CHAPTER 14
“The car’s out back, right where I parked it.”
Buck Iverson led Officer Wayne Chenoweth, John Ellison, and Russell Harding around the side of the garage to his lot. The Grand Am was sitting exactly where he’d left it on Friday afternoon, parked in between Doreen Baker’s 1996 Toyota Celica with its dented fender and Trace Grueland’s Jeep 4X4 that was awaiting new shocks. All three cars were covered in snow.
“I’m sorry it’s taking so long, Mr. Harding. Like I told you, I had to order the heating coil.”
“It’s okay, Buck,” Russell told him.
“You say someone was driving the car on Friday night?” Buck asked the police officer.
“Someone reported seeing it, yes,” replied Officer Chenoweth. “Can you show me where you keep the keys to these vehicles?”
Buck took them back inside and indicated a box in the shop where a tangle of car keys nested.
“That’s not very secure,” remarked the officer. “Anyone could come in here and take those.”
“We lock ’em up at night,” said Buck defensively. “Someone would have to break the lock off to get at those keys.”
“And you’re the only one with access to the box.”
“Me, Pete, and Ronnie,” Buck answered.
“Can I speak to those men?” asked Officer Chenoweth,
“Ronnie’s gone up north to visit his wife’s folks for the holiday,” Buck said. “Been gone since last week. Pete don’t come in until later.”
“Do you have an address for him?”
Buck nodded. Officer Chenoweth took out his pad and wrote it down as Buck recited it. “Pete’s a good kid,” he told the officer when he was done. “Can’t imagine him taking a customer’s car for a joyride.”
“Let’s hope he didn’t,” the policeman said. “Thanks for your time.”
Russell and John walked with Officer Chenoweth out to his car. They’d followed him from the mall, where he’d gone to question Russell about his whereabouts on Friday evening. John had come in just as Russell was explaining that the car had been at Iverson’s Auto Body since Friday morning, suffering from a problem with the heating system. After an awkward couple of minutes, the cop had suggested they all go over to the garage together to substantiate Russell’s story.
“What do you think?” Russell asked him now.
Chenoweth looked at him and shrugged. “Your guess is as good as mine. I’ll talk to this Thayer kid and see what I can find out. I’ll let you know.”
The two men thanked the officer and he departed, leaving them standing together.
“Come on,” John told Russell. “I’ll drive you back to the store.”
They got into John’s car and drove away from the garage, neither saying anything for several blocks.
“This is weird,” Russell said finally.
“Very,” agreed John.
“They must just have the wrong car,” said Russell.
“Probably,” John said.
“Did that cop really come see you at school?”
John nodded.
“And you left your class to come tell me?”
John hesitated. He hadn’t told Russell the full reason for his appearance at the store, mainly because he didn’t want Officer Chenoweth to hear, but also because he was feeling more and more stupid about the whole thing.
“That was nice of you. Thanks.”
John shrugged. “You would have done the same thing,” he said.
“Still,” Russell said. “Thanks.”
“Did he ask you about Stephen?” John inquired.
“Stephen?” Russell said. “Why would he ask me about Stephen?”
“He asked me if either of us knew Stephen Darby,” John told him.
“That doesn’t make any sense,” remarked Russell.
“I didn’t think so either,” John said.
“I haven’t spoken to Stephen in weeks,” Russell continued. “I keep meaning to call him.”
“I saw him today,” John said.
“Really?” Russell asked. “Where?”
“I, um, went to his house,” John told him.
Russell turned and regarded him oddly. “You’re just full of surprises today,” he said. “Why on earth would you go to Stephen’s house?”
“I just thought it was odd that Officer Chenoweth brought up his name,” John said, more or less truthfully. “So I went over there.”
“How is he?” asked Russell.
“He banged up his face,” John said. “He fell on the ice.”
“Did he have any idea why the police would be asking about him?”
“No,” John said, not mentioning that he’d never actually told Stephen that the police were asking about him.
“It’s all too bizarre,” Russell said. “And now I’ll have to stay late to make up the time. This sale is going to be the death of me.”
“You love it,” said John.
“Excuse me?” Russell countered.
“You love it,” John said. “You’re never as happy as when there’s some big crisis.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Russell demanded.
“It’s true,” John said. “Whenever you have a big sale to deal with, you get all giddy.”
“Giddy?” Russell said, offended. “I do not get giddy.”
“Okay,” John said. “Whatever you say. But you do.”
“All right,” Russell said after a minute. “Maybe I do get a little excited. But it’s the only time I really feel important.”
They’d arrived at the mall. John pulled into a spot outside the Carter-Beane Department Store. “This is your stop,” he said.
“Thanks again,” Russell said as he prepared to leave.
“When are you coming home?”
Russell looked at him, surprised at the outburst. John was watching his face, waiting for an answer. Russell swallowed hard.
“Not yet,” he said. “I need some more time.”
John turned away and nodded.
“Simon is having everyone over for dinner on Thursday,” Russell said. “You’re coming, right?”
John said nothing. Russell leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. “I want you there,” he said.
Again John was silent. Russell waited for a minute, hoping he would say something—anything—to break the awful silence. Finally he put his hand on John’s arm.
“Be there at noon,” he said. “You don’t have to bring anything.”
He got out of the car and walked quickly toward the store entrance. He didn’t want to watch John leave. For a brief moment, sitting there talking, everything had seemed normal. And that was the problem. He had too easily slipped back into the old routine, the old way of thinking. It had all been so familiar, and he had welcomed it like an old friend. Also, John’s question had thrown him off guard. It had been a peace flag, he knew, John’s way of saying he was sorry. But Russell doubted his lover even knew what he was apologizing for, and until he did, it meant nothing.
Across town, Officer Wayne Chenoweth was pulling up to the home of Pete Thayer. He was on a wild-goose chase, he knew. For Christ’s sake, he didn’t even have a victim, at least not one who would come forward. But things were slow, and following up the leads on the Paris Cinema incident beat the hell out of writing traffic tickets. Not that he cared all that much about someone getting roughed up at a porno theater. Guys who went there were asking for trouble anyway, as far as he was concerned.
He walked up to the door and knocked three times. When there was no answer, he knocked again. Finally he was rewarded. The door opened and he was looking at a young man dressed in faded jeans and nothing else.
“Sorry, man, I was in the john,” the kid said. “What can I do for you?”
“Are you Pete Thayer?”
The man nodded. “Hey, if this is about those tickets . . .” he began.
“Mr. Thayer, may I come in?”
“Oh, sure,” Pete said. “Don’t mind the mess.”
Officer Chenoweth stepped into a living room cluttered with clothes, pizza boxes, and empty beer cans. It wasn’t the worst he’d seen by far, but the disarray didn’t improve his opinion of Pete Thayer. In his experience, people’s houses reflected a lot more than their taste in furniture.
“I’ll make this quick, Mr. Thayer. What were you doing Friday night?”
“Friday?” Pete said. He rubbed his hair, as if trying to recall. “I guess I was here watching television. Some movie on the Sci-Fi channel about aliens invading Los Angeles.”
“So you weren’t out riding around in a Grand Am you borrowed from the garage where you work?”
Normally Wayne Chenoweth preferred the subtle approach, but he’d discovered that sometimes hitting fast produced the best results.
“Fuck, no,” Pete Thayer said. “I’d never borrow a car from the lot. Ask Buck.”
“I did,” replied the officer. “He told me you’re the only other person in town besides himself with access to the key box.”
Pete nodded. “Yeah,” he said. “But I wouldn’t do something like that.”
“I guess you wouldn’t be inclined to beat the hell out of someone at the Paris Cinema either then,” Chenoweth said.
Pete Thayer looked at him, dumbstruck. “No,” he said. “No, I didn’t do that. Why? Who said I did?”
Officer Chenoweth shook his head. “Nobody,” he said casually. “Just asking. Thanks for your time, Mr. Thayer.”
“That’s all you came here to ask me?” Pete asked as the officer went to the door.
“That’s all,” Chenoweth answered. “Unless there’s something else you’d like to tell me.”
Pete shook his head. The officer nodded at him and walked down the steps, not saying anything. It was always better to leave them wondering if they’d really seen the last of him. Besides, he’d gotten his answer. Thayer was lying. Not that it mattered. Without a victim he still didn’t have anything to bring the kid in on.
Inside the house, peering out from behind a curtain, Pete Thayer watched him go. His heart was only now starting to slow down. He couldn’t believe he’d made it through the conversation without puking. His stomach was twisted into tight knots of anxiety.
How had they found him? Someone must have seen him leaving the parking lot, and they’d traced the car. Jesus Christ. All because he’d punched some faggot in the face. Had the queer gone to the police? He found that hard to believe. What would he tell them, that he was getting his ass fucked in a porno theater and things had gotten a little too rough for him? The cops would laugh him out of the station.
No, if the guy had gone to the police, they would have him sitting in a jail cell answering questions. They wouldn’t just send someone to his house to nose around. He might not be the smartest tool in the shed, but he knew something about how the cops worked, especially small-town cops like whatever his name was. Chen-something.
Still, he’d need to be careful. Hopefully if he just laid low, it would all blow over. He just had to hope that little fag didn’t decide to shoot his mouth off. He’d also have to stay away from the Paris, not that it would be any big hardship or anything. There were always queers who wanted to suck his cock. He could find them lots of places.
The more he thought about it, the madder he got. Who did that faggot think he was? He was the one who came after Pete. He was the one who grabbed his cock and started playing with it. He was the one who followed Pete into the booth. Hadn’t he let Pete fuck him? Hadn’t he wanted his ass fucked hard? It wasn’t Pete’s fault he hadn’t asked about a rubber. And then all that shit about not wanting to get fucking AIDS? If anyone should have been worried about it, it should have been him. Who knew what the pansy had crawling around in his ass.
Yes, he’d deserved the beating. Maybe it would teach him a lesson, teach him not to be a goddamned cocktease. He was like those girls who went down on you and then bitched when you came in their mouths. They were all a bunch of cockteases, every last one of them. They should be fucking thankful to get a taste of his cum.
He looked at the clock. Buck would be expecting him at the shop soon. He needed to calm down, come up with some story about how dumb the whole situation was, how funny it was that someone had reported a car driving around when they—Buck and Pete—knew damn well it had been sitting in the lot all weekend. Yes, they’d laugh about how fucking stupid people could be sometimes.
He went into the bathroom and started the shower. Everything was going to be fine. He just had to play it cool. They didn’t have anything on him, couldn’t prove he’d used the car or been to the Paris. He was home free.
He got into the shower and began soaping himself. He wondered how badly he’d beaten the fag up, anyway. He’d hit him pretty hard, and there had been some blood. But he couldn’t have done too much damage. After all, he’d only hit him because of what he’d said.
That part had gone all wrong. But the stuff before it, that had been good. The fag’s ass had been tighter than any pussy he’d ever had his cock in. Warm and tight. If he hadn’t fucked everything up talking his AIDS shit and trying to pull away, it would have been perfect. If he’d just let Pete finish.
He closed his eyes and thought about how it had felt. His fist closed around his stiffening dick, the soapy water gliding under his fingers. Yeah, it had felt like that: hot and tight and sweet.
He pumped harder, remembering, and waited for his reward.