Second You Sin (12 page)

“I hesitate for a minute, because I’m wondering what I’d tel the guys I came with, when Ansel takes a couple of hundreds out of his pocket and presses them into my hand. ‘A
real
good time,’ he tel s me.

‘But we have to go now.’

“I liked Ansel wel enough as a client, but I liked those hundreds a lot more. So I said, ‘Sure,’ and we go outside where there’s this big stretch limo on the corner and, of course, it’s his. I get in and it’s the cleanest, quietest, most comfortable place I’ve been in weeks, man. I’m so relaxed I don’t even realize it, and Ansel , who’s looking at me real close now, says, ‘Why don’t you close your eyes for a minute?’

and I do.

“The next thing I know I’m waking up in a padded white room. I thought I died and went to heaven. Then I saw lettering above the door that said ‘The Gateway Clinic.’ I was in a freaking psycho ward, man.

“I just about went crazy. But they’re used to that there. I knew I couldn’t be held against my wil , so I started screaming to be let out. I could feel that scratchy hunger building. I wanted another hit. But the doctors showed me papers I signed saying they could keep me for seventy-two hours. I didn’t remember signing anything. Stil don’t know that I did. But when you’ve got Ansel Darling’s kind of money, you can make things happen.

“An hour after I woke up, Ansel showed up. I was cursing him, screaming, but he had the doctors bring another bed into my room and that crazy-assed white boy stayed with me for the next three days. He held my head while I puked, he listened to my shit when I screamed, he even changed my sheets when I sweated them through, which was about every twenty minutes.

“Trouble with Ansel ?” he asked. “I have no trouble with Ansel . Ansel ’s my angel. He got me clean.”

“You stil clean?” I asked.

Ansel held his arms out for inspection. “As mother’s milk. I’m not going near that shit again. Not even a joint. Believe me.”

I did.

“Ansel saved my life, Kevin. If not for him, I probably would have wound up like Sammy White Tee.”

Sammy White Tee was another working boy who Rueben and I knew through that invisible network that links New York’s most successful and exclusive male prostitutes. I don’t know how we al got to know each other, but somehow we did. Sammy was one of the shyest of us—hence, his nickname. No one knew much about him except that he always wore blue jeans and a plain white T-shirt. In the fal , he added a dungaree jacket and in the winter its leather twin. In every season, he looked like James Dean at his most breathtaking and most innocent.

“Sammy White Tee?” I asked. “What happened to Sammy White Tee?”

“You didn’t hear,
papi?
”

I shook my head.

“Sammy White Tee
es muerte, chico.
Dead.”
12

Putting It Together

“Sammy White Tee is dead?” I asked. “What are you talking about?” I felt the blood drain from my face.

“Sí,”
said Rueben. “Yes. I know, it’s hard to believe.”

Sammy had been such a sweet kid, so ful of life.

“What happened?”

“Died in the bath. They think he tripped on a bar of soap, hit his head on the side of the tub, and drowned. I heard about it from Corbin Fitzer, who told me
he
heard it from that boy who used to dance at Rumors. Dalon.”

OK, the network between rentboys in this city may have been loose, but it wasn’t unreliable. At least I didn’t think so.

“Is it true?” I asked.

Rueben shrugged. “Yeah, I think so. Nobody’s seen Sammy White Tee for weeks, so it makes sense. I heard he was high on something when it happened.”

I shook my head.

“I know,” Rueben said. “It’s hard to believe.”

“Actual y,” I said, standing up, “not so much. Come on, we have to find Freddy.”

Freddy was stil on the dance floor, sandwiched between a heavily muscled black guy who gyrated against him from behind and a Justin Timberlake look-alike who Freddy held in his arms. I’ve seen less explicit three-ways in pornos.

“Now,
that
is hot,” Rueben observed.

“Not anymore,” I said, grabbing Freddy by the arm and pul ing him away.

“Are you crazy?” Freddy asked.

“Hey!” Justin Timberlake Boy cried.

“I saw him first,” Muscle Head shouted.

I kept pul ing. “Sorry, guys.”

Freddy pul ed back. “I want to go back to that place,” he whined. “That was my happy place.”

“We have to go,” I said. “I need to talk to you.”

“I’m sure you do, darling,” Freddy said, twisting his arm away. “But I need to close the deal with those two highly motivated young men, so I’m afraid you’l just have to wait.”

“It’s
murder,
” I hissed.

“Yes, darling, I know it’s hard for you to wait, but I real y do need to hump those boys some more.

Maybe you should take one of your pil s.”

“Not that,” I said, pressing myself against Freddy and whispering fiercely in his ear. “Someone is kil ing the most beautiful male prostitutes in New York. And I think it’s up to us to find out who.” Rueben brought us back to Ansel ’s bedroom.

I fil ed Freddy in on what I’d just learned about Sammy White Tee. Then, I told Rueben what happened to Randy, and what Randy had told me about Brooklyn Roy.

“Holy hookers,” Freddy said. “That’s three.” Rueben looked as white as one of Sammy’s trademark T-shirts. “You real y think something’s going on?” he asked. “I mean, it could just be coincidence, right?”

“Could be,” I answered.

“Not likely,” Freddy responded. “Kevin has a way of getting involved in murders.”

“Freddy!”

“Darling.”
Freddy turned to Rueben. “Let me tel you a little story.” Freddy told Rueben about our role in investigating the death of my friend Al en Harrington, and how, in the process, we stumbled upon a particularly nasty homicide ring.

“We were like the Hardy Boys,” Freddy explained.

“Wel , like a queer Hardy Boys. Or, young, beautiful Jessica Fletchers. Or . . .”

“Charlie’s Angels!” Rueben enthused.

“Exactly,” Freddy agreed. “We made the comparison ourselves, frequently. I was the glamorous, sexy poster-icon Farrah Fawcett-Majors (may God rest her soul), and Kevin was the brainy and plain Kate Jackson.”

“Hey,” I complained.

“Wel ,” said Freddy, “you always need one on the team who’s kind of ordinary. How else wil the audience relate?”

I glared at him.

“Don’t blame me,” Freddy continued. “Go argue with Tori Spel ing if you want.”

“Tori was the daughter,” I corrected. “Aaron Spel ing was the creative genius behind
Charlie’s
Angels.
”

“What did I tel you?” Freddy turned to Rueben.

“Brainy.”

“But wait,” Rueben chimed in. “Weren’t there always three Angels?”

“Of course,” Freddy answered.

“Wel , there you have it. You guys need me!” Freddy and I looked at each other.

“Think about it,” Rueben continued. “We’d be the most diverse Angels ever. Plain old white Kevin over there . . .”

“Hey!” I said again, as if anyone cared.

“The spectacular Nubian goddess La Frederista over here.” Rueben put his hands together as in prayer and gave a Freddy a slight bow. Freddy nodded as if to say,
I accept your tribute.

“And,” Rueben continued, “now me, a midseason addition to the cast, an outrageous and curvaceous Latina spitfire always sure to elicit a guffaw and boner!”

Rueben leapt off his chair and shook his hips suggestively. “I am . . .” he intoned dramatical y, “the third Angel! I must be on the team.” He threw his arms in the air like a gymnast nailing the perfect dismount.

“There is,” I said sternly, “no team.”

“Oh, please.” Freddy stood and put his arm around Rueben. “It’s perfect! Right out of central casting. You’re hired!”

“This is sil y,” I said.

“Don’t be bitter just because you have to be the plain one,” Freddy cautioned.

“Yes,” said Rueben. “Even if you’re not as pretty as we are, we stil need you on the team to, I don’t know, drive the car and defuse bombs and such.”

“Guys . . .” I began.

“Enough,” Freddy interrupted. “This is going to work. I just know it. Three is always better than two.”

“Apparently,” I said, remembering his little ménage on the dance floor.

“You know what they say,” Freddy added. “The triangle is the strongest shape there is.”

“Who says that?”

“Archeologists,” Freddy asserted confidently.

“Architects?” I asked.

“Whatevaperon,” Freddy said, tossing his head as if he had a Farrah-like mane instead of his shaved dome. He leaned into Rueben and mock-whispered,

“I told you we need a smart one.”

“Now,” Rueben said, “we have to get back to the party before Ansel starts wondering where I am. And you guys are here to been seen. What say we al meet soon and start planning our investigation?”

“Sounds perfect,” Freddy said.

I groaned.

“Ideal y,” Rueben continued, “I’d like to include some undercover work. Maybe we could join a col ege wrestling team or a rol er derby or something.”

“I don’t see what . . .” I began.

“We’l work out the details at our meeting. Now let’s see . . . I’m going to be busy al day tomorrow doing fol ow-up for tonight’s event, but how about Wednesday? Can you guys come over around seven? I’l order in Thai.”

“Marvelous,”

Freddy

said.

“I’l

bring

the

speakerphone.”

I rol ed my eyes.

“But now”—Rueben dragged us with him toward the door—“it’s time to get our party on. And I
must
introduce you to Ansel !”

Rueben hustled us through the loft. We squeezed by the dancers, slipped past couples of every persuasion making out, and avoided the waitrons wielding precariously balanced platters of drinks.

Rueben knew where to find Ansel , in a roped-off area on a platform behind the dance floor.

The man had a VIP area in his own apartment.

Unbelievable.

The tal , bald, and heavily muscled shirtless bodybuilder who guarded the velvet rope nodded at Rueben and let us pass. Freddy stopped on the way through. “Would you look at that?” he asked me.

“That guy’s more cut than a baby at a bris.”

“Let’s just get this over with,” I whispered back.

For some reason, despite Rueben’s testimony to his character, I had a bad feeling about Ansel . When Rueben went to find him, I said as much to Freddy.

“Yeah, honey.” Freddy patted my cheek. “I think that ‘bad feeling’ is envy. I mean, look at this place!

Look at these people! It’s like we died and went to homo heaven.”

“Maybe,” I said.

Rueben reappeared, with a reluctant-looking Ansel Darling in tow. Ansel wore an expression like he couldn’t imagine who would be worth the trouble it took him to walk over here. Then he got a look at me and Freddy and his face brightened considerably.

“Wel ,
hello,
” he purred at Freddy, putting his hand on Freddy’s prominent pec poking through his silk shirt. “This fits you like a second skin.” He rubbed his hand up and down a little. “You don’t mind, do you?

It’s just so rewarding to see my work worn so wel .” Freddy rarely minded being felt up, and the fact that Ansel was rich and famous didn’t hurt, either.

Freddy was a true fashionista, and for him, being groped by Ansel Darling was like being touched by the hand of God. “It’s an honor, Mr. Darling,” Freddy gushed. “This stuff is beautiful. You’re a genius.” Ansel chuckled. I took a moment to study him. Tal and thin with long black hair pul ed into a ponytail. He had a strong nose and narrow lips, set off by pronounced cheekbones and elegantly arched eyebrows. His smooth, unlined skin seemed a little waxy. Was he wearing foundation? He wasn’t handsome or wel built, but he exuded confidence and control in a way I supposed was attractive.

“Seriously,” Freddy said. “I’ve total y admired your stuff for years. That Ashton Kutcher spread in
Details
last spring? Like butter.”

Ansel ran his hand down to Freddy’s taut stomach. “You wear it better, you dazzling boy, you.

You ever consider modeling?”

I turned from Ansel and looked at Rueben. His eyes narrowed to slits and his mouth set in a tight, thin line.

“And you.” Ansel turned to me and beamed. “Just as I imagined. My golden boy.” He reached out to grab me but I took a step back. Ansel covered by bringing his hands together in applause. “Just beautiful. Those shorts you’re wearing? I plan on charging two thousand five hundred dol ars a pair for them in my couture line. Less than a yard of fabric.

Best of al , I can sel a cotton version for forty-five dol ars through my Little Darlings line at Target and stil make a boatload on them.”

Ansel put his hands on Freddy and pul ed my friend closer to me, so that we were standing shoulder to shoulder. “The two of you. Incredible. We have to make sure one of the photographers gets a shot of you two tonight.” Ansel turned to Rueben.

As Ansel ’s head pivoted, Rueben rearranged his face into a generous smile. Only his eyes betrayed his tension. I don’t think Ansel noticed. “My treasure,” Ansel cal ed to him. “Wil you take care of that?”

Rueben nodded, fake smile in place.

Ansel blew him an air kiss. “You’ve real y come through for me tonight.” At that, Rueben’s eyes relaxed and he released an audible sigh of relief. “Al the boys you brought are delicious, but these two are perfection!”