Left on St. Truth-Be-Well

by Amy Lane

  Speaking of….

  Carson stopped before they rounded the corner to the side of the hotel that faced the beach. “What?”

  Florida blinked and tilted his head, and Carson noticed that hidden under the stubble on his chin was a cleft as deep as a baby’s asscrack. He wondered if Florida ever shaved that thing. Was there a special class for shaving a baby’s ass cleft? Special blades? When Florida smiled, the divots on either side of his mouth deepened, and that couldn’t be easy to shave, either. Did that explain the stubble? Was it more about self-preservation than vanity or lack thereof?

  They watched each other under the hazy sunshine, in the whooshing silence of the ocean, and Carson realized that, yes, he had asked the last question and it was Florida’s turn to speak. He opened his mouth to ask “what” again, and Florida’s slow smile stopped him.

  “You got some depth there, Chicago. Nice to know.”

  Carson narrowed his eyes. “Way to get cryptic there, Florida. Consider me your diving pool, then.”

  Florida snorted, and quirked that smile again. “Thinking small, Chicago? Why can’t you be my ocean? Or at least my Great Lake.”

  Carson swallowed against a sudden punch of unwanted attraction. This—the banter, the innuendo—this wasn’t what he did with guys. Usually, if it was a guy, it was a quick bang, a hand job as handshake sort of thing. But this?

  Carson turned abruptly and tried not to scrape his shoulder against the wall. “Here,” he said, trying to get rid of the awkwardness. “We, uhm, when we come out here, we can cross the courtyard, and Stassy’s room is on the other side of the L.”

  “Seems like the long way around.”

  “Yeah, well.” Carson grunted and decided to ’fess up. “I thought I saw him, when I was eating. It was across the street, so I can’t be sure, and maybe I just wanted him to be okay, but I thought I saw him.”

  “Mm.” Florida was quiet for a moment. “Maybe he doesn’t want to be found?”

  “Yeah, well, if Ivan O’Leary was my uncle, I would have run away in middle school, but that’s not usually Stassy’s style. He’s a sweet kid, likes to make people happy.”

  “Did he make you happy?”

  “Jesus! Nosy much?”

  “I’m just wondering. That’s not a crime.”

  “Yeah, well, he suddenly thought it was. We were… you know, making out, getting ready to get down, and suddenly he just panicked the fuck out. I mean, it couldn’t have come as that much of a surprise, you feel me?” He paused for a second and heard Florida’s reply without him even saying it. “And don’t say you’d like to. It would be insincere and demean us both.”

  Florida’s low laugh danced in his belly and Carson had a sudden vision, himself face forward against the building, Florida behind him, inside him, pumping slowly away while those strong arms wrapped around his shoulders and those big tanned hands splayed on his chest. Oh God. This was so unexpected.

  “Anyway,” he continued weakly, “Stassy freaked out and ran. I tried to call him that night, to tell him, hey, it’s no big deal, I thought maybe meant yes and I was sorry, but he didn’t answer and the next day he disappeared. So when Ivan asked me to go look for him, I figured it was sort of my job anyway.”

  “So was it really no big deal?”

  “It wouldn’t have been if he hadn’t run away,” Carson said honestly, and Florida nodded like he could accept that. Arrogant little prick, right?

  “Hm… you really are at least a Great Lake.”

  “Yeah, well you’re like the Loch Ness, all smooth and dark on the outside, but there’s got to be a monster in there somewhere.”

  Florida’s laugh rang through the courtyard as they turned the corner, and Carson shot him an annoyed glare. At least he tried for annoyed. What he was pretty sure happened was that he looked turned on.

  They cut across the big green that opened toward the ocean, their route forming the third side of the isosceles triangle partially formed by the hotel. A defunct kids’ playground rotted in the middle, the hard fiberglass faded and big chunks of the structure missing and yellow ropes declaring it a hazard. An outdoor pool sported lots of fallen debris and a haphazard sign that told people to swim at their own risk. Carson had seen an indoor pool in the building next to the outdoor one, but Carson didn’t know what you’d catch if you swam there.

  Some of the upstairs rooms had wind chimes hanging outside and window decorations, and Carson got the feeling this place was a home to more than the cockroaches. As they neared room 113, though, that’s not what he was thinking.

  What he was thinking was, wouldn’t it be awkward if Stassy opened the door, embarrassingly happy to see him, and declared he, Carson, was the love of Anastacio Malinowski’s life? Especially given how appealing Florida’s laugh was becoming and how Carson kept turning his head just so, to see if he could catch a hint of the guy’s sweat. (Pathetic. Just pathetic. When did that become a turn-on?)

  He didn’t have time to think about it long because they were there, and he didn’t believe in dithering because of a little bit of mortification, otherwise he’d never get on the stage.

  He knocked crisply, and although he wasn’t surprised when nobody answered, he was a little bit surprised when the door swung quietly open.

  “Jesus,” he muttered. “Seriously. These people don’t believe in a goddamned locked door? Is that some sort of Florida thing or some sort of weirdo parrot place thing?”

  Florida was suddenly right on his back, and Carson shrugged his arm. “We don’t know each other that well—”

  “Aren’t you going to go inside?”

  “Well, I was gonna call out first, but… oh my God, what is that smell?”

  Florida wasn’t backing off, so Carson literally stumbled into the room and tried not to gag.

  The room looked like it had been cleared out in a hurry: chair knocked down by the little table, towels all over the floor, and papers too, a copy of A Separate Peace upside down and open by the bed. Carson catalogued these details like they would help him not look at the corpse on the bed.

  “Uhm, Carson?” Florida said, sounding as shaken as Carson felt, which was a blessing.

  “Yeah?”

  “Tell me that’s not your broom closet guy.”

  “Stassy wouldn’t be caught dead in neon green.”

  “Well, good.” Carson kept staring at the book, like somehow it would make the guy with his head caved in less real, and Florida kept talking. “Any idea who that is?”

  “Not a clue. But I gotta say, it’s more proof that room service sucks.” The corpse was old, old enough to be covered in bugs, both alive and dead, as well as, strangely enough, big dusty coats of lye on the carpet and the bed, which was probably why the room smelled but the entire surrounding area did not.

  Carson remembered the fumigation smell in his room, the choking billows of chemicals that had rolled past him when he opened his door, and thought maybe some of it had been the lye, and some of it had been used to cover this up, and that was when he hit his limit.

  “Florida?” he said weakly. “You better get outta my way!”

  “Hear ya,” came the clogged reply, and in about two seconds, Carson was suddenly doing something he’d never done with another man. Was there a special bond that came of standing side by side with someone and blowing chunks?

  Once the romance had passed, Carson gathered his wits. First thing he did was take off the leather jacket and set it carefully aside. Then he took off his T-shirt, wiped his face, and threw it to Florida, who did the same, and when Carson thought he could talk without screaming or anything else undignified, he pulled his cell out of his back pocket and started to do the obvious.

  Florida stopped him with a casual hand. “Man, let me call. I know the local cops. They’ll keep you out of it.”

  Carson raised his eyebrows. He’d never really thought of himself as in it, but then he thought about the fact that he’d just walked into a hotel room, looking for someone he
knew, and found a dead guy.

  “Aw, hell.” He hit End on his phone, took six steps left of the barf-o-rama, and sat down on the clean grass. For a couple of seconds, he let himself stare into space and contemplate the ocean. It was nice—the Atlantic Ocean was not as raging as, say, the Pacific or the Caribbean. The waves were full but not huge, and the view was almost as flat as Lake Michigan on a windy day. The sun was off to his right a little, which meant he could squint without his sunglasses and watch as surfers, still in their wetsuits this time of year, rode their bodyboards into the wake. He saw some hot women out there, but Carson wasn’t feeling the least bit libidinous, nope, no way, nosirree.

  “Glen, could you not give me shit for calling you at work? I’m calling you at work because this is work-related.”

  Carson looked over his shoulder to see Florida ambling up to him from wherever he’d gone. He had two bottles of water in his hand, and he gave one to Carson, so he must have visited the vending machines while he called his “contact” in the police department.

  Carson cracked the seal and took a swig, and it was on the tip of his tongue to say he’d given blowjobs for less when something stopped him. He had given blowjobs for less, for one thing. For another, it seemed to trivialize the simple gesture of kindness, and right now, he was shaken enough to admit he just didn’t want to do that.

  Besides, Florida was having himself a “conversation.”

  “Look, I’m saying we went to see this guy’s friend, and there was a body in the place. No, not his friend’s body. He doesn’t know who it is. Yeah, the Bates Parrot Hotel! Anywhere else and they would have found it sooner!”

  He met Carson’s eyes and grimaced, then kept talking. “I don’t know. I’m not an expert on dead people—that would be you. A couple of days, I guess.” He paused and then rolled his eyes. “Because there was lye all over it, that’s why. It sort of absorbed the smell. How do I know that? Because I’ve got a television, asshole! Now are you sending a coroner or what? Yes, I’m sure it’s dead!” He held the phone away from his mouth for a moment, and Carson was relieved to see Florida’s unshakeable calm was actually shaken, stirred, and ventilated. “Because if I have to tell you how I know, I’m going to throw up again. Yes. Throw up. Yes, me. Yes, again.” Florida took a big breath and then spoke reasonably into the telephone. “Glen, disapprove of me some other time. Right now, we’ve got a dead body and a missing buddy. I really think they take top priority, don’t you?”

  There was a terse, stunned reply. “Thank you,” Florida said shortly. “That’s almost civilized.” He hit End Call and then flopped down next to Carson, not close enough to touch but close enough Carson could feel some of his body heat in the morning chill.

  “Your nipples are hard,” Florida said, and Carson’s eyes went wide. And then he checked, because sure enough, without a shirt, he had himself a couple of miniheadlights.

  “Oh Jesus,” Carson muttered. “Nothing like facing the cops with poky little nipples. And by the way, that Glen guy sounds like a real prick. How do you know him?”

  “We share the same parents.”

  Carson stared at him. “Wouldn’t that make him your brother?”

  Florida shrugged. “I remain skeptical. He’s going to be somewhat of an asshole. That guy’s been dead about four days. Where were you four days ago?”

  Carson grunted sourly. “I was in Chicago, closing out my shift, when my stupid boss asked me if I wanted to track down Stassy for three weeks’ lousy pay.”

  “Alrighty, then! Can’t argue with that! How’d you get here?”

  “I drove my boss’s car.”

  Florida’s grin was pretty damned awesome. “Even better. You’re off the suspect list!” Then his face fell. “But your friend, Stassy—”

  “Didn’t do it,” Carson snapped. “It’s not in him.”

  “Are you sure?” Florida’s voice was unexpectedly gentle, and Carson turned his head sideways to find himself drowning in those heavy-lidded blue eyes.

  “Look, Florida—”

  “Dale,” he supplied softly.

  “Dale. That’s sort of a wussy name, you know. We beat up kids named Dale in my school, and I grew up in the suburbs.”

  Dale laughed softly. “Well, I hope you grew out of it. That’s not really one of my kinks.”

  “Yeah, mostly. Glen is actually a wussier name. Maybe I’ll beat the fuck out of Glen.”

  “Well, yes. That may make us both feel better. What were you going to say about why your friend didn’t do it?”

  Carson sighed and then wrapped his arms around his knees so he could keep warm. “He’s a good kid. His only crime is sexual confusion. I don’t know what that guy was doing in his room, but I’ve never seen him before, and unless that’s the guy you said Stassy was hanging out with, I’m betting Stassy hasn’t either.”

  Dale grunted. “Naw. The guy Stassy was hanging out with was a local boy. Toby Pederson. Used to be a troublemaker in school—”

  “Like you?”

  A soft shoulder bump. “Behave. I was actually very well liked. I’m a major disappointment now, but teachers used to love me. Anyway, Toby got in trouble, got out, came out, and is now sort of second banana to the surfing guru in the local youth center.”

  Carson regarded his new friend suspiciously. “And first banana would be….”

  “Oh yeah. That would be me.”

  Carson started to scramble to his feet, but a hard, warm hand on his arm stopped him.

  “You knew? You knew who Stassy was and you—”

  “Now, for starters, I didn’t know shit. Toby and I put in our time together and not much else. Surfing’s our religion, not our social club. I just know that Toby and your guy started coming in together in the mornings, and it looked pretty serious. I didn’t even know your guy’s name until you asked for him, which is good, because talk about names that would get your ass kicked, that one would do it right there.”

  Carson blew out a breath and went back to hugging his legs. Dale’s warm hand remained on his arm, though, the heat burning through like sun through fog.

  “Okay, yeah. Fine. So what are we going to tell the cops?”

  Dale rubbed his bicep gently with long, tanned fingers, and Carson barely suppressed a shiver—and this one not from the cold. “We’ll tell them you came to find your cousin. You got driven out of this dump like all the sane tourists, and we met up today, started talking, and I came with you to find him.”

  “That’s the truth,” Carson said, mildly surprised.

  “Yeah, but it doesn’t mention Toby, who doesn’t like cops, and it doesn’t bring in your guy, who seems to be made of run, and it pretty much just makes us the discoverees instead of the guys who are going to try to find a major witness.”

  Carson gave him a relieved smile. “Yeah? You’d help me do that? Why?”

  Dale’s smile was as slow and sweet as it had been when he’d ordered Carson breakfast, but now it held some heat. “Let’s just say I’d like to get to know Chicago just a little bit better.”

  Carson’s face grew warm, and he took a drink of water to mask it. By the time he was done with his bottle, that hand on his bicep had moved to the back of his neck, and Dale’s brother and his partner had arrived in a squad car with St. Aubrey’s County on the side.

  Let the games begin.

  Ignoring the Law

  JESUS, what a mess.

  Glen Arden was just as handsome as his brother but a couple of inches taller. He’d also buzz-cut his hair, so no curls, and his blue eyes were the same shape, but there was nothing easygoing or laid-back about them.

  “So, this Stassy. You say he just disappeared. Like, the same time this guy became a corpse?”

  Carson wasn’t stupid. “Well, yeah. But he didn’t make him a corpse, if that’s what you’re saying.”

  Glen proceeded to direct a laser scalpel into Carson’s soul with his eyes alone. “And you know that how?”

  Shit. “Well, because
for one thing, Stassy is a sweet kid, but he’s got the body tone of rice pudding. If he’d lifted something heavy enough to do that to a guy’s skull, he woulda dropped it on his own pointy head.”

  Glen looked unimpressed. “And for another?”

  Shit. “Well, for another, Stassy is rice pudding, but his uncle is, well, connected.” Understatement. Ivan wasn’t so much “connected” as a major “connection.” No violence on Ivan O’Leary’s watch—certainly not in his clubs, which he cosseted like the children he’d never had—but Carson had seen the goons Ivan hired. Those guys wouldn’t object to a little violence, oh no they would not.

  “Connected how?”

  Oh Jesus. Really? “I gotta spell this out for you, genius?” Carson snapped.

  “And you work for him?”

  “I work in his restaurant. You don’t know a guy’s mob when you turn in a job application. You look to see if they got health and dental!” It was true. And it hadn’t been until Stassy had said something about “Uncle Ivan’s other businesses” that Carson had put the whole thing together. “O’Leary’s is his legitimate business. All the people in his legitimate business are completely in the dark to his other businesses, you feel me? I got no idea what they are, I got no idea who runs them. I just wait tables at his bar.”

  Finally, the guy blinked. “And this is supposed to make me believe in young Anastacio’s innocence because….”

  Damn. He may look sharper, but this guy had nothing on kid brother the surf guru. “Because if he did off somebody, do you think Ivan would have sent me down to find him? No, Ivan would have sent two of his best goons to feed this guy to the alligators and bail Stassy out of trouble. Ivan thought the kid forgot to pay a bill or smashed his car. This was above Stassy’s pay grade, trust me.”

  Glen cocked his head and squinted at Carson like he was a new kind of bug. “You are a mouthy little shit, aren’t you?”

  “I’ve got my moments,” Carson muttered. “Can I fucking go? I need to tell Ivan his nephew is in deep kimchi, okay?”