Scott Sherman - Third You Die

Where had I left things? The owner of SwordFight Productions and its most successful director both claimed they didn’t know where he was. To his credit, though, at least the latter had given me a lead.

Brent’s boyfriend, Charlie.

What did I know about him? Brent told me he really liked Charlie, but that Charlie hated Brent’s working in porn. It had gotten to the point where Brent was feeling so pressured he was considering breaking up with Charlie.

What if things went the other way? Maybe, in the end, Brent decided to keep Charlie and give up the films. It would explain Brent’s dropping off the radar.

The too-tasty-by-half Kristen LaNue told me where Charlie worked as a bartender. The place only employed extremely good-looking young men. Charlie was probably quite the looker. He’d have that going for him.

What else did he bring to the table? Was it enough to convince Brent to walk away from the fame and fortune he’d been achieving in adult films? More important, did he know where Brent was and would he be willing to tell me?

Only one way to find out.

If you need to go to the bathroom or grab a snack, you might as well do it now.

It’s time for Intermission.

Memories light the corners of my mind. Misty watercolor memories. Of the whore I was.

The verse repeated itself in my head as I neared Intermission’s discreet street-level entrance in an elegant but otherwise typical Upper West Side town house.

I pitied the poor manager who had to hire the bouncers that manned the door. He or she had to find just the right combination of men muscular enough to intimidate, handsome enough not to be a turn-off, but not so good-looking as to get hit on all night. It was a delicate balancing act.

I nodded at the two on duty as I passed by. They nodded back.

I was wearing charcoal-gray Hugo Boss dress slacks, a white button-down Calvin Klein shirt, and a baby-blue cashmere V-neck Versace sweater I’d been told brought out the color of my eyes. I wanted to look good, but not too good. Just enough to get me in the door. Not so much that I had to decline offers all night.

Had I been dressed more provocatively or too casually, the bouncers wouldn’t have been so friendly. Intermission was what Bogart would have called a “classy joint.” It might have been a hustler bar, but it was a tony one. No streetwalkers in short-shorts or too-tight denim need apply. Anyone who gave off the vibe of a reporter, paparazzi, or private detective was similarly discouraged. The buyers here were rich and powerful, the merchandise polished, expensive, and, generally, worth it.

Through the doors, the ambiance was similarly low-key and posh. I’d arrived at seven-thirty, planning my visit for the quietest time of the evening. It was the small window after the “just off from work and looking to pick up some takeout” crowd had left and before the “went home, had dinner, and now it’s time for my favorite dessert” customers would arrive.

As I hoped, the place was almost empty. There were men at only two of the twenty or so tables, and another couple in the equal number of booths that lined the walls.

I headed straight for the dark mahogany bar that ran the length of the back. Only one of the brown leather stools there was occupied. An older gentleman was nursing an amber-colored drink in a low tumbler while eyeing two young men at a nearby table. Clearly vexed by analysis paralysis, his glance shifted from blond to brunette and back again. What to choose, what to choose?

The boys, obviously friendly but aware of the competition, chatted amicably while attempting to casually put forward their best faces. They squared their shoulders, sucked in their stomachs, and frequently shared smiles not meant for the other.

“Be a sport,” I wanted to tell the indecisive buyer, “spring for them both. They look even cuter as a pair, and I bet two plus one will more than equal three.”

So as not to interfere with the emerging deal, I sat at the far end of the bar. There was only one bartender on duty and his back was to me as he sliced lemons by a small utility sink. From behind, he looked good. He was tall, a few inches over six feet. A squarish head with neatly groomed reddish-brown hair sat on a neck thick with muscles. A burly upper body, plump ass, and something about the way he stood, stolidly wide-stanced and confident, as if braced for impact, gave the impression he’d played a lot of football. He’d fill out a uniform nicely.

Probably wouldn’t look too bad out of one, either.

Then I noticed behind him a bar-cruiser’s best friend: a mirrored panel against the wall that allowed me to observe his front without his noticing. With his chin tucked toward his chest while he worked, I had free rein to study his fine features. His oval eyes, long eyelashes, and full lips would have been pouty on a less masculine man. Rosy, fine-pored skin that suggested at least a little Irish in him. Pronounced pecs stretched out his standard white waiter’s shirt, and dome-shaped biceps confirmed my sense he was a high school athlete, or maybe a current school player if he was attending college while not tending bar.

I pictured him with Brent. They’d be a handsome couple by any measure. Smaller, swimmer’s-build Brent would fold nicely into this beefy bohunk.

Assuming this was Charlie, that is. Finding out was the first order of business. I cleared my throat to get his attention.

The bartender looked up and saw me in the mirror. His face transformed from an expression of lemon-slicing indifference to a hugely excited and relieved smile in the space of a second. Pivoting gracefully on one foot, he turned around, positively beaming with joy.

Either he was inordinately happy to see another patron, or he’d mistaken me for someone else.

“There you are!” he exclaimed, louder than appropriate in the quiet room. He fast-walked over to me, eyes alight with the eager prospect of reunion. “I’m so glad to see you! I was so…”

Charlie, who I was now sure this was, let his voice trail off as he realized his error.

He wasn’t the only person who’d noticed how alike Brent and I appeared, but he was the first who looked like the resemblance was going to bring him to tears. His face crumpled like a little boy’s who runs downstairs on Christmas morning to find not only no presents under the tree, but no tree. His naturally pink cheeks flushed an alarmingly bright red.

“I’m s-sorry,” he stammered, embarrassed both by his miscalculation and his inappropriate outburst. Intermission was a sedate establishment that encouraged a certain level of exaggerated decorum. Shouting, even when joyful, was not expected from the staff.

“It’s just-I thought you were someone else,” he explained. He’d continued his approach and was now across the bar from me. As if to make up for his earlier gaffe, he spoke in a library whisper.

I gave him a sympathetic smile. “It’s okay,” I said. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

Under normal circumstances, that last part would have made no sense. Nothing I did could have been construed as startling, unless it was generally shocking to see a customer seated at the bar. But a dazed Charlie nodded as if he knew what I meant.

So, now I had two questions answered. One, yes, this was the boy Brent had been dating. Two, it was clear from his reaction that he didn’t know where Brent was, either, and probably hadn’t for a while.

“So, um, what can I get you?” Charlie still regarded me with a cautious curiosity, as if at any moment his vision might clear and I’d be revealed as his erstwhile lover.

“Information,” I said. “I think you and I are looking for the same person. Maybe if we put our heads together, we can find him.”