“Sounds silly.”
“He’s anything but. He’s very sharp underneath the whole new-age thing. I get the feeling he’s waiting for some rich guy to come along and swoop him up.”
“You know how I can find him?” I asked.
“He could be anywhere on a Saturday night,” he said. “If you want to head over to Las Olas we could look for him there.”
Las Olas Boulevard ran through the heart of downtown Fort Lauderdale. A couple of blocks were lined with restaurants and shops so it was a go-to destination for locals as well as tourists. If Dorje was as good-looking as Shane said, he might be there panhandling or looking for a sugar daddy to take him back to a hotel room.
Shane agreed to let me drive, and slotted himself easily into the passenger seat of my Mini Cooper. On the way, he told me about a neighborhood community meeting he’d gone to, and how he had met with one of the benefactors of Lazarus Place. He also spent his time cruising the back streets of Fort Lauderdale looking for homeless kids to bring into the shelter.
“It must be emotionally draining,” I said, as I turned onto Las Olas and began looking for a place to park. “Dealing with all that sadness.”
“It’s tough sometimes,” Shane said. “But the rewards are awesome. One of the kids I brought in from the street graduated from Broward College in December with a certificate in office systems. He’s got a job in a doctor’s office now and is sharing an apartment with a friend. He came by a few days ago on his way home from work to say thanks.”
I agreed with Shane that it was great the kid had been able to turn his life around as I simultaneously swung into a city garage at the far end of the street. I found a space on the fifth floor, and while I put money in the automated machine, Shane walked over to a window.
I joined him there. Below us, fairy lights twinkled in the trees and cars and SUVs trickled slowly down the street. In the distance, the hotels and condo towers along the beach radiated a welcoming glow. “Sometimes I forget what a beautiful place this is,” Shane said.
We stood close to each other and I resisted the urge to put my arm around him because I was afraid we’d both want to go too far too fast. Instead I said, “Yeah. I’m still in awe that I get to live here, when most people have to work all year somewhere cold and grim to afford a week’s vacation in the sun.”
“But where there’s sun, there’s shadow.” Shane leaned out over the concrete windowsill. “See that alley down there?”
He pointed to a narrow space between a French restaurant and a store selling ladies’ clothes. “A dealer hangs around there so junkies can steal wallets on Las Olas and turn the cash into instant fixes.”
“The police know about that?”
“You never see him unless he wants to be seen,” Shane said. “A lot of homeless kids are like that, too. They blend into the background and you don’t realize they’re there unless you’re looking the right way.”
“I’ll count on you to be my guide,” I said.
We strolled down the sidewalk for a while, weaving around the straight couples and people walking small dogs. I spotted the occasional gay couple, and a group of young friends around my age, but no kids who looked homeless or vulnerable.
Shane and I walked through a gallery of handmade art—from letter-press cards to fancy glass and metal sculptures—and we window shopped at a male underwear boutique. “Boxers or briefs?” Shane asked me.
“Boxers. My mom used to buy all my clothes, and one day, when I was about fourteen or fifteen, she came home with some boxers for me. ‘You’re a man now, Angus,’ she said. ‘You should wear men’s underwear.’”
Shane laughed.
“I was mortified,” I said. “I worried that maybe she’d seen come stains in my briefs when she washed them. She had just started dating the guy she was going to end up marrying and I obsessed that she was talking to him about me going through puberty.” I turned to him. “How about you?”
“I’m kind of obsessed with skimpy briefs, weeny bikinis, jockstraps too.” He looked right at me. “I like the way the strap feels against my ass.”
Yowza. My dick stiffened in my pants and I turned away from him to re-position myself. When I looked back I said, “I’m getting hungry. Want to stop somewhere?”
“I could eat.” He licked his lips.
We chose a French restaurant and settled into an outdoor table only inches from the passing promenade. I made it clear that the dinner was my treat, and encouraged Shane to order whatever he wanted. He smiled and caught my eye—once more my dick stiffened.
We ordered onion soup and then crepes as our main course. When the waiter left, I asked, “Do you think Dorje might be out by the beach tomorrow?”
“When I get back to Lazarus Place I’ll ask the kids if anyone knows where he’s squatting and I’ll give you a call or a text. We could go out there tomorrow afternoon.”
I agreed with that, as our crocks of onion soup arrived, crusted with melted cheese. I leaned down and inhaled. “I hate to keep using all your time,” I said.
“It’s what I do. I find kids and talk to them and sometimes, I can even help them. It’s not work if you love what you’re doing.”
We continued to chat, sharing bits and pieces of our backgrounds as we ate. “What brought you to South Florida?” I asked.
“I went to community college back in West Virginia,” he said. “I was struggling with some issues and I gravitated toward my sociology professor, a kind, motherly woman. She encouraged me to consider a career in social work or counseling, and she helped me look at bachelor’s programs and fill out my applications. I got a scholarship to Barry, in Miami Shores, and that was that. I majored in social work there, and when I graduated, I got the job at Lazarus Place.”
“So you’ve been there a while,” I said, calculating the difference between Shane’s apparent age and how old he would have been when he graduated college.
“Not so long,” he said. “It took me longer than normal to get my AA, between family stuff and money stuff and failing a bunch of courses because I wasn’t mature enough, I finished at Barry about a year and a half ago.”
“I imagine that’s not an uncommon story for the kids you counsel,” I said. “I was lucky that my mom pushed me to go to college, and I was able to get scholarships and part-time work. My brother’s in the same situation right now and I try to send him some money when I can to make it easier for him.”
“You’re a disciplined kind of guy,” Shane said. “I can see that. I’ll bet you never failed a course or dropped out of one, did you?”
I shook my head. “Part of ignoring my sexuality when I was in high school was that I knuckled down and focused on homework and grades. By the time I got to college, that attitude was stuck in me.”
We finished dinner and Shane looked at his watch. “I ought to get back to Lazarus Place,” he said. “Sometimes we hear about kids, our own or ones the cops pick up, who let loose and have too much fun. Jessie and I are both on duty from eleven on Saturday night until noon on Sunday in case of emergencies.”
I paid the bill, and we walked back to the garage in silence. I’d thought there was something building between Shane and me, but then he’d shut it down. What was up with that? Had I not responded strongly enough? Had I said something to put him off?
Traffic was difficult and it took a while to get out of the garage and then away from the crowded downtown area, so neither of us spoke until I drove into the parking lot of the Pride Center, where Shane had left his car.
It was dark and his car was the only one left in the lot. I pulled up beside it, then turned in my seat, expecting him to face me so that we’d share a good night kiss. But instead, he opened the door and stepped out.
“Thanks for dinner,” he said. “I’ll text you tomorrow morning if I get any leads on where Dorje is.”
“You’re welcome. Like you, this is what I do. Go out and talk to people and look for information. Let me know if you hear any mor
e about that guy Yunior mentioned running into out at the beach, too.”
Had I made any progress? I thought so. Yunior recognized the man from the video and established that he preyed on kids. It was all anecdotal data so far, but I could feel it accumulating and knew that eventually it would lead me forward, to find the boys and then the flakka distributors.
Tomorrow I hoped I’d go out with Shane again, find this kid Dorje, maybe even run into the older man on the prowl. And then—gotcha!
13.
Invisibility
Sunday morning Shane texted me that he had a lead on where Dorje might be living, and asked if I could pick him up at one. I replied that I would, then I went out to the kitchen, where I found Jonas drinking a tall glass of orange juice.
“You go to Lazy Dick’s last night?” I asked.
“It was great! I talked to that guy from the gym. His name is Eric. I asked him if he worked at the car dealership and he said he does odd jobs for the owner and for some of the customers.” He smiled. “He even asked me if I go to the gym a lot and said that he appreciated me spotting him.”
“That’s great,” I said. “Are you going to meet up with him there sometime?”
“His schedule’s funky, depending on what people need him to do. But he said he’ll keep an eye out for me when he’s there.” I was glad that Eric had been friendly toward Jonas; I’d seen how down my roommate got when guys dissed him.
Neither of us felt like going to the gym, so Jonas and I went for a run around our neighborhood.
A couple of older men were working on their yards, cutting grass or planting flowers, and I got a warm feeling, especially as we passed the houses with rainbow flags. I liked Wilton Manors a lot, and I appreciated the role models the older couples were. Was a relationship like that in my future?
Would I end up with a guy like Shane McCoy, who was as committed to his work as I was? Honestly, I couldn’t see myself dating Shane. He was a good guy, but the vibe between us had petered out. And though he was sexy in a laidback way, he wasn’t the kind of guy who really floated my boat.
The first gay club I went to was in an old movie theatre on South Street in Philadelphia. It was called Clouds at the time, though it changed names and themes and owners every few years. When I walked in the first time I felt high—so excited by the pounding music, the gyrating half-naked bodies, and the overwhelming smell of male musk.
I stood awkwardly in the corner for a couple of minutes, clutching a beer, and tapping my foot to the beat, before a broad-shouldered guy a few years older than me—and a few inches taller—came over and smiled.
Something zinged in my brain, and I said, this. This is what I want.
The guy in front of me looked like he might have played football in college and still took care of himself. His upper body was nearly square, his pecs pressing out against his shirt. He didn’t have much of a waist but his legs were like tree trunks.
We talked for a few minutes but the music was loud, and when I finished my beer he motioned to the dance floor and I followed him out there. We danced for a while, moving closer to each other until I was swaying in his arms.
Sadly, he was a sales rep in town for a convention, and after we went to his hotel room, I never saw him again.
But that encounter set the pattern for the guys I was truly attracted to. My most recent boyfriend, Lester, had fit that bill—he was big and strong, a bouncer at a bar, and I felt safe and protected in his arms. Too bad I’d broken up with him when I crawled into my cocoon after getting shot.
By the time I returned from my walk, I was ready to leave the past behind and move forward. After a shower and a brunch of French toast with maple syrup, I went back online. Ozzy still wasn’t performing at the webcam site, and all the other men with pictures there looked well over legal age. I spent the rest of the morning looking for information on homeless kids in Fort Lauderdale and where they might hang out, in preparation for my trip to the beach with Shane.
When I got to Lazarus Place, Shane was waiting at the curb for me. “Where do we go?” I asked, as he got in beside me.
“Head for Las Olas again,” he said. “Only this time, keep going all the way to the ocean. I’ll show you some of the nooks and crannies where homeless kids hang out, and we’ll see if Dorje is still staying at the place I heard about.”
It was a gorgeous day to be outside—temps in the mid-seventies, low humidity, and bright sunshine. Once we passed through the restaurant zone on Las Olas Boulevard, we entered a neighborhood lined with stately palms, high-rises to our right, and a series of finger islands to our left.
“Wow, it’s pretty here,” I said. “Must cost a bundle to live on one of those little islands.”
“You’d be surprised who lives there,” Shane said. “Yeah, those new houses cost a couple million dollars, but there are still long-time Fort Lauderdale families in the smaller houses, and a lot of those condos are vacation spots for snowbirds. It’s a weird mix.”
The traffic was slow going because of the ongoing construction work on the road and the cars full of folks heading to the beach. When we stopped at a light, Shane leaned forward and pointed. “You see how nearly every place has a dock behind it with a boat?”
I looked where he pointed and saw all kinds of watercrafts, from small canoes and kayaks to muscular cigarettes, tall-masted sailboats, and luxury yachts.
“Most of those boats don’t belong to the people in the houses,” he said. “They rent the slips out to other rich people. I used to know a kid who stumbled into one of those yachts, which was owned by some people from New England. Nobody used it most of the year, and the house it was behind was the same deal, snowflakes who only came down for the occasional weekend. He was able to sneak on board and live there while it was unoccupied.”
As traffic began to move again, I asked, “Can you do that?”
“These kids have learned how to be invisible. They sleep during the day and only go out under the cover of darkness. They use public restrooms and showers by the beach. They have bedrolls or sleeping bags or plastic sheets. If it gets real cold they'll go to a shelter for a night or two. They scrounge food from dumpsters and they’ll panhandle if they spot somebody likely to give them spare change. Especially, around the gay guest houses.”
“That’s so sad.” Looking at the beautiful homes, I realized that if I stayed with the Bureau I’d never make enough money to live anywhere fancy. If I was lucky, I’d end up with a guy who made decent money, too, and we’d be able to afford our own house or a condo. But a mansion like these? Never. Nor could I envision a time when I’d go on those big bucket list trips I longed for—an African safari, to see those clay soldiers in China, the beaches of Tahiti.
A woman I’d been in accounting classes with back at Penn State had moved to Silicon Valley and joined one of those Internet startup companies after graduation. At the time, it looked like a dicey move, and I felt smug that I’d landed a good job with solid benefits.
Since then though, the company she worked for had blossomed, and she’d moved up the food chain to controller. The last time I saw her mentioned in the alumni magazine, the company had gone public and made her a paper millionaire.
Shane had clearly chosen his career in social work so that he could help those who might otherwise be invisible. Katya had said she’d gone to work for the Bureau as a way to make a difference. My college friend had gone for the money. Me? The role of big brother had become ingrained in me. After my father died, my relatives had told me I had to look after my mother and Danny, even though I was only ten. I’d done that for so long it had become an integral part of my psyche. Was that why I’d joined the FBI? To look after victims?
When I decided to take the analyst job in Philadelphia, I told everyone that I wanted to do something more exciting than sit at a desk and crunch numbers, to see the world like my father wanted to. But since then, the job had morphed into something more.
Those big questions popped up ag
ain—what did I want from my life? What kind of job, money, relationship? At least I had the opportunity to make choices, which so many of the kids Shane worked with didn’t have.
After another stall for a red light, we made it past the construction zone, and Shane directed me to cross the bridge and turn north on A1A. On our right, the beach was packed with sunbathers and big umbrellas, men, women, and kids out splashing and swimming in the Atlantic. To our left, the bars and restaurants were jammed.
Shane pointed out three kids—two boys dressed Goth and a heavyset girl with frizzy hair—hanging at a corner in front of a beach bar. “If we weren’t on our way somewhere, I’d stop and talk to them,” he said.
“You think they’re homeless?”
“Can’t tell until I talk to them. But they have a vibe, at least the one in the baggy shorts does. He might be living on the street but hooking up with his friends for the day.”
“So that’s what you do? Go up and talk to kids you think might be in trouble?”
“Part of it. You have to develop a sense of what people are like, what they’re doing.” He pointed ahead. “Turn left at the next light.”
The atmosphere was different as soon as we turned away from the beach and left the oceanfront high-rises and foot traffic behind for a neighborhood of two-story apartment buildings and small hotels. We turned north again, and as we drove, I caught glimpses of the Intracoastal through the side streets.
The cars parked on the side of the street often had surfboards on their roofs, bike racks, or decals advertising stand-up paddleboard companies. “It’s an interesting area,” Shane said. “Right in the middle of gentrification. Soon all these low-rise buildings will be leveled and replaced with million-dollar condos for foreign vacationers. All the regular people who live here will get shoved out.” A couple of high-rises looked new, and one of the few single-family houses was up for sale, with a sign proclaiming it the perfect site for a boutique hotel or condo development.
Nobody Rides For Free Page 9
