Pick Up the Pieces Read online

  “Good enough, Frank.” He turned on the ignition, switched on the windshield wipers, and put the truck in gear. “Now, as I was saying. Two rules. You don’t ask me what I’m hauling, and you don’t play with the radio. I like country music. If you don’t….”

  “Country’s fine, sir.”

  “Call me Shane.”

  “I really appreciate the lift, Shane. Thank you.”

  A woman singer came on, begging some girl named Jolene not to take her man.

  “That Dolly Parton sure does have a nice set of… pipes, doesn’t she?”

  “Shane, I’ll do anything you like. I won’t ask what you’re hauling, I won’t complain about the music you listen to, I’ll even give you a blow job.” I gave him a little smile so he could think I was kidding if he wanted. “Just please don’t make me talk about Dolly Parton’s… pipes.”

  He burst out laughing. “Fair enough, Frank.”

  SHANE WAS a decent guy. He shared his coffee and the chips, and woke me from a nightmare about blood and knives without asking me what it was about.

  I offered him a blow job as we pulled into an all-night greasy spoon just south of the DC/Virginia border. “You’ve been really nice to me, Shane, and it’s the least I can do to repay you.”

  “I’m not gay, Frank.”

  “No, but a dick doesn’t much care what it shoves itself into.”

  “Damn, you’re so young.”

  “I’m older than I look.”

  “How old are you?”

  “Eighteen. As soon as I get up to my granny’s, I’m going to get my driver’s license. Maybe then people will believe me.” I gave him the big eyes and the smile again.

  He chewed on his lip, then nodded and followed me into the men’s room.

  AFTERWARD, IT took a few minutes before his eyes seemed to regain their focus. “Wow! That’s one amazing way you have of paying a body back.”

  “My pleasure, Shane.” I smiled at him.

  He blinked again. “Come on. I’ll buy you dinner.”

  “Thanks.” I wasn’t too proud to accept a last meal from him. I was flat broke, and I wasn’t sure when I’d be able to eat again. I went to the sink to wash my hands.

  “Why don’t you tell me what really happened in Florida?”

  “I told you—”

  “I’d like the truth.”

  I guessed I wasn’t as good a liar as I’d thought.

  “I… uh… I had a fight with my boyfriend.” That sounds a lot better than, “This guy I knew tried to sell me.”

  I got it now. Franky had never been my boyfriend; he was my pimp. We hadn’t been making love—he’d been teaching me the tricks of the trade. He didn’t love me or need me or care about me. He only cared about money and drugs and sex.

  “Yeah? What about?”

  “He ha—” Just in time I caught myself. The last thing I wanted was for Shane to realize he’d been traveling with a murderer. “—has a drug problem.” And a temper.

  “Too bad.”

  “Yeah. So I left.” I shivered. After I killed him.

  “Sucks, kid.” He squeezed the back of my neck.

  Tell me about it. But I just shrugged.

  “And you’re really eighteen?”

  “Would I lie?”

  “Hmm.” Fortunately, he let it go. We entered the diner, and he ordered meatloaf, mashed potatoes, and broccoli for both of us. “And you’ll eat all your vegetables, young man.”

  “Yes, sir.” I grinned at him. I’d missed having someone other than myself make sure I ate right. I’d grown tired of fast food, and for the past couple of months had used some of the cash Franky doled out to me to buy groceries and cook up whatever of Ma’s recipes I could remember.

  Shane talked about other runs he had made, convoys he’d driven in, and before I realized it, my plate was clean.

  “How are you boys doing?” our waitress asked.

  “Could we have another basket of rolls, please?” Shane smiled at her. His smile was almost as good on women as mine was on men. “And two slices of apple pie?”

  “You got it, honey.”

  He waited until the waitress brought them and then went to another table before telling me, “Take the rolls, Frank. Put them in your pockets.”

  My eyes started to burn. “Shane….”

  “I wish I could take you with me, but—”

  “You’ve done a lot for me, Shane. I can’t thank you enough.”

  “Eat your pie.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  AFTER WE finished eating, he settled the bill, and then I walked with him back to his rig. I hadn’t known him very long, but he would leave an impression on my life forever.

  “Thank you again, Shane.” I held out my hand, and when he didn’t take it, I wondered if he was ashamed of what he’d let me do for him, if he no longer had any use for me. I couldn’t stop myself from flinching when he raised his hand, but it was just to stroke my hair.

  “Get in.”

  “But….”

  “I can drive you a little further, Frank. Get in.”

  I climbed into the cab and buckled up. Another woman singer came on the radio, singing about being a coal miner’s daughter.

  We crossed the Potomac into DC.

  “This is as far as I can take you, Frank.” He held out his hand.

  I took it, frowning when I felt something pressed into my palm. It was a folded-up bill.

  “Shane, you don’t have to pay me—”

  “Frank, just take it, okay? I’m gonna be worrying about you as it is. That nightmare….”

  What had I said? Had I revealed what I’d done? In the safety of the rig’s cab, I’d been able to forget I’d killed a man. I closed my fist on the bill.

  But Shane didn’t look as if he knew he was sitting beside a murderer.

  “Thank you,” I choked out. I unbuckled my seat belt and reached for the door handle.

  “Stay safe, okay, Frank? Or whatever your name really is? Stay safe.”

  I nodded and hopped out of the big black-and-red rig. “Good-bye, Shane.”

  “Take care of yourself, kid. So long.”

  I slammed the door on whatever else he might have said and walked away. It wasn’t until later that I realized he’d given me not a five or a ten, but a couple of twenties. They wouldn’t last very long, but with them I wouldn’t have to seek out a shelter and maybe walk right into the arms of the cops.

  MY MEETING with Shane must have signaled a change in my luck, although I didn’t realize it at first.

  I walked the streets of DC for hours, not knowing where to go, trying to think what to do, scared spitless and trying not to show it. I turned down what happened to be a blind alley and found myself on the fringe of something bad.

  A kid about my age was facing off a gang of street trash. “We been watching you, pussy boy!” one of them yelled. “And we don’t want your kind in our neighborhood!”

  “Grab the little queer!”

  “Get his pants off!”

  “We’re gonna fuck his faggot ass!”

  They goaded each other, obviously trying to work themselves up to committing serious mayhem.

  There was something about the dark-haired kid’s determination to stand strong against them, and I decided to try to help. “The cops are coming!” I shouted. “Somebody called the cops!”

  They were stupid—even I could tell that no one in this part of town would lift a finger to help someone like this kid. But they believed me, and they broke and ran.

  “Come on.” I called softly to the kid. “We gotta get outta here too.”

  He grinned at me as we raced in the opposite direction. “No one called the cops, did they?”

  “What do you think?” I threw him a hesitant grin back.

  We rounded a corner and ran straight into another group of older boys. They didn’t look stupid. “Oh, my God, we are so fucked!” I felt sick. We were gonna be beaten, raped, and left for dead.

&nbs
p; “No, no. It’s okay.” The kid with me hurled himself at the leader, babbling in relief. “Oh, geez, Tim! You found me! That gang was mean to me! I was so scared!”

  I stared at him in confusion. He hadn’t looked frightened to me.

  “What gang? Pretty Boy, are you okay?” The oldest of the group checked him out to make sure he wasn’t hurt, tipping his head back to study his face, patting him down, running his hands over chest and back, and Pretty Boy—he really was a pretty boy—wriggled like a puppy being petted.

  “Yeah. They woulda had my ass for sure if it wasn’t for this dude!”

  “Tim” nodded toward me but growled at Pretty Boy, “And just what the fuck were you doing down here? You know this part of town isn’t safe.”

  Pretty Boy frowned at him. “My john drove to a deserted area a few blocks over. He turned out to be an off-duty vice cop, Tim,” he complained. “He told me he was going to book my ass for soliciting unless I put out for him whenever he wanted. Professional courtesy, he called it. Shithead. Of course he didn’t tell me this until after I was in his car. The son of a bitch! I had to duck out and run for it.”

  “Fuck.”

  “Not if I could help it. And what are you guys doing down here?”

  “Mustang recognized him. He’d been busted by him a couple of times and knew what a shit the pig was, but it was too late to stop you. As soon as he realized you were going with him, he rounded us all up, and we came hotfooting after you.”

  “But… how’d you know where he was taking me?”

  “That son of a bitch takes all the boys down here,” the one called Mustang snarled. It was obvious he wasn’t the cop’s biggest fan.

  “We couldn’t let anything happen to you.” Tim ran restless fingers through his hair. “We’ve got to get a better class of johns. He didn’t hurt you, did he, Pretty Boy?”

  “Nah. But it was a good thing you taught us not to trust them from the get-go!” Pretty Boy bent over, and when he straightened, he had a wad of bills in his hand. He waggled it complacently. “The bastard thought he could take his money back. He didn’t want me touching his dick”—he shrugged at the anomaly—“so while he was busy putting on the condom I gave him, I tucked the money away in my sock, and he didn’t see what I was doing. Then he told me his dirty little plan, and I booked.”

  “Way to go, kiddo!” Tim ruffled Pretty Boy’s midnight-dark hair. I couldn’t believe the relaxed attitude these rent boys had toward their occupation. Maybe it was because they had each other to depend on. Tim turned back to me. “Who’re you?” he asked.

  “I’m… Sweetcheeks. Who’re you?”

  “I’m Tim. Sweetcheeks, huh? That’s a hustler’s name.”

  “You got a problem with that?”

  “No. Do you hustle?”

  “Not much else for me to do. My old man threw me out when he found out I was gay.” I wasn’t going to tell him I’d fallen into Franky’s hands like a ripe plum. And I certainly wasn’t going to tell him I’d killed Franky.

  He looked me over. “You saved Pretty Boy, and we owe you. If you want, you can stay with us for a while.”

  “Thanks,” I said gruffly. “I appreciate it.” It would give me a respite.

  “Tim, now that the excitement’s over and Pretty Boy’s okay, Bud and I are gonna head out.” The two boys looked enough like each other to be twins.

  “Okay, Mick,” Tim said. “Keep a low profile. If that pig knows Pretty Boy’s with us, he might go after you all too.”

  “Will do, boss man.”

  “All right.” He turned to me. “Come on. We’ll catch a bus and get out of here. This neighborhood sucks.”

  I went with them to the apartment they all shared.

  “I’ll give you a quick tour of the place, but then me and Mustang—” He nodded toward the big blond who hovered around him. Tall and muscled, he didn’t look like someone to screw with. I saw the way he looked at Tim, and I wondered if they were boyfriends. “—have to get to work too.”

  The front door opened directly into the living room. There was a small television on a wooden box. A game system was hooked up to it, and cartridges were on the floor. Comic books—Superman, Spiderman, The Fantastic Four—and magazines—People, US Weekly, and surprisingly, Time and Newsweek—were scattered around on a sofa and a couple of chairs.

  Tim frowned. “The maid is runnin’ late today, Ah see.” The South was suddenly thick in his voice.

  My mind boggled. “You’ve got a maid?”

  “I was kidding, Sweets.”

  “Oh. I knew that.” I offered him a smile.

  “Sure you did.” He ruffled my hair, the same as he’d done for Pretty Boy. I liked the feel of it. I hadn’t been touched without an ulterior motive in a long while.

  I took off my jacket and looked around for someplace to hang it. It was still damp from the rain.

  “I’ll take it.” He hung it in a little closet that only had a couple of hangers in it. “Come on.”

  The kitchen was a matchbox of a room with a breakfast bar that separated it from the living room, and had a small alcove for a stacked washer and dryer. There was a bathroom with a shower/tub combination, and three bedrooms. One had twin beds, one had a double, and one had a king-size bed.

  “For when we have guests over.”

  “You need a bed that large?”

  Pretty Boy poked me. “Guests.” This time I heard the emphasis. I’d never heard that euphemism before.

  “Wow.” I’d only been in a couple of run-down motels. Mostly I got fucked in the backseat of my john’s car, or I sucked him off in an alley.

  “Sometimes they like to play with more than one of us.”

  I thought of the time Franky had brought Jaybird home and then shrugged. I didn’t have a boyfriend anymore, hadn’t really ever had a boyfriend, and while I hadn’t had to do threesomes yet… I wondered if I ever might have to.

  “Okay, time for us to get going. Not you, Paul.” I looked around for “Paul” and realized Tim was talking to Pretty Boy. “You’ve had enough excitement for one day. You and Sweetcheeks stay put. We’ll see you later.” And he and the big blond left.

  “Are you hungry? I can order a pizza if you like,” Pretty Boy suggested.

  “I never say no to pizza.”

  “Cool. What do you want on top?”

  “Whatever you’re gonna have is okay.” It was his house, he was buying, and Ma had taught me to be polite.

  “Even if it’s anchovies?”

  “Uh….”

  “Okay, so no anchovies. Pepperoni sound good?”

  “Um… could we have it with artichoke hearts too?”

  “Ick! You like artichokes?”

  “Yeah. My mother… she makes great stuffed artichokes. I haven’t had them since….” I looked away.

  “I was only kidding, Sweets.” He patted my shoulder. “Artichoke hearts and pepperoni it is.”

  I waited until he got off the phone before asking, “Is Tim your pimp?”

  “What? Hell no. You saw. He goes out to work, just like the rest of us.”

  “I didn’t mean anything, Pretty Boy.”

  “Paul.”

  “Huh?”

  “When we’re home, we go by our real names. I’m Paul.”

  “Oh.”

  “Mustang is Cris, Bud and Mick are Tom and Mike. They’re brothers, by the way.”

  “I thought so. And Tim?”

  He grinned. “He’s Tim. So, what’s your name?”

  I looked away from him. “Sweetcheeks.”

  He sighed and patted my shoulder again. “Okay, Sweets. Why’d you think Tim was our pimp?”

  “Well, he just looks like he’s running things.”

  “I guess he is. But he’d not a pimp. If he ever heard you call him that—”

  “He’d hit me?”

  “No! He might yell, but he’d never…. Geez, Sweets.”

  “I… I ran away from my pimp.” It wasn’t the first time
I’d thought of Franky that way, but it was the first time I’d said it aloud.

  “Did he hit you?” He brought his fingertips to my cheek. The bruise was fainter, but it was still visible.

  I couldn’t meet Paul’s eyes.

  “Wanna talk about it? I’m a good listener. Even Tim says so.”

  “Like I told Tim, my father threw me out. And there was Fr—this guy, waiting for me. I was so stupid.”

  He put an arm around my shoulder. “No, you—”

  “I was. I didn’t get it. I thought he… he fell in love with me at first sight. I thought he was my boyfriend. Even when he brought another boy home and wanted the three of us to… to fuck, I didn’t get it. And after Fr—after he hit me… he started crying. He said it was just because we were so broke.”

  “Let me guess. And then he said if you loved him, you’d do one little favor for him.”

  “Yeah. How did you… oh. See? Stupid.”

  “Not stupid, Sweets. He just got you when you were vulnerable. Pimps can be bad news. I know—I had one too. Tim got me away from mine. And you were smart enough to get away from yours. What made you run?”

  “He sold me to another pimp, a really bad one whose boys didn’t live very long.” I shuddered, but what I was picturing was all the blood on the floor. “Please, I don’t want to talk about it anymore.”

  “Sure.” For a few minutes there was an awkward silence, and then Paul said, “Want to read a comic?”

  “Okay.” At least there would be a reason for us not to talk. I picked up The Fantastic Four and began to leaf through it.

  About twenty minutes later, the doorbell rang, and he went to answer it. “Dinner! Come on in the living room. We can pig out on pizza and watch TV.”

  “Okay.”

  He put the box on the floor. “Turn on the TV, okay? I’ll get us some soda.”

  I found the channel MTV was on in Washington, then sat on the floor and opened the box. Pretty Boy… Paul… returned with two cans of Coke. He sat beside me, and we set to work demolishing the pizza. We watched Madonna and Culture Club and Bon Jovi, and drooled over Rick Springfield.

  “I’d do him in a minute!” I said around a mouthful of pizza. “And for free!”