Gotta Eep Trying

"I don't need no warrant to tell you to take off your shirt, Alfonse. And I don't really need for you to take off your shirt for both you and me to know that you have an all-color arm sleeve tattoo, do we?"

The black pawnbroker stood there, behind the cash register in his junk-packed store and stared belligerently back at Phil. There was a touch of fear in his face too—which was disconcerting, because he was a big bruiser of well over six foot and probably tipping out at over 250 pounds of pure muscle.

"Don't know what that's got to do with anything," the man answered. His fists were balled up, but one of them was moving slightly forward, below the counter—right at the level a pawnbroker would keep his weapon. "I told you that little punk would lead you on a merry chase."

"Keep your hands in view, good buddy," Phil barked, as he unbuttoned his gun holster. "I could drop you before you got to anything, and you don't want this grief. This is business. This don't have nothing to do with business between me and you. I wouldn't want to have to drop you."

"No time for sweet talk, guys," Hardesty interjected. "Where is the Web site studio, Mr. Barkley. Just give me an address, we'll sit on you for a couple of hours, and then we'll let you go."

"What studio?" the black man said, turning his wary eyes to Hardesty. The vice cop could see that Barkley was assessing how deep a hole he was in. He'd tensed up significantly at the mention of a Web site studio and had backed up a step, like he'd gotten a body blow from an unexpected direction.

"We saw you on the video with the tied-up blond trick, the one with the Mohawk," Phil said. "We're ready to assume he's underage, which puts you in a world of hurt. Not a piece I think you'd forget doing—like earlier today." Hardesty blanched at this characterization of his Todd. His Todd. The thought made him angry too and he slammed his fist through the head of a drum hanging from the column next to him.

This startled both Phil and the pawnshop owner, but they quickly looked away and were at each other again. Still, Hardesty thought if that rattled the black guy and made him think they were on the edge here, that was probably good.

"And we saw you getting ready to join in a gang-bang of a Chink," Phil continued. He wasn't known for his delicacy or political correctness. "Don't ask me 'what studio' again. Maybe you'd rather talk downtown. We could make a show of it so that all of your friends know you've led off to sing about who knows what for us."

"An address. Now, Barkley. We don't have time for this," Hardesty impatiently interjected.

"I want to talk with my lawyer," Alfonse Barkley answered, his eyes narrowed, his chin dropped to his chest in an "ain't gonna say anything stance."

"OK, we'll meet up with your lawyer downtown, Alfonse. You can call him from the squad car, when you're hooked up. Come out of there nice and easy now, big guy. Hands showing above your waist."

As they were hustling a handcuffed pawnshop owner to the squad car outside, Phil turned and muttered to Hardesty. "Good going. The strong-arm approach worked a charm, didn't it? And don't think I don't remember you talking to the blond Mohawked guy in the film out on the street the other night. Took him home with you that night, I'll bet."

"Shut it," Hardesty answered. But after they'd gotten the black guy in the back of the cruiser, Hardesty put a hand on Phil's arm before they got into the front.

"Yeah, and I remember you strutting back to the car, tucking in your shirt, and whistling to the tune of 'I Just Got a Blowjob on the Job," Hardesty shot back. "The guy you poked in an alley OK? Maybe I should go look for him and count the bruises?"

"Well, you obviously got ants in your pants yourself for the blond cutie," Phil said. "The others can't see it, but I can see that you're going nuts over him being in those videos."

"So what if I am? What are you going to do about it?"

"Nothing. We're all in this together. Not my watchout that you're getting too personal with it—but, if you are, you are. I've got your back—just as long as you've got mine. Just remember that."

"Thanks, Phil. Glad we're squared away. So, you're taking this guy to the tombs?"

"Yeah, but maybe not a part of the tombs where his lawyer will find him real fast. I think I can work this guy."

"Maybe like he's worked you?" Hardesty said.

Phil gave him a level stare. "Yeah, well, you had your chance. If this guy gets put away, maybe you'll fill in his slot?"

Hardesty didn't answer that. He just got in the driver's seat and almost had the car on roll before Phil would slide in beside him.

* * * *

Hardesty went up to the vice bullpen while Phil took Alfonse Barkley downstairs to the tombs. They hadn't given Barkley his call from the squad car. Hardesty had no idea how soon Phil would give the pawnbroker that call, but he had a feeling it wouldn't be until after they'd had a more intimate chat—if Phil didn't get sidetracked by that guy down in Transportation he was trying to hook up with. Sometimes Phil let his dick get in the way of his concentration.

His phone was ringing when he got to his desk.

"Hardesty?"

By instinct and well-oiled practice, Hardesty slapped his hand over the phone receiver and called out, "Phone trace; my phone," in a booming voice. He knew that someone would be on duty to jump right in on that. Then he was right back to the phone.

"Todd. Where are you? I've been worried."

"I just had to call. I'm sorry that I walked out on you, but, you know . . . I'm not used to . . . you're too nice to me. And a cop. I don't deserve anyone being nice to me that way. I've really fucked it up."

"Where are you Todd? I'll come right to you. I've got a room set up for you at home. In green and gold. Those were your school colors, right?"

There was a pause on the other end. Hardesty welcomed it and didn't break into it—both because it meant Todd was considering what he said and because the longer he kept the young man on the line, the more likely the call could be traced.

"I don't know. I've got something good going now, I think. A steady gig with good money. They're good to me. They're my friends."

"I'm your friend, Todd. I can be just as good to you. I care for you. I don't think anyone else you're with does." He couldn't go further than that. He couldn't let Todd know they'd been watching him being taken. That surely would tip the scales on this call.

"I don't know. It's good here. I'm not on the street. You left me on the street."

"No, I didn't, Todd. Think. I offered you something else. You walked out on me. You went back out on the street on your own. God, Todd. I've been tearing my hair out looking for you. I'm asking you to come home. I . . . I . . ."

"Home? I don't know. So many want me. Some of them just like Thane. I just don't know. You talkin' 'home' sounds a lot like control again."

Hardesty was aghast. He'd almost said it. He'd almost told Todd he loved him. He'd never said that to anyone else. Why was he almost saying it to Todd? Was it true or was he just being dogged and willing to do anything to get the young man out of the business?

"Todd. It doesn't have to be any way you don't want it. You can make all your own decisions—but maybe better when you aren't so confused. Why are you calling me if you aren't sure that I care?"

"Umm, I . . . I just want to thank you for trying for me. You're the first guy since I hit D.C. that treated me right—well after . . . you know."

"God, Todd, I'm sorry. You don't know how sorry I am about how it started. But . . ."

He didn't complete that sentence, because the line was dead.

"Trace?" he yelled out.

"Sorry. A disposable," shot back the answer from across the bullpen.

* * * *

"Nice to see you, sugar. I was just thinking about calling you. I could use some of you. But I thought you'd like to know that I saw Nathan at the club last week."

"Nathan, at the club," Hardesty parroted back to the dancer calling himself Freddie—the effeminate one who had told him that Todd had been substituting for Nathan. He wasn't sure he'd heard right. They were at the back of the club room, but the sound system was on full blow, and the crowd was cheering the three dancers on the poles.

Freddie wasn't one of the dancers in this set. Hardesty had seen him when he'd entered the bar, still in his G-string and sitting on a burly guy's lap. When Freddie saw Hardesty, though, he rose from the lap—much to the disgruntlement of the man he'd been working—and motioned Hardesty to another, empty table.

"Yes, he was gone before I could speak to him. He was talking to one of the new dancers, Ping, though, before he left. And the next day Ping took off too. Didn't appear for his set, and I haven't seen him since."

"Ping. That's a peculiar name."

"Not for a Chinaman, it isn't, sweetie. Ping was Chinese. American now, but not from here. Good dancer too. All of the really good ones seem to be moving on quickly . . . except for me, of course." Freddie gave Hardesty a brilliant smile, fluttered his false eyelashes, and put his hand on Hardesty's thigh, really high on this thigh, and not on the outside either. He had an index finger on Hardesty's crotch and was rubbing something cylindrical inside the material. It was stirring in there for him too.

Freddie was a disposable type for Hardesty. When he was randy and he didn't want anything complicated, he'd just stroll down any street in this district, and the Freddies of the business would be pulled into his wake. A quickie in that motel room he used and tensions gone for a couple of days with no threat of attachment.

"And were Nathan and this Ping talking serious?"

"They seem to be—them and that construction guy I told you about."

"He was here too?"

"Yeah. You asked about his name. It was Gunther."

"Gunther. It sounds German."

"He sounds German too. It's fun to hear German words when someone is fucking you. Do you speak German, Mr. Hardesty? I could give you some words you could use."

Bingo, Hardesty thought—not for Freddie's blunt proposition, but the German accent. His spirits soared. It was all coming together. "This Gunther have a last name?"

"I'm sure he does. But we never got around to sharing last names. We share other things, though. Are you in the mood to share, Mr. Hardesty? I rather think so. Sharing might help me remember more."

There was no denying that Hardesty could share. Hardesty's cock had far less taste than his brain did. Freddie was cupping his basket now and continuing to stroke his cock with an index finger inside the material of his trousers.

Hardesty tried to ignore that—for now. He had to concentrate. He was on the trail. Things had to happen fast from here.

"Is he a tall, thin guy, but good muscles, veins standing out on his arms, and a winged tattoo all across his back."

"Don't tell me he fucks you too, darling. That would be a shame. Such a waste of a magnificent cock—yes, I can get its measure, big boy. But, yes, that's him—not that I've ever gotten a good look at his back, except at the beginning, when he's undressing."

"And you'd be able to pick him out—and Nathan—and Ping—on videos?"

"I don't see why not."

"And will you come down to the precinct with me to look at some videos? No hassling, just some IDing of men."

"I have videos that would knock your socks off back in the dressing room, doll. I'd like to take your socks off myself."

Hardesty sighed and threw a brain wave at his hard-on that he'd gotten the message—but only, he told himself, in the line of necessity. "Later. I'll give you something special later, if that's what you want—if you'll go down to the precinct with me now and do this one thing. Just a couple of minutes of your time. I can book a motel room on the way over, if you want some sort of assurance."

"Eight inches of assurance?"

"If that's what you want. Maybe more."

The dancer visibly shuddered. "Let me get something more than this on, lover. I'll be only a minute. This isn't really the right attire for a police station performance. Will there be a lineup? Can I give specifications of the men I'd like to see lined up?"

* * * *

The Web site was on the air when they got to the precinct. The captain raised an eyebrow as Hardesty, pulling Freddie along with a hand on the dancer's arm, slid into the semicircle of detectives looking at the film.

It obviously was already near the end of the film clip. One naked, balaclava-helmeted bruiser was on his back on the bed. Todd was draped on top of his chest, looking up at the camera. The man's cock was inside Todd, and Todd was moaning and looking dopey at the camera. The man's legs laced through Todd's and lifted his out and up. A second man, with a balaclava on, a little more pudgy and older than the first, came down on the bed on his knees, he walked on his knees to between Todd's spread leg. A side-angle shot showed him entering Todd's ass with his cock—on top of the cock already there.

The man on top was whispering something lost to the camera, and Todd answered in a thick voice, "Yes, it's OK . . . I can . . . oh, shit."

The man on top was beginning to stroke inside Todd. He's taken Todd's ankles in his hands and was holding the young blond's legs up high and spread well apart.

"Say it. Tell the viewers you want it. That we take care of you. That we're good to you." An off-camera voice with a German accent.

"Yes," Todd conceded in a slurred voice, "You're all good to me. You're my friends."

"And you want other friends from out there, beyond the camera too. Invite them to join the bid to share you."

"Yes, I want it again," Todd murmured.

But then his eyes snapped wide open and he grabbed out for the shoulders of the man on top. He began to writhe between the two men and to cry out, "Yes, yes. Fuck me. Both. Harder! Getitgetitgetit, Give it, Give it . . . Oh, God, YES!"

Hardesty had seen where the guy on the bottom had moved a hand to Todd's gecko tattoo and was rubbing it.

"Turn it off. Turn the fucking thing off," Hardesty said.

"Can't. Working here," Charlie answered, his fingers dancing on the keyboard.

The captain pulled Hardesty aside. Hardesty, in turn, pulled a wide-eyed Freddie with him.

"Calm down, Hardesty," the captain hissed. "This isn't like you."

"We've gotta keep trying, captain. We've got to bust these guys."

"I know we do. We're all working on it. And who's this you've dragged in?"

Dragged in wasn't far off the mark. Freddie was dressed so flamboyantly that there was little question what he was or what he'd do for money.

"A dancer. I think he can ID—"

"That was Todd," Freddie blurted out.

"I'm sorry you had to—" the captain started to say. But then he turned to Freddie. "That was who?"

"God, I wish that was me," Freddie murmured, lost in his own little world. "That was Todd. He danced with me at the club."

"So, he knows the blond guy," Hardesty said before the captain could react. "I thought that might be the case. Let's show him the other tapes and see who else he can identify."

"That's Nathan, yes. Nathan Winstead. He's a dancer, yes. and he's with Gunther—and the Hispanic is called Leon. Boy, can he cock. That's Gunther again, the one obviously in charge. He's in construction, you know. Somewhere up 16th Street, I think is where Nathan told me his offices are. No, I don't know his name . . . or where on the 16th Street. And Ping. The Chinese guy is Ping. He is a dancer too. And, oh my, oh my. I think I'm going to faint. Somebody give me a fan."

"Perhaps a glass of water," The captain said, motioning to one of the detectives.

"Oh, no, sugar. That's just a figure of speech. I think I might faint in a good way."

The captain looked perplexed, like he didn't know what would be appropriate to say. He fully understood that the weird gay guy was providing useful information and that he, the captain, needed to stand back and not get in the way of the flow.

"So, that's it? That's all you recognize?" Hardesty asked.

"Well, the rest are mainly muscles and hood ornaments and dicks, honey, but I can tell you that those people are having one hell of a good time. Now, Mr. Hardesty, if we're done here, you said you'd give it to me."

"Umm, do we need to go tap the snitch fund, Hardesty?" the captain asked.

"No need, captain. I got this. I'll take Freddie back to the club and be back in a few."

* * * *

"Oh, honey, honey, you horse-hung stud. Oh, Yes. Be good to me. Give me your sugar. Yes, just like that. It's not the long arm of the law; it's the long cock. The thick, looooong cock. Oh, Fuccck, yes. Keep pumping me like that and I'll tell you anything, you big, strong hunk. Oo, cop's dicks are so evil."

Hardesty had Freddie kneeling on all fours on the bed in a room in the same motel he'd taken Todd to that first time. He was crouched over the figure of the little dancer close, his cock buried to the hilt, fucking in hard, pistoning action, short jabs, deep. He'd snaked an arm under the small man's waist and was slow pumping his dick.

His mind was wandering as Freddie babbled. The fuck was OK, but it wasn't Todd. And it was just paying off an informant—at least he told himself that. He knew it was idiotic, but his cock liked fucking the Freddie types. They seemed to appreciate it and fucking them was uncomplicated. There was nothing personal in it for any part of him other than the cock, though. And, yes, he did sometimes think of his cock as a different personality all together. It certainly seemed to have a mind of its own from time to time.

So, he was as much a prostitute as Todd was. He was just as prone to sell himself for what he wanted in return. That was sort of comforting to think of. It took the complication out of his perpetual randiness. Freddie was small. Todd was small. Both Nathan and Ping had looked small. Were all pole dancers small? Did they all babble and squeal when they were being fucked like Freddie did? Not Todd. Well, not until his tattoo was rubbed.

"Oh Sweetfuckingjeesus! You're makin' me come." Hardesty had stopped the pistoning temporarily and was revolving his hips slowly, moving his cock in a circular fashion deep inside Freddie's ass. Freddie's groans and the way his body was shuddering indicated he loved this attention. Hardesty pumped hard a couple of more times and Freddie's body jerked and he came inside Hardesty's fist. Hardesty moved that hand up to Freddie's mouth, and the little dancer licked the cum off it.

Hardesty began to pump again. "Oh, lover, yes. Hard. Deep. Like that. Gotta take care of daddy. Cops are the best." He clenched his channel, and it was Hardesty's turn to groan.

"Now, don't you come before telling me you're ready. But you can fuck me like this all day. You're amazing. Fuck me all day. Oh, Sweetfrigginggod, don't you come now without telling me."

"I'm telling you."

"What?"

"I'm telling you. I'm about to . . ."

Freddie was quick as a rabbit. He pulled away from under Hardesty and turned and scooted down all in one fast, fluid movement. He jerked the condom off Hardesty's cock and reached up to twist Hardesty's nipples as his mouth closed over Hardesty's dick. He was just in time to collect all of Hardesty's ejaculate.

Hardesty rolled one way onto his back and Freddie rolled the other way, both stretched out flat on their backs on the motel's king-sized bed. The bed was the only quality piece of furniture in the room. Hardesty had always thought that was so the springs would be solid, wouldn't squeak and disturb the fuck games of those in the neighboring rooms. Truth be known, though, this is why he rented at this motel so often himself.

"You give good fuck . . . cops give the best fuck," Freddie murmured. Then he laughed. "Sorry, just joking. You give great fuck for anyone."