boystown (21 page)

Ross liked dirty talk. “You want me to fuck you hard?” I asked.

“Yeah, fuck me hard.”

“You’re sure?” I teased.

“Just do it.”

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I started fucking him hard and fast. “Oh God!” he gasped.

Holding him by the ankles, I plowed into him again and again. He encouraged me by saying,

“Harder, harder...” over and over again. His fist pounding his cock, Ross’ face squeezed together. His toes curled. I knew he was getting close.

Teasingly, I came to a complete stop. He let out a whine and wiggled his hips in frustration. I chuckled, then pulled back as far as I could without popping out and slammed back into him. He gasped. I did it a few more times, picking up speed each time. Just as I was getting back to speed, Ross came in three heavy spurts. A couple more thrusts and I came deep inside him.

A lot of guys find sex a great sleep aid and are ready to nod off the minute they’re done. I’m the opposite. It energizes me, makes me want to start my day. As I lay there with Ross, he dozed in my arms while I worked over the Borlock case in my mind.

Bobby had mentioned that Campbell Wayne was hobnobbing with the Chicago elite and sometimes landed on the society page. Ross’ boyfriend was Earl Silver, the social columnist for the
Daily Herald
. I nudged Ross. “Do you think you could ask Earl about someone involved in a case I’m working?”

He rolled over and stretched. “I’m not sure. I can try, but you’re not very popular with Earl.”

“He knows about this?”

“Yeah.”

“He doesn’t think you’re going to be faithful, does he? Not while he fucks his wife every weekend.”

“He doesn’t fuck her.”

“Where did the children come from?”

He gave me a nasty look and said, “He doesn’t fuck her anymore.” He got out of bed and looked around on the floor for his underwear. When he found them, he looked over at me and said,

“Actually, things are changing. I’m not going to be able to do this anymore.”

That stung. A little more than I would have expected. It also explained why he wanted to get fucked. It was a goodbye gesture. I played it cool and said, “Suit yourself.”

“Earl is leaving his wife. They’re talking about it tonight. We’re going to live together full time.”

“Congratulations.”

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“He’s even thinking of coming out. I don’t think he’ll go that far. But at least he’s thinking about it.” Ross looked uncomfortable for a moment, like he was afraid I might start a fight with him.

“What is it you want me to ask him?”

I gave him Campbell Wayne’s name and told him, “What I’m really interested in is the stuff Earl can’t print.”

Before he left, I stood with Ross at my front door. “Do I get my coat back, at least?” I asked about the gray wool coat he was wearing, which a few months before had been mine.

“I need something to remember you by.”

“You can have something to remember me by any time you want to come by.”

He frowned, but kissed me goodbye anyway.

After Ross took off, I sat down at the tiny table in my kitchen and cleaned my Sig Sauer. It didn’t need it, and I should have been doing laundry, since my first day as a temp was Monday and I’d need something to wear. But I found cleaning my gun to be a calming ritual.

A number of things made me nervous about taking over Lenny’s job. Not the least of them was that I wouldn’t have my gun with me. An office situation was too risky for an underarm holster.

Even if I left my jacket on the whole time -- which would likely draw unwanted attention --

people might notice the awkward lump under my arm in the harsh fluorescent light of an office.

With an old toothbrush, I cleaned the slide. It had been a long time since I’d been without my gun. Since the time Daniel and I got attacked, I’d pretty much done everything but shower while wearing my holstered Sig Sauer. I was self-aware enough to see the connection, not that I was willing to do much about it. I told myself it was likely that, going into an office every day for a week or so, I probably wouldn’t need to shoot anyone. I wished I could take more comfort in that.

I slid a scrap of cloth through the chamber with a dismantled wire coat hanger. Something else wasn’t sitting right with me. Ross’ news had bummed me out. I had to be honest with myself and admit that. I was fond of Ross, but it didn’t go beyond that. I’d miss my fuck buddy, but didn’t expect to pine for him.

So it was a bit of a surprise when I realized the thing that was bothering me was Ross dumping me to be with his lover. I was jealous of that, jealous that he had someone, even if it was someone like Earl Silver.

It was a shitty feeling.

* * *

Monday morning, I woke up at four a.m. realizing that I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t walk around Chicago without my gun. The idea alone made me break out in a cold sweat. I got out of bed and pulled a brown corduroy blazer out of my closet. I grabbed a pair of scissors, an old pillowcase, and a travel sewing kit. It took almost an hour, and the results were downright ugly, but I managed to expand the inside breast pocket of the blazer in such a way that the Sig Sauer would fit. It wouldn’t be easy to get to, but if I needed it, it would be nearby.

A few minutes before nine, I walked into JTM pretending to be Ted Duda. I wore the blazer, a rumpled pair of khakis, a dress shirt I’d had to wash twice to get rid of the accumulated dust from two years in my closet, and a red tie my mother had given me when I graduated from high school.

Part of me was nervous that I’d be stopped and asked for identification I didn’t have. But Bobby had told me that you could waltz into any building downtown claim you came from a temp agency, pop out an employee’s name, and most companies will let you in. When it turned out he was exactly right and I breezed into JTM, I filed the information for later use. It’s just the kind of thing that would come in handy in my line of work.

JTM Properties took up half of the forty-second floor of the John Hancock Tower. I had no idea what the company did, though it seemed to have something to do with real estate. The receptionist pointed me toward Campbell Wayne’s office, and I wandered across the floor in the general direction she’d pointed. The offices looked hastily put together out of odds and ends. I wondered if the business was fly by night. But then that didn’t seem to fit. Why would they have their offices in the Hancock if they were fly by night?

Campbell Wayne’s office was tucked in the back, near the northwest corner. One of the diagonal bars that form the Xs on the tower slashed across his window. There was a polished mahogany desk and a leather couch pushed up against a wall. The man himself wasn’t in. Outside his office was a dark wooden cubicle that was clearly for me. Around the cubicle and even in Campbell’s office were boxes of brochures. I was tempted to rifle through the desk and the surrounding areas to see if Lenny might have left anything interesting, but I thought it might be suspicious behavior, since I’d only just arrived.

I did poke around a little, taking a brochure out of one the boxes. The cover proclaimed “JTM

IV” in big letters over a photograph of an office building. Flipping through, there were a lot of charts with dollar amounts and several pages of tiny legalese at the back. The best I could figure, they sold limited partnerships in commercial real estate. One whole section of the brochure was devoted to potential tax benefits. In other words, immediate losses you could deduct from your taxes. The next section outlined the profits you’d make down the road. If you were in the right tax bracket, this investment made you a ton of money as long as they didn’t do something stupid like break even.

“Interesting reading?” I turned around and found myself staring at a young blonde woman. “I’m Terri. I work right over there for Ed Sullivan. Don’t laugh, he’s sensitive about his name. You’re Campbell’s temp, right?”

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“Ted. Ted Duda.”

“Let me show you where the coffee is.” She wore a skintight dancer’s top in lavender and a black wrap-around skirt of the same material. Her shoes were black, unusually bland, and had a modest heel. I learned later they were character shoes, favored by actresses because they were generic enough to cover many periods in history. Terri was an actress.

“You’re with Carolyn’s Crew, aren’t you?” she asked as we walked.

“Yes.”

“Me, too. Half the people here are temps. Business is booming. They can barely keep up.” We got to a small, windowless room that contained a break table, a refrigerator, and a large coffee machine. “Well, here we are.” She showed me how to make coffee if I needed to and encouraged me to take a cup. I did.

“Are you a theater person?” I could tell she was sizing me up, trying to figure out if I was straight. If I was a theater person, chances went down substantially.

“No, I’m not.” I realized I’d failed to think through a cover story. I was going to have to come up with one on the fly.

“How did you find Carolyn’s Crew, then?”

“I’m a friend of Bobby Martin.”

“Oh.” She was clearly disappointed. If I was a friend of Bobby Martin, then I must be gay.

Apparently, she’d been hoping otherwise. “So, what are you into?”

Having borrowed Daniel’s middle name, I went ahead and took more of his life. “I’m studying to be a librarian.”

She gave me an odd look. “Okay. So, why aren’t you working at a library?”

“Actually, I’m starting graduate school in the fall. So... I’m just trying to make some money until then.” It was a bad cover story. Full of holes I’d have to fill in later -- like for one, I was a little old for college. Fortunately, Campbell Wayne walked by the break room just then, and Terri ushered me back to his office.

In his late twenties, Campbell Wayne was an inch or two over six feet tall, nearly as tall as I am.

He was elegantly thin, with long arms and legs that he arranged in such a way that he always seemed posed. Lithe is the kind of word you’d use to describe him. He looked like he could bend around corners. His hair was that kind of light brown that turns blond on top just from walking down the street, while remaining dark beneath. His eyes were brown, and his skin always seemed to be just recovering from a flush. He wore a perfectly tailored, gray, three-piece, pinstriped suit with a pastel pink shirt and a navy blue tie. His shoes were worth more than my car.

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Terri introduced us, and he said, “Welcome aboard, Ted.” Then, without a word of instruction, dismissed me by saying he needed to make a call. When we got out to my cubicle, I turned and looked at Terri.

“He gets like that. Don’t worry about it.”

I took my jacket off and put it on the back of my chair, being careful not to let the gun in my pocket bang against anything. I looked around and tried to acquaint myself with my desk. It held a complicated phone, a large, book-sized calendar and an IBM Selectric with an opaque plastic cover. Fortunately, it was quiet that morning. There were only two calls, both from Julie Monroe, Campbell’s fiancée. He took the calls quickly. The mail came around ten. I neatened up the stack and brought it in to him. He was reading the
Daily Herald
and didn’t bother to look up.

Around eleven, he came out and gave me two invoices he wanted me to type check requests for.

He showed me where to get the blank forms, then took me back to a file room where the carbons for the completed requests were filed and suggested I use an old check request as a template. If I had any problems, I should ask Terri. I didn’t have any problems; the forms were straightforward enough. Both were to vendors for printing services rendered. About twenty minutes later I brought them into his office to be signed.

He scratched his signature on the bottom of both requests. “Make copies of each. This one,” he pointed at the request with the lesser amount, “Kelly Graphics, can go inter-office to AP.

Blanchard Designs needs to be signed by Ed Sullivan first.”

Trying not to smirk at the mention of Ed Sullivan, I asked, “What’s the difference between them?”

He gave me a look that made me wonder if asking questions was a breach of office etiquette.

Finally, he said, “Blanchard Designs needs a second signature because it’s over five thousand.”

Then he added, “Will there be anything else?”

I mumbled a “no, sorry” and left the room.

At lunch, I walked over to Water Tower Place. I thought I might be able to talk to Jeanine Anderson, but when I got to the seventh floor, I immediately saw that there was a line to get into The Gold Mine. A frazzled hostess, who was probably Jeanine, argued with a potential diner.

She was pretty in an everyday way. Her skin was pink and fresh. A short woman, she was light on top and thick from the waist down. I figured she probably hated herself because she didn’t look like a model. I also figured guys took advantage of that. She was so busy there was no way she’d be able to take the time to talk to me. I’d have to come back another day during my morning coffee break.

Taking the elevator back down to the first floor, I set myself up at the payphone I’d found on my previous trip. I took Lenny’s bank statement out of my jacket pocket and called his bank. His mother had given me his birth date and her maiden name. As it turned out, this was enough to
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convince the woman in customer service I was the late Lenny Borlock. I told her about the suspicious charge and asked her what we should do.

She clicked her computer a few times and may have even shuffled some papers around. A few moments later she was back on the phone. “You called about this before, Mr. Borlock.”

“Yes, that’s right,” I improvised.

“The deposit was made with one of the pre-printed slips that come with your checks. And the signature on the back of the check matches the signature card you gave us.” Her tone suggested she was vaguely displeased.

“Are you sure it’s my signature?”

“We’re not handwriting experts, Mr. Borlock, but it does appear to be yours, yes. Are you sure you didn’t make this deposit?”