The Gilded Madonna by Garrick Jones (ebook reader for comics TXT) 📕

“Oh, I can do more than look after him, Clyde.”

“Oh really? And what about Harley?”

“Oh, Harley would be into it like a shot, don’t you worry, Clyde. You kept him on a short leash for a long time. A boy’s got to spread his wings, and he likes tall, dark, and handsome … and foreign-looking.”

I shook my head and left him rummaging through his filing cabinet.

*****

“Allan? Who told you about Allan?” Boyd said after I’d asked Neil to give us some space for a few minutes.

“It doesn’t matter, mate, and I was told nothing more than to ask you.”

“What do you want to know?” he asked.

“What happened to Allan in January, 1953?”

“In January, 1953? That’s going back a way.” He sighed deeply and then looked out over the sea for a minute or two, obviously deciding whether to speak or to tell me it was none of my business.”

“If you’d rather not …”

He snorted softly and then said, “Well, he died in 1953, so I suppose it doesn’t matter anymore.”

“Are you sure? I’m happy to leave it if you like.”

He shook his head. “Nah, it’s all right, Clyde. I don’t mind, and it’s so long ago now. Here, make yourself useful and grab my crutches for me will you? Neil’s wandered off and I …”

“No problem at all, mate. Would you like a smoke too? I’ll grab my ciggies while I’m at it.”

“That’d be nice. Thanks, Clyde.”

After I returned with his crutches, I helped him up, and we moved onto one of the benches behind the pool area.

“Anything else I can do?” I asked.

“Nah, I’m fine,” he said with a grin and a wink. “And there’s no need to sit—the view’s just fine.”

I was standing facing him, my groin at his eye level.

“You said he died in 1953?” I said, offering him a cigarette. “Can you tell me how?”

“Same as me. Got hit by a car. That’s how I lost this,” he added, slapping the thigh of the leg that was missing from just above the knee.

“Oh, I thought you lost yours during the war?”

“I did. They had cars back then in the dim dark ages during the war, you know, Clyde.”

I laughed loudly. “Mine was mostly spent in a P.O.W. camp in Italy, mate.”

“American jeep. Driver lost control and drove over our two-man tent with me inside. Got me an early mark back home.”

“Sorry to hear it. Truly.”

“Lots worse off than me, as you probably know too. Now, tell me why you want to know about what happened to Allan.”

I decided he’d had enough time inspecting my bits, even though he’d been cagey about pretending not to, so I put my towel down next to him and sat, my feet stretched out, staring at the horizon while I decided how I should reply.

“For the moment I can’t tell you why. I’m sorry, Boyd … but after you’ve told me, I might be able to open up a bit. Look at it from my angle. Maybe what you’re going to say will have nothing to do with the case I’m working on and then I’ll have blurted out something that’s meant to be private.”

“Once a cop, always a cop.”

“Look, you can trust me. I wouldn’t be prying if it wasn’t important, and I have a feeling it might just be.”

“Very well, then. Allan was a great guy, struggling with a slow intellect, but everyone’s pal. He had one major problem though.”

“What was that?”

“He was sex mad, and I mean not just toey all the time, but obsessed with having sex, anywhere, any time, with anyone wearing trousers. He compensated for feeling stupid by making himself available to men—he used to tell me that because blokes liked him, it made him feel wanted and ‘normal’, and the more of them he had, the more normal he felt. He was what we used to call a ‘bog boy’ back then. Lived in public toilets after dark. He was good-looking enough, and tall with it. You couldn’t tell to look at him that he was mentally challenged, but because of it he was naïve, very trusting and often very reckless too.”

“Reckless?”

“What he got up to, Clyde, when he was out on the prowl, most nights of the week. No sense of danger. He was like a puppy—everyone wanted to play with him.”

“And?”

“He was down at Rushcutters’ Bay Park one night …”

Rushcutters’ Bay? The hairs on the back of my neck bristled so fiercely I had to shake my head.

“…and he met some guy in the dark under the trees along the creek there with a nice smile and big piece between his legs. The guy kept running his hands around Allan’s arse, grinding himself against him, kissing his neck, and constantly begging Allan to let him put it in him. Allan was a pushover for a persistent, sexed-up man—he’d get so aroused he couldn’t think straight—so said yes, but he didn’t want it out there, in the open under the trees, so asked him if he had anywhere to go. The man flicked his head towards the public toilet in the middle of the park and took him by the hand and led him inside. As soon as they were inside in the cubicle, he encouraged Allan to get down on his knees to give him a bit of oral action, to get them both ‘warmed up’.”

I had a pretty good idea of how this story was going to pan out, and I felt a little uneasy waiting to see if it turned out as I suspected it might. “Go on,” I said.

“Well, Allan told me the man was not only very turned-on but also encouraging and appreciative of what Allan was doing—kept saying how nice it was and complimenting him on how well he was doing it—and then suddenly squatted down and kissed Allan full on the mouth, asking him if he was ready for it.”

“Are you sure he said the man kissed him?”

“Yes, Clyde.