Danh drank a regular Pepsi-something he almost never did. He was running low on energy doing too many things at the same time-and now he needed to follow up on Tom Kelly's murder.

Danh dialed his friend, "Salmi? It's Nguyen. I need your help. I know it's your day off. It's everyone's day off but mine. I'm working thirty-six hour shifts and I need your help. Yes, it's about the jabber. The case's more involved than we thought. Yesterday, I visited the hospital. Remember the man who was struck by the ambulance? Yeah, him. Turns out he's the owner of a fertilizer plant. Riverdale. Right. One of his security guards turned up dead. No, you heard me right, a fertilizer plant security guard. Right. What can you do? It's a long shot, I know. I said I know, but here's the deal: fertilizer's made of nitrogen. Duh. Nitrogen can be processed into bombs. Someone may be planning to blow up the entire city. There are just too many unrelated circumstances. I know the captain thinks I'm a lunatic, but I don't' care. We've got to follow up on every lead. No, I haven't mentioned this to the captain. Listen, are you going to do me a favor or put me through twenty questions? Okay! I need you to visit the security guard's wife-check out her story. Perhaps she can give you some insight. Yes. Right. Right. Listen. Right. I said right. Listen to me, Salmi. Put on a clean shirt and tie, okay? No, a necktie, don't play with me. I know . . . I know. And be nice. Right, you're always nice. I know that. You know that. God in heaven knows that. Just be sure the widow knows that. God damn it, Salmi, I've had less than six hours sleep in the past three days. Can you do this for me or not?"

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Jason could think of nothing but pile driving as he mounted Camilla Peterson for the third time, covering her with kisses, biting her neck, running his tongue up and down her body from neck to toes.

"Give it to me; let me have your baby," Camilla said in between her moans.

"That be happenin', baby," Jason said as he glanced at the empty box of condoms on the nightstand. "We be all out of rubbers. You wish be comin', baby, you wish just might be comin'."

Camilla closed her eyes, thinking of the son she and Jason would have, thinking of the two of them playing ball at Eastern High, wondering how soon she could tell her mom she was pregnant.

After the third round, Jason withdrew and went into the bathroom. "That's it?" Camilla said. "Love me and leave me, is that it?" Camilla was teasing, toying with the man she loved, but Jason didn't understand her sense of humor.

"I ain't teasin' nobody, bitch," Jason loved to call his women bitches, lately he'd even started using the term for his male friends when they spread their legs. "I just be needin' to piss, otherwise I be doin' you again and again. Or do I gotta axe permission?"

Camilla was ready for battle now, sensing her man was pushing himself too far. If I want to have Jason's son, I need to let him know he can't walk over me. "Look, Jazz, I ain't your bitch, okay. It's about time you refer to me as your woman . . . or your wife."

"Damn, bitch, if I ever I want to be marryin' you, I'll be doing it in my own time."

Camilla exploded, "You such a nigga. If I wanted you, I would have taken you in high school. I don't want you. I don't want no God damned part of you." Camilla was half-dressed before Jason finished pissing. He flushed the toilet as she slipped into her jeans, slid into her shoes and walked to the door. "If your sorry black ass wants me, you know where to find me."

Jason knew the storm would blow over; it always did. She just needs time. She be a bitch, but she be my bitch. She be back tomorrow with her legs up to the God damned sky.

Camilla sobbed all the way to the Metro. She'd been carrying Jason's baby for three months and could feel the life throbbing inside her. She had wanted to break the news to Jazz in her own way, but now all that was ruined-ruined by one of them-and she didn't even care which one. I got to get my man back. If I got to kiss his black ass, I gotta get him back.

The dozen or so people who boarded the train ignored Camilla's tears. They were too engrossed in their newspapers and Kindles.

Camilla dried her tears as she walked the five blocks from Metro to her mom's. I don't want her to see me like this. I don't want her to know. Camilla still wasn't totally together by the time she reached the end of the block nearly within sight of her mom's house and she knew when she rounded the corner, she'd be back on her home turf, back in the hood. She stood by a new Chevy pick-up, wondering why everyone thought it was such a hot car. To her it was more of an annoyance; it took up too much space on the street and there wasn't a back seat to make out in. She opened her purse and refreshed her makeup, making sure to double check for stray tears. I'll tell Mama Jason had to work and I wanna spend some time with the family. She'll believe that; she'll believe anything I tell her.

She stood for a moment, leaning against the truck, worrying that her tears were still visible. Mothers know these things; mothers know when they girls be crying. So she lingered a while, straightening her clothes, making sure she was presentable.

A moment later, a car swept around the corner as a brother aimed his gun out the windows, firing at the Ford pick-up and the girl standing in front of it.

"You done it, Mohammed. You done shot the nigger!"

Another initiate passed his final challenge-he was now a legitimate member of the Cripps.

Camilla's mom was the first person to hear the gun shots and she knew, instinctively, something was wrong. She raced out of her apartment, praying it wasn't Camilla. But when she rounded the corner and saw the pool of blood, the shoes, the purse, she screamed so loudly that the leaves on the trees rattled.

Sabrina Williams fell on top of her daughter's body, screaming for Jesus to save her daughter, praying that the Lord would perform a miracle. Within seconds the street was filled with screaming, praying people-none of whom bothered to call the cops because they knew they'd merely carry away the corpse and head back across the Anacostia-back to the safety of the white world. Camilla's murder wouldn't even make the 6 o'clock news.

Forty-five minutes later, when the ambulance finally arrived, Camilla's body was carted away. After that, two cops arrived and the neighborhood voyeurs dissipated, leaving nothing but a few oak leaves lying on the road in a pool of blood.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

A mile away, barely remembering the tiff, Jason left Camilla's apartment and hopped the Metro heading toward Dupont Circle. If I can't be keepin' Camilla, I just be getting 'another bitch, he thought as his penis expanded in his trousers, banging its way through the fly hole in his boxers and rubbed against his zipper. What the fuck! Why I gotta be hard all the time? If I can't be keeping no woman, I might as well get a man.

As Camilla lay dying in the street, Jason walked into the Exile, a gay bar in the heart of Washington's gay district.

The bar was smoky and crowded, and the music was so loud it permeated the neighborhood, bellowing all the way down Massachusetts Avenue and the mansions lining Embassy Row.

Inside, young white pussy boys, mostly in their late teens to early thirties, danced shirtless to the beat of the music as Jason scanned the bar looking for his mark until he spotted his victim and became a lion prowling the Serengeti. Jason settled on a thin white man, a guy who looked straight, could have passed as straight, might even have been straight at one point in time, but had an attitude about him that said, fuck me, fuck me hard.

Meanwhile, Carlos Alvarez stood at the opposite end of the bar with his boyfriend, Alejandro. Carlos wasn't exactly cruising, but he was looking for new friends and when he spotted the handsome thirty-something guy at the edge of the dance floor, he nudged Alejandro. "Let's get his number. He's a hottie."

"Dumping me so soon?" Alejandro laughed.

"No, just keeping a few extras in the pipeline, just in case," Carlos winked at Alejandro, who knew he fooled around from time to time but always came home.

Alejandro stood back a few paces, observing Carlos's style. He's slick with a glib tongue and fast hands. Alejandro thought. That's how he won me in the first place. Alejandro smiled, remembering their first meeting at the Janus, a theater known for its repertoire of gay films, rancid popcorn, flat sodas, and nachos. He remembered making out in the front row before rolling on the floor and being expelled by the one-eyed attendant, Danny Carpenter, who had lost half his upper lip and his right eye in a knife fight defending two out-of-town Mormon missionaries who had wandered into the wrong part of town. If he'd seen as well with his left eye as he did with his right, Alejandro thought, we both would have ended up in the slammer . . . instead, we got tossed out onto the street and Carlos demanded-not asked-demanded- I spend the night with him in his apartment. What was it he said? 'From now on, the only popping corn you're going to hear is coming from my button-down Levis.'

As Alejandro reflected, Carlos approached the tall thin man lounging at the end of the bar, "Name's Carlos, Puerto Rican American . . . of Irish descent." Carlos's line always made people do a double take and it did the same for the stranger.

"Kiefer, of French descent with a lot of Greek behind it."

"I do French and Greek, very well," Carlos said."

Kiefer's erection grew exponentially as he thought about being Frenched by the hot young Puerto Rican Irishman. "Are you alone?" Kiefer noticed Carlos standing with Alejandro a few moments before as he scoped out the men at the bar.

"Nope, I'm hanging right now," Carlos replied, looking down at Kiefer's shoes, riding his pupils slowly from Carlos' thighs to his bulge to his eyes. "How about you? How you hanging?"

"Nine to five," Kiefer responded, hoping he'd given enough clues to turn Carlos on, as he rubbed his hand down Carlos's pants leg.

"Here's my number. Carlos is my name and all Frenchmen are my game."

Kiefer reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out one of the slips of paper he'd cut out with his wife's pinking shears: KIEFER 579-382-1184-NIGHT OWL. There was a small hand drawn figure of Hedwig just above the word NIGHT.

In addition to his frilly blue jagged-edged homemade business cards, Kiefer carried a pair of Trojans in his right hip pocket, a peanut-filled Power Bar in his shirt pocket, and twenty one-dollar bills in the right Jeans pocket. Just in case I get mugged or the place gets raided, he thought. I don't want the police to know anything more than they need to know.

Carlos slipped back onto the dance floor, grabbed Alejandro and danced as if he had been stuck with a voodoo pin. If that intro doesn't get him, maybe the sight of my hot ass will.

Kiefer decided to tease Carlos by eyeballing his ass but he kept on cruising. I have all the time in the world, he thought, or at least until everyone turns into pumpkins when the clock strikes midnight. Kiefer walked back to the life-sized Madonna mannequin in the middle of the barroom floor, the one in which she wore the same skirt that Marilyn Monroe had worn in that famous New York City grate scene. With a little eye movement he was able to scope out the entire room, counting off the possibilities. No, no, maybe, yes, no, no, perhaps. Kiefer was having more fun than he'd had in his entire married life. I'm going to get lucky tonight, he thought, I'm going home with him . . . or him . . . or him. Kiefer thought of his first gay joke he'd ever heard. A gay man puts a hundred dollar bill in the offering plate and the minister is so grateful he says, My brother, for your generosity, you can choose the next three hymns and the gay man replies, I'll choose him and him and him. Kiefer's grinned and his upturned lip drew the attention of several of the older men in the crowd.

When Carlos finished his gay jig, he walked Alejandro back to the bar. "I'll save Kiefer for next week, big boy, unless you want me to get one for you, too."

Alejandro shook his head. He wanted to have a closed relationship, one man, one life, but he was willing to let Carlos experiment, as long as it was short and came to a quick end. I'll give him a little rope-enough to yank him back home when needed, but if he turns out to be a hard dog to keep on the porch, I'll cut his chain and set him free.

"Think I can manage two in one night?" Carlos played with Alejandro, jabbing him with his elbow. "Wanna see me pick him up?"

"Go for it." Alejandro was serious; he knew Carlos talked more than he played.

"Just kiddin'," Carlos paused and squeezed Alejandro's ass, "one's my limit . . . as long as it's you." Alejandro blushed as Carlos made love to him with his eyes. "Games are fun, but you're my man. I thought you knew that. Don't you know you're the only man I've ever loved?"

At the opposite end of the bar, Jason waited but the moment he entered, half the gaydometers registered a perfect ten-rumbling trying to get him to look their way.

Carlos paid the bill and possessed Alejandro's hand as they fought their way through the bar. As they passed Jason, Carlos got his scent-remembering it from somewhere, not sure where-wishing it were lighter and he could see the face of the man now surrounded by a half dozen men.

Then the music got louder and the guys all starting dancing as the room became a vast disco of steaming, perspiring, dripping bodies. Pushing and shoving, Alejandro and Carlos finally escaped into the night.

As the music grew to a feverish pitch, Jason's nimble fingers reached from behind Madonna and grabbed Kiefer's ass as if he was a basket filled with casaba melons, "You need to be spendin' time with a brother 'n you better be doing it soon."

Kiefer had barely gotten over Carlos's dismissal when he felt his body screaming, wondering if all gay men were as forward as the handsome black man squeezing his ass but he leaned back and allowed himself the enjoyment.

Up until a moment ago, Kiefer thought his cruising had paid off and all he'd have to do was go outside, dial Carlos's cell, and spend the evening in bed with a sweaty stranger. Now he realized his status: he was nothing more than a screeching little Capichino monkey trapped in the midst of a troop of alpha baboons-a toy for their pleasure.

For the first time in days, Kiefer blocked all memories of Rhonda and her crying bed-wetting boys.

Jason rubbed Kiefer's shoulders, ass, and thighs as if he was a calf on the auction block and he was a stockyard broker. Good thang I ain't buyin' th' bitch, jest rentin' him. He muss weigh a hundred fifty and at ten cent a pound he be worth fifteen bucks, tops, decent price for hamburger. Jason smiled, displaying the whitest teeth Kiefer had ever seen.

Damn, he likes me. Kiefer's cock couldn't grow any thicker or longer. I want that man. Up to that moment, Kiefer would never have believed he'd be worth more than a passing fart from a woman, let alone a hunk like Jason. But now he smelled this musky stranger and wanted him, hungered for him, as he lowered his head for a different reason than he did when he was with Rhonda, looking at Jason's trousers, marveling at his hi-tops, wishing he had words to speak.

"You be a boot licking boy, huh? I likes that. Come wiff me, boot licker, I be showin' you what I wants."

Kiefer had more common sense than most men his age, at least he thought he did, but he didn't hesitate. He followed Jason out of the bar and walked with him to the Metro heading toward the ghetto in far Southeast.

"Where we going?"

"Quiet, boy, I didn't axe nothin'."

Kiefer felt at home but now, instead of Rhonda bossing him around, he was with a man on the way to a new life-to a place he knew he belonged.

On the opposite end of P Street, while walking to their condo, Carlos turned to Alejandro, "That man was Jason! Remember the guy I saw on the Metro-the jabber. That was him."

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Twenty-three minutes later, Kiefer and Jason, AKA the Jazzman, were naked on the floor of Camilla's apartment, as Jason banged his balls against Kiefer's ass. He be tight like a virgin. Maybe I should be doin' this more oftener. Maybe I should be findin' a dozen fags to fuck every week. Jason let his mind wander away from Camilla, loving her and hating her at the same time, as he plowed Kiefer. One day I be marry the bitch and she be having my baby, but I be habing a stable of mens on de side. You got dat right. A stable of hot white colts for de Black Stallion.

Jason's TV played loud enough to drown Kiefer's screams. just in case we gets too heavy, Jason thought, I don't be wantin' de neighbors hear no fag getting' his ass fuck.

After twenty minutes, happy he had made love to Camilla three times already, Jason felt he was good for one more round with Kiefer and shouted as he let loose before collapsing on top of Kiefer, who lay on the floor with his legs up over Jason's head.

Jason heard the news on the TV an instant before Kiefer. "Tonight's murder of a black female on Wheeler Road, is number five hundred this year here in the Washington, D.C., the murder capitol of the world. We take you live to the Southeast Community Hospital, where Liz Abbingale is reporting. Liz."

"Tonight's tragic murder is just one more senseless drive-by in a city gone mad. Police have already identified the body of the eighteen year old girl as Camilla Peterson of 5828 Wheeler Road, Southeast. Camilla was-"

"Fuck." Jason pulled out of Kiefer and pushed him away, staring at the TV. "God damn fuckin' bitch."

Kiefer who had survived countless Rhonda escapades, moved slowly away from Jason, looking for his trousers and underpants, picking up his shoes, moving further and further away, remembering the front door was bolted from the inside, remembering he was somewhere in far southeast, the war zone, trying to remember how far it was to the Metro . . . and which way. . . and if he had enough one dollar bills to get him out of there.

"And this just in," Liz Abbingale continued, "We not only have murder victim number five hundred, but we also have number five hundred and one. Camilla Peterson was pregnant . . . and the baby is dead."

"God damn it!" Jason yelled as he crawled on his knees toward the TV, his cock still dripping, his boxer shorts dangling around his legs.

Kiefer grabbed his trousers and ran toward the door. I don't give a fuck about my shoes or my underpants, I've got to get out of here. He reached the door and fiddled with the double dead bolt lock, but didn't know one had to turn it three times to the left before twisting it once to the right because Camilla's landlord had hired Jose Montalvo, a safety-conscious Honduran immigrant who had been burglarized fifteen times and knew how to protect himself, to do the job. Jose's thinking was that if a burglar got in-he wasn't getting back out until the cops arrived. So, without a key, or knowing the triple left once right combination, you were stuck inside until the police came.

Jason saw the movement and lashed out before Kiefer could finish fiddling with the lock, grabbing him and throwing him like a Barbee doll back into the living room where he landed in front of the "Fox's Action News" photographs of Camilla's dead body on live TV.

Kiefer stood up, the blood rushing to his face, his adrenalin flowing, "I didn't kill her. I don't even know her. Let me go. I won't call the cops, okay?"

Calling the cops was the wrong choice of words. Jason kicked Kiefer in the nuts and then fell on top of him, banging him with his fist, pounding his face, pummeling his stomach as Kiefer fought back, screaming.

"You God damn bitch. You God damn mother fucking bitch!"

Kiefer struggled for breath as Jason rose, kicking him repeatedly in the head. "God damn fuckin' bitch."

Kiefer blacked out as Jason kicked him once more. "Serve you right, you God damn faggot, serve you fuckin' right!" Jason pulled up his boxers and slipped into his trousers. He put on his shirt, socks and shoes, put his key in the double bold lock and twisted it open. It be days 'for dey find dat mother fucker. Serve de God-damn queer right. Mess wiff a nigger 'n you get paid by a nigger.

Kiefer's cell phone rang and his voice mail picked up, "Hi, this is Kiefer, just as busy as a buzz, buzz bee. Leave your name and this honey will come buzzing back to you, hot and sweet out of his sexy little bee hive."

Jason's sweaty T-shirt slowly slipped off the sofa and fell on Kiefer's chest.


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