“I did?”
“In front of his building.”
“Oh, that. Yeah, wel, sure, I saw you and al,” I lied again, “but, you know, I didn’t think, wel, did you?”
“Come on,” Randy said, extending his hand. “Let’s get that drink.”
Fol owing Randy to the gym’s cafe, I tried not to be distracted by two things: 1. his admission that he had been to Al en’s apartment on the night of his death, and 2. his perfect, muscular ass. Focus, Kevin, focus.
We ordered protein shakes (I hadn’t actual y done any working out, so I got the best-tasting and least healthy one), and sat in a booth.
Randy started. “So, do you real y think I kil ed Al en?”
I didn’t know what to say, so I took a long sip of my shake. Stal ed. But Randy just waited.
“Wel,” I said, “no, of course not.”
“But you’ve seen me pretty angered up, right?” He was referring to the night he almost beat a deaf guy to death on my behalf.
“Were you angry at Al en?”
“Maybe I should be charging you for this information.” Randy grinned. “You know my time is costly, right?”
I took a dol ar out of my pocket and slid it to him.
“Nice, try, creampuff. I was thinking more along a trade.” Randy’s foot, which he managed to slip out of his sneaker, landed in my lap. “Maybe take it out on your ass. You look real sexy in that little pair of underwear you’re wearing.” He slipped the dol ar into his bag.
Once a hustler, always a hustler, I thought. Not that I was throwing any stones.
“It’s not underwear,” I said, trying to ignore his toes scraping up and down my crotch. “They’re gym shorts.”
“Look like underwear to me.”
“My mother said the same thing.”
Randy’s foot began tapping against my bal s. I felt myself start to swel.
“Your mother?”
“It’s a long story. She’s kind of living with me now.”
This revelation was so startling that Randy stopped moving his foot.
“You’re kidding, right?”
“I wish.”
“Poor little dude.” Randy looked genuinely sympathetic. “You got yourself a whole world of troubles, don’t you?”
I nodded.
“Wel, then, I guess I’l stop torturing you.” He smiled, evil y. “Unless you like to be tortured, little dude.” He started with the foot-tapping again. “A little teasing. You like that? You like to be teased, little dude? It feels like you do.” His voice was getting a little husky.
I was ful y hard now. I knew he knew it, too. Damn, he was good at this.
“You know how much I like you, Randy.” I decided a little flattery might help me get the subject back where I wanted it. “Damn, you’re like the hottest guy I’ve even been with. I know Al en thought so, too. He never stopped thanking me for referring you.”
That stopped the foot again. “Al en,” Randy said.
“That is some fucked up shit.”
When in doubt, plunge right in. “So, what were you doing there that night?” I asked.
“Al en and I had a date,” Randy said.
I remembered the Budweiser I’d seen in Al en’s refrigerator. It was for Randy! But he also had two wine glasses set out. So he must have been expecting someone else.
“How was it?” I asked.
“How was what?” Randy looked puzzled. Wel, he looked more puzzled. He always looked a little puzzled.
“The date.”
Randy started the whole foot-rubbing thing again.
“What are you, the cops?” He pressed against me.
“Is this your nightstick?”
I let out a smal moan.
Randy grinned.
“Come on, man,” I said.
“You want more, baby?” Randy purred. “I could eat you up real good. Let me take you home and lay you out like lunch.”
Randy was distracting me with his food fetishes again, but also with that damn foot and the sexy huskiness of his voice. What were we talking about again?
“Or I could just do you right here,” Randy continued. “Slip right under this table and pul down those little white briefs you’re wearing. Take you in my mouth. Would you like that, baby? Think anyone would notice? Think they’d watch? Bet that would make it even hotter.”
I was about to lose al conscious thought when I realized what Randy was doing.
I sat back, pul ing away from him.
“You’re hustling me,” I told him.
“Huh?” Randy looked
I looked at him angrily. “You’re playing me. Dirty talk and that sexy whisper and that tricky little foot of yours. I’m not one of your customers, Randy.”
Randy’s face crumpled like a little boy’s, “I’m just doing what guys like me do, Kevin. Don’t you like it?”
“Of course I like it. But I’m not here for a goddamn foot job. I came here as a friend.”
“Why?”
“Because Al en was my friend, too, Randy.
Something terrible happened to him and I just want to know what it was.”
“You real y cared about him,” Randy said.
I nodded.
Randy looked even sadder. “I did, too, Kevin. He wasn’t like the other guys. He would talk to me, you know. He always wanted to know how I was, if I was taking care of myself. He used to try to teach me stuff, about investing, shit like that. Told me I had to think about my future. He always wanted to help me, you know?”
I nodded again.
“But of course, I never took him up on it, right? Big stupid Randy. Al muscles and cock and no fucking brain. That’s what everyone thinks, right? Wel, you know what? They’re right. That’s me, always thinking about the next workout, the next trick, the next hit.”
“I don’t think you’re stupid, Randy.” I wasn’t exactly lying, either. Randy had people smarts. He knew how to play them. And it’s not easy to be one of the hottest hustlers in a big city. Randy knew how to work it.
“I don’t think Al en did, either,” Randy said. He let out a big sigh. “So, what do you want to know?”
“How was your date with Al en that night?”
“We didn’t have it.”
Now it was my turn to look confused. “But you told me you did.”
“I did. Have it, I mean. But I didn’t have it. I mean, I had just gotten to his building when he cal ed me on my cel to cancel.”
“That wasn’t like him.”
“No. But he said something came up and he couldn’t see me. He said if it didn’t go wel, it might only take a minute, but he was hoping it would take a lot longer. He didn’t want me to wait.”
“It must have been important for him to cancel you at the last minute like that.”
“Yeah, that’s what I figured. So, I went down the street and had a coffee for awhile and then decided maybe I’d go by his building and give him a cal — see if his meeting was over. You know Al en-he said he’d pay me for my time. I’d’a taken the money, but I thought maybe if he was available I’d go earn it, too.”
“And when you got back to his building…”
“That’s when I saw him. Al laid out like that. Al broken.” Randy’s face crumbled again. “And I saw you, too. I almost went over to you, but I didn’t want to have to explain to the cops what I was doing there, you know?”
“Yeah, that might have been awkward.”
“Plus, you were talking to that super-hot cop, and I didn’t want to crash your party.”
He was talking about Tony. “Yeah, wel, that party was over a long time ago. But I understand why you stayed back.”
“I real y am sorry for you,” Randy said. “I mean, Al en was my best customer, but I know he was your best friend. I think it’s great that you’re doing this for him. Trying to figure out what happened. I’m sorry I was such an asshole before.”
“You weren’t an asshole, Randy. You were just doing what you do.
And it’s not like I hated it,” I couldn’t help adding.
“Oh yeah.” Randy grinned. “Wel, the offer for a little under-the-table action is stil out there, baby.”
“Maybe some other time.” I smiled back. I was about to say goodbye when I suddenly thought of something.
“Listen, you said that Al en cancel ed because something came up, right?”
Randy nodded.
“And then you said you came back because you thought his meeting might be brief-he did say he was meeting someone, right?”
“Yeah, he said someone had just cal ed and said it was real y important that they talk. ‘In person.’ I remember he used that phrase. He said he didn’t know how it was going to go, though. That’s why he didn’t know how long he’d be.”
“He didn’t say who it was, did he?”
“Yeah, he did.” Randy said. “It was his son.”
“His son!” I shouted. The guys at the next booth turned to look at us. I repeated myself more quietly.
“His son. Did he say which one?”
“Did he have more than one?”
“Why didn’t you tel the cops?”
“How would I have explained what I was doing there?”
I knew the feeling. “Got ya.”
“You’re not gonna tel them, are you?”
I ran my fingers over my chest. “Cross my heart.”
Randy’s foot found its way back into my lap.
“So, what do you say?” he asked. “Do I stil get to sink my hot dog into your toasty buns?”
I stood. As much fun as Randy would be, his revelations inspired me to a different kind of action.
“Not this time, Randy. Can I take a rain check?”
“A check? Naw. You know I only take cash, Kevin.”
“I knew it!” Freddy screamed when I told him about Randy’s revelation. “I knew it was one of those freaky kids of his. It had to be the big one, the religious nut.
Michael. That other one couldn’t throw a basketbal off a balcony, let alone a grown man.”
We were sitting in Freddy’s office, where I headed immediately after my conversation with Randy. I couldn’t wait to tel Freddy my news in person.
“And I’m so proud of you,” Freddy said, ruffling my head. “Charlie’s littlest Angel, Although in the future, I’d prefer if you didn’t come to my office in your underwear. People talk, you know.”
“It’s not underwear,” I protested. “Oh, never mind about that. Al en hadn’t spoken to either of his sons in years. Why would one of them been going over there?”
“Maybe he just wanted to get in there so he could give his dad an impromptu flying lesson.”
I grimaced.
“Sorry about that,” Freddy continued. “But real y, maybe it was al just a setup.”
“Maybe,” I said. “So, what next?”
“Now, I think you cal Tony and tel him what you learned.”
“I’m not speaking to him.”
“Honey, this isn’t a lover’s spat. You have ‘material information in a homicide’. Wel, a possible homicide. I think that’s how they’d describe it on CSJ.”
“And how would I explain how I’d come across this
‘material information,’ huh? Without compromising me or Randy, that is?”
“You haven’t told Tony what you do for a living?”
“Hel, no!”
“Oy,” Freddy sighed. “Then I guess it’s back to Square One: We’re just going to have to solve this case ourselves.”
I sighed. Freddy was enjoying this.
“We need to get a better read on Michael.”
Freddy typed something into his computer. “OK, here’s the schedule for the Center for Creative Empowerment Therapy. And look-tomorrow they’re having a free seminar.” He read on. “Oh, this is too perfect.”
“What is?”
“The seminar. ‘Flight from Homosexuality.’”
“You shitting me?”
“No, and listen to this: ‘Flight from Homosexuality is about breaking the dysfunctional patterns that bind you from leaping boldly into a brand new life. This seminar is the perfect jump-start for those of you brave enough to boldly spring out of the death-style of homosexuality and into the promise of a healthier lifestyle.’”
“‘ Flight from homosexuality,’” I repeated. “Leaping boldly?”
“Don’t forget ‘jump- start,’” said Freddy.
“Kind of heavy on the whole flying metaphor, isn’t it?”
“And kind of coincidental for a guy whose dad supposedly threw himself off a building.”
Shit. This was al getting very complicated again.
“Oh, and look,” Freddy enthused. “Michael Harrington himself is running the workshop. Talk about a hot ticket.”
“So,” I said, “wil you go with me tomorrow?”
“Honey,” Freddy grinned, “I wouldn’t miss it for the world. That hunky white boy’s gonna teach this little fairy how to fly!”
I walked home from Freddy’s office, ignoring the catcal s and come-ons that my skimpy outfit encouraged.
I had a 2:00 date with a regular. That gave me two hours to kil. I decided to go to the gym and run home for a shower. At least I’d feel clean.
Dudley Chambers was one of the top psychiatrists in the entire city-not a bad achievement in a town with almost as many shrinks as taxis. Every month, I’d sit under the handsome fifty-something-year-old doctor’s desk and jerk him off while he participated in the board of director’s conference cal of the North American Analysts for the Advancement of Psychoanalytic Psychotherapy. That name was more than a mouthful, as was his dick, which must have topped nine inches.
With a cock like that, he real y didn’t need to pay for sex, but I wasn’t about to tel him that.
“I swear,” Dr. Chambers said, as he hung up the phone and scooted back to zip up his pants. “Your kind ministrations are the only things that get me through those excruciating cal s. Imagine, seven pseudo-intel ectuals who get paid al week to listen.
By the time they get on the phone, they are so pent up they just can’t shut up. They real y should find a healthier outlet for al those repressed feelings.” He patted my head. “Like I do.”
I grinned.
“Come sit up here, sweetheart,” he said, pointing to his lap. “Tel me what’s up with you.”
“Do you have a minute?” I asked.
“More than that, dear. And anything you have to say wil be more interesting than the posturing of those solipsistic bores I just escaped.”
I told him about how a friend had become involved with The Center for Creative Empowerment Therapy, and about their promises that they could convert gay people to be straight.
“A dreadful sham, it is.” Dr. Chambers shook his head. “Yes, some smal percentage of gay people want very much to change, but why is that, my dear?
Because they’re il? Sick? Of course not! It’s because society puts such burdens on them, because they’re not strong enough to build a life for themselves. Any decent therapist, even one unfortunate enough to work at something cal ed The Center for Creative Empowerment Therapy, would help such an individual to live a life congruent with his natural orientation.
“But some charlatans exploit these poor, tortured souls and take advantage of their desperation. They peddle false ‘cures,’ impossible ‘conversions.’ They push religion or psychiatry as tools to pervert the natural self.
“And what tools do they use? They inflict shame upon their clients, teach them to hate themselves.
How else could you get someone to repress something as basic as whom they’re born to love?”
Dr. Chambers scooted me off his lap and went to his bookshelf. “You should give this to your friend,” he said, handing me a copy of Wayne Besen’s Anything but Straight: Unmasking the Scandals and Lies Behind the Ex-Gay Myth. “It exposes these frauds for the sick, self-hating bastards they are.”
“Self-hating?” I asked him.<
br />
“Often,” said Dr. Chambers. “Many of these supposed therapists claim to be
‘ex-gay’ themselves. They can only justify their own cognitive dissonance by trying to convert others to their own internalized loathing. If the ‘patient’ buys their bul shit, they can claim that it ‘works.’If the patient is healthy enough to get the hel out of there, the ‘therapist’ can feel moral y superior. It’s a win-win for these execrable exploiters of their brothers. But you know what they say.” Dr. Chambers sighed.
“Um, misery loves company?”
“No, I was thinking of ‘Life sucks, and so do I.’” Dr.
Chambers sank to his knees. “What say we double your fee?”
If Dr. Chambers gave advice as wel as he gave head, I might have to switch therapists. Feeling significantly more relaxed, and a couple of hundred richer, I hailed a cab and went home.
Should I make it to heaven, I have no doubt that the first meal they serve wil be my mother’s stuffed cabbage. Loading up a second plateful (note to self: double cardio at the gym tomorrow), I tried to remember why I needed her out of my apartment so bad.
Then she started to speak and it al came back to me.
“It’s curtains,” she said, watching with pride as I ate.
“Mmmm,” I said, swal owing. “Curtains for who?”
“Not ‘for who.’ ‘For what.’ Your apartment. I was thinking curtains.”
“I have blinds.”
“Blinds!” my mother repeated, as if I had just uttered a heresy. “Blinds are for doctors’ offices.
Curtains are for a home. You need curtains. And some throw pil ows. Matching. I’m thinking floral.”
“OK, thanks, but I think I’l pass.” I gestured around the room. “It’s fine.”
“My son should be doing better than ‘fine.’ You’re always tel ing me that you’re making good money on your consulting work. Which, by the way, I would like to know a little more about.”
That was an area I real y wanted to avoid.
“I’m real y a blinds kind of person.” I said. “I think curtains and pil ows attract too much dust. I might be al ergic to dust. I’l have to check that out. Besides, I like it the way it is.”
“What’s to like? Inmates have better rooms than this. I feel like I’m in prison here. Where’s the color?
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