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Authors: Scott Sherman

Third You Die (Kevin Connor Mystery) (19 page)

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On my way home, I had an idea.

Everyone I spoke to about Brent suggested it wasn’t atypical for guys in porn to transition into hustling or being set up as a kept boy. If that was what Brent was up to, there was one person I knew who had the connections to track him down.

I called to ask if I could drop by.

“Of course, my sweetest,” she cooed. “Just give me ten minutes to shave, shower, and douche myself up a bit, darling. You know Mama likes to look her best for her favorite boy.”

I told her I’d be there in a quarter hour. Although one of the reasons ethanethiol was used in commercial settings was because the odor dissipated fairly quickly, and I’d also washed up and changed clothes, I was still worried I might be kind of stinky. I stopped into a pharmacy and grabbed a can of Axe body spray. I applied half of it in the store’s restroom and paid for the rest on my way out. I now smelled like something called “Dark Temptation.”

Which made me think of Freddy.

I called to let him know I’d survived my encounter at SwordFight.

“Thank god,” he said. “I was beginning to worry. You’ve been there
forever
.”

“Actually, I left an hour ago. But I ran into a few problems on the way back.”

“Such as . . . ?”

“Nothing major. Just some guy who tried to sexually assault me when I happened to be innocently naked behind a Dumpster. And I had to go a few blocks out of my way to get some cologne to cover the smell of my imaginary pus. Stuff like that.”

“If anyone else told me these things,” Freddy said, “I’d think they were insane. But, you’re right—on the Kevin scale, that qualifies as ‘nothing major.’ ”

“See?” I said. “You had no reason to worry.”

“Well, when you have time, I want to hear every detail of what happened.”

“Play your cards right,” I promised him, “and I might even show you the video.”

“My darling, darling boy,” Mrs. Cherry gushed as she flung open her door. I was hit by a wave of the Bal à Versailles perfume in which she doused herself, the cloying floral notes fighting each other for attention. It mostly masked the other odors from the apartment—stale marijuana smoke, patchouli incense, garbage that should have been taken out a day ago.

Mrs. Cherry was two hundred pounds and five feet of indeterminate gender. Although she lived as a woman, I was 99 percent sure she’d been born a man. Whether she’d achieved her ample bosom, rounded hips, and other female characteristics through surgery, hormonal supplements, or a wish on a genie’s lamp, I had no idea. She had an air of magic and fantasy about her that made any combination of those seem possible.

Mrs. Cherry ran the escort agency I used to work for. She’d been a great boss, looking out for my best interests and screening my clients to ensure I was never in a dangerous or harmful situation. When another guy in her employ was hit by a car a few months ago, Mrs. Cherry paid all of Randy’s hospital bills and kept his nursing staff happy with frequent deliveries of food and guest baskets.

After a suffocating hug, she ushered me into her large living space. Years ago, she’d bought several apartments on her floor and combined them into one, creating a labyrinth of mysterious, elaborately decorated rooms. The furniture was overstuffed and buried under mounds of pillows, the walls papered with busy feminine patterns, everything colored various shades of red, purple and pink Tiffany lamps, beaded curtains, and crystal chandeliers further contributed to the illusion you’d been transported to a New Orleans brothel sometime in the 1920s.

I sank into one of her enveloping settees.

“Can I get you something to drink?” Mrs. Cherry offered. “Some champagne? Beer? A Shirley Temple?”

“Water would be great,” I replied.

She returned moments later with a silver tray, which held an etched crystal pitcher filled to the top with icy cold water, a matching glass, and a small plate of thinly sliced lemons and mint leaves, all set upon a frilly lace doily. Mrs. Cherry never did anything without embellishment.

“I wish I could delude myself into thinking you’re here to tell me you are coming back to work,” she said, sitting across from me. “But you look much too happy and successful for me to believe that.”

“Well, I don’t know about all that, but you’re right—that’s not why I’m here.”

Mrs. Cherry shrugged, then smiled. “I watch your mother’s show every day,” she gushed. “What a pistol that woman is! Such fun! But my favorite moment is when your name rolls by in the end credits. ‘That’s my boy,’ I think. It’s only on screen for a few seconds, but they’re some of the best moments of my day.”

Her voice cracked on the last few words, and I thought I saw the sparkle of a tear in her right eye. “I’m ever so proud of you, Kevin,” she said wistfully. “I always knew you were special.”

I thought about the difference between Mrs. Cherry and Mason Jarre. They both were in the business of employing young men for sex work, but Mrs. Cherry genuinely cared about her charges. She didn’t use the illicit nature of her enterprise to justify regarding her employees as subhuman commodities. She was proof that, even in the sex trade, you could treat people with kindness and dignity. No, more than that. You could be loving and generous, creating a virtuous cycle of shared loyalty and respect.

Which raised a question. “When your boys leave the business,” I asked her, “do they just disappear?”

She looked genuinely puzzled. “Whatever do you mean, sweetness?”

I told her how Mason related his experience with boys dropping out of sight when they wanted to move on, never saying good-bye or staying in touch.

“Oh, that sounds awful,” Mrs. Cherry said. “I don’t know if I could stand working like that. I’d be so concerned! That man must be out of his mind with worry. If one of my boys just stopped returning my calls or didn’t show up for a job, I’d do whatever it took to find him. Just to know he was all right. This is a big city—anything can happen!

“You know as well as anyone, my little angel, when a boy wants to leave the business, I have no problem with him moving on. I wish my boys the best in life. If that man’s models are leaving like that, without even a fare-thee-well, there must be a reason. Either they’re afraid of him or . . .”

“Or what?” I prompted.

“Or something’s happening to them.”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know.” Mrs. Cherry removed a lacy handkerchief from her deep cleavage. She twisted it nervously in her hands. “Nothing good, I’d imagine.”

“That’s what I need your help with,” I said. “Just how ‘not good’ this situation is.”

I explained how I’d met Brent, what happened when I finally got around to calling him, and what everyone had to say about his disappearance.

“How awful,” Mrs. Cherry said. “No one seems to care at all about this poor boy.” She gave me her warmest smile, the one that makes you feel like she’s hugging you even when she’s way out of reach.

“Except you,” she amended. “But that’s your greatest gift, you know.
Caring
. It’s what made you such an outstanding escort. It wasn’t your good looks—not that you’re not absolutely delicious, darling. Nor was it your creativity in bed or, from what my clients have told me, your surprisingly large . . . endowment.”

I felt my cheeks redden.

“Darling, you’re the only person I know who could sleep with hundreds of men but still blush at even an oblique reference to your penis.”

“It’s hardly been
hundreds. . . .”
I felt the need to clarify. “And with most of them . . .”

Mrs. Cherry waved her handkerchief at me. “Darling, please. No need to feel defensive. Who would know better than me? I was the one who arranged those assignments, remember.”

I was about to explain that for most of my “career,” I’d done more dates that involved role-playing and fantasy than actual sex. Especially after I reunited with Tony, I drew the line at anything that involved oral or anal intercourse. My specialty was safe kink delivered with good humor and a smile.

“My point was”—Mrs. Cherry winked—“your clients raved about you not because you brought them to orgasm—any of my boys could do that. So, for that matter, could their own hands or a laundry machine if you lean against it just right during the ‘heavy duty’ cycle.”

I gave her a WTF look.

“Or so I’ve heard,” she said quickly, anxious to get off that last example. “In any case, it wasn’t the
sexual
release they achieved with you that stood out for them. It was the
emotional
connection.

“You made them feel, for that brief time, cared for and understood. That’s a gift far greater than merely getting their rocks off.”

I remembered my conversation with Freddy and Cody earlier that week about my client who found his deepest satisfaction in clown play. It wasn’t easy for him to find someone who wouldn’t go running when he told him he wanted him to dress up like Bozo and pelt him with pies. Even paid companions treated him like some kind of freak. They may have gone through with the act, but he could always sense their contempt and disapproval beneath the surface.

But with me, he said, he never felt the nose-holding disdain that his other partners always seemed to have. Which was probably because I didn’t feel it. As long as it didn’t hurt them or involve hurting someone else, there was no kink with which I couldn’t empathize. I didn’t
share
the kinks, but I wasn’t disgusted by them. Nor did I feel somehow superior or more evolved just because I didn’t get a hard-on when I saw a poster for the circus.

Who’s to say what determines what turns you on? Why is someone who’s excited by a woman in high heels morally better than someone who gets the same rise from oversized jester shoes? As a gay man, 90 percent of the people with whom I shared a gender couldn’t understand what I wanted in bed. Who was I to judge someone else?

“It’s funny,” I said. “I was thinking the same thing about you. How much you care about the boys who work for you. What a difference it makes.”

“Darling, no one’s life is spared the occasional fall. If we’re not here to cushion each other’s landings, then what’s the
point
of us?”

Suddenly, Mrs. Cherry’s overstuffed couches and chairs took on a new meaning for me. I knew she hadn’t deliberately planned it, but if you were to trip anywhere in the apartment, there wasn’t a piece of furniture you could hit that would hurt you. Every surface was soft, comfortable, and welcoming. I began to wonder if her instinctive drive to cushion life’s disappointments also explained why she’d added those enormous breasts to herself, then I decided it was best to return to the business at hand.

Focus, Kevin, focus.

“One thing that came up a few times was the possibility that Brent went into hustling full time. Or hooked up with a sugar daddy. Is that something you could look into?”

“Dear boy, if that boy’s turning tricks or being kept in this city, I’ll find him. Tell me everything you know about him.”

It was depressing how little time it took to do that.

“I’ll make some calls,” Mrs. Cherry promised, “and let you know the moment I find out something.”

“Thanks,” I said.

“No,” she responded, “thank
you
. For caring enough to look for your friend. For giving me the chance to help you find this lost boy. And for reminding me why I always believed in you.”

I could have stayed in Mrs. Cherry’s apartment for the rest of the day. I was tired and she was so welcoming. It had been a long day.

But it was about to get longer.

My phone rang.

Family Values

“Hey, babe.” It was Tony. His voice was hushed. He must have been at his desk.

“Hi, honey.”

Mrs. Cherry gave me a saucy wink. “The cop?” she mouthed silently.

I nodded, and she gave me an approving thumbs up. She might have arranged paid assignations for a living, but she also recognized the value of a solid primary relationship. She was glad to hear Tony and I were still together.

“I need a favor,” he asked.

“What’s that?”

“Can you pick up Rafi from aftercare? I was going to grab him on the way to your place, but I’m stuck. They just brought in a suspect I need to interview.”

“Sure,” I said. “But, can I do that?”

“I don’t know,” Tony asked, sounding a little perplexed. “
Can
you?”

“No, I mean will they
let
me?” I couldn’t imagine the staff at Rafi’s after-school program would allow someone they didn’t know to just take him.

“Of course they’ll let you,” Tony said. “I listed you on his paperwork at the beginning of the year as an authorized guardian.”

“You
did?
”

“Why wouldn’t I? You’ve got permission to pick him up, you’re an emergency contact, and you can call at any time to see how he’s doing.” Tony’s voice had a “well, duh” quality to it, as if I should have assumed he’d be comfortable giving me that much access to, and responsibility for, his kid.

Wow. I wondered how Tony classified me on the form. As a family member? A friend?
Partner?

I figured I’d better not push it. It was enough he trusted me with his son’s welfare. I was touched he’d thought to include me when filling out those forms. It made me feel like he planned on sticking around.

“Well, then, sure,” I said. “I’ll be glad to get the Rafster.” I knew where the school was, as Tony and I had brought him there together, but I hadn’t gone in before.

“Great. Thanks, babe. I’ll be home around eight. You don’t mind hanging out with him till then?”

“You kidding? He’s my second-favorite Rinaldi. Except for when you’re cranky. Then, he’s my first-favorite.”

“I’ll call his school and let them know you’re coming. Love you,” Tony said, whispering the last two words.

“Love you, too,” I answered, hanging up.

Mrs. Cherry was smiling with an unabashed mixture of pride and delight. “I couldn’t help but overhear. Although I really had to strain to catch his part of the conversation, mind you.” She was obviously not embarrassed by her eavesdropping.

“You two are parenting together?”

“Not exactly.” I explained how things had been working. By the time I’d finished, her grin had decreased by half.

“It’s not ideal,” she said, after hearing how I had to sleep in the living room and pretend to be Tony’s “roommate” when Rafi came over, “but it’s a start. More than a start. A man like Tony, though . . . it’s going to take time.”

I grimaced. “Tell me something I
don’t
know.”

Mrs. Cherry was up for the challenge. “I still have a penis.” She watched for my reaction.

Whoa. Not expecting that. I should have been more specific with my question.

I tried to keep my face as neutral as possible.

“Okay,” I said. “That was something I didn’t know.” I loved Mrs. Cherry too much to add the snarky
It was also something I didn’t
want
to know
.

“It’s not something I ever talk about. . . .” she began.

I can see why,
I thought, still with the snark.

“. . . But I want you to understand there are things that, even if we want to, are very hard to let go. For me, it’s this ridiculous. . . appendage. Every time I see it, it’s a painful reminder for me of the mistake God made when I was born. I really wish it were gone.

“For two years, the doctors and counselors have been telling me I’m medically and psychologically prepared to have it removed. But I wasn’t quite ready to part with it.

“For Tony, it’s his dream of a ‘normal life’ he can’t let go of. One with a wife, a child, and a picket fence. That doesn’t mean he doesn’t love you. Just like my genitalia doesn’t make me any less of a woman. It just means that even when you
want
to change, when you want to let go, it’s hard.”

I wasn’t sure the analogy completely worked for me, but I nodded anyway.

“Is he worth waiting for?” she asked me.

“For now,” I answered honestly. “But I don’t want to live . . . half a life with him. You know what I mean?”

She looked down at her lap. “More than you know, darling.”

“Thank you,” I said. “For sharing that. I know it’s very personal.”

“You’re right. It is. And I don’t tell many people. But it was the best example I had to help you understand that Tony’s . . . reluctance doesn’t mean he doesn’t want you. Or that he wants what he used to want, either. Any more than I want this . . . thing between my legs.

“You see, there’s this . . . in-between space when we exchange one dream for another, where we can’t commit to either. We know that moving backward would be terrible, but moving forward is even scarier. It’s the muddle in the middle that’s the worst part.”

Was that where things stood between me and Tony? The muddle in the middle? It sounded right.

“But it doesn’t last forever,” Mrs. Cherry said. “In three weeks and two days, I have an appointment for the surgery. It took a while, but I’m ready, Kevin. I’m ready to let go of the past.”

“That’s great,” I said, truly happy for her.

“I think so, too.” She gave a girlish smile. “And if I can find the—pardon the expression—balls to have my cock cut off, darling, I certainly think Tony should be able to come out of the closet for a prize like you.”

For what seemed like the hundredth time that day, I couldn’t help but agree with her.

“Kebbin!” Rafi screamed, in an ear-piercing peal of joy. “You nebber picked me up before!” He flung himself at me, wrapping his arms around my waist and nearly knocking me off my feet.

“Let me guess,” his teacher said, “you two have met before.” She was an uncommonly attractive brunette in her mid-twenties, I’d guess. She had a great body on her, too, which she seemed to be hiding underneath a particularly unflattering and bulky sweater. I wondered how many dads suddenly found themselves uncharacteristically helpful, offering to pick up their kids from her classroom.

Then I thought one of them might be Tony and felt a little queasy.

I shook her hand and introduced myself. The class was seated in a circle in the brightly decorated room. She had been reading them
Where the Wild Things Are
when I’d walked in. It was a book I’d read to Rafi about a hundred and twenty times myself.

“I’m Max,” he roared, letting go of me to make monster hands and bare his tiny teeth. “Feah my tewwible fuwy!”

“He knows the book by heart,” his teacher, who’d introduced herself as Ms. Sally, said. “That your doing?”

I shuffled my feet. “Guilty as charged.” I loved Max from that book. The kid was a badass.

“It’s wonderful that you read to him,” she said. “You must be a close friend of the family.” She arched her eyebrow at me suggestively. “Very close.”

“I’d like to think so,” I answered, guardedly.

“I’ll tell you what,” Ms. Sally said to Rafi. “Since you are such a good reader, why don’t you finish reading the book to the class while I go talk to Mr. Kevin?”

“Really?”
Rafi asked. “Can I, Kebbin?”

“Sure,” I said.

He ran off excitedly to sit in Ms. Sally’s oversized chair and opened the book. “One, two, three,” he commanded the class. “Eyes on me.”

Damned if all the kids didn’t pay attention. Maybe Rafi was going to be a badass, too.

I wish I were. I had no idea why Ms. Sally wanted to talk to me. Had Rafi done something awful? If so, why tell me? Surely, it could wait till a day when Tony or his mother picked him up.

Or, maybe she was interested in Tony and wanted to see if he was available. No, what if they were actually . . . doing it, and she wanted to warn me away from “her” man?

My queasiness was now full-blown nausea. Stomach churning, I let her take my arm and guide me to a quiet corner of the room.

Ms. Sally sat with me on two kid-sized chairs. The seat actually wasn’t that small for me, but she was a few inchers taller. Most adults her size would look ridiculous on the tiny perch, but she sat with the straight back and perfect grace of a ballerina. I hated her already.

“Kebbin,” she began.

“It’s ‘Kevin,’ ” I said.

One of her hands flew to her mouth, getting the message to cover her embarrassing gaffe a few moments too late. “Oh my god, I knew that. I’m sorry, Keb—Kevin! I swear, you spend enough time around these kids and you start to talk like them.” She blushed between spread fingers.

Okay, maybe I didn’t hate her
so
much. Let’s see what she had to say.

“Do you mind if I’m direct?” she asked.

“I’d appreciate it,” I said, thinking that seemed like a very grown-up thing to say.

“Three days ago, Rafi asked me if I knew what a ‘faggot’ was.”

My nausea was replaced by a ball of ice in my stomach. “What did . . . how did
that
come up?”

She placed her hands on her knees, forcing herself even more erect. “He said that he heard his mother use the word when on the phone with one of her friends. According to Rafi, he heard her mention ‘Tony and that faggot he’s living with.’ Rafi said she sounded mean and scary.”

The thought of Rafi hearing such ugliness, and being hurt by it, broke my heart. Not to mention that I, however blamelessly, was somehow linked to it. I blinked back a tear.

“I don’t know who she was talking about,” Ms. Sally said, with kindness if not truthfulness, “but . . .”

“I’d be the ‘faggot’ in question,” I said, sparing her the discomfort. She grinned widely. I had the feeling she was probably pretty cool. “What did you say?”

“I asked him what he thought the word meant. He thought for a moment and I knew he was trying to reconcile what he’d overheard with what he’s observed and known to be true. Finally, he said, “I think it must mean ‘bestest friend.’ Because I know my daddy lives with his bestest friend, and that he loves him very much.’ ”

I was doing a lot of blinking now. I didn’t trust myself to say a thing.

“I told him I bet you were his dad’s best friend, but that ‘faggot’ wasn’t a polite word to use. Rafi said he could tell it was a ‘bad’ word from how his mom said it. He said it was the same tone she used when he took a cookie without asking.

“He’s a smart kid, you know. You could tell he was really thinking about what I’d said. Finally, he asked, ‘But why would my mom think it’s bad for my dad to have a special friend? Doesn’t she want him to be happy?’ ”

I didn’t envy Ms. Sally for having to come up with a diplomatic, kid-friendly answer to that question. The only one I could think of was “Because your mom’s a miserable bitch.” That fit neither criteria.

“What did you say?”

Ms. Sally gave a wry smile. “To be truthful, I punted. I told Rafi that it wouldn’t be fair for me to guess what his mom was feeling and that he should ask her.”

“That seems fair. I think you did a great job,” I said.

“I mentioned it to his mom when she picked him up that night.” She darted her eyes guiltily to the ground.

“Annndd . . .” I prompted.

“Annndd . . .” she mimicked me, “I really shouldn’t say any more.”

“I’ll bring you chocolate,” I offered.

“It’s an ethical thing,” she said. “Confidentiality.”

But she wouldn’t have mentioned it if she didn’t want to tell me. “Hand to god,” I said, raising my right palm. “I won’t tell a soul. But it would be helpful—to Rafi—if I knew what he was dealing with.”

“Can I have your word
and
the chocolate?”

“I’ll throw in a doughnut.”

Ms. Sally let out a long sigh. “She said ‘I suppose it’s just as well. Better he hear about his father from me than on the playground. ’ ”

“Ouch. Now, I’m
totally
withdrawing that Mother of the Year nomination I’d submitted for her.”

“So is it true? Are you and Mr. Rinaldi . . . more than roommates?” Her eyes glittered with the zeal of someone excited to hear some especially juicy gossip.

I didn’t know if Tony would want me to answer that question truthfully. Actually, that’s a lie. I knew he wouldn’t.

But, fuck it. He was the one in the closet, not me.

BOOK: Third You Die (Kevin Connor Mystery)

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