Читать книгу Code Of Conduct - Rich Merritt - Страница 16

“I thought you two might fuck on top of the bar.”

“Sorry, sport. I’m not you,” said Don to his friend in his jeep’s passenger seat.

“That’s right.” Karl laughed. “Forgot I told you how, at the end of Lance’s shift, I’d pull his jeans down and flip him over the bar. He’d get off work then we’d both get off! Damn, I miss that ass. Too bad it’s attached to someone so needy.”

“Of course you told me. You used to tell me everything, remember?”

Karl was quiet for a few minutes but it was too dark for Don to see his facial expression and tell what he was thinking. “I tell you—like, I told you about those two behind Peacock Alley.”

“That was nine months ago. Buddy, it’s your life. No law says you gotta tell me about your business. But for three years you hooked up with a lot of guys and you always gave me the gritty details. Lately you haven’t said shit about anyone. Makes me wonder, that’s all.”

“Fuck you. You get on my case for too much sex. Now you’re telling me I don’t have enough. What the fuck?”

Karl’s sudden outburst caught Don by surprise. Because he was still enraptured by his experience with Patrick, he wasn’t up for a verbal brawl. “Forget it. Sorry I upset you.” He reached across the interior of the jeep and gave his friend a gentle squeeze on the shoulder.

“I’m not upset. It’s just—it’s just there are some things—things I can’t tell you.”

Karl’s comment was alarming. “You can tell me anything. I thought you knew that.” He diverted his eyes from the darkened interstate long enough to see Karl look out the passenger’s side window into the night air.

“No, Don,” Karl sighed. “I want to, but there are some things I can’t tell even you.”

Jay’s simple plan was to earn the Sailors’ and Marines’ respect by passing himself off as something similar to a serviceman—a cop, a fireman or a security guard. He didn’t speak the military’s language with its thousands of unique phrases, acronyms and abbreviations. Only the men and women who endured the armed forces’ intense initiation rituals were fluent in what he thought of as mil-speak. Fortunately, being in the military wasn’t necessary for his purposes. His goal was to earn their trust, allowing him to infiltrate the military’s tight-knit community of gays. Once he was accepted, he’d gather vast amounts of information like names, addresses, photographs and maybe even tape recordings and videos. He hoped to become a legend within the agency by busting the largest ring of homosexuals in the history of the armed forces.

But he had to hurry. American society degenerated more each day. Soon the new president would allow gays to serve openly. Starting tonight, Jay would use tougher and smarter tactics than the NIS had ever used to get rid of the homosexuals.

If Ed lived near the dance club as he’d said, their two-car convoy should be nearing his house. Jay had recognized Ed from his afternoon’s surveillance in the park with Ollie. He had the opening he needed when Ed’s friends left him alone at WC’s. Initially, Ed’s stoicism had been a hurdle but the Sailor was outmatched. Over the years, Jay had learned how to harness his charm and apply the right touch at the best time to win over the hardest-hearted men.

Although Ed was more disciplined than most, the Sailor had inevitably dropped his guard, revealing too much. Only a Sailor would’ve gone to Florida—boot camp in Orlando—then Virginia—many Navy bases there—and finally to Europe on a Mediterranean float. Ed’s use of the word “tour” and his recurring moves to San Diego were also giveaways. Outside the club, Jay tried to glimpse Ed’s DoD sticker but he’d shielded it. Regardless, tonight’s progress with his networking plan was satisfactory.

Jay wasn’t familiar with San Diego’s neighborhoods. “Washington Street to Park Boulevard.” From there they’d driven down two smaller side streets. Ed turned into the driveway of a small and quaint bungalow-style house. Jay parked by the curb and hurried across the street, following Ed to his front door. “Looks like a nice place, Ed. You live here alone?” An enlisted person couldn’t afford a house in San Diego. Jay hoped Ed was an officer.

“Yes,” Ed said curtly.

Jay feared he’d crossed a line by asking Ed a question that was too personal. He looked around, quickly trying to think of something generic to say. Fortunately, a bright porch light gave him the chance. “You’ve got an amazing green thumb. Or your gardener earns his pay.”

Ed brightened. “Thanks. My yard is my therapy. More productive and cheaper than a shrink or a gardener.” He opened the door. “Come on in, Stephen. Can I get you a diet soda? It’s a mystery to me why you physically fit types stick to diet drinks.”

“No thanks.” Jay studied the room. “I’ll be up all night from caffeine or pissing or both.” As he’d suspected, Ed’s house was immaculate and the smell was a combination of pine-scented cleaner, lemon furniture polish and a citrus potpourri. No hint of a dog.

Ed laughed. “Suit yourself. Have a seat on the sofa. Back in a sec—have to look after the dog, let him know I didn’t abandon him.”

“I don’t mind if you let the dog in.”

Ed disappeared through a doorway into the kitchen. “He gets crazy around strangers.”

A door opened and shut. Jay heard Ed’s muffled conversation with his pet in the backyard. “Hey there, boy! Ya’ miss me?” Jay took advantage of his host’s absence to look at his personal items. Photograph albums were stacked on shelves next to books like the kind seen in lawyers’ offices. Framed pictures covered the walls displaying a large number of men in decent shape with military-style haircuts.

“Jackpot,” Jay muttered. Ed’s house was a gold mine of information. Many photographs showed Ed with the same man. One shot of the couple was at the 1984 Los Angeles Olympics. In the earlier photographs, Ed and his partner stood in front of landmarks like the Eiffel Tower and Buckingham Palace and they looked young and happy. The group photographs were at beaches, in bars or at parties. In the later photographs, Ed’s partner was in poor health. If pictures were worth a thousand words, these walls spoke volumes about Ed’s life. The story they told, and Ed’s living alone, gave Jay the impression Ed’s lover had died of AIDS.

Despite Jay’s beliefs about homosexuality, he empathized with tragedy. His prior work had connected him with men who’d endured this awful disease. Even though Jay always used condoms when his work required him to have sex with men, he still took anonymous HIV tests every six months. His sense of duty, though, outweighed his sympathy. Their immorality corrupted the soul, and his emotions couldn’t become entangled in their humanity or he’d lose sight of his mission.

Although the photographs were eye-catching, they weren’t the best evidence in the room. A desk occupied the far corner. On top, under Ed’s sunglasses, was a small notebook. On closer inspection, Jay realized he’d hit the mother lode. He became mesmerized as he thumbed through the pages. Ed’s address book contained hundreds of entries listing names, ranks and addresses in military towns and bases around the world. Ed had updated many of them in pencil, increasing the information’s accuracy and value as evidence. Telling gay from straight was impossible based on the entry alone but the odds were high that a significant percentage would be gay military men and women.

Jay wondered what else Ed might possess. The desk’s top drawer contained useless bill stubs and receipts. He closed it and opened the second drawer. Suddenly he froze. “Holy—!” He was shocked to see a dull black Beretta 9-millimeter pistol, the kind the military used, with an ammunition magazine in its handgrip. The only way Jay could tell if the magazine held any bullets was to pick it up and visually inspect its chamber.

As Jay reached for the gun, the kitchen door slammed. He shut the drawer and slung the address book across the desk. As he stepped across the room to sit on the high-backed sofa, something hit the wooden floor but he didn’t have time to see what it was. Ed entered the room. “The dog’s fine and he still loves me. You can meet him next time. He’s too unpredictable around people at first. This late he might wake the—”

Jay’s heart pumped at a dangerous rate. He’d let himself get carried away. He cursed himself for failing to pay attention to Ed’s location and to how long he’d been gone. “My grandma’s dachshund was the same way.” Ed had stopped mid-sentence. Jay followed his host’s gaze across the room.

Ed’s demeanor changed. Before, he’d been cautiously friendly but now he was tense and rigid and he moved deliberately across the room. He raised his eyes from the floor, looking directly at Jay. “Stephen—or whatever your name really is—”

Jay braced himself against the back of the sofa. His mind searched for an explanation for why Ed’s address book was open. Too late, he realized his major mistake.

“I never told you my dog was a dachshund.” Ed stepped toward the desk. “Why are my sunglasses on the floor? Why is my address book open? How did you know—?”

“The pictures,” Jay blurted. “I was admiring your—your photographs—and—the dog is in—” Although Jay couldn’t recall if he’d seen a dog in any photographs, the gay men he’d known in DC took pictures of their dogs like parents took pictures of their children.

Ed’s anger grew more severe with each word. “There are no pictures of a dog!” he shouted. “We never had a dog. My partner was allergic to animals. I rescued a dog from a shelter because I wanted the company. Believe me, whoever the fuck you are—I haven’t taken a picture since way before the dog came along!”

Jay remained silent as both his body and his mind froze. Usually he operated at his best under pressure but this situation stupefied him.

“So—Stephen. I’m asking you again. How did you know that my dog, which you haven’t seen—is a dachshund? And why are my sunglasses—which were on top of my address book—on the floor?”

Jay continued to draw a blank and the only thing he knew to do now was leave. “Maybe—maybe I should—” He reached down to zip up his jacket, but the zipper became stuck and he tugged on it. Terror overcame him as Ed’s hand inched downward. When Ed opened the desk’s second drawer, Jay blacked out.

“Fuckin’ A, dude. Pound my hole! Shove that big cock up my ass! Shoot your load! I want all your cum inside me, man!”

Don laughed as he grabbed the remote to lower the volume. His bedroom television backed against the wall his condo shared with the next. He doubted his neighbors could hear the loud moans and grunts of the guys who appeared on his television every night but he saw no reason to take a chance. Besides, he didn’t watch porn for the dialogue—or the music.

He stripped off his jeans and T-shirt and threw them in the laundry basket. As he plopped down on top of his bed, he grabbed a bottle of lube and a small towel out of the nightstand. As tired as he was, he wouldn’t be able to sleep without executing his nocturnal ritual. He squirted a small dose of the lube in his right hand and leaned into the pillow, raising his head high enough to see the hot guys having sex. After years of practice, operating the remote had become one of his ambidextrous skills. He massaged himself slowly. His hand was cold at first but after a few strokes, it felt good and warm.

The scene began where he’d left off the night before. It was a six-man orgy in the back room of an auto mechanic’s shop, an image existing only in gay porn and in the imaginations of gay men. The video was one of two or three dozen Don owned and it was his favorite because two of the porn “stars” were Marines he’d known. Years earlier, they’d enjoyed a series of three-ways but he’d lost touch with them after they got out of the Marines and moved to L.A. to pursue their careers. Another reason he liked these videos was that they’d been filmed in the early eighties and the guys didn’t use condoms. Although Don never had sex without a condom now, he saw nothing wrong with jacking off to pre-AIDS bareback group sex.

Every guy was stoned. One knelt on all fours and fell over laughing several times before another guy, one of the Marines Don knew, stayed hard long enough to penetrate him. Usually Don laughed with the duo as they tried to fulfill their commitment to the director, but not tonight.

He closed his eyes and smiled as his focus shifted away from the worn-out tape to the stunning man he’d met just a few hours earlier. Patrick had said, “I hoped that was you.” Instantly, Don’s dick sprang to life and became hard as metal. “Patrick.” Don squirted some more lube. He relived the scene when their eyes first met—the unguarded unforgettable moment when he’d caught “the look.” He smelled Patrick’s aftershave and he imagined how delicious Patrick’s crotch smelled and tasted after a day of flying his helicopter. Nearing orgasm, he imagined Patrick on top of him, his penis sliding into Patrick’s tight hole. Don stroked himself harder and harder and—“Oh Patrick!” he shouted at the ceiling as cum landed on his face.

“Wow.” He lay still for a moment, enjoying one of those special orgasms, the kind that takes its time subsiding. He sat up in the bed and cleaned his torso as the porno played on, showing the two Marines sixty-nining each other on the floor. He laughed, remembering when the pair had made these low-budget flicks. He tried to recall how much cash they’d made. He’d been surprised at how little it was. Still, it wasn’t bad for easy and fun work.

An image from earlier that day flashed across his mind. “Karl’s extra cash.” Don visualized his friend counting the huge stack of twenties in his wallet. “Oh no.” Don sighed as reality set in. He’d seen the pattern many times. Every day the military sent young, good-looking and hard-bodied guys to Southern California, where the alluring Golden State became a jungle of temptations. Many of these underpaid, hormonally driven and adventuresome guys from America’s heartland fell prey to the triple threats of drugs, prostitution and pornography. Some of the guys were gay, but most identified themselves as straight. They were restless and needed money and the predators around the bases had perfected the art of catching them in their webs. At least that’s how Don thought of porn producers. The unsuspecting young men—many just barely out of boyhood—were no match for men who’d practiced their seductive craft for years.

Eddie had disagreed. In his opinion, the producers provided a service that many men enjoyed. The video “stars” were adults exercising free will, and if they messed up their lives, they had only themselves to blame. He’d called Don a hypocrite for enjoying the porn while condemning the producers and looking down on the actors. Don and Eddie had argued this point many times in the past, and no doubt, their debate would continue in the years ahead.

Don turned off the television and he crawled under his sheets. He recalled Lance’s comment that Karl hadn’t left WC’s with any guys in a long time and that he’d noticed the same thing. Another memory suddenly surfacing was that Karl had disappeared for whole weekends recently without explanation. Don hadn’t thought anything of it at the time—Karl was a grown man with the right to do his own thing. Taking all of these factors together, though, Karl’s behavior had changed. Most worrisome of all was Karl’s statement tonight.

I want to but there are some things I can’t tell even you.

“Not you too, little buddy.” Don lapsed into a night of fitful sleep.

Eddie’s first observation after entering the room was that his sunglasses were on the floor. Then he spotted his address book askew and opened, leading him to conclude that the stranger he’d invited into his home had been snooping. Eddie’s initial reaction was to throw Stephen out of the house and advise his friends to avoid the good-looking new guy from Baltimore—or who claimed he was from Baltimore. But Stephen’s knowledge that Rocky was a dachshund alerted Eddie that the man’s motive for being in his house was far more sinister than simple nosiness.

He was furious that he’d been so gullible. Outwardly, though, he directed his rage at the lying scumbag sitting on his sofa. The sofa was an antique family heirloom Ray’s parents had given them when Ray became a partner at his law firm. In his mind, he raced through his night’s conversation with Stephen just to be sure. No, he’d never said that Rocky was a dachshund. Eddie’s introverted and reclusive nature prevented him from giving away unnecessary details about his life, and his dog’s breed fit that category. Eddie had to solve this mystery now. His and his friends’ careers and livelihoods were at stake.

That’s when he remembered the gun in the drawer.

As part of his pro bono practice, Ray had represented lesbians and gay men in some high-profile employment and housing discrimination cases. After receiving a number of death threats, he’d purchased the pistol and Don taught him and Eddie how to shoot it. When Ray died, Eddie left the house exactly as it had been. Ray’s clothes hung in the closet, his law books were on the shelves and his loaded gun remained in the desk.

Eddie wondered how he could’ve fallen for Stephen’s “I’m just looking for friends” line. Eddie wasn’t some twenty-year-old just off the bus from Baton Rouge—he knew better or he should’ve known better. Stephen had spied on him—he’d probably watched Eddie’s house for a long time. Maybe it wasn’t too late. If Eddie put the fear of God in the man, Stephen might leave them alone.

“So—Stephen. I’m asking you again. How did you know that my dog, which you haven’t seen—is a dachshund? And why are my sunglasses—which were on top of my address book—on the floor?”

Eddie didn’t plan to pull the gun out. He didn’t think the situation through at all. Going into an anger-induced hypnosis, he leaned against the desk and slid his arm down to the drawer with the gun. He was furious at the world for being so homophobic and bitterly despondent because Ray had died so young. He was enraged at this stranger for spying on him, for being in his house, for snooping in his address book and for sitting on a sofa that had been so special to Ray. Stephen didn’t answer his questions but stared blankly ahead.

Eddie’s eyesight had steadily worsened over the last year and Stephen was slightly out of focus. When Eddie saw him reach into his jacket, Eddie feared he had a gun of his own, a fear that sent Eddie over the edge. Stephen said something but Eddie wasn’t paying attention. In half a second, he opened the desk drawer and grabbed the pistol.

Before Eddie could raise the gun into position, Stephen lunged at him from the sofa, a reaction Eddie hadn’t expected. He jerked away from his attacker, and as he stepped back, his left foot crushed his sunglasses. When the metal frames slid easily across the polished floor, Eddie’s left leg flew out from under his body and he lost his balance. As he fell backward, he pointed the gun directly at Stephen. Before he could pull the trigger, though, Stephen grabbed Eddie’s gun arm, forcing it up toward Eddie’s head.

As Eddie’s forearm hit his chest, he heard the gunshot. He felt nothing as the bullet entered his throat on an upward arc. He never knew that a 9-millimeter piece of metal had penetrated directly into the center of his head, where it tumbled and turned his brains to mush before blasting out the back of his skull. Because it happened so quickly, or because he went into instant shock, he didn’t feel it. In the last seconds of his life, Eddie saw a horrified expression overcome the stranger’s face as he stepped away from Eddie’s dying body in terror. In the background, Eddie heard Rocky bark and he smiled because he knew his friends would take care of the little guy.