Redirection

by Gregory Ashe

  “Things are going to get back to normal,” North said, still not able to summon more than a whisper. “This will be over one day, and things are going to go back to the way they were.”

  Under him, Shaw went still now. Then Shaw shifted, a silent request for North to move, and North rolled onto his side. Shaw stood. He looked wobbly. He kicked off the shorts, and in nothing but the tank top, he padded out of the office.

  North lay there, bare skin sticking to the top of the desk, and stared at the ceiling until the water in the bathroom stopped running.

  They worked, ate a cheap dinner from the Little Caesars, and worked some more. There was always something to catch up on, and tonight, that included reports from Zion and Truck about jobs that North had delegated to them. Truck did solid work; when Pari helped hir with a job, the results were flawless. Zion, though, had been the real find. He wasn’t always available because he had his own things to do, although he was quiet about what those things were, but he had a real sense for investigation, and he had access to people and places that North and Shaw didn’t, and best of all, he was damn good at anything he set his hand to.

  At half-past seven, they started trying Rufus’s phone again. Then, at half-past eight, they drove to the Creve Coeur McMansion again. Then Payday Pickup. Nothing, nada, zilch.

  “Percy?” Shaw asked. His voice was still frozen in that painful neutrality it had acquired when he came out of the office washroom.

  “Backhoe.”

  “Oh?” A hint of a thaw revealed the interest in Shaw’s voice. “Really?”

  “And you’re staying in the car.”

  “I really don’t think—”

  “It wasn’t a question.

  They drove back to the south side of the city, not far from where Shaw’s Benton Park house had burned down. Dusk mantled the old houses, softening the chipped bricks and smoothing out the ancient tuckpointing. The streetlights had a faintly porous quality like orange mothballs. Heat shimmered up from the asphalt—the heat of the Great Kanto Desert, North thought. He felt the smile on his lips after it was already there, and then he was surprised a second time when Shaw’s hand slid around the crook of his elbow. It wasn’t exactly a declaration of peace, but it felt like a cease-fire.

  The Backhoe was a leather bar that operated out of an old Quonset hut. In the decaying orange light of the sodium lamps, the rust blooming along the corrugated steel looked worse than ever—even galvanized steel had its limits, apparently. The parking lot was lit only by the distant glow of the streetlamps; after the GTO rocked to a stop and the crunch of gravel died away, the sound of summer insects rolled in to fill the quiet.

  North opened his door. Shaw did too.

  “I said no.”

  Shaw shrugged.

  From somewhere in the lot, not far, came a gruff voice and then the crack of skin striking skin. Another voice let out a high-pitched noise of distress that managed, at the same time, not to sound displeased with the sequence of events.

  “Shut the door and wait.”

  Instead, Shaw got out of the car and slammed the door.

  North ran through a litany of swears as they crossed the lot together. Between a pair of black Dodge Rams, two guys in chaps and leather vests were taking turns with the mouth of a third guy who knelt on the gravel in nothing but thigh-high boots and a jockstrap. Shaw looked, looked away, looked back. When his eyes jinked to North’s, color flooded his face, and after that he stared at the hut.

  The bouncer carded them. He must have been a straight guy—places like this sometimes preferred them because it cut down on distractions—because he barely glanced at Shaw. He waved them through the metal door. Inside, nothing had changed. The lights were low, coming from track lighting overhead, and burned-out bulbs left deep pockets of shadow. Speakers were mounted alongside the lights. A sinuous, stainless-steel bar ran along one side of the room. It was mounted on glass blocks ruddled with neon backlights. Mixed with sweat and vape juice came the unmistakable smell of poppers. The sound of leather and vinyl and flesh competed with EDM; whatever else was happening here, there was definitely some back-room action going on.

  Rufus was holding court halfway across the room. North caught Shaw’s eye and tipped his head, and Shaw gave a half nod. When Shaw took his first step, North latched onto the back of his neck. He tried to keep his grip light and relaxed; when a bearded guy in a biker vest looked too long, North’s fingers tightened.

  “In case you forgot—” Shaw said.

  “Shut up. This is easier than me trading punches with every guy that tries to throw you over his shoulder and haul your bony ass out of here.”

  “Maybe I want one of them to throw me over his shoulder and carry me out of here,” Shaw said as North steered him through the crowd. “Like that guy. He’s got a nice smile. And he’s got his nipples pierced. And he’s got a silver tooth, and—no wait, we passed him.”

  “Stop,” North growled. The crowd was thicker here; he had to press up against Shaw as they forced a path between bodies. They were both sweating, and his thumb kept sliding up into the damp hair along Shaw’s nape. The smell of poppers and vinyl and leather gathered in his chest, waiting for a spark. Occasionally the track lights would swivel and change colors, and the pounding beat of the EDM seemed louder. Everywhere, it was the same guys, the same beards, the same chaps, the same little pleather military caps. The crowd seemed too big for a Wednesday night, but then, this wasn’t North’s scene, so what did he know?

  Shaw twisted, like he meant to go back to the guy with the silver tooth.

  “I said stop,” North snarled, yanking Shaw back against him.

  It took North another moment to process what Shaw had been trying to say over the music.

  “Sorry,” North muttered. The word was swallowed up in the beat, but he relaxed his grip. He’d left white marks with faintly purple outlines where Shaw’s neck joined his shoulder. He tried to massage them away. He wanted to kiss them until they were gone. The heat and the smells were making him sick.

  When they reached Rufus, the crowd didn’t exactly thin, but it did open into a kind of bubble. Rufus was a big guy, and his cut was denim with patches on it that meant nothing to North. He had fine, wiry hair, and lots of it, floating now in a nimbus cloud. Tangles and snarls matted his beard, which fell almost to his chest. On his lap sat a boy who couldn’t have hit twenty yet. He was a twinkie little thing, without any body hair that North could see—and North could see a lot, because the kid was wearing nothing but a pair of shiny vinyl trunks that barely covered his junk. The odds of the junk staying covered were decreasing rapidly because Rufus had one hand inside the shorts and was doing something that made the kid mewl and bury his face in Rufus’s neck. Rufus, for his part, was bullshitting with some of the guys sitting in the circle with him, all of them with whiskey at hand.

  “Is that a jukebox?” Shaw asked.

  “No,” North said, “it’s a time-travel machine disguised as a jukebox. If you play ‘Walk Like an Egyptian’ on it, you’ll be sent back in time and have to solve the murder of Tutankhamun.”

  “I don’t think Tutankhamun was murdered. And I think they have Cher. Oh! And Madonna.”

  “They don’t have Madonna.”

  “Oh! I could play a Madonna song and travel back and solve that tragic crime too!”

  “Madonna didn’t get murdered. Fuck, I think she’s still alive.”

  “I meant the tragic crime of when she had that perm.”

  “Stop talking.”

  “I think I could save her, North, if you’d give me a chance.”

  “Shaw.”

  The note in North’s voice must have reached Shaw because he stopped talking. All of the men were looking at them now—all of them except the kid, who was humping Rufus’s hand still inside the shorts. They were big guys, all of them, most of them taller than North and several of them topping out around three hundred pounds. Hard eyes watched
them. Hard expressions.

  Then one of the guys whapped a riding crop against his palm, and North burst out laughing. “Jesus, I really thought I’d stepped in it.”

  The rest of them broke up into chuckles, and they shook hands. North had met most of them over the years at various parties. Some of the guys were together. Others called over their partners to say hi. One of them, a cubby guy, kept making eyes at Shaw, and North felt his own smile getting bigger and bigger as he imagined kneeing the cub in the face.

  “Get the fuck out of here, you old queens,” Rufus shouted. “I’ve got to talk to these guys.”

  A lot of good-natured fuck you’s and go to hell’s followed, but Rufus’s buddies moved away, leaving an empty pocket in the mass of bodies. North sat. Shaw sat. They dragged their chairs closer to Rufus. He was giving the poor kid a break, his hand out of the shorts now but still cupping the kid possessively. The kid had midnight eyes and mile-long lashes. He bit one pink, plush lip as he met North’s eyes and rocked his hips up once, slowly, into Rufus’s touch. North smirked and spread his legs.

  “Did you check his ID?” Shaw said.

  North looked at Shaw. North looked at Rufus. Rufus looked at Shaw.

  “Because he looks young, and if he’s going to eye-fuck North, or if you guys are going to have a threesome, or if Rufus is going to, you know, finger him in public, you should probably be sure he’s legal.”

  “Jesus Christ, Shaw,” North said.

  “I’m sorry I don’t want you getting arrested and having a sex crime conviction on your record. It would be hard to run a business with a partner who’s a statutory rapist.”

  “I’m nineteen,” the kid said.

  “I thought you guys broke up,” Rufus said.

  “He wasn’t eye-fucking me,” North said.

  Shaw waved at the air between North and the boy. “North, he was giving it to you long and deep. You were, weren’t you? You were giving it to him long and deep, right?”

  The boy puffed up his chest. “I wasn’t eye-fucking him.”

  “Didn’t you guys break up?” Rufus asked.

  “He wasn’t eye-fucking me.” North stabbed a finger at the kid, then at Shaw. “Did you hear him? That’s what he said.”

  “I know what he said,” Shaw said. “And I know what I saw. And it’s fine. I mean, I’m glad you felt a connection. And I know you probably need to blow off some steam—”

  “For fuck’s sake.”

  “—so I’m trying to be supportive while also reminding you to be safe and make sure he’s legal—”

  “I’m eighteen. I mean nineteen. Why doesn’t anyone listen to me? I’m telling you I’m nineteen.”

  “—and make sure you use protection because he might be kind of, you know, slutty, and those antibiotics do a number on your stomach because of all the dairy and—”

  “Don’t say slutty,” North said, enjoying how nasty his grin felt.

  “What the fuck is going on?” Rufus shouted.

  “You can say slutty if he’s an underage slut who’s eye-fucking a total stranger.”

  “Did the two of you break up? Because it sure as fuck sounds like you didn’t.”

  “Yes,” North said, tearing his eyes away from Shaw.

  “Yes,” Shaw snapped.

  The throb of EDM rushed into the void.

  “I’m nineteen,” the boy said.

  “Get your ass up,” Rufus said, slapping the boy’s bare thigh hard enough that the beginning of a red mark was visible even in the dim lighting. “I’ve got business to do, and I don’t need you causing any more trouble.”

  The boy rose, every stiff, exaggerated movement communicating wounded pride.

  As he flounced off, Rufus sighed. “God damn. He is going to make me pay for that; you can bet on it.” His gaze flicked to Shaw and then to North. “Fair’s fair.”

  North shook his head. “Shaw’s not my boy. He’s my partner, and we’re—”

  “No, it’s fine.” Shaw stood. The drawstring shorts had slipped, exposing a band of pale, taut skin between the waistband and the bottom of the tank. “Fair’s fair.”

  “Sit down, damn it.”

  “I’ll go put on some Madonna.”

  “No,” Rufus said, “we don’t use that—”

  “They don’t have Madonna, for fuck’s sake,” North said.

  Shaw stalked off into the crowd.

  North watched him go until Shaw squirmed between two men; they both turned to follow him with their eyes, and then more bodies closed into a wall, and North had to turn back to Rufus.

  Rufus raised an eyebrow. “You let a pretty twink like that off the leash, and he’s not going to be waiting at home for you with your slippers.”

  “Shaw isn’t a twink. He’s too old, and I don’t think that dumbass has ever mown the lawn, if you know what I mean.”

  “Huh.”

  North sat back. He wanted a drink. He wanted an aspirin. He would have settled for a bullet to the prefrontal cortex.

  “Guess you guys really did call it quits.”

  “We did.”

  “But you’re still working together.”

  “We’re good at this. The job. And we’re good at being friends.”

  Rufus burst out laughing. “Fuck, son. You know what you are? You are one smart, tough motherfucker with a God-given talent for lying to yourself.”

  “Everybody’s good at something.”

  “Last chance, North. Candy-ass like that? Guys are going to fight over him.”

  “Good luck to whichever one of them has to listen to fourteen cassette recordings of Shaw trying to replicate the Wilhelm scream.”

  “God,” Rufus said, his gaze amused as he studied North. “This whole thing between the two of you would be cute if it weren’t so goddamn annoying.”

  North sat forward in the chair. “You’ve been avoiding me.”

  “Yeah?”

  “I think so.”

  “Why would I do something like that?”

  “That’s what I want to know. Why don’t we start with you telling me about Rik Slooves and how he got you expelled from Chouteau, and we’ll go through everything, all of it, up to the night you showed up at Teddi’s party uninvited?”

  Rufus’s gaze had gone flat and still. “What exactly are you saying?”

  “I’m not saying anything. I’m asking you to tell me about you and Rik Slooves.”

  “You think I had something to do with what happened to him? That’s what you’re saying? Because I showed up at that fairy’s party without an embossed invitation, I’m a murderer? Is that it?”

  “Peter and Paul told us that Rik got you expelled from college. Shaw saw you arguing with Rik on the Fourth of July. You weren’t supposed to be at Teddi’s. Those are facts, Rufus. There are a lot of blanks around them, and I’m asking you to fill them in before the police decide to write their own version into all those big blank spaces.”

  “Fuck this.” Rufus made a movement as though to rise.

  “How long had you been sleeping with him when you caught him cheating?”

  Rufus froze. Then he dropped back into the chair. He picked up the tumbler, turning it in his hands, but his gaze never left North. “Two years.” He held up two thick fingers. “Two, North. I spent two years at that goddamn college, and every day I woke up and I knew I was in the wrong place, doing the wrong thing, wasting time. Fuck, it was almost as bad as being back in the closet. I never fit in there. And neither did you, so I know you know what I mean.”

  North smoothed out his jeans.

  “Yeah, I know,” Rufus said. “I know part of you liked it. You lined up those boys and knocked them down, all of them waiting to get torn up by that roughneck cock. And you got pretty damn good at blending in when you wanted to, faking it. You could talk about wine with Tucker by the end of sophomore year, right? And you owned goddamn tennis whites. But you didn’t fit in. You knew it.
And the rest of them knew it. You just all agreed to pretend things were different. That’s not how it was with me.”

  “Everybody changes at college. You didn’t want to fit in; that was on you.”

  “There it is, that North McKinney gift for bullshitting himself. You didn’t fit in. You never did. And that’s why things were always fucked up with you and Tucker. He wanted this blue-collar stud, gritty enough to make him feel butch himself. And you wanted—well, fuck, North, you always wanted to be one of them. You could lie to them, throwing where you came from in their faces by wearing those mechanic’s shirts and those godawful boots and working construction instead of taking out loans. And God knows you can lie to yourself. But you can’t lie to me. You had wet dreams about being one of those pretty rich white boys, about having parents who got civilly drunk every night and having a lake house and having a full bank account that Daddy topped off every month.”

  “We’re not here to talk about me. We’re talking about you and Rik.”

  “I’m getting there.”

  “Get there faster. You’re pissing me off, and I’m starting to forget we’re friends.”

  “Why’d I get expelled?”

  “Cheating.”

  Rufus raised his eyebrows. “Yeah? That didn’t seem strange to you? I told you every day I hated that place. I didn’t go to class. Hell, my parents bought me a second year, pretty much literally. Academic probation by way of a memorial tulip fund for the quad. You didn’t wonder why one day I decided to cheat on a Business 100 exam?”

  “There was a lot of family pressure. You live—” North glanced around the club. “—how you live, but your dad is a state rep, and your mom is a partner at a law firm. I figured they finally got you to crack.”

  Rufus’s hands slowed, and the tumbler came to rest against his palm.

  “I was a kid,” North said slowly. “I didn’t think about it much, but yeah, something—I guess it felt off.”

  “And you’re supposed to be a grown-ass man now, although I’m not sure about that after watching you and Shaw get into a bitch-slapping contest.”

  “All right. I’ll bite; let’s say it doesn’t add up. Are you saying Rik set you up?”