P'town Murders: A Bradford Fairfax Murder Mystery

by Jeffrey Round

  A swathe of gold medallions lay nestled between a pair of hairy breasts book-ended by nipples of the pencil-eraser variety. Bracelets jangled on the man's excitable wrists and a rivulet of oil ran down his stomach to pool in the crevasse of his navel. The face was bulldog ugly. If God had created this man in His image, then Brad was in no hurry to meet that God.

  The queen's eyes roamed over him. Fingers scratched suggestively at a bulbous crotch straining beneath a skimpy pair of bathing trunks. Brad smiled behind his sunglasses. I'm a whore for my job, he told himself.

  "Nice day," Brad said.

  "If it don't rain."

  Brad scuffed at the sand.

  The man patted the ground beside him. "Have a seat, studmuffin."

  "Neighborly of you," Brad replied, sitting cross-legged at his feet.

  "Could get more neighborly." The queen shifted a stubby leg in a spray of sand and coconut oil, bringing his foot to rest on Brad's crotch.

  "What brings you to these parts, cutie?" he asked with a leer.

  "Oh, just escaping the wrath of Isabel and Arnie."

  The face contorted. "You a Democrat?"

  Oops! Brad thought. Hush my big mouth!

  "Nope," he said.

  "Republican?"

  Brad shook his head. "Nope." "You gotta be one or the other!"

  Simpleton, thought Brad. "I'm an abstainer."

  "Hmpff!Never heard of them. Me, I'm a Republican and I like Arnold. I think he'll make a great governor."

  "How's that?" Brad asked.

  A ringed finger flashed imperiously. "Number one, he's rich." A second digit rose to join the first. "Number two, he's an actor. And that's what makes for a good show!"

  And God help us all, thought Brad.

  A fat pink tongue ran over the queen's lips. "I'm in insurance. What do you do, sweetheart?"

  "Travel writer. I'm researching exotic ways to spend a weekend."

  "It don't get much more exotic than this," the man said, flinging his arms out to encompass the dunes, the beach and the entire ocean view. Hands fluttered back to the hill of his stomach, hooking both thumbs under the waistband of his trunks. The leer returned with a vengeance.

  "If you know what to do with it, that is..."

  Brad felt the man's toes grope his crotch with genuine agility. Not in your lifetime, he thought.

  "Actually, I was thinking more in terms of exotic guesthouses. Know of any?"

  "Probably more than I should. I've stayed at a few in my day. Ever been to El Rancho? There's plenty goes on all night in that little rodeo. I've been known to get pretty exotic there myself."

  Brad knew about El Rancho. It was a long way from the Not-So-OK-Corral in both location and reputation. He let his gaze travel suggestively down to the man's crotch.

  "I was thinking more of the private part of town. I heard there was a place that costs as much for one night as most other houses cost in a month."

  The man's face showed genuine surprise. "Really? How much?"

  "Thousands."

  "And what do I get for my 'thousands'?" he asked, running a hairy paw across his chest.

  "All you can eat, snort, and blow in one night," Brad answered, resisting the temptation to call him 'monkey nipples.'

  "Book me!" he cried. "I never heard of it, but I'll try anything!"

  Brad ran a finger up the inside of the man's thigh. The spandex swelled and twitched. He lifted the man's foot from his crotch and dropped it onto the sand.

  "I'll let you know if I find it," Brad said, rising.

  "Why, you're nothing but a cocktease!" the queen snarled.

  Here, it seemed, was the inverse corollary to his father's advice on good looks and sincerity: if you want someone to go away, disingenuousness works best.

  Brad turned back. "I guess I'm just an actor at heart. I could run your country for you, but I can't be sincere for the life of me."

  He lingered on the beach for another hour, asking every man he met about the mysterious guesthouse. Most of them were genuinely friendly and he didn't even need to flirt to start a conversation. Knowing how gay men loved their gossip, however, he was amazed to discover that no one had heard of it. Obviously, Brad thought, it's as exclusive as it's meant to be. Probably why it's successful.

  He sat on a piece of driftwood and brought out his binoculars, scanning the beach. The passing parade of men kept its eyes peeled for Destiny. Like most children, and Blanche DuBois at the end of her tether, gay men still believed in Magic. They were all waiting for the one magnificent man who would come to claim them and transform their lives from a shabby beach shack into a seaside palazzo complete with interior fountains, marble mantelpieces, perfect brunch guests, and a history that included 'the day Madonna came to dinner.' On straight beaches, where dreams are downplayed, they're mostly just waiting for lunch and the next beer.

  Brad caught a flash atop one of the dunes. He focused the lenses and, to his surprise, saw a pair of binoculars trained on him. Right, he thought. Now I'm someone else's prey.

  He watched the binoculars watching him. After a moment, their owner laid them down on the sand. Brad could make out a lithe young man in a baseball cap sitting cross-legged on top of the dune.

  Brad turned back to the shoreline and continued to scan with his binoculars. The whole time he felt the hair on his neck rise with the presence from above. He turned and looked back. The figure sat there, arms outstretched and palms turned upward as though waiting for rain. The brim of the boy's cap obscured his face.

  Brad stood and made his way toward the dune. He scrambled upward, stumbling now and then as the sand shifted and pulled him back down. Once he fell into a thorny bush and scratched his leg, but he brushed himself off and kept climbing till he reached the top and stood before the figure whose position hadn't changed.

  The young man sat in a contemplative pose, head cocked toward the beach and the brim of his cap pulled way down. He was completely and splendidly naked, right down to the bare chest that had never felt a razor in its life and the notable dick resting on the sand between his legs. The tattooed outline of a horse's head embellished his trim stomach.

  Whoa! Now here's a guy I could really go for, Bradford thought. Research be damned!

  "Hi," he said, the beginning of an erection tenting his shorts. "I noticed you staring at me from up here." There was no response from the seated figure. Brad suddenly felt awkward, aware that he was now the one staring. "I like your... tattoo."

  "You're bleeding," the young man said.

  That's certainly an original opener, thought Brad. He looked down. Sure enough, his calves and shins were smeared with blood where he'd been scratched by the thorns.

  "Wow, I didn't notice. Thanks."

  "No problem."

  "So what brings you to these parts?" Brad ventured, extending a hand.

  The head lifted till he could see the boy's face. An aquamarine eye caught his own. "Hello, Bradford."

  Brad felt his erection subside. "Ah, hi..."

  "It's Zach," he said. "I guess you've forgotten."

  "Uh, sorry, I..."

  "Never phoned back?"

  Brad felt anger surge where a moment before there'd been only simple straightforward lust.

  "You told me you had a boyfriend!"

  "I told you I was leaving him."

  "You weren't fast enough."

  "I dropped him the next day."

  "Too late!"

  Zach continued looking up at him. "You don't have much patience, do you?"

  "I don't go in for serial monogamists."

  Zach sighed. "I fell in love with you. What do you want me to do?"

  Brad stepped back. "Nothing. Don't do anything. Just... stop following me."

  Zach's face darkened. "Just because you fucked me once and I said it was the best thing that ever happened to me doesn't mean I'm following you. I come to Provincetown every year at precisely this time, so get over yourself like I get over myself every time I think about
you."

  "Whoa! Slow down there, little buckaroo. I'm sorry for accusing you of following me. I'm sorry we ever met, in fact. Though if you recall, that was your doing. Now if you'll excuse me, I have a lunch date."

  With that he turned and marched along the dunes toward town, getting stuck in the marsh once before looking back to see that Zach was no longer watching.

  8

  The morning progressed into a languid afternoon. Brad forgot about the unpleasant encounter with Zach. In town, boys in shorts and T-shirts walked hand-in-hand along the streets. As he passed one attractive couple, Brad unconsciously squared his shoulders and thrust out his chest. The shorter one turned to whistle at him. Brad looked back in time to see the boy being dragged off by his boyfriend.

  He stopped for lunch on Commercial Street. In a waterfront cafe, he found himself eye-to-eye with a mesmerizing gaze. A charismatic man with a shaved head gazed at him from a poster. Brad recalled his father's earliest bit of advice: Always stop to enjoy a beautiful view.

  The face was arresting: from the distinguished brow and memorable cheekbones, to the full lips and hypnotic eyes that burned holes in the casual onlooker. He could have been the love child of Jackie Chan and Vin Diesel.

  According to the poster, the man was a visiting Tibetan dignitary closely associated with the Dalai Lama. Brad smiled and thought of Ross's rather sudden conversion. Obviously, there was something to Buddhism after all!

  After lunch, the first stop on Brad's itinerary was Purgatory, the downstairs bar at the famed Gifford House. With any luck he might uncover something useful about Perry, the former employee who Cinder claimed had left the Not-So-OK Corral after an argument with Ross. Sometimes a bit of smoldering rivalry was all it took to spark a jealous rage that could end in murder. It happened all the time between husbands and wives. It might occur just as easily between two hot men flirting with the same boss.

  The Gifford House bristled with sex appeal as Brad approached. A circuit party crowd lingered on the outside deck, hanging over the railing to watch new arrivals coming up the hill. Brad marveled at the homing instinct that brought so many delightful, provocative men to places like this. Like him, they'd all ventured a long way to reach this end-of-the-line seaside resort.

  To a gay man, Provincetown wasn't so much a geographical destination as a psychosexual one. Each had already made a difficult inner journey to arrive at this place. To get here, they had tested and spread their wings in nondescript little clubs and taverns all across the continent, listening for that inner voice to answer the rainbow's call. It was the same voice that spoke to all gay men, one patient syllable at a time, until they were ready to hear it. It began with a secret thrill every time the handsome class president in high school passed you in the halls, or when you felt that inexplicable urge to attend the homecoming game—despite how much you hated football—so you might cheer extra hard for the devastating fullback as he scored a touchdown.

  Look!it commanded. Feel! In time it progressed to full sentences: It's all right to touch. Do you like this? It's called pleasure! Only years later did it give rise to the understanding you'd felt all along but simply hadn't realized at the time: the class president had secretly yearned for the hunky fullback until that fateful camping trip and the first drunken bonk! that would resound forever in their imaginations, the unassailable love waiting beneath the palms at the end of the mind.

  At some point every man encounters the specter of these youthful lovers, though never fully measuring up to their ghostly perfection. We live in a world of shadows, Brad thought, recalling desires of his own that he'd long ignored. And then one day, to no one's surprise but yours, you found yourself walking entirely uncloseted and without a second glance over your shoulder into a bar in Provincetown, of all places! The caterpillar's transformation to a butterfly was complete.

  Brad made his way through the Porchside Bar toward the indoor stairway that led to the entrance to Purgatory. In a far corner, Patsy

  Cline crooned an off-hours set. She would serve as his Beatrice, Brad decided, as he descended to the darkened basement.

  Downstairs, a handful of men stood watching a washed-out porn video. Desire lingered in the shadows, afraid to speak its name but unable to leave. Brad's gaze traveled across the room to one of the sexiest men he'd ever seen. With his dark shaggy hair and puppy-dog eyes, wearing only a pair of coveralls that set off his V-shaped chest and sculpted shoulders, he could have been a poster boy for the world's most elite gym.

  Brad winced at the sight. He hadn't been to the gym in a week. He was half convinced his muscles would begin to lose their tone in another day or two at most.

  He wandered over to the bar and took a seat. The bartender acknowledged him with a friendly nod as he polished a glass.

  "What's your pleasure, friend?"

  A night in your arms, Brad thought. "A gin and tonic, please."

  "One G and T, coming up."

  Brad watched the languorous muscles stretch and flex as the bartender prepared his drink. All those hours in the gym just to be able to look like that when you poured booze, he mused. But it was worth it!

  The bartender set a glass filled to the brim in front of him.

  That's a nice tall drink, Brad thought. Just like you.

  "Run you a tab?"

  Brad's eyes traced a vein along the man's forearm, across his shoulder and neck, right up to that winsome face. He could stay there all night watching him move from one side of the bar to the other for as long as he could think of things to order. Perfection was so hard to resist.

  "I'd better pay up now," he said, handing over a bill. "I'm not the sticking-around type."

  The bartender gave a soft laugh. "I've been married to you, then. Several times, in fact."

  Brad watched him turn and glide over to the register where he leaned forward to deposit the bill, his sculpted butt protruding invitingly. That ass, Brad thought, is a work of art.

  The bartender felt Brad's eyes on him. He turned with a smile. There was something about him that reminded Brad of Ross, an amiable playfulness that said,Come closer—but not too close! He sensed something wounded beneath the friendly surface. He'd seen that look before. He was pretty sure he could guess what it was.

  Nimble fingers laid his change out on the bar. Brad pushed it back. "It's yours," he said.

  "Thanks!" The barkeep flashed a devastating smile. "Name's Perry, by the way."

  Bingo! This was the man Cinder had mentioned.

  "Frank," Brad said.

  "You in town for a few days, Frank?"

  "A week or so."

  Brad picked up the glass and sipped. It lay just on the wry side of jet fuel.

  "Whew!" he said. "Can I get a little tonic to go with that gin, Perry?"

  Perry picked up the drink and returned it only slightly watered down. "Funny, you don't look like the easy-over type," he said.

  Sex appeal in spades, Brad thought. "Depends who's doing the flipping," he said with a wink. "But I don't want to kill the night before it's begun. Truth is, I don't get many holidays and I like to remember them when I'm done."

  "Where are you from, Frank?"

  "Little town up north. Nothing to brag about. Haven't been back for a while."

  Perry shrugged. "I hear you. We're all escaping something, and it's usually the past."

  "Here's to escape!" Brad said, raising his glass.

  "What do you do, Frank?"

  "Inventor," Brad answered, knowing how it loosened people's tongues when he gave himself an interesting profession.

  "Cool!"

  Their conversation was interrupted by the approach of another customer, a baby-faced cowboy in training. The young man had that small-town gay-boy-becoming-a-man look of being slightly unsure how things worked. He could be staying at Romeo's Guesthouse right now, Brad thought, enjoying his first time ever in the gayest place on earth.

  The boy stared at Brad and the bartender in turn. Perry popped the top off a b
eer and pushed it along the bar, taking his cash without any interest. The boy's open face said he knew what he wanted but was unsure how to get it. He drank and wiped the foam from his mouth with the back of his hand.

  I'll bet he's a Hoosier, Brad thought, remembering a fond encounter with an Indiana native and his lasso one winter's night.

  The boy's gaze got stuck on Perry as he turned to go back to the far end of the room. Every few feet he looked over his shoulder to see if the handsome bartender would return his attention.

  "Beautiful kid," Brad offered when he'd gone.

  Perry smirked. "You can have him. I've had my fill of beautiful young men."

  "I guess it's pretty much the same thing day in and day out around here," Brad said. "One beautiful guy after another."

  "You got that right," Perry replied.

  "I've met a few of them myself," Brad said. "In fact, the last time I was in town I had my heart broken by one of the best. Some guy who said he lived here, actually."

  Perry's face showed interest. "Yeah? Who was that? I might know him. You get to know everybody after awhile. There aren't that many of us townies."

  Brad frowned. "You'd think I could remember his name, but after he dumped me I tried hard to forget it."

  Perry laughed. "That bad, huh?"

  Brad shook his head. "Naw, it's not coming to me. All I remember is that he worked at some swank guesthouse out near the dunes."

  Perry's eyes flickered. "Lotta guesthouses in town," he said with a shrug.

  "Yeah, but this one was special. It had no address."

  Perry's ears twitched, as though he'd heard something at a distance.

  "Ever hear of a really elite place out by the dunes?"

  Perry frowned. "As I said, there're a lot of different places in town. It could be any one of them."

  "Actually, I think I remember the guy's name... Ross Something-or-other."

  Perry looked blankly at him.