by Bobby Byrd
“Fuck it,” said Willet. “Wouldn’t spontaneous human combustion be covered under the ‘Act of God’ clause?”
“Obviously you’re joking, but it sure as hell isn’t moral hazard, either,” said Carney. “Who files for homeowner’s damage and claims it was moral hazard? We didn’t force them to take out a policy. I didn’t shove an M-80 up that dude’s ass. Maybe the wife did it.”
“She was in Mexico,” said Lamont. “And you’re a little too stoned for this time of day.”
“You’re right,” said Carney. “I need a couple weeks off. Somewhere good, where the sun shines all day and there’s no thunderstorms or tornados. They say Bali is nice.”
“Two words,” said Willet. “Tidal waves.”
“One word,” said Lamont. “Suicide. Can you imagine a guy so full of self-hate and loathing that he’d douse himself with lighter fluid and torch himself? And why didn’t anything else in the room burn? Why didn’t his feet burn up?”
“Fuck, man, it’s just the dynamics of fire,” said Carney. “The body burns up like a candle because of the fat content. When the fire uses up all the oxygen in the room, it goes out. In this case, there was just enough for it to burn down to the feet. Air currents in the room cause the heat to rise to the ceiling and melt the TV. No mystery to it. What about Isla Mujeres?”
“My girlfriend and I went there,” said Willet. “We loved the place. But you might as well forget all about it, Carney.”
“Why?”
“Because with this kind of backlog and the hiring freeze, we’re still gonna be wading through cases by the time hurricane season hits. We’ll be working like dogs till we’re wrinkled and gray, like old Rickstein.”
“Frankly, Willet,” said Carney, “I’d rather burst into flames.”
They howled and giggled for several minutes. As they passed around the crime scene photos of the incinerated executive, their mirth gradually faded. Finally, Lamont put the photos back in the file and they quieted down and the color began to leave their inflamed cheeks and they went back to work.
They worked quietly and semidiligently until deep in the night. Even when Willet accidentally set the timer on the microwave oven for two extra minutes and the bag of popcorn burned until the stench stung their noses, no one said anything.
BOTTOMED OUT
BY DEAN JAMES
Dallas
Jared Lakewood opened the door to his new walk-in humidor and smiled. He had maxed out his last two credit cards and cratered his savings account to have it built and to stock it properly, but his holiday bonus would probably cover it all. Two months to sweat out the payments, and then he’d be clear.
He surveyed the shelves of cigars. Twelve hundred, numerous varieties, minus the five he had smoked over the past couple of days. At the rate he smoked—usually five a day—he would burn through them in less than a year. He would restock long before he reached that point though.
He selected one of his favorites, a La Gloria Cubana Serie R No. 7 Maduro, and took it with him back into the living room. He clipped and lighted the cigar before pouring a double shot of Talisker single malt. The contents of his liquor cabinet were another hefty expense, but worth it, he reflected as he sipped the Talisker and smoked his cigar.
Jared went to the window and gazed down Turtle Creek Boulevard at nighttime. He loved the view of Dallas from here, and he was only a few blocks from work.
He thought about his father. Today would have been the old man’s sixty-fifth birthday. He had died seven years ago while Jared was in college, working two jobs to pay his own way through school.
Jared raised the glass of Scotch at the window. “Hope you’re still roasting in hell, you bastard.” He took another drink before drawing on his cigar. He watched smoke swirl into the air.
The old man would shit his pants if he could see his only son now. Andrew Lakewood had barely scratched out a living on his Georgia farm. His disowned faggot son brought down more money a year than Andrew probably had made in twenty years of backbreaking, soul-destroying labor.
Living well was the best revenge, Jared thought. If his dad were alive, he’d rub the asshole’s face in it. Especially if the old man needed money. Jared could laugh at him and tell him to fuck off.
Thoughts of his father invariably brought back the memories he wished he could erase. The beatings started when he was seven. They didn’t stop until Jared, at seventeen, told his father he was gay. After that Andrew wouldn’t touch him, afraid of the blood.
He had no contact with his parents once he left for college in Houston. His father never wanted to see him again. His mother was too worn down to object.
Jared’s head throbbed. The images burned into his brain, taunted him until he wanted to smash his hand through the glass of the window before him.
Instead he gulped down the rest of the Scotch in his glass and went back to the liquor cabinet for a refill.
Sometime later, thanks to the liquor and the cigar, Jared would feel calmer. Now, however, his thoughts turned to sex. He had no time for hookups during the week, but on Friday night he was more than ready to find a partner for the evening.
He changed into his leathers, feeling his adrenaline surge a bit. Tall, muscular, handsome, he always had plenty of guys hitting on him. In the elevator, he frowned at a young couple who got on a couple of floors after him. They eyed his leathers and didn’t look too thrilled to be cooped up with him.
Fuck you, he thought. He didn’t apologize to anyone about being gay. Nor about liking his sex rough. Fuck them if they can’t handle it.
Down in the garage he slid into his Porsche Boxster. Only ten payments to go, and it was all his. He guided the Boxster out of the garage and down the street. Destination: the Eagle, his favorite leather bar.
When he awoke around one on Saturday afternoon, Jared smiled. He felt great. Sessions like the five-hour one last night always put him in a good mood. The guy he brought home from the bar—Marcus? No, Martin, funny accent, maybe German?—had been an amazing bottom, willing to take all the pain Jared could inflict. He’d like to get his hands on Martin for another round, but the pig would need some time to heal before he could play like that again.
After some lunch he fired up a cigar, poured a little Scotch, and sat down to look over his bills. By the time he finished, he had a roaring headache. Dealing with his finances always affected him this way. In a couple more months, though, he could ease things up with his bonus. No sweat.
On Monday morning as Jared drove through the garage to the street exit, he glanced over at the elevator where a tall man was stepping out. The glimpse he had was only a brief one, but Jared could have sworn the guy was Martin, his trick from Friday night.
He had to be seeing things. He’d kept the guy blindfolded on the drive home, until they were safely inside his apartment. Same procedure when he drove the guy back to the bar afterward. There was no way the trick could have figured out where he lived. Jared shrugged. Couldn’t be the same guy.
He pulled into the street and drove the few blocks to work. He could have walked, but he took the car whenever he could.
He exited the elevator on his floor at work at eight-thirty. As he passed the break room on the way to his office, he glanced inside. Peter was there, chatting away with Amy Conover, executive assistant to the CEO.
Jared shook his head. He never had to indulge in gossip himself to find out what was going on in the firm. Peter always did it for him.
A few minutes later, Jared looked up from his computer to see Peter advancing with a cup of coffee. His assistant set it down on the desk in front of him before taking a seat nearby.
Jared sipped at the coffee while Peter launched into the day’s schedule. Peter was efficient; Jared had to give him that. Hardworking too, though inclined to whine a bit when Jared asked him to do personal errands for him. But Peter didn’t dare refuse outright. He knew Jared would find a way to make him pay for it if he did.
The schedule finish
ed, Peter sat there staring at Jared, obviously bursting with gossip.
“Okay, what’s the big news?” Jared leaned back in his chair and drank his coffee. If he didn’t let Peter yammer away about whatever it was, he’d be sulky all day long.
“Some guy from the European division is here. Big corporate honcho, some kind of troubleshooter,” Peter said, eyebrows arching. “They’re saying that McCallister”—the CEO of the Dallas division of the energy company—“brought him in especially to shake things up. Amy says the board isn’t happy with the Dallas office, and there are going to be some changes.”
“Big whoop,” Jared replied, unimpressed. “They’re always complaining about something.” He was one of the top performers in his division. And one of the youngest. They’d be making him an executive VP soon, he figured.
“I don’t know,” Peter said with the know-it-all grin that irritated the fuck out of Jared. “I wouldn’t be too sure about that.”
Jared stood to pull some keys from his pocket. He threw them across the desk at Peter, who caught them deftly. “Sometime this morning I need you to pick up my dry cleaning. You can drop it off at my place on the way back.”
Peter rolled his eyes, and Jared ignored him. Jingling the keys for a moment, Peter sat there. Abruptly, he stood. “I wouldn’t get too complacent if I were you, Mr. Lakewood, sir. After all, your numbers have been down for two quarters now.”
With that he flounced out of Jared’s office.
“Bitch.” Jared flung the word after his assistant, but Peter didn’t respond. The door shut firmly behind him.
Jared turned back to his computer. He tried to shrug off Peter’s barb, but it had found its target. His numbers had been down, despite his best efforts, and for a moment he felt uneasy. But then his usual confidence reasserted itself, and he dismissed the thought. Peter was needling him because Jared was making him pick up his clothes.
Jared focused on his work. He had a meeting at ten he needed to be ready for. That was far more important than his prissy queen of an assistant.
Peter lingered over lunch at his favorite restaurant a few blocks from work. If the arrogant prick sent him on personal errands, then he shouldn’t complain if his assistant spent over an hour to eat his midday meal. Besides, Peter enjoyed the growing anticipation. He grinned as he walked to his car. Now he couldn’t wait to get to Jared’s apartment.
Picking up the dry cleaning didn’t take long. Peter parked on the street in front of Jared’s building and lugged the clothes to the elevator. He should handle them more carefully—he was probably toting about fifteen thousand dollars’ worth of suits. How on earth did the jerk afford them? Peter knew his boss’s salary, and he was pretty sure Jared spent every dime he made, and more.
Inside the apartment Peter stowed his burden carefully in the master bedroom closet. Then he took a stroll around, ending up in the bedroom that Jared had turned into a sexual playground. He examined the new humidor in the closet, trying to add up the cost. He was tempted to help himself to a couple of the cigars, but Jared probably counted them every day and would figure out who swiped them.
He slowly closed the door to the humidor behind him and leaned against it. Jared had that look about him this morning when he walked into the office—the look that told Peter he had scored in a big way over the weekend. Peter couldn’t wait to see the video.
Two weeks ago, with Jared safely in the Big Easy, Peter installed a video camera in the playroom. He congratulated himself on his clever work in placing it so that Jared would have a hard time ever spotting it. He mounted it under one of the shelves of sex toys, figuring that in the dim lighting of the playroom Jared would easily overlook it. He had reset it Thursday morning when he had to retrieve some papers Jared left at home that morning.
He detached the camera, an expensive device that fit in the palm of his hand. He figured the investment was worth it though. He’d soon give the asshole a taste of his own medicine and get a better job out of it at the same time.
Back in his car again, he turned on the camera to watch some of the video. There were some scenes of Jared going into the humidor for cigars. Peter fast-forwarded to get to the good stuff.
A few minutes later, Peter knew he had hit the jackpot big time. Jared had royally fucked himself with his choice of sex partner. When Jared found out about the tape, Peter would enjoy every second of it.
Jared frowned at the clock. It was nearly a quarter past two. Where the hell was Peter? He should have been back by now. He buzzed again.
“You rang, boss?” Peter stuck his head in.
“Where the fuck have you been all this time?” Jared stood. “I expected you back by one-thirty at the latest. I need you to finish putting together that report for the three o’clock meeting.”
Peter rolled his eyes. “Had to wait in line at the cleaners. Relax. The report’s almost done. It won’t take me ten minutes to finish it.” He stepped back and shut the door.
If Peter wasn’t so good at his job, Jared reflected, he’d have already fired his tight little ass. He was a pushy bottom, no doubt about that. Jared grinned, thinking of the couple of times he had Peter in his playroom—before he hired him as his assistant, of course. It didn’t pay to fuck around with coworkers.
Ten minutes later Jared walked out of his office to Peter’s desk. Peter looked up with an I-told-you-so grin.
“All done. Just sent the job to the big printer, and it’ll be ready in a few minutes.”
“I’ll go.” Jared headed down the hall to the printer and copy room. He needed to stretch his legs anyway, work off a little tension before the meeting.
As he neared the printer room, he glimpsed a tall blond man entering an office at the end of the corridor. Jared paused, frowning. There was something familiar about that head and back.
He was waiting for the collated and stapled copies of the report to spit out when it hit him. That back and head belonged to Martin, the guy he had tricked with on Friday.
Fuck it, this was getting nuts. Was he on some kind of weird trip? Was he really seeing this guy?
First at his high-rise, now at work.
What the hell was he doing here?
The report forgotten for the moment, Jared walked back to his office. Peter was on the phone, big surprise. He hung up as Jared approached.
“Not finished yet,” Jared said, stopping by Peter’s desk and looking down at his assistant.
Peter shrugged. “Shouldn’t take that long, unless someone else is running a big job.”
“Go check on it for me.” Jared turned away to step into his office, but turned back as if an afterthought had struck him. “By the way, I spotted a really tall blond guy going into Treadwell’s office. Somebody I haven’t seen around before. You have any idea who he is?”
Peter coughed suddenly and put his hand over his mouth. It took him a moment to speak. “Oh, it’s probably the hatchet man from London. You know—the one I told you about this morning.”
Jared frowned, his unease growing. “What’s his name?”
“He’s German. Name is Martin Leitner.” Peter raised an eyebrow. “Supposed to be hard as nails, especially when it comes to firing people. Or so Amy says.” He stood. “Well, I’d better go check that report, boss. Back in a few.” He scurried down the hall, coughing again.
Jared barely heard him as he went into his office and shut the door.
Shit, shit, shit. For a moment, that was the only word he could form in his mind. Shit, shit, shit.
He had really screwed himself this time. The man he tricked with Friday night—the man whose back and ass he had practically beaten until they were bloody—had it in his power to fire him.
He began to sweat.
Jared spent the week terrified. He had yet to encounter Martin Leitner face-to-face in the office. What the hell should he do when he finally met the man? Pretend the weekend never happened? Or give him a knowing glance and be cool about their shared sexual tastes?
&n
bsp; If Leitner tried to fire him, Jared could threaten him with the details of their time together.
Then he realized the stupidity of that. Exposing Leitner would screw his chances even further. He would definitely get fired then.
The axe fell on Friday morning. Around noon, a security guard showed up with a pink slip. He gave Jared an hour to box up any personal stuff and then escorted him out of the building. Peter had disappeared, and other coworkers looked away as Jared walked past their desks on the way to the elevator.
Lunch that day consisted of two-thirds of a bottle of Talisker and a couple of cigars. When Jared awoke from a Scotch-induced nap, it was nearly five. Though his tongue felt furry and his head ached, he finished the bottle of Scotch and smoked another cigar. All he could think about was paying Leitner back for firing him.
But how?
When the doorbell rang around five-thirty Jared stumbled to the door. He peered out the peephole and couldn’t believe it. Martin Leitner was standing there.
What the fuck?
His head suddenly clearer, Jared opened the door and stepped back. Leitner walked into the room and turned, waiting for Jared to shut the door.
“Good evening, sir,” Leitner said, staring down at his feet. “I trust you will overlook this intrusion, sir, but I think we must talk.”
“You’re damn right we should talk, you fucking German pig.” Jared felt his blood pressure rising.
“Yes, sir,” Leitner said, his head still down. “I understand your anger, sir, but I will do my best to explain.”
Jared walked into the living room to his leather armchair. He pointed to the sofa as he sat. “You can sit there, pig.”
“Thank you, sir.” Leitner sat. For the first time he raised his eyes to meet Jared’s.
Jared tried to read the man’s expression but failed. His words were submissive, but something about that gaze wasn’t.
