by JD Ruskin
“Ooh, are we going to shave your chest?”
“Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you.”
“Jeez, so touchy!”
THE NEXT morning Donnelly returned, only slightly the worse for his Jäger-induced hangover.
“So, what’s first?” he asked. He had been thinking over breakfast this morning just how much his partner was sacrificing to take on this assignment, and he was determined to be helpful if he could.
“We’re going in for a mission briefing. That’s supposed to take most of the morning. Then we have to make me look like a carpenter.”
The briefing was with an assistant district attorney and the Chief. Brandt had some questions.
“So, I need to know why we’re doing this,” he stated when the meeting began. Donnelly was a bit surprised by this direct approach, but Brandt already had the standing in the agency to pull it off.
The Chief cleared his throat and exchanged a significant look with the ADA. The attorney took the hint.
“What the attorney general is interested in is protecting the public from Internet-based obscenity.”
“I thought I was assigned to gather information about tax evasion.”
“Well, yes, but the bottom line is that these sleazy Internet operations are—”
Brandt turned to the Chief. “Which is it? Is this tax or some kind of morals thing?”
“It’s tax. What we’ve been told to deliver is information relating to Revenue 164.32.”
Brandt turned back to the ADA. “Are you intending to prosecute the men who work in the house?”
He frowned at the question and grunted dismissively. “Who cares about them? If we’re successful with the tax prosecution, they’re all out of a job. And good riddance, right?”
“But they’re not going to be charged with anything.”
The ADA leaned in close across the table. “I don’t give a fuck what happens to them. You just get the house shut down and the little fags can scurry off into the dark. I don’t care.”
Donnelly stood and excused himself from the room.
BRANDT TURNED back to the Chief. “I need to know whether the men in the house are going to be charged. If they aren’t, then I can get information from them without worrying about entrapment. If they are suspects, it complicates things to the point that I don’t think this will work.”
“Officer Brandt, I’ve told you. It’s tax and tax only.” The Chief glared at the ADA, harshly enough that the attorney sat back and was silent. Finally, he nodded.
“Good,” Brandt said. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to prepare.”
Brandt found Donnelly back at the cubicle they shared.
“Well, that guy was sure an asshole,” Donnelly said in greeting.
“Oh hell yeah. But I got everyone to agree that this is about tax and nothing else, and so we’re good to go. Now I guess I need something to wear. I’m supposed to look like a carpenter, but, well… you know….”
“What?” Donnelly asked, a clueless expression on his face.
“You know, like, sexy or something.”
Donnelly seemed to puzzle over this for a moment. “Have you ever met a carpenter? I don’t think sexy is part of the job.”
“Of course not, you doofus. But it needs to be for this to work. My mom got a birthday card once with a picture of a guy in a tool belt on it. We need to do something like that.”
“Why would they put a guy in a tool belt on a birthday card?”
“Duh. That’s all he was wearing. It was supposed to be some joke about hardware or whatever. You know, ‘hard ware’?”
“So, we need to get you a tool belt, and then you’ll go in just wearing that? That seems kind of weird.”
Brandt sighed and rubbed his brow. “You are a fucking idiot, you know that?”
“Sorry. I’m just trying to get this.”
“Yeah, me too. What we have to do is go buy some clothes that will give the guys in the house the idea that I might want to work there.”
“Got it. Let’s roll.”
DONNELLY DROVE them to a shopping district downtown where several clothing stores sat among cafes and antique shops. Brandt was confused.
“Hey, aren’t we going to the mall or something? What are we doing downtown?”
“If you needed regular clothes for construction work, that’d be fine. But you need to get tarted up, so this is your spot.”
Brandt looked at him skeptically. “And how do you know where to find sexy carpenter clothes?”
“Did I ever tell you about my brother?” Donnelly asked as he parked the car in front of a combination laundromat and sushi bar.
“Just that he was in the Army, and he didn’t come home from Afghanistan.”
“Yeah. He was killed by a roadside bomb almost five years ago.” Donnelly sighed, a breath of old sadness. “Anyway, this used to be his favorite place to shop.”
Brandt looked around at the stores. “Seriously? I can’t see much here that an Army guy would want to shop for. I mean, antiques? And this bar here is called Parasols, and everyone’s sipping fruity drinks with paper umbrellas in them. And that place….” He pointed across the way to a bar called Harley’s. “Everyone’s wearing leather, but there are no motorcycles parked outside. And doesn’t it seem strange to you that there are just about no women here, anywhere?”
Donnelly tsked impatiently. “Well, duh, Sherlock. This is the gay district. You didn’t know that?”
Brandt stopped in his tracks. “The what, now?”
“The gay district. I thought everyone knew about Alta Avenue.”
“But your brother—”
“Queer as a three dollar bill.”
“But he was in the Army….”
“Yep, and died serving the country that wouldn’t let him get married. Awesome, right?”
Brandt was quiet for a moment. “Well, when you put it that way, it kind of sucks.”
“Yeah, it does. Now let’s get you some sexy carpenter clothes.”
They made their way to Camp & Dragg, specialists in “Clothes for the Working Man.” Or rather, men who like the look of the working man. They entered and stood for a moment, stunned by the broad array of functional yet stylish denim, the plaid in many unconventional color combinations, the fabulous array of steel-toed boots. The table directly in front of them offered several styles of tool belt, including one that could hold both a Fleshlight and a range of dildos.
“Uh, Donnelly, I don’t think this is—”
“Ooooh! How can I service you two today?” called the salesman as he dropped the bandannas he was folding and made his way swiftly to the troopers’ side. He looked them up and down with a gimlet eye. “What are we looking for, gents?”
Brandt blushed furiously and was silent. He hoped desperately that Donnelly would be able to carry the conversation.
“My friend here”—he pointed to Brandt—“needs something that says ‘I am a carpenter.’ But in a, you know, sexy way.”
“Donnelly, shut—”
“Oh, for your friend,” cooed the salesman, turning to Brandt. “I see. Come this way, and I shall reveal to you what you seek.” He hurried away.
Donnelly socked Brandt on the arm and hissed, “Be nice! He’s helping us.”
“Did you have to say the ‘sexy’ part? I don’t want him to get the wrong idea.”
Donnelly glared back. “You are trying to trick your way into a sex-cam job. What exactly would be the wrong idea about that?”
Brandt growled under his breath and followed Donnelly through the store.
“What I’m thinking, gentlemen, is this,” the salesman announced, holding up a pair of shredded jeans, “with this,” a muscle shirt sporting the logo for a company called “ACME Erections” across the front, “and this,” a tool belt in rough leather with a lube bottle hanging from a carabiner.
“Oh my fucking God,” whispered Brandt.
“Too much?” pouted the salesman, clearly disappointed to
have overshot the mark.
“Okay, um, Bryce?” Donnelly began, looking at the brushed-nickel nameplate. “So here’s the deal, Bryce. See, my partner here”—he winced as soon as he had spoken that word—“needs to look like a carpenter, but he also needs to, um, attract attention. If you know what I mean.” He looked significantly at Bryce, eyebrows peaked in clumsy insinuation.
“So, you’re going to a costume party! Hoping to swing your hammer at some nice wood?” Wink, wink.
Brandt rolled his eyes. This was worse than he ever imagined.
“No, no, it’s not like that,” explained Donnelly. “You see,” he beckoned for Bryce to come closer. “We’re straight.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry,” tutted Bryce.
“Yeah, well, thanks.” Donnelly drew a confused breath. “Anyway, my buddy here is trying to get a job as a model.”
“Uh-huh. I see,” said Bryce, looking Brandt up and down, clearly picturing him modeling something like jockstraps or sunscreen.
“And to get the audition, he’s going to pose as a carpenter. But he needs to look kind of sexy, so they notice him.”
“Well, I think they’re going to notice him no matter what, because, well, damn.” Bryce’s tongue darted to the corners of his mouth. He leaned closer to Donnelly. “Your straight friend is hot.”
“We’re both straight, remember?”
“Oh, right.” Bryce winked at Donnelly. “But the people he wants to model for are gay, right?”
“Well, not exactly. The ones who need to notice him are straight, or at least that’s what they say on the website.”
Bryce paused over this new information. “So, let’s review, shall we? Your straight friend needs to dress like a sexy carpenter to seduce other straight boys?”
Well, that sounded stupid. Donnelly sighed and his lips moved as if he were going over it in his head, trying to figure out where he had gone astray. Finally, Brandt knew he had to speak up.
“I need to look masculine, sexy, and like I’d be willing to take it all off for the right price,” he quietly explained.
“Oh! Why didn’t you just say that at the beginning! I have the very thing. Now, you two go to the dressing room and I’ll be right in. You’re a, let’s see….” Bryce closed one eye and cocked his head at Brandt. “A thirty waist, thirty-two inseam, and forty-two chest, am I right?”
Brandt nodded.
“And a cock that’s at least five inches soft,” Bryce murmured as he tore off down the aisle.
Brandt and Donnelly found their way to the large dressing room, into which Bryce bustled a moment later with a pile of clothes over his arm.
“Here. This, this, and this,” he ordered. This was his domain, and he was clearly in charge. He tossed jeans, two shirts, and a tool belt over to Brandt. And then he stood to watch the results.
Brandt waited a moment for him to withdraw, but as he wasn’t budging, and as Brandt didn’t know the etiquette of the gay dressing room, he decided to go ahead. He took off his shirt and noticed Bryce’s sharp intake of breath as his torso was revealed. He then unbuttoned his jeans and pulled them off.
“Wait! Stop!” shouted Bryce. “Those are all wrong!” He was pointing at Brandt’s underwear, which proclaimed themselves to be a middle-range department store brand. “Your panties need to say, ‘Tear me off, for I contain wonders!’ Those say, ‘Look away while I complete your tax forms.’ I’ll be back in a jiff with the right ones.”
He dashed off, leaving Brandt standing in just his frumpy underwear and Donnelly vainly struggling to suppress a giggle.
“So, Bryce doesn’t like my underwear. Damn, I was so hoping to make a good impression.”
“Hey, leave it to the expert. He clearly is the Underwear Whisperer.”
BRYCE STOOD in front of the store’s staggering array of undergarments, ranging from simply scandalous on the left to downright shocking on the right. He pondered. But as much as he enjoyed this mental exercise, that gorgeous slab of man back in the dressing room wasn’t going to ogle himself. So with a sure hand he grabbed a package from the middle of the range and hurried back.
“Here. These.” He handed the box chivalrously to Brandt.
“Ginch Gonch? What the hell kind of name is that?”
“It’s a name that the boys you are trying to impress will be familiar with,” Bryce patiently explained. He rolled his eyes. Straight boys.
Brandt just stared at the brightly colored low-rise brief.
“Honey, you have to put them on in order for them to work their magic.”
Brandt looked at Donnelly, who in turn looked plaintively at Bryce.
“Oh, of course. I totally respect your modesty.” Bryce turned around. With the mirrors in the dressing room, he would still be able to see Brandt’s lovely body from four different angles. He was not disappointed.
Brandt lowered his tacky drawers and slipped into the flamboyant briefs. Bryce tried hard to catch his breath—Brandt’s package turned out to be even more toothsome than he had dared hope. And that ass!
“All right, now the rest of it!”
Brandt pulled on Diesel jeans, which were strategically worn so as to reveal flesh in several intimate areas, and then an extremely tight white undershirt, followed by an artfully frayed plaid work shirt.
“The belt! The belt!” urged Bryce, somewhat breathlessly.
Brandt fastened the tool belt around his waist, prompting Bryce to rush forward to loosen it so it rested low on one hip.
“There. Perfect.” Bryce stepped aside so Brandt and Donnelly could admire his work in the mirror. Bryce stepped quickly around behind Brandt, grabbed his jeans by their low-slung hips, and pulled them even lower so the Ginch Gonch waistband was clearly visible. “Now even perfecter,” Bryce announced.
Brandt and Donnelly stared into the mirror.
“Dude, you look….”
“Yeah, I guess I do,” finished Brandt.
Donnelly turned to Bryce. “We’ll take it all.”
“I knew you would—I mean, what choice do you have? You’re going to have men falling at your feet, big boy—even the straight ones.” After a last lingering glance at his handiwork, Bryce hustled out to ring up the sale.
LATER, BACK at Brandt’s apartment, the two troopers sat drinking beer and staring at the carpenter’s outfit laid out on the couch.
“Do you think this is really going to work?” Brandt asked, concerned for the first time in his law enforcement career that he was not up to the task the Chief had asked of him.
“That, my friend, depends on you,” answered Donnelly. “And you’ve always gotten done what needs doing, so you’re golden.”
“I appreciate the confidence. I wish I shared it.”
“You’re going to be fine. And I’ll be a text message away if you need me.”
“Thanks, man. That means a lot to me.”
They finished their beers.
“Well, I better hit the hay,” Brandt sighed. “The crew is supposed to show up at the house at seven tomorrow morning.”
“Ah, the life of a humble carpenter. An honest day’s work.”
“Followed by a dishonest night’s work, if I’m lucky.”
“Heh. I’ll see you in the morning, then. I’ll give you a lift to the contractor’s office.”
At six thirty the next morning, Donnelly and Brandt rolled up to the contractor’s shop, a huge, nondescript shed on the outskirts of the city. Donnelly parked, reached into the back seat, and then handed Brandt a paper sack.
“Here. I made you lunch.”
Brandt took the bag, looked at Donnelly. “You made me lunch?”
“Yeah. I just thought of you in your little carpenter’s outfit among all those hairy he-men, and I wanted to do something nice for you.”
Brandt was silent. He nodded.
“Now go get ’em, sexy!” called Donnelly as Brandt got out of the car. The unusual fit of the jeans, which were loose where he didn’t want them to be and tight wher
e he least expected it, made this movement more challenging than it should have been.
“Thanks, partner,” he growled and then slammed the door shut.
In the shop Brandt introduced himself using his cover name of Jason, and if the other guys noticed he was sporting jeans that cost more than the ones worn by the rest of the eight-man crew combined, they didn’t let on.
The foreman, Willy, called Brandt over.
“So, new guy,” he began.
“Jason,” Brandt prompted, as much to remind himself as the foreman what his name was.
“Right. New guy. Look, this place we’re working on, it’s a little strange.”
Brandt arranged his features in a confused expression.
“What’s strange about it?”
“It’s like I told the boss last week—there’s something not right about that place. One, it’s deluxe—top of the line everything—but it’s just a bunch of college guys living there. I know how college guys live, and it ain’t that. Two, this bathroom is like something out of a movie set. I don’t know who’s spending the money, but they’re dropping what looks like a quarter million on it—a bathroom! For a bunch of college guys!” He shook his head in amazement.
“So, what does this mean for me?” Brandt prompted, hoping to get some good information.
“I was getting to that. Three, there are cameras everywhere. On the walls, in the ceiling—it’s like a fucking casino in there. Even in the fucking bathroom! I have a feeling they’re waiting for us to slack off, or do some shoddy work, and then bam! dock us for it. So watch yourself, okay?”
Brandt nodded, trying not to smile. The foreman was clearly clueless about what was really going on in the house, but he had noticed enough to tip off the owner of the company and start the whole ball rolling.
“I’ll be careful, thanks.”
The crew loaded into a van and two trucks and headed to the jobsite, which was located in a gated community in one of the posh suburbs that ringed the city. The houses here were set on several acres of lush green lawn, meticulously maintained by large crews of gardeners. They pulled into the driveway of one such house, at the end of a cul-de-sac, and unloaded.