by Greg Herren
Synopsis
Sexy gay private eye Chanse MacLeod investigates the financial shenanigans of club promoter Mark Williams and discovers Williams not only has ties to the New Orleans judiciary, but also to Chanse’s lover, Paul. The connection reveals secrets about Paul’s past that Chanse had never guessed and now wishes he didn’t know. When Paul disappears, it seems his past has caught up with him in a terrifying way.
Murder in the Rue St. Ann
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Murder in the Rue St. Ann
eBook Copyright © 2012 By Greg Herren.
All Rights Reserved.
ISBN 13: 978-1-60282-837-7
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First Print Edition: © 2004
First eBook Edition: Bold Strokes Books March 2012
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
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Credits
Cover Design By Sheri ([email protected])
By The Author
The Chanse MacLeod Mysteries
Murder in the Rue Dauphine
Murder in the Rue St. Ann
Murder in the Rue Chartres
Murder in the Rue Ursulines
Murder in the Garden District
Murder in the Irish Channel
“Deliberate cruelty is not forgivable.”
-Tennessee Williams, A Streetcar Named Desire
Dedication
This book is dedicated
To
PATRICIA BRADY
A great lady and a terrific writer
And of course,
PAUL
Prologue
For the tenth time in less than two hours, he peered out through the blinds.
The digital clock on the VCR read 11:13. It figured today would be the day the mail came late. He took a sip from his diet Coke and let the blinds close as he turned away from them.
The entire house was dark, despite the high sun outside. All the blinds were closed tight. He liked the gloom; there was something comforting in the darkness. Even before, he’d liked the dark. He almost tripped over a pizza box filled with hardened crusts. He swore, sending the box skidding across the rug with a reflexive kick. It hit a couple of empty cans somewhere out there. He didn’t care.
He followed the blue light from the blank screen of the television around the end table and sat down on the couch, picking up the remote for the VCR off a pile of old TV Guides. He hit the ‘play’ button with his index finger. After a brief pause and a whirring sound, the tape began playing again.
A faint smile played across his lips and he settled into the sagging sofa cushions. This was his favorite tape. He’d practically memorized it in the six months since it had come in the mail. He never tired of watching it; some days he watched it as many as six or seven times.
His left hand drifted down to his pierced left nipple and he started to pull on it just a little bit. His breathing became shallower, and his surroundings faded into the far corners of his consciousness. He no longer smelled the litter box or the mound of garbage on the coffee table— fast food bags and soggy paper cups and partially full coffee mugs where tiny gardens of mold had begun to grow.
The sound of someone groaning filled the room. He pressed the volume button, and a little green graph crossed the bottom of the screen. The groaning got louder. He tugged harder on the nipple ring. His eyes gleamed as the camera moved in for a close-up of a reddened face, once handsome, now hideously twisted in pain: veins bulged in the forehead, the eyes were scrunched close and the mouth an open grimace limned with spittle. His cock began to stir inside his white underwear and his predatory smile got wider.
The camera pulled back from the face to reveal a muscular pair of legs gripping the head. As the legs flexed, cords of muscle rippled beneath skin that was smooth, hairless, and tan. The camera continued to pull back until the full bodies of the two men filled the frame.. The man being squeezed was young—maybe in his early 20s, possibly even as young as 19. He was wearing a tight pair of purple square cuts. Even as he tried to shift his position and slapped at the legs wrapped around his head, his erection was clearly visible.
“Come on you little bitch,” panted the man with the advantage. “Give up or I’ll crack your skull.”
“No way,” the younger man said. He let out a howl as the other man applied more pressure.
The boy was beautiful, certainly, with no body fat to obscure the muscle in his gleaming body. But it was the other wrestler the man with the remote liked best— his curly black hair and bright blue eyes, the small patch of wiry black hair in the center of his sculpted pecs, the wet hair under his armpits, and the hard muscles in his legs.
Cody Dallas, gay wrestling superstar.
He owned all 12 of the tapes Cody appeared in; he knew them frame by frame. The scene he was watching now, in the match between Cody Dallas and Jay Robbins, was one of the hottest. Somehow, Jay managed to overcome the strength of Cody’s powerful legs; in about another half minute he would manage to escape for a brief moment. But he wouldn’t be free for long. Cody would eventually get him down again, tie up his legs, and flip him into a Boston crab. Jay would hold out for a few moments, suffering beautifully, resisting mightily, before finally surrendering. Jay lost two straight falls, and after the second submission, Cody stripped him of the purple square cut, straddled Jay’s face and pulled it up into his crotch. No doubt after the match Cody fucked Jay Robbins until he screamed with pleasure.
It was, he thought, too bad it happened off-camera. He would have gladly paid more to see that.
His cock was fully hard now. He slipped his hand under the elastic waistband and stroked himself. Jay was still moaning on the screen.
He imagined himself in the same position; Cody’s legs of steel around his head, demanding a submission from him, his ears ringing, the blood rushing to his head, refusing defiantly to submit to the pressure. “Come on, you little bitch,” he heard Cody whisper into his ear. “You know you’re going to—why make it harder on yourself?”
But he would hold out even longer than Jay, because he’d want Cody’s legs around his head forever. He’d never want Cody to let go. That was his chief fantasy; to wrestle Cody, to take on the video superstar.
He knew he couldn’t beat Cody in a wrestling match. Cody was too skilled, too strong, too talented. But it sure as hell would be fun to try—to be that close to him, to feel his skin, to smell the funk of his sweaty armpits, the must from his crotch.
The sound of a vehicle out front interrupted his reverie. He hurried back to the window and cracked the blinds a bit. The little mail jeep had stopped at the foot of his drive. Today it was the girl with the lazy eye, in her uniform of blue shirt and darker blue shorts and a pith helmet. She wiped sweat out of her eyes as she searched through a white plastic tub and finally retrieved a couple of envelopes.
Pay dirt. One of them was a manila envelope, which could only be the new Cody Dallas tape.
His pulse racing with excitement, he grabbed a pair of sweatpants and stood at the front door. He waited for the jeep
to pull off so he could run down the driveway and claim it at last. He’d cursed himself since he ordered for not paying more for overnight delivery. Every day he’d waited he’d berated himself, watched Cody’s older tapes and fantasized about the new one on its way.
Finally, after what seemed an eternity, the girl with the lazy eye got back into the jeep, pulled out of the driveway and disappeared around the curve in the road. Barefoot, he ran down the driveway, opened the mailbox and pulled out his prize.
Yes, it was from Full Nelson Productions.
He tore it open right then and there, not caring if someone came driving along to see him, standing there in just sweatpants in the hot afternoon sun. Like all Full Nelson’s tapes, this one was in an unmarked tape box. He slid it out and read the label on the cassette.
Musclestud Challenge 12:
Jay Robbins vs. Kevin Marshall
Shayne Goodwin vs. Jamie West
Gunther Schmidt vs. Max Mann
Cody Dallas vs. Mark Miller
As usual, they saved the best for last.
Humming to himself, he managed not to run back up the driveway and into the darkness of the house. Once inside, he peeled off the sweatpants and hit the eject button on the VCR. He took out the old tape and slid in the new one. He walked back to the couch and slid his underwear down and off. His hands trembled with excitement. He’d been looking forward to seeing this tape since he’d first seen it advertised on Full Nelson’s website last week. Mark Miller was tough— a good looking blonde with a great attitude and a body to match. On the website, the bout was billed as a “Battle of the Unbeatens—the match you’ve all been waiting for.”
The Web page for the match featured some incredibly hot action shots from the match. After he’d ordered it, he found himself going back to the Web page time after time, getting aroused, beating off until he came with a shout, his body trembling. He closed his eyes. His heart was racing. It was time.
He hit play on the remote, and the usual cheesy music began as the tape rolled. He hit fast forward to get through the opening credits. The television screen flickered as the first match began—Jay Robbins got his ass kicked, like he always did, this time he wore an orange Speedo as he got tossed about and finally beaten by Kevin Marshall, an imposing black muscleman in an incredibly brief white bikini. Even in the fast forward mode, he could tell Jay suffered magnificently, as he always did. When that match was over, Jay lay broken on the mat, Kevin Marshall flexed, his foot on Jay’s prone form.
And now it was Shayne Goodwin’s turn to destroy an opponent. Shayne had been his favorite until Cody Dallas’ debut. Shayne was tall, lean and muscular, and had a shaved head. He always wore a tiny blue squarecut to emphasize his amazingly round, hard ass. He didn’t lose very often, but it looked like this time he was going down. Jamie West was the same height, but outweighed him by about 20 pounds of hard defined muscle. Jamie also seemed to have no problem with breaking rules during the match; he choked Shayne and grabbed his balls whenever he was in trouble. Sure enough, after Shayne won the first fall, he lost the next two.
It was a good fight—one he would have to watch and savor at regular speed sometime in the future.
The next match was clumsily staged. Both guys were new to the sport and the holds were obviously faked. They had flawless bodies— maybe at some point, with more experience, they might be able to wrestle a real match, but for now, they were strictly making a video for the pleasure of the viewers.
He hated watching matches like that—he preferred to watch real matches, with real holds and real pain.
And finally, that mess was over, and Cody climbed into the ring to warm up and stretch. He clicked from fast forward to play and let out a long sigh.
His erection was so hard it almost hurt.
He reached for his bottle of poppers and inhaled. As the rush spread through his body, his skin became sensitive and his nipples stood up hard and firm.
Cody wore a tight yellow bikini that rode up a bit on his hard ass. The yellow showed off his tan to perfection. He was perfection.
Then Mark Miller climbed through the ropes and removed his blue satin jacket. He wore a black squarecut. He had a head of thick blonde hair, a pretty face, a great body, but he was nothing compared to Cody.
“So, you’re the great Cody Dallas,” he said with a big grin.
Cody struck a double biceps pose. “Yeah.”
“You’ve never lost.”
“Nope.”
Mark’s smile grew. “Until now.”
“You’re dreaming.”
“Well, bring it on then, big guy.”
They started to circle each other, one feinting toward the other, then backing off without locking up. Cody made a sudden lunge and managed to get one of Mark’s legs, which he lifted and twisted. Mark fell backwards and landed on the mat with a thud. Cody planted his own leg and twisted Mark’s around his own. Mark let out a shout of pain and slammed his fist into the mat whenever Cody applied more pressure. This hold lasted for a minute or so, until Mark managed to get some leverage. He used his free leg to kick Cody square in the chest. Cody lost his balance and his grip, falling backwards into the ropes. Mark sprang to his feet, and as Cody came forward out of the ropes, Mark drove his right hand into Cody’s abs.
Cody doubled over and fell to the mat, groaning.
He reached for the bottle of poppers and inhaled again as Mark began to work over a prone Cody. He dropped elbows and then knees into Cody’s exposed and vulnerable abs. With each blow, Cody convulsed and moaned. His eyes were closed, his face grew dark red and sweat poured down from his hairline. Finally, Mark grabbed a handful of hair, dragged Cody to his feet, and shoved him into a ring corner. Mark started to drive his right knee into Cody’s abs, which were starting to bruise.
“Come on, Cody, kick his ass,” he muttered as he reached for the bottle of poppers again. Cody never lost! This Mark guy was good, and sexy, and had a serious attitude—he grinned like a little boy on Christmas morning each time he drove that knee in again—but Cody would come through. He ALWAYS did.
Mark stepped away, and Cody slid down to the mat. Then Mark kicked Cody in the side. Cody slid out under the ropes and dropped to the floor.
Mark posed, flexed both arms over his head, and wiped sweat off his forehead. He looked into the camera, making his lightly furred pecs bounce while he growled.
In the background, he saw Cody use the lower rope to pull himself up to his feet.
He watched as the camera zoomed in on Cody’s ass. It was truly magnificent—round and hard, and the yellow bikini had slipped into the crack, like a thong. The exposed cheeks were white against Cody’s tan-line.
He slid his underwear down, and his erection slapped up against his lower abdomen. He held the poppers to his nose again and inhaled deeply.
Cody climbed through the ropes. Mark stopped flexing and started toward Cody. Cody leaped into a perfect dropkick and his bare feet slammed into Mark’s chest. Cody rolled in the air to land on his back and quickly spring back to his feet. Mark fell backward, hit the ropes and bounced forward back into the center of the ring. Cody connected with a powerful fist to Mark’s abs and Mark crumpled. Cody grabbed Mark by the head, launched into the air and drove Mark’s forehead into the canvas. Mark twitched once. Cody rolled him over with his foot, straddled his chest, and flexed as Mark shook his head, to try to reorient himself.
He picked up the remote and hit the pause button and the picture froze into an awesome still. He started to stroke himself. He imagined Cody sitting on his chest, just like in the video. He imagine staring right up into Cody’s crotch, where the yellow lycra was soaked with sweat. As his eyes traveled up, he saw the beads of sweat glistening in Cody’s curly black torso hair, a drop of salty water dangled from the elbow of Cody’s flexed right arm.
He stroked faster.
When he was close—when only a few more strokes would bring him to climax—he stopped.
He pressed himself
deeper into the spongy sofa, his breath came in quick gasps. When his breath and his heartbeat returned to normal and the throbbing in his cock subsided to a dull ache in his balls, he picked up the remote and hit “play” again.
On the television screen, Cody stood and sauntered to a neutral corner and leaned back against the ropes while Mark slowly got up, shook his head and stretched a bit. Then he walked to the center of the ring and grinned at Cody.
“You’re good,” he said, “but not that good.”
Cody just shrugged. “Apparently good enough.”
Mark beckoned him with his fingers. “Come on, muscle boy, let’s see if you can keep it up.”
Cody just ignored the taunts, another reason he loved him so much. It was hot when the other guys taunted each other at times to get their blood and testosterone pumping. But Cody was impervious to trash-talk. He preferred to coolly and methodically go to work and taking his opponents apart.
Mark suddenly sucker punched Cody. The entire second fall went that way—Cody was barely able to mount any kind of offensive. When he did, Mark pulled some dirty trick to lay him out again. After a few minutes of this, Cody finally submitted to a brutal standing backbreaker.
He didn’t touch himself during the entire second fall. He didn’t enjoy watching Cody get worked over. It didn’t happen very often, but when it did, he usually fast-forwarded through it. This fall would definitely be a fast-forward moment in the future.
The third fall started with Cody losing his cool. He was furious—it was plain in his face. He pounded the padding in the corner as he watched Mark flex for the mirror. Taunting never moved him into anger, but falling victim to dirty tricks certainly did. If Cody ran true to form, he would blast Mark to pieces with superior wrestling skills and some dirty tricks of his own to further humiliate the loser who dared get in the ring with Cody Dallas.
