Sydney, Australia
Part 1

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"You look more like Trigger's type, darling," another would shriek for the umpteeth time.

Typically, my two friends, Jerry and Bob, were sitting in their favorite corner. It was about 5:30pm and their work day had finished. It had become a ritual for us to meet there and sink a few beers before going our separate ways for dinner. As my eyes adjusted to the dim lighting, I headed toward my friends, nodding and saying hi to various regulars while I weaved my way through the animated, noisy crowd.

This particular afternoon was different, though. A third person was seated on a stool next to my friends. I managed a quick glance as I approached the table, but concentrated my attention on Jerry and Bob as we exchanged greetings and talked about the usual bullshit. I was afraid to look at the third person again in case my eyes leapt out on springs and stuck to his face like a couple of sticky ping-pong balls. Using peripheral vision, I could see that the dark-haired, olive-skinned stranger was dressed in a tank-top and jeans. He was observing me in a subtle way but, nevertheless, was trying to attract my attention. I continued to focus on my friends and avoided any eye contact with the third guy. Instinct told me that if I'd allowed my gaze to wander in his direction, I'd be reduced to a gibbering idiot. Even my earlier split-second glance was enough to tell me that he was totally fucking gorgeous -- the type who could easily turn you into a pile of quivering jelly.

After a few minutes, the guy stood up and disappeared from view. What a relief! I relaxed instantly and dragged a spare stool over to the table. The guys had already bought me a beer. I downed almost half of it before I rolled a Dr. Pat, lit it and inhaled deeply.

"So, who was that guy who just left?" I asked as a huge cloud of blue-gray smoke billowed from my mouth and nose.

"Dunno. Never seen him before. He just sat next to us but didn't make any conversation. Must be new around here. Awesome looking."

"You can say that..." I stopped abruptly as a hand appeared suddenly below my eyes. It contained a glass of beer which was deposited on the table. My eyes travelled the length of the arm and up to the face. It was him! Fuck! He was not only gorgeous but had the most mesmerizing smile.

"I hope you drink VB." His teenage voice sounded immature but friendly.

"Yeah, thanks." I couldn't think of a damn thing to say. I was spellbound. I used my finger to scoop the rich, white froth that had dribbled down the side of the frosted glass and put it to my lips in an attempt to buy time and give my mind a chance to function.

"I'm Sam."

"I'm Mr B, or just plain B.

"You're the guy on the radio!"

"Yeah."

"I listen to your show every morning. It's cool." Something caught his eye. "Oh, my friend's arrived. He told me to meet him here. Guess I'd better jet. Nice to meet you. See ya!"

"Thanks for the beer," I shouted as the boy melted into the crowd.

For the remainder of the conversation, it was apparent to Jerry and Bob that my mind was elsewhere. There was something totally awesome about that kid. Within a few seconds, he'd virtually pushed everything in my mind to one side and filled it with images of his face and smile. I simply couldn't get him out of my head.

"Did you guys catch his accent? Sounded sort of Mediterranean."

"Probably Lebanese. Seems like that kid made a big impression on you," Jerry laughed.

"Well, he's not the first and probably won't be the last," I sighed. "He's way out of my league, though. For starters, I'm ten years older than he is, at least."

"More like a fuckin' hundred."

"Thanks, asshole."

About a week went by without my seeing young Sam again. I figured it wasn't so much a case of ships in the night as jets in the night. Whoosh! Gone! What continued to puzzle me, though, was why he'd bought me a beer.

Friday night was always a big night at Pete's, an unlicensed bar and pick-up joint popular with rent boys. The entrance to the first-floor dive was via an unobtrusive backstreet doorway and up narrow, wooden staircase which was always guarded by one of the owner's favored goons. Unfamiliar faces were questioned at length before being allowed admission. The slightest suspicion about their motives had them turned away, with the bouncer explaining that it was an invitation-only, private party upstairs.

Pete's was often raided by the local constabulary who would give the owner prior notice of the intended 'raid' to allow patrons to conveniently disappear out of windows and down backstreets. The owner would then be given the obligatory warning about operating an unlicensed premises, fined a pittance and that was that. Graft ruled big time.

Once at the top of the stairs, patrons were greeted by the sight of a lavishly stocked bar, complete with shirtless boy-bartenders. At the front end of the club was a large dance floor surrounded by tables and chairs and three pool tables. A revolving mirror-ball hung from the ceiling and reflected a rainbow of dazzling colors. The DJ was tucked in a corner and equipped with a couple of turntables and microphone. He was probably all of sixteen and, typically, shirtless. Most of what he said went unheeded because of the room's poor acoustics. It was the music that ruled. And it was as loud as hell!

The stairs to the second floor led to an area lit by dim purple fluorescent tubes which caused you to look like you'd never bothered to brush the fluff off your clothes after washing. It was manned by a kid who took your money before you were led by your chosen rent-boy to one of a number of cubicles whose furnishing consisted only of a single bench covered by a thin, vinyl-covered mattress. The whole place smelt like stale cum and perspiration. Romance wasn't exactly the main attraction.

On this particular night, I was making my way from the dance floor to the bar through an impossible tangle of people when I recognized Sam's grinning face in the crowd. Then everything went black. When I came to, I had no recollection of what had happened or where I was. I was in total darkness as I stumbled around with outstretched arms feeling for a sign of something familiar. My hand touched what seemed like a door, and finally found a handle. I opened it immediately, not knowing what to expect. My eyes took a moment to become accustomed to the light, then focused on a large man who simply said, "you must be the hitee."

My fuzzy brain needed time to comprehend what he'd meant by "hitee". There was blood on my shirt and my face hurt. He asked for my name. After I'd answered, he suggested that I should accompany him to the police station. I was still too groggy to fully appreciate what was going on, so I allowed them [there were two plain-clothes police by this time] to lead me like a lamb to slaughter.

At the station, I was ordered to sit on a wooden bench while I waited for whatever mystery was about to unfold. My mind was in some kind of trance, unable to function properly. It was as though I was dreaming. After a few minutes, I asked one of the police if I could go to the toilet. He stood behind me at the urinal with his hand firmly gripping my belt as I attempted to pee. "Officer, I don't know whether or not it's apparent to you, but peeing ain't fleeing."

He didn't comment, but simply led me back to where I'd been sitting on the bench. About half an hour had elapsed before he approached me again. "Come this way."

I did as I was told and sat at a table. In front of me was a mug book. I'd never seen one before. It contained page after page of pictures of criminals with numbers across their chests. The cop pointed to one of them. "Doesn't look a lot like you, does it?"

"Of course not! It's not me!"

"Lucky for you," he smiled.

"Lucky for me? I'm lucky because I'm not him? What the hell is this all about? It's a bad dream, right? And you're one of the ugly sisters. Where's my pumpkin?"

The cop explained that I had the same name as a guy who lived in my neighborhood, and who was wanted for a series of house robberies.

"Fine! So you drag me in here, hold me while I'm trying to piss, and treat me like some criminal! I insist that you drive me back to the club."

"It's an illegal club, sir. I wouldn't suggest you go back there."

"Illegal? Oh, I didn't know that," I lied. "Anyway, I have to go back there. My wallet's there. My license and money are there, my car is there. Hey, I'll give you guys a cheerio call on air in the morning. Do you listen to my show? I'm Mr B."

"The Mr B? Why didn't you say so before?"

"Cool. So, it's a deal? You'll drive me back?"

Pete's was still raging as I walked up the stairs and found Sam. His face was so cute and beautiful it stood out like a friendly beacon in the bustling crowd, and was indeed a welcome sight. He handed me my wallet. "It's empty, B. Sorry, man, but the guy who king hit you took the money. I found your wallet on the floor."

"King hit me? Who?"

"Some dude. I dunno. You were in his way when he was trying to get to the dance floor and, without a word, he just gave you a big knuckle sandwich right to the jaw. You dropped like a sack of potatoes." He apologized for laughing briefly, then continued. "The manager got some guys to take you upstairs to the office. You were out cold, man. Then they called the cops. I guess you must've come to before they left."

"What happened to the guy who hit me?"

"He split as soon as he knew the cops were coming."

"Well, thanks for hanging around, Sam. But I've gotta go. I'm on air at 5am and it's after 1am now. Gotta get some sleep."

"Hey, you don't look too good, dude," he said with a genuine look of concern. "I'd better come with you to make sure you're OK."

Suddenly, the events of the night took a back seat as Sam's infectious smile melted me. He wanted to come home with me? He wanted to know that I was OK? He cared? Whoa! I began to feel nervous, apprehensive, inadequate. Me? This god of gods wanted to come home with me? Fuck no! Ten minutes with me and he'd realize that I was a dork. "Thanks anyway, Sam, but I'll be OK, really."

"Don't argue, dude. I'm coming with you." He placed a firm hand on my back and ushered me downstairs. My car was parked around the corner. "Wow! A Mercedes!"

"Yeah, but it's eight years old, man. Still a nice car, though." I started the engine and headed down William Street with its upmarket car showrooms, contrasted by scantily-clad street prostitutes, then made a right towards the Harbor Bridge. "I've never seen you at Pete's before."

"Pete's is cool. I get free drinks there. All the young guys do. The manager figures we attract the paying customers."

"Well, he's not wrong, Narelle. Do you ... I mean, do you mix with the older guys?"

"I'm no rent boy, if that's what you're asking. I leave that to the junkies. Who's Narelle?"

"Just a saying."

"Do you rent?"

"Once. It was a disaster. We hardly did anything. Never again. It was Vince. Know him?"

"Smack freak. I knew him when he was clean. He was cool then."

Sam got out of the car and opened the garage door. I inched the Benz into the narrow space. Within a few minutes, we'd climbed the three flights of stairs to the penthouse. It had been a hot day and the place smelt humid and musty. I opened all the windows and let the salty, sea breeze fill the place. It was cool and refreshing, even exhilarating, as it swept like invisible magic throughout the apartment.

"Awesome pad, man. Woohoo! Check that view! Even by moonlight you can see all the way to Manly Beach and out to sea. This is totally rad! Must set you back a bunch."

"Well, it's worth it. It's a great place to relax."

The apartment complex was a small block built on the edge of a cliff overlooking a series of beaches beginning with Queenscliff. The view from the living room was 180 degrees. Directly below the complex was the Queenscliff salt-water swimming pool and the surf club.

"Hey! This is a way cool telescope, dude. Pity it's night time. What do you use it for?"

"Astronomy," I lied as I took two glasses and a bottle of Jack Daniels from the bar. "Neat or with cola?"

"Cola and ice. Astronomy, huh? Sure, man," he laughed. "I reckon there'd be some pretty hunky dudes hanging around that beach during the day. I don't suppose you use this thing to check them out."

"Sometimes, I guess."

"Sometimes, huh?" he mocked. "Well, you don't need no fucking telescope with me, B. Mind if I strip? It's hot."

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