Color Him Gay: The Further Adventures of the Man from C. A. M. P. (4 page)

Rich was grim when he again entered the room. He handed the reports to Jackie wordlessly.

Jackie whistled softly as he looked them over. “Jack Savage,” he read aloud. “Small time blackmailer and con man for many years. Bruno Scotto, one time strong-arm man for the Green Bay Gang, notorious queer-hater, one time suspect in the slaying of a homosexual. Both now believed working for B.U.T.C.H.”

He raised his eyes solemnly to Rich's. It was a name with which they were both familiar: B.U.T.C.H., Brothers United to Crush Homosexuality. Like C.A.M.P. it was an underground organization, although it had as its goal the harassment and destruction of homosexuality. Their tools included vice and crime of every sort, and their agents were everywhere. Often a homosexual, particularly one who gave the appearance of wealth, would pick up some lovely young male and enjoy a session of romance, only to find himself the victim of blackmail and worse. Among the unsolved murders of homosexuals in the files of C.A.M.P., all but a few were believed to be the work of B.U.T.C.H.

“The big boys,” Rich said softly.

“And getting bigger, it seems,” Jackie said. “In the past their blackmail activities have been random, accidental things. But this looks like they've entered the field on a large scale, seeking out the biggest targets for their filthy trap.”

“They're elusive,” Rich reminded him. “And they play rough.”

“So do I,” Jackie said coldly. He had tangled with B.U.T.C.H. on more than one occasion. Thus far the score had remained even: a few wins for him, a few for them. The headquarters, the core of their operations, remained as yet undiscovered, although the operation was suspected to be as widespread and extensive as C.A.M.P.

Jackie returned the reports and stood, finishing off the last of his coffee. “I'd better get back to my own apartment,” he declared, taking a moment to glance at the last report, the one showing the address of Chris Langley.

“It's almost morning,” Rich told him gently. “Why don't you sleep here for an hour or so?”

Jackie smiled gratefully, reading the affection in the large dark eyes. It would be wonderful to lie in those giant arms, to afford one another a brief interlude of sex. But for now he had work to think of.

“When this is over,” he said, giving Rich's cheek a gentle pat. “I promise you a toss in the hay like you've never had.”

He started from the room. “Oh, by the way,” he said, turning back. “I had some trouble with the Alfa. Have one of the boys from Mechanics pick it up and look it over, will you? I'll take a cab home.”

“Nothing bad I hope.”

Jackie smiled despite his grim mood, remembering the spilled oil. It had given him a chance to rub Stark's lap thoroughly and maybe start the wheels turning in Stark's mind. And if it hadn't been for the oil, Stark would not have shed his clothes and showered and donned a robe—which had been so easy to take off, before there was time for a change of heart.

“No, I guess you couldn't call it bad,” he said, leaving.

The phone rang a little before nine the following morning. Jackie had had less than three hours' sleep, although his eyes opened at once and he reached for the instrument as he sat up. The voice on the other end was Dingo Stark's.

“Just thought I should tell you,” Stark explained in a voice that indicated he too had slept little. “I learned that Steve's in San Francisco. I don't know just where yet but as soon as I get the address I'll let you know.”

“Thanks,” Jackie answered. “That may help.” The signs were all pointing to San Francisco. In the past he had been unable to determine which city served as a headquarters for B.U.T.C.H. This lead could have implications stretching far beyond the immediate case.

He showered, standing for long minutes under a hard stream of ice-cold water to guarantee that he was awake and ready for action. While he was dressing he gulped down a steaming cup of coffee. In a short time, he was in the private elevator that carried him from his apartment to the garage in the basement.

Efficient as always, the mechanic from C.A.M.P. had already repaired the oil tank of the Alfa, and had delivered it to its stall. Jackie allowed it to warm up for a minute or two before starting out.

The boarding house at which he was to find Chris Langley was a far cry from the sort of places she must have inhabited only a few short months before. This one was definitely seedy and told more clearly than words how far and how fast she had fallen.

“She's here,” the heavy-set woman who met him at the door answered his question. “But I doubt she's in condition for visitors. I'll see if she's awake.” There was not much hope in her voice.

Chris Langley was indeed awake. Even from the bottom of the stairs Jackie could hear the stream of profanities that answered the landlady's knock. A second knock resulted in a crash as something, probably an empty bottle, was hurled at the door.

The landlady marched angrily back down the stairs, her nostrils flaring. “I'll not be insulted that way, not by the likes of her,” she snorted. “If she's a friend of yours you're welcome to her. And you'd better see her while you can, because I vow she'll not spend another night under this roof.”

Jackie took advantage of the woman's anger to climb the stairs himself. He did not knock at the door but opened it cautiously and stepped in.

Chris Langley was a beautiful girl and her beauty was the type that was not easily destroyed. She was doing a good job of it, however, judging from her appearance, and already the telltale signs were beginning to show. To make it worse she wore no make-up. In fact, she wore nothing but a bra and panties as she sprawled across the crumpled bed.

“Who the hell are you?” she demanded, trying to get to her feet. She was drunk and the attempt was a failure. She fell upon the pillows.

“Just a friend,” Jackie informed her, watching carefully in case she decided to throw another bottle. “I want to talk to you.”

“What about?” she asked, eyeing him suspiciously.

“About your career,” he told her bluntly. “And why it was ended.”

She threw back her head and started to laugh wildly. The sound ended in a choking sob. “Very funny,” she sneered. “If you don't know why I was booted out of the studio, you're the only one in the country who doesn't.”

“The Lesbianism? I know about that. I'm more interested in the fact that you were being blackmailed.”

The statement had the hoped-for effect. This time she managed at least to sit up straight, growing sober almost instantly.

“You know about that?” she asked him in a calmer voice.

“A little,” he admitted. “I'd like to know more.”

She shrugged and looked around for a cigarette. Jackie lit one and carried it to her.

“Thanks,” she said, exhaling the smoke through her nostrils. “What's to know? They bled me dry for almost a year. Finally I couldn't pay any more and I told them so. Two days later I was out on my can.”

“Who are they?”

“I don't know,” she sighed wearily. “It started with some girl, nice looking twitch, very sweet and innocent. Of course, not too innocent. She made all the plays. I was being careful, with my career and all, but she kept coming on like Gangbusters. So I gave in, took her to bed. Boom, next thing I know she's disappeared and in her place is some apelike worm with a bunch a dirty pictures.”

Apelike—it could only be Bruno Scotto. “Was he the only one you ever dealt with?” he asked.

“Yeah, the only one. And always very discreetly. He'd call and tell me where to meet him. Sometimes in a park, sometimes at a movie theater. Never the same place twice.”

“This all took place here, in Los Angeles?”

“Sure, where else?”

Maybe, he thought, he had been premature in thinking that all the signs pointed to San Francisco.

“Except,” she added impulsively, “That I met the girl the first time in San Francisco, while I was up there for an appearance. She followed me down here though.”

So he had not been mistaken after all. “Thanks,” he said, preparing to leave. “I think you've told me what I want to know.”

“Hey, who are you anyway,” she asked again. “You with one of the studios?”

He shook his head sadly. “No sorry, just a friend, like I said.”

He was gone before she had the chance to question him any further.

* * * *

At the C.A.M.P. office, Rich also was up and busy at work. “Any news?” he greeted Jackie.

“Just that I'm going on a little vacation,” Jackie answered, striding into the bedroom.

“A vacation?” Rich asked, following him.

“To San Francisco,” Jackie explained, already opening dresser drawers. “To see if I can get myself picked up and, hopefully, blackmailed.”

Frowning, Rich took a seat on the edge of the bed. “I don't like that,” he argued. “We've got a man in the San Francisco area, why not let him handle it?”

“I've got a personal interest in this one, remember,” Jackie pointed out. From the dresser drawer he had selected a wig, a sandy-haired affair. He laid that aside and removed his make-up kit, with which he was able to change his appearance at will.

“You'll be where I can't help you,” Rich said.

Or protect me, Jackie added silently. And many times Rich's protection had saved his life, but he was not to be dissuaded. “Contact the office up there,” Jackie instructed. “Fill them in on the case. I won't risk getting in touch with them of course, but it'll be comforting to know that they're keeping an eye on things.”

As he talked he was working on his face with the plastic from the make-up kit. By the time he turned back to Rich he was a different person, fuller of face, somewhat older looking than before. He donned the wig and the transformation was complete.

“Also,” he went on, mentally checking off the steps he had planned. “Tell them to create a front for me. Spread a few rumors around some of the bars. The name is Jackie Garden, a wealthy gentleman from a stuffy old family, terrified of scandal. I'm from New York, vacationing here on my way to San Francisco.”

In a short while he was ready to leave. No one seeing him walk toward his car would have suspected that the conservatively handsome man and the pretty blond who had left it a short while earlier were one and the same person.

* * * *

He returned briefly to his apartment to pack and change into a conservative gray suit. As the scion of a stuffy eastern family he would have to forego the more flamboyant clothes he often wore.

Sophie, his miniature white poodle, followed him about the apartment as he made ready. She was accustomed to seeing him come and go at all times but she never failed to become despondent each time he packed a bag.

He was all but ready when the phone rang. Again it was Dingo Stark, this time only calling to see if there was any news.

“Nothing yet, but I'm hoping to have something for you soon,” Jackie assured him.

“I'm just across the street,” Stark said. “Shall I come up?”

Jackie hesitated. He was in his disguise. It could hardly do any harm however if Stark saw him like this, and the rock star was clearly despondent. “Come ahead,” he answered. “But I'll have to leave for the airport in a few minutes.”

Stark was there in three minutes. He stared blankly at Jackie when the door opened. “Is Jackie here?” he asked.

“I couldn't get much closer to you,” Jackie said with a laugh. “Come on in.”

Stark was appropriately astonished. “You? But what's all this get-up?”

“Working outfit,” Jackie explained, leading the way into the apartment. “I'm on my way to San Francisco in a few minutes.”

“Think you're on to something?” Stark asked.

They stopped as Sophie, spotting the stranger, sprang from the chair in which she had been dozing and bared her teeth menacingly.

“Sit, Sophie,” Jackie told her sharply. The dog seated herself obediently.

“Is she really dangerous?” Stark asked, staring at the harmless looking ball of white fluff.

“Trained to kill,” Jackie explained matter-of-factly. “In my business you can't have too much protection around.”

Stark skirted the dog with new respect and took a seat.

“How about some coffee?” Jackie asked. At Stark's nod, he entered the kitchen and returned with two mugs of coffee.

“I'm just following up leads,” he explained, seating himself. “By the way, get in touch with me as soon as you hear from your friend Steve. I'll be staying at the Essex, under the name Jackie Garden.”

Sophie, having satisfied herself that the newcomer was harmless, came to where Jackie was sitting and wagged her tail energetically.

Seeing her twitching nose, Jackie took another swallow of coffee and set his cup on the floor where the dog could reach it. Sophie sniffed and gave him an icy look.

“Sorry,” he said, realizing the trouble. He added a lump of sugar from the tray, stirring it, and returning it to the floor. The dog sniffed and, satisfied that it was now to her taste, lowered her snout into the cup and began to drink noisily.

“She is a bit peculiar,” Stark admitted, watching the dog.

“She's mad, but sometimes useful.” Jackie glanced at his watch. He would have to be on his way soon to the airport.

“I won't stay,” Stark said, taking the hint. “I just wanted some reassurance. I start my personal appearances in two days and I was hoping maybe this could be straightened out by then.”

“Not unless we're lucky,” Jackie said. Then, seeing the disappointment on the other's face, he smiled and added, “I'll do my best.”

Stark paused on their way to the door, to study the large wood carving atop the credenza. Nearly two feet tall, it was a faithful and at the same time beautiful representation of a particular portion of the male anatomy.

“What on earth…?” he stammered, embarrassed and amused at the same time.

“A trophy from C.A.M.P.,” Jackie explained. “For my work.”

“What are all the scratches?” Both sides of the enormous phallus were lined with deep gouges.

Jackie grinned. “To be honest, I think you'd call them notches.”

“Notches?” Stark blushed. “You mean…?”

“Conquests is the nice word,” Jackie answered him.

“I'd say you've been busy,” Stark said quietly, continuing on toward the door.

“A little,” Jackie agreed. His eyes dropped to the buttocks enclosed in the trousers before him as Stark walked toward the door. Halfway conquests didn't earn a notch. It was too bad, he thought, that he was on his way to catch a plane. He might have been able to complete the job.