by Zack
“How do you cope whenever you go out on the street?”
Nathan looked up at Gil’s question in mild surprise. “I’m never allowed out, at least not just like that, in case I get mobbed and torn to pieces. That’s why I’m enjoying this so much with you guys. It’s a taste of freedom. Blimey, I must have been twelve the last time I ever went for a wander on my own. I don’t even know where we can go to get something to tide me over. All my clothes are brought to me at home to choose from ranges of the stuff. Should we go to a Marks and Spencer, or something?”
Mike burst out laughing. “Sure, why not.” He turned to Gil, who had decided the egg and beans were it for his breakfast. “What do you reckon, ol’ ballin buddy, a Marks and Sparks for the world’s greatest rock star?”
Gil wiped his lips on a paper napkin. “Do you have any money?”
Nathan gave him a blank look. “Of course not. I never have any. I don’t really need it.”
Gil smiled sweetly at Mike, who sighed. “I suppose I can try and put it on studio expenses.”
Nathan leaned forward and placed a hand over Mike’s, flattening his forkful of sausage down on the plate into a sea of baked beans. His expression softened. “I’ve been a pain, I know. But I promise I’m not going to do any more stuff, Mikey. Really I won’t.”
When Nathan flung himself happily into Horny’s rear seat, Gil took the opportunity to whisper to Mike. “Do you believe him?”
Mike shrugged. “I believe he thinks he won’t. But it’s more a question of whether he can keep clear of Gerald Mundy.” He gazed out over the calm sea for a second and then turned back to Gil, a hard expression on his handsome face, brows drawn together and eyes narrowed. “I shall have to see what I can do about it. Mundy has to be stopped.”
“Mike, just be careful. You know what that man can do.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Coercion or Extortion
In the week following the return to London the shoot on Terry Blood went smoothly. Wolfgang Henze showed Mike in small ways that he was pleased at Nathan’s behavior and his acting. And Mike congratulated himself that his continuous, gentle pep talks had helped. More importantly, he had been instrumental in persuading director and producers to let Nathan’s manager-father’s people take over the chauffeuring and security for the boy. For this, Nathan was not so pleased with Mike.
“But it’s keeping you out of the hands of those two thugs of Mundy’s,” Mike protested.
“I know.” Nathan pouted sulkily. “And means I’m all day in the hands of Mister and Missus Leviathan.”
“Not when you’re here, you’re not.”
Nathan relented, bumped Mike familiarly, and slipped arms around his waist. “I know, thanks to you.”
Mike disengaged his arms gently. “I don’t believe they can be that bad.”
“Huh! You don’t know them. They ripped my childhood away from me—”
Mike snorted. “Don’t be such a drama queen.”
“It’s true!”
But everyone commented on how changed Nathan seemed and Mike didn’t see why he shouldn’t take some credit. At the same time he expressed delight at hearing that Gil had been paid for his contribution to the first Falcon Fury script and been asked to supply more concepts. “Picayune puppets propel the pink pound,” Mike said in light-hearted jest, and took the “puppetry punishment” Gil meted out in pleased propinquity—“for which,” Gil snarled, “read hot cock action.”
Yes, life seemed to be fair sailing. And then it all went pear-shaped, which pretty much reflected Mundy’s body shape. The problem loomed in the form of a curt, written summons to the fixer’s office. Half of Mike wanted to ignore it, but the other half felt the gravitational pull of the man’s evil. He decided it had to be confronted. Once the first of the morning’s scenes, now set high up on the turrets of the vampire school, had gotten under way, Mike eased out from the huge sound stage and made his way in some trepidation to the office blocks.
Mundy came to the point with a characteristic scowl.
“I don’t appreciate it when arrangements I make for the studio are overturned.”
Mike didn’t sit down for the simple reason that Mundy’s was the only chair in his office. Anyone wanted him to see him, they stood. “Mr. Mundy, that was Rupert Kinder and Sam Styles—”
“Shut it! I know exactly who engineered the removal of my men from the Cliffe boy’s security detail.”
“And why do you think that was?” Mike felt the heat rising to his cheeks and struggled to keep cool.
Mundy didn’t answer the question. Instead he did something with his lizard mouth that Mike interpreted as a smile. Not a nice one. “Talking of the little punk, he hasn’t been in to see me of late, and I always enjoyed our little chats.”
“No, and he won’t be coming to have any more little chats either.” Mike didn’t at all like the look on Mundy’s face.
“So, James Rosen’s little ex-fuck-puppet has learned how to use his cub’s claws, has he?”
Mike clenched his jaw and refused to rise to the bait.
“Are you fond of photography?”
Mike blinked at the unexpected and irrelevant question.
“I only ask because you are quite photogenic.”
A chill ran up and down Mike’s spine. He couldn’t see where this was going.
“I have a number of commercial strings to my bow, and normally speaking I wouldn’t bother myself with recruiting anyone to the church of delinquent delights. But when someone like Nathan Cliffe falls into your den, it’s too good an opportunity to miss. And he was a quick learner, on the point of taking his confirmation, when along comes Goody Two Shoes Satan and turns him from the straight and narrow. And in your case, Mr. Smith, turning from the straight is very apt.”
Mundy shifted in his chair enough to slide a drawer open. He reached in, lifted out a sheaf of photographic black and white prints, and tossed them down on the desk where they slid to the front edge. Mike’s chills ramped up into hot flushes. Even before he picked the first print up, he knew what he was looking at. The ten-by-eight glossy had a lot of grain, but the image came across clear and loud—him and Nathan writhing on the make-up chair in the Green Room. In sick fascination he picked up the next—the two of them on the bed, naked and fucking.
“There’s only six there, but as you can imagine, I have loads more, and they’re all most informative—educational even if you’re a pervert.”
Mike swallowed. He wished the floor would open up and swallow him, yet his understandable embarrassment was alloyed with an incandescent rage. “What …?”
Mundy grunted, a rich phlegmy sound. “What do I want? It’s simple. I wish a return of my business stratagem. I want you to pull your nose out of my business and keep to your assistant director role with the Cliffe boy. He enjoyed one of my product range and will no doubt bring me both a deal of money over time but also many of his friends to sample more of my wares. You see, like your former sugar daddy, I have people I must keep happy in other parts of the world.” Mundy waved a podgy arm airily. “Nathan’s not everything, but he’s enough to want to keep a hold of.”
Mike shook his head. “You think I’m afraid of you showing people those.”
“No. Because I judge you to be a hopeless case, a part of this rubbish of queer liberation. But imagine what would happen to the kid’s career if these were made public.” He pursed his lips into a revolting moue. “It would, forgive the pun, drop off a cliff. All those poor girlies with shattered dreams. His record company would drop him like a stone—”
“And the film! You’d ruin its chances. So how good is that for all this?” Mike waved a hand to indicate the studio in general.
Mundy hefted a shoulder up in a shrug. “First Metropolitan is on the skids and so not likely to be a revenue stream in the future if they lose out with this one, it’s true. On the other hand, my informants tell me they’ve already paid most of what they owe for the studio facilities. Besides, y
ou’re on the last few days of principal photography, so it won’t have much effect on us here. But I’d venture no one will ever want to hire you again … whatever their muddied liberal thoughts are on queers.”
Mike chewed his lower lip. He knew Mundy was right. “How did you get those?” He stabbed a finger down on the pile of photographs.
“Ah, the benefits of an Olympus Pen EF camera. So small, so powerful with the right lens. There are three of them concealed in the walls of Nathan Cliffe’s suite. It was easy enough to set up. Perhaps you never noticed that the suites on either side have remained empty?”
Mike had no response.
“So, be a good boy and stay out of my business. Now, haul your ass out of my office.”
“You won’t be able to hide from his parents that he’s getting drugs. They won’t stand for it.”
Mundy gave a massive theatrical sigh. “You just don’t get it. I can certainly tell you that they won’t stand for you and what you’ve done to their son, who—last time I checked—isn’t over twenty-one yet—but I’ll guarantee you they won’t want these going public for all the reasons I gave earlier. Who knows, they might even be pleased to send a few monetary presents my way now and then. What do you think?”
The fixer waited a breath. “That’s what I thought. Now, I won’t say it a third time. Get out of my office.”
* * *
Gil consoled Mike in the only way that made sense when words failed. He soothed his lover’s brow with gentle kisses and brushed Mike’s lips with his own, then licked at the crook of his neck and squeezed the clavicles between pressed lips, which seemed to lead naturally to taking each raised nipple in turn and gently nipping them until they stiffened and rose up. In only a few minutes, Mike’s breathing at first eased as Gil worked his magic and then it sped up again under a hard tonguing of chest and abdominal muscles. Gil smiled in pleasure as Mike’s cock leapt up to meet his tongue and as he heard his lover sigh in contentment.
This wasn’t about Gil. This was Mike’s moment. Not that giving pleasure to Mike didn’t arouse Gil; it did, but he knew just how much Mike needed to be relaxed for what was to come.
The summons for Mike to visit the Heathcliffs had come through Wolfgang Henze. The puzzled and worried director passed it on with a query as to what it meant. Some of his concern was over Nathan’s planned appearance at the London premiere of First Metropolitan’s teen-star-laden Hollywood musical Dance Nite, which Wolfgang had committed the boy to on behalf of Kinder and Styles. Mike, of course knew perfectly well what the senior Heathcliffs wanted him for. He’d told Gil everything that had passed between himself and Gerald Mundy. In fact, it surprised him that the axe had taken this long to fall. Mike thought Nathan’s manager-parents might even call in the police, but Gil pointed out how unlikely that was.
“Nathan’s no little kid, for one, and why would they want the publicity?”
“So you reckon they’ll just tear me off a strip—”
“And tell you never to darken their door again.”
“Yeah,” Mike muttered, “and get me thrown off the last days’ shooting on Terry Blood and ensure I never work in the industry again.”
Yep, Mike needed a calming session of T.L.C. before obeying the summons. And Gil ensured he got it. Not good to go to such a meeting with a full load of cum in his balls.
What Mike knew of Jonathan and Miriam Heathcliff would have filled one page of a Christmas present thank-you notelet in large handwriting. They preferred to be out of the press glare, strictly behind-the-scenes kind of people. The penthouse apartment on top of the exclusive block of flats at the corner of Avenue Road and Prince Albert Road enjoyed a spectacular view through its wall-to-wall, floor-to-ceiling windows over Regent’s Park to the distant Nash Terraces on the other side. It was barely two good stone throws from Aberdare Gardens, but another world.
As he exited the private elevator, the first thing to catch Mike’s eye was Nathan curled up tight and miserable in a large armchair. He didn’t look around from staring out the huge window. A stocky but powerfully built man Mike estimated to be in his forties stepped forward, the soles of his Oxford house shoes clicking sharply on the marble floor as he advanced slowly from a carpeted center area of fashionable sofas and low tables. “You are Michael Smith.”
Since it clearly wasn’t a question, Mike considered the statement redundant.
At that moment a loud sniff betrayed the presence of, presumably, Miriam Heathcliff. A slight movement on one of the sofas facing away from where Mike stood awkwardly half way between the lobby and the vast living room took his wary eye. He saw the top of a woman’s head, and then heard her voice.
“How … how dare you! You filthy brute.” The stuttered words were accompanied by loud sniffs.
Jonathan Heathcliff stayed where he had stopped on the marble and eyed Mike with a steely expression. “Have you anything to say for yourself?”
All the way here Mike had trembled with nerves, but now confronted by the reality of Nathan’s father ( call him “daddy”—a diminutive always helps put things in perspective ) he suddenly felt deeply pissed at being called into the headmaster’s study to be hauled over the coals for something he did not consider wrong, unless it was the reflective harm the relationship with Nathan had caused Gil. He took a deep breath, swallowed quickly, and launched in. “It’s always the same with money quickly made. People like you, Mr. Heathcliff, who possess it in abundance think you push everyone else around. And, what’s worse, do it from a moral high ground of your making. Rosen, Fantini, even Mundy in his grubby way, now you.”
Heathcliff tucked in his chin, somewhat taken aback by Mike’s attitude. “I don’t know these people—”
“You do, because you’re just like them—”
“You dirty, dirty, filthy little beast.”
Heathcliff and Mike both started at the flaming Medusa who rose from the sofa behind her husband, spitting invective. Her artfully composed auburn locks flashed like coiled snakes. “You pervert. What have you done to my little boy, you … you degenerate!”
“Miriam. Please, be calm. We agreed.” He turned back to Mike, looking everywhere but at the cause of his problem as though suddenly unable to look him in the eye. “For the record, this is you?”
Mike stepped forward and glanced at the glossy photograph. It depicted him in three-quarter view in a semi-clothed hug with Nathan. It came as some relief that neither of them was naked. He nodded. “But anything looks bad in a peeping Tom photograph. It’s not the point—”
Miriam Heathcliff broke in before Mike could say anything more. “The point is you laid hands on my son, you unnatural deviant. It’s lucky for you the police haven’t been involved—”
Heathcliff raised his hand and half turned to his wife. “Miriam! We agreed not to say any more of this, especially not in front …” He waved a hand at distant Nathan, but the boy spoke up from his corner.
“Not in front of me, I know.” He stood and came across the room, avoiding his mother’s outstretched arm in a jerky walk.
Mike fixed his eyes on the boy, but couldn’t read the expression.
“Nathan. You will go to your room and leave this matter to me.”
He ignored his father’s peremptory tone. An absurd vision of Mister and Missis Leviathan, prompted by Nathan’s description, bubbled up a snort of amusement, which Mike suppressed with difficulty. To his astonishment, Nathan circled around his father and closed on Mike. He gripped Mike’s arm with both hands. “No. I’m old enough to know my own mind.”
“What?”
“I’m sorry you had to find out in this … awful way.”
Heathcliff had gone beetroot red in the face. “You, you don’t understand, Nathan. The man who sent this picture wants money. It’s bloody blackmail. He wants to bleed me dry.”
Nathan shook his head. “You mean he wants all the moolah I make for you.”
Miriam looked as though she were about either explode at the sight of
her son holding onto Mike, or faint. He suspected she was putting on a great show of anguished motherliness to cover up a character as hard as the pebbles on Frinton beach, from whence she came.
Mike drew a deep breath and dived in again. “Is that photo all you received? Do you know who sent it?”
“Anonymous sent it. Blackmailers don’t go about advertising themselves. Isn’t this picture enough? The … person … the snake who sent this says there are more, and worse.”
Indeed there are … Mike shook his head. “It isn’t what it seems—”
“Oh what! Don’t deny you’ve had unnatural relations with my son. Nathan’s confessed.”
Mike could see Heathcliff avoiding looking at the way his son clung to his arm. “That’s not what I meant.” He made an emphatic cutting motion of his hand. “Mr. Heathcliff, the man who sent you that picture wants to ensure I stay out of his way so he can continue to feed your son with hard drugs and habituate him so you’ll all end up paying that way.”
“Drugs!” Miriam’s shriek rang out across the living area. The thunderous look on her face indicated she had misunderstood and blamed Mike. In seconds she rounded the end of the sofa and flew at him, fingernails like claws. “You gave my baby drugs!”
Mike and Nathan both flinched. Heathcliff swung out an arm and managed to capture his Medusa-turned-Valkyrie wife about the waist. She fell, sobbing, against him.
“Mike tried to save me, Mum,” Nathan shouted.
Mike tuned the mayhem out for a moment. Even as he’d said it, the absurdity of his explanation hit him. Mike’s brain whirled. Of course blackmailers remained obscured in the shade, but why then had Mundy revealed himself to Mike? Mundy wasn’t acting logically. Why try to blackmail him into staying out of Nathan’s way so he could supply the boy with drugs freely and at the same time blackmail Nathan’s parents over his being caught in gay sex acts on film and so also alerting them to the drugs problem? Surely it should be either one course of action or the other? The thoughts flashed past and he let the train go as frustration at what was happening right in front of him took over and freed his tongue.
