Victor J. Banis

by Deadly Nightshade

  He started up the engine, put the car in gear. “Uh, where am I taking us? Your place, right? I’m guessing you don’t want to go to my place again.” Meaning, I don’t think that’s a good idea.

  “My place is fine,” Tom said, and hiccupped.

  “Your place it is,” Stanley said. He wasn’t altogether sure if that idea was any better, though.

  Tom was sober enough, at least, to give him directions. It turned out to be not so far away, on the edge of the Mission.

  “Looks like a rough neighborhood,” Stanley said, parking where Tom told him to, in an alley. Someone had painted a huge mural on one wall of the building, Latino workers in a field. It looked, in the dark, surprisingly good.

  “Nobody bothers me.” Tom reached for the door handle.

  “So, good night, I guess,” Stanley said.

  Tom blinked at him. “Hell, forget it, you’re coming in. We’ll have a nightcap. I’ve got some good bourbon.”

  “I don’t think…” Stanley started to say.

  “Or some colas, if you’re going to be a pussy. Come on. I don’t bite.”

  Stanley got out with some misgivings. Tom weaved a little as he went up the wooden stairs that clung to the outside of the building. Behind him, Stanley was ready to put his hand on Tom’s butt—just to break his fall if he slipped—but they got to the door with no incidents.

  “It’s not much,” Tom said. “Bachelor pad, you know what I mean.”

  Stanley stood inside the door and surveyed the apartment—one big room, really, with a sofa bed, opened flat, sheets and blankets in disarray. There was some kind of kitchenette in one corner, a sink piled high with dirty dishes. An open door gave a glimpse of a bathroom, a big green towel on the floor. There was one window on the far wall, curtainless. Stanley walked to it and looked out. It opened onto an alley with a blank brick wall opposite.

  “Home sweet home,” Tom said. “I’ll bet you think I’m some kind of slob, don’t you? I’m not much of a housekeeper.”

  “You need someone to do it for you,” Stanley said without thinking, and was sorry the minute the words left his mouth. “Probably you should have a wife, I mean,” he stammered. “Some guys do better with a woman to look after them.”

  “Nah, I went that route,” Tom said. “Didn’t work.” Stanley turned from the window. Tom took a step toward him. “Don’t need a wife. Just someone to, you know, take care of things for me.” He grinned, a lopsided, drunken kind of grin. “How’d you feel about that?” he asked in a lower voice, hoarse, almost a whisper. Like he was having trouble getting the words out.

  “Being your housemaid? Gee, Tom, that sounds like a real thrill. My heart is beating faster just thinking about it.”

  Another step. “I wasn’t thinking about the house cleaning stuff,” voice lower still. “Besides, well, there might be some bonuses with it. If you were a good little maid. Did all your duties.”

  Tom started to lean toward him, pulled back slightly, and then hesitated, looking totally confused, like he was not sure what he’d gotten himself into. After a long, strange pause, both of them just staring at one another in uncertainty, neither of them sure what to say, Tom turned away and went to the mini stereo atop the dresser. He shuffled through some CDs, inserted one. A woman’s voice, smooth, honeyed, filled the room.

  “Who’s this?” Stanley asked, not so much caring as wanting to break the tension.

  “Maxine Sullivan.”

  Tom came back to where Stanley stood, watching him with a puzzled expression. He took Stanley’s hand in his, put his other hand on Stanley’s waist and—this surprised Stanley even more than everything else that had happened between them—began to dance, turning Stanley slowly about the room. He smiled at Stanley’s astonishment, looking comfortable and confident for the first time since they had arrived at the apartment.

  “I’ll bet you’d never have guessed I was a dancer,” he said.

  “No, honestly, I wouldn’t.” Stanley felt clumsy. His feet didn’t seem to want to move the right way, but Tom might not even have noticed. He pulled Stanley closer. Seemingly of its own accord, Stanley’s head rested on his shoulder. Tom lips were at Stanley’s ear. He hummed along with the singer.

  Stanley could see why couples had liked to dance this way in the past, slow dancing. It was certainly far more romantic than dancing separately.

  Only, romantic for what?

  Stanley felt as if he had been dropped down in the middle of some foreign country, where he didn’t know the rules, the taboos. With other guys, he knew when to make the moves, when not, he could generally tell pretty easily. But, with Tom, it was like a game he’d never played before. Obviously, Tom was horny. And, just as obviously, he had gotten drunk deliberately because, for some guys, this kind of thing was easier to handle when you were drunk.

  Or, the idea of it was easier to deal with, anyway, and sometimes, even drunk, they didn’t really want to go beyond the idea stage. Besides, this dancing together stuff felt more like some kind of courtship thing, not a lead in to a blow job.

  Oh, fuck it, Stanley thought grimly, suddenly tired of the games. He lifted his face, went for Tom’s mouth, touched it lightly with his own lips, just brushing it, and when Tom didn’t pull away, kissed him for real.

  The usually very aggressive Tom didn’t protest, didn’t object or pull away. He just stopped dancing, went totally passive, like he’d surrendered. He let Stanley kiss him, long, hard, let himself be guided backward to the sofa bed, staggering slightly and falling heavily onto it. He lay back, eyes closed, saying nothing, lifted his hips enough to help Stanley slide his jeans down, again for his boxers—and that was it.

  It lasted not even a minute. Stanley had just taken it in his hand, marveling once again at the size, the beauty of it, and Tom gave a series of violent convulsions, his dick jumping frantically in Stanley’s hand, and this great eruption of come exploded out of it, shooting so high into the air it seemed it surely must drench the ceiling. It splashed in great puddles across his heaving belly, Stanley’s hand, the bed sheets.

  It had barely finished shooting before Tom pushed his hand away as if he were angry and wordlessly began to rearrange his clothes. Stanley moved to help him, but again Tom shoved his hand aside.

  “It’s okay,” Stanley said. “It was going to happen. That first time just about guaranteed it would happen again. Hell, it’s been happening since the first day. No point in kidding ourselves.”

  “I’ll drive you home,” Tom said, standing, tucking his shirt into his pants, not looking at him. Almost, but not quite surly.

  “No, that’s okay, I’ll get a cab,” Stanley said with a sigh.

  “I can drive you.”

  “Aren’t you drunk?”

  Tom did look at him then, long and hard. “Yeah, you’re right, I am,” he said. “Real drunk.”

  “I rather thought so.”

  “Look, you take the car, okay,” Tom said. “You can pick me up tomorrow for a change.” He stumbled across the room, fell face down onto the bed, passing out.

  Stanley stood for a moment, staring at him, thinking about going to the bed and climbing in with him, taking Tom’s pants off again, taking everything off, his own clothes as well. And this time, Tom had shot his load so suddenly, there not only hadn’t been time to really look him over, there hadn’t even been any opportunity to savor the experience. So much for Mister I-Can’t-Come.

  Tom shifted one leg in his sleep, moaned faintly. In his mind’s eye, Stanley saw him, stretched out as he was now, but totally, splendidly naked. He imagined himself just sitting on the floor next to him, feasting his eyes.

  Or, maybe he’d run his hands over him, massage him like that other time. He remembered the bones of his spine and the muscles, like bands of iron, that stretched across his back. The hard roundness of his buns and the deep valley…

  Right now, though, Tom was angry with himself. Probably with me, too. Stanley swallowed hard and decided against doin
g anything more. Bad enough he and his cop partner were fooling around together and couldn’t seem to help themselves. The last thing they needed was a physical altercation, a drunken Tom taking a punch at him. Which was the sort of thing that could happen in situations like this.

  Anyway, what he wanted was not just the opportunity to suck Tom’s dick yet again, or even to kiss him, though that was closer to the mark than the other stuff. Just to hold him—or, to have Tom hold him—that would have been nice. Like a couple. Like two guys who were, if not in love, sharing something at least, something tender and sweet.

  “Well, good night, then,” he said. “Unless,” he couldn’t resist adding hopefully, “like, you wanted me to stay.”

  For an answer, Tom began to snore.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Tom was in the shower when Stanley let himself in the next morning. Stanley emptied the grocery bags, found a skillet that didn’t look too poisonous and washed a couple of plates. Breakfast was cooking by the time the shower stopped running.

  The bathroom door flew open and a naked Tom, still dripping wet, burst out of the room. ‘“What the hell…?” he demanded, and stopped.

  “Good morning, sunshine,” Stanley said, smiling brightly over his shoulder. After all his fantasies of how Tom looked naked, he couldn’t bring himself to ogle, took no more than the briefest of glances before he looked away. “Oh, if you’re wondering how I got in, the apartment key was on the ring with the car keys.”

  “This is getting to be a habit, isn’t it?” Tom said, and added, looking a bit embarrassed, “breakfast, I mean.”

  “In my experience, men have two states of mind. If he’s not showing a boner, fix him breakfast.”

  Involuntarily, both of them looked at Tom’s crotch. His morning erection was still half in evidence.

  “You’re all wet,” Stanley said, turning quickly back to the stove.

  Tom seemed to notice that for the first time. “Yeah. I should get a towel.” After a moment, he added,

  “Plus I ought to cover myself up, I guess.”

  “I’ve already seen it,” Stanley said without looking. “If you’re thinking about preserving your modesty you’re a little late.”

  “Yeah, well…” Tom blushed again and went to the closet, rattled some hangers and finally found a wrinkled bathrobe, dark and light blue stripes, in a pile on the floor. While he was bending down, Stanley stole a quick peek at his backside— now there’s a serious breakfast—and looked away before Tom glanced suspiciously in his direction.

  Tom slipped into the bathrobe, tied it at the waist. “Don’t want to scare the neighbors. Listen, about last night…”

  “You were drunk,” Stanley said. “We both were.”

  “You were drinking sodas all night.”

  “There’s different ways of getting drunk. Here.” Stanley shoved a plate at him.

  “You do bacon and eggs a lot.”

  “It’s about the extent of my culinary skills. The sort of thing you learn when you make a habit of taking guys home at night. Eat.”

  Tom sat and began to eat, and paused to look up at Stanley. “You’re not eating. Oh—you had breakfast already, is that what you’re going to say?”

  “Late supper. And it got spilled. I stopped for a doughnut on the way.”

  “Huh,” Tom said. He thought for a moment, chewing silently. “I don’t get it, all this waiting on me. It’s just a dick, Stanley, it isn’t…”

  “Eat,” Stanley said again, more forcefully. He pulled out a chair and sat opposite Tom. “Can you eat and think at the same time?”

  “Is that a joke or something?”

  “Sorry. I meant, let’s talk about our case. We’re getting nowhere, it seems to me.”

  Tom thought for a moment about pursuing the subject of last night’s activities, and thought better of it, not sure what he’d want to say anyway. “I don’t know,” he said, picking up on Stanley’s cue, “We’ve established that it’s a serial killer. A drag queen. Picks guys up at random.”

  He paused, ate a piece of bacon in two bites. “Only, that Hartman thing, it doesn’t exactly seem like a random, does it? I mean, he was kind of a regular at that club. This Tanya, she must have seen him there before the night she picked him up. And he was the first. That’s where it all starts.”

  “So, why him? I mean, what do we know about Hartman except that he had an enormous wienie, bigger than yours, even, and God knows yours is a beaut, and…” He paused, his eyes going wide. “Damn. What am I saying?”

  Tom paused, his fork halfway from plate to mouth. “What,” he said. “You don’t think I’ve got a beaut? I thought you liked it—”

  “No. I mean, yes, that isn’t what I was thinking about. Where’s that tape?

  “—the way you’re all the time after it and… What, you mean the surveillance tape, from the bar? It’s at the station.”

  “No, the other one. When we were interviewing our first witness, Acheson. I taped everything. Hold on. I think I’ve got it in the car.” He went out and was back in a few minutes with an audio tape. “Have you got a player?”

  “There’s one in the closet, there, on the shelf.”

  Stanley went to the closet, rooted around among some boxer shorts covered in little red hearts. Cute—he resisted the temptation to check if they were clean, aware that Tom was watching him; probably, he wouldn’t take kindly to having his underwear sniffed, men could be so touchy—and came back with a mini tape player.

  He set it on the table between them.

  Tom cleaned up the last of his eggs with the toast, popped it all in his mouth. “So?” he said.

  “So, that’s really the only thing we know about Hartman that seems to have any relevance to the case, isn’t it? He picked Tanya up at Carla’s Web, and you couldn’t walk in there and not know it was a drag club.

  Anyway, it wasn’t the first time he’d even been there. Same with Patterson, I mean, it might have been his first time, but, hell, even that homeless guy knew Tanya was a drag queen.”

  He pushed the play button on the recorder. Tom shoved his plate aside, leaned back in his chair to listen.

  Stanley’s voice came out of it, unreal sounding, asking questions. Acheson answering, Gaye Dawn making an occasional muffled remark in the background.

  “There,” Stanley said, hitting pause. He gave Tom a triumphant look. “What’s the oldest rule in crime detection?”

  “Don’t eat where you shit?”

  Stanley made a grimace. “That is so fucking butch, honestly, I think I just came in my drawers.”

  “Well, what then?”

  “Cherchez la femme.”

  Tom gave him a disgusted look. “Oh, man, fuck, I let you suck my cock two lousy times—”

  “Once. Last night doesn’t count, I barely got my hand on it.”

  “—and now you’re going all artsy fartsy on me with the foreign language crap. What is that, fucking Italian?”

  “French. It means, find the woman.”

  “Find the woman. Shit, that’s what we’ve been trying to do, isn’t it?”

  “Is it?”

  “Isn’t it?”

  Stanley looked around the kitchen. “You really must do something about the echo in here. No wonder my Un Bel Di sounded off pitch last night.”

  “Stanley, cut the gay shit. I’m straight, remember.” He looked a trifle abashed. “I mean, last night—that didn’t mean anything. We were both drunk.”

  Stanley let that pass. For the moment, he had more important things on his mind. “What I’m saying is, we haven’t been trying to find the woman, we’ve been trying to find the drag queen.”

  “So? That’s what the woman is, in this case.”

  “Think, Tom. Acheson, standing at his window, waiting for the show to begin, he says he heard Hartman say…?” He tilted an eyebrow up.

  “He heard him say, ‘Hey, you’re not a real woman.’”

  “Wrong.” Stanley played the tape ag
ain. Acheson’s voice, sounding tinny. “I heard him say, ‘Hey, you’re not a real woman.’”

  “You’re not a real woman,” Stanley’s voice on the tape repeated.

  “Right. Well, what he said was, ‘You’re not a real…” and that’s when she shot him. There was this noise, anyway, I didn’t realize at first it was a gunshot. It was kind of muffled, you know.”

  Stanley paused the tape again. “Hartman didn’t say, ‘you’re not a real woman.’ She shot him before he finished the sentence. We were just finishing the sentence for him, Acheson and me both, because that was what we expected him to say. But he never finished the sentence, never said a real what.”

  Tom shook his head. “I don’t get it. What are you trying to say? Of course he said ‘you’re not a real woman.’ That’s what he was going to say, anyway, before the drag queen shot him. What else could he have been saying?”

  “I’m trying to say, there are men who can’t handle getting it on with another man, but it’s okay with a drag queen—remember, it’s what Lola said—they can do it with a drag queen because she looks like a woman, she smells like a woman, she dresses like a woman. Think about it, you got turned on yourself the other night, even knowing it was a guy in drag.”

  “I didn’t exactly get turned on. Anyway, I was doped up.”

  “Give it a rest. You could have pole vaulted up and down that alley, the way you were poking out when I came through the door.”

  “Well, fuck, he looked real, didn’t he? I mean, some of them look so much like a woman, you can’t really tell. I mean, if I thought it really was a woman, like, if I didn’t know it was a guy, or, say it was somebody special, say it was, well, maybe somebody I kind of liked, or…” He paused, looked abashed.

  “Someone you liked? Like, who, may I ask?” Stanley’s eyebrows went up. “I hope you were not going to say Gaye Dawn.”

  “Don’t be dumb, of course I wasn’t. I don’t even like Gaye Dawn, I was thinking of, well, in general, was what I meant. Why? What’s this got to do with anything? What’s it got to do with our case?”