Life Struggles (Life Stories Book 1)

by Mark Treble

  The Boss nodded to one of the guys, no idea which one, who slugged me in the stomach. After I righted myself I was slugged again. Journalism just wasn't as glamorous as they talked about in school.

  “Who are you and how did you find Stiletto?” That was from The Boss.

  “My name is Ethan McQuade and my son is missing. He was kidnapped yesterday morning and I need to find him. You're going to have to shoot me before I stop looking for him. Now, look at the fucking picture.” I might have sounded brave, but it was all I could do to keep from pissing my pants.

  Before The Boss could look at the picture his phone rang. “Yeah … No shit? … You're sure he's serious … Hold on.”

  The Boss addressed me. “What do you know about Angola, dipshit?” I looked at him in complete bewilderment. Then it hit me.

  “I was there this morning, Boss. You got somebody there you want me to talk to?” I was bluffing, of course. All I could hope for was that he would mistake my shaking body for something other than the abject fear it really was.

  “You know my brother's in there.” That was a statement, not a question. I nodded.

  “Anything happens to him I'll find you and kill you.” This was said without an ounce of emotion and I knew it was a promise he'd keep. I nodded again.

  “What's goin' on, Boss? How ‘bout I just shoot his ass now?” That was one of the eight guys with guns.Boss, or whatever his name was, held up his hand and the guy stopped talking.

  “I don't know what kind of juice you've got in Angola, but that was my brother. Davey says if anything happens to the guy lookin’ for his kid the same thing's gonna happen to him. Is that true?” The Boss's eyes were boring holes in my head.

  “Ask Davey.” I figured that was the safest thing to say.

  The Boss actually looked at the picture then. He passed it to a couple of the men still pointing their guns at me. They shook their heads.

  “We ain't never seen him. I promise. We don't use little kids for anything these days. The publicity is just too bad, and the kids ain't trustworthy. They always want to sample the merchandise, you know. Is there anything else?” The Boss believed the meeting was over, and I agreed.

  “Thanks guys, that will be all. I'll be on my way. And, if I don't call the police in seven minutes you'll all be far more than sorry.” I backed toward the door and asked for my shit back. The Boss nodded and they gave me back everything. I was surprised, but I guess the threat of Davey being beaten and robbed in Angola was one his brother was taking seriously.

  I continued backing out of the building, actually glad they had taken the gun from me. I had no idea how to use one. I mean, I had figured out which end the bullet came out of. Other than that, it was all a mystery to me.

  “You can find the Vespa back where you met me. Bye.” I got on the Vespa and took off. In first gear, and it took me three blocks to figure out how to shift into second. But nobody was following me. Whew.

  I ditched the Vespa a block from where the truck hit me and walked to Bourbon Street. I found a shop that sold shirts and bought one. It said “I'm with stupid” and had an arrow that pointed down. It should have pointed up.

  I did my best to blend into a crowd of gay guys dressed just one side of indecent exposure. Actually, they were dressed both sides of indecent exposure. I looked to my left and saw an overweight guy of about fifty wearing some sort of leather and chains across his chest, and nothing else. A young guy was kneeling in front of him and examining his penis. I looked away and did my best to head back to the Triple Toe without fainting.

  Chapter Ten

  The Triple Toe was mostly full. I hit the men's room three seconds shy of peeing myself. I just walked straight up to an occupied urinal and shared it. Its other occupant looked at me, shrugged, and looked away. Why I'm still alive I had no idea.

  My seat at the bar had my back to the door, which I figured was a good thing. I ordered a double shot of vodka. No throwing this one away, I chugged half of it. It burned so bad going down I actually interrupted my internal inventory of things I had not done if I died. The inventory had just reached “return library books” when the vodka incinerated my stomach lining.

  I tried deep breathing and isometric exercises. Yeah, right. At least I had a good column on how to avoid shitting your pants after coming near death three times in forty minutes. Unable to think of anything else to do, I called Danny.

  “Reporting in. Please record this and play it for Kendra Wilcox at my paper tomorrow, not today. Kendra, please give Detective Flint the list of seven companies. Danny, please investigate the trucking company starting tomorrow and not today. Done for now with the last industry. Going on to porn. Bye.”

  The woman sitting next to me put a hand on my shoulder. “Honey, are you in the porn industry?” She batted her eyelashes at me, so I took her in.

  Probably five eleven, fake looking long red hair, a bright pink blouse showing more cleavage than an entire Vegas Showgirl Troupe, incredibly short red leather pants, and the biggest Adam's apple I'd ever seen. Woman my ass.

  “Yeah, I'm gonna produce gay porn. How much of your time for an hour as a, let's call it, consultant?” I didn't know what I was going to do with her, but I was making this shit up as I went anyway. Whatever I was going to do it would not involve removal of clothes or exchange of body fluids.

  “Sure, baby. That'll be two hundred in consulting fees. Your place or mine?” That was easy. Hers, since mine was under police surveillance, and the idea of the neighbors seeing me take a tranny whore into what was Dana's house was revolting.

  I downed the rest of my drink and threw thirty dollars on the counter. Her place was two blocks away and up two flights of stairs. Inside her apartment she pulled off her blouse and reached for my shirt. I pushed her hand away.

  “Look, ma'am, or sir, I was serious about consulting. Here's half the two hundred, the rest at the end of the hour. I need some information for your time. OK?” The dialog was getting marginally better, but I reminded myself once more never to try writing a play.

  As she put her blouse back on she told me her life story. Her name was Kitty Litter (no joke, you can't make this shit up.) She was a famous female impersonator in shows that drew huge crowds. Her boyfriends included city council members, rich business owners and the like. Sure, and I'm wondering where to put my seventh Pulitzer Prize.

  I stopped her. “Yeah, you were born at a very young age and now you're here.” I gestured around the closet-sized living room, decorated in Early Discard and with real wood floors in the Classic Scuff mode. “Let's talk about porn.”

  “What kind do you want to make? And what role will I have in it?” Aha, there's the hook. She's going to be a film star.

  “Kitty, I'm finally free and rich. And I'm coming out. I want to watch, and I want to have a record of what I've watched. It's gay porn for private consumption.” I paused for a few seconds.

  “I'll need a couple of real performers, like yourself, to keep it from being the usual crap. But most of the sex action will involve older teens, like eighteen or nineteen. In addition to you I'll need another real performer as your love interest.” If she was actually believing this, my next line would involve the Tooth Fairy.

  Kitty was beaming. “Of course, sweetie. I haven't done film before, but the transition from stage isn't going to be a problem.” I pretended to believe her.

  “Now, what kind of role will I play?” Well, I would have to keep up the charade.

  “You'll be the best friend of the teenagers, just a few years older but more mature.” I hated slathering it on that thick, but this was one dumb bunny. Thank God.

  “And my love interest?” Single-minded, but let's play this a little bit more.

  “Somebody about your age, say twenty-five or so. Probably black or party black, that'll give us some variety.” Somebody her age would be looking at Social Security in the not-too-distant future, but let's keep pretending.

  “Ooh, I know just the guy. I've
had a crush on him forever. His name's Antonio and his dick is as long as my arm.” If it's just as wrinkled, it might actually be interesting.

  “OK, let's get on to the teenagers.” I almost said ‘younger guys,' and that would have been a mistake. “I'll want your help in finding quite a few guys that age in decent shape. Mostly white, but a few non-white will be OK.” She looked expectantly at me.

  “Once we've got a cast assembled I'll also want some of your help with ideas for the scenes.” Christ, would I never learn?

  “OK, the scene opens with me naked, sprawled on a bed. All the teenage guys are touching me, licking me, admiring me, stroking me and…” she adjusted her skirt a little in front “they keep telling me how much they admire my body.” She went on another four minutes with this fantasy, finally giving up on trying to hide “her” erection. Not like it was a secret or anything.

  “Where do we find these guys?” Let's get to the punchline.

  “I'll find them and bring them to you in your hotel room. You can see their junk and judge their appeal. There will be only a tiny fee for finding each one, say $50.” Stupidity and avarice, my favorite combination.

  “Kitty, once we've got a talent pool I'll pay you to help me choose each one. That'll be a better use of your time. Now, where can I find a fairly large group of these guys I can watch in action?” It's shit or get off the pot time.

  Kitty actually looked like she was thinking. It was evidently an uncommon and somewhat painful activity for her. Finally she spoke.

  “You can see a bunch of them at the Ball Rack, a stripper bar up near Rampart. I'm not going to go with you, I just don't like the atmosphere or the owner.” Translation: she's been banned.

  “Of course, most of the guys there are really just sixteen or seventeen, and the ones that aren't look it. The worst part is that so many of them are on drugs they have trouble keeping it up. So, that's not your first stop.” Her face got that pained look again, indicating she was trying to think.

  A full three minutes later I could swear I saw a light bulb go off atop her head. “Club Wonderland. It's in a kind of seedy part of town, not far from the Quarter. You can watch all the action you want there, and plenty of the guys are in the right age range.” She looked proud of herself. And I had confirmation.

  “Kitty, I'm new at this gay stuff, and I don't look like a stud muffin. I know that. How do I get in and what do I do when I'm inside?” This was what I really needed.

  “OK, to get in you have to show identification, sign up for a membership and give them $50 for a year's worth. After that it's $10 a visit. At least, that's what I've been told. And, they're going to be suspicious of a straight-looking guy in those kinds of clothes.” She gestured at my outfit. I know I slept in these clothes, but they couldn't be that bad.

  “Once inside, you need to rent a locker and put your clothes inside. If you're prudish you can wear a towel, and about a third of the guys do. All the rest are nude. Then you just walk around. It's what all the older guys do, looking for younger guys.” She realized her mistake.

  “Of course, I wasn't calling you old, just more mature than the young kids. Anyway, just walk around and look hopeful. Some old – I mean more mature – guys pick a hallway and just stand in it and wait. A few rent a room, get naked and leave the door open. Unfortunately, that usually attracts mostly really old guys, like in their seventies. Or so I've been told. And you're after younger guys.” She looked tired from so much thinking. Well, I still had twenty five minutes for my two hundred, and I planned to use them.

  “New question. If my clothes are wrong, what should I wear to blend in?” I think if I'm going to have any success I'll need to blend in from appearance.

  “OK, honey, get naked so I can look at your body and tell you what clothes to wear.” She looked at me as though I was actually going to do it. Fuck no.

  “How about names of a couple of shops where I can find those clothes? Kind of slutty, I guess, but not trying to look like I'm a teenager, you know.” She provided names of two shops on Bourbon near Dorothy, the big dance club.

  “So, back to finding the guys. How do I do that?” This was the punch line.

  “Well, they have a bring-your-own-bottle bar in there. You buy a Coke or a Sprite or a Tonic Water and they put the booze in them. Buy two plus a third drink with no alcohol. They can't tell them apart, and give one of the liquored-up drinks to your target guy. He's not going to be old enough to drink, and you look just enough like a cop to make them refuse to serve you if they think you're going to give booze to an underage kid.” She smiled again, knowing she had done well.

  “Kitty, I can't thank you enough. My name's Roberto, and here's my number.” I pulled out a burner phone that would be unused after today. “Can you put your number in there so I can call you about the role and other stuff?”

  She dutifully put in her name and number, then added a couple of exclamation points after her name. So I could tell her apart from the other transvestites whose numbers would soon fill my phone. Right.

  I handed her the other hundred dollars and left. When I had entered earlier the smell in the hallway had nearly gagged me. On the way out I didn't notice it so much. I guess I had become desensitized in Kitty's apartment.

  Dorothy wasn't hard to find. That club and another one, the Whiskey Festival right across the street, were the focal point of Decadence. And that meant huge crowds. Despite the fact that I was dressed wrong, I'd still be difficult to spot in a crowd of several thousand. I walked the few blocks to Bourbon and turned left. The focal point was hard to miss.

  It took me twenty minutes to move a quarter of a block toward the first clothing store. I stepped in and started looking around. An unhealthily-thin sales guy wearing beads and the smallest pair of briefs I'd ever seen came up to me and took my hand.

  “What can we do for you, handsome?” My first thought was ‘put on some clothes,’ but that probably wasn't going to work.

  “I'm headed out for some gay nightlife tonight. These are the wrong clothes, I know. What should I wear?” I extracted my hand and wiped it on my trousers. Can't be too careful. It didn't bother me that the guy was almost certainly gay. It bothered me that he was so fucking thin I knew he had something medically wrong with him.

  “Weeeeeeelll,” cooed Briefs Boy, “Let's start over here with the shirts. There's a nice one.” He showed me a twin of Marcus's “Fuck Me Hard” T-shirt.

  “I don't want any writing on it. My last choice was a loser.” I pointed at my I'm With Stupid shirt, and he nodded knowingly.

  “How about a nice mesh?” He pointed at what looked like a badly-manufactured fishing net. Sold. At his urging I took off my shirt and put on the new one.

  “Now, do you wear underwear?” Sounded kind of personal to me, but I guess he needed the information.

  “Yeah, boxer briefs. Mesh.” Luke had turned me onto them. He wore them as bait, but they were incredibly comfortable. I hadn't worn boxers in almost two years. The only thing the mesh covered was the price tag. But, then, I hadn't planned on wearing them in public. At least until earlier today.

  “Let's see.” Briefs Boy had just a little too much glint in his eye for me to agree.

  “How about you point out the right underwear?” He seemed disappointed but complied.

  The thin white cotton looked as though it would fit. It was not designed for modesty, but then again neither was tonight's mission.

  “Sold. How about some pants?” He brought over a pair of leather pants with studs and no backside at all. I looked at the price tag and gave them back.

  “Something less expensive, maybe? And just a hint of roughness?” I had no idea what I was doing, but Briefs Boy wasn't throwing me out, so I must be doing something right.

  He brought me a pair of cutoffs with enough holes to make a block of Swiss cheese blush. He told me to give him my clothes and try it all on. Sure, why not? I had lots of reasons why not.

  “Where is the changing room?�
�� I assumed away that they had one. He hesitated for a minute, so I handed him back the pants and underwear. “Thanks anyway.” I started removing the mesh shirt.

  “Far right corner,” he said grudgingly.

  The stuff actually fit, sort of. I'd never buy myself anything near this tight, but a quick glance in the mirror told me I wouldn't look too out of place. Given the strategically placed holes, nobody would wonder if I was wearing underwear. Or what color it was. Or if it had a fly. Or even what my religion was. Right now I didn't care, I just wanted to find Alex.

  I exited the changing room with money in my hand. Briefs Boy looked me up and down and pronounced himself satisfied.

  “Of course, with the bright yellow briefs you'd attract more attention,” he offered. Attention was not my goal here. I thanked him, paid and walked out.

  I checked in with Danny once more.

  “There was an accident reported involving what looked like the truck you asked about. Was that you?” His tone was far more accusatory than concerned. Too bad.

  “Tell you later along with other stuff. Look, I'm sleeping until ten, then still looking for porn.” I made to hang up.

  “Be safe, please? If you get killed I won't be done with the fucking paperwork before my retirement ceremony. Honestly, take care.” This was the concerned Danny I had grown to know and like.

  “Roger. Out.” I hung up and pocketed the phone. It was time to throw it away, but I didn't want to lose Kitty's number just yet.

  I got to the city garage and retrieved the car. I checked my pockets. I had less than three hundred left out of my original stake, but Luke's thousand was still there. I'd use it if I had to.

  I crossed over to the West Bank and started in the direction of a bunch of local campgrounds. I'd found them when doing a column on tourism in the local area, but it turned out very few tourists used them.

  I found one with a forgettable name that was $30 a night for a campsite. I stopped, found a restroom to take a shit, and then went in search of food. A sort of kiosk sold hot dogs, hamburgers, grilled chicken sandwiches and cokes. I took one of each and wolfed them down. Next I walked back to the car and climbed into the front passenger seat. I left the engine and air conditioner running, set an alarm for 9:45, put back the seat and either passed out or slept.