Chapter Four

The following night, Frank passed through the doors of four billiard halls and left the last one with the disappointing thought the night would be a bust. Of all the nameless faces he’d encountered in the last three hours, not one resembled Rand, not from memory or from the picture in his shirt pocket. He pulled the large metal door open and entered the fifth.

Paddy’s Place was a sanctuary for an eclectic mix of wayward vagabonds, slumlords, and tattooed motor heads. A handful of Goth disciples and prostitutes hoping to turn a quick Benjamin, were interspersed among the crowd. The place was dark and smoky with a long, mahogany bar anchoring the room. Scattered tables and chairs reached all the way back to the shadowy corners of the rundown structure. Neon beer signs flashed against the yellow wall over the bar, fluorescent pink, white and a brilliant cerulean blue.

Frank took a stool at the bar and checked out the exits. Two existed, the front door he entered through and another in back at the end of a smoke-filled hallway. Several doors stood ajar in the corridor, a restroom, he imagined, and another that could lead to a wine cellar or a basement. The overall atmosphere loomed eerily creepy, even after Frank’s first shot of whiskey.

A woman, wearing fishnet stockings and a tight, black leather miniskirt approached him on the right. A long, gold chain hung from her neck, lost somewhere in the valley of her ample cleavage. A low, V-neck black leather vest hugged her torso like second skin. Her eye shadow was thick and brilliant blue, a perfect match to the color of her eyes.

She slid into the stool next to him with the grace of a gazelle. "Buy a lady a drink?”

“Sure.” Frank nodded and flagged the bartender with a finger. He had no intention of advancing beyond the drink, but maybe she could provide him with information about Rand. She seemed at home here, like the dusty light fixture hanging over the bar. . . a regular.

She pulled a cigarette from a small bag she’d set down on the bar. "First time here, am I right?”

Yep, a regular. Frank offered a nod. "Yeah, I’m staying down the street at a hotel and needed a drink before I call it a night."

The bartender placed two drinks on the bar, one for him and one for the hooker. And then the man raised one eyebrow and turned an ear toward them, an indication he took particular interest in their conversation. His features were refined, his hair long and his mannerisms effeminate. A chill raced down Frank’s spine when an image flashed behind his eyelids of a man standing in a dimly lit room, dressed in billowing silk. Billowing silk? Where the hell did that come from?

In the vision, a heavy layer of caked makeup masked his face and the long, stringy hair had been brushed to a high sheen. His inner eye nudged his brain in an attempt to transmit another vision, but like the one several days ago of Quinn, the mirage faded faster than vapors in a Turkish sauna.

Never before had he connected with his inner spirit without meditating first. Surrounded by interference, casual conversation, body movement, and the muted strains from the juke box, the phenomena shocked him.

Something about the bartender left him unsettled. He didn’t feel a physical threat from the man, but warning bells went off in his head. A gloomy aura emanated from the woman-like bartender when he picked up Frank’s ten-dollar bill and placed the change on the bar.

The prostitute beside him pulled him from his reverie. "How about we take these drinks back to that room you mentioned and I tuck you in for the night?"

Fuck me for the night, you mean. "Thanks, but I’ve got an early plane to catch. Can I take a raincheck?"

“Sure, cowboy, anytime.”

About to pull Rand’s picture from his shirt pocket and show it to her, he stopped in midflight. A young, dark-haired man bounced down the hallway with a tray of glasses. He walked behind the bar and stacked them on three rows of shelves. The black, leather-clad hooker thanked him, and turned her attention to a muscle-bound man seated on her right.

Frank lowered his head and waited for the busboy to finish stacking the glasses, hoping to get a peek at his face before he left the room again. A déjà vu flooded him, pitching him into a temporary state of chaos. Even without looking at his face, he fit Emily’s mannerisms to a T. Look up, kid, look up. And he did when he asked the bartender about bringing up another tray.

Frank’s heart stuttered and almost came to a stop. Eyes the color of seafoam peeked out beneath the baseball cap he wore and familiarity rang in his voice. Quinn’s kid stood before him all right, and why in hell was he working in this dump?

Another character caught Frank’s attention, a barrel-chested, tall drink of a man with long, greasy hair and a thick, handlebar mustache. The man’s soulless eyes pinned him with a curious glare. Standing in the dusky shadows of the hallway, he seemed intent on commotion around the bar.

Frank dragged his gaze from Rand and ordered another drink. Before Rand scurried out from behind the bar, he nodded at the man across the room and ducked into the corridor again. The kid knew the stout man; there could be no doubt.

Frank’s tense muscles relaxed and he silently blew a sigh of relief. Rand was alive, although he agreed with Emily, something noxious suffused the air. He felt it all the way down to his toes. Palming a five-dollar bill on the bar, he slid from the stool and walked out the front door.

The alley behind the bar loomed dismal and dreary and courted a thick foggy mist. He leaned against a brick wall in the back of Paddy’s Place and bided his time. He hoped Rand would exit that back door once the bar closed, and Frank didn’t care how long he had to loiter in that rat-infested alley. He’d wait all night if need be, but one way or the other he’d find out where Rand lived.

His hands rifled through the pockets of his jacket. The supplies he’d packed were still there─the black hood, the trusty martial arts’ weapon and the gun.

If Rand recognized him, his plan would be shot to hell.

* * *

Frank trailed Rand from afar when he walked through the back door of the bar and headed north. Going dark and tracking unaware criminals had become an art to Frank. After a brisk ten-minute walk, Rand stopped at a ground-level apartment and slid open an unlocked patio door. God, the kid couldn’t be that stupid to leave his apartment unlocked in this crime-infested neighborhood. Could he?

Frank leaned against a massive elm and waited until a feeble ribbon of light came alive inside the apartment. Like a silent thief, Frank entered and took in the scene. Before him loomed a small kitchen, if one could call it a kitchen, a studio-sized living area, a cubby-hole of a bathroom and bedroom where a single candle beside the bed provided the meager light in the room.

The outline of a body beneath bed sheets flooded Frank’s vision. At a foot-dragging pace, he inched his way forward, praying Rand was alone in that bed. He meant to put the fear of God in him, and his plan would only work if he didn’t have company for the night.

Images of the young man behind the bar flooded his brain. He resembled the seventeen-year old who stood in front of his father’s casket at the cemetery five years ago. Rand was in that bed; Frank would bet his life on it. The foolish kid had tucked a box under his arm when he exited the back door, and Frank intended to find out where he put it and what was inside.

Rand must have sensed a presence. He sat up in bed, rubbed his eyes, and surveyed the room. Every muscle in his body tensed and his eyes widened, shining like jack pines after a summer storm.

His voice low and strained, Rand lifted his chin. "Who’s there?"

Frank put the gun to his cheek, affecting a harsh, gravely tone. "Get up."

With trembling arms, Rand pushed the covers off, dragged his legs over the edge of the bed and stood. The whites of his eyes gleamed stark against the shifting shadows in the room. "What do you want?"

Frank had taken the bullets out earlier but the kid didn’t have to know that. He moved the gun to his forehead and grabbed a shaft of his thick, dark hair. "I’ll ask the questions." He blew out the candle and flicked the switch on a dim lamp beside the bed. "Do you understand?"

Rand swallowed hard, nodded and stared at the black hood covering his face. A fleeting moment of something, hopefully not recognition, passed over his features, but it wasn’t possible he could see Frank’s face behind the disguise.

His lean, well-muscled body sent a shiver down Frank’s spine, every inch taut and smooth and covered only by a pair of blue boxer shorts. His dark hair fell to his shoulders, glossy and thick like his mother’s. Reflected light caught the angular planes of his face, the carved cheekbones and generous mouth. Frank steeled himself for the task at hand, couldn’t let his thoughts turn carnal at a time like this. He had to get the box and he’d scare the shit out of him if need be to accomplish it.

Rand’s voice faltered. "I don’t have any money, no jewels, not even a pack of smokes, if that’s―"

His head reeled to the side when Frank delivered an open-handed slap to his cheek. "Keep your mouth shut! Unless I tell you to speak, you say nothing, got it?"

Another nod.

For emphasis, Frank slapped him again on the other side of his face. "Where are the drugs?"

"Drugs?" Anger flared for a brief second and then fear slithered through his voice. "You’ve come to the wrong place if you’re looking for smack or coke."

Frank holstered the gun, grabbed him by the hair again and smashed his face into a wall opposite the bed. A fine bead of sweat dampened Rand’s forehead and his hands were clenched at his sides. "You call me sir when you address me, got that?"

"Yes . . . yes, sir."

"What about weed? You smoke weed, kid, and don’t you dare fucking lie to me?”

“Yes, I smoke weed, but I don’t keep a stash here.”

Frank snorted. “You had a box tucked under your arm when you left that bar, guarding it like the Hope diamond was inside.”

Rand turned his head, attempting to look over his shoulder. "You followed me home?"

Frank pushed his face into the wall and kicked his feet apart, spreading his legs wide. "Put your hands on the wall, palms flat. You as much as twitch, I’ll drop you faster than light travel, you got that?"

"Jesus, yes, I got that, but I ain’t got no drugs, man . . . I mean, sir."

"Such a smart, pretty boy. And a quick learner, too." Acutely aware of the smooth, tanned skin of his shoulders and back and the sinewy muscles of his forearms stretched toward the wall, Frank sucked in a quiet breath. To heighten the tension, Frank put his hand on his back and snapped the elastic band of his boxers. "You know what they do to little boys in prison?"

Rand shivered, whether from the threat of prison or the stranger behind him, Frank didn’t know. "Sir, if someone told you I had drugs, they lied. I swear I don’t."

Frank rolled the boxers from his hips and left them hugging his knees. "Kick ’em off."

When he didn’t move, Frank grabbed a shaft of his hair and yanked his head back. "I’m not going to tell you again."

Rand pushed them down with one foot, kicked them aside and spread his legs again. "Please, sir, I don’t know what you want, but I don’t have anything of value."

When his voice broke on a sob Frank knew terror had taken over the cocky attitude. He couldn’t stop now, had to force him to turn over that box. Frank put one hand on his back and pushed hard, making it difficult for him to remain in that position for long. He ran his hands down the sides of Rand’s torso, his hips and across his firm, hard ass. Rand gasped when Frank’s hand traveled to the front of his body.

"What’s this?" He stroked Rand’s hard erection and emitted a sardonic laugh. "You get off on rough, kid? You get hard when someone breaks into your place?"

"No. . . I don’t know what’s happening, and no one has ever broken in here. I’ll do whatever you ask of me."

Still holding a length of his hair, Frank dragged him toward the bed and took the handcuffs out of his pocket, securing one of Rand’s arms to the bedpost. "Whatever I ask? Good. On your stomach, lay across that bed, feet on the floor and spread wide."

Frank removed his belt, pulled the Nunchukkas from his pants’ pocket and placed them on the bed in Rand’s line of vision.

Rand’s voice quivered as he stared at the object. "What-what are those?"

"A martial arts weapon meant to inflict great bodily harm." A sinister chuckle left Frank’s lips. "Used in the proper manner, they can snap your forearm in two with one blow." "Course, right now with that naked ass in full view, it’s hard to tell what I’ll use them for."

"Oh, God, please, no. I’ll do anything you want, sir."

Frank delivered a hard whack to his butt with the belt. His cheek twitched beneath the blow and a hiss of pain fell from his lips. "Anything, anything I ask?" The leather cracked through the air again as Frank delivered another hard whack to his ass and followed it up with another and another.

Rand let out a long, drawn out yelp. "Yes, anything. Stop, please."

Curiosity about Rand’s sex life got the better of Frank. He opened the drawer of the nightstand and heaved an internal sigh when he found a tube of lubricant. For some reason, a little green man appeared behind his eyelids. Jealousy had never reared its ugly head before in Frank’s life and he didn’t like the feeling it elicited now. He laid the lube next to the Nunchukkas. “Well, well, what do we have here? I suppose you’re going to tell me you use this for chapped lips?”

A prolonged groan fell from Rand’s lips.

"You still haven’t told me where that box is or what’s in it." He rattled the chain of the mini-weapon next to Rand’s ear with one hand and slipped his other hand under his hips again. Harder and hotter than before, Rand’s dick jerked between Frank’s fingers.

“I can’t figure out which overrules the other, fear or your lust for me.”

“Just get on with it, man . . . I mean sir.” Rand hissed the words between clenched teeth. "I don’t know what’s in the box. It’s locked."

"Then how do you know it doesn’t hold drugs?” Frank delivered another hard smack with the belt and Rand writhed and whimpered. "Because Paddy isn’t into drugs, sir."

"Paddy, the man who gave you the box?"

A vigorous nod from Rand. “Yes, yes, he asked me to take it home.”

"Give me a last name."

He shook his head. “I-I can’t do that. Paddy would kill me.”

“Ha! Listen to yourself. I got a gun to your head and you’re worried this Paddy might kill you? Maybe I’ll just save this man the trouble.”

The gun came out again; Rand jerked when Frank placed the barrel at the base of his skull. “I’m going to count to three. If I hit three, you’re toast, got it?”

"Murphy, his name is Paddy Murphy."

“Now we’re getting somewhere. Tell me where you stashed the box.”

“Look in the clothes hamper in the closet.”

“Better be where you tell me it is or you know what happens, right?”

Rand nodded. “It’s there.”

Frank leaned down and whispered in his ear, “Don’t go anywhere, pretty boy. I’ll be right back to finish what I started.” He left him handcuffed to the bed and strode toward the nearby closet . . . which turned out to be the size of an outhouse with a single shelf several feet from the ceiling. The clothes hamper sat to the right filled to the brim with dirty laundry. Frank rifled through the clothing until his hand came into contact with something solid.

With the box in his hand, he returned to the opposite side of the bed where Rand lifted his head and studied him. “It goes without saying, I’m taking the box.” He paused for effect and clicked his tongue against his cheek. “The question is, what should I do with you?”

“Just go. I won’t call the police or say anything about you being here. I promise.”

Rand closed his eyes and expelled a long sigh. “I don’t know what I’m going to tell Paddy about the box.”

“Try telling the truth, that someone followed you home and took it.” A rush of primal lust ran through Frank’s blood. He had all he could do to walk out that door when what he really wanted to do was fuck the kid senseless. But he had never resorted to rape and he wouldn’t start now.

“Now what?” Rand asked, breaking into Frank’s licentious thoughts.

Frank walked around to the other side of the bed again and ran a hand down Rand’s naked ass. “I’d like to stay and accommodate that hard-on you been sportin’ since the minute I had you drop your boxers, but . . . .”

A shudder ran down Rand’s spine. “But, what?”

“You might be a pretty boy, but I don’t think you have what it takes to satisfy me. Consider yourself lucky, kid. Take heart that I didn’t shove these Numchukkas up that tight ass.” Frank plucked them from the bed. “Or . . . that I didn’t follow my natural instincts and fuck you.”

“And then kill me?”

“Can’t say what I would do after that, but I’ll tell you this. Whatever you’re into with this Paddy Murphy will bring your death sooner than you think. So wise up, kid.”

"Just go, please go.”

"Not until I get a little more information.”

Rand shook his head. “What do you want now?”

“More about this Paddy Murphy, and I’m running out of patience. I’ll whip your ass until it bleeds if you don’t tell me what I want.”

“Ask your stupid questions. Anything to get you to leave.”

“What’s his gig? Is he into drugs?”

“No, not drugs.”

“Then, what?”

“Other things."

“What other things?”

"Alcohol and . . . men."

“Taken aback by the revelation, Frank released a small gasp, "Oh yeah, has he been into you?" For some odd reason the thought made him sick to his stomach.

Rand shook his head. "No, I mean, no, sir, he’s not interested in me in that way. I work for the man; run his errands, do his bidding."

"Give me a visual on this Murphy character."

Rand hesitated as if thinking how to describe the man, or maybe coming up with a lie to throw Frank off. "He’s thick through the torso, long hair, bushy mustache."

The man at the back of the bar. "Like I said before, your worst nightmares would come true if you go to jail. They love punks like you.”

Exasperation laced his words. "I haven’t done anything to land in jail."

"Oh, no? Running drugs will put you in the slammer."

"I’m not running drugs for Paddy, I swear."

"You got family somewhere, kid?"

“Why do you care?”

“I asked you a question, smart ass.”

“Yes, I have family.”

“You do his bidding, what does he do for you? You can find a job anywhere. Why work for him?”

"He keeps me in pot."

"Huh?"

"Pot. Weed. I work for him, run a few errands and clean up the pool hall for cash and weed."

"You expect me to believe you do nothing more than smoke pot?"

"I swear it’s true.”

"I’m taking the handcuffs off. You stay on the bed for five minutes. You even flinch before I leave this room, and I’ll cut your throat, you got that?"

Rand nodded.

"Go home, kid. Leave this flea-bitten apartment, and . . . ."

The kid lifted his head from the bed as if listening.

“Dump the job. You’re surrounded by the cockroaches of the city at that billiard hall."

“Yeah, well us cockroaches like to hang tight.”

Frank had spent too much time here already, might have blown his cover. If he remembered correctly, Rand was always too smart for his own good. With a last slap to his ass, he said, "I’ll see you in your nightmares, kid."

Then he slipped from the room as silently as he entered.