Sci Fiction Classics Volume 4 (58 page)

The End

© 1956, 1984 by Agberg, Ltd. First published in
Astounding Science
Fiction
, May 1956. Reprinted by permission of the author and Agberg,
Ltd.

Tom Reamy

I can't pinpoint the exact moment I noticed him. I suppose I had been
subliminally aware of him for some time, though he was just standing there
with the rest of the crowd. Anyway, I had other things on my mind: a Pinto
and a Buick were wrapped around each other like lettuce leaves. The
paramedics had two of them out, wrapped in plastic sheets waiting for the
meat wagon, and were cutting out a third with a torch. He appeared to be
in the Buick, but you couldn't really tell.

My partner Carnehan and I were holding back the crowd of gawkers. A couple
of bike cops in their gestapo uniforms were keeping the traffic moving on
Cahuenga, not letting any of them stop and get out. But there were still
twenty or twenty-five of them standing there—eyes bright, noses
crinkled, mouths disapproving.

All except him.

That's one of the reasons I noticed him in particular. He wasn't wearing
that horrified, fascinated expression they all seem to have. He might have
been watching anything—or nothing. His face was smooth and placid. I
think that's the first time I ever saw a face totally without expression.
It wasn't dull or blank or lifeless. No, there was vitality there. It just
simply wasn't doing anything at the moment.

And he was … Don't get the wrong idea—my crotch doesn't get
tight at the sight of an attractive young man. But there's only one word
to describe him—beautiful!

I've seen my share of pretty boys—the ones that flutter and the ones
that don't. It seems the prettier they are, the more trouble they get
into. But he wasn't that kind of beautiful.

Even though the word is used these days to describe practically
everything, it was the only one that fitted. I thought at first he was
very young: nineteen, twenty, not more than twenty-one. But then I got the
impression he was much older, though I don't know why, because he still
looked twenty. He was about five-ten, a hundred and sixty-seventy pounds—one
of those bodies the hero of the book always has but that you never see in
real life.

His hair was red, or it might have just been the light from the flashers.
There were no peculiarities of feature; just a neutral perfection. I've
heard it said that perfect beauty is dull, that it takes an imperfection
to make a face interesting. Whoever said it had never seen this kid.

He was standing with his hands in his pockets, watching the guys with the
torch, neither interested nor uninterested. I guess I was staring at him,
because his head turned and he looked directly at me.

I could smell the rusty odor of the antifreeze dribbling from the busted
radiators and the sharp ozone of the acetylene and the always-remembered
smell of blood. A coyote began yipping somewhere in the darkness.

Then a couple of kids got too close and I had to hustle them out of the
way. When I looked back, he was no longer there.

They finally got the third one out of the Buick. When they pulled him out
I could see the wet brown stain all over the seat of his pants where his
bowels had relaxed in death. The ambulance picked up all three of them and
the wrecker hauled off the two cars still merged as one. Part of the mess
was dragging on the street and I could hear the scraping for a long time.
The bike cops did a few flashy turns and roared away. The crowd started to
wander off, and Carnehan and I began sweeping the broken glass from the
pavement.

But there was only one thing I could think of: I couldn't remember the
color of his eyes.

Nothing much happened the rest of the night. We cruised the Boulevard a
few times, but there wasn't anything going on. A few hustlers still
lounged around the Gold Cup and the Egyptian, never giving up hope. There
was no point in hassling them—they'd just say they were waiting for
a bus, and we couldn't prove they weren't. It was a pretty scruffy-looking
bunch this late in the morning. The presentable ones had scored a long
time ago. You could probably get most of these with an offer of breakfast.

Carnehan reached behind the seat and pulled an apple from the paper sack
he always kept back there. He took a bite that sounded like a rifle shot
and then offered me one. "No, thanks."

"An apple a day keeps the doctor away." He grinned and took another bite.

"You're keeping the entire AMA at bay."

He laughed; partly chewed apple dribbled down his chin. He wiped if off
with the back of his hand. I kept my eyes on the street. "Why don't you
eat soft apples? They're quiet."

"I like the hard ones."

We stopped a car with only one taillight and gave the guy a warning
ticket.

Then the sun was coming up. It was hitting the tops of the Hollywood Hills
and illuminating the Hollywood sign. It looked decent from this far away.
You couldn't tell it was made of rotting timbers and sagging sheet metal
clinging in the wind. From here you couldn't see the obscenities scrawled
on it.

We went back to the station, reported, and then into the locker room. The
rest of the graveyard shift were wandering in, showering, and changing out
of their uniforms. Cunningham has the locker next to mine. He had been on
the Pansy Patrol and was wearing a shirt unbuttoned to the waist, no
underwear, and pants so tight you could count every hair on his ass.

Wharton, one of the police psychiatrists, was leaning against the lockers
talking to him. Doc was on his favorite theme again. He was telling
Cunningham why he, Cunningham, was so successful on the Pansy Patrol. The
fags recognized a kindred spirit; the fags always knew one of their own
kind; if Cunningham would only stop fooling himself, just stop deluding
himself that he was straight, just know himself, just start living a
conscious life, he would be a happier, more fulfilled person.

I had been on the Pansy Patrol with Cunningham a few times and had seen
him operate. I wasn't completely sure Doc was wrong. Cunningham was
peeling off the tight pants and I watched in fascination, although I'd
seen it before, as the sizable bulge in his crotch stayed with the pants.

Poor Cunningham.

He was standing there naked with a slight smile on his face, putting the
pants neatly on a hanger, listening to Doc's clarinet voice. He looked a
lot like the cop on
Adam-12,
whatever his name is, the kid. The
boys had even called him "Adam-12" for a while until they got tired of it.
I couldn't keep from comparing him to the guy I had seen at the wreck, but
Cunningham didn't compare at all. He was just a good-looking kid with a
slim, muscular body and not much equipment. But it didn't seem to bother
him. He always grinned and said it wasn't size that counted, it was
technique.

I took off my own pants and looked at myself. I wasn't as young or as
good-looking as Cunningham, but I did all right on the Pansy Patrol. I was
bulkier and more heavily muscled and hairier; I guess I appealed to the
rough-trade crowd. I was never very comfortable without underwear, and
thank God I didn't have to wear padding.

Wharton finished his catalogue of Cunningham's emotional failings.
Cunningham looked at me and winked. "I don't really know anything about
it, Doc, but maybe the reason I'm not interested in sex with another man
is because I'm just not interested in sex with another man."

Doc's lips got a little tight and his face was slightly flushed. I knew
Cunningham had been reading Kingsley Amis again and had probably
maneuvered Doc into the whole conversation—and Doc was eminently
maneuverable. I'd heard most of it before, so I got a towel and started
for the showers.

Cunningham followed me and Wharton followed him.

"You're right, Cunningham, you don't know anything about it!"

I turned on the water and began soaping. Cunningham got next to me and Doc
stood at the door, still talking. Cunningham looked at me and grinned and
said loudly, "Sorry, Doc, I can't hear you with the water running!"

There were about ten other guys in the shower, grinning at each other.
Cunningham leaned toward me. "Hey, Rankin, you notice how Doc always
manages to look in the showers?"

I shrugged.

"According to him, everyone is either a fag or a closet queen."

"What about himself?" I asked.

He rolled his eyes and laughed. "Getting him to talk about himself is like
catching fairies in a saucepan."

Carnehan came in, pitching an apple core into the wastebasket. I could see
why he had never been on the Pansy Patrol. Then … I don't know why
I thought of it, but the thought crossed my mind. I wondered what the guy
at the wreck looked like naked.

I left the station and got into my five-year-old Dart. It looked like a
nice day. There was enough wind from the ocean to clear away the smog. Of
course, the wind was packing it into the San Gabriel Valley, but that was
their problem, not mine. I went straight home and went to bed.

I was scrambling some eggs and watching
The Price is Right
when the
phone rang. They were doing the one where the screaming dame has to zero
in on the prices of two objects within thirty seconds. When she names a
price, the MC says "Higher" or "Lower." This keeps up until she guesses
the price. You can get it in ten guesses maximum. She started at a hundred
on a color TV and worked up ten dollars at a time.

"Hundred and ten!"

"Higher!"

"Hundred and twenty!"

"Higher!"

"Hundred and thirty!"

"Higher!"

She got to three-seventy before her time ran out. Dumb dame!

It was Carnehan on the phone. "Hey, Lou, Margaret wants you to come over
for dinner tonight."

"Hell, Carnehan, I wish you'd said something this morning. I've already
made other plans." You stupid jerk! Don't you ever wonder why your wife is
always inviting me to dinner?

"Got a heavy date, Lou?"

"Something like that. Some other time, Carnehan." No other time, Carnehan.
Margaret's a pretty good-looking dame for her age, but not good enough to
take chances with. You didn't even notice how her hand stayed under the
table all through dinner last time.

"Margaret says how about Wednesday?"

"I'll have to let you know later." And you never even had a suspicion
about what goes on after you fall asleep in front of the TV, Carnehan. If
you ever found out …

"Okay, Lou. I'll remind you Tuesday night."

"You do that." And I'll have a good excuse ready. Not that I give a good
goddamn if you do find out, but you could make a stink in the department.
I don't want to lose my job, Carnehan. I like being a cop.

"'Bye, Lou. See you later."

"'Bye, Carnehan." I hung up the phone in time to see a granny-lady have an
orgasm over winning a dune buggy.

I usually eat dinner about eight o'clock at David's. I know it's a fag
hangout but the food's good and, since I let it be known I was a cop, the
service is even better. I spotted him as I was leaving about nine. He went
into the gay bar next to David's. It was called Goliath's, of course. I
only glimpsed him from behind but I was sure of the red hair and body.
Wouldn't you know he'd be a queer!

I paid my dollar and a quarter cover charge and went through the black
curtains after him. I don't know what I was planning to do, but I hadn't
been able to get him out of my mind. I stood for a moment, waiting for my
eyes to adjust to the gloom and my ears to the plaster-cracking music.
There were three small stages with naked boys dancing on them, wiggling
their little round butts for all they were worth. There were also five
screens showing movies of naked boys doing everything it's physically
possible for naked boys to do and a few things I would have thought
impossible before I joined the force.

Then there were the customers. A few were at the bar and a few were
scattered around but most of them were packed like Vienna sausages against
one wall. There was plenty of room and no need for the press of bodies—no
need but one, and the busy hands told what that was. A few watched the
movies but mostly they watched each other. One of the dancers was waving
around a hardon and was getting some attention but not much. A couple of
dykes at the bar watched him. I guess this is the only chance they have to
see one.

I spotted the back of the redhead in the middle of the mass, so I waded
in. There's no way to move through something like that. No one can move
out of your way; they're just as trapped as you are. You just wait and
move with the current because the pack is in constant eddy as they move
from one body to the next, trying to touch everything.

It was no more than thirty seconds before I felt feather touches on my
ass. I thought about my wallet, but I knew that wasn't what they were
after. I pushed away the first hand that closed on my crotch and saw a
pout of disappointment flicker across a face in front of mine. I put my
wallet in my shirt pocket anyway.

After five minutes and fifty gropes, I finally reached the redhead, but he
was turned the other way. I was pressed against him and could feel his
hard body. By pushing with determination, I managed to get to the side of
him. He was standing face to face with another guy. Both of them had their
eyes closed and their mouths slightly open, occasionally coming together
in a lazy kiss. Their hands were out of sight, but I could feel the
movement. It wasn't him.

This was one of the pretty ones. I might even have said beautiful if I
hadn't seen the other one. But, like Cunningham, he was ordinary in
comparison.

He opened his eyes and saw me watching him and he smiled dreamily. I felt
a hand massaging my crotch but I couldn't tell for sure if it was him. I
was so disappointed I didn't push it away. Then my zipper went down and
fingers expertly scooped everything out. The press was so tight I couldn't
even get my arms down, much less move away. Whoever was working on me was
very good and I couldn't help getting it up.