Indirection, p.34
Indirection, page 34
part #1 of Borealis: Without a Compass Series
Chapter 40
BUT SUNDAY NIGHT WAS a bust; they followed Gillman in the boxy Toyota he retrieved from the second parking spot in his garage, and he led them to a stretch of south Grand where he clearly liked to cruise. Shaw was bait, standing in the black, February cold for three hours before North called it off, with no sign that Gillman had done anything but drive the street over and over again, looking for prey. Then it took Shaw all night to get warm again, even curled up inside North’s arms, wearing an adult snowsuit and lying under an electric blanket.
They tried again on Monday. Sitting in the GTO, Shaw gave himself a once-over, tugging on the sailor-stripe crop top, the bedazzled denim cutoffs that barely covered his balls and featured the words Plug It on the rear end, and a pair of North’s old Redwings (which were much too big for Shaw). An old hoodie lay across his lap.
“You are literally going to freeze your tits off,” North said.
Shaw cupped himself suggestively and then said, “Don’t say tits. It’s sexist.”
North beckoned him over.
Rolling his eyes, Shaw leaned in for a kiss, which North delivered. It was surprisingly slow and sweet until it ended with North twisting Shaw’s nipple. Viciously.
“North, dammit! Oh my Jesus, Mary, and Buddha. I think you ripped it off.”
Massaging Shaw’s chest gently, North laughed and kissed him again. “I like your tits where they are,” North said when he pulled back. “I don’t want them freezing off. I’ll be the bait tonight.”
Shaw couldn’t help it. He started to laugh.
The surprise on North’s face slowly transformed into outrage. “Is there something funny about what I just said?”
Somehow—Shaw wasn’t sure how, exactly—he managed to suppress the laughter. “No, of course not. It’s just, we asked Jadon about his previous victims, and he basically told us I’m Gillman’s type.”
“His type isn’t expired twinks with hair like Scooby Doo got plugged into an electrical outlet while he was still wet.”
“See, that kind of lip is just one more reason why you’d make a terrible rent boy. Hustler. Sex worker. God, all this tit talk really got in my head; you’re a bad influence.”
“I would be a fucking fantastic rent boy. What the fuck is wrong with you? Cars would be lined up for a fucking mile with johns wanting to pick me up.”
“Yeah, definitely.” And then, in an artificially deep voice, Shaw said, “First I’ll drill you, then I’ll drill your sink. Fifty dollars.”
The outraged expression on North’s face deepened. “Is that supposed to be me? That doesn’t even make sense. Nobody drills a sink, Shaw. And fifty dollars?” He made a strangled noise. “Get your ass over here so I can rip your other tit off.”
In that same voice, Shaw said, “You need Daddy to lay some pipe? Copper or PEX?”
“You are un-fucking-believable.”
Grinning, Shaw slipped out of the GTO. The cold was a slap that made his eyes sting; a few snowflakes swirled around him. He shut the door, waved, and strode up the block of south Grand. North rolled past in the GTO. Shaw was pretty sure North was trying to give him the finger before he pulled away.
Tugging on the hoodie, Shaw checked the can of pepper gel in its pocket. Then he picked a spot near the end of the block. Even with the extra layer, the cold bit into him, and the bare skin of his legs burned. On the opposite corner, in the salt-and-ash swirl of snow under a streetlamp, another boy was working. He looked much younger. Too young, shifting his weight in white sneakers, standing too far back from the curb, groping himself halfheartedly through faded Levi’s when a flatbed rolled past. The headlights picked out his features, raking light across his face: soft brown skin, soft brown eyes, tape across the bridge of his nose. Then the flatbed was gone, and the street was dark again.
Shaw knew he needed to stay in position. They had followed Gillman here again; Gillman would make a pass soon, checking out the boys on offer. Gillman had resisted the temptation last night, but the urge would be growing, rising, getting stronger. Would he be able to resist again tonight? Shaw doubted it. He tried to drag his mind away from the boy on the opposite corner; he told himself to stay focused.
But thirty seconds later, Shaw was jogging across the street, the oversized Redwings causing him to slip in a slushy patch near a manhole.
“Hey,” he said.
The boy jerked his chin in acknowledgment. Up close, Shaw realized he couldn’t have been more than fifteen. He wore expensive-looking Nikes, and he had a gold chain around his neck.
“Shaw.” He pointed at himself.
“Nikshay. Nik.”
“Cool,” Shaw said, chafing his arms through the hoodie. The breeze kicked up again; particles of snow and ice whipped against Shaw’s bare legs like embers. A boxy car rolled toward them, and Shaw’s heartbeat accelerated. He glanced at Nik, who shrugged, and Shaw moved to the curb. He shouldered free of the hoodie, exposing as much of himself as he could, and tugged on his balls through the denim. The car slowed and then sped up; through the glass, Shaw glimpsed a woman who had to be in her mid-sixties, mouth forming a horrified O.
“Fuck,” Shaw said as he rejoined Nik. “Not really my type anyway. I like them to have those really, really dangly balls.”
Nik snorted a laugh, and he looked surprised by his own reaction.
“You’re new at this, huh?”
One eyebrow went up in silent question as Nik tried to harden his expression.
“The shoes,” Shaw said. “And the chain. You haven’t hocked them yet. Or had somebody take them.”
After a wide-eyed moment, the kid shrugged and looked away.
A minivan rolled to the curb; the apron of light from the streetlamp offered a faint impression of the driver, with his undercut hair and his white tank and a tribal tattoo on one well-developed bicep. Behind him, even more faintly, the light picked out twin car seats.
With a challenging glance at Shaw, Nik approached the minivan, obviously trying for the casual hustle that he must have noticed in other boys. The driver took a long look and rolled his window down a crack. He said something that Shaw couldn’t hear, and Nik shook his head. The driver said something again, and Nik answered, and then the driver pulled away from the curb with a screech of tires.
When Nik came back, he was hugging himself. “White-bread suburban daddy wants to pay fifteen bucks to get sucked off. Fuck him.”
The whine of the minivan’s engine faded into the tinsel of lights farther up Grand; the cloud of exhaust was sickly sweet, hanging in its wake.
“Do your parents know you’re out here?” Shaw said.
Nik looked him up and down. “You’re blowing up my spot. Go work the other side of the street.”
“Better to stick together. Sometimes these guys, they like options. Sometimes they want two at a time. And sometimes, stupid people won’t do stupid things if they’re outnumbered.”
“Yeah? I can take care of myself.” Angling his body away from the street, Nik unfolded a pocketknife, the dusty light glancing off the steel.
“Ok.”
Nik tucked the knife away again. For a moment, they both stood there, the wind picking up enough to chase a clamshell takeout container down the street. Nik shifted his weight from foot to foot.
“My parents are dead, anyway, so fuck them.”
“Oh,” Shaw said. “I’m really sorry to hear that.”
“Who fucking cares? I can take care of myself.”
The cold cut through Shaw’s hoodie; his legs felt like they were ice. Even the glittering lights on distant blocks were cold. The only warm thing seemed to be their clouds of breath mingling. A dusting of fine dark hairs covered Nik’s upper lip, and Shaw wasn’t sure if that was because Nik didn’t have a razor, or if he thought it made him look older, or if he was really so young he hadn’t started shaving.
“Yeah,” he said. “I can see that. But don’t you have a guardian or something?”
Nik threw him a furious look.
“Or your own place to stay or something,” Shaw said hurriedly.
A few heavy, sullen moments passed before Nik said, “Yeah. My Uncle Pranith. My parents left everything to him, and the first time he caught me sucking Lucas’s cock, he threw me out. Fuck him. I’ve got friends. I can figure it out.”
“You know, he’s probably supposed to hold that money in trust for you. It’s not just his.”
“Yeah?” Nik sneered. “What are you, some kind of sex accountant?”
“Oh my God, why is North missing this conversation?”
“Who’s North?”
Shaking his head, Shaw said, “Never mind. Listen, I’m not an accountant. And I can’t promise I can do anything. But I—I have a friend who might be able to help. You should call. Or stop by his office. Borealis, can you remember that?”
Nik gave a one-shouldered shrug. Fifteen, aching, scared, and alone, and still too cool to care.
“Seriously,” Shaw said. “And if you need a place to crash tonight—”
But then a boxy sedan rolled out of the darkness, and Shaw forgot what he’d been about to say. Light flashed across a familiar logo. Toyota. Then the weak ambient light offered the outline of the man behind the wheel, a familiar silhouette after the nights of watching him driving into his Clayton parking garage.
When Nik took a step forward, Shaw caught his arm. “My turn.”
“Fuck that, I saw him first and—”
“Trust me,” Shaw said. “You don’t want this one.”
The boy was still trying to figure that out when Shaw jogged to the curb. He slipped the hoodie down from his shoulders, turned three-quarters of the way, and shot his hips so that the streetlight’s glare would sparkle across the bedazzled words on his ass.
The window rolled down.
“Hey,” Shaw said with what he honest-to-God hoped was a seductive smile.
Only the rumble of the Toyota’s engine.
“Forty bucks,” Shaw said, “and you can shoot in my mouth. Or if you want—”
“Yeah.”
Shaw’s pulse pounded in his ears.
“What the hell are you waiting for? An invitation?”
“Sorry,” Shaw said, grabbing the door handle. “Thanks.”
He slid into the car. Warmth blanketed him, and he closed the door firmly and rolled up the window. The smell of sweat, CVS aftershave, and stale cigarette smoke came in on his next breath. The man in the driver’s seat was Tony Gillman. He matched the photos Ronnie had provided—the dark hair, the bags under his eyes, the slight bulldog cast to his features. He was staring at Shaw.
“For fuck’s sake, don’t tell me you’re new at this.” He spread his knees. “Get to work.”
“Could we go somewhere private?”
“We’re going somewhere private. Don’t worry about that. I want your mouth on my cock, and I don’t want to feel your teeth.”
“But the kid,” Shaw said, glancing over his shoulder. “I mean, I don’t want to do it here.”
Gillman’s posture changed: knees drawing together, shoulders tightening, a dark intensity to his eyes. “Ok,” he said. “We’ll go someplace private. How does that sound?”
“Yeah, great.”
“Put your hand on my dick.”
Trying to hide a grimace, Shaw reached over and palmed Gillman, not quite hard, through his pair of chinos. Gillman grunted. His eyes hadn’t left Shaw’s face.
“That’s it?”
“Um.” Shaw cast about. “It’s so big,” he tried.
Gillman was silent.
“Daddy?” Shaw offered, and he sent up a silent prayer to whatever numinous spirit was in charge of his sex life that North McKinney would never hear about any of this.
With a growl deep in his throat, Gillman shifted into drive, and they pulled into the street. Shaw tried to pull his hand away, saw the flash of irritation in Gillman’s face, and gave Gillman’s dick a few light pats.
“Just keeping this guy awake and interested,” Shaw said in answer to the look Gillman shot him.
To Shaw’s surprise, Gillman barked a laugh. “Jesus. You are really going to earn those forty dollars, cunt.”
“Oh. Boy. Well, I’m not super good at dirty talk, but, just so you know, that’s a really offensive word. Like, it’s not just a nickel-and-dime one. So you probably shouldn’t use it.”
Another laugh came back in reply, Gillman shaking his head. “I’m going to have fun with you.”
“Yep,” Shaw said, giving Gillman’s now fully erect dick another friendly pat. “We’re going to have lots of fun.”
They went down the next side street, and then Gillman cut down an alley, pulling to a stop on a narrow asphalt parking strip that was tucked behind a clapboard building with the washed-out signs for a Russian Orthodox church and a laundromat. The spot was perfect for what Gillman liked to do, Shaw realized. It was completely hidden from the street. Even somebody turning down the alley was likely to overlook them on this tiny parking pad.
“Now,” Shaw said, “forty dollars is the base, but if you go up to sixty, I’ll put on lip balm, and for eighty I’ll hum ‘Yankee Doodle’ while I—”
Gillman was faster than Shaw expected, one hand shooting out to seize Shaw’s hair. For an instant, Shaw assumed that Gillman had decided to move things along, dragging Shaw down to his cock. That was a mistake. Instead, Gillman slammed Shaw’s head against the dash. Taken by surprise, expecting Gillman to pull instead of push, Shaw never had a chance to resist. He managed at the last moment to turn his head, catching the blow on the side of his head instead of breaking his nose, but the force of impact still made his vision explode with stars. He threw an elbow, but his position made it impossible to do anything more than thump against Gillman’s arm. Gillman pounded his head into the dash again. And then again. And then again. And then again.
For a moment, Shaw’s world was a series of white strobes. Then he came back, shocked by the sound of ragged breathing that he only distantly realized was his own. One side of his head was wet. His ear felt huge and inflamed. But worst was the disorientation and the pain that made it difficult to think clearly. So difficult, in fact, that for a moment, he didn’t remember where he was. A car. Someone’s car.
The door opened. Cold air rushed in, electrifying, and a strong hand grabbed Shaw by the hoodie and hauled him out of the seat. Gillman’s face rushed into view. Gillman. Shaw remembered part of it now. The car. The frozen darkness of South Grand. Then Gillman threw him to the ground. Broken pieces of glass and asphalt bit into Shaw’s cheek, his hands, his bare legs. He glimpsed something long. A baseball bat. He rolled, moving from instinct now.
The first blow from the bat caught him on the shoulder, Shaw understood dimly, instead of the back of the head. That probably saved his life. The pain was distant, still coming down the line, barely more than a long white lick. Shaw kept rolling.
The next blow caught him on the upper arm, glancing off muscle. Shaw kept rolling, scrabbling at the ancient asphalt.
The next blow caught him on the thigh, and then another in rapid succession, low on the back. They didn’t have as much force behind them. Gillman was panting. Shaw came up against clapboard siding. He tried to squirm away, but the bat came down again.
This time, the side of the building saved him: the bat clipped the boards, which slowed its passage so that when it connected with Shaw’s ribs, it only drove the breath out of him instead of shattering bone. Shaw’s eyes and chest burned. He wheezed, flopping on his back, trying to get air into his lungs.
Gillman loomed over him. He was still drawing those rapid, overly excited breaths. His bulldog features were trembling. He licked his lips. He brought the bat up again.
Shaw kicked out, catching Gillman in the side of the knee. He felt something pop, and Gillman’s face went blank. Then he screamed. Stumbling, he tried to support himself without putting additional weight on his injured knee. Shaw took the opportunity to scoot along the side of the church, putting distance between himself and Gillman. He fumbled in his pockets. The pepper gel was gone. He’d lost it rolling across the asphalt, or maybe when Gillman had yanked him out of the car. Shaw scanned the parking pad.
Then his fingers closed over the canister, still safely in the hoodie’s pocket—he’d missed it somehow in that first, panicked search. Drawing out the canister, he retracted the plastic safety lock that covered the trigger. He aimed the gel at Gillman, who was hopping on one foot, still screaming. With a steadying breath, Shaw depressed the button, and pepper gel hit Gillman in the shoulder, the chin, the cheek, the eye, the nose. Shaw held the button down until the canister was empty. The fumes, even at a distance, made his eyes water.
For a moment, Shaw sat where he was, his head leaned back against the clapboard church. Then, with a shuddering breath, he got onto his knees. Then he got to his feet. As adrenaline ebbed, pain was rushing in, and he had to shuffle to the alley as his hip and thigh and shoulder protested every movement.
The GTO was rolling sedately along the side street; North would have assumed—apparently foolishly—that everything had gone according to plan. But North must have seen Shaw, must have understood that something had gone terribly wrong, because the GTO leaped forward, engine roaring. It slewed to a stop at the edge of the parking pad, and North burst out of the car.
“Are you all right?”
“Yeah.” Shaw waved at Gillman. “He—”
Shaw never had a chance to finish. North gave him a final, assessing look, and then turned and sprinted toward Gillman. He hit him at full speed in a flying tackle that sent both men to the ground. Gillman screamed again. When they skidded to a stop, North was on top, and he reared back and landed a right hook that snapped Gillman’s head to the side.
Sirens blared.
North threw another punch; the crack of Gillman’s nose breaking ricocheted back from the clapboard.
Lights swept along the side street.
“North, get off him.” Shaw stumbled forward, body already stiff and likely to get stiffer. “We’ve got to get pictures.”
