The Last Clinic (23 page)

Amazing
, he thought,
the details the client always managed to provide for him
. He had been emailed recent photos, and told when the man would arrive and where he was staying. Equally important, they furnished him with a surprisingly detailed psychological profile with specifics about the man’s sexual orientation and preferences—the kind of report the clandestine services would have been proud of. It was quite a feat for a private organization. He hoped that after his year was complete and he took some time off, that there might be a follow-up assignment or two, maybe even something ongoing. Money didn’t seem to be a problem for these people, and there was an unlimited supply of targets. All he had to do was keep his activities secret, and he could work this baby for a few more years.           

As the target’s arrival time approached, he moved to the top of the stairs in the main entrance, checking his watch and showing the doorman a few anxious stares out the front door, making it look like he was waiting to meet someone.

Five minutes later, the man he was waiting for pushed his way through the revolving doors and up the stairs. The guy looked just like his photo—mid-forties, sandy-haired, a former football player gone just a little to seed. The guy was alone. Really, it couldn’t be better.

The guy was taking the steps two at a time. He gave the mark the once-over, not too obvious, but in a way, the guy would notice. Then, like radar, their eyes met, and he saw what he was looking for. “I am. Are you?” the look said. Another step, and the guy passed by him, only now the guy can’t help himself. He turned back and looked with just the touch of a smile. The guy liked what he saw, really liked it. Why not? He was younger, fitter, and better looking than the guy. Plus they were dressed a lot alike—casual but expensive. He could tell the guy was checking off all the right boxes.

The guy walked over to the check-in. The next move was his. He looked at his watch, shook his head like he was tired of waiting, and hands in his pockets, he sauntered over to the newsstand and started leafing his way through the
Chicago Magazine
like he was a tourist looking for what was going on in town.

He looked over and caught a glimpse of the guy complete his check-in, receive the plastic card, and pick up his suitcase and garment bag. The desk clerk pointed past the newsstand to the bank of elevators. Great. The guy was carrying his own bags. There wouldn’t be any bellhop to contend with.

This is it
, he thought. He paid for his
Chicago Magazine
and followed the guy into the elevator. The guy touched 9. He touched 14. The two of them were alone. The guy glanced his way with another look. This one lingered, promising a big payday. Then the guy smiled.

“You here for the convention too?” The guy said, playing it friendly, not fully coming on to him. Playing it safe, just in case he’d misread the signals.

He smiled at the guy, more than friendly.

“Yeah,” he said. Just that, figuring
Let the guy take the lead
.

“I’m Joe Morrison, from Cincinnati.”

Amazing. The guy actually used his real name. The trusting type. This should go smoothly.

The elevator came to a stop. The doors opened. He held the door. Then, just as the guy Joe stepped off the elevator, he delivered his line.

“Vern’s. It’s a club up in Boystown.” Boystown was a stretch of real estate directly east of Wrigley Field, ground zero for Chicago’s gay community. “You know the area?”

Joe was busy eyeing him up and down.

“I’ve been there a few times.” Joe was really into him.

“I’ll be there around eleven.”

“Right,” Joe said, sounding a little disappointed that he was going to have to wait.

He reached out as though he was going to caress Joe’s face, but slapped him instead, as though he was slapping a woman, just hard enough to let Joe know who was in charge.

“Don’t make me wait,” he said and let the elevator door go before Joe had a chance to react.

He rode the elevator up to the fourteenth floor, made a complete circle of the floor, dumped the magazine in a trashcan, and punched the down button. He walked through the Drake Lobby, down the stairs, out onto the street, and down Michigan to Ontario, stopping along the way for a bag of freshly popped caramel corn. Jesus Christ, the smell from the stand was irresistible. At Ontario, he walked a long five blocks to the Comfort Inn.

He hung around his room, flipping the channels, eventually catching the first part of the Cub’s game on WGN. To his surprise, there was another meeting with the Cardinals.

At seven-thirty p.m., he took his change of clothes, put them in the trunk of his car, and drove to Arun’s, a gourmet Thai restaurant on the northwest side. It was costly but more than worth the money. He ordered a twelve-course sampling menu, the best Thai food he’d ever had—better even than the top stuff he’d had on his mission to Bangkok. It would have been even more enjoyable if there were someone he could share the meal with, but then, every occupation had its negatives. Earlier in the day, he’d thought about calling the escort service and asking for the same girl. There would be no blowjob this time—no sex of any kind. He’d just take her to dinner, talk to her, and drop her off before he went back to work—a little thank you for her efforts. He would have liked doing that, but in the end, he decided he needed to keep his mind on his job. There’d be other girls in other cities—other chances to take them to dinner.

He was out the door at Arun’s by ten-thirty p.m. He stopped at a gas station on the way to the club so he could change clothes. Inside the rest room, he wet his hair and slicked it back. Then he got into his work clothes—black engineer boots, tight jeans (shit if they weren’t tight), a chain hanging from the belt, and a pair of handcuffs from the other side. He congratulated himself on coming up with the handcuffs in a moment of inspiration. On top, no shirt, just a black leather vest, no sleeves. He left it open. His chest was nice and hairy. He hadn’t shaved that day either—a little grunge to compliment the look. Joe would get the message, no question. He stepped away from the mirror to check himself. Yeah, he had the look all right. If the profile was accurate, this was the kind of thing that would get poor Joe worked up fast.

He got to Vern’s at ten-fifty p.m. Just enough time to get settled in before Joe was supposed to show. There was no sense being here longer than necessary. He ordered a Bud and did his best to ignore the stares. This was the part he always hated, interacting with gays this way. It creeped him out. He had nothing against them per se. He saw himself as a tolerant guy.
Let them do what they wanted with each other
, he thought. He could care less. But their world, their scene, having to be around it, pretending he was part of all that, the direct physical contact—
that
he had a big problem with. Tonight, he’d be able to limit all that, maybe not even have to touch Joe more than once or twice.

Joe came through the door five minutes early. He was dressed like earlier in the day. Joe was the kind that liked to hang with hard-assed gays, but wasn’t one himself. That’s what his profile said. He looked around and nodded to himself. He looked like he was comfortable with the vibe—like he’d been to places like this before.

He looked over Joe’s way and got his attention. Joe’s fucking eyebrows went up, reacting to the outfit, impressed.
They sure pegged this poor bastard
, he thought. Joe walked towards him, faster than the normal walk, pushing his way past the sweaty bodies groping each other on the dance floor.

Joe moved in close, right on top of him, too close to suit him. His stomach began to sour. He’d spent most of his adult life staring down guys that wanted to slice his nuts off and feed them to him. No problem. But a guy wanting to kiss him, this was hard for him to be around.
Just do it and forget about it
, he told himself.

“You’re early. Good,” he said.

And just as Joe was about to answer, he reached out with his right hand, grabbed Joe’s left ass cheek and squeezed it, nice and hard, and held on to it, like he could tear the ass cheek off if he felt like it. 

Joe’s eyes glazed over, and he looked like he was trying to figure out what to say but didn’t want to ruin a good thing. All he could do was groan.

He let go and said, “You ever been in prison?”

He could tell Joe knew it was a game, a role-play thing, and was going to play along.

“No. Why do you ask?”

“Why do you ask, Sir,” he corrected, squeezing Joe’s ass cheek a little harder, punishing him.

Joe was breathing harder. He could see it. Joe was hot for the whole dominance angle.

“Why do you ask Sir?” Joe said, lowering his eyes.

“Because you’ve got the makings for a first class prison bitch.”

“Want to dance, Sir?”

“I don’t dance with guys. What do you think I am, Joe, a faggot? Is that what you think? Huh? Is it? You calling me a faggot?”

He could see Joe thinking, going over in his head the roles each of would play and the likely direction.

“No offense. It was nice you remembered my name. Can I ask yours, Sir?”

“It’s What the Fuck. As in ‘What the fuck for?’ or ‘Hey man, what the fuck?’”

Joe grinned at him, relaxing at the joke and reaching for his crotch.

He caught his wrist and twisted it. “When
I
say. Understood? Not before.”

“It’s just, you’re really hot.”

“Here, finish my beer. Then we’ll leave. You here with anybody?”

“I’m alone. I always go to these places alone. You get to meet people that way.”

“Yeah, well, you’re my property tonight. You’re hotel room got a view?”

“Right up Lake Shore. It’s beautiful, especially at night. Would you like to see it?”

“Bottoms up, Joe.”

As Joe lifted the bottle, he turned and walked out without saying any more, knowing Joe would follow.

Outside the club, on the curb, Joe made the time out sign.

“Look, I’m really into you. But the people at the convention, people I know from back in Cincinnati, they don’t know about me. I’m not out yet. So, we’ll need to be discreet. I hope that’s okay?”

“You cab it here?” he asked, as if he was ignoring the question.

Joe nodded.

“We’ll go in my car. And no blowjobs while I’m driving. Understand, bitch?”

Joe grinned.

“You must have read my mind.”

They drove back in his car, Joe unable to take his eyes off him. He parked in the lot two blocks from the hotel.

“They charge fifty a day at the Drake to park. You believe that shit?”

They walked side by side, not touching. Halfway to the hotel, he made himself do it again. He grabbed Joe’s ass cheek and squeezed hard. “Going to be my little bitch tonight, Joe? My jailhouse bitch?”

“Oh, baby,” Joe said.

The things I don’t do for money
, he thought.

“What room, Joe? I assume you’d rather go up alone.”

“Yes. Thank you. It’s 947. Here’s the key card. I had an extra made this afternoon,” he said, and then added, “just for you.” Joe looked like a dreamy-eyed high school chick falling in love for the first time.

“I’ll use the side entrance. You go around the front.”

Three minutes later, they were both in the room. Joe was naked, hard. His instinct was to turn away in disgust. Instead, he made eye contact.

“Turn around you sissy-ass slut and put your hands behind your back. We’ll do like the police.”

Poor, trusting Joe did just as he was told. As Joe was turning, he could see his hard-on stiffen even more.
Get it over with
, he told himself.
Don’t play around if you don’t have to
.

Out came the cuffs. Joe didn’t try to resist, didn’t even ask him not to make them too tight.

“Can I kiss you first? Please?”

“Shut the fuck up.”

With Joe’s back to him, he removed his belt and looped it quickly. He knew Joe could hear what he was doing, and he knew Joe thought it was just part of the game.

“You gonna spank me, Sir? I know I’ve been a bad boy.”

`“Not tonight,” he said for no reason.

“Please. I’ve been bad. I know I have. I need to be punished. Let me have it. Please.” His begging was disgusting.

It was time to end the charade. He flipped the belt over Joe’s head and around his throat in one motion. Joe stood still, not understanding. Maybe Joe was thinking he was going to be led around the room like a dog. That was not going to happen.

 He yanked the belt tight, pulled his left knee up, braced his knee against Joe’s back, and continued to pull. Joe couldn’t get a scream out but bucked and kicked like crazy when he realized this wasn’t fun and games.

He’d used this technique before, but always with a rope, a garrote. He’d picked it up it over in the Mediterranean a few years back from a Sicilian, a mob guy who’d switched to working for the government.

Joe’s face was swollen, and he was pulling at the belt for all he was worth, but it wasn’t doing him any good. He had the proper leverage, and also he was considerably stronger than Joe. He dropped his knee, leaned back, and held on until the pulling at the neck stopped. A second or two more and Joe’s body went limp. He was gone, the poor bastard.

 He lifted the body, moved it to the bed, and let it fall face first.

First thing he did after removing the belt, he put on the plastic gloves. Then he wiped across Joe’s pants, the ass cheeks, until he was sure his prints were smeared.

Next, he rolled him over, took out a tube of lipstick and smeared it on Joe’s lips. Then he took out an eyeliner pencil and drew a beauty mark on Joe’s right cheek.

Two years ago, Chicago had been hit with three serial killings, this same M.O. He left Joe on the bed, face up, just like he had seen in the police pictures. Finally, he wiped down every surface he’d touched.

He stuck his head out the door and made sure no one was coming out of a room or walking down the hall. On his way out of the room, he picked up the Do Not Disturb sign and placed it on the doorknob. He thought about taking the elevator, but his instincts said take the stairs.