Declination

by Gregory Ashe

  Three customers were currently visiting the convenience mart: a pair of older women who were currently occupied with the slushie machine, and a kid who was probably fifteen checking out the candy bars. The kid saw North first; his eyes were like dinner plates.

  “Very nice,” Fahad called from the counter. “You are a very handsome man.”

  North charged for the doors.

  “My brother is a very handsome man too. Hold on. I will call him for you.”

  North didn’t look at Fahad. Didn’t look at anything but the doors and, beyond the doors, the gas pumps and the stained concrete pad.

  “He will pay fifty dollars for a handsome man like you. Fifty dollars.” Fahad laughed. “Not like a 100 Grand bar. You are not worth a 100 Grand. Fifty dollars.”

  North almost made it. He was reaching out for the door, fingers almost brushing the sun-infused glass, when he heard a reverent, “Lord Jesus,” and then the unmistakable sounds of a paper cup hitting the tile and slushie slopping out across the floor.

  “Seventy-five dollars,” Fahad called. “He says he will pay seventy-five dollars. I will send him a picture of you.”

  Then North broke out of the store, the cool air of the September day pimpling his skin, the sun a pleasant touch across his shoulders and chest. He felt like he was naked with so much air moving across his body.

  On the concrete pad outside the Phillips 66, North hesitated. The worst part was that he couldn’t just run. He couldn’t sprint down the street to the GTO and drive somewhere and get out of this insane outfit. Part of it was time; everything in this case was accelerating, and the longer Jadon was incapacitated in the hospital, the more likely that he would suffer a second accident—this time, one guaranteed to be fatal.

  But the real reason North didn’t sprint for the GTO, drive back to the office, and change into his UPS outfit was that Shaw had thrown down a gauntlet. And North wasn’t going to back away from the challenge. He was going to see this through. Then he was going to spank the hell out of Shaw’s ass. And then, when Shaw didn’t expect it, North was going to get him back.

  As quickly as he dared move—without spilling out of the shorts—North made his way along the Phillips 66 building to a bank of payphones. He didn’t bother digging loose change out of the duffel bag; he called collect to the Post-Dispatch. When asked to identify himself, North simply said, “Important information for Hilda Coker.”

  Someone must have decided that was good enough because the call was accepted, and a moment later, hold music played. Then a woman’s voice. “Coker.”

  North laid as much camp over his voice as he could manage. “Oh my God,” he squealed. “Oh my God, please, you’ve got to help me. Please!”

  “Who is this? What’s going on?”

  “Please, Ricky gave me your name, he said—he said he told another boy to talk to you. He said you wouldn’t let them get away with it.”

  “Slow down.” Hilda’s voice was still wary, but she was interested too. “Tell me your name.”

  “Lance. Oh Jesus, I can’t—I can’t do this, ok? Never mind. Forget I called.”

  “No, Lance. Hold on. Don’t hang up. What’s going on? What happened?”

  North knew he wasn’t much of an actor; he also knew that tears were much harder to get right than anger. And ever since he’d opened that duffle bag, he’d been channeling a righteous amount of his own anger. “Those fucking pigs. Those sons of bitches. Do you know what Thomas told me? Thomas told me he loved me, that fucking cunt, pardon my language. Thomas said he cared about me. Did he care about me when he had me bent over his fucking cruiser, balls deep while he joked with his closet-case buddies about the next boy they were going to get? Did he love me when he passed me to Randolph and let that piece of shit—” North broke off with a scream and slammed the receiver against the payphone for good measure.

  “Calm down,” Hilda was saying when he put the phone back against his ear. “Lance, I want to help you, but you’ve got to calm down.”

  “Ricky said one of the other boys—”

  “Lance, the first thing I need to know is if you’re safe.”

  As a cool current of September air drifted across North’s back, he asked himself the same question. This wasn’t the best neighborhood, but it wasn’t the worst either, and it was the middle of the day. He glanced up and down the block; for the moment, everything seemed ok, but the longer he pranced around in this fucking getup, the higher his chances were of running into trouble.

  “Yes,” he finally said. “No. I don’t know. One of those pigs could come by here any minute.”

  “Ok. That’s the second thing I need to ask you: are you talking about the police?”

  “Yes, queen. Who do you think I’m talking about?”

  “And you were raped—”

  “Bitch, I am not telling you over the phone with my ass hanging in the breeze. Ricky said to call you, now I call you. Ricky says you’re the one to talk to. Now I’m talking, but I’m not doing this over the phone. I’m doing this safe. Somewhere I pick.”

  “All right, all right. But I just need you to confirm that you were assaulted by the police.”

  “Never mind. I’m hanging up on you. I’ll call another of Ricky’s friends. I’ll call—”

  “Where do you want to meet?”

  “Twinkie Pie’s.”

  “I don’t—”

  “It’s in the Grove, bitch. Be there in fifteen minutes.”

  “I can’t—”

  “I’ve got pictures.”

  Then North hung up. The phone call had gone more or less as he’d hoped, and in fifteen minutes, he’d have Hilda Coker right where he wanted her—in this case, in a gay coffee shop with a lot of dark corners.

  As North turned around, his heart gave a wild thump. A group of men was walking toward the Phillips 66, all dressed in low-slung jeans and tees marked with Lil Yachty and Young Thug and other names North didn’t recognize. All of them wore black bandanas with identical knots.

  North recognized the moment the men noticed him. They stopped each other, and two of them pointed at him. They went back and forth for a while, making comments, laughing. And then they kept coming toward the store.

  “Faggot,” one of them shouted.

  “Get out of here, faggot.”

  “Get the fuck gone, faggot.”

  “Gonna get your ass beat, faggot.”

  “Cocksucking faggot.”

  “Faggot-ass gonna get pounded.”

  But it didn’t go beyond words. The men filed into the Phillips 66, throwing slurs and threatening looks at North, and then they were gone. North grabbed the duffel and took off at a fast walk toward the GTO; the last thing he needed was to fall out of his shorts and get beaten to death on a public street.

  He heard the footsteps behind him too late. He spun around, bringing up the duffel, ready to throw it as a distraction before closing in. He could take one guy. Maybe two. But if they had knives—or guns—everything changed really fast. His best bet would be to throw the bag and take off sprinting, and if his cock hung out, so fucking what?

  Instead of the group of six, though, North saw only one man. He had pulled off the bandana, exposing a tight fade cut into beautiful curls. He was smiling; he had dark eyes.

  “Hey there, princess,” he said with the swagger some guys seemed to have without even realizing it, without affectation or arrogance. “Sorry about my boys.”

  North clutched the duffel to his chest.

  “You’re hot, princess. You’re gorgeous. You know that?” Another of those confident smiles. “What are you doing up here? You know this isn’t a safe place for a pretty thing like you.”

  North suddenly had to fight the urge to laugh; he bit the inside of his cheek and settled for a smile. “Buddy, you’ve got the wrong idea. Sorry.”

  “Princess, there’s only one kind of idea I can have about you. And trust me, sweet thing, it’s th
e right idea. What’s your number? Let me hit you up.”

  “I’m flattered. Really. But I’ve got a boyfriend. Right now I’m thinking about killing him, but most days, we’re pretty happy.”

  “Oh yeah?”

  “Yeah.”

  Those beautiful dark eyes still had a gleam in them; the swagger had gotten some corners knocked off, but it was still there. “Princess, whatever he’s giving you, you aren’t getting enough.” He stepped closer; one of his fingers hooked the fishnet without grazing North’s skin. Every movement was controlled, restrained. Respectful, North realized. Everything was oddly respectful, considering North was dressed like he wanted to be bent over a trash can at the next opportunity. “Zion would treat you right. Zion would treat you just like the princess you are. What do you think about that? What do you want to say to papi?”

  “You’re sweet,” North said. “But I’ve got to go. Work, you know?”

  “Your ass is already working overtime, princess. Why you got to work any more than you are?”

  North grinned. “You’re smooth. I’ll give you that. Won’t your boys wonder what you’re doing?”

  “They know,” the man called Zion said with a shrug. “And they don’t know. That’s how we play it.”

  “Give me your number.”

  “Yeah, girl. You want to hit me up. Hit me up.”

  “No,” North said with a laugh. “I’m not going to hit you up. But you’re smart. And you’re polite. And you treat a guy dressed like a hustler like he might be something else. So give me your number.”

  “And you’ll hit me up. When your skinny-ass boyfriend can’t give it to you, you gonna call Zion.”

  “How do you know he’s got a skinny ass?”

  “Princess, those shorts are giving away your whole game.”

  Laughing again, North got his phone out of the bag and entered Zion’s number. “Last name?”

  “Baby, hit me up a few times. Let’s see how we bash. If you’re as good as you look, I’ll tell you anything you want.”

  “I’m better,” North said, stowing the phone again. “Gotta run.”

  “Love to see that, princess. Love to.”

  A blush climbed North’s face as he turned, sensing Zion’s gaze raking over him, as physical as touch. He got to the GTO and drove east toward the Grove; it wasn’t until he was finding a parking spot that he realized Shaw might have had a good idea with this new costume. North might even have to find a way to work it into his rotation.

  Not that he’d ever tell Shaw that, of course.

  Chapter 19

  NORTH TOOK A TABLE in the back corner of Twinkie Pie’s, under a life-size image of Cher cast in molded plastic. In the early afternoon, the coffee shop was quiet and dark. A small bank of windows at the front offered the only illumination, and back here, under Cher’s fish-eyed gaze, North sat in thick shadows. He cupped his hands around his coffee. Five minutes went by, and then he forgot about holding the coffee and retrieved the American Spirit he had tucked behind his ear, letting the cigarette slide through his fingers before he flipped it around and did the whole thing again.

  “She turns on.”

  The voice startled North; his fingers tightened around the American Spirit. Then he realized it was just the barista, a boy whose ribs showed under the black leather vest he was wearing, his ears wide with gauges.

  “What?”

  “Cher. She turns on.”

  The boy’s eyes moved up and down North, taking in the fishnet tank top all over again. North was used to being checked out. Starting at Chouteau College—maybe even a little before, if he were honest, maybe when he’d done some light cruising in high school and fooled around with guys in Forest Park—North had learned quickly what it felt like to have another guy, or girl, into him. On the whole, he liked the feeling. And also, on the whole, he liked the advantage it gave him. Today was the first day, though, that he felt objectified. And he didn’t like that so much.

  North glanced down and saw an electrical cord running up to the molded plastic. He rolled the feed-through switch, and bulbs lit up the plastic, glowing through the Technicolor palette.

  “You want anything else?” the barista asked, crossing his arms over his thin chest as he approached North’s table. Maybe that pose had worked before, North thought. Maybe it worked on other skinny college boys. “You want something to eat?”

  “No,” North said.

  “Listen, I get off at three—”

  The front door opened; a woman stepped into Twinkie Pie’s, and the barista fixed her with a baleful look before slowly returning to his position behind the counter. North studied the woman as the light framed her against the windows: still toned, still lithe, in a simple linen shirt and khakis that showed she still had an ass. She matched her staff photo from the Post-Dispatch website, and North raised a hand. She waved back and ordered a cappuccino. The barista did a lot of banging and clattering and huffing, but he got it for her. When she picked up the cup and came toward North, the barista watched over her shoulder like she was poaching.

  “This is cute,” Hilda Coker said. “Lance?”

  North shrugged and pointed to the seat. She sat opposite him; up close, he liked her more. She was older than he had thought, the lines around her mouth and eyes exposed. She wore a little makeup, but she wasn’t trying to look thirty or even forty. Her gaze took him in, absorbing, processing. He thought she’d probably been dangerous when she was twenty; now, she was twice as sharp.

  “I like your top,” she said.

  North laughed. “No, we’re not doing that.”

  At the sound of his voice, stripped of the camp he had used on the phone, her eyebrows shot up. “You said a police officer assaulted you—”

  “No. Not that either. We’re going to talk about Anna Dzeko and Jadon Reck and an article you wrote about a man who died in his car a few months ago. Nieman or something like that.”

  For a moment, Coker took this in. Then she pushed back her chair and started to rise. North leaned across the table and caught her wrist. Her other hand dipped into her purse and emerged with a can of pepper spray directed at North.

  “I told my editor where I was going,” Coker said, her voice level. “Scary phone calls won’t do it. Dogshit and nasty pictures won’t do it. Guys dressed like they bend over for it in park bathrooms aren’t going to do it either, so get your hand off me and tell your friends what I said.”

  North released her and said, “Wait. I screwed that up; you got the wrong idea.”

  “Fuck off.”

  “Hold on,” North said, scrambling out of the seat. Coker was still facing him, and she raised the can of spray and took another step backward. “Hold on,” North said again. “We need to talk.”

  “Hey,” the barista shouted at North. “Hey, is she bothering you?”

  Coker’s eyebrows went up. “Am I bothering him? I’m the one holding the can of pepper spray.”

  “Is she bothering you?” the barista asked again, his eyes still on North. “I’ll call the police. Get out of here, lady, or I’m calling the police.”

  “No,” Coker and North said at the same time.

  The barista huffed to himself. North ignored him; Coker was watching North differently now.

  “I’m a private detective,” North said. “I think someone tried to kill Jadon Reck, and now they’re trying to make it look like an attempted suicide.”

  Coker lowered the can of pepper spray an inch. “He’s the cop, the one who got shot in his car?”

  North nodded.

  “And you’ve got something that proves this?”

  “No.”

  “You’ve got something, though?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Look, kid, I’ve got a job to do. I can’t spend it jerking you off in a coffee shop if you don’t have anything for me.”

  In spite of himself, North grinned. “I’ve got something you’ll want. I�
��ve got an exclusive. Your exclusive. Dirty cops, drugs, cover-ups. It reads like a fucking novel. I might even be able to give you a serial killer. But you’ve got to give me what I need first.”

  “What do you need?”

  “As much as you can give me.”

  The can dropped another inch. “An exclusive doesn’t mean much if you can’t give me anything.”

  “You remember the drag queen who was blackmailing closeted men? Or the conversion therapist who was killed? I can give you a hell of a lot. I just need your help putting some of the pieces in place.”

  After another studying look, Coker tossed the spray in her purse. “You’re one of those gay detectives. Is that it?”

  “I’m one of them.”

  “Which one?”

  “North McKinney.”

  “So, North, why are you dressed like you’re hustling on south Grand?”

  “My partner would call that slut shaming.”

  Coker smiled. “It stops being slut shaming when I can see your nipples. And you might want to readjust before you go outside because I can almost see—”

  “Ok,” North said, a flush mantling his chest and throat, and he dropped a hand and tugged.

  Coker was grinning now. “I could be working on a story about the break-ins at police homes all over the city. You dragged me out here, instead. You’re sure a cop didn’t take advantage of you? The way you blush, it’s sweet. I could make a hell of a lot out of your picture and that story.”

  “Somebody took advantage of me,” North said. “And trust me, he’s going to pay for it with a red ass.”

  Coker laughed at that, and the laugh broke the last of the tension between them. They sat, and Coker sipped her cappuccino. North ran the American Spirit between his fingers again, the soft rustle of the paper felt more than heard.

  “You said Anna Dzeko,” Coker said. “Did you know she’s already been arraigned? And made bail, for that matter.”

  The American Spirit slid to a stop between North’s fingers. “Already?”