This is a work of fiction. Names of characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination and are used fictitiously; any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locations is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2011 by Dennis Milholland – All rights reserved. Other than for private, not-for-profit use, no part of this work may be reproduced, transmitted or stored in any form or by any means, other than that intended by the author, without written permission from the copyright holder.

 

Careful! This is a work of fiction containing graphic descriptions of sex between males and critiques of religion and governments.

 

Love It or Leave It

by Dennis Milholland

questions and comments are welcome. www.milholland.eu / dennis@milholland.eu

 

Nineteen

(Saturday, October 8th)

We arrive on Norton just after one in the morning. Bob and I pull up in front of the Mongrain’s house and Raph and Marty are right behind us. I look at the house and something is not quite right. But I can’t specify what it is. “There’s something wrong.”

Can you tell me what?” Bob unholsters his handgun. “Is it on the outside of the house or inside?”

That’s it. We left lights on.”

We get out and meet Raph and Marty on the sidewalk. “The lights are off.” Raph whispers and I nod.

Okay, we’re going in.” Bob takes command. “I’ll go first and you follow me, Raph. I’ll scan the scene and then you’ll have to turn the lights on. Dan and Marty have to stay out on the porch. White guys are too much of a target before we get the place searched and the lights on.”

Raph nods and gets out his keys. On the count of five they go in. The first lights come on in the living room, then in the dining room, then in the kitchen. The landing lights are on. Then, we hear Bob. “On the floor, or your dead. Do it! Now!” He fires one round.

Marty lets the twenty black canvas bags drop on the living room floor and we charge the stairs. He has his gun out. Luckily the shot was a warning, and there is an entry hole in the ceiling plaster. Raph is kneeling on the floor in the hall, holding his weeping baby brother.

You okay, Jordan?” My voice is shaking. I look at Raph. Bob squats, picks Jordan up and carries him into the bathroom. He lays him in the tub and washes him with hot water and shampoo. Jordan stops shaking. He looks at Bob’s unfamiliar face. He’s stopped weeping. “Who are you?”

My name is Bob White.” He pauses long enough for Jordan to laugh. “And I am one of your brother’s and Dan’s bodyguards.”

You sure as fuck do your job well.” Jordan still looks vulnerable.

That’s what I’m paid to do.” Bob has a soothing, trained voice. “Do you think you can stand up, Jordan? Here hold onto my shoulder. That’s the way. And let me dry you off. There.” Bob’s massive body engulfs the lanky basketball player in the towel. “Are you feeling better?” Jordan nods.

Okay, Jordan, we need for you to pack everything you own, so we can get you out of here. Do you understand?” Jordan nods, that he does. “Okay, let’s do it. We have to be out of here in forty minutes.” Bob counts out five black canvas bags.

You can take more, Bob. Virtually everything I have is still boxed.”

So, while Bob helps Jordan, I’m helping Marty help Raph empty drawers, get things out of the closet, shit from under the bed. Marty grins. “You were making a point of being underage about drinking beer. And here you have a twenty-five dollar bag of dope stashed in a box with a douche. Fucking Little Goodie Two Shoes.”

Raph looks up from what he’s doing. “Jesus, am I glad you’re not a cop.”

Relax guys, once we get home, we’ll have a rollup out on the patio. We’ll fuckin’ deserve it.”

I go to the linen closet next to the bathroom door and remove everything. One black bag is only half full. I double check the shelves, and there on the top shelf is a bronze urn. It’s Raph’s and Jordan’s dad. ‘Do I leave it?’ I wonder. ‘No, can’t leave it.’ So, I make sure the lid is on tight and place it between sheets and towels.

At this point, I seriously think I might flip. Then I remember that I still have to drive us back. With another deep breath, I try to get myself together.

I return to our bedroom and ask if everything is under control, when the doorbell starts ringing and fists are pounding the back door. Marty opens the drapes and red flashing lights fill the room.

Bob and Marty meet in the hall and go down to open the door. We stand at the top of the stairs and listen as our bodyguards very calmly explain what is going on. The neighbors called the police, when the shot was fired. Bob explained how the youngest son of the tenant has returned two days early, and we thought it was an intruder, since the renter and her family are receiving death threats.

But if you would, Officer, could your men help us secure the property until we leave?” Listening to Bob, I’m learning a lot about how to deal with people.

Bob and Marty return upstairs, and for all intents and purposes, we’re finished. We load our car first, because Jordan will be riding with Raph and Marty, and most of our belongings will go with Bob and me.

Bob instructs Raph and me to personally shake every one of the four policemen’s hands and thank them. “And make it sound like you mean it.”

What?” I try to rebel, but I do end up listening.

Bob’s soothing in-charge voice is compelling. “Every one of those men, would much rather be home eating pussy or sucking dick than out here protecting our sorry asses. So it’s the least you can do.”

Raph and I follow Bob’s orders, and I see firsthand what a difference a simple handshake and a thank you can make. Yes, there is a lot more to dealing with people than just flipping lighted cigarette butts down the blouses of deranged women.

The drive back to Warwick Boulevard is uneventful, since there is no freeway involved. We take Bob’s suggestion and drive leisurely along Brush Creek and up Main. He, of course, is right: this way presents us with a lot less stress.

Dad and Maman are waiting when we return. Maman starts to make a fuss about Jordan’s returning early, because he didn’t want to go to a church youth-group meeting with his cousins, when Bob gets involved. “Please, Madame, my young friend here has had enough trauma for one day when I mistook him for an intruder and fired a warning shot into your upstairs hall ceiling.”

It is obvious that Bob has become Jordan’s hero, at least for today. And unloading the two vehicles proceeds in peace as not to disturb the neighbors.

When we finish, I take Maman aside. “I found the urn in the hall closet. I didn’t tell Raph and Jordan. I just put it in with the linen and will keep it until you tell me what to do with it.”

You are an angel, Daniel. I’ll collect Maurice, once we get settled in Overland Park. We’ll talk in the morning.”

Where are you staying?

She gives me a book of matches with two room numbers on it. “At that motel over on Main. Where’s Jordan. Did he go back upstairs?”

He did. We find him asleep, resting on Bob’s chest on the couch. His deep voice says softly: “Jordan, your mom’s ready to go.”

Groggy, not at all awake, he stands up and drags himself down the stairs with his mother. Dad comes over, and gives me a peck on the cheek. “See you sometime tomorrow.”

Take your time. I’m sleeping in. We haven’t got anything for breakfast, anyway.”

Look in your fridge.” was all he said at the bottom of the stairs.

Having made up the bed, Raph and Marty emerge from the bedroom, and I give Marty Wanda’s line: “Better not smell cum on his breath.” Nobody reacts. Nothing. “Why was that funny, when Wanda said it?”

You probably weren’t as exhausted as we are right about now.” Marty is holding up the bag of dope and we all sit down at the dining table. “You do the honors, Raph?”

While Raphie rolls four joints, I look for an ashtray, and take a look in the fridge. Wow, it’s fully stocked. “Hey, what does anybody want to drink? We have cola, lemon lime, Muehlebach beer.” I draw the latter out and bring the intonation up, to tease Bob and Marty as I take the ashtray to the table. Both Bob and Marty opt for the beer, and I’m sure it was meant for them, anyway. Raph wants a large glass of ice water. I look in the freezer compartment, and, sure enough, there’s a bag of ice.

Bob takes a joint from Raph. “So, tell us: how long have you two been together?”

Raph grins impishly at me, while I chip ice, then he looks at Bob. “Do you want the short version or the long version?”

Taking a swig of his beer: “Go for the long version.”

Would you believe forever?” He purrs.

Okay, is this some hippie shit, some metaphysical, ‘We’re soul mates and were lovers in a former life.’ bullshit?”

Raph and I laugh. “Not at all. Dan saved my ass on the playground in second grade, and that was the start of it.”

You went to an integrated school?” Marty looks skeptical.

It was freshly integrated. I mean, it had been literally days, when this kid started in on me with slurs.” Raphie takes a long drink of his water. “Anyway, I punched the kid, making his nose bleed, and two or three jumped me and were holding me to the ground, when Superman arrived.”

Bob shakes his head, smiling. “God damn. You took on a bunch of angry white kids to save a brother? Shit, Stokely Carmichael ought to hear about this.”

Not only the kids. He beat the Principal, threatened the school nurse, and they had to call in the police to get things quieted down.” Raph grins and takes my hand.

Shit! The first race riot in Kansas City started by a white kid defending a black kid, and nobody knows about it.”

 “Weren’t you scared, I mean, you were defending a...” Marty wheezes a little. “Oh, shit. Hell, down home they’d a lynched you both.”

Where are you from, Marty?” Raphie wants to know.

Lebanon.” His mid-Missouri drawl can be heard above the wheeze.

You don’t look Arabic.” Raph’s naivety is taken as dry humor.

I pat Raph’s hand. “It’s in the Ozarks, Raph.” He shudders.

Marty coughs. “I’d never even seen a Negro ‘til I was drafted into the Army. I mean, for real, other than a copy of Little Black Sambo in the school library. So, I cain’t ‘magine, why Dan would stick up for you.”

Everybody is looking at me quizzically. “Don’t know. Would you believe, love at first sight?”

Raphie now comes to my rescue. “He told the cops that he did it because it was the right thing to do.”

Wow.” Bob reiterates. “But of course, you’re British. That would explain it.”

So was the author of Little Black Sambo.” Raph adds a bit of sarcasm to the mix. “I think it has to do with Dan. His sense of fairness is extreme, and his ability to love is sometimes overpowering.”

Overpowering?” This gets Marty’s attention. “How can love be overpowering? Don’t y’all mean possessiveness?” He takes a drink of beer to reduce the wheeze.

He’s not the slightest bit possessive.” Raph clears his throat and takes a drink of water. “He showers me constantly with love and has never asked anything in return. He has never even asked me once if I love him.”

Bob and Marty look at each other. “And have you ever asked him if he loves you?”

Of course.” Raph blushes.

Bob looks at me, then at Raph. “And how does he answer.”

Raph’s voice hitches. He glances at me, then stares at the ashtray with the still unlighted joints through moist eyes. “He says: ‘more than my own life’.”

Oh, shit.” Marty’s eyes are brimming. He takes a joint and tries to use my Zippo. As most people who don’t smoke, he can’t get the steel wheel to strike the flint. I light it for him. And so while we’re at it, we light them all.

Bob, who had more than likely been trained as an interrogator in the Army, switches on his lullaby smooth voice. “Have either of you ever had sex with somebody else?”

Yeah, I have.”

He looks at Raph. “And was that a problem?”

Raphie shakes his head. “Mack was our best buddy.”

Was?” Bob alternates his gaze between Raph and me.

Yeah.” I field the question. “he stuck a .38 up his ass.”

Holy fuck.” Marty looks at us and then sputters. “I mean, wow.” The marijuana is relaxing his respiratory system and seriously reducing his wheezing. Although dead tired, he looks much younger. Labored breathing must age him.

Did he kill himself because of you?” Bob’s voice carries not the slightest hint of accusation. And now I realize, that he is asking out of professional interest. At first, I thought he was checking out his chances.

No. Well, not really.” I focus on how I’m wording this. “Look, I don’t want to shirk off blame, where blame is due. I was certainly part of it. But his parents are born-again Nazis, who use their religion as a weapon. Even against themselves. They are taking no responsibility for anything, because god is telling them to do shit. Like killing me, for example.” I see Marty shaking his head in disgust.

I hear you, Dan.” Marty’s anger is palatable. He takes a long and deep toke. “Are they the Bottemlys, the people, we’re going to be protecting you from?”

Going to be?” I look at them, surprised to say the least. “What do you mean going to be?”

Hmm.” Marty is holding a drag of dope. He exhales. “Our contract to protect you doesn’t start until Monday.”

And what are you doing now?” Raphie demands, displaying a mix of mirth and bewilderment on his sweet face.

Bob’s bass chuckles a little. “Getting to know our little brothers.”

You’re telling us that you’ve been busting your humps for us pro bono?” Raph queries.

Pro bono?” Bob jeers. “Where the Hell did you pick that up?”

My brother-in-law is a bad-ass shyster.” Raph’s humor is as dry as the Sahara.

Marty, now breathing freely, giggles and looks at a confused Bob. “Busby Bourke. He’s on our watch list.”

Your brother is Busby Bourke?” Bob, whom I’d considered virtually surprise-proof until now, raises his eyebrows and glares at me. “You two are nothing alike.”

« N’est pas ? » The dope is making Raphie giggly. “Dan’s was an immaculate conception.” He and Marty roar and snort, spewing saliva everywhere.

The effect of the dope is climbing to my head. “So.” All heads turn to me for no apparent reason. “Uh, how long have you been lovers?”

We’re not.” Despite his denial, Bob smiles at Marty affectionately.

Sadly,” Marty giggles again. “My big Brown Bear here is straight. That’s why we don’t have a spare room downstairs.”

Uh huh.” I need more convincing and catch Bob’s attention. “And you work as a bodyguard for queers, because...?”

Like you told the cops, it just seems like the right thing to do.” He looks into my skeptical face, and Raph is glaring at him for using my reasoning. “You’re not going to believe me.”

Try me.” Cynicism really isn’t my forte, but Bob doesn’t seem to mind.

The only real buddies I have ever had have been queers.” He looks as if this is the weirdest discovery, ever. “I have had straight-guy friends, but the first pussy that walks by, they’re gone. And when they get married, they fucking disappear from the face of the Earth.”

Raph is displaying a non-descriptive smirk, and Marty is looking contentedly at his ‘Brown Bear’.

Do you have a girlfriend?” I take the thought to its logical conclusion

And the question doesn’t seem to upset Marty, so I assume that he’d be okay with it, if Bob does. But then the confusing part starts. Bob takes Marty’s hand. “No, I’m committed to my bud, here.”

Raph wakes out of his spacey daze. “Why are two and two adding up to five?”

First of all, I’m not the kind of guy women are attracted to. If I get laid, I pay.” Bob grunts bitterly. “I’ve got fuckin’ fairies hanging off me like tinsel on a Christmas tree, but no girls.” He takes that last toke off his joint. “Anyway, back in Nam, Marty and I are out on night-time search and destroy with three others, when one unlucky fucker hits a tripwire. And you know what? This crazy bastard throws himself in front of me.”

Yeah, I had body armor because you gave me yours. So the shrapnel only got my arm and shoulder. It would a fuckin’ killed you.”

Bob strokes his bud’s hand. “So, we managed to get the body of the guy who’d bought the farm back to the clearing, where the medics could airlift him and Marty out. We had a mission to finish, so we went back into the jungle, leaving Marty with the dead guy. And instead of medevacing him out, our own pilots sprayed his ass with Agent Orange, even though they fucking well knew his position.”

I’m struggling with emotions, as so frequently in the past couple of weeks. “So, what now?”

So,” Marty’s voice is calm, unemotional. “the doctors at the VA hospital here in Kansas City won’t treat me. But there’s nothing really they could do anyway. It would only be palliative care.”

I’ve never heard the term. “Palliative care?”

Making me comfortable ‘til I die. Which Bob is doing a good job of on his own, by not treating me like a fuckin’ invalid.”

I don’t understand. “Why won’t the doctors at the VA hospital treat you?”

Bob’s voice gains a bitter, almost revengeful edge. “Because the United States Army deemed it proper to give this man, who was awarded two Purple Hearts and a Silver Star for gallantry in action, a discharge under less than honorable conditions for being queer. That’s how they repaid him, and that’s why he can’t get treatment.”

At such a revelation, there is nothing anyone can say that doesn’t sound trite, except: “Feckin’ Yanks”, which basically just slipped out, but Raph is nodding and Marty and Bob look shocked. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to be offensive.”

We’re not offended.” Bob looks at Marty who is agreeing. “It’s just... I’ve never noticed any accent before.”

Yeah.” Marty smiles contemplatively. “That sounded just like your father.”

Sometimes, I find it scary how much we are alike.” I sigh and think about rolling another joint, but decide against it. “How did you meet Dad?”

Marty hesitates and then proceeds very cautiously. “How much do you guys know about your parent’s politics?”

I grin and flash Raph a glance, who looks as if he’s about to burst. “Not much, other than that Raphie’s father was my dad’s lover, who then married Geneviève out of political necessity, and that they were all Communists.

Bob looks as if he’s been struck by lightning. “Now, that is an eye-opener: Busby Bourke’s old man is a Communist.”

Not as much an eye-opener as” Marty enthuses. “Busby Bourke’s old man is queer. Do you know what kind of guys he likes?” This question strikes me as just a tad too cute, but I let it slide.

I shake my head. “Let’s get back to what you were saying.”

A couple a years ago, when LBJ started sending more than just ‘advisors’ to the RVN--”

--RVN?” Raphie interrupts.

Republic of Vietnam” Marty translates. “South Vietnam.” to make it perfectly clear. “Anyway, when Red China tested their A-bomb and LBJ started escalating the war effort, many people thought it was time to cut the war crap. I was on the organizing committee of an antiwar fundraiser and Joseph Bourke and Geneviève Maillet were among the first to volunteer to give a concert.

And what a concert it was.” Bob is eyeing the pot as Marty speaks. Raph starts rolling more joints. “One of those special events that nobody, who was there, will ever forget.

Joseph accompanied Geneviève for four songs, and then they switched. Geneviève took over the piano and Joseph explained that he was going to sing the ultimate antiwar song from Boris Vian, Le Déserteur. He gave us a translation and when he told us that the song was released just ten years ago during the Battle of Dien Bien Phu, the house went wild. What was that he said?” Marty’s eyes go misty.

I’m not tellin’ yus ta desert, all I’m sayin’ is that Canada is a truly luvly country.” Marty laughs nostalgically. “The audience went nuts. He was the star of the evening. Why weren’t you guys there?”

I look at Raph’s saddened face; I take his hand and fill them in. “I’d like to say that the concert had been too late for us to stay up. But the reason is that we didn’t know, until this evening, that either of our parents could sing anything beyond Happy Birthday.”

C’mon, you’re telling us that two well-known musicians from the old Kansas City jazz scene didn’t tell their own kids that they can sing?”

That’s not the half of it.” Raphie is fighting back tears and losing the battle. “I didn’t know that I’m the product of a ‘political necessity’ until this evening, either.”

Political necessity?” Bob becomes concerned. “What do you mean by that?”

Dad told us that Maurice, his lover, had married Geneviève to give her a new surname, because she’d been getting death threats, because they’d performed Strange Fruit at a white-only gala evening at the Municipal Auditorium back in 1947.”

Shit, that was them?” Bob looks ready to jump out of his seat. “That was them? Fuck me! That was them? Shit!”

C’mon, Bob.” Marty looks almost fearful. “Tell us what this is all about, please.”

My old man works on the janitorial crew at the Municipal Auditorium. That makes it relatively easy for him to smuggle people in. So, he took us kids in to see shows and listen to concerts from the wings, where only white folks could get in. I was five years old when they held that Jazz Gala. I was fucking there.” Bob finishes his beer, and I get him another one.

And I do remember Strange Fruit making a lot of those white people nervous. But white people were always nervous, in those days. If a Negro family moved in down the block, they would all flee to the suburbs. They were crazy as shit, back then.” He lights his joint and mellows further.

But as I remember my dad telling me,” Bob grins sarcastically. “shit really hit the fan several years later, at the beginning of the McCarthy era, and at the start of the French war in Algeria, so it must have been somewhere around 1954, when some Algerian refugee blew the whistle.

The trio, Vievie, Jose and Morrie, who were mainly playing ebony-only clubs, were playing a blues song they had composed and called La Raison Tonne, or Reason Thunders, which this half-caste Algerian recognized as the French lyrics of The Internationale, which had been the Soviet national anthem until 1944.”

Raphie looks at me with a sarcastic smirk. “What did you tell me earlier this evening?”

Absolutely, sweet-fuck nothing surprises me anymore.”

Slowly, we call it a night and see Marty and Bob out and open more windows to air out the apartment. I stack another ashtray over the full one, to let anything that might still be smoldering burn itself out. “Don’t empty the ashtray, Raph. Let it stand overnight.” My prince nods.

I run water into the glasses with every intention of washing them in the morning. But Raph runs dishwater, so I dry. “Do you think that we’ll ever find out who they are?”

I set the last glass on the shelf in the cupboard. “I doubt it. I even doubt that they know.”

Never thought of it that way. You could be onto something there.” He takes my head into his hands and gives me a kiss that promises to develop into something other than a kiss.

Want a shower?” His tongue makes it impossible to answer, so I assume the question to be rhetorical.

I walk him backwards into the bedroom with our mouths still attached. His smell is beginning to make my muscles weak except for the one between my legs. That one, already pulsating, begging for attention, is pressing against his.

We reach the bed and sink into the mattress, as I free his torso from its confines. His nipples, already erect, are needing to be sucked, tongued, gently tormented. I lean across his chest taking his left nipple into my mouth, nursing on the salt of his perspiration. The mystical scents from his armpit drift up my nostrils, making my breath hasten.

His tongue has found my ear. His lips envelope the tender lobe to be dangerously caressed by the sharp edges of ivory teeth. His mouth exhales his warm humid growl, so uniquely his, warning me of coming passion.

My mouth issues a slightly indulgent slurping sound as it leaves the nipple for the fragrance of his underarm. This is pure pleasure, unspoiled by cosmetics and enhanced by toil. Slightly cupric the taste, slightly velvet the texture. My senses engage lust to fulfill my yearning of giving him pleasure.

His belt is being unclipped, by hands on a mission of their own. They are independent of any conscious thought. Thought has been conquered by desire. And desire is fueling my objective of lowering his jeans just enough from his round hips to push my head from below between his legs. As if he were giving birth to me. My tongue, licking up his crack but not penetrating, slowly reaches his perineum, the center of his being, collecting salt, sweat and seductive flavor on the way.

My nose is nestled gently between his testicles in the folds of his scrotum, while my tongue exchanges saliva for his precious sweat, and my ears, pressed snuggly to his muscled thighs listen to the percussion symphony of heartbeat being delivered through his aorta.

His hands are gripping mine more acutely. His fingers, neatly folded into mine, are tensing, his breathing slowly becoming more urgent. The muscles in his legs and buttocks are gradually beginning to tense rhythmically. His scrotum is steadily retracting from around my nose, as I withdraw from under his legs, my nose bidding fond farewell to the cleft of his cheeks.

My hands release his and grasp his member, inserting it into my mouth. My man growls, tenses, grips my head and fills me with juices, his juices, the taste of which I could recognize among a multitude of others. His copious clear liquid, mixed with his succulent semen, simultaneously salty and sweet.

My senses overload; my head spins; my vision blurs, and I spasm, letting my sperm soak into the cotton cloth, encasing my crotch.