The Teratologist by Edward Lee Read Free Book Online

shrugged. When he opened the armoire, he found racks of top shelf liquor. He picked up a bottle, impressed. “To hell with Bud Light. This guy’s got Macallen and Johnny Walker Blue!”
    “ I think the naked guy was Farrington,” Bryant said. “Michaels really seemed out of it, didn’t he? Like he was bothered, or embarrassed.”
    “ Yeah, or maybe he’s just a flake. Who cares? At least I’m not missing the Yankees for nothing.” He poured himself a drink and pointed to the liquor rack. “What do you want?”
    “ Proper liver function.” Then Bryant noticed that the coffee table in front of the couch was now laid out with hors d’oeuvres. Someone must have brought them in while they were busy watching the man on the stairs have a nervous breakdown.
    “ This is some spread,” Westmore observed. He snapped a picture, then they both sat back down and began to eat: toast points with smoked salmon and capers, Beluga caviar with sour cream, green onions, and boiled egg, crab-filled mushroom caps, and garlic butter dipped escargot. They had no idea what half the stuff they were eating was but it all tasted wonderful. Westmore downed two more scotches in the process.
    They had just finished off the last of the caviar when a handsome, well-groomed young man in an Armani suit sat down across from them in a huge stainless steel chair they had both thought was a modern art sculpture.
    “ Welcome gentleman. I trust you enjoyed your snack? My name is John Farrington.”
    It was the same man who’d been crying in Michaels’s arms. Only now, in his $10,000 power suit, he looked anything but vulnerable. In fact, he looked invincible. His eyes shone with a feral predatory intelligence as if he were preparing to attack and was just trying to decide which of them was the fittest and which one the gene pool could do without. They seemed to be scouring the two reporters for weaknesses.
    Both Bryant and Westmore were caught in a moment of silence, looking up. Then they both rose.
    “ My name is James Bryant and this is Richard Westmore. We’re here to interview you for Blue Chip magazine. Do you mind if my partner here gets a few photos of you for the cover?”
    They shook hands and then settled back down onto the plush sofa. Westmore remained standing and began loading film into his Nikon 35mm.
    “ Very pleased to meet you gentlemen and I’m sorry but I will have to insist that you do not photograph me.”
    The two journalists were shocked.
    “ What? No photos?”
    “ You may take photographs of my home and property but I’m afraid no pictures of me.”
    “ But why? I thought it was all arranged?” Westmore practically shrieked as he saw his assignment slipping out of his control.
    “ I am a very private man. I don’t wish to become the type of person who cannot go anywhere without a battalion of bodyguards to protect me from beggars, kidnappers and paparazzi. I’m sure you understand.”
    “ No, I don’t fucking understand!” Westmore was buzzed, irritation mixing with the scotch. It was not a positive combination. Bryant seized his partner’s wrist and pulled him back down onto the couch.
    “ Excuse my friend here. He’s enjoyed your hospitality a little too much I’m afraid. The alcohol is affecting his manners. We’re happy to respect your wishes, Mr. Farrington.”
    Farrington smiled; clearly amused at the reaction he was having on his guests.
    “ No excuses necessary. I understand that it is highly unusual to not be able to photograph the subject of your story.”
    “ Damn right it’s highly unusual,” Westmore muttered. “What do you want on your lead-page? A picture of the pool, or the foyer?”
    Bryant once more clamped a hand on his partner’s shoulder in an attempt to calm him but Westmore shrugged it off. Farrington leaned forward with a leering grin scarring his movie star face. His eyes bored into Westmore’s as if he were trying to see through to his soul.
    “ May I ask you a