Panhandler

The stories I tell tend not to be controversial. That doesn’t mean I could not write a story about extreme sexual deviancy or serial murder or genocide or based on any one of a dozen other “dangerous” themes. In point of fact, I have written such stories. They are rejected with numbing regularity, like the one about the first humans to land on Mars. The crew is composed of multiple amputees afflicted with a variety of incurable terminal diseases, all of whom are eager volunteers for the one‑way mission. Too much logic, I suppose, for the taste of editors charged with buying for the supposedly “daring” genre of science fiction.

Most of us have read about how really grim are the original versions of Grimm’s fairy tales. The bulk of traditional children’s stories, in fact, frequently contain mention of everything from bestiality to mass murder. The trend in retelling seems to favor sanitization over authenticity in order to protect fragile young minds. One exception is the TV show The Simpsons, whose writers are intelligent enough to recognize that they, too, were once young and that contrary to the pious protestations of those who see their sacred duty as supervising the maturation of children not their own, children can handle grim fairy stories without being bludgeoned into gibbering insanity by such tales’ perceived excesses. Or as Bart and Milhouse joyfully and innocently chant in one episode, “Car‑toon vi‑o‑lence, car‑toon vi‑o‑lence!”

Itchy and Scratchy are contemporaneously copyrighted, so I could not use them to illustrate my point. The utilization of another older and even more famous children’s trope, however, still unnerved the publishers of the anthology in which this story originally appeared. Names had to be changed to protect, if not the innocent, at least the perceived threat to the almighty corporate balance sheet.

The title of the story, by the way, is a triple pun…

Harbison pulled the rear flap of the overcoat’s thick, heavy collar up against his neatly trimmed hair‑line so that it covered the fuzz and the bare skin on the back of his neck. With the passage of time the morning’s icy rain was turning to sleet as the incoming storm layered the city with a cold, damp mucus. In response to the glooming clouds, lights over storefronts and on billboards were automatically warming to life. Some flickered uncertainly in the murk, as if confused by stalking weather masquerading as night.

The park lay to his right, an oasis of dull green even in winter. Awaiting still‑distant spring, trees slept in silence, wooden obelisks scarred by switchbladed hieroglyphs. Bundled up like trolls, old ladies scuttled along the slick sidewalks, heavy woolen mufflers making their necks wrestler‑thick. Businessmen preoccupied with affairs of the ledger long‑strided between the heated hobbit‑holes of favorite luncheon spots and the blandness of dead‑end lives they knew no longer had meaning. At this time of midday you could tell which ones were going to lunch and which ones returning to work, Harbison knew. Those who had already eaten were blushing from the effects of having consumed too much rich food and depressed at having to repopulate their myriad cubicles in the tall buildings, while those on their way to indulge their expense accounts at fancy restaurants exuded anticipation like sweat.

He was on lunch hiatus, too, but it wasn’t food he was after. Prowling the clammy streets, he sought satiation of a different sort. Striving to maintain as much anonymity as he could, he tucked his own muffler up over his chin and pulled the brim of his fedora lower on his forehead. That way, little more than his eyes and mouth showed. Both were eager.

The boys hung out on Eighteenth Street, opposite the park. There were not many of them, but there were enough. Practiced at pretending to be waiting for the bus, for friends, for a pickup game of basketball or street hockey, for anything but the tricks who sought them out, they worked hard at avoiding the attentions of the police. As a general rule the local cops did not bother them. In a city plagued by the attentions of genuinely bad people, hookers of any gender tended to be overlooked by the police until and unless some fool of a news reporter decided to guerrilla some video with a shaky, handheld camera so he/she could fill three minutes of the six o’clock report with human interest of the shameful kind. It was a cheap and easy way to sensationalize the news, maybe grab the attention of a few bored channel surfers and push those enervating reports about thousands dead of starvation in Ethiopia to the late‑night closing minute.

Following the occasional police roundup, executed to show the powers‑that‑be that the boys in blue were On Top of the Situation, those boys and girls unlucky enough to be apprehended promptly got out on bail and went back to work. The cops–the ones of good sense and duty, anyway–went back to actually trying to protect the public.

Harbison didn’t need any protection. He knew his vices and how to slake them. He was their prisoner, and the boys on Eighteenth Street were happy to fulfill his needs and take his money. Usually he found someone quickly, terms were agreed upon much faster than in his law office, and it was all over and done with in time for him to still grab a relaxed meal at Carrington’s.

He did not have to approach anyone. All they needed to come flocking was to see the need and the hunger in his eyes. Impatient, he checked them out one by one, like a farmer evaluating prize calves at a country auction. This one too old, that one tweaking, the next too needy, his friend too mired in depression. Harbison ran through them by walking past them, having long since mastered the ability to ignore the filmy haunt that veiled their old‑young eyes. They were nothing more than fruit in a market, and he had the time and the money to pick and choose the fresh from the rotting.

He was about to make a deal with a lanky recent immigrant from the heartland, all soulful brown eyes and agile midwestern hands, when he saw the boy in the back.

He was leaning up against the stone wall of the office building, one knee raised, foot propped against an outcropping of early‑twentieth‑century granite, and openly smoking a joint. He was short, maybe five‑five or‑six, lean but obviously muscular beneath his jeans and too‑light‑for‑the‑winter black leather jacket. The icy slush dribbling down from the sullen sky did not seem to bother him. Atypically, he was gazing off into the distance, ignoring the two or three other johns who were cruising the street offside the park. His eyes were a striking arctic blue. Wavy blond hair peeked out from beneath the brim of the backward cap that covered his head without warming it.

Harbison was drawn to him immediately.

The boy didn’t snuff out the joint, but he did look over as the lawyer approached. His attitude was an intriguing mix of bottled arrogance and heartrending vulnerability. The latter was a quality Harbison was accustomed to encountering in the boys he used, but the former was not. He immediately got down to business. He had to, if he was going to finish and still make lunch.

“How much?” he asked offhandedly. Those eyes. His own eyes strayed elsewhere. The boy didn’t object to the blatant inspection. It was expected, and clearly he was used to it.

“The usual?” The kid’s voice was high, sweet, girlish. Natural, somehow not yet broken, not a put‑on. Better and better. Harbison nodded, struggling to contain his eagerness. “Twenty.”

Fair, the lawyer thought. Good. He wouldn’t have to waste time bargaining. “Needs to be quick. I’ve got a lunch appointment.” He indicated his wrist without exposing his watch. This was not a prudent location to flash a Piaget. “You got a place?”

The boy nodded. Flicking the stub of the joint onto the street, where the gathering cold slush instantly extinguished it, he turned his head toward the nearby alley. That made Harbison hesitate.

A grin creased the child‑like face. Full of magic, it bordered on the angelic. The boy looked even younger than he doubtless was, Harbison mused. What an enchanting discovery.

“Got a little box in back,” the kid told him. “Propane heater. Mattress, chair. Doorway locks. Nice and private. I’m okay with spending the night there. You don’t have to, but then you don’t want to. It’ll do fine for what you want.”

Harbison was not convinced, but there was no way he was going to pass this up. He had to make a decision fast. Lunch beckoned. And the boy was slim, couldn’t weigh more than 110, 120. An utterly adorable adolescent. Remarkably his skin was as pale and unmarked as a baby’s, devoid of scars and needle marks. Not something one encountered every day on a less‑traveled city street. Especially on this street.

“Okay, but no funny stuff.” He put a hand in an empty pocket. “I’ve got a taser.”

The grin lingered, humorless. “You ain’t payin’ enough for funny stuff.”

Smart, too, Harbison decided as he followed the boy into the alley. Not that he was paying for smarts. “What’s your name, kid?”

“Peter.”

Harbison choked back something akin to an amused response.

“No, really,” the boy told him. “Ironic, huh? Or poignant. Depends on your point of view, I guess.”

Something about the reply struck Harbison as out of the ordinary. Natural suspicion being a hallmark of his professional as well as his private life, he slowed his stride. “Just out of curiosity, kid, where’d you learn how to use that word?”

The boy stopped too and turned to face the curious lawyer. “What word?”

“Poignant.” Turning slightly, Harbison indicated the street behind them. “The kids I meet up with here usually can’t get a handle on anything with more than four letters.”

Blue eyes narrowed slightly and hands rested challengingly on narrow hips. “You want to fucking talk or you want to get it on? I thought you were in a hurry.” The pose reminded Harbison of something, but he could not decide what. Then he saw the green shirt peering out from behind the battered leather jacket. It had a fringed hem. His gaze dropped. The shoes. They hadn’t registered at first. Now they did.

“Your toes must be freezing in those.”

Looking away, the boy muttered something obscene under his breath before his gaze returned to meet the lawyer’s. “What the fuck do you care about my friggin’ toes, Jack? You into feet or something?”

“You’re an actor, right?” Harbison wasn’t sure why he continued with the questions. Maybe because he had always been one to act on hunches, even in court. “When you’re not on the street picking up a few extra bucks for rent, you’re in a play. Or trying out for one.” He smiled reassuringly, confidently. “I think I know which play.”

“Oh, shit,” the boy muttered. His expression twisted. “Yeah, that’s right. Only, you know what, Jack? I’m gonna tell you something. Because every once in a while, for some reason, I just feel like telling somebody. For the hell of it. I’m not an actor, see, and it’s not a play. Not that it means anything, but my last name is one you already know. From the ‘play.’”

Harbison’s guard went up immediately. Either the kid was toying with him, and before time, or else he was going to prove difficult. The latter possibility did not concern Harbison overmuch. He’d had to deal with rants before. They rarely interfered with what he came for. Like all the others, the boy would eventually settle down. Because in the end, no matter how pissed off he got or for what reason, he would still want his money.

“It’s all right,” he said soothingly. “I don’t care what you do once we’ve concluded our business. I just thought, seeing the shirt and the shoes and all…”

“Turns you on, does it?” The boy was watching him steadily.

“A little maybe, yeah.”

“You don’t believe me, do you?”

“Sure I do. Hey, I think it’s great. Stay in character when you’re off stage. Ought to be good for business, anyway. I know a couple of guys who’d pay double just to have you do them in full costume.”

“I bet you do.” Raising one arm, the boy gestured to take in the alley, the street beyond, the vast, uncaring city. “You know why I’m stuck here, putting up with this shit? Putting up with marauding, predatory assholes like you?”

“It doesn’t matter.” Time’s a‑wastin’, Harbison realized. He could still do this and make lunch. Assuming the kid knew his business.

“It’s all the fault of a certain fucking jealous little bitch. Since you’re so confident of what role I’m ‘acting’ in, I’m sure I don’t have to name her. Not the Brit twit, that’s ancient history. But last New Year’s I was in Times Square, and there was this little Puerto Rican chiquita and her friend, and they thought the hat and shirt and shoes were, like, oh so cute, you know? So, like, how about a threesome, to, like, celebrate the Neuva Año, verdad? Oh yeah, by the way, I’m bi. That bother you?”

“No,” Harbison admitted honestly.

“So we, like, went back to her place, and I showed them how to fly, in a manner of speaking, and that mini‑bitch I can never seem to shake no matter where I go or how hard I try showed up at just the wrong moment. Being kind of preoccupied at the time, I’d forgotten all about her. I thought she’d be out boogeying with the fireworks–that’s one of her little SM things, you know? Man, was she pissed! So, no more fairy dust. I’m grounded until she gets her tiny little panties out of the knot they’re in.” Peering around, he took in his cheerless surroundings. “That was months ago, and I’m starting to wonder if she’s ever coming back, and, like, even an immortal’s got to eat, you know? I’m fucked if I’m gonna sling burgers for minimum. And with this not‑growing‑old thing, this fucking permanent youth, turns out I’m a boy‑magnet to perverts like you.”

Harbison bristled. “Calling clients names is bad for business.”

“No shit?” Bold and completely unafraid, the boy approached until he was standing right up next to the older, bigger man. “You a lawyer or something?”

Harbison nodded. “Right now I need your services, but if you ever need mine…”

The lithe young male body spun around and back, a startlingly agile pirouetting leap that might have sprung straight off the stage at Lincoln Center. “Oh, right! That’s it, that’s the solution! We’ll sue her! Haul her blond little ass right into civil court. Give new meaning to the term small claims. With you and her together there, facing each other, there’d be two fairies facing the judge.” His tone darkened, like the weather. “Wouldn’t work, dude. And you ain’t licensed to practice where I come from.” His gaze rose skyward. “Damn but I miss the place. Forest, mermaids. No fucking snow. No pathetic, lonely bastards like you to have to squeeze for enough wampum to get a decent meal. Even that miserable homicidal son‑of‑a‑bitch nemesis of mine at least has his crew to help him out of a jam.”

Despite having begun with promise this encounter was souring rapidly, an unhappy Harbison saw. As a lawyer, he knew when to pursue a case and when to settle and get out. It was time to get out. Plainly, the poor, beautiful kid was seriously disturbed, maybe strung out on crystal or Ecstasy or who knew what. He had suppressed his personal problems just well enough to fool Harbison. Until now. Regrettably the lawyer decided he would have to take a pass on his singular pleasure today. But there was still lunch to look forward to. The street, with its fluctuating complement of ready, accommodating, doe‑eyed melancholic urchins, would still be here tomorrow. And the next day, and the day after that.

“On second thought, Mr.–Peter, I think we’ve wasted too much time talking and not enough doing. Now it’s too late. I’ve got an appointment I have to keep.” He turned to go.

He was not sure what they hit him with. It might have been a stick, it might have been a brick. Too early anticipating the night, stars filled his vision. He hit the alley pavement hard, his head bouncing off the wet asphalt like a mud‑filled sock. Blinking, trying to clear his vision, he saw them standing over him. There were four, maybe five. A couple of them pretty big, all of them armed with potentially lethal detritus scavenged from the alley’s battered, oversized Dumpsters. Reaching around behind his throbbing head, his hand came back bloody.

“Don’t hurt me,” he mumbled weakly. “I’ve got money.”

The boy was bending over him, unsympathetic, thoughtfully checking the bleeding face. To the others he snapped, “He’ll be all right. Joey, Arturo–get his wallet. Just the cash.” The lawyer felt grubby fingers fumbling at his pockets. “Don’t forget his watch.” Crap, Harbison thought. Insurance would cover part, but not all, of the expensive chronograph’s replacement cost.

He saw the boy straighten, open the ostrich‑skin wallet, and pull out the couple of hundred bucks Harbison always carried with him. Another boy admired the glint of the Piaget on his own dirty wrist. His face flush with contempt, Peter let the wallet fall on Harbison’s face.

“Come to my home, you self‑important, condescending fucker. I’ll turn you over to our local felon and his crew. They’d use you up. But you’d probably get off on that.” He gestured to the other members of the gang before sparing the man on the ground a last, disdainful look. “I don’t want to see you here again. Meanwhile, me and the local version of my homeboys are gonna go and get us something to drink and something hot to eat.”

Turning sharply, he and the other kids, laughing and joking, headed for the street. Pushing himself up on one elbow, a dazed but still gratefully alive Harbison watched them go, sniggering and cursing and shoving one another playfully in the manner of arrogant street kids everywhere. Superior and self‑confident in the shadowy, misty murk, their leader seemed to float along just above the ground.

Slowly, painfully, Harbison picked himself up. His clothes were a mess, smeared with street grit and dirty snow, but the red oozing at the back of his head seemed to have slowed. He needed medical attention. Any legitimate doctor or hospital emergency room would demand the details of his encounter. As he staggered toward the street, his afternoon trashed, he was already hard at work putting together the lie he would have to tell.

He could hardly confess to having been mugged by a boy named Peter.