But if it was his father who lived with Robert Riley, why did Anthony carry around Riley’s picture? There must have been some connection between the two. Had Anthony known his father was gay, and known Riley, too?
And why was Anthony so fair if his father was from Lebanon? Perhaps his mother had been of northern European stock, or maybe he’d been adopted, or maybe …
I’m moving too fast here. A good reporter acts on hunches, but mere speculation can’t be used without absolute proof. I have no evidence that the guy in this death certificate has any connection whatsoever with my Anthony. What I need is a newspaper obituary. Hopefully, it will list this guy’s survivors. Maybe it’d lead me to Anthony’s mother.…
“What am I doing?”
I sit back in my chair.
“Jeff O”Brien,” I say out loud, “you have become a man possessed.”
I stand up, walking back out into the living room. Mr. Tompkins has reclaimed his spot on the couch since Anthony left, pleased as punch that the intruder has left our midst. I sit down beside him and stroke him behind his ears the way he loves. He starts to purr.
Why am I still pursuing this mystery? What would I say to Anthony’s mother if I did find her? What did it matter? I’m being crazy. Anthony’s gone. Out of my life. Finding out who he was and what his story had been is really moot now.
But there’s no denying that the story has seized hold of my heart and mind. Is that what I really miss—the story? Not the man? Already I’ve banged out twenty or so pages, recounting our meeting, our friendship, and the mounting mystery of his life. I have no idea if or where I’ll ever sell it; it’s merely a way to return to my craft, a way through the terrifying blankness of my creative soul. I am indeed writing again, for the first time in a long, long while. Maybe there’s some connection to my tears. Maybe bottling up my grief also bottled up everything else.
I pace back into my office, just as the clock chimes midnight. I open the file on my desk and withdraw a stapled set of papers, taking them with me as I settle into my rocking chair.
They’re the newspaper articles on Riley’s murder and its aftermath, arranged chronologically. I’ve gone over them so many times, trying to find something. Trying to understand …
Most fascinating to me is the account Brian Murphy gave of the night of the murder. He confessed to police, a sworn statement that eventually got him a lighter sentence than Frankie Ortiz. In his confession, Brian comes across as more of a follower than a leader, part of the reason he’ll be up for a parole in a few more years.
I read Murphy’s account for probably the twentieth time. The quarterback of the football team at South Catholic High School, Brian was a popular kid, with girlfriends galore. They were all “good kids”—all of the “Reformers”—their goodness attested to in glowing reports from their principal, their parish priests, their coaches, and their teachers. Sure, Brian Murphy’s father had served time in prison for gambling and extortion, and Ortiz’s older brother had a long history of drug arrests, but these kids, their supporters insisted, were good boys. Solid achievers. All they had been doing was working off a little aggression, having a little fun. Some priest was actually quoted as saying, “Boys will be boys, after all.”
“Yes,” I murmur, reading through the papers. “That they will be.”
“A couple Saturdays ago,” Murphy told police in his written confession, “I was with Frankie Ortiz who picked me up driving his mother’s ’87 Chevy Nova. We drove directly to a market on Lawrence Street where we bought two forty-ounce bottles of Colt 45. We then drove to the parking garage next to the Civic Center and drank all the beer. We went to Club 21 where Frankie got into a fight with another kid, Peter something, and got Peter thrown out. We stayed there until 12:30 A.M.”
It wasn’t so different from any Saturday night for any high school kid anywhere. After the juice bar closed, the boys headed over to a fast-food joint and ate barbecued spare ribs. But the fight at Club 21 had left a little too much testosterone racing around in their systems. They decided to drive down by the Chez Est. “We knew it was a fag bar,” Brian Murphy told police. “We thought we could roll on some fags.”
They’d been there before. They’d harassed and beaten at least a dozen gay men over a period of several months, making off with cash and wristwatches and other trinkets. But this night, Frankie and Brian apparently had designs to take their “reforming” one step further.
“We drove around the block behind the bar twice. All of a sudden a guy starts following us in his car, which I recognized as a new BMW. When we would slow down, he would pass us and stare at us. He also blinked his lights at us a few times. While we drove we were deciding if we wanted to roll on him or not, meaning beat him up. We finally got the guy to pull up next to us and we got into a conversation. He said we could follow him to his house in West Hartford.”
So they did. These two working-class boys from blue-collar Hartford were invited to the home of a wealthy attorney in the posh suburbs. I can’t deny part of me always feels a small flicker of sympathy for Ortiz and Murphy at this point. I’d grown up in a world far more like theirs than Robert Riley’s. Riley came from old money; I’d seen the estate where he’d grown up. At the time of his death, he was living in a large duplex condominium and drove a Beemer. The boys were impressed with what they saw at his place, and they coveted his toys: an expensive stereo and sound system, a VCR (back in the days before they were readily available), top-quality ski equipment.
But class sympathy can’t entirely diminish for me the picture of Robert Riley’s mother, sitting all alone, talking to her dead son.
I read on. “Once, when he left the room,” Murphy wrote, “we were hesitant about ripping the guy off because we thought he was kind of cool. But since we were already there, we decided to go ahead with it.”
I run my hand through my hair. This is the part that always makes me anxious, no matter how many times I read it.
“He asked us if we wanted something to drink and he said he had milk or Diet Coke and we both said Diet Coke. We sat back down on the couch, all three of us, with Frankie in the middle. The guy starts rubbing Frankie’s back. All of a sudden he said Frankie’s license plate numbers, 782 FFK, and he looked at us and smiled. Frankie asked him if he was a cop and he said no. He asked if we were. Then he asks if Frankie wanted to go upstairs with him. Frankie agreed and they left. I read a Far Side comic book while I was alone in the living room.”
My hands go a little moist holding the papers. What was going through Brian Murphy’s mind as he sat there by himself reading The Far Side? I mean, come on. Frankie agreed to go upstairs with Riley after getting a back rub. What took place upstairs—and what did Murphy think was taking place?
“After about ten minutes they came back down, Frankie first, his face red and watery eyes. This means he’s really mad. Frankie drank the rest of his Diet Coke then asked for a glass of water. When the guy left for the water, Frankie went to the fireplace and picked up a log. The guy walked in and told him to put the log down. But Frankie swung at him and missed. The guy ran for the door but Frankie hit him on the back of the head and he fell down. He got back up and opened the door to run outside but Frankie hit him again and he fell down the front steps. He got up again and started to run across the lawn but I ran after him and tackled him to the ground. The guy said, ‘I’ll give you anything you want, just leave me alone.’ I punched him in the head and told him to shut up. Frankie went to his car and came back out with the duct tape. He told me to tape his mouth and I did. I got blood on my jean jacket as I was doing it. Frankie went back in the house and came out with the CD player and the VCR and the skis. He put them in the car and then he came back over to the guy. Frankie picked up the log and hit him one more time in the head. The guy shook and made a noise.”
Mrs. Riley’s words in my head: “Do you know Robbie? Robbie’s a good boy.”
“We drove away. While we were driving we talked about if the guy was dea
d or not. We decided to turn around and make sure because he knew our license number. Frankie got out with the log and hit him three or four times and then dropped the log next to him.”
They went back to make sure he was dead. It was that little detail that did them in with the judge.
Suddenly the phone rings. I yell out, startled.
“Hello!” I bark, not even bothering to check the caller ID.
“Jeff?”
It’s Lloyd.
“Are you okay, Cat? I was just starting to fall asleep and I was concerned about you all of a sudden.”
Yeah, you know by now: it’s just that way with Lloyd and me, despite everything.
“Yes,” I tell him. “I’m okay.”
“Well, when you didn’t call back, I got a little worried.” He laughs. “Guess you were out at some Halloween party, huh?”
“Only at my mother’s.” I explain how I stayed to have dinner after seeing Jeffy. “So why did you call?”
“Well …” He seems reluctant to tell me. “It’s just that I know how concerned you’ve been, wondering if he’s okay …”
“Who?” I ask, but somehow, I already know.
“Anthony.”
I swallow. My throat has gone dry. “You’ve heard something about him?”
Lloyd pauses. “Jeff, I’ve seen him. He’s here. In Provincetown.”
I hear a low growl. Down at my feet, Mr. Tompkins is staring up at me with ferocious yellow eyes.
A Few Days Later
Henry
“That’s it, Kenneth,” I tell him. “Feeeeel the power within yourself.”
He’s stretched out on his bed and I’m giving him the massage of his life. Now, I don’t claim to be a trained masseur, but whatever I’m doing, I seem to be doing it right. He’s so into it. His eyes roll back into his head and he can’t frame his words. I tell him not to try, just to surrender to the feelings and go with the flow. So okay, those are Lloyd’s words, but I like them.
I’ve just finished Kenneth’s hands and now I’ve moved on to his feet, kneading his soles and the balls under his big toes. Every fiber of his body seems to respond: his arms jerk involuntarily, his thighs begin flexing, and his dick stands up as straight as the John Hancock building.
Notice anything different here? Yes, I’m back to escorting, but with a twist. I posted my name and picture online again, with one key substitution. I replaced “Muscle Worship” with “Ecstatic Massage.” Instead of me being on the receiving end of adoration, it’s my client who’s getting the attention.
If I thought there was a demand for my previous services, I was completely unprepared for the response to my new advertisement. I quickly discovered people are yearning far more to be touched than to touch. As the leaders at my workshop in Provincetown had pointed out, we have become a society detached from one another. There is a craving, for intimacy, for physical connection. It’s a yearning I’ve felt, too, and giving ecstatic massage is far more empowering than standing there as some aloof deity being adored by men on their knees.
It’s been an empowering journey back. Online to restart my Web page, I’d chanced across an Internet review site for escorts. On a whim I’d clicked under Boston and found, to my great surprise, several entries for “Hank.”
“What a beautiful man,” Vernon had posted. “Both inside and out. Kind, compassionate, indulgent. He fulfilled my fantasy with charm and with no judgment whatsoever.” Wrote another man, an anonymous poster: “Too often escorts are thinking only about the money that will be exchanged later on. But Hank was giving as much of himself as I was giving to him.” Which one might he have been?
From Kenneth had come this simple review: “Thank you, my friend. There is not a category high enough to rate you adequately.”
I was staggered—humbled—by the gratitude of these men. Hank had indeed done good work.
But Henry can do even better. I wrap my lubed hand around Kenneth’s cock and begin to slowly move it up and down.
I can’t wait to see Lloyd this weekend, to tell him all about this new success. Part of what has made my new adventures in the skin trade so energizing and empowering is my relationship with Lloyd. We’re so much more suited for each other than Jeff and I ever were. My God, who knew? All that time I’d been traipsing around with Jeff, trying to keep up, trying to fit in, trying to be somebody I wasn’t. With Lloyd, I feel at home. I feel complete.
“Henry, you have so much to offer,” Lloyd said a few days ago as we parked our bikes and walked out into the dunes. “You’re good-looking; you’ve got compassion; you’re bright. You’ll find your soul mate. Don’t worry. Trust that the universe will bring him around when you’re ready to meet him.”
He turned and smiled at me then, his green eyes reflecting the sunlight. There’s something about the light on the Cape in autumn. Lloyd pointed it out to me; I’d never have noticed if he hadn’t. It’s got a glow to it, gold and green, as if the angle of the sun reflects off the water in a whole new way. In truth, I’m seeing the entire world with new eyes, and it’s all thanks to Lloyd Griffith.
I understand why he wants to take it slow. Why he brings up Jeff, tries to get me to talk about him. When I reached over once to take his hand, as we were perched on top of a dune with a view of the ocean, he looked at me and said, “We’ve got to be honest with each other, Henry.” I knew what he meant. This is all so new, for both of us. I know he and Jeff have been back and forth together for a long time. I know he cares for Jeff. And despite all my issues with him, I do, too. I don’t want to hurt Jeff. We have to be honest with each other about the obstacles in our way.
“I want to make love with you,” I whispered in his ear.
Lloyd looked over at me and smiled. “Let’s just watch the waves, Henry. That’s making love, too.”
And he was right. Sitting there, holding his hand, watching a fishing boat way off in the distance gradually make its way back toward the harbor, it was almost as if we were making love with all the passion we had on that first day. I closed my eyes and remembered the taste of Lloyd’s lips, the smell of his skin, the sensations I felt as his tongue made circles around my nipples.
“Oh, yes, that’s the way,” Kenneth moans, managing to find his voice.
“Like this?” I ask, a little saucily, already knowing the answer.
I run my hand up and around his erect dick like a corkscrew, kissing the head as I reach the top. Kenneth can just barely croak out a grateful “Yes.”
I can’t believe how much I’m enjoying giving him pleasure. This whole session hasn’t been about me at all. I told him simply to lie back, that I was going to take him places he’d never been before. I’d been carrying around a little guilt ever since not acknowledging him that night in Provincetown. That last night with Brent. In many ways it seemed the last night of my old life. I’m thrilled to have the chance to make it up to Kenneth now.
I’ve been busy with clients ever since Halloween, and loving every minute of it. Shane’s called twice trying to get together, but I just don’t have the time. It’s like the early days when I first started escorting. Once more, I’m loving my work. Lloyd explained to me about sacred-sex workers, men and women who’ve taken the art of prostitution to a spiritual level, where it’s not so much about genital manipulation as it is reaching the heart and the mind and the soul. I want to take more workshops, attend conferences and seminars on the connection between the erotic and the spiritual, and Lloyd’s promised to get me the information.
Maybe, he suggested with a sly little smile, a smile that touched the very essence of my being, this was my karma. Maybe that’s what all my journeying has been leading toward all along. “Henry Weiner,” he said. “Sacred-Sex Worker.”
I like how that sounds. I don’t care if Jeff would laugh his ass off hearing it. Jeff doesn’t understand. Jeff has never understood.
“Oh, oh, oh, yes,” Kenneth stutters as my massage of his cock grows in intensity.
“You are l
oved, Kenneth,” I tell him. “You are special. You are beautiful. You are part of the whole cosmos of connected beings. Your essence is sacred. You are one with all things.”
“Yesssss!” he exclaims, ejaculating a thick, milky geyser that quickly covers my hands.
I smile.
I love my work.
Meanwhile, in Provincetown
Jeff
“Where is he?”
Eva looks surprised that I’m so direct. She’s standing behind the front desk with a woman, a dark-haired dyke half her age wearing a neon blue halter top and leather pants. I’ve seen her around town for years. Lloyd says they’re dating, that Eva’s posing as a lesbian these days.
“Hello to you, too, Jeff,” Eva says, giving me one of her phony smiles. “Are you looking for Lloyd?”
“I know where Lloyd is. I’m looking for Anthony.”
She remains unflappable. Her girlfriend looks over at her with concern, but Eva remains calm. “Anthony doesn’t want to see you,” she says pleasantly, going back to shuffling whatever papers she’d been shuffling when I came in.
I lean in over the desk. “Don’t play games with me, Eva. I need to talk with him.”
“Hey, buddy, you back up,” the halter-top woman says, quickly getting into my face, poking her finger at my chest.
“Candi, I can handle this,” Eva assures her.
The woman harrumphs, giving me the evil eye. “I’m going out,” she snarls. “I’ll be back in a bit.”
“Okay,” Eva chirps after her. Candi glowers at me and slams the door as she leaves.
Eva lifts her little round Munchkin eyes to meet mine. “I’ll repeat myself, Jeff. Maybe you misunderstood what I said. But it’s simple. Anthony doesn’t want to see you.”
I’m not going to be put off that easily. “How did he get here? Why is he with you?”
Where the Boys Are Page 42