by Kim Fielding
Jack snickered a little at the unintended double entendre, which made Tag roll his eyes. On the computer screen, a blinking map of the USA assured Jack that he could earn his criminal justice degree from home. Jack awkwardly used his finger on the touchpad to move the tiny arrow. When he passed the arrow over a photo of a pretty girl, he clicked just like Tag had shown him. The screen changed to a story about an actress who was, apparently, expecting a baby.
He looked across the table. “So if there’s so much sex on computers, does anyone bother to have it in person anymore?”
“Oh, you betcha. But computers can help with that. There are apps.”
“Apps?”
“Like, suppose it’s nine o’clock on a Friday night and you’re horny but it’s been a tough day at work and you don’t have the energy for a club or a bar. You can use the computer—or better yet, your phone—to find like-minded guys nearby, and then you can contact one and hook up. You can usually even see if their dick is sufficiently big before you choose.”
“On a telephone?”
Tag picked up the card-sized device, which Jack had forgotten about. “Smartphone. I decided if I was gonna plug us into the world, why not go whole hog. I had the card problem again until I found a pay-as-you-go device.” He pushed a button and the entire face lit up like a tiny TV screen.
“That’s a telephone?” Jack asked.
“Yes. But it can do lots of things besides phone calls. It’s really a tiny computer, actually. And a camera and a music player and a clock and… well, you get the idea.”
Jack’s head was reeling. In the years he’d haunted the motel, he’d seen plenty of changes—cars, clothing, décor, technology—but nothing like this. Things had changed so much over the past decades!
Tag rose from his chair, walked around the table, and knelt at Jack’s side. “I’m sorry. This is a lot, isn’t it?” When Jack nodded, Tag nodded too. “How about we give it a break?”
That was a good idea. They ended up on the love seat again, side by side and not quite touching, this time staring at the blank TV screen. Tag cleared his throat. “I, um, made a phone call today.”
“Oh?”
“To the newspaper in Flagstaff. I wanted to see if there was any mention of you back in 1956.”
“Was there?” Probably not. Who cared if some stupid kid died?
“Yeah,” Tag said, making Jack sigh. “Took her a while to find it. Luckily, she enjoyed the adventure, she said. Did you know they call the place where they store old newspapers the morgue?”
“I was in the morgue?”
“A couple of articles. One mentioned your death in the pool. The coroner was investigating still but was expected to rule it an accident.”
Out of truly morbid curiosity, Jack asked, “What did it say about me?”
“Not much. It was short. Your name, your age. It said you were a California resident and you were found in the pool by a female companion, but couldn’t be revived.”
Female companion. “Did it mention Doris by name?”
“No.”
“Good.”
“Good? But she might have killed you! She certainly contributed with those pills.”
Jack rubbed his face and tried to formulate an answer that made sense. “Things were tough for her. She was like me when she was young—doing what she had to in order to make it big. She did better than me, but not by much. And she ended up married to a fellow who would never love her and was only using her for show. By the time I came along, she had nothing left but her pills and her booze and her fake marriage. But she was a nice lady.” He turned to look at Tag. “She was from this little town in Indiana.”
Tag nodded slowly. “Okay.”
Even though Jack didn’t need oxygen, it felt good to take a deep breath and let it out. “Did the article say anything about my movies?”
“No. I’m sorry.”
“They weren’t really worth mentioning. What about the other article?”
The question caused Tag to frown. “It said…. Are you sure you want to hear this?”
Jack wasn’t, but he nodded.
“It said nobody had claimed your body and authorities couldn’t reach family or friends. They… they cremated you—your body. They were going to hold your things for thirty days in case someone showed up. I don’t know if anyone did.”
“They didn’t,” Jack whispered. And fuck if he was going to cry again, especially when Tag hadn’t told him anything unexpected. He sniffled instead, then glared at the carpet.
Tag scooted closer and put his arm around Jack’s shoulders. “Your family didn’t know, I bet. Unless you had their contact info on you, the Arizona police wouldn’t have been able to get in touch with them, and they wouldn’t have known to look in Nebraska instead of California.”
“Wouldn’t have mattered anyway. Well, maybe Betty, but she was still so young.”
“Not your parents?”
“I never….” Jack paused to chew his lip. “I wasn’t like you—I never told them I was homosexual. But if I had, they’d have… gosh, I don’t know what they’d have done. Disowned me at least. But even without that part, they didn’t approve. When I told them I was leaving for Hollywood to be a big star, my dad told me to never come back. ‘No place for that kind of weak nonsense here,’ he said. And Mom would never go up against his authority.”
“Our parents could have bonded over this.”
“I told myself it didn’t matter.”
“But it does,” Tag replied softly.
Jack turned his head to look at him, intending to agree—and instead he kissed Tag on the lips. Tag froze for only a moment before kissing right back. His lips were slightly dry from the desert air and his cheek was rough from afternoon stubble. But his tongue was moist and agile, and his fingers were clever when they teased through Jack’s hair, mussing the Brylcreem he’d imagined himself wearing. Jack wished he could taste Tag, and then wondered if Tag could taste him. Jack would taste of cigarettes, chlorine, and cheap whiskey, he thought.
And then he didn’t think much at all—at least nothing coherent—because Tag suddenly squirmed around to straddle him. Not only were they still connected at the mouth, but now their groins were pressed together, Jack’s growing hardness finding sweet friction against Tag’s. God, Jack loved the way Tag’s back muscles bunched and flexed under his hands. When he moved his grip farther down, squeezing Tag’s denim-covered ass, they both moaned.
Jack wanted to feel skin—warm, living skin. He untucked the back of Tag’s shirt and slid his fingers up the knobbly spine, up to the wide wings of the scapulae, then down the ribs. He should make his own clothing disappear but didn’t have the concentration to manage it. But he could work his fingers beneath Tag’s waistband and—
Tag scrambled off his lap so quickly he almost fell. He stood there, panting and flushed, his eyes as wild as those of a spooked horse.
Jack stood, although his legs felt shaky. “I’m sorry. I won’t— If you don’t want me to touch you like that, I’ll—”
“I can’t do this.”
“I’ll keep my hands to myself! We can just kiss, that’s all. It was…. Christ, Tag, it was really good.”
But Tag shook his head. “We can’t.”
Dammit. Jack had no heart, so how could it be aching so badly? “Because I’m a ghost.”
“That wasn’t what I was thinking just now, Jack. I wasn’t all, Oh no, I’m sucking face with a dead man. Didn’t even cross my mind. And you know damned well I was turned-on.”
“Then why?”
“Because….” Tag ran fingers through his hair as if trying to tame the thoughts in his head. But the effort must have failed, because he jammed his feet into his shoes, grabbed his wallet and the wad of cash he’d hidden in the dresser, and walked to the door. “I gotta go,” he said before disappearing almost as neatly as Jack ever had.
Fourteen
JACK SPENT some time on the Internet. He began with a few
random clicks, detoured at length through Wikipedia, and inevitably ended up with porn. Despite what Tag had said to him, he was astounded by just how much filthy stuff was available on the computer and how easy it was to find. Tag had told him about something called Rule 34, which held that if something existed, there was porn of it. An hour or two online left Jack with no reason to doubt the veracity of the rule.
But he didn’t want flashing pictures on a screen. They were just pulses of electricity with no more substance than a ghost. He wanted real flesh and blood, with a real heart racing beneath him. He wanted… he wanted Tag. Which was stupid and impossible. Aside from the rather obvious barrier of Jack’s death, they’d known each other only a few days, and Tag was clearly faced with troubles of his own. But Jack had learned many decades earlier that knowing a wish was foolish didn’t stop someone from wishing it.
Growling at himself, he laboriously moved the pointer to the little search box and slowly typed in a name: Sam Richards. When he pressed Enter, he was informed there were 46 million results. Luckily, the Sam Richards he was looking for showed up in the first few. On Wikipedia, in fact, listed as Sam Richards (filmmaker). Jack took a deep breath and clicked on the entry.
Sam never did win an Academy Award, although he was nominated again in 1961. The film that earned him another nomination was a period drama starring Benny Baxter. Sam died in 1973 from a stroke. Doris was killed in a car accident a few years later. Benny Baxter succumbed to something called AIDS in 1987. His Wikipedia entry said he’d spent his final fifteen years with his longtime partner, a man named Cyril Braid. If Sam’s dalliances with young men were ever made public, the computer didn’t mention them.
Jack stared at the computer screen, waiting to feel something. Anger. Relief. Sorrow. But he felt nothing at all. The emotions he’d once felt toward Sam—and Benny—were as dead as he was.
He shut down the computer, grabbed his room key, and went outside. He was a little amused that Tag had gotten him his own key—Jack could easily have passed through the closed door. It was nice to go out like a real person.
The courtyard between their building and the other was empty except for a few plastic chairs and scattered paper wrappers. The floodlights made harsh shadows on the pavement. A block away, traffic and pedestrians on the Strip produced a muted roar, but the bustle of activity seemed somehow far away.
After materializing a cigarette and lighting it, he strolled to the part of the courtyard nearest the sidewalk. A low metal fence discouraged people from wandering onto the property, and an irregular gravel shape near the fence showed where a small pool had once been. Jack stood at the edge of the pool, looking down at the ground, thinking that the pool was a ghost too.
“Lawyers,” said a raspy voice, making him startle.
Jack spun around to find Buddy standing nearby. He held a bottle of beer in one hand and was grinning widely through his beard. He looked even bigger when he wasn’t partially hidden by the desk.
“What?” said Jack, trying to regain his cool.
Buddy gestured at the gravel with his bottle. “Lawyers. Said we had to get rid of the pools or else buy really pricy liability insurance. Wasn’t worth the money and hassle.”
“Oh. Did a lot of people use the pools when you had them?”
“Not really. Kinda folks who stay at the Baja, catching a few rays poolside ain’t really on their agenda.”
Jack nodded. He hadn’t seen many of the other guests, but the few he had spied hadn’t struck him as sun worshipers.
“Can I bum a smoke?” asked Buddy.
“Um….” Jack was pretty sure his conjured cigarettes wouldn’t work for anyone else. “This was my last one. Sorry.”
Buddy shrugged one massive shoulder. “’S okay. I ain’t supposed to smoke anyway. The ball and chain gets on my case if he catches me. I guess your man don’t care, huh?”
“He’s not my man,” Jack responded quietly.
“No? Woulda placed a bet you two were an item. You fuck buddies?”
Jack gaped a little at the directness of the question. “We haven’t fucked.”
“Well, he ain’t my type, but if I wasn’t married, I’d tap that. He’s got a sweet ass.” Buddy took a swig of beer. “But I think he’s got it bad for you.”
“He doesn’t.” But Jack couldn’t help adding, “What makes you think that?”
“He was talkin’ about you today. Not a lot, but we was negotiating over the Internet connection, and I got a way of drawing out info when I want it. He told me you’re a good guy and when I said you’re hot too, he got bristly as a junkyard dog. It was cute.”
Jack dropped the butt on the ground and stomped on it with his boot. He hoped Buddy would assume the butt remained hidden under his heel, and wouldn’t notice it had disappeared completely. Jack wasn’t sure what to make of Buddy’s statements. Maybe the fellow was just making it all up, trying to get a rise out of him.
“You’re a strange one, ain’t ya?” Buddy squinted at him.
“I’m just standing here. Thinking.”
“Sure. My sister Lori, she’s into all that hippie shit—incense and crystals and that crap. She and her old man have a cabin up in the Sierras, and she makes fucking pottery for a living, if you can believe it. And she’s got this spot out in her backyard she calls her meditation garden. Don’t look like no garden to me. It’s mostly rocks, plus one of them annoying goddamn bamboo fountains that goes click-clack, click-clack until you’re ready to lose your fucking mind. Every day she sits in the middle of that and just thinks, she says.”
Buddy’s story meandered a little, but the entire time he spoke, he kept his gaze focused sharply on Jack. Jack didn’t know what Buddy was looking for. He wished he could have another cigarette.
“How come you ain’t out gambling?” Buddy asked. “Didja come all the way to Vegas to think? ’Cause this city ain’t really known for deep thinking.”
“Tag wanted to come. I just came along for the ride.”
“Hmm.” Buddy tried to have another swallow of beer and frowned when he realized the bottle was empty. “Why not head over to my place with me?” He pointed at an upstairs window across from Jack and Tag’s building. “Don’t worry—I won’t molest you or nothin’. We can keep the door open if you want. I’ll get you a cold one.”
“I… okay.” Jack couldn’t think of a polite way to refuse and didn’t want to make Buddy angry. If Tag came home, Jack would be able to see him from Buddy’s place.
Buddy made the entire stairway shake when he climbed it. He unlocked his door and ushered Jack in with a small gesture. The interior wasn’t what Jack had expected. Someone had knocked down some walls, so instead of a few cramped motel rooms, Buddy had a reasonably spacious apartment with a separate bedroom and a small but functional kitchen. The apartment was stuffed with paperback books and pieces of machinery—motorcycle parts, Jack thought—but it was comfortable and clean. Framed photos of big naked men hung on the walls.
“Sit,” Buddy ordered, pointing at an armchair. He walked to the fridge. Jack wondered what the downstairs tenants made of the noisy footsteps overhead.
“I got Heineken or Corona. You want Dutch or Mexican?” Bottles clinked as Buddy moved things around inside the refrigerator.
“Nothing. Thanks.”
Buddy twisted around to give him a look. “You in AA or something’?”
“I’m just not thirsty.”
Harrumphing, Buddy found a Heineken for himself. He popped the cap before collapsing onto a leather couch.
“Where’s your husband?” Jack asked.
“Working. He’s a bouncer at a strip club. The girls love him ’cause he doesn’t try to paw ’em and he scares the shit out of rowdy customers.” He drank almost half the bottle at once, belched, and grinned. “Whatta you do when you ain’t thinkin’ in Vegas?”
“I’m an actor.”
“Yeah? What kind?”
“Um… movies.”
Buddy put the
beer down and stroked his beard. “You been in any?”
“Just as an extra.”
“I got a pal in California who runs one of them online porn sites. If you want a job, I bet I could hook you up. Pay’s not bad, ’specially considerin’ you’re getting paid for fucking. I do it for free.” He laughed at his own joke.
“Uh, thanks, but….”
“But you want something respectable. Sure. Can’t help you with that. Hey, you want some badass chili? I made a batch yesterday and there’s still some in the fridge. This shit’ll burn off your tongue and have you beggin’ for more.”
Jack smiled. “No, thanks. I’m really not hungry.”
“But you don’t mind if I have some?”
“Of course not.”
Jack watched as Buddy removed a container from the fridge and stuck it in a small box on the counter. He pushed some buttons on the box, which made a slight whirring sound. After a couple of minutes, it beeped. Buddy removed the container and dumped some of the contents into a bowl. The chili was steaming hot. Jack made a mental note to ask Tag about the little box.
“Could get you somethin’ else if you don’t like chili.” Buddy sat back down on the couch, bowl in hand.
“I’m fine. Have you lived here long?”
“Six years almost. Me an’ Rick used to move around a lot. We lived all over the damn place. Hawaii, Alaska, Texas…. We’d get tired of a place and just hop on our bikes and go, man. But we ain’t gettin’ any younger, as Rick likes to remind me. So we settled down for a while. We make decent money and the rent’s free. ’Nother year or two we’ll have enough saved to move up to Oregon and open us a little custom leather shop.”
It sounded to Jack like a nice dream. “Leather?”
“Riding leathers. Jackets.” Buddy grinned wolfishly. “Harnesses and collars and floggers.”
“Oh!”
Buddy laughed. “You look like an old lady with the vapors. What’s your story, kid? Lapsed Mormon?”
