Page 43 of A Long Con

He yanked his hand away from mine. Split had noticed us, his sapphire eyes dazzling under the brim of his cowboy hat, his nose so exquisitely sculpted, like Royal’s. He was perking up, but probably knew better than to come toward us.

“What truth are you avoiding, brah? That Waterman smoked your pole to get you to give him forty percent of your take? That he took advantage of someone young enough to be his son?”

I swiped my hands before me, like an umpire. “No. No, Royal!”

“Then what, brah? If you can’t be straight with me, I’m taking the bearer bond back to Rough and Ready and be done with it! Who needs a fucking painting? Who needs you?”

I was crushed. I tried telling myself he was just lashing out at the idea of Split lubing my shaft. That this meant he cared for me. Why would he otherwise give a shit what Split and I had done together? Most guys would just eagerly join into a ménage with us.

Still, I couldn’t help cringing back, crushing my shirtfront in my fist. “Holy mother, Royal! This was before I met you! I haven’t seen or talked to Split since I blazed out of New York.”

“Oh yeah? And how long ago was that? Three months ago? I thought so. That’s not ancient history, man. And I’ve just seen him grab your ass and call you fucking ‘boy’ and ‘son.’”

I took one huge step closer to him so I could hiss, “Yes, Royal! Yes! We had this Daddy Dom thing going on. Okay? Are you happy?”

He knit his brow. “And how many times did he suck your sausage, boy?”

“It wasn’t—it wasn’t like that at all, Royal! He . . . he . . . “

“Yes?”

“I sucked Split’s cock.” I looked at the ground. Was I ashamed? I knew that once again it didn’t put me in a very dominant position. Like, what kind of Dom was I running around pretending to be, anyway? Yes, I had gulped Split’s penis while he dug his fingers into my shoulders and roared things like, “Yes, son, that’s it . . . suck your daddy’s big cock . . . you know you’ve been wanting this for years, just dreaming about your dad’s giant boner . . . Oh son, you sure do that good for such a young boy . . . is it giving you a hard-on, son, to suck your father’s big prick like this?” And I’d gulped his semen like nectar.

Royal wiped his face with his hand while looking around, appealing to the gods above for assistance. “Okay,” he breathed. “Kanapapiki. Wow.”

“It’s over, Royal!” I insisted. “I never expected to see him again, and then I met you!”

He twirled to face me. “Oh yeah? Is that the only reason you stopped loving on your ‘daddy,’ son? Because you never expected to see him again? But now he’s back, isn’t he? And in quite a big way, because we’re dependent on him not only to give your painting back but to find this Roosevelt rug!”

My mouth was open with some kind of retort or other, but I dodged a bullet by Split himself finally confronting us. He swaggered up in that western way he always had and drawled, “Well, now. I know I’m interrupting some kind of lover’s quarrel, but I got to tell you. Chip’s Antiques is right around that corner. So just a few more yards to our fame and fortune, kids.”

Royal lifted his upper lip and said with derision, “I’m not your fucking kid, old man.”

Split held up his hands in surrender. “Okay, okay, I get it. It’s just a form of speech, Royal. If Sterling here is your boy—I mean partner—then I gladly give up all rights to him. You’re the new boss.”

Royal’s nostrils flared as he glared down at Split. His jaw twitched as he ground his teeth. Holy mother, he’s really mad.

A glow started to radiate in my chest. He must really like me. A strong surge of an emotion I couldn’t detect welled under my ribs. My credo was that in all important events in life, in any movement that might affect one’s future, one must take a leap in the dark. A leap based upon very imprecise evidence. Whichever we choose, we choose at our own peril. Nothing is ever certain or preordained.

And I was leaping right over to Royal.

I found my tongue. “You heard us, Royal. We’re not an item. This is all strictly business. Right, Split?”

Split kind of stuck out his lower lip as he nodded. Maybe it’s my ego, but it seemed he had a cast of regret in his eyes. Still, he nodded. He gave me up to Royal.

“Right, Sterling. This is strictly a business relationship. I won’t interfere in anything you men do.”

Royal nodded too. He gripped my hand and said, “Come on, brah. Let’s go get that rug.”

We started out afresh, and I really had an aura of renewal about me. I even looked up at Royal’s profile, chiseled and stunning, a raw look of determination in his features. Is this love? I hadn’t really loved Ash, at least not in this powerful, wrenching way. The sort that makes you toss and turn at night.

And then it happened.

To this day, reciting the story to you, Hobie, it’s traumatic for me to imagine it. It happened so swiftly, and I know it sounds corny, but it was a blur. So, I’m putting some knowledge of the scene into retrospect, if you know what I mean.

Royal’s hand was large and comforting clasping mine, and we walked with such confidence, such high morale and spirit as I hadn’t felt in years, if ever. Like a bull at a gate this guy came charging from a storefront ahead of us. He whipped a yellow manhole barrier aside, where it tumbled in the street and some guy honked at it.

Next thing we knew, he had a metal hook. He hitched up the cast iron manhole where steam vented and dragged it aside. Almost in the same motion, he grabbed Split around the waist and tossed him feet first into the manhole. The culprit vanished around the street corner.