boystown (16 page)

I realized Bradford was wearing a big, puffy down coat; obviously he was on his way out somewhere. “Nice coat,” I said.

“I’m calling the cops,” Bradford shrilled, then began to head for the heavy black phone sitting on a small table.

“Thanks, I’d like to talk to them. I’ve got a witness who saw someone coming out of Paradise right after the fire stared wearing a coat just like the one you’ve got on.”

Bradford paled. “A lot of people have coats like this.”

“Yeah, but it’ll be enough to get the cops to look closely at you and your group,” I pointed out.

“I don’t get it. Why are you doing this? You seem like a decent enough guy. They can’t be paying you that much--”

“A decent enough guy, what does that mean?” I knew exactly what it meant.

“I mean you’re not...” His voice trailed off as he realized what was going on. “Oh, I see,” he said finally.

“You want to call the police now, or do you want me to do it?”

Behind me, the elevator began to rise to another floor. It was loud. It sounded like a train going by. I’d been too focused on surviving the ride to realize. I looked at the wall behind me for a moment, then asked Bradford, “Is it always that loud?”

He shrugged. “They can’t manage to get it fixed. They promise--”

Without a word, I walked away from him. Quickly, I hurried to the stairwell. Bradford called after me, “Don’t come back again or I will call the police! You got that?”

Boystown - 91

I ran up the stairs two at time. On the fifth floor, I hurried to Ruthie’s door. I knocked nervously.

This would clinch it. If Ruthie answered the way I thought she would, I had Bradford. The police would be arresting him within the hour.

The old woman opened the door and looked up at me. “Ruthie, the guy you saw... you knew he lived here because you heard the elevator. You saw him come toward the building and then you heard the elevator.”

“Yes,” she said, giving me a look that suggested that I should have known that all along.

“He lives below you, right?”

She stunned me by shaking her head and pointed a finger to the ceiling.

I hurried back to the elevator. Pressing the button over and over, I nearly knocked a woman over when the door finally opened. The ride was unbearable. We stopped on the seventh floor, and the woman got out. I shut the grate behind her and pounded on the button marked eleven.

It was Edward. That’s all I kept thinking. I’d been so sure it was Bradford. I’d wanted it to be Bradford, so I didn’t see the truth in front of me. Edward had started the fire in a fit of jealousy.

He’d been saying it was his fault, and he meant that it was his fault. He did it.

Finally, I got to the eleventh floor. Bolted out of the elevator. Pounded on the door to 1113.

“Edward! Edward, open the door.” There wasn’t any response. I knocked a few more times, then tried the doorknob to see if it might open. It did. I stepped into Edward’s living room. Everything looked the same, except for a piece of paper, a letter, on the coffee table. I walked over and read it. It was short.

It read, “I’m sorry. To everyone who ever loved me. I’m sorry. It has to be this way.”

Suddenly, the many ways to kill yourself in your own home started popping into my head. Gas in the kitchen. But I’d smell it. Knives, also in the kitchen. I peeked in. No bloody corpse laid out on the floor. Pills. People got in bed after they took them. I hurried into the bedroom. The bed was empty. Nicely made. That left the bathroom. Slit wrists in the bathtub. I pushed the door open, sure that I was going to see a tub full of bloody water. But it was empty. The bathroom was empty.

Edward wasn’t in the apartment. Anywhere. But he’d left the note. A thought flashed through my head. The roof! I ran out of the apartment. I didn’t have the patience to wait for the ancient elevator. I bolted to the stairs and dashed up the four floors to the roof.

When I got to the top, the door to the roof was open. I rushed out. There was a two-foot yellow brick continuation of the outer wall running all the way around the roof. Fine gravel covered the surface. There were a few bits of un-melted snow in the corners. Tar had been applied liberally in various spots.

Boystown - 92

Edward stood on the west side of the building. From where he stood, he could stare down at Paradise. I quietly walked closer to him. When I was about ten feet away, I stopped and said,

“Edward. Why don’t you come away from there?”

He turned to face me, tears streaming down his face. “It wasn’t supposed to happen this way.

Bernie called me around one that morning. He wanted to come home. I told him he couldn’t. He couldn’t ever come home. He said he’d be there. That he was staying there. If I changed my mind I could call him. That’s when I decided. I wanted us to die together. I love him, but... he’d ruined everything. I wanted to die with him. But I got scared. I’m a coward. I ran out of there. I left him.”

“He didn’t die, though. He’s okay. So it’s over.”

“No! He’s not okay... his face... I ran away.”

Daniel flashed into my mind. His face bashed by a metal baseball bat. His hand covering what was likely permanent damage. I’ve never even tried--

“Hurting yourself won’t make anything better,” I practically yelled at Edward. “Come away from the edge.”

I took another step closer to him.

“STOP! STOP IT! You don’t know. You don’t know what it’s like.” In a burst, he began to sob.

“You don’t know.”

I went with the only thing I could think of. “Edward, Bernie loves you. He’s been lying to protect you. Doesn’t that mean he loves you?”

“He let me into the bar. He trusted me! Then he went into the storeroom and I poured booze all over and... I lit it. I lit it on fire.”

“Edward, this is as bad as it gets. It gets better from here. It does.” I promised, but wasn’t sure it was true.

“I can’t... I just can’t...”

“Yes, you can...”

He didn’t jump. He sat. It looked as though he was trying to sit on the short wall behind him and simply missed. Bending his knees, he let himself fall backward until the backs of his calves hit the wall and his feet flipped up into the air.

Edward was gone.

* * *

A few days later, my fireman called and wanted to come by.

Things had calmed down. Bernie admitted what really happened, so the police stopped trying to pin the whole thing on Davey. Davey offered to pay me my salary until Paradise Isle reopened as a thank you. I took him up on half pay. His insurance covered Miss Minerva’s record collection, and she planned to spend a delirious week replacing music she liked and buying new music she was sure to. Ross got a waiter job at The French Bakery on Brian’s recommendation, which was a little weird for me, but hey, whatever.

I treated myself to the cassette of a Keith Jarrett concert recorded in Germany. I’d been listening to it on my boom box over and over again. It probably would have sounded a whole lot better on vinyl, but that would require replacing the stereo that had been ripped off the January before. The music was melancholy without being depressing. It was playing when Hank got there.

Brian thought I was still in love with my ex. He’d said so in a letter he taped to my door; a goodbye letter that explained, from his perspective, why things hadn’t worked out between us.

Maybe he’s right. Or maybe I’ve just lost the taste for love. Love isn’t always a good thing.

Sometimes it makes a mess of people’s lives. Like it did for Bernie and Edward. Still, I was excited that Hank was there. He’d been a stand-up guy, letting me know what the cops were trying to do to Davey. So I was thinking, who knows, maybe love isn’t so bad. Actually, it might even be fun.

When I answered the door, Hank stood there all decked out like he was on his way to fighting a fire, except for the gym bag he held in one hand. He tipped his helmet at me and said, “You want to show me where the hot spots are?”

I chuckled and led him into my apartment. We didn’t get past the living room before he dropped his gym bag and was on me. I kissed him and tried to feel him through the thick, canvas-like material of his jacket, but it was too heavy. The whole outfit was yellow, with reinforced patches and large pockets. He wore a pair of heavy, black, rubberized boots. I reached up to take his helmet off, and he stopped me, “Oh, no, you don’t.”

He pushed me into one of my director’s chairs and then stepped back so I could get a good view of him. First, he slowly pulled off the heavy gloves that protected his hands. Then, one by one, he unclasped the hooks on his jacket. As it fell open, I got a glimpse of skin. Not surprisingly, he was naked under his outer gear. I wondered if that was regulation.

He dropped the jacket to the floor. Suspenders held up his pants. Obviously, they had weights at the firehouse, and Hank spent time using them. His chest was big, with pectoral muscles like slabs of meat. His upper arms were huge. Even his forearms were big. He lifted a foot and put his boot in my lap. “Pull.” I pulled. The boot popped off in my hand. He put his other foot in my lap.

I have to say that his striptease was a little odd, since it was being accompanied by improvisational jazz piano. But that didn’t seem to dampen his enjoyment. Or, for that matter, mine.

Boystown - 94

Hank dropped one suspender over his impressive shoulder. Then the other. He unbuckled his pants. I waited for them to fall, but they only slid down a few inches. The material was so thick the pants could stand on their own. Finally, he pushed them down to the floor.

His large thighs squeezed together naturally, and his cock popped out in front of them. He stepped out of his pants and knelt in front of me. Quickly, he undid my jeans and pulled them down to my knees. He popped my dick into his mouth and sucked me with the same enthusiasm he’d shown in the car. I rested a hand on his helmet as he bobbed up and down.

I leaned back and closed my eyes. I concentrated on the feeling of my dick sliding in and out of his mouth. Suddenly, it stopped. Hank stood up and took a few steps backward. He got on the floor on top of his gear. “Come here.”

I stood up and wiggled out of my pants. I pulled my T-shirt over my head. Naked, I joined him on the floor. He kissed me deeply, shoving his tongue in and out of my mouth. “I want you to fuck me.”

I didn’t need to be asked twice. I started to get up and go for the Vaseline, but he stopped me by pulling me back down. “It’s okay. I’m ready.”

I wasn’t sure what he meant at first, but when I lifted his legs into the air and went to stick my cock in, I found that he’d already lubed himself up.

“I like a man who comes prepared,” I said.

He smiled and inhaled sharply as I pushed all the way into him. His cock was nice and rigid as it flopped around on his belly. Hooking his feet around my neck, he lifted his ass up to meet me.

“Oh, God, yes.”

I pounded into him again and again. Sweat broke out on my forehead. I wrapped my hands around his thick thighs and pulled him to me. Hank approached getting fucked with the same enthusiasm he had giving out a blowjob. However, while he’d seemed a bit inexperienced with oral sex, he was either very experienced with fucking or a complete natural. Each time I thrust into him, his hips came up to meet me.

Bucking and twisting beneath me, his helmet soon came off and rolled around on the floor near his head. I reached around his leg and started jacking him off. His prick was rocket-shaped, with a thick stalk tapering down to a smaller head.

I was close, but I wanted him to come first. Closing my eyes, I tried counting backward from a hundred. Ninety-nine. Ninety-eight. Ninety-seven. Suddenly, his ass clamped down on my cock, and he was coming all over my fist. I let go and came deep inside of him.

Collapsing on him, I lay there sweaty and sticky with his come. “That was incredible.” I murmured. I kind of liked this guy and was beginning to hope he’d be coming around a lot.

Boystown - 95

“Do you mind if I take a shower?” he asked. “I can’t go home covered in spunk.”

And then I realized how little I knew about Hank.

“Who’s at home?”

“Wife and kids.”

“Ah,” I said. “Yeah, go ahead. Take a shower.”

“You wanna join me?”

“I’m fine, thanks.”

Boystown - 96

Always be careful who you trick with. I should have that tattooed on my forehead so I can see it every morning when I shave.

The woman was waiting for me when I got to my office. She looked to be in her late forties, thick around the hips, busty. There was lot of red lipstick caked onto her lips, and her hair was done up in a way that had probably gotten a lot of attention during the Eisenhower administration. At first, I thought she was a patient of the dentist down the hall, but when I pulled my keys out and started to unlock the door, she came over.

“Are you Mr. Nowak?” she asked.

A few weeks shy of my thirty-third birthday, I didn’t much like being called 'mister' by anyone who wasn’t still in grammar school. “You can call me Nick.”

I opened the door and led her into my tiny office. The furniture was crammed together, and still I had room left over for a dead corn plant in one corner. The window was big, taking up most of the outer wall. Eight floors below was LaSalle Street. Across the way stood an ultra-modern, steel and glass building that was so tall it cut out most of my light.

“He said you were nice,” she commented, while making herself comfortable in my guest chair.

She wore a red cloth coat with a white fox collar. Instead of a purse, she carried a photo album, clutching it tight to her chest.

I hung my suede jacket on the back of my door and pulled a box of Marlboros out of the pocket.

I decided not to ask who ‘he’ was. Not yet. Instead, I asked, “What’s your name, ma’am?”

“Helen Borlock.” I sat down at my desk and lit a cigarette while she talked. “He told me to come.

He said you’d help. You can help, can’t you?”

“I don’t know if I can help,” I said honestly. “I don’t know why you’re here.”