The Rendezvous, the city's biggest gay brothel, is under attack, and poor Logan and his misfit band of detectives must track down the culprit before the whole place blows up. Through a strange turn of events, Logan finds himself caught with his pants down, running away, and taking refuge in the brothel's kitchen. There, some bizarre threats lead to murder and kidnapping, and Logan and his friends must track down the culprit behind the attacks before things explored-possibly literally. They are a brave bunch of detectives: Mikey, the twink with the adorable infant son who lives in an apartment with his mom; a fifty-year-old man who wears black suits, pink gingham aprons, and white pearls; Miss Jason, the high fashion drag queen; her husband, Antoine, the superb chef who operates the Rendezvous; and Freddie and Foxy Baggett, father/daughter gangsters who share an uncommon resemblance, as well as assorted other members of Logan's motley crew. Somehow they all end up in the Buick and the Cadillac and the Porsche and the Escort and the Lincoln-oh, yes, and the Vespa-while getting tied up with duct tape, worked over with wine bottles, and shot at. Quite a tangled mess, you know.

RUBBER BABY BUGGY BUMPERS

By I. E. Woodward

iUniverse, Inc.

Copyright © 2010 I. E. Woodward
All right reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4502-4706-1

Chapter One

He stood in the door for as long as he could. It was the first time he'd been warm in nearly two days and the heat from the kitchen was overpowering. There was enough steam to make it burn inside him as he tried to soak it up in deep gulps. The food smells were something else entirely. He couldn't remember when he ate more than a stolen bite: a piece of a Milky Way left on a bus terminal bench, a broken sucker on a teeter-totter in a playground. Here were burning fats and smoking butters and the cloying taste of splattered sugar on the sides of hot ovens. It made him light headed.

"I'm here about the job," he finally said, lifting himself to his full six foot two, his blue eyes trying not to show the fear of at least thirty rejections in the last three weeks. He tried to push a stray curl back from his forehead and wished he'd wiped the dust from his shoes. When you were eighteen, and had two changes of clothes, it was difficult to look more or less desperate, especially when it was written on your face in smudges and on your clothes in stains, and in your voice in hopelessness.

"Ain't no work here, honey," the cook said, wiping the remainder of a potato he'd been peeling from his hands to his apron.

"They told me you were hiring at this place."

"Who tole you chile?" The cook started toward him and, in panic, he backed out, into the cold. "I said, 'Who told you chile?'"

"A guy over at the park." The boy turned back, into the dark.

The cook walked to the doorway and called to him, "Now you git yerself back here, right now. Don' nobody walk away from Antoine in the middle of a conversation! You hear?" The boy turned and came back into the light of the doorway. The sadness in his eyes and the slump in his shoulders could not hide the fact that it had not been long since he had been healthy and fit. "Damn, boy, you a good lookin' piece, I do say so myself. And I do. Now, git in here." Antoine held the door open for the boy as he stepped back into the kitchen. "Now you wait here whilst I start that pot of potatoes boilin'."

Again the steam and smoke and smells took hold, and the boy waited.

"Heads up," Antoine called and tossed an apple to the boy. He snapped it out of the air like a shortstop grabs a popup fly. "That'll keep you occupied till I can get you somethin' more substantial."

"Thank you, sir," the boy said, and began to eat the apple.

"Manners too," Antoine said. "That's a good sign."

Antoine finished loading a large aluminum pot with peeled potatoes and hoisted it onto the stove top. He turned the burner on and cursed softly when nothing happened. He reached onto the shelf above for a match, struck it, and, with a loud snap, the flame expanded and the pot began to heat. He slipped a clean plate from off the dishwasher rack and with a large spoon dished up a slice of meatloaf, a scoop of mashed potatoes, some green peas, and a large hot roll. "Now, honey," he said, turning back to the boy, "One other thing I got to ask, before I give you what is known in these parts as the best meatloaf anybody ever tasted, is: what is your name?"

"Logan," the boy said.

"Logan," Antoine repeated, setting the plate on a small table by the door and handing the boy a fork, "you tear yourself into that and you can tell me how great it is later." Antoine chuckled as he started back to the stove. Logan finished three mouthfuls before he completely reached the chair.

The food at Jason's Rendezvous was an afterthought. It kept the help from being late, and Antoine's touch with country fare had a following among the crowd who came for the nightly floor show and ate a part of the cover charge in pot roast and pork chops and chicken fried steak. Tonight it was meatloaf, and the smell of peppers and onions and tomato paste poured from both the gas ovens.

Logan swiped the last piece of roll through his plate and placed it in his mouth. He chewed it slowly and swallowed. He picked up the plate and fork and carried them to the dishwasher and put them in the rack. "Thank you, sir," he said to Antoine, and smiled, "It was very good."

"You're welcome, Logan."

A door near the inside corner of the kitchen flew open and a naked young man ran into the room. Tightly curled blond, with the whitest skin Logan had ever seen, the youth looked to be about fifteen. His nose was bleeding and he was holding a wad of toilet tissue against it. "Antoine, you've got to hide me."

"You got yourself in trouble again?"

"Please, Antoine, it's not my fault. He hit me."

"You been stealin' again?"

"No, I have not! I do not steal?" He nervously stared at the door. "He's right behind me!"

Again the door flew open and a man of about forty wearing brown trousers and an unbuckled belt made a wild grab for the youth. The youth screamed and ran behind Logan.

Chapter Two

"Get the fuck out of my way!" the man screamed and started for the youth, "Do you hear me, Mike?" Logan did not move. The man stuck his fist in Logan's face, "I said get the fuck out of my way!" Logan continued to stand firm. The man pulled back his arm to deliver on his punch only to find it trapped in Antoine's massive hand. "Jesus fucking Christ!"

"Now, let's calm down here and see if we can figure out what's going on," Antoine said, using the man's arm as a lever and turning him so they were face to face. "Mike, I notice you are bleeding, did this gentleman hit you?"

"Yes, he did. He hit me hard."

"Did he pay in advance for that privilege?"

"No, sir."

"Now just a goddamn minute," the man said, struggling to free his hand. "I paid good money ..."

"And your money is always good at Jason's Rendezvous, sir,"

"I want to speak to somebody in charge."

Antoine smiled and behind the smile and the cocky angle of his paper kitchen cap and definitely behind the steel glint much sharper than any knife in the kitchen surrounding him, the rich baritone answered, "I am in charge." It was final and the man quieted. "Now, then, Mike, step over here."

Mike raised himself to his full five feet nine and stepped from behind Logan. He moved up beside Antoine and held the bloody tissue to his nose. "He hit me."

"What did you expect?" the man lifted his hand. Logan moved a step closer to him.

Antoine lifted his hand and the man backed away. "You see, now, that's what we need to figure out." Turning to Mike he quickly grabbed his thin, soft shoulder, squeezing it hard, "Let's start with t.i.'s, shall we? What are we looking at here, Mike?"

"Ouch, Antoine, you're gonna bruise me and Jason's. . ."

"Jason's gonna kiss my ass. What were the t.i.'s?"

"He paid for head and for salad and for some trick riding - "

"Annie Oakley," the man interjected impatiently.

"Annie Oakley," Antoine smiled, "Oh, that's one of Mike's specialties." He lifted Mike's arm and the boy gasped from the pain. "So what seems to be the problem?"

"Not a damn thing," the man said smugly. "He refused, so I hit him." He pulled back his right hand to swing at Mike again and Logan swiftly caught it. "Who the fuck are you?"

"His name is Logan," Antoine smiled, "and he works for me." The man struggled to free his right hand and arm. "You may let him go, Logan." The man pulled his arm free and rotated his shoulder to make certain he had not been injured. "Now, then, Mike, why did you refuse?"

"He got really turned on by the salad."

"Kid's got a fine ass," the man said.

"The finest," Antoine smiled, "Rides like a Continental."

"And when it was time to mount up, he wanted me to ride bareback."

"Hey, what the fuck difference does it make? I'm clean. Scrawny little shit acts like I'm diseased or something."

"Ah, well, you see, sir, we have a very special policy about bareback here at Jason's Rendezvous: it is absolutely out of the question. You were told that when you placed your order, now, weren't you sir?" Mike's shoulder was released and Antoine's gaze turned to the man.

"I didn't mean to break no rules." He backed a step away from Antoine's advance.

"I'm certain you didn't, sir. Now, let's step into the hallway and find Miss Jason. We'll see if she can find a suitable personage to complete your rendezvous." With only a slight push from the shoulder, Antoine guided the man back through the door and into the hall.

"But I wanted him."

As the door closed Antoine was heard to say, "Well, we shall find someone of equal or even superior skills."

Very much aware of his visible charms, Mike walked over to the sink and pulled a paper towel from the dispenser and dampened it. He wiped his face and hands and then, turning, ran it across his chest. His blond, tightly curled hair and pale skin served to accentuate the astonishingly statuesque proportions of his body. His aquiline nose and the nearly red luster of his lips and nipples complemented his coloring. The thin line of blond hair which bisected his very narrow waist and led to a perfectly proportioned pubic area called attention to smooth legs and long, narrow feet. Mike stayed, facing Logan, until he was certain he was being looked at, then turned back to the sink and, thus, to show his fine ass.

Antoine came back into the kitchen and pulled the dish towel from its slot on his apron. He twisted it and with a loud smack popped Mike's ass. Mike screamed. "Boy, don' you ever wash you ass in my sink agin! You hear me? We be havin' Rocky Mountain Oysters fer breakfas'. Now, git your ass outta here. You got clients lined up till Sunday brunch."

Mike rubbed his butt and started for the door. Suddenly he turned and ran back to kiss a startled Logan. "Thank you for protecting me."

"You're welcome," Logan blushed.

"I don' get none of that?" Antoine laughed.

Mike rubbed his butt again and headed out the door, "You got your money's worth already."

"Yeah, well lil' white-ass boy better learn to push the alarm button when he gits in a bind or he gonna find ol' Antoine's door locked. Ya'hear?"

"What ever," and Mike was gone.

Antoine watched his skinny little white butt disappear through the swinging doors into the employee's hall then turned back to Logan. There was only empty space. Logan had already disappeared out the back door. Antoine sighed, clucked twice like a mother hen, and walked to that same exit. Pushing open the screen so the old spring made its most violent protest, he shouted, "You, han'some, didn't you forget somethin'?"

"No, sir. I come for a job. I didn't find one." The voice was loud enough, but its source was a shadow just at the edge of the pool of light spilling from the back door.

"Yeah, well one shore 'nuff found you. Now, git in here 'fore I change my mind."

Chapter Three

Logan stepped back into the kitchen and Antoine examined him carefully. "We gotta git you a bath and a change a'clothes right away," he observed. "Some new shoes is a must, too." He looked up into Logan's blue eyes and said, "Kid, I got a lie detector, ain't never failed me and I don't take kindly to perjry - you know what that mean?"

"Yes, sir."

"Good, 'cause I got three questions for you and I expec' straight-on truth fer the answers. If I suspect even one little bitty ol' white lie that ass of yours is mine." Antoine turned abruptly and walked over to the small table and sat. He pulled a pack of cigarettes from his pocket and put one in his mouth and lit it. A bit of the unfiltered tobacco came loose on his tongue and he used his teeth to scrape it off and then spat it onto the floor and inhaled deeply, held the smoke for a long time and blew it straight into the air above him. For the entire time he looked ahead, at the kitchen wall, and Logan stared at the bubbling pot of potatoes on the stove.

"Before I ask you these three questions, I want to tell you a story. Then you tell me if it's close to the truth." He paused for effect, took another drag from the cigarette and continued. "An eighteen year old football player had a scholarship to the university and his whole future laid out in front of him like a road map. Then he met someone. Let's say it was a life guard at the city pool and they started doing things together. First off it was just little touchy feely stuff and then it got way serious and that life guard told that fine ass young football player he loved him and started humpin' him like a lion in heat, and they got caught. Rumors started going around town and his parents found out and his father kicked him out and he went to the life guard's apartment." Antoine took another puff from his cigarette and let the smoke escape in a long slow stream, like fog coming over a hill and down into a valley. "The life guard met him at the door and told him to get lost and he did, with a one way bus ticket to - here - where, courtesy of the clientele of our local bus depot this young football player has been selling himself for whatever he can get to stay alive until a 'client' told him to come here and ask for a job." I think that about covers it. How close did I get?"

Only a slight tremor revealed the tension in Logan's voice, "He ran a convenience store, actually, and it turned out he was married."

"I see." It was nearly five minutes before Antoine finished his cigarette and dropped it to the floor. He pressed the heel of his shoe against it and twisted it out.

"Here are your three questions. Are you over the age of eighteen?"

"Yes, sir, I am."

"Can you give me a photo identification which proves that?"

"I have my driver's license if that will do?"

"That's fine. Now, since you have already been engaged in a form of our endeavor and since one of your clients recommended our establishment to you and you have already met one of our employees in all his glory, I am assuming you have no problems with the kind of industry we are engaged in here?"

"No, sir, I figure I can handle it."

"Den, Logan, boy, you got yo'sef a job." Antoine reached deep into his side pocket and pulled out a set of keys. "The long key on the side is the master, opens 'bout ever door on the inside. Through them doors and to your lef' is a hallway at'ta end'o which you'll find a room says 'A' on'a door. You can take a shower in there and in the closet should find some close' ought'a bout fit you. Shoes, socks, drawers, it's all in that closet. You be back here in twenty minutes. 'Til you get your feet on'a ground you gonna hep ol' Antoine in'a kitchen." He raised the keys above his head and tossed them about two feet above Logan's head. Without looking they were snatched out of the air."

"Yes, sir." Logan turned and started toward the hall door.

"Damn, boy," Antoine smiled, "you a wide receiver. I had you figured for a quarterback."

"No, sir."

"What color you say your mama was?" Antoine chuckled and returned to the stove to check his potatoes.

Logan remained in the door long enough to say, "Thank you."

"Go on. You wanna thank me, you wait 'til you been here a week, then we talk 'bout it."

Chapter Four

There was a time in junior high school when he was afraid of the shower, when his body reacted to the bodies around him and he'd have to hurry through the motions and run back to the lockers to hide the evidence before anyone caught on to what was happening. By tenth and eleventh grade, when he'd learned to focus on the heat of the steam and the therapeutic value of the force of the water pounding against his aching muscles from a rough three hour workout, the faces and bodies around disappeared and sometimes he was the one who turned out the lights on his way to the parking lot. Now, it wasn't his muscles that needed therapy; it was his soul. He needed to feel clean again, inside and out.

The fairy tales had it wrong and he knew that now. Hansel's father never followed bread crumbs into the forest and Prince Charming didn't give a shit. There was no kiss to wake you from the nightmare of hands, hunger and homesickness in equal doses. Hunger so intense that alleys smelled like supermarkets and a McDonalds could make you heave your guts from longing; crying yourself to sleep because it wasn't your bed and it wasn't your home and your head hurt and you were hiding in a corner of an empty duct under the 42nd St. overpass because the wind couldn't reach you. Under there the hands couldn't find you either, the hands that shoved two dollars at you so they could shove an unwashed dick in your mouth or in your ass or both and were attached to the old men and drunks and worse who hung around the bus station because they also knew the fairy tales were bullshit.

(Continues...)

Excerpted from RUBBER BABY BUGGY BUMPERSby I. E. Woodward Copyright © 2010 by I. E. Woodward. Excerpted by permission.
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