Deconstruction

by Kit Zheng

  His heart pounded. He turned the key, took it out of the ignition. Stepped out of the car. He thought of Tomas lying safe and peaceful in the bed at home, one arm hooked under the pillow, curled up on his side like he was a boy again.

  Carl was waiting by the end of the alleyway. His hands were stuffed in the pockets of his fawn-colored overcoat. “Vic,” he said, “thanks for coming so fast.” He didn’t seem to know what else to say, just silently turned and led the way down the dark alleyway.

  The body was illuminated by the patrol car’s headlights. But it was not, Vic saw, forensics that was working on the body; there were two EMTs moving surely and quickly, covered in bloody handprints. The body was moving, feebly, but alive. Not body—the man. Vic moved in closer. Thick arms, curly brown hair. Freckles. A mouth that could light up a room with its Colgate-bright smile.

  “Robbie,” Vic breathed. Carl was there to steady him, to cover up his moment of weakness.

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  No random drugged-out streetwalker, this one. One of Tomas’ own. Someone Vic had beers with at parties. He felt queasy. This was a nightmare, a waking one, one he’d feared for weeks now. A little part of him was happy that it was not Tomas lying there; another part reminded him how easily it could have been.

  “Kevin—” he started to say, reaching for his cell phone, thinking of how Kevin called him earlier, to let him know about Benny’s Pet Cop making trouble for Tomas.

  “Tall black guy?” Carl said. “We put him in the back of my patrol car to chill out a bit. The EMTs had to dope him up. He was freaking out. He found the victim—

  interrupted the killer, we think, but not in time to see anything. Guess the sight of it really fucked him up.”

  “They’re—” Vic started to say “lovers,” but he wasn’t one hundred percent sure about that, so he said, “really good friends.”

  Business partners, Tomas had told him, not too long ago. Could a man like that really love another man like that, knowing how they did what they did? But wasn’t Tomas a “man like that” as well?

  The EMTs lifted Robbie, shouting for Vic and Carl to get out of the way. Vic fell back against the cement block wall, trying to breathe normally. As the stretcher passed, the light washed blue over them, illuminated the sickly pale of Robbie’s skin, the way his freckles stood out too sharply, the smears of blood over his cheeks and chin disappearing under thick masses of gauze at his throat. The fresh bruises on his face, his arms—the kid in the bathroom had been the same, gruesomely treated before he was killed.

  “Shit, Vic, you gonna be okay?” Carl looked sorry, as if he wished he’d handled this situation alone. Maybe he should have. Vic fought for composure. The smell of the alley was suddenly stifling—wet cement from the roof runoff that never seemed to entirely dry out, rotting food and booze from the dumpster, the smell of blood and antiseptic and underneath it all, the smell of a man’s body failing.

  “Yeah,” he said, trying to act normal. “I’m fine. I—”

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  Carl put a hand on his shoulder. “Why don’t you try to get some information from the victim’s friend? Take him to the hospital if he wants. I can handle the stuff here. I got enough notes and photos to get us a head start. Forensics wants their go at the crime scene anyway.”

  Grateful, Vic nodded mutely and followed Carl out of the suffocating alleyway.

  The door to the patrol car opened before they reached it. Kevin emerged. Vic’s first thought was that he’d been attacked too—his eyes were swollen—and then with a brief, hot flash of shame, he realized Kevin had been crying. He couldn’t imagine it now; sedated or not, the handsome man’s face was filled with potent anger. Kevin closed the distance between them frighteningly quickly, grabbed Vic’s shoulders. “I’m going with him—tell them, Vic.”

  Somehow Kevin’s panic straightened Vic out, dampened his overwhelming emotions. “We’ll drive you to the hospital right behind the ambulance, Kevin.”

  “Fuck that!” Kevin raged, shoving Vic aside. Across the street the EMTs shut the ambulance doors. The sound cut through the night, louder than it should be, somehow.

  “Wait—you fuckers—wait!”

  Vic caught Kevin’s elbow. He was so used to thinking of Kevin as confident and strong that he was shocked when Kevin stumbled, weakened by the sedatives the EMTs had given him, or maybe by grief, or both; Kevin half fell, half sat on the sidewalk and buried his face in his hands. “Goddamn Benny—probably that fucking blue he had on a leash—sniffing around tonight—”

  “It was Benny’s Pet Cop?” Vic blurted. Everything else exploded out of his mind until he realized on some level that he’d used the pet name only he and Tomas knew.

  But Kevin seemed to understand, looked up, dark eyes bloodshot.

  “We were closing up and Robbie told Teddy he had some five-minute business to take care of. I didn’t find out until later—”

  “Was it Benny’s Pet Cop?” Vic repeated. All he could think about was Tomas. What if it had been Tomas? he thought. Was he that close? What if it had been Tomas instead of 54

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  Robbie feebly clinging to life? What if it had been himself instead of Kevin, trying to be tough and angry instead of terrified and swollen-eyed?

  “I don’t know— But that fucker was circling Robbie all night! Benny wants us in trouble because we’re quitting and he doesn’t like it. I thought Tomas distracted him, but—”

  The image of the wet mess on Tomas’ leather jeans shoved its way to the forefront of Vic’s mind. He tried to stay sane. “Robbie knew about that crooked cop though.

  Wouldn’t he have known to avoid him?”

  “I don’t know! I mean, I ran into the alley as soon as Teddy told me where he was and he was fucking sliding down the wall and I didn’t see anyone, I thought he was choking at first ‘cause he was just holding his neck and I’m gonna fucking kill him I’m gonna kill the motherfucker who did this—” Kevin’s words tripped over themselves, stumbled into clenched-jawed spasms that refused to be sobs.

  Suddenly there was too much silence. Vic found himself reciting the old standbys:

  “We’ll get him, Kev, don’t worry. Robbie’s gonna be OK.” Vic clapped Kevin on the back. His words felt impotent. He felt impotent. Took a deep breath, asked carefully,

  “What’s that cop’s name? I’ll have him questioned.”

  “Don’t know. Ask Tommy. He knows.” Kevin looked up. His hands, Vic noticed, were fisted against his knees. “I…I, fuck, you know, it probably wasn’t him at all. I didn’t see him after Tomas got him out of here. I—shit—I should’ve helped Tomas out, too, and I didn’t, I was just glad he wasn’t after Robbie anymore—” It was disturbing: cool, self-assured Kevin rambling so aimlessly. Normally his words were choice—good for a laugh, a come-on, a sly comment at just the right time.

  The continued loss of control disturbed Vic almost as badly as the sight of Robbie’s bloody handprints on the EMTs’ uniforms. He interrupted, for his own peace of mind as much as Kevin’s.

  “Did you get any glimpse of the man who did this? His back, maybe—even a shadow? Or did Robbie say anything to you?”

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  Kevin’s brow furrowed. He shook his head. “All I saw was Robbie falling. He couldn’t talk.” Abruptly, he stopped talking, swallowing hard and turning his face away.

  Vic didn’t push. How could he? Instead, he waited a little, then he stood, and offered a hand to help Kevin up. “Let’s get you to the hospital to see Robbie. They give us any shit and I’ll vouch for you as his half brother.” Kevin’s smile, though fleeting, was genuine. “Thank you, Vic.” As they got into Vic’s car, Kevin paused. “Tell Tomas to watch out for him. For that cop. I think he thinks he’s got it under control, but I don’t know. That guy’s a piece of shit, even if he didn’t do this.”

  Something clenched hard on Vic’s chest and throat, strangl
ed the reply out of him.

  He nodded, slamming the driver’s side door of his car a little too hard.

  * * * *

  He slammed the door when he came home, too. Sitting in the waiting room had been torture. Kevin kept his head down in his hands while waiting to be admitted to see Robbie, and said nothing except a few “thank you”s. Vic was left with his worries and doubts at the worst time. He knew that he let them get out of control in that awful, sterile room full of sick people, but he couldn’t stop himself. Could tell his worries were folding in on themselves, becoming incestuous and exaggerated, driving him half out of his mind. He kept almost excusing himself to step outside. Wanted to wake up Tomas and just hear his voice. But every time, he resisted, telling himself to wait at least until a decent hour.

  Now it was almost eleven a.m. and he was confident Tommy would be awake, and he thought that when he saw Tomas, he’d grab him and kiss him and then shake that fucking dirty cop’s name out of him before he had to go back to the precinct for the rest of his shift. He thought—

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  “Vic, hey,” Tomas said, emerging from the kitchen into the living room, newspaper under one arm, bowl of cereal in hand. It was dry cereal—no milk, Vic realized, he hadn’t gotten milk. Cam followed behind Tomas, ever-loyal. “Everything okay?” Tomas’ premature appearance threw Vic off. “No, no, it’s not.” He was surprised by his own vehemence. “It’s all fucked up.”

  Tomas tilted his head, put down his bowl. Moved toward Vic, his arms coming up and spreading a little—and Vic, impulsively, stepped back and away. Tomas blinked, froze, surprised. “What is it?”

  “Robbie.” Vic stopped, still not sure how he wanted to approach this. The moment for the kiss, the fond shake had fallen away.

  A line formed between Tomas’ wounded-dog brows. “What?”

  “We think it’s the same guy that’s been doing the street boys—”

  “The hustler killer?”

  “Yeah, Tommy, Kevin thinks it might be that guy, Benny’s Pet Cop—”

  “No,” Tomas said, firmly.

  “I just thought if you could at least tell me his name, I could see if he saw anything when he was with y—”

  “No,” Tomas repeated.

  Tomas’ stubbornness set something off in Vic. Scowling, he growled, “Tomas, don’t be stupid—”

  As soon as the words were out of Vic’s mouth, he saw Tomas shut down, his slightly parted lips sealing completely, his eyes narrowing. But all the same, Vic couldn’t stop, he couldn’t prevent himself from saying,

  “Look, you don’t want to get in trouble for obstructing justice. It’s not like you’re a shrink or a doctor, Tommy. Hookers don’t get customer confidentiality!”

  “Hookers? Fuck you, Viktor,” Tomas said, in a quiet, angry voice. He shook his head once and turned away.

  “No—shit, you know what I mean! Escorts. You’re overreacting!” 57

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  Tomas said nothing at first. Vic couldn’t tell what his expression was. Eventually Tomas said, “I need to go. I need to run some errands before I go in to work.” Tomas spoke in that same soft, angry tone. His voice was so lacking in inflection he sounded like some pleasant robot. The floodgates opened—everything Vic had dammed up for the past twelve hours came rushing out in a torrent of stupid, angry words.

  “Are you fucking insane? Have you not been listening? You’re not going to work after what just happened, Tommy—what the hell are you thinking?” Tomas didn’t answer, just kept moving toward the stairs to the second floor, leaving Vic to pursue. Cam continued to trail behind the two of them, looking back and forth between his masters with an almost human worry on his canine face.

  “Why are you protecting that dirty piece of shit, anyway? He’s just a john. It’s not even money you fucking need!”

  One foot on the very bottom step, Tomas stopped. “Why are you doing this?”

  “Doing what?”

  “Being a complete asshole!”

  “Why are you?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I’m talking about—” But in his anger, Vic had forgotten. He groped for the nearest thing, seized on anything that could bite and hurt. “I mean, why are you out there anyway, fucking other guys, when you have me? Protecting that shit cop—instead of helping your fucking boyfriend?”

  When Tomas turned to face Vic, he looked calm and cool, only his eyes slightly narrowed, a light flush in his cheeks, as if he’d been slapped, as if he was turned on. But Vic knew that look—Tomas at his most angry, his icy exterior masking the Tomas equivalent of pure rage.

  “How long have you been with me, Vic?”

  Vic was caught off guard. He shrugged. “What the fuck? That’s not the issue here.”

  “But it is. You’ve known from day one what I do. You met me at the club.” 58

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  “What does that have to do with anything?”

  “It has everything to do with everything!” Tomas’ tone got tighter, quieter. “You know me, Vic, and I know you. I want to help Robbie, I do, but I know that telling you who Benny’s Pet Cop is won’t help anything. You know it, too. All it’ll do is screw with how I do my job, and with us.”

  “Are you for fucking real?” Vic shouted, so loud that Cam started and stared, and then hurried out of the room. “Are you goddamn fucking serious? Just tell me his fucking name so I can help your fucking friend and maybe make it safe for you to get back to your precious job so you can continue to fuck complete strangers!”

  “If that’s how you see it.” Tomas’ mouth thinned. “We’re done here.”

  “Don’t pull your fucking self-righteous shit with me!” Tomas shook his head and continued up the stairs. Vic started to follow, tripped in his angry haste, hit his knee hard on the steps, cursing. He stayed there, bent down as if kneeling, biting his teeth together against more than the purely physical pain. At last, he found his breath, as Tomas reached the bedroom door. He shouted, “Do you even love me, Tommy, do you?”

  Tomas paused in the doorway. He swung one arm back, fist jamming into the doorframe. Plaster powdered the carpet they picked out together; the frame cracked, wood splintering like teeth. Tomas was shaking, but he didn’t turn around, and he didn’t shout.

  “I love you, Vic,” he said, in a voice so raw it made Vic hurt just to hear it, “but sometimes you just really piss me off.”

  He went into the bedroom. Vic sagged down onto the steps, buried his face in his hands, and listened to the clock tick off the points of his own stupidity.

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  Chapter Seven

  Jon pulled into his spot at work. He hated late days, starting at four and leaving at god-knows-when. It was beginning to wear on him, after four years of it. He still had fifteen minutes before his shift and a hard-on that wouldn’t go away, though, and so he speed-dialed TOMAS on his cell phone. He’d gone out and picked up a few things this morning, and he wanted to try them out.

  After the third ring, he expected to get voice mail, so for a moment he was put off when Tomas’ soft, deep voice came over the phone and said briskly, “Hello?”

  “Tommy,” Jon recovered quickly, “I want to make a date tonight.” There was a long pause. Jon felt his dick softening. It made him angry. “Hello?”

  “Sorry. I can’t really talk. I’m at the hospital.”

  Being at the hospital was more bad news than Jon wanted out of this call, but he sensed opportunity in Tomas’ tone. So he asked, “What happened? You okay?”

  “Friend from work got hurt.”

  Jon frowned. “What else?” he asked, not really because he cared, but rather because Tomas’ unhappiness was interfering with his plans, with his perfect fantasy of coming back from work and fucking the man into incoherency.

  “Don’t really want to talk about it.”

  “So I guess—” and now Jon knew he was being a selfish ass
hole, with Tomas’

  friend in the hospital; but he was not Tomas’ buddy, he was Tomas’ income— “no 60

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  amount of money will get you to come see me tonight.”

  He heard Tomas take a deep breath on the other end. Again he felt it—something else had shaken the man badly, something worse than his friend’s injury. Jon wished Tomas were here with him, so he could—what? Make Tomas tell? Force a grown man to recount his woes in a humiliating show? Give him something else to worry about?

  Jon thought about the night before and wondered just how much Tomas had caught on.

  Then the soft, steady voice said, “Usual time and place?” Jon smiled. But Tomas was still talking.

  “For an even thousand,” he continued, “I’ll stay the night.” He did a quick mental count of the cash Benny had given him for his latest warning.

  Tomas would put him in the poorhouse, eventually, but right now he could afford it.

  “It’s a date, baby. Don’t be late.”

  He hung up and went into work whistling. For Jon Newman, at least, it was going to be a good day.

  As he walked into the department the officer at the front desk handed him a note from the captain. He thanked the officer, read it, and then headed toward the back of the precinct.

  The captain was just leaving his office, but he smiled at Jon warmly and cocked his head. “Go on in, Jon, I’ll be right back.”

  They were not exactly buddies, but Captain Debusher thought highly of the Vice team and Jon especially; they saw eye to eye, knew how things had to be sometimes to get the job done. Jon nodded to him and went into the office.

  He leaned against the captain’s desk, thinking of Tomas. He thought about his new duffel bag, of his various acquisitions. Of what he’d like to do with Tomas for an entire night—fuck, the thought of it was overwhelming, and he had meant to make a stop in the john to relieve himself, but maybe this way it would be better tonight. Maybe by storing up he could really let Tomas have it—