Out of the Woods

The waitress fluttered her eyelashes at Johnny as she warmed his coffee, striking something of a pose and giving him a strange half-smile. With his looks he was the target of come-ons from half the females in Chicago and he knew he could have this one if he wanted her. She wasn't bad; a young redhead, probably not yet twenty, slim and boyish enough to get his dick hard. He briefly considered going for it but decided to pass.

Johnny'd had pussy plenty of times and it was OK. That is, it didn't gross him out or anything, but it just wasn't his thing. It always left him feeling like he'd ordered a tuna melt when he could have had lobster. Besides, why waste a good hard-on when he had some of the best tail in the city waiting for him at home? He turned his attention back to the young man sitting across the secluded booth at the rear of the nearly empty restaurant. The waitress frowned in disappointment and skulked away.

"...could turn out to be a lot of money," the young man was saying. "My man in New York says this guy drops a grand like you and me buyin' a fuckin' newspaper. He liked the kid they got for him in London so much he tipped the bellman an extra hundred -- after he got laid. I mean, shit. Who'd you ever see come up off more money after the deal is done and he already got his rocks off?"

Johnny sipped the hot coffee. "Rich and generous. A nice combination."

"So, he's comin' in a couple weeks," the man said, muffled through a huge bite of hamburger. "He's staying at the Fairmont so I'll take care of him myself. Got it all worked out with the Bell Captain."

"OK," Johnny said. "Find out what he likes and I'll send one of my best up the freight elevator, as usual."

The bellhop wiped the grease from his mouth and leaned in to speak more softly. "Well, see Johnny, that's the fucked up part. He won't deal with me. He wants to talk to you direct."

Johnny leaned back and crossed his arms. "Then the deal's off."

"Whoa, whoa, think about this a second," the young man said, getting a bit agitated. "We're talkin' maybe four or five grand here if you can give him exactly what he wants. My end's five bills just for settin' up the phone call between you guys. I can't let go of that so easy, man."

Johnny fixed him with his eyes. "First of all Eddie, you got nothin' to say about my business. I decide who I work with and who I don't. What the fuck, you think you're the only bellhop who gets asked where the action is? Shit, I got bellhops and cab drivers and bartenders all over this town. You die tomorrow I don't even notice."

Eddie's back straightened with the foolish bravado of youth. "Yeah, well yours aren't the only boys in town, either."

"Sure, Eddie," Johnny said. "And you'll do lots of business when word gets out you tried to jack me around. The only safe way is to assume any john who insists on talking to me directly must be a cop, and if you're bustin' my chops about it then you're as good as setting me up, too."

"No, Johnny, come on, man," Eddie whined. "The guy's cool, all right? He doesn't want to meet you or know nothin' about you. He just wants to set everything up directly with you on the phone so all the middle guys like me don't know his business."

That actually sounded fairly prudent to Johnny. If the guy was rich he was probably high-profile, and the last thing he needed was some six-dollar-an-hour bellhop telling the National Enquirer how he fucks little boys in the ass. Johnny had always said if you have to trust somebody it should be a person who has as much to lose as you do, and a rich guy hitting town eight or ten times a year could be a nice little cash cow. Johnny didn't say anything for a moment as he mulled it over.

"A phone call wouldn't be so bad," he finally said, and Eddie blew out his breath like he'd been holding it for half an hour.

"OK, cool," Eddie said, grinning, and slipped a rough-torn piece of the paper place mat in front of Johnny. There was a long distance number and the word green, with a capital G. "When you call say it's Mr. Brown calling for Mr. Green. Oh, and they said the number is only good until tomorrow night."

"Hot cellular," Johnny mumbled. The guy was taking no chances. He stuffed the paper into his pocket. "Anything else?" he asked with a patronizing smile, which the punk across from him totally missed.

"A couple of things, as a matter of fact," Eddie said, leaning back and lighting up a Marlboro despite being seated in the non-smoking area. If a person could swagger while sitting down, he was doing it. "I need a little one, looks nine or ten, real pretty, for tonight. The guy'll go two-fifty for, like, half and half."

"Mex OK?" Johnny asked.

"Yeah, I think so." Eddie said. "If you're thinkin' of that one you sent over last week, then definitely. Hell, I coulda ate him up myself, and I dig girls!"

"Tell the hawk nine-thirty," Johnny said, noting the appointment in his slim leather planner in apparently meaningless hieroglyphics. "What else?

"You ought to be in pictures..." Eddie crooned off-key, then laughed. "Gerry wants a couple of kids for a serious hard-core video. Two nights work, eight hundred apiece."

"Any particular types?"

"Yeah," Eddie said, leaning in and whispering. "The type that can take ten inches and come up smiling." He laughed at himself again. "He wants 'em like he always wants 'em," he continued in relative seriousness. "Cute, hairless, and haven't been in a major video before."

"Christ," Johnny grumbled. Damn near all his kids had already worked for Gerry. "When is this extravaganza being filmed?"

"Next week, Tuesday and Wednesday."

"OK, I'll have a couple there," Johnny said, scratching his indecipherable notes in the book. "At the warehouse, two o'clock?"

"You got it, bro," Eddie said.

It annoyed the piss out of Johnny to be called 'bro', but he didn't say anything. After all, in one lunch he had just set up over eighteen hundred dollars in confirmed business and had a line on another five grand. If he could provide exactly what the rich guy wanted, which must be something really special. Johnny got pissed all over again as he thought of the little beauty that had slipped through the net at the bus station last night. Somehow he knew that one elusive kid would have been just the ticket for this gig. Oh, well. He had lots of beautiful boys to pick from.

4:16 pm

The late afternoon sun had once again lengthened the shadows to sinister proportions and Andy's little breakfast wasn't holding him anymore. He was exhausted from walking the streets all day but he wasn't quite ready to consider finding a safe place to spend the night, and instead he decided to concentrate on his hunger. It was even more dismaying to think of his empty stomach, though, since he didn't have any idea how he might get any food.

As if on cue, just then he happened upon two homeless men picking through the dumpster behind a Greek restaurant. He wasn't sure what they were doing at first, but when one of the men came up with what appeared to be the better portion of a roasted chicken Andy's watering mouth coaxed him closer. He approached warily, but never dreamed how they'd react.

"Beat it, you little bastard!" one of them yelled, flinging an empty tomato can at Andy with sufficient precision that he had to hop into the air as it skittered under his feet. "This is our place! Go find your own!"

Andy dashed away five or six steps, then in desperation turned and appealed to their kindness. "But, mister, I'm so hungry!"

"Everybody's hungry," said the other man with a bit more compassion, but not much. "I hope you find something but you ain't gettin' ours."

That, obviously, was that, and Andy slunk away, turning back a few times to watch them devour the chicken. At least it showed him that there was food to be had in this city, if you could find it, and if you got to it first.

After an hour Andy was checking out the rear alley of his fourth restaurant, the first three having proved either foodless or the jealously guarded property of others. With great difficulty he lifted the steel lid of the dumpster and peered inside. He let it crash down again in frustration when he saw that it was completely empty. A few tears welled up as he shuffled away, clutching himself against the January wind that whipped around the corner of the building.

He remembered the mounds of spaghetti Charlie had made for their dinner one night, the evening after they'd first watched Star Wars. It seemed years ago. What marched next across his inner eye was the huge, delicious burger he'd spent a fortune on at the diner across from the bus station in Paxton, along with the chocolate shake that had topped the meal for him like a fine Cognac might for a gourmet. He even conjured up a fond image of the cheap, bland food his mother used to put on the table. Food and clothing were not fancy, or even plentiful, back home, but they were generally there when he needed them. He had no idea how to provide them for himself.

Just then he heard a metallic screech from behind and whirled to see a Mexican busboy muscling an overflowing garbage can out the rear door of the restaurant. Andy's heart began to race and he looked around quickly for any competition that might show up. The busboy dumped the trash, then without even a glance in Andy's direction hurried back into the warmth of the restaurant.

Andy ran back to the dumpster, dragging an old wooden crate over to it and climbing up. He strained to swing the heavy lid open and had to try three times before he gave it a good enough push to hinge all the way open and crash against the side of the dumpster. He stared down at the garbage with wide, excited eyes. Christmas morning was never this good. He couldn't reach down to the garbage and so he climbed right inside, dropping lightly into the mush. It occurred to him suddenly that it might not be easy to get back out, but he'd address that problem after he'd eaten.

Unmindful of the filth that was getting all over him Andy sifted through the refuse. This was nice fresh garbage, he thought, and should yield something edible. It seemed very strange to be thinking in terms of "fresh garbage" but all that really mattered was that he would finally eat.

It was only a moment more before he came up with most of a dinner roll that needed only some coffee grounds wiped away from it. It was the best tasting bread he ever remembered and he ate it in three huge bites. The last of the roll still filling his mouth, Andy attacked the garbage again, coming up with about a third of a large hamburger. He devoured the burger, making animal sounds from deep in his throat. Eating had never been so primal an affair in his young life.

Another moment and his hand fell upon a pickle spear, and though he absolutely hated pickles this one was down his gullet in a matter of seconds. He ate everything he could find in that dumpster until he actually began to feel full. It was a feeling it seemed he hadn't had in months, though it was only one day. Real hunger was a new experience for the boy and one he was not eager to repeat. He belched loudly and giggled to himself as the sound echoed inside the metal enclosure. It was the closest to content that he'd felt since leaving the bus. Now what he wanted was some sleep.

Andy gave serious consideration to staying right inside the dumpster. It was warmer in there than crouched in an alley, both because the wind was blocked and because of the still-warm garbage. With his desperation for food no longer paramount, however, he suddenly noticed that his current perch stank to high heaven. With some difficulty he managed to haul himself out of the odorous container and, brushing ineffectively at the bits of trash that clung to him, set off to begin the task of finding a place to sleep. Once again he had no clue. He could only hope to stumble across something.

8:37 pm

"Hello, Frank."

Charlie's words hung in the air a long time, eliciting no response whatever from the Irishman who stood bracing the door open with a beefy arm. Seconds passed and he continued to block the entrance, deciding whether or not to allow this distasteful bit of his past to cross his threshold after all. He had agreed over the phone -- when he was sober -- but the sight of Charlie was enough to give him second thoughts. They locked eyes for a moment, and then with a growl Frank turned back into the room, snatching his half-finished whiskey off the end table and downing it in a gulp.

Frank kept his back turned while Charlie stepped inside and quietly closed the door. Frank couldn't look at him, his anger rushing back like a torrent, even though he'd had ten years to forget, and forgive.

Charlie hesitated, then said, "I want to thank you for..."

"I'm not doing it for you!" Frank turned to glare at his unwelcome guest. Jesus, he suddenly thought, the little fucker got old in ten years. His mind's-eye view of Charlie was of a kid, mid-20's tops. Somehow that thought mellowed him a bit and he spoke more evenly, pouring another double, "I'm settling a debt, that's all."

"Well," Charlie said softly, "if you think you owe me something, and that gets you to help me save this boy, then that's OK. I frankly don't give a shit what you think of me."

"What should I think of you, Charlie? What am I supposed to think when I find out my cell mate is a goddamn child molester? You lied to me for three years, man! And now you want me to believe that this little boy -- who ran away from you! -- wants you to find him? Why should I believe that, Charlie? Why should I believe a fuckin' baby-raper?"

"Because that boy needs you to," Charlie said. "All I care about is finding that kid and getting him off the street. I can't do that myself. I don't know this town and I don't know shit about finding people. Hell, I wouldn't have found you if you weren't in the book. I need you, Frank. I can't do it without you."

Frank's expression didn't soften. "And then I'm supposed to just hand this kid over to you, huh? To a convicted child molester?" He laughed bitterly. "I'm a fuckin' low-life, man, but even I got a problem with that."

Charlie's voice was calm. "Once you find him you can ask Andy where he wants to go, or turn him over to Family Services, or whatever. Me getting him back is not what this is about."

"Well, I have a news flash for you, pal. I have no intention of turning him over to you." Frank took another slug of whiskey. "In fact, I'm still thinkin' about whether I ought to rat you out to the cops."

Charlie's eyes widened in alarm, and Frank laughed with merriment born of the distillery.

"Nah, I ain't rattin' you out," he said, slumping into a threadbare easy chair. "Leastways not 'til you run out of money." Frank laughed again, having a little trouble pouring his third drink in the last five minutes. He gestured Charlie to a couch that looked like it might not hold his weight. "You want some of this piss? It's the good stuff...four dollars a bottle."

"No thanks, and I think maybe you ought to slow down yourself. Andy's already got a full day head start on you."

Frank said to no one in particular, "Now I'm getting advice from a fuckin' child molester. This is good."

"I am the client," Charlie said. "I am paying the bills."

"That's right!" Frank said too loudly. "You're the boss! I used to be Frank McCann, P.I., and now I'm Frank McCann, P.A. -- Pervert Assistant." He cracked up at his own joke, nearly spilling his latest double.

Charlie looked at Frank with cold eyes. "Are you almost through fucking with me? It's time to start earning your booze money."

Frank stared back at Charlie, his glare suddenly melting to inebriated mush. "How could you do it, man? How could you do that to little fuckin' kids? I thought I knew who you were, Charlie."

"You knew most of it," Charlie said softly. "I couldn't let anybody know if I wanted to stay in general population. You remember that guy Samuels or Sanders or whatever? His case was on the TV news, and he got the shit kicked out of him the same day. Had to do the rest of his bit in P.C. just to stay alive. I couldn't do three years of Protective Custody, Frank. It might as well be solitary confinement."

"So, what are you saying? You thought I'd kill you if I knew?"

Charlie looked at the floor. "Not after a while, after I got to know you," he said. "By then, though, your friendship meant so much to me I was scared of what you'd think, that you'd think less of me."

"You're fuckin' right I would!" The granite was back in Frank's stare. "Funny thing, but I tend to look down on people who rape little boys."

"I never raped anybody! You don't know nothin' about it! None of you straights do. I never touched a kid in my life who didn't want to be touched!"

"Yeah, right," Frank said. "Like some little six-year-old really wants your dick up his ass."

"I don't do that! People are always saying shit like that to make it sound as bad as possible."

Frank slammed his whiskey down hard enough to slosh over onto the table. He faced Charlie squarely. "OK, then, what did you do?"

"All right, you want to know? I'll tell you. You remember that girlfriend I used to talk about? Pat, the one with the blond hair and the freckles, who loved to ride bikes along the lake with me? Remember I said I loved to kiss her titties and suck her pussy? Well, make her ten years old and turn that pussy into a dick and you've got it."

"Oh, man." Frank grabbed up the whiskey and drained it.

"The point is, everything I said about Pat was true, except the age and gender. I told you how much I loved him. I just let you think he was a woman. All the emotions were real. Pat and I made love because we both wanted to. The fact that the State of Illinois locked me up for it didn't change that."

Frank was silent a moment, remembering how close the two men had become in the tiny concrete room they shared for three years. How lucky he had felt to have a cellie he could trust -- at least he thought he could. Jesus Christ, Charlie took a blade for him! But just like everyone else, in the end Charlie turned out to be nothing but a liar.

"Yeah, well, you're still a sick fuck."

Charlie's expression dissolved to sad resignation. He slumped a little on the stained and rickety couch, and the fire in his eyes cooled and died.

"You're entitled to your opinion."

"Goddamn right I am," Frank muttered and started to pour another drink, then for some reason changed his mind. "OK, then, Mr. Client," he said instead, "let's start by going over everything we've got."

Charlie's interest returned quickly. "There's not a hell of a lot more to tell than what I said on the phone."

"Humor me," the ex-P.I. said flatly, leaving no room for contradiction.

Charlie shrugged and launched into the story of how little Andy Barnes stumbled into his life nine days before, battered and bloody and about to collapse. He told of abusive fathers and uncaring mothers, of ragged clothes and bandages, and of plans to spirit the boy to Oklahoma City and a new life, albeit one in the cold, sterile arms of the state.

"And you never diddled with this kid?" Frank asked in a tone of disbelief.

"No!" Charlie said. "Look, you like women, but if one collapsed in your arms beat to a bloody pulp would your first thought be to fuck her? I don't always think with my dick, goddamn it!"

"Yeah, yeah, OK. I just gotta have the whole picture if I'm gonna figure this thing out."

"Well, now you've got the picture, can we move on?"

Frank only nodded.

"Then on Friday I came home from work and Andy was gone. Didn't take anything but a few bucks I had stashed, no clothes, nothing. I found this note..." He handed the paper to Frank, who read it quickly and tossed it on the coffee table.

"I figured he'd try to get out of town, so I rushed over to the bus station but the clerk hadn't seen Andy. I tried the Amtrak station up the road but nobody'd seen him there, either. I was thinking he must have hitched a ride. And then, just 'cause I didn't know what else to do, I stopped at the bus station again and this time the clerk said a kid with a beat-up face took the six-thirty to Chicago.

"I drove my ass here as fast as I could but I couldn't even find the goddamn bus station. It seemed hopeless. I mean, how the hell was I going to find Andy in this giant fucking city? So after an hour or so when I stumbled onto the Interstate again I just headed back home. It didn't even occur to me to reach out to you until I was damn near back to Missouri."

Frank looked Charlie dead in the eyes. "And exactly why didn't you call the cops? I mean, a bloody kid shows up on your doorstep out of the blue, I think most people would dial 911. And even if I buy the stuff about the kid being scared the cops would send him back home to asshole Daddy, what about after he split? Why me and not the cops?"

Charlie looked down and blew out a long, slow breath. Then, his jaw locked in decision, his eyes met Frank's.

"I'm on the lam. There was this boy, six years ago in Oklahoma..."

"Christopher Michael Pickett," Frank said.

Charlie's mouth dropped open.

"I started out as a cop, remember? Back when dinosaurs roamed the earth? I got a friend to check NCIC for me -- the National Crime Information Center. Told him I was looking up people who owed me money." Frank laughed without amusement. "Tony used to puppy-dog around behind me when he was a rookie, and tonight he tried to slip twenty bucks into my hand when we shook goodbye. Shit sure changes, huh?"

Charlie looked puzzled. "So if you knew..."

"I wanted to see if you'd level with me. Makes the rest of your story a lot more believable. But one thing I still want to know... Why are you sticking your neck out so far for this kid, if you've only known him a week and you're not, uh...involved...with him?"

Charlie hesitated before answering. "I'm not a hundred percent sure," he finally said. "He's a good kid. Bright, funny, friendly somehow, even after all he's been through. He doesn't deserve the life he ended up with."

Charlie got up and paced the few steps the tiny living room would allow.

"I guess...I guess I got mad. At Andy's old man, at myself for all the pain I've caused, and I just said 'No, the bullshit has to stop.' I just decided that this kid is going to have a chance, even if it costs me everything." Charlie smiled ironically. "It is pretty stupid, I guess. Here I am with less than a year to go on the statute of limitations, ready to blow it all for some kid I barely know."

Frank studied his former friend and smirked in bleak amusement. "Sorry to break the news to you, Charlie, but that's not how the statute of limitations works."

He had Charlie's complete attention.

"The statute gives the state a certain amount of time to bring charges against someone. Once you're charged they can prosecute you 50 years later if they want to. And now you're wanted for flight to avoid prosecution, too, which has no statute of limitations. Sorry, Charlie, but you're on the hook pretty much forever."

Charlie sat back down, expressionless, letting the truth sink in. Neither man spoke for nearly half a minute.

"It doesn't really matter, I guess," Charlie said. "If anything it makes it easier. I don't have anything to lose so why not stick my neck out?"

Frank studied the face he once knew so well. There was something there, in the eyes, that tugged at him, refusing to let him hate the sonofabitch the way he knew he should, the way he had a right to.

He didn't want to let go of it. He had been clinging to his hatred for years, ever since the day he learned the truth about his best friend. Strangely, hating Charlie had been a way to hold onto him. Now, just when Frank had him on the ropes, telling him just what he thought of him, here was Charlie going and fucking with his head again, ready to give up his own freedom to save some unfortunate kid. What a louse, getting noble on him at a time like this.

He still wasn't ready to forgive Charlie, either for the betrayal or for his perversion, but somehow when he wasn't looking his all-consuming hatred just sort of slipped away

"Have you got a picture?" Frank finally asked, startling Charlie who had been lost in thought.

"A picture?" Charlie repeated stupidly.

"Of Andy," Frank said, irritated. "There's only about a million brown-haired kids in this town. It would kind of help to know what the fuck he looks like."

"This was all I could get," Charlie said, withdrawing a carefully rolled 5 by 7 from his breast pocket and handing it to Frank.

It was a group photo of a church basketball league, at least 40 kids in T-shirts of various colors emblazoned with 'First Church of the Nazarene'. One round little face was circled in felt marker, a cute, smiling boy with a missing tooth and long-ish brown hair needing a trim.

"That's gotta be two years old," Charlie said. "I swiped it from the display case at the church. Andy's a lot bigger than that now, but he looks basically the same. His hair is longer, over his collar in back, and he isn't missing any teeth."

"Shit," Frank said absently. "Maybe I can get this blown up." He folded the photo in half and slid it flat into his shirt pocket. "One more thing, did Andy ever mention to you if he knew anybody in Chicago? A scared kid on the run might've just jumped on the first bus to come through, but if he picked Chicago because he has a friend or relative here it gives us a place to start."

Charlie thought a moment. "He mentioned a friend who moved here last year. Billy something."

"I need a last name, Charlie."

"I'm sorry, I don't think he said it."

Frank rose and began checking his pockets for wallet and car keys. "Sure, this should be a snap," he said. "Just check out every kid named Billy in the Chicago metropolitan area. That should only take ten or eleven years."

"Where are you going?" Charlie asked, in slight alarm.

"To earn my booze money," Frank said. "Andy came in on a bus in the middle of the night. Maybe somebody on the night shift at the bus station saw something. And speaking of money, I'm gonna need some cash for expenses."

Charlie pulled out his wallet and counted quickly. "I've got seventy bucks," he said.

"Give me fifty," Frank said, impatiently adding "C'mon c'mon c'mon," when Charlie wasn't fast enough. He wadded up the bills and stuffed them in a pocket.

"Don't drink that up on me." Charlie's eyes were dead serious.

"I'll do my job," Frank growled. "Meanwhile you get your ass back to Missouri and find out who that Billy kid is, and where he lives if possible. Also, see if you can find a newer picture of Andy. I'll call you tomorrow."

"That's a ten-hour drive! And I just got here from driving ten hours! I don't speed, you know what I mean?"

"Yeah, OK," Frank said. "Shit. OK, you rack out a few hours here and then take off. You can use the bed, since I won't be needing it, but if I find out you've been jackin' off in there I'm gonna kick your ass!"

"It never used to bother you," Charlie said.

"That's before I knew what you were thinkin' about," Frank said, and strode out the door.

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Next time:

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