Virgin

  He proved himself at The Cockscomb. He’d been fighting since he was a kid and he’d learned every cheap, dirty, back-alley brawling trick there ever was, usually the hard way. He had the scars to prove it. He was good with a knife—very good. He’d stabbed his share and had been stabbed a few times in return. One of his opponents had died, writhing on the floor at his feet. Emilio had felt nothing.

  He started working out, popping steroids and bulking up until his shoulders were too wide for most doorways. He had a short fuse to begin with, and the juice trimmed it down to the nub.

  But not to where he was out of control. Never out of control. He always eased the belligerent drunken Americanos out to the street, but Heaven help the locals who got out of line. Emilio would beat them to a pulp and love every bloody minute of it. Another man died from one of those beatings, but he’d deserved it. Over the succeeding years he caused the death of three more men—two with a blade, and one with a bullet.

  He moved up quickly through the Tijuana sex world, from whorehouses, to brothels, to chief enforcer at the renowned Blue Senorita, a high-ticket bordello and tavern that catered almost exclusively to Americanos. Orosco, the owner, liked to brag that the Blue Senorita was a “full service whorehouse,” catering to all tastes—strip shows, live sex shows, donkey sex shows; where a man could have a woman, or another man, or a young girl, or a young boy, or—if he had the energy and a fat enough wallet—all four.

  For his first few years at the Blue Senorita Emilio had been proud of his position—inordinately so, he now thought—but the sameness of its nightly routine, along with the realization that he had risen as far as he could go and that somewhere along the corridor of his years, when he’d aged and softened and slowed, he’d be replaced by someone younger and stronger and hungrier. Then he’d find himself out on the street with no income, no savings, no pension. And he’d wind up one of those useless old men who hung around the square in their cigarette-burned shirts and their pee-stained pants, sipping from bottles of cheap wine and yammering to anybody who’d listen about their younger days when they’d had all the money they could spend, and any women they wanted. When they’d been somebody instead of nobody.

  He could see no future for him in Tijuana. Nowhere in all of Mexico. Perhaps America was the place. But maybe it was too late for him in America. He would be turning thirty soon. And how would he get in? Damned if he’d be a wetback. Not after practically managing The Blue Senorita.

  The featureless corridor of his future seemed to stretch on ahead, with no exits or side passages. Just a single door at the far end. Emilio promised himself to keep an eye peeled for a way out of that corridor.

  Charlie Crenshaw turned out to be that way.

  Emilio hadn’t realized that at first. The pudgy, brown-haired, blue-eyed boy had looked terribly young when he stumbled into The Blue Senorita that night ten years ago. He’d been roaring drunk and obviously under age, but he’d flashed his money and spread it generously, and everyone had nudged each other when he bought doe-eyed José for an hour.

  When the maricon’s time was up, Emilio had let him out a side door and stood watching to make sure he got good and far away from The Blue Senorita before he forgot about him. But at the mouth of the alley the kid was jumped by three young malos. Emilio hesitated. Served the little maricon right to be beat up and robbed, but not on The Blue Senorita’s doorstep. The local policia wouldn’t care—Orosco paid them plenty not to—but if the brat got killed there could be a shitstorm from the States and that might lead to trouble from the capital.

  Cursing under his breath, Emilio had pulled on his weighted leather gloves and charged up the alley. By the time he waded into the fight, the kid was already down and being used as a soccer ball. Emilio let loose on the malos. He crushed noses, crunched ribs, cracked jaws, shattered teeth, and broke at least one arm. He smashed them up and left them in a bleeding, crying, gagging, choking pile because it was his job to look out for The Blue Senorita’s interests, because he wanted to make sure these malos never prowled The Blue Senorita’s neighborhood again.

  Because he liked it.

  He dragged the unconscious kid back to the side door and checked out his wallet. He learned his name was Charles Crenshaw and that he was only fifteen. Fifteen! Hell to pay if he’d been kicked to death out here. He shuffled through pictures of the boy with his parents, posed at different ages before different homes. As the boy grew, so did the houses. The most recent was a palace.

  The little maricon was rich.

  And then Emilio came to a photo of the boy and his father standing before a building with a shiny CRENSOFT sign over the reflecting pool set in the front lawn. CrenSoft … Crenshaw … the rich boy’s father owned a company.

  As he stared at the wallet, thoughts of blackmail, and even ransom tickled Emilio’s mind. But those were just quick fixes. They would change nothing. Perhaps there was another way …

  And somewhere down the long, featureless corridor of his future , he saw a red EXIT sign begin to glow.

  Emilio threw Charlie over his shoulder and carried him back to his apartment. He placed a call to the family, told the father where Charlie was, and said to come get him. Then he sat back and waited.

  The father arrived at dawn. He was taller than Emilio, and about ten years older. Every move, every glance was wary and full of suspicion. He had another man with him; Emilio later learned he was the father’s pilot. When Emilio showed him Charlie’s battered, unconscious form, the father’s face went white. He rushed to the bed and shook the boy’s shoulder. When Charlie groaned and turned over, the father seemed satisfied that he was only sleeping it off. Emilio noticed him checking to make sure his son’s watch and ring were still where they belonged.

  When the father spoke, his voice was tight and harsh.

  “Who did this?”

  “Tres malos,” Emilio said. His English was not very good then.

  “Where are they?” the father said in fluent Spanish

  Emilio ground a fist into his palm. “Worse off than your son.”

  The father looked at him. “You helped him? Why?”

  Emilio shrugged. He’d been practicing that shrug all night.

  “They would have killed him.”

  “Why would they do that?”

  “He’s an Americano who looks rich. Plus he’s a boy who likes boys. They figure sure, he’s easy to kick over.”

  The father’s eyes turned to ice. “And are you a man who likes boys?”

  Emilio laughed. “Oh, no, senor. I like the women. If I want to play with a boy”—he patted his crotch—”I got one right here.”

  The father didn’t smile. He continued to stare at Emilio. Finally he nodded, slowly. “Thank you.”

  Emilio helped him and the pilot carry Charlie to the car outside, then handed Charlie’s wallet to the father. The father checked the credit cards and the bills.

  “I see they didn’t rob him.”

  “And neither did Emilio Sanchez. Good bye, senor.”

  Emilio played his riskiest card then: He turned and walked back into his apartment building.

  The father hurried after him. “Wait. You deserve a reward of some kind. Let me write you a check.”

  “Not necessary. No money.”

  “Come on. I owe you. There’s got to be something I can do for you, something you need that I can get you.”

  Emilio took a deep breath and turned to face him. This was the big moment.

  “Can you get me a job in America, senor?”

  The father looked confused. As Emilio had figured, the rich Americano hadn’t counted on anything like this. He was dumbfounded. Emilio could almost read his thoughts: You save my son’s life and all you want in return is a job?

  “I’d think that’d be the least I could do,” the father said. “How do you make your living now?”

&nb
sp; Another of those rehearsed shrugs. “I’m a bouncer at the whorehouse where your son spent much of his money last night.”

  The father sighed and shook his head in dismay. “Charlie, Charlie, Charlie,” he whispered to the floor. Then he looked back at Emilio. “That’s not much of a resume.”

  “I know the value of silence.”

  The father considered this. “Okay. I’ll give you a shot. Apply for a work visa and I’ll fit you into plant security. We’ll see how you work out.”

  “I will work out, senor. I promise.”

  The father kept his word, and within a matter of weeks Emilio was patrolling CrenSoft’s Silicon Valley plant, dressed in the gray uniform of a security guard. It was deadly dull, but it was a start.

  Charlie came by one day to thank him. He said he remembered being attacked by the three punks, but little else. Emilio found the boy very shy—he must have needed a tankful of tequila to work up the courage to walk into The Blue Senorita—and completely normal in most ways. As the years went on, Emilio actually grew fond of Charlie. Strange, because Emilio had always hated maricones. In truth, Charlie was the only one Emilio had ever really known. But he liked the boy. Maybe because there was nothing swishy about him. In fact, no one in security, or anywhere else in CrenSoft, seemed to have the vaguest notion that Charlie was a maricon.

  Which was probably why the father called on Emilio to find Charlie the next time he ran off. Each time Emilio brought the boy back, the father offered him a bonus, and each time he refused. Emilio was waiting for a bigger payoff.

  That came when the father sold his company. The entire staff, including security, went with the deal. All except Emilio. Mr. Crenshaw took Emilio with him when he built his mansion into a cliff overlooking the Pacific between Carmel and Big Sur. He put Emilio in charge of security during the construction, and when it was finished, he kept him on as head of security for the entire estate. The Senador called the place Paraiso. The papers, the architectural magazines, and the TV reporters compared Paraiso to San Simeon, and people from all over the world came to gawk at it. It was Emilio’s job to keep them out. He was aided in the task by the fact that access was limited to a single road which wound through rough terrain and across a narrow, one-car bridge spanning a deep ravine with a swift-flowing stream at its base.

  After Mr. Crenshaw became Senator Crenshaw, Emilio often shuttled between Washington and California on the Crenshaw jet. And now he was shuttling down the West Side of Manhattan in a stretch limo.

  Life was good on the fast track.

  Emilio hadn’t wasted his spare time during the past ten years. He’d gone to night school to improve his English and his reading. And he’d kept in shape. He’d sworn off the steroids but kept working out. The result was a slimmer, meaner frame, with smaller but denser muscles. At forty-one he was faster and stronger than he’d been in his halcyon days at The Blue Senorita. And this Dog Collar place might be a little like his old stomping grounds … and he did mean stomping.

  He popped his knuckles. He almost hoped somebody got in his way when he picked up Charlie.

  “It’s up here on the left,” Fred said.

  But Emilio was watching to the right. On the near side of West Street, near the water, a group of young men dressed in everything from leather pants to off-shoulder blouses were drinking beer and prancing around. Every so often a car would stop and one of them would swish over and speak to the driver. Sometimes the car would pull away as it had arrived, and sometimes the young man would get in and be whisked off for a rolling quicky.

  Fred did a U-turn and pulled up in front of The Dog Collar. As Emilio stepped out, Decker and Molinari appeared from the shadows. Decker was fair, Molinari was almost as dark as Emilio. They were his two best men from the Paraiso security force.

  “He’s still there. Want us to—?”

  “I’ll get him,” Emilio said. “You two watch my back.” He pulled out a pair of plain, black leather gloves. “And be sure to wear your gloves. You don’t want to split a knuckle in this place.”

  They smiled warily and pulled on their gloves as they followed Emilio inside.

  “He’s wearing a red parka,” Decker said as he and Mol flanked the door.

  Crowded inside, and dark. So dark Emilio had to remove his shades. He scanned the bar that stretched along the wall to his right. No women—not that he’d expected any—and no red parka. He met some frank, inviting stares, but no sign of Charlie. He checked out the floor—crowded with cocktail tables, a row of booths along the far wall and an empty stage at the rear. Slim waiters with boyish haircuts and neat little mustaches slipped back and forth among the tables with drinks and bar food. Emilio spotted two women—together, of course—but where was Charlie?

  He edged his way through the tables, searching the faces. No red parka. Maybe he’d taken it off. Who knew what Charlie might look like these days—the color of his hair, what he’d be wearing? One thing Emilio had to say for the boy, he was discreet. He wasn’t deliberately trying to ruin his father’s political chances. He usually rented a place under an assumed name, never told any of his rotating lovers who he was, and generally kept a low profile. But nonetheless he remained a monster political liability.

  Maybe that was why the Senador had decided it was time to reel Charlie in. He’d been gone for almost two years now. Emilio had tracked him to New York through the transfers from his trust fund. He’d traced him across the country but now he couldn’t spot him across this single room. Had he made Decker and slipped out the back?

  Emilio was about to return to the door to quiz Decker when he saw a flash of red in the rearmost booth and homed in on it like a beacon. Two guys in the booth—the one holding the parka had his back to him. Emilio repressed a gasp when he saw his face. It was Charlie. The curly brown hair was the same, as were the blue eyes, but he looked so thin. Emilio barely recognized the boy.

  Why do I still think of him as a boy? he wondered. He’s twenty-five.

  Perhaps it was because part of his brain would always associate Charlie with the pudgy teenager he’d carried out of that Tijuana alley.

  Charlie looked up at Emilio with wide blue eyes that widened further when he recognized him.

  “Oh, shit,” Charlie said. “You found me.”

  “Time to go home, Charlie.”

  “Let me be, Emilio. I’m settled in here. I’m not bothering anybody. I’m actually happy here. Just tell Dad you couldn’t find me.”

  “That would be lying, Charlie. And I never lie … to your dad.”

  He grabbed the boy under his right arm and began to pull him from his seat. Charlie tried to wriggle free but it was like a Chihuahua resisting a pitbull.

  The guy in the other half of the booth stood and gave Emilio a two-handed shove.

  “Get your mitts off him, fucker!”

  He was beefier than Charlie, with decent pecs and a good set of shoulders under the T-shirt and leather vest he wore, but he was out of his league. Way out.

  “No me jodas!” Emilio said and smashed a right uppercut to his jaw that slammed him back into the inner corner of the booth. He slumped there and stared up at Emilio with a look of dazed pain.

  Emilio turned and started dragging Charlie toward the door, knocking over tables in his way. He didn’t want a full-scale brawl but he wouldn’t have minded another maricon or two trying to block his way. But most of them seemed too surprised and off guard to react. Too bad. He was in the mood to kick some ass. He saw the bartender come out from behind the bar hefting an aluminum baseball bat. Decker and Mol intercepted him, and after a brief struggle Mol was holding the bat and the bartender was back behind the bar.

  Once he was free of the tables, Emilio swung the stumbling Charlie around in front of him and propelled him toward the door. Decker and Mol closed in behind them as they exited. Emilio heard the bat clank on the floor as the doors swung
closed. Half a dozen steps across the sidewalk and then they were all inside the limo, heading uptown.

  Charlie opened the door on the other side but Emilio pulled him back before he could jump out.

  “You’ll get killed that way, kid.”

  “I don’t care!” Charlie said. “Dammit, Emilio, you can’t do this! It’s kidnapping!”

  “Just following orders. Your father misses you.”

  “Yeah. Sure.”

  Charlie folded his arms and legs and withdrew into himself. He spent the rest of the trip staring at the floor.

  Emilio kept a close eye on him. He didn’t want him trying to jump out of the car again—although that might be a blessing for all concerned.

  He sighed. Why did the Senador want this miserable creature around? He seemed to love the boy despite the threat posed by his twisted nature. Was that parenthood? Was that what fathering a child did to you? Made you lose your perspective? Emilio was glad he’d spared himself the affliction. But if he’d had a child, a boy, he’d never have let him grow up to be a maricon. He would have beaten that out of him at an early age.

  What if Charlie did die by leaping from a moving vehicle? Or what if he fell prey to a hit-and-run driver? A major stumbling block on the Senador’s road to the White House would be removed.

  Emilio decided to start keeping a mental file of “accidental” ways for Charlie to die should the need suddenly arise. The Senador would never order it, but if the need ever arose, Emilio might decide to act on his own.

  I was two decades and a half in the desert when they came to me. How they found me, I do not know. Perhaps the Lord guided them. Perhaps they followed the reek of my corruption.

  They too were in flight, hiding from the Romans and their lackeys in the Temple. The brother of He whose name I deserve not to speak led them. They were awed by my appearance, and I by theirs. Barely did I recognize them, so exhausted were they by their trek.

  I was astounded to learn that they had brought the Mother with them.

  from the Glass scroll