“After my operation-the one on my chest that left the big scar,” I clarified, just to make sure they remembered how bad I looked from the front, “I had to take some immunosuppressive drugs to keep my body from rejecting the new valve they put in my heart. Annnnyway…” I drawled Valley Girl style, “the doctors warned me it could lead to breakouts.”
I took a few steps backward, getting closer to Mason. “It happened once before, but it wasn’t too bad. How does it look now?”
Mason instinctively backed up, too, the reptile part of his brain directing him to flee in case my condition was catching. “It looks.. ” He stopped, but not because he couldn’t find the words. I heard him take a cautious sniff. “What is that smell? ”
After the third time I’d found a tube of VapoRub in Tony’s work pants, I’d asked him why he always carried it when he was working.
“In case I have to attend an autopsy,” he’d explained, “or an especially grisly crime scene. A little menthol under the nose blocks out the worst of the stink.”
Even through its protective mask, though, I could make out the sickening scent of the ethanethiol I’d poured out a few moments ago.
Steven Austen wasn’t the only one of my co-workers who’d assisted me today. Oliver, the maintenance man, helped me figure out how much of the noxious chemical I needed to release to pull off the illusion that my artificial rash smelled even worse than it looked. Ironically, the first time I’d come across ethanethiol was the day I met Brent. Oliver had been transporting to storage a tank of the stuff, which was usually used as an olfactory alarm in case of a gas leak.
Turns out, a quarter teaspoon of the stuff was enough to empty a room faster than a canister of tear gas.
“It might be the pus,” I answered Mason, using the grossest word I could think of. “From those weeping sores, I guess.”
“Oh my god,” Pierce exclaimed. “That is vile!” Unlike his boss, he didn’t try to cover his disgust under a veneer of good manners.
“I’m out of here, man. I think I’m going to…” Pierce made a retching sound and ran out of the room.
“I, um, I have to go, too,” Mason said. I swung around to face him and observed his pallor was a shade of gray I’d never seen on a living person before.
His Adam’s apple looked like it was doing jumping jacks in his throat in its efforts to suppress his gag reflex.
“Wait,” I said. I grabbed his forearm. His eyes widened in surprise at the strength of my grip. Or, it might have been the nausea making him look like that. Didn’t matter.
“You promised to tell me where I might find Lucas,” I said.
“I don’t know,” he said, trying to take the shallowest breaths possible. “But he’s still in the city. About two weeks ago, Kristen LaNue says he saw him in a club. By the time he made his way over, though, Lucas was gone.”
“Was he sure it was-”
“Yes!” Mason shouted. His complexion had now gone from gray to green. He slapped a hand over his mouth. “I’m sorry,” he said, his words muffled. “I really have to…”
I made the quick calculation that whatever small chance remained he had anything useful to tell me was outweighed by the increasingly likely possibility he was about to barf on me. I let go of his arm.
“Listen, I’m sorry about the breakout,” I called, as Mason headed as quickly as possible to the exit. “Maybe we can try again when it clears up?”
Mason made a strangled sound as he flung open the door. It could have meant, “Sure,” or “Are you kidding me?” or “Drop dead.”
I didn’t care. I’d gotten what I’d come for. A few more answers and a little more insight.
There wasn’t anything else I needed from them except…
I walked over to the video camera Pierce had been using. Sure enough, it was a model similar to the ones we had at Sophie’s Voice. I found the “eject” button and removed the digital tape he’d been using. I put it in the pocket that didn’t have the ethanethiol in it.
I knew from bitter experience that the camcorder could appear to be shooting even if you’d forgotten to load it. I figured Pierce would assume that’s what happened.
No reason to leave them with anything with my image on it. Between my luck and Mason’s greed, he’d probably find a way to sell it to the three men in the world turned on by open sores.
I put my T-shirt back on and looked around. A fire exit. Most excellent. I was sure everyone would appreciate my leaving without passing through their offices and lobby on my way out. I grabbed my backpack and was out of there.
So much for my film career.
Fade to black, bitches.
A block and a half away, I found an alley between two apartment buildings. I snuck behind a Dumpster and hoped no one came by.
Acutely aware of just how bad I must smell, I took the video I’d grabbed from Pierce’s camera and put it on the ground next to me. Everything else, including my pants, sneakers, T-shirt, and socks, I threw into the Dumpster. I opened the package of baby wipes I’d picked up on the way to Mason’s office and used them to clean off as much of the ethanethiol as I could.
I bent over to wash off my feet. As I straightened back up, I saw a tall, muscly guy somewhere in his thirties leering hungrily at me.
“Hey, cutie,” he called. “Looking good.”
Shit. “Um, thanks.” I covered my crotch with my hands.
“ Come here often?” he asked, putting an emphasis on the first word to drive home his double entendre. He chuckled at the cleverness of his own lame joke.
“No, I just had a wardrobe malfunction,” I said, reaching for my backpack. Inside, I had clean versions of everything I’d just thrown away. I had no intention of trying to make it home in my ethanethiol-soaked clothing. “I gotta change and get going. Sorry.”
“Aw, come on, baby,” my alleyway admirer purred. Apparently, the fake scar on my chest didn’t bother him. At least, not enough to deter him from attempting a public encounter that might be hot in the kind of videos Mason made, but would probably get us arrested in real life. He cupped his crotch in case I hadn’t figured out what he had in mind.
“Really not interested,” I told him. “So, if you’ll excuse me.. ”
Instead of retreating, he started walking toward me, rubbing himself. “Please. Don’t play hard to get, you little tease. Standing out here naked like that. You know you want it, baby.”
I’ve taken down bigger guys than him in my life. Part of me would have enjoyed teaching this asshole a lesson with my martial arts.
But I really was not in the mood.
Better to just give him what he wants and let him go for it. I had a feeling it wouldn’t take long.
“You’re right,” I said, squeezing my own junk as his gaze wandered over my body. “I do want it, man.”
Alleyman grinned wolfishly and started unzipping his rapidly expanding slacks. “I’m going to slip it to you so good, sweet cheeks.”
Forget the ethanethiol-this guy’s rap was going to make me vomit.
“Yeah,” I said, “give it to me from behind, lover. It’s so hard to find a real man like you”-I turned to show him my still-illustrated back-“who isn’t afraid to let a little thing like leprosy come between him and a good time.”
His gasp-gag indicated he’d gotten close enough not only to get a good look, but a good whiff, too.
“Uh, look at the time!” he shouted. “I gotta go!”
He almost tripped trying to simultaneously run and zip himself back up.
“Go?” I asked as he recovered from his stumble. “I thought you wanted to come.”
How clever is that joke now, asshole?
Two minutes later, I was dressed and headed home. While my wipe down and change of clothing helped, I figured I was still too stinky to get into a cab or on the subway. It was a thirty-minute walk back to my apartment, but I could use the time to think.
I had to figure out my next move.
Two blocks la
ter, I realized my next move was to go backward.
Crap.
I’d left the videotape Pierce had shot on the ground by the Dumpster.
Crap.
I ran back. With each footfall, I thought the same thing.
Crap.
Crap.
Crap crap crap crap crap.
I turned the corner and spied the Dumpster. No tape.
Crap!
My best guess was that Alleyman came back. Maybe he’d scored some antibiotics and figured he’d take the plunge after all.
He’d probably enjoy the video, the creep. How long before he uploaded it to YouTube, where the whole world would have the opportunity to see me looking like a kinky leper?
My heart pounding, I ran behind the Dumpster and got on my hands and knees to look underneath. There. There.
There it was.
The anxiety flooded out of me like air from a burst balloon. I was deflated with relief.
I must have accidentally kicked the tape out of sight while getting dressed, and then forgotten about it.
It could have fallen into anyone’s hands. What was wrong with me? How can someone be so careless with a sex video of himself?
Well, I answered myself, if it’s good enough for Paris Hilton, Rob Lowe, and at least one Kardashian… and those are just the celebrities we know about.
Times like these I reluctantly wondered if maybe the two men who knew me better than anyone in the world weren’t right: I had no business playing “Kevin Connor: Boy Detective.” I didn’t possess the.. attention to detail the role required.
It wasn’t just a matter of flubbing my lines-I was lucky I hadn’t gotten myself killed.
Although I had come really, really close. At least twice.
But, I thought cheerfully, putting the video into my front pants pocket and patting twice to make sure it was secure, what’s life without a few challenges? It’d be boring if we only did the things that came easily, right?
It was either that, or I was an idiot.
I chose to believe the former.
24
Link to Link
On my way home, I had an idea.
Everyone I spoke to about Brent suggested it wasn’t atypical for guys in porn to transition into hustling or being set up as a kept boy. If that was what Brent was up to, there was one person I knew who had the connections to track him down.
I called to ask if I could drop by.
“Of course, my sweetest,” she cooed. “Just give me ten minutes to shave, shower, and douche myself up a bit, darling. You know Mama likes to look her best for her favorite boy.”
I told her I’d be there in a quarter hour. Although one of the reasons ethanethiol was used in commercial settings was because the odor dissipated fairly quickly, and I’d also washed up and changed clothes, I was still worried I might be kind of stinky. I stopped into a pharmacy and grabbed a can of Axe body spray. I applied half of it in the store’s restroom and paid for the rest on my way out. I now smelled like something called “Dark Temptation.”
Which made me think of Freddy.
I called to let him know I’d survived my encounter at SwordFight.
“Thank god,” he said. “I was beginning to worry. You’ve been there forever.”
“Actually, I left an hour ago. But I ran into a few problems on the way back.”
“Such as…?”
“Nothing major. Just some guy who tried to sexually assault me when I happened to be innocently naked behind a Dumpster. And I had to go a few blocks out of my way to get some cologne to cover the smell of my imaginary pus. Stuff like that.”
“If anyone else told me these things,” Freddy said, “I’d think they were insane. But, you’re right-on the Kevin scale, that qualifies as ‘nothing major.’ ”
“See?” I said. “You had no reason to worry.”
“Well, when you have time, I want to hear every detail of what happened.”
“Play your cards right,” I promised him, “and I might even show you the video.”
“My darling, darling boy,” Mrs. Cherry gushed as she flung open her door. I was hit by a wave of the Bal a Versailles perfume in which she doused herself, the cloying floral notes fighting each other for attention. It mostly masked the other odors from the apartment-stale marijuana smoke, patchouli incense, garbage that should have been taken out a day ago.
Mrs. Cherry was two hundred pounds and five feet of indeterminate gender. Although she lived as a woman, I was 99 percent sure she’d been born a man. Whether she’d achieved her ample bosom, rounded hips, and other female characteristics through surgery, hormonal supplements, or a wish on a genie’s lamp, I had no idea. She had an air of magic and fantasy about her that made any combination of those seem possible.
Mrs. Cherry ran the escort agency I used to work for. She’d been a great boss, looking out for my best interests and screening my clients to ensure I was never in a dangerous or harmful situation. When another guy in her employ was hit by a car a few months ago, Mrs. Cherry paid all of Randy’s hospital bills and kept his nursing staff happy with frequent deliveries of food and guest baskets.
After a suffocating hug, she ushered me into her large living space. Years ago, she’d bought several apartments on her floor and combined them into one, creating a labyrinth of mysterious, elaborately decorated rooms. The furniture was overstuffed and buried under mounds of pillows, the walls papered with busy feminine patterns, everything colored various shades of red, purple and pink Tiffany lamps, beaded curtains, and crystal chandeliers further contributed to the illusion you’d been transported to a New Orleans brothel sometime in the 1920s.
I sank into one of her enveloping settees.
“Can I get you something to drink?” Mrs. Cherry offered. “Some champagne? Beer? A Shirley Temple?”
“Water would be great,” I replied.
She returned moments later with a silver tray, which held an etched crystal pitcher filled to the top with icy cold water, a matching glass, and a small plate of thinly sliced lemons and mint leaves, all set upon a frilly lace doily. Mrs. Cherry never did anything without embellishment.
“I wish I could delude myself into thinking you’re here to tell me you are coming back to work,” she said, sitting across from me. “But you look much too happy and successful for me to believe that.”
“Well, I don’t know about all that, but you’re right-that’s not why I’m here.”
Mrs. Cherry shrugged, then smiled. “I watch your mother’s show every day,” she gushed. “What a pistol that woman is! Such fun! But my favorite moment is when your name rolls by in the end credits. ‘That’s my boy,’ I think. It’s only on screen for a few seconds, but they’re some of the best moments of my day.”
Her voice cracked on the last few words, and I thought I saw the sparkle of a tear in her right eye. “I’m ever so proud of you, Kevin,” she said wistfully. “I always knew you were special.”
I thought about the difference between Mrs. Cherry and Mason Jarre. They both were in the business of employing young men for sex work, but Mrs. Cherry genuinely cared about her charges. She didn’t use the illicit nature of her enterprise to justify regarding her employees as subhuman commodities. She was proof that, even in the sex trade, you could treat people with kindness and dignity. No, more than that. You could be loving and generous, creating a virtuous cycle of shared loyalty and respect.
Which raised a question. “When your boys leave the business,” I asked her, “do they just disappear?”
She looked genuinely puzzled. “Whatever do you mean, sweetness?”
I told her how Mason related his experience with boys dropping out of sight when they wanted to move on, never saying good-bye or staying in touch.
“Oh, that sounds awful,” Mrs. Cherry said. “I don’t know if I could stand working like that. I’d be so concerned! That man must be out of his mind with worry. If one of my boys just stopped returning my calls or didn’t show up for a job, I�
��d do whatever it took to find him. Just to know he was all right. This is a big city-anything can happen!
“You know as well as anyone, my little angel, when a boy wants to leave the business, I have no problem with him moving on. I wish my boys the best in life. If that man’s models are leaving like that, without even a fare-thee-well, there must be a reason. Either they’re afraid of him or…”
“Or what?” I prompted.
“Or something’s happening to them.”
“Like what?”
“I don’t know.” Mrs. Cherry removed a lacy handkerchief from her deep cleavage. She twisted it nervously in her hands. “Nothing good, I’d imagine.”
“That’s what I need your help with,” I said. “Just how ‘not good’ this situation is.”
I explained how I’d met Brent, what happened when I finally got around to calling him, and what everyone had to say about his disappearance.
“How awful,” Mrs. Cherry said. “No one seems to care at all about this poor boy.” She gave me her warmest smile, the one that makes you feel like she’s hugging you even when she’s way out of reach.
“Except you,” she amended. “But that’s your greatest gift, you know. Caring. It’s what made you such an outstanding escort. It wasn’t your good looks-not that you’re not absolutely delicious, darling. Nor was it your creativity in bed or, from what my clients have told me, your surprisingly large… endowment.”
I felt my cheeks redden.
“Darling, you’re the only person I know who could sleep with hundreds of men but still blush at even an oblique reference to your penis.”
“It’s hardly been hundreds…” I felt the need to clarify. “And with most of them…”
Mrs. Cherry waved her handkerchief at me. “Darling, please. No need to feel defensive. Who would know better than me? I was the one who arranged those assignments, remember.”
I was about to explain that for most of my “career,” I’d done more dates that involved role-playing and fantasy than actual sex. Especially after I reunited with Tony, I drew the line at anything that involved oral or anal intercourse. My specialty was safe kink delivered with good humor and a smile.
Third You Die (kevin connor mysteries) Page 18
