King Perry Read Online Free Page B

jokingly asks me if I want a job, but then he says, “Seriously, was all that stuff true about the Mangin paintings?”
    While he flutters around the desk creating sales bills, I take some of their squiggly-scripted stationery and dangle the pen over the blank page, waiting for the right words to emerge. While considering, I realize my decision is already made: Perry is most definitely the man I introduce to the Human Ghost; he’s the one. Goose bumps rise on my arm.
    In regular lettering, I write about how much I love Siren Song and how I wish I had the resources to purchase it myself. I suggest he may want to reprice his father’s paintings, as they might be worth more than he realizes. On the second page, in block letters I write a variation of my standard invitation.
    My eyes linger over the words “PACK A SMALL WEEKEND BAG.”
    Who am I kidding? He won’t pack a weekend bag.
    But he’ll think about it.
    Not packing one will give him the freedom to show up on the pier, convinced he’s not coming with me. The weekend bag line works, a tried-and-true commitment test. Always tells me how hard to push.
    I finish my business and tip forty dollars to Cute Twink, who is now Jason, Vin. Jason. Remember him. He promises to call Perry with my exact specifications. We make plans for my follow-up.
    As I head toward the gallery exit, I wonder how to best reach Mr. Perry Mangin, investment banker. Will he forgive my little speech? Will he show? Maybe I’ve overestimated our connection. Perhaps I am not the one to reach him. I probably assume too much. I’m like that sometimes.
    Don’t think that way, Vin. Love this man.
    Past experiences race through me, recycled motifs with new possibilities. My brain flashes to racing through an Illinois cornfield, slogging through New York sewers, and of course, dancing with kings at Burning Man. Colors whisper; names appear and then dissolve. Blue like his eyes? Chili red? Could we do something together in North Beach, like at Coit Tower? And there’s always this neighborhood.
    As I emerge into the Castro night, three or four androgynous gigglers are forced to alter their course around me, and one of them mutters, “Damn bears.”
    His friends laugh.
    Welcome to San Francisco.
    Help me, kings, guide me. Give me enough humility and grace to find Perry Mangin, the painter’s son. If we’re meant to spend the weekend together, please help me pull this off, figure out how to make this work. I got a hit back in the gallery. Does that king name fit with our launching point from Pier 33? Oh yes, yes it does. I do believe we have a king name, ladies and gentlemen.
    Wow, that drag queen is gorgeous. As she saunters by, I can’t resist saying, “You look fantastic.”
    She says, “I know, sugar.”
    Practical concerns.
    I need weather reports, a few more backpacks, and a homeless shelter for Saturday. Things to buy: night vision goggles, a dozen alarm clocks, PVC piping or something similar. King Aabee is necessary this weekend, which is awesome. I love King Aabee. A giant birthday cake? Hang on, let’s rework this, Mr. Vanbly. No need to race. Let the landscape rearrange itself.
    It’s fun to be a surrealist.
    But seriously, where the hell am I going to find a duck?

Three

     
    R OUGHLY ten minutes before 6:00 p.m. on Friday, Perry Mangin, investment banker, strides toward me with what I must describe as vigor. I like the word vigor . It makes me think of an English clergyman pedaling a bike.
    I try to see how Perry comes across to his clients: strong-jawed, trustworthy, kind face. He’s that kind of handsome you want to trust, a regular guy who is accidentally handsome. As he draws closer, I see his kindness has been replaced by a distant menace.
    Wait. That’s a vicar, not vigor.
    Perry’s stride conveys his confidence that he’s definitely not going with me, so this should only take a moment. Unless he is going with me. But no, no, he’s sure he’s not doing this. No weekend bag