This chapter came out very quickly, and I thought would be longer, but it seems a good place for a break. Thanks to all who've written - I hope this continues to keep your interest.
As usual, this is entirely fictional, with real places thrown in for grounding only. If it's improper or illegal for you to be readin this wherever you may be, by all means don't read it. All rights are reserved to me (for whatever that maqy be worth), and please remember to wash behind your ears.
Seal Rocks Part 25
It was nearly dark by the time they returned to Jesse's house. Jesse felt exhausted. Uncle Booth had been impossibly kind, supportive, but painstakingly thorough in his interrogation. He'd walked close to Jesse, half embracing him, most of the way back up the beach, a protective fatherly sort of gesture that did more than any words to calm Jesse down. It had not been an easy discussion. Poche was, of course, completely wired to be home. She sprinted into the kitchen and skidded directly into Jesse's mother's legs, nearly toppling her over.
"There you two are! I was beginning to wonder. Booth, Ben and I already ate, but there's more left over than even Jesse can go through. Would you like some?"
"Sure Ellen, dish me up some, at least after Jesse's had his fill. I think I ran him a bit ragged down there. You doing OK, son?" The look Jesse got was kindly, but intense in a way Uncle Booth had never looked at him before. A look between adults. Keep it secret, keep it safe.
"Yes, sir, I'm fine. I - uh, I'm gonna go clean up real quick here, OK Mom?" She nodded, and Jesse slipped up to his room. After a shower, he assembled the receipts and cashier's checks stubs he'd sent out.
Uncle Booth was already in his father's study, looking through some papers. "Thanks, Jesse, I'll get these back to you later on."
"Mom won't see them?"
Uncle Booth shook his head. "I'll keep it quiet, Jesse, you know I'll do that. I need to figure out what's been going on here. Your mother had already told me I could go through these things; I'm just taking her up on it tonight. Go be with her. Apparently Ben's out with some roommate or something who showed up today, not likely to be home until late."
Jesse's eyes widened. "Brent showed up?"
Uncle Booth smiled softly. "Yeah, that's his name - Brent. I couldn't remember. He and Ben are, um, close, I understand." His smile was wider now.
"Um, yes sir, well, um, they, uh -"
Uncle Booth started chuckling. "It's all right, Jesse, I told you Ben and I had been talking already." He leaned forward. "Now that's another little tidbit your mother doesn't know about, and it's not my place - or yours - to bring it up. Understand?"
Jesse blinked. "Of course not, I could never - I mean, that'd be, that's - "
"Dishonorable. Correct. I figured you knew that already." He turned back to the desk, placing Jesse's documents in a precise pile at one end. "Go be with your mother now."
"Yes, sir." He was grateful for the short unseen walk he had before reaching the back patio - time to compose himself.
He and his mother spent a pleasant if uneventful night, talking. His class schedule had arrived in the mail, and dissecting it was her main preoccupation of the evening. Who were his teachers, who else might be in his classes - texts from Mike, Erick, and Kate had revealed that they had few common classes, Mike with him in English and Trig, Erick joining them in the latter, and Kate with him in AP European History. "You should talk to Booth about the history class," his mother counseled. He and - and you father, were very keen on world history. You can learn as much from Booth on that was your teacher will tell you." He tried not to notice her moment of hesitation.
He went up to his room before 10, feeling bushed. He threw himself on his bed, sniffing for a moment at the faint traces of the morning's lovemaking remaining on the sheets. He called Mike.
"Hey, dude, how was the walk with Mr. Muscle?"
Jesse paused a long moment. Nothing but the truth, he thought. "Well, it was, um, eventful. Got a little time?'
Mike's voice was concerned. "Are you OK? Is everything OK?"
"I think so, ya. Just - just complicated."
"That's different."
"Ya, tell me. Anyway . . . "
It took Jesse nearly twenty minutes to tell the entire story. Mike said nothing the entire time. Jesse didn't feel apologetic about anything this time - they'd both been seen, there was no way to deny it. And denial was dishonorable; the idea of never lying again had taken strong hold on him that afternoon. "So, we're busted, huh?" Mike asked quietly when Jesse had finished.
"No, he just knows. And - and he says he can help, like, get us out of it, and all."
"How? Won't he like compromise himself if he does? I mean if he's been hiding all this shit for so many years - with your dad, and all - how can he get us out without throwing everything away?"
The question was a good one, and one Jesse hadn't fully considered. "I think - he - well, I mean, he's not gonna like lie to me, Mike."
"He's lied to everybody, Jes. It's been like his whole life. He even told you that, right?"
"No, he - I mean ,ya, he's lied about stuff, but I mean shit, so have we. All over the place. And this - this seems to like matter to him. Like it's family, and all. I mean he's been like part of our family since before I was born."
"Because he was secretly fucking your dad behind your mom's back," Mike said.
Jesse felt a flare of anger. "Fuck you, Mike, that's not fair."
"Oh yeah? What the fuck do you call it then Jes? 'Just kids fooling around'? You said they were in fucking love, dude. How do you do that to people you love?"
"He didn't do anything to people he loved - my dad did," Jesse said before he realized the import of his words. Then he found himself tearing up. "My dad did," he repeated, softly. "He was - God, Mike you got to understand how fucked up things were. To him. Dad wanted to do the right thing, that's what he like lived for. The whole honor thing. You gotta be in the Corps, or around it, to get that. Just - just trust me, on that part, OK? And his heart - well, part of his heart - told him that he was in love with Mom, and I really do think he was. I mean you know when your parents are in love, and - and I could see it. And it was like the proper thing to do. The honorable thing. It made him right with the world, with the Corps. With everything, except Uncle Booth. And what he felt there."
Jesse stared at the picture he had on his dresser of his family, taken when he had been about 10: his parents laughing, with an open smile on his father's face that he seldom saw after he caught Jesse masturbating, as he leaned against his wife; Ben standing off a little, already disconnected by his father's demons from the rest of them and smiling just politely; and himself giggling in his mother's arms, blissfully unaware of it all. How little we ever know of our parents' lives - what they felt, what they suffered, what they desired and lusted for and suppressed and wound up pining away over as years took them inexorably away from youth and opportunity. He recalled that his English teacher last year had put a quote from Thoreau, or somebody, on the board one day: "Most men live lives of quiet desperation and go to the grave with the song still in them." He started crying harder now, hearing his father's song for the first time, a dark song of longing and being split in two, of dissembling and guilt. How'd he last even this long before he killed himself, he thought. How strong he'd been, to hold out.
"Jes?"
He sniffled. "Sorry, dude. I was - look, I trust Uncle Booth. With everything. I, I just do, OK? And he's not going to hurt me, or you, or anybody. I think he wants to finally put things right- things my dad couldn't. I - I think he feels like it's his duty. It's on his honor, and that's good enough for me. You gotta believe that, Mike, you gotta understand it. If you don't - well, fine. I guess that's it, then."
He could never have imagined drawing such a line in the sand with Mike before that instant, and as soon as he said it he was terrified at what the response might be.
"You're that sure?"
Jesse swallowed. "Ya."
A pause, that seemed to last ages. "OK, Jes. Your call. I mean I have to trust you, I love you. How could I do anything else?"
Jesse exhaled sharply. "Dude, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to be so like dramatic about it."
"'S OK," Mike said, and there was a softness in his voice now. "You're sexy when you get all domineering like that. You got a lot of Marine in you, y'know."
They spent several silent seconds, and what passed between them didn't need a Verizon connection.
"So," Mike finally asked, "what's the plan? Do we like call in F-18s on Ernie's RV?"
Jesse howled with laughter, imagining Ernie's expression when confronted with a platoon of combat outfitted Marines charging him. "Dunno yet - nothing that dramatic, I think. He's going through a whole shitload of my dad's stuff now - bank shit and all. He got really upset when I told him how dad had fallen behind on bills and all. He didn't like show it, but I could tell."
"So he knows you've been paying stuff?"
"Ya, I gave him all the receipts and all, he asked for them."
Jesse's phone beeped. Erick was calling. "Dude, Erick's on the other line."
"He called me a minute ago. Fuck him, I wanna talk to you."
Jesse giggled. "So now you wanna fuck him too? Feeling jealous about Kate getting some o' that big cock?"
Mike laughed. "Shit, I can't imagine getting that thing shoved up into me. I mean -" he hesitated a bit - "Erick's like bigger than either of those guys yesterday."
"I know"
"And - and they were fuckin' huge, dude."
Jesse had to giggle. "I noticed, believe me." More laughter. Jesse's phone beeped again. "OK, look, he's gonna keep bothering us till I talk to him, so lemme call you back in a few, OK?"
" 'K. Give him kisses for me."
"Perv."
"You too, Jes."
Erick was drunk. "Dude, how ya keepin'??"
Jesse was hesitant to respond. " 'K so far, you?"
"Prefecto. Totally!" He began giggling, Jesse could hear the phone hit the floor. It took Erick a few seconds, and a couple of faint slurry obscenities, to retrieve it. "Sorry, dude, my bad there.' He started to laugh again.
"Dude, you're like wasted. What the hell's going on?"
"I got 'em, Jes. Got all the moth'fuckers. Got 'em by th' balls, Jes."
"Erick, what the fuck are you talkin' about?"
Erick took a deep breath. I'll show you t'morrow. All problems solved."
"OK great, all problems solved. Being wated helps, right/ how'd you get high, anyway?"
"Taylor." Jesse felt a chill. Erick started giggling again. "Lots of Cazadores, dude."
"Are you ok? I mean, did -"
" 'S OK, Jes," Erick breathed, more quietly now. " "S'all gonna bo good."
"OK, that's great. Where are you?"
Erick giggled again. "Cardiff, I think. We been drivin' 'round fer a bit. He's off pissin' in the bushes or somethin', wanted t' call."
"Erick, you gotta get out of the van. Get your fucking ass out of the van, dude! You don't know what he might do, you hear me?"
"Fuck, Jes, he already did that. All fuckin' day." He started laughing again.
"Erick, will you fucking listen to me? Get out of the van!! I - I'll - we'll come get you, dude, please . . . " He was getting frantic.
"Gotta go, dude. Talk atcha t'morrow, 'K?" The line clicked dead.
Jesse was standing; he didn't know when he'd gotten up. He kept the phone at his ear for several seconds, as if waiting for Erick to come back on. When he didn't, he speed dialed back, only to be put into voice mail, Erick's cheerful (and sober) voice telling him to leave a message. He tried there more times, with no better results, before calling Mike.
"What can we do, Jes?" Mike sounded almost as scared as jesse felt. "They could be anyplace, we can't track him."
Jesse was seated on his bad again, head in his free hand. "I should have said something at lunch. He had a mark - a hickey. I saw it. He'd been fucking with that bastard already. Aw, shit, Mike, . . ."
"Jes," Mike rtied to comfort him, "it's not your fault. He went on his own, right? I mean he must've called Taylor early this morning, the call you heard. And - and if he had that at lunch - well, he wasn't drunk then."
"But he doesn't want to do that shit, with Taylor! We know that!"
"Jes, what can we do?"
Jesse thought for a second, then flung the phone onto his bed. Uncle Booth was at his father's desk, a grim expression on his face. "What's wrong, Jesse?"
"I - I have a friend, he's in trouble, I think. You remember Erick, the guy who's the pro surfer?"
"Blond kid with you the other day? Yes, why? What's wrong?"
"He - he just caslled, and he's like drunk, and he's out with this guy who like manages him, and - and the guy's like raped him before, and -"
"Whoa, whoa, hang on here. Raped him?" Uncle Booth glanced out toward the back of the house, then pulled the study door closed. "OK, what the hell is going on?"
Jesse briefly explained Erick's history with Taylor Castilla, what he'd seen at lunch that day, and Erick's slurred phone call. "Did he tell you where he was?"
"Not really. He thought they were in Cardiff - that's a park down -"
"I know where it is. How'd he get there?"
"They been driving around in Taylor's van. I think they're both drunk."
"You've tried to call him again?" Jesse nodded.
Uncle Booth sat back, hands behind his head, staring at the ceiling. Jesse couldn't stand the silence. "I should have stopped him at lunch, I shouldn't have let him go -"
"Jesse." Uncle Booth's voice was sharp, but not unkind. "You can't be responsible for the world. This isn't your fault. You've gotten into this idea that everything that happens is your fault, and it's not. Now, pretty clearly, your friend is in some trouble, I don't know how much, but it's not your doing. I know you want to help, and that - that's admirable. But he's pretty clearly stepped into whatever situation he's in of his own accord, hasn't he?" Jesse started to object. "You can't be responsible for every dumb thing your friends do, even close ones. Now, this fellow he's with id his manager, you said?" Jesse nodded. "Well, then, my worries are mainly related to their driving drunk. He's got an investment there, if you want to regard it like that, Jesse. Your friend is a meal ticket for him. He's not going to do anything to spoil that."
"But I think they - they're like, um -"
"Having sex?"
Jesse still found it awkward having conversations like this with Uncle Booth; he looked resolutely at the floor. "Ya. Like that."
"Well, they may be, but again it's your friend's decision, and something that his manager will not run too many risks with, so he won't lose a client. I know you're concerned," he added, laying a large hand on Jesse's forearm and smiling. "But there are limits to what anyone can do if a person voluntarily does things like this. My guess is that tomorrow morning your friend will be in his bad at home, safe, and nursing one hell of a hangover."
"What if he's not?"
Uncle Booth regarded him for a long second. "Do you think you should tell his parents?"
"They're out of town - again. They're always on conferences and stuff, Erick's alone a lot."
"Then I really don't know what to say, or do - except to tell you that this is not your fault, or even your responsibility."
"I - I care, about him."
"I know. So tell him off next time you see him. Make sure he knows what a damn fool he's being tonight. Maybe it'll get through, maybe not, but barring becoming his jailer that's about the extent of what you can do." He too ka dep breath. "Jesse, I need to finish this up. I, um, I have some pretty serious work to do here, figuring some things out." His face was calm, but his eyes were very intense. "Go try to call your friend again, and I'll check in before I leave. All right?"
Jesse sullenly grabbed a coke and trudged back up the stairs. Some damn heroic Marine, he thought. Shrugging it all off as just guys having fun. Still, he had a point - short of putting out an APB, there was no way for him - or anyone - to hope to find Taylor's van driving somewhere in southern California at the cusp of a holiday weekend.
Mike had tried to call him; he returned the call immediately. "Dude, where'd you go? I managed to talk to Erick just now, he's home and sleeping it off I think."
Jesse exhaled sharply and sat down on his bed. "Is he all right?"
"Well, he's alive. Pretty wasted, blithering a lot about shit I don't get."
"Ya, he wasn't making sense when I talked to him either."
"Tequila does that to you, I guess."
"Dunno, I've never had tequila straight like that - just in margaritas that my mom made and all. You?"
"Never. I hear it gives like killer headaches."
"Asshole deserves one." Jesse sighed again, lying back on the bed. His pillow smelled like Mike's conditioner, the faint aroma relaxed him, he smiled without knowing it. "So, uh, did he say, like, if he and Taylor had been messing around or anything?"
"Dunno. I think so. He was pretty wasted like I said, hard to make out much of anything."
"K. I - I guess we just gotta chew his ass out tomorrow. Dumbfuck."
"Ya, really." Mike took a long breath. "I wanna sleep with you again, Jes. I miss you - at night and all."
Jesse's stomach tightened. "Ya," he whispered, "me too. I - I can like smell you here, on my sheets, and it - it makes me feel all cozy and at the same time I'm like really lonely . . . Maybe we can do a sleepover tomorrow. Invite Erick, too, keep him out of trouble."
Mike chuckled. "Kate might get jealous."
"She can come too."
"Now yer talkin' !! Let's just do an orgy, invite the whole school and a tanker truck o' lube." They laughed for several seconds over the idea. "Dude, I gotta hit it, I'm beat. Call me tomorrow, 'K?"
"Course, first thing." He paused a second, his throat a little tight. "Love you, dude."
"Same, Jes. Love ya tons, OK? Night."
There seemed little else to do. Jesse had no interest in listening to his Ipod, or doing (even at this eleventh hour) any of his summer reading for school. He stared at the ceiling for a few seconds, inhaling the traces of his lover that hung about him, and turned off the light.
Uncle Booth knocked about an hour later. He handed Jesse back his papers. "I have to say, Jesse, the money you got from this - it's amazing to me."
Jesse blinked, a little groggy. "I never really thought about how much it was. I mean I know it's a lot, but - I guess we were like popular and all."
Uncle Booth chuckled. "Must be." His face looked worn, tired. He seemed angry, despite his smiling demeanor with Jesse. "All right, I'm off. I have an early morning tomorrow."
"Are you redeploying soon?"
"No, this is - business stuff, not Marine stuff. I might tell you later. You sleep, son." He held the door open long enough for Poche to slip inside, then left.
Later that night - he wasn't sure what time - he awoke to laughter in the back yard. He knew his mother's master bedroom faced the street (an oddity of this house - most canyon homes gave the master suite an ocean view), so he quickly realized that the noise was Ben and Brent. He crossed to his window and peeked out, feeling the cool breeze on his face. An occasional bark from the seals, echoing up the canyon, and from coyotes echoing down, were the only other sounds.
The hot tub was on, throwing its greenish flickering light about the yard. Ben and Brent were standing in it, thigh deep, arms casually over each other's shoulders, foreheads touching as they spoke softly to each other. They were nude, and when they separated for a moment Jesse could see that they were both very hard. Ben's hand ran slowly through Brent's curly blond hair, along the side of his head, and they kissed for what seemed a long time. When they broke it off, they leaned into each other and began giggling again. Jesse saw them sway slightly and realized they were tipsy (at least). Brent started caressing Ben's erection, stroking him slowly while kissing him as Ben leaned back against the coping. Brent soon pushed Ben gently up onto the rim of the tub, into a sitting position, dropped to his knees, and began fellating him with a rapid bobbing motion. Jesse couldn't see it well, but he knew what was happening. Ben groaned loudly once, leaning back on his left hand, his right again running through Brent's hair. Jesse was deeply aroused; he started unconsciously touching himself through the boardshorts he'd never removed for bed.
Brent now pulled Ben back into the tub and spun him around. Jesse noticed Brent grab a tube of sunblock to use as lube (Christ, it's a hallowed family tradition, he thought - Coppertone up your ass), saw him tear something with his teeth (a condom, he realized), then watched as his big brother was slowly and very thoroughly fucked.
Ben was, to say the least, a responsive lover: his body moved in a sinuous rocking pattern beneath Brent's assault; he made entirely too much noise for it to be entirely safe; he alternately fell forward onto the decking, arms thrown above his head, and rose back to meet Brent, turning as much as he could to embrace and encourage his thrusts. Water began sloshing out of the tub as their lovemaking increased in intensity, and Jesse began to hear Brent as well, fiercely whispering obscenities to Ben as their tempo rose. Ben was jerking off now, both of them standing in the middle of the hot tub, lit from below by a wildly wavering light, until Ben shuddered forward, crying, "Oh, fuck," loudly enough for it to be distinct to Jesse, and started coming. Again, Jesse couldn't see it, from so far away and in such poor (though stunningly erotic) light, but again there was no doubt what was going on. Brent's arms now clasped together around Ben's waist as he sped his thrusts up, and within a minute or so he joined Ben, gasping and quaking as he emptied himself.
Ben slumped forward again onto the decking, bent over at the waist, Brent drooped over him. Jesse could see both their shoulders heaving. It was several minutes before they gathered enough energy to stand back up, decouple, and face each other again for another lingering kiss. They were laughing once more, softly, caressing each other, whispering. Ben started poking at Brent's asscrack aggressively; Jesse knew what would be happening as soon as Ben was recovered.
Jesse turned back to his bed, at once happy, horny, and desperately alone. It was so cool for Brent to have come down, and to see Ben so happy - Jesse had seldom seen Ben really smile since he'd returned home, and he could tell that the smile Ben wore when he turned to kiss Brent again was as wide as his brother was capable of. He had his lover, they'd made love, their mutual fulfillment was obvious. And watching his brother have sex was a turn on of immense proportions. But he, Jesse, was alone. He pressed his face into his pillow, then sniffed deeply throughout the bed, seeking some vestige of Mike's smell. The need was visceral; he tore his sheets down trying to find it. Then, not caring about the mess, he knelt on his bed and masturbated onto the sheets, deliberately spattering them as much as he could, trying to milk every last drop of semen out of himself to lie on and roll in and pretend it was Mike's and that he was there with him. When he did so, he found himself still hard, and turning onto his back he jerked off again, shooting over his own chest and belly, the first spurt reaching the hollow of his collarbone, and crying softly the entire time. Mike, he kept repeating, Mike. I miss you, dude.
Even in the morning, with a fresh breeze blowing in the open window and making his bedroom door rattle, the smell of his come suffused the room. Parts of his bottom sheet were stiff. He felt it crusty in patches and strips across his torso as he padded to his bathroom to piss. In the mirror, he could see the faint outlines of where he'd smeared himself. His hair was an unGodly mess, tangled and standing up at weird peaking angles. He giggled. Let it go, who cares.
He heard the garage door close, and knew his mother had left for work. He threw on his boardshorts and went down for some juice.
To his surprise, Ben was at the counter, also looking bleary, sipping Naked Juice from the jug and reading the Times. Jesse couldn't help grinning stupidly as he took the jug to pour himself a glass.
"What?" Ben asked. His morning stubble cast a thin shadow across his face; Jesse wondered if it scraped when you made out like that.
Jesse smiled, pursing his lips a bit to keep from giggling. Finally he managed to get out, "You guys are loud."
Ben stared at him for a second, then started giggling as well, looking away as he blushed. "Sorry. It was late, an' we were, well, a little drunk. You know."
"Ya, I guess."
"So'd you enjoy the show?"
Jesse giggled again, it was his turn to blush. "Major. Major beat off stuff."
"I hope you cleaned the glass."
Jesse giggled so hard some juice shot up his nose. He doubled over, half choking, half in hysterics, trying to blow his sinuses clean again. "Na," he coughed, after several seconds, "I saved it all in a cup for you."
When Jesse straightened up, Ben had that wide smile again, and Jesse's heart leaped. "Looks like you spilled the cup all over you. Lucky you didn't come down like that when Mom was here."
Jesse was suddenly embarrassed. "I - you can see it?"
Ben leaned back, laughing hard. "Jes, it's like spackled all over you. You look like you got come on by a fucking moose."
Jesse looked back down at his torso and shrugged. "It happens." He remembered his morning task. "I gotta call Erick."
"Everything OK?"
"Ya, it - he was out last night and, um, he called like late and he wuz kinda wasted. Just like checking in."
Ben nodded. "I'm glad you don't drink like that, Jes. It's dangerous."
You have no idea, Jesse thought. He shrugged and turned to go back to his room as the door from the dining room swung open. Brent was grinning stupidly.
Jesse took a second to look him over. He was very blond, very pale, and very thin> His arms looked like an eighth grader's, slender almost to the point of girlishness (was it improper to think that, Jesse wondered - some sort of sexist or fag bashing attitude) . His chest and belly were flat, smooth, and subtly muscled - he didn't have enough body fat anywhere to hide what sinews he had. His face was surprisingly round given his build, with very red, pouty lips, a thin small nose that turned up slightly, and light grey eyes that seemed aloof even as they sparkled with delight at seeing Ben. He was wearing boardshorts that didn't stay up very well on his narrow hips; the top depression of his asscrack was visible as he moved.
He had stepped halfway across the kitchen, arms reaching out towards Ben, before he even realized Jesse was there. When he did, he stopped with comic suddenness, his bare feet sliding a little on the tile. "Oh, uh, hi, sorry, I, uh, I didn't, um, know - so, hi, uh, Jesse, right?" His voice was soft, and just slightly effeminate in its tone - the sort of upward swing to words that sets off gaydar. He thrust his right hand out, again with comic exaggeration, to shake with Jesse.
Both brothers started to laugh. Brent looked back and forth between them, puzzled at not being in on the joke. "Dude," Ben said, "Jes knows. Seems he did a little Peeping Tom action on us last night."
Now it was Jesse's turn to be uncomfortable, as Brent's knowing smile lit up his face. "Oh, I see," he said. "Should we charge him for the view?"
"You guys could, I tell ya."
Brent reached to pull Jesse into a friendly embrace. Just before they made contact, Jesse saw it: the sudden flicker of recognition, the questioning waver of the eyes. Brent froze in place, looking Jesse up and down.
He had to say something. "OK, well, I better let you two have some quality time or something, I guess. I gotta make a call anyhow. Later." He almost sprinted from the room, not daring to look back.
Booth Palmer was not a man who angered easily. For one thing anger wasn't a good quality for command, and he had built his entire adult life around the qualities necessary for command. Anger clouded judgment, it cost you your focus, it took you off onto tangents of personal vendetta and retaliation. Command required precise control of the emotions. Not that he wasn't capable of projecting anger when necessary - the loud chewing out of subordinates to make a point, for example. He could look, and act, furious, when needed. But that was always, always a calculated gesture, intended not just to get his immediate point across but to deliver the overarching message that he was in commend, and he wouldn't take shit from anybody.
But this morning he was truly angry, as he hadn't been in years. Suppressing it took all his will. He was in a business suit, which fit his physique about as comfortably as the aloha shirt and khaki shorts he'd worn the previous day when walking with Jesse, and was sitting, very erect, in the reception lobby at NevaCal. The company owned one of the older quick tilt-up three story buildings that had been the first wave of commercial development in Aliso Viejo. That city was itself a recent creation, a planned community that had sprung up wholesale in ten years out of the scrub of the Aliso Hills inland from Laguna, along with the 73 toll road. It was in every way the antithesis of San Clemente - a carefully planned and contrived pseudo-town, with all amenities precisely located, all thoroughfares spacious, and all traces of organic growth or human presence suppressed. It was the perfect place for a company like NevaCal, which specialized in creating such soulless "cities" out of empty landscape throughout the Southwest, as population grew and civilization (if you will) pushed ever outward.
Uncle Booth would have preferred to sit back a bit and relax, to go over his thoughts and plan of action, but the couch on which he was required to perch was so absurdly soft that any deviation from his present military pose would have had him flopping feebly back somewhere in the cushions. So he sat on its edge, feet flat on the ground and pointing directly ahead, back ramrod straight, both hands lightly resting on the briefcase on the floor between his legs. His black shoes gleamed.
"Are you sure you wouldn't like some coffee, sir? Or something to make you more . . . comfortable?" The receptionist, a pleasantly bland young woman, was clearly as uncomfortable as Uncle Booth looked.
"No, thank you, ma'am," Uncle Booth replied evenly, allowing himself a polite smile in her direction. He shifted his briefcase slightly between his feet, making sure it was at an exact perpendicular to the couch.
"Booth, how are you, buddy?" A tall heavyset man had appeared from around the corner behind the receptionist's desk. His suit jacket was off, revealing a short sleeved dress shirt, light blue, with faint outlines of sweat stains from sitting in his car during the morning commute (the day was already quite hot in Aliso). His cheeks were reddish from the effort of walking so quickly, his nose piggish, his chin not quite double. His thinning brown hair was almost to the point of needing a comb-over.
Karl LeTourneau had been a captain who'd retired shortly after Desert Storm to work with some other Corps buddies in NevaCal, a company that had been a reliable source of employment (or employment referrals to other companies) for retiring mid level and senior Corps officers since the late 70s. His beefy hand was almost as large as Uncle Booth's, though Booth noted with some satisfaction that his grip was no match.
"I'm fine, Karl. Been back about a week or so now."
Karl slapped Booth on the back, a little too chummily. "Well, come on back, I want to hear all about it. Damn camel jockeys, I'm just glad to see you in one piece. How'd your unit do?" They talked inconsequentially as they walked back to Karl's corner office. It was stiflingly warm there; the morning sun beat in. Karl closed the door after them. "So what brings you here, Booth? You thinking of going to the outside? I always thought you were a lifer myself, but I know how you get to the point of needing a change. And of course, the deployments take it out of you eventually."
"I may be leaving the Corps soon, Karl, but that's not what I wanted to see you about this morning." He set his briefcase down, carefully, on the glass coffee table behind him, and opened it. "I wanted to talk to you about Walt Sullivan."
Karl's eyes darkened as he shook his head. "Damn tragedy, Booth. Awful, awful thing. I know you and Walt were good friends. We did all we could for him, Booth, but fact is we had to let almost a quarter of our staff go last year when things went into the crapper. I can't tell you how many projects we lost - some of them already in the ground even. Walt did a lot of work in Clark County, and the whole Vegas area has just been devastated by this recession. I have to tell you," he placed a hand on his chest, "I felt so damn guilty when I heard. Like a knife, that was."
Booth nodded, his face impassive. He turned halfway round to retrieve some materials from his briefcase. "Well, I'll get to that soon enough, Karl. What I wanted to talk about first is how long you skimmed forty percent of his salary, and why."
He paused, letting the silence have its intended effect. "Now, my guessimate is that you started about a year and a half ago, but that's just based on one night's review of Walt's papers. I'm sure I can be more precise soon enough, but I thought I'd discuss things with you first."
Only then did he turn back. Karl was bright red, his mouth slightly open. "How much I - Booth, are you accusing me - "
"No, Karl. I'm confronting you. 'Accusing' implies that there's a defense, that I might be wrong. But I know pretty well that I'm not wrong, so I'm not really interested in any half assed denial or excuse that you might want to make." He set a folder down on the desk between them. "I've made a spreadsheet on it all, Karl. I spent last night going through Walt's papers, and you know how good he was at documenting things. He was a good officer, after all. As you know. I just want to know why."
Karl had been sitting very straight in his chair. Now, he leaned back slightly, wiping his upper lip. "I'm very disappointed that you'd even imagine anything like that, Booth. I thought I had made a better impression on you. I thought you had a higher regard for me. This, this just isn't honorable."
As he answered, Booth's voice crescendoed to full drill sergeant volume. "I don't need you to lecture me on honor, mister!" He stood, waving the folder. "I want an explanation, and I want it right now!!!"
"Booth, for God's sake, keep it down, this isn't Perris Island -"
"It's going to be fucking Devil's Island unless I get some answers!!" He slammed the folder onto the desk.
Karl rose to the bait; it amused Booth grimly to see how easy it had been. "Listen, you queer, I 'm not gonna be yelled at by some pansy boy upset that his ass buddy got caught screwing his own son!!"
That was more than Booth had expected, and he reacted. His punch was precisely placed on the bridge of Karl's nose, and very hard. Luckily, Karl's chair caught his fall, and he went rolling backwards into the wall. Booth was on him in an instant, pinning his wrists together above his head with one hand, and pressing his left thumb slowly onto the cracked spot on Karl's nose. "You're going to tell me what went on, Karl, and you're going to do it now." His voice was a fierce whisper. "This isn't just between us, you broke the law, Karl. You stole, you've been a common thief for over a damn year. I will go to the DA on this, I'll go to the Real Estate Board, I'll go to the newspapers. You have fucked with the wrong Marine, Karl." For his part, Karl was making soft whimpering noises as Booth's thumb pushed down, breathing hard, a fine spray of blood coming out his nostrils. Booth stood back. Regaining control. "You've got five seconds before I'm out of here and off to the Labor Board. Stealing an employee's salary breaks about twenty state laws, Karl - maybe you didn't know that. But I have feeling you know damn well, each and every one of them." He took the folder and threw it with deliberate carelessness back into his briefcase.
"Dammit, Booth, you broke my damn nose."
"Consider it a first course. I will break the rest of you, and this whole God-damned company, but I will get answers. It's your choice when to start giving them."
Karl held a Kleenex to his nose. "Jesus Christ, Booth."
Uncle Booth snapped his briefcase shut. "Do I have any reason to stay?"
Karl looked at him, a bit bleary. "You goddam faggots. All of you. Real tough guy, aren't you, Booth? Punch an old man who's been out of the Corps fifteen years and you think you're all man, huh? Well, you're not. You never are. You're still a fucking pansy."
"You were a supply officer, Karl. The closest you ever got to action was when you got drunk and shot some damn camel. Don't pretend to me that you're a tough guy." He sat down. "Tell me. Now."
Karl, smiled crookedly, taking the bloody Kleenex from his face. "I knew you were the one, ever since I heard about Walt last year. Who else, right?" he laughed. "And good old Walt, he was so concerned about it. Don't ruin a good officer, he kept saying. As if a good officer can be a faggot. Well, I'm mostly on commission here, believe or not - partner draws and all that. And things got pretty damn slim for partners here long before we bit the bullet and canned anybody. The crash hit us over two years ago, when the venture capital ran dry. So I put it to Walt: what's it worth to keep the record clean - both your records?"
Booth seemed to waver for a fraction of a second. "You didn't just threaten to out him to his family?"
"Oh, hell yes, of course, I told him that too," Karl sneered. "But you were the ace in the hole, Booth. Walt would've shit himself to protect you. So we agreed on a price, and I took it out in my capacity as CFO. Just a deduct item on his pay stub, into a separate garnishment account that I'd access." He smiled. "Now, I've lost some income with him dead, but I've also lost the incentive to keep my mouth shut about you - especially now." He held up the bloody Kleenex. "So I'll ask you the same question, Booth. What's it worth to you to stay in the Corps?"
Anger, Booth repeated to himself, is not suited to commend. "I can resign my commission at any time, Karl."
"Then you won't mind my telling them a few things."
Booth snorted a laugh, staring his adversary down. "You think you're in the position to dictate terms to me? You make a charge, it's from a half-talented former officer who's bitter that he never made it past captain, against an active brigade commander with combat decoration. Now you tell me, Karl, which one of us is going to be believed? I told you, you're fucking with the wrong Marine. Now I, on the other hand," he added, sitting back with a satisfied smile and suddenly looking very relaxed, "I have admissions and documentary proof that you skimmed Walt's salary for 18 odd months."
"What admissions? You got nothing from me."
Booth calmly put a finger into his lapel pocket. The cassette recorder clicked off loudly.
Karl stared at Booth, his eyes watery. "You bastard. You fucking devious faggot."
Booth smiled, only the white grip his left hand had on the chair arm indicating how much he was holding back. "That's the best kind, Karl. The devious ones. Now, here's what's going to happen - and it's going to happen today." He pulled a paper from inside his lapel pocket. "This is my tally of what you skimmed. And I've been conservative, don't worry. You will cut a NevaCal check to Walt's widow today, for that amount, for me to hand deliver and deposit before the close of business. It will be a cashier's check, or otherwise certified funds, so there's no stopping payment. When it clears, all your problems go away." He watched Karl's eyes widen as he looked at the paper he'd handed over. "No Labor Board, no DA, no IRS, no recording. We all walk away." He leaned a bit forward to emphasize the next point. "If you don't play it exactly as I'm telling you to, I'll go to the Labor Board immediately and file a complaint against you and the company on Walt and Ellen's behalf. I will also go to the Fair Employment and Housing Commission and file a discrimination complaint. I will visit the District Attorney and discuss blackmail and other charges. I will call the IRS, since I'm sure this income hasn't been properly reported on anything you've ever filed. I also have the names and business cards of a number of good, really nasty employment lawyers, who love causes and widowed veterans who've been exploited - and publicity. They will all - all, Karl - come down on you like a ton of bricks." He sat back again, appearing very calm. "You know the smart play, Karl. Make it."
"Karl was blinking his eyes unconsciously. "Booth, this - I can't get a check - this is close to four hundred damn thousand!!"
"And some change," Uncle Booth noted calmly. "There's legal interest, and penalties, that you'd be on the hook for in any event, on top of the basic amount you skimmed. Pretty amazing how it adds up, isn't it? I didn't include attorney's fees, because I think you'll do what's best now. But if I have to go forward, those would be added on to that number, and of course they'd be - well, substantial. You know lawyers." Karl looked vaguely ill. "Now, of course, you already taxed him at his full salary, so this is all money directly to Ellen. That'll also have the benefit of righting your books, on a company and personal level. Hasn't been easy hiding this from the auditors, I would imagine." Karl licked his lips nervously.
Booth rose. "I'll be back here at 2:00. Will the check be ready?"
Karl was folding and re-folding the payout estimate Booth had handed him. "Jesus Christ, Booth . . ."
"I asked a question."
"Yes," Karl whispered, head down. "It'll be ready."
"And it'll clear without any problems?"
"It'll clear."
"Good. Leave it up front. I really don't want to see you again." He picked up his briefcase, staring down at his thoroughly defeated adversary. "Why'd you let him go, Karl? Why stop the gravy train?"
Karl was staring at his desk, avoiding eye contact. "Dreman's call, not mine. I - I kept the Clark County branch going long as I could. I even tried to move him to another areas, but - hell, Booth, I'm not the only guy who at least suspected something about Walt. These things, they follow you, you know."
Booth shook his head. "You're not even a competent weasel."
Karl rose as Uncle Booth turned to leave. "I will get your faggot ass drummed out of my Marine Corps, Booth. You count on it!"
Booth, at the door, turned. "You really think it's your Corps? You really think you have any conception of what the Corps is, or what it's about, or what it stands for?"
"It doesn't stand for queers. I know that goddam well. I'll go to Colonel Monckton."
Booth nodded his head. "Well, he's base commander, though technically we're peers now. You think he'll be receptive? You might be very surprised, Karl. Maybe he has his own agenda on these sorts of issues." He watched for a moment and savored the doubt and questioning that slowly came across Karl's puffy face. "Just have the check ready at 2."
He made it to his car, out of the parking lot, and about a mile down Crown Valley, before he had to pull over. Oh God, Walt. Not over me. Not to protect me. How many other bullets did you take, over the years. After the way I treated you. I didn't deserve it, I didn't deserve you. I was never worthy of it, I'm not now. Walt . . .
When the motorcycle cop pulled up to check on him, he wiped his face, showed his military ID, and said he was just having a bit of troubling readjusting. The cop was sympathetic.