The Hand of Mercy (A Porter Brown Journey) (10 page)

“Hey
, guys,” began Rick, “this is John.  He’s in town for the weekend and looking for a good time.  I told him we could help him out.”

“Hell
, yeah,” said Paul, the clear leader of the bunch.  “I’ve already spotted at least six we can party with tonight.”

Porter offered to buy the following rounds and the self-absorbed
pricks were more than happy to allow their new friend the honor.  By midnight, Rick and Forest were hammered and Paul was feeling light on his feet.  Porter had been edged out of their circle by the gaggle of women who were hanging on them.  Blondes, brunettes, and every other color in the bottle were cozying up to the crew in the corner.  As the clock read 1:00 a.m., Paul began the procession to the rooms with a blonde who was stumbling down drunk.  As they exited, Porter excused himself and followed.

Paul and his guest entered
Room 711 just as Porter's elevator door opened, allowing him to observe their entrance.  With hallway security cameras in the corners, Porter stayed in the lift to avoid detection.  Stepping back from the edge, Porter pushed the button for floor five and headed for his room.

He disrobed and put more flexible clothes underneath the
outfit the bar cameras had just recorded him wearing.  Strolling back to the elevator with his backpack in tow, he kept his head down, but not suspiciously.  He then pushed the button marked G.

From
the garage level, Porter mounted his motorcycle and exited the building.  After buying his supplies at the downtown drug store, he stopped three blocks from the hotel and parked his bike in a two hour spot.  His circuitous walk back to the hotel allowed him to discard his outer shell of clothing in a city trash can and hide his backpack among a row of hedges.

Taking the stairs from the garage to the seventh floor was an easy jog and served t
o loosen him up for the drubbing he was going to serve on the high society pig in room 711.  Exiting the stairwell, Porter kept his face out of camera angle and knocked on Paul’s door.  Muffled sounds of “shh” and “quiet” met his ears and then, “Who is it?”  But it wasn’t Paul’s voice.  It sounded like Rick’s. 

“John
,” was Porter’s response.  The door immediately flew open.  “Aw man, you scared the shit out of me,” said Rick, obviously hammered.

“Come on in.  We’re just taking turns.  This bitch is out
cold.”  Porter looked over Rick’s right shoulder and saw naked female legs hanging over the bed and both Forest and Paul relieved that they could take their pants off again.  Stunned at their open depravity and willingness to confess it to a man they had met just two hours ago, Porter declined to come in.

“No guys, we gotta get outta here
,” he said nervously.  “I went back to my room to take a dump and when I came back to the bar, I noticed your lady's friends talking to some cops.  I wasn’t sure what they were saying, but when I didn’t see any of you three, I thought it had to be about you guys.  Get your clothes on now,” he said hurriedly, “And casually walk out the door, or I think you’ll be answering some uncomfortable questions.  I’m going to the stairwell to my left.  Leave about fifteen seconds apart and don’t rush or make any weird moves.  The security cameras will catch it all.”

This scared the three closer to sobriety.  The last thing a society member wants is scand
al.  A reputation as a player is fine, but having the newspapers splash your face on the front page or involving the police taints your membership, as others fear their own dirty little secrets will be exposed.  After a very long minute, Porter received them in the stairwell.

B
ehind the steel fire door, Porter opened his initial assault upon them verbally.  “What the hell were you guys doing?  That girl was blacked out!  That’s rape, man!”

Not accustomed to being scolded or told his actions were criminal, Paul spat back
, “Chill, man!  That bitch wanted a piece of me and she got it.  I didn’t force her to do anything she didn’t want to.” 

“She was unconscious
, Paul,” Porter retorted.  “That’s not consensual.  And it certainly wasn’t when these guys joined in.”

“Dude
, she’ll never know,” rebutted Paul, in a tone indicating he was quite frustrated with Porter’s judgment.  “Besides, I slipped her a mickey before we left the bar.  It was all I could do to walk her down the hall.  By the time we got to the room she was gone.  She’ll wake up tomorrow with a raging headache and never remember who…we…were.”  Paul punctuated his last words with the presumption that he was above the crimes in which so many of the other players get trapped.  He raised his left eyebrow, tightened his lips, and cocked his head to the side in a show of mocking arrogance meant squarely for Porter to receive.

“Rick.
Forest. Did you know he had slipped her a mickey?” asked Porter.

“Shit yeah
,” said Forest.

“Uh-huh
,” said Rick, trying with all his might to not pass out.

Porter
moved backwards to the first stair step leading down, pulled the recorder from inside his jacket pocket, and clicked the off button. “Yeah, that’ll about do it,” said Porter as he stepped to descend the flight of stairs.

“What the fuck, man
!” shouted Paul, now white-hot with anger.  In a primal state that his class had learned to suppress, Paul bared his teeth and threw himself at Porter.  Porter shuffled back and using his right arm, allowed Paul’s own momentum to take him off balance.  Porter then lifted up and through Paul’s armpit, pivoted to his right, and hurled Paul down the stairwell. 

As Porter looked at th
e other two, it was clear the fight or flight instinct was now a reality for them.  Forest showed no sign of wanting to tangle with Porter but when Rick attacked, he thought it his only chance to take down the guy who was about to send them to jail.

Their momentum pushed Porter against the wall.
  As Rick struggled to hold onto Porter’s waist, he felt a knee crash into his chest which backed him up while still bent over.  He next heard a crunch, then felt the tears flow from his eyes and the blood from his nose as Porter’s knee had found its target.

Forest was unexpectedly strong for a hipster
.  As he moved one step backwards to cock his right hand for a full swing, Porter drove his shoulder into Forest’s sternum and pushed him hard against the metal railing of the stairwell.  The rounded edge abruptly stopped his movement and cracked Forest’s tailbone.  The intense pain forced him to release his grip on Porter and he joined Rick crumpled on the ground.

Porter
looked left to find Paul.  The stair toss had been painful for him but not debilitating, and Porter knew he would be making his way back up to destroy the evidence that could decimate his world.  Paul had covered two of the eight steps between landings when Porter leapt at him as if he was a professional wrestler coming off the top ropes.  As they collided, Paul was knocked off his feet and almost instantly crashed backwards onto the concrete landing below with Porter on top of him.  His head broke their fall. 

Dazed but coherent, Porter rolled
off of Paul and assessed the situation.  All three men were down.  Forest and Rick were suffering but alive.  Paul had lost control of his bowels as a pool of blood spread from behind his head.  Porter felt for the recorder in his pocket and ran down to the third floor.  To avoid the blue dye on the fire alarm handle, Porter undid a shoelace, tied it around the alarm, and pulled.

Once outside, Porter b
ent down to reinsert his shoe lace and to casually observe his surroundings as he waited for the hotel to empty.  Those who exited the same stairwell he had just left began to mutter about the three guys who were beaten up and lying in there.  Before a concerned female guest could approach a police officer, Porter grasped her forearm.  “When you tell the cop about those guys in the stairwell, hand him this,” he said, as he placed the recorder in her hand and strolled away into the night.

Chapter 10

Dove

December 2011

Porter arrived at his Chicago apartment just after 1:00 p.m.  The weather was unseasonably warm, making the drive from Nashville on his newly purchased motorcycle bearable. 

“Welcome back Porter
,” came the warm greeting from his friend and door man, Phil Morton.  “How was the trip to Florida?”

“Just fine Phil.  Those waves we
re just what I needed,” Porter added, doing his best to sell the lie. 

The two had met
years ago at The Holy Mother bar where Phil was trying hard not to fight his addiction to alcohol.  After numerous visits to the Cook County jail to post Phil's bail, Porter offered to pay for his rehab.  Four years of wanting a drink every day, Phil was still on the wagon.  When the door man position opened up, Porter vouched for Phil to the building manager and Phil had faithfully honored his friend’s trust.

“Hey,” said Porter, “I got a great deal on a bike as I was coming
back through Tennessee and I want you to have it.”

“Come on Porter
,” protested Phil, “You’ve done way too much for me already.  I can’t keep going in debt to you.”

“Oh, you’re going to pay for it
,” Porter said with a smile.  “I’m gonna need your help with some projects I have coming up.  We’ll just say it’s payment for services yet to be rendered.”

Phil offered his hand to Porter and said earnestly, “You’re a good friend.”

"As are you.  Now, next time I see the bike, I want to see Malcolm on the back."

"You can bet he'll never get on it.  He's not going to be too happy with you when he sees me riding home on it.  That's for sure."

"Well, you just be sure to tell him it was my idea, not yours."

"I will.  Don't you worry about that at all.  I'm plac
ing the blame all on you," Phil said with a laugh.

"I'll gladly take
it.  You just enjoy the bike," said Porter as he entered the building.

His
penthouse apartment looked the same as when he had left it, but the air inside was different.  An aroma of sweet perfume invaded his senses.  A broad smile came over his face as he realized that Phil too was keeping a secret. 

“Amor?”
came the question from a female voice somewhere near the kitchen.  Porter could hear the word filled with longing, but he did not answer. “Amor?” the question came again, still filled with hope but a bit less certain to whom it was now directed.  Porter remained silent and quietly made his way towards the sound.  As he turned the corner to enter the doorway of the kitchen, “Amor?” came ringing out again, this time louder and with some concern. 

Paloma
Pérez let out a shocked yelp as Porter appeared from the corner and turned right into her.  “Madre de Dios,” she uttered as she playfully punched him on the chest.  “You scared me to death.”

"Well, I'm glad it was me and not Phil.  Seeing you in a dress like that would hav
e turned him straight."

"You think so
?" asked Paloma, her voice dripping with desire.

"Right now, I'm not sure what I think.  There's very little blood left in my head."

"Well then, why don't we see what we can do to correct that," she said as she clasped his hand in hers and led him wherever she wanted.

Paloma was as close to Porter as
he had allowed anyone besides Connie.  The couple first met on the day of Renata’s reunion with her family.  Nine years Renata’s elder at age 21, Paloma had just returned home for the summer after completing her freshman year at Boston University where she majored in both history and botany.  History was her choice as she aspired to practice law, albeit for only one client.  Botany was her father’s choice.  Don Mario needed her to have an understanding of the science behind his most lucrative product.  He presumed correctly that his cannabis would have to be of the highest quality when, within a few decades, his competitors would number in the thousands as the U.S. relaxed its prohibition on the cultivation of the magic herb.

As the fourth child and second oldest daughter, Paloma enjoyed the sweet spot in the sibling order.  An even tempered child not prone to outbursts or to finding situations that
would need the intervention of her parents, Paloma cruised through childhood with more independence than the other more needy children.

At first, n
either showed any interest in the other.  Upon completion of her undergraduate work, Paloma moved back home until she decided where to attend business school.  Their platonic friendship blossomed over the next two years as Porter made frequent trips to his Mazatlan home. On Porter's recommendation, Paloma enrolled at Duke University to earn her MBA.  Which she did before returning home once again for another two years of learning the management side of the family business.  After again taking Porter's advice, Paloma enrolled at the University of Chicago's School of Law, placing her in even more frequent contact with him. 

As the
designated big brother, Don Mario asked Porter to keep an eye on her while in Chicago.  At least that’s what Porter thought was his job.  Mario, however, knew a match when he saw one.  Porter’s semi-monthly check-ins became weekly calls, which turned into occasional drinks with friends, which became Chinese take-in with just the two of them, and then breakfast at Porter’s place.

The couple had shared their relational bliss now for nearly six months.  Connie knew all about Porter’s first tru
e love, as did Don Mario and Doña Ines.  Lounging on the couch with one leg draped over Porter's torso, drained from their reunion activities, Paloma asked, “Amor, did you ever think about how my father would deal with you if we started dating?”

Exhaling a quick laugh,
Porter replied, “Well, yes. I did consider it.  I calculated that taking the daughter of the world’s most powerful drug lord to bed would be the death of me.  Either Mario would send me to an early grave, or more likely, I’d visit the pearly gates after a long life with the world's most perfect creation.”

“Oh you,” said Paloma with a seductively soft
smile, “Do we need to visit the bed again?” 

“I’m game if you are, but I think you’ve only
got time for me or getting ready for the ball tonight.  And I know how much you want to show me off,” answered Porter jokingly.

“What?” asked Paloma now realizing how the time had gotten away from her.  “Dios mio.  I can’t get ready in
an hour.”

“Take your time,
” Porter said reassuringly.  “Those society functions never get started on time and the real power players always walk in just before dessert starts.” 

“No, I’m not going to make us late
,” Paloma responded.  Porter knew she would rather die than be late to tonight's function.  She shared many traits with Mario, punctuality being the primary one.  58 minutes later and true to her word, the couple left Porter's apartment for the ball.

The ballroom was decorated from floor to ceiling in black and gold.  Streamers, balloons, tinsel,
and confetti, all meticulously placed, right down to the black forks and gold knives.  The 25
th
annual Chicago AIDS Research Council benefit gala was made up of society’s highest strata.  Politicians, celebrities, and activists from all over the U.S. made their way for this one night of mingling, networking, and people watching.  The $50,000 per plate donation allowed only the wealthiest patrons, or those aspiring to be, access to the room.  A full night of food, drink, and speeches by A-list celebrities and elected leaders, as well as change makers in the pharmaceutical and public policy arena was planned.  Despite the exorbitant entry fee, one thousand guests arrived just after 7:00 p.m. to begin their night of unfettered access to the nation’s power brokers.

Porter and Paloma stood arm in arm at the back of the line
in the grand ballroom of the Jacob Javitz Center.  Normally alert to his surroundings, Porter was lost in the beauty of his companion and fully relaxed.  Her green, full length gown, perfectly accented her deep black hair and cinnamon toned skin. 

Paloma too was distracted by how handsome her man looked in his
standard tuxedo.  She knew how he hated to dress for others’ approval, and even more so for these society events.  Yet, curiously, he attended all the major ones with or without her as his guest.  A bit odd, she concluded, for one who held social climbers with such disdain.

As they gave their invitations to the welcoming staff, they were greeted with warm smiles and an assessment of their attire.  Paloma received numerous compliments on her dress.  “It’s a Donna Karen
,” responded Paloma when asked who she was wearing by the supervisor at the registration table.

“Well it is just
magnificent,” came the supervisor’s response, as she took the welcome packet from her staff member and handed it to Porter.  “You will be seated at table three to the left center of the stage.  That is in our VIP section.  We at the AIDS Research Council very much appreciate your generous gift Mr. Brown.”

“It is my pleasure
,” said Porter.  “You’re work to eradicate swine flu in Detroit…” he didn’t finish his sentence as Paloma slapped his arm and let out a short sigh and chuckle.

“He’s joking
,” she said to the supervisor as she pushed Porter towards the ballroom.  “We’re very happy to support this wonderful cause of AIDS research,” she said over her shoulder as they walked in.  The supervisor, clearly unamused, did her best to force a smile.

“VIP?” asked Paloma. 

“Yes ma’am,” said Porter in his best redneck accent.  “There ain’t nothing like payin’ $250,000 for a $20 steak.”  With a soft smile and in his normal voice, he continued, “But it’s a small price to pay for my coming out party.  And by coming out, let me be clear that I don’t mean in the gay way here at AIDS night in Chicago,” Porter laughed.

“You are
quite clear," added Paloma with a smile, "and after tonight it will be even more clear to the rest of those society tramps that you are off the market,” as she gave his hand an extra squeeze.

The evening followed the standard charity function protocol of
an opening speech by the charity director, then one by a celebrity, a five course dinner, more speeches, a moving tribute to those who lost their fight against AIDS, and finally a story of hope by someone who was touched by the work of the charity.  This year it was an eleven year old boy from Los Angeles who had contracted AIDS in utero by his crack-head mom.  Orphaned at age six and undiagnosed until last year, his levels had stabilized and his energy level showed marked improvement.

By 11:00 p.m. the formal p
rogram was over and the alcohol-lubricated mingling had begun.  The uptight presenters on stage were replaced by the combination of a house band and a DJ who spun the best blend of music, hoping to attract the pretty people to the dance floor.  Paloma was quite aware of the number of female eyes looking past her and towards Porter.  With a smile and a gentle tug, she pulled Porter onto the dance floor.

As they danced both fast and slow, they were oblivious to the hundreds around them.
  “Ladies and gentleman,” came the voice of the DJ, as many of the house band players were replaced by a brass section, “Please give a Chicago welcome to our very special guest, Mr. Harry Connick, Jr.” 

“Hey folks
,” were Harry’s first words to the crowd as his band started a quiet arrangement behind him.  “I’m pleased to be here to celebrate the great work of the AIDS Research Council.  Our first song is, as they say, an oldie but a goodie.  And it comes dedicated to Porter from his love, Paloma.”  Paloma beamed with excitement as Porter blushed when the house spotlight shone on them both. 

Paloma pulled Porter
deeper into the dance floor as Harry sang, “I know you so well.  I can tell by the sound of your voice if you’re really in love with me, and you are, and you are.”  Swinging each other in and out as if they knew how to dance to big band music, the two moved awkwardly but with great joy across the floor. 

As
the trumpets were reaching crescendo near the end of the song, Porter extended his arm with Paloma firmly attached.  As she recoiled into him, her momentum brought her in a bit too fast and knocked him back a few feet into another dancer.  Turning to apologize, Porter’s world slowed rapidly as he locked eyes with James Holland.

Screaming on the inside and desperate to flee the scene, Porter
maintained his composure as he offered his hand to Holland in a gesture of apology.  His first touch of the man he loathed was repulsive.  Warm and clammy.  Soft and moist.  Holland gripped Porter’s hand like a constrictor swallowing a rat. 

Attempting t
o extricate himself as quickly as possible, Porter offered, “Sorry about that.”  But Holland did not release his grip.  Instead, he pulled Porter towards him until there was less than a foot between the two men.  Holland's eyes danced rapidly from side to side, desperately assessing the man who had providentially been placed in front of him.  Porter heard nothing.  No music. No crowd noise. Nothing.  Holland exhaled no words and Porter knew that his foe had more questions than there was confetti on the floor.