Don’t You Guys Ever Want to Play?
Hurricane Bay, Florida
St. Paul Street
Hurricane Bay Investigative Agency
HBIA
9:27 A.M.
Peter Rotunda’s fatty chest and all-around ugliness repulsed me. Vomit clung to the rear of my throat, and my tongue started to burn from rising stomach bile. The thirty-two-year-old man looked disgusting with his greasy dark hair and pools of sweat under his arms. I wasn’t beneath the act of telling him that he smelled up my office and probably the rest of Hurricane Bay. He had massive shoulders and fleshy rolls for a chin. The man’s pecs were mounds of blubber with no nipples. I figured he weighed an easy three hundred and fifty pounds and stood at six-three like some kind of giant squid.
“You like what you see, don’t you, Dupree?” he asked, grinning from ear to ear. “Some guys like bigger men. They actually get off on the fat. Admit it: you find my body attractive and sexy as hell. Tell me you want to fuck me.”
“I’d rather keep this professional between us, Peter.” I cleared my throat and removed my disgusted view from him, down to the penciled notes in front of me.
Peter agreed to pay me ten grand
if I agreed to his conditions
to find out who burned down his queer bar called the Flaming Flamingo three nights ago. The Hurricane Bay fire chief, Darren Dawe, had already deemed the fire arson, claiming the inferno had been started with gasoline.
A glossy headshot of Peter’s pretty boy bartender sat next to my notes. Rudy Shower, the bartender on duty during the fire, had piercing blue eyes, a smile to get hard for, and an Irish pale complexion. His blond hair was cut short, and he sported miniature gold hoops in both earlobes. My notes indicated that Rudy was twenty-three, an identical twin to a brother named Ronny, and didn’t have any ink on his torso or other places on his body. He lived in an IKEA-decorated bungalow on North Palm Way with his twin, next to the Hurricane Bay Shopping Plaza, and sometimes dated his drinking, and queer, clients.
Peter wasn’t wealthy by any means, I knew, but he wasn’t monetarily suffering, either. Single, he lived on Hurricane Bay Road in Bungalow Forty-Eight and owned three gay bars: the Flaming Flamingo, Roughs, and Merman. I also knew the guy had a string of men in his life, sleeping around, never faithful. The man spent loads of money on his men for drugs, alcohol, food, and short trips around the world, when Peter felt it necessary.
“Professional is boring, Dupree. I’m perfectly fine with you nailing me over your desk this morning. I always crave young dick in my asshole. Just so you know.”
He laughed after his bold statement and winked at me. He scrutinized my cocoa brown buzz cut, six-one frame, and one hundred and eighty pounds of toned torso. I could never be considered ugly by any means concerning my light brown eyes and thin lips. I figured he knew I was twenty-nine, where I lived next to the Gulf, and that my best friend’s name was Rebecca Rexx. Peter did not seem to be the type of man to waive doing homework on the people he hired, particularly a private eye who had only been in business as Hurricane Bay Investigative Agency for the last three years and still had the reputation of being an amateur.
I tried to be polite, smiled, and shook my head. “I have a boyfriend,” I said, referring to Casey Kalhoun. “We’ve been together for four months, and it seems to be working out just fine.”
Peter pushed his chair back, spread his legs, and grabbed the mound of khaki-covered cock and balls between his fat legs. “If you get tired of the same dick at home every night, you can always stray to mine.”
“Casey and I do not stray.” I closed the folder in front of me and passed it over the desk.
He rolled his eyes, huffed, and said, “I hate when young and handsome men are faithful. Don’t you guys ever want to play with a wealthy cocksucker like me?”
“Not this guy,” I said and stood. “With all due respect, I’m going to have to pass on this job, Peter.”
He reached inside his shorts, pulled out five one thousand dollar bills, rolled the chair forward, and placed the money on the desk in front of me. He grinned at me like a horny madman and said, “I’ll give you fifteen thousand, Dupree. That’s my final offer.”
I needed the cash and a job since the economy for private eyes was weak. I took the five grand off the desk, held it in my right hand, and said, “I want seven K up front. You can pay me the other eight when my investigation is done.”
“Done, Axle Dupree.” He dug in his pants for the other two thousand dollars and passed it to me, on the spot.
