Chapter 9
Slightly Soiled

Working the street was a dangerous job. Not all johns were timid little men, afraid of the world finding out about their dark secret—those jerks were easy to handle, as long as they didn't get paranoid. Customers often confided that they were just "regular guys" who had "never done anything like this before." As if Willie cared. But some harbored a combination of shame and anger, and sometimes would direct that anxiety at the object of their desire.

Willie set out on the evening of what was to be his last in the business, when a policeman stopped his patrol car and told him to get in the back seat. The hustler wasn't sure if he was being arrested, so he sat quietly and was relieved when the officer drove not to the police station but to a secluded spot, a clearing in the woods. Cops were always looking for freebies.

Exiting the vehicle, the officer grabbed his billy stick, yanked Willie from the back seat, cuffed him from behind and threw him facedown across the hood. Pulling Willie back by the hair, the policeman whispered in his ear, "You have the right to remain silent."

Bleeding and bruised, Willie walked for what seemed an eternity back to the motel room, clutching at his clothing to keep it from falling off. Jason tried not to look shocked when the young man pushed off the doorway and fell into his arms.

"Christ Almighty, look at you, your clothes are all torn."

Willie stumbled into the room and collapsed on his bed. "Ya should see the other guy," he mumbled.

Jason held up his partner's wrist where the skin was rubbed away, but the young man yanked it back. "Don't touch that, it's sore. I just gave a freebie to a kinky cop."

"And he didn't ask very politely, did he?"

Willie put a bloody tooth on the nightstand. "Maybe—it could go back in."

"Sure, but it hardly shows at all." Jason cleaned up his damaged goods and tucked him into bed with ice wrapped in their last clean towel. He cleared away the others covered in mud, blood and vomit.

"Slightly Soiled, that's me," Willie muttered.

He tried to remember why his hair and clothes were damp. The hustler closed his eyes as the events of the evening returned to memory.

Willie had woken up on the ground. Something splashed into one eye and the other was swollen shut. The first things that came into focus were shiny black shoes, flecked with fresh blood. The policeman stood pouring water on him from a plastic gallon jug. The boy sputtered and coughed, and curled into a ball when the cop viciously kicked him in the ribs.

"Wake up. I'm not done with you," the man said. "If you pass out again, it'll be gasoline, not water. Understand?" He kicked the youth once more. "I asked you a question."

Willie nodded.

The officer knelt beside Willie and, taking the service revolver from his holster, removed the safety and shoved it in the teen's mouth.

"So, you like to suck things. Well, suck on this." The young man tasted cold metal mixed with blood where the muzzle had knocked a tooth loose. His vision began to dissolve again into something gray and fuzzy.

Holy Mary, mother of God, pray for us sinners
now, and at the hour of our death…

The cop removed the pistol and whipped it across Willie's face. "I said, stay awake!" He threw the gun to the ground and stood up. "Alright, that's it; you were warned." He fished out his keys and turned away to open the trunk of the patrol car.

Willie again curled into a ball. Stretching his hands as far as he could, he slid his butt and then his legs back through the loop his arms made, bringing the cuffs to the front. Then the boy rolled onto his side, reached out and grabbed the revolver.

The policeman was searching inside his vehicle. As he stood upright and closed the trunk, Willie fired.

When Jason left to get more ice from the bin outside their motel room, the young hustler took the opportunity to pull the blanket over his head for a minute. Playing in his head was the death scene from Public Enemy. Cagney staggers into the gutter in the pouring rain, clutching his gunshot wounds: "I ain't so tough."

His voice cracked a little as the caregiver dabbed a cut above his swollen eye with a cool washcloth. "I don't wanna do this anymore; I'm never gonna work again."

For once, the Irishman had nothing to say. Willie was afraid of the repercussions, but he had to say it, even if Jason threw him out on the street right now. He could join that other guy, Sean, and the rest of Jason's former partners, living in a cardboard box.

His partner dismissed the kid's comment. "Mustn't think about that tonight. Things will look better in the mornin'…well, maybe in a few days."

"You don't understand. That cop—I killed him."

Jason stopped, his hand and washcloth paused in midair. He stared at Willie, grasping him by the shoulders.

"You what? Are you sure he's dead?"

"I shot him five times—in the back. I'm dunno if they all hit him 'cause I couldn't see too good, but he went down—and there was some blood. When I took the keys outta his hand to unlock my cuffs, he didn't move. I hadda do it; he was gonna kill me."

"Did you wipe off your fingerprints?"

"Just the gun. There's probably more all over, I dunno. Jason, I'm scared." Willie didn't like the look on his partner's face. Every man for himself, as the Irishman would say. An awkward silence hung in the air.

"Are we splittin' up?" the boy asked quietly.

"I'd like to meet the feller who could break up this team." Jason flashed his famous grin, changing his mood like the flip of a switch. "Sit up, let's get you wrapped." He proceeded to secure an ace bandage around Willie's cracked ribs.

"Jason, why do ya take care a' me?" Willie held his arms up in the air. "I mean, why did ya pick me to be yer partner?"

The Irishman mused. "Well, now that's a good question, because most of the time, you're far more trouble than you're worth. But, ya know, I had a son once, almost your age, and you make me think of him. Liam, his name was."

"What happened? Did he die?"

"The influenza. He was just a wee lad."

Willie doubted that the story was true; Jason didn't know blarney from bullshit. He wondered if the Irishman would have sent his own son to work the streets, but instead broached a new topic. "So…ya married?"

"Of that I'm not sure. Siobhan was in with a dicey crowd who devoted themselves to firebombing government buildings. She knew how to plant explosives or would sometimes just throw a flamin' bottle through a window. Last I heard she was in prison, but by now she may be dead. Who knows?"

Jason adjusted the boy's pillow as he lay down and tucked in the blanket. "Tell you what: I'll look after you now, and you can tend me in me dotage, like a good son."

Willie smiled at the thought of himself, fat and gray, pushing his skeletal, withered partner in a wheelchair which they rammed into pedestrians in order to pick their pockets. He had never thought much about the future before, but now was not a good time—there were more pressing problems.

"What are we gonna do now, Jason? How are we gonna get money?"

"Sounds like it's time for a hasty exit. Just as well, you're gettin' long in the tooth for this line of work, anyway."

"What does that mean, like all used up?" Jason ignored the question and poured them each a drink.

"Time for a new adventure! I do believe I'm missin' the smell of salt air." He grinned. "How would you like to go on an ocean voyage and see the world?"

Willie's eye opened. The one that could. "Do ya mean it?"

"Now, haven't I always been straight with you? And, boy-o, wait 'til we get to Hong Kong. They have the most talented ladies in the world." They clinked glasses.

"That sounds real nice," the young man mumbled drowsily.

Jason sang a soft lullaby about drunken sailors until Willie fell asleep.

Willie sat at the Capri Garden Lounge bar waiting for Jason to come and fetch him; they were about to sail to Hong Kong. Dark and decrepit, the place was lit only by a row of small votive chapel candles that lined the bar, and deserted, except for his friend, Charlie, who sat on the stool next to him.

"Hey, Charlie, I missed you. I'm gonna do like you said—gonna travel all over and see the world."

Willie tugged on the old man's sleeve to get his attention, but Charlie's decayed arm came off in his hand. The boy placed it carefully on the bar and studied the corpse. His childhood friend was gray and rotting, but still clutched his beer mug and stared with hollow eye sockets at the dark television screen on the wall.

Willie noticed that he had a beer too, but it was warm and smelled like—gasoline. He pushed it away as a flaming bottle crashed through the plate glass window, and in an instant, the barroom was ablaze. The young man raced for the exit and pushed against it with all his might, but it wouldn't budge. Only then did he notice a sign above the handle: PULL. Willie yanked the heavy wooden door open with a bang and in the doorway, silhouetted by moonlight, was the police officer with shiny black shoes. Flames illuminated his face as the cop entered the bar, pushing Willie ahead of him.

"You didn't think you were going to get away that easy, did you?" He advanced on the youth, who backed into the bar. Charlie took no notice of the interaction.

"You can't be here; you're d-dead," Willie stammered. "I shot you."

The policeman flashed a wide grin and laughed. "You got it all wrong, son. I'm the one who shot you, right before I turned you into a crispy critter. You're lying in the hospital ICU right now, knocking at death's door."

Willie shook his head in confusion. "No…no…"

"See for yourself." The cop grabbed him and spun the kid around to see their reflection in the mirror behind the bar.

The edges of Willie's clothes were reduced to cinders and stained with blood. His hair was burnt away, and his face and body were covered with black, charred skin, peeling away to reveal raw, pink flesh and bone beneath. The officer had his arm around the boy, tightly gripping his shoulder as he smiled into the mirror.

"Call me Dad," the cop whispered in his ear as the flames rose around them.

Willie sprung up in bed with a yell, and the sudden harsh movement sent a shot of pain to his battered ribcage. Jason walked over to the bedside and settled his partner back under the covers, feeling the lad's forehead.

"We'll have no more bad dreams now."

Embarrassed by the outburst, Willie struggled to find a comfortable position. "It's okay, lemme alone." But he was still trembling.

"Alright, tough guy, I'm goin' to get you some aspirin. Try not to do any more damage till get back."

Nothing of the shooting was mentioned in the newspapers but, from a knowledgeable source on the inside, Jason learned that the offending officer was in a coma; he had a 40 percent chance of survival and a 100 percent chance of being paralyzed. The police department felt the incident did not reflect well on the force and, out of consideration for the man's distraught wife, suppressed all publicity. If the officer recovered, there would be an internal investigation, but at present, there were no suspects.

Jason tried to keep the boy in bed, but Willie would not play the invalid and, within a few days, he was up and out the door. First stop was a pawn shop where he purchased a wicked looking switchblade that went straight into the pocket of his new (well, second-hand) windbreaker.

The next guy who fucks with me will definitely be dead.

Willie was anxious to begin a new chapter of his life. He planned to work hard, have adventures, and maybe even meet pirates. On the way to the ship, the young man limped enthusiastically alongside his partner as the Irishman sang his favorite song:

There was a dusky Eurasian maid,
In old Karachi she plied her trade,
And in Calcutta and in Madras
And by special request up the Khyber Pass

Black Velvet was full of joy
for every Dublin sailor boy
She guaranteed to please
and the most that it cost you was five rupees.

There was a sailor boy, fully grown,
who, until then, had held his own,
She took the sailor boy by the hand
and showed him the way to the promised land.

A/N: Slightly Soiled: a character from Peter Pan by J.M. Barrie. Slightly often provides comic relief. He is described as the most conceited of the boys, because he believes that he, unlike the others, remembers what life was like before he was "lost." However, most of his "memories" are either based on misunderstandings or pure fabrications: one example is that he claims to know what his last name is— his pinafore had the words "Slightly Soiled" written on the tag. – Source: Wikipedia

End of Part 1.