INFAMOUS TRADE by Andrej Koymasky (C) 1998 - 2002 written the 20th of July, 1995 translated by the author English text kindly revised by Jer
USUAL DISCLAIMER
"INFAMOUS TRADE" is a gay story, with some parts containing graphic scenes of sex between males. So, if in your land, religion, family, opinion and so on this is not good for you, it will be better not to read this story. But if you really want, or because YOU don't care, or because you think you really want to read it, please be my welcomed guest.
NINETH
It was almost noon when Dan Firestone opened the door of the little villa that Jacques Roux owned in Greenwich Village. Behind him was Oscar who sniffed his master's worn out briefcase, wagging his almost hairless small tail. Among the various things in the briefcase were also the dog's mint flavored biscuits, Oscar's preferred food.
In his briefcase, he also had expensive drugs for Jacques, that he bought on the black market because they were not legal in the States. Before discovering his illness, Jacques, a small twenty eight year old Frenchman, with a quiet and smiling air, had been a man gifted with a strong charisma and energy that swept away any obstacle from his path. He carried out his activity as a psychologist-psychiatrist in his small villa in Greenwich Village. He also enjoyed growing roses, winning several prizes in international competitions. In the past, he even found the time to keep himself slender and muscled thanks a regular training schedule. He regularly alternated between horseback riding, tennis, cycling and fencing every day.
They felt attracted to each other at first sight -- Dan from the intelligence and instinctive elegance of Jacques, and this one from the primitive force of the man. Too, the fifteen years difference in age played its role -- Dan preferred younger men and Jacques mature men. They both were gay. Both gifted with a strong sense of order and the continuous need to taste new exciting experiences, that they always managed to obtain. When their desires became powerful, both could even destroy a human being without any guilty feelings. What most impressed Dan about Jacques was his ability to control and direct others, something that he himself was proud to be able to do very well.
Jacques' red brick building was in Washington Square South, a few blocks from the house where Eugene O'Neill had lived. It faced Washington Park, an area that the compilers of tourist guides stubbornly continued to call the heart of Greenwich Village, even if for a long time ceased to be so. Now the park was just the meeting place of smugglers, students from the nearby New York University, street people, folk singers, street magicians and mentally disturbed people.
Entering the mahogany panel lined entrance to the little villa, Dan Firestone pulled off his hat and coat hanging them inside the entry closet. Then remained for several seconds to admire a splendid floral decoration that was on a nearby small Malacca table. It was an Ikebana composition that he himself made and titled "future message". Three tall withered white branches, almost vertical, a low slanting green branch in which were half hidden and peeking out five buds of red roses. When they opened, they would tell Jacques all of his love for him. It had been him pushing Dan to go to the Ikebana lessons to find relief from the stress of his job. That composition was one of the most beautiful that Dan had made. Before meeting Jacques, Dan would never have thought he had the talent to create something aesthetically valuable, beautiful. Jacques changed many things in his life, and all of them for the better.
With his briefcase in hand, he crossed the drawing room and the living room. In both rooms were bookshelves from ceiling to floor, fireplaces, white wooden doors and furniture expressly designed for those two rooms by a famous Italian designer -- Tobia Scarpa. These two rooms very simple and yet of an incredible beauty and elegance.
Reaching the wide kitchen with tall racks filled with very colorful tools, Dan filled a pan with water and opened the door to the back garden. Pressing his tongue on his lower lip, he emitted a really sharp whistle -- Oscar sprang near him passing through the open door and landing in the small garden almost completely occupied by a greenhouse full of blooming roses. Outside the icy December wind ruffled Dan's hair. He looked around looking for Oscar's bowl. He found it and after putting in it the mint biscuits, he put it near the pan filled with water.
While the limping dog consumed his meal, Dan sat near him staring at the greenhouse.
At the beginning of their relationship Jacques told him: "You have more talents than the majority of men, you are more intelligent, reliable and destructive. Therefore you have also to be more creative than the others. You are unhappy enough to be creative."
Unhappy? Certainly, Dan thought. The years spent dealing with bastards, criminals and filthy people, made any policeman unhappy. But he was not a creative. He was a hard but efficient policeman, cold, self-assured, and stubborn. He was used to little refinement. He read the New York Times, at times he went to the Opera and was affiliated with the Metropolitan Museum. He collected travel books, a habit he cultivated through the years spent in the Navy, where he enlisted when fifteen, faking his birth date.
But, he said to Jacques, for sure he was not a Leonardo Da Vinci.
On the other hand, he enjoyed wandering in Jacques greenhouse. The fragrance and the beauty of his roses opened for him a new and gratifying universe. It was so far from the stark apartment in the Bronx he shared with his widowed father and his uncle who both abused of him up to the day he ran away from home and enlisted in the Navy. And there also he was brusquely introduced again to the world of the sex among men, not to love, of course. To a crude sex but not without passion. Those men desired him, but didn't take advantage of him as his father and uncle did. They treated him as an equal. And there he started to learn to manipulate men, skillfully conceding or denying his graces.
But the greenhouse, Jacques decided, touched something so deep in his heart that Dan was unable to tell. Something buried under the wall that the policeman built to shelter from the contempt that society reserves to homosexual policemen. Encouraged by his lover, Dan developed his interest for music and art of composing flowers. He even started to dress better. His lively intelligence allowed him to perceive all these things just in one stroke. But it was the love he shared with Jacques that allowed him to make the learning process agreeable and exciting at once. Dan started to refer himself to the French psychologist as he never before had with anybody. He felt that the young man was shaping him and he was happy being molded.
Jacques had been conquered by the sensuality and unpredictability of the big policeman. No lover before made him feel so much excitement like the man he with affection called "my noble savage". Dan, because of his huge sexual appetite, seldom had been faithful to only one man for a long period of time. He praised himself having fucked as much as seven boys on the same night, even if he admitted that, on the following morning, he felt somewhat weakened. But, he added, in the evening he was again ready for a good, long ride session.
The sentimental bond, lasting already three years, with Jacques, represented a milestone in the life of the ex policeman. It favored a psychic, beside physical, communion. Not only had Dan never cheated on Jacques, but he never got upset with him. After a life of useless searching, he finally found somebody in which to have complete trust, and who really, deeply loved him. And who, also physically gave him full and complete satisfaction as nobody never before had been able of giving him.
They met the same night that Dan killed Spike Rowe, a twenty-two year old hustler who refused to pay him the rake-off and who put the other hustlers against him. Almost each evening Dan, going back home, passed to retrieve from the boys the fixed quota that each of them had to pay him. He was understanding -- when the boys complained they didn't have enough johns, he allowed them to pay him on the following day, and for that evening he just put them down and merrily fucked them. If also on the day after they didn't pay him, he waited one more day, fucked them again and warned them that they owed him one more fuck. On the third day, after fucking them once more, he beat them as he was able to do, without leaving any mark, but making them sorry they didn't busy themselves to raise money for him. And that boy owed him four more fucks. Very seldom he had to beat them. Also because the third time he called the other hustlers to assist both at the fuck and then at the beating. It was always a very good lesson.
But Spike became a problem. When he passed he just didn't show up. He had him warned by the other hustlers "you owe me nine fucks and three beatings, beware!" "you owe me thirteen fucks and five beatings, be careful, I'm not joking..." And finally he had to set in action. The boy played too smart. He knew what time Dan passed and wasn't around. So he decided to ask an evening of leave and lay in wait. But Spike got word of him and ran away with his bike. Dan was informed later that Spike changed his hustling area. The boys didn't want to tell him where he was now. But after he beat a couple of them, the third one confessed. Dan went to look for Spike, found him bent at the window of a car of a client, contracting. Dan silently arrived at his back, seized him by his scruff pulling him brusquely back. The guy in the car, feeling danger and seeing a policeman's uniform, just run away in his car, disappearing. Spike reacted but Dan got soon the better of him, especially when the boy realized who assaulted him. The policeman dragged him in his car, handcuffed him to the seat and started the car.
"Where are you taking me? What are you going to do?" The boy, scared but not tamed, asked.
Dan liked the rebel air of the boy -- he liked having to deal with people with guts. He didn't answer.
The boy kept silent for a while, then said with a low, self-assured voice: "You can't continue to play the boss, Firestone. We are not your slaves. Alright, you fuck me, beat me, and then?"
"I protect you from bad encounters, you have to pay me."
"We can protect ourselves, we don't need you."
"This, is for me to decide, not you."
"You are a bastard."
"I know." Dan cut short.
He entered the old port with his car, drove among the abandoned warehouses. Nobody was around, nobody in sight. He stopped the car behind a shed. Pulled out the boy.
"Undress! Stark naked!"
"No."
"Undress!"
"No." Spike repeated, looking around for a way to escape.
Dan, with a lightning move seized him and held him fast: "You tire me, boy!" he said with a bored voice.
He started to undress him methodically, keeping him imprisoned and handling him like a rag doll. When the boy tried to escape him, he gave him a violent stroke, now on his legs, now on his back, now on his chest, systematically, weakening little by little his resistance. And continued to pull off his clothes, without haste. He was more and more excited, mainly because Spike was a virile type, a young bull who always took pride that he never took it in his ass by anybody, not even as a kid -- in a short while he would no more have this pride. Or rather, he would not boast that any more. The boy was in his complete power.
When Spike was naked, wearing absolutely nothing, not even his watch, Dan dragged him to a cast iron balustrade, where he handcuffed his wrists and ankles so that he was bent in half and his kegs were widespread. Spike, broken in but not tamed, continued to abuse him with a low voice. Dan caressed his ass, then his soft genitals with evident lust.
"Dirty depraved pig, faggot full of shit!" Spike said in a low voice.
"Do you want it in your mouth or in your ass, as a starter?" Dan asked him, amused.
"Just try to put it in my mouth, and I'll cut it away with a bite!"
"What did you understand, foolish baby? I was talking about this." Dan said making his cudgel pass under his eyes.
He slowly caressed with it his cheeks, his lips, then very slowly all his body. Then he pushed its tip between the tight buttocks.
"Fucking turd of a bastard!" the boy said.
Dan, fast, seized his nose and squeezed and twisted it until the boy had tears of pain and screamed. Then he hurriedly pushed the cudgel in the boy's mouth, making his scream die off.
He slowly pushed it to the boy's throat: "You really tired me with your vulgarity, Spike. You really tired me." The man said with excited voice.
With his other hand he unbuttoned the fly of his uniform trousers and pulled out his member, already fully erect. He lubed it with his spit, and also the boy's hole. Continuing to move the cudgel in the boy's mouth as if it was a rubber dildo, he went on him trying to penetrate him. Spike resisted tightening his ass muscles, but Dan pushed the cudgel into his throat preventing him from breathing, until the boy, purple and trembling, became still. Then he withdrew the cudgel to allow him to breath again, and resumed pushing with his member. Now Spike was all a tremble and from his wide-open mouth came a heavy breathing, a panting similar to a wheeze. Dan pushed with a set of strokes where he put all his energy. Each time the boy stiffened and tried to resist the penetration, he again pushed the cudgel down the throat, until at last he managed to violate also the last defenses, and sank completely inside the boy's tight hole. The boy tried to scream, but the cudgel prevented him to do so and just a long choked moan came out.
Then Dan Firestone started to hammer inside the boy with violence. He wanted to enjoy that still virgin ass of the boy, but he also wanted to hurt him. He never fucked a boy with such violence -- after all he also liked making them enjoy the fuck. But now he was feeling a new, weird sensation, a wild joy, a sense of unlimited power. He fucked his ass with his big flesh cudgel and his mouth with the leather and lead cudgel. He controlled himself so that he could enjoy the fuck for a long, long time, avoiding to cum soon. He had all the time he wanted. He knew that evening no police patrol was due to go there. Yes, he wanted to fully enjoy as long as possible that formidable fuck of a twenty-two years old virgin hustler. At times he pulled out his meat from the hole, to then push it all inside again with force, enjoying the jolts and desperate moans of Spike
When at last he decided he had enough fun, he cummed with a triumphant yell. He remained embedded deeply inside the boy for a while, trembling with the intensity of his orgasm, with a wild joy. Then he slowly withdrew, cleaned himself with the boy's clothes, put back in his trousers his still half erect member. He took from his pocket a pistol with silencer he had requisitioned from a previous offender and that he didn't turn in, and shot the boy five times. Five shots well distanced, looking at him jolting at each shot, Five shots well aimed, all in the right spot. All five mortal. He then put away the pistol, pulled off the handcuffs from the corpse, took some iron wire and tied again his ankles and wrists in a very tight way -- this would hide the handcuffs marks. Then he pulled out from the pockets of the boy's clothes his wallet, pulled out and pocketed all the money and spread around the other papers. He pulled off his gloves and slipped gloves and pistol into a plastic supermarket bag and tied it. He started his car and left. At the waterside road he opened the window and threw the bag in the open sea. Thanks to the pistol weight, it sank immediately. Nobody would find it any more, and even if it happened, nobody could connect it with him.
The other hustlers would understand. But could not report him, do nothing against him, as he had for that evening an unassailable alibi -- he would now go at the party of three of his colleagues, his accomplices in various little things not really clean, who would swear he was with them from five in the afternoon to two in the morning. He reached the home of the colleague who organized the little party and joined the merry company. No one of them asked him what he did, from where he came -- he was with them for at least seven hours, And he remained there, this time for real for four hours. The day after certainly there would be a short notice in the newspapers about the boy found naked, raped and killed at the old port. And then Dan would do his usual tour, the newspaper well in sight. Yes. the hustlers would understand. And behave.
At one thirty, from the neighboring Italian quarter, the parties of Italian descendants, their friends and curious people that gathered for the festival of the Carmel Virgin, started to leave. At two 'o clock Dan Firestone, forcing his way through the crowd without hurry, feeling more relaxed than he was all the day long, went away from the quarter of poor houses. With the pretext he drank a little too much, he left his car near the house of his colleague who would take it back to him on the following day. He walked to the city center, towards East Hudson Street. He was asking himself when Spike's corpse would be found, when his policeman's instinct made him understand that there was something odd happening. He moved to his left and remained still, hiding in the shadows of a warehouse. His eyes reduced to a slit, he carefully scanned the surrounding darkness. At the end of the block four Spanish boys were coming out from a buckled blue Ford. Shoulder to shoulder, they were waiting for three men who were crossing the street in their direction.
"What should I do?" Firestone asked to himself.
The Spaniards would attack the three passerby, there was no doubt about that. One of them had in his hand a chain that he made lazily swing, another had a knife or perhaps a screw driver, he couldn't clearly see. The third one had leaning on his shoulder a machete held like if it was a gun. He could not see the hands of the fourth one. Unaware of the danger the three dandies were engrossed in their conversation. One of them was small, and had a big gray hairdo with a suit of the same color that had to cost a fortune. Near him was walking a tall blond man with tweed trousers a blue blazer and a spotless white shirt open on the neck, with a tied silk scarf of a tobacco color, The third potential victim, holding the biggest part of the conversation, was a thin young man, with frameless glasses. The young man accompanied his words with feminine gestures.
"Three idiots asking just to be robbed." Dan thought.
His first reaction was to leave and to let the robbery happen without problems. Moreover he was in plain clothes. as he did change at his colleague's home. If those three men wanted to harm themselves, walking at that time of the night in an ill-famed quarter, it was only fair they got what they deserved. If Dan played to do the policeman, he had then to explain to his superiors if he was drunk or not -- if he was, why did he intervene, if he was not, why did he leave his car at his colleague's place... Lot better to leave the three manage the situation by themselves. At the next occasion they would think twice before going in that sewer at night time. If they survived, of course.
But even with these thoughts, Dan found himself walking towards the four tacos who were surrounding their victims near a street lamp. Such a situation recalled to him memories, all bound to the abuse he underwent as a child. Each time he had the occasion to kick in the ass that kind of scum he felt like taking a return match on his father and uncle. That's why he became a policeman. That's why he never ceased to hate the two men that in the Bronx transformed his life in a hell. Another thing possibly pushed him to intervene, even if then he was not aware it. Only later he thought about it -- he possibly guessed that the three men were gay, especially the taller one.
When he was almost in touch with the hoodlums, he pulled out from his bag his regulation Smith & Wesson and held it with his left hand, Then he took out also his black leather and lead cudgel, a real bone breaker absolutely lethal. Slipping his hand in the loop of the hilt Dan fixed it around his wrist. The red fever, that blind rage full of hate that forever gilled him, almost gave him real fever.
Killing Spike had been fun, he had no grudge against the boy. He had to be eliminated to give a lesson to the others and he just did it. But the clash with these four Latin was something different, something personal. Seeing these tacos attacking the three dandies recalled to Firestone that he too had been once a victim. That's why it was unthinkable just slinking off. If he feared something, that something were his memories. His hands hidden at his back, leaving his bag in the shadow, he went under the street lamp light. He was almost foaming at the mouth. His cold eyes didn't move an eyelid. The red fever made him mad.
Like any pack of wolves, that one that Dan was preparing to face didn't want only loot. They wanted power. Like his father and uncle, who, differently from the sailors, didn't want to enjoy with him, but wanted to dominate him, use him, own him. The tall blond was the target of the squat Dominican who, with the tip of his machete, was toying with the buttons of the blue blazer. Stiff with terror, the man was trying to maintain a dignified attitude.
Talking with an English accent, he was trying to show a calm that in reality he didn't have. "Take all you want, boys, but don't do silly things." He was saying.
The Dominican brushed between his legs with the flat of the blade. When the man stepped back, the hoodlum said with a menacing smile: "I want possibly also something else, daddy. Possibly I'll take you with me, so we can drink and also take some good stuff. A party, all the night long. I'll be nice with you, daddy, really nice. I bet that the young one here is who put it in your ass, isn't he? Hey, boys, someone wants to have fun with the short one? To thank them for the donations they so willingly will give us? And what about the young one? Who wants to entertain him?"
While two of the Dominicans were stripping the other two of all their belongings, the one who seemed to be the boss, pushed his machete between the legs of the tall man who shut his eyes and shook his head, seized by panic. It was then that the fourth Dominican, a young man with a pocked face who had in his fist a bicycle chain, became aware that there was somebody at their back. He turned back and Dan hurled himself on him hitting him on his collarbone with his cudgel. The young man fell on the ground screaming.
The thin hoodlum with a dark skin, that until then was busy rummaging in the wallet of the man in gray, didn't either have the time to turn around. Attacking him at his back, Dan hit him at his right elbow. The hoodlum yelled, let the wallet fall on the ground and seized his wounded elbow. A few moments later he rolled forward, kicking his legs and slipped on his knees in a puddle. The one with the machete was caught unaware.
After a fast glance to his beaten companions, he stared at Dan for a couple of seconds before exclaiming: "You rotten turd! I'll break your ass, friend! I'll really break your ass!"
With his blade again leaning on his shoulder he took two steps towards the policeman in plain clothes, but remained petrified when Dan raised his arm and aimed at him with his Smith & Wesson. He tightened his hold on his machete.
"Would you leave it, please?" Dan said with a voice falsely quiet.
His eyes filled with hate, the Dominican hesitated. At the end he left the hold and the machete slipped down on the pavement and resounded with a metallic clang. Dan rotated his pistol barrel to face the fourth hoodlum, the classical type of drug addict with rotten teeth. Nothing to fear on that side, that guy didn't have enough "cojones" to take part in the clash. He was too frightened, or else he had too much faith in the ability of his companion to use his machete.
When the red fever subdued, Dan spoke with a sharp but quiet voice: "Turn around and take your position." He said to the drug addict, who readily complied positioning himself in front to the street lamp, his legs widespread and his arms on the pillar -- he had to be used, he at once understood what Dan wanted from him.
The machete hoodlum, anyway, was still furious: "There must be a cop around here! If I had with me my gun, you'll be dead. You can swear on that, dirty bastard cop, that you'd be dead." He said and spit missing for a hair the left shoe of Dan.
The policeman answered with a smile: "There is a time and a place to play the though, chico." Then he threw a kick at the Dominican's genitals.
He put his Smith & Wesson in his pocket then with his cudgel hit the head of the hoodlum who fell on the ground unconscious. Then he turned to look at the victims, thinking that if they were just passerby, just audience to the scene, and not the attacked people, they would for sure spoke about the police brutality, violation of civil rights, racism towards representatives of an ethnic minority, and other similar bullshit. But he didn't notice any indignant expression for his brutal treatment of the "Latin brothers". The blond with an English accent nodded to express his full assent. The younger looked at Dan with sheer and deep interest. There was something sensual in his expression, in his glance. It was as if the young man's eyes were caressing Dan.
Dan crouched near the drug addict boy who had, slipped under his belt, a carefully sharpened screw driver -- a lethal weapon. He searched him and found a wallet containing three one dollar notes, two condom bags, and two tickets of the underground. He also found three crack vials, that he crushed under his heel, provoking a pain moan on the boy. He took his fun also fingering for a while the boy's soft genitals through his jeans fabric. Now came the most difficult part -- avoiding that the little clash forced him to take the hoodlums at the police station.
The young man, who had beautiful soft hair and two eyes so clear and yet deep, stepped forward and talked in the others' behalf.
Seized Dan's hand between his own, he said: "You rescued our lives. I can't express how much grateful we are to you!"
The touch of his hands was extremely gentle and his glance didn't ever leave him. He spoke perfect English but with a light French accent, very agreeable.
The English man, who was not so young as he seemed from afar, added: "If you didn't arrive... I dare not think what could have happened. My name is Rowland Preston. Good Lord, I am still trembling. You have been magnificent, absolutely magnificent!"
Dan lit a cigarette. He liked hearing that man with his wonderful English accent, something he heard just at the TV or at the movies. If they told him he was the personal secretary of the Queen, he would have believed it. He had an intense, magnetic look. And a refined elegance.
The most scared of the three was the small man with gray hair who, even if he probably was somewhat younger that the English man, seemed to be much older. Wiping the sweat from his forehead with a light blue silk handkerchief, he was grumbling with himself in Italian, as if he was not yet convinced that the bad adventure was ended. Dan didn't like his smile, it was too empty. Empty smiles are smiles of scared men, and scared men are weaklings you cannot trust. Also the English man had been scared, but he was not smiling while he was scared -- he started to smile only when he understood that he was now safe. The English man had balls, not the Italian one.
Giving his hand, the Italian introduced himself: "Alberto Sacchi. Thank you, thank you, thank you! I am grateful, sir, infinitely grateful, believe me."
"You are not people of this neighborhood. People like you in this area are, for hoodlums like these, just an invitation to a robbery." Dan said.
The empty smile of the Italian became even more idiotic: "Ah, sir, we were coming back from the festival of the Carmel Virgin in the Italian quarter and we were going to visit a club, a night bar I would like to buy to transform it in an Italian restaurant... I thought that cutting through here we would reach it earlier, thus... I didn't guess there was a danger..."
"And you were wrong." Dan said with forced kindness.
Why these three didn't go away leaving him in peace? He was considering what would have been better to do, when he noticed something odd. The three men were looking at each other as if they had something to hide. He was a policeman for too long, not to understand on the fly such situations.
The French man was looking at Dan who at last understood -- all three men were gay. But the most interesting thing was that the young French man had been aroused by the violent scene he'd witnessed. It was evident by his fitting trousers now generously swollen on the right spot...
The Frenchman said: "Am I wrong, or you really are a policeman?"
"Yes, I am a policeman. Would you like to make a report against these people?"
Again the three men consulted with a glance. Dan had to hold back from bursting in laughter -- it was evident that, for some reason, the three had no intention at all of doing it.
Again the young man spoke: "We don't need to make any report, sir. Thanks to you we recovered all our belongings and we didn't suffer any harm."
"As you like." Dan said hiding his relief. He let his cigarette fall down and crushed it.
The Frenchman pointed at the Dominicans: "What will become of them?"
"I feel they are engrossed in their thoughts. I think we have not to disturb them." Dan answered with a light air,
Shaking his head, the English man burst in a loud laughter: "Marvelous! Absolutely marvelous! I like you, sir!"
"Can we possibly invite you to have a drink with us? You are not on duty, I presume. Forgive me if I didn't introduce myself. I am Jacques Roux. Doctor Jacques Roux." The young Frenchman said drawing nearer to Dan, and lightly touching Dan Firestone's biceps.
CONTINUES IN CHAPTER TENTH
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