Tuesday, January 26, 1988
6:52 pm
"This isn't working worth a shit!" Frank growled as Charlie climbed into the passenger seat next to him. "Driving you everywhere and picking you up again is slowing me down more than it's worth."
"Well, it's still gotta be faster than trying to check all these shelters by yourself," Charlie said. "If I knew my way around I'd drive myself, but I don't."
Frank shot him a nasty glance as he pulled the Chrysler away from the curb much faster than he needed to. "Who the fuck even asked you to come up here? I was doing fine by myself!"
"Two and a half weeks with no leads? If that's fine I'd hate to see shitty."
Frank apparently didn't have an answer to that, and instead whipped the car around a corner fast enough to fishtail in the snow and make the rusty old shocks bottom out.
"Besides," Charlie said, holding onto both the dashboard and the argumentative momentum, "You said yourself Andy probably stays in different shelters on different nights. If you did happen to wander into the same shelter on the same night it would be plain dumb luck."
"Well, even with two of us we're not going to cover them all in one night," Frank said, still miffed but calming. "Especially with me chauffeurin' you around like the goddamn Queen of England."
"Look," Charlie said, "I'm here to help because we've got to find Andy pretty damn quick or we're not going to. It was driving me crazy sitting there in Paxton and now at least I'm doing something. But if you think it'll go faster I'll buy a street map and figure it out for myself, though Christ knows how long that would take me. Whatever, though. It's your call."
Frank stopped for a traffic light and hit the wheel gently with the heel of his hand. "Ah, fuck it!" he said. "The next few shelters are pretty close together anyway."
They drove in silence a while, the tension seeming to have broken a bit. They even exchanged a few pleasantries, or at least non-hostilities, about whether or not they were hungry and should they check two more shelters before grabbing a bite, which is what they decided to do.
"We'll swing up through Bridgeport and hit Connie's for some pizza," Frank said. "I'll call ahead so it'll be ready and we don't waste a lot of time."
"Yeah, OK." Charlie was grateful for the chance to talk without arguing, a trend he wanted to nurture. "I remember you talking about Connie's Pizza back in the joint."
"It's always been my favorite place," Frank said, "but there's lots of great pizza in this town."
"We sure talked about a lot of shit in those days, didn't we?" Charlie said, smiling in the dark.
"What else did we have to do? Remember when the joint was on lock-down for three months? Jesus Christ, twenty-three hours a day locked in a cell with nothing to look at but your ugly mug!"
"Oh, shit yeah," Charlie said. "Three twenty-minute trips to the chow hall every day and two showers a week. Man, I thought I'd go nuts."
"You mean you didn't? Hell, I thought that explained everything."
"Well, maybe it does at that," Charlie said, and they actually shared a smile.
"You were nuts enough to get between me and a shiv," Frank suddenly said, surprising the hell out of Charlie. It was the first mention of the incident since the day Frank took Andy's case and it sounded suspiciously like an expression of gratitude.
"I didn't even think about it," Charlie said. "I just saw Matthews going for your back and the next thing I knew I had that blade in my arm. It was impulse, not bravery."
"Well, without that impulse I'd probably be in a box out in potter's field right now," Frank said. "Whether it was brave or stupid, either way I owe my life to it."
Charlie remembered that day like no other. It was clear as today in his mind, every sight, sound and thought preserved as if in amber. Sometimes it was so real he felt like he was still in there.
Back in prison Charlie had been a get-along type; the kind who fit in with everybody and nobody at the same time. He kept the nature of his crime an absolute secret, which was essential, and went about his days as innocuously as possible. The gang-bangers joked with him and about him, with his small-town naiveté and his goofy country smile, and the serious cons took him for the non-threatening nobody he was, just trying to do his time, keep to himself and get the hell out. He never got in anyone's face or stood in anyone's way, and he was quick with a joke or a smoke for anyone who needed one.
He didn't smoke himself but he always spent a little of his commissary money on a can of tobacco and a few packs of rolling papers just so he'd have something to offer to the guys who blew their money on Twinkies and Pop Tarts and smoked up their monthly brick of squares by the fifteenth. In prison jargon "squares" are factory-made cigarettes, named for the shape of the pack, and a "brick" is a carton. Charlie didn't buy squares because those would get bummed too fast and then he'd have nothing left to offer. Guys who tried to buy their way to acceptance with real squares were quickly pegged as chumps and bought themselves more trouble than security as the cons vied to get the cigarettes before they ran out.
Charlie bought cans of Topps rolling tobacco, which would never be anyone's first choice and thus did not invite extortion, but would do in a pinch when a con's addiction wouldn't let him sleep. Topps was a considerable step up from Pyramids, which were the factory-rolled cigarettes that the state provided free for indigent inmates. Many of the cons believed that Pyramids were actually rolled-up horse manure; the state's little joke at the inmates' expense. In any event, this is how Charlie Coleman came to be known as Charlie Topps, because he could always be counted on to share his rolls with anybody suffering the nicotine Jones.
If Charlie had no enemies Frank had the market cornered on them. As an ex-cop, ex-PI, and the guy who had ripped off a major heroin deal he had good guys, bad guys and even ex-husbands all wanting a piece of him. Fortunately Frank was one big, tough motherfucker and could take care of himself in most situations. Before Charlie got to Menard Correctional Center Frank had been in the hole four or five times for fighting, every time started by someone else. By then his reputation had gotten around as someone not easily taken out and so he was mostly left alone, until the arrival of Jerome Matthews.
Matthews was doing his third stretch, this time for attempted murder, and would call Menard home for a very long time. Frank the cop had busted Matthews and his brother on an armed robbery many years before, and the brother had been struck by a car and crippled while running from the scene.
Matthews accused Frank of deliberately pushing his brother in front of the car, though all witnesses including the brother said it didn't happen that way. Anyway, Matthews went up the river, the brother went into a wheelchair and then up the river, and Frank became an obsession for one seriously deranged convict. The first time they met in Menard's chow line Matthews promised Frank that he was going to "fuck him up." This sort of threat is heard fifty times a day in a maximum security prison and so no one, including Frank, took it especially seriously.
Then came the day Charlie would never forget. It was a bright, sunny day in June, and the late afternoon sun poured into the cell block at a low angle through the giant windows across the catwalk from the cells. Charlie was following a step or two behind Frank along the gallery, returning after a day at their job assignments: Charlie in the library, Frank in the main prison warehouse. The other cell doors all stood open as they passed, some containing inmates already returned from their assignments. Frank passed Matthews' cell without even a glance inside but something made Charlie turn his head just enough, and what he saw made his eyes go wide.
A flash of brightness flared in Matthews' hand as he stepped quickly from the shadows toward Frank, the sun's reflection off of a shiny metallic surface. It was a blade fashioned from the thickest leaf of a feeler gauge Matthews had stolen from the metal shop. A fine little shiv it made, too, tied with a shoelace onto a toothbrush handle for length and patiently hand-sharpened against the cinder blocks of the cell. All these years later Charlie could still see it glint in the sunlight, beautiful in the same way as a coral snake.
He didn't think. There wasn't time. The blade came forward and Charlie threw up his arm, and then searing hot pain bit into him and he cried out in agony. Frank whirled, and both he and his would-be murderer wore the same expression of astonishment.
Charlie fell to the floor, he wasn't sure why, maybe just because of the shock and surprise, but it was a good thing he did. Frank drove a fist into Matthews' face, toppling him backwards to the gallery floor, which he wouldn't have been able to do if Charlie had still been in the way.
Before Matthews could regain his feet the guards were there, wrestling him immobile and stomping the blade out of his hand with booted feet. The lasting image Charlie had was sitting on the concrete floor looking up at Frank's amazed expression and clutching the gushing wound in his arm.
"You thanked me, Frank, a million times," Charlie said softly. "It was the only thing I could do, anyway. What was I gonna do, stand there and watch my best friend die?"
Upon those words they settled into an uncomfortable silence, which was still better than the acrimony of before. Frank kept his eyes fixed on the road and both hands on the wheel and Charlie tried to watch the street signs to get some idea of where he was, but after only a few minutes of twisting and turning through the dark streets Charlie was thoroughly lost.
Frank pulled up in front of a storefront with only a crudely-painted cross on the door to identify it as a church-run shelter. Charlie stepped out of the car and, without a word, Frank fishtailed off into the night.
This would be the fourth of these places Charlie had visited and he prepared himself for the depression he knew he'd find inside. He pulled open the door and was greeted by warm, moist heat. It felt good, for it was one of those raw, damp winter nights Chicago must surely hold the patent on. A pretty teenage black girl sat at a card table covered with papers and manila folders and smiled toothily at him as he approached.
"Hello," she said in an accent that seemed vaguely Southern but watered down as well with Chicago South Side. "Welcome to the Stony Island Shelter. I'm Talesha. What's your name?" It was rehearsed but she did a good job of making it sound fresh.
"Charlie," he replied, and before he could say anything more she was offering him a clipboard and a pen.
"Now, you don't have to, Charlie, because we don't turn anyone away unless we're full up," Talesha said, "but we'd appreciate it if you'd fill this out just so we know who's here, and a little more about how we can help you. If you have trouble with writing I can fill it out for you."
Charlie smiled at her. She seemed genuinely pleased to help people. "I'm sorry, I'm not here for myself," he said, realizing from her expression that he wasn't making much sense. He recited the quick fabrication Frank had told him to use. "I'm helping a friend look for his son who ran away. I was hoping I could take a look around, maybe ask a few people if they've seen him."
"Oh, let me call my Dad," she said, flustered. "Reverend Davis," she added hastily. "He's in charge of the shelter."
"Thank you," Charlie said and sat on a folding chair while Talesha stuck her head around the door frame and called her Daddy in an urgent hush.
In a few moments a tall, husky man, as black as any human being Charlie had ever seen, stepped into the foyer. He was simply but nicely dressed, not in clerical garb, and had an air of intelligent leadership about him. Charlie rose and shook his huge, soft hand.
"You're looking for a boy?" the Reverend asked in a low, concerned tone.
"Yes, eleven years old," Charlie said, and was about to go on when the Reverend interrupted.
"A white boy?"
"Yes, I have his picture..." Charlie dug for the photo in his coat pocket.
"He isn't here tonight," Reverend Davis said. "There are no young white boys here tonight, but there have been on other nights. What is his name?"
"Andy Barnes," Charlie said, handing the picture to the Reverend. "Of course as a runaway he might be using a different name."
"Yes, they often do," the Reverend said, intently studying Andy's image. He handed the photo to Talesha who also examined it without comment.
"I'm here every night," the Reverend said, "and I have a very good memory for faces. Also, as you might expect, white faces tend to stand out around here. I'm quite sure this boy has not been here."
Charlie couldn't hide his disappointment. He had always hoped that Andy would run into caring people like these rather than the types of predators he imagined inhabited those dark city streets.
"You're welcome to come in and ask around," the Reverend said. "Perhaps someone has seen him on the street."
Charlie thanked the Reverend and stepped through the doorway into the shelter's main quarters. It was little more than a large room filled with row upon row of low cots and some plain mattresses directly on the floor. It was warm and safe, though, and that was more than some people had.
Nearly all of these spaces were occupied by the kinds of people you see in movies pushing shopping carts full of junk. Some wore multiple layers of clothing even while Charlie was beginning to sweat in his overcoat, and a few huddled under thin blankets as well. Nearly all of the faces were black but there were a few whites and some Latinos. Most were alone and spoke to no one but there was one small family huddled together muttering softly, apparently praying. A tiny, beautiful, chocolate-colored girl tightly held her mother's hand as she returned Charlie's stare. As pitiful as this seemed it struck him that at least this child had loving parents to help her face the cruelty of the streets. Poor Andy was out there somewhere facing it alone.
His resolve strengthened, Charlie set about showing Andy's picture and asking everyone who would talk to him if they could ever remember seeing this boy. Every reply was negative; some tersely so, others apologetic, but always negative. Charlie worked his way to the back corner of the room and was about to give up when a middle-aged black man came out of a door with a towel over his head and bumped into him.
"Oh, I'm sorry!" the man said. "I was dryin' my head but I should've been lookin' where I was going." Unlike most of the others the man smelled clean and looked freshly scrubbed. The shelter apparently offered showers to those who were interested.
"No harm done," Charlie said, smiling. "Listen, maybe you can help me. I'm looking for this boy, the son of a friend of mine who ran away. You wouldn't happen to have seen him anywhere, would you?"
The man took the photo and studied it. Charlie saw a familiar gleam in his eye followed quickly by sadness, and he was instantly sure that this man was a boylover. His instantaneous reaction was the same as Charlie's to any picture of an attractive boy; an appreciation of one of God's loveliest creatures and, undeniably, a certain element of lust. But then it had occurred to the man that this beautiful boy was lost, adrift in an uncaring world, and the thought brought him instantly down. Charlie was heartened by this because he well knew that boylovers tend to remember the beautiful boys they see and where they saw them.
"I'm sorry," the man said. "I really wish I could help you but I've never seen this boy." He handed back the photo and looked sadly at Charlie. "I think it's great what you're doin', though, man" he said, "givin' your time to try to find a lost kid."
Charlie sighed. "Well, it's been two weeks now and we have no leads at all. We're almost out of shelters to check. Unless we get really lucky I have no idea how we're going to find him." Charlie looked into the man's compassionate eyes. "Dammit!" he suddenly flared in frustration. "Where the hell would a runaway boy go?"
The man looked back at Charlie, his eyes full of uncertainty. He licked his lips then took Charlie by the elbow and steered him to an unoccupied corner.
"Listen, man" he said quietly. "There was a time, when I had a job and could afford it, when I used to go to a place where runaway kids hang out." He looked into Charlie's eyes to gauge his reaction, both of them well aware that he had just admitted to picking up boy prostitutes. Charlie made sure his expression was nonjudgmental and grateful for the information.
"If you go up around Wilson and Broadway you'll see 'em, hangin' out in the doorways," the man said. "Now, most of 'em are older than your boy here but sometimes they're that young. Maybe your little guy is desperate enough to be there after this long."
"Thanks, mister," Charlie said, shaking the man's hand in gratitude. "I don't know if this will help but right now I'm glad for any ideas anybody can give me."
Charlie thanked the Reverend and exchanged smiles with Talesha on the way out. The cold was out there right where he'd left it but it didn't seem as chilling somehow. He stood on the sidewalk watching his breath cloud in front of him and waiting for Frank. He was torn between hoping Andy would be at the pickup corner and praying the kid was better off than that. Within five minutes the Chrysler pulled up.
"Anything?" Frank asked, his expression conveying that he had struck out at his shelter.
"He hasn't been here," Charlie said, climbing in. "But I did get an idea from one of the guys. Do you know a place called Wilson and Broadway?"
Frank gunned the Chrysler into the street. "Sure. Not a great part of town, but OK enough in the daytime."
"This guy I just talked to says boys peddle their asses on that corner," Charlie said. "I'd hate to think of Andy doing that but it's worth a shot."
"Actually the corner is a couple blocks south of that," Frank said. "And I already thought of it. What do you think, that I missed something that obvious?"
"I didn't mean anything by it," Charlie said. "I'm just telling you what the guy told me. So, you checked it out already?"
"Yeah, last week," Frank said. "It's all older kids, eighteen, nineteen years old. I checked with my police friend and he says there's no young chicken trade on the street anymore. Law's too hard on the customers and scared them away."
"But did you go there and see if any of the hustlers have seen Andy? This guy said it was mostly older boys but that once in a while a young one will be there. It's something to try, anyway."
"Yeah, OK," Frank grumbled. "After the pizza, though. I'm hungry."
An hour later the Chrysler slowed to a stop on Broadway a half block south of Montrose and Frank switched off the headlights. Up ahead the abandoned storefronts were in shadows but Charlie could make out movement in the darkness.
In a few moments a car stopped at the curb and a tall, thin figure sauntered out of the shadows. The hustler leaned down and rested both arms on the car door, talking to the driver through the passenger window, and after thirty seconds or so the car door opened, the tall boy got in and the car sped off.
"There you go," Frank said. "Our lovely society at its best." He eased the Chrysler back into the street and pulled up to the same spot. Out of the shadows stepped a boy damn near short enough to raise hope, but as the streetlight illuminated his face he was clearly much older than his height might indicate. He was at least eighteen, just short.
"Whoa," the kid said, and started to back away. "I don't go with two guys at once."
"No, wait!" Charlie called. "We just want to ask you a question."
The boy stopped about five feet from the car, poised to run if he had to. "Questions are free," he said, "but answers cost money."
"That's OK," Frank said before Charlie could respond. "We'll pay if you have the answer we want."
"Well then I guess you'd better ask the question." The boy rubbed his hands in the cold and stepped from one foot to the other. Charlie noticed then that the kid was severely underdressed for the weather with just a wind breaker over a thin shirt. Charlie decided to hurry so the kid could get back to the relative shelter of the building.
"Have you seen this boy?" he asked, handing him the photograph of Andy.
He examined the photo, turning it to maximize the light from the streetlamp. He made a face as if straining to remember. "It could be him," the hustler said. "I can't really tell... But I'll bet some money would help."
"OK, OK," Charlie said, pulling a twenty from his wallet and handing it to the boy.
"Twenty more," the kid said, and though it pissed him off a little Charlie dug out another bill.
"I did a video over the weekend with a kid who looked like this," the boy said. "Great little cocksucker," he continued with a smirk.
"Was his name Andy?" Charlie asked, getting excited.
"Andy, Bobby, Billy..." the kid said. "Who the hell knows? I was so fucked up I didn't know my own name. He was a young kid with long brown hair and he sucked dick like he was born for it. That's what I remember."
"Where did you do the video?" Frank asked.
"A warehouse over on Clybourn," the kid said. "Down around Diversey somewhere."
"What's the address?" Frank asked.
"Fuck if I know."
"Who did you do it for?"
"Shit," the kid said. "This is a lot more than forty bucks worth of questions. Listen, let's cut out the bullshit. Sixty more, for an even hundred, and you get the guy's name and phone number."
"OK," Frank said, then to Charlie, "Pay the man."
"A hundred bucks!"
Charlie immediately felt ashamed of himself. This was their best lead to Andy so far -- their only lead so far -- and it was no time to pinch pennies. "Yeah, OK, right," he muttered and counted out three more twenties.
The kid smiled and stuffed the money into his pocket. "The guy who makes the videos calls himself Gerry Gordon," he said. "Thinks he's in fuckin' Hollywood, too, tellin' me my motivation for the scene. My motivation was to get my fuckin' money!"
"Just give us the phone number, DeNiro," Frank said.
The kid gave Charlie a look and raised his eyebrows. "Straights," he said derisively. "Why would you even hang out with 'em?"
Shit, Charlie thought. This kid read them both like a book.
The hustler pulled a crumpled paper out of his pocket and handed it to Charlie. It was the torn corner of a magazine page with a faded number scrawled in the margin. "Copy that down, OK? I want it back. Those videos are good, easy money."
Wednesday, January 27, 1988
11:34 am
Easy money, Johnny reminded himself as he punched in the latest stolen cell phone number with the New York area code. What hadn't been easy was keeping his mind off of Andy's sweet backside for a week and a half. Johnny wasn't used to settling for slap-and-tickle but for a cool five grand it was worth the frustration. He hadn't been this horny since he was a teenager but he knew he was just overcompensating because Andy was so damn available, and so damn delicious. Still, business is business.
The line connected and a voice that was not Green's answered, "Yeah."
"Mr. Brown calling for Mr. Green," Johnny said, trying hard not to sound disdainful. He had checked Green out with the contacts that Eddie provided and with that information had checked other New York contacts of his own. Though they wouldn't put a name to the pseudonym he had been assured that the promise of big money was in every way legit. He spoke to the pimp Green had dealt with in London, too, who couldn't say enough about his generosity and gentility. By all accounts this guy was the world's first boylover saint.
Now, Johnny had been around the block enough times to know that when something sounds perfect there must be a whiff of yesterday's seafood in the air, but he chalked it up to all these people wanting to protect their own future business with Mr. Bigbucks. He could understand that. If Johnny made his five grand on this deal Green would get a glowing review from him, too.
"Hold on," the gruff voice said, and a moment later Green's arrogant baritone came on.
"Ah, Mr. Brown," he said. "You have finally called."
"Yes, sir, Mr. Green," Johnny sucked up. "As you knew I would."
"You have recruited suitable personnel, I gather?"
"Oh, yes sir, I certainly have," Johnny said. "If this doesn't raise your tent pole then what you really need is an undertaker, because you're dead."
"You are quite given to colorful Midwesternisms, aren't you, Mr. Brown?" Green made no effort to hide the disdain in his voice.
"Well," Johnny said impulsively, "it would get awfully boring if we all did the Ivy League bit."
There was a pause and Johnny winced at his own impetuousness. He'd be pissed if he had blown the whole deal just for the satisfaction of one-upping a rich prick. Even so it occurred to him that at least he'd get to take Andy's cherry after all. Not worth five thousand bucks, but some kind of consolation.
"Touché, Mr. Brown," Green finally said, a hint of genuine mirth in his voice. "Truth be told I suppose I do embellish my speech just a bit, for effect. And I rather admire a man willing to forgo a lucrative opportunity rather than allow himself to be condescended to. I imagine you would call it something like 'putting your balls on the line.' Well, you can put your balls away now, Mr. Brown. Your point is made, so let us continue sans the verbal sparring, shall we?"
"That suits me perfectly, Mr. Green," Johnny said. Suddenly he felt a lot more comfortable with the rich man with no name. Green was probably used to thugs and morons in this business, never expecting someone he could respect. Johnny had surprised him and pleasantly so.
"I will arrive on the eighth," Green said, "and I will expect you to personally deliver the merchandise the following afternoon. I will not be staying at the Fairmont despite what you've been told, but some distance out of town so you'll need a car. My representative will phone you the morning of the ninth with directions and final instructions. On arrival you will be paid the amount we agreed upon. You will both stay the night and when you leave in the morning you will receive any bonus I see fit, depending on performance. Does that sound fair, Mr. Brown?"
"Yes sir, Mr. Green," Johnny said with a smile. "And don't worry. I have every reason to expect the performance to be exceptional."
"I'm not worried, Mr. Brown," Green said. "I think we understand each other perfectly."
Johnny set the phone lightly into its charger and grinned to himself in the big bedroom mirror. Andy would blow Green's mind, no doubt about it, and then just try to keep him away. They'd be milking this cash cow for a long time.
Johnny felt like celebrating and he knew precisely how. An occasion like this called for the three Bs: beers, bongs and boys.
Next time:
Tricks are for kids.
If you enjoy my writing please let me know by emailing me at gaminparamour@protonmail.com and I will do my best to reply quickly.
If you're a glutton for punishment you can find my archived stories here on my Prolific Authors page.