But usually he was known as ’Robocop.’ When it came to reading his expression he may as well have been wearing a helmet, and he ran like he was fucking bionic. He never gave up in a foot chase. No matter how fast the runner was, no matter how long he kept running, Constable Pictou just kept coming after him. There was even one night a guy jumped into the river to try to evade him, and that was the night we discovered Robocop could swim like a rassclaat fish too.
Funny. I get the urge to run now, although I have no reason to. Even funnier, considering how much I owe him. But still my toes curl in my sneakers and my leg muscles twitch, ready to go.
If there was anywhere to hide I’d probably already be there, but I’m out in the open, the beach umbrella overhead giving shade but no sanctuary. And I know the exact moment he sees me, despite the wraparound dark glasses shielding his eyes. It’s like his gaze stabs into me, and I force my face into a blank expression, even as I have to swallow against the sudden dryness in my throat.
Nothing to fret about.
The thought makes me want to laugh.
I’m hoping he’ll just keep going wherever he’s going and not bother to acknowledge me. Dressed in jeans, a polo shirt and work boots, he’s obviously off–duty–if he’s even still with the Police Services–so there’s no reason for him to pay me no mind.
Of course he changes course slightly, so he’s heading right toward me.
Bumboclaat.
Kyle
Vincent Williams. Damn, that’s a name I haven’t heard or thought about in ages–four, maybe five years?–but it comes to mind immediately as I notice him. And it’s real hard not to notice him. The Jamaican man sticks out in this particular crowd. Almost the lone black man in a sea of light faces. Makes me wonder if immigrants, which we have plenty of in the city, aren’t as into their pets as whites. It wouldn’t surprise me. I glance over at a display and mentally snort. Dogs, in my estimation, shouldn’t be dressed up like children or called ’fur–babies.’ Sometimes I think the majority of the population needs some real problems to put stuff into perspective. Harsh? Yes. True? Probably.
That makes it even stranger to see Vincent at a pet rescue festival, and I can’t help wondering if he’s playing some angle. Wouldn’t surprise me. Vincent was never big time–more the petty drug–dealer, purse–snatching type–although back in the day I always thought there was real potential there. Just couldn’t figure out whether he’d end up CEO of a drug cartel or a Fortune 500 company. At least he didn’t end up dead, which had also been a distinct possibility, particularly given the last time I’d seen him was in hospital, his face pretty much one big bandage.
I know he’s seen me too. Reading his posture, I half expect to see him start to run, like in the old days, but instead he reaches down and sticks his fingers into the cage beside him, curling them as if hanging on.
Taking my own sweet time, I stroll toward him, watching him watch me. Seems he’s gotten better at hiding his thoughts. In years gone by he’d have been giving me the stink–eye, making sure I knew he didn’t give a shit a cop was coming his way. Now he’s expressionless, not counting the slight upward twist of the left side of his mouth caused by his scar, which makes him look like he’s either smiling or sneering. Out of habit, I take a full inventory. Black male, of medium complexion, approximately six feet in height, slim but muscular build. Gone are the cane–rows he used to sport, replaced by a short afro, slightly longer on top than at the sides. Loose–fitting blue t–shirt with One More Chance Sanctuary printed across the front. Neat, generic jeans and black sneakers with an orange stripe. Interesting to note the differences in his appearance. It’s not just his face either. The old Vincent wouldn’t have been seen dead in such ordinary clothes.
So let’s see if the change is more than just superficial.
There’s an urge to step up into his space, like I would if I were rousting him on a street corner, but those days are over. So I stop a couple feet away from him and just stand there for a couple of beats, waiting to see if I’ll get a reaction out of him. He stares back at me then, with a slight turning away of his head, he smiles.
“Constable Pictou.” Vincent hasn’t lost his Jamaican accent, so my name rolls and swings, slow and rhythmic, from his lips–CAN–stible Pick–too–and, before I can reply he adds, “Still chasing bad boys?”
I know what he means, but when you’re as deep in the closet as I am an expression like that always makes my stomach drop. But I take his words at face value. There’s no other way to play it. “It’s sergeant now, Vincent. You still doing things to make Babylon chase you?”
He shakes his head, his mouth twisting wryly at my use of the Jamaican slang for the police. The motion causes the scar running down his cheek to pull slightly at the corner of the eye on that side. “Nah sah, Sergeant. Dem days done now.”
Why do I get the impression he’s making his accent thicker? He sounds the same as he used to, but now it seems almost forced. “Glad to hear.” I put a hint of skepticism into my voice, but he doesn’t react to it beyond a quick upward twitch of his eyebrows. “So what you up to now?”
“Dis and dat.” The dog in the cage beside him suddenly gives a low whine, and Vincent glances down. I see his lips quirk, as though he’s amused, and he puts his hand flat on the cage. When he looks back up, he suddenly appears more relaxed. “Actually, Sergeant Pictou, I’m working full time, plus helping at the shelter. There’s no time to get in trouble.”
I was right. The accent is still noticeable but not as broad and I find myself shifting my posture, suddenly less wary too. I’m tempted to ask him what kind of work but, realistically, I know how people view cops asking questions like that–as if they’re being interrogated–so I don’t. Instead I stoop down to check out the dog in the cage. Yikes. What a battered looking mutt. It’s obviously been through the wars but, despite the evidence of a very hard life, it’s wagging its tail and comes close to the front of the cage, checking me out in turn. “Hey fella.” I put my hand up to the cage door and the dog doesn’t even bother to sniff it, just sticks his muzzle up to the mesh and gives me a lick. “Huh, you gotta learn to be more discriminating–”
“Bongo,” Vincent interjects the name, causing the dog’s tail to pick up speed in response. “His name is Bongo, and he’s plenty discriminating. It’s not everybody he takes to.”
“Really?” Hard to believe this mutt responds to people with anything but affection, considering he’s leaning against the mesh for me to scratch wherever I can reach. Now I can see it’s not just its muzzle that’s been injured. There’s a strip of bare skin around his neck, as if he was tied up and the cord cut through his flesh. What the fuck is wrong with people?
“Really. But he doesn’t snarl or bite, just stays away. Bongo is smart. Make a great pet for someone who can make sure he gets enough exercise. He even gets on great with other animals.”
I know a sales pitch when I hear one, so I hold up my hand. “Not in the market, Vincent. At least, not for myself. I’m looking for a puppy for my nephew, for his birthday. I didn’t think I’d find anything here, but thought I’d check anyway.”
“No…” Vincent stretches the word out and, for some reason, that makes the dog look up at him for a second. “There were only a few puppies this morning, and they went first.” He stops talking for a beat, then I hear him inhale before he continues. “And most of the rescue folks wouldn’t let you adopt a dog to give as a gift. Too many animals like that end up back in shelters.”
I’ve never liked being lectured and this definitely sounds like the beginning of one, so I look up to give him what my brother eloquently calls the “PORC”, aka the pissed off Rez cop, stare. Vincent doesn’t even blink. If anything he sounds more determined when he says, “People taking a dog into their home need to know what to expect and how much work they’re facing. Springing a puppy on someone sounds like a nice thing to do, but it can be a disaster waiting to happen.”
I have to admit I
understand where he’s coming from. It’s not only human misery and trauma cops see on patrol. I relent, knowing he’s doing what he’s been trained to do and believes in.
“It’s okay. My brother and his wife already have a couple of dogs and they know I’m giving Damon a puppy. He’s turning thirteen–been asking for a dog of his own for a while now–and his parents think it’ll be good for him to have the responsibility. Whichever dog I find, I’ll have him and his parents take a look first before I commit.”
His relief is so swift Vincent doesn’t have time to turn his head away before he smiles and, for some unknown reason, I can’t look away from his face. The knife attack five years ago left him with nerve damage and some facial muscles foreshortened by surgery, but although smiling makes him sort of grotesque, the sparkle in his eyes reminds me of how handsome he used to be.
How handsome he still is, truth be told.
“Good–good.” As if realizing he’s smiling at me full–face, Vincent turns slightly away again. Bongo leaves me and goes over to where Vincent is leaning on the cage and nudges at the man’s leg with his nose. Vincent puts his hand back on the top of the kennel and I find myself watching his fingers as they reach in to ruffle the short black hairs on the dog’s head. No, not watching, but staring at his hand. The way the long fingers scratch gently but firmly through the fur is strangely seductive.
I force my gaze away and get up, the sudden drag of lust on my stomach muscles shocking and unwanted. Sure, it’s been a long time since I’ve had a lover, but this is ridiculous. Supposing I was interested in hooking up with anyone, which I’m not, Vincent wouldn’t even be on the ’maybe’ list. Besides being a criminal, or ex–criminal if he’s to be believed, I don’t think he’s gay. Furthermore there’s the fact I don’t play in my own backyard. I can’t afford to.
“Okay.” I’m using my cop voice, inwardly cursing myself, wondering if he’ll notice the difference. Looking around, I realize the crowd has thinned even more and grab at the excuse. “Looks like things are wrapping up, so I’m outta here.”
“Cool–cool.” Vincent glances toward the road and I follow his gaze to see a short, plump woman approaching. “But hold on a moment and let me talk to Pat.” He brushes his hands together and I have to stop myself from watching him do it. I need to get going. Really. Now. Then he says, “We rescued a few dogs from a puppy mill. One of the bitches, a Golden Retriever, was pregnant and she’s had her pups. They’ll be ready to go in about three weeks, but it’s up to Pat whether you can come take a look at them yet or not.” He looks at me and raises his eyebrows. “If you’d be interested, of course.”
Of course I am. That was one of the breeds I’d been thinking would be perfect for Damon. So although I know I shouldn’t stay, I do. And before I know exactly how, I’ve agreed to meet Vincent at Pat’s rescue sanctuary the following morning.
Having nodded goodbye, I walk away, the paper with the directions burning a hole in my pocket, just like the unwanted stirrings of interest smolder in my stomach.
I shake my head.
Ridiculous.
It’s harder than I want to shove it all aside and remind myself it’s just about a dog for Damon, nothing else.
Nothing.
Else.
Chapter Two
Vincent
The dogs hear my car as I pull up in front of the barn Pat has converted into kennels and the more hyper of them start barking. Usually I park and go straight in, but I’m only about ten minutes earlier than the time Sergeant Pictou said he’d meet me here, so I sit in the car to wait.
Yawning, suffering the effects of a bad night’s sleep, I’m regretting suggesting he might be interested in seeing Missy’s puppies. Coming into contact with Kyle Pictou has brought back some wicked–bad memories, but it’s not thoughts of my criminal past that really have me rattled. It’s Kyle Pictou himself. Yesterday I suddenly saw him not as a cop, the Babylon I used to run from, but as a man.
The last thing I want is to see Sergeant Pictou that way. Yet, when he bent down to look at Bongo and the dog went right to him, I couldn’t help the shift in my perception. Or the unexpected and unwanted stab of sexual interest I got as I looked down at him. For a long moment I stared, taking in the way his thick hair lay on his head, how his shirt strained across his shoulders, the sleeves almost too tight around his biceps. The way he was positioned let me see the deep hollow running down his spine, and the tone of his voice as he spoke to the dog was soft and kind. In a moment of insanity, I wanted to touch him everywhere. Feel the slight rasp of his hair under my palm, test the hardness of his muscles with my hands, explore every inch of him. And I wanted to hear him speak to me the way he’d spoken to Bongo.
It was pathetic, and stupid, and I don’t know how he didn’t realize what was going through my mind. I felt as though it was written across my damn–fool face.
Which was why, I suspect, when I went to bed those memories I’d been ignoring for years started playing back in my head like a series of home videos. The kind you keep although you know they should have been burned long ago.
Like the night then–Constable Pictou and his patrol partner came up to a group of us on our corner. We’d already sold all the weed we’d been carrying, so we had no reason to run. Instead we all lounged around like nothing was going on, showing them bad–face as they came striding over. In the middle of the usual questions I caught Pictou staring at me, and gave him my best glare.
“Wha’ yuh a look ’pon?” I asked, trying to appear as dangerous as I could, not wanting him to know how intimidating I found him.
“I see you, Vincent Williams,” was his reply, and those words hit me like a roundhouse kick to the stomach. The way he said it, in his deep, slow voice, wasn’t the way someone would say, “I see you’re wearing a green shirt” or even, “I recognize you.” It was more like he was saying he knew me–everything about me, all my secrets–and he was about to tell the entire world all the things I was hiding.
I turned away so he wouldn’t see my reaction and kissed my teeth, sucking air into my mouth to make the most dismissive, disrespectful sound I possibly could. But I couldn’t escape the effects of his statement, or the bone–deep fear. At that moment I hated him, cursed him silently for being Babylon, the interferer and oppressor, even as a part of me wanted him to say whatever he had to say, get it all out in the open–set me free.
Then there was the night I got my face cut open…
Even now I want to shy away from the memory, but not of the actual incident. Instead it’s remembering waking up in the hospital, seeing him standing beside the bed. Hearing him say, “You have another strike against you now, Vincent. Remember, three strikes and you’re out.”
No doubt in his mind strike one was the charge I’d had laid against me, which hadn’t led to a conviction but had put me squarely in the sights of the cops, and this incident made two. But lying there, caught between the pain of my wound and the anticipated relief of the just–administered drugs, I thought he didn’t know what the bumboclaat he was talking about. I was long past three strikes. An immigrant black man living in a white man’s world, unable to escape where he came from or who he’d become. A thief and drug dealer in a generally law–abiding society, even though every law–breaking act filled me with guilt and remorse, which, ironically, was another strike in the world I lived in.
A gay man afraid to even acknowledge to myself, much less to anyone else, that was what I was, because doing so would mean losing everything and everyone I had.
“There are other paths you can follow.” I was drifting off on a cloud of painkillers, but still heard him clearly, as though he were whispering intimately into my ear. “Find another life. You owe yourself that.”
Strange how with everything I went through during that time, the pain, surgeries, and upheaval as they tried to get me to tell them who’d cut me, it was Kyle Pictou’s words that I could remember clearest.
The bang of the barn door jerk
s me out of the half–dozing reverie I’d fallen into and I open my eyes to see Pat crossing the small paved parking area toward my car, her cellphone to her ear. By the time I get out and close my door she’s finished the call and is stuffing the phone into the back pocket of her jeans.
“Stray dog out by Aylmer.” She gets right to the point, as she always does when it comes to anything to do with the animals. “I’m going to head out there and see if I can catch it. Sounds as if it might be injured.”
Not a job she should be going on by herself, and the sense of relief washing through me is far stronger than the situation warrants. “Sergeant Pictou should be here any moment now. I’ll just apologize–”
Pat cuts me off with a wave of one hand. “Nah. It’s a small dog and Janine’ll meet me there. We should be able to manage, so you stay and deal with him. Besides, we need to find good homes for those pups, and I like the looks of Sergeant Pictou.” With a suddenness that takes me completely by surprise, she grins and waggles her eyebrows. “He’s cute. Just the right kind to flirt with.”
Since she’s madly in love with Janine and has never shown any interest in men, as far as I’ve seen, there’s no mistaking her meaning. Even though my heart gives a weird kind of double–beat when she says it, I shake my head.
“Come on. Does he look gay to you?” A tug of pain tells me I’m twisting my lips again, and I stop doing it. “And even if he was…”
There’s no way he couldn’t be turned off by my face, making comparisons between the way it is now and how it used to be. Pat puts a hand on my arm and squeezes, hard.
Brought to His Knees-Tough Guys Laid Low By Love Page 17