Pick Up the Pieces

Chapter 6

Chapter 6On New Year’s Day, 1993, I turned eighteen. The night before had been a busy one—and the Escorts’ gala New Year’s Eve ball wasn’t the half of it—but I had the day off, and I didn’t even have to do the cooking. Paul ordered a couple of six-foot heroes, a big birthday cake, and invited all the boys to stop by for a bite. It was as if our apartment had a revolving door as they came and went. We played poker for slices of the salami, pepperoni, and provolone from the hero, and we danced to cassette tapes I’d been given as gifts.

It was a great birthday.

And a few weeks later, we did it again for Paul.

* * * *

“We protect our clients.” Tim had pounded that into us, and even after he left, I followed his policy.

We had a high-end clientele, which was why boys wanted to join us. New boys were carefully screened, and if they were accepted, they were assigned to men who didn’t have much to lose if they were outed. They weren’t given access to our important clients until we were sure they were trustworthy. These men depended on us not to reveal their identities, and we made damned sure we didn’t.

Occasionally, they’d ask us to take on a friend or colleague, and we’d do that as a favor to them.

That was how we got to know Mark Vincent a bit better.

The john who came to us had the correct password, a system we’d instituted in order to make sure that while we might have a violent john once, it would only be once. It was also to avoid undercover vice cops and reporters who wanted a juicy story.

I didn’t like the manic look in the Russian’s eyes or the flush on his cheeks—but he had the password.

The Russian gave the boys the once-over. “Him.” He picked out the Kid, who was slight, fair, and looked about twelve years old.

“Would you like to have dinner?” the Kid asked. “A glass of wine?”

“I no want to date you. Want to f**k you.”

The Kid gave his easy smile. “Yes, sir. If you’ll come this way?” They went to his room, and the rest of us went back to getting ready to go out for the evening.

It was the Kid’s shocked, pained cry that alerted us to the fact that something was wrong.

As I’d promised, I’d blacklisted the johns who were into pain—our pain. There were other stables that had no problem catering to them.

Still, this john had been recommended by one of our regulars—he knew the password—so it behooved me to deal with the situation in a diplomatic fashion. I opened the Kid’s door quietly instead of bursting in as I would have otherwise.

“Kid, are you…. Dammit!”

The Kid was on the bed, blood dripping from his nose and splattered on the bedspread. The Russian’s fist was raised to smash into the Kid’s face.

All thoughts of diplomacy flew out the window. I threw myself at our now former client, knocking him off the Kid, who rolled out of harm’s way until he could catch his breath.

The Russian was impossibly strong, and I knew I was outclassed. So did the Kid, but even as he shouted for backup, Paul, Tom, and Mike, in various stages of dress, came racing in and jumped on top of the pile—causing the bed to collapse.

The battle spilled into the living room. There was no way we could handle him, even though there were five of us, and I was ready to resort to fighting dirty.

Vincent heard the ruckus and came to see what it was all about. His expression, the single time I was able to focus on him, was bored. He rolled up his sleeves, pulled the Russian off us, and clocked him, leaving him bleeding from his nose on the really nice area rug I’d found in Rockville.

“Call a cab, would you, Sweetcheeks?”

Couched as a question, it was an order nonetheless, and I didn’t think twice about obeying him. I did wonder briefly how he’d managed to get in, then decided one of the boys must have forgotten to lock the door after admitting the Russian.

Vincent dragged the man down the stairs by a leg, muted thuds announcing each time the Russian’s head hit a riser, and out into the street.

“Take this miserable piece of s**t to the Russian embassy and let them deal with him,” Vincent told the cab driver and gave him a handful of bills.

As a way of saying “thank you,” I gave Vincent carte blanche with any of the boys. “We owe you, man. You can have your choice, any of us you want, for however long you want, gratis.”

“That isn’t necessary.”

“It is necessary. I don’t know how you knew we were having a problem with that bastard—”

“I was on my way out,” he said blandly.

“Damn good thing for us. Man, you saw what was happening. We would have been out of work, and the Kid might even have needed to be hospitalized. The offer is open-ended, Vincent. It has no expiration date.”

“Yeah, yeah. You going to change your policy about having clients over?”

“Because one john got overexcited? One of the hazards of the trade. Doesn’t happen often, and when it does, we deal with it.” I wasn’t going to tell him about the password system we had instituted. It was obvious we’d need to revamp it.

“It’s not the best trade to be in. But you’ll do what you want to do.” Vincent shrugged. “If you need help, bang on the pipes next time.”

“What pipes?”

But he was on his way back up to his apartment, rolling his shirt sleeves down and examining his knuckles.

“When I find out who gave that crazy Russian bastard our password and address,” I muttered, “he’s never gonna get another boy ever.”

“I’ll back you on that, Sweets.”

“C’mon. Let’s see how much damage was done.”

I looked around at the mess the living room had become. Well, I was getting tired of the Country French décor anyway.

And it could have been worse. The boys could have been injured.

* * * *

A month or so later, we had reason to call on our tenant again.

I’d just come in, having decided to make an early night of it, when Paul came barreling out of his bedroom.

“Whoa, babe! What’s up?”

“It’s the congressman!”

Congressman Franklin was a steady client of Paul’s, and in spite of his age, he was pretty feisty.

I was about to tease Paul about that, when I noticed the tears in his eyes. “f**k it, did he hit you?”

“No. Oh God, Sweets, he…he wet the bed. I think he’s having a heart attack.”

“Oh God!”

“What do I do?”

“Get back in there and make sure he keeps breathing. I’ll…I’ll do something.”

We couldn’t call 911. The fallout would be horrendous, not only for Congressman Franklin but for us as well.

I looked up at the ceiling. Vincent seemed to know everything about everything, and best of all, I knew he was home. I raced out of the apartment and up the stairs.

I pounded on the door, and when Vincent opened it, holding a cannon in his hand, the only thing I could think to say was, “Were you serious about us banging on the pipes if we needed you?”

“Yeah.”

“I’m banging on the pipes.”

“What’s wrong?”

“Pretty Boy’s client—”

“Son of a b***h. Didn’t I—”

“Don’t say ‘I told you so.’ You were right, you did, but we did, and now the s**t’s hitting the fan.”

“Did he get rough with Pretty Boy?” He headed for the stairs, rolling up his sleeves, muttering about beating the s**t out of him.

“No!” I almost stepped on his heels. “He’s a congressman.”

“Like they have some kind of patent on not hurting people?”

“You don’t understand.” I wanted to shake him, and if he hadn’t been six inches taller than me, I would have. “Pretty Boy’s fine; it’s his client. He’s in a lot of pain. He pissed the bed. And not because he was into water sports.”

He threw me a look over his shoulder. “Jesus.”

Vincent strode into Paul’s bedroom. Paul looked up from running a washcloth over the congressman’s face. “Vince—”

“It’s okay. I’ll deal with it.”

And he did. He got Congressman Franklin out of our place and to the hospital without anyone learning where he had been when he’d had his heart attack.

Afterward, I said to him, “Vince—”

“No thanks are necessary.”

“Maybe not, but thank you anyway.”

* * * *

Every time I saw Vincent after that, I renewed the offer.

He replied the same way: “Some other time, Sweetcheeks.”

Until the night he didn’t.

Paul and I were both at home. I’d come down with a really nasty head cold—or possibly the latest strain of flu—and he had taken the night off to nurse me through it. Of us all, he had the deepest nurturing streak.

He was sitting in the recliner with his legs dangling over an arm, stuffing white cheddar popcorn in his mouth, and I was curled up on the sofa, wrapped in a cashmere afghan, which had been a gift from a grateful gentleman friend who had thought he was impotent. Turned out he was just gay. The area surrounding me was littered with tissues, and on an end table was a mug of tea that steamed gently. Paul had stirred a large spoon of honey into it, knowing that made the tea palatable for me.

We were watching the Howard Hawks’s version of The Thing from Another World, and in spite of the movie’s age, we were both caught up in the desperate battle at the top of the world between a handful of soldiers and civilians and the threat from outer space. I groped for the mug just as the sound of the door buzzer shattered the tense silence. Paul and I both jumped.

“s**t!” I’d spilled tea in my lap.

“I’ll get it, Sweets. Take another sip. And don’t whine,” he said when I made a face at him. “It’s good for what ails you.”

I grumbled under my breath but did as he ordered. He would have made a good doctor, and sometimes I wondered what our lives would have been like if our families hadn’t discarded us like so much trash.

“You got any whiskey?” It was Vincent, and I’d never heard such pain and fury in his voice.

“No. Vince, what’s wrong?” Ever since that thing with the congressman, Pretty Boy treated him as if the sun rose and set on him. I couldn’t help feeling a little morose, and I blamed it on my cold. “Is that blood on you?” The question was strident.

“Not mine,” Vincent responded carelessly. “What about gin? Vodka? Rubbing f*****g alcohol? Goddammit, I need a drink.”

“You know we don’t have any liquor here.” That was a lie. I heard a fist slamming against a wall and a steady stream of swearing in a vicious monotone, and Paul’s voice became gentle. “Come with me, babe. Come on. I’ll take care of you.”

I heard his bedroom door close. It had taken that incident with the congressman for us to formulate one of our staunchest rules: do not bring clients home. Only…Vincent wasn’t a client. I unfolded my legs and made my way into the kitchen, sniffling and dragging the afghan behind me. Something stronger than tea was in order, I decided. I put water in the reservoir, counted out the spoons of coffee into the filter, and set the coffeemaker to brew. Then I went back into the living room to watch the rest of the movie.

Two hours and another creature feature later, the coffeemaker automatically shut itself off, and I had to turn it on again. If they didn’t come out soon, the coffee would be so scorched-tasting I’d have to throw it out and brew a fresh pot.

I was coming out of the bathroom, the diuretic quality of the tea playing fast and loose with my bladder, when Paul slipped out of his bedroom, shirtless and limping a bit.

“Shhh. He just fell asleep.”

“Did he hurt you?” I could see bruises on his shoulders, scratches on his back, and love bites on his neck. His n*****s were red and chafed, and there were more bruises showing where the waistband of his sweatpants hung low on his lips. “Motherfucking son of a cocksucking b***h, I’ll tear his d**k off and shove it up his ass!”

“I’m fine, Sweets.” His eyes became dreamy. “God. That was…intense.”

“Oh, no. Tell me you didn’t kiss him.”

“I didn’t kiss him,” he repeated dutifully, but before I could sigh in relief, he spoiled it. “He kissed me. Oh, God, Sweets, that man’s lips are awesome.”

“Jesus, you haven’t fallen in love with him, have you? Ah, f**k, Paul, you know better.”

He flushed. “Of course I haven’t fallen in love with him. What do you think I am—stupid?”

I just hoped I could believe him.

* * * *

We came home one morning after a night’s work to find Vincent leaning against the wall next to our door. Dangling from his fingers was a ring with a dozen shiny keys on it. “For each of you, and spares.”

“What?”

He nodded toward the door. There was a new lock on it. “The security in this place is for s**t. My arthritic grandmother could have picked the lock to get in.”

“Hey! That was a top-of-the-line lock!”

“Yeah, well, this is better. I’ve put in security cameras too.”

“Where?”

He pointed them out, and we never would have spotted them if he hadn’t.

“Ah, Vince…”

He gave me a look that told me he didn’t want any thanks. “I’ve routed the feeds for them—”

“Feeds?”

“The cameras are no good if you can’t see what they’ve taped. Anyway, I’ve routed them to your closet, Sweetcheeks. It seems to be the most organized. No offense, Pretty Boy, but I’ve seen your closet.”

Pretty Boy gave a sniff. “My clothes aren’t wrinkled, and that’s the most important thing.”

“Yeah. I’ve set the tape to loop every twenty-four hours. I’d save them rather than tape over them, but that’s me. The TV and VCR are on the top shelf. Consider it a going-away gift.”

“Uh…thanks.” I didn’t bother asking how he’d gotten into the apartment to do that. He’d changed the lock, which had been guaranteed tamper-proof.

“This is a rough business, and I don’t want to read in the paper that one of you got hurt.”

“But you’re here to protect us.” Pretty Boy flirted his lashes at him.

He cleared his throat. “Actually, I won’t be. I’ll be moving at the end of the week. You can keep the security—”

“You don’t have to do that.”

Yes, he did. I jabbed my elbow into Paul’s side. We had no idea how long it would take us to get the studio apartment rented again.

Vincent ignored our byplay. “—since I’m giving you such short notice.”

“Will you stay in touch?”

He looked surprised—because even rent boys valued their friends?—then cleared his throat. “Yeah. When I can.”

Paul hugged him, and Vincent patted his shoulder awkwardly. “Uh…I’ve got to pack.”

“Make sure you give us your address. So we can send you a Christmas card.”

“Yeah.” He started down the stairs.

“I thought you said you were going to pack.”

“Huh? Oh. Yeah. f**k it. I’ll do it tonight.”

Paul used one of the new keys to unlock our door. “That was so sweet of him.”

“He won’t, Paul.”

“Won’t what?”

“Stay in touch.”

“You’re a cynic, Sweets.”

“Yeah, well, I don’t want to see you hurt.”

“He won’t hurt me.” Paul sounded so sure, but I was afraid he was in for a big disappointment.

When Vincent moved out, it was with nothing more than he’d brought with him—his clothes, that flat case, and the ceramic dog.

To my surprise, he did keep in contact with us, and I would have wondered if he’d fallen in love with Paul, but johns didn’t fall in love with hustlers.