Second You Sin - Sherman, Scott Read online

  My words were drowned out by the sirens of the ambulance barreling its way toward us.

  The doors of the ambulance exploded open as two paramedics rushed to Randy’s side. One of them was a youngish guy with short hair and a slim build. His partner was a similarly fit-looking young woman.

  For a second, it was like I was watching the scene on TV. It didn’t seem real. I couldn’t move. Freddy had to pull me out of the way. “Let them help,” he said.

  “Who can tell me what happened here?” the male paramedic shouted as he wrapped a blood pressure monitor around Randy’s arm.

  It took seconds to tell him: speeding car, sudden impact, flight.

  “Does he have any medical conditions we should know about?” the paramedic asked. His nametag said he was Ross Vergood.

  Do steroids and recreational drug use count in a situation like this?

  “Nothing I know of,” I answered.

  “He’s a prostitute,” the annoying woman with the gay husband offered.

  The paramedic cocked his head. “Huh. I can see that working out for him. Nice arms. Anything else?”

  “He was conscious for a minute just now,” I said. “But then something happened—it looked like some kind of seizure.”

  The female paramedic fished into Randy’s shorts and pulled out a slim wallet. She held up a white card she found there. “He’s epileptic,” she called.

  The rest happened in a flash. An IV was attached to Randy’s arm and he was transferred to a stretcher that folded up and slid into the back of the ambulance. “Is anyone coming with him?” Ross asked.

  “I am,” I said, climbing into the back. Freddy was hot on my heels.

  “Me, too,” Freddy said.

  “Sorry, just one,” Ross said.

  Freddy put a hand on Ross’s arm. “What if I say please?” he asked, squeezing just enough that Ross could feel the strength and heat of Freddy’s grip. Ross looked at him hungrily.

  “Pretty please?” Freddy said, taking his hand away but not before letting it casually brush against Ross’s chest.

  “Fine,” Ross said. “The more the merrier.”

  His partner gave him a dirty look. “Hey, it’s just like that time at the women’s basketball game, remember?” Ross said to her. “That player with the busted kneecap? Hercoach?”

  His partner blushed and nodded.

  Freddy leaned over to me. “I bet paramedics get lots of tail,” he whispered.

  “I heard that,” Ross said, as he watched Randy’s vital signs.

  “Let’s go,” his partner said, slamming the doors shut.

  As she did, Chanel-lady called to me, “Hey, what about your card?”

  4

  Isn’t It a Pity? Two hours later, Freddy and I were in the hospital’s cafeteria. Randy was in critical care. Unconscious, but stable. Other than the fact that he had a few broken bones and remained unconscious, he was in a lot better shape than you’d expect.

  “He must have a thick skull,” the ER doctor said. Um, yeah.

  A bored-looking pair of police officers took a

  statement from me. I described the car that hit Randy as best I could. I told them I didn’t get much of a look at the driver, other than to notice he was a white male. Or a white woman with short hair. Or, for that matter, any other light-skinned race or ethnicity. I think he or she was wearing sunglasses, but I could be wrong. Something like sunglasses, anyway.

  The officers obviously thought I was an idiot. They gave me their cards and told me to call them if I remembered anything else. They couldn’t have seemed less interested.

  Meanwhile, Freddy got Ross the paramedic’s card. Ross couldn’t have seemedmoreinterested.

  Funny world.

  I absently picked at my salad while Freddy, with his characteristic relish for everything that’s bad for you, dug into his chicken fingers and fries as if he hadn’t eaten for days. He washed it back with a nondiet cola.

  He always ate like this and you could still do your laundry on his six-pack.

  I hated him.

  The whole way down to the cafeteria we hadn’t said a word, just walked side by side as old friends do. My mind was full of white noise. It felt good just to be quiet.

  A loud clearing of Freddy’s throat signaled the silence was about to be broken.

  “So,” he said to me, lifting one eyebrow in a sinister arch, “who do you think did it?”

  “Did what?” I had to admit his fries looked good.

  “Tried to kill Randy.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “What do you mean, what do I mean?”

  “I mean: What are you talking about?”

  “Have you taken your medication today?” Freddy asked. He was referring to my Adderall, which I take twice a day to manage my attention deficit disorder. Without it, I tend to get fuzzy-headed, forgetful, and disorganized.

  “My morning dose,” I answered.

  Freddy raised his hands in the universal gesture that meanssee, I knewI was right.

  I fished out my keychain, to which I had attached a can of Mace and a small pill vial. I took one of the little pink pills and washed it down with my bottled water.

  “Feeling better?” Freddy smirked.

  I stuck my tongue out at him.

  “Stop flirting,” he cautioned. “And put that back.”

  I looked at my hand, which, all on its own, had snatched a French fry off his plate.

  “Too late!” I said, jamming it into my mouth.

  Freddy pulled his plate closer to him. “Seriously,” he said, “you have any suspects?”

  I thought about what Freddy was saying. “You think someone tried to kill Randy? On purpose?”

  “Naturellement!” Freddy exclaimed. “It’s elementary.”

  Freddy was very bright, but he often found himself a few steps behind. I could see he was proud of himself for having a theory about this before I did.

  I wasn’t into hearing his crackpot ideas right now, but the good news was he was so pleased with himself that he didn’t object when I grabbed another fry off his plate. OK, a handful of fries. It had been a stressful day.

  “What makes you think,” I asked with my mouth full, “that Randy was run over on purpose?”

  “Darling,” Freddy said, “it was practically dawn on a Sunday morning.” It was after noon, but Freddy was on gay time. “Where was the person rushing off to? No one in their right mind goes to church anymore—no offense, dear.”

  I sneered and took a long swig of his cola. Was there anything more delicious than carbonated sugar?

  “The road was empty. All those open lanes and the driver’s speeding right along the curb like that? Why?”

  I had to admit that was weird.

  “And you said the car just kept on going, right?” I nodded. “OK, I can see not stopping, that’s why they call them ‘hit and runs.’ But to not even slow down? Not for a second? As if he”—Freddy stopped, remembered his political correctness—“orshe, didn’t even notice? How do you hit a person and not even notice? Especially one as dishy as Randy. Honey, you could spot those shoulders from an airplane.”

  “Hmmm,” I said, as if deep in thought. I took a chicken finger off his plate.

  “And you can’t remember anything about the driver?”

  “No,” I said. “It was like I told the cops. The whole thing happened in an instant. The only thing I remember noticing, because it stood out, was he . . . I think it was a he, was wearing sunglasses. Except that’s not right.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I don’t know.” I imagined my mind as a filing cabinet and I rifled through it, trying to find the right memory. “I remember thinking that it looked more like his eye was missing. Like there was darkness there.”

  “Oh my God,” Freddy said. “Randy was run over by a Terminator. But one of the cool ones, not one of those stupid transformers from the shitty Christian Bale movie.”

  “Doubtful,” I said,
glad that Freddy was entertaining himself as I stole another fry. Or three.

  “OK, so we have a speeding car where you’d never expect to find one, Randy hit as if the driver were aiming at him, and a cybernetic killer on the loose. It sounds pretty dodgy to me,” Freddy summed up.

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Plus,youwere there,” Freddy said.

  That got my attention. “And?”

  “Well, darling, isn’t this your kind of thing?”

  A few months ago, another friend of mine was killed under suspicious circumstances. Although the police called it a suicide, I suspected otherwise. After making a bit of a muck out of it, and chasing after a few wrong suspects, I actually solved the case. Well, kind of. It’s a long story.

  In any case, Freddy seemed to think I was now a magnet for murder.

  “If it is,” I said, taking a big hit of his soda while simultaneously reaching for another chicken finger, “don’t you think you’re in danger being here with me?”

  Freddy slapped my hand away. “The only danger I’m in is of starvation,” he snapped. “Eat that green stuff you got.”

  “But it’s not as full of tasty goodness as your food,” I whined. “Besides, stop acting like I’m Jamie Lee Curtis inHalloween. I’m not tripping over dead bodies every other minute.”

  “Noteveryminute,” Freddy admitted. “What were you and Randy talking about, anyway?”

  I told Freddy we had only been chatting for a few moments. “He was going to tell me about someone he tricked with,” I remembered.

  “Who?”

  “We never got to it. It was just then that he was hit.”

  “Huh,” Freddy said. “Do you boys talk about that kind of thing much? Who your clients are? Because I thought you took some kind of confidentiality pledge, like doctors and their Hypodermic Oath or something.”

  “Actually, no. It’s not so much a pledge, though. It just gets boring after a while. I mean, we’ve slept with all kinds of people.”

  “Famous people?” Freddy asked.

  “All the time. Can you imagine how hard it is for someone who’s really well known to get some? Going out to a club is, like, impossible, and a Manhunt profile’s going to get them into theNational Enquirerreal fast.” I was thinking of a certain male singer from a popular reality show whose online escapades became national news. “Even openly gay celebrities want to be discrete.”

  Freddy leaned forward, suddenly more interested. He dangled a chicken finger temptingly. “Tell me about three famous guys you’ve boffed and you can have this,” he purred.

  My years of gymnastics training have made me limber and strong. I’ve also studied Krav Maga, the official self-defense system of the Israeli Defense Forces. I can strike silently, stealthily, and fast.

  I had that chicken finger out of Freddy’s hand before he even saw me move.

  “Hey!” he said. “No fair using that kung fu stuff!”

  “‘The Force can have a strong influence on the weakminded, ’” I reminded him.

  “Whatev.” Freddy sighed. “If Randy was going to tell you about someone who hired him, it must have been pretty juicy.”

  “Probably,” I admitted.

  “Someone with a secret,” Freddy continued.

  “Possibly. But pretty much everyone who hires a rentboy wants to keep it secret.”

  “And maybe . . .” Freddy gave a dramatic pause, looked around as if afraid someone might be listening, and lowered his voice. “Maybe it was a secret worth killing for.”

  “We had one of those in our last murder,” I reminded him.

  “So?” Freddy asked.

  “So,” I said. “What are the odds?”

  “In your case, darling? Always even money.”

  5

  Can’t Help Loving That Man After Freddy got himself another plate of fries and a milkshake (I really,reallyhate him), we went back to the ICU. The nurse told us there was no change in Randy’s condition. I was instructed to call the next day.

  Freddy and I parted soon after. “Remember, we have that thing tomorrow,” I told him.

  “Lamb chop, how could I forget? It only promises to be one of the mostfabulousparties in New York,” Freddy gushed. “It’s engraved in my mind in letters of fire. I shall spend the entire day tomorrow fasting and bathing in champagne. I may even get a Brazilian.”

  “Ouch,” I said. “Just shave.”

  Freddy smiled condescendingly at me. “Notthat kind of a Brazilian, darling. I mean, an actual person from Brazil. This guy who works out at my gym. I may invite him over before we go to the party. Just to take the edge off.”

  “Be on time,” I told him. We kissed and said goodbye.

  I headed back to my one-bedroom apartment in Chelsea. My semi-boyfriend was coming over, and I needed to get ready. I didn’t get that much time with him, and I tried to make the most out of every opportunity.

  It was late in the afternoon and the air was getting colder. I shivered in my leather jacket and wondered if my sweatshirt was dry enough to wear yet. I decided that even if it was, wearing dried piss wasn’t that much better than wearing it wet.

  It was a ten-minute walk to my place; I strode briskly to stay warm.

  Could Freddy be right? Could Randy’s accident have been . . . not an accident? There were suspicious elements, but the whole thing seemed far-fetched. Freddy loved drama; this was probably a product of his overactive imagination.

  Of course, that’s what my semi-boyfriend said when I told him I thought my friend and patron, Allen Harrington, had been killed last summer. Turned out I was right.

  Could Freddy be, too?

  My head was spinning. Had I taken my medication this afternoon? Yeah.

  Tony was my semi-boyfriend due to his total inability to commit to me. Worse, he was unable to commit to being gay. Since we both had dicks, that made being with me a problem for him.

  Tony was my first love. We grew up together on the same street on Long Island, New York.

  I always wanted him.

  Tony was—is—absurdly handsome, with dark Italian skin, darker eyes, and the silky black hair of a pony. His strong cheekbones point the way to plump, kissable lips that any Hollywood starlet would endure endless Botox injections to have.

  His body, which grew more muscular and defined with each passing year, was always lean, hard, and graceful. When we were kids, I remember being fascinated by the way he walked, bicycled, played stickball, and wielded a joystick.

  Even his smell was a turn-on for me. I remember once, when I was twelve and he was fifteen, he was kicking a soccer ball around with some friends on a fall day that surprised us all by suddenly turning warmer.

  “Would you hold this for me, Kev?” he asked, tossing me his denim jacket. It was redolent with Tony’s scent—like just-mowed grass with a little musk—and I got a little dizzy inhaling his pheromones. I also got an erection so intense that I immediately understood something about myself that up till then I had just suspected.

  Not that it was huge problem. I had grown up on MTV and around my mother’s beauty shop, both of which were always full of gay men. Still, it’s hard to be different, to know that you don’t quite fit in. While the other boys were hanging up posters of Beyoncé, Shakira, and some girl from a Disney musical whose nude photos surfaced online, I had on my wall a signed eight by ten of Barbra Streisand fromA Star Is Born.

  OK, maybe it seems weird that my early crush on Tony is inextricably entwined with my love for Barbra. Like I grew up on Tony, I also was weaned onLa Streisand.Literally. My mother told me that she’d often play Barbra’sGreatest Hitswhile nursing.

  (BTW, while that information may have helped me understand my obsession with Babs, I wish my mother kept it to herself. Any reference to the fact that I once suckled at her oversized breasts makes me a little dizzy.)

  My mother was—is—a huge fan of Barbra’s. In her shrill, piercing soprano, she constantly sang along to the soundtracks ofHello, Dolly!andYentl. />
  When I sat down and watched my first Barbra movie,Funny Girl,at the impressionable age of eight, I immediately related to her. Barbra often played the smart, wisecracking girl who, despite her charm and offbeat appeal, was never good enough, or sufficiently pretty or, in one way or another, not quiteappropriatefor her leading man.

  Yet, in the end, through her seductive manner and sheer force of will, Barbra took those men and she made themlove her.

  That’s the power I wanted. I, too, grew up around boys and men I desired and couldn’t have. Straight boys who dazzled me with their easy athleticism, broad shoulders, and confident strength. My seventh grade science teacher, Mr. Smith, with his carrot red hair and the pale blue eyes; Adam, who played soccer and lacrosse and who cut a swath through the neighborhood girls wider than the Lincoln Tunnel; Richard from the debate team, whose fierce intelligence and prematurely deep voice made me sign up for that club despite the fact that any kind of argument gave me a stomachache.

  But at the top of my wish list was Tony Rinaldi, who lived just a few houses down the street. I sensed Tony had a thing for me, too. It was nothing I was certain of, and it wasn’t enough to embolden me to take action, but sometimes I’d see Tony looking at me in a way that seemed kind of . . . hungry.

  Take a bite,I’d think, but he never did.

  Even though I was three years younger than him, he always let me hang out with him. I was a cute kid, but short and slight, and when the other kids would tease me, Tony would run to my defense. He’d rumple my hair or pat my butt, and I’d swear that his hand lingered a second longer than it should have. Sometimes, we’d play-wrestle, and I felt that if I shifted just so, if I only had the nerve, I could turn the hold into an embrace.

  I was sixteen when I made my move. It was a hot summer day and we were hanging out in his room. Earlier, we had been swimming in the aboveground pool in his backyard, and we still wore our bathing suits. He was lying on his back, his hands behind his head. The position made his biceps look bigger, exposed his vulnerable armpits. I could smell his sweat mixed in with the scent of the cheap sunscreen his mother bought at CVS. We’d been baking in the sun and I felt heat rising from him, like the radiant warmth of a just-fired clay pot.