Date: Fri, 9 May 2003 18:32:51 -0700 (PDT)
From: LZ <malou2003@hushmail.com>
Subject: Never Say Never, Nothing Is Forever Chapter 19

    Bill, his detective, the probation officer and Mr.
Niedermeyer came with me to the Suffolk County home where I
was to reside until my trial, or so I thought.. On the way
out it was explained to me that I was to use the name Manuel
Alfredo Solano, that my age was still eleven but my birthday
was May seventh. I came from Staten Island. None of the
other boys at the home were from that borough so couldn't
ask me about it. I told them that I had been there once with
a friend. They gave me a simple family background. My father
died and my mother was sick. My younger sisters were in
another home but I didn't know where. My hair was cut off at
a home where I spent only a couple of days. They said I had
head lice.

    I didn't understand the reason for the identity change.

    Bill explained. 'Ray, the people who were involved in
the burglary are very dangerous. You can identify them. I
know you don't want to but they don't.'

    'You think my father would try to kill me?'

    'Maybe not him, but others.' He put his arm around me.
'I don't want anyone else hurting you.'

    We were greeted at the home by a very happy, slim,
graying woman wearing an apron who introduced herself as
Mrs. Mendoza, the housemother and owner of the Mendoza Home
for Boys. She had a wheelchair. The detective, Mr. Palmer, a
heavy set ex-New York City policeman, explained that I was
fine on my crutches.

    Bill had apparently spoken to her before as she called
him William. Her only employee was Wally, a tall powerfully
built young man, who said he was to be my houseparent. He
showed me around while Bill and the others spoke. The large
two story brick house was in an open residential area. Every
house had an ample green yard on all sides. Most had fences
of wire or wood. The street was wide and clean.

    The first floor had two living rooms with televisions
and upholstered and wood furniture. The dining room had a
long table with more chairs than I could quickly count. The
sparkling clean kitchen was like Bill's in that it had a lot
of stainless steel including a huge stove like the one in
the diner where my grandmother worked. Three boys were
preparing dinner. Mrs. Mendoza lived in an apartment at the
back behind the kitchen. Our living quarters were on the
second floor.

    The stairs were difficult. Bending my bad knee was
still painful. Mr. Palmer followed me around with a suitcase
full of clothes Bill had bought for me. He stayed tight
behind me on the stairs in case I slipped. We went straight
to my bedroom which had two bunk beds, dressers and small
desks to do homework. We left the suitcase on my bed. Wally
showed us two large bathrooms with showers for three at a
time.

    Eighteen boys counting me lived in the home. Ages ran
from eight to fifteen. Racially, we were a mix but mostly
Latino. It made me feel more secure. My contacts with blacks
had been painful.

    The rules were simple enough. We got up at six thirty,
did chores and showered then ate breakfast. A boy could
shower at night if he wished but had to do so again if he
got dirty doing chores. Everyone had a kitchen schedule for
cleanup. Most went to a local schools. I'd be staying behind
with two others to be tutored so I could pass fourth grade.
In the afternoons we could go out and play but had to be in
by five to get ready for dinner except those on kitchen
detail who had to be in earlier. After dinner and homework,
we were free but had to stay inside unless we had permission
to go someplace special. Bedtime depended on a boy's age.
Weekends, we had chores and scheduled meals but the rest of
the time we were free. However, we were not allowed to leave
the immediate neighborhood without written permission.

    Bill admonished me to behave and 'no sex for now. Wait
until you know how things are here. This is not New York
City.' He stuck two five dollar bills in my shirt pocket. He
gave me a prolonged embrace and whispered in my ear, 'I love
you.'

    'I love you too,' I whispered back and held his arm
best I could on the crutches.

    I was approached by the boys my age asking the usual
questions: who I was, where I was from, why was I sent there
and, due to my hair stubble, had I been in Bronx Detention
Center. I wasn't sure all believed the children's home and
lice answer but no one disputed it.

    Dinner was chicken, rice and carrots with peas. It was
like going to a restaurant. I asked another boy if they ate
like this all the time.

    'Nah, sometimes we have beef or hot dogs and soup.
Different stuff.'

    'What about lunch?'

    'We take sandwiches to school. You can buy sodas
there.'

    I was amazed.

    My private bodyguard, Mr. Palmer, ate with us and
helped dry the dishes.

    After dinner, I watched television with two others who
didn't have homework. The rest were in their rooms studying.
F Troop was on, a favorite. My two companions had not been
with the others who earlier asked me about myself so had all
the standard questions. I answered as before and began
asking the same of them.

    The younger boy, about nine, answered in Spanish. 'My
father's in jail and my mother went back to Santo Domingo.
She took the baby and left my sister and me with my aunt.
She said she was coming back in July or was going to send
for us to come to where she is.' It sounded very rehearsed.

    The teenager with us said, 'That's Jose Carlos. He
don't speak a lot a English is why he talks all the time in
Spanish. How long you live on Staten Island?

    'I dunno, maybe ten years. I was a baby when we came
from P.R. What's your name?'

    'Jose Antonio.'

    Gradually, the others came out of their rooms. The
three black boys sat by themselves at a table and played
cards. One was about my age, the others bigger. The two
white boys stayed together too but sat with us in front of
the TV. One about ten, the other about thirteen or fourteen
and pimply. Neither was very cute.

    A Latino boy, ten year old Marcelino from El Salvador,
wanted to talk to me. First there were the standard
questions then, 'You like baseball? We gonna have a team.
Juan Carlos and that kid, Jose Carlos, they gonna play too.
You ain't thirteen, are ya?'

    'Nah, I'm eleven.'

    'You got a birth certificado?'

    'I dunno.'

    'If you got one a them, you can play too. Wanna?'

    'I dunno. I can't do anything now 'cause a my kidneys
and that.' I pointed to my wrapped up knee. 'Doctor says I
can do sports in a week or two. Where do you play?'

    'They gotta park, just three blocks from here. We
practice Tuesday. Wanna come?'

    'We allowed to go that far?'

    'Sure, we can go anywhere we want. Just gotta be back
on time.'

    Marcelino went on about the team and the new uniforms
they were going to get and did I have a glove. He was a nice
kid but he talked a lot.

    My roommates were eleven and twelve years old, two
Latinos, including Juan Carlos of the baseball team, and the
smallest black boy named Charles. He told me that he'd been
there for just over a year. He was waiting a juvenile
hearing for stealing and not going to school.

    'Why so long?'

    'I don't know. My P.O. comes every couple months but he
says don't worry. Trouble is I can't go home 'til after
court. But it's better here. Nobody hitting on me.'

    'Why's your hair so short?' he asked

    'They said I had head lice in the home I was in last
week and cut it off.'

    He nodded but didn't seem convinced.

    Mr. Palmer, the private detective came to me at eight
with another man in a suit who would be replacing him until
the next day. A third man would come on in the early
morning. Mr. Palmer would be back at noon.

    We went to bed at nine thirty. The mattresses were as
comfortable as the ones at the Holiday Inn. My dick got hard
just laying on those nice sheets. I really wanted to beat
off. I wondered if Charles, sleeping above me, would feel it
if I did. I raised my knees so nobody could see and started
slowly. I got close but couldn't get off. What I needed was
something up my ass. The tenderness was gone so it was an
available stimulant again. I stuck my finger in my mouth and
wet it but any way I tried to stick myself would have looked
strange if anyone saw me. From the back required me to lie
on my side. Beating off like that would have my sheets
jumping all over. Putting it in from the front meant I had
to raise my knees up to my chest. I finally gave up, very
frustrated.

    But the bed was shaking ever so slightly. I touched the
wood bottom of Charles upper bunk. It was vibrating. I had
to see. The others appeared to be sleeping though one faced
my way. He could have had his eyes open but I couldn't tell
in the dark. But, I just had to see.

    Slowly, I slipped my feet from under the covers and put
them down to the floor. Nobody on the other side of the room
moved. I turned over and even more slowly raised up on my
good leg then moved to the end of the bunk so I'd be above
Charles where, hopefully, he couldn't see me. His head was
arched forward. The sheet over his crotch was bouncing like
there was a jackhammer underneath. I wanted to see what he
was working on but decided to take advantage of the
opportunity. Quickly back on my bed, I stretched out and
whacked off. Charles was still at it when I was reached
climax. I felt much better and was asleep in minutes, the
bed still vibrating.

    Due to my doctor's note, I had no chores until he gave
the okay. I showered with the small white boy and a Latino a
head taller than me who had a huge dong about the size of
Calvin's. The white kid wasn't fat but had skin like he was
and a dick about as thick as a pencil. The teen said 'Good
morning' when he entered and nothing more. I took my time in
hopes that Charles would come in. He had been looking for
his towel when I left the room. When I returned, he was back
in the room, naked, showing off a fine pair of buns, drying
his hair. He'd gone to the other bathroom. I waited for him
to turn around. When he did, he caught me looking. He
checked me out too.

    'We're both boys,' he remarked with a grin.

    His relaxed attitude made me feel adventurous. 'Sure
took you a long time last night.'

    'I did it three times is why. How many times you do
it?'

    'Just once. I was afraid somebody would see me and say
something'

    'Don't worry about them two. They's asleep every night
in a couple minutes.'

    I looked at his penis again. It was nothing special,
just blacker than him.'

    The night guard was gone when I woke up. The new
detective, Mr. Plunkett, a large black man with a thick
mustache and a huge smile, joined us for breakfast of
scrambled eggs, toast with jelly, and real orange juice.

    The others were surprised Mr. Plunkett only ate as much
as we.

    'Don't you want more? asked a teenager.

    'How can I, you guys ate it all.'

    'I can make you some more,' the boy volunteered. Two
others said they'd help.

    Mr. Plunkett laughed and declined. 'Just kidding. I'm
fine.'

    My tutor arrived at eight fifteen. He wasn't the same
person who taught the two older boys but a private teacher
Bill sent to work with me. He told me he was a friend of
Michael and had just graduated the year before. How well, I
wondered, did he know Michael. He had a lesson plan made up
by Mr. Martinson whom he had spoken with so knew I wasn't
from Staten Island. When we broke for recess, he gave me a
baseball glove, bat and three balls Bill had sent as
presents. He had his own glove. So did one of the other
tutored students. We three threw and caught baseballs, which
I probably wasn't supposed to do for a while. It was a
little uncomfortable but didn't hurt. I didn't chase after
any balls.

    My class was only in the morning but my teacher had
brought me a stack of books to read in the afternoon, all
picked out by Mr. Martinson and purchased by Bill. One was
Treasure Island. I began reading at about one thirty. It was
a struggle. There were words I didn't know and names I
couldn't figure out. I pestered Wally who cheerfully
answered all my questions. By three fifteen when the others
began coming in from school, I was so totally immersed in
the book that I didn't notice when Charles, my bunkmate,
flopped down on the couch beside me.

    'You read books?'

    I told him this was my first one and that it was great.
He wanted to play cards and taught me a game something like
poker he called Tin Tin. Marcelino joined us and tried to
convince Charles to join his baseball team.

    That night, I showered before bed to see who might join
me. No one did so I used the opportunity to beat off with my
finger up my rear. Relaxed, I went back to my bunk and read
the last half hour before bedtime. Charles was vibrating the
bed when I fell asleep.

    The rest of the week went smoothly. I read each
afternoon after lunch and before sleeping. Tuesday afternoon
I went and watched Marcelino's baseball team practice. It
was easy to see why he was seeking new players. They were
terrible. I promised to work out with them the following
week if my knee permitted. Something had to be done to get
me a document to prove my age.

    Bill and Mr. Becker came out Thursday afternoon. There
was an investigation going on into why I was put in with the
older boys rather than intake. A man from a special section
of the police department would be out the following week to
speak with me. When Benjamin heard that I was going to
testify against Calvin and Ronald, he agreed to do the same
against many more including the ones he'd seen raping me. He
had been moved to an institution in Buffalo. The trial would
be in a few weeks once the investigation was complete.

    I told Bill about my reading. He was excited I liked
the book and wanted me to tell him what I'd read. After
relating about Jim and Long John Silver for quite a while, I
asked him if we could go somewhere together. 'Not today but
I'll be here Saturday morning and we'll spend the day
together.'

    Saturday, Bill gave the detective the rest of day and
off. He had already called Mr. Palmer and told him to come
on at five. We went back to his apartment where Michael, Roy
and Adrian were waiting. For most of the trip, I talked
about Treasure Island that I had finished the night before.

    'Is it possible that books are better than movies?' he
asked?

    'Nah,' I answered.

    At the apartment, Bill poked me below my ribs.

    'That hurt?'

    It didn't. We did another Daisy Chain. That more than
anything else that had happened since getting out of the
Detention Center, made me feel part of the world again. We
showered, and fooled around a bit more, then got dressed, I
in my suit, and went to a fancy restaurant where a table had
been reserved for us. We had two waiters and wine.

    After lunch, Michael and friends went their way and
Bill and I went to the park with cameras.

    `Can we get Cholito? I can wait here and you can go get
him.'

    Bill sat me down on the grass. `Ray, your life has been
changed by what has happened. Part of it you may never visit
again.'

    `But Cholito would never tell anybody.'

    `Ray, listen to me. This is important. I know it would
have been difficult, but you could have refused to enter
that workshop. You bear some responsibility for what has
happened. Part of your life is gone because of what
happened. If Cholito sees you, he will be in danger. Do you
want to put Cholito in danger?'

    I was angry. I got up and walked to a tree and kicked
it, twice. What the hell was I supposed to have done? If I
hadn't gotten those jewels, my father would have been really
pissed. He probably would have kicked my ass and never given
me or my mother anything again.

    Anyway, my father had me in his power from the time I
went with Leary. What was I supposed to do? Run away from
Leary? Fuck! Fuck! I kicked the tree again. It hurt my toes.
I kicked it again with the other foot and hurt my bad knee.

    I dropped onto the ground at the foot of the tree and
sat against it. Life had been so good before I did that
burglary. Why did I do something so stupid?

    Bill came and sat beside me but didn't say a word, just
sat there. I still had him. At least I didn't mess that up.
I let myself lean against him. I missed Cholito. This had to
be over one day. Then I could see him again. Never say
never, nothing is forever.

    Bill held the camera out to me. It had a large, heavy
200mm lens. I looked through the viewfinder and followed
people as they walked. A little kid about two was with his
mother watching a squirrel dart across the grass and
scramble up a tree. I knew the camera was too unsteady to
get a decent shot. It would have been a nice picture. Bill
put a tripod in front of me.

    We used medium to long telephotos from two tripods.
Bill told me to find subjects and then pick the best angle
and composition. It involved a lot of moving around on a
freshly hurt knee. I only shot three rolls. There wasn't
time for me to develop them as I had to be back in Suffolk
County by five. Bill promised to bring the prints Tuesday or
Wednesday when he had time.

    On the ride back we talked about a wide range of
things. I asked him about my tutor. 'No, he's just a friend
of Michael. He's strictly into women. But he's a good
teacher, huh?'

    I mentioned Marcelino and his baseball team and the
need for a birth certificado as Marcelino called it.

    'That's not a big problem. A boy with the name you are
using really did exist. He died as a baby. Let me see what I
can come up with.'

    I wanted to bring up Cholito again but didn't.

    Saturday night, Charles went to the bathroom an hour or
so after bedtime. He accidentally woke me up climbing down
when he stepped on my foot, which was hanging through the
ladder. He didn't come back for a long time. I beat off
fucking myself with my finger while he was gone. I went to
the bathroom to wash off my finger and to see what was
taking him so long. The door, with light coming from
underneath it, was locked. I used the other bathroom to wash
then went back to the door and listened. I couldn't hear a
thing. I put my ear against the wood. There was a slight
rustling sound but nothing distinguishable. I went back to
my bed and was starting to doze when Charles came back,
maybe ten minutes later.

    'You take a long time to shit,' I commented.

    'Yeh, that was one great shit.'

    Just the way he said it, I suspected something. Was he
a soap fiend like me?

    Sunday, Wally took seven of us to a movie, Harum Scarum
with Elvis Presley. I'd have rather watched cars go by. The
detective, a weekend relief man, thought it was great.

    Monday afternoon, two policemen came. One knew Mr.
Palmer. They'd been rookies together twenty some years
earlier.

    'How many times do you observe Benjamin being
assaulted?' asked one.

    'Two.'

    The younger policeman wrote everything down.

    'Did he or any of them make any noise?'

    'When Calvin called him and when they hurt him.'

    'How loud were they? Talk to me as loud as they were.'

    I imitated Calvin calling Benjamin 'white trash'.

    'And when they hurt Benjamin?'

    I grunted about as loud as he had. 'Then the kid hit
him on the head. That made noise too but not as much.'

    They asked how often the guards walked down the screen
between the windows and the dormitory. A few times, I told
them.

    'At night?'

    I thought about that. 'I never saw them at night.'

    'But you went to sleep pretty quick, right?'

    'No, I couldn't sleep in that place. I was too scared.'
It felt good to be able to admit that.

    It became obvious that the questions had more to do
with the officers than Calvin, Ronald and the others. They
asked about my interviews with Mr. Foster, Mr. Milner and
the psychologist. Everything was gone over three times,
occasionally getting back to my conversations and what I
heard Center personnel say when I first got into the Center.
Something was going to happen. I hoped I wouldn't get caught
up in it.

    Tuesday evening after a very Latino dinner of chicken
and rice and beans with flan for desert, I walked into the
living room looking for Charles to play cards. My skills at
Tin Tan were improving. The television was on. It was six-
thirty. The news came on.

    `We just received news from Newark, New Jersey that
Westies lieutenant Ray Hoolihan's body was found in a
dumpster behind a restaurant.'

    I froze and turned slowly toward the television. My
mind seemed to focus on two words: Hoolihan's body. The idea
of his death seeped in. I cannot remember what my face must
have looked like. Several boys were looking at me. Mr.
Palmer, the detective put his arm around my shoulder and led
me out of the room whispering, `Ray, Ray, listen to me.
Ray.'

    He took me outside and out the gate to the sidewalk.
His arm held me tight to him. My father was dead. He was
gone. I didn't have a biological father any more. It had to
be due to the bungled burglary. I had seen the Italian. I
had to be next.

    `Ray, listen to me. Are you listening?'

    I looked up at him. `We gotta get outta here. Go hide.'

    `Ray! Listen to me!' He stopped and squatted in front
of me. `Ray, are you listening to me?'

    `Yes,' I answered nearly breathlessly.

    `You're gonna be okay. I'm sorry about your father but
you're gonna be okay. That's why I'm here, to make sure
you're okay.' He took hold of my hands. 'Ray, you gotta get
yourself together here. Calm down. Relax. We can't have
anyone thinkin' you knew the man. You're from Staten Island,
remember? You're Manuel. That's how we can keep you safe.
Nobody knows you're here but us. You're safe here.' He kept
repeating the same theme, that I was safe as Manuel from
Staten Island, that I had to act like it didn't happen. Get
it out of my mind. I was safe.

    We sat on the curb, his arm around me. I was terrified.
This was like lying in the bed in the Detention Center
waiting for them to come get me. I wanted to run and hide.
Mr. Palmer kept me right there.

    Mrs. Mendoza came out to us. `What's wrong with Manuel?
They said there was something on the news and he looked
really frightened.'

    I kept my head down. Mr. Palmer spoke. `He got sick and
almost passed out. Would you please call Mr. Winston so he
can tell the doctor.'

    Several of the others came up behind Mrs. Mendoza. She
chased them back to the house then returned a few minutes
later.

    `Don't worry, Mr. Palmer. I'm aware of Ray's situation.
He's not the only one who's hidden here. Was that man in the
news involved in his case?'

    Mr. Palmer pulled my head to his chest and covered my
ears. I could still hear his answer. `He was the boy's
father. He put him up to the crime. Ray's afraid they'll
find him here but I told him no one knows he's here.'

    Mrs. Mendoza stepped into the street and leaned over to
me. `Ray, you are very safe here. Wally was a policeman
before coming here. You have Mr. Palmer and the others
always here to protect you. None of the boys know who you
are. This home isn't listed anywhere so someone looking for
you wouldn't know to come look here. It's not even in your
file with the probation department. You are listed as going
out of state. You are very, very safe here.

    `Now, try and relax. Come back inside when you feel
better. I'll tell everyone you got sick and needed some
fresh air. Stay out here as long as you like.'

    Those reassurances did help. Who were others hidden
here like me? Would they add things together and figure that
the man in the news was connected to me?

    Mr. Palmer pulled me to my feet. `Let's go for a walk
but not too far. I'm sure Mr. Winston is on his way.'

    Bill arrived an hour and fifteen minutes after the
story hit TV. I ran to him and wrapped my arms around him.
He picked me up and kissed me repeatedly on the cheek.
'Everything's going to be okay. I'm here and I'll stay as
long as you want.'

    We sat back on the curb. Mr. Palmer and another man who
had come with Bill  stood back from us. `I'm sorry about
your father,' said Bill softly.

    `I don't care about him. He was a bastard.' Those words
just came out. I hadn't considered them before speaking.

    If there was an end to the life I grew up in, the death
of my father was probably the most significant marker. It
was, to be sure, the beginning of a transition to a new
life.

    The policemen who had visited on Monday came out and
showed me a huge number of pictures of Mafia figures. I
sneaked a look at the back of the photo of the man I'd seen
in the apartment on Forty Sixth Street. His name was Guido
Scano. However, I told them none was the Italian I had seen.
There was at that point no one for me to testify against.

    The case against me was put away in some file cabinet
and forgotten.

    I did testify with Benjamin against Ronald, Calvin,
Miguel Solorzano and four others including Robert, the small
black boy who had taunted me in the shower and been involved
in both Benjamin's and my rapes. I don't know what happened
to them or even Benjamin.

    Mr. Becker, the lawyer who handled my juvenile case,
told Bill that the white boy from Miguel's group was taken
out of the detention center and was placed in a foster home.

    Over a three week period, the director of the detention
center, Mr. Foster and several guards were fired due to the
rapes and for collaborating with unethical policemen like
Detective Mulvaney in intimidation attempts against several
others and me. Mulvaney and two other policemen also lost
their jobs and pensions. No one was charged with anything.
That, Bill explained, was part of the deal for my case to be
dropped.

    Five months after my father's death, Bill told me
something he'd learned from Mr. Palmer, the detective. When
he learned what had happened to me at the detention center,
Ray Hoolihan had been both furious and crushed. He had gone
to the FBI and offered to give himself up in exchange for my
release. The FBI had wanted more including the Mafia member
who had set up the crime. Before he could decide one way or
the other, he had been kidnapped and killed.

    At first, I couldn't believe that the man who had so
callously involved me in the dangerous world of adult crime
was capable of such selfless concern for me. After all,
crime was really all we had ever done together. Bill assured
me that Palmer had checked it out and had no doubt about its
veracity.

    My mind was full of questions and very conflicting
emotions. If he cared so much for me, why hadn't he said so,
shown something that would have let me know. Other than
being boastful of my toughness and criminal accomplishments
to his friends, he had never said anything that sounded a
bit fatherly. He had stopped the O'Reilly brothers from
beating on me and set up Kenny as my friend. But that was
it. Was I supposed to feel some great sorrow for the man who
caused me to exist then pretty much ignored that existence
except when it suited his purposes?

    The hatred I had felt melted away but there was no
sense of loss. I did develop some respect for him that had
never been there. He had tried to do right by me when it was
called for, shown some loyalty to an accomplice who happened
to be his son. Did he do it because in some dark corner of
his being he actually felt some kind of fatherly
responsibility, maybe even love?  But, I hardly knew the
man. How could I feel a great loss for someone I hardly
knew?

                          Epilogue

    Life for me became pleasant though a bit sad, too. I
never saw Cholito again and didn't get back to Hell's
Kitchen for nearly five years. Kenny was there when I got
back and, after a lot of hesitation, told me of his ordeal
at the detention center. I admitted what happened to me. He
wanted to make love but I begged off gently letting him know
my sexual interests weren't with men without letting on they
were also not heterosexual.

    My mother sent me letters and I sent many to her but we
had to wait the same five years before seeing each other.
She appeared not to have missed me very much. I suspected
and later found out that my sisters Delia and Brenda wrote
most of the letters.

    I sent several letters to Cholito that Bill delivered
through Mr. Martinson. He answered them all, swearing his
lifelong friendship and wishing we could be together again.
Then, in the middle of the summer, with no warning, his
mother moved the family away, leaving no forwarding address.
I cried myself to sleep the night I was told.

    The home was pleasant and not too restrictive. I played
on Marcelino's baseball team that Bill ended up sponsoring
when the other sponsor gave up when we lost our fifth game
in a row. After our Saturday morning games, I spent the rest
of my weekends with Bill, Michael and the boys, sleeping
Saturday nights in the safety of Bill's arms. Charles, two
others and I became fast friends. But that's part of another
story.


Michael Peterson
malou2003@hushmail.com