A dozen or so guys sat at the bar, a trio stood by the pool table.

  Another, off by himself, leaned against the wall, fingering a cue stick.

  The Handle Bar was not unlike some of the leather bars in San Francisco. At a glance, most of these guys would not have looked out of place at The Eagle on a Sunday afternoon. And, just like at The Eagle, pretty much everyone looked when he came in. Gay men always checked the newcomers, just in case.

  Only, at The Eagle, the glances would have been of a slightly different nature, and maybe just a bit more welcoming. These were curious, and instantly hostile, too. They said, to a man,

  ‘This isn’t your kind of place, fairy.’

  This is no different from the school play, Stanley told himself. He’d been a detective in that too, had crossed a dining room crowded with suspects, all of them watching with carefully hostile expressions. Pretend you’re just acting a part.

  Most of the patrons continued to stare openly as he crossed to the bar. The bartender, drying some glasses with a towel, glowered at him wordlessly. In a minute, Stanley felt sure, he’d be told to beat it. Something like that had happened in the school play, too.

  Stanley opened his mouth to speak before he could be shooed away. Nothing came out. He could still hear the director’s voice: Cut. Mister Korski, you do know your lines, don’t you?

  Stanley’s throat felt like it had been sandpapered. He swallowed and tried again. “I’m looking for the butler,” he said.

  No, that wasn’t right, that was the play. Now he remembered that damned line. “For Rack,” he corrected himself. “I’m looking for someone named Rack.”

  108 Victor Banis

  No answer, just that disapproving glower. Stanley was summoning his nerve to ask again when he realized the bartender was no longer looking at him, but over his shoulder.

  Stanley turned and found himself face to face with the man who’d been standing alone at the wall. He was still holding his cue stick, turning it slowly, menacingly, around in his hand.

  And, as surely as if he’d worn one of those party name tags, Stanley knew this was Rack.

  Endlessly horny Rack; abusive, violent Rack; Donnie McIntosh’s demon lover, and his constant torment. Stanley knew the type. He had seen them plenty of times before. It didn’t much matter if they were gay or straight, they were in a caste of their own, beautiful and dangerous, like those tropical snakes with brilliant bands the color of precious jewels, and deadly venom. This particular snake looked on the verge of striking.

  “You’re Rack, aren’t you?’ Stanley asked, and was surprised to find his voice so steady. He was a better actor, maybe, than he had realized. I’m ready for my close up, Mister De Mille.

  For an answer, Rack nodded and smiled wordlessly.

  Stanley stared at him, repelled and fascinated all at once.

  Rack’s face was leathery tan and already lined; in ten, fifteen years, it would look like carved oak, and be none the worse for it: eyes hard as anthracite, lips thin and mean looking. Not what one might call handsome, but he exuded a raw animal magnetism. Stanley felt as if he could almost see the pheromones wafting like the devil’s own mist about him.

  He was tall, too, six two maybe, six three, lean, but with that whippy look that said he’d be ugly in a fight, and tireless in bed, and as relentlessly unfeeling in one as the other. His chest, furry red, was bare beneath a worn leather vest. He wore Levis, second-skin tight, unbuttoned at the fly, and open so low they revealed a little patch of coppery pubic hair. Another inch, two at the most, and he’d have been flashing naked wienie.

  It was crude and vulgar, juvenile, almost—and undeniably sexy, but a brutal kind of sexy. It was without discretion, too, part of the package, aimed at the world in general and not at anyone in particular. But it could be. It could be aimed DEADLY WRONG 109

  wherever he chose, and it would have its effect. And Rack was not unconscious of that fact, either.

  Only, incongruously, and even as he felt the pull of the man’s sexual magnetism, Stanley nevertheless found himself wondering if that wienie almost on display was long and especially thin. Is there a polite way to ask about that, Miss Manners?

  Excuse me, but could I check the lead in your pencil?

  He pulled his eyes away from that gleaming bush and saw that Rack had taken note of his interest. Rack’s smile was taunting, inviting and threatening all at once.

  “I’m looking into the death of Donnie McIntosh,” Stanley said, realizing that his voice had come out higher than he’d planned, and tugging it down into a chest tone instead. “I understand you knew him.”

  “Knew him?” Rack laughed and looked around. His audience at the bar and the pool table laughed with him. “Fuck, yes,” he looked back at Stanley. “It’s a small town, you know? I guess there’s lots of guys here who knew him. One way or the other.” A few more snickers from the bar.

  Stanley had this all but overwhelming urge to turn and run as fast as his legs would take him. Which, all things considered, would almost certainly not be fast enough. He tried to think how far it was to the door. Ten feet? Ten miles? His hands were shaking. He clasped them tightly behind his back, and stood his ground. Tom had taught him that: Never let them know you’re scared.

  Note to self: Self, do not under any circumstances start wetting your pants. They will almost certainly suspect you are scared.

  “Uh, since you brought it up,” he said, “what way or the other? Just a matter of curiosity, you understand.”

  “So what is this, another fag investigating a dead one?”

  “Gay,” Stanley said. He absolutely hated the word fag. It was one thing if another queen used it, but coming from this…

  this… man, it really frosted him. Anger gave him courage, overcoming his fear. He absolutely was not going to wet his pants now. “We prefer gay to fag.”

  “Meaning, you are a fag.” He waited for Stanley to confirm or deny it, but Stanley only regarded him coldly. After a 110 Victor Banis

  moment, Rack gave him an amused sneer. “Let me ask you, fag, aren’t you scared, coming into a place like this, all these real men?”

  Stanley glanced around. Several of the bikers were watching the scene with undisguised amusement. Behind him, the door opened, letting in a quick flash of light, and closed again as someone came in.

  Oh, great, he thought, like they needed reinforcements. There goes my path of retreat. He reconsidered that pants wetting business.

  “I cut my teeth on tougher men than I see here,” Stanley said, a line he had run across a while back in a book and thought very funny. He hoped he sounded appropriately disdainful. Inside, he was thinking, Oh, crap, and wondering again how far it was to the door, and if he could get there before Rack beat him to death with that cue stick.

  “Is that right?” Rack said, stepping closer to Stanley, so close that Stanley, short as he was, had to tilt his head back to look up into his face. Close enough he’d hardly have to do more than move his hand ever so slightly to run his fingers through that gleaming pubic hair. Like, say, if he wanted to check Rack’s pencil for thickness. Involuntarily, his fingers wriggled in anticipation. Maybe he could get a good feel before he died. Go out with one in his hand, at least.

  “Big talk, little girl,” Rack said, “considering there’s a bunch of us, and you’re all alone.”

  “Only, he’s not alone,” a voice said directly behind Stanley.

  Stanley jumped a foot or so into the air, and looked over his shoulder, and his eyes went wide.

  “Tom,” he said, hardly able to believe what he saw. “What are you…?”

  Rack looked momentarily a little less sure of himself. Tom Danzel was maybe an inch or two shorter than the biker, but his shoulders were about as wide as the pool table across the room, and his arms, even covered as they were by the sleeves of his windbreaker, were obviously massive. And, in any tough guy attitude competition, Tom was a good bet for the gold medal.

  “So, who are you?” Rack asked, attempting and not quite pulling off an air of bravado. “His Daddy?”

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  “I’m the guy who’s going to relocate your asshole if you don’t take a few steps back.”

  “Yeah?” Rack said, but he did take two or three steps back.

  He looked quickly around, but several of the bikers had lost their amusement—and, it appeared, their fascination too. The bartender was busy polishing glasses and looking studiously disinterested. One or two of those sitting at the bar had spun around on their stools to face the other way. Only a couple of them and the trio at the pool table were still watching the confrontation.

  Tom looked at Stanley, the briefest of glances, and nodded his head toward the door. “Go,” he said. “Outside.”

  Stanley had been known to take umbrage when Tom, as was his way, barked orders at him, but just now he did not argue.

  There were times, after all, when it was best to follow orders, and he counted this one of them.

  He went past Tom, but at the door he paused, waiting for Tom. Scared or not, he couldn’t leave him there alone. You didn’t just walk out on your partner, even a partner who was an asshole. Anyway, the asshole had probably just saved his life.

  If Tom had any fears, however, they didn’t show. He shot one quick, measuring glance around the room, letting it rest for a fleeting second on the threesome at the pool table, and, turning his back on Rack, strolled with complete nonchalance to the door. “Let’s go,” he said, pushing it open for Stanley to go out before him.

  Outside, though, he moved faster, way fast, grabbing Stanley’s arm and practically dragging him across the parking lot. “Get in the truck. The Ram.”

  “I’ve got my own—”

  “Get in,” Tom said angrily, shoving Stanley hard in the direction of the big red pick up. “Now, damn it.”

  Stanley did. Tom was behind the wheel and swinging the truck around in the parking lot before Stanley even had his seat belt fastened. His door swung wide, slammed shut as the car slewed. Behind them, Stanley had a glimpse of Rack and a quartet of leather clad bikers rushing out the bar’s door. Rack 112 Victor Banis

  still had the pool cue in his hand and a couple of others were brandishing beer bottles.

  Tom spun gravel exiting the lot. Tires squealed as they gripped the asphalt of the highway, skidding directly into the path of a silver SUV. It almost plowed into them and a horn blasted, the driver’s angry face visible through the windshield that was uncomfortably close for a few seconds, until Tom had accelerated out of his way with everything the big Dodge had under the hood.

  “So, what on earth,” Stanley started to say.

  “Are they coming after us?”

  Stanley hadn’t even thought of that. Who would be stupid enough to go after Tom Danzel, even five to one? Of course, they didn’t know him. And people did do stupid things.

  Stanley swung around in the seat to look out the rear window. The SUV, a Mercedes, had fallen behind but was quickly gaining on them again. With another blast of its horn, it swung around them and passed, going significantly more than the posted speed limit, and cut them off short. A hand, with one finger raised, waved out the window at them.

  It’s passing, though, had given Stanley a clear view of The Handle Bar and the parking lot, nobody pulling out of it. Rack and his buddies were just disappearing back inside.

  “They lost interest, I guess.”

  “Good.” Tom eased up on the gas and the pickup settled down to a less frantic speed. “I hate taking on a whole roomful.”

  “So,” Stanley said, grinning despite himself and looking across the seat at the grim expression on Tom’s face, “What are you doing here, for Pete’s sake, in Bear Mountain? And how on earth did you even find me, at that bar, of all places?”

  “The wimp back at that cabin.” He shot Stanley a frosty look. “Are you doing him?”

  “Carl? Don’t be silly. That never crossed my mind. Or his either, I’m quite sure. He’s the victim. Well, actually he’s the accused, but I think he’s a victim too. And why aren’t you in San Francisco? At work?”

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  “Rotation. Four days off. I took a fifth one.”

  “But—”

  “Stanley, save the goddamn chatter, okay? I’m in no mood for any of your funny lines.”

  “Methinks—”

  “And no poetry either.”

  “Okay,” Stanley said. Actually, he was thinking of last night’s moon, of Selene, the moon goddess, and a silent prayer he’d offered, only half consciously. Silly, of course. But it was a remarkable coincidence, wasn’t it?

  Only, Crazy Mary had told him, hadn’t she, that Tom was on the way? Plus, she had called him Stanley’s boyfriend.

  Hmm. He wondered what her success rate was.

  § § § § §

  Carl was there when they got back to the cabin, sitting on the sofa watching television. He jumped to his feet, startled by their sudden appearance, and clicked the set off.

  “Get lost,” Tom said unceremoniously, nodding his head toward the door, and added, somewhat incongruously and without a trace of politeness, “please.”

  Carl blinked and looked from Tom’s face to Stanley’s, and back to Tom’s. Whatever he saw there apparently answered any questions he might have had.

  “Sure, no problem,” he said. He went past them, carefully, as if expecting one of them to punch him. They heard the front door close behind him.

  Tom looked over his shoulder to make sure he really had gone. “Nobody else around?” he asked.

  “No, I—”

  “Good.” Tom grabbed Stanley and pulled him close, kissed him hard, brutally in fact, his teeth drawing blood from Stanley’s lower lip. His scent filled Stanley’s nostrils, all sweat and sex—not the funky smell of spilled semen but the sharp animal tang of sex on the rise, like a stallion after a ready mare.

  Tom took his mouth away, breathing raggedly, and began to rip Stanley’s clothes off him—literally. A couple of shirt buttons 114 Victor Banis

  flew across the room with loud pinging noises as Tom tore the shirt open.

  “Whoa, whoa, Tarzan, I can do it,” Stanley said, pushing Tom’s hands away and laughing. He made little waving gestures.

  “Why don’t you, you know, concentrate on your things, if we’re going to get naked?”

  Which Tom did, shedding his clothes in something near a frenzy, so that he was done before Stanley, was bouncing up and down on his toes in some kind of nervous jitterbug, his erection jutting out in front of him at full attention.

  The sight of that slowed Stanley down some. He couldn’t help it, he had to feast his eyes on it while he undressed. He’d been so sure it had been forever denied him, and there it was, proud and tall. He got the shirt off, salvaging the rest of the buttons and making a mental note to find the two that had gone sailing—it was a favorite shirt.

  He sat on the edge of the sofa to slip off sneakers and socks, stood to drop his trousers. Tom getting more impatient with each passing second—too impatient, as it turned out, to wait for Stanley to slip out of his bikini briefs.

  Stanley had barely hooked his thumbs in the waistband of his bikini when Tom pushed his hands away, grabbed the briefs in both of his own hands and gave a mighty tug, ripping them apart so violently that Stanley half lost his balance and fell against him.

  Stanley stared down in astonishment at the pieces of cloth that had a moment before been his underwear. He had never heard of anybody doing that. He had never, in fact, heard of anybody being that horny. It was scary. Still, a little ripple of excitement zigzagged down his spine, like an electrical current.

  Jesus! What had brought this on? Is it me? He’s so hot for me that he has to rip my clothes off? The electric current went back up, and down again .

  He’d have asked that very question, too, about the state of Tom’s arousal. Had, in fact, opened his mouth to do so, but Tom was too horny as well for conversation. He lifted Stanley up by his waist and, tossing him over one broad shoulder like a bag of potatoes, strode quickly with him into the bedroom.

  DEADLY WRONG 115

  Which Stanley found so thrilling he almost came right there and then—until the point where Tom tossed him onto the bed, so unceremoniously that it knocked the breath out of him, and before Stanley could mouth a protest, Tom had fallen on him, was kissing him again, with a desperate kind of intensity.

  And, in a heartbeat, lifted Stanley’s legs over his shoulders—

  which as Stanley well knew was almost certainly, if past experience with men was any indication, a prelude to fucking him in the ass—not, as it happened, one of Stanley’s preferred activities. Not one he much cared for at all. Which he was sure he had made clear to Tom in the past.

  “Actually, I don’t—”

  “You do now,” Tom said, cutting off any further protests with another kiss, and breaking that just long enough to ask,

  “condoms?”

  “Uh, I don’t… I wasn’t expecting…”

  “Fuck, you really are a pain in the ass, you know,” Tom snarled. He jumped off the bed and strode back into the front room, where he’d left his clothes on the floor.

  Stanley watched him bend down, affording a splendid view of his naked backside. Stanley remembered the description he’d once given his friend Chris: the kind of butt you want to bite into and pray for lockjaw. And let him explain that to the boys at the station.

  He did so hope this wasn’t going to be one of those whambam-thank-you-ma’am kind of experiences. He was mentally totting up a list of possible activities, many of them inspired by the view at hand.

  Bending, Tom fumbled in a pocket of his trousers, straightened and came quickly back to the bedroom tearing the foil wrapping off a condom as he came. A hot pink condom.

  He came prepared? Stanley thought with another jolt of pleasure . He came looking for me with a condom in his pocket? A hot pink condom. Stanley’s erection jumped with so much excitement that he forgot all about how he didn’t like to take it this way.