Riptide Rentboys

by Heidi Belleau

  “I’m around most nights. You already know where.”

  “Yes, I suppose I do. That’s not quite what I meant, but . . . oh well, see you then.” Graham was positively dancing with the fidgets now, smoothing his hair, tugging at his moustache, wrenching at his newly fastened tie. Catching Jake’s eyes on him, he flashed a boyish grin. “Sorry, bad habit. The first time with someone new is always nerve-wracking. For all I know, you could be an undercover policeman, all set to arrest me for soliciting or indecency.” And he was off, shrugging into his jacket and checking his mobile for missed calls before he’d even shut the door.

  Left to himself, Jake slouched about tidying up, untying the bedsheets and bagging them up to take home and wash, all the while arguing with himself about whether to go back on the streets. He supposed he should; any chance that Frank Warren might be out there looking for a lad to take home was still a chance, no matter how small.

  Graham was right, though. It was later than he’d realised: his watch said half past three, and by the time he’d locked up and walked back to his corner, it would be nearly four. The clubs mostly shut at half past two, and the last of the stragglers would have long gone home, except for the drunks and the derelicts, and it wasn’t much use looking for Frank Warren amongst them. Even a night owl like him would be tucked between satin sheets, snoozing gently with his head on some other young prostitute’s chest. Added to that, Jake was tired beyond belief, and the sex hadn’t helped. He wrestled with his conscience for half an hour and then gave up. Grabbing the cash Graham had left and the bag of sheets, he phoned for a taxi home.

  Back at his own flat, he couldn’t settle, even though (or perhaps because) he was so tired. He prowled, he paced, he threw himself on the sofa, and two minutes later was back up again to prowl some more. He opened a beer. He took Graham’s cash out of his pocket and put it on the kitchen countertop. He shoved the sheets in the washing machine and switched it on; the neighbours would love that at gone four o’clock, but he didn’t care. At least it was something constructive to do. If only he could go into work, but he couldn’t risk being seen. If only he’d invited Graham back after all. If only Mac were here, cracking jokes and talking through the case.

  Shit! With a jolt, he realised he’d forgotten to phone Mac to let him know he was still alive. It was standard practice in any undercover op. Either Graham or the sex must have affected him more badly than he’d thought.

  He fished for his mobile, which he’d left stuffed in his jacket pocket slung over the arm of a chair. But even as the screen flickered into multi-coloured life, he thought again. It was half past four, for heaven’s sake. Even Mac would have given up and gone home by now. He’d call his mate in the morning and explain—and apologise—then.

  The guilt did nothing for his peace of mind. He opened another beer and switched the telly on, thumbing through channels filled with Z-list movies and dim-witted blondes trying to sell him the latest in high-tech tat. He belched, switched off in disgust, and hurled the remote on the floor.

  He knew what the real trouble was, and it had nothing to do with Graham or Mac. It was the money: those two fifties burning a hole in the kitchen counter—and in the back of his mind. He tried to ignore them, but even when he closed the kitchen door, he could see them sitting there, gloating at him. He knew he should declare the money and hand it in, or at the very worst, give it back. The trouble was, he couldn’t get Mac’s words out of his brain: Could pay off half my mortgage. Even a hundred would keep his bank manager happy for another week, and the best—or worst—thing was that nobody knew. No one had been there but Graham and himself, and Graham wasn’t likely to tell the world he’d paid for sex. Nobody need ever know.

  And yet . . . it went against every grain of who he was, and so he marched back and forth until he’d worn a groove in the carpet and couldn’t stand it anymore. He grabbed the notes, twisting them in his hands as though they were poisonous snakes, took them into the bedroom and flung them in the cabinet drawer. He’d sort it all out in the morning, along with that call to Mac, when his head was clear.

  Buzzzz

  Brrrrrriiiiinnnnng

  Buzzzzz-buzzz-buzzzzzzzzzzz

  Brrrrriiiiinnnnng

  Jake shot up in bed, shocked awake by the twin klaxons of doorbell and alarm. He silenced the clock by throwing it under the bed, then stuffed the pillow over his head and tried to go back to sleep. He’d been dreaming about Mac again, he was sure, and he wanted to recapture the warmth and security of those arms holding him tight. But the insistent din of the doorbell drove a six-inch nail through his skull and couldn’t be ignored. He got up, found a dressing gown, and shuffled off to answer the door.

  “Yeah? Whaddayawant?”

  “My, my, we are in a good mood this morning. Open up, sweet pea, it’s your friendly breakfast delivery man.”

  It was Mac, bearing gifts. Jake grunted, jabbed the button that released the door lock, and staggered into the kitchen to empty the tap and half a bottle of aspirin down his throat. He couldn’t understand why he felt so bad; surely he’d only had the one beer before bed.

  Back in the living room, clutching a glass of water in one hand and his head in the other, his foot knocked against something that chinked. He glanced down and found a neat row of bottles laid out under the coffee table; he counted seven in all. Even assuming one or two were left from a previous night, that still meant . . . He gave up on the maths. It meant he’d had far too much to drink.

  “Morning!” An ear-splitting, if cheery, yell announced Mac’s arrival.

  Jake decided there were times when Mac’s all-round good health and bonhomie were too much to bear. The transition from a docile dream-Mac to the real thing, standing in his kitchen clutching a tray of plastic coffee cups and a paper bag, was even worse.

  “What’s your excuse for being so fucking cheerful?” he growled, and regretted it when he saw the look on Mac’s face.

  “Well, pardon me for breathing. Here, you might as well have a coffee. Looks like you need it.” Mac passed the coffee over and sipped his own before ripping open the bag to reveal Jake’s favourite croissants. “Want one?”

  Jake’s stomach threatened to come out of his ears. “No thanks, not hungry.”

  “Christ, you must have had a session last night. Where the hell did you get to, anyway? I tried to follow the car, but some bugger cut me off in the underpass, and I was halfway to Dudley before I managed to turn round. Then I went to the bedsit, but there was no sign of his car, or any lights in the place, so I assumed you’d managed to get rid of him and went back to your favourite lamppost. But you weren’t there either.”

  “Er, no, I thought at first he might be one of Warren’s men, so I stuck with him just in case.”

  “Yeah? So where did you go?”

  “The bedsit. We parked round the back and I’d probably killed the lights before you turned up. He wanted the full works, so it took some time . . .” It was as much as he could say with Mac, who would support him to hell and back but never wanted the grisly details. Judging by the look of distaste on his partner’s face, he’d already said too much.

  “Hmm. So when did you finish?”

  “I’m, er, not sure exactly, but it was pretty late. About half four.”

  Mac stared at him with amazement. “Have you gone stark staring bonkers, mate? You thought he might be one of Warren’s men, so you spent over two bloody hours with him? Didn’t you think that might be dangerous? Not to mention not calling me to let me know what was going on. I was worried sick, thinking you might be with some nutter and I wasn’t there to help.”

  “Yeah, well, I could hardly phone you while he was there. And he wasn’t anything to do with Warren in the end, so it worked out.”

  “Maybe it did, but no thanks to you. Bloody hell, Jake, I worry about you sometimes.”

  Not half as much as I worry about me, Jake thought as he buried his face in the coffee. It was good—a strong roast without being bitter. Th
at and the water he’d drunk coaxed his brain into working properly again. His partner was right, of course. He had been stupid for letting his own feelings get in the way of the job. Graham could have been the most attractive man on earth, but that wouldn’t make it right to enjoy being with him so much that he forgot about his own safety. This time, he’d got lucky. Next time? Well, if he was that daft again, there might not be a next time.

  “Sorry,” he said, carving grooves in the plastic coffee cup with one thumbnail.

  Mac paused halfway through some rambling tale about what the bloke in the coffee shop had said about the weather forecast for the next few days and how it might affect the job. “Okay. Just don’t do it again.”

  “I won’t.”

  “So, did you get anything on Warren?”

  “Not so much as a sniff. Are we sure he even likes men? I mean, who came up with that nugget of information? I’ve been hanging round like the proverbial wet weekend for days now, and I could be doing my washing for all he seems to care.”

  “Give it time,” said Mac with a grimace. “You know what these jobs are like.”

  But Jake heard the money calling to him, Siren-like, from his bedside cabinet drawer, and wasn’t sure he had the time to give.

  The bloke in the coffee shop must have had a crystal ball. The weather broke in no uncertain terms, days and nights of endless drizzle set in, and Jake got sick of towelling off and combing the frizz out of his hair. He sheltered under trees that dripped down the back of his neck; he loitered under subways, but hated the litter blowing round his ankles and the constant smell of piss. After yet another session spent hunched under the partial shelter of a boarded-up cinema porch, he’d had enough.

  “Sod this for a lark,” he said to Mac. “I’m cold, I’m wet, I’m miserable, and I’m not even achieving anything. This weather’s put everyone off. Can you see Frank Warren pounding the streets in his wellies to pick me up?”

  Mac grinned. “Now that I’d like to see. You’ve got a point, mind you. It’s been the best part of two weeks with no success. What else do you suggest?”

  “I’m going to try the clubs. If he’s anywhere in the gay quarter right now, that’s where he’ll be. At least they’re dry.”

  “If expensive. Okay, I’ll run it past the inspector, see what he says.”

  “Even he can’t grumble at the price of a few drinks and an entrance fee or two. Not if it gets results.”

  He wasn’t entirely right. According to Mac, the inspector grumbled long and hard, but in the end, he couldn’t think of a single reason why Jake shouldn’t continue to stalk their prey indoors.

  “Thank Christ for that,” said Jake, chucking his latest towel in the general direction of Mac, who fielded it one-handed and tossed it on the floor. “I’ll start at the Blue Baboon.”

  The city’s gay clubs were clustered around a shopping-and-restaurant mall that had been built about thirty years ago and had fallen in and out of favour with the public several times since. There was a cinema, a casino, and a huddle of shops and bars, all cheek-by-jowl with Chinatown, which made for an interesting mix. Forbidden love and the Forbidden City side by side, as Mac had once said. It wasn’t strictly accurate, because homosexuality had been legal since the sixties, and the last restaurant of that name had closed down years ago, but Mac never let details stand in the way of a good phrase.

  The Blue Baboon wasn’t the club’s real name. It was really the Club Paradiso, but the sign outside featured a neon monkey which flashed on and off in a hideous shade of blue. The locals had taken one look and christened it anew, and the Blue Baboon had stuck.

  “Of course, there is just one problem,” Mac said halfway through the journey from Jake’s flat into town. He’d offered Jake a lift, and Jake had leapt at the chance. He couldn’t do it regularly because being dropped off by the same bloke night after night would look odd, but it saved him the taxi fare.

  “What’s that?”

  “No surveillance. We picked that street because of the flat above the corner shop. I know I can’t watch you all the time, but at least it gave me some idea what was going on.”

  Jake paused. His partner was right; doing this at all was bad enough, but doing it without Mac’s steady gaze on his back was worse. “I can look after myself,” he said at last, but knew he sounded unconvinced. What if Frank Warren picked him up tonight and Mac wasn’t there to report on where he’d gone? What if there was someone worse than Frank? He might be an experienced officer who could look after himself, but working without backup filled him with dread. It’s only what you did with that bloke Graham the other night, a little voice whispered in his head. But that had been different, hadn’t it? He’d felt able to be creative precisely because Mac was watching his back.

  Mac glanced at him as they pulled up at a set of traffic lights. “I’m sure you can, sweet pea. The question is, should you have to?”

  “You could always come in with me, if you want to hold my hand.”

  That got a grin. “I might just do that, mate. ’Specially as this is your first time.”

  It wasn’t Jake’s first time in a gay club, not by a long way, but he kept quiet. They parked in the multi-storey attached to the mall, finding a space at a popular time of night by going to the top and leaving the car outdoors. Jake vaulted straight out into a puddle and swore as the water splashed his newest jeans. Mac just sniggered.

  Inside the club was the usual mix of pounding rock music, oiled bodies on podiums, and a giant bar done out in yet more hideous shades of blue. Jake felt relieved there were no baboons in here, at least until he looked at some of the clientele. Fat blokes in straps seemed to be much in evidence, and with a sinking heart, he realised the Baboon was having a leather night. He hadn’t thought and hadn’t prepared; his jeans and clingy T-shirt looked thoroughly out of place.

  He and Mac had come in side by side, but his mate had disappeared into the heaving, milling throng. He peered around, but the disconcerting strobe lights made it impossible to see, or at least to make sense of what he saw. Disembodied faces loomed out of sudden shadows, bodies moved from where he could swear they’d just been. He shrugged, told himself Mac could also look after himself, and tacked through the crush to the bar.

  “What’ll it be?” a cute but perspiring barman yelled.

  Jake wasn’t surprised he was harassed, because men were ordering drinks as though tomorrow might never come. He fought with himself. Technically he was on duty, but he’d look less out of place with a glass in hand. He ordered a half pint of the weakest beer he knew and leaned back against the bar to watch the fun. After five minutes, there was still no sign of Mac, and he wondered whether he ought to be concerned. After ten minutes, the music stopped in a sudden, deafening pause as one DJ left and another took control. The Red Sea of bodies on the dance floor swirled and parted, and through the gap he saw . . . not Mac as he’d half expected, but Graham.

  He choked on his beer. Of all the coincidences in the world . . . although when he thought about it, perhaps it wasn’t such a coincidence after all. There weren’t that many clubs to choose from; it was only a matter of time before two previously acquainted gay men ended up in the same one.

  Surprise and pleasure fired twin bolts straight to his groin, and he felt his cock stir against the confines of his jeans. Then the sheer bloody awkwardness of the situation hit him over the head. Mac was still here somewhere, and Mac had seen Graham, albeit distantly and through a car window, the other night. If Mac saw them together again, he might suspect there was something going on, and Jake knew from past experience that Mac was to suspicions as a dog was to a bone. If only Graham didn’t see him or recognise him through the throng. If only Graham’s eyesight were crap, and he couldn’t spot faces that far away. The second DJ was putting his headphones on. Any minute now, the music would start again, and the Red Sea would come together and hide him from sight. Any minute now . . .

  Too late. Graham glanced across to the bar, and J
ake saw the instant of realisation written on his face. A sudden smile, a half-lift of his arm as though to wave, and the inexorable movement of his feet. He shook his head, desperate to put the guy off, but the DJ chose that moment to start the music again, and Graham disappeared from sight.

  “Bugger it,” Jake muttered under his breath. He considered his options, but he didn’t have many. He could leg it before Graham got here, but that would look weird. Or he could stay, make his excuses with a smile, and pray that Mac stayed vanished for another minute or five. The gods didn’t usually listen to his prayers, but perhaps this time, just for once, seeing as it was work . . .

  Graham reappeared from the crowd, disconcertingly near, and leaned in close to make himself heard. “Fancy meeting you here.”

  “Yeah. Small world.” This close, the bolts of attraction were back, and he had to fight not to show it on his face. It’s just work, he told himself and squashed any personal feelings beneath one cowboy-booted foot.

  “I didn’t know they did leather nights, did you? I’m not exactly dressed for it.” Sure enough, Graham was wearing jeans and a shiny blue shirt. Jake didn’t think it did much for him, but it was odd what blokes chose to wear when they were out on the pull.

  Jake shook his head again. “Look, sorry mate, but now’s not a good time. I’m, er, with someone.”

  “Yeah?” Graham looked around in a pointed way. “The invisible man, is he?”

  “Hardly. He’s just gone off to the bogs. But if he comes back and sees me with you, well, it’s just not a good idea, that’s all.”

  Graham shrugged. “Fair enough. I know when I’m not wanted.” He sounded unconcerned, but Jake could see the disappointment in his eyes and felt a tug of guilt strong enough to want to make amends.