JF Gonzalez - Fetish.wps

by phuc

  Oh, and as for that last comment, that's the reason why I stopped bringing my friends to the house. If I brought Mother Theresa home for lunch you wouldn't approve of her. You bitch.

  The truth was, his mother had controlled Charley's life for as long as he remembered. Telling him what to wear, what to eat, what to watch on TV, what to think.

  While on the one hand she would encourage him to meet new people, make friends, bring them home anytime he wanted, the reality was that when he did she always disapproved of them. He had four or five friends from work who were all movie buffs and book worms like himself; they got together every other Friday evening at somebody's house to watch old movies and shoot the shit. Sometimes they went on book hunting expeditions.

  Most of the guys were bachelors, save for one. The few times the guys had come to the house to watch movies, mother had carped and complained about them for two weeks straight. “I don't like them,” she had muttered. “One of them has hair down to his ass and is covered with tattoos and looks like a devil-worshipping biker, the other two are fat slobs, one is so skinny he looks like he's going to keel over dead any minute. He must either have AIDS or is on drugs. And the other one wouldn't talk to me at all, that wavy-haired fellow with the glasses. I knew he was laughing at me the whole time you were watching that godawful movie; I could tell by that smirk of his. He must be a pervert because he's the one that brought that filth into the house for you to watch. I don't like them, Charley. I think you could pick much better company for you to—"

  And it had gone on until he stopped inviting the group to his house for Friday Night movies. Now he went to their homes, but mother knew he was still socializing with them. She still disapproved.

  “Charley!” her voice whined again from the living room. Charley raised the remote control and turned the channel to MTV. Billy Corgan screamed that he was just a rat in a cage. He turned the volume up just as mother let loose another pleading

  “Chaaarrrllleeeyyy!"

  Shut the fuck up!

  He couldn't even live a normal adult life around his mother. At forty years old and self-sufficient, he not only made enough money to pay the mortgage on the house and the utilities and groceries, but he had more than enough left over to splurge on gifts for himself and mother. It hadn't always been like that. For awhile, he had to work two jobs to help out. His brother, John, helped out financially when he was able. Two years ago he and John had refurbished the detached guest house that had been built onto the garage that fed into the alley. John had found a tenant to rent the place, all under the table money, and that had really helped a lot. Mother hadn't seemed to mind—after all, it was extra money, and besides, they hardly ever saw the tenant, a young woman that John assured mother he'd met at church. Charley rarely saw her, but the monthly rent money was always there, on time, in an envelope tucked behind the screen door that led to the rear of the property. It was extra money that went a long way, especially when Charley got that promotion at work.

  Now that he was making better money, he spent it on gifts for he and mother.

  Mother usually offered no resistance when he came home with something for her—a new book, a bouquet of flowers, one time a new TV to replace the twenty-four inch Minolta that had finally burnt out. But when it came to buying items for himself that he wanted, she gave him the third degree. “Why do you need a TV that's so big? That's too big. You don't need a TV like that! Who has TV's that big? You surely don't need one,” or “why are you buying a computer? You don't need a computer. You're just wasting your money, throwing it down the drain,” or “why did you buy a pickup truck with a campershell in the back? Why not just buy a little economy car like an Escort or something? That's a lot of money for a young man like you to spend on a car."

  It's my fucking money, mother!

  He turned the volume back down and listened. Nothing from the living room.

  Maybe she had gotten tired. He pressed the PLAY button on the VCR and the movie started back up again, stimulating him back into lust. He was just getting back into working himself back into hardness when she started again.

  “Charley! Charley, what are you doing in there?"

  Trying to jack off in peace, mother, since I can't get laid like normal guys. You want to know why I haven't met a nice girl, mom? Because you've made me afraid of them! First always carping at me to never think impure thoughts or I would go to hell, or to never masturbate because I'll go to hell, or to stay away from the tramps at school because they would lead me to sin—and your definition of tramps fit pretty much every woman of child bearing age—to asking why I'm not dating, or how come I don't have girlfriends. Why the fuck do you think I don't have any? The images you gave me about sex when I was growing up, and women in general, weren't very good to begin with despite my interest in members of the opposite sex, and combined with my nerdish appearance and shyness made me not very attractive to women. I wish I could be like other guys and have a girlfriend, but frankly it's not going to happen. If you hadn't been such an overprotective, overbearing bitch when you were raising me, I could have been happy with a nice woman. I know I will never be able to have that. And that's why I have to relieve myself this way, with the tapes. Because it's the closest I can come to being with a real woman.

  Oh, but there were other ways ... there were always other ways.

  “Chaaarrrllleeeyyyyy!"

  “Shut up,” he muttered. He turned the volume up on the television, the panting sounds of passion rising from the speakers. “Just shut up, shut up, shut up."

  She called out to him a few more times, punctuating her cries of “Charley!” with

  “What are you doing in there? Why don't you answer me? Are you playing with yourself again? I thought I told you that you were to never do that to yourself, your body's a temple of the Lord and—"

  He drowned out her litany by turning the volume up louder. Now the sounds of the pornographic tape drowned out her voice, cradling him back in the cocoon of his fantasy. He got up off the couch and crossed over to the door of his bedroom to double-check that it was locked; it was. Then he went back to the couch and knelt in front of it.

  He squirted another dollop of lotion into the palm of his right hand, and ignoring the fact that his mother might very well now be calling out to him louder, transported himself back into the fantasy unfolding on the screen.

  ...in his mind ... ?

  His cock plunging into the woman on the screen.

  The orgiastic cries of their passion fueling him on ... ?

  As he reached climax with a shuddering moan.

  He leaned back against the sofa, letting the tingles of his orgasm spread through his body, the scenario moving over to another scene, another couple, another position.

  Charley smiled, feeling spent. He had all night to indulge in his fantasies.

  Even in the ones that didn't involve the scenarios on the tapes.

  And as Charley delved into his night of fulfilling his fantasy, he kept the sound of the television up to drown out the muffled sounds of his mother crying in the living room.

  Chapter 10

  February 14, 1997

  12:30 p.m.

  The eleven o'clock mass had concluded fifteen minutes ago, and Father John Glowacz was standing outside the church in the main courtyard talking to Anna and Del Stewart and their son and daughter-in-law who had just moved to California from Tempe, Arizona. The two couples had approached Father Glowacz after services to seek advice on parochial school for the Stewart's grandchild, a seven-year-old girl named Melissa.

  After greeting the Stewart's son and daughter-in-law, a striking couple named Mark and Julie Stewart, John had engaged them in small talk on what he thought were the best parochial schools in Los Angeles. He was just getting started on what the parochial high school system offered when a young man Father Glowacz had never seen before approached him. Danny Hernandez was with him. Despite the young man's physical appearance—long black hair, beard stubble, tatter
ed denim jeans, white t-shirt with a Harley Davidson insignia, studded black leather belt, cowboy boots, heavily tattooed arms, looking more like a biker than a gangbanger, the young man looked troubled and worried. They stood off to the side waiting as John talked to the Stewarts.

  He glanced back and met their gaze, nodding. Danny nodded back, the message in his eyes clear. Something bad has happened, those eyes said. Father John Glowacz grasped the elder Stewart's hand. “I'm sorry, but would you excuse me for a moment?

  Something extremely urgent has just come up."

  “No problem, Father,” the elder male Stewart said, shaking his hand. “Thank you for your time."

  Bidding the family farewell, Father John Glowacz excused himself and brushed past the small circle of other parishioners that had gathered around in a loose circle in the hopes of having a word with the priest. Danny and the younger man he was with stepped forward. Danny was direct and to the point. “We need to talk in private, Father."

  “Let's go to the administrative offices,” John Glowacz said, waving his hand toward the administrative building that stood next to the church. The three of them walked toward the building and through the double glass doors that led past the receptionist desk and down the hall. It was fairly busy inside with church volunteers and employees of Our Lady of Guadalupe busy with a variety of tasks; arranging Bingo games, Bible studies, group meetings. John Glowacz's office was at the end of the hall on the first floor, and he led Danny and his young friend to it where he closed the door and motioned for them to have a seat. His office was neat and tidy; the window overlooked the playground of the parochial elementary school that was on the church grounds. There was a large oak desk and two chairs for guests, and a small bookshelf filled with volumes on Catholic living, back issues of Reader's Digest, and a book by Billy Graham. A Creeping Charley sprouted from a pot hung by a hook from the ceiling, its tendrils drooping down to the floor. He had no idea what was on Danny's mind, but judging from the young man's expression it was serious. He hoped it wasn't bad.

  “So what seems to be the trouble, Danny?” John Glowacz said, putting on his best smile to dispel the feeling of gloom that was emanating from the younger man. At first he thought that the subject of Danny's visit was to help bring the young man he was with to Christ, but now that John got a good look at Danny's eyes he saw that the problem was more severe. More grave. As in deadly grave.

  Danny motioned to the young man he was with, who was sitting in one of the two chairs that were crammed into Father Glowacz's office space. “This is Rick Medina. He grew up down the street from me and rides with a biker group. He and his girlfriend have been spending the last month at the girl's mother's house in Echo Park, and last week him and Chrissy both came by to my Bible study."

  “So you're not in a gang then, Rick?” Father Glowacz asked softly, but not threatening or accusatory.

  Rick shrugged. “I ride with a group called the Devil's Army. I guess we're like a gang. We surely do the same shit.” He looked embarrassed. “Oops! Sorry."

  Father Glowacz smiled. “That's alright."

  “I'm trying to get out,” Rick Medina continued. “That's why Chrissy and I came by Danny's Bible study last week.” He chuckled. “He bugged the hell out of me."

  John Glowacz smiled at Rick and turned back to Danny, preparing himself for what he was about to hear. Danny took a deep breath and then let it all out. “Yeah, well he says he's been trying to get out of riding with the Devil's Army, and I believe him.

  Motorcycle gangs are different than the kind of gangs we're used to here. They're not tied to any geographical location, but the lure is the same. Easy drugs, easy money, plenty of ladies. Isn't that right, Rick?"

  Rick nodded, crossing his tattooed arms in front of his chest. “You got that right."

  “The good news is that if Rick leaves the gang, he won't be killed. He isn't in that deep yet, but he does have problems. He owes money to a drug runner over a botched deal, and that can get him killed. But if we can get this guy behind bars, Rick will be fine."

  John Glowacz exhaled a small sigh of relief. He was expecting this to be something worse, like perhaps another gang killing or something, but it didn't even compare to that. The young man was simply having some trouble coming to Jesus. “Well, Rick,” John began. “When we come to the Lord, our walk with him can be rocky at first—"

  “I'm sorry, Father, I haven't finished yet,” Danny said, looking concerned and troubled. His brown eyes were serious. “Rick and Chrissy both confided in me three, four days ago at my last meeting that they were getting tired of being in the gang and wanted to get out, get back into going to church and everything. And yeah, they're both still involved with The Devil's Army, but it's not like that. You see..."

  He's embarrassed about something, John Glowacz thought. I've never seen Danny embarrassed about anything before.

  Rick looked embarrassed as well as scared. It was he who finally spilled the beans. “Two nights ago I sent Chrissy out to help me earn some money,” he said, his voice low with shame. “She never came back."

  John Glowacz sat back waiting for the punch line. His mind kept trying to find the right track to correlate with what Rick was saying. As if he read his mind, Danny clarified it for him, breaking through his embarrassment. “Chrissy used to be a hooker,” he said, now sounding scared. “It's that drug runner guy I mentioned to you; Rick owes him big money. Rick had less than a day to come up with it. Chrissy agreed to turn some tricks to help him out. She hasn't been seen since."

  The first thing that came to John Glowacz's mind was the Eastside Butcher strikes again, but he batted that thought down. Maybe there was more to the relationship than they're letting me know, he thought. Maybe they had a fight and Chrissy simply left him.

  But then if she had, they would have tracked her down by now or at least assured themselves that she was okay, otherwise they wouldn't be here. Because if she left, she would have most likely have gone to her house first, maybe packed some things. Maybe her parents or a relative saw her leave and knew why, or a friend. And naturally Rick would have tried contacting her at her house when she failed to turn up, and if she left town her family and friends would have told him. But they didn't tell him because they don't know where she went. And that's why they look so scared.

  Take a deep breath and be calm, he told himself. They came to you because they're seeking guidance and they're scared. Don't show them that you're afraid that the worst might have happened to Chrissy.

  “First things first,” he said, quietly. “Are you absolutely sure she's missing? Have you checked with her family to see if she's maybe skipped town or something?"

  Rick answered immediately. “I checked with them, Father. She didn't come home and they're worried, too. They've already called the police."

  That was going to be John's next question. “Have the police spoken to you yet?"

  Rick hung his head in shame. “I been trying to stay away from the police."

  “Why?"

  Danny answered for him. “Rick's afraid the police will think he had something to do with it. He was arrested a few weeks ago for selling drugs, and he has a record for other things, most notably assault with a deadly weapon."

  Rick glanced at Danny. John recognized the look: Rick was still unwilling to let go of his secrets and let people help him. He wanted to keep it all to himself, deal with it on his own terms. He was a brave young man, but very foolish.

  John Glowacz directed his next question at Rick. “So, you're afraid the police will think you might have had something to do with Chrissy's disappearance, correct?"

  Rick nodded fearfully.

  “All they will want to do is question you, Rick,” Father John Glowacz said. “You wouldn't be a suspect in anything because in standard police protocol, there wouldn't be a case yet. How old was Chrissy?"

  “Sixteen."

  “Sixteen.” John rubbed his jaw, thinking. “How long has she been gone?"


  Rick thought about it. “Since early Friday night."

  “Today's Sunday, so she's been gone a little under forty hours,” John said. “If she were an adult the police wouldn't do anything until forty-eight hours had elapsed, but because she's a minor they'll make more of an effort to look for her. The first thing they are going to think is that she's a runaway, Rick. Because that is the number one reason why kids disappear suddenly: they run away from home. Do you understand that?"

  Rick nodded. He was shaking.

  “They would have no reason to suspect you in having anything to do with her disappearance if you tell them the exact truth,” John Glowacz went on. “Because if you tell them everything and are honest with them, they won't see any reason to try to put anything on you. Heck, they wouldn't have anything to put on you if you lay all your cards on the table with them.” He turned to Danny. “Do the police know if Chrissy was a prostitute?"

  Danny nodded. “Yeah."

  “Okay.” John turned back to Rick. “Do you know what particular area Chrissy was working in?"

  Rick was silent for a moment, his shaking calmed down somewhat. When he answered it was in a quiet, shaky voice that told John that he was still scared. Not so much for him, but for Chrissy. “She wasn't working the streets,” he said. “I hooked her up with a ... place I know of. An ... escort service I guess you'd call it."

  “Okay."

  “...it ... ah, shit man, if I tell the cops about that, they'll bust my friend Maria. She doesn't deserve to be dragged into this shit."

  “No, she doesn't,” John said. “But if you want to help Chrissy, I think you have to tell them about Maria and this escort service. Chrissy's life may depend on it."

  Rick closed his mouth and leaned forward in the chair. John let him think about it, then turned to Danny. The gang counselor met his gaze. It was obvious that Danny had a bad feeling about this, and John's stomach sunk to the bottom of his abdomen. Danny had a good sixth sense about things and if Danny felt bad about this, most likely it was. He had had that feeling about that friend of his who attended his bible study, that young gang member who had been killed by the Butcher; that prediction had turned out to be true.