Monkey Suits Read Online Free PDF Page B

rather than flesh.

7 Flat marble swirled in a circle at their feet, an unsteady waiter’s downfall, they were about to be warned.

    Philipe stood silently atop a milk crate, waiting for their attention. The captains, Neil Pynchon and Ron Bellows, an older senior waiter with a dashing pepper-speckled beard, each stood at Philipe’s side like guard dogs.

    Philipe held a silver knife high up in his hand. As the warm light from the library reading racks fell behind him in silhouette, the sanctity of his pose was broken by the rushed footsteps of two young waiters who’d spent a few too many minutes primping in the men’s room. “Write down ze names,” Philipe muttered to Ron Bellows, who glanced at the guilty faces and jotted their names in his notebook.

    His arm held high, clutching the glinting knife, Philipe continued.

    “Zere is a sound made by ze unfortunate combination of marble, silver, gravity and clumsiness. I call it ze Hell’z Bellz.” The knife fell. The clatter pierced the air, echoing through the stone hall. Several waiters cupped their ears. Some burst into laughter. Philipe cracked a grin, awaiting their return to silence. Neil retrieved the knife.

    “I trust that is ze last time I will hear it tonight.” He looked over his clipboard. “Now, for your table assignments ... Mistah Wyndam?”

    Lee raised his hand.

    “You are at table one wiss Mistah Rook, who is your A waitaire.”

    Lee scanned the crew for a familiar blond head, almost as pale as Ed’s. He saw Kevin Rook’s sharply chiseled face. The two made eye contact. Lee was elated to share a table of high rank with Kevin, whom he always considered untouchably handsome, especially in the changing rooms when he stole glances at his tightly sculpted muscles.

    “Mrs. Kennedy will be dining at your table,” Philipe said. “I trust you are both Democrats?” The workers giggled again. Philipe continued through the list of table assignments, naming the headwaiter and his or her assistant.

    Since Kevin had risen to the rank of serving a VVIP table, mostly through his good looks and tenacity, he stood relaxed while half the staff served cocktails and hors d’oeuvres on the Library floor below. Lee still fluttered inside with a mild anticipation. Had he risen so soon, or was this merely a test? He glanced around the space, one of three arranged in shelf-lined studies of the Arents Collection, the Berg Collection and their room, the Art, Prints and Photographs Division.

    “I could do with a few hundred of these precious tomes,” Kevin softly blurted.

    “Huh? Oh, yeah. Did you see these?” He picked up a novel, a recently published work by a recently lauded novelist, Drew Van Sully. One had been placed on each seat.

    “Mmnnn. I’ve got dibs on whatever they don’t take home.”

    “This got a good review somewhere,” Lee said, clutching at a conversational straw. “Thicker Than Water. It’s about this gay swimmer who’s got AIDS and goes to Egypt.” He wanted to make a good impression on Kevin, but too-handsome men made him stutter and sweat.

    “Oh, yeah, I heard about that.”

    Lee set the book down. “Are you working the MOMA party next week?”

    “Oh no. I’m going to Washington. Actually, Maryland.”

    “Oh, what for?”

    “Didn’t you know?” Kevin broke his waiterly stance. His eyes lit up quick as a gas flame and he became suddenly enthused. “ACT UP’s taking over the FDA building.”

    Lee had seen the posters around town and noticed a few news articles, but was embarrassingly ignorant about the group’s activities.

    “This may sound dumb, but what for?”

    “Don’t feel dumb. You just need information.” Kevin excitedly explained about the organization’s plans to shut down the lumbering administrative building to protest its lethargy in approving AIDS drugs. “We’re eight years into an epidemic and they’ve only approved one drug, and that’s the most expensive drug ever made. And it