“And would you mind putting this on?”

Charlie stared at the limp rag she held in her hands.

“If it’s not a problem. The man on the phone didn’t seem to think it would be.”

He took the thin leopard-skin loincloth from her and wrapped it around his hard thighs. Jungle-man suit, that’s what it was. Tarzan of the Bordello.

“Oh, wow. He looks good in it,” said the woman on the sofa.

“He looks good, period,” her friend replied. “Check out that six-pack.”

Would you like me to open my mouth so you can examine my teeth? he wondered.

“Just stay right there,” the woman on the sofa said. “Where I can see you.” She squealed. “Oh, Marcia. Did you see those muscles ripple?”

Her friend grinned. “Do you work out?”

“When I get a chance.”

“Well, your chance has arrived.”

“You want me to work out?”

“Sort of.” She handed him a long pink feather duster. “Start with the top shelves, would you? Work hard. Get all hot and sweaty.”

Ooo-kay… He went to work on the bookshelves just behind him. He wasn’t used to working in a costume, but he liked to think of himself as open-minded. “Hey, if you want, I can-”

The two women were shoving their tongues down each other’s throats.

If they wanted something, they’d let him know. Maybe a Tarzan yell or two. Whatever they needed.

Not much, as it turned out. As his workout-and theirs-progressed, he came to feel increasingly irrelevant. Not that they would let him leave. But they didn’t want him on the sofa. So he dusted down the living room for an hour or so while the two women pleasured themselves with a variety of techniques and implements, then collected his loot and got the hell out of there.

“They did pay you double,” the man behind the desk reminded Charlie. “One hundred each. Plus a very generous tip. Even after we remove our share, that still left you earning a per hour wage of-”

“I know,” Charlie said. “It’s not the money. I’m still desperate for money.”

The man made a minute adjustment to the lie of his desk blotter. “Then I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

“I’m sorry. If you could just pay me what I’ve earned.”

The man sighed heavily and passed him the money. “All right, then. I’m sorry, too. Best of wishes.”

Charlie stared at the disappointingly small stack of cash. “Could you possibly loan me some money?”

“Pardon?”

“I have to blow town-and make sure I’m not followed.”

“Ah. Trouble with the law.”

“No, it’s not that. It’s just-”

“Charlie, I’ve offered you some wonderful opportunities to earn money.”

“I can’t wait. I’ve already screwed around way too long.”

He held up his hands. “Then I don’t see how I can help you.”

Damn everyone! he thought, as he made his way to the bus. How did he ever get started in this stupid business?

That question was easy enough to answer. Dean. He was the man who put me on the road to chickendom.

When Charlie had first left home, he’d had no idea where to go or what to do. The friend of a friend he was supposed to stay with bailed, and he couldn’t hook up with any theater groups. He was trying to decide whether to give up and go home when he heard that ultradeep voice behind him.

“You got a place to stay, kid?”

Dean was a big man, tough, wiry, with a voice like the Grand Canyon. He took Charlie to the Sizzlin’ Sirloin for a great meal. He was so warm, so sympathetic. Listened to all of Charlie’s stories-why he had to leave home, how he just couldn’t live with his parents any longer. Dean understood. Told him he could stay at his place. Which seemed like a great deal.

Until Charlie woke up in the middle of the night. In pain.

Dean was on top of him, hurting him, pinning him down, punishing him, tearing him. Charlie felt paralyzed; he’d never experienced anything so intense, anything so ungodly painful in his life. Dean’s hot breath was on his neck and his body was all over him and there was nothing Charlie could do about it.

When it was over, Dean rolled over and sighed. “Thanks, punk.”

Charlie should’ve left then and there. But where would he go? He had no money, no place to stay. Maybe those were just excuses. Maybe there’s always an alternative, but he sure as hell couldn’t come up with one.

A week later, Dean invited Charlie to meet some of his friends. Friends with similar interests. After a while, it didn’t hurt anymore. After a little longer, he was barely aware it was happening.

It had been maybe a month, living with Dean, when the man said, “Charlie, do you know what a chicken is?”

“Yeah. They sell ’ em at KFC.”

“That’s not what I mean. On the street, a chicken is a young punk like you who sells his body for money.”

“You mean, like a hooker?”

“ ‘Cept it’s a good-lookin’ hunk of a boy. Like you.”

“Why are you tellin’ me this, Dean?”

“Well, Charlie, you been livin’ here for more’n a month now. And I’ve took care of you. Took good care of you. Haven’t I?”

Charlie remained silent.

“But time comes a boy’s got to be a man. Got to take care of hisself. That time is here, Charlie. You got to carry your share of the load.”

In time, he moved out of Dean’s place, but never changed his line of work. It was just so easy, and it left so much spare time for other things. And he was good at it! He made women happy. There wasn’t anything trashy about it, not most of the time. He loved those ladies, and they loved him. What could be wrong with that? If only he’d stuck to the chicken work, and not gotten tangled up in the other mess…

But he had. And now that mistake could cost him his life.

He’d been trying to make enough scratch to get somewhere, but he didn’t have time for that now. The savings plan was on hold-it was fly or die. Even if he had to leave town on foot, he had to go. Because this person was smart. This person had some amazing resources.

He had to get to the bus station. He had enough to get somewhere, anywhere.

He climbed onto the city bus. He was beginning to feel calmer now. He wasn’t out of the woods, but at least he had a plan of action. He had options. He had hope.

All of which died the instant he sat down and looked out the window. The bus pulled away, but the face he dreaded most was back at the bus stop, smiling at him.

He’d been found.

29

“So you’re the guy my mom wanted in the first place?” Johnny Christensen said, peering through the protective acrylic panel.

Ben didn’t reply.

“Mr. Kincaid will be acting as my second-chair, Johnny. He’s doing it as a favor to me.”

“I see.” He rubbed a hand against his stubbled chin. “As opposed to doing it for me.”

“Or your mother,” Ben said, in a low tone.

“So how do you think our chances look?”

“I won’t lie to you,” Ben said. “The evidence has been stacked against you from the start, and we haven’t found much to counteract it. As I told you before, my cop friend is in Chicago and he has some interesting theories, but so far nothing that’s likely to help us in court.”

“Then you think… I’m gonna lose?” The color drained from Johnny’s cheeks. “You think they’re gonna fry me?”

“I can’t predict the penalty-”

“Well, I can. I’ve read the papers. If they find me guilty, I’m gonna be executed. I know I will.”

Ben couldn’t argue with his conclusion, especially given the Illinois hate crime statute. “Johnny, we’ll do everything we can.”

“I’m only seventeen. I don’t want to die.”

“We’ll do everything-”

“I’m so scared. All the time, scared. I can’t sleep. You know how much weight I’ve lost?” His eyes began to well up. “I don’t want to die.”

“You should’ve thought of that before you attacked Tony Barovick.”

“I didn’t kill him, man.”

Why pull punches? “Even if your story is true, the things you and your friend did were cruel beyond measure. You tortured a poor boy who never did anything to you.”