by Lynn Lorenz
“I know it’s not much, but I’ll fix us something better at the café for lunch and dinner. Free meals come with the job.”
“That’s nice. Thanks. I never thought about eating at work.”
Sammi took his plate and a fork and sat on the couch. Otis sat on the bed. They ate in silence with not even the TV on. When Sammi finished, he stood and took Otis’s empty plate.
“You don’t have to—” Otis began.
“I’m the dishwasher.” Sammi’s explanation seemed to satisfy Otis because he just gave a nod.
“It’s eight o’clock. You don’t have to be to work until ten.”
“Don’t have anywhere to go.” Sammi shrugged.
Otis eyed him. Sammi dried the plates and forks with a towel. As he leaned over to return them to their places under the counter, he spotted a small mismatched collection of plates, bowls and silverware all neatly stacked and organized. He carefully replaced the clean dishes.
Otis stood and made his bed. “Always believed if you live like an animal, you become like an animal.”
“Yes, sir.”
Sammi went to the couch and folded the blanket. He placed the pillow on top of it and brought it to the open area where Otis’s clothes hung. Above the pole was a shelf. Sammi stretched and placed his bedding on it.
Once they had cleaned up, they sat on the couch. Otis picked up a section of newspaper, opened it and began reading.
“Does the TV work?” Sammi pointed to the old set.
“Yep. But I only get two channels clear and they’re both Spanish. Can’t understand a damn word,” Otis grumbled. “Can you speak Spanish?”
“No, sir.”
They sat in silence for a few minutes.
“Where’d you learn to cook?” Sammi asked.
“In the service. I was a cook in the Navy.”
“Did you like being in the Navy?”
“Nope. But, at the time, it was the best I could do.” Otis shrugged. “No education.”
“I don’t have an education either.”
“I don’t mean college, boy. I never finished high school.” For reasons Sammi couldn’t understand, Otis seemed proud of it.
“Neither did I.” Unlike Otis, Sammi was ashamed of his lack of education.
“I dropped out, hung around my daddy’s house until I was eighteen, and then enlisted just to get the hell out of there. They needed cooks and I figured you never hear of cooks getting killed, so I went for it.”
“You were right. You didn’t get killed.” Sammi smiled.
“Nope. But I didn’t like the ship. Too damn big and gray metal everywhere. For such big ships, they’re small on the inside. Lots of small rooms. Lots of metal. Still don’t understand how the hell the things stay afloat.” Otis shook his head.
Brian could probably explain it since he had a college degree in engineering, but it was lost on Sammi too.
“I don’t understand how planes fly, either,” Sammi offered. “But they do, so I guess whether or not I understand doesn’t matter.”
“That’s how I felt about the ships.” Otis laughed and slapped Sammi on the back. “We got a lot in common, you and me.”
Sammi wasn’t so sure Otis would want much in common with him.
“You been on the streets before?” Otis asked.
“Yes, sir.”
“You a whore?”
“Yes, sir, I was. Not anymore.” Sammi chewed his thumb.
“Good.” The old man nodded. “There’s no future in it.”
“No, sir.”
“No future as a dishwasher, but it’s honest work.”
“No, sir. I mean yes, sir. But I don’t intend to stay a dishwasher long.”
“Well, got a little drive in you, huh?” Otis’s eyes sparkled.
“I’m going to work my way up. Maybe be a chef.” Until that moment, Sammi had never thought about what he wanted to be if he could be anything. He’d never thought about having a future that didn’t involve sex.
“A chef! Not a cook, like me?” Otis teased him.
“First I’ll have to be a cook. Then maybe I’ll move up from there to a chef.”
“Do you know the difference between a cook and a chef?” Otis leaned back and waited for Sammi’s answer.
“No, sir.”
“The size of the hat on their heads. Yes, sir, a cook has a little cap and a chef has a tall white hat, all pleated and fancy.”
Sammi stared at Otis, who seemed to be holding his breath. When a smile crept onto Sammi’s face, Otis burst out laughing. Sammi laughed along with him.
“You just wait,” Sammi said. “I’ll be wearing a fancy white hat before you know it.”
“Not in my kitchen, you won’t. Just little caps there. The boss don’t pay enough money for a proper chef,” Otis grumbled. “But I’ll just bet, boy, one day, you’ll wear one of those tall hats if you put your mind to it. You could go to one of those fancy chef schools where all they turn out is little food on big plates.” The spark returned to Otis’s eyes.
“I don’t think I could get into a school like that.” Sammi shook his head. “Will you teach me how to cook?”
“Let’s get the dishes washed first. Then I’ll see if I can get you moved up to help me in the kitchen. You got to do K.P. duty before you can swing a spatula.”
Sammi smiled and nodded. Hey, it might not be much, but it was a start. He was on the road to respectability, and wouldn’t Mitchell be proud of him? If he ever knew. Sammi’s heart ached from missing the other part of him.
For a moment he was tempted to reach out in his mind to Mitchell, but that would only lead to trouble. Mitchell would find him and with Moretti and Donovan still hunting for him, Mitchell would be in even more danger. There was no telling how desperate they’d become in the last few days.
Otis turned on the TV and, for the next hour, they watched Spanish programs that neither one of them understood, but they were so funny it kept them laughing as they tried to guess what the people were saying until it was time to go to work.
* * * *
Donovan slammed his fist on the desk as he rose to his feet. “Son. Of. A. Bitch,” he bit out. “If you tell me you can’t find him tonight, I’m going to kill you. He has to be on that plane in two days.”
Moretti stood in front of the desk and didn’t say a word. His clothes reeked of cigarette smoke and cheap aftershave. Hatred of Donovan filled him at the hollow threat. If he thought for a minute Donovan meant it, he’d kill him first.
Fuck, he hated Sammi. Now he had to explain his failure once again.
“None of my men found anyone who’d seen him. It’s like he’s disappeared.”
“I don’t want to hear that!” Donovan shouted. “A half million dollars. A fucking half mil. That’s what I’m going to lose, all because of you.”
Moretti didn’t reply. No point.
Donovan took a deep breath and sat. Leaning back in the chair, he stared at Moretti. Who the hell did Donovan think he was? Moretti had been with him from the beginning, when they were running a string of high-class call girls out of the most expensive hotels in Houston.
Then Donovan had got this idea about providing boys to rich men. At first, Moretti didn’t think there was money in it, but he’d been surprised to find out how many old geezers wanted to fuck boys and pay very good money for it. Sammi had been Donovan’s prize possession.
“You will find him tonight. No failures. Go to Collins. Lean on him, make him tell you where the little shit is. I don’t care how many bones you have to break, but find the fucker.” Donovan’s voice had taken a dangerous tone.
“Right. It will be my pleasure.” He gave his boss a nod and left, relieved to be out of there and not having to listen to Donovan’s crap about his failures.
Once he’d signaled to one of his men in the hall outside the penthouse to join him, he pressed the button for the elevator and took his stance to the side of the doors.
No telling who could be the
re when the doors opened. Moretti might look dumb, but he wasn’t stupid. He’d been an enforcer for too long to make stupid mistakes.
The bell dinged and the doors slid open. The old woman who owned the other penthouse got off with a little hairless dog in her arms. It barked at him as if it was going to attack and the woman gripped it even tighter. A gem-studded collar circled its scrawny neck. It reminded Moretti of a rat. From its big rat ears down to its long rat tail.
He hated rats almost as much as he hated fags.
If he ever got the dog alone, he was going to toss it over the fucking balcony. He liked that idea. Maybe he’d toss Collins over the balcony instead. After he’d put a righteous hurt on the bastard for keeping Sammi from Donovan.
Oh, yeah. He curled his hands into fists, thinking of how he’d beat the living crap out of Collins, even after he’d told him where Sammi was hiding.
And Donovan? Maybe he’d kill him too, take over the operation. Get his share of pussy for once, like Donovan did. But he’d leave the dick to the clients. A half million? A man could do a lot with that kind of bank.
Chapter Eleven
Mitchell hadn’t slept all night. Unshaven and bleary eyed, he sat at the table in Brian’s kitchen, took a swig of coffee and glanced at his best friend. Brian was a rock, solid and dependable. And dressed to kill. How did the man do it?
“What’s your day like?” Mitchell took a sip of his coffee.
“Well, I have an appointment with a new client this morning at eight-thirty. Then I was going to catch up with some of my cop buddies and talk to them about this Donovan character.” Mitchell poured his coffee into a mug that said Firemen Are Flaming Hot.
“I’d like to get the tires fixed on my car.”
“How about after lunch? We’ll take them off and then go over to the tire place on Studemont.”
“Sounds good.”
“What are you going to do until then?” Brian watched him over his cup.
“Don’t worry. I have no plans to sit around here and mope. I’m going to take a walk.” Mitchell got to his feet, went to the counter and poured another cup of coffee.
“You’ll find him.”
“Maybe.” Mitchell didn’t hold out much hope. Sammi had been on the street for a few years, so he knew how to hide, how to survive. Who was to say he was even still in the neighborhood? But he had to keep trying. It was the only thing he held on to, the hope of finding Sammi again.
Brian stood and gave Mitchell’s shoulder a soft squeeze. “I think you will. I have a feeling.” Then he scooped up his cell phone and keys and he left.
It was seven a.m. when Mitchell left the house and walked to Montrose.
* * * *
At seven-fifteen, Moretti pulled up outside Mitchell’s apartment and parked the Mercedes behind the Jetta. Two of its tires were still flat. He chuckled at how he’d fucked up Collins’ car. Maybe he should flatten the other two while he was there, just to let the man know he wasn’t forgotten.
He got out, went up the stairs and pounded on the door. It had been fixed, so he’d been back at least. Where the hell was he? Not at work? Moretti had made pretty sure the bastard would get fired.
He got out his cell phone, searched for Collins’ work number and dialed. He leaned against the porch column.
“Hey, can I speak to Mitchell Collins?”
The operator paused. “I’m sorry, but he’s no longer employed here.”
Moretti laughed as he disconnected. “Fuck you, Collins!” So he wasn’t at work. Where was he? He suspected he was hiding inside.
“Come on out, Collins!” He banged again.
After waiting a few minutes and pounding once more, he tossed around the idea that either Collins wasn’t in or he wasn’t coming out to face him.
Across the street, a woman came out of her door. She locked it, then headed down her steps to a car parked in the driveway. For a moment, she stared at him. He waved, as if nothing was wrong and she almost waved back, then got in her car and drove off.
People were stupid.
Hell, the neighborhood was waking up and people were starting to come and go. Good thing he hadn’t kicked in the door. Miss Busybody would have definitely called the cops on him.
Collins wasn’t getting away this easy, no way in fucking hell.
Frustrated, Moretti gave the door a final blow with his fist and decided to come back later.
* * * *
By nine a.m. Mitchell had walked most of the strip from the West Dallas, past Westheimer, and up to Richmond. His feet were holding up, thanks to his sneakers. Without a photograph of Sammi, he had nothing but a verbal description to go by.
The bars, where it would be most likely Sammi would go, wouldn’t be open until later that night, so he’d started with hitting all the coffee shops, twenty-four-hour video porn stores, and diners that were open. Maybe Sammi had gone someplace to eat.
He had to eat, right? Sure, he’d probably find him sitting at a table, having lunch. Mitchell held on to that slim hope, clinging to it like a rope dangling over a cliff.
More likely Moretti had caught Sammi.
Mitchell’s belly rolled at the thought of that goon finding Sammi. And he almost threw up thinking of whoever the hell Donovan was getting his hands on Sammi. Mitchell stopped, put his hands on his knees and swallowed down several deep breaths until he got his stomach under control.
He’d hidden his near-panic at Sammi’s disappearance from Brian, but now, on the streets, it surged through him. “I’m going to find him.” He took another deep breath, pushing the fear back down. “He’ll be safe.” He exhaled then straightened.
Mitchell walked on, to the next coffee shop on the street. He went inside and slid into a stool at the counter. A few people sat at tables, and a few seats down the counter was an older man. The breakfast rush was over. The waitress met Mitchell with a menu and a carafe of dark brew. The smell of coffee and breakfast filled the air.
“Coffee?” She handed him the menu.
“No. Iced tea, please.” Mitchell’s walking had proved thirsty work.
She put the pot away, poured him a glass of tea, and placed it in front of him. “What can I get you?”
“Nothing. But I do need some info.”
She cocked up a perfectly sketched eyebrow. “What kind of info?”
“I’m looking for a friend. He’s about five-ten or so. Black hair cut short on one side and long on the other side. Thin, but built. Wearing jeans and a black hoodie.” He couldn’t describe Sammi any better, unless he went into a detailed accounting of Sammi’s body, and he was pretty sure she wanted to hear any of that.
She rolled her eyes. “Man, you’re talking about most of the boys around here.”
Mitchell sighed. “Yeah, I know. But it’s the best I can do.”
“Honey, I came on at five. I didn’t see him this morning. But we’re open all night. Maybe you can come back tonight and catch the other waitresses?”
“Sure. Thanks.” Mitchell downed the tea, tossed out a five and got off the stool to leave.
He’d stepped outside and paused on the sidewalk as he glanced down the street and the next place.
The door to the café opened and the man who’d sat at the counter came out.
“Hey. You looking for someone?”
Mitchell turned and faced him. “Yes.”
“Heard you with the waitress.”
“Oh. Okay.”
“I seen a guy like that last night.”
“What time? Where?” Mitchell’s heart banged in his chest.
“Late. He was walking with this old dude. But it was down the street, not here.”
“Where exactly?” Mitchell wanted to grab the guy and shake it out of him.
“Over near W. Gray.”
“You sure it was him?”
He shrugged. “Lean. Black hair, cut in one of those high and tight on one side, the other covering half his face. Black hoodie. Yeah, I think that was him.”
“Glad I can help.” He turned to walk away.
Mitchell bit his lip. “Hey.” The man turned back. “Do me a favor? If anyone else, someone like a big, bald thug, or someone like that, asks if you’ve seen him, can you say you haven’t?”
The guy shrugged. “Sure. He’s in trouble?”
“Yeah, if I don’t find him, he might be.”
The man nodded. “Okay.” He made the motions of zipping his mouth shut then he walked away.
Mitchell’s heart danced and he wanted to do a fist pump and jump up and down. His first lead and it sounded pretty good.
Sammi was still in the area, that much he now knew for sure, although he had no idea who this old man might be. Had Sammi found another ‘mark’, someone to take him in, like he’d done? Well, as long as Sammi was safe, Mitchell didn’t care.
He intended to walk the strip that night, as well.
Around ten a.m., he began canvassing the video porn stores. At the third one, he asked about Sammi and the clerk nodded.
“Yeah, man. Dude was in here last night. Had a photo of your boy, flashing it around. Told him same as you. I didn’t see him.” The guy shook his head and his dreads danced. “And I don’t want to see him with friends like that hunting for him…” He shook his head again. “They some bad-ass dudes, man.”
“Thanks. What size men are we talking about?” Mitchell wanted to confirm if Donovan’s gorilla was searching in the same area.
“Hell, man, they was all big, you know? Scary, too.” He sniffed. “You want to watch a movie with me? I got a free room in the back.” He jerked his head to a black curtain that hung in a doorway.
“No, thanks. Gotta go.” Mitchell left. If Donovan was still searching for Sammi last night that meant Sammi was still free, still out there. Or that Donovan had found him and Sammi was lost to Mitchell.
The rest of the morning, as Mitchell trudged up and down Montrose Avenue, he ran into more people who’d been asked about Sammi by what sounded like the same guys. Big, scary, and with photos of Sammi. Mitchell’s gut told him there was something more going on than just a jilted lover.
