LUCA

Four years, first in the car, then at Randy’s office. Luca had just turned fifteen. They were beginning to tire of each other. The sex had gotten to be a bore. It followed the same predictable pattern; it was always about taking care of what Randy called his needs. For Luca, the novelty had worn off long ago, so he was relieved when Randy said it was time for Luca to find him a new boy.

“Always make them come to you,” Randy instructed.

They did drive-bys of elementary schools, playgrounds, candy stores. There were always a couple of kids walking alone, or on the swings, or dawdling on the way to do errands for their mothers. Luca approached them, talked them into the car. What little kid could resist the attentions of a smooth-talking teen? Why not take a little ride in an expensive car with a man dressed in a business suit and tie? Why not? It was the next logical step, so easy to take, so easy to lure little boys. Randy called Luca his bloodhound. They laughed about that, how Luca could sniff them out.

“It’s a good thing to initiate them so young,” Randy taught him.

Initiate. The way Randy used the word it was as though he was the Grand Poobah of a secret society and Luca was his number one lieutenant. The way Luca saw it, they were recruiting troops for training, not much different from Boy Scouts earning badges for learning how to do useless things. Like he was ever going to have to light a fire without a match, or build a lean-to out of branches in the woods.

Sixteen, seventeen, eighteen.

Sophomore, junior, senior.

Football player, Eagle Scout, prom king.

Luca’s mother was grateful to Randy for hiring her son to run errands for the bank after school. She imagined Luca going to college, continuing at the bank, working his way up. Who knew how far he would go? The week before the prom Randy gave him money for the tuxedo, the corsage, and the limousine.

His date, a girl named Stacey Fink, was madly in love with him. All the girls were. The more standoffish he was, the more they wanted him. Stacey went so far as to steal a condom from her older brother and present it to Luca, gift-wrapped. He was sly.

“Thanks,” he said. “But I respect you too much to ruin your reputation.”

Margaret had her house, paid off years ago with her husband’s life insurance, a sociable job as a receptionist for a local law office, coffee klatches with the neighbors, and a smart, good-looking son to take care of her in her old age. So it was no surprise that she was shocked when, the day after graduation, he packed a bag, pocketed the thousand dollars Randy Asbury slipped him as a graduation gift, and took a bus to San Francisco. He called her once a week, but he never returned to Rialto.

It was quiet in the bookstore in North Beach, a 1970s haunt of savvy hustlers like Luca. The place was usually good for tourists, or locals on the prowl. He could always count on them to be polite.

That night, though, the store was almost empty. Luca browsed the shelves. When there wasn’t any action there was always something to read. Luca gravitated toward the art books. He’d worked his way from the Renaissance to the Impressionists. A volume on Caravaggio was the first one he bought. Since then he’d purchased others, which were stacked on the floor of his tiny apartment in the Haight. That night nothing on the prowl or the shelves appealed to him, so he walked over to Tosca, the bar across the street.

Smoke clouded the air. Shot glasses full of spiked cappuccino were lined up, waiting for the next wave of customers. The bartender was realigning a pyramid of liquor bottles stacked in front of the mirrored wall behind the bar. Strains of an Italian opera—a broken-hearted tenor crying out in pain, or frustration, or anger—fought for attention with the disco beat blaring from the nightclub next door.

When the dancers walked in Luca recognized them at once. Posters for their performances were plastered all over the city. They were laughing and chatting as they burst though the door. Luca was quick to catch the eye of the choreographer, who was a head taller than the rest of them. When he tried to look away, Luca stared him down. He ordered two spiked cappuccinos, walked over and held one out.

“Specialty of the house,” Luca said.

The man took the drink and downed it in one gulp.

It was easy for Luca to turn a flirtation into an invitation to spend the first of many lucrative nights with Haze Morton.