Pick Up the Pieces

Chapter 5

Chapter 5One day, when the workers were removing the plasterboard, the architect came pounding on the downstairs door, so excited I thought he was going to piss himself. Okay, that was cold, but it had been a long night, and he’d woken me out of a sound sleep.

“What’s up?” I asked, yawning and rubbing my scalp.

His eyes widened. I stood there dressed only in a pair of sweat pants that dipped low on my hips, a tattoo of a dragon—a temporary tattoo—curling from my back to just the right of my navel. The client I’d seen the night before was a businessman from Taiwan, and I’d serviced him a number of times before. He liked to think he was taming the dragon.

“What?” Walter, the architect, blinked a couple of times and cleared his throat. “Oh, what I found! The original bedrooms each had a fireplace. This is fantastic. Can you imagine? They must have been bricked up when this was converted to a rooming house. What a waste! I’ll have them opened up for you, design new mantels—”

“Hold on a minute, Rockefeller. How much more will that cost us? No, don’t bother telling me. We don’t need the added expense.”

“It will be a great feature when you’re ready to sell this place.”

“We’ve barely moved into it.”

“You have to speculate to accumulate.”

Either he’d picked up that expression from John, or John had picked it up from him, but either way, if I heard it again, I was going to kick someone in the ass. “Forget it.”

“I think you’re making a mistake.”

“Yeah, well, if I decide I want them opened, I’ll come to you, and you can say, ‘I told you so.’”

He shrugged and turned away. “You’re the boss.”

“Now you remember?”

Eight of the bedrooms were converted to four. Two had attached bathrooms, two shared a bathroom, and they all had closets large enough to hold costumes necessary when our johns had a yen to f**k soldiers, sailors, cops, or cowboys, as well as suits, shirts, and trousers, and the tuxes we had for special occasions, including the annual Escort Ball. The remainder became the living room and formal dining room.

Finally—finally—it was finished. We moved our belongings out of the first-floor apartment and into our home.

Our home. Paul’s feeling was spot-on this time. I hadn’t been able to see its potential, but I loved it now.

And knowing this house belonged to us…knowing I wasn’t a waste on the face of the earth…I sat down and wrote a letter:

2/29/92

Dear Acacia,

I’m sorry I haven’t written before. I didn’t because I knew Poppa wouldn’t have been happy about it. I’m well and healthy, and I’ve just bought a house. Not by myself; I’m not doing that well. (You’re supposed to laugh here, Casey.)

Anyway, I wanted to let you know that I’m still alive. Please let Ma know. I think of you both, very often. I think of Poppa too. I guess it’s not his fault he doesn’t love me anymore.

My deepest love to you, my sister,

Teodore

P.S. If you would like to write to me, I would love to hear how things are in Tarpon Springs.

* * * *

“John, would you mind handling the rentals for us?” I asked that Wednesday as I was undressing him.

He flushed. “I’d love to! I’ve already had a company making inquiries about it. They need a place for their out-of-town executives to stay when they have to come to DC, and they want both floors. It will be cheaper for them to rent rather than pay hotel bills. Isn’t that awesome?”

“If you say so. Do me a favor, though. Before we sign a lease, make sure they don’t intend to have rent boys living there.”

His mouth opened and closed like a beached fish. “You don’t think that’s what they have in mind, do you?”

“I don’t know. I could be wrong. I’ve been in this town a while now, and I’ve only ever heard of companies putting up their execs at one of the hotels or sometimes in their own homes. Why rent a place that could go unoccupied for stretches of time? It just seems not very cost-effective to me.”

“I promise you, if that’s what they do have in mind—”

“Just make sure they won’t have boys living there. If they want boys, they can rent us. And John, that’s nonnegotiable. If they don’t like the deal, they don’t get the apartments.”

“Trust me, Sweetcheeks. I’ll make an appointment with their lawyer first thing when I get back to the office.”

“Cool.”

“You might want to have a lawyer represent you.”

“We’ll get one.”

“Um…Sweetcheeks?” He gestured down toward his groin.

“Lunch!” I grinned and pushed him down onto the bed, licked a path from one side of his collarbone to the other, and blew across the damp flesh, raising goose bumps, then worked my way down to his c**k and swallowed him down.

That evening John called, but I was already out for the night.

He left a message on the answering machine. “Oh, I like your greeting, Sweetcheeks—”

You’ve got me. Now tell me what you want to do with me. I shrugged. It was the best I could come up with, and I’d never bothered to change it.

“—and on Wednesday…” He cleared his throat. “We’ll talk about what I want to do with you on Wednesday. I just wanted you to know you were right to question this company. They’ll want to use the apartments as an incentiveeward kind of thing for their executives—they do well and they get a trip to DC, complete with hot and cold running girls. This is a very broad-minded company. They’re even willing to offer boys to the men who want them. Let me know who your lawyer is, and we’ll get together to hash this out.”

We all met in the downstairs apartment. Sherwood, Inc. was actually a blue chip corporation, and they preferred to keep the transaction quiet, which was okay by us.

Alan Johnson, our lawyer, happened to be one of Paul’s regulars. He was in his early forties and had distinguished wings of white at his temples. “Let me do all the talking, Pretty Boy. Just sit there and look cute, got that?”

“Yes, Alan.”

“Sweetcheeks?”

“Oh.” It was nice to know someone who wasn’t my client thought I was cute. “Yes, Alan.”

The two lawyers walked through the first-floor apartment and then the second, making offers and counteroffers. Finally we sat down at the table.

“All right, we’re agreed,” Burdett, the corporation’s lawyer, stated. “There will be a few young ladies in residence here—a housekeeper, a masseuse, a gourmet cook—who’ll reside on the second floor. Their salaries will be paid by my clients, who will also furnish this apartment and pay for phone service. A private staircase between the two apartments will be necessary, unless, of course, your clients wish to install an elevator,” Burdett continued, unaware of our reactions. “Your clients will pay for the utilities. And, of course, they’ll give us a discount for their services.” Apparently he considered that last a done deal.

Paul and I both stiffened and turned to our lawyer.

Alan frowned. “Why?”

Burdett’s eyes shot up from the page he was scrawling something on. “What?”

“Why would you assume you’ll get a discount?”

“My client is paying very good money to rent these apartments from your clients, and they’re only a flight of stairs away, so they don’t need to travel.”

“Neither do the girls. Are they giving you a discount? No, I didn’t think so. So my clients get their regular fee, plus any tips those gentlemen who require their services are inclined to give.”

Burdett frowned. “We can bring our own boys in.”

“Not in this apartment, you can’t.” Alan gave him a shark’s grin, and I was glad to have him on our side. Paul looked proud. “Didn’t you read the lease? If you won’t use my clients, it’s going to cost your clients even more. They’ll have to rent a hotel room for the executives who prefer boys. Actually, you’re getting quite a good deal. The chances of them getting busted in a hotel room are greater. Behind these doors…well, if anyone was so nosy as to inquire, these gentlemen, as the landlords, have a legitimate reason for being here.” He pushed his cuff back, studied his watch, and prepared to stand. “Pity this lease is for two years. I’ll have to insist my clients rethink it when it’s time to renew.”

“All right, all right. No discounts.”

Paul exchanged glances with me. I wasn’t the only one who’d heard the sound of grinding teeth.

“I’m so glad you could see it our way.”

Paul leaned toward me and whispered in my ear, “Wow. I think I’m turned on.”

“You’re a sick puppy, Paul,” I whispered back.

“I am, aren’t I?” He grinned, and we turned our attention back to the two lawyers.

“Bastard.”

“Why, Lewis. I’m cut to the quick!”

“Sure you are, you old ambulance chaser. You know I had to make the attempt on my client’s behalf.”

“I know. I expected nothing less.”

“Are we still on for dinner at the club?”

“Of course. I’ll even buy.”

“Yes, you will. You gentlemen are lucky to have such a cutthroat working for you.” He gathered up all his papers and then paused. “Although how you were able to get Alan Johnson….” He shook his head and walked out.

“Alan?”

“Lewis is an old friend of mine. Oddly enough, we’ve never butted heads before. Thank you for the opportunity, Pretty Boy. I’ve enjoyed this immensely.” His smile this time was warmer. He gathered his own papers. “I’ll see you get copies of all of this.”

“Thanks, Alan.”

He held out his hand, we shook it, and he left.

I locked the apartment door, and we climbed the stairs to the third floor. “Let’s go to bed.” It was late for us.

“Good idea.” Paul yawned. “I could use some more sleep.”

And we headed for our separate bedrooms.

* * * *

A couple of weeks later, Paul came in from the gym and brought the mail up with him.

“Anything interesting?” I asked as I made a light snack for us. We’d be going out to meet our johns for drinks soon. Some of our clients just preferred arm candy.

“Bill. Bill. Catalogue. TV Guide. Junk. Junk. Junk. This is weird.”

“What is?” I asked absently as I opened the electric bill. It was higher than last month’s. I’d have to talk to the boys about turning off the television and the stereo before they left for the night.

“It’s a letter to a Teodore Bascopolis. Well, I’ll just mark it ‘not at this address’ and put it out for tomorrow’s mail.”

I couldn’t catch my breath. Jesus. I was so stupid. I never thought what would happen if Acacia wrote me back. I stuffed the electric bill into my back pocket and took the envelope from him, but I didn’t have to examine the return address. “It’s from my…my sister.”

“Your name is Teodore Bascopolis? You never said.”

“I know. I had my reasons. Please…please, Paul. Don’t tell anyone.”

“Ass. My lips are sealed. So…uh…what do I call you?”

“Sweetcheeks. That’s my name now.”

He sighed. “Families can really f**k us up.”

I nodded, intent on carefully slitting the flap.

“Wait a minute. You have a sister?”

“Yes.” A sudden thought hit me, and I stared up at him. “Suppose she didn’t want to hear from me? Suppose she tells me never to write her again? Suppose she tells me that as far as she’s concerned, she doesn’t have a brother? Suppose—”

“Sweets, suppose you just read the letter and see.”

I swallowed. My hands were shaking as I took the single sheet of loose-leaf paper from the envelope.

My very dear brother—

“Read it out loud, Sweets.”

“Sorry. My very dear brother,

“We have often wondered what became of you and have prayed for you every night since Poppa sent you from our home. He said you’d be back, that you couldn’t get a job, and so how would you feed yourself? But you never came home. Momma was sure she had seen you once, a few months after that horrible day, but that could not have been you getting into a stranger’s car.” I looked up at Paul. “It probably was me. I’m glad my mother never realized what I was doing.”

He patted my arm. “Go on.”

“Poppa is still very angry and will not permit your name to be mentioned. I have heard him and Momma fighting. They do not know I know this, but for a long time after you left, she would not let Poppa sleep in their room. He would pretend to have gotten up early, but I saw the sheets and pillows on the sofa more than once before he could put them away.

“We miss you very much and hope that someday you will be able to come home to visit. Or if not, Momma asks if perhaps we could meet with you somewhere close by.

“I miss you, my brother, and hope to see you again one day. Please write to me.

“Love,

“Your sister, Acacia”

“Ah, Sweets.”

“I can’t go home.” I didn’t realize until Paul put his arms around me that I was crying.

“Will you write her back?” He ran his palm up and down my back soothingly.

“Yes.” And then I panicked. “What do I tell her if she asks what I’m doing?”

“Tell her you’re going to school. It’s the truth.”

“Yeah. Yeah, that’s a good idea.” I let him continue petting my back. “But what do I tell her if she asks how a student can afford to buy a house?”

He brushed the hair off my forehead and gave a lopsided grin. “That you won the lottery? Worry about it if she asks. Now go wash your face and then we’ll eat. We’ve got to go to work soon.”

* * * *

John didn’t have much luck renting the studio apartment. Possible tenants would look at the neighborhood—the gentrification project had fallen through—the odd configuration of the apartment, the flights of stairs, and would quickly ask to see something else.

“See?” I groused to Paul. “We could have gotten away with a double bed.”

“Patience, grasshopper. You’ll see.”

It wasn’t until about six months after the last of the workmen had left that John brought someone to take a look at it who didn’t have a problem with the floor plan or the fact that he’d have to walk up three flights of stairs because there was no elevator or that he’d have to have his laundry sent out. I’d put my foot down about a stackable washer and dryer for the studio. “There’s not enough room.”

I got a look at the man as he was leaving. Tense and wiry, with an underlying air of danger about him—something guaranteed to lure a client interested in walking on the wild side—he was competition we didn’t need. I told John not to negotiate a lease with him. Because both Paul and I were underage—we’d lived a hundred years but still couldn’t sign legal documents—John, via the dummy corporation, handled all that for us.

We learned the man had already signed the lease when Paul and I were about to go out one evening and saw him moving in. Not that he had much to move…some boxes that held his clothes, I guessed, a long, flat case, and a big statue of a dog. He saw us standing there with our jaws hanging open—well, mine was; hadn’t John heard what I’d said?—and gave us a cool onceover and a nod and proceeded up the stairs.

“Well, that’s a fine kettle of fish.” Paul stared after our newest tenant.

“Very funny.”

“Really? I wasn’t trying to be amusing.”

I scowled at him. Tomorrow wasn’t Wednesday, but I’d give John a call and see about meeting him at his office. I had to talk to him about this…this…kettle of fish.

* * * *

The next day at ten a.m., I arrived at John’s office. Fortunately, his secretary was on a coffee break.

“Sweetcheeks!” He rose and came around his desk. “Uh…I missed you!”

“Did you?”

“Yes! Oh, and hey! I got the apartment rented out!”

“Yes, you did. And I believe I told you I didn’t want that particular man for a tenant?” I tapped my foot, and he eyed it nervously.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” Sweat beaded along his hairline. “I don’t know what it was about that man. He walked around the place, took out a tape measure and measured it! I went to take a phone call, and when I came back, he was crawling out from under the bed. He even looked under the sofa and chairs. Then he said, ‘I’ll take it on one condition. No one uses the storage.’ I’ll tell you the truth, Sweetcheeks—I was scared to tell him ‘no!’” He held out the lease agreement with a weak smile, and I took it and looked it over.

“Mark Vincent. What does he do?”

“I…I think he works for the Huntingdon Corporation.”

“The name doesn’t ring a bell. Okay, Paul and I will wait until he leaves for work, then go into the apartment and see what we can learn about him.”

“Be careful, okay?”

“Do you think we’re kids? We can handle ourselves.”

“Just be careful.” John swallowed. “Um…Sweetcheeks? Baby? You’re not too mad at me, are you?”

“What?”

“Are we still on for Wednesday?”

I wasn’t happy about this situation, but John was a very good real estate agent. Something about the man must have really shaken him. I patted his shoulder. “No, John, I’m not too mad at you, and yes, John, we’re still on for Wednesday.”

He hugged me, his smile lighting up his face. He was a good-looking man, and I couldn’t understand why someone hadn’t snapped him up already. Well, their loss was my gain. It was one of my easiest hours. He never asked for anything beyond a blow job and a straightforward f**k, although he did like to talk sometimes.

* * * *

Paul and I waited until Vincent left for work, then tiptoed up the stairs. For some reason, even with the man out of the house, we felt the need for caution.

The key I used—tried to use—to get into the studio apartment didn’t work. The son of a b***h had changed the lock.

“If we ask him why he changed the lock, he’ll say if we know it was changed we must have tried it,” I said to Paul.

“Yeah. And if we tried it, then we know why he changed it.”

“We’ll just have to keep an eye on him.” We gave joint sighs and went back down to our apartment.

* * * *

Paul ran into him on the stairway one evening when Vincent was going up and Paul was going down, and he told me about it.

“What do you want?” Vincent growled when Paul planted himself in front of him. I was proud of him for that, because even with Paul’s latest growth spurt, Vincent still had almost eight inches on him.

“I want to make sure you keep your mitts off our johns,” he growled back. “It took us a long time to get such an elite group of clients, and I don’t intend for anyone to steal them away from us!” I could picture Paul giving him a Clint Eastwood squinty glare, could picture him poking Vincent in the chest, trying to make him give ground.

Only Vincent didn’t. “You think I’m a rent boy? I’m flattered. I think. Listen, kid—”

“Kid? I’m no kid! I’m almost eighteen!”

Vincent laughed. “Listen. I don’t work the streets. I have no interest in working the streets. Your johns are safe from me.” And he went up to his apartment, shaking his head and muttering something about more guts than brains.

Once it was settled he wouldn’t be competition for our clients, we relaxed, but we still kept an eye on him. He never brought anyone home with him. That wasn’t too unusual. We figured he probably took whoever he was seeing to a motel or else went to their place.

Yeah, we discussed Vincent. Quite a bit. We’d never met anyone like him.

We learned he was a troubleshooter for Huntingdon, although we had no clue what he troubleshot. He came and went, and went and came. Sometimes he’d be gone for weeks at a stretch, but his rent was paid on time, and he never harassed any of the boys if they ran into him.

And if Paul or I ran into him on the stairs, we’d say “Hi,” although it seemed to me that Paul ran into him more than any of us, even though he’d been the first to say, “This is one dude we’d better leave alone”

“You’re not falling in love with him, are you, Pretty Boy?” I deliberately used his working name.

“He’s not a john, Sweetcheeks.”

“You’re not falling in love with him, are you?”

“Who do you think you are—Tim?” He blew out an impatient breath. “No, Daddy, I am not falling in love with him. Okay?”

“Okay.” But I wondered if I could believe him.