Pretty Pretty Boys

by Gregory Ashe

  “You said this had something to do with what happened to Jeff. Hurry up and connect the dots before I get tired of memory lane.”

  “Jeff,” Mikey said, still wearing that cruel grin and now shaking his head. “Never would have taken him for a fag, you know? Except, now that I think of it, he was on the wrestling squad, wasn’t he? And that’s about the only sport a fag can really get into. Like I said, though, he was real quiet, kept to himself, got along with everybody. Never would have guessed. Until, of course, I saw him staring at you. Mrs. Sullivan’s class. Statistics. You remember that? You sat in the front, of course. That was your style. And I was in the back. That was my style. And there was Jeffrey Langham sitting right between us like God smacked him down there and meant for me to see. He was just staring at you. A flatbed truck could have mowed him down and he probably wouldn’t have blinked. You ever see him look at you like that? If you believe in true love, that’s what it must look like. That’s what you thought. You thought that was true love. I can see it in your eyes.”

  “Mikey, if you want to keep sucking breath through those rotten teeth, you better hurry up.”

  But this time, the threat had no impact. Mikey wasn’t just smiling anymore. He was grinning. He was beaming like he’d just yanked hard on a slot machine and hit three red cherries. “You loved him too, is that it? Couple of fags sucking each other’s peckers before they fall off from AIDS, ain’t that sweet.”

  Hazard managed a breath. “All right. Let’s go to the station.”

  “No. You want to hear about Jeff, I’m going to tell you about Jeff. But I’m going to tell you because I want to. Because I know it’s going to hurt like your first dry fuck. And then, faggot, you’re going to walk out of here and never look sideways at me because, after all this time, you still know who owns your ass.” Mikey paused, obviously waiting for a reaction to his speech. When Hazard offered none, Mikey continued, “The thing about Jeff is, he got mouthy. You, you’d clam up. Try to disappear. Hide. Not Jeff. Too stupid, I guess.

  “He was coming out of the Video Hut with some dumb-shit movie; I was sitting there with Hugo and John-Henry. I called him out for being a fag, told him how I’d seen him looking at you, told him what we did to fags in Wahredua. He—” A momentary recollected wonder flashed in Mikey’s eyes, and he tilted his head, as though displaying part of his face for Hazard. “He hit me, a real ringer, and he was wearing some sort of fucking ring. Cut my jaw up pretty bad. You see the scar, don’t you? Just a white little thing now, but I was mad.

  “We hit him, that’s for God’s sure. And then we drove him out to the bluff in his car and kept working him over. Broke a couple of ribs, I think. He was spitting blood, coughing, crying, face all covered in snot. Jesus, those were the good old days. Not like today. Not all these fags now, prancing around with their asses hanging out of their shorts. And then Hugo had a pretty good idea. If Jeff liked cock so much, why not give him some? Why not give him enough to choke on it? Fuck, the things we did to that boy—”

  Hazard’s fingers tightened automatically on Mikey’s throat, cutting off the air until Mikey squeaked. “Somers,” Hazard asked. His voice was coming from about a mile off, thin like it was ringing down a tin-can telephone. “He was there for this?”

  “That’s the twist. Once I really started going on Jeff, John-Henry got squirmy. I could tell he was going to run. I figured Hugo would too, and I didn’t care anymore. I was going to teach that fag a lesson. He’d ruined my face.” Again, Mikey tilted his jaw, displaying the scar. “He had to pay for that. And you know what? Hugo stayed. He knew what that faggot needed. John-Henry—he’s the big deal, now. Star of the town. Detective. Deep down, though, your partner is nothing but a pussy, the genuine article. You should have seen how fast he ran. Later, he tried to make up for it. Too late. Wanted to show he still had a pair, wanted to be part of the gang. I said, ‘There’s another faggot, easy pickings.’ And next thing you know, John-Henry Somerset shoved the town queer down the high school stairs. What’d you break? Your leg, right?”

  “My arm.”

  “Damn. I’ve been telling everyone it was your leg. Anyway, I said we were going to give you the same treatment as Jeff since he’d liked it so much, but John-Henry was too much of a coward. Kept saying you didn’t deserve it, you knew your place, kept your head down. It was bullshit, though, and Hugo and I didn’t buy it. Like I said: your partner was a pussy then, and he’s sure as hell a pussy now.”

  The Casey’s was too small. The smell of fresh plastic off the magazine rack, the pizza warmed under the heating lamps, the sugary-fruit scent of the frozen drinks whirling in their machine—it choked Hazard, and he couldn’t seem to clear his throat. He needed out of this place. He needed air. But he couldn’t see the door, he couldn’t even see Mikey Grames. All he could see was Jeff Langham dragging himself into the seat of his car after they had—

  —raped—

  —beaten the shit out of him, and Jeff reaching in the back, finding the shotgun his dad kept there all four seasons and sliding the cool metal into his bloody, savaged mouth.

  Hazard heaved Mikey, sending the big man flying along the length of the store. The porno rack caught his leg, clattering sideways and spilling titty rags all over the floor. Mikey slammed into a tower of twenty-four-packs, which crashed and split. A can of 7-Up fizzed and whirled, spraying carbonated soft drink over the red tiles. Amidst the wreckage, Mikey groaned and flopped like a dying fish.

  Hazard turned away from the sight. He needed the door, and air, and a highway out of the past. As he turned, his foot struck something, and Mikey’s knife skittered into view. Hazard hesitated. It would be easy. It might even be possible to get away with it. Dirty cops had gotten away with a lot more, even in small towns like Wahredua. Before he knew what he was doing, Hazard scooped up the blade and weighed it in his hand.

  For a moment, the pull was so strong that he had convinced himself to do it, and his body was rotating towards Mikey. It was like being tugged up a hill by a pull-rope: gravity might be working against, but it didn’t matter because that pull-rope was going to get you to the top or rip your arms the hell out of their sockets. That’s how it felt, getting pulled around towards Mikey, being dragged against gravity by a force that couldn’t be stopped.

  And then a small, icy voice, the little portion of Hazard’s brain that had retained a semblance of reason, said: the cameras. The fire behind Hazard’s eyes went out; again, he felt that hollowness inside, that roar of an arctic wind. He folded Mikey’s knife and dropped it into a pocket. Then, without a backward glance, he let himself out of the Casey’s and drove back to the Bridal Veil Motor Court.

  He could kill Mikey later, when he had a better plan and the right opportunity. But there was still one last person to talk to before Hazard could close the case on Jeff Langham: John-Henry Somerset.

  AT THE BRIDAL VEIL MOTOR COURT, Hazard showered, careful of the bandages on his chest and hand, and dressed. A part of him was aching for jeans and a t-shirt—he’d been wearing a jacket and tie for what felt like a month straight. But tonight wasn’t a date, no matter how much Somers tried to tease, and so Hazard found a clean pair of trousers, a clean button-up, and his navy jacket. He pulled up at the Trattoria Mariangela a minute before seven.

  The Trattoria Mariangela had not existed when Hazard had been growing up in Wahredua. It occupied the main floor of a smart brick building two blocks from Wroxall’s campus, and huge picture windows opened two sides of the restaurant. Pedestrians, common this close to the college, could gaze in longingly at all the diners, who were enjoying a variety of Italian dishes that looked, even from a distance, both delicious and heart-heavy. Billy, Hazard thought, would have shit a brick before coming to a place like this.

  Pushing aside the thought of Billy, Hazard climbed out of the car, wincing at the grumbles of stiff muscles after the long day. The smell of roasted garlic and tomato sauce dragged him towards the restaurant; even if he hadn’t had an appointm
ent with Nico, the aroma of all that Italian meat and cheese would have been enough to haul Hazard in off the street. His mouth was already watering, and it felt like a long time since the roast beef sandwich.

  Inside, the restaurant was decorated with the rustic Tuscan style that so many Italian places had adopted following the likes of Olive Garden: stucco walls, ornate plaster sculptures, even a fountain tinkling at the center of the room. The roasted garlic smell was stronger here, and mixed with it came the aroma of seared meat. Veal, Hazard thought like a light going off. He was going to eat a mountain of veal tonight because Billy wasn’t there to frown and priss and bitch about it.

  On his first glance, he spotted Nico. It would have been harder for the younger man to stand out any more: the only thing that could have drawn more attention to him would have been a floodlight. Hazard took a moment to study him. Nico Flores was, Hazard had to admit, good looking. Maybe even as good looking as Nico thought he was, and it was obvious that he had a very clear sense of his own attractiveness. Skin just a shade cooler than copper, his thick black hair falling in a hipster shag to the middle of his ears, shoulders broad enough to set dinner for six. He was wearing jeans—with holes in them, of course—and a t-shirt that looked like it could have come off a rack at Target or cost a hundred dollars at a boutique. Billy would have been able to spot the difference. Hazard only knew there was a difference because it seemed to matter, and he knew it was important to keep track of details like that.

  As though sensing Hazard’s gaze, Nico glanced up, saw Hazard, and smiled. The effect was heart-stopping, and Hazard immediately revised his opinion. Yes, Nico Flores was every bit as good looking as he thought he was—and then some. A guy could die from that smile, just fucking die. And Hazard, in spite of his best efforts at self-control, found himself smiling back and raising a hand.

  “I’m glad you came,” Nico said, his voice trying a touch too hard for confident and betraying, Hazard was surprised to realize, nerves. “I didn’t think you would.”

  Hazard dropped into the seat opposite. “Nice place.”

  “Yeah, sure.” Nico glanced around and signaled to a waiter. “You want something to drink? A beer?”

  “No.”

  “Red wine?”

  Hazard shook his head.

  “I bet you’re an Old Fashioned guy, right? Smoke a cigar, sprawl in a club chair, is that it?” Nico laughed, still trying to flag down their waiter.

  “Just water.”

  Nico shook his head as the waiter approached. “An Old Fashioned,” he said, tilting his head towards Hazard, “and another of these for me.” He swirled what looked like the remains of a frozen daiquiri and downed the rest of it.

  “Do you want a minute to look at the menu?” the waiter asked.

  “Yes,” Nico said.

  At the same time, Hazard shook his head. “No, we’re ready.”

  They locked gazes for a minute, and then Nico waved the waiter away. “A few more minutes.” But before, the waiter could leave, Hazard put out a hand to stop him. To Hazard, Nico added, “You haven’t even looked at the menu.”

  Looking at the waiter, Hazard asked, “You have veal parmesan?”

  “Yes. It comes with a side of—”

  “That’s fine.” Hazard fixed Nico with a look. “You?”

  “Uh—” Nico flipped through the menu. “I don’t—I guess the salmon. Steamed broccoli instead of the rice, please. No butter.”

  After the waiter had collected their menus and left, Nico peered into the empty daiquiri glass with a hopeless expression. Then, obviously trying to muster his courage, he glanced up at Hazard and tried that huge, glittering smile again. It made Hazard think of movie stars; there was probably something like ten thousand dollars of dental work behind that smile.

  “Veal parmesan, huh?”

  Hazard shrugged.

  “You’re not worried about those poor calves? No social conscience?”

  “Guess not.”

  “Why veal parmesan? Is that your thing? Ordering without looking at a menu? Does it impress people?”

  “I don’t have a thing. And I don’t think ordering at a restaurant—with or without a menu—has ever impressed anyone.”

  “So why?”

  “Jesus, I don’t know. I always get it. It’s a safe choice.”

  “Is that how you go through life? Making safe choices?”

  “Listen, kid—”

  “How old are you? I’m twenty-nine.”

  Hazard shook his head. “Listen,” he tried again.

  “I just think if you’re going to call me kid, you should be about twenty years older than me. Unless, that is, you just want me to call you daddy.” He flashed that smile again. It carried so much sexual tension that the air was practically humming. They’d all be lucky if the crystalware for three tables in every direction didn’t shatter.

  “I don’t know what you think this is,” Hazard said, leaning forward so he could pitch his voice low. He caught a whiff of the boy’s cologne—musky, almost smoky, and it made his head spin. “But it’s not a date, ok? You wanted to talk about your ex. You think he’s in trouble. I told you to talk to a uniformed officer, and you told me you wouldn’t talk to anyone except me. So I’m here, but I’m not here to play footsie and banter and see who can make the most asinine comment that’s supposed to sound suggestive.” Hazard took a breath, and there was that smell again, like his knees had turned to water. “What did you want to talk about?”

  Nico’s eyes tightened, but his face smoothed again immediately. “Have you eaten dinner already?”

  “What?”

  “Dinner. It’s the meal most people eat at the end of the day—”

  “I know what dinner is. No, obviously I haven’t eaten it. I just ordered the goddamn veal parmesan.”

  It was the kind of outburst, and the kind of tone, that would have pitched Billy into a hair-pulling, top-of-the-lungs scream-fest that might have lasted for days. Nico, however, just shook his head. “So eat dinner with me. I’ll talk about Chendo, promise. I do want to talk about him. That wasn’t a lie. But just talk to me like a normal person for a few minutes.” His eyes sparkled, and Hazard jumped as he felt Nico’s foot caress the back of his leg. “Think of it as building trust with your informant. That’s all you’re doing.”

  At that moment, their drinks arrived, and Hazard gulped down the Old Fashioned. It wasn’t his drink—it wasn’t anywhere close to his drink—but he had the feeling he was going to need alcohol to get through the next hour or two. As he lowered the empty glass, he caught sight of Nico studying him over the rim of the daiquiri.

  “That bad, huh?”

  “Not in my wheelhouse.”

  Amusement flickered in Nico’s face before he smothered it. “It won’t be that bad. I’ll start. How old are you?”

  “Thirty-three,” Hazard said with a sign. “And you’re not twenty-nine.”

  “I am—”

  “You’re not.”

  It was the type of flat contradiction that would have sent Billy up in flames, but Nico just chuckled. “I’m twenty-five.”

  “And you’re still in college?”

  “Graduate school. Theology.”

  Hazard’s eyebrows shot up. “Didn’t take you for a priest.”

  This time, Nico laughed outright, and hard enough that he had to set down his drink. “No,” he said when he recovered. “Not a priest. Things I’ve done would probably curl a saint’s hair. I’m a total atheist, but I find theology really fascinating. It’s more like . . . I guess cultural history, something like that.”

  “Wroxall has a good program?”

  “Yeah. It’s more about the adviser, though, and there’s a woman here I really want to work with.”

  “Lync Fukuma?”

  “God, no. She’s a terror. You want another Old Fashioned?”

  “Beer,” Hazard said, shaking his head. When the waiter passed, he ordered a Guinness, which they didn’t have, but th
ey did have a Schlafly that was in the same ballpark, so he asked for that. As he sank back into his seat, he noticed Nico’s gaze. It was a surprisingly compassionate gaze, and Hazard felt heat coming into his cheeks.

  “So you grew up here?”

  Hazard nodded. “You heard that?”

  “Just about everybody knows who you are. It’s a pretty big deal.”

  “Gay cop?”

  “That, and the fact that you’re a local boy coming home.”

  “What about you? You’re definitely not from here.”

  “No,” Nico said, laughing and sipping at the frozen drink. “Buenos Aires, for the most part, but my mom’s American.”

  “You went to college at Wroxall?”

  “Columbia.”

  “And you came here for grad school?”

  “Like I said, it’s more about the adviser.”

  Hazard accepted the Schlafly stout from the waiter and took a long pull. Dry, with the slightest hint of burnt sugar. Not bad. “God, I can’t imagine moving here after New York.”

  “It’s been nice, actually.” Nico looked about to say something more, but then he paused. Slender, artistic fingers traced a pattern on the tablecloth.

  “Nice? Wahredua? I must be missing something.”

  “It’s quiet. I needed some quiet.”

  Hazard waited; he could tell there was something else that young man wanted to say, and Somers probably could have drawn it out with a smile and a joke, but Hazard had no idea what to say, so he just waited.

  After what must have been a full minute—maybe two—of silence, Nico added, “New York overloads me. It’s so much noise and movement. Everything’s so fast. I was going to crack if I stayed there any longer.” He shrugged. “Besides I get back there every so often.”

  “Boyfriend?”

  “No. Work.”

  “You commute to New York for work?”

  “A few times a year.”

  “What do you do?”

  “Just some contract work. It’s stupid, let’s drop it.”

  “What is it? Consulting?”