Placing Out (14 page)

I stared at him. He looked empty. Exhausted. Gone was the fury I had seen in him when he attacked me for being just like him. He had been terrifying. I had been shaking when he stormed out, and I hadn't stopped for an hour. Even now I shivered when I remembered the look in his eyes. Hate. But also a desire so powerful it still made me weak.

And now here he was, looking like the back end of a dog. I couldn't imagine what he had gone through since I last saw him, but I knew it was bad. New fear slammed through me when I saw the rifle in his hand.

"Are you hurt?"

"No."

Liar. I looked at the weapon he held. "What's that?"

"Nothing. Take it." He thrust it at me. I carried it to the far side of my room and leaned it against the wall. From the smell of the thing, it had been fired recently. By Ben? Had he killed someone? He was a copper, I guess that happened.

I was afraid to ask. Mostly because I didn't want to know the answer. I did want to know why he was here.

"Sit down. Let me get you a drink. Do you want to wash up?"

Before he could answer, even if he wanted to, I hurried to get him a drink and a damp cloth. When I handed it to him, he tried to smile through his broken face. He sank slowly onto the bed, his shoulders slumping in exhaustion.

"Oh, Ben, who did this?"

He laughed, but it sounded like he hurt. "My boss. I guess my ex-boss."

"Ex?" I took the cloth back and gently wiped his face. He winced. "Sorry," I whispered.

I smoothed the damp cloth over his forehead, pushing the hair off his brow. He closed his eyes and lay down on the top of the bed. I didn't want to disturb him, but I needed some answers.

"What do you mean, your ex? Did you quit? Did they fire you?"

"Quit." His voice slurred but there was a faint smile on his battered lips. "For you."

"You quit for me?" I was totally confused now. Why would he quit for me when he'd made it so clear he wanted nothing to do with me? "Why would you do that?"

"Berlin."

"Did you say Berlin?"

"Need to go now... " He passed out before he could finish.

I stood and stared down at him, trying to figure it out. Finally, I gave up. I struggled to get his heavy boots off and loosened his pants and shirt so he wouldn't get bound up in them if he moved. Then I finished cleaning his wounds. He slept through the entire thing.

And he kept sleeping. I never left his side, except to use the toilet down the hall and grab a sandwich from the drug store. I wanted to bring something for him, but figured he'd want it fresh. I'd get whatever he wanted when he woke up.

While I waited, I took a close look at the rifle. A good one. It wasn't anything I'd ever seen before. Probably military. Put a decent shot in it and it could do some damage. Had it? Had Ben killed someone? Was that why he said that about Berlin? Was he fleeing? Could I expect the police to break down my door at any minute?

Damn it, I needed answers only he could give. Finally, at midnight I undressed and crawled in beside him. Immediately, he drew me against him. His mouth touched my neck. I'm not even sure he was fully awake.

"I love the way you taste." He licked my skin. I shuddered and closed my eyes. He kept talking, though I could tell he was barely awake. "You'll only be mine, won't you? Only mine, now."

"Only yours," I whispered.

Still on my neck, Ben's mouth curved into a smile and he slid into a deeper sleep, never releasing his hold on me. A peace I had never felt before filled me. I snuggled closer to him, knowing I'd finally found the place I wanted to be. Here, in Ben's arms. By his side.

Mine.

Exhausted, I fell asleep in minutes.

I awoke at dawn to the most delicious sensation of Ben's hand wrapped around my erection. Funny how his simplest touch could excite me more than the most skilled lover I'd ever had. He stroked me, faster and faster. I cried out and came even before I was wholly awake. His smile, when I opened my eyes to see it, was still stiff.

"I made it, I see."

"Made what?"

"Made it here. I thought I was dreaming. It seemed like a dream after a while. At least after the nightmare ended."

"Do you remember what happened?" I didn't want to ask him upfront if he had killed someone. I might never want to know.

"I remember finding out Roach had put one of my friends in the hospital. I remember hearing he was going after more."

"More what? Friends?"

"Other men like me. Like you."

"What did you do to him?"

"Roach? Not as much as he deserved. I didn't kill him, if that's what you think."

I touched his brow, which had a raised welt fast turning into a colorful bruise. "You're not so pretty anymore, you know."

"You mean I was once?"

"Sexy," I murmured. "Still."

His smile was a little stronger. "Still?"

I ran my hand down his stomach.

"Yes, always."

His pants were already undone, it was easy to shove them down his legs. His erection fit perfectly into my hand. He moaned softly and whispered my name seconds before he came.

I cleaned him off, finished stripping his clothes off, and pulled the sheets over him. "You need more sleep. Then you'll be pretty again."

"No, you're always going to be the pretty one."

Before he drifted off he grabbed my wrist. "My keys. In my pocket. Go to my place and get my things. There's a lockbox under the bed. Bring that. Money... money for Berlin."

He gave me the address and I promised I would. Once he was asleep I found his key and slipped out. The streets were full of police and other emergency vehicles. I grabbed a
Times.
The headline said it all.

The panic seemed to have faded here, but then it looked like the worst of it had been on the coast. Still, it took me an hour to get to Ben's and another two hours to fill two carpetbags with clothes and personal gear, as well as the lockbox. I made no attempt to open it. I stuffed everything into my Model T. He was still sleeping when I dragged everything inside. I'd thought briefly of leaving the stuff in the flivver, but I didn't know how long they'd be in there. I put everything in the corner of the room, near my own clothes. I'd have to get a trunk for them if we were going anywhere.

There was a knock at the door. It was the old lady again. "Phone call, Jack."

Reflex sent me out the door, then I froze. I knew who it was: George. Wanting to know I was okay and reaffirming I was coming on Monday. I glanced back at the bed where Ben still slept.

Mine
, he had said.
Mine.

I smiled at the old woman. "Thanks, ma'am. But could you please tell him I'm not here anymore."

She frowned. "Are you going away then?"

"Yes, ma'am, I am."

Once she shuffled off down the hallway shaking her gray head, I closed the door and turned back to the bed. Ben was still sleeping, his battered face free of worry or fear. Resisting the urge to kiss him, I fussed around, pulled all my clothes out and put them on top of the dried off dresser. Then I stripped and pulled on a robe.

I cleaned up down the hall, returned and dressed in my nicest suit, the one so many of my lovers told me was my sexiest. For him now. I smoothed my hands over my slim hips.

Mine.

Then I sat and waited. I didn't know where we were going from here. Maybe Ben didn't know either. But I was sure, with luck and love, we'd find our way together.

March 6, 1930, the Comintern, the Communist International, organized a country-wide protest in support of workers' rights and the lack of government support for all the unemployed in the US.

In L.A. during the 1930 protests, the LAPD were turned loose on city hall marchers, on foot, on horseback and in cars. Club-wielding cops beat hundreds of people. Cars chased them down streets. It was very bloody and violent and was routinely supported by the
Los Angeles Times
, whose publisher Harry Chandler, was rabidly anti-labor. As well, the LAPD has a long history of oppressing gays. Clubs and gathering places were routinely raided. Laws were put in place specifically aimed at preventing men from meeting--anti-loitering laws that were used against both gays and workers who wanted to unionize.

The aim of the program called placing out was to take children out of bad situations in urban areas and move them into rural areas in the Western states. Many of the children were orphans, others were from very poor families who were unable to care for them, and children caught up in the legal system. There were even a few adults who were placed out voluntarily.

The organizations normally involved in placing out the children were religious ones. The idea was popular in the US because of a naïve belief that rural life was somehow more innocent and purer than living in an urban area. They believed that the rural West was purifying, ennobling and elevating. There was a fear among some missionaries and even some politicians that large armies of poor children would turn into armies of criminals and tear apart the fabric of the country if they were left in place. Some territories, and later, states, actively pursued placed out children.

The real driving force behind placing out was the shortage of laborers in the West. The taming of the Western territories was in full swing in the 1800s when placing out began and there was a need for farmworkers, factory as well as house servants. Some placing out agencies indentured a person for seven years. Another requirement was that children would receive schooling. Most children were placed in Christian homes, usually Protestant, though some Catholic programs existed as well.

The program was most active in the mid to late 1800s, but continued through to the late 20s. The children would be accompanied by an agent who would tend to them during the actual trip and would get them to their new families. There were also resident agents who would periodically check in on children, though in many cases this was spotty. A child was supposed to be able to end a placement if it wasn't working, but again, this wasn't always the reality.

Treatment of the children ranged from being well cared for and loved, to being viewed as indentured servants with no rights, essentially slave labor. There was at least one recorded instance of rape. A sixteen-year-old girl who was placed out was raped by her employer. But of child abuse, I found little reference to it.

Many of their stories have been collected and can be found in various places. Some include:

 
The Orphan Trains, Placing Out in America
Marilyn Irvin Holt, University of Nebraska Press, 1992

 
A History of the Orphan Trains:
www.kancoll.org/articles/orphans/or_hist.htm

 
National Orphan Train Complex:
www.orphantraindepot.com/

 
American Experience:
www.pbs.org/wgbh/amex/orphan/

 
PBS The American Experience bibliography:
www.pbs.org/wgbh/amex/orphan/read.html

At 22 years of age, P. A. Brown's life changed forever when she sold everything she owned and moved 2,000 miles away to a city she'd never visited, where she knew no one. Coming from a sheltered life, she spent the next eight years doing her own wild and crazy thing. She roamed the good and bad streets of Los Angeles, doing things that in retrospect were probably downright idiotic. Knowing nothing about the city (or any big city) she made the brilliant decision to get a cheap apartment. She found one, in the heart of a crime-ridden section of Hollywood, one she later found out was called a war zone by the LAPD. There were stabbings and shootings and assaults every weekend. Thus was her introduction to life in a big American city.

Most of her time in L. A. was spent in the underbelly of the city, including a month or so living out of a car. She visited Skid Row, spent time on the streets of Hollywood, and befriended a bartender who was killed after she went home with a customer. And you wonder why she writes crime novels? During the 80s, P. A. saw the advent of a terrible disease no one understood that became known as AIDS. Being immersed in the gay community, P. A. knew a lot of people who died in those days. For a brief period, she was even a "Valley Girl," living within spitting distance of the famous Sherman Oaks Galleria. Does she miss it? Every minute of every day.

For more information on P. A. Brown, please visit her website at: http://www.pabrown.ca

Johnny Wager has been a loser all his life and proud of it. But when a West Hollywood twink ends up dead in a hotel room with Wager literally holding the bag, he knows his life is going to change for the worse. Pursued by the West Hollywood sheriffs for a murder he knows he didn't commit, Wager has to stay one step ahead of them and prove his innocence. It doesn't help matters any that his own son, Mark Wager, is a deputy sheriff who has joined the manhunt and has more reason than anyone to find the father who failed him all his life and bring him to justice.

Add Hyacinth, a six-foot-five drag queen from New Orleans, Taz, her Puerto Rican boyfriend, an ex-Marine porno filmmaker and his incontinent Basset Hound Columbo, and the Armenian mob chasing them all through the streets of Los Angeles and the art walks and canals of Venice Beach. Wager pursues his own answers to the question of who is trying to kill him in the sleazy bars and back alleys of Hollywood all the way to Cathedral City.

Can Wager stop the killers and reconcile with his son or will he end up being the next victim? Betrayed by friends, beset by his own conscience that has come back late in life with a vengeance, and the need to redeem himself, he battles the ruthless mob in the only way he knows how: with cunning and a total disrespect for the law.