The Big Bad Wolf

ANOTHER PURCHASE HAD BEEN MADE - a large one. On Saturday night, the Couple had entered a bar called the Halyard, on the water in Newport, Rhode Island. The Halyard was different from most of the gay clubs in Newport's socalled Pink District. There was the occasional glimpse of a bad-ass boot or spike-studded wristband, but most of the men who frequented the place sported tousled hairdos and boating dress, and the ever-popular Croakie sunglasses. The deejay had just selected a Strokes tune, and several couples were dancing the night away. The Couple fit in, which is to say that they didn't stand out. Slava wore a baby blue T-shirt and Dockers, and had gelled his longish black hair. Zoya had on a raffish sailing cap and had made herself up to look like a pretty young man. She had succeeded beyond her own expectations, for she had already been hit on. She and Slava were looking for a certain physical type, and they had found a promising prospect soon after they arrived. His name, they would learn later, was Benjamin Coffey, and he was a senior at Providence College. Benjamin had first become aware that he was gay while serving as an altar boy at St. Thomas' in Barrington, Rhode Island. No priest had ever touched or abused him while he was there, or even come on to him, but he had discovered a like-minded altar server, and they became lovers when they were both fourteen. The two had continued to meet through high school, but then Benjamin had moved on. He was still keeping his sex life a secret at Providence College, but he could be himself in the Pink District. The Couple watched the very handsome boy as he chatted up a thirty-something bartender whose toned muscles were set off by the track lighting over his head. "The boy could be on the cover of GQ," said Slava. "He's the one." A strapping man in his fifties approached the bar. Close behind him were four younger men and a woman. Everyone in the group was wearing white ducks and blue Lacoste shirts. The bartender turned away from Benjamin and shook hands with the older man, who then introduced his companions: "David Skalah, crew. Henry Galperin, crew. Bill Lattanzi, crew. Sam Hughes, cook. Nora Hamerman, crew." "And this," the bartender said, "is Ben." "It's Benjamin," the boy corrected, and smiled brilliantly. Zoya snuck a look at Slava, and the two of them couldn't help grinning at the skit. "The boy is just what we want," she said. "He's like a cleaned-up version of Brad Pitt." He was definitely the physical type that the client had specified: slender, blond, boyish, probably still a teenager, luscious red lips, intelligent looking. That was a must - intelligence. And the buyer wanted no part of "chickens," young boys who sold themselves on the street. Ten minutes or so passed, then the Couple followed Benjamin to the bathroom, which was white on white and sparkling clean. Illustrations of nautical knots had been drawn on the walls. There was a table elaborately set with colognes, mouthwashes, and a teak box filled with amyl nitrite poppers. Benjamin headed into one of the stalls, and the Couple pushed in after him. It was a tight squeeze. He turned when he felt a hard shove. "Taken," he said. "I'm in here. Jesus, are you two stoned? Give me a break." "Arm or leg?" said Slava, and laughed at his own joke. They forced him to his knees. "Hey, hey," he called out in alarm. "Somebody help me. Somebody!" A gauzy cloth was pressed tightly against his nose and mouth, and he lost consciousness. Then the Couple lifted Benjamin up and, supporting him on either side, carried him from the bathroom as if they were buddies helping someone who'd passed out. They took him out a back door to a parking lot filled with convertibles and SUVs. The Couple didn't care if they were seen, but they were careful not to hurt the boy. No bruises. He was worth a lot of money. Somebody wanted him badly. Another purchase.