Steven James
Opening Moves
“And if ye will not for all this hearken unto me, but walk contrary unto me; Then I will walk contrary unto you also in fury; and I, even I, will chastise you seven times for your sins. And ye shall eat the flesh of your sons, and the flesh of your daughters shall ye eat.”
1997
Day 1
Sunday, November 16
The Alley
1
New Territories Pub
804 South Second Street
Milwaukee, Wisconsin
11:07 p.m.
Vincent Hayes stepped cautiously into the bar, trying unsuccessfully to still his heart, to quiet his apprehension.
He’d never done this before, never tried to pick up a man.
As he entered, two patrons who were seated at the bar-a Mexican in his mid-twenties and an older Caucasian who looked maybe a few years older than Vincent, around forty-five or so-turned to face him. The younger man had his hand resting gently on the middle-aged gentleman’s knee.
Vincent gave the men a somewhat forced nod, they smiled a bit, then turned to gaze into each other’s eyes again and went back to their conversation-perhaps a joke that the Mexican was telling, because Vincent heard the other man chuckle as he passed by and then took in the rest of the bar.
Country music played. Nondescript. Some singer he didn’t recognize. The neon beer signs and dim overheads did little to illuminate the nook and crannied pub. Vincent scanned the tables looking for the right kind of man- young, athletic, but not too muscular. The drugs he was carrying were potent, but muscle mass might diminish their effect. Maybe. He wasn’t sure. He’d never used the drugs before, but tonight he couldn’t risk taking the chance that the man would awaken before he was done with him.
He was looking for a black man.
All around him in the dim light, men stood talking. Most were gathered in groups of two or three. Very few single guys. Vincent was brawny and cut an impressive figure that turned a few heads, but none that looked promising.
Even though he wanted to be alert so he wouldn’t make a mistake, he also needed something strong to take the edge off, to help anesthetize his inhibitions. Vincent took a seat at the bar and ordered a vodka.
Yes, yes, of course he was nervous. But there was also adrenaline there. Anxiety churning around violently beneath the surge of apprehension.
So far he hadn’t seen anyone who fit the bill. Some were too old. A few younger couples were moving in time to the music on the dance floor on the far side of the bar. No single African-American like he was looking for.
He felt the brush of movement against his arm. A slim white guy who didn’t look old enough to be here legally drew up a barstool. “Waiting for someone?” His voice was melodic and inviting. Charming might be a better word for it.
Yes, he was the right age, but he was the wrong race. Vincent gave him only a momentary glance. He didn’t want to be rude or draw attention, but he didn’t want to lead him on either.
“Um. Yes.”
“Shame.”
Vincent downed half of his vodka.
“Lucky guy,” the man said under his breath, but, almost certainly on purpose, loud enough for Vincent to hear.
Although it was supposed to happen at this bar, Vincent realized it was more important for it to happen than where it did.
“Sorry,” he mumbled. He laid some cash beside his unfinished drink, then stood to leave. He’d taken two steps toward the door when he saw the type of man he was looking for: an athletic African-American, sitting alone in the booth near the narrow hallway to the restrooms.
Just like the young man who’d taken a seat beside Vincent a moment ago, this guy looked on the shy side of twenty-one, but Vincent guessed that carding people wasn’t exactly at the top of the management’s priority list.
He had a beer bottle in front of him, a Lienenkugel’s. Almost empty. Vincent ordered two more from the bartender, excused himself from the guy who’d been coming on to him, and carried the two beers toward the booth.
As Vincent crossed the room, he surreptitiously dropped the two pills into one of the bottles and gently swirled them to the bottom.
When he was halfway to the booth, the young black man looked his way.
Vincent smiled, then, nervous, dropped his gaze.
He’d already decided he would cuff him as soon as he got him into the van. Hopefully, he’d be too drugged to fight much or call for help, but Vincent had a gag and duct tape waiting just in case. If he wasn’t able to get him to take off his clothes before he cuffed him, he would strip the guy, cutting off his shirt and jeans with the fabric shears when he was done.
And then move forward with things from there.
Almost to the booth now, he waited for the man to say something, but when he didn’t, Vincent spoke, trying out the same line the guy had used on him a few moments earlier. “Waiting for someone?”
The black man-kid, really-looked his way, wide-eyed. Wet his lips slightly. “I saw Mark with you. That what he asked you?”
Vincent set down the drinks. “Busted.”
“He needs to expand his repertoire.”
“I guess I do too.”
The young man eyed the beers, and said demurely, “One of those for me?”
Vincent slid the drugged beer toward him, smiled again, and took a seat.
The guy offered Vincent a soft nod, accepted the drink, and held out his hand palm down, a diminutive handshake. “I’m Lionel.”
“Vincent.” He shook Lionel’s hand.
“Mmm. Vincent.” It almost sounded like Lionel was purring. “Very European.” His eyes gleamed. “A shade
