Part 3 (2/2)

He dressed, and there was no other term for it, Miami Vice. Miami Vice. He'd been considering linen suits and T-s.h.i.+rts before the show came on the air, but once he saw those guys strutting around in those clothes, B.B. knew it was the look for him. It was the right look for a man of hidden but smoldering power. And that show-G.o.d bless it-was single-handedly transforming Miami from a necropolis of retirees, marbled with pockets of black or Cuban poverty, into someplace almost hip, almost fabulous, almost glamorous. The smell of mothb.a.l.l.s and Ben-Gay drifted off, replaced by the scent of suntan lotion and t.i.tillating aftershave. He'd been considering linen suits and T-s.h.i.+rts before the show came on the air, but once he saw those guys strutting around in those clothes, B.B. knew it was the look for him. It was the right look for a man of hidden but smoldering power. And that show-G.o.d bless it-was single-handedly transforming Miami from a necropolis of retirees, marbled with pockets of black or Cuban poverty, into someplace almost hip, almost fabulous, almost glamorous. The smell of mothb.a.l.l.s and Ben-Gay drifted off, replaced by the scent of suntan lotion and t.i.tillating aftershave.

B.B. watched as Chuck continued to work the b.u.t.ter, and the breadstick was now glossy and slick and, though it might have been a trick of the light, even starting to sag a little.

”I think that's enough b.u.t.ter.” He said it in a mentorly tone-sympathetic but firm.

”I like a lot of b.u.t.ter,” Chuck said with naive cheer.

”I understand you want it, but there's such a thing as discipline, Chuck. Discipline will make you a man.”

”Can't argue with that.” Chuck set the b.u.t.ter knife, with its half-used pat still clinging, onto the tablecloth.

”Place the b.u.t.ter knife on the bread plate, where it belongs, young man.”

”Good point,” Chuck observed. He set the breadstick on the bread plate as well, wiped his hands on the heavy linen napkin on his lap, and then took another sip of the Saint-Estephe. ”That's really good. How did you get to know so much about wine?”

Working as a waiter in Las Vegas, trying to make it through my s.h.i.+ft so I could go lose even more money I didn't have, get into it even deeper with a bodybuilding, s.h.i.+rtless Greek loan shark would not have suited as an answer, so B.B. offered a knowing shrug, hoping it would impress. would not have suited as an answer, so B.B. offered a knowing shrug, hoping it would impress.

He had selected boys before, boys from his charity, the Young Men's Foundation. These were special boys he thought would be able to dine with him, spend a few hours alone in his company, and mature from the experience. He looked for calm and steadiness in the boys, but he also looked for the ability to keep a secret. These dinners were special, and because they were special, they weren't any of the world's business. The dinners were only for those very exceptional boys worthy of extra mentoring, but in the three years he had been taking boys out to eat, a thought had always nagged at him-that he selected his dining companions for their ability to keep a secret rather than for their readiness to be mentored.

Now, here was Chuck-quiet, slightly introverted if not antisocial, trashy-novel-reading, journal-writing, obliviously-badly-haircutted Chuck-who knew how to keep a secret but had a sense of humor, had an intuitive appreciation for complex wines, obedient and pliable, but with an impish resistance. B.B. felt an excited tingle shoot out from the center of his body like a miniature supernova. Here, he dared to speculate, might well be the boy he'd been looking for, the special mentee, the reason he had wanted to help boys in the first place.

What if Chuck was everything he appeared? Smart, interested, full of soft-clay potential? Could B.B. arrange to spend more time with him? What would the boy's worthless mother say? What would Desiree say? Nothing could work without Desiree, and he knew, without quite admitting it to himself, that Desiree would not be happy.

Chuck now turned his attention to the breadstick. He picked it up and was readying himself to take a bite when B.B. reached out with one hand and gently encircled Chuck's wrist. Normally he didn't like to touch the boys. He didn't want them or anyone else to think that there was something not right about his mentoring. Nevertheless, sometimes when two people were together there was going to be a certain amount of touching. Life worked that way. They might accidentally brush up against each other. B.B. might put an affectionate hand on a boy's shoulder or tousle his hair, press a hand to his back, give him a pat on the b.u.t.t to hurry him along. Or it might be something like this.

Chuck had been an instant away from putting the breadstick in his mouth when B.B. saw the fingernails. Black dirt, packed into discrete geologic chunks, hibernating under the shelter of nails weeks overdue for tr.i.m.m.i.n.g. Some things you could dismiss, put in the boys-will-be-boys category, look the other way. Some things, however, you could not. Some things were too much to ignore. If B.B. was a mentor, then he had to mentor.

He kept his grip gentle but the hand motionless. ”I want you to put the breadstick down,” B.B. said, ”and go wash your hands before you eat. Scrub those fingernails good. I don't want to see any dirt under them when you get back.”

Chuck looked at his nails and then at B.B. He had no father, an impatient gnome of a mother, an older brother in a wheelchair as the result of a car accident-the impatient gnome of a mother had slammed her Chevy Nova into a sable palm a few years back, and B.B. suspected to the point of deep certainty that there'd been heavy drinking involved. Chuck slept on a tattered foldout couch with springs, he felt sure, as pliant and welcoming as upturned dinner forks. He did miserably in school because he tuned out his teachers and read whatever he felt like during cla.s.s. He wasn't the weakest kid around, but he got his share of a.s.s kicking, and he gave his share, too.

Chuck had plenty of pride, and it was the frail and bitter pride of a desperate boy. B.B. had seen it often enough-these powerless boys growing red in the face, flas.h.i.+ng their teeth like cornered lemurs, las.h.i.+ng out at their mentor because their pride demanded they lash out at someone, even if it was the only person in the world who truly wanted to help. B.B. understood it, antic.i.p.ated it, knew how to defuse it.

This time, however, he did not get it.

Chuck studied his fingernails and then turned to B.B. with another of those self-deprecating smiles that made B.B. feel as though something in his body had just melted.

”They are pretty dirty,” he agreed. ”I'll go wash up.”

B.B. let go of the wrist. ”You're a fine young man,” he said. And then he watched Chuck walk away. The kid looked good, there was no denying that. He'd made an effort to clean his best clothes-a pair of green chinos and a b.u.t.ton-down white s.h.i.+rt. He wore a cloth belt, his socks matched his brown shoes, and his brown shoes had been polished. It all meant one thing: The boy was letting himself be mentored.

He was back in under two minutes. He'd just scrubbed and returned. Hadn't even taken the time to p.i.s.s. Now he sat, took another drink of the wine, and nodded at B.B. as though they'd just entered into a contract. ”Thanks for taking me out like this, Mr. Gunn. I really appreciate it.”

”It's my pleasure, Chuck. You are an exceptional young man, and I'm happy to help you in any way I can.”

”That's really nice of you.” Chuck held B.B.'s gaze with mature confidence.

The astronomical tingling was back, turning into B.B.'s own private cosmic event. It was almost as though Chuck were trying to tell him something, trying to let B.B. know that he was comfortable with the friends.h.i.+p between a young man and his mentor. B.B. looked at the boy with his thin frame, his face a little too round for his body, his tousled brown hair and strangely brilliant brown eyes. The boy was was trying to tell him something, that he was ready for mentoring, whatever mentoring B.B. might wish to pursue, and the air at the table was electric. trying to tell him something, that he was ready for mentoring, whatever mentoring B.B. might wish to pursue, and the air at the table was electric.

Chuck finished his gla.s.s of wine, and B.B. poured him another. Then the boy bit into the breadstick with a ferocious clamp of his jaws. Crumbs sprayed out across the table, and the sound of it echoed halfway across the restaurant. Chuck looked up at his mentor, alarm preparing to settle on his face, but he saw B.B.'s amused smile, and he let out a little laugh. They both laughed. Several of the retirement zombies looked over with disapproving scowls. B.B. made eye contact with all of them, dared them to say anything.

When the black man approached their table, at first B.B. thought it might be the manager there to complain. Maybe one of the retirees had convinced them to initiate an effective-immediately no children policy. But the black man didn't work for the restaurant. It was the darkness that kept B.B. from recognizing him right away. Otto Rose.

He wore a blue suit, and even in the dark B.B. could tell it was just a nudge short of electric blue, but the rest of the outfit was conservative and businesslike: richly polished oxfords, a white s.h.i.+rt, a rep tie crafted into a ma.s.sive and artful four-in-hand. Otto hovered over the table with that imperial grace he loved to exude. He looked something like a cross between an actor and a third world dictator. Though barely thirty, which was irritating enough, he appeared hardly more than twenty, even with his head shaved. B.B. had been watching his hair thin with each year, maybe even each month, but Otto shaved his head and looked good doing it. The slick of his skin glowed from the candles of the surrounding tables.

The sudden and inexplicable appearance of Otto Rose was, by any standards B.B. could think of, bad news. Bad news because no one but Desiree was supposed to know where B.B. was. Bad news because Otto Rose was standing there, watching him mentor, watching him dine with an eleven-year-old boy in an expensive steakhouse, a bottle of Saint-Estephe opened and two gla.s.ses, one for an underage boy. Bad news because Otto might be a business friend, but he was the kind of friend B.B. would love to shed. Bad news because there was no reason in the world why Rose should want to find him unless it was bad news.

”h.e.l.lo, young man,” Rose said to Chuck. His West Indian accent came out thick and chunky, full of island hospitality and humor, the way it always did when he cranked up the charm. He set his hand on the bottle of Bordeaux. ”Can I pour you some more wine, or has Mr. Gunn been taking care of you?”

Chuck held on to his breadstick and looked up at Rose, not quite making eye contact, but he didn't say anything. B.B. expected as much. South Florida might be diverse-there were Cubans and Jews and regular white people and Haitians and West Indians and regular black people and all sorts of South Americans and Orientals and who the h.e.l.l knew what else-but the fact was none of them wanted anything to do with any of the others. White kids clammed up around black people. Black kids clammed up around white people. B.B. had seen it a million times when mentoring, and if you were going to mentor, you had to understand these things.

Rose, however, was undeterred. ”I am Otto Rose. What is your name, young sir?” He stuck out his hand for shaking.

Chuck appeared to know he was trapped, and being trapped, he chose to forge ahead. ”I'm Chuck,” he said in a steady voice. The handshake looked firm and unafraid.

”And Mr. Gunn is your friend? He is a fine man to have for a friend.”

”He's my mentor,” Chuck said. ”He's been very nice to me.”

”And this is a fine restaurant for mentoring,” Rose said, the humor percolating just under the surface of his voice. ”And nothing goes with mentoring like a gla.s.s of wine.” He picked up Chuck's gla.s.s and gave it a good sniff with his eyes closed. ”A Saint-Estephe?” he asked as he put down the gla.s.s.

”Wow.” Chuck's eyes went wide. ”You can tell that from the smell?”

”I read it on the bottle.”

B.B. saw that the retirees in the restaurant were looking over at them. They didn't like the big, bald black man standing around. The waiters were eyeing them as well, and it would only be a moment until one of them came by to ask if the gentleman wished to join their table. B.B. would be f.u.c.ked if Rose said he would, so it was time to snip this one in the bud.

B.B. pushed himself out of the chair and away from the table, rising with Miami Vice Miami Vice poise. He might be half a foot shorter than Rose, but he held his own next to the guy. B.B. knew who he was, knew what he commanded, knew that there were people all over the state who would s.h.i.+t in their pants if they heard B. B. Gunn was p.i.s.sed off. It was time to make sure Otto knew enough to s.h.i.+t in his pants. poise. He might be half a foot shorter than Rose, but he held his own next to the guy. B.B. knew who he was, knew what he commanded, knew that there were people all over the state who would s.h.i.+t in their pants if they heard B. B. Gunn was p.i.s.sed off. It was time to make sure Otto knew enough to s.h.i.+t in his pants.

”Excuse me for a moment,” he said to Chuck. ”I'll be back as soon as I take care of some grown-up business.”

”Okay,” Chuck said. There was something forlorn in his voice.

B.B. knew instantly that Chuck might be a mature kid, he might be a s.p.u.n.ky kid with a good sense of humor and the will to rise above the misery of his life, but he didn't want to be left alone. He wanted, maybe above all things, companions.h.i.+p, and that was but one more reason to be p.i.s.sed off at Otto Rose for showing up like this and f.u.c.king up his dinner.

”Follow me,” B.B. said to Rose. It was time to establish the pecking order in his barnyard. Rose thought he was clever, finding out where B.B. was eating, making sly little insinuations about Chuck. But now it was Rose following while the alpha male led.

They stepped outside, and the temperature rose by nearly thirty degrees in an instant. It was humid and sticky, and the sounds of cars off I-95 hissed past.

Desiree was out there, leaning against B.B.'s convertible Mercedes, arms folded over her b.r.e.a.s.t.s. She wore moderately, though not obscenely, tight Guess jeans and a lavender bikini top. The pink of the ma.s.sive scar along her side glistened in the neon light of the restaurant.

Rose broke out into a gregarious grin. ”Desiree, my darling. How are you, lovely?” He leaned over and rested a hand on her scar, as he always did, just to show that it didn't trouble him, and gave her a kiss on the cheek. ”I didn't see you on the way in.”

Desiree allowed herself to be kissed, but her lips were pressed tight into a cynical little smile. ”Sure you did, though you made a pretty good show of acting like you didn't.”

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