First You Fall: A Kevin Connor Mystery (15 page)

Freddy and I went to a nearby Starbucks. Freddy’s heavy flirting with the boy at the counter doubled the amount of time it took to get our coffees.

I told Freddy about my meeting with Roger Folds.

He listened careful y, only looking at Starbucks Boy half the time I was talking. When I told him about Roger Folds’s connection to Michael Harrington, he jumped in.

“Oh, yeah,” he said. “I wanted to tel you I asked some people at work if they ever heard of The Center for Creative Empowerment Therapy.” Freddy was the director of administration at a local AIDS services center.

“And?”

“Some of the counselors have clients who went there. They said it was a pretty fucked-up place.

They put al this pressure on you to ‘change.’ A lot of guilt and lecturing and nagging. You know, kind of like your mother.”

“‘Kind of?’” I asked.

“Yeah, wel , when I say ‘kind of’ I mean ‘exactly.’

But even worse, if you can imagine it. It sounds like they try to brainwash you. I guess it takes a lot to repress someone’s basic instincts, huh,” Freddy said. “Speaking of which, I wonder what Sharon Stone’s up to these days. I always did think she was underrated as an actress.”

“That reminds me, I have to tel you something about Paul Harrington.”

“He knows Sharon Stone?” Freddy asked excitedly.

“No, what you said about repression.” I told him about May’s comment that Al en thought his son might be gay.

“Wel , duh,” Freddy responded, bored. “I already told you that. I don’t understand how you can be such a big street streetwalking whore when you have the world’s worst gaydar.”

“I’m not a streetwalking whore,” I said a little too loudly.

Starbucks Boy, whose name tag read Colin, started cleaning the table next to us. Which, by the way, was already clean. I had the feeling he didn’t often walk out from behind the counter, but somehow, with Freddy around, he had a sudden urge to straighten up.

“Hey, I’m not putting you down. I love dick, too,” Freddy also said loudly, and not for my benefit.

“Maybe we could start a club,” Colin chimed in, taking the bait.

“You know, you’d be charming if you could just get over your shyness,” I said to Freddy.

Freddy grinned, not taking his eyes off Colin’s butt as the coffee slinger bent over to pick a napkin off the floor.

“Don’t be petty,” Freddy cautioned.

Colin came over. “So, are you two together?” he asked Freddy.

“Only for the coffee,” Freddy said.

“Good.” Colin handed Freddy a card from his wal et. “Here’s my number.”

“Oh, I think I got your number,” Freddy said, taking the card from him.

Colin gave me and my outfit a long look. “Your friend is cute, too,” he said to Freddy, “but I don’t think I could afford him. You’re not a cal boy, too, are you?”

My mouth dropped open. “Excuse me,” I said.

“Sitting right here.”

They ignored me. “I know,” Freddy mock-whispered. “He’s a little obvious. But when you’re working the streets, you can’t afford to be discreet.”

“Hey!” I said.

“Doesn’t it scare you?” Colin asked me. “Just going with anyone?”

“I don’t just ‘go with anyone,’” I hissed. “I’m not a whore.”

“Wel , not that
kind
of whore,” Freddy clarified, smirking.

“I hate you,” I told him. Then, to Colin, “I’m glad to see you’re not afraid of catching my friend’s scabies.”

“Scabies?” Colin asked.

“Little mites that live under the skin. Extremely itchy and unpleasant. Very contagious, too.”

“Mites?” Colin wasn’t the brightest light on the tree.

“Bugs.”

Colin looked terrified.

“You have bugs under your skin?” he asked Freddy.

“My friend’s just funning you,” Freddy said. He stood and pul ed up his T-shirt. “See,” he said.

“Does that look like scabies to you?”

One look at Freddy’s flawless abdominals was enough to convince Colin that he’d suffer far worse than a skin infection to run his tongue down those furrowed ridges.

He put his hand on Freddy’s bel y. “Cal me.” Then he turned to me. “Maybe you’re the one with the scabies. Given your line of work and al .” He walked away triumphantly.

Freddy snorted coffee through his nose.

“Very attractive,” I told him. “Now can we get back to work?”

Freddy and I talked some more about my conversation with Roger. Freddy asked to see my to-do list. He knows I’m lost without it.

I handed him my iPhone.

1. Fol ow up with Roger Folds—fight?

2. Talk to Randy Bostinick

3. Research Paul and Michael Harrington.

4. Look into those gay suicides—was that true?

5. Fuck Tony

“Hmm,” Freddy said, “let’s start with number five.”

“Magic Eight Bal says ‘future looks dim’ on that one.”

“Oh, sorry to hear that,” Freddy said. “You real y need to get laid.”

“I get laid almost every day.”

“I mean by someone who’s not paying for it.”

“Details, details,” I sighed.

Freddy gave the list another look. “OK, you took care of number one. Why not just work your way down?”

I took the list back. “Talk to Randy, huh?”

“He should be at the gym tomorrow.”

“You know, even before I talked to Roger, Tony had me halfway convinced that Al en real y did kil himself.”

“And now?” Freddy asked.

“Now, I guess I have more reason to think it might be true, but I stil can’t believe it.”

“Just talk to Randy. I’ve watched enough episodes of
JAG
to know that you fol ow up on every lead.”

“You watch
JAG?”
I asked. I couldn’t think of a straighter show. Wel , maybe
Everybody Loves
Raymond.

“Did you ever see that guy who plays the lead?”

“Jag?”

“I’m not sure if that’s his name, or just the name of the show. I don’t actual y have the sound on. But who cares about that. I have something to add to your list.”

“What’s that?”

“We should go to Michael’s Harrington’s place.

The Center for Creative Cunnilingus,
or whatever it is. Check it out.”

“Talk with Michael?”

“Naw, that lovely little chat we had with him at the reading of his father’s wil was more than enough for me, darling. But let’s see what his organization is like. I think they have open houses where they tel you about their programs.”

“Do you real y think we should?”

“Honey, what would Farrah Fawcett Majors do?”

“Are we
JAG
or
Charlie’s Angels
here? You’re mixing your metaphors.”

“We watch
JAG,
but we
are Charlies Angels,
OK? I’m the glamorous Farrah and you can be the serious one, what’s-her-name? The one from that movie with that cutie from the
Rookies.
What was it cal ed?
My Husband’s a Fag?”

“Kate Jackson. And it was Michael Onkean and the movie was
Making Love.
For its time, it was actual y a pretty daring film about a closeted married man who …”

Freddy rol ed his eyes. “Tangent, darling, tangent.”

“Whatever,” I said. “Like al that talk about
JAG

and
Charlie’s Angels
was so on topic. Speaking of which, how come you get to be Farrah?”

Freddy pul ed his T-shirt down, stretching it across his chiseled pecs. “Honey, check out the boobage.

It’s al about the nipples.”

Is That a Foot in My Lap

or Are You Happy to See Me?

THE NEXT MORNING
I woke up at six, groaned, turned to go back to sleep, and remembered that I had to meet Randy at the gym. Shit. I dragged my ass out of bed and was about to make a protein shake when I realized something amazing. I heard no crashing pans, no loud snoring, and no invitations to “wake and embrace the day.” Just silence.

My mother was stil sleeping.

Final y, a little peace. I had my drink, took my meds, grabbed a quick shower, shaved the usual places, and began the important task of choosing my outfit for the gym. I needed something tasteful, yet erotic, simple, but seductive, revealing but not too …

aw fuck, let’s face it: I needed to dress like a whore again. Randy wasn’t the type to be interested in my sparkling conversation.

I threw on a pair of skimpy, almost translucent white running shorts with side slits. Truthful y, they looked more like underwear than pants. I squeezed into a tight little white T-shirt that has a picture of a basebal player and the word “Catcher” on it. I put on sneakers with no socks, a combination I found unsanitary but sexy. I took a look at myself in the mirror and realized there was just one thing missing: Nipple action. Freddy was right: It’s al about the boobage.

There’s an old stripper trick I learned from the movi e
Showgirls.
If you apply ice cubes to your nipples, they’l harden and stick out. Knowing how much Randy liked juicy tits, I figured I better meet him with my headlights on high.

I grabbed two ice cubes from the freezer and held them to my chest. But they melted too quickly and started dripping onto my shorts. Shit, I looked like I wet myself. I wanted to look excited to see Randy, but not that excited. I stripped off the shorts, put the ice cubes back on my chest, and leaned over so that the drips would fal harmlessly into the kitchen sink.

“What, I shudder to ask, are you doing?” My mother was standing behind me.

I dropped the ice cubes.

“Mom!” I screamed. “Hel o! Naked here! Could you give me a minute?”

“Oh, please, like I haven’t seen that little tushy a mil ion times.” She swatted my ass.

“Mom!”

“Could you please stop screaming like that, darling? Maybe we can save the outraged ‘Moms’

until after I’ve had my coffee.” She reached around me to fil the pot.

I grabbed some paper towels off the rol by the sink and wrapped them around my waist.

“What were you doing, anyway?” my mother asked. She looked in the sink, then at me.

“My lord, were you icing your nipples?”

If I turned any redder, I would have exploded.

“Mom!”

“Again with the ‘Mom!’” she got herself a cup.

“I was not,” I said through gritted teeth, “icing my nipples.”

“Liar. Look at those things. You could take someone’s eye out.”

“Listen,” I told her. “I real y am going to die if you say one more word.”

“I used to do the same thing before my dates with your father, may the Lord rest his soul.”

“Dad’s not dead,” I reminded her, pul ing on my skimpy shorts.

“Wel , not yet,” she said a little wistful y.

I threw on my shirt and hurried to the door. “I gotta run.”

“Wait!” my mother cried after me. “You forgot your pants!”

Randy worked out at Pexx, a hot new gym in Tribeca. His magnificent body had made Randy a bit of a legend in NYC gyms and he usual y belonged to the best and newest ones. This was partly because A. new gyms often hired him to create some buzz, and B. he had already slept with al the real y hot guys at his last gym, so why not move on?

I took a cab to Pexx and arrived there sweaty and aggravated. Like most taxi drivers, this one didn’t believe in using air conditioning. I growled as I handed him the fare.

Pexx was a high tech gym, al stainless steel and industrial carpeting. The air was chil ed to a polar degree—I could have skipped the ice. Electronic dance music pounded from invisible speakers. I went to the front desk and told them I was thinking of joining. They gave me a day pass and I was in.

I walked into the weight room and spotted Randy right away. Al I had to do was fol ow the stares of half the guys in the room.

Randy was lying on an exercise bench doing chest presses. He was wearing baggy green basketbal shorts. The curve of his red underwear, and the throbbing menace within, was clearly visible.

His muscles bulged obscenely beneath his tight tank top. His arms looked as hard and smooth as marble straining beneath the heavy weight.

I remembered my own workout straining beneath Randy’s heavy weight and felt a tingling in my groin.

Stop that, you’re here on a mission.

Randy finished his set and sat up, bumping his head on the weight bar. He rubbed his head, cursed, and looked up. His eyes rol ed in their sockets. If this were a cartoon, he’d have stars and little bluebirds circling around his head.

Then he saw me. “Kevin,” he shouted.

He jumped off the bench and picked me up, effortlessly spinning me around. “You look tasty as ice cream,” he said, hugging me close.

“Thanks, you too.”

His hugging started to turn into grinding. “No, I mean real y, real y great,” he said huskily. “You know I always was kind of sweet on you. Such a hot little-brother piece of trim you are.” He grabbed my ass. “I missed these cupcakes.”

Randy spoke his own language of primal needs: everything was either sex or food. I pushed myself away. “What a surprise to see you here,” I lied.

Randy looked me up and down. I don’t know if eyes can smolder, but his seemed about to burst into flames. Al this sexual attention was starting to get to me.

“Come on, work in with me,” Randy offered. I looked at the three forty-five-pound weights on each side of the bar. “What,” Randy smirked, “want me to throw some more crackers on that?”