Second You Sin by Scott Sherman Page B

Justin Timberlake Boy cried.
    “I saw him first,” Muscle Head shouted.
    I kept pul ing. “Sorry, guys.”
    Freddy pul ed back. “I want to go back to that place,” he whined. “That was my happy place.”
    “We have to go,” I said. “I need to talk to you.”
    “I’m sure you do, darling,” Freddy said, twisting his arm away. “But I need to close the deal with those two highly motivated young men, so I’m afraid you’l just have to wait.”
    “It’s murder, ” I hissed.
    “Yes, darling, I know it’s hard for you to wait, but I real y do need to hump those boys some more.
    Maybe you should take one of your pil s.”
    “Not that,” I said, pressing myself against Freddy and whispering fiercely in his ear. “Someone is kil ing the most beautiful male prostitutes in New York. And I think it’s up to us to find out who.” Rueben brought us back to Ansel ’s bedroom.
    I fil ed Freddy in on what I’d just learned about Sammy White Tee. Then, I told Rueben what happened to Randy, and what Randy had told me about Brooklyn Roy.
    “Holy hookers,” Freddy said. “That’s three.” Rueben looked as white as one of Sammy’s trademark T-shirts. “You real y think something’s going on?” he asked. “I mean, it could just be coincidence, right?”
    “Could be,” I answered.
    “Not likely,” Freddy responded. “Kevin has a way of getting involved in murders.”
    “Freddy!”
    “Darling.” Freddy turned to Rueben. “Let me tel you a little story.” Freddy told Rueben about our role in investigating the death of my friend Al en Harrington, and how, in the process, we stumbled upon a particularly nasty homicide ring.
    “We were like the Hardy Boys,” Freddy explained.
    “Wel , like a queer Hardy Boys. Or, young, beautiful Jessica Fletchers. Or . . .”
    “Charlie’s Angels!” Rueben enthused.
    “Exactly,” Freddy agreed. “We made the comparison ourselves, frequently. I was the glamorous, sexy poster-icon Farrah Fawcett-Majors (may God rest her soul), and Kevin was the brainy and plain Kate Jackson.”
    “Hey,” I complained.
    “Wel ,” said Freddy, “you always need one on the team who’s kind of ordinary. How else wil the audience relate?”
    I glared at him.
    “Don’t blame me,” Freddy continued. “Go argue with Tori Spel ing if you want.”
    “Tori was the daughter,” I corrected. “Aaron Spel ing was the creative genius behind Charlie’s Angels. ”
    “What did I tel you?” Freddy turned to Rueben.
    “Brainy.”
    “But wait,” Rueben chimed in. “Weren’t there always three Angels?”
    “Of course,” Freddy answered.
    “Wel , there you have it. You guys need me!” Freddy and I looked at each other.
    “Think about it,” Rueben continued. “We’d be the most diverse Angels ever. Plain old white Kevin over there . . .”
    “Hey!” I said again, as if anyone cared.
    “The spectacular Nubian goddess La Frederista over here.” Rueben put his hands together as in prayer and gave a Freddy a slight bow. Freddy nodded as if to say, I accept your tribute.
    “And,” Rueben continued, “now me, a midseason addition to the cast, an outrageous and curvaceous Latina spitfire always sure to elicit a guffaw and boner!”
    Rueben leapt off his chair and shook his hips suggestively. “I am . . .” he intoned dramatical y, “the third Angel! I must be on the team.” He threw his arms in the air like a gymnast nailing the perfect dismount.
    “There is,” I said sternly, “no team.”
    “Oh, please.” Freddy stood and put his arm around Rueben. “It’s perfect! Right out of central casting. You’re hired!”
    “This is sil y,” I said.
    “Don’t be bitter just because you have to be the plain one,” Freddy cautioned.
    “Yes,” said Rueben. “Even if you’re not as pretty as we are, we stil need you on the team to, I don’t know, drive the car and defuse bombs and such.”
    “Guys . . .” I began.
    “Enough,” Freddy interrupted. “This is going