by Rick R. Reed
Miranda sucked in some air and blew out a vaporized breath. “I found out something bad tonight.” She looked around and saw none of the guys were interested. Jimmy stared at a crack in the wall; who knew where he was? Randy was about to fall asleep; his eyelids were drooping and his breath was becoming rhythmic; Avery wore a smirk on his fat face. All of them had seen Miranda come into this very room, too many times full of some psychic prediction or some telepathic message she had received, or with news of a UFO sighting.
“No, really, listen: a guy I know, Carlos Garcia, was found dead this morning in the lake. He was stabbed.”
They all seemed to take a little more interest in what she said. Randy even looked awake, but barely: these days it seemed like he was always tired…gathering his aluminum cans sometimes too much of an ordeal for him to bother confronting the cold.
Her words seemed even more scary in the half-light of the candles, the breath to form the words making little clouds of steam in the dark. “Some guy found him down at the rocks, wedged between a couple of boulders.” Miranda swallowed. “He was a friend of mine. I’ve known Carlos since I was, like, four.” Miranda lowered her head and cried, soon shaking with her sobs, borne along by rum and despair.
Avery and Randy wrapped their arms around her, trying to comfort. She whispered, “I wish I knew where War Zone and Little T are tonight. That’s what really scares me.”
She looked over at Jimmy, who lay stiffly, holding back consolation, still staring at that crack in the wall. He turned the gold chain around his neck mindlessly.
*
Jimmy felt sick. The nausea rose up in his stomach, like some animal inside, slick and slithering, uncoiling to take hold of him.
You’ve got to tell someone what happened to you. It might help. The candle in front of him took him back to the night he’d spent with that monster.
I don’t want to relive that; I can’t. I just can’t. Besides, what will everyone think of me? That I’m some kind of fuckin’ wimp who can’t handle himself?
But then the faces of his friends rose up before him: War Zone and Little T. Were they, too, lying undiscovered somewhere in Lake Michigan, their bodies churned by waves? He had a vision then of War Zone, in the dark water, seen from below, the fish nibbling at him, more and more attracted as the blood began to flow into the chill waters, red spreading out through the cold water like ink.
Who would be next? Miranda? He glanced over at her, her eyes full of fear, sparkling in the light from the candle. Avery? Spirited away in the guy’s truck, boom box and all? Where would Jimmy hear Public Enemy if that guy got hold of Avery? Avery could be an asshole most of the time, but he was part of them now, and Jimmy didn’t want to see anything bad happen to any of them, even Avery.
Jimmy swallowed and leaned close to Randy. Randy had always been there for them, sort of a dad. He whispered, “I need to talk to you, man, in private. Let’s go to the John.”
Randy looked at him, weariness plain on his face, but interest, too: he could tell this was serious.
“Let’s go.” Randy untangled himself from the mound of blankets, standing and waiting for Jimmy to follow.
They took a candle and walked down the hall into darkness. Jimmy had known Randy for two years, known of him far longer. Randy was twenty-six and had hustled since he was thirteen. Besides calling him Mother Hen, they all called him burn-out, because of the vacant stare in his eyes.
But his eyes didn’t look vacant as they entered the bathroom. Jimmy could see the concern as Randy waited to hear what was wrong. Randy twisted his waist-length black hair behind him, sat down on the cracked rim of the dry toilet. “What’s up, man?”
Jimmy lowered his gaze to the filthy linoleum floor. He sat down on the edge of the bathtub, across from Randy. “I don’t know, man. I think I might, I might…got some idea what’s happened with War Zone and T, you know? And when Miranda came in here, talkin’ that shit about that kid she knows that got stabbed, well, I thought I’d better tell somebody, you know?”
Randy leaned forward, closer to Jimmy. “If you know something, Jimmy, you gotta let us in on it. Maybe we can help.”
“One of my tricks, man, about a week, week and a half ago…” Jimmy’s voice trailed off. Could he admit this? He had promised himself to bury what had happened to him, to never think of it again. And certainly not to let anyone else know. “Well, shit, he…um…took me to his house.”
“You went home with this guy? Bad move.”
“Yeah, I know, but he was gonna pay me forty bucks and I needed the money.”
“For money? That’s what you went for?”
Jimmy thought for a moment, deciding quickly that he’d better be honest or he’d get nowhere. “Ah shit,” Jimmy said and closed his eyes. “The truth is that the guy forced me. I tried to steal his cash, man, and you know, things got a little hairy. Long story short: he managed to grab my knife from me and he forced me to go with him. Do or die.”
“Enough. What happened?”
“He got me there, man, and I guess he was into all this bondage shit, like tyin’ people up and so on.” Jimmy looked to see Randy’s reaction and saw only interest, not judgment.
“So, did he tie you up?”
“Uh-huh.”
“And then what happened?”
Jimmy stared at the floor. “He raped me.”
Randy nodded. “Never been fucked?”
“Well, yeah, sure I been fucked. You ain’t gonna make much money unless you’re flexible.”
“So what happened, Jimmy? You get forced to let some creep fuck you. It ain’t pretty, but hell, it comes with the territory, kid. I still don’t see what this has got to do with what’s been goin’ on.”
Jimmy knew he had to tell Randy everything. “The nicker was more than just a creep. And he did more than just fuck me. He was like into this weird religious shit, like he was screaming out these prayers while he did stuff to me.” Jimmy looked down at the floor and mumbled, “While he hurt me.” Jimmy went on. “He tried to make me eat garbage, food with his come in it, shit like that. Made cockroaches crawl all over me. He wanted me to eat his fuckin’ shit, man. How’s that for sick? You ever hear of fisting? He shoved his whole…” Jimmy snorted and looked away. “Even while he did that, man, I’m lyin’ there with fuckin’ blood runnin’ out of my ass and the guy is yelling the ‘Our Father’ or some shit. I didn’t know what was goin’ on.”
Randy didn’t say anything. He got up and stooped to put his arms around Jimmy, squeezed him. “Sounds like a really bad scene.”
“I think the guy was gonna kill me, man. Kill me. This wasn’t no ordinary trick.” Jimmy whispered, “I mean this guy was sick…big time. I been with kinky before. This was more. You know what I mean?”
When Jimmy looked at him, finally, Randy seemed lost in thought.
“Did this guy talk at all about how this was a lesson or what he was doing was good for you?”
“Yeah.”
“Did he use Crisco?”
“Yeah, how do you…”
“Did he kind of waver between being really nuts and really kind of nice?”
“You know who this is, don’t you?” Jimmy stared at Randy, amazed.
Randy nodded. “His name’s Dwight Morris. I knew him back when I used to hustle. He used to come down here quite a bit, then he got religious or something or so I heard. Stopped comin’ around.” Randy thought for a while. “Son of a bitch. I thought I’d never hear of him again.”
Jimmy sighed, feeling relief course through him. Randy knew his name. He knew his name!
“We can take care of this now, you know,” Jimmy said. “We can get that fucker, make him pay.”
Randy rose, put a finger to Jimmy’s lips. “Shhh. Not we. Me. This asshole is dangerous. From what I’ve heard about this dude, you’re lucky you got out of there alive. You just hang out here.”
Randy left the bathroom. In a few moments h
e heard Randy descending the side stairs that led to their basement exit.
Jimmy waited a few seconds, then jumped from the bathtub. He hurried down the stairs and out the door, into the cold night. Up ahead, he could see Randy on Lawrence, looking around.
“Wait!”
Randy turned and, when he saw Jimmy, frowned.
Jimmy caught up to him. “Listen, man, you can’t go to this guy’s house alone. Let me come along. With two of us, it’ll be safer.”
Randy stared at him. “No.”
“What? You can’t be serious. This is like a fuckin’ suicide mission.” “No.” Randy started to walk west on Lawrence.
“I can help.”
“I don’t need your help. Why put two asses on the line?” Randy stopped to look up at a CTA bus route sign. “I know the guy. I can handle this better alone.”
“I don’t think so.”
“Just run along home.”
“Don’t talk to me like that, fucker.” Jimmy tugged on the sleeve of Randy’s coat. “I stood up to this guy once, I can do it again.”
Randy said, “Listen, I won’t even do this if you don’t take your skinny little ass and get back in there with Avery and Miranda.”
“You fuckin’ with me? You won’t help?”
“I won’t.”
Jimmy stared down at the gutter, at a Lite beer can lying there in a black puddle, shiny with a film of grease. A car whizzed by, sending up a spray of fine slush.
“I mean it, man.” Randy was staring at him, intently.
“Why you wanna do this? Tryin’ to be some sort of hero?”
Randy shook his head and motioned with his thumb at the Chicken Arms.
Jimmy started back toward the building. “You sure?” he called over his shoulder.
“Get the hell back inside.”
Chapter 14
Randy stopped to tuck his hair into the hood of his jacket, a dirty beige parka with coyote fur around the collar, something he picked up at the Salvation Army. Looked kind of dorky, but hell, it was warm.
Heading down the stairs, he wished he didn’t have to go outside, not on a night like this. “A cold front’s coming in tonight,” Avery had said earlier, “bringing heavy snow and high winds.” Avery. The fucker sounded like a weatherman.
But he was always right. He could read the sky, or so he said. More likely, he could listen to the radio and parrot it back. But Avery was smart. Or at least gave a good appearance of being smart, which was maybe Avery’s ultimate scam.
Randy headed out into the street. The wind off the lake was so cold it snatched the air out of him; his skin immediately felt dry. He didn’t want to think about how he’d fucked up his life, but it was hard to do when you felt the December wind freezing your ears and poking its sharp fingers in the knees of your jeans. It’s especially hard to do when you think of your parents, about forty-five minutes north in Lake Forest, one of the wealthiest suburbs in the country, probably sitting in front of the fieldstone fireplace right now, watching its crackling blaze, basking in its warmth.
And not thinking of their son, Randy, who, for all they knew, was dead.
And these last thirteen years had been kind of a slow death for him. Randy moved west on Lawrence, head bowed to the force of the snow and wind, reliving those years intermittently, coming unbidden, like acid flashbacks. Almost like a photograph, he could see himself as he was at thirteen: the all-American Irish boy, close-cropped black hair, blue eyes, perfect teeth, the result of years of good breeding. That was when he took everything that mattered, threw it in a backpack, and, instead of heading out to Loyola Academy, headed out on any highway that would take him west. Three weeks later, introduced on the road to the numbing powers of marijuana, downs, and cheap fortified wine, he found himself in the Tenderloin district of San Francisco. It was a short step to selling his body to provide himself with the essentials: wine, food, and drugs. Later, he cut back, simplifying his life to just drugs, letting the fortified wine fill in the blanks when no drugs presented themselves.
He stayed long enough to become a teenage wino and addict. Stayed long enough, too, to contract an almost debilitating case of syphilis, but he wouldn’t know that for almost three years.
There, in his mind, was a sixteen-year-old boy, deposited by a grandfatherly sort on the streets of uptown Chicago, an area he, his family, and his circle of friends would never have frequented once upon a time. But once upon a time was for fairy tales, like the life he had lived in Lake Forest.
In a land he could never return to.
At sixteen, the all-American look had been abolished forever. Randy shook his head as he remembered his look back then, when punk was in. He had worn his hair in a Mohawk, with a row of perfectly spiked black hair running down the center of his head. Lots of black leather, engineer boots; he’d had his nose pierced, gotten a tattoo of a skull and crossbones on his chest.
And hustled. The money wasn’t bad back then, in 1981, when no one in Chicago gave much thought to AIDS and teenage boys like Randy could be bought and discarded for the price of a tank of gas.
Randy shivered, but not from the cold. It was back then, in that age of relative innocence, he was sure, that he became HIV positive, something he hadn’t learned until four years later, when a social worker talked him into taking the free blood test.
It was then, at age twenty, he decided to put an end to his career as a hustler.
Sort of like locking the barn door after the horse is gone.
AIDS was the main reason Randy wouldn’t let Jimmy come with him, although he’d never tell the boy that. Jimmy thought he was being a hero. Randy smirked. I just don’t have anything left to lose.
He stopped under a streetlight to wait for a bus. Randy lit a cigarette, thinking of the dangers of hustling. I’m getting too old for that scene anyway. He scanned the busy street for some sign of the grey and green bus that would take him west.
Randy thought of the virus replicating itself right now in his body, like some foreign thing come to take up residence inside him. Luckily, there had been no appearance of symptoms yet, but sometimes the AZT he got from Public Aid made him sick, which was just as bad. He waited, though, to come down with the pneumonia the doctors told him about, the skin lesions, tuberculosis. Who knew?
They said there was still a chance he might never get it.
Right. Maybe he’d get knifed, or run over by a bus first. Randy saw a bus coming. This was not what he wanted to think about.
Not now, when he needed to save his energy for the fight ahead. As he boarded the bus, counting out change to drop in the box, he had only one more thought about his infection, and he tied that thought to the man to whom he was about to pay a visit.
I hope I got it from you.
*
The bus lumbered west on Lawrence, past storefront Thai restaurants, small grocers, bank outlets, porno theaters, adult bookstores, White Castles...all merging into a neon sameness, dirty and crying out poverty.
But farther west, Randy hoped, he would find Dwight Morris. It had been years since that night, one of the last times he had hustled, when Dwight Morris had picked him up at Foster Avenue Beach park, driven him to the little one-story brick bungalow that looked like every other one-story brick bungalow up and down the block. (God, how will I ever find it?)
He didn’t want to think about that night. But the memories came anyway. He had let this slight, weak-looking man with the weird eyes and weird giggle tie him up, caress and fondle him. But he had not let him burn him with cigarettes and carve the Greek lambda into his chest with a razor blade. (“And let the mark of perversion be upon you,” the man had intoned, staring as Randy’s blood began to trickle, then flow, across the smooth expanses of his flesh.) Had not let him insert a Coke bottle into his anus and then giggle with glee as he told him how it would feel were the bottle to break inside him, the glass perforating his rectum, killing him. Had not let him smear excre
ment all over his face, making him breathe in, gagging, the smell.
No, he had not let him do any of these things.
But the man had done them anyway.
Because Randy had been tied down.
Because no one could hear Randy scream in the darkness of this well-insulated little house.
Nor could they hear Dwight, as his sick expressions of lust reached fever pitch, cry out, exhorting a God too evil to contemplate to help this boy, to accept this pain as an offering to cleanse this boy of his sin.
To let the pain remove the blackness that tarnished the soul of this “piece of filth.”
Only by coming on to him and pretending he liked the sick games had Randy been able to loosen the ties that bound him. Only by forcing his pain down inside him and pretending gratitude for this “salvation” had Randy been able to communicate with Dwight. Once free of the rope, he was able, with the help of a sharp kick to Dwight’s low-hanging testicles and a right to his eye, to run, naked, from the house, grateful to have gotten out with his life.
He had sworn that night would be the end of his hustling. He had also sworn that he would never return to anywhere near this house.
And now he found himself stepping down from the bus, wondering where to head next.
*
He looked south on Harlem, trying to remember. It had been so many years.
And what will I do when I get there?
One problem at a time. You’re getting ahead of yourself.
The wind picked up, hurtling needles of sleet into his parched face. Trudging south, he stopped in front of a Burger King, hoping the directory from the pay phone in front was still intact.
A long shot. He pulled up the heavy black binder and opened the book. Dwight Morris once, at least, mingled with the living. A ghoul with a family and a mortgage. Maybe even a dog.
