A Dangerous Game (17 page)

No matter. Right now I’m trying to think what I need to do to get out of this mess.

I probably need to move. Gabe, of course, would give me extra time to pay the rent, but that would just mean my debt would increase, and by the time I did find something, I’d end up owing him so much I don’t know how I could ever get square again.

I don’t want that kind of debt hanging over my shoulders, not when my credit cards are already bearing down, demanding payment but also saying “Don’t worry about it” as the interest and finance charges accrue, until I’m barely paying anything off each month.

I could move someplace like Rogers Park, where my friend Billie lives and swears that you can get more for your money up there. Rogers Park is on the northern end of Chicago, bordering the suburb of Evanston. It has close proximity to the lake to recommend it, along with some pretty decent older buildings. But it doesn’t offer much in the way of safety… the neighborhoods change from okay to horrible in one block and then back again.

But I could probably get a studio for half of what I’m paying here (and then I would have more money for coke! stop it), and maybe I could begin paying off some debt once I found a job again. But the cost of moving is always a lot: security deposit, first and often last month’s rent, the cost of movers or at least a truck rental.

In the midst of these musings, the phone rings. I look at the little display on my phone and see the word “private.” My heart begins to hum, in spite of my sensible head telling me not to answer it. I’ve been conditioned to understand that word “private” to mean one of two things: coke has arrived or is on its way, or some trick I gave my number to is calling me for sex.

“Hello,” I say, instinctively deepening my voice.

“Okay, Rufus. Come on downstairs.”

I recognize the Middle Eastern accent immediately. Sam.

But I didn’t call him. Lord knows I didn’t. Am I doing things now and immediately forgetting?

“Hi, Sam,” I say tentatively. My heart is beginning to beat harder, with the same sense of anticipation as if I had called. “Did I call you?”

“Yes.” Sam sounds tired.

I’m puzzled. But already I’m trying to think how I can get that little bag of coke in my hands. “And my number came up on your caller ID?”

“No.”

Sam sighs. He’s not the most outgoing guy, but I’ve never really cared about that before. As long as he delivers.

“It was a different number. You said you were calling from a pay phone.”

I scratch my head and can’t think of anything to say. My gift outside the door comes back to me. That was nice. But this time it wouldn’t be free… and I don’t have the money I would need.

“Are you coming down, Rufus? I don’t have much time.”

I think for only a second. “Sure. I’ll be right there.”

I struggle into a pair of nylon running pants, a T-shirt, and an old pair of deck shoes I keep near the front door for just such a purpose.

Outside, Sam’s black Lexus idles, parked near the fire hydrant in front of my building that always makes it so convenient for him to pull up in front. I wonder, as I always do, what I will say to Gabe if he comes outside and happens to witness my brief rendezvous in the dark car. He’d ask. He’s nosy, and there’s something suspicious about my running out of the house, hopping in a car for a minute or two, and then running back in. It’s amazing to me that our paths have never crossed during any of my exchanges.

“Sam, I got a small problem.” I get in the car and slam the door.

Sam looks over at me, and I’m struck, as usual, by what a handsome man he is. I suppose he has Israeli or Iranian heritage: black hair, eyes so dark the pupils disappear within the irises, a perpetual five o’clock shadow, dark skin, and full lips. Sam is a cipher to me. I really know nothing about him, and I’m sure that’s the way he likes to keep it. He always smiles and asks how I’m doing, but our exchanges are always brief. Number one, I usually can’t wait to get back upstairs and to get that first line or two up my nose. Number two, out of necessity, Sam probably likes to keep clues to his identity low. No telling what a paranoid or disappointed customer might do if he knew, for example, Sam’s address.

“What’s the problem, Rufus?”

“I don’t have the money.”

“No credit,” Sam says right away, his hand immediately going to the gearshift.

“No, no, I don’t want credit. I just want you to pull around the corner here. There’s a bank with an ATM.”

“No problem.”

And the car is in motion. I think again about offering to blow Sam in exchange for some coke (blow for blow, get it?) but again reject the idea because there’s not a single thing about him that indicates he might take me up on such an offer. Besides, I think scornfully and not without a little inner sarcastic laugh, what’s in it for him?

The vestibule of the bank is cool, and I try to tell myself, as I punch in my PIN, that this isn’t my fault. I don’t know who called Sam, but I sure as hell didn’t, and I can’t be expected to resist temptation when it’s being thrust so overtly in my face. Still, I’m really low on money, and adding yet another cash advance to my Visa isn’t smart.

Hell, it isn’t even sane.

But none of that makes any difference once I’ve got the little bag of coke in my hand as I hurry back to my apartment, already tasting the bitter little drip in the back of my throat that’s on its way.

The first thing I do once I get back upstairs is to grab a dollar bill from my wallet, a pen from the desk, and do my little rolling technique to grind up the chunks of coke. It’s only a minute before a little mound of white appears on my coffee table, less than a minute before two fat lines are snorted up my nose.

And then a flurry of activity. A cigarette is lit. Clothes are whipped off and thrown onto the rocking chair next to the couch. In the bedroom, a can of Crisco is brought out from a drawer in my bedside table and a snappable leather cock ring encircles my balls and dick as tight as it will go. A stained white hand towel and a bottle of poppers are snatched up from another drawer.

Back in the living room, I pull the porno out from the bottom of a secretary. Already I feel a tingle. Already there’s the delicious bitter drip at the back of my throat. I want to do a million things at once. The porn begins to look like a kid’s building blocks… scattered all over the floor, searching, searching for just the right one. Vintage or contemporary? I like the vintage, precondom ones better, always have, and slip in a compilation tape of Jon King that’s absolutely filthy. I settle back on the couch, point the remote at the VCR, and voila! there’s Jon King on the screen, taking it from two guys at once. I squelch the thought that King died from AIDS several years ago. None of that depressing shit for me. Today’s a party day! The lost job, the lost friends, the prospect of a future with no home and no love have escaped me for the time being.

Thank you, Mr. Cocaine!

I light another Marlboro off the butt of the last and begin pulling on my dick. Since I’ve only done a couple of lines, it gets hard, and I think how sex never feels nearly as wonderful without this beautiful drug up my nose.

It’s time to get on the phone sex line and see who’s out there. What Prince Charmings will come over today to bring me ecstasy and to transport me to the land of erotoparadise?

I call the 976 number and get a code, then call the Buddy line, punch in the code, and record my message. This is how it works: you record a message, telling other callers on line what it is you want, how and where you want it, and what you look like. Then the message goes into a kind of rotation. Everyone hears everyone else’s message, and if you like what you hear, you can send a private message. Once sent, the caller can respond with another message or a request to talk live. What usually happens, if things are progressing, is that one or the other of the guys gives out his phone number and you end up talking off line, making plans that may or may not come to fruition. Only half the time or less do people actually show up when they say they will.

“Hot bottom here in Ravenswood. Looking to take dick all day long. Love to deep throat and love to get fucked long and hard. Good-looking guy, tight build. Hit me back.” Of course, like everyone else on the line, I’m sure, I try to sound more butch than I am. Phrases like “hit me back,” which wouldn’t emerge from my lips at any other time, now do. I deepen my voice just a little. I drive a truck for Bud, don’t you know? I shoot pool and hoops with my buddies, don’t you know? I don’t even know who Martha Stewart is.

It isn’t long before more cigarettes are smoked (I’m gonna have to go out for more pretty soon), more lines are hoovered up, and I’ve got three connections on their way. I’ll be happy if one out of the three actually shows up. But my code number is good for two days, so there’s lots of time to play cock roulette.

And my dick is now soft from the coke. It will stay that way for a couple of days as well, but it still feels good when I yank on it. And it might wander up to half-mast if I can get someone hot inside me.

Doorbell chimes. Cool.

I do a quick snort, scoop the coke onto a CD, and take it, the bag, the dollar bill, the razor blade, and the pen and put them in the secretary. You never know when your Prince Charming might be a cop. I hurry to slide into my running pants and down the stairs to answer the door. This is the part that always makes my heart race even more, the anticipation of when I open the door. Hooking up with guys like this is always grab bag, no matter how they describe themselves on the phone. It’s like what’s behind door number two.

And this time I’m a winner on my own personal sex
Let’s Make a Deal
. He’s hot. Oh yeah, I sniffle and wipe at the back of my nose with my hand, open the door, smile.

“You Jason?”

“Rufus?”

“Yeah. Come on in.”

A little plump but no complaints. About six three with straight reddish-blond hair that hangs down to his shoulders. Stubbly goatee and mustache. Said he was twenty-three, and that looks about right. Pale, pale blue eyes… almost translucent.

I can’t wait to get him upstairs.

Once we’re up there, he looks around, and for just a second I see my apartment through his eyes, and even with the cocaine, feel a pang of shame. Blue-gray cigarette smoke hangs near the ceiling, and it reeks. The coffee table is covered… with Crisco, with a half-drunk bottle of Budweiser Light, the cordless phone, several candles burned about halfway or more down, an ashtray close to overflowing, and the pack of Marlboros open next to it. At one end of the table, there’s a dusting of fine white powder. On the TV, Jon King is on his back (again) as some dark-haired groaning fella rams it home (again). The chair next to the couch is heaped with clothes, and my hand is still greasy with Crisco. I realize I’m almost panting. For just a second, I’m afraid he’ll leave.

“You party?” I ask, hoping he’s into it. Then I won’t feel so ashamed.

He smiles, and the gap in his front teeth makes me weak. I’ve always loved that.

“What are you doin’?”

“A little cola,” I say, pulling off my pants, poised to head for the secretary. “You wanna bump?”

He stares at me, a little grin playing about his lips. “I don’t know. I don’t really do that shit.”

He continues grinning, and the grin is unnerving because it has a lot more ridicule in it than it does humor. There’s something unkind about it, and all at once I wish he would leave.

“It’s good stuff,” I mumble. “The guy I get it from, he doesn’t cut it.” I don’t know this for sure, but I assume it’s so.

“Nah, I’ll take a pass.”

He glances down at my limp dick with its sheen of whitish grease and watches for a minute as I pull on it.

I sit, light another smoke. “Make yourself comfortable.” My hand is trembling as I set my cigarette in the ashtray.

Jason sits down in the rocking chair after throwing the clothes there on the floor. He stares at the screen and makes no attempt to loosen his belt, unbutton any buttons. This is getting just a little strange, and I’m starting to think about asking him to leave. But how to say it? When I’m high, if you’ll pardon the pun, I like my gentlemen callers to be in and out. Sometimes they’re back down the stairs before ten minutes have passed. When I’m high I’m more interested in quantity than quality. Jittery, y’know, always ready to move on to the next thing.

I get up and kneel at Jason’s feet. He’s wearing Asics running shoes, baggy jeans with a frayed brown leather belt, and a plaid shirt, open, with a gray tee underneath. He looks boyish and manly all at the same time. His belly lops out a little over the belt. If he weren’t so sexy, I would send him on his way, but I have to at least make the attempt.

But first I should fortify myself. It’s no secret what I’m doing since I’ve already offered him some, so I bring out the stash and put it back on the glass-topped table. I scrape across a small mound with the razor blade and form four neat lines on the glass. “You sure you don’t want some?” I pick up the straw and poise myself over the blow.

“No.” There’s almost a chill in the air.

“Okay, hang on, then.” I snort up two lines, exhale, sniff, and wipe my nose with the back of my hand. I run a finger around in the fine dust of coke on the table, rub it on my gums. I consider doing the other two lines but decide to wait. I glance at the clock and see it’s ten after ten. I will not do those next two lines until eleven.