after.”
“My name’s Lance. Does that help?”
“It’s a start.”
“And you’re Benjamin Justice. The faggot who wrote a book about stuff he did a long time ago and how bad he feels about it now.”
I raised my eyebrows skeptically. “You read it?”
“Yeah, I read it.”
“Why?”
“Because I wanted to learn more about you.”
“For what purpose?”
“Not because I want to suck your cock, if that’s what you’re thinking.”
“Why would I be thinking that?”
“Because you’re queer, and that’s what you guys like to do.”
He said it straight out, like a simple statement of fact. If there was malice in his words, I didn’t hear it.
“I understand that you’re a jarhead,” I said. “That you served in Iraq.”
He pulled out a pack of unfiltered Marlboros, lit one, took a long drag.
“Yeah, I was over there. What’s it to you?”
“Couldn’t have been much fun.” When he didn’t say anything, I asked, “You from around here?”
He pulled deeply on the cigarette again, holding in the smoke. When he finally let it out, he said, “You know how many packs a day I smoked when I was over there? Six. Six fucking packs a day, and when I went over I was trying to quit.”
“That’s a lot of tar and nicotine.”
“So how come you don’t smoke?”
“How do you know I don’t?”
“I know plenty about you, and not just from your book.”
“What’s so interesting about me, Lance? Why do you follow me around, trying to get under my skin?”
He took a final drag, dropped the butt, crushed it with the toe of his boot. Then he took a step closer and studied my face a moment with something more than just curiosity, some emotion I couldn’t name. He repeated what he’d done the first day we’d met, just before I’d grabbed him and slammed him to the ground. He reached up with his right hand and caressed my face. This time I didn’t stop him, or move away. I felt him run his fingers over my rough beard, around the contours of my jaw, down my neck, along a biceps still swelling and hard from my workout. Then he pressed his hand to my left pectoral and kept it there, while my heart beat faster.
Nearby, someone cleared his throat. I glanced over to see a uniformed city worker with a set of keys in his hand, looking faintly embarrassed. He told us the park was closed for the night, that it was time for him to lock the gates.
Lance kept his hand over my heart a moment longer, peering deep into my eyes, before removing it and stepping back.
“Maybe I’ll see you around,” he said, making it sound like both an invitation and a threat.
Then he was gone, back down the path and across the park. I followed to the edge of the street, where I saw him ride off on his Harley. It was a stylish FXST Softail, the seminal 1984 model with the V-2 engine that had saved the company from financial ruin. As Lance roared away on his gleaming hog, I realized he’d kept it in mint condition, the way I’d restored and maintained my ’65 Mustang. He’d had it parked at the curb, right out front, which meant he’d had this encounter planned all along, right down to the privacy of the location. Whatever was going on with him, I thought, he wasn’t stupid.
The city worker locked up the park and drove off. I stood alone as night closed in on the neighborhood, trying to figure out what kind of game Lance was playing but no closer to knowing than I’d been an hour ago, or yesterday, or last week.
* * *
Back at Buff, I showered and changed into my street clothes, then dropped in at the sheriff’s substation on my way home to inquire about the copy of the police report I’d requested. When I asked for Detective Haukness at the front counter, a deputy informed me that Haukness had been reassigned to the homicide division, working out of department headquarters in East L.A.
“I’d still like my copy of that report,” I said.
The deputy slid a form in front of me, asked me to fill it
“My name’s Lance. Does that help?”
“It’s a start.”
“And you’re Benjamin Justice. The faggot who wrote a book about stuff he did a long time ago and how bad he feels about it now.”
I raised my eyebrows skeptically. “You read it?”
“Yeah, I read it.”
“Why?”
“Because I wanted to learn more about you.”
“For what purpose?”
“Not because I want to suck your cock, if that’s what you’re thinking.”
“Why would I be thinking that?”
“Because you’re queer, and that’s what you guys like to do.”
He said it straight out, like a simple statement of fact. If there was malice in his words, I didn’t hear it.
“I understand that you’re a jarhead,” I said. “That you served in Iraq.”
He pulled out a pack of unfiltered Marlboros, lit one, took a long drag.
“Yeah, I was over there. What’s it to you?”
“Couldn’t have been much fun.” When he didn’t say anything, I asked, “You from around here?”
He pulled deeply on the cigarette again, holding in the smoke. When he finally let it out, he said, “You know how many packs a day I smoked when I was over there? Six. Six fucking packs a day, and when I went over I was trying to quit.”
“That’s a lot of tar and nicotine.”
“So how come you don’t smoke?”
“How do you know I don’t?”
“I know plenty about you, and not just from your book.”
“What’s so interesting about me, Lance? Why do you follow me around, trying to get under my skin?”
He took a final drag, dropped the butt, crushed it with the toe of his boot. Then he took a step closer and studied my face a moment with something more than just curiosity, some emotion I couldn’t name. He repeated what he’d done the first day we’d met, just before I’d grabbed him and slammed him to the ground. He reached up with his right hand and caressed my face. This time I didn’t stop him, or move away. I felt him run his fingers over my rough beard, around the contours of my jaw, down my neck, along a biceps still swelling and hard from my workout. Then he pressed his hand to my left pectoral and kept it there, while my heart beat faster.
Nearby, someone cleared his throat. I glanced over to see a uniformed city worker with a set of keys in his hand, looking faintly embarrassed. He told us the park was closed for the night, that it was time for him to lock the gates.
Lance kept his hand over my heart a moment longer, peering deep into my eyes, before removing it and stepping back.
“Maybe I’ll see you around,” he said, making it sound like both an invitation and a threat.
Then he was gone, back down the path and across the park. I followed to the edge of the street, where I saw him ride off on his Harley. It was a stylish FXST Softail, the seminal 1984 model with the V-2 engine that had saved the company from financial ruin. As Lance roared away on his gleaming hog, I realized he’d kept it in mint condition, the way I’d restored and maintained my ’65 Mustang. He’d had it parked at the curb, right out front, which meant he’d had this encounter planned all along, right down to the privacy of the location. Whatever was going on with him, I thought, he wasn’t stupid.
The city worker locked up the park and drove off. I stood alone as night closed in on the neighborhood, trying to figure out what kind of game Lance was playing but no closer to knowing than I’d been an hour ago, or yesterday, or last week.
* * *
Back at Buff, I showered and changed into my street clothes, then dropped in at the sheriff’s substation on my way home to inquire about the copy of the police report I’d requested. When I asked for Detective Haukness at the front counter, a deputy informed me that Haukness had been reassigned to the homicide division, working out of department headquarters in East L.A.
“I’d still like my copy of that report,” I said.
The deputy slid a form in front of me, asked me to fill it
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