Cupid Shot Me: Valentine Tales of Love, Mystery & Suspense
Author: Frank W. Butterfield; Meg Perry; Michael Nava
Date: 2022-02-01 00:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Amateur Sleuth; gay mystery anthology; Police Procedural; horror books for adults; gay mystery detective mm; Chicago crime fiction; police detective mysteries
Description: Eleven award-winning queer authors come together to spin tales of murder, horror, and suspense all during a Valentine's Day you won't soon forget! From the Introduction by Michael Nava, celebrated author of the Henry Rios mysteries: The stories in Cupid Shot Me fall somewhere between the classic Richard Rodgers tune "My Funny Valentine" and the gangland Saint Valentine's Day Massacre. You'll find bushels of red roses but some may be lethal, and watch what you eat at that romantic dinner because that exquisite morsel on your fork may be poisoned. You'll definitely want the bomb squad to inspect
Publisher: Barnes & Noble Press

Cupid Shot Me

Valentine Tales
of

Love, Mystery & Suspense

A Queer Mystery Anthology #1

Compiled and Edited By

Frank W. Butterfield

&

Meg Perry

Anthology © 2022 by Frank W. Butterfield. All rights reserved.

Introduction © 2022 by Michael Nava. All rights reserved.

Individual stories are the property of their authors. A complete copyright listing can be found at the end of the book.

This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

This book contains explicit language and suggestive situations.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, events, and incidents are the products of the authors’ imaginations. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

ANTH01-E-20220121

Contents

Introduction: Michael Nava

Responsible Adults: Gregory Ashe

Glen & Tyler Skip Dessert: JB Sanders

Cabbage Key: Neil Plakcy

Roses Are Dead: Mark Zubro

Paper Hearts: Mark McNease

I've Been Inside Your House: Rick R. Reed

Paris: Marko Realmonte

Bound to Love: Brad Shreve

This Thing of Darkness: Greg Herren

Speed Murder: Meg Perry

Let's Fall in Love: Frank W. Butterfield

Acknowledgments

About the Authors

Copyrights

Introduction:
Michael Nava

The stories in Cupid Shot Me fall somewhere between the classic Richard Rodgers tune “My Funny Valentine” and the gangland Saint Valentine’s Day Massacre. You’ll find bushels of red roses, but some may be lethal, and watch what you eat at that romantic dinner because that exquisite morsel on your fork may be poisoned. You’ll definitely want the bomb squad to inspect that enormous box of chocolates before you open it.

In my opinion, mystery short stories are harder to write than mystery novels. I’ve only written one and that was enough for me to realize it’s not in my wheelhouse. The mystery short story has to include all of the elements of the mystery novel—a compelling mystery, an engaging protagonist, fully fleshed-out and quirky secondary characters, snappy dialogue, evocative settings—and do it all in no more than twenty or thirty pages max. I think it’s the literary equivalent of what they said about Ginger Rogers’s dancing in those 1930s musicals she did with Fred Astaire: “Sure, he was great, but she had to do everything he did... backwards and in high heels.”

Given those challenges, the stories in this collection are seriously impressive. Not to mention diverse. You’ll find classical tropes like the locked-room mystery (“Glen & Tyler Skip Dessert,” “Speed Murder”), the police procedural (“Roses are Dead”), the caper (“Responsible Adults”) the paranormal mystery (“Let’s Fall in Love”), and the psychological thriller (“Paris”) along with new takes on classic noir (“Cabbage Key,” “Bound to Love,” “Paper Hearts,” “I’ve Been Inside Your House,” “This Thing of Darkness”). You will also discover some really, really good writing. If I quoted every line that stopped me in my tracks with admiration (and maybe a little envy), this introduction would be as long as the book itself. Here are three teasers chosen more or less at random:

“The boy’s glasses had slid halfway down his nose. In what was either a fit or irony or social suicide, the boy had chosen to wear a pocket protector.” (“Responsible Adults”)

“Compassion was the one thing you wouldn’t find for sale on the rain-soaked streets of L.A.” (“Paper Hearts”)

“He wore three things: the black leather bikini briefs, a pair of combat boots, and a plain leather harness to the back of which were attached two small wings—jet black and crafted from feathers.” (“I’ve Been Inside Your House”)

As that last passage shows, many of the stories in this collection embrace the erotic. Most mysteries shy away from anything too sexually suggestive because, who knows, maybe publishers assume mystery readers are pearl-clutching prudes. Certainly, any suggestion of gay sexuality has straight reviewers heading for the exits. I remember years ago the straight, male mystery reviewer for the Los Angeles Times in an otherwise positive review of one of my books felt compelled to issue a trigger warning because my protagonist and his boyfriend kissed. I don’t think it’s much better now. Most people in the crime fiction literary establishment (publishers, book sellers, reviewers, mystery organizations) are still straight, white, and older and still prone to regarding gay male sexuality as icky. What I admire about these writers and these stories is that they don’t pander to straight sensibilities but present gay male sexuality in all its complexity and without apology.

The stories in this collection are uniformly excellent—we can credit the editors Frank W. Butterfield and Meg Perry for their good taste—but, of course, readers will find some stories resonate more than others for whatever reason. Perhaps because I cut my teeth as a reader and writer on Raymond Chandler (yes, I know how problematic he is, but he basically invented American noir) and the vastly underrated Joseph Hansen, I like my crime fiction dark, my protagonists troubled, and my endings ambivalent. So, I was particularly engaged by two stories in this collection, Neil Plakcy’s “Cabbage Key,” and Marko Realmonte’s “Paris.” “Cabbage Key” may be the sexiest of the stories but also the most melancholy. Set in Florida in 1969, it involves the romance between two deeply closeted men who become unwilling witnesses to a murder. “Paris” starts out like “Death in Venice,” before switching tone to “The Talented Mr. Ripley,” and then transforming into something entirely different and unexpected—it’s a wild ride.

By remarking on those two stories, I intend no slight to the other fine writers in this collection. You’ll have your favorites, too, but none of these of stories will disappoint you. So, fasten your seatbelts, babies, it’s going to be a bumpy ride.

*  *  *

Get to know more about Michael Nava at michaelnavawriter.com.

Responsible Adults:
Gregory Ashe

I

FEBRUARY 14

FRIDAY

8:03 PM

Emery Hazard was trying to be patient.

“Ocular assessment complete,” his husband, John-Henry Somerset—Somers, when they’d been growing up—said in a slightly robotic voice. “One hundred and forty-seven actionable threats identified.”

“I don’t see why it’s unreasonable of me to scan the crowd, identify potentially problematic students, and look for signs of infractions.”

“It’s not unreasonable,” Somers said. “That’s our whole job tonight. It’s just hilarious. And it’s even funnier when you do it in a robot voice.”

Hazard fought the urge to sigh. Or to drown himself in the punch bowl.

To be fair, it wasn’t entirely his husband’s fault. They were at a high school dance on Valentine’s Day, nominally volunteering to chaperone, but in reality, keeping an eye on their foster-son after a bad couple of weeks. And high school dances weren’t exactly a pleasant environment—unless, apparently, you had a few extra gallons of hormones circulating through your system. The sickly-sweet smell from the smoke machine gave Hazard a headache, and the thudding bass and mumble rap were making it worse. Lights spun and swiveled, like they’d been custom-tailored to turn the darkened gymnasium into the perfect trigger for migraine clusters and epileptic fits. And, apparently, the health teachers had skipped the week when they were supposed to cover the liberal application of antiperspirant.

“Oh, come on,” Somers said. “That was kind of funny.”

“Sure. If you think minors in possession of tobacco and alcohol is funny.”

“All right, never mind.”

“And if you think watching what in any other setting would constitute second-degree sexual assault—”

“Oh my God.”

Hazard watched a group of boys grinding against their dates at what, in one of Somers’s stupid movies, would probably be called warp speed. “I mean, do they think that’s comfortable for the girls? Do they think they enjoy that? Hell, do the boys even enjoy it? The friction alone seems like it would be a deterrent.”

Somers was rubbing that spot in the middle of his forehead. “Maybe you’re on to something. Maybe teenage humping is what’s really causing all those cases of spontaneous combustion.”

“That’s ridiculous because in the first place, if teenage boys rubbing off on their dates caused spontaneous combustion, very little of the adult population would reach adulthood without at least some amount of—” He had to consider for a moment. “—second-degree burns. And in the second place—”

“Sweet Jesus.”

“—in the case you’re describing, it wouldn’t be spontaneous combustion. Spontaneous implies that it happens without a cause, but you proposed teenage humping as the cause—”

Somers must have spotted a problem in the crowd because he started walking away. It was hard to tell over the music, but it sounded like he said something along the lines of “I cannot do this again. Not tonight.”

“—which means it was not spontaneous,” Hazard called after him. “Because, to reiterate, spontaneous implies without a cause.” Somers must not have been able to hear him over the music, although it did look like the blond man was walking faster now. “Which, of course, means the whole idea of spontaneous combustion is pseudoscientific at best.”

A lanky teenager—taller even than Hazard, and weighing it at what Hazard guessed was a hundred and forty pounds sopping wet—was staring at him. The boy’s glasses had slid halfway down his nose. In what was either a fit of irony or social suicide, the boy had chosen to wear a pocket protector.

“What?” Hazard asked.

“Spontaneous combustion means when fire occurs without the application of an external heat source.”

Hazard turned his full attention on the boy. He squared his shoulders. He drew himself up. He leveled his coldest look. “I—”

But that was as far as he got. The boy spoke over him. “Self-heating is followed by thermal runaway, which culminates in—”

“Autoignition,” Hazard snapped. “Yes, I am well aware. Who are you, and what do you want?”

“Arthur,” the boy said. “You’re not a teacher. Aren’t you kind of old for a high school dance?”

Hazard had an answer for that, but he had to excavate it from under the landslide of shock.

“Don’t feel bad,” Arthur said. “I didn’t get a date either. Mom says I’m too mature for girls my age. Is that what your mom says?”

“I am not—I do not—”

“Did you come by yourself? You look like you don’t have any friends.”

“I absolutely do—”

“You can hang out with us if you want.” He cast a look over his shoulder at a group huddled near the wall: a short, pudgy boy in a three-piece suit that appeared, from a distance, to be linen; a girl in orthodontic headgear; an androgynous youth in Kim Jong Il-style jumpsuit. “Mom says if you feel sorry for someone, you should be nice to them.”

There were several key points to be made about Arthur and about his mother’s uncompelling, dishwater advice. Hazard was opening his mouth to make them when Somers slid an arm around him.

“Hi,” he said to Arthur. “John-Henry Somerset. You’re not trying to steal my husband, are you?”

Arthur pinkened. “No, no, no, I swear! He just looked lonely, and then he was being bad at science out loud and—”

“Excuse me?” Hazard growled.

“I’m teasing,” Somers said. He held out a hand. “Thanks for watching out for him. I try not to leave him alone for too long.”

If anything, Arthur turned even pinker, but now it looked like pleasure. They shook, and Arthur risked a glance and met Somers’s eyes. Hazard was familiar by now with the John-Henry Somerset effect; he’d observed it through elementary and secondary school, and he’d seen its refined version since coming back to Wahredua and reuniting with the man who had terrorized him in high school. Arthur was already as in love with John-Henry Somerset as a straight boy could get.

“You try not to leave me alone for too long?” Hazard asked, disengaging himself from his husband. “Like I’m, what, mentally enfeebled? I’ll wander off and soil myself?”

“How old are you?” Arthur asked doubtfully. “That happens with my Nana sometimes.”

A scream was building in Hazard’s throat, fueled by the grin swiping across Somers’s face. Hazard turned on Arthur again. Then he froze. Beyond Arthur, past his group of misfits, a boy and a girl were jimmying open one of the doors at the back of the gym. The boy was dark complexioned, his hair in a quiff with a skin fade, his tie pulled loose, and his shirt untucked. The girl was white, her hair mousey blond, her dress small enough to qualify, in some circles, as a napkin.

“Hey!” Hazard shouted.

The boy glanced over. He smirked and gave an Italian salute.

“Who’s that?” Hazard asked.

Arthur glanced over his shoulder. “Who—? Oh. Cortez. And Alanna. My mom bought Nana these adult diapers—”

“Stop!” Hazard shouted.

This time, Cortez didn’t even glance over. He followed the girl—Alanna—through the door, and it swung shut behind them.

Hazard pushed Arthur out of his way, and the boy squawked and stumbled and barely caught himself. As Hazard hurried down the length of the gym, his husband kept pace with him.

“Do you want me to get Principal Wieberdink?” Somers asked. “I really don’t think we’re supposed to get involved—”

“Yes, John,” Hazard said as he grabbed the gym door; the latch was still depressed, and it opened easily. “Go tell the teacher.”

“Is this episode being fueled by rage at me and Arthur or by an overdeveloped sense of responsibility?”

Hazard didn’t have an answer for that, so he gave his husband the finger.

II

FEBRUARY 14

FRIDAY

8:11 PM

Hazard had to move more slowly on the other side of the door; the hallway was dark, with only a single emergency light at the far end. On one side, sets of double-tier lockers marched along the wall. On the other side, trophy cases and banners recorded the Wahredua Wildcats’ glory. The linoleum gave back the soft scuff of their footsteps, and the muffled thump of bass came from the gym behind them, but otherwise the hall was quiet. It was a place that was meant to be full and busy, and the dark and the silence gave everything a surreal quality.

“I just want to point out,” Somers said, “that we could still go get the principal. All they asked us to do was watch the kids in there.”

“Sneaking out is against the rules,” Hazard said. “The students agreed to those terms when they purchased tickets for the dance.”

“Right, but kids sneak out of dances all the time. I did it. I’m sure you did it.”

“Of course, I didn’t.”

“Well, ok, but—I mean, the dance is just an excuse. You get that, right? You get dressed up, you show everyone you can get a date, you dance for half an hour, and then you go to wherever and get tanked.”

“It’s against the rules, John.”

Somers sighed.

“We are currently responsible for these children. Their parents entrusted them to us. So, if they run off and get hit by a bus or abducted or have a fatal allergic reaction, that happened on our watch.”

“Right, but you do remember that we’re volunteers?”

“And you’re the chief of police.”

“Ok.”

“If it’s not too much to ask you to perform your duties.”

“Ree, I said ok. You don’t have to be a jerk.”

Hazard swallowed the rest of it. After a moment, he managed, “I’m sorry.”

“It’s all right. Let’s find these kids, force them to have a great time at the dance, and enjoy the rest of our night.”

They made it another ten yards before Hazard said, “He pissed me off.”

“What? Who?”

“Cortez. He saw me, and he knew he wasn’t supposed to leave, and he did it anyway.”

“Ah.”

“What does that mean?”

Somers shrugged. “I think cocky high school boys might be a trigger for you. Not that I blame you; it’s just an observation.”

“That’s absurd.”

Somers shrugged.

“I would have responded the same way to anyone flouting legitimate authority.”

“Uh huh.”

Hazard took several breaths. The air smelled like floor cleaner and, faintly, chlorine. He decided, for the sake of marital bliss, to drop it. The hallway ended at a flight of stairs and since there was still no sign of the two escapees, Hazard started down. A thought occurred to him on the third step.

“You don’t think Colt would sneak out of the dance?” Their foster-son had a history that would make an escape artist proud. He tried for an affirmative statement: “He wouldn’t go to a party without telling us.”

“Uh, no.” When Hazard looked over, Somers’s face was determinedly neutral. “I’m sure he wouldn’t.”

Somehow, it was less reassuring than Hazard had hoped.

At the bottom of the stairs, the chlorine smell was stronger. Distantly spaced emergency lights broke the darkness into thick pockets of shadow, with only the glimmer of steel to suggest the rows of lockers that continued here. The hallway branched: left, disappearing into the dark; right, ending after twenty feet in another pair of fire doors. Hazard paused for a moment. Then, from the right came a faint noise. Someone bumping something. Plastic skidding on a hard surface.

“Gotcha,” Hazard whispered.

“Please remember that these are kids,” Somers said in a low voice. “They’re just trying to get out of here so they can have a good time. They don’t want any trouble. They don’t want to be in any trouble. Why don’t I take the lead? We’ll put a little scare in them and send them back upstairs, and that’s as far as it has to go.”

Hazard shrugged.

“That’s not exactly an answer, Ree,” Somers said. “Could you give me a ‘yes, John,’ so I know we’re on the same page?”

Hazard opened the door, and a rush of cool, damp air smelling of concentrated chlorine met him. The faint light from the hallway gave him a sense of the room beyond: a much smaller space, divided up into cages by wire panels. Some sort of equipment or utility room. The faint sound of rippling water came from nearby, and he guessed that this room connected with the school’s swimming pool. He couldn’t see or hear the kids, but years of being a cop had left him with a kind of sixth sense, and he was sensing some sketchy shit at that particular moment.

“All right,” he said slightly louder than necessary as he stepped into the room. Somers followed at his heels. “Come out. There’s no point making this any worse than it has to be—”

He hadn’t quite finished when something struck him in the face. It wasn’t hard, but the texture was rough, and the pop of impact and the surprise made him stagger. He swung an arm, but his reaction was too slow, and he caught nothing but air. A shoe clipped against the floor, and Hazard turned toward the sound, and something hit him from behind—something harder this time, catching him at the knees. He stumbled, and a weight connected with him, hitting between the shoulder blades. The force of the blow drove him forward, and he stumbled several steps before catching himself and spinning around.

“What the hell?” Somers shouted.

Something collided with Hazard—a body, his brain told him—and he clutched the figure. He caught clothing and something else, rough fibers, and they both went down. He was distantly aware of a clicking sound and the boom of a door falling shut, but he was too busy grappling with the person who had tackled him.

“Ree, for the love of God!”

Hazard rolled to a stop. “John?”

“Yes. Jesus Christ. A little help?”

Fumbling at his pockets, Hazard searched for his phone. He found it and turned on the flashlight. He was kneeling over his husband, who lay on the tile floor and was currently wrapped in what appeared to be a water polo net. Hazard turned, playing the light.

The wire panels that divided the space into the equipment cages. The door to their cage. The padlock, shut, securing the hasp and locking them inside.

“You have got to be fucking kidding me.”

III

FEBRUARY 14

FRIDAY

8:21 PM

Hazard went to work freeing his husband from the water polo net.

“That could have gone better,” Somers said.

“Motherfucker,” Hazard growled as he tried to untangle the next section. “Ass-lipped garbage cunt—”

“I hope that’s for the net and not me.”

“How in the fuck did you get yourself in this situation?”

“Well, my husband was feeling insecure because one teenager said he had bad verbal science and because another teenager disrespected him, and me, being a pillar of conjugal support—”

“Stop talking, or I’ll leave you here.”

Somers smirked.

“And my science was perfectly sound. That boy misconstrued my answer.”

If anything, Somers’s smirk got bigger.

“Motherfucker,” Hazard said for what felt like the hundredth time that night. He spent another minute trying to work free the section of netting that had gotten snarled, and then he swore, gripped it in both hands, and yanked. With a series of popping noises, the net ripped apart.

“Ok,” Somers said, helping him peel away the net. “That was seriously hot.”

“Focus, John.”

“Hey, it’s Valentine’s Day. We’re alone. I had some seriously hot fantasies about you and the locker room when I was in high school, and this comes pretty damn close. We don’t have to be in a rush; those kids have definitely cleared out by now.” In the weak light from the flashlight on Hazard’s phone, blond and rumpled and breathtaking, he palmed himself through his trousers. “How about we get frisky and then we go back to the dance and enjoy, you know, the fact that we got to be a little naughty?”

“No.”

“Ree!”

“They broke the rules, John. And I don’t think they left the building. They’ve committed themselves to this course of action, and they’re up to something more serious than sneaking out of a school dance; they wouldn’t have attacked two adults otherwise.”

“Yeah,” Somers said with a grimace. “I kind of thought of that.”

Hazard got to his feet. Then, unfortunately, he had to adjust himself.

“See?” Somers said, touching himself again. “You’re into it too.”

“I am not. I’m having a reaction to your... your irresponsibility.”

“Well, my irresponsibility is kind of creating a situation here. Things would move a lot faster if—”

“Think cold thoughts,” Hazard growled and turned away—which was harder than he expected—from his husband. He moved over to the wire panels and inspected them.

“Happy Valentine’s Day to me,” Somers said in an underbreath.

“What was that?”

“Nothing.”

A moment later, Somers joined him at the wire panel. His husband adjusted himself once more, making a point of it, which Hazard chose to ignore. “The panels aren’t secure at the top,” Hazard said. “We might be able to bend them.”

Somers frowned, looking up. “You won’t have any leverage. Let’s see what else we’ve got in here.”

He took out his phone, and with Hazard, they used the flashlights to examine their surroundings. The chlorine smell and the rippling sound of water had already suggested to Hazard that they were near the pool, and the items in the equipment cage confirmed it: life preservers, swim fins, hand paddles, pool noodles—Hazard suspected he’d been hit in the face with one of those—pool rope, line floats, ring buoys, orange cones, even an ancient ball cart with a tarnished chrome finish.

“Bring the cart over here,” he said.

“Please.”

“Please, John.”

They rolled the cart to the edge of the cage, and Somers steadied it while Hazard climbed on top. The chrome-plated bars groaned and flexed. Hazard eyed the protesting metal, flipped a mental coin, and planted himself more firmly. He grabbed the top of the wire panel, pushing against the cart as he tried to bend the panel.

“Uh, Ree.”

“I swear to God, one joke about my ass or about my weight or about—”

“No joke. I really think you should get down—"

The bar under Hazard’s feet came free with an oddly pleasant chiming noise, and Hazard fell. It wasn’t bad as falls went, maybe three feet tops, and Hazard landed all right. It was more the principle of the thing that made him spin around, growling, “You bitch-mongering piece of—”

“Before we get too far gone on that,” Somers said, kneeling to retrieve one of the bars that had broken free from the cart. “Maybe we can use this.”

Hazard took the piece of metal and examined it. It was soft—too soft to apply any substantial amount of force—and its ends were jagged where the welding had failed. He carried it over to the wire panel, passed one end through the mesh, and probed at the padlock until he got it through the shackle. He bore down on the bar. For a moment, nothing happened. Then the bar began to bend.

He yanked the bar back, inspected it, and shook his head. “This cheap shit might as well be cardboard.”

“What about there?” Somers pointed low on the panel, where the wire was secured to the framing by what appeared to be heavy gauge staples. “There’s no way those are as solid as the lock.”

Hazard knelt. He worked the jagged end of the bar under the closest staple and applied pressure. After a moment, the staple shifted and began to pull away from the wood. He grunted when it came free and repeated the process. Then again. Then he stopped and swore.

“What?” Somers asked.

“Here. And here. The motherfuckers used some kind of fasteners with screws. I can’t get them off.”

Somers knelt down. He poked at the section of panel, and it flexed under his touch, bending backward until the resistance became too great. Somers looked up and raised his eyebrows.

“No, John.”

“I could fit.”

“Absolutely not.”

“The alternative is shouting for help until Principal Wieberdink finds us.”

Hazard gave an internal shudder at the thought of dealing with his foster-son’s principal in this situation.

“That’s what I thought,” Somers said, lowering himself to the tile. “I’ll be right back, babe.”

“This is fucking ridiculous.”

“I know. I wish we could both get out this way, but...”

Hazard fixed his husband with a glare.

Somers shrugged and smirked and then wiggled under the panel. As he got to his feet, he said, “You know: your ass.”

IV

FEBRUARY 14

FRIDAY

8:38 PM

Somers had barely been gone five minutes when Hazard heard voices.

He tried to suppress a groan.

“What was that?” Arthur asked on the other side of the door.

“Old pipes,” said a husky voice that Hazard thought belonged to a girl. “This fucking place is a one giant cheddar-cheese shit pile about to topple sideways.”

That one made Hazard blink.

“He came this way.” A high voice, but hard to place as definitively male or female.

“You guys, we’re not supposed to be down here.” That one was a prepubescent boy.

The husky-voiced girl said, “Lorcan, don’t say guys. That’s sexist.”

“It’s not sexist. It doesn’t mean anything anymore, just people.”

“Oh yeah? ‘Just people’? Like all people are supposed to have penises? You don’t even realize that your internalized misogyny—”

“Oh my God,” Hazard shouted, “I’m in here!”

The door swung open. A cluster of shadowy, backlit shapes stared at him.

“Well?” Hazard asked. “You found me. What do you want?”

“Why are you in there?” That was the husky voice, and it belonged to the girl in orthodontic headgear.

“I’m the new swim coach. Why in the world do you think I’m in here? Go get an adult who can get me out.”

The pudgy boy in the three-piece suit said in that prepubescent voice, “I think he’s right, guys. I mean, folks. An adult—”

“Be quiet, Lorcan,” the girl in headgear said.

“I knew he wasn’t your husband,” Arthur said with a note of vindication. “I told Stevie he wasn’t really your husband. But you didn’t want to come to the dance without a date, like us, and you overcompensated and found someone who was way out of your league.”

“I did not—”

“Is this like a Pretty Woman situation?”

“I don’t understand that reference, and I don’t care for your tone. And, for the record, he is my husband, and whether or not he’s out of my league—”

“If he’s really your husband,” the one in the Kim Jong-Il jumpsuit said in a high, fluting voice, “where is he?”

Hazard stared at them. “What the fuck is that supposed to prove? John’s not with me twenty-four hours a day.”

“It would be too expensive, Stevie,” Arthur explained to the one in the jumpsuit. “You have to pay prostitutes by the hour. I think.”

For a moment, Hazard was aware of his pulse pounding his temple. He thought maybe his fingers were going numb. He tried to speak clearly and distinctly through the incipient stroke: “Go. Get. An. Adult.”

“Yes, sir,” the one in the three-piece suit—Lorcan—said. “Right away. We’re going to find someone—”

“Because you’re stuck?” the girl in the headgear asked.

Hazard made a choking noise. Then he managed to grit out, “Yes. Obviously.”

“Stop teasing him, Dot,” Stevie said. He—she?—brushed at the jumpsuit. “Just get him out.”

Dot—headgear—made an exasperated noise and hoisted her purse up her arm. She rummaged through the bag, produced a wallet, a wad of tissues, some sort of packaged rubber bands—for the headgear, Hazard guessed—and then, with a flourish, held up a multitool.

“EDC,” she told Hazard as she went to work on the screws holding the hasp to the cage’s frame. “You probably don’t know—”

“Everyday carry,” Hazard growled. “Hurry up.”

With a faintly disgruntled look, Dot fell silent, but she worked steadily on the screws. The second one was coming free, the hasp pulling away from the wood, when a voice filtered in through the door that Lorcan was propping open.

“I heard you the first time, shit-for-brains.” A man’s voice. “Telling me you left them at the bottom of the stairs doesn’t fucking help. There are stairs all over this shithole. No, I’m going to make sure they aren’t going to be trouble. No. No, I don’t trust you not to fuck it up. Wait for me; we’ve still got time before they pull the adults.”

Lorcan made a tiny meeping noise and whispered, “Carwash.”

Arthur blinked and looked at Stevie, who checked a Timex calculator watch and said, “Coronation.”

“What the fuck is going on?” Hazard asked.

“What about coronation?” Arthur asked Stevie.

Stevie shrugged. “I don’t know, but that’s the only time they bring all the adults into the gym. It’s supposed to be in five minutes.”

“Guys,” Lorcan panic-whispered. “I can hear him.”

“Who?” Hazard asked.

The hasp fell away. Dot pushed on the cage door, and it swung open.

“Somebody talk,” Hazard said. “Fast.”

“It’s Carwash,” Lorcan said.

“His name is Carwash?”

“Cortez’s brother,” Arthur said. “We followed him down here because he’s not supposed to be here because he flunked out last semester and the semester before that but he was here anyway and he looked really mad and he went through the same door as Cortez and Alanna and you and that really nice guy you pay for sex and I thought maybe it was like The Breakfast Club only it turned out to be Pretty Woman but maybe with a little bit of Never Been Kissed—”

The flow of words washed over Hazard. Some of the pieces fell into place: Cortez and Alanna and Carwash had a plan, and Hazard and Somers had threatened it, and now Carwash was down here, trying to make sure they wouldn’t cause any more trouble.

Hazard stooped, gathering up a length of pool rope. The synthetic fibers were rough against his hand. He tied a float to the end; it weighed almost nothing, and he tested its pull with a few slow swings.

“Why didn’t you say so?” Carwash asked from right outside the door. “Found it.”

The door swung open. Lorcan, who had still been holding it partially open with his shoulder, tried to move deeper into the equipment room, but a hand grabbed him by the suit jacket and hauled him out into the hallway.

“Stay out of my way,” Hazard told the kids as he stepped through the door.

Carwash looked like a bigger version of Cortez—not necessarily more muscular, but taller and heavier, with the same quiff of dark hair. He was wearing jeans and a t-shirt and a winter coat and—kids, Hazard thought, fucking kids these days—a car air freshener around his neck shaped like a pine tree. The kind of thing they might hang from the rearview mirror after you went through a carwash. In one hand, he was holding a lacrosse stick; with the other, he gripped Lorcan by the collar.

Hazard swung the float twice to build up momentum. Then he struck. Carwash was just beginning to turn, his attention drawn by the sound of the float whistling through the air, when it struck him in the face. He let out a shout, released Lorcan, and stumbled backward.

“Get out of here,” Hazard said, shoving Lorcan toward the flight of stairs. He called back over his shoulder, “All of you get out of here.”

Carwash righted himself. A trickle of blood ran from his nose, which was better than Hazard had expected; the float didn’t have much mass behind it, and he didn’t think he’d be able to do any real damage with it. The teenager touched a finger to the blood, and his voice was full of disbelief when he asked, “Who the hell are you?”

“Fuck around and find out,” Hazard said.

With a roar, Carwash charged, swinging the lacrosse stick like a baseball bat. Hazard moved back, trying to dodge the swing, and bumped into someone—a glimpse out of the corner of his eye told him the lanky shape was Arthur’s. Hazard shoved the boy, which cost him precious microseconds; a moment later, the lacrosse stick glanced off his shoulder.

The blow stung, but the real damage was that it knocked Hazard off balance again. Carwash followed up with another vicious blow. Hazard dodged and swung the rope, pitching the float between Carwash’s legs, but it struck Carwash’s sneaker instead and skittered off to one side.

“You fucked up,” Carwash said. He was breathing heavily. Little to no cardio, Hazard guessed. His brown skin was blotchy with a flush. “You should have minded your own business.”

The chatter gave Hazard time to recover his balance. When Carwash swung again, Hazard was ready.

The blow was big and telegraphed; Carwash brought the lacrosse stick up over his head and then down again. It might as well have been in slow motion. Hazard stepped aside, and the lacrosse stick struck the locker behind him. The door popped open with a tinny clang.

Staggered by the force of his own swing, Carwash took an unsteady step. Hazard lunged, grabbed him by the neck, and spun. Carwash was out of breath, off balance, too slow. He stumbled forward, propelled by Hazard, and crashed headfirst into the open locker. Hazard slammed the door on his head. Just once because killing someone might ruin the school dance.

With a groan, Carwash slid to the floor.

Hazard kicked the lacrosse stick away. He looked up to see the Breakfast Club—hadn’t Arthur said something about that?—bunched together halfway up the stairs. Adrenaline was souring his stomach, and he was still breathing too quickly. “Where are the parents normally stationed? Before they leave to watch coronation?”

“The refreshments table,” Stevie said. “The lobby doors.”

“The coat check,” Dot shouted with excitement. “Everybody leaves their coats and purses and shoes.”

Hazard nodded. “Here we go.”

V

FEBRUARY 14

FRIDAY

8:54 PM

On their way up the stairs, the music cut off, and a voice boomed over the microphone in the gym. Hazard couldn’t make out the words through the closed doors, but it wasn’t hard to guess what was happening. It was time for the winter formal’s court to be announced, including the oh-so-fucking-ridiculously named coronation. When Arthur led them down the next hallway, Hazard found himself caught up in a current of students and parents who were headed toward the gym.

“There you are,” Somers said, appearing out of the crowd to grab Hazard’s arm. “How’d you get out?”

“The Buttercream Gang,” Hazard said.

“I got him out,” Dot said over the hub of voices. “He didn’t even say thank you.”

Hazard glared over his shoulder, and Dot shrank back.

“Cortez and Alanna are planning something during coronation,” Hazard said. “My best guess is that they’re going to take advantage of the distraction to rob the coat check. I had a run-in with Cortez’s big brother downstairs. He, at least, seemed to think this was pretty serious business.”

Somers raised an eyebrow at that, but he was silent for a moment as students and staff and parents streamed past them. “Cash, IDs, credit cards. It’s all just sitting in the commons, waiting for someone to pick it up.”

“Purses,” Stevie said. “And shoes. A lot of the girls bring really expensive stuff to the winter formal.”

“Not a bad haul,” Somers said. “All they had to do was sneak out of the gym, wait for the parents to get called in to celebrate court, and take whatever they wanted.”

“Until we fucked it up,” Hazard said. “Come on.”

“Go find the school resource officer,” Somers told the kids. “Tell her to find us in the commons.”

Dot and Stevie took the lead this time, with Lorcan and Arthur tagging along behind them.

“The big brother, huh?” Somers asked.

“Don’t ask,” Hazard said. “Next year, we are going to a nice dinner and getting a hotel under an assumed name.”

Somers grinned, squeezed his arm, and tugged him down the hall.

They’d both gone to school here, and they both knew the way to the commons. The hall emptied quickly, and then they were alone, with only the sound of their footsteps against the linoleum as they jogged. They stopped when they reached the commons. It was a large room with a high ceiling and exposed girders and a wall of windows. The cafeteria, with its retractable stanchions and warming trays, was silent and dark on the other side of the room, but the smell of what Hazard remembered from twenty years ago as the Friday chow mein special lingered. Round, laminate-top tables with attached seating filled the space except for a section that had been cleared and marked off with masking tape. Several coat racks and plastic totes stood behind the improvised barrier. Some of the totes held shoes. Others held purses.

Cortez and Alanna were carrying one of the totes full of purses toward a pair of fire doors.

“Stop right there!” Hazard shouted.

“Because that usually works,” Somers murmured.

Cortez and Alanna glanced back at the same time. They traded a look. Then, still clutching the tote, they ran.

Hazard took off after them, darting between tables. Somers ran too, taking a parallel course. The tote slowed Cortez and Alanna—not so much the weight as the awkwardness of the shared burden—and the distance shrank rapidly. It was obvious that the two teenagers were trying to move faster and equally obvious that terror was making them clumsy. Then Alanna went down with a shrill, sharp cry as her heel snapped.

Cortez tossed the tote toward the doors, shouting, “Get up, get up!” Then he spun to face Hazard and Somers. His hand dipped into his pocket, and he flipped open a knife. “You want some? Come on!”

“Hey,” Somers said, slowing and holding up his hands. “Everybody, calm down. Look, so far, this is just a bad idea. But now you’ve got a knife, and that makes things a lot more serious. You don’t want that. Why don’t you put the knife down, and we’ll figure this out?”

The blaring, amplified voice from the gym continued to drone in the background. Otherwise, the room was quiet. The high ceiling and open space magnified every tiny sound: Cortez’s harsh breathing, Alanna on the brink of tears, the squeak of Hazard’s sole on the vinyl tiles as he shifted his weight.

Cortez’s hand lowered, and the knife came down an inch.

“He’s going to kill us!” Alanna screamed at him. “Carwash is going to kill us if we screw this up!”

“Hold on—” Somers tried.

But the moment, whatever it had been, was lost, and Cortez launched himself forward, slashing with the knife. He came at Hazard, and Hazard backpedaled, putting the round tables between himself and the blade. Hazard waved at Alanna, who was dragging the tote toward the doors. “John, I’ve got this.”

Somers wavered; then with a savage swear, he shot toward Alanna as she stumbled out the fire doors.

Then it was Hazard and Cortez and the knife. It was a little thing, a three-inch blade with a matte finish that was supposed to look like military spec. Hazard had seen this one and ones like it in the revolving case at Walmart. He figured it could still leave him dead or shitting in a bag, revolving case or not.

Cortez moved in fits and jerks, rushing forward and then, when Hazard retreated, hesitating. It was obvious the kid didn’t want to do this. It was equally obvious that he was much more afraid of his brother than he was of anything Hazard could do to him.

“John’s right,” Hazard said. “You’re making a mistake, but it’s not too late.”

Snarling, Cortez swung the blade in a sharp arc and lunged forward.

Hazard withdrew again, but he was running out of tables to keep between them. Slowly but steadily, Cortez was driving him toward the darkened space of the cafeteria. Hazard didn’t know if this was a plan or instinct, but it was forcing him farther and farther away from Somers and Alanna, which Hazard liked even less than the possibility of a knife in the gut. But then Cortez rushed forward again, and Hazard’s only option was to retreat once more.

He backed into a wheeled rack designed for single-serve potato chip bags, and it squeaked away from him. On his next step, he connected with one of the retractable belts that marked the cafeteria lines. Cortez was still coming, maybe ten feet away now, and Hazard ducked under the belt and kept going. He tried to take stock of his surroundings: the gleaming countertops, the registers, the milk coolers, red plastic trays, the cat’s-eye glint of the sneeze guard. Cortez kicked over a stanchion, stepped over the belt, and kept coming.

“Ok,” Hazard said, raising his hands. “You got me. Alanna made it out of here, and I’m not going to cause you any more trouble. We can stop right now.”

“You should have stayed in the equipment room,” Cortez said. He sounded on the brink of tears, and he was shaking so hard that it looked like the knife might come out of his hand. “Why’d you have to follow us, man?”

“I’m going to tell you something,” Hazard said. “You might not believe it, but you need to hear it.” And then he leaned forward, a fractional movement, conspiratorial—like he was about to share a secret. Cortez mimicked the movement, bobbing forward as though drawn on a string, years of social conditioning making him respond to the body language cue.

Hazard grabbed a red lunch tray in both hands and swung it. It connected with Cortez’s hand with a crack, and the knife went flying across the cafeteria. On the backswing, the tray caught Cortez on the jaw, and he went down, suddenly boneless.

The school resource officer appeared on the other side of the commons, hand on her sidearm.

“About fucking time,” Hazard muttered as he tossed aside the tray.

VI

FEBRUARY 14

FRIDAY

9:27 PM

“But are you ok? Really?” Colt, Hazard and Somers’s foster-son, had asked the question three times already.

“We’re fine,” Hazard said. “Go enjoy the rest of the dance.”

“We’re really fine,” Somers said. He had come back with a red mark on his forehead where Alanna had hit him with a Birkin bag. “Go have fun with your friends.”

Colt made a distressed noise. “I can’t believe—I mean, I knew Cortez was an asshole, but I didn’t think—are you sure you’re ok?”

Across the room, the Cabbage Patch Kids had clumped together again and were staring at Hazard and Somers and Colt.

“Hold on,” Hazard said. “I need to handle something.”

He crossed the commons to stand in front of the kids. Arthur, Dot, Stevie, and Lorcan were all staring at him. Lorcan’s mouth was hanging open.

“I was talking about spontaneous human combustion.” Hazard said, holding Arthur’s gaze. “Earlier. Not spontaneous combustion. There’s a key difference.”

Arthur nodded frantically.

“I believe you had something to say about my bad science.”

Arthur shook his head with equal enthusiasm. Dot and Stevie were shaking their heads too. Lorcan looked like he had forgotten to breathe.

“Good,” Hazard said. “And there was some sort of doubt about my husband...”

“No, sir,” Lorcan gasped. “No, no, we never, I mean, it’s very clear that—”

“Go away now,” Hazard said.

The kids slunk away. Then they stopped.

“Mr. Hazard, do you have a TikTok?” Arthur asked.

“Will you add me on Snapchat?” Stevie asked.

“If I emailed you about this kid in gym...” Lorcan asked.

“We should trade EDC lists, right?” Dot asked.

Hazard glowered at them.

For some reason, they all started to smile.

“Go!” he roared.

They went. He wasn’t entirely sure, but he thought he heard one of them say, “Hazard is God.”

When he turned around, Colt and Somers were rolling their eyes. Both of them. With matching looks of disgust.

“I don’t want to hear it,” Hazard said.

“I can’t,” Colt said to Somers. “I literally can’t even.”

“Neither can I,” Somers said, “but I have to because I married him.”

Colt made a face and took a step away. “I guess I’ll...”

“Go have fun,” Hazard said. “I think we’re officially relieved from chaperone duty.”

“Probably permanently,” Somers said with a smile.

Colt waited a moment longer—doubtless, Hazard thought, battling the urge to ask them just one more time if they were ok. Then he headed back toward the gym and the thump of a bassline.

Hazard watched his husband, whose smirk was steadily growing.

“Stop it,” Hazard told him.

“It was very cute.”

“I said stop.”

“It’s like they imprinted on you. Your little ducklings.”

Hazard’s eyes narrowed. Then he grabbed the front of his husband’s shirt and hauled him to his feet.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Somers said, laughing. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“Taking you home.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Definitely. It’s still Valentine’s, and you were right about the net.”

*  *  *

Get to know more about Gregory Ashe at gregoryashe.com.

Glen & Tyler Skip Dessert:
JB Sanders

Glen snuggled up against Tyler and adjusted the blanket to keep them both cozy. The fire in the fireplace was fake, a light effect to go with the electric heat. The giant screen TV played Casablanca.

“Why are we flying over the North Atlantic again?” Tyler sounded distracted, still watching the movie.

“As I told you, Mr. Impatient, it’s my turn to do a romantic dinner. I’m just keeping the location a surprise.”

“Mark me down as surprised. I feel like we’re going to be joining Santa for a light dinner at the North Pole.”

Glen smiled. “Wrong time of year. You realize what tomorrow is?”

“Valentine’s Day had not escaped my notice. Now that I’m a happily married man, I notice all the sappy things.” Tyler turned his head to give Glen a kiss. “Enthusiastically.”

“Good save there at the end.”

*  *  *

The airship landed in a small bay and slowly pulled up to the dock. The security folks disembarked to look around and get into position. An advance team was already in position somewhere. Glen idly wondered if they were doing skis or snowshoes for this. The snow out there was at least knee high.

Tyler turned from the closet. “Red tie for Valentine’s Day or purple tie just because it looks awesome?”

Glen stood up and stepped over to him. “Purple tie, definitely. Just as bossy-looking as the red tie but a friendlier. I’m the one you’re trying to impress and it’s my favorite.”

Tyler smiled and kissed him. “Done. Help me tie it?”

Glen busied himself getting the tie around Tyler’s neck while Tyler himself fiddled with his phone.

Glen looked down at the screen. “Cheating already?”

“What? We’re here, how is the island we’re on a secret?”

“As long as you don’t tap the restaurant button to find out where we’re going.”

Tyler scoffed. “As if that’s a guarantee? You could have arranged for a personal chef. Or hell, hired the entire Food Network to cater for us.”

“True.”

“So, what are we doing in the Faroe Islands?”

Glen tightened the knot and patted Tyler’s shoulder. “Going to a Chef’s menu style two-star Michelin restaurant. For a special event dinner.”

Tyler gave Glen the double raised eyebrows. “Two stars here?”

Glen laughed. “Yeah, I was surprised, too. By all reports it’s an amazing experience.”

“And the food’s nice, too?”

Glen nodded. “And the food is nice, too.”

*  *  *

The air was brisk on the dock, the smell of the ocean strong and invigorating. Several other couples were standing around in the parking area next to the dock. Their security had people over there and more on the dock.

James, their head of security, came walking over. The parka he wore nearly obscured his face. “Looks like the restaurant’s van is running behind. Should only be five more minutes.”

Tyler put his phone away and took Glen’s gloved hand. “Thanks, James. Sorry you and the team have to go to so much trouble on this one. We’d understand if you just left this to your subordinates, now that you’re running Diamond Security.”

James shrugged. “It’s the job and I enjoy doing fieldwork now and again. Outings like this break up the routine a little, give us a chance to be a bit more creative in our deployment.”

Glen smiled. “And give you headaches galore.”

James just nodded.

A few minutes later, an old and creaky sport utility vehicle, built in an era before that term was invented, made its way down the main paved road on the island to their parking space.

“You have got to be kidding.” Tyler said.

“Oh, give them a break. I’m sure this is part of their rustic charm.”

“Tell me again why we can’t just drive up to the place ourselves?”

“I think it’s a combination of lack of parking and the unpaved road.”

“Oh, that’s swell. How awesome is the food again?”

Glen put an arm around Tyler’s shoulders. “Awesome.”

They were the last couple into the back of the SUV which was fitted out with benches on either side of the vehicle. Both men pushed down their hoods and took off their hats. As they got settled, their transportation took off at its slow but bumpy pace.

Glen looked around at their fellow diners. Across from them was an older couple in their mid-fifties. He was dressed casually in high-end jeans, a knit sweater, and one of the ubiquitous parkas. In contrast, his companion was dressed like she was attending dinner at a Fifth Avenue restaurant: skirt suit in the Chanel style, pearls, gloves, and a little hat on her head. Her outerwear looked custom made.

Next to them were a young couple who could be mistaken for backpackers, if you didn’t recognize the brands of outerwear they had on. Glen was by no means an expert but figured between them they could have traded their clothing for a car. They had their heads together talking quietly but excitedly in Swedish, or maybe Norwegian, Glen had trouble telling the languages apart.

Across from the young couple were two elderly people, well past retirement age, two women in casual wear. Glen couldn’t tell if they were a romantic couple or a couple of friends splurging on this dinner as part of a larger trip. They quietly looked around outside and smiled at the wintery view.

“Are they with you?” said the woman across from them somewhat archly. She was pointing out the back of the SUV.

Behind the vehicle ran five guys in winter camo parkas and snow pants. They weren’t carrying assault weapons, but Glen was pretty sure they were armed with something, probably Tasers or whatever the Faroe Island laws allowed.

Tyler nodded. “Yes, ma’am, sorry about that. Extra security.”

The woman pursed her lips in mild annoyance. “I do hope they won’t be crowding into the restaurant with us.”

Tyler shook his head. “No, definitely not. They’ll be roaming around outside.”

She nodded her head, as if that settled the matter, and pointedly looked away from them and out the windows.

The man with her put out a hand in Tyler’s direction. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Conrad, I’m Roy Bonovitch, Woodbind Equity. And this is my wife, Jenn.” She barely acknowledged Tyler with a nod. “We do get quite a few highflyers at Fiskebein.”

Tyler shook Roy’s and nodded back to Jenn. “Uh, what’s that?”

“The... restaurant we’re going to? Did you not know?”

Tyler grinned. “Sure didn’t! Glen’s surprise for Valentine’s Day.” Tyler motioned at Glen. “This is Glen, my husband.”

The man reached out a hand to Glen, too, and shook. From what Glen could see, the man was showing exactly the enthusiasm you’d expect from an expert in sales. Glen figured that was probably his role in whatever cloudy financial “product” his company “serviced.”

“Well, it’s an excellent choice. Fiskebein really is top notch: food, experience, atmosphere. I even managed to sell Jenn here on making the trek out. It’s her first time, too.”

Jenn didn’t appear all that enthused. She barely looked over at them before going back to studying the outdoors and making an annoyed grunt whenever the road delivered them another jolt.

A few bumpy miles later, they arrived at the restaurant compound. Glen thought “compound” was appropriate because there were several buildings besides the main one, including a couple of barns and what was probably a smokehouse, based on the fragrant smoke coming out a chimney on top. Each of the buildings was made of wood painted black, their roofs covered in sod, now under a thick blanket of snow.

The SUV pulled up to a smaller building, one overlooking the fjord, with a fantastic view of the water and the mountains opposite them.

Greeting them was a man in his mid-forties, greying blond, who smiled at everyone as he pulled open the back doors. “Hello and welcome, everyone! Welcome to Fiskebein. I am Dag, owner and chef. Come on out and head in there.” He pointed at the building they were parked next to. “Where we have some drink for you in advance of the meal.”

They piled out. The snow crunched under their boots, a sure indication to Glen’s mind that it was actually cold out. Being from Buffalo (New York), he was pretty familiar with real cold and even more familiar with real snow. Fewer places on Earth got more snow than they did. It had been a fun place to grow up... if you liked winter.

The small barn was far warmer than the outside, though not enough that anyone wanted to take off their cold weather gear. There was a merry fire going in a small stove and two of the wait staff handing out either a pale gold liquid or a dark brown one.

The waitress, Magda by her embroidered name tag, frowned when Tyler asked what they were, then brightened. “Ah,” she said, “That is fermented fish beer, the gold one, or a stout made with seaweed and grains, that is the dark one. Both are very good.”

She laughed at Tyler’s dubious expression, but he took one of the light fermented beers. Glen pointed at the dark chips on the high table at their elbow.

“Is that toasted seaweed?”

“It is. And salted, too.” She moved off to serve the others.

“Leaning a little hard into the seafood, aren’t they?” Tyler took a chip and bit into it. The thing was definitely crunchy, based on the sound it made.

Glen shrugged. “They pride themselves on using local resources whenever possible. How are the chips?”

“Pretty awesome, actually.”

After half an hour to mingle and eat their appetizers, the diners were ushered into the main house. Glen got the impression that the restaurant was based on what was once a small farm, with the dining room in the farm’s house, as opposed to one of the barns or other outbuildings.

They divested themselves of parkas and boots in the entryway. The house was cozy, with lots of wood and low ceilings. The place looked like it was a few centuries old, based on the smooth wear-and-tear on the stones of the entrance and the wood beams. There was a fire in the fireplace of the large dining room, which gave the room a light scent of burning applewood.

Tables had been set wide apart, two people to a table. Decorations were few but tended to have red hearts involved. A single silk red rose was in a bud vase at each table, along with a cheery real-fire candle.

Dag came out from a door opposite where they had come in, now wearing chef’s whites instead of a parka. “Hello again. In a moment, we’ll begin with the first course. Your servers can tell you one or two things about the items on the menu, but we like to leave the details to your imagination. If you like, I can tell you more afterwards. We’ve already taken into account all allergies. Enjoy.”

Servers moved out from the kitchen, each carrying two dishes which they set before each of the patrons. On the plate was a slice of a crustacean, glazed, which rested on an orange foam, with a dusting of a grey powder, and a precious few flakes of a black crystal on top. The whole dish was small enough to be one bite of food.

Tyler raised his eyebrows at Glen. “This is... not a lot of food.”

Glen laughed. “It’s a tasting menu. There are like twenty more courses coming. What do you think, we’re playing in the minor leagues, here? Two stars.”

Tyler shrugged, scooped up the bite of seafood with his fork, and ate it. His eyebrows both went up and stayed there as he chewed. He even made a delighted noise.

“Ok, wow.”

“Yeah, how’d you like it?” Glen had finished his bite well before Tyler, who had savored it.

“That was amazing. I’m not even sure what all I ate. That glaze, was that brandy?”

Glen pursed his lips. “I think so. Dusted with some kind of powdered mushroom and those black crystals were salt. I have no idea what’s in that foam, though. It’s like chocolate mousse, but a little sweet and kind of sour, too.”

“Ok, I think we might have a winner here.”

“Ha! Just you wait. Every course is a surprise of some kind.” Glen pointed, as the servers came out of the kitchen with another pair of dishes for each table. Glen noticed Magda, the waitress from earlier, serving the table with the upscale business couple. Glen caught the woman shooting Magda a brief but poisonous glance. He shook his head; some people insisted on treating servers like the “help.”

On their plates was a clam, served in half its shell, nestled in a bed of juniper boughs and heather flowers. On top of the clam itself was a yin-yang pattern of black caviar on one side and orange roe on the other. On the plate was a mother-of-pearl spoon.

Glen looked up from the plate to Tyler, who already had his spoon poised at his mouth.

Tyler grinned. “Double portion for me?”

Glen nodded and sighed. “Double portion for you.”

As soon as Tyler cleared his plate, Glen slid his over to Tyler, who handily scooped up the caviar/roe topping and then slid the plate back to Glen, who ate the clam. Glen didn’t mind seafood in general, but fish eggs were too much.

Mind you, Glen thought the taste of the clam was pretty awesome. It had a smoky and salty flavor, plus an almost floral aroma, that made him think a drink with both gin and whisky in it—like someone had poured a Smoky Martini over the clam.

Next up was a single ravioli, sitting in a tiny pool of what looked like butter, with a yellow-brown strip of something next to it. When Glen sniffed it, the strip turned out to be a slice of preserved lemon.

When he looked up, Tyler was already chewing.

“Ifs gud!” he said through his food.

Glen gave him a reproving glare and then smiled. Tyler laughed with his eyes while chewing. Glen speared his ravioli and ate it. It was a lobster ravioli, though the flavor was... more intense than the usual lobster meat he’d had. And sweet. Oh! Glen realized suddenly that it was scampi, not lobster.

Tyler wiped his lips with his napkin. “Ok, yeah, this is a pretty amazing experience. I was a little concerned when we schlepped all the way out to nearly the arctic circle but, oh man, this food!”

Glen reached out a hand to Tyler and they held hands, smiling at each other. At least until the next course arrived.

This time, each server rolled out a small cart, which they parked next to the table. On it was what appeared to be a small bird statue and two round black stone dishes, each with a depression in the middle resembling a bird.

Their server cracked the statue with a spoon, revealing a cooked bird. The “statue” was a grey, rock-like pastry that had covered bird. The server set aside the pastry “statue,” quickly sliced a breast from each side of the bird, and set it in the middle of the black dish. Then he spooned cooked mushrooms to either side of the bird, in a fashion that resembled wings. Head and legs were set in their appropriate spots and the completed “birds” were set before each diner. Next, their server pulled out a balloon on a stick from under the cart, holding it over each plate, popping the balloon with a small pop, a softer sound than you’d expect from a balloon.

Snow fell on the bird, almost immediately melting, then the pieces of balloon fell and they, too, dissolved, forming a glaze on the warm bird meat. This was repeated for the portion in front of each diner.

Tyler was rapt in wonder at this presentation. Glen watched him, loving Tyler anew and also being amused at Tyler’s obvious delight.

“Ok, ten out of ten for presentation. Wow.” Tyler then looked down at the plate. “Now to see how it tastes.”

They each took bites and savored the flavors. There was a bitterness from the remnants of the pastry, saltiness, and an intense sweetness from the snowy glaze. Glen thought it was divine.

Roy Bonovitch stood up abruptly, knocking over his heavy wooden chair. He appeared to be choking, his eyes bugging out in distress. He was holding his throat. Everyone was paralyzed for a second as Roy struggled. Still making choking sounds, Roy pulled an EpiPen out of his pants and stuck it into his thigh. He put a hand on the table, then sank to the floor on his knees.

Tyler could see that Roy was getting red not only in his face but also breaking out in hives on his hands. Tyler pulled out a small walkie-talkie the security team had given him, in lieu of using cell phones, since cell reception on the island was spotty.

Tyler pressed the button to speak. “Code five. Get the doc in here pronto. One of the guests is having some kind of allergic reaction.”

By the time the doctor arrived, Glen was lowering Roy to the floor. He appeared to have stopped breathing. Dr. Laumer was a specialist in emergency medicine and traveled with them everywhere they went, for problems like this that might happen to Glen, Tyler, or their team. The doctor knelt next to Roy, had his medical bag open, and was checking the man’s vitals.

The other diners had stood up from their tables and come closer but backed away when the doctor came in. Mrs. Roy—Jenn—was standing stock still, staring at her husband raptly, her face frozen in shock.

Dr. Laumer, assisted by one of the security team who had EMT training, worked on Roy for a couple of minutes. Then Dr. Laumer shook his head and stood up. He looked first to Tyler, who pointed at Jenn.

The doctor went over to her. “I’m sorry, but I could not revive your husband. He’s passed.”

She burst into sobs, covering her face with a lace handkerchief.

Tyler pointed to the main door. “Ok, folks, let’s move outside, maybe back to the cocktail barn. We’ll want to leave this place clear for the police.”

The guy in the backpacking couple spoke up, “What? Why?”

Tyler gave him a polite smile. “Any unusual death gets investigated. We don’t want to mess up the scene for them and... I don’t think we want to continue dinner, under the circumstances.”

That got a lot of nods and the diners moved out, putting on parkas and boots. Hans, one of their security team, was on hand to direct people. Glen could see several more members of their team outside directing people to the barn. Jenn composed herself enough to pull her coat around herself and go outside with everyone else.

The doctor waited for the diners to leave then came over to Glen and Tyler. The doc kept his voice low. “I don’t think this was just a fatal allergic reaction.”

Tyler raised his eyebrows. “Oh, why?”

“He didn’t react to the epinephrine shot like I expected, neither the one he administered nor the one I followed up with. Some of his symptoms got worse immediately after, not better. That’s not how that works.”

Tyler nodded. “Ok, in that case, we’ll treat this as suspicious and take all the usual steps. Thanks, Doc.”

He gave Tyler a short nod. The doctor went back to stand next to the body.

Glen and Tyler moved together over to the door of the kitchen. When Tyler pushed it open, they appeared to be interrupting a loud argument in Faroese. All eyes turned to them.

“Sorry to interrupt, but I recommend that you all clear out to the cocktail barn along with the guests.”

Dag came forward, his face a mixture of anger and shock. “Why? Because you think we killed one of our guests?!”

“No, Dag. Our doctor thinks that it was more than an allergic reaction and that, speculation aside, we should treat Roy’s death as suspicious as a precaution. We thought it best to get everyone away from the scene and call the police, which our team is already doing.”

Dag seemed to deflate from his puffed-up angry state. “Yeah, ok.” He turned back to the kitchen staff and gave instructions in rapid Faroese. The staff left by the back door. Dag turned back. “And you?”

Tyler shrugged. “We’re going to stay here with the doc and our security, since it was our team who tried to help Roy. We’ll be over as soon as the police take over.”

Dag nodded and left out the back himself.

Glen and Tyler went back over to the doc, who had been joined by James, their head of security.

James put away a cell phone. “Police say they have an officer coming. She’ll be here to secure the scene in about an hour. They’re also flying the Chief Constable for the islands out from the capital, along with a full investigation team, but that might take a couple of hours.”

Tyler grimaced. “Well, that’s not great. Are they ok with our team securing the scene until they get here? Not to mention the restaurant, staff, and guests?”

James waggled his hand. “They didn’t argue the point that we’re necessary right now but made sure I understood that their police will be in charge once their people are on-site.”

Glen smiled. “Is that enough time?”

Tyler looked blank. “For what?”

“For you to solve this and hand them the culprit, plus evidence?”

Tyler grinned back at Glen. “That would be a nice bonus for what’s shaping up to be a terrible day.” Tyler turned serious a moment. “Wait, this isn’t like some arranged murder mystery weekend thing, is it?”

Glen scowled. “No. Definitely not. I wanted a romantic dinner not an adventurous one. We can do a murder mystery weekend some other time. It’s practically a staple.”

Tyler began to pace, wandering past tables and door, studiously avoiding poor Roy. “Alright, so if this wasn’t an accident, we need to answer how and who. How was he killed and who wanted him dead?”

The doc cleared his throat. “Well, if you don’t mind some off-the-cuff observations, short of an actual autopsy—”

Tyler made a go-ahead motion with his hand.

“I’d say that he ingested an allergen which started an anaphylactic reaction and at the same time also ingested some other substance which acted to short circuit the epinephrine.”

Tyler paced, hands in his pockets. “And would you bet on food or drink for the vehicle?”

The doctor pondered a moment. “I’d think the food would be the better bet. Beverages have a more quickly understood flavor profile. I’m not sure if the food here is all that recognizable, in general. So, if something was unexpectedly bitter when it should have been sweet, he wouldn’t immediately think that was odd.”

“So, either someone in the kitchen put it on his dish specifically or on his food once it was on the table. That last seems to point in a conclusive direction, though it also seems like a difficult thing to do, right there in front of someone. Especially in a comparatively crowded room, where anyone could see you do something like that.”

Glen looked around the dining room. “The tables aren’t close, but people were getting up to use the bathroom or get something from their coat, so they could easily have passed the table. That seems like a tricky thing to do with Roy and Jenn right there, though.”

Tyler nodded distractedly. “Yeah. I wasn’t paying close attention but maybe I can remember all their movements, plus there’s the wait staff.”

Tyler closed his eyes for a moment, muttering to himself, and counting on his fingers. “Ok.” He looked around and walked over to a table. “So, we have four couples, two wait staff, and the folks in the kitchen.”

Tyler rearranged items on the table, setting the bud base in the center of the table, and putting the saltshaker, pepper grinder, fish flakes, sugar, and candle around it. “There was one person who got up to get something from their jacket. That was Lars, one of the wealthy backpackers. He didn’t come near the Bonovitch’s table, so he’s out. Agatha, one of the two older women on a world cruise, got up to use the bathroom around two. She said hello to the Bonovitchs when she passed their table but didn’t stop. Unlikely, but on the list.”

Tyler moved the saltshaker across the table and then back, passing near the bud vase. Then Tyler stopped and looked around the dining room. He walked over to a table, looked at it with his hands behind his back, then walked back to the Bonovitch’s table, looked at it, and then around the room at all the tables.

Glen went over to Tyler and put a hand on his shoulder. “Got something?”

Tyler nodded silently and then put up a finger. Then he went over to their table and sat. He picked up their saltshaker, mimed using it, then acted like he swapped it for one he had in his lap, and put the saltshaker back.

Then Tyler stood up, walked around to where Roy’s body still lay on the floor, then moved back, and mimed setting down a saltshaker on the table that appeared to already have an extra one.

Then Tyler walked back over to Glen. “Ok, so that’s solved. Now we need to figure out who. And probably why, though that can come later.”

Glen gave him a slight smirk. “Care to share?”

Tyler started from his thoughts. “Oh, right. I’m pretty sure that the poison, of whatever sort, was in the saltshaker. It’s probably still on the table.” Tyler pointed at the Bonovitch’s table. “We’ll want to warn folks to be careful of that, though I suspect there won’t be any fingerprints on it but Roy’s. Here’s how I think it was done. Someone got ahold of one of the restaurant’s custom-made saltshakers. They filled it with salt and the poison or poisons. Then at some point, they switched the one put out by the staff with the poison-filled one. If it was done by the waitstaff, that’s an easy switch, given the aprons they’re wearing and how normal it would be for a waiter to swap something like that.”

Glen nodded. “Or Jenn swapped it, which is what you were doing back at our table.”

“Right. I mean, obvious first choice when there’s a murder. Look at the spouse. So, she’s on the list, too. I think it’s unlikely someone stopping by their table, other than their waitress, could do a swap like that without either of them noticing, or someone at an adjacent table thinking it was odd. That’s too risky. So, it was Magda, the waitress, or Jenn. Or someone in the kitchen.”

James cleared his throat. “Or someone at the restaurant setting up a poison shaker in the first place?”

Tyler shook his head. “Unlikely. How could they be sure it got to the right table? Remember, this was something that targeted Roy specifically and his allergy. What was it, by the way? Do we know?”

The doc shrugged. “Peanut, probably, or shellfish. The second seems unlikely, though, considering how much this place relies on seafood.”

“Right, so, then we come to the odd bit.” Tyler pointed at one of the tables, which looked much like the others, as far as Glen could see. “That’s what made me notice it in the first place.”

They all stared at the table.

Doc Laumer made an “oh” noise. “Two saltshakers.”

Tyler pointed at the doc. “Exactly. Whoever did the swap still had the good shaker on them, so they had to ditch it, and pronto. I figure they dropped it off during the confusion after Roy collapsed and all eyes were focused on him. Who would notice one extra saltshaker?”

Glen smiled at Tyler. “You?”

Tyler smiled back. “Yeah, though it took me a bit. I might not even have noticed, except I was using another table to figure out movements and... we should move outside, too. We don’t want to mess anything else up in here. Especially as I think it really is murder.”

They stepped outside, except for James and the doc. Several more of their security team were around, including two at the entrance to the cocktail barn.

Glen and Tyler walked over. Tyler pulled open one of the large doors and looked around at the assembled guests and staff, most of whom were looking in his direction. He saw Dag and motioned him over. Dag stepped out and Tyler closed the door.

“Couple of questions for you.” Tyler pointed to a spot a little away from the barn. As they walked, Tyler talked. “Before that though, the police are on their way. Someone should be here in under an hour to secure the scene, but their actual investigation team won’t be here for a few hours. My first question... How well did you know Roy?”

Dag looked angry and frustrated. He started to talk, stopped, looked away, then motioned angrily at no one in particular. “He was a silent investor in the restaurant.”

Tyler nodded. “Which explains why he came here so often and was always able to get a table. I understand you folks are booked years in advance.”

Dag nodded and sighed. “Yes. And before you ask, he was about to back out and ask for his contribution back.”

“Would that have shut down the restaurant?”

“No, but it would have been difficult times. If anything else happened, we might not survive it. Even as successful as we are, too many financial hits would ruin us. I pay my staff very well and the ingredients we use are not at all cheap, for being nearby and local.”

“And did you know about his allergy?”

Dag threw up his hands. “Of course! We know of everyone’s allergy, so that we don’t serve them pain and death. We are completely peanut free here because of Roy. When he first told me of his problem, I made sure the kitchen was completely lacking peanuts or nuts of any kind.”

“And are your saltshakers custom made?”

Dag frowned and gazed at Tyler for a moment. “Yes. All the decorations, the tables, even the chairs were made for us by local artists. Why?”

“And are there photos of the table settings on your website?”

“Yes, though not today’s full setting, since the roses are a new thing made for today. But the shakers we have had since the start. Why are you asking these questions?”

Tyler smiled, for a second tight-lipped. Then he tilted his head. “Do any of your staff know Roy as more than a frequent customer?”

Dag frowned again, folding his arms over his chest. “Magda probably knows. I think she and Roy were... you know, fucking. She might know about the investment. She definitely knows about his allergy. But I don’t think she could do that—” Dag gestured back at the main building, where they’d been dining and now Roy’s body lay. “To someone. Maybe hit them in an angry moment, but not... coldly.”

Tyler put out a hand and Dag reluctantly shook it. “Thanks, Dag. I know this is a tough situation for you, but we’ll do our best to get it cleared up.”

Dag raised his eyebrows. “You? I thought the police are coming.”

“Oh, they are, but I’m hoping we can get this mostly figured out for them. I’d hate for this to drag out forever. It’d be messy for everyone.”

“And you are detectives? I thought you just were rich?”

Tyler smiled his business deal smile. “Oh, we’ve had a little experience over the years, solved a few sticky problems.”

Dag nodded, then turned and started back for the cocktail barn.

Tyler called out before Dag opened one of the double doors. “Could you ask Magda to step out and have a quick word with us?”

Dag nodded and went inside. A moment or so later, Magda emerged and carefully stepped over to them. She was wearing a parka now, too.

She looked between Glen and Tyler, settled on Tyler, and spoke. “Dag said you wanted to speak with me?”

Tyler put out a hand and she shook. “Yes, thanks. We’re trying to help the police a little and do some preliminary background. We understand that you knew Roy a little better than the rest of the staff?”

Magda looked at Tyler for a moment, then put her face in her hands and began crying. After a few seconds, Glen stepped towards her. At the crunch of his boot on the crisp snow, she pulled her hands away and wiped her face.

She made a sound of disgust. “Uh, imagine me shedding tears for that asshole. Yes, I know him. I knew him.” She pulled open her parka for a moment, and pointed to her slightly swollen belly, which her apron had concealed quite well. “The baby is his, not that he would have said this to others. The bastard.” She added a few words in Faroese that did not sound polite the way she said them.

Glen put out a hand, and when she took it, gave her hand a squeeze. “I’m sorry. I’m guessing he didn’t start out that way?”

She sniffed and shook her head, pulling her parka closer around her. “No, he was a charming and rich older man when we started. Bought me things, very nice, all the things you expect. But once I found I’m pregnant by him, he stopped talking to me.”

Glen frowned. “What an asshole.”

Tyler stepped a bit closer. “Did you see anything weird during the service? Something out of place or someone standing near the Bonovitch’s for too long?”

Magda’s lips pursed and her brow crinkled in concentration. “Now you mention it, Mrs. Roy gave me hate looks.”

“Did she know about you and Roy?” Tyler said.

Magda shook her head. “I didn’t think so. Roy was scared of her knowing, something about a prenuptial paper they had signed. I think she gets a big part of Roy’s money if he sleeps around. Not sure why he signed it. I am not the first, you know?”

“Anyone else on the islands that you know about?”

She shook her head. “No, when things started out, he called me his special Faroe princess. Not that I would be surprised if he had another woman.”

Glen half-smiled. “But not another man?”

Magda sighed. “No. Definitely not. He was a small man, no imagination in bed, and would not even talk about another man with us together.” She shrugged. “That can be fun with the right people.”

Tyler shifted a little. “Uh, one last question. We don’t want to keep you in the cold for too long.”

Magda shrugged. “Not that cold today. What do you want to know?”

“Did you get the Bonovitchs a new saltshaker?”

Magda immediately shook her head. “No. Roy did like his salt but the table had one already, and filled. We make sure to fill them before every dinner.”

Tyler tried to be nonchalant, but Glen could see the sudden interest in tiny twitches of his eyebrows. “Did you refill theirs?”

She shrugged. “Don’t think so. Probably Britta did. I was busy with roses and getting them right on the table.”

Tyler put out a hand and they shook. “Thanks, Magda. You’ve been a big help.”

“Sure. I didn’t like him, but he did not deserve that death.”

She walked back over to the cocktail barn and slipped inside.

Glen looked at Tyler. “Who’s next?”

“Mrs. Roy—I mean, Jenn, definitely. But I think we’d better wait for the police to get here first. Hopefully we can convince the good officer to arrest someone and confiscate evidence.”

Glen put an arm around Tyler’s shoulders. “So, you definitely know who did it now?”

Tyler sighed. “Yeah, pretty certain.”

“Ok, tiger, let’s go get ready to wrangle a police officer, get a murderer arrested, and then try to salvage our romantic dinner.”

*  *  *

When Officer Olsen arrived in her large SUV, the Faroese police logo emblazoned across it, she was stopped outside the perimeter the security team had set up around the old farm. She got out of her vehicle and was talking with the bodyguards.

By the time Glen and Tyler arrived, with James in tow, the woman appeared to be a little angry.

She flashed her eyes over them, settling on Tyler. “Are you Tyler Conrad?”

“Yes, Officer.”

“Why are your people trying to block my entering the site?”

Tyler, rather than replying to her question, motioned at James.

James took a step forward. “They wanted to confirm your identity before letting you into our security area. Speaking of which...” James put his walkie-talkie to his face. “Do we have confirmation on Officer Olsen? Yes? Ok, work on the Chief Constable and his team next.”

“Who is this man?” Officer Olsen pointed to James.

“Our chief of security.” Tyler gave her a smile.

“And is this sort of thing routine for you?”

Tyler smiled. “Yup. Very much. You probably wouldn’t believe the lengths some reporters and a few assassins have gone to, when they want to get to us.”

She snorted. “Fine, I’ll let that go. Where’s the dead man?”

James nodded to her, then gestured at the main building.

Glen, Tyler, James, and Officer Olsen piled into the dining room, though Glen and Tyler hung back in the entrance, so as not to get in the way. Doc Laumer was still there, as was Henry, who moved himself next to the kitchen door to provide them more space.

Doc Laumer walked the officer through the events, described his attempts to render medical aid and the symptoms he’d observed.

Officer Olsen nodded, jotting down one last thing in her book. “Thank you, Doctor. Very succinct. Could you wait outside now? Please don’t speak to the other guests or staff about this.”

Doc Laumer nodded and left.

Officer Olsen took out her phone and took pictures of Roy, the room, and each table. She fiddled with her phone a moment and then tucked it away.

She turned to James. “You’ve had one of your men on the body every moment since his death?”

James pulled out his own phone. “Yes, ma’am. I’ve had one of my team in here with Dr. Laumer since the event. I was first on duty and then Henry, here. We also moved the diners and the staff over to one of their heated barns to keep them out of the way until you all could get here.”

She nodded distractedly. “Very good. Has anyone touched anything in this room since then?”

Tyler put his hand up. “I touched a few of the things on that table.”

She looked, took another photo of the table in question, put her phone back, and then turned back to him. “Why?”

“I was trying to work out what everyone’s movements were during the dinner service to see who had come close to the Bonovitch’s table.”

Officer Olsen put her eyebrows up in surprise, pulling out her notebook. “And did you?”

Tyler nodded. “Oh yes. Only two people moved during the service other than the wait staff: Lars, who is one of the rich backpacker couple, but he didn’t go close enough to their table to be able to do anything; and the other was Agatha, one of the other diners, who did stop for a moment at their table. But I don’t think she did it, either.”

“And why not?”

“Because I think I know who murdered Roy Bonovitch, and more or less why, but I don’t think we’ve got all the evidence we need yet.”

Officer Olsen put her notebook back into her belt pouch. “We, Mr. Conrad?”

Tyler smiled. “Figure of speech. But I’m not kidding. Do you want me to run you through what I think happened?”

If Glen was any judge of expressions, Officer Olsen appeared to be humoring Tyler. Glen suspected that Tyler knew it, too, which is why his presentation was a touch theatrical.

“Please do, Mr. Conrad. I’m all ears, as you say.”

Tyler stepped into the room from the entryway. James backed up to stand next to Henry. “First, you should know that the saltshakers the restaurant uses are custom made for them by a local artist.”

Officer Olsen narrowed her eyes at Tyler and then looked at the Bonovitch’s table. “And I should care about that—oh. Hmm, sorry, go on.”

Tyler smiled. “Second, I’ll explain the mechanics of what happened, but I can only guess on the motive. We should talk to the suspect after this and confirm a few things.”

Officer Olsen nodded and motioned for Tyler to continue.

“Our murderer did their homework. They looked up the restaurant’s website, saw the saltshakers in their promotional photos, and made a duplicate shaker. This they loaded up with salt, a peanut powder, and cyanide. That last is speculative but based on what the doc observed.”

Tyler moved over to the table that he and Glen had shared.

Before he sat down, Officer Olsen cleared her throat. “Perhaps motion me through it, rather than touching more things in this room, yes?”

Tyler shrugged. “If you wish. So, during dinner, when Roy was suitably occupied, our culprit used the regular saltshaker at their table, and then swapped it for the bad one she had in her lap. Then, at some point when a suitable dish came out, Roy salted his food with the bad mixture, took a bite, and convulsed. Now, while he was suffering and then being administered to by Dr. Laumer, most of the room had their eyes on him and the doc, not anywhere else. Our murderer moved carefully over to that table,” Tyler pointed at the table with the extra saltshaker. “And got rid of the extra but good saltshaker, where it blends in as something completely unremarkable: an extra saltshaker with only salt in it.”

Officer Olsen considered for a moment. “Leaving the poison shaker on their table?”

“Yes, a risk, but there will be no fingerprints on either shaker, not from our culprit. She’s wearing gloves. Even if someone were to suspect the shaker, the supposed allergy attack points more to someone at the restaurant than a patron.”

Officer Olsen looked around, thoughtful. “Swapping shakers would be tough unless you were sitting at the table. Or serving them.”

Tyler nodded. “Which brings us to, I must admit, another suspect and a possible motive. Magda, their waitress, was having an affair with Roy. She’s pregnant with his child, as well.”

Officer Olsen gave Tyler a half-smile. “You do work quickly, don’t you?”

Tyler shrugged. “I like solving problems like this and although my meal was derailed, I had the murder to keep my mind active.”

Officer Olsen went over to the table with two saltshakers. “So, this all sounds good, but if there are no fingerprints on either shaker, what evidence—hard evidence—do we have?”

Tyler put his arms behind his back, almost in parade rest. “I’ve been thinking about that a lot. I think putting tape on a shaker or taking tape off the top of a shaker would be too hard to do without someone noticing. It makes a loud snap, which is bad for subtlety, or if you do it slowly, it’s much more likely for someone to see it and wonder.  So, I think that whatever handbag she’s carrying will have salt in it. Fiskebein uses sea salt that they harvest locally; it’s unique. Even a few grains would be enough to identify it. Also, the bag may have some of that deadly mixture in it, as well, since some would have inevitably fallen out. Hmm, come to think of it, her gloves may have some of the deadly mixture as well.”

Officer Olsen nodded. “Very well, then it’s actually imperative that we talk to her and confiscate that bag before anything more can be done with it. Give me a moment. I’ll meet you outside. I’d prefer two of your men stay here to oversee the scene, if you can spare them.”

Tyler looked at James, who nodded. Tyler smiled. “Sure.”

They stepped outside. Officer Olsen was already speaking rapid-fire into her phone. Glen and Tyler moved a little away from the restaurant.

Glen took Tyler’s hand. “She seems competent.”

Tyler gave him a squeeze. “Almost eerily so for the officer closest to the crime.”

“Ha, now you’re being a little paranoid. I’d bet some money that she’s a detective who got demoted and decided to while away her last few years before retirement in a backwater, unexpectedly thrust back into some real crime.”

Tyler snorted. “And you’ve been watching too many of those British crime dramas. Or the Scandinavian ones. Oh shit, we’re in a Scandinavian one. Ugh, I really hope there’s no wistful looking into the wastelands thoughtfully. Cripes, those shows can be dry.”

“So you’ve said. Yet you still watch them with me.”

Tyler shrugged. “Some of them have pretty clever writing. And I’m watching them with you.”

Glen sighed. “Ok, so once this is over and we’re not needed anymore, I say we toss in the towel and head out to Iceland and the Blue Lagoon.”

“Epic salt soak for the win. We can try to get a table in that really awesome seafood place.”

“How about dessert with the best chocolatier in Iceland?”

“Is that a big field?”

“Hush, here’s comes Officer Olsen.”

*  *  *

The fish and meat prep building was small and despite being scrupulously clean, it smelt of fish and smoked meat.

Jenn looked around and Glen could feel the disdain coming off her, even though her tear-stained facade. “Why are we in here?”

Officer Olsen smiled. “I’m sorry for your loss, Mrs. Bonovitch. I am Officer Olsen of the Faroese Police. We’d like to ask you a few questions, if we might? You do not need to answer but it would be very helpful.”

Jenn looked over at Glen and Tyler, holding hands to one side, curiously. “And why are they in here?”

“Mr. Conrad and Mr. Merriwether are helping me until the rest of my police force can arrive.”

Glen and Tyler gave Jenn Bonovitch nods.

“Very well, if you must. What do you want to know?” Jenn held herself stiff and closed in. Very much on her guard, Glen thought. He gave Tyler’s hand two firm squeezes. Tyler gave the slightest nod.

Tyler took a step forward. “If I might?” He directed his gaze at Officer Olsen, who gestured for him to go. Tyler turned to looked at Jenn. “How on earth did you go so long without killing your husband?”

Jenn reddened. “Excuse me?”

“I mean, I only met the man for a few minutes but even I could tell he was a smarmy sales weasel who didn’t really care about anyone else but himself. He slept around on you quite a bit, and got the latest one pregnant. I’m guessing he never gave you children, so that part was especially galling.”

Jenn directed a salvo of anger at Tyler. “Are you saying I killed him?”

“Yup.” Tyler shrugged. “Wish we could let you off on it, too. You should probably have staged an attack at home and claimed self-defense or something. These elaborate locked room murder mysteries are never as clever as the murderers seem to think. I mean, I had the idea that was why you were wearing those ridiculous 1950s gloves on the ride up in that antique vehicle earlier. Who wears formal gloves to an isolated rural restaurant? And then the extra saltshaker put all the pieces together for me.”

Jenn drew herself up, affronted, but Glen thought her icy armor was slipping. She seemed angrier about the critique of her murder plan than anything else. “And what do you think you can prove?”

Tyler gave her the satisfied smile of a cat with a canary pinned under its paw. “Everything. You’ll just have to surrender your purse to Officer Olsen.”

Jenn went still and narrowed her eyes at the wall, obviously thinking. Then she sighed and deflated. She held out the purse and let go of it into the plastic evidence bag Officer Olsen put beneath it. “Grains of salt in the bottom?”

Tyler nodded. “Grains of salt in the bottom.”

*  *  *

Glen floated comfortably in the hot, salty waters of the Blue Lagoon—which despite the intense azure waters and lovely facilities, was overflow water from the geothermal heating plant next door. Tyler floated next to Glen, finally convinced to try the waters after several trips to Iceland.

Tyler sighed. “Ok, yeah, this is relaxing as shit.” After a quiet moment, Tyler fidgeted in the water.

Glen didn’t open his eyes or shift position. “Ask.”

“How’d you know what tactic to use on Jenn?”

“Body language. She was defensive but also doing a lot of eye movement. She felt vulnerable to being found out. But there wasn’t any regret. If you went on the attack like that, like you had all the cards—which you are damned good at portraying by the way—”

“That’s because usually in my schemes I fix it so I have all the cards. Playing high stakes games is better when you have already set the outcome in your own favor.”

“You mean cheating.”

Tyler laughed. “Damn right I mean cheating. So?”

“Anyway, yeah, if you were fishing and trying to establish some fact, she’d brazen it through, denying everything. She’s tough, or out of energy to care anymore. I think that man really put her through the wringer. However, if you made it seem like this was just a formality and you already knew everything, she’d crumble.”

“That’s what divorce is for. And she would still have been pretty rich. She got greedy.”

Glen straightened up from floating on his back. “Ok, let’s put that ugliness out of our minds and go have some great chocolate.” Glen did a bit of his own fidgeting. “But tell me the truth, you’d already heard of that restaurant, hadn’t you? I mean, it’s pretty famous.”

Tyler sighed. “I mean, sure I knew about it, but like I said, you could have arranged an arctic picnic or some other wild experience. And all that aside, it would have been an amazing experience if we’d finished the whole thing.”

Glen tread water. “Ok, well, at least you were mildly surprised and enjoyed what little we did get to do. Let’s go.”

Tyler started swimming for the ladder. “Yes, yes, and yes. And make sure you get a good eyeful of my ass as I get out of the pool dripping water.”

Glen laughed. “Oh, you know it, husband, you know it.”

*  *  *

Get to know more about J.B. Sanders at glenandtyler.com.

Cabbage Key:
Neil Plakcy

I was in bed with Alex Reyes when he said, “I want to spend Valentine’s Day with you.”

Alex was dark-haired and handsome, his Cuban blood evident in the tint of his skin and the slight burr of his accent. I was bigger than he was, taller and with broader shoulders, but in bed we fit together just fine.

I turned on my side to face him. “We can spend it right here,” I said. “With the new fence around your property, no one will notice if my car is here overnight.”

He shook his head. “I want to go out with you. I want to pretend, even if only for a day or a weekend, that we can love each other in public.”

“I’m not sure about that, Alex,” I said gently. “It’s 1969 and although everyone is talking about free love, most of the time it’s boys with girls. And Miami is still a very conservative southern city, especially with the influx of Cuban émigrés like your family. Your people are generally Catholic and not very open to men loving men.”

“I know. I fight against that all the time. My family pressures me to date women, to marry, to give them grandchildren.”

“And yet you want to go out to a restaurant with me on Valentine’s Day?”

“I was thinking of a long weekend,” he said. “Do you know Cabbage Key?”

I shook my head. “On the road to Key West?”

“No. On the other side of the state. It’s a little private island in Florida Bay, across from Cape Coral. Far enough away from prying eyes in Miami. There’s an inn there, with individual cottages. You fish, don’t you?”

I laughed. “I grew up on the Eastern Shore of Maryland,” I said. “Fishing is in my blood.”

“Mine, too, from growing up in Cuba. I read about this place in a travel magazine. It’s very isolated, you have to take a boat to get there. Several of the cottages have two bedrooms, so we can simply be two friends who have gone there for the fishing and relaxation.”

“But we won’t sleep in separate beds, will we?” I asked with a grin.

“No, mi amor, we won’t,” Alex said. “What do you think?”

“I think it sounds expensive.” I had been a master-of-arms in the Navy, the naval equivalent of military police. When I transitioned to civilian life, I knew I couldn’t be a homosexual in a police department, so I had trained with a private eye and then struck out on my own when he discovered my tendencies.

Which is to say money was tight. I had relationships with a couple of attorneys who offered me work, usually tracking and photographing cheating spouses, but I spent a lot of time in my office above Mr. Ho’s Chinese restaurant on Washington Street in Miami Beach waiting for the phone to ring.

I had a side gig as a bouncer at a gay bar out by Miami airport, which was how, in a convoluted way, I had met Alex Reyes, who used the bar as a rendezvous for some of his Cuban exile political activities.

We both had a lot of secrets to keep, and I was sure there were things about Alex I had yet to learn. I already knew, though, how heat rose from his skin, how his kisses brushed my lips and how it felt when he twisted my nipples, sending signals direct to my cock.

“I know you don’t like to take money from me, mi amor, but you know I have plenty. I can pay for this little vacation without a problem. If you’ll agree.”

“How do we get there?”

“We drive. Across the Tamiami Trail to Cape Coral, south of Naples. Then we cross the bridge to Pine Island and the inn sends a boat to pick us up.”

“Fishing,” I said, and leaned back against the pillows. “I’d like to do that.”

“And more, of course,” Alex said, and he tickled his fingers down the hairy line that stretched from my pecs to my groin, and then he turned toward me and I forgot about everything other than his touch and the yearning that rose inside me.

Alex made all the arrangements. Wednesday February 12th, I packed a bag and left it in the back of my 1958 lime-green Chevrolet Bel Air while I worked at the Cockpit. When I left the bar shortly after one in the morning, the air was crisp and cold by Miami standards.

The next morning, we woke to foggy, filtered light, but by the time we had breakfasted and showered the sun was out and the air was crisp and clear. Coral Gables, where Alex lived, was on the west side of Miami, so it didn’t take long for us to get out of the city. We took Southwest 8th Street with the sun behind us, passing walk-up ventanas, windows where you could get a quick fix of syrupy-sweet coffee.

Prosperous Cuban immigrants had already begun relocating to Westchester, just beyond the Gables, and the grocery chain Sedano’s had blossomed, where no one spoke a word of English, the churches with their signs in Spanish, the front yards with statues of Saint Joseph or black women in country robes. Some people hated the way Miami was going, but I loved the cultural mix, because it had brought me Alex.

We passed what had been Tamiami Airport, where signs proclaimed the founding of a new state university to be called Florida International, and then, with little notice, we were in the Everglades. A canal paralleled the roadway, and on the other side stretched acres of spiky sawgrass.

“Those little islands of trees are called hummocks,” Alex said, pointing out the window. They were the only things that disrupted the endless landscape.

Alex’s BMW sedan handled the bumpy road well. We kept the windows open and the car was filled with the fresh smell of the sawgrass prairie around us.

“Have you been out here before?” I asked.

“Yes, but I think you would rather not know the details,” Alex said. That meant something to do with his anti-Castro activities, one of the many secrets we had yet to share with each other. “But there is a restaurant up ahead, a pit barbecue place where the food is excellent. I think it’s time for lunch, don’t you?”

It was close to noon by then, so I agreed. We sat under a thatched tiki hut and ate delicious barbecued ribs with our hands, gnawing at them like prehistoric men, our hands covered with the sweet, tangy sauce. “I’m liking this trip already,” I said.

“Wait until we get to the island,” he said. “I know some things I can do to make you like the trip even more.”

I grinned. Alex and I couldn’t be more different. He was educated, suave, debonair in starched blue and white striped shirts. I had only a high school diploma, and my time in the Navy had roughened my edges even more than growing up in near-poverty had. And yet we got each other in a profound way.

The trip across the state took a long time, though when the road was clear Alex was quite the daredevil, pushing the BMW up to the edge of its capability. “You know they have no speed limits in Germany,” he said. “Their highways are called autobahns and people fly down them.”

“I have been to Germany, you know,” I said. “Quite possibly I have been to more places in the world than you have. And I had shore leave in an awful lot of ports.”

“What was your favorite?”

I answered without hesitation. “Amsterdam. I was barely off the ship when this Dutchman picked me up on the street because he liked my uniform. He took me to bars and smoked hookahs with me and I saw a side of the city that most tourists don’t.”

“And you had sex with him, of course,” Alex said.

“Of course.” I sensed a tinge of jealousy from him, which was funny and kind of sweet. I hadn’t been with anyone else since I met him, though I didn’t discount the possibility. My parents had been faithful to each other, and miserable, for as much as I knew of their lives, and I didn’t see any reason to fall into those behaviors.

But I didn’t want to spoil our weekend, so I asked, “What’s your favorite place that you’ve been?”

Alex had grown up in Havana, then attended boarding school in New Hampshire. I knew that he’d traveled in Europe and Latin America while he was on vacation from the University of Miami, where he’d gotten his degree.

“Predictably, I have to say La Habana,” he said. “There is something about having your home snatched from you, knowing you cannot go back, that gives it a much more powerful impact. I remember the bright hibiscus and bird of paradise growing outside my bedroom window, waking to the sound of water smashing against the Malecón, the beauty of the old city and the majesty of the ocean.”

Eventually, we reached Naples, and civilization replaced the sawgrass along Route 41. That was when we turned north, and I asked, “How much farther?”

“Not much,” he said. “We cross the Caloosahatchee River into North Fort Myers and then head west to Pine Island. Then north to the Pineland Marina, where we get the boat to Cabbage Key.”

Fort Myers was a small downtown, withered by the sun, and I wondered how rustic this Cabbage Key would be. Not for my sake; I’d roughed it a lot as a kid and while I was in the Navy. But Alex, for all his inner strength, had lived a privileged upbringing and I worried that a couple of cabins on a nowhere island might not suit him.

I needn’t have worried. The abundant foliage visible from the boat promised a tropical hideaway and the rest of the island didn’t disappoint. We were surrounded by short and tall palm trees, hibiscus blossoming in shades of red and yellow, red lobster claw heliconia, blood-red anthurium, and bird of paradise.

“Does this remind you of Havana?” I whispered to Alex as we climbed a stone path toward the interior of the island. The boat’s captain had promised to have our bags delivered to our room—along with the fishing poles and assorted stuff we’d brought as part of our camouflage.

Alex took a deep breath. “I can almost imagine myself as a child, staring through my bedroom window.”

I always had a darker view than he did. While I recognized the natural beauty, I could see someone tumbling down those rough steps, or perhaps an assassin deep in the foliage. We may have fled civilization, but I couldn’t leave it behind.

We stopped at the main house first, where we both signed the register. Then a young woman with blonde hair and a blinding smile led us a few hundred feet to our cabin. It was isolated, a little plot cleared from the island’s jungle, and just rustic enough to be charming without being uncomfortable. The walls were all local pine, the furniture right from the Sears catalog.

The kitchen had a back door through which you could bring in your day’s catch without messing up the rest of the house.

The bedroom had two double beds, covered with yellow bedspreads and the bedposts had turned maple posts, vaguely reminiscent of the American Revolution. Someone had already delivered our bags there.

As soon as the girl was gone, Alex stepped close to me. “Is this all right, mi amor?”

I grabbed his shoulders and brought him in tight, where I kissed him deeply and thoroughly. Alex liked a bit of manhandling, I’d discovered, and though I was always careful to keep my greater size and strength from hurting him, I found little ways to turn his crank.

He all but melted into me, and if I could have, I’d have picked him up and carried him off into a clearing in the jungle, like Tarzan. Instead, I settled for opening his belt and pants and sliding down to my knees, where I took him in my mouth.

He was quiet at first, but I stopped licking long enough to say, “We’re alone, Alejandro. Let me hear you.”

I only called him Alejandro when we were intimate. Spanish was our language of love, and he called me Jorge then, each breath an expression of desire.

He caught his breath a few times, moaned my name, and I could sense his desire rising. I could have backed off, then returned, and kept him going for a few more minutes. But my mouth was dry, and I wanted a beer.

I swallowed everything he had to give, and then licked my tongue around the tip of his penis and penetrated his slit. By then he was nearly crying with pleasure.

I stood up and kissed him again, letting him taste himself on my lips. Then I look a step back and said, “Let’s go explore this island.”

“You don’t want...” he began.

“We have all weekend,” I said. Then I took my big meaty paw in his softer, manicured one, and squeezed.

My dick was hard as the Rock of Gibraltar by then, but years of sublimating my need in the Navy until the time was right had trained me to hold back when I wanted to or had to. I knew that if I waited like this a few hours, explosions would happen when I was with Alex again, and that, plus my dry throat, was enough to convince me to wait.

We followed a couple of different stone paths that led past other cabins until we reached the inn itself. There were a few rooms on the second floor, but the first floor was all dining room and kitchen and bar. Wide windows let in breezes from Florida Bay, and ceiling fans with broad blades moved the air around lazily.

Sepia-toned photographs of bathing beauties and great catches covered the walls. Pristine examples of seashells, from starfish to conch to chambered nautilus, were laid out in glass cases. The room smelled like salt water and chocolate cake, which turned out to be on the menu for dessert that evening.

We sat at a table for two in the dining room and watched as our fellow guests came in. A sun-browned family of four, fresh from a day’s fishing. A young couple from Illinois, taking a prolonged honeymoon through the southern states, eventual destination: Key West.

The last to arrive were an incongruous pair. He was in his mid-to-late sixties, white, with gray hair. He had a large nose speckled with red veins and a big belly barely concealed by the extra-large guayabera, or pocketed Cuban shirt, he wore. If Santa had a twin brother who flew along behind him, giving out the coal to bad children and stealing presents their parents had bought them, he’d be perfect for the part.

The woman beside him was at least thirty years younger, beautiful in an exotic, Latina way. Her hair was jet black, her lips bright red, and she had thick gold hoops in her ears. She wore a floral dress with a low-cut neck and ruffled skirt.

Alex and I must have both inhaled at the same moment, because he said in a low voice, “Do you recognize them?”

“Him,” I said. “I used to handle the door at a private club on Espanola Way on the beach, until the owner realized I was a private dick on my off hours and gave me the boot.”

“Really? I’d think that would be an advantage.”

“It is, at the Cockpit. But Louie’s catered to a particular clientele that didn’t want to be recognized. Not homosexual, but criminal.”

Alex nodded. “He drank there?”

“Once in a while, with an associate or two. He’s a Jew, but connected to the Bonanno crime family. His name is Pinky Feldman. Or at least that’s what they called him.”

The waiter brought our drinks, a special rum concoction, and we ordered our dinners. Big steaks for both of us, baked potatoes, sautéed mushrooms. A man’s meal.  “You think the woman is his wife?” Alex asked.

I looked at him for a moment and then laughed.

“What?”

“Alejandro,” I said, his name a purr on my tongue. “If I didn’t care who saw us together, I’d take you to the finest steakhouse on Miami Beach.”

“His mistress, then.” Alex shrugged. “In Havana, no one cared. My father could take my mother out one night, his mistress the next. And then after my mother died, he had no special woman—whoever was available, I guess.”

I slipped my right foot out of my sandal and rubbed my toes against his calf. “You are very special to me.”

His smile was wicked and promising. “I will let you show me how later.”

He did not disappoint me that evening—but then being Alex Reyes, there was little he could do that would.

Breakfast was served family style in the dining room, at a big, long table, and when Alex and I walked in the next morning we found only two seats available—next to Pinky and his lady friend.

We exchanged greetings, and Alex and I placed our breakfast orders with the waitress. The other guests were already eating, but Pinky and the woman only had toast and coffee in front of them.

“Didn’t expect to see other folks from Miami all the way out here,” Pinky said.

I raised an eyebrow. “That’s where you’re from?”

He was sitting next to me, with Alex across from me beside his friend. “Don’t shit a shitter, boy,” he said in a low voice. “I know who you are.”

I nodded. “I know who you are, too.”

“Then we each have a reason not to talk about this meeting when we get back across the state,” he said.

I shrugged. I could tell Alex was interested in what we were saying but I kept my voice low. “I came here for some fishing with my pal,” I said. “Doubt I would drop that into conversation back home.”

He snorted. “Pal,” he said. “Listen, what you and your fuck buddy get up to ain’t no business of mine, as long as you don’t stick your nose in where it isn’t wanted, Mr. Private Dick.”

I was shuddering, but trying hard not to show it. “I know how to keep things private,” I said. “Especially what I do with my dick. I assume you’re the same way.”

He laughed. “Yeah, you could say that.”

By then Alex had begun a conversation with the woman, whose name was Dolores, about the weather and the fishing opportunities.

“I’m not one for fishing,” she said, with a light Spanish accent. “But the island is very beautiful, no? It reminds me of...”

“Lots of places,” Pinky interrupted. “Lots of places out here that look like this. Hell, they call it the Thousand Islands, don’t they?”

The waitress brought our eggs, pancakes, and bacon then, and we dug in. I was surprised to see Pinky move his bacon over to Dolores’s plate. It was funny that he was observing Jewish dietary laws while at the same time breaking a few other commandments.

It was a pleasant conversation in the end. Pinky had a dirty sense of humor, and once the other guests were gone, he told a couple of ribald jokes that had Alex and me roaring, including one about a priest, a rabbi and a nun who walked into a bar together.

The innkeeper had arranged a boat from the Pineland Marina to take Alex and me out fishing through the mangrove islands. By noon we had each caught a big tarpon, though Alex’s was a few inches longer than mine was. They weren’t worth eating because they were filled with tiny bones, so we threw them back. Then as we were about to turn back Alex felt a snag on his line.

“You’ve got a grouper on there,” the captain said. “Looks like a big one.”

Alex stood by the side of the boat, his hands on the fishing rod. He let the grouper go for a while, then when it seemed to tire, he pulled back on it. It was a strong, big fish, and he was straining. Instinctively, I grabbed a net and stood beside him.

We stood like that for what seemed like an eternity. I could smell the bay rum cologne Alex used, his sweat, the salt air. He knew how to use the fish’s momentum against it, how to lift the rod when the fish paused, then reel down to bring the fish in closer. Finally, I saw it shimmering close to the boat, and I scooped the net down and caught it.

“Looks like a Nassau grouper,” the captain said, as I manhandled the fish over the gunwale and onto the deck. It was about three feet long, with a big mouth and vertical brown stripes across its body. “That’ll make good eating. We’ll clean that up and Mary will grill it for you tonight.”

He and I lifted the grouper into a bed of ice, and then he said, “You two make a fine team. You been fishing together long?”

“First outing,” I said. “But we both grew up around water.”

We were both tired by the time we had finished cleaning and gutting the fish, and the captain showed us how to slice it up into filets, which he promised to deliver to the hotel’s cook. “She’ll be mighty pleased,” he said. Then he looked at me. “You gentlemen work together?”

I shook my head. “Just friends.”

There was something in his eye that said we’d perhaps been more intimate on the boat than we’d meant, but he let it go. As Alex and I climbed the stone path back to the inn, I wondered at how Alex and I had been marked as a couple twice in two days. I didn’t think either of us had the kind of outward mannerisms that pegged someone as homosexual. The campy personality of performers like Paul Lynde and Liberace was miles from my behavior.

Alex was more genteel, certainly. His clothing was elegant and fastidious, even down to his Brooks Brothers fishing shirt. He wore cufflinks and a gold bracelet when he dressed up, as well as a gold signet ring his father had given him at his eighteenth birthday.

Was it something about the two of us together that marked us in a way that wouldn’t have happened when we were alone?

By the time we got back to the cottage my muscles were tired and I was looking forward to a long, hot bath. “You go first, mi amor,” Alex said. “They brought in today’s newspaper and I’m going to read for a few minutes.”

I stripped down but before I went into the bathroom, I turned to him. “Do I look homosexual to you?”

He eyed me up and down, and my dick straightened. “Well, with your penis erect in my presence I have little doubt.”

“But Pinky marked me, and so did the boat captain this morning.”

“Did that bother you?”

I thought about it for a minute. “Yes. What I do in bed is nobody else’s business.”

“Are you ashamed of us? Of me?”

I looked down, to where my dick felt as stiff as iron. “My body certainly isn’t.”

“But you are.”

There was a chill in Alex’s speech that I knew I had to warm up immediately. “No, not you, Alejandro. Never you. This is all inside myself. Seeing the way homosexuals were talked about, were treated, when I was growing up, and in the Navy. I never wanted that burden.”

“And yet it is one we both carry,” Alex said softly. He smiled. “Go, take your bath, mi amor. We are here to enjoy ourselves, keep the pain hidden a little longer.”

I walked into the bathroom, embarrassed at the way my dick bounced up and down against my belly. I ran enough hot water to fill the tub halfway, then lowered myself in.

Ah, the blessed relaxation. The water eased my muscles, and I closed my eyes and went into a half-dream state, remembering going out on the water with my father, a commercial fisherman with his own small boat. It was hard work, and he was a tough taskmaster, but I loved the salt air, the relentless waves, the reward of pulling in a trap full of Chesapeake blue crabs. The way my father boiled up those crabs for dinner, the joy of picking the sweet meat out. Feeding his family like that was one of the few pleasures my father took in life, and those were the times I chose to remember.

I was startled awake when the door opened and Alex walked in, naked. “You don’t mind if I join you, do you?” he asked.

Though I am a big guy, the tub was deep enough and wide enough that he could settle into it at the far end, twining our legs together. His dick was already hard, and mine joined in a moment. “You have not washed yet,” Alex said, and he soaped up a washcloth and began to scrub my legs, moving ever closer to me until his legs were wrapped around my back, and mine around his, and we were close enough to kiss.

“I don’t care what other people think of me when I am with you,” Alex said softly, as he backed up a bit and began to wash my upper chest.

“The world is a dangerous place,” I said. “You don’t want anyone to think of you as prey.”

He laughed. “When I was sent to boarding school in New Hampshire, there were boys who would have taken great delight in bullying me. They were stronger, tougher, often from even wealthier families. But I established immediately that I was Alejandro Victor Reyes de Machado, and I was the prince of my own realm.”

He smiled. “And I was smart enough to help those students who were bigger and yet slower in class. And once I got older and more expert in providing blow jobs, I never had anything to worry about.”

He soaped the washrag again. “Lean back, mi amor.”

I pulled myself up above the water level and the roughness of the cloth, combined with the slipperiness of the soap, pushed me to another level. “And you?” Alex asked. “Did you worry, in school or in the military?”

“I was always too big and strong for anyone to suspect anything. And I really had no idea I was attracted to men when I was a teenager. In the locker room, we joked around, calling each other names, teasing if anyone was caught with a hard-on. But that world, a world where men could express love to each other, was so far away.”

Alex soaped my dick and I thought I might come right there. Then he stuck a soapy finger in his ass and stared at me with lust on his face.

He inched closer to me, and I did my part, positioning my dick at his entrance as he sat down on me in tiny increments his thigh muscles, straining.

“And in the Navy, with all those men around?” he asked. “Surely you must have found pleasure there.”

“Relief,” I said, struggling for breath. The water around us had turned cool, and I was trying to focus on Alex, the way droplets of sweat dripped down his face to his chest. I wanted to reach up and pinch his nipples, but my arms were busy holding myself up.

“No one like you, Alejandro. Not in the Navy, or here in Florida. Never anyone like you before.”

“The right answer,” he said, and my dick found the sweet spot inside him, and we began working together to achieve the ultimate pleasure. I began mumbling nonsense syllables as my orgasm rose, while Alex spoke in Spanish, and I shot off inside him, my back arched, my whole body entwined with his.

He came only a moment later, jets of white that shot up my belly to my upper chest.

Getting out of the tub was a difficult maneuver, since we both were so spent. But eventually he rose, cascading water from his stomach downward, and I stood up, water rushing down me as well, and we embraced as the afternoon sun sent shards of light into the bathroom.

We both cleaned up and then dozed. Late in the afternoon we pushed both beds together and climbed aboard so that Alex could return the favor by fucking me. We kissed and rubbed our bodies against each other, and I leaned back and began fingering my hole as he lubed his dick. Then he positioned himself to enter me and began rocking back and forth.

Then the beds pushed apart, and within a minute we were in a sweaty, lubricated tangle on the floor between them. It was too late to stop, though, so we started up again on the carpet, which I was sure had seen a lot worse.

By the time we had finished, showered with the last of the hot water, dressed, and rearranged the beds, we were once again the last couple into the dining room. It was almost embarrassing to see that the innkeepers had decorated it with paper hearts and red streamers, with a Happy Valentine’s Day banner.

Fortunately. we had our own table. On one hand, this was what we’d wanted, wasn’t it? A romantic getaway on February 14, where we could celebrate and be ourselves.

But the fact still remained that we were the only same-sex couple, though the waitress announced once we were seated, “Thanks to our two fishermen guests, we have a special red grouper presentation this evening, grilled simply with lemon and a couple of our home-grown tomatoes, served with an accompaniment of rice and beans.”

She led a round of applause for us and our fishing skills, and I saw Alex blushing as much as I was.

Pinky and Dolores finished their meal first and went for a moonlight walk. I was thinking about doing the same thing with Alex, though on the other side of the island, when we heard the shots.

“What was that?” one of the female guests asked.

“Sounds like gunshots,” her husband said. He turned to the waitress. “Do people hunt on this island?”

She shook her head. “It’s too small. There’s no game here.”

We all held our collective breath, and there were no more shots. I had just begun to calm down when Pinky burst into the room. “George Clay!” he nearly shouted, except that he was almost out of breath. “I need your help.”

What could I do? He may have been a mobster, but he was a human being. I jumped up and followed him outside, with Alex behind me.

He led us up the stone path to an outcropping where a bench faced the water. Dolores was there, slumped to her side.

“Is she...?” I began.

“She’s dead,” he said. “We were sitting there, admiring the moonlight. She told me this was the happiest she’d ever been, that we could be together somewhere so special for such a sweet occasion.”

He was having trouble talking, between sobbing and panting for breath. “Take it easy, Pinky. What happened next?”

“There were two shots. I felt her go limp next to me, and I looked around to see where the shots had come from.” He pointed down another path that led to a small dock. “There was a powerboat there. A guy dressed all in black ran down the path and jumped into the boat. And then it was gone.”

“Did you see any details of the boat?” Alex asked.

“I was trying to revive Dolores!”

“You sit here with her,” I said gently. “Alex and I will go inside and call the police.”

“No! No police!”

There was a half-moon above us, and I could see the frenzy in his face. “You know who I am, what I do. The police will only cock things up, use this as an opportunity to meddle in my business, arrest me and my associates. I want to hire you.”

“I don’t do murder investigations,” I said.

“You will do this. Or I will tell everyone I know in Miami that you and your pal are a pair of fairies. You’ll never work in this town again.” He turned to Alex. “And you, Mr. Fancy Dresser. Your family know about you? You able to stand up to them?”

“I know how to take care of myself,” Alex said, with ice in his voice, a tone I’d never heard from him. “You may think you are big deal, Mr. Feldman. But I have associates, too.”

“Enough,” I said. “I’ll do what I can.”

“Good,” Pinky said. He pointed to Alex. “You. Get a couple of shovels.”

“You’re going to bury her?” Alex said in astonishment.

“Well, I can’t just bundle her up in a couple of sweaters and take her back to Pine Island in a boat, can I?”

Alex shook his head and went back down the path. “I had some medic training in the Navy,” I said. “I’m going to need to dig out the bullets. I should be able to tell what kind of gun was used.”

We laid Dolores out on the bench, and I saw that both bullets had gone into her chest. I began carefully unbuttoning her silk blouse.

“Motherfucker,” Pinky mumbled.

“Would you rather do this?”

“Just get on with it.”

I opened the blouse. Both shots had gone in a few inches apart, just below her left breast. I reached into my pocket and pulled out the Swiss Army knife I always carried and made an incision. I heard Pinky take in a deep breath behind me.

I focused. I hoped the bullets hadn’t gone in too far into her body. As I dug I tried to remember the sound of the shots. There had only been two, and I believed they’d come from a handgun rather than a rifle or machine gun. If I was right then the bullet would be intact, somewhere in her flesh.

She had been dead long enough that she no longer bled; there was no heart pumping the blood through the veins. I carved into the tissue until I found a .38 caliber round of the type often used in a Smith & Wesson handgun.

By then Alex was back, with a pair of shovels. “Do you have a plastic bag? A tissue?”

“A handkerchief,” Alex said. He pulled a white linen one from his pocket. I hated to ruin it, but he could afford to buy a whole new set. I pried the bullet out with the knife’s tweezers and placed it in the handkerchief, in his palm. Then I retrieved the other one.

“Keep those safe for me,” I said, as I stood up. “Now, Pinky, where can we place her?”

“A lot of this island is coral rock,” Pinky said. “But there’s a place off the south trail that the innkeeper mentioned has a shell midden in it. We move enough shells, we can bury Dolores there, then cover her up.”

I looked at Alex. I was astonished at how cool Pinky was, but maybe that was a skill you had to cultivate to survive in organized crime.

It took us a couple of hours, to find the midden, excavate enough shells and dirt, and then lower Dolores to the ground. Then we stood around her for a moment. “Do you know her whole name?” Alex asked Pinky.

“Dolores de los Angeles Maria Abreu,” Pinky said, almost reverentially. “The Maria is her confirmation name.”

Alejandro dropped to one knee and said, “Dios te salve María: llena eres de gracia, el Señor es contigo. Bendita tú eres entre todas las mujeres y bendito es el fruto de tu vientre, Jesús. Santa María, Madre de Dios ruega, por nosotros pecadores ahora y en la hora de nuestra muerte.”

He crossed himself and looked up at us. “It’s the Hail Mary. Sorry, it’s the only one I know in Spanish.”

Pinky muttered something in what sounded like Hebrew, and then picked up a shovel. “Let’s get this finished.”

It was the middle of the night by the time we stumbled back to the cottages. Before we parted, Pinky pulled a roll of bills out of his wallet. He counted out ten hundreds and handed them to me. “That’s your retainer. You find out who killed Dolores, there’s a lot more where that came from. But you only tell me, not the police.”

I nodded.

Alex and I shrugged off our clothes and stumbled into separate beds. By the time we woke Saturday morning and went down to breakfast, Pinky was already gone.

As we ate, Alex said, “You want to leave too?”

I frowned. “I can’t imagine I can do anything on a Sunday in Miami. And you’ve already paid for this whole weekend.”

So, we stayed. We made love, more gently than ever before, in the shadow of Dolores’s death. We spent a lot of time walking the paths of the island, looking out at the water, talking, and sharing more than we ever had before.

And then it was Sunday, and we left after breakfast for the ride back to the marina. Before we left, I asked the harbormaster if anyone had chartered a boat on Friday and brought it back after dark.

“Not a charter,” he said. “Came down from Tampa, he said. Going to do some night fishing. By the time I opened up this morning he was already gone.”

“Can you describe him?”

He cocked his head. “What’s this about?”

I showed him my private eye’s license. “Making some inquiries for a client.”

He nodded. That was enough for him. “Spanish guy, heavy accent. Kind of halfway between you and your friend there in size. Dark beard, tattooed arms. That’s all I remember.”

“That’s great.” I pulled a pad from my pocket and wrote that down. “Do you keep records of the boat’s registration?”

“It’ll be in the log.” He led me to his office and pulled out the book. The entry was almost unreadable, but I had a small camera and I took a couple of pictures of it.

Once we had negotiated our way back to US 41, Alex asked, “What will you do?”

I had already begun making a list in my head. “Verify the caliber of the bullet. See if I can get someone to decipher the handwriting on the log. Then start snooping around into Pinky’s life, and Dolores’s.”

“Do you think they meant to kill him? Or her?”

I shrugged. “No way of knowing yet. On the surface, I’d say him. But then he’s in the mob, or at least I think he is, and somebody might have wanted to hurt him through her.”

“Or she could be the target,” Alex said. “I wrote down her whole name, the way Pinky recited it to me. I’ll ask some people I know.”

“Don’t get yourself into this, Alex. Pinky’s a bad guy and if you ask the wrong person or the wrong question, you could get hurt.”

“George. I buried that woman with my own hands. I said a prayer over her open grave. I cannot simply let this go.”

“I understand. But be careful and run everything past me first.”

He gave me a mock salute. “Yes, sir.”

We stopped at his house, where we embraced briefly and kissed goodbye. “Despite what happened, I enjoyed myself,” I said. “We can’t live like this forever, but those stolen moments make everything worthwhile.”

“A poet,” Alex said fondly. “Un amor maravilloso. Our marvelous love.”

I drove back to my own apartment on Miami Beach. Falling in love with Alex Reyes was a dangerous proposition—his house was so much nicer than my 1920s-era studio near Flamingo Park, his car was a hell of a lot nicer than mine, and he had enough money to make simple problems disappear. I had never felt about anyone the way I felt about Alex, and that scared me. What if I opened my heart completely, got accustomed to the small luxuries of life, and then he dumped me for someone who fit better into his world?

I had to work at the Cockpit that night, which dispelled some of my melancholy. The Cockpit was a gay bar, but it wasn’t usually a happy one. We had a steady stream of horny middle-aged men, usually married, who wanted to give or receive a desperate blow job in the john. They were little trouble as far as I was concerned. I just wanted them to lock the door behind them.

Some were young hustlers, often living with their parents and sneaking out at night to earn cash for drugs or in some cases college tuition. As long as they didn’t make a scene in the bar, demanding unreasonable cash for ordinary services, I had a live-and-let-live policy toward them.

The Miami Airport was only a couple of miles north of us, so we also often got visits from pilots and other crew members, often in uniform. Some of the better-looking ones caused a feeding frenzy in the regular clientele, and that evening I had to break up a fight over who got to suck a particularly randy pilot with a vague resemblance to Rock Hudson.

Occasionally a straight couple would wander in, order a round, then quickly suss out the room and hurry out. Sometimes a pair of cops would come in for complimentary drinks, just to remind us we were all operating outside the law.

The most dangerous group were those who used a gay bar as cover for whatever they wanted to do in darkness. Señor Franchi, an elderly man from Cienfuegos, took bets on the Cuban Loteria from a booth at the back. Sometimes groups like the one that Alex belonged to met over drinks to discuss in rapid Spanish their plans to overthrow Castro and get back the properties that had been stolen from them.

And some were straight-up hoods. I knew a couple of them, and between them and Señor Franchi, I learned a few things about Pinky Feldman. The answers I got disturbed me as much as confirming what I already knew.

Pinchas “Pinky” Feldman was a low-level operative affiliated with the Bonnano mob out of Chicago, primarily a bookmaker. He ran his book out of the back room of a Brazilian bar at the north end of Miami Beach. He lived in a modest house in Surfside, a few blocks inland from the ocean, with his wife and two teenaged daughters.

He was quiet enough, for a mobster. No one knew of any outstanding grudges against him. His books always tallied, and though his mistress was common knowledge, he didn’t flaunt her in the face of his wife, an Italian woman who was a second cousin to the local capo of the Bonanno family.

Had his wife found out about Dolores and hired a hitman? Not a surprising story in Miami. I left the Cockpit at midnight and resisted the urge to head to Alex’s, as I often did, to spend the night. We’d been together plenty that weekend. Someday, when we were old and gray and our penises had shriveled, would we look back on our weekend at Cabbage Key and remember all the sex? Or would we think of Dolores and Pinky and that bench where they’d sat to watch the ocean?

I was in my office the next morning when Alex called. “Dolores wasn’t completely honest about her name with Pinky,” he said. “Or maybe Pinky chose not to tell us.”

“What’s her name?”

“The first part is all correct. She was born Dolores de los Angeles Abreu de Diaz, and María is indeed her confirmation name.”

“Who was Diaz?”

“Diaz was her mother’s family name. The way my name is Alejandro Reyes de Machado. Machado is from my mother.”

“So, he never knew her mother’s maiden name. Is that unusual?”

“The point is that once she married, she became Dolores Garza de Abreu. Women take their husband’s name, and they tack on their father’s name after the de.”

“Dolores was married? You know her husband’s name?”

“Very well. She is actually a widow, and her husband, Rodolfo Garza, was one of the commanders of Brigade 2506. You know about it, don’t you?”

“The Bay of Pigs?”

“La Bahía de los Cochinos,” he said. “An inlet on the Gulf of Cazones, on the southern coast of Cuba. And a terrible mistake.” He lowered his voice. “Dolores knew all the details of the operation, better than some of the men. And they say she betrayed them to Castro.”

“Really? How do ‘they’ know?”

His voice returned to its normal tone. “It’s what people say. So, I am not surprised that she took up with Pinky Feldman. No Cuban man would have her.”

“So maybe she was the right victim.”

I stewed over that most of the day. Then I decided it was time to confer with my client. Late in the afternoon I drove up to the bar in North Beach where Pinky ran his book. I saw him in the back, with a customer, so I sat at the bar and ordered a beer. While I sipped it, I thought about how I could present what I knew to Pinky. How much of it did he already know?

His customer left and he spotted me and waved me back. He sat in at a table in a dark corner, facing the street. “What have you got for me?”

“You know the name Rodolfo Garza?”

“He’s the hitman?”

I shook my head. “Dolores’s late husband. You never heard his name?”

“Only the first. Rodolfo. I thought he was Rodolfo Abreu. I can’t keep track of these Spanish names, the way they all shift around.”

“From what I understand, Rodolfo Garza was one of the commanders of Brigade 2506.”

“Holy shit.”

“She never told you anything about him?”

“Not that. You’re sure?”

I shrugged. “It’s what I hear from sources.” I didn’t want to bring Alex in.

“He died at the Bay of Pigs, her husband?”

“And the rumor is that she knew all the details and betrayed him.” I sat back in my chair and let that sink in.

“I worried about her being with me,” Pinky said after a while. “You know I got people that don’t care for me. A couple of times I tried to break up with her, for her safety, you know, but she brushed me off.”

His eyes got a glazed look. “She did things for me a man can’t expect his wife to do. You and your boyfriend probably get up to that. A little spanking, a little punishment.”

I hadn’t gotten into any of that with Alex and hoped we never did. “So, you stayed with Dolores because she fucked you up the ass with a dildo,” I said, more harshly than I meant, because I was insulted that Pinky thought all gay men liked to hurt each other.

Pinky looked like he was ready to topple the table over on me but then something inside him broke and he put his hands out flat. “I’m not a faggot or anything. But you know there’s this sweet spot, up there, drives a man wild.”

I had to go along with him. “I know it.”

“She’d talk dirty to me. She had a mean streak, Dolores. All pretty and perfect on the outside, but inside her there was a kind of devil.”

“I’m sorry, Pinky. I have a lead on who drove the boat from Pineland Marina, and I verified that the bullets came from a Smith & Wesson. You want me to keep looking?”

He seemed to shrink inside himself, like his flesh was closing in on him. “Nah. I just wanted to know it wasn’t because of me.”

He pulled that wad of cash out of his pocket again and counted out another ten hundred-dollar bills, then handed them to me. “This do you?”

“Yeah, I’m good.” I took the cash and stuffed it in my pocket. Before I stood up, I leaned toward him. “They make these dildos now, very lifelike. They sell them at the X-rated store on Washington Avenue, few blocks north of here. You might want to buy one, gift it to your wife. Try it out on her a couple of times, and then, well, see what happens.”

His eyes and his mouth opened wide, like the grouper that Alex caught off Cabbage Key. Then he closed up again and said, “Go on, get the fuck out of here.”

I did. I felt like I had answered two questions that day, even if it took my client a while to decide if he liked what I had told him.

*  *  *

Get to know more about Neil Plakcy at mahubooks.com.

Roses Are Dead:
Mark Zubro

Paul Turner awoke. He reached over for Ben, but his husband was already out of bed. A quick glance told Paul the man he loved was out of the room. Paul listened. Ben wasn’t in their bathroom. He heard sounds from downstairs.

Paul swung his legs out of bed. Then he turned on the bed-side lamp. He noted a glint of light on top of their five-drawer, oak-wood chest of drawers. He stepped across the room.

A gold-plated rose stood in an eighteen-inch tall, crystal vase. A note attached at the rim said, “Happy Valentine’s Day.”

Paul smiled. He and Ben didn’t try to outdo each other with gifts for holidays, but they did put thought into it. Before coming up to bed last night, Paul had arranged a box of Fleur de Rose in the center of the kitchen table. Always first up, Ben would have found it when he entered the kitchen.

However, today was going to be special. In the bottom drawer of the same dresser, Paul had hidden the ring he was going to give Ben over dinner tonight. He smiled at the thought of proposing to him in the same restaurant where they had their first date.

Paul knew Ben was a romantic. His job as a mechanic, and his outfits which tended to worn jeans and heavy flannel shirts, could belie the notion to those who didn’t know him. Paul smiled through a quick shower, finished toweling off, and strode back into their room. He picked a pair of red-plaid boxers out of his drawer and pulled them on.

That’s when Ben entered.

Paul pointed to the gold-rose. “It’s beautiful. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. Your gift was a delight.”

Ben was fully dressed in his lumberjack best. He strode over to Paul, hugged him tight, whispered, “I love you,” kissed him, stepped back, and took Paul’s right hand in his. With his left, he pulled a small package out of his jeans pocket. He knelt down on one knee. He gave the package to Paul who opened it.

Paul marveled at the glow of two beautiful gold rings.

Ben’s deep voice whispered up to him, “Will you marry me?”

Paul’s pang of dismay was quickly erased by a flood of joy. That they’d both chosen the same romantic day filled him with humor and contentment.

Paul also felt his tears. He went down on one knee in front of Ben, took his partner’s hand and said, “I love you. Yes.”

They embraced. Paul loved the warmth and strength of his husband. He found the way Ben smelled intoxicating.

Paul leaned back and saw that Ben’s tears were running down into the scruff of the three-day beard he sported.

Paul opened the bottom drawer of their dresser. From under a stack of oddments, he pulled a box similar to the one Ben had just given him. He handed it to Ben who opened it.

Paul saw the man he loved gaze at the two rings. Paul said, “Will you...?”

Ben said, “Yes, I love you.”

Another fierce embrace.

There was no time for more intimacy. They had their jobs to get to, but they held each other for a few lingering moments. They were laughing and crying. They would have a story to share for all the rest of their lives together.

Downstairs for breakfast, their son Jeff was already pulled up to the kitchen table. He twirled his wheelchair to the stove and took plates of scrambled eggs, turned around, and placed them in front of his two dads. Jeff gazed at each of them in turn. He asked, “What’s wrong with you guys?”

Paul said, “We proposed to each other. We’re getting married.”

Jeff said, “About time.” He glanced at the two of them again and added, “Congratulations, that’s cool.”

As far as Paul knew, and as much or little as his younger son had announced, the boy had no one of particular interest who he wanted to share the day with. Since Jeff was fourteen and a freshman in high school, Paul didn’t find this lack anything special to note.

The boy’s school did have a Valentine’s Day fundraiser for homeless youth. Any student could buy a rose and send it to their significant other, or just a random person. The money raised would go to charity. Today, Jeff planned to send one rose to each person in his homeroom, boys and girls. Flowers could be sent anonymously. Jeff had explained that he wanted to send them to males and females because he didn’t want to discriminate. He wanted them each to feel special. He’d saved his allowance and could afford thirty-one roses.

Their older son Brian was away at college for his freshman year. It wasn’t that Paul missed the loud thumping of his eldest son as he thundered downstairs of a morning, but it was a familiarity he missed at that moment. For years, breakfast had been the main meal they would all share each day. With their varied and busy schedules, it was one of the few hours of the day when they would for sure all be home.

Paul would call Brian later with the news.

Jeff observed, “Blizzard warnings are out. Although the storm might miss us to the north. Or to the south. Or maybe a direct hit. The weather forecasters weren’t sure. Depends on...” The two men sipped coffee and listened to their son burble the esoteric details about Chicago weather possibilities. Mostly they caught each other smiling at each other.

Jeff asked, “Are you guys listening?”

Ben said, “Weather is going to be awful, unless it’s not.”

“You got it.”

Not long after, with breakfast finished and the kitchen cleaned, they were off to work or school.

Despite the cold, Paul found himself smiling and whistling as he backed the car out of their garage and drove down Taylor Street.

*  *  *

When Paul Turner arrived at Area Ten headquarters, there was no time to spread the matrimonial news. He was met at the front door by his detective partner, Buck Fenwick.

Fenwick grumbled then said, “We got a call already.”

They marched to the bevy of unmarked cars. Wires attached to electric dipsticks were strung from many of the older models to a small generator chugging near the back entrance of the station. It was ten below zero. The wind howled. Many of the cars would not start without assistance.

Their feet crunched through the light dusting of snow from earlier the previous evening when the temperature began its current plunge to below zero.

The temperature was supposed to rise rapidly into the twenties before the storm hit.

Area Ten headquarters in Chicago was still being renovated. No one expected them to be finished any time this decade, probably not this century.

Paul Turner wore flannel lined jeans, steel-toed construction boots, and numerous layers of shirts, ending in gloves, hat, and hooded Mackinaw. Fenwick looked like a mobile mountain with his swaths of clothes draped over and around his hefty figure. He was mounded and muffled from the crown of his head to his unlatched galoshes. His black, faux fur lined Russian hat was a new addition. While Fenwick started the car, Turner lifted the hood and removed the electric dipstick. He switched it out with the normal one, returned the other to its spot next to the generator, and hurried back to the car.

Inside, Fenwick had the heater on high, but the interior had not warmed up much yet. His new hat smushed against the roof of the car. Fenwick threw it into the back seat then slammed his mittened hands together. He said, “At least the car started.”

Turner said, “We’re getting married.”

Fenwick glanced over. He smiled. “Congratulations. Who proposed to who?”

“We both did. We each bought rings.”

Fenwick grinned. “So, you each got two?”

“Yep.”

“You gonna return ‘em?”

“Don’t know yet. I think we’re just going to enjoy the whole notion, each proposing on the same day. What did you get Madge for Valentine’s Day?”

Madge was Fenwick’s wife and one of Turner’s favorite people. “I got roses and roses and more roses. Then dinner tonight at our favorite restaurant where she proposed to me so long ago, on Valentine’s Day. You guys picked a date?”

“Sometime this summer when Brian’s home from school.”

By then, they were heading north on Dearborn Street. Fenwick handed him his phone. Turner looked at the address on the screen, one of the newest and, reputedly, one of the priciest hotels in Chicago, the Lake Michigan Royale.

Fenwick explained. “The victim left a wake-up call for six this morning. When no one answered the phone after several attempts, they sent someone to check.”

Turner Googled the name, Gilbert Gniadecki. Seconds later, he reported, “I got nothing.”

Fenwick said, “He may not be famous enough, or notorious enough to be on the internet, but he must be rich. I’ve heard rooms at the Lake Michigan Royale can run into the thousands a night. For that kind of money, they better sleep and shit for you.”

“The rich are different.”

This early, traffic was still light as they slid through the Loop.

The hotel was on the north side of the Chicago River, a block from the Merchandise Mart. The newly built Lake Michigan Royale was now the tallest hotel in Chicago and the second highest structure in the city. Its gleaming exterior reflected the winter morning light.

Fenwick pulled in front, flashed his badge. The valet service politely asked if they could put the car just off to the side in the circular entranceway. That worked.

After a quick dash through the cold, they were met in the middle of the atrium lobby by the manager, Ed Vrbic, and the head of security, Charlie Keller. They left their heavy coats, hats, and gloves in a room the manager pointed to. It was where the earlier arriving police department officials had dumped similar accoutrements.

As they walked back across the lobby, the buckles on Fenwick’s galoshes rattled and tinkled in their grade school way.

The lobby had beds of live roses. Turner saw a flower shop with roses crammed in the windows and vases of them spilling onto the floor nearby. On the top of the check-in desk, concierge station, and every other visible table were more vases of red roses.

They rode with the hotel personnel in the elevator to the top floor of apartments. Above them were ten more floors of luxury offices and condos, then above that communications towers were poking into the clouds that often surrounded the building. In the very top five floors lived the ultra-rich gazillionaire, Drew Grimes, owner of the hotel.

Keller held out his phone. He said, “Here’s the occupant’s registration. I’ll email it to you with everything else we’ve got.” The detectives exchanged email addresses with him. Seconds later, Turner and Fenwick both had all the data. They’d read it later.

Fenwick said, “We’ll need copies of the surveillance video for the lobby, the elevators, and the parking garage.”

“It’s in the email packet. I pulled all of that together while we were waiting for you to arrive.”

Turner asked, “You know this guy?”

Keller said, “He’s stayed here three or four times a year for the past four or five years. Usually for four or five days, once for ten days. This time, it’s for two weeks. He’s scheduled to depart in eight days. He pays by credit card. We’ve never had any complaints about him. He’s never made any complaints. I don’t know him personally. He always stays in one of our highest priced suites. This one is two thousand dollars a night. He’s a frequent visitor so there are perks to his staying here.”

Fenwick asked, “What perks?”

“Discounts, free in-room amenities, a jacuzzi.”

Fenwick translated. “He didn’t have to pay for drinks and chocolates.”

“Something like that.”

Vrbic said, “We pride ourselves on serving the needs of our clients without being intrusive.”

Fenwick asked, “You know what he did for a living?”

Both men shook their heads.

In the hallway, several uniformed officers stood their posts. Crime Scene and Medical Examiner personnel would already be inside doing their work. Turner and Fenwick spoke to Alex Deveneaux and Dave Sanchez, two of the uniformed officers who they’d worked with often before. The officers knew the drill: talk to the staff, find out who had access to these floors, speak with the other people in the rooms on this floor.

Before entering the suite, Turner and Fenwick donned their booties and gloves. They had clipboards in hand with forms on them. Yes, these days everything was filmed, but they still took their notes and made their own sketches. First impressions and personal observations adding to their memories often made a difference when testifying in court.

The detectives entered the suite. The hotel people followed.

The first thing Turner did was draw a deep breath. No smell of a gun having been fired. He did smell fresh flowers.

A Round Montauk table, fifty-two inches in diameter, wild oak with bronze detailing, stood in a three hundred square foot entryway. In the middle of the table was a cut-glass vase with over three dozen fresh red roses. Mountain landscapes, four feet tall and six feet wide, hung on walls painted a muted white; one scene per wall.

Then Turner listened. No sound. He asked, “Is it always this quiet?”

Vrbic said, “Street noises normally don’t reach this high up, and even if they did, the windows are triple insulated just because of the structural needs of the height of the building, but it also works for noise reduction. The walls are correspondingly well-built, so sound is muted.”

Among the emails from Keller was a floor plan. Turner studied it briefly then walked the short hall into a room that stretched from the entry to the floor to ceiling windows.

The rectangular space combined a kitchen, dining, and living room. Turner guessed it had greater square footage than the entire first floor of his home. It was expensively furnished with sofas, luxury recliners, a dining set, all in creamy leather.

The entryway and this room had nothing out of place and not a speck of dust. For these prices, Turner presumed, motes of dirt would not be allowed.

In the mini refrigerator were two rows of three large glass cups filled with different color liquids. These looked as if they’d been mixed and concocted by the guest. He turned to Vrbic. “The hotel have those kinds of drinks?”

“The glasses, yes. I don’t recognize the liquid in them.”

Empty powdered energy packets peeped out of the nearest trash can. Glasses and packets would all be examined and analyzed.

Turner strode the length of the room and got up close to the windows. The view looked south to the Loop. The Lake Michigan Royale was so tall that the view was unobstructed. You’d have to be in a helicopter or plane above the city to get a better view. Wisps of smoke and steam escaped from the tops of many of the buildings below.

He touched the window. No cold from outside seeped in.

The view was spectacular. Turner noted that Fenwick avoided getting too close to the floor to ceiling windows. Turner knew his friend was afraid of heights. Turner observed clouds to the southwest thickening with the impending storm.

Fenwick whispered, “Is this thing swaying?”

Turner noted a faint tremble. “Not enough to keep a killer out.”

They entered a bedroom that had windows facing both south and west. They saw a rumpled bed, mounds of clothes strewn about the floor, glasses filled with tan liquid next to the coffee maker.

Two trays of room service food were on the desk.

Fenwick got up close to them, “Remnants of steak and salad on this one. Second one, the diner left their vegetables.”

Turner noted the plethora of Medical Examiner personnel on the opposite side of the unmade bed. They stood, crouched, or knelt. At the moment they obscured the body. The Crime Scene people worked the room. Everybody acknowledged Turner and Fenwick as they entered.

Again, the sight and scent of roses permeated the air.

Another vase with two dozen more roses. Petals from the flowers in the vase in front of these windows were strewn across the floor. They were past their prime, darkened leaves being shed, all in an advanced state of being dead.

Kent Duffy, the youthful Assistant Medical Examiner, looked up from his examination of the corpse and said, “You know how you don’t touch anything at a crime scene?”

All the people in the room nodded.

Duffy said, “Do. Not. Touch. Anything.”

“What have you found?” Fenwick asked.

“Poison.” Duffy held up a hand. “Just wait. I’ll know more soon. I hope.” He bent back over the corpse.

Fenwick asked the air, “Why is there a sling and harness set up in the room? Does it come with, or do you have to order it separate?”

Both Hilda Stine, the Crime Scene tech dusting for prints, and Turner shrugged. She did say, “I asked Deveneaux and Sanchez to check on the sling’s provenance.”

In the closet, they could see a wide variety of leather accoutrements. Two chain harnesses (one black, one silver), three different whips, black leather chaps and pants, and a metal studded codpiece were all hanging up. Scattered on the floor were two metal studded leather belts, a black leather hood, strings of tubing, and a variety of dildoes in different colors (red, pink, green, yellow, orange, and black) and numerous sizes including a twenty-four inch one that was double headed. Nearby were several open jars of lube.

An ironing board hung on the closet wall. An iron sat on the closet’s top shelf along with extra pillows and blankets.

Fenwick pointed to the array of sexual instruments. “He was ready for a good time?”

Turner said, “From the looks of it, a very good time.”

In an open dresser drawer and strewn nearby on the floor were several pairs of designer underwear. Turner could see labels that said Andrew Christian, 2(X)IST, Calvin Klein, Polo Ralph Lauren, again in multiple colors. He peered at several labels without touching them: all size small.

Turner asked, “He was a fashion-conscious guy with a penchant for leather?”

The detectives were used to each other asking rhetorical but relevant questions out loud. It was a way of sharing information, knowing what each was thinking.

They added all this to their sketches and notes. The video recording person swept his hand at what they were observing and said, “I got all of that.”

The detectives moved to the center of the room.

Fenwick pointed to the array of roses. “Somebody liked him.”

“Presumably. I’m curious about two sets. Lots of people liked him or one person really liked him?”

“Or he liked himself a lot.”

Stine, the Crime Scene tech, walked up. She’d worked with them before. In her gloved hands, she had three cards, the kind that came with delivered flowers.

She said, “You got an anomaly here.” She showed the cards to the detectives one by one. “The third card is from a vase in the next bedroom. You’ll see it when you get in there.”

All three cards said, “Rolf Van Der Meir, I love you.” One was signed, “Sweetums,” another, “Bob,” the third, “Dave.”

Fenwick asked, “Who is Rolf Van Der Meir?”

“No clue. As you can see, these are all to Rolf from different people. No names of flower shops on them.” She pointed, “The ones in here are from Sweetums. In the entry hall are from Bob. In the other bedroom from Dave.”

Fenwick asked, “More signs of anyone else?”

Stine shrugged. “We’re still checking. Because he got flowers from somebody doesn’t mean that somebody was actually in here.”

Fenwick grumbled then said, “Two trays with remnants of food are another big clue. Or two different meals for the same guest.”

Stine continued, “Fingerprints might show a lot. Or not. You know, the usual.”

Fenwick checked his phone. “The name on the registration is Gilbert Gniadecki. These are all addressed to Rolf.” Turner watched over his shoulder as Fenwick examined the cards again. Fenwick nodded. “Only first names. They all seem to be male.”

Turner said, “Lots of flowers from lots of guys.”

Fenwick asked, “He’s randomly popular and guys just happened to all send him flowers? Or he’s an escort, a high-end escort, with lots of happy customers?”

Turner shook his head. “He’s dead. Maybe at least one of them wasn’t happy.”

The body was on the far side of the bed. The detectives waited to approach closer. The Medical Examiner personnel photographed, measured, touched. Even from this distance, Turner and Fenwick caught extended glimpses of the corpse. Limbs were outflung. Naked. Muscular. Broad shoulders. Eight-pack abs. Narrow hips. White. Blond. No tattoos visible.

Fenwick said, “That thing is huge.”

Turner knew he was referring to the corpse’s soft dick that dangled to past mid-thigh.

Fenwick continued, “Some people have all the luck.”

“He’s dead. I’m not sure luck had much to do with it. Unless size kills? The dick of death?”

“I guess it depends on what you mean by luck. And I’m told size doesn’t matter, and what’s important is that you know how to use what you’ve got. Sometimes I believe that crap.”

While Turner and his detective partner discussed many things, and Turner was familiar with more of Fenwick’s oddities and peccadillos than he could name and number, Turner did not discuss sexual intimacies at work.

He asked, “Any signs of a struggle?”

“I don’t see signs of a struggle, unless you want to count the whips, and chains, and handcuffs, and other paraphernalia. Of course, they also could be part of what some define as fun.”

While they waited for the techs to finish, Turner Googled Rolf Van Der Meir. This time, data came up. Turner nudged Fenwick. “Rolf Van Der Meir is a porn star, age thirty, and is listed as an escort on several sites.”

They compared the pictures of Rolf Van Der Meir to the body and face on the floor. Turner said, “Looks like him.”

Turner and Fenwick checked their email. They found that the head of security had sent them surveillance video from the lobby. They would check the full recordings later. For now, they scrolled through to sightings of Rolf Van Der Meir. They found him checking in nearly a week ago.

Fenwick asked, “He never went out?”

Turner knew the recordings would have to be inspected frame by frame for all the days during and before Gilbert had checked in.

Fenwick said, “I don’t see any other guests wearing name tags that say, ‘I’m the killer.’”

They checked the bathroom. Several damp, large, fluffy towels lay on the floor. Behind the door and on a hook, hung a velour bathrobe. Stine, the tech, was bagging and labelling each item. “Nothing obvious connected to murder on any of this stuff.”

Duffy, the Assistant Medical Examiner, still kneeling next to the corpse, held up his instant fingerprint device. “I can confirm his name is Gilbert Gniadecki.”

“Not Rolf Van Der Meir?”

“Not according to this.”

“Was it murder?” Fenwick asked.

In Chicago, all unexplained deaths were investigated as homicides.

“Yes and no,” Duffy said. He stood up and walked over to them. “He’s got symptoms of a couple things. I’ll know more when I get him back to the lab.” Duffy pointed to spots of dried residue on the rug near the corpse. “And I’ve got fluids. Could be sexual residue, could be some of that energy drink shit.” He shrugged. “I’ll put all of it under a microscope.”

“All the flowers?” Fenwick asked.

Duffy said, “All everything. Standard procedure.”

“How long has he been dead?”

“Liver temp says at least five hours, maybe six.”

That gave them more time frame parameters for looking at lobby tapes.

The detectives entered the second bedroom. More roses. In here, not a thing out of place.

Fong, their electronics expert from Area Ten, was at the teak desk that stretched the length of the west-facing window. He glanced at them, raised a hand in greeting, and went back to his work.

The king-size bed looked like the housekeeping service had just made it up.

Fenwick pointed at the bed. “He slept in the other room?”

“Or he’d been up all night.”

Turner noted the desk had two laptops, a hotel phone, a cell phone, a printer, several pens, another coffee maker, and what looked like room key cards strewn across the surface.

Fenwick asked, “This room was unused? Private?”

Turner shrugged. “Maybe he entertained in the other room, and this was just for him.”

“Escorts and porn stars can afford this kind of living?”

“Apparently. Or he maxed out a slew of credit cards.”

With the tips of the fingers of their gloved hands, they opened the dresser drawers. One had numerous pairs of black, size small, Jockey shorts. Another had pairs of socks. T-shirts in a third. Everything in the drawers was neatly folded and fastidiously placed.

Stine was now working this room. She said, “I got one set of fingerprints in here so far, only from the dead guy.”

They examined the trash cans in this room as they had in the others.

They found more empty packets of “Energy Forever” drinks to be mixed with water or milk and empty energy bar wrappers.

The manager had provided them with the combination to the room’s safe. A few twirls of the knob and it opened. Mounds of hundred-dollar bills greeted them.

Fenwick gazed at them. “All this and credit cards too.”

Turner said, “Odd but not illegal. So far.”

Stine bagged it all.

They found a Kindle Reader on the end table next to the bed. By using the tip of his pen, Turner scrolled through the list of books. He recognized a few names and titles. As far as he could tell, they ran to books by best-selling thriller writers.

They joined Fong.

Wires dangled from the cell phone on the desk to several devices in the carrying case Fong brought to every crime scene.

Fong looked up from his work and said, “I can get you financial history for Rolf Van Der Meir and Gilbert Gniadecki’s. Or rather, I can check Gilbert Gniadecki’s. Rolf seems to have been a stage name.”

Fong began to point out more things on several computer screens. “I found a file on the laptop’s desktop that said, ‘computer passwords.’ Very confident and/or very stupid. One was for his bank accounts.” He opened the files.

Turner and Fenwick sat in chairs on either side of Fong. Fenwick slightly farther away from the windows.

They studied the files page by page.

Fenwick said, “Guy was broke.”

“Depends. During the pandemic, very up and down. Look at the past few days. Lots of money in, but then look at his expenses. Lots of money out. I’m having this printed out at the station while we’re looking at it.” Fong could make tech stuff work remotely. As far as Turner knew, the man could use a flip phone to send a rocket ship to the edge of the universe.

Fenwick said, “He met clients at a pricey hotel, not at home?”

Fong shrugged, “I have no idea.” The tech continued spewing information. “He had five major credit cards. All were used to the max. He also made the minimum payments on time on each one every month. He tied them to his savings account.”

“How much money was he making?”

Fong scrolled through sites one by one and explained as he went along. “See, he’s got lots of businesses. He’s got his own yearly wall calendar, pictures of him in different poses. Same with throw pillows.” Fong kept clicking. “On this site he was selling his own unlaundered underwear. And underwear from his porn movie scenes, signed or unsigned. You paid extra for signed. You could make special requests for various kinds of his fluids on his underwear.”

“He made pornographic movies?” Fenwick asked.

Fong scrolled and pointed. “Lots and lots of movies. One site lists eighty of them. There could be a lot more. He made them with over a dozen different companies.”

Fenwick asked, “Why so many?”

Turner said, “It’s a gay porn thing. You work for one place forever, that seldom happens. Lots of companies. Sometimes different names.”

Neither Fong nor Fenwick asked how he knew this.

Fenwick still looked puzzled. “He could make money from all this underwear and stuff?”

Fong said, “Depends on what you call ‘making money.’ Sure, money came in, but so far from the different companies, credit card receipts, online accounts, I can tell you that making money wasn’t the issue. He had expenses. You gotta keep buying new underwear to make it old. You’ve got to pay someone to make a cast of your dick to sell your prick likeness online. You might be charging your customers for postage and packaging, but someone has to actually buy the packages, do the packing, go to the post office. Those basics don’t just happen on their own.”

Fenwick asked, “He couldn’t hire help?”

“I see no evidence of him doing that or paying anyone. Or evidence of taxes or inventory. It’s like he got a bright idea. Or maybe he used someone else’s bright idea. For example, put out a calendar, but he didn’t know how to run a business. Hire a photographer? Take the pictures yourself? Buy a good camera? Hire someone to set up the scenes for all the shots? On and on. All of that eventually costs money.”

Fenwick asked, “How could he prove it was his underwear that was used? That it was his fluids involved or prove the fluids he provided were really the fluids his customers wanted?”

Turner said, “He couldn’t and that would hurt sales.”

Fong nodded agreement. He then scrolled through the bank accounts he’d found. “Most months, I don’t think he made enough to pay for a night’s stay in this place. If you check when some of these porn movies were released, you can see a corresponding rise in sales of his souvenirs.” He shrugged. “It was not making him rich, as far as I can tell. Not so far.”

Fong continued, “From what I can find about Gniadecki’s background, he never attended college. I could find no proof he even graduated from high school.”

Turner leaned toward the screen which was showing one account and asked. “Can you tell if he made any deposits in any of the accounts in the past few days?”

Fong pointed out the data showing recent activity. He said, “These aren’t from bank statements, but this was a personal ledger. We got five thousand on the day he checked in, and another five thousand, four days later. And a thousand yesterday.”

“Three separate clients?” Turner asked.

“No way to tell.”

Fenwick said, “This accounts for the cash in the safe. What can you do for someone for that kind of money?”

Turner said, “Presumably everything. Or anything the client would like.”

Fong showed them a website called Men-For-U. In Rolf Van der Meir’s profile they found an extensive list of things that the escort was willing to do. It revealed that he’d been a member of the site since his eighteenth birthday.

Fenwick peered at the list of services offered. “I don’t see anything on the willing-to-do list that might be missing.”

Turner gazed at the screen. He said, “I presume that’s an asset in his profession.”

Fong pointed. “Here’s another site that lists where you can find many of the porn sites he made movies for.” He paused then added, “That’s all I’ve got so far.” He promised to keep checking.

Back in the living room portion of the suite, Fenwick brooded aloud. He said, “What we need is a car chase.”

“In a blizzard?”

“We don’t have any snowflakes so far. And besides, snow makes for better skidding and more crashes.”

Turner shook his head.

“Or we need somebody to chase. Or better yet, maybe we could get a hypocritical, right-wing, anti-vaxxer. They’re always good for a laugh.”

“We are not spicing up this case because you are bored.”

“That’s so like you. Calmly figure things out. Follow the logic. Never shoot anybody. Never fire your gun.”

“Not recently.”

Fenwick let out one of his epic sighs, non-verbal masterpieces which announced his annoyance and frustration that included invitations to pointless wrangling. Turner had long since learned that his safest and sanest response was to ignore it. So, he did.

Stine and Duffy joined them. The hotel people had left. A few Crime Scene techs were still in the bedrooms. They sat in the largest luxury recliners farthest from the windows.

Turner began, “Was he alone when he died?”

Stine said, “Excellent question. Someone or some others were here. We have no idea who the other person or people might have been. Nor is there any indication from any fingerprint about when it might have been placed on a surface. The first day he was here or five minutes before he died.” She shrugged. “How about surveillance tapes? What do they show?”

Turner said, “Not enough so far. We have a lot more hours of video to work through plus stuff to go over again.”

Duffy spoke up. “I’m reasonably certain that he was poisoned with nicotine. I’ll know more after we do tests.”

“Does it have to be one of his clients who killed him?” Fenwick asked.

Stine said, “Of course not. That’s your department.”

Fenwick asked, “How much nicotine are we talking about? Vats of the stuff? We’ve got a killer running around with vats of nicotine?”

Duffy said, “They don’t really need vats of the stuff. Doesn’t take much to make the few drops needed. You could boil down a couple of cigarettes and probably have enough if it was ingested. Here? I don’t know. I’ve got to test every substance and surface in this suite. See those roses that were dying? The killer might have dumped some in the water or put some on the stems. So, if Rolf pricked his finger on a nicotine covered thorn, he might die.”

Fenwick asked, “How could the killer count on him pricking his finger?”

“Precisely,” Duffy said. “Maybe the killer did bring vats of the stuff, put it in every drink, in every lotion or massage cream, on every surface in all the rooms, or maybe on select surfaces, or maybe just the sling. I’ve got lots of tests to run.”

Fenwick asked, “Could he force him to drink it?”

“There are a lot of possibilities. Ages ago, I tried one of those Energy drinks. Vile stuff! So, tasting the nicotine wouldn’t necessarily be an issue.”

Turner asked, “One killer with lots of nicotine? More than one killer with the same idea? Or killers who all happen to produce the same killing method for this guy at this time in this room in this hotel?”

Duffy smiled, “That’s what they pay you to figure out.”

Fenwick asked, “Any word on the sling yet?”

Stine said, “I haven’t heard yet.”

Duffy said, “One of the crime scene people said he thought it was a rental.”

Fenwick said, “There are companies that rent that shit?”

“Why not?” Turner asked.

Fenwick asked, “Why Valentine’s Day? They all wanted to tell him they loved him?”

Stine said, “So, they killed him?”

That stumped Fenwick.

“We’re sure it was different people?” Turner asked. “All males?”

Fenwick said, “We’ve only found him on male escort sites.”

“Doesn’t mean he wasn’t doing women.”

“One killer or multiple killers?” Turner asked again.

Duffy sighed. “We got nicotine on the stem of at least one rose. Nicotine on at least one pair of underwear. Nicotine to left of me, nicotine to right of me.”

Fenwick said, “Volleyed and thundered.”

Duffy said, “I’ve got lots of possible nicotine sources. Answers will have to wait, but my opinion right this moment is that if there was more than one killer, it would be a hell of a coincidence.”

Fenwick said, “We don’t believe in coincidences.”

Turner nodded. “So, one very determined killer who didn’t want to miss his chance. Or any of a series of clients who all happened to cook down nicotine and had the opportunity to place it in lots of places?”

Fenwick said, “Or any member of the hotel staff who had access to the room.”

“A jealous housekeeper?” Duffy asked.

Fenwick said, “It could happen. Or a crazed homophobic maintenance guy? Really the possibilities are endless. As long as they can get access to a key.”

Duffy said, “Or his clients. If there was nicotine in that special protein shit he concocted. Or maybe he pricked his finger with a thorn on a rose stem? I saw no evidence of that. So far.”

Fenwick asked, “And everyone just knows how to boil down cigarettes to get the nicotine and the right amounts to poison someone?”

Turner knew that Fenwick was not as much of a Luddite as he would like everyone to think he was, but he was annoyed with his partner. “It’s on the internet. Probably there are YouTube videos on how to make the stuff. And dozens of mystery writers have used it as a plot device.”

“Dozens?” Fenwick asked.

“A lot, anyway. It’s not like it’s a big secret.”

Stine said, “Or several million killers flew in from around the world just so they could murder him in this city on this day.”

Fenwick said, “I think it was one guy with a big supply of liquid nicotine.”

Turner said, “I’m okay with that. I’d prefer proof to go along with it.”

Fenwick sighed. “That is so like you.” He harrumphed, then said, “It might not have been the gay stuff. It might have been the paying for sex stuff.”

Stine replied, “People are still embarrassed about that in this day and age?”

Fenwick said, “They might be if they are a prominent person married to someone who would not approve or are beholden to constituents or board members, or clients who would not approve.”

Stine said, “I thought we were beyond that.”

She and Duffy left.

Deveneaux and Sanchez, the uniformed officers, entered the suite. They reported on their interviews. Sanchez told them, “We talked to the housekeeping staff, the valet service, and the concierge. The staff saw and heard nothing suspicious.”

Deveneaux added, “We talked to the guests on this floor. Nobody heard anything.” He added, “We checked on the sling. It’s a rental from a place called Paradise Parties. Their motto: ‘We bring pleasure to you.’ They’ve got a little store way up near Clark and Devon.”

Fenwick said, “I think Madge has shopped there online.”

Turner had sense enough not to ask, “Shopped for what?” TMI. He’d been to the store once a few years ago for a gift for Ben. A lot of leather, a large number of kinky pleasure devices, a wall of condoms. He thought they’d gone out of business.

Deveneaux was saying, “This Gilbert guy is a regular customer, orders the sling once or twice a year to this place. They come in set it up, take it down. They reported nothing unusual about this delivery.”

The officers left.

Turner’s phone pinged. It was a text from his friend, Ian Hume, a Pulitzer Prize winning reporter, who worked for several LGBTQ+ media outlets in Chicago. If there was a tremor of news involving the gay community, Ian would know about it.

The text said, “News. In coffee shop first floor.”

Turner showed it to Fenwick, who asked, “We done up here?”

“For now.”

“He’s still trying to make up for his betrayal last year?”

Years before, Ian and Turner had been lovers. It was immediately after Turner’s wife died. They’d remained friends. Then on a recent case, Ian had withheld information. He’d apologized over and over again and done favors for them to try and make up for it. Turner was more forgiving than Fenwick, because of his nature which was more forbearing than his department partner, and because, in Turner’s view, you didn’t throw years of friendship away. Over time, you worked through problems. He was willing to take the time with Ian.

Turner said, “I can go by myself if you want.”

“No. I’ll come with.”

Turner took a last look out the windows. Thick white flakes whirled past. It was mid-morning. On his phone, he checked the local weather radar. Blobs of gray, white, and blue filled the screen.

*  *  *

Their trudge across the atrium lobby was punctuated by the jangle of the unlatched buckles on Fenwick’s boots. Ian met them at the entrance to the coffee shop. He noted Fenwick’s noise. Ian said, “I always said it would be a good idea to put a bell around you.”

Fenwick said, “I think every entrance I make, wherever and whenever, should be enhanced by noise, preferably bagpipes. I figure always start with bagpipes. People will notice.”

Turner said, “Buckles and bagpipes. Who cares?”

Ian wore a fluffy white flannel shirt and flannel-lined khaki pants topped off by a hat with ear flaps. His usual slouch Fedora was absent in this kind of cold.

Ian tapped Turner’s elbow. “I brought a friend who should be helpful.”

They marched to a corner table. Outside, Turner saw people rushing across the pavement as flakes raced past the windows horizontally. The storm had broken earlier than forecast.

Ian said, “This is Cody Spencer. He knows porn stuff.”

A muscular man nodded to them. His gray, long-sleeved T-shirt clung to his taut torso. His tattoos bulged on the muscles they could see. He said, “I know you guys. Or, I know of you. You saved that Black kid. You risked your lives for that kid and our community. You risked your careers. You’re the two who brought down the entire upper echelon of the police department.”

Last summer, Turner and Fenwick had come upon the scene of one of the other members of the Area Ten detective squad who was taking aim at a kid who was unarmed, had his hands in the air, was pleading for his life, and was Black. Turner and Fenwick had saved the kid. The incident crushed the career of the corrupt and lunatic cop who was white. As result of their actions in saving the kid, plus a concurrent murder they solved, a whole lot of upper division cops in the department, including the superintendent, had been fired, quit, been hounded from office, or, in some way, lost their jobs.

Turner and Fenwick insisted through it all that they’d only been doing their jobs. Their immediate supervisor, Commander Drew Molton of Area Ten, had steadfastly stood by them.

Residual effects from that whole case still came into play sometimes at unexpected moments.

Such as this.

Spencer continued, “That kind of bravery needs to continue to be rewarded.”

Turner said, “Thank you for being willing to help us.”

Ian purchased coffee for all. He even came back with Fenwick’s favorite pastry, a wise thing to do if he was attempting to mollify the detective. Fenwick even gave him a quarter of a smile, which Turner recognized as Fenwick’s offer of a bit of reconciliation.

Before he sat down, Ian asked if Turner or Spencer wanted any food. They thanked him and told him no.

Everybody got comfortable.

Ian said, “It’s all over the internet that there’s a dead gay hooker in the most expensive hotel in town.”

Fenwick asked, “Who put it on the internet?”

Ian laughed. “How many employees know you’re here? Or members of the department know who the guy is.”

Fenwick shrugged.

Ian said, “Presumably you already know his real name is Gilbert Gniadecki.”

The detectives nodded.

Ian added, “The g in his last name is silent.”

Fenwick said, “Good to know.”

“I’ve got background. Some you’ve probably found online. I’ve dived deeply into this.” He indicated Spencer, “And I’ve got some connections.” He sipped coffee then continued. “Rolf bills himself as an international porn star on various escort sites. He has made lots of porn films, here and in Europe. Some of the sites print interviews with him. Some claim to know about his real life. According to which claim you choose to believe, he lived an exotic life with ex-European royalty, or that he is in fact descended from current or former royals. Gossip appears, and he does everything to foment rumors, the more exotic the better.”

Fenwick asked, “He made different claims at different times?”

Ian nodded.

Spencer added, “A porn star can surround himself with fantasy. His life or relationships can vary radically between reality and fantasy or even vary from client to client. Some think it adds to their allure.”

They all drank coffee.

Turner didn’t tell him they already had some of what they were telling them. He’d long since found that it wasn’t necessary to tell all you knew, and that when people were talking, if they thought they were being helpful, they would be more likely to give them more.

Fenwick asked, “What kind of porn did he do?”

Spencer said, “He claims to do every kind including with transitioning people or people who have transitioned. And straight porn, with women or straight or LGBTQ couples. If you’re versatile, you can possibly make more money. He told some of these guys at different times he was straight. He made at least a hundred videos, most, but not all, with other guys. I’m not sure any of that proves what he believed his sexual orientation to be, but that’s what’s on various sites.”

Fenwick frowned. “He can do that many and claim to be straight?”

Spencer explained, “He can claim anything he wants. Who knew the truth? Maybe he didn’t know the truth, or didn’t want to know the truth, or didn’t want others to know the truth, or he wanted certain people to know the truth. Or certain clients wanted to hear one kind of truth, or he was telling the kind of truth he thought they wanted to hear.”

Fenwick asked, “Is anyone that good of an actor?”

Ian said, “For someone charging these kinds of prices, I think you’d have to be.”

Turner asked, “What’s the truth about his background?”

Ian smiled. “It goes on and on. Some sites say he’s from a small town in Scotland, others that he was born in the south of France. The truth is, he was born and raised in South Pharisee, Illinois, near Alton down along the Mississippi. He’s told people he attended the Sorbonne, but that’s only true if the Sorbonne has opened a campus somewhere in southern Illinois. He claimed he was trained in classical ballet in Russia. The truth is, he signed up for a dance class at a junior college but dropped out after attending one class.”

“He’s a fraud?” Fenwick asked.

Ian said, “Yep.”

Spencer put in, “In some ways.”

Fenwick asked, “Someone found out he was a fraud, and so he got killed? Wouldn’t he have killed the someone who found out?”

Turner said, “If somebody was threatening him, which we have no proof of, what would they blackmail him for? He was broke.”

“Maybe they didn’t know that,” Ian replied. “Was he broke?”

Turner said, “From what we’ve seen of his accounts, me made a lot of money, but he had huge expenses.”

Spencer said, “Few of them ever really save their money. Most of them are secretly hoping for a sugar daddy who will keep them in the luxury they think they deserve. I presume some must find that. I also assume they don’t put out a directory of successful sugar daddy achievers.”

Ian said, “Sugar daddies are a rare occurrence, at least ones that work out where you live together in the luxury which the escorts fantasize about. Years pass. Your stomach isn’t as flat. You skip your gym workouts, once a week, then a few times a week. Then you don’t go at all. Your looks fade. You gain a little weight. Then maybe a little more weight. You’re not as flexible. Maybe you run into a client who is dangerous. Dead and desiccated before your time.”

Spencer added, “A man famous in the escort world was left a small country by one European client.”

“A country?” Incredulity dripped from each syllable Fenwick uttered.

Spencer shrugged. “There are sugar daddies, and there are sugar daddies. Could have been a mansion on an estate or a lie. Who knows? I heard of an author who would give one of his books to every escort he met.”

Fenwick asked, “Wasn’t he afraid of them knowing who he really was?”

“Must not have been,” Spencer replied.

Ian said, “Or maybe the escorts didn’t believe he really wrote the books.”

Turner asked, “Do many really find sugar daddies?”

“No. And there are a number of reasons why not. Unrealistic expectations on their parts. They’ve got these wild dreams of wealth untold, and wild sex as porn stars, as escorts. Mostly it’s tedious and learning to do what you’re told interrupted by occasional hot orgasms.”

Fenwick asked, “Why do they do it?”

Spencer said, “Dreams. Wild dreams. You can tell them all what I’ve just told you and much, much more. I’ve never known one that it has stopped or even given pause to. I tell them saying, ‘I love you,’ to a client sends the wrong signal. It’s a danger sign if a client says it to you. If you say it, it could raise unrealistic expectations in the client. Sometimes, once in a blue moon, saying it leads to buckets of cash. Most often it leads to heartache and disappointment.” He sighed. “I no longer give advice. Unrealistic dreamers? Beautiful but dumb? A few just plain lucky? What do you put in your résumé when you’ve been an escort since you’re twenty? They don’t think that far ahead. Some die of drug overdoses. Some wind up in jail for any number of offenses. Some are or become drug dealers. Or they learn to drive a truck. Who knows? The one universal thing you can say about the vast, vast majority of these guys, and this is putting it as nicely as possible, is that they’re dumb as a box of rocks.”

Fenwick said, “They lie.”

Spencer said, “Yes, for a living. There could be a great deal of misinformation traded between escort and client. Why bother sorting out the truth if you’re having a good time, or you’re getting your money’s worth? These guys aren’t academy award winning level actors, or most of them aren’t. But how convincing do you have to be if the guy you’re acting for really wants to believe and is in the throes of passion?”

Spencer sipped coffee and sat forward. “There was a little something different with Gilbert. Gil.”

“What?” Fenwick asked.

“If he thought he could use them, or they might become sugar daddies, he would tell them he loved them.”

Fenwick said, “No. Really? And they believed him?”

“Gil could be very charming. He was young, hung, muscular, blond, and beautiful. Claimed he was rich. And he could talk and be very convincing.” Spencer shook his head. “I warned him it was dangerous territory. He laughed. He said none of the clients ever believed him.”

Turner frowned. “I don’t know. Telling someone you love them can be really powerful. I can easily see misunderstandings and anger. Maybe a lot of anger. In his suite, we found dozens of roses with love notes. Why would they all profess their love with flowers on Valentine’s Day, or why be angry on Valentine’s Day? Or choose Valentine’s Day to express your anger? Were they all planning to propose? And did he profess love to all of them? And they all believed him?”

Ian said, “He was a very clever escort who was playing a very dangerous game. Or at least, he thought he was very clever.”

Turner said, “How would he explain them? A guy walks in, sees the flowers he sent, and then there’s more of them from someone else.”

“Maybe he didn’t entertain all that many men.”

“All it takes is one with a little curiosity.”

“I don’t know.”

Spencer said, “You can find many of his videos, maybe all, online. But he also made short clips sent in private emails specially designed for particular kinks a client might have. He might send those spontaneously.”

Ian asked, “Is there a connection between the owner of this building, Drew Grimes, a notorious gay homophobe, and Rolf/Gilbert?”

Spencer said, “That’s the big reveal. See that’s the thing. First of all, Drew Grimes owned the escort site Rolf appeared on most often.”

Fenwick asked, “The Drew Grimes? Billionaire owner of this place? That Drew Grimes?”

Spencer nodded.

Fenwick asked, “Why? How?”

Even Ian seemed taken aback. He said, “I didn’t know this.”

“Why would you?” Spencer asked.

Turner asked, “How do you know all this?”

“I know because Gil told me. He confided in very few people. I was one, probably the only one.”

Turner asked, “What does ‘owned the site’ mean?”

Spencer nodded. “Like most of his businesses, I presume, he had minions doing the day-to-day work. If you want, I can show you or your tech people where to search. His identity is well hidden, but bottom line, the profits went to him.”

“Can we find out if Drew Grimes met any of the men on the site?”

“Oh, yes.”

“This site kept a record of every contact?”

“Men-For-U did, for sure. Maybe some of the others. On Men-For-U, even if you just clicked on the picture of a guy but never contacted him, they kept a record of all those clicks, who and what. Users think they’re anonymous, but they’re not. Although more frequently in this day and age, people don’t care about being anonymous. While being gay isn’t as much of a big deal these days, to some people, using an escort still has a lot of stigma.”

Fenwick asked, “So, there was no privacy? They all could have been blackmailing everybody?”

Spencer said, “That’s what I’m here for, to serve as a buffer, a type of protection. We’re not really pimps anymore, not in the traditional sense. These guys are escorts, or that’s what they prefer to call themselves. The men they service are clients. Most of the escorts, the successful ones at least, have decent personalities, a willingness to please, patience. When things get out of hand, sometimes we can help.”

“But you do take a cut?” Fenwick asked. “You must make money somehow.”

“We help protect them. Screen out possible crazies.”

Fenwick said, “But crazies get through.”

Spencer said, “No system is perfect. Crazies walk into schools, lay in ambush in churches, but yes, we try to help.” He hitched forward. “I know inner working stuff. For example, the actual server for the site is overseas. The owners of one site in Los Angeles did get in trouble because of an over-zealous prosecutor out there. The case never went to trial, but they got put out of business. They thought they could do away with discretion completely. They were wrong.”

They drank from their cups. Fenwick munched his pastry.

Spencer said, “There’s more.”

The other three leaned in, rapt.

“Grimes owned some of the porn sites that Gil made videos for. That’s how they initially met. For the porn video sites he owned, Grimes got the pick of the models.”

“And they just complied?” Fenwick asked.

Spencer said, “It’s simple really. They’re told if you want to work, you’ve got to play. I’m sure some must have backed out, but I never heard of one. In general, these guys need money. Why else are they even applying to these sites?”

Ian asked, “Fun?”

Spencer shook his head, “If you’re a straight guy, do you ever connect gay stuff with sexual fun?”

Ian said, “Maybe.”

“Or not,” Spencer said.

“How did you meet Gilbert?” Turner asked.

“I was drinking in a bar in East St. Louis. Gil was the bar back. He was of age. Gil began on a couple of twink sites in Eastern Europe. By then, a lot of the sites were being brought up by one conglomerate. That’s happening with a lot of porn now. Lots of small and even not so small, independent sites are getting brought up.”

Ian jumped in. “A site can be immensely profitable, but supplying the content, finding the guys for the videos, upkeep, studios, all that goes with a small business, is a lot of work.”

Spencer continued, “Grimes began buying them up, escort sites and porn studios. Like I said, he had his pick of the guys for sex. His one condition for them to work on the porn sites was that they have sex with him. He liked guys who looked like they were a breath over the age of eighteen. A lot of sites today use the same guys over and over and the guys go from site to site, sometimes with new fake names, sometimes using the old fake names.”

Fenwick asked, “Billionaires have time for that?”

Ian said, “Billionaires have time for whatever they want.”

Spencer said, “Grimes and Gil began their relationship ten years ago. Grimes saw his application on the site and was immediately smitten. They met. They had sex. A lot. It’s why Gil came to Chicago so often.”

Turner said, “Back to the present. If these guys knew each other, why did Gilbert get a separate room?”

Spencer said, “He insisted on it, even if he would have to pay. He told Grimes that he was independent.”

Turner stated, “So he saw other clients here.”

“He saw other clients everywhere. Grimes knew that Gil was a cash cow for him. His videos got lots of paid downloads. If he appeared on a site, their membership always increased. It might not have been a provable cause and effect, but some of the guys have that reputation.”

Turner said, “Gilbert saw other men. Did Grimes?”

“Oh yes, Grimes still had his stable or stables at his beck and call.”

Turner asked, “With so much to choose from, why be obsessed with Gilbert?”

Spencer said, “Lust and the human heart. You get an answer for that, you could be rich.”

Fenwick asked, “So did Grimes have to call ahead to see an escort in his own hotel?”

“Sort of,” Spencer said. “Grimes was besotted with Gil, which gave Gil power. Grimes wanted Gil in the most desperate way. Gil had his own card to the owner’s elevator here.”

“He could come and go?”

“Not absolutely, but most of the time.”

Fenwick said, “Wow!”

Ian said, “Some people let their dicks rule their good judgement.”

“What’s the background on Drew Grimes?” Turner asked.

Fenwick put in, “And would Grimes have killed Gil?”

Spencer said, “I have no way to know about murder. What I do know is that Gil claimed to always have a good time with Grimes, said he had the billionaire wrapped around his cock.”

Ian asked, “Even with all the anti-gay shit Grimes did, he still put up with him?”

Spencer said, “Gil wasn’t very political. He understood money and pleasure.”

Fenwick asked, “But Gil did other guys?”

“Sure.”

“Other guys on this visit?”

“I presume.”

Turner said, “Can you find out who he met on this visit?”

“I can tell you if they used Men-For-U to contact him, but, for example, if he’d been meeting a client for a while, they might have exchanged texts instead of using the site. Or sent emails to private accounts.”

Turner said, “We need to confirm all this.”

They took Spencer up to where Fong was still working. After introducing the two and explaining who Spencer was, they left the two men to work together.

Turner, Fenwick, and Ian moved into the main room of Gilbert’s suite.

The instant they were alone, Ian spoke up. “He’s not too interested, Spencer. He’s a good guy.”

Turner said, “You two are dating.”

“Sort of.”

Fenwick said, “Too interested is too interested.”

Turner knew what Ian was referring to. Police were always suspicious if anyone came to them with questions, information, or just seemed to want to insert themselves in a case. The put-up-with amateur sleuth was pretty much a myth, no matter what Jessica Fletcher said.

Turner said to Ian, “For now, we trust you.”

“Thanks.”

But like all good detectives, Turner didn’t dismiss the notion. He kept it in the back of his mind.

Then Turner said to Ian, “Nothing gets posted or published unless we okay it.”

Ian nodded his acquiescence.

Turner’s phone pinged with a call from Ben, who said, “I just got an alert from Jeff’s school. They’re closing early. The storm is expected to get very bad very quickly. Evening rush hour could be horrendous. I’m letting everyone here go before lunch. When will you be home?”

“Not sure yet.”

“I’ll let Mrs. Talucci know Jeff will be early.”

Mrs. Talucci was their ninety-something next door neighbor who took care of Jeff in emergencies.

Ben continued, “I offered to come pick him up. You know how he’s averse to parental adult presence. He said the school had emergency plans for the special needs kids. They’ve done bunches of drills. I’ll run over to the school in my four-wheel drive big machine but stay far in the background. I think he thinks this is some kind of adventure. You know how quickly he can get bored especially if one of us is around.”

Turner knew that would be just like his youngest son. “You want me at the school?”

“No, there will be plenty of us.”

“Let me know.”

In another fifteen minutes, Fong and Spencer called them into the bedroom. They settled in chairs and huddled around the computers.

Fong said, “It’s all right here.”

Fenwick looked at the different posts and websites and said, “You got a quick summary?”

Fong and Spencer nodded. Spencer began the explanation. “They were fuck buddies every time Gil came to town. He came to town often at Grimes’s direct invitation.”

Fong swept his arm indicating the whole of the room. “Sometimes this was all comped. Sometimes not. We found some stuff. And then we didn’t find some stuff.”

Quizzical looks from the assemblage.

Fong said, “But the oddest thing is what we didn’t find. You know how a guest has to go down and let someone in before the new person can come up to a room?”

They nodded.

“Well, Rolf/Gilbert didn’t.”

Fenwick said, “Huh?”

Fong said, “I’ve done a run-through of calls on his cell phone and on the phone in his room. At none of those times does he go down to the lobby to let someone in.”

Fenwick asked, “He himself never left the hotel?”

“Not that I can find. When he wanted to work out, he went to the athletic center in the hotel. They’ve even got a running track that goes around that facility.”

Turner asked, “Since he’s been here, he’s only gotten calls from within the hotel?”

“Yep.”

Turner said, “The killer is in the hotel, staying in the hotel, living in the hotel, works in the hotel?”

Fenwick added, “Hiding in the hotel.”

Fong said, “I need to go over all this video carefully a second time. One run-through proves nothing. We’ve got to check and check again.”

Fong explained how there were particular cameras in the lobby they would need to look at for the hours after Gilbert had checked in. Up to that point, Fong had Gilbert entering the elevator to go up to his room, but there was more to go through. The detectives called in Deveneaux and Sanchez. The five of them started watching, using devices Fong set up. While Ian and Spencer sat in the background, noses in their phones, the police officials spent nearly an hour scanning different cameras, different views, the lobby, the parking garage, the valet service, the concierge desk, every camera Fong could find.

After an hour of going through all of that, none of them found anything. Fenwick and Turner thanked and dismissed Deveneaux and Sanchez.

The detectives, Ian, Spencer, and Fong talked.

Turner began, “He had all that money in his safe. Somebody had to be paying him.”

Fenwick said, “Maybe it was his money. Maybe he was paying someone.”

“Does anyone that pretty ever pay for sex?” Fong asked.

Fenwick said, “I don’t know. I’ve never been that pretty.”

Ian said, “I suppose anyone can pay for anything. Depends on the price you’re willing to pay.”

Turner asked, “Where did the roses come from? We have no video of him going down to the lobby to pick up a delivery. No one on the staff said they delivered them or allowed anyone to go up to his room to deliver them.”

Fenwick asked, “Who’s got roses in this place?”

Fong said, “There’s roses in the atrium and the shop in the lobby. I found one site that says roses are a big deal to Drew Grimes. Supposedly, he’s got tons in his condo on the top floors of the building. We’ve got no video and no report of anyone slicing off dozens of roses.”

Fenwick asked, “Grimes grows roses?”

Fong said. “I called the flower shop off the lobby. They have had numerous large deliveries throughout the hotel. It’s Valentine’s Day, and, for that matter, lots of deliveries for the last week. They claim none to this room.”

They looked at each other for a few moments.

Turner said, “We gotta talk to Grimes.”

Fenwick said, “I’ve never questioned a multi-billionaire before.”

Ian said, “He’s pissed off people around the world and here in town.”

Fenwick asked, “What’s he done to piss them off?”

“Gave money to the deniers of reality. Funded lawyers for rioters on January 6. Gave lots of money to anti-gay nut jobs and groups. As we all know, filthy rich. Born in some slum in St. Petersburg, Russia. Came to the United States as a child. An uncle of his was big in Russian oil. Very, very big. And then got very, very dead. Grimes and his family inherited. Dead broke to real rich. Grimes’ parents died. He got the fortune. It was over a billion then, twenty years ago. Now? Much, much bigger.”

Fenwick asked, “If he’s gay, why does he fund anti-gay organizations?”

Ian replied, “He’s a moronic asshole? He’s a self-hating homophobic pig? He’s not the first. Unfortunately, he won’t likely be the last. Even more unfortunately, he may currently be the richest of that ilk of an asshole.”

Fenwick reiterated, “We gotta talk to this guy.”

Ian asked, “Is he even going to let you in the front door? Won’t there be a phalanx of lawyers to get through just to hear him invoke his rights?”

Fenwick said, “I’m good with phalanxes of any kind. Let me at ‘em.”

Fong said, “There is one other thing.”

Spencer added, “We found evidence of a third person.”

Fenwick said, “Holy shit.”

Ian said, “That strikes me as the correct medical term.”

“Who is it?” Turner asked.

Fong said, “That we couldn’t find, but we’re still working on it.” He, Ian, and Spencer left to work in the other bedroom, the one without the dead body

The detectives called Drew Molton, their commander, who then called Bernadette Curry, the acting Superintendent. Molton put them all on a conference call.

Turner and Fenwick explained.

When they finished, Molton said, “Grimes has to be questioned.”

Curry said, “I agree.”

After Curry left the call, they used Zoom to connect with Ed Vrbic, the hotel manager. He expressed reluctance to let them up into Grimes’s floors.

Fenwick said, “The cleaning staff must go up there.”

“Well, of course,” Vrbic replied, “but they go on Mr. Grimes’s schedule.”

Fenwick said, “Great, we’ll follow them in.”

“He is not to be disturbed.”

Fenwick raised an eyebrow.

Turner said, “We could just knock on the front door.”

Vrbic insisted, “We can’t let you up there.”

Molton asked, “Can’t?” Turner had never heard that tone from his boss. He was sure he never wanted to hear it directed at him.

The tone of Molton’s voice caused the Zoom lines to become very quiet.

After an uncomfortable pause, Molton added, “They will have a warrant.”

Vrbic said, “He’s got a private elevator.”

Fenwick asked, “Of his very own?”

“He built the place. He could have whatever he wanted.”

“Can we get video connected to his private elevator?” Turner asked.

“No,” Vrbic said.

Fenwick began a growl.

Vrbic added, “I’d give them to you. They don’t exist. He insisted on complete privacy. There are no pictures, videos, anything connected with his comings and goings. He owns the place. He got what he wanted.”

“He wasn’t afraid of being robbed?” Fenwick asked.

“If people were toting out million-dollar furnishings, someone would notice.”

“He has million-dollar furnishings?” Fenwick asked.

Vrbic said, “I’m sure he got anything he wanted. I wasn’t his decorator.”

Turner asked, “What are the restrictions for his private elevator?”

“Mr. Grimes has a master key card for all the elevators. For his private elevator, that master key card can let him use it to go to a particular floor from his condo without going down to the lobby. He mostly uses it as a direct link to the ground.”

“Are there stairs all the way down?” Fenwick asked.

“Yes.”

Fenwick grunted. In Turner’s long years of working with him, Turner could interpret most of Fenwick’s non-verbal utterings. This one sounded like the answer he was given satisfied him.

A short while later, Vrbic arrived at the suite and handed them the Fire Department’s universal access card to the elevators. His reluctance and even hesitancy when he finally handed it over caught Turner’s attention. Turner wondered if the guy was obsessive about his job or worried about what they might find. Or, like everyone, was just trying to do the best he could in a difficult situation?

Moments later, Turner and Fenwick were in the high-speed elevator rushing to the owner’s five floor condo.

The elevator was paneled in maroon mahogany and empty except for the detectives. Fenwick tapped his foot on the side of the elevator so the buckles on his boot jingled. Fenwick said, “Moments like this, I wish I had bagpipes.”

They stepped off the elevator. The interior portion of the immense condo was all the elevators, support beams, pipes, ducts, and stuff that helped keep the building standing. Fenwick opened the emergency doors that led to the stairs. He nodded in satisfaction and said, “At least I’d have a means of escape.”

They did a complete circuit. Turner remembered you could walk around all four sides of the observation floors at or near the top of taller buildings. Grimes’ palace was one basic ground floor that made a circuit of the entire building. Above this were cantilevered terraces with interior rooms, bathrooms, kitchens, bedrooms, branching around them, but all essentially plastered around the central plinth. In each corner was a spiral staircase which rose from the condo’s ground floor to the top. From those, you could enter all five different levels.

Looking out the tinted windows, mostly all Turner could see was snow. Staring straight down into the blizzard’s whiteout, he couldn’t see the ground. The space wasn’t cold. Still, Turner shivered.

The floors of the open areas were a warren of steps, terraces, and ramps, as if the jungle gyms of youth had come to life in exquisite detail.

Beds of roses covered at least a portion of each level. Most looked like they were thriving. Several were dormant. A few looked recently dead.

As they explored, Fenwick kept Turner between himself and the expansive views on all sides.

They found dungeon-type play areas. Different lounging and viewing areas were filled with setting after setting of comfy chairs, divans, and cushions. Much of the space on interior walls had large singular paintings; one per wall, well-lit and centered.

As they climbed higher Fenwick drew deeper breaths. They stopped at what had to be a top landing. Fenwick breathed deeply and clutched the nearest railing.

“You gonna be okay? I can go on by myself.”

“My doctor gave me extra fear-of-heights pills.” More deep breaths between every word. “I took a second one just before we got in the elevator. I’ll be okay.” He shook his head. “It’s not so much the height. It’s the openness to wide-open space. Vertigo, I guess. And the distance to the ground.”

He put his right hand on the interior wall as they continued. Turner walked on his left. Turner made no comment on the view or Fenwick’s fear.

“Where are all his minions?” Fenwick asked.

Turner shrugged.

When they got to the east side of the building facing the lake they were on a cantilevered terrace. A stationary bike sat so the rider would have a view to Lake Michigan as he rode. Slumped over on the handlebars was Drew Grimes, multi-billionaire, owner of the building.

Turner called his name.

Grimes didn’t move.

Up close, Turner could see he wasn’t breathing.

Fenwick said, “Fuck.”

Turner took out his phone and called Molton. The commander would set in motion getting all emergency, crime scene, and medical people here.

Turner hung up.

Fenwick took his hand off the wall.

Drew Grimes was an older man, with gray hair, but in shape. He wore tight biker shorts revealing an enormous crotch bulge.

Fenwick said, “Not another one. They having a size contest at the hotel?”

Turner said, “Maybe.”

People assembled.

Hotel staff from the manager and head of security to the housekeepers were kept just outside the elevators.

Fong found an office and started setting up, along with Ian and Spencer.

The Medical Examiner and Crime Scene personnel scoured the place. One of them reported an attack of vertigo and was replaced.

Turner and Fenwick set up just inside the kitchen area in a dining space that, on a clear day, looked south out over the Loop but was semi-enclosed and provided some privacy. It was a luxurious modular kitchen incorporating stainless steel and wood. Pricey copper pots and pans hung from the ceiling over an eight-burner stove. Fenwick tapped one copper bottom causing them to rattle against each other for a few moments. Then he inspected numerous cabinets and drawers. He said, “He’s got two dishwashers. Huge ones. In one there’s two dishes and one glass. The other is completely empty. What the hell does he have two dishwashers for?”

Turner shrugged. At his house, they still did all their dishes by hand. He said, “Maybe he always likes to keep a clean one, and no I don’t know why he’d need or want to always have a clean one.”

They talked to the staff.

When they finished, they looked at each other. Fenwick said, “Nobody knows nothing.”

Turner said, “Two dead bodies in one hotel on the same day. One an escort. The other the one who probably used the escort.”

Fenwick added, “We don’t countenance coincidence.”

After asking why no one had reported the first dead body to Drew Grimes Jessie Stark, Grimes’s number-one minion in the building, arrived and said, “Generally, we don’t talk to the boss until he calls us. On some days, he never does. One time, soon after he moved in, when Grimes hadn’t called down, an employee tried to check on him. He was fired on the spot.”

“Grimes isn’t running things?”

“Yes and no. His corporate headquarters is in Geneva, Switzerland. He’s got other ‘home’ offices in cities around the world: London, Hong Kong, New York, numerous others. Yes, he makes major corporate decisions, but day-to-day operations run on their own. He doesn’t decide who gets paperclips in Shanghai.”

“How did he live day to day?”

Stark said, “I’m not sure what you mean.”

“His daily routine? Did he have cooks up here making his meals? Did the hotel staff clean, or did he have his own private staff? Who opened his mail? Did he even get mail?”

“Mr. Grimes had staff in when it was convenient for him.”

“Did friends visit?”

“If they did, he let them up.”

“Did he hire escorts often?”

“I know nothing about that. He was married. To a man.”

“Where is his husband?”

“They have a villa in the South of France. He stays there. Works from there.”

“What does he do?”

“He was a commodities trader. Now he’s an artist. Creates portraits in oils.”

They met with Kent Duffy, who said, “I think the handlebars of the bike were saturated with nicotine. I’ll know for sure when I test.”

Fenwick asked, “That would be enough to kill him?”

“Very possible. Sweaty palms. Open pores. He’s also got glasses of the same energy drink Gilbert had. I’ll have to check every possibility and all of those damn roses, the live ones and the dead.”

He returned to his work.

Fenwick asked, “Could they have murdered each other? A suicide pact?”

Turner said, “I’m going with the notion that there’s a third person staying at the hotel that’s in on all this.”

Fenwick suggested, “Or someone who worked at the hotel.”

Turner said, “We have questions of access. That these two knew each other makes sense. That there was a third person makes sense.”

They hurried down to where Fong was set up. Spencer and Ian were still with him.

Fong said, “We’ve made some connections. Using Gilbert’s and Grimes’s computers, we can confirm there was a third guy staying at the hotel connected with Gilbert, for sure. He hasn’t checked out. Guy’s name is Robert Radek.”

They got the room number from building security.

They took the express elevator to the lobby, then a public elevator to the sixty-fifth floor. They approached room 617. Uniformed officers backed up the detectives.

Turner knocked and announced, “Chicago police.”

A voice said, “Come in.”

The room smelled like flower-scented antiseptic. Not as large as Gilbert’s suite, it was one room with a vase of dead roses on top of a desk.

In the middle of the room, stood a portly gentleman with a bald head and a stark white beard. He had his hands raised above his head. He had nothing in them. He wore gray sweats. His laptop was on the bed. It was turned to a national news site. Outside his floor-to-ceiling window, the storm raged.

“Robert Radek?” Turner asked.

The man said, “Yes.”

Fenwick cuffed him and read him his rights.

Turner asked, “What have you done?”

Radek sat on the edge of the bed. He looked at the two men through tired eyes. Turner thought he might not have slept in days.

Radek said, “Gilbert told me he loved me. Numerous times over the years.”

“You believed him?” Fenwick asked.

“I believed his need for a sugar daddy.” He paused. “I’d take him out to dinner. I often felt like his therapist. The more he had to drink, the straighter he got.

“I’ve been seeing him for years. A thousand dollars for seven hours. For last Valentine’s Day, I bought him a ring. I planned for a year before that. Planned everything perfectly. Carefully. The most exquisite restaurant in Chicago. A private room. A special meal with things I know he loved. I proposed marriage. He laughed at me.”

Radek was breathing hard.

“You okay, Mr. Radek?” Turner asked.

“I could use a glass of water.”

Turner hesitated, fearing any glass or cup might be coated in nicotine. Next to the coffee maker, he found a cup still encased in plastic. He removed the plastic and washed it out twice. Filled it with clean tap water.

Fenwick uncuffed Radek and stood guard.

Radek gulped and drank. Re-cuffed, he sat back down, took several deep breaths, and then continued, “After Gil laughed, he said he had a chance for permanent bliss with a perfect sugar daddy. He told me they weren’t in love. He laughed about love.” Tears began to run down Radek’s face. “My love wasn’t funny. I decided I’d kill the both of them and all those goddamn roses.”

Fenwick asked, “Why’d you kill those in here?”

“Practice. I needed to try and figure out how much nicotine it took to kill.”

“How’d you get the nicotine?”

“A few packs of cigarettes. Doesn’t take much. Read a few short articles online. Watched a few YouTube videos. Wasn’t hard. I made a lot.”

“Is there more here?”

“No, I threw the rest away.”

“How’d you do it?”

“I knew about the elevator pass key. Gil bragged about it, having a connection to a rich gay guy. And Gil took showers, all kinds of long showers, every time after we made love or after going out. He was a clean and germ freak. I had plenty of time to pick up the elevator key card and go up to Grimes’s floors. From Gil’s blathering, and he liked to talk and brag about how he knew all kinds of inside stuff, I knew when Grimes would be asleep or not in his condo. I wore gloves. I put it on likely surfaces, in some of his food, in Gil’s lotions and massage oils because I knew he and Grimes traded massages. I put it in the roses. I coated as many of the stems as I could so if one or both of them pricked their finger on a rose, they could die.”

Turner said, “Still, you took a chance they would avoid all the poisoned surfaces.”

“Are they both dead? I assumed that’s why you’re here. At least one of them must be dead. I’ve hung around in the lobby, and I’ve picked up a lot, but it’s mostly rumors.”

“You killed them both,” Turner said.

“I’m glad.” He fell silent for a few moments. Turner and Fenwick let the time expand. Time and silence were on their side.

Finally, Radek said, “I thought I would feel better than I do. That hateful, rich pig is dead. That’s perfect. Doing them in occupied my every waking moment. It was so quiet when I was up in that condo. One time, I could hear his shower. My heart raced. I thought I might have a heart attack up there. It turned me on to know he would be dead.” He sighed. “Now I have nothing.” Several deep breaths. “And the man I loved is dead. Yes, yes, I knew in my heart when he told me he loved me, I should be wary. I couldn’t help it. I’m a fat, lonely, old man. I wanted a bit of happiness. Gil took that from me. He told me he loved me! That’s supposed to mean something. It meant everything to me. Then he laughed at me. That’s not right.” He began to cry. Within moments, he was weeping.

Before they left, the detectives met Ian and Spencer in the lobby. They gave them a brief version and enough for Ian to get a scoop.

Ian said, “At least one less self-hating gay billionaire on the planet.”

Fenwick asked, “Are there a lot of those?”

Ian said, “One is too many.”

Spencer asked, “Do killers just confess like that?”

Fenwick said, “Not often enough.”

The detectives knew the famous story of a young detective in the department. On his first case on his first day of being a detective, he’d been told to canvas the neighborhood. At the first door he knocked on, the person answering had said without any prompting, “I killed him.” It made the detective’s reputation. He’d eventually gotten his own command.

The trip back to Area Ten headquarters wasn’t as slow as they thought it would be. The Loop was nearly deserted of pedestrians as people had been let go from work and businesses had shut down. Traffic, however, was still a snarl. Windshield wipers could barely keep up with the storm. Taking Lower Wacker Drive for part of the way helped save time.

At Area Ten headquarters, they worked on paperwork for their case until Molton told them to go home. He said, “The paperwork will still be here after the blizzard.”

It was long past winter dark as Turner drove home. He lived within two miles of headquarters so while it did take twice as long as usual for him, it wasn’t that far to begin with. Turner didn’t envy Fenwick, who lived on the far northwest side of the city.

*  *  *

Ben greeted Paul at their door, helped him out of his winter gear. Paul asked, “Everything okay?”

“Jeff is in his room. He is not crying. He’s done nothing but play violent games since we got home.”

“What happened to his plan to deliver roses to every kid in class?”

“It worked, but it didn’t.”

Paul raised an eyebrow.

Ben said, “All of his roses got delivered. He didn’t get any back.”

“Oh, dear.”

“You know how he tries to keep things inside?”

Paul nodded.

“When I picked him up from Mrs. Talucci, she said she thought something was wrong, but he wouldn’t tell her. Then you know how he likes to turn his wheelchair into a sled on his ramp here at the house?”

“Yeah.” Jeff loved playing in the snow as far as his disability allowed. One year, he discovered if he locked his wheels, and the snow was exactly the right depth, he could slide down the ramp. Paul and Ben discouraged this. The boy loved it.

Ben said, “Not a whine or a beg or a plead. He just came in the house without trying anything. He’s been in his room mowing down fantasy characters at an alarming rate. When he first got settled in his room, I asked him if he was okay. He said yes, but I sure got the idea that the real answer was no.”

Paul said, “I’ll give it a try.” Getting through Jeff’s newly acquired teen resistance could be difficult.

Paul knocked on Jeff’s door. He got the usually muffled response that he and Ben had come to interpret as ‘come in.’

Paul entered. He saw that Jeff was immersed in several games on his computer all at the same time. The boy made a chess move then turned to his gamer control, pressed play, and began to murder opponents.

Paul waited a few moments then stood next to his son’s chair.

Multiple games at once in multiple formats was one of the most reliable indicators that the boy was in a funk of epic proportions.

Paul sat on the edge of the bed.

Jeff kept playing.

Paul said, “You know I’m not going to just unplug everything, but you also know I’m going to be here until we talk.”

A gargantuan sigh of Fenwickian proportions escaped the boy. Fenwick would have been proud. But Paul knew his son was hurting. This was not a time to wrangle with his teenage son.

Paul prompted, “The flowers didn’t work?”

“I made a mistake.”

Paul said, “It’s never a mistake to choose kindness.”

“It is if you feel rotten afterwards.”

“The intention was right. That the world can be awful and unfair, we’ve talked about that. You know you’re a good person. You did a good thing. You know their response doesn’t change that. You know we love you.”

“You have to say that.”

“You know it’s true.”

Jeff made eye contact and nodded. They exchanged a brief hug, all that the boy allowed since the onset of teenage aloofness.

With the storm, going out for dinner was impossible. They cancelled their reservations. Paul called Brian with the news of the proposal. The older boy whooped and congratulated them.

Just before dinner, Fenwick called to say he’d made it home by taking surface streets and avoiding the Expressways.

For dinner, Mrs. Talucci next door had sent over two quarts of her homemade Bolognese sauce. She made the best Paul had ever tasted. When she’d heard about the storm that morning, she’d begun cooking. She suspected they wouldn’t be able to go out for dinner. Each man had confided in her about their intention of proposing on Valentine’s Day. She said her sauce was her contribution to their marital celebration. They boiled pasta, warmed the sauce, and ate. A perfect meal for a stormy night.

Predictions were for more than a foot of snow. Unless the wind picked up off the lake, which could cause up to an extra foot to accumulate.

They finished dinner, cleaned the kitchen, got bundled up, and then wheeled Jeff out to the top of his ramp connected to the front porch. Jeff in his chair, the two men leaning against the railing, they watched the snow swirl and the wind howl.

They saw a figure jump down from the passenger seat from a snowplow on the corner with Taylor Street. He carried a package as he bent over to get through the storm.

Paul was a little surprised when he turned in at their house.

They greeted him at the top of the stairs.

The stranger lowered his scarf and said, “I’m Mr. Lucashefski, Jeff’s homeroom teacher.”

Minutes later, they assembled in their front room. Lucashefski said, “I had to come. I have to run. The guy in the snowplow is a friend. It’s the only way I’ll get home.” He handed the box to Jeff. “School closed before we could get these to you. When the other kids realized what you had done for them, they took up a collection. By the time they were set, school was closed, but I wanted you to have these. I know how awful it can be to feel left out.”

Paul had tears in his eyes.

Jeff said, “Thank you.”

Mr. Lucashefski said, “I gotta go. My friend said ten minutes, tops.”

They thanked him profusely. He left.

They put the roses in a vase.

After Jeff went to bed, Paul and Ben built a fire in the fireplace then sat together on the couch for quite a while. They turned off all the lights in the living room. The drapes were open. Because of the porch light, they could see the storm raging. They heard the wind rattle the house.

The snow deepened. The embers in the fireplace slowly faded.

They watched both from the comfort of each other’s arms.

*  *  *

Get to know more about Mark Zubro at markzubro.com.

Paper Hearts:
Mark McNease

I.

It was appropriate I’d find it on Valentine’s Day, although I’d forgotten it was there. Maybe I’d wanted to forget, a convenient trick of the mind that protects us from regret. It wasn’t the sort of thing that brings pleasant memories, its sentimental value much more of the dark kind, like being reminded of abuse you’d suffered at the hands of someone you had loved, or just a deep and enduring loss. The card was both those things, although I’d been the abusive one, emotionally anyway, and the loss of Mac had settled so far into me that for the thirty years since we’d last spoken it had been the white noise playing in the background of my life.

For the record, the abuse I’d inflicted on Mac was not physical. I’ve never struck anyone except in self-defense, though I’ve taken a few on the chin. This abuse had been almost inadvertent. It was a consequence of who I’d been in my twenties, and how easily trouble found me then. Having it as an uninvited guest in my life meant it had been in Mac’s life, too. That’s the sort of mistreatment I’m talking about—the kind an addict inflicts on the people who love him, or the kind that’s unavoidable when change comes for one of you and not the other. I’d been the agent of change for Detective Mac McElroy, LAPD, Hollywood Division. He knew if he stayed with me it could ruin him, so he cut me loose. It wasn’t tough love. It was a mercy killing of the heart, and I’ve never blamed him for saving himself.

Valentine’s Day. Flowers and a card—the card I was looking at, that I’d forgotten I’d stuffed into a box of books and put in a closet when I’d moved to New York.  I don’t know why I had kept it, and now I was torn between wishing I’d left it with all the other things I’d tossed on moving day, and wanting to hold it close to my face, to see if there was any trace at all of the smell of him. I remembered his scent.  I couldn’t say what cologne it was, or maybe an aftershave, but it smelled of the woods—he smelled of the woods, with the odor of rain and sweat and man. I held the card to my nose and breathed and got... nothing. Must. Old sentiment. The empty passage of time.

I looked at the card, shiny red with white paper hearts on the front. He’d written our names in them in his nearly illegible scrawl. Penmanship had not been among his strong suits, and I used to kid him about it, telling him he should have been a doctor with handwriting that bad. Now, older but possibly no wiser, I stared at the card and felt a stinging in my eyes. Stupid, silly card, with its childish inscription: Happy Valentine’s Day, Marshall. Let’s get old together. I slipped the card back into its envelope and smiled ruefully to myself. It had not been a happy Valentine’s Day, and we had not gotten old together. I couldn’t even say we’d gotten old apart, since I had no idea if Mac was still alive.

I looked over at the computer on my bedroom desk. As if hearing a voice audible only to me, I heard the words, It’s not too late. Everyone’s online now, somewhere. It can’t hurt to look, and if you find nothing, or you find an obituary, at least you will have tried.

I felt preposterous. I’d had three decades to search for the man. But he had told me not to. He had been specific and adamant about that. I was pain for him, I was darkness. Mac McElroy was a tough guy, and yet I’d been too much for the man. But would I be too much now? An old lush with arthritis creeping into my joints, sober for a few years after a lifetime of drinking. Maybe he would take pity on me.

I laughed. Mac took pity on no one, certainly not the man who’d broken his heart along with the promises I’d made. I should leave it alone. I should put the card back in its box, or light it on fire at the stove. I should leave him be, free from sorrow, free from me, free from having to remind me he’d meant what he said, when he had told me goodbye was final for us.

I slipped the card into a book, the book back into its box, the box back into the closet.

And I sat down at my desk to see what I could find.

II.

It was an unseasonably warm February, Los Angeles, 1992. They’d discovered the kid’s body just after midnight. What a tragedy for a mother somewhere, right? To her, the loss was a ten on the emotional Richter scale. To the cops in Hollywood, he was just another dead hustler, collateral damage in a brutal game where indifference was a survival skill. Caring too much about the fate of people you knew, or at all about the ones you didn’t, made you vulnerable, and in the eyes of most people who lived in that world a sucker. Compassion was the one thing you wouldn’t find for sale on the rain-soaked streets of L.A.

One cop didn’t see it that way, though. I knew because he brought his work home with him. He’d been doing it for the three years we’d been together. I thought this time would be more of the same: crime scene photos on our kitchen table instead of the dinner we were supposed to have, nights when I went to bed while Mac stayed up trying to piece together a puzzle made of body parts and missing motives. But I was wrong. This murder was unique. This crime against one young man’s humanity would cost us everything.

I knew something was different when I saw the glass of bourbon on the table next to the file. Straight, no ice. Mac wasn’t a drinker—that was my territory, the river of booze I would nearly drown in over the years—and any time he found it necessary to fill a glass with Jim Beam was a time of trouble. He didn’t celebrate with alcohol, he numbed himself. Not the indulgence that leads to oblivion, but the sort that cuts the edge, makes something a little more bearable. When I glanced at the photos, seeing only a pale white wrist with ligature marks, and another showing an opened refrigerator door, I knew why. This one was bad. This one was evil.

When he saw me looking at the pictures, he quickly gathered them and turned the pile upside down, hiding the graphic images from me.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I know you picked up dinner, I meant to set the table.”

He was right. I’d stopped at D’Angelo’s just down the hill from our apartment in Silver Lake. It was an Italian restaurant we frequented, dining there sometimes, but mostly getting takeout. Theresa, the owner’s sister who ran the place, knew us well and always asked about Mac when I stopped for food. She had a crush on him, even knowing his heart belonged to me. “A girl can dream,” she’d once told me. And from the way her husband, Tony, looked at Mac, I thought he might be dreaming, too.

“It’s alright,” I said. I’d set the food on the kitchen counter and started taking out plates. “Looks like a bad one.”

“It is,” he said. Indicating his drink, he added, “Bad enough for a little fortification.”

I was tempted to help myself to a little fortification as well, but my drinking had escalated the past few months and I’d been white knuckling it to avoid any more conversations with Mac about it.

I filled two plates with the best pasta primavera east of Hollywood, added garlic bread so soft and buttery it almost slipped through my fingers, and headed for the table. Mac got up and grabbed silverware and napkins. A few minutes later we were eating another great meal from our favorite local spot. Or at least one of us was. Mac toyed with his food. It was evident his appetite had either been suppressed by the Jim Beam, or by the murder he was faced with solving. Maybe a combination of the two.

“So, who’s the victim?” I asked. I thought it might help him to talk about it.

“A hustler,” he said. “Found in an abandoned refrigerator behind an apartment building on Franklin.”

I knew Franklin Avenue well. I’d lived there before meeting Mac, in a third-floor studio.

“Nobody noticed an abandoned refrigerator?” I asked.

“They were renovating some of the units,” he said. He’d stopped playing with his food and had set his fork aside. The meal was over for him. “It was part of a pile of stuff from inside. Tossed out, left behind, whatever. One of the tenants got concerned her grandkids would play in it—it was flat on the ground, not upright.”

“I suppose that’s why the body didn’t fall out.”

“Correct,” he said. “It was the smell that got to them. The workmen. They opened it, and there he was. Strangled. Hands free, but you could see they’d been tied.”

“Eyes open,” I guessed, my voice barely audible. I’d seen that before, up close and personal, when I’d found a man I was dating dead in a dumpster behind the Paisley Parrot bar. That’s how I’d met Mac, when I was a bartender and a suspect in another brutal murder.

Mac nodded. “Naked, too,” he said.

I’d lost my own appetite by then, but I’d finished half my food. We’d be having leftovers tomorrow.

“Any idea who the victim is?” I asked. I half expected him to say no. So many of the young men who got killed in the life died unknown and unclaimed.

“This time, yes,” Mac said. “The responding officer knew him from several encounters they’d had. The kid had a rap sheet as long as my arm. Mostly prostitution and drugs.”

“You get a real name?” I asked, knowing the hustlers often used fake names on the street.

“We’re waiting to officially ID the victim, since there wasn’t any identification with the body,” he said. “But we know who it is. His name was William Stansfield, went by Billy.”

The air suddenly left the room. I heard a strange echo, as if the name Mac had just spoken was reverberating around the walls. I struggled to take a next breath.

“Marshall? Are you okay?” he asked.

Staring at Mac, trying to get my bearings after having been yanked momentarily into a parallel universe, I said, “I know him. Knew him. Very well.”

If I could time travel and return to that moment, I would have lied. I would have found a way to hide my shock and say no, I never heard of this kid, he’s just a stranger killed and left in an empty refrigerator. I have no idea who he is.

But science fiction cannot compete with fact. I knew who he was.

And I wished we’d never met.

III.

“You’re not going to do anything stupid, are you, Marshall?” Mac asked.

He knew my night had been restless, and he knew why: I’d been obsessing over Billy Stansfield, how our lives had diverged since I’d last spoken to him. Mine had taken a better course, a way out of the darkening spiral that had claimed his, while he had ended up murdered and left in a broken refrigerator someone had thrown away.

I knew exactly what Mac was talking about. We’d met when I’d been bartending at the Paisley Parrot, a mobbed-up gay bar in Hollywood’s extended shadows. It had been another victim then, a young man I’d just started dating, and Mac had been the detective assigned to the case. He was the cop; I was an initial suspect. That murder—series of murders, actually—had been solved. I had not killed the man! Nor had I killed the beautiful corpse I’d found myself next to in a bathhouse a year or so later. That time it was a setup, and it almost cost my life. Mac had once again come to my rescue just in time. We were lovers by then, living together in the same apartment where it all came crashing down.

“Of course not,” I lied. And I knew I was lying. I knew that what happened to Billy had happened to other young men in what was ironically called ‘the life,’ when in fact it was slow death for the ones who couldn’t escape it. I owed it to Billy to try and find answers, to pay an old debt to someone I’d once called a friend.

“Why don’t I believe you?” he said. It was a rhetorical question. We both knew why he didn’t believe me. Or maybe trust me was more accurate. He didn’t trust me to stay out of it, to not make his job more difficult, to not invite darkness back into our lives.

We’d made it through breakfast, neither of us having much of an appetite. He was heading to the Hollywood Station later that morning, and I was heading to a temp assignment with an insurance company downtown. I’d given up bartending when I’d given up drinking. At least one of them lasted—I’ve never slung drinks in a bar since then.

I was already dressed for work. Mac wasn’t usually up this early, but sleep had been elusive for him, too. I got my backpack and my bus pass—I had a car but didn’t use it to get downtown, when I could just sit and stare out a window for the half hour it took to get there—and I kissed him goodbye.

“I’ll call you at break,” I said.

“Hmm,” he grunted.

I knew he was anxious for me to leave so he could get his case file and spread the photos out again. He was a good partner to me, and an even better detective.

For some reason I kissed him a second time, then hurried out of the apartment.

I’d already called the temp agency when Mac was in the shower and told them I wouldn’t make it to work. I have a nasty stomach flu, so sorry. I’ll be there tomorrow.

I left our home that morning unaware that everything was about to change. Most people’s lives had returned to a post-holiday normal, with New Year’s resolutions as yet unbroken, and the optimism that always accompanies a new start. I wasn’t drinking and believed, as I would believe a thousand times, that I would never drink again. At twenty-eight, my days of debauchery were behind me, or so I thought. I was as wrong about that as I was about the price I would pay for my deceit.

I’d lied to Mac. Some would say I’d betrayed him. In the end, he had agreed.

IV.

The first place to look for a fox is the henhouse, and that’s where I went that morning. Back in time and place to a world I’d left before straightening up my life enough to get a bartender’s license and a job at the Parrot. The bar had been sold after the mob cut it loose. Guilt by association with a serial killer had been too much, even for the L.A. mafia. It was called the Twist now, and from all accounts the owner was legit. The clientele, however, were as shady as ever, and the bar stools remained a place where a gentleman of a certain age could make the acquaintance of a much younger one for hire. It was also where I might, given a little luck, find a man named Stitch who brokered clandestine get-togethers between those two types of men. He called himself an agent—it was Hollywood, after all—but most people called him a pimp. He got his name from a scar that ran across his left cheek, acquired after having been slashed with a broken bottle in a bar fight long before I’d met him. A dozen stitches had left a reminder on his face and given him a permanent nickname. The last time I’d seen him, he was in his late thirties, with slicked-back, jet-black hair, a deliberately untrimmed beard, and glasses we all thought he wore in a failed attempt to look respectable.

Most of the hustlers were freelance. The girls were different, easily corralled, and they often worked for pimps to be protected. Safety in numbers, so to speak. But the boys were usually self-employed. Just a few of them, like Billy, signed on with men like Stitch. It was a dangerous agreement, but it appealed to some of them. This was pre-internet, when the personals section of throwaway gay rags was filled with solicitations barely masked as hookup or dating ads. Getting clients was easy for some, and the smart ones worked from home. But that left dozens on any given night walking the streets, trying to make bank for food and rent, if they were fortunate enough to live somewhere. Billy didn’t like the effort it took to hook his own tricks, so he hustled for Stitch. That’s where I hoped to start, as I hopped a bus into Hollywood. I couldn’t take my car after leading Mac to believe I’d gone to a job. I don’t know what I was hoping to find. A lead on Billy’s killer that I could carefully feed to Mac, in a way that might soften the blow when he found out I’d lied. Stitch, for sure, hoping he could point me in the right direction. But never, in my darkest dreams, did I think I’d find the killer himself. Be careful what you wish for.

V.

I hadn’t been to the Parrot in over a year. Located near the corner of Selma and Vine, it had been in business since the 1950s, and it had been a gay bar most of that time. It had an interior that looked like nothing had been changed since they’d cut a booze-soaked ribbon welcoming drifters and drunkards through the front door. This was not a hot spot for up-and-comers. It was a serious drinker’s bar, which had made it perfect for my first stint shaking cocktails and listening to old men slur their words. It’s the kind of bar I’d always preferred, where booze is the main attraction, and nobody judges you for it. The only thing I was ever interested in cruising for was another bourbon and Coke. If some guy bought me one and sex was the gratuity, so be it.

There’s always been something jarring about walking from a bright outside into a bar where light is the enemy. It’s like crossing a line into another world, a world more comforting in its dimness and its smell—a heady mix of spilled beer and Pine-Sol. Since I hadn’t had a drink in two months, it was also a dangerous move, but I did it anyway. Billy was worth it. We’d been tight in my early days in town, sometimes more than tight if business was slow and the mood struck us. We’d watched each other’s backs, and for a few months in 1986, we’d shared an apartment. Mac knew none of this. I intended to tell him, but I needed information first.

To my relief as much as my surprise, Leo was still working the early shift. I’d assumed he would have been replaced when a new owner came in, given his association with the old ones and what happened there. But maybe having someone who’d been at the Parrot—now the Twist—as long as Leo had, provided some continuity. It was good for business.

“Is that Marshall James?” Leo said, looking up as I walked in, backlit from the sunshine that intruded into the lives of the half dozen day drinkers already at the bar. The Twist opened at 8:00 a.m., with a line outside.

Leo never aged, which is to say he’d always looked like time had stopped on his sixty-fifth birthday. He had a solid gray ponytail, anachronistic for any time after the 1960s. He was so thin I’d always wondered how he kept from being blown away in a strong wind, but it was a natural thinness, not the kind that had been a sign back then of something deadly in the room.

“It is, Leo,” I replied. “What a surprise to see you!”

“To see me still working here, or still alive?”

“Both.”

It was true. AIDS had claimed a lot of the men we knew, leaving empty spaces where friends once stood. I would not have been the least surprised to find out Leo had gone to the Big Bar in the Sky, pouring martinis for the dozens we’d already lost.

“Bourbon rocks?” he said. It wasn’t hard to remember my medication of choice, given how many I’d poured down my throat. Sometimes diluted with Coke, usually just ice.

“I’m on the wagon,” I said. “Just Coke today. And a question.”

I’d walked up and leaned on the bar by then. Leo filled a glass with soda and brought it over to me.

“Shoot,” he said, putting my glass on a napkin.

“I’m looking for Stitch.”

The name made him wince. He glanced around the bar, as if any of the men slumped over their scotches or vodkas would remember what he said.

“You’re not back in the life, are you?” he asked, his voice lowered. “You’re getting a little old for it, Marshall—not that these drunks would notice.”

I rolled my eyes and sighed. “No, Leo. I am not in the life. I’m married now—well, someday we will be.”

“You’re still with Mac?”

Leo knew Mac from when we’d first become an item. In fact, he’d been interviewed about the murder that started it all. Everyone working at the old Parrot had to make a statement.

“Three years and counting,” I said. “So, don’t think I’m hustling again. I deserve a little more credit than that.”

“Then what do you want Stitch for?”

I waited a moment before speaking. “They found Billy dead, stuffed in an abandoned refrigerator.”

He looked stunned. “Billy? The Billy?”

Leo had known Billy almost as well as I had, but in a different capacity. He’d even given Billy a place to stay a time or two. I imagined they’d had sex. Billy wasn’t the kind of guy to take favors he didn’t repay.

“He was just in here...” Leo said.

“With or without Stitch?”

Leo knew Stitch had been Billy’s pimp at one time, and maybe still was.

“They had a falling out,” Leo said.

“Really?” This piqued my interest. I’d never pegged Stitch as the murdering kind. He wasn’t a violent pimp as far as I knew, but things can change when money’s involved.

“I don’t know what happened,” Leo explained. “I just know they were on the outs for a while, but then they patched it up. I don’t think Billy still worked for him. Or if he did, it was part-time. He was a solo act last I knew, working out of the Sunset Motel on Highland.”

He didn’t mention the Twist as another base of operations.

I remembered the Sunset well, an appropriately named establishment given its reputation as the last stop on a train to nowhere. That it wasn’t on Sunset Boulevard didn’t matter to anyone.

“He’s too old for it, too,” he added. “He’s gotta be, what, late twenties by now?”

Mid-twenties was more like it, but even that was long in the tooth for a boulevard boy.

“Sad, Marshall, really sad.”

I stood up, arching my back a moment. “So, have you seen Stitch recently or not?”

“Not for a few days.”

A few days. About the length of time Billy’s body had been in storage.

“I need to speak to him.”

“So give me your number and I’ll pass it on if he comes in.”

He handed me a pen from his vest pocket. I wrote my number down on a paper coaster and gave it to him.

“If I’m not home, just leave a message,” I said. “And it’s good to see you. How’s the new owner?”

“Nice guy,” Leo said. “Nothing shady about him. He’s straight, but who cares, right? A job’s a job, and he treats us well.”

“As he should.” I slapped a five on the counter, a very generous tip for a glass of flat Coke. We shook hands and I left, breaking the illusion of comforting darkness one more time as I let the sunlight in.

I had no way of knowing one of those drunks at the bar wasn’t so intoxicated after all, or that he’d made his way to the pay phone by the men’s room to make a call that would put my life in danger.

VI.

I couldn’t go back to the apartment. Mac might still be there, and it was the wrong direction, anyway. I regretted not taking my car to the job I hadn’t gone to, but it was too late. A bus back would cost me an hour in the morning traffic, including wait time. It was easier and faster to just walk to Highland, take a right, head two blocks past Franklin and into the parking lot of the motel. The Sunset had been there for decades, outlasting several owners and most of the people who rented its rooms by the hour or the week. Like neighborhoods everywhere, the place had gone through several transformations, none of them an improvement. For the last ten years or so it was known as a one-stop shopping joint for drugs and sex. Any kind of dope, and any kind of flesh. The only thing good about it was the sense of community it gave the dregs of society who called it home, however fleetingly. I have to say there was always a soft spot in my heart for the Sunset, and not because I’d ever worked there. I hadn’t, and my days turning tricks had only lasted a few months before I met an angel named Butch who gave me a chance for a better life (I’ll tell you about him some other time). This day I didn’t have the luxury of being sentimental. I had to get whatever information I could, as quickly as I could.

I didn’t bother going into the office. I could see who the attendant was—a ferret named Daryl everyone called Slippery, whose presence only surprised me because I thought he’d be dead by then. He got the nickname from looking like he bathed in grease, including long stringy hair that could have been soaked in a gallon of it. Slippery knew what went on at the Sunset. That’s what made him an asset to the proprietor: no questions, no answers. Not only could Slippery be counted on to know absolutely nothing, but his appearance made you want to keep your encounters with him as brief as possible.

I knew it was too early for most of the working boys, but there were always a couple of day shifters available for the square johns wanting a blow job on the way to the office. I spotted one of them I didn’t know sitting outside his room in a plastic chair smoking a cigarette. The anti-smoking craze hadn’t taken hold yet, but the married stiffs who paid for hustlers might not want to go home to their wives smelling like an ashtray.

I slowed my pace and walked toward him. Arms to the side, palms outward. Harmless. He cocked his head slightly and took another drag, blowing out smoke while he watched me approach. Not a bad looking kid, and too close to being a real one for my comfort. If he had any ID it was fake, making him a few years older than he probably was. He wore torn jeans, and a sweatshirt that had the sleeves and collar cut out of it. Blond hair, blue eyes. A waste of beauty but valuable in his profession.

“You looking for something?” he asked. “I might have whatever it is.”

“Not something,” I said, as I walked up to him. He eyed my crotch in an almost comical way. It was the kind of move that worked on someone who didn’t know what hot really was. “I’m looking for somebody.”

His smile vanished. “You a cop? You don’t look like one.”

“I’m not,” I replied. There was no point in telling him my boyfriend was. “I’m a friend of Billy Stanfield’s.”

This got a rise out of him. He sat up. “Billy? Is he alright? I haven’t seen him in a few days.”

“You’re friends?”

“Co-workers, you might say,” he replied. “But you know that already, right?”

Had he recognized me? He would have been obvious jailbait going back to my time on the streets. Or did I just look like I’d been in the life once, if only for a short while? It doesn’t take long to leave its mark. Or maybe I just looked worn already from the years of drinking.

“I used to run with him, if that’s what you mean,” I said. “Things are different now. I’m as straight an arrow as a gay man can be, and Billy’s on ice at the morgue.”

He went pale, the color draining from his face like ash falling off his cigarette tip.

“Billy’s dead?”

“That’s what morgues are for,” I said, “unless you’re skilled with a bone saw.”

He sat up on the edge of his chair. “What happened?”

“Murder,” I said. “And it wasn’t pretty.”

“Who killed him?”

“That’s what I’m trying to find out. I know he used to work for Stitch. You know who Stitch is?”

He puckered his face in an ‘oh please’ expression. “Who doesn’t know Stitch?” Then he laughed a little bitterly and added, “Or maybe I should say, who wishes they didn’t know him? Which is, like, everyone who ever met the motherfucker.”

“He still pimping?”

“Does the sun still shine? Of course. He was running Billy, and two other boys who haven’t been seen for the last couple months.”

A realization came over his face that was more like a sudden burst of light than a dawning.

“You think they’re connected?”

“I have no idea,” I said. “Where can I find Stitch? He might have some suggestions.”

He thought about it a moment, then a slightly confused look came over his face and he said, “He’s been gone, too. At least from around here.”

“How long?”

“About the same time as Billy. I saw them both maybe three, four days ago. Haven’t seen them since.”

“Well, we know what happened to Billy,” I said.

His expression was blank now, as if his imagination had run wild right into a dark, black hole. He leaned toward me, glanced around to make sure no one could hear us even though we were alone. “There were rumors,” he said, almost whispering.

“Rumors of what?”

“Kinky shit. Movies.”

“Porn?” I asked. It wasn’t uncommon for the better-looking hustlers to do side work in skin flicks. As long as they weren’t too haggard. The best looking of them managed to make a career change, climbing up the greasy ladder from street work to film credits under laughable porn names.

“No,” he said. He waited a moment for a scenario or two to occur to me. When it didn’t, he said, “Much worse. Dark shit. Snuff shit.”

I felt my blood go cold.

“I can’t speak to the truth of it,” he said, holding out his hands in a gesture saying he had nothing to do with it, whatever it was. “I haven’t seen anything. I haven’t heard anything firsthand from anyone who did.”

That’s why they call them snuff films, I thought. You’re not supposed to live to talk about it.

But what did Stich have to do with it? Had he arranged for his boys to play the lead in movies they never escaped?

“Where did Stitch hang out when he wasn’t here?” I asked. I needed an off ramp, another exit to take.

“He only came around here to collect his take, which was most of what we made.”

I stared at him.

“Okay, I worked for him a few months, big fucking deal,” he confessed. “I like my freedom, so we parted ways. Call it a no-fault divorce.”

“You were saying ...” I prompted.

“He had an office at the Klondike.”

The Klondike Diner was the restaurant equivalent of the Sunset Motel, a place where disreputable people could get an overdone hamburger and soggy fries at any time of the day or night. It was popular with drug dealers, hookers, and the people who thought they made good company. When the kid said an office, he meant a regular booth.

“He was always in back, by the wall. He liked to see who was coming his way, you know? And he was good at spotting johns.”

“Smart businessman,” I said, dryly.

“Try there. But like I told you, he hasn’t been seen—”

“Since the same time Billy was.”

“You think Stitch killed him?”

“I don’t know, but I’ll ask him when I see him.”

If, that was, he was still alive. Despite my opinions of the man and what he did for a living, I was hoping he’d just stopped coming around the Sunset for a few days. But what if the rumors were true, and Stitch had been the booking agent from Hell? Had he procured his own boys for snuff films that may or may not exist? Had he known what would happen to them and been silenced for the knowledge? And did it change how I felt about his imagined fate? A man who sells death sentences is impossible to pity.

It was all conjecture, wild speculation swirling in my brain.

I took a twenty out of my wallet and handed it to him. “For your troubles...”

“Devin,” he said, smiling. “Yeah, Devin. I like that. It sounds fancy.”

“It does,” I replied. “Thanks for talking to me, Devin.”

He took the bill and stuffed it into his pocket. “Now, if you don’t mind, I got a regular who stops by around this time. Wifey won’t do what he likes, you know what I mean?”

I nodded and walked off. The Klondike was only a few blocks away.

I knew that whatever I found out, I’d have to come clean to Mac very soon. I was getting in over my head, way over it, and I’d decided a quarter in a pay phone would be one of my next moves soon. I headed out of the parking lot and took a left.

By then I was being followed by a black Mercedes, as common in Hollywood as maps to the stars’ homes. I didn’t know it was behind me, or who was in it, but the shadow falling over me should have been a clue.

VII.

The Klondike had been around longer than most places like it, surviving the decades with the same kind of indifferent grit shown by the waitresses who worked there, young and old. I had no idea when it morphed from a straight establishment feeding regular Johns and Janes working side jobs while they hustled for stardom, into a haven for the broken and the lost. The most surprising thing about it for me was that the cops hadn’t shut it down a long time ago. They’d cleaned up the city pretty good before the ’84 Olympics, forcing all the hookers and hustlers onto the side streets. Maybe the police just wanted somewhere for all those denizens of the dark to go. Better to know where they were than to let them spread out into the upstanding world most people lived in.

I walked into the diner and stopped by the front register, just to look around and take it in. I hadn’t been there in at least five years—it wasn’t the kind of joint I went to after I cleaned up my act—and absolutely nothing had changed. Not even the maître d’, if you could call her that, a lovable hag named Belle, “with an ‘e,’” as she told everyone she ever met. Belle was one of those chain-smoking women you peg somewhere between sixty and a hundred who laugh at their own jokes when nobody else does, but who treats you like you’re the most special person she’s going to meet that day. You know you’re not, but it feels good, and you like her for it.

She stared at me a long moment, trying to remember where she knew me from. “It’s been a while ...” she finally said, searching for a name.

“Marshall,” I helped her. “Marshall James.”

“That your real name? It sounds kind of Wild West.”

I waved my hands at our surroundings to indicate that was pretty much where we were—the Wild West reimagined as a decrepit Hollywood diner.

“There you go!” I said. “But yes, it’s my real name. Unless my parents were lying to me, which is entirely possible.”

She grabbed a menu from a stack. “Booth or a table, Hon?”

“Actually, I’m looking for someone. A guy named Stitch.”

Her face hardened slightly. I’d phrased it in a way that allowed her to act like she didn’t know who he was, or that she wasn’t sure.

“He comes in here—”

“I know who he is,” she said, putting the menu back with the others. She’d assumed I wasn’t there for orange juice or a short stack. “Booth in the back.”

I reacted as if I didn’t already know that. “Thanks, Belle.”

“With an ‘e,’” she said. “At least one of us remembers our names!” And she laughed, apparently considering it a joke.

I walked past the counter, following the booths along the front windows and around to the side. There, in the last booth as promised, his back to the wall, sat Stitch. No first name, no last name. Just Stitch. He saw me coming. He didn’t smile.

He adjusted himself slightly in the booth as I approached, and I wondered briefly if he was making sure he could reach a knife, or a gun. Stitch was the kind of snake who remained perpetually coiled, ready to strike first if it came to that.

The scar on his face was as prevalent as ever, and I wondered why he hadn’t gone with Scarface instead. Probably because it was already taken.

“May I help you?” he said, when I stopped just far enough from his table to be out of his reach, should a blade come my way.

“I’m a friend of Billy’s,” I said.

Without missing a beat, he said, “Billy who?”

“Billy Stansfield,” I replied. “He used to work for you.”

“Used to?”

“They found him dead in a refrigerator two nights ago.”

“And you think I had something to do with that? Even if I knew who this Billy was, I’d be insulted. Who are you, anyway?”

I hadn’t noticed the Mercedes in the parking lot, or the man who’d come in behind me and taken a two-top with a clear line of sight to Stitch’s booth. If Belle had seen him, she’d had the good sense to pretend he was invisible.

“Marshall James,” I said. “I was friends with Billy. We were roommates for a little while back in the day.”

He laughed. “Back in the day? You don’t look old enough to know what that is.”

I took it as a compliment.

He waited for me to leave. I didn’t.

“I’m a busy man,” he said, glancing behind me at someone I didn’t know was there. “Fuck off, whoever you are. I’m sorry about Billy, but—”

“I thought you didn’t know him.”

“I don’t, but I’m sorry anyway.”

“There goes your eighty percent, or maybe ninety, who knows. I never worked for a pimp.”

Rage flashed in his eyes. I’d just called him what he was, and I’d belittled his profession in the process.

“Get away from me before I call the cops.”

“I can do that for you,” I said. “My boyfriend’s the detective on the case.”

His eyes narrowed. I’d gone from some random asshole confronting him about a dead hustler, to an imminent threat.

Speaking slowly, he said, “So go home and suck your cop boyfriend’s dick. Just get the fuck away from me.”

“Whatever you say,” I said.

I’d concluded there was no point in attempting further conversation with the man. But instead of turning and heading toward the front, I walked past him to the restroom area where I knew there was a payphone. It was time to call Mac. He’d be pissed at me, to understate it, but I’d found real leads, and I had no idea if there was another young man already being kept somewhere, or who might be soon, and I needed to tell Mac what I knew.

I got lucky for the last time that day: there was no one at the payphone. I picked up the receiver and dropped in a quarter. Just as the phone began to ring at the Hollywood Station—I didn’t know if Mac was there yet, but the odds were good—I felt something pressing into my back. Something hard and cold.

“Hang up,” a voice said. It wasn’t the kind of voice you ever want to hear. In its lowness and its certainty, it leaves you no choice.

I knew someone had just put a gun to my spine.

I hung up.

“Let’s go,” he said.

And that’s how I discovered I’d been followed, and that a black Mercedes was waiting for me in the parking lot.

Belle never looked up as we left the Klondike. She didn’t tell a joke. She didn’t say goodbye.

I wasn’t all that surprised to see Stitch in the back seat waiting for us. He’d left his office the second I went to the phone, knowing exactly what was about to happen.

“Hello again,” he said. “I lied.”

“About not knowing Billy?” I said, getting into the passenger seat as directed. Stitch was directly behind me, cradling a handgun in his lap. Everyone was armed but me. I knew if I tried to run, I’d be dead before Belle could get another good look at me. “Or about not knowing what happened to him?”

“Both,” he said. “Now close the door and shut up.”

I did as I was told. The man who’d escorted me out of the diner walked around the car and slid into the driver’s side. He looked like cartoon muscle, inflated with steroids and silent when he wasn’t giving orders.

“Nice ride for a pimp,” I said over my shoulder.

“I do alright,” Stitch said. “By the way, this is Bert. His friends call him B, his enemies don’t live long enough to call him anything. Bert, this is Marshall.”

Bert nodded, not caring what my name was, and unconcerned with my fate.

Ten seconds later we were pulling out of the parking lot and heading east.

VIII.

I knew the Valley was porn central and had been for a while. I didn’t know the history of it, who got it started or why it stayed there, but it didn’t matter anyway. We weren’t going to the Valley. We were headed back on Franklin Avenue. I knew I was in serious trouble—as if being abducted at gunpoint wasn’t trouble enough—when there was no attempt to blindfold me or knock me out with chloroform. I was allowed to sit up straight in the passenger seat and see everything clearly as we drove for several minutes and took a left at North Beachwood Drive, heading up into the canyon.

“Where are you taking me?” I asked, to both of them and no one.

“You’ll see,” Stitch said. For his own amusement he added, “And you’ll wish you hadn’t.”

“Is this where Billy went?”

He didn’t respond.

“Were there others, too?” I continued. “I heard there were others.”

“Shut the fuck up, Marshall James. What you don’t know won’t hurt you, but you like to know things, and look where it got you.”

I was watching the landscape carefully, the houses we passed. I was trying to determine how much damage it would do to my body to open the door and jump out while we were moving. It was a pointless exercise: Bert had locked the doors and the handle wouldn’t give. There was no way for me to get out of the car.

It wasn’t my life that flashed in front of my eyes, but the mistakes I’d made. The drinking. The lies I’d told. The men I’d misled, and the ones I’d allowed to mislead me. And the deceit I’d engaged in that very morning, which meant no one knew where I was.

Cell phones were just becoming familiar to the public then and few people had them. I wasn’t one of them. Mac and I had used pagers to reach each other, but I’d left mine at home. I didn’t need a pager working as a temp in an office when I could just pick up the desk phone and dial. It hadn’t occurred to me when I’d left the apartment that I might find myself being kidnapped and taken to an undisclosed location in Beachwood Canyon to be murdered.

I’d survived encounters with two killers to date, one who’d used the Paisley Parrot as his personal hunting ground, and the other out for revenge. Both of them were homicidal maniacs, but neither of them had gone so far as to film their kills. I knew that’s what I was heading into, very much against my will.

We took a right on a street whose name I didn’t catch. I was a little distracted, furiously running through escape routes in my mind. What could I do before they got me inside somewhere, if anything? And once they succeeded, which wouldn’t be hard with two guns pointed at me, how could I get back out? Who would answer my shouts for help?

“You think too much,” Stitch said. He’d been watching me from the backseat and could tell my mind was in overdrive. “But that won’t be a problem much longer.”

We turned into a gated driveway and the gates magically opened. I hadn’t seen Bert touch any buttons or an electronic opener, which led me to believe someone had seen us arrive. Someone who liked cameras and used them for better and for worse.

“We’re here,” Stich said, stating the obvious.

I didn’t have to turn around to know the gate had closed behind us, sealing me in. The option of fleeing into the street had just been scratched off the list. If I survived this, it would have to be from the inside. There was nowhere else to go.

IX.

The house was a sprawling ranch style in dark wood that made it blend into the natural surroundings. I could tell it was even bigger than it looked; something about it indicated a depth that wasn’t obvious from viewing it head-on. It had large wings on each side, giving it the feeling of some sort of bird of prey that had come to rest on a residential street.

“Let’s go,” Stitch said.

Bert the Thug had not said a word since forcing the barrel of his gun into my back at the Klondike. He hoisted his bulk out of the car, and the three of us walked to the front door.

No one greeted us. No one let us in. Bert took a key from his pocket and led us into the house.

I don’t know what I expected, but this was not it. It quickly became apparent to me that Bert and Stitch were, for the moment, the face of this danger. Whoever was really behind the curtain had chosen to remain there, waiting until everything was in place.

“This way,” Bert said. He’d remembered how to speak. I wished he hadn’t.

He led me down a corridor to our left, with Stich behind me. I glanced back and saw that he’d slipped his gun into his waist band; he didn’t feel a need to threaten me with it at that point, the house was doing the job just fine.

We got to a closed door that looked like any door in any house. Bert opened it and stepped aside. “Downstairs,” he said.

I froze. Until that instant I’d maintained a semblance of my natural cockiness, a defense mechanism that helped me believe I was going to get through whatever challenging situation in which I’d found myself. It had served me well growing up with an unpredictable and often drunken father. It had fortified me on the streets of Hollywood when I’d shown up as an eager novice desperate to flee the suffocating environment of small-town Indiana, even if the things I was ready to learn were tricks of a sad, seedy trade. But now, staring through the door and down a staircase into a dimly lit room—was it a basement, a chamber, a trap?—I was completely unsure, as far from cocky as I would ever be, and terrified.

I didn’t move. Stitch came up closer behind me. I had the feeling he was prepared to push me down the stairs if I wouldn’t go on my own.

Bert’s patience had worn thing. “Go, now,’ he said. “He’s waiting.”

He’s waiting.

Two words that chilled me to my soul. A fact, stated as a command: He’s waiting.

“Who is he?” I asked.

Stitch laughed. And for the first time, Bert smiled. The smile of a devil, or the devil’s righthand man.

“You can ask him yourself,” Bert said.

He moved closer and I knew there were no options left for me.

I turned and headed down the first few stairs.

The door closed behind me.

The lock turned.

I was alone.

“Come now,” said a man’s voice from the room below. “Let’s have a look at you.”

There was only one way left for me to go, and so I went.

X.

The basement, or at least the part I found myself descending into, had been turned into some sort of miniature film studio. I could tell by the placement of the walls that it had been sealed off from the rest of the lower floor: a basement for a house this size had to be much larger. As thoughts raced through my mind with each hesitant step downward, I wondered if there were other rooms that had been sectioned off, and what they might hold. Cells for young men like Billy to be held in while they waited their turn at stardom? Private viewing booths for men of evil means to satisfy their lethal curiosity and get what they’d paid a king’s ransom for?

Pressing my hand against the wall as I reached the bottom of the staircase, I could tell it had been soundproofed—a thick foam padding had been applied to each wall, giving the room an eerie, otherworldly feeling.

“Who are you?” the voice said, as I reached the bottom step and looked to my left to see who had brought me here.

The full horror of my surroundings struck me. Beneath lighting that was strangely soft given the nature of the place, half the room had been turned into a film set, with a bed against one wall and two cameras aimed at it from tripods to each side. The only thing on the bed was a black rubber sheet. I noticed a stark wooden chair to the right of the bed, and just beneath it a set of leg irons. My stomach dropped to the floor, which I realized was concrete ... with a drain in the center.

Another part of the room, nearby, had been designed as a small lounge. I could see a bar, minimal but well stocked with liquor. Between the bar and the bed was a dark green overstuffed chair, and in the chair sat a man. The man. The one who had orchestrated whatever happened in this particular corner of Hell.

He wasn’t imposing, and not just because he was sitting down. He was thin, and looked to be in his sixties, if I was any judge of age. He was wearing dark slacks and a leather jacket, and he held a glass of something in his hand—golden rum, perhaps, or my beloved bourbon. His hair was short and looked to have been dyed shoe-polish brown. His eyes were bright, black, and staring at me, in the way a snake’s eyes fix upon a mouse. He smiled, and I nearly lost control of my bowels.

“I think you know who I am,” I said. “If you had me followed, you probably have some idea of my identity. Marshall James. I was a friend of Billy Stansfield’s.”

“Who?” he said, and I realized he may not have bothered knowing the names of the men he’d killed. He’d had no intention of befriending them, and once they were dead, they were useless to him.

“The man you killed most recently,” I said. “Unless you’ve been at it since then.”

I kept my distance, remaining at the bottom of the stairs.

“At what again?” he said. Then, waving his free hand at the bed, he said, “Oh, you mean that!”

I was calculating my odds. He was much older than me, and almost frail-looking. More like a lizard than a python. I could easily take him, but then what? How would I get out of there?

“The best thing about producing the kinds of movies I do is that I get to enjoy making them and turning a significant profit afterward.”

“Snuff films,” I said.

“I don’t like that term. Everybody dies, Marshall. Every life is snuffed out eventually. God does it all the time.”

He saw me turn and glance at the stairs.

Looking back at him, I said, “My partner is a police detective. He knows where I went this morning. You can’t get away with this.”

He shrugged and took a sip of his sweet dark liquid. “I’ll take my chances.”

He set the glass down and leaned up in the chair. “I know what you’re thinking,” he said. “And I am always prepared. Aren’t I, Leo?”

I heard a noise and looked past the man to see a door open behind him. If you didn’t know it was there you would think it was part of the wall. A man much younger and bigger than the devil in the chair entered the room, closing the door as he came into view.

“This is Carter” the man said. “Carter, meet Marshall.”

“And who are you?” I said sharply. “I deserve to know that much.”

He smiled again, and this time I felt the coldness in my bones. “I thought you would have guessed that by now,” he said. “My name is Death, and I arrive when I please.”

He stood up from the chair. “Carter, let’s proceed.”

I considered running back up the stairs, but I knew I couldn’t get out, and I knew it would put me at an even greater disadvantage.

Carter stepped forward. He was moving slowly, in no hurry to subdue me. He’d done this before. He stopped next to the chair and held out his hand. The man who called himself Death reached to a small end table next to him and took something from it. I hadn’t paid attention to the table, or anything outside the man and his unsettling gaze.

“Here,” he said to Carter. “You’ll need this.”

He handed Carter a syringe, and I knew things would move quickly from there. I backed up hurriedly, one step, then two.

“Don’t waste time trying to escape,” the man said. “Just accept it, it will be a mercy for us all.”

Carter moved fast then, crossing the room in seconds.

I thought about Mac. I thought about my father, whose death had elicited no emotion from me, but whose treatment of me had sent me fleeing from my home and into the arms of the Hollywood street life. And finally, to this. Everything is connected. Every action we take can be viewed from the future as having led us there. An entire life of actions, intentions, and choices had brought me to those basement steps.

It angered me. It infuriated me. I refused to believe I had made myself the ultimate victim, about to die while this creature from a black hole watched.

Carter was nearly to the steps when I leaped feet first, using the stair railing and wall to thrust my legs out. He’d had the syringe at his side and had not expected me to turn into a flying mammal. My shoes landed on his chest and sent him falling backward.

I felt his arm swing up and try to thrust the syringe into my leg. He missed, but I felt the slightest prick on my flesh. Another jab and he might put a stop to me.

He was on his back, and when he leaned up to try and raise himself off the concrete, I beat him to it, standing up and doing something I had never imagined doing to another human being: I buried my shoe in his throat. He tried to get hold of my leg, but I did it again. This time I heard a crushing sound. His windpipe? His esophagus? Did I care?

“Stop!” the man in the chair shouted, as he quickly got up. “You’re hurting him.”

I couldn’t believe what he’d just said. I was hurting him? Poor Carter, the devil’s henchman?

Carter had rolled over on his side, trying to breathe. He was beginning to turn a constricted shade of blue. I’d flattened his larynx. He wouldn’t last long, and there was no one to call for help.

The man rushed at me, enraged that I hadn’t accepted my fate. My mind was on its own course, completely apart from any analysis I could make of my own actions. Without even realizing what I was doing, I reached down, grabbed the syringe from Carter’s hand, and just as the man came close enough to me, I jammed it into his throat and shoved the plunger down with my thumb.

Oh, my. Poor Carter. Poor man who didn’t consider me significant enough to tell me his name.

He clawed at his throat. Whatever was in the syringe was fast acting, and within seconds he was collapsing, tumbling down to join his favorite assassin on the floor.

I knew it was only a matter of time—a short time, most likely—before Bert and Stitch came looking to see what had happened to me. They knew my fate, or thought they did, and maybe this kind of movie took a while. I didn’t know, and I wasn’t going to find out. I couldn’t go back up the stairs and pound on the door. I had no weapons.

And then I remembered: the door in the wall, the one Carter had come through. I couldn’t guess where it went, but it led out of the room—that was a certainty.

I stepped over the bodies on the floor and hurried to the door. I opened it and found myself in a hallway leading into what appeared to be a normal basement. The studio had been unique, not part of some subterranean horror chamber. The rest of the basement looked like any you would see in a neighbor’s house: storage room, filing cabinets, what looked like several cedar closets, and up toward the ceiling... windows. Four windows along the top of a cinder brick wall, one of them just above the filing cabinets.

I hoisted myself up, grateful the cabinets were full enough not to fall over from my weight. I unlatched one of the windows, having no idea which side of the house it was on, and not caring. With my mind still in overdrive, my only purpose to escape the nightmare, I pushed myself up and out.

Seconds later I was running down the street, shouting for help.

“Somebody, help me!

“Please!”

XI.

His name was Richard Abernathy. The more we learned about him, the more I wished I’d only known him as the man in the chair. He was the kind of evil you don’t believe exists unless you’ve seen it up close, the sort of man you can’t imagine walks the earth until he passes two feet from you and the heat of Hell singes your skin.

Abernathy had made his fortune in car parts—a perfectly moral business for an utterly immoral human being, a species classification that must be used lightly in this case. He’d never gone the straight married route—no wife, unsuspecting or otherwise, no kids—and the only thing closeted about him was his burning desire to torture and kill young men. He’d been at it for some time, as the world learned in the trial three months later. It was revealed through evidence and his own confessions that he’d been refining his trade for some years, culminating in the conversion of his basement into a chamber of horrors.

Always an astute businessman, Richard Abernathy had found buyers for the movies he made, and they’d paid him much more than he had ever earned selling steering wheels and hubcaps. The investigation lasted much longer than the trial, and as far as I knew, remained ongoing for several years, spreading out like oil across a dark, sordid seascape where the monsters who came up for air were real. The case was turned over to the FBI, and soon after that it included Interpol. A popular snuff film knows no borders. Last count, there were upwards of seventy-five men across six continents who were involved in the purchase and distribution of the few films Abernathy managed to make. Some of them never did pay for it in anything other than cash, such were the consequences of lax extradition treaties or the absence of them.

Bert was apprehended at the house approximately fifteen minutes after I’d fled through the basement window. A passing car saw me running down the middle of the street and stopped. It was either that or run me over. The kind woman driving that car, seeing my obvious distress, helped me to a neighbor’s house where I was able to call the police.

“I need to make one more call, please,” I said to the astonished couple who’d let us into their home.

I dialed the Hollywood Station and asked for Detective McElroy. There wasn’t time to tell him the whole story. I didn’t need to. He knew soon enough what was happening, and I knew what the repercussions could be. I’ve lived with them for thirty years.

Stitch managed to slip away, but not for long. He was apprehended two days later, having been ratted out by Devin, whose real name remains unknown to me, but whose valor in the face of a bleak existence still impresses me. Stitch had risked going back to the Sunset Motel, having found most avenues of escape closed to him. It had been a fatal mistake—literally. He was found stabbed to death in his jail cell several weeks later. We didn’t know who did it, and nobody cared. A sad commentary only if you’re a do-gooder with a soft spot for murderers. Stitch, Bert, Leo, Richard Abernathy—they were all murderers, no matter who put the rope around a man’s neck, who pulled it tight, or who brought him to the gallows.

I stayed strong for one week. That’s as long as I could hold it together. I saw it coming. Mac saw it coming. But we had to play it out. It’s like being cast in a play and knowing you have to say the lines, you have to hit your marks and use the props, and when the time came, you have to find your light—your merciless, blinding light, and stand in it, exposed and finished.

On Valentine’s Day, 1992, it all ended. I’d been drunk for forty-eight hours. One drink had become ten, and ten had become thirty. I didn’t really know. When I binged, there was only a beginning and an end. The in-between could be days, sometimes weeks, and it never closed out pretty. By the time I came to on the couch that morning, any chance of reconciliation had passed.

I remember seeing flowers on the kitchen table. I remember the card. I remember Mac sitting there with a suitcase beside him. For reasons known only to him, he’d chosen to wait to say goodbye. I had to give him that: he wasn’t the note-leaving type. He wasn’t going to disappear from my life without telling me why to my face.

“I can’t live with this anymore,” he said.

I sat up, trying to come to my senses while taking it all in. There was a surreal element to the scene, with the suitcase and the flowers. In another version of the story, told from a past that didn’t exist, he’d just come home from a trip abroad and I was the one who’d offered the flowers. That was not the truth, not the past we’d lived.

“Your drinking, your lies, the way trouble always finds you,” he said. “If I don’t go, it will ruin my life, my career, all of it, Marshall.”

The only response I could offer was a nod. I knew the time for persuasion had passed. I’d been like a sky full of rain clouds in his world, parting now and then for brief stretches of sunshine—the good times, the lovemaking—only to gather again and rain on everything good we could have had.

“I don’t want to speak to you again,” he said, getting up from the table.

“Maybe in a few days I can—”

“Ever, Marshall.”

“But if you let me—”

“Ever in this case means never. I do not want to speak to you again, hear from you again, talk to you again, imagine you again. You are, as of this moment, this sad and shabby Valentine’s Day, my past. And you know me, Marshall. You know I don’t look back.”

And he never did.

We arranged for him to come get his belongings from the apartment when I wasn’t there. He truly did not want to see me again, and if he’d passed me on the street, I knew he would look away.

That’s the kind of pain that settles into you, the ever-present ache. It stays with you, thudding dully, until one day you take a deep breath and look at it closely one more time.

XII.

There were a dozen Kevin McElroys on social media, none of them him. I spent several days trying to track him down, and I’d been about to give up when I found an old, archived article from a gay paper that had lasted long enough to have a website. The paper-cum-website was called L.A. Pride and had been popular when I’d lived in Los Angeles. You could find it stacked outside all the bathhouses, bars, and gay restaurants within a thirty-mile radius of Hollywood. It was a short online notice announcing his retirement from the LAPD fifteen years after I’d last set eyes on him. He’d been one of the first out gay cops, a move that had cost him with his fellow police officers but had been perfectly in keeping with who Mac was. He was quoted in the piece saying he was looking forward to a new chapter of his life in Las Vegas with his partner Charlie Watkins, a dealer at the Tropicana. I winced reading it, torn between jealousy and happiness for him. So, he’d moved on, and I hadn’t. Not really.

From there it didn’t take that much time or imagination to track him down. I can’t say ‘them’ because Charlie died in 2014. I found this out with a further online search that turned up his obituary in the Las Vegas Sun. It said he was survived by his partner Kevin McElroy. Either he’d dropped the nickname, or they were just being formal.

And from there I found an address. A phone number. A business called McElroy Security Services. An email.

I couldn’t bring myself to call. I knew if I heard his voice I would start sobbing. I wouldn’t be able to help myself. I’d failed at so many things. I was sober a few years now, but I lived in a crappy studio apartment in Hell’s Kitchen, and I gave walking tours of Greenwich Village for a living. The Haunted Village. The Gay Village. The Bar Tour—as if I didn’t have enough challenges in my life. He was a widower living in Las Vegas, with his own company and a lifetime of successes. Surely that was the case. Whether he was Mac or Kevin, he was a winner in life—not because he’d hit the lottery, but because he had insisted on being a winner.

So, I sent an email. And I waited. One day, two days, three days. Nothing.

I knew it had been a fool’s errand. When he had told me never, he’d meant never. Not ever. Not once. No parting glances, no last touch.

And then it arrived. I almost missed it. His email went into my spam folder. I’d neglected to add him to my contacts—why would I?—and I’d just happened to check the folder before deleting all the junk that poured in every day. There it was. My heart stopped. I was sure it would be short, reminding me of what he’d insisted on thirty years ago, that we were finished, period. I kept squinting, trying to read even as something filled my eyes.

“Marshall,” it read, “It was good to hear from you. I’ve wondered many times whatever happened to you. I know from your email you’re aware that Charlie died. Thank you for your condolences. I’m happy to know you’re sober. And yes, I would love to hear about your life in New York. Let’s move this to something more personal. Here’s my phone number. I’m home pretty much all the time. My business is still going but I’m mostly retired. Give me a call and let’s catch up. If I’ve learned anything in life, it’s to never say ‘never.’ I’m sorry I did, but let’s save any sentiment for a real conversation.”

His phone number was listed below. He did not sign off with ‘Love, Mac,’ but there was a big XO at the bottom.

I picked up my phone and started to dial, then put it down.

I was going to call him, soon, but first I had to cry.

*  *  *

Get to know more about Mark McNease at markmcnease.com.

I've Been Inside Your House:
Rick R. Reed

I

It was one of those days late in winter that almost, almost fools one into thinking that spring is just around the corner. The day had shimmered and shined its way into the lower sixties, the clouds had taken a vacation across Lake Michigan, where they relaxed above the nude beach on Saugatuck, and people in Chicago pulled off their heavy winter bundles and crowded the lakefront to jog, bike, and rollerblade.

I witnessed all of this as I rode home on the #147 bus, the Outer Drive Express. I was half dozing, half reading (Ladder to the Sky by John Boyne), and half watching the people frolicking on the lakeshore.

It had been yet another dull day at work, composing copy for catalog pages to sell automotive parts. Exciting stuff, right? But the job was secure and I couldn’t beat the location of my Michigan Avenue office. And the #147 got me downtown from Rogers Park in about a half hour.

And who could argue with the lakefront view most of the journey?

Today, once the bus turned off Lake Shore Drive and headed up Sheridan Road, I grew even drowsier and closed my eyes. In minutes, I heard the street just before mine—Chase—being announced. I hoisted myself out of my seat, grabbed my messenger bag and prepared to get off the bus.

It was then I noticed the copy of the Chicago Tribune someone had left on the seat across from me.

There was a headline about the third killing of a gay man in the Boystown neighborhood. Police were seeking a connection between the victims. Being a gay man myself, I wanted to linger, or snatch up the discarded paper, but just as I reached for it, a bleached blond skater boy distracted me.

“Dude, are you getting off or what?” Under his breath, he whispered, “Make up your fuckin’ mind, asshole.”

Ah, the joys of urban life and three million people crowded joyously together! The boy spurred me on. I left the newspaper behind.

Once I got home to my one-bedroom on Sherwin (in a landmark, Frank Lloyd Wright building—eat your hearts out!), I headed straight for the mailbox.

The mailbox and I have a curious kind of love/hate relationship. Even though the days of getting letters is long past, what with e-mail, texting, and all, I still can’t help but approach my mailbox in my apartment building vestibule with a sense of anticipation.

Seldom does that anticipation lead to anything more than bills and flyers, but somehow, the thrill of the unknown, of pulling that little metal door open to see what’s inside for me today never wears thin.

I think it never gets old because every once in a while, like today, the mailbox does indeed hold something more than solicitations for money, in forms of either bills or advertising.

Today, there were two hand-addressed envelopes waiting just for me, Stephen Embert, the “bachelor” in 2A, 1437 Sherwin Avenue, Chicago, IL, 60626. The first envelope I could see was from my friend and party-thrower extraordinaire Tabby Tyler, probably the most flamboyant queen on the north side of the city, and Lord, did that man know how to throw a party. From the size and shape of the envelope, I figured it would contain an invitation to yet another of his fabulous themed soirees. And, I have to admit, the card stood out—screaming bright pink in a sea of white and buff.

Normally, I would have torn this envelope open with a lot of excitement, right there in the lobby, dying to know what Tabby had in store for me this time. His last themed party had been a tribute to The Golden Girls, with guests being exhorted to come dressed in drag as one of the iconic Miami gal pals or—if one was too butch or too intimidated at the thought of donning high heels and bling—one of their men. In the end, though, it hadn’t really mattered how one came dressed to the party because everyone there ended up naked, in the shadowy world of Tabby’s playroom, which sported a very sturdy leather sling suspended from the mirrored ceiling, a king-size bed, and lots of plush carpeting, ripe for inducing the most glorious of rug burns.

Tabby’s parties always seemed to end up turning into orgies. Maybe that’s why the guest lists never included any women.

But today, the other envelope was the one that gave me pause, because it was so mysterious.

It was a simple, buff-colored envelope, the size that would contain a birthday card. I didn’t recognize the handwriting, which was kind of feminine and looping. Whoever had penned it even dotted the “i” in Sherwin and Chicago with tiny hearts. I say “whoever” because there was no return address.

This one couldn’t wait. I had to open it right then.

I worked my finger into a loose edge and tore open the top of the envelope. I was right—there was a card inside. But it wasn’t a birthday card. At least I don’t think so. I pulled the card out and stared at it.

In books, people always say things like “a chill ran up his spine,” but I’ve always questioned that. While I’ve had occasion to experience fear and even terror in my thirty-two years, I have never actually felt a chill “creep” up my spine, let alone run its “icy fingers” up and down it.

Until today.

The front of the card was a simple black-and-white photograph of a long curving black feather on a dark background. Most likely, this was an ostrich plume. So why did something so innocuous give me the creeps? Why was my first thought that this was an image pulled from a nightmare? Maybe because it was just odd. There was nothing printed on the front and the photo—so simple—seemed somehow foreboding. If it didn’t sound melodramatic, I’d say it was a warning.

Its starkness was eerie. I fought an urge to just drop the card on the floor and run upstairs, leaving it there for someone else to find. The feather—pardon me for my flight of fancy—did indeed look threatening. Don’t ask me why. I imagined that if I did leave it on the floor it would be waiting right outside my apartment next time I opened my door.

The color, the shadows... I don’t know, they seemed to add up to death.

I know, I know. That sounds over-the-top, but did I mention that it wasn’t until I actually opened the card that I felt that shiver of fear run up my spine? The one that I had hitherto never experienced?

Written on the inside of the card, in the same, feminine hand that the envelope bore were five simple words:

I’ve been inside your house.

It was a simple sentence, almost homespun, but it struck a chord of terror deep within me. It made my heart race. It caused me to look over my shoulder. My hands trembled and a queasy nausea rose in my gut.

I stared down at the plain sentence. Like the feather, there was something ominous in its simplicity, a veiled threat. Why would someone go to the trouble of sending me a card simply to say they’d been inside my house?

I glanced down at the envelope again, just to make sure my eyes hadn’t deceived me, hoping against hope that this bizarre missive had been stuck in my mailbox by mistake. Perhaps it had been intended for one of my many faceless neighbors, for whom a picture of a black feather would conjure up some rapturous memory—or something like that.

But no. The card was for me. There was no getting around it.

Wearily, I started toward the stairs. Somehow, the odd card and its message had sapped the good mood I had begun my hours off work with, and I knew it would eat at me all evening.

Who would send this to me?

Why?

“Hey, stranger! You’re looking good today!”

I froze at the bottom of the stairs. I knew that voice—my neighbor Tom Horton, with the same name as the fast-food chain, was standing right behind me. The last thing I needed right now was Tom. Flattering as it was, the guy had a completely unreciprocated crush on me and had it ever since I had moved in nearly a year ago. Sure, I had gone out with him once, but the chemistry, the magic, the whatever-you-want-to-call-it, wasn’t there. I don’t know, there was something strange about him, the things he talked about. I mean, he was fascinated with things like true crime books and serial killers, and at one point during our date, he mentioned he had psychic abilities.

“What are you talking about?” I had snickered, thinking of Patricia Arquette in that old TV show, Medium.

“Oh, I don’t know. It’s kinda vague. I just get a sense about people—a little above and beyond what I think you might normally know just from meeting them.” He shook his head, and I think he could see he was weirding me out. “It’s nothing. My grandma had the same thing.” He blushed. “Forget it.”

It wasn’t that he was a bad-looking guy either—medium build, trim, with poker-straight sandy brown-blond hair that fell over his forehead, stopping just short of a pair of amazing, wide-spaced green eyes with lashes too long for a man.

There was something about him that was too eager to please. It almost made me want to puke. I like guys who have a little vinegar mixed in with the sugar, if you know what I mean.

Since we were the only two souls in the apartment building vestibule, I couldn’t very well pretend I hadn’t heard him and simply trudge on up the stairs and into my apartment without some sort of acknowledgment. That’s what I wanted to do, no use denying it, but I wasn’t raised that way. I might be a lot of things, but rude is not one of them.

So I turned and gave what I thought was a charming, good-to-see-you grin. “Tom! I didn’t hear you come in.”

“Snuck up on you. You looked pretty engrossed in your mail.” He moved closer to peer over my shoulder. I slid the card between some bills.

I debated on whether I should tell him about my creep-inducing card, since it certainly was news—at least in my life. But then I would have to talk to Tom even more and I didn’t want to encourage him. Besides, I wanted to get upstairs and open Tabby’s invitation. Maybe news of another ribald party would help break the dark spell the “feather” card had cast.

“Yeah. Engrossed in the ComEd bill. It seems to get higher every month.”

“Tell me about it.”

“Well, gotta run! Have a nice night.” I took the stairs two at a time, feeling I had left poor Tom with unformed words on his lips. Words like “What are you doing this weekend?” or “Want to grab a beer at Big Chicks later?”

Words I wanted to avoid. As I said, nice guy... but not for me.

Once inside my apartment, I immediately sensed something was wrong. Yes, Cora, my spoiled Boston terrier, greeted me at the door as she always did, jumping up and down, begging shamelessly for a kiss, a pat on the head, and a walk before her supper. To look at Cora, you would assume everything was right with the world.

Yet today—in spite of Cora’s zeal at my homecoming—seemed to be all about being ominous, about vague portents and feelings I just couldn’t quite put my finger on.

After I had given Cora the attention she demanded, along with her supper, the dog retreated to her spot on the living room sofa, where her energy rapidly deflated like a popped balloon. Cora was eight years old, no spring chicken in the dog world.

Would it make any sense to you if I said that there was an echo of someone being in my apartment? An almost sixth-sense kind of thing where you know someone has been there while you’ve been gone? No? Well, that’s how I felt shortly after I returned home. It even made me forget about opening Tabby’s card.

Someone had been here. There was a strange feeling—things were unsettled where usually they were settled. It was as if the very particles of dust in the apartment had been re-arranged.

Okay, okay, so I’m starting to sound like a lunatic. Forget I ever mentioned anything about odd portents and dust being disturbed. Maybe some hard evidence will convince you that I had a right to feel uneasy, afraid, curious.

I glanced down at Cora. “You see anybody in here today, stinker? Somebody that didn’t belong?” Cora cocked her head at me, as though she was really trying to understand what I was asking. But if she had seen anyone unusual in our shared home, she was keeping it to herself.

The first thing I noticed was that a pile of books I had stacked on the coffee table had been moved. This stack was always there. It was my David Sedaris collection and contained every book he had ever written, each one personally signed by Mr. Sedaris himself. Since we’re being brutally honest here, I did not have them on my coffee table because I wanted easy access to them. I had read them all already—several times. I had them there to impress people—both for my taste and appreciation of wit and for the fact that I had stood close enough to Mr. Sedaris to get his John Hancock, more than once.

Today, the David Sedaris tomes were no longer stacked. They were carefully arranged in a row across the glass surface of my coffee table. It looked very neat and deliberate.

And I was positive I had not done it.

Again that question poked at me with a long, jagged fingernail: why? Why would someone take the time and trouble to come into my apartment and rearrange the books on my coffee table?

It hit me—there had to be more. What else had been disrupted? Could something worse have happened?

Now, my apartment is a small one-bedroom consisting of living room, dining room, kitchen, bath, and bedroom. It didn’t take me long to make a complete circuit of the place, wondering things like if I had left the shower curtain open or closed when I left that morning, had I forgotten to put the peanut butter away or had someone set it out on the counter to taunt me, had that apple in the fruit bowl always been turned stem down?

Now I was getting paranoid.

The paranoia ended when I hit my bedroom. My dear mother, God rest her soul, back in Ohio, had always taught me to make my bed each and every morning. No matter what the rest of the place looked like—dishes in the sink, crumbs on the rug, dust on the furniture—I always took a couple minutes before heading out in the morning to pull up my comforter, fluff the pillows, cover them with their shams, and smooth the whole affair out with my hand.

The bed was unmade. The covers were thrown back, the pillows were pushed down as if a head, or more than one head, had recently lain upon them. I wanted to do the gibbering thing with my voice—you know, when you’re so terrified you can’t form words, you can only gibber, whatever the hell that is. But I held my tongue. Wish I could say the same for my heart, which was hammering away in my chest like it was ready to burst.

That same heart just about stopped when it saw the worst thing. No, the unmade bed was not the worst thing.

There was a used condom lying in the middle of my sheets. I could see it there, coiled like a little snake, its receptacle tip filled with a milky white substance.

Here’s the part where you say “ick,” but I couldn’t help myself. I picked up the offending rubber and sniffed it.

That wasn’t semen in there, pumpkin, it was hand cream. The very same hand cream I kept on the nightstand next to the bed for—well, never mind what I use it for! Let’s just go with the idea that I use it to soften my weary, dried-out hands.

But thoughts about hand cream, condoms, books, and unmade beds all flew out of my head at the prospect of knowing with absolute certainty that someone had, indeed, been inside my house.

I sat down in the little ladder-back chair across from my bed to collect myself, to allow my thumping heart to return to its regular rhythm. Besides, I didn’t think I could bear to sit on, or even get near, the bed right then. That piece of furniture—with all its connotations of sex, comfort, love, dreams—had been violated. I wasn’t even sure I could sleep in it that night, at least not without first washing the sheets.

I stayed in the chair for a long time, watching the colors between my mini blinds shift from blue to lavender to finally a deep navy. Two questions resonated over and over—who and why?

Finally, I decided I couldn’t sit there in fear all night and got up to make myself some dinner.

The fear dissipated as I set to chopping vegetables and draining a block of tofu for a stir-fry. It was replaced by a sense of unease and another almost of melancholy.

It seemed that someone had set out very deliberately to frighten me and that equated to someone setting out to hurt me.

I’m not the best person in the world, nor am I the worst. I’ve done my share of sinning, especially in the promiscuity area, but I have always made it my business to be kind to other people and to avoid harming them whenever I could.

So as much as the home invasion and the card frightened me, they upset me because it meant that there was someone out there who must not like me very much and wanted to see me suffer.

Either that or there was someone out there who was completely psycho.

And he—or she—had been inside my house.

Cora entered the kitchen. She looked up at me with her big, buggy brown eyes and cocked her head. She needed to go outside.

II

The story gets worse.

I had managed to unwind after dinner, although I kept one ear cocked for odd noises like the doorknob jiggling or fingernails scratching at my windowpane, even though I lived on the third floor. The kitchen window, anyway, was just off a landing so my “fingernails on glass” paranoia was not totally unfounded.

But I heard nothing but the sound of my TV, which I was using on this night to catch up on half a season of of Hacks. It helped to have something to make me laugh.

At bedtime, I seriously considered taking the sofa, but then thought I was letting my intruder win if I avoided my own, very comfortable bed. So I went to my hall closet, pulled down fresh linens and remade the bed, even though I had just done the same only three days ago.

When I crawled in between the sheets, it was after eleven and I was surprised at how tired I was. I guess it had a lot to do with the stress I had felt on coming home. Stress, tension, and fear can take a lot out of a guy.

I fell immediately asleep.

It wasn’t until the middle of the night that I awakened once more. What woke me was a sudden presence weighing down the opposite side of the bed.

It was Cora. Amazingly spry for an eight-year-old girl, she had hopped up on my bed and was now sitting at the edge of it, ears at the alert, a low growl humming in her throat. Her little, smashed-in face was pointed toward the living room.

“What is it, girl?” I whispered in the dark.

Something clattered to the floor in the other room, and I realized that Cora and I were not alone.

But I was still half asleep and had the courage a foggy head afforded. I got up from the bed and made the second tour of the night of my small apartment.

The kitchen was chilly.

That was because the back window—the one that led to the landing—was open. The cool night air blew in.

I shivered, looking quickly and nervously over my shoulder, but there was no one there.

I was just about to the leave the kitchen when I noticed—once again—something amiss.

I have a little butcher block in the kitchen, next to the aforementioned window. It’s about waist-high and bore the scars of lots and lots of chopping, dicing, mincing, and—when I was feeling fancy—chiffonading.

Tonight, the butcher block was not empty, as it usually was when it wasn’t covered with fruits, nuts, or vegetables for chopping. Tonight it had something on it.

And that something took my breath away.

Near the butcher block, on my kitchen counter, I have a lovely Wusthoff knife block. I take my cooking seriously and learned the hard way that it’s not a razor-sharp knife that can get you into trouble, it’s the dull ones. I kept my knives sharp enough to cut a sheet of paper in mid-air.

Now, one of those knives—the biggest of the lot—my chef’s knife, had been removed by person or persons unknown and laid out on my butcher block.

Why?

I didn’t want to ponder that question as I stood naked and shivering in the doorway between my kitchen and dining room.

Why else would someone set out a knife? I doubt very much that my intruder had any plans to dice vegetables.

I hurried over to the window and closed it. My hand froze just above the knife. My intention had been to return it to its family in the block, but then I thought better of it. I was positive I had not left the knife out earlier.

I certainly had never opened the kitchen window. The night had gotten chilly, in spite of the unseasonably warm day.

I turned the lock above the window.

“Sort of like locking the barn after the horse has escaped, isn’t it?” I said to myself.

Okay, this had gone too far for a mere prank. Someone had not only been inside my house, someone had also thought about taking a knife in hand and doing God-knows-what with it.

I returned to my bedroom, feeling absurd in my current nude state, and threw on a pair of boxer shorts and a T-shirt. Cora had curled up next to my pillow on the warm spot I had abandoned, obviously feeling I was dealing successfully with the matter at hand.

If only that were true.

I patted her head. She lifted it to look at me, yawned, then lowered her head back to her paws to fall back into a slumber. In a matter of seconds, she was snoring.

I envied her.

Suitably attired, I snatched up my cell phone and punched in 911. After giving the dispatcher my city and street address, I told her what was going on. After asking me a few questions, she said they would send someone around.

As I waited for a Chicago police car to arrive, I paced. It was after three o’clock in the morning now, and I wondered what I would say to the officers once they got there. “Someone sneaked into my house through the back window. They didn’t really do anything, but I’m pretty darn sure they laid out one of my chef’s knives on the butcher’s block!” I could just see their concerned faces—only I feared the concern would be for my mental health.

I didn’t have to wonder for long. It must have been a slow crime night in the Windy City. Within a few minutes, I saw the flashing blue lights of a police cruiser outside my living room window. I pulled on a pair of jeans and buzzed the officer in.

Officer Yore, as he told me his name was, was younger than I was—stocky with dark curly hair and a friendly nature. He seemed surprisingly alert for three a.m., but then I suppose that came with his territory.

I told him everything that had happened, starting with Cora’s late-night distress that had begun the whole bizarre tale. I wondered now if Cora had actually seen the intruder, if the image was locked in her little dog brain. I wondered if she recognized him from earlier that day. The thought caused a little jolt to course through me.

I led Officer Yore into the kitchen and showed him the knife.

“Do you want to dust it for prints?” I asked.

He smiled at me and shrugged. “I don’t know if that’ll be necessary.”

“What? Why not?”

“It looks like you did interrupt a home invasion. I can’t say what the knife was doing out, but I have to be honest with you, Mr.—”

“Embert.”

“Mr. Embert. We see a lot of break-ins in this neighborhood. And the sad truth is, most of them are never caught. I can take the knife in as evidence, if you want. And we’ll certainly beef up the patrols in the area, but I have to tell you I don’t know how much good it will do.”

Great. Very comforting. “Well, thanks.”

“I will make a report on the incident. You be sure and call us if anything else occurs. And you might want to consider having your locks changed, just to be on the safe side.”

I saw him out the door, knowing that the call was pointless. But what could the police really do, anyway?

He didn’t take the knife with him.

III

Morning came and, with it, some relief. A few hours of sleep, a little bright morning sun, the city looking clean and refreshed, and my worries from the night before had dissipated. Oh sure, they were still there. It would be a long time before that feeling of fear and violation went away, but at least at the moment the world appeared to be a little safer.

I went through my usual routine, taking Cora out for a walk down to the lakefront and back, where—along the way—she did her usual business and checked her pee-mail at every bush and hydrant along the way. I ate a bowl of cereal. I showered and made the bed. I checked my e-mail, paranoia and suspicion causing me to wonder if there would be a strange message waiting for me, but there was nothing.

I was just about to head out the door to catch the bus for work when I realized that all the commotion the night before had made me completely forget the other handwritten piece of mail I had received—the invitation from Tabby. I hurried back to the dining room table, where I had left my mail the afternoon before. It now seemed a longer time ago than a mere thirteen hours or so. The dreaded card, with its feather, was still there.

“Out of sight, out of mind,” I said to Cora and took the card, holding it by one edge and carrying it out to the kitchen as though it was something slimy, and dropped it into the garbage, along with its envelope. I wondered briefly if I should keep it as evidence, or if I should have told the officer about it. “Right,” I said to Cora, who looked up at me and cocked her head. “He’d really think I was the nutty one, then.”

I was halfway out of the kitchen when I decided I didn’t want the offending card in my house, so I turned back, got the garbage bag, and pulled it from the trashcan. I took it into the bathroom, where I had thrown away the condom from my bed and emptied that can into the bag as well. I knotted the bag and set it by the front door.

Can you open Tabby’s invitation already, please? I went back to the table, snatched up the hot pink envelope, and tore it open. I smiled as I read the little card tucked inside. It was headlined on the outside with the words:

Valentine’s Day is Amateur Night

I opened the card and read the details.

Since every Tom, Dick, and Mary will be out looking for love in all the wrong places on Valentine’s Day, making drunken fools of themselves and clogging Halsted Street, I am boycotting this year’s celebration. However, I am having my own masquerade gala at la casa of yours truly and would be elated if you, my BFF, my longtime companion, my portal to ecstasy, would honor me with your presence.

I had to chuckle. Tabby had probably sent this same invitation—with the same wording—to dozens of guys. But I couldn’t help it—it did make me feel warm and special. I checked the date when the party would be held—a month hence, on the Saturday before Valentine’s Day at Tabby’s Roscoe Avenue condo.

I wouldn’t miss a party at Tabby’s for the world.

They were decadent, overproduced, and often had way too much alcohol and drugs on offer. A person would have to be insane to even contemplate driving home afterward. A sane person would plan on taking the Monday off after one of Tabby’s soirees and perhaps even the Tuesday—simply to recover.

He concluded with the message, “No need to RSVP, my sweet. No one can resist me!” And he was right. Ah, to have such confidence!

Although it was true I couldn’t resist the big old queen, I still had been raised right and thought it was only proper to RSVP. Besides, it was nice to feel excited and optimistic about something, rather than terrified and violated as I had only the night before. It would take but a minute to text Tabby, simply to show some manners.

I pulled out my iPhone, located Tabby among my contacts—his default pic was one of him in a gauze caftan, lifting a cigarette in a holder—and quickly typed in:

Can’t wait for the masquerade and even more the revealing of the faces behind the masks—and the bodies under the costumes. See you then, sugar.

Now, if I didn’t get moving, I would miss my bus and be late. I put down a couple of puppy pads for Cora—someday I dreamed of being able to afford a dog walker or even doggy daycare—made sure all the windows were locked, and, finally, pulled the door closed behind me, locking both the deadbolt and the mortise lock.

Once outside, I decided to take the L downtown—it was a little more reliable and my morning had me running late.

As I hurried through the alley connecting Sherwin and Jarvis Avenue (where my L stop was), my phone began to sing in my pocket. Someday, I would have to change the Lady Gaga singing “Telephone” ringtone. It was so gay and so cliché, it was embarrassing.

I stuck a finger in my ear as an L train rumbled overhead and shouted hello into the phone. I could see that it was Tabby, but could only hear the muffled cadence of words with the train roaring so close by.

I shouted hello again. “Sorry, I can’t hear you! One sec!”

Once the train had whooshed by, roaring and crackling with electricity, I could finally hear. “What is wrong with you, sweetheart? Have you gone deaf? Have you butched it up and found work in some factory with big, noisy machinery and sweaty men?”

I pictured Tabby sitting in his condo. I imagined him in his big bed with its leather headboard, surrounded by high thread-count linen sheets and a tray upon which would be soft-boiled eggs in cups, toast cut into strips, and good Kona coffee. He would be wearing satin pajamas over his fleshy form.

“I wish. No, I’m walking to the L stop and a train went by. I just wanted you to know I was coming to your party. I texted because I didn’t want to wake you.”

“Darling, I’ve been up and about for hours. So much to do!” The comment made me smile. All of Tabby’s friends had speculated on how the man supported himself, since he didn’t appear to have a job, or, in fact, to have ever had one. Yet he lived in a luxurious four-bedroom condo in a vintage building at the very end of Roscoe, with views of Lake Michigan. Most of us assumed he was a trust-fund baby, yet we never had the nerve to broach the subject with him. Those who had dared to do so in the past were treated to withering stares—finances were simply something Tabby did not discuss.

Whatever. I was just glad he had the funds to throw fabulous parties every quarter or so—they lent such drama and glamour to my otherwise humdrum existence. And there was always the promise—as yet unfulfilled—of meeting Mr. Right at one of his gatherings.

Tabby went on. “But I’m glad you’re coming and hope you won’t let me down with your costume. I just know that fertile imagination of yours will dream up something brilliant!”

“Oh, you can count on it. I already have something over-the-top in mind. I’m going to need a good long trench coat to wear into the lobby.”

I had no idea what I would be wearing.

“Too, too much! I knew there was a reason I love you with all my heart. Now Tabby must run—a jillion things to do today.” He clicked off without giving me a chance to say good-bye. But that was Tabby for you, full of bluster and haste. It wasn’t until after he was gone one was left wondering what the rush was for.

But, personally, I needed to run. I could hear the L train rumbling south toward my stop from Howard Street.

IV

The month leading up to Tabby’s masquerade contained no more strange greeting cards, nor any late-night, knife-wielding visits to my apartment. There were a few condoms left on my sheets, but unlike the one left by my intruder, the slippery liquid within was not hand cream and they were left there with my full knowledge and consent.

In short, the month, with its unsuccessful dates, boring days at work, and parade of television shows and movies that were quite unworthy of my time, was uneventful.

The terror and suspicion faded, until I no longer approached my mailbox with trepidation. After a couple of weeks, I didn’t tour the apartment when I returned home, afraid I would find something amiss.

I pretty much forgot about the odd card and the break-in (if you can call climbing in through a window I had thoughtlessly left open a break-in), chalking the late-night visit up to a kid looking for something quick to fence to buy drugs, a kid who got caught before he had a chance to take anything.

Stuff like that happened every night in the windy city, I supposed.

*     *     *

The morning of the masquerade arrived with me still not sure how I would attire myself. If I knew Tabby, I was sure he would expect his guests to blow the roof off in the creativity department, but to also cause some serious wow-factor with daring and audacity. Yeah, the guy would want to see all of his guests half naked at the start of the night and fully so before the sun came up next morn.

I’d been to enough of Tabby’s parties to know the drill.

My bed was covered with—as style maven Rachel Zoe might put it—options. None of them made much sense, but all would provide the requisite flesh-baring. First, there was leather. In my twenties, I had experimented quite heavily with the leather lifestyle, spending far more than I could afford on items like chaps, harnesses, armbands, caps, and vests. I could go as a leatherman, I supposed. It was terribly unoriginal, and I was sure it would earn me one of Tabby’s trademarked withering stares, but it would certainly be easy enough to don the chaps with a jock, leaving my ass bare. Up top, I could wear the studded harness or the bar vest, either of which would show off lots of skin to good advantage.

Another option would be the wrestling singlet I had held on to from my high school days. I am proud to say that I still fit into it, and it certainly displayed a lot of skin. The spandex fabric also ensured a formidable basket. Pair it with a pair of black high-tops, and I’d be good to go.

And I would freeze my ass off. This was, after all, Chicago in February.

There was the white sheet that, with the addition of a couple of eyeholes would allow me to go as a ghost. I thought devilishly that I could wear absolutely nothing underneath. That could be fun. But that idea was much more in line with Halloween, so I immediately rejected it.

I sighed. Weren’t gay men supposed to have some innate sense of creativity when it came to something like this? Where was mine hiding?

In the end, I decided on the leather ensemble. Maybe it wasn’t terribly creative, even if I claimed to be one of the Village People, but I looked hot in it. And I still held out for the possibility that tonight could be the night the universe smiled on me and gifted me with a Mr. Right.

Or at least, as they said, a Mr. Right Now.

*     *     *

The party was in full swing when I arrived. Let me give you the lay of the land. Tabby’s apartment was in a vintage building, erected during a time when architects erred on the side of largesse. All of the rooms in the condo were huge, bordering on cavernous. The hardwood floors gleamed. The floor-to-ceiling windows looked out on a dark night sky. All the original woodwork in the place—mahogany and cherry, I guessed—had been immaculately maintained; they gleamed with a richness that spoke of decades of serious care and nourishment. The walls were covered with art—oils mostly—in heavily gilded frames. Most of the paintings depicted nude or half-dressed men lolling about in verdant settings. Each room in the condo was painted a different color, all in warm hues; orange morphed into yellow, yellow into red, red into ochre. What could have been an eyesore, a disaster of interior design, somehow seemed to work for Tabby. The colors flowed throughout the space, lending guests a feeling of excitement and security. Entering Tabby’s condo was like chancing upon another world, one where you wanted to stay, but just knew you were not worthy.

The living room was abuzz with conversation. What appeared to be at least fifty men had crowded into the space, and it seemed like every one of them was talking at once. The musical score to their conversation was trance music, identifiable only by its heavy bass beat.

There was a riot of color and elaborateness to the men’s attire—no one would have dared showed up without a costume. Tabby would not have been above banishing the offending guest—loudly and without mercy.

I quickly saw I was not the only one who had gone the leather route. At least three other men had traveled down the same path as I had, wearing the same outfit which would have welcomed them into the back room of any leather bar in the city. So be it.

The other costumes ranged from the fancifully elaborate—two men had hidden inside a very detailed and gorgeous white-furred unicorn—to the simply sleazy. Several men had worn next to nothing. Personally, I didn’t think a faded old jock strap, a backward baseball cap, and a pair of steel-toed boots composed much of a costume, but apparently I was the only one who felt that way. That guy, with his hirsute, muscular form, had a horde of men gathered around him. One man had wrapped himself entirely in Saran Wrap and worn nothing beneath it. I heard him announce that he had come as “leftovers” and people laughed. There was someone done up as, I suppose, the Marquis de Sade, in a frilly white shirt, tight black pants, high leather boots, and a voluminous black cape. He sported a black half mask and a cat-o-nine tails as a prop. There was another man dressed as Goofy, in the old Disney cartoons, but I never realized Goofy had such a big schlong. This guy’s hung half the length down one of his black-trousered pants. Another pair had come as Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum, all stripes and Alice in Wonderland. Along the same lines, I saw a Cheshire cat and a Mad Hatter (did they all go see Tim Burton’s 3D version of the story? I wondered). Each of those men had done their faces up to look the part, but had added an erotic element lower down, wearing latex or rubber. There was another guy clad only in a pair of ankle chains. He looked like an accountant, right down to his tortoiseshell-framed glasses, even if he was naked. Yet another wore a Spandex Batman suit and looked hotter than hell. He could save me from crime anytime. And, of course, I saw an array of cowboys, construction workers, football players, and guys who looked like they had just stepped off a Deadliest Catch boat but were, most likely, in the advertising or information technology business.

There was one guy, though, who gave me the creeps. He stood near the windows, all alone. It wasn’t so much his separateness from everyone else that was chilling, although that did have its macabre aspect. This was a party, for cryin’ out loud! No, it was his costume that made me pause and caused a frisson of fear to course through me. The guy was dressed all in black. Deep, deep black with no sheen that almost looked as if was crafted from the darkness pressing against Tabby’s windows. He didn’t have a drink in his hand. Instead, he held both arms rigidly at his sides. His hands were sheathed in a criminal’s black leather gloves.

But the most alarming thing about him was his mask. It almost looked like one of those Jason, Friday the 13th affairs—you know, a hockey mask. But this one was more elaborate, almost elegant. It appeared to have been crafted from porcelain and it nearly glowed in its paleness and pure, pure white. There were only five openings in its smooth, emotionless surface: two round holes for the eyes, a slim straight line for the mouth, and two tiny nose holes.

It was the kind of face you would not want to see looming over you should you awaken suddenly in the middle of the night. If that face was looking down at you, you’d most likely be grateful to return to whatever dream you had just exited, even if it was the fiercest nightmare.

No one had come in drag—a no-no because Tabby had a strict “no compete” clause for this party.

And there was Tabby himself, headed right toward me. Out of his costume, Tabby is a very regular-looking chubby white guy—curly brown hair, a sweet face surrounded by one too many chins, tiny eyes, and full lips. He probably stood about six-four and his was a massive form. I would guess, being realistic and not unkind, that he tipped the scales at about four hundred pounds.

There was a good reason Tabby generally forbade drag—because no one could do it like he did.

I couldn’t hold in my chortles, guffaws, and giggles as he made his way through the crowd toward me, an absurdly long and slender cigarette in one hand and a martini in the other.

Have you ever seen the movie The Bad Seed, about a horrible, angelic-looking little girl with a propensity for murder? No? Google it and check out some images from this amazing, campy film. Look especially for pictures of adorable little Rhoda, with her sweet face and blonde braids. You wouldn’t believe what that little bitch would do for a spelling medal!

Anyway, Tabby had decided this year to be Rhoda. He had a perfectly-fit blond wig with long braids down either side of his head. He must have had his white chiffon dress tailor-made (something that gargantuan and that perfect could not possibly be off-the-rack, even within the confines of a store that catered exclusively to drag queens). Every detail was perfect, right down to his black patent leather Mary Jane shoes and white, lace-trimmed anklet socks.

He was an awe-inspiring, nightmare-inducing vision.

He gave a couple of skips just before he landed in front of me, grinning impishly.

“What will you give me for a basket of kisses?” he shrieked. The line was a signature greeting for little Rhoda in the movie.

I knew the perfect comeback. “A bushel of hugs!”

We embraced and bussed one another’s cheeks. Already Tabby reeked of vodka and cigarettes. I held my friend out by his hands, sizing him up at arm’s length. “Why, my dear, you are the spitting image of Miss Patty McCormack.”

“You tell lies like that, you won’t go to heaven when you die!”

I was astute enough to recognize another line from the film and decided I spent too much time with my Roku and TV and not enough time in the arms of strange men.

“God, Tabby, I need a drink. It looks like your party is already a smashing success.”

He raised one eyebrow. “You expected anything less?”

“Of course not. Where’s the bar?”

“How could you have missed it? And her?” Tabby swirled around to indicate the bar set up in one corner of the room. Behind it, stood a dead ringer for professional wrestler John Cena, if only Mr. Cena would drop the macho front and attire himself in only a black leather thong.

“Be still my heart!”

“Isn’t she divine? Now you just wander over there and get yourself liquored up. The festivities have barely begun.”

Never one to question a direct order, I marched over to the bar and asked for a Stella Artois. The bartender was absurdly easy on the eyes, and his physical form and manly presence were already causing a stirring in my nether regions. In spite of his almost surly, pro-wrestler ambience, he turned out to be a genuinely nice guy once he smiled and began talking to me. Another surprise was that he was straight. When I asked him what he was doing at a party that could hardly be mistaken for anything but a gathering of flamboyant gay men, he gave me a straightforward, non-judgmental answer.

“The money’s good. And I got no beef with gay guys. Truth is, I do parties like this all the time. Half—maybe more—of my business comes from gay clientele.” He shrugged. “Why should I care where a guy likes to put his dick?”

My response to that would have been, “Or where they’d like you to put yours,” but I thought that might have been out of line so I stayed quiet and let him continue.

“Anyway, I probably have more fun at these parties than I do at the straight ones. You guys are generally a little more relaxed.” He gave a pointed stare at the crowd, and I nodded.

“But come on, you must get hit on all the time.”

He gave me that smile again that nearly took my breath away. I wanted to cry out, “Are you sure you’re straight? I mean, absolutely 100 percent positive?” but again I kept my own counsel.

“Yeah, I do get the occasional proposition—”

“You’re being modest.”

He ignored my comment and went on. “But I smile and tell ’em I’m taken. It’s not true—I’m having way too much fun to settle down with one woman, but most of the guys respect that.” He winked at me. “Besides, it’s flattering, you know.”

I finished my first beer, marveling at how easily, and fast, it went down. As if on cue, the bartender handed me a second Stella. “Oh I don’t know if I do know. I probably don’t fend off as many passes as you do.”

“A guy takes his compliments where he can get them. Gay, straight, man, woman—it’s just nice to be appreciated.”

“You’re one of a kind, you know that?”

“Not really.” And he smiled and nodded at the guy in line behind me. I turned and saw that a long line had formed, and I mumbled my apologies to those waiting for taking up so much of the bartender’s time. But damn—he was worthy of it, regardless of his orientation.

I made my way through the crowd, exchanging small talk with the “Tabby friends” I saw—those guys with whom I only met up on the big queen’s turf and nowhere else—complimenting them on their costumes. I leered at a few guys and got leered at a few times, which did my heart good. I got offered some coke and turned it down. I returned for yet another beer and was disappointed that I didn’t get to have another conversation with the stunning bartender, but I could see he was slammed. But he remembered what I was drinking and handed it to me as he took someone else’s order for a Cosmo.

Eventually, I ended up, as I often did, in the corner with a beer in my hand and a soft, pleasant buzz in my head, watching the party kick into high gear.

The sexual tension in the room was palpable. In one corner, a pair of guys was making out, staying just shy of actual penetration, but their mouths were locked onto each other like they were ready to eat other’s faces. Their bodies, clothed in little more than denim and latex, were grinding into one another as if they were desperate to merge into one human being. I saw many flirtatious glances that I knew, before the night was over, could erupt into something akin to the guys in the corner, or maybe even full-on sex. Remember, Tabby had a scrupulously maintained playroom, and at some point, most of the revelers would wander into it.

I also saw a lot of guys simply having a good time, blowing off steam, dancing, talking to each other, laughing. Tabby had set up Night of the Living Dead to play on his huge plasma screen and several guys watched it absentmindedly. Even I thought it was interesting how the film and the techno music went together in an eerie way.

I was sort of drifting off into my own little world, mesmerized by the zombies on the screen, when my easy buzz got interrupted. No, it got crushed, slammed to the floor, stomped into little pieces.

All because a new guest had joined the party.

You know that bartender? The one that I thought was just about the most gorgeous hunk of masculinity upon which I had ever laid eyes? Forget him. This new guy made him look like someone on a par with, I don’t know, Andy Dick, maybe?

When I saw him come into the party and remove his coat, I truly think my adrenalin surged. I felt faint. And let me tell you, honey, I thought that feeling faint at the sight of a hunky man was the exclusive device of writers of bad romances.

But it really did happen. It happened to me.

Apparently, it happened to several other people—maybe most of them—at the party as well. A hush fell over the crowd, and a multitude of heads tried to discreetly swivel toward the newcomer. It seemed like an invisible hand turned down the volume on the music too.

He was glorious. Perfect. An unrivaled specimen of masculinity nearly too beautiful to live. He stood about six-two, and his body was lean, tightly defined, and covered with satiny olive flesh that begged to be touched, if only you could find yourself worthy. His muscles spoke of quiet strength: they were there, visible, but had none of the pumped-up overkill of a gym rat who spent far too much time working on his body (and perhaps far too much money on steroids). He had a thick shock of black hair sticking up from the top of his head, while the sides and back were shaved close. A silver hoop dangled from one ear. Surveying the party, he revealed eyes so dark the pupils were lost within the irises. I felt as though if I were to tumble into those eyes, I could die happy. His lashes—the only feminine thing about him—were long and thick. His lips full and kissable. His face was chiseled, with a very fetching cleft in the middle of his chin. That touchable skin? It was almost hairless, save for thick, coarse dark hair on his forearms and calves.

And, of course, there was a lovely treasure trail leading down, across his flat stomach, and into his black leather briefs.

His costume was simple and inspired. He wore three things: the black leather bikini briefs, a pair of combat boots, and a plain leather harness to the back of which were attached two small wings—jet black and crafted from feathers.

He looked like an angel—but one that would quickly lead you to Hell. You would not protest.

My heart beat a little faster.

I am not a bad-looking guy, but I thought this guy was so far out of my league, I would be lucky if I got to say hello to him. I didn’t feel bad about that; I didn’t hate him because he was beautiful.

I am almost ashamed to say that I would have been happy simply to worship at the altar of his maleness and beauty.

So, it surprised me when I noticed he was coming my way. What could this be about? I looked behind me, but there was only the wall. Was he going to ask me how to find the restroom or the bar? Perhaps where I bought my vest? Or no, maybe he was going to see if I would point him toward the most gorgeous guy in the room, so he would know who would be best for him to flatter with his attention.

Several guys watched—out of the corners of their eyes—his progress as he made his way toward me.

My mouth dried out. My heart thundered.

Yet I managed a shy smile.

He stopped in front of me and our eyes, for several long moments, locked. A grin lifted one corner of that delicious mouth.

I grinned back, struck too stupid to think of even one word to say.

“You look like my kind of guy.”

I laughed. No, I have to be honest, I tittered like a little girl. Heat immediately rose to my face.

“That blush looks very fetching on your cheeks.” He grinned wider, exposing two rows of nearly perfect white teeth. He reached out and gently touched one of the cheeks he had just mentioned, his skin warm.

I thought my heart stopped.

My brain finally clicked into gear and reminded me that if I did not want to come across as a total dumbass, I would need to say something back to this fellow. It also told me to remember that, gorgeous as he was, he was just another man—dressed in an angel costume. A black angel. An angel whose very presence promised thrills of the most delicious, sinful depravity. Stop it now, I mentally chastised myself. Say something back to him. You don’t have to be charming, but it might be a good idea to let him know, in short order, that you have the power of speech.

So I said, “What do you mean?” I know, I know, brilliant, right? Witty repartee is my strong suit.

He cocked his head, still boring into me with those black-as-coal eyes that I believed, at that moment, really did have the power to make me melt. I even glanced down at myself for reassurance that all of me had remained in solid form.

“I mean, I could see right away you weren’t like the rest of the guys here. You were sort of off in your own little world, separate from the rest of the herd.” He cocked his head back in the direction of the other guests, who had resumed talking, dancing, and making out.

“Yeah, I tend to do that. I’m a bit of an introvert.”

He moved closer to me. I swear I could feel the heat emanating from that perfect body. “But not shy?”

Most people equate introversion with shyness, which is not always the case. Take it from one who knows. “No, not shy. Maybe a little awestruck is all.”

He laughed, and his laugh was deep bass and musical. “Awestruck? Why?”

I shrugged and realized I didn’t want to appear like some crazed teenybopper or acolyte who felt himself worthy only to kneel at the feet of this guy and worship (although that’s precisely what I wanted to do). Pull yourself together, man. At least act like you believe yourself an equal or else he really will think you’re not worthy of his attention.

So I asked him his name.

“Jeffrey.” He smiled and extended his hand.

I grasped and shook it, reveling in the touch, the firm grip, the way our eyes connected. Something electric passed through me, and for a moment, it seemed like we were the only two people in the room, despite the music, the laughter, and the roar of conversation all around us.

“I’m Stephen.”

Jeffrey nodded, grinning.

“What?”

“You gay guys.” He shook his head. “You’re always Stephen, never Steve, Robert, never Bob, Michael, never Mike.” His voice trailed off, and he seemed far too amused with me.

“So I guess it would follow that if you’re Jeffrey—not Jeff—you must be one of us?”

He winked. “That’s for me to know and you to find out.”

“I’d love to.” I moved closer to him, seriously contemplated kissing the guy, even though we had met only minutes ago. Yes, I was that smitten. I was more than ready to throw caution to the wind.

But then someone interrupted us and broke the spell. “It looks like you guys need libations.” The voice came out kind of muffled, as if the speaker was coming at us from behind a mask.

As indeed he was. I turned to see who had the nerve to take my perfect moment and just shatter it. Love-at-first-sight moments are so damn fragile!

It was the creep I had seen earlier—all in black, with that weird and spooky white porcelain mask. The guy made me want to shiver—and not with anticipation. There was something threatening about him. The cheerful voice that came out of him was completely at odds with his eerie costume. And that voice? There was something about it, something I felt I couldn’t quite put my finger on.

It was as though I had heard it before.

The annoyance I felt was written plainly across Jeffrey’s handsome face. He glared at the guy. “We were talking, man.”

“I could see that. I’m not blind.”

I shook my head, that voice again. Not only was it familiar, but it was also too cheerful and perky, creating a kind of dissonance between the threatening appearance and the homey, almost comforting sound of the voice.

I wished he would just go away.

Then Jeffrey, bless his heart, saw to it that he did just that. He grabbed my hand, and for a moment, I thought he was going to lead me away in a huff, but he was simply checking to see what kind of beer I was drinking. “Stephen here could use another Stella and I’d love a club soda with lime.” Jeffrey smiled at the intruder, and unless you looked closely, you would not discern the poison that was just behind the smile. “Since you asked.”

“Allow me, gentlemen. I will be back posthaste.”

Jeffrey rolled his eyes, and we leaned our heads in together and laughed. “Should we try to ditch him?” I whispered.

Jeffrey put his face a little closer to mine and just brushed his lips over my own. I knew I would want to get him alone somewhere very soon. There was a raw animal magnetism that simply radiated off the man that made all my common sense disappear. I wanted to see him naked—the fact that he was already almost there made the desire that much more urgent.

“No. We need our drinks.” He nipped at my left earlobe, and I thought I might come in my pants.

“You’ve got a point.” I couldn’t resist. I reached out and cupped the leather bulge hanging so invitingly between his tanned and hairy thighs.

He pulled away so sharply, I frowned, immediately sensing I had overstepped, crossed a line. That’s just like you, Stephen. Not even five minutes into meeting a hot guy and you’re on your way toward ruining things, if you already haven’t. Way to go.

Jeffrey placed a hand on my shoulder and leaned in so he could whisper, “Don’t worry, you didn’t scare me off. I just want to wait until we can get somewhere a little more private before you grab my dick. Once we find that place, you can grab all you want.” His breath was hot in my ear.

A rush of fire roared through my veins, feeling like it lit me up like a red beacon. My dick stood at such rigid attention that I thought it had to be obvious to everyone in the room. After all, I was wearing only a jockstrap and you know how that material stretches.

I was just about to whisper back to Jeffrey and maybe even indulge myself with a second little kiss when our masked man returned with our drinks, along with one for himself.

“Thank you!” I nearly shouted, in a voice so overly bright and cheerful, I was certain our masked intruder would be sure to pick up on the sarcasm in my voice.

But he didn’t.

He handed me my beer, Jeffrey his club soda, and I spied a glass of something sparkly and amber in his own black-gloved hand.

Before I took a sip of beer, I felt something warn me. The bottle, after all, was open and here I was, accepting a drink from a man whose face I couldn’t see. What if he had slipped something into it?

Oh come on now. You’re at a party. At Tabby’s. This guy was invited. Do you really think someone Tabby knows would slip you a roofie?

I looked over at Jeffrey, who was sipping his drink and didn’t seem to be feeling any ill effects. I wondered how long it would take for one to begin feeling something from the drug.

You’re being paranoid.

Still, I thought I should give myself a moment. Besides, if I removed myself from the scene, maybe our masked man would do the same.

I set my drink down on an end table. “I need to use the bathroom,” I said, looking only at Jeffrey and not the masked man, who hovered nearby. “I’ll be right back. Will you wait here for me?” I pointedly asked Jeffrey.

Did I sound desperate?

I hurried away from the pair and was glad to find the first bathroom I came to was not occupied. I ducked inside, emptied my bladder, and then—as I washed my hands—looked at my reflection in the mirror.

It was as though Jeffrey’s attention had had an effect on me, making me better looking. My color was high with a blush of rose in my cheeks. My eyes sparkled. His attentions, it seemed, had wiped years off my face and body.

Was this what falling in love felt like?

No, this is what falling in lust feels like. Your body is merely responding to the release of endorphins and added testosterone, hence the rosy cheeks and the twinkling eyes. You are in lust, that’s all. But even Martha Stewart would agree, that’s a good thing.

Someone rattled the doorknob outside, and I decided I had done enough mental talking to myself for one night. It was time for more action and less talk. “Be right out!” I shouted to the person outside. I quickly dried my hands and opened the door.

He was out there, waiting.

No, not Jeffrey, my beautiful angel, but the masked man. We stood face to face, and I started to move away from him. He turned to watch my retreat, the open door to the bathroom behind him.

I stopped, annoyed, and turned back. “I thought you needed to use the bathroom. Wasn’t that why you were rattling the doorknob?”

He chuckled, and again, I felt I had heard that laugh before. It would drive me crazy if I couldn’t place it before night’s end. He stepped in front of me, blocking my path. I could finally make out the color of his eyes through the eyeholes—they were green. His staring at me was giving me the creeps.

“What?” I hissed. “I’d like to get back to the party, if you don’t mind.”

“I was hoping I could talk to you.”

I glanced at the crowd in the living room out of the corner of my eye. I could see another guy, dressed as, I don’t know, Rooster Cogburn in True Grit, was chatting up Jeffrey. Jeffrey had his head thrown back, laughing. I looked at the masked man. You’re ruining everything, you idiot. I wanted to say the words aloud, but again, I was too nice. I couldn’t just say such a thing so bluntly to another person. But I had no trouble hiding my annoyance and my impatience.

“Well, now is not a good time. Don’t you need to go?”

He cocked his head.

“To the john? Take a piss?”

“No. I just wanted to talk to you for a minute, alone.”

A guy dressed as Darth Vader slid into the bathroom behind us, trailed by Tabby, who was shrieking drunkenly, “Remember—you fucker—you promised me a whole basket!” His blonde wig had come askew and his red lipstick was smeared.

I glanced back to where my angel stood. Rooster was treating himself to a healthy grope of Jeffrey’s left bicep. Damn.

“You know what? Find someone else to talk to ‘for a minute, alone.’ I’m not interested.” I strode away. So much for being nice.

I joined Jeffrey and Rooster in the corner of the living room, giving my new competition a good up-and-down stare. I smiled at Jeffrey and immediately regretted saying, “Miss me?” because it was so dumb.

He did me the honor of only smiling at my question and not answering it directly. I felt like an ass.

Jeffrey quickly remedied that situation. “I hate to shatter the angelic illusion, but I need to smoke.” He looked directly at me and not at Rooster. “Wanna step out on the sun porch with me?”

Rooster made a move to come with us, but Jeffrey stopped him by placing a hand on his broad, denim workshirt-clad chest. “We’ll be right back.”

We headed through the crowd, which had grown since I had been absorbed in my new love interest. Or should that be lust interest? Whatever. The crowd had nearly doubled inside, and it was a real labor to wend our way through it.

But once we got to the rear of the condo and the sunroom adjacent to the kitchen, it was blessedly cool. The sunroom had its windows partially open and was lit only by flickering candles.

“Won’t you be cold?” I wondered.

“I’ll be okay.” Jeffrey pulled a pack of Marlboros and a disposable lighter out of his boot, extracted one, lit up, and blew the smoke over my head. I am usually turned off by the idea of smoking, but at that moment, Jeffrey looked so hot, so bad boy, and so male that I felt my cock thicken and grow. I wanted to growl.

“Want one?”

I shook my head. I debated whether I should say, “No, I’d rather just watch you,” and decided that would sound stupid. I was thinking of a lot of dumb things to say tonight. At least I had the smart judgment to censor most of them before they spilled from my mouth. So I stayed mum, leaning back against the exposed brick wall, and watched him as he smoked. The man was hotter than hell. I didn’t care if his mouth did taste like an ashtray, I wanted to kiss him so bad right then, it brought me close to trembling.

I looked around the sunroom. Jesus, we are actually out here by ourselves. How long is this going to last? I waited for Jeffrey to finish his cigarette, and then I summoned up my courage and wrapped my arms around him.

He pulled back a bit, grinning and staring into my eyes.

“You’re hot,” he mumbled. “When I saw you, I knew immediately you were the one.”

“I just want to kiss you. Bad.”

He nodded. “As soon as we’re alone.”

“But we are.”

“Not really.” He gestured with a nod to the doorway behind me. I turned to look, and the masked man stood there, watching us through those creepy, shadowy eyeholes.

Fuck! What was with this guy, anyway? Why couldn’t he leave us alone?

“I just quit. But I couldn’t help notice you smoking and it looked so good. And the smell was driving me nuts. And hey—it’s a party. Would you mind if I had one?”

“One leads to two, you know.”

“I know, I know. But if I have one of yours, I won’t buy a pack, so that scenario won’t be so likely.”

I wanted to scream. Was this character following us? Following me?

Jeffrey reached down for the bright red-and-white pack and held it out to the masked man. “Don’t come crying to me when your addiction gets reawakened.”

Masked man grabbed a cigarette from the pack, put it between the slit in his mask that was barely big enough to accommodate it, and lit up. Smoke curled from the slit and the two nose holes. It looked weird, and I didn’t know whether to laugh or be afraid.

I turned back to Jeffrey. “You wanna move along?”

“Huh?”

I looked over at masked man, wishing he would go away. But I would have to resign myself that my proposition would have an audience. I had the creepy feeling that if Jeffrey did turn me down, masked man would be only too happy to take his place.

And I was so furious at him right then, there was no chance of that. I hated the way he just stood there like an idiot, smoking and watching us. Couldn’t he take a hint and realize when two guys wanted to be alone?

“You want to maybe get out of here?” I said, my voice tentative.

Jeffrey finished his smoke, looked around for an ashtray, found a tin can set out for the purpose, and dropped the butt into it. “The party’s still in full swing. Let’s go check out what else is going on.”

At least he didn’t flat-out say no. But still, I was bored with the party, irritated with the masked man, and I felt an almost overwhelming need to get Jeffrey alone, to taste him, to feel his body pressed against mine, to see what that leather thong was concealing.

I followed him back into the crowd in the kitchen, grateful to leave the masked man behind with his cigarette. Maybe now he’d leave us alone.

In the kitchen, someone bent over the granite countertop, snorting up a line of white powder I assumed was cocaine while a couple of others waited in line for their turn. There must have been a dozen long, elegant lines awaiting their nasal attention. The guy I had seen earlier in the ankle shackles leaned against the stove, gnawing on a Buffalo chicken wing, a smidgen of Ranch dressing clinging to his chin. Yet another pair crowded into the pantry. It was hard to see them in the shadows, but it looked like one guy was definitely giving the other a blowjob.

In the few minutes we had been outside, the party had gone from raucous to salacious.

This was always the way with Tabby’s gatherings.

I had an idea. I turned to Jeffrey and asked, “Is this your first Tabby party?”

He grinned and nodded.

“Then you don’t know about the playroom, right?”

“The playroom?” He cocked his head.

I grabbed his hand and pulled him along. “Come on. I’m sure the party has started in there by now. Let’s go check it out.”

It was only a short distance to the bedroom at the back of the apartment, but it took a while to get there because of the crowd pressing in. I was certain many of the guys there now were party crashers because a lot of them were dressed in nothing more elaborate than jeans and T-shirts. The playroom might have been in the back, but the sexual fun had spilled well beyond its confines. Groups of guys were gathered in threes and fours, with their pants around their knees or ankles, staring into one another’s drug-fueled eyes while stroking their meat. Some were kissing. Others, like the guys in the pantry, were engaged in more serious oral contact.

We finally made it to the back of the apartment and the black-painted door that led into Tabby’s playroom. From behind the door, we could clearly hear moans, groans, grunts, and lots of heavy breathing. “Fuck yeah!” Someone shouted in a deep, bass voice.

“You ready for this?” I eyed Jeffrey, one hand on the doorknob. There was something different in his expression, and I couldn’t quite discern what it was. Fear? Disgust? Anticipation?

Let’s go with the latter. I wanted to get Jeffrey excited voyeuristically and let him take his passion out on me. Yes, Old Mr. Lust had crept in and shoved away any pretense I had for romance. I wanted to hop on that sling I knew was set up and feel Jeffrey sliding deep inside me.

I could imagine no greater pleasure.

I opened the door, and things were pretty much as I imagined. The room was filled almost to capacity with naked men, of all different ages, and in all different colors and sizes. There were muscle-bound gym rats, skinny tweakers, overweight middle-aged men who looked like they’d be singing in their church choirs tomorrow morning. All of them were engaged in some sort of sexual conduct. Blowjobs were being freely given and received everywhere, and they were all in different stages of progress—from the first tentative licks applied lovingly to an engorged purple head, to the cries of an African-American man as he was showered with the loads of two guys at the same time, the semen looking white, almost phosphorescent, on his skin.

There was a redhead in the sling, getting pounded mercilessly by a hairy salt-and-pepper daddy, who drew his cock almost all the way out, then slammed it back in so hard it rattled the chains attaching the leather sling to its frame. A line of about six guys waited for their turn with the redhead. All of this had me practically creaming in my jock. I looked down to see its cotton surface stained dark with pre-cum. The scene was straight out of Hieronymus Bosch—a gay Garden of Earthly Delights. For just a moment, I nearly forgot Jeffrey stood behind me. I turned to look back at him, expecting, and hoping, to see his dark eyes glazed over with lust, his mouth partially open as he panted. I wanted him to pull me into the room, rip my clothes from my body, and push me down on the tacky shag carpeting covering the floor and have his way with me, viciously and over and over again.

But that was not what I saw.

V

Jeffrey was looking away from the room, as if it were too bright in there, like what he was seeing hurt his eyes. I realized that, in spite of his costume, Jeffrey was not as jaded as I had assumed. It all came together then—his reticence about kissing me when others were around, the way he drew away from me if there was any chance of someone watching, and his desire to get me alone.

Jeffrey was shy. No. Jeffrey was decent, a good guy, one who preferred his sexual congress to be private, no matter how alluring he had made himself look on this night.

I didn’t know whether to be glad or disappointed. Because, to be honest, I was really hoping to wander into that playroom with him, to put on a true spectacle among spectacles and to have my way with Jeffrey in the wildest and rawest possible way.

Yet another part of me thought differently. Maybe this Jeffrey could be your Mr. Right as opposed to your Mr. Right Now. You’ve had a string of Mr. Right Nows, a longer string than you maybe even care to admit to yourself, so perhaps the time has come to find the one.

Isn’t that what Jeffrey called you earlier—the one?

I grinned up at him. Have I mentioned he was taller than I was? The grin was one part embarrassment for the obvious eagerness I displayed to get in and get down in that playroom, the other was gratitude that Jeffrey was not that kind of guy.

I couldn’t help myself. I took one last, longing look back into the room. Amid the mingled sweat-slicked and tattooed bodies, I saw something that gave me a chill. Not because it was scary—but simply because it was so weird.

And creepy, in an evil clown sort of way.

Tabby sat in a shadowed corner of the room, watching the goings-on with an air of feigned indifference, although his slack jaw and moist lips told a different story. He had removed the blond, pigtailed wig, and his hair was plastered to his head by sweat, which also poured down from his hairline, making his whole face shiny. I wondered how much of that coke I had seen in the kitchen he had consumed. This was not the jovial, out-of-control joker who had greeted me at the door.

He still wore the white chiffon dress, but it was now bunched up around his waist, exposing his fat, hairy belly and a limp dick, which he feverishly worked as he watched the other men sucking and fucking.

With his other hand, he fanned himself lazily, like some Southern belle, with a fan of black feathers.

That’s what really froze me, because simultaneously with the sight of the feathered fan, a few words popped into my consciousness from out of nowhere:

I’ve been inside your house.

All at once, I remembered the card with the feather on it and the disturbance at my place about a month ago.

Could it have been... Tabby?

No.

It wasn’t possible.

The fan was a mere coincidence.

What reason on earth would Tabby have to scare me like that? He was my friend, had been for years.

Yet, the Tabby I saw before me right now was a man I didn’t know. A bug-eyed, drug-addled pervert who, I suddenly realized, held these elaborate parties with their licentious climaxes so that he could get a voyeuristic thrill.

I had never seen Tabby once—not in all the years I had been coming to his wild parties cum orgies—touch another man. Come to think of it, he always watched.

Maybe he hated us all. For touching...

I suddenly felt not only creeped out, but also manipulated, as though all of us there were mere players to Tabby’s fantasy, a real-live porno that he could stroke to.

Did he really think so little of us?

Something else flashed in my mind as well, the newspaper headlines I had seen and paid not enough attention to over the past few months. There was a series of murders in Chicago, all gay men, all alone in either their apartments or secluded public places, like empty public restrooms or back alleys. The press was beginning to call them the “Stranger Danger” murders.

No.

Tabby might be a lot of things. But he was no killer. The thought was laughable.

All of this went through my mind in a matter of seconds. I looked away from Tabby and back at Jeffrey with relief.

“Sorry about that. I didn’t realize just how wild things would be in there.” So what if it was a lie? I was shaken and didn’t want to add to my unease by worrying about what Jeffrey thought of me. That he thought I was, well, like them. I shut the door partially on the scene.

“It’s okay,” Jeffrey said. “I’m just not much of an exhibitionist. I like getting my guys alone.” He smiled at me, and once again, everything was right with the world.

Until it wasn’t.

The masked man was coming down the corridor, headed straight for us.

Oh Lord, why, why, why? I glared at him, hoping he was headed for the playroom. Maybe once he was inside, I could finally convince Jeffrey to come back to my place.

But I could see he was bearing down on us, no doubt about it.

“Hot scene in there?” he said through his mask once he landed in front of us.

“Yeah. Flaming hot. You should go check it out.”

He peered over my shoulder, then turned his masked face back to us. “My, my! What would their mothers think?” He laughed again, and the familiarity of it sent a stab of annoyance through me. Where had I heard that voice before?

Perhaps, I answered myself, inside your house.

Was this someone I knew? I longed to reach over and pull the mask up, so that it would rest atop his head, so I could see his face and then maybe everything would click into place.

Why don’t you just do it, then? What’s he going to do? Slap you? Or, better, why don’t you simply ask him who he is? Tell him his voice sounds familiar, but you can’t place it.

But something ate at me, and that was: why didn’t he just tell me who he was, if we were, indeed, acquainted enough for me to at least recognize his voice? If I had heard that voice before, then surely the logical end to that scenario was that he had heard mine. Since he could clearly see my face, he must know who I am. So why didn’t he come out and say, “Hello, Stephen. Enjoying the party?”

But he didn’t. And that’s what bothered me.

Suddenly, I was very tired of it all. The party. The masked man and the questions that came along with his dark frame and expressionless, stone-white face. I was sick of wondering who had been inside my house and trying to figure out if it was someone at this very party. I was bored with all the sex going on around me—the drug use, the reveling. Especially when I was not engaged in any of the above.

I sighed, looked away from the masked man and back at Jeffrey, who was staring away from me, as though he was lost in thought.

Why was he hanging around me anyway? Other than sticking by my side, he had not showed that much genuine interest in me. Aside from a brief kiss that didn’t even let me taste his tongue, I had no real reason to think I would be leaving with him that night.

I came to a decision. I would ask Jeffrey if he wanted to get out of here now. My destination of choice would be my place or his, but I could even be coerced to find a quiet bar where we could have a drink and get to know each other.

But this would be a test. If he was interested, he would agree to come along with me. After all, the truth was, in spite of my uncertainty about his feelings toward me, he had shown little interest in anyone or anything else at the party. So, if he didn’t want to get out of here with me, so be it. I would go home alone.

Or I would drop by the bathhouse on Clark Street, or stop at Big Chicks on my way north. Maybe I would still find someone who wanted to come home with me.

And if I didn’t? So what? I’d get a good night’s sleep, provided no one broke into my apartment and took the chef’s knife from its block.

The last thought caused an icy frisson of fear to travel through me, and I knew I wasn’t so cavalier about Jeffrey coming with me.

I didn’t want to be alone tonight.

I turned to Jeffrey, caught his gaze. He grinned at me. What was I afraid of? Of course he’d come with me.

I leaned in, placing a hand on his muscular shoulder, you know the one—that looked like he had stuffed half a grapefruit under the smooth skin? “Look,” I whispered. “This whole scene is getting a wee bit tired for me. You wanna get out of here?”

He leaned back a little, looking me up and down. I felt as though I was being appraised.

And then he said the magic word, the word that turned the evening from a vague disappointment into one that was full of promise and possibility.

“Okay. Let’s go.”

He took my hand in his, and we left the masked man standing in the hallway, his gaze burning into my back. I turned and called over my shoulder to him, “Have fun.” This last part was just to ensure he was not expected to join us.

Still, I worried that he would follow us down the hallway to Tabby’s regular bedroom, the one with the king-size bed and the leather headboard and fluffy down comforter, with its mountains of pillows. That’s where everyone had thrown his coat when the party started.

Jeffrey sorted through the pile on the bed and pulled out a long, black leather trench coat, shiny and looking as though it would go almost to his ankles. He removed the wings from his harness and shrugged into the coat. I could see why he had worn it; it covered all his exposed skin. Sad but practical.

He stuffed his wings into a black leather backpack and hoisted it over his shoulders.

I found my own jacket, long enough to cover my bare ass and package, sheathed in its jock strap.

“Ready?”

“Oh yeah.”

We started out of the bedroom. I was full of optimism.

I felt like someone was following us as we made our way to the front door. But when I looked back, there was no one there.

VI

Once we were outside, I felt even better, like I could breathe again. The night air had turned even colder while we were at the party, and I leaned into Jeffrey’s sizable form for warmth and connection. The wind, from off the lake, had picked up, sending plastic bags and other bits of trash tumbleweeding down the deserted street.

I suppose we were lucky. I guessed the temperature to be somewhere in the upper thirties or low forties, balmy for Chicago in February.

Jeffrey slid his arm around my shoulder. Finally, I was getting a little affection from him! Maybe he was just shy—and perhaps I was right about him not being much of an exhibitionist.

He leaned his mouth close to my ear, his breath hot. “Did you drive?” he asked.

“No, I’m afraid we’ll have to depend on the good old CTA. Unless you have a car?” I paused for a moment. He shook his head.

There was no way to get from point A to point B without simply asking. “So, you want to come by my place for a while?”

“You guys. You all think the same.” He shook his head, and I withered inside. Had I overstepped? Was I moving too fast? But then, he must have understood when I asked him to leave the party that home—his or mine—would be an ultimate destination. At last, he put me at ease when he smiled and said, “Sure.”

We headed down the street, toward the L stop.

As we walked, we passed a dark, shadowy alley. Jeffrey paused and looked down it. “Wait,” he said softly. “I want to kiss you. Can we have a moment alone?” He nodded toward the mouth of the passageway, filled with darkness and blessed emptiness.

I, of course, was only too happy to respond in the affirmative to such an offer.

We started down the brick-paved alley, the shadows engulfing us.

After we had traversed about half its length, Jeffrey pushed me against a brick wall—the back of an apartment building. It was dark and cold. I really just wanted to hurry to the L stop, get on board, and travel safely to my apartment on Sherwin Avenue.

But if Jeffrey had other ideas, well, in spite of the cold, that could be exciting, too.

He leaned into me and his lips found mine. He kissed me passionately. Yet, when I attempted to open his mouth with my tongue, he kept it firmly closed. What was with this guy and French kissing, anyway? Were we not going to get into any deep kissing the whole night? Good looking as Jeffrey was, I didn’t know if I would be into that. Kissing had always been the high point of any encounter for me.

I kept my eyes closed, trying to settle for this mashing of our mouths together. Jeffrey was hot and the pressure of his mouth against mine, along with the feel of his hard, muscular frame glued to mine was intense and erotic.

Jeffrey paused to struggle out of the backpack and set it on the ground beside us.

“Getting more comfortable?” I whispered. I don’t know why I was keeping my voice soft. The night was late, and it seemed as though there was no one around us for miles. Even the noise of traffic on nearby Clark Street had slowed to the sound of a lone car every few seconds.

“Yes,” he whispered back and leaned in again to kiss me.

Then he stopped.

“Let’s move over there.” He nodded toward a Dumpster. He took my hand and led me to a small alcove between the dumpster and the brick wall next to it. He pushed me into the alcove, smiling the whole time.

A rat scurried out of our path.

“You boys,” he huffed, “are so trusting.” He set his backpack on top of the dumpster. The garbage within stunk, and I was feeling, paradoxically, grossed out by the smell, and the hot possibilities of what was about to happen. Was he going to fuck me right here in the alley? Demand a blowjob? I was up for either one. And ashamed of myself for not insisting we go somewhere more private.

Before I had a chance to think about what he was saying, he leaned into me again, rubbing himself against me while, with one hand, he unzipped the backpack. From his movements, I could discern that he was taking something out of the pack. Poppers? Condom? Lube?

I opened my eyes and looked to my left where the dumpster was.

And froze.

Jeffrey was pulling a knife out of the backpack. It was a hunting knife, and its silver caught the dull light of the moon above for just an instant. The blade was long, culminating in a wicked-looking hook at the end, perfect for gutting. I tried to swallow and found the saliva in my mouth had vanished almost simultaneously with the appearance of the blade.

Oh my God. All at once, my heart rate increased, a line of sweat trickled from my hairline and coursed down my back, crawly. I thought immediately of the wings and the black feathers.

I thought of headlines about the “Stranger Danger” killer and how one of the victims was found, Jack the Ripper style, slit to ribbons in an alley.

I thought of the words: I’ve been inside your house.

I wanted to scream, but the shriek lodged in my throat. I could only whimper, pushing my hands against that massive, strong chest I had so admired and now could see would be my downfall, pinned as I was against a brick wall at my back and right side, a huge metal dumpster on my left.

He lifted the knife up and smiled at me—that perfect, beautiful smile, so completely alluring and innocent. The last thing I would see?

“What are you doing? Please... no.” I managed to say, my words coming out in a rush of constricted air. How long would it take? Would it hurt? Was there any way I could talk my way out of this? Fight my way out of it?

I pushed against his chest and realized it was like pushing against the brick wall at my back. Jeffrey was strong and I was not. I thought mournfully of the times I had considered going to the gym and then thrown it over in favor of having a dirty martini at Sidetracks or just vegging out on my couch.

“Please,” I whimpered. Tears were rolling down my face. I couldn’t recall when they had begun.

He pushed against me with his body, pinning me to the wall. The brick scratched against my back. I beat against his chest, trying to wriggle from his forceful grasp, hoping to slide out from beneath him. It was all I could do, and at the very least, my frantic movements were preventing him from getting a good enough purchase so he could plunge the knife into my chest or throat.

“Hold still!” Jeffrey said between angrily clenched teeth. “You did want to get penetrated, didn’t you?” His giggle was high-pitched and made my bowels feel loose with terror.

I summoned up all the strength I could find, all the muscle my racing heart and surging adrenaline had given me, and shoved. My movement did cause Jeffrey to lose his footing and stumble backward.

But not for long enough to do anything to save myself. He lurched back at me, the hunting knife raised high.

I cowered against the wall, eyes shut tight, and prayed for it all to be over quickly.

There was a hot sear of pain down my chest, followed by a rush of blood. Was that all there was? Being stabbed to death didn’t really hurt that bad, thank God. I heard a grunt and through my blurred vision, saw what I thought was a dark shape behind Jeffrey and I noticed a quick movement. It was almost like a wraith, a shadow separating itself from the darkness.

And then I saw a flash of white face. A mask?

The masked man! Was he an accomplice?

Or my savior?

I began to slide down, down, the rough brick and mortar scraping against my back as my knees buckled.

Almost simultaneously, Jeffrey lifted the knife higher, preparing, I suppose, to plunge it into my chest and still my hammering heart. My vision, going in and out, clarified for just an instant, and I watched as the masked man lifted something heavy above his own head. It was a cinder block.

The masked man brought the concrete rectangle down hard and decisively on Jeffrey’s head. There was a thud and a squishing sound as the block made solid impact. He fell away, freeing me. I stayed curled on the bricks of the alley in an almost fetal position.

I looked up at the masked man, who was pulling the white oval away from his face.

Who was it?

That question would have to wait, as an unrelenting blackness rose up from within, to claim me and deliver me from this horror.

When I came to again, I started heaving, laughing and crying at the same time. The now unmasked man stood in front of me, hands at his sides, staring.

The mask sat atop his head. Even in the dim light, I could see his face.

And I knew where I had heard that voice before.

“Tom? Tom Horton?” I struggled to at least get to my knees, not sure I could just yet manage a full-standing position.

He nodded, and a terrified but relieved grin spread across his features. It had been my neighbor, my one-date wonder, trailing me throughout the night. But I couldn’t help but ask, “How did you know?”

He didn’t answer. He squatted down beside me and placed his hands on my shoulder. “Don’t worry about that now. Call it a hunch. But something wasn’t right.”

I tried to get up, and Tom pushed me back down to the dirty ground. “I’m afraid if you get up, you’ll just pass out and hurt yourself. Stay here.” He pushed me more firmly into the alley floor and standing back up, pulled out his cell phone. “I’m calling the police, and getting an ambulance here for you.”

It made me remember. I was dying. I had been stabbed. I almost wanted to laugh. Who goes out to a party thinking they’ll be stabbed to death by the end of the evening? It seemed ludicrous. Unreal. Something that happened in one of those slasher movies I so enjoyed.

I reached down groggily to my chest, and my hand came away sticky, warm, and wet. Like a child, I held my hand up in wonder to Tom. Was this what shock felt like? Was I about to die, the life running out of me onto the bricks?

“It’s just a small flesh wound,” Tom said quickly. “I made him miss. Could have been worse if you weren’t wearing that jacket.” Someone on the other end picked up the call, and Tom started telling whoever it was where we were and what had happened.

Behind Tom, I could see Jeffrey begin to stir. He was trying to pull himself up. Tom chattered on into the phone completely unaware. I watched in horror as Jeffrey reached for his hunting knife, which lay, just out of reach, on the pavers.

I wanted to say something but found my capacity for forming words failed me. I reached out with a foot to try to nudge Tom’s calf—and succeeded. He looked behind him and, with the phone still at his ear, stomped on Jeffrey’s outstretched and grasping hand. Jeffrey groaned and crumpled back to the pavement. Tom bent to take the knife, holding it gingerly by its very tip, and set it on top of the dumpster, out of reach.

He squatted down beside me again and reached out to tenderly stroke my face. “You’re gonna be okay. Help is on its way.”

I wanted to thank him, to say something that would let him know the enormous gratitude I felt for him saving my life, but these thoughts at that time, were not so clear and I was certainly incapable of translating my emotions into coherent words.

All I could do was nod, and then everything went dark again.

––––––––

VII

“Where do you keep your cheese grater?” Tom peered out at me from the kitchen. He was making me dinner, and the smell of tomatoes, garlic, and basil filled my apartment like some sort of Italian fog, making my mouth water.

I called from the couch, where he had insisted I “stay put” while he fixed supper, “There’s a can of grated cheese in the fridge.” My mother used the stuff that came in the green can. If it was good enough for her, it was good enough for me. And Tom.

“Honey, you won’t want to eat that crap once you taste Parmigiano-Reggiano, freshly grated.” He moved a few more steps into the living room, a wooden spoon in his hand. He even wore an apron someone had bought me long ago, which bore the legend, “Kiss the Cock.” Yes, you read that right.

He looked adorable. And I might just follow that apron’s instructions before our night together was through. I couldn’t imagine a tastier dessert recipe than those three words.

I guess I was a little distracted, because Tom stood over me, with an expectant look on his face and his hands on his hips. “Well?”

“Well, what?” I laughed. Maybe the three glasses of red wine he had poured for me while he was cooking were not helping me to think clearly either.

“A grater?”

“Check in the cupboard next to the stove, on the left. I think there’s a box grater up there.”

“Thank you.” Tom leaned down to give me a quick kiss of gratitude, pressing on my chest as he did so.

“Ouch!” I cried, struggling away from him.

He stood quickly, back stiff. “Oh God, I’m so sorry. I wasn’t thinking.”

“It’s okay. It’s been a couple of weeks, but it still hurts if you press on it.” I smiled to show him there was no real harm done, but my chest, from where I had been stabbed, still throbbed with the pressure from Tom’s hands and his leaning his body weight against it.

“I’m really sorry.”

“Don’t worry about it. Just promise me you’ll still kiss me and hug me.”

Tom grinned, and for a moment, I failed to understand why he hadn’t impressed me on our single date, so many months ago. Now I was completely smitten. And—I thought—as he walked away, returning to the kitchen, he had a damn fine ass, like a little ledge pushing out his Levi’s.

He called over his shoulder, “You have absolutely no worries there.”

Cora passed him on his way back to the kitchen, her toenails clicking on the hardwood. She paused at the couch, judging the distance of the jump, hopped up, and settled in beside me. In moments, her eyes closed and she was snoring.

I leaned back into the couch and took a sip of wine. I swallowed it slowly, savoring its dark, almost smoky flavor with its hint of blackberry, and closed my eyes.

It had been two weeks since Jeffrey McDonald had tried to kill me in an alley running parallel to Clark Street. Jeffrey McDonald, the “Stranger Danger” killer, the one who had taken the lives of three of my gay brethren, who were not as lucky as I was. He was the killer with the hot body and the disarming smile. The murderer who preyed on the gay men he consorted with, but secretly hated, perhaps because deep inside of himself, he hated his desires toward his own sex.

I put my feet up on the coffee table and remembered how hot I had been for Jeffrey, how trustingly I had followed him into that alley. In my darkest moments and in my most fearsome nightmares, I played out how that night would have gone had not Tom followed us from the party, acting on equal parts jealousy, suspicion, and intuition.

I imagined, or dreamed, of him stabbing me, that alluring smile never wavering. Images of a spreading pool of blood disappearing into the bricks of the alley stayed with me. I thought of him walking away, wiping my blood from his hunting knife on that long black coat. I wondered if he would have felt some satisfaction. Would he have been happier? Would there have been some kind of release for him?

Thankfully, those questions were all academic now. A bitter part of me wished I could say it was because Jeffrey had died that night, due to the severe head trauma administered by the guy who now made spaghetti and meatballs in my kitchen. But I guess it was the next best thing that he now lay in a coma at John H. Stroger Jr. Hospital, his room under constant police guard for that moment when he might rise up out of whatever hell danced behind his sleepy eyes.

I didn’t know what would happen to him if he ever did wake, but I was pretty sure he’d never be able to get to me—or Tom, or anyone—again.

Tom took his bravery and heroics in stride, preferring that I not bring up that fateful night. I did ask him to tell me how he knew, and he was always vague.

“I guess I just had some intuition that there was something that wasn’t right about that guy. There was something he radiated that most of you at the party didn’t see because he was so damn good to look at. You were all blinded to the deadness in his eyes. Besides, I told you before—and I think you thought I was crazy—but I really believe I’ve always been a little bit psychic. My grandma was that way too. Not like see-into-the-future stuff, but just a stronger sense than the average person has about other people, maybe just the ability to ‘read’ others a little more deeply. I don’t know.”

I smiled when I remembered Tom sheepishly admitting to me, that night that now seemed so long ago, as we rode home in a taxi from St. Joseph’s emergency room, that he also had other reasons for hanging around us that night, for following us when we left.

“I guess it makes me kind of a creep, a bit of a stalker, but damn it! I had thought you were just about the most gorgeous guy I had ever laid eyes on, and I had it bad for you from the very first moment I saw you in our building’s lobby. That night, when I realized we were going to the same party, I was determined to get another chance at you.

“So yeah, I was jealous and wanted to cock block this asshole who was taking up all your time and attention.”

I remember Tom’s grin after he made the admission, the appellate look in his eyes. I shook my head with the memory.

Someone saves your life, out of love, out of jealousy, out of psychic vibes—whatever. That act alone creates a pretty strong connection. Add to it the fact that Tom was cute, in a nerdish sort of way, and that he was head over heels for me, and you have the start of something. Maybe the start of something big.

The story of how I met my man is probably not one we’ll tell our grandkids. At least not until they’re older.

“Supper’s ready!” Tom called from the kitchen.

And I stood up, breathing in the rich aromas of the dinner he had laid out on a candlelit table.

I was glad he was inside my house.

*  *  *

Get to know more about Rick R. Reed at rickrreedreality.blogspot.com.

Paris:
Marko Realmonte

Côte d'Azur

I’d never felt this lonely before.

The trip was a mistake, of course, a desperate, heartfelt blunder. I’d thought that a month in Europe would help me start living again, but it only made the pain and the loss feel more nostalgic. I didn’t want to forget Matthew, far from it, but I wanted to be able to move through a day without being reminded of him every hour.

It was February in the south of France, so Hotel Le Méridien was practically vacant. The crowds had left the resorts and returned to their lives in Paris and beyond. Dozens of wooden loungers sporting blue and white cushions sat deserted along the private beach. It was here that I would venture each morning to be alone with my thoughts and a warm croissant. Staring into the Mediterranean, smelling the fresh pastry and sea air, I’d dig my feet into the wet pebbles and wonder why I came here. France was Matthew’s favorite destination, not mine.

I was sitting alone when I first glimpsed the young man, running at the water’s edge. He looked over at me, waved, and continued on his way. That was a friendly gesture, I thought. He can’t possibly be French.

In the afternoon, the fog would roll into the Baie des Anges and I’d go to my suite to have a hot bath and dress for dinner. The service was excellent at the enclosed rooftop restaurant, the other guests were few, and the waiters were forgiving of my terrible accent.

Most evenings I’d spend reading old novels in the downstairs lounge or drinking Cognac with Louis, the concierge. I must have seemed like a sad and lonely fellow because I occasionally felt looks of pity aimed in my direction by the maids and clerks. There were nights when I would wake, salt air coming in through the open window, and find that I had been crying in my sleep.

As the days passed, it grew colder, and the newspaper warned of a great storm approaching. The staff had dwindled to a skeleton crew, so it was time to seek refuge in the capital. There were just a few things I still wanted to do. I’ve never met a writer who didn’t love bookstores, especially the cluttered, independent ones. The brick-and-mortar shops have become our temples, sacred ground, especially now that there are so few of them. Rare treasures could be found in such places if you’re willing to hunt and dig. I’d made my way to The Thierry Margo to see what was hidden.

It was there, as I perused the stacks of books looking for nothing in particular, that I was found. The stranger pretended to browse as he peeked at me over dust jackets. It had been a long time since I’d felt myself being cruised but that was unmistakably what was happening. I saw the rush of blond curls and a perfect smile as he rounded the corner. He smelled like soap and clean linen sheets.

It was playful and mischievous, and I couldn’t help but pursue him through the aisles, but then he stopped short, turned, and faced me head-on. We both laughed, then I looked away. I shouldn’t be flirting with a young man, let alone be chasing him. He assessed me from top to bottom, making some mental calculations, then he scurried past and left the shop. Maybe I had misread the whole encounter, or perhaps I’d failed the test. It wouldn’t be the first time the music stopped and I was left standing.

The outing wasn’t a total loss because I’d managed to find a vintage two-volume set of The Little Prince. It had Antoine de Saint-Exupéry’s original French text and watercolors, as well as the 1943 Katherine Woods translation. It was a gem of a find as the Woods version is much more poetic than the nine more recent English attempts. Triumphantly I brought it to the front counter.

“Ah,” the bookseller sighed, “this man was a genius.”

“I agree.”

“C’est tellement mystérieux, le pays des larmes!” he quoted.

“It’s truly mysterious, the land of tears,” I answered.

“The French version is superior in every way,” he said, carefully wrapping my purchase.

“Of course, it is. Merci.” Just before leaving, I turned back to the owner. “By any chance, did you know that young man?”

“Qui?” he asked, wiping the glass tabletop.

“The one who just left. Blond, he passed right behind me.”

The shopkeeper looked repulsed. “Local urchin,” he replied. “He comes in every week and never buys so much as a magazine. I think he’s a shoplifter.”

There are worse things than being a book thief, I thought. On impulse, I adjusted my schedule to stay an extra day on the Riviera, just in case. So, with nothing better to do, I hiked up a sandy embankment where a grove of Holm oak stood, and I could see the entire bay laid out.

My misery would only be complete by spending Valentine’s Day alone in the most romantic city in the world, then I would fly back to Los Angeles, a city that catered to lonely misfits. I caught myself waiting for him, searching the faces on the sidewalk and in the bistros. Like all obsessions, this was irrational, but I felt if I could see that smile again my spirits would be lifted. I strolled along the Promenade des Anglais, then as luck would have it, I spotted him coming out of the Musée Matisse with an older gentleman. The handsome stranger’s hair was slicked back with pomade, and he wore a leather bomber jacket. I became profoundly self-conscious, so I hid in an alleyway to avoid being caught spying.

Who was the man? His father? He looked old enough to be his grandfather. Or maybe the gentleman was a client. There was a possibility worth considering. I wondered if I could even afford such beauty. The man placed his hand low on the lad’s back, helped him into a Jaguar, and then they sped away.

Well, that’s that, I thought. I’ll never see him again and I’ve wasted enough of my vacation pining for a strange teenager. It was time to move on, at least that’s what people have been telling me since Matthew’s funeral.

Couchette

I arrived at the Gare de Nice just as the torrential weather system was entering southern France. It was the biggest storm of the year, encompassing Europe with snow and freezing rain stretching from Sweden to Spain. The gaudy Louis XIII-styled station was completed in 1867 with a canopied forged-steel roof to protect passengers from foul weather, but the cacophony of hail pounding the skylights was frightening, so I was eager to get onboard.

A young porter carried my luggage to a private compartment. When I tipped him I couldn’t help but think of another smile, then I faintly heard Matthew’s voice speaking English in the corridor. “Impossible,” I mumbled, but I could smell his cologne. In that instant, panic seized me, tightening my throat. I wanted to just disappear, to evaporate into the upholstery so that he couldn’t see how miserable I’d become.

Matthew is dead, you fool, I told myself, feeling lost and ashamed.

The whistle blew, we departed, and I remembered my fondness for trains. I once toured the continent in my teens with nothing but a backpack, my dreams, and a Eurail Pass. Those were happier times when I had a sense of balance and destination. It was only recently that I’d been chasing the wind.

The sound of the storm and the motion of the carriage lulled me to sleep, and when I awoke, hours later, the beautiful young man was lying in the bunk beside me.

How did this happen? By what twist of fate had he ended up on this train? And in my compartment? It seemed far too convenient to be a coincidence.

He’d brought a backpack which looked to be his only luggage. I simply stared at the sleeping passenger, not quite believing my eyes. Long blond hair curled behind his ears, a face that was beautifully chiseled, smooth, and slightly blushed. English or Irish, I imagined 18, maybe 19, no older. He wore American jeans that were frayed but clean. As I listened to his steady breathing, my mind raced. He’d clearly been following me, but why? Was he looking for money? Where was his family? Young people rarely traveled alone. The idea that I was being stalked seemed ridiculous because he looked so innocent, so harmless.

Before I could stop myself, I'd touched the stranger's face, leaning down to smell the scrubbed freshness of his skin as my finger gently traced his forehead and cheek. He was irresistible, but I felt guilty, like a naughty six-year-old touching the frosting on a birthday cake. As I picked up his hand, so warm and soft, my heart pounded.

He started to stir, and I became embarrassed, but he only moved closer until his head was resting against my shoulder. This is an angel, I thought, sent to take away my desolation. As the idea crossed my mind, the stranger squeezed my hand.

I didn't know this person, but I loved him. Worlds and years separated us, but still, I hoped that it might work, at least for now, just until he returned to his own.

The train continued to rumble its way north, but I couldn't go back to sleep. I dared not look away for fear he would simply vanish. I watched his silhouette reflected in the dark windowpane of the carriage while the tempest roared outside. There were so many questions, but I was happy to listen to the thunderstorm. I knew from experience that silence was better than a truth you couldn't bear, and anything was better than a lie.

A whistle blew and the young man roused. He unclasped my hand and rubbed his eyes.

“Bonsoir,” I said. “Parlez-vous Anglais?”

“What?” the stranger asked, still half asleep.

“I was wondering if you spoke English.”

“I’m from New Orleans,” he said with a drawl. “So, yes.”

He pronounced it Naw Or-lins, in that sexy, southern way.

“I'm glad. My French isn't great.”

“You should hear mine. These people hate Louisiana Creole.”

I nodded. Of the many things the French are picky about, their language tops the list. He stared at me, and he seemed, with his pale blue eyes, to also be asking something. I felt self-conscious, nervously touching the buttons on my winter coat and looking at my feet.

“I was watching you,” he said, finally. “In Nice.”

I nodded as he pressed his nose against the dark glass.

“Whopper of a storm tonight.”

“How old are you?”

“Why’s it matter?” he asked, smirking. “How old are you?”

“I’m 38,” I answered.

“Well, I just celebrated my 18th, and so’s ya’ know, the age of consent in France is 15,” he announced.

I smiled. “That’s a fun fact. I’m Trent Reynolds,” I said, offering my hand again.

“Alex Jordan.”

We spoke for an hour about nothing in particular. The monster storm, my writing, colleges he was thinking about attending. He’d finished high school, so he was taking a gap year to see what was out in the world. Alex had been in Europe since June and said he’d know when it was time to leave.

“And why are you here in the off-season?”

I knew we’d arrive at the topic sooner or later. “I needed a change of scenery,” I said. “I’m mourning the loss of my partner.”

He nodded thoughtfully. “I thought you might be en d'oeuille. Is that why you’re always wearing black?”

It was odd, until that moment it hadn’t registered that I’d packed two suitcases full of nothing but black and dark grey clothing. “Black is slimming.”

Alex giggled.

“Where did you spend Christmas?” I asked.

“England.”

“That must have been nice.”

He nodded and just as I was about to prattle on about Dickens and London the train came to a screeching halt. “That’s weird,” I said.

“Where are we?”

“The back of beyond. Maybe the track is blocked. I’m going to find out what’s going on. Do you want to come?”

He shook his head. “I’ll stay cuddled here.”

If the train was at a station, I was going to disembark and buy groceries. The Intercités food trolley wasn't exactly gourmet fare. “Is this a scheduled stop?” I asked a female attendant as I made my way forward.

The middle-aged woman shook her head and crooked a finger at me. “No. A passenger committed suicide,” she whispered.

“What?”

She nodded. “It’s why we’ve stopped. They have to remove the body from the train.”

I looked out the window into the howling gale. We were stopped at a rustic station in the countryside where the solitary building read Gare de Saulon.

“How horrible,” I said, trying to work out the logistics. “Why did he do it?”

The woman shrugged. “He was an Englishman.”

As if that was motive enough.

I decided to brave the weather and go shopping. Luckily, I found just what I wanted at the station, and after paying an exorbitant amount, I took the gift basket back onboard. By the time I reached my compartment, it was clear that Alex had already been questioned by the authorities. “Hello,” I said to the short, uniformed Frenchman holding our passports.

“Monsieur,” he answered, taking my hand. “I am Commandant LeBeau. You’ve no doubt heard what has happened?”

“Only rumors,” I said. “A suicidal passenger.”

“Oui. A dead one. The boy has just told me that you and he are traveling together. Is that correct?”

I glanced in Alex’s direction, but his blond head was staring down at his scuffed Ferragamo loafers. “Obviously,” I replied. “We’re Americans.”

The detective had one of those pencil mustaches, so it was difficult to take him seriously. “Are you family? Your surnames are different.”

Now I was afraid of being caught saying something that contradicted whatever tale Alex had told, but then I noticed a loafer move almost imperceptibly from left to right. “No, we aren’t related. If you must know, I’m acquainted with his mother and I promised I’d watch out for him while we were both in Europe. He’s an adult and perfectly capable of caring for himself, but you know how mothers worry.”

“Of course.” The detective looked at his notebook. “But his ticket does not match this compartment.”

I blinked, and Alex took over.

“I told this couyon my travel plans were last minute, Trent. I bought whatever seat was available knowing that you’d have a whole compartment to yourself.”

“There,” I managed. “Does that clear things up?”

The Frenchman grunted. “And you always pay for Espace Privatif?”

“Always,” I replied. “One would hate to be cooped up with disagreeable strangers all night.”

“Privacy is an extravagance,” he said, jotting something else in his little book.

I shrugged.

“Did you happen to know the dead man?”

“I don't believe so,” I answered. “What was his name?”

“Highsmith. Leeland Highsmith. A businessman traveling alone. He was found hanged in the toilet only 30 meters from where we’re standing.”

“How sad,” I said honestly. “But why would someone board a train just to kill themselves?”

The commandant shrugged. “He was British.”

I nearly laughed, but the man wasn’t joking.

“I’m afraid I have the task of calling and breaking the news to his family. They are waiting for him in England,” he said softly.

“I don’t envy you, sir.”

LeBeau handed back our passports. “I’ll leave you to your refreshments,” he said, noticing the basket of wine and cheese I had deposited on the bunk. I believe he may have guessed the true nature of the relationship, but my romantic entanglements didn’t seem to concern him.

As he walked away, I shouted. “Commandant, we should have been near Paris by now, but instead we’re stuck in the middle of nowhere. When can we expect to be back underway?”

The man peered out the darkened window to watch the arrival of the ambulance in the rain. “Monsieur, this is hardly the middle of nowhere, you are just outside the great city of Dijon in the heart of Burgundy.” He made a tsking sound with his tongue. “You Americans are always in such a rush, aren’t you?”

I frowned. “And you French are...” Then I thought better of what I was about to say. After all, the man was just doing his job.

“Oui?” he asked, eyebrows raised.

“Never mind.”

“Be careful with this one in Paris,” he said, motioning toward the young man. “He’s better looking than my wife.” Then he closed the door to our compartment and went on to pester other passengers.

Alex looked up at me grinning. “You were about to insult him. What were you going to say?”

I waved a hand. “Oh, something vaguely antagonistic and entirely accurate. That man is a nightmare.”

I opened the luscious 2003 Gevrey Chambertin Pinot and poured two glasses. “Now, why did you lie to him?”

“What?” he said. “I didn’t.”

“You told him we were traveling together.”

He frowned. “We were holding hands for an hour, so I thought that qualified, and anyhow, you were the one lying. You’ve never set eyes on my mama.”

I laughed. “I’m a writer. I was embellishing.”

Alex started looking through the basket, assessing the provisions I’d purchased. “Where did you find this?” he asked, holding up the small wooden box of Plaisir au Chablis cheese.

“There’s an overpriced shop inside the station. The single advantage to being marooned in Burgundy is the excellent pinot and cheeses you can find. It should hold us over until we reach the city.”

“This wine is good,” he said, taking a healthy gulp. I was glad he approved.

“They’ve been growing pinot noir for 2,000 years in this region.”

We laid out a picnic and, despite the morbid nature of the disruption, I found I was smitten by the course of events. “What are your plans when we finally arrive?”

He shrugged. “Dunno. I’ve never been. Was going to meet some friends at a hostel, but everyone got stuck in Prague. It’s snowing there.”

We both looked out at the weather as I contemplated my advance. “I could show you around the city if you like... just until your friends arrive. No pressure or anything.”

“Thought you’d never ask.”

I heaved a sigh of relief. This trip was working out better than I’d hoped.

I studied him as he stared out the window. The orderlies loaded the sheet-wrapped corpse into the ambulance, and just at that moment, the commandant turned to peer back at our carriage, rain pelting his cap and overcoat. What an odd little man, I thought.

Alex touched his forehead to the glass. “So long, asshole,” he whispered, and I wondered who he was referring to.

Paris

The train pulled into Gare de Lyon at half-past eleven the next morning and rather than rush to the apartment, I thought we’d splurge on lunch at Le Train Bleu. After all, it was Valentine’s Day. “You won’t believe this place,” I said.

“Is the food good?”

“It’s double Michelin-starred and very farm-to-table but it’s the setting that’s iconic.”

We walked into the restaurant, and I watched Alex’s jaw drop. The lavish dining room with its frescoes and golden chandeliers looked like it was part of Versailles. “I’m hardly dressed for this.”

I waved my hand. “They’re used to weary travelers.”

Our waiter, a balding, portly man in his middle years, was not impressed by our appearance. I sensed his attitude the moment we were seated.

“Bonjour,” he said, managing to convey both boredom and disdain in a simple greeting. The man carefully adjusted the waistcoat on his tuxedo. “Êtes-vous Américain?”

“I’m afraid so, but we shouldn’t be much of a bother. We’ll start with the creamed scallops with chestnut stuffing, then we will share the roasted leg of lamb with potato gratin.”

“Oui, and to drink?”

“Glasses of Chablis Domaine George with the scallops and the Château la Croix Chaigneau Pomerol with the lamb.”

He bowed once and left my side.

Alex giggled. “He looked like he was about to put the gris-gris on you.”

I smiled at the Cajun reference of a curse. “Parisian waiters are a breed unto themselves. We mustn’t take it personally.”

Later in the meal, our friend returned with a second waiter, and they proceeded to cut our lamb tableside. “So,” I began, “this evening must be a big deal for you considering the holiday.”

“Ah, la fête de Saint-Valentin. It’s of no consequence here, Monsieur, because we French believe love should be celebrated year-round.”

I could understand the logic in that. “Then why do all the restaurants charge double and triple for dinner tonight?”

He shrugged. “Because tourists are stupid cows.”

Alex and I looked at each other and burst out laughing.

When we had finished the lamb, I reached under the table and touched his knee. “I hope you still have room. They make crêpes suzette flambéed with Grand Marnier here.”

“Sounds dramatic.”

“Nothing says Paris like a flaming dessert.”

When lunch was over, I called an Uber to take us to the vacation rental in the Latin Quarter. The storm continued to rage, but I found it romantic, and there was something else, something I hadn't felt for a long time. Hope.

The apartment wasn't fancy, but it had the three things I wanted. A balcony with a view, a working fireplace, and a functioning kitchen. Alex opened the glass doors to let in the sound of the thunderstorm and the strange music of Paris. There were shouts on the streets from students at the nearby Sorbonne, laughing and having fun in the downpour. We stood watching two lovers dance under a huge black umbrella.

“Thank you,” I said. “I haven’t felt alive for weeks, not like this. I’d been feeling so old and tired, but now the world seems young again. My life is more exciting, and that’s because of you.”

He scoffed. “Pshaw, I haven’t done a thing, and you’re only 38.”

“You've made me believe in possibilities.”

I embraced him on the balcony, and I could feel him hugging back.

“And now we must bundle up and explore,” I said. “There are sights to see, and we have to shop for dinner.”

He arched an eyebrow.

“I’m going to cook for you,” I whispered.

We walked across the Pont Saint-Michel and he pointed, “Notre-Dame.”

I winked. “We’re going someplace better.”

“Mais garde des don,” he said, touching some of the locks fastened to the bridge.

“What?” I asked, not quite able to translate the Cajun.

“I said, look at that. What’s this about?”

“That’s a fad now,” I stated. “Love locks. Lovers write their names or sentimental messages and attach them to bridges. It began in Italy when a novelist featured a young couple attaching a lock to Rome’s Milvian Bridge as a sign of eternal love.”

“And now Paris?” he asked.

“Paris, Amsterdam, New York. It’s everywhere, even in Seoul and Serbia. The locals mostly hate it and city councils routinely have them removed. Paris took away 100,000 pounds of padlocks from the Pont des Arts because it was causing a strain on the infrastructure of the bridge.”

He nodded thoughtfully. “I guess a lot of people still believe in love.”

It was hard to argue with that.

Finally, we arrived at Sainte-Chapelle. “This was the chapel for the King of France, one of my favorite buildings in the city.”

He craned his neck looking up at the Gothic exterior. “I thought you’d be taking me to the Louvre.”

I shook my head. “The Musée du Louvre will be packed to the rafters with tourists on a rainy day, besides this whole city is a museum. Christ’s Crown of Thorns used to be housed here.”

“Maybe we should confess our sins,” he said, slyly.

“We don’t have that kind of time,” I joked. “Besides, this isn’t a church anymore, it was secularized after the French Revolution.”

We made our way inside and I could see Alex was stunned by the walls of stained glass. The sunlight was muted from the storm, so the interior of the chapel had an ethereal glow. The colors reflecting through the room were dazzling. I made the sign of the cross and bowed my head, saying a quick prayer for Matthew, my mother, and all the people that I had loved and lost. When I looked up, I saw that tears were rolling down his smooth face.

“What's the matter?”

But Alex could barely speak, gazing up at the filtered light. “J'ai le coeur gros,” he whispered.

Outside a gypsy woman was selling trinkets on the sidewalk. Old candlesticks, earrings, and other odds and ends. I noticed something on her table and handed her five euros, then slipped the item into my pocket.

“C’mon,” I said, taking his hand. We headed for the Rue Mouffetard, a typical Parisian market street with a great fish shop and butcher, as well as cheesemongers and vegetable stands. I enjoyed being huddled under an umbrella walking along the cobbled boulevard with a beautiful young man on my arm.

“So, what do you think of the City of Light?”

“The neighborhoods remind me of New Orleans,” he said, pointing toward a balconied apartment house. “This avenue could be in the Vieux Carré.”

“Memory is a funny thing,” I muttered. “I was just in New Orleans and it reminded me of Disneyland.” He laughed and leaned closer.

“A man by the name of Adrien de Pauger designed the street layout here. He named them after French royal houses and Catholic saints. The Creole-style is unique to New Orleans, but it grew out of French Colonial. That’s the resemblance you’re seeing. There’s a real elegance and charm to this architecture.”

Alex insisted on carrying all the shopping bags, which were beginning to pile up. “One more stop,” I said, seeing Odette’s storefront.

“I thought you were cooking everything,” he teased.

“Honey, this is one of the oldest patisseries in Paris. The cream puffs are legendary, so we need two of every flavor.”

When we returned to the apartment Alex began making a fire as I unpacked the groceries and began chopping vegetables. I could live like this, I thought. I need nothing more.

“I’m going to jump in the tub,” he said. “To wash off the grime.”

“Be my guest.”

I was making a Parisian bouillabaisse with rockfish and shrimp infused with saffron, orange, thyme, and chili. I also found some langoustines, a kind of small lobster, and tossed those in as well. The apartment came equipped with a record player, so I put on Eartha Kitt while Alex soaked in the bath. Then I opened a bottle of Jadot Corton-Charlemagne Grand Cru and poured myself a glass while looking out at the city.

“Are you drinkin’?” he called from the bathroom.

“Yes.”

“Bring me some of whatever you’re having and come keep me company.”

He’d managed to turn the tiny bathroom into a steaming sauna. “Comfortable?” I asked, handing him a wineglass.

“I could soak like this for a week.”

Now I understood why he always smelled so clean.

He took a healthy sip. “This is chardonnay, am I right?”

“Very good,” I answered. “Once you're hooked on white Burgundy, there's no going back. I’ve bought two bottles and some Armagnac for after dinner.”

“If I get drunk you won’t understand a word out of my mouth,” he said, beaming.

I leaned over and kissed his wet face. “I’ll take my chances.”

“I’m glad we found each other,” he said. “You’re exceptionnel.”

I could barely believe what I was hearing. “And you’re a mysterious, exotic creature, Alex Jordan, but who are you really?”

“I’m whoever you want me to be.”

I wiped the mirror with a towel and sighed. My temples had gone gray since Matthew died, and I felt like I was looking at a stranger. An old one.

The bouillabaisse was ready in under 20 minutes, so we sat down to dinner. It was a simple meal, but well-executed I thought. Fresh baguette, a selection of fine cheeses and fruit, followed by my shrimp and lobster stew, and then those fancy cream puffs.

“Is it spicy enough?” I asked. Matthew’s family was from New Orleans so I knew how folks liked their food down there. I’d spent many evenings sucking the spicy heads of crawfish with him and his brother.

He winked. “Can’t ever be too spicy for me, but you make a lovely remoulade.”

“I bought you something.”

Alex looked up from his plate.

“Why?”

“It caught my eye, and I wanted you to remember today.” I reached into my pocket and pulled out the present. It was an antique bullet, from a rifle or some large French gun.

“Thank you,” he said, turning it over slowly in his hand. “I like it.”

It wasn’t a romantic gift, but it seemed fitting since I knew that eventually there would be heartache and pain.

“Where will you go after Paris?”

“Wherever the wind takes me. Laissez les bon temps rouler.”

I knew that expression from Mardis Gras, it meant, ‘let the good times roll.’

“You could visit me in L.A. Maybe someone will make you a star.”

He rolled his eyes. “I don’t think I’d enjoy being famous. They live their lives in fishbowls, don’t they?”

I picked up the plate of cream puffs and the bottle of Armagnac and we got up to sit by the fire.

“Let’s play a game,” he said, excited.

“Like chess?”

“No, like truth or dare.”

I chuckled. “I’m too old for that nonsense. If you want to know something, just ask.”

“All right,” he said seriously. “Tell me the worst thing you’ve ever done to another person. Dit mon la vérité.”

Of course, the moment he posed the question the only thing I could think of was January third, and I don’t know if it was because I was drunk, or melancholy, or just because I knew that, after a day or two, I’d never see Alex again, but I found myself wanting to confess to him. Needing to, even.

“I’m not sure you want to hear the story I have to tell.”

He inched closer to me, the firelight dancing on his features. “Go ahead,” he drawled slowly. “I adore secrets.”

So, I began to tell him about my life with Matthew.

“He was an art director,” I said. “A brilliant one, by the way, and I was a screenwriter. We weren’t rich by any means but we both had jobs. We built a life. Traveling, working, planning our future together. Eventually, we got married and bought a house.”

“Sounds wonderful.”

Speaking of Matthew made my mind wander back. We had loved all the same things and each other. Our small house in the San Fernando Valley was stuffed with shared mementos. Flea market antiques, dusty, leather-bound classics, Royal Street Art, Tibetan prayer flags. The refrigerator door was crowded with postcards and fading photographs displaying a smiling couple that no longer existed.

“We had our fights and jealousies like all couples. He was older than me, so there was that. Matty was a proud man, a southern gent, like you, and he wanted everything just so.” I shrugged. “Art directors. They’re always fussing with centerpieces and cushions.”

Just as I was getting to the heart of the story, I wondered if I’d be able to say it out loud. I sat staring into space and felt the tears welling up. Alex placed his hand on my arm. “You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to, Sha.”

But I gathered up my courage.

“He had a massive stroke,” I whispered. “He was only 54, went to Bikram yoga every Saturday. I mean, he was a strong, healthy man.”

Alex looked at me, pale blue eyes searching. “The stroke didn’t kill him, did it?”

He’d already guessed the end of the story. “No,” I said flatly. “It didn’t. But it left him paralyzed on his right side. He lost his balance, had headaches, and was always tired and confused. For a man like Matthew, the worst of it was not decreased motor functions, it was being denied his dignity. After three months he turned to me and said, ‘This isn’t living, Trent. I don’t think I can handle it.’”

We sat watching the rain fall onto the Paris street, light reflecting from the shops like a million diamonds in the puddles. “What did you do?”

“Nothing, at first. I couldn’t. He begged me to kill him every single day, but I wasn’t having it, and he wasn’t capable of doing it on his own. Dear Matthew. He was a proud, vain man so he refused to let anyone but me see him. His brother offered to fly in from Louisiana but Matthew was adamant. His condition continued to decline to the point of no longer being able to control his bowels, then he started to lose his vision. Of course, I did everything I could to care for him. Silently we both prayed that death would find him, but it didn’t.”

“I can’t imagine,” Alex said. “It must have been terrible.”

I nodded. “The man was methodical, I’ll give him that. He spent his days dreaming up new ways to die. He didn’t want to overdose because he was concerned that suicide would void his insurance policy!” I laughed. “Can you believe that? Even at the end, he was worried about how I’d get by without him.”

I took another drink. “We’d made it through the holidays... barely. He went blind on January third and we both cried all day. At that point, the two of us were just going through the motions. I saw the fear and desperation written across his face, so I took one of his favorite pillows and I smothered him.”

Alex’s eyes were wide and unblinking. “What you did was a mercy and I think you’re brave.”

I shook my head. “I murdered my husband, my soulmate. What a lovely story to tell someone on Valentine’s Day.” I sighed and poured more brandy. “I sometimes see his face in crowds of strangers. Is that his ghost or just my guilt?” The confession had sobered me up considerably. I thought sharing my deepest secret would bring some comfort, but it didn’t. All I felt was shame and sadness.

The part I left out was how Matthew fought back. It takes a while to suffocate. By the time he realized what was happening he started struggling to get free, fighting to take another breath. It’s instinctual, I suppose, the desire to live when it comes right down to it, but I was stronger. Did he change his mind? The truth was it didn’t matter. I couldn’t stop pressing the pillow into his face. In fact, it gave me a thrill.

“Mon beau, I think the two of us are very much alike,” he drawled, snuggling beside me.

“Is that so? Have you murdered any lovers recently?” But he kissed me before he could answer the question.

“Grief is the price we pay for love,” he said.

A profound statement for a man his age, and I wondered if he’d paid a similar fee. “What about you?” I whispered. “You owe me a secret.”

He sat up, pressing a finger to his lips, thinking. “I’m a thief,” he admitted. “A damn good one.”

I chuckled. “What, like an international jewel thief?”

He looked slighted. “I take what I can get, so’s to speak. A child can learn heaps of handy skills bein’ raised down the bayou. I’m also a master at Bourré.”

“I don’t believe you,” I said. “You’re far too good-looking to be a criminal. Thieves are non-descript, average-Joe types. That’s their advantage.”

“You’re wrong, Sugar. I’m like a magician. People are so distracted by my face that I can rob them blind while they’re staring. I’m a natural at misdirection.”

“Prove it,” I said.

He got up to find his backpack, then rummaged through the pockets, eventually handing me a black calfskin billfold.

This night has certainly taken a weird turn, I thought. I opened the wallet and saw the commandant’s badge with the familiar outline of France in blue, white, and red. “Have you lost your mind?” I said, tossing it back. “What if he caught you?”

Alex was leering. “It’s the what-ifs that make life interesting. The rush of adrenaline when you do something naughty. I clipped him just as he was leaving the train, the little French fuck. That pischouette was treating me like a rent boy.”

“You have to give it back,” I ordered.

“Don’t get your panties in a bunch, mon ami. I’ll drop it in a mailbox tomorrow, sans the 300 euros and those credentials will find their way back to their master.”

I was starting to giggle. “He probably suspects you of taking it.”

“I certainly hope so.”

We were both laughing. “The great city of Dijon,” I mumbled. “I mean, once you buy a jar of mustard what is there left to do?”

We looked at one another.

“So, did you steal anything else?”

“Only your heart,” he said and winked. “Night train to Paris. I could have fleeced half the passengers if I’d wanted, but where’s the sport in that?”

Thunder shook the ancient apartment, lightning flashed, and the electricity sputtered out, so we lit more candles. “Spooky,” he said. “But romantic. We should dance.”

“We’d need electricity to play the music.”

“Not necessarily,” he replied, running again to where his backpack was sitting. He produced an iPod shuffle. “I always bring my music.” He plugged in the earphones and gave me one side while he took the other.

“You’re a peculiar guy,” I said, placing a hand on his shoulder. “I had an iPod exactly like that when you were in kindergarten.” I was curious to hear what songs were loaded. We held each other cheek to cheek as Nina Simone began singing, “Do I Move You,” and we swayed to the music while I wondered about life and love. Everything was so unpredictable. How had this situation found me and why was I so bound to it?

“Nina Simone?” I whispered. “How do you even know her music?”

He embraced me so tightly I could feel his heart beating. “Every child of New Orleans has rhythm and blues born in their blood.”

That night, we slept like spoons, my arm draped over his chest. He was different from anyone I’d ever known. Mystifying, and older than his years. I fell asleep listening to the storm and dreaming of Alex.

In the morning he was gone along with his backpack and all his belongings. He’d placed a note on a table near the front door. “Went to meet my friends. Thanks. AJ.” If I’m being honest the note was more than I expected, but I still felt abandoned.

In two days, I’ll leave Paris and return to my simple life, I thought. An existence filled with Netflix, burgers from In-N-Out, a ginger tabby, and my books. Still, it was the best Valentine’s Day I’d had in years.

The knock on the door startled me as I was absently staring into the street from the balcony. I thought it must be the owner of the apartment since I didn’t have friends in Paris, so I was surprised to see Commandant LeBeau waiting on the threshold.

“Hello,” I said, opening the door. “You’re just in time for tea.”

He was wearing a stylish navy-blue sweater that carried the insignia of the Inspecteur Divisionnaire on the epaulets. “Forgive the intrusion, Monsieur Reynolds. I have a few more questions for your traveling companion.”

I couldn’t help but notice the slight smirk. “You’ve missed him,” I said, refilling the kettle and pointing to the note. The detective read it and frowned.

“The young man is quite fuyant,” he grumbled.

“Sorry?” I asked, not knowing the word.

“Elusive.”

I shrugged. “Teenagers. Are you still investigating the suicide on the train?”

“Oui.”

“And you suspect foul play?”

The commandant smiled, exposing wildly crooked teeth. “Did you know that Monsieur Highsmith, you, and the boy were all staying at Le Méridien Nice? And then the three of you happened to be on the same couchette to Paris. That seems curious, no?”

I tried to appear casual as I prepared our chamomile, but it was news to me that Leeland Highsmith was at Le Méridien. “Life is filled with coincidences.”

“Perhaps,” he said. “I spoke with the concierge, Louis Bastion, who remembered all of you distinctly. He said that he observed Alex Jordan dining with Monsieur Highsmith at La Terrasse, but your young friend told me he didn’t know the gentleman.”

I sipped my tea thoughtfully. “The guy is gregarious,” I offered. “It’s a trait common in New Orleans, where he was raised. Alex may have struck up a conversation without catching the man’s name. Being friendly to strangers isn’t something easily understood by the French.”

The detective snorted. “And do you often dine with strangers?”

“Not if I can help it,” I said, pouring more tea. I sensed that neither one of us believed in coincidence.

“When are you planning on leaving Paris?”

“Day after tomorrow. Air France to Los Angeles.”

“And the boy?”

I shrugged. “I believe he intends to see more of Europe.”

“I’ll find him, you know. There are CCTV cameras everywhere, or he will use his credit card and I’ll swoop down.”

“I’m sure,” I said. “You seem to be a very determined man.”

Somehow, I doubted Alex could be found if he intended to vanish. He certainly had the wherewithal to steal whatever he needed. The detective rose and gave me a curt bow. “If you see him, please tell him I would like a word.”

“Certainly.”

“One thing more,” he said, turning. “You mentioned you were acquainted with his mother...” He paused dramatically as I inclined my head. “She died when the child was 13. He never knew his father, so Alexander Jordan is an orphan. Perhaps he travels around seeking a replacement, a father figure if you will. That’s just my theory.”

“Interesting,” I said, looking away. “But when I said I knew his mother I was speaking about his foster mother. A kind and charitable woman.”

“Of course, and her name is?”

I removed the teacups and carefully placed them in the sink. “I’m sure you have it jotted down in your little notebook, LeBeau. Now if you’ll excuse me, the storm has passed, and I intend to enjoy my last days in Paris.”

He lunged toward me, grasping my arm forcefully. “You’ve been playing a dangerous game while on holiday, Monsieur, but I would warn you, even the most beautiful roses have thorns.”

After the commandant left, I felt shaken. I wanted to reach Alex and warn him, but he was the one teenager in France who carried an iPod and not a smartphone. I began walking the streets aimlessly, hoping against hope that fate would bring us together again and I could rescue him from the police.

By habit, I found myself in front of Sainte-Chapelle, so I bought an antique brass lock from the same gypsy woman and wrote, “Trent loves Alex,” onto it, then I attached it to the oldest medieval bridge in Paris, the Pont Neuf, and threw the key into the Seine.

Now I could go home.

Los Angeles

As the plane gained altitude, I took a parting glance of Paris, watching the pyramid of the Louvre shrink away while the flight attendant handed me a glass of Bordeaux. I didn't cry, some things are too sad for tears. I couldn’t speak to anyone, I didn't even think. I just left Paris feeling numb. I’ve spent my life looking for answers, not comprehending that the real trick was living without them.

Somewhere over the Atlantic, I realized that I’d never taken a picture. I would have liked a shot of us together, just a keepsake for the refrigerator to prove that my vacation romance wasn't a figment of my imagination. It didn’t matter, nothing did anymore. I remembered his slow, quiet speaking voice and the way he smelled. I held the color of his eyes in my heart. The love remained with me, and there is always something mystical in that.

When the Uber driver dropped me off in front of my house, Alex Jordan was waiting there. He sat on the porch swing, protected from the rain, my big ginger cat asleep on his lap.

“You’ve made a friend,” I said.

He smiled, his fingers scratching Jonesy’s ears. “He wouldn’t leave me alone.”

Odd, I thought. That tabby usually runs for the hills when strangers come near. Even my next-door neighbor could hardly pet that cat, and she was feeding him while I was away! Alex could charm both man and beast.

“I love your little house,” he said, swinging back and forth.

“And how did you find it?”

He pointed at my bags. “Luggage tags. You were serious when you suggested I visit, weren’t you?”

I ran to him, holding his face in my hands. I had no idea how any of this was going to work, but at that moment I was overjoyed. “Let’s go inside and get out of the damp, I need a drink.”

He followed me into the kitchen where I began preparing Bloody Marys. “If we’re going to start day drinking we might as well do it in style,” I said, handing him the spicy concoction.

We stared at each other, and I couldn’t stop smiling.

“I’m sorry I suddenly left Paris.”

I stirred my drink with a celery stalk and waited because whatever excuse he was about to deliver was going to be inventive. I knew he hadn’t been completely honest, so maybe he was about to come clean.

“I found my friends at Les Piaules in the Belleville neighborhood. They told me LeBeau had been sniffing around all the Parisian youth hostels looking for me, so I thought it best to put an ocean between us.”

That part was easy enough to believe.

“If he was so determined to question you, it seems unlikely that Interpol would let you board a plane,” I said, studying him.

“I bribed a merchant who imports leather to smuggle me into Italy in the back of his truck, then I purchased a plane ticket with cash in Milan.”

“Wouldn’t your passport get flagged?”

“Interpol is inefficient and slow, especially in Italy, but I didn’t take any chances, so I used my alternate.”

“Your what?”

He reached into his backpack and took out a red Dutch passport. I opened it and examined the blurry photo. “Alex Jansen?”

He sheepishly looked away and I felt the hair rising on the back of my neck.

“LeBeau came to see me in Paris, too.”

“Oh?”

“Looking for you, but he said something interesting. Leeland Highsmith was staying at our hotel. I found his photo on LinkedIn. It was the same man I watched you get into a car with at the museum.”

Alex didn’t look contrite or ashamed—if anything, he appeared defiant. “You’re just as guilty as me. I guess all our secrets are out in the open now.”

“You killed him.”

“I assisted him,” he said sarcastically, pointing to an old photo on the fridge. It was Matthew and me with our arms draped around each other in front of Café Lafitte in Exile, on the Lavender Line. “Lee is dead, whether by his hand or with my help, what’s the difference? It’s the same result and I’m glad to be free of him.”

Glad? I wondered. That’s the opposite of what I felt regarding Matthew. “The man had a wife and three children...”

Alex rolled his eyes and for one brief moment the mask slipped and I saw him for what he truly was, and I was frightened. “They’re better off,” he said coolly. “Highsmith was living a lie, and I’m sure his wife sensed it.”

“You could’ve left,” I said. “Just walked away.”

He scoffed. “You know nothing. I spent two months with him in London and let me tell you, he was crazy as a loon. Lavish gifts if I was agreeable, and beatings if I wasn’t. Fucking Englishmen! So sexually repressed that when they do finally get someone alone all their worst kinks and fetishes come calling. I was mal pris.”

The Cajun term confused me.

“Stuck in a bad situation,” he explained. “Lee was a banker with money and power, and, by the way, insanely jealous. If anyone looked twice at me, he’d have a tantrum, and people often looked twice.”

That much was certain, Alex Jordan turned heads.

“The bastard threatened to kill me if I even thought about leaving. He said they’d find my bloated, naked body floating down the Thames.”

“So, you strangled him on the midnight train to Paris?”

He put a hand through his thick blond hair. “I’d finally met someone I was more interested in.”

“Me?”

He nodded.

“But why?”

“Because you needed to be loved, Trent Reynolds. I’ve never crossed paths with a more lonesome soul.”

Alex was right about that. He seemed to know me better than I knew myself. Deep down I was happy he’d followed me home. Someone finally wanted me, picked me over everyone. I knew it wouldn’t last, not in this town. How could it? Not with all the temptations and opportunities that would come his way. Still, none of it mattered because I loved him... But I sure as hell didn’t trust him. Not for a minute.

People make such terrible choices when they’re lonely.

“This is probably a bad idea,” I said.

He nodded. “Love is usually a bad idea but without it, life is meaningless.”

I sighed. “So, we’re in love?”

“Close enough.”

“We’re good at keeping each other’s secrets,” I admitted, and we laughed. But I felt the danger of having him under my roof. He knew what I’d done to Matthew, so he had the power to ruin my life if he wanted, and that just might be his plan.

Weeks passed and my apprehension grew. Alex had acquired a circle of friends, mostly starving models, and out-of-work actors. Young guys who watched the same stupid videos on YouTube. He always came home at night but that was because I was his meal ticket. It’s funny. I’d never cast myself in the role of sugar daddy.

The sex became less frequent, the passion between us waned. I knew he was sleeping with other men, but I couldn’t confront him. I watched strangers staring at him when we were in public, and I was both jealous and terrified of losing him. I was simply too weak to let him go. After a month together in Los Angeles, we were just two murderers sleeping side-by-side in the same bed. The romance had been replaced by suspicion and dependence.

We went to a rainy Sunday brunch at the Beachwood Cafe where Alex slapped the menu down in disgust.

“What’s the matter?” I asked.

He glared toward the kitchen. “Like every diner in this town, the coffee frustrates me. Beachwood serves a fucking matcha latte but no one west of the Mississippi has heard of putting chicory in coffee.”

Just then, a man walked past doused in Black Orchid, which happened to be Matthew’s scent, and the smell of it made me falter. I felt dizzy and my heart began to pound.

Alex looked alarmed as I was wiping the sweat from my face. “What’s wrong?”

“Panic attack,” I whispered. “I need air.”

I tossed a twenty-dollar bill on the table, and he helped me to a bench outside while holding an umbrella over both of us. “Deep breaths. Comment ça vas?”

“I love it when you speak French. I’m fine now.”

He kissed my forehead. “Was it that queen’s cologne that set you off?”

“It was so strong,” I muttered, nodding. “It felt like Matthew’s ghost was on top of me.”

He held my hand. “If you ask me, that bitch reeked of desperation. I mean for fuck’s sake, it’s Sunday morning.”

I chuckled. The guy could always make me laugh.

“You never wear any cologne, do you?”

He shook his head. “I attract enough unwanted attention without smelling like a bordello.”

“I’m sorry for spoiling brunch,” I said, as we walked back toward the car.

“The two words you never have to say to me are I’m sorry.”

Still, I felt like an idiot. Was I slowly turning my lover into my nursemaid? It wasn’t fair to expect a teenager to watch me disintegrate. Who would blame him if he decided to strangle me in the night? That’s when I made the second hardest decision of my life.

As soon as we were home, I sat him down at the kitchen table. “Listen, Alex, I’m a sometimes-employed screenwriter who can barely afford my two-bedroom house in Studio City.”

“What’s your point?”

“We both know you could easily land a bigger fish.”

I started brewing Café Du Monde for him while he looked out the window into the small backyard with its whispering cupid fountain surrounded by succulents. “Maybe that isn’t what I want.”

“Whatever it is you want, I don’t think you’re going to find it on this side of Laurel Canyon.”

Alex Jordan had the rare combination of being queer, young, and stunningly attractive in Los Angeles, so it was only a matter of time until the rich old queens started circling.

“Tomorrow you can come with me, and I’ll introduce you to a friend who works in casting. She’s doing a project over at Paramount and knows everybody. You can stay here until you’ve set your hooks into someone else, but choose wisely. You only get to be the new kid in town once.”

He sighed, finally resigned to the fact that our relationship was ending. “We had some laughs, didn’t we?”

“Yes, we’ll always have Paris,” I joked.

We made love, rather tenderly I thought, as a kind of going away present to one another. The storm had passed. It was one of those lazy spring Sundays where the world moved in slow motion. I’d bought a bottle of Thomas H. Handy rye and made us both Sazeracs. Then we sat on the back porch, watching a spectacular California sunset through the clouds.

“This drink takes me back,” he said, shaking the ice in his glass. “My paw-paw used to call sundowns like this sherbet skies.”

“He was a poet,” I said.

“No, but he never missed the gloaming over the bayou. He was a stargazer. A dreamer, and a raconteur, just like you.”

“I thought you were an orphan.”

He closed his eyes and sat back. “We’re all orphans sooner or later, Chéri. My defan pauvre passed just before I lost my mama. See, you’re not the only expert on being lonesome.”

“There’s a difference between isolation and loneliness. I’m a writer. I choose to be alone, we need that solitude for inspiration.”

Alex snickered as I made my case, and when the silence became awkward, he said, “Pull the other leg now.”

We sat close, watching the color shift from orange to pink, then to violet and purple. “‘You see, one loves the sunset when one is so sad,’” I quoted.

“The Little Prince,” he whispered. “I love that book.”

He stayed for another week and then one gray morning, I got up and he was gone, along with the Rolex Jake Gyllenhaal had gifted me for fixing a badly broken script he was producing. But losing the watch was a price I was more than willing to pay to be left in peace.

The only thing worse than living alone is living with someone you fear.

Château Marmont

It was four years before we met again.

I’d been sent a ticket to the premiere for a Warner Brothers film that I desperately wanted to see. It was based on the mysterious shooting death of George Reeves who played Superman in the 1950s. Honestly, I just wanted to have a drink with Timothée Chalamet and Harry Styles who shared an on-screen kiss in the movie. Both actors had played gay before, Timothée in Call Me By Your Name, and Harry in My Policeman, but pairing them together on the big screen was a queer fantasy come true.

The studio had done the rope line just the way they used to do it at the Chinese back in the golden age of Hollywood, and even the impending rainstorm couldn’t quell the excitement in the air. I casually bent down to tie my shoe, taking a moment to appreciate all the celebrity glamor surrounding me on the red carpet when he walked right past. Alex Jordan glanced down for a millisecond and moved on, pretending not to recognize me.

So much for old acquaintances, I thought, as the downpour began. It was curious though, my heart leaped at the sight of him.

He was still breathtaking of course, now in his twenties with a five-hundred-dollar haircut and a bespoke Armani tux. He was one of four stunning young men who made up the director’s latest entourage. Kevin Fowler was notorious for being the leader of a clique of extremely powerful, predatory Hollywood closet-cases. They would promise naive young actors and models everything from stardom to sportscars and then when they grew tired of the sex and mundane pillow talk, they’d pass the guys on to the next scumbag down the food chain. It was a story as old as the Hollywood sign.

In a way, I felt guilty for opening that door for Alex, but he didn’t look any worse for wear and he was one guy who could take care of himself. I doubted he was dazzled by the klieg lights and celebrity. Alex had some other agenda. As we watched the movie in the opulent theater, I wondered who was sitting next to him in the dark.

The after-party was the big-ticket item. The studio had bought out the Château Marmont which had recently been turned into a members-only club. As the winter storm gusted, celebrities dressed to the nines ran for safety and warmth inside the ancient hotel. Bar Marmont was always one of my favorite watering holes because you never knew who you’d meet there.

I ordered an Aviation Gin and tonic, then I got that curious feeling you have when you know you’re being watched. The boy appeared behind me. “Bonsoir, mon amour.”

The blood rushed to my head as I turned to see that he was even more striking than I remembered. “Alex, is it possible you’ve gotten better looking with time?”

“Anything’s possible,” he said, reaching for a bottle of Veuve Clicquot and two glasses. “Follow me, and leave that glass of Ryan Reynolds’s piss at the bar.”

It wasn’t a suggestion, and I was powerless to do anything but obey.

“This hotel is kinda creepy,” he said, walking briskly through the lobby. “It’s meant to be chic, but it has a decaying stench about it, don’t you agree?”

He was in a chatty mood, that unstoppable joie de vivre of his in full swing.

“Maybe it’s just the smell of wet starlets in chiffon,” he continued. “What style of architecture is this supposed to be?”

“French Gothic,” I explained to the back of his head. “It’s inspired by Chateau D’Ambrose, a royal retreat in the Loire Valley. Everyone from James Dean to Scarlett Johansson has fucked someone under this roof.”

“It’s haunted,” he said, glancing back.

“I don’t doubt it. John Belushi died doing a mix of heroin and cocaine in Bungalow Three,” I said.

“Beau, that’s known as a speedball.”

“Yes, I’m aware.”

“Do you think all this furniture was bought new and just sat around for decades until it became vintage?”

“That’s a good question. The place opened in 1929.”

“You know enough to give tours,” he joked.

I followed him into a musty elevator where, surprisingly, he tried to kiss me. What was it about this hotel that made everyone misbehave? I was able to fend him off, but my defenses weakened when I realized where we were headed. Room 64.

“You’ve got to be kidding,” I mumbled.

“Ah, you know it,” he said. “It has a wraparound terrace, so I thought we’d have some privacy during the storm.”

Privacy?

I tried not to let the wave of Hollywood nostalgia knock me over as we walked into the penthouse. I mean, Howard Hughes used to live in these rooms.

Did the drapes smell this moldy when he was here?

It felt so much like a dream that I couldn’t help touching everything: the ice bucket, the lamps, the keys on the grand piano. Matthew would have loved all the intricate details.

“This is better,” he said, leading me to a couch on the covered terrace where he poured glasses of Champagne. “It’s romantic, isn’t it?”

“It’s chilly and damp.”

“Don’t be like that,” he scolded. “I’ve missed you, Honeychile.”

“Sure you have.”

Maybe this is how it will be, I thought. Our paths will cross every so often, without a word of warning, and we’ll pick up where we left off, but I didn't know if that was reality or fantasy.

“Oh, by the way,” he said, removing a gorgeous Patek Philippe from his wrist. “I owe you a watch. Sorry about the Rolex.” He smiled as he handed me the gift. “Old habits.”

“Is this stolen?”

“Of course not,” he snapped. “Believe me when I tell you that I earned that watch fair and square, but I won’t tell you what I had to do for it.”

I ignored the implication and put it on, instantly adoring it. “Thank you,” I said quietly.

He sighed and took my hand. “I believe fate brought us together tonight. Just like Paris. You and me, the storm, Valentine’s Day...”

I’d completely forgotten the date, but he was right. I peeked down at the face of my newest timepiece. “Technically, it isn’t Valentine’s Day until midnight, which is 36 minutes from now.”

“I can wait,” he said.

We watched the rain cascade down the striped fabric awnings of the Château Marmont. Then I looked through the French doors and saw a few of the movie people walking into the penthouse. “So, Kevin Fowler...,” I began. “Are the rumors true?”

“Only the vicious ones,” he answered.

“Did he promise you the moon and the stars?”

Alex placed his fingers lightly on the back of my neck. “Yes, and I asked for them in writing.”

Smart, I thought. “Are you happy?”

“God no,” he said, laughing.

“See, I feel kind of responsible for pushing you into that twisted crowd,” I said, feeling lightheaded from the wine.

“If that’s supposed to be a half-assed apology, save it. Kevin thinks I’m the mouse and he’s the cat, but you and I know better. Anyway, I’m glad I’m not his only boy-toy these days.”

He took a vape pen out of his jacket. “You’ve got to try this,” he said, blowing smoke toward me. “It’s divine decadence.”

I shook my head. “I can’t. I have to drive back over the canyon in this weather.”

He giggled. “The night is young, and it’s hours before you need to go home.”

Alex Jordan and the night might still be young, but I felt old.

“If you don’t try it, I’ll take back my watch,” he teased.

“Okay, fine. Give it here.” I took a hit, and the taste was familiar and almost sickly sweet. “What the hell is that?”

“Vanilla crème brûlée,” he drawled.

I laughed.

“What?”

“It’s just so Hollywood,” I answered, inhaling a second time. “Even the pot is trying to be something it isn’t.”

“Timmy!” Alex yelled, capturing the actor’s attention.

“AJ!”

“Christ,” I whispered, but before I could utter another word Timothée Chalamet was bear-hugging Alex in the rain.

“You have to meet my dearest friend, Trent Reynolds. He’s a brilliant writer.”

He smiled and shook my hand while I watched the light reflect off his black sequined shirt. “Hey, Trent. I love writers,” he declared, rendering me speechless. “You have such vivid imaginations. You can create whole worlds out of nothing.”

I was dumbstruck, so Alex gently elbowed my side.

“Uh, true,” I finally managed. “Although my process involves a fair amount of drinking and swearing to get started.”

He took a hit from the vape pen while I stared at the freckles across the bridge of his nose. “You were brilliant, by the way. In the film. I loved it. All your work is amazing.”

“Ha!” he laughed, shaking the rain from his dark curls. “You are way too kind, but thanks.”

“So, where’s Harry?” Alex asked. “I want to introduce him to Trent before we leave.”

Timothée pointed over the side. “He’s skinny-dipping down there.”

“In this weather?” I asked, taking a glance and seeing several pale bodies splashing around in the oval pool below.

Chalamet shrugged. “He’s British.”

“He must be channeling Jim Morrison,” Alex said. “Harry is always the life of the party.”

“And every night is a party for Harry,” Tim added. “I’d have jumped in too, but Swardstrom would kill me if the paps caught us.”

I nodded, secretly hoping we’d be going down there. I didn’t want to miss the chance to see all of Harry’s tattoos. “A studio boss at Columbia once told his actors, if you must get into trouble, do it at the Marmont.”

They both cracked up. “I think people are taking that advice tonight,” Timothée said, then he caught me totally off guard by hugging me like we were BFFs. “It was great to meet you, Trent.”

As he strolled back through the penthouse I leaned toward Alex. “Now I can die a happy man. Do you know everyone?” I whispered in his ear.

“Of course not, Sugar, but everyone knows me. Hey, I wonder if you’d do me a favor?”

I felt a tickle run the length of my spine. “What?”

“Let’s take a drive,” he said, throwing an arm around my shoulder. “We’ll kiss a few cheeks on the way out, then we can go get something real to eat. I’ve got a couple of errands to run.”

Midnight errands, I thought. That can’t be good.

We headed down toward the pool so I could shake hands with naked Harry, then we were sprinting through the lobby, right toward Kevin Fowler holding court by the fireplace. He looked at my face and scowled. There is no love lost between directors and writers. I watched Alex whisper something, quickly kiss the man on the mouth, and then we were off.

“Did you have to get permission to leave?” I asked.

He narrowed his eyes trying to gauge if I was kidding. “Don’t be a couyon,” he replied. “Now, where are you parked? I know you never use valets.”

“I hate the way they move the seats,” I said defensively.

“Sure you do.”

Instantly I was ashamed at having to chauffeur him around in my 2015 Honda CR-V. He must be accustomed to the finest luxury cars on the planet. “I’m parked up the street on Havenhurst, by Pinches Tacos.”

“Perfect,” he said.

“Perfect for what?”

“You’ll see.”

We huddled under my umbrella and ran across Sunset, where I unlocked the doors. “So?” I said, starting the engine and turning on the heater and wipers. “Where to?”

“Nowhere yet,” he looked at me, his eyes glinting. “That watch suits you.”

I smiled, glancing at my hand on the steering wheel. “To be honest, my wrist was way too small for that clunky Rolex. This is more my style.”

“Timothée thought you were charming tonight. He said so just as we were leaving. He wants to read your stuff.”

Alex was a master at telling people exactly what they wanted to hear. I knew he was exaggerating but sometimes a white lie is all we need to keep our dreams alive. “What are you plotting?”

He reached into his breast pocket, taking out a cheap Nokia phone which he turned on and set in the center console, then he pulled something from a second pocket. “I’ve got a surprise.”

He opened his hand revealing the French bullet I gave him in Paris four years ago.

“You’ve been carrying that around?”

“Of course,” he said. “My little dreegailles reminds me that I have someone I can share my darkest secrets with.”

This conversation was making me nervous. Alex was different, larger than life, and that was saying something because he was always captivating.

“I’m going to kill him tonight.”

“Who? Kevin? Have you gone insane?”

He kept staring out the windshield toward Sunset Boulevard. “He’ll be going to Musso and Frank’s any minute. All the bigwigs are going there to toast tonight’s victory.”

“So?”

“Give me your hand,” he said, taking it and pressing it against his crotch. His erection was rock hard. “What if something happened on the way? I have to admit I’m a little excited about all this.”

Then he pushed me aside and grabbed the phone. A red Lamborghini Aventador was merging from Marmont Lane onto Sunset as he speed-dialed a number and hit Send.

“So long, asshole,” he whispered.

The explosion was colossal, a blinding fireball rocketing the car ten feet into the air where it rained pieces of burning metal and debris onto the shimmering street. Cars skidded across the wet boulevard, people screamed, and the rain continued to fall.

“C'est magnifique,” he whispered. “We should go before the firetrucks and police arrive and shut the area down. Take Havenhurst to Fountain.”

I was still in shock. It was like a movie explosion on the backlot of Universal. It’s bizarre to see something like that in real life.

“Trent, do you need me to drive?”

I stared at him. “No, I can do it.” I pulled away, glancing in the rearview mirror where the remains of Kevin Fowler and his half-million-dollar Italian sports car continued to burn and belch thick black smoke into the night. We could already hear sirens in the distance.

“I can't believe you just killed a director.”

“I was doing a public service. Besides, he once told me he wanted to die in some dramatic way, and now he has. This should do wonders for the box office of the film.”

He was probably right. “So where to now?”

“Down Fairfax toward Television City.”

“Are we going to a late-night taping of The Price Is Right?”

“Hilarious, but no. I’ve got to dispose of this burner phone.”

Of course. It was evidence.

If I was as handsome as Alex Jordan, maybe I’d have more murderous tendencies too. It must get old being constantly hit on by people you have no attraction to. “Can’t they forensically identify the type of bomb you used?”

He nodded. “It was a plastic explosive made in Serbia called PP-01, bought on the Dark Web using Bitcoin. I wish the police luck trying to connect it to me.”

We drove past the Farmer’s Market, and he motioned for me to turn left onto Sixth Street. “Park here.”

Then it dawned on me where we were going.

The sky was sprinkling as we walked across the grass in our tuxedos and there they were, the LaBrea Tar Pits in all their smelly, primordial glory. We moved cautiously up to a chain-link fence while Alex scanned the area to make sure there were no witnesses. It was a moonless, rainy night so luck was with him.

The only sound was the bubbling of methane gas as it rose to disturb the surface of the black pond. “I contemplated dropping it off the Santa Monica Pier, but this seemed more poetic since I was stuck to that old fart for years.” Then he unceremoniously tossed the Nokia into the abyss where it instantly sank with a plop. He put an arm around me as we strolled back to the car. “Time for a snack. I’m starving.”

I considered our current location and the hour. “Canter’s or Du-par’s?”

“Canter’s,” he answered. “I’ve got an envie for matzo ball soup.”

I pointed the Honda back toward Fairfax and wondered what time I’d be getting home to Jonesy the cat and my bed. “Here’s a fun fact,” he said cheerfully. “40 percent of murderers get away with their crime.”

I nodded. “Is that a one-time thing, or does it apply to multiple killings?”

“Don’t be a stick-in-the-mud. You tell me a fun fact now.”

We parked out front and I opened the glass door for him. “Well, this restaurant has sold ten million pounds of corned beef.”

He laughed as we picked a booth away from any other diners. “This is great, isn’t it? A couple of buddies making memories. You my podna now, Sugar.”

It was two in the morning on Valentine’s Day and I was sitting in the oldest Jewish deli in Los Angeles with a gorgeous homicidal homo. “So, I have to ask,” I whispered. “Why?”

He stared into his soup. “Lately, I’ve felt he was getting bored with me, so I decided I’d better end it, so’s to speak, before I was written out of the will and passed on to someone else.”

I suspected there was more to the story. “And what about you? Were you getting bored?”

“Sha, I was bored with that pompous shit from the moment he first put his sweaty hand on my thigh. One of the reasons I chose him was because I knew I wouldn’t miss him.”

“You’ll definitely be a suspect,” I said.

He shrugged. “Our esteemed director had a dozen beneficiaries, even the fucking poodle is taken care of for life.”

“What about his family?”

“None. Except for a sister somewhere in the Midwest that he loathed.”

“People like him usually have a foundation, or a charity to give the bulk of their estate to when they die.”

Alex rolled his eyes. “He allotted some money to the DGA, begrudgingly. The man was no Elton John.”

When we had finished our food, I stared at him, trying to remember the first time I saw him on the beach in France. That felt like a lifetime ago. “So, should I drop you off somewhere? Do you have a house or something?”

He waved a hand. “A shitty studio apartment in Venice. Fowler owned the building and put all his assistants there. I should go back for a day or two, just to keep up appearances. Next week will be crazy with all the media buzzing, but afterward, I thought I might stay with you again.”

I said okay even though it was the last thing that I wanted. Alex Jordan. It was fucking impossible to say no to that face. As we were driving down the Santa Monica Freeway toward the coast I asked him, “How much?”

“Money?” He rested his head on my shoulder. “Millions, even after the lawyers and civil suits, and whatever is coming. I’ll be rich enough to do what I want, which is to get a deep, dark tan on an exotic island somewhere.”

“And what about the investigation?”

“I’m confident the bozos working robbery-homicide in Los Angeles are nearly as bad as the clown car of detectives in Paris. Remember LeBeau and that absurd mustache? Go ahead, pretend you’re one of them and you have me on the hot seat. Ask me anything.”

“Okay,” I said, “you are one of Mr. Fowler’s prime beneficiaries and stand to gain quite a lot...”

“I don’t care about the money!” Alex screamed, tears suddenly rolling down his cheeks. “Kevin was my mentor, my best friend. Why would anyone want to hurt him?”

I blinked, staring at the performance. “Impressive. Do you think it will work?”

“That prick was despised on three continents by folks who got a close look at the real evil men can do. He drugged and took advantage of countless guys. Honestly, Kevin Fowler makes Cosby and Weinstein look like amateurs. It’s hard for victims of abuse to come forward, to speak out against powerful men, so maybe this will help.”

I wondered about the nobility of his motives since he was going to be cashing a big check.

“On the other hand,” he continued, “I was a voluntary participant and will freely admit to our intimacies when I’m questioned. Revenge will be the motive the authorities chase. When Gay Twitter gets ahold of this news, there will be dancing in the streets of West Hollywood. All the headlines will be about his sexual escapades and the young boys he used and discarded. Predatory sex and vengeance are still best sellers in Hollywood.”

He had it all figured out.

“When the dust settles, the first thing I’m going to do is fly us both back to Paris. First-class all the way.”

But Alex had told me too much, involved me too closely, and eventually, he was going to realize that I was a liability, a loose end that needed tying. Whatever sentimentality he clung to regarding our relationship would pale when measured against the risk I posed to his bright new future. After all, the guy was a psychopath, a gorgeous brilliant one, but a psychopath, nonetheless. If he ever possessed a moral compass, it was shattered long ago, so one of us was probably going to die. I was 20 years his senior, how long would it take him to get bored with me?

“A return to Paris sounds fun,” I said, squeezing his hand.

He sighed. “We’ve been through so much together, we deserve it. We’re good at keeping each other’s secrets.”

I smiled back, but I was worried I’d never see the Eiffel Tower again.

LAPD

The knocking was loud and persistent. It was seven in the morning and I was very hungover.

“Jesus H. Christ,” I moaned, as I fumbled to put on some jeans and an old cable knit sweater. I cracked open the door and found an attractive black woman holding up her badge and ID and then I saw the four police cars, lightbars flashing, parked at odd angles in front of my house.

“Trent Reynolds, I’m Detective Shelby. You’re under arrest for the murder of Kevin Fowler.”

“What?”

A half dozen uniformed cops wearing blue latex gloves rushed in and began searching while the detective read my rights and showed me a warrant. “I don’t understand,” I said as she handcuffed me.

“Which part?”

“All of it.”

Was this some sort of devious double-cross? Had Alex found a way to frame me for his murder?

“I have a cat,” I said, rather pathetically.

“My officers will take good care of it.”

As Shelby was placing me in the back of her Dodge Charger, she leaned in close, “Not for nothing, but Gay Twitter is hailing you as a hero. A queer vigilante.”

“Why?”

“You blew up one of the slimiest bottom-feeders in this town. You’re West Hollywood’s gay Batman, but you didn’t hear that from me.”

I sat quietly during the rainy trip downtown, trying to imagine what my defense would be. I was certainly an accessory to murder, I drove the goddamned getaway car. Aiding and abetting could land me in prison for 15 years. Meanwhile, Alex Jansen, or whatever his passport du jour read, would be lounging on a beach in Bali. Life was so unfair.

As they were fingerprinting and taking my mugshot, I saw a familiar face.

“Monsieur, say nothing. You must hire a lawyer and plead insanity.”

“LeBeau?”

The French commandant was holding a cup of coffee and watching my life fall apart.

“What the hell are you doing in Los Angeles?”

He merely shrugged, while Shelby gave me an odd look and passed me off to two burly cops. They took me into a small room where I was uncuffed and forced to empty my pockets and strip. “What’s this?” one of them asked.

I blinked.

He was holding up the French bullet. “That’s not mine,” I said.

“It was in your back pocket.”

I had no idea how Alex had slipped it into my clothing. “I’ve got nothing to say.”

Once I had changed into an orange jailhouse jumpsuit, Shelby came into the room. She held the antique bullet close to her face, inspecting it. “What about the bomb? Do you want to tell us where a screenwriter gets his hands on military-grade plastic explosives?”

“I wouldn’t know. What’s LeBeau doing here? Can I talk to him?”

The detective exchanged sidelong glances with the cops.

“Who’s LeBeau?” she asked.

“The French commandant, I just saw him out there.”

She stared at me like I was crazy and led me slowly to an interview room that looked like the ones you see on TV, complete with the one-way mirror. I’d already been charged with the crime even though no one had told me what evidence they had collected. I assumed the grilling I was about to endure was to see if they could extract a confession and expedite the process. God, I needed a lawyer, a good one, and fast.

“I want a lawyer!”

Shelby crossed her arms across her chest. “Yeah, yeah. You’ll get your phone call and your lawyer. We’re just having a friendly conversation.”

I’ve never trusted the police.

“You know we could have charged you with violating the restraining order that Fowler placed against you. You were photographed in the lobby of the Marmont with him last night. That’s a felony. You could get three years and a $10,000 fine and we haven’t even touched the murder rap yet.”

“What restraining order?”

She rolled her eyes. “Okay, if that’s the way you want to play it. Fine. Someone will bring a phone in here so you can make your call. In the meantime, think about what you want to say to me when we have our next little chat.”

The detective walked out leaving me alone in the room. I did know this, once the questioning really began, I was going to tell them everything I knew about Alexander Jordan.

As if on cue, the door opened, and he waltzed right in still wearing the Armani tux from the party. Speak of the devil, I thought, falling into his arms.

“Oh Alex,” I said, starting to break down. “I didn’t tell them anything, I swear.”

He hugged me. “I know.”

At least we were in this huge mess together.

“How did they catch us so quickly?” I whispered, one eye trained toward the mirror.

He sat down across the table. “It was the letters. You wrote several threatening ones to Kevin.”

I frowned. “No, I didn’t. You’re lying.”

I knew what the game was now. He was trying to frame me for Fowler’s murder. If there were any letters, Alex must have written them himself and forged my name. It was diabolical.

“You’re a writer,” Alex said. “You couldn’t help yourself. When the car exploded, you were at the top of the suspect list.”

“I think you wrote the letters and signed my name. You were planning to betray me all along.”

He looked crestfallen. “I would never do that,” he whispered, reaching to hold my hand. I didn’t resist. “You have to try hard now because this is going to be important. Think back. Remember the yacht?”

I did vaguely recall something about the ocean and a party. A trip to Catalina Island with a bunch of Hollywood types, but it was like a dream. “That was ages ago.”

“Yes,” Alex said. “How old were you?”

I rubbed the stubble on my chin. “About 17 or 18, I guess, but what does that have to do with anything?” My mind was grasping to collect the fuzzy memory. I remembered the ocean was angry and black that day. There was a storm on the horizon.

“It was a holiday,” Alex hinted.

I gasped. “Valentine’s Day.”

He winked.

When the clouds burst the boat rocked and I went below-deck, wet and seasick. “Do you remember his sweaty hand on your thigh?”

It was all beginning to come back. Slowly the fog lifted, and my eyes filled with tears.

“Kevin Fowler,” I said. “He drugged me.”

“Yes.”

“And raped me.”

Alex nodded solemnly. “And then he introduced you to an art director.”

“Matthew,” I whispered.

Now I understood what was happening. This was my story all along.

“Well, Fowler took advantage of us both, and I’m glad he’s dead,” I sobbed.

“Me too,” Alex replied, staring at our reflection in the mirror.

“But I don’t know how we’re going to get out of this.”

“It’s a shame really,” he said, pulling out the vape pen and taking a puff. “You’d have gotten away with killing the art director and the banker on the train.”

“But Leeland Highsmith, that was you...”

Alex shook his head, the light reflecting off his blond curls. “Nope,” he replied, placing a hand on my shoulder. “The horny Englishman came into your compartment and made a pass at you in the middle of the night. He triggered your worst memory.”

“I don’t understand,” I said. “I was with you on the train.”

“No,” Alex whispered. “You only desired me.”

I was confused.

“Highsmith,” I replied. “I saw him in Nice. He got into a Jaguar with you.”

He shrugged.

“Take your time, Sugar. You’ll figure it out.”

“I watched you on the beach, then again in the bookstore and leaving the museum.”

He stared at me with utter compassion.

“Everything you saw in Nice was real. What did the owner of the bookshop tell you about that young stranger?”

I thought back to the conversation. “He was local. The bookseller recognized him and thought he was a thief.”

“But I’m not from Nice, am I?  That French kid with Highsmith was a street hustler.”

Things were beginning to unravel. The lines between reality and fantasy were blurring. Memories and dreams were intertwined in my mind.

“Oh,” I said, staring down at the concrete floor. Was Alex gaslighting me? Trying to make me think I was hallucinating?

“So, Commandant LeBeau? It seems unlikely that he’d be in Los Angeles. The detective didn’t know his name. Is he really in the next room?”

“What do you think?”

It’s a bizarre sensation, realizing that you’ve gone completely insane.

“None of this is real,” I admitted at last.

Alex laughed. “Oh, Honeychile, some of it is,” he drawled.

My heart grew heavy.

“But not you.” I stared at the young man that I had come to love so deeply. He was fiction. I’d simply made him up, along with a French commandant wearing a silly mustache. I’d seen a beautiful young man on the beach and wanted him so badly that I conjured him onto the train.

“I tried my best to be who you wanted,” he said, looking sad that the truth was finally out. “You can always find me in the rain.”

I put my head down until it rested on the cold table. Was I honestly this crazy and alone? Did I even meet Timothée Chalamet?

“You shouldn’t take it too hard. It is much more difficult to judge oneself than to judge others.”

I chuckled derisively. My mind was so fractured that I was quoting Saint-Exupéry to myself using a Cajun accent.

“You have to tell them about me,” he pleaded. “All of it. Don’t leave anything out.”

I got up and embraced him tightly, feeling the warmth of his skin and smelling clean linen sheets. “Okay, but promise me something, Alex, please.”

“What?”

“Never leave me, no matter what happens. I can’t imagine a world without you.”

“I promise,” he whispered, and I believed him.

*  *  *

Get to know more about Marko Realmonte at markorealmonte.com.

Bound to Love:
Brad Shreve

He couldn’t stomach living in Harrisburg.

It was the third time Ryan Wilson turned down a prominent position at the Worldwide Headquarters of Clifford Hotels. Pennsylvania may have been good enough for Arnold Clifford who opened his first inn there in 1946 but it wasn’t where Ryan, who was L.A. born and bred, wanted to be. The substantial increase in salary as executive director of training and development made it the first time he took pause before refusing. Although he missed a connecting flight in Atlanta, he landed in Los Angeles with enough time to shower, gear up, and meet David for dinner.

For most, Pink’s Hot Dogs would be a ridiculous place for Valentine’s dinner, but it was where he met David Carter two years before. The Whip bar was only two blocks down La Brea from the iconic stand and each of them stopped to eat with friends before heading home. Pink’s was popular with locals and was a must-go for out-of-towners who had heard they may see celebrities stop by for a bite. The 45-minute wait in line that night gave the two time to get to know each other, leading up to an all-nighter at David’s house in Santa Monica. Ryan knew after that night he was bound to love him.

They arrived at their anniversary feast early enough to get through fast and relaxed on plastic lawn chairs scattered behind the stand.

David chuckled. “I love how you can tell who’s from here and who are the tourists from the looks on their faces,” he said.

Ryan said, “You mean by those who don’t notice us and those who are pointing with their mouths open?”

“Yes, yes. I think we scare them.”

Ryan swallowed a large bite of his dog. “I don’t think they see many men in leather chaps and vests back in Iowa. It’s that harness across your chest that raises their fears.”

“I can only imagine what they think you do to me.”

“Whatever it is, it can’t come close to what I really do.”

As he looked at his partner, he reflected on how excited he was when David approached him the night they met. He was ten years younger, but with a slim build and shaggy blond hair, David looked ten years younger than that. He questioned what David saw in a pudgy, balding forty-eight-year-old man. He believed having a young, handsome lover would be a boost to his ego but when he compared himself in the mirror it only served to make him feel inferior Then again, David had an eye for older men. His ex, Scotty, was pushing sixty.

Ryan reigned in his thoughts to be in the moment with the man he loved. They yakked and laughed until the crowd increased, and the glares from those looking to sit, were dampening their spirits. It was 7:30 when they walked into The Whip.

“What the hell brings you two in so early?” Walt, the bartender, asked.

Ryan said, “We ate dinner too fast, and we’ve got nowhere to go for the next hour and a half.”

Walt gave them an exaggerated frown. “Poor dears. Well, you beat the cover charge, how about the first round on me?”

Ryan snickered when David nudged him with his elbow and slyly nodded toward Walt. The man was mammoth—both tall and wide. He had gained much of his three hundred pounds since the previous Valentine’s Day. Squeezing himself into what Ryan assumed to be the same leather pants was comical. Embarrassed by his childish behavior, he could feel the color rising to his cheeks and turned away. Misbehaving with David melted away the stress of having to wear his corporate face all week.

David was charismatic and funny, which made it difficult for Ryan to imagine his prior relationship. Scotty, liking to be the domineering master, pushed things too far and took advantage of his slave’s meth-filled brain. David was also Scotty’s lackey, delivering crystal to anxious buyers. It took some of Scotty’s peers to make David understand a sadist should not be cruel. To think the confident man before him would once cry and beg for mercy under his daddy’s feet. Ryan still had enough Catholic in him to thank God his partner didn’t run when escorted by friends to a Narcotics Anonymous meeting. He was proud of his lover for turning his life around so quickly. Going from newly sober to a freelance data analyst, successful enough to rent a sizeable house within three years, was impressive.

Ryan also had a poor history when it came to partners. Before David, he had three long-term relationships. The first was a practicing alcoholic who died falling down a flight of stairs only a month after they broke up. The second was a serial cheater. The third one he married. He and Paul had their wedding in July 2015, one month after same-sex marriage became legal across the land. Eighteen months later, he divorced Paul, but not before he had drained Ryan’s bank account. Ending relationships were hard for Ryan but he had learned acts of self-care to ensure closure. It’s why, when he and David started dating, they agreed to take things slow. Two years of slow. Holding back from forcing David into a more permanent relationship was difficult but it was the right decision. He’d spent many hours and lots of dollars with his therapist to overcome needing others to validate his self-worth.

Unlike the others, David was an honest and good man. It had been a month since he decided to suggest they moved in together. David lived in Santa Monica while Ryan’s home was on the other side of the city in Eagle Rock. The drives through rush hour traffic took their toll on the man. Ryan considered proposing but talked himself out of it. It was time to move forward, but he didn’t want to scare David off. Don’t want to go from zero to sixty, he thought.

Ryan was Clifford Hotel’s Director of Training for the western region. It kept him on the road five days a week. David’s job kept him busy too. They agreed the infrequent time together may have been the key to their successful relationship. Like a child waiting for Christmas morning, each week, Ryan would count the days until he would see David again.

An hour after Ryan and David entered the bar, a line of men in leather and uniforms, and a few in typical streetwear, were at the door paying fifteen dollars a head.

Ryan said to the bartender, “You’ll be able to retire after tonight, Walt.”

“I’m going to be able to buy that new tiara I’ve been eyeing.” Walt guffawed then took a couple of deep breaths. “Hold right here.” He reached into a cabinet beneath the bar and placed a tiara on his head. “This old one doesn’t have enough sparkle to match my personality.”

The three roared and, just when Ryan felt he could talk again, Walt said he was going to keep it on all night and went back to serving customers. The sight of the hefty man in dark leather with the jewels atop his head was too ridiculous to fight the laughter. All eyes in the bar were on Ryan and David as their howls continued longer than the joke deserved.

He said, “I think we’re overly giddy. It’s funny but I don’t think it’s that funny.”

David shook his head. “No. No. It’s that funny or we’re drunk on just a couple of beers.”

Ryan felt woozy, but he wasn’t drunk. It was the lack of oxygen from the laughter. “I can’t tell you how good it feels to loosen up after having to be a tight-ass at work.”

David said, “Oh, honey, don’t ever let that tight ass loosen up.”

Ryan went silent before he could make a witty comeback. The muscles in his neck and shoulders tightened when David pulled his phone from his pocket. His partner looked at who was calling and sobered fast. As Ryan expected, David held up a finger and took the call. Ryan glared when the call was over.

David turned to speak. “Babe—”

“You’ll be back as soon as you can.” Ryan crossed his arms.

“Of course,” David muttered. “It’s our special night and I’m not going to ruin it. It’s the VP at—”

“Diesel Enterprises. Blah, blah. They may be your biggest client, but they abuse your goodwill calling this late. Your stress level gets higher every day since you took them on.”

David said, “It’s urgent but easy. I promise it won’t take long.”

“I have no doubt we’ll win the ‘Lovers in Leather’ contest this year and it’s in less than two hours. It’s going to be nearly an hour for you to drive home and back.”

“Which leaves a lot more time than we’ll need.”

Ryan momentarily bit his lip and closed his eyes to keep his cool. “I’ll go with you. When you’re done, we’ll walk down to Che Jay’s for a couple of beers followed by some fun and frolic.”

“No, I—”

“Or we can go straight to fun and frolic.”

“And miss being crowned the best lovers in leather? I don’t think so.”

Ryan got a peck on his cheek before David stepped away. Then David spun back and gave Ryan a sensuous kiss on the lips. The feel of David’s tongue rolling across his lips gave him momentary peace until his partner walked out the door.

“Damn, man, you look pissed.” Greg Newark said as he stepped up.

Ryan had been frenemies with Greg for twenty years and he was not pleased to see him. Greg had been trying to push things past their minor friendship since they met. They fucked early on, but Greg was too cocky for his taste.

He would never admit it to anyone, but Ryan had a thirst for Greg’s body. Each lean muscle bulged from inside his latex body suit. The legs cut off above his knees accentuated his powerful thighs. His stark black hair matched the black in his latex. There was no denying he was a fine display but the large bulge in the crotch made Ryan snicker. From the knowledge he'd gained from their one-nighter, he knew it was stuffed. Excessively so.

“Maybe I can perk you up,” Greg said as he ran a finger down Ryan’s crotch.

Why the hell won’t he leave me alone? Ryan thought. No matter how much he protested or how often, Greg wouldn’t let up.

Ryan grabbed Greg’s arm and twisted.  “Someday you’ll give up getting back in my pants and you might as well stop the fuck now. It’s never going to happen.”

Greg winced and rubbed his forearm where Ryan grabbed him. He took a step back and held up his hand. He said, “Chill out, man. I’m only teasing.”

“I’m not in the mood for teasing.”

“You know what you need to do when you’ve got boyfriend problems? You need to hang out and have a beer with friends.” He took Ryan by the wrist. “Come on. Anthony and Michael are on the patio.”

Ryan grabbed Greg’s arm again and pulled it down, releasing Greg’s clasp. “I’m not in the mood to ‘hang out.’ Go have fun.”

“Nope,” Greg said with a hand on each hip. “If you stay on that stool looking all pitiful, you’ll drag everyone down. Sit there and wallow in your shit or come fake having a good time ‘til you do. It’s your choice.”

Ryan bowed his head and exhaled. “Alright. Let’s see if you can work your good time magic.”

“Now you’re talking. I know how to give good time magic.”

“My God, you’ll never let up, will you?” Ryan tried to fight chuckling and failed.

“That’s the spirit. Better already.”

Greg grabbed his hand, and without protest Ryan allowed himself to be escorted outside. In need of repair, the deck bent and squeaked as they crossed it. There were a lot of jokes that someday the bar would have to close to pay off a lawsuit when the deck collapsed. It felt extra spongy that night which made Ryan wonder if it would soon be the day when it was no longer a joke. The gray boards used for the fence around the patio were as tired and rotten as the floor.

Anthony’s height and brawny body was intimidating, unlike Michael’s small frame. They were a couple both on and off the screen. Unbeknownst to most, Anthony preferred to bottom, but topped in all his videos. His enormous muscles under his dark cocoa skin controlling and pounding his creamy white twink lover was a stereotype many men craved.

As Greg suggested, Ryan went through the motions of having fun and it was starting to work. The good times came to a halt when he looked at his phone and saw the time. He excused himself and hit the speed dial.

“Where are you?” Ryan asked.

David said, “I’m wrapping things up right now and heading out the door. I’ll get there in time for the contest, I promise. You’re my valentine.”

My valentine should be here, Ryan thought. Fuming, he pulled the phone away from his ear and glared at it, ready to disconnect. “Hello?” David called three times.

Ryan gritted his teeth, but against his better judgment he got back on the phone. “I told you I should come with you. If you get to the car in five to ten minutes, you’ll make it just in time. I’ll see you then.”

Without saying goodbye, Ryan ended the call and shoved the phone back in his pocket. Trying to hide his anger, he forced a smile when he rejoined his friends. The sudden stop in their conversation, their downcast eyes, and their pursed lips told him his attempt to look upbeat had failed. Deflated, he felt like leaving but planted his feet and started going through the motions again.

Later, Ryan stepped to a corner, away from the crowd. He pulled out his phone and looked at the time. It was nine-fifty. He expected David to have called to reassure him he was on the way. He knew he’d be hurt when he called but did it anyway. There was no answer. He told his friends he would be back, squeezed through the crowd, and stepped out the front door. His second call went unanswered. He paced the sidewalk several times before a third try. Same result.

Knowing he’d wallow in self-pity if he went home, he pushed through the desire and went back into the bar. He felt a slight nudge that switched to brute force. Ryan tumbled to the floor. It was David’s ex, Scotty Obaker. He may have been a power daddy, but he didn’t look the part. At six-foot-four he towered above most, but Ryan marveled how Scotty’s gaunt frame was capable of such strength.

Scotty turned as Ryan rose to his feet and said, “My apologies, Ryan. I didn’t see you there. I feel terrible.” There was no missing the contempt in his voice.

Ryan debated grasping the chain swinging between Scotty’s nipples and smiled at the thought. Giving it a good hard yank was what Scotty deserved. Knowing he’d be pegged as a drama queen, he dismissed the idea.  He said, “Lay off, Scotty. There’s enough space in the world to keep us apart.”

“You say that but look at us now. There’s never enough space between us if you ask me.”

Ryan said, “I don’t ask because I don’t give a shit what you have to say. So, fuck off.”

“Fuck you,” Scotty said as he turned away.

Before disappearing in the crowd, Ryan got in a quick jab at the back of Scotty’s Leatherman biker cap sending it three feet in front of the weasel.

The Lovers in Leather contest started fifteen minutes late. Typical, Ryan thought. He ignored the show and stepped out to the patio. The crowd there thinned as people moved inside to watch, including his friends. The only ones left outside was a small group of bored individuals and doting couples. The adoration he witnessed between each couple gave him pains in his stomach, so he turned his head, leaned against a rail, and faced a brick wall. He felt as if he was in a bubble watching the world move along without him.

Eddie Firemark and Jake Dankworth triumphed over a dozen couples. The year’s Lovers in Leather had been together less than a month and wore leathers that had seen better days. Scotty scoffed and muttered to no one that they were undeserving of the title. He moved to a corner of the fence that enclosed the patio for privacy and called David a fourth and fifth time. His anger switched to concern. What if David was in an accident, or stabbed during a robbery, or had an aneurysm? It was possible that David wouldn’t answer one or two calls because he was ashamed for running late. But as late as it was, and after the numerous calls, it seemed unlikely David would ignore him so long. Ryan rushed through the bar and out the door as his friends called him from behind.

His heart was pounding through his chest. He caught himself just shy of hyperventilating. He raced his black BMW down La Brea toward the 10 freeway. What was the speed limit? How far over was he going? He had no idea, but he knew he was going at a lose-your-license speed. His fist hammered the steering wheel when reaching the entrance ramp to the interstate.

Two cars collided and trapped him on the entrance ramp. Until the police could get a tow truck, there was no moving forward. The line behind him meant he wasn’t going back. He was stuck and fretted between two graffiti-covered concrete barriers. He chewed on his nails, a habit he broke years before. Call number six, seven, then eight—still was no answer. He texted too. Call me now! Where are you? Are you okay? He didn’t expect a reply and one never came.

As the trucks were attaching chains to the busted cars, it hit Ryan to call David’s roommate, Christopher, but he was no help. Christopher worked all day in North Hollywood and had been in the NoHo Arts District eating and barhopping with friends when he answered Ryan’s call.

Ryan became more agitated by cars inching down the entrance ramp after the wreckage was dragged to the side of the road. When his tires hit the freeway, they squealed as he punched it around the vehicles ahead of him. At excessive speed, the eight miles from where he'd been stopped for so long to where he got off on Fourth Street took just over seven minutes. The short drive from there to David’s house on Bay Street felt like an eternity.

His partner’s blue Toyota Camry parked in from of the craftsman style home ruled out an auto accident. That knowledge didn’t appease Ryan. He rang the doorbell, and full of anxiety, he bounced on his heels, impatient for an answer. He had no excuse for not replacing his key a month after it broke. There was no answer when he dialed David’s number. He gave up after knocking on the door a second time, so he walked around the house to get in through the kitchen. The door wouldn’t budge. The broken half of his key was still in the lock.

Another call went unanswered and two more bangs on the door were futile. Back on the front porch he made another call outside a bay window. It was faint, but music came from inside. He placed his ear against the glass and dialed again. The song was “Loser” by Beck.

David was teasing Ryan one night and set it as the ringtone when Ryan called. It was funny then but after a year it was still there, and he took offense. It was one of those irritating things in a relationship no one wants to whine about. He called the number one last time and pushed his ear so hard against the glass it almost gave. There was no doubt it was Beck.

Ryan scanned the yard for something to grab and eyed the three flamingo lawn ornaments. He raced across the lawn, grabbed one, and a second away from smashing the window a horn blast came from behind. It was David’s roommate.

“How’d you get here so fast?” Ryan asked.

Christopher said, “I was getting ready to leave anyway. So, when you called, I got worried. I couldn’t get an answer either. It only took a little over thirty minutes via the 405. It looks like I got here just in time before you smashed Jolly through the window.”

“Jolly?”

“That’s his name. The other two are Whimsey and Jubilant.”

“Never mind the names of those damn plastic flamingos. David’s in there and something is wrong. I can hear his phone ringing through the window.”

Christopher led the way to the door. He turned the key so slowly it was like watching instant replay. With apprehension, they inched through the open door. Once inside, Christopher froze and stumbled when Ryan walked into his back. Both men stood silently as they stared at the scene.

In the middle of the living room on the hardwood floor was a body on its stomach hogtied, bound in leather straps. It was a situation Ryan had tried on a date once. He learned it wasn’t his thing.

The person’s head was covered with white rolls of plastic wrapped around it. The body size, shape, and leather gear made it clear it was David. Ryan rushed over and ripped at the plastic with hopes he was wrong.

Christopher hyperventilated, but the words came out between gasps. “What–are–you–doing? It’s a crime scene.”

“I’m trying to save him,” Ryan screeched. “Help me, please!”

Christopher ran over and ripped at the plastic as well. “I don’t think there’s any way to save him.”

“Shut up! Shut up!”

The plastic was wrapped tight, and they tore it into shreds. In his haste, Ryan ripped a fingernail from its quick halfway back on his middle finger. The pain was intense, yet he did not stop. He sucked the digit for a second and returned to ripping the plastic, sending white bits spattered with blood from his finger to the floor.

The face was finally exposed—David’s face. Ryan’s world blurred as he looked into the lifeless, open eyes. He grabbed the ball gag in the David’s mouth and pulled at the straps behind his head.

“You can’t take that out!” Christopher screamed.

Ryan said, “Just watch me. I want him to have some dignity.”

“It sucks, and it’s shitty, but you need to leave it there for the cops.”

Ryan ignored Christopher’s protests.

“Do you want to make it harder for the cops to investigate?”

Ryan dropped the thin strips of knotted leather on the back of David’s neck and, losing his balance, his ass hit the floor. He looked toward the ceiling while Christopher remained on his hands and knees.

It was late Friday morning when the last police car pulled away. They were antagonistic toward both Ryan and Christopher until they both proved they had clear alibis. Ryan had scheduled that Friday to be one of the rare days he would work out of the regional office in Sherman Oaks. Instead, he sat in silence on the opposite end of the couch from Christopher before deciding that grieving alone would be best done at his home. Once there, a protein bar and a hot shower helped him drift off to sleep.

Late that evening, Ryan called to inform people who were friends of both his and David. Telling of the tragedy three times was enough. Inbound calls poured in as word spread. They were ignored and the voice mails mounted.

Wide awake, just hours from midnight, Ryan drove back to Santa Monica. David had never spoken of his family, yet Ryan felt obligated to find and notify them. It took three knocks before Christopher opened the door.

“How long have you been knocking?” Christopher asked. “I’ve been holed up in my bedroom since you left. I didn’t want to be near, or look at, this living room.” He wrapped his arms around himself and shook, “It gives me the willies. I used to love this place but can’t afford it by myself and don’t give a damn. I want out of here.”

“I was going to come tomorrow to start getting David’s stuff in order, but there’s no reason not to start tonight, if you don’t mind. If I go anywhere, people will hound me for details or express their condolences. I can’t handle it.”

“Sure, knock yourself out. I’ll come help after getting dressed.”

Ryan stepped into the office and plopped down on the chair at the desk where David’s computer used to be. He had forgotten the police took it and David’s cell phone. He’d hoped there would be something in the file cabinet. It was unlocked so he searched through each drawer methodically.

“Sorry I took so long,” Christopher said. “I had a quick shower.” His shorts and tank top hugged his still wet body. His brown soaked hair clung to his head. “What are you looking for?”

“A way to reach his family. Do you know anything about them?”

“No clue. He never talked about them except to say he doesn’t talk to them. I don’t know if his parents are still alive or if he has siblings.”

Ryan said, “Yeah, same here. He kept them a mystery from me, too. He kept saying he didn’t want to talk about them.”

Christopher said, “If anything, he may have emails. But there’s no way to check that.”

“That’s why I’m searching here,” Ryan said as he thumbed through the files in the cabinet’s top drawer. “There’s nothing but business files.”

“I wouldn’t know. His job didn’t interest me enough to look.”

“I should call his clients in the morning. Oh, tomorrow’s Saturday, isn’t it? Monday, I guess. He was doing work for Diesel Enterprises last night when he came home. I’ll call them first since they’re his biggest client.”

“His biggest client? He doesn’t have a biggest client. They’re all damned small. His biggest client would be some company in Denver, but it’s not big. He said it’s a couple dozen people. I don’t know which one it is.”

“I don’t think Diesel Enterprises is in Denver.”

“I’ve never heard of them until now. Where are they?”

“He said Diesel Enterprises is in Flagstaff. He hasn’t mentioned them? He talks about them all the time.”

Christopher looked nonplussed. Ryan waited for a response. Finally, Christopher put his hand over his mouth, and giggled.

“What’s so funny?” Ryan asked.

“He never told you about Mister Diesel?”

“No, who’s that? The guy who owns the place?”

Christopher doubled over and laughed. “Mister Diesel was the dog David got when he lived in Flagstaff.”

“When did Ryan live in Flagstaff?”

“Just a short time. He spent a semester at Northern Arizona University but hated the cold. He moved to Phoenix and went to Arizona State and brought Mr. Diesel with him when we met and got a place together. He took Mister Diesel with him everywhere, but the poor pup only lived four years before dying from cancer. David was so devastated his grades dropped like a rock. He was almost suspended; he loved that dog so much.”

Ryan cocked his head. “His top client he talked about is his dead dog?”

“You put it that way and it’s funny.”

“I don’t think it’s funny.” Ryan dug haphazardly into the files. “Who are his biggest clients?”

Christopher said, “I told you. He doesn’t have any. His business has been dying for about a year. He’s hardly making anything from that data thing he did.”

“He was a data analyst. If he was scraping by, how’d he pay for this house?”

“You don’t know, do you? I didn’t think you did.” Christopher crossed his arms.

“Know what?”

Christopher lowered his head. In a tone so soft Ryan strained to hear, he said, “David’s been dealing again. Working with Scotty.”

Ryan shook his head in disgust. “What the fuck? He’s using, too?”

“I’ve never seen him smoking or snorting the shit. I think he’s done a good job not using. That’s the way it works with dealers who are professional.”

“How long has he been doing this?” Ryan was in disbelief.

“I’d say a little over six months. Don’t think too harshly of him. He was on the verge of losing everything he worked so hard for.”

“Look at him now. He’s literally lost all there ever was.” Ryan grabbed the arms of the chair. “I’m going to kill that fucker. I’m going to kill Scotty.”

“It’s not Scotty’s fault. Scotty’s being Scotty. He makes no apologies for who he is. You need to blame David. He knew what he was doing when he crawled back to Scotty. I doubt they’d talked to each other since they broke up until David made that phone call.”

“That’s because Scotty manipulated him to be his puppet.”

“I was right here. I didn’t see any manipulation. No one was forcing him to make that call.”

Ryan didn’t believe that. “What did he say?”

“I don’t know. I heard ‘Hello, Scotty’ and then he went to his bedroom. Later that week, he told me what was going on. He told me to keep it on the down-low.”

“All this was going on and you didn’t tell me? What the hell is wrong with you? You got him killed.”

Christopher stepped back. “I didn’t get anyone killed. Don’t pull that shit on me. I’m not David’s mother and was under no obligation to tell anyone. Hell, I’ve talked to you more in the past two days than I have since the day we met. David hasn’t talked to you much more than that given you’re on the road all the time.”

“That’s an exaggeration. What was David doing? Driving around town like Scotty’s delivery boy?”

“No, not like before. They were more like partners. David wasn’t playing too smart, though. He had way too many people traipsing through here for pickups. But most of the time he was out dealing like some thug. Out at the dance clubs and sex clubs.”

“Sex clubs, like Pounders?”

“No, that’s too risky. He hit underground clubs. There’s one in North Hollywood and one in Culver City. They move around, but if you know the right people you know where they are and Scotty ran the one in NoH0.”

“You work in North Hollywood. Where is it?”

“I don’t know, I only went twice, and it moves around like I said. Stealthy. It’s where he goes the most and makes a shit load of money. That’s what pulled him in, not Scotty or the drugs. Check with a friend of his named Greg. You know him too. I’ve heard he goes to the North Hollywood one whenever there’s an event, which is about twice a month.”

Ryan had his phone out and called Greg within seconds after Christopher finished.

“Yeah, I go to almost every event.” Greg said. “Always a hot DJ, great dancing, and sex things and playrooms everywhere. They promote them as giving a cut to local charities, usually HIV prevention and treatment programs, which is hilarious when you consider all the barebacking that goes on. Condoms everywhere and I don’t think I’ve ever seen one opened.”

“When’s the next one? I want to go.”

“These are underground, so it changes a lot, but Scotty Obaker’s is the most well-known, and popular. I was thinking of going tomorrow night. I’d ask you to come with but that’s probably the last thing on your mind.”

“Pick me up at The Bullet at eight-thirty.”

“You got it. And I’m really sorry about David.”

David’s office had a couch that was also a sofa bed. “You look exhausted,” Christopher said after Ryan hung up. Ryan yawned and nodded his head. Christopher pulled out the bed and Ryan passed out seconds after his head hit the pillow. He felt he had just dozed off when he saw it was nine Saturday morning.

Ryan spent most of the day pacing along the beach, pondering. He wondered why he and David rarely went there with it being so close. Near his appointed time to meet Greg, he found street parking around the corner from The Bullet, a rugged, neighborhood gay bar. But being too fidgety to sit still, and not interested in having a drink, he waited outside, standing on the sidewalk and leaning against a side wall.

Only minutes later, Greg pulled up to the curb in his silver Ford Mustang. He pulled away before Ryan could strap on his seatbelt. No words were said. They reached the secret destination within minutes. It looked like any random boarded-up former impound lot, except for the purple lights flashing and trance music blaring from behind its tall, corrugated steel walls.

A folding table sat inside the entrance gate. The entrance fee was forty dollars, and a sign claimed a portion of all sales went to support HIV awareness. Only steps away from the cashier table was a cage where a man was handcuffed inside. There was a line of men waiting their turn to pluck at the bird. Next to the cage were three tables affording anyone an opportunity to have his ass eaten or a cock rammed up it. Ryan mumbled, “After this, too many will be aware of HIV more than they’d like.”

Greg said, “What’d you say?

“Nothing,” Ryan replied. “Nothing at all.”

The man at the cash table, wore only a jock strap and a leather pig mask, heard Ryan. In a defensive voice, he said, “Before you judge, there are jars of condoms and lube everywhere, you know.”

Ryan raised his hands. “Hey, I’m not judging. You provide the tools. It’s up to them to use them. And, from what I see, not many take advantage of the free supplies.”

The pig-masked man crossed his arms and huffed.

“How often did David come here?” Ryan asked Greg.

Greg’s eyes looked downward. He kept his gaze fixed to the left of Ryan’s head. “Ryan, I’m very...”

“Don’t you fucking dare tell me you’re sorry. You should have told me about this a long time ago, which would have been a fucking easier way to learn what was going on than the way I did. How often was he here?”

“He never missed them when you were out of town. Said he claimed he was working too.”

“Was he only there to sell, or what?”

“A hell of a lot more than that,” a too familiar voice said from behind. It was Scotty. “He was partial to making himself available in the sling for an hour or so at a time.”

Ryan gritted his teeth and clenched his fists. His breath quickened and his heart started pounding.

“In fact,” Scotty continued. “As soon as he was done with his turn, he’d make some sales and get right back in line to be in the sling again.”

Ryan spun around and grabbed at Scotty’s neck with both hands. Two muscular men, with black shirts painted on their torsos, didn’t hesitate to pull him away. They held his arms and Scotty continued.

“Don’t get so upset with me, Mr. Ryan. He asked for work and that’s what I gave him. Just a job is all it was. Of course, I had no knowledge he was selling drugs. I would never allow such chicanery. This is an honest business, but it’s hard to control everything in a place this size. I was shocked when I learned he was dealing.” Scotty strutted around in an overly dramatic fashion. “Simply shocked. With all that’s happened this will likely be the last event for a couple of months. It’s a good thing I had no connection to David’s illegal activities.”

Ryan flung his shoulders forward but barely budged with a security guard at each arm. He screamed, “Don’t play with me saying you didn’t know. It’s part of your whole operation.”

Scotty said, “I’m subsidizing my retirement. Nothing more.” He paused and glared into Ryan’s eyes. “Where are my manners? I haven’t offered my condolences. I’m sincerely sorry for your loss.”

Ryan spit at Scotty. His phlegm dropped inches in front of the man’s toes.

Scotty looked down at the spit and shook his head. “That’s terrible behavior. I can’t allow it when people pay good money to have a fun time.” He nodded at the guards. “Have a pleasant evening, Ryan.”

Ryan faltered when pushed out the chain link gate. It clanged shut behind him. He leaned against a telephone pole before giving up on Greg. As he walked to his car, Anthony and Michael, the interracial porn stars, passed and offered their condolences. He ignored them. Everyone knew, he thought. Everyone knew he was a fool. He considered popping into The Bullet for a beer. But not being in the mood to be around people, he got a six pack on the way home instead.

While on the couch, he knocked down four beers, and mulled over David’s double life. He screamed and put his fist through a wall before going to bed. He stared at the ceiling most of the night. Once again, he allowed his heart to be squashed by a man he loved—a man who lived a lie. How could he allow himself to be blinded by the obvious? The shame engulfed him as the memories of David’s frequent bathroom breaks, urgent phone calls, and his jittery actions rolled through his head. Ryan’s emotions ran from grief, to shock, to anger, to humiliation, to fury. Fury hit the hardest and stayed the longest before the cycle ran through his brain again.

The sun was rising when Ryan gave up on resting. He couldn’t keep food down, but alcohol was no problem. He finished the last two of his Bud Lights, then drove to 7-Eleven and emptied three more in the parking lot. Ryan drove back to North Hollywood with the hopes Scotty would still be behind the corrugated steel. The baseball bat that had been in the back of his closet, rolled off the back seat when he pulled to the curb and hit his breaks. The chain link gate was open and there were no security guards. He walked up and slammed the bat on a metal table behind Scotty, making the man jump.

Scotty turned. His eyes widened when he saw it was Ryan tapping the bat on the table. “What the fuck are you doing here?” Scotty’s arrogant voice belied the fear on his face.

“I’m here to kill you, Scotty.”

Scotty looked around. The only others there were two men who were barely eighteen cleaning up at opposite ends of the complex.

Ryan said, “They don’t look like the strongest or sharpest men to save you.”

“But I didn’t do anything.” Panic had seeped into his voice.

“Don’t sweat it.” Ryan rolled the bat off the table. The two men cleaning looked when it hit the pavement. They paused for just a moment then went back to work. “I’m not going to kill you, but the fear in your eyes is delicious.”

Scotty watched the bat as it rolled to his feet. He nudged it with his toe and slowly bent and picked it up. His face flashed from confusion, to anger, to confusion again. “What the fuck is this about?” He growled.

“I despise you, Scotty. You’re rotten to the bone. But that doesn’t matter because you’re just a businessman. On that, I want to apologize on David’s behalf.”

“Apologize? What kind of game are you playing?” He swung the bat across just inches from Ryan’s face. Ryan didn’t flinch.

“Banish the thought of beating me to death out of your head. Others know I’m here,” he lied. I don’t know the details, but I’d venture a guess David was stealing from you and with his business failing he had no way to pay you back.”

“You’re making this up. You don’t know what happened and neither do I.” Scotty was overdramatic and placed the back of his hand on his forehead and pouted his lips. “I am distraught.”

“You didn’t look distraught when you walked into The Whip minutes after you killed him.”

“I have alibis. It wasn’t me.” Sounding surer of himself, his typical arrogance returned.

“Sure, you have alibis. The ones who did the job for you. You see, Scotty. I’ll never forgive you for the way you abused him, but David moved on. You are a twisted man, and nothing has changed that. But what you did to him on Thursday was just business and you saved me a lot of heartache.” Ryan leaned forward, placed his hands on the table, and glared at Scotty. “And for that, I forgive you.”

Not only did Ryan forgive Scotty, but he also appreciated how this took care of matters for him. Ryan had a unique means of finding closure after failed relationships.

“I don’t like games and definitely not from you. Did you come here to kill me or not?”

“Not.” He grinned. “No one should die the way David did. You’re still a sick fuck, but you’re a sick fuck conducting business and I’m sure in your business David deserved what he got. He knew what he was getting into. I had no plans to kill you because it will bring me great joy, seeing the police close in.”

“You got nothing on me, because there ain’t nothing. You can’t tell them shit.”

“Oh, I have enough to get the ball rolling, but I’m sure it’s rolling already. I don’t know the details, but it didn’t take long for me to take an educated guess and it won’t for the police either. Too bad for you they have the time and the resources I don’t. They’ll dig and dig until they get all the evidence they need.” Ryan smirked. “Maybe I’ll start a pool on whether you’ll get locked up for life or sentenced to death.” Ryan let his shoulders fall and crossed his arms.“ I have an appointment with the police in the morning and you have no worries from me. This little secret is between us. That’s my thank-you gift. A thank-you for exposing the man I'd hoped to marry one day for being a lying, cheating, son of a bitch.” Ryan guffawed. “Hey, just like you. You deserved each other.”

Scotty's face crumbled. The inevitable was sinking in.

“I’m leaving now, but I’ve had that bat since little league. It has sentimental value. May I have it back?”

Scotty stretched his arms to give the bat to Ryan. When Ryan reached to take it, Scotty pulled it back then lobbed it causing it to smack the gate and drop to the pavement. The two cleaners looked up again, shrugged, and went back to cleaning.

Ryan casually walked to the gate and lifted the bat. Without looking back as he stepped out, he said, “Scotty, I wish you the best with whatever comes your way.”

Beer wouldn’t do. Ryan passed the 7-Eleven and pulled into the liquor store. Nothing less than a bottle of Jack would do.

The next morning Ryan met with the police as planned. He stayed true to his word. He told them nothing about Scotty or David’s second life. He had no hard evidence to prove Scotty was the killer, so he did not lie. Before pulling out of the parking lot, Ryan called the Clifford Hotels corporate office in Harrisburg to see if their offer still stood.

He couldn’t stomach living in Los Angeles any longer.

*  *  *

Get to know more about Brad Shreve at bradshreve.com.

This Thing of Darkness:
Greg Herren

Climbing the steps alongside the fenced-in wooden deck, he couldn’t help but smile. He’d always loved that the place was named Tacos and Beer. So simple and unpretentious, in a world growing more complicated every day. The patio deck was crowded, filled with what he guessed were hipsters, with bare arms covered in vibrant multi-colored tattoos, the young men with their greasy-looking hair pulled back into manbuns, the women’s streaked with bright, vibrant colors and cut in a variety of styles. They seemed to all wear clunky boots and old, long out of style clothing stained and worn and riddled with holes. The sun glittered on their numerous piercings. He guessed their employers didn’t care about the artwork on their skin, or the posts and hoops bedazzling their faces.

He knew he was hopelessly, tragically, unhip. He’d never been one of the cool kids, and long since lost the desire to be one.

Although he would have thought they’d be too cool to celebrate Valentine’s Day? But many of them were obviously couples. Flowers wrapped in tissue paper adorned tabletops: carnations in various shades of pink, white, and red; bullet-headed roses with baby’s breath; and arrangements of lilies and snapdragons and blooms he couldn’t identify. Heart-shaped boxes of chocolates, still tightly wrapped in cellophane, sometimes caught the light of the dying sun while he glanced at them.

He sat down at a tall table-top for two inside, perching on a stool facing the door. The inside wasn’t nearly as crowded as the deck. It was the first sunny warm day in New Orleans in quite some time—Carnival had been cold and gray and damp and miserable—and what young person didn’t want to be outside basking in the sunshine while drinking their artisanal craft beers and munching their tacos, laughing, enjoying being young and in love? He watched through the window, imagining he could hear the youthful spirit in their voices.

Oh, to be young again.

Or to be in love, for that matter.

He wasn’t that old, of course. Advertisements reminded him, every day, that age was nothing more than a state of mind. But at fifty-six, more mornings than not his muscles were tired and sore and achy when he got out of bed. Just that very morning, he’d felt a strain in his back on the left side when bending down to pick up the laundry basket. Hours later, his back still felt sore and tender, especially when turning his head that direction.

He was getting older. Each day he seemed to find a new ache or pain or creak in a joint...

You’re old. Not getting older—you’re already old.

Would he recognize David after forty years? So much time! A forty-year high school reunion was scheduled the next month for their graduating class.  He wasn’t going, of course. He hadn’t been back to Kansas since he’d left... how long ago? Thirty-seven years, was that it?  Yes, he was twenty when he boarded a train in the middle of the night for California, putting Kansas far behind him and starting a new chapter in his life.

And locked away the memories behind a door in a dark, cobwebbed corner of his mind.

He’d distanced himself so well from Kansas that he never thought much about his teen years there anymore—and now, when he did, it was social media’s fault.

David wasn’t on social media.

He’d been caught off-guard the first time someone from Kingston County High sent him a friend request on Facebook: Sandy Davis, née Abbott. Sandy Abbott.

He’d stared at the profile picture, not recognizing the old woman in the photo. He remembered a pretty, blonde girl with sparkling blue eyes, almost dewy skin, and a nice figure. But the longer he looked, the more he could see the teenage girl in the old woman’s face. Yes, those were her blue eyes, inside the folds on either side and the drooping eyelids, the weathered brown skin and the short iron gray hair. She posted a lot of pictures on her page—an old man with his arm around her ample waist, her with younger people, and lots of small children.

Her children and grandchildren.

Grandchildren.

He was old enough to be a grandfather.

Scary thought.

And after Sandy, various others started to steadily pop up in his friend requests. Stacy and Jeff, Andy and Charlotte and Cathie and Kelly and Tom, Derek, and Sam and so many others. He accepted them all, out of curiosity, and to see...to see if anyone ever mentioned Terry.

No one ever did.

Their posts were mundane, why is gas so expensive and I got to go get the groceries and thoughts and prayers for my mom and I’m so proud of my son graduating today!!!!  Sometimes they got political, and it came as no surprise they were almost all conservative, hating all minorities and Democrats and welfare queens and whoever was the target of whatever talking head they watched on Fox that day. Black lives didn’t matter and support the troops and you’re never taking my guns and if we all had faith in Jesus the Lord all the world’s troubles would just go away, and wouldn’t things be better if we just allowed prayer in school?

He didn’t remember them being that way in high school. No one talked about politics in Kingston County High’s one hallway back then. There weren’t any Black kids or Muslim kids or Latino kids, just a sea of white faces. Jimmy Carter had just been elected, and the hostages wouldn’t be taken in Tehran for a few years yet. He remembered some kids had Bibles in their lockers, some girls wore crosses around their necks, and everyone seemed to go to church every week.

That did come up sometimes.

Damn Yankees had been their senior musical and some kids couldn’t be in it because not only was there a curse word in the title (even though everyone said damn in the hall or in the parking lot or on the bus or in the locker room), but the main character made a deal with the DEVIL. He remembered being stunned when some of the students and their parents complained to the school board. The complaints didn’t get anywhere (but he was sure that wouldn’t be the case today).  The show went on and he’d played one of the Washington Senators players, Rocky. He had a solo with “You Gotta Have Heart” and had some lines in the title song, but what he remembered the most was being terrified when he had to sing in front of the audience.

David had been in that play, too, playing Old Joe before he made the deal with the devil and turned into a young baseball star.

David. The last time he’d seen him was on graduation night. He’d tried to talk to him after the ceremony, but David turned and walked away from him without a word.

He’d never seen nor talked to David again.

But he couldn’t blame David for that, could he?

And it had been for the best. Hadn’t David said so?

The email had come out of the blue. There was no mistaking who it was from—the sender DAVID.ZIMMER@ZIMMERCONSULTING.COM.

As soon as he saw it there in his inbox, his heart skipped a beat.

David Zimmer.

After forty years of silence, David was reaching out to him.

The subject line read Coming to New Orleans.

David was the first friend he’d made at Kingston County High.  It was weird changing schools before his junior year, but he’d liked the new school. He was a stranger amongst people who’d known each other since kindergarten. He didn’t know their history, anything about feuds and fights, the scars from years of abrasions his classmates had from rubbing against each other for most of their lives. He was glad to get away from his old school, realizing the morning he walked in the front door of Kingston County High that first time he’d been given a second chance, a new beginning. No one here in this small school on the edge of the Flint Hills of Kansas, where the sweeping plains began sprawling westward, knew he’d been mocked and belittled and made fun of at his old school, that he spent his time holding his head high while walking past little groups of malicious fellow students, hearing their whispers and giggles, which they didn’t have the decency to try to hide.

Faggot. Fairy. Homo. Queer.

They wanted him to hear.

The words hurt, slashing him to the bone and leaving scars on his self-esteem.

The words hurt because they were true.

He always wondered what tipped the other kids off to his difference. Did they have some sixth sense that detected kids who were different? Or was there something he’d done, some way he acted, so peculiar and odd that it stood out? The days of barely holding himself together, of lying in bed at night wishing, hoping, praying he’d die in his sleep, always too afraid and too much of a coward to take his own life.

One night he’d gotten his father’s gun out of his desk.

But he’d put it back, hadn’t he?

He could still remember the taste of the cold metal.

But no one at Kingston County High knew any of that, and never would if he could help it.  His past was hundreds of miles away. Oh, sure, there were some cruel whispers that junior year, but it wasn’t until his senior year...

He would never forget coming to school and seeing FAGGOT written in black magic marker on his locker, the quiet in the hallway as he walked to his locker, the way conversations stopped, how everyone turned to watch his reaction to seeing it.

He just took a deep breath, unlocked his padlock, and grabbed the textbook for his first class like those thick black accusing letters weren’t there.

That was how it started that last semester of his senior year. He’d see Glenn Brady sucks dick written on desks in blue ink, noticed the way the locker room would always fall silent when he walked in to change or shower after gym, how kids who’d always been nice to him now stopped saying anything more to him than a hurried hi. Every day an ordeal, something to get through. He’d had friends, he’d sort of been popular in the way he’d always dreamed of at his old school—but that changed.

He started counting the days down to graduation, and once his diploma was in hand, he vowed he’d never go back again. He wouldn’t go to any reunions, wouldn’t maintain friendships with any of his classmates—not even the ones who hadn’t turned on him. He went off to college, eventually moving to California when he was twenty, starting the long journey which finally led him to New Orleans.

Where he settled, at peace with not just himself, but with who he was.

David Zimmer.

He remembered David on Graduation night, standing up on the stage and giving his valedictory speech, struggling to get out some of the words out the way he did when he was nervous, his pale cheeks flushing bright red when he tripped on a word, the bushy unruly brown curls poking out from underneath his red graduate’s cap, the black and red tassel hanging down on the left side of his face, the stage lights reflecting back into the audience from the lenses of his black-framed glasses. Tall and slender and awkward, fiercely intelligent, David was the first person from Kingston County to get a scholarship to an Ivy League school. David, too, was putting Kansas in his rear-view mirror and not looking back. But David had roots there, of course, his parents and grandparents and family were all there; he’d grown up on a farm.

He was a good friend, even if he hadn’t been popular or liked or a football player or any of the things that carried the currency of popularity, even with kids at a rural high school in the middle of nowhere.

But it was best, of course, that they never see each other or speak or have a relationship of any kind after high school.

David helped him that horrible night when he needed help, when David was the only person to whom he dared turn, even if it put his bright future and Dartmouth at risk.

They could have ruined each other’s lives at any time over the last forty years. Those first few years he woke up often from nightmares in a cold sweat, worrying.

But time kept passing, and nothing happened. David never said a word. To anyone.

He eventually reached the point that when he did remember, the memories didn’t seem real anymore. Like it was something he imagined, maybe, some story he’d written that through some trick of his mind and his creativity he remembered as real.

If only—if only that were true.

The door opened, and a tall, slender man wearing tan shorts and a short-sleeved button-down plaid shirt entered, looked around, and smiled when his gaze finally landed on Glenn. David strode across the room, his pale face emblazoned with an enormous smile—and yes, there they were, the dimples he remembered. David looked good, time was being kind to him: his floppy curly brown hair now silvery and cut short, the glasses gone.

“Happy Valentine’s Day! I wasn’t sure I’d recognize you, Glenn.” David said, taking the stool on the other side of the table, still smiling. “Can you believe how long it’s been?”

“Well, forty-year reunion is next month,” Glenn replied.  A young, pretty waitress with dark brown hair and a trim figure and slightly harried look, materialized with menus and asked for a drink order. He ordered sweet tea.  David looked over the beer menu, ordering a microbrew of some kind. “Forty years. It seems like a million years ago. Do you go back very often?”

“No. After my parents got too old to run the farm, we moved them out to Washington with us. My brother and I have our own firm in Seattle. And we took Dad’s ashes back—he wanted them sprinkled in the north pasture—and I haven’t been back since then. That was maybe twenty years ago?”

“I haven’t been back since I left.” Glenn smiled at the waitress as she placed their drinks down, saying that she’ll give them a few minutes to decide.

“What do you recommend?” David asked, frowning at the menu.

“The fish tacos are good.”

“That works for me.” David placed the menu down and looked at him. “Wow. Forty years.”

They caught up for a little while, David telling him about his wife—he’d married late, in his late thirties, she was from Frankfurt and younger, so he’d had to learn German, and they visit her family periodically, have you ever been?

Oh, not to Germany, but France and Spain and Italy, of course, there’s never even time (or money) to go as often as he’d like, Glenn would like to retire to Tuscany or the south of France when the time comes.

“I’ve not read any of your books, I hope you don’t mind. I mostly read science fiction.” David apologized, his cheeks turning the pinkish red he remembered. When David stumbled on a word or stammered slightly, memories from high school flashed through his head: how David helped him pass Physics and Calculus, how David was, always, from the first day of school when they first met, ceaselessly kind to him.

It was so nice getting a fresh start. He could be a different person from the meek weakling loser walking around the halls of his suburban Chicago high school with his head down, trying not to meet the eyes of anyone who might sneer or laugh at him, spitting out the words he’d learned to hate.

Fairy. Faggot. Homo. Queer.

But that fear was always there, lurking in the back of his mind. Someone, somehow, would sense his difference and it would start again—and it would be worse in a smaller school. In the big suburban school outside Chicago there were places to hide, and most students didn’t give a shit about tormenting him if they even knew who he was. KCHS was small, less than two hundred kids, one hallway.

Nowhere to hide.

But he let his ambitions carry him away despite the fear, filling his head with dreams of being popular, someone everyone liked, invited to all the parties and maybe even being Homecoming royalty— everything he used to fantasize about when he wasn’t wishing he were dead. The sense of humor he’d used as protective armor at his old school won him friends at the new. Instead of being an outsider on the football team, he was one of them, part of the team, and this feeling of belonging was comforting, if alien.

David stayed his friend both years. Even if Glenn stopped hanging out with him outside of school, they still had all those classes together, college prep classes, studying and homework and papers.

So, of course it was David he’d turned to that night when he needed someone’s help. Didn’t he always turn to David when he needed help? With Physics? Calculus? Chemistry? Trigonometry?

David was smart, he’d know what to do.

And he had, hadn’t he?

David always, always, knew what to do, had the right answer.

Forty years later, and no one had ever found Terry.

No one had even asked.

David was talking about his brother and his company, and Glenn listened, made appropriate noises when called for, and wondered, when is he going to bring it up? He’s going to bring it up. Why else would he have come all this way?

He’d stopped looking over his shoulder all the time when he was in his thirties.

He remembered how warm it was that night, the sound of the cicadas, the moths fluttering in front of the headlights of the car.

You killed someone.

Terry.

You killed Terry.

The waitress put their plates down. David ordered another craft beer and Glenn was tempted to switch from tea to tequila, but reminded himself, I can’t drink, can’t alter my brain at all, must be on my toes.

As they ate their fish tacos and drank their drinks—David getting yet a third craft beer—he kept waiting.

Is he dying and wants to confess? Is the memory of what I—we—did too much for his conscience after all these years?

Or does he want money?

Money. It might be money, right? People always assumed, as a published author, that his life was all book tours and talks at universities and cash everywhere—in the bank, stuffed in drawers, the dishwasher, pockets, the glove compartment of the car, money from royalties and advances and foreign sales. If they only knew.

When they were finished eating, David grabbed the check. “Oh, no, I insist,” he said, pulling out a black American Express card.

Maybe it wasn’t about money, after all.

David was staying in the neighborhood, which was why Glenn had selected Tacos and Beer—easy to walk to for them both, and the sun was starting to set when they left through the front door. They walked around the corner in the direction of Coliseum Square, where David’s Airbnb was in one of the beautiful old houses lining the park.

And once they got away from the cars and the people and the lights and passing streetcars of St. Charles Avenue, to the darkness and seclusion of the lower Garden District with its towering live oaks and silence, there, finally, David brought it up.

“You know they’ve never found him,” David said as they walked past a live oak tree whose roots had torn up the sidewalk, cracked and broken cement scattered around the gnarled, curling roots.

At last. “Putting him in the missile base was genius,” Glenn replied, putting his hands into the pockets of his shorts. The fingers of his right hand curled around the handle of the switchblade. It was dark on the side streets, the light from the streetlamps hidden inside the foliage of the enormous live oaks. No dogs barking, no pedestrians, no one anywhere.

Crime wasn’t uncommon in this neighborhood, as gentrified as it had become over the years. Just another tourist killed, walking alone on empty streets after dark, his wallet missing. Another statistic, yet another crime to be written about in editorials, to get the city council to get up in arms over, to make racist white people who’d fled to the suburbs shake their heads over, while complaining about the cesspool of crime the city has become and this—this was why they’d moved out to the suburbs.

“I never understood why you helped me,” Glenn said, fingering the hilt of the switchblade, his index finger on the button that would make it pop out, razor sharp.

“I’ve wondered myself,” David replied. “All these years, I’ve thought about it, trying to make sense out of that night, what you asked me to do, and why I did it, why I helped you.”

“You never thought about calling the cops, telling them where Terry’s body was hidden, all this time? You never even thought about making an anonymous tip? I did, once—I even picked up the phone once to call but knew it would be a huge mistake.” He’d been—what? Twenty-six? In the middle of a vodka and marijuana and cocaine binge.

And guilt. So much guilt.

He’d never touched cocaine again and went ten years without a drink or smoking pot.

“I never did, actually. Not once... I guess I never wanted to...but the thing I’ve wondered all these years is what Terry’s life would have turned out like had he lived? What would the world be like if you and I had gone to jail instead of college?” David rubbed his forehead. “Terry was a terrible person as a teenager and he was going to grow into an even more terrible adult, wasn’t he? He raped that girl when he was thirteen and she had a baby he didn’t support, didn’t claim, didn’t even see. Do you remember her? She was from Liberty Center... he never tried to make a place for himself in his own child’s life. And then... what he did to you... a good person wouldn’t do that kind of thing to someone else, another human being, a friend... someone who was supposed to be your friend.”

It had hurt, it hurt so deeply. Sure, he was in love with Terry, had been ever since the first time he’d seen him in the locker room after football practice. He’d dreamed about kissing him, running his hands over his hard muscles, feeling Terry’s strong arms wrapped around him. Wasn’t that the way it was supposed to be? And then, that night, that horrible night. Terry was... was so much stronger, so much bigger than he was, wasn’t that the problem? So much bigger... and always, later, after, those questions that haunted him. Wasn’t it what he wanted? Hadn’t he asked for it?

Be my Valentine.

He’d bought a card senior year for Terry, hadn’t he? He’d written it all down, how he felt, how much he loved him, coming out, telling him the truth, hoping that Terry would read it and feel the same way.

Instead, he’d torn it into little pieces and thrown it away.

Terry wouldn’t have felt the same way.

And then, that night, that horrible night.

Terry was... was so much stronger, so much bigger than he was, wasn’t that the problem? So much bigger... and always, later, after, those questions that haunted him. Wasn’t it what he wanted? Hadn’t he asked for it?

“He forced me.” It had been forty years, and he’d never spoken of it again.

Not even to any of the therapists he’d seen over the years.

Forty years.

Forty years ago, it happened.

The way things changed. The way everything, his life, changed in just under a minute.

Terry. He’d been so beautiful.

Terry was a bad boy, wasn’t he, in the truest sense of the word? A fully realized sexual being at age sixteen, charismatic and lusty, the hours spent lifting weights bearing fruit in strong, thick, big muscles. Not much of a student, barely passing, no college in his future, ready to get the hell out of Kingston County when he graduated, away from his working-class family. It was all he ever talked about—besides lifting weights and getting laid, of course.

He was so big and strong, so masculine.

That was what had attracted him to Terry in the first place, wasn’t it?

He closed his eyes.

He’d wanted him so badly. He’d so envied the other kids, watching them going through their dating and mating rituals. He’d half-heartedly dated girls and went steady as a cover, when he wanted Terry. He wanted to kiss him, taste his skin, run his hands over those thick muscles, feel Terry on top of him. How he wished he could walk down the hall, holding hands with Terry, pressing up against him while grabbing one last kiss. But he never dared lay a finger on him, or even write about it in his diary. Always worrying someone might catch him looking at Terry’s ass in his tight jeans or glancing over as he showered and lathered up his body after practice. He was jealous of the girls Terry dated, hated them, wondering what he saw in them with their cheap clothes and bad make-up.

When did it all change? It was sometime after Christmas, he remembered that much. It was sometime after the second semester started and he no longer had the cover of football anymore. Terry had laughed off the FAGGOT graffiti, said if he ever found out who did it, he’d kick their ass, and how much had he loved Terry in that moment?

And then, right before prom, Terry just stopped talking to him. Wouldn’t say hello, wouldn’t meet his eyes. Their friendship was over. His heart was broken. Terry was just like the others but at least this time there was an end in sight. The school year was almost over, and he never had to come back once he walked out the doors that last time.

Why, he’d wondered so many times in the years since, had he gone to Carrie Goss’s party?

It was the weekend before graduation. Seniors didn’t have to take finals their last semester, getting out of school a week early. The party was out in the field behind the Goss barn. Carrie’s older brother got them a keg, and the seniors were all drinking, some smoking cigarettes, a couple of joints being passed around. He didn’t drink then, no, nor smoke pot—that would come later, when he grappled with guilt and shame and self-hatred.

Terry had called him out of the blue, needing a ride to the party. Glenn hadn’t planned on going—not sure how his classmates would treat him, not sure if he was welcome. On the phone, Terry sounded like before, like the last few weeks of pretending Glenn didn’t exist hadn’t happened. “Sure,” he’d replied, hating himself for being so happy Terry had called, picking him up at the hovel his family called home, his stepfather working at the Dolly Madison factory in Liberty Center and his mother scrubbing toilets at the Ramada Inn along the highway. No central heat or air, the walls flimsy, nothing more than paneling nailed to wooden studs, so flimsy Terry couldn’t hang up anything up on nails. He’d had to tape his Pink Floyd Dark Side of the Moon and Bruce Lee posters to the fading, chipping, scarred paneling. When Terry come out of the house wearing a pair of tight cut-off jeans, cut so short they barely contained his ass, so tight his genitals were outlined on the front, his tank top maybe a size too small, his big chest and shoulders and arms bursting out of the openings, Glenn inwardly gasped.

He didn’t realize Terry was already high. When he got in the car, Glenn could smell the weed on him.

“Thanks,” was all Terry said, and they drove to the party listening to Fleetwood Mac’s Rumours on the 8-track player. Once they got to the party, Terry headed for the keg and left Glenn by himself. Glenn grabbed a can of Pepsi from the big metal washtub filled with ice and soft drinks for those who were too Christian to drink.

Glenn spent the majority of the night in the shadows, watching everyone, not talking to anyone. No one talked to him—it was one of their last chances to remind him he didn’t belong and he was a social leper.

Terry drank that night and smoked joints, too, walking around and acting like a tough guy, almost getting into a fight with someone he’d hated since first grade. Glenn debated leaving any number of times but couldn’t make himself go.

Then Terry came to find him. “Let’s get the fuck out of here,” Terry was slurring his words and weaving a little bit. “Fuck these losers.”

No one paid any attention to them as they walked to where Glenn had left his car—no one saying goodbye, no one coming after them. No one cares, Glenn realized with a pang, not just about me but about Terry, either. He pulled back onto the county road as “Gold Dust Woman” played on the stereo.

Terry asked him to take a back road home. Glenn was conscious of how close Terry’s knee was to his, could smell the musky sweat under Terry’s arms, the sour smell of weed and beer on his breath.

“Pull over,” Terry said, pulling a crumpled joint out of his pocket. Glenn obliged—he’d always done what Terry wanted, and he turned off the engine. Terry opened his door and gestured for Glenn to join him. Not sure what was happening, but there was that hope deep inside—maybe it’s finally happening—that got him to open the car door and step out into the warm Kansas night.

Terry hopped up onto the hood in the moonlight and lit the joint, then held it out to Glenn. Glenn put it to his lips and inhaled, soon coughing it all out as a weird calming feeling spread through him, and he leaned back against the car, eyes closed, letting himself bask in it.

It was euphoric, it was lovely, and he now understood why people smoked weed.

Because his eyes were closed, he didn’t see the hit coming until it sent him sprawling into the dirt. His head was ringing, and the pain—

He was vaguely aware he was being held face down in the dirt, and Terry was yanking his shorts and underwear down.

Sometimes he still woke up in the middle of the night, could smell Terry’s fetid breath, that strange mix of sweet weed and sour beer, hearing Terry’s voice in his ear, whispering angrily, “Isn’t this what you’ve always wanted, you little faggot? Do you think I never knew?”

Begging, crying, weeping with the pain as Terry forced his cheeks apart, the agony, the feeling of being filled up and ripped apart at the same time, the fear that he’d lose control of his bowels, reaching forward with his hands in the dirt, while Terry was tearing him apart, the white- hot agony, his breath gasping out, until his right hand felt the big smooth round rock. It was round, fit into his hand. He heard Terry moan, felt Terry’s body shiver, and then the agony was over, but he still hurt.

“Yeah, was that what you wanted, you little faggot?” he heard Terry pant.

Somehow, he managed to force himself up and around...

He’d never forgotten what it sounded like when the rock connected with Terry’s head.

David shivered. “I’ve never forgotten what you looked like when you came by my house. The look on your face... do you remember you were bleeding?”

He’d forgotten, one of the many things he’s forgotten over the years, how he somehow managed to drag Terry over to the car and the superhuman effort to lift his body into the trunk of the car, not knowing what to do, knowing he needed to get rid of it somehow, somewhere, what was he going to do, knowing he couldn’t go to the cops.

People already whispered about him being a fag. No one would believe...

No one would believe...

No one would believe Terry had raped him.

And even if they did—they wouldn’t care.

And all he could think of was David, David will help.

He still doesn’t remember driving over to David’s, or parking about a half-mile down the road from the farmhouse where David and his parents were asleep, or scratching on his window screen, waking him up, telling him what happened. None of that ever seemed real, there were so many gaps in his memory, but he remembered opening the trunk and showing David the body.And David saying, “They’ll never find him in the missile base.”

The missile base! Of course!

No one would ever think to look for him there.

Abandoned in the mid-sixties, these bases were spread out across the Kansas prairie, home for a few years to missiles aimed at the Soviet Union and eastern Europe. There was one less than five miles from their high school, and any number of times students had crept through the opening made by the cyclone fence being torn away from a post. No one ever made it inside—all it took was opening that big, heavy metal door so you could hear water dripping and other...other sounds.

Glenn never understood why the place wasn’t padlocked.

David had even fetched a plastic garbage bag to wrap around Terry’s head so blood wouldn’t drip as they dragged the body from the trunk of the car to the missile base, down the concrete ramp, and inside the close confines of the underground, where a single light still burned, all those years later, ignoring the terror and fear of the unknown, of what else might be down there, and running, running back to the car after they’d hidden the body away around the corner where it couldn’t be seen by anyone just opening the big metal door and looking down the entryway.

And he’d never forgotten the words David said to him, as he got out of the car to sneak through the corn fields and climb back through his own bedroom window, “It’s probably better if we don’t see each other again. And if anyone asks, you dropped him off at home and he’d been talking about hitching to Wichita.”

The police had come asking, but no one seemed to care that much about Terry. Terry’s mother just said, when Glenn dropped off the casserole his own mother had made, “I figured he’d run off someday. I just thought he’d wait till after graduation.”

No one cared.

No one questioned that he’d run away with no money or none of his things.

Two years later, Glenn’s parents were transferred to California, and he’d gone with them, never coming back to Kansas.

“No, I didn’t remember that,” Glenn said, his hand still on the switchblade in his pocket. The Airbnb was just around the corner ahead, on Coliseum Square, even more abandoned and empty than the side street they were standing on now. “But yeah, I had to throw my shorts and underwear away. I forgot all about that.”

“While my parents were still alive, I kept waiting for someone to find the body, wondered if there was any, you know, DNA or some evidence that would lead the police back to us,” David was saying. “But no one ever found him. He must still be there.”

“For forty years,” Glenn said, his index finger on the spring release that would pop the knife open. If there was a struggle, he wasn’t worried about having to overpower David. He was still slender, still not strong. “It took me a long time to get over it,” he heard himself saying, remembering those wasted years of his twenties, spinning like a top and getting nowhere, waiting for the next line, the next drink, the next joint, the next stranger to go home with.

Until he learned how to live with it.

That he could live with it.

“He raped you,” David whispered. “Being gay doesn’t make that right.”

Glenn let go of the switchblade and pulled his hand out of his pocket. “It was good seeing you again,” he said as they reached the corner near the house David had rented.

“I doubt we’ll see each other again,” David gave him a sad smile. “But I wanted to see you again, one more time, to make sure you were okay, that what you did—what we did—hadn’t wrecked your life somehow.” David shook his head. “Successful author, just like you dreamed.”

Glenn almost said something then, about those years lost to cocaine and alcohol and weed, but there wasn’t any point, really, was there?

“Thanks,” he said as David awkwardly hugged him. “It was....it was good seeing you.”

David nodded and opened the gate.

He watched David walk up the steps and cross the porch and unlock the door.

David never looked back, never saw him coming, but turned at the last moment.

David gurgled a bit, looked back with the blood gushing from his throat.

The eyes went glassy, empty, vacant.

“Happy Valentine’s Day,” Glenn whispered, pushing him backwards gently. He moved David’s legs out of the way and closed the front door.

Someone would find him eventually.

Glenn took a deep breath and started walking home.

He’d never forget the look in David’s eyes when he realized what was happening.

He’d never forget, like he’d never forgotten the sound of the rock connecting with Terry’s head, how it eventually sounded squishy, wet.

But he’d learned to live with that, and he’d learn to live with this.

Glenn took a deep breath and started walking home.

*  *  *

Get to know more about Greg Herren at gregwritesblog.com.

Speed Murder:
Meg Perry

Valentine’s Day 2003

Hollywood Division

Los Angeles Police Department

Hollywood, California

Rob Jones opened a witness interview form on his computer and clicked the box labeled Last Name. Around him, his fellow homicide detectives were locking desks and donning coats, preparing to leave for the evening. He suppressed a chuckle as he listened.

“Yeah, I bought her jewelry. Never hear the end of it if I didn’t...”

“We’re taking the kids to In-N-Out. Not my fault she waited too late to call a babysitter...”

“Do you have any idea how much a dozen damn roses costs?”

“I dunno, one of those places where you pay a hundred bucks for two fucking sprigs of parsley...”

Rob’s partner, Stu Burgess, leaned over the cubicle divider between their desks. “Staying late?”

“Yeah. I want to get these statements typed up before I forget.”

“Uh huh. You never forget anything. No plans for the evening?”

None that are any of your business. “Diane’s out of town, remember?”

“Ah, right.” Stu slid his trench coat over his shoulders. “You’ll have the most enjoyable evening of all of us.”

You have no idea. Rob asked, “Are you and Brenda going out?”

“Nope. She said she wanted me to cook.”

“My God. She’s living dangerously.”

Stu laughed. “I figure I can handle steak and salad. See ya later, probably.”

“No doubt.” Rob and Stu were up for the next case. The citizens of Hollywood Division would surely commit a few crimes of passion tonight.

Stu slapped the top of the divider. “Go home.”

“As soon as I write up this interview.”

Stu rolled his eyes and left, shaking his head.

Gradually, as Rob typed, the room cleared. He waited for another fifteen minutes, to make sure no one came back for anything, then dug into his pocket for his new Nokia cell phone—no bigger than the palm of his hand—and dialed a number.

The voice on the other end—male, deep, warm—said, “Hello?”

“Hi, it’s Rob. Be there in about an hour, probably.”

“Sounds good. See you then.”

Rob said goodbye, signed the interview form, and inserted it into the murder book. He then locked up and headed home.

*  *  *

Home was a stucco-and-wood two-bedroom in Los Feliz, four miles and a world away from the gritty surroundings of the Hollywood Division station. He parked in the garage, got the mail from the box by the front door, and opened it as he called Diane.

She answered, “Hi there.”

“Hi. How’s your mom?”

“Still feeling lousy, but I think she’s getting better. Not that she’ll admit it. How was your day?”

“Fine, but we’ll probably get called out tonight.”

“Ugh. Any mail?”

“The power bill.”

“Okay. What are you going to do this evening?”

“Watch TV then go to bed, I guess.” Hell, it might happen that way.

“Yeah, me too. Hope you get to sleep for a while.”

“Thanks. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

“Okay. Happy Valentine’s Day.”

“You, too. Love you.”

It wasn’t a total lie. He did care for her, in his own fashion. But Rob had a perpetual itch that Diane couldn’t scratch.

He threw his toothbrush and a change of clothes in an overnight bag, switched on a couple of lights in the house so it would appear to be occupied, and headed out. He was turning from Prospect onto Vermont when his phone rang.

It was Stu. “We’ve got one.”

“Already? Shit. Where?”

“East Hollywood. A stabbing in a club just off Santa Monica Boulevard.” Stu gave the address.

“On my way. Did you get your steak?”

“I’d barely gotten home. Guess we’ll be eating at midnight.”

“If we’re lucky. See ya there.”

“Okay.”

Rob hung up and called another number. The same voice as before said, “Hello?”

“Hi, it’s Rob. Bad news, we’ve caught a case. It might be another couple of hours.”

“Or more, huh? It’s fine, I’m not going anywhere.”

“Thanks. I’ll keep you updated.”

“Sounds good.”

Rob said goodbye with a sigh and tucked the Nokia back into his jacket pocket.

*  *  *

Rob parked outside the circle of flashing blue lights and ducked under the yellow tape. He was approached by a uniformed cop with a clipboard who said, “Hey, Detective Jones.”

“Hey, Sergeant Castro. What’ve we got?”

“Victim is...” Castro consulted his clipboard. “Mark Palacios. Stabbed in the chest in the men’s room. There’s a switchblade knife sitting on the sink that’s been washed off that might be the murder weapon.”

“Who found him?”

“Gabriel Arboleta. Another participant in the event that was happening.”

“Event?”

“Yeah. The woman in charge called it ‘speed dating.’”

“What the hell is speed dating?”

Castro shrugged. “She tried to explain it. I didn’t get it. The good news is that it was a limited event. Everyone had to pre-register for it.”

“Is there a back door?”

“Yeah, but it only opens from inside and it’s got an alarm set on it. The bar manager says he’d have heard the alarm if the door was opened. And no one left out the front. All the participants are still there.”

“So, my killer’s in there somewhere?”

Castro grinned. “It’s a closed circle mystery. Just like Agatha Christie.”

“Since when do you read Agatha Christie?”

“Hey, Hercule Poirot’s solve rate is one hundred percent. Maybe I can learn something from him.”

Rob laughed. “Sure. Who else is in there?”

Castro referred back to his clipboard. “There were sixteen participants including the victim. The bar manager, the woman running the event, two bartenders, and a four-piece band. Everyone was there by seven. The event manager’s name is Lindsay Francis. She’s making a list of names for you.”

“Awesome. Thanks, Sarge.”

“You bet. Is Detective Burgess on the way?”

“Yeah. Send him in when he gets here, please.”

“Yes, sir.”

*  *  *

Rob said hello to the patrol officer guarding the front door and stepped inside. He stopped, assessing the room in front of him. To his right was a round table with four chairs. Two were occupied, one by a man and one by a woman. The man made a move to stand up, but Rob stopped him with an upheld finger. Hold on. The guy nodded and relaxed back into his seat.

Beyond the round table on the right was the bar. A row of empty barstools lined its front. Behind it, two people—the bartenders, Rob assumed—were watching him warily. Rob couldn’t see what was beyond the bar.

To his left, the wall was lined with banquette-style seating, on which eight young women perched nervously. Uniformed cops stood at each end, eyeing their charges with suspicion. Rob smiled to himself—Sergeant Castro knew how to control a crime scene.

Four rectangular tables stood between the banquettes and a row of eight chairs. All but one was occupied by young men. About half of the dudes were trying to look tough, cocky, or both; the other half just looked scared.

Past the tables on the left was the bandstand, a slightly elevated platform. Three guys and a girl were there, with a drum kit, electronic keyboard, and two electric guitars. The band members looked bored. Rob hoped they were getting paid by the hour.

He gestured to the guy at the round table to his right. The guy approached him, his hand held out to shake. “Keith Watts. I’m the bar manager.”

“Detective Jones. What’s at the back of the room?”

“The restrooms are on the right. Ladies’ room, then men’s. My office is on the left.”

“Where were you this evening?”

“In my office. I got here about 5:30 and worked at my desk straight through.”

“Were you the first one here?”

“Yes.”

“You didn’t leave your office at any time?”

“No. Lindsay came in to talk to me about the event when she got here at 6:00, and the bartenders stopped to say hello when they arrived. But I stayed put. Hadn’t even stopped to take a leak yet.”

“Tell me about the alarm on the back door.”

Watts nodded. “The door is locked from the outside but opens from inside. The alarm sounds when the door is opened.”

“Where does it sound?”

“In my office and at the bar.”

“And you didn’t hear it go off?”

“Nope.”

“Can we test it to see if it’s working?”

“Sure.” Watts led the way to the back of the room. Two more uniforms were stationed at the entrance to Watts’s office and the door to the men’s room.

Watts moved to the back door and shoved it open. A high-pitched, bleating beep sounded and began to repeat.

Rob asked, “How do you turn it off?”

“A key.” Watts produced a key ring from his pocket and inserted a small key into a panel near the top of the door. The alarm stopped with a chirp.

“Is that the only key?”

“No. The bartenders have one.”

“So, you don’t think anyone could have come in or out that way.”

Watts shook his head. “No way.”

“Okay, thanks.” Rob took closer note of the doors to the bathrooms and office. “Everyone that goes to the restrooms walks past your office.”

“Yeah. But I had my head down working, and there was a steady stream of kids going past. I couldn’t tell you who went when.”

“All right.” The front door opened. Rob saw Stu Burgess come in, followed by the coroner’s team. “Mr. Watts, if you’ll wait back up front where you were, we’ll try to get this over with as quickly as possible.”

“Sure.” Watts returned to the round table where he’d been sitting earlier.

Stu nodded to the manager as he passed him, his eyes scanning the room and its occupants. He said to Rob, “You got here fast.”

“There wasn’t anything I wanted to eat in the house. I was on the way to pick up food when you called.” Lies on top of lies.

Stu nudged him with an elbow. “Then how come you don’t have this solved already?”

Rob laughed. “You’re a funny guy. Is forensics here?”

“Yeah. They’re unloading out front. What’s up?”

Rob repeated all the information he had. “I was just going to look at the scene.”

Stu reached into his jacket and produced a clump of fabric, which turned out to be two sets of shoe covers. “I’ve got the feet if you’ve got the hands.”

Rob dug two pairs of gloves out of his pocket. “Got ‘em.” He and Stu pulled on the gloves and booties and pushed open the door to the men’s room.

Three sinks were directly across the room from the door. Four urinals hung to the immediate left. Across from the urinals were two stalls. There was a window placed high in the back wall; Rob made a mental note to check it.

Mark Palacios lay in the middle of the floor, curled on his side facing away from the urinals, a puddle of blood in front of him. Rob squatted by the kid’s head. Mark was in his early to mid-twenties. He had longish dark hair and light brown skin with acne scars. He was wearing jeans, a blue t-shirt, and black Converse All-Stars. His arms were muscular. His left hand, thrown out from his body, was callused.

Stu said, “Manual labor.”

“Yup.” Rob stood. “Where’s the knife?”

“Here.” Stu pointed to the sink. “Don’t want to pick it up until forensics takes their photos.”

“No.” Rob bent down to squint at the open switchblade. “Can’t tell if there’s blood at the base of the blade or not.”

“Why else would someone leave it here, though?”

“Oh, I agree. It’s probably our murder weapon.”

Someone knocked on the door. Stu opened it and said, “Hiya, Jack.”

Jack Foster, one of the LA County Coroner’s investigators, said, “Hi, Detective Burgess. Detective Jones. Who’s our victim?”

Stu gestured to the floor. “Meet Mark Palacios. The possible murder weapon is on the sink. We haven’t touched anything.”

Jack grinned. “I didn’t think you had. Let me get my photographer.”

Rob said, “We’ll get out of your way.”

Rob and Stu waited, their backs to the restroom door, as Jack and his team of two worked. A photographer snapped pictures of the body from every possible angle. Then Jack and another tech knelt by the body while the photographer continued to document the rest of the room.

Jack and his tech gently straightened the victim. Jack said, “Rigor hasn’t started. Do we know how long he was in here before he was found?”

Rob said, “Not yet.”

Jack extracted a wallet from the kid’s front pants pocket and handed it to Stu. “There you go.”

“Thanks.” Stu opened the wallet; Rob peered over his shoulder. Stu said, “Here’s his driver’s license. He lives nearby.”

Rob said, “Twenty-four years old.”

“Yeah. Damn.” Stu checked the cash compartment. “Sixty-three bucks. Not a robbery.”

“This feels personal.”

“Agreed.” Stu flipped to a photo of the victim with his left arm around a young man. “Wonder who this is? A brother, maybe?”

“Maybe.” Rob studied the photo. He couldn’t see the second kid’s right hand, and suspected, from the angle of the kid’s arm and the position of the two guys’ bodies, that it might be tucked into the victim’s back pocket. “They don’t look anything alike, though. Could be a boyfriend.”

Stu grunted. “Then what’s he doing at a dating... thing?”

Fortunately, Rob didn’t have to speculate on that. From his position beside the victim, Jack said, “Can’t be sure yet, but the wound looks to be consistent with the knife that’s on the sink. Probably an upward thrust. Might have nicked the heart. And there are no defensive wounds on his hands.”

Someone he knew, then. Someone who took him by surprise.

The photographer said, “I don’t think anyone’s been in or out of this window lately. There’s a layer of undisturbed dust on the sill.”

One question answered. Rob said, “Okay, thanks.”

Someone knocked at the door. Stu cracked it open, then backed up and said, “Come on in.”

The forensics techs, hauling black equipment bags, edged into the room. Rob said to Stu, “Let’s get out of the way. We can start talking to people.”

“Sounds good.”

Back in the hallway, Stu looked around. “How about we use the manager’s office for interviews? That way no one overhears anything.”

“Good idea. Let’s start with the event coordinator.”

Stu nodded. “I’ll get her.”

Rob and Stu had an unspoken arrangement. Rob asked most of the questions and Stu took most of the notes. Stu was a decent detective. Rob couldn’t say otherwise. But Stu was a plodder. Slow. Not much in the way of intuition or imagination. He was stuck at D-I, the lowest rank of detectives, and would probably remain there. Rob, nearly ten years younger than Stu, was already at D-II.

Rob liked Stu. He was easygoing, never lost his temper, and always agreed with Rob’s management of cases. And—major bonus—he wasn’t the least bit curious about Rob’s personal life. He’d had the opportunity to ask a couple of uncomfortable questions along the way and hadn’t.

Did Stu have suspicions about the handsome young patrol officer from West LA Division that Rob occasionally “hung out” with on the weekends? Rob didn’t know. But whether he suspected or not, Stu didn’t seem interested.

Which, in Rob’s eyes, made him the ideal partner.

*  *  *

Rob entered Keith Watts’s office and sat behind his desk. It was an unholy mess. Rob shook his head in disgust, observing the stacks of ledgers, slumping piles of receipts and invoices, and empty coffee cups and soda cans. A computer tower sat on the floor under the desk. The keyboard was sticky with spilled liquid. The monitor displayed the Windows 98 Mystery House screensaver. Rob nudged the mouse, and the screen revealed an Excel spreadsheet full of numbers.

He shoved stuff around, creating a clear line of sight between himself and the chair on the opposite side of the desk. He was gingerly balancing the keyboard on top of a pile of papers when Stu returned with their first witness.

Lindsay Francis was in her late thirties, with shoulder-length dark hair, wearing a white t-shirt with Cupid on the front and black jeans. Her eyes were red-rimmed—she’d been crying—but she was composed now. She shook Rob’s hand then gave him a clipboard with a list of names. “These are the participants in the speed dating event, with their addresses and phone numbers. I suppose you’ll need that.”

“We might. Thank you.” Rob scanned the list. “They gave you this information when they registered?”

“Yes. We did a public records search on each of them.” Lindsay made a noise that was half laugh, half sob. “We wanted to make sure none of them were felons. I guess one of them is now.”

“When you say we, who do you mean?”

“My business partner and me. We have a party planning business. Speed dating is one of the events we manage.”

“Your business partner isn’t here this evening?”

“No. Since this was a fairly small event, we didn’t both need to be here.”

“Explain speed dating to me.”

Lindsay nodded, as if she was expecting the question. “Speed dating was invented a few years ago by a rabbi here in town. He wanted to come up with a better way for young Jewish singles to meet. The first several events were held in his home—”

Rob held up a hand. “We don’t need a lot of historical detail.”

“Oh, right. Sorry. Basically, how speed dating works is that you have an equal number of men and women—or an even number of men or women, if it’s a gay or lesbian event. And in events like tonight’s, the women keep their seats while the men move. The couples talk to each other for five minutes, then the timer goes off and the men, in this case, move over one seat. By the end of the evening, all the women have had a chance to talk to all the men, and everyone turns in a slip of paper with the names of the people they’d like to spend more time with. If there are any matches, we let them know the next day.”

Stu, who’d parked himself against the wall to Rob’s right, was frowning. “You only give ‘em five minutes?”

Lindsay turned to look at him. “Actually, studies indicate that participants make their decisions within the first thirty seconds or so. We average two to three matches per event.”

Rob asked, “Is there a registration fee?”

“Yes. Each participant paid twenty dollars.”

Rob did the math in his head. “Three hundred twenty bucks. Who pays the band?”

“The venue. Clubs are anxious to host events. They rightly see them as a method of attracting new customers.”

“Have you hosted here before?”

“No. And we won’t again.”

“For a reason other than the murder?”

Lindsay scrunched her shoulders up toward her ears, drawing in like a turtle. “Isn’t that enough?”

Rob smiled. “Sure. Did you know any of the participants before this evening?”

“No.”

“Okay, lead me through exactly what happened this evening. From the time the kids started arriving.”

She nodded. “The girls came in first, and they were in groups. Two pairs and one group of four. That’s common. Women often come to speed dating as a kind of girls’ night out. The guys were all in by seven. We let everyone order drinks and get settled, then we started the timed part of the event at 7:20.”

“And the guys changed seats every five minutes.”

“Yes. After each round, we’d take a few minutes to refresh drinks or let them use the restrooms.”

Rob held up a finger. “Let’s talk about the restrooms. Did you notice when the kids went?”

Lindsay grimaced. “After the third round, two or three went during each break. I didn’t notice who went when, until Mark didn’t come back.”

“How many rounds were completed when Mark didn’t come back?”

“Six.”

“So that was approximately...” Rob squinted at the clock on the wall across from him, mentally dragging the minute hand around the circle. “Eight o’clock?”

“Yes. Maybe a few minutes after.”

“Did you notice whether anyone else came back from the restroom after that break?”

Lindsay shook her head sadly. “I’m sorry. I didn’t. I was focused on what was happening up front.”

“Understandable. Did you notice anyone talking to Mark?”

“No.”

“Do you know if he came with anyone?”

“Not that I know of. There was one group of three guys that came together. Mark and the others all arrived separately, although I think some of them knew each other.”

“Was there any tension between anyone? Any extracurricular discussions going on?”

“Not that I saw or heard.” Lindsay looked miserable and sniffed hard. “Everything was going so well until Mark didn’t come back from the restroom.”

Rob glanced at Stu, who returned a tiny shrug. Rob said, “Okay, Ms. Francis, thanks for your help. Here’s my card. If you think of anything else that might be of interest, no matter how small, please call.”

“I will.” She pocketed the card. “I won’t leave until you’re finished.”

“That’s fine. You can wait out front. We’d appreciate it if you didn’t discuss anything with anyone.”

“I won’t.”

Stu saw her out then turned back to Rob. “Not much there.”

“No. At least we got a timeline. Let’s talk to the kid who found the victim next. Gabriel Arboleta.”

Stu said, “I’ll bring him back.”

*  *  *

Gabriel Arboleta was a pudgy kid, with one sneaker untied and messy hair. His dark eyes were wide with fear and his arms were wrapped tightly around himself.

Rob tried to put him at ease. “Hi, I’m Detective Jones. Do you go by Gabe?”

A near whisper. “Yes, sir.”

“Okay, Gabe. Tell me what happened tonight.”

“I didn’t want to come. But a couple of my buddies talked me into it. We got here about ten minutes early and ordered beers, then the speed thing started.”

“Other than your buddies, did you know anyone else here?”

A vigorous shake of the head. “No, sir.”

“So, the speed thing is going along... then what happened?”

Gabe winced. “I had to pee. I went to the men’s room and... there he was.”

“Had you ever seen him before tonight?”

“No, sir.”

“Did you touch him? Check for a pulse or anything?”

“No, sir. My dad’s a cop in Pasadena. I know better.”

“You were sure he was dead?”

“Yes, sir. His eyes were open... and there was so much blood...”

“Okay. Now, Gabe, this is the important part. Did you notice anyone coming out of the bathroom before you went in? While you were headed in that direction?”

Gabe looked miserable. “No, sir.”

“All right.” Rob handed him a card. “If you remember anything else that you think might help, no matter how small, please call me.”

“Yes, sir. I—uh—I didn’t get to pee.”

Stu said, “Come on, son. I’ll escort you to the ladies’ room, if that’s okay?”

A wave of relief swept across Gabe’s face. “Yes, sir.”

*  *  *

Stu led Gabe across the hall to the restroom. Rob went out to the main area, where no one had moved since he’d been there before. The bar manager made a show out of looking at his watch, but Rob ignored him. He addressed the event participants. “Did any of you know Mark Palacios before tonight?”

Two kids’ hands went up. One was wearing a red t-shirt and one was in a Dodgers jersey. Rob pointed to him. “Dodger, you’re first. Come with me.”

They settled in the office. This kid wasn’t scared, like Gabe had been. His face wore a faint smirk that Rob suspected was a permanent fixture. Rob said, “What’s your name?”

“Justin Campos.”

Rob made a checkmark beside Justin’s name on the list of participants. “Dodgers fan, huh?”

“Isn’t everyone?”

“I’m from San Diego.”

The smirk widened. “Oh. My condolences.” The San Diego Padres had finished dead last in the National League West the previous year.

“Uh huh. How did you know Mark Palacios?”

“I went to high school with him. I hadn’t seen him in years, though.”

“How well did you know him?”

“Not super well. He was just a kid in some of my classes, you know?”

“Sure. What was he into in high school? Sports? Marching band? Drama club? Student council? Any of that?”

Justin shook his head. “Nah. He wasn’t an honor student or anything, either. He was just sort of...there.”

“Did he have friends? A group of guys that he hung with?”

“Yeah... I kinda remember two or three other guys. They might have played Dungeons and Dragons, now that I think about it.”

“Ah. Nerdy types.”

“Kinda. But not super-smart nerdy types.”

“Do you remember the other guys’ names?”

“No. Sorry.”

So far, Rob’s radar wasn’t pinging on this kid, despite the permanent smirk. He asked, “Did you play ball?”

“Yeah. First base.”

Rob thought of the handsome young patrol officer waiting for him, six foot four with a wingspan to match, who’d played in the College World Series as UCLA’s first baseman. “You’re kinda short for first base.”

Justin grimaced. “Tell me about it. College scouts didn’t even look at me.”

“Back to Mark. Did he go to college?”

“Not that I know of. But he might have since. Like I said, I haven’t seen him for years. Aidan might know more.”

“Is Aidan the guy in the red shirt?”

“Yeah. He and Mark grew up in the same neighborhood.”

“Okay.” Rob handed over his card as Stu returned to the office. “Detective Burgess, would you mind seeing Justin back to his seat? And ask Aidan in the red shirt to come back.”

“You got it.” Stu gestured for Justin to join him in the hall.

*  *  *

Aidan Holt was less smirky than his pal Justin. He looked askance at the bar manager’s desk. “Jeez. How does he find anything?”

“Good question. So, Justin tells me that you grew up in the same neighborhood as Mark Palacios.”

“Yeah. We lived about a block apart. I've known him since grade school.”

“Had you seen him recently?”

“I saw him at Christmas. We both had dinner with our families, then some of us were throwing a football around out in the street. Mark joined us for a while.”

“What kind of work did he do?”

“He’s an electrician’s apprentice. Works for DWP. he Los Angeles Department of Water and Power.

“Did you talk to him this evening?”

“Yeah, when I first got here, I said hi. We kinda teased each other about being here.”

“Did you know if Mark was dating anyone already?”

Aidan’s eyes widened. “No. Was he? Then why was he here?”

“We don’t know if he was or not. Was Mark the type to make enemies?”

“Nah. Everyone who knows Mark likes him. He’s the type to keep his head down and get along with everybody. He never makes...” Aidan caught himself. “I’m sorry. He never made waves or trouble.”

“Was he in a good mood tonight?”

“Seemed to be.”

“Besides Justin, who else did you know here tonight?”

Aidan shook his head. “No one.”

“Nobody else here was from your high school?”

“No.”

“Aidan, is there anything you can tell me that might help me solve this thing?”

Aidan squirmed a bit. “Well...”

Stu said gently, “Aidan, Mark needs your help.”

Rob flashed Stu a smile. Aidan said, “I guess... He’s dead now. It doesn’t matter.”

Rob asked, “What doesn’t matter?”

Aidan consulted the ceiling for support. “Mark and I were in middle school. We didn’t usually hang out together much, but that afternoon we’d gone bike riding around Silver Lake. We were sitting by the water, just talking about stuff, and... he made me swear never to tell. And I haven’t.”

“Tell what?”

Aidan took a deep breath. “Mark was afraid that he was gay.”

Stu raised an eyebrow. Rob remembered the photo in Mark’s wallet. “Did he ever act on that?”

“Not that I know of. He never dated anyone, guy or girl, through the rest of school.”

Rob winced inwardly. Mark had demonstrated more guts than Rob had to this point in his life. Dating women in high school and college, marrying one of them, never admitting to anyone but the closeted cops he fooled around with that he liked dick...

Stu asked, “Why would he come to speed dating, if he was gay?”

Aidan shrugged miserably. “I don’t know. Trying to get a girlfriend as a cover story? Or maybe he wasn’t gay after all.”

“How would his family have reacted if he’d told them he was gay?”

“Badly. Very badly. That’s why he swore me to secrecy. His family is super-religious, and his dad’s one of those macho types.”

Rob let that sit for a moment. “Aidan, is there anything else you can think of that might be helpful?”

“No.”

“Do you think that Mark knew anyone else here tonight, besides you and Justin?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Did you see him talk to anyone else?”

“No.”

“Okay, Aidan. We appreciate your honesty.” Rob handed him a card. “Call if you think of anything else.”

“I will.”

Stu saw him out, then came back and plopped into the chair Aidan had vacated. “You said that might be a boyfriend in the photo.”

“Yeah. But how does that connect to anything that happened here this evening?”

Stu spread his hands in a shrug. “We’re missing something. Who’s up next?”

Rob sighed. “Let’s talk to the bartenders. Maybe they saw something.”

*  *  *

The female bartender’s name was Jenna Robertson. She was a statuesque redhead who gave Rob an intrigued once-over as she sat. She confirmed the timeline of events and stated that she’d been working the taps all evening. She’d been too busy to notice who was going to the bathrooms.

Rob asked, “How long have you worked here, Jenna?”

“About eight months.”

“Had you ever seen any of these kids before?”

“One of ‘em looked familiar. Before I came here, I worked at a gay bar in West Hollywood for a few years. I saw a guy tonight that I used to see there pretty often.”

“Did he see you?”

“Yeah, and I could tell that he made the connection as to where he’d seen me before. But he didn’t say anything to me.”

“Which guy was it?”

Jenna winced. “I never knew his name, but I don’t see him out there now. So, I’m afraid he’s the one in the bathroom.”

Rob removed Mark Palacios’s driver’s license from his wallet and showed it to Jenna. “Is that him?”

Her face fell. “Yeah. Damn.”

“How often did you see him at the gay bar?”

“Every weekend.”

“Was he with anyone?”

“Never. He’d dance with anyone who bought him a drink and left with a different dude almost every time. Why would he be at straight speed dating?”

“Good question. Did you ever see anything to make you suspect he might be bi?”

“Well, no, but there were almost never women in the club. He could have been, I suppose.”

“Ever see him fight with anyone?”

Jenna shook her head firmly. “No. He wasn’t a troublemaker. If somebody cut in on him while he was dancing, he’d just head back to the bar.”

“Did anyone ever try to fight with him?”

“Not that I remember. Sorry.”

“Okay, Jenna. Thanks for your cooperation.” Rob handed her his card.

“Sure. Can I use the ladies’ room?”

Stu said, “Yes, ma’am.”

“Thanks!” She popped out of her seat, gave Rob a fingertip wave, and disappeared across the hall.

Stu said, “Mark was gay.”

“Sure sounds like it.” Rob rubbed his face. “Man, this story is slow to come together.”

“We’re gettin’ there. I can feel it.” Stu tapped the corner of the desk. “Want the other bartender now?”

“Yeah.”

*  *  *

Dean Herrera sat across from Rob, his expression suspiciously guileless. Rob asked, “What time did you get here this evening?”

“Just before six.”

“What did you do when you got here?”

“Stopped in here and said hello to Keith, then went out front and started setting up.”

“Jenna said she was working the taps. What did you do?”

“I was in charge of mixed drinks. Although I pulled a few pints, too.”

“Who was ordering mixed drinks?”

“The women, mostly. Piña coladas and margaritas. One girl had a martini.”

“When the speed daters came in, while they were still milling around getting settled, did you overhear any of their discussions?”

“No.”

“You must have picked up on the mood of the room, though. How’d it seem to you?”

Dean shrugged. “Fine. Relaxed, happy.”

“You didn’t hear anything that might have been an argument?”

“No.”

“Did you know any of the participants?”

“No.”

“Okay. You were facing the tables once the event started. When did people start going to the restrooms?”

Dean thought about that. “A couple of the women went after the second round, I think. After the third round, a couple of guys and a couple of girls went after each round.”

“Did anyone in the band go to the restroom?”

“Not that I saw. They were playing pretty continuously.”

“How about Keith? Did you see him leave the office?”

“Nah.” Dean’s voice tightened slightly, although he held Rob’s gaze steadily.

There was the lie. Rob asked, “You sure?”

“Yeah.”

“Did you happen to notice who went to the restroom at the same time as the victim?”

“I don’t even know which of the guys was the victim.”

That wasn’t the question. But Rob let it slide. Dean was lying to him; Keith had left his office at some point.

But why would Keith have killed Mark Palacios? It didn’t make sense.

Rob said, “All right, Dean, thanks for your cooperation. We’ll have some follow up questions for you in a few.”

Dean’s eyes widened at that, but he said, “Okay.”

Once he was clear of the office, Stu shook his head, making a “tsk” sound. “Liar, liar.”

“Yup. I don’t know why, though. We need more information.”

“Maybe the band saw something.”

Rob said, “You read my mind.”

*  *  *

Tamara Nicholls was the lead singer in the band. She perched on the edge of her chair and smiled at Rob. “Hi.”

“Hi. I’m Detective Jones and this is Detective Burgess. What time did you all get here tonight?”

“At about 6:30.”

“Who else was here then?”

“The bartenders were already here. Lindsay got here the same time we did.”

“How about the manager?”

“Oh, is that the guy sitting with Lindsay? I didn’t see him until the cops got here.”

“He didn’t come out of his office when the victim was found?”

She shrugged. “Not that I noticed.”

“Okay. When did you start playing?”

“Lindsay introduced us right at seven, and we started playing then.”

“Did you take a break at any point?”

“No.”

“Sounds like you already knew Lindsay.”

Tamara nodded. “We play events for Lindsay and Marie almost every weekend.”

“Marie?”

“Oh. Sorry. Marie is Lindsay’s business partner.”

“Ah, okay. Did you know anyone else here tonight?”

“No.”

“Have you played here before?”

“No.”

Rob smiled. “What kind of music do you play?”

“We’re a cover band, basically. Tonight, we were playing eighties girl-band pop. The Go-Gos, Katrina and the Waves, The Bangles, like that.”

“Music to speed date to.”

Tamara grinned. “Exactly.”

“Is there anything else you can tell me that might help?”

Tamara shook her head slowly. “I wish I’d seen something. But I didn’t.”

“Think any of your bandmates saw anything?”

“I doubt it. When we’re playing, I’m pretty much the only one looking at the audience. The guys are all looking at each other.”

Rob handed her the victim’s driver’s license. “Had you ever seen him before tonight?”

She studied the photo, frowning. “I don’t think so. And I don’t recognize that name.”

“Do you ever play gay bars?”

“Not me. But our drummer is gay, and sometimes he’ll get an instrumental-only gig that the guys will play.”

“What’s your drummer’s name?”

“Dylan Wilkie.”

*  *  *

Stu walked Tamara out and returned with Dylan Wilkie. Dylan was a good-looking kid, with wavy blond hair and a friendly smile. He shook hands with Rob. “Hi, I’m Dylan.”

“Hi, Dylan, I’m Detective Jones. Tamara told us that you and the other guys in the band occasionally play gigs without her.”

“That’s right. Sometimes we get a request for a venue that doesn’t want a singer.”

“And those venues are sometimes gay clubs?”

“Yeah. I’m gay, so I have a few connections.”

“Sure.” Rob showed him Mark’s driver’s license. “Had you seen this guy before tonight?”

“Yes. Oh my God, that’s... he’s in the bathroom?”

Stu said, “When we asked if anyone knew the victim, you didn’t raise your hand.”

“I didn’t know his name. Shit.”

Rob asked, “Where have you seen him?”

“At gay bars. He loves to dance. He almost never leaves the dance floor.”

“Ever see him have trouble with anyone?”

“No.”

“Ever speak to him personally?”

“No.”

“Did he have a boyfriend? Any rumors to that effect?”

“Not that I ever heard.”

Rob handed Dylan the photo of Mark with the other young man. “Ever see the other guy before?”

“No. So he did have a boyfriend?”

“Might have been an ex. Have you ever seen him dancing with women?”

“No. But the places we play, there aren’t usually women around. You think he might be bi? And that’s why he was at speed dating?”

Rob said, “It’s a theory.”

*  *  *

Dylan couldn’t add anything else. Stu saw him back to the bandstand, then returned. “What now?”

Rob folded the photo of Mark and his potential boyfriend in half, so that only the boyfriend showed. “Let’s ask the women if any of them know the other guy in the photo.”

Stu raised an eyebrow. “That’s a long shot.”

“I’m open to better ideas.”

Stu snorted. “Not from me. Want ‘em one at a time?”

“Yeah.”

Rob noted, with concealed amusement as he spoke with the women, that they had made far more effort to fix themselves up for an evening of speed dating than had the men. Carefully done hair, makeup, nails, and cute little outfits were universal among the ladies, as opposed to the guys’ sneakers, jeans, and t-shirts. Or baseball jerseys.

The first six ladies had never seen the guy in the photo before. Contestant Number Seven turned out to be lucky.

The young woman made Rob think of a Bob Seger song. She was a dark-haired beauty with big, dark eyes named Sophie Carvallo. She tipped her head sideways and studied the photo. “Oh, yeah... That’s a guy my sister went to high school with.”

“Do you know his name?”

“Chris. I don’t know his last name.”

“Older or younger sister?”

“Older by two years.”

“Were he and your sister friends?”

“Yeah. They studied together at our house all the time. I didn’t talk to him much because I was the bratty little sister, you know? Stella—my sister—didn’t want me around.”

Rob smiled. “I understand. Did he and Stella date or anything?”

“Nah. Stella was pretty sure he was gay. That was one of the reasons she liked him. He wasn’t always trying to put his hands on her.”

“Makes sense. Did he have a boyfriend?”

Sophie shrugged. “I didn’t know him well enough to know that. I liked it when he came over, though. He and Stella would bake chocolate chip cookies before they started studying.”

“Was he a nice guy?”

“Yeah. My mom liked him, and she doesn’t like any of our friends.”

Rob laughed. “Okay, Sophie, we appreciate your help. Does your sister still live in town?”

“No. She went back east to college and stayed there.”

“Do you have a phone number for her?”

“Sure.” Sophie rattled off a number, which Stu wrote down.

Rob handed her a card. “Thanks, Sophie.”

“You’re welcome.” She scrunched up her face in confusion. “What does Chris have to do with what happened here?”

Rob said, “We don’t know.”

*  *  *

The last of the young women didn’t recognize Chris. Stu saw her back to her seat. When he returned, he said, “Think we can let anyone leave?”

“I suppose the band can...” Rob stopped as his phone rang. He fished the phone out of his pocket, dislodging a stack of papers and ledgers with his elbow as he did. He grabbed at the computer keyboard to keep it from sliding off the desk, and another pile of papers slumped over. “Ugh. Jones.”

“Hey. Will you be hungry when you get here?”

“Oh.” As if on cue, Rob’s stomach rumbled. He grabbed the slumped pile of paper and moved it, revealing a couple of framed family photos. “Yeah, probably.”

“Is Stu with you?”

“Yeah.” Rob frowned at the photo of Keith Watts flanked by two smiling young men, both of whom vaguely resembled each other and Watts. One of them looked very familiar...

“Got it. I’ll cook some bacon.”

“Bacon?” Rob caught himself. Stu needed to think that he was talking to Diane. “Um... I don’t think we have any bacon.”

His friend laughed. “Bacon, lettuce, tomato, sourdough bread...”

“Yeah, sure. I’m at a scene but I can stop on the way home.” Rob pulled his wallet from his jacket pocket. Might as well add a prop to the skit he was performing for Stu. “Shit, I don’t have any cash.”

“And I have a pineapple. I’ll slice it up for dessert.”

Rob laughed in spite of himself. “No, I’m not gonna use a credit card for one pack of bacon. I’ll do it in the morning.”

“Sounds like a plan. Call me when you leave.”

“Will do. See ya.” Rob hung up and tucked away the phone.

Stu said, “Diane just remembered that you need bacon?”

“She has insomnia when she’s at her mother’s. All kinds of weird shit goes through her mind.” Lies on top of lies. “Take a look at this.”

Rob unfolded the snapshot of the victim with Chris, the possible boyfriend, then held the photo beside Keith Watts’s family picture.

Stu squinted at the two photos. “Is that... It’s the same guy.”

“What if Chris is Palacios’s boyfriend? What if he’s also the manager’s brother?”

Stu made an O with his mouth. “There’s a motive. Watts sees Palacios come in for speed dating, figures he’s planning to cheat on his brother... Except, how would Watts have known the kid was here? He wasn’t out front to see who was attending.”

Rob waved his arm at the desk. “Watts said he didn’t even get up to take a leak. We know Bartender Dean lied about seeing Watts leave his office. Plus, here’s the biggest cup of coffee Starbucks makes, empty but not dried, and a nearly empty bottle of water that’s still cool. Either he’s got a bladder of steel...”

“Or the son of a bitch is lying to us.” Stu smacked the desk. “I’ll go get him.”

“Wait. Let me check a couple of sight lines first.” Rob set the family photo on the seat of the office chair, then rearranged the stacks of paper and went out to the main room.

He stopped at the bandstand. “Mind if I step up for a moment?”

Tamara waved her hand. “Knock yourself out.”

Rob stood at the microphone and looked to his left. He couldn’t see the door to the men’s room. He stood behind the keyboard, which was slightly behind the mic and to the right. He still couldn’t see the door. The only place on the bandstand from where he could see the men’s room door was at the far front corner, and no one had been standing there.

He turned to the members of the band. “You four can go. Thanks for your cooperation.”

Tamara said, “Thank you!” They chattered excitedly as they packed their instruments.

Rob went behind the bar. From the left end of the bar, he couldn’t see the restroom... but he could see the door to Keith Watts’s office.

He crooked his finger at Dean Herrera. “Dean, a word.”

Dean scowled, but he followed Rob to the office.

Stu gave Rob a questioning look as he came into the office behind Dean. Rob said, “Dean here had a clear view of Keith Watts’s office door all evening.”

Stu said, “Hm.”

Dean grumbled. “I was busy, man. I wasn’t watching Keith’s door.”

Rob moved Watts’s family photo and sat down. “How long have you worked here, Dean?”

“Four years.”

“Has Keith been the manager that whole time?”

“Yeah.”

“But you don’t work for him, right? You work for the owner.”

“Right.”

“You must know Keith pretty well, working with the guy for four years.”

Dean shrugged. “It’s not like I’ve ever been to his house.”

Rob passed the photo across the desk to Dean. “Who are those guys with Keith?”

“His younger brothers.”

“Have you met them?”

Dean looked wary; he didn’t know why Rob was asking these questions. “Yeah. They both come into the bar pretty regularly.”

“So, they’re close with Keith.”

“Yeah. Their parents are dead. It’s just the three of ‘em.”

“What are their names?”

“The one on the left is Jack, and the one on the right is Chris.”

“How well do you know Chris?”

“I talk to him when he’s here.”

“Is Chris gay?”

“Yeah.”

“Does he have a boyfriend?”

“Why does that matter?”

Rob was tired and hungry, and in no mood to verbally spar with Dean Herrera. “Answer the question.”

“Yes, he does. At least, most of the time.”

“What does that mean?”

Dean sighed. “Chris is totally in love with this dude, right? Convinced that he’s the one. But the guy cheats on him. Chris is a homebody. He likes to cook, have a few friends over, maybe watch some TV. The boyfriend is out dancing every weekend, and he doesn’t always come home.”

“Sounds like Chris confides in you.”

“Yeah. When he talks to Keith or Jack about it, they just tell him to dump the dude. He doesn’t want to hear that.”

“What’s the boyfriend’s name?”

“Ah... it begins with an M. Mac, Mike...”

“Mark?”

“Maybe. I think so.”

Rob removed the photo of Mark and his possible boyfriend from Mark’s wallet and passed it to Dean. “Who’s that?”

“I don’t know the guy on the left. The kid on the right is Chris Watts.”

Rob reached out to take back the photo. “The guy on the left is lying dead in the men’s room.”

Dean opened his mouth, then closed it as the implications dawned on him. “Oh. Fuuuck.”

Rob slid the wallet photo back into its slot, then leaned back and crossed his arms. “Indeed. What did you see, Dean?”

Dean grimaced. “Keith’s a caffeine freak.” He waved his hand at the desk. “You see all these coffee cups and soda cans. When we’re at work, he’s in and out of the restroom all the time. I saw him go in at least twice before the event started tonight, and once after.”

“How long after?”

“I’m not exactly sure. Maybe forty-five minutes to an hour.”

The timing fit. Rob said, “Okay, Dean, Detective Burgess is going to take your contact information, then you can go. Tomorrow, we’ll need you to come to the Hollywood Division station to make a formal statement.”

“Not too early, right?”

Rob smiled. “Not too early. Let’s say one in the afternoon. If you don’t show up, we’ll come find you.”

Dean held up a hand. “I’ll be there. Promise.”

“All right. See you then.”

Stu said, “Okay, son, let’s see your driver’s license.”

Rob walked back into the main room. The band was hauling their equipment out the front door. Rob held up his hand. “Okay, everyone. These officers are going to get contact information from each of you, then you can go. We expect you to be available if we have further questions.”

There was a murmur of assent. Rob said, “Mr. Watts, could I see you for a moment?”

“Sure.”

Rob couldn’t have planned it better. Just as Watts approached him, the men’s room door opened, and the coroner’s team rolled their gurney through, bearing Mark Palacios in a body bag. There was a soft gasp. Someone said, “Aw, maaaaan...” Someone else said, “Sheee-it.” Aidan Holt clamped a hand over his mouth, tears in his eyes; Justin Campos bit his lip.

Keith Watts was the only human in the room who averted his eyes.

Rob waited until Dean and Stu had left the office. Dean gathered his belongings and left as the patrol officers started taking information from everyone else. Stu turned to Rob and said, “Ready?”

“Yup. Come on, Mr. Watts.”

Watts walked into his office as if he was going to sit behind his desk. Rob gestured to the other chair and said, “Nope. Have a seat here, please.”

“Fine.” Watts sat.

Rob handed Watts his family photo. “Who are those fellas with you, Keith?”

“My brothers.”

“Good-looking kids.”

“Yeah.”

“You’re their protector, I bet.”

Watts hesitated for a fraction of a second. “When we were younger, sure. They’re grown men now.”

“Ah, but that instinct never really goes away, does it?”

Watts was holding himself rigidly. “If you say so.”

Stu said, “Can I see your hands, Keith?”

Watts held his hands out, palms down. Stu examined them then said, “Turn them over, please.”

Watts complied. A smile spread across Stu’s face, and he nodded at Rob.

Rob opened Mark Palacios’s wallet and gently removed the photo of Mark and Chris Watts again. He placed his finger over Mark’s face and body and leaned across the desk so that Watts could see the photo. “Who’s that, Keith?”

Watts opened his mouth, then seemed to think better of what he’d intended to say. “I want a lawyer.”

Rob grinned. “Of course, you do.”

Stu said, “Stand up, turn around. Keith Watts, you’re under arrest.”

*  *  *

What Stu had seen on Keith’s right hand were two shallow cuts on his fourth and fifth fingers, likely incurred while he was stabbing Mark Palacios. Forensics was still working in the bathroom. Rob asked the photographer to document the cuts on Keith’s hand. Stu searched and found several bloody tissues in the office wastebasket, which forensics photographed then took into evidence.

Stu took Watts by the arm. “Let’s go, Mr. Watts. You can call your attorney from the police station.”

“Wait. Someone’s got to lock up.”

“Where are your keys? We’ll take care of it.”

“Top desk drawer on the left.”

Rob looked, and found a key ring. “These?”

“Yeah.”

“We’ll bring ‘em to the station when we’re done.”

“Fine.”

Stu led Watts out. The photographer asked, “Anything else you want in here?”

“Yeah, all these coffee cups and soda cans. And take this framed photo into evidence.”

“You got it.” The photographer busied himself.

Stu returned. “Patrol’s taking him to jail. I’ll notify the family, then go to the station and book him.”

“Nah, I’ll do it. You’ve got a steak to cook.”

“Nope, already talked to Brenda. We’re saving the steak for tomorrow. I’m gonna pick up tacos on the way home.”

“So, go pick up your tacos.”

Stu gave Rob a look over his glasses. “You did most of the work here tonight. Besides, you must have something better to do.”

Rob looked at Stu for a minute; Stu looked back candidly. Rob said, “Fine. You book Watts, and I’ll come in to take Dean’s statement tomorrow afternoon.”

“Deal.” Stu grinned. “Have a good night.”

*  *  *

Finally, everyone was gone, and the bar was empty. Rob sealed both doors and left a pair of officers to guard the place, then climbed into his car. Without the surge of adrenalin supplied by the investigation, he was suddenly very tired. And ravenous.

He pulled the Nokia from his pocket and dialed. His friend answered, “Hello?”

“Hi, it’s Rob. Start frying that bacon.”

His friend laughed. “I’m on it. Did you get your killer?”

“I think so. Tell you about it when I get there.”

“Okay. See you in a few.”

Rob said goodbye, started the car, and headed west.

He crossed into Santa Monica about twenty minutes later. Ten minutes after that, he turned right from Santa Monica Boulevard onto 17th Street. Right on Arizona, a quick left into the alley between 17th and 18th. He parked under a deck, next to a red Jeep Cherokee, and cut the engine.

The door at the top of the steps to the deck opened as he was trudging up them. The scent of bacon wafted out as Pete Ferguson—the handsome young patrol officer from West LA Division—stuck his head out. “I was afraid you’d be another couple of hours.”

“So was I. How’s your uncle?”

“Better, thanks.” Pete lived with and served as caretaker for his elderly great-uncle, who’d been hospitalized for nearly a week. “They might discharge him on Monday.”

“Good.”

“Yeah. One sandwich or two?”

“Two, please.”

As they ate, Rob told Pete about the case. Pete asked the same question that everyone else had. “If your victim was gay, why was he at speed dating?”

Rob shrugged. “You’re the guy who’s interested in psychology. Why would he go?”

Pete thought about that. “Maybe he is bi. Maybe he wanted to appease his family, who’ve been pestering him to get a girlfriend. Who knows?”

“I sure would like to know whether Mark realized that Keith Watts was the manager at that bar. If he and Chris were dating, you’d think he would have.”

“From what you’ve said, it sounds like Mark wasn’t the ideal boyfriend. He may not have listened to Chris enough to realize exactly where Keith worked.”

“‘Not the ideal boyfriend’ is an understatement, I’d venture to guess.”

“You’ll have to talk to Mark’s family. Be careful with them, though. They might get angry with you if you suggest that he was gay.”

Rob picked at a piece of bacon that had escaped his sandwich. “Poor Chris Watts. His brother killed his boyfriend. How does he live with that?”

“He’ll need counseling.”

Rob slumped back in his chair. “Mark and Chris... Dylan the drummer... These young guys are so much braver than I am.”

Pete winced. “Braver than me, too.”

“I don’t know how much longer I can keep this from Diane. And Stu must suspect something. He’s not the least gullible guy in the department, but he’s not the most gullible, either. Although he might think I’m seeing another woman.”

Pete said softly, “One of the reasons that those kids can be braver than us is that they aren’t in the LAPD. I can’t come out. You might be able to and get away with it, but I wouldn’t.”

“Kevin’s got your back, right?” Kevin Brodie, who’d been Pete’s partner on the force for several months.

“Right. But he’s not always in the locker room when I am.”

“How long can you go on like this? You want a long-term relationship eventually. You won’t get that in the closet.”

Pete shook his head. “Something will work out. Somehow. Someday.”

Rob popped the final bit of bacon into his mouth. “Well. That problem won’t get resolved tonight. You mentioned dessert. Pineapple, I believe?”

Pete grinned and pushed away from the table. “Coming right up. So to speak.”

Rob laughed and rolled up his shirt sleeves.

He’d worry about the rest of his life tomorrow.

*  *  *

Get to know more about Meg Perry at megperrybooks.wordpress.com.

Let's Fall in Love:
Frank W. Butterfield

110 Fremont Avenue

Daytona Beach, FL 32114

Thursday, February 14, 2019

6:00 a.m. EST

I opened my eyes as the alarm song on my phone went off. I quickly swiped to get it to stop playing. Removing my mask, I rolled over and turned off the CPAP on the nightstand.

“Let’s sleep another hour,” murmured Whit Hall, my fiancé of about a month who was stretched out next to me in my queen-sized bed.

My name is Eddie Smith, and I am the amazingly lucky chubby guy who was waking up next to the most wonderful musclehead in the world, someone I’d met just two weeks and one day earlier.

I was 52 and sorta, kinda retired. Whit was definitely retired. You see, he’d been a player for the San Antonio Matadors, one of two new NFL teams. And he was 35. According to everything I’d read, he’d played longer than most guys did. By a longshot.

We’d been set up by Mario Ossler and Bob Jenkins, two of the richest guys in the world. They were married to each other and lived in San Francisco and were good friends of mine. Mario was the owner of the Matadors and had recruited Whit, a tight end (whatever that meant), to play one last season before retiring in January.

We were in love. We were engaged. We were living together. And we were moving way too fast, and I knew that. We both knew it. But we’d been through a lot in a short amount of time and, in all of that, I’d come to realize Whit was the man I wanted to spend the rest of my life with.

And I’d never felt that way before.

Oh, and did I mention? Whit had come out since we met. And that was a really big deal because he was famous for being the son of an even more famous televangelist (Pastor Bobby Hall) and for practicing faith-based abstinence. Just like Tim Tebow.

I pushed the covers off of me and sat up. As soon as my feet hit the rug, I said, “It’s cold.”

“More reason to sleep in.”

I yawned. “Our appointment in Miami is at noon.”

He sighed. “Do we have to go?”

“Are your feet hanging off the end of the bed?” I reached over and turned on the light on my nightstand.

“Yes.”

“Are they cold?”

“Yes.”

“Then we have to go.”

“Why are you being so mean to me?” he whined.

I stood up, stretched, and then looked down at him. Whit was definitely the most handsome man I’d ever met even though his nose was crooked after being broken by an offensive lineman he’d once pissed off. “I am not being mean to you. You’re the one who wants a custom-made bed. I’m perfectly fine in my perfectly wonderful queen-sized bed.”

“Fine,” he said as he pulled his feet up and then, as if he was 10, pushed all the covers onto the floor. He looked at me.

“I’m not cleaning that up.

“Doesn’t matter,” he said as he lifted up one long arm and scratched under it.

“Why not?” I asked as I walked around the foot of the bed, pushing covers out of my way with my foot.

He sat up on his elbows. “Because we’ll have the new bed to sleep in tonight.”

I was on my way to my dresser to get out a pair of underwear when he said that. I stopped, turned, and asked, “Hold on, cowboy. Do you think we’ll be coming back with a bed? They have to build it. Hence the phrase ‘custom built’.”

He frowned a little and then fell back on the bed. “Fuck! How much longer do I have to live in this hobbit house?”

I laughed as I pulled open the drawer and got out a pair of underwear for me and one for him. I threw those on the bed as I said, “My feet are not nearly furry enough for me to be a hobbit.” I closed that drawer and then pulled open another. “This is a normal house for normal-sized people.” We could pretty much wear the same size socks, so I grabbed two pairs and tossed them on the bed.

He was back on his elbows. “Speaking of hobbits... When we get back, I want to find someone who can remove the ceiling fans. Or, as I like to think of them, your decapitators.”

I walked over to the closet to get a t-shirt from my stack. “You told me you loved me after you walked into my house with its seven-foot ceiling.” I chose a blue one with the Ralph Lauren logo on it. Miami meant a fancier t-shirt, of course. “You knew what you were in for.” I tossed my t-shirt on the bed.

He grabbed it and held it up. “Why not a collar? What, exactly, does one wear to a mattress factory?”

“If it’s in Florida, you already know the answer to that question.” I looked at his stack of t-shirts. “Do you want cotton or one of the new miracle fabrics?”

“Will it be warm down there?”

“Last night, when I checked, the app said the high is supposed to be close to 80.”

“Thank God!” he said as he jumped out of bed. “Cotton, then.”

“My stepmother and her farmer thank you for choosing cotton.” I pulled out a green one that had the old Sun Records logo on it. That was the one with the rooster.

I handed it to him, and he tossed it on the bed as he asked, “She has a farmer?”

“Yes. It’s a guy who leases the land she owns.” I moved to my stack of khaki shorts and grabbed the one from the top.

He took it from me and threw it on the bed. “Is it all cotton?”

“Last I heard. Khaki or olive?”

“Is he cute? Khaki.”

I picked the next one of those and handed it to him. “I think so. He’s also a kind of poet. He has a Facebook page that she shares every now and then.”

“Not this one. It’s too short. This isn’t 1979.” He handed the pair back to me. “A gay poet farmer?”

“He’s not gay.” I reached for a pair that was longer and handed it over before placing the shorter one back on the stack. “At least, I don’t think he is.”

Whit threw the second pair on the bed and then wrapped his long arms around me from the back. He began to run his hands up and down my belly, jiggling it a little as he did so. “Maybe he’s secretly gay. You know... Like the cowboys Willie Nelson sings about.”

“Maybe,” I replied as he kissed the back of my neck. After another kiss or two like that, I turned around and looked up at him. “Speaking of cowboys... Good morning, cowboy.”

“Mmm. Good morning.” He kissed me, pressing hard against my lips like it was 1947. Using my tongue, I tried to pry them open, but he kept them closed tight. “Not until mouthwash,” he murmured.

I just laughed.

*  *  *

About 45 minutes later, we were in Whit’s black Escalade and on our way.

“Where do you want to get breakfast?” he asked.

“Let’s get down the road a bit.”

“Cool. Can you find a place for us to stop?”

I looked over at him. “Are you hungry now?”

“I will be in an hour or so.”

I nodded and pulled out my phone.

“Also, music.”

I swiped open my phone and said, “Your wish is my command.”

“Careful with that kinda talk.”

I chuckled. “What are we in the mood for?”

“I’m a little burned out on ‘Brandy’.”

“But she’s such a fine girl.”

He chuckled. “How about we dial back about 20 or 30 years?”

“So...” I scrolled through my playlists and found one I’d never played for him before. I got it started and waited for his reaction.

“It’s too early for an accordion.”

“But this is Miss Dinah Shore!”

“What’s that song?”

“‘Buttons and Bows’.”

“I’m not... No.”

I laughed and pushed pause. “OK.” I scrolled again. “How about this?”

A piano began to play.

“No Petula.”

“No ‘Downtown’?”

“No. Sorry I’m being so difficult.”

“Maybe third time’s the charm.”

“Maybe,” he said.

“What about this?”

“I’m liking the trumpets.”

“It’s Ella.”

He began to snap his fingers. “Cool. What is it?”

“‘Let’s Fall in Love’.”

“Nice.”

I was about to put my phone on the console when I got a text.

Hearing the ding, Whit said, “Isn’t it a little early?”

“Not if it’s Darío.” He was a friend of mine who lived in Orlando. “He gets up at 4:30 every morning.”

“What’s he say?”

I read the text and then sat back. “Damn.”

“What?”

“Do you have any idea what day it is?”

“Thursday.”

“What’s the date?”

“I have no idea. Since I moved in with you, the calendar has no meaning.”

I glanced at him.

He was grinning at me.

“Eyes on the road, cowboy.”

He winked before turning to look at the long stretch of road that was taking us to I-95.

“It’s the 14th.”

“So?”

“Of February?”

He shrugged.

“Are you serious?”

He glanced at me. “What?”

“St. Valentine’s Day.”

“A pagan holiday.”

“Really? You didn’t celebrate Valentine’s Day? Not even at school?”

He started strumming his long fingers on the dashboard. “Back when dinosaurs roamed the Earth, did y’all do a card exchange thingie in elementary school?”

“After walking uphill in the snow both ways, yes, we did.”

“Don’t be silly, Eddie. There are no hills in Lubbock, Texas.”

I laughed. “True.”

“Well, in the nowadays times of 1993, we had the same thing but guess who didn’t participate?”

“Really?”

He nodded. “The only child of Pastor Bobby Hall did not show up to Miss Ellen’s third grade classroom with a box of Valentine cards. No, sir, he sure as hell didn’t.” His voice cracked a little at the end.

I reached over and rubbed his belly. “Whit...”

“Wow. I had no idea how much that still pisses me off.” He switched driving hands and then took my hand in his.

“Was it your father or was it your mother?”

“It was like always. Mama told me how Daddy wanted things and that was fucking that. He never said one word about it.”

“Why the third grade?”

“I have no fuckin’ idea.”

I took a deep breath. “I’m sorry. To be honest, though, you didn’t miss much.”

He glanced at me. By then, we were on I-95, heading south towards Miami. “What’s this song?”

“‘Fly Me to the Moon’. Astrud Gilberto is singing.”

He nodded. “Frank Sinatra sings this, too, right?”

“Yep.”

He sighed. “So, what did Darío have to say?”

“He wanted to know what I was going to do for you for Valentine’s Day.”

Whit nodded. “Yeah! That’s right! I’m the younger one. You should be treating me.”

“Uh, huh.”

“So, where are we going, big boy?”

“Keep this up, and you’ll be lucky if you get Burger King.”

He laughed. “Actually, I can’t really think of a better gift than a bed that’s big enough for me to sleep in without my feet hanging off the end.”

“You’re awfully sweet, but I’ve been waiting for this day all my life. And it looks like I blew it.”

He glanced at me. “What do you mean?”

“This is my first Valentine’s Day while in a relationship.”

“Are you...? Really?”

I nodded as I gazed at the freeway stretching out under a cloudy sky. “Yep. Remember how I told you about my two very short ‘relationships’?”

“Sorry. What’s this song?”

“Good question. I’ve heard it a thousand times.” I looked down at my phone. “Oh,” I said with a chuckle. “‘Manhattan’.”

“Makes sense with all those references. Who’s singing?”

“Blossom Dearie. I have no idea who that is.”

“Sorry for the interruption. What about your relationships?”

“The first one ended right after the beginning of the year. 1997, I mean.”

“You told me about that. You got snowed in and it was in Austin and you two spent three long days together.”

“You have a great memory. I don’t know whether to be scared about that or not.”

Whit squeezed my hand. “Don’t be.”

I tried to squeeze his hand back. But, like always, I couldn’t really. I have big hands but his are bigger. And he’s a lot stronger than me, too.

“But what about the other guy? You said that ended in March.”

“You do have a good memory and you’re right.” I thought for a moment. “We might have done something for Valentine’s Day, but it was likely very low key. He didn’t like to go to fancy places.”

“This is Fred Astaire singing.”

“Yep. ‘The Way You Look Tonight’.”

“This one I know. I’ve watched the movie a couple of times.”

“Which one is it? You’re more up on Fred Astaire than me.”

“Swing Time.” Whit glanced at me. “He’s playing the piano in the living room while Ginger Rogers is washing her hair in the bathroom. It’s really sweet.”

I looked at him. “I swear to God that you have to be the only NFL player who ever watched Fred and Ginger.”

He reached over and put his hand on top of my mouth. “Don’t swear, Eddie.”

I gently bit his palm.

“Ow.”

I licked his palm.

“Now that’s nice.”

I pushed his hand away. “Admit it, Whit.”

He pulled his hand back, grabbed mine again, and squeezed it. “Admit what?”

“You’re the gayest NFL player ever. Your fascination with Fred and Ginger is the proof. Just admit it.”

“I don’t mind admitting it. But I’m a retired player. There’s a difference.”

“Fine.”

“What’s this song?”

I looked at my phone. “It’s French.”

“That part I got.”

“The title is something about Venus.”

“The planet?”

“No, the tennis player.”

He shook his head. “Eddie... you’re cruisin’ for a bruisin’, son.”

I snorted.

“When are we having breakfast?”

“I guess I need to get on that.”

“Yes. You’re falling down on your role as navigator.”

I picked up my phone and opened the map app. “Stand by.” I did a search and then looked at the results. “How about this? Here’s a diner in Titusville that has good reviews.”

“What’s it called?”

“Country Thyme. But the second word is spelled like the herb.”

“Cute. How far?”

“Computer says 15.2 miles. Get off at Florida 406.”

“How far is that?”

“I dunno.”

“Navigator ain’t navigatin’.”

“The state of Florida is happy to announce upcoming exits and their distance at convenient intervals along your freeway journey.”

Whit snorted. “That’s smart-ass for ‘I’m too lazy to be a good boyfriend’.”

I put my phone on the console. “The navigator has spoken.”

He laughed and squeezed my hand again. “I love it when you’re sassy.”

“I try my best.”

*  *  *

“The food must be good,” said Whit as he pulled into the parking lot.

“Why do you say that?”

“Two sheriff’s cars and one cop car.”

“Maybe.”

He parked the car and killed the engine. “Are you doubting my knowledge of roadside eating?” he asked as he opened his door and got out.

I opened mine and did the same. “You didn’t spend five years on the road like I did, so, yes, I am, as a matter of fact.”

By then we were in front of the door. I pulled it open. “Youth before beauty.”

“You wish,” he said with a wink as he walked in.

I followed right behind. The place was a standard strip-mall kind of diner with plastic plants and specials on a chalkboard. There were a handful of occupied tables including one with two deputies and a cop, all white guys.

“Where?” he asked.

Pointing with my chin, I said, “That booth over by the wall.”

He led the way.

*  *  *

“What’ll y’all have to drink?” That was a white gal with bright red hair dressed in jeans and a grey t-shirt.

“Water, no ice,” said Whit.

“Same for me.”

“Be right back.”

Once she was gone, I picked up a menu from the small stack stuffed behind the napkin dispenser and handed it to Whit before taking one for myself.

“Thank you.”

“What looks good?” I asked.

“Everything. I’m starving. How about you?”

“The western omelet.”

“With hot sauce?”

“Yep.” I put my menu back where I’d found it.

“I think I’ll have my usual.” He put his back as well.

“All the eggs and breakfast meats they have in the kitchen?”

He grinned at me. “Something like that.”

I felt my heart skip. He was one hell of a handsome man and, sometimes, I couldn’t believe we were together. It had all happened so fast and so much had gone down during the first couple of weeks, including an amazing trip to the South Pacific. It was like a dream. And here we were, sitting in a diner in Titusville on our way to Miami to buy a big bed so he could be comfortable. It was so romantic.

“What are you thinking about, son?”

I grinned. “How buying furniture together is almost the same as getting married.”

He laughed. “You think so?”

I shrugged. “I have no idea. This bed is the first thing I’ve ever bought with another guy.”

He nodded. “Me, too.” Under the table, he put his foot on top of mine and pressed down a little.

“I’m not opposed to holding hands in public.”

Whit blushed as he glanced over at the table of cops. “Well...”

“Like I said, I’m not opposed to it.”

He took a deep breath. “Soon.”

“No rush, Whit.” I smiled at him.

He nodded and pressed his foot on mine again. “Thanks.”

“So, it’s—”

“Here we go.” That was our server with our two waters. Once she’d placed them on the table, she asked, “What’ll y’all have?”

Whit pointed at me.

I said, “Western omelet with hash browns and a biscuit.”

She nodded.

“And can I get hot sauce?”

“Sure.” She turned to Whit.

“I’ll have three scrambled eggs with ham and hash browns. I’d also like a side of bacon and a biscuit.”

She repeated back our orders.

“That’s it,” I said with a smile. “Also,” I added, “we’ll pay for them.” I pointed to the table of cops.

She nodded. “Sure thing.” She looked at Whit for a moment and was about to say something but then seemed to change her mind. “I’ll get that goin’ for you,” she said before walking off.

“That’s new,” I said.

“What?”

“She was going to do the whole routine but then changed her mind.”

He nodded. “It happens but not as often as the usual thing.”

I sighed. “Until I met you, I really had no idea—”

“‘Scuse me.”

We both looked up. One of the deputies was standing there with a silly grin on his face. He was white, had brown hair, and was chubby. Not as much as me, however.

“Yes, sir?” replied Whit as he turned on his professional smile. It was like switching on a lamp.

“You’re Whit Hall, right?”

“Yes, sir. What’s your name?”

“I’m Deputy Tom Wilkins. I work for Brevard County.”

Whit offered his hand and the two shook. “Nice to meet you.” He looked at me. “This is Eddie Smith.”

The deputy offered his hand. We both shook. “Nice to meet you,” he said.

“Nice to meet you, Deputy.”

He put his hands on his utility belt and turned his attention to Whit. “I’m a huge Vikings fan.”

Uh, oh. I knew where this was going.

So did Whit. His professional smile froze. “That’s nice,” was his only reply.

The deputy started shaking his head. “Man, I was watching the game when the ref called you for offensive pass interference.”

Whit just nodded. Like he always did. In the time since we’d met, I’d seen this conversation play out at least twenty times.

“Then the Raiders. Man, you got screwed.”

“My first couple of years there were shaky but, in the end—”

“Oh, I know.” Deputy Wilkins crossed his arms. “And, of course, the Matadors look promising. Sorry you left after just a year.”

Whit smiled his authentic smile. “Thanks. It was time. My body couldn’t take much more.”

“I believe it.” He glanced at me and then said, “Well, sorry to bother you. Just wanted to tell you I’m a real fan.” He glanced at me again. “I’m a real fan. And...” He lowered his voice. “Good for you.”

“Thank you.”

“I mean, I don’t have any problem with... you know...” He scratched the side of his head by his ear. He started blushing just a little.

“Thanks, Deputy. Thanks for stopping by.”

“Sure.” He glanced at me a third time. “Y’all have a good day.”

“We will,” said Whit as I smiled at the guy.

Neither of us spoke after he walked away. His breakfast buddies were waiting for him by the door. Once they were gone, I whispered, “You OK?” That story about the Vikings and the bad call always seemed to upset him. I couldn’t blame him.

Whit nodded.

I felt someone moving around in the booth behind me followed by a voice exclaiming, “Some people!”

Whit smiled at whoever that was. “He meant well.”

“I know, but still... I didn’t realize we had gay deputies here in Brevard County.”

Whit chuckled. “You think he’s gay?”

“Please! He practically came out to you right then and there.”

I turned around. There was a guy staring down at me. “Hello, Eddie.” He grinned.

I grinned back. “Hello.”

“My name is Pat and my husband, who you can’t see because my fat ass is in the way is named Patrick.”

“Hello,” said an embarrassed voice.

“Pat and Patrick?”

Pat nodded enthusiastically. He was white and probably about my age. His thin hair was all gray and he had bright blue eyes deep set in his round face. “Everyone used to call me Patrick. We’re both Irish. But some people called me Patty and not like Saint Patty but more like Mary.” He laughed. “But now I’m just Pat.”

“Sit down,” said his husband.

“Not yet.” Pat looked at me. “How’s it feel to be the most envied and hated gay man in North America?”

“Pat!”

I laughed. “I have no idea since I haven’t been on social media of any kind in a while.”

“Good! And keep it that way.” He tilted his head. “I think you’re cuter than Whit. And for the record, I love that you two are a couple. My hubby’s a bodybuilder and I’m chubby, too.” He looked over at Whit then at me. “But your guy is taller. Patrick’s only five-six. But he’s almost as wide as he is tall. He’s a pocket gay who can throw me across the room.”

“Pat!”

“I guess I’d better behave.” He looked at Whit. “Just so you know, I’m a huge fan and a real fan.” He paused. “I guess you could say I’m a real gay fan.”

Whit and I both laughed.

Pat winked at me, said, “See ya,” and then turned around in his seat.

Our food arrived right then. Once it was all in place, our server asked, “Anything else?”

Whit nodded. He pointed to the table where Pat and Patrick were sitting. “We’ll take their check, too.”

She grinned. “Y’all are nice. I’ll take care of that, as well.”

“Thanks,” I said.

She nodded and walked away.

*  *  *

One of the many things that Whit and I have in common is that we both eat faster than we really should. So, we were done with our meals in less than fifteen minutes. He was done sooner than me, however. It was his competitive nature.

The other thing we had in common is that we both like to stack our plates when we’ve finished eating. That makes it easier for whoever removes them.

“All done?” asked our server.

I nodded. “Really good. Thanks.”

She nodded. “I’ll leave this here.” She handed me a ticket. “It’s all on one check.”

“Thanks.”

She nodded and quickly took our stack and disappeared.

“If you were cheap,” I said, “I don’t think this could work.”

Whit smiled. “I was thinking just the same thing.” He pulled out his wallet.

I shook my head. “My treat.”

He shrugged. “If you’re sure...”

“I’m sure.”

“Because I can put it on my card.”

“Whit.”

“What?”

“Let’s don’t do that Texas thing, OK?”

He grinned. “What Texas thing?”

I turned to my left and looked at the wall. “I don’t want any more.” Then I turned to the right and, in a falsetto voice, said, “Are you sure? I’m sure. It’s fine if you do. We have plenty. No, I’m sure. Well, if you’re sure...” By the time I finished my little performance plucked straight out of my childhood, he was laughing pretty hard.

“You two are hilarious!”

Pat was standing by the table. Next to him was obviously Patrick who looked exactly like Pat had described him. The one thing I wasn’t expecting was that Patrick was probably in his 30s.

“And you didn’t have to pay for breakfast,” said Patrick.

“Our pleasure,” said Whit as he offered his hand. Once everyone had shaken, he said to Patrick, “You look like you’re competitive.”

“He is!” said Pat as Patrick nodded. “We have a shitload of statues at home.”

“Well...”

Whit and I both laughed.

Pat put his hand on my shoulder. “It’s hard to be an athletic widow.”

“A what?” asked Whit with a big grin.

“Oh, you know. Patrick goes off and lifts weights or poses in some dental floss while I stay home and bake brownies.”

Whit and I both laughed again.

“It’s not exactly like that,” said Patrick. “Pat comes to almost all my competitions.”

“If you watch the videos, I’m the one you can hear screaming, ‘Take it all off!’”

Patrick rolled his eyes.

“Where do y’all live?” I asked.

“In Fort Lauderdale,” said Pat. “My mother lives here and we’ve been in town for a few days to check in on her. Now, we’re heading home for our annual Valentine’s Day bash.”

Patrick looked at me. “We go to a party every year at a friend’s house. He lives on one of the canals.”

“It’s huge!” Pat grinned. “His house, I mean.”

Patrick asked, “What are y’all doing down here?”

“We’re on our way to Miami for the day,” I said.

“Oh my God! The traffic!” That was Pat.

I nodded. “I know. But where we’re going is by the airport and we can take the turnpike, so we’ll miss most of that, I think.”

“Good,” said Pat.

Patrick looked at Whit. “What’s your Valentine’s Day plan?”

Whit bit his lip. “Well...”

“We both forgot what day it was,” I said.

Whit nodded. “I was sorta thinking we might find a really nice place down there for dinner...”

“Hell, no!” said Pat. “You’re coming to our party.”

“Really, we can’t,” I said.

“We don’t want to impose,” added Whit.

Pat put his hands on his hips. “I thought we covered that whole Texan thing just a minute ago.”

Whit and I both laughed.

Patrick put his thick hand on Whit’s shoulder. “Please come. There’s three couples. Y’all would be the fourth. And I think you’ll like everyone.”

Pat was nodding. “Yes! You have to come! And I promise I will call everyone and extract vows of silence about that unfortunate incident involving a certain team which may or may not be located in Minnesota.” He ran his fingers across his lips and then twisted them as if he was turning a lock. “Lips will be sealed!”

Whit looked at me and I nodded. “Sure,” he said. “That would be fun.”

“Great!” said Pat as he whipped out his phone. Looking at me, he asked, “What are your deets, hon?”

*  *  *

Once we were back in the car and on the road, I said, “It’s been a while since I’ve been invited somewhere because I was part of a couple.”

“I’m kinda excited. I’ve never been part of a couple that was invited anywhere.”

“Not even in high school?”

“Nope.”

I looked at the map on my phone.

“Whatcha doin’?”

“Checking to make sure we’ll be there by noon.”

“And?”

“Looking good. Music?”

“Sure.”

I started up the old playlist where we’d left off.

“What’s this? Sounds jazzy.”

I looked at the phone. “It’s Coltrane. ‘My One and Only’. I’ve heard this a million times and never knew what the name was.”

“A million times? Really?”

“You know what my mother would say right now?”

He glanced at me. “What?”

“‘I’ve told you a thousand times to stop exaggerating!’”

Whit guffawed. “I love your mom so much.”

“Me, too.” My phone beeped right then.

“Who is it?”

I looked at the text message. “954 area code. Must be Pat.”

“What’s he say?”

“Party starts at 6 and he’s giving the address. He also says it’s suit and tie.” I shook my head. “Damn it. And I really wanted to go.”

“So?”

“We’re both in shorts and t-shirts.”

“So? We just go buy clothes.” He shifted in his seat. “You know how much I love buying clothes for you.”

“Yes, I know.”

“So, why don’t you look up where the big boy store is?”

“I know where it is. It’s at a big outdoor mall in Sunrise. That’s west of Fort Lauderdale.”

“Perfect.”

“And where do we get dressed?”

“We get ourselves a hotel room.”

“But we have to drive back tonight. I don’t have my CPAP.”

“Eddie?”

I looked at him. “What?”

“This is no big deal.”

I sighed. “I know.”

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.”

“You sure?”

“Yep.”

“There was this one time when I was scheduled to give the keynote at a Christian conference in Madison, Wisconsin.” He glanced at me. “I flew from Oakland to Chicago and then rented a car. I arrived in Chicago, but my luggage didn’t. Nothing. So, I found a place and bought a whole new set of clothes.” He glanced at me again. “I loved that. It was a blast.” He grinned a little. “This chubby dude helped me, and he was more than a little handsy.”

That broke the spell and made me laugh.

“He felt me up more than he needed to, and I wasn’t about to complain.”

“Part of what I’m dreading is because I sorta kinda dated the guy who manages the store in Sunrise.”

“Now the truth comes out. What’s his name?”

“Luis. He’s Cuban.”

“Hot.”

I chuckled. “He is.”

“Oh?”

I reached over and put my hand on Whit’s rock-hard thigh. “Can’t compare with you.”

“This oughta be fun.”

“Why?”

“I can’t wait to finally meet someone you’ve dated before.”

“It wasn’t much. We went out for lunch one time and then dinner. He was nice enough, but he wanted to get married and I wasn’t sure I wanted to live down there.”

“He wanted to get married?”

“Well... not really. But he was moving faster than I liked.”

“You hadn’t decided on Daytona yet?”

“No.”

“How long ago was that?”

“Fall of 2015.”

“You haven’t talked to him since then?”

“No.”

“He might not be there.”

“Maybe.”

“That’s disappointing.”

I looked at him. “You’re not supposed to want to meet my exes. You’re supposed to be jealous.”

“I guess I’m not doing this right, then. What’s that song?”

“‘Perfidia’. Remember? It’s that song in Now, Voyager.”

“Oh, right.”

I sat back a little and decided to go back to a whole raft of questions I had for him that I’d been going through in my head. “So, tell me about what it was like to play for the Raiders?”

“Do you have a list?”

“I do. Start with being drafted or picked or plucked or whatever it was. Then tell me about moving to Oakland from Minneapolis.”

“Why do you want to know about all this?”

“Because it’s like hearing people tell me about going to China. It’s so foreign to me.”

Whit laughed. “Well, here’s how it went down...”

*  *  *

I asked, “Are you sure you gave him the right measurements for the room?” We were getting back in the Escalade after putting in our order at the mattress factory.

“I’m sure,” he replied, sounding a little testy. “I measured everything yesterday and put it all in my phone.” He started up the car. “That’s why I was reading from my phone when we were talking about how big the bed needed to be, Eddie.”

“OK, OK,” I said. “Something doesn’t feel right about this. What if they get to Daytona with the bed and it doesn’t fit?”

“I measured the room, Eddie.” By that time, we were pulling out of the parking lot. The factory was in an industrial strip center west of the airport. “Where are we going next?”

“Hold on and I’ll tell you.”

He snorted.

“You OK?”

“I just didn’t like the owner.”

“You don’t like guys who are taller than you are.” The owner of the place was just under seven feet which was why he’d started a factory that built custom beds. He knew what it was like to sleep with his feet hanging off the end.

Whit sighed. “You’re not wrong about that. But what I didn’t like was his know-it-all ‘tude.”

“Well, he does know about how to build a mattress and a bed.”

Whit didn’t reply to that.

By that time, I’d found the place. “Up at the next light, make a left. Then, when we get on Florida 826, go north, which will be right. That’ll take us to 75. We’re only 30 minutes from there.”

“Good. What about lunch?”

“Are you hungry right now?”

“Yes.” He sounded hangry, as a matter of fact.

I looked at my phone again. “There’s a Wendy’s coming up on the right.”

“Good. It’s not Whataburger but it’ll do.”

*  *  *

“The bottom line,” I said as we got back in the car carrying our burgers and fries along with our drinks, “is simple. You’re the most famous football player right now. I’m sorry I did this to you.” I slammed my door closed. We’d fled the restaurant after too many people started asking for autographs and giving their opinions about the whole Vikings mess.

He slammed his door as well. “You didn’t do shit to me, Eddie.” He sighed dramatically. “I knew this would happen.” He banged on the steering wheel. “Damn it!”

For whatever reason, his getting angry made me feel better. That wasn’t fair, but it was true. “From now on, we just—”

“No!” he barked. “I don’t wanna talk about it.”

I nodded and took a sip of my iced tea.

“Sorry.”

“Don’t apologize, Whit. I can’t imagine how bad this is for you.”

He turned in the seat and looked at me. “Eddie?” His voice was a lot softer.

“Yes?”

“This is not hard. What’s hard is watching you on the sidelines of The Whit Hall Story. That’s what annoys me.” He reached over and ran his fingers through my beard. “You have no idea how much easier my life is now.” His violet eyes stared into mine. “I’m no longer in prison. Coming out and finding you...” He grinned a little. “Reverse that. Finding you and coming out is a dream come true.”

“You’re my dream come true, Whit.”

He gently tugged on my beard. “I’m sorry you have to be—”

“No.”

“No, what?”

“Don’t apologize to me. I love every minute I’m with you even when I don’t like what happens.”

He tugged one more time and then reached over the console. “Gimme some sugar.”

I chuckled and kissed him. We lingered like that for a long moment before I whispered, “Now I’m hungry.”

He laughed. “Me, too.”

We both opened our bags and got to work.

*  *  *

I opened the back door on my side and hung up the jacket I’d just bought before putting my other bags on the seat. Whit did the same thing on his side.

He said, “While I am very happy that neither of us needed alterations, I am otherwise seriously disappointed.”

“Why?”

“I was hoping that Luis would be here, and I’d get to meet one of your exes.”

I closed the back door and then opened the front door. As I got in, I said, “I’m telling you, Whit, that’s not how this works. You’re supposed to be jealous of the exes.”

By that time, he was in his seat. He lifted up a little and adjusted himself before closing the door and starting the engine. After clicking in his seat belt. “Where to next?”

I looked at the clock on the dash. “It’s 3:15.”

“And?”

“I was thinking about traffic. We should get a room somewhere close to the party, so we don’t have to deal with rush hour.”

“Good idea. We could get a place on the beach. There are hotels over there, right?”

“Yeah, but we don’t want a hotel. We want a motel. It’ll be a major hassle to get our shit through the lobby.”

“Don’t they have people who do that?”

“Yes, but there’s a bunch of really cool old school places on the beachside that I’ve stayed at before. We can park on the street and—”

“You had me at ‘old school’.”

I laughed and looked at the map on my phone.

*  *  *

“I wish I had a pair of scissors,” said Whit as he stared at himself in the mirror. He turned his face one way and then the other.

“Why?” I was standing in the door of the bathroom watching him get ready. This particular room had a shower stall that didn’t allow us to shower together. So, I’d gone first. I’d just finished ironing my new shirt to get the wrinkles out. I’d already ironed Whit’s.

“I don’t think I can successfully grow a beard.”

“I like your scruff.”

He looked at me and smiled. “Then I guess it’s OK.”

I nodded. “It’s more than OK. It’s hot.”

He wiggled his eyebrows at me. “This is fun.”

“It is?”

We were both in our undies. He ran his thumb under the band of his and popped it. “I love getting dressed with you.”

I smiled. “I feel the same way.”

“I also love the fact that you think most of this getting-to-know-you shit is as new and cool as I do.”

I stared at him for a long moment. “Somehow, I can’t imagine any of this getting old. Familiar, yes. But never old.”

He crossed his arms. “When did we first meet?”

“Two weeks ago, yesterday.”

He nodded. “But does it feel longer to you?”

“Of course. In those two weeks, we met, you scared the shit out of me, then you picked me up on the side of the road—”

“I did, didn’t I?” he said with a sorta kinda leer.

“You did. Then I left you in San Antonio and you chased me to Daytona Beach. That all happened in three days.”

He nodded. “Then we went to Polynesia.”

“Yep. Then to Henry’s Island in the middle of nowhere.”

He smiled. “With all the chickens.”

“They love you, Whit.”

He shrugged.

“Then we went to San Francisco and then Austin to pick up my mom.”

Whit’s face clouded over. “Because Daddy was murdered.”

I walked into the bathroom and put my arms around him. “I’m really sorry about that, Whit. I really am.” I knew that he wasn’t ready to process his father’s death. It felt like I was going through the motions and saying the right things.

He hugged me back. After a moment, he said, “Thank you, Eddie.” Then he laughed.

“What?” Like always, the way he could turn away from the topic of his father’s death was startling. But he had his own process. I’d tried to probe into that wound once but got some pretty intense pushback. I’d decided to let him come to me when he was ready.

“You know what?”

“What?” I repeated.

“This is kind of a whirlwind romance, doncha think?”

“If it was in a book, I wouldn’t believe it.”

“Me, neither.” He sighed. “Thank you.”

“For what?”

“You helped me bust outta the jail I built for myself.” He sighed again. “Everything is happening really fast, but I wouldn’t do it any other way.”

“Me, neither.”

“I love you, Eddie.”

I pulled back and looked up at him. “I love you, too, Whit.”

He winked at me and then very gently kissed me on the lips.

*  *  *

Pat wasn’t kidding when he said his friend’s house was huge. It was at the end of a street and backed up to a canal. Three stories high and probably less than 10 years old, I figured it had massive water-facing windows. The living room probably echoed.

“I hate houses like this,” said Whit as he parked the car in the closest spot to the house that was available on the street.

“Me, too. They’re just too big.”

He turned off the engine and asked, “You ready?” He then turned in his seat, causing the leather to squeak.

I looked at him. “Yes?”

“Gimme some sugar.”

I leaned in and kissed him. His tongue probed my mouth a little. After a few seconds, he pulled back. “Am I getting any better at that?”

I grinned. “Definitely.”

“Good. Shall we?”

“Let’s.”

We both got out and walked towards the house. I reached over and took his hand. He rearranged things so he was holding my hand since that felt more natural. We walked under the portico (yes, this house had a portico) and were headed for the door when two things happened at once.

First, the wide front door opened and a grinning Black man of about 40 said, “Welcome, y’all!” His head was shaved bald, and he was about 6’2” or so. He was wearing a tight black suit with a black shirt and a bright red tie along with a matching hanky in his breast pocket. He was breathtakingly handsome. He also looked familiar, but I had no idea when or where I’d seen him.

The second thing that happened as soon as the door opened was that my phone pinged.

Whit let go of my hand and walked forward. “Hi! I’m Whit Hall.”

“And I’m Larry Richards. How do you do?” They shook.

Whit stepped back. “This is my fiancé, Eddie Smith.”

I offered my hand, and we shook. His was warm and soft. I said, “Howdy.”

He grinned. “Howdy!” He then stepped back and motioned us in. “Come in!”

Whit put his hand on my neck and gently pushed me forward. “Thank you,” he said. “This place is beautiful.”

And he was right. The outside was the definition of Very Big House, a style I detested as much as Whit did. But the entry hall was cozy. The floor was red tile with a couple of woven blankets laid down in a way that was a little messy. On the right stood a table with a large pot filled with a variety of houseplants, including a vine that was winding itself around two of the table’s legs.

The entry way led to a living room with a low ceiling (considering the kind of house it was). A panel of windows looked out onto a deck and then the canal. There was a large yacht parked right in front of the deck.

“We’re all outside,” said Larry as he led us around a gorgeous blue velvet sofa with a white throw tossed on one end and a cat that matched the throw sitting at the other end.

My phone dinged again.

“Meow,” announced the cat.

The combination of both happening caused us all to stop and laugh.

“Meow.”

“Who is that?” asked Whit, pointing to the cat.

“Whiskas is his name and don’t blame me because that was Nigel’s idea.”

“Is he your husband?”

“Yes.” Larry pointed with his chin to the back end of the yacht where three white men were chatting. “He’s the one with black hair who’s probably talking too much.” The other two men had varying shades of red hair.

My phone dinged one more time.

“Meow.”

We all laughed again.

“Do you want to get that?” asked Larry.

I pulled my phone out of my pocket and swiped it open. Looking at Whit, I said, “It’s from Pat.”

Larry sucked in his breath. “Lemme guess. They’re cancelling. Again.”

I read the text and then nodded. “Patrick tore a muscle while he was working out and they’re at the hospital.”

Whit frowned a little.

“No, honey. They got a better offer and are there. This is normal.” He smiled. “But now y’all are here and we’re thrilled to have you.”

“Are you sure?” said Whit. “I kinda feel like we’re crashing your party.”

“You are most certainly not. Pat told me he was inviting you because this is your first Valentine’s Day and neither of you planned anything.” He shook his head. “Next year, try and do better, will you?” He then laughed.

I said, “I meant to but forgot.”

“And who wouldn’t? You two have been on a whirlwind romance!”

Whit nodded as he visibly relaxed.

“Anyway,” continued Larry, “Nigel is thrilled because he’s never met an actual football player and Julian and Victor can’t wait to meet the both of you.” He motioned us forward. “Come on!”

*  *  *

“Welcome aboard The Princess Pride. I’m Nigel Larkin and I’m so glad you both came.” The man was about my height, had beautiful black hair that was thick and long, and was ruggedly handsome. His blue eyes were bright, and he did seem happy to meet us.

Whit and I both shook hands with him.

Nigel looked at the taller of the two redheads. “This is Julian Ryerson and his better half, Victor Encinas.” Nigel laughed. “Sorry. Enthinas.”

Victor smiled a little and nodded. “Sí, Enthinas.”

“You’re from Spain?” I asked.

“Galicia.” But he pronounced it the Spanish way: Galithia. “Conoces España?” Do you know Spain?

“Not yet. But I do speak some Spanish.”

“He’s fluent,” said Whit with a grin.

“Not anymore.” I held out my hand. “Nice to meet you.”

Victor shook. “And you.”

“I’m from Pittsburgh,” said Julian. We shook.

Larry said, “Which means you should sound like an English lady.”

I glanced at Whit who was grinning.

“What in the hell does that mean?” asked Julian, obviously not getting the joke.

“It’s from Auntie Mame,” explained Whit.

“Girl!” exclaimed Larry. “No, you just didn’!”

I nodded. “He knows his classic movies.”

Larry leaned forward a little. “Are you sure you played football?”

Pretending to be confused, Whit said, “Why does everyone ask that?”

Everyone laughed. Everyone but Julian.

*  *  *

Dinner was served outside on the back deck of the yacht. With Whit helping him, Larry set up a buffet table. I helped Nigel in the kitchen. The food had been catered in and was pretty simple. There were several platters of Thai and Chinese appetizers along with assorted sushi. There was nothing to cook. We mostly transferred the food to assorted decorative plates of different sizes.

“Am I wrong,” asked Nigel as he placed pieces of sushi on a couple of plates, “or have you and Whit only known each other for a couple of weeks?”

“You’re not wrong. We met two Tuesdays ago.”

“So, 16 days?”

“Yep.”

“You’d never know it. You two look like you’ve known each other for years. You’re a good fit.”

I was organizing a plate of cold dumplings. “Thanks, Nigel. That’s sweet of you to say.”

“And I hope you’re absolutely ignoring social media.”

“We are.”

“Good.” He sighed. “There are a lot of jealous queens out there.”

I laughed at that. “How long have you and Larry been together?”

He pushed his hair off his face with the back of his hand. “19 years this summer.”

“Congratulations. How’d you meet?”

“On the set of a film.”

“Lawrence Richards! Of course!”

Nigel chuckled. “When he’s not dressed up like a race-car driver who’d rather slug you than shake your hand, no one recognizes him.”

“I knew he looked familiar.” I thought for a moment. “Let’s see. 19 years means the summer of 2000. What movie was he shooting then?”

“Speed Demon 3: Run for Your Life.”

“I saw that in the movies.”

“Oh? Thoughts?”

I laughed. “It was fun. What made it even more fun was where I saw it.”

“And where was that?”

“At a movie theater just outside of D.C.”

Nigel looked at me. “Lots of talking back to the screen?”

“Yep. That was as much fun as the movie.”

“Probably more,” said Larry from behind me. “That one was a real clunker.”

I turned around. “You look so different in real life.”

He spun around. “Better or worse?”

“Much better in real life.”

He frowned at me and, in a deeper voice, said his trademark phrase from the Speed Demon films, “Watch out, fool, I’m a-comin’ for you!”

“Wow! It is you.”

“He says it every night before he gets into bed next to me,” said Nigel.

Larry walked around to where his husband was standing. “No, I don’t.”

“No, he doesn’t. But I like to pretend as if he did.”

I asked Nigel, “What do you do for work?”

“I am a producer for a film company.”

Larry put his arms around Nigel and kissed him on the cheek. “That’s how we met.”

“Which company?”

Nigel grinned at me. “Monumental.”

“Oh! Really?”

He nodded. “That’s one of the reasons we were thrilled when Pat called and said you were coming. I’m totally in love with Bob and Mario. I love working for them.”

“So do I,” said Larry with a big grin.

“I forgot the Speed Demon franchise is produced by Monumental.”

“All done,” said Nigel as he picked up a plate.

I looked down and realized I hadn’t finished.

He walked around to where I was standing and handed the plate to me. “You and Larry take these out there and I’ll finish. Scoot!”

*  *  *

Using a small fork that he was spearing pickled onions and radishes with, Julian pointed at me and asked, “Now, tell me how you’re connected to Mario and Bob?”

“You know them?” asked Whit before I could answer.

We were all standing out on the back of the yacht and eating from the buffet. It was dark and the deck was lit up with white lights strung along the eaves of the house as well as the railing. The yacht itself had an LED lighting system that illuminated from under the edge of the boat and was pointing down. It was slowly shifting along the colors of the rainbow from red to orange to yellow and so on.

“I met them in 2014,” I replied.

“And Mario was my boss when I played for the Matadors,” added Whit.

“Right,” said Julian. Pointing at me again, he asked, “Aren’t you some sort of New Age something or other?”

I didn’t like the way he asked the question, but I smiled and nodded. “Yes. I’m a light trance channel.”

“Uh, huh.” He turned his fork at Whit. “And you believe this baloney?”

“Julian!” hissed his husband.

“I have an open mind,” said Whit. “And I also have eyes and I’ve seen Eddie in action. Call it whatever you want, it’s real.”

“Uh, huh.”

“So,” said Nigel, “tell us about the day you met.”

I grinned. “Mario tricked us. He told Whit I wanted to hire a personal trainer and he told me that Whit needed my coaching about what to do with the rest of his life. That sorta thing.”

“Was it love at first sight?” asked Larry.

I nodded as Whit said, “It definitely was. I opened the door like the football bro I used to pretend to be and there’s the most adorable chubby bear I’ve ever seen in my life.”

“And when he opened the door,” I said, “I kept telling myself, ‘Don’t look! He’s straight!’”

Everyone laughed. Everyone except Julian who wandered over to the buffet.

“What about you two?” asked Whit, looking at Nigel. “Was it love at first sight?”

“Definitely. The first day I met Larry was when I was supposed to do a meet-and-greet with the executive producer of the movie we were shooting. But Bruce, the EP, was nowhere to be found so I found out which one was Larry’s trailer and just knocked on the door.”

“And when I answered,” said Larry, “I was shirtless and wearing work-out shorts because, when we’re filming, I spend my downtime lifting weights to keep the muscles pumped.” He licked his chopsticks and winked at Nigel. “There’s this dude with a massive mane of black hair and killer blue eyes and I just melted.”

Everyone laughed at that. Everyone but Julian, who was eating a dumpling with his fingers.

“What about you two?” I asked Victor.

He shrugged. “We met in Paris in the summer of 2008 at a bar. I saw him across the room, and I realized I would marry him. And I did.”

“Across a crowded room?” asked Whit.

Victor shrugged. “Not so crowded, but yes.”

“He’s quoting a song, you nitwit,” said Julian.

Victor frowned and then walked around me to head to the buffet.

Looking at Larry, Whit said, “I really loved you in that movie back in 2015.”

“Love Comes Quickly?”

“Yeah. I went to see that three times. I cried every time.”

“Did you recognize him when we walked in?” I asked.

Whit shook his head. “When he and I were moving the table out here from the house, I recognized his walk.”

“Are you fucking kidding me?” That was Julian.

“There’s a scene in Love Comes Quickly where Larry and Buster are carrying a part of the deck they’re working on, and Larry moved the same way he did in that movie.”

Larry sighed. “I can’t believe Buster passed away last summer.”

“He did?” I asked.

Nigel nodded. “He was—”

“He was an addict, Eddie,” said Julian. “An addict.” He walked around and stood right next to me. “He loved to shoot up more than he loved to suck dick which, I understand, he was really quite good at.” Using his fork, he pointed at me again. “Ask your friend Bob. He’ll tell you all about it.”

“That’s a lie,” said Larry, sounding like he was getting angry.

I nodded, getting a little steamed myself. “It is a lie. I know Bob Jenkins and he would never do anything like that.”

“Mario would kill him, for one thing,” added Whit.

I nodded. “Yes, he would.”

Julian shrugged his shoulders. “I’ve seen the pics. That’s all I’m saying.”

“Victor,” said Nigel in a quiet tone, “I think it’s time for you two to be going.”

“Yes, I think so.”

“Oh, but I don’t think so,” said Julian. He was still standing right next to me. “I want this walking Ouija board to tell me about my Great Aunt Fanny.”

I took a deep breath but didn’t say anything.

“You don’t have such a relative,” said Victor.

“Are you sure?” asked Julian, still staring at me.

“Yes. I know all of your family. There is no Fanny.”

I blinked as I heard a voice in my ear. “My name is Harriet, but all my girlfriends called me Fanny.” To say that I heard that voice wouldn’t be right. I knew someone was talking to me and that was what I knew they had just said to me.

“Are you really quite sure, Victor, my love?”

“Yes. Let’s go home, Julian.”

“Not until Eddie tells me about my Great Aunt Fanny.”

The voice that wasn’t a voice said, “I was born in Stillwater, Oklahoma, in 1909.”

I licked my lips because my mouth had suddenly gone dry. There is a difference between channeling and mediumship. Channeling is connecting to a broader consciousness and feels expansive when I do it. Julian’s Great Aunt Whomever was coming to me as if I were practicing mediumship, something I can do but I don’t like to do. It’s too personality-driven and can feel wonky.

Nigel said, “Well, how about some dessert?”

“No dessert. I want to hear about my Great Aunt Fanny.”

The voice said, “I moved to New York City in 1931 with my first husband, Walter, who had a huge penis.”

I burst out laughing.

“What?” asked Whit as Julian stared daggers at me.

“Well, she’s here.”

“Who’s here?” asked Julian, leaning in.

Whit put his arm around my shoulder and pulled me in close.

“This is ridiculous,” said Larry. “You need to just go, Julian.”

“No, I want to hear about Great Aunt Fanny.”

“There is no Fanny,” insisted Victor.

“Yes, there is,” I said. “But her name was Harriet, and she was married to Walter. She was born in Stillwater in 1909 and moved to New York City with Walter in 1931 and Walter had a big dick.”

Julian’s mouth dropped open.

No one said anything for a long moment.

“Right?” I asked, feeling a little off-kilter like I always did when I was doing the mediumship thing.

Julian nodded. “I didn’t know about Uncle Wally’s dick, but, yes, you’re right.”

Victor said, “Yes. Julian had an aunt and uncle. Harriet and Walter. They lived in a big apartment on Riverside Drive in Manhattan. I met her before she died.” His voice quivered a little at the end.

The voice said, “I told him to leave Julian.”

I leaned into Whit’s chest. There was no way in hell that I was going to say that bit out loud.

“What does she say about this?” asked Victor.

“He complimented me on my Picasso.”

I turned to look at him. “You liked her Picasso.”

Victor’s eyes widened as he slowly nodded.

“Nature morte,” said Julian. “We sold it to that collector in the UAE and then he gave it away, the asshole.”

“Well,” said Nigel, “this is riveting. Dessert is Thai sticky mango rice. Who’d like some?”

I was beyond grateful for his jumping in since I really disliked the whole mediumship thing. “I’d love some. Sticky mango rice is one of my favorite things ever.”

Julian patted my belly. “We can see that, dear.”

Whit got in between Julian and me. “Don’t touch him.” His voice was low, but it was menacing.

“Oh, my! The monster comes to the rescue. How quaint.”

“Victor,” hissed Nigel, “do something.”

“No!” said Julian. “I’ll behave.”

I walked over to where Larry was standing and asked, “Where’s the head?”

He smiled a little. “Are you a sailor?”

“No, but I’ve worked with a few in the past.”

He pointed to a sliding glass door. “Just go in there. The lights will come on automatically. It’s the first door on the right just past the bar.”

“Thanks.”

He patted my shoulder. “Sorry,” he whispered.

“Thanks.”

*  *  *

I washed my face about three times. That always helps me to calm down. The third time, I held the towel I was using to dry off with and looked at myself in the mirror. I thought about Aunt Harriet and Uncle Walter living in some big pre-war apartment on Riverside Drive. As I did, I got a couple of flashes.

One was of a really big, circumcised dick. It was really pretty. Almost as big and almost as pretty as Whit’s but not quite.

The other image I got was more involved. I saw a chic woman wearing a floral-print dressing gown. She was sitting on a stool and putting on makeup at a dressing table while a boy of about 5 or 6 was watching her. He looked happy and she was smiling at him in the mirror. I stepped back when I realized that was Julian when he was a kid. Then I felt a cascade of sadness and regret. Well, that isn’t exactly right. Someone near me was feeling sadness and regret.

That was one of the reasons I didn’t like the mediumship thing. I didn’t like other people’s emotions being that close to me.

I folded the towel and put it next to the sink. When I opened the door, I found Whit waiting for me. He was hunched over and leaning against the wall.

“You OK?” he asked.

I nodded. “Yeah.”

“They left.”

“Good.” I looked up and realized he was hunched over because he couldn’t stand up straight. “We should go outside.”

He grinned a little. “I kinda like hobbit boats, like this one.”

I laughed. “I didn’t see a decapitator on the ceiling, so you should be good.”

He leaned in and kissed me on the lips. “I love you, Eddie.”

“I love you, too.”

“They want us to stay for a while. You up for that?”

I nodded. “As long as Julian and Victor are gone.”

“They are.”

*  *  *

“That was really good,” I said as I handed my plate to Nigel. “The mango was perfect.”

“It really was good,” said Whit. He stood. “Let me help you with all this.” He followed Nigel into the kitchen.

I looked over at Larry. He was in a big wingback chair on the far side of the blue velvet sofa where Whit and I were sitting. “Normally, I’m allergic to cats, but me and Whiskas seem to be getting along just fine.” He was stretched out next to my leg.

“He likes both of you,” said Nigel from the kitchen.

I started petting the cat. He began to purr.

Larry leaned forward a little. “So, Eddie, I have a favor to ask.”

“Hold on, hon,” said Nigel. “We’re almost done. Anyone want anything to drink?”

“Water, no ice,” I replied.

“I’m on it,” said Whit.

“Larry?” asked his husband. “I’ve got the pot on for tea.”

“That’d be great, sweetheart.”

I asked. “Do you really think Pat and Patrick skipped out on us?”

Larry nodded as he crossed his legs. “I’m positive. Pat was making noises about not wanting to deal with Julian’s shit.”

“We really should have warned you,” said Nigel.

“Funny thing is that we started doing this back when Julian was single and when Pat was with Mark, before Patrick showed up.”

“Mark is he of the fabulous thighs,” crowed Nigel.

Larry nodded.

I leaned forward, looking over at the kitchen area. “Better than Whit’s?”

“Of course, not,” said Nigel. “Mark’s thighs were fabulous. These thighs, here... These are legendary.”

I laughed at that.

“My thighs have been much admired,” said Whit in a mock-serious tone of voice.

“As they should be,” said Larry with a wink.

“So, how long have y’all lived here?” I asked.

“He had this place when we met,” replied Larry. “I’d never been to South Florida before he brought me here after filming wrapped that summer.”

I sat back on the sofa a little. “I love it down here, but it doesn’t feel like home.”

“Interesting,” said Larry.

“Eddie almost moved here back in 2015.” That was Whit.

I nodded. “I did. I was staying in a rental over just north of Las Olas on the beachside and was loving it. Then December arrived.”

Larry grinned. “And with December, came the snowbirds.”

“Exactly. That’s when I knew I wanted to go back up north. Also, I like the beach up there a lot better than the one here.”

“I agree,” said Larry. “I love that flat beach y’all have up there.”

“Don’t you have them in Daytona?” asked Nigel. “Snowbirds, I mean.”

“Yes, but there aren’t as many, and they tend to kind of stick to one area unlike here.”

“Do y’all have a place in L.A.?” asked Whit.

“I have a small house on Verbena in the Hollywood Hills,” said Larry. “I bought it in 1996 when the first Speed Demon came out.”

“It cost four hundred grand at the time,” said Nigel. “Can you believe it?”

“What’s it worth now?” asked Whit.

“A lot more.”

Larry looked out the window at the yacht. “It’s nice but we don’t have a canoe.”

“Canoe!” said Nigel. “That’s what he calls my pride and joy, if you’ll pardon the pun. I bought the Pride when Speed Demon 5 came out and I’d opted for a share of the profits instead of salary.”

Larry nodded. “He made more on that picture than Nick and Carter did.” They were the original owners of WilliamsJones, the big company Mario and Bob had inherited from them. Nick and Carter had both passed away in the summer of 2008.

“Did you ever meet them?” asked Nigel.

“No,” I replied. “I’m pretty sure I saw Carter one time at a bar in San Francisco in the summer of 1990, however. He was hot.”

“You have no idea!” exclaimed Nigel as he walked over with two mugs of tea. He handed one to Larry and sat down in the other wingback chair.

Whit was right behind him with two glasses of water. He handed me one and then sat on the other side of Whiskas, who stretched out one claw in response.

Nigel said, “The last meeting I had with the two of them was at the Folsom Street studio in March of 2008 when we were trying to decide whether to make Speed Demon 6.” He blew on his tea.

“Which they didn’t, thank God.” That was Larry.

“Nick looked pretty bad because the cancer had come back.” Nigel grinned over at me. “He was still kicking ass, though.”

I nodded. I could feel Nick’s presence in the room.

“But Carter was still something to see.” Nigel shook his head. “How old was he?” He glanced at Larry.

“88.” He thought for a moment. “No. He was 87. He was born in 1920 and his birthday was in August.”

“But you would have thought he was in his 60s, if that old.”

Larry nodded. “And he was just about the nicest guy you’d ever wanna meet.”

“Unless you crossed him,” said Nigel.

“Which rarely happened.”

Nigel nodded.

I took a drink of my water and heard Nick say, “Pay attention, kid.” Talking to Nick was different than the mediumship thing. I wasn’t sure how or why, but it was. Maybe it was because I liked Nick and trusted him. I was a little leery of just any random ghost.

“So,” said Larry as he glanced at Nigel. “I want to talk about Buster McCoy.”

“This is it.”

“He was such a sweet guy.” That was Nigel. “And a tortured soul. A lot of people said he was the reincarnation of Montgomery Cliff.”

I nodded. “I thought he was a lot more handsome.”

“And a great actor,” said Larry.

“Was he gay?” asked Whit.

“He was,” replied Nigel. “It was an open secret in Hollywood.”

Larry grinned. “Just like me.”

“How did he die?” I asked without meaning to.

Larry looked at Nigel before saying, “We really don’t know. He died in July of last year and he might have been murdered or he might have shot himself.”

“I read that the police thought it was suicide,” said Whit.

“It’s an open case.” Larry looked at me. “This is the favor I want to ask of you.”

“Say you’ll do it, kid.”

I took a deep breath.

“You absolutely don’t have to do anything,” said Nigel, looking a little worried.

“No,” added Larry, “you don’t.”

“I’m just really bad at mediumship and—” I gasped as I felt fingers running up and down my face.

“What?” asked Whit as he turned to look at me.

“Tell me about that sex scene in Love Comes Quickly.” I had no idea I was going to say that until it came out of my mouth.

Larry blinked a couple of times. “Well, it’s strange you should ask. It was intense.”

Nigel nodded. “He asked us to close the set.”

“Who?” I asked.

“Buster.”

I nodded.

“At first,” said Larry, “I thought it was because he was embarrassed. But that wasn’t it at all.” He looked at Nigel. “He made you sit right off camera, remember?”

Wiping a tear from his cheek, the other man nodded. “I do. He kept reminding me that he was acting.” Nigel sniffed. “It was an amazing experience.”

Whit said, “That was one of the reasons I saw the movie more than once.” He looked at me. “I think about Buster and Larry doing that, sometimes, when we’re, you know...”

Larry chuckled. “That’s really sweet, Whit, but you probably shouldn’t say things like that out loud.”

I reached over and put my hand on Whit’s thigh. I was going to say, “That’s OK,” but, instead, I said, “I’m sure Buster is happy you were inspired...”

“Man, am I ever.” That was Buster. I was hearing him just like I heard Nick. It was different than Great Aunt Whomever.

Larry leaned forward. “He’s here, isn’t he?”

I nodded. Suddenly, I got a huge whiff of Drakkar Noir.

“Damn,” whispered Whit.

Nigel’s eyes widened.

Larry just grinned. “That was one of the few annoying things about him. He bathed in that shit.”

“Smells like sex to me.”

I smiled and repeated what I’d heard.

Larry looked at Nigel in astonishment. “Remember?”

Nigel, still wide-eyed, nodded. “That’s what he said on the set that day.”

“Who killed him?” asked Larry.

I took a deep breath and closed my eyes. “Who killed you?”

“I have no fuckin’ clue, man. All I know is I was gettin’ dressed to go out and meet Marcia and then everything changed.”

“I’m sorry.”

I heard him laugh. It startled me because it was so unique. I opened my eyes and looked at Larry who was watching me intently. I closed my eyes.

Buster laughed again. It sounded like he was talking his way through the laugh. It was weird and charming at the same time. Then I remembered that, although I never saw Love Comes Quickly, I’d seen him somewhere before.

“Don’t be sorry, man. And, yeah, I was in that movie with Ammi Etkin. He was one motherfuckin’ hot dude. We had great chemistry.”

I opened my eyes.

“What’s he saying?” asked Larry.

Right then, Whiskas stood, stretched, and then climbed up into my lap.

“Hello,” I said. I ran my hand down his back.

The cat looked up at me and then jumped down onto the floor.

“I hate cats.” That was Buster.

“He hated cats,” said Larry.

I grinned. “He just told me that. What was the name of the movie he was in with Ammi Etkin, the Israeli actor?”

“Everlastingness,” replied Nigel. “2012. That was my production.”

“It was a beautiful movie,” said Whit.

I nodded.

Whit continued, “I loved the scene where they’re in the farmhouse and Ammi is trying to seduce Buster who’s acting like he doesn’t understand what’s going on. I could relate to them both.”

Nigel said, “It was the remake of a 1969 Monumental movie called The Wildest of All with Franco Nero and Vanessa Redgrave which was adapted from a novel called The Wildest of All Cats that Carter published in ‘67 which itself was based on a Kipling short story.” He took a deep breath and grinned. “We used the same set on the backlot up at Monumental-Sonoma that they used for the first version.”

“Franco Nero...,” whispered Larry reverentially.

I grinned as Nigel rolled his eyes and then said, “He and Vanessa Redgrave both showed up one day to watch us filming.”

“They’re married and he’s still so handsome.”

“He is. I’d’ve fucked him.” That was Buster.

I laughed.

“What?” asked Whit.

“Buster just told me he agreed with Larry.”

Nigel snorted. “He prowled around Franco who was not at all offended. Franco, himself, was a real flirt with everyone on the set. Something, according to a Monumental old-timer, he did during the shoot in ‘69.”

Larry looked at me. “So, back to Buster. What happened to him?”

“He told me he was getting dressed to go out and meet Marcia when he died.”

“Right. Marcia Collins was his best friend, and they ran around together.”

“Marcia Collins, the actress?” asked Whit.

“Yes. She was in two of the Speed Demon movies.”

“And a lot of other movies as well as TV,” added Nigel. “As well as a lot of voice work.”

“What did the police say?” asked Whit.

Larry sighed. “I’m not sure, but the case is still open.”

“Where did it happen?” I asked.

“At Buster’s house on Los Caballeros in Los Feliz. He lived in a little 1960s ranch. It was cute.”

“Ask about what he was filming.” That was Nick.

“What movie was he working on?”

Nigel shook his head as Larry leaned forward. “The cursed one.”

“Which one is that?” asked Whit.

“It Was Raining Then.”

I nodded. “Isn’t that the MGM movie that Taylor Wells was working on when he was murdered?”

“And don’t forget that lesbian wondergal, Rhonda Starling.”

“Oh, right!”

Nigel took a sip of his tea and then explained, “The movie was being developed by Dore Schary. The idea was to give Taylor and Rhonda a starring vehicle—”

“Along with a pretend wedding,” added Larry.

“But then Taylor was killed at a hotel in Mexico. Nick was there when it happened.”

“What year was this?” I asked.

“1953.”

“Wow.”

“So,” continued Nigel, “production was halted. Later, after Nick bought Monumental, he bought the rights to It Was Raining Then from Metro. Ben White, the original head of the studio, tried to make it a number of times. I didn’t have anything to do with this latest reboot, of course.”

“He wouldn’t touch that movie with a ten-foot pole,” said Larry.

“No,” confirmed Nigel before taking another sip. “Anyway, the production last summer was just ramping up. Buster was hired for the leading male role, and they were auditioning for the female role and doing script rewrites when Buster died.”

“Why did Julian say he’d overdosed?” asked Whit.

“Because she’s a spiteful bitch, that’s why.” Larry looked angry.

“Julian used to be in the biz and once had an affair with Buster,” said Nigel. That was when Buster was probably 20 or so.”

“How old was he when he died?” I asked.

“37.”

“37 going on 18,” said Larry. “He never really grew up.”

“It was all an act,” said Buster in my head.

I nodded but didn’t want to say that out loud for some reason.

“Anyway,” said Nigel, “now I don’t think It Was Raining Then will ever be made.”

Larry snapped his fingers and looked at me. “You know what?”

“What?”

“You’re friends with Mario. I bet he has a copy of the police file. I’d bet anything WJ Security did its own investigation.”

Nigel nodded as he sipped more tea.

I picked up my phone. “Let’s call him, then.”

“Are you sure?” asked Nigel. “I don’t like to bother them.”

“I haven’t talked to Mario in more than 24 hours. I bet he misses me.” Whit chuckled at that as I swiped open my phone, found his number, and hit the call button. I turned on the speaker.

“Eddie!”

“Hey, Mario! You’re on speaker.”

“Hall.”

Whit said, “Ossler.” That was the pseudo-butch thing they did when they talked on the phone.

“And I’m here with Nigel and Larry.”

“Hi, Mario.” That was Nigel.

“Hey,” said Larry.

“Nice! I’ve been meaning to connect the four of you but just hadn’t got to it. How’s Whiskas?”

“Meow,” said the cat from somewhere in the room.

We all laughed at that.

“Sorry to bother you, Mario,” I said. “We were talking about Buster McCoy and, well, I’ve got him on the other line, if you know what I mean.”

Larry jumped in. “It’s been bugging me like hell, Mario. I wanna know what really happened.”

“So do I,” said Mario. “If you give me five minutes, Eddie, I’ll text you a link to where you can see all our notes about the case.”

“Sounds good.” I was a little shocked that it was just that easy.

“It’s slim pickings, though. There’s not much there. Just a couple of interviews and the forensics.” He sighed. “It’s funny this came up because Buster has really been on my mind a lot.”

“I keep dreaming about him,” said Larry.

“Well, duh,” said Buster in my head. “I wanna know what the fuck happened, too, you know. Glad someone like you dropped in.”

I just nodded to let him know I’d heard him.

Mario said, “Let me let you guys go so I can run over to my laptop and send you the link.”

“Sounds good,” I said. “Thanks for this. Is it OK if I share the link with the other guys?”

“Yeah. Just don’t let it go any further. And thank you, Eddie. Maybe you can find something none of the rest of us could.”

*  *  *

After we got off the phone with him, Mario sent me the link to the file. I sent that to the three others.

“Well,” said Nigel, “Mario was right. There’s damn little to this.”

Whit said, “When I’m processing new info, I like to go through it categorically.”

“Categorically?” asked Nigel with a raised eyebrow.

Whit chuckled. “Systematically. Sorry.”

“Sounds like a good idea, cowboy.” That was me.

“So, this is about the death of Ronald ‘Buster’ Whitehouse McCoy.”

“Ronald?” said Larry with a grin.

“Age at time of death was—”

“41!” exclaimed Larry. He looked around. “Where’s my phone? I’m gonna call Julian and tell him he did not snatch the cradle!”

We all laughed at that.

“He’d be very disappointed, hon,” said Nigel, placatingly. “But let’s stay focused.”

Whit said, “Date and time of death is Friday, July 13, 2018, at approximately 9:14 p.m. Pacific time.”

“Isn’t that late in L.A. to be getting ready to go out?” I asked.

Nigel and Larry both looked at me in surprise. “It is, in fact,” said Nigel.

“Unless he was going to someplace in WeHo or Silver Lake,” added Larry.

“We were gonna start at The Thirsty Crow,” said Buster in my head.

“The Thirsty Crow?” I said out loud.

“Of course,” said Larry. “He and Marcia were regulars there. It’s on Sunset about a block from Silver Lake Boulevard.”

“Is that what he just told you?” asked Whit.

“Yes.”

He took a deep breath. “OK. Next up is manner of death. Death was caused by a 9-millimeter bullet that entered the left shoulder, pierced the heart, and exited the left pectoral.” Whit sighed. “Poor guy.”

“Definitely not suicide,” said Larry.

Nigel nodded. “I’ve always thought the LAPD leaked rumors of suicide to cover up the fact that they haven’t been able to find the killer.”

“The body was found face-down on the floor of Buster’s bedroom. The bullet was nearby on the floor. The gun was fired at close range since there were powder burns on his back and the bullet went all the way through his body.”

“It also says he was naked,” said Larry. “That’s interesting.”

“No, I wasn’t.” That was Buster.

“What were you wearing?” I asked him in my head.

“A white pair of those tight boxer briefs ‘cause they highlighted my cock and a pair of socks.”

Out loud I said, “He says he was wearing underwear and socks.”

“Very interesting,” said Larry.

“Who the hell would take the trouble to undress a corpse?” asked Nigel.

“Someone with an underwear fetish,” I said.

“Jim McCracken,” said Buster.

I repeated that name out loud.

“Who’s that?” asked Whit.

“My number two stalker.”

I repeated that.

Larry nodded. “I only knew him by his first name, but yeah... He was in love with Buster. It was gross.”

“Do you have stalkers like that?” asked Whit.

“Larry has many,” replied Nigel. “But Jim was obviously dangerous. He pulled a knife on Buster once.”

“At The Thirsty Crow, as a matter of fact,” said Larry. He looked at Whit. “Do you have stalkers?”

“Some. But I think it’s different with football players because it’s hard to see us up close and personal like with actors.”

Larry nodded. “Understandable.”

Whit looked down at his phone and then over at me. “Who was his number one stalker?”

“Lydia,” replied Larry and Nigel in unison.

“But she’s locked up somewhere,” said Nigel. He tilted his head to the side. “Or is she?”

“We need to make a list,” said Larry as he stood up. “And I can only make lists with pencil and paper.” He disappeared down a hallway to the right.

Whit looked at me. “You OK, there, Eddie?”

I nodded. “Buster is more like Nick than Julian’s Great Aunt Whozit.”

Nigel chuckled at that.

I looked at him. “Earlier, I had an image of her sitting at a dressing table and putting on makeup while Julian watched. He was, like, 5 or 6. And he looked happy.”

Nigel sighed deeply. “Once upon a time, Julian was one of the happiest people I knew.”

“What happened?” asked Whit.

“Frankly, I have no idea. I’ve asked Victor and he’s too loyal to talk about it.”

“Talk about what?” asked Larry as he walked back into the room with a pad and a pencil.

“What happened to Julian to make him so unhappy.”

“It was Buster.” Larry sat. “He never got over Buster and while Victor has been a solid guy, I don’t think they’ve ever truly loved each other. Not the way Julian loved Buster.”

“So, everything he said out on the yacht was a lie?” That was me.

Larry nodded and then looked at his pad. “So, I’ve got two items for our list. First is to find out where Jim McCracken was on last July 13th.” He looked over at me. “Friday the 13th.”

“Wow.”

He sighed. “Number two on the list is Lydia.”

“Does she have a last name?” asked Whit.

“She does but I don’t know what it is.”

Nigel said, “All you have to do is Google her name and Buster’s and you’ll find it. She’s brazenly a stalker. Or, at least, she was before she was committed.”

“When was that?” I asked.

Nigel frowned for a moment. “2014?”

Larry nodded. “It was while we were shooting Love.”

“Oh, right,” said Nigel. He stood. “More tea, hon?”

“No, thanks.”

Nigel looked over at us. “Waters?”

“I’m fine,” I replied.

Whit held up his glass. “Thanks.”

Nigel took his glass and then walked off into the kitchen. “What’s next?” he asked.

Whit looked down at his phone. “Police were called by a neighbor who was walking his dog and saw the front door was left open. That was at 10:15 p.m. Time of death was based on lividity.”

I’d put my phone down, so I asked Whit, “Did the neighbor see the body before he called the police?”

Whit nodded. “He did.” He then swiped through. “His is one of the interviews.”

“What does it say?”

Whit read for a moment. “He said he was home all evening with his husband. They were watching a movie while eating dinner. After cleaning up, Scott—the neighbor—took the dog out to do his business. They live four houses to the east and on the same side of the road.”

“The husband was his alibi?” I asked.

Whit read a bit more. “Well, that and the fact that Scott was texting with someone non-stop that evening and provided transcripts. Oh, wow!”

“What?”

“The police served a warrant on Scott, and they found a licensed 9-millimeter pistol in the drawer in his bedside table. It had been recently cleaned.”

Larry leaned forward. “That is very interesting.”

Nigel declared, “The neighbor did it.”

“Did they test for ballistics?” I asked.

Whit looked over at me and grinned. “All that Perry Mason is coming in handy.”

I laughed. “I guess so.”

He swiped back for a moment. “Yes, they tested the... Oh. Hold on.” He swiped again. “This is weird.”

“What?” asked Larry.

“There are two tests.”

Larry put down his pad on the table between his chair and Nigel’s and then picked up his phone. He swiped it open and, with a furrowed brow, examined it. “I see what you mean.”

“In one test, there isn’t enough of a bullet left to test. In the other test, it’s not a match to Scott’s gun.”

“But the bullet was on the floor,” I said.

Whit nodded.

“What’s going on in here?” asked Nigel as he walked up and handed Whit his glass before sitting down.

“We’ve got two bullets being tested.”

“No,” said Larry. “Look at the first test. The case number and name are different. See?”

Whit nodded. “You’re right. The one with the bullet that can’t be tested is from a case involving a Manuel Rivera.”

“I wonder how Mario and his team missed that.” That was me.

Larry switched his phone for his pad. “Number three. ‘What the fuck, Mario?’”

The rest of us chuckled.

Nigel took a drink from his cup before saying, “That means Scott is out of the running?”

“Yes,” replied Whit.

“Darn. I want it to be him.”

Whit chuckled a little.

Larry looked at me. “That leaves us with Lydia and Jim, stalkers one and two.”

I nodded and then realized I wanted to close my eyes, so I did. Almost immediately, I could see what I assumed was Buster’s bedroom through what I assumed were Buster’s eyes. I was looking in a mirror... Buster was looking in a mirror. It was mounted on the wall next to a tall chest of drawers. He was adjusting his dick and modeling it a little. Then—

I opened my eyes and reflexively put my hand on my chest.

“Are you OK?” asked Larry.

I looked down to make sure there wasn’t a bullet hole there.

“Son...,” whispered Whit. “What just happened?”

I scooted forward so I could stand up. I was shaking. “I need to walk around.”

Larry jumped up. “Eddie?”

“I’m OK. I just need some fresh air.” I walked over to the door and out onto the back deck without waiting for anyone’s permission.

*  *  *

Whit put his hand on my shoulder. “Eddie?”

I was standing at the edge of the deck that allowed me to see where the canal connected to a larger one that was much wider. I was looking at the lights of all the houses and enjoying the damp night air.

I put my hand on his. “It’s nice out here.”

“It’s more humid than in Daytona.”

I nodded. “It always is.”

He kissed the back of my neck. “What just happened?”

“I could see things through Buster’s eyes.”

“Wow!”

“He was posing in front of a mirror and adjusting his dick when he was shot.”

“And you saw that?”

“All I saw was how beautiful his body was.” I then realized something else. “You both wear the same kind of underwear.”

He kissed my neck again. He whispered, “Should I be jealous?”

“Of a ghost?” I felt a chill on my neck that wasn’t connected to his lingering lips.

“Oh, right.”

I took a deep breath. “But...”

“But what?”

“You know I’m OK with my body as it is, right?”

He put his arms around me and rested his hands on my belly. “Yes, and so am I.”

“But I saw what he saw in the mirror.”

“Do you want that?” He intuitively knew what I was talking about. I’d seen a beautiful man with a beautiful body and it was the kind of body I would never have.

“You know what?” he whispered.

“What?”

“I would love to see what your body looks like through your eyes. But I don’t want your body. I want it next to me.”

I turned around and looked up at him. I nodded. “That’s right. That’s what I love about being near you. I love you, Whit. And I really like your body.”

He pulled me close. “I love you, Eddie.”

“You’re welcome, dude.” That was Buster.

“For what?”

“For showing you just how special your guy is, man. Hold onto him. I wish I coulda done the same thing when I was kickin’ around, you know?”

I took a deep breath and pressed my face against the hardness of Whit’s chest. “Thanks for that.”

He laughed that sweet, weird laugh of his.

I squeezed Whit as tight as I could. I was suddenly so intensely grateful to know him and to be with him and to share a life with him that I thought I might burst.

*  *  *

Once we were back in the living room and on the sofa, Larry asked, “Are you OK?”

I smiled. “I am now. That was very intense.”

“What happened?” asked Nigel.

“I saw the scene through Buster’s eyes.”

Larry leaned forward. “Seriously?”

“Were you ever at his house?”

“A couple of times.”

“Did you see his bedroom?”

“Sure.” He smiled a little. “He had a big bed that was way off the ground for some reason. It was a 60s ranch, so it wasn’t a big room but it was the master so there was an ensuite bathroom.”

“Do you remember anything else?”

He frowned a little. “Why?”

I reached over for Whit’s hand. He took mine and squeezed it a little. “I just want to make sure I’m not making up what I saw.”

Larry tilted his head. He ran his hand over his face as he stared at me. Then he blinked and snapped. “His posing mirror.”

I nodded. “That’s it. I could see him looking at himself in the mirror.”

“Was he posing himself or his beautiful cock?”

I chuckled. “The latter.” I glanced at Whit. “He was wearing the tight boxer briefs like yours.”

“2(X)IST brand.”

Larry nodded. “Oh, yes. I think he got them for free or something. He loved his undies. Loved them.”

“Hold on,” said Nigel, looking at me. “You can see him in the mirror?”

I nodded.

“Well, shouldn’t you be able to see whoever it was who shot him? He was only five-seven, after all.”

“Maybe the killer was too far away,” said Whit.

Larry shook his head. “I’m no cop although I’ve played my fair share of cops, but the powder burns on his skin means that the gun was close.” He nodded to himself. “Plus, that mirror is the first thing you see when you walk into the bedroom. He would be standing with his back to the bedroom door.” Larry snapped his fingers again. “And! The door to the bedroom faces the wall. That room is on the left as you’re walking down the hall. Just past the bedroom is the linen closet. It’s the last thing at the end of the hall. But, when you walk out of his bedroom, you have to go left or right.”

“So,” said Whit, “that means the killer was standing in the doorway.”

“Or just inside or just outside,” said Nigel.

I closed my eyes. “Show me,” I said to Buster.

There I was... There he was. He was looking down at his dick in the reflection and turning his hips one way and then the other. He was using his right hand to push it out.

I saw all that happening through his eyes, but I could also feel something else. And I could smell something.

I opened my eyes.

“What’d you see?” asked Larry.

“Same thing. But, this time, I could smell something.” I frowned, trying to figure out what it was.

“He’d already had dinner, right?” That was Whit.

Larry leaned forward and waved his finger in the air. “Oh, no. He most certainly had not. It was a Friday night, and he was going out to party. He probably hadn’t eaten since breakfast.”

Nigel asked, “What does the autopsy say?”

Whit picked up his phone and started swiping and tapping. “Hold on.” After a moment or two, he said, “Here it is.” He read through and then announced, “Stomach contents mostly digested.”

“I think that means he hadn’t eaten in a while.”

“Why are we talking about what he did or didn’t eat?” asked Larry.

Whit laughed. “I wondered if he’d just burped.”

I turned to look at him. “No. That’s not what it was. He’d just had sex. That’s the smell.”

Whit raised an eyebrow. “And you’re familiar with the smell of fiendishly handsome short, compact guys after they’ve had sex?”

I rolled my eyes as Larry laughed.

Nigel said, “Look at the report, Whit.”

I leaned over and kissed him on the cheek.

He kissed me back and then swiped open his phone. He read a bit and then read some more. “What would that be called?”

Remembering a line in Anatomy of a Murder, I said, “Spermota...”

Larry grinned at me. “Spermatogenesis. I had to learn that word for a movie. That just means that he could make sperm.”

I nodded. “Oh, right.”

Whit said, “I think we have another question for Mario.”

“You’re right!” said Larry. “Four. Had he cum?”

“We are talking about Buster McCoy,” said Nigel.

Larry nodded. He looked at Whit. “He was famous for taking supplements so he could cum every day. Some bullshit about vitality.”

“Huh,” said Whit. Then he muttered to me, “I’m 35 and I don’t have that problem.”

I leaned against him as Nigel and Larry both laughed. “He’s not jealous,” I said.

“Not one bit,” said Nigel with a big smile.

“You two are so cute together!” That was Larry.

I took a deep breath. “Lemme try one more time and then we can call Mario. Sound good?”

Larry and Nigel nodded as Whit put his arm around my shoulders.

I closed my eyes.

“Third time’s a charm, huh?” That was Buster.

“Show me, again.”

“Larry’s right. I took all sorts of junk so I could spurt. I loved it, man.”

“That’s nice.”

“Aw, shy?”

I chuckled to myself. “My fiancé will be jealous.”

“My bad. Here you go.”

Suddenly I was right back in his room... Well... He was back in his room. He was looking in the mirror and posing.

I tried to look around. But I couldn’t. I could only see what he saw.

Then I heard something. It was a squeak. Followed by another one.

I opened my eyes. “Someone was there. I could hear them walking.”

“Did he have an alarm system?” asked Whit.

Larry suddenly got agitated. “He did! But he gave out the goddam code to everyone!”

That didn’t help, so I said, “Let’s call Mario and see what he has to say.”

*  *  *

“How’s it coming along?” asked Mario on my phone’s speaker.

“Larry has four questions for you,” I said.

“Bring ‘em. I’m at my computer.”

“First,” said Larry, “we wondered where Jim McCracken was on July 13th.”

“McCracken...”

“One of Buster’s stalkers,” said Nigel.

“Oh, right. Damn. I’d forgotten about him. Hold on. We have a file on him...” I could hear him typing. “McCracken, James Roger.” He took a deep breath. Then he chuckled. “Well... look at that. He’s not a suspect.”

“Why not?” asked Whit.

“Because, in July of last year, he was in Canada stalking Luke MacFarlane who was filming something for Hallmark, if I remember correctly. He was arrested by the RCMP for violating a protection order. That was on Wednesday, the 11th of July. He was deported as of Saturday, the 14th.” He chuckled.

“He was my favorite suspect,” said Nigel.

Whit asked, “I thought Scott, the neighbor, was your favorite?”

I grinned at Larry who said, “He’s whimsical like that.”

Nigel nodded. “It’s true.”

“What’s the second question?”

“Where was Lydia?” asked Larry. “She’s the other stalker.”

“Oh, yes.” Mario clicked away. “I remember her because we helped get her committed and we’re paying for her care, in fact. She’s in a private facility in Montana.”

“Are you sure?” asked Whit.

“Yes. I’m looking at the weekly status reports we get from her doc.”

“No HIPAA violations, I hope.” That was Nigel.

“No, sir. Just basic info about her status of care but nothing about her treatment or condition apart from vague things like ‘Improving’ or ‘Maintaining’.”

“So, she was there on Friday, July the 13th?” asked Whit.

“Lemme scroll down and quadruple check.” I knew Mario well enough to know he was getting annoyed at Whit’s persistent questions. “Yes. Confirmed on Monday, July 16th.”

“Good,” said Whit.

“Not good!” exclaimed Nigel, throwing up his hands in the air. “We’re out of suspects!”

The rest of us laughed at that.

Mario said, “You have four questions, though, right?”

“Yes,” said Larry as he crossed his legs. “What the fuck, Mario?”

“What?”

“There’s a second ballistics report for another murder in the file,” I explained. “Looks like y’all imaged the police report and that was stuck in there.”

Mario said, “Huh.” Then, after a moment, he said, “You’re right.” He sighed. “This happens more often than you might imagine.”

“So, there’s no connection between...” Whit looked at Larry. “What was his name?”

“Manuel Rivera,” said Mario. “And there is a connection.”

“Oh?” said Larry.

“Yeah. The same detective is working both cases.” He was quiet for a moment. “But that’s it as far as I can tell.”

“How’d you get the police files?” asked Whit.

“Sounds like you’re breaking up on your end,” said Mario as his way of avoiding the question. “Before we get disconnected, what was the fourth question?”

Larry said, “Is there any way to tell whether Buster had ejaculated before he was murdered?”

“Lemme look at the medical report.”

I started to tell him not to bother since Buster had admitted as much, but I was curious to hear what Mario had to say, so I kept my mouth shut.

“Um...” He cleared his throat. “If he did or didn’t, it’s not mentioned. I guess they don’t test for things like that if the body is by itself.”

“But we don’t think it was,” said Whit sitting up a little.

“Why?”

“Because Buster told Eddie he was wearing his underwear and socks when he died.”

“Hmm...” I could hear clicking noises. “Says here he was naked. Oh! I get it.”

“What?”

“That’s why you wanted to know about Jim McCracken.”

“Yes.”

Mario sighed. “Maybe there was another stalker.”

“Larry said that Buster gave out his security access code to everyone.”

“Really?”

“Yes,” said Larry.

“So, maybe there really was another stalker,” suggested Whit.

“What about looking in the mirror?” asked Larry, his eyes on me.

“What’s that?” asked Mario. “I hope you’re not playing Bloody Mary because I did when I was a kid with the girl next door named Marcia and it scared the shit out of me.”

I looked at Larry. “Marcia? What about her?”

“You must not have read the interviews,” said Mario. “She was already at that bar they were going to when he was murdered. She’d started drinking early and had several witnesses who could verify she was there.”

“Damn,” said Nigel.

Larry hit him on the arm. “We like Marcia.”

“You’re right. We do.”

“Well, guys,” said Mario. “Anything else?”

“No,” said Whit. “I think we’ve run out of ideas.”

“Well, I guess this case is just gonna stay cold.”

Larry nodded but Nigel was looking up at the ceiling.

“We’ll let you go,” I said.

“Call me if you come up with anything. Oh! And guys. I’m really glad you all met.”

I smiled at Larry who smiled back and said, “Me, too.”

“Definitely,” said Whit.

“Definitely,” I echoed before saying, “Talk to you later. Give Bob a big hug from all of us.”

“Will do. Later.” The phone beeped to let us know he’d disconnected.

“Well,” I said, “I need to hit the head again.” I scooted forward so I could stand up.

“You’re welcome to use the one on the yacht,” said Larry with a grin before pointing to the hallway. “But there’s one through there on the right.”

*  *  *

I walked back into the living room in time to hear Nigel say, “I don’t want to mention this, but it’s the only thing that I can think of.” He looked up at me as I walked over to the sofa.

“What is it?” I asked as I sat down and then leaned into Whit who put his arm around my shoulders.

“First,” said Larry. “It’s almost 9. What’s y’all’s plans for tonight?”

“They’re staying here, of course,” said Nigel with a smile.

I shook my head. “We can’t. I use a CPAP and we didn’t bring it with us.”

“Don’t tell me you’re going to drive back to Daytona tonight?”

I nodded as Whit said, “We’re both Texans. Four hours is nothing.”

Nigel shrugged. “Well, I don’t want to keep you because it’ll be 1 by the time you get back, but I did want to mention this one thing.”

“What’s that?” I asked.

“Julian.”

Larry put his hand over his mouth and turned to look out the window.

“What about Julian?” That was Whit.

“He could have killed Buster. He knows how to use a gun. He hates Buster.”

“Hates him?”

Nigel nodded. “Oh, yes. That’s what all that vitriol was about, earlier.”

“But where was he last summer? Was he here or was he in L.A.?”

Larry turned back to face us. He looked ashen. “It probably was Julian. He was in L.A. that weekend.” He turned to Nigel. “Remember? He mentioned how he was going to see Buster.”

Nigel went pale. “Damn,” he whispered.

“Wait,” said Whit. “You knew he was in L.A. and you knew he hated Buster but you didn’t put that together?”

Nigel nervously licked his lips. “No. I’m an idiot and a fool but the news about Buster dying...” He shrugged.

“And the L.A. cops wouldn’t have made that connection,” I said.

“Are you sure he knows how to use a gun?” asked Whit.

“Definitely,” replied Nigel. “Besides, the behavior you saw tonight...”

“It started after Buster died,” said Larry. “I just assumed it was because his death really affected him... Maybe it did because he killed Buster...”

“What about the gun, though?” asked Whit. “I mean, I know you can fly with one but it’s a hassle.”

Nigel asked, “Doesn’t it have to be in its own case or something like that?”

Whit nodded.

“Well, that’s not Julian. I don’t even know if he owns one.”

“Why do you think he knows how to use one?”

“Because he has before,” replied Nigel without offering any details.

After a moment or two, Whit asked, “Did he buy one there?”

Larry jumped up from his chair. “Does it fucking matter?”

“Yes,” I said in a quiet voice.

He looked down at me and took a deep breath. “I guess it does.” He turned around and put his hand on the top of his head as he stared out the windows.

“I really don’t want this to be true,” said Nigel.

“Me, neither,” said Larry.

“It’s tough,” said Whit.

Nigel nodded.

I looked around the room.

Larry was obviously distraught. I could tell from the way he was standing and from the fact that he was ignoring the rest of us.

Nigel was looking up at the ceiling again. His face was wrinkled with worry and anguish, or something like that. It might have been a trick of the light, but he suddenly looked old.

I glanced at Whit. He was staring at the floor. I could feel the way he was withdrawing like he did when he was upset.

I sat back. What was I feeling? I took a deep breath. I didn’t feel sad... No... I was dissatisfied. That was it. I somehow knew Julian didn’t kill Buster. But then who did?

Maybe it was time to go back to the source and try one more time.

I closed my eyes.

“Hey there, sexy.” That was Buster. I could see his face and he was grinning at me like I’d seen him do on screen. He was shirtless and running one finger up and down the middle of his hairless chest.

In my head, I said to him, “This is really hurting Larry and Nigel.”

His grin changed to something more neutral. “I know.” Everything about him suddenly felt different.

“Can I look one more time?”

He smiled in a way that filled me with joy. “I have all the time in the world for you, Eddie.”

I felt my face smiling as big as it ever did. “Thank you.”

Suddenly I was back... Actually, it was Buster. He was back and I was looking through his eyes.

He was staring in the mirror, looking at his dick pressing through his white underwear. He was turning to one side and then another.

I smelled his cum... I suddenly realized it was his dried cum. And I could tell that it was stuck to his stomach. He did like to spurt, after all.

Then I heard the two squeaks. That meant he was about to die.

I started to open my eyes, but I heard Nick say, “Wait for it.”

Buster turned one more time and then the explosion happened.

I sucked in my breath as I felt the shock of the pain.

Ah!

The shock of the pain. Not the actual pain. Of course. He was dead. The pain wouldn’t be there. He was dead.

Then he was floating. And I could feel the release and the sudden rush of joy and freedom. Unbounded joy. Unlimited freedom. It was stunning.

He could still see the room. But from above.

And there was someone there. It was a man wearing a red hoodie and blue jeans. And he was texting while he was standing next to Buster’s body.

It was hard to keep my attention on the scene below because it was getting further and further away. The pull of the joy and the freedom was... Well... It was like nothing I’d ever felt before.

But, in the misty haze that was forming around Buster’s dead body making it harder and harder to see, I was still able to watch. The man in the hoodie knelt down and, inserting his fingers under the band of Buster’s underwear, he began to tug on it so he could pull it off.

It wasn’t easy, of course. That was amazing. The fact that it was hard for the man to pull off Buster’s underwear somehow brought the scene into focus. Wow. Was it...? Did the man’s emotions draw Buster’s soul? His consciousness? Whatever it was, it was drawn back. Not closer, actually. But clearer.

The man in the red hoodie was thinking. That was obvious. He was also worried about the time. Then, as if he was struck by lightning, I could see that he was hit by a massive wave of guilt and remorse.

“I can’t believe I did it.”

“He deserved it.”

“I’ll never get away with this.”

“Just follow the plan.”

“Don’t forget to switch out the gun.”

They were like different voices in his head coming together from different directions. It was fascinating.

Then he looked up at the ceiling.

I took in a sharp breath. The shock and surprise almost made me open my eyes.

But I didn’t. I willed myself to stay with what was happening. I stared back.

But I couldn’t shake the frightening thought that the man in the red hoodie could see me. That he’d caught me spying.

But then I realized he hadn’t. He couldn’t see me, at least. Maybe he could see Buster, though. Maybe he knew Buster was about to leave and go on to his next destination.

Then I remembered I could feel what the man was thinking. The man in the red hoodie. The man with the thick red lips with the slightly crooked nose. The man whose name was Scott and who was in love with his husband and his little dog and was terrified he was about to lose them both.

Then it stopped.

Suddenly everything was dark. There was nothing.

Then there was everything. Every memory. Every possibility. Everything that had ever happened. Everything that had never happened.

It was all coming from one bright place that was so bright I couldn’t see it. That place was love and joy and freedom and delight and pure astonishment. And I wanted to be there. More than anything I’d ever wanted in my life, I wanted to be there.

“Hold on, kid.” That was Nick.

I turned and saw Buster.

He was smiling at me. He leaned forward and very sweetly kissed me on the lips. “Thank you.”

Before I could reply, I realized that a cat had just jumped in my lap and was rubbing against my belly. I opened my eyes and said, “Hello, Whiskas.”

“Meow.”

*  *  *

Mario said, “I just sent you a pic of him. Tell me what you think.”

I saw a message had arrived, so I switched over to look at the pic.

Whit was leaning in and watching closely while Nigel and Larry were anxiously waiting in their respective chairs.

I opened the message and then nodded when I saw the pic of a dorky blond guy with thick red lips and a nose that bent to the side just a little. “That’s him.”

Larry audibly sighed as Nigel said, “I knew it couldn’t be Julian.”

“Thank God for that,” said Larry. He wiped a tear from the side of his eye.

Whit kissed my cheek.

“If he somehow switched guns, that would explain the ballistics report,” said Mario. “That said, we still have a ways to go to prove it was Scott.”

I nodded. “I know. Nothing I’ve said will—”

“The underwear and socks! Maybe he still has them.”

“Or he might have sold them on eBay or something like that,” said Nigel.

“Well, it’s something to start with. There was no reason for the police to search for any missing clothes before now. I’ve got a contact at LAPD and I’ll let him know.” Mario sighed. “Good job, Eddie!”

Whit squeezed my shoulders. “Yeah! Good job!” He kissed my cheek again.

I said, “That was one wild ride.”

“What was it like?” asked Mario. I’d already walked them all through everything I saw, so I was confused by the question. “I mean,” he added, “what did that last part feel like?”

“Dying, I think. The joy and the love...”

“This is just like what happens at the end of Brainstorm!” declared Larry.

“What’s that?” asked Mario.

“Natalie Wood’s last movie,” said Whit.

The rest of us laughed.

“If I hadn’t hired you myself, Hall, I would be seriously questioning whether you were really a football player or not.”

Larry explained, “At the end of the movie Christopher Walken has this brain machine hooked up to his head and, just like Eddie, he’s reliving the last moment of Louise Fletcher’s death. There’s all these bright lights and angels and wonderful music.” Larry smiled at me.

“Actually,” I said, “I hate to disappoint you, but it wasn’t the same. I’ve watched that movie several times, particularly that last scene. There were no angels or bright lights. Everything was dark.”

“Dark?” said Larry. “I hope Buster isn’t in hell.”

I laughed. “Nothing like that. It was dark because it was too bright for me to see anything. But I could feel the pull. I wanted to go there.”

“But Nick held you back,” said Whit.

“Yep. Good ole Nick.”

“Maybe it was too bright for your soul,” said Whit as he ran his hand through my hair, “because you’re not ready to die.”

I looked at him. “Not for a long, long time, cowboy.”

“Happy Valentine’s Day, son.”

I grinned at him. “Happy Valentine’s Day, Whit.”

“Aw!” exclaimed Larry. “So sweet!”

“What are they doing?” asked Mario.

“Whit’s making his move,” said Nigel. And he was right.

Whit put his arm around me and pulled me in close. He kissed me on the lips and lingered there for a long, long time.

*  *  *

Get to know more about Frank W. Butterfield at frankwbutterfield.com.

Acknowledgments

The editors, Meg and Frank, would very much like to thank the talented authors who made this anthology such a delight to pull together and publish.

Very special thanks go to Ron Perry for his excellent cover design.

Thanks to the folks at Draft2Digital for their gracious assistance.

And, of course, we would all like to thank you, dear reader, for buying this book and having a look into the worlds we are all creating. What a delight it is to share these words with you!

Please do leave a review at the bookseller where you made your purchase. That would, indeed, be a very special Valentine’s Day gift!

About the Authors

Michael Nava (“Introduction”)

Michael is the author of an acclaimed series of eight novels featuring gay, Latino criminal defense lawyer Henry Rios who The New Yorker, called “a detective unlike any previous protagonist in American noir.” He is the recipient of seven Lambda Literary Awards in the gay mystery category and the Bill Whitehead Award for Lifetime Achievement in LGBT Literature.

His most recent Rios novel, Lies With Man, was published in April 2021 by Amble Press, an LGBTQ press of which he is also managing editor. The Washington Post review of the novel called Nava “a master of the genre.”

In addition, he is the author of The City of Palaces, a historical novel set in Mexico City against the background of the 1910 Mexican Revolution. His next book will be a sequel to The City of Palaces called A Village in Babel, set in two border towns at the Arizona/Mexican border.

You can find him at michaelnavawriter.com.

Gregory Ashe (“Responsible Adults”)

Gregory is a longtime Midwesterner. He has lived in Chicago, Bloomington (IN), and Saint Louis, his current home. When not reading and writing, he is an educator.

You can find him at gregoryashe.com.

JB Sanders (“Glen & Tyler Skip Dessert”)

The author lives with a non-imaginary cat, and works in computer support (you know, the day job), all in Upstate New York. He divides his time between writing humorous suspense novels, reading science fiction and urban fantasy, absorbing too much British TV (or as his roommate would say “those crappy BBC mysteries”), pondering why he didn’t write a scifi or fantasy novel, and his various hobbies. No, reading isn’t a hobby. It’s more like a vocation. The author also wonders how people get away with talking about themselves in the third person this way. It’s awkward.

You can find him at glenandtyler.com.

Neil Plakcy (“Cabbage Key”)

Neil is the author of over fifty mystery and romance novels, including the best-selling golden retriever mysteries and the highly acclaimed Mahu series, a three-time finalist for the Lambda Literary Awards. His stories have been featured in numerous venues, including the Bouchercon anthology Florida Happens and Malice Domestic’s Murder Most Conventional and several Happy Homicides collections.

He is a professor of English at Broward College in South Florida, where he lives with his husband and their rambunctious golden retrievers.

You can find him at mahubooks.com.

Mark Zubro (“Roses Are Dead”)

Mark is the author of thirty-seven novels, eight short stories, and numerous articles in Chicago LGBTQ+ newspapers. His book A Simple Suburban Murder won the Lambda Literary Award for Best Gay Men’s Mystery. Eight of his other books have been nominated for the award. He taught reading and English to eighth graders for thirty-four years. He was president of the teachers’ union in his district for twenty years. He spends his time now napping, reading, writing, and eating chocolate.

You can find him at markzubro.com.

Mark McNease (“Paper Hearts”)

Mark is the author of ten novels, including the Kyle Callahan Mysteries and the Marshall James Thrillers. He has two short story collections published and six produced plays. He is a two-time Emmy winner as the co-creator of the children’s TV program Into the Outdoors. He currently lives in rural New Jersey with his husband Frank and two cats.

You can find him at markmcnease.com. You can also like Mark on Facebook or on Twitter.

Rick R. Reed (“I’ve Been Inside Your House”)

Rick is an award-winning and bestselling author of more than fifty works of published fiction. He is a Lambda Literary Award finalist. Entertainment Weekly has described his work as “heartrending and sensitive.” Lambda Literary has called him: “A writer that doesn’t disappoint...” Rick lives in Palm Springs, CA, with his husband, Bruce, and their two rescue dogs, Kodi and Joaquin.

You can find him at rickrreedreality.blogspot.com. You can also like Rick on Facebook or on Twitter at twitter.com/rickrreed. Rick always enjoys hearing from readers and answers all e-mails personally. Send him a message at rickrreedbooks@gmail.com.

Marko Realmonte (“Paris”)

Marko is the author of The Jake Weston Mysteries, a trilogy of novels with non-apologetic, positive queer role models for young adults. He has worked for more than two decades as a writer and photographer in the film and television industry. His client list included: The Walt Disney Company, the San Francisco Giants, Robin Williams, and the Academy Awards telecast. His latest screenplay is a sequel script to Call Me By Your Name for Sony Pictures. The Jake Weston Series has been optioned for television. Marko lives by the ocean in Santa Cruz, California.

You can find him at markorealmonte.com. You can also like Marko on Facebook or on Twitter or follow him on Instagram.

Brad Shreve (“Bound to Love”)

Brad is the author The Mitch O’Reilly Mysteries. His first novel, A Body in a Bathhouse, has been described by Richard Stevenson (The Don Strachey Mysteries) as “an accomplished work of LA noir—niftily plotted, atmospheric and sexy, often witty.” Brad lives in the Los Angeles South Bay with his husband, Maurice.

You can find him at bradshreve.com. You can also listen to him on the Queer Writers of Crime podcast, which he both hosts and produces.

Greg Herren (“This Thing of Darkness”)

Greg is an award-winning author and editor. He has published over thirty novels, edited twenty-two anthologies, and published over fifty short stories. He has won two Lambda Literary Awards and Anthony Award, among others, and has been short-listed over twenty times (without winning) for awards including the Shirley Jackson and the Macavity. He lives in New Orleans with his partner of twenty-seven years.

You can find him at gregwritesblog.com.

Meg Perry (“Speed Murder”, Editor)

Meg Perry is the author of the Jamie Brodie Mysteries, the Kevin Brodie Mysteries, and the Space Coast Mysteries. A native of Appalachia, she now lives on a barrier island in Daytona Beach, Florida, where she can see the ocean from her front yard. Meg has had two careers, the first in healthcare administration and the second in academia, and is about to embark on her third as a full-time writer.

You can find her at megperrybooks.wordpress.com. You can also like Meg on Facebook.

Frank W. Butterfield (“Let’s Fall in Love”, Editor)

Frank is the Amazon best-selling author of over 85 self-published novels, novellas, and short stories. Born and raised in Lubbock, Texas, he has traveled all over the US and Canada and now makes his home in Daytona Beach, Florida. His first attempt at writing at the age of nine with a ball-point pen and a notepad was a failure. Forty years later, he tried again and hasn’t stopped since.

You can find him at frankwbutterfield.com and on Facebook, Instagram, and TikTok. He loves to get your emails and messages, so keep ‘em comin’!

Ron Perry (Cover design)

Ron Perry has had a varied career. Among other things, he’s worked as a travel agent, interpreter for the deaf, and most recently, a graphic designer for a media company in the marijuana industry. Now retired from corporate America, he designs book covers for several authors and also writes gay romance under the pen name RJ Peterson.

You can find him at rperrydesign.com.

Copyrights

“Responsible Adults” © 2022 by Gregory Ashe. All rights reserved.

“Glen & Tyler Skip Dessert” © 2022 by JB Sanders. All rights reserved.

“Cabbage Key” © 2022 by Neil Plakcy. All rights reserved.

“Roses Are Dead” © 2022 by Mark Zubro. All rights reserved.

“Paper Hearts: A Marshall James Thriller” © 2022 by Mark McNease. All rights reserved.

“I’ve Been Inside Your House” © 2022 by Rick R. Reed. All rights reserved.

“Paris” © 2022 by Mark A. Realmonte. All rights reserved.

“Bound to Love” © 2022 by Brad Shreve. All rights reserved.

“This Thing of Darkness” © 2022 by Greg Herren. All rights reserved.

“Speed Murder” © 2022 by Meg Perry. All rights reserved.

“Let’s Fall in Love” © 2022 by Frank W. Butterfield. All rights reserved.