Hunter leaned against the car and took another slice of pizza, letting the voices of the others fade to a hum in his head. One of the others had gotten lucky, found a trick that bought him a whole large pizza. Probably the guy had been afraid that he'd shake his little boy hustler's bones all apart if he didn't put some meat on them. Hunter shuddered at the mental image. Christ. Maybe he was getting old before his time or some such shit, because shit like that never used to bother him before. Before having a warm bed, and a guaranteed meal for the first time in years. Oh well, he'd soon get over his few days in Gay as Blazes land, Hunter thought. And besides, he was positive that they had already forgotten - - Fuck. There it was again. Positive. Hunter bit into the pizza slice and glanced toward the corner. His heart hammered, but he mentally squashed any sudden surge of hope. Shit. It was the guy, Ben's guy. Michael. What the fuck did he want? Hunter tossed his slice back in the box, mumbled "Catch you later," and ignored the glances from the others. He tried to nonchalantly stroll off, hoping that Michael would take it as a personal insult and leave. "Hey!" he heard, "Hey!", and Hunter turned back with way less reluctance than he would have liked. Stupid, such a stupid fuck, hoping for some kind of feel-good Lifetime movie ending. He probably just thinks you stole something before you took off, Hunter thought. Michael glared at him. "Didn't you see me coming?" "Why do you think I was trying to get away?" Michael's expression changed, and Hunter couldn't figure out what that meant. "So what do you want?" he asked, and Michael reached into his pocket. "You dropped this," Michael said, and held up the extra key to his apartment. Hunter's mind went blank, and he immediately started bullshitting. "I don't want it," he said. "I already told you. I'm not coming back." Hunter already knew Michael wouldn't take no for an answer. He knew it as soon as Michael's eyebrows shifted slightly, and he could finally read his face. No. Not his son. But still offering Hunter a roof over his head. Hunter watched Michael walk away, but his mind was on nothing but the imperceptible weight of the key in his pocket. * The bell above the Liberty Diner door rang out a solemn tinkle. Debbie glanced up from her order pad. Aha! Just the asshole she'd been wanting to see. She hadn't heard a peep from him since she'd crashed his goddamn orgy at the loft. She wondered if he'd thought any about helping find Jason Kemp's killer. Brian tossed his newspaper on the counter and yanked off his jacket. "Coffee, Deb," he said. Debbie automatically said "Hold your goddamn horses," and took a better look as she headed around behind the counter. There was something a little bit strange about seeing Brian Kinney dressed like a normal person at lunch hour. Usually he was all suited up in his Armani, Prada, whatever designer business suits of the season. Sitting there, acting like the greatest thing since sliced bread, insulting everyone in earshot, and filching fries off whoever's plate was handy. Well, he still did most of that, only in casual clothes. He'd been hiding it well, how much losing his job had affected him, but he couldn't escape the blatant lack of need for tailored business suits. Right now, he was wearing a black T-shirt and some jeans, and frankly, he looked like shit. "You look like shit," Debbie said, and plopped a mug down in front of him, filling it three-quarters of the way with hot, slightly murky coffee. "What'd you do, stay up all night fucking again?" Brian gave her smug grin, regardless of the dark smudges under his eyes. "If you must know, I was up all night tracking down your illustrious murder suspect." Debbie gasped slightly, glanced one way, then the other, decided that there was no one within earshot that would care, and leaned in closer anyway. "You found the fucking bastard? What's his name? Is he a cop?" Brian shrugged. "I don't know his name. I got a kid to show me the hustler bar where the guy picked up Jason Kemp. The guy was there. I talked to him." Debbie sighed sharply. "That was fucking stupid of you. What did he say? And fuck these long, drama queen pauses of yours, just spit it out." "Aw, but Deb, I don't spit. I swallow." He smirked, but thought better of it at the look Debbie gave him. "Not only is that a terrible joke, asshole -" "He said that Stockwell was the best man he knew," Brian continued quickly. "That he'd worked with the man for fifteen years, and that he'd never seen a more honest guy." Brian leaned back and smiled. "And then he told me I asked too many goddamn questions. Happy?" Debbie straightened up and nearly splashed coffee all over the counter before adjusting her grip on the pot. "Shit. The motherfucker! And he killed the poor kid, and who knows if there were others..." "Others?" said Brian with a weird look on his face. "I never thought of that. I guess there's no way to be sure." "Anything can happen to hustlers. But no one cares when it does, the fuckers," said Debbie. "Just like with Jason Kemp. So," she said vehemently, "How do we nail the bastard?" Brian shook off his weird look and said "Yeah, well, calm down. I talked to your boyfriend -" An indignant squawk - "He's not my boyfriend -" "- and he said we'd need hard evidence. DNA that can link the jizz in Dumpster Boy's ass to this shithead cop. So I'll need to get some." "How are you gonna do that?" said Debbie, heart in her throat. This was more than she'd expected when Brian came in the door. She'd half expected that he wouldn't listen to her at all. That he'd go on fucking his brains out with no purpose, and that his spirit would wither a little bit more everyday. Along with Jason Kemp - perpetually cold-cased. Now, though, Brian seemed tired, but with new direction. A mission of truth. Thank God, Debbie thought. For both of my boys. "I'm working on a plan," said Brian. He took a couple gulps of coffee, then stood up, shrugging on his coat and slapping some bills on the counter. He turned slightly, about to leave, but turned back almost as an afterthought. "Have you heard anything about a kid named Justin Taylor?" Debbie shook herself from her thoughts and set down the coffee pot. "Justin Taylor. It seems familiar." Her eyes widened. "Shit, is he another dead kid?" "No!" said Brian. "No, not dead. But his parents might be looking for him." Debbie gave him a measuring look. "So, he's the kid that showed you the bar. A hustler." Not a question. Brian just looked at her. Debbie walked to the register and pulled a piece of paper from under it, and walked back to where Brian stood. "Yeah, the name does seem familiar." She waved the paper under Brian's nose, but he reached out and yanked it from her. She could remember what the flyer said, now that she'd placed the name. Have you seen my son, in all capital-letters, with a blurry black and white prom picture of some sweet young thing with a gorgeous sunshine smile. Debbie couldn't read Brian's expression. "When did you get this?" he asked. "The boy's mother came in about a week ago. We talked for a while. He disappeared about ten months ago, after a fight with his dad." Pause. "She really misses him, Brian." "Yeah, well, did she even look for him before now?" said Brian. "The kid is nineteen. He's legally in charge of his own life." And what the fuck is this? Debbie didn't even know how to respond. She opened her mouth - But what if the life is being a hustler? Living on the street? What then, when he can just go home and stop risking himself needlessly? But Debbie said, simply, "She's his mother. She loves him." Brian said nothing, and looked at the picture on the flyer for a couple of seconds too long before folding the flyer in half and shoving it under his other arm. "Yeah," he said. "I guess she would. Thanks, Debbie." He picked up his newspaper, and the bell rang again as Debbie watched him leave. * Brian looked at the flyer again once he got outside. Shit. How did this happen? Pretty high school kid turned to street hustler in only ten months. There was a phone number, too. Brian dug his cellphone out of his pocket and punched the number in. He stared at the digits on the small screen. Then he hit erase until all the numbers were gone, and stuck his cell back in his coat. If there was one person that could logically understand wanting to be free of your parents, it was him. Yeah. Maybe he should call Justin's folks. Give them a tip on where to find him. Maybe there was just some big Brady Bunch misunderstanding at work here. But still, Brian couldn't shake the feeling that it must be a bit more than that, especially to drive a smart kid like Justin to make mincemeat of his future. He'd wait and see. And pass the flyer on to Justin, so he could fucking decide for himself. * "Hey! Mister!" Justin shook his jacket off his shoulders slightly and stepped into the gutter, raising his chin and eying the driver. The car passed him by without pausing. "Shit." It was fucking cold out, too, and still snowing in sporadic bursts of flakes. There were patches of ice on the sidewalk that Justin kept nearly slipping on, over and over again. "Justin!" He turned. Hunter stood there, complete with ski cap, attitude, and a sneer. After his blow-up in Brian's corvette last night, Justin was glad to see him still around. He'd expected Hunter to avoid him completely for a few weeks. He'd done it before, over less. "Yo," said Hunter. "Did you take him to see that cop last night?" Straight to the point. Justin shrugged. "Yeah. Why do you care?" Hunter snorted. "What, I can't be concerned about my fellow man? The pursuit of justice?" Justin ra...
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