Placing Out (4 page)

A melee followed when they herded their handcuffed prisoners to the waiting paddy wagon that must have followed them to the pansy club. Ben was able to hang back with Kevin. A burly guy in an expensive suit broke free of the smaller copper leading him to the wagon. Voices rose and saps swung. Ben took advantage of the distraction to unlock the cuffs and, waiting until all eyes were on the brawling men, he shoved Kevin into the shadows and whispered, "Go, don't make a sound. Don't let anyone see you. Now!"

Kevin vanished and Ben turned back, grabbing a man he'd never seen before and hauled him toward the wagon that would take them to lockup. He forced himself to ignore the piteous pleas, wishing he could do for all of them what he had done for Kevin, but that wasn't going to happen. These men were going to jail. If they were lucky, they could get the charges reduced to a loitering or public intoxication so their lives wouldn't be totally ruined. He knew of some men so shamed by being caught they killed themselves rather than face the public humiliation.

If this was what Roach wanted him doing in the new assignment, he needed to find an excuse to back out. Anything else would be soul-sucking. Rage burned through him. He shoved the sniveling man into the already crowded paddy wagon. The interior stank of vomit and fear. A couple of the men had already added to the stench. Ben's stomach churned.

Back at the Lincoln Central jail, they booked everyone. After the last white-faced, shaking man had been written up and put in cells where they would stay until the morning arraignment, Roach approached Ben. He clapped the younger man on the back hard enough to leave a bruise.

"You did good, kid. You definitely got the bones. Come on, get out of those blues. We're heading over to the Shack."

The Shack was a speak favored by a lot of cops, under the protection of both the mayor and Chief Steckel. Ben didn't want to go, not with these goons, but he was in this far. Backing out now would make them all suspicious.

"Sure," he made his voice casual. "I could use a drink. Or five."

He ended up having six. The bootlegger had just brought in a new shipment of Hennessy and Ben indulged. More than he should have. But he needed the alcohol haze to withstand the next two hours of vicious jokes and the ugly names the other three threw back and forth. Ben even forced himself to laugh along with them. He knew damn well what they would do to him if they ever suspected what he was. He'd be more than through on the force, he'd probably be a dead man.

Nebraska, 1929

It was another new year. Jacob passed from the lockjaw. I turned eighteen. Becky married Harry Wallace from one county over. I overheard two old biddies at church whisper about how she had to marry or it would have been a scandal. I guess Becky found a boy who wanted to look at her legs.

But really, nothing much ever changed around the Platte. It was the same old shit it had always been. They was actually talking about us getting electricity someday. Caleb thought so. Mister Chatterfield scoffed. But mostly, things sounded the same. Missus Chatterfield yelling all the time at all of us, except Mister Chatterfield. No one ever raised their voice to him. She always got this way come winter. Anyone ask me, I don't think she likes being shut up with all those menfolk who got nothing to do until spring. Or maybe she was mad her oldest daughter for getting herself in the family way before she was properly hitched.

We'd go hunting some days. Hooked us up some rabbits or grouse. Even deer sometimes. Mister Chatterfield was real disgusted when he found out I never see'd a gun, let alone shot one. So he taught me how to handle his Winchester 12 gauge. Wouldn't let me touch his Remington, though. Each of the boys had their own shotgun. They were all better shots than I'd ever be.

But I doubt I'd need to shoot my own dinner in Hollywood, so I didn't fret over it. Besides, sometimes Caleb offered to give me private lessons and we'd always make time to find out more about this stuff that made us both feel so good. I finally got him to touch me and, wow, it was better than I ever imagined. Made me want a whole lot more.

Maybe I'll find a sweet little starlet in Hollywood who'll make me feel like Caleb does. But every time I think of the girls I see in the nickelodeon, I sure see how pretty they were, but I don't feel anything. But when Valentino or William Desmond or Ramon Novarro came on the screen I felt the same thing every time. I sweated and got dizzy. My prick got so hard I had to go to the privy to jerk off when we got home.

I wished I coulda gone to Caleb, but the last couple of weeks he'd been courting this girl from town. He'd be marrying soon. I had to leave. I knew that. But I needed money for that. One night toward the end of November, I asked Mister Chatterfield for some money for my work. He got real pissed at that.

He roared, "Pay you? You? Look at you. You're as pretty as a girl, Daniels, and about as useful as one. And maybe you forgot. You're indentured to my family until you're twenty-one and until that time you get a roof over your head, a belly full every day and book learning. You ain't worth much else."

I almost planted one in his face. "I'm not so pretty I can't outwork you, old man."

He took his belt to me then. I went to my cot in the attic without supper. After the house was silent, I crept downstairs. The Mister and Missus's bedroom was in the back of the house. Caleb slept upfront, but he never woke up for nothing. I knew where Mister Chatterfield kept his cash box. My backside still aching from the whipping, I moved snake silent through to the office and found the tiny box right where I'd last seen it.

It was full of bills and coins of all sizes. I ignored the coins, and scooped up a handful of bills, stuffing them in the pockets of my overalls without counting them. I'd already put on two flannel shirts over my union suit, now I pulled my heaviest coat, gloves and hat out of the front closet.

I grabbed half a loaf of bread the Missus baked yesterday and a slab of fresh cheese and a fat, dried sausage. It would keep me till I got where I could buy more. Last thing I did before leaving the house was look toward Caleb's room. Wishing I could say goodbye. Hell, wishing I could crawl into his bed and try a few of the things I'd thought of in my fevered sleep. What would it feel like to lie on top of him, both of us jay-bird naked? I thought it might be fine. I also knew it wasn't gonna happen.

I slipped out of the silent house into a world that was so still it was like stepping into a painting. My breath fogged the air. Cold bit my bare face. I was glad I brought one of the Missus's knitted scarves and pulled it up so only my eyes weren't covered. I was still bone cold, but I'd survive.

Especially since I was borrowing Mister Chatterfield's Model T. That car was sure ugly, but it could go anywhere. Nothing slowed that bus down. I wouldn't take it far. Just to the train station at North Platte, the nearest town, where I planned to catch the first train going west.

It seemed like I drove for hours, and got to town long after the western sky had grown pink and orange as the sun went down. The streets were empty except for a few cars. So was the train station. A tired old man sold tickets. I bought one for Denver, leaving in two hours. From there I'd have to figure out how to make it to Los Angeles where I would find Hollywood and all those stars who lived in their gold mansions and went to all those fabulous places like the Cocoanut Grove.

I sat in the lobby, kicking my heels against the wall behind my bench. The station stayed empty until half an hour before the train rattled in. A handful of people--men, women and a couple of children--arrived, most carrying luggage. I realized it probably looked strange I had nothing with me but the clothes on my back. So many clothes I was sweating. My hair, which had gotten long since my last haircut, stuck to my scalp and I rubbed my chin. My beard was coming in heavier all the time. It might be light, but I knew it still gave me a scruffy look.

I did look up once to find a girl watching me. So far most folks, men or women, looked at me sideways if they looked at all. This girl stared, bold as you please. I looked back for a second or two, not wanting to be noticed by anyone.

Guess that was enough. Next time I look up from the floor a pair of legs with these silly little tassled boots came into view. I followed them up to meet the eyes of the girl I'd seen across the way. She was still bold. She had a cute face, with an upturned nose and freckles. She wore one of them hats looked like an upside down bowl with a silver pin in it. Her eyes were brown. She had the brightest red lips I've ever seen on a girl.

"Hi," she said, her voice pitched low. "You going on the train to Denver?"

"Yah. You?"

"I am. But then I'm going on to Hollywood and be a star like Clara Bow."

I remembered Clara Bow. She played in some picture I'd seen with the handsome Buddy Rogers. Since he was the one I watched most, I only vaguely remembered what the woman looked like. I wanted this one to leave. I shrugged. "That so. Well, I hope you make it."

"You think I'm cute enough?" To my dismay she sat on the bench beside me. Her open coat showed her wearing this flimsy dress barely covered her knees and left her neck and chest showing. The straps holding it up weren't no thicker than twine. I stared at her breasts for two seconds. She weren't wearing no underthings. I could see her nipples plain as the mole on the side of her neck. "Everybody to home says I'm cuter than her. They say I could be the next It girl."

"I got no idea what you're talking about, lady." I stood. "I gotta go take a crap. It was nice meeting you."

If I thought my crudeness would scare her away, I thought wrong. She smiled, her cheek dimpling. "I'll wait for you. You're kinda cute, too."

Coward that I was, I fled to the bathroom and stayed in there a long time. Just before I knew I couldn't stay no more, the door opened and a man walked in. He was old--not as old as Mister Chatterfield--in his thirties, probably, but a nice looking old. He had broad shoulders under a beautiful light brown coat. Under that was a gray pinstripe suit. He had a cream colored fedora on his dark brown head. His eyes caught mine the second he entered the small bathroom.

"Good evening, sir," he murmured, stepping up to the urinal to piss.

I couldn't help it. As much as I had wanted to ignore what the girl in the station had shown me, I wanted to see everything on this man. I glanced down at his thick cock standing out from his suit trousers, his hand holding it as a jet of piss shot out to hit the urinal wall. I felt a surge of excitement.

He caught on real fast. He finished up with a shake, but instead of tucking himself back in, he kept his hand on his prick, which I now saw was starting to thicken and stand out. A pulse beat in my head. I was frozen, unable to look away as it swelled to monster size, a whole lot bigger than me or Caleb.

The stranger was stroking it now. Fat drops of clear liquid oozed out and he used it to rub himself faster. "Want a taste, boy?"

I tore my eyes off the thing and looked up in alarm. Taste it? Did he mean put my mouth around it? Did people do that? I thought of what it would be like. How would it taste? And found myself getting so hard it hurt. I reached down to my own crotch, but he beat me to it. He stepped up to me and without a word, pushed me against the closed door.

He held me there as he pulled my own hard dick out. "No one can come in now." He put his hand on the back of my head and urged me down. "Come on, boy. Suck me. I can see you want to."

"Oh, I don't know--"

"Sure you do." His voice was hoarse now. It caught in his throat when I knelt down and put my face right up to his prick.

I'd never seen one so close before. The round head that looked wet from the cum was thick and purplish. It had a slit on top where the liquid oozed from and it was surrounded by wrinkled flesh that looked soft. Behind it, I could see part of a hairy set of balls. I reached up to touch his dick, circling the thick rod with one hand. Above me, he whimpered and pushed into my hand. When I reached over and touched it with my tongue, both of his hands went to the top of my head and urged me on. I never knew that I could do this to someone with just my mouth. I felt dizzy.

I slipped my lips around him. He tasted musky and salty. Heat poured off him and it pulsed under my mouth. I tasted piss, but I no longer cared. It seemed only natural to bob my head up and down, taking as much of him in as I could, then sliding back off, stroking him with my tongue and lips instead of my fingers.

He was caught up in it now, rocking back and forth, making soft gasping sounds and growing wilder by the second. Finally, his dick pulsed and he shot a load of salty, thick liquid into my mouth. Without thinking I swallowed it and kept swallowing until he stopped pumping it out. When his dick grew soft, he jerked it out of my mouth and buttoned himself back up real fast.

Reaching into his coat pocket, he pulled out a five dollar bill which he thrust at me. "That was incredible, kid. You've got one hell of a mouth on you."

Then he pushed me aside and raced out, leaving me with a hard-on and the taste of his stuff in my mouth. With that memory I got off quickly, cleaned up and went back into the station. The girl was still there. The older man wasn't.

I didn't want to talk to anyone, so I sat alone on the far side of the now busy station. The girl looked hurt, but cheered up when a young man in a Navy uniform sat beside her and started talking.

The train came fifteen minutes later. Within a half hour I watched the soot covered station fall behind as we rolled west into the darkness of a hard winter night.

Los Angeles, 1933

Ben stayed away from Johnny's for over two weeks. He only returned when his needs overcame his shame. He didn't dare risk roaming the parks that were known pansy hangouts. Getting caught doing that would be his end. The underground clubs were dangerous enough.

Johnny's didn't look any different. The broken tables had been fixed or replaced. The mirror was back, showing men swaying and writhing on the dance floor that had been covered with blood eighteen days ago.