Third You Die (Kevin Connor Mystery)

by Sherman, Scott

  “Maybe. Whatever happened, that was pretty much the end of Lucas’s career in the industry. He appeared in one or two more films and that was it. In his last one I saw, he wasn’t looking too good, either.”

  “No? What do you think it was? Drugs? Did he get sick?”

  “Oh honey.” Freddy patted me on the hand and then squeezed it. “He had a terminal case.”

  Given his line of work, it was tragically probable what had happened to him. “AIDS? I know the studios say they take precautions, but—”

  “No, sweetie, not that. It was heartbreak that did him in. You could see it in his eyes. I believe that boy really did love Brent Havens. I think he’d have done anything to have him. He loved that boy to death.”

  I got back to my apartment around nine. The lights were on and the radio was tuned to a classic rock station. A half-eaten carton of something Chinese was on the kitchen table next to a can of Bud.

  Yes, Budweiser beer. Another reminder that no matter how many times Tony plowed me like the fields of Idaho, he’d always be a straight boy at heart.

  Speaking of which, where was he? I called his name but got no answer. I turned down the radio and heard the shower running.

  Hmmm . . . interesting. I was still kind of worked up from watching Brent’s movies, and the thought of a naked, wet Tony twenty feet away brought me back to full salute.

  It’s amazing how fast you can get naked with the right motivation.

  Twenty minutes later, we were drying off together in the bedroom. “That was a nice surprise,” Tony said, grinning.

  “I figured we might as well get a little more dirty while getting clean,” I explained. “You know me. Mr. Efficiency. Screwing in the shower saves time.”

  “Well, I’m glad you could squeeze me into your busy schedule,” Tony teased. He pulled on a pair of sweatpants sans underwear. It made me flash back to the scene with Brent and Lucas in the dorm room and I started to swell up again.

  “As I recall, you were the one who did the squeezing in.”

  “Apparently, you liked it.” Tony nodded toward the growing proof of my enjoyment. “Again?” he asked.

  “What can I say? You bring out the best in me.”

  Tony sank to his knees and grabbed my ass cheeks. He pulled me toward his face. “Let’s see about that.”

  He took me in his mouth. It had taken a while before our sex was reciprocal in this way. For a time, as long as Tony was the one being done—as opposed to the one doing the doing, so to speak—it helped him maintain his identity as a heterosexual.

  Feeling the heavenly warmth of his tongue and throat, I was glad he’d gotten over it.

  “God,” I said, resting my hands on his shoulders.

  For a guy who’d taken to it late in life, Tony gave a pretty good blow job. Maybe not the most technically proficient, but the contradiction with his natural butchness, the incredible interplay of his back and shoulder muscles working in perfect harmony as his head bobbed, and the fact that I loved him more than I should elevated it to an erotic wonder. Despite the fact that I’d deposited about a gallon of come down the shower drain fewer than fifteen minutes ago, I wasn’t going to last long.

  “Tony, I’m about to . . .”

  He pulled back and finished me off with his hand. While he was definitely making progress, swallowing was not on the menu for him.

  “Whoa!” he said with boyish enthusiasm as my first shot rocketed past his head and on to the bed five feet away. Subsequent jets were of diminishing, but still impressive, velocity and volume. “Guess I really do bring out the best in you,” he said, arching his eyebrows. He looked behind him. “All over the place, apparently.”

  The sight of Tony, who for so long fought against accepting his feelings toward me, on his knees in front of me, in such a submissive position and covered in my spunk, made me a little dizzy.

  “Hey,” he said, noticing my unsteadiness. In a flash of naked flesh, he stood up and scooped me into his arms, holding me under my hips. I wrapped my legs around his waist. Tony could hold me like this for hours without tiring. My Big Strong Man. I hugged him, and the semen I contributed to his chest became a shared deposit.

  “We’re going to need another shower,” he said, kissing me. “Not that I mind.”

  “Or I could do it like a cat.” I wiped my tongue over his neck and disentangled from his embrace. I licked him clean from collarbone to navel, stopping only when something very welcome rose to knock against my chin.

  I grabbed it possessively. “Looks like I’m not the only one available for another feature,” I observed.

  Tony looked down at me in the position he’d been in moments earlier. “I don’t know,” he observed ruefully. “I’ve got a couple of years on you, Kevvy. I’m not so sure I’m up for another show.”

  I waved him in my hand. “You look ‘up’ enough to me.”

  I believe bad puns are only acceptable in sexual settings, where the mental energy needed to craft more sophisticated repartee takes away too much attention from the main event.

  “Guess it depends on how good the show is,” he observed. “What’s the next movie?”

  “Duh,” I said, again not bothering to be clever. “Deep Throat.”

  Unlike my still-evolving lover, I had enthusiasm and technique. I could pull off that title and had no problem swallowing. A few minutes later, Tony was calling my name in a hoarse and climactic shout and neither of us was any messier than when I started.

  Like I said, I’m efficient.

  13

  Men in Blue

  Tony and I walked back to the kitchen, still damp and tingly after our post-shower workout. I looked at the carton he’d left on the table.

  “Anything for me?”

  His brief pause made me think he was going to go for another oral sex joke, but he resisted the cheap shot. “In the frig. I wasn’t sure how late you’d be.”

  Chicken chow fun. One of my favorites. I brought the carton with a pair of chopsticks over to the table and started going through the mail. Bills, bills, bills. I was tempted to throw them away; after all they’d just send more. Then something more interesting, which Tony had opened.

  An engraved invitation.

  The Police Officer’s Public Service Division Invites You to Join Us for Our Annual Hero Awards Ceremony for Meritorious Service. This Year’s Recipients Include . . .

  There, along with nine other names, was Detective Tony Rinaldi. He was signaled out for Detective of the Year.

  My Tony.

  I looked up to see him watching me with a pleased, expectant expression.

  I jumped into his lap and smothered him with kisses. “This is incredible! What an honor!” Then I pulled back. I had no idea what these awards were . . . Maybe everyone got one. I regarded him with concern. “This is good news, right?”

  Laughing, Tony squeezed me tighter. “Yes, it’s great news. They really are very prestigious. Proud of me, baby?”

  “So proud,” I asserted, squeezing back.

  “I could never have done it without you,” Tony said.

  “That’s sweet of you,” I said, a little dismissively. “You know what they say, ‘Behind every great man is another pretty good one.’ ”

  “No, literally.” Tony put his hands on my shoulders and pushed me back until he could meet my eyes. “A major reason I got this was for my work on the Harrington case. But you’re really the one who cracked that open.”

  After having spent years apart, Tony and I were reunited when he was the lead investigator of my friend Allen Harrington’s murder. Although it was true I had done a lot of the legwork on the case (and by “legwork” I mean stumbling over my own two feet on my way to accidentally stumbling over the truth), in the end, Tony saved my life when I found out that confronting murderers wasn’t quite the cakewalk one might think it would be. Turns out they’re not the easiest people to get along with, and their social skills leave a lot to be desired.

  Due to man
y complicating factors, not the least of which was my lack of desire to be exposed to the world as a male prostitute, I worked hard to keep my name out of the story and direct all possible credit to Tony for breaking the case. When the murder turned out to be not just an isolated incident but part of a bigger and deadlier conspiracy, Tony’s profile was further elevated.

  As far as I was concerned, he deserved all the credit in the world. He was a great cop: caring, hardworking, and unafraid to put his own life on the line in the service of others. Yeah, it just so happened he’d collaborated with me on solving Allen’s murder, but there were many other, lower-profile cases that didn’t make the papers but which brought justice to those who most needed it.

  “Please,” I told him, “if you hadn’t figured out what I’d gotten myself into, I wouldn’t even be alive today. As far as I’m concerned, it’s the untold parts of the story that most qualify you as a ‘hero.’ At least to me.”

  Tony ran his thumb over my lips. “How do you always manage to say the nicest thing?”

  “I follow my heart.” I nipped at his finger.

  Tony ran his hand through my hair as I scanned the rest of the invitation. The seats ran $500. Not all of them, mind you, just one.

  No disparagement to the Police Officer’s Public Service Division, but, apparently, I wasn’t the only whore in Tony’s world. What the hell, I’d like to know, were they serving for $500 a plate? Maybe I should get into the catering business.

  Luckily, the card explained, As a recipient of an Award, you will receive two complimentary tickets. We hope you will share this important evening with the loved one of your choice.

  While a small portion of my attention went toward continuing my discussion with Tony about what a great honor this was and how excited I was for him, the major part of my ADHD-adlled, multitasking mind was pondering the question that has preoccupied gay men on occasions like this since time immemorial: What Will I Wear?

  The invitation called for “business attire,” but that wasn’t as clear as it sounded. I wanted to don something tasteful, but not too dull. I had half a closet of conservative Brooks Brothers suits I used to wear to visit some of my escorting clients (either because it was their fantasy to screw a young Republican or because I needed to pass as one to fit in at their apartment/restaurant/hotel), but all of that seemed too boring and generic for Tony’s dinner.

  I also had some fetish-wear from the old days, but, while I did wear it for work, I was pretty sure it wasn’t the kind of “business attire” that’d be appropriate. Disregarding what anyone else thought, I doubted Tony would appreciate my wearing leather chaps, a Catholic schoolboy’s uniform, or gold lamé shorts. Well, at least not to his event.

  My work attire these days was pretty casual. Consisting mostly of polo shirts in the summer and sweaters in the winter, it also Would Not Do.

  Which all led me to one exciting conclusion: I had to go shopping.

  I’d have to bring Freddy. He’d enjoy it even more than I would. I’m a bit of a fashionista, but Freddy made me look like someone who’d consider the men’s clothing at Walmart the height of haute couture. He could tell the difference between a Giorgio Armani, Hugo Boss, or Ansell Darling suit at five hundred paces. Plus, his taste was impeccable, and he had a way of flirting with salespeople that not only got us the most conceivable attention but the best possible price. For a man who looked his best naked, Freddy knew a lot about how best to cover up.

  I was imagining how excited he’d be to paw through the racks of Bloomingdales with me when the part of my brain that was listening to Tony alerted me that I was wasting my time.

  “. . . especially after all we’ve been through,” Tony was saying, “I think it would be for the best. Don’t you? I think it would mean so much for her to be there.”

  He was talking about his mother. Ever since he’d told her about his divorce, she’d been cold and withdrawn from him. Tony came from a religious family where you stayed married no matter what the problems were. Infidelity, spousal abuse, incarceration: None of these were good enough reasons to put asunder what God had joined together, or some such thing. Even though it was Tony’s wife who’d initiated the separation, his mother held it against him.

  While a part of me enjoyed knowing it wasn’t only Jewish mothers like mine who tortured and manipulated their children with guilt, my heart broke for Tony. He truly loved his mother, and, in his typical good-guy, Boy-Scoutish, has-to-be-perfect, rule-following way, he couldn’t deal with disappointing her.

  Not that he’s ever talked about it. Tony wasn’t exactly the type to go on about his feelings.

  His bringing her to the awards dinner, I knew, would mean a lot to her. He needed to give her an opportunity to be proud of him. They both needed it.

  Tony’s decision made perfect sense. His distance from his mother had to be causing him pain, even if he kept it to himself. Maybe sharing that evening with her would help heal the rift between them.

  That would be good for me, too. I wanted Tony to be open with his family about us. Maybe seeing him win this accolade for his professional dedication and achievement would help them understand he was still the same person, with the same high morals and ethical standards, no matter who he loved.

  Sure, it would have been nice had Tony chosen me to take to dinner. It would probably be one of the most important nights of his life, and part of me felt I should be the one to share it with him. But, big picture, his decision had the potential to do more good for our relationship than any one evening. If I were mature about it, I had to admit it was a win for me, too.

  So, why did I feel like I’d suffered such a loss? Everything Tony said made sense. I even agreed with it.

  Yet I couldn’t shake the nagging doubt that if I were a girlfriend, I’d be there with him. That Tony’s bringing his mother as his “date” had less to do with her than with me. It was just another example of my being the Dirty Little Secret.

  Was that true? Or just another example of my being self-centered, thinking everything Tony did was a referendum on “us”?

  Did it even matter? Supposedly, I’d come to terms that Tony needed time to accept being with a man. So, why was I comparing him to Kristen LaNue earlier and why was I questioning his motives now? I expected him to love me openly and unconditionally, but did he get that from me?

  As Tony continued to explain—defend?—his decision, I tried to be encouraging. I said every supportive, self-sacrificing thing I could think of, never letting on I was hurt.

  “You and your mom enjoy your five-hundred-dollar dinners,” I told him at one point. “Having spent half her life raising a pain in the ass like you, god knows she deserves it.”

  When it doubt, keep it light. Or a little dirty. “But when you come home,” I said, leeringly, “you’re mine. And you and I will celebrate your accomplishment in bed. Deal?”

  Tony beamed, looking relieved and grateful. He had to have known I’d expect to be his date. My letting him off the hook so easily probably came as a surprise. A welcome one, at that.

  It was a gift I was willing to give him. At least, tonight I was. But tomorrow, or next week, or next year, I was going to need him to start giving back.

  If there was one thing I’d learned working the sex trade, it was that love, in any form, comes at a cost. The guys who paid me a couple of hundred dollars to feel cared for got off cheaply. Real love was paid in sacrifice, compromise, and the willingness—no, the desire—to put someone else’s happiness above your own.

  No matter how hard it was or how far it took you out of your comfort zone.

  Would Tony be willing to pay that price?

  Would I be willing to wait?

  14

  Total Corruption

  The next day I was in Andrew’s office reviewing the week’s schedule when my mother burst in waving a piece of paper.

  Holy déjà vu, Batman.

  “Did you see this?” she shouted.

  Andrew looked paine
d. I could see he was trying to find a polite way to talk her off the ledge.

  Happily, I didn’t have to be as diplomatic. While I hated to think of myself as the beneficiary of nepotism, there were certain informalities awarded to me by being the star’s son. One was being able to do things that would be completely inappropriate for any other staffer.

  So, not wanting to play the “Guess What I’m Waving Frantically in Front of Your Face” game again, I just snatched the sheet from her hand.

  It was a Xeroxed article from that morning’s New York Times. My mother actually brought three copies, which was uncharacteristically organized and thoughtful. I credited her assistant. I handed one to Andrew, another back to my mom, and sat down to read the third.

  As the story had nothing to do with my mother, I wasn’t sure why she’d brought it in. It was a powerful article, though.

  We typically think of easily visible child abuse as taking place in lower-class, less-educated communities. Wealthier parents in “better” neighborhoods are subtler in the ways they torture their children. Hence, the thriving psychoanalytic practices on the Upper West Side.

  This feature, however, described the case of a couple, the Merrs, in one of the city’s most exclusive condominiums, who adopted a child through a private agency two years ago. The infant had never been taken to a doctor or, for that matter, been seen outside of the apartment. His existence was basically unknown until neighbors began complaining about what they thought was a cat screaming for hours on end. The closer ones also contacted the building’s management about an objectionable smell they thought was coming from the walls. “I thought a rat died in there,” said one.

  The Merrs were what you’d call a “power couple.” He was the director of the Oncology Unit of one of the city’s largest hospitals. He was also an author and highly sought-after speaker on his specialty—the connection between stress and various forms of cancer. It was a popular topic, easily understood in layperson’s terms, and Merr dumbed it down further. I’d seen him once or twice and disliked his blame-the-victim approach. His message could have been hopeful and inspiring, but he came across as mean-spirited and blameful. It’s your fault you’re sick. His most consistent claim was that tumors were the result of unexpressed anger, which grew in your body in the form of tumors. More on that later.