Mr. Brightside - 5. Chapter 5

Mr. Brightside

Chapter 5

“No,” said Jason, almost screaming the word. “NO.”

Somehow Pamchenko’s final inquiry had managed to pierce through Jason’s fear into the ribbon of rage that always seemed to be roiling within him. Normally Jason turned from it, afraid to embrace it; whenever it burst forth, it lashed out uncontrollably as it had toward Shane that fateful day in the Student Union.

Since then, he had tried to bury it further, to keep it from ever hurting anyone again, but now, miserable and scared after 48 hours that ranked among the worst in his life, Jason allowed the rage to flow from him, to cut through his fear, to fill him with a focused courage.

“I don’t know who the fuck you are or who the fuck you think you are, and I don’t know what the hell Shane is mixed up in,” Jason raged, pushing his chair back from the table and standing, “but I refuse to pillage my past for the amusement of some strange asshole. What I did was stupid and wrong and awful, and I have regretted it every single day since it happened. I can’t change what I did, and I know I can never fully make it up to him, but what happened is between Shane and me and nobody else. And it isn’t 4 years ago, it’s now, and now he needs me. I don’t care who the fuck you are or how many hired goons you have,” here Jason gestured past the closed curtains to Ramon, “you will not stop me from seeing Shane.”

Jason paused, perspiration pouring from him. His river of rage, potent as it had been, was receding, and he trembled inside as his looked down at the frightening man still seated across the table. He managed to keep that tremble inside, though, and stood resolute. A small movement, something like a genuine smile flitted across Pamchenko’s lips.

“Well, Mr. Reid,” Pamchenko said, “you have unexpected depths. So passionate, so eloquent, especially for an engineer. You have made some valid points. Sit, and we can finish this conversation.” As Jason remained standing, Pamchenko barked “Sit” again. This time Jason obeyed the obvious command.

“Let’s start with who the fuck I am,” said Pamchenko smoothly. “Technically I am Shane’s employer; he first worked for me here at Diabolique and now at Le Coq.” Responding to Jason’s surprised look, Pamchenko smiled. “My restaurant and nightclub holdings are quite diverse, Mr. Reid, but I’m sure you are not interested in a discussion about my business dealings.”

" Actually," Jason thought, "you’re wrong". But he held his tongue.

Pamchenko continued, “Shane,however, is much more than employee...he’s….” here for the first time Pamchenko looked human, “....he’s like a son. In fact, he almost was. Shane was engaged to my son, Nikolai.”

Jason, unable to control himself, interrupted. “What? You have a gay son? What happened with the engagement?”

With a wry amusement tinged with sadness, Pamchenko responded, “I, too, Mr. Reid, have no desire to….how did you put it…..oh yes….’I refuse to pillage my past’ to satisfy a stranger’s curiosity. All that need concern you is that I promised to look after Shane for Nikolai.”

Again Jason interrupted, fueled by his last vestiges of rage, “Then why was Shane dancing half naked at a go go bar? Is that how you looked after him?”

Anger flooded Pamchenko’s stony visage, and Jason shivered inside, even though he could sense the anger was not entirely directed at himself. Pamchenko controlled himself with visible effort.

“It was Shane’s idea. He thought it was the most efficient way to earn money for nursing school. I tried to dissuade him, to allow me to pay for his school or to at least let me loan him the money, or to work at one of my more respectable establishments, but…” Pamchenko’s voice softened, and he smiled as if remembering something, “Shane is very proud, very stubborn, and very persuasive. I finally relented; I thought at least he would be safe there under my security.”

The older man’s facade finally cracked. The pale eyes, so blue, were no longer icy, but filled with pain, lines of strain etched the lean, handsome face. The intense crystal eyes bore into Jason’s hazel ones. Pamchenko spoke softly, his voice trembling with emotion. “This happened under my watch. Mine. I let him down. I was supposed to protect Shane, and I failed. I won’t let it happen again. Not so much as a paper cut; not so much as a hurt feeling. That’s why I need to know your intentions. Will you hurt him again? He was already suffered so much. Much more than you know,” Pamchenko said to Jason.

“No. I’ll never hurt him again. I just want to do want I can to help him get better, even it’s just sitting there with him.”

Pamchenko looked intently at Jason, his blue ice orbs again agents of inquiry. After a long moment, Pamchenko spoke. “The doctors are planning to move Shane to a private room sometime this evening if his condition continues to be stable. I will make my decision tonight as to whether or not I think it is advisable for you to see him again.”

At Jason’s cries of dissent, Pamchenko said, “Your protests are very impressive, Mr. Reid, but pointless. Be assured I can and will prevent you from seeing Shane if I think it for the best. I have your number; I will contact you in the morning with my decision. Ramon will drive you back to your vehicle. Good day.”

As if drawn by ESP, Ramon parted the portieres and stepped inside the room. “Ramon, please take Mr. Reid back to his car,” Pamchenko said. He then removed a phone from an inside pocket of his exquisitely tailored suit and began scrolling through it.

Jason stood and began to protest again, but Pamchenko did not remove his gaze from his device as he stated without emotion, “I said good day, Mr. Reid.”

Defeated by this impenetrable wall of disinterest and Ramon’s glare, Jason reluctantly acquiesced. He silently followed Ramon through the restaurant and to the pearl gray limo waiting outside.

Jason stared unseeingly out the window as the limo flowed through the streets. What the hell was going on? How did his friend get mixed up into this world of priceless art and dive bars and scary men? And what was Jason going to do if the scariest of those men refused to let him see Shane? It was one thing to bluster about refusing to take “no” for an answer; it was quite another to follow through.

He was still in a daze of fear, confusion, and anxiety when Ramon let him out of the limo at the entrance to the hospital’s parking garage. For a brief moment, Jason considering defying the chauffeur and Pamchenko by waiting until Ramon left and trying to get in to see Shane again, but he quickly discarded that idea.

For one thing, he had no legal right to visit his friend, and after witnessing the display of Pamchenko’s wealth, Jason had little doubt the man was one of great influence. The hospital would certainly take Pamchenko’s side in any dispute. But more importantly, Ramon stood beside the car, waiting patiently and watching to make sure Jason walked to his own and drove away. No, there was nothing to do now but go home, wait for Pamchenko’s decision and hope for the best.

Though it felt like he had left his apartment hours ago, it was still early evening when Jason pulled back up. As he had been too upset earlier to eat, he was ravenous. He ordered a pizza, took a hot shower, and once he had donned some loose shorts and a soft, weathered tee, he turned his phone back on. He might as well deal with some of the certain fall out from his call from Denise.

Sure enough, as the phone powered up, he was hit with a mass of texts and notifications of voicemail. Jason wasn’t up to dealing with Denise, so he sent her a text telling her he would be in touch. He couldn’t quite bring himself to type the word “sorry,” but he, hating himself even as he did it, tried to make the message somewhat conciliatory. Her response, which came almost immediately was “I’ll be praying for you.” Jason groaned aloud.

Jason ignored the voice mails and Brad’s texts, but just as he was about to respond to one of his mother’s, the phone rang; it was her. His finger hovered over “decline” for an instant, but after the hell of the last few hours, Jason realized that he, like grown children in times of crisis the world over, wanted his mother.

“Hello,” Jason said.

“Jason,” his mother said sharply. “Where have you been? I’ve been trying to reach you for hours. What did you say to Denise?”

“We had a fight.”

“Obviously,” Barbara Reid said dryly. “Otherwise, I wouldn’t have gotten a phone call from her telling me that my son cursed her out. She was in tears. What on Earth were you fighting about?”

“We were fighting about Shane.”

“Shane?” his mother said in surprise. “Your friend Shane? Why were you fighting about him?”

Jason knew he wasn’t making much sense, but he was so tired. So tired, so rattled by events. “She said he deserved to be in a coma.”

“Okay, Jason,” Barbara said in that voice of forced calm he remembered from his childhood when she was trying to make sense of events when faced with an incoherent and hysterical child. “Start at the beginning. Why were you talking about Shane to Denise?”

“I saw him last night, “ Jason said. Jesus, he thought, how could it have only been last night. It seemed like their meeting happened weeks ago. “Apparently, he lives here.”

“You saw him?” Barbara asked. Shane had been a favorite with her, and her heart had ached for the sweet, shy boy after his mother and grandmother’s deaths. When Jason and Shane had roomed together, she had always made Shane his own care package when she sent one to her own son. Barbara had been heartbroken over their falling out, upset by the revelation about Shane’s sexuality, and horrified by Jason’s actions.

“How is he? Is he doing well?”

“He was okay when I saw him, and Mom….” Jason tried, but couldn’t keep the tears back. He wiped his eyes and tried to hold back a sob. “He …...he said he forgives me…..that he had already forgiven me for what I did.”

“Oh baby,” she said, tears in her own eyes. “You made a mistake, we all do it. But I’m glad you saw him. He always was such a sweetheart.”

“There’s more.”

“More?” she said worried by the tone of her son’s voice.

“After we talked, he was attacked on his way home… They beat him, Mom….somebody beat him….it’s bad, really bad.”

“Oh my goodness,” she said. “My goodness. How is he?”

“He’s still in unconscious. There’s a head injury, so they’ve put him in a medically induced coma.”

“Oh my goodness,” Barbara repeated, stunned. “How could anybody do that, especially to such a sweet boy.”

“Denise,” Jason answered in a dark voice, “said Shane deserved it. That’s what the fight was about.”

“Deserved it?” Barbara repeated, confused. “Why on earth would he deserve it? Nobody deserves to be beaten like that.”

“She said he did, because he was gay, and that the wages of sin are death. That’s when I told her to go fuck herself.”

“Jason! I know you’re upset, but that’s no way to talk to your fiance. I don’t ever want to hear language like that from you again!”

He sighed. “I know, but I was so upset. She doesn’t even know him.”

“I know, sweetie,” his mother said, “but she’s young and sheltered. And, quite frankly, her opinion is not so different from what yours was in the not too distant past. You apparently changed your mind, I’m sure she will too.”

Jason wanted to yell at her, to scream that she was wrong, that she didn’t know what she was talking about, but remembering the look on Shane’s face as Jason shouted horrible epithets at him, Jason knew he couldn’t. He had been just as bad as Denise. Worse. He had screamed those words at a friend, not a stranger.

“I guess so,” he mumbled.

“I know so,” Barbara said in a confident tone. “I doubt she’ll ever be comfortable with gays, but I’m sure she’ll gain some perspective. Gays may be sinners, but they deserve our compassion. This may be your first big fight, but it won’t be your last, so don’t worry too much about it. There are many things your dad and I don’t see eye to eye on. We’ve had some real knock-down, drag-outs over the years. Just get on your knees and apologize, send her some flowers, buy her something nice, and it will all blow over.”

“I’m not sure I want it to,” Jason said.

When Barbara spoke again, her voice was almost cold. “Jason, stop acting like a child. By now you should know that your actions have consequences. You asked someone to marry you; you planned a life together with someone. You can’t just throw that away because you got into a fight, especially a fight over something as silly as whether or not being gay is a sin that deserves divine retribution. I’m truly sorry to hear about Shane, and I will pray for his recovery, but he is an adult. His well being is not your concern. Your fiancee’s well being, on the other hand, very much is your concern.”

Jason sighed. “I guess so. Look, I think somebody’s at the door. I’ll talk to you soon.”

“Okay, baby. Get some sleep; you sound tired. I’ll be sure to add Shane’s name to my prayer group; keep me posted about how he’s doing. And don’t forget, roses and jewelry will solve almost any tiff. Goodbye.”

After talking to his mother, Jason was keyed up again. The problem of Denise kept running through his mind, chasing worries of Shane, and panic about Pamchenko’s decision in an endless loop, so when the pizza came, he took it to the computer to eat while he distracted himself with the internet.

Before doing an internet search on head injuries and medically induced comas, Jason guiltily succumbed to curiosity, and his first Google search was for “Viktor Pamchenko.” It produced frustratingly little. His name was occasionally mentioned in connection with some society events, almost invariably linked to a charity. He found a couple of old, blurry photos. There was a tantalizing mention on one web page dealing with the history of the mob in New Orleans that cited an article from 1995 that mentioned Viktor as being connected to it, but Jason couldn’t find the original article. Other than that, not much.

Searching for Diabolique turned up a lot of hits, but Viktor himself was rarely mentioned or named as the owner. Frustrated, Jason Googled “Nikolai Pamchenko.” Jackpot. Nikolai had apparently been something of a social butterfly, and his party pics were everywhere as he apparently attended every event in New Orleans that warranted a photographer and press coverage. He was undeniably handsome, Jason admitted grudgingly. He had his father’s chiseled bone structure and lean, broad shouldered frame, but the effect was softened by chestnut hair and greenish brown eyes.

After a while, Jason found the engagement announcement in one of New Orlean’s society magazines for Nikolai Pamchenko and Shane O’Neal from about 18 months ago. It included a photo, and Jason’s heart ached with jealousy as he stared at the picture of the handsome Pamchenko smiling down at Shane.

He wasn’t sure what made him more jealous, the fact another man had been brave and lucky enough to successfully propose to Shane, or the simple fact that this was a couple obviously in love. Jason couldn’t help but compare this picture of contented bliss with he and Denise’s own stiff engagement photos.

Pamchenko looked deliriously happy; Shane, beaming up at his fiance, suffused with happiness was perhaps even more beautiful than Jason remembered. His dark blond hair, stylishly cut, shone in the sunlight, as did his golden skin. His snug sweater showcased his toned physique, and his green-blue eyes sparkled. Shane was wrapped in Pamchenko’s arms, leaning against his chest, and they both glowed with happiness.

Jason found more articles from around the same time concerning Nikolai’s opening of a new nightclub, Don de Dieu, which also featured a cabaret space. Pics from the opening night extravaganza showcased the engaged couple, perhaps even more handsome in their evening wear than in the engagement portrait. Jason spotted Viktor sporting what could only be called a grin as he hugged his son. Jason couldn't quite reconcile this smiling man with the grim bastard he had dealt with earlier.

But as Jason found more current pics online, he noticed subtle changes. Nikolai, in later photos, seemed thinner, almost gaunt. And though Shane continued to smile at his fiance, something seemed different in his eyes. Shane was still looking at Nikolai with love, yes, but something else as well. Wariness? Concern? Jason spotted Viktor in the background of another picture, unmistakably scowling at his son.

At any rate, Jason couldn’t find any mention or activity from Nikolai at any point in the last six months. His social media accounts were all inactive. Googling Don De Dieu brought up the information that the nightclub itself had been shuttered unexpectedly half a year earlier and the building remained empty. At least as far as the internet was concerned, Nikolai Pamchenko no longer existed.

Jason frowned at the computer. Curiouser and curiouser, he thought.

*********************************************************************************************

In a three story mansion across town, Viktor Pamchenko walked through echoing rooms. He wasn’t quite alone. Ramon was in his apartment in the house’s garconniere, a wing attached at a right angle to the main structure. There was a guard housed in one of the other outbuildings watching footage from the security cameras that surrounded the house and grounds, but there were no other people in the main house.

Viktor entered his study, crossing to the bar and pouring himself a few fingers of Scotch. He rarely drank, and shouldn't have this nightcap after his afternoon Bourbon, but this business with Shane was weighing heavily on his mind. Sipping his drink, he paced around the room, years of familiarity blinding him to the beauty of the antique paneling, rich fabrics, and expensive art. At any rate, he had no use for interior decoration right now. Shane, his beautiful, trusting Shane, lying unconscious in a hospital bed.

Drinking more deeply, Viktor continued to pace. His pacing led him to one of the room’s built in bookcases, and he paused before it studying a photo in an ornate silver frame. Viktor put his glass down, and picked up the picture. He ran a finger over the smiling faces. He and Nikolai towered over Shane, who stood in the middle. All three were mugging for the camera, and he himself wore a Santa hat. They stood in front of a giant Christmas tree, and Viktor’s heart ached as he remembered that night. The three had been so happy; a family. An unconventional one perhaps, but a family none the less. At least for a bit, for one magical moment, for the first time since Constance’s death, Viktor had known happiness. But of course, it had not lasted. The world, as always, had intruded.

Viktor put down the picture, picked up his Scotch, and began pacing again. If he had another chance, how different it would all be. Especially how he dealt with Nikolai. Nikolai. But with Shane to worry about, Viktor refused to think about Nikolai and how he had failed him. If only Viktor could have a second chance with Nikolai, but he couldn’t think of his son now. Even Viktor could only deal with so much at one time.

Second chances. They didn’t really exist, Viktor thought, or at least were so rare as to be nothing but a dream. Stil, people longed for them. Viktor thought of Jason Reid and smiled a bit remembering the young man's bravado. It reminded him, somehow, of Nikolai. Viktor considered Jason. Was he, indeed, who he claimed to be? A young man, haunted by his conscious, who wanted his own second chance? Or was he something more? Was this the classic case of keeping one's friends close one's enemies closer? Viktor sipped his Scotch and pondered the problem of Jason Reid.

In a hospital bed a few miles away, another young man lay unconscious. He lay unmoving, but he dreamed,deeply. Shane dreamed, or at least hoped he was dreaming, that this nightmare wasn't real, as he lay still in his expensive and exclusive private room, dark and quiet except for the hums and beeps of the machines surrounding him.

Shane dreamed he walked through an ancient city, one that reminded him of New Orleans, but the buildings were taller, pressing down on the narrow streets, their facades black with centuries of grime. The streets were filled with color, though, from the costumes of the crowds that swirled through them. The costumes were exuberant and elaborate, flowing, hooded capes and broad swinging hooped skirts, but they were somehow tawdry, too. The garments were bright and garish; the screamingly loud hues actually hurt Shane’s eyes.

And the noise. Some sort of music played, loud and discordant, with a pounding bass that hurt Shane’s head. God, his head was aching, and he prayed for the music to stop, but it only increased in volume as the crowds grew in size and agitation. Shane fought his way through it, disoriented. The river, he need to find the river. There was a bridge there, a bridge to the quiet eastern bank. And He waited on the other side.

But as he tried to maneuver through the twisting streets, the revelers began barring his way. As Shane continued to fight through them, pleading with them for passage, he realized to his horror that what he had taken for horrible, leering masks were their actual faces, At the realization, he began screaming as they pressed into him, ripping at his own costume. Even as the crowd stripped him, as the fingers began clawing at his flesh, Shane fought on. Fought on to the river. Fought on to the bridge. Fought on to his handsome prince with the hazel eyes and chestnut hair who waited for him on the other side.