A Time for Secrets (3 page)

I didn’t like it. I didn’t like it one bit. But I understood it.

CHAPTER THREE

The thing I missed most about Mrs. Harker spending so much time with us was waking up to the smell of breakfast being made. The next morning I crawled out of bed, leaving Harker alone, and decided I’d try making breakfast myself. The night before, I’d drunk the better part of a bottle of Johnnie Walker Red, so I may have still been a little drunk. Cooking wasn’t my forte and I knew it.

Sandwiches were my specialty, so I decided to concoct some kind of fancy breakfast sandwich. Harker and his mother conspired to keep the refrigerator full, so when I looked inside I found eggs, bacon, cheese, and a loaf of bread. I pulled out the ingredients and went to work. About a half an hour later, I had a couple of bacon and egg sandwiches. The bacon managed to be burnt and greasy at the same time the eggs were crispy with hard yolks—more cloudy side-up than sunny, and the toast was under done. But I put enough ketchup on each sandwich to mask these flaws, and Harker pretended his sandwich was delicious. He ate almost half of it, which made us both happy.

I actually felt better about things than I had the night before, or maybe I was just numbed by my hangover. Of course, it might have been that Harker was content to act like nothing serious was happening. Since I’d spent a good amount of my life pretending things were other than they actually were, I was on familiar ground. Denial and I were old buddies.

My apartment was a garden apartment, which was a nice way of saying half cellar. The windows were a few crummy inches off the ground. In the winter, I ended up half buried in a snow bank. In the summer, flowers took up half the window. I doubted the place was originally an apartment. Coming in, you walked down a long hallway that ended in a small, useless little room. That led into my spare room, which had neither a door nor a closet; that room was filled with whatever I didn’t want to deal with at the moment, and lately it’d been getting kind of full. After that there was the living room, full of typical living room crap: sofa, director’s chairs, an old desk where I used to occasionally work before Harker moved in, a set of gray metal shelves I bought for the TV, VCR, and stereo system. After the living room
,
if you turned to the right the hallway headed down to my bedroom and the tiny little kitchen. If you looked up along the way there were radiators attached to the ceiling, gathering dust for the summer.

Usually, I left the apartment a bit after nine. But I’d already decided on my first step toward finding the mysterious Vernon, so I didn’t need to leave the apartment until about nine-thirty. I expected to cross paths with Mrs. Harker before I left, but she hadn’t arrived by the time I walked out the door. Harker insisted I leave the breakfast dishes for her. I knew she’d frown and cluck her tongue at the mess I’d made, but she’d be thrilled to play the martyr for her son. He knew that, too, and didn’t mind taking advantage of it on occasion.

It was the kind of day we didn’t have often in Chicago—cloudless, the sky an endless blue, the lake a darker, equally vast blue. It was warm but not as humid as it had been. The weatherman had said a heat wave was coming. Was that today, or would it start over the weekend? I tried to remember but then told myself to just enjoy the day. It might be the last nice day I saw for a while.

Summer was a problem for me. My usual get-up was a corduroy jacket, under which I wore a shoulder holster carrying my beloved Sig Sauer. I’d recently gotten the gun back from the police, who’d held it as evidence when I shot a guy in self-defense. That day I wore a jean jacket over a black T-shirt, 501s, and a pair of high tops. Already, I had a coating of sweat on the back of my neck, but that was nothing for summer in Chicago.

I walked out to Lake Shore and Belmont and caught the 146 express down to Michigan Avenue. Rush hour was over, so I got a seat on the half-full bus. The air-conditioning wasn’t working, but a couple of the windows were slid open. There was a breeze when we got onto Lake Shore Drive. The funny thing about riding a bus in Chicago was that you’d either end up sitting next to a smelly homeless person or a middle-aged matron in a mink. That morning I ended up sitting next to a straight-laced but still sexy guy in his mid-twenties who kept my head in fantasy overload most of the ride.

Getting off at the first stop, I walked a few blocks north. When people talked about Oak Street, they meant the part between Michigan and Rush Streets, where it was composed of narrow, mostly brick buildings of about three stories each. The buildings looked as though they’d once been townhomes converted into shops. On the first floor of each was a clothing boutique or a hair-dressing salon. Many of the buildings featured a below-street business accessible down a few stairs. Shoe repairs and tailors, mostly. The street was an elite oasis of personal grooming broken only by the presence of The Loading Zone—a pick-up joint down one of those short sets of steps—and the Esquire theatre, where I’d taken Daniel’s sister Donna to see
Towering Inferno
when I was “dating” her.

Taking a quick walk up and down the street, I counted eight salons. Hopefully, I’d find a hairdresser old enough to remember Mr. Vernon. I began on the northeast corner of the block and worked my way around in a circle. I visited three salons before I got anywhere. The hairdressers were all under thirty, so I wasn’t surprised by the blank stares I got when I asked if they’d ever heard of a Mr. Vernon.

When I walked into a place called Les Cheveux, I expected to have pretty much the same experience. However, things went down a little differently. The shop was empty except for a young man sitting cross-legged in one of the barber’s chairs. He was engrossed in a worn copy of
People
magazine with a cover that asked, “Are Soaps Too Sexy?” Underneath was a picture of some popular soap stars having a threesome under a silk sheet.

The young man looked up at me. He had lazy, velvet brown eyes and hair that flopped down over an eyebrow, dyed flat black with a swatch of purple as a highlight. Dropping the magazine into his lap, he looked me up and down, then said, “Oh my, you
do
need a haircut.”

It was true; my hair hadn’t had much attention lately and had gotten long and curly. I either needed to have it cut off or shaped, as they say. I toyed with the idea of having this kid cut my hair and then expensing an Oak Street haircut to Ronald Meek, but that seemed kind of obnoxious. He hadn’t struck me as being all that happy to part with his money.

“Actually, I’m just here to ask a few questions.”

He pretended to think for a moment. “Single. Twenty-four. Aquarius. And yes, I swallow.” He smiled, pleased with himself.

I ignored the come on and asked my question. “I’m trying to find a guy named Mr. Vernon. He was a popular hairdresser on the street about the time you were born. Have you ever heard anyone mention him?”

He sighed. “I might have. The owner of this place is an ancient old crone named George Powell. He loves to tell stories about the good old days. He mentions a lot of names. That might be one of them.”

It was the closest I’d come to a break all morning. “How do I get ahold of Mr. Powell?”

He got out of the chair and slunk over to a desk near the front of the salon. After glancing at an open appointment book he said, “George’s first client is at eleven forty-five. He usually comes in a half an hour beforehand. So, he’ll be here around eleven fifteen.”

I glanced at my watch. It was ten twenty-seven. In the meantime, I could check out the remaining salons. Or, I could do something else.

I looked the kid up and down in an obvious way.

“You can wait if you like,” he said.

“Actually, I think I heard you offer me a blow job.”

“You have very good ears,” he said with a smile. Then he turned around and walked toward the back of the shop. I followed him into a small alcove, which was closed off from the rest of the shop. There was a counter on each side; above each was a cabinet. There were several plastic bowls and some brushes soaking in water. It seemed to be some kind of dye station.

The kid leaned me against a counter and then got down on his knees. As he unzipped me, he looked up and said, “By the way, my name’s Andy. And I don’t do this very often.”

“Nice to meet you, Andy,” I said, right before he took my semi-hard dick into his mouth. From the skill he demonstrated, I decided he did actually do this pretty often. At least, often enough to get good at cock sucking. Very good.

I’m six-foot three and weigh about two-twenty. I have brown hair and eyes that could most accurately be described as hazel, which is a nice way of saying shit-brown and green all mixed together. In an intimate moment, Harker once described my eyes as arresting. Even though I’ve spent a little time staring at them in the bathroom mirror, I can’t say I agree. Underneath my pretty average nose, I’ve got a thick brown moustache and a bit of stubble due to my general disinterest in shaving.

Something about me appeals to guys like Andy. At thirty-four, I had to admit I only had a few more years of young men volunteering to get on their knees for me. Of course, if my belly got much softer I might not even have that. As Andy expertly sucked my dick, I pulled my stomach in, promising myself I’d spend more time at the gym. Then most of the thoughts in my head disappeared as I watched Andy’s black and purple head bounce up and down on my prick.

Andy had wrapped a couple fingers around the base of my dick, but didn’t let that get in the way of deep-throating me. While not enormous, my cock is large enough to have given some guys trouble. Andy was taking it with ease.

He took a break and ran his tongue around the tip enough times to get me moaning. Impatiently, I grabbed him by the hair and shoved him all the way down on my prick. He pulled off and gasped. I thought for a moment he might be pissed about that move, but then I heard him whisper, “Do it again.”

So I did.

Andy sucked me hard and sloppy for about a minute, then he leaned away and said, “Slap my face.”

I took my cock in hand and slapped it against his cheek.

“No, really slap me. Slap my face like I’m your little slut and I’ve been bad.”

I gave him an open-handed slap that I hoped would sting more than hurt. He snapped his head back, his hand automatically coming up to his cheek. A red spot rose on the left side of his face. He looked up at me and pouted.

“I know I’m bad sometimes, but I’m a good cocksucker. Right? I’m really good.”

I almost went ahead and agreed, since he was, but I thought he might be happier if I didn’t. Pulling on his hair again, I leaned over and said right into his ear, “Just shut up and suck my dick.” Then I crammed it back into his mouth, all the way down until I could feel his lips at the base.

He began to pull off, but I held him there and ground my cock deep into his throat again and again. When I finally pulled him off, his mouth made a popping sound. His chin was wet with saliva and he struggled to catch his breath.

“Wow, that was sexy,” he said in between pants.

I could tell he wanted me to do that again, but I was close and getting impatient. I started stroking myself and took him by the hair, turning his head just as the first spurt of cum flew out of me. Most of that one flew right over his face and ended up on the floor, but the second and third spurts covered his face in jizz. His reached out his tongue and stretched to get at it. When I let him go, he used a hand to wipe the cum off his face and into his mouth.

I was still closing my belt when we came out and found Andy’s boss standing there. George Powell was a heavyset man in his mid-fifties. He’d been much thinner when he was younger and stubbornly refused to stop buying clothes in what was once his size. The buttons of his Qiana shirt strained, and the waistband of his rayon disco pants was tourniquet tight.

“Really, Mary?” he said when he saw us. “That’s the third time this month.”

The kid blushed and shrugged. I introduced myself and handed George one of my cards. Andy went back to reading his magazine, almost as though the last twenty minutes hadn’t happened.

“I’m looking for a man named Mr. Vernon. Used to cut hair on Oak Street, twenty-three, twenty-four years ago,” I explained.

“Mr. Vernon? Why do you want to know about her?” he asked.

I raised an eyebrow. “Does that mean you know him?”

“Well, not in a biblical sense, but, yes, I know that tragic mess.”

“Can you tell me his last name?”

He shrugged. “I think it begins with a ‘B
.
’”

“Do you have any idea where I might find him?”

“I heard a rumor she packed up and hauled her ass to Hollywood.”

“When was this?”

“Nineteen fifty-nine? Sixty maybe?”

“Is that the last you heard of him?”

He thought for a moment. “Well, I did also hear that she ran off and married a woman, that she became a minister in Alabama, and that she joined the circus. But I think moved to Hollywood is most likely.”

“Tell me about him.”

His use of pronouns annoyed me. I’d run across old queens like this before who enjoyed swapping pronouns. I thought it was degrading. He must have picked up on my attitude because he said, “
She
was a pretty little thing and
she
knew it.” He smiled at me in a way that said he’d scored a point in some game I wasn’t playing. “She worked at Joie de Vivre, which back then was the best salon on the street. She spent her evenings with socialites and local celebrities. Anyone who came into town she’d latch onto. She used to have this picture of herself with Eartha Kitt stuck onto her mirror. Had to tell everyone about it.”

“Did he have any friends who might still be around?”

“Fair-weather friends, that’s all she had.” He thought for a moment. “To be fair, that’s all anyone had back then. You couldn’t trust anyone. You could lose your job, your apartment, hell they could put you in jail. Things got better when they legalized queer in the state. But not by much.”

I didn’t feel like this was getting me anywhere, so I said, “Thanks for your time. If you think of anything, please give me a call.” I was about to walk out of the place, but I stopped and asked, “Is there anyone else on the street who might have the information I’m looking for? I don’t want to waste my entire afternoon.”