Kept Boy to Made Man - 7. Choices

June 21^st, 1992

Thomas didn’t know what time it was or how long he had managed to sleep this time. It was still dark outside, or at least as dark as the Gold Coast got. He scanned the king-sized bed from the small corner he occupied. The bed was too big. It made him feel small. Thomas felt almost too comfortable to relax on the soft, luxurious mattress under silk-smooth sheets.

He listened to Roger’s whimpering in the room across the hall for over a minute. At least he wasn’t screaming any more. Thomas slid over the side of the bed and padded to the bathroom to retrieve the bathrobe he had discovered before. Roger’s condo was incredibly nice, and the teen was both overwhelmed and excited to live in it.

After a quick stop at the almost empty refrigerator to grab some orange juice, Thomas settled into a leather armchair facing the lake. He was careful to avoid looking down at Lake Shore Drive below.

Like the huge expanse of water before him, his future felt dark and unknowable. He had stopped making plans months ago as the modest dreams he once had were crushed by hopelessness. Thomas felt hope once more. The time spent with Brendon the previous day made him want to dream again.

He lost himself in questions. What did he want? What should he do? There was school to think about; He was a full semester behind. What would happen to his dad’s house and their things? His thoughts of the future were briefly interrupted as Thomas wondered who, if anyone had buried his father. He imagined the broken body, frozen in a morgue, just waiting for him to come claim it. The thought made him shiver.

Thoughts and questions bounced back and forth, past and future, happy and sad. There were so many things he didn’t understand. His heart began beat faster. He felt alone and overwhelmed. Thomas focused on Lake Michigan again, realizing that he could see much farther now. The sky had lightened from a deep, inky indigo to a navy blue that faded to teal on the distant horizon.

Thomas had never watched a sunrise, so he was shocked by the sliver of the sun’s light that suddenly shot across the water. He temporarily forgot his worries as he witnessed the birth of a new day.

. . .

“You’re up early. How did you sleep?” Roger asked as he stepped into the living room sometime later.

Honesty.

“Not very good,” Thomas replied.

“Me neither,” the man agreed as he moved towards the front door to retrieve the morning paper.

“I usually eat out, so there isn’t much here for breakfast apart from cold pizza.” Roger was quickly thumbing through the paper.

“I noticed. I was so excited to raid the refrigerator. It was a big letdown.” Thomas said with a smile.

Roger laughed, but only briefly. He must have found what he was looking for. Thomas watched the man’s eyes devour something several pages deep. A minute later, the newspaper was thrust in the teen’s direction.

“Well, it’s in here, but you’re not exactly famous,” Roger said.

Confused, Thomas scanned the small print on the page in front of him. Teen Accused of Patricide Exonerated. Swallowing the lump in his throat, he read the short, four-paragraph article that barely touched on the events of the previous day. He wasn’t sure what to think or feel. In some ways he was glad that his personal life had not been printed, but the trial had been the second most impactful day of his life. Thomas noticed Roger watching him.

“They forget to mention the superhero who appeared out of nowhere to save the day,” he said softly but seriously as he held Roger’s eyes with his own.

“They also forgot to mention the incredibly courageous young man who made a heroic stand against his abusive uncle.” Thomas was surprised by the look of pride that radiated from the man; No one had ever looked at him that way before.

. . .

Shutting the door behind him, Juan took his seat at one end of the huge conference room table. It was still early, but the explosive discovery at the Charles Miller residence had upset both the constitutions and schedules of all those gathered in the large room.

“What do we know so far?” Chief Monroe’s gruff question was directed at Juan from his place at the head of the table.

“We removed a computer and several boxes of videos and photographs. Those are being analyzed by our techs as we speak. But from what little I saw, we are talking about multiple victims, maybe even hundreds. We found evidence that Charles Miller hosted guests recently and perhaps often. We are combing bank statements, phone records, and talking to neighbors today.

“The lab has several more boxes full of items removed from the home. They are looking primarily for DNA we can use to verify victims and perps down the road.” As disturbing as the case was, the investigator was glad to be more than an observer in the briefing.

“I’ll give you three units for the canvas, Ramos. Focus on the real police work, and not all that science-y shit. The DA wants answers. This case is going be high profile, and I want to get ahead of it.” The Chief looked angry as he scanned the faces in the room. “I’m briefing the Commissioner at ten. I’d like a better estimate on scope by then. How many victims are we talking about? How many perverts?”

“Yes sir,” Juan replied as he habitually snapped to attention.

“At ease, soldier.” The Chief stood. “I don’t know how things worked in the Corps, but here we work fast and keep our mouths shut, especially around the press. I’m tempted to pull you off this case, but the DA made it clear he wanted you running lead. I don’t know what you did to him or for him, and I don’t want to, boy. Just don’t fuck this up.”

Juan’s expression remained impassive, but there were several in the room who couldn’t contain their expressions of shock.

“Sir.” Juan said levelly while allowing himself to stand down; He couldn’t truly respect this man, even if he had to work for him.

Juan waited for the door to close before turning to his quickly assembled team. Most of them were experts in the science-y shit his boss seemed to despise.

“You heard the boss, people.” Juan let a small smile play across his lips as he watched dejected heads drop. “Well, I for one say we ignore him. There are real boys out there who need our best. I want to help as many as we can in any way we can. That starts with figuring out who those kids are and where they are.

“Charles Miller can rot in a cell or in hell for all I care. We’re going to focus on finding the boys and all the bastards that hurt them. So yes, I want the science-y shit. We can keep it quiet, but if someone was in that house, I want to be able to prove it.

“Chief Monroe is right about one thing. I work differently than they do around here. Route all information through me for now. I’ll run interference.” Nobody missed that Detective Ramos referred to himself as an outsider, and many found that they were relieved by that fact.

. . .

Roger was back in his office, but the energy was much different than it had been Friday morning. Thomas had insisted on starting his new internship. Roger suspected it had more to do with a fear of being left alone than wanting to work. He could hear Melissa and Thomas talking and laughing through his closed door. The sounds made him smile.

He had assigned the task of securing Elijah’s estate to his staff lawyer, which left Roger to comb through the light case work he had already committed to. He also had several new messages Melissa had taken from the answering machine. He decided to start with those.

He didn’t make it farther than the top message on the pile. Roger’s heart rate began to climb as he read his assistant's immaculate handwriting.

FROM: Son of your former roommate

MESSAGE: Called to confirm lunch - Zia Marie’s - 11:45.

Roger sat back in his chair as he steadied his breathing. The request to meet was how it always worked, but the identity used was new. Before offering Thomas his guest room, Roger had always lived alone. His first apartment had been paid for and furnished by Shy Eddie Vitale. He had purchased each of the several condos he had lived in since on his own. Eddie had been a frequent visitor but had always maintained his own residence. Their relationship was not only illegal in New York where and when it began, but it was also frowned upon by the Family in both The Big Apple and The Windy City. Roger was almost certain Eddie had never fathered a son. The same could be said for Thomas.

The unexpected dread he felt in the pit of his stomach made him regret the cream cheese and lox bagel he had eaten at a small sidewalk deli an hour before. He found the idea of another mafia client upsetting for the first time in his career. A quick glance at his wrist told the attorney it would be a long morning; it was only 9:33.

. . .

Frustrated, Sam crumpled her latest draft and tossed it next to its predecessor from the night before. She had been completely enamored by Roger Cicero and Thomas Miller. Then there was Melissa Motts. Enamored wasn’t the right word for how that woman made the journalist feel; infatuated, besotted, spellbound, wet.

“Focus, Sammy,” she said to herself; she had a deadline and no story.

Her first attempt had been a silly fantasy, in which Roger had appeared from the legal mists, a virile creature come to save the young, vulnerable faun. It had been fun to write, but ridiculous to read.

After a mostly boring day in court, Sam had been blown away by the rapid climax and conclusion of the case. Her short but invigorating conversation with Courtroom Barbie had added to her emotional euphoria. The story she had written, once home in her downtown flat, had dripped with rainbow-colored endorphins but would never make the front page.

Sam woke up early. She needed something that would sell papers if she wanted to convince her editor to put her writing in the lead position above the fold. Her second attempt had been evocative, scandalous, salacious. But it wasn’t the story she wanted to tell. Sex and gore made for good headlines, but printing what she had written would be a travesty, as well as the end of any future relationship with the small, newly formed family she both admired and envied.

Windy Cities Pages was not the typical news outlet for the average Chicagoan. It catered to the queer community. It sounded different and provided a different point of view. Their subscribers would be rightly outraged with the injustice and bigotry of Thomas Miller’s trial. It would be easy to stoke those flames.

Sam felt something much deeper than anger, however. Roger’s appearance really had felt magical, and watching the trio walk off into the afternoon sun together had screamed of a fairytale ending.

Sam’s mind worked through her list of characters and their plotlines. The lawyers, titans of the courtroom, were the obvious stars. The judge, playing his godlike role, had been largely quiet, leaving little to tell. Her mind moved to the villains, Elijah and Charles Miller; brothers with a complicated past, stuck in cycles of abuse. There was a story there, certainly, but not one Samantha James cared to tell. What they had done to Thomas, their son and nephew made her feel sick. No, they could die lonely, their stories left untold as far as Sam was concerned. She imagined her readers would agree.

That left Thomas, the boy-man, the unwanted son. He had lived as a punching bag and sex toy, despite being a loving, intelligent, and handsome kid with so much more to offer. Unwanted Son. Those words evoked meaning and emotion deep within Sam’s soul. She was not a son herself, but she could identify with the reality of being unwanted. It was unfair. Why had the fates, or God, or chance dropped the boy into that pit. Why did he grow up lonely and abused when so many would have loved to raise a kid like him.

Tears fell from Sam’s cheeks. She had given up the dream of having kids when she first gave up her virginity to Becky Foye freshman year. She would have loved Thomas if he had been born to her. So many queer people pined for a family they would never have, while so many straight parents abused and rejected children they took for granted.

“You are not unwanted, Thomas. You can be my nephew, my brother, my son,” Sam whispered.

She wiped her tears several minutes later and pulled her chair close to her beloved Apple IIe. Her fingers transposed her thoughts into letters on the screen. Thomas was not unwanted. He had a family that was larger than he knew. Samantha James was going to introduce Thomas to the world; Many, like her, were ready to love him like he and so many like him deserved.

. . .

He had been to the small restaurant before, but it was not a place he typically met potential clients. Roger was both annoyed and nervous. He knew he couldn’t refuse a summons, but he wanted to be almost anywhere else in that moment.

“Roger Cicero, I’m meeting someone,” he informed the teenage hostess.

“Of course, sir, right this way.” She knew his name and was clearly expecting him.

She led him through the small, crowded dining room and into the kitchen. Roger counted five staff members working quickly and efficiently to meet the lunch demand. There was a single booth, tucked into the back corner of the surprisingly large space. A lone young man watched them approach from one of the bench seats.

“Come in, Roger. Sit.” Roger instantly disliked the man’s familiarity and air of superiority; The attorney had both earned and grown to expect an amount of respect, even from the highest levels of the Italian Crime Family.

Roger Cicero chose to remain standing. He considered walking out, but he had yet to learn who the man was and what he wanted. Roger allowed a small amount of his annoyance to show in his expression.

“I said sit!” He had a quick temper.

“I must decline your offer for lunch. I don’t know you, and you have given me no reason to want to.” Roger decided no amount of curiosity was worth this young man’s abuse.

“I am the new Eddie. The rumor is that you belonged to Eddie. In my book, that means you now belong to me.” The way in which he had referred to himself in his message suddenly became clear.

Roger calmly considered the man as his emotions churned. He wasn’t the newly seventeen-year-old, beaten, hopeless, and scared kid that Eddie had pulled out of the chaos of the rioting Village so many years ago.

While their relationship was once as this ignorant man described, it had slowly changed. Eddie had changed as much as Roger had. Eddie’s life sentence had severed any lingering expectations of control, but by then Eddie thought of Roger as his lover rather than his slave.

Roger Cicero looked nothing like the submissive man the young mobster expected. Jason Rizzo wasn’t even certain why he had started the conversation in the way he had. It certainly wasn’t the man he wanted; it was his legal skill. He had indeed heard rumors of Eddie’s control over this man. Most of the talk amongst the Family, however, centered around the attorney’s legal and logical prowess. He reevaluated his approach.

“Please, Roger. I want your help. A friend of mine has a problem,” he tried again.

The older man had been surrounded by mafiosos his entire adult life. He rightly suspected that this man was newly promoted. He obviously felt the need exert control over those he felt superior to. Roger almost laughed. This man clearly had no idea how respected the attorney had become by the crime family administration.

Roger waited. It was a game, but the outcome mattered. If he didn’t demand proper respect now, he would never get it. The young man attempted to stare into Roger Cicero’s steel eyes, but soon looked away.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Cicero. Please. I need your help.” Finally satisfied, Roger slid into the booth opposite the man.

“Tell me who you are and what I can do for you.” Roger’s voice was free of the animosity he still felt; he had pushed the criminal far enough and would gain nothing through further insult.

“Jason Rizzo. Call me Riz. Like I said, I’ve taken over the books for Eddie’s vacant enterprises. One of my earners was nabbed yesterday. He’s a nobody, but he knows things. It could be a problem if he flips. I’m looking at my options,” the newly made mobster explained.

“Why was your associate arrested?” Roger transitioned from tough guy to attorney in an instant.

“My source in the CPD says his nephew ratted him out for fuckin’ with his ass. Fuckin’ faggots.” Riz looked up, suddenly nervous as he remembered the rumors and what they likely meant about the man across from him. “I’m sorry, Mr. Cicero.”

Roger was barely listening to the man as his mind rapidly processed thoughts and made connections. His silence and stone-faced expression made the young criminal squirm.

“Are the claims valid?” Roger needed information.

“I have no idea, but from what little I’ve seen of the man’s work, it wouldn’t surprise me. I’m sure you know the things Eddie ran in this city, Mr. Cicero. Boy flesh is my racket now.” Jason Rizzo found Roger Cicero disorienting.

Boy Flesh. Roger did know some of what Shy Eddie had been into over the years, but they both had been diligent to keep Roger out of his business as much as possible.

“What will they find when they search your associate’s properties?” Roger didn’t want to hear the answer, but he had promised to protect Thomas who was almost certainly the nephew in question.

“He runs a small film studio out of his house. He manages talent, sales, and distribution.” It made Roger furious to hear Jason Rizzo talk about his business as if it were a legitimate professional enterprise.

Roger slid out of the booth and stood.

“Charles Miller?” Roger asked the deplorable young man, confirmation coming in his surprised expression. “I can’t- I won’t help that man. You’ll need to explore other options.”

Roger Cicero tried to hide the rage that vibrated throughout his body as he retraced his steps through the restaurant and back to his car. He hadn’t eaten lunch, but found he was no longer hungry.

. . .

“I’m gay, mom.” Brendon sat uncomfortably next to Sandra on the edge of the hospital bed as they waited for his discharge papers.

“I know,” she said.

“I’m not going to live where I’m not wanted.” He had been thinking about this moment since Thomas had visited him the day before; he didn’t want to return to his childhood home.

Sandra could see the sad determination in her son’s expression. She too had been thinking deeply since Thomas and Roger had appeared in her son’s hospital room.

“Brendon. I love you. Your father does too, even if he can’t see you for who you are yet. You belong at home.” She believed that; Brendon needed her, and she needed him.

Brendon’s emotions built as he thought about his mother’s words. He desperately wanted them to be true. He wanted to belong, but home hadn’t been a comfortable place for a long time.

At the age of eleven or twelve, Brendon had begun to suspect that he was different from other boys who were enamored with their developing female peers. Pussies and titties. That’s what they whispered about in the locker room while he tried desperately to look at anything other than the developing male bodies surrounding him.

Fear and confusion were the emotions he felt at home. His parents told him to wait for the right girl while constantly asking him why he wasn’t bringing anyone home but Thomas. He had been on guard for over five years, always weighing what he said and how he acted.

When Elijah made it impossible to hide, his deepest fears were realized. Home wasn’t the safe, accepting place it was supposed to be. Thinking back over the past four months made him angry.

“Look at me mom! This happened at home! I don’t belong. I’m not normal, and I am never going to be no matter what you say or how hard dad hits me.” Brendon’s venting emotions resolved in tears.

“I’m sorry, Brendon. I am so sorry. It’s not you who needs to change. It’s us.” Sandra reached for her son’s hand, pulling his limp, unresponsive arm into her lap.

She remembered Roger’s tears the previous evening. He was almost forty years old, a successful and wealthy man, who was still shattered by his parents’ response to his sexuality. The obviously strong man had melted into a scared boy before her eyes. It was a sobering moment for her as she witnessed the lasting and profound result of his parents’ abuse and neglect.

They were doing the same damage to their son. The realization of where their views would likely lead Brendon broke her heart. She was his mother. It was her job to love him, even if no one else would.

“I love Thomas.” Brendon needed to know where his mother stood.

“I know. I can accept that, Brendon. I love Thomas too,” she said with only a short hesitation.

“I love Thomas, mom. I want to kiss him. I want to have sex with him.” Talking to his mother about sex was mortifying, but he was done living two lives.

“I know. I can accept that too, I think.” Her voice was barely a whisper, but she felt her resolve harden even as she said the words. “I do accept it, Brendon.”

Sex had always been a taboo subject in Sandra’s family. She thought back to her wedding night. She had been terrified to consummate her marriage, despite the deep love she felt for the man she had married. She knew almost nothing about intercourse, apart from her cousin’s warning about blood and pain.

They had figured it out. She almost laughed as she glanced the proof next to her. Intimacy had become an important part of the relationship with her husband, and she knew it would be for Brendon and his chosen mate as well. It was difficult to imagine her little boy having sex with anyone, especially another boy which she had always believed was an abomination. Sandra did not believe her baby was evil, and the love he had for Thomas felt real and pure.

Brendon watched his mother carefully. He saw the love in her eyes that had been missing for the past four months. He pulled her into a careful embrace, wincing as his sore muscles and bruised ribs complained.

“What about dad?” Brendon whispered.

“Your father will need to make his own decision, but he won’t be back until he does. I won’t lose you Brendon. I won’t.” She pictured the broken man in the hospital cafeteria again, vowing that her son would never feel so alone.

. . .

“Detective, you have a call on line six.” Juan had just stepped out the Chief’s office; the man was frustrated by the detective’s apparent lack of progress and had once again threatened to pull him off the case.

He worked his way through the maze of desks to his own. Apart from two photographs and a Marine Corps mug, it could have belonged to anyone else on the force. He looked at his mother’s smiling face, and then at his former team. Those five people were his family. Seeing them brought a sense of calm as he reached for his desk phone.

“Detective Ramos,” he said after connecting to line six.

“Buckingham Fountain, twenty-five minutes,” a somewhat familiar voice said swiftly.

“Who is this?” Juan asked.

The click and sudden dial tone were his only answer.

“Fuck.” Juan said as he stood, checking for his wallet, badge, keys, and weapon.

. . .

It was a beautiful afternoon, but Juan barely registered that fact as he scanned the faces around him from the bench he had found near the park’s main feature. He jumped as a thin body plopped down next to him.

“Hey mister, your name’s Juan, yeah?” The detective looked curiously at the young black boy who knew his name.

“Yes. What’s yours?” Juan wasn’t sure what was going on, but using a kid to make contact communicated that the mystery caller wished to remain anonymous.

“Wouldn’t you like to know. Some fancy white dude paid me five bucks to deliver this. Anything else you want is going to cost you.” The boy didn’t seem the least bit intimidated as he held a plain white envelope out towards the detective.

As soon as Juan took it, the boy was off. Sighing, the investigator inspected the circumspect delivery. There was nothing written on the tightly sealed envelope. It bent easily and weighed next to nothing. He slid a finger under the closed flap and tore an opening along the top. He found a single piece of paper folded several times. Several typewritten lines were revealed as he opened it.

Detective Ramos. Be careful. C.M. works for the Italians, and they want him silenced. He isn’t secure in holding. You have a mole in the PD. I’ll be in touch if I learn more.

“What the fuck?” Juan Ramos looked around the green space for anyone watching him, but despite the crowds he was alone.