BAD FAIRY, Chapter Four
In the absence of a neck to wring, John gave a furious tug to his Stefano Ricci tie.
His night was scheduled to the minute, his diligence undone by that damned “escort service” - or what-the-hell-ever that basso-voiced female called her sketchy enterprise.
During John’s three prior New Orleans visits, Medulla delivered perfect, pink, smooth twinks unto his hotel as requested.
But her streak ended with Number Four, and how. The scenario at the door was hilarious in a way, John reflected, what with kiboshing that washed-up, smart-mouthed unfortunate.
Hilarious indeed, except that it wasn’t funny in the goddamn least.
The fundraiser kicking off Mayor Rudy Plum’s re-election campaign was well underway in the Bayou Ballroom downstairs. John cross-checked his Rolex with the evening’s itinerary: cocktail hour was just drawing to a close if they held to the schedule, the waiters corralling the donors to their preassigned tables at that very moment.
His congratulatory address was scheduled for 8:10 PM. On consenting to the speech two months prior, he declined to attend the dinner, eschewing the chance to hobnob with the generously-endowed local donors. Why on earth, when he could divert that precious hour to wield his own generous endowment over a smooth, twinky rentboy?
7:00-7:45 PM: Rentboy.
7:45 PM: Blow Load, Boot the Kid.
7:45-8:00 PM: Rinse Off, Dress.
8:00-8:10 PM: Travel Downstairs.
8:10-8:30: Exhort 200 Wealthy NOLA Republicans to Contribute to His Old Chum, Rudy Plum.
10 PM: Drinks.
His meticulously laid plans? A shambles, now. Damn it anyway. So dinner downstairs it was, after all; the Mayor’s handlers had promised to hold him a seat on the dais just in case.
He straightened the lapel of his bespoke Hermes dinner jacket, clenched his fists, and decided to give that Medulla woman a piece of his mind en route to the Bayou Ballroom.
“And what shows up at my door?” John growled into his earpiece as he exited the elevator. “Some AARP-eligible sad-sack.”
“I’m awful sorry, sir, I shoulda cancelled when the first boy fell through. Can I make it up to you?”
That’s better. “Maybe. Whaddaya got?”
“Right up your alley. Young, this time. Sweet lil’ Georgia peach. Damn near a virgin. Turns out he’s free tonight.”
“Your definition of ‘young’ is generous, to say the least.”
“I promise you’ll enjoy his company, and tell ya what, I’ll make the first hour gratis in ah, appreciation of your Elite-Level Status.”
That’s more like it, John thought. That’s how you treat a frequent flyer.
“Want me to book him?” Medulla purred. “He can drop by the hotel in, let’s say, an hour-fifteen?”
“Let’s say not. Not now, anyway. I’m attending an event. And getting drinks after. But I’ll be back ‘round elevenish …”
He strolled past a helmet-haired matron melting down at the concierge desk, and raised a sympathetic eyebrow to the blank-faced man suffering in silence beside her.
I’m free of such henpeckery ‘til I get home on Monday, John mused. Carpe fucking diem!
He lingered briefly outside the Bayou Ballroom to confirm the details.
“I'm so sorry,” the concierge told Kayleigh. “The maitre’d says they’re booked solid.”
Kayleigh fixed the concierge with an icy stare, then turned in actressy dismay to her husband and son. She shook her head in a rueful ‘So THAT’s how we play’ manner and ran her tongue inside her lips. Leaning on the desk, she gazed at her hands as if to gather strength, then snapped her head upwards on an inhale. “The restaurant can’t be booked.”
“They got a Michelin Star. I mean, people wait by the phone to call when reservations open a month before. I don’t know what to tell you.”
“How ‘bout you tell me that you’re gonna call the matri-dee back, escalate to the owner, and inform them that the Chancellor of Jesus University would like a table with his wife. And why? To celebrate our son’s robotics team taking Second Place for Jesus U at the National Competition Thing today.”
Kayleigh knocked three times on the desk and cocked a triumphant eyebrow at her family. “Sometimes ya gotta bring out the big guns.” Disdaining the concierge, she addressed an adjacent fern. “Trust me, y’all don’t want me to get started on Yelp.”
“Mom, come on,” her son Gage murmured, shrinking into the depths of his red JESUS U hoodie, wishing - as he often did - that he were anyplace else.
“Boys, I need to sit,” Kayleigh complained, limping to a wicker furniture set arranged in an adjacent nook. Her ‘boys’ trailed glumly behind. Settling into a giant egg chair, she kicked off her Manolo Blahnik slingbacks, crossed her feet on the coffee table and snapped her fingers at her husband. “Where’s it that Shirl recommended?”
“Which one is Shirl,” Larry intoned in a minor key.
“Where you get those, whaddaya call ‘em, feng shuis.”
“Beignets,” Gage corrected her.
Kayleigh slapped her thighs in mirth. “Whoops! That Sazerac back there threw me for a loop! Yes, those.”
Gage’s phone buzzed in his pocket. He withdrew it carefully, shielding the screen.
“Last night your Dad and me dropped by a dive bar and met the cutest bartender,” Kayleigh burbled chattily to Gage. She touched her husband’s knee. “What was his name?”
“Didn’t sink in.”
“DeShawn? … Darius? … A black name. He wasn’t the, y’know, gang-banger type. Really helpful. A credit to his race.”
A Black couple passing behind her shared a Did you just hear that? glance and moved on.
“Kayleigh, for God’s sakes,” Larry groaned.
“It was a compliment! Jeez,” she scoffed. “Like I married Mr. Woke all of a sudden.”
”I gotta, like, go,” Gage informed his parents.
“That’s right, you kids get out and celebrate! Paint the town!” She snapped her fingers at her husband. “Get him some money for some champagne or whatever.” Larry reached for his wallet. “Don’t drink to excess, now!” she sang to Gage. “Let’s not forget Ephesians 5:18 …”
“I promise.”
“You gonna bring your trophy?”
“No.”
“You’re the MVP of Jesus University! Show it off to people!”
“Proverbs 22:4, Kayleigh,” Larry reminded her in a monotone, peeling five twenties from his wallet.
“Well, Solomon didn’t take second place in the National Robotics Competition, now, did he?” She chuckled, slapping her husband’s knee. “We done good, Larry, with this one.” She crinkled her eyes at Gage.
“Yes indeed.”
“Watch out for pickpockets,” Kayleigh warned Gage as he rose to his feet. “And those, y’know, rainbow - those alphabet people. The groomers.”
“Mom, I’m twenty-one.”
“That’s how they get ya.”
Larry gravely handed Gage a folded pile of bills. “Pretty sure I locked eyes with a couple fudge packers back on Bourbon Street. Stared ‘em down.”
“Thanks, Mom and Dad,” Gage said, pocketing the money.
“When you gettin’ back?” Kayleigh asked.
Gage shrugged, backing towards the hotel entry. “I’ll be down in the lobby in time for the car.”
“The taxi’s at eight AM sharp. There’s a buffet! Starts at six!”
“‘Nite.”
“Don’t get any STDs! You can catch ‘em by just shaking hands!”
Emerging onto Canal Street, Gage spotted Clark loitering in a pool of light beneath a streetlamp.
Hands in his pockets, head tilted down with a smirk, Clark’s eyes burned into Gage beneath thick raven eyebrows. Under his white shredder-style tank top he was all scrawn and sinew - Black Irish, perhaps, hairless save thick black thatches bursting from his scalp and armpits.
His skin was covered in a hodgepodge of ink.
Gage privately admired men with tattoos. His heart fluttered to be in the presence of a real-life Bad Boy. His family’s position at Jesus University sequestered him from sinister influences.
“What do I spy with my little eye?” Clark crowed in a sing-song voice, leaning on the lamppost. “If it ain’t LookinRound21.”
“It’s Gage. Hey.”
“It’s Clark.”
Gage glanced back at the lobby, where the top of his mother’s hair-helmet was visible beyond the window. “Wanna like, walk?”
Clark knitted his eyebrows in a perplexed manner. “Don’t I get a look-see at your fancy digs?”
“Not right now.”
“What, ya think I’m some kinda criminal?” Clark asked with a hurt-little-boy expression.
“No,” Gage hesitated.
Clark peeled himself from the lamppost and strolled toward Gage in a sinuous manner. “C’mon. Just for five minutes. Bet ya got a nice view. What floor ya on?”
“Eight,” Gage told Clark. “It’s like, the same as being here, just higher.”
“We can warm each other up ...”
“It is kinda chilly.” Gage gestured toward Clark’s scanty tank top. “Wanna borrow my hoodie?”
“Okey dokey.”
Gage pulled the hoodie over his head; Clark reflexively licked his lips, admiring the white white skin of Gage’s exposed belly as his undershirt rode up, his gentle treasure trail … the wholesome blank-page purity of the kid.
“So, you ah, got my finder’s fee?”
“I do,” Gage assured him, passing Clark his sweatshirt. He smoothed his tee back into place and took out his phone. “And just to, like, confirm - you’re positive you know who he is?” He showed Clark the mugshot again.
“HIV-positive,” Clark chuckled, puffing up. “I’m the Mayor ‘round here. I know everybody.” He smirked at the mugshot. “And one thing’s for sure. She’s seen better days.”
Gage replaced his phone in his front pocket, fingers resting on the stack of bills handed to him by his father. “Can you, like, tell me his name? Before I give you the money? Just to confirm?”
“It’s Ariel, dummy.”
“And you promise to take me to him?”
“I never break promises,” Clark said. “I promise.”
Gage slipped the money to Clark.
COMING UP IN CHAPTER FIVE: Betty Has a Surprise!
Thank You For Reading BAD FAIRY! Peace and Love,
