*** Author's note: The following is a work of fiction intended for adult
entertainment only.  Any resemblance to actual persons, places or events is
entirely unintentional.  The author in no way advocates or condones the
events depicted.  If you enjoy stories of Man-boy love and/or the idea and
look of young boys in short pants, please refer to "Ian, One Man's Prince"
and "Arcadia Academy" and "Newspapers & Gym Suits" and "Summer at Uncle's."
Finally, this story is a work in progress, and will be updated as time
permits. ***


JEREMY's DETECTIVE
by Short Boys-Pants

Chapter One
"WITNESS"


        JEREMY WAS TWELVE AND HE STOOD BEFORE THE LOCKED DOOR OF A
LAUNDROMAT.  HE GLANCED about to be sure no one was watching before
gripping the rusting doorknob with both hands and rapidly turning it left
to right.  The boy wore dirty sneakers, faded jeans and an army jacket that
hung to his knees.  Snow fell from dirty clouds in the city of Wellford,
Illinois.  It was 1:00 a.m., December, and two weeks until Christmas.
        The laundromat was a crumbling brick building slated for
demolition, but the boy had been inside it many times before.  This time,
however, the lock resisted him and he stepped back, discouraged.  He
glanced up and down the street once more.  Wind howled.  Snow fell in fat
wet flakes and the city glowed white and barren as the moon.  There was no
one and nothing to be seen.
        The boy gripped the knob again, pale blue eyes wide and intense.
"Come on, come on," he coaxed.  Strawberry-blonde hair curled just past the
collar of the boy's jacket, and long bangs blew in strands across his thin,
smooth face.  He was very cold, all his clothing soaked.
        "Stupid door.  Stupid me," he said in an angry, quavering voice.
He cursed himself for sliding down the slushy-slick drifts made by snow
plows and piled alongside the roads.  But it was the first real snow storm
of the year and he'd just had to play in it.
        "Come on!" the boy yelled.  Then he heard the worn tumblers of the
lock slip as the door swung open.  "Yes!" he cried, dashing inside and
closing the door behind him.
        Jeremy trotted to the nearest dryer on his left.  The dryers were
in the center of the laundromat, the washing machines lining the walls on
three sides, with a row of joined metal chairs placed before the fourth
wall and window that faced the main highway.  The window was coated with
grime so that no one could see inside or out, but it shone faintly with
spectral light from the street lamp and snow.
        Quickly, Jeremy removed two quarters from his jeans, stripped to
his underwear and tossed his clothes into the dryer.  A shudder passed
through his twiggy body as he  inserted the coins and turned the knob.
        The ancient dryer roared like a furnace, the motor thrumming.  It
did not occur to the boy that the machine should not have worked, that the
electricity should have been off and the dryer and washers removed.
Wellford was an ugly town with a corrupt, incompetent administration.
Everyone connected to the administration took payoffs and engaged in
illegal activity -- it was the legacy of Al Capone and the effect of
Chicago's urban imperialization of surrounding towns and cities.  When the
owner of the laundromat died, an old Irish immigrant who had made good and
fervently rejected the corruption all about him -- and no immediate family
member came forward to settle his estate -- the city administrators left
the utilities connected.  Eventual lawsuits would collect on the bills and
residual payoffs would trickle down.
        "Hey!"
        The dryer door swung open and the machine stopped.  Jeremy closed
the door
and it started again, stopping once more as the tumbling clothes hit the
door and pushed it open, the magnetic latch no longer charged.
        Jeremy sighed and pressed his body against the door.  The dryer
started.  He only had fifty cents and couldn't switch to another machine,
but the glass door grew warm and the boy grunted appreciatively, the heat
good on his chest, stomach, crotch and thighs.  After a few minutes he
turned around to warm his back, looked down at himself stripped to his
underwear and grinned.  He sure couldn't do this if the place was still in
business.
        Jeremy Brian Parker was twelve but looked closer to ten.  He stood
4'9" and weighed 77 pounds, a willowy boy in the seventh grade.  He was
ashamed of his body and concealed it in baggy clothes, never venturing into
short sleeves or short pants.  He dreaded physical education with its gym
suits and managed to compensate by wearing a baggy gray sweat suit, but
there was nothing to be done about showers.  The other boys were more
developed and Jeremy stood among them as lily-white and misplaced as a
baby, barely letting himself get wet before dashing out to grab a towel and
shimmy back into his protective clothing.  The other boys noticed his shame
and teased.
        Jeremy did not realize that he was beautiful; the little boy was a
runt only in his own eyes and the eyes of teasing classmates.  Adults knew
better, particularly men who understood the beauty of frail little boys,
but Jeremy had never met such a man.
        The boy did not know that before the sun set once more, all that
would change.
        He stood with his back against the dryer, purring as the heat
enveloped his body.  He closed his eyes and listened to the dryer, listened
to the laundromat's aged windows rattle and vibrate in the wind.  He
thought of his social studies class.  They were studying medieval Europe,
and the teacher had explained that glass was a mystery, neither solid nor
liquid: the stained glass windows of great cathedrals had literally been
pouring over the centuries so that they were thicker at the base than at
the top.  In the working-class city of Wellford, the laundromat had the
oldest windows Jeremy knew of, and he wondered if they were pouring, too.
        Imagining himself a tall, muscular knight in shining armor, waving
a sword and riding a horse into battle, Jeremy sat on the floor, careful to
keep his head pressed to the dryer's door.  A slow smile curled his thin
lips, bony chest swelling and hairless legs twitching on the cold tile.
        Jeremy's fantasy life was rich and he kept to himself, preferring
his own company over the demands of social interaction.  The little boy was
lonely and shy and had practically raised himself.  He'd never known his
father and his mother was an alcoholic.  Late night walks were Jeremy's
favorite past time.  Everything looked different at night, the city dark
with shadows and mystery.  He supposed himself "street smart" though he was
equally smart in school, but what good was school in a place like Wellford?
Jeremy could have joined those groups of kids who smoked cigarettes and
drank and did drugs, but he'd sworn to never do such things because he'd
seen their effects on his mother and the creepy men she sometimes brought
home.  Besides, cigarettes and stuff would stunt his growth, and Jeremy was
determined not to be stunted.
        It was better to keep to himself and have adventures like the one
he was having now, to sneak into a condemned laundromat and imagine castles
and warriors, princes and kings.  And cathedrals.  The laundromat was the
lonely little boy's cathedral, and he was glad to have it.
        Jeremy sneezed.  He leaned forward, covered his mouth, and the
dryer door swung open, tumbling a thermal undershirt and one gray wool sock
onto his head.
        "Hey!"
        The little boy comically swiveled his head beneath the clothes.  He
reached up and felt that they were dry, pulled the long stocking over his
right foot and drew it up to his knee, then stood, reached into the dryer,
and put on his other stocking.
        "Ooo!  Toasty!" he giggled, flexing his toes.  He ran several steps
and went into a slide.  The dusty tile floor offered no friction.  Then the
child was running and sliding, skinny arms pin wheeling as he careened
toward the window and the row of metal chairs, tiny cotton underpants
glowing in the dark.  He kept his balance and turned the corner, stocking
feet scrambling like a kitten's paws on the slick tile, and raced around
the island of dryers and up the far aisle of the laundromat, unaware of a
pair of eyes watching him.  He circled the dryers, aimed for the window,
made a hard run and slid, chimes of laughter stopping abruptly as the row
of metal chairs creaked and a dark shape in the corner leaned forward.
        "Yaaaah!!!"
        Jeremy's body convulsed.  He plopped on his butt and came to rest
at the very feet of the figure in the chair.  The boy's mouth opened and
closed but made no sound.
        "Hello, child!  Don't be afraid.  Old Mary ain't gonna hurt you!"
        Jeremy sat, legs wide and knees up.  He whimpered and raised his
twiggy arms as if to ward off a blow.
        "I ain't no ghost, child!  I'm as real and harmless as you!"
        "D-d-don't!" the boy stammered.
        "I won't!  And I don't!  Old Mary would never hurt a child!"
        Adrenaline froze Jeremy's body and  locked his limbs.  He couldn't
move.  All he could do was sit and watch the figure in the chair lean
closer.  A head of white curly hair with an old woman's face emerged from
the shadows.  A black woman's face, plump and wrinkled, smiling.  A glint
of light caught on a single gold tooth.
        "Hello, child.  I know I should have said hello before and I'm sorry."
        Jeremy slowly comprehended the words.  He breathed hard, flat tummy
heaving.
        "Who are you?" he squeaked.
        "Why, I'm Old Mary, child.  I'm just me."
        The old woman's voice was gentle and calm, acting like a
neutralizing agent that dispelled the chemical lock-up of Jeremy's body.
The little boy cautiously peered out from between his arms.  He was hardly
a knight in shining armor.
        "A-a-are you the owner?"
        "Hush yourself!  If I was the owner of this here laundry would I be
sitting in the dark watching you break in to dry your clothes?"
        The old woman smiled so sweetly, crinkled eyes glittering like
coals, the boy couldn't help smiling in return.
        "What a lovely smile!" the woman cooed.  "Can you lower those arms
so I can get a better look?"
        Jeremy lowered his arms, embarrassed at his fear.  He blushed.  His
hair had dried and curled in ringlets around his face, granting him an
angelic appearance.
        "Oh!"  The woman clamped her hands to her ample bosom.  "Have I
ever seen a *lovelier* child?"
        "You scared me," the boy said bashfully.
        "I'm very sorry.  What's your name?"
        "Jeremy."
        "Jeremy.  Now isn't that a nice name."
        "Yes, ma'am," the little boy nodded, smiling broadly.  His
straight, white baby teeth gleamed.  The old woman spoke his name like she
was sucking a piece of butterscotch candy, and he instinctively responded
to her with trust.
        "Now, Jeremy.  You ain't still frightened?  Old Mary sure don't
want to frighten no one's child."
        "No, ma'am."
        "Lord!  And this here Jeremy has *lovely* manners, too!"
        The little boy tilted his head to one side, entranced by the
cadence of the old woman's voice and affected on a level deeper than words.
Deprived his whole life of adult affection, Jeremy was drawn to the old
woman's humanity.
        "So.  What'cha doing out so late playing in this storm."
        "Just playing."
        "Playing hooky on your mama?"
        "No, ma'am.  Just walking.  I like the snow."
        "Oh, yes."  The old woman sighed with such soul the little boy
shivered.  "I like the snow, too.  The Lord is so good to give us snow."
        "Are you doing laundry?"
        The old woman laughed.  "Laundry?  Old Mary wouldn't do laundry in
this here storm!"
        Jeremy bit his lower lip and hugged his shins, forgetting that he
wore only  underwear and long wool stockings.  He set his dainty chin atop
his knees and regarded the old woman.  The windows rattled.  The falling
snow ticked against the glass.  Jeremy felt like he was in a dream, a
strange dream there in the dark laundromat.  He wanted to stay in this
dream and never leave.
        "Where do you live, Jeremy?"
        "On 104th."
        "This is 95th street!  Are you lost?"
        "No, ma'am.  I just like walking."
        The old woman leaned closer.  Jeremy saw that she wore red rubber
boots, a red floral print dress, a man's blue down coat, and she held a
battered red vinyl purse tightly in her lap.
        "But you know it ain't safe for a child to be out alone in the night."
        "Yes, ma'am."  Jeremy smiled.  Everyone always took him for being
younger.  "But I can handle myself."
        "I'm sure you can.  But you'd better run along now.  This ain't no
place for a child.  Such a lovely child."
        The boy caught a note of sadness in the old woman's voice and in
the way she stared at him.  "Do you have any children?"
        "Why, yes, child!  I do!"  The woman smiled brightly.  "My baby's
name is Cora."
        "Cora.  That's a nice name, too."
        "The Lord was good to give me my baby."
        Jeremy waited for the woman to speak but she merely sat lost in
thought, staring at him wistfully.
        "Is your baby dead?" the boy asked carefully.
        "Dead?  Cora ain't dead, child," the woman yelped.  "And she ain't
no baby.  Not for 41 years now."
        "Oh."  Jeremy sat up straight.  "I just thought...you looked sad...."
        "Did I?"
        "Yes, ma'am," Jeremy nodded with certainty.  He was a sensitive
little boy, his own loneliness attuning him to the sadness in others.  "You
love her.  But something went wrong."
        The old woman squinted and leaned closer, reaching out to touch the
boy's left hand.  She felt of each tiny finger and the boy let her.
        "Old Mary ain't no ghost but maybe you is."
        "A ghost?  Me?"
        The old woman gently touched his hair.
        "Are you an angel, child?" she asked honestly.
        Jeremy's eyes went wide as saucers.
        "An angel come out from the snow?  One of those snow angels I made
when I was a little girl come to find me?"
        The boy's eyes watered: he was overwhelmed by the intensity of the
woman's emotion and from what he saw reflected in her gaze.
        "I'm not an angel," he whispered.
        "You just lonely?"  The old woman petted Jeremy's head.  "All
children are angels.  And they ain't got time to be lonely.  You go get you
some love before you get old like me.  Get old...."
        The woman's voice was hypnotic.
        "Hurry and get some love," she breathed.  "Get love.  The years go
by so fast it'll make your ears whistle."
        Jeremy felt goose bumps.  A cold draft swept up from the floor.
The old woman spoke truth.
        "But...from where?"
        "You'll find where.  God gives his angels love.  And when you find
it, hang on.  Don't let go, hear?  Old Mary learned one thing if she
learned that."
        And then Jeremy watched the woman lean back in her chair and
disappear into the shadows as if she'd never been.  The boy blinked in
wonder.
        Wind howled.  Snow fell.
        "Go, child.  Get your clothes and get home."
        Jeremy sat motionless for several moments, enspelled, and then
became aware that he was in his underwear.  The magic was broken.  The boy
yelped, scrambled to his feet and hurried to the dryer.  He heard the old
woman chuckle and threw her a shy glance over his shoulder.  He stepped
into the large dryer and the old woman laughed loudly.
        Jeremy's bony elbows and knees knocked against the metal as he
wriggled into his clothes.  He didn't feel so embarrassed about being seen
in his underwear by the  woman.  What did an old woman care if he was so
skinny?  She was like a grandmother or someone Jeremy had known all his
life.  Except that he hadn't known her all his life.  The boy had no
relatives, no grandmother.  No one.  But he could *pretend* he had a
grandmother.  He could ask the old woman where she lived and maybe go
visit.  Shovel her sidewalk.
        Jeremy's mind raced with such innocent plans when he heard a funny
sound like something hitting wood.
        The laundromat door crashed open.
        "What did that door ever do to you?  I left you the key."
        "Yeah?  Fuck good it worked."
        The little boy froze and held his breath.  It took him a second to
recognize the old woman's voice -- suddenly firm and harsh -- and a man's.
Police?
        "Just had to put that key in the hole.  Telling me you never put
nothing in no hole before?" the old woman hissed.
        "A comedian.  See there?  A comedian."
        Two men!  Jeremy pressed himself back against the rear of the dryer.
        "Old Mary ain't no comedian, you fool!  Now hurry up!  Let's get
this over!"
        Footsteps tapped along the tile.  Jeremy saw two pairs of legs in
dark trousers walk past the open dryer door, and the man nearest to him
held a gun in his right hand.
        The twelve year old choked down a scream.  Terror engulfed him but
this time he did not freeze.  Heart pounding, Jeremy yanked on his
sneakers.  His fingers trembled.
        And Jeremy saw that the open dryer door acted like a mirror, the
glass reflecting the images of the men walking toward the metal row of
chairs.
        "Yeah.  Let's get it all over," said the first man, tall and burly.
Jeremy saw his face clearly.
        "I'm tired of you, too.  Tired of the whole business," hissed the woman.
        "You weren't tired twenty years ago.  You weren't tired when you
came to Billy Wyle twenty years ago."
        "You're wrong.  I *was* tired.  I've always been tired."
        "And now you want out."
        "Yes."
        Jeremy pulled on his mittens.  Listened.  Saw the face of the
second man.
        "And why should Billy let you out now?"
        "Because I ain't doing his business no more.  Tired of seeing these
young folks destroy themselves.  Tired of all the waste."
        "You should have run for mayor," the first man laughed uglily.
        "Mayor Pignotti can square up with me in hell," the old woman
snarled.  "He won't have nothing on me there."
        "Look, ma.  Spare us the drama."
        "I ain't your ma!"
        Jeremy struggled for calm.  These were bad men.  The old woman was
in trouble.  The laundromat's door slammed open and shut, snow swirling
over the floor.
        "Here's the facts, lady.  Billy says no.  The mayor says no.  And
we say no.  Got it?"
        "Yeah.  I got it.  But you ain't got me."
        "Be sure," said the second man, voice low and dangerous.  "Be sure."
        Silence.  Jeremy watched in horror as the first man lifted his arm
holding the gun and pointed it at the woman.
        "I'm sure.  Ain't nothing changing my mind."
        The old woman spoke quietly.
        "Fine."
        "I only got one thing to say."
        "What's that?"
        Jeremy heard the metal chairs creak, saw the old woman's face
emerge from the shadows as she leaned forward one last time.  He dark eyes
glittered.
        "TELL CORA I LOVED HER!  TELL MY BABY I LOVED HER!"
        Jeremy gasped.  The old woman was speaking to him!
        Puzzled, the two men looked at each other and shrugged.  Then the
old woman's plump body was thrown back as several bullets tore into it with
no more than faint "snicks" of sound.
        "NOOOO!"
        The gunmen swiveled around as the little boy burst from the dryer
and stood staring at them.
        Jeremy's scream barely finished echoing when he felt a tug at his
army jacket, there by his left hip, and a corresponding "Ping!" from a
washing machine behind him.
        The boy turned and ran, swerving away from the laundromat's door
and to his left.  The maneuver saved his life as a bullet splintered the
wood above the lock.
        Everything slowed.  Jeremy ducked around the middle row of dryers,
realized that the door was behind him, reversed direction and backtracked.
He dropped to his knees as a large shadow loomed before him.  He felt an
impact, heard the shadow grunt and watched it topple over him.  The little
boy scrambled to his feet, sneakers squealing for purchase on the tile, and
charged for the glowing main window.
        He heard more grunts, the second man falling over the first.
        "Dammit!  Get him!" came a voice.
        But Jeremy was flying.  He had wings now.  He was an angel.
        The skinny little boy took two long strides and leapt, right foot
catching the top of the metal chairs.  He was dimly aware that the old
woman's dead body served as counter-ballast for the row of connected
chairs.
        The little boy saw a small hole form in the window, felt a zip of
air pass his head as he pushed off.
        A shower of glass erupted over the sidewalk in front of the
laundromat, the shards lost in the mix of swirling snow.  The world
sparkled and crashed.
        Curled in a fetal position, knees hugged to his chest and head
tucked inside his army jacket, Jeremy soared through the air, sailing over
the sidewalk and skipping like a stone off the top of a snow drift.  The
little boy's body bounced and tumbled into the middle of the road.  He was
instantly on his feet, running to the intersection.
        Jeremy slipped and kicked through the slush, threw a glance over
his shoulder.  The gunmen were giving chase but had difficulty moving
forward, hard-soled shoes failing to find purchase.
        "AH AH AH!" the boy yelled, plumes of breath rising above his ashen
face.
        At the intersection, a green VW van roared, it's rear wheels
kicking up slush and ice with volcanic fury.
        Jeremy charged into the spray of grime, gripped the fender and
slammed his bony shoulders against the van, ignoring the pain.
        "COME ON!  COME ON!" he shrieked.
        Slush and ice stung his face like needles, filled his mouth,
drenched him instantly.  He was hidden from sight, exhaust fumes billowing
around him.  He heard a steady rain of metallic "PINGS!"
        "NOW NOW NOW!"
        The child trembled and strained impossibly, his delicate spine
poised to snap under the pressure.
        The van lurched forward.
        Jeremy squatted and let it pull him forward, sneakers skimming like
skis along the icy road.  His eyes burned with tears and slush but he held
on.
        The green van sped down the road, pulling the little boy behind it.


JEREMY's DETECTIVE
by Short Boys-Pants

Chapter Two
"RANDALL"


        RANDALL BROCK ROLLED HIS SHOULDERS AND TRIED TO FOCUS ON A PLEASANT
IMAGE.  HE breathed deeply and closed his eyes, just like the relaxation
video he'd rented suggested.  The detective imagined himself standing
beneath a tropical waterfall as exotic birds whistled and sang, fluttering
in an azure sky.  He thought about cool water washing over his body, mist
rising from wet stones at his feet, and a tropical breeze scented with
citric fruits.  He imagined dark-skinned island boys dressed in loin cloths
walking toward him through the mist, vibrant flowers tucked behind their
ears.  The boys were slender and smooth; they stood just beyond the clear
wall of falling water and beckoned with small hands, smiling.
        Randall's lips twitched.  The detective was a powerful man of 33
years.  He had jet black hair, dark eyes deep-set and always in shadow; an
aquiline nose lent him an air of alert intelligence; high cheek-bones and a
square jaw conveyed rugged masculinity.  The detective stood an impressive
6'6", and 249 pounds of toned muscle padded his frame in an armor of
strength.
        Randall sat at his cluttered desk in his downtown office, a small
one room affair tucked above a tanning booth.  His body was in knots.  He'd
tossed and turned all night, and just when sleep seemed about to come, the
phone rang.  A woman named Cora was on the other end and sounded frantic.
Randall's first response was to ask her to call back later, sure that the
woman had just discovered her husband or boyfriend was having an affair and
wanted to hire Randall to catch him in the act.  Such were the bulk of
cases, jilted wives and husbands, with the occasional insurance company
hiring him to investigate a suspect claim.  The pay was good -- in
Wellford, there was no end to marital strife and bogus insurance claims --
but it could wait.
        "Lady.  Calm down."  The detective checked his alarm clock and
whistled.    "It's only 6:50.  In the morning.  Maybe he just got drunk and
slept it off at a friend's.  A *male* friend's.  Did you check the jails?"
        There was a long silence, and Randall was about to hang up when
Cora's next words brought him to full awareness.
        "Two of Mayor Pignotti's men killed my mother last night.  She
dealt for them.  And there was a witness."
        "You?"
        "A little white boy.  Blonde.  Long hair.  Maybe ten years old."
        "How do you know?"
        "I saw him.  And the men.  They chased him down the street but he
got away."
        "Have you called the police?"  The woman laughed and Randall
nodded.  "Right.  Scratch that.  Get to my office by 8:00."
        "Folks say you're honest.  Kind of an asshole but honest."
        "I'm not dirty, if that's what you mean."
        "That's what I mean.  Sorry about the 'asshole' part."
        "I've heard worse.  And it's not inaccurate."
        Randall hung up, showered, dressed.  Initially, he'd been excited
at the prospect of handling the case, but after meeting with Cora he'd had
second thoughts.  This was big.  Huge.  And wildly dangerous.  If he broke
the case -- and the odds against that were long -- he couldn't exactly stay
in Wellford and go on with business as usual.  But business as usual had
grown stale, and Randall was ready for a change.  Besides, he was sick of
the strangle-hold mayor Pignotti exercised over Wellford.  Neither crusader
nor politician, the detective still believed that being an honest citizen
was something worth defending.  It was why he'd become a private
investigator in the first place, though the reformist impulse had worn thin
long ago.  Still, it was a chance to do something of value with his life,
and Randall sensed he would get no other.
        A screech of brakes and a blare of horns shattered his tropical
imaginings.  Randall sighed, ran his fingers through his hair, and opened
his eyes.  The relaxation technique, although pleasant, hadn't been
working, anyway.  If anything, it increased his tension.
        The detective checked his watch -- 11:00 a.m. -- then tapped the
coffee maker on the edge of his desk.  Damn thing was only two weeks old
and already broken.  What was that all about?  An example of more legally
protected corruption, the powerful abusing the powerless, but on an
international level.  The coffee maker was of German manufacture, and it
occurred to Randall that most of his appliances had been manufactured by
the defeated powers of World War II.
        "An Axis household.  I have an Axis household and office," he said
aloud and without humor.  Randall suspected he'd feel worse if he'd been
Jewish.
        Piled on the desk were yearbooks from local elementary and middle
schools he'd picked up from the library after Cora left.  The detective
eliminated several grades off hand, concentrating on the middle schools.
He'd begun with the athletes, figuring that was a good start, given Cora's
description of the kid's leap through the window.  But all the boys were
big and tall, many black or Hispanic, and few were blonde and none with
long hair.  Randall was looking for a *little* boy.
        "Ten years old?  Impossible," he sighed, rubbing his eyes.  What
ten year old would be out at 1:00 in the morning?  The detective had been
browsing the books for hours.
        Then it occurred to Randall that the kid he was looking for was
small for his age.  A runt.  He wouldn't be an athlete or in the middle
school year books.
        Randall thumbed through the elementary school books, concentrating
on the fifth and sixth grades.  By accident, he flipped open to a page
documenting club membership and found himself staring at a tiny lad with
long blonde hair, barely noticeable behind a movie projector.  It was the
"AV Helper Club" for kids who delivered projectors and such to classrooms.
The detective rifled the sixth grade class photos, his heartbeat
quickening.
        Randall sucked in his breath.
        Framed in black-and-white at the bottom of a page was a little
chicken of a boy with long blonde hair.  A boy with a gorgeous face, head
bowed and smiling shyly through cascading bangs.  Randall checked the name.
Jeremy Brian Parker.
        "Hello, baby," the man breathed.

	     *                       *                       *

        The house was a disaster.  An old wooden house with chipped blue
paint, rusted gutters and a sagging front porch, it looked just like all
the other houses on the block.  The deep covering of snow did little to
soften the eyesore.  No surprise.  There were almost no nuclear families to
speak of in Wellford, a community of single mothers struggling to raise
their broods, and it was obvious that there was no man in this house to see
to its upkeep.
        The detective stood on the porch for several minutes, ringing the
doorbell and calling out to whoever might be inside.  It was almost 3:30
and well after school let out, but it was no guarantee that Jeremy or any
siblings were inside.  The boy's mother was probably at work -- assuming
she even had a job -- and if Jeremy was the boy Randall was after, he was
probably in hiding.  Judging by Cora's description, it was doubtful that
the little guy would be here.  The kid had smarts enough to know better.
And guts.
        Randall backed down the porch steps to study the house once more.
Already, the sky was growing dark and more clouds were rolling in.  A
bedroom window on the second floor displayed a pink square of construction
paper and a simple message written in silver glitter: "We Wish You A Merry
Christmas!"  Jeremy's room.  The detective shook his head.  Kids grew up
fast in Wellford, but it seemed that Jeremy was still young enough to wish
for happiness in an otherwise dreary holiday season.  Would the kid even
receive any presents?  Randall doubted it and shook his head, the boy's
sign the only Christmas decoration in evidence.
        Once, Wellford had been a quaint little town, most of its residents
employed at the local steel mill and train car factory, both thriving
enterprises that had slowly succumbed to foreign competition and the
decline of the train industry.  The working class community gave way to
creeping blight; younger families moved to other towns while older families
stayed on to grow older and hostile to poorer families who relocated as
property values dropped.  Randall's own boyhood had been charmed, a time of
baseball games and paper routes, good neighbors and friends who all seemed
to be in the same Boy Scout Troop.  But most of Randall's friends were gone
now, too.
        "Yo, mister."
        A harsh voice shook the detective from his reverie.  He turned and
saw a fat Puerto Rican boy of high school age walking toward him.  The kid
wore a faded brown leather jacket several sizes too small; his hair was
tangled and worn afro-style, dark face scarred with acne.
        "Yeah?"
        "You with the city?"
        Randall nodded.  "Are you a neighbor?"
        "Right over there," the kid answered, tossing his head in a vague
direction.  "Police were here earlier.  But that lady's never home."
        The detective shrugged as if he already knew this information.
"Yeah, but we  gotta keep checking."
        "Cushy job, huh?" the kid sneered.
        Randall ignored the comment.  "Seen Jeremy?"
        "Hell no."
        "Are you one of his friends?"
        The teenager laughed, snorted loudly and spit.  "I ain't friends
with that fag."
        "He make a pass at you?"  The detective was and was not only
bantering: the thought that Jeremy might be gay quickened his interest.
        "Naw, man!  It's just a feeling, you know?"  The teenager leaned
close, then turned and spit again.  "Maybe you're queer, too?"
        The man gave the boy a hard look.
        "Just kidding.  Just kidding, hombre!"  The boy waved his hands in
dismissal.
        "Any idea where Jeremy might be?"
        "Why should I tell you?"
        Randall reached into the pocket of his long gray trench coat and
pulled out a pack of cigarettes.  With a flick of his hand, he tossed them
to the teen, who caught the package on the fly.  Randall didn't smoke but
always carried cigarettes.  It was amazing the information you could get
out of a kid by giving him cigarettes.
        "Yeah," the fat teen smiled, round cheeks crinkling.  He was an
ugly cuss.  "OK.  Try that auto shop over on Lincoln.  You know.  'EZ
Auto?'  Old man Gomez lets Jeremy hang out and watch.  That's all the kid
does.  That's his thing.  And walking.  He's always walking."
        "Does he have any other friends I might talk to?"
        "Naw, man.  That little shit don't know nobody."
        "Thanks for the tip."  Randall walked to his car, a brown 78'
Pontiac Phoenix, parked at the curb.  "Yo, son!" he called out, about to
slide behind the wheel.
        "Yeah, dad?" the fat teen sneered.
        "Don't smoke them all at once."
        "Whatever."
        "And lay off the chocolate, you know?"
        The detective gestured to his own face and gave an expression of
mock concern.
        "Fuck you, man!  Fuck you!"
        Randall smiled, climbed into his car, and drove away.