Mr. Brightside - 4. Chapter 4

Mr. Brightside

Chapter 4

Jason sat across from Mr. Pamchenko, who had now donned sunglasses and was looking out of one the side windows. The man was wearing a dark grey suit that Jason, even with his limited knowledge of style and fashion could recognize as custom. There is no way an off the rack suit, no matter how expensive or how carefully altered could fit that lean, broad shouldered physique quite so perfectly. The finely woven suit fabric gleamed slightly in the soft light that filtered through the tinted windows.

Jason tried to gauge the other man’s age. At least early 40s, maybe a bit more. Pamchenko’s tanned skin was smooth except for lines around those remarkable lines, but something….maybe it was the silver wings at his temples, maybe just the air of having seen it all hinted that he was older than that. But one thing was certain about Pamchenko; he was unspeaking. As the limo sped smoothly through the New Orleans traffic, Jason felt his own tensions rising as he sat in the silent car.

In less than 24 hours, his dull, safe, carefully crafted life had turned into pure melodrama. As much as Jason was happy that he had encountered Shane again, as happy as he was to know that his actions had been forgiven, Jason wished he had never left his home last night, never gone to the damned bar in the first place. He felt guilty about that thought--without Jason’s card in Shane’s pocket, identification would have taken much longer, possibly negatively affecting Shane’s recovery. But still, Jason thought, I wish this was all happening without me.

He fidgeted in his seat as the other man sat silently, patiently waiting for their unknown destination. Jason tried to wait him out, to also sit coolly silent, but he finally broke.

“Where are we going?” Jason said in a voice that, to his disgust, wavered slightly.

The elegant head turned to face Jason. “To Diabolique.” At Jason’s blank look, Pamchenko continued. “It’s one of my restaurants. It doesn’t open for several more hours, so we can talk privately there. In addition, I am in need of nourishment.” With that explanation, Pamchenko turned back to staring out of the window, clearly done with discussion. Jason, now even more uneasy, sighed, settled back into his plush pearl grey leather seat, and worried about the messages undoubtedly blowing up the phone he had left back in his Toyota.

After less than a week in his new city, Jason didn’t really know his way around, but as the limo slid smoothly into an exit leading away from the interstate and into a cluster of high rises, he knew they were entering the central business district, also known as the warehouse district for the number of a old warehouses that had been converted into condos, businesses, bars, and restaurants. The limo stopped in front of of these converted warehouses, this one made of ancient, crumbling red brick.

Before Jason could move, the driver, a large, very muscular man in a black suit tailored almost as impeccably as the one worn by Mr. Pamchenko, had lept from his seat and was opening the door for his passengers to exit. Pamchenko motioned for Jason to leave first, and the younger man crawled awkwardly out. Once Pamchenko had also exited, the driver moved to the massive black stained door ahead and held it open. Again, the older man motioned for Jason to precede him and murmured a “Thank you, Ramon” as he himself passed his driver.

Jason paused inside the dimly light entrance. The walls were of the same ancient brick as the outside, though here they had patches of paint clinging; a large, dark, ornately carved chest sat to the left, topped by an enormous mirror in an elaborate gold leaf frame. The mirror was obviously antique, with the glass itself being watery and pitted. It dimly reflected the mass of white orchids in the large Oriental bowl in front of it as well as the life-size portrait on the opposite wall.

Jason noticed the portrait’s reflection and started. No...it couldn't be….he thought. Jason turned to examine it. A full length portrait, almost life size---large enough, with the frame, to take up almost the whole wall. It was a man with dark hair and beard in a long red dressing gown. The scarlet silk of the robe gleamed against the dark background, and the figure was certainly Mephistophelian enough to fit the decor of a restaurant named Diabolique, but that wasn’t what had arrested Jason’s attention.

“Is that….” Jason paused, “a John Singer Sargent?” His mind reeled. He knew little of art, but he knew a work by that well known artist would have an astronomical price tag.

“Very good,” Pamchenko purred in a surprised voice. “A distressingly few number of patrons have recognized the artist.”

“I….I….remember him from Art Appreciation,” Jason stammered, stunned. He looked at Pamchenko again. Who was this guy?

An elegant woman walked toward them, the skirt of her black silk dress flowing around her.

“Mr. Pamchenko,” she said, smiling and making sure to include Jason in that smile. “We’ve prepared a table for you in the back.” She turned and walked through a quietly elegant dining room toward a narrow hallway that passed to the right of the enormous paneled bar. In a small niche at the end of the passageway, a table sat topped with snowy linen.

Though capable of seating more, only two chairs were placed at it. She pulled a seat out for Jason, who sat meekly as she placed a large napkin on his lap. What the fuck was all this? he thought, barely noticing as Pamchenko, now also seated, quietly conferred with the woman in black. Ramon did not join them, but stood back a distance in the hallway.

As Jason waited for whatever would happen next, he examined the room in which he sat. The ceiling, covered in patinated gold leaf was a groined vault, and an antique gilded lantern hung from the apex. The plaster walls were covered in a beautiful, highly detailed mural, painted in Venetian style (again Jason thanked his guardian angel that he had paid attention in Art Appreciation and listened to Shane’s endless dorm room discussions about art and artists), depicting masked revellers in 18th century costume frollicing in celebration. Closer examination revealed that the setting was not Venice, but the French Quarter, and that a disturbingly large percentage of the masks seemed to sprout horns and display demonic visages.

Pamchenko noticed Jason’s gaze. “Shane painted the mural,” he said, his accent somehow more pronounced when he spoke Shane’s name.

“Shane did that? Wow. I mean, I knew he had talent….but I had no idea.” Jason continued to examine the painted figures, now when even more interest.

“Sadly, I don’t think even Shane is aware of just how talented he is.” Jason was startled at the warmth in this cold man’s voice as he spoke of the injured man, and he turned his gaze to look at Pamchenko.

Before Jason could speak, the woman had returned with a rolling cart. It contained an ice bucket with a bottle of wine, a bottle of mineral water, a decanter of amber liquid, a platter of assorted meats, cheeses, and fruit, a basket of bread, and the necessary dishes etc. In an extraordinarily short span of time, she had efficiently transferred everything to the table and left.

“Before we begin,” Pamchenko said, “I need something to quench my thirst.” He reached for the decanter, pouring some of the amber liquid into a cut crystal tumblr. “And you? Bourbon?” Pamchenko motioned with the decanter he still held, “Or would you prefer wine or water?”

Jason usually stuck to beer, but not only was he too embarrassed to ask for something so plebian in such a luxurious setting, he felt the need for something stronger. He had the feeling this was going to be, despite the beauty of the environment and the polite manners of his host, an unpleasant experience. “Bourbon,” he said.

Jason picked up the heavy crystal tumbler and took a tentative sip of the liquor; unexpectedly its smooth heat warmed and fortified him. Pamchenko motioned toward the platter of food.

“Please, help yourself,” he said.

Jason wasn’t hungry, but he took a few pieces of cheese. When he tasted it was as delicious as he expected, but it took effort to force himself to continue to chew and swallow. However, he had the distinct feeling that refusing to partake would offend his host, and Jason found himself very reluctant to do that. After Pamchenko himself ate a few morsels, he motioned for Ramon to come into the room.

“Now that we’ve refreshed ourselves, Mr. Reid, I think it’s time to talk.” Pamchenko paused before continuing.

“This is what I know. I know that Shane left Le Coq at 2:00 am. I know he spoke to you briefly before heading toward Esplanade Ave. and, presumably, his apartment. I know that at approximately 5:20 am he was thrown out of a van onto City Park Avenue.” Pamchenko ignored the gasp that Jason uttered at hearing about the van for the first time.

“During those missing hours he was raped and beaten. I want to know by whom and why.”

“What….” Jason sputtered, trying to process this new information. Jesus, just when the situation seemed as horrible as it could possibly be, it became even more awful. Jason put down his tumbler and buried his face in his hands for a moment. He raised his head and stared at Pamchenko “What are you saying? They raped him and then threw him out of a van like a dog they didn’t want?”

“Yes,” Pamchenko said softly in a terrible voice. Jason shivered at the expression in those ice blue eyes. “That’s exactly what I’m saying.”

Jason still couldn’t quite comprehend it all. “How could they? How could they do that to Shane?” Sorrow and impotent rage thickened his voice.

“Whoever did this…they need to be found…...they need to pay for this…. I want them to suffer. they need to ....” He dashed at the tears welling in his eyes as he trailed off, overwhelmed.

“Mr. Reid,” Pamchenko’s voice was cold steel. “You need not concern yourself with that. I can assure you that I will find who did this, and I can further assure you that those responsible will pay. They will suffer; they will suffer very much indeed.” Pamchenko smiled slightly. It was horrifying. Jason shuddered at that smile and the tone those words were spoken in, and a small part of him, a very small part, felt pity for the unknown assailants.

“But for now,” Pamchenko continued, “Mr. Reid, I need to know if you can shed anymore light upon the events of last evening.” And with the ice blue eyes searching the hazel ones across the table, Pamchenko began his interrogation of Jason.

In later years, Jason was never able to think of the following hours without a sense of dread. The fear that clutched his heart and turned his bowels watery as that frightening creature of ebony and ice asked him question after question about last night, about his movements, about what he had witnessed,. And all the time Pamchenko’s blue eyes were searching Jason’s own eyes, searching Jason’s face, searching Jason’s very being for any deviation in his story, for any slip up, for any hint that he could somehow be involved in Shane’s abduction. And if Jason’s attention slipped from Pamchenko even for a second, it was only to focus on the large form of Ramon blocking the only exit from the space.

After an eternity, though, Pamchenko seemed satisfied of Jason’s innocence. Jason sat slumped and shivering, sipping his whiskey, watching Pamchenko talking in low tones to Ramon, who nodded and left the room. As he left, the large man closed the portieres that turned the alcove into an entirely private room.

“More?” Pamchenko asked Jason, indicating the decanter of bourbon. Jason hesitated, but nodded in the affirmative, hoping the liquor would help calm him. “Thank you,” Pamchenko continued, “for your cooperation. Shane is…” here the man hesitated, “....very special to me, and while I doubted you were involved, I wanted to assure myself of that. I am always very suspicious of coincidence.”

Jason sat silently, still terrified, watching the man across the table like a mouse watching a cat.

“So now that business is taken care of,” Pamchenko said, pouring himself a second glass of bourbon, “I have one more question. What are your intentions toward Shane?”

“What….what…” Jason stared, even more confused. “What do you mean my intentions?”

“Well, I know your name, Jason Elliot Reid of 3865 Lafreniere Ave. I know that you graduated with a 3.3 average from Louisiana Tech University this spring and accepted a job at Turner Construction Corp. that begins in 12 weeks. I know that even though you apparently frequent gay bars, you have a fiancee, a Miss Denise Patterson, who is working on her Master's degree in Elementary Education at LSU.” Jason stared dumbfounded, his drink forgotten, as the other man recited these facts.

“I know that you first met Shane your sophomore year of high school when your parents Theodore and Barbara Reid moved to Holly Grove, Louisiana. I know that you and Shane roomed together your freshman year of college. I know that Shane tried to commit suicide after you publicly outed him.”

The pale eyes bored into Jason. “But what I don’t know, yet, is why after 4 years you are now trying to return to Shane’s life. I don’t know why after 4 years, you had this sudden urge to apologize. I don’t know why, after 4 years of ignoring Shane’s existence, you are so anxious to visit him in the hospital.” Again, Pamchenko smiled that horrifying smile. “But you will tell me why, won’t you?”