My Busboy

by John Inman

  Embarrassed, I nodded, but I was so astounded by a thought that had entered my head when Chaz pushed Dario that I couldn’t speak.

  I stared toward the front door. The bartender was returning after unceremoniously shoving Chaz out into the street. He circled a hand through the air like the Queen of England in acknowledgment of the spattering of applause the other diners awarded him for keeping the place safe from drunken louts who didn’t know how to behave in public.

  The thought in my head wouldn’t go away. Even when I told myself it was Chaz I was thinking about. Chaz, my oldest friend in the world. Chaz, who had been in love with me since we were sophomores in college.

  Dario must have seen the confusion on my face. “What’s wrong?” he asked. “What are you thinking? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

  I gave my head a shake, hoping to scatter all thought of Chaz to the wind. “Nothing. It’s nothing.”

  Dario eyed me warily, as if he didn’t believe me for a minute. But he still had a shift to finish. He hailed the bartender. “Joe, set my lover up with a Coke. We’ll be having dinner as soon as I get off.”

  The bartender eyed me suspiciously, as if he wasn’t sure what I’d do next. “Sure, Dario,” he said with considerable doubt in his voice. “Whatever you say, I guess.”

  Dario patted my shoulder and leaned in to brush his lips over my ear. “You behave yourself,” he whispered around a grin, “or Joe’ll throw us out too.”

  IN SPITE of the excitement, Dario and I stayed and dined at Sombreros. We were both hungry, we were there, and we might as well eat, we told ourselves. We ate at the bar. I was halfway through my chimichanga platter, and Dario had demolished most of his array of chicken, beef, and shrimp tacos, when he stopped chewing and simply sat there staring at me, looking hurt.

  “I thought he was happy for us,” he said.

  Dario was sipping at the third free Corona Lite the bartender had served him since the fracas quieted down. He was obviously one of the bartender’s favorites. I had graduated from Coke and was now sipping on a Bud, which the bartender had placed in front of me like he was laying a lit match in front of a stick of dynamite. My drinks weren’t free. The bartender insisted on collecting for each one of them as we went along. I was obviously not one of his favorites, and he clearly thought Dario could do a whole lot better than me for boyfriend material.

  Dario gripped my hand. A tear formed a glistening trail down his cheek to the corner of his mouth. He impatiently licked it away.

  “I heard what Chaz said. He talked about me like I was your trick. Your whore. That’s not what I am to you, is it?”

  I trapped Dario’s hand between both of mine. “You know it isn’t. And don’t worry about what Chaz said. He’s a mean drunk and a melodramatic queen.”

  A sudden light of awareness glimmered in Dario’s tear-sparkled eyes. “He’s in love with you, isn’t he?”

  I nodded. “He has been ever since college.”

  “And you never loved him back?”

  “No. Never. I considered him a friend. That’s all.”

  The thought that had crossed my mind earlier came flooding back. It couldn’t be true. It couldn’t. I tried to hide my confusion from Dario while I analyzed my suspicions silently in my head.

  We resumed eating. Dario had a mouthful of food when I surprised him with a question.

  “Remember that night in the blackout when I got popped in the jaw?”

  He groaned and swallowed fast. “I’ll never forget it.”

  “Did you see the person at all, Dario? Did you get even a glimpse of who it was that hit me?”

  He wiped his mouth with a napkin, his eyes never once veering off my face. “I told you then. I got the impression it was someone tall, but that was all. It was too dark to see anything. You know that.”

  Without warning, Dario’s eyes widened. He obviously knew what I was getting at before the words ever crossed my lips.

  “You’re thinking Chaz might be the one who hit you. You’re thinking Chaz might be the stalker!”

  I stared at him. Hearing the words spoken out loud, I couldn’t believe my imagination had taken me far enough to even consider the idea.

  “It’s impossible. Chaz wouldn’t do that. He couldn’t. Besides, Bucky said his attacker was a woman.”

  “You think Bucky was wrong?”

  God help me, I couldn’t answer. I just couldn’t.

  Dario’s thumb slid over my wrist. A couple farther down the bar were watching us, but neither Dario nor I cared. Let them watch.

  Dario wasn’t about to let go, neither with his hand or his eyes. “Did Chaz know Bucky?” he asked.

  And that thought, more than any other, startled the crap out of me.

  “Y-yes. We all knew each other in college. I don’t know if Chaz has spoken to Bucky since then, but he has certainly seen me speak to him. He has seen us talk together on the street. He knows I’ve helped Bucky out with a few dollars now and then. I don’t remember ever telling Chaz that Bucky and I tricked once. I didn’t figure it was any of his business. Besides, that was back in the Ice Age. I think there were still mastodons on the planet. In those days safe sex meant cuddling up in a dry cave.”

  If I was trying to lighten the mood with humor, it didn’t amuse Dario. “He might have figured it out, though. About you guys tricking.”

  I nodded. “He might have. Still, Chaz wouldn’t have attacked Bucky like that. Not with a knife. Chaz is kind of… well, he’s kind of a wimp. He’d probably pass out at the sight of blood. In college he was a drag queen for heaven’s sake. He worked in a show down on the wrong side of Broadway. It was a sleazy drag review at a joint called the Jewel Box. The guy worked his way through college in pantyhose and lipstick, with his dick tucked between his legs.”

  Dario considered that. “He doesn’t look swishy now.”

  I smirked. “Not very PC, but a wry observation. He’s butched up his act considerably, I have to admit. The minute he exchanged his ball gowns for three-piece Armani suits, he started living the life of a businessman. But I still can’t believe he’s butched himself up enough to become, well, a criminal. Bucky was almost killed. Chaz doesn’t love me enough to threaten his own freedom. He’s too selfish for that. He wouldn’t do it.”

  Dario’s mouth twisted into a crooked little moue of disbelief. “But still you suspect him.”

  I stared back into those caramel colored eyes I loved so much. “No,” I finally said. “I was thinking crazy. It’s impossible. It’s far too out of character for the guy.”

  “I hope you’re right,” he said, “because somebody out there still has it in for you, Robert. And Bucky thinks that somebody looks like a big mean woman. A six-foot-tall drag queen might look like a big mean woman.”

  I stared into Dario’s eyes. If his accusation had been any more explicit, he would have been naming names.

  “No,” I said, refusing to even consider it. “No.”

  An unexpected heat burned at the back of my throat. It was almost as if I wanted to cry. It wasn’t fear of the stalker that made me feel that way. It was the depth of emotion I saw in the eager, caring face in front of me. I continued to stare into Dario’s eyes, wondering what I had ever done to deserve all the love shining there when he gazed at me—and so much fear for my safety.

  “It’ll be all right,” I said, swallowing hard. “This person, whoever it is, will know the police are involved now. They’ll back off. Maybe they didn’t mean to let things get so out of hand. Not for a hack writer like me. They should be out stalking one of the biggies. Patterson, King, Brown. Or, hell, we don’t know. Maybe it has nothing to do with me being a writer at all.”

  I thought back to some of the e-mails the stalker had sent, and I knew that last statement was a lie. The stalking almost certainly had everything to do with me being a writer. It was a wacko fan, that’s all it was. That’s all it had ever been. A wacko, psychotic fan.

  With a knife.

 
; Still, there was no sense worrying Dario over it. We were on our honeymoon, sort of. He was supposed to be happy. I wanted him to be happy.

  I gave him a cheering wink and nudged his leg under the bar with my knee.

  Dario’s expression mellowed. He took another bite of taco, then washed it down with a swig from his complimentary Corona. His eyes grew determined yet again, taking me by surprise.

  “You have to tell Detective Stone.”

  “About what?”

  Dario huffed in annoyance. “About Chaz. At least let them check the guy out.”

  “No,” I said. “I can’t do that. I won’t. He’s not the one we need to worry about. I know he isn’t.”

  Dario stared at me for a long moment, after which he reached beneath the bar and laid his hand on my leg, gave it a gentle squeeze.

  When he spoke, his words were so softly uttered, I could barely hear them. “This isn’t settled. We’ll talk about it tomorrow. Tonight we have other priorities.”

  My heart gave a quiet thud. “Oh, goodie,” I whispered back.

  WE STAYED at Sombreros until Dario’s fellow employees were ready to throw us out on our ear. We had both consumed too much alcohol, but after the ordeal with Chaz, I figured we deserved a little frivolity. If I thought my new lover was cute when he was sober, it was nothing compared to when he was sillyass tipsy.

  Even the thought of a stalker shadowing our every move was lost in the buzz of too many beers, too many margaritas, and way too much testosterone cluttering up our systems.

  We stumbled out of the restaurant as the Gaslamp nightlife was getting into full swing. Fireworks lit the sky over Petco Park a few blocks away, probably heralding another loss by the Padres. Nearer at hand, the sidewalks were packed, the cars bumper to bumper on the street, and music blasted from a live stage a couple of blocks over for some event or other. The band was so loud Dario and I could barely hear ourselves jabbering on about how much we loved each other.

  New relationships are a hoot.

  Passing in front of a Broadway diner, which was packed to the gills on this Friday night, I spotted a heavyset woman in a black-and-white polka-dot dress sitting at the counter facing the window looking out on the street. She wore a huge bow on the top of her head, and she had a tray in front of her with two foot-long hot dogs and a mountain of fries sitting next to a gallon-sized soda. A slice of chocolate cake waited in the wings on a tiny paper saucer.

  It was my autograph hound from a couple of months back.

  Dario and I walked within two feet of the window, and by sheer luck, she glanced up as we strolled past. Her face lit up when she saw me, and she raised a hand, wiggling her fat fingers in greeting. I waved back and hurried on.

  “Who was that?” Dario asked.

  “A fan,” I said, embarrassed.

  We walked in silence for a block while the Friday night revelers milled around us like swarming locusts. When we were halfway home, Dario pulled me into a shadowy doorway. He eyed the crowds milling past for a second, then centered his attention solely on me. I was standing there idly plucking at his sleeve, waiting for whatever it was he wanted to say. He looked so sincere, so desperately in need of getting it all off his chest. How he felt, how we had come together, how our lives were being affected by the way we cared about each other.

  He had to yell to be heard above the Gaslamp roar, and still I was forced to press my ear to his lips.

  “Do you think there’s a reason people come into our lives, Robert? Or do you think we plow into people like bumper cars, sticking to some, ricocheting off others? Ripping a bumper off one, leaving a few dents on the next one that comes along? Losing a headlight ourselves now and then? Or maybe a door handle? Do you think it’s all random?”

  I bit back a laugh. “You don’t drink much, do you?”

  His dimples didn’t flash. His snow-white teeth didn’t make a merry appearance. He simply stared back at me, waiting for an answer.

  I heaved a sigh and tried to gather my drunken thoughts. “I don’t know, baby. Maybe it’s a chemical thing. Maybe attraction is all biology. Chromosomes, hormones, testosterone. A burst of macromolecules on the DNA strand lighting up a flurry of synapses which goes right to the dick and stays there.”

  Dario’s face fell. “So you don’t believe in romance.”

  I slid a finger along the side of his neck, studying the colors in his eyes, the curl of his long dark lashes, the furrow of worry scarring his perfect forehead. “Dario, since I met you, I’ve believed in nothing but romance.”

  He tilted his head into the touch of my fingertip. “That’s better,” he said, stepping closer to press his body to mine, ignoring the passing mob studiously ignoring us. “We can go home now,” he whispered in my ear. “I want to make love to my new lover.”

  “At last,” I whispered back, my cock already getting a swelled head just thinking about it. And I mean that literally. Hand in hand we headed for the condo.

  We didn’t speak another word as we wove a path through the reveling crowds. In the entryway to my building, we nodded at a couple leaving as we went in, but still we didn’t speak—not to them, not to each other. In the elevator, as the well-greased Otis machinery hauled us quietly up to the condo, no words were uttered. At the front door, as I fumbled with the key, Dario stood at my side, his hand in my back pocket, the scent and heat and nearness of him driving me crazy.

  The moment I pushed the door open, a screaming wail surged out to greet us. The sound was so unexpected, so horrific, Dario and I froze on the threshold like a couple of ice sculptures. The little hairs on the back of my neck crawled around like termites on a rotten log.

  The piercing wail repeated itself. It was all I could do not to stuff my fingers in my ears to block it out. Goose bumps shot up all over my body. And they weren’t the good kind either.

  Dario gasped. “What the fuck is that noise?”

  We stepped warily inside, and again that horrible caterwauling howl of misery tore through the air. It took me a minute to GPS my way toward the source of the sound. When I did, I rushed across the room, with Dario matching me stride for stride. He had figured out where the cries were coming from the very same moment I did.

  The balcony. The cries were coming from the balcony. And they weren’t human cries. They were feline.

  Clutch was in trouble!

  I switched on the porch light and rushed out onto the balcony.

  “Look!” Dario cried, and it was then that I saw it. A length of twine had been knotted around the railing. It draped over the top rail and dangled down the side of the building. The twine was taut and jerking around as if a heavy weight hung from the end of it.

  For one horrible moment, I thought I might puke.

  We rushed to the railing and looked over. There, a few feet below, dangling twenty-three floors up, was a pillowcase tied shut with binder’s twine, and inside the pillowcase swinging freely in midair was ten pounds of pissed-off pussycat, hissing, screaming, clawing at the sack, and trying to get out.

  Even as we watched, I saw the pillowcase slip a couple of inches through the knot in the twine. Thanks to Clutch’s frantic efforts to free himself, the makeshift bag was about to come free from the only thing holding it aloft.

  And when it did—

  Dario saw what needed to be done quicker than I did. He carefully gripped the twine, wrapping it around his hand so it wouldn’t get away from him, and slowly began easing the bag up along the outside of the building. As the bag reached the top balcony railing, close enough for us to grab, Clutch let out with another furious scream, and in that second the pillowcase slid loose from the knotted twine.

  It was only by sheer luck that I snatched the pillowcase out of the air before it tumbled twenty-three floors to the street below—with Clutch inside! Trying to manage the squirming bag, I lost my footing and fell backward. I landed so hard I knocked the wind out of my lungs and skinned both elbows, but I still had the pillowcase clutched to my chest.


  “Ouch,” I said, after I caught my breath.

  Dario dropped to the floor beside me, and together we shook Clutch out onto the balcony floor between us. With every hair on Clutch’s body standing at full attention, he was three times the size of a normal cat. His eyes were mean little slits, and his whiskers were all frazzled and bent from his having been stuffed inside that damn pillowcase for God knows how many hours.

  When he saw us, he was too keyed up to say howdy. A thank-you was the farthest thing from his mind. He spit, hissed, growled, and gave himself a shake, all the while dribbling pee on the floor, then took off for the living room, where he immediately did a Greg Louganis jackknife and dove under the couch with a final gonad-shriveling screech.

  Dario and I gaped at each other, but it was Dario who spoke the words first—the words we were both thinking.

  “It’s Chaz, Robert. I know you don’t want to believe it, but it’s true. Chaz is the one who’s doing this.”

  It broke my heart, but I had no choice. I closed my eyes and groaned, “I think you may be right.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  I YANKED my cell phone out of my pocket and speed-dialed Chaz’s number. Thank God for speed dial. My hands were shaking so badly I doubted I would have been able to hit the right keys if I had to punch it in digit by digit. Dario and I squatted on the living room floor. He was hunkered down in front of me with his cheek pressed into the carpet, making kissy noises while he groped around under the sofa. I could only assume he was giving Clutch some much-needed solace. I didn’t hear any purring coming from the shadows under the couch, but at least the growling had stopped. Clutch would probably need massive therapy and a jar of tranquilizers after this. Like I wouldn’t.

  Dario rose up with a grunt and watched me with wide, frightened eyes while I listened to Chaz’s phone ring and ring and ring in my ear. Chaz wasn’t picking up. The prick. Since he never went anywhere without his cell phone, I knew the psychopathic jerk simply didn’t want to talk to me. Maybe he was finally coming to his senses. Maybe he was starting to regret everything he’d done.