Aurora Tapestry is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons (living or dead), events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright 2005 by John Ellison
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of author, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.
WARNING: This story contains graphic depictions of sex between consenting adult males and/or teenage males. Please do not continue reading if you are offended by this genre of erotic literature, if you are underage or if this type of story is illegal where you live.
WARNING: This story contains scenes of violence, graphic and abusive language and graphic descriptions of male nudity. Discretion is advised.
Aurora Tapestry
Chapter 33
While Sophie paced the cramped waiting room outside the surgical suite of the Chinese Community Hospital, The Gunner flailed the Rangers for more information. He drove Terry Hsiang to distraction with his demand for information! Where were Stennes and the mysterious boy accompanying him? Stennes lived in the dark shadows of crime and depravity. He dealt with slime and had been in contact with the men they had under surveillance. Had none of them seen anything? Had none of Terry's people, who controlled Chinatown and had contacts with every criminal gang in the East, seen nothing of a strange German who was accompanied by a young blond boy? Where, The Gunner demanded, would a creature such as Stennes hide?
Terry remained impassive in the face of The Gunner's irate demands. Stennes could be in Toronto. He could be in Montreal. For all anyone knew, the man, and the boy, could be in Europe. Toronto was a huge city and anyone wishing to hide could find plenty of boltholes. He would do what he could but he cautioned The Gunner not to expect too much.
What The Gunner did not know, what the Rangers did not know, what Terry Hsiang did not know, was that the objects of their interest were less that a thousand yards away from the hospital.
The hospital, a tan brick and glass, state-of-the-art facility, stretched along Huron Street from Baldwin to D'Arcy, its pavilions and wings taking up much of the block. To the north, and slightly west, at the far end of Glasgow Street, and set in a large garden that had once produced vegetables and flowers for the original owners, dour Scots Presbyterians, who would have been shocked to their underpinnings if they knew what had become of their home, was the red brick, Victorian Oriental Students Residence, as a small brass plaque on the gate post proclaimed it to be. Paul, had he bothered to look out the windows of his assigned room would have seen the bulk of the hospital and the huge illuminated green cross fixed to the side of the building.
After breakfast, Paul had returned to his room and the sleeping Damian. They had sex again and then showered, dressed, and went off to take in the sights.
Stennes spent much of the morning in conference with Hung. The German had thought about Paul's ideas and while he was not quite ready to terminate his operations in Europe and North America, his protege's ideas had merit. Hung had agreed, pointing out that there were large Chinese communities throughout Southeast Asia, communities where he had contacts. There were also the Circle K Boys, who were always interested in making money. Their tentacles stretched across the Pacific and while not the largest, or yet the most powerful of the Chinese gangs that ruled Chinatown, they were completely without scruples when it came to power and money. Hung had also pointed out that the Circle K Boys would, if approached the right way, invest in Stennes' scheme. Hung's only regret was that they could not contact, or in any way let Terry Hsiang, the acknowledged ruler of Chinatown, know what was going on. Terry had connections with the Chiangs, who had connections with the Triads in Hong Kong and Shanghai. Unfortunately Terry Hsiang, who was a third generation Canadian-born Chinese, had been "with Western morality" as Hung put it, and would have nothing to do with the sex trade, which was why the whorehouses, his own included, were all on the east side of Spadina Avenue, in the area firmly controlled by the Circle K Boys, who could not be ignored, but who were powerful enough to ensure that there would be no friction, no war between the gangs, which was bad for business.
Stennes listened to Hung and directed that the Chinese open negotiations. He then went off on some mysterious errand that Hung knew better than to ask about.
After visiting his bankers, Stennes went to the Western Union office in the Royal York Hotel where he sent a series of coded telegrams and cables to certain men in Germany, setting in motion the necessary arrangements that would ensure that his heir, and successor, would have no difficulties in establishing his position. Smiling grimly, Stennes then went to the upstairs lobby bar for a restorative brandy.
He returned to the house in the late afternoon. Paul had not returned and Stennes decided to while away the hours before he, and Paul, would need to leave and take care of the "loose end". Nieh and Nhan were occupied with entertaining the two white men, Swede and Cole, and Stennes called for Shem and Shoo, who grumbled that while they didn't mind being with the German, they did hope that he would not be screening any more movies! The thumping, cacophonous marches were much too loud and hurt their ears.
Sophie was driving Chief Edgar crazy! When she wasn't prowling the corridor outside the surgical suite, a caged lioness separated from her cub, she was sitting in the small smoking lounge, tapping the toe of her designer high-heeled shoe in ragged staccato against the polished tiles of the floor, and smoking far too many cigarettes. She refused to go home, even to change or rest. She would not listen to any argument on the subject. She had given her heart to the young boy who lay in the operating theatre surrounded by a surgical team hastily recruited by Doctor Langford. She would, she declared, be there when he awoke or, if need be, she should be there when he died.
From time to time one of the nursing staff, a Sister of Charity, would come into the room, murmur that the operation was going as well as could be expected, smile sadly and depart, never having said anything at all. The nuns, like much of the staff, were Chinese, and still wore the traditional white habits. The older nuns, who had fled their convent in Shanghai steps ahead of Mao's Communist hordes, knew what Sophie was going through. The sisters had all seen death before, had all seen mothers grieving over sick and dying children. Death was no stranger to them and the nuns whispered, as nuns always seemed to do, that the young man would soon be standing before his Maker. Shaking their heads and murmuring a prayer, they glided through the halls on their rounds.
Sophie knew nothing of the history of the Sisters of Charity who staffed the hospital. She was grateful for their concern, and compassion, and their kindness to Eugen, and she asked Ace to inquire as to what, if anything, she could do to show her gratitude, which brought the only bright spot in the dismal day.
The nuns, Ace discovered, could use a bus. Their convent, an ancient building on the corner of St. Patrick and Elm Streets, next to the church of Our Lady of Mount Carmel, was a pleasant ten or so minute walk from the hospital in the summer, but a brutal trek in the winter, or after a 36-hour shift. Sophie promised a new convent if Eugen survived, but the nuns were content with a bus. Land was, as always, at a premium in Chinatown, and the only lot big enough, and close enough, and available, simply would never do. Not only was it on the corner of Spadina and Dundas, arguably the noisiest corner in the city, and surrounded by uncounted shops and restaurants, it was at the moment occupied by a burlesque house! No, a bus would do nicely, thank you.
In mid-afternoon The Gunner returned to the hospital. Sophie collapsed in his arms and allowed him to take her down to the cafeteria for a cup of tea. She refused to eat, and seemed in a daze. As smoking was not allowed in the cafeteria she drummed her fingers on the hard Formica table and sipped the weak tea without really tasting it.
The Gunner waited patiently for Sophie to open up. He was surprised that she had, for whatever reason, allowed the injured boy to touch a chord deep within her. Sophie had always seemed so in control of her life and her surroundings. Sophie seemed to sense The Gunner's thoughts and presently looked at him with red, swollen eyes. "Oh, Stephen, what a selfish bitch I am!" she declared emphatically.
Taken aback, The Gunner asked, "I beg your pardon?"
"Stephen, my first husband died pining for a son! Would I give him one?" Shaking her head, Sophie answered her own question. "No! I was a bright young thing, the war was over, and after five years of rationing and deprivation, I was damned determined to put it all behind me and have fun!"
"You were not alone, Sophie," The Gunner temporized. "A lot of young women felt that way."
Snorting, Sophie again shook her head. "Poor George wanted children so desperately, but I was too busy going to parties, flirting and making a right fool of myself. Children were not a part of my agenda!"
The Gunner did not know if he should sympathise or chastise. He knew very little of Sophie's early life, other than the snippets he had gleaned in the five days since he had met her, and thought it not his place to comment. Sophie was obviously about to comment, at length, on her past life, and imagined transgressions. The Gunner decided to procrastinate. "Oh," was all he said.
"I was the belle of the ball," said Sophie witheringly. "I told myself that I was a liberated woman. I had money to burn, and dear Lord, did I burn it. I told myself that I could do exactly what I liked, when I liked, and the Devil take the hindmost!" She hugged herself almost desperately. "And now it's much too late."
Given Sophie's age, The Gunner had to agree with her. He was not, however, about to comment. He remained silent.
Sophie continued as she began to weep softly. "I buried three husbands and what do I have to show for it? A pile of money I'll never spend, or worse, waste it on gigolos and boy toys. I have an empty old house that I rattle around in and pretend that life is good as I toddle off to inane luncheons with the girls or boring parties with my friends." She laughed, her laugh caustic and tinged with venom. "Good old Sophie, always good for a laugh, always a soft touch when it came to the boys. What a fool I was!"
Ace, who had come into the cafeteria in the middle of Sophie's diatribe, slid into the chair beside The Gunner's and looked inquiringly at his lover. The Gunner's return look told him that at the moment discretion was most definitely the better part of valour.
Giving Ace a short smile, Sophie asked The Gunner, "Can you understand that somehow I feel, I don't know, an empathy, a bond with that poor boy upstairs?" She looked around for a napkin to dry her eyes. "I cannot understand it, Stephen, but I desperately want that boy to live! I desperately want to hold him, to make him safe!"
The Gunner nodded. He had seen these feelings in other people, all men, but the feelings were the same. Two men, or boys, of disparate backgrounds, cultures, religions, would form a bond, a union of sorts, based solely on deep feelings. More often than not these bonds, these unions, had nothing whatsoever to do with sex. The boys, or men, would go on to marry, to have children, and always feel a need to be with their friend, their brother in spirit.
The Gunner looked kindly at the distraught woman. She needed now the comfort that she had brought to his aunt. "I can, Sophie," he told her. "Aunt Margaret loved you and you brought great happiness to her life. You helped fill a void in her life, part of which I caused." He paused and motioned for Sophie to remain silent. "My uncle, her husband, neglected her and I was too busy buckling swashes to really know her."
Sophie could not help smiling. "She loved you, Stephen."
"I know," replied The Gunner with a slight nod. "I should have tried harder to make her life a little happier but I didn't. I should have been with her when she died, but I wasn't." He reached out to gently stroke Sophie's hand. "You were there when she needed you, and you were there when she needed someone to love. She loved you Sophie and saw in you the heart of gold you try so hard to conceal." He glanced at Ace, who smiled back, his eyes brimming with tears. "You like to think that everybody thinks you're a tough old broad," The Gunner continued. "You are, but everybody knows that you are capable of great love. You need someone to love, to hold, to spoil."
Sophie's eyes flashed. "A lot you know!" she growled. "Perhaps I'll just get a poodle!"
Ace chuckled. "It's not working, Sophie. You're caught out at last."
Sophie looked at Ace and then a strange, almost peaceful look came over her face. "I would have liked to have him with me, this young German. He needs someone who cares for him. If he lives, I shall do that, Stephen." She sniffed and laughed ruefully. "Of course it's all moot, isn't it?"
"Not necessarily," replied The Gunner carefully. He did not want to upset Sophie any more than she already was. "The doctors here are first rate, and you know that Old Doctor Langford and Young Doctor Langford are the best, or you would not have recruited their help."
Sophie's eyes grew dim. "Thank you, Stephen, but you know as well as I that Eugen is very ill. Even if the surgery is successful, there is still the infection."
The Gunner did not want Sophie to give up hope. He knew instinctively that she needed Eugen to live, and she needed Eugen to fulfill an awakened maternal instinct. Before he could reply, however, The Gunner saw a nun standing in the cafeteria doorway, gesturing for him to come. The Gunner recognized the white-robed sister. She was the Charge Nurse from the surgical floor.
Glancing at Ace, and then at Sophie, The Gunner said quietly. "We're called."
Sophie glanced over her shoulder and if such a thing were possible, she grew paler. "It's over and Eugen is . . ."
"We don't know that, Sophie," said Ace sharply, sharper than he intended to be. "Let's hear what the doctors have to say."
As they waited for the elevator to take them to the upper floors of the hospital, Sophie slipped her hand in The Gunner's. "No matter what happens, I wish to help you and your boys," she said, her voice trembling. She felt The Gunner squeeze her hand in reply and continued. "If Eugen lives, I will take him as my son. If he does not, then I shall build him a memorial." She turned her tired eyes to The Gunner. "You are going to be building that school you spoke of?" she asked emphatically. "And the hospital, you will maintain it?"
As the elevator door opened The Gunner replied. "The hospital will remain open," he promised. "I have spoken with Lester and there is a need for it." He, Sophie and Ace entered the elevator and The Gunner pressed the button that would take them to the surgical floor. "It will be a haven for young gays who have nowhere else to turn. We'll give them a bed, medical treatment if they require it, food, and help to establish themselves. Some, those who wish it, we'll send to school. Our school if they want to go there."
"Our school," murmured Sophie as the elevator glided to a stop and doors slid open. "I like that." She glanced obliquely at The Gunner as they left the elevator. "The two boys who were with Eugen?"
"Sepp and Gottfried? They're at the hospital. Teddy and Max are with them."
As they walked slowly down the corridor to the Nurses' Station, Sophie asked, "They have not been harmed? You will help them?"
"They have not been harmed," confirmed The Gunner. "And they won't be. The Order will keep them safe and sound until this thing we are fighting is defeated."
"You must try to give them pride in themselves, Stephen," Sophie replied, "as you have helped to give your boys of Aurora pride. They must not be written off, or abandoned. Promise me that you will not do that, Stephen."
"If they wish it, Sophie, if they wish it," returned The Gunner, trying to keep the doubt he felt out of his voice. He personally felt that both Sepp and Gottfried had been too long on the game. But he, and Lester, and Ace, would try.
Sophie stopped abruptly. In front of the door leading to the private conference room the doctors used when speaking to the next of kin of their of their patients, stood Old Doctor Langford and a Chinese man wearing wrinkled surgical scrubs, who was fingering the surgical mask that hung loosely around his neck. Chief Edgar, who had been talking with the doctors, turned, his face heavy.
Seeing the look on Chief Edgar's face, Sophie gave out a small sob. Then, squaring her shoulders, she squeezed The Gunner's hand. "Just hold my hand, Stephen, just hold my hand."
"Are you sure that you want to do this?" The Phantom asked Peter, his voice low and caring. "You can wait a few years, until you're sure."
The Phantom and Peter Race were sitting on the unmade bunk that Peter had been assigned in the Petty Officers Mess. With the departure of the YAGs, Peter, together with Phil Thornton, Eion Reilly, and Sean Anders, were homeless. They had moved into the Petty Officers Mess for the day and night remaining before all the cadets left Aurora forever.
After moving their gear up from the Dockyard, and attending the Vigil, the four cadets, as did their fellows in the Gunroom and the Cooks Barracks, had showered, and napped. Chef had laid on a monster breakfast, but few had eaten any of the food prepared for them. The Phantom, too excited to sleep, had given his bunk over to Jeremie Cher, who snored away while The Phantom ironed his Number 11 uniform and polished his boots. The Phantom had been tempted to spend some time with Colin, who was sleeping in the Wardroom, but decided against it. Somehow, after everything, having sex with Colin did not seem . . . right.
While he worked the other Gunroom cadets slept, and for the very first time bunks were shared. Cory and Sean crowded into Cory's bunk, holding each other and, The Phantom suspected, Cory would have his hand down the front of Sean's boxers.
What surprised The Phantom, for there had been no hint whatsoever, was that the corner bunk contained two sleeping cadets: Thumper and Two Strokes. Thumper lay close to the tall, thin Regulating Petty Officer he loved, his head resting on Two Strokes' chest, his face in repose. Two Strokes held Thumper protectively.
Jon and Chris, their bodies warm and pink also shared a bunk. What had begun as a daring seduction in the breezeway flats had turned into true, lasting love. As The Phantom watched, Jon reached up to scratch his nose, snuffle, and then bury his face in the hollow of Chris' shoulder.
Todd, Harry and Nicholas slept alone.
After finishing his whites, The Phantom ran a soft cloth over the scabbard of his sword, which he had taken from The Gunner's store of swords and memorabilia that he had brought from Victoria. He had offered swords to Cory and Todd. They had chosen, however, to wear the dirks they had been awarded at the Prize Giving.
His uniform ironed, neatly hung in his locker and waiting, his sword polished, his medals pinned on the left breast of his uniform, The Phantom went off to shower. Finished, The Phantom donned white boxers a new white T-shirt. Except for his socks, he was ready to dress.
The Phantom was ready, but nobody else was, and they wouldn't be for hours. Chef had deliberately arranged for the Ceremony of Knighthood to be held away from the ship, and in the late afternoon. The old cook was adamant that every boy nominated would have every opportunity to reflect on the coming Rite. Each cadet was taking a giant leap forward in his passage to manhood, and Chef would not have on his conscience a boy who doubted the rightness of what he was doing.
What complicated matters was that each candidate would be asked the question: "Will you be professed?" and this alone would call for great courage. Could anyone imagine, Chef had asked, how terribly courageous it was for a boy who had spent his entire life denying his true self? Every cadet had been programmed, as Chef had put it, from birth, by his parents, by his teachers, by his priests, his rabbis, his preachers or whatever, to believe that homosexuality was an aberration, an abomination in the sight of God and man. Every boy had heard the slurs, the hatred, the spitting words of bigotry, in the schoolyard, in the churchyard, in the streets of the towns and cities where they lived. Better dead than queer had more truth in the words than anyone realized, for the suicide rate amongst young gays was horrific.
Chef, for once his words devoid of hyperbole or cliches, had calmly asked the cadets to think long and hard. When asked the question, they could not lie. What they answered would, in many ways, be the governing ethos of the rest of their days.
The Twins would not be a problem. They were gay, and had never hidden their homosexuality. The Phantom, at peace with himself, had come out to Tyler and Val, and did not for a minute regret that decision. Harry, for all his bluster, was the essential honest man. He never lied, never procrastinated, and would never deny that he loved another man. Fred and Nathan, who snuggled close together in Fred's bunk, had made their love public, and Nathan had dared Chef to make something of it. Chris and Jon, lovers and friends even before Victoria, would profess before their friends.
What of Nicholas, Phantom wondered. The Yeoman had, as he put it, "made his vows" with Andre, to The Phantom's mind essentially marrying the young French-Canadian drummer. Yet Nicholas had slept with Matt, of that The Phantom was sure. Did this mean, Chef had asked The Phantom, that Nicholas was indeed gay, or was he merely enjoying sex with another boy?
The Phantom had considered Chef's question carefully. He had to admit that there was more than a little "fooling around with a buddy" than people cared to admit. He knew that there were boys in his school who took care of each other if the need arose. It happened, and every one of those boys would adamantly and loudly deny that they were queer. Did this mean, The Phantom asked himself, that Nicholas was just helping Matt out? Matt had privately admitted that he was gay. Admitting it publicly, however, was a different matter.
There were also Kevin and Ray. They were inseparable, and while Kevin had no hesitation in admitting his feelings for Ray, would Ray return those feelings? Ray's people were Bible-thumpers, Evangelicals who believed in the literal "Word of God" as published in the Bible. Would Ray's love for Kevin overpower the bigotry he had been force-fed for so many years?
In the Gunroom, Mike Sunderland and Phillip Adean, called The Assistant, were lovers. In the Cooks Barracks Randy and Joey were no doubt cuddled against Phil Thornton. Phil adored the two young cooks, and would never abandon them to such a trivial thing as public opinion. He risked jail, for he was 18, and the two young cooks were barely into their 14th year. Randy, the more daring of the trio, didn't give a fiddler's fuck what people thought. He loved Joey, and he loved Phil. As far as Randy was concerned, that was all that mattered.
Joey, for his part, adored Randy and was in love with Phil, sort of. Yet he came from a conservative farming family, and lived in a rural area, where homosexuality was abhorred. Would Joey commit the rest of his life to the Order, as a professed knight? What would Steve and Stuart, what would any of them answer when asked, "Will you profess?"
The Phantom heard a soft shuffling of bare feet on the scarred tile deck and looked up to see Peter Race passing by the open door that led to the Petty Officers Mess, coming from the heads and washplace. Peter had a towel hung around his neck and was wearing only his tighty-whiteys, which The Phantom had to think made the young man look scrawny, and very little boyish.
As The Phantom watched, Peter settled on the bunk once occupied by Mal, and sat quietly, his hands in his lap, his head bowed. The Phantom knew that Peter had been very moved by the ceremony yesterday, and was questioning his heritage. The young man had attended the Vigil, true, but what motivated him? Peter's desire to return to his People had nothing to do with the Order. The Order could not, and would not, interfere and could not bring Peter back to his heritage.
And what of Eion? Like Peter, Eion had been moved deeply, and had attended the Vigil. Was Eion gay? Or had he simply been swept up in the emotion of the moment. Could he devote a good portion of his life to furthering the lives and rights of gays? Could he stand up to bigotry and hatred, and stand foursquare beside his newfound brothers?
Chef, The Phantom decided, was right. Every boy needed time and space to think, and decide and each boy had to understand what they were getting themselves into.
Glancing at Peter, who looked lost and forlorn, The Phantom decided to find out just what Peter wanted. He left the Gunroom and sat on the bunk beside Peter. "Are you sure that you want to do this?" The Phantom asked Peter, his voice low and caring. "You can wait a few years, until you're sure."
Peter's eyes were bright and clear. Before answering he put his arms around The Phantom's waist and nodded slowly. The Phantom embraced Peter, holding him close. "Please, Peter, be very sure."
"I am sure," returned Peter in a low whisper. "I want to be with you, and with the others. I'm sure."
The Phantom reached up his hand to gently rub the back of Peter's head. "You must understand that the Order is about being gay, Peter. You can be a knight, or a companion, without being gay, and I personally would welcome you. But, Peter, if you are looking for something else . . ." The Phantom's voice trailed off.
Peter never moved and never released his hold on The Phantom's warm body. "Phantom, when I heard the words of the Kaddish, something stirred in me. I remembered my grandfather. He was from Poland and he said those same words every day. I remember the hurt in my mother's eyes when my father got drunk and said bad things about the Jews." Peter raised his head and gazed into The Phantom's emerald eyes. "I saw my mother crying, Phantom, and I saw my Grandpop shake his head and turn away."
"Peter, I understand, I truly do, the hurt you're feeling. What I want you to understand is that if you're Jewish, and if you wish to know about your heritage, you don't have to join the Order. Sandro will help you, and I know Nate Schoenmann will help you."
"I've already spoken to them," Peter replied. He rubbed his cheek against The Phantom's T-shirt covered chest. "They both told me that I should talk to my mother. They don't want to discourage me, but they both want to make sure that I know what I am."
The Phantom had a sudden thought. "Where is Nate? Did he go home?"
"He's sleeping in the galley lounge." Peter giggled. "Alone. He's not gay, you know."
"I sort of gathered that, from the way his Zeyda was talking," countered The Phantom with a snicker.
"He's going to ask Chef to make him a Companion of Honour. He wants to help."
"Is that what you want?"
"Yes," replied Peter firmly. His hold on The Phantom tightened slightly. "You remember the night you came down to the Dockyard, and you talked with Jeremie?"
"Yes." The Phantom remembered the evening, and was now wondering if Jeremie Cher might have taken Little Jeremie for a walk in the moonlight with Peter.
"Phantom, I've wanted to do this for a long time. I used to see you walking in the Dockyard, or when I was in the Mess Hall and, like I said, I heard you and Jeremie talking."
"Um, have you and Jeremie, I mean, are you and Jeremie friends?" asked The Phantom delicately.
Peter drew back and looked at The Phantom. "No. I've thought about being with another boy. And I've thought a lot about Jeremie."
The Phantom's eyebrows rose upward. "But you haven't?"
"We haven't done anything," replied Peter. "I didn't . . . and he hasn't and . . . I don't think he knows how I feel. To be honest, I do wonder about what it would be like to be with another boy. Then I think, 'Yuck!'."
"Why 'Yuck'?" asked The Phantom.
Peter blushed with embarrassment. "Well . . . um . . . Phantom, being with another guy . . . um . . . you know, that way, I don't . . . Sometimes I think, yeah, it would be great to have a guy suck my dick and I would like to know what it feels like to suck his, putting his dick in my mouth and I think, 'Yuck' and I go off and make a bell rope!"
The Phantom could not help laughing. "A bell rope?"
"Yeah. It helps me take my mind off of . . . things," replied Peter, smiling shyly.
"I always thought that a cold shower did wonders," offered The Phantom, grinning widely. "I never did learn fancy ropework."
Peter returned to hugging The Phantom. "I want to be a part of what is happening, Phantom. You know why?"
The Phantom shook his head. "It was kind of sudden," The Phantom offered.
"Phantom, if I'm gay, which I don't think I am, but if I am, it's nice to know that I'm not alone. If I'm Jewish, and I'm pretty sure I am because my mother is, and if I decide to talk to a rabbi, then it's even money my old man will toss my skinny ass into Gottingen Street, 'cause he's really nuts when it comes to the Jews. He thinks that they're in charge of all the money and that they want to take over the world."
"He sounds like Little Big Man's soul mate," The Phantom blurted.
Peter frowned. "I know about that jerk. When he was on Defaulters and mooching around the Dockyard he made some cracks about Yids. I guess he was hoping for someone to bite."
"Did they?" asked The Phantom, interested, but careful.
"No. Most of the guys couldn't stand him and Chief Anders ran the little dickhead off. Anyway, I might need a brother or twenty around in case I do have to leave home."
"Is that the only reason?" asked The Phantom.
Again, Peter's reply was no. "Something, somehow, I don't know, makes me want to do this. Don't get me wrong, Phantom, maybe I am just looking down the road and making sure that there's help if I need it, but I can't get this feeling from my mind."
"What feeling is that?"
"The feeling that I have to be with you, and with the other guys. I can't explain why I need to be with you, Phantom, I just know it."
"Fair enough," replied The Phantom. "You will always have a brother, if you need one, Peter," he continued. "I don't know what I can do about you thinking you might be Jewish. Maybe recommend a good mohel?"
Giggling, Peter shook his head. "I'm too old for a mohel. Sandro says I'd have to see a doctor, like he has to."
"Doc Reynolds is experienced," said The Phantom, thinking of the "little operation" Doc had performed on Ryan last month.
"So I hear," remarked Peter dryly. Ryan's operation had been the main topic of conversation for a week! "Anyway, I want to make sure that I am Jewish. Nate seems to think I am because in the Jewish tradition if your mother is Jewish, so are you."
"Did you talk to Chef?" asked The Phantom. "He's a pretty smart old bird, you know."
"I know," sighed Peter. "And he can talk the hind leg off a dead cat! But yeah, we talked, or rather Chef talked and Eion and I listened. Nate, too."
"Nate?"
"Nate's a nice guy. He told Eion and me about Chef coming to his grandfather's shop, and what Chef had done for the Jews. He said that he was a very inadequate Jew, whatever that means, and that he had to do something to make it up to his Zeyda. What's a Zeyda?"
"It's 'Grandfather' in Hebrew," replied The Phantom. "Nate knows that he can only be a Companion of Honour?"
Giggling, Peter nodded vigorously. "Well, after we got through Leprechauns, and fairies - of Morne, not the other kind - and banshees and Knights of Tara, and God knows what else because I sure didn't understand half of what Chef said, and then watching him turn red and blubber and bluster about Article 24 of the Rule, which Sandro had already told Eion and me about, and Eion doesn't have to worry, because he is, Chef said that we could be Companions of Honour."
"Was he taking his 'medicine'," asked The Phantom with a knowing grin.
"If you mean was he sipping from that jug he keeps in his desk, no," replied Peter. "He was drinking tea, and every time he took a sip he looked liked he was drinking motor oil!"
"Chef is not partial to tea," replied The Phantom, his eyes bright with hidden laughter. "Then what happened?"
"He dragged us over to the Wardroom. The CO and the XO were there with Doc Reynolds and that new doctor, and Chef said they had to stand surety for us. Nate and Eion went into the scullery with Doc Reynolds and when they came out Doc said that he could grant nihil obstat, whatever the hell that means."
"I think it means 'Permission Granted'," returned The Phantom.
"You could have fooled me," replied Peter with a shrug. "Then we had to kneel in front of Chef and make our oath. Then Chef kissed us on each cheek and the CO bought us a beer!"
"Trust Chef to get in his medicine one way or the other!" grumbled The Phantom.
At that moment they were interrupted by a loud thump from the Gunroom. Both The Phantom and Peter looked up to see Jeremie shuffle past the door and begin to make his way down the Gunroom toward the washplace. Neither The Phantom nor Peter could fail to notice the huge bulge in Jeremie's tighty-whiteys.
"Hell and sheeit," muttered The Phantom. "That guy has enough wood in his shorts to build a YAG!" he exclaimed.
"Which explains why I've been thinking about him," returned Peter, not taking his eyes of off Jeremie's retreating form. "A lot!"
As The Phantom rose to leave the Petty Officers Mess he heard the soft click of a door being opened and saw Matt's slim form slip from the long chamber. He bade Peter goodnight and walked outside to find Matt sitting quietly on the steps, looking at the dark sky overhead.
"Are you all right?" asked The Phantom as he settled beside Matt.
Slipping his arm around The Phantom's waist, Matt smiled and nodded. "I feel, I don't know, wonderful and accepted and a little sad."
"Sad?"
"Phantom, when this is all over what will happen to us?" asked Matt as he laid his head on The Phantom's shoulder. "I don't want to be alone."
The Phantom gently brought Matt's warm body closer. "Matty, you will never be alone again. We might not be together, but you will never be alone again." He ruffled Matt's hair. "In a little while you're going to have more brothers than you know what to do with!"
Matt snickered. "Pains in the ass, most of them!" he grumped.
"Matty!"
"I know, I know," returned Matt with a grin. "I'm looking forward to being with them." He glanced obliquely at The Phantom. "Even Todd."
Sighing, The Phantom shook his head. "Matty, Todd has his reasons."
"I know," replied Matt. "And I'm not faulting him. I love him, but he will never look at me as someone he can love."
"He loves you," insisted The Phantom. "He just . . ." The Phantom's face fell. "I think that Todd regrets the way he treated you. I also think that deep down he knows how you feel about him."
"It's too late," replied Matt. "I love him and I always will." He looked up at the sky and shook his head. "I love him but he has to be Todd, just as I have to be Matt. I'm not a part of his life, except as a brother. Tomorrow he'll become my brother in the flesh, as well as the spirit, and because he's Todd he'll be honourable and a tower of strength. I will love him, but not the same way as I love you."
The Phantom looked at Matt for a long time before replying. "Matt . . . don't . . ." he began slowly, not wanting to hurt his friend.
"Oh, Phantom, I'm not trying crawl into your bed!" Matt said with a hearty chuckle. "I've already done that!"
Recalling the time that Matt had snuck into his bed, The Phantom looked pained. "You took advantage of a sick sailor!" he complained with humour. "I was vulnerable."
Laughing, Matt hugged The Phantom. "I knew what I was doing when I did it!" he declared. "I wanted to be with you, so I was." His eyes sparkled as he said, "You were my first, you know."
"I know," said The Phantom. "I'm still not sure if I should be angry with you for sneaking around taking advantage of me!"
"We both needed each other," returned Matt. "and you're not capable of anger when it comes to someone you care for." He turned his head slightly and winked at The Phantom. "I did warn you, you know."
"Yeah, you did," admitted The Phantom. "I just didn't think you'd actually do it!"
"And I don't regret doing it," returned Matt with a small chuckle. "You are one hell of a lover, Phantom. I envy Colin."
The Phantom's body stiffened. He did not wish to speak of something he considered to be a private matter.
"Don't get all huffy, Phantom," said Matt. "Colin is very lucky to have you. I'm not going to gossip about you and Colin." He gave The Phantom a nudge in the ribs. "We're not stupid, you know."
Relaxing, The Phantom expelled a breath of air. "I know, it's just that I don't like talking about . . . you know . . ."
Releasing his hold on his friend Matt lay back, his elbows resting on the top step. "There's no reason not to talk about your relationship with Colin," he said slowly. "I'm not interested in the details. You're in love with him, and he's in love with you. To be honest, at first I thought he caught you on the rebound from The Gunner."
"Maybe he did," interjected The Phantom.
"Bullshit," responded Matt, grinning. "He took one look at you and bingo! You took one look at him and kaboom! Hell, Phantom, you light up like a Christmas tree every time you see him."
"Is it that obvious?" asked The Phantom, surprised at Matt's words. "We tried to be discreet."
"You failed," returned Matt dryly. "You do try to keep your emotions under control, I admit that, but sometimes you just look at Colin and this, I don't know, light I suppose I can call it, seems to come all over you."
Pulling himself upward Matt resumed hugging The Phantom. "I never saw that look with The Gunner," he said without inflection.
"But I did see that look when you were with Todd," rejoined The Phantom. "You still love him."
"Very much," replied Matt truthfully. "But I'm not hanging around waiting for him to make up his mind. What we could have had is in the past. I'm looking to the future. Tomorrow, later today really, I'm going to take an oath and when I do it I am going to have a clear conscience. I don't regret loving you, and I don't regret making love with you. I don't regret having loved Marcus."
"He must have been a wonderful person," responded The Phantom with as much gentleness as he could manage. He knew that the memory of Marcus, Matt's stepbrother and first love, would linger forever in the boy's memory.
"He was," said Matt with a slight sob. "In many ways you're like him, loyal, warm, and gentle. But you're not him."
"No."
"And neither is Todd, or Nicholas," said Matt. He was under no illusions that The Phantom did not know what he and Nicholas had been doing in private. "I don't look for Marcus any more, Phantom," he said quietly. "He's dead, and I'm alive. Do I want another Marcus? No. I want someone like Colin, someone who is not afraid to show his love for me, not afraid of being in love with me. Marcus would have stood proud and tall before whomever we have to stand tall and proud before and profess without hesitation. You will, Todd will, I will. And so will Colin."
"You understand, then?" asked The Phantom drawing back.
"Of course," replied Matt easily. "I have to admit the truth." His blue eyes bore into The Phantom. "I'm not afraid of telling my brothers that I'm gay, because I am gay." He shrugged expressively. "There was a time when I would not have admitted that to anyone, not even under threat of torture." He leaned forward and gently kissed The Phantom's lips. "Remember what you told the Twins in Victoria?"
"And Dylan," said The Phantom as he remembered his words, spoken in anger but filled with truth, "Never be ashamed of who you are. Never be ashamed of what you are and never, ever, be afraid to be who you are!" He chuckled. "Then I took Joey and Randy shopping."
Matt nodded, smiling. "For bathing suits, with a pouch in them for their parts." His smile left his face and a look of peace came over him. "I'm not afraid anymore, Phantom," he said, his voice warm and sure. "I look around and I see boys who love me for who I am, not what I am. I look around and I see the greatest bunch of guys I have ever known. When I first came here I was so afraid! Paul was here and Paul would have crucified me without a second thought. I was afraid and so alone, Phantom. You changed that! You made me feel like I was important, you loved me and never questioned me. You made me understand the real me, made me face the fact that I was gay. You made me understand that I could be whatever I wanted to be, that being gay meant zip when it came to my being whatever I am meant to be. But, Phantom, more importantly, you gave me the opportunity to love again."
The Phantom enveloped Matt in his arms. "You thought that when Marcus died, love died. Now you know that life goes on, love goes on. You won't ever forget Marcus, but you'll move on, and that's what is important." He gently caressed the back of Matt's head. "You will never be alone again, Matty. No matter what happens, you will never be alone again."
As the morning wore on the cadets congregated in the Gunroom, preparing for the coming ceremony. The cadets were at first subdued, aware of the importance of what was coming, but happy. There was the usual badinage, and chucking of shit back and forth. The Twins reprised their roles as Tailors, By Appointment, to the Gunroom, stripped Eion and Peter of their white uniforms and set to, plying their needles and scissors diligently, making sure that the uniforms were a proper fit. Nathan, who had brought nothing but his civilian clothing, and had scrounged a set of Number 11s from Rob, alternately blushed and blustered as Fred, Chris and Jon, all but sewed him into the things.
Colin, Andy and Kyle came over from the Wardroom, and the Twins, being the Twins, immediately fell on them. Colin was forced to suffer the indignities of ooh's and aah's of admiration from the cadets as he stood, blushing furiously wearing nothing but his Canex Specials and white socks, and threatened, as he gripped his sword, instant emasculation to anyone who so much as touched his butt or parts! Harry rumbled from the far corner of the Gunroom, "Yum, yum, yum, nice fresh officer bum!" and Colin gripped his sword tighter.
Sean and Phil came in carrying their uniforms. They both had long ago learned that they would be inspected by the Twins and decided that since it was going to happen anyway, they might as well get it over with. Sean pulled off his T-shirt and slipped down his shorts. This caused his boxers to slip, revealing the upper part of why he was nicknamed "Iron Ass Anders".
Andy, who had been sitting on Chris' bunk, had got a bird's eye view of Sean's ragged scar, whistled, and then asked, laughing, "Grenade?"
"Shackle," returned Sean without embarrassment.
Randy, who was almost as bad as the Twins when it came to never missing an opportunity to improve his mind, asked with pretended innocence, "Is it true that you have a scar, too, sir?"
Andy, without thinking of the consequences, answered, "Yeah. A big mother of a scar on my ass!"
Cory hunkered down and sewed diligently at Nathan's trousers. "Oy vey, here it comes," he muttered at Todd, who giggled.
"How big a mother of a scar?" Randy asked, maintaining his innocent little boy act. "Can we see it?"
Andy, as an officer, failed to see the need to expose any part of his body, except by accident, to any cadet. "Um, I don't think so," he muttered in reply.
Half the Gunroom exploded in deliberate coughing fits. Everybody had heard the story of Andy's unfortunate expose the morning Kevin had come knocking. It had taken Kevin days to get over seeing Andy as naked as the day he'd been born, and Andy still grumbled and complained about being called "Tiny" by Chef.
"You might as well show him," advised Kevin, who remembered the morning the two young cooks had checked him out in the showers. They still did, although not so much since meeting Phil Thornton. "They'll wait, like spiders, until they check you out." He looked at Joey, who was wondering how "they" came into the picture. "Like spiders, waiting for a fly," growled Kevin.
Looking at the circle of cadets, Andy stood up and said, "Oh, hell, why not! Half of them saw it on the sailing trip." He pulled down one side of his boxers, revealing the scar.
"Holy shit," Randy gasped. "That must have hurt!"
"Shackle?" asked Sean as he bent lower to examine Andy's scar.
"Mortar round," returned Andy over his shoulder. "And it hurt like buggery! Can I pull up my drawers now?"
Harry could not resist the temptation to take a swipe at Two Strokes. "Two Strokes, you have a nice little scar," he said slyly. "You remember that night when Cory . . ."
Two Strokes glared at Harry and then asked Colin if he could borrow his sword. Then he snarled at Harry, "And I don't have a scar!"
Rob chose this moment to put in an appearance. Cory, who had long maintained that the broad-shouldered, muscular Chief Storekeeper had the finest ass this side of the Rockies, and maybe even on the other side, asked coyly, "Do you have any scars, Rob?"
Rob, who knew that Cory was going to get him down to his Jockeys, at the least, slowly lowered his trousers. "Just the one around my dick," he retorted. "Does that count?"
Colin snatched back his sword.
Chef had decreed that as a dinner would be served after the Ceremony, the galley would close after lunch. With the canteen closed, and no ready source of snacks and munchies, Mark had volunteered to make a run into town. He took Nate and Calvin with him. Nate, who had decided that he was going to be a part of the Order, needed his good suit to wear at the ceremony. Calvin, who either walked in every morning, or cadged a ride from his brother Mikey, needed to pick up his whites. He also wanted to call Simon Keppel, the dark-eyed, dark-haired boy he had fallen in love with the night of the End Of Year Barbecue. Calvin was not going to miss an opportunity to be with Simon if he could help it.
When they returned, Nate, much to his annoyance, was forced to undergo a minute inspection by the Twins. The next thing he knew he was standing in his baggy boxer shorts, having the inseam of his leg measured. Cory clucked and said that Nate had very hairy legs. Nate growled in return that he had a very hairy something else, which Cory would see if he kept poking around with that damned tape measure.
Cory, who would not have minded seeing what else Nate had that was hairy, demurred. He was not about to inspect little pink mice, or big pink mice, for that matter, not with Sean glowering and tapping his foot on the tiled deck.
Nate's rejoinder gained him the liking and respect of the others. He was invited to join them in the feast that Mark had brought from town and they all settled down to devour pizza, coke, crisps and other junk food Mark had found.
Peter and Eion, as YAG boys, were taken aback by the easy going camaraderie and banter of the Gunroom. They relaxed somewhat as the lamp was swung and the war stories were told, although Eion did feel a little worried when Harry announced that he was still hungry and looked pointedly at Eion's bum. Tyler gave Harry a smack on the back his head and told him to behave and warned the Drum Major that under no circumstances was he to nip, bite or lick anyone!
As the Gunroom cadets grew more comfortable and as they were all very soon to be brothers, the need for secrecy about the sailing trip was eliminated. Everybody had a story to tell, from the Twins being tossed into the sea for fighting, to Harry being smacked on his butt with Kyle's spatula for stealing an extra hamburger. Harry, never loathe in extolling the beauty of the Pride of the Fleet, or the graceful fullness of the Escorts, brought out his photo album.
Cory, not about to be one-upped by Harry, brought out his album, as did Chris and Nicholas, who beamed as the other cadets warmly expressed their appreciation for all his hard work and complimented him on his obvious talents as a photographer. Very soon the long mess table was covered with open albums of photographs and Peter gasped at the sight of them.
"Didn't you guys ever wear any clothes?" asked Eion as he flipped a page in one of the albums. His eyes widened and he looked at Two Strokes. "What happened to your dick? It looks like a button on a fur coat!"
"Shrinkage!" retorted Two Strokes with dignity. "It happens to real men!"
"And little boys," offered Joey as he nudged Randy in the ribs. "You should see Randy after we've been down to the pond back home!"
Joey gave his best friend his dirtiest look and then asked Colin if he might borrow the sword, please.
Sandro ignored the laughter and pointed to a photo of Ray, naked, sitting on a log. "He is beautiful, da?" he asked Peter.
"Ray?" asked Peter, looking at the photo. "He's a good looking guy, but I wouldn't call him beautiful."
"Ray is very good to look at," opined Sandro, "but I am talking about his club. I have told him that when doctor is finished, I am to look exactly like Ray! I wish to have beautiful club!"
Giggling, Peter pointed to the photo albums littering the table. "I'm sorta leaning toward this one," he said, pointing at a photo of Nicholas.
Sandro glanced at the photo, and then at Ray. "Is very nice club. I stick with Ray," he announced stoutly. "Is my friend."
"If I were picking styles," interjected Jeremie, "and if I were going to want to look like anyone, well that's the one I think I'd like to have."
Colin saw where Jeremie was pointing and silently handed his sword to Phantom.
Stennes knocked on the bedroom door and then, without waiting for an answer, entered the room. Paul was lying on the bed, stretching like a cat in the sunshine. From behind the closed door that led to the adjoining bathroom came the sound of running water. Stennes glanced at the door and asked, "Your tour guide?"
Paul, who saw no need to hide the fact that he was naked under the sheet that covered his body, shrugged indifferently. He didn't care what Stennes thought. "The boy has an 8-inch dick," he replied dead-panned. Then he smiled evilly. "All that walking made me hungry."
"I'm sure it did," returned Stennes flatly. "A pleasant end to a walking tour, I'm sure."
"I was bored shitless," responded Paul as he left his bed. "Yonge Street is nothing but a row of strip joints and tourists traps, with beggars!" He walked to the dressing table that stood against the wall, regarded his reflection, hefted his soft genitals, and then ran his fingers through his dishevelled blond hair. "Damian's a good fuck, but he's dead afraid that someone will find out that he likes boy pussy."
Paul's crudity no longer annoyed Stennes, and he ignored Paul's remarks. "The Canadian Armed Forces are not known for their sympathetic attitude toward homosexuals," he said.
"They better get used to them," returned Paul. "If Damian's telling the truth its party time in the barracks when the lights go out."
"I have no interest in the sexual antics of the soldiery," snapped Stennes.
Paul looked coldly at his patron, his slate grey eyes hard. "What do you want?" he asked, his tone making it plain that he did not appreciate being interrupted, and that if Stennes was looking for a little playtime, he was shit out of luck.
With a grim smile Stennes placed the package he had brought with him on the dressing table. "A small gift," he said.
"A gift?" Paul's eyes narrowed. Stennes was not the type to give something for nothing. He poked the packaged suspiciously. "What will this cost me?"
"Nothing," replied Stennes. He gestured toward the package. "Open it."
Paul did as he was bidden and found that the package contained a holstered 9mm pistol. "What's this? More artillery?"
"I thought you might want it. It is much more efficient than that Luger you threatened me with earlier."
Chuckling dryly, Paul pulled the automatic from the leather case and hefted the weapon. He dropped the magazine, which was full, and opened the breech mechanism. Paul peered down the rifled barrel, slid the mechanism back and forth and then asked, "Is there a point to this?"
Nodding, Stennes replied. "You recall I mentioned a 'loose end'?" Seeing Paul's nod, Stennes continued. "Later this evening we will take care of it. I do not trust the man we are going to see." He opened his suit coat to reveal a shoulder holster containing his own 9mm. "I do not trust him at all," he finished with heavy emphasis.
"When later?" Paul asked as he slowly re-holstered the pistol. "Damian's a total top and I feel like a piece of ass." He casually laid the holstered pistol on the dressing table and strolled back to the bed, deliberately causing his soft penis and testicles to swing back and forth seductively. He lay on the bed and placed his hands behind his head. "I want to take a crack at Swede." He grinned salaciously at Stennes. "You know how much I love that little bit of skin," he chuckled.
Seeing Paul stretching and pumping his hips seductively at him caused Stennes' own penis to stir. As he reached down to touch himself he asked, "Your infatuation with Damian is ended?"
"There never was an infatuation," returned Paul. He glanced at Stennes' hand and warned, "And don't get any ideas. Damian is a top. Cole only bottoms for Damian. Swede is versatile." His slate grey eyes grew hard. "They think with their dicks, they like getting fucked or sucked so why not pander to their interests?" He shrugged. "Damian is just another piece of ass."
Paul's coldness immediately caused Stennes' rising erection to wilt. "You really are a selfish little man, aren't you?" he asked scathingly.
"I take after my master," returned Paul just as scathingly. He propped himself on one elbow and glowered at Stennes. "And like my master I know what I want. Tonight I want to taste some skin, and feel my dick in Swede's ass." For a moment Paul thought that he had gone too far. Dark thunderclouds seemed to be gathering in Stennes' eyes so he offered, "Later, after we've taken care of your loose end, I might be in the mood for some German sausage."
Not at all mollified with Paul's insincere half-promise, Stennes curled his lip in distaste. "I might just take you up on that, Liebchen."
Paul flopped back against the pillows. "There's no 'might' about it. Just don't expect me to relive a Party Rally."
Before Stennes could reply the door leading to the bathroom opened and Damian appeared, naked, towelling his dark hair. "Um, sorry, I didn't mean to interrupt," he said, taking a step back.
"You have not," replied Stennes briskly. "We have concluded our business." He looked at Paul. "You will be ready by midnight?"
Paul deliberately goaded Stennes by licking his lips and staring at the German. "More than ready," he smiled. Then he added, "Keep the sausage warm."
As a clock somewhere deep within the house tinnily chimed the hour, Paul stepped from his bedroom, adjusting the camel hair sports coat that he had borrowed from Nhan. The night was warm, and Paul would have preferred a much more casual look, but he needed to conceal the pistol that he wore in the shoulder holster Stennes had given him earlier. The coat, a size too large, and worn over an open neck white shirt and dark trousers, not only hid the weapon he wore, but gave him the look of a preppy young student out for an evening stroll.
Pleased at his appearance, Paul had glanced back at Swede, who was snoring away after having spent what he would later describe as the most erotic evening of his life! Petawawa had never been like this!
Closing the bedroom door Paul snickered. The handsome, hulking young soldier had never known what hit him, finally collapsing in exhaustion and moaning that it would take him a week to recover!
As he approached the lounge where Stennes was waiting, Paul reached down and adjusted Little Paul and scowled. Later, after taking care of whatever the loose end was, he would have to placate Stennes. Then he thought, what the hell, a piece of ass was a piece of ass, and bedding Stennes was just another cost of doing business. After all, a man had to do what he had to do to get ahead in the world. He just wished that the German would pay a little more attention to his personal hygiene!
"You know how to use that weapon?" Stennes asked as they left the residence.
"I've had weapons training," replied Paul without elaboration. "I know how to use a pistol, a long rifle, and I've had training on the SMG." Paul did not feel the need to inform Stennes that his one incident of training on SMGs had led to his being unceremoniously tossed from the Comox Ranges for gross stupidity and negligence.
"There may not be a need for it, but keep your weapon handy," Stennes grunted in reply.
As they walked the teeming back streets of Chinatown Paul's eyes and ears were assaulted with the screaming, yelling and noise of a vibrant community. As the night was warm it appeared that the entire population had taken to their front porches and the streets. Children, half-naked for the most part, shrieked and laughed and played on the sidewalks and darted uncaring into the street. Their elders, all of whom seemed to smoke, gesticulated, argued and growled in whatever dialect they had. The Chinese never seemed to speak, they always yelled, or so Paul thought.
"Don't they ever sleep?" Paul asked sourly as they passed one house that seemed to have burst forth with people, all of them chattering away like magpies. "And don't their kids know when bedtime is?"
"The Chinese consider children to be great gifts," responded Stennes with a sniff of disdain. "Boy children are particularly treasured. They are allowed to do whatever they wish." He glared at a small, shorthaired Chinese who had tossed a ball into the street. The child was clad in colourful briefs and a white singlet. "They have no discipline, the children, and are spoiled rotten."
An ambulance growled its way down D'Arcy Street and pulled into the Emergency Entrance of the hospital. "Quite an advance for a people," sniped Stennes, "who still use necromancers and witches brews for medical reasons." He sniffed disdainfully. "Barbarians!"
Paul looked up at the building and then at a small trio of boys darting around a pile of trash and rubbish that filled the gutters. "Someone might have taught them basic sanitation," he said. "But, no matter." As they turned the corner of the hospital building, and walked south toward Dundas Street, he added, "Little Chinese boys grow up into big Chinese boys, and they have their uses, don't they?"
The Gunner stood at the window of the surgical waiting room, trying not to listen to Sophie's quiet sobbing, seeing, but not seeing the teeming streets below. His eye caught the flashing red light of a vehicle moving slowly through the small tribe of children darting indifferently into the street, and he heard the muted sound of a siren. He noticed, almost as an afterthought, that there were two figures standing on the sidewalk far below, a man, and a short male, whose blond hair gleamed dully in the streetlights. As The Gunner watched the younger of the duo turned his head to look up at the hospital.
"No," The Gunner breathed, "It cannot be!" He shook his head, clearing it and looked again but the two men had moved off and the sidewalk was empty.
"Just my imagination," The Gunner thought as he turned. "I'm tired, and I'm worried and . . . It's impossible."
Forgetting Troubridge's snippet of information about Stennes travelling with a boy, a blond-haired boy named Paul, The Gunner went to comfort Sophie.
As they dodged a clanging streetcar, Paul's annoyance at being hauled from his warm bed and the arms of Swede, rose to the fore. "Are you going to tell me where in the hell we are going, and what we are going to do when we get there?" he demanded loudly, having to shout over the honking horns, clamouring street merchants and loud music pulsing from a storefront bar.
Dodging the outstretched hand of a street beggar - they seemed to infest every street corner in the downtown area - who smelled abominably, Stennes walked down Huron Street. "We are going to see a man," he began. "For some time he has been employed by an organization that has used my services."
"He's a pimp," retorted Paul sourly.
Stennes did not take umbrage. Noel had been a pimp. "To put in bluntly, yes," Stennes admitted. "He is also an agent of mine. He has been reporting on the doings of the members of this organization." He shrugged. "They call themselves knights of some such order or other, but seem to spend all their time with the boys I provided." Stennes stopped abruptly. "Perhaps you have heard of it? They are based in Vancouver."
"I was in Comox, which is on Vancouver Island, and halfway to nowhere!" replied Paul. "What was this order called?"
Stennes looked thoughtful. "Saint John of something or other."
"There must be at least three orders of Saint John of something or other, and I never heard any talk about any order when I was in Comox," replied Paul. "It can't be much, can it?"
"Probably just a cover for a group of boy lovers," agreed Stennes. He stopped at the corners of Huron and Grange, and pointed at a scabrous, three-storied building with a neon sign announcing the location of the "Grange Hotel".
The building, which looked as if it had been on this backwater of a corner since the first English soldiers set foot in the town of York, was painted a dingy yellow. The facade was pocked with peeling paint revealing the original red brick construction. As Paul watched, a blowsy woman with bleached hair, followed by two young Chinese males, entered the building through one half of the double glass doors that marked the entrance to the hotel. The other half had been kicked in, or out, and the glass had been replaced by a stained plywood panel.
Paul glanced disdainfully at the hotel. "Four stars I'm sure," he sniped.
"The Michelin people would flee in horror from such an establishment," returned Stennes with a laugh. "Still, it serves a purpose."
"Yeah, for ten or twenty bucks an hour," said Paul. "Not including the price of the hooker."
"Really, Paul, you are becoming quite the moralist," answered Stennes. He reached out to touch Paul's shoulder. "The man we are meeting is dangerous. He was employed to report on the order. He did, in a haphazard way, fulfill his end of the arrangement."
"Then what's the problem? He skim the take?"
"Probably," replied Stennes easily. "They all do, which is why the price I charge is so high." He shook his head. "Skimming is not the problem. This man, whose name is Noel Aubery, has been holding back, I think. He knows much more than he has been willing to tell me. He hints at this man, or that man, but sends nothing substantial. He gives no details of the order, and that makes me wonder just what he is holding back."
"And makes you wonder why he's holding back," interjected Paul. "He's not dealing with the Knights of Pythias, and at the prices we charge, the men involved have to have big bucks."
"Precisely. Now consider, we have this man who is supplying young boys, for whatever purposes, to a group of men. He lives in the same house, works in the same house as a servant, and yet he reports little. Who are the men? Do they have rank or position? Are they just masquerading as some fraternal organization or is this order something we should look into? There are many questions for which I have yet to receive an answer."
"You're pissed off because you think this Noel guy is taking a bigger piece of the action than you think he's entitled to," returned Paul altruistically. "You don't mind sharing, so long as your share is a hell of a lot bigger than his."
"You are quite the mercenary little urchin, aren't you," sneered Stennes.
"If I wasn't, I wouldn't be here," retorted Paul. He pushed open the door leading to the hotel lobby and entered, immediately wrinkling his nose. The area was filthy, with little or any pretence at cleanliness or even neatness. The overstuffed lounge chairs, which were placed helter-skelter around the room, were spavined and torn, with grimy stuffing showing through the tears. In one a mound of clothing seem to be piled. The mound moved to reveal a dishevelled, unshaven man. The floor was littered with bits and pieces of things that Paul did not want to think about. The lobby smelled like a public urinal on a hot day. The man in the chair smelled worse.
At the front desk, which had been enclosed with Plexiglas, the lady of the evening was engaged in a spirited and profane discussion with the night clerk over the cost of a room. Her two Chinese johns glanced around the lobby, two embarrassed young men who looked as if they would rather go back to the dorm and beat off.
"What a pit!" gasped Paul, his stomach churning.
"The man we want is on the second floor," said Stennes, ignoring the hooker as he walked briskly toward the stairs. There was an elevator but there was an ill-printed sign declaring it "Out of Order".
"It figures," Paul complained as he followed Stennes toward the stairs.
On the second floor, in a back room that overlooked an alley, Noel grunted and snuffled, thrusting deep into the body of the young Chinese male beneath him. The Chinese boy, who was barely 16, lay impassively as the massive organ of the ferengi began to spasm. The ferengi squealed like a pig and the boy felt the outpouring of semen filling his body.
His orgasm fast becoming a memory, Noel rolled away from the boy and lay on his back, panting. The boy rolled to the side of the bed, stood up and immediately pulled on his blue jeans and dirty T-shirt. He had kept his socks on, and never wore underpants when working. He looked at Noel and held out his hand. "You pay!"
Noel glowered at the boy. "Ten dollars," he muttered, reaching for his wallet. "And not worth half that."
"No. You pay," the boy repeated. "Twenny dollah, like you say!"
"For what?" Noel demanded as he looked for a $10.00 bill. "Fucking you was like fucking a dead fish!"
The Chinese boy sneered. "Circle K Boys say twenny dollah."
Noel knew better than to argue. If the kid worked for the Circle K Boys, then . . . He found a $20.00 bill and tossed it in the boy's general direction. "Take it and fuck off," he snarled.
Snatching up the note, the boy turned and quickly opened the door. He was surprised to see two men standing there, one old, the other very young with blond hair. The older man rattled something in Cantonese and the boy paled, then scuttled crablike past the blond man and hurried down the dimly lit corridor. Paul and Stennes entered the foul-smelling room and closed the door behind them.
"Well, well, if it ain't the Fuehrer," declaimed Noel. He reached down and hefted his semi-hard penis upright, pulling down the foreskin to reveal the slimy, plum-coloured head as he did so. "Heil Hitler!"
Both Stennes and Paul stiffened. Noel's obscene disrespect for the dead man they both venerated was enough to ensure that the Scotsman would not leave the room alive.
As he continued to play with his penis, rolling the foreskin and pulling it up and down, Noel sneered. "What then? Never seen a real man," he asked Paul.
"You are either drunk or mad," snapped Stennes. His eyes drifted to the grungy nightstand and saw the remnant of what liked several lines of white powder. "I warned you about the cocaine," he snarled.
"Fuck you," returned Noel. "You called me here, I'm here. I do what I like."
As Paul looked around the room, which smelled of sex and booze, it was obvious that basic housekeeping was not included in the list of things that Noel liked to do. The room looked as if it had not been cleaned in years, and Noel's occupancy had obviously not improved the decor one whit.
"What are you lookin' at, then?" Noel slurred at Paul. Then he smiled lasciviously at Stennes. "Nice bit of fluff you have there, Eddy old son." He waggled his now hard penis at Paul. "Up for a threesome?"
Paul gagged at the thought of even being in the room with this loathsome creature.
Stennes placed his hand on Paul's shoulder. "He is not for the likes of you," he told Noel sneeringly.
"Not for the likes of me?" growled Noel as he pulled himself into a sitting position. "The likes of me were all right when you paid me old Da five Scottish pounds to pound my arse!" he glared at Paul. "Nine year old I was, and the bastard hurt me!" He returned to looking daggers at Stennes. "The likes of me were good enough to hold down Logan's son while you raped him!"
Paul's eyes widened in shock as he stared at Stennes and his jaw dropped. He quickly decided that he would have to be much more circumspect in goading the German.
"Keep your mouth shut!" bellowed Stennes.
Noel was not impressed. "Sod you, Eddy lad." He looked at Paul again. "He's a right pig, is our Eddy," he sneered. "Likes to hurt the lads, does Eddy. Likes to make 'em scream and bleed. Did he tell you the lad took the easy way out?"
Paul did not reply. He was not surprised at Noel's accusations. Stennes was a pig.
"You are a liar," growled Stennes. "And a thief."
"Oh? And just what have I stolen?"
"You were sent to Vancouver to report on the order. You did not. You were paid to do so and that makes you a thief."
"I sent reports," countered Noel. "There was nothing to tell." He made a deprecating gesture. "They were a bunch of old men diddling little boys." He grinned evilly. "But then you'd know all about diddling little boys, wouldn't you."
Stennes started to move toward Noel. Paul held up his arm, holding the German back. "Perhaps if we discussed the matter calmly?" he asked as he looked pointedly at Stennes. He then looked at Noel. "Herr Stennes thinks that you've been holding back. Have you?"
"What was there to hold back?" demanded Noel. "I watched a bunch of dirty old men partying with little boys."
Paul tried to keep the doubt from his voice as he asked, "And made no effort to profit from what you saw?"
"How could I?" returned Noel. "All right, they paid me good coin to look the other way when they took the boys into their rooms, and yeah, I did sometimes see things. But . . ." He held up one finger. "They might have been old, and they might have been rich, but they weren't stupid! They only called each other by their first names and they would have done me in a minute if they thought I was spying, or taking pictures."
Paul's eyes flashed at Stennes and then back to Noel. Mentioning pictures had been a mistake on Noel's part. Stennes, and Paul, immediately knew that he had taken photos of the wild goings-on.
Pretending to be satisfied, Paul then asked, "And you never suggested to any of the men that if they were not more than generous, that your, um, knowledge, might find its way to the authorities?"
"What, and fuck up a good thing?" Noel asked, pretending to be indignant. "I was stuck in the middle of fucking nowhere with a bunch of whining brats and old men who could only get it up once a week, if then!" He looked deliberately at Paul. "Nobody signed a guest book, you know."
"Then you have nothing to give us?" asked Stennes, taking Paul's lead.
There was actually quite a lot that Noel could give, what with what he had stashed away in his safety deposit box, and in the bottom of his carryon. But he would be damned if he were going to tell Stennes anything further this night. "There's nothing to give," Noel said flippantly. "How many times do I have to tell you?" He missed the look that passed between Paul and Stennes.
"In that case," Paul began flatly as he reached into his jacket.
Noel's eyes widened and his mouth formed into a perfect "O", which matched the muzzle of the pistol pointed at him, and almost matched the small hole in his forehead that appeared when Paul pulled the trigger of his 9mm. The Scotsman never heard the report and barely felt the back of his head exploding, splattering blood and brains across the flyspecked wallpaper behind the headboard of the bed.
"I never could stand a liar," Paul observed as he holstered his pistol.
Stennes moved quickly, ignoring the blood and gore and the excrement that soaked the mattress on which Noel's body lay. "Quickly, search his case," Stennes ordered as he rummaged through Noel's suitcase.
Paul found some papers, but never knew that there was a hidden cache in the false bottom of the carryon. He quickly scanned the papers and handed them to Stennes. "Looks like he put a little aside for his old age," he observed emotionlessly.
"Bah, it is only money," returned Stennes. "Any lists? Any names? Any photos?"
Paul shook his head. "Nothing worthwhile." He glanced at Noel's body splayed on the evil smelling bed. "Do we leave him?"
"Take his money," replied Stennes as he pawed through the pockets of Noel's trousers. He held up a set of keys. "Someone will find him and it will look like a robbery. Don't touch anything and wipe down that case. And pick up that shell casing. There must be nothing to indicate that we were here."
Taking the papers that they had found, Paul and Stennes went down the back stairs and into the alley. Stennes could not believe how calm and cold his protege was as they walked back toward Dundas Street. "You did well, Paul," Stennes said, for the first time treating Paul as an equal. "We will talk."
"About?"
"Let us just say that I have made plans for you." He smiled grimly. "In time you will be well rewarded, meine Kleine Sturbannfuhrer. Until then, you will return to Ottawa and go to Germany, as planned. When we return to the residenz we shall talk, and I shall give you some papers."
"Papers?"
Stennes smiled fondly at Paul. "As you have pointed out on numerous occasions we are very much alike. I wish to ensure your future."
Paul did not reply. A smile of satisfaction creased his face and a strut developed in his gait. A promotion and a promise of a future. His smile increased. No a bad night's work after all.