Full Frontal: To Make a Long Story Short (13 page)

“That would be cool,” Tim said. “But we’re not supposed to talk about the case.”

“What’s to talk about? The guy murdered his battle-ax mother-in-law who had been living with them for years. Then he claimed she was a raccoon. Do we really have to sit in court and hear all this bullshit while we’re holed up here at the Sheraton every night?”

“So you’ve already made up your mind?” Tim asked as Jack poured him a glass of wine.

“Is the pope Catholic?” Jack winked, toasting Tim with the chardonnay.

“Well, it does seem pretty obvious, but I think we have to look at all the evidence.”

“How long did it take you to figure this situation out? Do we have to spend a week at the Sheraton to nail this guy?”

“Good point,” Tim said, laughing. “First impressions are often pretty accurate. What do you do when you’re not on jury duty?” Tim asked curiously.

“I manage other people’s money. I’m pretty good at it.”

“I would think so.”

“I know this guy is guilty, despite the wife’s confession.”

“How can you be so sure?” Tim asked.

“Well, I didn’t connect it at first, but when the lawyers were going through all the questions, I remembered that the husband came into our offices a few months ago to open a CD for two hundred thousand dollars. I handled the paperwork.”

“So you knew this guy?”

“Not really. But at the time I thought it was kind of strange. I mean, he didn’t look like the type of person who could just drop two hundred thousand dollars into a CD, coming in off the street. Something seemed wrong.”

“So why didn’t you excuse yourself when the lawyers asked if you had any knowledge of the case or the persons involved?”

“I wanted to see the dumb fuck go to jail. He’s a real idiot,” Jack said, pouring more wine. Not waiting for Tim to ask, he offered, “Married with three teenage girls. We live on Riverside Drive. Very traditional, upscale West Siders. You?”

“I live on Tenth Street in a small brownstone third-floor walk-up. I just lost my job in advertising before the holidays. Then this came up.”

“Boyfriend?” Jack asked.

“Not really,” Tim hedged. “But I’ve been seeing somebody, if you can call it that. Problem is, he lives in California.”

“Sometimes the long-distance ones are the best.”

“I don’t know,” Tim said uncertainly. “I guess we’ll have to see.”

“You’re not going to have any trouble,” Jack said, reaching out to pull Tim in front of him. Jack slowly undid the buttons on Tim’s shirt, sliding his hand up Tim’s chest under his T-shirt. “I saw you in the jury pool and wanted to meet you.”

“But …” Tim started, and then Jack kissed him on the lips. The wine glasses fell on the carpet as the two embraced. When Tim woke up they were both naked in bed. He looked at the alarm clock. It was after three in the morning, and they had to be back at the World Trade Center at nine. Tim shook Jack’s shoulder, gently waking him up.

“Hey, guy … we have to pull this together.”

“What? You worried about your civic duty?” Jack grinned with a sleepy smile, giving Tim a long, deep kiss.

“Well, I mean, we do have to show up.”

“Don’t worry, kid. We’ll get there.”

“Is this what they call jury tampering?” Tim smiled.

“No, guy. This is jury pampering,” Jack said as he pulled Tim up against him in a firm, close embrace.

Cheeseburger

August 1975

A
ugust in Phoenix. Who else but a hateful editor would have given Tim this assignment?

While looking for a permanent job with another high-profile ad agency, Tim had accepted some freelance assignments to write for travel magazines. It wasn’t a great job, but it was better than baking on tar beach on the Morton Street Pier with out-of-work actors and writers. Tim still had his part-time job as a bartender at Julius’, but the novelty of that was wearing off fast. Tight jeans and tips couldn’t go on forever.

The Hertz rental car at the airport was so hot that Tim needed to pull socks out of his carry-on bag and use them as gloves just to open the sizzling car door. It was 114 degrees, and Sky Harbor Airport was closing because the tarmac was getting too soft from the heat to allow planes to land safely. How was Tim going to write an article suggesting people vacation in this hellhole? It didn’t matter how dry it was with no humidity; it was a fucking inferno.

Yes, it was true that Tim was staying at the Phoenician in Scottsdale, one of the most luxurious resorts in Arizona. According to the brochure, it was located upon 250 acres, with ten restaurants and lounges, a championship golf course, spa, nine swimming pools, and a spectacular cactus garden. The Phoenician might be great in the winter, but when Tim drove up to check in, the marigolds outlining the resort’s name at the entrance were crying.

There was no one in the lobby. The valet boy took off with Tim’s Hertz car without saying anything, and without giving him a receipt.
Welcome to Scottsdale!
Tim wanted to scream in the lobby of this five-star hotel at 12:30 a.m., alone.

A cute Latino boy finally came to the front desk to check him in.

“Welcome to the Phoenician,” he said. His droopy eyes suggested he’d just gotten out of bed.

“Yeah, well,” Tim said, “it isn’t exactly what I’d expected.”

“Mr. Halladay, I’m sorry. It’s August and there are not many guests. I see you are here on a press pass. Is there anything I can do to make your visit more enjoyable?”

“How about air conditioning?” Tim joked as the boy handed him a cold, wet washcloth.

“Yes, of course. All our rooms are air-conditioned.”

“And it doesn’t look like any of the restaurants are open.”

“No, not in August.”

“Is there room service?” Tim asked.

“Yes, of course. I’ll have Robbie come by to take your order, if that’s okay.”

“Yeah, that’s fine.”

“It’ll be faster that way, as you are the only guest ordering at this hour.”

“I only want something simple … like a cheeseburger. Is there anyone in the kitchen?”

“Yes, of course,” the young desk clerk replied. “We always have twenty-four-hour room service for our guests.”

“Great. I’ve been traveling all day, and the heat is killing me.”

The boy carried Tim’s bag down the hallway to a room off the lobby, on the first floor.

“We have you in one of our garden suites,” he said proudly as he opened the door to a spacious room with a bedroom and sitting area. He parted the drapes to reveal a patio facing the cactus garden and mountainside.

“It’s very pretty, but I don’t think I’ll be sitting outside in this heat.”

“Yes, I know what you mean. Come back in December when it’s really nice here, especially at night.”

“Sure, kid,” Tim said, giving the boy a five-dollar bill for taking his carry-on bag to the room.

“Robbie will be right up, Mr. Halladay. Have a nice stay, and thank you,” he said as he closed the door.

Tim took off his sweaty shirt and flopped down on the king-size bed. The room was comfortable, and the bottles of chilled water on the nightstand were welcome. Yes, this was certainly a five-star property, but they would have probably been better served to close down in July and August. But then, that was the only time the magazine could afford to let him stay there, although doing a review of the property was going to be difficult with no guests and few facilities operating, other than a skeleton staff of bored employees making no money from tips.

The gentle knock came on the door. “Mr. Halladay, I’m here to take your order. Robbie, from room service.”

Tim opened the door to find an incredibly handsome young man, with jet-black hair and a Pepsodent smile, holding a menu in his hand.

“May I come in?” he asked.

“Yes, of course.”

“The menu is a bit limited at this hour, but we can probably make anything you want.”

Tim couldn’t take his eyes off the youth. “I was just hoping for a cheeseburger and a couple of beers.”

“Sure,” Robbie smiled. “I think we can handle that. How would you want it done?”

“Medium rare.”

“Okay. And what kind of cheese would you like?”

“Swiss is fine. With a side order of mayo. And two Heinekens.”

“Got it.” Robbie winked. “I’ll be back in about fifteen minutes.” Then he left the room.

Tim stripped, took a quick shower, put on a pair of gym shorts and a clean T-shirt, and sprawled out on the king-size bed, waiting for Robbie to return with his order.

The gentle knock on the door came again as Tim lay gazing up at the ceiling.

“Mr. Halladay … it’s Robbie with your order.” Tim opened the door and there he was, smiling broadly with a tray in his hand. Robbie seemed a bit taken aback that Tim had changed into gym shorts and a T-shirt.

“May I come in?” he asked politely.

“Of course. Just put it on the table in the sitting area,” Tim instructed.

Robbie placed the tray on the table and then hesitated, turning to ask, “Mr. Halladay, do you mind if I ask what you’re doing here by yourself at the Phoenician in August? I saw from the front desk that you are here on a press pass.”

“Sure, Robbie. I’m a freelance writer, and I’m on assignment to review the property, which is under new management and just had a fifty-million-dollar face-lift. Trouble is, there’s no one here, and most of the facilities aren’t open—like the ten restaurants described in the brochure. But of course, there is room service,” Tim teased.

“The buffet breakfast will be open in the morning,” Robbie said, almost apologetically. “But you know, there’s almost no one here, so it’s hard to keep everything functioning, and they’ve had to lay off most of the staff. I’m the only one on duty tonight, and you are my first cover.”

Robbie stood in his tan Bermuda shorts and white Phoenician polo shirt, showing sweat marks under his armpits. The bill for the room service order was slipped in the back of his khaki shorts.

“I’ve always wanted to write something, Mr. Halladay. But I just don’t know where to begin. How did you get started, if you don’t mind my asking?”

“How old are you, Robbie?”

“I’m nineteen.”

“You’ve got your whole life ahead of you. Just do it, and don’t be afraid,” Tim said, patting him gently on the shoulder. That did it. Robbie folded into Tim’s arms and pressed toward him, digging tightly into Tim’s back muscles. He had the body of a young soccer player, and in minutes they were both naked on the big king-size bed. Robbie was affectionate, almost desperate. After a lot of hugging and kissing, Tim gently peeled Robbie away saying, “Hey, guy. I don’t want to get into anything serious here.” Robbie looked up at Tim with his big brown eyes and beautiful black hair hanging straight over his brow.

“But I do have one request,” Tim said with a devilish smile.

Robbie looked back suspiciously. “What do you want me to do?” he asked.

Tim stood directly in front of Robbie, looking squarely into his beautiful eyes, certain the boy would do anything that Tim requested.

“I want you to jerk off on my cheeseburger,” Tim said matter-of-factly.

Robbie looked at Tim incredulously. Then he laughed out loud. “Are you serious?”

“I’m serious. See … you forgot the side of mayo,” Tim added, stroking the boy’s muscled arm and kissing him. Robbie wilted like a fading flower in Tim’s arms, and neither said a word for a few minutes.

“Okay,” Robbie said, getting up from the bed. “If you’re sure that’s what you want. I think you’re a really nice guy, if a bit strange.” They both laughed.

Afterward, Tim asked, “Has anyone else ever asked you to do something like that?”

Robbie looked at Tim with a sly smile. “Actually! Yeah, once before. There’s this nice old lady, a rich widow from Tucson, Mrs. Rose, who comes for a month every year. She checks in and never leaves the property. Her late husband, Oscar, was a diamond cutter for Tiffany’s. He must have left her all kinds of stuff. When she comes into the dining room she always has fantastic jewelry, a necklace or a bracelet, and the other guests stare with envy. Mrs. Rose wears a simple black or red dress, I guess to show off the diamonds.”

“Didn’t anyone ever wonder where all that stuff came from?”

“No. This is the Phoenician. We get all kinds of people here, and no one ever asks questions.” Robbie continued, “One night when I was on room service duty, she ordered a Caesar salad with grilled chicken and a glass of chardonnay. I delivered the order to her room, and she asked me to set it up on the coffee table in front of the fireplace. When I asked her if there was anything else I could get for her, she said the salad looked quite dry. I had forgotten the side order of mayo … again. For fifty dollars more she said she would like me to masturbate on the grilled chicken.”

“And you did it?” Tim asked, laughing.

“Yeah, why not? It was a quick fifty-dollar tip, and I didn’t have to touch her. Why not give the old lady a thrill.” Robbie grinned.

After fulfilling his request, Tim pulled Robbie against him again and they kissed, tongues deep. They were still naked, and Tim thought this could go on all night
.

“Robbie,” Tim said, pulling them apart. “I have to get some sleep if I’m even going to think about doing this review.”

“Sure, Mr. Halladay,” he replied politely, pulling on his khaki shorts. Tim brushed Robbie’s silky black hair and kissed him again. Tim patted Robbie’s tight butt while pressing a fifty-dollar bill into his palm, saying, “Thank you.”

“No, I can’t,” Robbie said, returning the money. “I like you a lot, Mr. Halladay, but I didn’t come here for this.” He was genuine, sincere.

“I know, but you can’t be getting many tips this time of year.”

“So what. I’ll manage. I’m not a hustler … and I really like you.”

Robbie opened the door to leave, never giving Tim the check for the room service order. “Hey, Mr. Halladay.” He grinned. “Enjoy your cheeseburger.”

Epilogue

Balloons

June 2014

G
ay pride parades were a fairly common event in the New York cultural scene after the Stonewall Inn riots in 1969, but they’d become increasingly popular, and every year they became bigger in scope and more worthy of media attention. This year, the organizers decided to push the parade over the top. With gay marriage still an issue and heading to the 2014 US Supreme Court, what more appropriate time could there be to make a statement about gay rights?