Infected

by Andrea Speed

  The place was a mishmash of things that didn’t work separately and together were even worse. A small TV over the bar spewed ESPN at the indifferent patrons while Willie Nelson was ignored on an unseen sound system, and the few drinkers scattered about the cramped room looked like they’d crawled straight out of a Tom Waits song. The guy at the end of the bar actually had an eye patch.

  The bartender was a bald guy in a tank top, who looked like Vin Diesel’s stunt double ten bad years down the road. Although he saw Holden come in and lean against the bar, he waited a frankly rude amount of time before sauntering down to his end. “Whaddya want?”

  Holden wasn’t sure how to take this. Was this the normal ambiance, or did he know who Holden was? Or did he just stick out like a sore thumb in this last way station for hopeless drunks? “I wanna talk to Dirty Eddie.”

  “I don’t know who that is.”

  Holden figured that was the canned response and took out some cash, which he tossed in front of the bartender. The bartender made a show of counting it slowly before he asked, “You a cop?”

  Holden scoffed. “No, I ain’t no fucking cop. I’m offended you’d even ask.”

  He made a lift-up gesture with his hand, and Holden rolled his eyes and lifted up his shirt, baring his entire torso. He was sad he wasn’t wearing his clip-on nipple ring just for the occasion. He would have worn it had he known.

  Finally the bartender jerked his head toward the back of the bar and said, “Try the men’s room.”

  “I needed to pay for that?” Seemed like a cheat. If he had to pee, he could have gotten this information for free.

  The bartender was too busy putting the money away to pay attention to Holden’s dirty look as he headed toward the bathrooms. Holden braced himself for awful, because there was no way a bathroom in this place would be even remotely decent.

  Holden got his answer before he was even in the door. The place reeked of piss and artificial pine, two scents which seemed to bring out the worst in each other. It was windowless, and half the lights were out, so the room of moldy green tiles, chipped urinals, and dented stalls was cast in perpetual night. It was probably better that way. In full light, this place probably looked like a crime scene.

  There was a guy washing his hands in one of the stained sinks. He was average-looking, a little schlubby, with greasy-looking brown hair swept back in a loose ponytail, mostly hidden by the hood on his grimy green coat, all of which might have been the origin of his nickname. “You Dirty Eddie?” Holden asked, only for confirmation.

  The guy gave him seriously haughty side eye. “Who wants to know?”

  Holden sighed. “I already got the shakedown from the budget Vin Diesel. I’m not a cop. I’m just looking to buy.”

  He leaned against the sink, crossing his arms over his chest. Holden saw he had dirt underneath his fingernails and guessed his nickname came from that. Was he a professional dumpster diver? How come he just washed his hands, and yet there was so much filth still packed beneath his nails? Ick. “Funny guy, huh? What’cha looking for?”

  “Some oxy.”

  He scoffed and shook his head. “Sorry, buddy, I’ve already sold all of my supply. That stuff goes fast. Still got some heroin.”

  “I never got that hard-core. But how do you sell out of oxy? You gotta have a supplier.”

  “Dude, do you know how popular oxy is? I got people willing to sell their kids for a handful of pills. There’s other stuff, you know.”

  “I know. It’s just that with Burn now out of the picture, I figured you’d be working harder to corner the market.”

  Now Dirty Eddie got a hard glint in his eye. His expression of false joviality really didn’t change, but Holden saw a muscle in his jaw jump. Burn wasn’t a topic he wished to discuss. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “No, you clearly do. Don’t get me wrong, I was no fan of his, but this is a shitty way of gaining territory that really isn’t yours.”

  The farthest stall door opened, and a big guy came out. Holden wasn’t surprised. Burn never traveled with a posse, but Burn was dead now, and why was that? Maybe if he’d had a rent-a-thug friend, he wouldn’t be. This thug looked slightly bigger than the bartender, but only if he wore high heels, and while he had impressively gym-toned arms, they were the kind more for show than use. He was a CrossFit maniac who had never been in an actual fight in his life. With his limp haircut and generic wardrobe, he looked like the perfect example of a guy who peaked in high school but hadn’t realized it yet. He glared at Holden, attempting to be intimidating, but Holden found him ridiculous.

  Dirty Eddie was now giving him an evil look. “You work for Burn?”

  “No. But now that you’ve confirmed you know who he is, tell me, where were you the night of the sixteenth? At the Jungle, maybe?”

  His eyes narrowed until they almost disappeared into his face. God, Dirty Eddie was not an attractive man. “I think you’d better get outta here.”

  “Or what?” Holden’s eyes scudded over to CrossFit, who was approaching and trying to look menacing but couldn’t quite manage it. “Are you gonna kill me too?”

  “If you’re not a cop, who the fuck are you?”

  “A concerned citizen with a private detective’s license. You know, they’ll just give those out to anyone.”

  CrossFit made his move then, and Holden saw it coming. He reached for Holden, and Holden grabbed his arm, ducked under it, and twisted, while also delivering a flattened palm strike right to his nose. Holden broke his arm and his nose simultaneously. He howled, and Holden added a knee to the balls out of sheer spite as he shoved him into the nearest stall.

  Dirty Eddie made his move then, lunging and throwing a punch. Since Holden was preoccupied with CrossFit, he managed to land a hit to his back, right above his kidneys, which sent a shock down Holden’s spine. But it didn’t stop Holden from turning and throwing a hard elbow that caught Eddie in the side of the face and made him slam into the sink. Eddie wasn’t an idiot, though, no matter how much he looked like one. He immediately backed up, putting room between him and Holden as he reached into his coat.

  Holden knew what he was going for, so he lunged and grabbed Eddie’s hand before the gun could clear his pocket and, with his left hand, backhanded him across the face. Thanks to his training sessions with Esteban, he could throw a decent punch from his left now, and it stunned Dirty Eddie enough that Holden was able to rip the gun away. Holden, no matter how he looked, wasn’t an idiot either, and he leveled the gun at Eddie, who froze.

  CrossFit had managed to shove himself up to a sitting position against a filthy toilet, broken arm hanging down loosely as he pressed his functioning hand against his bloody nose. “You fuggin asshole, you broke my dose!”

  “Broke your arm too,” Holden replied, not taking his eyes off Eddie. He could see CrossFit out of the corner of his eye.

  Eddie’s pale blue eyes scudded between Holden’s face and the gun, clearly trying to decide if he would use it or not. “What the hell do you want? I don’t got any pills on me.”

  “I’m not after drugs. I’m just curious. Did you murder Burn?”

  “What?” He seemed genuinely surprised by the question. And Holden already knew he was a shitty actor, so he wasn’t faking it. He knew Burn was dead, but he hadn’t personally killed him. “Why the fuck would I do that? That dude was mostly dead anyway.”

  Yes, that was Holden’s opinion on the matter as well, but no way was he going to share that with Eddie. “Somebody did. And if you know who, I advise you to tell me now.”

  “Man, I dunno! I’ve never killed anybody!”

  Holden was sure that was a lie. But he didn’t think Eddie had actually done the killing. He still might have had an inkling who did. “Who’s your contact in the Jungle?”

  “What?” Eddie was still looking between him and the gun. Holden took a step back, putting more distance between them. It wasn’t that he wouldn’t shoot him—hell, he was looking f
orward to that—it was just that he’d rather not kill him yet.

  “Don’t play dumb. I’m starting to lose my patience. Do you really want to see what happens then?”

  Eddie kept glancing at the gun. He was either thinking about trying to grab it, terrified of it, or a little of both. “Animal Dave. He’s my guy in the Jungle.”

  Of course he was. Where would a guy named Animal Dave be if not the Jungle? “Was that so hard?” Holden said.

  From his eyes and change of stance alone, Holden knew Eddie was going for the gun. As he lunged forward, Holden brought the gun up, slamming him in the face with the barrel hard enough to break his nose. Holden kicked his leg for good measure, sending him crashing to his knees on the filthy floor.

  “Motherfucker!” Eddie yelled, covering his face as blood spurted from his nose.

  “Consider yourself lucky I didn’t shoot you, fuckhead.” Holden shot a warning glance at CrossFit, who seemed to be in no hurry to reengage in a fight, and Holden started backing out of the bathroom, gun still ready. “And you might want to get out of the Jungle while the getting’s good. Things are gonna get ugly.”

  As soon as Holden backed out of the bathroom, he hid the gun in his coat and headed out of the dingy bar, happy to be out of it. At least he had a name to pass along to Kevin.

  To be honest, he had no idea if he was any closer to finding an answer or not. But at least he got a free gun. Who said being a lowlife detective didn’t pay?

  9—The Male Gaze

  CHAI HAD to remind himself he was twenty-nine and not a fossil. That was the kind of night he was having.

  There were many stereotypical jokes to be had about twenty-nine being fifty-nine in gay years, but he was starting to feel that tonight. But was it just his age? He had so many theoretical strikes against him—ethnicity, disability—that he wondered which was to blame for what. Some dark part of him wanted to ask those men whose eyes slid past him like he wasn’t even here or gave him a brief once-over before moving on what was the deal breaker for them.

  He checked out a newer gay club, only to be mildly horrified at how young everyone was—it was twink city in there—and since he felt like everyone’s granddad, he decided to stop at Panic instead. Holden said he knew some of the bartenders there, although Roan took one of the better ones with him when he moved on. Chai couldn’t help but feel the slightest bit of exasperation—even the lion guy got a hot boyfriend? No fucking fair.

  Still, they had a couple of really hot shirtless bartenders behind the bar, and while this club was rather white and young too, there were some bears and women, which made him feel a little better. The music was too loud, the lights too bright, but all that contributed to his feeling old. The cane—which he initially thought made him look distinguished—only made it worse.

  Chai found a seat at the bar, and he had just noticed the chalkboard in a gap between the liquor shelves when one of the shirtless hunks drifted over. He was not as young as most of them, although he’d styled his hair into a baby blue mohawk that made it look like disguised cotton candy. “Hey there, what can I get you?”

  Chai finally made out the writing on the board and frowned. “Two T’s Fruity? What’s that?”

  The bartender grinned. “Oh, it’s the drink of the night. It’s grenadine, triple sec, tequila, pineapple juice, and green tea. I know how it sounds, but it’s really good.”

  Honestly, it sounded like a tequila sunrise gone wrong. “Okay, I’ll try one. You only live once, right?” Normally he didn’t like strong alcohol, but what the hell?

  “That’s the spirit,” the bartender said, getting to work making the drink. As he did so, he said, “The drink of the day was my idea.”

  “Oh really?”

  “Yeah. Got inspiration from Bob’s Burgers.”

  He seemed so proud of that, Chai decided to let the comment wash over him without saying a thing. The bartender put the drink together in a Mason jar repurposed as a mug and added a lemon slice and a red stirrer stick before putting the glass in front of him. Chai paid him, grimacing at the price. It was pretty, with the red-and-yellow contrast, but he was still wary of it. He sipped it and winced. It was too sweet and probably about 100 proof… and yet, he couldn’t stop drinking it. In fact, he could see himself getting physically and emotionally dependent on this drink and developing an unhealthy relationship with it. He made himself not drink it all at once but pace himself.

  Maybe it was the alcohol, or the atmosphere, or the fact that he was tired and disappointed, but Chai realized he had been stupid and selfish. Why the hell had he thought suicide was ever an answer? Just because he lost a leg or his porn “career?” Chris died, for fuck’s sake. And he was one of three in that pileup alone. He’d lived, and he was lucky. So what if he lost a piece of himself—it was better than all. And so what about his face? If people noticed the scars, most didn’t care. Chai was half-convinced now that what he saw in the mirror wasn’t quite true. His flaws didn’t stand out to other people as much as they did to him. Here he was, ready to castigate an entire section of the Seattle gay community for being shallow, and he was probably shallower than all of them.

  Chai studied his drink carefully. Was there some kind of truth serum in it? He didn’t come out club hopping for self-awareness.

  He glanced around, wondering why he wasn’t home and working on the Sexy Alexei case, when he spied a genuine nonwhite guy closer to the end of the bar. Chai caught his eyes and smiled, raising his glass. The guy smiled back and moved down the bar toward him.

  Up close, Chai could see he was a bit older than he’d initially thought, but he wore it well. He was lighter skinned, and something about him screamed mixed race, which Chai liked. He always felt like he was finding one of his tribe when he found another person of mixed heritage, even if their races were in no way similar. It was the straddling worlds aspect—and the fact that sometimes both races hated you equally—that made it kind of fascinating for him. He wanted to know if other people put up with the same bullshit he did.

  The guy had curly black hair, cut close to the scalp, and kind hazel eyes, although they seemed to size him up quickly. He was drinking what looked like a daiquiri. Chai saw his eyes catch the cane by his side, but he caught no obvious reaction to it. “You’re new here,” he said. He had a nice voice, resonant.

  Chai nodded. “Yep. Just checking out the scene.”

  “Panic isn’t terrible, besides the music. Where you want to avoid, unless you like feeling old and ugly, is Skylight.”

  Chai let out a bark of a laugh. “Oh my God, I went there first.”

  The man shook his head. “It is the fucking worst. Such a twink meat market. If you’re over twenty-eight, somehow you’re rendered invisible when you walk through the doors.” He took a gulp of his daiquiri, which was impressive if only because Chai had never seen anyone gulp a daiquiri before. “I’m Diego, by the way, but everybody calls me Dee.”

  “Hi, I’m Somchai, but everybody calls me Chai.”

  “Is this where I’m obligated to make a tea joke?”

  “I’d love it if you didn’t.”

  “Then I won’t. New to Seattle?”

  Chai shook his head. “I used to live here a couple years ago. Then I left, and now I’m back.” He sighed, remembering his big Hollywood dreams. So fucking ridiculous. When had he gotten so full of himself? “Not very thrilling.”

  “Can I ask, or would it be rude?”

  “Ask about what?” Dee nodded down at the cane, and Chai felt a nervous burn in his stomach. Oh, he so wanted this guy not to be an asshole. But now was the time to find out, wasn’t it? Before things went further. “Oh. I lost my right leg from the knee down in a car accident.”

  Dee winced in what appeared to be genuine sympathy. “That’s terrible. I’m sorry.” He paused briefly. “Do you have one of those neat blade-style prostheses or one that looks like a leg?”

  “One that looks like a leg, although the skin tone isn’t exactly right.�
��

  Dee nodded, as if he understood. “Yeah, they don’t often get the hues right, especially if you’re between certain shades. You’d think by now they’d have caught up, but no. That R and D money is clearly being spent elsewhere.”

  Now Chai was caught off guard. He knew about prosthetic legs? And he didn’t care if Chai had one? Was he an amputee freak or what? “You seem to know a bit about them.”

  Dee shrugged. “Not as much as I should, but it’s part of the job.” He must have noticed how intense Chai’s stare was because he elaborated. “I’m an EMT.”

  “Oh!” That hadn’t occurred to him, but he was relieved. “That’s gotta be a hell of a job.”

  “It has its moments. Today wasn’t so bad.” From the way he glanced into his drink after saying that, Chai guessed he was lying, or at least downplaying something horrible, but Chai also knew he probably didn’t want to talk about it. Which was fine by him. He didn’t want to know what got to a professional EMT.

  Chai took a long swallow of his drink, enjoying the fruity, powerful punch of it, and said, “Want to get loaded and quietly make fun of all the youngsters?”

  Dee grinned at him. It was really cute. “Hell yes, I do.”

  Capital. At least he wouldn’t be on his own feeling like an old fogey.

  AMAZINGLY, NOTHING really came of the whole “guy assaulted his girlfriend” thing, although Scott had held out some hope that it would.

  As for the leopard, the cat squad eventually tranq darted it, but it seemed to take longer and was on the whole a lot sloppier than when Roan would just roar or punch them into submission. Scott got the feeling the cops now missed Roan too. He’d made their jobs so much easier.

  The cops took their statements, and both Grey and Scott made it clear they’d be happy to testify against this dicknozzle in court. Courts moved slow, and there was a possibility the hockey season would be on by the time this thing came up, but Scott decided he’d figure a way back if and when it came to that. He was aware it might not.