mon, Richard. Get with the program.” I motion him to join us. “I’ve got this man primed and he tastes wonderful.”

He lays a thick folder with documents on the night stand and climbs onto the bed, taking the driver’s cock deep into his mouth. I unbutton his suit trousers and find an impressive member. Also still intact. He smells slightly perfumed but not unpleasant, and he tastes like vanilla ice cream. Now, that’s novel.

Richard is the first to moan and unloads a copious amount into my mouth, which does not taste of vanilla, but it is sweet like ice cream. Richard triggers me; I set off Raph, and he, in turn, makes the driver cum into Richard.

"Now, that’s a fond farewell, I shan't forget.” Richard is wiping his mouth with a handkerchief.

“Shucks. Y’all leavin', too?" Our driver sounds really sad.

Richard looks surprised and leans over to hug the man, whose cock he'd just sucked. "Not in the foreseeable future. Why, are you interested?”

“Maybe.” The man’s broad, sincere smile is back. “The name’s Ron.”

“Richard Ashton.” Richard extends his hand ceremoniously, but Ron throws him back onto the bed and kisses him passionately on the mouth.

“We can use our hands later for som'in’ else.” Ron chuckles and gets off the bed pulling his jeans back up. The sight and smell of Ron makes my dick go hard again. Raph’s follows suit. “Jaysus, Youngins, thought y’all jest came.”

“Ah, the delights of youth.” Richard waxes philosophically. “But it is time to tuck them away, Daniel, Raphaël. We have work to do.”

“Is that what your name is? Raphaël?” Ron asks softly.

Richard nods. “Actually, it’s Yves-Raphaël.”

“Such a pritty name for such a pritty fella.” Ron kisses Raph gently on the cheek. "I'm glad you were my first."

Raph gently strokes Ron across the face. “Your first colored guy?”

“Naw, you’re my first guy, period.” Ron blushes; Raph blushes. I’m smiling like a proud father watching them. And Richard’s dumbstruck. Ron smiles at Richard. “And you’re the first fella I ever kissed. And you know what? I’d like to do it again.”

Richard, without exception the most reserved individual I’ve ever known or could ever imagine, takes Ron into his arms and kisses him as fervently as, I’m sure, he knows how. “What time do you finish work?”

“Som’er round five.” Ron seems stunned.

Richard removes one of his private calling cards from the breast pocket of his suit jacket. “Six sharp?”

After we all take our turns kissing and cuddling Ron. Richard walks us across the street to our apartment. As instructed, the portraits are crated for shipping and our new linen is in a large pasteboard box, all bearing neatly lettered labels, reading Messrs. Y.-R and D. A. Mongrain-Bourke, Bourke House, Sussex Square, Brighton, Great Britain.

“Don’t we have house numbers in Britain?” Raphaël wonders.

Richard grins. "Not for prominent buildings."

Raph gives me a look of incredulity. I have to shrug. Richard points to the chairs. “Joseph told me that you have a bag of rather good dope.”

I smile and get up to go get the bag and papers. Richard is leafing through his thick folder. Raphaël is preparing coffee. Ever since Maman is supplying the coffee, I have forgotten how putrid Mildred’s was. Richard looks up from his papers. “My word, that does smell good.”

“It’s a Cajun blend from New Orleans.” Raph tells him. “My mother has her sources.”

“When are you planning on leaving?" For some reason, this doesn't sound conversational.

“Today, after the movers are finished." I tell Richard and Raph nods his affirmation.

“Could I persuade you to wait until we hear from Joseph and Martin? You can stay at my house. It’s exterritorial. Then I’ll drive you to our RCAF contact airport and put you on an RAF military flight home.”

“Exterritorial?” Raph vocalizes his need for an explanation.

“RCAF, RAF?” I don’t have any idea what Richard is talking about, either.

“The office, my car and my house are British territory, although they are located inside this country. We call that exterritorial, because the United States has no jurisdiction. And RCAF is the Royal Canadian Air Force and, of course, the RAF is the Royal Air Force. Since Joseph is or will soon be wanted for espionage in this country, I think it advisable for you not to leave from New York. The United States’ government still considers you their citizens and they may decide to detain you in order to force Joseph’s return.”