A Dangerous Game (8 page)

Mr. Davidson Chillingsworth answered on the second ring. His voice had the careful modulation of a news anchor. His demeanor, telegraphed through the phone, was polite, deferential, and businesslike. The aural image he presented did not jibe with the word “pimp.”

“Davidson Chillingsworth here. How may I be of assistance?”

Wren rolled his eyes. A voice within instructed him to just hang up, but another voice reasoned that these days, there was no such thing—almost—as an anonymous call. He knew that when he spoke he would be sealing his fate, even though at this point, he was telling himself he was just “checking things out.”

“Hey, Dave. It’s Wren Gallagher. We met on Friday—at Tricks?”

“Wren! Of course. I was hoping you’d phone.”

WREN TOLD
himself that by meeting with Dave, he was simply exploring his options. He didn’t have to actually decide anything today, and he certainly would not feel compelled to do anything he didn’t want to do.

These were the kinds of things he was thinking as he left the “L” station at Belmont and headed eastbound down the street at eleven forty-five. The street, now that rush hour had passed and the evening revelers who tended to clog it were probably still asleep, was relatively quiet.

Heat fairly shimmered up from the dirty concrete, and in the air was the smell of exhaust fumes, garbage, and underneath it all, a briny, fishy smell—Lake Michigan, just a few blocks away. The “L” train rumbled behind him as it pulled out of the station.

It was another beautiful, sunny summer morning in the city. Already the white button-down shirt clung to Wren’s back and the jeans he wore felt too heavy and warm for the day, as though they weighed twenty pounds or more.

Wren noticed all these things because he felt like he was on a precipice, a line of demarcation, that his life was about to change from one phase to the next. His conscious mind told him that the lunch appointment he had set up with Dave was nothing more than two guys getting together for a bite to eat and to talk. That same voice nattered on about how nothing would change unless Wren wanted it to and that he—or his soul—was in no danger by meeting with the redoubtable Mr. Chillingsworth.

But his subconscious was more like instinct, Wren’s id as opposed to his ego. That being, or whatever it was, didn’t speak in a clear voice, didn’t make its wants known through words but through feelings. And Wren had the feeling his life was changing, and even though he thought what Dave had to offer would be a bad choice, a choice he would regret, he also knew it was better than what he had right now.

What he had right now was nothing.

Dave had suggested they meet at a little Greek diner just south on Broadway, a few doors down from Tricks. Wren knew the place. It was open twenty-four hours, and he and his friends had often wandered into the spot for omelets or burgers after a night of imbibing. It would be kind of interesting to see what the place was like during the day.

The air conditioning in Venus’s Café hit him like a blessing as soon as he walked through the plate glass door. Inside it was hard to see after the sun’s brilliant light he had just left behind. He could make out a woman behind the counter. She had a shock of black hair, dark eyes, and a big, comforting bosom. Her face was welcoming as she took in Wren from behind tortoiseshell-framed glasses. Not stopping her task of wiping down the counter, she said, “Hiya, kid. Counter or table?”

Wren stepped a little farther into the blessed coolness, reveling in how quickly it was drying the sweat from his brow. “Actually, I’m supposed to meet someone.”

As he spoke the words, his eyes adjusted more, and he spotted Davidson Chillingsworth as he stood up in a booth near the back of the restaurant.

“Right here, Wren.”

The woman behind the counter looked from Wren to Chillingsworth and back again. Wren thought some of the light went out of her dark eyes. Her smile definitely vanished.

“Okay,” she said softly. “Go on back and I’ll bring you a menu.”

Seated, Wren smiled at Chillingsworth and tried to play it cool, as if he met with professional pimps every day to discuss the possibility of working for them. Dave, not surprisingly, looked every bit the televangelist, as he had the night they met. Today he wore a pair of cream-colored slacks, loafers, a blue-and-white-pinstriped shirt, and a blue blazer, in spite of the temperature already hovering around ninety-five outside. Wren noticed he had even put a brightly patterned orange and cream handkerchief in his front breast pocket, folded almost origamically into three neat triangles.

“Venus, my dear, how are you today?” Dave said to the woman Wren had seen earlier when she showed up with menus and a coffeepot.

“Fine, Mr. C, just fine.”

She set down menus and poured coffee for both men. There was something about her demeanor that was different from when Wren entered. When he had first come in, she had a big grin. She was open. Now all that had shut down. Wren felt as though she’d rather neither of them be there. He shrugged; it was just a feeling.

Because he was hungry, and to delay the forthcoming conversation, Wren ordered quickly. “I’ll have the Greek omelet, a side of bacon, crispy, and rye toast. Hash browns too.”

Dave smiled, but it came out more like a grimace. “Hungry?”

Wren wanted to say he wasn’t sure where his next meal would come from so he might as well get while the getting was good. But instead he just smiled at Dave. “Growing boy.”

Dave nodded and ordered only black coffee.

While they were waiting for Wren’s food, Dave launched into what Wren supposed was his pitch.

“Wren, I’m so glad you could find the time to come see me. I wasn’t sure you’d call, so you can imagine my delighted surprise when you did.”

“Yes, I can just imagine.” Wren busied himself pouring three packets of sugar and two containers of cream into the steaming liquid, maybe because he didn’t want Dave to see him rolling his eyes.

“You’re being sarcastic.”

“No. No. I’m sorry. I didn’t have a very good night, and I’m just tired.”

“Anyway, I wanted to say that a young man such as yourself can have limitless potential in my business. Limitless potential for money
and
the leisure time in which to spend it. Most people go through life wishing they could somehow figure out a way to marry that particular combination. Most never figure it out. But I can give it to you, Wren.”

“And all I have to do is fuck?”

Wordlessly, Venus set the plates down before Wren and refilled their coffee. She hurried away.

Dave shook his head. “I wish you would refrain from using such crude language around me. It offends me, and it doesn’t become you at all.”

Wren didn’t apologize. He took a bite of his omelet, which was a delightful blend of spinach, egg, and feta.

“Whatever. I can see you need a little work. The phrase ‘diamond in the rough’ comes to mind when I look at you.”

Maybe because he was tired and his tolerance for bullshit was low—he’d had more than his fair share the past several days—Wren cut to the chase. He figured he had nothing to lose. Part of him very much wanted to destroy any possibility of a deal.

“You know, Dave, all the rosy talk and blue skies in the world doesn’t change what we’re here to talk about, so why don’t you just put your cards on the table and let me know what I’m expected to do and how much I can expect to make.”

“I can see you’re a brass tacks sort of fellow.”

“That’s me.” Wren drank some coffee and contemplated just getting up and leaving. The whole idea of what they were discussing was stupid, immoral, illegal, and would most likely be very bad for his health. But what Dave opened with stopped him cold.

“So we’ll just cut to the chase, as you say. For starters, I could offer you a small dwelling. That would only be temporary, of course, but until your earnings would allow you to find your own place, you are welcome to stay in one of the apartments I have as a business investment. I believe there’s a studio in a high-rise on Lake Shore Drive near Addison currently. Fully furnished with a lovely lake view.”

Wren was ready to sign up, imagining himself going from homeless to a Lake Shore Drive high-rise just like that. And all he had to do was blow a few guys, maybe get fucked? What was the problem? He’d be doing that anyway and
not
improving his life circumstances.

But what would his mother think? How would he explain to her his sudden good luck? “Hey, Mom, I know you’ve just gotten used to the gay thing. Now I’ve got a new twist for you….”

“Being cautiously optimistic, I would say a man of your charms could expect to earn—” Dave shrugged, and his eyes rolled up a little as he calculated. “—somewhere in the mid-four figures your first full month.”

“You mean, like, five thousand dollars?” Wren laughed. The guy was pulling his leg.

But Chillingsworth’s face betrayed no emotion, humorous or otherwise. “Yes. I think that’s reasonable and quite possible, actually.”

Wren didn’t say anything. His heart pounded out a tribal tattoo from within his chest. To cover up the silence and his amazement, Wren busied himself spreading grape jelly on his last piece of toast. With a shaking hand, he lifted it to his mouth and took a bite, then chewed slowly. He had never felt less hungry in his life.

He had to admit to himself he
was
torn. On the one hand, he couldn’t kid himself. While he could certainly be described as being down on his luck, he was far from destitute. Later today he could go to the unemployment office, get the paperwork filled out, and money would start coming in. He might have to live at the Y or someplace like that for a little while. And if he wasn’t proud about the kind of position he took, he
could
get a job. Yes, the economy was not exactly the best, but even Wren, young as he was, had seen it worse. There were jobs out there for him, maybe not doing the kinds of things Wren had dreamed of as a little boy, and certainly not with the kind of paychecks that would allow him to do much better than eke out a meager existence, but he could still take pride in not striking some sort of deal with the devil. Becoming a whore—why sugarcoat it?—was doing just that. Wren feared he’d be giving up his very soul.

Sex for him had always been, at worst, a release, a cheap and easy good time, and at best, a promise. When he became intimate with another man, sometimes there was more of a connection than just the physical. Sometimes the warmth could be felt higher up than between his legs, and there was hope that the comingling of two bodies, sweat, and semen could result in something more permanent, could maybe be the cornerstone of creating, somehow, his own family.

Chillingsworth would have him believe that being a whore would only increase his likelihood for finding someone he could truly love, but Wren doubted it. He knew how he’d feel about a guy who’d peddle his ass. No matter how high class the enterprise supporting him was, he’d never be able to take him seriously.

How could he ever trust someone who would do that?

“My dear boy, I seem to have lost you.”

Wren looked up from his empty plate. His coffee had gone cold. Other diners had entered the restaurant, and Wren hadn’t even noticed. It was as though he was waking from a dream.

“I’m sorry.” A very big part of Wren wanted to stand up, say thank you, and walk from the restaurant. A million small voices inside him were urging him to do just that, yet he remained frozen in his seat.

He couldn’t help it. He had been poor, or very close to it, all his life. He had grown up getting his clothes from thrift stores and maybe, if Linda was flush, Target. He had known what it was like to eat cereal for dinner because there was nothing else in the house and because it was cheap and filled you up. He had never dreamed of going to college—a life like that was simply not his to attain.

He knew he’d never be more than a wage slave, someone who nickeled-and-dimed his way through life, barely affording the essentials, let alone the luxuries.

He wanted to cry.

Why shouldn’t he grasp for the prize that was being offered to him?

Because it’s wrong.

Because you’ll be exchanging your dignity for money, and can you really live with yourself if you do that?

Because you’ll have no respect for yourself.

Because you’ll be forced to live a lie. Can you really tell your mother and friends how you make a living?

All these things pinged around in his mind, making him shake his head.

Chillingsworth’s voice came to him, seemingly from far away.

“Wren. Tell me what you’re thinking.”

And Wren did. All of it. When he was finished, he looked across the table at the older man, waiting.

Dave gave him a smile. It was a warm smile, and there was a light shining in his gray eyes. It was the first time Wren had seen the man look human, as opposed to some sort of overly perfected idea of what a good man should look like. For maybe just a moment, Wren felt as though he could trust him.

That’s crazy, man. This dude is a slick Ricky.

Wren pushed the thought from his head and listened to Chillingsworth.

“Wren, I bet you’re thinking I’ve never heard your misgivings before.” Dave shook his head. “The truth is, I hear them from almost every young man who comes into my employ. Fears like yours are only natural. Doubts like yours come along all the time.” He grinned. “Even to yours truly. Cards on the table. I can’t tell you that what you’ll be doing won’t sometimes be a little soul sucking and that you won’t feel, well, a little cheap. But the rewards are a big comfort.”

“Tell me again,” Wren said.

Chillingsworth went through his spiel once more, even though Wren had heard it all before. Only this time, when Dave told him about the money, the apartment on Lake Shore Drive, the surprisingly buff, handsome, and successful men he would meet, Wren allowed his imagination to buy into it. He saw himself high above Lake Michigan, watching the sun come up over churning blue-gray water as he sipped a cup of premium coffee in an ultrathick bathrobe.