The Definitive Albert J. Sterne

by Julie Bozza

  When they reached the hotel entrance, the younger man came to an abrupt halt and cast a defiant glance at Albert. “Let’s talk money, princess.”

  Albert let a beat go by. “That endearment at least had the benefit of surprise. How much do you propose charging for further blandishments?”

  The kid looked askance at Albert, and said, “Depends what you want to do, and how long it takes.”

  “Nothing out of the ordinary, and maybe an hour or two.”

  “Fifty.”

  “Cheap, aren’t you?”

  The sullenness grew irritated. “What the hell is your problem, princess?”

  Albert didn’t break the silence. Instead he indicated the hotel with a nod of his head, and led the way through the foyer. Within moments he was standing just inside the door to the shabby room he’d rented, watching the hooker glance around in much the same way as Albert had when he’d first entered.

  It wasn’t that he didn’t know what he wanted, or that he was unsure of the mechanics of it all, but Albert lacked the experience to know just how to proceed with this boy. Albert’s one vanity was a wish never to lose his dignity. That was proving damnably difficult right now - he had an overwhelming need, and was vastly unsure how to go about meeting it. He started by saying, “Tell me your name.”

  The boy looked at him, giving little away. “Rick. Ricardo.”

  “Mine is Albert.”

  “Really?” The laughter did nothing to ease the atmosphere, though it was friendly enough. “I guess you didn’t make that up.”

  “I wouldn’t bother lying to you.”

  “Yeah, yeah, I know, I’m not important enough to lie to. Well, get down to business, or talk for two hours - it still costs fifty.”

  “I can imagine places more conducive to conversation, if that was my intent.”

  “So, are you coming over here? Or do you have a kink for doing it against the door?”

  Silence again. Albert watched as Rick paced closer. All the biological knowledge in the world, all his experience in analyzing human behavior, couldn’t have prepared him for this, Albert knew, though he resented the fact. He absently catalogued the physical effects of Rick’s presence: a light sweat; a terrible trembling trying to invade his limbs; helium in the space that his brain used to occupy. Why should this unnerve him, when facing down the FBI’s Most Wanted was so easy? There was little sense to it.

  Then Rick’s hands were sliding up the front of Albert’s shirt onto his shoulders, running firmly down Albert’s arms, pushing his jacket off as they went. Smooth, Rick caught up the jacket before it fell, casting it across the nearby chair. Then the hands began to slowly but insistently work at the belt and fly of Albert’s trousers.

  “You’re very practiced,” Albert said. “How many thousand men has it been?”

  “Enough to pay the rent,” was the mild reply.

  “Women, too?”

  “If they have the money, I don’t argue. More men than women, though.”

  The hands reached up to loosen Albert’s tie, pull it free. It was tossed to land by the jacket. And then Rick leaned in closer, hands sliding to Albert’s waist. Their faces were no more than a breath apart now. As Albert leaned his head back against the door, Rick followed him, his lips ready. But when Albert neglected to seek a kiss, Rick instead offered the caress of skin against skin, gently rubbing his face against Albert’s cheek, then his throat, stretching and twisting like a cat. Albert let out a helpless groan.

  Still taking his time, the younger man began to ease lower, his face and hands chasing down sensation. Albert found the rates of his heart and his breathing almost alarming. It was all far, far too much.

  “No,” he said. But his trousers and shorts were already dropped to his thighs, and Rick was kneeling on the floor. “No.”

  “Hey, you’re ready for me.” The voice was edged with impatience.

  And the mouth engulfed him before Albert could think of any other way to delay this. Wet warmth, hot pressure. The skilled sweep of a tongue. Fingers searching.

  Albert reached to fit his hand at the nape of Rick’s neck, the sheer sensuality of it all shaking him, the craving in him letting loose. For one moment, he ruthlessly held the boy in place and thrust deeper into his mouth - and then it happened. The white hot gold of orgasm suffused him. Albert cried out, and surrendered.

  The sensations were still echoing through him when Albert opened his eyes and frowned down at the boy.

  “You certainly were ready for me, huh? That didn’t even take a minute.”

  “You surprised me,” Albert said wryly.

  “So, you want to pay up for another round?”

  “If you think I’m satisfied with that for fifty dollars, you’re gravely mistaken.”

  “I must say, most of my clients manage a little more control.”

  “I must have been overcome by your manifest charms.”

  “Sure you were.” Rick gave him a sour grin, stood up. Although it was Albert who was half naked, his remaining clothes in disarray, it was Rick who seemed embarrassed. “What next?”

  Albert reached to run his knuckles down the boy’s cheek. It had been a couple of days since Rick had last shaved, though the re-growth was soft. Judged purely objectively, with the gauntness fleshed out and the eyes no longer betraying his addiction, Rick would be considered handsome. More importantly to Albert, the boy was smart, curious. And, when he forgot to play the obedient little hooker, he was sharp. “You have your charms,” Albert said. “You have as many capabilities and possibilities as any other human being.”

  “You think so,” Rick said flatly, uninterested.

  “I love you.”

  Rick eyed him as if Albert had told him he was visiting from Mars. Silence for a few heartbeats. “A few years ago,” the boy finally said, “maybe I would have high-tailed it out the door, hearing that.”

  “But now you’re older and somewhat wiser. You don’t scare quite so easily. Perhaps you’re even listening to me.”

  “What do you want, Albert?”

  “What do I want? To lose my virginity in style. Whatever you cost.”

  “Are you -? Shit, no, you’re not kidding. You don’t kid around at all, do you? Jesus.” Rick shook his head as if to settle the knowledge. “I’m honored, or whatever.”

  “I’m not interested in your sentimentality.”

  “Then let’s talk money again, princess.”

  “Another fifty,” Albert said. “That’s more than reasonable.”

  “All right. Tell me what you want - I bet you’ve got this all planned.”

  “Get your clothes off, Ricardo, and come to the bed.” Despite the years of speculation, what Albert wanted this first time was simple enough: the feel of a naked body against his, moving in a dance as old as humanity.

  He lay over the hooker, concentrating on the touch and push of skin against the length of his own skin, arching up, then down again to undulate in complex rhythmic thrusts. Coaxing the flesh below his to mirror his need, letting the Louisiana heat inspire him. Learning all the while.

  At last Rick murmured, “Man, that’s sexy.”

  “You like this?”

  The hooker laughed at the naïvety inherent in the words, the tone. “Of course, you moron. I’m not immune to getting it on with the right guy.” He groaned as Albert bent to meet his mouth with his own, groaned through the inexpert but needy kiss. When they broke apart, Rick panted, “For a hundred, you reckon I should fake it?”

  “No. I want you to shut up and bring that limited attention span to bear on this.” And Albert kissed him again.

  For once, the boy obeyed without question.

  Albert lay on the bed, not bothering to untangle the sheet from his waist. He cast a sharp eye over it, observed with distaste, “Perhaps I should have paid extra for clean linen.”

  Rick, having pulled on his jeans, was sitting in the chair in the corner, smoking a cigarette. The boy lit a fresh one from the butt of th
e last, unaware that Albert’s scrutiny had turned to him. He was lost in his own thoughts. Perhaps he was bored.

  It was fully dark now, and the shabby room was lit only by the lamp beside the bed, the light globe of low wattage. It left the shadows so dull that Albert could barely see Rick’s face, even when the boy inhaled and the cigarette glowed bright for a moment.

  “You’re killing yourself,” Albert said.

  “These things? I’m not going to be around long enough to die from lung cancer.”

  “Exactly. You have the intelligence, the resources to do something with your life. Yet you choose to do this.”

  “Hey, it wasn’t exactly a choice, princess. But, like I said, it pays the rent.”

  “You have choices, Ricardo. You make things happen. You should think about why you’re doing this to yourself.”

  “Huh. If it wasn’t for guys like you, I wouldn’t even have this option.”

  “That’s something I chose to do that I certainly must think about.”

  Rick stared at him for a long moment. “I’ve met some weird people, Albert, and some with crazy kinks to them. But you’re something else again.” He sighed. There was a small bottle of bourbon on the floor beside him that Rick had phoned down for with Albert’s permission. Rick broke the cap open and poured a generous nip into the glass from the bathroom. “Look - I never was very interested in school and the one thing I figured I was good at, they told me I was crap. Then I could never be bothered holding a job down for more than a week. I ended up in reform school, graduated with very little effort to prison, picked up a nice little drug habit. There’s a million like me out there. So, you tell me the answer.”

  “You’re clever enough to work it out for yourself, Ricardo. It wouldn’t mean anything if I simply told you.”

  “Leave me alone, then, damn you. Jesus, no need to tell me hookers have a short half-life.”

  “What’s that? A little graveside humor?”

  Rick stood, started gathering up the rest of his clothes. “You owe me a hundred, G-man. For that, you got to use my body, you even got to insult me, but I draw the line at being psychoanalyzed.”

  “It’s hardly psychoanalysis, you sad little idiot, I’m simply trying to help you see the truth. If you want to kill yourself inch by inch, day by day - you have to at least see that it’s your choice.”

  “No way.” The boy was fully dressed now. “I’ve had this too many times - you’re taking all your problems out on me, just because you hate being queer. Well, I’ve put up with more than a C-note’s worth of crap already.”

  Albert hadn’t moved during this tirade. He said evenly, “I’m sure you’ve experienced what you describe a thousand times, but that’s not what you’re seeing now. You’re deliberately misunderstanding me.”

  “I don’t reckon anyone could understand you if they tried.”

  “Therefore I turn to your cheap charms in desperation.”

  “You bastard.”

  “You did say that for a hundred I got to insult you.”

  “Give me the money, and I’m out of here.”

  Albert climbed from the bed, at ease with his nudity, and took the wallet from his jacket pocket. “Here,” he said, handing over the notes. “I’d give you more, but that wouldn’t help you.”

  Rick let out an exasperated laugh. “Sure it wouldn’t.”

  “Why won’t you see the truth? You take responsibility for your life -” Albert grabbed the boy’s shoulders, spoke fiercely “- you do that, and I’ll help you. But not until then.”

  “Fine.” Rick pulled away, stalked to the door, stuffing the notes into a hip pocket. “Don’t call me, and I surely won’t call you.”

  “Goodbye, whore.”

  “Go to hell, princess.” The door slammed. Albert was alone.

  McIntyre had insisted on accompanying Albert through check-in, and then all but physically dragged him to the airport bar. Albert, having failed to shake the man off, ignored both him and the offer of a drink.

  “I’m in love,” the Irishman declared. “So quit glaring.”

  “If humanity would stop using excuses like that for getting its own way, the world would be much improved.”

  “What the hell do you care about the world?”

  Albert stared at this stupid, sweaty, rumpled man. “If you’re referring to humanity as opposed to the planet, it’s the only thing I care about.”

  McIntyre’s whisky was swallowed in two gulps - he called for another. “What a load of garbage,” he said. “If you care about people so much, why is it your mission in life to make as many of them as miserable as possible?”

  “You’re incapable of grasping the subtleties and the reasons behind what I am.”

  “I honestly have no idea why they recruited you, Albert, or how you got through the assessments.”

  “It was simple: they only had to compare me to mediocrities like you.”

  “But you’re good, that’s the problem,” McIntyre rambled on, letting the insults slide. He had a second opinion on his own merits now, after all. “We wouldn’t have caught that bastard without the work you did.” And he added in a deceptively quiet tone, “Celia was impressed. She said she never would have thought to -”

  “I can do without endorsements from people who are so pathetic as to return your affections.”

  McIntyre grasped his second glass of whisky, and sat in silence for a while. He laughed as he remembered his hidden agenda for this enforced socializing. “I’m heartily sorry to say I owe you one, Albert. After all, there aren’t many people who could make me look good by comparison, but somehow you managed it. Like you said, that’s a turnaround from Quantico - though I don’t know why it surprises me, now I think about it.”

  Albert stared at the man. “You can’t possibly be suggesting I would change my behavior simply to assist your romantic interests. That’s ludicrous.”

  “I never said you did it deliberately. Celia talked about you all night, you know. She said you were to be pitied, that your anger simply indicates -”

  “Dr Mortimer was the least benighted person I had the misfortune to encounter in New Orleans - despite subjecting me to her pop psychology behind my back. I would hardly have promoted the suggestion that she commence a relationship with you.”

  “Yeah,” McIntyre smiled. “She’s one hell of a woman, ain’t she?”

  “You’re impossible,” Albert snapped. And he successfully ignored McIntyre until his flight to Washington was called.

  CHAPTER ONE

  COLORADO

  MARCH 1981

  “Doesn’t this feel like déjà vu?” Special Agent Fletcher Ash asked, the uneasy laugh in his voice betraying the fact he was shaken. Not that Ash ever tried to hide such vulnerabilities.

  Albert Sterne forced himself to turn away from his companion and instead stared out the side window of the four-wheel-drive as trees shrouded in cloud sped by. Ahead, the asphalt road rushed at them, winding out of nowhere, oddly hypnotic. Yet the man’s image remained clear in his mind’s eye. The bare facts did little to describe Fletcher Ash: white male, of Irish descent though born and raised in Idaho; twenty-nine; one-seventy-five; black and blue. The neat features were regular, framed by a strong jaw, not quite handsome. But despite Ash being invariably unkempt, there was a very real presence hinted at by the hot blue eyes, the thick dark mess of hair.

  “Or don’t you ever get déjà vu, Albert?”

  “No, Idaho Joe, I do not. And it is only a form of paramnesia; the result of a misfiring in the temporal lobe. It has no real meaning.” But eventually Albert sighed and said with what he hoped was a pointed lack of interest, “What is it that I am supposed to be reminded of?”

  “Our first case together, five years ago almost to the day. Don’t you remember? I found that body out here in the mountains, too.”

  “I trust you can’t tell me exactly how many of your cases I’ve worked on since then.”

  The uneasiness yielded to a g
enuine chuckle, though Ash’s face remained even paler than usual. “Thirteen, unlucky for some. Not counting my various visits to Washington, of course.”

  “Of course,” Albert echoed, hoping he didn’t sound as alarmed as he felt.

  But Fletcher was laughing outright, which was somewhat reassuring even though Albert suspected he was the butt of the joke. “Had you worried there, didn’t I?” the younger man said. “Thirteen is a guess, I don’t know how many it’s been - probably more, don’t you think? I just wish we could stop meeting like this.”