Authors: marshall thornton
Next comes the living room, a bathroom, my bedroom, and the rarely used kitchen. The place is laid out like a conch shell wrapping in on itself: from the burglar-barred window in the funky little not-a-reading room, you practically stare into the barred kitchen window. Along the ceiling snakes an assortment of pipes and radiators.
Bobby nosed around trying to make sense of the place. Actually, it was nicely decorated. Soft gray walls, bright white molding, refinished floors, custom mini-blinds. I take no responsibility for any of that. I helped sand the floors and did a little painting, but none of it was my idea. I don’t have that kind of vision.
What furniture I still have is sitting exactly where it started out. So there are some holes where pieces have been subtracted. For instance, there are two nice director’s chairs in the living room facing a big empty spot where a sofa ought to be. My albums and a pretty decent component stereo sit on the floor where a set of shelves once held them.
Bobby eyed the holes. “You should get some more furniture.”
“I don’t spend a lot of time sitting around,” I replied. Then got down to business. “The bedroom’s this way.”
The bedroom, which was painted a soft blue, had little more than a mattress and a scarred three-drawer dresser. Without any prelude we began to take our clothes off, more like athletes about to engage in a sporting event than lovers. Bobby carefully folded his clothes and set them in a pile.
I took my gun out of its holster and put it on top of the dresser. Bobby looked at it a moment, then asked, “Are you going to shoot me?”
“Are you going to give me a reason to?”
He laughed. I think he was little turned on by the idea of a gun being in the room. Before I’d finished with my shirt, Bobby had managed to get the rest of his clothes off. Wearing just a pair of black bikinis, he walked over and dropped to his knees.
I leaned over and flipped off the light, leaving the room lit by a sliver of light coming in from the hallway. He unbuttoned my jeans for me and pulled them down around my thighs. He chuckled a little. “Boxers? My father wears boxers.”
“I’m not your father,” I said, and pushed his head into my crotch. My dick slipped easily through the opening of my boxers and into Bobby’s waiting mouth. He wrapped his hand around the base so it wouldn’t go too far down his throat. I put up with that for a few minutes, while he tongued and licked the shaft. He pursed his lips and nibbled at my cock head like it was a strawberry.
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When I was ready for something more serious, I pulled his hand away. I pushed my cock deep into his mouth, and he pulled away. “It’s a little big for me.”
I almost made a crack about him biting off more than he could chew, but decided not to bother.
He wrapped his hand around my cock and went back to nibbling. I looked down and could see his dick swelling inside his little black panties.
Enough was enough. I pulled him off me and stood him up. I yanked down his bikini briefs and pushed him onto the bed. His prick wasn’t very long, but it was nice and thick. Not that it mattered much to me right then. I was interested in the other side. With one hand, I flipped him over. That’s the thing about short guys; they’re easy to move around.
Bobby’s breath grew rougher. He knew what was coming. Watching me over his shoulder, his mouth was wet and glistening. His ass was big, or at least big for his frame; buttocks standing up, round and tensed. I opened the top drawer of the dresser and pulled out a jar of Vaseline.
Crawling onto the bed, I lubed up Bobby’s ass and my dick, aimed quickly, and was in him.
He gasped. Then held his breath, forcing himself to relax. I pounded into him, fast and deep. I should have been more careful -- but then, given the way he was panting and moaning, maybe not. The sound of my thighs slapping against his butt bounced off the walls.
Even in the dark, his skin was so white it nearly glowed. He turned his head back to look at me, and I pushed his face into the pillow. While I fucked him, I watched his spine twist as he took my cock over and over.
“Oh, God, you’re fucking me,” he said into the pillow.
“Don’t talk,” I told him. Then I slapped his ass. Hard. He must have liked it, because his sphincter clamped down on my dick like he wasn’t ever going to let go. I slapped him again, just to make him squeeze me.
Pushing his hips up into me, he slipped his hand underneath and started jacking off. I fucked him harder and faster. He gave out a long, continuous moan that bounced a little each time I thrust into him.
Then he was coming, ass contracting with each ejaculation. I kept fucking him like I barely noticed. He tried to take it, but he was one of those guys who got all sensitive after they come.
He was nearly shivering each time I thrust into him.
Eventually he said, “Would you mind stopping?” I did mind. But I stopped anyway. I pulled out and plunked down next to him on the bed. He reached for my dick like he was going to go to work on it.
“Don’t do that,” I told him.
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I took my cock in hand and started to pump. Squeezing the shaft tight, I twisted my fist each time I came to the top to run the better part of my palm across the head. It only took a dozen solid poundings and I came. Thick wads of creamy jizz landed in the curly, brown hair between my pecs.
Afterward, Bobby Something-or-other hung around. He wasn’t the cuddly type, which was good.
But he also wasn’t the type who leaves. I was too tired to deal with it, so I just went to sleep. In the morning, I realized Bobby looked just like someone I didn’t want to be thinking about, so I threw him out. Daylight does that sometimes.
* * *
I stacked the bills neatly on my blotter, then turned my attention to the other inhabitants of the envelope: several sheets of onionskin typing paper and a couple photos. I started with the photos.
One was a high school graduation shot, presumably Brian Peerson. In the shot, he wore a white puka shell necklace, an over-bright Qiana knit shirt, a big toothy smile, a tan, and a mop of curly hair. He looked like some surfer kid out in California. In the second photo, Brian stood on the stoop of a white house with green shutters. A blanket of snow covered the parts of the front yard that could be seen. He wore a pair of jeans with the bottoms rolled up, a corduroy vest, and a skinny tie. The curly hair had been cut short, and he smiled at the camera in a way that said he liked whoever was taking the picture.
The typing paper was watermarked. The information on it was typed using what looked to be a fairly recent portable typewriter. The kind you can pick up at any Sears or Montgomery Wards. I glanced at the envelope and noted that it had been sent with a typed label and no return address.
The whole package seemed impersonal, and that bugged me.
One of the onionskin sheets listed a social security number and an address: Dolan Hall, Illinois Wesleyan in Bloomington. That was odd. Walt had said he was in Carbondale. I double-checked the postmark. It was smudged and hard to read, but it looked like it said Carbondale. How did good old Walt end up with a boyfriend half a state away? Beneath the address was a physical description of Brian: 5’ 7”, 155 pounds, blond, blue-eyed, two-inch scar on his right thumb.
The second sheet proved more informative, or at least seemed to be. It was poorly typed, even though the typist had liberally employed White-Out. It said, “Brian alwys loved Chicago & talked aboit it often. One of his early memories is of going to Marshall Fields and talk to Santa CLaus. He got everything he wanted that yr and Chicago became magical place. Over the years, he went there a lot, at first with family or on school trips, later with friends. He said Chicago was
‘like Land of Ox for him, except he never wanted to click his heals & go home.’
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“He left me about a year ago. I have gone to Chicago trying to find him but havent had luck.
Brian is very social. He loves a party. Maybe, he drinks too much. I don’t like to criticixe. He prefers hard booze to beer or wine. He likes good restaurants, old movies, books and Broadway musicals. HE likes older men. While in college he took business, but he didn’t Like it. He made his own spending money by working in a pizxa parlor. Please find Brian as quckly as you can. I want to kno he’s OK.”
The last sheet was nothing but the typewritten sentence: “WIll call Monday 2pm to check on progress.” I would have preferred a phone number; I had a few things I’d like to check on myself.
I picked up Brian’s high school photo again and, in a flash, realized Brian Peerson looked a lot like the guy I fucked the night before, Bobby Somebody-or-other. Wouldn’t that have been a kick, I thought. They weren’t the same person, of course. But it would have been a kick.
That afternoon, I did the basic stuff you do when a person’s missing. I checked with the morgue to see if there were any John Does who fit Brian’s description. There weren’t. At least he’s alive, I thought. But then corrected myself. All I’d learned was that his body hadn’t gone unclaimed in Chicago. It could be unclaimed in a hell of a lot of other places.
I called information to see if Brian had a phone in his name. I know that seems ridiculously simple, but sometimes it’s the simple stuff that pays off. Of course, he might not be using his real name, or he might not have listed the number. I came up blank, so for exercise I walked the eleven blocks to the county clerk’s office and checked for marriages, death certificates, and property registration. Nothing turned up. But then, I hadn’t expected it to. I caught the El home.
On Fridays and Saturdays, I have a part-time gig working security at a nightclub on Broadway called Paradise Isle. Even though some radio disc jockey declared disco dead by burning a bunch of records at Comiskey Park about two years back, you wouldn’t know it at Paradise Isle. The DJ
is Miss Minerva Jones, the only drag queen I ever met who didn’t have some sort of joke name. I like that about her. You can only meet Anita Mann so many times before it gets old. When it comes to disco, Miss Minerva is a purist. She plays Thelma Houston, Sylvester, Chic, and Sister Sledge. Sure, she also plays The Bee Gees, The Village People, and Gloria Gaynor’s “I Will Survive,” but only if you tip her.
The club is forty percent dance floor and always full. The dance floor is made of thick Plexiglas and lit from beneath. The rest of the place holds a couple dozen tables, some booths against the wall, and a bar that runs the length of the club. The theme is tropical, and there are a couple of neon palm trees attached to the walls. The bartenders start the night in Hawaiian print shirts, but have lost them by the time I show up at nine. When I first started, the owner, Davey Edwards, tried to get me to wear a paper lei. I put my foot down.
From ten to two I stand at the door with a flashlight and check IDs. Wearing a paper lei, Davey takes the cover charge. I could do the whole thing myself, but I’d have a bit of trouble balancing the cash drawer if a fight broke out. And they do break out every so often. Fortunately, most
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queens have to warm up with a couple rounds of catty remarks, so I’m usually there before anyone throws a punch.
That Friday was busy but uneventful. Davey stops charging a cover at one, so I’m alone for the last hour. Mostly people are leaving by then, so I spend my time saying “good night” and telling people, especially the drunk ones, to “be careful.” After my shift, I usually head over to the bar for a couple of free drinks. That night was no different.
Ross weaved his way over and asked what I wanted. Even though it was below zero outside, his well-defined, bare chest was slick with sweat.
Ross is a sexy mix of boy and man. He’s got freckles across the bridge of his nose and a cowlick on the left side of his forehead. He’s also got biceps hovering around sixteen inches and a wad in his pants that strains the zipper on his Calvin Klein jeans.
After he brought me a beer, Ross offered me a Camel Light. I turned him down. “Willpower,” he said. “I hate that in a man.”
I pulled out Brian Peerson’s high school graduation photo and showed it to him. “You see this kid around? During the week maybe.”
He took the photo out of my hand and held it under the bar to catch the light. Then he handed it back to me. “I’ve probably seen a hundred kids that look like this in the last week.”
“I figured.”
“Why not show it to Eugene, see what he thinks?” I looked down the bar to one of the regulars, a squat little man with a bad comb-over. He was in his mid-thirties, but he looked fifty. Ross continued, “He’s big on twinkies. He can even tell them apart.”
I sipped my beer. “They actually talk to him?”
“When he buys them drinks. Every couple weeks he gets one drunk enough to take home.”
I finished my beer and walked down the bar. After I introduced myself and told Eugene what I wanted, I pulled out Brian Peerson’s photo. Eugene studied it and said, “Yeah. He was in The Closet a week or so before Christmas. I bought him a drink. He said ‘thank you,’ but other than that he wasn’t very friendly.”
“I need to find him for a client. Do you remember anything else?”
He stared at me blankly for a moment, then he said, “Black pants, white shirt.” Not getting it, I shrugged. Eugene smiled. “A waiter.”
“Ah,” I said, then thanked him and gave him my card.
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Pleased with myself, I went back down the bar and asked Ross for another beer. I knew three things about Brian I hadn't known before. He was alive. He was definitely in Chicago. And he worked at a restaurant. Unfortunately, there had to be five hundred restaurants on the north side.
I realized I might need a few extra copies of his photo.