Date: Sun, 11 Jun 2017 16:29:09 -0400
From: Orson Cadell <orson.cadell@gmail.com>
Subject: Lake Desolation 14

Please see original story (www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/rural/lake-desolation/)
for warnings and copyright. Highlights: All fiction. All rights
reserved. Includes sex between adult men. Go away if any of that is against
your local rules. Practice safer sex than my characters. Write if you like,
but flamers end up in the nasty bits of future stories. Donate to Nifty
**TODAY** at donate.nifty.org/donate.html to keep the cum coming.

*****

"Only forever, Jake. I love you like that." He kisses me again and it
becomes something else again. We now make love without even thinking of
sex. Nothing matters but the emotion that locks us together. I finally feel
him begin to flag, the worry and tension and wine and pasta taking their
toll. I pull him into my arms and snuggle him into the covers, kissing his
back and shoulder and neck, gently stroking his sides and arms. The
disgustingly-sweet voice of Dean Martin sings "Goodnight, Sweetheart" as he
dozes off. I always hated that voice, but it is suddenly something to
cherish.

*****

Lake Desolation 14: The News Paper

By Bear Pup

Monday (8)

*****

Monday dawns bright for The City, meaning that there has to be a brisk wind
to clear the haze away. I kiss Logan awake and we cuddled briefly before
taking turns at the tub-shower. We dress and grab some breakfast in the
concierge suite. I dawdle until 10:30, knowing better than to call an
author before a morning is well into the double-digits. Most tend to like
the new worn off a day by other, more-industrious folks.

Wally picks up on the second ring, chipper and gruff as always. It's such
an odd and endearing combination. Like he wants to be a grumpy old man and
can't seem to make it work. I ask him where this fabulous Rueben sandwich
is and he tells me to meet him at an address for a Pub & Grill (hell, no,
I'm not saying which one! Boyos are not to be trifled with) in Queens. We
arrange to meet around 11:30 to beat the lunch rush.

I get a rare raised-eyebrow from the cabbie that the doorman hails. "That's
a pretty, um, interesting part of Queens. You know that's gonna cost ya,
right? Tunnel and all?"

I smile and nod. "Got it. And I'll pay for 'and all', too. In cash." He
pulls into traffic and is actually a pretty good, steady driver.

When we get to the address, I'm actually relieved. A lot of the area we've
passed through looked far rougher. I pay and get a cap-touch when he sees
the tip. I know he'll have a time getting a good fare back. That's the 'and
all'.  We bustle into the pub, away for the bright wind. Inside is gloomy
and simple, with light fixtures cleaned sometime around the Great Potato
Famine. The dust has dust on it.

Conversation stops like it's been guillotined but resumes when I hear Wally
call out, "Paddy, two pints for my friends," as he waves us to a booth
along one side. We slide in and make small talk.

"So, what do you suggest."

Wally smiles crookedly, "Not the Reuben! Best bet is the stew over
colcannon and the chicken dumplings." We order one of each. The food is
good, hot and filling. When we finish, Wally looks at me, then Logan. "So,
what brings you to this fair city, Stettler?"

"I need to call in a stack of favours, Wally." He grunts and looks at Logan
again, who was obviously worried.

"Law, Families, Cartels or something else?" He grunts.

"Honestly, Law and not much of that. Just need to
avoid... misunderstandings." Wally cracks a wide grin.

"Yeah, Misunderstanding can be very irritating. Come on. I've got a writer
friend I'd like you to meet."

He leads to a narrow door in the back corner that opens on an
equally-narrow staircase with its own entrances off the alley. We get to
the top and a door says, "The [___-___] - American-Irish News - Ciaran
Devenish - Prop." Wally raps sharply and goes in without waiting for a
response.

I blink in surprise. It really is a newspaper office. I'd expected some
dark, seedy back room with skulduggery and impenetrable shadows. This is a
bright, light-filled space roiling with cigarette smoke and clicking
keys. Wally nods around and heads to the office in the back that has
"Publisher" stencilled in ornate calligraphy. Wally knocks again, but waits
for a voice to call "Come!"

We walk in and my immediate impression is an old, discredited term, Black
Irish. The man is small, perhaps 5' 6", with none of the milky skin and
fair features famed in Ireland. His hair is straight and coal-black with
heavy brows. He nods, apparently the scowl is as permanent as the hair
colour.

"Ciaran, you've heard me mention Stettler McKay? Stettler, please meet the
man who publishes the only reliable American-Irish paper in the City, the
right Mr Ciaran Devenish." I lean forward and shake the man's hand. He
isn't trying to crush mine, but he has real strength and knows it. He nods
but says nothing.

Wally resumes, "The young man is Stettler's godchild." I try not to look
shocked at this news. "There has been a lamentable misunderstanding with a
certain poilin of the British persuasion." Ciaran doesn't actually spit on
the floor but it's a close-run thing. Damn, Wally is good. "I am hoping you
can help my good friend's godson, and I am right certain that Stettler will
make it right by you."

I've never seen eyes move so fast. The little man takes in every possible
facet of my face, Logan's and Wally's. He nods once and Wally stands. "I
think I'll go finish that pint, Stettler. See me when you leave, won't
you?"

The little man pulls out a note pad. His voice is harsh from smoke and has
that strange not-quite-Irish brogue of a New York native who has never
quite lost the Old Country.

"You tell me now and tell me true. It's a big question. No Boyos trouble?
No families? Sicilian? Jewish? Anything like that?" We both shake our heads
vigorously. "Have you told anyone a name since the misunderstanding?"

"Um, Larry. Lawrence Logan Mallory."

"Spell the first name?"

"Um, L-A-W-R-E-N-C-E?" He chuckles.

"Excellent." He turns to Logan. "How old are you? Where are you from? Where
do you go to school." Logan answers a long stream of rapid-fire
questions. When he gets to things that we've never discussed, he doesn't
fluster at all. He says he doesn't know and the little man moves on.

Finally, the little guy sits back and blows out a breath, puffin his
cheeks. "Well, son, we have to make a couple changes. I can't get you
borned in that time in Georgia. Do you wanna be borned in New York, Joisey,
Illi-noise or Ma'chusett?"

"Massachusetts. My, um, mother has, um, family there and was visiting?" The
little man breaks his scowl for the first time and nods with a grin.

"Driver License will be Florida. Tell em you had to change it when you
moved. School's no trouble. Okay." He hands Logan a card. I raise an
eyebrow. Olan Mills? Seriously? "Go there. Today. Tell them you have an
appointment with Vinny. Come back tomorrow for lunch. Order a Killarney
stew; you'll like it." He hands me three cards. "Make an In Memoriam in the
name of my recently deceased Aunt, may god rest her blessed soul, name of
Rose Marie MacCracken. Thirty-five each. Now get going. I have a paper to
run!"

We shake all around. I have my hand on the door. "And my wife loves your
books, Mr McKay. Just sayin." I nod to him in thanks.

We find Wally in the same booth, looking a bit fidgety. He sighs when we
come out. Oooookay. Maybe I should have been worried after all. It is not a
comforting thought.

We slip into the booth and I pitch my voice so only he can hear. "Frist,
thank you! You're doing a good thing."

"If I'd any doubt of that, Stettler, I'd'a said no."

"Second, he said thirty-five to three charities. Um, hundreds? Thousands?
What?"

Wally's eyebrows pop! "Damn, Stettler, how much trouble your godson in?
Hundred, for the sake of heaven. And I'll have words about overcharging,
too."

"Don't you DARE. You are a godsend, Wally, and no mistake. And I'd happy
pay that man the extra zeroes if that's what it takes."

He stares at me, then at Logan. The pad of his thumb is spinning round and
round the tip of his middle finger on his left hand, as if feeling for a
bump or scar. I'd seen him like this before when deep in thought and torn
over something. He finally sighs and looks away. "He's good for you,
Stettler. Maria would be very happy." My throat closes but Wally simply
stares at the grimed windowpane above the booths across the way.

He coughs. "You'll never get a cabbie down here. Will!" A boy, perhaps
Logan's age or younger, looks up in time to catch a thrown set of
keys. "Drive my friends for me, and then come back straight away. And if
you get a ticket, I'm taking it out of your scrawny arse, young'un! You
hear me?" The boy smiles and beckons. We follow out the door and into the
alleyway.

Wally's ride is an older but very nice black Town Car, indistinguishable
from thousands of ones for hire except for the lack of stickers. I start to
say something and the kid speaks up, smiling broadly. "Oh, I knows where
yas headed. New family Portrait I'm expectin'?" I nod, numbly, as he roars
off, Logan and I frantically buckling seatbelts.

We fly up the Van Wyck, then the Whitestone then the Bronx/Whitestone
bridge. I realise what's coming and lean over to Logan, "Um, son, you may
want to look someplace inside the car for this? I mean, I will be..." He
gets the message just in time as we hit the multi-dimensional cross-rip
insanity of the interchange between the Hutch, the Cross-Bronx and the
Bruckner Expressways. Giant cement pillars flash past inches from either
side as the kid takes "25 MPH -- REDUCE SPEED!" ramps at 60 with cars an
arm's length fore and aft. One of the redeeming qualities of this
particular interchange is that it's over before you can really pick which
deity to pray to.

No sooner are we through that then he whips off and a KFC, Taco Bell and
IHOP flash by so quickly on his double-left that the logos don't really
penetrate before he screeches to a halt in front of a beige strip
centre. He turns and grins, delighted with himself. "You wants I should
stay and take yas back to Manhattan?"

Logan is frantically shaking his head at me as I politely and quickly
decline. We get unsteadily out of the Lincoln and take identical deep
breaths in the cool air as the Town Car does some sort of Men In Black
ZOOOOM thing and vanishes. We share a horrified look and walk shakily into
the mega-mart that contains the photography studio. We find it in back by
Eyeglass World and head through the tacky glass doors.

A gum-smacking caricature of an aging City Goil looks up from her spangled
gel-nails and iPhone. She just sighs, unable to believe anyone would be so
rude as to come in. "Appointment or walk in?"

"Um, we're here for Vinny?"

Logan jumps about a foot when the hideous woman bellows "VINNY! FRONT!"

A slightly-dapper but down-at-heel black gentleman emerges and gives the
creature a scowl. "We've talked about this, Charlene. Do. Not. Yell." She
shrugs without looking up from her Facebook feed. "Gentlemen? This way,
please." We follow, Logan shooting one last terrified look at the Gorgon.

We head into a studio room that seems smaller than normal. He turned to
Logan, "Are you wearing underwear, young man?" Logan's huge eyes look to me
in panic. "If not, I can get you some shorts. Otherwise, please take off
your outer clothing, sock and shoes as well." Hands trembling, Logan obeys,
still completely undone by the car ride and now by this dizzying series of
surreal strangers.

As he does, Vinny goes and enters a remarkably-long combination into a
push-button wall safe and takes out a number of items. "Please sit here,
sir." Logan sits and the man squats in front of him. He gently takes
Logan's feet one at a time and presses them against some sort of scanner,
then does the same with his hands, then each finger, slowly rolling them
across the glass.

"So what age will you be?"

Logan is frozen so I just say, "He's eighteen this year." Vinny just nods,
frowning but apparently pleased.

He dons some plastic gloves and turns back to Logan. "Now, I'm going to
make a few changes to your face, son. Nothing will hurt, but you'll feel
stiff and numb. It will only last for several hours. Don't worry, you'll be
back to normal in no time."

He starts rubbing across Logan's cheeks then adds a dot of a clear cream
and repeats the gesture. He does the same with Logan's brows. "Okay,
perfect, now stick your chin forward and down without opening your
mouth. Excellent." He rubs along the jaw line and steps back. I'm stunned,
gaping. I can *kinda* see Logan, but the simple strokes seem to change his
cheekbones, jaw and forehead completely.

He adds some makeup, emphasising certain features and diminishing
others. Also lightening the skin a shade. He has Logan slip into a blue
polo shirt and sets a white screen behind him. "Look a bit surprised." That
takes nothing at all since Logan looks shell-shocked. "Perfect! Really
excellent. Perfect DMV material." He snaps about six pictures.

He makes a few adjustments to the makeup and hands Logan a pair of chinos
and a pink dress-style shirt, both slightly too small, standing Logan in
front of a generic green backdrop. "Now, smile like a dream came true for
you. Hmm. Okay, close enough." Logan frankly looks less like he's in joy
than in rictus. Vinny takes several more snapshots in quick succession.

Off comes the shirt to be replaced by a white one. In front of a grey
screen, he poses Logan in the six generic High School Yearbook
Poses. Lastly, he hands Logan a pair of hideous, huge black shoes and a
green graduation gown. An out-of-focus outdoor scene comes to life with
lighting and Logan get his graduation picture taken for the second time in
his life.

"Excellent. Really good. You can get back into your normal clothes." When
Logan is put back together, Vinny has 'Larry' sign a sheet of paper about
fifty times with his name, giving him tips on what to change; bigger this,
smaller that, less pressure here, less legible there. When he's completely
satisfied, he has 'Larry' sign on the scanner he'd used for hands and feet,
collecting a half-dozen versions.

"Mr Doyle, it's been a pleasure working with you and your grandson. Have a
great day." He shoos us out and tells Charlene to put it on the Doyle
account. Utterly bored, she takes out her frustration on a few buttons on
her computer's unsuspecting keyboard as we flee.

As we stumble out of the mega-mart, luck is with us. A cabbie is disgorging
a woman and her young kids and he agrees to take us across to Manhattan. I
hold Logan tightly and the boy curls into me, completely overwhelmed. The
cabbie looks back and I grunt, "We had a death in the family." We pull up
to the hotel and I pay, again in cash.

I get Logan to the room, strip him and tuck him into the bed. I kiss him
and he smiles wanly, then drifts off the sleep. Stress suddenly relieved:
the greatest sleep aid known to man. I sit in the living room, breathing
deeply and staring at Freedom Tower, contemplating the fact that I just
committed my first string of felonies. Well, aside from some of my plots
that *should* have been illegal. I quietly walk into the bedroom and sit on
the chair, watching my love sleeping. My heart empties of all concern
looking at his features. I feel a tear try to fall, but it never
does. Wally was right. "Maria *would* be very happy.

<eof>

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Active storelines, all at www.nifty.org/nifty/gay...
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Dear John Letter: 3 chapter .../military/dear-john-letter/
Shark Reef: 7 chapters .../adult-youth/shark-reef/
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