Indirection, page 15
part #1 of Borealis: Without a Compass Series
North handed it over, and Shaw opened a video call app. North saw an image being transmitted from Shaw’s phone. Shaw passed North’s phone back and nestled his own in a plastic fern sitting at the end of the row of elevators. He watched the image on North’s screen until he was satisfied with the angle, and then he nodded.
“Turn off your mic,” he instructed, and when North had, he took the lead again. They passed Clarence’s room and ducked into the ice machine alcove. The small space was warmer than the rest of the hallway, which North judged had something to do with the heat that the ice maker put off. It smelled like someone had just run a mop over the tile, and not a particularly clean mop. Shaw looked around, shrugged, and sat on the floor. When he patted the space next to him, North grumbled and joined him. He set the phone on his leg where they could both see it, and then he tried to relax.
Minutes dragged by.
The ice machine rumbled, and ice clattered into the bin.
More minutes dragged by.
A TV came on in the room next to them. North couldn’t make out the details, but his imagination told him it was Wolf Blitzer shouting about tuna prices.
“I guess we don’t know how long it will take,” Shaw said, resting his head on North’s shoulder.
“I don’t have anywhere better to be,” North said, “and we’re getting paid.”
“And you get to spend this time with your amazing boyfriend.”
“And that.”
Shaw lifted his head, turned, and kissed North’s neck. He had missed a patch shaving, and the stubble tickled North’s sensitive skin there. He shifted.
“Stay still,” Shaw whispered. “This is a stakeout.”
Then he kissed North again, and this time the little shit did it on purpose, scraping the stubble back and forth. North tried to convert his groan into a slowly released breath, but he wasn’t sure how well he succeeded. Shaw reached down, took North’s hand, and pressed it between his legs. He was hard as a rock, stretching the Lululemon pants obscenely.
“Somebody’s horny,” North said, massaging Shaw lightly.
“Not horny,” Shaw murmured. “I think my root chakra is blocked. And my sacral chakra is imbalanced. Also, no talking. This is a stakeout.”
North pulled back slightly from the next kiss and raised his eyebrows.
“Ok,” Shaw whispered. “I’m also really, really horny.”
“Too bad this is a public place,” North said, withdrawing his touch. “Too bad we’re working a case.”
“I said stay still,” Shaw whispered, snatching North’s hand and pressing it against him again. He rutted into it with tiny thrusts of his pelvis. “God, North. I’ve been going crazy. My chakras are so messed up.”
“You’re going crazy because you need some sex,” North said, not bothering to fight his smirk. “That’s what you’re trying to say, isn’t it? Try it in plain English.”
“North.”
“That didn’t really answer my question. I have to admit, I’m a little worried that I don’t know what you need. I guess I can’t tell what the problem is.”
“North,” Shaw said, the whine edged with desperation this time.
“Not that I don’t like getting you all hot and bothered, but do you want to tell me how far we’re going? Because I’m not taking you home to change underwear.”
“I’m not wearing underwear.” Shaw stifled a moan, barely, as North closed his fingers around him.
“I know,” North said. “Everybody at this whole con knows.
A door opened down the hall, the sound like a gunshot, and Shaw scrambled back.
“You have a raging erection,” North said, pointing to the tent in the Lululemons.
“Look who’s talking,” Shaw whispered furiously, and North smirked some more and adjusted himself in the Levi’s.
Low voices carried down the hall, and a moment later, the sound shifted, emerging from the speakers on North’s phone. He watched as first Jadon and then Cerise appeared on screen. Cerise was carrying a plastic evidence bag with a prescription vial in it, but even though she was standing right next to the camera, the angle made it impossible to read what was printed on the label. Their conversation, whatever it had been, was over, and the two detectives stood side by side as they waited for an elevator car to arrive.
“I need to call Dhan,” Cerise said, “and cancel.”
“You can go if you need to,” Jadon said.
“Just because you’re pathetic and alone,” Cerise said, “doesn’t mean you’ve got to do the job by yourself.” The elevator dinged, and the doors opened. “Besides, I don’t want to spend my evening in the hospital after you and McKinney finally go at it.”
Whatever Jadon said was distorted beyond recognition as he stepped into the car, and as Cerise followed, the bag twisted just enough to bring the prescription label on the vial into focus: Adderall, thirty milligrams.
“There we go,” North whispered as the elevator doors slid shut.
“Yes, right, fine,” Shaw said, grabbing his hand again, “but if you could just—”
“Let’s go talk to Clarence,” North said, getting to his feet.
“North, I could really use a hand here.”
“Sure,” North said, grabbing Shaw’s arm and dragging him upright. “Now stick your dick in the ice maker until you’re presentable.”
“My aura is going to be jacked for weeks because of this. You realize that, right?”
“Remember when you were a nice little virgin who wouldn’t dream of humping his boyfriend in a public place?”
Shaw grumbled something that sounded shockingly profane.
“What was that?” North asked.
“I said,” Shaw said, eyes coming up clear and innocent, “did you hear that Jadon is single?”
“I surely fucking did,” North said. “And did you hear that Cerise thinks I’d put him in the hospital?”
“Oh my God,” Shaw said, covering his face.
North headed down the hallway; behind him, he heard Shaw mutter something that sounded like going to be unbearable now.
Chapter 19
SHAW FOLLOWED NORTH TO Clarence’s room, and North knocked. Clarence answered the door almost immediately.
“I was hoping it’d be you,” he said. He’d ditched the boxy blazer, and now he was wearing a mustardy pinstriped button-down that looked twenty years old. He smoothed his thinning hair, opened his mouth, and seemed to notice Shaw. “Oh. And it’s you.”
“We’d like to talk to you,” North said. “If you have a few minutes, that is.”
“Of course, of course. Although I have a touch of social anxiety, so maybe your colleague could wait—”
“No,” North said. “And he’s my boyfriend.”
“Oh, yes, of course,” Clarence said in muffled tones. Shoulders slumped, he slunk back into the room.
Shaw followed North into what must have been one of the Royal Excalibur’s economy rooms: two full beds squeezed into a tiny space, with barely enough room for Clarence to shuffle sideways and sit in an armchair that had been jammed into the corner of the room. North settled onto the bed. Shaw took up position at the ancient CRT television and adjusted the bunny-ear antennas.
“Did you know that the soul actually exists on the electromagnetic spectrum?” Shaw said, turning the bunny-ears toward Clarence. “They’ve done studies.”
“Sweet Lord,” North muttered.
“No,” Clarence said. “I didn’t know that.”
“Really powerful souls actually interfere with television and radio broadcasts,” Shaw said. “Terrestrial broadcast, I mean.”
“Oh,” Clarence said.
“Of course, if you’re a trained psychic, you can mitigate the interference.”
“That’s great, Shaw,” North said, “call me when your soul stops interfering with my 90 Day Fiancé episodes.”
“No,” Shaw said, “that’s just because you have a bad cable hookup because you steal it from your neighbor.”
“I’m sorry,” Clarence said, “I thought you wanted to talk to me about what happened today, but I’m very busy, and—”
“Yes,” North cut in. “We do. We’re looking into what happened with Scotty, and of course, as an eyewitness, we wanted to get your take on things.”
“And,” Clarence said drily, a flash of humor animating his façade, “because I’m the primary suspect. Isn’t that right?”
“We’re private investigators,” North said. “Are you a suspect in a criminal investigation?”
“It seems so.” Clarence retrieved a bag from the floor and set it on the bed, which was about two inches from his knees. He withdrew a laptop from the bag, opened it, and began typing. “It’s very exciting, actually. I’m going to take notes on our conversation. And, of course, jot down my impressions from the police interview. It was my first one.” He blushed after saying this, his eyes skating to North and then jolting away again. “And it’s all going to be very useful material. Primary research, you understand.”
“You’re writing a crime novel?” Shaw said, drifting a few steps away from the bunny-ears so he could glance into the bathroom. A polyester dopp kit lay on the counter, and nothing suspicious was immediately visible. “I thought you wrote romance. I know you write romance, in fact. I have some of your books, the early ones.”
“That’s right,” Clarence said, “but I’m shifting into romantic suspense. They’re starting a new imprint at Bolingbroke, and it’s going to be exclusively romantic suspense. It’s a growing market, by the way. You wouldn’t mind if I ask you a few questions, just to get started?”
“Maybe later,” North said. “Is this the same Bolingbroke where Scotty is working as an editor?”
“It would really help me feel more comfortable in this interview,” Clarence said. “If I could ask you a few questions first. Get my mind in the right place before we talk about the unpleasantness from this morning.”
North was silent; Shaw knew it was one of his best tricks. But this time, it didn’t work. Clarence remained poised at the laptop, his gaze bright and anticipatory, and finally North threw a sidelong look at Shaw. Shaw shrugged.
“Why don’t we trade questions,” North said, “to keep things moving?”
“I can live with that,” Clarence said. “You asked about Bolingbroke; yes, that’s the same press where Scotty works. If you can call it that.”
“What does that mean?”
“My turn,” Clarence said. “I’m very interested in writing a novel about a private investigator—a gay private investigator—”
“Why the fuck wouldn’t he be,” North muttered.
“—and I find myself incredibly fortunate to have this opportunity. The character is the most important part, and so I’d like to know a little bit about you first. Tell me your background, if you would. Your childhood. Your coming-out story. Your first sexual experience.”
“No.”
“I’ll tell you about my background,” Shaw said.
Clarence glanced at him and then looked back at North. “It’s very important to understand—”
“Make something up,” North said. “If you want to ask a legitimate question, fine. But I’m not telling you about the first time little Timmy felt me up under a blanket at a sleepover.”
Clarence’s fingers flew over the keyboard.
“That wasn’t—” North tried.
“Very interesting,” Clarence murmured.
“Who’s Timmy?” Shaw said.
North threw him a furious glance.
“What are the most important traits for a private detective?” Clarence asked.
“No, it’s my turn. What did you mean about Scotty?”
“You didn’t answer my question, so I get to ask another. What would the quintessential private detective be like? Or, if you prefer, what are your own strengths and weaknesses?”
“Analytical reasoning, critical thinking, attention to detail. Now—”
“And running,” Shaw put in. “And squats. All those leg days. To catch criminals. And to pick up heavy things.”
“Stay out of this,” North said through gritted teeth.
“Powerful haunches,” Clarence murmured as he tapped away at the keyboard.
“Don’t write one fucking word about my haunches,” North said. “About my legs, I mean.”
“Haunches like tree trunks,” Shaw suggested.
“Like tree trunks,” Clarence repeated to himself.
“Ok,” North said, “that’s about enough of this.”
“My turn,” Shaw said. “I’m much more graceful than North. Part of that’s because I don’t wear steel-toed footwear wrapped in dead animals on my feet. But part of it is that I’m built more like a gazelle. A list of possible adjectives to describe me would include: able, blade-like, cat-like, darting, elegant, fulvous, graceful, hot—of course—impeccable, jurisprudent, keen, lissome, lithe, loping—lots of good L ones, actually—”
“Mentally defective,” North said.
“North!”
“That’s very good,” Clarence said, his gaze already moving back to North, “but really, my readership tends to prefer a more traditionally masculine protagonist.”
“Shaw didn’t graduate college,” North said to Clarence, “so I’ll translate for you: Clarence wants me for his story because I’m butcher.”
“That’s not exactly what—”
“I’m butch,” Shaw said, hands twisting the hem of his tank. “I’m very butch.”
“Sure you are, princess,” North said.
“North, tell him how butch I can be. Tell him how I saved you from that spider.”
“He carried it outside on a piece of paper because he was thinking about converting to Jainism that week, but I’m pretty sure it was already dead.”
“Tell him about—you know…”
North shrugged. “What?”
“The sex.”
“I’m sorry, let me get this straight: you’re asking me to expose the private, intimate details of our sex life to a stranger because you want him to think you’re butch enough to star in his B-grade detective fiction?”
“I have to object to the label B-grade—” Clarence tried to say.
“Yes,” Shaw said. “Exactly. Tell him!”
“I cannot do this without a beer,” North said, pinching the bridge of his nose.
“I’m very traditionally masculine,” Shaw said. “I chopped down a tree once.”
“It was a sapling, and he ran over it with a lawn mower, and afterwards, he cried so hard that he threw up a little bit and I had to hose the whole fucking mess into the street.”
“I own a Cardinals jersey. Oh! And I own ratty gray sweatpants that I wear on the weekends. And last weekend I told North to ‘beer me.’”
“He does own a Cardinals jersey,” North said. “Several, actually. Including one he had custom-made out of a rainbow fabric. And he cut out the crotch of those sweatpants with pinking shears because he thought they gave him syphilis.”
“I thought they gave me crabs!”
“And the full sentence was, ‘North, beer me my nipple cream,’ and then he laughed for forty-five minutes.”
Clarence’s eyes were huge, his hands frozen about the keyboard. Down the hall, the ice maker rumbled another load into the bin.
“It’s for my hands,” Shaw said into the silence. “They get very chapped in the winter.”
“Ok,” North said, “now you’ve got enough information for the rest of your fucking career.”
“I didn’t ask about any of that,” Clarence said. “I didn’t want to know about any of that.”
“Playtime is over. It’s time to—what are you doing?”
“That is a fantastic catchphrase. ‘Playtime is over.’ He could say that every time he dusts a bad guy.’”
North stared wordlessly.
“You probably need to talk about his musk,” Shaw said.
“Musk,” Clarence murmured, fingers flying over the keyboard.
“Oh, and he could use his catchphrase during sex too. Like he’s completely closed off emotionally, so all his relationships are purely physical, a series of one-offs with pretty, vulnerable college boys.”
“Thin ice, Shaw,” North growled.
“And he could be plowing into one, rattling the cheap dorm bed, and then he flips the rent boy over—”
“He’s not a rent boy!”
“—and says, ‘Playtime is over,’ and then he mounts him and breeds him doggy style. Those are good verbs, by the way. You should use those.”
North was taking shallow, rapid breaths through his nose.
Clarence was typing manically.
With one hand, North forced the laptop shut. Clarence squawked as he freed his hands at the last moment.
“Why,” North said, his voice grating and sounding only marginally under control, “did the police just walk out of your room with an Adderall scrip?”
“Because—because they think I did that. What happened to Scotty.”
“Go on.”
Swallowing, Clarence glanced at his laptop, which North still had a hand on. “Scotty and I don’t have the best history. Last year, there was an incident. We were on a panel together, and we disagreed about something, and he said some genuinely awful things to me. I got rattled, if I’m being honest, and he laughed at me about that, talked about how I was a fluttering old queen. Something like that. It was a year ago; I can’t be expected to remember every awful thing he said. Someone must have told the police about it during the interviews this afternoon because they showed up at my room an hour ago and we had to go through the whole song and dance again. They asked if they could see my prescriptions, and I said yes—”
“Did they have a warrant?”
“No. They just asked.”
North nodded. “Keep going.”
“And they found the bottle of Adderall, which I have a perfectly legal prescription for, and they asked if they could take it. I tried to say no, but they kept asking, and they kept saying they didn’t understand why I wouldn’t want to help the investigation, and on and on like that. So I let them.”
