Object of Desire. William J. Mann

approach but continued talking with two older men, pretending he hadn’t.

      “Hello,” I said to the group. “I hate to interrupt….”

      “Well, we’ve been hoping you might do just that all night,” said one of the older men. “Or at least, he has.”

      The man’s eyes twinkled. He wore a black double-breasted blazer with a pink silk pocket puff. I assumed the “he” being referenced was blondie.

      “Great,” I said. “Because I want to introduce you to my great friend Randall here. Randall Drew, prominent orthodontist of Century City, collector of East Asian artifacts, and all-around good guy, meet…” I gestured around at the three men.

      “I’m Thad Urquhart,” said the man with the pink puff.

      “Jimmy Carlisle,” said the second older man.

      Our eyes turned to the young blondie.

      “Jake Jones,” he said. If his eyes were still on me, I didn’t know it. I kept mine elusive.

      Randall was shaking each of their hands, leaving Jake for last. “I’m sorry for my bold friend,” he was telling them. “I hope we didn’t intrude.”

      “Not at all,” said Thad Urquhart, apparently the spokesman for the group. “We enjoy meeting new people, don’t we, Jake?”

      Jake didn’t reply. And I refused to look at him to see his expression.

      “But we didn’t get your name,” Thad said to me.

      “Call me Ishmael,” I told them, and before anyone could stop me, I lifted my hand in a gesture of farewell and shouldered my way back into the crowd.

      Randall was on his own now.

      And I was on my way back to the bar.

      Friday night happy hour was always packed, and this night was no exception. A crush of men clustered around the bar, waiting for drinks. It was easy to understand why the line at this station was longer than any of the others. Apparently, much of the crowd agreed with my assessment of the bartender’s beauty.

      He was young, perhaps very young, but with none of the childish insignificance of Jake Jones. He moved with a determined concentration, mixing drinks with an intense, uncanny focus. Not once did I see his lips, full and pink, stretch into a smile. From his black tank top protruded lean, muscled arms, their lower halves covered with soft dark fuzz. A cleft indented his chin. His hair, almost black, was artfully messy; his cheeks were covered with carefully clipped dark whiskers. At the very base of his neck, a small tattoo of an eagle spread its indigo wings.

      But what I couldn’t see—and longed for—were his eyes.

      “Danny Fortunato?”

      I turned. A man was approaching me, a short, slight man of maybe fifty-five. A toothy, eager smile seemed to precede him.

      “You are Danny Fortunato, right?”

      “Yes,” I said, studying him. I didn’t know his face.

      “That’s what I thought,” the man was saying, extending his hand. “I’m a huge fan. I’m staying at one of the resorts in Warm Sands, and the innkeeper told me you often come to happy hour on Fridays. I was hoping I’d bump into you, and well, here you are.” His smile extended, revealing more teeth. “I’m a huge fan.”

      I shook his hand. “Thank you.”

      “I just saw the cover of Palm Springs Life.” His face was reddening. “I’m an artist, too, though certainly not of your caliber….” He was still pumping my hand. “I’m not anywhere as good as you are. I’ve bought several of your prints, in particular the whole series you did for Disneyland. That was amazing! Hollywood classic!”

      “Thank you,” I said again.

      “Do you still sell your prints in retail? Or is it all now just by commission?”

      I wanted to get away, get to the bar, discover the eyes I wanted to see. But this man wouldn’t let go of my hand. He was gripping it so hard, I was losing feeling in it.

      “Mostly commission now, yes,” I told him, hoping the conversation would end there. “Hotel chains and restaurants…you know, that sort of thing.”

      “Oh, if only I could ever get to that point,” he said, “when I’d be well known and well regarded enough to get commissions and just live off those, and not have to crank out so many prints—and you’re so much younger than I am!” He sighed, drawing in closer. “I do mostly giclée prints myself. They’re sold in a few galleries in L.A. How did you ever get a commission with Disney?”

      “An old friend works for them,” I said, moving my fingers deliberately. He finally let go of his grip. I rubbed my hand.

      “Connections!” he crowed, nodding. “That’s what I need. But maybe what I really need is your talent!” He laughed, a loud, honking sound. “I really am a fan. Your work is so, so powerful. The print of the Malibu coast with the sun setting—gorgeous!”

      And then he literally shivered. Stood there, wrapped his arms around himself, and shook back and forth. I wanted to laugh out loud. That particular print was a joke as far as I was concerned. Sunsets were the cheap and easy way to make a buck. And in the last year, they’d made me a lot of bucks. More bucks than I’d ever made in my whole life. Not bad for a guy who’d never gone to art school, whose higher education consisted of a few part-time community college classes. But what did I need a degree for? I’d take a picture of a sunset, fix it up in Photoshop, and soon prints of it were hanging in doctors’ offices and model units of condo developments. They weren’t art. They were commodities. Which was fine with me. They served a purpose. They made me some money. They just didn’t deserve shivers.

      I knew that I was being ungrateful. The man was paying me a compliment, and that was kind of him. I appreciated the recognition. I’d spent too many years driving the smoggy streets of L.A. between auditions not to enjoy my successful second life as a digital illustrator. I had come to L.A. to be someone, after all, and finally I was—even if it had taken almost two decades to get there. My work was featured on the cover of magazines. A gallery in downtown Palm Springs had given me a show. I was somebody—even if it was somebody I’d never expected to be.

      “Are you working on anything new?” the man asked.

      “A few things.”

      “Can’t say for who?”

      I shook my head.

      “Did I read somewhere that Bette Midler commissioned a piece?”

      “Sorry,” I said. “Can’t divulge.”

      “I knew it! Bette Midler! How exciting is that!”

      Now, in fact, Bette Midler had never commissioned a piece from me. But if this man wanted to think so…

      I supposed I should have asked him more about his work, or at least asked his name. But just at that moment I saw an opening at the bar. The boy I’d been looking at all night was finally idle, gazing up from under his long dark lashes at the television screen that soundlessly played a video by Mary J. Blige. He wouldn’t be idle for long.

      “I’ve got to go,” I said hastily. “It was nice meeting you.”

      “Oh, it was pure joy,” the man said, his face reddening, his lips spreading, his teeth glinting in the overhead light. “I’ll keep an eye out for more of your work!”

      He grabbed my hand once more to give it another hard, hearty pump.

      As I feared, that tiny delay meant someone else managed to sidle up to the bar before I could. Quickly, I positioned myself next in line.

      Looking back now, I can no longer say for sure what was going through my head that night. After everything that has happened since, it’s hard to recall exactly. I’m certain I wasn’t hoping