Phantom of Aurora by John Ellison
Chapter 19

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The Gunner stood outside the guardhouse waving slowly as the last vehicle in the long convoy of buses, trucks, and vans passed. The last vehicle, a panel van carrying breech blocks and blank ammunition, had been preceded by seven large yellow school buses carrying almost the entire Ship's Company, two deuce-and-a-half trucks carrying the field guns and limbers, the Commanding Officer's personal vehicle, in which rode Himself and the Executive Officer, and an additional van carrying the .303 Lee-Enfield rifles and Guard equipment.

Glancing at his watch, The Gunner saw that for once the convoy had left on time at 0830 and would, with luck and barring accidents, fits of cadet distemper, sudden flood, crop failure or miscellaneous catastrophe, arrive in Victoria in time for lunch.

As he watched the vehicles navigate Comox Road and head into the town The Gunner reflected that with the exception of Little Big Man, who was his usual surly self, and not going anywhere any time soon, the cadets seemed happy, and in at least six cases, downright euphoric.

Tyler, who usually projected the stern-visage mien reserved for Masters-At-Arms since time began, had been smiling and joking. Val had a jauntiness in his step and a twinkle in his eye. The Twins, who were perfectly turned out and sharp as only Gunnery Chiefs can be sharp, teased and mildly cajoled their gunners into actually enjoying themselves as they loaded the vans with blank shells and manhandled the heavy field guns into the trucks. Ray did not seem to mind at all being pestered by Joey and Randy, and actually smacked their bottoms playfully when he told them to get back to work. Thumper positively glowed and chivvied and teased Fred and Tyler, all the while grinning broadly.

Most surprising of all was the Chief PTI. Mike was essentially a no-nonsense Chief who firmly believed in physical training exercises in the morning, every morning. Mike had never been known, in the memory of all the cadets who knew him, to smile while on parade. This morning at PT not only had he smiled at the antics of the Sea Puppies (who were laughing at Harry, who had neglected to wear his jock again, having refused to get out of bed until the last possible minute), but he had actually cracked a joke.

Steve, The Baby Buffer, had appeared on parade, as he always did, looking very smart and Pusser in his blue shorts, issued T-shirt, and high top sneakers. To limber everyone up Mike had called for deep knee bends, which did the trick, except that Steve's testicles had managed to work their way out of the leg band of his briefs, a situation that he found most uncomfortable. When the exercise was over he and the rest of the cadets stood to attention. Steve then reached down into his gym shorts and made the necessary adjustments in his underwear. Since he was the only cadet moving, Mike immediately noticed him.

"Petty Officer LEE!" bellowed The Chief PTI.

"Chief?"

"Leave that thing in your underpants alone! If it falls off I'll buy you a new one!"

The cadets were so stunned that Mike had actually made a joke that they stood, transfixed, staring at Mike. Then, when the implication of Mike's joke sank in, they laughed uproariously, pointing at Steve, who blushed furiously. Then they carried on and no one complained or joked for the rest of the exercise period.

******

The Gunner shook his head at the antics of the cadets, putting it all down to the their leaving the ship for a dirty weekend in the city, which promised not only hard work and a parade, but also plenty of time for fun and frolic. Either that or they had all gotten laid last night. Which was, of course, impossible.

When the last vehicle disappeared The Gunner did a walk about, checking on the few cadets still on board and then visited with Chef and the Makee-Learns, who whined at having to miss out on all the fun. Then he was off, heading for town.

He visited the bank and withdrew what he hoped would be sufficient funds for the delicate and, if he knew the man he had to meet later in the day at all, protracted negotiations that would result in his purchasing sufficient uniforms and kit to outfit all the new Chiefs and Petty Officers.

After leaving the bank The Gunner drove out of Comox and turned south down the Island Highway, his destination Nanaimo, 70 miles away, and the ferry for Horseshoe Bay. He had debated following the troops into Victoria, but wanted some peace and relaxation before he tackled his contact in the Clothing Stores in CFB Esquimalt, and Joel. The ferry ride from Departure Bay, just north of Nanaimo, to Horseshoe Bay, which was really a part of West Vancouver, offered an hour and a half of peace in a nautical setting.

Shortly before the ferry was due to sail The Gunner guided his Land Rover onto the vehicle deck of The Queen of Tsawwassen, a white-painted, 400 odd-foot vessel of almost 10,000 tons burden. After visiting the Upper Deck Restaurant to pick up a cup of coffee, he went on deck and found a bench where he could enjoy both his coffee and the passing seascape as the ferry slipped its moorings and began its voyage to the mainland.

At first The Gunner was the only passenger on the open deck. While the sky was overcast, the threatened rain had held off, though he could see dark storm clouds gathering along the horizon to the north and above the tree line to the west and the Nanaimo cityscape to the southwest.

As the ferry left the lee of the land and the sheltering arms of the point to port and the harbour islands to starboard, she began to pitch, digging her nose deep into four-foot swells. The open deck suddenly became a very popular place to be as many of the 200 or so passengers felt the effect of the sea, which did not bother The Gunner at all. He was one of those most fortunate of individuals in that he had been born with his sea legs and never got seasick.

Rather than watch his fellow passengers travel by rail, The Gunner returned to the restaurant where he sat and watched the grey seas passing down the side of the boat, and thought about his real purpose for being on board the ferry.

The Gunner had not heard from Joel for a month. His many telephone calls to the number that Joel had given him had gone unanswered. There had been no letters from Joel and The Gunner was convinced that whatever had been between Joel and him was now over and it was time to put paid to their relationship once and for all. If Joel was in Vancouver his cousin Michael would know where he was, and The Gunner knew where Michael spent much of his time.

The Gunner also thought about The Phantom and realized that somehow he would have to open an avenue of communication with the boy. He desperately wanted The Phantom to understand about his relationship with Joel; such as it had been, just as he also wanted the Phantom to know exactly how he felt about him. He loved The Phantom, and wanted to be with him. If they could just sit down and talk together they could work things out.

The Phantom, of course, was not making life easy. He had abruptly stopped the lunch hour lessons, avoided The Gunner when he came into the galley, and last night had refused his tentative overture, though he had reacted exactly the way The Gunner had hoped he would when he saw him kissing Harry at his wet down. The Phantom's green eyes had crackled and sparked with jealousy, and he had disappeared into the heads, probably to cool down.

The Gunner reasoned that he had at least two weeks in which to make his peace with Phantom, more if he took some leave time. He did not have to report to the Reserve Training Unit in Esquimalt until after Labour Day, and he could delay reporting if he took some leave. He sighed and stretched, and then stared into the slate grey waters of the Strait, thinking, one step at a time, and one day at a time. First Joel, then the uniforms then, he hoped, The Phantom.

******

Because of the heavy sea and wind, the ferry was almost an hour late arriving at the Horseshoe Bay Terminal, docking just after 1530. Fortunately there was direct access to the Trans Canada Highway, which carried him south and then east, through West Vancouver and then via the Turner Street cut-off to the Lion's Gate Bridge, Stanley Park, and his final destination, Carrall Street, in the heart of Chinatown where he would, he hoped, meet with Joel's favourite cousin and onetime lover, Mike, who now preferred his friends and business associates to call him Michael.

As The Gunner drove along the Trans Canada Highway he debated if he should take the Eyremount Drive off ramp and drive into the Mayfair section of British Properties, a small enclave of English gentility and privilege, of manicured lawns, large, period houses on huge lots, vintage Rolls Royces and Bentleys, insular and impervious to change, proud of its heritage, a small corner of a forgotten field that would be forever England.

Leading north and west from Eyremount was St. James Street, which curved to form the southern boundary of Clarence Square. The Twins lived in a large, early Georgian-style brick and white stucco house at Number 2, Clarence Square. Similar houses, transplanted designs by Nash and the Brothers Adam surrounded the square, a large, private patch of greenery and flower gardens.

To the north was Kensington High Street, at the end of which, just as it turned sharply toward Hollyburn Mountain, Joel's family lived in a sprawling Regency mansion surrounded by the largest private park in the Properties. This availed them nothing so far as most, if not all, of the white denizens of Mayfair were concerned. Joel's father might be a world-renowned neurosurgeon, and his mother a mainstay of the Vancouver cultural scene, donating lavishly to the Philhar-monic, the Opera, and the Museum, but they were only, at the end of the day, Chinese, and as such were forever barred from many of the grand mansions.

What surprised The Gunner was that the Twins, who had been born into and raised in this strange, prejudiced environment, were totally without any prejudices. They readily accepted all and sundry, judging the other cadets by the content of their character rather than the circumstances of their birth or race.

As The Gunner drove deeper into the city the traffic thickened and slowed, which was not surprising. Vancouver was the hub of the west, rich, saucy, and the lodestone of Western Canada, jealously dismissed as Lotus Land by anybody who lived east of the British Columbia border.

Shortly after 1600 The Gunner pulled to a stop in front of a large, three-storied, gabled building on Carrall Street directly opposite the Sun Yat-Sen Classical Garden. The building, which resembled a classical Chinese temple, complete with carved stone lions on either side of the entrance, housed the Imperial City Restaurant, official place of business of Joel's cousin, Michael Chan.

******

Inside, the Imperial City Restaurant was the stereotypical tourist ideal of what an upscale Chinese restaurant should look like. Red lacquered pillars supported the main dining room. Moulded plaster wainscoting and cornices were gold-leafed. A faux Ming vase stood in every corner and Chinese export lacquerware furniture crowded the large room. Around the walls of the room were arranged red velvet upholstered banquettes. The china, silver, and crystal were of the best quality. The food was superb, and the restaurant boasted the finest wine cellar this side of the Empress Hotel.

As The Gunner expected, Michael was sitting on the second level, the sole occupant of a gold encrusted, throne-like booth.

Michael Wei-Ho Chan was tall for a Chinese, standing just over six feet in height. An aberrant gene from his Caucasian grandfather had given him his pink, healthy skin. He had high cheekbones and warm, dark brown eyes, and a slim, muscular body, which he clothed in the finest fabrics. He was a very handsome young man and his popularity with the ladies was legion, although at 29 he was still unmarried, which was unusual for a healthy, very eligible Chinese male.

Michael rose and greeted The Gunner warmly. "Stephen, how good it is to see you again," he smiled, speaking in the slightly nasal tones that bespoke a classical education in a very good public school of the Anglican tradition, which also accounted for his proper formality on any and all occasions.

The Gunner returned Michael's smile. He genuinely enjoyed Michael's company and chose to ignore Joel's dark hints of Tongs and Triads and furtive doings in the dark of the night. As The Gunner sat down Michael signalled for a tuxedo-clad waiter to approach the table. He chattered away in what The Gunner thought was Cantonese, the lingua franca of Chinatown.

"I've taken the liberty of ordering you a drink, Stephen," said Michael. "Scotch. Unless you'd prefer something else?"

"Thank you, Michael, Scotch is fine," replied The Gunner. "And I must say, you've impressed me. I wasn't aware that you spoke Cantonese?"

Michael laughed. "Joel always said that you had a facility for languages." He nodded toward two very large Oriental men clad in dark suits who sat at a nearby table. "Many of my employees are from Hong Kong. Cantonese is all they speak. Which is just as well. Those who claim to speak English all sound as if they have rocks stuffed in their mouths."

The waiter brought their drinks and they toasted one another. "You look well, Michael, and, if I may, prosperous," said The Gunner presently.

Michael smiled modestly and nodded. "I have been fortunate. The gods continue to smile on my family." Then he frowned. "Although I question their sanity when it comes to Joel."

"Is he in trouble?" asked The Gunner, concerned.

"Trouble?" Michael shook his head. "No, not that I am aware of." He reached into the inner pocket of his jacket and brought out a gold cigarette case. "I confess that I have become a slave to the noxious weed," he said as he offered The Gunner a cigarette. They smoked in silence for a moment or two. Then Michael looked directly at The Gunner. "Joel is not in any trouble; quite the contrary. He has become involved in an enterprise that gives promise of being very profitable. He thinks he lives well. Actually he lives badly and will, sooner or later, come to a bad end."

"I don't understand," said The Gunner, mystified.

"Joel's proclamation of his homosexuality has devastated my family," replied Michael, his façade of politeness slipping. "His parents, my uncle and aunt, refuse to have anything to do with him. They have disowned him and he is not welcome in any of the family houses."

The Gunner noted his host's barely concealed anger and sighed. "Last month, when I saw Joel, he told me that his parents suspected that he was gay. He never mentioned that he would come out to them."

"He had no choice once he assumed his role as a crusader," replied Michael, his eyes flashing.

The Gunner had no idea what Michael was going on about. The thought of Joel as anything but a sybarite and a hedonist was surprising. Still, Joel, for all his faults, did not deserve banishment from the family. His face softened as he confronted Michael. "I understand your family's inability to accept Joel's being gay. He explained your traditions to me. But, really, Michael, to be fair, he can't help being what he is."

Michael nodded and signalled the waiter for another drink. "Stephen, please do understand that I do not sit in judgement of Joel. He is my favourite cousin and we grew up together. We shared many things and I am very fond of him. I have long known that Joel is homosexual and I long ago accepted his lifestyle." He sighed sadly. "I believe had Joel not chosen the path he now follows the family would, in time, also have accepted and understood. He is, after all, a son." He sighed regretfully. "If only he had been discreet . . ."

Hide in the closet, The Gunner almost blurted out. Instead he said diplomatically, "Joel always had a flamboyant streak in him." Then he observed with a slight smile and shake of his head, "He is also as stubborn as an Army mule when he chooses to be."

Michael chuckled. "I am well aware of Joel's harmless idiosyncrasies. He has, however, chosen to become an activist. He proclaims his sexuality from the rooftops. He lives openly with another male. He saw the Gunner start and the look of pain that crossed the man's face at this bit of news, thinking that Joel had betrayed more than just his family.

Allowing his mind to drift into the past, Michael thought of the night when he had been sitting in the Seniors Common Room in school, the night that he had overheard Spencer Bowes' boasting, the night that he had learned that Joel was . . .

But such unpleasant memories were in the past, and this was the future, a future that both he and Stephen Winslow would have to face. While he had great sympathy for Stephen, the matter of Joel and him was not his business, so he continued briskly, "Joel is a thorn in the side of every newspaper editor, demonstrating and mounting protests against homophobia. He has made it quite plain to his employer in Seattle that he is homosexual and has no plans whatsoever to change his ways."

The Gunner was not sure if he was hurt or relieved at the news that Joel had a lover. "Joel was never one to hide his light under a basket, Michael."

Michael sighed slightly. "One admits that Joel is not about to live his life, what is the saying, in the closet?"

The Gunner nodded and thought of the two golden boys he had so recently proclaimed his sons in spirit. Todd was conservative and level headed. Cory was the opposite of his brother: brash, outspoken, and too brutally honest for his own good. Neither Cory nor Todd feared what they were, and both were all too aware of how life would treat them and faced that awareness with courage, as Joel did, and as he and Michael did not. "Joel has a special courage that, I fear, I lack," confessed The Gunner evenly, looking directly at Michael.

"A courage that I too, lack, Stephen," admitted Michael, draining his glass. "I shall live my life observing the customs and traditions of my culture, just as you shall live your life observing the customs and traditions of your culture. And we shall both pay heed to the restrictions of those cultures."

Deliberately returning The Gunner's look, Michael said, "I am very fond of Joel, Stephen. I cannot deny that there has been a very special relationship between us, a relationship that has existed since we were boys. Unfortunately I must now deny that relationship, just as I must now deny him."

"I wasn't . . . that is, Joel, led me to believe that all that had ended years ago," The Gunner said carefully.

The look on The Gunner's face told Michael that the man was aware of the depth of his relationship with Joel. He bristled, angry with himself for betraying one of his deepest secrets. The look of anger that had flashed across his face disappeared almost as quickly. Directing his anger at his guest would serve no purpose. "Joel was very wrong to mention as much as he did."

"Yes, he was," agreed The Gunner. He sensed that he had touched a nerve and tried to defuse a potentially dangerous situation. "But by the same token, you were not unaware of my relationship with Joel."

Michael nodded. "Joel's discretion, at times, is admirable. When you and he first met, and later as your relationship progressed, he was very happy, and he always spoke very fondly of you. After he returned from the Island, we spoke only twice, and he did not mention you at all. When I learned of his present situation it led me to believe that we are both now relegated to the dustbin of Joel's history."

The Gunner smiled. "I would still like to see him. Is he in town?"

"He is," replied Michael flatly. Then he pursed his lips, as if lost in thought. "Joel keeps a flat on Ogden Street, across from the St. Roch Museum. A flat, I might add, that he has kept for quite some time, a flat that he uses to house his, shall we say, infatuation of the week?"

The pained look that returned to The Gunner's face told Michael that his earlier remark about Joel living openly with another male still rankled. He tried to be kind as he continued, "Joel has led a secret life for many years, Stephen," continued Michael, his voice gentle. "Our grandfather made provision for him and Joel is not without resources. For quite some time, years in fact, I have been aware that he has been keeping a young boy in his flat."

"You mean that when he and I were . . ." began The Gunner, not wanting to believe what he was hearing.

"Yes. While he was with you there was a young boy, a Czech I believe; after the Czech there was a very handsome Italian boy. Now the object of Joel's interest is a Rice Bowl Ricky."

The Gunner could not stop himself from laughing. "A what?"

"A young Chinese male, actually. He is fresh off the boat from Hong Kong and speaks no English." Michael shrugged expressively. "Joel speaks no Hakka, which is the boy's dialect. One assumes they communicate in other ways." He called for another round of Scotch. "Joel's young men are all of a type, Stephen. Young, winsome, quite pretty in their way, if one cares for the type. More along the lines of a Sing-Sing girl than a quarterback."

"I never knew," muttered The Gunner, stunned at Michael's revelation.

"I thought as much," replied Michael, his muted tone sympathetic. Then his face grew hard. "Joel cannot help himself, and sooner or later he will come to grief. You are well rid from him," he finished harshly.

The Gunner shook his head and smiled wanly. "I just can't dismiss him out of hand, Michael. Like you, I was more than fond of him."

"Even though he deceived you?" asked Michael.

"Joel will be Joel, and while I admit that I'm disappointed in him, now, I would still like to see him."

Michael shrugged and told The Gunner where Joel lived.

******

From the restaurant to Joel's apartment building was a 20-minute drive through downtown Vancouver, across the Burrard Street Bridge and light years away from the tourist kitsch of Chinatown.

The apartment building, an architectural excrescence of bronze, granite and glass, stood foursquare in the middle of the block in Ogden Street, an upright, oblong box housing tier upon tier of small square boxes, its stark, characterless outlines marring the sylvan beauty of Kitsilano Beach Park across the street. Set directly in front of the building was a small, modernistic, circular fountain of moulded concrete and stainless steel arcs that dribbled pathetic streams of water into a stagnant pool in which floated cigarette ends and assorted bits and pieces of paper and trash.

The Gunner shuddered at the sight of the building and was not surprised to see a small plaque affixed to the wall beside the main entrance announcing that the building had won some award for architectural excellence. The building's only saving grace was the stunning view of English Bay and the lush greenery of Stanley Park, which those living on the upper floors undoubtedly enjoyed.

For all its pretensions to elegance and excellence, the lobby area was ill lit, sparsely furnished, and in need of a good Pusser scrub. There was no doorman on duty, nor was there a concierge behind the lobby desk. So much for upscale living, thought The Gunner as he entered the elevator and pressed the button for the penthouse floor.

The Gunner's knock was answered by a short, willowy, black haired Oriental youth who looked to be about 12 years old, and was wearing only a pair of white briefs. Before The Gunner could speak Joel appeared, gasped, and quickly shooed the boy into another room. The boy shot The Gunner a dirty look and disappeared into what was apparently the bedroom.

Seeing the look on The Gunner's face as he watched the young boy's retreat, Joel quickly asked him to come in and led him to a starkly modern sofa upholstered in violent green fabric. "He's not as young as he looks, Steve," explained Joel without a trace of embarrassment. "He's actually well over 21."

The Gunner shrugged and sat on the sofa. "Does it matter?"

Joel sat in the overstuffed chair opposite. "Not really, no," he replied evenly, not intimidated by The Gunner's tone. "Obviously you've been to see Michael."

The Gunner nodded. "I tried calling, but there was never an answer. I went to see Michael and he told me where you were living."

"I've been in California, and Seattle," replied Joel. "Sheldon . . ." he nodded toward the closed bedroom door. "Sheldon's English is non-existent so he never answers the telephone."

The Gunner ran his hand over his face. "You're here now. I came to see just what our relationship had become. Now I know."

"Please, Steve, don't be angry. And in fairness, I told you I did not intend to take up celibacy."

The Gunner's upraised hand stopped Joel's explanation. "In fairness, you did. But you did not, in fairness, bother to tell me about this place, or the boys you kept here. While we were telling each other how much we loved each other you had some rent boy stashed away. And where in hell did Sheldon come from?"

Joel was quite unfazed by The Gunner's heated outburst. "He has some unpronounceable Chinese name. It sounds like Sheldon, so I call him Sheldon," he explained. He stood up and walked to a white painted credenza on which stood an array of liquor bottles and poured a large Scotch for himself and one The Gunner. "Steve, I wasn't lying when I told you that I loved you," he said as he handed the drink to The Gunner. "I did then and I still do, please believe that."

"I believe you. But you still haven't explained your house guests."

"The boys?" Joel's low, almost tinkling, sensual laughter filled the sparely furnished room. "Steve, I love sex. I want sex. Quite simply put, I give the boys a home; food, clothes, money, and they give me what I want. When I tire of a boy I give him some very nice parting gifts and find someone new. The boy gets what he wants, I get what I want." He took a small sip of his drink and smiled coyly. "It is a very convenient arrangement."

Joel put aside his drink and went to sit beside The Gunner. He took his former lover's hands in his. "Steve, I was wrong to keep this part of my life from you. You may not believe me, but until I realized that we were not to be, there were no boys here. I was very happy when we woke up in the morning, with you lying beside me. But then you went back on duty in Victoria, and later, in Comox. I never saw you for weeks on end."

"You knew that I was in the Navy, Joel, and what that entailed," The Gunner pointed out defensively.

"Yes, Steve," admitted Joel. "I did, and I am not using that as an excuse. Last month, when we finally agreed to part, I found Sheldon. When I was in California, and later, in Seattle, I thought about what we had talked about and realized that you and I could never be together, no matter how I felt about you." A sad smile formed on his face. "I love you, Steve, but you will never be there every night when I come home, nor will you be there when I reach out in the middle of the night, wanting to feel a warm body next to mine."

Standing up, Joel walked to the huge picture window dominating the living room. He stared at the tree-filled distance, not seeing the greenery, not seeing the beauty of Stanley Park. "So now you don't have to leave the Navy, to make the sacrifice," he said quietly.

"I still will, I think," replied The Gunner. "Joel, please, look at me. I hate talking to your back."

Joel turned, but did not return to the sofa. "It won't matter, Steve. I know you. You have the Navy in your blood. You can't help yourself. You might leave for a while, but one day you'll go back. You'll hear a band playing a march, or see a group of sailors in blue uniforms and something will go bang in your head and you'll be gone because your first love was, is, and always will be, the Navy."

"So, it's over then, Joel?" asked The Gunner, even though he knew the answer.

Joel nodded. "I hope you find someone, Steve, I really do. You're too nice a man to stay alone."

The Gunner smiled cynically. "I have met someone. We haven't done anything, and to be honest, I don't think we will."

Joel hurried across the room and sat down again on the sofa. "Now tell me just why you think nothing will happen."

"He's seventeen, and he's a Sea Cadet Chief Petty Officer in AURORA."

"Are you in love with him?" asked Joel softly. He studied The Gunner's face as his emotions vied with his convictions and knew the answer before The Gunner spoke it.

The Gunner's demeanour softened as he looked at Joel and nodded. "Desperately," he admitted.

"Then do something about it. Take him away somewhere and make love to him. You are a very good lover, Steve, as I know all too well."

"He's a boy, Joel," protested The Gunner. "He's a boy who loves me, but he is a boy!"

Joel raised his eyes to the ceiling. "Oh, balls!" he spat almost contemptuously. "If he loves you, then for Christ's sweet sake do something about it!" He gave The Gunner a dark, disgusted look. "You really are the most aggravating, insufferable, stuffy, son-of-a-bitch I have ever met!"

"But Joel . . ."

Joel waved away all opposition. "Steve, if you love him, then it doesn't matter. I know how you feel about your subordinates, your students, your cadets!" Joel's tone left no doubt how he felt about The Gunner's code of conduct. "It's stupid, and it's silly, as silly as what is really bothering you about starting a relationship with this young man. It's the boy's age, and don't deny it!"

The Gunner had to admit that The Phantom's youth was a part of the problem.

Joel gave The Gunner a hard look. "It shouldn't be, Steve," he said firmly. "If you keep thinking the way you are you'll end up a wizened old man, sitting in a rocking chair in the Old Sailors' Home, wondering how you could ever have been so stupid. Does he know you love him?"

"Yes. The feelings we have are entirely mutual. He wants to be with me, to love me and for me to love him."

"Then do it," said Joel firmly. "Love him, Steve, for his sake, and for your own."

"You're not shocked, at his age?"

"Why should I be?" asked Joel. "Michael fell in love with me when he was 11. We slept together for years. We both knew exactly what we were doing and why we were doing it." He gave The Gunner a firm look. "And so does your young man. He knows he's gay and he knows how he feels about you. When I was 17 I was perfectly capable of making a rational decision about a great many things, including how I felt about certain people. If you'd admit it, so were you. And so is your young man, who is in love with you and not about to wait until he's 21 to do something about it." Joel's tone softened. "Love him Steve. Let him love you. He's in love with you and you are in love with him and that, my dear friend, is all that matters."

The Gunner smiled tightly and he felt the residual anger that he had felt toward Joel for his duplicity ebb away. He did not doubt that Joel still cared for him. His words proved that. But Joel did not love him, and was not in love with him. What had been between them was over. Joel had realized it and he now realized it. It was time for both of them to move on.

"Steve, go to your young man," continued Joel, "Love him and be happy with him for the rest of your lives."

"God, I hope we can."

"If I have anything to say about it, you will."

"Michael told me that you've become quite vocal. He called you a crusader."

Joel laughed. "More of an activist," he exclaimed. "I'm tired of pretending and if demonstrating in front of the Vancouver Sun building means I don't have to live a life of deception, then I'll demonstrate. I'll write letters, I'll yell, I'll strip naked and sit on the Cathedral steps, if that's what it takes."

"Michael would love that."

"No, he wouldn't," replied Joel with a throaty chuckle. "He might have been content with a furtive slap and a tickle in an out-of-the-way motel, where nobody asked any questions, but I wasn't."

"I might have put you in it," confessed The Gunner, remembering his conversation with Michael. "I wish now that'd you'd told me about him. I would have kept my big mouth shut."

Joel made a face. "It's his own fault. He never wants anyone to know his business. For more than one very good reason Michael is a very private person and very, very easy to piss off if someone tells his secrets. I couldn't tell you about him and me."

"I think I understand," replied The Gunner, thinking of the two obvious goons sitting in the restaurant. He decided not to mention Michael's slip or that he knew that Joel's family had disowned him.

"He's as big a coward as you are," said Joel. He laughed snidely. "Michael is to be married, you know."

"He didn't mention it. If he loves you, why would he marry?" The Gunner was not all that surprised at this piece of news. Michael had said that he would conform to the customs and traditions of his people.

"Because it's expected of him," replied Joel hotly, his voice edged with sarcasm. "He is to be married because it's time, because he's afraid of the love that dares not speak its name!" Joel rolled his eyes, his demeanour expressing his scorn for the phrase first coined when Oscar Wilde made love to Lord Alfred Douglas. "Michael is so very afraid of what his business associates would do if they found out he really wants to sleep with me, and not the daughter of one of the richest men in Hong Kong."

"Poor Michael," sighed The Gunner. "Somehow I know exactly what he's going through."

"If you know then you should realize how miserable he's going to be for the rest of his life. I don't want that for you, Steve. I don't want it for him, but . . ."

"Michael will observe the customs and traditions of his culture," repeated The Gunner softly as he echoed Michael's remembered remarks. "When is the wedding?"

"Sometime next year. The prenuptial agreements haven't been settled. Not that I care. I doubt I'll be invited."

There was a loud crash from somewhere deep within the apartment. Joel giggled.
"It would seem that your friend takes exception to my being here," said The Gunner with a chuckle.

"He'll get over it. I'll give him some money to send to his avaricious family living in some hovel in the New Territories. He'll get all mushy and grateful and then we'll fuck each other's brains out." He shrugged indifferently. "And don't worry about Michael. I can handle him." He laughed caustically. "There was a time when all I had to do was to pull down his zipper and he was like a pussy cat. Now . . . I'll just throw a business opportunity his way - and yours - that will make you both millionaires beyond your wildest dreams."

The Gunner had no idea what Joel was talking about. A millionaire beyond his wildest dreams? Hardly. "Did you find the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow?" he asked flippantly.

Joel deliberately waggled his behind at The Gunner. "There's only one 'pot of gold' Steve, and you found it a long time ago." He sobered and spoke very clearly. "You know I work for Bill Gates?"

The Gunner nodded. "The computer guru. Yes, you told me."

Joel pointed toward the coffee table and the sofa. "Well sit down and write me a nice big fat cheque for say, five thousand because, my dear, sweet former lover and friend, Mr. Gates has formed a company, it's called Microsoft and he is very quietly going to register it. When he goes public, as he will, you stand to make a killing. And believe me, Steve, Bill Gates will make it go."

"Isn't that insider trading?" asked The Gunner as he allowed himself to be led toward the sofa.

"Hardly," replied Joel placidly. "You are merely making an investment in an unproven company flogging an unproven technology."

"Five thousand?" asked The Gunner sceptically.

"Really, Steve, it's not that you don't have the money!" returned Joel.

The Gunner had to admit that he did have the money. His parents' estate, and the sale of the family home and his father's business after their deaths had left him comfortable. This money was invested in gilt-edged stocks and bonds and the interest earned on his investments was paid into his bank account once a month. He lived on his wage as a Leading Seaman Gunner, $1,011 a month, before taxes, although he did pay $50.00 a month lounge and scrounge.

There was also no reason, The Gunner thought, to doubt Joel's honesty, just as he had no reason to think that his former lover was pulling a fiddle. Michael had told him that their grandfather had left Joel "provided for" and a quick glance around the penthouse suite - itself a not inconsiderable expense - The Gunner saw that the walls were hung with Joel's small collection of Impressionist and Post-Impressionist artwork. There were two Klees, a Braque, and a Tchelitchew, none of which were to The Gunner's taste but all of which were worth more than his combined assets.

There was also the fact that in all their moments together, Joel had always been scrupulously honest about his feelings. Joel still loved him, or so The Gunner thought, and would not have any reason to try to swindle or con him. Joel's offer was genuine. The only question in The Gunner's mind was whether Joel was a good judge of the viability of Microsoft. And could a boffin, a man whose whole being was obsessed with computers, be a successful businessman? Little was known of Mr. Bill Gates, Jr., and The Gunner knew even less. Five grand was a lot to risk on a technology that thus far had been more or less limited to the only organizations that could afford to use it: government and big business.

Thinking of the risk involved, The Gunner heard his own voice, expressed to two naked, blond haired boys, sitting on a Harwood Island Beach. "I'm not saying don't take risks, what I am saying is don't take stupid chances!"

So then, what was it to be, a risk, or a stupid chance or an opportunity to be taken advantage of? The lady or the tiger?

The Gunner looked at Joel, looked at the contents of the room, heard again his words to the Twins and made up his mind. What Joel was offering was risk, but it was also an opportunity and The Gunner had decided to take advantage of it.

"Five thousand, you said?" asked The Gunner as he took his wallet from his pocket. He always kept two or three blank cheques on hand. "And how much are you going to sting Michael for?" he asked with a small smile as he scribbled the cheque, making it payable to Joel and hoping that he would get a return on his money.

"As much as I can," replied Joel with a giggle. "Why, if I can inveigle him into a compromising position - and I can, trust me - the sky's the limit." He sighed wistfully, remembering those long ago nights when Michael and he had been boys, when they had lain in each other's arms, when they had . . .

Joel walked briskly to the credenza and poured another drink. "I'm letting you in on the ground floor because I love you and I want you to enjoy your life. As for Michael . . ." He shrugged impassively. "He understands the language of money."

"You've changed, Joel," said The Gunner sadly as he handed his cheque to Joel. "The old Joel would never have spoken with such brashness."

"Crude? Rude? Loud?" asked Joel. "Or all of the above. I was nice for a long time, Steve, and it got me thrown out of my home and disowned by my own parents and family. So now I say what I like, when I like. My new motto is fuck 'em all but six. One day I'll need pallbearers."

"I hope you know what you're doing."

"I do."

The Gunner hoped that Joel was right. There was a toughness in Joel that few saw, and if anyone could survive in a homophobic world, it was Joel. For all that, The Gunner had been around long enough to know that brashness and courage would sometimes not be enough. While he hoped that time would never come, he still cared enough for Joel to want to be there if he was needed. "Can we still be friends, Joel? Not lovers, friends."

Joel smiled, remembered his days and nights with this fine man, and then dismissed the past to the past. It was time to move on. He nodded. "Of course, Steve. I will always be your friend, which is why I just gave you the opportunity of a lifetime! Why would you think otherwise? I might not be sleeping with you but that doesn't mean I don't love you."

The Gunner had no answer. He nodded slowly. It was over and it was time to . . ."I'd better go, Joel, before Sheldon wrecks the place," said The Gunner with a glance toward the closed bedroom door.

"If he does he'll be out on his ass."

The Gunner kissed Joel lightly on the cheek. "You take care, hear? Let me know how you're doing. And where you are. You're hard to track down, sometimes."

Joel laughed. "Don't worry, I know what I'm doing." He grimaced slightly. "And never fear, Michael will know how to find me. He always does."

"He loves you, Joel, very much, I think."

"But not enough to accept me openly, or to admit what he is."

"He has his reasons."

"Don't we all, Steve, don't we all."

******

As he rode down in the elevator The Gunner had a feeling of uneasiness. Settling with Joel was one thing. His future, if any, with The Phantom, was another. Would The Phantom allow him to love him? For that matter, did The Phantom still love him?

Stepping from the elevator and crossing the vacant lobby The Gunner thought of that day so many years ago when he had tried to give his love to another boy. He had been rejected then and, as he climbed into his car and headed for the ferry docks, he wondered if all that was waiting for him in AURORA was rejection. He started the car and as he navigated the busy streets the word echoed through his brain:

Rejection.

******

The ferry to Victoria had barely cleared Vancouver Harbour when the clouds closed in, the sky darkened and the sea picked up. An hour later, as the boat eased its nose into the berth in Victoria the clouds opened and the city was deluged with rain. Traffic immediately snarled and, rather than fight his way into the city, The Gunner travelled west and pulled into the parking lot of the CFB Esquimalt Junior Ranks Mess, where he went immediately to the Snake Pit, officially the Lower Deck Bar.

The Gunner ordered a beer and sat at one of the tables in front of the huge plate glass windows that overlooked Seal Rock. He was staring glumly out the window, thinking of Joel's words and wondering what he was going to do about The Phantom when he felt a hand on his shoulder. He looked up and saw an old friend, who had his usual Jiminy Cricket smile creasing his face. The Gunner smiled wanly and indicated the empty chair on the other side of the table. "Pull up a pew, Danny," he said. "Buy you a beer?"

"You look like the crops just failed. And I have a beer." Danny held up his bottle. He was a short, heavyset man about the same age as The Gunner. He was dressed in his usual very soiled work dress uniform. "So, why so glum, Steve?" he asked.

"Too much work, too little time," lied The Gunner. He nodded toward Danny's uniform. "What's with the work dress? I thought you Supply types didn't work on weekends."

Danny snorted, "I've been working my fat little ass off all week cleaning out Clothing Stores," he explained.

"What brought that on?"

"Admiral's Inspection is what brought that on." Danny shook his head in disgust. "He did his inspection last Friday and the old fuck went ape shit when he found all the old blue uniforms still in Stores. He went ballistic when he saw all the Class II white uniforms. The word came down from on high: GET RID OF THEM!"

"And?"

"The blue uniforms I just transferred over to the Sea Cadet stores. The rest gets gashed."

The Gunner sat up. "What do you mean, gets gashed?"

Smiling inwardly, for he had noticed The Gunner's reaction to his news of the fate of the old uniforms, Danny assumed a melancholy look. "As far as the Supply Officer is concerned everything else has no resale value. So we gash it." Then he smiled slyly. "Unless you know somebody who could use 50 brand new Number 11 Chiefs' white uniforms, plus shoes, and caps?"

Danny had known The Gunner for many years, and knew his man well. The Gunner was an Old Guard sailor, and was always going on about the old uniforms, and what a shame it was that so much had to be thrown in the local dump. Like all Storekeepers Danny was a businessman with an Aladdin's cave of undocumented treasures, carefully garnered over the years. He was also a man with a harpy of a wife who believed in conspicuous consumption, and the father of six children, all of whom needed food, clothing and, like their mother, absolutely had to have the latest fashion, fad, or toy they saw advertised on television.

As a businessman Danny knew that The Gunner would not rest easy if he allowed any part of the Old Navy to end up on a rubbish tip. He had baited the hook with the Number 11 uniforms and let a little of his fishing line out. What Danny did not know was that The Gunner had heard certain rumours, which was why he had called in the first place.

"Yeah, Steve, it's sad," said Danny with feigned regret. "Those green bastards just can't stand to see anything that reminds them of our heritage. I'm sure going to hate to get rid of some of the stuff I have." He smiled sadly.

"What stuff?" The Gunner asked, trying to sound casual. He was not quite as naive as Danny perceived him to be. Let him think I'm eyeing the baited hook.

"Oh, let's see," replied Danny, pretending to be remembering his stock. He actually knew exactly what was in stores, where they were kept and, like every good businessman, the current market value of all the shiny bits and pieces. "The uniforms aside, gold wire badges, all trades, all ranks up to and including P1, all original and still in the box. Three Naval pattern swords with belts, in rosewood boxes - they used to hand them out to the graduates of Royal Roads, you know. And ten sets of Chiefs buttons and crowns, gold, from Spink's." The line was fully extended, and from the look in The Gunner's eyes, the fish was about to take the bait.

The fish was nibbling, tasting the richness of the bait, swimming warily. What the fisherman did not know was that the fish had been swimming in the pond for a long time and had learned from bitter experience how real business in the Navy was conducted, and had early in its youth learned the lesson that no matter how tempting the bait, it always concealed a steel barb.

"Well, Danny, I'd really like to help out," countered The Gunner sympathetically. "But I really don't know anybody who would want so much stuff; a jobber, maybe? There are at least four, maybe five Army/Navy surplus stores in town. They might be interested."

Danny shook his head. "Too much paperwork," he said, his Jiminy Cricket grin not quite hiding the avarice in his eyes. "You know how I hate to do paperwork."

The Gunner nodded, smiling inwardly. Danny hated paperwork because documentation of any kind could be traced, and would lead directly to whatever bank the chubby storekeeper hid his loot in. The Gunner also knew that if Danny found a buyer in Civvy Street dumb enough to take undocumented Naval Stores, he might, on a good day, get ten cents on the dollar, so he assumed a helpful look. "Well, I might be able to take some it off your hands," The Gunner offered in an off hand manner. "I know a few of the old Chiefs might like to have a new uniform to be buried in."

Danny chuckled. "And make a little profit, eh?"

The Gunner smiled. Danny now understood that The Gunner knew exactly what was going on. Danny had a load of shineys that he wanted to dispose of as quickly, as quietly, and as profitably for himself as possible. "Danny, why would I want to make a profit?" asked The Gunner. "I have more money than I can spend. I live on board ship, so I don't pay rent. I get three squares a day, so I don't have to buy food. I don't booze it up, so, I say again, why would I want to make a profit?"

Danny ran his hand over his face. The line was out, the hook was baited, but the fish had just turned up its gills and was swimming fast in the opposite direction.

"Well, then, if you're not interested," Danny muttered. He downed his beer and was about to leave the table when The Gunner stopped him.

"I didn't say I wasn't interested."

Danny hunkered down. The Gunner had said the magic words. He motioned for The Gunner to continue. A cagey look came into The Gunner's eyes. "I might, just might, be able to take some of your merchandise off your hands." Now he was dangling bait. "I'm much too much of a traditionalist to let you flog them piecemeal to some junkman and see some street punk dressed up as an admiral or something, panhandling in a white uniform."

Danny nodded. "I can give you a good price." He thought a moment. "Let's say $600.00 for the uniforms."

"Let's say three hundred, and you throw in the caps and shoes," countered The Gunner, who knew the going rate for surplus uniforms.

Danny glared. "I have expenses you know," he lied blatantly. "Five fifty."

"Yeah, a wife and six kids," replied The Gunner coldly. "Three fifty, and you still throw in the caps and shoes."

"Cash?"

"In my wallet. Small bills, just the way you like it."

Danny nodded. "The badges, now, 15 of each and every trade and rank, plus three boxes of gold wire GC's. Since we're such good friends, I could let you have them for, say, $100.00."

"Since you brought it up we were very good friends, before you got married. $50.00." The Gunner grinned a wolfish grin. The fish had stolen the bait from under the nose of the fisherman. "Another beer?"

Danny nodded, then smiled nostalgically. "A low blow, Steve, very low, even for a gunner. Get the beer."

When The Gunner returned Danny nodded. "Okay, $50.00 for the badges. But I get a hundred apiece for the swords and presentation cases." He held out his hand and with the other pretended to be punching numbers into a hand calculator. "Seven hundred, plus fifty to sweeten the pot."

"What about the Chiefs buttons?"

Danny grinned. "You always were a sucker for the good stuff. Tell you what; let's not fuck around. You want what I have, right?"

The Gunner nodded.

"And, since, as you pointed out, we were very close once upon a time, you can have the lot for, let's say, a grand. Cash, no cheques."

"I don't carry that much with me. It's . . . shit, it's four o'clock on a Saturday afternoon. I can get the money to you on Monday." The Gunner had exactly $650.00 in his wallet.

Danny shook his head. "Sorry, Steve, as much as I like to remember us in the old days, and I do remember," he said with smiling emphasis, "business is business. Monday the Supply Officer comes back and the stuff had better be loaded on a truck heading for the dump or shifted. I can make some calls; see what's out there and I might even, no, I will get more. The fucking Chiefs' buttons and crowns are hallmarked gold."

The Gunner knew that Danny was right. He was being offered a bargain. He drained his beer and stood up. "I'll meet you in front of the warehouse in an hour."

"Where are you going?" asked Danny, visions of a lost sale flashing through his head.

"The Bureau de Change in the Empress Hotel."

"Why there, it's all the way downtown?"

The Gunner pulled out his wallet and fished around a bit. Then he held up a small, green, plastic card. "Don't leave home without it."

******

Two telephone calls later The Gunner had what he needed, plus a little extra. Danny always held something back. As he got in his car The Gunner thanked God and American Express.

When he arrived at Clothing Stores he found that Danny had everything ready. When the back of The Gunner's car was loaded he handed over Danny's money. As he did so he saw three oblong boxes sitting on Danny's desk and asked what was in them.

"Midshipmen dirks. Ivory handles, finest Sheffield plate blades, gold-plated hilt, $75.00 per and no argument."

As The Gunner handed over the extra cash Danny asked him what he planned on doing with all the gear. "Oh, I'll find a use for it, and no danger," replied The Gunner enigmatically.

******

When The Gunner paused to open the door to his motel room he could hear music. The television was on and he could see a small strip of light glowing under the closed door. He was somewhat disappointed. Obviously Andy, or Kyle, or both of them, had decided to have a night in. He had hoped that they would find something to occupy themselves because he was not, after today, in the mood for company.

Much to his surprise The Gunner found the Twins sitting on the sofa, watching television. There were two empty beer bottles on the coffee table and each boy held a bottle of beer in his hand. "Make yourselves at home," he said sarcastically as he put his sea bag, which he had carried in from the car, on the deck beside the far bed.

"We did, thank you, sir," said Todd with exaggerated politeness. Strangely, neither cadet rose when he entered, which was a minor breach of protocol. The Twins were well-raised boys and were always unfailingly polite. Being Sea Cadets they had always observed proper protocol.

"I see you found the bar," The Gunner replied.

"We did, yes, sir." Cory pointed to four one-dollar bills on the table. "We left the money to pay for the beer."

"That's really not necessary, Cory." The Gunner smiled at them. He lost his smile when he saw the look on their faces. "I, um, I think I can stand for a beer or two."

"We would rather pay for our own, thank you, sir," replied Todd stonily.

The Gunner sat in the chair facing the Twins. He regarded each hard face. Jesus, he thought, are they pissed off about something! He nodded toward the door. "May I ask how you got in here?" he asked quietly.

Todd fished in the pocket of his blue shorts and withdrew a green plastic card. "I believe the company advises one not to leave home without it, sir," replied Todd, his tone icy.

The Gunner noticed that both boys were sitting with their legs closed and their knees primly touching. Usually they sprawled all over the place, not caring if their well-formed tackle, or their underpants, which they seldom wore anyway, showed. "What's with the 'sir' routine? You two are awfully formal."

"With respect sir, we are always formal with someone we consider to be a big shit!" Cory's voice was firm.

The Gunner started from his chair. "Why you, impudent, insubordinate pups. How dare you! You break into my room, you drink my beer, and you have the gall to call me a shit?"

"We have paid for the beer," Todd pointed out. "We admit we broke into this room."

The Gunner sat stunned. "You . . . you little . . ." he sputtered.

"We are many things, Gunner, but we at least stand by our friends." Cory had a sad look on his face. "We love you, and we respect you, but after what you did to Phantom . . ."

"What in the hell has Phantom got to do with this?" The Gunner roared. "And what business is it of yours?"

Todd looked at Cory, who nodded. "Phantom is our friend. He told us what happened," said Todd quietly. "Frankly, sir, as your sons in spirit, we are ashamed of you."

"Be careful, Todd, be very careful because, as your father in spirit, I can tell you that you are not so big that I can't turn your uppity backside in the air and give you the hiding you've been deserving."

"It would have been better had you done that to Phantom, sir," replied Cory, ignoring the threat. "You could not have hurt him more."

The Gunner stared at the Twins. He was very angry at their interference, and was fighting to keep his temper under control. "It was not my intention to hurt Phantom. And, since you two seem to know our business, permit me to tell you that had he given me the opportunity I would have explained my words."

"Phantom loves you. You refuse to love him. He also believes you lied to him." Todd placed his empty bottle on the coffee table. "Did you?"

The Gunner stood up and began to pace the floor. "Boys, I am not going to lie to you. I love Phantom. I love him." He took a deep breath and continued on, not caring if the Twins knew of his love. "I would never lie to him and I did not lie to him. He saw a photograph; he put two and two together and came up with five. I repeat, I did not lie to him. I would never lie to him."

"Then the young man is not your, um, lover, sir?" asked Cory delicately.

"Cory, please, no more of the 'sir' crap." The Gunner resumed his seat. "What happened between that man and me is our business, not Phantom's and certainly not yours."

Todd nodded. "We can understand that. What you must understand is that Phantom believes you have a lover. He also believes you deliberately hid that lover."

"Todd, there was nothing to hide. Nothing! What was between my friend and me was over, is over. I didn't tell Phantom because it did not seem important." The Gunner shook his head sadly. "I suppose now, I should have told him. Then maybe he wouldn't hate me."

Todd and Cory exchanged a look and then stood up. It was now time to put into effect the second part of their plan, which they had hatched on the bus coming down to Victoria, and refined in their motel room. The first part of this plan, deliberately confrontational, had established to their satisfaction that The Gunner was sincere, and that he did indeed truly love Phantom.

Both of the Twins were mature enough to realize that The Phantom might just have been more emotional than the situation between him and The Gunner warranted. Now satisfied that The Gunner was playing his cards straight and from the top of the deck, it was time to convince him to get up off his ass and declare himself to Phantom and to convince him that making love to Phantom would not bring the world to a shattering halt.

They sat on either side of The Gunner and hugged him.

"Phantom does not hate you, Gunner. He loves you so much he can't eat. He doesn't sleep. All he thinks about is you." Cory rubbed his head against The Gunner's shoulder.

"He's