10

June drifted by quicker than it should have.

Andrew played four nights a week throughout July while Brighton Beach became his second home. His nightly return to the apartment defied logic. Criminal or not, every man living there lacked a moral compass.

Niko remained tolerable with his acceptance of Andrew’s detachment. Their relationship consisted of strolling the boardwalk every Sunday, and while Niko rambled about music, sports, and video games, Andrew said little or nothing.

Yesterday, they walked the beach, and after Andrew sat down and removed his shoes, the man knelt before him and rubbed his feet. It was a gesture so sickeningly romantic that Andrew considered dropping his well-built wall.

After sunset, however, they’d returned to the place, and what happened next reminded him that he had no business being in a relationship with a man like Niko.

They’d found Radek and Samil cuddling on the couch, watching television. Before he could say hello, Niko had whisked him past. Through the bedroom door, he got pulled into the darkness. He recalled the room’s layout from his daylight visits: a day bed by the window, a queen mattress on the floor, and a king-size bed against the wall.

Strong hands had swathed his hips, guiding him to the biggest bed where Niko’s lanky body washed over him like a wave. Bubble-gum-flavored lips had grazed Andrew’s neck, and when they found his nipples, pleasure came without memories for the first time in weeks.

Lost in the man’s touch, he’d stretched out like a well-kept cat, contented until his had touched the smooth mound of a bald head.

“Nikola, stop.”

“What is it now?”

“Sash is here.”

Niko’s lips had pressed to his, silencing his complaints, until Andrew twisted free and pushed him away. “We can’t do this with him here,”

“No. He sleeps,” said Niko. “Sash, you awake?”

Sash’s deep tenor had mumbled. “No,”

“See, he sleeps.” Niko moved in again, but Andrew averted his head.

“Get off me, now,”

“Please, we’ll be quiet.”

Andrew had brought up a knee and pushed at him. “Get off me.”

Then, Tadeusz’s voice pleaded in his native Polish.

“Will you just fuck him so we can get some sleep?”

Cyril’s snicker had rung out in the dark, and Andrew fled the apartment.

Four days passed before he would show his face there again.

The orchestra’s seasonal farewell party had gone long into the night, and Andrew bailed early since Samil was a no-show. During his shift, one of the servers, an older Chinese woman with a dark complexion and a motherly disposition, had given him the number of a restaurant manager seeking someone to wait tables during lunch.

Andrew’s interview at the renowned Russian Tea Room had turned into an orientation once he gave the hiring manager his address. A place in Manhattan equaled ultimate availability.

Tuesday through Sunday, he clocked in at the Italianate brownstone on 57th. Clad in a double-breasted black coat with gold buttons, he became part of its allure, like the velvety wall covers, gold ceilings, and ornate sconces. He spent his days gliding through bronze samovars, serving hot tea and fresh pastries to well-tippers who talked more than they ate.

Samil rarely connected anymore, spending all his free time with Radek. Hoping to see him today, Andrew showed up unannounced, knowing Niko wouldn’t be there since acquiring a driving job—a highly suspect windfall since the man possessed no driver’s license.

The front door was unlocked, meaning the bedrooms were occupied.

Andrew grabbed a cola from the fridge before exploring the couch cushions for the television remote.

“We don’t got cable no more.” The savory-scented Tadeusz appeared in a white undershirt and expensive dress pants. His designer-label socks peeked out while he slipped on his fancy shoes.

Cigarette dangling from his lips, he stared down at him.

“What you doing here, Andrej?”

“Waiting for Niko,”

Smoke curled from his serpentine lips.

“Did you forget Nikola no come back until seven?” Tadeusz then spoke Slovak. “What are you doing right now, Andrej?”

“Nothing that I know of,”

“I have something you can do,”

“What sort of something?”

“Don’t get hopes up, twink bitch.” The corners of his mouth curved. “You not my type.”

Andrew made a foul face. “I wasn’t even thinking about that,”

“I have shopping,” he said. “I need help.”

Sleek and sophisticated, the Polish brunette was the sort of queer Andrew aspired to be, with the elegance of a symphony instructor and the wardrobe to match.

“No worry,” he added. “I have you back before Nikola come home.”

Andrew caught his shoddy appearance in the wall mirror on their way out.

“You look fine,” Tadeusz spoke as if reading his mind.

♪

On the Q train bound for Manhattan, the fashionable man turned chatty. “Sorry if I come off rude, Andrej. I don’t know you.”

“It’s fine,” he said. “Where are we going?”

“There’s a shop I’ve been watching,” said Tadeusz.

“That’s open on a Monday?” he asked.

“This isn’t restaurant closing on slow day.” Tadeusz checked his wristwatch. “They do close soon, but we’ll be good.”

New passengers crowded into the car at every stop, and like Andrew, the chic Pole clammed up around people he didn’t know.

At the last station before the bridge, a man with a boyish face entered the car. His hair was snowy white, and his red shirt faded like his blue jeans. His brown shoes came with thick anti-slip bottoms, tell-tale signs that he worked in a kitchen.

The newcomer’s brown eyes gleamed with familiarity at Tadeusz.

“I’m looking for Radek,” he blurted in Russian, his voice abnormally deep.

Tadeusz replied in Russian. “Do you see him with me now?”

“No,” the man said.

“Then I don’t know where he is any more than you do.” Tadeusz brought out his phone, but as the man lit a cigarette, he raised a finger at him. “You can’t smoke in here.”

“No cops,” he said dismissively in English.

“If I can’t smoke in here, you can’t smoke here,” Tadeusz lowered his phone and his voice. “Now, put it out before I put it out on your face,”

“Fine, fine,” the man put his cigarette out, expelling clove-scented smoke as he deserted them for another part of the subway car.

“Fucking Georgian pig,” Tadeusz spat before adding in Polish, “When I did my stretch, he was in too. Always hanging around, fishing for information he could sell,”

“How old is he?” asked Andrew.

“Don’t know,” he answered in English, but in Polish, he said, “Sash and I did time with him in Canada about ten years ago.”

“Sash was in jail?” he rolled his eyes. “Why am I not surprised,”

Tadeusz stared at him. “Do not judge, Andrej, lest ye be judged.”

♪

Andrew followed him to a posh men’s clothier on Canal Street.

The salesman inside smirked as they entered, his ghostly white teeth standing out against a dark tan and black widow’s peak. With his honey-colored suit, matching black tie, and pocket kerchief, the salesman reminded Andrew of the Greek man who lived down the street from his mother.

Andrew reclined on one of the shop’s cushioned seats while Tadeusz roamed the racks and rounders. The fastidious Pole picked out eight suits before disappearing into the fitting rooms. After a beat, the salesman looked at Andrew over his little round glasses before vanishing.

Left alone for several moments, Andrew almost nodded-off to the shop’s modern music before realizing there’d been none playing when they first entered. He rose from the chair and investigated the cordoned dressing area.

He heard heavy breathing down the claustrophobic hall with its shuttered doors on both sides and followed it to the last ribbed panel door. Gentle grunts followed the slapping of flesh. Violence flashed before him—the night before he came to this city. Unable to clear it, he fled to the clothing racks and thought suddenly about going home.

Several moments later, the salesman emerged, jovial.

“Will you be shopping with us today?” he asked, smiling.

Tadeusz appeared before Andrew could answer, strutting in front of the mirror in a powder blue suit. He wanted his opinion, and though still shaken, Andrew told the Pole that its color brought out the darkness of his hair.

More suits followed, and Andrew’s answers remained honest, for taking in the suits was the only thing stopping him from thinking about that night.

“Are you ready, Andrej?” Despite his extensive runway show, Tadeusz stood at the sales station with one dress shirt.

The salesman rang him up, and when Tadeusz asked for a shirt box, the fool went to fetch it. Alone, he turned to Andrew. “Where is third one, the blue?”

“Right there,” he pointed.

“Go get it,” Tadeusz urged quietly.

Andrew pulled it from the rounder, and Tadeusz put it on the return rack near the fitting room area with the others he’d tried on and didn’t buy.

The salesman reemerged with the dress shirt, boxed up and ready, but when Tadeusz tried to pay, the slide-reader denied his card.

“Try again,” he pouted, “It worked at lunch today.”

The salesman shook his head. “I’ve tried twice.”

“I understand,” Tadeusz grinned, “I be back in morning.”

“I won’t be here,” the salesman sulked. “I work Wednesdays, Fridays, and Sundays.”

“What’s name, so I give it to new person when I come back?” His poor English dripped with sugar, and the bespectacled fool ate it as if starving. “I want you to get commission.”

Outside, Andrew followed Tadeusz to the bodega across the street.

“Stand in front of me,” he said in Slovak, producing a ball of bound cash.

He pulled at the rubber band and unfolded a twenty-dollar bill tucked within a bundle of hundreds. Opening the glass case door, he grabbed an orange soda.

“You want coke?”

Andrew shook his head. “I’ll take a tea.”

“You take a tea?” he mocked. “You get a tea, Andrej. I no wait on you.”

Andrew smiled and pulled a Snapple from the case.

Out of the store, they entered an alley between the laundry mat and a shoe store. Covered in damaged brick, the narrow passage smelt of mildew, but the aroma of dryer sheets prevailed in the courtyard.

Tadeusz opened a dumpster and surveyed its innards. Handing his soda to Andrew, he gingerly dipped a hand inside and plucked out two discarded suit bags.

“What are you doing, Tadeshi?”

“Shopping,” he said, smoothing wrinkles from the plastic.

He took his soda back and led Andrew through several concrete yards until the back door of the men’s clothing store appeared across the street.

Andrew tapped the taller man’s shoulder.

“What are we waiting for?”

“We wait for,” Tadeusz pulled a slip of paper from his pocket and read the name, “James, to go home.”

“Are you fucking serious?”

“There is fool now,” Tadeusz said when the salesman emerged. “When he drives off, you come to the door.”

“Excuse me?”

“You born here and speak the English, yes?” Tadeusz said, sauntering toward the shop’s front. “Don’t act like you not understand, Andrej,”

The salesman locked up before walking out to the street. Confident he was gone, Andrew approached the back door, and as he entertained fleeing, it swung open to reveal Tadeusz with keys in hand.

“You stay out here, Andrej.”

Andrew would be seen if anyone emerged from the many backdoors around him. Then, as thoughts of leaving gained momentum, Tadeusz reappeared with a bundle of suits on their hangers.

“Lucky for me, return rack not in front of camera,” he laughed, shoving one of the covers from the dry-cleaner’s trash at Andrew. “Slip over top,”

“Is this why you brought me,” he demanded, “to steal clothes?”

“No, Andrej.” Tadeusz frowned. “You’re here to help me carry the clothes.”

Anxiety soured his stomach on the ride back to Brighton.

Unable to speak his mind on the street, courage found him in the elevator.

“Hey.” Andrew pushed his share of the clothes at Tadeusz. “Don’t include me in your crap anymore.”

“I didn’t know it would be a problem,” he began, taking the clothes.

“I’m not a thief,” he snapped.

Tadeusz rolled his eyes. “Excuse me, Prince Andrej,”

“No,” he said. “Don’t make this about me being a snob,”

“You’re such a little bitch,” Tadeusz smiled.

“No,” he said, facing him. “I’m just someone that’s never going to jail,”

Andrew stepped out first when the doors opened.

“You should go home until Nikola comes to get you,” said Tadeusz.

“It’s almost seven.” He watched the man unlock the front door. “I can wait.”

Inside the apartment, he sat at the kitchen table in silence.

“What?” Tadeusz joined him with a lit cigarette. “You hate me now?”

“I didn’t say I hated you.” Andrew set his elbows on the table.

Tadeusz spoke Polish. “I’m starting to like you, Andrej.”

“I’ll sleep better tonight, knowing you might like me,”

Tadeusz laughed as the front door opened, and footsteps came through the shared wall. When Radek and Samil appeared around the corner, the haughty Pole rose from the table and vanished into one of the bedrooms.

“What’s her problem?” Sam asked, sitting in his vacated seat.

Andrew sighed, “Long day shopping,”

“I’ll be back,” said Radek, walking to the bedroom.

Sam rolled his eyes. “He’s going to go kiss his ass,”

“What did you do to him now?” asked Andrew.

“We visited my brother, Miro, today,” he said. “Teddy was supposed to go with us but was a no-show, so we went without him.”

Andrew sensed a history between Radeki and Tadeusz, as memories of Cyril and Niko’s idiot French on his first night here brought a smile to his face.

Samil grabbed a ginger ale from the fridge.

“I got roped into a three-way with them once,”

“I know,” Andrew droned.

“Did he tell you about it?” Sam’s lip curled. “What’d that bitch say?”

“He didn’t say anything.” Andrew studied the green can, Sam’s thick fingers masking its cartoonish white fairy. “I saw you go into the room with them my first night here.”

“Get out,” he said, apologetic. “Tadeshi makes me self-conscious.”

The stylish Pole emerged in one of his new suits, a sleek metal gray with a narrow pink tie. “Goodbye, Andrej,” he said, walking to the door.

“Bye, Tadeshi,” Sam called, and when the door slammed shut without a word in return, he snickered. “Bitchy bitchski,”

Andrew grinned. “I got to pee.”

“Thanks for sharing,” Sam said, raising the can.

Andrew ventured over the narrow rug, recalling how Niko had led him down it. The bathroom wasn’t much bigger than the shared hovel at Saint Mark’s, but its scale-covered shower door and cracked pink tiles felt safer.

Dirty laundry filled the basket inside the tub, and clean clothes dangled on a hastily strung clothesline across the open window. White boxer briefs hung alongside some socks, the word ‘Diesel’ repeated along the waistband.

Black stitching outlined the jock pocket and felt soft on the back of his hand. Andrew gathered its fabric in his fingers and brought his nose to it. The detergent scent wasn’t flowery but spicey, the same aroma Sash carried the first night they met.

Laughter peeled out from the hall, making Andrew recoil. Cracking the door an inch revealed Samil’s discarded pants by the first bedroom door. Gentle whispers found his ears as he slipped past. Radek’s naked body flashed into view, his mouth clamped over Sam’s, his bony hip sinking into his pliable flesh.

Andrew stumbled down the hall, sickened by his growing arousal.

Suddenly, the front door opened. Niko’s arms surrounded him, falling away when his dark eyes noticed Andrew’s erection. Then, that dumb smirk transformed into something dangerous.

“You were waiting for me, eh?”

Andrew pushed against him. “I need to go.”

“You need to come,” said Niko.

A gentle hand on the nape of his neck guided him back down the hall. Hips pressed into his lower back as he fell onto the day bed, its brass frame creaking under their weight. The hem of his shirt entered his mouth, and he bit down on it as Niko’s heavy body blanketed him.

Persistent lips found his nipple, and hands groped as a tongue left a trail of spit down his ribcage. Then, the plastered ceiling morphed into the top of his car.

“Please stop,” he whispered when eager hands yanked down his waistband.

Niko held on tight as Andrew tried to crawl out from under.

“Let me go,” he cried, kicking free and falling to the floor.

Andrew gained his footing and raced down the hall.

He descended the stairwell, his footfalls echoing over the painted concrete and chipped steel. He pushed through the heavy doors and into the lobby, colliding with…

Sash stood there with his arms raised.

Andrew caught his frightened reflection in the man’s blackened orb. A couple standing by the mailboxes stared, their attention shaming him into the breezy night.

Dazed, he didn’t remember the train ride to Manhattan until he trod over the hotel’s checkered floor, feeling like the final pawn on a chessboard.

“You got phone messages,” the hefty clerk yelled from behind the plexiglass, holding up three neon post-it notes. “You ain’t got a message service here, okay?”

Andrew snatched them from the clerk and darted up the stairs. He undid the combination lock outside and secured the interior padlocks once inside.

“It’s over, it’s over, it’s over,” he chanted, sinking to the floor with his head in his hands. “He can’t hurt you. He can’t hurt you anymore. He can’t hurt you because you—”

Clarity struck like a hammer. Andrew reached up and felt the lowest hanging padlock, number five, three more than last month. He brought his hand down, and in it was a revolver, its barrel sheathed by a condom slick with his blood.

Phantom laughter taunted him. Turning your ass out will be easy…

Anger consumed his fear. He pointed it at the back of the bastard’s head.

Then, as if someone switched on a light, his room materialized. He stared past his hand, now shaped into a finger pistol.

The violin case’s edge peeked out from under the bed. Its strings called to Andrew in his mother’s voice, begging him to come home.