Meantime, Part 8
8 – I Became A Prostitute
Holden figured his trip to the Church was timely, as the Rico case hit a dead end.
The old number he had for Jewel was no longer in service, and the first mutual friend they had also had a disconnected number. There was someone else he could call, and did, but all he got was their machine. He left a message, but he had no idea if they would ever call back. If he couldn’t find Jewel, his investigation ended here. Hell, even if he did find her, she might not have seen a damn thing, and the investigation ended anyways. Roan had told him once that sometimes there wasn’t even an ending, good or bad, just a series of questions that could never be answered. Perhaps Rico’s life would boil down to that. Maybe his would too.
Grey made some good fried eggs and frozen hash browns, and he was good breakfast company. He got a call from his agent at one point, although he was very monosyllabic, and his expression remained as placid as always. Just out of curiosity, Holden asked, as soon as he hung up, “What was that about?”
Grey shrugged, cutting another bite of eggs off with the side of his fork. “Looks like I might get signed to the Flyers. Pass the salsa?”
Even as poor as his hockey knowledge was, Scott had a shirt with a Flyers logo on it. “An NHL team? Isn’t the exciting?”
Grey shrugged again. “Yeah. But I’ll hafta move. I kinda like it here.”
And that was that. Scott was right – nothing fazed Grey. He was permanently stuck in a low gear, except when his coach asked him to act like a bouncer on the ice. It was awesomely strange. A type B personality wasn’t inclined to be the dedicated athlete that he was, so what was he? Type C?
Holden went home to take a shower and change, and in his bathroom cabinet he found the box of semi-permanent hair dye he’d bought for some reason, but had yet to use. He used to dye his hair blond to appeal to more clients, but let it grow back to its original color when he stopped taking new ones on. The dye was for a transitional color, a very light brunette called “Driftwood” on the box, with “light ash brown” beneath it in case you couldn’t figure out what it meant. Impulsively, he decided to use it now, and colored his hair for the first time in a long time. Why not?
The dye just lightened his hair, turned it into a hybrid between his natural dark brown and his previous fake blond. As he was blow drying his hair, he considered digging out some of his colored contacts and putting them in, and then he wondered why. It wasn’t like he expected to get identified at the Church, as he was pretty sure that wasn’t going to happen, and even if it did, he was convinced he could bullshit his way out of it. So why was he going to this trouble?
He didn’t know, except perhaps he was sure something was fucked up, and his way of handling it was to change himself, like maybe if life didn’t recognize him, he could duck whatever punches were being thrown his way. Speaking of which, his black eye didn’t look that bad, but he bet he could construct a good story around it. In fact, it was a shame it wasn’t worse, as he really could have milked that.
He dressed not just casually, but in stuff that genuinely looked like it came from a thrift store. Not the good stuff, the ill fitting stuff with obvious imperfections, because he wanted to seem pitiable, and also like he’d been neglecting to take care of himself. He’d been depressed, maybe suicidal. In fact, his hair almost looked to good for that, but fuck it – they were mainly straight at the Church, right? They probably believed all gay men had good hair, no matter the circumstances.
It turned out to be a very slow day at the Church, and not much had changed, except there was a bit more parking, and someone had mowed the lawn recently.
Holden had his story all ready to go, so when some male functionary let him in, he told him his name was Hayden (why not?) and he was a new infected. The man, who seemed unconcerned and not interested, said he’d send a “peer counselor” in (just a member, nothing else) in a moment, and to make himself at home. Holden sat down on a tacky sofa that was probably from a thrift shop somewhere, and he couldn’t help but note it looked a little like a ‘70’s rec room. Did all churches have one room that looked vaguely like a ‘70’s rec room? He knew his dad’s church had, until it became a million dollar mega church that said, loud and clear “Fuck you, poor people!” It was just the kind of disgusting ostentation that turned him off and made him wonder why anyone ever believed a damn thing said by organized religion.
In his mind, Holden had planned the perfect revenge. He would get Roan to take out the security, and Rocky and some of his friends from the Dungeon to guard the doors while he and many of his hooker brethren – as well as some of the guys from Panic, and Roan – stormed into his father’s mega church on a packed Sunday, and took over the stage. Some of the guys and girls would make out (same sex only), while the transsexuals would strip, and he would shout “Hello – did you wonder what happened to the son mysteriously Photoshopped out of the promotional materials? That’s me! I went into a Biblical profession – prostitute! We’re older than the fucking hills, and twice as pretty!” Roan would probably object to partially transforming on cue, but he’d probably be okay running a mosh pit with the rough trade. It would be so great to humiliate his father and horrify the white suburban crowd that packed his coffers. They already hated gays and infected, so might as well do something to deserve the hate. It was no fun letting them hate just ‘cause they thought they were all icky. Give them a target to shoot at, a real reason to hate.
The only flaw in the plan was the arrests that would follow. It wouldn’t be fair to so many of them. Disorderly conduct by itself wasn’t a heavy rap, but with some of their rap sheets it would sink them. Still, it would be awesome, especially if they got one of Rocky’s submissives to film it for YouTube. The “gay agenda” in action, turning everyday mega churches into chaotic bacchanals; like a Lady Gaga concert, but so much gayer. Okay, yes, anger at his father was the main fuel, but he did hate the hypocrites, the ones with the pretty suburban lives and morals who still hired him and his kind and preached with fervor what they didn’t practice. How that led him to here he had no idea.
But considering his line of thought, he was really surprised when a vaguely familiar voice asked, “Your real name is Hayden?”
Standing in the open doorway was Badger, a short, stocky Hispanic guy whose real name he never knew. He was one of the gay for pay-ers, who became a hustler to support his habit, or so he said. Holden couldn’t help but be suspicious of a lot of them, and he always got a vibe from Badger that he was actually gay, but too macho to admit it. (He had never met Roan, where he would have learned that no man on Earth could ever be more macho than the gay guy who could turn into a lion. Could any straight man literally unhinge his jaw and bite clean through your neck? No? Then they were pansies.) He wasn’t a bad looking guy, he just had a couple of acne scars marring what was otherwise a nearly flawless caramel complexion, and brown eyes with almost womanly long lashes. In different circumstances, he could have been a heartthrob. But now he was here. “Badger. Holy shit, you’re infected? Last I heard, you’d gone down to California.”
He shrugged, perching warily on the edge of a threadbare armchair. He was still wearing his usual uniform of jeans and a t-shirt, but not in the oversized “gangster” style he preferred on the street. “That’s what I told everybody. But same thing happened to me as I guess happened to you – infected by a client.”
“Shit.” Could he tell his fake sob story with a real life sob story victim right in front of him?
Sure he could. Because sometimes a conscience was for the weak, and he had a job to do.
****
You couldn’t sleep in a hospital, especially on a cot. No matter how comfortable you tried to make it, it was still a hospital, and unless you were knocked out, it wasn’t restful. So Dylan wasn’t really surprised he’d slept in as late as he had.
Nor was he surprised Roan was gone. Fiona had left a message on their machine, and he knew he should have erased it, but how could he? Roan would run out and go work as soon as possible, because that’s what he did. He loved having a mission, a crusade, and he would do it as long as he could. The perils of being hitched to a superhero in a world of mere mortals.
Roan must have felt bad, because he made a pitcher of green tea before he left, with lemon slices floating in it. Roan, ironically, couldn’t cut a straight wedge or lemon wheel if his life depended on it, which automatically ruled him out as a bartender. Dylan tried to show him once, but giving Roan a knife was asking for trouble. He slashed everything like the knife was a claw (coincidence?) and not a precision instrument, leaving the lemon in shreds. And any time he cut a mango, there were pieces everywhere, like someone threw it into a ceiling fan. Although, to be fair, most people had trouble with mangoes.
When the phone rang he was going to let it go, but it could be Roan, so he picked up. It wasn’t Roan. “Why the hell didn’t you convince him to stay in the hospital?” Doctor Rosenberg demanded.
He rubbed the sleep from his eyes, and wondered if he could put off going back to Panic for another day. He hadn’t even told Roan that he went back to his old job yet. “He wanted to go,” he told her lamely. But it should have been enough. He spent a good portion of his life in hospitals, and she had to know how much he hated them.
“And what if the lion takes over in his body again? You could get hurt.”
“It’s better than if he did the full lion transformation. He doesn’t have the claws or the teeth, just the pissy attitude, and I’m expert at dealing with his pissy attitude.”
“You’re not taking this seriously.”
“I am! I just believe him when he tells me he has control over the lion as long as he’s in the driver’s seat, because who would know better than him? It’s his body, his choice, his life.”
She sighed heavily. “A life that may be shortened due to this. You know that, right? At any time, he could have another aneurysm, a stroke, a spontaneous separation of an aorta, and help won’t get to him in time. If he was in the hospital, it’d be right here.”
He grimaced, as the terms she was using were deliberately frightening. Also probably true, but he knew the decision was out of his hands. “But he doesn’t want to spend any more time in a hospital than he has to. You know how he feels about them, and I don’t blame him. Can you? If he’s going to … die, he’d rather do it in the outside world, not stuck in a cage again.”
“You’re trying to use emotion on me.”
“It’s true, and you should know that better than me.”
She was quiet for a long time, although he thought he heard her muttering underneath her breath. Probably curse words. She loved to cuss as much as Roan, maybe more, and while it was initially jarring, now it was just funny. But who said a virologist couldn’t have a foul mouth? Eventually, she said, “He’s being a stupid fucking asshole. You’ve told him, yeah?”
“For all the good that does, yes.” He paused briefly. “At least the operation was a success.”
“A partial success. He still has tumors we can’t reach, and we don’t know why he was in a coma in the fucking first place.”
“It was him,” Dylan said, suddenly sure of it.
“What?”
“He didn’t want to wake up. He gave up. It was easier just to go away than come back.”
“You’re basing this on what?”
“Having lived with him for several years. For a guy who loves to fight, there are instances where he’d rather not bother.”
She grunted, a kind of monosyllabic deference to his experience. She might have known his virus better, but he was married to this motherfucker. He knew him a whole lot better. “So why did he come back?”
“I did manage to get through. He thought he’d hurt me, so he woke up to make sure that wasn’t true.”
“This is very touching. It’d make a hell of a Hallmark Card.”
“I know. Apparently I always need to scream at him. And since I’m his husband, can do.”
“You’re a brave man,” she replied. “And a patient one. I love that strange motherfucker, you know, but I still want to beat him to death with a tire iron.”
That startled a laugh out of him. He knew the feeling, probably better than her. But he didn’t need to kill Roan.
Sadly, life was going to do that for him.
****
Roan had searched through the property databases, and hadn’t come up with much on Campanelli. Sure, the condo, but that was it. If he had some mountain property, it wasn’t in his name. In case it was family, he searched for other Campanellis, but no one had anything even remotely viable as a location, and he knew this mostly thanks to Google Street View. (It was creepy how there were cameras everywhere, but it did make an investigator’s job so much easier.)
It was good to be back at the office, though. The air was stale and still smelt of burned wood and chemicals, but the fire damage had been fixed. By who he didn’t know, as he hadn’t got around to it. Dylan could have arranged it, but you’d think he’d have said something.
He was pondering if any of the resources he had left would do any good when his cell went off. It was Holden, so he answered right away. “Yeah?”
“The rabbit is in the hutch,” he said in a stage whisper. “I repeat, the rabbit is in the hutch.”
Roan sighed. “And the banjo gets angry at midnight. Are you done?”
“Ah, that’s not the code phrase. I’m gonna have to hang up on you now.”
“You’re not actually engaged in this jackassery on Church grounds, are you?”
“Yes, but I’m in the bathroom.” As if to prove his point, he went ahead and flushed the toilet. “Apparently some of those roadside taco trucks are not as clean as others.”
He felt like banging his head on his desk, but it wouldn’t help. “Why did I send you again?”
“Because you needed your best man on the job. But I was the only one available.”
“Yeah, that sounds about right. So what have you discovered?”
“That a lot of these Church guys are as nervous as a bunch of choir boys at the pedophile dance. I’m not sure why either, but if they were up to no good, that might explain things.”
“It might. No problems getting in?”
“No. In fact, I met an old acquaintance who had a story eerily similar to my cover story, but I changed it enough to make myself feel better about being a lying asshole. So how’s the investigation going on your end?”
“I’m not investigating my end, it hasn’t gone anywhere.”
“Man, I just walked into that one, didn’t I? Okay, wise ass, have you found out anything else?”
“Only that Campanelli covered his tracks well. I can’t find any properties in his or his family’s name, beyond his condo.”
“So you don’t know where the ultimate cat fighting championship is being held, huh? I can snoop around. I might have an in anyways. Badger was showing me around -”
“Badger?” he interrupted.
“Jesus, but he’ll always be Badger to me. Anyways, he introduced me to one of the higher ups, one of James’s right hand men, a guy named Forbes, who gave me the look.”
“What look?”
“The “I want to fuck you ‘til you cry for your mama” look. How lucky am I? I’m brilliant with closet cases. They’re putty in my hands.”
“Be careful.”
“Please. You know who you’re talkin’ to, right? The only man whore whose most serious venereal disease to date has been a case of crabs. Careful is my middle name.”
“I didn’t really need to know that.” Was it even true? Who knew? The possibility was there.
Although Roan didn’t feel great about it, Holden could take care of himself, which was why he called him in the first place. If he had a friend inside the Church, even better. He just hoped Holden didn’t push his investigation too fast and make someone suspicious.
Roan had just shut down his computer when he heard the noise of a key scratching in a lock. He went out into the front office, more curious than alarmed. Who else had a key to the office? Fiona, sure, but he imagined she was unconscious by now.
He stood waiting, until the door swung open, and Randi took a single step in before seeing him. She jerked back as if shocked, then put a hand over her heart. “Holy shit. You could warn someone instead of giving them a heart attack, asshole.”
“You still have a key to my office?” Come to think of it, he’d never asked for it back. They’d just stopped talking.
“Yeah.” She looked away, sheepish. “We should probably talk.”
It didn’t matter that he was gay. A woman saying that made him instinctively cringe.
