Date: Fri, 12 Nov 2010 12:48:02 -0600
From: michaelpete@hushmail.com
Subject: Ultimate Good Samaritan 2

PART II

Chapter 7


	Stevie spent the next five weeks with Sergeant Garretson's
family. There had been some security concerns about allowing him to return
to school but since his mother had apparently voluntarily given him up, the
police brass and the prosecutor assigned to the case didn't see any serious
threat to the child. However, after what had happened the last time they
hadn't provided security, a police car picked Stevie up each day after
school and delivered him to the hospital and up to his foster father's
room. Tom Garretson, who was on day shift for a while and lived only two
and a half blocks away, walked him to school each morning along with one of
his own and picked him up in his cruiser each afternoon from the hospital.

      It took the better part of the first week for Stevie to warm up to
Garretson's wife but she was understanding after her husband explained the
stressful conditions the boy had lived under with his mother. More
importantly, she patiently answered his incessant questions. Stevie's
relations with the three Garretson children developed more rapidly. By the
third day he was fitting in well and didn't really increase the load on the
family.

      Stevie's presence each day was working wonders for his foster
father. Walter was alert and speaking, if weakly, to everyone. Stevie's
affection, his hugs and kisses, according to the doctors, were far more
potent curative than any of the medical attention Walter had received.

	There was one more operation during Walter's third week in the
hospital to further repair some of the damage to his chest. But his right
lung had re-inflated and was working and his liver, the one part of the
body that can fully regenerate itself, was doing just that.

	After five weeks, Walter was sent home in a wheelchair with round
the clock nurses and his foster son. Since his diet was very restricted,
the nurses prepared his food, and, as a courtesy and because they liked
him, put together meals for Stevie. The women were, however, a bit
uncomfortable with Stevie sleeping next to Walter but allowed it due to its
therapeutic effect on their patient.

	The police taxi service was cut off a week after Walter was
released from the hospital but Garretson continued to take Stevie to school
in the morning. A gypsy taxi driver brother of a policeman was hired to get
him home each day.

	Walter wasn't able to work very much until nearly three months
after the attack. His medical insurance and the City of New York took care
of medical bills and the home nurses he'd had for much of his recovery. Mob
boss, Michael Santoni, for reasons no one ever fully understood, paid
Walter's rent and utility bills through the end of the year, or at least,
made sure he wasn't billed them. Unemployment benefits took care of food
and Stevie's expenses such as the daily taxi from school. Unfortunately,
during his recuperation, Walter's customers had had to go elsewhere for
their needs and were slow to return. A couple never did. But, with no rent
bills for a while, Walter was able to make ends meet without dipping into
his savings or investments.

	Stevie was better for him than any of his nurses. He was game for
any request, from getting a glass of water to removing a full bed pan. But
it was his presence and affection that was the most effective medicine.

	Once Walter could walk a little, Steve would take him around the
block slowly. Eventually, Walter was able to walk Stevie to and from school
each day, a time the two looked forward to. They varied their routes, often
stopping midday at a restaurant for something different than the sandwiches
and soup they'd have at home. They talked about the things they saw along
the way, what Stevie was doing in school and the general topics shared by a
man and boy who loved each other very much.

	As they'd become good friends over the previous months and neither
Walter nor Stevie had any other family, Christmas Day was spent with the
Garretsons. Stevie received gifts from everyone, including the three
Garretson children.

	Walter took him to the mountain lodge through New Year's Day. The
lake was frozen over so they attempted ice skating which turned out to be
too strenuous for the still weak Walter. Stevie, however, learned quickly
and spent several afternoons on the lake with the children of another
family vacationing there. Walter had to content himself with watching
comfortably from inside the lodge. It also allowed him time to get some
work done. He'd brought his lap top computer along. He found programming
more relaxing now that he had his child.

	New Year's Eve, everyone gathered around the television in the main
salon watching the Elmira, New York channel and the festivities around the
world. There was a lot of kissing and hugging at midnight. Stevie had been
drifiting toward unconsciousness but the noisy excitement awakened him
completely. He wrapped his arms around Walter and accepted kisses from two
mothers and a little girl. Everyone laughed at a young couple enveloped in
each other's arms French kissing madly, oblivious to all the eyes on them.

      When they cuddled up in bed to sleep, Stevie crawled on top of Walter
and kissed him for several seconds on the lips. Walter hugged his
boy. Stevie's head drooped to one side and he fell asleep on Walter's
chest.

	They returned to the lodge for Stevie's sixth birthday in June. It
was just barely warm enough to swim though the lake was still too cold for
long stints in the water. They stayed in the same room they'd had for the
New Year's holiday. Stevie remembered not just that but the kiss he'd given
Walter to celebrate the event. Once again, on their first night, he climbed
on top, kissed Walter long on the lips and said, "I love you, daddy."

	It made Walter a bit nervous. He'd enjoyed the lips to lips
immensely but worried Stevie might see it as something he could do in
public. He didn't want to discourage the boy nor make him feel he'd done
anything wrong so said, "I love you too, son. But, let's make kissing
something we just do when we're alone and no one else is around, like here
in the room."

	"Okay, daddy," replied his foster son and kissed him briefly again.

	From that point on, the good night lips to lips kiss became a
regular affair along with the `I love you's' and embraces.

	Most mornings, Stevie's first move if in Walter's bed was to cuddle
up behind him. Walter slept with his back to the boy because it was easier
to sleep through Stevie's occasional nighttime flip flops. The early
morning cuddling generally included rubbing his little boner against
Walter's spine. Early on, Walter had decided not to say anything about it
rather than have to deal with trying to explain what he saw as senseless
societal taboos.

	Stevie's uninhibited attitude toward his so called private parts
finally loosened Walter's inhibitions about touching his own. He didn't go
so far as masturbation but he did bathe it, flipped it after peeing and
occasionally fondled himself unfettered by feelings of guilt.

	Steve displayed an interest in many parts of Walter's body. He
often caressed Walter's cheeks, especially when there was beard stubble to
feel. He asked about it. "Why do you have hair growing on your face?"
Walter explained about how males grew hair when they became teens.

	At other times, he asked why people stopped growing, why they had
hair on their heads and not other parts of their bodies, why some people
were fat, why did hair turn grey. The boy's curiosity knew no end. Walter
was grateful nothing sexual came up.

	In May, with Tom Garretson's help, Walter applied to adopt
Stevie. There were two extensive interviews and a number of forms to be
filled out. Walter put together several character witnesses who wrote
letters supporting the adoption. Sergeant Garretson's captain wrote one and
called the social worker in charge of the case to promote Walter becoming
Stevie's official father.

	It took months of additional information and phone calls before a
decision was made. It was negative. According to the Bureau of Child
Welfare, the problem that couldn't be overcome was Walter's single
status. Garretson thought that was absurd and went to see the worker in
charge. He even had his captain call again but to no avail.

	He asked Walter, "Are you sure there's nothing in your past that
they can use against you? You don't have to tell me what it is but maybe
it's something that can be dealt with. If it's a legal problem, we can try
to get a pardon, get it erased from your record."

	Walter worried they'd found out about the shower incident with him
and the younger boy at the Staten Island home and the hospital stay that
followed but didn't think that sort of thing could be erased the same as
something like a long ago felony. Supposedly, all juvenile problems were
sealed, unavailable to anyone for any reason.

	"My record is clean. I've never even had a parking ticket. The only
cars I've ever driven have been rentals, and the one I learned to drive
in."

	There was an epileptic attack in the middle of the night at the end
of July. There'd been no warning, no stress, nothing to indicate it might
be coming. Stevie hadn't watched television with its dangerous flickering
picture for several days. He was taking his medication regularly and
faithfully.

	At first, Walter had thought Stevie was just being his young
unconscious self when he kicked him in the back. It was hardly an uncommon
occurrence. But then he heard him grunt and turned to see what was causing
it. The attack lasted for a mere three or four minutes but it worried
Walter enough that he was on the phone first thing in the morning to the
doctor.

	They went to his office at ten thirty as requested. After an
examination, the doctor said, "This isn't anything to worry about. I told
you the medicine would decrease the number of attacks and it has, by a
lot."

	Walter reported the attack to his case worker as he was required to
do but that was the end of it. Neither he nor Garretson thought it had
anything to do with the denial of adoption.

      Walter would have to be content with foster parenthood.

	In September, Stevie entered first grade. Walter had looked into a
number of private and parochial schools but found the private too expensive
and generally too far away. The parochial school in their area was much too
Catholic for him. Religion wasn't his cup of tea for a variety of
reasons. The home he'd been in when he'd been sent off to the psychiatric
hospital was run by Catholic nuns who'd been autocratic and, at times,
downright vicious. There'd been severe punishments for relatively minor
things such as bare ass paddling for stealing another boy's socks to avoid
a similar beating for losing one's own. A harsh religion had been jammed
down their throats. Anything sexual was seen as the basest of sins and a
sign of mental illness as he'd found out in the worst possible way.

	The public school near them had done a good job with Stevie in
kindergarten. Parents with kids in higher grades all had good or, at least,
not bad impressions of the teachers. There'd been no reports of violence or
unreasonable treatment of students. Since most of the kids in his
kindergarten class would be continuing there, enrolling Stevie in the same
school would keep him among friends. And, it would allow the two of them to
continue their pleasant walks.

	Stevie found the additional workload stimulating. The first grade
teacher was a charismatic sort who charmed the children and spurred them on
to high achievements. Walter went to all the parent teacher meetings and
volunteered for school events such as helping out on excursions and
training some of the teachers on educational computer use.

	Stevie earned top grades for a first grader, all A's. His teacher
told Walter he'd been well behaved and gotten along quite well with the
other children.

	 It was something Walter admired about Stevie. Despite all the
turmoil of his first four years of life, he had an ability to make friends
with most any child he met. He had no particular observable leadership
skills. It was more a willingness to go along with things, possibly the
result of having had to accept whatever situation, good or bad, his mother
and her boy friend had dealt him during that tumultuous time when he was
four.

	Walter, on the other hand, who possibly had had even more
unsettling early years, was less garrulous, choosier about whom he sought
out as a friend, and not generally successful doing so. After age eight,
he'd tended to develop crushes on different boys he found physically
attractive. More often than not, he found himself miserable when his
advances were rather callously rejected. Kids growing up in unstable foster
and group home situations weren't as able to form close friendships as
others who grew up in even relatively normal families.

	Walter, as an adult, hadn't found one person with whom he could
form a meaningful friendship. Even with the Garretson's, who were his
closest friends since childhood, he often found himself wondering what to
say or do. That relationship was more one of two families. His son would
play with their kids while he and Tom and Myrna would play cards or watch
something on TV. They'd never gone anywhere other than restaurants
together. Of course, Tom's rotating work schedule limited the types of
activities in which he could participate. His annual three week vacations
often couldn't be scheduled when the kids were off from school meaning
there were few long family trips out of the city.

	Walter's happiest hours were spent with his foster son. The same
easy going attitude Stevie had with other children was there for his foster
father. He was nearly always game for whatever Walter suggested. Part of
that, Walter realized, was due to his age. He fully expected Stevie would
eventually come to prefer some activities over others and be less receptive
to doing things that weren't among that select list. But, he felt certain
the love they felt for one another would soothe over any rough spots and
differences of opinion.

	The second grade teacher was less charismatic and more demanding of
her pupils but Stevie seemed to find it energizing. He enjoyed being the
top dog academically, the one who always knew the answers. There was no
need to push him away from the television to do his homework. He proudly
showed Walter each of his assignments when completed. He asked to be shown
how to use a computer so Walter bought a new one for his son and helped him
learn how to use the keyboard and a word processing program. By Christmas,
Stevie was typing without looking and doing some of his English and Social
Studies homework on the computer.

	They took their annual New Year's trip to the lodge and met the
same families from the years before. Walter learned to ice skate well
enough not to fall too often. Stevie, along with the other kids, skated
around him and laughed at his halting attempts to keep up with them.

	What was different that year was the New Year's kiss in bed. Stevie
had watched the young parents of two of his friends get well beyond a
simple kiss and tried to duplicate it with his dad. Walter wasn't prepared
to have his lips sucked on or the small boy's mouth rotate side to side
while he was doing it. It gave him an immediate hard on. To keep Stevie
from feeling it with his legs, Walter reached down and pulled the boy's
knees to either side.

      Stevie lifted his face for a moment to say, "I love you, daddy," and
planted another very wet kiss on Walter's lips.

      Walter nudged him back enough to tell him, "I love you too, son, very
much. Happy New Year."

      Stevie lowered his head to Walter's shoulder and dug his hands under
him to anchor himself where he was. Minutes later, his breathing was
heavy. Walter felt wonderful and frightened at the same time. What had just
happened? Was this a one time thing for New Year's Eve or would he want to
continue it? It took a while to fall asleep then he awoke every couple of
hours. Stevie remained on top of him, dead to the world, strapped to
Walter's chest with his hands under Walter's shoulders and legs to either
side where Walter had put them.

      How many men with his desires, he wondered, would give a lung to have
a situation like this.

      Then, in the morning, it got better, or worse, depending on his
thoughts at a particular instant. Stevie, apparently awake, began pumping
his groin and little boner into Walter's belly. Walter kissed him on the
forehead to attract his attention, awaken him if necessary but the humping
continued, gained a bit more force. Walter knew he too had a roaring hard
on. It was all too scary. He knew he needed to stop what was going on.

      Walter said, "Good morning, sunshine."

      Stevie answered, "Good morning, daddy."

      The hip motion went a little faster. Walter was on the verge of
panic.

      "Uh, want some breakfast?"

      "Wait a minute. This feels real good."

      Walter kissed him again. He found himself enveloped in the boy's
passion but was terrified by it at the same time. He was sure he needed to
cut it off but was frozen by competing emotions, unable to move or speak,
hardly able to breathe.

      Stevie's breathing, on the other hand, grew deeper, the thrusts
stronger and faster. Walter suddenly realized he was close to orgasm
himself. If Stevie were to accidentally touch him, there'd be sperm all
over inside his pajamas. Still, neither words nor action were possible. He
was completely under the spell of his son seeking what might have been his
first orgasm. If Walter were to get off, it would be his first since age
thirteen.

      Stevie's fingers dug into Walter's shoulders. His feet bounced
against his thighs. His speed increased gradually until, "Mmmm!" He slowed
then stopped, pumped a few more times and slowly went limp. Walter could
feel the little throbs against his stomach. Stevie turned his face into
Walter's neck and kissed him there.

      "That felt really neat," he said softly while still breathing
heavily. "You wanna do it on me?"

      Walter had no answer. He sought escape from the situation with, "We
oughta go have breakfast. It's getting late."

      Stevie's dick was still hard when he took off his pajamas to get
dressed. Walter couldn't take his eyes off it even though he worried Stevie
would notice what had his complete attention. Walter also sported a raging
erection and frantically tried to hide it with bed covers, then his arm and
hands. He turned his back to the boy to remove his pajamas and put on the
pants he grabbed off the desk at the foot of the bed. Stevie didn't seem to
notice or be concerned that Walter was even more excited sexually than he
had been.

      Once dressed and tying his shoes, Walter, intensely curious as well
as worried that there'd been something going on between Steve and other
boys at the lodge, found himself unable to resist asking, "Where did you
learn about that?"

      "No place. Just doing it with you. Is it okay?"

      Walter scooped him up in his arms and sat on the side of the bed
quickly trying to put together an answer that would not hurt the boy but,
at the same time, let him know this was not something to be discussed or
done outside the privacy of their bedroom.

      "It's not bad. It's just that most people think little boys shouldn't
be doing it."

      "Why?"

      He knew that would be his boy's response and wasn't sure how to
answer it. "I think it's just a matter of what some people think is right
or wrong. Most people in this country don't think little boys or girls
should be touching themselves there except when taking a pee or bathing. A
lot of them get very angry if they find out a boy or girl is doing
something with their penis or vagina. It's a lot like when you kiss me on
the mouth. It's okay for you and me to do it when we're alone but if others
were to know we did it, they might cause us a lot of trouble. So, please
don't talk about this or anything like it with other children. If you have
any questions, ask me. You know I don't keep any secrets from you. I'll
explain anything you ask but we have to keep this kind of thing just
between us. Understand, son?"

      "Okay." He paused then asked, "How come you don't do it too, dad?"

      "Oh, I suppose it's more of a little boy thing. Anyhow, we need to go
to breakfast or there won't be any left."

       "You see, you're not telling me."

      Walter had stood up but sat back down. Stevie was right. "Okay. I
haven't done anything like that since I was a boy and I'm not sure if I
want to. That doesn't mean it's wrong for you."

      "Can we do it again tonight?"

      "I suppose so but, well, okay."

      "Then, if you want, you can do it on me." Before Walter could say he
didn't think he'd want to even though he relished the idea, Stevie asked,
"What makes my penis get hard?"

      Grateful for a biological question, Walter answered, "Sometimes blood
goes into your penis and fills it up something like a balloon, especially
in the morning."

      "But why?"

      His gratitude waning, Walter replied, "Well, there are things,
substances, uh, like chemicals that are in your body and they can make a
lot of things happen sometimes without a reason. I don't really know why
but, like I said, it happens a lot in the morning."

      Steve stopped tying his shoes and looked at the carpet for a
moment. "So how come it feels so good like at the end when I was pushing it
on you?"

      Walter really didn't want to get into that. "Look, son, we are going
to be late for breakfast. We can talk about that later. Just don't say
anything about it with anybody else, just me, and, just when we're alone
like in here, okay?"

      Steve grimaced, obviously unhappy not to have his curiosity sated.

      Walter fretted and argued with himself all day about what do to when
Stevie again asked him to join in his sexual fun. On the practical side,
between the kisses and humping he'd accepted, the line that could lead to
prison had already been crossed. Anything more he allowed or did himself
really didn't add much danger, like a double murder instead of a
single. The hangman's noose could only do its chore once. The more
difficult questions were could Stevie resist discussing sex with others and
was how he himself was going to deal afterward, and probably during the
act, with his own impressed feelings of guilt. That hospital, twenty years
before, had done things to his mind that likely could not be entirely
undone.

      The AM belly humping went on right through New Year's Day, each time
causing a raging hard on in Walter's underwear but not generating any more
questions. It was just something they did before going off to breakfast..

      New Year's Day, most of the lodge guests headed home taking away all
Stevie's playmates. So, he convinced Walter to take him for a walk around
the lake. They asked the cook to make them sandwiches and fill a pair of
large thermos bottles with hot chocolate. Walter requisitioned a bag of
leftover marshmallows from the manager for roasting on the campfire he
planned to build at a site on the far side of the lake. Both carried
knapsacks containing the food plus water, cookies and a pair of blankets.

      It was cold with over two feet of snow on the ground so they dressed
in everything they had. The path had been partially cleared so they were
able to walk at a refreshingly brisk pace. Stevie, in his quilted head to
ankles snowsuit and boots, went ahead, jumping into snow piles and sliding
down the short hills.

	A couple of hours out from the lodge, they arrived at the campsite
which faced across the lake at the distant lodge on the far side. They made
a fire with dead limbs from nearby trees and a few pulled out of the
snow. Walter cleared the white powder off a large log used for
sitting. With the sandwiches in hand and the thermos bottles and cups on
top of sticks laid across the two knapsacks, Walter and Stevie wrapped
themselves in the blankets and ate lunch. The hot chocolate went down like
salvation.

	Stevie was in a playful mood. First, he stretched up and warmed
Walter's cold cheek with a kiss.

	"Thank, you, son, that was very nice." Walter returned the favor.

	"I know what men do with girls in bed." stated Stevie with a sly
grin.

	Walter knew where the discussion was headed. "What's that?"

	"The men stick their penis inside the girl and go in and out."

	"So how do you know that?"

	"I saw Billy do it to Mommy a bunch of times."

	"They let you watch?"

	"Unh uh. They didn't know except a couple times."

	"What happened when they knew?"

	"Billy hit me and made me stay in the basement all day."

	"So how did you see them? Where did they do it?"

	"I just saw them when they did it downstairs like on the sofa or in
the kitchen. I could hide when they did it there but when they did it in
bed, they closed the door and I couldn't."

	Walter was beginning to feel like a voyeur but couldn't help
asking, "Where'd they do it in the kitchen?"

	"On the table. Mommy was on the table. Billy did it standing
up. They did it there a lot."

	Walter then knew where Stevie had learned the fucking
motion. "Stevie, you know that sort of thing is just for big people to do,
right?"

	"How come?" he asked as though it was a math question.

	"Well, it's a lot like, well, that's how they make babies so it's
not always good, uh, okay, let me think this through."

	"If I do it with a girl does a baby come out? How come when mommy
and Billy did it and no baby came out?"

	"First, you've got to be a lot bigger to make a baby. Little boys
and girls can't make babies. They have to, well, grow their parts so they
are able to do that, like your penis and testicles have to grow a lot
bigger."

	"Are testules my balls?"

	"Yes, and yours are still very small so they aren't ready to make a
baby yet. When they get big, then you can."

	"When do they get big?"

	"Oh, sometime when you're around thirteen or fifteen years
old. Girls are able a year or so before boys so twelve to fourteen, more or
less."

	"So, if I can't make a baby then why can't little kids do sex?"

	Walter sighed. He watched the puff of vapor shoot out from his
mouth while trying to figure out how to explain the difficult, possibly
dangerous to explain. He'd known he'd have to do this one day but hadn't
expected it so soon. "I suppose it's part of what I told you before that
most grown ups don't think little kids should be doing anything
sexual. They think they should wait until they are older and know more."

	"Know more what?"

	"Well, more about life, I suppose, when it's okay to make a baby
and when not to and how not to have a baby when they have sex. And it's not
just knowing things. It's being responsible enough not to make a baby when
they are not ready to take care of it and be good parents with a job, an
education, someplace to live."

	Stevie mulled over Walter's words then said, "I think grown ups are
mean. If we can't make babies, they should let us do sex."

	"Well, my young friend, there are some things we just have to go
along with because if we don't, the grown ups can punish us very hard. For
instance, if they just knew we were kissing or letting you do what you do
with your penis on my tummy, they would take you away from me and might put
me in jail and make you see a doctor that you wouldn't like. That doesn't
mean they are right, just that they make the rules and we have to be very
careful." Walter was sure his son was confused, that this matter would
require a lot of discussion. He hoped the discussion remained between them.

	After a few moments of silence, Stevie asked, "Can you and me do
sex then if I don't say anything? I won't say anything to anybody, just you
when we're alone like you said."

	"We could, and maybe one day we will, but I'm not ready yet. It's
been a long time for me and, well, it's difficult to explain. You just need
to give me more time, okay?"

	"Can I still do like I did?"

	Walter hugged Stevie. "Sure, of course you can."

	And, that night in bed, Stevie did it again, kissing Walter on the
mouth several times while he was at it. Then, well attached to Walter, he
fell asleep.

	That summer after school was out and Stevie turned eight, Walter
asked his BCW worker about getting Stevie a passport so they could go to
Europe together. Again, as with the attempt at adoption, there were a lot
of questions about the trip and why he wanted to take Stevie along since
they didn't think he was old enough to get anything out of such a trip
other than the plane ride which was something he could do right there in
the United States. And again, his request was denied with a suggestion he
wait until the boy was a teen and `more cognizant of the world around him'.

	They traveled by train and rented car to Texas where they went to
two rodeos and a dude ranch. The latter included a two week round up and
cattle drive on horseback. Walter's rear end was killing him by the end of
the first day so he walked and rode in the chuck wagon for two days before
trying a horse again, this time with more success. Stevie didn't have a
lick of trouble and became a somewhat accomplished rider by the end of the
first week.

	They slept in sleeping bags on the ground, apart for the first time
in years. Stevie begged but Walter refused, sure their sleeping together
would be frowned upon, maybe become a problem. Walter pointed out that the
other two fathers with their sons slept apart. Walter was sure they'd find
him sleeping with his boy at least unmanly if not suspicious.

	After the two weeks, when they drove the cattle into the holding
pens at the railroad station, Stevie was very proud of himself for all he'd
done and learned.

	"Can we do this again next year?"

	The evening of their return, Tom Garretson called. "Katherine
Mulrooney and Billy Pirelli have been arrested in Palo Alto,
California. The bitch was driving high on crack and without a license." He
asked Walter to meet him outside his apartment building so as not to alarm
Stevie.

	"She was using a different name, claimed she'd left her purse with
her papers at home but was obviously high so they booked her. She made her
call, probably to Billy but he didn't show up, probably scared they'd
recognize him which I doubt.

      "Anyhow, Katherine gave the cops a phony address but the car belonged
to a neighbor. That's how they found out where she was living. But since it
didn't look suspicious, they didn't check until the next day which was
lucky for them `cause the prints came back with her real info and the
warrants. So they went to the address on the car registration and some
woman there sent them up the street. Billy Pirelli answered the door, the
schmuck. They're fighting extradition but they're gonna lose. I expect `em
back here in a few days. You might have to testify, maybe Stevie too."

	Walter had told the police he hadn't seen any of the faces of the
men who attacked him. His eyes had been on the knife. He wasn't sure what
he could testify to. He could lie and say he had seen Pirelli's
face. They'd shown him a photo and he recognized it as the man he'd seen in
Katherine Mulrooney's apartment once.

	"Should we stay somewhere else for a while?"

	"I don't see any reason, at least not now. I'm staying on top of
the situation and I'll let you know if there's anything to be concerned
about."

	There was a small article in the Daily News but buried inside. It
merely stated that fugitive pair had been arrested on a warrant for three
homicides, an attempted homicide and other charges. They were expected to
be sent back to New York within a week. Walter's name wasn't
mentioned. Fortunately, Stevie never read the newspaper, not even the
comics.

	That was the end of the media coverage.

	Garretson stayed in touch with the officers involved and kept
Walter up to date. The day the fugitives were brought back to the city,
Walter told Stevie the situation.

	"Do I have to go see her?" was his only question.

	"Not if you don't want to."

	Stevie snuggled up against his foster father and said, "I don't
want to."

	In mid August, the two ex-fugitives made a deal which Garretson
said was put together by a prosecutor linked to the political machine of
the state senator who'd been protecting Mulrooney and Pirelli. They
received life sentences for each of the homicides plus another twenty years
for the attack on Walter and two to five year sentences each for various
other charges. All sentences were to run concurrently. Katherine was to be
eligible for parole in twelve years, Billy in fifteen.

	Garretson was furious at the political manipulation but, he said,
"Stevie will be legally an adult when they get out so his mother can't
bother him if he doesn't want her to."

	However, Katherine's lawyer sent a message via the police
department who sent it with Tom Garretson her request that Walter arrange
to have Stevie visit his mother.

	"Stevie doesn't want to see her," he told his friend.

	Garretson passed the word back through the system. The lawyer tried
to force it but the Bureau of Child Welfare backed up Stevie's choice.

	Third grade was another jump up in academic demands. There were a
couple of kids in Stevie's grade who called him the class nerd and other
derogatory nicknames because he was always shooting his hand up with
correct answers to questions. It dampened the fire in his belly. Walter had
to encourage him and spend more time at night when he did his homework. The
problem passed when Stevie raised his hand less though still getting
nineties and hundreds on his tests. Walter had spoken to the teacher so she
kept her praise private though no less enthusiastic.

	As with most growing boys, Stevie became a little less
unquestioning when asked to do things he found inconvenient at the moment
but a stern smile generally brought compliance. If he was more adamant
about not doing or doing something, Walter would, more often than not, give
in. Steve seemed to know how far he could push things.

	One area of occasional disagreement was what time he had to come in
when playing with friends after school, friends often with more flexible
schedules around dinner time. Walter liked to eat at six so he could spend
time with Steve on his homework or provide time for television shows his
boy wanted to watch before his bedtime. Weekends were freer with lunch
sometimes at a friends apartment. It did bring Walter into contact with
other parents and give him more of a feeling of his own parenthood. Some
weekends, he join them with Steve and their children in Fort Tryon Park or,
twice, Central Park and the zoo there. And, of course, he and Stevie would
do something on weekends like a movie or children's theater presentations.

	The several times a week reading was becoming more of a
participatory affair with Walter passing the book to Stevie to read a few
pages when it was something within his capacity.

	In November, again at night, Stevie had another attack, this one
relatively mild but lasting nearly six minutes. Walter noticed it had given
Stevie a hardon which lasted for another half an hour. He didn't awaken
until morning. When he asked if he remembered having the attack, Stevie
almost cried. The doctor changed his medicine to small pills to be taken
twice a day. "They are only a bit more potent than the liquid but he's
really doing fine. The main reason I'm changing his medication is because
he's getting older and bigger."

	The Garretson's took Walter and Steve along with their kids to an
indoor pool the Saturday after the attack to help the worried eight year
old get over his concerns.

	New Year's week that year, 1997, Stevie upped the ante
sexually. Walter felt he had been able to convince him that he really
didn't want to participate other than returning the deep kisses and
providing the belly to rub on. However, Stevie had noticed the boner below
him. And, he'd learned about something new in school: blow jobs. He'd heard
the term since second grade but never attached the term to anything special
until one of his third grade classmates claimed to have received one from a
girl in his neighborhood and described it graphically.

	When Stevie told him about it, Walter told his son that he hoped
the boy had the sense to limit with whom he discussed boy girl sex even if
it was pure fantasy.

	"But he really did it. She put his penis in her mouth and went up
and down until he felt good like me when we do it."

	The discussion had ended there until that night in the
lodge. Stevie was pumping slowly into Walter's belly, his lips off and on
Walter's. He said, "I wish somebody would put my penis in their mouth like
that girl did to Teddy," then kissed again lightly.

	Walter didn't take the bait.

	Stevie tried a more direct approach. "Come on, daddy, do it for
me. I wanna try it. I'll do it to yours if you do it to mine."

	Walter kissed Stevie and said, "Don't you like this any more?"

	"Uh huh. But I just wanna try it. Please."

	Walter had been thinking about doing just that for some time. His
inhibitions hadn't collapsed but they were certainly weakened. "Okay, but
just me. You don't have to do anything. Slide up here."

	Stevie pulled his arms from their accustomed place under Walter's
shoulders and crawled forward until his stiff two inches was in front of
Walter's mouth. Walter, suddenly unsure he wanted to take this giant step
closed his mouth and took a breath through his nose. Stevie pushed his
boner at Walter's lips. Walter sat up and embraced the boy while the debate
raged in his conscience.

	Stevie said, "It's okay, you don't have to."

	But, Stevie was sitting on Walter's erection which was ready to
fire. When the boy wrapped his arms around his dad and squeezed, he moved
up and down on it enough that Walter had to lift him quickly to avoid the
inevitable. Stevie took it to mean a different position for fellatio, stood
and poked his cock at Walter's lips. Walter, his reticence dwindling,
opened up. Stevie poked right inside and grabbed Walter's head.

	"Now, go back and forth." He guided Walter's head to and away from
his groin. "Yeah, like that."

	The slick, hard organ was too much to resist. Walter sucked gently
and used his tongue and lips as he'd done thirty plus years before in the
shower room at the Staten Island children's home. He reached around and
took a light hold of Stevie's fat little buns. A minute later, Walter's
cock, reacting to indirect but potent stimulation, fired ahead of the boy,
squirting his first full load in all those years into his underwear. Stevie
was too far into his own ecstasy to notice the strong smell of all that
sperm. His knees trembled as he too reached the point of no return. He
yanked his father's head into his abdomen as his thumped through his own
orgasm.

	Stevie collapsed over his foster father's head and held onto his
back. "That was neat. We gotta do that again."

	Moments later, when Walter tried for a graceful retreat to the
bathroom, Stevie asked, "What's that smell?"

	Honesty, Walter said to himself. "I, my sperm came out, of my
penis."

	"Wow! Let me see! Let me see!"

	"Stevie, it's a mess. I need to clean it up."

	"But let me see it first." Stevie had jumped off the bed and was
staring intently at Walter's still covered middle.

	Walter realized his boner was poking his pajamas well out from his
body. Stevie reached out to touch it. Walter said, "Wait, wait. Let me take
off my pajamas. I need to shower anyhow."

	Stevie stood up, his eyes glued to the wet spot on Walter's
front. Walter undid the string and opened the bottoms. Inside, his briefs
were even damper. Stevie inched closer. "That stuff really smells."

	Walter stuck his thumbs inside the elastic and lowered his
briefs. He'd never been this naked in front of Stevie. He felt his face
flush. Walter pushed everything down to his ankles and began stepping out
of them.

	Stevie moved in and sniffed the still well inflated penis.

	Walter said, "Stevie..."

	But the boy was not to be held back. He took hold of the organ with
one hand around its middle. "Yeech! It's sticky."

	Before Walter could comment, Stevie stuck his tongue out and did a
slow taste test of the tip of the man cock. The warmth from Stevie's tongue
was like a gentle electric shock. Walter closed his eyes and took a deep
breath.

	"Tastes funny," commented Stevie. He ran a finger of this free hand
through Walter's briefs and brought it to his nose. "What's it for?"

	Walter felt more than a bit mentally impaired. "Let me shower
first, then I'll explain everything." He tossed his pajama tops and T shirt
on the bed, grabbed up the bottoms and briefs and headed toward the
bathroom.

      "But why does it come out like that?" asked Stevie hot on his heels.

	"Let me shower first. Wash your hands." He tossed his pajama
bottoms and underpants into the shower and turned on the water planning to
wash away the evidence before putting them in the laundry.

	Stevie stood in the shower door staring at Walter's hairy
butt. Walter turned on the shower. Stevie asked, "Let me shower with you."

	Walter laughed to himself. It was something else he should have
expected. "Okay. Put your things on the bed."

	The moment the water was warm, Walter stepped in. Stevie was right
behind him.  The boy grabbed the soap. Walter moved under the stream of
water. Stevie got close and put his arms around Walter's waist. Walter
hugged his head to him. Stevie ran the soap over Walter's half deflated
cock then stepped back and took it into his other hand, gently lathering it
up and pulling Walter toward him.

	Walter knew what he wanted to do. There were no words between them
while Stevie ran his hands over and around Walter's cock and balls then
between his legs right back to his anus.

	"Turn around," requested the boy.

	Walter turned around.

	Stevie washed Walter's butt moving his hand back and forth between
the cheeks several times before getting on to more mundane bathing chores
like scrubbing his legs and arms, chest and back. He had Walter squat while
he washed his head, ears, face, neck and shoulders. Walter was in his own
private piece of paradise, caressing the boy's head, cheeks and shoulders.

	When Stevie completed bathing his dad, he too squatted and kissed
him on the lips. "Your turn," he half whispered and held out the soap.

 	Walter embraced more than washed his boy, finally sitting on the
edge of the shower stall and gently working from his tummy down to his
toes, enjoying the view of boy penis and balls then turning him to wash and
gaze at the round boy buns.

	They slept in each others arms for the first hour or so then
gradually fell apart though still pressed against one another. Stevie had
been too sleepy to pursue his curiosity about ejaculations and sperm.

	Walter, on the other hand, lay worrying how what had happened was
going to affect their relationship. Of far more concern was the possibility
that his eight year old would let slip a tidbit to a friend who would then
repeat or report it to a teacher or parent. Lying on top of him, humping
away, was one thing. That was almost passive, just a pleasant personal
act. There was nothing passive about giving a blow job or having a boy play
with one's cock. This was a whole new set of far more dangerous
circumstances. And, Walter had no doubt Stevie's incessant curiosity would
demand detailed explanations and almost certainly a demonstration of
ejaculation. Then, because it felt a lot better than rubbing his cock on
Walter's belly, he'd request a second sucking, then more and who knew what
else. Things were ratcheting up at a perilous rate.

	What to do?

	First, he had to be sure the boy understood that he should never
speak of this with anyone. Thinking about it, he felt fairly sure Stevie
did understand that but it wouldn't hurt to do a bit of reinforcement.

	One aspect he needed to deal with was the ethics of lying. Walter
had taught his boy that lying was wrong. Honesty was always the correct way
to go. How was Stevie to deal with direct or even indirect questions
regarding any sexual activity on his part or, worse, something between him
and his foster father?

      When he was a boy with the nuns, Walter had first rationalized then
developed his own interpretation of the commandment that stated `Thou shalt
not bear false witness against thy neighbor' which, the nuns had told them
a number of times, was a prohibition of lying in general. Not telling the
truth regarding oneself, especially when it was self preservative just
seemed correct and hardly in violation of that commandment. It protected
one and didn't adversely affect anyone else. Sex was a private matter, a
personal issue.

      Then in college, he took an ethics course he found interesting. There
was sufficient back up in what he read to reinforce his belief that things
personal that didn't hurt anyone else were above any law or imposed moral
standards. One could deny or twist as needed regarding such issues with
impunity. They were no one else's business, period, end of case. Sadly,
Walter was far too repressed at that point to make any use of his new
philosophical understanding.

	But, right then, he had a very unrepressed eight year old to whom
explaining such a complicated philosophical principal was going to be
nearly as difficult as overcoming his own hospital erected
inhibitions. Walter believed his boy was intellectually astute enough to
grasp at least the basic thought behind the protection of one's privacy
issue though certainly not in one session.

	Then there was the far less abstract, more practical problem of
Stevie wanting too much sex. It had gotten to a point that, most non-school
mornings, his boy would climb up on him and begin going after an
orgasm. More often than not, he'd managed to escape with excuses regarding
work but that wasn't as functional during vacations. One argument those who
wanted to jail every living pedophile used was that they were introducing
kids to sex too early, creating a need for more sex than was good for
anyone. Walter didn't entirely disagree with that argument. He didn't want
physical pleasure to become an obsession with his foster son. Some
regulation was necessary. Limits would have to be set. Perhaps sex once a
week was a good idea. The problem was vacation time. He'd already had some
form of sex three times in as many days, the night before being an extreme
example.

	Should he allow more action in the morning? What reasoning or
excuse could he use to say no. Would he be compromising his promise of
openness, honesty? If he provided an ejaculation, how should he do it?
Masturbation and, if so, by whom? What if Stevie wanted to blow him?  He
said he would but may have been put off by the smell of his sperm, or the
taste since he'd actually tried it.

	Morning came with only a modicum of planning, actually woefully
inadequate because he was awakened by Stevie digging through the fly of his
pajama bottoms. Before he could pull his thoughts together, Stevie had
found the already erect penis and was trying to tug it out.

	Walter said, "Good morning. Don't you think we did enough for a
while last night?"

	"You said you were gonna let me see the stuff come out. Want me to
put my mouth on it?"

	Walter found himself tongue tied. Of course, he'd love a blow job
by this beloved boy but should he? The flesh won out by default.

	Before Walter could formulate a reasonably understandable response,
Stevie opened up and took what little he could inside his mouth. The
incredible sensation purged any thoughts of a negative reply. The boy
sucked, actually sucked, pulled at the edges of his cock head. Walter could
feel Stevie's tongue rolling over the top and around.

	He stopped for a moment. "Tell me when you're ready."

	A practical matter occurred to Walter. "Wait! Wait! Let me get
something to catch it when it comes."

	Stevie sat up. "Remember, you gotta do mine after."

	Surprise, surprise, thought Walter. He snatched the spare roll of
toilet paper from the bathroom and spun off a length.

	Stevie was tossing his pajama tops off the bed when Walter came
back, His bottoms were already on the floor. His penis was stiff as a tin
soldier. He played with it while Walter climbed up and lay back on the
bed. Stevie jumped between his legs, grabbed the hardness with both hands
and went right back down on it. Again, he lifted his face to remind, "Tell
me before."

	Between the boy's hands which were moving up and down as he raised
and lowered his head and his lips and tongue, Walter was fast approaching
climax. He wished Stevie would go slower. His middle seemed to bloat with
pleasure. "Now!" he groaned and held the paper above his cock.

	Stevie lifted his head and watched. The first glob shot over the
toilet paper target up into Walter's chest. The second he was ready for and
caught. Stevie put his hand out and captured the third and forth. The rest
just oozed out in clumps. Stevie was fascinated. He sniffed what was in his
hand, then sniffed it again. He licked a portion of it off his palm,
tasting like it was a new batch of wine. Walter watched, as fascinated with
the boy's reaction as Stevie had been of the event. He was about to ask if
he liked the flavor when Stevie said, "My turn."

	He walked up, feet to each side of Walter until he was over his
face then squatted down, his penis on target. He had to hold himself up
with one hand since he still had sperm in the other.

	Walter sucked best as he could with the boy pressed into his
face. Stevie wasn't able to provide much movement. Walter pushed him up and
suggested he turn around and lie on him. Stevie hopped up, jumped around
athletically and lowered himself into position, his tummy pressed into the
glob of cum on Walter's chest. Walter had to pull him into place. The
moment his cock was inside Walter's mouth, Stevie began pumping.

	For a while, Stevie lay his head on Walter's abdomen and
concentrated on making himself feel good. Then, he remembered the cum on
his hand and that still on the tip of Walter's penis. He reached out and
pushed the deflating organ up to his lips and licked the head with an
extended tongue. Walter trembled when he did it.

	Stevie's hardness decreased for a few moments. Walter used more
tongue then let Stevie's two plus inches slide under it allowing him to
take in the boy's balls. Stevie thrust deeper, still holding on to the big
cock in front of him. "That's better," he said.

	The dry orgasm came a minute or so later. Stevie locked his thighs
on either side of Walter's face and wiggled slowly back and forth, sliding
easily on Walter's cum soaked pajama tops.

	Walter carried the naked boy into the shower and they bathed each
other again.

	After breakfast, they bundled up and went for another walk. Walter,
still unsure how to phrase the ethical arguments, merely mentioned the
importance of keeping their sex and kissing secret. Stevie insisted he knew
that.

	When they reached a large rock overlooking the lake, they sat in a
spot on the crest the wind had cleared of snow. The conversation started
with plans to return when school got out then moved onto how beautiful the
lake and forest were when covered with fresh snow. There were boyish
questions about why the plants didn't just die forever in all that snow to
how the sun could dry a wet spot when it was far too cold for water to turn
into steam. In the end, the most pressing thought on Stevie's mind was
bringing his sled up the next time they came even though they hadn't seen a
hill clear enough of trees to use it. Nothing sexual came up. It helped
reassure Walter that sex for Steve was just another topic, no more
important than what they had for dinner.

	Once back in New York, sex settled into a Sunday morning thing with
the occasional additional quickie when the eight year old was particularly
horny. Stevie did take Walter's load down his throat two weeks in a row
though he choked briefly, coughing part of it back through his nose the
second time. With a few exceptions when Stevie was especially amorous, the
receptacle of choice from then on was a wad of toilet paper.

      The kissing took place several times a day though only at bedtime did
it get passionate, the degree of passion depending on how sleepy the boy
was.























Chapter 8


	In fourth grade, Stevie went through a period of laziness during
which his homework was less well done and his grades dropped into the
eighties. Walter wasn't sure what caused it. His teacher was equally
unsuccessful in figuring out what the problem was. Stevie's excuse was
always the same, "I was tired."

	Sex play dropped almost to none.

	Walter noticed Stevie was spending far less time outside playing
with his friends as he had the years before. He brought more books to read
home from school and watched more television. It took a couple of months to
get past the `no problem' answers to the point where he admitted that some
of the more athletic types had called him names due to his lack of talent
playing stick ball and basketball. That admission, however, didn't bring
the situation to an end. The seeming listlessness continued. Walter
suspected `fag' had been among the taunts.

      By Thanksgiving week, Walter was sufficiently concerned that he
consulted a doctor to make sure there were no medical problems. The medic
arranged a series of tests, including blood which Stevie didn't like at
all, but in the end found nothing physically wrong with him.

	"What this boy needs is to get outside and play more.," said the
doctor.

	It gave Walter the motivation he needed to do something he'd been
considering for years but hadn't done because he wanted to be around for
Stevie. He looked in the Yellow Pages and found a gym a bus ride
away. However, when he called to check, they told him they had nothing for
children. Four gyms later, he was told by one in Queens that children were
welcome but there were limited facilities for them. The pool, though, had a
children's area.

	He and Stevie went to check it out the next afternoon after
class. Most of the equipment was, as a matter of fact, for adults. The
pool, however, was huge. The manager allowed the both of them to give it a
try. Stevie had to wear baggy trunks two sizes too large for him but did
well enough for the man in charge to say he'd be able to use any section of
the pool he desired.

	The fee was more than Walter had paid in Brooklyn but the gym had
twice the facilities and that pool. Even the men's locker room and showers
were nicer. Walter thought they might not be allowing children in the adult
locker rooms but they were divided only by gender. Two flabby boys, about
ten and twelve, were there with a flabby man who did look very much, even
in the face, like their father. Walter had no problem averting his gaze.

      Foster father and son took a six month plan that gave them a month
free. They were to arrive the following afternoon for physical condition
check ups.

	Stevie was worried about shots. "No, it's not that kind of check
up. They're going to weigh us and have us do some exercises to see how fit
we are. How many push ups can you do?"

	"You know."

	"Yeah, three, and not very well. A few months from now you'll be
doing twenty-five or fifty, more than me."

	To Walter's surprise, Stevie, by the Christmas holidays, was doing
twelve pushups and feeling a lot more secure around the other kids who, he
found, did not go to a gym and, with a couple of exceptions, could not do
twelve pushups.

	Not surprisingly, Stevie wanted to practice them boner over and
into daddy's mouth. Weekend sex was back, this time with more questions
also not surprisingly about `fags', the first being a more complete
explanation about what one was.

	"Well, uh, what they mean is a homosexual which comes from Latin, I
think, the language spoken by the Romans..."

	"But what's it mean, like you? Men who don't like girls?"

	That was a surprise. He'd noticed the lack of cross gender
mixing. Walter grimaced and came up with, "More like males who like males,
and females who like females, sexually."

	"Like us. Well, I kinda like girls but we just do sex you and me,
like that?"

	"Except you like girls like you said and one day you'll probably
want to marry one."

	"I don't like `em that much. But, so I can fuck one? I wanna do
that. One of the kids in my class says he's gonna fuck Nancy Miranda."

	"Please don't get involved in that, I mean..."

	"You see, that's stupid. I can't make a baby so why can't I fuck a
girl. Timmy's gonna and he can't make a baby, at least I don't think he
can. I never saw his balls how big they are."

	"If he's your age I don't think..."

	"So what's a fag? Timmy says they let men fuck them, you know, in
the back." He pointed there. "That's gotta hurt."

	Walter sighed and wished kids were as innocent as adults seemed to
think they were. "Some of them do but just when they're big."

	"Timmy said he thinks this kid in fifth isn't all that big gets
fucked `cause a the way he talks and he said he thinks some kids do it."

	Walter knew it was true from stories back at the homes he'd been
in. There'd been enough of them, especially about one boy in the Catholic
home who'd never denied them but... "Maybe, but that's probably just
something Timmy made up because of the way the boy talks." Clear as mud!

	The return was predictable. "He talks like a girl and Timmy, and
the others say it too that kids talk like that are fags and want other kids
to fuck them and they like to blow other boys, like we do but," he thought
for a moment, "If we don't talk like that then we aren't fags, right?"

	Diplomacy was the word in Walter's mind but it dueled with the
promise of truth. "Sometimes but there are plenty of boys who talk a little
like girls who just talk that way and aren't having sex with anybody,
probably most, maybe all of them in your school. I don't think many boys in
your school are having sex."

	"Except me, with you. Anyway, Timmy is too. He said this girl blew
him and that he and his friends masturbate a lot. That's sex." More
thought. "So, how come you don't like girls?" He was looking Walter
straight in the eye.

	More sighs. "I don't really know. You know how I told you that
growing up in homes like I did can make people different, I mean, so that
they don't, well, know how to talk to other people that well."

	Stevie waited for clarification. Walter debated admitting his
leanings.

	"Okay, I do, well, like boys, I suppose sexually some but I don't
really want to do any sex with them, except with you, of course, because I
love you..."

	"But that's what Marcos says. Men who love men are fags, kids too,
but they don't like girls." He paused and stared at Walter.

	He was about to ask it Stevie had mentioned anything about him but
immediately felt confident that he hadn't so, "Well, maybe I am something
like that."

	"So fags aren't bad then. The other kids are always acting like
they're bad or something, you know."

	Walter, relieved, grinned. "Of course not but let's call them gays,
not fags. It's a nicer word and most gays are nice, just like anybody
else. Just that..."

	"So you're gay, right?"

	"Sort of, something like that."

	Stevie twisted his mouth one way then the other. "Am I gay too,
`cause I blow you?"

	"No. No, you like girls and, well, some kids do sex just because it
feels good, well, a lot of kids masturbate. I just don't think many do more
than that because of the way things are now, you know, with adults not
liking kids doing it and..."

	 "They punish `em and make `em see a psychologist and all. I know
but that's stupid. Kids should be allowed to do sex too. Adults do it all
the time and it's on television so why can't we?"

	That brought on a brief discussion about children's rights and the
narrow mindedness of adults finally interrupted by hunger. They hadn't
eaten breakfast yet. Pancakes suddenly became more important than sexual
matters.


	During their annual winter visit to the lodge, Stevie, proving he
could, did more push ups raising and lowering his peter in and out of
Walter's mouth. He didn't, however, reach orgasm that way. That required a
more traditional method in the sixty-nine position, Stevie on
top.. Fortunately, Walter was no longer as hypersensitive as he'd been the
year before so he could enjoy Stevie's oral caresses much longer though
still reaching orgasm first.

	 One of Stevie's Christmas presents was a bicycle. Walter bought
one for himself too so they could ride around Fort Tryon Park
together. Stevie soon found out that others had bikes and rode with them,
connecting with a group of boys who didn't necessarily see stick ball
prowess as the prime determinant of social acceptance.

	By the end of January, Stevie's grades rose back into the nineties
as did his overall self confidence.

	In June, he graduated from the four grade primary school as one of
the three top students. To celebrate that and his tenth birthday, Walter
took his foster son back to Disney World for a very expensive week of
fun. In the hotel, that they happened onto intercrural intercourse. Stevie
was relaxing on top of Walter after a kissing session. They were giggling
about Stevie jumping in fright during a ride through a house of
horrors. Both were hard. Stevie was slowly grinding his boner into Walter's
groin. Walter's dick, lubed with his own juices, slipped up between
Stevie's thighs. Stevie reached back and pulled it against his
perineum. Before it was over, Walter shot all over Stevie's back.

	Walter sucked off his foster son in the shower after the boy found
he wasn't nearly long enough to do the same thing with his dad.

	Fifth grade in his new Intermediate School was a huge
success. Stevie lucked out with one of the two best teachers in the
school. Computers had come into use. Since he was already quite accustomed
to them, the teacher leaned on him to help teach the others how to use
these new devices. Walter bought him a laptop for Christmas.

	He ended the year with no grades below ninety-seven, the top
student in his class.

	In the gym, he was outstripping his dad in many ways. With the
increased strength from his exercises and a lot of laps, Steve, as he
preferred to be called by then, was quite a swimmer. That summer, he swam
in the annual across the lake race and came in seventh among all forty-four
contestants, most of whom were quite a bit older than him.

	Even in bicycling, Steve was flying easily up hills his father had
to struggle to climb. Walter often found himself alone while Steve and
other boys sped along the paths, often annoying walkers. A pair of
policemen once castigated the group for riding too fast and again for
racing down a long set of stone stairs in the back part of the park.

	Steve's well defined body reflected his physical prowess. At just
eleven, he could pop muscles many a fourteen year old had yet to
develop. In bed, his hard thrusting sometimes hurt Walter's lips forcing
him to counsel the boy to slow down. Worse, Steve's strong thighs around
Walter's head during climax was painful enough that he had the boy stop
from doing it. But those same strong thighs were great to fuck between.

	There was one disturbing event that summer. During late August,
Steve woke up one night crying. He embraced Walter, waking him. When asked
what was wrong, Steve answered, "I had a dream that they came and took me
away from you."

	"Who?"

	"Some men from the city or something. They said I couldn't live
with you any more and I was going to be put in a home."

	Walter hugged him back and asked, "Did they say why?"

	"No, they just said I couldn't stay with you any more."

	Walter caressed his son's head and back. "Don't you worry about
that. I love you far too much to let that happen."

	They kissed and exchanged `I love you's' and gradually fell back
asleep.

	Walter fretted over that for several weeks. Even though Steve
denied it, he worried the boy had mentioned something about sex that might
have put someone to investigating them. He felt sure any investigation
would come up empty but he worried nonetheless.

	For a while, he even left Steve a block from school each morning
rather than be seen walking an eleven year old sixth grader when very few
others of that age were accompanied by parents. They met at the same
location after class. Walter was very careful about who saw them holding
hands even though Steve obviously still liked that. The kisses on the head
were more surreptitious though Steve's kiss on his dad's cheek on parting
and again on meeting continued unabated.

	Steve seemed to understand his father's concerns and didn't
protest. He did, however, tell Walter that no one had ever said anything
about his arriving at school with his foster father or being picked up by
him afterward.

	When asked if he wanted Walter to continue those trips, "Of course
I do, dad. I like it and we can talk."

	Walter decided it was time for the often postponed discussion about
the ethics of lying to protect oneself. He chose a Sunday morning after a
hot session and a warm shower. Still naked, he sat on the bed and pulled
Steve to him. "There's something I want to talk to you about, son, and it's
important."

	Steve grinned, "You wanna try fucking me?"

	That had come up at the lodge the year before. Steve tried sitting
on Walter in the shower using soap as a lubricant. However, it hurt enough
that Walter refused to continue even though Steve was willing to put up
with the pain to see what it would be like to have his dad up inside of
him. Then, the previous summer when Walter made a comment about how Steve
was growing, the just eleven year old insisted on trying it again. He
actually got the head inside but, when he saw the grimaces, Walter was
concerned he might do damage inside the boy and withdrew.

	"No, silly. I'm being serious now." He kissed the boy's blond
hair. "This is about us protecting ourselves from others. We've talked
about it before but I want to explain how I see it. You know that lying
generally is wrong. We should always try to be honest in everything."

	"Of course."

      "Well, as long as you are not injuring anyone else and merely
protecting yourself from an invasion of your privacy, there's nothing wrong
with denying something even when it might be considered a lie."

	"You're talking about us and sex, dad. Don't worry, I know all
that. I never said anything to anybody and I never will. It's nobody's
business but ours."

	By November, Walter was again going all the way to the school
gate. The hugs and kisses were back along with a lot of hand holding. What
they didn't see during the Spring was the school counselor's camera in the
second floor window.

	Steve had become friends with a boy in his class named Ronald, the
son of hard core evangelical Christians. Steve and Ronald were part of a
group that played basketball together several times a week. Two of that
bunch also went regularly to Steve's apartment to play Nintendo. Ronald was
prohibited from playing any computer games. There was no computer in his
home because the family's pastor said, according to Ronald, the internet
was full of `the devil's work'.

	Nonetheless, Ronald would occasionally, while supposedly playing
basketball, sneak over to Steve's to play on his computer which Walter had
set up in his boy's bedroom so he could work alone in his office.

	One afternoon when Ronald was there, Walter took a break and
casually went to see what the boys were up to. When he opened the door, the
two were seated on the floor, pants down to their ankles, masturbating
furiously, an open girlie magazine between them.

	Ronald's eyes and mouth opened wide. Walter quickly closed the
door. Seconds later, Steve, holding his still open pants up with both
hands, chased down his father in the kitchen.

	"Dad, Ronald's scared you're going to tell his father what we were
doing. Please, come tell him you're not going to say anything. He's really
scared."

	Walter was unsure he should be mentioning anything at all to
another boy. He was already worried his seeing them and walking away would
get back to others. "Why can't you just tell him, son. You know I'd never
say anything. And, I hope he doesn't either. That would be very, very bad
for us if someone found out."

	"Dad, his parents are evangelicals. He's not even supposed to be
around computers. Please, he's never going to say anything. He's scared to
death. Please."

	Walter accompanied Steve back to the bedroom. Ronald was sitting on
the bed, clothes well ordered, with tears in his eyes. "I'm sorry,
Mr. Mulrooney, I..."

	"It's okay," said Steve as he sat beside him and put an arm on his
shoulder. He looked at Walter. "Tell him, dad."

	Walter smiled, "Don't worry, Ronald, I should have knocked before
coming in. I'm sorry I came in like that. And don't worry. I'm not going to
say anything to anyone about what you were doing. It's really none of my
business."

	"See?" said Steve to his worried friend. "Dad's cool."

	Ronald didn't come back for a month. When he did, Walter stayed in
his office while his son and his friend played.

	Sixth grade ended with a bang. Steve aced every one of his
exams. At graduation, he was paraded up on the stage for a special diploma
as the outstanding student in the school.

	Walter took him along with the Garretson's to an expensive
restaurant on Fifty-Second Street, then a Broadway show. For his twelfth
birthday two weeks later, he flew Steve to Niagara Falls then south for
another few days at Disney World.

	The last two weeks before he was to start seventh grade were spent
at the mountain lodge. Walter had a lot of work to do so Steve spent time
with other kids swimming, boating and playing in the woods. At night,
though, it was just the two of them. They did a lot of talking, The second
night Steve asked a lot of questions about, of all things, tree mosses he'd
observed in the area forest. There was no internet connection there so they
used a pair of CD's with the Encyclopedia Britannica on them. The next
evening, he was curious about frogs and salamanders he'd seen in a lily
pond at the far end of the lake.

	It was that night after taking their clothes off that Walter first
noticed there was some growth going on between Steve's legs.

	"I think you're testicles have started to grow."

	Steve looked at them then measured his hard on with his index
finger. Then, he did it again. "My peter's longer, about that much." He
held his fingers about an eighth of an inch apart. "Man! You think I'm
growing?"

	"You're twelve. Most kids start growing down there about then."

	"So, when do you think I'll start growing hair?"

	Walter thought to himself, `not too soon I hope', but to Steve
said, "Oh, who knows, in a year, maybe sooner."

	They turned off the lights and did a slow sixty-nine that took all
of twenty minutes. Steve fell asleep in that position and only mumbled when
Walter turned him around so he too could do the same.

	In the morning, Steve insisted they take a shower. Walter was sure
there was more to it than bathing.

	As soon as both were thoroughly wet and warm, Steve said, "I'm
bigger. Let's try it again."

	Walter immediately understood what `it' was. Steve had him sit down
and kissed him on the lips. As he soaped up the quickly stiff man cock,
Steve said, "I really wanna try it all the way this time. It's not going to
hurt all that much so let me do it, okay?"

	"Not if it's going to hurt you badly inside."

	"C'mon, dad. From what I hear, kids are getting it in the rear all
the time and sometimes my turds are as big around as your penis so I know I
can take it. If it hurts a lot, we never have to do it again, or, at least,
not until I'm bigger, okay? I just wanna see what it's like."

	There'd been enough `gay' discussions and explanations that Steve
was sure he was straight, He just liked sex because it felt good,
especially with his `dad'.

	Walter sat back, leaning on his hands. Steve positioned himself
over Walter and sat on the cock head. Walter noticed Steve's peter was
soft. He figured this was not so much sexual as another part of the boy's
all consuming curiosity.

	Steve wiggled his rear back and forth while maintaining pressure
downward. Then, he stopped, leaned back a little and pressed harder. The
head of Walter's cock popped inside. Steve sucked in his lips then put on a
forced smile.

	"It's okay," he assured as he adjusted himself slightly forward.

	Walter closed his eyes as the wet heat enveloped him. Much as he
worried about this act, he yearned to feel himself completely inside his
son.

	After a few side to side motions, Steve pushed his hips back and
slid downward very slowly, taking in half of Walter's shaft. With a sparse
expression of triumph, he raised up until just the head was inside then let
himself glide down until Walter's wet pubic hairs were touching his buns.

	"See?" he said. The word came out slightly strained.

	Walter worried he would cum too soon and ruin this moment.

      Again, Steve pushed himself up, letting half of Walter slip out. He
pushed his hips forward as he went back down, this time until he was
sitting with his full weight on Walter. He relaxed and smiled.

      "See? No big deal."

      Walter laughed. "You're lucky I'm no big deal or this would really
hurt."

      Steve wobbled back and forth. The sensation for Walter was beyond his
dreams. First, it was his boy, Steve, who had taken him into his body. But,
in the end, it was absolutely the most incredible physical pleasure he had
ever experienced.

      Steve said, "Now, fuck me slow." He raised himself up until only the
head was inside.

      Walter, under the spell of the greatest sex of his life, pushed
upward until he was all the way back inside. Steve's anus gripped the base
of his cock. The boy's innards warmed, caressed him. With reluctance, he
again withdrew then, with anticipation, slowly thrust again upward. He knew
he'd have to go very slowly or it would all be over in seconds.

      Steve said, "Yeah, like that."

      Walter fell back again to the shower floor and looked up at his boy,
blond hair matted and wet, tongue between his teeth, eyes closed. He pushed
back inside him. The expression on the Steve's face didn't change. Walter
felt an enormous urge to embrace the boy but a stronger one to continue
thrusting inside him.

      It didn't take very long. Walter nearly whimpered as he bloated and
fired a full load into Steve's colon. He reached out and pulled his son to
him. Steve threw his arms around his dad.

      "Man, that was neat! I can feel you cumming inside me. Man!"

      Steve insisted on keeping his dad inside until his cock shrunk its
way out. Then, he requested a blow job. It didn't take very long.

      After breakfast, walking in the woods, Walter asked, "The truth, now,
how bad did it hurt?"

      "What, breakfast?"

      "C'mon, you know what I mean."

      "At first, it hurt, not as much as last time we tried. But once we
got it all the way inside, it got better. When you were fucking, it was
neat, made my dick hard."

      Walter realized he hadn't noticed once the action had begun.

      "Each time you went in or out, there was something that felt really
neat. I wish you coulda been sucking me when you were doing that. I'll bet
it would have been fantastic. And when you ejaculated, wow. And your sperm
is still in there. I like that."

      He embraced his dad with both arms. "It's like we're really, really
together."

	Seventh grade presented a slightly different atmosphere than
sixth. Math brought algebra, science a lab and classmates whose size raged
from one kid who looked for all the world to be just ten while another was
nearly six feet tall and sported a visible though fluffy mustache and a
deep voice. Steve dug right into the newer, more sophisticated material,
determined to do as well as he'd done the previous six years.

	Seventh grade also brought something else new into Steve's
life. Her name was Nancy Soto, a pretty Puerto Rican who had been in a
different sixth grade class the year before. She told a friend who told
Steve that she thought he was `cute'.

	Steve, whose hormones had kicked in some months earlier, was turned
on by the news. His only other potential girl friend had been one who
garnered no interest back in sixth grade. Nancy, however, was interesting
with her growing chest and full body.

	The next day, they had lunch together. Talk was erratic as neither
was quite sure what to say to the other. There was no touching but Steve
did take a gander down the front of her dress as he stood to take their
trays to the refuse window.

	That night, he told Walter about his growing infatuation. "I think
she really likes me."

	Walter, who had dreaded this situation but accepted its
eventuality, asked about her.

	"She's got neat long black hair and a pair of boobs like this." He
related enthusiastically, cupping his hands in front of his chest."

	"Don't forget her mind and character."

	"That's good too, I think."

	The following week, Steve asked his dad if Nancy could come over
and play computer games.

	"Don't you think it would be better if you two went to an internet
café and played there? You've got enough in your allowance to do that."

	"We're not gonna do any sex, dad. Just play on the computer, I
promise."

	"Son, I'm not worried about what you might do. I know how
responsible you are. What I am worried about is what others might say, like
her parents."

	Steve took Nancy to an internet café.

	When her parents found out what a good student Steve was, they
asked to meet him. He was supposed to have dinner at their house the second
Tuesday of October but other matters interfered.











































Chapter 9


      Sandra Tyler Jones was the 38 year old mother of four, three boys and
one girl, all but one in their teens. She'd been the seventh and eighth
grade counselor at the Walter Macieswki Intermediate School for thirteen
years. Although a bit overweight, she was still a nice looking woman with
long, light brown hair she wore over her shoulders. Sandra wasn't one for
makeup, putting on just enough lipstick and mascara not to be considered a
possible dyke.  Her husband, 44, was in his ninth year as principal of a
high school in the Bronx.

	It was the first week of October, 2003, and Sandra was finally
going through the files of the new crop of seventh grade students marked as
special for one reason or another. The third was that of a boy named Steven
Mulrooney. The former fifth and sixth grade counselor had left a hand
written yellow legal page full of notes. The boy had scored one hundred on
every single exam at the end of sixth grade, something she had never seen
before. However, she'd noticed him well before that. He was living as a
foster son with a single man, a computer programmer who worked mostly at
home, who brought him to school every day and regularly returned at two
thirty to pick him up. She'd observed the boy kissing him on the cheek and
the man kissing the boy on the hair. A number of times she'd watched them
walking hand in hand, even in sixth grade. Photos were included showing
them at the gate, one with the boy plainly kissing the man on his
cheek. Another was of them leaving arms around each other's waist. There'd
been no reports of behavior problems by any of his teachers. He seemed to
get along well with most of his fellow students though he wasn't
particularly into sports or other boyish activities. From what she'd heard
from other students, the foster father and son went to a gym together where
men and boys dressed in plain view of one another. She'd planned to
interview the boy but had never found the time to do so. She felt an in
depth interview and psychological evaluation was in order.

	The report struck a note with Sandra. Her only son had been the
victim of sexual abuse by just such a man. He'd been single, a carpenter
who did real estate maintenance on his own. She'd only suspected something
when she found a ten dollar bill in the boy's pocket after a weekend
camping trip with the man and another boy the man had claimed was his
nephew. The latter had proven to be true but he'd been abusing the nephew
as well. Her son told her the money was a gift for the good grades he'd
scored on his last report card. She'd contacted the school counselor where
both her son and the other boy were students. The counselor had interviewed
the nephew and come away with suspicions. Police were notified. Both boys
were interrogated. Inconsistencies in their accounts of nights away from
home were found. The man's house was raided. Child pornography was found
including nude black and white photos of her son and the other boy. The man
was doing sixteen years in Attica.

	Mrs. Tyler Jones called in a psychologist who specialized in sexual
child abuse cases to assist in her planned interview and do an evaluation
afterward. Steven was called in the following Tuesday morning.

	"Good morning, Steven. This is Dr. Perlman. You're here for a
standard interview we give most of our new students. It's to help us better
plan your studies."

	Steve sat where they indicated thinking he was going to be given
some kind of academic exam, confident he would do well as he always had. It
wasn't what he expected but he was in seventh grade so this was just
another different way of doing things.

	"So, how is everything going?" asked the counselor with a
smile. The psychologist appeared to be occupied with a mass of papers he
had in a folder.

	"Okay."

	"Good! I want you to understand that this interview is
confidential. Whatever you say in here is just between us, okay?"

	"Okay."

	"So, how do you like your teachers?"

	"They're okay, sure."

	"Getting along well with your classmates?"

	"Yes, ma'am."

	"Made some new friends?"

	"It's mostly same ones from last year.."

	"Well, how about the girls? Someone special there?"

	"Not really." It was one of various matters in his life he saw as
none of their business.

	"Made a special friend with one of the boys?"

	"I'm good friends with a bunch of guys."

	"So you're pretty happy with everything here?"

	"Yes, ma'am." To Steve, the interview was sounding like a phone
interviewer who'd called asking about his feelings for the programming on a
particular channel.

	"And how are things at home?"

	"Fine."

	"So you'd say there are no problems in your life at this time?"

	"No, ma'am."

	"You're completely happy?"

	"Yes, ma'am." He began to wonder where the studies portion of this
so called interview was going to start.

	"How about your friends in your class? Would you say they are happy
too?"

	Steve shrugged his shoulders. "I suppose so."

	"Would it surprise you to hear that some of your classmates think
you're not that happy? That there's something bothering you?"

	Steve immediately sensed these two were up to something, something
he wasn't going to like. He knew there was nothing bothering him and didn't
believe he'd indicated in any way to anyone in his class the opposite. "I
think they're thinking about somebody else."

	"No, Steven, they said you."

	"If somebody said that, then they don't know me. I'm fine."

	"Remember what I said, everything you say here stays here. You can
say anything you want and no one else will hear about it."

	Steve again shrugged his shoulders planning to keep his answers
from that point on as short as possible, a strategy his father had taught
him when dealing with someone who had the authority to ask things but was
asking things that they really shouldn't be.

	"So, no problems at home?"

	Steve shook his head, "No."

	"You and your foster father getting along well?"

	"Yes."

	"He isn't too hard on you about anything?"

	"No."

	"Doesn't make you work too hard so you get the high grades he wants
you to get?"

	"No." He put on a bored look.

	"Well, let's get back to you and your classmates. You all have a
lot of fun together?"

	"Yes, ma'am." Steven felt some of the anger building in him
subside.

	"What kind of things do you do for fun?"

	"Talk, play."

	"What kind of play?"

	"Basketball, marbles, Nintendo."

	"And boy stuff?"

	"Yeah, basketball, marbles and Nintendo."

	"I mean like private play like masturbation." She put on what one
sixth grade classmate called a shit eating smile, pure put on.

	Steven felt she'd crossed a line. "Ma'am, no disrespect but that's
none of your business."

	"Then you do."

	"Ma'am, I thought this was going to be about my studies?" The anger
had returned.

	"Look, Steven, I'm not saying there's anything wrong with
masturbation, just asked."

	"And I'm not answering yes or no just that that question has
nothing to do with my studies. Adults aren't supposed to be talking to kids
about things like that."

	"Did your foster father tell you that?"

	"Yes, my father and you people here at school told me no adult is
supposed to be talking about sex with a kid and I'm supposed to get away
from anyone who does and report them. I think I should go now." He got up.

	"Steven,..."

	"My name is Steve."

	"Steve, wait a moment."

	Steve walked to the door, opened it and left, ignoring the
counselor's order to stop. He went straight to the principal's office down
the hall and asked for him.

	"Why do you want to speak to the Principal?" asked his secretary.

	"It's private, and important."

	"Well, he's busy with somebody right now. What class are you in?
I'll have you called when he's free."

	Steve shook his head and left, sure the call would never come. But
it did. The counselor was with the principal when he was sent into his
office. He was sure he'd made a mistake, that he should have just left the
counselor's office and told his father what had happened. He'd have known
how to handle such a situation better than a twelve year old.

	Fred Bailey, M.A., a short, slim man with a military hair cut, had
been principal there for six years after working his way up from an office
job in the main school administration offices in downtown Manhattan
twenty-one years before.

	"Steve," said the principal with half a shit eating smile, "I think
you misunderstood Mrs. Tyler's intentions. She was just asking normal
questions for a psychological interview. Now, you just go back with her and
finish up and everything will be fine, okay?"

	"I think I should talk to my father first."

	The principal pursed his lips and leaned forward in his
chair. "Son, if there is something bothering you about your foster father,
you can tell us and we can help you."

	Steve had to control himself. "There is nothing with my father. I
don't know what somebody is saying but it's," he almost said bullshit, "a
lie."

	"All right, all right, calm down. No one is accusing anyone of
anything. We are only trying to be sure you are okay. It's our
responsibility to look out for every one of our students."

	"There is nothing wrong with me or my father. May I go?" Steven was
furiously fighting an urge to tell these people to go fuck themselves.

	"No you may not, young man. Now, calm down and sit down," said the
principal.

	Steven straightened himself up. There was no way he was going to
sit down.

	"Sit down, Steven," ordered the principal again.

	"No, sir."

	"Sit down or you are suspended!"

	Steven didn't move.

	The counselor interrupted, "Perhaps Steven misunderstands what we
are asking him and why. He is usually a very good student, Mr. Bailey." She
turned to Steve, "Steven, I'm sorry if you misunderstood us. We are
required to be very careful regarding the welfare of all our students and
there have reports that you seemed to be troubled by something. We are just
trying to find out what is bothering you so we can help."

	"There is nothing bothering me." He almost said `but you' but bit
his lower lip instead.

	"All right. I accept that. You don't mind taking the psychologists
tests we give everyone else, do you. It is what helps us suggest the best
curriculum for each student. By mid year, all our better students will have
taken it."

	"I want to talk to my father first, ma'am."

	"Why don't you ask your father to come in," said the principal,
exasperation in his voice.

	"Yes, sir, may I go now?"

	The principal turned his head away. The counselor said, "Of course,
Steven."

	Steven nearly cried walking down the hall. He was furious, angrier
than he ever remembered being in his life. He went to the boys room and
into a stall to calm down. He knew what they were intimating. He knew they
didn't need any real proof to cause him and his father enormous
trouble. He'd seen it happen in sixth grade. A girl's uncle had actually
been jailed over charges made by the girl's mother even though the girl had
insisted nothing had happened. From what he'd learned from other students,
the mother claimed she'd seen the uncle with his hand up the girl's dress
while he was kissing her on the mouth. He had no idea what the end result
had been since the girl was transferred to another school due to all the
talk and embarrassment.

      Worse, Steven was a foster child who could be snatched away from his
father at any time. He'd seen that twice in his own class in fourth and
sixth grades. In the first case, the boy had been sent off to a group home
somewhere. The second had been switched to another family in the same area
as the school. Neither had been friends so he didn't know more of the
details.

      There was no way he could go back to his class and appear normal. He
went to the school nurse and claimed he'd vomited. She sent him home.

      Walter was surprised to see him. In as much detail as possible, Steve
explained what had been said at the school.

      Walter took Steve into his arms. "Let me take care of this,
son. They're just being what they are. There is no proof of anything so
they have to stop saying these things."

      He called the principal's office and was told to come over that
afternoon.

      "Mr. Stuyvesant, thank you for coming in. I think this has all been a
misunderstanding. The counselor, Mrs. Tyler here, had some reports by some
students that they felt Steven had a problem, something that was bothering
him. Naturally, we were concerned and tried to find out what it was. As
part of that, Mrs. Tyler went over a list of possibilities which include
problems with teachers, other kids and problems at home. Steven denied
having any problems in any of these areas. We accepted that and asked him
to take the same psychological exam we give all our more advanced
students. The tests basically seek to identify character traits and
aptitudes so we can better counsel our brighter students toward more
productive lines of study."

      "Which exams exactly do you want to give him. I'm familiar with a few
since I've designed programs so they can be given in privacy on a
computer."

      "I don't really, uh, Mrs. Tyler, can you help me here?"

      "Not very much, I'm afraid. They are standard tests given by school
system psychologists to, as Mr. Bailey said, to look at character traits
and aptitudes. Tens of thousands of students take them every year."

      "My understanding is that those tests are reserved for students with
problems. Steve has had no behavior problems that I know of and his grades
couldn't be much better."

      "That's what got my attention," said Mrs. Tyler Jones. "I'm
particularly interested in giving them to students with great potential so
I can help them achieve their highest goals."

      "Are they required?"

      "No, but they would be very helpful."

      "Then, let's not do any more interviews or testing for the time
being. You really upset Steve today.

      "Now, if there is some specific problem he has here at school, please
let me know and we can deal with it together."

      The principal pressed his fingers together and tapped himself on the
lips. He seemed about to say something. Walter looked his way as if waiting
to hear whatever it was. The principal sucked in on his lips and said,
"Thank you for coming in. I assume Steven will be here tomorrow?"

      "I'll see how he feels but I expect he will."

	The moment Walter was out his door, the principal called in his
secretary. "When is Sylvia Stallings free period?"

	"Let me check."

	Fred Bailey turned to his head counselor. "Get hold of the boy's
case worker at the Bureau of Child Services. I want you, Sylvia, that
psychologist what's his name you called in and Steven's caseworker in here
tomorrow during Sylvia's free period."

	The phone rang. Bailey arranged for the person on the other end of
the line to be in his office the next morning.

	"All right, at eleven fifteen," he told his staff. "That arrogant
so and so is going to learn not to fool around with Fred Bailey."



      Steve was very curious to hear what had gone on when his father
returned.

      "Nothing much. They claimed that the interview was because some kid
said you were unhappy, bothered, they said, about something. I told them no
more tests or interviews for now.

      "Come here, son."

      The two of them sat on the sofa. Walter faced him. "You haven't said
anything to anyone that might make them think there is something going on
here, have you, maybe kidding? Think hard."

      "I already thought about it, dad. I can't think of anything. The kids
talk about sex all the time, you know, what girl they wanna screw or
whatever. But nobody talks about masturbation. You know how it is now, if a
kid admits he's doing it, he can get sent to a psychiatrist or some kind of
program and nobody wants that. That's all, really."

      "Then what the heck made them go after you like that?" Walter thought
aloud.

      "There was that girl last year who got all bent out of shape `cause I
didn't want to go out with her. She called me a fag, remember? But none a
the kids paid any attention to her. Nobody else wanted to go out with her
either."

      "No, that kind of thing probably happens twice a week with kids your
age. Who knows? The important thing is they have nothing to go any further
with. So don't worry." He patted Steve on the knee. "Did they ask you about
your epilepsy?"

      "Unh uh. Anyhow, I haven't had an attack since third grade."

      Walter reached out and pulled Steve to him. They embraced for a while
then went out for lunch at a pizza parlor a few blocks away on Broadway.

	That night, Steve asked to go to bed early.

	"Sleepy?"

	"Come with me," he pleaded.

	Walter shut down his computer and went to the bedroom. Before he
could begin undressing, Steve put his arms around his neck, kissed his on
the lips and hugged him tightly. "Let's get naked, dad."

	Walter was feeling very apprehensive about sex but Steve obviously
wanted at least the closeness. He took off all his clothes and slid under
the covers with his son. Steve pulled him close and just held on for a
while. Walter hoped that was all he wanted.

	Steve began kissing him on the cheek and neck then said, "Fuck me,
dad. I want to feel you inside me. We don't have to go into the shower. I
got some oil from the kitchen and some paper towels. We can do it right
here."

	The preparation made the boy's desire clear. But why at that time?

	Steve let go and reached over the side of the bed. The oil was in a
small glass. He pulled back the sheets. Walter was still soft. Holding the
glass along side Walter's hip. Steve leaned over and sucked in the flaccid
penis.

	Walter wasn't sure he could perform. He'd already been worried over
events but Steve's urgency to have such extreme sex indicated a possible
concern that they might soon be parted. Walter couldn't find any words he
thought might alleviate the boy's fears. They'd only done this a few times
since the first time at the lodge. Steve did seem to enjoy it. His cock was
stiff as a board each time. His orgasm came quickly afterward.

      Walter caressed Steve's cheek which was pulled tight against the man
cock in his mouth and closed his eyes. Gradually, the blood flowed in and
he became erect, ready for what his boy wanted.

	Steve sat up, poured a small amount of the oil into his hand and
rubbed it over the hard on. He put more between his buns then wiped off
with a paper towel. Facing his father, he mounted the hard glans. It poked
in easily. Steve leaned over and opened his mouth for a deep kiss. When he
pulled his face away, it was to lower himself completely down his dad's
shaft.

	Walter sat up and wrapped his arms around his boy. Steve did the
same and said in a near whisper, "Now, do it."

	Walter revolved his hips, pulling out then sliding back inside. The
eroticism was mixed with a sense of fear that somehow others knew what they
were doing. He stopped for a moment. Steve moved his hips forward, taking
the penis full inside himself.

	"Keep doing it."

	Walter lowered his groin then pushed upward again, repeating it
slowly. The sensation wasn't as strong as the past. It was going to take
longer, if he was able to climax at all.

	Steve moved in time with him, making sure each thrust brought full
penetration. He grunted slightly a few times but they were sounds of
passion, not pain.

	Gradually, Walter felt his juices begin to boil. Steve must have
sensed it because he pulled hands around to Walter's ribs and leaned back,
trying to force more of his dad inside. A half dozen times more and Walter
bloated. Steve grabbed him behind the neck and pulled their faces
together. The boy's tongue sought the man's. Walter shot sperm deep inside
Steve's belly.

	Steve moved his hips back and forth slowly then requested,
"Masturbate me."

	Walter reached down between them and moved his fingers up and down
on the boy's solid erection. It only took seconds before he felt the
pulsing. Steve grabbed his dad's hand and held it in place.

	When his throbbing subsided, Steve remained planted on his father's
lap. Finally, he said, "Let me turn around and let's try to sleep with you
in me."

	"It'll come out when it gets soft."

	"Let's see if I can keep it inside."

	Walter laid back and Steve rotated until his back was to his
father's face. He lay back on his Walter's chest and pulled the man's arms
around him. Steve rolled them both to their sides and pushed his rear into
his Walter's groin. Walter could feel the boy's rectal muscle tighten
around his penis.

	A few moments later, Steve said, "I love you, dad."

	In the morning, Steve remembered the previous evening's dinner date
at Nancy Soto's house. Walter promised to call the Soto's and apologize.

	"Those stupid people are ruining everything!" he complained
bitterly of the school officials.




	Steve's Bureau of Child Services, as the former Bureau of Child
Welfare was then called, worker was a young black woman named Aretha
Washington. Her mother had been a church soloist fan of Aretha Franklin at
the time of her first daughter's birth. But, to her mother's distress, poor
Aretha Washington had the musical talent of a door frame. She'd tried
everything from piano lessons to music piped into her daughter's bedroom at
night to draw out some musical ability but none was forthcoming. The end
result of that mother daughter frustration was an inferiority complex that
in Aretha's case pushed her to achieve in other areas. Since she was also
quite average intellectually, that meant barely graduating from college and
doggedly pursuing exactly the kind of issue Fred Bailey was about to lay
out for her.

	After introducing everyone to Miss Washington, Principal Fred Baily
opened his hastily called meeting with, "People, we have a sexual child
abuse situation that has probably been going on for years and it is our
obligation to put an end to it, Mrs. Tyler, why don't you start things off
with some background."

	"Yes, sir. Steven Mulrooney is a twelve year old male in seventh
grade. He scored 100's on all his exams at the end of last year, an
extremely unusual feat there. His fifth and sixth grade counselor, Ida
Franklin, had noticed him as an over achiever a year or two earlier and had
spoken to his teachers and made some personal observations. Steven is a
foster child. He has been with his foster father, a single man named Walter
Stuyvesant, since age four or five. For a variety of reasons, Mrs. Franklin
got the impression that Mr. Stuyvesant was over controlling the boy and
severely pressuring him to receive high grades. Mr. Stuyvesant walked the
boy to school every day and was there to take him home every afternoon,
even as a sixth grader. She observed the boy kissing Mr. Stuyvesant on the
cheek nearly every afternoon when she was able to watch the boy leave. He
even took him by the hand when they left. In addition, she learned the
foster father was taking the boy to a gym several times a week. This man is
classic, right out of the book.

      "Unfortunately, Ms. Franklin was unable to initiate a full scale
investigation or even arrange psychological testing due to a heavy workload
and the fact that she had a newborn at home which required a great deal of
her time. She did send a note along with his file requesting that we look
into the matter.

      "Yesterday, we tried to interview the child but when we began asking
about his foster father, he became very defensive and refused to
cooperate. I should also mention that when we asked about whether he
masturbated, he refused to answer saying it was and I quote, `none of your
business'. Before, we had tried to get him to open up by saying that some
of his classmates felt he was unhappy about something but he steadfastly
claimed he was fine though his behavior seemed to indicate he was hiding
something. Dr. Perlman and I suspect he was afraid of repercussions with
his foster father were he to admit any unhappiness or dissatisfaction.

      "At that point, he refused to take the psychological tests
Dr. Perlman was there to administer and left the room in a huff and without
permission. When we informed Principal Bailey, he called the boy to the
office but he again refused to take the tests even when Principal Bailey
threatened to suspend him if he didn't. I suggested he ask his father to
come in so we could convince him of the importance of the tests. He
accepted that and left but didn't return to his classroom. Instead, he went
to the school nurse and claimed he'd vomited. She sent him home.

      "His father called up and was invited to come in. When Principal
Bailey and I explained that the psychological tests were merely standard
tests given to most students, he also refused to have the boy take
them. Both Principal Bailey and I concurred that he was obviously trying to
close any avenue into the boy's life outside of school.

      "Oh, yes, Steven is an epilectic but hasn't had any attacks since
grade three. He is using Dilantin daily to prevent any attacks. Do you have
any further information on his epilepsy, Miss Washington?"

      The social worker shuffled through the file she'd brought with
her. Mr. Bailey made a phone call. At that point Sylvia Stallings, Steve's
seventh grade home room teacher asked Mrs. Tyler Jones, "Could you tell me
which students said Steve had some problems?"

      "There weren't any, really. It was a means to give him a reason to
open up to us."

      "Please don't get me wrong but I haven't seen any signs that Steve is
anything but a very happy and, well, one very good student."

      Fred Bailey put his hand over the telephone's microphone and said,
"That, Miss Stallings, is why Mrs. Tyler and Miss Franklin are
counselors. They know how to spot such things. If there's nothing else, you
can go back to your class."

      Miss Stallings left quietly but quickly.

      Miss Washington pulled out a set of papers stapled together and began
to read it. After a few moments, she said, "This is quite a story. I think
I should make copies for everyone to read."

      "Can't you summarize if for us?" asked the principal.

      "Not really. I've only read part of it and, no, you really should
read it yourselves or I could read it but you really should have copies."

      Bailey agreed and sent her out to his secretary. What the papers held
was an abbreviated history of the events that led up to Steve becoming
Walter's foster son. The room was very quiet as each person read their
copy.

      The silence was broken once by the counselor muttering, "Poor child."

      Finally, the principal asked, "Does anyone know anything about
Steven's mother? Did they find her? Is she even still alive, Miss
Washington?"

      "There's nothing about it in here. I'll have to find out."

      "Good grief, Miss Washington. A foster child in the system and no one
knows the mother's situation? I'll admit she doesn't sound like a very nice
person but she is the boy's mother. I'd certainly like to hear her side of
this story."

      Miss Washington said, "I'll ask Steven's former worker. She's no
longer with the Department but I have her phone number. And maybe my
supervisor knows something."

      Mrs. Tyler said, "This woman must have been very angry at
Mr. Stuyvesant. Not only did she want her child back even though she
apparently knew of the epilepsy problem, she wanted Mr. Stuyvesant
killed. Is it possible she knew he was abusing her son even then?"

      "I think someone needs to find the mother and ask her," commented the
psychologist. "And," he continued, "I think testing would be an important
step here. Can BCS arrange something? And, I think it would be helpful if
someone looked into the foster father's background."

                              ------------------------------------

	Aretha Washington had received several tasks during her meeting at
the intermediate school. The first thing she did on returning to her office
was to call her predecessor, a young woman who'd gone out on maternity
leave after eleven months on the job and decided to be a mother rather than
a wage earner. She and Aretha had been friends while they worked together
but had drifted apart since her departure.

	Aretha's former co-worker had no recollection of the case.

	Aretha asked her supervisor what he remembered and got the same
reply. She sat down and read the entire file again. There was a lot of
material from when the boy had first been taken into the system but from
there she found nothing more than kindergarten and first grade school
records along with notes about two epileptic attacks. She took out the
neurologist's report and made four copies.

	Armed with a more thorough knowledge of what was available and the
school group's request, she went back to her supervisor to ask about how
they could force Steve Mulrooney to take the psychological tests.

	"That's easy enough. Either he takes them or we take him."

	  Rather than go to the father with that ultimatum, she decided to
find the boy's mother, if possible, and see what she could tell her. The
police department took the weekend and two more days to find her. She'd
been arrested in California in 1999 for driving under the influence of
drugs, specifically, it turned out, her old favorite, crack cocaine. She'd
been finger printed and, when they found out who she was, extradited back
to New York. Her current address was at a maximum security women's
correctional facility in upstate New York where she was serving three life
sentences for three homicides and one attempted homicide.

      There was a lot more to the case than what was in the police
report. There had been a co-defendant, William Pirelli, who was in
Attica. He had a brother in a New York city Mafia family. Miss Washington
made a note to seek an interview with him also.

      The report mentioned that Katherine Mulrooney had declared her
innocence every step of the way claiming that Pirelli had been jealous of
anyone who got close to her. She had also claimed that it had been him and
not her who had beaten her son badly enough to be responsible for his
epilepsy. However, the police had the doctor's report in which the boy had
said that his mother too had been one of his assailants.

      Katherine Mulrooney had accepted three concurrent life sentences for
the three homicides and fifteen years for the attempted homicide on Walter
Stuyvesant, all to run concurrently. The 2011 parole guarantee was not in
any of the reports.

	After arranging with prison authorities to meet Steve's mother,
Aretha Washington made the hour and a half drive into the mountains to
interview Katherine Mulrooney. When she arrived and completed the tedious
entry procedures, she was taken to a light green painted room with a barred
window, a table and two chairs. A guard escorted Katherine in and offered
to stay but was told that, since the interview involved very private
matters, Aretha needed to be alone with Mrs. Mulrooney.

	Katherine cocked her head and waited for questions.

	Miss Washington introduced herself and explained that she was there
to discuss Steven.

	"How is he?" asked his mother with a look of concern.

	"We're not sure. That's why I'm here. Please tell me about what
happened when he was three and four, with as much detail as possible,
please."

	Katherine sat up and stared off into space for a few moments before
beginning. "Well, I suppose you know that William Pirelli murdered my
husband. I was using drugs at the time and he was my source. He was a very
jealous man and he thought I loved him. Actually, I didn't. It was my
addiction that made me behave like I did. Well, he killed Steve and this
man said he'd help out with little Stevie so, uh, I, well, you know, I was
on drugs and not thinking too good so I said okay and he baby sat for him a
couple times when I went out to get high. But I never took drugs in front
of my son. I'd never do that."

	Katherine eyed the social worker and took a breath. "So, well,
Steve's union, he was a bricklayer you know, gave me some money and Willie,
that's William Pirelli, he made me give some of it to him so he could start
this business and he wanted me to run it so I did `cause it was good money
and I was still on drugs, you see, and I knew the union money wasn't gonna
last forever so I had to do something.

	"Well, there was this other guy who wanted to make it with me, oh,
this was before we started the business, and I think Willie killed him too
`cause he turned up stabbed just like my husband so I was really scared a
Willie. He never said he'd kill me or nothing but I knew how he was, you
know, jealous an' all so, well, you know, I was really scared and that's
why I went into the businesss with him `cause maybe if I didn't he was
gonna kill me too."

	"Where was Steven during all this?" asked Aretha.

	"Oh, he was with me. We had a nice apartment and he stayed there. I
bought him toys and stuff and we had a good television for him to
watch. Well, and then Willie killed this other guy and, man, I was really
scared especially `cause he was getting pretty rough with me too and
beating on my Stevie. I told him to stop but he was always getting pissed
because the television was too loud or Stevie did something he didn't like
and I told him not to go hitting on Stevie but I was so scared he was gonna
kill us both so what could I do and then Stevie started having these
attacks. He'd get all tight and start shaking and falling all over and
hitting against things and I got even more scared. I didn't want to give
him back to that man but what was I gonna do? Willy might've killed him the
way he was going. And I was working hard in the business and wasn't around
to protect him so what could I do? So I gave him back to that man."

	Katherine sighed and looked at the ceiling for a moment.

	Miss Washington asked her, "Then what happened?"

	"Oh, then, well, I really missed my son, you know, that's what he
was, my son, so I asked when I could go see him and the man said I couldn't
and next thing I know he's moved and nobody knows where he is."

	"Didn't he tell you to call the Bureau of Child Services, Welfare,
it was Welfare back then? The worker there wanted to speak with you about
Stevie and the doctor's report about the beatings. Stevie told the doctor
that you beat him too."

	"That was a lie. That man told him to say that. I never hit my son,
never."

	"Why would he do that?"

	"I don't know just that he wanted to keep my son for hisself."

	"Why do you think he wanted Steven for himself? If you know
something about him, you should tell me."

	Katherine dropped her eyes to the table. She seemed to be searching
for something. "I don't know, maybe, well, you see, I had to get him away
from that man `cause he was one a those, you know, perverts and he was
gonna turn my some into a fag."

	"Why do you think Mr. Stuyvesant is a pervert? Did Steven say
something or did you see anything that made you thank that?"

	"Well, you gotta remember I was on drugs so I wasn't thinkin' good
back then but I did see him with his hand on my son's, you know, privates."

	"What exactly was he doing?"

	"You know, playing with them an' all."

	"Did you say anything to him?"

	"Of course. I told him to stop and put his pants back up."

	"When was that?"

	"Oh, back when I was on drugs and Stevie was at the man's house. I
come in. The door was open, I think. But I come in and he didn't know I was
there. I think he was doing it at my house once too `cause when I come home
Stevie was pulling his pants up. Maybe he was doing something else but
Stevie acted like he was hiding something like he was afraid a getting
caught. You know what I mean."

	"Was that before or after you opened your business?"

	"I think, uh, it was before. He was baby sitting Stevie `cause I
was out buying drugs."

	"But you still let that man baby sit Steven."

	"Well, you see, there wasn't nobody else and he didn't do that
much. I was a addict then and addicts don't think right. They can't think
right but when I got right, that's when I wanted him back, away from that
man but he wouldn't let me and moved. So I was pretty pissed off so I
bothered Willy about it a lot and he finally found out where the guy lived
and said he'd go get Steven so I could see him. I said it was okay to hurt
the guy but I never said nothing about killing him. And then, well, you
know, it was then they was arresting everybody, so Willy took me and Stevie
to California."



	Thursday after the missed dinner, Steve was invited again and went
to the Soto apartment two blocks away. Nancy bubbled about how Steve seemed
to know everything in class. "He got all hundreds in his exams last year."

	Steve blushed. Mr. Soto, a warehouse foreman, asked with a Spanish
accent, "What kind of work do want to do when you finish school?"

	"I don't know. Maybe computer programming. That's what my dad does
but I don't know. I gotta go to college first."

	After dinner, Steve spent half an hour helping Nancy with her math.

	Walter, with mixed emotions, counseled his foster son about the
proper behavior with young ladies including a strong admonition about where
it was acceptable to touch his new girl friend. "Just because you and I get
familiar with one another doesn't mean you can use the same rules with
Nancy, or any other girl. Let her do the leading and, remember, don't do
anything you know would be a problem if her parents were to find out."




	A week and a half after the meeting with Fred Bailey, armed with
far more information than she'd had that day, Aretha Washington went to
Walter's apartment. Walter hadn't met her before, hadn't seen a worker
since Steve's last epileptic attack over three years before. He'd assumed
Steve wasn't a problem so they had pretty much filed him away, the
un-squeaky wheel.

	After introducing herself and telling Walter the visit was in
regard to school testing, she said, "Actually, we require all our foster
children be tested occasionally. It helps us keep track of how they are
progressing. I know Steven has been doing well in school, very well as a
matter of fact, but the tests are required. You don't need to worry about
them. They are standard tests given to thousands of children all over the
city. I can't imagine anything coming of this one but he still does have to
take them."

	"Miss, I'm sorry..."

	"Washington."

	"I'm sorry, Miss Washington, what if Steve doesn't want, refuses to
take them? He's been pretty adamant about that with me."

	"He hasn't any choice, Mr. Stuyvesant. The Bureau of Child Services
requires they be taken every few years and Steven has never taken one,
well, not since kindergarten but that was hardly much of a test, so really,
he's way behind in his requirements for a foster child. If he were to
refuse, he'd be picked up and taken to a center for a few days where he'd
be given the tests anyway. From there, he'd probably be put in a different
foster home if one could be found for him."

	Walter protested again that he didn't understand why a boy who was
doing so well in school and had no behavior or social problems in school or
out should be forced to do something that he had a very bad feeling about
due to how poorly it had been handled by the school staff a week and a half
before. But, it was to no avail. The social worker reiterated that his
refusal would be met with a minimum week long stay in an enclosed center
where he'd have to take the tests before being allowed to leave.

	The moment she left, Steve called Tom Garretson. He'd never heard
of such a thing but promised to see what he could find out.

	Walter didn't mention the visit when Steve came home from
school. Anyhow, the boy was only there a few moments. He was to join a
couple of friends near one of their homes to play basketball.

	"So now you're a basketball player?"

	"Sure, I'm not great but I know how. They got a playground next
door and we're playing against some other kids. The loser's gotta buy sodas
for the winners. And Nancy's gonna be there."

	Walter laughed. "Then you better win."

	"No problem, dad. We're gonna whip their asses."

	Garretson called back just after four. "The regular testing is a
bunch of crap except for kids with disciplinary problems. But, they can
still force him to take the tests. Why'd they say they want him to take
them?"

	"Help guide him better or something. It's bullshit. Some social
worker bureaucrat has decided a single man with a twelve year old foster
son is screwing the kid."

	"God, I hate those people. They mess up more kids than all the
gangs in the world. Just tell Steve to be cool and think about what he says
before he says it. Did somebody say something?"

	"Some girl he wouldn't date last year called him a fag but that's
certainly nothing out of the average. He's got a real girl friend
now. Already had dinner with her parents."

	When Steve came home, Walter had prepared a chicken casserole with
rice, one of his son's favorite meals. Afterward, he broke the news about
the test.

	Steve said, "I'm not taking it. They can say I said anything they
want."

	"Look, I spoke to your uncle Tom and he checked. If you don't take
it, they can force you, take you away from me and put you in a some kind of
center until you do."

	"That's wrong!"

	"You're right, it's wrong, but it's reality. You have to take the
test but you can beat them at their own game. Just answer the way you
figure any of your classmates or friends would. Don't lie, but keep it
normal. You like girls and sports sort of stuff."






















Chapter 10


   	Steve was in a foul mood when he entered the counselor's office the
next morning. Walter had tried to package the tests as one of the hassles
of life that one had to endure. Steve worried they were part of something
more sinister, something that would hurt the both of them, possibly tear
them apart.

      The psychologist noticed Steve's suspicious attitude and tried to
soothe his feelings.

	"Look, these tests are no big deal, you'll see. Just relax and
it'll be over before you know it."

	Steve remained standing, hands in pockets until the man showed him
where to sit. There were four sets of tests to be taken. The first was a
multiple choice affair which asked preferences and moral choices. It seemed
easy enough. For each answer, he tried to put himself in the shoes of kids
he knew in his class and found he felt the same as he figured his friends
would.

	The second test was somewhat academic, testing comprehension and
logical skills. He found it a challenge and was determined to do well to
show these idiots they were dealing with a smart kid.

	The third was the Rorschach inkblot test, of late a much maligned
psychological tool, considered quite unscientific by most of the mental
health community. However, it was a tool Dr. Perlman used quite regularly
in cases of suspected sexual child abuse. It wasn't the type Steve had
expected. Nonetheless, he made an effort to find animals, the occasional
cartoon character and clouds in the cards he was presented.

	The final exam was oral, more of an interview than a test. He asked
some of the same neutral `how are you getting along in school' questions
before probing after more problematic fare.

	That began with, "What do you remember about the time you were with
your mother and Mr. Pirelli?"

	Steven hadn't expected that but didn't mind answering. "Not very
much. I was only four."

	"Well, tell me what you do remember."

	"I was in the house all the time. They never took me anywhere and
they were always angry at me about something."

	"Did anyone hurt you?"

	"Yeah. They beat on me a lot, knocked me unconscious a couple times
with that broom handle they had."

	"You remember that?"

	"Not real good. Just waking up on the floor and having a head
ache. I remember that."

	"Who exactly was hitting you?"

	"My mother and Willy. He hit real hard."

	"Are you sure it was both of them and not just Willy?"

	"Unh uh. They both did. I remember my mother's face when she was
beating on me."

	"An what about the attacks. What do you remember about them?"

	"Nothing except they told me after and I felt real weird and I
forgot where I was."

	"You forgot where you were?"

	"Like I was in the bedroom and I thought I was in the living room,
like that."

	"What do you remember about those first times when you went with
Mr. Stuyvesant?"

	"Hardly anything except I wanted to be with him instead of in my
mother's apartment. He took me outside and to restaurants. I remember once
in a McDonald's but that's about all."

	"And you don't remember anything else about being with him?"

	"Nope."

	"Okay, what about when you were with him when you were four?"

	"The same except we changed apartments and came over here and my
dad put me in a new day care center. Then they kidnapped me and tried to
kill my dad. Then one day my mother took me to Salt Lake City and left me
there and this cop called New York and Sgt. Garretson came and got me and I
came back here and my dad was in a hospital but then he got better and now
I'm here.


	"Why do you think William Pirelli and the others kidnapped you?"

	"I don't know. Willy never liked me and they just stuck me in some
house but, at least they didn't beat on me that much."

	"But they did beat you some?"

	"Both of `em. Like I said, Willy never liked me. He hit me worse
but my mother hit me too like once when I dropped this thing of hers. I
don't remember what it was but it broke and she got real pissed and kicked
me a couple a times. I remember it hurt a lot and I wanted to get away and
find Walter but they always put me in the basement or this room upstairs."

	"Why did they let you go?"

	"I don't know. Walter said my mother was worried about me and
that's why she told the cops where to find me."

	"So when you got back to New York, where did you want to go?"

	"With Walter."

	"But weren't there some problems with Walter, some things he did
that you didn't like?"

	The alarms went off in Steve's head. He tried to remain calm but a
sharp edge was in his answer. "Walter never did anything bad to me,
period. What's wrong with you people?" He shut himself up.

	"Isn't he kind of hard on you about school?"

	"No! He never said I had to get hundreds if that's what you
think. He just hopes I'll do well enough to go to college one day. That's
all. I get hundreds `cause I want to."

	"Steven, remember, you're not talking to someone who's going to say
anything to anyone about what you tell me, not even your foster
father. Everything you say here is between us and nobody else. I am here to
help you, protect you if I need to. You just..."

	"Is that all? I wanna go to class."

	"Calm down. We're almost finished."

	Steven remained silent but hardly calm.

	"Why do some of your classmates think there is something that
bothers you? Not necessarily about your foster father, anything?"

	"There is nothing bothering me except you people and your stupid
questions."

	Perlman, his face taut, slowly stood. "All right, Steven, there are
some people here who want to speak to you. Take it easy and it will go much
easier. They are your friends. Their only interest is in protecting
you. They know what Mr. Stuyvesant has been doing and..."

	Steven stood angrily. "Walter never did anything bad to me in my
life. What's wrong with you? You deaf?"

	Dr. Perlman walked to and opened the door. Two policemen in
uniform, another man and a woman were outside. Steven felt his middle flood
with anxiety. He looked for a way out but there was none. He charged at the
men in the next room but they grabbed him.

	"Take it easy, son," said the older of the two uniforms, "or we'll
have to cuff you."

	Amid claims that no one was there to hurt him, Steven was led out
to a patrol car and put into a cage in the back. He kicked at the front
seat the moment he was inside.

	The cop who got in the passenger side turned and said, "Cut that
shit out kid or I'll warm your ass."

	"Fuck you, you son of a bitch. Just wait'll I call Lieutenant
Garretson. He'll fix your ass!"

	At the station house, he was led into an interrogation room where
one of the uniformed officers, the large burly man in a suit and the woman
sat around a table.

	The suit introduced himself as Sergeant O'Malley. "Steven, I need
you to be honest with me, help me here. You can't bullshit me `cause I know
a lot more than you think. I know that Walter Stuyvesant was abusing you
sexually. We got a very good witness and more so don't go thinking I don't
know. And I know kids like you. You're scared this guy's gonna find out you
said something and be pissed at you. You might even think he likes you but
it's not you he likes and you know it. It's little boys he likes and once
they get hair on their balls he dumps `em just like he was gonna do to
you."

	Steven had decided in the car to say nothing to these sons of
bitches, but it was hard. He bit down on his lower lip and tried to think
of something else. He imagined what the other kids were doing in his
classroom. They were thinking about lunch which was only a few minutes
away, thinking about what kind of drink they'd buy, maybe desert.

	The cop asked him a question. He could tell by the tone of the
words and the fact that he'd stopped talking. Steven tried to see what
deserts were available in the cafeteria line. There was cake, jello. Always
jello, just different flavors. There was a loud bang. Steven jumped. The
cop had slammed his fist down on the table.

	They all tried to talk to him. Some were friendly but he saw
through that. The cop threatened with putting him in a nasty lock down
group home until he decided to `come clean'.

	In the end, he was able to maintain his silence. They left him
alone in the room.


          	At two twenty that afternoon, there was a knock on Walter's
apartment door. It was perhaps a dozen policemen, most in uniforms, two in
plain clothes including Sergeant O'Malley."

	It was O'Malley who spoke. "Walter Stuyvesant, we have a warrant
for your arrest for felony child molestation. You have the right to remain
silent." The rest was a blur. They also had a warrant to search his
apartment and take his computers. Walter was taken downstairs to a patrol
car and hauled off to a station house, the same one where they were holding
Steve.

	He was led to a desk where Sergeant O'Malley began to take his
information and enter it into a computer terminal. When he asked Walter's
full name and address, Walter answered, "I suspect you have all that."

	"Look, sir, why don't you just humor me and answer the questions."
His tone was cold, threatening.

	Walter was about to answer when he heard a boy's voice shout, "Fuck
you! I want my father!"

	Walter stood. "Steve! Steve!"

	The boy yelled back, "Dad, I'm in here, Get me out of here,
please!"

	Another officer and the sergeant shoved Walter back into his chair
and ordered, "Shut up, you, or I'll put you downstairs with the biggest,
nastiest fag hating nigger you ever seen, got it!"

	There was no more sound from the direction of the room where Steve
was imprisoned. Walter sagged in his chair, his spirit torn to shreds. He
knew this was going to be very bad.

	Shortly thereafter, he too was taken into an interrogation room. He
refused to answer any questions and requested a lawyer. He was taken back
outside to the detective's desk.

	"Make your call, Mr. Stuyvesant," said the Sergeant.

	"I have no idea who to call. Being a law abiding citizen, I'm not
supposed to be concerned about such things."

	The cop opened his lower desk drawer and handed him a phone
book. "Let your fingers do the walking."

	He ignored the offer and called Tom Garretson's cell phone.

	"Tom, I've been arrested. They say I've been sexually abusing
Steve."

	"Fucking assholes! Where are you?"

	He told him.

	"I'll be right over. Wait, let me talk to the officer handling your
case."

	Walter held the phone out to the sergeant. He took it. "Sergeant
O'Malley. Who's this?"

	He listened for a moment. "Your call, pal but we got this guy
cold." Another pause. "Sure, I'll wait but you better get your friend a
lawyer. He's gonna need a really good one."

	Garretson was there in twenty minutes. Walter was back inside an
interrogation room. "They're saying they got an eye witness and plenty of
circumstantial evidence and they figure Steve's gonna rat you out
eventually. Do you know who this witness could be? Don't worry, nobody's
listening. I spoke to the lieutenant and the mike's turned off. Police
courtesy."

	"Tom, there can't be a witness to something that never
happened. You know Steve's here too?"

	Garretson went for the door. "I'll be right back."

	He returned minutes later. "They moved him, probably because I was
coming. Shit! Walter, this is very bad. This sergeant is a hard ass. He
doesn't give a shit whether you're guilty or not. He wants a conviction for
his jacket. We've got to get you a lawyer and it's gonna be expensive. You
don't know anybody?"

	Walter shook his head.

	"I know some but I've never been involved in this kind of case. Let
me ask around." He sat down. "You got any idea who's behind all this?"

	"It's the school people. Gotta be them."

	"You haven't heard anything from Steve's mother?"

	Walter shook his head.

      "All right. You're probably going before a judge for a bail hearing
this afternoon unless they want to keep you until morning. You're gonna
need a lawyer for that. I know some guys but what we need is somebody who
experience with this kind of case. Lemme make some calls, try to get a
recommendation. I might just find somebody to get you through the bail
hearing. You gotta make bail, my friend. You definitely don't want to go to
Riker's with this kind of charge on you. How much money can you put
together fast?"

      "I don't know. There's a few thousand between my checking and savings
accounts. Can I use my credit cards?"

      "How much debt you got on the cards?"

      "Just the furniture but that's not on the cards. That's with the
furniture store and it's a lease, not a loan. I'm clear right now except
for maybe a hundred dollars."

      "Okay. I know some bail bondsmen. That's not a big deal unless they
ask for a high bail."

      "How much you think they'll want?"

      "This should be a bullshit case but we don't know what they have or
what they're really after. I have no idea. Let me find you a lawyer right
now."

      "Tom, see if you can find out what they've done with Steve, will
you?"

      "I gotta be honest with you, Walter. That's not going to be something
I should get into. They'll say I'm meddling with their case and that might
prevent me from being able to help you at all. Let's concentrate on getting
you out of jail first, okay?"

      An hour or so after Garretson left, Sergeant O'Malley came back with
half a TastyKake in his hand. "So, you got a police lieutenant in your
pocket. Ain't gonna help you much, probably not at all, not with your
situation. First place, he's Brooklyn. This is Manhattan. He ain't got no
sway over here. Nah, only thing's gonna help you, my friend, is to get this
thing off your chest and impress the DA with your sorrow over what you did
to that kid. That way, you might be on the streets again before your teeth
start falling out."

      Walter said nothing.

      Another plainclothes cop came in and asked O'Malley, "This the
pervert? You ever notice how these guys all look alike? And how many of
them are computer geeks like this one. Christ, makes you worry about the
guys working on ours."

      "O'Malley shook his head. Don't mind this asshole, Mr. Stuyvesant,
he's got no tolerance in his genes, and not much manners either."

      "So's he come clean yet?"

      "Nah, he said the `L' word."

      "You guy's watch too much television, Stuyvesant. You do yourself a
hell of a lot better talking to us, making this easy for us so we don't get
a burr in our ass an' wanna do some serious investigating. You never know
what we'll come up with. Nobody's looked at what's inside all those
computers yet."

      Walter shook his head but kept quiet. He knew they'd find nothing on
them.

      "Okay, have it your way. Just don't get pissed at us when we start
doing the job you forced us to do."

      Walter stared at his finger tips laid out on the table, trying to
look a lot calmer than he felt.

      A lawyer showed up at one thirty. He was young, very
young. "Mr. Stuyvesant?" He held out his hand. "I'm Barry Stillman. Everett
Bradley sent me over to get you through your arraignment and bail
hearing. He'll be your attorney but he's in court today and can't make it."

      He had some notes on a yellow legal pad he pulled out of his slim
imitation leather attaché case. "Mr. Bradley spoke to the prosecutor on
your case. He thinks they're going to asking for a very high bail. From
what I understand, you have no prior criminal history?"

      "Nothing."

      "And no family in the area?"

      "No family, period, except, of course, Steve Mulrooney."

      "Yes, but I don't think you should be bringing him up today. And you
have no personal property, real estate?"

      "No, I rent. My furniture is leased."

      "But you've always lived in New York City?"

      "Yes, sir."

      "And you're a free lance computer programmer?"

      "Right."

      "All right, I'm going to argue that you're a long time area resident
with no criminal past and that you need to get back to your customers or
you're going to lose them and they are the source of the money you will be
using to defend yourself. Or something along those lines. Maybe I won't,
let me think about it."

      In the court room just after four, Walter plead "not guilty".

      The prosecutors asked for a half million dollars bail. Walter was
shocked. He'd imagined a high bail being around fifty thousand on the
outside. He turned to his young lawyer, not noticing that he'd already
begun to speak.

      "Your honor, that's an absurd request. This man has no criminal
past. He's lived in New York City all his life, has his own business here,
his life here. He unequivocally denies the charges. The case against him is
weak at best, based on, if our information is correct, a very unreliable
witness' self serving testimony. I'd say recognizance is more in order."

      The prosecutor retorted, "I'm afraid Mr. Stillman's information is
off the mark considerably. We have a very good case with a lot more than
the witness he's referring to. We expect the boy to be a witness also and
there's nothing self serving..."

      "All right, all right!" interrupted the magistrate. "Let's not try
the case here. I think a half million is unrealistic too, but I'm entirely
unwilling to grant recognizance with such a serious charge. Bail is set at
one hundred thousand, Next."

      Tom Garretson was in the courtroom with a tall, stout man wearing
horn rimmed glasses, a dour expression and carrying a black attaché. He was
the bondsman. Walter was out an hour later without putting up a
cent. "But," insisted the man once they were outside where Garretson joined
them, "I'll need ten thousand by morning. The lieutenant's word will get
you that far. Just don't let me down."

	Tom Garretson had to get back to his station house. Walter went
home alone in a taxi he was worried he really couldn't afford. But, he
needed to be alone, not jammed into a crowded subway car.





Chapter 11


	After a ride in another police cruiser's caged in rear seat, Steve
was hustled into what looked to him like a public school complex but, once
inside, obviously wasn't. First, there were two doors with electric locks
that were opened one at a time by a man inside a glassed in booth at the
far side of the large light yellow painted entry area then through another
hall with what appeared to be offices on each side. A pair of latino boys a
year or two older than him, wearing white coveralls and bored expressions,
sat outside in metal chairs against the wall. One of the officers went into
an office and came out with a tall white man in slack and shirt.

	He held out his hand to Steve and greeted, "Hi, I'm
Mr. Hollings. We're going to be together for a few days while we find you a
place to stay." He looked up at another man who'd come up behind
Steven. "Mr. Waters, please take Steven and get him processed then run him
up to B dorm."

	"C'mon, boy," ordered Waters, another black man, shorter but
heavier, with a less friendly look about him.

	Steve was taken to a room down the hall where he was told to take
off all his clothes and put them on the bench with any belongings on top.

	"Why?" asked Steve.

	"Just do what you're told, kid. Strip!"

	The man spoke like a jailor.  Steve knew he was locked up. He took
off everything except his boxers. Other than the doctor Walter took him to
for an annual check up, he'd never been completely naked in front of anyone
but his mother and foster dad.

	"I said everything. And put your belongings on top."

	Steve turned his back to the man and obeyed, putting his watch,
keys, school ID card and some change on top of his pants. When turned to
face the man his hands were in front of his crotch.

	"Christ, boy. Get in the shower." He pointed to Steve's left.

	The hot water partially soothed Steve's shaky spirit. He tried to
stay under it longer than the man wanted. The water was turned off. A towel
was tossed at him.

	Steve walked out with the towel around his waist.

	"Gimme the damn towel, boy."

	Steve handed it over, quickly dropping his hands to cover his
privates again.

	"Get your hands away from there and open your mouth."

	Steve hesitated. The man approached and yanked his arms out from
his body.

	"Open your mouth."

	Steve wasn't sure what he wanted and apparently didn't open wide
enough. The man squeezed his cheeks, forcing his jaw down. He looked around
then said, "Raise your tongue."

	That done, the man ran his fingers through Steve's mop of
hair. Then he stepped back and looked down at Steve's middle. "Shit, boy,
you ain't got nothin' to hide. Turn around and bend over."

	"Why?"

	"Damn, boy!. Just do what the fuck I say or I'll have a couple of
kids come in here and make you. Now turn around and bend over. I ain't
gonna do nothin' but look."

	Steve turned slowly and bent over halfway. The man pushed his head
down briefly.

	The man grabbed up a stack of clothes and held them out. "Put these
on."

	There were white coveralls, a tee shirt and briefs, white socks and
canvas slippers.

	Steve dressed. Everything was too big except the tee shirt which
was too small. The pants legs hung over his shoes. The man noticed. "Well,
stupid, roll `em up."

	From there he was led into a room on the opposite side from the
shower. His picture was taken and a form filled out with his name,
birthdate, address, school and grade. Another form listed his clothes and
belongings. He was told to check the list and sign it.

	The man took him back to Hollings office and sat him in front of
his desk. Hollings said, "You're probably only going to be here for a few
days so I'm putting you in B dorm. Just do what you're told and you won't
have any problems. Visits are on Sunday, Tuesday and Wednesday. You're
allowed to send one letter a week.

	He held up a blue folder. "Says here you've been an uncooperative
witness. That's probably why they sent you here instead of a home or
something. Probably be smart if you got your act together and told them
what they want. Probably help you get out of here faster."

	Mr. Waters took Steve up a flight of stairs and across the
hallway. Behind a set of prison bars was a dormitory for perhaps
twenty-four though Steve saw only three boys inside, all Latino, all older
than him. They looked his way when they heard the key turning in the
lock. One said something and they all laughed.

	Steve was led into a windowed office to the left. A fat black man
with a thick mustache sat at a desk, an open newspaper in front of
him. "Gonna have to get another bed in here for him. We're full."

	Waters asked, "What's their names?" nodding toward the three teens
sitting on a bed playing cards.

	The fat man took a clipboard off the wall and ran his thick finger
down the list. "A, Quevedo, Cuevas, and, a, either Garcia or Leiva, or, a,
yeah, I think he's Leiva."

	Waters called out, "You boys, come here, please." The `please
dripped of sarcasm.

	One of the three looked up. The other two continued with their
game. The one who'd responded said with a nasty grin, "They don't speaka da
Ingles."

	The fat man got up from his chair and stepped into the office
doorway. "Get your asses over here you three or you'll spend the weekend in
lockup."

	The one who'd answered and another got up smiling and poking each
other. The third gathered up the cards slowly.

	"Yeah," growled the fat man, "Now I remember, that's Leiva. I'm
gonna put his macho ass in the hole."

	The two walked slowly to the front, both eyeing Steve with disdain.

	"Come with me," ordered the fat man. "You too, kid."

	The four of them went out of the dormitory and up another flight of
stairs. Steve tried to stay close to the fat man and away from the
teens. Fear was building in him. He knew he'd be in the same room with them
and many more like them for several days. The next day was Friday. Then
came the weekend. He debated asking Hollings, the only white man he'd seen
there so far, for some kind of protection.

      In a large closet, they pulled out a folding bed with a thin
mattress. The fat man indicated Steve should take one corner. The moment he
did, the other two dropped theirs. The bed fell against Steve, knocking him
to the floor. The Latinos laughed.

      The teens picked up the bed between them and carried it down and into
the dormitory without Steve's help. By then, Steve was trembling. He'd
never been around people like this. There were always bullies in his school
but there'd just been a few and he'd been able to avoid them. He was afraid
his entire dormitory would be made up of dangerous delinquents like these.

      When they got back to the dormitory, he asked Waters in a near
whisper, "Can't I stay someplace else?"

      "Oh, don't worry about them. They're just razzing you a little `cause
you're new. They won't do nothing." He leaned over to him and said in his
ear, "Sergeant O'Malley says you'll be fine here."

      There was no doubting the meaning of that. This was a punishment for
not telling the detectives what they wanted to hear, not ratting out his
foster father. Steve shuddered as he tried to stand straighter. He wasn't
going to give in. They'd never make him talk.

      His bed was placed at the far end of the dormitory against the wall
between the two side rows of bunks, well away from the protection of the
fat man, if he was willing to provide any.

      Shortly after he'd made up his bed, there were adolescent voices in
the hallway. The gate was opened and in walked a group of teens, mostly
black. There were no white boys at all. Steve lay down, trying to be as
invisible as he could. Two black boys walked up to his bed and looked down
at him.

      "Cute little white motherfucker, ain't he?" one said to the other.

      "What you doin' here, little white boy? You kill somebody?"

      Steve took a breath and answered stonefaced as he could, "Yeah,
three."

	"You lyin'. Who you kill, yo mama an' baby brothers?" asked the
first.

	Steve shook his head and kept quiet.

	"You better watch out, Jer, mebbe he did. You ain't gonna kill us,
are ya?"

	Steve wasn't sure how far to go with his little game but replied,
"Not today."

	Jer laughed. "Then you okay, white boy."

	Less than an hour later, Steve's name was called out as Steven
Mulrooney. Mr. Waters stood in the gateway. He took Steve back to the first
floor and into a room with `Infirmary' on a sign outside. A doctor waved
him to a chair beside his desk. A nurse was putting stainless steel
utensils on a cloth covered table in the next room.

      "I'm Dr. Goodman. You're here for a physical exam." He read out of a
file for a few moments then said, "Okay, take your clothes off and put them
on the chair. Then let's weigh you."

      Steve took off all but his briefs.

      "Those too," he said pointing at the briefs.

      "But there's a woman in there."

      "Hmmph. Don't worry. She's seen plenty of what you've got there. Take
`em off."

      "Do what the doc says, boy," ordered Waters from behind.

      Steve obeyed but again covered his privates with his hands.

      The doctor led him to the scale. ""Ninety-one pounds. Okay, stand
straight."

      Steve straightened up but kept himself covered.

      Waters said harshly, "Christ, get your hands away from there and
stand up."

      Steve let his hands drift slowly to his sides. "Fifty-two inches,"
called out the doctor, then said, "okay, in here."

      Steve stepped off the scale and noticed the nurse by the door into
the next room with a clipboard in her hand. He quickly covered up again.

      The doctor ordered Steve to get up on an examination table.

	Steve stepped on a low stand and sat on the table. The doctor told
him to open his mouth. After a quick look around inside, he took a
thermometer out of a glass tube and stuck it under his tongue. "Close your
mouth until I tell you."

	He checked Steve's blood pressure and reflexes in his knees, elbows
and one wrist. He ran a stethoscope over his chest and back, requesting
occasional deep breaths through the nose. The doc nodded to the nurse who
pulled the thermometer out and checked it.

	"Lie down." The medic poked around Steve's stomach and looked at
his groin.

	Steve watched to see if the nurse was looking at his middle. She
was.

	"Turn over."

	Steve turned over. He felt the man's hands open his ass cheeks.

	"Now don't move. This won't hurt. Just lay still."

	Something cold and damp pressed against his rectum and was shoved
slowly inside. Steve tried to turn and see what they were doing but Water
pushed his both his shoulders back down.

	"The doc said hold still so hold still."

	The thing inside him stopped and did something then went further
inside and did it again, and again. It was pulled quickly out. He relaxed
but worried why they had done what they did. But it wasn't over. Something
else, larger was pushed just inside his hole. This time, it hurt.

	"Ow! That hurts," he complained. But, again, Waters was there to
hold him down.

	The thing seemed to move around for a few seconds then was
withdrawn.

	"That's all. Here's some tissue. Wipe yourself off."

	Steve was handed two Kleenex. The nurse was putting a stainless
steel tube inside another similar tube. Before he could get a better look,
Steve was nudged toward the outer room. Waters told him to get
dressed. Minutes later, he was back in the dormitory feeling violated and
afraid the testing they'd done could somehow could tell Walter had been
inside him.

	Dinner was in a large room with stainless steel tables and benches
bolted to the floor. The boys passed in single file with stainless steel
trays along a cafeteria line where food was splashed down into the various
divisions. It wasn't bad: burgers in gravy, mashed potatoes and
succotash. Each inmate was allowed two half pint cartons of milk.

	Steve sat with Jer and his friend who laughed at him when he joined
them but ignored him thereafter.

	Back in the dormitory, a television was turned on. The blacks were
allowed to choose programming from seven to eight, the Latinos eight to
nine, then it want back to the blacks nine to ten when lights were turned
off and all were supposed to be in their bunks.

	Steve spent the entire evening on his bed trying not to cry. He had
the same worry as Walter, that he'd never see his foster father again. The
police had been brutal when he'd tried to call out to him. O'Malley's
partner had jammed him back into his chair. "Shut the fuck up kid or I'll
stick you in the basement with the cockroaches and a coupla guys we got
locked up down there who like to mess over smartass little faggots like
you."

	His concern over being hurt by others in his dormitory had
diminished by the time the lights were turned off. No one had spoken to him
since the initial exchange with Jer and his buddy. For a while, he heard
low voices and the occasional chuckle but it wasn't long before the air was
filled with the sound of heavy breathing. One boy started snoring. The fat
man had left and another black man had taken over. He seemed friendly
enough with the few boys who went to speak to him, even laughing with them
and patting a couple on the back. He did a bed check with his clip board
shortly after lights out then retired to the office where he put on a
headset and listed to music which had him tapping the desk with his finger
tips and hands. He hadn't said a word to Steve.

	There was a bathroom off the short hallway between the two gates
into the dormitory. Every once in a while, a boy would tap on the office
window and the man would get up and let them in there, but never more than
one at a time.

	An hour or so after lights out, Steve, unable to sleep, noticed one
of the black boys three beds below his, crawl across the space between the
rows of bunks to a bed on the far side. The boy on the bunk there slipped
over the side and joined him on the floor. He couldn't tell if he'd been
black or Latino. He saw the one look up over the side of the beds toward
the office while he was apparently pushing down his shorts. A few minutes
later, he heard a soft smack smacking sound from that direction. It went on
for perhaps five minutes then stopped. Moments later, the black boy crawled
back across to his bunk and climbed in. The other boy stayed on the floor
for a while then he too returned to his bed.

	There was no doubt in Steve's mind what had occurred. He hoped the
act had been consensual. He'd heard stories in school about jailhouse rapes
of younger white prisoners and began to fear he might be a victim, perhaps
even that night.

	He slept in fits and starts but never for long. When the lights
were turned on in the morning, he was wide awake but grateful he hadn't
been touched during the night.

	About two hours after a breakfast of grainy scrambled eggs in hot
water, greasy sausages and hardened toast, he was called to the gate and
taken downstairs to a room where two men waited for him. One was a tall
black man who introduced himself as a Bureau of Child Services agent named
Mr. Wooten. The other was Dr. Perlman, the psychologist who'd done the
testing at the school, a man he wanted nothing to do with.

	Mr. Wooten smiled and said, "Steven, I'm really sorry you were sent
here. I working hard to get you some place better but I don't think it can
be before early next week. I'll try to get you out of here by Tuesday but
I'm gonna need your help to do that.

	"Steven, I know you don't want to talk about it but we need you to
tell us what Walter Stuyvesant was doing to you. There's nothing for you to
be ashamed of. This kind of thing happens to lots of boys and they all have
the same worries you're having. Just know that you are completely safe from
him now so there's really nothing to be worried about. We just need to know
a few things about what was going on like when he first started doing
sexual things with you and what kinds of things he did, that's all. He..."

	"Walter didn't do anything sexual with me, ever." said Steve
calmly. "And my name's Steve, not Steven."

	"I'm sorry, Steve. Look, son, we know he did so there's no need
trying to hide anything from us. The police on this case aren't going to
want to let you out of here into another foster home until they're sure
you're going to cooperate. You see, they're afraid you're going to try to
run away. I don't think you're gonna do anything like that but the police
are in charge right now. And, they've got Stuyvesant under control. He
can't get to you, won't even know where you are. So, come on, relax, get
this thing off your back. Talk to us and you'll feel a lot better. If what
he's done bothers you a lot, we can get you some help. There are doctors,
specialists in what's happened to you who understand what you're going
through and can help you get it out of your mind so you can get on with a
normal, happy life."

	He leaned forward and looked into Steven's face. "Come on, let it
out. You'll feel a lot better afterwards."

	Steve, again fury in his gut, was having a difficult time
controlling himself. "You people are really stupid! Walter never did
anything sexual to me. Anybody says he did," he nodded toward the
psychologist, "is just a stupid asshole. Neither of us did anything wrong
so how come we're locked up?"

	"Steven, I mean Steve, this is just a temporary place..."

	"It's a jail! What crime did I commit for me to be in jail? Tell me
that? You're the ones who oughta be in jail!"

	"Calm down. We didn't put you in here."

	"Bullshit! That lying, says he's a psychologist, he did!" He
stepped back and stared at Perlman."

	"Now, Steven," started Perlman.

	Wooten stopped him. All right. That's enough. This kind of behavior
is why you're here."

	"Yeah, it's a crime to get pissed at some asshole who locked
somebody up for nothing." The look he was giving Perlman made the man stand
straighter and back off.

	"That's all. We can talk next week when you've calmed down. But you
better start thinking about what's best for you." Wooten seemed to have
something else to say but didn't. Instead, he opened the door and called
for Mr. Washington who was waiting out in the hall.

	Steve kept his eyes hard on the psychologist. The man stepped back
against the wall when Washington came in and took Steve by the arm. Steve
jerked his arm loose and walked out.

	On the way back up, Washington said, "You're the stupid asshole,
not them. Just tell `em what they want and you're outta here. They gonna
keep you in `til you do. Shit, you probly coulda got out today."

 	Jer's buddy who Steve figured out was named Douglas wanted to know
what had happened. He knew a white man and a black man had taken him into
an interview room.

	"Nothing."

	"So what they wanna know?"

	"Some stuff about this man but I told them they were crazy. Nobody
did anything." Steve didn't want to be seen as a snitch. He knew from
television and stories at school what happened to snitches.

	"You sure? You was in there a long time."

	"They just kept asking me and saying I could get out of here if I
talked but I didn't so here I am."

      Jer held out his hand for a slap. Steve was slow to realize what he
wanted but belatedly delivered.

      Jer gave him a comic book to read.


	Late that afternoon, Wooten returned alone and had Steve brought
down again.

	"You feeling better now?"

	"Of course not. I'm locked up for nothing."

	"Look, Steve, the police have an eye witness and who knows what
else. They're gonna put Stuyvesant into prison for a long time. Maybe he
was nice to you in some ways but the sex was very bad for you and he knew
it, and you know it too. I think part of why you don't want to talk about
it is because you're embarrassed but, believe me, you'll feel a whole lot
better just letting it out, get it off you chest."

      Steve shook his head and spoke between his teeth. "There is nothing
to let out except what you're doing to us. We didn't do anything wrong. We
didn't have any sex. He doesn't even like sex."

	"Oh, come on. Everybody likes sex."

	"See, that's what I mean. You people don't know anything. Walter
won't even talk about sex. He says I'll learn all about it in school. I
think he's afraid if he talks about sex to me you people will do what
you're doing" Walter hadn't taught him that. It was all his own. He thought
that was a clever thing to say.

	"Steven, I mean Steve," said the social worker, "They have a
witness who saw you having sex with him. I can't tell you any more than
that right now but you just have to realize that we know it was going on so
there's no reason trying to deny it. And everything will go much easier for
you if you will just tell us what we are asking for."

	Shaking his head, Steve tried to figure out how someone could have
seen them. Every time they'd had sex it had been in a closed bedroom or
bathroom and usually at night with the lights out. There was the scary
possibility that the police had used heat technology to see what they were
doing. Was that possible? Still, he had to continue his denials. If they
didn't really know or their witness was lying, he'd eventually win out and
maybe get back with his foster father. If they did actually know, it didn't
really matter. The result would be the same: complete separation from the
man he loved more than anything in the world, more than life itself. He
might have to suffer for a while but, in the end, they really couldn't do
any more to Walter and, since he was just twelve, there wasn't a lot they
could do to him. He said nothing.

	Mr. Wooten sat back in his chair and stared at Steve. "You're
making it very difficult for me to help you, son."

	Steve snapped back, "You're a social worker. You're supposed to
help me. I didn't do any crime. You've got to get me out of here. And don't
call me son!"

	"Sorry but getting you out of here is going to take a lot longer if
you don't tell the police what Walter was doing to you."

	Wooten tried appealing to his morality, his intellect, even his
concern for Walter but Steve held in the insults and said nothing the rest
of his time with the man. Again, he was sent back to the dormitory.







      Chapter 12


      Thursday night, Walter had deliberately not turned on his television
worried he'd have to listen to strangers airing his dirty laundry for the
entire metro area to hear. Tom Garretson called at eight.

      "Did you watch the news?"

      "No. Was I, you know?"

      "Sorry. They're leaches. It was bad. They had your mug shot. We can
only hope your customers, or, at least not too many, saw it. It'll probably
be in tomorrow's papers too. You've gotta be careful for a while. There are
crazies who pick up on stories like this and do stupid things. I'll come by
tomorrow night if you want. We can go somewhere for dinner.

      "For what it's worth,' added the policeman, "my wife doesn't believe
any of it. Nobody who really knows you two should."

      They talked for a while. Walter asked again if he'd heard anything
about Steve.

      "Walter, please try to stop worrying about him. Okay, that's stupid
of me to ask but they've got him buried somewhere in some home or who knows
where. He'll be very unhappy but safe, so don't worry."

      First thing in the morning, Walter went to the bail bondsman's office
where he wrote a check and used two of his credit cards to put together the
ten thousand dollars he owed. It was nearly as frightening as the charges
against him. He'd never put out more than a quarter of that amount at one
time.

      From there, he went to his broker's office to see what could be
amassed from his investments to pay a lawyer. He knew this was going to
break him but was prepared to spend everything he had to end the disaster
which had befallen him and begin the quest for his foster son. He was
completely unwilling to accept the idea that they'd never be together
again.

      Walter was aware that his stocks had lost a great amount of their
value over the previous few years but wasn't ready for the terrible news
his broker gave him after calculating current value and the cost of selling
his portfolio quickly.

      "If you try to sell everything, say, over the next week, you're going
to end up with less than forty thousand dollars."

      Walter was stunned. "Wait, I thought you said something about
twenty-five to thirty percent. This is fifty."

      "That was an average a couple of years ago. Plus, selling quickly
like this has its costs. I know you've got problems, Mr. Stuyvesant. I saw
the news last night, and, believe me, I'm not trying to take advantage. I
make more money if we get a higher price. Can't you do this over a longer
time like a couple of months?"

      "How much more would I get if I did it that way?"

      "Oh, maybe as much as another eight or ten thousand."

      Walter agreed to wait until his meeting with the lawyer the following
week to see how much he'd really need and how long he had to put it
together.

      "But, if you can begin selling some at a decent price, do it."

      The Daily News and Post both carried the story complete with the same
police mug shot the TV news teams had acquired. `Foster Dad Charged With
Child Sex Abuse' said one. Walter appreciated the New York Times more than
ever. They didn't mention it.

      There was one positive note that Friday. A second floor neighbor came
by and told him she didn't believe any of it and was ashamed of the press
corps for printing his likeness before they knew the whole story.

      Walter told a reporter who called that Mr. Stuyvesant was staying
with relatives out of the area. When another knocked on the door, the super
told him Walter was `away'. However, he didn't speak with Walter when he
left that evening to eat out.

                                    -------------------------------------------

      Friday night, Steve didn't see any clandestine sex and managed to get
more sleep. Saturday afternoon, a cartoon movie was played over the
television. It was a break from the boredom of losing at checkers with Jer
and Douglas and reading comics and stories from old grade school English
textbooks.

      Sunday morning, religious services were announced, Catholic and
Baptist. Steve declined both even though Douglas suggested he'd get
something to read and maybe some sweets or special food if he went. He
shared his foster father's disdain for religious leaders. It was from
learning and thinking about them that he came across the word `charlatan'.

      All day, boys were called out for visits. Steve was sure there'd be
no one coming to see him but listened carefully each time names were
announced. He had some hope Lieutenant Garretson would come. But, by dinner
time, he was feeling completely abandoned. The only person in the world who
truly cared about him was Walter Stuyvesant.

      About an hour after lights out that night, a black boy came to his
bunk on his hands and knees.

      "Hey white boy, come over here. We wanna talk to you."

      "Tomorrow, I'm tired," answered Steve sure that sexual services were
what the boy had in mind. He looked toward Jer's and Douglas's bunks but
they were apparently sound asleep.

      "Look, we know why you're here but it's just us an' we ain't gonna
tell nobody else long as you come over here for a while."

      Steve had worried his situation would be carried on the news but was
sure they couldn't publish his name. And since supposed victims didn't
usually get locked up, it didn't make sense anyone would connect him with
the story.

      "That's bullshit. Go away."

      "Look, motherfucker, you was having sex with that man was your foster
father. So, you see, we knows so just get your ass over here so we can have
some too. Ain' nobody else gonna know and we ain't gonna let nobody else
touch you."

      Steve felt a shudder run through his body. He considered jumping over
to Jer's bunk and asking for help but wasn't sure it would be forthcoming
when the other boy told him what he knew. The night man was in the office
with his headphones and a newspaper. Steve didn't think he'd make it there
before being tackled and knocked to the floor. But, he figured if he
refused that night, he might be able to get some protection the next day
from the fat man who was supposed to be back on duty.

      "That's bullshit. I'm not here for anything like that. Go away."

       "Look, you dumb motherfucker, it can just be two a us or twenty and
every night. Shit, you had that white man's dick up your ass enough. We
ain't no bigger`n him. So, get your motherfucking ass down here."

      Steve didn't think these delinquents would be anywhere near as gentle
about it as his dad had been. Worse, if the adults there were to find out,
they'd use it as proof he'd been having sex with Walter. He had to continue
to refuse and hope they wouldn't resort to force at that time. He'd ask for
protection first thing in the morning.

      "Nobody's ever fucked me and nobody ever will. Just leave me
alone. You don't know anything about me."

      "Then, your fucking ass is mine, white boy. You gonna do it,
motherfucker. You gonna do it but you gonna suck my black dick first." He
crawled away and stopped at the bunk of another teen. They huddled for a
moment then the crawler scrambled back to his own bunk.

      Steve hardly slept a wink the rest of the night.


      		-------------------------------------------


      The New York State Assistant Attorney General, State Senator Francis
Albright and New York City Councilman Harold Turtan met after dark that
Friday night in a small park two blocks from the United Nations.

	"So what's the problem, Harold?"

	"It's not so much a problem as an opportunity. Our dear Katherine
has offered to give up her book early in exchange for the head of that guy
who was her kid's foster father, the one Willy tried to kill. You know the
asshole's been charged with sexually abusing the kid?"

	"No shit! When did this happen?"

	"Yesterday, I think. The bitch will give up the book when this guy
goes away."

	"How strong are the charges?"

	"They aren't. Right now, she's their only witness and she's lying
through her teeth. Now, if the guy was actually diddling her kid, and
considering he's not married and never had a girl friend, at least as far
as we know, he might've been, maybe the kid'll be a witness against him. So
far, the kid's saying nothing ever happened but who knows."

	"Where's the kid now?"

	"Juvie detention center."

	Albright chuckled. "Who the hell arranged that?"

	"Remember Sergeant O'Malley? He's the one who jammed up Bert
Silasky when he was fucking that fifteen year old whore back in
ninety-seven. Took him down hard. Dealt him out of his union and out of the
state. And we didn't owe O'Malley a thing. He did it on his own. Hates
pedophiles. He's probably figuring a couple of days with those hard
cases'll have the kid saying anything O'Malley puts in his mouth"

	"So whatta you think? This guy do the kid or not?"

	"Personally, I don't give a shit. If I've gotta choose between him
and that book, it's a no brainer. Anyhow, with a charge like that, doesn't
matter whether he's found guilty or innocent. His life is over. Nobody's
gonna hire him. So he can eat of trash bins and sleep under newspapers or
get three squares and a warm bed in the joint. And we can make sure he gets
someplace decent and a cushy job away from the gang bangers."

	"Case been assigned yet?" asked the congressman.

	"Nope. Karen Savage is the prosecutor. She thinks they might get
the guy to plea but, from what I hear, that's not likely."

      "What about Katherine? She straight?"

	"Not hardly. That's something else needs to be taken care of. She's
gonna need some coaching and portion control on her crack but Savage can
take care of that, with a little help.

	"Oh, there is another thing. Seems Stuyvesant has a cop lieutenant
friend in Brooklyn. Same one was involved back in ninety-four. He..."

	"Harold, you can take care of that. Does this guy have a lawyer?"

	"Looks like Everett Bradley. One of his people handled the bail
hearing but I don't know if Stuyvesant has the kind of money Bradley's
gonna ask for. At least, I hope not. Bradley'll have Katherine for dinner."

	"Then what we need is for the kid to `fess up."

	"Well, if O'Malley's juvie detention thing doesn't work, I've got
another idea that'll keep the kid on ice for a month and oughta produce
something we can use but I'll need a judge to make it work."


      		-------------------------------------------


      In the morning, Steve, still frightened by the event of the night
before, went to the fat man and requested to see Mr. Hollings.

      "He don't come in `til about nine but I don't know if he's gonna have
time. What you want?"

      Steve wasn't sure the fat man would do anything other than tell the
boys to leave him alone, an act that would put him in even greater
danger. But he was sure the misleading message he wanted to send would
motivate Mr. Hollings to see him.

      "Tell him I have something to tell him."

      At breakfast, the boy who'd gone to his bunk the night before pushed
in behind him in the chow line and stepped on his baggy pants leg, knocking
him down. Steve's food went flying over the floor ahead of him. Everyone
nearby laughed. The boy who'd done it walked by grinning.

      Worried Hollings might not see him, Steve debated telling the fat man
what had happened but decided to put it off until after lunch. If Hollings
hadn't come back by then, there wouldn't be much choice.

      Shortly before midday, he was called out and taken down to an
interview room. Mr. Wooten was back again, this time with Sergeant
O'Malley.

      "So, how you like it here, boy?" asked the policeman.

      Steve didn't answer.

      "C'mon, tell me what that pervert did to you and I'll take you out of
here this morning."

      "Walter never did any sex with me."

      "You sure that's what you wanna tell me?"

      "Yes"

      "Your call, boy. Let me know when you change your mind." He got up
and went to the door then paused and looked back with raised eyebrows.

      Steve averted his eyes toward the far wall.

      The sergeant left, closing the door a bit harder than necessary.

      Mr. Wooten said softly, "Steven, why won't you tell them the truth?
It seems like they know a lot more than you think they do."

      "Steve, I'm Steve and there's nothing to know. Walter didn't do
anything wrong with me." Steve choked up as he finished. "All he did was be
a good father." Tears flowed. There was no way to stop them.

      Mr. Wooten got up and walked behind Steve. He pressed his hands
gently over the boy's shoulders for a few moments then said, "At least
you're going to a better place. Not a whole lot better but safer."

      "I wanna go home with my father. Why can't I do that? He didn't do
anything wrong and neither did I. Why can't you leave us alone."

      Wooten squatted by the chair and looked up at Steve. "We know Walter
did do some things with you that he shouldn't have. We know he did. I'm not
allowed to tell you any more than that. We're doing this because what he
did is very bad for you and he knows it. I don't know what he told you but
whatever it was, it's not so. I know the police are kinda hard on you but
that's their job, to stop people like Walter from hurting kids like
you. It's my job too.

      "Now, I'd like to put you into a better foster home but I can't yet
but I am getting you out of here. You're going to a hospital where they're
going to do a thirty day evaluation to see how we can best help you. Then,
I promise, I'll put you in a nice place where you can live like a normal
kid with friends and school. So, come on, let's get your stuff and get you
out of here."

      They went to the processing room where Steve signed for his things
and changed back into his own clothing. The man from processing took Steve
by the arm outside to a van with a caged in passenger section. Wooten got
in the back with him.

      They drove to a downtown building where another boy about fourteen
joined them. He sat all the way in the back and didn't say a word during
the entire hour long trip.

      The sign said Trimble Psychiatric Hospital. So now they think I'm
crazy, thought Steve. Fortunately, Walter had never related what had
happened at this very institution.

      When Mr. Wooten was about to leave him in the hospital's processing
center, Steve said, "Your witness is a liar."

      The social worker frowned and left.

      Once again, Steve lost his clothes and belongings. This time he was
clothed in underwear and pajamas. The slippers were a bit more comfortable
than the last pair but they were still slippers.

      The ward he was taken to was really a puke green hallway with rooms
on each side. A black woman he was told to address as Nurse Higgins took
him to one of the rooms. Inside were two bunk beds and two tables with
chairs. The table tops and chair seats were covered with carved names,
naked women and gang graffiti. A black haired boy smaller than Steve was
asleep on one of the lower bunks.  The others were empty. He was assigned
the bed above the sleeping boy then taken to the `day' room where there
were about thirty other boys of all races including a small number of white
boys. These, however, were closer to his age than those at the detention
center.

      Two were standing in front of windows looking out. Another with his
arms folded across his chest stood in the middle of the room staring off
into space. A very skinny black boy with a changing voice was seated
against a wall having an animated conversation with himself. Most of the
rest were at tables chatting or playing games with others or watching
television from a group of painted wood chairs placed in front of each of
the two sets. All wore the same pajamas as Steve. He was still locked up
but this time with crazies instead of delinquents, possibly safer, maybe
not. He was sure he'd find out soon enough.

      The nurse seemed less friendly than the fat man.




































      Chapter 13


      At eight thirty Tuesday morning, Walter was in the law office of
Everett Bradley, Attorney At Law. He had bathed and shaved but didn't feel
at all clean, just tired and very unhappy. Other than a few times Steve had
spent with friends, the past several nights had been the first time he
hadn't slept with his foster son in nearly eight years.

      Everett Bradley was reading something in a law book. Without raising
his eyes, he waved Walter to a chair. A few moments later, he looked up and
smiled. "Mr. Stuyvesant, good morning. Let's get down to it. I need to be
in court at nine. Lieutenant Garretson filled me in on the basics but I'd
like to hear it all from you, starting from the beginning."

      "I'm sorry, when they arrested me, or..."

      "No, when you first got involved with this boy."

      Walter took a breath and began with Steve, Sr. entering the
restaurant after he'd been stabbed and ended with what had occurred at the
school.

	"That's pretty much what the lieutenant told me," commented
Bradley. "He thinks you're a pretty good guy. Now, that said, the charges
against you are very serious. I'm going to speak to the prosecutor and find
out what her plans are, see what she's got, find out what she wants. Then
I'll get back to you toward the end of the week and we can discuss our
options and my fee. The bail hearing cost you five hundred dollars. The
rest is going to be a lot more expensive. You've got to be prepared for
that. If you have a credit card with you, I'd appreciate it if you paid the
five hundred with my secretary. She'll be here in a few minutes. I've gotta
go."

	He left before Walter could ask him about how they might be able to
help Steve.

	At home, he called Tom Garretson and filled him in on his visit
with the attorney.

	"This guy's good but he's gonna be expensive. You might be able to
negotiate with him."

      Garretson visited Walter that evening.

      Discussing the lawyer, Walter asked, "Can these people help Steve too
or is that going to be a conflict of some kind?"

      "Look, Walter, I hate to tell you this. I know you don't want to hear
it but you've gotta face reality. Steve was your foster son. Where he
lives, everything about him is under the control of the Bureau of Child
Services. Even if they wanted to, lawyers couldn't do much for him. And,
shit, man, you've got to deal with the fact that you may never see him
again, at least until he's eighteen."

      "Oh my God, Tom. That's wrong. They can't punish us for something we
didn't do. They haven't got a shred of proof we did anything anyone could
consider wrong. You know that."

      "Walter, once this kind of charge is made, you know, it don't matter
if you're found not guilty, Steve is gone. They're not gonna take any
chances. If something came out a year, two years later, it'd be their ass
and they know it. And, believe me, neither you or Steve are as important to
them as their jobs, shit, as one of their staplers."

      Walter sat thinking quietly then said, "You know I'm not going to
give up trying to get him back."

      "Oh, hell, I know that but you've got to, shit, just don't do
anything until you get out from under these charges, please. You go looking
for him now and they'll hang you out to dry and then you won't be able to
do anything for him."

      "What could they possibly charge me with if I do, if I ask
questions?"

      "How about attempted kidnapping? Sound off the wall? Think about
it. You're prohibited from getting near the kid because you, let's say,
might have molested him. They've got power over the kid meaning they can
claim you're trying to snatch him away from them. It'd be bullshit but
you'd be charged anyway and it'd probably come up in court with the charges
they got now. Just don't do it. Be patient. Hang in there. One thing at a
time."

                         ------------------------------------------------


      The hospital regimen was less onerous than where Steve had spent his
first days of imprisonment. Nonetheless, there was no doubt he was a
prisoner. For twenty-two hours of each day, he was locked in Ward B
complex. At night, the day room was locked. The individual room doors had
to be closed but they were not locked so one could go to the bathroom
located behind the glassed in office. The toilets were enclosed but the
rest of the bathroom was visible to the person in the office. There were
two TV sets inside cages on the walls which were tuned to programs geared,
he later learned, to black or Latino tastes. The four white kids had to
watch what those groups chose.  There were games such as checkers, chess,
Parcheesi and Monopoly and tables on which to play them. The nurse in
charge during the day was gruff but didn't bother anyone unless they were
particularly unruly or noisy.

      Inmates, or patients as they were called, were allowed two hours of
daily outdoor recreation in an area enclosed by a fence over three times as
high as Steve was tall and topped with two rows of razor wire. Steve looked
longingly at the grass and trees outside the fence yearning for even a
brief chance to walk freely among them.

      He found himself increasingly angry at his situation. He was the
supposed victim, not the alleged perpetrator. Why was he locked up like a
criminal? Being uncooperative was not a criminal offense. No matter what,
neither he nor Walter had done anything that should have been considered
wrong. The sex they'd had was between them. Steve had wanted it, initiated
it. It felt good and made him feel closer to the man he loved.

      Perhaps his accusers could use a little sex with someone they
loved. Perhaps they were jealous of the wonderful, warm relationship
between him and his dad.

      An hour or so after returning from the yard, showers were
called. Those who wished lined up at the gate. Hot water was something
Steve found to be a brief respite from the misery of being locked up.

      The gang shower was closely supervised by a man who Steve noticed
surreptitiously checking out groins, especially his. Being one of four
white boys and the only blonde, he apparently stood out from the rest. It
made him feel very self conscious. Steve turned his back. When finished, he
got behind others to receive the towel tossed his way and quickly covered
up.

      Others had apparently picked up on the man's interest too but weren't
as self conscious. One black boy and a Latino, both twelve or thirteen and
growing, pulled hard ons and flipped them at the man as they walked out to
the dressing room. Steve thought there might more be going on between them
but couldn't figure out how since everyone seemed to be closely supervised
all the time.

      Each boy was assigned a toothbrush which they were allowed to use
after meals but had to return to the nurse afterwards to be stored in a
double glass door cabinet. She applied the toothpaste to each.

      The boys in his ward displayed everything from loquaciousness to
silent depression. One boy about ten or eleven, walked around speaking to
everyone but not paying any attention to anything they said in return. He
was generally ignored. When he stopped the table where Steve was reading he
said "I'm getting a bicycle when I go home."

      Steve, feeling sorry for the boy, said he had one and they were a lot
of fun. When he was about to ask the boy what kind he wanted, the kid
walked off.

      He only had two roommates, both of whom spoke exclusively in Spanish,
and, other than getting out of his way when he went by, ignored his
presence.

      The bed was more comfortable than the one at the detention center but
Steve's feeling of isolation remained the same. He was to be there a month,
a long time for a twelve year old. He hugged his pillow wishing it was
Walter. He wondered where his father was, in jail as the cop had intimated
or at home on bail, or maybe even free. After all, how could they have any
evidence? It just wasn't possible. He wouldn't be at the hospital were that
the case. Imprisonment surely was a way to force him to talk. If only there
was a way for him to speak to his dad, find out what was going on.

      Steve suddenly sat up. The man in the shower probably had a cell
phone. Most people did. He looked to be the kind of person Walter was
accused of being. Steve would gladly allow him to do whatever he wanted,
even allow himself to be fucked, for a few minutes with his cell
phone. He'd call the apartment first, then failing that, he'd try
Lieutenant Garretson. He'd surely answer and would have information,
possibly a number he could dial for his dad.

      He decided to take all the showers he could and show off what he had
to offer. He'd use his eyes to let the man know he was available. Then, a
terrible thought entered his mind. What if the man was a set up, not
necessarily for him but any kid looking for sex with a man. After all, this
was a psychiatric hospital. He was sure there were other kids in his ward
for sexual situations, possibly even one or more the same as his.

      He developed a more cautious plan. He'd watch boys who seemed to
interest the man, particularly those who seemed to be surreptitiously
communicating with him. That would be a real indicator. Then, he'd keep an
eye out to see when they were called out. If something was going on between
the man and some boys, there had to be a way they could connect out of
sight of the rest of the staff.  He could find a reason to speak to them,
form a friendship of sorts and eventually ask where they were going. If one
had difficulty explaining his time out of the ward, he'd get closer,
gradually bringing up the shower man, finally letting him know that he'd
like to meet the man.

      On his second day after outside recreation, another younger white boy
asked him if he wanted to play Parcheesi. Steve agreed but both sets of the
game were missing pieces. The other boy, who said name was Luke, got some
paper from a trash can and balled up four pieces carefully, three rounded
and one in the form of a triangle. The round pieces matched the single
green one, the pointed, the three red. For dice, he wrote numbers on other
scraps that they pulled from each other's hand. However, minutes after
starting to play, Steve's name was called.

      An orderly accompanied him to a doctor's office on the first floor.

      The man who greeted him was short, stocky and young for a doctor, no
more than thirty. His clean shaven face showed the scars of teenage
acne. His attempted friendly expression couldn't hide the obvious
boredom. "Hello, Steven, My name is Dr. Townsend. We're going to be getting
together from time to time for your evaluation. Do you know what that
means?"

      "Yes, sir."

      "Good. Then we can get started."

      "Sir, why am I here?" There was anger behind Steve's question.

      "Son, I have no idea. All I know is that you are to be given a
complete evaluation that, I assume, will be sent to the court handling your
case."

      "There isn't any court because I haven't been charged with anything
because I haven't done anything. So, why am I here?"

      The doctor opened a file and read. Steve waited hoping to learn who
was behind his mistreatment.

      "A judge sent you here so you are in court. Now, let's..."

      "What judge? I didn't do anything!"

      "Look, son, you're here because you are supposed to be here. For one
thing, you've been lying to the police. That's wrong. So let's just do what
we have to do."

      Steve folded his arms and boiled quietly.

      The test that day was the same multiple choice Dr. Perlman had given
him. Steve tried to mark the same answers he'd done before though, due to
the fury inside him, he broke a pencil point twice.

      When he was done, the doctor asked him if everything was okay in the
dorm, had he made any friends, did he have any questions?

      "When do I get to go home?"

      "I'm sorry but I can't answer that. When you leave here depends on
when we complete your evaluation and what the results are. The rest is up
to the Bureau of Child Services. You were in a foster home, weren't you?"

      Steve suppressed a smart answer. "Yes."

      "Did you have a problem there?"

      That required what had been suppressed. "Like you don't know."

      The doctor acted surprised. "Actually, no I don't. So there was a
problem."

      "No, there was not. Can I go?"

      Dr. Townsend pursed his lips and looked at Steve. "Sure, why not. See
you soon."

      Luke was waiting at the table with the Parcheesi game when Steve
returned to the ward. The pieces were right where they'd left them. When
Steve asked, the boy told him showers had already been called.

      They played two games. Even with a near complete lack of
concentration, Steve won both because the other boy didn't seem interested
in winning, just moving the pieces. He regularly put his pieces in danger
and didn't seem to mind seeing them being sent back to Home.

      "Don't you wanna win?" Steve asked at one point.

      "It's okay, you can win. I just like to play."

      "How long you been here?"

      "I dunno."

      "I mean, like a month or two?"

      "Longer than that. I used to be upstairs but they brought me down
here."

      "How come?"

      "I think it was because I bit some kid."

      Steve was taken aback. This little boy seemed much too mild to have
bitten anyone.  "Why, I mean, what happened."

      Luke pursed his lips, appeared to think about an answer then said,
"Nothin'."

      "You bit him for nothing?"

      "He was makin' me do something I didn't like."

      Steve immediately thought it might have been something sexual so
dropped it.

      Luke asked that they play a third game. Steve suggested they play
something else.

      "I only play Parcheesi," said Luke calmly.

      Steve figured why. "'Cause you only have to move pieces?"

      "Mmm hmm."

      They played another game during which Steve asked, "Do you ever read
books or comics?"

      "Nah, I don' like to read."

	"Do you know how?"

	"I just don't like to read."

	Steve was beginning to feel sorry for the lad. "Want me to read to
you?"

	Luke looked at Steve as though he'd offered to brush his hair. "How
come?"

	"I like to read so when I'm reading for myself, I can read out loud
and you can hear what I'm reading."

	"Like what?"

	"I saw `Robinson Crusoe' on the shelf over there. We can read
that."

	"Just you," insisted Luke.

	Since all the tables were occupied, they sat against a wall. Steve
began to read it aloud. Within moments, several other boys crowded
around. Steve thought it was strange that so many wanted to hear him
read. There was even one small boy who, from what he'd observed, didn't
speak English.

	Steve read right up until dinner time. The nurse gave him a stern
look as he filed out with the others.

      He and Luke ate together. Steve asked him as they finished a vanilla
pudding desert. "Why did they put you in here?"

      "I dunno. I was in this other place then they sent me here."

      "A home or something?"

      "Yeah, kinda like this but you could go outside more. But I was
always getting in trouble over there."

      "How come?" asked Steve.

      "They said I was always bothering somebody, something like that. And
sometimes I broke things. But I don't do that here."

      "How come you never learned to read?"

      "I can read. I just don' like to."

      Luke was becoming a mystery. Steve realized he hadn't truly answered
one question about himself. Then Steve didn't plan to tell anyone very much
about himself either.

      Minutes after returning from the cafeteria, a black boy about
thirteen, the tallest in the ward, went up to Steve and asked if he was
going to read any more. "In the morning, maybe," replied Steve.

      Luke wanted to watch television as did most of the others in the
evening. Steve went to his room to lie down. He'd suddenly felt very lonely
for his foster father. Tears pushed at the corners of his eyes. He put his
face in his pillow and eventually fell asleep.

      In the morning, Steve watched a line of kids cue up for medicine,
pills given out in small white paper cups. Each boy had to take his pills
immediately with cups of water handed out by the nurse. Luke was in the
line. He tilted back his cup of pills and drank them down almost in one
motion.

      Steve asked him what his medication was for.

      "So I don't get in trouble," was his answer followed immediately by a
request that they play Parcheesi.

      That afternoon, Steve joined the shower line. The same man was there
to watch them, and watch he did. Once again, he showed an interest in the
only blonde in the room. Steve showered near the door, but, worried about a
set up, acted like he was ignoring the man. He paid more attention to the
rest, hoping to catch a look, nod, wink, anything to indicate
communication. Either he missed it or there was none.

      The man did raise his eyebrows at Steve as he left wrapped in his
towel.

      The roommate who slept below him finally asked in broken English,
"What you name?"

      "Steve, what's yours?"

      "Severino." He nodded and walked off, ending the brief
communication. He did, however, join the group listening to Steve read.

      There were no more tests until Thursday after lunch. Dr. Townsend had
a set of crayons and a stack of paper on the table. Steve was asked to draw
again as he'd been by Dr. Perlman back at his school. There were no
questions afterward.

      He was back in time for showers which went as the day before,
including the raised eyebrow as Steve walked past, this time with his towel
over his shoulder.


                                _______________________________________



      Walter's next meeting with the lawyer was late Friday
afternoon. Everett Bradley's smile was forced.

	"Here's the situation," he began. "Steven's mother says she saw you
abusing her son when he was three and four. They're taking that and quite a
bit of really weak circumstantial evidence to a grand jury where they will
get an indictment. At that point, depending on what the boy is saying, they
will offer you a plea agreement."

	Walter stopped him. "I can absolutely assure you, Steve's mother
never saw anything of the kind. Jesus! You have no idea how hung up I was
at the time. I did everything I could to avoid seeing Steve naked, even in
the bath. I taught him early on how to bathe himself but he wanted me to do
it. As soon as he was five, I made him bathe himself. That's the extent of
me around him naked and she was never around us when he was
bathing. Actually, she was hardly around us at all. My God! As I remember
it, whenever I was picking him up, she'd be out the door the minute I came
in and when I dropped him off, she'd take him inside and close the
door. The only time we were together for more than a couple of minutes was
the time I insisted she sign an authorization paper allowing Steve to be
with me, and so I could arrange medical care if some emergency
arose. Mr. Bradley, she didn't want the boy. That last time she left him
with me, before the time she kidnapped him, she gave me a phony telephone
number."

	Walter spoke again. "Wait a minute, she only saw me with him once
when he was four. That was when she left him and never came back. She's
obviously lying."

	The lawyer twiddled his pencil over the yellow legal pad he'd drawn
out of his leather attaché case. "So you're going to deny all charges?"

	"Absolutely."

	"Would you take a lie detector test if I could arrange one?"

	Walter thought about that. "No, I don't trust those things. Anyhow,
aren't they suspect now? I thought that type of evidence was no longer
admissible in court."

	"It's not considered definitive any more but most judges will admit
it. It's an indicator. I could arrange our own person to administer one,
someone who'd be on our side, so to speak, in that they wouldn't be looking
for lies where they're weren't any but then, the prosecution would probably
want their person to give you a test too."

	"No, then. I don't think so."

	"Do you know why the people at Steven's school..."

	"His name is Steve."

	"Sorry, Steve's school. Why they'd think there was sexual abuse
going on?"

	"Steve says they claim some kids in his class said he acted as
though he was worried about something but I find that hard to
believe. Steve is a very happy, secure boy. He does very well in school,
has plenty of friends, no enemies that I know of. He goes to his friend's
houses often, plays with them there and on a playground near us. They come
to our house sometimes to play with Steve's computer. He had a slump a
couple of years ago because of some jerks in his class making remarks about
his lack of athletic ability but he got over that. I haven't heard anything
about problems since then. I can't imagine why those people are doing
this. He's probably one of the most stable kids in the school."

	"Have you ever had any problems with the law in the past?
Anything?"

	"Nothing."

	"Has anyone ever accused you of any sexual improprieties with
Steve, or any other child? Now think."

	"Never, at least not that I've heard about and I assume I would
have eventually."

	The attorney laid out Walter's alternatives. "We can go to trial
but that's going to be expensive. I'd have to charge you at least fifty
thousand dollars for that. As it is I'm going to ask for a retainer of
twenty thousand. This kind of case requires a lot of time, negotiations,
probably investigations.

	Once again, Walter was stunned by the huge numbers. After paying
off is credit card debt from paying the bondsman, he would be nearly twenty
thousand short of what the man was asking.

	"Mr. Bradley, I don't have that kind of money. I could pay the
retainer within a few weeks but the rest would be very difficult especially
under the circumstances. Can't you find a way to reduce your fee
somewhat. I've done nothing wrong.  These people have got to know that."

	"Mr. Stuyvesant, if you think the prosecutor is bluffing or
anything like that, you are very mistaken. She believes she has a very
strong case. The only way I could reduce my fee is if you wanted to work
out a plea bargain and not go to trial."

	"I am never going to admit guilt for something I didn't do."

	"Then you are going to need a less expensive attorney. Why don't
you go home and think about it. See if you can find some help in paying my
fee. You are going to need very good representation if you want to fight
this."









































Chapter 14


	During his first week in the psychiatric hospital's evaluation
ward, Steve managed to make friends with several other boys, or better to
say, they made friends with him. His daily reading to Luke drew a
crowd. About a dozen of the nearly forty inmates crowded around to hear a
chapter a day of Robinson Crusoe's adventures. Other than that, Luke's only
interest was playing Parcheesi or watching television, He did spend a fair
amount of time looking out the window but so did quite a few others.

	Friday night, Luke hung himself with a sheet tied to the screen
over the window by his bed. He chose the most propitious time: two hours
after lights out when just about everyone was sound asleep and the night
nurse was snoozing in her chair. He'd been very deliberate. Being a light
child, using the form fit sheet from the mattress, he tied a stack of books
together between his legs to add sufficient weight to ensure success.

	No one noticed until one of the other boys in his room got up to go
to the bathroom around five in the morning, noticed Luke, and notified the
night nurse. She'd tried unsuccessfully to untie the knotted sheet and
rushed out to get an orderly. The noise in the next room aroused Steve who,
along with a few others, went into the hallway to see what was going
on. The light was on in Luke's room. The boys on the top bunks were sitting
and looking toward Luke as though he was speaking to them. It took Steve a
few seconds to realize what had happened. Luke's bare toes were only inches
off the floor giving the impression that perhaps he was standing on
something. When Steve realized his friend was suspended by his neck, he
dashed in to lift him up. When he wrapped his arms around him, he felt the
coolness of Luke's middle. Another boy joined him. An orderly shoved his
way into the room and said, "Let me have him."

	Steve looked at Luke's face as he backed off. He seemed so calm,
like he was asleep. Steve knew he was dead.

	The body was removed quickly. Everyone was ordered back to bed. The
lights were turned off. Steve began to hear voices and vaguely remembered
hearing a boy say, "He dead" about the time he'd tried to lift Luke
up. Nausea roiled in Steve's middle. He tried to get up but couldn't get
any of his limbs to function. A small voice cried quietly below him. What
had happened? Why had it happened?

      	Steve had never known anyone who subsequently died except his
father of whom he had scant recollections. Walter had displaced most of
those few memories of Steve Mulrooney, Sr. except for a particular coming
home hug punctuated with a donut they shared. But, in this situation, he
had spoken with Luke just the afternoon before, a few hours before the boy
had taken his own life. Suddenly, Steve's life seemed more fragile, even
less secure than it had when he was in the juvenile lock up. Breathing
became a chore. He felt like he needed to cry but there were no tears, just
a rumbling terror in his gut of everything around him. As he lay grieving
on his bed, Steve worried he was headed in the same direction as his
illiterate friend.

	The hall lights came back on shortly with the rising sun. Several
police officers, some in uniform, others in street clothes, converged on
Luke's room. The nurse and two orderlies hustled boys back into their rooms
when they tried to see what was going on. According to Luke's roommates,
the policemen took photos, dusted for fingerprints, made drawings. Then
they went room to room, questioning everyone. Most claimed to have been
asleep so knew nothing, Steve followed that lead. He had no desire to
describe what he'd seen.

	Breakfast was served in the day room. Not much was eaten. Steve
didn't leave his bed.

      The police didn't leave until after eleven.

      By the afternoon, other than the occasional discussion of Luke's
demise, everything went back to normal as if nothing had happened. The
staff's callousness was matched by most of the kids. There was the same
chatter at lunch, the same rough housing during recreation. A few were more
subdued, all but one white. A single black boy about ten sat across from
Luke's room and stared inside. The nurse took him into the day room twice
but, each time, the boy went back moments later. Steve considered
commiserating with him but had no idea what to say.

      That same boy went to shower at four then just stood under the water
playing with his dick rather than washing. There was a different man on who
seemed more interested in getting everyone out as quickly as possible than
in anyone's body.

	The night nurse didn't come back on their ward. She was replaced by
another younger black woman who walked up and down the hall many times
during the course of the night. An hour after lights out, she got up the
dozen or so bed wetters, an act that all but ended the problem. There was
no more odor of urine in the mornings.

      Sunday, about a third of the boys had visitors. Many brought back
food they'd been given. No other types of gifts were permitted. The day was
difficult for many who didn't receive visitors. A few cried, others moped
around. Two fights broke out, both between a black and a Latino. Neither
was very serious even though one went on for several minutes before the
nurse who was in the hall heard the shouting and got back in to break it up
with the help of an orderly.

      Steve continued his daily shower vigil. There was a possible payoff
Sunday since very few boys went, probably not wanting to miss possible
visitors.

	A Latino boy about Steve's age but with a bit more between his legs
exchanged a couple of unintelligible words with the attendant on the way
out. The man still gave Steve a brief smile as he left.

	The boy's name was Miguel. He stayed exclusively with the other
Spanish speaking boys and wasn't one who joined the group who listened to
Steve read. Steve sat near him at dinner but didn't hear a single English
word come out of his mouth.

	A new boy was put into Luke's bed Monday just before lunch. He was
one of four new arrivals taking the place of Luke and three who left Monday
morning after breakfast.

	One of Steve's new acquaintances, Martin, a black boy his age
though somewhat bigger and heavier with a nearly changed voice, admitted to
having been involved with drug sales and use. "It was just pills I got from
mah sister. She was usin' that shit when I was five." The man he called his
stepfather though he was just his mother's lover at the time of his arrest,
murdered two others for selling drugs in the territory of his dealer
boss. He'd taken Martin along as a lookout while he and another man took
the two into a basement and shot them. They three had been caught because
someone had seen them enter the abandoned building, found it suspicious,
and called the cops.

	"Prolly did me a favor. One a the ones they killed was jus'
foh'teen. That coulda been me in a yeah o' two."

	The juvenile court officer appointed to him had seen Martin as a
pawn so requested an evaluation before sentencing. Martin thought he might
get probation and be put in a foster home. He wanted to go back to school.

	When he asked why he'd been sent to Trimble, Steve just said there
was a problem with his foster parents but wouldn't elaborate. Martin didn't
press for more.

	Tuesday afternoon in the yard, a thirteen year old boy who was at
Trimble for the second time told Martin and Steve about another boy who had
killed himself. "He was a fag but a nice kid too but erybody treated him
real bad, called him names and shit. I talked to him some. He said he
wanted ta die a bunch a times but I never figured he'd do it. Shit, the way
they's always watchin' us, shit, s'posed to be watchin' us, it ought be
real hard but he done damn near the same as Luke `cept he did it in the
shower with some wire he got somewhere. He just waited `til eryone left an'
done it. Assholes din't know he was missin' `til lunch and they was s'posed
to always count how many went to the shower and how many come back. That's
why they's always somebody at the showers with us now.

      "Some a the kids said some white boys did it but I din't believe that
and the cops never took nobody away for it. He was a nice kid but he wanted
ta die. Just like Luke `cept Luke was white. Bernie was black like us, me
an' Martin."

	"How many kids do that here, a lot?" asked Steve.

	"Not that many. I only knew Bernie an' Luke but they say they was
others but I din't know none a them. I jus' hope I git outta heah soon. You
better say stuff the doctors like so they don' wanna keep you heah. An'
don' say nothin' `bout sex. They ask if you beat yo' meat, you just say
done it couple times but you din't nevah do it heah. They won't believe you
nevah done it."

	Miguel went to the shower again and disappeared on the way
back. Steve hadn't noticed any communication between the man and boy but
the shower was full and he could easily have missed it. The nurse who did
the count said nothing about someone missing. To Steve, that meant someone
had called and was in a position to tell her not to count him.

	Miguel reappeared just before the five o'clock dinner call. He went
straight to a table where his buddies were chatting and playing cards. No
one seemed to find it noteworthy. Miguel sat on the edge of the table and
watched the game end. He was dealt into the next hand.

	This time, Steve sat at the end of the Latino table along side one
of the boys who listened to him read. The lad was smaller than Steve but
could have been the same age.

	"You like the story?" he asked him.

	"Yeah. It's good."

	"What grade are you in?"

	"I don' go to the school now."

	"Why not?"

	"No like." He bit down on his sandwich.

	"You go before?"

	"In El Salvador I go. Here no," he answered with his mouth full.

	Steve couldn't think of anything else to say. No one at the table
said anything more or appeared to notice he was there.

	Sex came up during the following morning's round with the
psychologist. At one point, Steve was asked if he had a girl friend.

	"Just started with one but you people messed it up."

	He had to explain.

      He doctor then asked about boy friends.

	"Sure, I've got lots of boy friends."

	"You ever masturbate with your friends?"

	"No."

	"So you only masturbate alone?"

	"That's none a your business, sir."

	"Steve, this is not a complicated question. There's nothing weird
about masturbation. All boys do it. I just want to know if you do it alone
or with your friends, or both."

	"Look, I don't even know how to do it that well. I tried it a
couple times but nothing much happened. Anyhow, my dad says kids are
supposed to wait until they're older before doing sex." He'd planned that
answer but wasn't sure how believable it was. He immediately worried it
might have made the doctor suspicious and wished he hadn't used it.

	The doctor stared at his notepad for a moment then looked up at
Steve. "Please don't get mad, but that is a bunch of crap. You and your dad
were having sex together so..."

	"We were not!"

	"Steven, they..."

	"My name is Steve and they are liars. They don't know anything
about us. They're stupid. My father doesn't like sex. He won't even talk
about it when I ask. What's wrong with you people?"

	The doctor smiled and shook his head. "You've got to realize if you
keep this fairy tale up, they're not going to let you go. I've spoken to
the police officer and the social worker involved in your case and they can
prove what you're saying isn't true. None of us know why you're doing
this. That man you were staying with can't hurt you any more. He's going to
be in jail for a long time. Just tell the truth and things will be a lot
better, a whole lot better for you."

	"You're all assholes!"

	The doctor threw up his hands and ended their session.

	When Steve got back to the ward near lunchtime, Miguel had been
released or sent elsewhere.


                                    -------------------------------------------


	Michael Santoni ran a Mafia gang out of an Italian restaurant in
Queens. His specialty was hijacking tractor trailers full of quickly
salable goods. He didn't need fences. He had interests in a number of
retail outlets for clothing, electronics, household appliances, music,
liquor and even a car dealership, all of which came into his web of
influence involuntarily. The car dealership was legitimate though he did
use it to launder cash. His involvement with Katherine's house of ill
repute to the well connected he attributed to a weakness or women. He
promised his minions it would never happen again.

      For image reasons, Santoni sponsored kids' sports teams and was an
occasional Sunday attendant at a local Catholic church. Santoni's
Restaurant was frequented by politicians, business men and cops. The food
was, in reality, quite good. His cannelloni was to die for.

	Thursday morning, he was working out in the gym he'd had built over
the restaurant's kitchen. The overeating mafioso was down from 305 pounds
to just 262. Sweat was pouring off him when one of his men brought up a
city councilman's assistant Santoni had on his payroll.

	Moping his face and head with a towel, he asked, "What's this shit
I hear the Mulrooney woman is offering her book of names to Turtan if her
kid's foster father goes away?"

      "That's what we think. They busted the guy `cause Katherine
Mulrooney's saying she saw the him playing with the kid's dick back when he
was three or four but Turtan doesn't think she's gonna hold up if Everett
Bradley, that's the guy's lawyer, goes after her. So, they need the kid to
say the guy did him which they all think he did. The guy's single, never
had a girl friend, you know the type."

	Santoni didn't mention he was well aware of the man, had, aa few
years before, convinced his landlord to let him live rent free for the
better part of a year. "Anybody know what's really in this book?"

	"Supposed to have a complete list of all her customers back when
she and Willy were running that floating whore house a theirs, a real who's
who of politicians, cops, you name it. I heard a couple of congressmen and
NYPD brass are in there."

	"So, the kid gonna talk?"

	"According to a friend in the governor's office, they got some
judge to commit him for evaluation at the Trimble Psych Hospital. The cops
and some doc there trying to get him to talk but he hasn't so far."

	Santoni smiled. "Gotta respect that."

	Later that afternoon, Santoni called in Willy Pirelli's brother,
Paul. He claimed to have spoken to his brother about the book several times
but Willy had denied knowing where Katherine Mulrooney had it stashed or
could even confirm that it existed.

      "He says the bitch won't talk to him about it, not that they talk any
more. She's incommunicado with just about everybody pretty much since she
got busted. Willy sends her letters through me and another guy but she
don't never answer. We sent her messages through some people where she is
but she says the book's bullshit. It's just shit she has in her head but no
way Turtan and Albright are taking care a her for shit she's got in her
head."

      "Albright?"

      "That's what Willy says."

      "All right, then she needs a stronger fuckened message. I want that
fuckened book before Turtan's people get it. We can use it. Okay?"

      Paul Pirelli went off to see a man who worked in Katherine Pirelli's
prison as a guard.


                           --------------------------------------------------


	Lieutenant Tom Garretson called Walter from a payphone. "Walter,
can you meet me tonight up by the Cloisters?"

	"Sure. Something wrong?"

	"I'll talk to you there. Eight, near the main door?"

	Walter got there first. Garretson trudged up the hill ten minutes
late. After apologizing for his tardiness, he said, "Look, Walter, the
captain came down on me about helping you so we gotta be careful how we
communicate. Don't Worry. I'm not abandoning you but you can't call my cell
phone any more and never call the precinct."

	"Why? What's wrong with two friends talking to each other?"

	"Walter, I'm a cop and someone in the brass thinks I'm using my
position to help you, feed you information about your case. I could lose my
job, maybe even get a charge. This is serious business, Walter. You getting
anywhere with money for that lawyer?"

	"Not gonna happen. There's no way I can come up with that kind of
cash and Bradley won't let me pay it off over time. I spoke to my bank
about a loan but I think they know about my situation because they said the
timing wasn't right. That's gotta mean they know."

	"What about work, that coming along okay?"

	"Yeah, I think so. It'll pay the bills."

	"Okay, here, take this cell phone and put the number I'm gonna give
you in it. And you gotta start looking for a decent lawyer you can afford
and who'll work for you. Call this number. It's a lawyer's exchange. Tell
them your situation and see who they recommend."


                                  -------------------------------------------------


	Friday morning, Bernie Garcia, an employee of Harold Turtan met
with Sergeant O'Malley over a late breakfast. They discussed the status of
the case against Walter Stuyvesant.

	O'Malley said, "It's not much. That Mulrooney woman's a
ding-a-ling. Any half ass lawyer'll tear her testimony apart. Without the
kid, we ain't got shit."

	"Anybody talk to Stuyvesant about a deal?"

	"Forget that until the kid comes clean."

	"Any way they're communicating?"

	"The kid and Stuyvesant? Nah, we got the kid under wraps in Trimble
State."

	"What's he saying about Stuyvesant?"

	"Nothing helpful. Sometimes these kids like that shit. He may never
talk."

	"And if he doesn't?"

	"Nothing. At least the social workers never gonna send that kid
back to Stuyvesant, or any other. Better'n nothing."

	"But if you're sure the guy's guilty, can't you pressure the kid
some way?"

	"Hey, he's locked up in a nut house with a bunch of freaks. An'
he's smart. He's gotta hate it there. But he knows we can't keep him there
forever, just thirty days. Child Services' not gonna allow us any more."

	"What's Karen Savage saying?"

	"Nothing. She's in the same boat as us. Kid don't talk before he
gets outta Trimble, she's gonna drop the case for now, hope the kid has a
change of heart someday."

 	Bernie Garcia went straight to City Hall. On the way, the former
used car salesman had an idea.

	"Councilman, what if the kid thought Stuyvesant had confessed, made
a deal with the DA?"

	"Go on," said Harold Turtan.

	"O'Malley goes out there, tells the kid his sugar daddy told all
for a reduced sentence, out in eight or ten years. Tells the kid he's being
released from the hospital and being put who knows where. Good bye. See how
he reacts. From what I hear, he's not gonna be pressured into talking."

	"That's good but let's add a step, set him up. Make the news harder
to take, maybe even crack him before. Long as he admits something in front
of a reliable witness, like a doctor or social worker, Stuyvesant's dead
meat.

	"And, Bernie, I've got a very important job for you. Ever been on a
jury before?"


                                 ------------------------------------------------


	Friday, Steve thought he spotted a nod between another Latino boy
and the shower attendant but the boy went back to the ward with them.

	The weekend came. Steve went to the showers along with other sad
kids not receiving visits. He hadn't expected any except possibly
Garretson. That slim hope didn't hold preference over getting to the shower
man's cell phone.

	Monday morning, seven boys went out including Martin. The new group
was primarily Latino, the youngest of which didn't appear older than eight
but carried himself with more bravado than any of the rest.

	At the time, Steve was playing chess with a thirteen year old
friend, a white boy who admitted being there for sex with a series of small
girls. Everyone turned and looked over the new crop of inmates. The little
one went straight to the nurse and insisted on a lower bunk. She ignored
him.

	"Hey, bitch, I'm talkin' to you."

	He was dragged off cussing by two orderlies.

	After lunch, just as yard was being called, Steve was sent back
down to Dr. Townsend.

	The test was a combination of multiple choice family relations
questions and a tiring physical ability exam including walking on a string
placed on the floor, attempted head stands, push ups, jumping left and
right on command and standing on one foot while swinging his arms. Steve
got the impression the doctor was making it up as he went along.

	Steve was sweating when the doctor asked him to sit back down at
the table.

	"So, what are your feelings about what happened to Luke?" asked the
doctor twiddling his pencil between his fingers.

	"I think nobody was helping him."

	Townsend raised his eyebrows. "Are you blaming the staff for what
happened?"

	"This is supposed to be a place where kids like Luke can get help,
isn't it?"

	The psychologist smiled. "But a person has to accept the help
offered, has to want to get better. Like you, you have been completely
uncooperative, haven't you? And we are quite willing to help you?"

	"In the first place, I don't have any problems but you people. Luke
needed help that you're supposed to be able to give him. He was really sad,
everybody knew that."

	"And what are you?"

	"You asked me about Luke and now you don't want to talk about him
because you know I'm right about you people not helping him."

	"Okay, forget Luke. What..."

	"No! I'm never gonna forget about Luke even if I'm the only one."

	"Okay, don't forget about Luke but let's talk about you. Not
including that you blame us, why do you think Luke did what he did?"

	"I don't know. I knew he was very unhappy and didn't care about
anything any more but I'm not a psychologist like you so that's all I
know."

	"So now we're mind readers? No, don't answer that. I already know
what you were going to say but we actually can't read what's in a person's
mind. We just make educated guesses. But then there are boys like you who
baffle us. You've been abused by a man and you choose to defend him even
though he's in jail and can't possibly hurt you."

	Steve shook his head.

	"No clever or angry comment?"

	Steve smirked.

	"Well, another easier question: are you uncomfortable where you
are? Would you like to move to another ward?"

	"No. I just wanna go home. When do I get outta here?"

	"That, my friend, is a problem. Normally, I'd say at the end of
thirty days but, in your case, you have to have somewhere to go and finding
a home for a twelve year old with your situation is difficult. Foster
parents have to be told the truth about a boy and, from what we are seeing,
you might be a risk for other kids the foster parents have."

	"That's a bunch of crap! I never hurt anybody in my life!"

	"Steve, we know you were having sex with that man but you won't
admit it. So what are we supposed to think? There's only one answer to that
and that is you like doing that sort of thing. What foster parent wants to
worry about one of the kids they are caring for abusing the others?"

	"That's stupid!"

	"Not at all. If you were a victim of this man, well, that's another
matter. There'd be less concern and we could probably place you much easier
but..."

	"And I never had sex with that man? Then what?"

	"C'mon, Steve. We know you did,"

	Steve stood up and leaned over the table. "Then you are all stupid
assholes!"

	"Look, pal, I've listened to your abuse too often. You sit down and
show some respect or things can be a lot more difficult that you imagine."

	"Fuck you!"

	The doctor picked up his telephone. "Send me an orderly, please."

	"You gonna have `em beat me up?"

	There was a knock at the door then it was opened.

	Townsend said, "Take Mr. Mulrooney to lock up. I'll get you the
paperwork."

	Lock up was a small concrete room with a thin mattress on the floor
and a bedpan. The only window was a six inch square wired over affair in
the door.

	"Fuck you too!" Steve told his jailor as the door was closed.

	A boy's voice nearby called out, "Yeah man! Fuck `em all."

	Steve walked to his door and asked up toward the screen just over
his head, "You the kid who came in this morning, evaluation ward?"

	"Yeah. So what?" The boy had a strong New York Puerto Rican accent.

	"Nothing. Just asking. They tell you how long we gotta stay in
here?"

	"Nah but fuck `em. I'll stay here long as they want."

	Steve wasn't sure asking the boy's age would get a response but
asked anyhow. After all, he thought, there was nothing else to do. "How old
are you?"

	"None a your fuckin' business."

	"All right but you look too young to be here. They aren't supposed
to take anyone in our ward under ten."

	"So?"

	"I just figured you weren't ten yet."

	"I'm eleven, asshole. Don't let my size fool you. An' I can fight
like I'm fourteen so don' give me no shit."

	Steve smiled to himself. "Don't worry. I'm not into fighting."

	They were silent for a while then Steve asked, "What grade are you
in?"

	"That ain't none a your business neither. Why you ask so many
questions?"

	"Nothing else to do. So whatta you wanna to talk about?"

	It took a few moments for the other boy to reply. "Bitches?"

	"Okay. You got a girl friend?"

	"Sure. I got a couple. Fucked `em both. You got some?"

	"No. I almost had one but this crap screwed it up."

	"You fuck `er?"

	"No, We didn't know each other that well yet."

      "Shit, man, you don' gotta know `em that good to fuck `em. You say
you gonna be my bitch and tha's it. You fuck `em."

	Steve had no idea how to deal with that so he changed the
subject. "What's your name? I'm Steve."

	"You a white boy, ain't you?"

	"Uh huh."

	"Tha's okay, I'm Hector. Where you live on the street?"

	"Upper Manhattan, around Dykeman. You?"

	"South Bronx near hundred five five."

	A few moments later, Hector asked, "You go to school?"

	"Yeah, seventh grade but I'm getting way behind staying in here. I
might have to repeat the year."

	"How old are you?"

	"Twelve."

	"Twelve? Shit, I'm almost twelve an' I'm still in second grade."
There was a pause. "But, I don't go no more. They kick my ass out las'
yeah." Another pause. "You do good in school, huh?"

	"Uh huh."

	"Tha's good `cause you gonna get you a good job one day but you
white. It's easier."

	"We got Spanish kids and black kids in my school, lots of `em, more
than whites. You just gotta study harder. Why'd they kick you out?"

	"Jus' some dum shit." "I'm gonna sleep some. Talk to you later,
man."

	"Okay." Steve lay on his mattress but couldn't get to sleep. He
gradually became angry at himself for the outburst at the doctor. It hadn't
done him any good and that had to be his goal. Do what they wanted so he
could get out. The only problem with that was what they really wanted, the
real reason he was there. He'd never do that.


	The next morning, two sparse meals and not much sleep later, Steve
was taken back to Dr. Townsend's office.

	"Calmed down?" asked the doctor with a smile.

	Steve had prepared a conciliatory speech but it stuck in his
throat. He nodded affirmatively.

	"You know, we're not your enemies here. We really do want to help
you and I really do hope they find you a nice foster home but you've got to
be straighter with us, with me. That's not especially about what happened
between you and that man, your answers on the tests were pretty much what
you figured I wanted to hear or what you thought would give me the most
favorable impression of you. That, of course, doesn't include the
intelligence and aptitude tests. They were pure you and you did
great. There's no questioning your intelligence. No one ever has. It's just
your smarts for what's really best for you."

	Steve shifted in his chair and put on a bored look.

	"Steve, you're twelve years old. Your knowledge of the world is
limited in a lot of areas. Your knowledge of yourself isn't very complete
either." He cocked his head. "You're not listening to a word I say, are
you?."

	"Yes, I am. It's just that everything you're saying means Walter
was bad and all of you are good and I'm supposed to lie about him so you'll
fix it so I go to some neat foster home. But if he was so bad, why was I
the top student in my school and had lots of friends? I was happy. I had a
father who loved me and I loved him. So what do you have for me that's
better than that?"

	"Steve, I don't think you realize a couple of things. First, I
don't know exactly what kind of sexual activities that man was using you
for but, believe me, it's going to affect your ability to be a good husband
and probably in other ways, too. Secondly, like I said before, I worry that
if you learned to like what he was doing, you might try doing the same
thing yourself one day with another child and you'll end up in prison,
too. Finally, based on your willingness to lie about what you two were
doing, I've got to wonder about your take on what honesty means. I've
already seen you try to manipulate your tests. People who get into that
kind of thing, manipulating others, don't have very easy or happy
lives. So, I see a lot of problems."

	Steve closed his eyes, struggling to keep his mouth shut and not
scream at the man in front of him.

	The doctor lowered his head and tried to catch Steve's eye. "Do you
understand anything I'm trying to tell you?"

	Steve slowly shook his head then said, "I understand everything
you're saying to me." There was more but he managed to keep it inside.

	"Say what the doctor wants to hear?"

	"Walter Stuyvesant did not abuse me. Anyone who says he did is a
liar or just plain crazy," said Steve as calmly as he was able.

	Steve was sent back to the ward. Several of the kids welcomed him
back by begging him to read to them after dinner. Steve considered that a
vindication of what he'd said to the doctor. They were wrong about him. The
sex had been for love. There could never be harm in love, never be bad
consequences. Love was always and completely good.

	The next afternoon, two boys nodded at the shower attendant on
their way out. One was sporting a hard on that stuck out between the ends
of his towel. Steve got up close to the pair as they climbed the stairs
after dressing. All he heard was a brief laugh. They were silent the rest
of the way and went back into the ward with Steve.

	While reading to his audience later, he noticed the nurse watching
him. This would be reported. He doubted the doctor would like it. It was
much too normal.

	That night in bed, as usual, he wondered what Walter was going
through. If he was in jail, he was sure he hadn't yet been convicted,
probably wouldn't be. There couldn't be a witness. Their sex had always
been behind closed doors and curtained windows. His thoughts about the
police using heat sensitive devices was wrong. Had they that kind of
evidence, they wouldn't be hassling him to admit anything. He'd be in some
foster home somewhere. No, he was sure they had nothing. All he had to do
was hold on, stay with what he'd been saying.

	What tortured Steve's mind and kept interfering with other thoughts
was the possibility that he'd never be allowed to live with Walter
again. Steve recognized his powerlessness in the face of the huge
bureaucracy that was the New York Bureau of Child Services. The cops and
the doctor had that right. They would never voluntarily allow him back with
Walter even if the case fell apart and Walter was freed as he expected to
happen. Of course, that didn't mean he wouldn't try to get back to
him. Once both he and Walter were on the streets, they'd find a way to see
each other even if it had to be on the sly. Then when he was sixteen or
eighteen, he wasn't sure which, he would be free and could go back with the
man he loved.

	Several days went by with no calls to see the doctor. Many of the
others were called out to see various staff members but Steve was left to
the ward schedule of meals, afternoon outside recreation and showers. Cold
had set in and they were handed coats before they went out, coats that had
to be returned as they passed through the gate into their ward. The socks
they wore were thicker but footwear was still slippers. It rained two days
in a row, eliminating a chance to stand at the fence and pine for a walk in
the distant woods.

	While some of the boys sought him out, Steve found himself wanting
more time to himself. He read some but mostly he plotted how he'd find his
foster dad as soon as he was free. He figured there had to be some way via
the internet to see if his dad was still locked up and where. Once he knew
that, he could send him letters using a different name. If Walter was free,
he'd find him. He knew the apartment phone number. If that didn't work, he
also knew the Garretson's home number, even the lieutenant's cell phone
number. There would be a way.

	Perhaps, he considered, Tom Garretson, being a cop, wouldn't be
allowed to connect him with Walter. In that case, Steve knew a couple of
Walter's customers. He'd have to be very diplomatic, clever, but he could
probably convince them to give him a phone number.

	Steve had no doubt he would feel Walter's arms around him again.

	He continued the daily showers catching the same two trading looks
with the attendant. Both were called out at different times, always in the
morning. The problem was the same one he'd had with Miguel, they were
Latinos and stayed with other Latinos speaking only Spanish. He wasn't sure
they spoke English at all.

	He bumped into one in an attempt to learn if they could. "Excuse
me, sorry. You okay?"

	The boy nodded his head upward and grinned but didn't say
anything. He wondered if the shower attendant spoke Spanish.

	He watched the boys to see if they spoke to the nurse or if she
spoke to them and they understood. Neither happened. Steve became
increasingly convinced the group was monolingual.

	Hector Saenz, the small curly black haired eleven, almost twelve,
year old had been freed the day after Steve's release. That night, he sat
near enough to hear but not be part of the group that listened to Steve's
nightly reading. Steve had completed Robinson Crusoe and was on the second
chapter of Jack London's `White Fang'.

      The next day, Hector had stayed mostly with the Latino crowd, putting
on airs and talking tough, but nodding occasionally at Steve. The following
morning, he managed to get behind Steve in the breakfast line then sat
beside him.

      "Food ain't bad," he commented.

      "Yeah, it's even good sometimes. These buns are good," returned Steve
referring to the sticky bun on his plastic tray.

      "You Steve, right?"

      "Um hmm. And you're Hector." When Steve looked at him, he noticed
that Hector had a slight but frequent twitch in his right eye. It was hard
not to look at it each time it winked.

      "Right. Mah eye don' work right but I can see good." He touched the
corner of the bad eye. "You been heah long?"

      "Couple weeks, almost three."

      "S'posed to be jus' thirty days, right?"

      "S'posed to be."

      "You think they might keep us longer?"

      "Some kids have been here a couple months."

      "How come they make some stay so long?"

      "Maybe they don't have anywhere to send them. Doctor told me I might
have to stay here longer `cause of that."

      "That sucks."

      Hector asked about why other kids had been sent there, were there
many fights, did the staff allow telephone calls, did kids steal from each
other, why the nurse was such a bitch, and so on.

      Steve asked if the group of Latino's he was watching spoke
English. "Shit, I don' know. Mebbe not. They don' talk it when I'm aroun'."

      In the ward, he went back to his Latino crowd but again found Steve
for lunch.

      "You right, some a them don' know no English. Mothafuckas from
Columbia an' Guatemala an' some otha place. The one from Columbia been in
this country since he was five, dumb mothafucka."

      It rained that day so there was no yard. Steve tried to nap but
Hector came and stood in his door.

      "Sucks! The mothafuckas won' let us go outside. Ain't rainin' tha'
bad."

      Steve sat up. "Rain and cold. I don't wanna go out in that."

      Hector stared nowhere for a bit then asked, "Why they put you in
heah?"

      "Just some problems in my foster home."

      "Shit, man. What you do, fuck one a they's girls?" He sort of
chuckled, "Or one a they's boys? You ain' no fag, are you?"

      It quickly occurred to Steve that some of the other Latinos had sent
this boy to ask that very question. "No, and I didn't fuck anybody. Just
problems."

      "Hey, I din't mean nothing. Jus' askin'. I ain't got nothin' against
fags. One a my cousins is one an' he ain' so bad. So what happened?"

      "I'm not supposed to talk about it, until the case if over." Steve
wished he'd said less.

      `Tha's okay."

      Steve stood up and put his elbow on the top bunk. "Can you say why
you're here?"

      "Mothafuckas say I was in a armed robbery but it's bullshit?"

      The rest of the conversation revolved around the book Steve was
reading then why he did it. Steve explained that he liked to read and many
of the kids there didn't know how. It ended with Hector saying, "You a good
dude, Steve." and walking off to the day room.

      Steve followed him at a distance, heading for the book shelves.

      Hector joined three other Latinos. One of them nodded toward Steve.
Hector spoke for a while then his friends got back to the cards they'd been
playing. Steve figured Hector had told them there was no nooky to be had
with the white boy.

      Over the next two days, Hector spent more time with Steve and less
with the Latinos. He went to the showers with him each day where he made
sure Steve saw the impressive though still prepubescent dong hanging down
between his slim but muscled thighs. It wasn't really that big for an
eleven year old. It was almost as long as Steve's growing penis but not as
thick. What made it look humongous was Hector's small body.

      Steve tried to figure a way to have Hector find out and tell him
about any sex between the attendant and the two boys in his Latino group
but couldn't come up with something that would require too much
explanation.

      Hector taught Steve a few Spanish words like `puta', whore, and
`maricón', fag. He also told more about himself without asking much from
Steve. The tough guy persona gradually dissipated into a boy looking for a
sympathetic friend. Steve began to see Hector as unhappy, and possibly in
danger of tragedy, as Luke had been.

      Hector had been living with an aunt and her kids, a small girl and
two boys, one the `fag' cousin. His father had been killed in a gang
dispute when Hector was four. His only memory of the man was of him hitting
his mother. His mother had disappeared along with her baby shortly
thereafter. Hector's grandmother had taken him in at first but, by the time
he was eight, could no longer put up with his bad behavior and the school
counselor's constant requests that she come in to discuss some new
infraction by her grandson. The aunt he'd been sent to live with was a
junkie who didn't care whether Hector came or went, attended school or not.

	Hector had been arrested three times: for shoplifting, being a drug
and drug money carrier and, finally, for an armed robbery in which he'd
been a lookout and the only one caught. He, as Steve, had refused to
cooperate and give up anyone.

	Without thinking about it and feeling the need to say it to
someone, Steve admitted, "That's my problem, too."

	"What?"

	"They want me to tell on somebody but I won't, never."

	"I think tha's why I like you, Steve. I knew you wasn't no snitch."

	With that, Hector virtually abandoned his fellow Latinos and stuck
close to Steve, eating, going to the yard and showering with him. Steve
mentioned how he thought the shower attendant was interested in boy
cocks. Hector stiffened himself to flash it at the man on the way out.

	"Shit! He looked. Tha' mothafucka's a fag, ain' he?" Hector asked
Steve. "Why don' you show him yours? I'll bet it gets bigger `n' mines."

	Back in the day room, sitting side by side on the floor against a
wall, Hector asked, "that guy at the showers evah ast you so he could suck
your cock?"

	"Nah."

	"I'll bet he's doin' it to somebody. He could do mine if he
wanted." He pulled his knees tighter to his chest. "You beat your meat a
lot? I do it in bed at night afta they puts out the lights."

	"Nah. They see you and the doctors make you take pills. A bunch of
the kids here have to take pills but I don't know how many are for that."

	Hector nodded. "Shit, these mothafuckas. That doctor seen me was
astin' about if I beat mah meat so it's good I tole `im no, huh?"

	"They say it's best to admit you did it a little but not here. They
don't believe you never did it. My doctor thinks I lie about everything."

	"I don' think my doctor likes me. The nigga's always lookin' at me
mean like he don't like what I ansa, the stupid mothafucka. I bullshit some
`cause I gotta but it ain' all bullshit."

	"Does he ask you about your case, like who was with you?"

	"Nah, he ain' done that yet. Yours ast you?"

	"All the time."

	"Thinks they's cops. An' everything you say I bet they tell the
cops. Mines always sayin' he ain' gonna say nothing I say to nobody but
tha's bullshit. I know. They's lots a shit I ain' tole him. So whatta you
tell `im when he ast about what you did?"

	"I just say we didn't do anything." Steve winced at the thought of
his mistake.

	"Shit. It was two a youse?"

	 "No, well, they say I did something to somebody and I didn't."

	"Sex, huh?"

	"Nah, they said I was beating on him."

	Hector smiled. "Shit. Tha's bullshit. You said you wasn't no
fighter. Anyhows, you ain' nevah hit nobody. You ain' like that. So who'd
you fuck? I ain' gonna say nothin' ta nobody."

	Steve was tempted to let it all out. Hector didn't seem the type to
say anything. But, he just might let it slip to a friend who wasn't so
trustworthy. He took a different route. "Don't say anything to anybody, not
even the other kids,"

	"Hell, no, man. Those mothafuckas'll snitch on a guy for a
dime. You don' gotta worry about me, man. I'm solid."

	"All right, it's sex but we never did anything. They say they have
a witness and all kinds of proof but then how come they haven't done
anything yet and how come they keep asking me to snitch? It's all
bullshit."

	"Okay, you tole me so I'm gonna tell you and you gotta promise what
I did, okay."

	"Okay, I promise." Steve's curiosity went into high gear. Was this
going to sex too?"

	Hector moved closer. "They found out I was fuckin' that cousin I
tole you about but, shit, he said ta do it. Jus' because he's ten the
mothafuckas say it's all my fault and, shit, I got a big one but it's still
little so I nevah hurt `im o' nothin' an' he liked it."

	Steve knew why the boy enjoyed Hector's long peter in his butt. If
he was as small as Hector, Then Hector's three plus inches would reach his
prostate easily as Walter's did. For a few seconds, Steve tried to think
what it would feel like to have Hector inside him. He had no doubt his
friend would agree to do it and probably would never tell a soul he
had. The problem was the `probably'. The lack of absolute security made
doing it far too risky. Steve dismissed the thought but still asked,
"What's it feel like?"

	"Don' say nothin' but bettah'n a bitch. They all loose
inside. Sergio's tight. I cum in about three o four minutes."

	"How'd they find out? Did he say something?"

	"Nah, Sergio's solid. Shit, if he said somethin', it wouldn't jus'
be me they busted. I know two othas fuckin' `im too. Nah, one a his sistas
seen us in the bathroom. The lock, one a them like a bar that goes across,
the screws come out an' she pushed it open. An' theah we was with our pants
down an' me up his ass. Shit, I tole her I was gonna buy her candy,
anything she wanted but she tole her sister and she tole my aunt right when
this other woman from next door was talkin' to her and she called the
cops. They got Sergio all cryin' sayin' they was gonna have to lock him up
an' anyhow his sistah seen him so he had to talk an' finally he did a
little but he said it was some otha kid from down the block an' not me but
the cops said they knowed it was me `cause mah cousin said so and they made
me come heah `cause a the otha stuff from befoa'. Sucks, huh?" He
grinned. "You shoulda fucked tha' otha kid. It's good, man."

	"But I didn't."

	"But you shoulda. They gots you locked up anyway and you din't have
no fun. At leas' I had some fun."


	Since they were into sex, Steve brought up his need to communicate
with someone on the outside and the possibility he might be able to make a
deal with the shower attendant.

	"You ain' gonna let `im fuck you?"

	"No, but he can suck me if he let's me use his cell phone for a
couple of calls." He told him his suspicions about the Latino kids he'd
seen nodding with the man, the disappearance of Miguel, and asked if he'd
try to find out what he could from the two kids in his group who seemed to
be involved with the man.

      That night, Steve wondered if Hector thought he was available. Under
different circumstances, it would have been worth a try, especially if he
could try the same with Hector.

	Friday breakfast featured scrambled eggs in hot water. Steve
avoided that and took three boxes of Sugar Crisp, something Walter had only
allowed once a week. Hector ate the eggs.

	"They good for you, man. Gots protein for muscles like mine." He
flexed an impressive bicep.

	Steve's name was called shortly after ten. He had hopes that with
his thirty days almost gone, whoever was calling him would have good
news. There were alternatives beyond foster parents. The group homes some
of the kids talked about sounded pretty bad but at least one could get away
for a while, long enough to make some phone calls. They'd have to be
collect but if Walter or Garretson were on the other end, he felt sure
they'd be accepted.

	Inside the interview room were two men, Dr. Townsend and Sergeant
O'Malley. The policeman was smiling. "Got good news for you, champ. You're
getting out of here soon. Walter Stuyvesant confessed, made a deal. He goes
in, you go out."

	Steve felt suddenly nauseas, weak kneed. "That's bullshit! You
lying bastard!"

	"Well, nuts to you too but it's true. He told us everything. Gonna
be out when you're twenty-five or thirty."

	Tears were falling. Steve spoke between difficult breaths. "He
didn't, do anything! How, how could he confess, if he didn't, do
anything. You're lying!"

	"No I'm not. Hey, I thought you'd be happy this was all over. Since
you're being such a jerk, I'll tell you something else. He laid it all on
you, said it was your idea. How about that?"

	Steve rushed at him, screaming, fists at the ready. The sergeant
sidestepped and slapped him on the back of the head, knocking him hard to
the floor.

	Steve curled up in a ball, crying uncontrollably. "He'd never
tell. What'd you do to him, you...? He'd never tell, I know. Bastards!
Motherfuckers!" He cried out but in his mind the reality that he had, as a
matter of fact, initiated the sex told him that somehow they had forced the
truth out of Walter. It was all his fault. He felt like he was going to
ignite into a fireball.

	The sergeant pulled a small tape recorder out of his shirt pocket,
checked the small LCD panel then asked the doctor, "You heard that, right?"

	The doctor nodded affirmatively but sadly.

	The sergeant leaned over Steve, held the recorder where he could
see it, pressed the off switch and said softly with a smile. "Gotcha. And I
hope they stick your lyin' ass into some shitty group home with the
nastiest fag hating niggers in the city." With that, he stood, dropped the
recorder back into his pocket and left.

	The doctor knelt beside Steve. "Steve, take it easy. It's all
over. Relax. Relax. And don't worry, you'll go to someplace nice. Relax."

	But Steve couldn't. He felt as if the world had collapsed in on
him. He yearned for death, a painful death for the terrible thing he had
done. Walter hadn't wanted the sex, he had. Walter tried repeatedly to end
it. Steve hadn't allowed that. How could he have done such a terrible,
stupid, selfish thing. The sergeant had a gun. If he could get to it, he
could escape, put a bullet into his brain, end the pain, the guilt, the
shame.

	The doctor tried to pick him up. He lifted Steve from under his
shoulders. Steve looked for the policeman, and saw that he was gone. He
collapsed, sliding from the doctor's hands back to the floor. The doctor
dropped down on his knees beside the distraught boy. He began to speak but
couldn't hear himself over the Steve's wailing.

	An orderly opened the door. Townsend looked up and waved him away.

	Steve went silent for a moment. He couldn't catch his breath. He
choked and gasped trying to regain the oxygen his body craved. He rolled
onto his back, his hands at his throat, trying to pull short charges of air
into his lungs. The doctor leaned over by his ear, panic in his eyes.

	"Steve! Steve! Relax! Relax!"

	Steve inhaled a great gulp of air and wrapped his arms over his
chest. He breathed out then back in again. The crying that followed wasn't
the violent, convulsive agony of moments before but the softer, continuous
misery of a child who'd lost all hope.

	The doctor waited for a while then tried again to communicate with
the boy.

	"Steve, come on, let's get up. Relax. It's all over now. You're
safe. You're free. It's all over and you're going to be okay. Come on,
let's get up."

	The crying became convulsive sobs. Steve got on his hands and
knees. When the doctor tried to help, he pushed the man's hands
away. Rather than go to the table, he crawled to the wall and sat down, his
back against it. His father, the man who had saved him from his vicious
mother, had made him happy, who loved him, was gone. These evil people had
done something terrible to him that made him come apart and say what he
should never have said, what he had promised never to say. He'd told them
everything, even the truth that he, Steve Mulrooney, had initiated and
expanded the sex over years, sex which should have been an act of love but
was just Steve getting off. How could he have been so selfish.

	The doctor pulled up a chair in front of him. "Steve, you should be
relieved. Calm down and think. Don't be mad at yourself for what you
said. And don't be too mad at the sergeant. I know what he did was hard on
you, maybe not even fair but you forced that on him. He wanted to rescue
you from that man and you made it very difficult but now it's done. He
won't be bothering you any more. You said what needed to be said and..."

	Only a few of the doctor's words had made it into Steve's brain
until the last but that caused a shock wave that rattled Steve's entire
being. What was he saying? He strained to hear the words.

	"...they can present that to Stuyvesant and his lawyer. They'll
know it's over and accept the deal they've been offered. It's over. You..."

	Steve fainted.






Chapter 15


	Over the previous week and a half, Walter had spoken to three
lawyers, two of whom asked fees approximating what Bradley had
requested. The third refused the case citing a full load. The evening after
the last attorney had refused to become involved, Walter received a call
from an attorney who said he was aware of Walter's difficulties and was
interested in speaking to him about a `possible representation'.

	His name was Byron Katz. He was a stout man in his middle thirties
with small but intense eyes. He apparently was part of a large law firm
that occupied two floors of a downtown Manhattan building. Actually, the
office was one of thirty-two rented out on two floors devoted to law
offices. It sported a large law library and a secretarial service adequate
for the thirty plus lawyers expected to rent the offices.

      "I've been speaking to a friend at the district attorney's office,"
explained the lawyer once both were seated. "He thinks you are going to be
convicted no matter who defends you. Another friend there tells me they
have very little evidence that will stand up in court. I assume the truth
is somewhere in between the two. What interests me is your utter refusal to
consider a plea bargain. I like that. I usually charge at least forty to
sixty thousand dollars to go to trial but I understand you are unable to
pay such a fee. Is that correct?"

	Walter nodded assent.

	"How's ten thousand plus expenses sound?"

	"A lot better. How much do you expect to need for expenses?"

	"Depends on what you and I decide to do. If we don't hire any
investigators, you're looking at no more than three, maybe four thousand
plus a couple thousand for an expert witness if we need one. Investigators
can run anywhere from four hundred to a thousand a day depending on the
quality of the detective and what he has to do."

	"What do you know about my case?"

	"You're charged with sexually abusing your twelve year old foster
son. The boy's mother is their principal witness. She's an ex-junkie and
madam doing time for three murders and attempted homicide on you. They have
at least two psychologists lined up to testify plus a couple of school
counselors. And, of course, they seem to feel the boy will testify against
you though that well may not be true. I understand he denies anything was
going on.

	"Nothing was."

      The lawyer held up his hands. "Fine. Now, they may have more but I
can't find that out unless you authorize me to be your attorney of record."

	"You understand that I am not interested in a plea bargain.'

	"Fully."

	"Have you handled this kind of case before?"

	"Not exactly but I have taken on and won two where a father was
accused years later of abuse by his daughters."

	Walter asked for time to think over his offer.

	Once on the street, he called Tom Garretson.

	"Byron Katz? I don't know anything about him. Let me check and I'll
get back to you."

	The return call came that evening. "Katz is a political animal with
connections to the local Democratic party. He's competent but no Everett
Bradley. That's all I could find out. What do you think of him?"

	"Well, he came to me and is offering a fee I can afford. And, he's
a salesman, something good if I have to go in front of a jury. You think he
can use his political connections to take some of the heat off my case?"

	Steve had to wait for an answer. "I don't know. There didn't seem
to be any direct connection with Harold Turtan, which wouldn't be good but
I just don't know. This has to be your call. Did he ask for a retainer?"

	"Not yet but I'm sure he will. Tom, I don't think they have enough
to go to trial. They've got to know that Steve's mother is lying and that's
really all the hard evidence they've got. I don't see how they can go into
court with just that."

	In the morning, Walter called Katz' office and arranged to see him
at four thirty that afternoon. The retainer was a mere five thousand
dollars, an amount Walter had available in his bank account. He wrote a
check.

	That was the day before O'Malley pulled his scam on Steve. Walter
didn't learn about it until the following Monday afternoon.


				-------------------------------------------



	Steve awakened on a curtain enclosed gurney. For a moment, he
thought he was dead, in some transitional place. Then he saw the
fluorescent fixture on the ceiling. He sat up to get off the bed but there
was a railing on each side. There was something wrong. Where was he?
Neither railing would go down when he pushed so he lifted his leg to climb
over it. That's when it all came rushing back into his mind. He fell back
onto the bed, his hands to each side of his head. He'd given away his
dad. They'd tricked him. The bastards! He should have seen through the
sergeant's lies. He should have known that Walter would never talk,
absolutely would never have blamed any of it on him. He tried to remember
the words he'd cried out when he thought Walter had confessed. What had he
said? What exactly were his words? Something about his father never
telling. What did those words mean? Could they really use them? He sat up
again trying to hear himself speak. All that came back was the agony. But
the sergeant had left after saying something about a place with
niggers. He'd gotten what he needed otherwise he'd have stayed to tell more
lies, ask more questions. Whatever Steve had said was sufficient to put his
dad in prison.

	A black nurse appeared at the foot of his bed. "How you feeling?"

	Steve worried he was already in the place the sergeant spoke
about. No, he was still at the hospital. He shook his head then realized
that didn't answer her question.

	"Steven? You okay?"

	After a brief physical check up by a doctor who didn't seem
interested in doing it, they took him back to Doctor Townsend.

	"Feeling better?"

	Steve didn't answer.

	"Look, son..."

	It was all Steve could do to keep from informing the hated doctor
he wasn't his son.

	"You should be relieved. Your ordeal is over. Monday or Tuesday
you'll be leaving here, probably for a group home until they can find you a
foster family. Try to look at this in a positive way. I know what the
sergeant did wasn't a very nice thing to do but it's going to work out for
you. You'll be receiving the help you need to get over what that man did to
you. You'll be back in school probably soon enough to recoup lost
time. You're certainly smart enough. I expect you'll go to college out of
high school. There are programs for kids like you. The future looks good
for you."

	Steve ignored the man, disgusted with his part in the terrible scam
that had been pulled.

	As he walked up to the ward gate, Steve noticed Hector sitting at a
table with two other boys. His friend looked up when the key turned in the
gate lock. Steve walked in slowly, Hector joined him.

	"Man, you look like shit. What happened?"

	Steve shook his head. He didn't want to talk about it and he was
aware that he wouldn't be able to talk about anything else. "Later. I gotta
lie down."

	Hector wasn't going to be denied that easily. He followed his
friend back into the hall, stopping in the doorway as no one was allowed in
a room that wasn't his. "They do somethin' to you?"

	Steve begged him to back off for a while. He was immersed in shame
for what he'd done, a shame that was not to be shared with anyone, not even
Hector who'd shared so much with him.

 	However, the respite Hector gave him was brief. Minutes after Steve
lay down, lunch was called. He wasn't hungry but no one was allowed to stay
in the ward during meals or yard so he had to get in line and go with the
others.

      He went straight to a table and sat down, his face down on his
arm. Hector brought an extra sandwich, milk and piece of peach pie in case
Steve developed hunger watching him eat.

      "You okay, man?" he asked again.

      "No."

      "You sick?"

      "No."

      "They fuck you over?" .

	"Something like that?"

	"Sorry, man. They mothafuckas."

	He offered Steve the food he brought. It was turned down.

	Hector left him alone. He ate the extra pie himself.

	In the yard, Steve went to the far fence and leaned against
it. Hector chased off another boy who wanted to see what was wrong. After a
while, he said, "It's cold, man, let's walk some. You ain't gotta say
nothin'. Anyways, I got somethin' ta tell you."

	The walked slowly one end to the other and back several times
during which Hector related what he'd found out from the two boys who, as a
matter of fact, had been making it with the attendant in exchange for
goodies from the cafeteria and, "Get this, man, phone calls. They been
talkin' to erebody they wants. You want, I'll tell `em to see if the man
wants anotha kid."

	Steve was too depressed to consider it though he knew he should.

	Hector let his silence pass until the third tack. "So what they do
to you, man? Was it the doc?"

	"No, a cop."

	"Oh shit. You din't tell `im nothin'?"

	Steve didn't respond. He'd let a cop trick him. He'd betrayed the
man who loved him. It was too embarrassing, too shameful to say out loud.

	Hector seemed to understand. "Don'feel so bad. They done it to me
once. The mothafuckas lie. We lie an' we bad. They lie an' it's okay. I
hate fuckin' cops."

	Steve asked, "How'd they do it to you?"

	"Mothafuckas said they had the guy bought the shit I stole an' he
tole `em it was me stole it an' I said the guy's name, you know, like `Sam
don't know shit' an' they was lyin' `cause they din't know who I sold it to
but then they did `cause he was only one, you know, Sam, it coulda been an'
he went to the slam. Erybody was pissed at me but I din't mean ta say
nothin'. The mothafuckas did a thing on me. Shit, I was only ten." He
looked up at Steve. "They gotta let you go now."

	"Shit, I'm going to a group home. Gonna be same as here."

	"Maybe, least you ain't gonna be locked in like heah. You can split
if you want. Jus' make sure you got someplace ta go."

	"Shit. Where'm I gonna go? Nobody I know will hide me and, well,
nobody."

	"They gotta let me out, well maybe, but if they do, I know some
places. Jus' gonna be weird some kid white as you with that hair a
yours. Ain't nobody where I live gots yellow hair like you."

	With Hector's admission, Steve felt the need to unload what he'd
done, maybe not all, but enough to maybe take away some of the pain he
felt. Walter had always said that talking about things helped deal with
them. Keeping problems penned up in one's mind, he counseled, prevented
solving or, to some extent, alleviating them. But that would be difficult
without admitting at least some part of what had been going on. If Hector
said anything to anyone, it might make matters worse for Walter.

	But, Hector had offered to harbor him, hide him from the
authorities, a crime all by itself. Still, he found the words too difficult
to say.

	Steve was hungry enough by dinner to eat most of what they
served. Hector explained to the boys who came to be read to that Steve was
sick so they'd have to wait until Saturday. By lights out, Steve was upset
with himself for not telling Hector something, perhaps the belly humping
and occasional received blow jobs. Admitting administering the fellatio or
taking Walter into his butt would probably only encourage Hector, horny boy
that he was, to seek access. Worse, if by chance he was to run and hide in
the South Bronx, that information might lead to disaster.

	Sleep provided short breaks from the thoughts of Walter in
prison. What could the man possibly think of a boy he had lovingly raised
doing such a terrible thing to him. Steve knew there'd be forgiveness but
it would be a deep wound that would take years to heal, if it ever did.


			----------------------------------------------


	The meeting was held in a pizza parlor not far from Battery
Park. City Councilman Turtan had called it. Present with him were New York
City Police Captain Max Wehrling from headquarters, Assistant District
Attorney Karen Savage, Human Services department head Felix Hanson and Fred
Martinson from State Senator Albright's office.

	Turtan asked Ms. Savage, "So what the kid said is enough to convict
this guy, even if he gets a really competent attorney?"

	"Depends a lot on how the boy's mother handles herself on the
stand. She really wants Stuyvesant burned at the stake. She'll need a lot
of prepping and someone needs to keep her straight until the trial."

	"Christ, she still managing to get crack in there? I thought we'd
controlled that." He looked at the policeman while he swilled diet soda.

	"It's hard," complained the cop. "We can't cut her off from
everybody or we'll lose her cooperation. She's gotta make the choice that
convicting this guy is important enough to stay clean for a while."

	Martinson asked, "Isn't there an amount of the drug we can keep her
on that satisfies her needs and keeps her head level enough not to screw up
on the stand?"

	Werhling replied, "I've asked a doc about that and he's putting
something together. We'll present it to Katherine and see if she'll go for
it."

	"What about the kid? We need anything else from him?" Harold Turtan
asked the Assistant D.A.

      "Not really. I don't think he'd give any more anyhow."

      "So what can we do with him so he can't cause us any problems?" he
asked the welfare agent.

      "We're looking for a placement but there's no way we can justify
putting him in a restrained situation like a detention or corrective
facility. Without the Senator's help, we never could have gotten him into
Trimble."

      Turtan finished off the last portion of pizza and said, "Can't we get
him out of state somewhere? Too far to make a normal phone call or
successfully run away, like Kenya or Indonesia?"

      Karen Savage smirked. Martinson crossed his arms over his chest and
looked at Fred Hanson who shrugged his shoulders then replied, "I can call
around. There are places that take in out of state cases but it's
complicated and has become expensive."

      "Well, I believe it's worth it, don't you? Let's get that fucking kid
out of our hair once and for all then, Karen, let's have our trial and get
this thing done with, okay?"


			-------------------------------------------------------


	By morning, Steve had prepared what he would tell Hector but
planned to wait until yard time in the afternoon. Unfortunately, it rained
and yard was cancelled. The need to unload overcame caution. He walked
Hector to an unoccupied window.  Hector had an idea what Steve wanted to
discuss.

	"This about the fag at the showers?"

	When Steve didn't get started, Hector said, "Don' worry. I ain'
gonna say nothin' to nobody."

	Steve took a deep breath, paused, then said, "I did something I
shouldn't have done. I didn't mean to do it. O'Malley lied to me, He made
me think Walter had told him everything. He even said one thing that was
right but he didn't know it. It wasn't, I mean, Walter didn't really do
that either but it, shit. I got real mad and said something like he'd never
tell which is the same thing as saying he told. `Cause I said that, they
can make him go to prison."

	Hector was pensive. Steve seemed unsure how to continue.

	Eventually, Hector asked, "What was he doing?"

 	Steve bowed his head and said something unintelligible.

	Hector leaned in closer. "Sex?"

	"Hmm hmm."

	"Man, if they gots him for that, he in some bad shit."

	"I know."

	"Stupid gringos. It's like me and Sergio. We both liked it. Shit,
he wanted to do it but now they wanna put me in a place like
this. Pendejo."

	"But it's my fault he's in trouble."

	"Hey, man, he wanted to do it too and he knew it was bad shit if he
got jammed up `cause a it."

	"No. You don't understand. I, when I was seven, I kinda started
it. He didn't wanna but I kept doin' it so he let me."

	"What was you doin'? Suckin `im or what?"

	"No, not that. I'd lay on his stomach and move around like I was
fucking."

	"Shit. That all?"

	"No. A couple years later, three, when I heard the other kids
talking about it, I asked him to suck me. He didn't want to but he did
because I asked him. See, it's all my fault. He didn't even like sex."

	"Din't he have no wife or nothing'?"

	"No."

	"Din't have no girl friends?"

	"No."

	"He's gotta be a fag, then, like Sergio."

	"But he never wanted to do any sex unless I asked."

	"Tha' don' mean nothin'. If he ain' gots a woman, an' he was
suckin' your dick, I'm bettin' he's a fag."

      "Okay, so maybe he is but that doesn't make him bad. Anyhow, he was
the best father a kid could ever have. We did all kinds of things together
like he took me to Disney World twice. Every year, couple times a year, we
went to this lake up in the mountains. He walked me to school every day
from kindergarten up until seventh grade. I could talk to him any time I
wanted," Tears were forming in Steve's eyes. "He really loved me, a lot. I
miss him so much." He tried breathing heavily to control the rising sobs.

      Hector looked around to see if anyone was watching then patted Steve
on the back.

	Hector dragged Steve to the showers. The hot water did
help. Without thinking about it, he stood in the shower and manipulated his
cock, just as the black boy had done the afternoon after Luke's suicide.

	Hector moved close to him and said, "That man's looking right at
you. I'll be he gots a hard on."\

	Steve glanced toward the man. His eyes were on Steve's groin. He
didn't see Steve looking at him for a moment then turned away toward the
locker room.

	Steve said to Hector, "Tell the others to tell him he can have me
today but it's gotta be now. He only works one day weekends so he won't be
here tomorrow and they might take me out of here Monday. He can do whatever
he wants but its gotta be today."

	"Cept fuck, right?"

	"Anything he wants, but he's gotta let me use his cell phone for a
while."

	"Shit, man. What if he gots a big one?"

	"C'mon, Hector. This is important. It might be my only chance to
talk to my dad."

	Hector went to one of the others, a near adolescent with hair on
his groin and a changing voice. The attendant leaned back against the
shower opening and watched. Hector came back. Steve hadn't seen any signs
on the part of the man.

	"He says when you go out the locker room, go left instead of right
and follow him. Don' let `im fuck you, man."

	"If that's what I have to do for the telephone, I'll do it."

	The water was turned off. Everyone walked to the end of the room
where the towels were piled on benches. The man tossed him one with a
slight smile. Steve kept his eye on the Latino boy. He acted as always,
drying off and going to the locker room where fresh clothing awaited
everyone. Once dressed, with Steve one boy behind, he walked out with the
rest but turned left down the hallway. No one seemed to notice. Steve
tailed him as casually as he could.

	A sign said `Boiler Room'. The boy turned away from it down another
hall but stepped into a room a few yards ahead. As Steve passed through the
door, he heard footsteps from where he'd come. Inside were electrical
panels, a large metal closet and a work bench with a press and shelves with
tools and electrical materials. Rolls of cable hung on the wall.

	The shower room attendant came in and said, "You're Steve
Mulrooney, aren't you."

	"Así es." said the Latino.

	The man jumped up and sat on the bench. "You don't gotta do nothin'
if you don' want to. You're supposed to be helping clean up the locker room
but there ain't much to clean." The man spoke with an accent that wasn't
New York. Steve had never heard anyone speak like him before. "I'm
Barney. You like sex, huh?" He was smiling and sounded friendly.

      Steve felt no threat. He shrugged, "Sure. But I need to use a
telephone."

      The Latino boy pushed off his slippers with opposite feet then undid
the cord and dropped his pajama bottoms. He stepped close to Steve and
motioned for him to get undressed.

      "What're we gonna do," he asked the boy.

      "Mariano don't speak English. You two do sex an' I stay over
here. Mariano, traiga la chamarra." He said to the other boy.

      Mariano patted Steve on the back and went to and behind the large
closet. Steve unbuttoned his pajama top and stepped out of his
slippers. Mariano pulled an Army blanket out, walked to the middle of the
room and tossed open the blanket. It floated gently to the floor. Mariano
hopped onto the middle of it and took off his pajama top. Steve removed his
and let drop the bottoms. Mariano, with an ass wiggle, slid down his boxers
displaying about five inches of hard brown penis. Grinning, he motioned
Steve to him then sat down. Steve took off his briefs and sat down beside
him.

      Mariano pursed his lips and pointed to Steve then himself. He held
out his arms. Steve walked on his knees and leaned in. Mariano took him by
the upper arms and pulled them together. Steve let himself be
guided. Mariano turned his head slightly and opened his mouth. Steve knew
what he wanted and met lips to lips. The other boy's tongue went into
Steve's mouth and over his. The kissing was as passionate as any of Steve's
with Walter.

      One of Mariano's hands took hold of Steve's flaccid cock. A few
manipulations and it grew. The Latino let go of the cock and pulled one of
Steve's hands to his. It was very hard, smooth and warm. All the while
keeping their mouths together, turning his head side to side and sucking on
Steve's tongue and lips, Mariano ran his hands over Steve's back, sides and
abdomen. Steve was unsure if this was a show or Mariano liked it. He was
very good.

      Mariano let go of Steve's mouth and looked him in the eyes. Slowly,
he lay back, pulling Steve with him, pressing Steve's face into his
chest. Steve wasn't sure what to do. He looked up. Mariano made a licking
motion and nodded toward his middle. Steve licked the smooth flesh. Mariano
nudged his head down. Steve understood he was to suck the boy's cock and
was quite willing to do so. He took the cock in and went down to the
bottom, his lips touching the short, fluffy black pubic hairs. It reminded
him of Walter's even though it was smaller. He looked up at Mariano. The
teen touched his face then pulled his chin up and pushed his head
down. Steve got to work. He knew how to do this well. He used his tongue
and lips and he slid up and down the gorged penis. Mariano caressed Steve's
cheeks and hair.

      Steve heard the clink of a belt opening. He felt sure the man was
going to take him at his word and fuck him. Steve hoped it wouldn't hurt
too much. A fly was unzipped and pants pushed down. Steve closed his eyes
and concentrated on what he was doing. Then Mariano stopped him. When Steve
looked, he had a tube of KY lubricant in his hand. It was something his dad
bought but they never got around to using. It did, however, confirm to
Steve that his dad enjoyed fucking his boy.

      Mariano pushed Steve off to one side and pulled him onto his
stomach. Steve looked back for Barney expecting to see him standing over
the two of them with a very hard cock. But, he wasn't there. Barney was
still sitting on the bench, slowly beating off. He nodded toward Mariano
who was on his knees applying a generous amount of gel to the top of his
cock.

      The entry was slow and painless. Once inside, Mariano lay full on
Steve. He turned Steve's face to one side and kissed his cheek. The fucking
was slow and deep, each thrust as far inside as he could go, each massaging
Steve's prostate.

      The whack, whack, whack of the masturbation behind him became faster
and louder. Mariano drove in harder and harder but no faster. Sometimes
he'd ram inside and hold it there, rolling his hips from side to side
before withdrawing to the tip and pushing back in. Steve's cock was stiff
and excited as Mariano's.

      The sounds behind them stopped. Barney said, "Whoa, that was
good. Apurete, Mariano."

      Mariano didn't take much longer. He never sped up, just fucked
harder, bouncing Steve forward on the blanket. Mariano bit him lightly on
the shoulder and rammed in so far the top of his ball sack nearly
entered. Steve felt the squirts of sperm shoot through Mariano's cock on
their way to his colon. He pumped into the blanket. It moved Mariano's dick
around inside of him, pushing it from one side to the other of his
prostate. In seconds, he had his own orgasm. Mariano must have felt it
because he said, "Tambien" which Steve later learned meant `also'.

      Mariano relaxed on top of Steve and kissed the shoulder he'd bitten.

	When Mariano finally pulled out, Barney was ready with a roll of
paper towels. "Just put on your outer clothes. You can shower again quick
so nobody smells nothin'." He pulled a cell phone out of his pocket and
held it up.

	Steve dressed quickly and took it. A great anticipation welling
inside him, he dialed the apartment number. It rang once, twice, three
times. On the fifth ring, an answering machine came on. Walter's voice said
to leave a message. Steve hesitated. What if someone else were to listen to
the machine. But there was no way he could stop from saying, "Dad. I'm in
Trimble State Hospital. They're sending me somewhere else next week. I'll
try to call. I love you. I love you." He reluctantly hit the off key.

	Barney said, "Wanna try somebody else?"

 	Steve punched in Garretson's number. The policeman answered on the
third ring. "Uncle Tom?"

	"Steve! Jesus, Steve. Where are you?"

	"I'm in Trimble State Hospital but they're moving me out next
week. Where's my father?"

	"In the apartment, I suppose. You try there?"

	"I got a machine."

	"Are you okay?"

	He turned away from Barney and Mariano. "I said something
bad. Sergeant O'Malley told me dad confessed and I said something," He
choked up. "I said something like `he wouldn't tell'. I'm sorry."

	Garretson interrupted. "Steve, Steve, it wasn't your fault."

	Steve began to cry.

	"Steve, take it easy. Walter will understand. I'll tell him what
O'Malley's like and it might not be all that bad."

	"Tell daddy I love him and I'm sorry."

	"He knows that and he loves you too but, don't worry, I'll tell
him. Is there a safe number where he can call you?"

	Steve turned to Barney but he'd left the room. "I don't think so
but I'll try to call again Monday if I'm still here. And tell Daddy I won't
say anything to anybody else. They can't fool me again. I won't let them."

	Barney stuck his head in the door and tapped on his watch.

	Garretson said, "Just don't get in any trouble. Do what they tell
you. Obey the rules and be patient. This might take a long time."

	I've got to go. I'll try to call Monday around this time. Tell
Daddy I love him."

	The shower wasn't nearly as refreshing as having spoken to someone
who cared about him. As they dressed, Mariano ran his fingers across his
lips. Steve put his hand over his mouth and nodded. Mariano leaned over and
kissed his cheek. There were no sweets from the cafeteria. Steve figured
Mariano had gotten what he'd wanted. Barney was just weird.

	Hector wanted to know what he'd done. Steve answered, "I promised
not to say anything to anybody but it wasn't that much and I talked to a
policeman friend of ours. He said my father's not in jail. I told Barney I
want to do it again Monday if I'm still here."

	Hector asked, "You think he give me a blow job too? He don' have ta
give me nothin'. "

	"Ask him."

	Mariano didn't look his way at dinner even though Steve and Hector
sat at the same table.

	Feeling somewhat renewed, Steve read another chapter of `White
Fang' to everyone.

	Sunday was like any other. There was even a fight but this time
between two black kids. The Latinos became happy spectators.


			-------------------------------------


	At eleven fifteen Monday morning, Harold Wooten was called into the
office of Fred Hanson. He'd seen him on an elevator once and on television
a few times but never spoken to the man. Promotion was on his mind when
Hanson's secretary ushered him into the man's office.

	"Mr. Wooten, please sit down."

	The chair was plush, comfortable. Wooten smiled back.

	"We've made arrangements for a boy you have to be placed in the
Livingston Boy's Ranch in Idaho and I'd like for you to take him
there. You'll be flying out this afternoon from Kennedy. You'll be met at
the airport and housed for the night at the facility."

	Wooten was doubly disappointed, first since there was not to be a
more prestigious post but also because he was sure the boy was Steve
Mulrooney, a victim being treated like a perpetrator. To be sure, he had
been uncooperative but he was just twelve and probably very confused.

	"You don't approve?"

	"Sir, I assume we're talking about Steven Mulrooney, am I correct?"

	"So?"

      "Why is this boy being treated this way. He..."

	"Mr. Wooten, you know how recalcitrant this lad has been. Our
concern is that if left here, he might try to go right back to that man who
abused him and you know where that might lead. No, this is the best
way. Livingston has an excellent educational program suitable for a boy
with such high intelligence. I've spoken directly with the man in charge
and he promised to watch out for the boy personally.

	"Now, I know this trip might be an inconvenience for you but,
believe me, I won't forget your cooperation on this matter. You're on a
couple of promotion lists, you know."

	Wooten left the office with plane tickets and a manila envelope
with Steve's paperwork. There were four hours until their flight and he
needed to think so he drove to a restaurant on South Broadway for an early
lunch.

	As he waited for his food, he called Aretha Washington, his niece
who'd been Steve's case worker. He told her what had gone on over the past
several days and what he was then supposed to do. A month before, when he'd
seen her name in the file as Steve's BCS social worker, he'd arranged for
them to meet at his home. At the time, Aretha was convinced that Walter had
been `abusing' his foster son. Wooten, who had all the same information in
the thick file on the case had argued, "Aretha, have you stepped back and
looked at the whole story, the whole situation? In the first place, from
all I've read, and now that I've met the boy, there doesn't seem to be any
evidence for any kind of problem, no instability, difficulty with others,
nothing. This stuff they were giving him about classmates saying he was
bothered by something should have elicited some kind of reaction, something
to indicate there was a problem but it didn't. Your interview with the
mother, and please don't take this wrong, wasn't well done."

	Aretha had sat straighter in the sofa as though she was going to
object but her uncle had held up his hand. "This isn't meant to be
critical. You've never dealt with someone like this woman. People like her
are skilled manipulators who can pick up on what an interviewer is looking
for and what they can get out of it and have a story up and ready to go mid
question. You, unintentionally, told her what you suspected and, seeing an
opportunity to advance her own goals, she picked up on it immediately.

	"If I read the police reports correctly, I don't think the woman
ever had to opportunity to see what she claimed to have seen. She claims to
have at least twice caught Stuyvesant molesting her child but there was
only one time when she could possibly have done that and, considering the
late hour, the man's story that both were asleep rings very likely. Apart
from that, had he been awake and with the boy's pants down, he'd have heard
her enter and, considering the distance from the door to the bedroom, would
have had plenty of time to get the pants back up. And, like I said, based
on police reports and the testimony of the super at the man's apartment
building where he lived then, she never went there when the boy was inside
the man's apartment, just one time to drop him off. No, everything she said
about seeing the man molesting her son is a flat out lie, pure and simple.

	"Now, you put that together with the boy's absolutely normal
behavior in school and out and there were no legitimate grounds on which to
start any investigation. Okay, the affection between the two might raised
some eyebrows but when you look at their history, well, that still doesn't
come up to what's been done. The primary school counselor who made the
initial report even admits in her report that she never spoke with the boy
nor anyone else about her suspicions. Had she, none of this might have
happened.

      "The bottom line is that I believe, having been in this line of work
for almost fifteen years, that certain individuals are unwilling to admit
their mistakes and are perfectly willing to sacrifice this very promising
young boy to protect their own egos. I just hope you are not one of them."

	"You don't think it strange that a foster boy is making all
hundred's on his exams. At the very least, this man, who was at least
overprotecting him if not over controlling him..."

	"Aretha, read the primary school reports. The kid was out daily
playing with friends, something controlled kids don't often have many of,
going off on long trips he seemed to enjoy with his foster father. This
doesn't sound like an over controlled child to me, more like one who's had
doors opened for him. Nah, he was obviously well adjusted and happy, and
ambitious.

	"His negative attitudes toward school personnel, especially that
Dr. Perlman, were entirely understandable. They were obviously attacking
the man who'd saved him from a savage woman who, along with her murdering
boyfriend, beat him senseless enough that it turned him into an
epileptic. The man was a wonderful father. You see what the police sergeant
called him, the ultimate good Samaritan? I wish we had a few thousand guys
like that to take in all the sad kids we have in those lousy group homes
we're forced to stick them in.

	"Now, I want you to go home, or stay here if you want, and re-read
all, and I mean all, of the reports."

	Her transition to Wooten's point of view had been slow but, in the
end, though without admitting any mistakes on her part did agree that the
evidence of any `sexual improprieties', as she put it, wasn't there. It
took additional persuasion from her uncle for her to accept that `a great
injustice is being perpetrated on a loving father and son'.

	So, he was speaking to the choir when he told his niece that
"Taking that boy of of state, away from any possibility of a reunion with
his foster dad is wrong and we both know it."

      " Didn't you explain what's been going on to Mr. Hanson?" she asked.

	"He wouldn't let me. Just gave me some bull about protecting Steve
from himself and what a great school they have at this place. He even
offered me, indirectly, a promotion for doing this." He paused, then, "Look
at what's happened: juvenile detention, Trimble and now this. This boy or
Walter Suyvesant has stepped on someone's toes. I'm sure they know the
boy's mother is lying and I'd sure like to hear the boy's
confession. Supposedly it's on tape. I'll bet it's a lot less than what
they claim and the result of some kind of intimidation or cop trick."

	"I think you're right, Uncle Byron, but you have to do what they
say. Who knows how high this goes. You don't take him and you'll be on the
street with me again, or looking for a job."

	That was their final decision. He had no choice. He had to go but
they promised each other to keep an eye on the case to see if there was any
way they could help the child without losing their jobs. Aretha added,
"Actually, I'm seeing a lot of things that bother me, not just
this. Another year and I'll have my M.S.W. Then, screw them!"

	"Don't forget the letter of recommendation you're going to need for
your next position."

	"Maybe I should consider selling cosmetics."


			-------------------------------------------------


	Steve worried all morning Monday his name would be called out to
leave but it didn't happen. Lunch passed by, then yard. Hector accompanied
him.

	"Don' worry none," he said, "they ain't gonna move you for days."

	Less than ten minutes later, Steve's name was called. He also
didn't believe the move would come so fast but worried whatever he was
being called for would detain him past the four o'clock shower call.

	Just inside the yard gate was Mr. Wooten. "You're out of here," he
announced with a smile. It's not what either of us wants but it's a heck of
a lot better than here.." He noticed the depressed look on Steve's
face. "What's wrong? You want to get out of here, don't you?"

	No viable answer occurred to Steve. But, he did have an idea. "Can
I say goodbye to my friend?"

	The social worker looked at his watch. "Oh, go ahead. Just don't be
too long. We're late already but that's my fault, not yours."

	"Thanks," said Steve as he ran back to Hector.

	"They gonna take you now?"

	"Yeah. I gotta big favor to ask. I'm gonna tell you my father's
telephone number. Give it to Mariano so he can call my father. I'm gonna
try to find out where they're taking me. If I can, I'll leave a note inside
your room. And tell Mariano to tell him, his name's Walter, that I'll call
him as soon as I can." He thought to add that he loved him but figured that
might be too much emotion for these hard Latinos. He repeated the phone
number three times. Hector repeated it and promised to keep doing so until
he was inside and could write it down. "Don't let anybody else have it. It
could be a big problem."

	Hector asked, "What they do down there? Maybe I can go and do it."

	"More than you'll like."

	"I can try it."

	"Mariano fucked me."

	"Oh shit. That hurt?"

	"No, but I'm bigger than you."

	"Mariano, not that man?"

	"Mariano, but you've seen how big he is."

	"He not all that big. An' he might fuck up the number or say the
wrong thing. He don't speak a lot a English, almost none. I'm gonna do
it. Anyway, I gots somebody I wanna call too. Ain' gonna hurt that much."

	"Mariano won't say anything to the others?"

	"Shit, no. They call him a fag if he do."

	Steve tried to hug him. Hector pushed him back and offered his
hand. "Shit, man. You can't do shit like that in heah. I see you on the
streets. Say that number again."

	Steve said it twice. Hector repeated it several times.

	Steve told Mr. Wooten he had a couple of things in the ward. "Where
are you taking me?"

	"It's called Livingston Boy's Ranch. We're gonna fly there. Got the
tickets right here." He tapped the left side of his jacket.

	The kids in the detention center and the hospital had mentioned a
lot of homes but never that one. He asked where it was.

	"Get your stuff. I'll tell you what I know on the way."

	Wooten waited in the nurse's office while Steve went to his
room. He grabbed a green crayon off a table then a scrap of paper off the
floor on the way. He wrote the name of the home then a large question mark
and `going by airplane' He walked by Hector's room and pushed it under the
door.

	They went to the storage room and picked up Steve's school clothes.

	In the car, wearing a coat the social worker had brought along for
him, Steve heard Idaho. It sent a chill up his spine. "Idaho? Why am I
going way out there?"

	"Steve, there's nothing available in this area right now and this
place has a school program for bright kids like you."







































Chapter 16


After a plane change in Salt Lake City, they landed in Boise at ten
thirty. A middle aged man wearing a cowboy hat and boots greeted them as
they came out of the baggage area.

	"You two weren't hard to spot," he said with a grin.

	The drive took over two hours. It was too dark to see anything
other than the two lane road and the lines in the middle. Steve quickly
fell asleep missing most of the eighty and ninety mile an hour ride. They
were housed in a one story log cabin like cottage with `Guest House' carved
into a rustic sign hanging over the wood stairs. It smelled of disinfectant
and mold inside.

	Steve lay in bed feeling more imprisoned than ever. He was over two
thousand miles from his dad. Communication would be very difficult. Even if
Hector went through with the sexual encounter and got the message to
Walter, it would be difficult if not impossible for the two to communicate
much less actually see each other. He wasn't sure cell phones would work in
a location as remote as he figured they were in. Any regular telephone he
used would be owned by the home. A record of the call would show up on the
next monthly bill. Running away was likely impossible. Best he knew, he was
a two hour drive from the nearest city. He'd certainly be picked up or
turned in before he could get there. Even if he did, what would he do then?

	Still, there had to be some way to gain access to a telephone that
would allow him to make a long distance call.

	In the morning, they were awakened by a gentle knock on their
bedroom doors. When Steve opened up, a small blond haired boy in a cowboy
suit, eight or nine years old, told him breakfast would be served in twenty
minutes.

	Stepping out the door of the cottage was a sight Steve had only
seen in magazines and the internet. In front of him were the Rocky
Mountains. Across a wide expanse of rolling land were steep forested hills
rising to mountain peaks, some snow covered. It was the end of
November. The air was cold enough for snow.

	Between Steve and the mountains and stretching out to his left up a
long gradual incline were a number of one and two story buildings, what
looked like a huge gymnasium, sports fields for football and baseball and
at the top, a large church with a steeple which must have been five stories
high. Everything was either brick or wood. Concrete paths linked all the
structures.

	The dining hall was immense. Steve calculated there were at several
hundred boys all wearing similar western outfits at the countless long wood
tables. Mr. Wooten was seated at an exclusively adult table at one end of
the hall. Steve was taken to the middle where kids his age waited to be
served.

	A teen went to the front and read grace over a microphone. Most of
the boys said it along with him, but not all. Several at Steve's table
bowed their heads but kept their mouths shut.

      Breakfast was fried eggs, beans, rolls, and fruit juice. The
conversation was about school that day, a rabbit hit by a jeep, why one boy
was a chump and something about new socks. Two of the boys acknowledged
Steve's presence with a nod but he was not spoken to much less noticed by
the rest.

      The boys' ages ranged from about six to near adult. The racial makeup
was considerably different than what Steve had experienced in New York. The
majority were white but there was a fair percentage of black, Latino and
even a few orientals. Blonde hair like his abounded among the whites.

      After eating, they were taken outside and across the compound to a
broad single story cottage with another carved sign over the three entry
steps announcing `Administration'.

	The director was a leather faced older man with squinty eyes
wearing a conservative and well fitted cowboy outfit over a trim, flat
bellied body. He sported a near pure white crew cut. Steve guessed him to
be in his seventies. A stuffed bald eagle graced one corner of his Western
style, leather topped desk.  Three cowboy hats hung from the antlers of a
decapitated deer on the wall behind him. There were photos of the man on
horseback holding a large rifle, another posed beside a large dead brown
bear and a larger one surrounded by thirty or so teen age boys wearing
football uniforms. One held a large trophy over his head.

      "Howdy there, young Steven," he said with a pronounced Western
drawl. "I'm Tom Brinkley. We're glad to have you with us. I'm told you're a
smart one so we're gonna test you and see what kind of school program'll
work out best for you. You're in seventh grade, right?" He was reading the
papers in the file the social worker had handed him.

	"Yes, sir."

	"Doggone! All hundreds in your final exams last year. You might be
smarter than some of our teachers," he remarked with a smile at Mr. Wooten.

	Before the morning was over, Steve was interviewed by a
psychologist and a social worker, given a complete physical exam by a
doctor, in briefs the entire time, and a series of academic tests. At no
time was there the slightest reference to anything sexual.

      After filling out a form that requested his sports and outdoor
interests, abilities and experience, he was taken to the `Supply House' to
be issued his uniforms, underwear, shoes, boots, coat and hat. Uniform is
probably a harsh word for his cowboy shirts and jeans and khakis but that's
what everyone else was wearing, even the staff. There were, he soon found
out, some variations in colors depending on one's age.

	A tall boy who described himself as a mentor took Steve to his
`cabin' which turned out to be a large two story building which, he was
told, held four groups of twenty-four boys each of similar age. Each group
area had twelve small rooms for two boys each. The rooms had bunk beds,
side by side desks and up and down closets. Steve was assigned to an upper
bunk and closet section. His group leader would see him later to tell him
"how things run around here".

	Lunch was soup and peanut butter and jelly sandwiches though there
was not much inside the slices. Milk was served out of pitchers. Two boys
from each group did the serving and collected dishes afterward.

	Rather than intermediate and high school grading of New York City,
Livingston used the older junior and senior high school system which put
Steve in the first year of junior high. A single large two story building
housed both. Steve's home room teacher took him to see a number of large,
bright classrooms, science, language and computer laboratories, a library,
and an auditorium that looked able to seat several hundred people. There
was a large gym along side with locker rooms, showers and equipment rooms.

	At one point, the teacher said, "I've read your academic history
and saw your tests during lunch. You're already ahead of most of my
students, maybe all of them."

	His first class was math. The teacher was a young woman who had
difficulty bringing the class to order. Steve and another boy were the only
ones to raise their hands when questions were asked. There was an undertone
of snickering that came and went depending on whether they were supposed to
be doing problems or not.


			-------------------------------------------


	Walter met with his new attorney at a quarter to five that Tuesday
afternoon. He already knew something of the news he'd be receiving. A boy
had called him the afternoon before. He also gave him the name of the home
where Steve had been sent. He'd found it on the internet and was already
trying to figure out how he might be able to communicate with his foster
son. Among the reasons the website stated for not admitting a boy was
sexual problems. Either the New York authorities hadn't sent complete
information or influence or pressure had been brought to bear.

	Byron Katz said, "I bumped into the assistant D.A. for your case
this morning. Apparently Steve Mulrooney is saying there was sexual
activity with you. They have it on tape. She's offering a deal that will
avoid forcing the boy to testify although she said the tape would probably
be enough."

	"I can't imagine what he could have said. We never did
anything. I'm not interested in any deals. I'm innocent."

	The attorney ran his fingers through his hair. "Look,
Mr. Stuyvesant, we go to trial and lose, you're facing most of the rest of
your life in prison. Miss Savage is offering ten to fifteen years meaning
you could be out in six or seven. You really should think about this. They
have the mother's testimony, Steven's, psychologists, school counselors and
I expect another couple of expert witnesses not to mention the photos of
you two kissing."

	"Christ, he was kissing me on the cheek. That was it. His mother is
lying. You shouldn't have any trouble taking whatever she says apart. Plus,
she's a murderess who tried to kill me and ran a high priced whore
house. She beat her son until he had epilepsy then dumped him on me leaving
a fake phone number behind.

	"I have a hard time believing Steve said we were having sex unless
they somehow forced him to say it.

	"No deals. We're going to trial."


			------------------------------------------------------


	After school, the boys were sent back to their rooms to change into
jeans, flannel shirts, play shoes and jackets. Steve along with his group
ran out to a football field to play a game of touch with another group from
their building. Steve was put onto the offensive line where he failed to
block very well and was quickly replaced. That failure immediately
relegated him to a low place on the social pecking order, a disappointment
to his jock roommate. He hardly spoke to Steve the rest of the day and
evening.

	After the sports debacle, they returned for a quick
shower. Everyone wore their briefs and pushed their hands inside to wash
what was inside them. Steve had nearly walked out of his room naked when
his roommate had derisively told him to `cover' himself.

      There were eight shower heads for twenty-four boys. Steve had to wait
in a corner with a few others while the bigger and more aggressive showered
first.

      Though there didn't seem to be any particular animus due to his
quickly attained low social status, Steve did feel isolated. Though he
didn't sense any derision nor did anyone speak to him in the crowded
shower. His presence was merely ignored. The situation in the group's
lounge was similar. About a dozen and a half boys were in the room when he
entered, sitting around one of the three wooden 6 chair tables or in one of
the four upholstered chairs, playing a few board games, chatting quietly,
reading in two cases, or just staring off into space in two others. The
décor was western with a wagon wheel ceiling light fixture and photos of
cowboys and wildlife on the plastered light brown walls. Four horseshoes
hung over the doorway.

      Steve stood by a window for a few moments listening to the others
speak. There were accents he'd heard only on television, not southern but
close, cowboy? Two black boys sitting nearby sounded more familiar, like
some of those in his school but not as pronounced as those in the juvenile
lockup, without curse words. The grammar varied but tended toward not so
much street but certainly the incorrect usage of many of his schoolmates.

      On the single six foot tall wood bookshelf, he found not one, but
three copies of London's `White Fang'. The only seats available were at
tables with at least four boys playing or talking so Steve took his book
back to his room where, when he sat at his desk, noticed a `3rd Grade' on
the reader on his roommate's.

	Their group leader, a well built young man in a turtle neck sweater
who'd worn a Texas A&M sweat shirt for the afternoon's game, stopped
briefly by the room and introduced himself as Steve Thurman. "Don't worry
about names. You all have to call me Mr. Thurman so there won't be any
confusion. Come knock on my door after dinner and I'll explain the rules
and everything."

	Dinner was a bit more pleasant because a small boy named Wesley
Hinton asked him why he hadn't seen him in school.

	"What grade are you in?" asked Steve.

	"Fourth," answered the boy.

	"'Cause I'm in junior high."

	Wesley's grey eyes opened wide. "Junior high? How old are you?"

	"Twelve."

	"So am I. How come you're in junior high?"

	"Well, I entered first grade at six and never failed."

	"Wow, ain't nobody in our group more'n fifth grade. Buddy know
that?"

	"I don't know. He doesn't talk to me."

	The boy laughed showing off dimples on both sides of his broad
mouth. "That's `cause you didn't block for nothin' in the game. He hates to
lose and they beat us again."

	"Again?"

	"Yeah. Section C done beat us four times in a row. Wudn't as bad
this time as Friday. That was really bad, forty-two to nothin'. Bad."

	"What was it today?"

	"Didn't you watch? 28-14. Don't let Buddy know you don't know that?
That'll really tick him off."

	Steve noticed he hadn't heard a single cuss word, not even a
`damn', since he'd been there.

	Mr. Thurman gave Steve a booklet with the name of the place and
`Rules and Regulations' printed on the front. "It's just common sense stuff
like what time we get up, eat, go to bed, school hours and all that. And
there's other stuff. Just read it and if you got any questions, just ask
me.

	"How're you getting along with Buddy?"

	"Okay, I suppose. He hasn't talked to me yet."

	Thurman had the same reaction to his answer as had Wesley, a
laugh. "That's just Buddy. He'll probably be friendlier tomorrow. Ask him
to teach you how to block. He'll like that."

	The booklet had eighty-six rules including no smoking, drinking or
`cursing'. Fights were to be settled in the boxing ring. Homework had to be
completed after dinner before leaving one's room. No one was to leave the
area of the home without permission from his group leader. Rooms were to be
cleaned daily and beds made before going to breakfast. Boys washed and
dried their own clothes and bed covers in the machines on the first
floor. With the exception of going to the showers in briefs and that with a
towel wrapped around one's waist, at least pants or shorts were to be worn
at all times outside one's room. Sexual activity of any kind, specifically
including masturbation, was punishable with expulsion. The list seemed
interminable and covered everything one did from waking through lights out
and, considering the sexual prohibitions, all night.

	Steve went back to the sexual activity prohibition. He doubted all
the boys obeyed it at least with regard to masturbation. Whenever he knew
the facts about a boy in his school, beating off was as much a part of his
daily activities as brushing his teeth. And, he wondered how many would
feel threatened by expulsion? Was the place that great to live in?

	Buddy did say, `Good night' before turning off the light at nine
thirty.

	Steve went to sleep thinking about the staff members he'd met that
day hoping he'd find one with a cell phone he could convince to let him
call New York. None seemed promising.

	Nothing during the rest of the week changed Steve's feelings of not
being accepted by the majority of his group or his classmates. The
exceptions were like Wesley Hinton and three others who appeared to inhabit
the same lower social class.

	One, Calvin Dunker, a slim smaller boy who looked more Spanish than
his name suggested, was slightly effeminate though he tried to hide it by
walking very upright and keeping his hands in his pockets. Speaking like
the rest was more difficult. In class, he spoke slowly, deliberately. But
socially, he relaxed and out came the giveaway speech. What caught Steve's
attention was Calvin nestled in a corner of the lounge reading a book, an
unusual pastime among the majority athletic types. Calvin's roommate was
another jock, which, surmised Steve, caused him to seek peace elsewhere.

	Then there was tall, gangly Leonard While. Wesley told him that
Leonard was the son of a well-to-do family in Boise, rumored to be donors
to the home, who had put him in a military boarding school in hopes of
turning their sweet, inoffensive son into a warrior. Failing that, a friend
of the boy's father suggested Livingston where Leonard had been since
September and was the last chosen in all sports activities.

      Friday after dinner and math homework, Steve knocked off forty-two
pushups. When Buddy had asked why he was doing it, he told him about his
years in the gym with his foster father. Buddy didn't act impressed.

	Saturday morning, there was a dusting of snow on the
ground. Nonetheless, Steve followed Mr. Thurman's suggestion and asked
Buddy to teach him the proper way to block.

	"We gotta do chores. Maybe later," was the cool reaction to Steve's
request.

	Chores consisted of janitorial work throughout the compound. Steve
was assigned to the laundry room which meant cleaning walls, floor, windows
and machines, inside and out. It took all morning though mostly because
Mr. Thurman consistently found spots that had yet to be done properly. A
shower was necessary when he was finally informed the job was complete.

	With lunch only twenty minutes off, Steve lay on his bunk and
read. Saturday lunch, it turned out, was less formal than during the
week. Very few adults were around and kids sat pretty much where they
pleased. Wesley found Steve. He offered after lunch to show him around the
grounds since they had the afternoon free.

	After football and baseball fields, Wesley took Steve to the huge
gym, a facility large enough for two side by side basketball courts with
the roll back bleachers against the wall. At least a hundred boys and young
group leaders were inside, loudly playing three half court basketball and
one volleyball games or tossing footballs back and forth near the large
entry area. Extending out from the back end was a large exercise room with
A large group working out with weights or other strength building devices.

	Wesley explained, "Anybody can go in there Saturdays and Sundays
after church. Wanna?"

      Steve headed straight to the exercise area and pull up bar on a side
wall where he managed twenty-two, well off his high of forty-one a couple
of months before. He followed that with other exercises taking off his
shirt midway through due to the sweat building up. Wesley tried the same
devises but had a hard time doing one of each. He too took off his shirt
probably since most of the others near them had done the same. The gym was
warm.

	Sunday became a problem. Someone had written `Christian' on Steve's
intake form even though he'd answered `none' when asked what religion he
preferred. Mr. Thurman told him he was to go to the Protestant service at
nine thirty.

	"I don't go to church, sir."

	"Steve, old buddy, everybody goes to church here. You're listed as
a Christian, right?"

	"No, sir. I'm not."

	"Then what are you?"

	"Nothing, sir. I don't believe in religions."

	"You believe in god, don't you?" he asked with a smile.

	"Please, sir, that's a private thing."

	That strained Thurman's happy face. "Look, everybody goes to
church, either Protestant or Catholic. That's the way it is. Which one do
you want to go to?"

	Steve knew not to fight. "Whichever one you say, sir." The sir was
forced.

	"Steve, I can't choose your religion for you. You have to tell me."

	Steve wanted to ask which was the shortest but remembered that
Catholic Mass ran about half an hour as opposed to hour or longer
Protestant service. And, he wouldn't have to sing. "Catholic."

	"He had to rush through snowfall to make it to the eight-thirty
mass. The Catholic chapel was at one end of the administration
building. The big church at the top of the grounds was for Protestant
Christians. Steve took a seat in the back of the large chapel and followed
the example of the fifty or so boys in front of him regarding standing,
sitting and kneeling. Only one adult, a group leader unrecognizable from
behind, was among the worshippers. Steve was the only one not receiving
communion but no one seemed to mind

	Monday afternoon, Mr. Thurman informed Steve that his things had
been moved to another room. He quickly figured what had happened. Buddy
wanted another jock for a roommate and Steve didn't fit. What he didn't
expect was to be paired up with Calvin Dunker, the mildly effeminate boy.

	The moment he entered, Calvin said apologetically, "Please don't be
mad at me. I didn't say anything. I think Michael just wanted to be with
Buddy and they've both been here longer than you or me so Mr. Thurman just
did it."

	Steve told him not to worry and took the offered lower bunk.

	That night after lights out, Calvin asked again, "So you're not mad
at me, okay?"

	Calvin was in some ways an ideal roommate. He liked to clean and
even offered to make Steve's bed. Steve declined concerned others would
find out and make the wrong assumption.

	The real reason for the room switch soon became apparent. Calvin
made it a point to be in the room when Steve came back from the shower and
took off his wet briefs. He found the ogling of his groin amusing. However,
even though Calvin made no comments much less a pass, Steve felt sure his
predecessor had not liked it at all.

	Thanksgiving came a week and a half later. A relatively small
number of kids went to be with family or sponsors. The latter were families
which took in some kids who had no family of their own and had been at the
ranch for a year or more.

	Calvin, who'd only been around since the summer seemed particularly
down. He'd already told Steve that he had both parents, three brothers and
a sister. The reason he'd been sent to Livingston was a series of problems
in the two schools he'd attended, problems he didn't want to discuss but
that Steve felt were probably sexual in nature, a lot less serious than the
school authorities and his family had made them out to be and maybe not due
to Calvin's initiative. At his school back in New York, Steve had witnessed
the abuse suffered by effeminate boys.

      After all had gone to church as required Thanksgiving morning, Steve
went back to his room and found Calvin lying on his bed sobbing.

	When asked why, Calvin replied through sniffles, "It's not my fault
I'm the way I am. God made me this way so how come it's bad."

	Steve had no words to deal with that. The best he could come up
with was, "Well, I'm your friend and so's Wesley and some others."

	Calvin reached out and put his arms around Steve's neck, pulled him
close and kissed him on the cheek leaving tears behind. The emotion passed
into Steve. He'd felt this lonely and understood the pain. He patted and
caressed Calvin on the back unable to bring himself to push the boy back
onto his bunk.

	He was saved when someone in the corridor shouted `Turkey!'

	"Let's go eat," suggested Steve.

	Calvin apologized for his behavior all the way to the dining hall
repeatedly thanking Steve for being so nice to him.

	Later that night, shortly before lights out, Calvin offered, "I
give a fantastic blow job if you want one."

	That was a shocker. "Gees, Calvin. Don't ever say that around
here. They can kick you out..." The absurdity of what he was saying cut
short the rest of his warning. Who cared? They'd have to send him back to
New York, or would they. He'd already surmised the basic reason for his
being sent for far away. Still, accepting sex from his roommate might, in
his case, just result in a serious punishment, probably some kind of
lockup. With Mr. Thurman sticking his head in at some point to say `good
night', the risk was too great.

      He begged off, "Not tonight, Calvin."


	It was another ten days before he noticed one of the leaders
watching him exercise in the gym. Knowing he did have a nice body that
would be attractive to men who liked boys, Steve immediately began going to
the gym at every opportunity, stripping down to gym shorts to display the
maximum allowable amount of flesh to anyone interested. His blonde hair
wasn't particularly unique but did help even though they'd cut most of it
off.

	During the week, the man was there with a group of ten year
olds. Steve smiled at him whenever the man looked his way. That Sunday
afternoon, the man joined Steve doing pull ups. He was young, college age,
easily six feet tall with a slim but well muscled body and a ready smile.

      "Hi," he said as he gripped the wood bar. "What's your name?"

      "Steve. What's yours?"

      "Mr. Flemming. Whose group are you in?"

      "Mr. Thurman's."

      "Doesn't he ever work out here with you?"

      "No, he's always playing basketball. He's really good at that."

      "Yeah, he played varsity in college."

      By then, both were straining too much to speak.

      Flemming outdid Steve, doing thirty-seven pull ups to Steve's
thirty-five.

	The man said, "You're pretty good at this. You work out before?"

	"Unh huh, in a gym for a few years."

	"Your father take you?"

	Steve had prepared the answer he thought would create the most
interest. "I don't have a father. A man took me."

	"Really. Friend of the family?"

	"Nah, just a friend. I don't have a family."

	"Neat. He take you other places too?"

	"Sure. We ate at restaurants and went up to the mountains and other
stuff."

	"Bet you miss him."

	"Yeah, a lot." Steve felt a sudden sense of caution come over
him. What if this man was checking him out for the people back in New York,
or, for the director who may have wanted to know if he was going to be a
problem with men at the home. It was hard to believe he hadn't been
informed of why Steve was in need of a place to live. He let the man lead.

	They did most of Steve's normal exercises. A few of Flemming's ten
year olds joined them.

	The next day Steve's group hit the gym was Tuesday. With snow on
the ground, the game was basketball, a sport Steve didn't have the height
for but, at least, knew how to play competently. After seeing him on the
court several times, team captains chose him well ahead of many others. It
had helped remove some of the social isolation. Several other boys had
become friendly if not friends.

	Flemming came by half an hour before they were to leave and worked
out lackadaisically, his real attention on Steve who dutifully raised his T
shirt over his tummy. He'd have done more but the other team was skins.

	Steve's surreptitious smiles were surreptitiously returned.

	When Thurman led his group out, Steve managed to have difficulty
lacing up his boots. Mr. Flemming walked over and squatted in front of him.

	"The truth. Why are you here?" His smile was thin but didn't seem
to hide anything.

	Without looking up, Steve replied matter of factly, "Some people
don't like me."

	"They must be crazy or just plain nasty, but, that's not a real
answer."

	Steve sighed as he tightened the bow in his laces. "They said, they
didn't like my foster father either. I gotta go or Mr. Thurman will be
mad." He stood and zipped up his coat.

	"We'll talk more next time we see each other, okay?"

	"Sure. See you." Steve hurried toward the door pulling the hood
over his head. He'd almost said too much but knew he'd have to if this man
was to be convinced to cooperate.

	In bed that night, he thought long and hard about what he could say
to Mr. Flemming. Though he was convinced that the man was interested in
him, it was anything but certain he wanted sex bad enough, or at all, to be
effectively bribed into letting Steve use his cell phone, if he had one, to
make the call to New York. It was entirely possible he merely wanted to be
a friend to a boy who was looking for one. Were Steve to misstep, it might
just put him off or bring disaster. Livingston's director was definitely
against anything sexual. He'd never heard of anyone enforcing a rule that
boys wear briefs in the shower.

	Thurman took the group to the gym again on Friday but Flemming
didn't show up. Steve realized he could well have been occupied with his
own group but worried that he'd lost interest.

	Calvin certainly hadn't. Again that night, this time after lights
out, he offered his `fantastic blow job'.

	Steve hadn't gotten off since that afternoon with Marcelino's dick
up his rear. He was used to a lot more action than that. Still, caution, or
paranoia, held sway. He did ask, "You ever do that before here?"

	"You can't say anything."

	"Don't worry about me."

	"I didn't think so." He paused then, "Yes, a couple times, three,
well, three and a half. One time he wouldn't let me finish."

	"Who?"

	"Well, who do you think? My ex-roomie."

	"Steve had guessed that would be his answer. "Anybody else?"

	"Well, he's not here any more so I guess it doesn't matter. Anyhow,
you never knew him `cause he left before school started. He was a leader
here in the summer."

	"You mean like Mr. Thurman? You did one of them?"

	"Why not? They get horny too. So, wanna do it?"

	"Is Jimmy the only boy you did it with?"

	"No, but, remember, you can't go telling anybody. I'd be in a lot
of trouble."

	"Don't worry. I'm not gonna say anything. Now, who?"

	"Billy Simpson."

	Billy Simpson was the toughest kid in the group, the most respected
athlete and Mr. Thurman's favorite, the boy to whom he gave the most
responsibilities, the only boy to whom he'd ever given charge over the
group. Steve had thought Billy Simpson was the straightest kid he'd ever
met. He couldn't imagine him saying damn and absolutely couldn't see him
lying back to have his cock sucked. "Did you ask him or did he ask you?"

	"He and Jimmy are best friends. Jimmy told him and, well, he's a
boy."

	That did it for Steve. He was hard just thinking about Calvin and
all the others. "All right, come on down."

	Once Steve had shed his shorts, Calvin knelt on the floor and
pulled Steve's legs over the side of the bed. He was good. He licked down
between Steve legs right to his hole sending a shiver up into his
middle. He sucked on Steve growing testicles and ran his tongue all around
his cock. Steve stopped him and pushed his pole right into Calvin's saliva
dripping mouth.

	Calvin's hands were all over Steve's chest, sides, underarms,
thighs and calves. A wet finger poked at his anus but didn't go for
entry. Calvin knew how fast not to go to bring on a quick climax. Steve's
legs stuck straight out for the longest time as Calvin went up and down and
around on his three and a half inches of pubing penis. Steve wanted to cum
but Calvin kept him right on the far side by stopping occasionally. When he
finally was allowed entry into paradise, Calvin stayed on him, sucking
gently until the pulsing stopped.

	"Oh shit, that was good," whispered Steve.

	"I know but don't cuss. It's against the rules."

	Calvin stopped as he was about to climb to his bed and commented,
"Yours is better than Steve's, thicker. And you got a better body."

	Steve felt the vibration of Calvin's masturbation for a few minutes
before he fell asleep, physically and emotionally satisfied.

	Saturday morning, Mr. Flemming was in a sweat lifting weights when
Steve came in. They greeted but said nothing for a while. There were other
boys with them so it would have been difficult.

	Flemming showed two of the boys proper push up technique then went
to Steve who was on the standing push up bars. With a mock stern
expression, he said, "Pull your knees and feet up and tell me the truth
about why you're here."

	Steve was ready with, "'Cause I'm not a snitch."

	"Mixed up in some criminal activity?"

	"No."

	Flemming got on the bars beside him and said, "Watch me and tell me
more."

	Steve dropped to the floor/ "I can't say anything more but I didn't
do anything wrong."

	"You're frustrating me."

	Steve said, "Show me how to put my hands." He wanted the leader
close.

	Flemming seemed to understand. He got off his bars and walked in
front of Steve. He took the boys hands in his and put them on the bars.

	Steve spoke quietly. "You have a cell phone?"

	"Yes."

	"I need to make a call to New York. I'll do anything you want if
you let me. Anything."

	Flemming looked Steve in the eyes.

	Steve saw desire and repeated, "Anything."

	Flemming looked at Steve's hands and pushed them back on the bar
though his mind obviously wasn't thinking of standing push ups.

	Steve said, "Please. I'll suck you or you can fuck me, both if you
want."

	Flemming looked to his right where boys were wrestling and giggling
on the floor. He closed his eyes for a moment then asked, "Do you know
where the football supply room is?"

	"No, but I can find it. Where is it?"

	"Down the hall from the showers. It's got a little window with wire
in the glass. There's a number three on the wall. Go there in exactly
thirty minutes. The door'll be open. Uh, we'll... Thirty minutes, okay?"

	"Okay."

	The leader said to everyone nearby, "See you guys later," and was
off.

	Steve dropped to the floor feeling like he was short of air. He
took a couple of deep breaths then sat to one side of the exercise bars and
put his head between his knees. It wasn't the sex that was on his mind but
Walter. Anticipation nearly had him crying. He calculated the hour in New
York. According to the clock above a weights rack, it was ten thirty-four
which made it eight thirty-four in New York. Walter would making breakfast
or eating it. Half an hour of waiting and maybe that much for sex and it
would only be nine thirty. Walter would almost definitely be home, unless
he'd gone somewhere for the weekend. He might do that to get his mind off
his troubles. Steve tried to send a mental message to his foster father,
`Be there, be there'.

	It was hard to stay put, not go early to the football supply
room. Steve ran a few laps around the gym, almost crashing into boys he
didn't see with his mind so fixed on what he'd say to his dad. The clock
hardly moved. He tried more exercises, running a lap between each set. He
found that he was tiring quickly and sat down again. There were still eight
minutes before he could go to the supply room. He had to tell Walter he was
sorry for saying that stupid thing he said, beg his forgiveness. He was
sure Walter would know by then of his panicked admission at the
hospital. Garretson had assured Steve his dad would forgive him. Steve knew
he was right but it would still have to hurt, have to strain even their
close relationship..

	He checked the clock. One minute to go! He jumped up and grabbed
his sweat clothes, coat and hat. His feet wanted to run. He had to control
them.

	He entered the long hallway that ran the length of the huge gym on
the downhill side. Its sparkling clean white ceramic tiled walls and floor
gave it the appearance of a giant, elongated bathroom without sinks or
toilets though there were water fountains at each end. It was empty though
he heard voices coming from the bathroom he'd just passed. His footsteps
sounded inordinately loud. What would he say if an adult or curious youth
were to find him past the only door he should have been seeking? The number
at the door to the bathroom was eight. The football supply room, number
three, was well ahead. He walked faster past two dressing rooms, numbers
seven and six. Five, four and three were much closer together. He reached
out for the brass knob on door three. It turned heavily but smoothly. The
smell of used sports equipment and sweat assaulted his nose as the door
opened. He stepped quickly inside pulling the door behind him, closing it
slowly, quietly.

	A man's whisper said, "Over here."

	Flemming was to his right by a hanging stack of shoulder
pads. Steve felt a surge of adrenalin fire from his middle up through his
brain. The man seemed nervous.

	"You ever do this kind of thing before?" he asked as Steve neared.

	Steve nodded affirmatively.

	"Why do you think I want...whew boy. What do you want to do first?"

	"Whatever you want. Want me to take off my clothes?"

	"Okay." Flemming took a deep breath and swallowed as he watched
Steve loosen his belt. "And you did this before?"

	"Sure. You have your cell phone?"

	"Uh, Yeah. You do it here, at the home?"

	Steve pushed his pants and briefs down to his ankles and stood to
take off his T shirt. "I can't tell you that."

	The man didn't seem to hear him. His attention was on Steve's soft
penis.

	Steve asked, "You ever do this before?"

	That seemed to relax the man. He laughed quietly. "Not since I was
nine, but you knew that, didn't you?"

	Standing naked, Steve said, "That's okay. You wanna touch it?"

	Flemming squatted and took Steve's hips in his hands, eyes glued to
the soft parts of his groin. Steve took one of the man's his hands and
guided it to his cock. He accepted and fondled it.

	Steve, whose anticipation for the cell phone was being tempered by
a growing horniness, said "Suck me."

	Flemming leaned forward and took the growing organ into his
mouth. Steve felt his tongue explore bottom and sides. He pulled out and
pushed back in a few times.

	Steve leaned to one side and looked down at his fellator's
crotch. There was a roaring hard on inside struggling to get out. "Better
take your pants off."

	Flemmings sucked twice then stood, opening his pants as he did. The
first thing Steve noticed was that the head of his cock was exposed, and
wet.

	"You cum already?" asked Steve.

	"No."

	Steve took hold of the man cock and felt it. It was about the size
of Walter's. He'd have no trouble taking it inside if necessary. Still, it
would be better if he could get him off orally. That'd be quicker, less
mess to clean up. He closed his eyes, imagining Walter stood in front of
him. On his knees, he opened up and slipped his mouth over the mancock. It
had a different feel than Walter's, harder actually, perhaps smoother. He
took in all he could getting to within an inch of pubic hair.

	Flemming seemed to buckle, dropping enough that his dick nearly
came out of Steve's mouth. He recovered, standing up. "Go slow, go slow."

	As he'd done with his foster dad, Steve cupped one hand under the
heavy balls while he worked on better than six inches of manhood. Flemming
began to help, pushing in and out. Then, he said, "Wait a minute. Let's lie
down."

	He was prepared. Behind him were two piles of football
jerseys. They were soft and comfortable. Steve slid down between the man's
legs.

	"No," said Flemming, "you get on top of me." He guided Steve to a
sixty-nine position, quickly swallowing the boy cock.

	Steve went back to work. Flemming was not as hairy as Walter but
there was still a lot between his legs. Steve felt the lump where his cock
passed back to front. It seemed thicker than the pole in his mouth. Rubbing
Walter there always made his feel better.

	Steve thought about the possibility of being fucked. He didn't see
any lubricant. Flemming was a novice. He might not know it was
needed. Maybe saliva would work. Steve would do whatever was necessary to
get to that cell phone.

	Flemming was doing a credible job for a novice. Steve was beginning
to enjoy it. He turned his head side to side as he went up and down working
the man toward climax. Large hands ran up and down his back, buns and
legs. The stomach below him hardened, the cock in his mouth enlarged. Steve
hoped the semen wouldn't be too foul tasting.

	Flemming reached down and yanked his dick out of Steve's mouth. He
tried to cup his hand over the top but missed the first spurt which shot
high into the air then fell on the top jersey. The rest squirted and oozed
through his fingers, dripping down into his pubic hairs. Steve's curiosity
required a quick lick. The taste wasn't great. He was glad he hadn't had to
swallow it. He wasn't going to be fucked.

	"They got towels in here?" asked Steve.

	"God, I don't know. I got napkins in my pants pocket."

	Steve pulled the pants to them. There was a wad on the left hand
side. They cleaned up best they could but the smell didn't go away. There
were two windows but both padlocked. Flemming looked at the key ring he
carried. Steve was more interested in his phone call.

	"Can I make my call now?"

	"Okay. Who are you going to call?"

	"My dad."

	Flemming stopped wiping himself and looked toward Steve. "I thought
you didn't have a father?"

	"He's my foster father but I've been with him since I was four. Can
I call now?"

	"Sure, go ahead. Take it out of my pocket. My hands are still
sticky," instructed Flemming.

	Unconcerned with putting his clothes on, Steve fumbled the phone
out of the pants then, abruptly, realized he had no idea how to dial long
distance. Flemming told him. His hands were shaking. He had to dial twice
to get it right. Steve backed against the wall. It rang once, twice, three
times. Halfway through the fourth ring, the phone was picked up.

	"Hello." It was Walter.

	Steve could hardly speak. Tears surged into his eyes. "Daddy."

	"Steve, oh, Steve, son.

	"Daddy, I'm sorry, I..."

	"No, no, son. There's nothing for you to be sorry for. Are you
okay? Where are you?"

	"I'm okay. I love you. I'm in Idaho at some home called..."

	"Livingston Boys' Ranch. Hector called and told me. I love you too,
more than anything.

	"When are they gonna let us see each other?"

	There was a moment of silence. "They don't want us ever to see each
other but we will. I couldn't bear living if I thought we'd never be
together again. Can anyone hear you?"

	"Yes, but he isn't going to say anything."

	"Still, careful what you say. God, I love you."

	"Me too, dad. I love you."

	"Are they treating you okay out there?"

	"It's okay, just real cold and lots of snow. I just said..."

	"I know, son. I heard the tape. I've thought about it. All you were
talking about was that time when you were seven and rubbed yourself on my
stomach. Remember? And I kept telling you we had to go eat and had to pick
you up. You remember that?"

	Steve understood immediately. "Yes, you made me stop and take off
my pajamas and get dressed but that wasn't all that bad. I thought..."

	"Don't worry about it, son. Once they realize that's all it was,
this thing will be all over but then it's going to take time for us to get
back together. They have charge of you until you're eighteen."

	"I don't wanna wait that long. It's almost Christmas. I wanna go to
the lodge with you."

	"Steve, Christmas is lost for us. You have to accept that. My
lawyer is trying to make them either have a trial or drop it all but even
then, it's going to be hard for us to get back together."

	"Why are they doing this? We didn't do anything wrong."

	"I know, son. There are some very bad people in the world and,
well, the one's who are doing this aren't all bad. I think some of them
really believe they're doing the right thing. They just can't understand
how we can love each other without doing things they don't like, if you
understand me."

	"Can you come out here? Maybe I can get out for a few hours and we
can meet somewhere."

	"I don't think it would be wise, son. Everybody knows everybody
else out where you live. The nearest city is sixty miles away, too far for
you to go and get back."

	"Why can't we just run away to some other place, Mexico or Canada?"

	I don't think that would work. I have to work or we won't eat and
that would be difficult. Don't think I haven't thought of that, many
times. But, anyway, we need to wait now and see what happens here. Let's
give the lawyer a chance to straighten things out."

	"I want to be with you, dad. I love you so much."

	Flemming looked up from scrubbing a cum spot on the floor and
pointed at his watch. Steve ignored him.

	Walter said, "Look son, this can't go on forever, It is going to
end one day. Just keep thinking that. It's what I do, many times a day."

	They conversed for another ten minutes. Flemming had dressed and
was stuffing the soiled football jersey into his sweatshirt.

	There were still tears on Steve's face when he said his final `I
love you' to Walter.

	"You better get dressed," said Flemming when Steve handed him the
cell phone. "Aren't you cold?"

	"Hmmm?"

	"Get dressed."


			---------------------------------------------------


	Congressman Albright was agitated/ "Harold, I thought this thing
was going to be settled by now. What's the hold up?"

	"Stuyvesant's lawyer says the man insists on going to trial."

	"He's going to lose. What's wrong with the asshole?"

	"He thinks a jury will acquit him. He claims the kid's confession
was referring to something the kid did, not him."

	"Crap! There a date yet?"

	"I spoke to Judge Flaherty personally. He says there's no way until
January, the fifth, I think."

	"Judge?"

	"I got us Paulson. Just the guy for this situation."

	"You speak to him?"

	"No. I put the mayor's man on him. You could lean some too."

	"No way I'm getting directly involved. Just make sure Paulson
understands this is debt payment and future insurance."

	"Katz got anything yet?"

	"Nothing with pizzaz, but he figures Stuyvesant'll drop something
eventually so, in some ways, a January date is better."

	"And the kid's completely incommunicado?"

	"Don't worry about him. He's in some home in the fucking Rocky
Mountains, snowbound by now. Director's assured us he has no access to a
telephone."


			---------------------------------------------


	Byron Katz called the meeting a strategy session. "If we're going
to trial as you wish and I counsel against, we need to prepare as well as
possible. We're set for January fifth in front of Judge Paulson, not
somebody who's going to be sympathetic.

      "The prosecutor has given me a list of witness and evidence against
you. It's not good."

      He handed a folder to Walter.

      "The boy's mother is in there along with two psychologists who've
examined the boy, two school counselors who've witnessed you two together
kissing, for what that's worth, an expert witness who's gone over the test
results from the psychologists, a report from Trimble State Hospital
indicating a suspicious relationship with a boy who committed suicide, yes,
and the report from the doctor who did the forensic exam indicating some
bruising of the anus consistent with anal penetration, and, of course, the
tape recording of the boy's statement to Officer O'Malley. Well, you can
see it all. They've got thirteen witnesses listed. We've got none."

      Walter asked, "What about Steve? Isn't he going to be called?"

      "They don't see the need what with the tape and judges don't like to
put children through that kind of testimony. You're better off without
him. At least the jury won't have the actual abused child to feel sorry
for. No, we don't want him at all. What we need are our own expert
witnesses, some reputable people who knew you two. It's going to be
difficult. You do realize how much time you're facing if convicted?"

      "The rest of my life." Walter had a plan. "Look, this whole thing is
absurd. I haven't had sex since I was a kid. I hardly even touch
myself. For almost three years, I went through aversion therapy, including
electric shock, that worked in spades. I've..."

      "When was this? You didn't tell me anything about this before."

      "I was just a kid. Another kid and I in this home were messing around
in the shower like lots of others our age..."

      "How old?"

      "Thirteen. We were fooling around and got caught. Since I was older,
he was eleven or twelve, this idiot psychiatrist who worked there sent me
off to Trimble State for treatment."

      "What were you doing with the other boy?"

      "Sucking each other. It was pure experimentation. We were only doing
it for a few minutes but got caught. We lived in a nut house with those
nuns. The kid I was doing it with had already done it with another kid,
well, kids. It was his idea." Walter felt they'd never come up with the
actual boy who'd been with him to refute that statement.

      "So what happened in Trimble? How long were you there? Forget
that. Three years. What did they do to you at the hospital?"

      "Everything you can think of, electric shock, medicines that made me
feel like shit, so called therapy that was just the doctor telling me what
a piece of crap I was. It was terrible. I left there afraid to even look at
myself down there. For years, I flipped my dick out to pee and flipped it
back in so I wouldn't have to touch it. I washed it with a wash cloth. I
don't think I touched myself there for, Christ, thirty, more, years. Even
now, I get feelings of guilt if I do more than just take it out quickly to
pee. Forget sex. That's impossible for me."

      It wasn't entirely a lie. Had Steve not loosened him up, he might
well have been as stated. Anyhow, other than his denials, it was all he
could come up with.


      		----------------------------------------------


      Steve's sex life was becoming full again though not entirely as he
wanted. Calvin did provide some relief. His blow jobs were pretty good
except for the occasional tooth scrapes. Calvin would occasionally become
excited and roll his head all over. There was just so much room in his
small mouth.

      Flemming only had the opportunity to get together Saturdays. He
changed to the gym's boiler room, a hot, dirty, less comfortable place but
with sufficient heat caused air flow that the smell of his potent semen was
gone before the two of them left. The third time they got together,
Flemming brought along an inflatable mattress, actually a long swimming
raft. Steve lay on top of Flemming so he didn't really need it. With paper
towels to catch the sperm, there was no mess to clean up.

      Each week, Steve spoke to Walter who kept him up to date on the
situation in New York plus what he was doing, who he was working for, what
the weather was like. Steve told him of his success in school, the
deepening snow, basketball games won and lost and how he was getting along
with the rest of the boys.

      The calls were only about fifteen minutes long but it boosted the
morale of both of them, making the isolation easier to take for Steve and
the specter of his trial less all consuming for Walter.

      The week before Christmas, Flemming reminded Steve about his offer of
a fuck.

      "Okay, but you gotta have some kind of cream or oil or something."

      Flemming produced a small jar of Vaseline. "This okay?"

      "Yeah, it's okay but you gotta let me sit on it until it's all the
way in before you can get on top of me."

      The man agreed. They undressed. As usual, Flemming was already hard
when his briefs came off. Steve wasn't. Taking the man he loved inside of
him was different than one he was allowing there for pay. But, speaking
with his dad was worth it and he had offered his rear service as well as
his mouth.

      Steve took the opened jar of Vaseline and spread a ample amount over
Flemming's cock, right down to the hairs. After wiping his hand off with a
paper towel, he stood then squatted. Flemming watched his cock head slip
between Steve's buns. Steve felt the head push at his anus. He closed his
eyes and relaxed his leg muscles. The head forced its way inside. It
hurt. Steve stopped, waited for the pain to subside.

      Flemming's eyes were fixed on his disappearing penis.

      Steve allowed another inch to enter. Again, it hurt but not as
much. He straightened his back and allowed more inside.

      Flemming looked up briefly at Steve's face then back down. What
little of his cock was not yet inside the boy was hidden behind Steve's
small but low hanging balls.

      The man cock hit something inside. Steve lifted back up and shifted
his hips to the right. That worked with his father. Sliding back down, it
functioned with this younger man as well. Soon enough, he was sitting on
pubic hairs and bone.

      Flemming reached out and lifted Steve's balls. Only boy perineum was
visible. His cock was completely hidden inside Steve's body. He looked up
again through half closed eyes.

      Steve said, "Wait."

      The boy moved slightly forward and back. It was uncomfortable but
bearable. He slowly lifted his feet and turned around until his back was to
Flemming's face. He lay down on the man's chest. "Okay, fuck, but slow."

      Flemming pulled out then pushed back inside as far as he could
go. After a pause during which he wrapped his arms around Steve's chest, he
repeated it, then again and again.

      Steve bit his lip and pressed his hands into his sides. The pain
increased.

      Flemming thrust in hard two more times then grunted. Steve felt the
pulsing of orgasm. He smiled to himself. Flemming had taken less than half
a minute to cum.

      Steve, as usual, made the call naked. He liked to think Walter might
sense his nudity and enjoy it.


      Christmas was bad. About a third of the boys were off with their own
or temporary families. Half the leaders were gone. Most of those remaining
weren't particularly happy to be there. Bad moods were the norm. There were
fights and crying jags.

      Christmas Eve, Calvin begged Steve to fuck him and do it hard. Steve
had never been on the active end of penetration but didn't mind
trying. Calvin lathered him up with saliva then lay face down on Steve's
bunk.

      Entry was more difficult that Steve expected. His boner kept slipping
off the hole in one direction of the other. Calvin reached back and spread
his cheeks but with the light off, it was all done by feel. Steve moved his
cock up and down until he felt the softness of the opening. He pushed
himself up and his cock downward. The end of Calvin's little anal canal
engulfed him. It was better than his mouth. The warmth moved up his three
and a half inches right to his groin as he lowered himself inside. He hoped
he wouldn't be as quick as Flemming.

      "Fuck me, Steve, hard!"

      So, he did, ramming in hard but slow. It was the best he'd ever
felt. Feeling his passion rise, Steve stopped briefly after each thrust,
prolonging the action.

      "Harder," insisted Calvin.

      Steve pulled out and slammed back inside. It was better. He went
on. The soft smacking of their bodies meeting made it even better. Steve
dug his toes into the covers and thrust hard as he could, stopped, and did
it again. The stopping worked. Each time, he could feel the climax recede
slightly. He went on and on.

	Calvin said, "Good, like that." Then, "I love you, Steve!"

	The longer Steve fucked the small body beneath him, the further
away climax seemed. He decreased his pauses then dropped them all together,
yearning for release. He fucked faster. Sweat appeared on his forehead. He
gripped Calvin's shoulders and thrust with all the strength he had.

	Calvin reached up and grabbed Steve's hands. "Oh, God!"

	Steve could feel his juices boiling. He sped up his fucking,
listening to the smack, smack, smack and feeling his cock expand. Climax
seemed to take forever to arrive. He was on the edge for several thrusts
then he felt the first sharp shot of pleasure fire out of his loins. He
rammed in and held himself there, as deep inside as possible. Other body
rattling jolts followed.  It was the greatest orgasm he'd ever had. He
laughed quietly and said, Merry Christmas".

	Calvin replied, "Merry Christmas. Don't take it out yet."

	After a few moments, lust satisfied, curiosity arose. "Any of the
others do this?"

	Calvin brought his hands up under his chin. "Michael. He wanted to
do it so we did but just twice `cause that's when Thurman moved us."

	"Didn't Mike like it?"

	"Of course he did. Didn't you? The move was all Buddy's idea, I
think. He didn't tell Michael. I was thinking Buddy knew and was
jealous. Anyhow, I'm glad I'm with you."

	Calvin wanted to try sleeping like that but when they rolled onto
their sides, Steve's cock slipped out. Calvin turned and kissed him on the
cheek.

	"Thank you," he said.