Chapter 4: The Table

"After the coffee," Leandros said, "I'm taking him home, and I'm going to put him on my kitchen table."

He said it in English, in a normal voice, over a plate of roast lamb.

Nobody at the long table so much as lifted a fork.

Linus stopped with his water glass halfway to his mouth.

There were twelve men in the back room of the Highlandtown social club, under a mounted photograph of a ship.

All of them were over fifty, in good dark suits, and all of them had stopped talking to listen.

At the head of the table sat a heavy man with silver hair and a cream cardigan under his jacket.

He wore a gold ring on each little finger.

He was smiling.

"You have a guest, Leandro," the old man said, mildly.

"Aristides, this is Linus Orrick," Leandros said. "He's mine."

The word landed on the table, and Linus felt it land.

Twelve pairs of eyes went from his face to his shirt collar and back to Leandros, and then, one by one, to the plates.

One man nodded.

Another said "Kalo" under his breath, and reached for the bread.

Nobody blinked.

Nobody asked what a man like that wanted with a boy like this.

Linus understood, slowly, that it was a ceremony.

It was a way of saying something with only one word, in front of witnesses, that none of them could ever take back.

He was wearing a suit that Manolis had brought from a shop on Pratt Street, charcoal wool that fit him better than anything he had ever owned.

He wore nothing underneath it.

He had spent the entire car ride trying not to think about that, and now the cold wool moved against his bare skin every time he breathed.

"Mr. Orrick," Aristides said. "Forgive an old man's curiosity. What do you do?"

"I write songs," Linus said. "I tend bar."

"Songs." The old man spread his hands. "In this city there is a great deal of music business, and not all of it honest. Do you know Harbor Sound?"

Linus's whole body went still.

"I know of them."

"A fine label. I have a small interest." Aristides nodded to himself. "They signed a young man this year. Moyer. A lovely voice."

Linus set his water glass down very carefully.

Under the table, a large warm hand settled on his thigh.

He did not look.

He had learned in two days that Leandros could do the most terrible things with his face perfectly calm.

"It's a good song," Linus said.

"You've heard it."

"Everyone has."

"I'm told he wrote it in a weekend." Aristides smiled at him. "Genius is a gift."

The hand on Linus's thigh slid up.

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