Butterfly Man. Lew Levenson

ginger ale."

      At six thirty, Ken drove the Rolls into the garage. Kari greeted him at the patio entrance.

      "Missee Lowell waits for you in the music room," he said.

      The gin had been fuming in Ken's head. He had driven ​at breakneck speed through Glendale to Flintridge, pursued by a demon thought. While he sat drinking with Buddy Nolan, the ugly idea had slowly filtered into his mind. As Buddy talked, it spread. He was seeing the faintly discerned outlines of reality for the first time.

      In Selma, such things had been a joke, a nasty joke. To have believed in their actuality would have stamped one as a dope, a hop-head. The boys back home had been plenty lusty, plenty filthy, too—but in a noisy, reassuring way. They cursed, they were mean, cruel, even disgusting at times. But they were men.

      Ken, who had read few novels, who had visited no big cities except for flying trips during training periods, had never conceived the possible existence of such coteries as he had seen grouped about the Rendezvous. While Buddy was talking, as he established with finality the reasons for these attachments of man to man, Ken had not been able to speak. The gin had slowly warmed him. He had viewed the Rendezvous with more acute eyes. As he drank, the certainty grew. These boys and men were … the conventional Selma word was "fairies." Buddy, too.

      But why did Buddy admit Ken to his confidence? Why this talk of Mr. Lowell?

      Not until the moist, foggy evening air struck Ken's cheeks and he had bidden Buddy a calm good-night at the entrance to the school, did Ken have the necessary time for quiet reasoning. He reviewed the events since he had left Selma. He tried to remember what had happened to him.

      He had been mildly drunk all the time … sometimes with liquor, sometimes with Mr. Lowell's words, ​sometimes with the beauty with which Mr. Lowell and California surrounded him.

      Now, quick with the energy of dancing practise and the shock of gin, he wondered why—why—really why had Mr. Lowell brought him from Texas to California? Of course it was absurd to identify Mr. Lowell with these pallid, languid young men who dressed so smartly and chatted so volubly. They were vapid nobodies. Mr. Lowell, a big business man, did things.

      Yet … Buddy Nolan did things. Buddy worked hard. He made money. He was famous in Hollywood. Buddy considered these denizens of the Rendezvous as his brethren. And Buddy regarded Mr. Lowell as a god, a paternal god, whose open hand brought riches, comfort and peace.

      Wonderingly, Ken thought of Star-ridge, its staff of men. The great house on the hillside was a man's paradise, an Eveless Eden.

      What fraternity of men was Ken entering? What were its ramifications? Its code? And in what manner had he been seduced into joining this monastic life?

      The Rolls, as Ken considered these questions, entered the driveway and a moment later Ken learned that Mr. Lowell was at home.

      From the patio to the balcony were twenty-four ascending steps. Desert trees had been planted on the patio level, a joshua with arms lifted in prayer, a pale green cactus, huge with stiletto-like spikes; a sword cactus with prickling blades spread out in the manner of an opening fan.

      Ken strode to the foot of the steps. As he did so, his mind tightened. He could feel the sharp, crackling sensation as of a cap being drawn down upon his head.

      He started up the steps. He knew in that moment that ​he hated Mr. Lowell. He could see through it all. The horrible old man was spidery. He sat inverted in the midst of this, his web, and lured innocent boys into his gaping maw. He had already taken Ken from his home, from his friends—not through any unselfish devotion, but for purposes scarcely to be mentioned even to one's self. He had already outwitted Ken. The significance of that night in Malibu became clearer and clearer as Ken ascended the steps.

      Midway, he halted. He must not fail to let the old man know that he was no fool. He must go straight to him now and say—

      But what could he say to Mr. Lowell? That, as in a dream, he had gone to Malibu, as in a dream he had experienced a new emotion, one so intangible that he could not tell what had passed between himself and the old man?

      As Ken hesitated on the steps, the organ responded to a gentle touch. A pastoral melody, flute-like, a shepherd inviting his flock to share the shadow of a cliff, an old, old melody, derived from some ancient Grecian theme, drifted down from the music room.

      Ken listened as he entered the balcony. He stood motionless in the music room loft.

      Mr. Lowell was dressed in a black velvet robe. His white arms, bare to the shoulder, moved in the slow rhythm of the plaintive tune. His gray Van Dyck seemed white in the brilliant overhead light.

      Ken stood still—listened.

      The melody ended.

      Without turning, Mr. Lowell spoke.

      "I know that is you, Kenneth."

      "Yes, Mr. Lowell."

      ​"This song I just played was for you."

      He rose, smiling, and advanced toward Ken. He resembled an ancient philosopher approaching one of his pupils, Socrates greeting a Spartan youth come to Athens to study life and lore at his feet.

      "I am glad, dear boy, that you have enjoyed yourself," said Mr. Lowell. "Mr. Pawne tells me you are studying dancing."

      "Yes—I've limbered up swell. Won't be long before I'll be ready with a real routine."

      "Have you made any new friends?"

      "No."

      "Not one?"

      "Buddy Nolan."

      "He is a splendid fellow. Ah, yes … I remember him very favorably."

      "We went to the Rendezvous together this afternoon."

      "The Rendezvous?" Mr. Lowell's eyes narrowed. Ken's heart pulsated more rapidly.

      "It's a place where a lot of boys go."

      "But how did you get there?"

      "I drove the Rolls."

      "Mr. Pawne let you drive the Rolls?"

      "Why, yes. I asked him myself."

      Mr. Lowell had quickly crossed the room to the organ. He touched a button. "It isn't your fault, Ken, but I prefer that you do not visit places like the Rendezvous. Of course you were entirely innocent in the matter, but Buddy Nolan should not have taken you there. What did he say to you?"

      "Nothing." A lump grew in Ken's throat.

      ​"You must have talked about something."

      "We did. He pointed out different people—"

      "I thought so. Mr. Pawne—" Mr. Lowell called through the window. Mr. Pawne was scurrying across the patio, his patent-leather shoes glistening in the pale straw glow of the lamps.

      "Come right up, Mr. Pawne," Mr. Lowell ordered crisply. He turned and faced Ken. "You are not to associate with anyone in Nolan's school. If he persists in talking to you about anything other than business, I shall have to send you elsewhere."

      Mr. Pawne, thoroughly aware that something was wrong, entered. "What is it, Mr. Lowell?"

      "I thought I told you not to let Mr. Gracey out of your sight while I was away."

      "I didn't understand you to say exactly that."

      "Exactly that? You didn't understand? But those were my words. And you permitted him to drive the Rolls-Royce?"

      "I did, Mr. Lowell. He was bored."

      "You permitted him to be bored?"

      The old man's voice rose to a shrill peak. He glared at Mr. Pawne, who recoiled from his glance. Mr. Lowell placed an arm around Ken's shoulder. "I can see that no harm has come to you. And no harm will come to you in the future."

      "I took good care of the car," said Ken apologetically.

      "Of