Bliss by Gordon Phillips

Author:Gordon Phillips [Phillips, Gordon]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: JMS Books LLC
Published: 2019-08-11T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter 5: Inner Sanctum

I woke the next morning, somewhat surprised to realize that I’d had a good night’s sleep, and aware of the delicious smell of breakfast. I went over the major points of my current situation in my mind. I was in Quentin’s condo, in his roommate’s bed, Quentin was dead, possibly murdered by the big blond bodybuilder who was perhaps, all things considered, the most beautiful man—body and soul combined—I had ever met.

And then I realized that Horst—the man rather than the suspect—was responsible for my current sense of well-being. And the smell of breakfast.

I got up, crossed to the bathroom, and got into the shower, revelling as I always did in the comforting warmth of the spray. After the shower I did my other morning ablutions, with the kit I always carried with me. Given the nature of my job, I often kept odd hours, and I knew how much being presentable meant in many circumstances.

I glanced at myself in the bathroom mirror again, and decided I looked more or less presentable.

“Come and get it!” came Horst’s voice as I approached the kitchen.

The kitchen had a breakfast nook, with a table set for two. As I entered, Horst indicated a chair. He put everything on the table with the efficiency of a professional, and then seated himself.

I surveyed the feast, and looked at him. “I’m impressed!” I said. “Do you always eat this well in the morning?”

He had a piece of buttered toast in his hand and was putting marmalade on it.

“Pretty much. We don’t usually get up early, so it’s more or less always brunch—though Quentin doesn’t—didn’t—like that term.”

I thought back, and nodded. Quentin had his own ideas about things. I remembered that “lifestyle” was a word he especially hated. “We’re not allowed to have lives anymore,” he once confided to me acidly. “We just have lifestyles! What rubbish!”

Still, it looked like brunch to me. There were slices of orange, yoghurt, halved and pitted cherries, scrambled eggs with chopped green onion in it. There were also small latkes—potato pancakes—and sour cream. And coffee.

“Food fit for a king,” I said, smiling at Horst, and couldn’t help adding, “or McQueen.”

Horst looked at me for a few seconds, and then chuckled.

“Oh, your last name.”

The meal was very pleasant, though I couldn’t resist mentioning the lack of bacon. Horst nodded.

“Yeah,” he said, “I don’t eat bacon—any pork, actually. Neither did Quentin.”

“Oh.”

“It’s not a religious thing,” he explained. “It’s just—well, pigs are quite bright.”

I looked at him and nodded. “A moral thing, then. Cool.”

He nodded back at me, and seemed relieved that I understood.

When we had finished eating, he refilled our coffee cups.

“If you want to take that into the living room, or the balcony—”

When I opened the door to the balcony, a wall of hot, muggy air hit me, and I closed it. We sat down in the living room instead, and I said, “Thank heaven for air conditioning!”

Horst nodded, but the phrase had twigged something in my mind. I got up and went to the control panel for the air conditioner on the far wall, then turned to Horst.

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