George and Mike (an Avondale Anthology)

By Etienne

The first three Avondale books introduced and featured George Martin and Mike Foster. That being the case, it is appropriate that the first Avondale anthology should consist of those three books: Bodies of Work; Drag and Drop; and Break and Enter. George and Mike are secondary characters in most of the Avondale books, but these first three novels featured them.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Etienne
• Release date: Nov 27, 2016
• ISBN: 9781370152148

Etienne

Etienne lives in central Florida, very near the hamlet in which he grew up. He always wanted to write but didn't find his muse until a few years ago, when he started posting stories online. These days he spends most of his time battling with her, as she is a capricious bitch who, when she isn't hiding from him, often rides him mercilessly, digging her spurs into his sides and forcing the flow of words from a trickle to a flood.

Book preview

an Avondale Story

Introducing George and Mike

Etienne

Chapter 1

Jacksonville, FL

WILL YOU COME down off that fucking roof? Mike was yelling in an effort to make himself heard.

By way of answering, I started hammering roofing nails into the shingles even harder, making much more noise than was necessary in the hope that he would go away. But it was not to be, for a few minutes later his head appeared at the top of the ladder.

George, he said, you promised to go to the club with me tonight… and this fucking roof can wait.

I have to finish this bundle of shingles, I said, furiously hammering away.

No, you don’t. The roof will still be here tomorrow.

True, but the weather won’t be quite as good.

So what? All those shingles do is protect the felt. The felt is what keeps the house dry, and all the felt is in place.

The weather is still important. If it rains tomorrow, I won’t be able to get anything done.

Fuck the weather and fuck the roof. You’re coming down now, even if I have to drag your sorry ass down myself.

Think you’re man enough?

Only one way to find out.

He scrambled onto the roof and walked over to me.

Two ticks, I said.

Two ticks, my ass. It looks like you’ve settled down to stay up here all night.

He was looking at the floodlights I’d arranged in the branches of a live oak tree, which in contrast to the gloom elsewhere brightly illuminated my work area.

What time is it? I said.

After eight.

I need another hour.

Another hour? Not on your life.

Mike walked back to the ladder and disappeared from sight. Two minutes later the lights went out, and I was left in darkness. Shit, I thought, he pulled the plug. I put the bag of roofing nails in a pouch of the carpenter’s apron I was wearing, tucked my hammer into the little loop on my belt, and used the faint glow from the nearest streetlight to find my way across the roof to the ladder and then down. When I reached the ground, I went looking for the power cord and found that the first fifty-foot section of it had been removed, leaving the plug on the second section dangling from the eaves.

Mike was waiting for me in the kitchen, a smug look on his face. I guess I was man enough after all, he said.

Damn it, Mike, where’s that extension cord?

In a safe place. Its work is done for the day, and so is yours. You can’t hide up there on that roof forever, George.

What do you mean?

You caught that prick with someone else’s prick up his ass, and you did the right thing by kicking him out. But that was six months ago, so get over it… stop hiding on the roof… and get on with your life.

Is that what you think I’ve been doing? Hiding? He had me there. I’d caught my boyfriend of two years in my bed with his legs in the air, and I hadn’t been the guy kneeling between them. After I’d kicked him out, various acquaintances had shared their suspicions that there had been other infidelities as well. Aren’t friends wonderful? But to be honest, if they’d told me of their suspicions before I’d caught him in flagrante delicto, I wouldn’t have believed them—not without the all-important empirical evidence.

Well, haven’t you?

In someone’s immortal words: ‘Not only no, but hell no’.

Methinks thee doth protest too much. This is me you’re talking to, not some twit who hasn’t known you for more than two-thirds of your life, so I’ll ask you again. Haven’t you?

Well, maybe just a little. Damn, I hate it when he’s right.

Now that wasn’t so hard to admit, was it?

What do you think?

Get your ass in the bathroom and clean up. We’re going out on the town, and you’re going to forget that prick—and the roof—at least for an evening.

All right, I guess I can stand an evening at the club, especially if it will shut you up.

Damn straight. You’re going to enjoy this evening, even if it kills you.

I couldn’t stay angry with him—we’d known each other too long and too well for that. Twenty minutes later, having showered and shaved, I was standing naked in front of the bathroom vanity toweling my hair dry. I hung the towel up, brushed my hair, and was inspecting myself in the mirror when Mike came into the bathroom. He was already naked and reached into the shower to turn the water on.

Turning to me, he said, Taking inventory, are we?

Not really.

Sure you are. I’ll give you a hand, speaking metaphorically. Let’s see, on a ten point scale, I’d say, face nine, body eight (you need to work on those pecs), ass ten, dick seven and a half, personality needs a bit of improvement.

I had to chuckle at that. You’re no slouch, yourself.

True, and my dick is half an inch longer than yours when it’s angry.

In point of fact, we shared the same vital statistics: age thirty, six foot two, waist thirty-four, and size eleven-D shoes. We’d borrowed each other’s clothes since we were kids. The principal difference between us was that his black hair was worn in a buzz cut, where my thick blond hair was just a bit longer. He was right about the dick size as well—we’d first compared erections at age thirteen or thereabouts.

Why do you put up with my moods? I said.

Because I love you like the brother I never had, just like you love me. Because we’ve been best friends since Christ was a corporal. Because I want you to be happy. Because—

I cut him off, saying, Point made, point taken. Now get in the shower.

Without waiting for an answer, I went to my closet and selected a pair of chinos and a knit shirt and carried them into the master bedroom. I dressed quickly, gave myself a brief squirt of Tiffany for Men, stepped into a pair of deck shoes, and made my way into the den, where I settled into my favorite chair to wait for Mike. He walked into the room a few minutes later, dressed in 501s and a muscle tee.

Ready? he said.

As I’ll ever be.

I stood up, and he looked me up and down, then bent over and pulled my right pants leg up, exposing an ankle holster.

I thought I saw a bulge down there. Do you have to wear that thing?

"Mike, you know I have to wear it even when I’m off duty. As they say, ‘You never really need a gun until you really need one’."

Your status as the youngest lieutenant ever to grace the Jacksonville Sheriff’s Office doesn’t give you some leeway?

You know it doesn’t. We’ve been through this…. Besides, doesn’t it make you feel safer knowing that you’re going out with one of Jacksonville’s finest?

He ignored my rhetorical question and said, Your car or mine?

Your idea, your car.

Let’s go, then.

My house was a fifty-year-old bungalow in Avondale, which I’d spent the better part of five years renovating and restoring, mostly with my own two hands. The Avondale neighborhood had begun to be developed in the twenties, as people moved out and away from downtown after the great fire of 1901 had destroyed very nearly all of the downtown area. Avondale and the adjacent neighborhood of Riverside were home to a large gay population. This fact always surprised some people, given that Jacksonville boasted the second or third largest Southern Baptist congregation in the country, which congregation dominated local politics in many ways.

Most of Riverside and parts of Avondale had declined over the years, but in the seventies or thereabouts, the Riverside Avondale Preservation society had been formed. RAP, as it was universally known, aggressively promoted the neighborhood, as well as restoration of its homes. It had all begun because the city had announced plans to four-lane a thoroughfare through the length of the area that would have meant the demolition of dozens of historic buildings. RAP had put a stop to that project and was still going strong after more than thirty years. Mike drove quickly down a couple of cross streets and turned toward The Metro, a gay entertainment mecca that had been around for more than a decade.

Why here instead of Brothers? I said. Brothers, situated in the shadow of the Blue Cross Tower, was a popular afterwork watering hole.

Because there’s a visiting entertainer I want to hear.

You mean a famous drag queen is coming to River City?

Not a drag queen. At least not in the usual sense of the word. This one does his own singing—like Jim Bailey used to do.

Well, that at least will be different. I’m not sure I’m in the mood to sit through yet another lip-synched rendition of ‘I Will Survive’.

Don’t get your hopes up. There’ll be a bit of that sort of thing before the featured attraction performs.

Does this attraction have a name?

His stage name is Monique, but his real name is Bob Jones, if you can believe that.

Bob Jones, as in the well-known fundamentalist Southern Baptist college?

Yep.

Wow, the guy certainly has a sense of humor.

Mike parked, and we walked up to the entrance, paid our fee, and had our hands stamped with a symbol indicating we’d paid. I followed him to the main bar, where he ordered for both of us.

You didn’t ask what I wanted, I said, raising my voice above the not inconsiderable background chatter.

Puhleeze. You don’t like the swill that passes for wine here, and you don’t like beer, so I ordered a glass of Harvey’s Bristol Cream. That way you can nurse it all evening as usual.

Thanks.

I took the proffered glass and stood there, nursing my drink and surveying the room for a minute or three. Spotting a couple of familiar faces at a nearby table, I ambled over in that direction, took a vacant chair, and spent some time catching up with friends and acquaintances. Finally, Mike came over and parked himself beside me.

The show, as they say, is about to begin, he said.

The lights on the stage came up, and an emcee appeared holding a cordless microphone. God, I thought, why do these guys feel the need to emcee the show in drag themselves? Go figure. The opening acts were announced, and the audience was fed a few tidbits and teasers concerning the featured performer. I braced myself for the inevitable. Finally, the three opening acts were done and Monique was announced.

He walked on stage wearing a formfitting gown. I noted with interest that he was fairly short, quite slim, and was doing his act with a minimum of artifice. He wore very little makeup and changed only his wigs as he did extremely credible imitations of Streisand, Garland, and Lee, among others. He was quite good, possibly even as good as the legendary Jim Bailey, and the audience went crazy.

The lights came up when it was over, and Mike whispered in my ear, Well, was it worth it?

Much as I hate to admit it, it was. Thanks for talking me into this.

No problem. He excused himself to go into active chase mode.

Having finally finished my drink, I wandered over to the bar for another one and stood there for a few minutes watching the crowd as I sipped on my sherry. Finally a stool became vacant and I sat with my back to the bar, watching the crowd. Eventually, I became aware of a presence to my left and turned to see who it was. It was, as they say, a cutie-pie. Short, slim, brownish hair cut very close to the scalp, just short of a buzz cut, and very cute. We stared at each other for a long moment.

Hi, he said. My name is Bob. What’s yours?

George.

Well, George. What did you think of the show?

Seen one, seen ‘em all… except for Monique. He was great. In fact, he made me think of Jim Bailey.

Thanks. I’ve sort of modeled myself after him, and I appreciate your honest opinion.

"Holy shit. You’re that Bob."

Guilty as charged.

Buy you a drink?

Sure.

While I was in the process of doing that, Mike walked up to me with a younger guy in tow. He handed me the car keys. Take my car home, will you? I’m going home with my friend… what did you say your name was? he said, looking at his companion.

Stan.

Right, Mike said without skipping a beat, my friend Stan. He’s promised faithfully to get me home in the morning.

Mike headed to the door with Stan in tow.

Bob looked at me. I just love success stories, don’t you?

I do too, but in Mike’s case, they only seem to last no longer than forty-eight hours or so.

Sounds like you know him well.

We’ve been best friends, man and boy, since we were eight or thereabouts.

That’s impressive. I can’t think of anyone I’ve been friends with for more than a year.

We talked for quite a while until our drink glasses were empty. Finally, he said, I’m staying downtown at the Omni, would you like to tuck me in?

Don’t you have another show to do?

I have two performances tomorrow, but not tonight.

In that case, what’s your room number?

He told me, and I said, See you there.

I set my empty glass on the bar, headed to the parking lot, and found Mike’s car. I hadn’t started the evening prepared for sex in any sense of the word, but fortunately Mike had a well-stocked glove box in his car, so I helped myself to a few condoms and slipped them into my pocket. Arriving downtown, I found a space in the Omni parking lot, secured the car, and made my way into the hotel. I went straight to the elevator and arrived on his floor just in time to find Bob inserting his plastic room key into the slot in the door of his room.

Chapter 2

Jacksonville, FL

WE ENTERED HIS room, and he closed and chained the door behind us. We embraced briefly and indulged in a lengthy kiss. Finally, he broke away, saying, After performing under those hot lights, I’m desperately in need of a shower. Why don’t you join me?

Without waiting for an answer, he headed for the bathroom, shedding various garments along the way. I walked over to the bed and undressed, carefully folding my clothes and placing them on one of the chairs. Having done that, I entered the bathroom. He was just about to step into the shower, and I quickly noted that his slim body was lean, quite fit, and very compact. His torso was hairless, as was the rest of him, as far as I could tell. As he turned to step into the shower, his bubble butt was shown to advantage.

What are you waiting for? he said.

You. I stepped into the shower with him.

We spent quite a while washing each other’s bodies, leaving no stone unturned and no crevice unexplored, both of us wonderfully erect the entire time. Finally, he grabbed my erection and said, I want that thing in me, now.

We’ll be more comfortable in that nice queen-size bed.

Fine, but make it quick.

He turned the water off, and we quickly toweled ourselves mostly dry. He grabbed my erection again and led me into the bedroom. There was no need for subtleties—the foreplay had been going on in the shower for ten minutes or more. Before I knew it, he’d slipped a condom over my erection, was on his back with his legs in the air, and I was entering him slowly and cautiously.

Don’t hold back, he said. Do it fast and hard.

Are you sure?

Shut up—and do it now.

I obliged and began to thrust in and out.

Faster… deeper… harder, he said.

I picked up the pace.

Much better.

I won’t last long at this rate.

That’s okay, next time will take longer.

Promises, promises.

Just wait, you’ll see.

I bent down and shut him up by covering his mouth with mine. Finally, I began to spasm deep inside him, and I felt him spurt against my abdomen. When it was over, I stretched out on the bed beside him.

How do you hide all this under that tight dress? I said, caressing his softening genitals.

There are various ways to do that, all of them uncomfortable. To answer your question, I usually wear a dance belt, but where a male dancer points his dick at the sky, I tuck mine down in the other direction.

He began to stroke me, saying, How soon will you be ready for a repeat performance?

As soon as I’m sufficiently inspired.

I think I can manage to inspire you, he said, and proceeded to do so.

It didn’t take long, and when it was over, he said, Can you spend the night?

Sure, provided we can do this again first thing in the morning.

Deal, he said as he reached over to turn out the light beside the bed.

I woke up the next morning almost on the dot of six, just as I always do, and almost hopped out of the bed automatically to head for the bathroom until, at the last minute, I realized where I was. Bob had rolled over onto his side during the night, facing away from me, so I eased up against him and put my arms around him, but not before I slipped a condom over my morning wood.

He began to stir under my hands. Mmmm. What time is it?

Early. You probably don’t want to know, I said as I eased into him.

This is a nice wake-up call.

Finest kind.

I began to stroke him and to do things to his neck and ear with my mouth as I began to plunge in and out. Once again, it wasn’t very long before we were both spent.

He rolled over to face me, and we kissed.

That was nice, he said.

Yes, it was. Want to have breakfast?

Not a chance. I have two performances tonight, and I’m going to sleep ‘til noon.

Then I’ll leave you to it. I’m meeting a friend for an early morning workout at the YMCA.

You have enough energy for a workout after all this?

Sure. I find sex energizing, don’t you?

Not at this hour.

I gave him one last kiss and went to the bathroom to relieve myself. When I returned to the bedroom and began to dress, he went to the bathroom. He returned just as I was strapping my ankle holster in place.

His eyes widened a bit. Do you always carry a gun?

I’m a policeman, and I’m never totally off duty.

This is a first for me; I’ve never had a cop before.

Want to have me again? What time will your show be over tonight?

Yes—and probably not until well after midnight.

In that case, I’ll stop by for the second performance, unless, of course, duty calls.

Are you on duty today?

I have the entire weekend off, but I’m subject to call.

My holster in place and pants snugged down over it, I gave him a brief kiss and left the room. When I got home, I found Mike nursing a cup of coffee in the kitchen.

Good morning, sunshine, I said.

My, aren’t we chipper this morning, and I know why. You’ve got that ‘just been laid’ look about you.

That I do, and you’ll never guess who it was.

I give up.

Bob Jones.

The performer? No way.

He was chatting me up when you handed me your keys last night.

"Well, I am impressed."

Ready to go to the Y?

Not really, but I will anyhow.

By the way, how was Stan?

Who?

The guy you went home with.

Oh, him. Quite forgettable, and something of a disappointment.

Do you mean to say that you struck out?

Not at all. We fucked a couple of times, actually, but it just wasn’t very interesting.

Sorry.

Not your fault. Are you ready to go?

After you.

We took my car to the central YMCA facility, which was on Riverside Avenue not too far from downtown. It was a large complex, situated between the street and the river, and featured handball courts, lockers, showers, steam room, sauna, and an indoor pool. The equipment room contained every workout machine known to man, or so it seemed. There was even a new room full of stationary bikes devoted to spinning classes—the latest fitness craze. In addition, there was an outdoor running track situated between the Y and the river.

We carried our gym bags into the locker-room, and Mike said, What are we doing today?

We usually run on Saturdays, but if you want to do a different routine, I’m game.

Let’s do about five miles, then. I need to sweat last night out of my system.

We pulled on our gear and headed out the door and down Riverside Avenue. It was a well-established route used by various members at all times of the day, starting with a group who met, already in running gear, an hour before the Y opened. They timed their run so that the facility would be open by the time they returned. Then they showered, shaved, dressed, and went to work. They called themselves the ‘dawn patrol’.

We’d just reached the one-mile mark at the park when Mike said, What are you doing the rest of the day?

What do you think? The shingles are calling me.

Want some help?

You know you can’t hammer even a roofing nail in straight, but I appreciate the offer.

Then I’ll play gofer for a bit and lug a few more bundles of shingles up the ladder to you.

Thanks, I’ll be grateful for that.

We completed our run in relative silence. Back in the locker-room, we slipped on Speedos and went to the pool to cool down while doing a few laps.

In the locker-room once again, Mike looked at me. Steam or sauna?

Steam, I think, if that’s okay with you.

Fine.

He led the way to the steam room, towel slung over his shoulder, and I followed suit. The usual assortment of men were sitting on the tiled benches, taking the steam. Some of them had towels around their waists, while others were sitting on their towels, legs spread, various parts dangling in full view. Mike and I emulated the former, cinching our towels around us before we sat down on one of the benches. I settled back against the warm tile wall and, with eyes half closed, watched the group.

After we’d been settled on the bench for a couple of minutes, a sort of nerdy-looking guy wearing glasses entered the room and took a spot on the bench across the room from us. His towel was kind of loosely draped over his thighs, but with his legs spread, you could clearly see his private parts. He slipped one hand under the towel and began to fondle himself until he was fully hard. Somehow he managed to keep his erection pointing out along his thigh instead of standing up and tenting the towel. He was watching us intently while pretending not to do so.

In the Mists and Vapors

HE’D FOLLOWED THE two men from the locker-room into the steam room, where he watched them carefully through hooded eyes. They were both so hot-looking, but the blond was the one that really turned him on. He wondered if they were lovers, but watching their body language, he decided that they were probably just friends.

He began to fondle himself to full erection, thinking about the hot blond across the room and what he would like to do with and to him. The two men didn’t appear to notice him, but they couldn’t help but do so. He could see their genitals between their spread legs, and neither of them appeared to be reacting to his display.

He got so excited that he lost control and spewed onto his thigh before he could slow down. He heard the blond say to the other man, Ready to hit the showers? The other man nodded, and the two of them left the room.

Damn. Maybe next time he could control himself a little better. He wanted the blond to notice him… to desire him… to want him. He settled back against the wall with a sigh of resignation.

I WATCHED THE guy with the glasses lose control and spurt all over his thigh. Such behavior was not at all uncommon in the steam room. In fact, at times the jacking off and other displays were much more overt. I looked at Mike. Ready to hit the showers?

He nodded, and we left the room. The shower room had five stalls divided by chest-high partitions along one wall and four along the other. One door led to the locker-room, and the other opened to an anteroom, which in turn led to the pool. The shower room was unoccupied, and we stood in adjacent stalls.

Did you see that guy? Mike said.

Which guy?

The nerd with the glasses. He was hot for your body, let me tell you.

Surely not.

George, if you were a lollipop, that guy would turn you into an all-day sucker. Trust me on this.

If you say so. That being said, he’s not my type, so he’ll just have to get over it.

We finished showering and went to our lockers to dry and dress.

Want to have an early lunch? Mike said as we walked through the lobby to the exit.

Sure. Where?

You know I prefer Richard’s when I’m in the mood for a Camel Rider, but they’re not open on Saturday, so how about the Goal Post?

That’ll do.

I pointed the car down Riverside Avenue, and when we were past the St. Vincent’s Hospital complex, I turned left onto King Street and one block later turned right onto St. Johns Avenue, and followed it almost to its intersection with Herschel Street. The Goal Post Sandwich Shop was a long-time neighborhood fixture and was heavily patronized by the Junior League set from nearby Ortega, where much of the old money in town still resided.

Like most of the sandwich shops in town, it was owned by a family of Middle Eastern descent. Jacksonville has a huge population of people from Lebanon and other spots who’ve been in the area for two or three generations or more. Most of them were Christian, and quite a few of them were communicants at St. John’s Episcopal Cathedral, as were we—although our attendance was somewhat irregular. A staple in all the sandwich shops was the Camel Rider, which was a pocket of pita bread filled with bits of lettuce, slices of cheese, tomato, and cold cuts. We placed our orders and took the only available booth while we waited for our number to be called. We consumed our Camel Riders and a bag of chips each and returned to the house.

ON THE LAST SATURDAY of his life, James Albright followed his normal routine—which proved his undoing. He drove, as usual, to his office in the Riverplace Tower, which had been built as the Gulf Life Tower. The building was a city landmark. When completed in 1967, it had been, at twenty-eight stories, the tallest precast, post-tensioned concrete structure in the world, which was a fancy way of saying that the building didn’t have a steel skeleton. Its skeleton was composed of pre-stressed concrete beams. It held that distinction for some thirty-five years until 2002, when a taller such structure was erected in San Francisco.

Making his way to the 23rd floor, he stopped, as he always did, in the men’s room adjacent to the elevators. Standing in front of the urinal, he paid no attention when someone else entered the room and walked up to the adjacent urinal. He was so intent on the task at hand that he didn’t see the flash of the knife… and barely felt it, as it slashed through the blood vessels in his neck. His hand went to his throat instinctively when he felt the warm wetness, and he fell to the floor as he bled out.

I SETTLED DOWN on the roof, and Mike, as he’d promised, started carrying bundles of shingles up the ladder and placing them on the roof as directed. He’d just brought me the tenth bundle when my pager buzzed.

Shit, I said, looking at the number on the display. I knew it couldn’t last. I’d like to get through just one Saturday off without interruption.

Go ahead. I’ll put your tools and supplies away.

Thanks.

I made my way to the ladder, climbed down, went to the kitchen, and grabbed a soft drink from the fridge. Then I sat down to call the number displayed.

Chapter 3

Jacksonville, FL

BRIDGES, A GRUFF voice said into my ear.

George, Captain. What’s up, and why are you dispatching calls?

The captain wasn’t known for excess verbiage, and without preamble, he said, A messy murder in Riverplace Tower. Men’s room, 23rd floor by the elevators. Your team is already on the way. I just happened to be in my office when the call came in.

Give me a minute to change, and I’m on the way.

Did I interrupt something?

I was on the roof nailing shingles, and I’m only wearing cutoffs and a T-shirt.

Sorry about that, but that’s why the taxpayers pay us the big bucks. Just put on a pair of jeans; you’re going to a crime scene, not a fashion show, and you don’t have to dress to impress anyone.

Will do, Captain. Thanks.

He hung up without saying good-bye, which was typical. I headed for my bedroom, where I grabbed a pair of jeans and a clean polo shirt along with my shoulder holster, badge, and shield. In the car, I placed a bubble light on the dash and headed for the expressway. When I arrived at the tower, I saw several cruisers already on the scene, as well as an EMT truck. The 23rd floor was swarming with people in and out of uniform, so I elbowed my way through the crowd and into the men’s room. Janet Sanchez was bending over a body on the floor, as was a man whose name I couldn’t immediately recall but whom I recognized as an assistant medical examiner. There was a huge pool of blood around the body.

What have we got, Sergeant? I said.

She stood up at the sound of my voice. Hi, boss. The victim is James Albright, age forty-two. He was a Chartered Life Underwriter and had an office on this floor. His wallet is empty, and based on tan lines, he’s missing a ring and a watch or heavy bracelet.

Are you thinking robbery?

Could be. The guards downstairs say that he always came in about the same time every Saturday morning and spent a few hours in his office. He told them that he used the quiet time to catch up on his paperwork.

In other words, his habits were probably well-known.

Right.

What about surveillance cameras?

We’ve asked them to pull the tapes for this morning.

Ask them for tapes from the last two or three Saturday mornings as well. We might catch someone watching him. Do they go back that far?

They keep a week on tape and then transfer them to DVD format. They retain the DVDs for a month. I’ll take care of it.

The ME stood up and looked in my direction. Hi, Lieutenant, he said. At first glance, I’d say his throat was slashed with a very sharp knife, possibly one with a serrated edge. We’ll know more after we get him down to the morgue. He was probably dead by the time he hit the floor.

Thanks, Roger. His name had come to me the minute he stood up, which spared me the embarrassment of asking for it. How long do you think he’s been dead?

Based on liver temperature, I’d say two or three hours.

Security says he entered the building about three hours before he was found, Janet said. And before you ask, nobody saw anything unusual, at least nobody we’ve talked to so far.

You know the drill, Sergeant. Have your guys expand the circle until it includes everyone on this floor and everyone on both the ground floor and the lower floor. Any floor, in fact, that has an outside entrance, including the floor that opens on the covered walkway to the parking garage.

We’ve asked for tapes from the garage cameras, also.

Good. What about next of kin?

Working on it. I sent two of the guys in a cruiser to the address listed on his driver’s license about twenty minutes ago.

Who?

Sam and Larry.

Good, they’re probably the most tactful of the bunch.

Having set all of the relevant wheels in motion, I found a place to sit and called the captain to report. He listened carefully to what I said, asked a few brief questions, and said, Okay, George. You’ve done all you need to do. Why don’t you go back to your roof? You can assemble all the pieces of this puzzle when you come in Monday morning. If it turns out that the victim’s family knows somebody who knows somebody and starts to push, I’ll let you know.

I found the sergeant and told her to have all the details and reports available to me first thing Monday. Then I followed the captain’s advice and was back on my roof thirty minutes later. I worked my way through all of the bundles of shingles that Mike had deposited on the roof for me and decided to take a break.

I was nursing a glass of iced tea when Mike came home. I raised an eyebrow at him, and he said, I’ve been to the office to check on a few things.

Everything under control?

Mike operated an extremely successful computer business, installing and maintaining networks and doing things that were way over my head. Never better. Taking a break?

I just finished the last of those bundles you put on the roof for me and decided to have something cold and wet.

What are you doing later?

I don’t have any dinner plans, but I sort of have a date at the Metro after the last show ends around midnight.

Do you indeed? Is he that good?

The boy has an extremely talented ass.

Then go for it while he’s in town.

You bet. What are you up to later?

I haven’t decided. Last night was such a letdown, I’m not sure I want to risk another one. On the other hand, it is Saturday, and hope springs eternal.

Well, whatever happens tonight, we’re still on for our usual workout tomorrow morning, right?

Count on it, but perhaps a little later than usual.

Tell you what, if you haven’t anything better to do, I’ll treat you to dinner at Biscottis around eight.

You know I never turn down a free meal.

I returned to the roof, carrying a bundle of shingles with me. Mike joined me a few minutes later and dropped another bundle of shingles nearby. He continued to do so until he had a dozen or so bundles in place. He headed for the ladder, and I said, Call me at seven thirty.

Done.

He disappeared down the ladder, and I went to work. Barring interruptions, I felt certain I could finish the project by the end of the next day. I got so engrossed in the shingles that I lost all track of time. There was something totally satisfying in this particular do-it-yourself project. I was jolted back to reality when I heard Mike say from the top of the ladder, It’s seven thirty. I called the restaurant, and the special of the evening is salmon.

Those are the magic words.

I finished the shingle I was working on, gathered my equipment, and made my way to the ladder.

Mike and I arrived at Biscottis right on the dot of eight. The place was packed, which is normal for a Saturday evening, but we only had to wait about ten minutes for a table. The restaurant, only a little over a mile or so from my house, had opened in late 1993 and had become an instant neighborhood favorite. We both ordered the salmon baked in phyllo dough, along with a salad, and we shared a bottle of Pinot Grigio, managing to stretch our dinner experience to considerably more than an hour. We arrived back at the house in a pleasantly relaxed state.

Mike took a chair in front of the TV in the den, and I sat at my desk and spent an hour catching up on personal paperwork. Mike decided to go to Brothers around eleven, and I drove over to the Metro to catch the second and final show. To my surprise, it wasn’t a repeat of the previous night’s performance. Monique performed an entirely different set of impressions, again to thunderous applause. I was sitting at the bar nursing a soft drink, still more than a little mellow from the Pinot Grigio, when he walked up to me.

Do you come here often? he said.

I chuckled. Now there’s an original line.

I’m ready to get out of here, how about you?

Right behind you.

In his hotel room, we experienced a total replay of the previous evening, and I didn’t drift off to sleep until after two. I woke up at six as usual but allowed myself to doze for another hour. Then I woke Bob up with sex, just as I’d done on Saturday morning. I didn’t bother to suggest breakfast this time, as I knew he wanted to rest in anticipation of the evening’s performance. At the house, I found Mike, obviously hung over and nursing a cup of coffee.

Wild night?

Wild, and a lot more fun than Friday night.

Tell me.

I ran into the twins at Brothers.

The twins you used to play with two or three years go?

The same. They’re back in town, they still like to play, and they’re as insatiable as ever.

Was that a comment or a complaint?

Both… neither… hell, I don’t know. I think I may have scheduled a rematch for tonight, but I’m not certain.

Then we’d best go work out, followed by a hearty breakfast. You need to build up your strength.

Up yours, and I say that with all respect and admiration.

I retrieved both gym bags, returned to the kitchen, and tossed Mike’s to him. Duty calls.

All right, I’m coming.

When we arrived in the locker-room, I said, The usual Sunday drill?

Sure.

We donned shorts and tennis shoes and went upstairs to the workout room, where we spent a strenuous hour using various pieces of Nautilus and other equipment. Back downstairs, we took a quick shower and settled on a bench in the steam room, which was empty at the moment. I didn’t bother wrapping my towel around me, and Mike followed my lead. I was leaning back against the wall, eyes closed, when I heard the door open. I took a quick look and through clouds of steam saw the nerdy guy from Saturday settling down on a bench. This time he was on the bench between the windows, situated such that nobody could see him from outside the room, and his towel was not across his thighs. He spread his legs and slowly began to masturbate.

In the Mists and Vapors

HE’D FOLLOWED THE two men into the steam room, having given them a couple of minutes to get settled, grateful for the fact that it was empty. He settled down on a bench between the two windows, in one of the few spots where nobody looking in could see him, spread his legs, and began to play with himself.

He watched them through half-closed eyes. He now knew that the blond was named George and his friend was Mike. Yesterday, he’d casually walked up to the desk just after they’d left and asked the clerk to confirm who they were, pretending that he thought he knew one of them. That little ploy had yielded their names, along with the fact that they were close friends and always worked out together, either in the early morning or, less frequently, in the early evening.

They were pretending to sit there with their eyes closed, paying no attention to him, but he knew that they were watching, so he gave them a good show. The blond, George, was so hot. He got turned on just thinking about seeing him naked.

After they left the room, he waited a few minutes and went to the shower room, where he took a stall as far away from the two men as possible, but where he could still get an occasional glimpse of their nudity.

HERE WE GO AGAIN, I thought, and I closed my eyes. After a few minutes I began to hear the nerd’s labored breathing, followed by a brief grunting sound. Through eyes that were half closed, I saw him achieve his orgasm. Hoping that was the end of it, I closed my eyes again until Mike nudged me and said, Had enough?

Indeed.

In the shower room, Mike said, Your little friend was performing for you again today.

You think so?

Of course. How does it feel to have a stalker, sort of?

That’s not even remotely funny.

Before we finished our showers, the nerd came into the room and took a stall at the far end. I paid no attention, but I have very good peripheral vision, and he was definitely staring at me.

Back at our lockers, Mike said, Told you so.

All right. Point taken. Let’s get out of here.

In the car, I said, Since you need calories for energy, how about the Derby House?

Works for me.

The Derby House was a fixture in the Five Points business district and a popular gay hangout, especially on weekend mornings. We were at a table for two, eating our breakfast. I was being sensible and had limited myself to juice and a toasted bagel. Mike, on the other hand, was plowing through a short stack, complete with bacon and eggs. He smacked my hand when I attempted to snag a piece of his bacon.

My greasy bacon isn’t compatible with your healthy bagel.

Perhaps, but it’s so tempting.

He looked up and said, Don’t look now, but we’re about to be invaded.

I didn’t have to look up, as I heard a loud voice from two tables away saying, Oh, I feel soooooo safe. Jacksonville’s finest is on the job.

Geez, Mike said in a stage whisper, it’s the neighborhood fag hag.

Hi, Deb, I said to Deborah Cantrell, who was my closest female friend, despite the fact that she was loud, boisterous, and deliberately outrageous most of the time.

I am not a fag hag.

Are too.

Am not.

Debbie, Mike said, with whom do you normally hang?

Gay men, and don’t call me Debbie.

Do you have any female friends?

Not really.

Do you ever hang with straight men?

Not usually, unless I’m dating them.

I rest my case.

Get stuffed. It may be true, but it’s not ‘nice’ to say it.

Geez, Debbie, Mike said. When were you ever PC?

Don’t call me Debbie.

Sure, Debbie, anything to please.

A bystander would have concluded, based upon that exchange, that Mike and Deb didn’t like each other. In fact, the opposite was true. Good-natured repartee was their shtick, and they spent a great deal of time attempting to outdo each other, one-upmanship being the name of the game.

Deb, I said as she pulled up a chair, I love you like I love my lunch, but what the hell are you got up as today? You look like a bag lady in training.

She was wearing a faded purple dress, which was so shapeless that it was impossible to determine her gender, the oldest and loudest (they were a bright shade of diarrhea green) sneakers I had ever seen, and a bright red hat that had gone out of style long before my grandmother had been born.

I’m trying to get in character for a part I want to audition for. Please excuse the dangling whatchamacallit, but that’s in character as well.

Let me guess, Mike said, it’s a part in one of those terribly earnest and totally incomprehensible productions your buddy Lance just loves to do.

Sort of.

Dressed like that, you could be playing the part of queen mother in the pauper’s division of the Red Hat Society, he said.

Care to join us? I said.

I just did. See if you can get your waitress’s attention.

Deb, in that garb you’ve already gotten the attention of everyone in the room.

Do you think so?

Don’t be disingenuous, I said.

Our waitress appeared at the table. Can I get you anything? she said.

Coffee, orange juice, and rye toast, Deb said.

The waitress left, and Deb looked at me. You look a bit more relaxed than you did last week. What’s new?

He’s fucking a drag queen, Mike said.

Say what? Deb said.

He’s not a drag queen, I said. He’s a female impersonator who actually does his own singing.

Oh, you must be talking about the visiting artist at the Metro. I’ve heard that he’s really good at it.

Yes to both questions, including the double entendre.

Good for you. Anything to get your mind off of and over the prick.

That’s not all, Mike said.

Tell me.

Our George has acquired a stalker.

Really? How so?

There’s this nerdy little guy who follows us into the steam room at the Y, where he makes puppy dog eyes at George and jerks off.

That’s sick.

Not exactly sick, I said, but more than a bit sad and pathetic.

What are you going to do about it? she said.

Ignore him. What else can I do?

You could lure him into a dark alley and beat the crap out of him, she said.

Deb! I said. Surely you jest.

Maybe. What I should have said is that you could lure him into a dark alley and fuck his brains out.

That wouldn’t work, Mike said. I know the type. He’d love it and just come back for more. George would never shake him off after that.

Deborah’s order arrived, and we finished our breakfast in relative silence. Afterward, she went her own way, and Mike and I returned to the house. I put on my work clothes and climbed the ladder to the roof. Mike carried another dozen bundles of shingles up the ladder for me, and I started to work in earnest. I was wearing my watch so I could keep an eye on the time, and at two I went downstairs to get cleaned up.

Mike was leaving the bathroom as I entered it. Going somewhere? I said.

The twins called. They want me to come over for a late lunch, and other things.

I laughed. Enjoy. Take your vitamins.

What are you up to?

I have a date for a late lunch.

Go for it. He headed to his bedroom.

Chapter 4

Jacksonville, FL

BOB WAS WAITING for me at the Omni when I drove up to the marquee. He got in the car, and I said, Did you get enough sleep?

For now.

Good, then let’s enjoy lunch.

I took him to the European Street Café, which wasn’t my favorite restaurant, but it had a large gay clientele, and I thought he might enjoy the atmosphere. We were seated side by side on a banquette, enjoying our lunch and conversation, when I glanced toward the entrance and saw a familiar face waiting in line. I leaned over and whispered in Bob’s ear, See the nerdy-looking guy wearing glasses? He’s near the head of the line at the door.

Yes.

I’m going to do something totally out of character for me. Watch his reaction for me as best you can. I’ll explain later.

Okay.

That being said, I began to nuzzle Bob’s neck a bit and leaned over for an ostensibly impulsive kiss or two. Then I took his hand and pressed it to my mouth for a minute. Putting my lips to his ear, I said, What did he do during all of that?

Bob pitched his voice very low and said, His eyes got as big as saucers, and his jaw sort of dropped. He certainly looked unhappy.

Good. This guy has been sort of stalking me at the YMCA. Maybe my little display will give him a hint that I’m not available.

Stalking you how?

Our heads were very close together, so we could speak as softly as possible, and I explained.

Oh, that poor, sad, pathetic little man. You almost have to feel sorry for him.

Almost, but not quite.

We finished our lunch, and Bob said, Want to put on an encore performance for your little friend?

Sure.

Put your arm around me, and let’s walk out of here as though we’re joined at the hip.

That sounds like fun.

We made our way to the cashier, paid the check, and went out to the car.

When I was behind the wheel, I said, I don’t usually approve of public displays of affection, but that was certainly in a worthwhile cause.

I wonder if it worked?

Time will tell. I expect I’ll find out next time Mike and I go to the Y.

I don’t have to be at the club until four, what would you like to do now?

How about I take you home and show you my etchings?

Talk about tired old lines.

Was that a yes or a no?

He reached over and began to caress me through my trousers. What do you think?

At the house, I took him on a quick tour, which ended in my bedroom. We undressed each other slowly and painstakingly, stopping for an occasional tease along the way. Stretched out full length on the bed, we were pressed as close together as possible, our erections stabbing each other.

This is a nice way to spend an afternoon, I said.

It’d be even nicer if you did what you do so well.

I rolled him over on his back and crawled between his legs.

Exactly.

I reached over to the nightstand, retrieved a condom, and rolled it in place. I knew, after the last two nights, that he didn’t require any preliminary stretching to get ready to receive me, so I raised his legs to my shoulders, found my target, and gently thrust all the way in.

God, that feels so good, he said.

That it does.

Are you going to talk about it, or do it?

Later, I stretched out on my side and watched him for a minute.

Penny for your thoughts, he said.

That wouldn’t be much of a bargain at the moment. My mind is pretty much blank. A while ago I was about to tell you that I believe in reciprocity, if you wanted to switch roles.

Why would I do that? It couldn’t possibly be any better than this.

I won’t argue, but the offer is open.

We talked for a bit, and he offered to come to the house after that night’s performance, so I drove him to the club and back to familiarize him with the streets, dropping him off at the Omni afterward. I returned to the house, changed clothes, and started working on the roof. I beavered steadily away at the project until hunger drove me to the kitchen. I made a sandwich and took it and a can of Coke back to the roof, stopping only to hook up the floodlights.

A bit later I heard a car pull up in the front driveway but paid no attention, thinking that Mike had probably come home. A minute or two later, I was shocked to hear a familiar gruff voice say, Looking good, George, are you planning to quit your day job?

I turned to see Captain Bridges standing at the top of the ladder.

Hi, Captain. What’s up?

Not much. Sarah and I were in the neighborhood, so I thought I’d stop by for a minute.

Boss, I’ve never known you to do anything quite so spontaneous as ‘just stopping by’. Let me finish this shingle and I’ll be right down.

He climbed back down without bothering to answer, and I put the last two nails in the current shingle and followed him. I found the captain and his wife standing by the ladder when I descended.

Hi, Sarah, I said. It’s been too long. Won’t you come in for a minute?

We can’t stay, George, the captain said.

Sure we can, Henry, she said. I haven’t had a chance to visit with this young man in months. Not since the last Policeman’s Ball, in fact.

I opened the kitchen door and led them through to the den. Give me a minute to wash my hands, I said, and I’ll be right with you.

In the kitchen, I did a quick wash and looked in the fridge. I grabbed a half-empty bottle of Pinot Grigio and carried it to the den, where I took three wineglasses from a shelf. I handed each of them a glass of wine and took one for myself.

Okay, boss, once again, I’ll ask you. What’s up?

"For one thing, we were actually in the area. We had an early dinner at Biscottis."

One of my favorite places.

Ours too, Sarah said.

I stand rebuked about the boss being spontaneous.

And, the captain said, I wanted to give you a heads-up about tomorrow.

This has something to do with the murder at Riverplace Tower, doesn’t it?

Yes, it does. I wasn’t expecting any pressure on this one, but the victim’s brother is screaming bloody murder, no pun intended, wanting justice.

What about the wife?

That’s what’s so odd. As far as I know, she hasn’t even tried to contact the department.

Does the brother have friends in high places?

Not that high, but high enough to make him slightly more equal than other pigs, to paraphrase Orwell.

What do you want me to do?

What you usually do. Give it your best shot. At the same time, be very aware that people may be looking over your shoulder and second-guessing every move.

I can tell you one thing: it wasn’t a robbery.

How do you know? he said.

Intuition. It just doesn’t ‘feel’ like a robbery, despite the missing wallet, watch, and ring.

I’ll accept that, given that you have the best track record I’ve ever seen when it comes to intuition. So what are you going to do?

The usual. Find out who benefits from this man’s death and follow the money, but very quietly and as much behind the scenes as possible.

Good.

Henry, are you through? Sarah said.

I’ve said my piece, dear, if that’s what you mean.

Good, because I want to see what George has done with this house since the last time we were here. How about the fifty-cent tour?

If you’ll pardon the mess, of course.

I gave them a thorough tour, showing all of the various things I’d done to improve the house and explaining what I still had planned for it. Back in the den, we made ourselves comfortable with our glasses after I’d refilled them.

You’ve done an amazing job with this house, she said, and what mess were you talking about? Everything seemed to be as neat as could be. I don’t think I’ve ever told you this, but I was quite familiar with this house as a girl and young woman.

You’re still a young woman.

I’m much too old to be impressed by flattery, George, but thank you. Anyway, my parents knew the couple that lived here back in the day, and we visited them quite often. You’ve taken a very ordinary old bungalow and turned it into something special.

Thanks. It’s still very much a work in progress, but the hardest part is over.

What was the hardest part? Captain Bridges said.

Rewiring. It was hard because I took the city’s homeowner’s test and did it myself. When I bought this place, there was only one electrical outlet in each room, and the light switches were the old-fashioned push-button kind. I had an electrical contractor run a new two hundred amp service from the street to a new breaker panel, and I did the rest.

That sounds like real work, he said.

Boss, you have no idea. I spent months crawling around in a very dusty attic, drilling holes through studs and partitions. Some of the wiring I found in the attic was fairly recent but so jury-rigged it’s a wonder the house hadn’t burned down long ago. Believe it or not, I actually found a heavy-duty extension cord being used to run power to one of the newest outlets in the house. It was really scary. I’m happy to say that although most of the original wiring is still in the walls, absolutely none of it is in use. Everything is new and up to code. I’ll tell you something else—there isn’t enough money in the world to make me do that for a living.

We’d finished our wine by that time, and they left, but not before Sarah made me promise to visit them soon. I went outside and pulled the plug on the lights, then came back in and took a long, hot shower. Freshly showered and changed, I made myself a grilled chicken salad for supper. Then I cleaned up the kitchen, poured another glass of wine, and settled down in a recliner with a book. I must have dozed off, because I was awakened by the doorbell. I took a swallow from the wineglass, hurried to the front door, and let Bob in.

Hi, I said, giving him a quick kiss once he was inside. How was the performance tonight?

Same old, same old. Been there, done that. It never changes.

You sound as though you’re bored with it.

Not really, but sometimes I get tired of dragging my ass from city to city and baring my artistic soul to mostly drunken strangers.

That sounds very cynical.

It’s a living, but it doesn’t allow much time for permanence in my life.

It must be really hard on your love life.

Love life? I don’t have a love life as such—I have a sex life. Every so often, I meet somebody like you and have a really wonderful time for a few nights, but that’s as good as it’s ever going to get.

Would you like something to drink? I said, feeling a need to change the subject.

What did I taste on you just now?

Pinot Grigio.

That would be wonderful. You don’t find that sort of thing in most of the clubs.

We took our wineglasses