Included in Men of Mystery: Homoerotic Tales of Intrigue and Suspense

“I’m a dead man,” Kenny moaned, raw terror in his voice, “I’m a fucking dead man.”

He was wearing a torn white T-shirt and he looked like he’d slept in the street. His black leather jacket was cracked and mottled with dirt and corrosion, and he didn’t look like such a bad-ass in that jacket now.

“Hey, relax,” I told him, patting him on the shoulder and handing him a glass of Old Crow. He drank it all down in one gulp, his hands trembling. The sharp smell of his fear filled the tiny apartment. I sat down on the coffee table and squeezed Kenny’s arm. “What the fuck is up? Why would Lucky Joe want to kill you? You’re one of his best runners, Kenny.”

Kenny was out of it, sobbing hysterically. I’d always known that kid would crack under pressure, but God help me, I’d vouched for him anyway. When I brought him in I knew I was gonna be sorry one day, but I just couldn’t say no to that fuckin’ kid. It wasn’t just those fuckin’ dopey, shit-stupid blue eyes that I could spend a whole year looking into; it’s not just those big full lips or that tight ass of his or those tight jeans he wore. It was the way the whole package fit together into the finest punk piece of ass this side of the Hudson River.

Not that I’d had him, mind you. First off, the motherfucker acted straight as an arrow, not that I don’t, but I saw not one hint that he swung the same way as me. And besides, I don’t mix business with pleasure unless absolutely necessary. And with Kenny I’d always figured it wouldn’t be necessary. Now I was beginning to think that through again.

He just rocked back and forth and kept repeating, “Lucky Joe’s gonna kill me. He’s gonna fuckin’ kill me. You gotta help me, Nick, you gotta fuckin’ help me!”

I smacked him good, across the face.

He blinked at me, stunned, with those dumb-as-dirt blue eyes. I smacked him again, grabbed him by the shoulders and shook him. The kid just rattled back and forth in my grasp like an old rag doll. “Get a fuckin’ hold of yourself, you pansy motherfucker!” I shouted into his face. “What the hell did you do this time, you fuckup? Did you screw around with the receipts?”

Kenny was silent for an instant, like he was getting his wits about him. “Just a little,” he finally mumbled, looking embarrassed, his face turning red. “I didn’t think anyone would notice. How the fuck did he figure it out? It was only twenty dollars, Nicky, how did they figure it out?”

Another smack, this time with my fist. Kenny groaned softly and sprawled out on the couch, blood leaking from his lip. I stood over him raising my fist, then thought better about it and just leaned down and screamed in his face. “You fucking stupid fuck! A dollar here, a dollar there, that’s how Lucky Joe built his fucking empire, motherfucker! Micks and Polacks puttin’ down their pocket change! You think he doesn’t know that if you get away with it, pretty soon everyone’ll get away with it and then he’ll hafta fuckin’ change his nickname?”

I stopped yelling at him, staring at his pathetic, shaking form on the couch. I instinctively felt in my pocket for my smokes, but since I was wearing that ratty old bathrobe my mother gave me, there were none in there—not even a pocket. Cursing I stormed over to my little metal desk and looked in the drawer—pay dirt. Unfiltered Pall Malls. I shook one out and lit it. I was fighting the urge to wring Kenny’s neck, but I had to admit it wasn’t ‘cause I was just mad. I was fuckin’ scared for him. So help me God I still liked the little fucker; however many times he fucked up I wanted him worse than anything.

My own hands trembling with rage and fear, I took out a second Pall Mall, lit it, and handed it to Kenny.

“You know how deep you’re in shit this time, don’t you, Kenny?”

Kenny just sobbed there on the couch, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry...you gotta help me, Nicky, please help me!”

“Take the fucking cigarette before I burn my fingers, punk.” I said it with quiet menace in my voice.

Kenny obeyed, huddling on the couch, Bogarting the cig like it was his last link to sanity.

“I didn’t mean to take it, Nick, honest I didn’t. It’s just...it was a mistake, yeah, that’s it, a mistake! Just an honest mistake!”

This time I smacked him so good the cigarette went flying across the room and landed on the carpet. I walked over and stomped it out.

“Come on, Kenny! I don’t believe that shit any more than Joe’s going to. Why’d you take the money?”

“It was...it was this prostitute, see...“

“Jesus fucking Christ,” I groaned. “You stole a twenty from Lucky Joe Rossi so you could see a fuckin’ chick?”

“Not a chick,” he said sheepishly. “It was a guy.”

That’s when I started laughing, and pretty soon I was hysterical. Kenny just curled up on the couch and said “I’m sorry, Nicky, I’m sorry.”

I sat down next to him and patted his ass. “Well whatever the fuck you’re sorry for,” I finally coughed, blinking with tear-filled eyes, “don’t be sorry for that. Perfectly good reason to place yourself in grave jeopardy. I’ve done the same fucking thing for a few street hustlers myself, specially when I was young and stupid like you. Now if it’d been some fuckin’ tart...”

Kenny stared at me, his eyes red-rimmed and incredulous. He sat up.

“Look, Kenny. Tell you what. You get some sleep. You’re gonna have to lie low for a while, but that’s OK, I got it all figured out. There’s this place I got up in the mountains, about six and a half hours away. Nobody knows about it, not Joe, not Rocco, not anybody. I’m gonna set you up there, while I come back to town and smooth things over with Lucky Joe. We’ll have you home by the end of the week, OK?”

Kenny leaned back on the couch and he looked plenty damn fine in those torn jeans. “You mean it, Nicky? You’ll help me out?”

“I’ll fuckin’ save your sorry ass, is what I’ll do, pal! Meanwhile, try and get some sleep.”

A curious look passed Kenny’s face. It was one I recognized.

“I’m not much in the mood for sleep,” he said, looking me over.

I’m a weak man, OK? I know it was exactly the wrong thing to do in that circumstance. But I reached out and grabbed Kenny’s long feathered hair and pulled him against me. Then I pressed my mouth to his, tasting his tongue and reaching down to grab a great big hard-on through his worn, faded jeans. Kenny was hung like a horse, a fact I’d noted plenty of times when I’d seen him around the back room of Lucky Joe’s restaurant.

“You know, some guys get hard when they’re scared,” I told him when our mouths finally parted, a string of saliva glistening between them. “I’m surprised you didn’t come in your fuckin’ pants.”

“Me too,” said Kenny, leaning forward and kissing me again. He reached out and undid the tie of my robe, letting it fall open. He reached out for my prick, which was getting rapidly hard.

“Jesus,” he said with a little shiver. “You sleep naked?”

“Ever hopeful,” I told him, and stood up, pushing his face down onto my cock. He went right to work and took it in his mouth, pumping back and forth on it. As it hardened all the way, Kenny whimpered and took it down his throat like it was all he was meant to do in life.

“Oh yeah,” I grunted as I pistoned my hips against him, thrusting my cock harder as the pleasure built. It looked like that hustler of his didn’t do all the work. But I wasn’t going to let that little cocksucker get the best of me.

“Get your clothes off,” I told him. “But leave the jacket on. I’ve wanted to fuck you in that fuckin’ jacket since I first laid eyes on you.”

Kenny looked a little embarrassed for a moment, but he obeyed me, grabbing his belt and unfastening it, unzipping, pulling down his pants. He was in such a rush to get undressed that he pulled his jeans off over his sneakers and climbed onto the couch with his sneakers still on.

He struggled out of the jacket and shucked his T-shirt, then put the jacket back on. I tossed off my robe and stood there naked behind him, working my cock. I looked up and down the rough outline of the worn leather jacket, loving how tight it was around his lower back, the way the black leather melded with the curve of his ass. I ran my hand up his inner thigh and reached between his legs, grabbing his balls and squeezing. Kenny gave a little whimper of pain as I squeezed harder and harder. Then I started slapping his balls, listening to the moans as Kenny’s cock jerked in time with my abuse.

I wrapped my hand around his meat and stroked him while I formed a good ball of spit and let it dribble onto my hard organ. I climbed onto the couch behind Kenny and worked the spittle all over my prick. Kenny gritted his teeth as I nestled the cockhead into his cleft. His ass felt good and tight as I penetrated him, and as it went in all the way Kenny let out a low, rapturous moan. Then I gripped his waist, feeling the tight belt of the leather jacket and feeling my prick surge in response to its texture. I fucked Kenny good and hard, pounding him in long strokes while I reached around his body to work his shaft. He was the first one to come, shooting long streams all over my ratty orange sofa, and I got as much come as I could on my right hand and grabbed Kenny’s hair with my left, leaning forward so I could rub that come all over his face. He lapped at it, groaning as I kept pounding into him, and the sight of that boy with his face all glistening and covered with jizz was enough to send me off the edge. My cock spasmed and I shot deep into Kenny’s asshole, shuddering as I released everything I’d ever had into that boy’s lithe, well-muscled body.

By the time Kenny and I had finished a few more whiskeys in the darkness, both our cocks were hard. So Kenny sucked me off, tasting the musk and shit of his own ass as he rubbed himself. We both came and Kenny lay there on top of me. By that time it was almost light, and Kenny dropped off to sleep.

I eased myself out from under him and went into the bedroom. I sat down on my bed and drank another whiskey, running over it all in my head. Then I got out a fresh pair of pants and a shirt, put on a sports jacket and slipped on my shoes. I went into the top drawer of my dresser and took out the twin .22s I kept in there. I made sure each was loaded and put one in each jacket pocket.

I had to pass Kenny on the way out, and his eyes fluttered open. His eyes suddenly got big and scared.

“Wh—where’re you going, Nicky?”

“Hey, relax, I’m just going out to get more smokes. We’re gonna need them on the drive up.”

“Hey, you shouldn’t have to do that—why don’t I go out for you?”

I rolled my eyes. “Relax, Kenny.”

“Then mind if I come with you?”

“Look, you stupid motherfucker. If Lucky Joe’s looking for you he’s got my place covered. You’re just fuckin’ lucky you didn’t get yourself sprayed with a Thompson when you showed up here last night! You are not going to set foot outside this fuckin’ apartment until I bring the car around for you, OK? Be ready to go in 15 minutes.”

“But—” Kenny started to mumble, and I shot him a particularly vicious look. He fell silent.

“Stop being such a stupid fuck,” I growled at him affectionately. “You’re gonna get yourself killed, and I’m starting to like that tight ass of yours.”

I left him sitting there looking glum on the couch. I went down to the liquor store on the corner and bought three packs of smokes. As I walked, I looked around for a familiar black Buick, or maybe a Packard.

I found it.

I stopped in the diner across the street which was just opening for breakfast. My stomach was rumbling, but I didn’t stop for food. I went to the phones in the back and called Lucky Joe.

I brought the Caddy around back and parked it with the hazards on. The meter maid in the neighborhood is on Lucky Joe’s payroll so it was no big deal. I went up the back stairs to my apartment and let myself in.

Kenny was sitting on the couch with his jeans on and no shirt or shoes. He had my .45 in his trembling hand and he was pointing at me.

Goddamn it, I knew I should have brought the fucking thing.

“You called Lucky Joe,” Kenny moaned pathetically. “They’re coming right now to kill me.”

I spoke in my most soothing voice. “Kenny, Kenny, put that fucking thing away. You ain’t shot a gun in your fucking life. You aren’t going to shoot me now.”

“Oh yeah?” he choked, and raised the gun. His eyes were red and tears were forming. “Try me.”

“Kenny, Relax! Put the gun down! Those fuckin’ Colts have a way of going off, OK? Why the fuck would I call Lucky Joe?”

Kenny didn’t put the gun down. “Maybe now that you’ve fucked me you don’t give a shit!”

I laughed, inching closer to him. “That’s bullshit. I’m not going to hurt you, Kenny!”

“Damn right you aren’t,” he sobbed. “‘Cause I’m gonna kill you first!”

That’s when I hit the ground and reached up for the gun. He pulled the trigger, but the stupid fuck had the safety on. I came up and kicked him in the balls, yanking the pistol out of his grasp.

I flicked the safety off, knelt over Kenny’s squirming form, and stuck the muzzle of the gun in his mouth.

“You gotta take the safety off,” I told him. “Now if I was gonna deliver you to Little Joe, why wouldn’t I just blow your fuckin’ brains out right now, motherfucker, and say you gave me a struggle? Then I could fuck your dead body for all anyone would care, asshole!”

My finger inched closer to the trigger.

Kenny quivered underneath me, his eyes flashing “I’m sorry.”

I pulled the gun out of his mouth and said, in the softest, most compassionate voice I could manage: “Get your fuckin’ clothes on. We’ve got some driving to do.”

My little show of dominance must have convinced Kenny to roll over, because he didn’t give me any more trouble on the way up. I even let him piss on his own, half hoping he would run away into the woods and get his sorry punk ass eaten by a bear. But he didn’t.

Instead, he acted like we’d been best friends since childhood. By now I was convinced that Kenny was totally schizophrenic. But he gave me a blowjob during one of our pit-stops, so that kept me kindly disposed toward him—up to a point.

As we got closer to the cabin, I could feel the weight of the .22s in my jacket pockets, the bulk of the .45 Colt stuffed into my waistband.

I thought about Kenny dying in the cold dirt of the mountains. I could almost smell his piss and shit and blood.

It was late in the day when we pulled off the remote mountain road and parked in front of the cabin. I fished in my pants pocket for the key and walked up the stairs. At the landing, I waited for Kenny.

“Come on, punk, I ain’t got all day.” Kenny climbed the stairs wearily and followed me in to the cabin.

Inside, it was dark. Kenny had just closed the front door when Rocco Morelli’s voice, rough as sandpaper, said “Hello, Kenny.” Tony Brakes grabbed Kenny’s arms as Rocco hit him hard on the side of the head, and Kenny went limp in Tony’s arms.

“Afternoon, Nicky,” said Rocco. “Pleasure to be working with you again.”

I shook his hand. “Likewise,” I said. “Listen, I want to be the one to do this fuckin’ punk, OK? I got a bullet with his name on it.”

“Be our guest,” said Rocco. “For us, it’s business—not pleasure. So be our guest.” He laughed.

Kenny wasn’t out for long. By the time he came to in the trunk of the Caddy, we were deep in the middle of nowhere and the sun was going down. We could hear him pounding against the trunk, trying to get out, but we didn’t bother to knock him out again.

“He’s thrashing around like a dying fish,” chuckled Rocco with a cruel twist to his lips. He tossed a cig out the window of the Caddy and lit another one.

“Yeah,” I said. “Just like a fucking fish.”

Kenny was sobbing as we made him dig his own grave. “Why are you doing this to me?” he kept asking. “Nicky, Nicky, make ‘em stop! You promised you’d smooth things over with Lucky Joe for me! Please, you gotta give me a break! You can’t just fuckin’ kill me like this!”

About the hundredth time Kenny said that, Rocco started shooting. Chunks of dirt sprayed up inches from Kenny’s foot, but none of the shots hit him. Rocco always was one hell of a shot.

“Come on, you fuckin’ punk, shut the fuck up and dig faster. We ain’t got all night!”

I was afraid Kenny might start spewing shit about what we did the night before, trying to beg for his life. And I knew that might cause me more than a little discomfort with Rocco and Tony. But for whatever reason—and I never really did figure this out—Kenny didn’t say a thing about that. As much as he blabbed, he never did say anything about the fact that he had my cock in his ass less than twelve hours before.

So when it came time to do him, to put him in the ground, I guess I felt more than a little guilty.

“Just like I told you, boys. I want to put the bullet in this fucking punk’s head.”

“Be our guest.”

Kenny stood sobbing at the edge of the hole in the ground, waiting for the impact of the bullets to push him into the grave. I lifted the .45 as Rocco lit a cigarette.

I sighted Kenny’s head with the Colt, let the tension build as Kenny shook and blubbered.

“Just kill ‘im already,” grunted Tony.

I pulled the trigger of the .45 and one of the .22s at the same time. Kenny gave a yelp and disappeared into the grave. I heard him hit as the midnight wind whistled through the trees.

Blood was splattered all over me. I could smell the piss and shit. Bone fragments were scattered over the ground. I looked down with what I would have sworn was more than half a hard-on, and felt Rocco’s hands grasping at my ankles.

I looked down the barrel of the .45 and emptied it into Rocco’s prone body. Tony was already dead.

Kenny, that pansy fuck, was lying in the bottom of his grave sobbing hysterically. I don’t know if he thought he was dead or had just gone completely fucking nuts with the stress. I climbed in after him and pushed his face into the soft earth. I grabbed his jeans and yanked them down, then undid my own and wiped the slick blood-and-brains from Tony’s head over my cock.

Maybe on any other night it would have disgusted the fuck out of me. But I was running a little short on mores tonight. I rammed into Kenny’s asshole with all the force I could muster, and soon I was moaning and our loads were mingling in the soft dirt of Kenny’s grave. He stopped his sobbing as his hard-on, covered with jizz, slowly dwindled.

I looked down at him with that weird mixture of contempt you can only have for someone when you’ve completely fucked up your own life for them. For no good reason.
“Get out of the fuckin’ grave,” I told him. “We’ve got work to do.”

“He’s communing with nature, all right. Only one thing, what the fuck ever happened to Rocco and Tony? I had to do the job alone. Yeah. Yeah. No, I never got word from them. Jesus, you don’t think…you don’t think that, do you? No. No. Look, I’ll keep my eyes open. No, it was easy, he died like a punk. All right. All right. I’ll keep my eyes open. I just hope they show up. If those fuckin’ East Side motherfuckers whacked Rocco and Tony, I promise you I’ll fuckin’ make them pay. I’ll find out who if it’s the last fuckin’ thing I do. You understand me, Boss? If it’s the last fuckin’ thing I do, I’m gonna get the motherfucker who whacked Rocco and Tony. Yeah. Yeah. I know. All right, look, I’m gonna get some sleep. Maybe they’ll show up. I’m sure they’re fine. All right. I’ll be in touch.”

I eased the receiver into the cradle of the pay phone and went back to the Caddy. Kenny was almost done putting the gas in.

I settled back into the driver’s seat and opened up the map.

Kenny finished up with the cashier and slid into the passenger’s seat. He looked nervous.

“You OK, kid?”

He shrugged. “The sooner we can dump those packages in the trunk, the better I’ll feel.”

“You and me both,” I told him, and found the spot on the map. “About a hundred miles away. Just hope Lucky Joe doesn’t decide to dig up your grave.”

Kenny gave a shudder at that one.

There was no way to predict what shit was going to hit the fan first. I didn’t know if I could make one of the East Side bastards look guilty, give them a motive they never had, incriminating evidence that didn’t exist. Or if Lucky Joe would see right through my trick of mirrors and one night soon I’d been digging my own grave in the forest while Sammy or Johnny Numbers or Max the Knife pointed a .45 at me and laughed about how I’d pissed my life away for a faggot punk.

But until that night came, that fine sweet ass of Kenny’s was mine. And it was almost like he’d grown up in the moment he fell into that grave—he had a different confidence, now, a coldness he hadn’t had before. Like visiting his own grave had made him different somehow. He didn’t act like such a punk now. Maybe this is his requiem, then: his story, and my own, told in my scattered thoughts to the purr of a Caddy’s engine, motoring down the interstate toward and away from twin destinies of sudden death. Requiem for a punk.

I pulled out of the gas station and eased onto the freeway, keeping the Caddy right at the speed limit through the endless fields of gold. The sun was starting to come up again, and the roosters were crowing.

 

© 2007 Thomas S. Roche

 

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Thomas S. Roche has had more than 65 published short stories in anthologies such as Best Gay Erotica 1996, Grave Passions, Best American Erotica 1996, 1997, and 1999, and The Mammoth Book of Pulp Fiction, among others. He is a columnist for www.Gothic.Net and for the heavy metal magazine Juggernaut. He has edited or co-edited six anthologies, including three volumes in the Noirotica series of erotic crime anthologies.