by Tinnean
“That would be me.” Paul gave him an easy smile.
“I only wanted this one.” He indicated Pretty Boy with an impatient gesture.
“Yes, sir. I’m aware of that.” I was polite in spite of the fact that this man made me grit my teeth. There were some johns like that.
There was an open bottle of Dewar’s on the dresser. Beside it were two glasses with a healthy amount of the liquor in them. Pretty Boy never drank much when he was on the clock. He exchanged glances with me and gave a slight nod. He’d stay alert. He knew how to make a drink last, and there was an artificial plant in the corner. He could water it with the Dewar’s if he had to.
“If you’ll give me the agreed-upon sum, Mr. Shaw, I’ll leave you to get to know Pretty Boy.”
“Oh, you’re his pimp?” He smirked and seemed to relax, and I didn’t bother correcting his mistaken impression. He shoved the bills at me. “Here.”
I thumbed through them quickly, making sure they were all Benjamins. One john had tried to pay us with bills that had the corners of hundred dollar bills glued to tens. Certain these were the real thing, I tucked them into my pocket and forced myself to smile at him. “Enjoy your time together.”
Pretty Boy was already taking the condoms out of the fanny pack he’d unfastened from around his waist. He put them and the tube of lubricant on the nightstand. Then he reached for the top button of his shirt.
“What would you like me to call you?”
“Michael. Michael is fine.”
“What’s your pleasure, Michael?” he asked as I pulled the door shut behind me.
I went down to the small lobby on the ground floor to wait. I’d brought a deck of cards with me to pass the time, but someone had left a newspaper on a chair. I’d read the paper instead.
I sat down and opened it to the horoscopes. I was a Capricorn.
You are valued by your friends. That was nice to know. Love will turn up where you least expect it. Yeah, right.
I looked for the advice column.
Dear Esme,
I walked into my son’s bedroom to find him kissing his best friend. Hadn’t the woman ever heard of knocking? Does this mean he’s gay? What did she think? His father is furious and blames me. Sure. He had nothing to do with it. Where did I go wrong? How could my son do this to me? What do I do now?
Heartbroken mom
“Shoot your bastard of a husband, lady, and throw a coming-out party for your son.”
Unfortunately, Dear Esme didn’t agree with me. She recommended counseling for the whole family.
I turned to the comics and read Peanuts and Garfield, Blondie, For Better or For Worse, and Pickles.
This newspaper had a cryptoquote on the same page as the comics, just above the crossword puzzle. I took a pen from my pocket and began working it. It turned out to be an obscure quote by Edgar Allan Poe.
Before I realized it, more than an hour had passed. Paul should have been down by now. I left the paper on the chair, went to the manager’s office, and tapped on the open door. “Excuse me.”
Sitting at the desk was a young man. He was cute, and on the desk in front of him was a physiological chemistry textbook. A college man. I’d always had a weakness for college men. For a moment I regretted I hadn’t spent the time flirting with him. Another time, perhaps.
“Would you mind calling room 227? My friend was supposed to meet me in the lobby, but he can be so absentminded.” I smiled at him, the smile guaranteed to get me extra bucks.
“Sure.” He smiled back and reached for the phone. After a minute, he frowned. “Are you sure that’s the right room number? There’s no—”
I was out of the little office and bolting for the stairs before he could finish. There could be any number of reasons why the phone kept ringing, I told myself as I took the stairs two and three at a time. They could have fallen asleep…. They could be in the shower…. Pretty Boy could have his mouth full….
I didn’t believe any of them.
THE DOOR to 227 was locked, but the lock looked flimsy enough. I was going to throw myself at the door, sure the jamb would splinter, when the manager came panting up.
“Hold on, John Wayne. I’ve got the master key.” He unlocked the door.
The room was dark, but I remembered the smell of blood from years ago. I gagged and retched, swallowed, fumbled for the light switch by the door, and pressed it.
Pretty Boy was facedown on the bed, blood a fan of red on the pillow. “Paul.”
“Oh, fuck,” the manager whispered. “Oh, fuck!”
Somehow I was beside the bed. I placed my fingers against his throat, and my knees almost gave out in relief.
“He’s alive.”
“I’ll call 911.”
I left him telling the operator we needed an ambulance now while I rushed into the bathroom for a towel. There was so much blood.
Part of Paul’s scalp was torn. Please, God, let that be what was causing the extensive bleeding. I pressed the towel to his head gently. Bruises were forming on his back and side, and froth bubbled on his lips. I made sure he could breathe, but I was afraid to turn him over.
“I’m gonna go down and wait for the paramedics, okay?”
I nodded, my throat clogged with tears. “Thanks.”
Don’t die, Paul. Please, God. Please don’t let him die.
And maybe for once God didn’t have his back turned. The paramedics got there sooner than I’d expected. In this part of town, why would they rush?
A man and a woman came in, wheeling a stretcher. “What happened?”
“I don’t know. I found him like this.” I backed away to give them room. “Is he gonna be okay?”
They took in the tube of ID Glide and the packets of condoms, and Paul, naked on the bed.
“Dunno. We’ll do what we can here, then transport him to GW Hospital. What drugs has he been taking?”
“None. We don’t do drugs.”
The woman’s look told me she didn’t believe me. She turned back to Paul and took his vital signs.
“Looks like he had the hell beat out of him.” The man started an IV. “You didn’t do this, I suppose?”
“Paul’s my friend.”
“It’s been known to happen. Quarrel over a boyfriend, maybe?”
Asshole. “No. We didn’t quarrel, and I didn’t do this to him.”
He shrugged. “We’ll take him to the emergency department.”
They eased him onto a backboard and got him on the stretcher. The skin over his ribs was red and angry-looking. “Paul…,” I whispered.
“At least they won’t have to cut his clothes off him,” the woman said.
“I’m coming with you.” I gathered up Paul’s clothes.
“Here.” She handed me a plastic bag, then draped a sheet over Paul’s naked body.
“Thanks.” I barely had time to stuff the jeans, shirt, fanny pack, and sneakers into the bag before they were heading for the stairs.
The ride seemed to take forever. They wouldn’t let me stay in the back with Paul, so I sat beside the driver, tears spilling down my cheeks and dripping off my jaw.
Vincent. I gritted my teeth. This was Vincent’s fault.
AT THE hospital, Paul was wheeled into a bay. “You can’t go in with him. You’ll be in the way. There’s a waiting room through there. I imagine the police will want to talk to you about this.”
“Yeah. Thanks.” I watched until the doors shut behind Paul, then took out my cell phone.
Vincent’s number was in the small address book in Paul’s fanny pack. I punched in the numbers with short, hard jabs.
“Vincent.” He sounded bored. Goddamned motherfucker.
“Why, man? Why’d you do this? We trusted you!”
“Sweetcheeks? What’s wrong?”
“Oh, sure, like you don’t know. Fucking bastard! Fucking, cocksucking—”
“Sweetcheeks. What the fuck is going on?” He no longer sounded bored. His voice was hard, but I cou
ld hear the concern under it, and that jolted me out of my haze of pain and fury.
“You really don’t know? Vince, you didn’t send him to us? He told us…. Oh, God, Vince, it’s Pretty Boy! He’s hurt so bad… there was so much blood!”
“Who hurt him? Did he give you a name?”
“He said his name was Michael Shaw.” I laughed, and I wasn’t surprised at how bitter it sounded. “We didn’t believe him.”
“Fuck! Where are you?”
“The paramedics took us to GW. Vince, what if he doesn’t make it?” This wasn’t the first time that thought had crossed my mind.
“He’s going to make it. I’ll kill him if he doesn’t. Okay, listen to me, Sweetcheeks. George Washington Hospital has one of the best trauma centers in DC. Pretty Boy is going to be fine.”
“Can you—” I couldn’t do this alone. “I know you’re busy….”
“I’m on my way.” He hung up before I had a chance to thank him, to apologize for believing he would do something like betray the man who had helped him when he’d been in pain.
I hung up and dried my cheeks with the sleeve of my jacket. Now that I had some time to think about it, I knew Vincent would never do that, would never pimp for us. I was surprised at how relieved that thought made me feel.
I dialed another number. Spike needed to be here. I hoped he was still at home.
PAUL WAS stable. He’d need to be admitted, but the only available beds were on Maternity, and there was no way they were putting him there, so he’d stay in the ED until one became available on another floor. He lay on a bed in a curtained-off area of the emergency department, fading in and out of consciousness, his face as white as the sheet that covered him. His thick black hair had been shaved from the side of his head, and stitches stood out in stark relief, securing his scalp. A chest tube worked to reinflate his collapsed lung.
“You with the whore?” a cop asked. He was about five foot ten, and his gut hung over his belt. Beside him was another cop, younger and in better shape.
I stiffened and glared at him and his partner. “Yeah.”
“Jesus, Lee.” The partner looked embarrassed.
“You know I call a spade a spade, Sammy.”
“Sammy” shook his head. “You’re gonna get another—” He bit off his words and turned to me. “Come with us, please, sir.”
I stuffed the bag with Paul’s clothes in the space at the foot of the bed and went with them.
I gave the cops my statement—not that I told them the truth. The paramedics were ready to believe I’d hurt my best friend, so why would the cops believe any differently? Especially the fat one. And even if they did, I doubted they’d look very hard for the man responsible for this.
Once they were finished with me, I went back and sat down at Paul’s bedside. After a few minutes, I got up and paced to the sliding doors of the ED. I stared out of them, then turned and went back to Paul. I glanced at my watch and repeated the procedure.
This time I passed close to a doctor in a white lab coat talking to a nurse in blue scrubs. “Eh,” he said. “He’s got a grocery list of injuries.”
I didn’t pay much attention until the doctor mentioned the lacerated scalp, and then I played back the list. A collapsed lung, four fractured ribs, a broken nose, a dislocated elbow, cuts, scrapes, and contusions, the scalp wound…. Paul. My stomach twisted, and I thought I was going to throw up.
“Excuse me. Water fountain?”
They pointed me in the direction, and I bolted toward it. You can’t fall apart, I told myself as I gulped down some water. That won’t do Paul any good at all. A couple of deep breaths and I resumed my pacing.
I was back at the sliding doors for about the thousandth time when Vincent strode in. “He’s in here, Vince. The police have already taken a statement and left.”
“What did you tell them?”
“That he fell down a flight of stairs.”
“And they believed you.”
“Sammy” had given me a look, but he hadn’t pressed. “The cops don’t give a fuck what happens to the likes of us, and I knew you would take care of it.”
“Damn straight I will.”
The nurse in blue scrubs came in to take Paul’s vital signs. “You’re with him?” she asked Vincent.
“Yes. How bad is he?”
She told him, then scowled. “How in hell did you…?” She muttered something about losing her job.
“He’d want us to know,” Vince growled, scowling back at her. “When will he be transferred to a regular floor?”
I hadn’t even thought—Thank God one of us had his act together.
“We’ll send him up to Surgical as soon as we can find a bed for him there.”
Oh my God, did he need surgery? I realized I’d spoken aloud when the nurse gave me an impatient look.
“It’s what we call the—Why am I even talking to you about this?”
“Because he’s his friend,” Vince snarled, and I was really glad he was on our side. “So am I, and I want him to have a room now.”
She turned that look—now a glare—on him. “He’ll get one whenever it becomes free.”
“Listen, woman. If it’s a question of money….” Vincent was a tall man, and he crowded into her space, willing to use intimidation in an effort to get Paul a bed on a floor.
“No, you listen. I can’t conjure up a bed out of thin air, buster. As soon as one becomes available, he’ll get it. You got that?” She gave him another scowl and stalked off. Vincent looked after her with grudging admiration.
Spike burst in just then. He took one look at Paul lying on that bed, and his face turned ashen.
“Oh, God, Sweetcheeks! That should be me! Why isn’t that me? I was supposed to go with the john! Vince?” Spike threw himself into my arms. “Paul’s gonna die!” he whispered, panicky.
“No, baby, no!” I stroked his back, trying to soothe him. “He’ll be all right; they promised us!”
Spike leaned back and looked into my eyes. “They promised?”
I nodded encouragingly. “Listen, I have to talk to Vincent. Will you stay here with Pretty Boy, so he won’t be alone when he wakes up? We’re going to the cafeteria, but we’ll be right back, I promise.” I couldn’t talk about this in front of him, he was too distressed, especially knowing it could have been him in that bed and not Paul. Although I was willing to bet he’d have taken Paul’s place in a shot.
“You want us to bring you back something?” Trust Vince to go for the distraction.
“A Coke and a thing of Oreos?”
“You got it.” Vincent patted his shoulder. “Hang in there, okay?”
I took a tissue from the box beside the bed and dried Spike’s cheeks, then ran an edge under his eyes to blot his mascara. “Blow your nose, baby.”
He took the tissue and obeyed, then stuffed it into the pocket of his jeans, dragged a chair beside the bed, and took Paul’s hand, holding onto it for dear life and whispering, “Please don’t die. Please. Please don’t die.”
“Ready?” Vince asked.
I looked at the tableau for another second. “Ready.”
INSTEAD OF going to the cafeteria, Vince strode out of the building, and I followed him like Mary’s lamb.
“Okay, start talking.”
I told him what had happened from the time I took the phone call from “Michael Shaw” until the time I’d called him.
I also told him the things I hadn’t bothered to tell the cops, because I knew it wouldn’t matter to them. We were just rent boys.
I told him things I couldn’t have told the cops, because up until then I hadn’t remembered them.
Vincent’s expression grew darker and darker, and I couldn’t prevent a shiver. “And you say the glasses and the bottle of Dewar’s were gone?”
“Yeah.”
“Did they draw blood when they got Pretty Boy here?”
“I don’t know. They wouldn’t let me in with him.”
He too
k out his cell phone and hit speed dial. “It’s Vincent. I’ve got a job for you. Patient in the ED of George Washington Hospital. Name of—” He paused and looked at me. “—Paul Stark.”
I didn’t bother wondering how he knew Paul’s real name. I didn’t even wonder if he knew my name.
“You’ve got the blood for him? Good. I want you to test for rohypnol and GHB.”
My head started to hurt. “You think he was dosed with roofies?” Sex was our profession. We were a sure thing. There was no need to use a date-rape drug. “Why?”
“I don’t know, but the fact that the glasses weren’t there when you got there…. I don’t like it. If Pretty Boy was dosed with something like that, it should still be in his blood.” He turned back to his phone. “You have my number. Call me when you get the results.” He flipped it shut and put it back in his pocket.
“Vince? What are you going to do?”
“Right now?” He went back into the hospital, and again I was right behind him. “Right now I’m going to get a cup of coffee and Spike’s junk food, and you’re going to tell me everything you can remember about this asshole.”
I WAS surprised at all the things I remembered. The yellow striations in his brown eyes, the eyebrow shaped like a lopsided question mark, the one earlobe that seemed slightly longer and wider than the other, the mole at the hinge of his jaw. Vince bit off a curse.
“That mole must be a bitch when he has to shave.” I tried to smile, but I knew it wasn’t much of a success. “Do you… do you have any idea who he is?”
“Yeah. I do.”
“And you’ll… you’ll take care of him?”
“Oh, yeah. I’ll take very good care of him.” And I shivered again. Vincent held out his hand. “Let me see the bills he gave you.”
No one was sitting near us, but I was still careful. That was a lot of money. When I took the bills from my pocket, I made sure they were concealed by the way I held them in my palm. I covered his hand with mine, and when I withdrew it, the hundred-dollar bills were in his hand. He studied them under cover of the table.
“They’re counterfeit.”
