satyricon au go go

When Johnny Comes Marching Home

Johnny Betts sat naked to the waist, perfectly still as the needle danced across the skin on his arm a thousand times. Smoke from his cigarette obscured the expression in his dark eyes, but a satisfied smile played upon his lips.

He was having a sword carved upon his skin, a dragon coiling protectively around it. He hadn't actually ordered the dragon, but down here in Chinatown even the word 'mother' came with dragons. He was just drunk enough so as not to feel too much of it, watching out of idle curiosity as the master plied his trade.

Mac had found this guy, recommended him, once he realised Johnny was serious about the tattoo. The sword motif had been chosen because Mac seemed to be a nut about them. But he'd shown Johnny how to duel like Errol Flynn, so that was cool. And he liked cars. He made Johnny run his errands and yelled at him for playing his music too loud. But he hadn't told Johnny to hit the road yet, so that was cool, too.

Johnny's benefactor stood quietly in the corner of the shop, watching and waiting. Watching the needle trace out the lines on the firm young flesh, the rose colour nipples harden to points, the flash of a silver medallion as the chest rose and fell slightly, the fire burning in the dark eyes.
Wondering how he had come to this place. Duncan couldn't work out how it had happened. He'd stopped to pick up a teenaged hitchiker along the highway, the kid all too easily impressed by his brand new T-Bird. They'd fallen to talking. The boy was a runaway. Johnny had offered himself for a place to sleep. He'd politely refused, at first. Days and weeks had passed. And the kid was still with him. They talked of travelling around the world together.

Johnny inspected the work, twisting his head and body to see his arm, grinning with the result. Cash exchanged hands and he shrugged on his jacket, a little gingerly, and joined Macleod on the pavement.

"Good job, huh?" he asked of his patron.

"If you think so," came the amused reply. "That's going to be with you a long, long time."

Johnny shrugged, and Macleod just shook his head. They walked in a companionable silence the two blocks to Macleod's favourite restaurant; a tiny, dingy, barely washed down and thoroughly authentic affair.

Macleod ran off an order in perfect Cantonese, which still freaked Johnny, as they took their usual booth of red vinyl in the corner.

Johnny played absently with the chipped porcelain cup. Macleod filled it with jasmine tea to stop him, and was rewarded by a distasteful expression.

"You know I don't like that. It's got sticks in it."

"Try it. It's an experience."

"It tastes like dishwater."

"It's an acquired taste."

"I don't want to acquire it."

Macleod let the boy win. Let the kid have his soda. That he'd actually eat here was achievement enough, expecially with what Macleod ordered.
Johnny still hadn't mastered the art of chopsticks, and groused when Duncan tried to teach him. Duncan had observed, as had Cleary, that Betts was still mastering the art of cutlery, so chopsticks were a bit of an ask. For someone so delicate with a screwdriver or a lock pick, he was all thumbs when it came to eating. Still, it amused Macleod to try and polish the youth, much the same way it must have amused his own teachers.

Johnny ate his way through several courses, and Macleod paid the bill, as always. Macleod didn't mind paying for the company. He wondered what Amanda would think of the lad. He wondered what Amanda would teach him. He
coloured slightly. Best not to follow that thought.

They passed through the belled door, laughing, ducking under the dirty tassled good luck charm. The air was alive with frission. A couple of blocks away, drums and firecrackers reverberated as a bright silk dragon danced and chased evil spirits up the street. A new business opening. The
familiar smell of gunpowder leant a tang to the air.

Macleod slipped his arm 'round Johnny's shoulders as they headed back towards the parked T-Bird.

The next street opened up, and there was the dragon, flashing colour and movement. Johnny stopped to watch, transfixed. Duncan felt a slow itch creep up his spine. He glanced around, unable to find the source of the sudden clutch at his temples and insides, the slow, almost vibrating pressure that told him another of his kind was near.

"Stay here," he motioned to Johnny, and turned down an alley, his finely tuned radar directing him.

"Like hell," insisted Johnny, by his shoulder.

Duncan turned, angry, almost slamming the kid up against the wall.
"I said stay here!" he commanded, his thick brogue slipping out in a moment of annoyance.

He heard the cock of guns behind him. Duncan whirled around, placing himself in front of Johnny, taking the blows as the bullets made his body jerk and dance, protecting him.

"Mac!" Johnny screamed as the bullets stopped and Duncan sank to his knees, then fell back in Johnny's arms, blood streaming into the brick work beneath them.

"Mac," Johnny shook him.

The machine gunners retreated, allowing a lone man to step forward, unsheathing a sword.

Police sirens broke the air, over the crackling fireworks still popping in the main street. Johnny grabbed for Duncan's gun, holding them at bay until they scattered as blue and red lights pulsed down the alley. He still held the gun in his outstretched arms, kneeling over Macleod's bloody, bullet strewn body, as the police arrived, not hearing their order to put the gun down. They wrestled him to the ground, cuffed him, and threw him in the back seat of the car, Johnny screaming for Duncan as a sheet was dropped over him.

Jack woke to find Fontana on his doorstep, edgy and unable to meet his eyes.

Jack sagged against the open doorway.

"It's about Betts, isn't it?" What else would bring Charlie up here, at this hour.

Fontana nodded, all cop.

Cleary braced himself.

Fontana struggled on.

"I flagged his file, you know, just in case. I just got a call from the San Francisco PD. They're holding him in relation to a murder investigation."

"Betts?"

"He was found at the scene. It looks bad, Jack."

Murder. The kid might as well have been found dead. If he was found guilty, he would be.

Fontana watched, at a loss, as Jack grabbed a suitcase from his closet and threw a change of clothes in it.

"What are you going to do?" Fontana asked, standing well out of Jack's way.

"Go up there."

"And then what?"

"I'll figure that out when I get there."

Jack snapped the case shut and marched out to his cadillac, Fontana tagging along behind him.

"Do you want me to go along?"

"No. Thanks, Charlie, but no. This is something I've got to do myself."

"Well, okay. But if you need anything, just call."

"You know I will, Charlie," Jack promised, throwing his bag in the passenger seat, settling himself behind the wheel.

Charlie leant on the door, face strained.

"Okay, Jack...just don't be too hard on the kid. You're not the easiest person in the world to live with."

Jack took that piece of advice like castor oil medicine, glaring at his friend before pulling away onto the road.

Fontana watched him go, pushing his hands deep in his pockets. He hoped the eight hour drive would be enough to cool Jack's temper, but somehow, he doubted it.

A part of him was hoping it was some mistake. But the body lying sprawled across the jail cell bunk was unmistakable.

Cleary rested wearily against the bars, still covered in dust from the highway.

"You've really screwed up this time, Kid." The tired voice drifted across the cell.

Johnny didn't move. He'd heard the footsteps, smelt the aftershave, but couldn't deal with Cleary now. Especially not if he'd come to gloat.

"The cops think you killed a guy. That true?"

"No!" came the muffled reply.

"Who the hell was he?"

"A friend."

There was real grief in the voice; Cleary caught it.

"What kind of friend?" Cleary demanded quietly.

"Gave me a lift. Kept me around, doing odd jobs."

"What kind of a guy picks up a seventeen year old?"

"You'd know, Cleary."

Johnny was sitting up, dark eyes challenging Cleary's, hostile, aggressive.

Cleary just shook a cigarette out of his packet and lit it.

"What really went down, Kid?"

"Street war. We got in the cross fire. Mac went down. Everyone else cleared off, left me holding the body."

"You should have run, too, Kid."

"He was my friend!" That fierce loyalty again. He would have thought the kid would have run, should have run. He always had before. This Macleod guy must have had some kind of hold over Betts. The jealousy that pricked at him began to stab deep and bleed.

Cleary took a deep drag.

"They found a weapon near the body. Did you touch it?"

"No!"

Cleary shrugged.

"I think the SFPD could be a tad eager to pin this all on a juvenille deliquent rather than do any real leg work. I'll check with forensics.
I'll see what I can do."

He turned away.

"Cleary..."

He stopped, but didn't turn back.

"Thanks."

The broad shoulders shrugged.

"I owe Nick to keep you out of trouble."

Simple as that. He dismissed it as an obligation, a duty, nothing more.

Johnny sank down on his bunk, more miserable than before.

Cleary flicked open the file and was confronted by the hostile, angry eyes of a 12 year old Betts, glaring up from a black and white file photograph. How could eyes so young be so full of hate, have so obviously seen so much.

Hell, when he was 12...he fondly remembered his elder brother. He nestled the black phone on his shoulder and dialled Los Angeles.

"Charlie? Yeah, I've got the file here. They've sewn him up tight.
Kid's got some real form here. It's not going to look good when I have to talk to the DA."

Cleary flipped over the page. The phone went silent.

"Jack? Jack?" Charlie questioned at the other end.

Cleary came back.

"This file says I'm older than his father."

"By a couple of months, yeah. Get over it, Jack. You know they marry thirteen year olds down where he comes from. Now, what do you want me to do?"

"Call in favours, anything. I need a stall, for time. Johnny says he didn't didn't do it."

"Do you believe him, Jack?" Charlie asked, with insight.

"I want to. Maybe I've just got to know the truth for myself, but I need time, Charlie."

"You're against the clock, Jack. They've got to charge and process him or let him go. And you know which way it's going to fall."

"At least try and give me a few hours. Just to ask around. Someone must have seen something."

"It was in Chinatown, wasn't it, Jack," Charlie reminded, both of them knowing that meant no witnesses, now or ever.

Jack crouched down, examining the blood, the chalk outline, still fresh on the laneway. He glanced either way. No obvious lighting, not a night, not that it mattered. No witnesses. Not in Chinatown.
Not to a cop. He stood, the weary demeanour still betraying a cop's alert attention to detail. He picked at the wall, the brick work gouged and grooved by the impact of over a dozen bullets, behind where the chalk outline lay. That much of what Johnny had told him was the truth. He had been fired upon. But by whom? Macleod or the mysterious third party?

Cleary was back at the cell, interrogating the suspect.

"They found you with a gun."

"It was Mac's."

"Did you fire it?"

"Yes! Those guys were going to kill me once they'd finished with Mac.
I could see it in their eyes. They weren't kidding."

"Do you know what Macleod did to piss these people off?"

"No!" Johnny shot back, defensive.

"How many?"

Johnny shrugged angrily. "I don't know, two, maybe three. I just saw the muzzle fire, man."

"Automatic?"

Johnny nodded emphatically.

Jack lit a cigarette. Time for a visit down to forensics.

"Did you bother to check that the bullets from this gun matched the bullets in the body?" Jack growled, leaning on the desk of the investigating officer.

"Now listen, we had a suspect with gun powder residue on his hands, a recently fired weapon..."

"Fired in self defence. The revolver is a .38, Macleod was shot with a tommy gun, which takes a .45. Check the entry wounds, Betts is a little too short for the angle of the bullets." Jack bit down on his cigarette.

"You were all ready to pin this on a convenient seventeen year old JD with form, without any real leg work. weren't you."

The officer stood, slowly.

"Now listen here, Cleary, I heard about you..." The phone rang.
He snatched it up. A look of pale bewilderment sagged his features.

"What?"

The cop let the phone drop down on the receiver.

"That was the morgue. They've lost the body."

"Lost?"

"Yeah. Gone. Vanished. Poof."

"Great." Cleary almost chewed his cigarette. "Just great. Well, no body, no evidence, no case." His lips curved into a bitter smile.

Cleary dropped his cigarette butt and ground it into the floor.

"The good news is the lack of circumstantial evidence has given the DA enough reasonable doubt to dismiss the charges against you. The bad news is there's still an outstanding warrant for your arrest for violating parole in Tennesse. The police are going to extradite you back to Memphis.
You should have told me the full story, Betts." He lit another cigarette.
"I might be able to make a deal. Bail you out. Into my custody."

Johnny paced the back of his cell like a panther, coiled and dangerous, ready to kill.

"I don't need your fucking help!" he screamed.

"Don't you?" asked Cleary icily. "You could have been facing the death penalty, but upon my insistence, they've found that your prints weren't on the murder weapon. In fact, since you've been locked in here, the body's gone missing from the morgue. It's looking more and more like a gang killing. You wouldn't know anything about that, would you, Betts?"

"No," came the snarky reply.

"Who was this guy, anyway?"

Betts glared at him, silent.

"Just another sugar daddy, huh."

"Fuck you," growled the young voice.

"Oh, I think it's pretty obvious who was getting fucked," Cleary taunted, rattling Johnny's cage.

Cleary moved back a little as Johnny threw his metal cup at him, but it struck the bars and clattered uselessly to the ground.

"Listen, you ungrateful little shit. Fontana cleared it with the SFPD to have you bailed out into my custody."

Betts just glowered him.

"It's either that or they hand you over to the Tenessee police who want to see you in the little matter of a parole violation."

"Yeah?"

"If they send you back to Tennessee you'll be going to the big house, and what they'll do to you in there will make what those perverts did to you look like a picnic."

The colour dropped out of Johnny's face, and Cleary regretted his words.

"You just think about it, Kid. I know you think they haven't built a facility in Memphis you can't break out of, but this will be different, it won't be Juvy any more."

Cleary pulled the car to a stop. He reached over and unlocked Johnny from where he had cuffed him to the door handle.

Johnny just glowered at him.

"Well, get your things if they're so damn important to you. I haven't got all day," Cleary shot back, more than pissed off with the alternate bouts of dangerous temper and sullen silence he'd had to deal with since he'd dragged the kid's sorry arse out of the local SFPD lock up. One almost immediate attempt at bail jumping had led to him slamming the kid into the car seat with angry force and cuffing him there. Cleary had half expected Betts to tear his own hand off to escape. Even know, he watched for any attempt at escape as they crossed the sidewalk.

Johnny pushed open the door; the lock shattered, wood splintered. Cleary saw the boy's whole body slump. He moved past the kid into the room.

It had been cleaned out, torn apart, like a tornado, empty drawers strewn and broken on the floor.

Police? Maybe. But this had the look of two or three goings over by separate parties. Cleary crouched to poke at a shredded cane magazine rack. Nothing had been left untouched or unturned.

"What kind of shit was this Macleod into?" he demanded, rising, standing to his full height.

"I don't know. I just did odd jobs, errands, stuff, like I did for you."

"Cut the crap, Betts. You're not that stupid. This guy got himself killed, his place turned over. I want to know why."

"I don't know why!" Johnny screamed back at him. There was nothing here, no hint as to who or what had been the man who'd had such a hold on Johnny. Just a small apartment; generic furnishings that probably came with the place, nothing ecclectic that couldn't be dismissed as the accumulation of cast offs from previous tennants.

He trailed Johnny into the bedroom. The kid wilted again. The room had been swept. If there'd been any personal possessions left as a clue to the man, there were none now.

Johnny was lost. Everything that was Mac's, that had spoken of Mac's existance, his life, his likes, was gone, as though he had never been there. Only his own things remained, tossed about by uncaring strangers.

Johnny knelt and began to morosely pick up a few of his own things; a comb, a shirt, a lone sock, into the small brown paper bag he carried.
Scattered clothes, memories. He ignored Cleary, avoided Cleary, angry at Cleary's fait a compli, bailing him into his custody. Literally chaining him to his wrist until this moment. Chained like a stray dog. Angry that Cleary treated him like this. Angry that Nick and Mac had left him to this. Angry at himself, some deadly jinx on people. He had to be. Nick and Mac were both dead, weren't they? He'd seen both of them die. Had to be some sort of jinx.

Cleary's attention was drawn again and again to the slightly skewed, bare and torn open mattress. He couldn't look away, its pink embroidered flowers mocking him with their secrets, the soft stains that hinted at the bodies that had lain there.

Johnny was pulling open the dresser drawers, fishing for things that should have been there.

Cleary was drawn to the bed again. Johnny distracted him, pulling on the stuck door of the wardrobe.

"Is there where you slept? With him?" demanded Cleary.

Johnny didn't answer, still pulling on the stuck wooden door that bent and flexed outwards, almost enough to break, but showing no signs of pulling free.

"Dammit!" he kicked at the wardrobe angrily, frustrated that it held his best jeans and shirts hostage.

Cleary grabbed Betts and spun him around, savagely.

"Who was he? Did he pay you for this? For sex?"

"No."

Cleary shook the kid angrily.

"He let you live here. How did you pay him? With the two hundred you stole from me??" He struck Betts hard across the face. Johnny fell back across the mattress, hand touching his face, eyes scared yet willful.

"I still had your money, Cleary." He shot back. "Til someone cleared this place out. Mac paid me to run errands for him. We hung out. That's all."

Cleary struck him again.

"Don't lie to me!"

"I didn't ask what he did. He didn't want me askin', so I didn't. Please, Cleary, you gotta believe me."

Jack was leaning above him, fists ready, eyes hard.

"You let him stick it up you?" he demanded, his voice a hiss of hot breath across Johnny's face. Johnny turned away, and was rewarded with another stinging blow across the cheek. Fight flamed in the brown eyes. He tried to push Cleary off, away, but Cleary had all the advatanges; bigger, stronger, experienced, trained killer, mad as hell. He slapped Johnny down, grabbing his hair and smashing his head back against the head board.
He pinned him down, smothering him in a hard, choking kiss, tearing open lips, forcing his way in, stabbing deep.

His hands, his fingers dug into the boy's arms, bruising flesh.

Johnny cried in shuddering gasps as Cleary reclaimed him, there on the bed he had shared with Macleod.

He shut his eyes, pressing his cheek to the satin flowers, remembering.

Macleod had lain him out, doing things to him Johnny had never even imagined, or dreamt of, playing with him, teasing him, teaching him.
Sometimes angry, sometimes cruel, Macleod had made him work hard, yet had made time for play. Time for mucking about with his cars, for drives into the country, teaching him how to fight with a sword, just like in a Hollywood movie, just like Errol Flynn. Macleod was always mucking about with swords, making Johnny duel with him, for practice, he said.

That guy with the gun had had a sword. Johnny had seen it. Seen it before the cop sirens had made everyone scatter. The memory bit with a deeper pain than anything Cleary could inflict.

"Whore," Cleary called him, voice hissing in his ear as fingers tore at his clothes, his hair, his flesh.

Johnny lay on the bed, tired and numb, listening to Cleary move about in the next room, smashing furniture in his rage and guilt. Better to see the lamp broken than his jaw, reasoned Johnny, rolling over miserably as the bruises made themselves felt. He hitched his jeans up, suddenly feeling exposed, raw, naked and bleeding. He'd tired of fighting, submitting to the inevitable.

Cleary had made him say he wanted it, say he wanted Cleary. Sad thing of it was, it wasn't a lie.

Still, he avoided looking at the man he had missed like a hole in his heart as he slunk out to the bathroom.

Cleary watched the kid, stumbling into the bathroom, listened to the sounds of running water.

He sunk down on the settee, head in his hands, nauseous as the regret smacked into him with unrelenting waves. Christ, what had he done. As the territorial beast seeped from his blood, the pulsing anger subsided, leaving a welt of self doubt and self loathing.

Cleary looked up sharply, brought back to the immediate present by the sound of Betts retching in the bathroom.

He glanced back down to his hands again. They were shaking. He slipped out his silver hip flask and took one, two, three swallows, praying for the burn to numb him.

Not that it had been much of an effective anasthetic of late. With Johnny gone his workload had doubled, his caseload had slipped, he'd spent all his spare cash on cigarettes and liquor as the reputation of the Cleary Agency eroded away.

Dotti had stopped bringing him coffee. Charlie had stopped coming around, and he'd hardly noticed; the days and nights lost in a blur of chain smoking and bourbon.

Cleary rose.

Johnny opened the bathroom door and backed up the moment he saw Cleary standing there, wariness in his eyes, an expectation of being hurt again, skin drawn but dark eyes burning.

"You ever touch me like that again, I'll kill you," he whispered.

"Is that a threat?"

Cleary made a grab for Betts, catching him, holding him. Johnny struggled, like a caught alley cat, unable to break free, giving in, shaking. Then he realised it was Cleary trembling against him, gasping back the sobs, holding him in an embrace.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," he repeated over and over again.

Johnny shrugged him off, pushing him away. Without speaking or looking at Cleary, he collected the last of his belongings into the crumpled bag and obediently waited, eyes downcast, to be escorted back to LA.

Jack handcuffed Betts to the door of the convertible without speaking, stepping behind the driver's wheel, pointing the car south, Johnny's murmur of "I hate you," just barely audible above the roar of the motor. Neither man looked at the other; Betts glaring at the scenery that flashed past, brooding. Cleary drove on in an uncomfortable silence, Johnny's taste still in his mouth, almost gagging him, no matter how many cigarettes he smoked.

The sun was setting beyond the palm trees as they swung into a neon lit diner.

"Why're we stoppin'?" came the surly demand as the car shimmied to a stop.

"You're entitled to a meal break. And a toilet break."

Cleary leant across and released the handcuffs.

"You gonna follow me in?"

"Yep," came the nasty reply.

"You gonna do me in there, too?"

That cut.

"No."

"You can't watch me the whole time when we get back to LA."

"You run out on me, you go to jail, Betts. It's as simple as that."

"So I'm your prisoner."

"I'm trying to give you a chance."

Betts hopped out of the car.

"I don't need your chances."

Jack just swung himself out of the car and followed the kid, letting the
distance between them act as a buffer.

Jack looked up from his paper at Betts and the untouched hamburger in front of him.

"Well, are you going to eat or not? You can eat it or go hungry, its your call."

Betts didn't say a word, he just kept glowering at him, not making a move to pick up the hamburger.

"Don't tell me you've lost your appetite." Cleary made a show of uncaring, going back to reading his paper.

"The old silent treatment, huh. Used to be I could never get you to shut up. This could be a definite improvement."

"Get fucked."

"Ah, it speaks."

Johnny went back to sulking.

Jack threw down his paper.

"I said I was sorry about before. You used to be so goddamn eager."

"Not to have you beating on me," Johnny complained.

Cleary bowed his head.

"I said I was sorry," he repeated, jaw clenched.

Betts just shrugged and leant back, sullen.

Cleary gave up and went back to his paper.

The silence grated. The scratchy record grinding out on the juke box clawed at his nerves. The fat slowly congealed on Betts' fries.

"You owe me for a new radiator."

"Fine." Johnny fished deep in his jeans pocket, pulled out a crumpled note and threw it on the table at Cleary.

Jack poked at it and saw it was a hundred.

"Where'd you get that?" he demanded.

"Macleod."

"I don't want it," he sneered, pushing it back.

"Suit yourself." Johnny stuffed the note back in his pocket.

Cleary kicked open the door to the motel and dragged Betts inside. Betts once would have laughed at the two single beds spaced wide apart, now he was glad of them.

Cleary pushed him savagely towards one bed.

"You gonna cuff me here?" Betts asked.

"Maybe," snarled back Cleary, locking the door behind him, pocketing the key. He checked the windows in the room and bathroom; both secure. He swept the room for possible trouble like a cop, raising Johnny's hackles further.

Satisfied that the room was relatively escape proof, he unlocked the silver cuff dangling from Johnny's wrist like a bracelet.

Betts made a show of rubbing his wrist and scooted up over the pale chennile bed spread, away from Cleary.

Jack flicked on the TV and settled down on his own bed, trying to ignore Betts, yet unable to stop himself tracking the movements of the other as he shucked off his t-shirt and jeans, bruises and brand new tattoo marking his skin.

Cleary popped the tab on his can of beer with an angry hiss, trying to numb himself to the situation, desperate to ignore the root of his anger.
He was both repulsed and driven by his need for Betts. He wanted to hit Betts. He wanted to touch Betts. He wanted him out of his life. He wanted him in it.

His confusion had turned to cruelty. He'd pushed Betts away, and dragged him back in. He couldn't bear life with the boy close, but it was so much worse with the boy away.

The days and nights since Betts had left had been almost unbearable.
Charlie knew, he'd borne the brunt of it.

Betts rolled over, instinctively sensing Cleary's gaze burning along his back.

"What?" he asked dully, tired and fedup.

"Why'd you leave like you did?"

"Because you treat me like you don't want me around. Because you never asked me to stay."

Cleary couldn't answer, to do so would be to admit what he wanted most, feared most.

"I thought so," muttered Johnny, turning over again.

He heard Cleary get up from the chair and cross the floor, but didn't move until hard hands rolled him over.

"You gonna hit me again?" he asked, some small measure of fear and expectation in his eyes.

Cleary answered him by sinking on the bed, seeking out his mouth in a hard desperate kiss. Johnny tried to push against him, his resistance sparking the anger that lay just below the surface.

Cleary was suddenly over him, big and powerful, his face jarring with the stinging blow, the fist in his hair slamming his head back, his lips ripped open as the savage kiss tore through his mouth.

Cleary pinned Betts's arms above his head with one hand, the other pulling away Bett's white cotton boxers.

Cleary's body descended over him. Betts tried to struggle, tried to kick him off, his futile squirming only making Cleary harder.

"Touch me," Cleary hissed, hands on the kid's shoulders, bracing him down as trained fingers obediently opened his clothing. Johnny's hands pushed and kneaded against dark haired flesh as Cleary's manhood stabbed and painted sticky lines of precum over his stomach.

Johnny twisted his head away as Cleary came in hot, shuddering gasps against his throat, shutting his eyes to the hungry hands that dragged over his skin. Cheeks flushed at his own, unwanted arousal. Cleary felt it and fed it, Johnny rising and pushing into Cleary's hands, biting down as Cleary swallowed him whole, into darkness.

The only light in the room was the soft pink pulses from the neon motel sign, and the cigarette that hung loosely from Johnny's fingers.

The night breeze and nylon curtains caressed his naked skin wistfully,
like a shy, yet adoring lover, soft, cool silver breaths fluttering across his skin like butterfly kisses. He exhaled the smoke in his lungs slowly, watching the small clouds dance in the dim light.

There wasn't a window in the world he couldn't open. He could have followed the smoke out of the window, disappearing into the night, but that would only be giving himself a head start on the inevitable.

He was aware of Cleary awake now, watching him. He inhaled again, deliberately, hand trembling slightlty.

"What are you doing?"

"Thinking," Jonny replied quietly. "Thinking about what your face would look like if you'd woken up and found I'd hung myself with your belt, only there's nothing here to hang myself from," he shrugged. "You've hidden the razor blades and your gun, the booze and the asprins; and if I tried to drown myself in the bathtub, I might have woken you with the running water."

Cleary just stared at him, heartbroken.

"Don't."

"Don't what?"

"Don't kill yourself. Why would you want to do that?" he asked softly.

"To escape. To stop what you're doing to me." He tuned, his cheeks stained with tears.

"What do you want from me?" he demanded, voice tearing apart.

Dark brown eyes searched for an answer, but found none was forthcoming.

He quietly exhaled a lungful of smoke.

"I know what I want. I need someone who doesn't mind me hanging around, you know? Someone who makes me feel like I'm somebody. Nick did that.
And Mac. But they're dead."

"Not everyone dies, Kid."

"Nick's dead, Mac's dead. I'm a living jinx, man."

"No you're not. It's bad luck and bad timing that you were caught in the cross fire both times, but you're not a curse, kid. Just unlucky."

"Same thing, ain't it."

"No. I don't believe in jinxs. I don't really believe in luck, either.
Or destiny, or fate, or any of that stuff. I thought I knew all the answers, and I paid for my huberis. Life doesn't work like that. It's not fair that you've lost people who cared about you, but you're not
a jinx. You hear me?"

Johnny nodded, sullenly.

"What do you want from me, Betts? I drove all the way to San Francisco to get your arse out of a sling."

"Yeah, you did," Johnny admitted.

He drew again on his cigarette, out of nervous habit, angry and afraid.

"Do you want to be my father or my lover, 'cause you can't be both.
I had a foster daddy try that back in Tennessee, and that didn't work out."

Johnny saw the look on Jack's face.

"Nick never told you one thing about me, did he?" He just shrugged and took another drag on his cigarette. "Well, don't that just tip the scales, cause I know all about, Jack boy."

There was wickedness in those eyes, and Jack couldn't tell if it was mischief or malevolence.

"He was proud of you, you know. His little brother making detective."

There was no answer, just the glow of the cigarette tip as Jack inhaled.

"After the deal with the funny money you were on his mind, a lot."

"I guess he was pretty disappointed, huh."

"That you shot your career in the foot and just gave up, yeah. He'd have done anything to help, but he knew, that damn stubborn pride of yours...he was right about that."

"You reckon?" came Jack's softly sarcastic voice from the shadows.

"Yeah. He should have warned me about you. The only stuff I know about you, Nick told me. You won't let me in. I'd die for you, and you don't give a damn."

"That isn't true," Jack replied softly.

Johnny heard the rustle of sheets, the creak of springs as Jack moved off the bed, and he backed away slightly, away from the window, further into darkness.

"Do you even like me?

Cleary smiled softly. "Yeah, I like you," came the gruff, but fond, reply.

"Do you want me?" Betts pressed.

Cleary touched the face of his desire gently, thumb smoothing down the cheek.

"Yes, I want you," he dredged up the confession.

"Why do you make it so hard," Johnny started, stopping when he saw the clouding of Cleary's eyes.

"Because you're just a boy. It's wrong."

"Do you want me?" Betts repeated.

"Yes," Cleary decided, bending to claim the prize he was offered.

"Come back to bed," Cleary suggested. Cleary stubbed out the cigarette, slowly and deliberately, his eyes never leaving Johnny's.

There was no romance in the taking, or the offering, falling into a hard and desperate motion borne of too many dark encounters in back seats, back rooms and back alleys, for both of them.

Johnny gripped the edge of the head board. Jack relished the young
muscular body bucking underneath him. He pushed in, swallowed by wet heat; inside Johnny, engulfed by him.

"Oh, Christ," he cried. It was so good.

Johnny lay on his side, propped up on one elbow, smiling as he lazily traced both faint and vivid scars across Jack's body.

"This is where the dog bit you when you were eleven, this is where you were hit by enemy fire, and this is where Ghiardelli shot you."

Cleary lifted the cigarette from his lips.

"Nick tell you all these stories?"

Johnny flicked a nipple playfully.

"I wanted to hear them."

He snuggled down, light in his eyes. "I was in love with you before I ever saw you."

Love. Jack was surprised, still, by the revelation, running his hand through the kid's hair. He wanted a lover. That was what had bound him to Jack's side, and pushed him away.

It was unfair. It was one sided. Jack ran a finger lightly down a pale line upon Johnny's skin.

"Tell me about that," he asked, softly, listening.

Cleary woke with a start. Betts wasn't curled up beside him, or in his own bed, or even on the floor.

Fuck. He knew he should have handcuffed the little shit to the door handle.

Quickly pulling on trousers and shirt, he yanked open the door and stopped. Surprised to see his convertible still parked there.
Surprised to find the hood up, Johnny up to his elbows in grease, tinkering with the car's innards.

The kid flicked a cocky grin over his shoulder.

"Thought I'd took off, huh? Thought about it." He shrugged and returned to what looked like gutting the engine as far as Cleary could tell.

"You got ripped off Jack. Whoever put this in didn't know his arse from..."

"Did you fix it or fuck it."

Johnny bridled at the implication.

"Fixed it," he said, with an air of petulance.

"Good."

"It should run a lot smoother now."

"I'll bet."

Jack only half listened as Johnny listed the many improvements he'd made to the engine in the few hours he'd been working on it. Jack was distracted, finally giving into temptation and running a quick
finger down between the denim covered cheeks presented for his view.
Johnny jumped, smacking his head on the hood.

"Hey," he spun around, surprised to see Jack grinning.

"Don't be such a cocktease," Jack warned goodnaturedly, still slightly
taken aback by the carnal fires that burned darkly in the eyes of one so young. At his age, Jack had been trying out his clumsy grapples on freshmen coeds, whereas Betts had seen it all, done it all.

Johnny wiped his hands on his jeans, slammed the hood down and perched up on top of it, leaning back slightly, legs parted, in mouth watering invitation.

Jack took a step forwards.

"Mister, if you ain't paying for another night, you gotta be checked out," called out the motel clerk.

"No, we're not staying," Cleary confirmed, with a sidelong glance at Johnny.

"Good." There was ice in the reply.

"Guess we made too much noise last night, huh, Boss?" grinned Johnny, still leaning back, dark eyes smouldering.

Jack just coughed and looked away, swallowing the urge to throw Johnny across the hood and take him then and there. The look of disgust from the Motel owner was enought to control his ardour.

Johnny raised an eyebrow as the big black cadillac swung off the highway.

"Where we goin', Hoss?" he drawled.

"Detour," Cleary smiled.

Cleary steered down through the mountains toward the beach. The road opened up suddenly, and Santa Barbera spread out below him. They rolled through the red roofed buildings, straight down the main drag onto the pier, the car's tyres bouncing gently across the wooden slats.

Cleary swung the big car into a space and pulled the key from the ignition, feeling the engine shudder to a halt. He patted Johnny's thigh fondly.

"Come on, lunch."

"Lunch?"

"Yeah. On me. It's nice day. No reason why we have to hurry back to LA. And you're a model prisoner."

Johnny just swung out of the car angrily, walking away to the end of the pier. Cleary panicked for a moment that Betts wouldn't stop, wondering if the kid could drown in a few feet of water, the tide being out. He didn't even know if Johnny could swim.

Betts stopped at the very edge of the pier, staring out over the ocean, seeing nothing.

"I'm sorry," Cleary offered quietly, stopping a few paces behind him.

Johnny shrugged.

"It's true ain't it."

Jack guessed it was the lesser of two evils. Tennessee jail or the custody of a burnt out ex-cop.

Johnny straightened.

"You can thank Fontana for pulling my arse out of the fire. I know he went to bat for me."

"You can thank him yourself."

One day Jack would get around to reading the file Charlie had put together on Betts; the sad and sorry chronicles of his young life from social services and the local authorities, the x rrays from when he'd been brought into the hospital that had shown fused bones, broken young, healed without hospitalisation. About the scar scross his cheek bone, where his father had smacked him in the face with an empty beer bottle; only the bone had saved his eye.

"Back in Tenessee, I never thought I'd see the ocean." Johnny's voice was wistful, sounding far too old and pained for one so young.

"Guess you made it, Kid." Cleary rested a hand gently on his shoulder.

Johnny cocked his head to one side.

"You reckon?"

"Yeah." Jack's voice came more easily. "You got out of there.
You've got a job that you're good at. You've got a future.
You've got friends."

Johnny looked at him, almost surprised.

"You've got people who care about you," Cleary affirmed. "Dotti, Charlie, me," he smiled.

Johnny felt himself sharing in the smile.

Cleary's arm dropped around his shoulders.

"Come on. I'll even buy you an icecream," he promised.

Jack flicked his zippo lighter, leant across the formica table and touched his flame to the tip of Johnny's cigarette. Bett's caught his hand for a moment, holding it as he sucked on the flame, the released it, exhaling the smoke easily. Johnny inhaled, deeply, the tip reddening, then breathing out soft clouds of smoke. Jack lit his own cigarette, relaxed, having just watched Betts finish off a hamburger with the works, two cokes and a huge side order of chips. They stayed close for a moment, then drew apart, Jacke replacing the lighter in his pocket, smoke filling the air.

"When was the last time you ate, Betts?" he asked, hiding a smile.

"Chinese dinner, with Mac."

"Jesus, Betts, that was three days ago."

"Yeah."

Betts blew out another cloud of smoke, shook off the cigarete, then dragged the red tip across the back of his hand.

"Shit!" Cleary reached across the table, grabbing his hand to stop him.
"Don't."

Betts looked up.

"Don't what? You like to inflict pain." He drew on the cigarette again, the glowing end dangling near his face. "You don't have to take what's free, Cleary."

Cleary slumped back.

"I'm sorry, Kid. I was mad. You up and left like that..."

"You weren't jealous?" Betts pushed.

"That too," Cleary admitted.

"My Daddy used to beat on me for the heck of it. You gonna be like that, Jack?"

"No. I let my temper get the better of me. I'm Irish, kid. Ya gotta know that. You knew I had a mean streak, now you know to watch out for it."

"Guess so."

Betts took another swig of coke, running the tip of his tongue over his lip, still cut.

"Want me to kiss it better?" Cleary offered in a low voice.

Betts's face lit up with a grin.

"Later," he affirmed.

Johnny was a kid with the icecream, chasing seagulls along the beach.
Jack fought down the sudden, unwelcome wave of paternal interest.
Suddenly, the kid stopped, standing to look out over the hazy ocean
again, kicking at the sand with his boots.

He felt Jack close the distance, felt his heat behind him, smelt the tobacco, cologne and musk that was Jack.

"Betts?"

Johnny shrugged.

"The sea. It's beautiful. I still can't get over it. I really never thought I'd ever see it, not back in Tenessee. Never thought I'd get out. Ever."

"Well, you did. You're here."

"Yeah," Johnny answered quietly.

"Isn't this what you wanted?"

"Sort of. Is this what I can live with?"

"Is it?" Jack's voice caught, realising only now how deeply troubled Johnny was, how deep the wounds were that scars covered.

"I guess so."

Jack had to hug him, right there, right then, drive his warmth into the boy's fragile soul.

"It'll be okay, Kid. Trust me. We'll be okay."

Johnny leant back into those strong arms, wishing with all his heart he could believe Jack.

Jack caught the icecream cone in Johnny's hand and bent to give it a long, slow lick, tongue sliding around the soft and melting cold cream, mouth almost swallowing it whole. Johnny almost shivered at the warm touch of Jack's hand over his.

Johnny smiled and finished what was left, Jack dabbing a stray dribble of icecream up from Johnny's lips.

"Come on, let's hit the road," Jack coaxed, edging Johnny towards the big black car, and the highway beyond, that led back to LA.

Jack could see the last 48 hours catching up with the kid. It didn't take much convincing to get Johnny scrambling into the back seat and settling down for some kip. It gave Jack some space to think. The boy would be eighteen soon. Closer to being a man. Did it really make that much difference?

Johnny woke, suddenly realising he could no longer hear or feel the engine's steady throb. The sky above him had darkened into evening.

"We home yet?" he asked, popping up groggily.

Jack had to smile. Home. He didn't think the kid knew what one was.
Jack leant back in his seat.

"No, not yet. I didn't feel like driving into town. Not just yet."

Johnny leant close. Cleary felt it, too. This day was special, too special to end, just yet.

"Come on," Jack got out of the car.

Johnny stood at the front of the car.

"You gonna walk along the beach in the dark, Jack? I already got enough sand in my boots." He slid up on the hood, boots resting on the polished fenders, earning a cursory glance from Jack. They were parked at a deserted beach, off the highway.

"I thought you liked the beach."

"Yeah, but I guess I'm still a Tenessee kid at heart."

Jack leant back against his convertible, fishing for a smoke.

Johnny skidded over, sliding around Jack, straddling him, reaching up to begin a slow massage.

Jack groaned and leant back into it, inhaling his cigarette.

"That's good. Where'd you learn to do that?"

Johnny's soft chuckle brushed his ear.

"You probably don't want to know."

"You're right, I don't," drawled Jack easily. He fell back into the warmth of Johnny's thighs wrapped around his hips, Johnny's hands moving upon his neck and shoulders. He tilted his head slightly, brushing his cheek against the back of Johnny's hand.

"I need you," he murmured. "Right here. Right now."

Johnny tore off his T shirt and all but jumped into the back seat.

"But only if you want to," Jack teased, sarcastic.

Johnny just grinned, ready and waiting.

Cleary flicked his cigarette away. The heat was boiling in Jack's loins.
He wanted the kid too bad to think of anything else but sliding into the back seat with him.

"Now that you've got me, Betts, what are you going to do with me?"

Johnny grinned slyly, and half straddled Jack in the backseat of his convertible, his young body pressing heat against Jack's. Nimble fingers opened essential clothing. Jack tilted his head back against the leather, watching the stars, listening to the ocean, curiously detached, yet, almost euphoric. He ran his fingers through that thick hair, tenderly kissing the back of that neck, squeezing the shoulders slightly, enfolding him in his arms. Johnny pulled open Jack's shirt, running his hands across him, his cheek brushing against Jack's abdomen.

Jack's hands slid down the smooth muscular back, twisted through the thick hair. He bent again to kiss a bare shoulder, then leant back, holding the boy tightly as the young body bobbed up and down. Jack's hands on Betts's skin tightened, urging him on, shooting up with a deep felt release.

Johnny straddled Jack again, arms around him, skin pressed to skin, sealing his salty mouth over Jack's, sucking on his tongue with the same vigour, making Jack moan in his throat.

Jack's fingers found and opened the zip on Johnny's jeans, pulling free the firm flesh.

Johnny buried his face against Jack's throat as he pumped it, then arched up, embracing Jack again in a deep, deep kiss. Johnny thrust against Jack's stomach, eager hungry mouth eating Jack's.

Johnny took Jack's hands and guided then to his waist, to his jeans.
Jack pulled down on the material and Johnny wriggled out of them, leaning over Jack, his medallion dangling above him for a moment, then sliding down, straddling him, arching up against Jack's mouth as Jack's hands teased him, opened him, penetrated him.

Johnny gripped tight on his shoulders as suddenly, they were one. Johnny flexed down so expertly, causing a momentary coldness in Cleary's eyes as he remembered how well practicd Betts was. The hard look vanished as the pleasure rippled through him. Johnny's hands dug deep into his flesh, silver ID braclet almost cutting his skin, body rocking back and forth, fingers pressing harder as Jack went deeper, and deeper. His medallion brushed over Jack's chest as he took kiss after kiss. Jack's hands kneaded down the strong back, across the hips, then, finally, he took Johnny, pumping as he thrusted.

Johnny rose and fell in climax, collapsing into Jack's arms, nuzzling affectionately at the stubbled chin.

Jack pulled him up slightly by the hair so he could kiss him on the lips.

"Mmmm, I like the way you drive," Cleary purred, surprising himself with the admission.

Johnny leant close, brushing stubbled chin.

"Don't worry, Cleary. I don't wanna be your wife," he assured. "I just
want to be your partner."

The lips he traced with his thumb curved into a wide grin.

"Angling for a pay rise, huh, Betts?"

He felt the chuckle rumble through the young body he held.

"For services rendered."

"Little hustler," Jack taunted softly.

"Uh huh," Betts agreed, leaning close to claim the mouth that accused him.

"You're crazy, kid. You make me crazy. This is crazy."

Johnny laughed softly, he felt it ripple through his body, around Cleary's hardening organ. He thrust again slightly, watching the kid arch back with a soft moan. He applied lips and teeth to those rosey little nubs crying for his attention an the bare, muscular chest, thrusting again.

"You want this?" he asked, as though he couldn't see Johnny's quick return to a semi aroused state, the lazy hunger still glowing in the dark eyes.

Cleary thrust again as the kid leant back against his arms, so wantonly, completely careless.

"What am I going to do with you," he chided, balancing his wild boy on his lap.

Bright eyes focused on him sharply, the lithe body leaning closer.

"I've never felt this way for..." Jack stumbled over his admission.

Warms lips mercifully silenced him.

Cleary lifted Johnny up by the arms so the kid could impale himself, moving, twisting, rocking and grinding away, letting the kid do all the work. Johnny's hips rocked back and forth slowly, pressing and rubbing Cleary's erection against his already sensitive glands.

"You love this, don't you," drawled Cleary, holding the muscular back in his hands.

"Mmm," came the incoherent reply, sharpened into a low cry as Cleary nipped at the hard little teats that teased him. His hand slid down as his mouth worked Betts's skin, slowly milking another handful of semen from the boy.

The kid's small orgasmic convulsions worked their magic on Cleary, groaning as he filled the kid some more.

"Jesus, must be shooting cotton wads by now," he chuckled as he lay the almost insensible teenager back against the leather seat, kissing him so very softly. Johnny whimpered a little, aching with an emptiness when Cleary slipped free. His hand fluttered loosely over his genitals.
Cleary kissed him there; the soft skin on his inner thighs, the thin, delicate skin over his heavy, hairless testes, moving his way up across the taunt abdomen, chest, throat and finally, mouth.

Johnny reached up, ID braclet jingling, deepening the kiss.

"Jesus, kid, you're gonna kill me," Jack teased, stroking the thick hair fondly as he was released, smiling into Johnny's eyes.

Johnny lay there for a while, still orgasmic, as Cleary stroked him, before the cold sea breeze brushed wave after wave of goosebumps across his flesh. He casually dragged his clothes back on with the slightest, graceful hip thrust, making Cleary want him all the more.

Cleary felt for his cigarette packet in his coat pocket, slung over the seat, shaking out two, ligting both. They smoked in a companionable
silence.

Johnny exhaled, high into the night air, wicked glint in his eyes.

"Man, you can do that to me again."

"Any time, kid," Cleary promised.

As they drove off they were passed by a local patrol car, out to police the lover's lanes. Cleary shared a secret smile with Johnny, his young lover's seed still drying on his stomach as he swung the big cadillac back onto the highway.

Charlie Fontana leant up against the open doorway to Cleary's office, smiling broadly.

"What's so funny?" demanded Cleary, opening his day's mail.

"You." Fontana answered. "All dopey grins and doe eyed," he elaborated.
"Who'd have thought it: Jack Cleary in love."

Cleary tried to scowl at his friend, but there was too much light and laughter dancing his eyes for it to succeed.

"Yeah, well, what about you, Cupid, playing match maker. Thought you were Catholic, not Jewish."

Charlie smiled as he perched on the edge of Cleary's desk.

"You know why. No, maybe you don't. You're a good detective for details, but when it comes to people and motives, you've always got the blinders on."

"You gonna keep trashing me or tell me why," Cleary interrupted.

"You need each other. The kid needs discipline, and you've got to learn how to roll with the punches, live a little."

"You think so?" Cleary challenged.

"Yeah, I think I know you well enough to know what you need," Fontana declared, needling Cleary with a thinly veiled reference to the night neither of them had ever spoken of, for the sake of their friendship and working partnership: Charlie groaning, sweating under Jack's hands, pleading ,"Do it, Jack, do it."

Cleary wasn't faking his angry glare now.

Fontana missed it, swivelling around to greet the sudden burst of noise and energy in the outer office.

"Well, if it isn't the young one now."

Johnny marched straight up to Cleary's desk and threw an official, government looking envelope down on Jack's desk blotter.

"I don't believe this, they can't do this," Johnny agitated as Cleary unfolded and read the contents.

"What?" demanded Fontana, seeing the colour drain from Cleary's face.

"Johnny's been drafted. National Service."

"Happy Birthday, kid," commiserated Fontana.

"I ain't going," threatened Johnny.

Jack laid the letter down, slowly, deliberately.

"You can't run from this, kid. You've got to do what's right."

"They'll cut my hair," wailed Johnny.

"Well, that won't be such a bad thing." Cleary's lips quirked in an ironic smile.

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