Best Laid Plans

by Tinnean

  “How did you get this?”

  “This kid brought it.” Cris stepped aside to reveal the kid, who’d been concealed by his bulk. “He’s one of Charles’s boys.”

  “What’s your name?”

  The kid shook his head. “That’s not important.”

  “We have to call you something.”

  The kid chewed his lower lip, thinking it over, then nodded. “Dix.”

  “Are you hungry, Dix?”

  “I could use a sandwich, if you have the makings.”

  Neither Tim nor Cris could cook, but they were a whiz at putting together two slices of bread and ham and Swiss or whatever cold cuts they had on hand.

  “I’ll take care of it.” Cris went to the fridge, where he found a package of turkey breast. He’d slice up a pickle and add that as well.

  “Can you stay here?” Tim asked the kid. “We have to go to a wake.”

  Dix hesitated.

  “I’ll see you don’t lose out because of it.”

  “I get a grand for twenty-four hours.”

  Cris felt his jaw drop. A thousand dollars? Jesus, Tim had seen they made good money back in the day, but none of them brought in that much in a single day.

  Tim just looked at Dix. Cris hadn’t seen that look in a long time. He was glad it wasn’t directed toward him.

  “If I call Charles, will he corroborate that?”

  Dix turned red and mumbled something.

  “What was that?”

  “Five hundred, okay?”

  Tim nodded.

  “Here’s your sandwich.” Cris put it on the small kitchen table before him. “Coke? Pepsi?”

  “A beer?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “You know I’m not as young as I look.”

  None of them were. “It has nothing to do with age. If things go south, we’ll need you to be frosty.”

  “Yeah?” His eyes widened. They were pretty eyes, almost aquamarine in color, and Cris knew if this kid came from Charles’s stable, then they had to be contact lenses. “Okay. I’ll have a Pepsi, then.”

  “Here you go.” Cris handed him a blue, white, and red can that sweated condensation before he turned to Tim. “I’ll get changed and be ready in five minutes.”

  Tim followed him into the bedroom, buttoning the cuffs of his shirt. On their bed he’d laid out the suit and shirt for Cris to wear.

  “How’s Sweets dealing with this?” Cris knew that he had tricked with Delilah a number of times.

  “Like I said, he’s a wreck. They’d worked with her just a few weeks ago. He said he’s taking his boys out of town.” After Tim had retired, he’d turned the business over to the rent boy who gave his name simply as Sweetcheeks. “I have to call Tom and appraise him of the situation. He needs this like a hole in the head right now, but the last thing we want is someone else getting hurt.”

  “Okay.” Cris ran his fingers through Tim’s very fair hair. “I love you, babe.” They’d been saying that a lot lately. When someone only slightly older died, you tended to appreciate what you had even more.

  “I love you too. Now hurry and get changed. We don’t want to be late.”

  Chapter 17

  THE NEW CREW Eric had put together—no thanks to Pandora Gautier—had managed to get into the gated community, again using a SCANA truck, and after the Jackson family had left for the funeral home, they’d parked in the drive of the ugliest house he had ever seen.

  Of course he hadn’t gone with them, but they’d taken photographs, which they’d showed him once they returned to the motel.

  “Where are they?” he’d asked, rubbing his hands together. He’d be able to return to DC and get back to the important job of making sure Holmes was in position to become vice president. And eventually president.

  “They weren’t there.”

  “What?” How could they not be there?

  And if they weren’t, then where the fuck were they?

  Goddammit. Goddammit!

  “You think maybe these people could have taken them to the funeral?” one of the men asked. Eric hadn’t bothered learning their names. They were hired help, and as such, unimportant.

  Eric opened his mouth, about to snap “Of course not.” But then he paused. He’d been certain the bitch and her kid would be left behind in the fags’ house. So all right, they’d taken the bitch in, but why would they take her to the funeral?

  If the cheap slut had come to his family, firstly they’d have refused to give her any kind of help at all—unless it was his idiot younger brother who was one of the worst bleeding-heart liberals that had ever been. Secondly, if they had brought her into their home, the last place they would have taken her to was something as personal as a family funeral.

  But… he worried his lower lip. If there were enough people to conceal the presence of his men, they should be able to slip the bitch and her kid out of there without causing a scene.

  He stalked to the other side of the room, pulled out his cell phone, and dialed Kilroy.

  “Can this wait, Mr. Jameson? I’m in church.”

  “No, it can’t fucking wait.”

  “Hold on a second.” He probably hadn’t muted the call, because Eric could hear him say, “Excuse me. Excuse me. Pardon me.” Finally, Kilroy came back on the line. “Okay, what can I do for you?”

  “I’ll keep this brief. I need to have word get out that today is the only day Jack Jackson will be laid out, and people had better get there this afternoon if they want to say their final farewells.”

  Kilroy sighed, and Eric stared at the phone in shock. He fucking dared to sigh?

  “All right, Mr. Jameson. I’ll take care of it. But this is gonna cost extra. The only reason why my wife won’t give me hell for having my phone on in church is because as deputy, I never turn it off.”

  “Fine. Just see it gets done.” Asshole. And he hung up.

  ***

  AT TWO THIRTY, he sent his crew to Canis and Sons Funeral Home with instructions to get the bitch and her kid out of there without drawing attention to them.

  “How, Boss?”

  Did he have to think of everything? He thought wistfully of Deuce, who at least had some initiative, then put the hitman out of his mind. “They have to use the restroom at some point. Grab them then.”

  Chapter 18

  TIM AND CRIS arrived at Canis and Sons Funeral Home just after two, and Tim jammed on the brakes of the ’66 Corvette Cris had had remodeled for his thirtieth birthday.

  “Jesus,” Cris exclaimed. “What are all these cars doing here?”

  “I’ve got no idea. There should only be maybe three cars, four tops.” Tim managed to find a parking space, and fortunately, the Vette was small enough to fit into it. He turned off the ignition, and they walked to the funeral home.

  The door greeter, dressed in a somber suit, met them at the door. “Mr. Weber? I’m so sorry, sir. I didn’t realize you’d stepped out.”

  “I’m not Tom.” Tim understood the confusion. He got that a lot. He and Tom Weber looked more like twins than Tom and his twin sister.

  “This is family time.” The guy was nearly in tears. “All these people aren’t supposed to be here now.”

  Tim patted the poor guy on the shoulder. “We have to see Tom Weber. Please let him know Tim and Cris are here.”

  “Derek, it’s all right. I’ll handle this.” The funeral director gestured for them to come in. He was cool enough not to gape at Tim. He just walked them down the hallway. “I beg your pardon. Tom told me he was expecting you.” He threw open the double doors of the visitation room, and in spite of the number of cars of the parking lot, which should have prepared him for this, Tim felt his jaw drop.

  There wasn’t a single empty space available. People were standing all around, and tho
se who weren’t standing were packed into row upon row of folding chairs.

  Mr. Canis crossed to the long sofa where Tom was seated. He touched Tom’s arm, bent down, and said something softly.

  Tom turned, looking relieved. He rose and made his way through the crowd to join them, nodding and murmuring to the people he passed.

  “We’re so sorry for your loss.” Tim hugged him, and then Cris did as well.

  “Thanks for coming. Did you bring guns?” Tom asked in an undertone, drawing Tim out of his morbid reverie.

  “Yeah, a couple of revolvers.” They’d learned how to shoot years ago. Knowing what was in the message and what might be facing them, they’d come prepared, Tim with his Smith and Wesson, and Cris with the Taurus he was fond of. They both had licenses to carry, and while usually they only took the guns to the firing range, it was good to be prepared. Especially if you ran a bar and were gay. Things were getting a bit better, but there were still people who felt the only good gay was a dead gay.

  “Thank you.” Tom led them to the casket.

  “He looks good.” Actually, Tim was surprised at how good Jackson’s corpse appeared. His blond hair spilled over the pillow in tidy waves, and while he looked peaceful, there was the hint of a smile on his lips. His hands were folded at his waist, and wrapped around them was a silver chain bearing a Star of David. That had to be something Tom had given him. Tim wasn’t sure what religion Jack was, but he knew Jack’s father was an evangelical Christian. “Canis did an excellent job.”

  “He did, didn’t he?”

  “The last funeral we went to—that was Donald Carson, remember, babe?” Cris said.

  “I remember.” Tim hoped his tone told Cris not to go there.

  “Lying there in that casket… Don looked so pissed.”

  Tim sighed. He’d gone there. “Say a prayer, Cris.”

  “Yes, Tim.” He made the sign of the cross and bowed his head.

  Tim knew he wasn’t really praying. No matter how hard Cris tried, he could never remember the words.

  It didn’t matter, though. Tim loved him anyway. He rested his palm on Cris’s back, and Cris leaned into his touch, even as he kept his head lowered.

  They had talked on the drive here. Jack Jackson had only been forty-seven and in excellent health. It just went to show life could throw a curveball while you made other plans. And they’d come to the conclusion they’d better have a serious conversation about the future—a plot in Greenwich Cemetery, whether to be buried as opposed to cremated, what clothes they wanted to be laid out in, music, funeral service, and of course who to invite, because their funerals would be by invitation only.

  “I broke the news to Miz Babe,” Tom said, reclaiming Tim’s attention. He lightly stroked the Star of David.

  “How is she taking it?”

  “As well as can be expected. She and Delilah were friends for quite a few years. In addition, she’s unhappy because we have so little information. Other than that, she’s staying strong for Denny. Take them down to the lounge and don’t let anyone get near them. When Josh and Billy Bob get here, I’ll send them down to spell you, so don’t shoot unless you’re sure it isn’t them.”

  “Okay.” Tim turned to Cris. “Let’s give the kids our condolences and then get cracking.”

  ONCE THEY WERE downstairs, Tim had Cris check out the doors that opened off the large hall. As well as the lounge and restrooms, there was the embalming room, the arrangement room, and the display room.

  “They’re all empty. Well, except for the lady in the embalming room.”

  “You didn’t go in there, did you?” Tim knew that wasn’t allowed.

  “No!”

  “Good.”

  They entered the lounge. It was comfortable, like someone’s living room, with sofas and chairs, end tables that provided magazines and lamps for additional lighting, and of course boxes of tissues. On a counter against one wall was a coffee maker, cups, creamer, and sweetener, and a platter of chocolate chip cookies that were still warm. Beneath the counter was a mini refrigerator filled with bottles of water and cans of soda.

  He opened the door in the far wall and found it was a walk-in supply closet that contained everything from fabric spray, tissues, paper towels, toilet paper, cases of soda and water, and cans of Maxwell House.

  “Anyone want coffee?”

  “I’m good,” Cris said.

  “So am I.” Babe went to the fridge, opened it, and examined the contents. “Denny, would you like a soda?”

  “No thanks, Ma.”

  “How about a cookie?”

  He shook his head and clutched a ratty teddy bear tight in his arms.

  “I guess we’re all good.” Babe looked around the room, seeming to be at a loss.

  At the far end of the lounge, a small area had been set up for children, with picture books for the little ones and Highlights magazines for the kids a little older, as well as Legos, and a Fischer-Price pirate ship and doll house.

  Tim nodded toward it. “Try to keep Denny occupied,” he said softly to Cris.

  “Got it.”

  But Denny stared up at them. “Something’s wrong, isn’t it? Ma?”

  She crouched down and met his steady gaze. “Aunt Del is dead.” She met Tim’s gaze just as steadily. “I know you’re questioning if I should have told him so plainly, but this is a cold world. Denny has to be aware of what goes on.” She stroked the little boy’s hair. “Why don’t you show Uncle Cris how well you read, kiddo?”

  “Okay, Ma.”

  Babe waited until the little boy had his back turned, and only then did she sink down on a sofa and bury her head in her arms.

  “I’m sorry, Babe.” Tim sat beside her and drew her gently into his arms. Over the years he’d become good with things like this. He’d run the stable of rent boys and took care of them all, and there had been times when they’d returned home from a job, battered and bruised, and he’d held them and comforted them.

  “We were friends for a long time.”

  “Forgive me for asking, but were you in the business? Sweetcheeks told me about tricking with Delilah, but he never mentioned you.”

  “It’s okay. No. Del would have handed me my head if I ever said anything about thinking of trying the lifestyle. She helped me go to a local community college, where I was able to get an associate degree in nursing.”

  “You’re a nurse?” Although why should he be surprised?

  “I was.” Sadness tinged her words, and he assumed the pregnancy that had produced Denny had put an end to her career.

  “Tim.”

  “What is it, Cris?” But then he heard it… footsteps on the stairs. Shit. He’d hoped this wasn’t a possibility, but it looked like it was.

  “Get Denny in the supply closet, and both of you stay put no matter what you hear out here,” he told Babe. That seemed the safest hiding place for the young woman and her little boy.

  The door closed behind them, and Cris looked at Tim. He nodded toward the sofa where Babe had been sitting, then took up a position near the counter that held the coffee maker. It might have seemed random, but Tim knew it would put whoever entered the lounge in the crosshairs between him and Cris.

  The footsteps stopped just outside the door, and Tim slid his hand into his pocket and closed his fist around the pistol.

  “Tim? Cris? It’s Josh and Mopp. Tom sent us down here.”

  Chapter 19

  JOSH SAT BEHIND the steering wheel, so tense his knuckles were almost white from the tightness of his grip. He couldn’t stop thinking about what had happened in his bedroom. No one had seen his back except Tommy and the doctors in the ER. Even Lucas avoided looking at it. Last summer he’d been afraid Mopp had seen it, but his obvious reaction—or non-reaction—had proved him wrong.

  Now, however, there was no doubt M
opp had seen what Lucas had done to him. Josh had tried to conceal it by keeping his back to Mopp, but the boy was having none of it. Instead of being revolted by the scars, he’d caressed them. For a second, Josh thought—hoped—he was going to kiss each ridged line. He hadn’t, but what Mopp had done was even better.

  He’d kissed Josh.

  It had been a long time since anyone had kissed him. He wouldn’t let any of his recent hookups do something that felt even more intimate that sucking his cock or fucking his ass, and Lucas had never been one for kissing.

  Mopp though—Josh thought that kiss would wind up with his brains shooting out of his head and him dissolving into a puddle of desire on the floor. All Josh wanted was to push Mopp onto his bed, strip off his clothes, and lick every inch of his body.

  He couldn’t. They had a funeral to attend, as well as making sure Miz Babe and Denny stayed safe. But… oh God how he wanted to.

  Would Tommy be able to tell something had happened between him and Mopp? Probably, Josh thought morosely. If there was one thing his friend was, it was astute in the extreme.

  If he was lucky, Tom would be too overwhelmed by the loss of his lover to pay it any mind, and God, what kind of an asshole was he to be relieved because of that?

  He had no intention of saying a word—not one word—and he’d turned on the radio before he put the car into gear. The drive to the funeral home had been accomplished in silence broken only by the music playing on the radio.

  What the hell did Mopp mean when he said he was gay enough for Josh?

  No. Josh was determined not to think about what Mopp had said. Mopp was half his age, he was straight, and the memory of that all-too-brief kiss was driving Josh crazy. And by the way, had he mentioned Mopp was straight?

  “Jiminy!” Mopp’s sudden exclamation startled Josh out of his glum thoughts. “The parking lot is jam-packed!”

  “Yeah, and it shouldn’t be.” Josh had to back out of the parking lot and circle the block a few times before he found a spot and steered the car into it. “We’d better hurry. This bothers me.”

  “I don’t like the idea of leaving the Winchester in the trunk.”