Orientation (Borealis Investigations Book 1)

by Gregory Ashe

  North tapped the brakes. The Caravan squealed up to the red light.

  “Say that again.”

  “I threw them out. I didn’t want the temptation.”

  “They were my gift cards. Mrs. Fleming sent them to me for Christmas.”

  “Right. But I always borrow your cards—”

  “You steal them, Shaw. It’s called stealing when you don’t replace things.”

  “I gave you that book when I borrowed your Barnes and Noble gift card. The one you ripped up and threw away.”

  “You found that book on a trash heap in Tower Grove East.”

  “It was brand new. It was on top of the pile.”

  “It was about genital piercings.”

  “You said one time you thought Tucker should—”

  “I’m not going off carbs, Shaw.”

  “Thirty days. It’s a killer combination with yoga. We’re going to feel so much better.”

  “Killer combination is right. Like, I’ll kill you if you try to make me go off carbs.”

  “We’ll see how you feel after yoga on Saturday.”

  The light turned green, and North jammed down on the pedal to keep himself from answering. The Caravan lumbered a few feet, hissed, and died.

  “Maybe the Caravan should go low carb for a while too,” Shaw said. “You know: more energy, clear out the guts, all the benefits. You know?”

  “Keep talking. Just keep talking and see what happens.”

  Shaw didn’t laugh. He just did that annoying thing where the sharp triangle of his face practically glowed. Like he was content with everything in the universe. It made North think about dumping sugar in every fucking cup of coffee Shaw drank for the next month.

  Allure was a squat box that was trying very hard to look modern. When North and Shaw had been in college, North vaguely recalled that this place had been a pet store, with cramped windows set into the heavy old bricks. When it changed hands, the new owners must have done a lot of expensive renovations: the windows were massive, looking in on low lighting and two bars—one on each side of the room—and a mixture of tables and booths. It was half past six, and Allure already had steady traffic.

  “Doesn’t look like a gay bar,” Shaw said.

  “Like you’d know. Anyway, Matty told us it wasn’t a gay bar.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means you have never been in a gay bar, so how would you know what one looks like?” North studied the crowd through the big windows. This was the after-work rush on a Thursday. They looked exactly like the kind of people that populated the Central West End, like somebody had shaken up a mix of money and gym time and tanning booths, and then baked these people in about three different molds. Expensive clothes, expensive jewelry, expensive drinks. “Matty’s paying expenses, right?”

  He caught the flicker of worry on Shaw’s face—which meant Shaw had not told Matty he was covering their expenses—but all Shaw said was, “I have too been in a gay bar. I went for Peter and Paul’s birthday party. I went to Rivets. I had a Long Island iced tea.”

  “You had like four Shirley Temples and then you had one sip of that damn Long Island iced tea and gave it to Rufus because you said it was too sweet. And anyway, Rivets isn’t a gay bar. It’s a bar that’s barely, barely gay.”

  “It’s a bar where gay guys go. That’s a gay bar. And that was the week I was trying that new Pure15 diet and I forgot that Long Island iced tea would put me over my carbs for the day.”

  “You forgot that a five-year-old Girl Scout could handle her booze better than you. And Rivets had like four TVs playing Sunday night football, no dance floor, and not a single, sweaty gay boy tried to grind you into the bathroom with him. And nobody did any coke. Not even a smoke machine. Oh, and no drag. So it was not a gay bar.”

  North didn’t wait for Shaw to answer and stepped into Allure. It even smelled like the Central West End: a melange of high-end perfumes, the occasional whiff of flavored steam from a vape—some sort of noxious, imitation citrus—and overheated bodies. North eyed the room for a moment, weighing his options. Two bars. And a lot of tables and booths. But Matty had told them that the mystery man had approached him at the bar. So which one?

  Well, one had a pretty boy with dark hair slinging bottles. And one had a middle-aged woman with a red streak above her temples and arms like she’d spent the first half of the day driving fence posts. If North were a very closeted gay boy on his first public foray, he knew which one he’d choose—and while Allure doubtless had many bartenders who worked different nights, North at least knew where he was going to start.

  They navigated the press, moving toward the closest of the two bars. If this was the crowd on a Thursday night, what would a weekend be like? How would anybody remember two guys from Saturday night—even if one of them was as spectacularly good-looking as Matty Fennmore? Music pounded at a steady, dull roar, flooding into any available silence, but not so loud that people couldn’t talk. That would make North’s job harder too; the chances that anyone had overheard Matty and his hookup, or the hookup’s name, dropped significantly.

  When they found a spot at the bar, the bartender was chatting up a couple at the far end as he mixed their drinks. North eyed the bottles against the mirror. He scanned the room, saw what he was looking for, and went back to the bottles. Shaw’s hands jittered on the bar. North waited for the explosion.

  “I want you to show me one Girl Scout who can drink a Long Island iced tea—”

  Of course, that was when the bartender drifted over to them. He was pretty in an all-biceps kind of way, and his white tee was trim and had sleeves cuffed to show off his arms. The way his gaze ran over them and then backed up to run over North a second time explained his smile.

  “Hey.”

  North smiled. “How’s it going?”

  “A lot better right now. I’m Jack. Can I get you something?”

  “Whiskey sour, beautiful.”

  Jack’s smirk was practically a phone number on a bathroom stall. His eyes left tire tracks on North.

  “Two,” Shaw said, squeezing right up next to North and displaying two fingers as though to confirm. “Make it two.”

  Jesus Christ, North thought, trying to keep his smile in place. “I guess one for my friend, then. Even though he probably shouldn’t be trying to make this point right now. In this place. Tonight.”

  Jack’s smile had gone about ten degrees cooler. “Your friend?” he asked as he held up a bottle of Buffalo Trace.

  North nodded a yes to both questions. “Just a friend. Right, Shaw?”

  “Well, yeah. Of course.”

  That stoked Jack’s furnace a little, and when he finished mixing the drinks, he lingered, elbow on the bar, fluttering some very nice lashes. North wondered if the boy used mascara.

  “Busy night,” Shaw said. He cupped his drink like he was afraid it was going to bite him.

  “Yeah.” Jack’s eyes didn’t leave North, and North was careful to keep the hand with the wedding band in his pocket. “You going to be around in a few minutes? I’ve got a smoke break.” Then he had that bathroom-stall smirk again. “I could meet you out back.”

  “It’s really, really busy,” Shaw said, leaning between them. “I think that lady down there is trying to get your attention.”

  Jack’s eyes cut to Shaw, and he said, “Yeah, all right. Why don’t you try your drink?”

  “I just think she wants something from you right now.”

  “I know how to do my job.”

  “Right, it’s just, well, you don’t really seem to know how to do your job because you’re standing here trying to eye-fuck my—”

  “Take a drink, Shaw.” North bumped Shaw’s arm, and whiskey slopped over Shaw’s wrist.

  Jack grimaced, batted those big lashes again, and pulled back from the bar.

  North caught his wrist. “Hold on. Sorry about that.”

  “This isn�
�t some kind of weird three-way thing is it? I’m not down for that. Is he like your boyfriend and he wants to watch, or he gets off on you cheating on him, or what? The whole thing is getting fucking weird, and I’ve got to work.”

  “He’s my friend. That’s all. Promise. And right now, he’s going to drink that whole fucking whiskey sour, isn’t he, because he got himself into this mess to make a very stupid fucking point?” North met Shaw’s gaze long enough for Shaw to blush and put the glass to his mouth. “And I would very much like to meet you for your smoke break. Just to talk.” North let his eyes grow heavy and hooded, let his voice drop. “At least, for right now.”

  “You’re kind of hot when you get intense like that,” Jack said, freeing himself from North and rubbing his wrist. “I’m not going to blow you. Not tonight, anyway.”

  North had figured out a long time ago that silence worked better than words, and he let his eyes and the crook of his lips do the talking.

  “Jesus, you’re going to be trouble. All right. Say, like, ten minutes?”

  North nodded, and Jack scuttled down the bar to help a woman who was, as Shaw had pointed out, snapping her fingers in a frenzy of indignation.

  “Put that down,” North said as Shaw drank.

  Shaw coughed at the first swallow, and his eyes were the size of dinner plates. That one cough turned into a fit, with Shaw burying his mouth in the corner of his arm.

  “I told you to put it down.” North took a sip. It was pretty good; maybe Jack wasn’t just easy on the eyes.

  “’sfine,” Shaw croaked. His face was a hot scarlet. Then, still coughing, he set the glass to his lips again. This time, even though he sputtered several times, he downed the whole thing. The glass clinked down against the bar, and Shaw let out another frenzy of coughing. North grimaced as patrons at the bar shifted away from his partner, and then he slapped Shaw on the back.

  It seemed to help. Shaw gave one last cough and then wiped at his teary eyes.

  “Well,” North said, when he was sure Shaw could hear him. “That was pretty stupid.”

  “What?”

  North sipped at his drink.

  Shaw crossed his arms. The flush was moving down his neck.

  North ignored him and kept hitting his whiskey sour. He let his gaze roam the bar again, confirming what he had seen a few minutes ago. He considered the probability that Jack had been the bartender on Saturday night. Not great, considering the likelihood that weekends would have different shifts, more desirable shifts, but not terrible either. A spot as busy as Allure would definitely need more than one bartender on a weekend, which raised the odds again.

  “That was pretty good,” Shaw said.

  “Yeah, great.”

  “Do you like yours?”

  “For the love of fuck.”

  “I didn’t really know I liked whiskey—”

  He stopped talking when North looked at him. And he at least had the good grace to blush.

  “Is Matty paying for these?”

  “Yeah, I’ll just . . .”

  Shaw shuffled through his wallet and dropped some bills on the bar while North finished his drink.

  They worked their way out of Allure, walked the rest of the block, and cut around to the alley. Traffic was still steady in the Central West End at this time, headlights bobbing across the asphalt, parking meters full with people stopping for dinner or groceries or a nightcap. The alley that ran behind Allure was out of another, older world, though, from a time before the money from the hospital and the college had produced a steady revitalization of the neighborhood. The brick pavement was old, sunken, individual bricks angled against each other. Splintered telephone poles limped along one side of the alley, and on the other, ancient security lights cut yellow ovals out of the darkness. It was a reminder that this area was a bubble, and outside that bubble lurked one of the most dangerous cities in America.

  Jack was already outside, sitting on an overturned crate, his legs kicked out. Long legs. White, low-cut sneakers. No socks. He turned his head up and frowned when he saw Shaw.

  “Come on, I told you—”

  “I know, I know. I just want to ask you some questions.”

  “Well, can’t your buddy wait somewhere else? I could get us some drinks.”

  “Shaw—”

  “No.” Christ, Shaw’s speech was already blunted around the edges, and he kept blinking into the security light and trying to focus on Jack. “I’m the det—”

  “Sorry,” North said. “He’s not really a drinker.”

  “Right.” Jack’s crossed his long legs at the ankle. He kept thumbing the filter on his cigarette. And then he shot his eyes straight at North. “Look, I’ve got seven minutes left on my break, and I fucking hate this kind of stuff, so I’m just going to tell you I think you’re hot. I get off at eleven. I was kind of hoping you’d let me take you out for dinner or a drink or something. Like, a chance to get to know you without a bunch of middle-aged barflies listening.” In a lower voice, he added, “And maybe without your buddy hanging on you.”

  North wanted to squeeze his eyes shut. “Thanks. I’m flattered. Really. You’re a good-looking kid—”

  “I’m not a kid.” Jack’s long legs crissed and crossed again at the ankle, and he scrubbed the heel of the low, white sneakers on the broken brick paving. “I’m twenty-two. I’m at Chouteau, and I’m finishing up a computer science degree. I’m assistant manager here, and I’m really young but that didn’t stop me, and I’ve got an internship lined up for the summer. I’m not just some deadweight at a bar, ok? I think we could really hit it off if you gave me a chance.”

  “Kid—”

  “You’re, what, like twenty-three, twenty-four? Come on, one drink. It can even be here, at the end of my shift.”

  “He’s married,” Shaw said. And he said it too loud, leaning too close toward Jack, wobbling and then catching himself on a dumpster and throwing North a pathetic look. “North, I shouldn’t have had that whiskey. I know I told you I liked it but—” He gagged. His face was the color of discount toothpaste.

  “Jesus Christ.”

  “You’re married?” Jack flicked his cigarette onto the sunken bricks. Making a sound of disgust, he stood.

  “Just hold on, ok? Just hold on. Shaw, you are absolutely un-fucking-believable.” He grabbed the back of Shaw’s neck—tonight, he wore his hair tied up into a bun, leaving the long, smooth lines of his neck visible—and kicked a crate up against the dumpster. “Sit. Head between your legs. Don’t talk. I said don’t talk.”

  Shaw seemed to think better of it and let his head hang between his legs.

  By the time North turned around, Jack was already pulling open the fire door. North caught his upper arm.

  “Dude, you’re married. I’m not getting into that kind of shit.”

  “I told you I just want to talk. I’ve got a few questions. I’ll make it worth your while.” Although, North thought, he could have gotten the information for free if Shaw hadn’t picked the worst possible time to reinvent himself as a whiskey drinker. When Jack opened his mouth, North said, “Cash. No funny business, I promise.”

  Jack’s face settled into a kind of sullen agreement. “I’ve got to get back in there soon.”

  “A couple of guys were here Saturday night. Were you working?”

  Jack’s chin gave a sharp dip.

  “All night?”

  “Basically.”

  “One of them was really good looking. Like you, only blond. Thinner than you.”

  “A twink?”

  “He could play one on TV. He said he sat at the bar. He said a bunch of guys were buying him drinks.”

  “It’s not really a gay bar. You know that, right?”

  “Do you remember this guy? He’s probably around your age. Maybe he even made a pass at you.” North tightened his grip around Jack’s upper arm, let a smile flow onto his face. “Nice-looking guy like you, that prob
ably explains why he sat at the bar all night.”

  Jack was twenty-two. And he was pretty. And he was a Chouteau College boy, and North knew enough about those boys to fill a library shelf. The sullenness washed off Jack’s face. In its place came the familiar mixture of gratification and, as his eyes cut to North, desire. “Yeah, I mean, I think I know who you’re talking about. He was, I mean, like you said, really hot. But he wasn’t alone.”

  “Never? Not at the beginning of the night?”

  “Maybe. Hey, so, like, are you and your husband doing like an open thing, is that why you’re with this guy? Because I mean, I’m not a cheater, but if you’re, I mean, if you’re both—”

  “Tuck would literally cut off my balls. I need you to focus. Not at the beginning of the night? He wasn’t alone?”

  “I don’t know, honestly. But a lot of the night, there was a guy sitting by him. Talking to him. A lot. I mean, there were other guys who wanted to buy him drinks, and I only remember because one time the blond guy just shook his head, so I told the guy who had paid for it and he told me I could have it. I probably shouldn’t have, but I did. But like, nothing? Like, not even a blowjob? Because we could—”

  “What did the other guy look like?” Shaw moaned and tried to say something. Without looking back at him, North snapped, “Head between your fucking knees. What about the guy?”

  “Brown hair. I don’t know. Cute, but not hot like the blond guy. He tipped shit, by the way.”

  “The dark-haired guy?”

  “Both of them. I’ve got to get back to work.”

  “Security cameras. How often do they change the tapes?”

  Jack snorted. “Umm, there aren’t any tapes. It goes to the cloud.”

  “How long is the data stored?”

  “Maybe like a week.”

  “You’re the assistant manager?”

  “Yeah. I mean, if you want something, maybe some apps, I could—”