No infringement of the following characters and situations is intended.
Warning: Rated [MA] Mature Adults only. Contains strong m/m sexual scenes, violence, coarse language and adult themes.
Private Eye. Set in 1950s Hollywood.
"The Stars Baby, The Stars", Dave Graney
1994
-o0o-
Cleary's fingers dragged over the hard firm flesh of the muscular back that twisted and moved above him; pushing, pulling, kneading at the skin, pinching and coaxing, rewarding the hot young tongue that flicked in and out of his ear, over and over, giving him an aural fucking he couldn't believe. He twisted his head, exposing throat and Adam's apple, not surprised to find them equally assaulted, sucked hard upon. The liquid warm mouth slid over his throat, then down to his chest, wetting down the thick forest of hair until hands gave up his nipples to tongue and teeth. Cleary bit back a hissing groan as the little cocktease flicked the hard little nubs back and forth with his tongue, grinning at the reaction from Cleary.
Saliva slick skin was exposed to cool air as the boy's hot, hard body slid down, his mouth finding its ultimate destination. That wicked little tongue taunted and teased until Cleary caught that bobbing kid's head, grabbing thick clumps of greased hair between his fingers, uncaring.
"Take it all, Betts," he hissed between gritted teeth.
Johnny grinned, only too happy to oblige, sliding down on the thick, slick organ.
Cleary pulled at the kid's hair, hands digging into the kid's shoulders. Jesus, he was good. Cleary shuddered towards climax as the kid's mouth worked its magic.
This was what Betts's called his five dollar special, though Cleary suspected the kid had thrown in a few extras, him being his boss and all.
Betts sat up, wiping his mouth on his forearm; Cleary appreciating the full silhouette of the athletic body leaning over the side of the bed to snatch up hastily discarded and dishevelled jeans and T-shirt in the half light cast by a lamp left on in the lounge room.
"Better get on that surveillance job, huh."
The boy's soft Tennessee lilt drifted over him as he stretched languorously like a cat, satisfied, sleepy.
If he could see the boy's face, the light in the eyes, waiting for an invitation to stay, he didn't give any indication, merely watching through half closed eyes, watching as the boy dressed, taking a lazy drag from the cigarette that had waited, smoking, in the ash tray.
The only acknowledgment that they were in any sort of relationship was in the lack of financial transaction before the kid grabbed his coat and hustled out the door.
Jack Cleary took another long drag on his cigarette. It was easy to tell himself the kid was just a quick fuck on a slow night. Easier for both of them.
Johnny Betts was a few months shy of eighteen. Juvenile delinquent riding to hell high and fast on beer, stolen cars, rock and roll, tattoos and brylcream. Live fast, die young and leave a good looking corpse weren't just words to dance to or have carved into your skin, but a creed by which the kid lived, and would have died, had it not been for Jack's brother.
How Nick had found the kid, Jack could only imagine. Nick had tossed the kid a few jobs, straightened him out some. It had irked Cleary to discover he'd inherited Betts along with everything else. The kid had offered his services, all his services. The last thing Cleary thought he needed was this kid...he still told himself he didn't need him, for anything. He was just...expedient, and so very eager to please. It was like a whole other side to his brother had been revealed to him, seeing how devoted Betts had been to Nick, and how disconcertingly easily Betts had been willing to transfer loyalties from one brother to the next. Betts spoke of Nick in awed tones, like he was some saviour, mentor and hero rolled into one, and a hero he obviously worshipped. Nick's death had cut the boy up pretty badly, though Cleary was too self involved to see it.
Cleary ground out the cigarette in the ash tray.
He could have called the kid back, but that would be like admitting
that he needed him. Besides, he needed Betts to help keep tabs
on that so called movie producer he was investigating.
Johnny Betts slid back in his car seat, resting his
head against the cool leather, letting the tape spool on without
really paying attention. Let Cleary sit through it in the morning.
He shifted slightly and slid down the zipper of his jeans as he
thought of Cleary, closing his eyes, remembering Cleary's fingers
and lips as his seed tumbled over his fingers, splashing onto
his jeans.
"Oh, man," he groaned, leaning forward to try and sponge up the mess with the edge of his T-shirt.
The hand that grabbed him had him pinned hard back
against the seat, suffocating on noxious chemical fumes that caught
in his throat. He struggled faintly then fell forward, limp, against
that arm.
Cleary glared at his secretary, an all too easy target for his anger and frustration at Betts's lack of appearance. Cleary was still a cop in his blood, and Betts's all too easy going attitude to his assignments grated in a thousand different ways. The kid had probably fallen asleep in his car. Cleary wickedly asked his friend down at the local station to send a car out to round up his errant associate. He let the phone drop down, grinning as he sat back to await the show, anticipating Betts storming in, none too happy with Cleary's cheap, nasty and strong arm tactics. He wasn't ready at all for the phone call from Fontana about an hour later.
Betts's car had been found, abandoned, down in the rough end of town, miles from where he was supposed to have been, with no trace of Betts save for a small blood smear on the steering wheel.
Cleary stood up and paced his office, mouth suddenly dry, mind racing. Had the routine case gone bad? Had Betts chucked it in and run off? Had he been moonlighting, and run into trouble? That boy was nothing but trouble.
Dotti watched her boss's face darken as the news took hold in him from the vantage point of her desk. She'd resented Betts for charming his way into Cleary's pants before she'd had the chance to even try, but she'd hate anything to happen to Johnny.
She paused at the door with an unspoken offer of
coffee, but Jack just shook his head.
Two days later and shadows had darkened in Cleary's face, made all the more malevolent with his unshaven beard. He sat hunched over his desk, not having slept or eaten, stale coffee and cigarettes his only sustenance.
The phone rang; Cleary snatched it up. It was Fontana. The cops had found Betts, the kid lying sprawled, beat up and delirious amongst the leaves in one of the more notorious pick up parks in Hollywood. Fontana didn't say anything, didn't need to. The kid's clothes had been put back on carelessly, dried semen crusted across the denim. The kid was wired on whatever shit he'd been shot up with, shaking and screaming, out of his head, shivering with cold; they'd had to sedate him and strap him down.
What Fontana had left out of the phone call were the marks and bruises that covered Betts's body, some Cleary identified as the kind of bruises left by hand cuffs, marks that looked like cigarette burns, welts consistent with being caused by a whip, and some he couldn't, and didn't want to, guess at.
Cleary leant against the plain painted hospital wall, watching over the still faintly twitching youth. Wherever the kid had been, it had been hell. He'd never seen Betts stripped of the attitude, the swagger. He'd never seen under all that bravado; Betts was just a kid. His conscience stung at him. What the fuck had he been thinking, using the kid to do his dirty work. Betts had landed himself in over his head, and Cleary pasted some of the blame to himself. He should have been teaching the boy how not to get killed in this line of work, instead of just using him, like he was expendable.
Cleary was brought up by the realisation that Betts wasn't expendable - a sudden sharp pang hinting at what it would be like if Betts wasn't around, getting under his feet and in his hair. And under his skin. Blind sided, he suddenly realised that he cared for the kid. The blow was two fold. Realising suddenly that he actually liked the kid, and seeing Betts, like that.
He slumped into the chair by the bed.
"Damn you, Betts," he cursed softly under
his breath. Now he felt like he owed the kid something, and Cleary
hated owing anybody anything.
When Cleary found time to check by the hospital the next day he found Betts awake and annoyed.
Fontana was by his bed, pestering him. Betts was yelling at him, full of rage. He saw Cleary in the doorway and just glared at him. Fontana swung the door shut in Jack's face.
Fontana was taking Betts's statement. When he finally opened the door, Johnny was all curled up in on himself, crying softly into the pillow.
Fontana caught Cleary and pushed him back into the corridor.
"Not now, Jack," Fontana warned. "He doesn't want to talk right now."
Cleary's gaze drove through his friend. "What is it? What happened? Who did this to him?"
Fontana just shook his head, master of the studious cop poker face. No matter how much Jack blustered and buffeted himself against Fontana's wall of silence, Fontana refused to break or divulge even the smallest detail to Cleary.
Johnny would tell him in his own time, Fontana tried to reason. The last thing the poor boy needed was a grilling from the former detective Cleary. Not that Jack ever paid any attention to Fontana's advice, as the angry words echoing down the corridor attested.
Fontana was still around to see Cleary stalk over
to his car, slam the door and screech off, seething with impacted
rage. Johnny wouldn't tell him. Fontana fought down the sudden
wave of bile again. And he couldn't blame him.
Betts discharged himself from the hospital the next day. He got halfway across town without his car before the heat and the hurt got the better of him and he had to call Cleary to take him the rest of the way.
Neither spoke on the drive out to the trailer park. Cleary kept sneaking glances at Betts from time to time. The kid was languidly watching the baked scenery fly past the window, the glorious sunset into the distant ocean lost to both of them as Cleary steered his car inland towards desert.
The car's tyres crunched loudly over crusted dirt in the shimmering stillness of the fading purple evening. Betts slumped out of the car, and Cleary found himself following.
The kid looked back, annoyed, surprised a little, to find he had a tail, but shrugging it off, pushing into his dusty silver trailer and flopping on the old divan.
"Coffee?" offered Cleary, at a loss in the doorway.
Johnny half nodded in the direction of the tiny gas cooker that served as his kitchenette.
With Cleary occupied, swearing at Johnny's lacking of cleaning and organisation, Betts stretched out, the cussing softening into a blur of background noise, peeling off his damp T-shirt, wiping his brow before discarding it, poking delicately at the worst of the marks on his chest and arms. He caught Cleary watching him all of a sudden, in a raw naked moment, their eyes met. He broke away, pulling his shirt back on, hunching over.
Cleary offered him a chipped cup three quarters full of thick, strong police style coffee. Betts took several sips, making small faces, then put it aside.
"I didn't think my coffee was that bad," accused Cleary, affronted.
"It's not that. Got a bad taste in my mouth I can't shake." Betts hunched over further.
The two men sat in a very uneasy silence until Cleary broke first, standing up like a rabbit ready to bolt.
"You going to be okay?" he asked, voice hard and brittle.
"Yeah," mumbled Betts, arms folded around himself.
Cleary nodded, spared an emotional scene, and backed out of the trailer, not able to get out of the oppressive little box fast enough.
Still sweating deep into his shirt collar, he slid
the driver's seat, scattering dust and pebbles in his wake as
he slewed out of the tired little trailer park.
Betts sat up through the night with all the lights
on, vodka bottle empty, ash tray full. He reached under his pillow,
then remembered, he'd left his gun in his car; his car still impounded
in the police lot.
Cleary couldn't work. A thousand little administrative details that made his mind scream. He threw his pen down. To hell with book keeping, business and investigations.
He'd just wanted to get out of his office, suddenly
too big, too quiet, too full of ghosts, but was hardly surprised
to find the car had turned itself towards Betts's trailer park
of its own volition.
He banged on the door, but there was no answer. He tried peering through the grimy windows but it was pointless. Finally in frustration he shouldered the door open, almost slipping on the linoleum.
Blood, he was standing in blood. Betts lay at his feet, razor blade still clutched tight between his lips, wrists slashed open, slowly dribbling red liquid that spilled and pooled around Cleary's shoes.
Jack snatched up a blanket, rolled the kid in it
and carried him out to the car, lead footing it all the way to
the hospital.
Fontana found Cleary sitting dejectedly upon a fake leather bench, head in his hands.
"Jack?"
"They won't let me see him. I'm not related."
Fontana squeezed his shoulder.
"It's okay. I'll get you in."
"He's lucky he botched it. Cut his wrists across like in the movies, not along the vein, otherwise he would have bled to death before you found him." The doctor ignored Cleary's seething expression, but his glibness turned to anger. "I'd like to kill the doctor who sent him home, after all he'd been through. It's not enough, it shouldn't be enough to stop the bleeding and send them on their way. Medicine should be about the mind and the soul, as well as the body. Where's the caring, the compassion we're supposed to have. Anyone with half a brain could have seen that the kid would have self destructed. You're lucky you found him when you did.," he repeated to Cleary before dropping the clip board down on the end of the bed.
Alone in the room, Cleary visibly wilted, leaning above the bed, watching the pale young face beneath him closely, searching for the faintest flicker of life.
Betts's heart was still beating, but if Cleary was searching for evidence that the boy wanted to live, just now, he wasn't going to find it.
Arms folded, back against the wall, Jack waited for whatever new evidence in Johnny's case had summoned him to the downtown police station.
Fontana was busy pulling the venetian blinds closed.
Cleary noted the projector and scoffed.
"A movie? You should have told me, I would have brought popcorn."
Fontana ignored the tone, phrasing his explanation in a patient, deadpan tone.
"We came across this in a raid of a premises selling pornographic material." He flicked the switch, the projector clattered to life, beaming flickering images up onto the screen; super 8, Kodak colour.
Cleary caught his breath, and held it. It was a tight head shot of Johnny, blindfolded. He flicked his head quickly from side to side, frightened. The shot widened to show Johnny, naked, trussed up and suspended like a side of beef, wrists cuffed to the pipe above him. Shadowy figures moved behind him. The cherry red glow of a cigarette tip. Johnny's head snapped back in a silent scream.
Cleary bolted from the room.
"Just be glad it wasn't a snuff film," Fontana's tired voice reminded him.
Cleary sloshed another handful of water into his face, then looked up from the grimy sink, still dripping.
"You bastard. You could have warned me," he started.
Fontana shrugged.
"I thought Johnny had told you. Guess not."
Cleary braced himself against the sink.
"Who are they? I want them dead."
Fontana tore off a sheet of paper towel and handed it across.
"We don't know, yet. Details of the film's distribution are sketchy, as you can imagine. We know it was filmed in the basement. We know what film stock they used. There are three people in the film, all wearing masks, but one of them has a tattoo. We've got the FBI going over the film, trying to identify the kind of camera used, the tattoo, previous MOs. Johnny's still a minor, fake IDs notwithstanding, and he's not the only one. The Feds think these bastards are responsible for a lot of the kids turning up dead on the streets. Kids like Betts. Kids no one cares about."
He saw Cleary's jaw tighten.
"Listen, Jack, Johnny's really hurting right now. You can see it in his eyes. He doesn't deserve any of this. Johnny's not a bad kid, he doesn't deserve to self destruct. He's been treated like so much disposable garbage all his life. Nick was the first person to treat him like he was worth something, you know? You could do well to emulate Nick, or you'll lose him, you know."
Cleary blanched and backed up to the wall.
"What do you mean?"
Fontana grinned a lopsided grin.
"Jesus Christ, Jack. I'm a cop." Fontana just shook his head, leaving Cleary to frown at his own reflection.
-o0o-
"You got a reputation, you got an attitude
For a hard guy you let a lot of things happen to
you."
"Livin' Out Your Tomorrow (Hard Against Yesterday)", Dave Graney 1994
-o0o-
Jack stood at the threshold of the trailer, then
forced himself in. He didn't know why he was here. A compulsion.
He felt a need he couldn't explain. He straightened up the chair,
washed down the formica table, dusted down the dirty, dingy divan
he always felt he was going to catch diseases from. He washed
all the dishes and cups in the sink, and found a place to stack
them; the old memory of boot camp coming back like a comfort;
acting without thinking, scrubbing the place down from top to
bottom, making it less a teenager's room and more like a barracks.
Finally, he found himself on his hands and knees trying to lift
the blood stain out of the lino. Scrubbing feverishly at the spot
until he broke out in a sweat removed the worst of it, but he
could still see its shadow, no matter how hard he tried. Like
some in gothic novel, he just couldn't shift it. The hopelessness,
futility of his task over took him. He dropped the brush, sat
back on the wet floor, doubled over, and wept.
Betts broke himself from his sullen attitude, noticing the landmarks were all wrong.
"Hey, where the hell are we going?"
"My place," Cleary grimaced.
"Like hell," scowled Betts.
"Doctors orders."
"You mean you've gotta watch me?"
"Yeah," Cleary ground the word between his teeth.
Betts slunk down lower in the seat, pouting.
Cleary threw his coat over the back of his chair, shucking off his holster next as Betts loitered nervously near the doorway.
"You can sleep in the bedroom," Cleary directed. "I'll take the couch."
"What about my stuff?" Betts started to complain, stopping short when he saw his old bag on the foot of the bed.
"Oh man, you went through my stuff," he wailed.
"Just for the essentials. No more than was necessary, believe me," Cleary assured sarcastically.
"How long do I hafta stay here?" came the whine again, grating on Cleary's nerves.
"Till the stiches come out, at least."
They fell into a strained silence.
"You hungry?" Cleary asked at last.
Betts slowly shook his head.
"Whatever."
Cleary left the kid to his own devices, seeking the
sanctuary of his own kitchen. Pretty soon, the smell of food and
fresh coffee had Betts sniffing around and Cleary was gratified
to see the wild child sneak off with a few scraps. He wouldn't
starve, at least.
It wasn't long before another wail of protest broke the soft mantra of grumbling from the bedroom as things were unpacked and rearranged.
Betts appeared in the doorway, waving his little toilet kit in Cleary's direction.
"You forgot my razor, man." he accused.
"You don't know how to use one," Cleary shot back.
Johnny recoiled as if slapped, attitude sinking from annoyed to defeated.
"How am I gonna shave?"
"I'll do it."
"You bastard." Betts's dark glower packed enough malevolence to knock Cleary off his feet, but he stood his ground.
Cleary's jaw tightened.
"Just tell me why."
Betts shrugged and turned away, but Cleary snapped him back savagely, demanding an answer with unspoken violence in his stance.
"Get off my case!" Johnny pulled free with a snarl.
"I'm on your case, Betts, until I say otherwise."
"Dammit, Cleary, I was coming down bad. It was the moment. I couldn't see any other way - I was feeling sorry for myself. There. Are you happy now?"
Cleary wasn't. More than that, he needed more proof than Betts's word that he wouldn't try again.
"I don't need a god damned babysitter, Cleary," Johnny's voice rose in pitch and hostility.
"I think you do. And you're gonna get one, for as long as necessary." He could have walked the few paces that separated them, picked up the kid and tried to slap some sense into him.
Johnny could see it in Cleary's eyes, and kept a wary distance.
"What the hell were you thinking? It was a stupid thing to do. You're letting those bastards win. I know life hasn't dealt you a fair hand, but I thought you knew how to roll with the punches."
"Not this time," Johnny spoke quietly, and turned, retreating into the relative safety of the bedroom.
Cleary wanted to follow him, say something, do something
to ease the pain. But the best he knew was a shot of scotch, and
that wasn't what Johnny needed right now. Damn. Suddenly he had
a teenager to look after and he didn't know how.
He watched Johnny breathing softly, curled up in the bed, looking so innocent, so guiless, so vulnerable. He was stung by another pang of what he could lose.
Betts suddenly cried out, thrashing among the sheets. Cleary snapped on the light and the kid froze in a moment of horror, then he saw Cleary. He relaxed a little, chest still rising and falling fast.
"I heard breathing, in the dark."
"It was just me. I wanted to make sure you were all right."
Betts hunched forward, trembling with unneeded adrenalin.
"I - they ," the words choked in his throat.
"Its okay now," Cleary offered distantly.
The kid doubled over, shaking, a thick grinding cry rising up in his throat.
And he was sick, all over the bed. He couldn't help it or stop it, he just retched.
"Jesus Christ," muttered Cleary, tearing away the sheets to dump them in the bathroom, returning with a damp towel.
The boy was just sitting there, shuddering and sweating, his eyes all glassy, the light totally gone from them, like dead eyes.
"Johnny?" he called quietly.
The head moved, and a glimmer of light returned to those eyes, and he felt his own heart ease.
"I'm sorry," the voice came out like a child's. Sitting there, all hunched up, hair awry, big dark eyes in a disturbingly sallow face like some sort of orphan in Dickens.
"Sweet Jesus, Johnny," Cleary started to mutter.
The boy just looked at him and started to weep.
"Oh no, don't do that."
Cleary found himself on the bed, wiping away the vomit, tears and mucus as the kid fell into his arms and wept, the sobs echoing through his own chest.
"Come on, kid, its okay now, its okay," he found himself soothing, holding Johnny more and more naturally, until he was nestled deep in his arms, head buried against Cleary's shoulder, Cleary's fingertips brushing lightly down his spine, skipping over the raised welts along his back.
Jack felt the soft brush of Johnny's dark honey brown hair against his arm. He held him tighter, nuzzling his cheek against that silky softness.
Johnny's breathing slowed, and eventually, he fell asleep in Cleary's arms. Jack kissed the back of his neck softly, but the boy didn't stir. He held him, until his arms began to ache, then he gently laid him down upon the bed. Dragging up the quilt from where Johnny had kicked it onto the floor, he stretched out beside him and fell into an exhausted sleep.
Jack Cleary hadn't slept in nearly seventy two hours,
not since he'd found Johnny, seen him patched up, driven all over
town looking for the bastards who'd done this, then taking Johnny
home with him.
Cleary woke, and gently eased himself from under Betts's arm. The kid was asleep now, but he didn't want another shock like last night.
He blearily wandered into the bathroom, and was brought
up short by the dirty sheets. He kicked them into the shower,
washing away the worst of it under a short burst of cold water,
then bundling them into the laundry basket. He knew he had to
drop by the laundromat, and secure some supplies, but he didn't
want to leave the kid alone. Maybe he could sweet talk Dotti into
running his errands for him.
Cleary was reading his morning newspaper, which he at least had the foresight to have delivered, scanning it with a higher than usual level of intensity, looking for any breaks in the case, any similar type of case, just anything.
Johnny prowled restlessly in the background, disliking his supervised detention, resenting his jailer. Cleary, aside from the occasional glance from the corner of his eye, ignored him; too caught up in trying to enact revenge for Johnny, rather than entertain him.
The door bell rang and Betts beat Cleary to the door, yanking it open.
Dotti stood there, a little taken aback, basket in hand.
"Er, hi," she stumbled, not meeting his eyes. "I made this for you." She thrust a thermos at him.
Betts snatched at the thermos.
"Chicken soup? Man, does everyone know?" He slammed the door in Dotti's face and turned to glare at Cleary.
"Just Dotti and she made that because she's worried about you so be nice and apologise."
"Don't need nobody fussin' over me," Betts muttered as Cleary reopened the door on a less than amused Dotti.
"You don't pay me enough for this, Jack," she fumed.
"I know," he smiled easily, and slipped her a little extra, but the smile was all he needed.
Dotti handed across the groceries, and his messages, and took receipt of the laundry.
"You know, this isn't exactly administrative work," she reminded.
"I know, but its an emergency, and I appreciate it." That smile again. He could have gotten Dotti to wash his car for that smile; it just never occurred to him.
"Is he?" she started to ask, and saw the shadows fall across Jack's eyes.
"I'll be on my way then. See you later, Mr Cleary." She departed, suddenly cold and formal, seeing Johnny waiting inside the room.
Jack closed the door and turned.
"What was all that for?" he asked, mood darkening.
Johnny's hackles rose.
"She was starin'," he began, annoyed and embarrassed.
Johnny's uncombed hair fell forward in soft locks over his forehead. No pretensions, no artifice, he looked exactly the young poor white hillbilly trash that he was.
"What?" he asked, a nervous smile turning up the corner of his mouth under Jack's scrutiny.
"Nothin. Its just a whole new look for you," Jack teased. He reached across to ruffle Johnny's hair. "Its kinda cute."
Johnny ducked away, grinning nervously.
Jack's hand brushed lightly across his cheek, the start of a beard grazing deliciously against the skin of his fingertips.
"Come on, I'll give you a shave."
Betts cocked his head sideways.
"Still don't trust me, huh?"
"Nope," Jack admitted affably.
Johnny let himself be led into the bathroom. Jack's touch felt good, warm, protective. He needed it. Needed it so bad it scared him; standing, leaning back against the cold wall as Jack carefully covered his face with lather. It felt so good, Jack touching him, Cupping his chin, tilting his head this way and that, his soft breath on his face, the heat of his body, leaning so close, only an inch or so away.
Johnny held his breath as each stroke of the razor swept along his skin, so carefully, watching as Jack rinsed the razor in the sink, not able to meet his eyes; he was too close, too near. Johnny just shut his eyes and felt Jack's hands upon him, until the memories intruded and his eyes snapped open, panicked for a moment.
Jack stopped.
"Okay?"
Johnny nodded, slowly.
"Almost done." The razor splashed in the water again before kissing it's wet steel blade to his skin.
"There," Jack announced, tilting Betts's face to the light to admire his handiwork.
"Not bad," he mused. "I could have been a barber."
He ran his hand under the water, brushing away errant streaks of foam with his thumb.
Their eyes met at once. Betts's face still cupped in his hands, he leant in, his lips sealing over Betts's, his tongue seeking entrance, thumb stroking his cheek.
Johnny fell into the kiss, hungry, surprising Cleary, who welcomed the eager young tongue that pushed into his mouth.
They ground together, Cleary's hands dropping to grab Johnny's arse, squeezing it, then bracing himself against the wall as Johnny hung onto him, hand sliding down to cup Johnny's soft heavy sacks. Man, but he loved the fell of them. He squeezed slightly, trying to coax a reaction as he plundered the kid's mouth.
Johnny pushed back suddenly with a cry, tearing himself from his grasp, slamming into the safety of the bedroom again.
Jack just stood there, alone, breathing large gulps of stale, damp air.
"I'm sorry," he whispered to the empty room, realising he had pushed too far, too soon.
He could hear Betts's angry, muffled thuds and cries from behind the door, but he was frozen to the spot, unwilling to intrude any further, feeling like a rapist himself, violating the boy's trust.
Johnny stayed locked in the room as the afternoon shadows lengthened. Jack prowled the house, feeling trapped like a rat in a cage. Nothing in his house offered him peace anymore. He was angry at everything, himself, Johnny. The claustrophobia beat down on him, suffocating him. He couldn't stand it anymore, he had to get out.
Leaving Johnny, he swung himself into his car and screamed down through the hills at dangerous speeds, jaw tight, planning to grill Fontana on the progress of the investigation.
Slowly, the pleasures of driving eased the tight
rod of anger inside him. The warm night breeze through his hair,
the golden lights of the city spread out before him still worked
their magic. The illusion of being free and being in control,
behind the wheel. He let the pleasure coil from his hands upon
the wheel down through his chest and stomach, to his thighs and
the gentle stirring between his legs. He sighed and surrendered
to it, remembering the first time Johnny had touched him with
an unmistakable sexual urgency. How his skin had turned to fire.
How he'd given in too fast, too easily. He'd let himself be taken
by the passion to places he'd never dreamt of going, never dreamt
of feeling what that wicked man-child could do to him. And now
he had this albatross around his neck. By using Betts, and being
used, he felt an obligation towards him. And because Nick had
obviously cared for the kid, Jack felt obliged to honour his brother's
wishes and keep the kid around. Cleary's hands tightened on the
wheel, uncomfortable with the responsibility.
Fontana neatly summed up Jack's mood when he saw the ex-cop stalk towards his desk. It wasn't the tense, uptight way he moved, or the anger that seemed to set his face in stone. It was merely the fact that of all the years Fontana had known Cleary, he was more often pissed off or hell bent on some crusade than not.
Fontana stood to head him off at the pass.
"Jack, I told you, the Feds own this case now. It involves minors and crosses State borders, both in victims and distribution. And they're welcome to it, frankly. We just don't have the man power. There are enough random violent crimes to make me forget what my bed looks like. Leave the organised stuff to the big boys, Jack." He placed a restraining hand on his friend's shoulder. "Don't push it, and don't be disappointed if nothing happens. I get the feeling that there are a couple of powerful people involved in this. People you don't want to go pissing off with that uncanny knack of yours, not if you want to work in this town, at all."
Cleary's eyes narrowed.
"What do you know." It wasn't a question, it was a demand.
"Nothing. It's just a gut feeling. I know when I'm being shut out, and I feel a carpet sweep coming on."
Jack glowered, the rage rolling from him enough to make even Fontana back off a little.
"Just leave it, Jack. Johnny's alive, that's the important thing. You could help by trying to fill in the blanks about Johnny." Fontana sat down on the edge of his desk. "The Feds don't know whether Johnny went looking for trouble, or whether trouble came looking for him. What sort of case was he working on?"
"Surveillance job," Cleary tossed off, not really paying attention. "Nothing special. Studio wanted to check out stories of a producer's addictions before they'd invest in him."
"Addictions?"
"Sex, drugs," Cleary shrugged. "The usual."
Fontana nodded patiently.
"So how much do you know about Johnny's history? Like the reasons he ran away from home? Any trouble?"
"Just a few scrapes with the law," muttered Cleary, completely missing what Fontana was implying.
"Jack," Charlie sighed. "Have you even bothered to look up Johnny's record? There were a couple of busts for, well, indecency."
"Jesus Christ. You think he sold himself into...that?" Cleary was appalled.
"I had to ask," Fontana knew he was walking on eggshells.
Cleary scowled, frustrated by the walls of silence, offended by Fontana's implications, embarrassed to admit he knew so little about the body he was fucking.
"Don't ask," Cleary ground out. "I pay him enough."
Fontana just wanted to smack some sense into Jack. For a cop, he was dangerously blind, unable to see reality for what it was, like a goddamn fool headed romantic, never able to see ugly, nasty sides to people, even after all his years as a cop, endlessly tilting at windmills. Worse yet, he held onto his romantic visions with a belligerent stubbornness, refusing to see truths right under his nose.
Jack Cleary was an arrogant prick, and it had cost him. The loss of his romantic visions had made him bitter, his belief that he was beyond reproach had cost him job, his belief that he didn't need anybody had cost him family, friends, lovers.
Jack was going to lose Johnny, Fontana knew it. The
kid wasn't going to hang around and take the abuse quietly like
Charlie had, carrying his silent torch, all these years. And Jack
too wrapped up in himself to see it.
Cleary clicked off the static hiss of the television, falling down into his couch, tugging off his tie. Then, leaning forward, head in his hands, as the reality of his situation hit him again, hard, in the stomach.
Once, he'd been one of the best cops on the force, with a wife, and a brother. Now he was a two bit private eye, divorced, drummed out of the force, with a suicidal juvenile delinquent, sometime paramour, sometime errand boy, lying in his bed.
God, he hoped the kid was asleep, suddenly realising there was no sound from his room. He stood, throwing his keys on the table and his coat on the couch and barged into the bed room, but stopped.
Betts was fast asleep, sprawled out on the sheets in all his youthful beauty.
Cleary leant close to check for a pulse to reassure himself and smelt the liquor on his breath. The kid was tanked, but he'd sleep it off. The pulse was strong and steady. The room was still and silent, and Cleary let Johnny sleep. He looked so pale, drawn and haunted. The poor kid.
A quick inventory of his bar had him cursing; Betts having been indiscriminate in his choices. Cleary gave a moment of silence for the bottle of his best scotch wasted on the unappreciative redneck, for whom a bathtub brew would have done the job just as well.
He grabbed one of his few remaining bottles and sank down onto the couch, grateful at least the kid hadn't poisoned himself while he was out.
"Why didn't you let me die?" he heard Johnny's voice echo in his head again.
And his still couldn't answer.
He poured a large shot into the glass and swallowed it on one, burning gulp.
Who was he kidding? His marriage had been over for
a long time before the papers were signed. His career's swan dive
had just been another excuse for the divorce court. He'd spent
more time with Charlie in a week than it seemed like his whole
marriage put together. That's what had really torn him up; when
Charlie had told him to stay away, because mud had the tendency
to stick. Losing the friendship he'd had with Charlie, that'd
had been just about the last straw. Until Nick died.
Exhaled smoke momentarily clouded his view through his window. Jack Cleary leant there, completely still, absently smoking, watching the pink light of dawn kiss the rooftops of LA that spread below his Hollywood Hills home, without really seeing it.
He exhaled again and stubbed out the cigarette on the sill.
His shirt, tie and coat still lay slung over the couch where he'd thrown them, hours ago.
His cop's sense came alert to the sound of someone moving behind him, but he practiced an attitude of unmoving ambivilance.
"Couldn't sleep either, huh?" drawled Johnny Betts, leaning up against the opposite end of the window, predawn light catching the medallion that rested upon his naked chest.
"You should try that couch sometime," Cleary growled, but there was a hint of affection buried deep in his voice, in his eyes.
Cleary shook out two cigarettes from his pack on the sill. He placed them loosely on his bottom lip. Shaking out his lighter, he lit one, then the other, inhaling softly. He held them in his mouth for a precious moment, then handed one across to Betts.
Johnny took it, still warm from Cleary's lips. He savoured it, drawing the smoke deep into his lungs.
"I'm surprised you're awake," Cleary continued. "You worked your way through my liquor cabinet, including my good malt."
"Sorry," Johnny shrugged. "I thought it would stop...the memories," he quietened.
"It doesn't work, kid. I know. I've tried." Cleary took another drag.
"Guess not," Betts agreed softly, smoke mingling with Cleary's.
The two men smoked quietly for a while as the sun rose over Los Angles, turning the clouds violet, having returned from the other side of the planet.
"Why'd you do it?" Cleary asked, tiredly, drawn with the need to know, weary at the thought of what the answer might be.
Johnny drew deeply upon his cigarette, blowing the smoke out with a heavy sigh.
"I dunno. Ever been knocked down so far you didn't think you could claw your way back up?"
"Yeah," Cleary answered, still raw bitterness in his voice.
Johnny shrugged it off.
"I've been dealt so many bum hands, everytime I think it's going okay; I guess I'm just fooling myself huh? I'm never gonna be better than the unwanted piece of trash I was when I was born."
"No, you're better than that, kid. Tougher than that. You've got heart."
"If you say so, Jack." Betts's voice was sarcastic, his expression obscured by smoke.
"It'd be a waste," Cleary assured.
Jack casually flicked open his lighter and let the flame drop to the trail of petroleum.
"How about a little fire, Scarecrow," he taunted softly.
He watched as the fame zipped up the small river of fossil fuel, dancing, excited in the desert wind, to leap with joy upon the pile of films stacked up for it; a funeral pyre.
"Ashes to ashes," muttered Cleary as the celluloid burst into light and heat, making him step back a little.
The rest of the building was well alight by the time the fire trucks arrived. Jack was parked aways down the road, as if sightseeing.
Charlie Fontana knew better, but also knew Jack was too slick to implicate himself on arson charges. He just happened to be there, working, when he saw the place just go up, the darnedest thing. Sure.
Fontana fumed, but there was nothing to say that wouldn't incriminate both of them. Once, Cleary had played by the rules. Now, he wasn't so sure. He knew the whys, but he didn't like the precedents being set.
"How'd you find out, Jack." Fontana asked wearily, mopping his brow with a tired handkerchief. It was a hot enough night without sitting on the doorstep of an inferno.
Cleary smoked lazily from the open door of his convertible, head hung low, almost in an attitude of contrition, but Fontana didn't believe it.
"You mean how'd I find out what you and the Feds tried to cover up? Wasn't that hard. Tracked down who used the film stock, searched the scandal sheets's files on who liked kids, found a match to the case I'd been working on, surprise surprise. They were too damn cocky, stealing my man right out from under me. They started this. They turned a surveillance job into a war."
"A war you had to finish, jack?" Fontana demanded, but Cleary wasn't going to dignify that with an answer. They both knew, and that was enough.
"Jesus, Jack," Fontana thumped the polished hood in frustration. "I've got no time on my beat for outlaw vigilantism, you hear me?"
"I hear you," Jack breathed out through the smoke.
"Goddamit, Jack, I could crucify you for this. You could lose everything."
"Then why don't you?" Cleary challenged.
Fontana fell silent.
Because he couldn't.
"Damn fags didn't deserve to live," Cleary spat out.
"Hypocrite," Fontana muttered under his breath, the words lost over the background sirens. Sure, what these bastards did was unspeakable, unforgivable. But Cleary's attitude; his damn Irish Catholic attitude. He wasn't a homosexual, oh no, he just screwed Betts. That was different, somehow, in Cleary's mind.
"One of these days, Jack, you'll push too far," Fontana warned.
"Don't go screwin' your career for me," Cleary sneered, remembering how his partner had managed to stay clean, stay on the Force.
"It's not that, Jack. It's just that, you keep this up, and one day you'll go too far and I won't be able to cover your arse. You're lucky, this time, you picked a subject that's gonna get swept under the carpet real quick, no questions asked. But next time - there just better not be a next time."
"I hear you," Cleary responded peevishly to his friend's warning.
Do you, wondered Charlie Fontana. Cleary had never listened to Fontana in his life, at least, never anything but the facts of a case. One day it was going to cost them both.
Cleary threw his cigarette stub onto the tarmac.
"I better be getting back to Johnny," he announced.
"Yeah," Fontana agreed, annoyed. "You do that."
He watched Cleary's sleek black boat of an automobile snake its way down the winding road.
Pull yourself together, Jack, and make it happen, he prayed, as the flames danced higher behind him, whipped up by the wind.
The sun would be high in the sky before the ashes cooled enough for the remains of three Caucasian males could be removed from the ruins. Two of them with gun shot wounds, one of them with a blunt trauma to the head. Too bad any bullets or weapons had long since melted in the inferno, and the blaze having left little more than bone fragments, precious little to piece together the sequence of violence.
And as Fontana expected, what was so obviously a triple homicide was very quickly filed away and forgotten. The last thing the city needed was that kind of dirty laundry being aired in public. Hoover and the Hayes code had already visited enough vengeful wrath upon the town as it was. No need for the LAPD to prove that this was indeed Sodom by the sea.
-o0o-
"A RAMALAMA FA FA FA FA BE BOP A LULA GO
Yeah I wanna watch ya go
And I'm gonna watch ya go
I'm gonna fill ya full o' sunshine baby
I'm gonna release your soul."
"I'm Gonna Release Your Soul", Dave Graney 1994
-o0o-
Rock and Roll. That's what Cleary's little flat was doing. He rehearsed apologies to the neighbours as he slipped his key in the lock. Cleary walked in the door to be greeted by the sight of Betts, naked to the waist, chest and arm muscles working under golden skin as he worked out lazily with Cleary's weights, cigarette dangling from his lips, dropping ash all over the floor.
Cleary just stood and stared. The pounding bass beat matched his own heart.
Johnny grinned, eyes shining.
"You just window shopping, or looking to buy?" he taunted.
"Don't be a smart arse, Betts, I know you're not up to it."
"Says who?"
Says you, thought Cleary, you little cocktease, standing there like that, but every time I make a move, you cry foul.
"I didn't want to push you, until you were ready."
Johnny's smile widened, then waned.
"I know. At first I thought I'd never, you know?" he shrugged. "But then I started having dreams about you, and when I woke up," he smirked.
"Thanks, Betts, those were my good sheets."
Betts just grinned at him. He set the weights down and waited out Cleary, letting him make the first move.
"Goddam you," Cleary muttered, crossing the floor to grab Betts by the arms and hold him tight enough to bruise him, tossing the cigarette to the floor, grinding it under his shoe, driving his tongue into the boy's mouth.
Betts met Cleary's aggression with equal passion. They sank to the floor, tearing away clothes, clawing at flesh, the first time over in a rush of heat and sweat.
Cleary untangled himself from Johnny and stood, holding out his hand.
"Come on, I want to show you something."
"What?" asked Betts, following him into the bedroom.
"This," And Cleary blazed a trail of kisses down the kid's spine, making Johnny arch like a cat.
"Oh, man," the boy moaned.
Cleary guided Johnny onto the bed with him, mouth and hands making Johnny twist and shout in his arms, pleasure reaching places, heights and depths he'd never experienced. Cleary was making love to him, like he hadn't made love to anybody, in a long, long time. He wanted this to be special, to show Johhny there was more, so much more.
Cleary traced a finger tip absently over the tattoo on Betts's shoulder, then bent to kiss it. He began a soft, gentle expedition across Johnny's sweet, smooth skin, sucking upon nipples and Adam's apple, slowly taking the boy in his arms and almost tenderly lowering him down to lie upon the bed, Cleary beside him, the boy's face rapt, lost in delicate sensation.
He traced the slightly parted lips, the tip of his finger slipping in. Johnny took it, suckling upon it, up to the knuckle, causing an electric charge to shoot through Cleary, straight to his groin. He withdrew, replacing his finger with his tongue, which darted around Betts's, his dampened finger trailing down the boy's side to tease between his arse, gently getting him to open up, relaxed, pressing in. Obediently, Johnny began to roll on his side, but Cleary stopped him, inching down to kiss and nip the already fluttering, over sensitive skin, then, wicked light in his eyes as Johnny writhed and moaned at his mercy before him. He licked the teenager's length, taking it deep into his mouth, going down, all the way.
Johnny bit back a cry, hands clutching at Cleary.
Cleary could feel Betts pulsing in his mouth, and took curious pleasure in knowing he was the cause, that he could make that pulse beat faster with the smallest stroke of his tongue. He took his time revisiting favourite places, places he knew would make Johnny spasm, drawing out his exquisite, slow, loving torture in an elaborate game. Slow, then fast, then almost to the brink, in never ending waves, but always gentle and playful; the kid had endured enough pain.
"Please," Johnny begged, throat thick and hoarse; and Cleary took him over the edge, drinking down the thick syrup that filled his throat. Jack slid over the teenager's body, hands still joined, taking his own pleasure as Johnny still pumped weakly beneath him. Jack ground his hips into the kid's and came, groans muffled against Johnny's throat.
Cleary drew him into his arms, holding him like a woman as he slowly kissed him, savouring the tastes and textures of the mouth under his. The musky smell of sweat and semen curled over them as Cleary continued to lap at Johnny's smooth, baby soft skin.
He cradled the boy's head against his shoulder, encouraging
him to sleep. For the first time, Betts stayed and fell asleep
in his arms. Cleary let his fingers run through the thick, silky
hair, enjoying the simple pleasures of it. This could work, he
allowed himself to dream. This could really work.
Cleary half woke when he felt Betts leave his bed.
Then he heard the car pulling out of the drive. Old habits die
hard, he thought.
Johnny Betts never came back. Cleary waited for nearly eight hours before alerting Fontana to the fact.
The car was discovered abandoned alongside the 101, having overheated, the radiator beyond repair, with evidence of Johnny having continued on foot, hitching.
He'd just run off, unable to cope, not wanting to be found.
Cleary sank against the car under the oppressive heat a broken man. Fontana squeezed his shoulder tightly, but offered no other comfort. For Cleary, there was none.
-o0o-
"I never dreamed that I'd love somebody like
you
I never dreamed that I'd lose somebody like you."
"Wicked Game", Chris Isaak 1989