He headed out into an early evening turned overcast, steel wool gray and just starting to drizzle, but the air was still thick and the rain tropically warm so it was more oppressive than refreshing. He took the GTO, but ended up parking it a block away from his intended location, in a Starbucks parking lot, because Weston Boulevard wasn’t really made for parking, and what spots that existed were taken up quickly. On his way, he stopped in a 7-11 and bought cigarettes. He didn’t smoke, but cigarettes were as much currency on the streets as they were in prison.

He walked down to the boulevard, and looked around for any familiar faces. It was possible that no one he remembered from his time on the streets was still here - hooking wasn’t a job with great security or longevity built into it. But after a minute or two, he saw a familiar lanky figure wearing a tan Stetson saunter out a doorway and take a seat on the bus stop bench. Roan walked down to the bus stop and took a seat on the bench. “Hey Cowboy, how are you doing?”

The hustler looked at him askance, studying him while pretending to ignore him. He was a gaunt boy, five ten but maybe only about one hundred and thirty pounds, his eyes a delicate blue in a face made to look rugged through an interesting pattern of acne scars. He was called Cowboy because of his ubiquitous hat and the fact that he had a thick Oklahoma accent. He was probably about twenty six now, although he barely looked it, and Roan vaguely remembered that his real name was Leo.

Roan figured it was hair color that gave him away. His eyes seemed to lock on that and recognition dawned. He noticed the boy’s pupils were awfully big, and he was giving off a slightly chemical scent. “Oh hey, Officer Roan, right?”

“Right. Only it isn’t Officer now.”

“Yeah, yeah, I heard about that. They kicked you out ‘cause you was gay?”

Was that the rumor on the street? Considering the rather poor relationship between the gay community and the cops, he couldn‘t say he was surprised. “No.”

“Infected?”

“No.”

Rain was starting to drip off the brim of his hat, making a dull plopping noise as it dripped onto his sodden pant legs. “What then?”

He shrugged, but was forced to admit the truth. “’Cause I sucked at my job. I beat the shit out of a guy.”

Cowboy glanced at him before turning his eyes to the street. If one of the cars driving past slowed down, he was being cruised. “Did he deserve it?”

“I think so.”

“Then what was the problem? Cops beat the shit out of guys all the time, and half of them don’t deserve it.”

That was an interesting perspective. He wasn’t sure the math worked, but far be it from him to defend his ex employers. “It’s all politics, isn’t it? Wanna cigarette?”

That simple question brought an eager brightness. “Yeah, you got one?”

He pulled out the pack from his pocket, tore it open, and shook out a cigarette, which Cowboy took with practiced ease. By the time he popped it between his lips, he already had a red plastic Bic lighter in his hand, and lit the cigarette while Roan was still putting the pack away. You had to feel a bit bad for the nicotine addicts. “Thanks,” he said, exhaling a stream of smoke. “So what d’ya want?”

“Just for you to answer a couple of questions for me.”

The goodwill the cigarette bought seemed to disappear. He was eyeing him with open skepticism. “I thought you said you weren’t a cop anymore.”

“I’m not. I am a private detective, though.”

His suspicion eased, but not by much. “Really? Like some t.v. guy? So what are you investigatin’?”

“Right now I’m looking into some beatings that have occurred out here. You heard of them?”

The tension that had suddenly appeared in his shoulders seemed to melt away as he nodded, but Cowboy chose then to avoid looking at him, gazing across the street instead. “Yeah. Some skeeze jacking the greenies. He’s goin’ for them for a reason, y’know? ‘Cause I can just look at a guy and know within five seconds if he wants to fuck me, fuck me up, or bust me. The new kids gotta learn that.”

“So you’re not worried.”

“Naw. ‘Sides, if I was ever stupid enough to go with someone like that, I got my knife, and I used to castrate bulls. Doin’ the same thing to a guy wouldn’t be much different.”

Roan squelched the urge to wince. Unlike most of these sidewalk cowboys, Cowboy actually had some credentials. He was a rancher’s son, one who got kicked out of the house when his parents caught him with another guy in the barn. He said he just hit the Greyhound station and randomly got on the first bus out of town, figuring he’d ride it as long as he could, which is how he ended up here. He said he was hoping to end up in San Francisco or Los Angeles, but he said he kind of liked it here. He’d been here ten years, and had been hooking for six. At the last count Roan was privy to, he’d been arrested three times. “Did you know any of the kids who got beat?”

He shook his head. “I don’t hang with other hustlers. They’re all thieves and users.”

“Does that include you?”

His eyes and lips narrowed to deadly slits, but his cigarette remained firmly clamped in the corner of his mouth. “You bein’ a smart ass?”

“Probably. If you didn’t know the kids, did you see anything unusual those nights? Did you see who picked them up?”

He shook his head as he tapped an ash onto the sidewalk. “I don’t even remember seein’ ‘em.”

“You know of anyone who might have?”

He shrugged again, taking a deep drag off his cigarette. There was something remarkably stoic about Cowboy, and yet Roan always got the impression that he was the loneliest guy on the planet. It could have been a gambit, a way of attracting customers, but Roan wasn’t so sure about that. It never seemed intentional. “Dunno. I haven’t asked.”

He may have been a known quantity, but he wasn’t an ideal informant. “Does Dude still work this strip?” Dude was a long haired surfer boy looking type, hence his street name.

“Naw. He headed to California last year.”

“Spike?”

He shook his head. “I haven’t seen him for a long time. Dunno what happened to him.”

Shit. Both Dude and Spike got really chatty, especially if they were stoned or you bought them some booze. You had to love the gossipy queens sometimes. “Mika still come by here?”

“Not anymore. She got popped for possession and went to court ordered rehab, and in there I hear she met a sugar daddy who financed the rest of her operation.”

“Oh. So he’s a full female now?”

“Apparently, yeah.” His lips twisted in distaste as he slumped back against the bench. “Why would someone do that? Voluntarily get their dick cut off? That’s just creepy.”

This from the guy who was threatening to castrate any man who raised a hand to him. “If that’s what it takes to make him feel comfortable in his own skin - transitioning to female - who are we to judge? Whatever gets you through the night.”

Cowboy snorted in amusement. “I see what’cha mean about bein’ a bad cop.”

Very funny. He wracked his brain for any other hustlers who might have some information and might be willing to talk to him. “What about Fox?”

“Oh wow, him. He’s moved up in the world. He works for this high class place on Lincoln.”

“Really? What’s it called?”

“Um … Elite Escorts.”

“Cute. Why didn’t you go with him?” Cowboy probably could have; he had a good sized customer fan base.

He shrugged uncomfortably and took another serious drag off his cigarette. “The guy who runs the place is pretty strict. Supposedly he drug tests. Fox said there were ways to get around that, but it seemed like a hassle.”

“What’re you on?”

Cowboy gave him a cutting glance. “Thought you weren’t a cop.”

“I’m not. You just look a little thinner than usual.”

After a moment when he scanned the traffic with predatory eyes, he finally said, “Ice. It’s brilliant. I haven’t slept for twenty eight hours, I can’t remember the last time I ate, and I feel fucking fantastic.”

It was sometimes curious what people considered a good thing. “Why don’t we hit the cafe? I can buy you some food, some coffee.”

He shook his head emphatically, sending rain droplets flying. “Naw. I mean thanks, but I ain’t hungry. I got cash.”

“Good.” But he had a sneaking suspicion all that money would be going for ice, which he knew was some form of refined, synthesized speed. Like meth, but “cleaner”. He knew that was yet another drug that was sweeping the gay clubbing culture - high on that shit, you could stay up and fuck all night, without a break to sleep or eat. Of course you’d probably drop dead of a heart attack soon after, but what was life without risk?

He wished Cowboy luck and told him to take care of himself, which Roan doubted he’d do, and then walked the few blocks to Lincoln Street, hoping he’d see someone he’d recognize along the way. He didn’t, but two hookers offered him “dates”, one male (whom he didn’t recognize) and one female (also new to him).

Lincoln Street was totally devoted to businesses, and most were in identical buildings, although there a couple of older style high rises that had some charm. One looked deceptively like a New York style brownstone, with all the businesses occupying a floor apiece. He went inside to the lobby, where all the businesses were listed on a wooden board with their floors listed beside them. There was a real hodgepodge here - an orthodontist on one floor, an internet travel company on another, a very vague company on another (“Meridian Limited” could have meant anything), and a company named only “Elite” on the fifth floor. That was probably them.

He took the elevator up to the fifth floor, and when the doors opened, he double checked to make sure he had pushed the right button. The floor was almost totally empty; it was just an empty hallway leading to a closed door that had dents and scrapes marring the wood. He assumed Elite did most of their business by phone and internet, but needed a physical address for some reason. Still, he went up to the door and tried the knob.

Bizarrely it opened, and he found himself in a tiny white painted office, with a small Ikea desk that had a three year old Dell computer sitting on it. Seated behind the desk was a young woman with hair dyed an unnaturally bright orange-red, and she was wearing black lipstick and a spiked dog collar around her neck. She was neither attractive nor unattractive, simply there, and she wore a tight spandex paisley top that showed off a rather tremendous pair of breasts. “Yeah?” she asked, chewing gum loudly. He could see that the gum was a disturbing pastel blue.

“I’m looking for Fox.”

“Fox who?” She was eyeing him like a particularly stinky piece of fish.

“Fox the … escort. His real name is Holden Krause, if you’re keeping track of that.”

She kept chewing loudly, giving him a look that could have curdled milk. “We ain’t got no escorts here. You got the wrong place.”

Oh good. The business’s lone defense was an obnoxious secretary. “I’m not a cop. I’m a friend of his. Cowboy told me he works here now.”

“I don’t know anyone named Cowboy.”

“He works Weston Boulevard. He’s hard to miss, seeing as he’s usually the only guy there wearing a cowboy hat.”

The gum went “smack-smack-smack” as she chewed it, a noise so obnoxious he was sure she was doing it on purpose. “I don’t know of any Weston Boulevard.”

He rolled his eyes and balled his fists, trying to tamp down his rage. Obnoxious secretaries actually were an excellent line of defense. If he slapped the gum out of her mouth, would that qualify as violence against women? Probably. All he could hope was that she’d start choking, and he’d have the excuse to give her a too enthusiastic Heimlich maneuver. “It’s the street three blocks away, with the Moorhart building on it.”

She looked at him with a blank, aimless hostility. “So?”

Okay, this was it. He was going to put her under citizen’s arrest for no good reason, and make up charges when the cops arrived. He opened his mouth to start reading her her Miranda rights when the door behind her opened, and a tall, well built black man looked at him in open surprise. “Boyfriend of yours, Ashley?”

She snorted so disdainfully he was surprised she didn’t swallow her gum. “Hardly. He’s some dick nattering on about the Moorhart building.”

After giving her an evil look, he looked at the man in direct appeal. “I’m Roan McKichan, a friend of Fox’s. Cowboy told me he worked here now. I’m just trying to find him.”

The man studied him with a skeptical eye. He was six three and leanly muscled, wearing loose black pants and a skin tight red t-shirt that showed you what he had for lunch (he’d skipped today - either that, or he had a single grape). “Why are you trying to find him?”

Roan held his hands out in mute appeal. “I just need to talk to him. If it wasn’t important, I wouldn’t be here.”

The man raised an eyebrow, and Roan noticed he glimmered faintly. Body glitter? “Are you a cop?”

“Hell no. Do I look like a cop?”

The man made of show of slowly looking him over, and said, “I guess not. But you don’t look like you’re in the game either.”

“I wasn’t; that isn’t how he knows me. Call him and ask - he’ll tell you I’m cool.” This was a bit of a risky gambit, but Fox wasn’t called Fox because he was so damn gorgeous - he earned his nickname because he was so fucking cunning. He was smarter than you’d ever expect a street hustler to be, and there wasn’t an angle he couldn’t work. He gained himself almost legendary status on the street when he talked a judge into throwing out charges against him in court. He was so sly and slick it was impossible; he’d missed his calling as a politician. Roan had asked him why, considering how smart he was, he decided to work as a hustler. Fox’s reply was: “It beats work.” He was betting that Fox would know that if he was asking for him, there was a good reason for it.

The man pulled a tiny little cell phone out of his pants pocket, and hit a single button, indicating that he had Fox on speed dial. He was another one of the hustlers, obviously, but it made him curious who was behind the door. “Hey, Fox? There’s a guy here at the office who says he knows you.” His brown eyes fixed on him curiously.

“Roan McKichan.”

“Roan McKichan.” He paused briefly, listened, a slow scowl forming on his face. “You sure? Okay. See you later.” He turned off the phone and slipped it into his pocket as he said, “He said to send you on over. He lives in Lakeview Terrace on 38th Street, apartment 24. You know where that is?”

“Yeah, I do. Thanks.”

As he turned to go, the hustler asked, “Hey - how do you know him? Are you an ex-boyfriend or something?”

“No.” He looked at him over his shoulder, and said, “I arrested him once.”

He hadn’t really personally arrested him, but the lie was worth it for the look of shock and horror on his face.

The thing about Fox was he was sure if he didn’t know anything, he’d know exactly who to talk to. If there was anyone out there who knew anything, Fox would find them. The only problem was, he wouldn’t help him if he didn’t see how it could benefit him, which was a major problem. You couldn’t outsmart Fox, you could only hope to convince him it was worth his while to work with you.