Pretty Pretty Boys

by Gregory Ashe

  “Do you know where Mr. Cervantes is?” Somers asked.

  “Off with whatever piece of ass he found.”

  “How long has he been gone?”

  “A couple of days.”

  “How long exactly?” Hazard said.

  “I haven’t seen him since Friday night. We had a fight. He went out to blow off some steam. I thought he’d come back and we’d work it out. Instead—” Nico cut off with a laugh and took a drink of beer.

  “What happened?”

  “He’s been texting me. Checking in. Really sweet of him, don’t you think?” He fished a phone out of his sweats and tossed it to Hazard.

  On the screen, a text conversation was open with Chendo Cervantes. The list of recent messages had come from Chendo over the course of two days, beginning late Friday night and coming regularly through Monday morning. The most recent was from only a few hours before and it read, It’s nice to wake up next to a man who knows how to take care of my needs. Wish I could have said the same for you. The other messages were similar—taunts, boasts about sexual exploits, and humiliating descriptions of Nico’s inadequacies.

  By the time Hazard had finished the recent texts, Nico had finished his beer. With the same hard, angry look on his face, he flung it at the wall of pictures. Another handful of framed photographs crashed to the floor.

  “Oops. Sorry.”

  Hazard passed the phone to Somers, who glanced at it and passed it back to Nico. “Mr. Flores, you understand I have to ask you this. Did you write those words on the garage? Maybe because of your dispute with Mr. Cervantes?”

  “No. Why would I do it and then report myself?”

  “Do you know who did?” Hazard asked.

  “No.”

  “No ideas? Nobody that Mr. Cervantes might have had an altercation with? Nobody with a grudge?”

  “What about the hundred thousand rednecks that live around here? All those guys who say God hates fags. You know who I’m talking about. Jesus, this has been going on for months. It was only a matter of time.”

  “You think it was only a matter of time before someone targeted Mr. Cervantes?”

  “Chendo has a big mouth. Big ego, too. He thinks of himself as an activist.”

  “Why did you call it in?” Somers said. “If you hate him so much, why not leave it and just walk away?”

  “Because nobody should be able to do that and get away with it. I don’t care if it’s me or Chendo or anybody else. It’s wrong.”

  “Are you an activist?” Hazard said.

  Nico’s crooked smile flashed out again. “I’m a student, detective. Do you want to take me to school?”

  “I think that’s all we need from you, Mr. Flores.”

  Nico’s smirk stayed right where it was.

  “We’ll take some pictures,” Somers said. “Dust for prints, take a look around.”

  “Yeah, sure,” Nico said, but his eyes didn’t leave Hazard’s face. “I’m done with this place. You do whatever you want.”

  “Do you have a phone number?” Hazard asked. “An address where we can contact you?”

  Nico didn’t say anything, but the mocking twinkle in his eyes made Hazard’s face heat again. He scribbled something on the back of an envelope lying on the coffee table and tossed it in Hazard’s lap. Hazard glanced at it; his fist crumpled the paper, but not before Somers saw.

  It had a phone number and then the words: Don’t forget you owe me a drink.

  “Here’s my card,” Somers said, and Hazard thought he heard suppressed amusement. “If you think of anything else.”

  Hazard led the way out of the house. Nico followed them as far as the door and called after them, “Chendo’s going to show up in a day or so. He’ll probably call you and pitch a fit about this. Tell him I said he deserves it.”

  “Thanks for your help today, Mr. Flores,” Somers said.

  Nico didn’t answer, but he watched them as they moved to the garage and Somers began to take pictures with his phone.

  “He’s giving you the eye, man,” Somers said in a low voice as he snapped pictures.

  “Shut up.”

  “Once we wrap up this case, you better give that boy a call.” Somers was grinning now.

  “Are you kidding me? He’s a baby.”

  “He’s hot. Don’t give me that look. I’m straight, but even I’d hit that.”

  “Please stop talking,” Hazard growled, “before I punch you in the throat.”

  Hazard couldn’t hear it, but he knew Somers was laughing.

  THE REST OF THE DAY had passed in a blur of work: taping off the garage door, examining the property for any physical evidence, interviewing Cervantes’s neighbors, and then back to the station for paperwork and phone calls. They found nothing. Nobody knew anything. Everything ended hard and fast. Hazard tried Cervantes’s cell phone several times, but he wasn’t able to make contact. Instead, he left two messages—a lengthy explanation and a shorter follow-up. By the time Hazard decided to look at the related vandalism and assault cases, he realized that Somers was pushing in his chair.

  “Come on,” Somers said.

  “I’m going to stay. Get in a few hours of catch-up.”

  “No,” Somers said, smiling to soften the blow. “You’re not. You’re coming with me.”

  “Oh yeah?”

  “Yes. We’re going to get roaring drunk with the rest of Wahredua’s detectives.”

  “I’m not—”

  Somers moved over to Hazard’s desk and perched on the edge; he was close enough that Hazard could smell a mixture of sweat and fabric softener. “This isn’t optional, ok? This is a small town. It’s a small department. And inside that small department, we’re an even smaller unit. Just five of us—four, once Upchurch leaves. We’re a team.”

  “I’m part of the team. I already told you I was in. That doesn’t mean I’m getting drinks with you.”

  “You don’t get it: this isn’t St. Louis. You can’t separate work and life. This is Wahredua, this is small town stuff. Everybody is in everybody’s business. That’s just the way it goes. Besides, I stuck my neck out to get you on. I’m not letting you make me look bad.”

  “This is ridiculous.”

  “It’s the way things are. You want these guys to have your back, you have to do things the right way. You ever want out of here—with a good recommendation from Cravens, I mean—you put in the time with the other detectives. Now. Put on your jacket and let’s go.”

  “This is just so goddamn ridiculous,” Hazard muttered, but he grabbed his jacket and stood.

  “What’s ridiculous,” Somers said, low and dry, “is how you pick up ass with that whole dark and brooding thing you’re doing.”

  Before Hazard could reply, Somers was already whistling and hurrying towards the doors.

  Hazard caught up with him outside the station, but when Hazard turned into the parking lot, Somers whistled at him and jerked his head. “This way, big boy. We’re walking.”

  “It’s hot,” Hazard said. Hot was an understatement; the muggy air was pasted to his skin, and it felt like he was swimming instead of walking.

  “You’ll survive.”

  They walked south a few blocks, and the river came into view. The Grand Rivere ran fast and wide. Sunlight lay in flat panels along the water, orange and yellow and white, bobbing with the current. The river smell came on the air, a mixture of mud and wet wood. Between the men and the water, Market Street followed the curve of the river, and cars streamed in both directions. The rumble of engines swallowed any noise the water might have made.

  “Swinney’s tough,” Somers said, breaking the silence between them. “She’s not the smartest, but she works like a mule. First female detective since Cravens. Not an easy job, especially not here.”

  Somers looked at Hazard as though waiting for a reply, but Hazard only grunted. He wasn’t going to get dragged into gossip this early.

  “Lender, he’s her partner. He’s squirrely. Lots of e
nergy, bouncing off the walls, but you can’t tell it at first. At first, all you see are those big glasses. One time he was sitting there at the desk, and I’d just started as detective, and I thought he was this boring little mouse. Couldn’t even really see him, if you know what I mean, because I had my head so puffed up and because he seemed so quiet and small. So he was sitting there, and I was sitting there, and he said he needed to show me something in the evidence locker. He said it was coke, and as I was getting it down from the shelf, it spilled on me. Someone—Lender, obviously—had cut a hole in the plastic. I didn’t realize that, of course. I just about jumped out of my skin, that’s how bad I wanted to get out of there. Then somehow Lender had me convinced that I had to strip down and sprint to the locker room to shower, and he’d bag my clothes for evidence, and I was panicking because I thought I’d fucked up royally. So I did.”

  In spite of himself, Hazard was smiling. “And?”

  “And the whole goddamn shift was lined up in the hall, saluting me as I ran. And I was still so scared that I kept running, even though part of me knew the whole thing was a setup, and Anthony Lee, he’s the biggest, blackest guy on the force, shouted he’d never seen a coked-up white boy run so fast. By the time I got to the showers, I figured I was a dead man—if not for the coke, then because I’d just streaked through a government building. Then I looked down and realized it wasn’t coke.”

  “It was flour.”

  “Hell yes, it was flour.”

  “What’d you do?”

  “I knew I had to do something, so I turned around and marched out of the locker room, and Lender was there grinning like a monkey, and he said something like, ‘Gee, Somers, looks like God shorted you a few inches on the business end.’”

  “Oh my God,” Hazard groaned. “Straight guys are literally all the same.”

  Somers started to laugh.

  “So?” Hazard said. “What happened?”

  “So I turned to Anthony Lee and I said, ‘Could you lend me your coat? I think there’s a draft.’ And everybody busted up laughing.”

  “I would have killed him.”

  “Nah, Lender’s all right. That’s just him, though: quiet on the outside, but all hell broke loose on the inside. Ask him about the time I hooked him up with a lady friend.”

  Hazard fought to keep from rolling his eyes. Straight guys really were all the same. “And Upchurch?” He’d asked the question before realizing it, and he was surprised at how easily Somers had drawn him into the conversation.

  “Upchurch,” Somers said, drawing the name out and then hesitating and lapsing into silence. “He’s . . . he’s good at his job. And he’s everybody’s buddy, you know? I could call him any hour and he’d help me out of a jam. He’s the kind of guy you want at a party because he can tell the right stories and he makes sure everybody’s got a drink.”

  “But?”

  “I don’t know how to say it. He’s a climber. Every once in a while, you get a glimpse of it—he’s calculating, strategizing, making the decisions he thinks will help him move up.”

  “Sounds shitty.”

  “He’s not. He’s just always looking out for number one. Even when he’s your buddy. Even when he’s picking you up from the bar because you’re too drunk to drive. Even when he’s putting the cuffs on somebody.” Somers shook his head. “I shouldn’t have said that. He’s really a good guy, and he deserves the new job. State police, did I tell you that?”

  “I heard.”

  “Well, he really does deserve it. He’ll do a hell of a job.”

  Somers stopped talking, and his silence seemed insistent, as though he knew he had said too much and was trying to compensate. He steered Hazard up Market Street, and Hazard saw, now, why they had walked. Market Street was busy. Not just with traffic, although cars made a steady procession on both sides of the road. Shops and storefronts lined both sides of the street, and people gathered under canopies, eating and drinking at a dozen different bars and restaurants that looked out at the river. The quiet, run-down and boarded-up Market Street from Hazard’s youth had vanished, replaced by something lively—even trendy.

  “Saint Taffy’s,” Somers said, pointing to a pub ahead of them that had a sign with a white dove spreading its wings over a green background. “Wahredua’s cop bar.”

  Inside, Saint Taffy’s was pleasantly dark and cool, with three steps that led down to a polished concrete floor. A mirror hung behind the bar, its glass fogged with age so that the reflections of patrons and bottles blurred into one shifting gray mass. The mirror seemed to sum up the place: this was a spot where you could fade away, disappear from yourself, if only for a few hours. The smell of fried onions and hops made Hazard’s stomach rumble; he’d worked through lunch, ignoring Somers’s invitation to run out for a sandwich. Billy would have insisted Hazard have a salad and a lite beer, but Billy was on the other side of the state and Hazard was going to have a burger, medium-rare, and the darkest beer Saint Taffy’s had on tap.

  Somers led Hazard to a table at the back, behind a pool table and a chintzy hanging lamp of colored glass. A man and woman were already sitting there. The woman had her head buzzed except for a few long, reddish-blond strands at the front. She was on the early side of middle age, but Hazard could already tell it was going to kick like a mule. She had to be Swinney. The man, Hazard decided, was Lender. He was compact like he’d been folded in on himself to make him pocket-sized, and he had an enormous mustache and glasses in thick, yellow plastic frames.

  “Swinney,” Somers said, nodding at the woman. “And Lender.”

  Lender murmured a greeting; Swinney pumped Hazard’s hand like she was trying to lift him out of the grave.

  “Good to have you,” she said in a basso voice. “Heard you’re a hell of a detective. Somers won’t stop talking about you.”

  Hazard shrugged. “You know how the job is. A lot of luck.”

  “You got to work to get lucky,” Lender said.

  Swinney nodded. “How’s he doing, Somers? Living up to your fanboy dreams?”

  To Hazard’s surprise, Somers colored and shot Swinney a dark look. She just laughed and, when Lender joined in, clinked her glass against her partner’s. The two of them, Hazard guessed, enjoyed getting jabs in at Somers, although it was clearly good-natured.

  “Where’s Upchurch?” Somers said.

  “You know him,” Swinney said.

  “Late to his own funeral,” Lender said.

  They laughed again and clinked glasses.

  Somers and Hazard ordered drinks, and after the first Guinness, Hazard felt some of the tension in his back uncoil. Swinney and Lender obviously liked Somers, even if they also enjoyed giving him a hard time, and the three were clearly friends. After a few initial questions for Hazard—questions about the move and the job, questions that were, Hazard noticed, carefully polite and avoided anything too personal—the three friends settled into the normal gossip and banter about fellow cops and about the locals. Hazard, for his part, sat and listened. This was a routine; he was on the outside. He was always on the outside—growing up, in St. Louis, and back home again. Twice Somers tried to draw him in, but both times the effort failed. Hazard liked the outside, and Swinney and Lender were willing to let him stay there. Hazard and the two partners kept their drinking to a minimum, but Somers seemed determined to get shit-faced as fast as possible.

  The conversation was interrupted by a booming voice that said, “What kind of hell are you raising tonight?”

  It was an overbearingly jolly voice; it made Hazard think of a giant, and he was surprised to see that the sound came from a medium-sized man, his hair thinning on top, his stomach rounding slightly over his belt, with a freckled complexion that had probably made him the object of jokes in his early years.

  “Renard Upchurch,” he said, seizing Hazard’s hand. “Christ, you’re built like a brick shithouse, aren’t you? What do you do for fun? Juggle station wagons?”

  “Hazard. Nice to meet
you.”

  “Damn. The department doesn’t sit on the pot, do they?” Upchurch roared with laughter at his own joke. “You’re going to put the rest of these dipshits to shame, aren’t you? Make us look like a bunch of goddamn hayseeds, right?” He roared again. The effect, Hazard thought, was kind of like having a hurricane spit in your ear.

  “Just doing my job.”

  “Best thing the department ever did,” Somers said. Two bright lines marked his cheekbones, and his eyes were glassy; he was on his fourth beer, and he looked like he was on his way to pretty well looped. “Hiring him, best goddamn thing Cravens ever did. He’s the shit. The fucking shit, you know.” He tried to put his arm around Hazard, and Hazard instinctively shifted away. Somers half-fell, catching himself on the table, and burst into drunken guffaws.

  “Easy there,” Upchurch said, helping Somers back into his seat. Upchurch’s eyes glittered with amusement. To Hazard, he said, “Somers here has some trouble with his booze. Isn’t that right, Somers?”

  “Bullshit.” Somers was still laughing. “That’s bullshit.”

  “You’re moving up to state?” Hazard asked.

  Upchurch shrugged. “Buddy of mine told me they had an opening, and I thought I’d give it a shot. Never guessed they’d actually take a second look at me, much less that they’d want me for the job.”

  “What’s the position?”

  “Missing Persons. They’ve got their own unit, and they’re the clearinghouse for the whole state. Lots of work running through them.”

  “Giving up a hell of a lot of seniority,” Lender said. “You’re low man on the totem pole, aren’t you?”

  Upchurch shrugged again. “My wife—Eldora,” he added, glancing at Hazard, “she’s got her people in Jeff City. She’s been after me for a while; I think she wanted this more than I did. Anyway, we’ll settle in all right. What about you, Hazard? You bring anyone with you? Girlfriend?”