"Hello! Mike Siemers here. I'm not available to come to the phone at the moment. Please leave your name and number, and I'll return your call as soon as possible."

"Hi, Mike, it's Pete Townsend. I know you're there, but just not answering as usual. Give me a call. Bye."

Mike Siemers spent his evenings writing mystery stories, during which the phone would invariably ring just as he was trying to formulate in his mind a particularly meaty phrase. Those of his friends who called in the evenings knew that he didn't want to be disturbed while writing, but found it a jolly good joke to ring him up anyway.

Most of Mike's mystery novels were published by a small Chicago firm known as Portnoy Books. By day, he was employed there as an editor, working on novels by other authors. On this particular evening, Mike had written and rewritten one line more times than he could remember, and the line was still not right. The whole exercise was making him nervous and fidgety. He knew why Pete had called. It was to suggest they go out for a beer someplace. Why not? He was getting nowhere with his writing.

Calling Pete back, Mike said, "Alright, Pete, where do you want to go?"

"Well, it doesn't matter to me, Mike. I just feel like getting out of this rat hole and getting a beer with a friend."

Pete lived in a marginal building in a marginal two-room apartment over a pet store. He was by trade a CPA who had recently, at the age of forty-five, lost his job in a rather brutal and indiscriminate budget reduction at the large company for which he had worked for some years. Since he was Black, others tried to convince him to take the case to the EEOC. But he never believed discrimination was involved in his being let go. He was now enduring a standard of living well below that to which he had become accustomed. He was also slowly eating away at a small inheritance he had received upon the death of his mother. Pete was a bright and insightful person, but he was not a cultured man, having never cared for reading or viewing great art, or even listening to music. The Sports Channel gave him all the culture he could handle. Jobs for CPAs were not to be had anywhere in Chicago, it seemed, and Pete seemed to live now only for his nightly sojourns in the bars, usually with a friend.

"How about McCoy's Tap Room down on Hubbard Street," Mike suggested as he stared blankly at the unfinished sentence on the screen. "Or would you like to go to Tony's next door to McCoy's so we can look at all the scenery?"

"Yeah, Mike. Tony's it is. I'll meet you there in about twenty minutes."

Mike closed up his portable typewriter and slipped on a pair of jeans and a polo shirt. He wanted to get out of the house, but spending an evening with Pete and his problems was hardly his idea of relaxation. Pete had the disagreeable habit of pushing his upper denture in and out with his tongue past his lips as he talked. He grew his fingernails repulsively long and would tap them on his beer glass endlessly. But Mike had known Pete for some years as a former neighbor and felt rather sorry for him in his current life's crisis.

It was 1963, and Mike had just celebrated his forty-sixth birthday. In his early years, he had suffered through two turbulent affairs with other young men, after which he had vowed to renounce the gay life altogether. It had been a time just before World War II when homosexual relationships were deeply frowned upon. Believing that marriage was the only answer, he made, at the age of twenty-two, what he later believed was the worst God-awful mistake he'd ever made in his life. He married the daughter of a woman who ran a chili and hot-dog stand down by the Illinois Central Railroad Station. The young woman's name was Lyla, and she seemed pretty and sweet enough, considering that her family proudly claimed to be part of a band of Gypsies who had been wandering parts of Eastern Europe for the last several hundred years.

Unfortunately, marrying Lyla meant marrying her grubby family, as well. Their house was like an unkempt gypsy camp with unwashed dishes sitting all over the place and trash just kicked into the corners, rather than being picked up. The place smelled of food that had been left unrefrigerated for too long. Mike had had no experience with women until he met Lyla and had never perfected the art of judging what he was getting into. He and Lyla lived in a small apartment several blocks from her Gypsy family, but the mother, who called herself Hoonda, was an aggravating and ever-present fixture in their lives. She played a guitar with a missing string and sang unintelligible and unearthly songs in a deep voice that had a disgusting sounding gurgle in it. She had once tried her hand at palm reading, another treasured family tradition. Her days as a Mystic, however, came to an end after she had read in the palm of one man that his wife was cheating on him. The man left and promptly bought a gun, shooting his wife's head off. Hoonda had been implicated, but was not charged since she had done nothing illegal and since it was determined that the man's wife had indeed been unfaithful.

Mike and Lyla soon had a son, who Lyla insisted be named Higra, supposedly a proud ancestral name. Hoonda immediately took charge of the baby. But Mike had finally had enough. He had walked in one day and found Hoonda holding the naked little creature upside down by one heal and sprinkling globs of something green onto his body, all the while chanting something foreign-sounding. Mike snatched the baby away from Hoonda and ordered the disgusting woman from his house.

When Higra was only six months old, Mike received a call at his publishing company office. There had been an automobile accident. Both Lyla and Higra were killed, along with old Hoonda and her wretched husband. After weeks of grieving over the loss, he began to realize that the only one he was really grieving for was his son, Higra. Even at six months, Higra clearly had features that favored Mike's. There was none of that Eastern Gypsy look in Higra's face.

Mike soon went back to college and completed both a master's and a Ph.D. in American literature and writing. He was also an accomplished pianist, who had had early ambitions to be a concert pianist. But that was not to be. In addition to his position as an editor, he found he had a knack for writing mystery novels, of which a number found their way onto the best-seller list. He also wrote poetry, some of which were odes to the memory of his dear son, Higra. As time went on, he composed several children's lullabies in Higra's name and had them published in a volume titled, "Lullabies for Higra."

At every one of Higra's birthdays, Mike would reflect on what the boy might now look like and what he would be like if he had lived. On the day when Higra would have turned twenty-four, Mike imagined him to be a tall, handsome and bright young man, having completed his degrees at Cambridge, as he himself had, and becoming a famous author, a man of letters, or a well-known musician. He would be a man of grace and courage and possess a strength of character unmatched among his peers.

There was never a doubt in Mike's mind that his son would have overcome the dreadful heritage of his mother's family. The boy would have defied the power of genetics through the guidance and love of his father.

When Mike arrived at Tony's, Pete was already seated at the bar and had ordered a beer for each of them.

Motioning to the bartender, Mike called out, "Bring us some peanuts, will you please."

When the peanuts arrived, Mike said, "Well, Ernie. Not too busy tonight. Looks kind of slow. Only a couple of tables occupied and just a few up here at the bar."

"You know how it is, Mike. Sunday and Monday nights are always slow. These fucking hustlers in here outnumber the customers."

Mike and Pete eyed a young hustler as he tried to interest an elderly gentleman at the end of the bar. Pete said, "He's kinda cute. I wonder how much he charges."

"More than you can afford," sighed Mike. "Don't even think about it."

Soon, the young hustler gave up and slowly walked down the length of the bar to where Mike and Pete were sitting. Nudging himself in between the two of them, he said, "I saw you looking at me. Would you like a massage?"

"Yeah, we were looking at you," said Mike. "Didn't that old fella down there want a massage?"

"No, ya can't win 'em all. Hey, you didn't answer me. Do you want a massage?"

"How much?" said Mike.

"Two-fifty."

"You mean two hundred and fifty dollars?" gasped Pete. "Just for a massage? What if we want something else besides a massage?"

"It all depends," said the young man with a smile. "I can give you the works. I mean the works! All the fuckin' and suckin' you can take. Only four-fifty. How about it?"

Mike turned in his stool and said, "How old are you, son?"

"I'm old enough."

"No, really. How old are you?"

"I'm eighteen. I'll be nineteen next month.

Mike looked over the bar and saw Ernie nodding in agreement. He had checked the boy's I.D.

Pete said, "Have you got a name?"

"Yeah. It's Jeff. Now do you want a massage or don't you? For you, I'll cut it down to just two hundred even. How about it?"

Mike said, "That's still pretty steep. We'll have to think about it. Okay?"

Jeff waved his hand in a gesture of impatience and moved down the bar to an elderly customer who had just arrived.

Pete said, "Were you really serious, Mike, when you told him you'd think about it?"

"Of course not, Pete. I have never paid for it in my life, and I'm not going to pay for it now. But I was thinking about something else. Did you look into that boy's eyes? He's not just a dumb flesh peddler. He's got an intelligent look in those eyes. I wonder why he's doing this. I wonder why any of these bar hustlers do this?"

Pete laughed and said, "You're like a John with a street prostitute asking her "What's a nice girl like you doing in a job like this?"

"I don't know if he's nice, Pete. I don't know anything about him. He just has the look of a kid who could be successful at something a little bit more . . . you know . . . honorable."

"Well, Mike, there's nothing you can do with those people. Those guys made the choice how they're going to live, and believe me, he's doing a Hell of a lot better in the income department than I am. That's for sure."

"I know he made the choice to be what he is, Pete. But maybe he's never had any guidance in his life. I don't even think he enjoys what he does. Look at that old geezer he's putting the make on. That old man can hardly move, he's so feeble."

Pete turned toward his beer and said, "There's nothing you can do about it, Mike. So you might as well not worry yourself about it."

Mike looked thoughtful for a moment and said, "I'll bet there is something I can do about it."

"Aw, Mike, all you academic guys with your Ph.D.s think you can change the world. Just forget it."

"I'm not going to forget it, Pete. I'm going to do something about him. There's something about that boy."

"I know," said Pete. "He's cute as Hell! That's what's about him!"

"No, Pete. That's not it. I'm going to get to know him. And I'll wager you that I could do something with that kid to change his life.

"You're crazy, Mike! That's impossible. That kid's a no-good low-life. He's what he is, and he'll never be anything else. All I can say is you're crazy as a loon! Okay. How much are you going to wager? You'd better make it a lot because I need the money real badly."

"I'll bet you a nickel."

"Aw, Christ, man. Let's be a little more generous!"

"Okay. I'll make it ten bucks. That's about as positive as I think I'd better be."

After finishing their third beer, Mike and Pete got up to leave. As they walked toward the door, they saw Jeff walking out with an eager looking older man with a cane and, doubtlessly, with money in his pocket.

It was just after midnight when Mike finally crawled into bed. Maybe Pete was right, he thought. Maybe he was crazy. Mike had felt cheated out of the chance to nurture and raise his own son. Was he crazy to think that trying to do something with this little hustler could ever replace that? Well, he had wagered only ten bucks. That wasn't so much to lose, and it would give Pete a lot of satisfaction.

The next day at the publishing house, Mike's mind wandered restlessly to thoughts of Jeff. He would go back to Tony's Bar that night and try to talk again with that boy. Perhaps then he would see the uselessness of expending any effort on him. Or perhaps . . . .

When Mike returned home, he showered and fortified himself with some supper of leftovers from the refrigerator. Then heading straight for Tony's Bar, he began to sense the foolishness of it all. It was Tuesday night, a normally busy night at Tony's. Jeff would probably be well occupied with a good choice of willing and horny men with money to spend.

To Mike's surprise, the bar was no more crowded than it was the night before and, as he ordered a draft beer, he looked around. Jeff was nowhere to be seen. He must have already headed out on one of his massage jobs, he thought. Oh, well, it was probably all for the best. As he sat staring at the array of whiskey bottles lined up on the shelf behind the bar, he felt a hand on his shoulder.

"Hey, man. You said you'd think about it. Well?"

Mike whirled around to face Jeff. "Hello, Jeff. I didn't see you when I came in."

"Oh, I was working a job in the can. Picked up a quick fifty bucks. Well? How about it? Have you made up your mind yet?"

Jeff wore only a tee-shirt and a pair of baggy khaki pants. Mike could see a ring of dirt around the collar band of the shirt as clear evidence that his clothes were none too clean. But those eyes. There were those brilliant blue eyes. Mike felt he could see all at once anticipation, longing, sadness and, above all, that look of intelligence he had seen in the eyes of so many gifted students at University.

"Jeff, would you mind sitting over there at that table with me for a few minutes?"

"Hey, man, there's nothing I can do there. We could go into the can and do it."

"No, no," said Mike. "Please sit with me for a few minutes. There's something I'd like to ask you."

Jeff glanced about the bar to see if there might be more receptive customers who would be more worth his time. Looking at Mike, he said, "You're just playing with me. You don't intend to do nothing. Just ask me your question here and let me get on with my business."

Mike took hold of Jeff's arm and firmly guided him to the table. "Come on, Jeff. I'm not going to keep you long."

As they sat down, Ernie brought over one bottle of beer and one plastic bottle of water. "Wouldn't you like a beer or something?" asked Mike. "It's on me."

"No, water's all I drink. I hate all that other stuff."

"Jeff, do you live around here?"

"Kinda. But we can't go there. We have to go to your place."

"What's wrong with your place?"

"Well, I kinda don't have a place right now."

"What do you mean?"

"I lived in a friend's basement for awhile, but his old lady didn't like me and kicked me out. I just kinda find places around to sleep. Most times I get to sleep with my customers."

"You mean, you're basically homeless. Is that it?"

"Yeah. You could say that. But I do alright.

"When you're not sleeping with your . . . customers, as you call them . . . where do you go? Do you go home? How about your parents?"

"I hang out behind the Kroger Store down the street. It's not bad. When it's cold, there are big cardboard boxes back there that I can crawl into. Sometimes I just get into the dumpster."

"Well, how about your parents? Why don't you live at home?"

"That's a laugh! My old man was drunk all the time and about two years ago he ran his car into a tree and killed himself. Now one of my mom's boyfriends lives there and we don't get along. He wanted me to leave and my mom told me to get out."

"That's too bad."

"Naw. I'm doing okay. I keep busy. Hey, why all the questions? Have you made up your mind yet? I don't have all night, you know."

"I just want to get to know you a little. Okay? Is there anything wrong with that?"

"Why in the Hell do you want to get to know me, for Christ's sake. Listen, man, I'm gonna ask you one more time. Do you want a massage or don't you?"

Mike sat and looked into Jeff's face and then at his dirty tee-shirt. "I've got a proposition for you, Jeff. I'd like to invite you to come and stay at my house for one week. You'll have your own room, your own bed, and we'll get those dirty clothes of yours washed, and maybe get you some new ones."

"Hey, man, what are you talking about? I can't do that? I've got to work the bars."

"Just one week, Jeff. And if you don't like it, you can leave."

"What's to like? Just laying around someone's house all the time. Hey! I know!" said Jeff with a chuckle. "You're looking for a massage every night. Yeah! That'd be the easiest money I've ever made."

"No, Jeff. I'm not looking for anything. I just want you to try living in some normal surroundings and eat normal food and have some clean clothes and . . . ."

"Hey, what do you want me to do that for? I'd be bored out of my fucking mind. That's stupid! Have you forgotten? I give guys what they want, and they pay me what I want. I don't need to sit around someone's house with my thumb up my ass doing nothing. What good is that?"

"Listen, Jeff, would you do it just for one week?"

Jeff stood up and said, "Aw, Christ, man! You're crazy!"

As Jeff walked back to the bar and stood next to a particularly lonely looking man, Mike thought to himself, "I didn't handle that right. He's right, I must have been crazy to think I could talk this young hustler into anything. Well, I guess Pete was right. He just made himself ten dollars richer."

Mike threw several dollars tip on the table and, as he headed for the door, he heard Jeff running up behind him. "Hey, mister. Where are you going?"

"What does it matter to you?" Mike said without looking at Jeff. "You're not going to take me up on my offer, and that's the end of the conversation."

"Hey, I never said I wouldn't."

"Well, Jeff, you also never said you would. Goodnight, Jeff. I hope you have a lucrative night."

Jeff grabbed Mike's arm and said, "Hey, man. We can talk about it some more, can't we?"

"If you want to, yes," replied Mike coldly.

"If I do this, what's in it for me?"

"Jeff, I just think you ought to experience, just for one week at least, what it's like to live in a decent home with someone who's interested in you for what you could be someday. You have a long life ahead of you. There'll come a time in your life when no one is going to want to pay you a dime for your services. I just would like to have you see the other side of life for just a short while, at least."

"Did you say I could have my own room?"

"Of course."

"Good. That means I'll have a place to bring my customers."

"Wrong, Jeff. You'll have no customers during that week."

"What! What the fuck am I supposed to do? I got to make a living! What do you want to do? Keep me locked up? No way!"

"Okay, Jeff, go back to that poor old guy sitting alone at the bar. I really don't care. I'll see you around."

As Mike walked outside, Jeff was right behind him. "Okay, mister. One week. And that's all."

Mike turned to Jeff and, without expression, said, "Are you ready to come with me now?"

"Why not. I got to go inside and get my backpack first."

Mike and Jeff drove without speaking across the river to Mike's large, comfortable townhouse on the Gold Coast. It was only ten o'clock in the evening. When they entered the foyer, Jeff said, "Wow." Nothing else. He looked through the large paneled arch into the living room where, at one end stood a large grand piano. Signed photographs of famous authors and classical musicians and composers were arrayed over the piano lid. Bookcases extending to the twelve foot ceiling covered the far wall and, in front of them on a pedestal, stood an alabaster bust of Beethoven. On the hardwood floors were Turkish area rugs of varying sizes. The room was furnished with antique chairs from Austria, porcelain and crystal lamp bases from France and Germany, and small tables that had once reposed in Chatsworth, the English home of the Duke of Devonshire.

Large double walnut doors led through the back wall of the living room into Mike Siemer's study. Books and papers were piled on every available surface and in somewhat disarray. A large desk, ornamented with inlays of Teak and Ebony and with silver pulls sat with one side pushed up to a set of large leaded windows.

Mike led Jeff up the stairs and down a long hall to his room. Just as Mike was about to open the door, the door directly across the hall opened and there stood a tall gaunt looking man with a long gray face and thinning white hair. He was dressed in only a long striped night shirt that came to just below his knees.

"It's alright, Morton, we have a guest," said Mike as he touched the man's sleeve. "I'm just showing him to his room."

"But I haven't prepared the room," Morton said slowly, measuring and emitting his words as though each one was a heavy rock on his tongue.

"I said it's alright, Morton. Go on back to bed."

Jeff's room contained a queen sized bed nestled under a large canopy of cream colored muslin suspended on tall ornate mahogany bed posts. As Mike stepped over to the tall windows and released the ties on the heavy green damask drapes, he said, "Well, Jeff, this will be your room as long as you want it."

As Jeff sat down on the edge of the bed, running his hand over the quilted spread, Mike said, "How do you like my simple abode, Jeff? Do you think you can be comfortable here?"

Jeff looked as though he didn't hear as his eyes darted to and from every corner of the room. "Yeah," said Jeff finally. "It's cool."

"Now Jeff, you have your own bathroom. It's that door right there. Before you go to bed, I suggest you take a good hot shower and then get into these."

"What are those?"

"They're pajamas. I think they'll fit you. Then I want you to throw all those dirty, grimy clothes you have on out into the hall, and I'll have them washed. Then tomorrow, I'll take you to Marshall Fields and we'll get you some decent things to wear. Now there is a toothbrush and toothpaste in the bathroom. Is there anything else you might need?"

"Hell, I don't know. You mean this is where I'm going to sleep. I've never seen anything like this before except in the movies."

"You'll get used to it, Jeff."

"Hey, man, I got a question."

"Please call me Mike, will you? What's your question?"

"That man we saw. You know, the one in the doorway across the hall. He's pretty scary. Who the Hell is he?"

"That's just Morton, Jeff," Mike said as he sank into a chair by the window. "There's no need to be frightened of him. Some years ago when I was working on my doctorate at Cambridge, Morton and I struck up a sort of an affair. He was one of my British Literature professors, and a few years older than me. In short, we became lovers."

"That shriveled up old guy!" gasped Jeff.

"Well, he wasn't shriveled up in those days. I thought he was the handsomest man I had ever seen. When I graduated and was ready to return to America, he decided that he would leave his position and come back here with me so we could stay together. It was a good fifteen or so years we had with each other. But about three years ago, Morton suffered a massive, debilitating stroke. It left him with one arm paralyzed, but worse, it took his mind. He never recovered. He's like a child now. He remembers very little and has the mental capacity of a pre-schooler, but with very little ability to learn new things."

"He's creepy," Jeff said, shaking his head. "I don't know that I want to stay here."

"He's totally harmless, Jeff. He does simple things around the house for me, such as make up the beds and wash the windows and sometimes vacuums. He's not very good at those things, but it gives him something to do. Believe me, there's nothing to be afraid of."

"Okay."

"I'll leave you now. Have a good night's sleep. You'll find it's a wonderful mattress. And remember. Throw those dirty clothes out into the hall before you get into bed. Good night. Sleep as long as you wish. Then come downstairs and we'll have a good breakfast."

The only time Jeff had ever taken a shower was in the high school locker room after Gym class. At his parents' home, baths were taken in a large tub. After his shower and after tossing his clothes into the hall, he fell onto the bed. As he lay there in the dark, he began to feel enclosed, as though he was locked in a cell. His breathing began to get faster and he felt as though he might suffocate. Jumping up, he threw open the drapes on one of the windows. Light from the street lamp just outside flooded the room. He saw a few people walking down the sidewalk and several cars passing by. To see the outside world from his window calmed him, and he went back to bed. Never had he slept in a bed that felt as though it was a cloud. He had left the drape open, and with the light coming in, he stared at the elaborate chandelier suspended over him. It seemed strange that this was the first night for a very long time when he didn't have his penis up some old fart's ass or having it gummed by some toothless, horny toad. It was strange, he thought, that Mike made no move to sleep with him. What's this guy up to? And that crazy weirdo just across the hall. Jeff jumped up again and turned the lock on his door. As he lay down again, he took hold of his penis. It must have been over a year since he had masturbated, he thought. His penis remained flaccid in his hand, and he was soon asleep.

When Jeff awoke the next morning with the sun streaming in upon him, it took him a moment to realize where he was. He felt that he had never slept so soundly and so long in his life. He didn't even remember dreaming. He had never slept in pajamas before. Getting up, he didn't quite know what to make of it as he stood and looked at himself in the full-length mirror on the door of the armoire. He thought he looked silly and was glad that none of his customers could see him.

As Jeff walked into the kitchen, he found Mike preparing breakfast. "How did you sleep, young man?" said Mike cheerily.

"Okay."

"Have a seat there at the table, Jeff. I'm going to give you a good old-fashioned breakfast of eggs and ham and biscuits."

Jeff looked down at the table and felt uneasy. Mike said, "What's the matter, Jeff? You look unhappy."

"I don't know. I just don't feel very comfortable. I'm out of place here with all this stuff," Jeff said, waving his arm through the air.

"Give it time, Jeff. You'll get used to it."

"I just don't belong here."

Mike sat down across from Jeff and said, "Jeff, tell me what's bothering you about all this?"

Without touching his food, Jeff looked up and said, "Why didn't you want to be with me last night? I thought you wanted a massage. Remember, I lowered the price for you?"

"Jeff, I told you before I brought you here that I didn't want anything."

"Well, you must want something. Living with all this stuff around me isn't what I want."

"Jeff, all I want is to give you a chance to see another side of life. It's a side you've never seen. I just want you to give it a week. And then if you don't like what you see, you can go back to what you were doing, and I'll never bother you again. Please, Jeff. It's only one short week out of the long life you have ahead of you."

Jeff said nothing and picked up his fork and began to pick at his food, taking a few bites.

"Jeff? A week? Okay?

"I'll try."

When they were finished eating, Mike handed over Jeff's clothes, now freshly laundered. "I have to go to work today, Jeff. And I'm going to leave you alone here. Just entertain yourself with anything you find. The TV is in my study, and you can look through any books or magazines you can find. And for lunch, make yourself a sandwich."

When Mike arrived at his office, he called Pete. "Pete, I just wanted to tell you that I have Jeff, that hustler, at my house. He agreed to staying with me for a week."

"Where are you, Mike? Are you taking time off from work?"

"No, I'm at the office. I left Jeff at the house."

After a shocked silence, Pete gasped, "You're even crazier than I thought! You left some kid you don't know anything about alone in your house? You're out of your mind. He'll steal you blind, Mike!"

"I know it seems crazy. But there's really nothing there that he would want. He doesn't know the value of any of it. And small things of any value I have locked up in a safe. I just want to trust him, Pete. I want him to know I trust him."

"Mike, you're nuttier than a fruitcake. Just wanting to trust him doesn't mean you can. Well, when you go home and find he's not there, give me a call so I can come over and collect my ten dollars."

Jeff put on his clean clothes and wandered into the living room. Collapsing into a velvet upholstered chair, he looked around. He thought this would be the time to just get out of there. What a stupid thing it was, he thought, to agree to this. Soon he got up and went over to the bust of Beethoven. Moving his fingers over the features on the face, he wondered how anyone could make such a lifelike figure out of a block of stone. Stepping to the bookcase, his eye was caught by two volumes bound in red and gold. It was a two-volume set of "The Last Days of Pompeii." He had taken Latin in high school, and the students had been shown pictures of the ruins of Pompeii. Looking inside, there were lithograph drawings of the ruins. Looking on the first page, he read:

Quid sit futurum cras, fuge quaerere; et Quem Fors dierum cumque dabit, lucro Adpone; nec dulces amores Sperne, puer, neque tu choreas

Jeff had been a good student in his Latin classes. As he translated the passage in his mind, he smiled that his memory had been so good.

The future in the morrow shun to seek; Each day that Fate shall give thee, count as gain; Nor spurn, O youth, sweet loves, Nor choral dance and song.

With his curiosity whetted, Jeff ran his finger along the spines of the books on each shelf, seeing authors' names he recognized, as well those he didn't. Here were volumes by Mark Twain, Rudyard Kipling, Robert Louis Stevenson. He was familiar with these names from his literature classes in high school. And there in front of him was Kipling's "Kim of Rishti," a book he had been required to read in Eleventh Grade. Jeff felt a sort of thrill or pride that here was a book that both he and Mike Siemers had read. He had the feeling that it put them both on the same ground, the same plane. Something in common.

Jeff suddenly felt a presence in the room. Turning abruptly, he saw Morton standing as still as a statue in the archway to the foyer. Jeff was afraid of the man and felt a chill run up his spine.

"I . . . made . . . your . . . bed," said Morton thickly.

"Thanks," Jeff said with a trembling voice. Morton turned and went on up the stairs, slowly taking each step one at a time. Jeff's uneasiness returned. It was now mid-afternoon. He had been preoccupied with Mike's books and had not thought about lunch. He went to the window and looked up and down the street, hoping to see Mike return. He sat down and stared into the stern face of Beethoven and thought about getting out of there before Mike returned. Evening would soon come, and his desire to get back to the bars and do what he felt he was meant to do became stronger. But somehow, old Beethoven stared back at him grimly, as though he were defying Jeff to stir from his chair.

Looking away, Jeff noticed a book lying on the table next to him. The dust cover caught his eye. It was a picture of a man, cloaked in black with a red and gold snake around his neck and a bloody dagger in his hand. He read, "Night of the Viper" by Michael Siemers. Opening it, he read the first lines of Chapter 1. "Dark clouds swirled overhead. A cold, vicious wind blew across the plane, menacing and attacking the old abandoned frame house that stood in its path. There it stood, it's timbers creaking and its windows rattling, defying the violent storm that seemed bent upon destroying it, just as its former occupant, known as Reginald Swift, had been destroyed by unknown forces. His dismembered body lay . . . ."

Jeff suddenly found himself in another world. He had always been known in school as an unusually fast reader, and his eyes darted across the page, then to the next, and the next, losing himself in this world that Mike had created.

He was unaware of the time as he reached the mid-point of the book. He was oblivious to Mike who had come home and was standing in the archway watching him. Mike cleared his throat quietly, but Jeff continued reading. As he cleared it a little more loudly, Jeff was startled and looked up at him.

"Do you like it?" said Mike as he walked into the room and sat in a chair across from Jeff."

"It's okay," said Jeff nonchalantly.

"Go on. Keep reading as long as you wish. I'm going to put on some music. Would you mind?"

"It's your house. Do what you want."

Mike put on a LP record and with the volume turned low, the strains of "Visi d'arte" from Puccini's TOSCA, sung by Maria Callas, began to fill the room with a warm sound, like rich velvet. Then came the beautiful "Meditation" from Massenet's THAIS. Mike had left the room to prepare supper for the two of them. When he returned, he found Jeff with his head back against the chair and his eyes closed. The book lay open on his lap. Jeff had fallen asleep.

Mike sat and looked into the face of this young lad for a long time. Such a sweet, innocent face, he thought. There is nothing more lovely than the face of a sleeping boy. Nothing. As he watched, the boy's nose twitched slightly and his eyelids fluttered a bit. Is he dreaming? How can a young beauty like this give himself over to the lecherous yearnings of strangers? He needs to be loved, not used.

After a long while, Jeff's eyes opened, and he looked at Mike.

"Were you dreaming, Jeff."

"I guess so."

"What were you dreaming about?"

"About who killed old man Swift."

"Do you know who killed him?"

"No. And don't tell me."

Mike got up and, stepping over to Jeff, touched him on the arm. "Come on. Let's go in and get something to eat. I'm afraid all it is is some macaroni and cheese I thawed from the freezer. We'll also have a salad."

As they ate, Mike said, "I see you've gotten through half of that thick book already. You must be a fast reader."

"I am. I always found reading easy."

"Did you finish high school, Jeff?"

"Sure I did. But the last year was really a bummer because of that son-of-a-bitch boyfriend of my mom's. He kept yelling at me and I had to go sit in the railroad station waiting room to study."

"How were your grades?"

"School was really easy. I got good grades. Made the honor roll almost every semester. You know, I liked going to school. It was the only place I could go to get away from the shit that went on at home."

"Did you have a girlfriend, Jeff?"

"No. I didn't have any friends, really. Nobody liked me much because I was more interested in doing my schoolwork and reading instead of just fooling around."

"How did you happen to get involved with being a bar hustler, Jeff? Didn't you have anything else you wanted to do?"

"Well, when I got kicked out of the house after I graduated, my Phys Ed coach said I could live in a room in their basement. He was married, but he was gay. He'd come down to my room in the middle of the night and he taught me all about having sex with another guy. And he took me to a couple of gay bars. In one of them, I got friendly with one of the hustlers there, and he told me about how much money he made. I didn't have any other way to make money, so I started hustling, too. He told me with my looks I could make a bundle. So that's what I did."

"Did you ever consider going to college?"

"No. Why should I? I'm making more money than a lot of college guys make. A Hell of a lot more."

"I'm curious, Jeff. Do you really enjoy hustling old guys like that?"

"Sure, I do. I told you, the money's great."

"I know, but do you enjoy what you have to do to earn it?"

Jeff looked at Mike with a little smile beginning to curl on his lips. "What do you think? It's a job. Does anybody like their job? You've seen some of those guys who leave with hustlers. They're pitiful. They're pathetic. What's to like about them?"

"Well, Jeff, I recall you went after me. Am I just one of those pitiful, pathetic old men you hoped would have money to spend?"

"No! I mean . . . no.

"Well, why did you come after me then? And it wasn't just once. It was several times."

"I don't know. I guess I saw you looking at me, and I thought maybe you might have some money you wanted to spend, and . . . ."

"And?"

"Well, I thought you were kind of good looking . . . I mean . . . ."

"I thought that didn't matter."

"Well, shit man! Sure it matters. You don't know what it's like having some of those people with their bloated, sagging bodies all over you and pressing their drooling lips all over your face. I try to keep my eyes closed when I'm in bed with them, and I have to hold my breath as much as I can to keep from smelling all that stinking cigar and alcohol breath being blown into my face. A couple of times I even threw up when I was done with them. But as I said, who the fuck likes their job. It's the money that counts."

Jeff went back to eating his macaroni. Mike felt nothing more needed to be said at that point and, changing the subject, said, "Jeff, I went out this noon and picked up a couple of new shirts for you. I think they'll fit you and look nice on you. I put them in your room. I hope you'll like them. But if you don't, that's okay. I can take them back."

"Thanks."

As Mike rinsed and put the dishes in the dishwasher, Jeff went upstairs to his room. Mike went to the living room and sat at the piano, as he often did for an hour or more just after dinner. He began to play Beethoven's "Sonata quasi una Fantasia" (the Moonlight Sonata.) Then he played Liszt's piano transcription of Wagner's "Isoldens liebes-tod." He always ended his few moments at the piano each day with Maurice Ravel's haunting and beautiful Pavane, "Pour une infante defunte" (On the death of an Infanta.) As he played by memory, he kept his tear-filled eyes on the small framed photograph of Higra that had been placed on the piano just beyond the music rack.

Jeff had heard the music and had come downstairs. Wearing one of his new shirts, he stood in the archway leading from the foyer and listened quietly. When Mike had finished the piece, he took out his handkerchief and held it over his face, soaking up the tears as they rolled from his eyes. As he turned to get up, he saw Jeff.

"Oh, Jeff, I'm sorry."

"What was that you were playing?"

"It was a piece I love so much. It helps me when I think about my son."

"Your son?"

"Yes. His name was Higra. He was only six months old when he died. Killed in a car crash."

"Oh, wow," said Jeff softly.

"See, Jeff. This is his picture."

Jeff stared at the picture a long time. "He was only six months?"

"He would have been twenty-four now if he'd lived. He would have been a musician, a writer, an historian. He would have changed the world."

Mike walked to the bookcase and took out the volume of lullabies he had written in Higra's name. "Here, Jeff. I wrote these for Higra, if you'd like to read them. And here also are several poems I wrote as Odes to my son."

Jeff took them gently, knowing how precious they were to Mike. "I'll read them in my room, if that's okay." As Jeff turned to leave, he said, "Look, Mike. I have on one of my new shirts."

"You look very handsome, my boy."

Jeff went up to his room and closed the door, throwing the lullabies and poems on the bed. Going to his window, he watched pedestrians scurrying about through a light rain. It was hard for him to realize he was not free to go out again to the bars and earn for himself perhaps another five hundred dollars. He had come to hate the men he went home with, but it had become an addiction, and he knew it. Throwing himself on the bed, he began to leaf through the lullabies and Odes to Higra. As he again heard the sounds of music wafting up faintly from the living room, he looked at the first Ode. he read.

So fair, so sweet, withal so sensitive, Would that this little boy were born to live, Conscious of half the pleasure that he could give;

Jeff read each Ode through and read them again. Finally, on his back, staring at the Chandelier above him, he wondered how a father could love his son so much. How could Fate give to some and not to others. Why was it, he thought, that he was selected to be born of a father who cared nothing for him. Poor Higra!" he said aloud. "You've missed so much!"

After breakfast the following day, Mike rushed off to work, leaving Jeff to spend another day alone in the house. Jeff immediately went back to "The Night of the Viper," finishing it just as Morton silently appeared. Morton shuffled slowly toward him, muttering something unintelligible.

Jeff jumped up from his chair and shouted, "Don't come near me!"

Then as Morton reached out toward Jeff, he could clearly be heard saying, "Kiss, kiss."

Jeff ran around Morton toward the Foyer. Stopping at the archway, he looked back and watched Morton sinking heavily into a chair, sobbing.

Jeff suddenly felt badly. The poor wretched old man had been attracted to him and wanted to kiss him. One part of Jeff told him to go back and tell the man he was sorry. But he was afraid to go near him. Jeff went up to his room and locked his door. At length, he heard Morton's footsteps as he went into his own room and closed the door. Soon, Jeff left his room and spent the remainder of the day looking over more of the books in the massive living room bookcase.

As Mike returned home and entered the house shortly before suppertime, he thought he heard music coming faintly from the living room. Standing unnoticed in the archway, he watched Jeff sitting at the piano playing with one finger the melody of Ravel's Pavane On the Death of an Infanta. He played the theme over and over again with just his right index finger, and each time sounding more beautiful, more full of sorrow.

Jeff stopped playing and reached up, taking the picture of Higra off of the piano lid. As he looked at it intently, Mike stepped in and said, "That was lovely. Where did you learn to play that?"

Jeff was startled and almost dropped the picture. "Oh, Mike. I'm sorry. I didn't actually learn it. I remembered the melody from when you played it last night."

"You have an extraordinary memory, Jeff. Every note was perfect. The only other person I have ever heard of who could do that after hearing it only once was Mozart."

As Mike settled into a chair, Jeff rose up from the piano bench and sat across from him. As he looked down at his hands, Jeff said quietly, "I'm sorry about Higra. I've been thinking about him. I read the things you wrote for him. He deserved to live. He deserved to know his dad."

"Thank you, Jeff. And thank you for playing that piece." Mike knew instinctively what was going through Jeff's mind about his own father. It was the softer side of Jeff's soul that he was seeing, and it was all he could do to keep himself from jumping up and taking Jeff in his arms. But that wasn't part of the plan . . . not yet, anyway.

After supper, both Mike and Jeff sat and listened to music on LPs that Mike had carefully selected. Mike wondered how much of the music Jeff would remember and be able to pick out on the piano. The evening ended with the playing of Beethoven's Emperor Concerto for piano. It was with pianist Rudolf Serkin on a re-mastered 1944 recording. It seemed to Mike that Jeff stared at the bust of Beethoven during the whole performance as though he were hearing the music pouring directly out of the great composer's head.

"How would you like to play like that, Jeff?"

"I would."

"Would you like me to give you piano lessons, Jeff?" said Mike rather tentatively.

"I don't know. Maybe."

"You hear and feel the music in your head and in your heart, Jeff, as all great musicians do. When I heard you playing earlier, even with only one finger, I don't think I've ever heard it played with such poignancy. It was as though it came from the depths of your soul."

Jeff chuckled and said, "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Leave it to others to judge your talent, my boy. Someday, you may discover it yourself. How about it? Would you let me give you some lessons on the piano? Wouldn't you like to be able to play the "Infanta" with both hands and all of your fingers, as I did?"

Jeff grinned and nodded, but said nothing.

"Well, then! Tomorrow evening, we'll have our first lesson. That's settled. Oh, I almost forgot. I have a meeting tomorrow evening with my publisher and won't be home until late. We'll make it the next evening. Okay?"

The following day passed as the day before had. Jeff continued examining the books in Mike's vast library and spent the entire afternoon reading Anthony Hope's "The Prisoner of Zenda."

Mike had made a chicken casserole for Jeff's dinner and put it in the refrigerator. He left instructions for Jeff to take as much of it as he wanted and warm it up on the stove. As the chicken was warming, Jeff sat at the piano and picked out one of the melodies he had heard the night before in Beethoven's Emperor Concerto.

After finishing his supper, Jeff stepped out on the high flight of front steps leading to the sidewalk. The fresh air felt relaxing as he sat down on the top step. Several pedestrians were walking by on the sidewalk, and a few cars rolled by.

Soon a well-dressed man with gray hair stopped at the bottom of the steps and looked up at Jeff.

"Hello there!"

"Hello."

"So we meet again. Perhaps you don't remember me. Or perhaps you do."

"I don't think I do."

"Well, it's been awhile. At Tony's. We exchanged . . . shall we say . . . our services. Remember? In the restroom?"

Jeff didn't remember the man, but said politely, "I don't remember, but I'll take your word for it."

"Is this where you live? It's a lovely old home."

"Yes, I do. For awhile, anyway."

"I don't remember seeing you in shorts like that. You have very nice legs."

"Thank you."

"I wanted to say to you that I have some time, and along with that, I have a pocket full of cold cash that is burning to be spent. Do you think that we could . . . you know?"

Jeff looked at the man as he took out his wallet and brandished it, flipping through the visible bills with his thumb. Jeff said, "How much do you have?"

"Oh, as much as it takes."

"I don't know. I . . ."

As the man walked up the steps and came closer, he said, "Oh, come, come! You're playing coy with me, you know, my love. You people aren't supposed to play coy with your customers! I've been thinking about you after you gave me that little teaser in the restroom that time. I rather feel tonight that I am interested in the works this time. How about it?"

"I'm not sure that I . . . ."

"The works, I said. What will it take? Four hundred? Five hundred? Six hundred? I'm being very generous, you know."

"Six hundred? Did you say six hundred?"

"Of course. Am I low? Do I need to go to seven hundred?"

Jeff bit his lip as he looked into the man's wallet, which he had spread open, showing the heavy wad of bills. "I'm not living here alone," Jeff said, looking up into the man's eyes."

"Well, does whoever else live here know what you do?"

"Uh, no. Actually he's not here right now. Did you say you wanted the works?"

"Of course. That's what I said." The man reached over and caressed Jeff's cheek.

"I can take you to my room, but we have to be very quiet.

"Oh, I understand."

Jeff got up and walked back into the house with the man following close behind. Jeff peered up the stairway to be sure Morton was not out of his room. As soon as they entered Jeff's room and closed the door, the man began removing his clothes. "My name's Henry, by the way. We might as well be on a first name basis."

Jeff stared at the emerging nakedness of this man. It was so much like all the others. Great drooping breasts, resting on an enormous protruding stomach, on which were several long black hairs. The pubic hair was scant and white, the penis was tiny, and the balls almost non-existent. Dangling from this mass of flesh were two bowed and very thin legs of very white skin laced with various protruding knots and cords intermingled with purple varicose veins. His toenails were misshapen and yellow. His lips were large, dark red and wet.

Jeff closed his eyes and said over and over to himself, "Seven hundred dollars, Seven hundred dollars."

"Well, get out of those clothes, love. Let's get at it!"

Jeff removed his clothing and lay on the bed. Henry flung himself down beside Jeff and took him in his arms, kissing his face and mouth wildly. Jeff had long ago mastered the art of bringing himself out of these situations mentally so that he was hardly aware of what was happening.

"I want to fuck the shit out of you, boy. But first, I want you to eat out my ass. I love to have my asshole sucked on!"

Jeff did as he was told after putting himself into his mental trance.

After several minutes, Henry said, "That's enough, boy. Let me eat your little sweet pussy out and get it good and wet before I ram this cock into you."

Jeff could see that Henry's penis was still soft, and wondered how this was going to work.

"Shit, boy. Get down here and suck on this cock of mine and get it hard."

Just as Jeff leaned over and took the shriveled piece of meat into his mouth, the door flew open. Standing in the doorway was Mike, and right behind him was Morton. Morton leaned into Mike's ear and said, "See . . . I . . . told . . . you."

"Jeff! What are you doing?" shouted Mike, as he stepped into the room.

Jeff pulled off of Henry's penis and sat up, looking as though he had just been hit on the side of the head with a hammer.

Henry turned his head toward Mike and, with a smile, said, "Okay, Jeff, is this the friend you live with." Henry had no idea of the dire position he was in. He clearly thought that Mike was either just another customer, or perhaps even another aging hustler.

Mike grabbed the old man's clothes off the chair and threw them at him, yelling, "Get your fat ass out of here now!"

Although Henry looked confused, the smile left his face, and it was suddenly clear to him that he was in the eddy of a brewing storm. Leaping up and running naked into the hall, he jumped into his pants and ran shirtless and shoeless down the stairs and out the front door.

Mike was obviously furious. Walking over to Jeff, he pushed him down flat on his back on the bed. He suppressed an urge to hit Jeff across the face. Jeff looked up at him with a look of real fear in his eyes.

"Why? Why, Jeff?" Mike screamed. "If you didn't give a fucking damn about me, or about the fact that this house is mine, or that we had an agreement, you should have just left and gone back to prowling the bars for your illicit lust for money!"

"I'm sorry. Please, please, don't hit me. I'm sorry.

"Sorry isn't good enough! How dare you bring one of your lecherous customers into my house like this?"

"He told me he'd pay me seven hundred dollars."

"Oh, so that makes it alright! Okay. Everything we've talked about didn't mean a thing, did it? I've tried to be nice to you. I've tried to show you, just for one week, what life on the other side of this crummy world is like. But none of it is worth a flying fuck to you. For seven hundred dollars, you'd rather betray me."

Jeff sat up and looked at Mike. "I never promised you anything. I never said I was going to give up my business. I didn't ask to come here! You made me!"

"I can't tell you the level of disappointment I feel with you," said Mike as he got up and began pacing the floor.

Pointing to the door, Jeff said, "If that goon standing over there hadn't told you, you would never have known. I'd be done with that old man and he'd be out of here, and you'd never know. He didn't steal anything. He didn't hurt you. Everything would have been the same as it was before he came. This is what I do! I can't help it!"

"I'd rather have you out of here," shouted Mike, "rather than to know that you deceived me and lied to me like this!"

"I agreed to stay in this mausoleum for a week. I didn't agree to anything else!"

"I said to you very clearly there would be no customers this week!"

"You said it, but I never agreed to it!"

Jeff rose up and quickly put on the clothes he had on when he arrived. "I might as well go back to live with my mom's shitty-ass boyfriend. It'd be better than this. I can get all the abuse I want from him "

Jeff flung his full backpack over his shoulders and pushed his way past Morton. As he descended the stairs two steps at a time, he shouted back, "You can go straight to Hell!"

Mike shouted, "Jeff, stop! We're not through with this yet!"

"Fuck you, man!"

The sound of the front door slamming seemed to resound throughout the house. Mike stood at the top of the stairs wondering how all this could have happened. He looked around at Morton, who was grinning from ear to ear with satisfaction for having called Mike to come home early. Mike felt a sudden wave of revulsion sweep over him as he looked at Morton. It was true. If he hadn't been called home early, he would never have known. And everything would have gone on as planned.

"Go back to your room, Morton, and go to bed. I've warned you before to stop meddling in my affairs."

Morton looked confused as he turned and retreated into his room.

Mike walked slowly back into Jeff's room and sat on the side of the bed. He buried his face in his hands. It was just a mistake. It was only a small setback. It wasn't important in the scheme of things. Why, he thought, did he react so violently? Why did he suddenly lose his reason, his compassion, his understanding. He wanted progress with the boy to come along too fast.

Mike lay back, nestling his head in Jeff's pillow. He could smell the soft masculine scent of Jeff's skin. He lay there feeling desolate and guilty. No one could have played the perfect fool as he had. He lay quietly for a long time with tears brimming in his eyes.

Mike awoke, still fully dressed, with the dawn just showing itself in the east. He felt as though he were in the throes of a terrible hangover. His whole body ached. He didn't want to get up. He didn't want to shave or shower or go to work. He looked over at the shirts that he had given Jeff, lying crumbled on the back of a chair. He felt no more anger, only hate for himself.

Getting up, he walked slowly to his room and called his office. He wouldn't be in to work today. Now in the living room, he went to the piano and played the melody of the "Infanta" with one finger, just as Jeff had done. He closed the keyboard lid, got up and began to pace the floor. Where had Jeff gone? Should he have followed him last night and brought him back? Should he go out now and try to find him?

Mike went to the kitchen and looked in the refrigerator. Nothing appealed. He had no appetite. It felt as though there was a knot of something in his stomach. Sitting down, he rested his head on the table. "Oh, God!" he said aloud. "I love you, Jeff. I'm sorry. I was wrong!"

He stood up, stunned at hearing the words, "I love you, Jeff" coming from his mouth. He had never even thought about "loving" Jeff. It wasn't supposed to be about love. It had merely been a calculated experiment. It had been a wager with Pete that he could change the course of the boy's life. It wasn't about love.

But it was. He went to the window and looked out onto the street, looking both ways as far as he could see. Again, he said aloud, "I love you, Jeff. Please come home. Please."

Mike spent the day doing little else but pacing from room to room, unable to think what he should do. That evening, he kept the porch light on and stood for a long time at the window. On an impulse, he called Pete.

"I just need to talk, Pete. Everything's gone wrong. The boy is gone. I made a big mistake. I got angry, and he left. It was an easy ten dollars you just earned. It was all my fault. I've been thinking all day. I just didn't understand, Pete. I think he really wanted this to work, in a way. But I didn't understand, and I blew it. Boy, did I blow it!"

"What the Hell happened, Mike?"

"I caught him in his room with one of his customers, and I lost it. I lost my temper and said things I shouldn't have said. Pete, I feel horrible. He was only here three or four nights, but I feel so empty with him gone. I would do anything to have him back here."

"Well, I do declare! I thinks you is goin' sweet on that boy!"

"Please, Pete, don't do that kind of talk. Whenever you do that, it's only because you're mocking me."

"I'm not mocking you, Mike. But I do think that, if you've fallen in love with that boy, you got yourself in a mess of trouble. He's gone, Mike. The experiment didn't work. That's all. Let him go, and stop killing yourself over it. I would have been out of my fucking mind, too, if I had been you. You've just got to realize you can't change those people. You've got to just forget it."

"I can't forget it, Pete."

"Well, what are you going to do? Are you going to go out and search the bars and find him and bring him back?"

"I can't do that. He claims I forced him to come with me the first time. After what happened last night, he sure won't come with me again."

When Jeff left the house, he walked for about two miles to the rear of the Kroger Store where he had often slept in the past. He lay down inside of a large cardboard box and tried to go to sleep. He felt hurt and angry over Mike's reaction that night. He told himself he would never trust anyone again. It would be the last time he would ever be rejected by anyone. He would make his own way, in his own way.

In the morning, he bought some doughnuts at a convenience store and sat for the rest of the day in a nearby park. He wished the evening would come so he could get back to business of hustling the bars.

Tony's Bar opened each evening at five o'clock. Ernie, the only bartender on duty that night, was busy setting out clean ashtrays on the bar when four young men walked in. "Oh, Christ," Ernie said to himself. "More tourists." 'Tourists' was the name used in the vernacular for those patrons who did not 'belong.' They usually came in to observe and be entertained by the sight of gay boys and men making out. These four men looked to be in their mid-twenties. All were dressed in jeans and motorcycle boots. Two of them wore their hair in long pony-tails with red, white and blue bandanas, resembling the American Flag. The other two had shaved heads. All had huge, gaudy rings on most of their fingers, as well as earrings.

After ordering their beer, and as regular customers began to arrive, these men were heard snickering and making obscene and unseemly remarks about various patrons, not altogether under their breath. Ernie was a bit nervous about this group, but as long as they stayed seated at their table, he would do nothing. But if they started any real trouble, he was not above confronting them and asking them to leave. He did have the advantage of being six feet six inches tall and about twice as big around as any of the four intruders.

It was not long before Jeff walked in and stowed his backpack behind one end of the bar at a spot Ernie set aside for the hustlers. "Haven't seen you for several days, Jeff," Ernie said. "Been on vacation?"

"Sort of," murmured Jeff.

Jeff sat at the bar with a bottle of water in his hand, looking down its length for anyone who looked as though he wanted some company. He saw an older white-haired gentleman drinking martinis and idly playing with his drink stick, stroking it suggestively. Jeff got up and joined the man.

The four tourists sat and watched Jeff as he smiled and greeted the man. One of them, whose name was Chico, said, "Look at that fairy up there. He's rubbing that old fart's leg."

"How much do ya think that old man is gonna have to pay to get that little queer to fuck him?" said Jake, who appeared to be the oldest in the group.

"I wonder if he sucks cock," mused Barco, one of the skin-heads.

"Does yer old lady squirt cunt juice? Queer means cocksucker," said Jake authoritatively. "Look it up in the dictionary. Do ya want your cock sucked tonight, Barco?"

Barco grinned, showing a large space where two front teeth had once resided.

The intruders continued to make remarks about the various goings-on in the bar. They watched as the old man at the bar was reaching into Jeff's open fly and fondling what he found there. Soon, Jeff, excused himself and went to the restroom.

Chico watched this and said, "God-damn! I wouldn't mind having my cock sucked tonight. I'll be right back."

Chico got up and followed Jeff into the restroom. Standing next to him at the urinals, he looked down at Jeff's soft penis. "You're gittin' pretty cozy with that old fart at the bar. You gonna suck him off tonight?"

"Maybe."

"How much do you charge?"

"Fifty bucks."

"How much would you bilk him out of if ya let him fuck ya?"

"Two-hundred fifty."

Chico reached over and squeezed Jeff's ass cheeks. "I wouldn't mind fuckin' that little round ass of yers. How'd ya like to make more money with us than you'd make from that old man?"

"What do you mean?"

"If me and my buddies gave ya a fuck tonight, you'd make a real bundle. There's four of us. How does a thousand bucks sound?"

"You mean each of you would pay me two-hundred fifty?"

"Sure. Why not."

"I have to think about it."

"What's to think about? Jist go tell that horny old man ya got a better offer. He can go jerk hisself off. How 'bout it?"

"I don't know."

"I'm goin' back with my buddies. Think about it. We'll give ya the best fuck ya ever had. Go tell the old man to fuck off and then come over and join us."

Chico returned to his table. "Hey, you guys. I think we're gonna be able to git into that little boy's pussy tonight."

"Ya mean all of us?" said Jake, his eyes brightening. "How much is it gonna cost us?"

"Are you kiddin'? Nothin'."

"Ya mean the four of us can git a piece of his little ass for nothin'?"

"Sure. Never paid for a good fuck in my life, and I ain't startin' now."

When Jeff came out of the restroom, he noticed that another hustler had taken over with the old man at the bar. He looked over at the table where the four "tourists" were sitting grinning at him. Chico stood up and dragged another chair over and motioned for Jeff to have a seat.

Jeff looked at them and said, "Do you have a place to go? I don't have anyplace."

Jake said, "We've got a nice comfortable van out there in the parking lot. You ready to take us all on?"

"Sure, I guess so."

Several more rounds of beer were ordered. Shortly after midnight, Chico said, "You horny toads ready? Let's git outta here."

After they had all squeezed into the back of the van, Barco took hold of Jeff's belt and said, "Okay, git them pants off so we can see that little ass of yer's."

Chico added, "Let's git him buck neked. I don't want him runnin' outta here before we all git a crack at 'im."

Jeff willingly stripped off all his clothes. Chico reached over and ran his fingers over Jeff's smooth chest and down his stomach. He said, "Look at the little girly boy! He's as pretty as any fuckin' broad I ever fucked. Who wants to go first? I'm gonna wait until last. His little cunt'll be good an juicy by then."

Barco undid his pants and let them drop to his ankles. "Okay, little boy, git down on yer back and pull yer legs up."

Jeff got into position and watched Barco stroke his long, fat, uncircumcised penis until it was rigid and hard. Lubricating it with his own spit, Barco mounted Jeff and plunged his rod into Jeff's asshole. The others also dropped their jeans and sat watching as they slowly stroked their own cocks. Very quickly, Barco let out a growl and sent his sperm into Jeff's rectum. Pulling out, he said, "Wow. That pretty little hole is like a snappin' turtle. I never had a cunt that snapped away at my cock like that one did!"

Jake moved into position. Jeff watched as Jake's enormous tool entered his crack. It was the largest cock he had ever seen. He felt a sharp pain as Jake's gorged penis entered him. He tried to relax his sphincter muscle, but the pain persisted. Jake fucked in and out very slowly, obviously trying to delay his orgasm. At each plunge, the pain seemed to increase. Jeff felt tears begin to well in his eyes. It seemed to him that Jake would never cum and that he was literally being torn open. Finally, after many minutes, he felt Jake's penis begin to enlarge and throb violently inside of him. Soon it was over, and he felt the large rod pulling out. Jeff feared that he wouldn't be able to take the other two.

Randy, the smallest and best looking of the four men, began to take his position. But he had the largest of the four penises. It had a strange crook in the middle and was encircled with large purple veins. Jeff closed his eyes and gritted his teeth as this monster pushed its way into his hole. Randy fucked him with rough abandon, causing Jeff's body to lurch and sway. The pain was even more unbearable than the last one. It seemed to go on forever. The violent pounding of Randy's pelvis against his ass cheeks felt as though he was being beaten to death. Tears were now pouring from Jeff's eyes and running into his ears.

When it was over, Jeff put his legs down and rolled over on his side. Chico grabbed Jeff's body and tried to push his legs back up into the air. But Jeff fought him and cried, "No! I can't!"

"Come on, you little slut," yelled Chico. "Git them legs up!"

With all his strength, Jeff fought to keep Chico away from him. Chico, now on his haunches, swung his closed fist against the side of Jeff's head, screaming, "You God-damned little piss-ant, lie still or I'll beat the shit outta ya!"

Jeff reached up and ran his fingernails across Chico's face, leaving four bleeding gashes on his cheek. Chico became enraged and, with both fists, punched and pummeled Jeff's head and body. Jeff felt as though he was going to pass out, but he kept flailing his arms and hands as hard as he could against his attacker.

Chico knew there was no way he was going to be able fuck the boy and screamed, "You fucking little piece of shit!" He picked Jeff up and literally threw him out of back door of the van. Jeff landed on his side in the gravel covered parking lot, stunned and dizzy and sore. A terrible pain gripped him in his stomach and abdomen where he had been punched a number of times. His head was pounding and he could feel one of his eyes swelling closed.

Jeff looked up at the four men standing inside the back door of the van staring down at him. "I want my money," Jeff whimpered. "And give me my clothes . . . and my backpack!"

Chico yelled, "What money! You didn't earn a fuckin' dime!"

Jeff could hardly move or talk through his tears. "Please. Give me my money. You promised."

"We never promised you a fuckin' thing," cried Chico as he slammed the door.

As Barco took the wheel and drove off, Chico tore open Jeff's backpack. "Hey! Will ya lookee here! Money!"

As they sped down the street, Chico pulled out a number of stacks of bills bound together with rubber bands and counted it. "There must be seventy or seventy-five thousand bucks here. Where the fuck did he git all this money?"

Jake looked at it and said, "That little dumb son-of-a-bitch was probably keeping all his hustler money in that bag. Lemme see it."

"Git yer fuckin' hands off it," growled Chico. "I'm the one who didn't git a good fuck outta that kid. I oughta git somethin' fer that!"

"You plannin' to keep all of it?"

"I ain't decided," Chico said, as he stuffed the money back into the backpack.

"Well," murmured Jake. "We'll see about that."

Jeff lay in the gravel parking lot, naked and in pain. Every time he tried to move, it felt as though a knife was cutting through his abdomen. The bar had long been closed and the parking lot was empty. Jeff managed to crawl over to a wall of the building, where he lay huddled on the concrete slab next to a row of garbage cans. His head was pounding, and when he felt his face, he saw blood on his hand. After awhile, he was able to crawl out to the street in front of the bar. He pulled himself up and stepped into the open vestibule at the entrance. He was dizzy, with everything around him whirling in circles. Holding onto the walls of the stores that lined the street, he made his way to the corner. He never thought about his being naked. It was only a couple of hours before dawn, and there were no cars in sight.

Suddenly, a cool breeze swept over him, making him shiver, and then he felt drops of rain. The rain became a little stronger, but it was a gentle rain, cooling his sore body. He continued making his way slowly for several blocks, not knowing where he was going.

Jeff saw a car coming and he ducked into a doorway. The car slowed a bit, then turned at the next corner. Jeff had become so weak he slumped down on the step of the doorway. Soon, the same car, which had gone around the block, appeared again and stopped. An elderly man got out and slowly walked toward Jeff.

"Oh, my God, lad!" said the man. "What happened to you?"

Jeff began to cry. He felt so hopeless and lost. All he could do was lie there and look up at the man.

"You've been hurt badly. I can see that. Where do you live."

"I don't know," Jeff responded weakly. "I don't know where I am." Choking on his own tears, he said, "I feel so bad. I feel so bad. It hurts here so bad."

"You must live somewhere," the man said, leaning over and touching the top of Jeff's head. "Try to remember, and I'll take you home."

"I don't know," sobbed Jeff.

"What is your name, son?"

"Jeff."

"What is your father's name?"

"I don't know. I mean . . . Mike."

The man leaned over and picked up Jeff's naked and rain-soaked body and placed him in the passenger seat of his car. Getting in behind the wheel, he said, "Well, let me drive around and maybe you'll remember where you live."

The man drove for about a half-hour, up and down many streets. Suddenly, Jeff said, "This is my street. I know this is my street. Keep going. I live down here somewhere."

Soon, Jeff pointed to a townhouse and said, "That's my house. That's where I live."

The man pulled over to the curb and got out. When he went over to the other side of the car and opened the door, he found Jeff had lost consciousness and had fallen over onto the driver's seat. He took an afghan from the back seat and wrapped it around Jeff. Then with the boy in his arms, he ascended the long flight of steps to the front door. He rang the doorbell several times with no answer. He then slammed the brass doorknocker against the door over and over again.

The door opened and there stood Mike in his pajamas, unbelieving at the sight before him.

"I found this young lad on the street a couple of miles from here," said the man. "He said he lives here. I don't know what's happened, but he's been in some kind of trouble, and he's hurt very badly."

Mike threw the door wide open and said, "Come in, please! Oh, Jeff! What happened?"

"I take it you're Mike," the man said. "I'm afraid he's fallen unconscious."

"Oh, please, please. Come in Mr. . . ."

"Drake. Rupert Drake. I was just driving home from an evening with my poker group at the Club downtown when I saw him."

"Oh, thank you, Mr. Drake. I don't know how to repay you."

"No need for that. I'm just glad we got him home. I'd better be on my way, now."

"Here, Mr. Drake, let me take him and get him into bed. Thank you so much again!"

"Don't mention it," said Drake, as he left and closed the door behind him.

Mike felt his whole body shaking as he carried the unconscious boy up to his room. He lay Jeff on the bed, and tears came to his eyes as he looked at the cuts and bruises that covered the boy's face and body. Taking Jeff's hand, he held it to his face and whispered, "Oh, my God, Jeff. What have I done. I didn't mean what I said the other night. I was wrong. I should have understood. I do understand. If you only knew how much I love you."

Mike rushed to the bathroom and came back with a warm wet washcloth and some antibiotic ointment. As he applied it to the cuts on Jeff's face, he noticed that the boy's whole side was scraped raw. It had happened when he was thrown from the van onto the gravel parking lot. The bruises on Jeff's stomach and abdomen were also getting darker. Mike then realized that the injuries might be serious. Dressing the boy in a pair of pajamas, he carried him out the backdoor and placed him in the car. As he sped off to the emergency room, Jeff began to stir and moan slightly.

As luck would have it, he was taken through triage and into an examining room almost immediately. As Mike waited, Jeff was sedated and then taken away for x-rays. It was mid-morning when a doctor informed Mike that, although Jeff had been badly beaten, there were no broken bones. His liver had been bruised, though, which meant that he would need to stay in the hospital for two or three more days for treatment. Two nurses came in and treated all of his cuts and scratches.

After Jeff was moved up to his room, he was groggy, but awake. Mike sat silently by his bed. They didn't talk. Soon a nurse came in and informed them that, in accordance with their policy, they reported the assault to the police. Not long after that, two officers came in and asked some questions. Jeff could tell them only that there were four men in a gray van.

As soon as the officers returned to the station, they found a man who was admitting to the assault. His name was Jake. He told the officers where the others could be found, as well as the license plate number of the van. He also told them that a man named Chico was in possession of a large amount of money stolen from the boy. When he was asked why he was identifying the others, he said merely that he had his reasons.

Several days later, Jeff was back in his room at Mike's house. A detective had come to the door to inform Mike and Jeff that the men who had assaulted him were now in custody. Handing Jeff his back-pack, he said, "We recovered this for you. I would like to ask you something. It contains an enormous amount of money. You're not being accused of theft, but we would like to know how all this money came into your possession. It amounts to almost sixty-eight thousand dollars."

As the detective opened the bag, Mike looked into it and fell speechless.

Jeff said, "It's all mine. I earned it. I didn't steal it."

Mike said, "Detective, I wonder if you'd be so kind as to go downstairs and have a seat. I think I can better get to the bottom of this. I'll talk to you in a few minutes."

When the detective left the room, Mike looked quizzically at Jeff. Jeff said, "That's all my money. I earned it."

"You earned it from other men who you went home with?"

"Yeah. It's all mine."

"Jeff, you were very foolish carrying that much around with you. This was bound to happen. We need to open an account for you at the bank where it will be safe."

"I had almost seventy-five thousand. Those guys must have taken some of it."

After assuring the detective that the money did indeed belong to Jeff, they bid each other goodbye, and Mike returned to Jeff's room.

"Jeff, I have to tell you something. I was wrong, what I did the other night. I didn't want you to leave. I was upset when I saw that other man in here with you. But I understand now. I really do."

"I know. And I'm sorry, too. I shouldn't have brought him in here. But I just . . . ."

"It's okay, Jeff. I understand. And I want you to understand that I will stick with our agreement. You can leave anytime you feel you no longer want to stay here."

Jeff looked up at Mike and said, "I want to stay here. I don't want to leave."

"Really?"

"It's funny. I kind of feel at home here now."

Mike smiled and brushed the hair out of Jeff's eyes. "I've been thinking, Jeff. I'm kind of anxious to start those piano lessons. As you know, I heard you playing that piece with one finger. And it was beautiful."

"Yes! Would you teach me how?"

"Of course I will. You know your nineteenth birthday is the day after tomorrow. We're going to have just a very small party. Just Pete and me and you. Would you like that?"

"I've never had a birthday party. I thought that was just for little kids."

"Yeah! Kids like me! I still like a birthday party, even at my age."

Mike and Jeff talked for a good while until Jeff began to look very tired and started to nod off. Mike put his hand on Jeff's cheek and said, You get a good night's sleep tonight, son, and I'll see you in the morning."

As Mike reached the door, Jeff said, "Thanks, Mike. I can't wait until I start my piano lessons. And don't worry. I'm not going to leave again."

The next morning, Mike came into Jeff's room. "Jeff, I'm going to have to go on down to my office this morning. Pete said he'd stay here in case you need anything. I'll see you later.

Jeff lay in bed for a few minutes and then got up to go to the bathroom. He heard Pete being let in and he stood at the top of the stairs listening to Mike and Pete talk for a few minutes.

"Well, Pete, I think Jeff's staying, and I think we're on the road to changing his life around."

Pete said, "You mean I'm going to lose our wager? You mean I've lost ten bucks?"

"It looks that way, Pete. I wouldn't have made the bet if I thought I was going to lose. It's been kind of rough along the way, but I think I've won, and you're going to have to pay up."

Jeff went on to the bathroom and then hobbled back to bed. He lay there not fully understanding what he had just heard. In a little while, Pete poked his head in and said, "You alright, Jeff? Can I get you anything?"

"Yeah, can I ask you something?"

Pete walked in and sat on the side of the bed. "Sure!"

"I overheard you and Mike talking this morning. Did you and he bet something about me?"

"Well, it was just a little bet. It wasn't serious."

"It sounded serious. You bet money about getting me to change my life?"

"Well, as I say, Jeff, it was nothing."

Jeff turned his head and stared out of the window and said, "This is all a game, isn't it. Just a big game. I thought he really wanted to do something for me. But he just wanted to win a bet. He thinks he's won. And now what?"

"Jeff, look at me. Now listen to me. The wager was nothing. It was just my silly idea. Jeff, you may not realize it but Mike loves you very much. He knew he loved you from the moment he looked into your eyes that night. And he saw lurking behind them a life that was there, but wasn't being lived. Do you understand me?"

"I don't know."

"Let me tell you a story, Jeff. My great-great grandmother was born and raised a slave down in Alabama. But when she was a very young girl, she was smuggled out through the underground railroad. Do you know what that is?"

"Yes. I read about it in high school."

"Her name was Missy. That's the only name she knew she had. She ended up here in Chicago. But she didn't know anyone, and she was alone. She spent her days and nights begging on the streets. It was all she knew how to do. She did her best to avoid men who wanted to take advantage of her. But she was able to make her own way and feed herself, and she was content with that. But one young man managed to befriend her. He eventually convinced her to come home with him and live with him and his mother. He later wrote in his diary that he saw in her face the look of a woman of 'significance.' That was the word he used. His name was Martin Townsend, and he and his mother taught the young girl how to read and write."

"Couldn't she go to school?" asked Jeff.

"Why, there were no schools for Negro girls then! She was Black. She was free, but she was Black. There was no other way. The intelligence of this young lass soon became very apparent when she began writing her own poetry. I have some of it. It's beautiful. She eventually even wrote several songs inspired by her life as a slave. They were lovely and sad, and they were even published by George Frederick Root, the famous song publisher and composer of so many Civil War Songs right here in Chicago. She became a voracious reader, and even tackled the classics.

"Even though she was schooled only by this young man and his mother, she became an articulate advocate for other Black girls and boys who lived and begged on the streets. When she was only in her late twenties, she opened a small house down there on the south side for orphaned children. Several other women joined her, and they taught the children how to read and write and how to take care of their bodies. She even got several citizen's awards given to her by the Mayor. And not long before she died, they gave a big party for her on her eighty-fifth birthday. Over a hundred of the kids she helped, all now grown, showed up to pay homage to her. She was in a wheelchair by then, and they knelt at her feet to praise and thank her for saving them and guiding them to a better life.

"Did she ever have any kids of her own?"

"Why, sure she did! I'm here, ain't I? Missy and that young man, Martin Townsend, eventually got married and had a whole mess of kids."

"They did?"

"Sure! You know, Jeff. The love that Mike has for you started out just like the love my great-great grandfather had in the beginning for Missy, that wayward girl who lived by begging for her food. There wasn't any lust for her body or anything like that. It was the same way with Mike. He wasn't interested in your offer to give him a massage or anything. Just like my great-great grandfather, Mike saw something 'significant' in your eyes. And as I said before, he saw a life there that wasn't being lived."

"I think I understand," said Jeff tentatively.

"And Jeff, I don't think I'm talking out of school when I tell you that I know that Mike wants you to love him, too. Do you know what love is? Have you ever really loved someone?"

"No."

"No, of course you haven't. You were a bar hustler. Have you ever thought about it, my boy? Hustlers are not men. They're servants, paid to satisfy the sexual appetites of others. Love can never come into play. There's a big difference between love and sex. Think about it. Love is an ecstasy, but sex is merely an appetite.

"Sex isn't hard to describe. It's tangible, and we all find it easy to describe sex. But love, my boy! That's nearly impossible to describe. It's like trying to describe a cool, fragrant breeze suddenly blowing over you on a hot, muggy day. But you'll know it; you'll know love when it hits you and sweeps over you. You'll know it when a certain exhilaration comes over you. You'll feel enlivened and your heart will quicken. A feeling of warmth and tenderness and endearment will take hold of you like a cramp in your middle. And with it will come passion, desire, and a yearning like nothing you have ever felt before."

"Does love really feel like that?"

"Of course! Let yourself go, son. Don't hold back. Let yourself feel all those wonderful things that only love can give you. Give back to Mike the love he feels for you. You've come to mean everything in the world to him. And I'll tell you something else. I'll bet someday he's going to let you give him that massage you once offered him!"

Jeff smiled and sat up. He put his arms around Pete and buried his head in the crook of Pete's neck. Then Pete kissed Jeff on the ear and said, "But he's not gonna pay you for it!"

Jeff slept soundly that night and awoke as soon as the bright rays of sunlight hit his face. It was his nineteenth birthday. All his previous birthdays had passed unnoticed. It had never been any kind of occasion for celebration. He found he was feeling much better than he had since the assault. His black eye was now fading and all his scratches and cuts were healing well. The soreness in his limbs and in his abdomen had also abated considerably.

While Jeff still lay in bed, Mike knocked and opened the door. "Good Morning, birthday boy! How are we today?"

"Good morning. I feel pretty good."

"Do you think you can get dressed today and come downstairs for breakfast?"

"Yeah! Let me take a shower and I'll be right down."

Mike had prepared a special breakfast of fresh fruit, pancakes and bacon. As they ate, Mike said, "Pete's coming over later and it'll be just the three of us celebrating your birthday. Pete's a great cook, and he said he wanted to make your birthday cake. But I'm going to make the dinner. You said your favorite food was fried chicken, and that's what we're going to have!"

"That sounds great!"

"Ah, but that's not all. After dinner, we'll have some cake and you can open your birthday presents. And then we'll have some music."

"You shouldn't get me any presents."

"What! What's a birthday without presents!"

Mike soon went off to his office, but returned by mid-afternoon to start preparing dinner. He arrived with a large cluster of colorful balloons.

"What are those silly things?" blurted Jeff.

"Oh, we have to have decorations! A birthday party with no decorations? Never!"

After tying the gas filled orbs to various pieces of furniture, Mike departed to the kitchen. Jeff sat down and felt a little embarrassed over what he believed to be an unwarranted fuss being made over him.

Just before dinner, Pete arrived with a large box, in which Jeff assumed was the cake.

"Let me see," said Jeff.

"Oh, not yet! We have to put the candles on it first. And then you can see it."

Jeff had never eaten such a large and delicious dinner, but as they talked, he felt self-conscious being so much the center of attention.

Mike then brought out the cake, a two-layer yellow cake with chocolate fudge frosting, topped with nineteen burning candles. "Now, Jeff, you are to close your eyes and make a wish, but don't tell us what it is. Then blow out the candles. If you can blow them all out in one breath, your wish will come true."

Jeff closed his eyes for no more than a few seconds and, with hardly any effort, blew out all nineteen candles. Mike and Pete laughed and clapped their hands in approval.

Fully half the cake was eaten with each going for a second piece.

"Now into the living room with you two," said Mike. As they walked in, Jeff saw several colorfully wrapped packages on the piano lid. Mike then sat at the piano and said, "Are you ready, Pete?" As Pete nodded, they both broke into a spirited rendition of 'Happy Birthday.' Jeff felt almost as though he was going to cry. He had never had anyone sing that for him.

"Okay, Jeff, go ahead and open your presents. Go on!"

The first and second box he opened contained new shirts and jeans and a new back pack to replace Jeff's old and damaged one. Mike said, "No young man in this world gets away from his birthday without getting new clothes!"

Jeff held them up in front of him, and said, "I like them. I really like these! Now I can look just like those guys I see walking up the street to the University!"

At that comment, Mike and Pete exchanged knowing looks. "Go ahead, Jeff, open another one."

When Jeff opened the next package, he said, "Oh wow.  A gold chain.  And with my initials etched on it, too.  This is really cool, Mike.  Now I have something to remind me of you all the time.!"
 
The next package contained a nice portable electric typewriter. Jeff was overwhelmed as he looked at it and ran his fingers over it. "This is like your typewriter, isn't it, Mike? Wow. Will you show me how to use it?"
 
 "Of course I will. I think it will come in handy for you one of these days."
 
 Jeff was visibly shaking as he looked at Mike and Pete. Mike went over and sat next to him and put his arm around his shoulder. "It's okay, Jeff. I know how you feel. But look! You've got two more packages!"

Opening one of the two remaining packages, Jeff found a book, titled, "Mystery of the Silver Talisman," by Michael Siemers. Looking inside, Jeff read to himself the dedication: "To the everlasting memory of my son, Higra." On the next page, in Mike's handwriting, were the words, "To Jeff, whose life is just beginning. May God live in your soul forever. My love to you for everything you are and for everything you will become. Your friend, Mike."

Jeff kept his eyes glued to the words and didn't look up. Mike said, "That is the very first copy of my latest book. It's fresh off the press and there aren't even any copies in the stores yet."

Jeff said softly, still without looking up, "Thank you. This is so nice." Then he got up and took the last package off the piano and opened it. It was a very thin gold chain with a tiny medallion. Printed on it was "Jeff and Mike, 1963." Jeff's eyes began to brim with tears as he looked at it.

Mike said, "It's just something that you can keep, and wear if you want to, to remind you of when we first met each other. I hope you like it."

Jeff didn't want to look up. He kept his eyes on the chain. He didn't want Mike and Pete to see the tears in his eyes. But they started rolling down his cheeks and into his mouth. It was no use. He looked up at Mike, his eyes red and full, and said haltingly, "I can't believe you would do all this for me. I haven't done anything to deserve all these things."

Pete walked over and put his hands on Jeff's shoulders, looking at him straight on. "Jeff, remember what I told you yesterday afternoon. Seemingly strange things happen when a man finds he loves someone. All of these gifts came right out of the love that Mike has for you."

Suddenly Mike said, "Hey! Don't you think it's time for a little music? Come on over here, Jeff, and sit next to me on the piano bench. Have you ever heard of Chopsticks? It's the easiest thing in the world to play."

Mike showed Jeff the simple treble chords that he should play, while he played the bass chords. Soon they were hammering out faster and faster renditions of Chopsticks and laughing uncontrollably. Mike then showed Jeff how to play the melody of several other songs with one finger while he played the accompaniment. They sat at the piano til almost midnight.

Finally, Mike said, "Well, Jeff, my boy. I think it's time for us all to turn in. Are you as tired as I am, Jeff?"

Jeff said, "I think I could go on with the piano for several more hours." Then getting up from the bench, he said, "I want to say something. But I don't know what to say."

"Oh, Jeff. You don't have to say anything. Everything you have to say, I saw in your eyes tonight. Happy birthday, Jeff."

Pete bid them goodnight and left, while Mike and Jeff when up to bed. Jeff sat on the edge of his bed, still overwhelmed at the wonderful evening he had just had. The tears began to flow again, and he buried his face in his hands. Mike opened the door and said, "What's the matter, Jeff? I hope you had a good time."

"Yes, I did. I never had anything like this. Thanks. I don't know what else to say."

"You said enough, my boy. Now go to sleep and I'll see you in the morning."

Jeff got undressed and into his pajamas. As he climbed into bed, he turned off the bedside lamp. As he lay there staring into the darkness, a strange feeling began to come over him. His mind was racing and that cramped feeling began to take hold of his stomach. He thought about what Pete had told him the day before. Yes. There it was. That vague sense of yearning was beginning to run recklessly through his brain. That warmth in his chest and the quickening of his heart. My, God, what is happening? he thought. He closed his eyes and could see Mike's face before him. He wanted to reach out and touch him and tell him . . . . 'I love you.' It was real. It happened. Pete was right. He said he'd know it when he felt it. The passion, the desire. It was all there.

Mike had showered and gone to bed. He lay there smiling to himself, remembering how happy Jeff had been with the celebration of his birthday. As he did every night before going to sleep, he whispered to himself, "Oh, Jeff. If you just knew how much I love you."

Mike finally drifted off to sleep. Very soon, however, he awoke with a start when he heard his door open. There in the doorway stood Jeff, shirtless and with his broad shoulders and narrow hips silhouetted against the light from the hall.

"Jeff? Is that you?"

"Yes," Jeff said quietly.

"Are you alright?"

After a long pause, Jeff said, "Mike. I'd like to stay with you tonight. May I lie there with you tonight? I just want to be with you. I can't help it. Please."

Mike sat up and stretched his arms out toward Jeff. "Oh, Jeff. Yes, of course you can."

Jeff walked closer to the bed, and Mike slid over to make room for him. He said, "I'm sorry I don't have any pajamas on."

"I don't care," said Jeff as he removed his own pajama bottoms and lay down next to Mike. Feeling awkward and staring at the ceiling, he said, "Do you love me, Mike?"

"Oh yes, I do love you."

"No one ever said that to me before. I love you, too, Mike."

Mike could feel his heart pounding and the blood rushing to his head. He instinctively reached over and, wrapping his arms around him, pulled Jeff tightly against him. He whispered, "Are you sure, Jeff? Are you really sure?"

"Yes. Pete told me I'd know when it happened. And I think I know now. I know I know. I love you, Mike. I've never felt like this before."

Mike slowly moved his head closer and touched his lips lightly to Jeff's. Jeff could feel ripples of adrenaline surging through his body. Mike's lips felt soft and loving. He thought of all the other men who had kissed him roughly with their wet, beer-sodden lips and their breath laced sickeningly with the stench of alcohol and tobacco. He pressed his lips tighter against Mike's and lay there tasting the sweetness of the love that was passing between them. Mike ran his tongue over Jeff's full lips and pushed it gently between them. They were soon exploring each other's mouths deeply and passionately.

As they pulled apart, Jeff whispered, "I'm sorry, Mike, I've been so much trouble to you."

"You were never any trouble to me, Jeff. I was just worried. I was so worried for you when you left. But I understand now. I was at fault. I'm a foolish man sometimes. But one of the happiest days of my life was when you came back home."

Jeff tightened his arms around Mike's back and gently ran his hands over it. They kissed again, and again, and told each other how much they loved each other. Soon, Jeff lay his head on Mike's chest with his cheek nestled in the soft swirls of hair that covered it. Mike could feel Jeff's tongue moving through his chest hair and gently sucking on it. Mike's hand slowly massaged the soft, young, and smooth skin on Jeff's neck and shoulders. They lay like this for a long time.

At length, Mike whispered, "Jeff? Jeff?"

There was no answer, but Mike could feel Jeff's warm steady breath on his chest. Jeff was asleep. Mike gently rolled Jeff over on his back and brought the sheet up over him. He lay on his side, propped up on one elbow, staring down into the boy's sleeping face. He felt consumed with love for him. His love that night was deeper than ever. It was a love now shared, not held in abeyance, as it had been. It was real. It was genuine. Leaning over and kissing Jeff very lightly on the lips, he whispered, "I'll always love you, my precious boy."

The next morning, they sat across from each other at the breakfast table, looking deeply into each other's eyes. They were no long hustler and mentor. They were now lovers, deeply in love with each other. While Jeff's mouth was full of cereal, Mike got up and, going around the table, took Jeff's head in his hands and kissed him gently on the mouth, sucking a small amount of cereal into his own mouth. The yearning for each other shown on their faces like bright rays of sunshine.

"Jeff, I'm going to stay home today. Why don't I pack a picnic lunch, and let's go down to Grant Park. We can sit and talk and enjoy the birds and the scenery. Jeff eagerly nodded his approval.

Settling down on a grassy hill, they faced Michigan Avenue and all the people walking by, as well as the buildings that lined the Avenue on the other side. Pointing his finger toward one of the buildings, Mike said, "You see that blue stucco building all boarded up. At one time that was a YWCA. My mother came to Chicago many years ago from a small town in Minnesota. She was trained as a secretary and stayed at the YWCA. It was one of the safest places for single women in those days. As soon as she moved in, she went right next door to that office building to apply for a job. As luck would have it, she got the job and was assigned to a young man who was the manager of one of the departments. And the rest is history. Several years later, they were married, and here I am! Things happen like that. Their meeting like that was just serendipity."

"What's serendipity?"

"Well, it's when you find something very valuable that you weren't even looking for. Sort of like you and me, Jeff. When we met in that bar, did you ever think that what has happened with us would ever happen?"

Jeff laughed. "No. Never."

They lay back on the grass, watching the clouds rolling by overhead and listening to the racket of the birds as they flew from tree to tree.

"Jeff, I wanted to talk with you about something. Remember those clothes you got yesterday that you said would make you look like those college students? I have to confess something to you. With those clothes and the portable electric typewriter, you could BE one of those college students. You have a wonderful high school record, you're bright, you're curious, you like to read. You know, Northwestern University's right up the street from where we live and it's within walking distance. How would you like to enroll there?"

"Oh, I don't know. I never thought about going to college."

"Would you be willing to go with me to the Admissions Office and talk with them about it. They can tell you about the school and answer all your questions."

Jeff could feel that surge of adrenaline rushing through him at the thought of being a real college student. He wasn't afraid of it at all, as long as he knew he had Mike's encouragement and confidence. He smiled and nodded his agreement eagerly.

"Great!" said Mike. "We'll go over there tomorrow. Okay?"

"Okay, as long as you come with me. I'm kind of scared. But I really want to go. Thanks."

"We'll go tomorrow morning, and tomorrow evening, I'm going to give you your first piano lesson. How does that sound?"

Jeff was not really afraid at all of these new adventures in his life. With Mike by his side, he felt he could do anything. The prospect of being a real college student and someday being able to play the piano well gave him a feeling of excitement he'd never known before.

That night, as the two lay in each other's arms, Jeff ran his tongue in and around Mike's ear. Then he whispered, "Mike? Tell me. Have you collected from Pete yet?"

"What?"

"The bet you made with him. You know, the wager."

"What wager? Uh, how did you know about that?"

"Oh, I just know. One of the little birds out there in the park told me."

"Oh, Jeff, that was just a silly thing. I'm not going to take Pete's money. He needs it more than I."

"Well, it looks like you won. Fair's fair. He should pay up."

"Have I won, Jeff? Have I really won that wager?"

"You know you have. And I know you have. And no one could be happier than I am about it. It really was serendipity for us, wasn't it?

Mike took hold of Jeff's head and they kissed deeply and long and passionately.

Jeff pulled his lips off of Mike's momentarily and said, "Mike? You never did answer a question I asked you when we first met. You said you'd think about it."

"What was that?"

"Hey, mister. Would you like a massage? I'm still waiting for an answer."

"Well, young man, I have thought about it, and yes, I think I would."

"That'll be two hundred dollars."

"Mmmmm. Just put it on my tab. Okay?"

"Whatever you say. Now roll over and lie on your stomach. I'll give you my special massage that I reserve only for very special guys."

Mike could feel Jeff's slender hands gently kneading the back of his neck, progressing across his shoulders, down his back and over his shoulder blades. Eventually, Jeff's hands took hold of the flesh in the small of his back and around the sides of his waist. His hands were pushing and rubbing harder now, and Mike felt all his back muscles begin to relax. Soon Mike felt what he thought at first was a warm breeze on his ass cheeks. But it was Jeff's breath as he ran his tongue gently over the soft fuzz that covered each cheek. It tickled, and Mike flexed his cheek muscles violently. He felt his cheeks slowly being separated and that warm breath on his pucker, which was also clenching and unclenching. He soon felt a pressure on his hole as Jeff pushed his tongue against it.

"Jeff, that feels so good," Mike gasped. "I've never had that as part of any massage I've ever had before."

"I told you, Mike, this is a very special massage that I reserve only for very special people."

"How many guys have gotten this special massage?"

"Well, I'll have to admit you're the first."

Running his tongue and hands over Mike's firm round ass cheeks, Jeff progressed down the backs of his legs, licking the skin and soft hair with his tongue and caressing them with his fingers. It had been fully twenty minutes since Jeff had begun the massage, and he now motioned for Mike to turn over on his back.

Jeff lightly massaged the forehead and angular bones of Mike's face, running his slender fingers over his cheeks and lips and chin, then leaning over to kiss the dimples on either side of Mike's mouth. Mike closed his eyes as he felt Jeff's hand move heavily over his collar bone and shoulders and then down over his pectorals. Then he felt Jeff's tongue swirling its way through the soft mat of hair on his chest and gently nibbling on his nipples. Jeff took hold of each arm and kneaded its smooth muscles, then bringing his tongue down over the light dusting of hair on the forearms.

Jeff once again took hold of Mike's waist and rolled the small, fleshy spare tire in his fingers as he ran his tongue over Mike's stomach and into his navel. Jeff took hold of Mike's hard, rigid penis at the bass and stared at it as it throbbed and bobbed about, oozing semen in great bubbles and running down onto Jeff's hand. Leaning over, Jeff slowly licked the semen off of the head and underside of Mike's penis. Bringing his tongue around lower, he took Mike's entire ball sack into his mouth as he began to gently knead his inner thighs. He finished the massage by squeezing and rubbing Mike's thigh and calf muscles while running his tongue over every inch of them.

Jeff looked up from between Mike's legs and smiled sweetly at Mike. As they looked at each other, Mike's gorged penis obstructed their view as it continued to bob around violently. Mike motioned for Jeff to lie on his back. As soon as he did, Mike slid down, running his tongue over the smooth, soft skin of Jeff's chest and stomach. Bringing his tongue down through Jeff's ample pubic hair, he sucked in the full length of the waiting penis and felt it hot and wet and throbbing in his mouth. Oh, how he had yearned to have a part of this boy inside of him like this.

Jeff turned his body around so that he was in a 69 position. They sucked on each other's penises slowly as they tasted each other's fluids and fondled each other's balls and thighs. They spent a torturous hour teasing each other's penis with their tongues and lips.

It soon became too much for Jeff. He pleaded, "My balls are aching, my cock feels like it's going to explode. I've got to let it go! And please, you let it go at the same time."

They each felt the other's penises expand in size and become hard as rocks in their mouths. The moment Mike felt the first blast of Jeff's hot thick sperm against the roof of his mouth, he let his own orgasm clutch at his insides, sending his issue into his lover's body. The throbbing and surging seemed to go on forever. When it was over, they lay there with each other's wilting penises in their mouths for a long time, sucking out the last sweet drops of sperm.

They both knew that this had been a total consummation of their love and commitment to each other. Jeff's transformation was now complete. He was now ready to leave the demeaning and dehumanizing life of the hustler behind and embark on a new beginning with Mike, the greatest of his life.

When they arose the next morning, they showered together, and then set off to the Admissions Office at Northwestern University. Jeff was surprisingly calm and well-spoken, highly impressing the admissions counselor. After completing his application for admission for the coming fall semester, the counselor told him that as soon as his high school transcript and test scores were received, he would be notified.

That evening, Jeff received his first lesson on the piano with Mike. Mike had purchased the first book in a series of music lessons for beginners. After the first lesson, Jeff practiced for several hours each day. By the end of the next week, he was able to play simple melodies with both hands. Mike was astounded at the rapid progress that Jeff was making.

Jeff had received his acceptance letter to Northwestern and, by the end of the summer just prior to his entering the University, he was able to play several Beethoven and Mozart sonatas. He and Mike also learned to play some duets on the piano. Mike constantly talked with Jeff about the importance of putting love and passion into his playing. And it was not long before their passion for music brought a heightened passion to their nighttime love-making.

Jeff had literally become re-born and set about living his new life with a passion that warmed Mike's heart. And through the love that he shared with Jeff, Mike had also been re-born.


EPILOGUE

Jeff entered the University in 1963. While taking his English, writing, and literature classes, he became convinced that he wanted to become a writer, just like Mike. While in school, he had written several short stories that earned him recognition by the Writing Department. But he had always been inspired by the mysteries that Mike had written, and that type of writing was where his interest lay.

Following graduation, Jeff went on to graduate school and eventually earned the Ph.D. He was offered an assistant professorship in writing at Northwestern. But, although he found teaching rewarding to some extent, he preferred to spend his time writing books. He would spend hours at the police and sheriff's stations talking with detectives in an effort to bring authenticity to his mysteries.

Over the years, Jeff's and Mike's love grew stronger. Even though Jeff had had some excellent teachers and had become a fine novelist, he always considered Mike as his primary mentor. Jeff would never submit any of his writing to the publisher until Mike had read it critically and passed on it. While Mike's murder mysteries had often found their way onto the New York Times Best Seller list, Jeff's books occasionally topped Mike's on that list.

Jeff had also become an accomplished pianist and, on several occasions, played recitals. For a time, he even gave piano lessons to college students. His music had become very important to him. It kept his inspiration level high, not only in his love-making with Mike, but in his writing.

When Jeff had turned forty-six in 1990, Mike suffered a minor heart attack at the age of seventy-three. Jeff took a leave from teaching for about a month to stay home with him until the danger had passed. It was at that time that Jeff returned to sleeping in his own room. While their love for each other was as strong as ever, their sexual activity became considerably less frequent. Over the next four years, Mike suffered two more heart attacks, but recovered each time.

Following one of the attacks, Mike and Jeff took several vacation trips, one to the Colorado mountains, one to Hawaii, and one to Australia. Writing books and meeting publisher's deadlines had become a strain on Mike, and his writing hiatus during these trips seemed to do him a great deal of good.

Before going to work each morning, Jeff always stopped in Mike's room to wake him. On the morning of January 20, 2003, Jeff was unable to awaken Mike. He was certain that Mike had had another heart attack. He tried mouth to mouth resuscitation, but Mike's lips were cold and he was unresponsive. Jeff called 911 immediately. When Fire Rescue arrived, they determined that Mike was dead. He had just turned eighty-six.

As Mike was carried out, Jeff stood in the living room, glancing aimlessly about. There was silence all around him, except for the ticking of the old Seth-Thomas eight day clock on a shelf above Beethoven's bust. The feeling of emptiness in the room gave him chills. Slumping into a chair, he looked toward the kitchen, half expecting to hear the clatter of dishes and pans as Mike was fixing breakfast. But there was only the ticking of the clock.

Jeff had the feeling he was floating in an unreal world. There were no tears. He simply didn't believe what had happened. Getting up, he went to the phone and called Pete.

"I have some bad news, Pete. Mike passed away last night. It was another heart attack."

"Oh, Jeff. I'm so sorry. Are you alone?

"Yes."

"I'll be right over."

Jeff hung up and walked over to the piano and picked up Higra's photograph. "Well, Higra," Jeff said aloud. "I don't know much about things like this, but you may be seeing your dad now. You'll never know what you missed, Higra. You missed the most wonderful life anyone could have. Your father was a Saint, Higra. Yes, he was. He was a Saint."

Putting the photograph down gently on the piano lid, Jeff sat and began playing the "Infanta," slowly and sweetly. Pete let himself in and stood quietly in the archway listening to Jeff play. When Jeff looked up, he stopped and went over to Pete, who took him in his arms.

"Pete, you were his best friend. I'm sorry."

"No, no," Pete said as he stroked Jeff's head and neck. "We shouldn't be sorry, lad. We just should be thankful we had Mike in our lives for so long."

Jeff finally felt the tears welling up into his eyes. As they held each other, Jeff said, "I should have been with him."

"Weren't you with him?"

"No, I was in my own room. He died alone. No one should die alone, Pete. I should have been there with him."

At last, Jeff began to sob uncontrollably. Pete walked Jeff over to the sofa, where they sat down, still tightly clasped in each other's arms.

"I'm sorry, Pete," said Jeff, choking through his tears.

"It's okay, Jeff. Just let it all out. It helps us get through these things."

Pete held Jeff's head against his chest. His own tears were dropping into Jeff's hair. They sat there in each other's arms for a very long time, at one in their grief. That afternoon, they talked about Mike, his life, what he had meant to them and what he had done for them. Near the end of the day, Pete reached into his pocket and pulled out a letter.

"Jeff, Mike wrote this letter just after his last heart attack. And he asked me to hold it and give it to you when the time came." Jeff took the letter and read.

"My dear Jeff. We've talked before about this day coming, and what I want to tell you now is what I've told you before. One of the most important things anyone can do is to make a difference in someone else's life. I think I helped make a difference in yours, and it made my existence worthwhile many times over. You've gone on and, through your writing and your music, have made a difference in many other's lives. Continue to do that, my love. You have the power now. If you should meet someone, as I did, who deserves a chance, help him, mentor him, and love him. It will enrich your life, as you have mine, beyond all your dreams. God bless you, dear soul. With eternal love, Mike"

That night, Pete stayed with Jeff, sleeping in Jeff's bed. Jeff wanted to sleep in Mike's bed, which was still unmade after Mike had been taken. He lay there with his arms wrapped around Mike's pillow, sleeping fitfully, with the words of Mike's letter running incessantly through his mind. He would awaken frequently with tears in his eyes. When morning came, Pete came in and told Jeff that he should get dressed so they could go to the funeral home and make arrangements.

The funeral was held on a cold and blustery day. The chapel, however, was packed with over two hundred acquaintances and loyal fans, there to pay their respects or at least satisfy their curiosity. It had been no secret that Jeff was Mike's "companion," although, notwithstanding a flurry of gossip from time to time, there had been no overt evidence that they were actually lovers. After the service, many went up to Jeff and expressed their condolences as they would to a grieving widow.

At the gravesite, a small number of determined mourners stood under umbrellas, shielding them from the falling snow. Jeff had made it valiantly through the service in the chapel, but now being faced with the sight of Mike's coffin being lowered into the ground, he felt himself falling apart. Standing with Pete's arm around his waist, he felt a weakness come over him and he fell to his knees on the ground, weeping uncontrollably. As the graveside service ended, the other mourners departed, leaving Pete and Jeff alone. Pete slowly lifted Jeff to his feet and held him as they walked to Pete's car.

Mike had left everything to Jeff: the house, all the furnishings, his books and other personal effects, and all his securities. In his will, he also left one hundred thousand dollars to Pete. Now eighty-five years old, Pete was retired from the accounting department of a large paper manufacturing firm. The management had through the years raided the company's retirement fund, and left Pete with only a meager Social Security check to live on. Jeff insisted that he leave the wretched rooming house where he lived and come stay with him. Pete was grateful and, in return, did all the cooking and managed Jeff's money and investments.

Several months after Mike's death, Pete noted on the calendar one day that it had been exactly forty years to the day since Mike and Jeff had met in Tony's Bar. Jeff was now fifty-eight years old and, as they ate breakfast, they reminisced about the amazing turn of events that had come from that evening's encounter.

Jeff said, "You know, Pete, this is an anniversary that maybe we should celebrate in some way. Is Tony's Bar still going?"

"No, Tony died years ago and it's run by someone else now. I think it's called the Starlight Lounge now, or something like that."

"I haven't been in that place since that night Mike dragged me home with him. Why don't we stop in there tonight, just for old time's sake. It might be a fun thing to do on this important anniversary. Maybe we can sit at the bar right at the same place you and Mike were sitting that night."

Pete had been feeling unsteady on his feet for the past several years and now walked with the aid of a cane. He felt rather self-conscious as he and Jeff entered the Starlight Lounge, filled with young spirited gay men. They looked around and, yes, there were two stools open at the bar just about where Mike and Pete had been sitting forty years before.

After they each ordered a draft beer, Jeff said, "It feels so strange sitting here now. It's so familiar, yet it's so unfamiliar. I suddenly feel sad in a way, Pete. I never thought on that night so long ago that I would come to love this stranger so deeply, and that he would mean so much to me, and that he would change my life so completely."

Pete said, "Well, look around, Jeff. See that young fella over there talking to that old gent? That was you once. Do you ever miss that life?"

"No, of course not. But I look at that boy now with different eyes. I can almost look into his mind and see what no one else can see."

Just then, the young man glanced over and saw Jeff and Pete looking at him. In a few minutes, he walked over to them and said, "Hello, sir. Would you be interested in a massage?"

The question hit Jeff hard. He looked into the boy's eyes and could see in them exactly what he had felt so many years ago when he had stood on that spot and asked that very same question.

"I don't know," Jeff said slowly. "I have to think about it."

"I'll be around," the boy said. "If you decide you'd like a massage, I'll be here. Let me know."

As the boy walked away, Jeff said, "My God, Pete. Did you see the look in his eyes?"

Pete smiled wryly and said, "Did you see something 'significant' in them?"

"I think so. I think I saw what Mike saw in my eyes that night."

"Come on, Jeff. Don't tell me that you . . . ."

"Oh, Pete, that young man could probably be guided into a beautiful life just as I was."

"You think you could do what Mike did?"

"I'll bet I could. I know what the other side is like. All he needs is for someone to show him."

Pete said, "I'll make a wager with you that it could never happen."

"Alright. I'll bet you a nickel I could do it."

"Come on, Jeff, surely you can be more confident than that," said Pete, smiling at the realization that he had had this conversation once before.

"Okay, Ten bucks."

The young man came over to them again. "Sir, have you thought about it?"

"I'm still thinking about it," said Jeff. What's your name, son?"

"My name is Sandy."

"Well, Sandy, my boy, I have a proposition for you."


THE END