Dirty Kiss (2 page)

“You’re coming home very late, little brother,” Mike said, glancing up from a stack of papers. Even while stalking, his mind was on his security business. There was a half-empty beer bottle on the coffee table, a coaster advertising a brand of tequila I’d never bought soaking up the condensation. “And you’ve got branches in your hair. Another jealous-husband case?”

I handed him the camera as a response, telling him to go through the pictures while I got myself a beer. His lurching snorts were audible from the kitchen, and by the time I returned to the living room, his face had turned a bright, beet red. I wasn’t certain if there was an actual chortle, but he came close to choking on his own laughter as he ran through the images.

“This is disgusting,” he said, waving the camera at me. “Someone paid you to take these?”

“Her husband,” I replied, leaning over my brother’s shoulders and tapping a close-up of Mrs. Brinkerhoff’s cherubic face. “Apparently he suspected that she was cheating on him. He could have told me she can shoot the balls off a fly. Her girlfriend saw me in the window and screamed. Next thing I know, there’s a shotgun pointed at my face and bits of a tree elephant in my hair.”

“You should come work for me. No one shoots at us, and you definitely don’t have to deal with this kind of emotional scarring.” Mike leaned over, picking the last of the leaves out of my hair. Tugging at the long strands near my jaw, he shook his head. “You’ll have to cut this first. No one wants their bodyguard looking like he dropped off a romance cover.”

“Cute,” I said, poking him with my bare foot. “And thanks, but no. I suffered enough growing up with you. I sure as hell ain’t going to work for you.”

“You’re just jealous because teachers knew you lacked my brilliance.” Mike shot me a sly grin, poking at a long-healed-over scab. Older than me by three years, he spent high school being the smart, intelligent McGinnis. It made life hell for me following him, always being compared to what he’d done before. Struggling with being gay at the time didn’t help either.

“Any reason you’re here?” The beer was cold, soothing in my throat. “It’s late, and somehow I don’t think Mad Dog sent you over here with leftover casserole to pawn off on your younger brother.”

“Don’t call her that. Her name’s Madeline.”

“You married her. She should be committed just for that,” I replied, shrugging.

“Wait till you get a new boyfriend,” he threatened. “There’s going to be hell to pay on that.”

“Don’t hold your breath. Look how my last relationship turned out.”

Rick hung between us, a crucified sacrifice to my choices in life. Mike’s eyes fell, his wide-open smile fading as the memories of what had happened flooded both of us. I didn’t want to revisit those events. I certainly never wanted to relive that night, but it came back to me when I slept, sometimes even creeping up on me during the day when I least expected it. I knew Mike had his own guilt he carried around. Neither of us was going to rake that night open and spread its entrails out in front of us to look for good fortune. Nothing good ever came of talking about it, and we weren’t about to start now.

“And you’re wrong.” Mike broke the silence. “I did bring some casserole. Tamale pie, even. You don’t eat well, Cole. How many times a week can you eat steak?”

“Seven,” I answered with a shaky grin. “Sometimes I even go out and get someone to cook it for me. But thanks for the food. I promise I’ll eat it.”

“I came over because I’ve got a job for you.”

“If it includes taking pictures of septuagenarian lesbians, I’m going to have to pass.”

“Nice use of a big word there, little brother. And if it did, then I wouldn’t tell you, just so I could see your face when you found out,” Mike snorted. “One of my clients’ son committed suicide. They swear he wouldn’t do that to the family and want someone to take a look at what happened.”

“People do that kind of thing to their families all the time.” Shrugging, I took another sip of my beer, leaning back into the softness of the couch. “It’s kind of what suicide does.”

“His father insists his son never would have done it.” Shaking his head, my brother sighed. “Look, I think he killed himself, but the father’s a big client. They use our security details all the time, and I can’t just tell him he’s full of shit because he doesn’t want to believe his son did himself.”

“So what do you want me to do?”

“Just look into it.” Mike slid a thick manila envelope out of his pile of papers and passed it over to me. Flicking open the tab, I saw the number of zeros on the check fastened to the top of a paper-clipped report. “Take some time, maybe a couple of weeks, and poke around what he was doing. There’s probably nothing there, but I want the family to feel like at least someone took a second look.”

“But the kid definitely killed himself?” The package held photos of a smiling young Korean, some by himself while others showed him with groups of people or with a thin-faced Caucasian woman. “This is his girlfriend?”

“Wife.” Mike dug through the photos and pulled out one of the young man holding a bowlegged toddler. “Not a kid, really. Late twenties, married, and already with a son. Good Korean boy by all accounts. Pride of the family and all that.”

“Kim Hyun-Shik? Am I pronouncing that right? Kim’s the last name, yes?” It was hard to roll the syllables off my tongue. I studied the young man’s face. He was good-looking, a pretty mouth set into a strong face. His black hair was shaped into a conservative brush much like my brother’s, and his eyes were dark and sparkling. There was love in those eyes for the young boy he held up for the camera, pride beaming out from his face.

I was jealous of that pride and love. It had been a long time since I’d seen that look in my father’s eyes.

“When did he die?” There were reports in the envelope: an autopsy report and lists of places that Hyun-Shik frequented. I recognized a few restaurants, and then a familiar name jumped out at me. “I know this place, Dirty Kiss. It’s… a guest bar.”

“Just a couple of weeks ago. And a guest bar, my ass. It’s a gay whorehouse,” Mike interjected. “Call it what it is, Cole.”

“Whorehouse just seemed a bit rough.” I shuffled the reports, looking for cause of death. “Most customers don’t even make it to the sex rooms. Female impersonators perform shows on the main floor. You have to be a member to get into the upper area.”

“Yeah, well, our boy made it to the upper rooms.” The label on Mike’s beer was taking a beating from his fingernails, its edge peeled back into strips. He was trying to act nonchalant, skirting around a question he wanted to ask but couldn’t. “You go there? For company, I mean? Not that it’s bad. You should get some, once in a while.”

“Mike, it was one of the places I ended up looking into when I was a cop.” The thought of paying someone to dance naked in front of me would have seemed like a good time a few years ago. Times definitely had changed. “I worked Vice, remember? There’s a lot of vice in places like that. The family knows he was a member?”

“I don’t know. He was found there, overdosed on a handful of pills. They didn’t get much when they pumped out his stomach.” He drained the rest of his beer, wincing at its warmth. “His father insists that Hyun-Shik wouldn’t kill himself but won’t talk about his son being gay.”

“A lot of fathers refuse to believe their sons are gay. Look at ours.” Mike shifted uncomfortably, and his face took on a very familiar twisted look.

“Yeah, about Dad,” he said, rubbing at the back of his neck. “He and Mom are coming for a visit in a couple of weeks. Maddy wants to know if you’d like to come to dinner. Maybe bring a guest.”

“Come on, Mike, don’t pull that kind of shit on me.” The beer was tasteless in my mouth, but I drank it anyway, anything to wash out the sawdust clogging my throat. “The old man doesn’t want to see me.”

“It’s been, what… twelve years, Cole?” His eyes were dark, almost moist in the lamplight. “When are the two of you going to stop being stubborn and at least meet halfway?”

Mike hated the schism in our family, hated being the bridge between me and my father. Our Irish Catholic upbringing was good at feeding the guilt that plagued both of us. Mike blamed himself for not being there that night when I told my dad about loving men, and I blamed myself for not being what my family wanted. I’d gotten over mine, but Mike was still working on his.

“Halfway to what?”

I could still hear the slam of the door behind me. The last face I’d seen before it shut was Barbara’s, my father’s second wife and the woman I’d called Mom all of my life. She still wore the look of horror she’d had on since I’d told them my biggest secret, hoping that no matter what, they loved me enough to still call me son. I’d been wrong. “You want me to hide who I am because Dad’s got a problem with it?”

“This isn’t about Dad. This is about you,” Mike said softly. “Tasha’s coming with them. She’s a sophomore now. She wants to see you.”

Our youngest sister had been three when I’d left the family. Other than pictures, I’d not seen her or our other two sisters in years. Mike was a master at playing me. No one else could coax me into doing things I didn’t want to do like he could.

“I’ll think about it.” I eyed my brother, looking for any sign of triumph in his face. “You smile and I’ll punch you.”

“I’m not smiling,” he said, fighting a shit-eating grin. “I’d bring her here if I thought Dad would go for it. Just come over for dinner and be pleasant. Maddy was serious about bringing someone. She thinks it’s about time you date.”

“Tell Mad Dog McGinnis that I’m fine being single.” Mike’s wife meant well, but she’d been on the outskirts of my spiral downward. Mike knew better. Other than not-so-subtle hints that I should get laid, he wasn’t going to push me into anything. “Besides, you think I’d want to inflict Dad on anyone I was interested in? Look how much shit he gave Maddy, and you’re the favorite son.”

“I’ve got to get going.” Glancing at his watch, he winced at the late hour. “Do yourself a favor and take a shower before you go to bed. You smell like one of those pine tree air fresheners you hang in the car.”

“Yeah, right.” I was tired all of a sudden, too many ghosts and relationships flying through my head. “I’ll lock the door behind you.”

“You going to take the job?” Mike gathered up his paperwork, shuffling the pages into their proper order. “I like the guy, Cole. He doesn’t expect you to find anything, really, but he’s got to do something. The kid was his only son.”

“Yeah, I’ll take a look around. I kind of knew one of the performers at the club there. She might be able to give me something.” I snagged the bottles and stood, stretching my body up until I felt my spine crack. A throb started along my ribcage, working outward in a steady, numbing circle. Dropping the glass into the recycling bin, I leaned against the archway and rubbed at the spot.

“Does it hurt?” Mike spotted me working at the spot with the tips of my fingers, worry creasing his heavy eyebrows. “When was the last time you saw the doctor?”

“It’s scar tissue, dude.” The keloid eased its grip on my tangled nerve bundles, and the muscles around the scar slowly began to relax. “Nothing to do about it. I just have to deal with it.”

He didn’t look convinced. Mike was a worrier. He’d been my de facto mother for years. I didn’t see that changing. It got worse after Dad turned his back on me. If anything else happened to me, I was pretty sure he would move me into a spare bedroom of his house so he could keep a closer eye on me.

“Go home to your wife, Mike,” I said, pushing him toward the door. He might be stockier than me, but I had longer arms, and his halfhearted swing at me swished by my shoulder.

“Stop in on the Kim family before you go to that club.” He stopped on the stoop, holding the security screen open. “The father’s up in San Francisco, but his mother’s down here with the rest of the family. Mr. Kim said his wife’s taking it hard since the cops called to tell them about Hyun-Shik.”

“She knows someone’s looking into her son’s death?” The last thing I wanted was to show up on a grieving mother’s doorstep asking questions she wasn’t ready to answer.