Frank Lauria - Baron Orgaz

[Doctor Orient - 4]

Copyright (c) 1974 by Frank Lauria

For Magi who shares her dreams with me...

The bikers handled their machines like a crack drill team.

All three were identically outfitted in leather jumpsuits, and the stark black uniforms, emphasized their symmetry as they improvised swift patterns through the clumsy Saturday-night traffic. At midtown they cut away from a herd of cars milling around the exits and leaned into a series of screaming curves with precisely timed bursts of reflex and power.

When they hit an open stretch, they veered into a crisp V formation and sat upright on their black BMW motorcycles, as if reviewing the looming assembly of light-studded ocean liners docked along the West Side Drive.

The point machine accelerated as they neared the Eighteenth Street exit, allowing the two trailing bikes to fall into line just before they howled down the ramp to the street.

A staccato chorus of booming echoes marked the trio's progress along the deserted waterfront. They gunned their throttles as they sped through the vacant streets below the elevated highway, ignoring one-way signs and traffic lights.

The metallic thundering stopped abruptly at Washington Street. The bikers cut their motors and coasted silently through the shadows until they came to a wide space between two parked freight vans. Without word or signal all three of them halted, backed their motorcycles into a perfect rank, and dismounted.

One of the bikers removed his helmet and started walking slowly across the street. The other two followed a few paces behind, falling into the same V formation they'd held while riding. Both of them still wore their crash helmets, and the shiny black globes with rounded face masks gave them a menacing, alien appearance, as if they were hunters from a distant world, stalking the still streets for a trophy of the planet.

The trio stopped when they reached a darkened building near the end of the block that was nestled between two larger warehouses. A storefront bar and grill occupied the ground floor. Its dingy windows were boarded over, but dim slivers of light leaking through the cracks hinted that it was open.

A flash of noise pierced the silence when the lead biker pushed open the door. As he entered, the two figures behind him dropped back and stood in the shadow of the warehouse. They waited there in the darkness as the door closed and the quiet dropped over the street like a blanket of invisible snow.

Arnold was bored.

He surveyed the crowd of studs in the room with arch indifference and wondered if he could call a taxi.

Preening slightly, he examined his reflection in the mirror over the bar. He was wearing something new tonight -- a black leather tunic with a silver-studded collar. He'd had it made up especially. He might have saved himself the trouble.

His eyes roved contemptuously over the posturing males in their clubby S/M outfits. With the exception of the few dressed like cowboys, the rest were wearing the stock black-leather-motorcycle-jacket/Brando-cap/engineer-boot uniform. There wasn't one man in the place with any real imagination or flair.

He winced inwardly as he remembered how excited he'd been when he first discovered the Panther's Lair. Everything about the place had seemed so mysterious and authentic -- the waterfront location, the boarded-up exterior, the thick chains hanging over the bar, the beautifully sinister young men dressed in leather and boots. It had both fascinated and frightened him. For years he'd entertained wild sexual fantasies of being whipped, raped, and dominated by brutish butch types wearing black leather; but when he finally found a place that promised to make his fantasy a reality, he became as nervous as a new bride.

Much to his disappointment, all his fears had proven to be groundless. The marriage was never consummated.

Every so-called sadist he'd encountered at the Panther's Lair had been more obsessed with acting out a role than inflicting real pain. They were just fabulous when it came to their little psychodramas. They loved to play commandants of prison camps, or policemen, or stern schoolmasters. But they had no concept of pain beyond the token spanking or whipping. One strutting S had actually become faint when he accidentally drew blood during a fumbling torture scene.

The sinister young men who looked so butch in their motorcycle jackets had all turned out to be nothing more than ordinary nelly queens in weekend drag. And the Panther's Lair was just another gay bar, despite the heavy atmosphere the management tried to maintain.

Arnold sighed and reached for a mentholated cigarette. He'd never realized his fantasies, and he doubted if he ever would. Not tonight, anyway. It was Saturday, and every ribbon clerk in the city had crawled out of his closet. The noise, smoke, and blaring music were giving him a headache. The only thing preventing him from going home to bed and the Late Show was the fact that it would be hell finding a cab in the waterfront neighborhood. Not only was it phony atmosphere, it was downright inconvenient. He swore and struck a match.

It never reached his cigarette.

Arnold's eyes had automatically wandered to the door as it opened, and when they focused on the man who entered, every muscle in his body froze.

The man's skin was very fair, almost as white as the wide area framing his pale blue eyes. His hair too was white, and cropped close to his high, dome-shaped skull.

A tightly cut leather jumpsuit covered his body, and his hands were encased in black gloves, accentuating the stark beauty of his face. Each of his features was magnificently defined, as if carved by a Renaissance master. But it was the animal energy in those eyes that held Arnold's breath. They flashed through the smoke like luminous knives and embedded themselves in his brain.

A sudden flare of pain spurred his reflexes.

Arnold dropped the burning match he'd been holding in midair and dunked his thumb into his drink. Instinctively he looked up and rechecked his own image in the mirror. Attractive enough, he decided. He was glad now that he'd worn the new tunic. True, there was a trace of puffiness around his chin that came from too many expensive lunches and not enough exercise. His skin was flushed, however, and his eyes were bright with excitement, giving his face a youthful, almost boyish glow. He struck another match and inhaled deeply on his cigarette, savoring the lingering hurt on his finger and the strange sense of anticipation generated by the man in the doorway. His presence had already seared away Arnold's boredom and charged him with a sensation that was halfway between ardor and fear. He could feel the intensity of the man's eyes smoldering in his memory, but he couldn't summon up the courage to turn his head and confront them again. He started to reach for his drink, then hesitated.

The man was standing just behind his stool, watching him intently in the mirror.

In the midst of his panic Arnold was able to grasp two unrelated facts; one was that the room had suddenly become stiflingly hot, and the other was that the man was waiting for him to speak.

On impulse he swiveled around, arching his back seductively, as he'd once seen Jean Harlow do in a movie, and smiled brightly.

Arnold's smile withered under the cold scorn in the man's eyes. Up close, he could see that the pupils were a light, almost transparent shade of blue, flecked with metallic fragments that gave them a silvery tint. Arnold felt a chill crawl up the back of his neck as he realized there was no reflection in those pupils. They were like disks of blue ice.