AURORA TAPESTRY is the third book in a series. It chronicles the lives and times of a group of men and teenage boys living in an age and an environment where being gay was to be despised, maligned and scorned. It is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, is purely coincidental.
My writing reflects the customs, mores, traditions, prejudices and attitudes of the times. The year is 1976 and it was a different world. Some of the attitudes will no doubt offend those who are so determinedly politically correct that they are unable to conceive that others might have a different opinion or outlook. Please, do not write me hooting and hollering about your cause, prejudices, preferences or whatever. I am not into causes. I AM a grumpy old sailor and I do not suffer fools gladly. Be warned.
In 1976 the AIDS pandemic was only just infecting North America. Condoms were used primarily to prevent pregnancy and gay men never gave a thought to having sex with a condom. Do not, I beg you, let what was common in 1976 influence your conduct today. Always practice safe sex.
As my writings detail scenarios of gay sex - tastefully, I hope - in sometimes graphic detail, I must warn that in some states, provinces, cities and towns reading, possessing, downloading, etc., is illegal, or if you are not of legal age to read, possess, download, etc., works of erotica, please move on.
My thanks, as always, to Peter, who is an honourary grumpy old sailor (he was in another branch, poor man). His strength, editing skills, cajoling and general grouchiness cause me to think and I owe him a great deal.
To any of you who wish, please write me at paradegi@rogers.com. I respond to all e-mails, except flames, unless I am in a particularly grumpy mood, and then I flame back. Be warned!
On a personal note, my latest series of tests and the biopsy all came back negative so it would appear that you are all stuck with me for a few for decades.
The Phantom of Aurora, a two-volume novel, is now available in print (paperback). Anyone wishing to see the artwork and perhaps purchase a copy, please write me at my e-mail address for details.
Aurora Tapestry
Chapter 15
Ace opened his eyes and did what he'd been doing every morning since his eighth or ninth birthday. He reached down and felt his hard, warm erection and rolled his firm testicles. He never knew why he did it, he just did it. Then the turned his head. The other side of the bed was empty, the pillow without the usual sleep dents. Sighing, Ace realized that The Gunner had not been to bed. He got up, found his underwear and, after having his morning pee, went into the living room.
Here he found The Gunner sprawled on the sofa. In neat piles on the coffee table were legal-sized, lined, yellow pages from the tablet Ace kept in the desk that stood against one wall. Ace saw that the papers were covered with notes and lists. The Gunner, as Champion of the Order, was gathering his facts, and preparing a plan of battle.
Leaning down, Ace kissed The Gunner gently. The Gunner returned the kiss as he opened his eyes and smiled. "Sorry, I must have drifted off," he said.
"Don't be," replied Ace easily. "You had a lot to think about."
Nodding, The Gunner sat up and rubbed his temples, willing his mild, stress-induced headache away. "Ace, how do you fight a war without an army?" he asked, his voice tinged with frustration.
Taken aback at the question, Ace sat on the end of the sofa. "You don't," he said presently.
"Precisely," sighed The Gunner. He sat back and closed his eyes. "You gather intelligence and information, you evaluate it and you assign your forces to meet the threat. You meet the threat and hopefully you defeat the enemy and plan for the peace." He opened his eyes and looked at Ace. "And it all means squat if you don't have the ground pounders to maintain that peace!"
Ace gestured at the piles of papers. "You've a plan?"
"Yes. We know, thanks to Mr. Troubridge, who some of the men involved are, where they live. I've spoken to Michael and he's arranging for these men to be placed under surveillance. He wants to wait and see just what we are up against. He thinks that his cousins and uncles or whatever can do that just as well as anyone. Frankly, Ace, I disagree."
"How so?" Ace settled back, intrigued.
"Most of these men have money. They live in houses that are located in areas that are surrounded by houses owned by other men with money." He glanced obliquely at Ace. "You've been to Rosedale. How many of those houses are owned, and lived in by Chinese?"
Ace thought a moment. "None. I can't remember seeing a Chinese face there."
"You won't." The Gunner sat up and picked up one of the pieces of paper. "Percy lives in a house in the north, in an area called the Bridle Path, with big houses, big lots, and security. The only time those people see a Chinese face is when they have Chinese food delivered."
"I can see where there is a problem," agreed Ace. "You wouldn't set up a stakeout in Chinatown with white detectives. They'd be made in, oh, three minutes, tops."
"Precisely. Michael's cousins can do the groundwork, but we need white faces, faces that fit in, to do the actual spadework." He sighed. "Then there are other problems."
"Such as?"
"The boys," replied The Gunner simply. "What do we do with them, assuming that we can rescue them? Do we send them back to their countries of origin, back to Germany, or Poland, or Russia? What of those boys, who, as Troubridge has already told us, enjoy the life? Do we cut them loose? And what of the men who are using the boys? What do we do with Simpson, or the Willoughbys and Hunters?"
"The law?" suggested Ace.
The Gunner snorted. "We have to be able to prove the allegations. If we rescue the boys, those who want to be rescued, they would have to go into a courtroom and testify."
Ace saw what The Gunner was getting at. "And if they do that the government will then step in and deport them as they're all here illegally."
The Gunner nodded. "And what sort of life would they have?"
"Not much," replied Ace sourly. "The wolves would be waiting for them, wouldn't they?"
"They would. Do not forget that this Stennes character is an agent for the KGB, and for STASI, the East German Intelligence Service. I cannot get the feeling out of my mind that the moment those boys step off the plane back home they would be met, and quietly made to disappear, no longer an embarrassment or an encumbrance."
"Then we have to do something," insisted Ace.
"Yes, we do," agreed The Gunner, rising to his feet. "But, as I sat here, trying to get my thoughts in order, I would ask myself a question and for every question there were three more questions! What do we do with the boys who have been traumatized? The boys who have been injured emotionally, or physically? It is easy for Michael to say 'found a hospital', but where do we find the staff?" He looked meaningfully at Ace. "And more importantly, where do we find the money to fund such a place?"
Ace stretched, felt himself and grinned. "That's easy. Sophie."
"Sophie!" replied The Gunner with a gasp.
"Sophie," repeated Ace. "Now come here and give me a kiss."
"Ace, I am not in the mood . . ." began The Gunner testily.
Ignoring The Gunner's surly response, Ace stood up and embraced his lover. "First, you are going to kiss me, because I need it. Second, you are going to take a shower, because you stink, and third, you are going to bed, alone, to sleep."
"We have . . ."
"Nothing to do, Steve, until three of the clock, when there is the viewing again, which you can miss. Right now you need to sleep." He kissed The Gunner, spun him around, smacked his behind, and said, laughing, "Now, Steve Winslow, you've had your kiss, take your shower and go to bed."
With The Gunner showered and in bed, asleep, Ace made himself a cup of bad coffee and picked up the telephone. Both Steve and Sophie might think him a feckless, selfish sybarite, but Ace knew differently. He had listened to Steve's qualms and fears, and knew that somehow, he would help his lover, whom Ace had every intention of keeping, solve his problems.
After making his telephone calls, Ace determined that there was one more fly that he needed to draw into his web. Well, not the fly so much, but the fly did know where certain other flies might be hiding. To catch this particular fly Ace dressed very carefully. He knew exactly what bait was needed.
First Ace stripped off his tighty-whiteys and, as quietly as he could, searched in his dresser drawer and found what he was looking for, a pair of midnight blue, silk running shorts. They were a trifle tight, but Ace had used them last year to great success when strolling the harbourfront tourist traps. It helped that he had removed the liner. Worn without underwear his genitals were outlined clearly. Next he donned a white, ribbed tank top. The undershirt enhanced every curve of his well-muscled chest and lay flat across his stomach. Last came a pair of leather sandals, worn without socks.
Quietly, Ace left the apartment and went downstairs to the café. He was hungry, and needed sustenance. He also knew that a certain fly that was buzzing around the café tables would be more than attracted to the sugar being flaunted at him. To that end Ace smoothed the fabric of his running shorts across his firm, well-rounded bottom. Sophie had been right. Ace, even if he did admit it himself, had one hell of a fine caboose.
Deliberately sitting in the booth at the back of the café, Ace waited for the fly to coming buzzing past, which it did. As Lester approached, ready to take Ace's order, Ace noticed that Lester was dressed exactly right, although Lester didn't know it. He was wearing a pair of baggy, multicoloured shorts worn low on the hips, and a tight, sleeveless T-shirt, the multi-coloured logo on it proclaiming attendance at some impossibly expensive Florida resort, which Lester had never visited. The extent of his time sur le plage had been on the sandy beaches of Wasaga.
Lester was not in a very good mood. He could think of at least three other places he would rather be. He had not, in fact, planned on being here at all, but the manager had called last night, just as he was about to head out for the clubs. The morning waiter had booked off and Lester was next in line. He also needed the cash. The end of the month was approaching, and the rent was due, and Sunday was always a good day if the weather were nice, bringing out the families, which was why Lester was dressed as conservatively - for him - as he ever was. Ace knew exactly what he had to do and set about doing it. First he had to charm Lester, who looked about as happy as a very dead fish. When Lester came up to take his order, Ace smiled winningly. "Good morning, Lester, how are you?"
Affecting a hurt pout, Lester asked venomously, "Why, Mr. Grimes, so nice to see you. Did you throw the stud out, or are you just taking a rest?"
Looking around, Ace quickly slipped his hand up the leg of Lester's shorts. He immediately felt soft cloth. "Why Lester, whatever are you wearing?" he asked as he gently rubbed the bulge in Lester's briefs.
Sucking in his breath, Lester almost swooned. "Acton, stop that. People are looking!"
"When has that ever stopped you?" asked Ace seductively. "My, the cloth is so soft and . . ." He slid a finger between the thin banding of Lester's briefs and his warm groin, immediately touching the smoothness of the glans of Lester's penis.
"Ace, stop!" Lester hissed, although he didn't move. "Don't do that! You know what will happen."
"But Lester, I thought this is what you wanted."
"Not here, you fool," snarled Lester in reply. But then he smiled. "Please, Ace, stop it. I'll just get . . ."
"You already are," snickered Ace. Lester indeed was, and his penis, long, slim, and very aroused, pulsed under Ace's rubbing finger. "But then, maybe you're right." He quickly withdrew his hand. "Lester, I would really like to talk with you?"
Feeling his erection subsiding, Lester glanced at Acton. "What about? My new undies? They're Italian. A special friend gave them to me."
"And I'm sure that he is very special," replied Ace with emphasis. "And perhaps you'll model them for me, later?" He smiled winningly.
"Why, Acton, are you asking me on a date?" Lester, sometimes Lance, smiled what he thought was his most seductive smile.
"No, I'm thinking about having a few friends over later in the day. I thought you'd like to join us. Perhaps bring your special friend?"
Lester looked around and then leaned forward. "I'd love to, but I can't," he whined. "Brent and I are, well, he's off duty today and I promised to meet him."
Bingo! thought Ace, who was really not listening to Lester's complaining voice for he was much more interested in Lester's very special friend, Brent, who was one of the handsomest men he had ever seen. He was six foot three inches tall, had muscles that would not stop and a head of dark, curly hair that just begged to have fingers run lovingly through it. He and Lester had been on-again, off-again, lovers since high school. Lester claimed that Brent adored him, and then complained that Brent was too deep in the closet to ever show that adoration, which did not surprise Ace in the least. Brent was a Metro cop.
Ace knew that Lester lived in a small room in a dilapidated rooming house on Sackville Street. Brent lived in a large, ranch-style house in Aurora, with his wife and two small sons, which Lester had never seen the inside of, and never would. Brent would sneak into the rooming house whenever he could and Ace knew that Lester, who had delusions of grandeur, hated the place. It was all he could afford, though, and Brent complained that he could only come in at night, when the other roomers were either out, or drunk. He pleaded with Lester to move to a better location, and had even offered to pay part of the rent. This Lester had refused. Brent might be the sexiest man in the downtown core, with the biggest and thickest dick in 52 Division, with the sweetest, cutest, button of a mushroom-shaped cap that Lester had ever laid tongue to, but he was not about to become Brent's kept toy boy and Brent had better get that through his pretty head.
Lester, who had never made a secret of his sexual orientation, had for some reason confided in Ace one night as they both sat morosely on the outside terrace of the café. Ace had been drinking, and failed to score in one of the bars. Lester had been drinking and expecting Brent to call. Both were feeling very sorry for themselves and had ended up chattering half the night away, and then gone down to the baths, where Ace had taken care of Lester's itch, twice.
Moving his hand up Lester's shorts again, Ace felt the rising warmth under the smooth fabric. "Lester, I know how you feel about Brent, and I really would like it if you both came to my party this afternoon." He squeezed Lester's genitals, at the same time pulling him into the booth. The café was empty this early in the morning and the manager was in the back, gossiping with the cook, and Ace saw that they were effectively alone. Lester did not stop Ace when he slipped his hand under the leg band of his briefs and slowly began rubbing his rising penis. He moaned softly as Ace continued his ministrations.
"Come on, Lester," whispered Ace, never taking his eyes from the front door. "You and Brent can use my room after the party. I have a huge bed and . . ."
Lester shuddered and grabbed the edge of the table and Ace felt the warm stickiness spurt across his hand. Lester jerked spasmodically until he whimpered and pulled desperately away. He pointed a shaking finger. "Hand me . . . hand me some napkins," he asked breathlessly.
"So, you will come, then?" asked Ace as he handed a wad of paper napkins to Lester.
Shoving the napkins down the front of his shorts, Lester grinned winsomely. "Just please, don't tell Brent you just did that!"
The Gunner awoke to the soft murmur of obvious male voices coming from the living room. He had a shattering headache, a sure sign of not enough sleep, and as he shook the disorientation from his brain he heard the deep rumble of laughter. What, he asked himself, is Ace doing now?
After showering, The Gunner stuck a tentative head outside the bedroom door and was confronted by six of what looked liked clones of Ace. They were all at least six feet tall, all deeply tanned, all dark haired and all dressed more or less alike. Each man - The Gunner estimated their ages to be mid-twenties - wore blue-jean cut-offs and white tank tops, both garments just a touch tighter than necessary, black boots and white socks. They all had deeply chiselled chests, thick, firm thighs, and well-packed behinds. The Gunner could not help but think that Sophie would swoon at the sight of so many well-formed cabooses.
The men were drinking, and eating from what looked like an endless array of cold cuts, small sandwiches, salads and bowls of crisps, laughing and flashing perfect teeth, too perfect, or so The Gunner thought, and bespoke of thousands of dollars worth of expensive orthodontia.
The only cuckoos in the nest were Lester, who was conservatively clad in a pair of dark, knee length shorts (borrowed, out of necessity, from Ace, as were the boxers Lester wore under the shorts) and a huge, handsome young man with curly black hair who screamed cop! He was dressed in the artfully artless way of all off-duty policemen, in dark trousers, a white, short-sleeved open-necked shirt with a white T-shirt underneath and white socks and mirror-polished brogans. It also helped, as The Gunner confessed to Ace later, that the ankle holster he wore was not quite hidden by his white socks.
Ace, seeing The Gunner, gave him a kiss on the cheek and said, "Well, here he is."
Lester frowned, which was to be expected. The others nodded approvingly. "Now he could have got me out of my kilt, Ace!" said one of the men admiringly.
"And wouldn't have had to try," returned Ace. He smiled at Steve and waved his hand at the small assemblage. "You wanted undercover operatives? Well, here you go!"
The Gunner's look of surprise caused the young men to laugh. "Don't worry, Ace has explained, and if we fuck up Brent will back us up!" said one young man, rising. He held out a strong, broad hand. "Shane Kingscote."
Each man in turn introduced himself and shook The Gunner's hand.
"Teddy Vian."
"Max Hainey."
"Jeff MacKenzie, but my friends call me Mac."
"Gil Stephenson. You can call me the 'Lord of the Isles'. Or 'Lord', for short."
"Pay him no mind, Steve," interjected Ace. "Gil's grandfather was an admiral and named his sail boat for his last command."
"Sam North."
"Brent Dawson."
Lester waggled his fingers, said nothing and clutched Brent's arm possessively when he sat down.
After having a bottle of beer thrust into his hand. The Gunner was pushed into the only free chair by Ace. "Now Steve, I want you to listen before you say anything," he began.
"Do I have a choice?" asked The Gunner.
"No." Ace settled on the arm of the chair and draped his arm around The Gunner's shoulder. "Now, Steve, you mentioned that you didn't feel all that comfortable with Michael's cousins doing that work you mentioned." The Gunner nodded and Ace, smiling, carried on. "Well, I got to thinking and I took a peek at that list of names you had from Troubridge. You're right, of course. Michael's cousins would stand out like sore thumbs. What we need, what you need, are fine, clean cut, white Canadian boys, boys who would fit in, boys who could walk down any street in town and not be noticed."
There was a low grumble of complaint from the assembled young men. They were all very good looking, and dressed to show off their best attributes. The Gunner could not help smiling as he said, "Ace, I do think that they would be noticed!"
"Not that way," Ace sniffed in return. "What I mean is, put them in some clothes, pants and shirts where their bums and baskets are not on display, and . . ."
The Gunner held up his hand. "Gentlemen, I don't know what Ace has told you, but I really don't think . . ."
Teddy Vian stood up and looked at The Gunner. "Theodore Vian, Cadet Captain, St. Andrew's College. Three times Provincial Rifle Association Champion; I have a civilian pilot's licence, qualified as a paratrooper at Camp Gagetown and passed the Combat Infantryman's Course, CFB Petawawa."
"Maxwell Hainey, Cadet Major, St. Andrew's College. Cadet Triathlete of the Year three times running. Qualified as a Cadet Jumpmaster, CFB Gagetown; qualified Instructor, Combat Infantryman's Course, CFB Petawawa. I am also qualified in explosive and demolitions removal. I hold a marksman's badge in both long and short weapons."
"Jeffrey MacKenzie. Captain Commanding 'A' Company, Pioneers, of St. Andrew's College. I am a qualified instructor in infiltration tactics. I am a qualified Combat Infantryman."
"Gilbert Stephenson, Lieutenant Commanding, Recce Platoon, St. Andrew's College. I am a qualified Combat Infantryman, qualified to drive a Leopard tank, and spent six months at Camp Wainwright teaching hand to hand combat."
"Samuel North. I am a graduate of the Royal Military College of Canada where I majored in combat arms. In addition to being qualified in glider piloting, small arms, hand-to-hand combat, I am the winner of the Baron Northcote Cup." He saw that The Gunner didn't know the Northcote Cup from a Maidenform bra. "Awarded to the Gentleman Cadet who successfully plans, and leads a raid on a simulated target. I captured the enemy's command post and won the war in less than three hours. I kicked ass, sir."
Shane Kingscote smiled. "And I, alas, was the enemy commander!" He stood up. "A black mark on an otherwise unblemished record. I am also a graduate of RMC, hold a black belt; and so on. I am also, thanks to a stint with the SAS, a trained killer."
Stunned, The Gunner looked at each man in turn. Then he looked at Ace. "For sure?"
Nodding, Ace pointed to Brent, who stood up. He was a magnificent animal, all muscle and with a "Don't fuck with me" look in his eyes. "I'm a cop. I work out of 52 Division, which is the downtown division. I didn't go to St. Andrew's College. I went Charles Street Public School and Jarvis Collegiate." He held up his fist. "You learn quickly how to use this. I also have something these clowns don't have: street smarts!"
Shane leaned forward and looked directly at The Gunner. "Steve, when you're queer in an Army cadet corps, you very quickly learn to fit in. You become as butch as you can and you take anything and everthing that is dished out. As you grow older, and your seniority and rank in the corps increases, you're offered courses. You take them. You get your ass pummelled, you end up with bumps and bruises in places you never thought possible to have bumps and bruises, but you do it because then nobody thinks you're a fag!"
"Damn straight you do it!" Sam put his arm around Shane. "We went to RMC because we wanted to prove that two queers could be the best damned cadets ever to hit the place. There were times when I wanted to quit, to say, fuck 'em. But Shane kicked my ass and told me that if I quit I was letting down every queer that had ever been there and been thrown out for being queer! We had to do it."
"And you did." The Gunner looked at the small assembly of men. Except for Lester, they were all healthy, well-muscled, strong males. Their bodies bespoke hours of working out, of strain and pain. He had no doubt that these men could, and would, do what he wanted them to do. Then he looked at Lester. "And what about you?"
At first, Lester was about to go into his femme-fatale mode. He was a fem, and he knew it, just as he knew that sitting beside him was the best thing that had ever happened to him. "I'm just a faggot," he whispered apologetically. "I can't fight, and, well, look at me!"
With deliberate slowness The Gunner rose from his chair. He stood foursquare and growled at Lester. "Stand up!"
"What?" Lester looked at Brent for help, found none, and turned to look at The Gunner, who reached out and pulled Lester to his feet. Before Lester had time to think he felt a firm hand squeezing his testicles.
"What are these?" demanded The Gunner. His facial expression did not change. "Well, what are they?"
"My balls?" returned Lester, his voice barely above a whisper.
"And this?" asked The Gunner as his hand found and squeezed Lester penis.
"My dick! And you're hurting me!" whined Lester.
"You have the mark of a man!" snarled The Gunner. "Up to now all you've done is whine and complain." His voice rose several octaves as he mimicked Lester. "I'm a queer, I'm a faggot. When I was little the other boys called me a sissy and beat me up. When I was in high school the other boys made me suck their cocks and then beat me up." The Gunner released Lester and his eyes bored into the frightened man. "You let people walk all over you and then you bent over and let them fuck you! You're a faggot because you act like a faggot, you talk like a faggot and you dress like a faggot! You won't stand up for yourself and dismiss everything with 'I'm a faggot'. Well, it doesn't wash!"
Returning to his seat The Gunner stared at Shane and Max, at Sam and Gil and Jeff, at Brent and Ace. "Out there, beyond this room, there are men who will stop at nothing to defend and keep what they have. They sell boys, eight, nine, ten-year-old boys. One of them will slice your throat and walk away laughing. You are all friends, or acquaintances, or former schoolmates of Ace. You are here because he called for you. I do not know you, any of you."
The Gunner's look returned to Lester. "In Comox, which is in British Columbia, there are young men, cadets, about 20 of them. Some are gay, some are not, at least to my knowledge." The Gunner's finger shot out at pointed unerringly at Lester. "And each and every one of them would come if I called for them. Not one of them would hang back and whine, 'But I'm just a faggot'. Three, one of whom has the most glorious green eyes, and two fraternal twins, would move heaven and earth to take up the gauntlet!" The Phantom's challenge to Cory echoed through The Gunner's brain. "Never be afraid of who you are, never be afraid of what you are!"
"But I am a faggot!" returned Lester. "What good am I? I'm not some hero. I wait tables. I've never been to some fancy school, or in the Army cadets! I can't tell one end of a pistol from the other!"
"And that precludes ever doing anything with your life other than sucking cocks?" queried The Gunner dryly. He laughed roughly. "Lester, you've lived all your life ashamed of who you are. It's time you took those balls and that dick and did something useful with them!"
"Such as?" Lester asked with a sniff.
"Such as shuck the fag drag, put on a jock and stand up and fight!" roared The Gunner, which caused the others to jump.
Brent's eyes grew angry as he listened to The Gunner. "Now just one minute," he exploded. "Lester is . . ."
Without warning Lester snarled at his lover. "I am what? Somebody you sneak around and fuck? I love you, Brent, and I will always love you, but do not ever presume to speak for me!" He glared at The Gunner. "I can't fight! I can type, I can file, and I can cook! How can you ask me to do something I've never done before?"
"Lester, look around you. Every man in this room is gay! They went on and made something of their lives. Look at them and then look at yourself. They all have balls and dicks, but they don't advertise! They deliberately went out and said, all right, I'm gay. Big deal! They told the world to stick it in its ear. When are you going to tell the world to fuck itself?"
No one, in his entire life, had ever spoken to Lester this way. All his life, from the time he was a little boy, he had been put down, told that he was useless, a fairy, a Nancy boy, a swish and a queer. His father had tried to beat his homosexuality out of him; his brothers had used him whenever they felt the urge. Until this moment he had been a thing, a toy, to be played with or abused. But no more. First he rounded on Brent. "I'm in love with you, you big goof. I adore you. But unless and until you start treating me like a man, we're through." Then he turned to The Gunner. "What do you want me to do?"
"Ace and I will do the leg work. Can you co-ordinate and collate whatever information we bring in, what these gentlemen bring in?"
"Yes."
"Is there a weight room, a gym, nearby?" asked The Gunner.
Lester thought a moment. "There's the Y on Gloucester Street," he said presently.
"Join it," instructed The Gunner. He smiled at Lester. "You have the potential, all you have to do is be shown how to use it. I think that somewhere deep inside that skinny frame is a man trying to get out."
"There is," rumbled Brent. He looked reassuringly at Lester and then at the Gunner. "If you have names I can run them through CPIC. Give me the addresses and I can have complete plans of the houses in your hands within three days." He turned to the others. "I can give you tips on surveillance techniques." Then he looked at Lester again. "And later, I would like to sit down and talk, just talk, please?"
Shane grinned and winked at The Gunner. Then he said, "From the sound of it, it will be a long talk!"
Brent chuckled and said, "Maybe. Lester and I have a few problems to iron out." He turned to The Gunner. "What are you thinking? Do you have a plan? And what about the boys?"
The Gunner exhaled loudly. "First, we need to know exactly where the boys are being held. Do their masters keep to a schedule, is there a pattern of behaviour. Who are their servants, if they have any? What is the lay of the land around their houses? Once we have that information we must then try to find a way to get the boys out, and into a safe place."
Shane suddenly giggled and poked Max, who returned the giggle and said, "What do you think, Elder Brigham?"
"It's doable, Elder John Smith," returned Shane.
Ace looked at the two men as if they had suddenly gone mad. "What in the hell are you two going on about?" he demanded. "This is serious!"
Laughing, Shane held up his hand. "Ace, picture Max and me, in black trousers, shined shoes, a starched white shirt and conservative tie, two missionaries of the Lord going from door to door, offering the comfort of the Book of Mormon to unsuspecting householders."
"The Book of Mormon?" spat Ace. "Now I know you're both cracked."
"Not so," said Max, grinning like a Cheshire cat. "We just happen to have two of those black plastic name plates the Mormon boys use when they come up here . . ." He smiled at Gunner and said, needlessly, "Canada is considered missionary territory for the LDS. As part of their training young Mormon men come up here and try to save souls."
"Why do I have a feeling that there are two Mormons who suddenly discovered that there is more to saving souls than they read about in the Book of Mormon?" asked The Gunner rhetorically.
Lester was the next to ask. "You seduced two Mormons, didn't you?" he accused, wide-eyed. "You seduced two innocent Mormon boys!"
Shane was neither embarrassed nor repentant. "Ah, Lester, you would have swooned mightily at the sight of them. Buff, clean cut, the stuff that dreams are made of! Elder Brigham Young Patterson and Elder Joseph Smith Burrowes." He shuddered theatrically. "Max and I were whiling away an afternoon when they came to call, to save us for Jesus."
"Of course, we were sunbathing at the time," advised Max. "You should have seen the looks on their faces when I opened the door."
"Sunbathing? That means that you were . . ." Ace gasped. "Holy Christ!" Ace had been to school with both men and knew what they kept under their kilts. He grinned wickedly. "Holy Christ!" he repeated.
"That's exactly what Elder Brigham said whenever he . . ." Shane started to say. Then he thought better of going into too many details. "Suffice it to say that both boys went away with a different perspective on Scripture and a new meaning to the phrase about knowing a man in the biblical sense. They also left behind their little name tags."
When he finally stopped laughing, The Gunner turned to the men. "Guys, we tread on dangerous ground. You can be hurt. Brent has a chance, because he's armed. But please, don't rush into anything you are not absolutely sure about."
Lester spoke for all of them. "When I was little, my brothers would take me into their room and fuck me. I didn't have a choice. I think I know how these boys you want to rescue feel. It's not pleasant, being somebody's fuck toy. If I didn't service my brothers, they beat me. I know what it's like, and I say lets stop talking and get moving!"
"Then Lester, will you be so kind as to take notes?" asked The Gunner with a smile. Lester nodded and went toward the kitchen for some paper and a pen. As he passed The Gunner said, "And Lester?"
"Yes?"
"They're not clanging yet. But I hear a faint tinkle."
"Wait," responded Lester. "When I'm finished you'll think I have Big Ben in my shorts!"
Laughing, and occasionally making fools of themselves, The Gunner's Rangers, as they had dubbed themselves, settled into planning their moves and surveillance routines. Brent was a wealth of information, having served as a rookie beat cop in patrol cars and on foot in two of the three divisions where the men they were about to bring down lived. He also had connections with the police departments in Ottawa, and Montreal, which he would access as soon as he could logically return to the precinct house. As The Gunner insisted at every step of their deliberations, they must do nothing to bring the slightest hint or suspicion on what they were doing.
Lester, to everyone's surprise, was all business. He pointed out that the high summer in Toronto was construction season, with work crews in every sector of the city, ostensibly repairing roads and infrastructure. He just happened to know, a gentlemen of his acquaintance, really, a man who owned one of construction firms doing work for city. It would be child's play to persuade the man to lend a truck or two. This remark drew a dirty look from Brent, but a quick peck on his cheek and a squeeze of the biggest penis in 52 Division and he was smiling. Lester beamed.
Jeff suggested a Bell Telephone van. His cousin worked for Bell, and Jeff hinted that their relationship was such that his cousin would be more than pleased to make the necessary arrangements. The mention of Bell Canada brought up the subject of wiretaps, which while everyone agreed was a great idea, wouldn't work. They simply did not have the manpower, or the equipment.
They spent much of the afternoon discussing their options and before very long they had a plan. The addresses on The Gunner's list would be placed under surveillance. Whatever information the men gathered would be passed to Lester, who would move into Ace's spare bedroom. Ace's apartment became central control.
Sophie Nicholson lived either quietly, or empirically. Her house was one of the showcases of Rosedale and outwardly presented the façade of quiet wealth and conservatism that all residents of Rosedale strove to present to the world.
Built on a double lot overlooking Rosedale Ravine, Nicholson Grange was a stone, English style manor house with steeply pitched roofs, eight bedrooms, 13 washrooms, a Victorian wrought-iron and glass porte-cochere, a greenhouse, and Lalique crystal chandeliers in the bathrooms. The grounds were immaculate and the rooms inside furnished with museum quality antiques.
When the mood was on her, Sophie dined in the manner of the Empress Catherine, filling her Regency dining room with silver, crystal and china that had seen service, or so she insisted, in Royal and Imperial palaces. Sophie's guests dined in splendour, served by a small army of butlers and footmen (all hired for the evening), eating superbly cooked food prepared by an ancient crone who had been with Sophie for more years than either of them would admit to.
During dinner, which was attended by Chief Edgar, his son Aaron, The Gunner, and Ace, Sophie chattered away, deliberately avoiding the subject of Margaret Winslow's funeral, and Edward Winslow's performance. She loathed the man, but considered that she was a lady and a lady never unintentionally said anything disparaging about a gentleman. They discussed the architecture of the house, its history, and the history of Sophie's family (she had been born a Hoare) and the history of her dishes and silver flatware.
Ace noticed that Sophie had sent the latest "visiting friend of the family" packing - presumably well compensated - and had scaled back her usual outrageous behaviour. Ace had an idea that Sophie had decided to acquire a fourth husband, and Chief Edgar, a widower, was the target.
When Sophie wished to really impress, she opened what she called the Russian Reception room, a thirty-foot square gem of a room. Three of the four walls had been panelled in tulip wood, carved, stained, lacquered and varnished to resemble amber, running the spectrum of yellow, from smoky topaz, to a light lemon. The pilasters, ground course, mouldings and frieze, had all been as wonderfully carved by master craftsmen, and accented the eight carved panels that made up each wall, each panel a masterpiece representing, in stylized relief, different allegories of the five senses, festooned carvings of Imperial and Royal eagles, graceful, amber-like engravings, whimsical patterns of leaves and heraldic emblems, gem-like, graceful carvings, and flowers so detailed and life-like that they lacked only colour to bring them to life.
The floor, itself a masterpiece of polished parquetry, was covered with a white, gold and amber carpet. The one wall not panelled was pierced by three doors leading to the outside gardens, the doors, surrounds and entablature rich in gold leaf and the wall hung with engraved mirrors.
Louis XIV furniture, delicate Chinese vases, and two display cabinets holding Sophie's collection of Faberge, miniature animals, human figures, all carved from gemstones and jade, snuff boxes, jewelled orders and three Imperial Eggs.
Here Sophie held court, pouring coffee from her Paul Storr service into Meissen cups, and offering vintage cigars from sterling silver, cedar-lined cigar boxes. On the drinks tables Waterford decanters held brandy, port and whiskey for those who wanted it.
And here The Gunner told Sophie his story. She listened attentively and from time to time nodded her approval. She was on speaking terms with, as she put it, the people of each of the men, the Kingscotes, the Vians, the MacDuffs, the Haineys and the Norths, all of whom had enjoyed her hospitality. Both Shane and Teddy had visited her house to play tennis although, she took great delight in pointing out while looking directly at Ace, neither boy had found it necessary to water her gardens. She had met Gil Stephenson's parents, and lunched with Sam North's grandmother at the club. She was constrained to also point out that she did not know Brent or Lester's families.
Sophie also, although she had never met him, knew of Percy Simpson and her loudly voiced comment, "A loathsome creature. My father never trusted him and refused to do business with him" drew nods of approval. Then she added, "He was never received, but then none of that tribe were." In Sophie's world not being received was the ultimate social disaster.
When The Gunner spoke of what would happen to the boys they rescued, assuming they rescued any, the boys that might need psychiatric care, the boys traumatized by their dreadful experience, Sophie fixed him an icy glare. "Why, they shall come here, of course!"
The Gunner looked around the Rococo splendour of the room and shook his head. "Sophie, we have no idea how these boys will be after suffering years of physical, sexual and mental abuse. Some might need to be institutionalized. They might need to be restrained. We just don't know and really, while you are a lovely woman, can you imagine the damage if one of them is violent?" he said as gently as he could.
"Yes, Sophie," began Chief Edgar. "Steve is correct. Some of those boys would need . . ."
"James dear, blow it out your ear!" retorted Sophie, much to Chief's Edgar's shock and surprise. She turned to glare at The Gunner. "And as for you, young man, you might be a Chancellor, and a Champion, and hold an Imperial Fleece, but I am a Jenny Wren who once sunk C-in-C Western Approaches! Not once, but three times!"
"However did you manage that?" asked Aaron innocently.
"Quite easily, actually. He had a tendency to arrogance and thought that he was the best submariner that had ever submerged beneath the stormy seas. He made the same mistake, not once, but three times, and I dropped depth charges on him!"
The Gunner, who could not visualize Sophie being in a position to drop water bombs, much less depth charges, on high ranking naval officers, looked sceptical. He had been listening to Chef spin his mythological dips for years and for a moment thought that Sophie was Chef's kindred soul.
"You doubt me, obviously," said Sophie. "Well, it is all true. You remember, Stephen, when I told you that I was in the first draft to go overseas after they opened the books to women?"
"Why yes, so you did," replied The Gunner.
"In the event, there I was, a lowly Third Officer, assigned to the anti-submarine warfare simulator in Portsmouth." She waved an exquisitely manicured hand dismissively. "A grand name for what was really just a huge slate floor and a series of cubby holes spaced around the slate deck, which we called the tactics board. It was all very primitive, not at all like today, with all the electronics and computerized television screens."
Both The Gunner and Chief Edgar did not think it germane to Sophie's story to inform her that no matter how primitive the simulator had been, it would have been a step up from nothing, as such a thing did not exist in the Canadian Navy.
"At the beginning of the war there were so very few Canadian sailors who had a clue about hunting submarines that the Royal Navy built a simulator - we later had one as well, but at the time the one in Portsmouth was the only one available - and the bridge teams from the corvettes who escorted the convoys across would come over to Portsmouth and practice their trade. There were mock-ups of the bridge and the Asdic shacks in every cubbyhole and they would track 'contacts'. They couldn't see anything, of course, but the Wrens tracked everything on the slate deck. At the end of the exercise the officers and ratings would come out and see what a balls up they'd made of it!"
"Except for Third Officer Sophie," said Chief Edgar with a low chuckle.
"And just how did you manage to end up in one of those cubby-holes, might I ask?" Ace looked suspiciously at Sophie.
"I was keeping company with the Commanding Officer of HMS Bluebell, a corvette." Sophie sighed happily at the memory of the tall, dark haired young Lieutenant. "She was later lost on the Murmansk run with all hands." She sniffed delicately. "He invited me in to see how they did what they did, using the excuse that it would be good training. Neither of us expected Max Horton to come wandering in!"
"Who just happened to be C-in-C Western Approaches," offered Aaron.
"Just made up, dear," replied Sophie, "and as an ex-submariner he knew it all!" She giggled and gestured for Ace to pour her a brandy. "Well, there I was, and there he was, and he was determined to show the colonial amateurs how the professionals did it. What he didn't seem to realize was that he was predictable. After he made his run he would fire his torpedo and immediately turn to port, or starboard, and return down his original course. Then, while the escorts were hunting astern, he would turn and come back. It was all dreadfully wasteful on the batteries, but it worked. He did it every time and I saw it. My young officer and I watched him on the Asdic, waited, and sank him! Three times! He was ever so upset."
"Did he ever find out?" asked The Gunner.
"Thankfully, no. He raged and ranted for an hour afterwards but I remained in my little hole until he left. Not long after that I was sent to Windsor and drove Lillibet around." She coloured slightly. "Of course, I shouldn't call her that. Anyway, who do you think taught her to drive and fix an engine?"
"Are you saying that you know . . ." began Chief Edgar, his voice replete with disbelief.
Once again Sophie airily wave her hand. "Such things are best left unspoken," she announced. Then she looked at The Gunner. "I have had three husbands, far too many lovers and all I have show for it is more money that I can possibly spend and the hide of a rhinoceros! I have a house filled with 'things' that bring joy to no one, filling rooms that are never opened. I have, to be frank, taken, and never given. Now it is time. I shall take in your boys and if necessary I shall build them a proper facility. I shall hire the people I need and I will not accept 'no' for answer." Then she asked briskly. "Have you given any thought as to what will happen to the boys?"
The Gunner sighed sadly. "If we turn them over the authorities, they will be sent back to whatever country they came from. I can imagine what would happen to them."
"Embarrassments in Russia and East Germany, in any of the Soviet Bloc countries, tend not to remain embarrassments for too long," observed Ace.
"I would much prefer that we keep them all here. What we will do with them if we can keep them, I don't know yet," said The Gunner. "But we cannot send them back to an uncertain future, to . . . death."
"Nor shall we," said Sophie with a firmness that she had never expressed before. "We shall petition for them to be made Wards of the Crown. Then we shall petition for guardianship."
"We must keep the Children's Aid out of it," returned The Gunner. "They have no idea what they are doing and will simply warehouse the boys somewhere. I cannot and I will not allow these boys, after everything that they've been through, to be condemned to the clutches of self-serving incompetents who care about nothing but their own sense of importance and power."
"Then we will find a friendly judge!" Sophie stood up and began to pace her antique carpet. "I will beard that useless twit who calls himself the Foreign Minister and tell him what he will do!" she vowed. "I agree with Stephen, the boys will not be placed into some foster care home or home for delinquents."
"Papers can be made ready," advised Chief Edgar. The Gunner stared at him and the Chief continued. "Every government is capable of producing . . . documents."
"I would like to keep it as simple as possible," replied The Gunner. "And as legal. The boys do not need to have the Government of Canada hanging over them like some sword of Damocles."
"Agreed." Chief Edgar helped himself to a cigar and pointed it at The Gunner. "However, extraordinary measures are called for. Our primary task is to rescue the boys, and then ensure their safety, and their future." He shrugged. "If some laws have to be broken, so be it. I don't have a problem with that."
"Nor do I," said Sophie. She smiled at The Gunner and said, "Stephen, I asked that you give Ace a purpose in life. Now I ask it for me. Help me fill my empty days with the laughter of children. Give me the purpose I need."
Returning Sophie's smile, The Gunner nodded. "Somehow I think that you, of all of us, will stay the course, and be the strongest." He sighed heavily. "And we will have to be strong because this thing will not be pleasant. In the end, there will be retribution and punishment." His face grew hard. "The men who participated in this scheme, those who bought the boys, will be turned over to the authorities, or evidence presented to the authorities. I will ruin them."
"And the principals?" asked Chief Edgar.
"The men who planned this, who procured the boys, the creatures that furthered it with their money, there can be only one answer."
Aaron Edgar, the light from the crystal sconces dancing against his rimless spectacles, rose slowly. "Death. By hanging."
The Gunner looked at Ace, who rose from his seat and nodded. "Death. By hanging."
Sophie raised her hand to her lips and then raised her head. "Death. By hanging," she whispered.
Chief Edgar slowly placed the unlit cigar on the table beside his chair. He drew in a deep breath. "Death. By hanging."
"It is decided," said the Chancellor and Champion of the Order. "Death. By hanging."