Dec 18, 2014

Sex with minors --- This is heaven (teaser)

Predictably, John was caught in flagrante again. This time it's more serious though, since the flagrantist is a certain Detective-Inspector LaStrada


The police station of Georgia Beach sports two jail cells off the main office. It’s old-fashioned, homely almost, the space, cell walls from a film noir with vertical iron bars all around to which jail birds can cling in silent desperation.

They’ve separated me and Taylor in a transparent attempt to prevent more lewd interaction between John Lee, age 29, sex-male, race-Caucasian (I had to provide my personal details yet again, the third time inside a week), and Taylor Stanford Hart, sex-male, race-Caucasian, age-perhaps-illegal---Taylor had failed to convince them of his 18th birthday, he doesn’t look the birthday boy at all. Your Social Security Number? That would be 067-70-9756. Say that again: “067-07-9765.” It won’t take it. The computer. The number. Sorry. “You have no driver’s license?” Yes, he does, but left it in his bag on the camping ground. Sorry.


Hideki Koh

I’m alone in Cell No.1, Taylor is with Ray in Cell No.2. Ray couldn’t possibly follow the conversation about “carnal knowledge” going on in the main office, a topic to which Taylor and I contributed very little---letting LaStrada dictate his observations to a desk officer positioned behind an unwilling computer near the goldfish bowl---us not questioning whether Mr. Lee’s “hold” on Mr. Hart’s “member” was intentional or perhaps the result of unfortunate mistakes due to the substandard illumination inside Roper's caravan---except that Mr. Hart, at a critical juncture, namely when LaStrada had run out of things to say about “members” and appeared poised to move the focus to the transgressive part of the arrestees malfeasance (the yellow crime tape, the perimeter violation)---that Mr. Hart, whose mother runs a Baltimore law firm (we will learn soon)---that Taylor asked several nerdy questions about the goldfish in its bowl, questions which engaged the desk officer in lengthy answers, so lengthily that LaStrada’s cell began to ring and the detective was called away. I lost my train of thought. Yes, Ray could not have followed the conversation, but he’s sensitive, very sensitive, and now he’s gazing expectantly at his cell mate.



Botero

Ray could easily handle the truth, he must have spent a quarter of his life in darkrooms, but we’ve skirted the subject and blamed everything on the police tape and regrettable misunderstandings. I cling to the cell bars in silent desperation and in an attempt to meditate---suppressing all free-floating thoughts I mean---in particular thoughts about (a) a wood paneled conference room in the provost's office, me sitting at the table, staring at the shiny surface of imitation mahogany, SGC’s vice provost sitting opposite to me, also staring at the table, holding on to a sheet of paper, both of us equally embarrassed, somebody from security standing half-behind him, jingling with change in his pocket---nah, they won’t, they’ll send a letter to my home address informing me of the termination of my employment  "for cause" and my banishment from the campus, effective immediately; (b) thoughts about the performative aspects of LaStrada’s remarks, the way he played with pitch and tremolo of his voice when repeating my last name surreptitiously (“Mr. Lee,” “Mr. Lee,” Mr. “Lee”). And they have my finger prints now, the prints they will also find (or have already found) on both sides of Neill Palmer’s mysterious darkroom letter. And I had a free phone call to make and declined. I feel like a black hole.

Seizoh Ebisubashi

The corridor door to the main office is still ajar (suicide watch?), so we hear what sounds like the main entrance door banging. There’s the back and forth between the sergeant on duty and a mild Atlanta accent I somehow remember, and then the corridor door opens with a man in a suit and an attaché case, the same person, a lawyer, sent last week by Trevor Howard to alert me to DA Hunnsbruck’s closet activities. The lawyer (he didn’t tell me his name then) recognizes my face and greets me casually, hesitates for a beat and asks: “What happened to Hunnsbruck?”
“Nothing,” I say.
“Good,” he says. “I came for Mr. Ray Malang.”
“Mayang,” I say, “Ray Mayang.”
“How do you know?”
“We’re next of kin.”
“Oh, that’s why you are here.”
“Ray called me and I called Trevor Howard.”
“I see.”

Michael Breyette

He points at Ray. “This is Mr. Mayang, I reckon…And this young man?”
“Taylor Stanford Hart,” Taylor replies.
“Of course,” the lawyer says and retrieves a yellow pad and a pen from his attaché case. “You are somehow involved in this?”
“This?”
“This.”
“Somehow,” Taylor says.
“Good,” the lawyer replies, “so we dispense with the usual protocol of confidentiality. My name is Robert Rowan. I am an attorney at law.”

Pedro Palanca

He turns to me again, his gaze touching the cell door lock “What are you doing here?”
“Just visiting,” I say.
He shakes his head, turns to Ray in the other cell. “Mr. Mayang, I have been made to understand that you find yourself in legal trouble.”
“Yes,” Ray answers.
He has a second look at Ray, taking him in for several seconds. “I hate to bring this up so soon,” he says, “but you understand that I need to charge for my services. It is a matter of compensation.”
“Compensation,” Ray echoes and looks at me.

Botero

I remember something, feel in my pockets, feel a slip of paper, and hand it through the bars to Rowan. The lawyer studies the check, says: “What’s A-level escort service?”
“Ray’s business,” I say.
“A two thousand dollar retainer won’t get Mr. Mayang very far,” Rowan says. “I’m Trevor Howard’s friend, not yours or Mr. Mayang’s.”
“If Ray wins this case, I reply, “he stands to inherit the fortune of Neill Palmer, the local real estate tycoon. Eight digits.”
“Neill?”
“Yes, Neill Palmer.”
“The last twig of the Palmer family tree.”
“It’s family money, he told me. He came into it a few years ago.”
“The guy owns the cruising area behind the beach,” Rowan ejaculates.
“Owned,” I say.
“He sold it?”
“He’s dead.”
“Neill Palmer is dead?”
“That’s why Ray is here, didn’t Howard tell you?”
“Trevor told me to go chase an ambulance.”
“It should be in the news by now, Palmer’s death.”
“No, it’s not. I would know. Palmer and I go way back. He was one of my first clients when I relocated from Atlanta. I kept him out of trouble with his Thai auberge.”
“Howard handles the case, it’s death and bodily fluids in the darkroom of the Blue Moon.”
“So he wouldn't tell me over the phone. And Ray?”
“Ray is the main beneficiary of Palmer’s last will and testament. Especially his last.”
“Eight digits, that’s mildly put. Neill owned the entire coast line down to Simon’s River. That’s why is undeveloped. Perhaps the best piece of property on the entire East Coast.”


Stéphane Dupré


We stare at Ray, the forty five year old oriental boy, who beams like a Buddha, all of his five feet.
“Under these circumstances,” Robert Rowan says, handing the check back, “we could dispense with the encumbrances of hourly billing and agree on a contingency fee.” He seeks eye contact with Ray. “What do you say?”
“Contingency,” Ray says.
“A success fee. In a case like this, forty-five percent would be the appropriate benchmark.”
“Forty-five percent,” Ray says.
“Ho-ho,” Taylor says, “forty-five percent? In an inheritance case? Even my mother wouldn’t charge more than thirty-three percent. Shall I call her?”
“And explain to her about your whereabouts?”
“She’s used to lying.”
“Okay, thirty-three percent then. Thirty-three-point-three, one third,” Rowan says to Ray.
“My mother would do it for twenty-five percent.” Taylor interposes. “One quarter of the entire East Coast. I’m sure. Shall I call her?”
“Not the entire East Coast. Ten miles of it.”
“Twenty-five percent is still two-and-a-half miles of East Coast. How deep?”
“Half a mile or so.”
“Jeezus. We do it for two miles, Ray. Twenty percent. I call her.”
“You can’t call; they have confiscated your cell phone,” Rowan replies, adding, for good measure, in Ray’s direction: “He can’t call; they have confiscated his cell phone.”
“I still have a free phone call to make,” I say.
“What are you doing here?”
“Just visiting.”
“And a free phone call to make.” He grabs the handle of the cell door, rattles the door jamb. “You are locked up, Mr. Lee. Incarcerated. Bereft of freedom.” He rattles the jamb again.
“How do I tell them I want to make my phone call,” I say.
“I want to help you,” Rowan says to Ray, “Fifteen percent.”
“One mile, Ray, we do it for one mile. Ten percent,” Taylor says.

Are you still there? Then you will probably like the GREEN EYES, the first part of this story, wich is now available as Kindle book on Amazon, under this link:


Night Owl Reviews

Go here for the previous teaser, here for the next one, and here for a selection of chapters of the Green Eyes.

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