#
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 whatever that basso-voiced creature called her sketchy enterprise.
Over John’s three prior New Orleans visits, Medulla delivered perfect, pink twinks unto his hotel as requested.
But Number Four broke her streak and how. The scenario at the door was hilarious in a way, John reflected, what with kicking that washed-up, smart-mouthed unfortunate to the curb.
The fundraiser kicking off Mayor Rudy Plum’s re-election campaign was underway in the Bayou Ballroom downstairs. John cross-checked his Rolex with the evening’s itinerary: cocktail hour was drawing to a close if they held to the schedule, the waiters corralling the donors to their tables.
7:00-7:45 PM: Rentboy.
7:45 PM: Blow Load, Boot 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. But as the Mayor’s handlers promised him a seat on the dais just in case, he figured he might as well go.
He straightened the lapel of his bespoke Hermes dinner jacket, clenched his fists, and decided to give Medulla a piece of his mind en route to the Bayou Ballroom.
#
“And what shows up at my door?” John growled into his earpiece on exiting 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?”
“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 appreciation of your Elite-Level Status.”
That’s more like it, John thought. That’s how you treat a frequent flyer.
“Want 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. But I’ll be back ‘round elevenish …”
He strolled past a helmet-haired matron giving hell to the concierge, and raised a brotherly eyebrow to the blank-faced husband 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 worker with an imperious 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. Folks 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 maitre’d 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 at Nationals for Jesus University today. And he’s just a freshman!”
The concierge made a compulsory impressed “Oooh!” face. Kayleigh knocked three times on the desk and cocked a triumphant eyebrow at her husband. “Sometimes ya gotta bring out the big guns.”
“Mom, come on,” Gage murmured. He shrank into the depths of his “Jesus U” hoodie, wishing - as he often did - that he were anyplace else.
“You don’t want to get me started on Yelp,” Kayleigh warned the concierge, settling into an adjacent egg chair. She snapped her fingers at her husband. “Where’s it that Shirl recommended?”
“Which one is Shirl,” Larry intoned in a minor key.
“That place where you get those, whaddaya call ‘em, feng shuis.”
“Beignets,” Gage corrected her.
“Last night your Dad and me met the nicest waiter.” She tapped 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 passed behind Kayleigh, sharing a Did you just hear that? glance before moving on.
“Kayleigh, for lands’ sakes,” Larry groaned.
“It was a compliment! Mercy,” she scoffed. “Like I married Mr. Woke all of a sudden.”
Gage’s phone buzzed in his pocket. He withdrew it carefully, shielding the screen:
”I gotta, like, go,” Gage informed his parents. “Todd’s back from dinner. We’re gonna take a walk in the Garden District.”
“You kids get out and have fun! But be careful. And don’t forget Ephesians 5:18 …”
“I won’t drink anything, I promise. I don’t like the taste anyway.”
“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.
“But Solomon didn’t take second place in the National Robotics Competition, did he?” Kayleigh chuckled, slapping her husband’s knee. “We done good, Larry, with this one.” She crinkled her eyes at Gage.
“Yes, we did.”
“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 eighteen.”
“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 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 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 toward the lobby, spotting his mother’s hair-helmet beyond the window. “Wanna like, take a 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 nothing much. The same as here, just higher.”
“We can warm each other up...”
“You cold? 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. He handed Clark his sweatshirt, 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 photo again.
“HIV-positive,” Clark chuckled, puffing up. “I’m the Mayor ‘round here. I know everybody.” He smirked at the distressed face in the mugshot. “And one thing’s for sure. She’s seen better days.”
Gage replaced his phone in his pocket, fingering the stack of bills handed 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.
###
Thank You For Reading BAD FAIRY!
☮️ & ❤️,
