by Josh Thomas
At the musical bridge, Pop Cliché #1—who but the Pet Shop Boys could get away with it?—a simultaneous notion to pose in contrast four times, and one last vial-pass; then whirling into the payoff, knees floor-ward, hips thrusting, hand on neck, on thigh, mouths ready, asses too, for all the world to see.
Jamie pivoted and thrust his crotch—ten feet in front of Kent’s face.
Jamie replaced his frustration with freedom; the DJ miraculously played the original, grandiose ending intact, mood changes made for image-making, tympani helping Jamie and Dread strike last sexpositions; then an embrace which welded them, Dread’s leg around Jamie’s waist, Jamie’s hands supporting his back, arms up and graceful, black locks cascading to the floor, an ecstatic finale, as Jamie possessed the man’s body.
The whole room waited to breathe or come. Kent exploded.
Lights changed; the room breathed. Next was a dance-rap, and Jamie and his friend headed off the floor arm in arm to applause. Their lone white spotlight turned into nine spinning reds. They passed unseeing by Kent, who stared furiously ahead, working his jaw. Good Christ, in a gaybar. He shoved past a fat woman and hurried off the platform, desperate for the nearest john.
35
The Hunt & The Chase
Blaney learned that Ford had left home, destination unknown. Left his post behind the bar to find Kent.
Another john break. Jamie headed to the far one by the pool table. It was getting late. The adjoining space was quickly filled.
As he exited, a laughing young man hurried in, calling something over his shoulder to his friends. Wet spilled all over Jamie’s chest. “Oh. Sorry!”
“No problem,” Jamie said, wiping cocktail off his sweatshirt. He was soaked from his shoulder to his belly button. Where’s Kent? Find the bartender.
No Blaney. An Asian guy in a leather and steel harness came at him from behind the bar. “What’ll you have?”
“Nothing, sorry,” Jamie said, turning back.
And he saw Tommy Ford wrap an arm around a small, diffident-looking young guy in a dirty tank top. Ford’s and Jamie’s eyes locked. Ford grinned, pointed to his Muscular Dystrophy T-shirt, pushed Diffident toward the door.
“I see him! Ford’s here, exiting right now! Has a guy with him!” Too much crowd between. “I’m going to lose him!”
Jamie pushed. The bar was at full capacity. Some guy yelled, “Hey bitch, watch who you’re pushing.”
“Sorry.” A space opened up, Jamie squiggled through it. A fat man he’d seen earlier, “Excuse me,” he maneuvered another foot and a half. “Hi, thanks,” to someone who let him through.
Where are they? They can’t be gone!
Drag queen in the way.“’Scuse me,honey,”and a firm shove.Nothing between him and the door but barrels. Now! Hugged a barrel and got outside. “He’s leaving, but I don’t see him. Blink your headlights so I know you’re here.” Looked both directions. Nothing. Forget the lot. No headlights blinked. Across the street? No. Just guys heading toward him. “What should I do?”
Ran to Alabama Street. Could that be an old Toyota pulling away? “He’s driving south on Alabama. I’ll try to follow.” Ran up to his Chevy as the maybe Toyota hung a right. Shouted his location into his microphone. Jumped in and started the Impala. “He’s heading west towards Meridian. Kent, where are you? Call my cell phone.”
Rear-view mirror as he skidded around the corner. No cop cars stirring. No phone call. He flipped on his phone to call Harvey, but got no dial tone. Banged the phone against his chest, listened again; nothing.
He was on his own. Bail out? Follow?
He pictured Diffident’s face; drove on. Acid guts again.
Kent hurried out of the bathroom to find Jamie. I’d know that damn yellow swoop anywhere. He looked and looked, shoving past people. Lt. Phil Blaney caught up with him. “We have to talk.”
“Not now, I’ve lost my witness.”
“Ford’s in his vehicle. He left eleven minutes ago, could be here by now.”
“Great. Just when I’ve lost my witness. Let’s go to the pool room, he’s not here.”
They fought their way past people to the pool room. At 6’4”, Kent could see over the heads of most customers, but still no Jamie. “I’ll try the corner john.”
“You want me to search with you, or post on the door in case Ford comes in?”
“Yeah, watch for Ford. I’ll find Jamie.”
He wasn’t in the john, but two perverts were. Jamie wasn’t in the pool room. He wasn’t in the main room. Major Slaughter arrived. “I heard Ford’s on his way.”
“Yeah, but he should be here by now, and Blaney hasn’t seen him. Jamie’s missing.”
“Shit.”
“Look on the dance floor, Chief. I’ll take the terrace.”
The terrace was crowded, but no Jamie. Kent re-entered the dance area, hooked up with Slaughter. “You seen him?”
“No. I checked the dance floor john, too.”
“I don’t think he’s here, then. I’ve looked everywhere. My God, what if he’s slipped out? What if Ford’s been here and they’ve already made contact?”
“Radio Ford’s tail car.”
“Yeah.” Kent hurried up to Blaney, could tell he hadn’t seen Ford. “Still no witness. Stay here on the door till further orders. We think maybe he and Ford have already made contact. We’re going to check with Ford’s trailer.”
“Got it.”
Kent sprinted out to his taxi/police car, called. What he heard sickened him. IPD said, “I had him, then he ducked into a parking garage. I followed and got stopped by some old broad in a 20-year-old Mercury blocking the lane, and somebody behind me too. I was pinned in. The garage has entrance and exit opposite each other, and this lady was trying to fit into a space too small, so I got out and parked the damn car for her, and by the time I got out he was gone. I called Harvey as soon as it happened.”
“Ford’s eluded his tail,” Kent told Slaughter, who climbed in with him.
“No Jamie, no Ford.”
“Tell all cars to rendezvous at HQ.” Slaughter notified Harvey. Kent tore that taxi downtown. “We’re falling apart, George. This is like looking for a needle in a haystack. Notify all state, IPD and sheriff ’s cars to be on the lookout for the Toyota and the Chevy. Give the plate numbers. Maybe we’ll catch a break.”
The major relayed the order. “The chopper maybe.”
“They’ve got a head start on us. Why did this happen? What went wrong? Get Campbell on the horn.”
“I haven’t seen him,” Julie said. “Isn’t he still inside?”
“No. What do you hear from his mic?”
“I haven’t had a report in five, ten minutes. Nothing. Not even the music.”
“Shit, his mic’s dead then,” Kent muttered. “I should know, the man never shuts up.”
“Did you see him exit the facility?” Slaughter barked at Campbell.
“No. I thought he was still inside.”
Kent said, “Is his car in place? Are you in place? Where are you, Campbell?”
“In the parking lot at the side. Where I was assigned.”
“Jesus Christ,” Kent cried.
“Any Chevies in that lot, Campbell?” the major growled.
She looked at the other cars. “No, sir.”
“What’s he driving, Campbell?”
“Oh no.”
“Search the area for that Chevrolet, if it’s not too much bother, then rendezvous at HQ, Campbell,” Kent ordered. He cut the call. “You’d think she’d know something was wrong when she stopped hearing the music. Otherwise there’s no excuse. There’s music on the terrace even.
Human error, equipment error. Damn.” “Jamie’s resourceful,”George reminded him.“He’s got good judgment.” “He doesn’t have a fucking gun!”
***
If it was the Toyota, it was turning south at Meridian, heading for the interstate. Jamie ran stop signs and flashing red lights to catch up. Turned left on M
eridian.
Cop car coming his way! Jamie pulled the signal on the steering column to flash his brights. Nothing happened.
GM car, not the Acura. His right foot gunned the gas, his left foot searched for the brights switch. Where? Patrol car passed him. Jamie honked. The cop car went the other direction. The Toyota, if that’s what it was, ran a red at 10th and Meridian, straight up the ramp.
Speedometer at 50. Jamie radioed his location. Is anyone listening?
Little traffic, but a cab headed his way in the near lane. Jamie calculated space, speed, tromped the gas pedal, swung left in front of the cab but too far wide. Cabbie’s angry horn, miss this parked car on 10th! Brakes and he was clear by two inches.
Ahead of him, maybe Toyota climbed the ramp and disappeared.
The choice was soon: I-65 South or I-70 West? Where are you, econobox?
Not here. Not there. Jamie chose 65 South. Maybe that’s why you’re a stupid IU fan, you’re from southern Indiana. Going 70 now, come on let’s have 80, he floored it.
Topped out at 74 and a half, and no econobox.
He drove searching and cursing all the way till he hit I-465. Drove west around the beltway, looking for a gas station, not finding one. Finally he did, pulled off and screamed a moment. He’d had one good look at Diffident’s face, which was all it took. He called HQ on a pay
phone and roared, “Where the fuck’s my backup?”
“Where are you?” Harvey scolded.
“Um, 65 South, then 465 West. Southwest Truck Stop.”
“Stay there. Kessler’s ordered all cars to rendezvous here. Stay where you are. Give me your number.”
Jamie waited, and he waited, and the phone never rang. It was the kind of pay phone that couldn’t receive incoming calls.
36
CEO
“Where are we going?” the passenger asked. While Jamie turned south at the highway split, Ford turned east, to make a little nostalgia tour; Ohio is east, the previous victims were east. But at the beltway, as the bugman predicted, he turned south. “This car stinks.”
“Roll down the window. There’s a motel I like just out of Greenwood,” Ford assured. “Real quiet, mom and pop kinda place, they don’t ask any questions. We can get as wild as we want.”
“Cool. Unh, that feels good.” Davey patted the hand groping his thighs.
“You ready to smoke?” Ford took a joint out of the right inner pocket of his leather jacket. He held a skinny cigarette in front of Daveyboy’s face.
“Cool,” Davey said again.
“The whole joint’s yours,” Ford soothed, checking his mirrors. Nothing. Why not? He was sure Jamie saw him.
He fished another joint out of his left inner pocket, held it up for the dude’s inspection. “I got another one here for me. All the reefer we want, man. Fire that badboy up.” He flicked his lighter for Davey.
Davey sucked deep. Ford put the other joint back in his left pocket, lit a Marlboro. “That’s right,” he said. “Let’s get high. What kind of music you listen to?” Davey named a country station. Ford dialed it up.
***
Davey woke up in the car outside a motel in, well, it might have been the outskirts of Greenwood, but it was more like the middle of nowhere. Tommy Ford was at his door, opening it, a hand on Davey’s arm, “Right this way.”
Davey followed the arm that pulled him. They got inside a room. But he felt so sleepy. ***
Ford surveyed his handiwork. Davey was naked, face down, handcuffed, feet tied with rope. He’d be able to walk, but only with small steps. “Piece of cake, Doc,” Ford said out loud. “Six cents worth of horse tranq and he’s out like a light.”
He turned on the TV, shucked his shirt and loosened his jeans, waiting for the phone to ring.
The graphic under her face said Tonya Tilley. He hit the mute button, leaned against the cheap headboard, adjusted his pillow. Reached into his left jacket pocket, fired up the undoctored doobie and sat back to watch the show. The most mundane things in life—commercials, budget cuts, hailstorms, murders—became fascinating through reefer eyes.
Thirty minutes passed. He got into his outfit. The phone hadn’t rung, and Tonya was ready for repeats. “Jesus, get a move on, willya?” Randy was always so slow. “Shit, he’s an old man.” When the same weather segment came on, he dialed Foster’s number.
After four rings, the familiar voice gave the familiar message. After the beep, Ford rubbed his jock and said, “Jamie, my lad, I’m disappointed in ya. I thought you’d have a force the size of the Kosovo invasion around all the bars. But I’m sitting here by myself, rubbin’ my big dick, waitin’ for ya. You know you want it, cocksucker.”
This made him laugh. “Oh, I forgot. Daveyboy’s here.” He glanced at the passed-out form. “He’s taken all his clothes off and fallen asleep. Don’t know what’s gotten into that boy. I can’t wake him up no matter how hard I try.”
A kick of knee into kidney, and a nice sickening thud. “Hear that?” Laughter. “He just will not wake up.
“So tell you what, Mr. Gay Newspaper Man. I wanta make a deal with ya. I’m willing to go easy on you. I’m a nice guy. Haven’t I always told ya I’m a nice guy?” His throat rumbled again.
“See, I’m willing to trade you for ole Daveyboy here. I don’t wanna hurt the guy. He’s just a dumb shit, and me, I couldn’t hurt a flea. Not a flea, you hear that? Just like Roger. He’d always watch ‘Rudolph, the Red Nosed Reindeer’ every Christmas. He loved that show, he really did. No matter what we were doing, we all had to sit down when Rudolph came on.”
He belched. “Oh, excuse me. Guess it’s not polite to burp on the phone, huh, Mr. String Quartet? You fuckin’ faggot, a goddamn string quartet at a fuckin’ funeral. Might as well put a sign outside your mom’s house, ‘Faggot Lives Here.’ Cocksuckers like you make me want to puke, you know that? Sissies like you give the rest of us a bad name.”
He coughed. Better get off the phone so Randy can call. “Anyway, here’s the deal.” He squinted to consult his watch, 2:42. Randy was due to call in three minutes.
“You’ve got until 3:15 to meet me at the Family Court Motel, outside a town called Providence. You like that?
“It’s south of Greenwood, take 37 south to state route 154. You gotta watch for the signs. Then you go five miles east to Providence Road. There’s a sign for Providence, but ya gotta stay sharp. Got that, faggot? Oh, I’m sorry; Mr. Gay Activist Newspaper Man Reporter.”
Daveyboy stirred, but only for half a second. Ford patted an inert asscheek.
A siren sounded outside. Or was that on the TV? Ford got instantly alert.
The siren grew fainter. “Oh, and Jamie? You come alone, you hear me? No cops, no nothin’. Nobody, you got that? Or else I blow your fuckin’ head off and Davey’s too. I’ve got friends, see, they’re all down here with me. I’ve got every road between Indy and Providence covered.” He giggled. “You know how I did that? There’s only one road between Providence and dirt! We’re talking country, man. So broadcast this. My people and I, we got snipers posted along this road. You and the cops want to come in here, they’re gonna be takin’ you out in body bags on Eyewitness News.” It was too much fun. He had to laugh again.
Maybe he’s alone. Maybe he doesn’t have any cops. Who’d believe a Gay activist anyway? It was a sweet thought.
“And you know why, Jamie? I don’t have to tell you this, but I’m gonna. I always was a generous person. And then I have to go. Get off this line.
“It’s about this. I’m gonna make you a star. It’s what you’ve always wanted, you think you’re so good-looking. So you’re gonna be the star attraction. Jerry and Randy’s bringin’ camcorders, and they’re gonna tape you, see? But I have to warn you, it’s gonna be R-rated for violence, or even X. They’re gonna cut your heart out while it’s still beatin’, and you’re gonna star from coast to coast. You always did wannabe a star, so here’s your chance, faggot.”
Anticipation filled him, and his
dick ached. His breath came choppy and his chest heaved. Go ahead, why not? Tell him, he might as well know.
“Yeah,” Ford said. “Yeah.” His head got very clear now, and his dick burned even more. He didn’t touch it; he wouldn’t, until he had Jamie in his power.
The Whisperer demanded, “Tell him!”
“Here’s where I’m going to dump you. Changed my mind, got a better place now. Since you always wanted to be a star, where’s the best place for them to find your body? I’m driving to California. Nobody there will care about an unidentified fag. So I’m going to take a nice, leisurely drive to L.A., and come four o’clock in the mornin’, I’ll drive up to your spot, pop the trunk, show you to your final resting place and shove off.
“You’ll be so proud,” he chortled. “They’ll find your body on the Hollywood Walk of Fame!”
He cackled for half a minute. Then he eyed Daveyboy’s naked ass; not bad. Ford didn’t want to spoil the main event with James R. Foster, Chief Correspondent; but a little foreplay wouldn’t hurt. He found a large butt plug in his toykit, lubed it up; then realized he didn’t need lube, Davey wasn’t going anywhere.
He loosened the hole with his fingers, then shoved the big prong in. Davey didn’t even move.
“Yeah, he likes it.” It was fun. Tommy moved the dildo in and out. He loved taking advantage of Gay guys. It was so easy to do, and it made him feel big, powerful—like a man. His guys, his so-called victims, weren’t masculine like he was. He spent his whole life learning how to be macho, and he was good at it. No one ever harassed him on the street.
Roger was good at it too; but Tommy didn’t like to think about that. I’m the man here. “You like that, Davey? I know you do, you stupid sissy queer.”
He held the phone down to pick up the sounds of fucking. “Hear that? Are you gettin’ off on it, bitch? You know what I’m doin’. I can’t wait to fuck you when you’re dead.”
