All Fools' Day Foolery

Kavanagh shared in the smiles as best he could, but he left soon after for lunch, going, without giving it much thought, to the coffee shop on Dauphine near his hotel. Kyle was there and rushed over to take his order, although a young black waiter—swishy in a way that didn't really attract Kavanagh, although he was a cute piece—gave Kyle a look that told the vice cop that this might not be Kyle's table. Kavanagh ordered, as the blond waiter stood real close to him, giving him puppy dog eyes, and moved, with a toss of his very nice tail, off to the kitchen.

"This should be my table," a voice said.

Kavanagh looked up to find the black waiter standing there. "Excuse me?" he said.

"This is really my table. And I think you're not going to get what you expect from Kyle—least not what you could easily have from me."

"I don't understand," the detective said. But, in fact, he did understand. He hadn't hidden his interest in Kyle enough, he thought.

"I mean I think you're sexy as hell. If it's a guy you want, I could be your guy. You're a top, ain't you? You're not going to get it from Kyle. He's just a tease. He's a virgin."

"Oh, well, I think you've misunderstood," Kavanagh said. "I'm not into guys."

"I wouldn't bet on that, sugar," the black waiter muttered, and then he was off as Kyle came back with the Coke the detective had ordered. If the black, swishy piece thought he'd lose interest on the supposition that Kyle hadn't taken cock before, Kavanagh thought, he was very wrong. This was probably the hunky cop's second-most-favorite vice—curing young guys of their virginity.

As Kyle put the Coke down on the table, Kavanagh put his hand near where the soft drink landed. "Do you ever get to leave here?" he asked.

"Sure. Every night at 9:30. I usually am the one to close the place down."

"Maybe some night, you'd like—"

"Yes, I'd like that," Kyle said. He let his fingertips brush across Kavanagh's knuckles before moving away.

Yes, he wants me, Kavanagh thought, with satisfaction. Just a matter of plucking the fruit off the tree.

On the way back to the station, Kavanagh decided he couldn't just sit around on his hands on this case. It would drive him crazy. It was Marco and Felix' case, but there was one avenue they had been told not to pursue. He'd been told not to pursue it either, but he didn't really work for Leon Monroe. And it would frustrate him like hell to be sitting around waiting to be asked to consult on something.

He knew Brent would get him the information if he was nice to him. He stopped at the research clerk's desk on the way into the unit, but Brent wasn't there.

"Where's Brent?" he asked Marco, who was busy putting on his suit jacket. Felix was standing and doing the same. Kavanagh wondered if they'd done something else to his desk for April Fools' Day that would be so messy that they didn't want to be around to be splashed with it—but he decided that, if they'd done anything, they couldn't resist staying around to see the results of it.

"He's off doing his other job," Marco said.

"His other job?"

"Yes," Felix chimed in. "We only have him part time—which is more time than the captain would like to have him, as you no doubt have noticed. He also works as a courier, taking documents around from here to other government offices. He should be back in a couple of hours."

"He's got yet another job—a night job," Marco said in a slightly sneery voice, "but that's at night and we don't talk about it at the station."

A couple of hours was too long to sit and wonder if a screw had been taken out of his desk chair in honor of the first day of April, Kavanagh thought. Monroe wasn't here either. His office was off the main Homicide unit bullpen. Kavanagh had a computer and a telephone and his own two feet. He could work without a research assistant, although one with the skills of working the New Orleans systems would be a help.

Kavanagh didn't know whether Brent would have helped him crack the mystery of who Steve Parin's sugar daddy had been, but after three hours of work from his desk, Kavanagh had come up with only dead ends and blank walls. He got the sense, though, that it wasn't that the information wasn't out there and was known by some he could ask; it was that they didn't want to tell him, that City Hall had the lid on the question. That could only mean that the guy they were protecting was somebody important, somebody worth City Hall's protection.

He grabbed his suit coat and hit the street for a couple of more hours, right up to where the city turned over from office work to serious partying, but he finished the work day no less frustrated than he'd been returning from lunch.

He needed a steak so rare that it mooed, and he needed to lay someone. He was a man with needs. He was a victim of cum buildup and could shoot five or six times in a day before reaching mellow. It was April 1st and a hedonist festival was under way on the streets of New Orleans. It was a night to lay someone.

He took care of the steak part at a restaurant in the French Quarter and then went looking for a gay bar to pick up a little blond rent-boy for the night.

April Fools' Day must be a day for strange coincidences, he thought, because when he walked into a bar at random—one with a group of male prostitutes milling out in front of it, unfortunately none of them a combination of small, young, blond, and for rent—he quickly saw that Brent was sitting in a booth in the back corner of the bar. The bar was in full, uninhibited party mode. Men weren't just cruising and flirting at the tables and on the dance floor, where the music was too loud and not enough on key. They were also fucking in the corners.

Brent was in one of the corners. Kavanagh took up a position at the bar, where he was turned away from Brent but could see back in the corner through the mirror behind the bar. While he was fighting with himself over whether to keep his sex life separate from the office or not, his choices were cut down to a "too late to ask." He hadn't been watching, but Brent no longer was alone. He had been joined, no doubt by someone he was expecting, because they already were down to the dirty. Brent was sideways on the bench on the far side of the booth, his left leg on the right shoulder of a burly guy crouched over him, and his right leg on the table top, resting on a pair of trousers that had come off someone—no doubt off Brent.

From the expression on Brent's face that Kavanagh could see reflected in the mirror and the way he was flinching in rhythm and being moved back and forth against the back wall of the booth, it was obvious that he was being fucked. From the frequency with which the face of the big man with his back to Kavanagh was being lowered to Brent's for a kiss, it was obvious that Brent was enjoying the fuck.

It obviously wasn't going to be Brent for Kavanagh that evening, so he started shopping around. There was plenty of interest in him, but nothing small, young, and blond. It occurred to him then that he'd set up something tentatively with Kyle. This would be a great night to debauch a virgin, he thought. He started to rise from the bar, but then sat down hard again and averted his face.

Brent and his companion were coming out of the booth and heading for the door, arm in arm.

Brent's companion was Captain Leon Monroe.

Talk about April Fools and strange coincidences, Kavanagh thought. Waiting for the two to be well away from the bar, Kavanagh paid his tab and went out on the street, which already was packed with revelers, the middle of the street sort of cleared for the passing of floats and bands. As he crossed the street, a reveler—a small, young, blond—leaned off a float, lowered three strands of colorful beads over his neck, kissed him on the mouth, and floated on.

It hit Kavanagh that this could have been the same guy he had fucked in his hotel room four times the previous night. The guy had shown the promise of being able to go for five or six screws. Just what Kavanagh was in the mood for tonight. But as quick as he'd been there, just as quick he was gone. Kavanagh went in pursuit, but try as he might, as he walked through the warren of streets that was the French Quarter, he couldn't pick out the float he was looking for.

And frustration of frustrations, when he got to the coffee bar on Dauphine, it was 9:35 and the café was dark, deserted, and locked.

He was frustrated as hell. And his balls ached. He needed to get his rocks off.

* * * *

The current case was going through his mind as Kavanagh was walking back to his hotel from the closed coffee bar. He'd gotten all the way to the hotel lobby when the name "Faubourg Marigny" entered his mind. That was a low-lying district to the east of the French Quarter that had been badly flooded during Katrina. He thought about it because that was the area in which one of the victims' bodies had been found. It also entered his mind, though, because it was the quarter in which he'd found an exclusive male brothel he'd used twice before, when he was flush enough with cash, that accommodated tastes like his without fuss and gave a 50 percent cops' discount.

The house was on Frenchmen Street that ran diagonally out from the French Quarter in a northeast direction and that sported nightclubs and hotels in the blocks close to the Quarter, many of which were only now being rehabilitated following the flood. After a few blocks, though, the street ran into a quieter residential area. The brothel was one of the few buildings in the area that had survived largely unscathed. It had been a low-country bayou one-story plantation house that had been moved into the city, originally on a rural lot, and constructed on stilts. The ground floor became a brick-floored patio, and the upper, living floor included a parlor, dining room, kitchen and six bedrooms. Each of the bedrooms now had both a bathroom and a male prostitute installed for the pleasure of men with money and rough tastes.

A short lawn with lush bordering foliage and an iron lace fence separated the front of the brothel from the street and gave the activity in the building a bit of privacy.

At a 50 percent professional discount, Kavanagh could just about indulge himself here one night every two weeks.

He decided that this was one of those nights.

As he walked onto the front lawn, he saw a small group of men, most of them paired off, lounging around on the patio under the house. As luck would have it, his usual small, young, blond wasn't paired and, seeing Kavanagh nod as he approached, rose from a chaise lounge and ascended a staircase at the back of the house. Kavanagh went up the front steps to be greeted at the door by the house's madam, a zaftig transvestite, calling "herself" Madame Zena, who was draped in purple and blue, tonight wearing a blue wig and carrying a purple, long-stemmed cigarette holder and hand fan. Her lipstick was black.

She recognized Kavanagh, being careful to keep track of all city officials using her establishment, knew what and who Kavanagh wanted, and guided him to one of the rooms on the front of the house. As he passed the parlor, he saw a young—well, not so very young; maybe twenty-seven or twenty-eight year old—small, blond man, who was deliciously and impossibly handsome.

Kavanagh looked quizzically at Madame Zena. If he was available just maybe Kavanagh would want to change his order tonight. He was older than Kavanagh really liked, but every other aspect of him more than made up for that.

"He came with a guest," Madame Zena whispered. "He's just waiting. Some sort of aide, I think."

"For . . .?" Kavanagh asked. Who was so important that he brought an aide to wait for him to fuck someone in a male brothel?

"I'm not telling," Zena said coquettishly, "just as I won't tell anyone you have been here. An NYPD vice detective. Delicious. How many would you like this evening? Trojan Magnums, if I remember correctly. Oolala." She patted his arm with her purple fan.

She was standing there, with a pile of Trojan Magnums in her hand, having pulled them from somewhere in her costume. This was how the fees were paid. The cost was by the condom, and the house provided all of the condoms. There were other arrangements for barebacking and yet others for whips and floggers, but Kavanagh hadn't looked into any of those . . . yet. Bondage and certain toys—dildos, strings of beads, tit clamps, clothes pins—were included in the basic price. It was a pretty freewheeling house.

"Three, I think." Kavanagh answered. He could have done five or six; he wanted to do five or six. But he barely could afford the three.

Sam 3, naked, was waiting for him in the room. They all were named Sam and distinguished only by their numbers. The lower the number, the more useful they were. Sam 1 and 2 went to the sadists. Sam 3 was on the cusp of what the two lower numbers would take. Madame Zena knew that Kavanagh was on the cusp of that in what he'd want and demand.

The young man was kneeling on the floor beside the bed. He unzipped Kavanagh and took his huge tool in his mouth, deep throating it with effort, while Kavanagh slowly stripped down. When he was fully erect, which didn't take Kavanagh long, as he was on the edge from frustration and need already, Sam 3 rolled the first of the condoms on Kavanagh's cock, the detective leaned down, lifted the small man by his waist and bent him over the bed. For the next few minutes Kavanagh ate out the young man's ass, opening him up, and stroked and sucked on his small cock and balls. He didn't take long with this, though, as he was too keyed up.

He also didn't cover, mount, and fuck the young man from behind as he'd done for the initial fuck the last two times he had been here and had sampled Sam 3. Instead, he lifted the small body off the bed, turned him and himself, sat on the end of the bed, and, pulling the young man into his lap, facing him. Positioning the bulb of his cock at the rim of the entrance, Kavanagh suddenly slammed Sam 3's channel down on the thick staff.

Sam 3 howled in surprise and pain, just as Kavanagh wanted him to, and Kavanagh continued to slam the channel up and down on the cock, with Sam 3, once adjusting to it, letting his torso stream back toward the floor and moaning and groaning—genuinely, Kavanagh was sure, until Kavanagh had ejaculated into the bulb of the condom.

"Now you," Kavanagh growled, and he held the young man there, impaled on his shaft, while Sam 3 stroked himself off.

Kavanagh quickly recovered and lay back on the bed, Sam 3's wrists bound behind him, and Kavanagh holding the young man's waist and, once again, slamming the prostitute's channel up and down on Kavanagh's thick, long, hard cock—this time at great length and for some time after Sam 3 had dropped his load—to a second ejaculation. The intensity of the fuck was bouncing the headboard against the wall of the room, and Kavanagh was aware—and aroused—at the knowledge that the sound was in stereo. The headboard of the room on the other side of the wall behind him was being bounced against the wall as well, and he could hear muffled cries of passion from the room next door. Kavanagh's bed won the longevity honors for bounce and cock slamming by far, though, and silence reigned from across the wall and Sam 3 was limp and flopping like a rag doll long before Kavanagh was finished jack hammering him on the cock.

* * * *

Luca Alba, dressed to the nines in a tight, red dress, with a short skirt, black mesh stockings, red high heels, a blonde wig, and face makeup that would make any of the All Fools' Day festival revelers over in the French Quarter proud, was lying on the bed in the brothel, on the other side of the wall from where Kavanagh was getting his rocks off. Alba's legs were bent and open, and he was patiently waiting for Sam 5, one of two designated house tops.

He looked over to the door to the bedroom as it opened and his eyes went big with surprise. "You," he said.

"Yes, me," the top answered. "Don't say you haven't dreamed of being with me again."

"Yes, but I thought you were upset with me. You know it wasn't me who wanted what we had to stop, but, this is—"

"Don't you want me to fuck you?"

"Yes, but—"

"Then shut up and grab the headboard rails over your head. It's going to be a bumpy ride."

Alba did so and moaned as the top retrieved restraints from the nightstand drawer and tied Alba's wrists off at the headboard. Then, standing back, the top began to strip down.

"Is this what you've been missing since we argued?" the top asked in a mocking voice, waving a good-sized, half hard cock at Alba.

"Yes, oh yes," Alba murmured.

"And you want to suck it again, don't you?"

"Yes. Please, yes."

The top straddled Alba's chest and fed his cock into Alba's mouth. While Alba was sucking him to fully engorged, the top reached back, pulled the skirt of Alba's dress up to his waist, grabbed a handful of the breakaway panties, and ripped them off Alba's pelvis.

Alba gasped, released the cock from his mouth, and cried out, "Yes, yes. Fuck me!"

Repositioning himself, shoving his knees under Alba's buttocks to raise the man's pelvis to him, and thrusting his cock inside Alba's ass, the top did just that—fucked him—for several minutes. Alba gasped and panted and groaned and grunted as the headboard of the bed bounced off the wall. The same sound was coming from the adjoining room, but both Alba and the top were too concentrated on the pounding that the top was giving Alba for either to notice or to care. Alba preferred being barebacked but the top was sheathed. The man on the bottom didn't seem to care about that either. They had been estranged but now they were lovers again.

The two came simultaneously. And as they did so, the top pulled the pillow out from underneath Alba's head and pressed it down on his face. Alba wildly scrabbled at the top and the smothering pillow with his fingernails, but that didn't last long.

At the bedroom door six minutes later, the top turned and said to the silent room, "April Fools, asshole."

* * * *

As he liked to do between the second and third fucks, Kavanagh left the bed and went to the window overlooking the front lawn. He leaned against the window frame and smoked a cigarette, while he recovered his vigor to make the best use of that third condom he'd paid for. Sam 3 lay on his stomach on the bed, stretched out, moaning, and watching Kavanagh enjoy his cigarette.

There was movement out on the street in front of the brothel. A black Escalade SUV had silently glided up to a stop and two men had come out of the brothel, carrying what looked like a rolled-up carpet. Madame Zena was standing half way down the front staircase, watching them. One of the men was the delicious blond Kavanagh had seen in the parlor earlier. The other man kept his face pointed away from the front of the brothel and was a complete stranger to Kavanagh. The eyes of the trained detective immediately went to the license plate and his interest increased. There was no license plate.

He watched until the carpet had been loaded into the back of the Escalade, the two men had gotten into the backseat of the vehicle, it had glided off into the night, and Madame Zena had turned and reentered the building.

Then he walked over to the nightstand, stubbed out his cigarette, opened a drawer of the nightstand, and took out a couple of lengths of padded restraint material. The handcuffs he pulled out of his own suit pocket where the suit was hanging on a hanger on the back of the bedroom door. He walked over to the bed, grabbed Sam 3 by the ankles, turned him over onto his back, and pulled his buttocks to the bottom edge of the bed. The prostitute remained malleable, complying with every position Kavanagh put him in.