No Good Deed

by Michael Rupured

  “About Ru—er, James’s death?”

  After the first few times Beau said Rudy instead of James, Philip had stopped correcting him. Names got twisted up all the time. Philip had a way of saying Nancy when he meant Sally, and had never understood why it came out that way.

  “No. She’s got it in her head that I had something to do with the death of someone I barely knew.”

  “What? Are you serious?” Beau rose off the sofa and reached across the coffee table to turn down the volume. “Did they haul you in for questioning? I have nightmares about that.”

  Philip wondered what Beau had done to cause such dreams, but he decided he’d rather not know. “No. I got a phone call asking if I minded coming down to answer some questions. Like you, I assumed she wanted to ask me about James.”

  Ed Ames appeared on the screen in Native-American drag. He was believable enough in the Mingo role, but Philip kept waiting for him to sing “Try to Remember.”

  Beau reached across the coffee table and switched off the television. “Did you call your lawyer?”

  The question surprised Philip. Were the situation reversed, he’d be asking about the victim and why the police believed he was connected. “Oh my. The thought never even crossed my mind.” Besides, he didn’t have an attorney, or even know of one.

  “I know you didn’t do it, but innocence doesn’t always make a difference. Thinking about what I’d do if a kid ever accused me of something has kept me awake many a night. Did she say she’d have more questions for you, or did she thank you for coming down?”

  Again, not the reaction Philip had expected. Perhaps he was projecting his years with James and his dramatic reactions onto Beau. Philip thought back to his conversation with Sergeant White. “Neither really, but she did tell me not to leave town.”

  “Well,” Beau drawled, “sounds like you might want to hire yourself a good attorney.”

  “But I have done nothing wrong,” Philip protested.

  Beau shrugged. “Prisons are full of men who swear they’re innocent. And I can’t imagine any place I’d rather not be. You know what happens to guys like us behind bars.”

  Philip stared at the blank television screen, his mind reeling. Was prison even a remote possibility? Beau was right. His innocence, if it came to a trial, didn’t guarantee a not guilty verdict.

  “What about James’s uncle? The guy in the cashmere coat who came to the funeral. Didn’t you say he’s an attorney?”

  “After the scene when he and his brother came to my apartment? I don’t think so.”

  Beau clasped his hands together in his lap. “From what you said, the father was the one who pissed you off. If anything, the uncle seemed to agree with you.”

  “Yes, you’re right. I suppose he did.” But that didn’t mean Philip wasn’t going to call him. George Walker still had a hand in abandoning the body and the subterfuge to keep James’s death out of the papers.

  “On another subject, I know you’re going to Maryland tomorrow night to stay with your sister. Saturday is New Year’s Eve. Do you want to get together to celebrate?”

  “I don’t know.” Philip had been too distracted by Mary’s looming departure for Milan to think much about making plans to bring in 1967. The reminder he’d soon be saying good-bye to Thad and wouldn’t see him again for months hit him hard. Throw in it being his first New Year’s Eve without James, and Philip saw little reason to celebrate. “I think maybe I’d like to stay in this year.”

  “Perfect,” Beau exclaimed. “We can watch Guy Lombardo and play cards.” He reached over and turned the television back on.

  Beau had a gift for hearing only what he wanted to hear. Philip didn’t have the heart to clarify he meant stay in alone, and he resigned himself to another night in front of the television with handsome, boring Beau Carter. As Mingo rescued Daniel from a trio of fur-clad bad guys, Philip retrieved the newspaper from the coffee table. He’d browsed the front page and national news earlier, but he hadn’t had time to get to the rest.

  He pulled out the local section and gasped. The picture Sergeant White had shown him of the young man from the shelter was front and center on the top of the first page.

  “What’s wrong?”

  Philip scanned the short article but found nothing in it he didn’t already know. He handed the paper to Beau. “Here’s the young man Sergeant White thinks I killed.”

  The color drained from Beau’s face. His hands trembled so much, the paper rustled as he read the article. He stared at the picture for a moment and then jumped up from the sofa. The paper fell to the floor as Beau stepped around the coffee table to retrieve his coat from the back of the chair he’d laid it across when he came in. “I need to go.”

  “So soon?” Philip wondered what had spooked him, but he tried not to let his relief show as he stood. A distracted Beau didn’t seem to have heard the question and was reaching for the door. “See you Saturday.”

  “Yeah. Saturday.” Then he walked out, leaving the door open as he hurried down the hall.

  Chapter Fourteen

  HE DROVE for an hour, thinking about the newspaper article he’d read, wondering if the crime could be tied to him in any way. He enjoyed driving and took to the road whenever he was upset. The gentle purr of the engine and the changing scenery calmed him.

  He turned on the radio. The music comforted him. He liked the sound of the harmonica in the background, like a freight train in the distance.

  The more he thought about it, the more certain he was. They couldn’t trace the body back to him. They didn’t have his fingerprints, and the duct tape he’d used was available all over DC. He relaxed.

  He’d overreacted. He was safe. No reason to worry. No reason at all.

  On his way home he saw him. The young man wore tight-fitting, faded jeans, a leather bomber jacket, and a baseball cap. The jeans accentuated the roundness of his butt and his solid thighs. He liked the boy’s masculine stride and the way his legs were slightly bowed.

  He turned off the radio and eased up on the gas, allowing the Continental to slow without hitting the brakes. The slight movement of the teenager’s hips as he walked commanded his attention. Mesmerized, he stared, wondering whether that firm, athletic butt had hair on it. He wanted to touch it.

  A car length behind the young man, he gave the brakes a light tap and steered closer to the sidewalk. The boy took a big draw from a cigarette and slowly exhaled a thick cloud of smoke, flipping the butt over the fence with a flick of his wrist. The man stopped the car and pushed the button to lower the passenger-side window. “You need a ride, young man?” He took a deep breath to calm himself. “Nobody needs to be out walking in this cold.”

  The rough-looking teen leaned down with his forearms on the door and peered into the car. His jacket was unzipped far enough to reveal a tank-style undershirt and a solid, muscular chest covered with silky black hair up to a shave line at the young man’s neck. His fingers, laced together on the door, were thick, with hairy knuckles. “No, sir. Ain’t going nowhere in particular. What brings you out tonight?”

  He liked the voice—strong, confident. The young man had high cheekbones, a square jaw, an obvious five o’clock shadow even in the dim light of the streetlight, and luminous gray eyes.

  “On my way home from work.” He swallowed and took another deep breath. “Can I at least buy you a Coke or something?” He tried to sound friendly without coming across as desperate. “I know a diner that’s open until midnight. Maybe you’d like something to eat?”

  The young man smiled. “Ain’t really hungry… for food anyway.” The smile deepened into a suggestive grin.

  He read the leer and experienced an immediate stirring in his pants. He swallowed hard. “Oh?” His voice cracked.

  The young man laughed, straightened, and raised his arms high over his head, stretching his long frame. His flat, hairy belly flashed beneath the tank top. “What you lookin’ at?” The young man reached down to his crotch.

>   He watched the young man’s hand and gasped when he clutched the bulge in his pants in a way that proved beyond any doubt that he’d indeed seen what he thought he’d seen. He stared at the boy’s crotch, speechless.

  “You like big dicks?” The young man squeezed again, stroking across the length with his other hand.

  His heart raced and his penis strained against his pants. “Yes,” he whispered, his eyes never leaving the crotch the young man continued to stroke and caress.

  “Oh, then you’re gonna love me.” The young man stepped back to inspect the car and let out a low whistle. “Nice. Guy driving a car like this must have a good job. Give me fifty bucks and I’ll let you see it. Make it a C-note and you can blow me.”

  He unlocked the door. “Get in.” He didn’t care about the money. “What’s your name?”

  “Lanny,” he said. “And first I’ll need to see some green.”

  He reached for his wallet in the pocket of the coat he’d tossed into the backseat and pulled out five twenty-dollar bills, fanning them out like playing cards.

  Lanny snatched the money, slid into the seat, and closed the door behind him. “You got a place?”

  He pulled away from the curb without answering and tried to stay calm.

  “The hotel next to the bus station rents rooms by the hour. It’s worth the extra ten bucks.” Lanny slipped the cash into his pocket. “The way the police have been lately. Sheesh. Just keeps getting harder to make a living.” He removed his hat, placing it on his right knee.

  He glanced across the seat at the rugged young man, admiring his strong jaw and the thick fingers the boy ran through his jet-black hair. “No,” he said. “I know where we can go. A quiet, private spot where nobody will bother us.” He dropped his right hand from the steering wheel onto Lanny’s rock-hard thigh and squeezed.

  LANNY SAT on a crate, closed his eyes, and leaned his head against the concrete overpass. “Man, that’s gotta be the best blowjob I’ve ever had. Most guys can’t even get my dick in their mouth. That was great.”

  “Thanks,” he said. Then he pulled the pistol from his coat pocket, raised it to Lanny’s head, and pulled the trigger. He retrieved duct tape and an old sheet from the trunk of the Continental and returned to Lanny, slumped over with his pants rolled down to his ankles.

  Careful to avoid the blood, he ran his hands under the T-shirt, enjoying the touch of the still-warm hairy chest against his palm. In Lanny’s pockets he found three hundred dollars, a switchblade, several baseball cards, and a gold-and-silver Zippo lighter with the initials L.S. engraved on the front. The money and lighter went into his pocket. The rest he tossed in the river.

  After spreading the sheet out on the ground, he rolled the body onto it, then stopped to grope the now flaccid penis and to run his hands over the hairy ass. Finding rocks big enough to weigh the body down slowed his progress. He wrapped the sheet over the rocks and wound duct tape around the corpse at the neck, ankles, knees, and, with considerable effort, the waist. Grunting, he rolled the bundle down the bank, kicked it into the river, and pushed until it slipped from view.

  Chapter Fifteen

  THE LAST working day of 1966 passed slowly. Philip checked his to-do list. He still wasn’t sure how he’d pulled it off with so much going on in his life, but somehow everything was ready for the January celebration of the Museum of History and Technology’s third anniversary.

  He scanned his project list and saw several things he could do. Any other time he’d have tackled something on his list, if only to stay busy so the rest of the day wouldn’t drag. But he was tired, and his mind was nearly numb—had been, in fact, since Christmas Eve.

  Would Christmas ever be free of the pall cast by James’s death? “Forget me” indeed. If only it were that simple. And if James really had wanted Philip to forget him, then why not wait to take his life another day that wasn’t so burdened with sentiment and memories of times gone by?

  Thinking about it made him angry. No surprise there. Negative thoughts attracted negative emotions. With a shake of his head and a shrug, he resolved to be more positive. Tomorrow was New Year’s Eve and the one-week anniversary of James’s death. Had it only been a week? Surely a month had passed since then. Such were the vagaries of time.

  Memories of those early years with James were new and fresh, like they happened only yesterday. The fall after they’d met, Philip had entered graduate school in the highly respected Archives and Preservation program at the University of Maryland in College Park. For the better part of two years, he and James had lived hand-to-mouth in a tiny roach-infested apartment. James had attended high school during the day and lied about his age to get a full-time job washing dishes nights and weekends. Philip had waited tables at an upscale restaurant three nights a week and studied every waking moment he wasn’t in class. Money was tight. He still wasn’t quite sure how they’d survived. But they had.

  The struggle had strengthened their relationship. They’d learned to trust each other and saw that when they worked together, anything was possible. They’d opened up, relating their hopes and dreams for a future they’d share.

  The timing for the opening of the brand-new Museum of History and Technology couldn’t have been better. He and James agreed the entry-level archivist position Philip had been offered three months shy of his 1963 graduation had made their sacrifices worthwhile. Philip no longer jumped when a riotous chorus of bells, chimes, and cuckoos from dozens of clocks announced the arrival of every half hour. He applied himself with equal ardor to every project, with an attention to detail that had served him well. His pay grade had jumped four levels, and he was being groomed for a curator position. He loved the work too. Who else did he know who could touch Abraham Lincoln’s top hat, the microphone FDR used for his Fireside Chats, and a buckskin coat worn by General George Armstrong Custer?

  Unaccustomed to killing time, Philip arranged the stapler, tape dispenser, paper clip holder, and a cup filled with pens and pencils so they were a uniform distance from the edge of the desk and each other. Then he placed the cover over his typewriter, sat back in his chair, and let his mind wander as he waited for the clocks to strike five.

  He was nervous about his six o’clock appointment with George Walker. The receptionist had put him through when he called, much to his surprise. His willingness to see Philip after regular working hours surprised him even more. He hoped he didn’t regret his decision to call George.

  Philip wondered how his three-day weekend would go. Mary was picking him up at eight to babysit Thad so she and Alex could attend a bon voyage party. He’d declined the party invitation, preferring to spend a few hours with Thad. Besides, he didn’t like the idea of some teenage girl being responsible for his precious nephew. Tomorrow he’d go with them to Baltimore, see them off, and then take the train back to DC for his date with Beau at eight. He’d even cleared the trip with Sergeant White.

  James would have planned something out of the ordinary to make the most of the special occasion. Beau’s plans for New Year’s Eve, however, revolved around the television at Philip’s apartment. After the wild parties he’d attended with James the last few years, watching Guy Lombardo ring in the New Year seemed old-fashioned.

  And for him to think so was saying something.

  Chapter Sixteen

  “YOU WERE wise to contact me, Mr. Potter,” George Walker said from a green leather chair behind an enormous mahogany desk.

  Philip glanced around an office furnished with care to inspire confidence and trust. “Thank you. After my visit with Sergeant White, I thought calling an attorney would be prudent, and you’re the only one I knew.” Philip relaxed. The appointment was going much better than he’d expected.

  George leaned back in his chair and laced his fingers behind his head. “She was trying to shake you up to see if you knew anything. I don’t think she’s got anything on you.”

  Philip again admired the wavy jet-black hair, aquiline nose, and regal demeanor of G
eorge Walker. He took in the man’s Brooks Brothers suit, striped tie, and polished wing tips. “As I have never broken any laws, I hardly see how she could have anything on me.”

  George winced. “I hate to remind you, but everything about your relationship with my nephew was illegal. And as I’m sure you know, homosexuals are not highly regarded by law enforcement or elected officials in this city.”

  Philip flinched but couldn’t disagree. “Will they charge me with Daniel Bradbury’s murder?”

  George shrugged and turned up his palms. “Anything is possible, but I doubt it. I made a few discreet inquiries. DCPD has no interest in devoting any additional resources to this case.”

  “What does that mean?” Philip leaned forward, noticing for the first time that each of George’s gray irises were edged in black.

  George met his gaze. “It means that, at least for now, they have no interest in finding out what happened to the boy.”

  Philip stared at him, speechless. He thought about the attractive young man, his beautiful penmanship, his dream of becoming a writer. “But… what about his family? Don’t they care?”

  George glanced down at his desk and then back to Philip. “According to the police, they say their son died two months ago—when they kicked him out.”

  How many times has this story been repeated? Philip thought about the horrible treatment James had received from his father and hoped his agitation didn’t show.

  George spun the gold wedding band on his finger. “I can’t tell you how sorry I am about everything that’s happened. James’s suicide was a big shock.”

  Philip squirmed in his seat. “I’d prefer we limit our discussion to matters specific to our professional relationship.”