"Neither can I. Where do you get them developed?"
"I got a little lab in my house."
Jack knew that. He'd seen it. Just a converted closet, but a small-time operator like Cordova didn't need more.
"Wonderful. Let's go. And don't tell me I'm not coming along, because I am. I paid for those photos and I want to see what I've got. If they're what I
need to bring Brad) down, you'll get the extra thousand T promised right then and there."
"What? Come to my place? I never…" He paused for a few heartbeats, then, "Well, I guess it would be okay. I mean, seeing as you're laying out all this money and all. Yeah. Sure. Why not."
Cordova had agreed just a little too easily. Jack had known he'd go along eventually, but had expected him to play a little harder to get.
15
Sweet Jesus, Richie thought as he arranged the prints across his desktop. They were . . .fantastic was the only word for them.
He sat in his darkened attic office and stared. The only sound was the breathing of the guy leaning over his shoulder. Gorcey had insisted on printing every frame. Immediately. He wanted them now. Not tomorrow or the next day. Now.
That was okay by Richie. The prints wouldn't go to waste. He'd scan them and copy them onto a CD. Then he'd stick them in an envelope marked Personal & Confidential and address it to Luther Brady.
He wanted to get up and dance. This was the mother lode. This was the California gold rush and the key to De Beers rolled into one.
Even though he'd had to take the photos through a screened window into a moderately lighted room, the images were clear enough to detail the goings-on in that cabin. Brady without his mask before the boys arrived; Brady putting on his mask; Brady making the boys earn their pay—really earn it.
Brady, Brady, Brady.
Richie had been a little sickened by the stuff that went down in that room, but he'd hung in there until he'd had enough. More than enough.
Luther Brady, you are my meat, you are my bitch. From this day forward, I own you.
Only one thing stood in the way: the guy behind him. Louis Gorcey.
He couldn't let him walk out of here. The only way Gorcey was leaving this house was horizontal and feet first.
But he couldn't risk giving Gorcey even a hint of what was coming.
He spoke without looking up. "See anything you like?" he said, knowing it could be taken two ways.
"I like none of it. I am appalled. I was hoping for something scandalous, but this… this is unspeakable."
Gorcey sounded offended. That surprised Richie. After all, didn't gay guys like young stuff? He knew he did. Girls, of course. Not boys. But teen girls, with the way they dressed these days in their tight tops and low-riding jeans leaving their smooth, rounded bellies showing, it just wasn't fair to a guy who wasn't getting much. How he'd love to pull down a pair of those hip-hugging jeans and put his face…
Fat chance. Like one of them would go for a guy forty years older—older than their dads, probably. And fat to boot.
Richie sighed. The closest he'd ever get to one of those was on the Internet. But he could dream. Oh, yeah, he could dream real good.
He tore himself away from young girls and got back to these pictures of young boys.
"Well, did I earn the extra grand?"
"Yes. You earned your bonus."
"Great. Now, what do we do?" When Gorcey didn't answer, Richie looked up at him. "Hello? Did you hear what I—?"
Gorcey's face looked strange. He'd finally taken off his sunglasses. Left his gloves on but had to remove the shades, what with the room being kind of dark. His brown eyes were scary. Murderous, almost. Richie's heart stopped for a second when he thought that look might be for him. But how could it be? They'd only met tonight, and it was Brady that Gorcey was after.
Gorcey nodded. "I heard you. But I'm thinking."
"About what?"
"Blackmail." His hand did a quick wave. "I know what you said about your code of ethics, but I'm sure Brady would pay almost anything to keep these out of the public eye."
An alarm bell sounded in Richie's head. What was going on here? Almost like this guy was reading his mind. A bowel-clenching thought wormed through his head: What if he was sitting next to the guy the nun had hired to fuck up his operation?
His hand crept toward the .38 in his shoulder holster…
Hey, wait. That didn't make sense. Gorcey had just led him to a goose that was going to lay a steady stream of golden eggs. And besides, if Gorcey was carrying—and Richie was pretty damn sure he wasn't—he'd had a million chances on the way upstate and back to do whatever damage he might have come to do.
No… Gorcey wasn't Jack, wasn't the guy from Julio's the nun had told him about. He was just a fag with a hard-on for Luther Brady.
Soon he was going to be a dead fag.
"Blackmail's illegal, Lou. Don't tell me any more. I could lose my license for not reporting you."
"You wouldn't need a license with what we could squeeze out of Brady."
"'We'?"
"Well, blackmailing him would require a certain amount of toughness that I'm not sure I have. But you seem tough, Mr. Cordova."
Richie wasn't sure how to play this. Gorcey was proposing a partnership. It was tempting in a way. It meant he wouldn't have to kill him. Disposing of a body was no easy thing—as the quick discovery of the dead nun proved. Forensic crime labs were getting better and better. Some simple little thing could fuck him up royally.
But bringing Gorcey in would mean splitting the milk from Brady, and Richie didn't even want to think about that. But even so, he didn't think a queer like Gorcey had the stuff to stay the course. And worse, he might spill to one of his lover boys, either while whispering sweet nothings or trying to impress some stud he was courting. That would queer—he hid a smile and thought, Oh, pardon me!—that would queer everything.
Okay. Let's look at the situation. I've got a gun, he don't. The shades are already pulled. My house is sealed up, and so are all the neighbors'. Nobody around here will be out on the street on a cold Sunday night like this. I can put a couple of quick ones into Gorcey's chest and no one'll be the wiser.
That would work. Then he'd wait till the dead dark hours of the morning and tote the body out to the car. He could dump Gorcey under an overpass or someplace like it and forget about him. There wasn't no connection between the two of them.
But he had to go about this real careful like. Keep Gorcey nice and relaxed so he wouldn't see nothing coming. Richie didn't want no tussle—even a pansy man could get lucky. Just a quick, clean kill.
Sticking to the upright, uptight, ethical PI role seemed the best play.
"Yeah, I'm tough enough," Richie said, "but I'm honest. I'll give you the prints and negatives and then we'll both forget we ever had this conversation. " He patted the area around his desk. "Oops. No envelopes. Have to get one out of the closet."
Out of the closet… ha!
As he pushed up from the seat, he snaked one hand into his coat and pulled the .38 free of the holster. He held it chest-high. All he had to do now was make his turn and—
A gloved hand came out of nowhere and grabbed his wrist while another shoved a big shiny pistol against his cheek.
"Wha—?"
"What were you planning to do with that, Richie?" said a hard voice that didn't sound at all like Louis Gorcey's.
Moving only his eyes, Richie looked. It was Gorcey, all right. He looked the same, and yet everything about him was different. Gorcey wasn't Gorcey no more.
Richie's knees went soft as he realized he might have made a terrible mistake.
"I-I-nothing. I was just taking it out to lay it on my desk. It's heavy and it, you know, gets in the way."
Richie tried to twist his hand free but the grip on his wrist tightened, became crushing, and the muzzle pressed deeper into his face.