The Incidental Twin

By George Bixley

Don’t mess with the hothead—or he might just mess with you. Slater Ibáñez is only interested in two kinds of guys: the ones he wants to punch, and the ones he sleeps with. Things get interesting when they start to overlap. A freelance investigator, Slater trolls the dark side of Los Angeles, rooting out insurance fraud,

• Language: English
• Publisher: Dagmar Miura
• Release date: Oct 12, 2019
• ISBN: 9781951130053

George Bixley

George Bixley held a string of jobs, from parking attendant to night desk clerk, before finding his groove in Los Angeles, settling into the seedy underbelly of the metropolis and trying to keep ahead of the wave of gentrification. Bixley sells his soul by day and dredges the bottom by night.

Book preview

The Incidental Twin

The Incidental Twin

George Bixley

One

chapter

Extremely Anglo, Slater remembered, trying to recall what Griffin was like. They had hooked up a while back, and the guy had texted him today: Can you swing by my room tonight? He was staying at the Baltimore again. Extremely Anglo, with a blond money haircut. An architect, maybe he’d said, or a lawyer, definitely with an out-of-town vibe.

Cruising into downtown LA, Slater swerved to the side when he saw a car pull out of a street space, deftly backing the classic Thunderbird up to the curb. That was excellent luck, not having to pay to park under Pershing Square. It was cold out at this hour, and he shrugged on his faux leather jacket, then locked his car and walked up the block to the hotel.

When Griffin pulled open the door in response to Slater’s firm knock, he was wearing dark pants and a dress shirt, open at the collar, even though it was Saturday night.

I remember the hair, Slater said, looking him over as he stepped inside.

The bedroom must be in the back, as this low-lit space contained lounge furniture—end tables and a sofa and matching chairs. On one of the chairs was a woman, with dark Latin features like Slater’s. Wearing jeans and a floral top, her voluminous wavy black hair was tucked behind her ears. She rose when Slater came in.

I’m not doing a three-way, Slater said sharply. Meeting the woman’s gaze, he added, Did you know he did stuff like this when you married him?

She frowned. I’m not married to him.

That’s not why I asked you to drop by, Griffin said. I wanted you to talk to my colleague. This is Gloria.

So you lied to me to lure me here? What the hell is this? Slater demanded, stepping closer to Griffin. Lightning fast, Slater slapped his face, right and then left, a solid kovac.

Griffin stumbled back toward the sofa, holding his cheek, his face contorted with anger. What is wrong with you? he shouted.

Why did you lie to me?

I never said this was a sex thing. I wanted to introduce you to Gloria, maybe give you some work.

Slater eyed them in turn. Her jaw slack, the woman looked aghast. He hardly knew this guy, but he’d given Griffin his business card, so logically he knew Slater was an investigator. Maybe the guy was telling the truth. Usually he didn’t take private clients, focusing instead on more lucrative insurance company jobs, doing research and retrievals when the suits in the office didn’t want to get their hands dirty. To insulate themselves from liability, he got results without providing details, which left him room to charge whatever he wanted. Private clients, though, usually had far more limited resources.

If you’d calm down and listen for a minute, Gloria said, recovering her composure, I wanted to ask for your help.

What kind of help?

It’s basically about identity theft.

I can’t get your money back for you, Slater said. Ask your bank.

That’s not what’s happening. Someone is using my identity to open shady businesses.

Did you talk to the cops?

I can’t.

Why not?

She gestured helplessly. It would implicate me in other things.

Slater pursed his lips, considering that. It did sound interesting, and he wasn’t working on anything else right now. Glancing at Griffin, who was standing beside the sofa, he saw that his face was red, and contempt burned in his eyes.

How are you two connected? Slater said.

I’m a clerk in his office, Gloria said, absently pushing her hair back.

Where’s that?

Like, two blocks from here. On Olive.

He glared at Griffin. I thought you said you were from out of town.

I am—St. Louis. I work in LA a few days a month.

When he’s in town, I’m Griffin’s PA, Gloria said. We got to talking. He told me he knew a guy who might know how to get things done quietly, without involving the police.

That is what I do, Slater said, and dug in his hip pocket for a business card, handing it to her. Come by my office in the morning and explain it all.

You’ll be in your office on Sunday?

I’m there when I need to be.

What will it cost me? she asked.

Five hundred a day. Bring a grand, and if I think I can help you, we’ll start with that.

Gloria nodded. That works.

Slater put his hands on his hips and looked at Griffin. Now that that’s settled, I came here to fuck you. Either she leaves or I do.

Gloria laughed. Wow, Griffin, I did not know you were that guy.

Most people don’t broadcast that kind of detail about their private lives, he said, glaring at Slater. Most people have an understanding of the concept of discretion.

You mean because you’re wearing a ring? Slater said, gesturing to his hand. That makes you the cheater, not me.

Griffin’s face went red. You goddamn prick.

OK, Gloria said loudly, drawing their attention. I’m leaving. I hope you two can work this out. See you Monday, boss. Stepping toward the door, she added, See you tomorrow, Slater. By the way, he wears that ring in memory of his dead husband. He’s been single for a long time.

After the door closed behind her, Griffin spoke. I had this whole plan in my mind. We’d sit around, have a drink, get comfortable. You’d talk over Gloria’s problem.

Things don’t always go the way you plan, Slater said.

And sometimes you get slapped around for no reason.

You seem angry. Slater stepped closer to him. You want to take a poke at me?

Right now, yeah, more than anything.

So take your shot. I won’t hit back.

Griffin eyed him, considering it, then raised his hand, striking Slater’s cheek with a wan slap.

Is that all you got? Slater demanded. You really are a desk jockey. Or maybe you’re not really angry after all.

Griffin’s mouth tightened into a thin line, and he struck again, much harder this time, turning Slater’s head.

Slater grabbed his throat, right under his jaw, eliciting a gasp. That’s more like it, he said, and leaned in to meet his mouth, warm and soft at first, then tightening as Griffin got into it.

Slater eased his grip and felt Griffin’s hands on his waist, pulling him closer, then groping his buttocks through his jeans. Pulling back, Slater took off his jacket and then unbuttoned Griffin’s shirt, caressing his pasty hairless chest.

Griffin exhaled sharply. Are you going to fuck me?

If that’s what you want.

Pulling him by the wrist, Griffin led him into the bedroom at the back, where he sat on the end of the bed and unbuckled Slater’s belt, gently sliding his jeans down, and then took Slater into his mouth. Slater closed his eyes, enjoying the intensity, but eventually grabbed the sides of Griffin’s head, pulling him off.

If you want me to fuck you, you have to stop.

Griffin rose to drop his pants, and his shirt, then pulled Slater down onto the bed to embrace him, his skin sweaty, his mouth hot and yielding. Slater was soon naked too, kicking his boots off, and watched as Griffin went to the closet, where a black suitcase sprawled open, and dug out a condom, tossing it to him.

After Slater rolled it on, he stretched out beside Griffin and pulled him close, running his hands over his chest and his back and his legs, grabbing his raging woody. Gradually he worked his fingers inside him, their mouths together, and then entered him. Leaning into it, Griffin moaned, his eyes screwed shut. Slater breathed in the scent of his hair, pounding him until he came. When he pulled away, Slater took hold of Griffin’s cock, one arm around his neck, kissing him hard, and stroked him until he came too.

They lay there for a while, Slater facing the room with Griffin behind him, one arm around his chest. Eventually he rose and found the bathroom to wash up, then came back to get dressed.

You can stay, if you want, Griffin said, lying naked on the sheets, his arms folded behind his head.

I can’t.

Do you want something to eat before you go? I can order up.

Slater frowned, pulling on his jeans. It must cost a fortune to eat in this place. You should walk to the Japanese market on Sixth. There’s great boxed food, and it’s open late.

Which direction is that from the lobby?

Right and then left. It’s less than a block.

Is that from the front way in, or the back?

Slater chuckled. If you get dressed, I’ll walk you over there. It’s right where I parked.

Deal, Griffin said, and got up.

Once Griffin was ready and they were out on the sidewalk, walking abreast, Slater asked him, Do you want me to hold your hand while we cross the street?

You think I’m incompetent, Griffin said, briefly squeezing him around the waist. I’m actually pretty functional. I’ve been all over the country putting up buildings that I designed.

You’re an architect. I couldn’t remember if it was that or if you were a lawyer.

I can’t believe you’d confuse those two, Griffin said, eyeing him sidelong. Those jobs are nothing alike.

I guess it’s the way you dress.

Griffin scoffed and looked away. After a few paces he gestured to the neat row of greenery they were walking past.

Roses in winter, he said. How sweet is that? You have to love LA.

They’re camellias, Slater said flatly.

Are you sure? They look like roses to me.

Roses have thorns. Camellias don’t.

How do you know that? he said, frowning.

I studied horticulture at college.

Interesting. I thought maybe you’d studied how to slap people around.

That, Slater said, I picked up on my own.

Once they were on the next block, Slater said, This is me, and there’s your market.

A Thunderbird, Griffin said, admiring the car. It’s so chic. I can’t tell what color it is in this light.

It’s black.

What year?

It’s a ’78. He unlocked the door and pulled it open. Can you find your way back to the Baltimore?

You’re a condescending ass.

Slater grinned at him as he climbed into the car. Call me if you ever want to do that again.

Pulling into the street, he headed toward his apartment, just a few minutes’ drive in the light late-night traffic, across the chasm of the 110 freeway. Turning into the alley behind his building, he pulled into his garage and waited for the heavy door to roll all the way down before he unlocked the door to the stairs. Having a private garage was the best thing about the place, and it was a rarity in crowded Westlake. Each time a new commercial tenant moved into the retail space on the ground floor, they’d try to pay Slater off to turn it over to them, but Slater had a deal with the landlord and wasn’t about to get chiseled out of it.

Trotting up the two flights, he went into his grungy one-bedroom, the stained and threadbare carpet years overdue for replacement, the window overlooking the street hazy with generations of dust. The kitchen was close to the front door, separated from the main room by a short counter, and the bedroom and bath were off the side. The place was dark and needed painting, and the furniture was a few pieces of minimal thrift-store basics.

A good night for Slater involved guys and then booze, in that order, and he’d already been with the guy. In the kitchen cupboard, waiting patiently for him, was a fifth of bourbon, already open but still almost full. He pulled it out, admiring the golden nectar as he poured it into a tumbler. Recently he’d had to amend his booze rules to limit his intake. No way was he copping to being an addict, but he’d lost his memory of certain events, more than once and late at night, and he needed to get control of that. He stopped pouring when there was about an inch and a half in the glass, then screwed the cap on and put the bottle away. It didn’t seem like enough to achieve anything, but so far, the new plan was working, and it was far preferable to what other people wanted him to do—dry out completely and start going to meetings.

Grinning at the absurdity of that idea, he killed the lights and dropped into the recliner that faced the window, putting his feet up and taking that first heady sip. On his phone he found a Sasquatch Search podcast, and started it, then closed his eyes. The narrator’s even diction and sangfroid in the face of startling events—eerie howls from over the next ridge, heavy footfalls crashing through the dark woods—was meditative, even hypnotic, and light-years from the grind of life in this gritty metropolis, helping his mind unspool.

Two

chapter

When Slater woke, he was in bed, and his head was clear. He lay there for a while as the reality of the day gradually permeated his conscious mind. This was definitely the upside of his new booze rule—he was actually rested and comfortable and ready for the day. Work, he remembered. Gloria.

Forcing himself out of the warmth of the sheets, he went to the kitchen and pulled open the fridge, even though he knew there was nothing inside but a few murky jars and ancient condiments. He ate a spoonful of peanut butter, which tasted odd, but not rancid, at least, then peeled open a flat foil-wrapped lump that had been sitting there on the lower shelf for a while. Not sure what he’d find, it turned out to be a couple of stale tortillas from a forgotten take-out meal, fused together and partially mummified now. But they didn’t have any mold on them. They were dry and hard, and he chewed them methodically as he got dressed, pulling on his jeans and a clean shirt, munching the last of them as he trotted down the stairs.

Backing the Thunderbird into the alley, he waited for his garage door to roll down before he drove to the street, heading through downtown to the Fashion District. A hodgepodge of small clothing factories, industry suppliers, and retail outlets, the neighborhood usually buzzed with activity, but not on Sunday morning. Pulling into the surface lot across the street from his building, he saw that the booth was locked up, and only a few stray vehicles were scattered around the space. The attendants never asked for his parking pass anyway, as long as he paid up every month, because they knew his distinctive wheels.

Usually hosting a crowd of day laborers waiting for sewing gigs, the lobby of his building was empty. Most of the tenants were small clothing manufacturers. It got a little noisy sometimes with all the machinery, but at least it was a clean industry. Today the building was quiet as he made his way up to the ninth floor, around behind the elevators. He admired the raised lettering on his office door as he twisted his key in the deadbolt:

slater ibáñez

maximillian conroy

investigations

It was just three rooms, a cramped outer office with an empty desk and a coat