Last Known Address

Last Known Address-ch4

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LAST KNOWN ADDRESS

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by Stephen Shore

4. Queens

After the massive amount of chem piss Manetti shot into him, there wasn't much more of the night he remembered. He didn't think there was any more filming. Although he was excited thinking he was a star in his first porn video, the actual act of getting fisted and spunked by Manetti was the thing he relished as he woke up. Somehow he'd gotten back to Manetti's apartment. He awoke naked but collarless, a little spaced out about the rest of the evening's events. He rested for a long time on Manetti's futon. It unmistakably smelled like him. He inhaled deeply. Drip. A sound echoed from the kitchen. A sheet was covering him. It looked like he had kicked off a blanket. It was hot in the apartment. The VCR clock said four-oh-three. He felt his butt and found it very wet and greasy. Drip. His head felt like shit and he was pretty disoriented, but still he managed to push himself off the futon and stagger to the bathroom. Sitting on the toilet, he tried to gather his thoughts.

He's pretty sure he got put on a fuckbench and had been ridden by Master Drax and Jamal. His memory was fuzzy. Manetti had opened him up sufficiently for Master Drax to ram his mammoth cock into him, but funny enough he couldn't really remember it. He remembered that Jamal went at him for a long time. He was rough at first but he'd put up little resistance and they soon fell into a hypnotic rhythm that lasted for hours, literally, till the first grey light of day came into the air shaft. He seemed to remember Jamal pissed in him too. They were like dogs marking their territory, he thought watching the airshaft brighten. Jamal’s steady fucking wasn't entirely unpleasant, but his memory faded as the airshaft blazed to white. He thought his memory of Master Drax would come back to him, but right now, sitting on the toilet, he couldn't recall anything after Jamal’s pissing. Something hurt, that's as much as he could remember of Master Drax. That, and he distinctly remembered Manetti wasn't there.

He released a huge volume of piss from his ass, then followed that up with a slew of shit, grease and blood. When he wiped he was alarmed by the multi-colored streaks: red, brown, yellow, pink. But Manetti warned him what he’d be in for, so why actually be surprised? His hole felt it was at least twice the size it had been. Actually it felt amazing. He squeeze a couple of times and realized he couldn't completely squeeze it shut. Overall, the lingering thoughts he had from last night was that it was an adventure he was glad he had, especially what he and Manetti shared, but goddamn did he feel like crap now. He staggered out of the bedroom, saw the back of Manetti's head in the kitchen tub, and crawled back in bed. Drip. "Hey, Mike," he managed to eke out, talking mostly into his pillow. "Are you coming to bed?" Drip. But he fell quickly back to sleep, letting the question hang.

***

The front door erupted with a tremendous pounding. Chris opened one eye and determined, by airshaft light, it was still late afternoon. He looked at the VCR: four-twenty. The banging began again.

"Mike?" he said. "You there?"

The third thumping this time was the loudest, longest, and most determined. He pushed himself up and trotted to the front door. He cracked it opened as far as the chain lock would allow to discover two police officers standing in the hallway.

"Your neighbor called in a complaint about water leaking from your apartment," the older of the two officer said. He was a big, red-headed guy with a flushed face and greying temples. The other officer, much younger, had a buzz cut and cold green eyes squinting at him behind his larger partner. “He thought the water looked bloody," the older officer added. He peered over Chris head and looked alarmed. “What the hell is that?" He pointed his night stick at something behind Chris’ head.

Chris turned around and was dumbstruck. Manetti was naked in the bathtub, wrist slashed, lying in a pool of bloody water.

"You need to let us in, young man. Unlatch the door," the officer instructed. The buzz cut officer got on his walkie-talkie and called the incident in. They waited as Chris slipped off the security chain.

When he opened the door the younger officer said wryly, "You might want to put on some clothes."

It took Chris a second to realize he was standing in front of them naked. His wasn't thinking, obviously. How could he think? He was just now only fully waking up to the horror of the scene. He looked at Manetti, colorless, his eyelids closed. He focused past him and he saw his clothes hanging on the window grate, now dry. He walked woozily over to the window through a puddle of blood-drenched water. No underwear on the grate, he couldn't remember where that was, so he just slipped on his jeans and his t-shirt. He turned around. The two officers had come into the kitchen and the younger one put two fingers to Manetti’s neck. He shook his head at the other officer.

The red-headed officer introduced himself as Officer Bailey. Chris heard words but they were muffled. Mostly he heard his own blood pulsing through his head. He tried to anchor himself by looking intently at what was in front of him. A police officer in his late forties who looked like a little league coach or Scout Master. Open face, a little flabby maybe, but still solid for his age. There was a bit of tomato sauce on his chin. He wondered what the tomato sauce was from. Officer Bailey nodded at the other officer, said his name was Officer Polanski, then he quizzed him, "Mind telling us your name, son, and who this is and what happened?" His question was nothing more than dampened words under a blanket. Officer Bailey saw the blank look on Chris’ face so he slowly repeated the question: "Your name, son, his name, what happened?"

It took Chris a second to shake the cobwebs out of his head before he could pull any kind of answer together. "I don't know. My name’s Chris Prior.” He looked back horrified at Manetti. “I just came in from Los Angeles. Last night. This is Mike, Mike Manetti." He stopped in his tracks after saying Manetti's name. He couldn't continue. Didn’t allow himself to think beyond the officer’s question.

"You saying you just now seeing this?" Polanski, the second officer, asked skeptically standing by Manetti’s body.

Chris put his hands on his forehead trying to process the scene, then said, a half-step behind each word he spoke, "Yeah, I woke up when you knocked.” It was almost as if he was testing the ground with each word to see if they still held up to reality: "I just flew in from LAX last night. I came here to find my brother. This is his boyfriend, roommate. Was his…" He trailed off. Bailey went in the other room to search the apartment putting on latex gloves. Chris heard him responding to his walkie-talkie.

Officer Polanski looked around the room. "You here alone 'cept for him?" Chris nodded. "He leave a note?"

"I don't know. You know as much as I know. Is there?" They both scanned the room from where they stood. Chris' eyes kept coming back to Manetti. He had no idea what to do, had no clue why this was happening. The wall phone suddenly rang loudly making him jump. Chris looked at it as if it was an alien object. He picked it up. “Hello?” he said in a daze.

Master Drax spoke to him in a quiet voice, "The police are with you."

"Uh-huh," Chris said, staring at the ground.

"Do whatever they say. Cooperate with them fully. Now say this back to me, I haven't seen him today."

Chris repeated, "I haven't seen him today." He gave a sideways glance out the window and saw an outline of a dark figure on the other side of the air shaft.

"Don't say anything to anyone. Just keep saying you don’t know anything.”

Chris got out tentatively, “Uh-huh.”

“I'll be in touch again." There was a click, then a loud dial tone.

Polanski said, "Who was that?"

"I think his boss. Wanted to know why he wasn't in."

"Why'd you say you hadn't seen him?" Polanski pressed. There was something dark yet familiar about this officer. Chris didn't have many run-ins with cops in Long Beach but Ben had. The area of Long Beach he grew up in was called Dogpatch. It was close to the refineries and the sprawling Los Angeles harbor. It was also an area where convicts were released. The Burger King close to his house was off limits to him growing up. It was a place crawling with ex-cons and their wives and girlfriends, to cops and fights and arrests. Polanski reminded him of the kind of cop that used to harass Ben. Ben had been busted for being underage at a local gay bar when he was sixteen. He’d been on the cops' radar ever since.

Bailey came back in to the kitchen holding Manetti's box of drugs. He had it open, displaying the contents to Chris. He asked if Chris knew anything about it. He said he didn't. He'd just met the guy last night. He just let him crash here but that was all.

Polanski scrutinized him. "What are you, kid, fourteen, fifteen…thirteen?" Bailey gave him a back-off look. "What?" he whined to Bailey, "The kid don't have hair down there yet so what am I supposed to think? Maybe we need to take him in for a statement then hand him over to Protective Services?"

"I'm eighteen," Chris said, trying not to sound indignant, though he was a little embarrassed they saw he was shaved hairless when they caught him naked.

"Eighteen, huh," Officer Bailey said, with a raised eyebrow.

"And three month, Sir," Chris added, riffling through his wallet to find his driver’s license. He knew officers like the 'Sir' thing, at least that’s what his brother had told him. When Ben was still at home, his brother was always telling him stuff like that. Like always look for an exit, or always have a plan B, which meant nothing to an eight-year-old. Or like always have two answer for any question the cops ask you, if you ever have to shoot a gun keep firing till it’s empty, don’t never, ever mix G with alcohol unless you want to end up dead, always stay in your room when mom and Carl are high—useless or obvious stuff like that. Hell, for ten years he didn’t even know what G was until last night. "Here's my driver's license. And I don't know anything about this guy’s drugs habits. Maybe he was a dealer. I don’t know." He was emphatic, even a little angry. "I came in late and we went to sleep, and...."

"And that’s why," Polanski interjected, "you're just getting up now, at four o’clock. That don't make no sense."

"Jet lag," said Chris defensively. Then quickly added, “I guess it’s jet lag, Sir.”

"So you come here looking for your brother and you meet this guy," Polanski proposed.

"We wrote a couple of letters and he said I could stay with them, with him. He told me he was his roommate, boyfriend, whatever."

"And he let you stay the night." Polanski had that real prosecutor's attitude he'd seen Ben subjected to in court. "And the next day you wake up, late in the afternoon, answer the door naked as the day you was born, and this guy’s lying in the bathtub with slashed wrist, and you don't know nothin' about nothin'? Come on. You gotta do better than that."

Chris looked crestfallen. He fell into the kitchen chair putting his forehead into his hands. Things were happening too fast. Last night was a crazy sex scene, some of which he couldn’t even remember, and right on the heels of all that frenzy, this.

Officer Bailey saw Chris' consternation. He asked sympathetically, “How long your brother been missing?”

Chris didn't know exactly. Mike thought something like two weeks, he said. Polanski chimed in quickly wanting to know if a missing person’s report was filed. Chris didn't know that either. Maybe he should have made one, he didn't know why he hadn't. He was in California. He looked up at the officers, dejected, determined not to cry.

Officer Bailey watched him carefully. There was something street wise but also pitiful about the kid.

"So this guy's boss calls just now," Polanski continued prosecuting his case, "and you tell him you didn't see him today, even though he's sitting in a bathtub dripping blood two feet away. You’re covering up for something, aren’t ya kid?"

"Nick, enough with the third degree. Can't you see the kid's this far from a melt down? Son,” Officer Bailey squatted down next to Chris and squeezed his thin shoulders. “How much money you bring with you?" Chris took out his wallet again, counted out three singles. "When was the last time you ate something. I couldn't help seeing you're skin and bones."

"Last night Mike made me some soup. Before that I had a cheese sandwich and crackers on the plane. I don't have a plan B. I know that's stupid. I'm a stupid moron, but honest, officer, I don't know about any of this.” Chris pointed at Manetti. “It's the most horrible thing I’ve ever seen. And I really didn’t even know the guy." Chris felt a crippling heartbreak hiding his true feelings about Manetti, how he so callously pushed aside how he really felt about him so quickly. Like he was talking trash like this, with him in the bathtub, right there. He prayed Manetti couldn’t hear him. What a fake and a jerk he was, how right his dad was about how worthless he was. Tears welled up and ran down his face, but he refused to acknowledge them and simply let them roll off his flushed cheeks. He wanted Ben. He needed him now more than ever. He also wanted to go and throw his arms around Mike, wake him up, shake him, hit him, but instead he felt frozen in place, a sniveling little coward.

"Listen," Officer Bailey said to Chris sitting at the kitchen table. Chris stared at the back of Manetti's head. "No, look at me, son." He turned the chair away from the tub. "You're not in trouble, but you are a witness. And there’s at least this stash of drugs in this apartment. Detectives will be here soon and take over the case. They'll do a full sweep, turn everything upside down. The coroner’s also coming and will take out the body. So you can't stay here, see? Do you have anywhere you can go? A relative? Maybe one of your brother's other friends?"

Chris looked out the air shaft debating whether to tell them about Master Drax. He noticed Polanski wasn't in the room. He decided that bringing up Master Drax or the place across the air shaft would open up an even worse line of questioning with someone like Polanski.

"Hey, Don, come take a look," Polanski called from the other room.

Chris heard his own voice on tape rambling energetically, "And I want to get fucked in the gas station toilet. I want that fat turd owner, Drake, to fuck me from behind while I'm licking the urinal. You think I stink, man? You should smell that toilet some time. It's righteous foul." Chris came into the bedroom to see Polanski looking through the camera's viewfinder. Polanski rewound the tape a bit and hit play, and Manetti's and Chris' raunchy sex played out of the tinny speaker, no visuals needed. Polanski shut it off.

"Doesn't look like you went to sleep right after you got here, pal," Polanski said. "Care to revise your story?"

***

Chris totally bailed on Manetti. Said he tricked him to take drugs he didn't want. It wasn't entirely untrue, and he pressed how he was tied up and not at all into it until the drugs kicked in, and then he kind of went crazy. Bailey and Polanski could see that if they looked at the whole tape, which would be really humiliating, but at least it would show he wasn't a willing participant.

Polanski wasn't buying it, but with Bailey, there at least was a strand of sympathy. "That why you don't have any hair? He did that to you in the sling when you were tied up?" Chris nodded. "Shitty pervert. So Nick," he said to Polanski, "look what the kid went through. He's out here by himself, don't know where the hell his brother is, run's into this dealer who tricks him, ties him up, gets him high, does God knows what else to him besides shaving him, and wakes up to find the guy who tied him up dead. The perv probably knocks himself off in some last act of decency for what he done, and you're ready to lock the kid up for trusting this low-life scum. Anyway, look, it’ll be the detectives’ problem in a couple of hours. All’s I'm saying is the kid's been through enough without us piling on him."

Polanski frowned. "Yeah,” he looked the kid up and down, “well, maybe there's something to his story." He seemed a little ashamed. "But where does that leave the kid?"

Bailey thought for a long moment before he said, "Well, I'm helping you out while you and Molly work things out.” Polanski looked embarrassed. “You're camping out in Tony’s room while my spoiled kid’s off backpacking in Europe. He could stay with us for at least a day or two since Kitty and Eddie are at the shore with her ma. He can have Eddie's room. Boy,” he said to Chris, who looked back at him with a spark of hope, “hate to say it, but you look like could use a bath and a couple of hot meals. I don't see how that puts us out any, Nick."

Chris looked at the two men expecting Polanski to reject the idea flat out. He looked the type who’d be a real douche bag. "What about the tape?” Polanski asked. “It's pretty incriminating.”

"What tape? I didn't see no tape," Bailey said innocently. He looked at Chris, who finally cracked a smile, "Did you see any tape, son?" Chris shook his head no.

Polanski pursed his lips, then gave in, shrugging his shoulders. He definitely let Bailey do the thinking. That suited Chris just fine. Bailey seemed like the first nice guy he met in New York since he got here.

"We're square then. So, Chris," Officer Bailey said bringing out his wallet, "Here's ten bucks. Go to get some pizza down on Saint Marks or whatever.” He added conspiratorially, “But I'm telling you, Saint Mark’s pizza is the best pizza in New York. Then you catch the seven train out to Flushing. Here's my address." Bailey wrote out the address on his notepad and handed it to Chris. "I’m right across from the last stop on the subway. Me and Nick, that is, Officer Polanski, we get off duty in an hour. We should be wrapped up here and back at my house by seven. Think you can get to us around then?"

Chris nodded, he definitely could. He thanked Bailey, gratefully pumped his fleshy hand. He even shook Polanski's hand. He found his shoes and began putting them on. He still felt like a fuckhead betraying Manetti, but what was he supposed to do? He certainly didn't have a plan once Manetti offed himself. As he was tying his shoelaces, he wondered why Manetti did it, wondered if something happened after he blacked out. The drugs really fucked him good. As he picked up his gym bag, he flashed on the fact that even the small amount Manetti first slammed him with, he couldn't recollect when Manetti put a dog collar on him. That was fucked up shit. He swore that was last time he’d ever slam.

He saw keys on a hook next to the door, pocketed them, and then left the officers to do whatever they do in these types of incidences. He look back one last time at Manetti who, lying there in the tub, looked almost peaceful.

***

Saint Mark's pizza was probably the best pizza he'd ever eaten. He ate two slices and drank a soda, then ordered a third slice. He downed it all while sitting on a stool looking out the window at all the people going by. In one corner of the pizzeria, a TV blared local news running a clip of President Reagan giving a speech at the U.N., followed by a traffic report about the midtown gridlock the president was causing, then ran a local news item about a manhunt in progress upstate. It was just noise that he easily ignored, and instead watched the spectacle out the window. What a bunch of freaks! Punk rockers were all over the place with their spikey Mohawks and safety pins in their noses. Tourists would come up and take pictures of them, then the punks would chase the tourists and demand money. Most of the time the tourist paid except one guy in a cowboy hat refused and a fight broke out. A cop came over and broke things up.

On the subway, the New York circus continued. An old man in an ascot held onto a subway strap in one hand and clutched a blind Chihuahua in the other; several ladies sitting togethet were touching up their heavy makeup in compacts; grannies in scarves with full shopping carts jabbered away in a foreign language; a group of drunk sailors in white sailor suits piled in and got off when he did at Forty Second Street. He transferred to the train to Flushing. There was graffiti all over everything, the connecting tunnels, the trains, even every single support beam had initials or a little drawing on it. The sailors reminded him of the graffiti in the abandoned building, then he thought of Manetti and started feeling low. After two stops on the Flushing train, a group of homeboys boarded the subway car with their boombox playing earsplitting rap music and started break dancing. They were really good. Spinning on their heads, using the poles in the middle of the cars to swing around, doing complete flips in the moving car. Before they got off they passed around a cap and he put a dollar in it. The boy who passed around the cap said, “Thanks, Cuz,” and held out his hand for a high-five. He high-fived him back, which made him feel a little better. A couple of stations later four older Black men got on and started harmonizing a familiar Motown song. Their harmonies and phrasing were perfect. The man he gave a dollar to blessed him and put his hand on his shoulder. Boy, New Yorkers, at least the brothers he saw, were really talented and super nice.

As the train went on, fewer people got on. He followed the stops on the sign over the windows, counting down to the last stop. There was only maybe a dozen people when the train finally pulled in. An older Spanish lady was talking to herself vacantly looking out the window. She didn’t seem to be going anywhere. Chris guessed she was probably homeless, clutching her paper bag of valuable. He slipped two of his last dollars into her hand. She stopped talking for a second, looked up at him and said, Dios te bendiga, then went back to talking to herself. Maybe, Chris thought, she was praying.

The platform clock pointed to a little after nine. He knew he dawdled coming here, and the train ride was much longer than he expected, but he was still surprised how late it was. The quiet street was dark, but finding the house was easy, especially because there was a hand-carved sign on the corner of the garage that said “The Bailey’s.” The big two-story house with little basement windows he guessed was a typical house for the neighbor, but he wasn't used to staying in anything so nice. To Chris it seemed like he was walking up to a mansion.

He rang the bell and Officer Bailey answered. It was strange to see him in yellow boxer shorts and no shirt, but of course it was a warm night and he wouldn't always be walking around in his uniform. “Really nice house, Officer Bailey,” said Chris, as the older man ushered him in. Chris tried to keep his eyes up, but there was definitely a big packages swinging in those boxers. Bailey was a big bear of a man, not really muscly, but very solid. He had a large pillowy chest covered in reddish-brown fur, a tattoo of a lion on his shoulder, a cobweb sketched on his elbow, and a barbwire band around his left bicep. Chris tried to steer his mind away from how sexy his thought this daddy-type cop was.

They entered the living room where a Yankees-Red Sox game was playing on a huge TV. He thanked the officer again for letting him stay, but Bailey interrupted him saying to call him Don, and pointed at Polanski sprawled on the sectional sofa in his boxer shorts too, saying “and that cocksucker is Nick.”

"Yo," Polanski said curtly, and went back to watching the game. Polanski shirtless was a real piece of work. Both of his arms were covered in full sleeves, and there was very little that wasn’t inked on his chest and legs. His neck too was covered. What bothered Chris was that almost all of the ink, beside a few motorcycle-riding skeletons and smoking devils, was about white power and swastikas. He had to acknowledge, though, Polanski’s body was hot. He was built like a boxer, not huge, not particularly tall, but also not an ounce of body fat on him. His head was dark from short-cropped black hair. He lounged with one arm cradled behind his head showing off a sprawling pit of black hair. He smoked a cigar and scratched his shorts a lot revealing, Chris thought purposefully though he never looked at Chris, his big pecker. Several empty beer cans litter the coffee table. Both the men look well on their way to getting pretty sloshed.

Don and Chris stood behind the sectional and followed the game for a couple of minutes. A warm night breeze came in from sliding glass door and the vertical blinds slapped together noisily under the din of the game. Don asked him if he wanted a beer, and Chris cheerfully accepted. Don said there was Popeye’s Chicken on the counter and plenty of beer in the fridge, that he should just help himself, they were very informal here which was pretty obvious as he pointing to himself and Nick.

Chris put down his bag and strolled into the kitchen. He’d never seen a kitchen as nice as this. Expensive looking pink marble was everywhere, rich redwood cabinets lined all the walls, and recessed lighting lit the room dramatically like it was a movie set. There were fluorescent lights but they weren’t turned on, just the spot lights over the marble counter and little lights under the cabinets. A big copper refrigerator and stove matched each other, as did the copper dishwasher. Even the sink was copper. Overall the style didn’t seem to fit Don, but maybe his wife was in charge of decorating.

Chris piled his plate with chicken and a big heap of warm, greasy fries. He came back with his plate and beer, happily sitting crossed-legged at the coffee table, watching the game with the two men. Through a couple of innings, his opinion of Polanski didn’t improve. As the game went on Polanski kept swearing racial names at the black players. Chris was too familiar with these kinds of assholes that he grew up around and did his best to only pay attention to the game, the food, and how nice Don was.

At the end of the fifth, Don picked up Chris' finished plate. When he bent down he caught a whiff of Chris’ stink, and suggested he should probably wash up before bed. Bailey said his room—Eddie's room—was in the middle of the hall. Nick was in Tony's room at the far end, and the master bedroom was at the top of the stairs. The guest bathroom was right across from his room.

Chris chugged that last of his beer, got up and thanked Don again for letting him stay, and also for the ten bucks. He said he one buck left but Bailey waved him off. He thanked him also for the beer and also for the chicken. Don interrupted, said enough with the thanks. Thanks enough, he kidded him, would be not to have a stinky bum in the house. Chris was a little embarrassed, but scurried excitedly upstairs with his gym bag to find Eddie’s room.

His jaw literally dropped open when he entered the room. He looked around, thinking, what a life Eddie must lead! Soccer, swim, and baseball trophies were everywhere; posters of race cars and football players lined the wall; and a big Madonna poster was taped to his closet. The kid even had his own cassette stereo system with huge speakers and tons of neatly filed tapes. He didn't think cops made so much money. Eddie was so lucky! This rich kid even had his own color TV, a VCR, and an Atari console, with Super Pac Man and Donkey Kong boxes stacked on the TV. He hoped he'd have some time to play them.

On Eddie’s dresser, a framed Little League picture showed him holding a bat over his shoulder. He looked a little shorter than Chris and a whole lot younger, twelve maybe. He had blond hair like he did, and striking blue eyes, but what stood out the most to Chris was that he had a smile so confident and winning it literally beamed out of the frame. There were other pictures of him along the walls: him on the pitcher’s mound, mid-kick in the air making a soccer goal, him and his older brother with their ski masks up at a ski lodge, him and his family at the castle at Disney World. This guy had it all. The only thing that was weird was that the man in the Disney photo sort of looked like Don, but not really, but the photo was taken from far away so the family was really small. Mainly the picture was of the Disney castle.

Chris set his faded green gym bag on the dresser next to the photo. Looking around the spotless room, with its royal blue shag carpeting, and purple high gloss walls, and white wooden shudders, he felt his gym bag was probably the dirtiest, dingiest thing in here, well, except for maybe himself.

Chris crossed the hall, dropped his jeans and t-shirt on the bathroom floor. The shower was all glass and polished metal. He got the temperature to where it was nice and hot, then relished the multiple jets washing over him. It was probably the best shower he was ever in. Jets sprayed him not only from the top, but also at his sides. He was sure he stank and was grateful Don made a joke out of it. He took up the soap and really scrubbed himself down. There was some shampoo in the stall and he used that too. When he rinsed his hair he saw the soapy water turn yellow, and that made him think of Manetti. He put his back to the jets and just hung there for a while as the water flowed over him.

There was a knock on the door. He called out, “Yes?” He climbed out the shower feeling not only had he washed his last month of California off his skin, but also the last twenty-four hours as well.

Don rapped again and came in. He looked Chris over while Chris grabbed a bath towel off a towel rack. Don closed the door behind him, and said he was going to start a load of wash before the game ended. The crystal glass he held showed he had switched over to drinking whiskey, and as the man swayed, Chris smirked to himself thinking the cop would never be able to pass a sobriety test. Chris ran the towel over his legs, feeling a little self-conscious being stared at naked, but the man already had seen him that way, and besides he was a dad and policeman, so he just continued wiping himself off with his towel. The cop said he couldn't help notice Chris' clothes could use a wash, hoped he didn't mind, but he'd already thrown the clothes from his gym bag in the washer and thought he'd just pick up these and toss them in too.

"What'll I wear," Chris protested softly as he towel dried his hair. He saw Don looking at his pits and crotch.

"Boy that perv shaved you within an inch of your life,” he said. He ran a hand over Chris’ shaved pit. “Truth is, without the wife and kids here, me and Nicky walk around naked most of the time.” He winked, and wobbled unsteady out the door with the last of Chris’ clothes.

Chris quickly scoured Eddie's room and realized, even though he was small, he wasn't going to fit in some twelve-year-old’s clothes. He didn’t relish the idea of being naked. Maybe around Don he would, but Polanski was a turn off. He didn’t have many options though. He slinked down the hallway to see if there was something to wear in Nick/Tony's room but it was locked. He creeped to the staircase and saw the lights were off, and the sliding glass door was shut. Don’s bedroom door was ajar with blue TV light seeping through the crack. “Hey, kiddo,” Don called out, “we’re finishing the game in here.” Chris went in and found Don and Nick lying completely naked on the king size bed. They both sat up against the headboard, each with a glass of whiskey in their hands. Don certainly had a massive package. His reddish-brown fur extended to a dark brown swath of pubic hair, with a large semi-erect boner pointing straight out. "Bottom of the ninth, New York’s up by two," Don summarized, as if it were perfectly natural for two grown men to watch a Yankee game naked together on a king size bed. "C’mere, tiger, sit by your ol’ man.”

“Yeah. C’mon, sport,” said Polanski, patting the space between them. His Polish sausage hung over two large smooth balls. The cock had a distinctive bend to it, like a large banana. His body was smooth but his crotch was covered, hip bone to pronounced hip bone, by the most substantial amount of long, black public hair he’d ever seen. “Uncle Nick’s not going to bite.” He paused a beat. “Unless you want him to. Rarrr.” The two men laughed, then as a full count was announced, their attention switched back to the game. “Swear to God, if that spade lets him walk I’m throwing my fuckin' drink at the fucker.” The umpire called a final ball, and the batter tossed his bat, trotting to first. Polanski, true to his word, flung the glass at the TV. The shattered glass broke violently with whiskey running down the screen. It made Chris flinch, but Don didn’t seem to care. The man again gestured to Chris to come sit next to him.

Chris climbed over Polanski’s tattooed legs, and Polanski put a hand on his smooth young ass and gave him a sharp slap. “Woo-ee, who’s not stinky-boy anymore? Swear to God boy, you were as smelly as a sewer pipe, and we’re pretty familiar with sewer pipes, ain’t we Donny?”

“There he is,” said Don, as Chris settled next to him. The man draped his arm over his bony shoulders. “Fresh as new born baby. Boy, you do clean up nicely, doesn’t he Nicky?” He ran his hand through Chris’ wet hair.

“Sure does. Fresh as a daisy.” Nick leaned to get close to his skin and inhaled deeply. “Fresh as a sweet Sunday morning.”

"Give your old man a hug like you do when your ma's not home." Chris looked briefly from man to man, deciding whether to play along. He decided. "That's it, kiddo," Don said wrapping his thick arms around the boy. "You're too skinny, except in some new places." He reached down and grabbed Chris' cock.

Chris jumped a little, was weirded out but still kind of getting excited. The man was a big furry bear, and his fleshy chest had surprisingly hard muscle underneath. He felt Polanski creep up behind him. His hand went between Chris' butt cheeks and started pressing against his hole. Polanski said, "Eddie sure feels like he's growing up, don't he Daddy Don? Feels like he might even turn out to be a man someday." Polanski stopped as his finger slipped easily into Chris’ anus. "Ah, man, you gotta feel this pussy, Donny. That don't feel like virgin pussy, does it to you Officer Bailey?"

They both put a finger in Chris' hole. "That most definitely does not feel like virgin pussy." Both men laughed. Chris was actually getting hard, but then there was the sharp crack of a ball being hit. Both men looked over at the game, completely abandoned Chris' sphincter, and leaned forward in bed, both crying, No-no-no-no. The batter sent the ball to center-right and it went straight over the wall. Three men came charging around the bases and the game was over. Don exasperated, got up and went to a fancy bar cart next to the TV and refilled his drink. "You're cleaning that up in the morning," he said to Polanski pointing at the broken glass on the carpet. "Nother one?"

Polanski asked if there was another glass. Don went in the master bath and came back with one. He poured Polanski his drink, and said to Chris, "I'd give you one, Edward, but I have a bone to pick with you, young man.” He looked at Chris with mock seriousness. Chris couldn't tell if Don was just drunk or if he was into some serious role play. He guessed role play but wasn't one hundred percent sure. "Eddie, Eddie. Eddie Spaghetti," he said in mock consternation. "I want you to tell me and Uncle Nick about this". He picked up Chris' gym bag that had been sitting on the carpet next to the bar cart. He reached inside and brought out Manetti box of drugs and set it delicately on the cart next to the whiskey, scotch and vodka bottles. "Edward Hunter Bailey, I want the truth now. Where did you get these?" he asked, flipping the lid and pulling out three loaded needles.

Chris was taken aback. Was he supposed to believe he'd taken that from Manetti's? Was Don being serious? What kind of cop was he? And was he supposed to be Eddie his son responding to this, or himself, Chris? He ad-libbed innocence, deciding to play along for the time being, "Wh-what is that, dad?"

"You tell me, son. It's in your bag."

"I've never seen them before. What is it?"

"Good question, Eddie. Let's see. Officer, please restrain my son." With that, Polanski grabbed Chris' arms and pinned him face down, ass up, in the bed. "Now, boy, don't struggle or Uncle Nick is going to seriously send you into a world of pain." Chris felt his right arm being forced agonizingly up his back. He stopped moving and let Bailey pull out his free arm. The man flipped over his forearm, and he felt the needle go. In less than a minute he felt his body become flush again with heat. Polanski let him go and he rolled to his side, letting the drug roll over him. Fuck, it wasn't fair, was his last fully conscious thought, but then he was horny all over again, and he knew he was totally going to give into these men. As the drug took him over, he wanted them to. More and more he wanted daddy bear and the nazi to corrupt him.

While the crystal coursed through his body, igniting his groin, he ran his hands over his cock and inserted fingers in ass. There was a wash of background noise, but he was solely focused on his hole and how empty if felt. He heard Don ask Polanski if he want it in the arm or neck? "Neck," said Polanski, "it's been a long time." Chris was feeling really energized. He popped got up and paced a little holding his arm in the air, then sat against the headboard to watch Don shoot Polanski up. A new, bent fascination had been born in him. Rather than shying away from needles, he became riveted by them. He’d never seen or even imagined someone shooting up in their neck. He couldn't even conceive of how that must feel, but he wanted to see Polanski do it. Polanski laid on his side at the edge of bed and Bailey knelt beside him. Between two zigzag SS's on Polanski’s neck, Bailey found a thick vein, stuck him, registered blood, then slowly sent the liquid directly into Polanski's brain. When Don pulled out, Polanski pressed his neck with his finger and rolled onto his back. The man said nothing but his eyes popped open and rolled back in his head, his bent cock drooled a shitload of pre-cum. Only the whites showed in his eyes and his lids fluttered. He was spasming slightly. Chris ran his hand through the man’s field of black pubes. It was like silk, yards and yards of fine silk. Polanski breathing was rapid and he responding to Chris’ touch with deep moans. He guided Chris’ head to his cock and Chris started working on it, adjusting his angle so he could deep throat the man’s massively curved cock.

While Chris sucked the incapacitated man, Don prepped himself with a tourniquet around his thick bicep, found a suitable vein on the front of his forearm, rocked the needle till blood flooded the chamber, then slammed. He fell back on Chris’ hip, and, through heaving breath, pulled Chris off of Polanski and crushed him beneath his weight. Chris was pinned but the heavy body actually felt erotic. Pinned, he squirmed obscenely, all skin, no hair, against all hair and rolling flesh. With enormous effort, Bailey rolled to his side bringing Chris along with him. They faced each other running their hands along chests and cocks, a study in opposites, Bailey pressing his fur against the boy, Chris rubbing his smooth skin across the man. Polanski rolled himself to the side was again sticking a finger, then two into Chris' hole. Chris pushed back against his hand and wiggled his ass till he had three fingers in him.

"Baby boy, go down on daddy," Bailey said pushing Chris' head down to his crotch. Bailey was a big bear in every way. His fleshy dick was half hard and as Chris went down to suck it, Polanski had his mouth all over Chris' hole, getting it wet and ready to be fucked. The scent of wet cock sent Chris into a frenzy. It was difficult to differentiate what he wanted more, to give head to Bailey or get fucked by Polanski. Bailey decided for him. He rolled on his back and said he wanted baby bear to ride daddy bear's Big Bad Cock. Chris straddled the large man and fed his cock into his wet hole. Polanski was quick to follow the hole he desperately wanted. After Bailey had penetrated Chris, with Chris making obscene noises of pleasure, Polanski set his cock against Bailey's and with every stroke Bailey took, he got his cock in to double dick Chris. Chris' noises of pleasure turned to distressing pain, but again, somehow he enjoyed the distress. He quickly learned to stay stationary as the two men simultaneous pushed in and pulled out. By staying still they could go deeper, and did. At one point with too much motion, Polanski fell out. He immediately pushed himself back in and punished Chris by smacking ass. Chris cried out but pushed his ass deeper onto the men’s cocks. It felt precarious, that they had to work so hard to sustain the position, but it was a position that pleased everyone. Bailey and Polanski were sexually aroused rubbing their cocks against one another, and Chris relished the feeling of being torn apart by the girth of two men at the same time inside him. Their passion built on one another, as the drugs wiped their minds, they became feral animals clawing at each other, rutting in pleasure, nails going into backs, pelts of brown and black fur pressed into a smooth, hairless hole. Bailey and Chris made out while they fucked, and Polanski slapped Chris’ ass with increasing violence. Polanski rambled in Chris’ ear how he was going to take his night stick and rape him with it, ram it up the kid’s ass, how he’d take his gun and make Chris give it head. He started fingering the tip of Chris hard dick, trying to get a finger down his piss slit. He said he was going to arrange to have Chris sent to prison to be gang raped. “Would you like that, would you like that, boy?” he breathed into Chris’ ear. Chris readily agreed. Whatever Polanski wanted he’d submit to him.

The flow from Polanski’s imagination was unceasing. Somewhere during his description of being his prison bitch, it triggered something in Bailey and he nutted. Polanski was on another level entirely, rutting and heaving, not anywhere on this planet, just a mass of sensations and vile thought, desperately wanting to tear Chris apart. After Bailey emptied the last of his spooge, he started going flaccid and with Polanski pile driving into Chris, his dick soon fell out.

Chris also settled down and let Polanski fuck him with ever increasing intensity. He laid on Bailey's chest while the big man stroked his hair. It was an intense combination. Bailey running soothing fingers over his head while Polanski tore angrily into his ass. Polanski had kept up smacking the shit out of the kid's ass, and as the beating became harder, the cracks louder, the more Bailey cooed and shushed Chris' stifled grunts and cries. Still, through it all Chris remained hard. Welts were forming on his ass as Bailey pulled his face down into his neck. Chris felt the bristles on Bailey's neck, and heard Bailey telling him he was alright, that it would soon be over. Chris let himself go limp falling onto Bailey, and in the background the white noise of the post-game wrap up morphed into the local Eyewitness News. The manhunt continued, said the anchor, for two convicts who had escaped from upstate New York four days ago. Bailey kept stroking the boy's hair. The men had escaped through the facility's sewage treatment center dressed as workers. Polanski slipped his arm around Chris' neck. Bailey’s mind drifted off as he repeated his cooing words to Chris. The two men were believed to have crossed into Canada. Canadian officials had cordoned off an area near the border where the two men were believed to be. Polanski wrapped his arm tighter against Chris’ throat, cutting off his airway. Chris started struggling on top Bailey and bucking against Polanski's body. Polanski mindlessly fucked the kid's hole edging closer to cumming the harder Chris struggled. It was a nasty cycle: the more Chris struggled, the harder Polanski increased his hold around his neck. Chris' hole was clenching like crazy trying to spit out Polanski, but instead is was making Polanski cock engorge larger every time it was squeezed. Chris flew into a frenzy to try to get him off and to break his hold. He rasped audibly, and in one long final lunge, Polanski was set free. He spewed ropes of cum deep into the quaking boy. He pulled Chris' head as far back as it would go. The boy's tongue lolled out, his eyes bulged, and he involuntarily released an enormous orgasm spilling buckets of cum into Bailey pubes. His eyes rolled back in his head, his eyelids fluttered, then all movement ceased. Everything went black, his body went limp, and Chris no longer struggled.

“Weather with Frank Fields,” announced the TV anchor, “was up next.”