Chapter Ten

Moretti scanned the club. Nothing but a bunch of old fags hoping to hook up with young fags. He kept a sneer of disgust from twisting his lips as he leaned over the bar and held out the photo of Sammi.

“Have you seen this guy?”

The bartender glanced at it. “No.” He took the bald man in, then sniffed. “Never seen him. He’s cute. If you find him, I’d like to meet him.” The bartender licked his lips and winked.

Moretti pulled the photo away and stuffed it back into his jacket. He’d lost track of the bars he’d been in tonight. Maybe his men were having better luck hitting the sex shops and video stores. As he moved through the packed club, his eyes darted from face to face, searching for his prey.

To his boss, the kid was money in the bank, just another body to sell on the market, funding the good life. Moretti knew Donovan had indulged himself with Sammi, just as he had with the women. Donovan swore Sammi had special abilities that made him valuable but never went into details. For the life of him, Moretti couldn’t understand what they could possibly be and he didn’t care.

But the kid had caused all sorts of trouble for him, bringing Donovan’s wrath down on him for letting him get away in the first place, and now for not being able to find the little fucker. Donovan just didn’t understand the sheer number of fags who lived and played in Houston. They were like fucking roaches, coming out at night. For Moretti, the only way to treat a roach was to squish it.

A good roach was a dead roach.

Same with fags.

As he wound his way through the crowd around the bar, he made certain not to touch any of them. He didn’t believe half of the crap on television, but AIDS was some scary shit and he wasn’t sure if he believed you only got it from butt-fucking, blood and needles.

Moretti didn’t indulge in daydreams often, but he had one where he’d beat the crap out of Sammi. He resented the fact that the little shit had escaped on his watch. It irked him, pissed him off, like a burr in his sock or an itch he needed to scratch, but couldn’t reach.

Donovan had been quite clear, as soon as he’d recognized Sammi’s talents, that Moretti not put a mark on him. And he never had, but he’d wanted to hurt him. Instead, he’d made the fag sweat. Workouts that lasted for hours, until Sammi’s arms and legs shook. But the little fag was as tough as his body had become and that had surprised Moretti.

Fags weren’t supposed to be tough. They were supposed to be wimps, weak-wristed boy-girls who cried for their mamas. Sammi had never cried until the first time Donovan put him in the closet. Moretti had realized the punk was terrified of confined spaces. What a day that had been! He smiled just thinking of it.

And just like that he knew how he could fuck with Sammi. Make him toe the line and show him who was boss around the penthouse.

He’d taken real delight in preparing the closet. Pulled out the shelves, weather-stripped the frame, and installed the dead bolt. Nothing was getting out of that box. And all the time, Sammi had watched, puzzled at first, then to watch the growing horror on his face as he understood why Moretti was fucking with the closet. It was priceless.

Once he caught Sammi, it would be straight to the closet. He didn’t care how much the bastard screamed, cried or begged, he wasn’t getting out until it was time to deliver him to his buyer. Moretti wasn’t taking any chances.

And when he finally caught Sammi, he hoped he’d find that bastard Collins who’d been hiding him. Now, Moretti could hurt him. He hoped he’d catch them together, maybe fucking. That would be sweet. Moretti reached beneath his jacket and touched the holstered gun secured under his armpit. Oh, yeah, Collins would pay for making Moretti’s life difficult.

He finished his round of the club and left. The driver waited in the Mercedes at the curb. Moretti got in the passenger side and shut the door.

“Any sign?” the driver asked.

“No.”

“Next place?”

“Let’s try over on Westheimer. He hasn’t been seen on Montrose in a week.”

The car pulled away from the bar and cruised down the street, past closed restaurants, video salons, sex shops and an all-night laundromat. Moretti wondered who the hell would be doing his fucking laundry at two in the morning.

 

* * * *

 

“Rise and shine, boy. Daylight’s burning.” Otis’s rough voice woke Sammi.

He sat up, the thin blanket rumpled around his waist, and rubbed the sleep out of his eyes. Otis had dressed and was moving around in the miniscule kitchen.

“Morning, sir.” Sammi rifled through his pillowcase and pulled out fresh clothes and the razor, but decided not to use up the aftershave. He wanted to save it for something special. Maybe if he ever got to see Mitchell again. In his mind, he imagined seeing Mitchell, letting him know he’d done good, found a job, hadn’t resorted to selling himself, but was on his way to fulfilling his dreams.

After he gathered up his clothes and necessities in his arms, he trod to the bathroom.

“Breakfast will be ready soon,” Otis warned as he cracked an egg.

“Yes, sir,” Sammi called from behind the bathroom door. He dressed and came out. “Can I help?”

“No. There’s only room for one of us, and that’s me. Got eggs and toast.” Otis worked with a spatula, cooking the eggs in a small frying pan. The toast popped up from a two-slice toaster and he quickly pulled it out, buttered it, and put each slice on a plate. Then, he divided the eggs and slid them onto the plates.

“I know it’s not much, but I’ll fix us something better at the café for lunch and dinner. Free meals come with the job.”

“That’s nice. Thanks. I never thought about eating at work.”

Sammi took his plate and a fork and sat on the couch. Otis sat on the bed. They ate in silence with not even the TV on. When Sammi finished, he stood and took Otis’s empty plate.

“You don’t have to—” Otis began.

“I’m the dishwasher.” Sammi’s explanation seemed to satisfy Otis because he just gave a nod.

“It’s eight o’clock. You don’t have to be to work until ten.”

“Don’t have anywhere to go.” Sammi shrugged.

Otis eyed him. Sammi dried the plates and forks with a towel. As he leaned over to return them to their places under the counter, he spotted a small mismatched collection of plates, bowls and silverware all neatly stacked and organized. He carefully replaced the clean dishes.

Otis stood and made his bed. “Always believed if you live like an animal, you become like an animal.”

“Yes, sir.”

Sammi went to the couch and folded the blanket. He placed the pillow on top of it and brought it to the open area where Otis’s clothes hung. Above the pole was a shelf. Sammi stretched and placed his bedding on it.

Once they had cleaned up, they sat on the couch. Otis picked up a section of newspaper, opened it and began reading.

“Does the TV work?” Sammi pointed to the old set.

“Yep. But I only get two channels clear and they’re both Spanish. Can’t understand a damn word,” Otis grumbled. “Can you speak Spanish?”

“No, sir.”

They sat in silence for a few minutes.

“Where’d you learn to cook?” Sammi asked.

“In the service. I was a cook in the Navy.”

“Did you like being in the Navy?”

“Nope. But, at the time, it was the best I could do.” Otis shrugged. “No education.”

“I don’t have an education either.”

“I don’t mean college, boy. I never finished high school.” For reasons Sammi couldn’t understand, Otis seemed proud of it.

“Neither did I.” Unlike Otis, Sammi was ashamed of his lack of education.

“I dropped out, hung around my daddy’s house until I was eighteen, and then enlisted just to get the hell out of there. They needed cooks and I figured you never hear of cooks getting killed, so I went for it.”

“You were right. You didn’t get killed.” Sammi smiled.

“Nope. But I didn’t like the ship. Too damn big and gray metal everywhere. For such big ships, they’re small on the inside. Lots of small rooms. Lots of metal. Still don’t understand how the hell the things stay afloat.” Otis shook his head.

Brian could probably explain it since he had a college degree in engineering, but it was lost on Sammi too.

“I don’t understand how planes fly, either,” Sammi offered. “But they do, so I guess whether or not I understand doesn’t matter.”

“That’s how I felt about the ships.” Otis laughed and slapped Sammi on the back. “We got a lot in common, you and me.”

Sammi wasn’t so sure Otis would want much in common with him.

“You been on the streets before?” Otis asked.

“Yes, sir.”

“You a whore?”

“Yes, sir, I was. Not anymore.” Sammi chewed his thumb.

“Good.” The old man nodded. “There’s no future in it.”

“No, sir.”

“No future as a dishwasher, but it’s honest work.”

“No, sir. I mean yes, sir. But I don’t intend to stay a dishwasher long.”

“Well, got a little drive in you, huh?” Otis’s eyes sparkled.

“I’m going to work my way up. Maybe be a chef.” Until that moment, Sammi had never thought about what he wanted to be if he could be anything. He’d never thought about having a future that didn’t involve sex.

“A chef! Not a cook, like me?” Otis teased him.

“First I’ll have to be a cook. Then maybe I’ll move up from there to a chef.”

“Do you know the difference between a cook and a chef?” Otis leaned back and waited for Sammi’s answer.

“No, sir.”

“The size of the hat on their heads. Yes, sir, a cook has a little cap and a chef has a tall white hat, all pleated and fancy.”

Sammi stared at Otis, who seemed to be holding his breath. When a smile crept onto Sammi’s face, Otis burst out laughing. Sammi laughed along with him.

“You just wait,” Sammi said. “I’ll be wearing a fancy white hat before you know it.”

“Not in my kitchen, you won’t. Just little caps there. The boss don’t pay enough money for a proper chef,” Otis grumbled. “But I’ll just bet, boy, one day, you’ll wear one of those tall hats if you put your mind to it. You could go to one of those fancy chef schools where all they turn out is little food on big plates.” The spark returned to Otis’s eyes.

“I don’t think I could get into a school like that.” Sammi shook his head. “Will you teach me how to cook?”

“Let’s get the dishes washed first. Then I’ll see if I can get you moved up to help me in the kitchen. You got to do K.P. duty before you can swing a spatula.”

Sammi smiled and nodded. Hey, it might not be much, but it was a start. He was on the road to respectability, and wouldn’t Mitchell be proud of him? If he ever knew. Sammi’s heart ached from missing the other part of him.

For a moment he was tempted to reach out in his mind to Mitchell, but that would only lead to trouble. Mitchell would find him and with Moretti and Donovan still hunting for him, Mitchell would be in even more danger. There was no telling how desperate they’d become in the last few days.

Otis turned on the TV and, for the next hour, they watched Spanish programs that neither one of them understood, but they were so funny it kept them laughing as they tried to guess what the people were saying until it was time to go to work.

 

* * * *

 

Donovan slammed his fist on the desk as he rose to his feet. “Son. Of. A. Bitch,” he bit out. “If you tell me you can’t find him tonight, I’m going to kill you. He has to be on that plane in two days.”

Moretti stood in front of the desk and didn’t say a word. His clothes reeked of cigarette smoke and cheap aftershave. Hatred of Donovan filled him at the hollow threat. If he thought for a minute Donovan meant it, he’d kill him first.

Fuck, he hated Sammi. Now he had to explain his failure once again.

“None of my men found anyone who’d seen him. It’s like he’s disappeared.”

“I don’t want to hear that!” Donovan shouted. “A half million dollars. A fucking half mil. That’s what I’m going to lose, all because of you.”

Moretti didn’t reply. No point.

Donovan took a deep breath and sat. Leaning back in the chair, he stared at Moretti. Who the hell did Donovan think he was? Moretti had been with him from the beginning, when they were running a string of high-class call girls out of the most expensive hotels in Houston.

Then Donovan had got this idea about providing boys to rich men. At first, Moretti didn’t think there was money in it, but he’d been surprised to find out how many old geezers wanted to fuck boys and pay very good money for it. Sammi had been Donovan’s prize possession.

“You will find him tonight. No failures. Go to Collins. Lean on him, make him tell you where the little shit is. I don’t care how many bones you have to break, but find the fucker.” Donovan’s voice had taken a dangerous tone.

“Right. It will be my pleasure.” He gave his boss a nod and left, relieved to be out of there and not having to listen to Donovan’s crap about his failures.

Once he’d signaled to one of his men in the hall outside the penthouse to join him, he pressed the button for the elevator and took his stance to the side of the doors.

No telling who could be there when the doors opened. Moretti might look dumb, but he wasn’t stupid. He’d been an enforcer for too long to make stupid mistakes.

The bell dinged and the doors slid open. The old woman who owned the other penthouse got off with a little hairless dog in her arms. It barked at him as if it was going to attack and the woman gripped it even tighter. A gem-studded collar circled its scrawny neck. It reminded Moretti of a rat. From its big rat ears down to its long rat tail.

He hated rats almost as much as he hated fags.

If he ever got the dog alone, he was going to toss it over the fucking balcony. He liked that idea. Maybe he’d toss Collins over the balcony instead. After he’d put a righteous hurt on the bastard for keeping Sammi from Donovan.

Oh, yeah. He curled his hands into fists, thinking of how he’d beat the living crap out of Collins, even after he’d told him where Sammi was hiding.

And Donovan? Maybe he’d kill him too, take over the operation. Get his share of pussy for once, like Donovan did. But he’d leave the dick to the clients. A half million? A man could do a lot with that kind of bank.