First You Fall: A Kevin Connor Mystery (6 page)

“I owe you a drink,” Randy said to the stil -shaking deaf guy. “And if you want, I’l take you home afterwards and touch you up nice al over.” The deaf guy was reading Randy’s lips and he looked like he couldn’t believe what he was hearing.

Seeing. Whatever.

You could see how tempted he was by the prospect of spending time with Randy, but he was also wondering if he shouldn’t just leave now rather than risk his life with this beautiful nut.

But after a Cosmo and twenty minutes of watching how Randy’s impossibly strong shoulders tapered down to slim hips and an unbeatable ass, he decided that even if Randy kil ed him, it wouldn’t be a bad way to go. They left together, and Randy later told me “deaf guys are hot! He had a mouth like a Hoover, great fingers, and, after sex, I didn’t have to make any conversation or anything.”

Stil , despite a happy ending, Randy’s run-in with the deaf guy gave me firsthand knowledge of how out of control Randy could get.

Tony told me that Al en was expecting someone the night he was kil ed.

Could it have been a handsome hustler with a bad temper?

Randy was strong enough to throw a man off a balcony.

But why would he want to?

Under other circumstances, I would have cal ed Tony with my suspicions. But I couldn’t tel him how I knew Randy without revealing too much about myself.

I might be determined not to want Tony anymore, but I certainly wasn’t about to let him know about my hustling. That might make him not want
me.
I couldn’t have that!

No, I’d have to fol ow up with Randy on my own.

Two hours later, I found myself in an apartment on the Upper East Side, a high-priced neighborhood fil ed with wealthy dowagers and young investment bankers. If only they knew what their neighbors were up to.

I heard a telephone ring, but I was al tied up.

Literal y. Seated in a chair, my hands bound behind my back, my ankles lashed to each other. I was also nude, gagged and blindfolded.

I could hear my tormentor answer the phone.

Muffled voices conspired. Then he came back to where he had imprisoned me.

“I’m so sorry,” said my client, Melvin Cuttlebeck.

His thin, high voice was hushed. “That’s my boss on the phone, and I real y have to take this cal . It wil be about ten minutes. Shal I untie you?”

“No, I don’t mind,” I said through the gag, which, to be honest, wasn’t on tight enough to be effective anyway.

“Fabulous,” Melvin whispered. “I wouldn’t want you to be uncomfortable. I’l be back in a jiff.” I wouldn’t ordinarily do this kind of scene, but Melvin Cuttlebeck must be the world’s most solicitous sadist. Although he enjoys the fantasy of binding and dominating me, he’s terrified of actual y causing any pain. Or even discomfort.

As a result, he always ties me loosely enough so that it doesn’t chafe. In fact, I could probably just slip out of tonight’s ropes.

In our first session, Melvin spent over an hour showing me different knots and how to open them. “I wouldn’t want you to feel the least bit trapped,” he told me. “This way, you know that you can always get yourself free. After al , what would happen if I had a heart attack or something? Why, you could be stuck here for days!”

In the background, I could hear Melvin saying “yes sir,” and “right away, sir,” while whoever was on the other end of the phone did most of the talking. I felt sympathy for poor Melvin. Of course someone so obsequious on the job wanted to be the boss in the bedroom. It wasn’t his fault that he was too sweet to actual y hurt someone.

I’ve been seeing Melvin every month for almost a year now. Sometimes, we even do phone sessions.

Melvin’s about five feet, seven inches tal and thin as a rail. I think he likes me because I’m one of the few guys he’s bigger than.

A few minutes later, Melvin returned. He cautiously took off my blindfold and gag, and stood before me in a black leather harness and chaps with no pants underneath. His smal ish penis quivered.

“I’m back, boy. You better beg me not to hurt you.”

“Oh, please, sir, please don’t punish me,” I said. “I know I’ve been a bad boy, but I’m sorry, sir. I promise I’l be better.” I tried to act frightened, but probably just sounded whiny.

“Sorry, boy, but it looks like a spanking for you.” Melvin untied me and laid me over his lap. He brought a hand down on my ass so softly that I barely felt it. “That’s not too hard, is it?” Melvin whispered, breaking character for a moment.

I fought hard not to giggle. Giggling was definitely a mood kil er. “That’s just right,” I whispered back.

“Good, then here’s another one!” he shouted.

This one was even gentler. “Ow!” I cried.

“That’l teach you,” Melvin said.

“Please, sir, no more, no more!”

After a few more faked pleas and ten more soft slaps, I felt a sticky wetness on my bel y as Melvin ejaculated.

“You’re such a good boy,” Melvin beamed as he stuffed a generous tip into my palm. “I have a lot of meetings with my boss this week. Maybe I could cal you in the next few days?”

“Anytime,” I told him.

Outside, the air was a humid fog that covered everything like a wet blanket. Thanks to Melvin’s quickness on the draw, it wasn’t even 7:00.1 stil had the whole evening to … wel , I’d figure that out after I got home.

There were no cabs, so I walked over to a nearby hotel, where taxis always waited.

I turned on my phone and hooked up my Bluetooth headset. It always makes it look like I’m talking to myself, but in New York, that’s not uncommon. Even the crazies avoided me.

The first message, from my mother, I skipped.

That made three. I would cal her as soon as I got through the others.

The second was from the woman in the law office.

She told me she would be in her office late and that I should cal anytime.

I hit the cal back button.

“Susan Oliver here.”

“Yes, Ms. Oliver, this is Kevin Connor returning your cal .”

“Mr. Connor!” Ms. Oliver sounded very happy to hear from me. “Thank goodness. You were last on my list, and the reading is tomorrow.”

“The reading?”

“Of the wil .”

“What wil ?”

“Al en Harrington’s wil ,” she said as if explaining herself to a three-year-old. “He died, you know. Quite tragic.” Then, “Oh dear, I hope I wasn’t the one to break it to you.”

“Oh no, I was there the night he was murdered.”

“Murdered?” she sounded confused.

“It’s a long story.”

“In any case, there is a bequest to you in the wil , and you are required to be there.”

“Required?” I asked.

“Mr. Harrington left specific instructions as to whom he wanted in attendance.”

“Who?”

“I’m afraid I can’t release that information. May I count on your coming?”

Ms. Oliver gave me the time and place. I told her I’d be there.

I cal ed Freddy and told him about my problem: I wanted to honor Al en’s wishes, but I didn’t want to meet his homophobic sons, whom I was sure would be there. What if the crazy ex-wife showed? It sounded like a real freak show.

“Darling, you know I’m always there in your hour of need,” Freddy assured me.

“Yes, wel , it’s nice to have your support.”

“No, darling, literal y. I’m there. I’l be your bodyguard. Besides, it’s on my lunch hour.”

“It’s at ten o’clock in the morning.”

“I’l take an early lunch.”

“You don’t have to do that,” I said, hoping he would.

“Darling, it’s no trouble at al . You know I love a good soap opera. Besides, there could be a sizable inheritance at stake.”

“I doubt it,” I said. But it would be nice.

“Did you solve his murder yet?”

I told Freddy what I remembered about Randy Bostinick, and about Roger Folds, the development director at The Stuff of Life.

“See, that’s two more leads than you had yesterday,” Freddy encouraged. “Now, you’re in luck with Randy because he works out at my gym. If that boy injects one more dose of steroids, I think he’s going to grow hair on his elbows. Although, I have to say, he does look fabulous. I’d do him.”

“Him and what army?” I ask. “Oh yeah, any army.”

“Ha-ha, very funny. In any case, he’s there every morning at around eight, so he won’t be hard to find.

“Plus,” Freddy continued, “we’l get a look at the family tomorrow. Maybe we can force a confession at the reading of the wil . You know, when they’re al emotional and everything.”

“What did you have in mind?”

“I’l start with an easy question to break the ice.

Something like: ‘which one of you bitches kil ed your father?’”

“Subtle.”

“Wel you know me, darling. The soul of discretion.”

“On second thought, maybe you should just stay at work. I’l fil you in later.”

“Don’t be sil y, lamb. I’l behave, I promise. Now, I have to pick out something appropriately funereal to wear. Do you think black sequins would work, or is that too Liza?”

I hung up on Freddy and was climbing into a cab when my cel rang again. “Hel o,” I answered.

“It’s Tony.”

I resented the surge of excitement I felt when I heard his voice. “Hi.”

“I need to show you something,” he said.

“OK,” I said. “What?”

“Show, not tel . Where are you? Can you meet me?”

I told him I was in a cab inching its way downtown.

“Fine,” Tony said. “Meet me in the lobby of Al en Harrington’s apartment building.”

I gave the taxi driver a new destination.

EVEN THOUGH OUR
last meeting had ended pretty tragical y, I’d be lying if I didn’t say I was kind of excited about seeing Tony again. And kind of hating myself for feeling that way, too.

Why did he want to see me? At Al en’s building no, less.

What did Tony want?

I’d find out soon enough.

Al the doormen at Al en’s place knew me by now.

“Kevin!” the cute young one who admitted me when I got there exclaimed, “how ya doing, buddy?” He smiled broadly, revealing perfectly white teeth against his dark Latino skin. Like many of the real y handsome young men working jobs like these in New York City, Ricky was an aspiring actor/model.

“I’m OK,” I said, not smiling back. “You heard about Al en.”

“Right, right.” Ricky’s expression turned to one of concern. “Aw, man, that’s too bad about your friend.

I’m sorry.”

“Yeah.”

“So, I guess you’re not going to be coming around much anymore, huh?”

“Probably not.”

“Hey, I’m not supposed to be doing this but,” Ricky reached into his pocket for a notepad and pen, “why don’t you take my number. Maybe we can get together or something,” he said writing.

He handed me the paper.

I liked Ricky, but I wouldn’t be cal ing him. I had enough on my plate. Stil , I thought, looking at his striking features, maybe I could pass his number along to Freddy as an early Christmas present.

“Thanks,” I said, pocketing the note. “You take care.”

Tony was standing a few feet away with a glare on his face. “What was that al about?” he asked as I approached.

“He was expressing his condolences.”

“By giving you his number?”

“You could see what he wrote from here?”

“I’m a cop. I see everything. Besides, what else would he be giving you? A prayer card?”

Tony looked genuinely annoyed. He also looked extra-yummy in his navy suit, starched white shirt, and red-and-gold striped tie. The only concession to the day’s heat was the undone top button of his shirt.

Just that little suggestion of impending nudity was enough to fixate my attention on his bobbing Adam’s apple, which distractingly screamed “lick me, lick me!” Was Tony’s irritation at Ricky giving me his number a sign of jealousy? God, I hoped so.

“Why am I here?” I asked him.

“I want you to see something.” He showed me a key in his hand. “In Al en’s apartment.” Walking into Al en’s apartment was an eerie experience. Although I had been there before when he wasn’t home, this felt entirely different. It was as if the wal s and floors and tables and chairs al knew their owner wasn’t coming back. His absence was a vacuum sucking out al the air. I felt lightheaded and took a deep breath.

“You OK?” Tony asked.

“Fine.” But I real y wasn’t.

“Look around,” Tony said. “What do you see?

I did as instructed. Al en’s place was, as always, immaculate. Even an alien, landing on Earth for the very first time, would have known that a man of wealth and good taste lived here.

On a smal table by two wingback chairs was the open bottle of wine Tony had told me about, along with two glasses.

On his smal antique desk, Al en’s reading glasses sat next to a pen and a scattered pile of papers. Some kind of financial forms. An uncapped fountain pen lay on top of a printed out Excel spreadsheet dense with numbers on which Al en had apparently jotted his last written words. “Cal T. S.” The pen was an expensive Mont Blanc.

Al en had a thing for nice writing instruments. A row of similar pens stood like soldiers in a mahogany holder at the back of his desk. Any one of them could have paid half my monthly rent.

His last written words,
I thought to myself. I ran my finger over them. Just a few days ago, Al en’s gentle hand had rested there. I sighed.

“Something interesting?” Tony asked.

“No, just…” what could I say? “Nothing.” I continued to look around. Everything seemed normal. Horribly wrong without Al en there, but normal nonetheless.