Placing Out (8 page)

Instead of standing, Ben pulled the other man down to straddle him. His erection pressed between them. He reached for his cock, silently encouraging Dylan to stroke him. Feverishly, Ben held Dylan's hips and released himself to the need that ripped through him while Dylan pumped him harder and harder. He grunted and spilled into Dylan's fist.

Ben helped him climb to his feet. Getting another damp cloth, he wiped them both down. While he did, Ben's stomach growled. He grinned self-consciously.

Dylan smiled back. "Sorry, no food here. There is a drug store just downstairs. They make a great chicken salad."

Ben held Dylan's head in both hands, his thumbs stroking his ears, pushing strands of blond hair out of his face. He stared into blue eyes he could get lost in. "That's good. I love chicken."

Dressed, they trod down the backstairs together. But when Dylan opened the door leading to Main Street, Ben paused. He studied the cars moving past. What would he do if a patrol car drove by? All the cops at Central would recognize him. A lot of other people might, too, given his recent coverage in the
Times.
He'd had more than one person stop him on the street and comment on his good work.

The last thing he wanted was to be seen with Dylan. Dylan was just a little too obvious in what he was. Ben kept a wary eye out when he followed the other man into Liberty Drugs.

Besides the counterman, there were five others present. Four men and an elderly woman. Ben scanned the room without being obvious and recognized no one. He relaxed, but still insisted they sit in the back where he could see who came through the door. Dylan sat across from him. He smiled.

"Sure you don't want to sit here? If your back's to the door no one can see you."

"Never sit with my back to a door."

"Never?"

"It's a copper thing."

Dylan shrugged. He picked up the menu, putting it back without looking at it. Ben studied him closely. When the waitress came to their table, he ordered steak and eggs while she filled two cups of coffee. Dylan simply said, "The usual, Flo."

"Sure thing, hon. So, when are you taking me to the movies like you promised."

"How 'bout right now, darlin'?" He threw Ben an amused look. "I think I can get away if you can. If you're sure your husband won't mind. I don't need a jealous mister coming after me."

She laughed and smacked him on the shoulder. "You're the one, ain't you, Jack?"

"I surely am, Flo. I surely am."

When she was gone Ben raised his eyebrows. "Jack?"

"My
nom du plume,
you might say. Or maybe it's my
nom du guerre.
"

"Don't want anyone to know who you really are?"

"No, officer, I don't. I prefer to keep my life private. It is no one's business but mine, after all."

"Law doesn't agree."

"The law is an ass, to quote Dickens."

"Dickens?"

"British author from the last century." Dylan must have seen something in Ben's face. "Didn't think a whore could read? You don't think we can do much, do you?"

Ben didn't rise to the bait. He watched traffic on Main, only occasionally glancing at Dylan, without looking like he was staring. Years in L.A. had exposed him to a lot of beautiful men. But he didn't think he'd ever seen one who could outshine Dylan Daniels. To get away from his thoughts he asked, "How long you been in town?"

"Going on three years. You?"

"Seven."

"Always been a copper?"

"Pretty much." Ben stirred a spoonful of sugar into his coffee. "Where you born? Me, I'm from Iowa."

"Five Corners, New York."

"Don't sound like New York."

"I said I was born there. But I grew up in Nebraska." He grimaced. "North Platte."

"Pretty country I hear."

"If you're a cow, maybe."

Ben laughed. He'd had pretty much the same attitude toward Iowa. Good for some folks, not for him. "What brought your folks out there? Land?"

"Wasn't my folks. I was placed out."

"Placed out?" Ben shook his head. "What's that?"

Their meals came. Ben's steak still sizzled. Dylan had two eggs sitting on top of a pile of hash browns. Under Ben's quizzical gaze he poured a mass of ketchup over everything. He shoveled in a mouthful, swallowed and answered him.

"Kid's asylums and orphanages take kids that have no family or their family's too poor to take care of them. Ship them out west to families there. I ended up with the Chatterfields."

"They good to you?"

He shrugged, still eating. Ben followed suit. The steak was good. He emptied his plate around the same time Dylan did. Without asking, the same waitress brought over a slice of blueberry pie.

Dylan picked up his fork, met Ben's gaze before he took a bite. "You should try it. Their pies are a slice of heaven. I guarantee it."

Ben looked at the bottle of ketchup. "Tell me you don't put that on it."

Dylan laughed. "No, I promise."

"Then apple, please."

Dylan was right. It was damn good. He pushed his plate away when it was empty. Reaching for his money clip, he pulled out a two.

"I don't expect you to pay." Dylan sounded indignant. "If that's what you think."

"What do you expect?"

Dylan shoved his half-finished pie to the edge of the table. "You probably don't believe me, but I don't want anything."

He was right. Ben didn't believe him. He'd met a lot of hustlers of one kind or another over his years of policing and they always wanted something. Money, power, even just the fun of playing someone. So why was he stupid enough to want to believe this one? Because the sex was unbelievable? Because there was something about him that wasn't jaded and tired, like so many others in this indifferent city of fool's gold?

"You go to work later today?" Dylan broke through his thoughts.

"What? No, I'm off duty the next two--" He realized what he had just said. Heat flooded his face.

"So you're in no rush to go somewhere? Or do you have family? Other lovers?" He dropped his voice. "A boyfriend, maybe."

"Don't say shit like that," Ben hissed.

"You don't have one, or you don't want to admit you have one?"

"I do not have boyfriends," Ben said through his teeth. "I'm not like that."

Dylan surprised him by sighing. "You know that's not true." He stood. "Thank you for the meal and... your company."

Ben watched him walk out. He never looked back. Flo came back, gave him the bill and smiled her thanks at the deuce he handed her. "Keep the change."

He followed Dylan, but at the entrance to his hotel, he barely broke stride, his glance slicing sideways. But not looking for Dylan. Fuck, no, he wasn't looking for
him.
Hunching his shoulders against an imaginary chill, he headed home.

Los Angeles, March 8, 1933

Roach rounded up all of his squad, including Ben and a thug named Bulldog. They drove to the Wilmington Warehouse at the Port of Los Angeles. Another half dozen unmarked Buicks and Fords drove with them in a parade of muscle. Heavily armed muscle. Most of them carried Browning automatic rifles as well as their handguns. Since joining the Red Squad Ben had received training in a host of weapons he'd never seen before. The BAR was Roach's favorite. Ben knew why. He could clear a line of strikers with a few well-placed rounds. The rapid firing rifle did a damn good job of demoralizing the strongest, hard-line unionists.

Ben hated the things and never wanted to use one.

Until today. He drove, and the entire way toward San Pedro he clutched the wheel as though it was a striker's throat. They arrived right behind Roach and he was out of his Buick before any of the others. A line of defiant strikers faced them. Already fear showed on some of their work-lined, weary faces.

Ben gloated. He dragged his nightstick out and growled. "Break it up. This is an illegal assembly."

Behind him Roach took a second to bark the same order into a megaphone, then they all waded into the middle of the sign wielding men. Too late, Ben realized there were some women, too, and a few young, unshaved faces that could only be kids.

Once the clubs started falling, chaos overwhelmed them. Shouts of rage followed curses and grunts as copper and striker met. Ben stumbled when a sign proclaiming "Fair Wages" thwacked him on the side of the head. With a roar he swung his BAR around, bracing it against his shoulder and screamed, "Break it up now, or I'll blow your fucking head off!"

The crowd in front of him broke apart in a wave. New strikers moved in. A fair-haired boy bared his teeth at Ben and held his sign in two hands above his head. "We got rights, copper. Don't they teach you the Constitution where you come from? We got a lawful right to assemble."

The kid looked like Dylan. Same defiant look under the grime he got from working fourteen hours on the docks. With grim determination the boy advanced on Ben. His grip on his sign tightened and Ben knew he was going to attack.

"Don't do it, kid. You can't win this one."

"Fuck you, copper--"

From beside Ben, Roach barked, "Don't talk to me about no fucking rights, you commie pansy."

Before Ben could react Roach fired into the crowd. The boy went down in an explosion of blood and bone as his face disintegrated. All around him people fell under the onslaught of bullets and batons. Screams of fear, rage and pain turned the dockyards into Bedlam. Or hell.

Shaking with the rush of adrenaline, Ben waded in to the panicked mob with his baton. His arm rose and fell, landing on heads, arms, and backs. His booted feet trampled fallen strikers, kicked and shoved others out of his path. On either side Roach and Bulldog were equally vicious. More shots went off. Screams grew shriller and the strikers broke and fled as the line of death bore down on them.

It seemed like hours, but turned out to be only twenty minutes, when an exhausted Ben limped back to his car. Something, a knife or a stray bullet, had grazed his leg. Blood soaked his dark pants. He didn't realize he was bleeding until he climbed behind the wheel and the sticky mess got all over the seats. Roach leaned in the window.

"You're a fucking bull out there, ain't you, Dutch? Glad you're on our side." He spotted the blood still leaking from his leg. "Better get that seen to. I don't want to lose my best man. When you've done that, go home. Rest. We got another busy night tomorrow." Clapping Ben on the shoulder, he strode back to his own Buick and soon the whole squad was racing back to Central.

Ben stopped at the medic and had the shallow cut cleaned out and bandaged. Back at the station he signed the BAR back in and limped home. He cleaned up in the shared bath, which only reminded him of Dylan and his basin of water. Then memories of the boy who looked like Dylan, face exploding under multiple rounds of bullets returned. Against his will, images of Dylan suffering the same fate left him shaking and nauseous.

In his room, he fell across the bed fully clothed. Sleep, when it came, was infused with dreams of fucking his golden boy, only to watch his face dissolve into the striking boy seconds before it became a bloody pulp. And all the time he was falling into sea blue eyes that consumed his soul.

Eventually he fell into a deep sleep, beyond the reach of dreams. Or nightmares.

The next day the lieutenant handed him a copy of the
Times.
The image of Roach and Ben breaking up the mob of strikers was front page, above the fold. He looked like a madman. But then he had been, hadn't he? God, he hoped Dylan didn't see it, flashed through his head before he could stop the thought.

All day, memories of the dead boy--Ben had tried to find out his name without success--haunted him. He was on foot patrol, on day mid-watch, and the time moved sluggishly. At least there were no major incidents. Fifteen minutes before end of watch, he crossed Pershing Square to get back to Central. The crowds grew denser as they neared the Red Car stop on Hill Street.

By the fountain across from the Biltmore, shadows pooled in the palm fronds and bushes edging the nearby paths. During the day there would be flowers visible in the green. The sound was muffled at first, then it grew louder. His gun hand poised over his Sam Browne, Ben edged toward the sounds. He had a pretty good idea what it was before he broke through the bushes and found a blond on his knees in front of a business-suited man on the verge of climaxing.

For one brief, hot second Ben thought it was Dylan. Without thinking, he grabbed the blond by the hair and hauled him off his knees. The businessman with his dick in the air stumbled back, losing his fedora on a frond. Behind a pair of glasses his eyes bugged out when he saw Ben's uniform. He got his feet under him and, without tucking himself in or retrieving the hat, he bolted toward Hill Street. Ben let him go.

The boy cursed and tried to kick his ankles. Ben deftly spun him around and brought them face-to-face. The kid's eyes weren't blue. But they were scared. It wasn't Dylan. Relieved and enraged at being relieved, he planted his fist into the kid who wasn't Dylan's belly. The boy retched and tried to kick him again.

Ben jacked one arm up behind the kid's back, almost touching his shoulder blades. The kid yelled. Ben released him and he fell to his knees.

"Go home, kid. Don't let me fuckin' catch you here again. Goddamn nancy boy. Take it home to Nebraska."

Crying and holding his arm, the kid lurched after his trick. Ben stood in the shadows, watching the light around him bathe the paved pathway in silver. A couple walked by, a man and a woman. Chatting and laughing, they didn't see him. He didn't move until they were past. He continued to hear the woman's light tinkling laughter long after he could no longer see them.

He strode through the park, back to Central. Looking for trouble all the way. Sorry he didn't find any. He almost made it out of the station when Roach caught up to him.

"You busy tonight?"

"No. I'm off the next couple of days, but not tonight. What's up?" Maybe he'd get his trouble after all.

"Got some church ladies in Covina complaining about some vagrants and drunks disrupting their neighborhood."