Leon Cameron, Vice President in charge of Artists and Repertoire for the American division of a German music company, spent the evening at a dreary Carnegie Recital Hall debut of a mezzo who was being promoted by the manager of the label's biggest star. So how could Leon have turned down the invite? But the singer had programmed an evening of Hugo Wolf art songs, tough going under ordinary circumstances, which she delivered with what Leon called a "Head in the Toilet" voice - listening to herself, pleased with the echoes, wrapped in an aura of sainthood, eyes crossed so she looked slightly batty.. 

Nevertheless, he was in his usual seat on the aisle and all in the audience - the manager, the singer's mother - were measuring his response. If he applauded too vehemently, her stock would go up for all the concert bookers in attendance; if he failed to applaud the word would be out before the final encore. So he had to remain seated during intermission to prevent anyone asking what he thought. Those in the know would get the message. On the other hand, he could not leave before bouquets were handed across the footlights, and even had to put in an appearance at the backstage reception. 

Up and coming artists, fawning agents, famous teachers, even reviewers kow-towed before him. His favorites got a kiss, or even a hug; he was known in some circles for his warmth and paternal nurturance of talent. But there was a camp in the room who knew his other side. Cross him, it was gossiped, and phone calls were not returned, recording dates were postponed, contracts were cancelled, even good tables at restaurants grew harder to come by. Defy him on choice of repertoire, show up late for a session, get too demanding in negotiations - and, still smiling at your recitals, he would mysteriously cause you to have to return to Europe to jump-start your career. 

Talk about him was always in whispers like those that followed as he finally was able to glide from the room, stopping to kiss the head-in-the-toilet mezzo's hand. As he hit the cool air of Fifty-seventh Street, his movements were no longer silken. 

Twenty three years ago, when he had given up the piano and taken a job as production assistant in a classical record company, he had purchased a pair of intricately laced, thickly heeled, heavy leather, ox-blood cordovans. As a concert pianist - and tennis player - back home in Ohio, he had always worn sneakers, scooting across the court the way his fingers had raced across the keys; bending low for the ball, scooping it up at unnerving angles, playing so fast sparks seemed to shoot from his hands. But, as far as the farm boy football players he had been desperate to impress, piano was for faggots. So was tennis. In those days, so were tennis sneakers.

Now, in his patent-leather pumps, his legs had turned numb. At the reception, everything had been blurred; faces, mouths, hands to be kissed. But as soon as he passed the first boy in a doorway, sensation returned to his limbs. He was able to breathe, to think, to feel safe in the shadows. Arranging matters over the phone would have deprived him of delicious aspects of the adventure. 

He strolled back and forth, passing the same boys over and over, discarding some, swiveling back for another look at others. If he saw a hustler he had already had, he nodded but made it clear he was not interested in a repeat. If he saw another regular john, he would smile; most often they ignored it. But what the hell, he was enjoying himself. Back and forth, from Bloomingdales' to Fiftieth Street, from a slide to a slither, he could feel himself returning to that golden-boy-concert pianist-tennis sneakered-kid.

As he approached a decision, the one he allowed his glance to rest upon had long, long legs and Leon noted the way his calf muscles strained against the back of his jeans - farm boy type, maybe from Ohio, probably not, but the fantasy was inviting - slightly sullen, perhaps it was just that he was brainless beneath his halo of golden hair. Was it bleached? Maybe from California. 

"Nice night," Leon said.

"Kinda cold."

Silence. This was not a junkie, nor a psycho. Leon had been at this a long time and had learned to trust his instincts. He had never been beaten or robbed. Many times he had walked away because he had not liked the vibes. This kid might turn out to be boring, but that was the only threat. 

"Very quiet," Leon said.

"Dead as a doornail." 

"Well, it's a weeknight."

"Yeah."

The form was as rigid as a sonata and the players knew their parts; only the kid had given away too much with "Dead as a doornail." The hint of a moan had been a concession. His price had already dropped.

A few more beats of silence. Leon and the farm boy pretended they did not know what came next but the basic theme had been established. Now onto the variations.

"What's your name?" Leon asked.

"Oscar." 

"A strange name."

”Well, it's mine!" he replied. Mistake number two. He wasn't experienced enough to lie and and, more surprising, was prickly about the accusation.

"What's yours?" Oscar asked, trying to cover his defensiveness. Leon liked the facade of disdain and the fact that it could so easily be chipped away.

"Hugo Wolf," he replied.

"That's a strange one, also." 

They both laughed. Leon liked him. He could already picture him in his high school locker room, slipping into a jock strap. The thought burned into Leon’s cheeks. Oscar noticed. Balls whizzed over the net… and Leon came home.

EDWARD M. COHEN's story collection, Before Stonewall, won the Awst Press Book Award and was published in June, 2021. His novel, $250,000, was published by G.P. Putnam's Sons; his novella, A Visit to my Father with my Son, by Running Wild Press.