Passing In the Night

by Tinnean

Summary:

Jim Ellison, a former hustler, thought things would be better once he left the business. When a former boyfriend is murdered, and Detective Blair Sandburg is assigned to investigate it, Jim becomes sure of it.

Notes:

This is an alternate reality. Jim has become a hustler, and Blair is the detective. They've both had other partners. Spoilers for No Way to Treat a Lady, and since it's based on that movie, there will be minor character deaths.

No Way to Treat a Lady was released in 1968, so some of the action will reflect that.

Chapter 1: No Way to Treat a Sentinel

Being a hustler sucked. I learned that the hard way.

Limping out of apartments on the upper West Side, my ass sore because even though I'd prepared myself before my 'date', the john would like to fuck rough...

My eyes burning and my nostrils clogged from the smell of my last client, marijuana smoke and alcohol, and Canoe trying to conceal the body odor...

Coming home at three or four or five in the morning. The smells overwhelming, the garbage trucks starting their runs, the bums on the street stinking of vomit and urine...

But it didn't start out that way.

William Ellison had been overjoyed when I was born. He had an heir, he boasted to anyone who would listen, a son who would be a credit to him, who, after graduating college with every honor that was awarded, would join the family business, get married and raise a bunch of little Ellisons, and who one day, after Ellison, Sr. was gone of course, would take over the family business.

William Ellison barely paid any attention to my brother Steven, who was born some years later.

That was until William Ellison realized that his oldest son was 'like that.' He refused to accept that I was gay; he refused to look at me.

I was sent to William Tecumseh Sherman Military Academy to get the gay drilled out of me, and my brother became his favorite.

I used to wonder if my father knew how I was treated. I used to wonder if it would have mattered. I stuck it out - I was an Ellison, after all - and once I'd graduated, I took off for the big city.

The bus was the cheapest way to go, and along the way I met some men who were nice to me, nicer than my father had ever been. That made the trip longer, but it did wonders for my ego.

New York was an expensive town, and once I arrived there, I knew I'd need money. A high school diploma didn't put me in line for a job that paid big bucks, so I found something that did.

I became a hustler.

It wasn't bad. I enjoyed it, and I was lucky the men I 'dated' treated me well.

After almost a year in the city, though, I ran into someone I knew, someone who had been at WTS the first month or so that I was there. He'd been nice to me, not in the way the men on my cross country journey had been, but like a... a relative who cared what happened to me, and I knew that he would make living in the military academy more bearable.

But by that Thanksgiving he was gone.

There had been wild rumors. He was a long distance sniper, he was black ops called back to duty, he was all things deadly.

The only thing I knew for sure was that he was gone.

And then there he was on the streets of Manhattan, over six feet tall, ruggedly built, and so handsome I nearly swallowed my tongue.

"James."

I was surprised that he recognized me. "Major Pendergrast." But so flattered that he did. I wasn't sure whether to salute or shake his hand. Or throw myself at him and kiss him.

"Call me Jack." He smiled and offered his hand. "I'm not in the military anymore."

"I'm sorry, sir. You were a very good instructor."

"I liked teaching you boys." His smile became sad, but then he shook his head. "That's in the past. What are you doing in New York?"

I shrugged and looked away. The clothes I was wearing had to tell him what I was doing in the Big Apple. Black mesh shirt that allowed a peek of the nipple ring I wore. Black boots. Snug black jeans. Fringe that draped my right calf and swung with each step.

"Aren't you a little cold in that?" He looked me over, and it felt physical. My cock twitched, and I wondered if he wanted me.

"It's warm for April." I licked my lips and shivered, but I wasn't cold. "I'm fine."

He raised an eyebrow and removed his jacket, putting it around my shoulders. "Come on, James. I'll buy you dinner, and you can tell me all about it."

I opened my mouth to tell him he had to have better things, more important things, to do than listen to me, but he waited patiently, holding the jacket closed. I shut my mouth and nodded.

Jack took me to the restaurant in his hotel. The host who seated us was an occasional client. He watched me with lust in his eyes. Normally I would have flirted and come on to him, but I was with someone. Someone I wanted to spend time with.

He held the seat for me, and I removed the jacket, draped it over the back of the chair and sat down, and he eased it forward. He leaned down. "I hope you enjoy your meal." His breath was hot in my ear.

I said something noncommittal, accepted the menu, and was relieved when he left.

Jack had been watching. I gave him a weak smile.

Our waiter approached. "May I take your order?"

"I'll have the Porterhouse, medium rare. Baked potato, dry, and mixed vegetables." He closed the menu and handed it to the waiter. "What would you like, James?"

"Oh." I'd been watching him. I quickly scanned the menu, then bit my lip.

"You look disappointed."

"No. It's okay. I'll have the same, except I'd like butter on my potato." I gave the menu to the waiter with a smile.

The waiter dropped both menus. He flushed. "Sorry," he whispered. He bent to retrieve them and hurried to the kitchen.

"You do seem to have an effect on the male population." Jack took a sip from his water glass.

"It's my job." I felt my cheeks turn red. "But you knew that, didn't you? Do you want me to go?"

"No." He laid his hand on mine, and his thumb ran over my knuckles. "You have that effect on me. Stay."

I shivered again, unable to drag my eyes away from his.

"Will you stay?"

"Yes."

That was the beginning of our time together.

I wouldn't have objected to staying in the hotel, but Jack wanted us to have a place of our own. He rented an apartment in Washington Heights and taught me how to cook. And other things.

On occasion he would leave for a few days or a few weeks. He never told me where he'd been, and I never asked. I never had to. The only thing I was concerned with was whether he'd spent that time with a man. Or a woman.

I'd hug him, burying my nose in the side of his neck. A couple of discreet sniffs assured me that if he'd been with anyone, he hadn't been in bed with them.

Sometimes he'd give me an odd look, but when I questioned him about it, he'd smile, get his shoulder into my gut and hoist me up over his shoulder, and stride into the bedroom with me, fondling my ass before he tossed me onto the bed and followed me down.

Living with Jack was like having a dream come true. He treated me very well, and though I didn't love him, I thought maybe if I tried hard enough, I could.

One day Jack came back from one of those out-of-town trips carrying a large, camouflage duffel. As he walked past me, he grabbed my wrist and dragged me along with him.

"Jack?"

"We're going to Peru, Jimmy."

"We?"

"You're coming with me." He dropped the duffel onto the bed and unzipped it. "Start packing." He crossed to the closet and hauled out another duffel that could have been the twin of mine.

"Why Peru?"

"I carried out an operation there once."

"But you've never taken me on one of your... "

"This isn't an operation. Start packing, okay?"

"What do we need?"

"Jeans, shirts, those boots I bought for you."

The whole year we'd been together he'd never taken me anywhere out of the city. I went to the dresser and took out the clothes we would need.

"Shorts?"

"Your call." He grinned at me.

****

Lima had a fantastic gay scene, and we danced the evenings away and then fucked through the night.

"I love you, Jimmy," he whispered in my ear one night while he was still buried deep inside me. I sighed happily, and we fell asleep like that.

The next day he began to stock supplies. "I'm going into the Peruvian Amazon, Jimmy. There's an old friend I want to visit."

"Should I be jealous?" I made my voice teasing. I didn't want him to think I was serious.

"No." He ran his hand over my hair. "You're very special, Jimmy. You never have to be jealous."

The next morning, when I woke up, he was gone. Something told me I had to go after him, so I did, but I got lost in the rainforest, and when they finally found me, I had the tattoo of a black jaguar behind my left shoulder. I could never remember how it got there or what had happened. All I knew was that I had to return to the States.

And that Jack was okay.

****

A few years passed. I thought of Jack. Not often, and never with sorrow, but with mild regret that I would never see him again.

I fell back into the routine I'd had before Jack.

I'd call Steven every so often, to let him know I was still alive, hoping he'd pass the information on to the family. Grace, our mother, was long gone, living the high life somewhere, but our father was still in Washington State.

No birthday or Christmas cards ever came in the mail. I did get an invitation to Steven's graduation from Rainier University. For a minute I toyed with the idea of going, but I tore it up and threw it away instead, and I sent him a check.

Steven called to thank me, but he never once asked how a junior ad executive could have afforded a gift like that.

It took me two weeks on my knees to cover that check.

I sucked it up.... er... pushed it out of my mind.

And time rolled on.

After five years, I realized - I couldn't do this anymore; I wanted the tenderness I'd had when Jack had been in my life. I wanted one man in my bed.

So when Randy Beautiful asked me to give up the business and move in with him, I jumped at the opportunity.

Randy - who had a penthouse that overlooked Central Park. Randy - blond, blue-eyed, and so freaking gorgeous both men and women couldn't catch their breath.

"I don't care that you were a pro," he told me. "All your experience, everything you've learned, that's all going to be directed at me, only me."

He loved me in leather, black, buff, devil red, trousers that hugged my ass and thighs and calves, vests that exposed my pecs, biceps, and abdomen. He loved to show me off.

Stupid me. I thought that meant he loved me.

He wasn't happy when I insisted he wear a condom.

"Aw, pumpkin. You're mine now. Please?"

I liked him saying I was his, but I'd been in the business too long to be comfortable discarding the barrier right away.

"Just until there's no doubt... I'm clean?" I was afraid if I told him I wanted to be sure he was clean, he'd leave me.

I held my breath, but with a forced smile he agreed.

****

Randy came into the penthouse just as I was hanging up the phone.

"Great news, Randy! Brandon said we could use his cabin in Vermont."

"Vermont? I don't think... "

"It's a great place. Vermont is gorgeous this time of year, the view is gorgeous, and best of all, there'll be no one to bother us."

"Yeah, but you know I don't like roughing it." His lip was thrust out. Jesus, had I really thought that was attractive?

"It'll be fun, Randy." We hadn't spent any time together in a while. He'd been busy with his job on Wall Street, and I'd mostly hung around the apartment, munching on M&Ms and watching Mike Douglas until it was time to start dinner.

"There won't be any electricity."

"It's powered by propane."

"Yeah, but no radio, no television, no telephone."

"We can take the radio and television that are battery operated. As for telephones, there's a general store in town."

"And what would we do?" His face darkened in an unattractive scowl. "I don't like the mountains. I'm a city boy."

"But... Randy, don't you want to be with me?" I cringed. I hated how pathetic I sounded.

He turned on his heel and walked into the kitchen.

"Randy, you didn't answer me. Don't you care about me?"

"Jesus, Ellison. We're guys." He took a beer out of the fridge and popped the cap. "And you were a whore. Get on the clue bus!"

"So... so you never... you were never interested in my mind."

"What mind? If you ever had a thought, it would die of loneliness." He never let me forget that I only had a high school diploma.

"You... All this time you just wanted my body."

"Ah hah! The light goes on."

I felt as if I were encased in ice. I left the kitchen, walked down the long hall to our bedroom, and opened the closet door. All the leather clothing that Randy had bought for me hung there.

"Going somewhere, pumpkin?"

"I'm out of here." I pulled down the camouflage duffel that Jack had given me before that trip to Peru.

"No, you're not." His fingers closed over my forearm and squeezed. "You're mine. I bought you as much as I bought those clothes."

"Lincoln freed the slaves."

"If you take a single shirt or pair of pants out of here, I'll fucking have you charged with burglary." His grip tightened.

I used a tactic Jack had taught me, and Randy was flat on his back, looking up at me from the floor, his eyes wide with shock.

"You really are a bastard." In the bottom drawer of the dresser I used was the jacket Jack had put around my shoulders that first day. "This jacket is mine. You can keep the rest."

"I'm gonna spread the word about you, Ellison! I'll tell everyone you gave me a sexually transmitted disease! You'll..."

"I'll never work in this town again? That's a really hackneyed cliché, Randy. Here's one just for you. Go fuck yourself." I dug into my pocket and pulled out the apartment key. He flinched when I tossed it at him.

I walked out and closed the door softly behind me.

****

"Well, that was smart, Ellison." It was after 3. The banks were closed. I'd have to wait until the next morning to get into my safety deposit box.

Randy had no idea how much money I actually had made over the years. It wasn't a fortune, but it was enough to tide me over until I could get a job, and maybe even a little further.

One thing I did know - leaving him was the smartest move I'd made since I'd run into Jack Pendergrast.

I straightened my shoulders. I'd find a place to stay, and I'd find a job. I was never going back to selling my ass.

I spent the next few days checking out the classifieds in The Daily News and The New York Post for jobs. It wasn't looking too good.

I did find an ad for an apartment, though, in a brownstone in the East Village. I called to make sure it was still available, then took the subway down to East 14th Street.

A chunky little man opened the door.

"I'm Jim Ellison," I told him. "I called you a little while ago?"

"Yeah. Hi. I'm Richie Delvecchio. C'mon, I'll show you the apartment." He turned and led me to the staircase. "It's a studio on the third floor. Ain't got no elevator."

"Okay." I followed him up the stairs. He was balding and had a perpetual 5 o'clock shadow, but I could see he wasn't as old as I'd originally thought, in spite of the ribbed, A-style undershirt and tan work pants he wore, maybe in his late thirties. "You're the landlord?"

"My brother-in-law owns this buildin', but I run it. Don't make no trouble, an' we'll get along just fine."

"What kind of trouble?"

"I don't like loud parties or sleepovers with members of the opposite sex."

"That won't be a problem." Lately, loud parties had fried my nerves. The bright lights, the loud, raucous music, the alcohol - they were no longer the fun they had been.

As for the opposite sex, I'd never gone for girls.

"Good. I had a feelin' you was a good guy. I got a talent that way. All my tenants are good people."

"Uh... Good."

We reached the third floor. A long, fairly narrow corridor bisected the brownstone and separated the six apartments. There were windows at either end. In front of each one was a stand that held a flowering plant.

Mr. Delvecchio saw me looking at them. "I like plants. I got 'em on every floor, an' I come up a couple of times a week an' water 'em."

He walked toward the back of the building, to the door with 3E on the panel. He unlocked it and threw it open with a flourish.

"This is a nice apartment. I cleaned it after the last tenant moved out. You got a kitchenette, a dinin' area, an' over there's the bed.

I walked in and looked around. There were a lot of windows, making it very bright.

The floor in the kitchenette was worn black and white linoleum squares. It had a two-burner stove and a stained porcelain sink. In the cabinet beside the sink were plates and bowls on one shelf, and pots and skillets on another. In a drawer were forks, spoons, and knives.

The thought of using those things made me nauseous. They looked clean, but I could smell the residue of meals past. I'd need new ones.

Tucked in an alcove was a small refrigerator with a single door. I opened it. The fridge was empty except for a box of baking soda, and as Mr. Delvecchio had said, was clean. The freezer compartment at the top was large enough for the two ice cube trays, and maybe a box of french fries, a frozen pizza, and a couple of TV dinners.

Just off the kitchenette was the 'dining area'. It contained a card table and two folding chairs.

"The other chairs are over here." He walked to a wall and pulled aside what looked like a sheet to reveal two more chairs. "In case you have company."

"I thought..."

"You can have company over. They just can't sleep over."

"Okay." I couldn't see any of my former colleagues coming to dinner; they'd cut all ties to me when I left the business. As for sex... I pushed it out of my mind.

"This cubby is good for storin' brooms an' mops."

"What's that?" Above it was a large, square cabinet.

"Pantry." He opened it. There were four shelves, the top one so high I'd need to stretch to reach it. "The bathroom is through that door."

The cubicle could barely hold the toilet, sink, and tub. There were rust stains in all of them, and even though Mr. Delvecchio said he'd cleaned it, I saw myself stocking up on plenty of Ajax to scrub that tub. I was not getting in it otherwise.

I went back into the main living area. A faded area rug covered most of the floor. The bed looked like a twin. It was going to be a tight fit, and I hoped my feet wouldn't hang off the end of it.

I sighed. I'd never lived in a place as tacky-looking as this, not even when I'd first come to Manhattan.

On the other hand, until I got a job, I really had no choice. Apartments were scarce.

But I couldn't resist asking, "Does it come with a mouse trap?"

He gave a broad grin. "Ain't no mice in this buildin', somethin' I pride myself on." I heard scrabbling on the rug, and suddenly an orange tabby was in his arms. "This is Tigger. He an' the other cats handle that."

"Well, hello, Tigger." I rubbed my knuckles under his chin. "You're a fine fellow."

The cat slitted his eyes and purred, the sound like a rusty saw.

I was surprised Mr. Delvecchio had named the tom after a character in "Winnie the Pooh;" I didn't want to ask because that was none of my business.

However, he offered the information on his own. "I've always liked cats, and Tig was given to me by Christopher, my sister's boy, when his father gave me this job. He named him, too."

The cat jumped out of his arms and sauntered around the apartment, his tail whipping restlessly. Two more cats came in to join him, one chocolate brown and the other solid black.

"This is Archy an' Mehitabel. They're from Alonzo an' Grizabella's first litter."

"Unusual names."

"I like Don Marquis an' T.S. Eliot."

Yet he spoke as if he were uneducated. Interesting.

"So, whaddya think?"

As well as pots and dishes, I'd also need towels, a couple of new pillows, sheets. Definitely sheets. For some time before I'd left him, the ones on Randy's bed had started to feel scratchy against my skin, and it had been hard for me to get comfortable and sleep. Or do other things.

But the rent was affordable. And no one I knew from my years as a hustler ventured down to this part of Manhattan.

"What's included?"

"Utilities - gas, water, electric. You'll have to pay your own phone bill, though."

"I'll take it." I'd have taken it even if I'd had to pay my own utility bills.

"Good. I'm glad you will. I like your face. Now, the rent is due on the 1st of every month, sharp."

"Okay, Mr. Delvecchio."

"Call me Richie. I need first an' last month up front. I ain't askin' for a month's security, on accounta you got a honest face."

"Uh huh." I took out my money clip and peeled off the bills.

"Welcome to the buildin'." Richie folded the bills and tucked them into his back pocket. He hitched up his pants. His belly still hung over the waistband, and he frowned. "I gotta lose some weight," he muttered as he held out his hand, and we shook on it.

****

I decided the first thing I needed to buy were those sheets and pillows. And towels. I wasn't going to use the scratchy ones that were stacked under the bathroom sink. A brown bag filled with cleaning products completed my purchases at that time.

As for kitchen supplies - for the time being, I'd eat out.

It took a couple of days to get the place in shape. It shouldn't have taken that long, but the smell of ammonia and bleach really got to me, and I had to take a lot of breaks.

When the apartment was up to my standards, I bought a set of Farberware pots and flatware and Melamine dishes, and put together one of those dressers that required assembly.

Then I went shopping for clothes. I'd need some casual clothes to put in the dresser, and at least one business suit, tailored shirt, and tie. Behind my front door was a rod that would have to serve as my closet.

It took a while to find clothes that didn't irritate my skin, but once that was done, I turned my attention to finding a job.

Jack Pendergrast had told me, those last days in Peru, that if I decided to get out of the business, I should see a friend of his, Simon Banks.

I didn't want to use Jack's name, but I couldn't find anything, so I walked down 1st Avenue to East Houston Street, and I found Banks, a small, store-front security firm. There was a Help Wanted sign in the window.

The chimes over the door announced my entrance, and a woman at the lone desk looked up from her typewriter. She was a handsome redhead in her early thirties. "Yeah?"

"You've got a sign that says you're looking for help."

She studied me intently, then relaxed. "Well, you're over twenty-one, mate." A hint of an Aussie accent. "And you look like you can take care of yourself. Hey, Simon! Haul ass outta there."

A man came from the rear of the store. His skin was the color of mahogany, and he was tall and lean, and I found myself thinking of Shakespeare's Cassius.

He rolled a cigar between his teeth and studied me as well.

"I'm Banks."

"I'm Ellison. I'm looking for a job."

"If you don't have at least a high school diploma, you're wasting my time."

"I've got one." The diploma from WTS might finally prove to be useful.

"I'll need to see it."

"I'll need to get it. It's in my safe deposit box."

"I like a man who knows how to take care of important papers." He chewed on his cigar. "All right, then. You also have to have some familiarity with security."

"No problem." Jack had taught me a lot of stuff.

"Megan, make an appointment for Mr. Ellison for... Is two this afternoon available?"

"I'll free it up, Boss." She made a notation in a book on her desk in green ink. "Two it is."

There were other names in the book, in other colors. I wondered if the colors stood for anything. I wondered if I'd have the chance to find out.

"Thank you, Mr. Banks. I'll be here."

We shook hands, I turned and headed for the door, and I heard him say, "He looks promising, Megan."

"I think you're right this time, Simon."

"Well, we'll see."

I looked over my shoulder at them, but Simon Banks was heading back to his office.

"Yes?" Megan raised her eyebrow.

"Uh... " I gave her a smile that felt strained. "See you later." Was I hearing things?

She nodded and returned to her typewriter, and I left.

I must have been hearing things. I'd noticed lately... I shook my head. No, that was bullshit.

A bus was idling at the corner, waiting for the light to change. I caught it just before the light turned green, and rode it up to 23rd Street. A branch of my bank was there, and I'd opened a safe deposit box there. It contained my diploma, the fake passport Jack had rigged for me, other papers, and the cash I didn't want to carry or keep in my apartment.

I retrieved my diploma and walked home, weighing the options of walking to Simon Banks' security firm or taking a cab.

If I walked, I'd arrive all sweaty - it was August in New York, and the humidity was sky-high.

One the other hand, if I took a cab, I'd arrive fresh.

That settled it. I'd take the cab.

It was about noon when I arrived at 852 East 14th. Outside the building was a hotdog vendor. I bought two dogs, no onions or chili though - I didn't want to knock my possible future boss on his ass from my breath - and a coke, and went up to my apartment to eat.

As I ate, I studied the diploma. It brought to mind too many unpleasant experiences at the military academy. I pushed it away and opened The Daily News that I'd bought earlier. Nothing seemed to be going on beyond the usual political hanky-panky, so I turned to the funnies to see what Dick Tracy and Brenda Starr were up to.

Once I finished my lunch, I washed my hands, laid out suit, shirt, black socks and tie on the bed, and called for a cab to pick me up at 1:45. Then I stripped off my short-sleeved shirt, trousers, and briefs.

I'd sweated through everything. These weren't called the dog-days of summer for nothing. I needed a shower.

As the water poured down my back, I soaped carefully, rubbing the lather over my chest, watching my nipples peek through. For the first time since months before I'd left Randy Beautiful, tingles of desire curved over my ass, through my groin, and into my cock, causing it to swell and thicken. I used teasing touches to heighten my passion.

My hand felt good on my cock. I began to work it with harder strokes while I pressed on the slit with my thumb and rubbed in lazy circles.

I liked what I was doing. I closed my eyes. In my mind I pictured the lover I was waiting for. He'd be my height, fair-haired, and have eyes that were a warmer blue than mine.

I leaned back against the cool tiles and braced a foot on the edge of the tub, and ran a fingertip over my hole, dipped in, fantasizing it was my lover's cock breaching my opening.

I curled my finger and rubbed it harder over my prostate, and groaned and bit my lip, and the spray of my semen joined the spray of the showerhead.

I eased my finger out of my hole and stayed slumped against the tiled wall, struggling to catch my breath and not drown myself at the same time. I relished the residual tingles until the water finally cooled.

I stepped out of the tub and dried off, and when I saw the time, I rushed to get dressed and ran down the stairs to my waiting cab.

The cab got me there in good time. I paid the driver and tipped him, and faced Banks.

I had my hand on the doorknob, about to pull it open, when someone pushed it open from the inside.

"Keep an eye out for me, Simon!" he yelled over his shoulder, and he walked right into me. "Oops, sorry." He patted my arm.

There was something about him that caught my attention.

Four or five inches shorter, his hair a mass of brown curls, streaked with red and gold. I couldn't see his eyes, though; he wasn't looking into my face. His attention was on something else, and he headed down the street at a brisk jog.

He was wearing a dark blue suit, and I stared after him until he disappeared down a subway entrance. I wished I could have seen his eyes. For some reason, I thought they might be blue, although considering the color of his hair, they were probably a similar shade of brown.

I wondered if he was as uncomfortable in his suit as I was in mine.

Oh, well. The odds were I'd never see him again. I rolled my shoulders, ran a hand over my hair to make sure it was in place, and drew in a deep, relaxing breath. I had to make sure there was no hint of how much I needed this job.

Megan looked up from her typewriter and gave a wolf whistle. "Oh, I do hope you get the job, mate." She grinned and jerked her thumb over her shoulder. "The boss is in his office. Back and to your left."

I nodded at her and followed her directions.

"Ah. Mr. Ellison." Simon Banks stood in the doorway. "Right on time. I like that in my people."

"Thank you, sir."

He grinned around the fat cigar between his teeth. "Come into my office."

It was a spacious office. Against one wall were filing cabinets and against another bookcases that contained books about security matters and police procedures.

"I used to be a cop," Mr. Banks told me when he saw what I was looking at.

"Yes, sir." I hoped he hadn't been Vice. I'd never been picked up by them, but a couple of my johns had been Vice.

"Take a seat."

I did. He went around his desk and sat in a large, comfortable-looking chair.

His desk was huge. The surface was covered by a pristine blotter. On the left was a multiple line telephone, and next to it was a thick address book and a large coffee cup with Banks' Boys printed around the diameter. It was filled with pens and pencils. Facing away from me were two picture frames. I assumed they held photos of his family.

"You wanted to see my diploma, I believe?" I took it out of its envelope and handed it to him across the desk.

He examined the embossed lettering at the top, decorative and ostentatious.

"William Tecumseh Sherman Military Academy? I knew someone who taught there." He ran his eyes over the information that had been written in calligraphy. "James Ellison? By any chance were you a... friend... of Jack Pendergrast?"

"Yes." I noticed the hesitation, and I worried my lip. He knew Jack?

Of course he knew Jack. Jack had told me as much. But what had Jack told him about me?

"Well, it's about time!"

"Excuse me?"

"Jack asked me to keep an eye out for you." He turned around one of the frames on his desk, and my breath caught in my throat.

Jack, a young Jack, in his Army fatigues, laughing into the camera. His arm was around the shoulders of a black soldier, and I recognized a youthful Simon Banks. There was a cigar in his mouth, and his dark eyes were crinkled with laughter.

"I didn't think you were going to turn up. It's been a lot of years since he contacted me about you."

I shrugged, relieved when he didn't press me for more about my relationship with Jack.

"I guess you wanted to try to make it on your own."

"Yes." If he wasn't aware of how I'd spent those years, I wasn't going to tell him.

"You should have come sooner. Jack vouched for you, and I think you'll do very well. You'll need a license so you'll be able to carry a gun. A class starts up next week. In the meantime, I need someone to keep this office in shape while my boys are out on the job. Megan answers the phones, sets up assignments. Until the class starts, you'll vacuum the carpets, see the coffee is always fresh, dust, do whatever needs to be done. Do you have a problem with that?"

"No problem, sir."

"Call me Simon. We're one happy family here."

"No problem, Simon.

"Then I guess you've got the job."

"Thank you. Do you want me to get to work now?"

"No, you're dressed too fine. Besides, there's a shit-load of paperwork you need to fill out." He took out a sheaf of papers and plucked a pen from the coffee cup. "I'll show you the break room. You'll be more comfortable doing this in there."

The door to the break room was across the hall and a little further toward the front of the building. I'd passed it on my way to Simon's office, giving it just a cursory glance.

It was a good-sized room. There was a small couch and a few easy chairs at one end, with magazines scattered across them. At the other end was a sink with a couple of coffee cups in it, a refrigerator that was slightly larger than the one I had at home, and a table with more cups on it and chairs around it. On the counter beside the sink was a hot plate with a single element, and a percolator. I wrinkled my nose at the smell of the slightly scorched coffee.

"Have a seat." Simon didn't seem to notice the smell. "Bring these back to me when you're done, and I'll show you around."

"Yes, sir. Simon," I corrected myself. "Thank you. You won't be sorry you hired me, I promise you."

"I have no doubt." He patted my arm and left me there. Was this 'Pat Jim Ellison's arm day' today? Did I look like I needed reassurance?

I turned off the hot plate, dumped the grounds into a waste basket and the remains of the coffee into the sink, washed out the pot, then found the can of Chock Full o' Nuts and spooned enough into the basket to make a full pot.

When I had the pot back on the hot plate, I sat down at the table and began to read over the papers. I'd need to do a little tap-dancing to explain the years between the time I'd spent with Jack and now, but I had no doubt I would be successful.

Simon had told me how much I'd be making once I starting working in the field. It wasn't a patch on what I could have made in a night on my hands and knees, but I wasn't doing that any more.

I clicked the pen and started to fill out the papers.

****

A few weeks after I'd moved in, I ran into another tenant. He was in the lobby, hovering by the mailboxes when I went to check my mail.

"Hello." His voice was tentative. He had to be in his early twenties, slim, and with soft blond hair. "I'm new here."

"Hello, New Here. I'm Jim Ellison."

His grays eyes lit up, and he laughed. "I'm Albert Malloy. I'm in apartment 2E."

"I'm in 3E."

"Oh! You're right over me!"

"Yeah, I guess I am." I shut the box and turned the key.

"You didn't get any mail?"

"No." I'd called Steven to let him have my new address, but there was nothing from him - from home.

"Me neither," he sighed. "I'm... I just moved from Boston. I was hoping... " He sighed more deeply. "I guess it was stupid to think they'd write me this soon."

"Your family?"

Albert nodded, looking unhappy, then brightened. "Maybe the mail went to the Y. I was there before I found this apartment, you know. I'll bet it got hung up there!"

I doubted it. He was a babe in the woods, but I wasn't going to tell him and burst his bubble.

"Sure," I said. A scent tickled my nose, and it twitched. Where had I smelled that before? I sniffed discreetly. No aftershave or cologne, but there was definitely the scent of another man on him. "Come on." We walked into the hallway and toward the staircase that led to the upper floors. "Would you like to keep me company over dinner?"

A door at the end of the hallway opened, and the superintendent poked his head out.

"Albie! Hi!"

The kid's face lit up. "Hi, Mr. D."

"What did I tell you?" the super growled playfully.

"Richie," he acknowledged with a shy smile.

"That's right. Hey, I made a pot of spaghetti sauce. You're too skinny. How 'bout I feed you?"

"Oh! I'd really like to, but... " Albie looked at me uncertainly.

"You too, Jim." But I could see I was just an afterthought.

"Nah, that's okay." I shrugged. "I've got to study."

"You really don't mind, Mr. Ellison?"

Jesus, he made me feel old. "Call me Jim. And no, I really don't mind."

"Okay, then. I'd love to join you, Mr... Richie."

"Good, good. You sure, Jim?"

"Yeah. Thanks." I felt something brush against my legs and looked down. "Hi, Tigger." I stooped to rub the spot under his chin.

"See ya, Jim."

"Bye, Jim."

"Bye."

They disappeared into his apartment, and I could hear behind the closed door, "You really gotta eat more, Albie. Not that you wanna wind up fat like me."

"I don't think you're fat, Richie. I like the way you look."

I straightened, shook my head, and trotted up the stairs.

Jack's teachings came in handy. I shot better than the instructor, and I held my own against the small man who taught martial arts. When I completed the course, Simon found a place for me to work in a bank.

"Once you have some experience under your belt, I'll let you play in the big leagues."

"Okay, Simon." I took a dark gray uniform from the rack in the corner of the locker room, changed, and put my street clothes into a locker. I stashed my gun in a briefcase that would hold it until I got to the bank.

Usually I stood just outside the gate that divided the vault with its cash and safety deposit boxes from the rest of the bank, or sometimes to the side of the revolving door at the front of the building, depending on where they wanted me.

Once I even got to stand guard with my hand on the butt of my gun while an armored truck delivered sacks of cash for the payroll of a business that rented four floors of the Empire State Building.

It wasn't a bad job. The pay was okay, and my life was on track.

But jesus, I missed having someone in my bed.

The more so as I realized the scent I'd picked up on Albie had been Richie's, and they were becoming a pair.

****

It was Friday evening. Instead of going clubbing, as I'd done when I'd lived the wild life, I was going out to get my grocery shopping done for the following week. Thursdays and Fridays were the only days grocery stores were open late.

I locked my door and turned to see Richie tacking up some plastic sheets over the front window.

"What are you doing, Richie?"

"Winter's gonna be a bitch this year. Gotta protect the plants."

"That makes sense." I blinked. "You look good, Richie. Have you lost some weight?"

"Yeah." He preened. "I can't expect to keep a cutie like Albie interested if I look like a schlub."

It hadn't been difficult for me to learn that most of the time, when Albie wasn't at work, he was with Richie, cooking, learning to deal with the brute of a furnace in the cellar, or even just sitting around on the sofa watching movies on Picture for a Sunday Afternoon.

"He's an assistant curator at the Museum of Modern Art, y'know."

I did know. Richie had told me a number of times. I grinned at him. "Where is he now?"

"He went down to Rossetti's deli to see if Mrs. Rossetti has some homemade pasta. I made a nice marinara sauce. It's Friday, y' know."

"Uh... "

"No meat," he explained.

"Yeah. That's right. Well, I've gotta go. I'll see you later, Richie."

"You bet."

It was about eight that evening when I got home.

Albie was sitting on the stairs leading to the upper floors. His elbows were balanced on his knees, and his chin was in his hands.

"Hi, Kid. How was dinner?" I was stunned when he looked up at me, and I saw the tears in his eyes. "What's wrong? Did something happen to Richie?" I pictured pots tipping over and hot sauce or boiling water and pasta spilling all over him and leaving him with third degree burns.

"No." He pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket and blew his nose. "Richie's fine."

I set down the grocery bags and sat beside him. "What's bothering you, then?"

"Richie's at Confession."

"Oh. Well, y'know, Catholics are funny about things like that."

He looked at me as if I were nuts. "I'm Catholic."

"I'm sorry, Albie, I'm not following you."

"I can't go to Confession. I can't go to Mass, and I can't receive Communion."

"Now I'm really not following you."

"I'm a fag!" He gave me a scared look. "I shouldn't have said that. Are you going to punch me?"

"Why would I?"

"Because I'm queer."

"Albie, I've got eyes in my head. I could see you and Richie were together. So you're homosexual. So what?"

"My family doesn't approve. The ... the Church doesn't approve... " He jammed the heel of his hand into his mouth, but I could hear the sob anyway.

"It means that much to you?"

"Of course it does! I was raised Catholic. I was Baptized, made my First Holy Communion, and was Confirmed at St. Therese of the Little Flower. That was where I went to school. And when I graduated there, I went to St. Joseph the Carpenter High School."

"And then you went to Notre Dame?" I was hoping he'd laugh.

Instead, he buried his head in his hands. "I'm going to hell."

"I thought Jesus was a loving god."

His head shot up, and he glared at me. "He is!"

"Then why would he have any objection to who you loved?" I could never understand why God would care one way or another about who his followers loved.

"It's an ecumenical thing." Albie scowled at me.

"Okay. But... Richie is Catholic too, isn't he?"

He nodded glumly. "Yes. He's Italian, you know."

"I really don't get it, Albie."

"Richie loving me and ignoring the Church's rulings? He was in the Korean War. He said, 'If God ain't got no beef with me shootin' gooks, then he shouldn't a oughta gotta problem with me lovin' another guy.' But I wasn't in the army, and... " Tears trickled down his cheeks again. "I want to go to Mass. I want to receive Communion. I don't want to go to hell."

Just then I heard the outer door open, and I recognized Richie's footsteps. I took the handkerchief from Albie's hand and dried his face. "Richie's home."

"How do you know... I don't want him to see me like this, like a crybaby. Please don't tell him!"

He took his handkerchief back and bolted up the stairs. I picked up my bags of groceries.

The lobby door opened, and Richie walked in, blowing on his fingers.

"Hey! Hi, Jim! Boy, I wanna tell you, the father was brutal. He gave me twelve Hail Mary's, twelve Our Father's, and twelve Glory Be's."

I didn't say anything.

"I went to Confession."

"Yeah. The kid said something about that."

He saw my expression and scowled at me. "You think my feelin's for Albie are somethin' I have to confess? I tell the father what he wants to hear - I drink, I swear, I chase tail. I just don't tell him whose tail I chase. I wish I could talk Albie into playin' the game."

So did I. "Well, I've got to put this stuff away. It's cold outside, but it's warm enough in here to melt my ice cream."

"Yeah, okay. I'll see ya."

I climbed up the stairs. On the second floor landing I paused and looked down the corridor to Albie's apartment. The door was closed, but I could have sworn I heard crying.

One of Richie's cats, a calico with a stub of a tail, sauntered to the stairs and went down.

Of course. The sound must have been Rumpleteazer.

I went up to my apartment to put my groceries away.

****

I didn't expect anything from my family for Christmas, which was just as well, because I didn't get anything, not even a freaking card.

But Albie was still living with the hope that his family would get in touch with him, especially at this time of the year.

They didn't.

****

"Ellison."

"Yes, sir?" I'd come in to pick up a clean uniform and my paycheck.

"I need you to take Rafe's evening shifts at Macy's, starting tonight."

"Sure thing, Simon."

Brian Rafe, one of Simon's senior men, had asked to take some time off when a complication in his wife's pregnancy had threatened her life.

Mrs. Rafe and the baby were doing well now. We'd all been up to the hospital to visit them, and had chipped in to buy a crib for the new addition to the Rafe family.

"Renee and the baby should be discharged a couple of days after Christmas if all continues to go well. Her mother will fly out to help them out, and Rafe should be back at work then."

"All right."

"I'm sorry if this interferes with any plans you have, and I'm even more sorry you'll have to work the day-after-Christmas shift." His teeth clamped down on his cigar. "The store will be a madhouse."

"I can handle it, Simon." I'd been in stores the day after Christmas, when everyone was desperate to return gifts they hadn't really wanted, and that could be downright scary, but I didn't want my boss to think I couldn't do it.

"I knew I could count on you. Someone Jack vouched for... " He nodded and handed me my pay envelope.

So I pulled two shifts a day during the week and an additional one at Macy's on Saturday, and I tucked away the extra money in my paycheck in my safe deposit box.

Well, I had no one to spend it on.

Macy's stayed open late on Christmas Eve, taking advantage of the people who seemed to be comfortable waiting for the last minute to get their shopping done.

I caught a bus and looked through the windows as snow began falling. We were going to have a white Christmas.

The bus stop was a couple of blocks away from the brownstone where I lived, but the bus driver was feeling the joy of the season, and he let me off right in front of 852.

"Thanks," I said. "Merry Christmas."

The entire bus called back, "Merry Christmas!" New York could be a tough city, but it was a marshmallow during the holidays.

The warmth of the season, the warmth in the lobby, it felt good. I decided I'd stop by Richie's apartment and wish him a Merry Christmas. And Albie too. I had a strong feeling he would be there.

I was right.

"Merry Christmas, Jim." Albie offered me a smile, but I could see the tiny tremors that ran through him.

"Merry Christmas."

"We were just going to have a cup of coffee. Would you like a cup?"

"Sure, Albie. Thanks."

He went into the kitchen. His stride was less than jaunty, and his shoulders were slumped.

Richie was looking after him.

"How is Albie handling it?"

"Handlin' which? No word from his family on Christmas or not bein' welcome in his own church?" He sighed and shook his head. "I dunno, Jim. He says he's okay. I don't think so. Bastard family. How could they do that to him? Well, fuck 'em, that's their loss. Tomorrow Albie an' me're spendin' Christmas with my sister an' her family, out on Long Island."

"Do they know about you?"

"They know that Albie's my friend. I told my sister that his family was gonna be in Switzerland skiin', an' he couldn't go. Florie and Pat and Christopher have already met Albie, an' they like him. An' y'know something, Jim? My brother-in-law may be a pain-in-the-ass, but he treats that boy of his like he was made outta gold. That's how Albie shoulda been treated."

"That's the truth." I looked at my watch. "You're going to be late for Midnight Mass."

"I ain't goin'. Poor kid. He needs to know that he means more to me than the Church." He was quiet for a few minutes, then, "I'm gonna take him to Times Square on New Year's Eve. We'll ring in the New Year there, then go to the Cafe Carlyle for a champagne toast. Bobby Short's gonna be playin' there." He touched my arm. "Jim, you wanna come with us?"

"I don't want to be a crowd, Richie."

"You won't be, Jim." He looked over his shoulder. Albie was still fussing in the kitchen, taking a tin of cookies from the cabinet, putting milk in the creamer, getting the sugar bowl, pouring the coffee. "You know what this town can be like."

"Yeah." The Stonewall Inn had been raided again just the week before. At least the raid had been early enough in the evening so the Inn could re-open again in time for the midnight-and-later crowd, when things started hopping. "All right, Richie. I don't have anything planned, and I'd like to see the ball drop with you two," I didn't tell him that I'd usually spent New Year's Eve in a hotel suite, being paid for my time, "but I'll leave you and Albie to have that drink by yourselves."

"Jim, I wanna thank you. Ain't many straight guys in this town who'd accept me an' Albie an' not get ugly about it."

Richie thought I was straight? Before I could correct his notion, Albie came out of the kitchen carrying a tray with three cups, sugar and milk, and a plate with pinnoli cookies.

"Albie made 'em."

The kid blushed. "From your sister's recipe."

"Florie gave that to you?" Richie raised an eyebrow. "That was Mama's recipe, an' it ain't never left the family." He grinned and turned on the TV to channel 11.

We settled on the sofa and watched the Yule log burn. Albie fell asleep with his head on Richie's shoulder, Richie looked down at the fair head with an expression that caused my heart to clutch. A look like that had never been directed at me, not by Randy Beautiful, not even by Jack.

Richie took the empty coffee cup from lax fingers, eased the kid's head onto the sofa back, and rose. "I'll just get this cleaned up. No need for Albie to have to do it when he wakes up."

"I'd better be going, Richie." I followed him into the kitchen and put my cup into the sink. "Thanks for the cookies and coffee."

"Thanks for coming by, Jim." He put his hand on my shoulder, then walked with me to his front door. "Merry Christmas."

"Merry Christmas, Richie. Tell Albie I said, 'Merry Christmas.'"

"I will. Goodnight, Jim." He closed the door.

As I walked down the corridor to the stairs, I could hear the snick of the lock, and I shook my head. Richie really needed to see about oiling that lock.

****

By the time New Year's Eve rolled around, Rafe was back working his shift at Macy's, and I was back to the single shift at the bank. The snow had melted, which was a good thing, because the temperature was dropping into the single digits. We dressed warm and went up to Times Square, and we watched the ball come down, just three guys celebrating the holiday stag.

Even after the ball had gone down, Times Square was mobbed. There were so many people.

I caught the hint of a scent, and my nose twitched, and my cock got hard. I had no trouble recognizing it - the man leaving Banks the day I'd been hired by Simon. Megan had looked interested when I'd asked her about him, but she wouldn't tell me his name. 'Simon does some work for him from time to time. All I can tell you is that he's a Jewish cop in a city where every other cop is Irish.'

"Jim." Richie's hand was on my arm. "I'm takin' Albie for that drink. You really don't mind?"

"No - no, that's fine." I had a feeling if I went east, I'd find my mystery man. "Have a good time. Happy New Year."

"Happy New Year, Jim." They walked toward an uptown subway entrance.

I looked around, hoping I would see the possessor of that tantalizing scent, but with no luck. He was gone.

There was no reason for me to stay. I headed for the downtown subway and lucked out. A #6 was just pulling up to the platform. The car I entered was crowded. These people were probably going on to another party or maybe to a lover's pad. They'd be out until the early morning hours.

I stepped to the center of the car and grasped an overhead strap. The doors slid shut, and as the train rolled into motion, I lost myself in the sound of the car clattering over the rails and rocking from side to side.

A jab in the ribs brought me back to the present with a jolt.

"Well, well. If it isn't Jim Ellison." Randy Beautiful, and he'd had more than a bit too much to drink.

"Hello, Randy. Happy New Year." Treating a client politely was force of habit.

"I never thought I'd see you riding a subway."

"I could say the same."

"Hi, Jim!"

"Jeff! Happy New Year!" We embraced, pounding each other on the back.

"The same to you, you old horse!" Jeff was my height and weight. His hair was a little darker than mine and about the length mine used to be when I was in the business. His eyes were the same cool blue. We'd worked together a few times, passing ourselves off as brothers. Some clients liked that.

"Shut up, Jeff! I paid for you!" Randy was almost foaming at the mouth. "Don't you fucking say a word to this... this..."

"Problem, gentlemen?" A Transit cop, his winter jacket opened, and his gun visible, approached us.

Randy ignored him and curled his lip at me. "So who're you screwing now, whore?"

Jeff's eyes widened, but he kept his mouth shut. I understood. As Randy had said, he'd paid for him.

"Listen, sir. This is the first day of the new year. There's no need to be unpleasant about it."

"Piss off, pig." Randy made the mistake of trying to shove the cop. He lost his balance and hit the floor of the subway car.

Jeff gazed at Randy pensively. He looked at the floor of the subway car, looked at his designer trousers, and his expression seemed to say, 'Not in this lifetime am I kneeling on that.'

The cop shook his head. "He giving you a hard time, sir?" He reached down and helped Randy get back to his feet, brushing the back of his psychedelic jacket.

"Why are you asking him that? He's trash!" Randy sneered at me drunkenly.

The cop looked at me, at the black wool coat I was wearing and the white silk scarf around my neck.

He looked at Randy, dressed in tie-died bell-bottoms in scarlet, chartreuse, and magenta, with the matching jacket and a hat that slanted across his forehead at an odd angle.

"Yeah, I can see that." His words were dry.

Randy turned his sneer on the cop. "You're trash!"

"No need to get nasty, sir." The train pulled into a station, and the doors slid open. "You'd better go home and sleep it off."

Randy sneered some more, straightened his shoulders, and strode out of the subway car, only to stumble as he took his first step onto the platform. Jeff tried to loop his arm in Randy's and steady him, but he was brushed away.

"Idiot!" Randy stalked off, his gait as controlled as a drunk's could be. Jeff met my eyes, shrugged, and followed him. A hustler's life could be rough.

"Thanks, Officer."

"You're welcome. There are a lot of tourists in New York for the New Year. We can't let people like him go around giving this city a bad name. Happy New Year."

"Uh... Happy New Year."

****

I went down to Banks to pick up my bonus check.

Because of the very favorable report he had received from Macy's, and because New Year's Eve fell early in the week, Simon had given me that whole week off.

"You're almost ready for the big leagues, Jim!" There was pleasure in his voice, and he handed me an envelope that contained my bonus check. "Good work."

"Thanks, Simon." I hadn't had much free time - hadn't really wanted it - since I'd started working for him in August; I wasn't sure what I was going to do with myself.

As if I'd spoken the words aloud, he suggested, "You can go for a carriage ride around Central Park, Jim. Take your best gal. Or your best pal." He grinned around his fat cigar.

"Thanks for the advice, Simon." I shook his hand and left.

There was no point in telling him that neither was likely to happen. Aside from cruising the Baths once when I'd been desperate to hold a warm body, there had only been me and my hand.

For a minute, as I waited to board the bus that would take me to my bank on 23rd Street, I thought wistfully of Simon's detective.

Then I sighed and got on the bus. I'd cash the check, stash the bills in my safety box, and maybe go to the movies.

The movie house in SoHo was showing a couple of Sidney Poitier films: In the Heat of the Night and Guess Who's Coming to Dinner.

It might not be a carriage ride with my best pal, but it would be something to do.

****

It was the first week in March. As I left my apartment to go to work, I was surprised to see Albie by the front window, watering the flowers. His face lit up when he saw me.

"Jim! Hello! I'm so glad to see you!" He put down his watering can and came toward me, almost bouncing.

"Shouldn't you be at work?"

"I'm taking the day off. Richie isn't feeling well. He caught a cold."

"So you're taking care of him?"

"Yes. He's a wonderful man, Jim."

"You both are." I smiled at him and started down the stairs. I was glad they were happy together.

"Just one second, Jim?"

I paused. "Yeah?"

"Richie told me you work for a security firm."

"Yes, Banks."

"The Museum is having a Salvador Dali exhibition."

"That's... uh... that's nice."

"The thing is, we need additional guards for the afternoon, evening, and weekend shifts. Would you be interested?"

"You'll have to clear it with my boss, Simon Banks." I gave him a business card with the phone number on it.

"Thanks, Jim."

"Tell Richie I hope he feels better."

Albie gave me a vivid smile and went back to watering the plants, and I went to work.

That evening, Simon called me. "Thanks for the referral, Jim. I've taken on the job. There's a spot on the weekend shift open, Sunday from 10:30 to 5:30. It's only until the beginning of April. Do you want it?"

"Sure." It would keep me busy. I took whatever Simon could give me.

"Good. I'll fill you in when I see you on payday."

****

My uniform was gray, my gun was discreetly tucked away, and I would walk through the exhibit, trying to blend in with the surroundings.

No good deed goes unpunished. Who should come in about an hour before the Museum was scheduled to close my first Sunday there, but Randy Beautiful.

"Well, well, well. Isn't it a small world?"

"Hello, Randy." The odor of alcohol on his breath was so strong I couldn't prevent myself from flinching.

"Wassa... " He cleared his throat. "What's the matter?"

"Isn't it a little early to have started drinking?"

"It has to be eight o'clock somewhere in the world. 'Sides, I only had one little one."

"Randy!" Tugging his sleeve was a young man who had to be his latest lover. His looks were enough to make a thinking man catch his breath.

I guessed I wasn't a thinking man.

"Shut up, Chris. You're just supposed to stand beside me and look pretty." Randy slanted a glance at me. "And be good in bed."

Chris stiffened, then turned to me. "Can you tell me where the men's room is?"

"Of course. Go to the end of this corridor," I pointed, "and turn left."

"Thank you." He walked away, brisk, and... angry?

"Always thought you were God's gift, didn't you?" Randy sniped. "Who'd've thought you of all people would wind up with an honest job?"

"What I did was honest, Randy. I gave you your money's worth."

"Until you walked out on me."

"I couldn't be what you wanted, Randy. I'm sorry about that."

For a brief moment I saw regret in his eyes, then he turned and leered at the retreating form. "He's better than you ever were!"

"How fortunate for you."

"The only good thing you ever did was hire Maria Hernandez."

"Maria is still with you?" When I'd first moved in with him, he had just fired the last in a very long line of cleaning women. I'd offered to find someone. She told me she was from Puerto Rico, and I accepted that, even though I recognized her accent as Mexican.

"She won't leave. She knows if she ever tried to, I'd turn her in to INS. She's a wetback."

How had he found out about that? I thought I'd covered Maria's tracks. My expression must have given me away.

"I have friends in the right places, Jimbo." Randy smirked. "I think I'll just go and make sure Chris doesn't get lost." He swaggered away.

I stared after him, wondering if I should be concerned. I could see him getting a little tight during the holidays, but on a March Sunday... that didn't make any sense.

The head of the Museum's own security came over. "Trouble, Jim?"

Randy wasn't my concern any longer, but we had been lovers once. Maybe I owed him at least something for that time.

"Would you mind if I checked up on them? The gentleman seems a little under the weather."

"Is that what they call being bombed these days? Go ahead, Jim. The museum will be closing soon, and it's starting to empty out. I think we can handle the crowd," he looked around at the almost empty space, "until you get back."

"Thanks, Mike."

When I got to the men's room, I found the door locked. I could hear low grunts and moans, and I rattled the knob and knocked on the door.

"It's in use."

"There's more than one stall, Randy."

"Jim! Fuck, I'm not done! Just a second!" There were more grunts, a satisfied moan, and then rustling sounds. Finally the door swung open, and Randy stood there, his dick tucked away, but his trousers undone.

"I'm sorry. Fire rules." I walked toward him, forcing him to step back. "This door must be kept unlocked at all times. Zip your pants, Randy. I could haul you in for indecent exposure. Are you all right?" I asked his companion.

"Yes. I'm fine." He didn't look fine. His mouth was swollen, and white liquid - I knew it was semen - spotted his tie and jacket. His eyes had a strange look in them, almost... He blinked, and it was gone. He went to a sink, washed his hands, then patted his mouth with the dampened paper towel. "Randy?"

"Yes, sweetheart. Let's go. Goodbye, Jim."

They walked out, and I was relieved to see the back of my former lover. It was a small world, but maybe if I was lucky, I wouldn’t see him again.

****

According to the calendar, spring was only a matter of days away, but that was hard to believe. Sleet was spitting on the streets in sheets.

I was getting dressed for work when someone started pounding on my door so hard I thought it was going to rattle off its hinges. I hadn't put my shoes on yet, and I skidded across the floor as I ran to open it.

Richie was standing there, dancing from foot to foot, looking frazzled and at his wits' end.

"Jesus, Richie. What's wrong?"

"It's Albie!"

"What's the matter with him?"

"He caught a cold!"

"Uh... Richie? There's been a lot of that going around. We've had nothing but crummy weather since the day after New Year's. Everyone's had a cold or the flu."

"Albie caught my cold. He's miserable! He came home early from the Museum yesterday an' didn't even tell me!"

"Didn't you think it was strange that he didn't come down to your place?"

"I didn't wanna crowd him. Sometimes he likes to be by himself."

"So how did you find out he was sick?"

"We usually have breakfast together, y'know? an' this mornin' when he don't show up, I go up to his apartment. I had to let myself in with my master key. I ain't seen him since yesterday mornin'. 'Hey. Albie,' I yell. 'Are you mad at me or somethin'?' 'No. I'm fine. Go 'way,' he says from the bedroom. And then I hear him start coughin' like he's gonna puke up a lung. So in I go, an' there he is, layin' in bed. Sick as a dog, I tell ya!"

"Are you okay, Richie?" It hadn't been that long since he'd been sick.

"Yeah, I'm fine. But I can't leave him. Jim, would you mind goin' grocery shoppin' for us? Aw fuck, you got work! Never mind, I can call... I'll call... "

There really wasn't anyone else in the building he could call. Except for Albie and me, the rest of the tenants were on the shady side of sixty, and the cold made their bones ache miserably. And if they sat with Albie while Richie did the shopping, most likely they'd get sick.

"It's okay, Richie. I'll call the bank and tell them I'll be late. Give me your list."

"You're a good man, Jim. Gimme a couple a minutes to write it up, okay?"

"Go ahead. I'll make that call and be right down."

"Thanks, Jim." He went down the stairs, muttering, "Chicken soup. I need a nice, plump chicken. Tea. Honey. Vapo-Rub." His voice faded.

I dialed the bank's number. "It's Jim Ellison. I have to help out a friend, so I'll be a little late."

"Sure thing, Jim. Pat can hold the fort until you get here."

"Thanks. I'll be in as soon as I can." I hung up and got myself together. Shoes on and laced up. Gun in its holster at my hip. Coat over my arm.

All set. I trotted down to the first floor and paused at the lobby door. Richie probably hadn't had time to check if the newspaper had been delivered.

I opened the door.

The Daily News was lying on the radiator in the lobby. Richie always gave the paperboy a good tip, and the kid always saw to it that in bad weather, like today, the paper was inside and dry.

I picked it up and carried it to Richie's apartment.

Albie was lying on the sofa, his head propped on a bunch of pillows and an afghan Richie's sister had crocheted tucked around his legs. A TV tray holding a box of tissues and a glass of orange juice was next to him.

"How are you feeling, Albie?"

"Awful!" he moaned, his voice hoarse. "I'm dying!"

"I ain't gonna let you!" Richie yelled from the kitchen. "I'm gonna make you some of my gramma's chicken soup, and you're gonna be tiptop before you know it."

"No, I won't." Albie blew his nose noisily. He saw the newspaper I held. "What's happening in the world outside, Jim? Richie won't let me watch television. He's getting even with me. I wouldn't let him watch As the World Turns."

"I heard that!" Richie yelled "An' I ain't tryin' to get even!"

I laughed softly. "It's the same old thing, Albie. You know - murder, mayhem. And I'm not just talking about the city."

As I'd hoped, that made him laugh. I tossed my coat over the back of the sofa and thumbed through the pages, reading the items I thought he'd find interesting.

A small article on page seven caught my eye.

"Oh, fuck!" I stared at it in shock.

"Jim? Richie, get in here!"

"What's wrong?" Richie came running in.

"Jim swore!" Albie sneezed and fumbled for a tissue.

"What happened?"

"Someone I knew was killed, strangled."

"Oh, my God!"

"Yeah. I ran into him at the Museum on Sunday!" And I’d wished I’d never see him again. I bunched up the paper and tossed it to the end of the couch, feeling a little sick. "The article said he was found in his penthouse apartment by Marc, who... uh... lives on that floor."

Albie had reached down for the paper and was scanning the article. "Jim, it just says 'another tenant on that floor.' You know his neighbor's name?"

"It's a small world." I didn't want to tell him I'd lived with Randy and I'd gotten to know Marc at a party I had thrown for Randy's birthday. "Anyway, Marc called the police. The detective on the case said it was well-planned, well-executed. Jesus, whoever did this is going to think he's being complimented!"

"I'm sure it wasn't meant that way, Jim."

"So am I, Albie. But will someone nutty enough to strangle a stranger believe that?" I went still. Randy was paranoid about letting strangers into his place. He'd had a fit when he'd come home and found Marc in the kitchen swapping recipes with me.

"It's a crazy world." Richie shook his head. "Listen, Jim, forget about the grocery shoppin'. I'll call Mrs. Rossetti, an' her boy can run some groceries up here when he gets home from school. You go see about your friend."

Randy wasn't a friend. He was just someone I'd slept with for a time. "The article in the newspaper says he... his body hasn't been released yet. Let me have the list. Albie should have that chicken soup. I'll get the shopping done and find out where Randy'll be laid out when I get back."

"I understand, Jim. You need to keep busy." Albie looked tired but intent.

"Richie?"

"Okay, my little cannoli." Richie caressed Albie's hair and received a smile that was a little soggy but otherwise incandescent. He returned it in spades, went into the kitchen, and came back with the list.

"Thanks, Richie." I grabbed it and my coat, and headed out the door. I'd call Simon later and see if I could have the day off. If I couldn't... I shrugged. Then I couldn't.

****

The wake was being held the next evening, and only that evening. The soft-voiced man on the other end of the line told me Randy's parents were having his body flown home to Maryland on Thursday morning. They'd probably have the viewing there for a couple of days, and on Saturday, he'd be buried in the family plot.

I didn't want to go to the wake, but I felt I had to. After all, I'd had Randy's dick in my mouth and my ass. The least I could do was go to pay my last respects.

It was raining. Again. Anyone would have thought it was April instead of March.

The front door of Canis and Sons Funeral Home was protected by a canopy. Once I was under it, I shook off my umbrella and closed it, entered the building, and put the umbrella into a stand.

A sad-faced man in a somber black suit sat at the desk just inside the door, and he rose to greet me.

"Good evening, sir. I'm August Canis, Jr. Who are you here to see?"

I told him.

"Ah, yes. So sad. The guest book is right here." I picked up the pen and signed it. "If you will come this way?" He led me down a long corridor to a room on the left and opened the door. "Such a popular young man. We had to elongate the room to accommodate all his friends. My condolences."

"Thank you."

He nodded and returned to his desk.

The room set aside for Randy was crowded with men. I recognized most of them. Some had been clients; some had been colleagues. They came to shake my hand, touch my arm, say a few words.

Two black men, one very tall and the other shorter and a little stocky, didn't stroll so much as stalk around the room, while they tried to appear inconspicuous. They were definitely not gay.

There were a few women too. They stayed close to men who were conservatively dressed. I assumed they represented the brokerage firm Randy worked for.

I turned my attention to the front of the room where the mahogany coffin with its champagne velvet interior held pride of place.

A blanket of white roses covered the closed end of the casket and draped over the bier. I could see the broad swath of ribbon that read: Beloved Son.

Banked around the casket and lining the walls were baskets, sprays, wreaths, and hearts - roses, orchids, other exotic blooms.

My contribution was a bronze vase filled with early spring flowers.

I started to walk toward the casket.

"Jim!"

"Jeff!" We hugged.

"It's been a while."

"Yeah. How are you?"

"I'm good, thanks. And you?"

"I'm good."

"I can't believe that Randy... He called me a couple of times after you left. New Year's Eve was the last time." His mouth twisted. "He called me 'Jim'. Not that I minded. You're not an easy act to follow."

"Thanks. I'm surprised, though. He was acting cool to me toward the end."

"You think Richard was behind that?"

Richard Lee was a close friend of Randy's. He had wanted to share me, and Randy would have let him, but I'd put my foot down. Richard had a reputation among my colleagues, and it wasn't a good one.

"Yeah. Richard always was a dick."

Jeff bit back a laugh. "Yeah." He glanced toward the mahogany casket. "We weren't sure if you'd be here tonight."

"I'd be here. Professional courtesy."

"Who are they?" He gestured discreetly toward the women and men glancing from Randy to the other men scattered around the room.

"His colleagues from work, I would think. From the looks of it, we're a surprise to them."

"I think you're right. I wonder how this will go over on Wall Street tomorrow?"

"Not our worry." A very good-looking man walked into the room and looked around. His face lit up when he saw Jeff. "A... friend?"

"A good friend. I've got to go. I'll just say a final prayer."

I walked with him to the casket. He bowed his head, and I assumed he was praying. I just stared at the body of the man who had once been my lover.

He was dressed in his favorite tuxedo, and he looked serene, an expression I'd never seen on him before. An excellent job had been done on his face, although I could see layers of cover-up the mortician had probably needed to conceal the bruising from the fingers that had dug into Randy's throat.

Abruptly I was overwhelmed by the odor of the room - cologne, deodorant, fresh flowers, and the furnace in the basement that warmed the air. Underlying it all was the smell of formaldehyde, and I couldn't stand it. I couldn't...

A hand on my arm brought me back to the present.

"Are you okay, Jim?" Jeff asked.

I was mortified. "I'm fine," I said gruffly, brushing the hand away. I thought I heard a sigh.

"Are you sure you're okay?"

"Yes."

"If you're sure." He touched my shoulder, and I realized abruptly that it hadn't been Jeff’s hand on my arm. "I have to go, Jim. It was good seeing you again."

"You, too." I took a quick glance around, but there was no one close to me. "Take care of yourself, Jeff."

We shook hands, and he joined his friend. They went around the room, speaking with other men and shaking hands, and then left.

I looked around once more, hoping I'd be able to spot the man who'd brought me out of the daze, but with no luck.

You've stayed long enough, Ellison. I started toward the door.

"Going somewhere, leather boy?" It was Richard Lee.

"I'm going home."

"You've got some nerve. You walk out on him, then show up at his funeral?"

"What was between Randy and me was between Randy and me." I hadn't had much choice. Randy had left me long before I'd walked out that door.

On occasion I'd seen the way Richard had looked at Randy, as if he wanted to possess him. I wondered if Richard had been the reason for Randy becoming so distant.

"This is your fault, do you realize that, Ellison?" Richard ignored what I had said. "If you had been with him, this wouldn't have happened."

"What? What the fuck are you talking about?"

"He would not have opened his door to whoever it was who killed him! If you had stayed with him..."

"Why the fuck didn't you stay with him? Listen, the last time I saw him was Sunday, when he came to the Museum of Modern Art. He was with someone named... " It took me a second to dredge up the name. "... Chris."

"Chris was with Randy? That means that Chris was probably the last person to see him alive! Except for his killer."

"Why didn't you tell me this, Mr. Lee?"

I recognized that voice, and with him standing close enough that the odors in the room didn't overwhelm it, I recognized his scent.

Standing there with his hands in his trouser pockets was Simon's detective.

He grinned at me, and I fell into his eyes, those blue eyes, and was lost looking at him.

We were running hand-in-hand along a beach with sand as white as sugar. We were diving into an ocean as blue as his eyes. We were rolling over silk sheets, and that gorgeous hair of his was stroking over my naked body...

"Hey! What's wrong?" Once again a hand on my arm brought me out of my daze, and I realized that it had been this detective who had done it. "Are you all right, big guy?"

I could sense his interest. More than that, I could smell it, smell the pheromones rolling off him.

"I've never been better, Chief." I smiled and shifted to ease the tightness of my trousers.

He let me go and faced Richard, and I felt bereft. "Are you going to tell me?"

"Tell you what? Detective Sandburg." Richard's acknowledgment was sour.

Sandburg? So that was what Megan meant when she called him a Jewish cop in a city full of Irish cops.

"I asked you about his friends." He gestured toward Randy. "You didn't mention this 'Chris'."

"Chris was not a friend."

"Oh? Then what would he be considered?"

"He was just a fling, a good time boy, a fun time on a Saturday night."

"But as I understand it, he spent more than one Saturday night with this man."

"What are you insinuating?"

"I'm not insinuating anything. What I'm saying is if I see someone a lot, that makes him more than a fling or a fun time on a Saturday night. At least to me."

"You? You're just a cop. You wouldn't know how we do things."

"Wouldn't I?" Detective Sandburg rocked back and forth, grinning as if he knew something Richard didn't. I had to swallow. I was starting to drool. "So. What's the info on this Chris character?"

Richard shrugged. "I have no idea. Randy did not see fit to reveal his secrets to all and sundry."

"Bullshit,” I said. “He may not have spilled his guts to all and sundry, but he certainly told you everything, Richard." I was glad to get a shot at him.

"That is bull... " He cleared his throat. "That is to say, that is a complete and utter lie!"

"Listen to me, sunshine." Detective Sandburg appeared to be losing patience. "I've got a dead man, and no one who wants to cooperate. So either you tell me what you know, or I'll arrest you for obstructing an investigation."

Richard backed down so fast I was surprised he didn't fall on his ass. "Well, er... none of us had met this Chris person."

"That doesn't sound like Randy. He loved showing me off."

Detective Sandburg looked interested, and I wondered - if we were together, would he love to show me off? Would he like me in leather? His hand on my arm brought me to the present once again, and I smiled at him. He smiled back.

"Yes, well, you aren't Chris." Trust Richard to state the obvious. "Randy talked - had talked - about him. Vivacious and fun-loving, and a body to die for. Not like you."

No, not like me. When Randy realized I was having a problem with my senses, with all my senses, my looks didn't matter for squat. The bloom wore off quickly after that.

"From what I can see, you've got a damned nice body," Detective Sandburg said softly.

My jaw dropped, and I stared at him. "You think so?"

"I think so what?"

"That I've... " He looked confused. "Never mind." I turned back to Richard. "So why didn't he introduce Chris to all of you?"

"I'm sure it was just a matter of time, leather boy. Randy had no doubt finally found someone who loved him."

"Maybe he did, but it doesn't seem like a smart choice." I pointed to Randy lying in his coffin. "And you can't have it both ways, Dick. Either Chris meant nothing to Randy, or he was Randy's own true love."

Richard clenched his fingers and pulled back his arm, about to punch me. I swung around and brought my fists up, ready to face him, and Detective Sandburg stepped between us. Richard had about six inches over him, but the detective was unfazed. He easily caught Richard's fist.

"Uh uh uh. Play nice, kiddies." He released Richard. "So tell me, Mr. Lee. What is Chris's last name?"

Richard shrugged. "That is something Randy never told us."

"He isn't here, is he? I mean, no one's come running over to point him out. Where does he live?"

"That is something else Randy never told us. Now if you'll excuse me, I want to pay my respects."

"Asshole," Detective Sandburg muttered. I tried to bite back a laugh, but I wasn't successful, and I got a number of disapproving looks from the people Randy had worked with.

"Sorry, I'd better go. I'm wearing out my welcome." I held out my hand. "It was nice meeting you, Detective."

He smiled and took my hand. The feel of his palm against mine was like an electrical shock, and I shivered.

"I'd like to talk to you, Mr. Ellison."

Yes! My heart started Boogaloo'ing. "Call me Jim, Chief. Please."

"Jim," he smiled again, and my knees wobbled, "and I'm Blair. Have I seen you before?"

"Maybe at Banks? I work for Simon."

"You're his newest security guard? I'm impressed. He's had nothing but good things to say about you!"

"Thank you. He's a good man to work for."

"He is a good man. I've known him since the Academy." He drew me toward an empty corner at the back of the room.

"So, what did you want to talk to me about?"

"You said you'd seen the man who was with," he gestured to the coffin. "Can you describe him?"

"Usually I'm pretty good with descriptions, but this time... All I can tell you about Chris is that he was maybe the most gorgeous man I've ever seen."

"The most gorgeous man you've ever seen?" Blair repeated. "I see." Was it my imagination, or did he sound disappointed?

"Yeah. But he didn't do anything for me."

"He didn't?"

"No. There was something off about his looks."

"How do you mean 'off'?"

"I don't know. He was using... not makeup. Greasepaint? I think it smelled like greasepaint. I dated a guy once who was on Broadway."

"You were that close to him?"

"The guy on Broadway? It was just a fling. Oh, you mean Chris, who was with Randy." I widened my eyes innocently, and he cuffed my arm and laughed. "Actually I wasn't too close, but he must have layered it on with a trowel. I had no trouble smelling it. It may have just been me, though. It didn't seem to bother Randy, and he was all over him."

"Oh?"

"Chris went down on him in the men's room."

"Hmmm. What about distinguishing features?"

"You mean if he had a scar or bushy eyebrows or a really huge nose?"

"Yeah."

"No. Gorgeous, remember?" I took a chance and flirted, "Now you - you've got a sweet nose. I could never forget it."

"You think I've got a sweet nose?" He brought his fingers up to his nose, and I could tell the gesture was involuntary, but pleased.

I relaxed and grinned. "Yeah, I do." I glanced at my watch. "It's getting late, and I've got work in the morning. I'd better go."

"Can I call you? I mean, if I have any more questions?"

"Sure. If you have any more questions. I'll give you my phone number." I remembered I hadn't thought to being a pen. "Do you have a pen?"

"Yeah." He patted himself down. "Damn, I must have left it on my desk. Hey, Taggert! Over here."

Whoever was in the path of the big black detective got out of it quickly. "Yeah, Blair?"

"Pen?"

He laughed and shook his head. "You lost another one?"

"It isn't lost. It's simply... not on my person."

"Right." He reached into the inner pocket of his jacket. "Here you go. Make sure you don't lose this one."

"Yeah, yeah." He gave it to me.

"Thanks." I didn't ask for a piece of paper. I clicked the Bic, opened his palm, and wrote down my phone number. He trembled and flushed, and as much as I wanted to tease him, draw my tongue over the numbers I had written, I didn't.

"I'll be in touch in the morning. No, wait. You'll be at work..."

"Yes. And I've already had a day off."

"I'll call you in the evening, then."

"I'll look forward to hearing from you. Bye, Blair."

"Bye, Jim."

I handed the pen back to the man beside him. "Detective Taggert."

"Yeah, bye, Jim." Taggert chuckled when Blair hit his arm. "What? I was just being sociable." I was almost out the door when Taggert said, "So, Blair. Learn anything?"

"Yeah." Blair's voice was dreamy. "He thinks I have a sweet nose." He cleared his throat. "I mean no. He couldn't give me a description of the man who was with the deceased."

"But you're going to question him again tomorrow."

"Why not? A good night's sleep might shake up the little gray cells."

"Keep telling yourself that. You just want to see him again." But there was no hostility in his words, and I was relieved.

"Did you learn anything, Joel?"

"Just that some of these men didn't like the deceased. I've got names."

"Good work. Get H. We may as well..."

I didn't learn what they may as well were going to do. Mr. Canis approached with my umbrella.

"Shall I call you a cab, sir?"

I could hear the rain beating on the pavement outside.

"Yes, please. This is no night to wait for a bus."

While I waited, I hoped Blair would come out into the corridor, but he didn't.

"Your cab is here, sir."

"Thank you." I ran out into the rain, got into the cab, and told the driver, "852 East 14th Street."

"Got it."

****

The phone was ringing as I let myself into my apartment. I crossed to the kitchen and took the receiver off the wall.

"Ellison."

"Hi." A warm voice.

"Blair?"

"Yeah. I wanted to make sure you got home okay."

"You did?"

"Yeah. I couldn't wait until tomorrow to talk to you again."

"Oh." My stomach started doing somersaults.

"I hope you don't mind?"

"I don't mind." I caught the phone between my shoulder and my ear, and shrugged out of my overcoat. "Are you still at the funeral home?"

"Yes. Everyone's left. I'm about to leave."

"So... uh... would you like to come by... " Now and make wild, sweaty love with me? I cleared my throat. "... tomorrow night for dinner?"

"I'd like that."

I let out a breath. "Great. About seven?"

"That will be fine."

"Okay. I'll see you tomorrow night at seven. Goodnight, Blair."

"Wait a second! Don't hang up! I need your address!"

"Of course. Sorry. Do you have a pen?"

"Shit. Okay, listen, I have a good memory. Reel it off."

"I'm in the East Village. 852 East 14th, 3E. Got it?"

"Yeah. I've got it. I'll see you tomorrow. Oh, and Jim?" His voice was like a velvet caress.

"Yes?"

There was a long pause, and then he blew out a breath. "Sleep well, big guy."

"You too, Chief." I had a feeling that wasn't what he was going to say. "Goodnight."

"'Night, Jim."

I didn't think I'd be able to fall asleep right away, but I did. And when I dreamed, I dreamed of him.