by Chris Mooney
The money was horrible, but it gave him a free membership and allowed him to stay out of the house and away from his mother. More importantly, it allowed him to be close to the older crowd of teenage body builders Gunther liked to watch them work out, their muscles gorging with blood, sweat running off their brows and backs. When their workouts were done, he would find a reason to wander inside the locker room, the steamed air packed with sweat and testosterone, and through the pockets in the steam Gunther would drink in the sight of the hot water sluicing off their hard bodies and feel a sexual urge that he knew once validated would condemn him to a lifetime of rejection and hate.
But that knowledge didn't stop him from experimenting. When one of the boys approached him and offered sex, Gunther made the mistake of inviting him back to his house. His mother worked the bar on Wednesday nights and never came home until late. But for some reason, she came home early that night, drunk as always, and when she opened his bedroom door and saw what was going on, she threw him out and told him that she wasn't going to live with a faggot, that from this day on her son was dead. Gunther would never forget the look of relief on her face, as if she had suddenly been given the perfect reason to torpedo him from her life. Word got around. Friends wrote him off. Gunther was alone.
Living on the streets was manageable. But when the free food and scraps stolen from garbage pails dried up, the hunger gnawed at him until he grew desperate. Gunther had heard of the places where a boy's flesh could bring money.
It was about survival. It was just sex, that's it, no big deal. The men he was forced to transact with were often older, in their late forties to mid-fifties, some of them married, all of them out of shape and flabby, their bodies overgrown with untamed weeds of hair, their greedy hands gentle at first as they removed his clothes and then working his skin with a desperate and often violent hunger. Gunther didn't care about the temporary discomfort or the occasional beating.
As long as he didn't have to look into their eyes and see the way they glowed with a perverse sexual energy that always made him feel like they had torn away chunks of his soul, Gunther knew he would survive.
All he had to do was close his eyes and he could transport himself inside the dream world he had built, a place of constant blue skies and oceans and streets that didn't reek of dog shit, a warm sun, and a house with the kind of parents who could see the love inside the heart of a fourteen-year-old boy. The dream would die in the morning's harsh gray light.
The defining moment came on a winter evening. The man was a well-dressed foreigner from the United States who had been gentle, even loving, in bed. The man was buckling up his pants when his hands started shaking and he broke down and cried. Gunther had recognized his torment. He put a hand on the man's shoulder and told him it was okay to be gay, that he understood. The man's face twisted, and he turned around so fast that Gunther couldn't prevent the storm of fists from hailing down on him.
The air was cold, the wind biting into his skin like nails when Gunther bolted outside. He turned into an alley and found a stairwell that was out of the wind. He sat down and wrapped his coat around him and cried more out of anger than from the throbbing mess of welts and cuts. He touched his nose. It was bleeding.
"Don't worry, Gunther. It's not broken. Tilt your head back and the bleeding will stop."
Gunther looked up. An older man in what looked like a blue suit under a long black cashmere coat stood with his hands folded behind his back.
His head was shaved, his skin pale and stretched close to the bone.
"What do you hate more, Gunther? Your mother or the fact that you're a whore just like her?"
The man's deep voice was pleasant, though oddly flat, with a distinct monotone quality that reminded Gunther of the space ship's voice from that movie 2001: A Space Odyssey. The man came toward him, speaking.
"How would you like to start your life over? Leave all of this behind?"
"Who are you?" Gunther asked.
"The person who can make it happen. I can give you the world you dream about."
Gunther tried to see the angle, couldn't.
"In exchange for what?"
"Loyalty."
"Loyalty," Gunther repeated.
"That and one other item, by far the most important." The man knelt down and handed him a handkerchief. His blue eyes were as bright and clear and as warm as the morning sky from Gunther's dreams.
"Under no circumstances do I tolerate lying," the man said.
"Always tell me the truth, even to the most personal, and sometimes embarrassing questions."
Loyalty and don't lie? It couldn't be that simple.
"And I have to do what, blow you once a day?"
"No need to be crude, Gunther. You're a good-looking boy, but I don't view you in that way. I never will."
"What are you, like some sort of good Samaritan?"
The man grinned.
"I've watched you on the street. You're cunning. Very adaptive. And you have other qualities I admire. I hate to see talent go to waste."
Gunther watched the man's face carefully when he spoke next.
"I'm gay."
The man's eyes, his face, did not change.
"Did you hear what I said? I'm a faggot, I get off on sucking " "Thank you for enlightening me on the proclivities of homosexual men." The man reached inside his jacket and handed Gunther a sealed white envelope.
"Inside is the name of my hotel, my room number, and a passport. You'll find enough money to buy a good meal and some nice clothes. The name and address of my tailor are in there."
Gunther ripped open the envelope. American money and a first-class plane ticket to New York.
"My flight leaves tonight. If you want to join me, come to my hotel no later than eight. The choice belongs to you, Gunther. It always will."
In the United States, Amon Faust provided him with unlimited educational opportunities, introduced him to culture, fine dining, showed him how to dress and act and walk so people would stop and take notice. But what Gunther prized the most were the personal gifts Faust had shared with him: the ability to sharpen one's mental clarity and to move through life fearlessly, and, most importantly, to never be ashamed of the dark range of desires and fantasies that ran through his blood. Some of the visions were so powerful, so real, he would wake up in the middle of the night covered in sweat, his heart exploding inside his chest, an intense heat building inside his loins that ached for release.
He decided to tell Faust about the visions. When Gunther was done, his eyes dropped to the floor, feeling ashamed and vulnerable and dirty for reasons he couldn't quite form into words.
"There's no need to be embarrassed. The visions are quite normal,"
Faust said, his eyes free and clear of judgment.
"The key is to act against those people who can hurt or injure the good and the weak."
People like Raymond Bouchard and his IWAC team. People who intended to harm Faust.
The plane's engines climbed, getting ready for takeoff. It was about to begin.
The plane's engines were warming up, the steady, rumbling sound vibrating inside the cabin packed with four bodies that were, thankfully, not very tall or wide. Conway had only been expecting three people: himself, Dix, and the jump instructor, Evans. The fourth guy, Paul something Conway hadn't caught his last name was clearly the cameraman; a small video camera was mounted on the top of his helmet.
Videotaping the jump was extra. Conway, having no use for it, didn't check it off on his registration form. It must have been Dixon's idea.
Apparently Dixon was sparing no expense today.
Conway sat in the rear of the plane, next to the cameraman. Directly across from Conway and seated right next to the jump door was Dixon, wearing a helmet and clear wind goggles strapped across his glasses. He stared out the window at the ground, his attention turned inward to the business of psyching himself up for the jump.
The plane lurched forward. Dixon gripped the ed
ge of his seat with both hands and kept swallowing, his eyes focused outside the plane, on the ground. The plane gained speed, bouncing over the bumpy runway of packed dirt and stone, the cabin shaking so violently it made him wonder if the plane would suddenly burst apart at the seams. The cameraman stared passively out his window while eating carrots out of a plastic baggie. Evans blinked one eye at Con-way in a gesture of shared conspiracy and then blew out a long pink bubble. Dix looked as though he was about to blow his breakfast again.
Then the plane lifted off the ground and the cabin stopped shaking, the windows filling with blue sky as the ground faded fast. Con-way's mind rolled back to that beautiful, warm October morning he first jumped, the day of his twenty-first birthday. He had sat in a plane not unlike this one, listening to its engines straining and leveling as it climbed higher into the sky, the engines sputtering, sometimes stalling, as if they were undecided about their job and without warning might suddenly quit. At that moment his heart had seized with an icy shudder that left him wondering why he had yet again listened to John Riley the son of a bitch was always doing crazy shit like this and had willingly strapped himself inside this badly constructed and amateurish machine that would at any moment give up and plummet to earth, killing them both.
Of course that didn't happen. The plane's engines had leveled off and everything was fine, and, just like now, the Cessna sailed straight up into the sky, nice and smooth. Conway felt that wonderful adrenaline-filled mix of fear and excitement burst deep inside his loins, electrifying his skin, and washing away his exhaustion and earlier paranoia.
Dix was no longer looking out the window. His head was bent forward and he was taking in quick breaths, his eyes locked on the altimeter strapped across the center of his small chest, watching for the magic number: 10,000 feet, the altitude at which they would jump. It would take the plane roughly twenty minutes to reach that height.
"Hey Dix," Conway said calmly, like everything was great. His voice carried over the headset, catching the, attention of Evans and the cameraman.
"Take in deep, controlled breaths, Dix. In and out, nice and slow."
"I'm fine," Dixon replied, his voice cracking. His head was bent over the altimeter.
Evans clamped his hand on Dixon's shoulder in a show of camaraderie.
"It's okay to be nervous. My first time, hell, I thought I was going to shit myself." Evans and the cameraman laughed.
"Do the deep breathing and you'll be fine."
Dixon nodded and then went to work on his breathing, taking slow and steady deep breaths. After a few minutes, the wired energy in his eyes abated. The tension melted out of his shoulders and his grip on the seat loosened. His face didn't look as pale. He seemed relaxed. Now all Conway had to do was to get Dixon through the next hurdle.
Twenty minutes later, the plane leveled off. Conway looked at his altimeter. 10,000 feet. Time to jump.
"Show time," Evans said, unbuckling his seat belt.
Dixon would be performing a tandem jump. With Evans attached to Dixon's back, they would jump out of the plane together and free fall for roughly ten minutes. Using his headset, Evans would talk to Dixon, telling him how to tuck in his legs and where to place his arms to increase wind resistance. At roughly 6,000 feet, Evans would pull the cord and deploy the chute.
The tandem jump was the way to go. You had the built-in security of having a professional jumper attached to your back. If Dix got sick or blacked out, Evans would be in total control. This was a much more appealing route than what Conway had performed for his first jump, the static line jump. With only a line attached to his chute, he stood at the jump door, his knees turning to jelly, the harness wrapped around his chest that had felt so tight on the ground now feeling loose and flimsy, his twenty-one years of life in control of what seemed like a piece of string. Conway couldn't remember how he had managed to jump, but when he did, he had blacked out for a good three seconds. The next thing he knew, the parachute had deployed, whoosh!" and with a hard yank he was sent back up into the sky where he finally leveled off and then sailed toward the ground. When his feet hit the grass, the adrenaline rush flooded his brain with such a high that he felt invincible, in full control of his life and thoughts, like one of those maniacal Tony Robbins disciples who walk barefoot over a bed of hot coals and emerge unscathed at the other side, jubilant and victorious.
With any luck, that's how Dix would feel today, and the disc exchange at the Austin airport would go smoothly.
Evans talked as he made the final attachments to Dixon's harness.
"Let's go through our checklist. When you jump, what's the first thing you're going to do?"
"Tuck my legs back like I'm trying to touch my butt with my feet. Keep my body loose and relaxed, like Gumby," Dixon said.
"Right. Now for the most important question: If you're in the air and have to blow chunks, what are you going to do?"
"I'm not going to puke."
"But if you have to, what's the plan?"
"Tuck my chin under my armpit."
"My man. How you feeling?"
"Nervous. A little light-headed."
"That's the adrenaline. It's going to make everything seem really vivid and intense. This is going to be the biggest rush of your life."
The pilot signaled Evans.
"Time to rock and roll. You ready?"
Dixon swallowed hard, nodded.
"Okay then, let's do it," Evans said, and then reached across Dixon's waist and slid the door open.
Air filled with the roar of the plane's engines rushed into the cabin, pushing Dixon away from the door. He grabbed each side of the door frame and steadied himself, his elbows bent, his eyes wide and unblinking behind the goggles as he stared past the infinite blue sky at the world below.
The cameraman reached up and turned on the camera, ready to record the moment, and moved behind Evans.
"All you've got to do is tumble forward, just like we talked about on the ground," Evans yelled over the headset.
Dixon didn't say anything. His body was frozen, his eyes wide and staring at an adversary only he could see.
"Nothing can happen," Evans said.
"I do this every day. You're golden."
Dixon's arms were shaking. At first Conway thought it was from the wind. Then he saw that Dixon's mouth was moving, his words inaudible, his head shaking, No.
"I can't," Dixon said, his voice small under the plane's engines.
"What did you say?" Evans yelled back.
"I can't, I I can't do this." His tone had a fevered pitch to it, each word growing louder.
"Dude, you can do this," Evans said.
"I can't."
"You going to puss out right here in front of your friend?"
Conway said, "Back off."
"Hey, once we turn around, no refunds," Evans replied.
"That's the deal."
Dixon pushed himself away from the door, knocking Evans back. Dixon looked over to Conway for a sign of support. When Conway didn't answer right away, Dixon's face turned red, his eyes shining with venom, the look of a man cornered and prepared to come out swinging.
"You were right, Steve, I didn't have the balls to do it! You fucking won! I'm a fucking pussy!"
Oh shit, he's having a panic attack. Conway said, "Dix, you're not a pussy."
"It's what you're thinking It's what you're all thinking!" Dixon spat through his clenched teeth.
"I can see it on your faces!"
"Dix, listen to me. It's no big deal. You're beating yourself up for nothing. It's all " A force like a brick wall slammed into Conway's chest and knocked him back against his seat. His body slumped to the floor. His head came to rest with a hard thump against the side of the plane.
Conway felt dazed. He tried to move and found he couldn't. His muscles weren't listening. They were limp and useless, and his eyes felt heavy. He could see Dixon clearly, could see the perplexed look on Dixon's face, Dix, unaware of the syringe in Evans's hand.<
br />
Dix, turn around, the guy's got a needle. Conway could hear the words clearly in his head, could feel the fear and urgency behind them. He wanted to push them out, but his throat wouldn't work.
"Steve, what's going on?" Dixon asked, frightened.
Evans sunk the needle deep into Dixon's neck and pressed down on the plunger. By the time Dixon felt the sting and moved his hand up to touch his neck, the needle was gone.
"Steve Help me, please."
Then Dixon's head slumped forward and the rest of his body went limp.
Evans jumped out of the plane with Dixon attached to him. Conway sat there, powerless to stop it. Dixon was gone.
The cameraman placed the end of the stun baton just inches from Conway's eyes. The charge dancing between the two metal prongs looked like an electric blue and white snake.
"When I'm through with you, they won't even be able to donate your organs," the cameraman said, smiling, and hit Conway in the waist with the charge. Conway's body writhed until his mind turned off and everything went black.
His own kidnapping that seemed the appropriate word came when he was only five weeks into a six-month planned vacation a sabbatical, really.
Conway was entitled to the time, he had earned it. Christ, he had been going nonstop since he graduated from college and that was… God, that was coming up on nine years ago. Time seemed to be moving at the speed of light. He blinked and the next thing he knew he was eight months away from turning thirty. The pull of his own mortality consumed his thoughts. He was coming to grips with the fact that his life was nothing more than a finite line held together moment to moment by chance and luck.
Of course the shooting had something to do with all of this. How could it not? Every time he closed his eyes he could see Armand's shaking hand, with its yellow nails and nicotine-stained fingers, reach into his briefcase and instead of pulling out the money, pulling out a nine-millimeter Clock and boom, it was over.
The operation went fine. There had been a good deal of blood loss, shattered fragments of bone that needed to be mended, but overall it was a clean wound, the doctor had said. You're in great shape, Steve, all that muscle helped save your life. You're very lucky to be alive.