Nobody Rides For Free

by Neil S. Plakcy

  “No. Somebody wanted you to act in porn?”

  “You don’t have to look so surprised,” Jonas said. “I was skinnier then and I wasn’t so hairy. Plus, I looked really young. One day—I was fifteen—I was online and I read something about the gay, nude beach at Haulover.”

  I’d been to Haulover Park only once, briefly, because of my fair skin and tendency to burn quickly. I’d walked out to the long sandy beach and past the sign at the northern end that warned novices that they might encounter nudity beyond that point. Most of the men were ones you didn’t want to see naked, but it was still a forbidden thrill to be in the middle of so much casual nudity.

  “You went to a nude beach when you were fifteen?” I asked.

  He nodded. “I hadn’t done anything more than fool around with a friend, and I had this idea that I’d go to the beach and meet some kid like me, and we could be boyfriends.”

  He looked down.

  “I wish I’d had a place like that when I was a teenager back in Scranton,” I said, thinking of myself and Tommy Carlton. “You were lucky.”

  He shrugged. “I took three buses to get there from my house and then I had to walk a long way from the bus stop.” He got a wistful gaze. “It was amazing, Angus. All these naked men. I got hard right away and that made me too scared to pull my clothes off.

  I finally managed to pull my shorts down and lay down on my belly. But almost as soon as I did, this guy came over to me.”

  “Another kid?”

  “An old guy. Now that I think of it, he was probably only in his forties, but he was like my dad’s age and I kind of freaked. He sat down on the sand next to me and started talking. Casual stuff, you know, like what a beautiful day it was, how great it was to go into the water and cool off after lying in the sand.”

  “What did you say?”

  “I didn’t say anything at first. He asked me what my name was, how old I was, where I went to school. Then he asked me if I’d ever wanted to be in movies. He said I had a sweet ass and it was almost a crime not to share it with other guys. I thought he was kidding at first, because I didn’t have muscles or anything, but he was serious. He told me I could make a lot of money to be naked in front of a camera, and he asked me to turn over so he could see me from the front.”

  “Did you?”

  “I told him I didn’t want to because I was hard, and he said that was OK, that I could turn on my side and he’d be the only one to see.” He smiled. “He said all kinds of nice stuff, and he gave me his card and told me that whenever I wanted to make some money, I should give him a call.”

  “Did you?”

  He nodded. “A couple of weeks later. He gave me his address and I said I’d go over there on a Saturday afternoon. I found the right bus route and rode almost all the way there, but at the last minute I chickened out. I wonder what would have happened if I’d had the balls to get off that bus.”

  “I think it took bigger balls to stay on it,” I said. “You realized that you had too much respect for yourself.”

  “That’s nice of you to say, but I was just scared. Though he hadn’t said anything I knew there was going to be more than taking my clothes off for pictures and I wasn’t ready for that.”

  “However it happened, I’m glad you didn’t let someone take advantage of you. This kid wasn’t as strong.”

  I should have hung around the bar for a while longer, asking more guys about local porn producers, but I had triggered something in Jonas and I had a responsibility to look after him. I shifted the conversation to his day at work, and after a while, we walked across the street to a take-out Mexican place. We got a couple of wraps and then drove home and ate at the kitchen table.

  The house we shared was a run-down ranch in a rapidly gentrifying part of Wilton Manors. The huge oak tree in the front yard kept the grass from growing, and the exterior walls were painted puke green, but it was home. Our rent would probably go up a lot when our lease was up, if the landlord didn’t sell the place as a tear-down.

  Inside, the furniture looked like it had either come from a thrift shop, or belonged in one. In the living room there were mismatched metal chairs around a linoleum kitchen table, an overstuffed couch and a couple of easy chairs in the living room, beds and dressers in the bedrooms. At least Jonas had brought an oversized plasma screen TV with him.

  As we ate, we settled down together to watch TV. About halfway through, a commercial came on for a local car dealership called Exotic Imports. The owner was a strange old man with white hair. He had a pet cheetah on a leash. In the ad, he strolled around the lot, pointing out the Jaguars, Ferraris, and Lamborghinis. Sales people stood beside the cars, as if they were ready to sell you one right away.

  Jonas peered forward at the TV and pointed to a tall, dark-haired guy beside a midnight-blue Porsche Spyder. His muscles bulged out of his logo polo shirt. “Look at that guy,” he said. “I’m sure I’ve seen him at the gym. You think he’s gay?”

  “Well, the gym we go to probably has the highest percentage of gay guys of any in town. Why don’t you ask him the next time you see him?”

  “If I do, I’m definitely mentioning this commercial. That’s a good way to start a conversation, right?”

  “Absolutely.”

  I could tell from the glow in my roommate’s eyes that he was already planning his wedding to the hunk—or at least a hot date.

  When I left my bedroom the next morning dressed for the gym, I wasn’t surprised to see that the guy in the commercial had motivated Jonas to accompany me.

  Jonas had never been much of an athlete, and he’d only joined the gym as a way to meet cute, fit guys. Since he rarely exercised, that wasn’t working out for him. But a couple of weeks before, he had started eating a healthy diet—no more late night fast food binges or buckets of fried chicken. The cafeteria at his office building had a good salad bar, and he’d been grazing there at lunch.

  If it took seeing a guy on TV to get him to work out, it was all good, right?

  As Jonas drove us to the gym, he asked, “You want to go to Lazy Dick’s on Saturday night? They’re doing dollar margaritas all night.”

  “I’ll see.” When we walked into the gym, I pointed at the line of machines. “Where do you want to start?”

  He looked around, and then turned back to me. “It’s him!” he said in a loud whisper. “The guy from the commercial. I was right! He’s here!”

  “Put your tongue back in your mouth.” It sure looked like the same guy we’d seen the night before in the Exotic Imports commercial. “Well, you were going to tell him you saw him on TV. Give it a try.”

  Jonas shook his head. “He’d shoot me down.”

  “You never get anything you want if you don’t try. Offer to spot him while he lifts.”

  Reluctantly, Jonas walked over. The guy wore a T-shirt that read RUN MORE THAN YOUR MOUTH in block letters, and his pecs and biceps strained against the fabric. I watched as Jonas approached him and spoke. The guy shrugged, then got down onto the bench and began lifting. Jonas stood beside him as the guy began his reps.

  He had a lot of weight on the bar, and I hoped he wouldn’t need Jonas’s help because I was sure my roommate couldn’t manage it.

  I got onto a treadmill and set the timer. I wasn’t working my upper body much because I still felt the occasional twinge from the muscles damaged when I got shot, and I didn’t want to overdo it.

  As I worked my calves and thighs, I thought about the way Jonas and I had both grown up, and how lucky we’d been.

  My dad had died when I was ten and my brother Danny six, and my memories of him were growing hazier with time. I remembered sitting on his lap with the atlas open, him pointing to all the exotic destinations he wanted to visit. He had a thing for island chains—the Azores, the Seychelles, the Abacos. I hadn’t been to any of those places yet, but I’d gotten out of Scranton, which was more than he’d ever been able to do.

  Once my mom married my stepdad, we moved into
a bigger house where Danny and I each had our own room. We always had food and clothes, and I mowed lawns and washed cars for spending money. I was able to get an academic scholarship to Penn State, where the LGBTA Student Coalition enabled me to come out in a supportive atmosphere, and though my mom and stepdad weren’t thrilled to learn I was gay, they didn’t abandon me or try to force me into therapy. I’d been able to stay in school, thrive, and build friendships and personal relationships that helped me succeed.

  Jonas’s story was similar to mine. His parents were divorced, and he’d come out to his mom when he was in high school. She had immediately joined PFLAG, the group for parents and allies of gay people. He was embarrassed about how enthusiastic she had been, but her support had been crucial to his adjustment.

  What might have happened to me if I hadn’t had the opportunities I had? Suppose my stepdad had discovered I was gay while I was still living under his roof, and he’d kicked me out? Where would I have gone? There weren’t a lot of social services for LGBT teens in Scranton, so I’d probably have gone to either New York or Philadelphia.

  The thought of being an outcast on my own in one of those big cities was frightening. I could have turned to prostitution, been raped, infected with HIV or other venereal diseases, or gotten addicted to drugs.

  That reminded me of the boy who had supplied Brian Garcia with the flakka that caused him to go crazy. Was the kid an addict too? Or part of a supply chain?

  I was getting too depressed, so I put my ear buds in and zoned out to Survivor’s “Eye of the Tiger.” I was a tiger, strong and smart and tenacious. I was going to find that kid and from him whoever was distributing flakka on my turf.

  4.

  Gay Guys Online

  The next morning a stiff wind tossed around the palm trees alongside the highway as I drove the forty minutes south and west to the office. As I drove, I thought about the conversation that I had with Raj the night before. I knew that as kids identified as queer earlier and earlier, they became exposed to other gay kids and adults. That could be negative, because they could be more vulnerable to predators. The adolescent brain isn’t fully formed, particularly when it comes to impulsive behavior and understanding the consequences of actions.

  But it could also be positive, as they could meet role models and have safe spaces to express their feelings. There had to be groups in South Florida that would protect kids the way the ponds and stands of sawgrass, as well as the iron fence and security gates around our office, protected us from terrorist attacks. As soon as I got into my office I began to research services for LGBT teens. Someone at one of those groups might be able to give me a lead on Ohpee—and I knew that if I found the kid, I could find the drugs.

  I called a shelter in Fort Lauderdale that I’d heard of. It was a branch of a national organization, and the guy I spoke with was emphatic that he knew nothing about local porn production. When I asked if I could come speak to the kids staying there, he said, “Privacy is very important to our kids, many of whom are not out to friends or family members. Though I recognize your need, we do not bring in guest speakers.”

  Thanks a lot, I thought.

  I called a couple of other places I found through a resource website for gay teens and got similar responses. The last on my list was a shelter for runaway LGBT teens in Fort Lauderdale called Lazarus Place. From its website, I saw they had a facility off Sistrunk Boulevard near downtown, in the heart of a historically black neighborhood that had suffered a great deal of blight.

  I called the phone number on the website, but got a voice mail system. I left a message, introducing myself as an FBI agent and included my request. I didn’t expect to hear back, but if I didn’t, I’d try again.

  Time for a different approach. The newspapers and TV stations had been all over Brian Garcia's episode. From the reports, I learned that flakka was a man-made drug that had originated in China a few years ago. It was ten times more powerful than cocaine, and simulated the effects of both cocaine and methamphetamine, without the price tag. That’s why it had become so popular with young adults and impoverished addicts.

  One article noted that Broward County was turning into a center for flakka abuse, but there was little more information than that.

  I called Colin Hendricks at the Drug Enforcement Agency and asked if I could come to his office in Weston and talk to him. He agreed, and I drove up I-75 to the building, a generic low-rise sheltered by tall oak trees.

  Hendricks looked much more like an agent that day, in pressed chinos and a long-sleeve dress shirt that covered his tats. “You make any progress?” he asked, as we sat down at his cubicle.

  “I haven’t been able to track down the kid Brian got the flakka from,” I said. “But I’ve got feelers out.”

  “I’ll leave that angle to you, then. You’ve obviously got the inside track. Let me know if you come up with anything.”

  “Can we speak to Garcia yet?”

  Colin shook his head. “Still in the coma while they monitor his body temperature. I’ve spoken to his father who he lived with in Hialeah. The father knew nothing about drug abuse and he admitted that even though they live in the same house, they don’t communicate much. I get the sense the father isn’t happy that Brian is gay, but can’t do anything about it.”

  “Parents never can,” I said. “All they can do is accept and love.”

  “I hear you, brother. Got the father to authorize a search of Brian’s room and the rest of the house, but we couldn’t come up with any drugs. Just a bunch of porn I’m sure he wouldn’t want his father to know about.”

  I nodded. It was one thing to know that your kid was gay, and another entirely to see physical evidence of what kind of practices turned him on.

  “I’ve also been compiling some statistics, looking for patterns,” Colin said.

  “Now you’re talking my language. What did you find?”

  “I noticed an upsurge in incidents involving flakka that began about two months ago,” he said as he turned his computer screen toward me. “I started with arrest reports that included possession of anything that looked like gravel or bath salts.”

  Flakka was often called gravel because it looked like small pebbles or big grains of sand.

  “Then, I started looking for flakka in ER visits at local hospitals. Routine drug testing doesn’t detect it, but doctors are starting to recognize the symptoms of overdoses and use an advanced testing kit to detect it. Then I put each incident onto this map.”

  He pointed at the screen. There was a cluster of dots on the screen—many of them around Holy Cross Hospital—the closest emergency room to Wilton Manors—and others in a rough circle spreading out from that area.

  “Do you have someone undercover in gay bars in the area?” I asked.

  “Not specifically gay bars, but we have agents who work the bars. You think there’s a gay connection here, beyond the kid who gave Garcia the flakka?”

  I pointed at the screen. “An awful lot of these incidents take place in Wilton Manors,” I said. “There’s a big gay population there.”

  “You ever do undercover work?” Colin asked me.

  I shook my head. “And I can’t do it here. My last case outed me as an FBI agent and the red hair makes me pretty visible.”

  He nodded. “I have a guy I can put on it. Thanks for the connection.”

  • • •

  As I drove back to the office I thought about what Hendricks had said. Did I have the inside track because I was gay? Or was it because I’d been following up the chain of e-mails? Was there something in the Hialeah racetrack video I’d be able to spot because I was gay, and because I had my own history of watching porn?

  When I got back to the office I opened the teaser video, but after staring at it for a while, I still had nothing.

  I watched the clip three times, the flamingos taking off over the racetrack, then the quick jump to the locker room as the jockey walked in and began to strip. My eyes were glazing over wh
en I finally paid attention to the picture hanging on the front of one of the lockers.

  It was a bright orange triangle, like a yield sign, only brighter and had big black letters on it that read “Ice and Snow.” The font had mounds of snow on top of each letter, reminding me of the big white drifts that piled up back in Scranton every winter. The words “take it slow” were printed in smaller block letters at the bottom of the sign.

  What an odd picture to hang in a locker room in South Florida. It was very visible—had it been put up specifically for the video shoot? Was it a shout out to people in the Snow Belt? A warning to masturbators to take it slow? Don’t rub your dick too fast or you’ll get friction burns?

  I sat up with a start. What if it was an instruction to viewers to watch the video slowly?

  At Quantico I’d studied a bit of steganography—the science of concealing information in non-secret text, pictures, and videos. There were all kinds of sophisticated mechanisms, but the simplest were to insert coded text in a message header, or intersperse it between the frames of a video.

  I had Microsoft’s Movie Maker software on my computer, and I opened the movie clip in that program so that I could view the individual frames. I flipped through them quickly until one jumped out—a single frame with an orange background and the same font as the one in the image on the wall—black letters with white snow caps.

  At regular speed, the image would have flashed on the screen for a fraction of a second because most digital video was shown at around twenty-four frames per second. So unless you followed the instructions to watch the video slowly, you’d miss it.

  The text read: “FOR MORE BOY LOVE ACTION GO TO” followed by a URL. It was one of those anonymous links with a bunch of letters and numbers. I tried the address, but a password window popped up before I could get any further.

  I tried various combinations of “ice” and “snow” as the password but got nowhere. I kept getting a message that the password was incorrect—but at least I was encouraged to “try again.”