The next morning, I had a protein shake and my attention-deficit medication and hit the gym.
I was between sets on the leg press machine, lying on my back with my knees drawn up to my face.
Leg presses are supposed to infuse you with testosterone, but this position always felt gynecological to me.
Why did Al en have to be the one to die, and Tony the one to resurface? Why couldn’t it have been the other way around?
OK, that was cold. And I didn’t mean it.
Wel, not real y.
If I real y meant it, that would indicate that I stil gave a shit about whether Tony lived or died, and I didn’t want that to be the case.
No, the only case I wanted to deal with was Al en’s.
I finished up my workout, showered, and headed off to my volunteer job. Time to make the donuts.
“OK, everyone,” I cal ed. “You guys at the front of line are going to open a bag and put a sandwich and a container of soup in it. You pass it down to the next person, who puts in a yogurt and an apple. The last person rol s the bag closed and affixes an address label. Questions? Comments? Concerns?”
I was talking to a group of local high school students, who were volunteering with me at The Stuff of Life, a charity that brings meals to homebound people with AIDS. I run the lunch shift a few times a week. The students were there for the day. We have different organizations that staff our lunch shifts: churches, businesses, schools, and even dating services have al brought in volunteers.
The fifteen students were lined up at tables in The Stuff of Life’s vast, stainless steel kitchen. They seemed like a nice group, a little bit restless, but polite and wel — behaved. Normal y, I would have enjoyed their company, but today I couldn’t help but feel preoccupied.
A skinny girl who stil thought Goth was hip, raised a hennaed hand. “Do these sandwiches have, like, ham in them? Because I can’t touch them if they do.
I, like, don’t eat meat.”
“Actual y,” a pretty blond girl next to her said, “she can’t touch them if they have any food in them, because she’s like, anorexic.”
“I am not anorexic,” Goth girl replied. “I’m just not like you. I don’t eat everything I see. Or everyone.”
The other kids issued a col ective “oooh.”
I was afraid things would turn into a catfight, when Blondie said “You know the only one I eat is you, honey” and kissed Goth Girl on the lips.
“God,” said another girl, “do you two have to be such total lesbians al the time?”
Goth Girl looked at her watch. “Umm, yes, we do” and gave her girlfriend another kiss.
This time, the crowd gave an “awwwww.”
“OK, everyone,” I said, “assuming no one else wants to start making out, let’s get started.”
An obviously fey boy raised his hand and jumped up and down. “Oooh, sir! Sir! I’d like to start making out!” Everyone laughed.
“Nice try, kid, but how about you make some lunches instead?”
“And, ladies,” I said to the happy lesbian couple,
“you’l be happy to know the sandwiches are tuna.”
After the lunches were made and the students left to make the deliveries, I went to visit The Stuff of Life’s director of volunteer services, my friend Vicki. Vicki is a sleek power dyke, who wears her jet black hair in a pompadour that makes her resemble a young, prettier Elvis Presley. Her black jeans and black western shirt tucked into a wide black leather belt with an oversized silver buckle only increased the resemblance.
“Hey, boy,” she greeted me. “How’s tricks? And I do mean ‘tricks.’” She winked broadly. Vicki thought the fact that I hustled was the biggest hoot this side of non-vibrating strap-ons.
“That’s so funny.” I frowned. “I’m laughing on the inside.”
“Whatever,” she said. “So, how were the kids today?”
I told her about the two little lesbians.
“That’s so cute,” she said. “I wish I could have been that open in high school. I didn’t have the nerve to hold my girlfriend’s hand til I was a senior in col ege. God forbid someone thought I liked girls or something.”
It was hard to imagine that Vicki had ever been mistaken for a heterosexual, but I decided to hold my tongue.
“So, how are things, real y?” she asked. “You look down.”
I told her about Al en.
Vicki was sympathetic. “Oh, Kevin, I’m so sorry for you. I knew Al en, too. He was on our board of directors. He was a great guy, a big contributor, too.
He worked a lot with Roger Folds, our development director.”
Freddy had suggested I talk to people Al en knew.
Roger seemed like a good place to start. I asked Vicki where he sat.
“At his home, as far as I know. He’s been out for week.
“It’s weird,” she continued. “Roger’s on a kind of sabbatical or something. He broke up with his partner a few months ago-walked in on the guy sucking off the UPS man or something. Anyway, he got real y depressed, and said he needed some time off to ‘find himself,’or some shit like that.”
“You don’t sound too sympathetic,” I said.
“Roger’s a big old drama queen. It’s cute at first, but when you’re responsible for raising mil ions of dol ars for an organization that feeds sick people, you should real y pul your shit together.
“You know, now that I’m thinking of it,” Vicki continued, “I think he and Al en had some kind of fal ing out. I seem to remember him saying something nasty about Al en, but I don’t remember what.
“But he’s been talking al kinds of crazy shit lately.”
I asked Vicki how I could get in touch with Roger.
She gave me his home number.
I left The Stuff of Life at around five. I had a working date at six, so I decided to go see Mrs. Cherry before heading home to shower and change. On the way, I cal ed Roger Folds, but he didn’t pick up. I left a message.
Mrs.
Cherry lives in
Hel ’s
Kitchen, a neighborhood in Manhattan which is always halfway between ghetto and gentrification. For awhile, they cal ed it “Clinton,” but it didn’t stick.
In today’s heat,
Hel ’s
Kitchen seemed appropriate.
Mrs. Cherry buzzed me into the building and I took five flights of stairs to the top floor, where she had bought and combined three apartments into one.
She opened the door and I was greeted by the combined smel s of Chanel Number 5 and stale marijuana.
“My darling, darling boy,” she enthused. “Look at you. Look at you! Turn around.” She squeezed my ass. “Yes! Look at you! No wonder you’re one of my top boys.” She took my T-shirt and pul ed it up to my chest. “Look at that flat bel y, those rosy nipples.
Absolutely delicious, perfect.” She pinched the skin around my waist. “You see this, though? I shouldn’t be able to squeeze even this much. I want you to have the body fat percentage of a fifteen-year-old bulimic virgin, darling. Can you do that for Mama?”
Mrs. Cherry might have been appraising me like the prize horse in her stable, but she did it so blatantly and affectionately that I wasn’t offended.
At 5 foot nothing and about 200 pounds, Mrs.
Cherry was no great beauty. Her heavy makeup, large beehive wig, and outrageous jewelry made it impossible to ascertain her true features. God knows what she looked like when not in drag.
Wearing a large flowered caftan with a string of gardenias woven into her hair, she resembled a large, mobile botanic garden.
Mrs. Cherry guided me into her vast living room and sat me in a dark purple velvet couch piped with gold brocade, under a gold chandelier, and next to a marble fountain. Mrs. Cherry’s place is huge and as ornately decorated as a New Orleans brothel. She once told me she took the set design of Brooke Shield’s Pretty Baby as her inspiration.
“Darling,” she said, in her usual breathy whisper “I heard about Al en. Such a terrible, terrible loss. Such a nice man. And such a good customer! Tel me everything you know.”
It was ninety-seven degrees outside, but you could have kept veal fresh in Mrs. Cherry’s apartment. I could barely hear her over the five air conditioners she had running.
I told her what I knew about Al en’s death and about running into Tony.
“A mystery,” Mrs. Cherry enthused. “I love a mystery.” Mrs. Cherry plucked a smal fan from her artificial bosom and waved arctic air into her face.
“Wel, I don’t love this mystery,” I answered. “I hope they find out who kil ed Al en.”
“Oh, I wasn’t talking about that mystery, darling. I meant the mystery of your ex-lover’s sexuality. Does he want to suck your dick, or not? Of course, he’d be insane if he didn’t. Even I want to suck your dick, and everyone knows I’m a big fat dyke.”
I couldn’t always tel when Mrs. Cherry was kidding. I’m pretty sure she didn’t know, either. But that was part of her charm.
“But you’re right; Al en’s death is curious, too.
Hmmm… you know what we need, darling?” she asked. I shook my head. “Cocktails!”
Mrs. Cherry disappeared behind a beaded curtain and returned moments later with two perfect martinis.
“I’d offer you something stronger,” she said, handing me my glass, “but I know what a boy scout you are. Besides, you have a date tonight, remember?”
I assured her I did, and we talked some more.
When I was ready to leave, she gave me a peck on the cheek. “Now, go make yourself beautiful, darling,” she said. “And make Momma some money.”
I got home at seven and had a protein shake. I checked my answering machine. Cal er ID showed I had another message from my mother. That was two in two days.
To say that my mother is high maintenance would be like saying that Lindsay Lohan enjoys an occasional drink. Or, used to enjoy. Let’s give Lindsay a break, OK?
My mother’s messages often ran for several minutes, during which she’d either lecture me on how I should be living my life, or detail the minutiae of how she was living hers.
I couldn’t deal with her just now, but I promised myself I’d listen to her messages tomorrow.
The next cal came from a law office. “This is Susan Oliver cal ing from Messner, Baker, and Stern. This message is for Kevin Connor. Mr.
Connor, please cal me to discuss an urgent personal matter. Thank you so much.” She left her number.
I didn’t think I owed anyone enough money that they would have gone legal on my ass, so I figured it was safe to cal her back. I got her machine and left her a message with my cel phone number.
My e-mail was mostly spam, except for a message from Freddy. “I can describe that boy from last night in three words: Dee Lish Ous. Have you solved Al en’s murder yet? Cal me!”
I took a shower, shaved my face, chest, and bal s, and put on a pair of tan khakis and a light blue Izod polo shirt. My client tonight was a regular, and he liked me to look preppy.
In the cab to his apartment, I thought about something Mrs. Cherry had said about Al en. “He was such a good customer.” Freddy had asked me if I knew anyone else who knew Al en, and I had forgotten about Randy Bostinick, the hustler I recommended to him.
Unfortunately, I hadn’t known Randy as wel back then as I did now. If I had, I wouldn’t have made the recommendation. Because as hot as Randy is, he’s also a little bit nuts. I’ve heard a few stories of Randy going off on guys in clubs when he thought they were being rude to him.
I also knew more than one of his old boyfriends who was seen trying to hide a black eye or swol en cheek. They learned the hard way that steroids and crystal meth may make a boy beautiful, but they don’t do much to improve his anger management skil s.
I had my own story, too.
Once, when Randy and I were at a bar together, a guy approached me. The guy was cute, but he had an intense stare that made me a little uncomfortable.
He leaned over to say something, but I couldn’t hear him over the crowd. I asked him to repeat himself, but it sounded like he was mumbling.
I didn’t want to be rude, but I couldn’t understand what he was saying. I shook my head, but the guy just tried again.
“Hey,” Randy bel owed from behind me, “can’t you see my friend’s not interested? Buzz off.”
But the guy just leaned closer and tried to talk right into my ear. Randy, thinking the guy was moving in for a kiss, had enough.
He put down his beer-some horrible American brew that only he would have the nerve to drink in a trendy gay bar-grabbed the guy by the shoulders, and threw him against the wal. Al eyes in the bar turned our way.
“Hey, punk,” Randy shouted. “What the fuck is your problem! I told you, he’s not interested. What are you, fucking deaf or something?”
Wel, imagine our embarrassment when it turned out that he was. That’s why his speech wasn’t very clear, and that’s why he was staring. He was trying to read my lips. That’s also why he didn’t hear Randy tel ing him to back off.
Once the misunderstanding was made clear, Randy went from sixty to zero as fast as he had previously accelerated. He was especial y gratified to learn that the guy was trying to ask me if Randy and I were together, because he was interested in Randy.
“I owe you a drink,” Randy said to the stil — shaking deaf guy. “And if you want, I’l take you home afterwards and touch you up nice al over.”
The deaf guy was reading Randy’s lips and he looked like he couldn’t believe what he was hearing.
Seeing. Whatever.
You could see how tempted he was by the prospect of spending time with Randy, but he was also wondering if he shouldn’t just leave now rather than risk his life with this beautiful nut.
But after a Cosmo and twenty minutes of watching how Randy’s impossibly strong shoulders tapered down to slim hips and an unbeatable ass, he decided that even if Randy kil ed him, it wouldn’t be a bad way to go. They left together, and Randy later told me “deaf guys are hot! He had a mouth like a Hoover, great fingers, and, after sex, I didn’t have to make any conversation or anything.”
Stil, despite a happy ending, Randy’s run-in with the deaf guy gave me firsthand knowledge of how out of control Randy could get.
Tony told me that Al en was expecting someone the night he was kil ed.
Could it have been a handsome hustler with a bad temper?
Randy was strong enough to throw a man off a balcony.
But why would he want to?
Under other circumstances, I would have cal ed Tony with my suspicions. But I couldn’t tel him how I knew Randy without revealing too much about myself.
I might be determined not to want Tony anymore, but I certainly wasn’t about to let him know about my hustling. That might make him not want me. I couldn’t have that!
No, I’d have to fol ow up with Randy on my own.
Two hours later, I found myself in an apartment on the Upper East Side, a high-priced neighborhood fil ed with wealthy dowagers and young investment bankers. If only they knew what their neighbors were up to.
I heard a telephone ring, but I was al tied up.
Literal y. Seated in a chair, my hands bound behind my back, my ankles lashed to each other. I was also nude, gagged and blindfolded.
I could hear my tormentor answer the phone.
Muffled voices conspired. Then he came back to where he had imprisoned me.
“I’m so sorry,” said my client, Melvin Cuttlebeck.
His thin, high voice was hushed. “That’s my boss on the phone, and I real y have to take this cal. It wil be about ten minutes. Shal I untie you?”
“No, I don’t mind,” I said through the gag, which, to be honest, wasn’t on tight enough to be effective anyway.
“Fabulous,” Melvin whispered. “I wouldn’t want you to be uncomfortable. I’l be back in a jiff.”
I wouldn’t ordinarily do this kind of scene, but Melvin Cuttlebeck must be the world’s most solicitous sadist. Although he enjoys the fantasy of binding and dominating me, he’s terrified of actual y causing any pain. Or even discomfort.
As a result, he always ties me loosely enough so that it doesn’t chafe. In fact, I could probably just slip out of tonight’s ropes.
In our first session, Melvin spent over an hour showing me different knots and how to open them. “I wouldn’t want you to feel the least bit trapped,” he told me. “This way, you know that you can always get yourself free. After al, what would happen if I had a heart attack or something? Why, you could be stuck here for days!”
In the background, I could hear Melvin saying “yes sir,” and “right away, sir,” while whoever was on the other end of the phone did most of the talking. I felt sympathy for poor Melvin. Of course someone so obsequious on the job wanted to be the boss in the bedroom. It wasn’t his fault that he was too sweet to actual y hurt someone.
I’ve been seeing Melvin every month for almost a year now. Sometimes, we even do phone sessions.
Melvin’s about five feet, seven inches tal and thin as a rail. I think he likes me because I’m one of the few guys he’s bigger than.
A few minutes later, Melvin returned. He cautiously took off my blindfold and gag, and stood before me in a black leather harness and chaps with no pants underneath. His smal ish penis quivered.
“I’m back, boy. You better beg me not to hurt you.”
“Oh, please, sir, please don’t punish me,” I said. “I know I’ve been a bad boy, but I’m sorry, sir. I promise I’l be better.” I tried to act frightened, but probably just sounded whiny.
“Sorry, boy, but it looks like a spanking for you.”
Melvin untied me and laid me over his lap. He brought a hand down on my ass so softly that I barely felt it. “That’s not too hard, is it?” Melvin whispered, breaking character for a moment.
I fought hard not to giggle. Giggling was definitely a mood kil er. “That’s just right,” I whispered back.
“Good, then here’s another one!” he shouted.
This one was even gentler. “Ow!” I cried.
“That’l teach you,” Melvin said.
“Please, sir, no more, no more!”
After a few more faked pleas and ten more soft slaps, I felt a sticky wetness on my bel y as Melvin ejaculated.
“You’re such a good boy,” Melvin beamed as he stuffed a generous tip into my palm. “I have a lot of meetings with my boss this week. Maybe I could cal you in the next few days?”
“Anytime,” I told him.
Outside, the air was a humid fog that covered everything like a wet blanket. Thanks to Melvin’s quickness on the draw, it wasn’t even 7:00.1 stil had the whole evening to… wel, I’d figure that out after I got home.
There were no cabs, so I walked over to a nearby hotel, where taxis always waited.
I turned on my phone and hooked up my Bluetooth headset. It always makes it look like I’m talking to myself, but in New York, that’s not uncommon. Even the crazies avoided me.
The first message, from my mother, I skipped.
That made three. I would cal her as soon as I got through the others.
The second was from the woman in the law office.
She told me she would be in her office late and that I should cal anytime.
I hit the cal back button.
“Susan Oliver here.”
“Yes, Ms. Oliver, this is Kevin Connor returning your cal.”
“Mr. Connor!” Ms. Oliver sounded very happy to hear from me. “Thank goodness. You were last on my list, and the reading is tomorrow.”
“The reading?”
“Of the wil.”
“What wil?”
“Al en Harrington’s wil,” she said as if explaining herself to a three-year-old. “He died, you know. Quite tragic.” Then, “Oh dear, I hope I wasn’t the one to break it to you.”
“Oh no, I was there the night he was murdered.”
“Murdered?” she sounded confused.
“It’s a long story.”
“In any case, there is a bequest to you in the wil, and you are required to be there.”
“Required?” I asked.
“Mr. Harrington left specific instructions as to whom he wanted in attendance.”
“Who?”
“I’m afraid I can’t release that information. May I count on your coming?”
Ms. Oliver gave me the time and place. I told her I’d be there.
I cal ed Freddy and told him about my problem: I wanted to honor Al en’s wishes, but I didn’t want to meet his homophobic sons, whom I was sure would be there. What if the crazy ex-wife showed? It sounded like a real freak show.
“Darling, you know I’m always there in your hour of need,” Freddy assured me.
“Yes, wel, it’s nice to have your support.”
“No, darling, literal y. I’m there. I’l be your bodyguard. Besides, it’s on my lunch hour.”
“It’s at ten o’clock in the morning.”
“I’l take an early lunch.”
“You don’t have to do that,” I said, hoping he would.
“Darling, it’s no trouble at al. You know I love a good soap opera. Besides, there could be a sizable inheritance at stake.”
“I doubt it,” I said. But it would be nice.
“Did you solve his murder yet?”
I told Freddy what I remembered about Randy Bostinick, and about Roger Folds, the development director at The Stuff of Life.
“See, that’s two more leads than you had yesterday,” Freddy encouraged. “Now, you’re in luck with Randy because he works out at my gym. If that boy injects one more dose of steroids, I think he’s going to grow hair on his elbows. Although, I have to say, he does look fabulous. I’d do him.”
“Him and what army?” I ask. “Oh yeah, any army.”
“Ha-ha, very funny. In any case, he’s there every morning at around eight, so he won’t be hard to find.
“Plus,” Freddy continued, “we’l get a look at the family tomorrow. Maybe we can force a confession at the reading of the wil. You know, when they’re al emotional and everything.”
“What did you have in mind?”
“I’l start with an easy question to break the ice.
Something like: ‘which one of you bitches kil ed your father?’”
“Subtle.”
“Wel you know me, darling. The soul of discretion.”
“On second thought, maybe you should just stay at work. I’l fil you in later.”
“Don’t be sil y, lamb. I’l behave, I promise. Now, I have to pick out something appropriately funereal to wear. Do you think black sequins would work, or is that too Liza?”
I hung up on Freddy and was climbing into a cab when my cel rang again. “Hel o,” I answered.
“It’s Tony.”
I resented the surge of excitement I felt when I heard his voice. “Hi.”
“I need to show you something,” he said.
“OK,” I said. “What?”
“Show, not tel. Where are you? Can you meet me?”
I told him I was in a cab inching its way downtown.
“Fine,” Tony said. “Meet me in the lobby of Al en Harrington’s apartment building.”
I gave the taxi driver a new destination.