Crimes on Latimer: From the Early Cases of Marco Fontana

by DeMarco, Joseph R. G.

  They grumbled in unison.

  “Use your heads, guys. Think about this for a minute,” I continued. “The rules say you have to have done some work promoting the leather community, and the ultimate winner will have to commit to doing even more work promoting gay leather causes throughout the Philly area. You can hold any winner responsible for keeping to his side of the bargain. If they don’t live up to this, they forfeit the title and the prizes.”

  “You better believe I’ll hold them to it,” Ben growled. “But, first I’m gonna make sure they don’t win.”

  “If you mean you’re gonna beat them fair and square, the old fashioned way. With muscles, good looks, and fabulous routines. I’m all for it. If you mean anything else, I’m not about to let that happen.”

  “I’ll do what I have to,” Ben said. “You do what you gotta do.”

  Liam grunted his agreement.

  I decided on another tack. “Look at you both. Getting all excited like this makes you puffy and tired-looking. Liam, your eyes have bags and Ben’s face is drawn. Why not go back to the dressing room and make sure one of you wins this thing?”

  Liam lifted a hand to his face and gently massaged his skin. Ben didn’t move.

  “And while you’re prepping, keep in mind that there are only two straight contestants and eight gay ones. Odds are in our favor.”

  “Don’t bet on it. I’ve seen the judges. Some of them are crazy about straight boys. Every time Wade or Michael walks through, they get all wobbly in the knees. Wade and Michael are straight. It’s disgusting the way they fawn over them. Why can’t queens get it right? Straight guys don’t want what we’ve got,” Liam said, then placed a hand at his waist just above his bubble butt, which was essentially bare, considering the thin posing strap he wore.

  “Anyway, when this contest is over, you should both consider joining StripGuyz. You’d draw crowds and make more money than the prizes they’re giving away tonight.”

  Liam shrugged and walked fluidly toward the dressing room.

  “Who knows?” Ben gave me a look I couldn’t interpret. “Let’s see how this all turns out, then I might give you a call.”

  “Right.” I picked up my clipboard and turned away. He might give me a call, I thought. Like he’d be doing me a favor.

  I inspected the staging area and saw that the staff from Bubbles had outdone themselves. They knew this contest could be a moneymaker for Stan and the bar, so they didn’t hold back. The stage, where my dancers normally work every night, was swathed in lots more lights than usual, including additional baby spotlights and a new set of black lights arcing across the whole area. A glittery upstage curtain of silver lamé shimmered in the glow of the spotlights. Black, blue, and red balloons, the leather colors, floated everywhere.

  The rest of the bar, a two-floor affair, with an atrium-like area surrounding the stage, was equally decked out. Twinkle lights strung across the ceiling formed the rainbow flag and glowed gently down on everything. Signs advertising a drink called “The Sling,” created especially for the occasion were placed on every available surface. I promised myself I’d try the drink once the winner was announced and I could relax. Until then I had to stay unbuzzed.

  Two hours before showtime, both the leather crowd and assorted others crammed into Bubbles wanting good positioning to see the competition. The fact that the crowd was early and eager wasn’t lost on me. After the competition was safely behind me, I planned to get some of my dancers to add a leather routine. Maybe we’d even have a leather night once a month.

  After a last minute inspection, I headed backstage to wait for the judges to arrive. While I waited, I reviewed the judging criteria and rules, knowing I’d need to prep the judges again on scoring. I took up a spot which allowed me to watch for them and keep an eye on backstage activity at the same time.

  A few of the contestants were also there, doing one last examination of the equipment they’d use for the talent segment. I watched Wade take a long, hands-on look at the tangle of ropes and chains he’d be using for his set. He checked and rechecked every piece of the rigging, which included some sort of sling in the midst of it all. I couldn’t help but wonder just what talent he’d be exhibiting with all that stuff.

  Wade was an incredibly attractive blond, with an enviable jawline. Though he was well built, he didn’t have the hard, stringy musculature some bodybuilders strive for. Wade’s was a softer, more approachable look. He appeared to have just stepped off a movie poster, and I almost felt the need to touch him to see if he was real or just a figment of my imagination.

  I felt a nudge and turned to see Jamie, the barback assigned to assist me through the hours of programming. He gave me a look that said I’d been off on some other planet and should think about returning to earth. Jamie was a favorite of mine who was shy and slightly built. His glasses gave him a bookish air.

  “Wade is something, isn’t he?” I said.

  “If you say so, boss. You realize that he’s one of the two straight guys that you let into the competition,” Jamie said, an accusatory tone in his voice.

  That I let in. That’s what everyone would think for a long time. Especially if one of them was chosen. I didn’t make up the entrance requirements, but everyone blamed me for the straight contestants.

  “Looks like he’ll be fierce competition.” I watched Wade arrange the ropes and chains just so, stopping now and again to redo what he’d just done.

  “Looks like he can use some help,” I said to Jamie.

  “Don’t you believe it. He knows just what he’s doing, and he doesn’t want help. Won’t let anybody near the rigging. I asked if I could help last night and he said he didn’t want anyone touching anything, because he was setting it just the way he needed it.”

  “Don’t feel too—” I started to say, but Jamie was already off and running to tell the florist where to arrange the potted plants that had just arrived.

  “What’s the deal, chief?” Rosa Hidalgo, a small, perky brunette, stood in front of me. I was so preoccupied with Wade and his contraption that I hadn’t even noticed her.

  “Rosa!” I smiled. “When did you get back?”

  “This morning. And St. Croix is wonderful. You owe yourself a vacation, Marco.” She looked around approvingly. “I see you’ve got things under control, so what’s the deal? What do we judges do?” Rosa, head of the GLBT Anti-Defamation League, had been chosen lead judge.

  “I’ve got papers for all of you,” I shuffled through the sheets on my clipboard.

  “Any idea how long this is gonna take?” she asked.

  “There’s quite a few events. The Beefcake Parade, the Leather attire competition, then brief interviews with each contestant about their platforms, and their five-minute speeches about issues they’ll handle if they win.”

  “I like the idea of the Beefcake Parade. About time you boys had a taste of that kind of crap.” Rosa laughed. “So, after the speeches, it’s over and we score them?”

  “Not a chance.”

  Rosa groaned.

  “The last segment is the talent exhibition. Then you guys get to vote. After you choose the new Mr. Leather and he takes his victory walk, then it’s over.” It sounded like a long night, but if I could keep it moving I might get home before dawn.

  “Hey!” The deep voice belonged to Bri, another contestant, who also occasionally worked for me both in the P.I. business and as a dancer in StripGuyz.

  “What’s up, Bri?”

  He said nothing but looked at me as if I’d know what he wanted. I’d seen the expression on his face before, and I knew he was barely containing an outburst. Tall, Bri had a shaved head and a face dominated by a nose which had been broken more than once. He also had a number of strategically placed tattoos, which only added to the fierceness of his appearance.

  “We’ll be starting in a second, whaddayou need, Bri?”

  “Okay, boss man.” His hostility ricocheted off the walls. “What I need is for you to tell m
e again about the straight guys you let into the competition. What right have they got bein’ here? Why’d you let that happen?”

  “Hold on, Bri…”

  “No you hold on! Some of us were talkin’ and this sucks big time.”

  “There are straight guys competing?” Rosa had a look on her face halfway between a laugh and a frown. “Since when?”

  “Since Marco over here let ‘em in.” Bri turned back to me. “Couldn’t you tell ‘em this was gays only? Did you have to let ‘em sign up?” Bri fumed. “If one of them wins, you’re gonna hear from me, Marco. And you’re not gonna like what you hear.”

  “How many straight men would even think about competing for a gay leather title?” Rosa laughed.

  “We can’t keep ‘em them out of the contest. Not according to the rules. Right, Rosa?” I looked at her hoping she’d toss me some help.

  “I’m sure there’s a way to do anything. If you want to.” Rosa smiled and left me to twist in the wind.

  “The competition rules were made up by the Philadelphia Knights and The National Leather League. And the rules don’t say a contestant must be gay to enter or to win. I guess they never imagined anybody straight would ever enter the contest. It’s always been a gay event, always held in some gay venue. What straight guy would want to compete?”

  “You have a point, Marco,” Rosa said.

  “And don’t forget, whoever wins will be in the news as Mr. GAY Leather. How many straight men could handle that tag?” I said, looking into Bri’s angry eyes.

  “Well here are two of them,” Bri spat out the words as Wade and Michael walked up to us.

  “You guys got a problem with something?” Michael glared, assuming a defensive posture. “You don’t like us being here? Big fuckin’ shame. I’ll bet you’d be the first to scream if we kept you out of something, wouldn’t you? Gotta be the only victims in town, right?”

  “And, we’ve—” Rosa began to rev her engines.

  “Uh, Rosa,” I said placing a hand gently on her shoulder and bending my head low to speak to her. “I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to be here. You being a judge.”

  “She’s one of the judges?” Wade was wide eyed. “I’ve seen you on TV.”

  “She’s just leaving,” I said, directing Rosa with my hand to her back. “Right, Rosa?”

  She understood without another word and walked away, not looking back.

  “Guys! It’s almost showtime,” I said. “Don’t you need to be getting into something or out of something? Competition’s starting, ready or not.” I pointedly looked at the three of them in turn.

  “This better be a fair deal, man.” Michael moved toward me, chin thrust out, dark eyes raging. “Me and Wade got as much right to be here as anybody else.”

  “If you win, big boy, you gonna tell your girlfriends that you’re Mr. Gay Leather?” Bri asked. “Because if one’a you should win…” He paused and looked down on Wade and Michael like a menacing hawk. “I believe in fairness as much as the next guy, but it will definitely suck if one of you hets wins. But if you do, I’m gonna make damned sure everybody knows you’re Mr. Gay Leather. Every chance I get. I’ll be right on your back. Understand?”

  Bri silently dared Wade and Michael to argue with him. A few tense moments passed filled with fuming, posturing, and a definite testosterone overflow.

  “Yeah… well—well, y-you can’t do… we’ll see about that,” Michael stammered, backing down.

  “What does he mean, ‘every chance he gets’?” Wade murmured, looking at me, his baby blues registering confusion and worry.

  “He’s just blowing off steam,” I snapped. “Don’t let it bother you.”

  They continued glaring at one another.

  “Get yourselves ready. We’ve got people who paid to see this show. Curtain’s up in fifteen. You don’t show, you’re out.” I had just enough time to review things with the judges.

  ***

  More than two hours later, after watching the audience ogle the contestants in the beefcake parade, after sweating our way through long interviews in which the candidates answered questions both from a panel and from the audience, the leather fashion portion of the competition took place. Even I had to admit the fashion show was the best thing about the evening. Each contestant modeled outfits for differing occasions and purposes. From eveningwear leather, to fetish attire, to personal favorites, each guy outdid the other. One contestant emerged dressed like a gladiator. Shaven head and oiled chest, he wore shingled leather epaulettes and a matching gladiator kilt which covered exactly nothing. But I think it was the flog and the way he wielded it which caused one of my stage hands to faint dead away.

  Between each segment, I’d hired acts to entertain the audience as they waited for the next part of the competition. A contortionist who did things with his body that made me wince was the hardest act for me to watch. It was the almost naked magician who brought the audience to its feet and who even fooled me with one or two of his illusions. How he got the Great Dane to appear out of thin air is something I still wonder about.

  After the magician’s final curtain call, it was time for the last event, the talent exhibition. I was looking forward to this not just because it meant I’d get to go home, but because I was intrigued by what some of the guys had planned. Before the show they’d drawn lots, and Ben was up first.

  I hoped his performance might give me an idea of whether or not he had stage presence and would fit into my StripGuyz troupe. I got my answer as soon as he entered.

  The audience went silent when Ben took the stage. Dressed in a short leather loincloth and nothing else, he stepped onto the large gymnastic mat and paused. A soft yellow spot was trained on him, bringing every detail into focus. His broad, hairy chest heaving as he quietly prepared himself, Ben looked out over the audience. He then placed one bare foot out before the other and began moving through a graceful acrobatic performance which not only showed off his glistening oiled body but also his suppleness and dexterity as a dancer and gymnast. I followed his every balanced move, watched his muscles ripple as he turned and stretched, rolled, bounced and did summersaults. Moving quickly, he performed handsprings, which left no questions about what the loincloth covered, and ended with a dive roll that left the audience breathless. As he bowed and panted, the audience cheered its approval and tossed fives and tens onto the stage.

  Liam was up next, and he’d obviously worked with the lighting tech to show himself to the best advantage. Though I don’t think the kid had a bad angle. Wearing the same studded leather harness, he’d changed from the posing strap into a black fishnet thong, which, I was sure, accounted for the gasps I heard.

  A sultry piece of music filled the air, and Liam at first moved languorously to its sounds. For his routine, he’d chosen an erotically charged dance which included using dumbbells, a barbell pole, paralettes, a pull-up stand and more, allowing him to show his strength and agility. As he moved, his hands caressed his body sometimes teasing with the threat of pulling off the thong as he moved. Every move displayed another set of muscles, and every move tempted the audience with erotic possibilities. His performance held the promise of nudity, but only a promise, as he writhed. A sheen of sweat glistened on his skin and helped emphasize muscle and sinew. His gyrating hips offered a hint of something more.

  The studs in his leather harness reflected the colors of the spotlights and made him appear to be dancing at the center of a nebula of light. The audience, teased into submission by Liam’s eroticism, tossed tens and twenties onto the stage as he ended with a handstand, then flipped back onto his feet. I applauded along with everyone else as Liam exited the stage.

  As one performance followed another, I almost felt sorry for the judges. They had a near impossible task, choosing a winner from contestants who seemed equally suited for the title. Despite all the bickering and petty squabbles, each contestant had an exceptional personality. Each knew how to hold an audience captive.

&nbs
p; With three more to go, I noticed that the straight competitors would be performing back to back. Someone had spread the word that there were straight contestants, and several of my staff reported a lot of grumbling about that in the audience. Just the reason I’d planted my staff throughout the bar to stop trouble before it had a chance to get started. All we needed was one crank throwing a bottle and everything would be chaos.

  Michael, the first of the straight contestants, strutted out onto the stage, looking comfortable and ready. Unruffled, he took his place at center stage. Tall, broad-chested, and showing only the slightest bit of tension, he gracefully stepped out of his running suit to reveal his muscled frame. Clad only in black leather armbands and a black leather jockstrap, he did a slow turn to display himself to the patrons. Then he stood still for a moment and I wasn’t sure if he was expecting applause or if he’d just frozen. Eventually he did a slow about-face and approached the gym equipment laid out for his routine.

  He began with a free weight exhibition, stopping now and then to allow a stagehand to add weights to the bar. He lifted an ever increasing amount of weight. With each new level, he strained a bit more, huffed and puffed, but eventually got it into the air above his head. Huge muscles bulging and popping with every effort.

  He eventually had the stagehand add an incredible number of plates to the bar. It appeared to be an immovable piece of equipment.

  One of my staffers sidled up to me and gripped my arm. “He’s gonna crush himself with that,” the staffer said. “Shouldn’t we stop him?”

  “And let him accuse us of scuttling his act? Besides, I’m sure Michael’s done this before. He’s not here to make a fool of himself.” I hoped I was right as I stared at what looked like a dangerous pile of weight.

  Michael stooped over the impossibly large barbell, patted the plates, and ran his hands over the barbell as if to show his mastery over all that metal. His expression was serious, even grim, as he gripped the bar and drew in a breath. Then, straining for all he was worth, he lifted the massive weights. Gasps and cheers from the audience and even a few backstage staffers accompanied his movements as he hoisted the barbell over his head, powerful legs straining to hold him steady, veins popping, muscles stretching. He held the pose for a moment then, with a grunting rush of breath, dropped the weights which hit the stage noisily. And probably made a nice set of dents for Stan to moan about. Michael, still puffing and red-faced from the effort, stood enjoying the applause. But, only for a moment. Still breathing heavily, he did a small set on the balance bars, displaying surprising strength and agility.