Private Dicks (21 page)

Eventually, Shane pulled up in front of the townhouse Jason and Liam lived in. They both got out of the car; Liam poured more heartfelt thanks on Shane with Jason in subdued agreement.

Once they were inside, Liam barely paused to change before crashing on his bed. He was asleep in moments. Jason stood by his doorway, watching Liam sleep for a long time. He needed the reassurance that his only remaining family member in the damn universe was finally home safe.

*~*~*

"Quit moping and just fucking call him already," Liam said a week later, standing in the doorway of the living room and staring accusingly at Jason.

"I'm not fucking moping," Jason objected from where he was slumped on the couch, but he couldn't even muster up enough annoyance to hypocritically chastise Liam for foul language.

"Yes, you are," Liam replied, standing firm in his conviction. "Call him now. Something's gonna remind you to in a minute anyway, I think."

"Stop making self-fulfilling prophecies," Jason complained, straightening up. Then something did suddenly occur to him, and it almost made him forget to be annoyed at Liam for predicting it. "Fuck. I hired him. I never actually paid him."

"Told you so," Liam said, smirking in satisfaction. It was annoying how often he did that, but Jason couldn't muster up real frustration with Liam, not so soon after what had happened.

It took some digging through pockets before he found Shane-slash-Eric's cell phone number. Dialing the number, Jason realized he wasn't sure if Shane was still using that phone. He might not even get an answer. Then again, he wasn't quite sure if he wanted to.

After a couple of rings, there was a click, and then a far too familiar voice came on the other line.

"Hello, Jason?" Shane's voice had a strange tone to it that Jason didn't have the mental capacity to identify at the moment.

Jason forgot to breathe for a moment from the sudden rush of anxiety. "Um, hi," he began, already feeling like an idiot. "I was wondering if you'd be available to meet me? For discussing payment?"

"Oh," Shane said, and Jason wasn't sure if he was imaging things or if there really was a note of disappointment in his tone. "Sure. I should be available in an hour or two. I'm downtown; I can come meet you somewhere …?" Shane trailed off, making it a question.

"Commons Park?" Jason offered. "Near the wading pool?"

"Sure. I can be there by six."

Jason couldn't shake his anxiety for the next couple of hours, to the point that Liam finally got sick of it and hid in his room.

He was running a little late by the time he actually reached the park, and Shane was already at the wading pool, sitting on a nearby wooden bench. Jason's pulse started racing the moment he saw him. He swallowed hard before approaching, and then he voiced an uncertain, "Hello."

Shane looked up and smiled, and Jason noted that he was every bit as interested in Shane as he had been in Eric. Only now, his chances were even more dismal. Someone like Shane O'Neil could not date a broke, low class nobody like him. Harshly, Jason reminded himself that he hadn't come here for that. He wanted to settle things, maybe part on less unpleasant terms. That was all. Breathing in deeply, he steeled his resolve and sat down next to Shane on the bench.

He was trying to recall his rehearsed speech when Shane startled him by speaking first.

"You know, I'm sorry I pushed you away that time in my office. I actually was interested; I just … wouldn't have wanted to start something on a lie. You didn't know who I was."

Any chance Jason had at remembering what he'd planned on saying crumbled into dust and blew away. "What?" was all he could think of, gaping and probably looking like an idiot.

"I don't exactly feel comfortable getting into relationships as is," Shane continued, resting his arms on his knees and looking pensive. "I get a lot of public attention, and I'm not sure it's safe for me to get close to people."

"I can take care of myself," Jason responded automatically, scowling.

Shane smiled slightly and glanced sidelong at him. "I suppose you're probably right."

There was a long moment of silence. Jason still wasn't feeling up to forming coherent thoughts, much less sentences, and Shane continued staring quietly at nothing in particular.

"I don't actually expect you to still be interested after all that happened. I just wanted you to know."

"I—what?" The words were not something Jason had ever dreamed of expecting, but damned if he was going to let an opening like that slide away, awkwardness or no. "I am definitely still interested."

Shane smiled at him, and for once, it was full and real, not some unreadable half smile.

Jason steeled himself and forced the words out of his mouth before he could convince himself not to. "So then, uh, did you have any other plans? This evening? For right now?"

"Not particularly," Shane responded, leaning back against the upper half of the bench.

"Want to … maybe have dinner somewhere?" Jason asked, certain he sounded almost as awkward as he felt. He held his breath, trying to mentally prepare for the inevitable rejection.

Instead, Shane smiled again. "I'd love to."

They both stood up, and then a thought struck Jason. "Oh man, I completely forgot the whole reason I wanted to talk to you in the first place. I should pay you."

Shane glanced towards him, face perfectly neutral. "I don't think that'll be necessary."

"No way," Jason responded vehemently. "I'm not accepting charity."

"It's not charity," Shane replied in an almost exaggeratedly casual fashion. "I just figured that your future services as a consultant would cancel out anything you might owe. Unless you'd rather not?"

"Actually that … that sounds awesome," Jason replied, taken completely by surprise. Everything about that idea sounded amazing. Too good to be true, almost. Being directly helpful would make him feel less like he had to climb a mountain to be even with Shane.

"So, anywhere in mind?" Shane asked.

Jason shrugged. "Doesn't really matter to me."

His last thought before they left the park together was that Liam would never let him hear the end of it.

The oil lamp light pouring out of the open doors and un-curtained windows of the dance halls, saloons and unscrupulous hotels cast the dry, dusty streets of Lovell in a golden glow as the "Virginia Gentleman" rode into town. Cowboys and prospectors, sheep herders and drifters, outlaws and worse filled the dance floors, barstools and beds of the small Wyoming cowtown with the Gentleman intent on joining their ranks for the evening.

The only thought the Gentleman entertained as he dismounted his dapple gray horse was that of taking a long swallow of whatever was fit to pass over his tongue. He tied the horse to a well-worn hitching post outside the nearest saloon, a two story, hastily constructed establishment called The Knotty Pine. With a gloved hand, the Gentleman pulled his silk handkerchief down from where it rested over his lower face and ran a finger lightly under his nose to wipe his mustache clean. Heading stiff-leggedly toward the open door of the Knotty Pine, he lifted his hat to shake loose the remains of the trail from his bevy of elk-brown curls.

He'd been on the trail for days, stopping only for a drink and some information before pressing on. The unseasonably warm, dry winds off the distant Absaroka Range had been strong enough to push even the most minute bits of dust through the gaps and stitches of his long oilcloth duster, leaving his entire body browned with a thin layer of sweat-soaked mud. The silk handkerchief he'd bound around his face had kept the dust out, but it had also allowed the dry air to pass through in abundance. His mouth and nose were dried and cracked and tasted of blood.

The air inside the saloon was thick with smoke and off-key piano notes. Groups of dirt-covered men played cards, telling jokes and laughing heartily as they gambled away their earnings while the boys danced with a handful of upstairs ladies, hoping they might get a discount for being gentlemanly. In such a jovial atmosphere, the Gentleman let down his guard in order to tend to his thirst before surveying the barroom for any signs of danger. The dry sides of his throat nearly stuck together, choking his words as he called for a whiskey from the barkeeper.

The Gentleman put a boot up on the bar rail and leaned onto the counter to stretch his back as he took a few tentative sips from his glass. He'd been a younger man when he'd started hi life in the saddle. Not so much younger, but there sure seemed to have been a lot fewer aches and pains back then. Or maybe he'd simply grown soft. With the cracks and sores in his throat sufficiently wetted and numbed by the alcohol, he took a final swig from his glass, and then signaled to the bartender for another. The Gentleman dug in his trouser pocket and left a few coins on the counter, which the barkeeper quickly scooped up for his troubles after filling the glass. The Gentleman grinned at this; then he turned to look out over the room. If he'd bothered to count, the barkeeper would have seen that the Gentleman had overpaid him quite generously for such weak alcohol. The Gentleman had hoped to cully some favor with him, expecting a few useful pieces of information in return. He'd inform the barkeeper of his error later, when there weren't so many patrons around and he wouldn't risk making a scene. For now, he had a room full of potential sheriffs or sheepherders to sort through.

With the aches in his throat quieted, the Gentleman could savor his drink and brought it to his nose for a casual whiff as he surveyed the room. Whatever the saloon owner was using to extend his homemade brew, it was pleasant enough, much like the assembled masses in the Knotty Pine that evening. No finer group of drunkards, working men, and no-goods to be found 'tween California and ol' Virginia herself. Not one badge or cautious eye or overly serious face in the bunch. If there were any lawmen or any other of the Gentleman's "acquaintances" present, they must have been laying as low as he. And so long as they all continued on that way, the night would pass without event. As he moved to throw back his second shot of whiskey, something caught his eye at a shadowed, out-of-the-way corner table, and his gaze lingered over the mismatched trio gathered there.

A well-dressed, thoroughly out-of-place looking man spoke in hushed, nervous tones. He was clean-shaven with close-cut, dark hair parted down the side and slicked back. His coat and suit were dark and dusty, matching his hair, and paired with what had once been a starched, white collar. A pair of half-moon glasses had slid down his nose and was threatening to continue their descent off his face. He pushed the glasses up to their intended resting point whenever he turned to glance about the room, which he did quite often. The gussied-up look of him set him apart in the smoky saloon; he was more banker than bank robber. His hand constantly moved toward his breast pocket as he carried on a heavily one-sided conversation with a burly bear of a man who sat across the table with a critical look on his face.

Hulking arms were crossed over the man-bear's broad chest and even broader middle. A trail of tobacco juice stained the graying red of his considerable beard. He tilted back his head so that he could look out from under the brim of his low-drawn black prospector's hat, and it was impossible not to feel looked down upon under that stare. Even from across the room, the Gentleman couldn't help but feel he was being looked on as inferior under that gaze. Everything about the man said he would do as he pleased, no matter. The Gentleman had seen grizzlies that didn't look as formidable and had met rattlesnakes that had seemed friendlier.

Somewhat hidden in the shadow of the man-bear, a rather sickly-looking young man, seventeen or eighteen in years, long and lean with straw-colored hair, stifled a dragging, core-shaking cough with his fist as he leaned against the wall. If he was aware of the three empty chairs at the table, he was ignoring them. His dark eyes stared off into the distance, endlessly tired and desperately forlorn with large purpled bags hanging below them. They were inattentive, emotionless, dead eyes. If he cared at all about the conversation being had, it didn't show. He was handsome in his indifference, but the Gentleman wondered how he might look in better health with a soul restored to those dim eyes. The Gentleman grinned at the sight of him.

A lifetime of training his ears to zero in on the smallest sounds, ready for an ambush, allowed the Gentleman to hear in the midst of the banker and the bear's whispered exchange the words "train," "robbery," and "Fourteen Mile City." The Gentleman downed his whiskey, his grin widening. He'd found himself a trio of gold thieves, it seemed. Leaving his glass on the counter, he sauntered over to make introductions.

"From the sound of things, you boys are lookin' to rob a train." All sound, all movement, nearly all signs of life at the corner table ceased. The banker's eyes grew wide and wild, like a trapped animal's, as they looked up at him. The Gentleman put his hand on the back of a chair as if waiting for an invitation to sit down.

Man-bear scowled at him, looking out from under his hat. Very slowly, with malice the likes of which the Gentleman hadn't heard before, he said, "Ain't none of your business."

"But why try to rob a train out of Fourteen Mile City, loaded with gold and heavily guarded, when you could make a much bigger haul with much less effort?" Pulling a chair out from the table with one hand, the Gentleman swung a long leg over the back to straddle it. With his duster pulled back at such an angle, the grips of his pistols hung exposed on his hips. The initials "VA" inlaid in gold and mother of pearl on the deep mahogany of the gun stocks gleamed in the light of the oil lamps as if they were on display. As the Gentleman sat, the banker suddenly became awestruck. Even the boy in the shadows stirred to life and took notice.

"Y-you're—" the banker started.

"The Virginia Gentleman," the boy whispered.

"Yes! Gentleman Blankenship, the Virginia Gentleman," the banker continued frantically. "That's you."