The Compassionate Reporter

"Lou is chasing another story down, Gavin, and this one doesn't look like more than a short paragraph in the local news section. So if you've got an hour or two, could you check this out? And if you don't have an hour or two, I'd like to know what you're doing; what you're working on now was due on my desk an hour ago."

The city editor handed Gavin a telephone message form.

"OK, boss. I'll catch lunch while I'm out if that's OK with you."

"Yeah, sure. Just don't get too involved in this one, Gavin. It's not worth more than a paragraph, even if that. A short paragraph. No going after a feature series."

"Sure, boss."

"I mean it, Gavin. You're a good writer, but what you need to learn beyond the universal getting your copy in on deadline is in determining what a story can be milked for. You tend to get too wrapped up in it. That's one reason I'm giving you this one—to see how well you can stay within the bounds of what the story is worth. This one probably isn't worth anything. That's a hint for you. If you come back and don't even have a paragraph, I'll know you're learning."

Gavin waited for the city editor to waltz off to shake some other reporter's tree before he scowled and read the telephone message. He knew that the editor was just doing his job. But how long did they need to dwell on the feature series he'd proposed to do over in the Deer Haven subdevelopment about toxic groundwater before someone pointed out that a car wash had been put in at the strip mall just up the creek from the housing area?

He read the message. It was from some guy saying the Proctor Street area was unsafe because he'd gotten robbed and assaulted there. Yeah, that's what the Proctor area is good for, Gavin thought, as he unfolded himself from behind his desk and headed for the stairs. He didn't think he'd have trouble keeping this to a paragraph, if that. And then maybe the city editor would get off his back about the botched feature idea.

* * * *

"Hi, I'm from The Sentinel. Name's Gavin Grimes. You called and said you wanted to report something about an assault and robbery?" Gavin was swinging the telephone form in front of the face of what looked like a frightened little rabbit, in human form, at the door of the third floor walkup. From the bruising on the young man's face and arms, Gavin was assured he was at the right apartment door.

The young man, at least partially Hispanic, Gavin thought, but quite good-looking and well proportioned, even if small of stature, stood there for another moment, a deer-in-the-headlights look about him. On his almost beautiful face, with the lock of curly black hair hanging down over an eyebrow, the bruises perhaps looked like more of an outrage than they really were. Gavin's sense of compassion—along with a much baser instinct—flipped in, and, despite everything his editor had told him, both Gavin's parenting instincts and his nose for a story began to twitch.

"Could I come in?" he said when the young man didn't answer. "You did want to talk to someone on the paper about your problem, didn't you?"

Gavin wondered if the young man could speak English. He started to see how much of his high school Spanish he could dredge up. But then the young man saved him.

"Yes, I'm Diego Kent. I don't know if this is a good—"

"Yeah, talk to him. And remember to tell him like I told you." The voice was deep and gruff and the big bruiser of a guy in a brown UPS uniform who materialized from the shadows of the interior matched the voice.

Gavin stood aside as the big guy pushed past Diego and into the hallway and then clattered down the stairs.

Diego looked shyly at Gavin and then stood aside, the gesture pulling Gavin into a small living room with a mismatched collection of grimy, overstuffed sofa and chairs that looked like cats had had a ball clawing and pulling stuffing out. Adjacent to the living room was a dining el, with a set of steel-legged table and chairs with red laminate and vinyl upholstery that immediately made Gavin think of the 1950s. Sharp assessor that he was, Gavin immediately noted—helped by dust marks that made a large square on a drab wall—that there probably had once been a gigantic flat-screen TV on one wall of the living room that now was completely bare.

Diego motioned to the sofa, which dipped at one end, but not too precariously. Gavin sat there and took out his notebook. Diego went to an upholstered chair and dropped more than sank into it. He gave a little moan as he did so. Gavin snapped his notebook shut.

"You're in pain. What have you done for that?"

Diego looked at him with a stupid expression on his face. "Done?"

"Did you put ice on the bruises or take any sort of pain reliever or use any ointment to deaden the pain?"

"No. Germane said I should sleep it off and then call you guys this morning. He's pissed about the TV and computer being taken."

"OK, just a few minutes. I'm going out to get something for that bruising. I'll be right back."

Gavin had seen a mom and pop convenience store on the corner of Proctor and 10th Street as he had driven up. He clumped down the stairs and across the street. They had Tylenol and Bengay. He didn't know how much good either would do, but they were better than nothing. And he got a pack of frozen peas out of a freezer. It was a little late for that too, but, again, it was better than not doing anything. In less than twenty minutes, he was back in the apartment.

"Where's the worst bruising?"

"My ribs I think," Diego answered.

"Well, take the T off and come over to the dining room table. Get a glass of water from the kitchen on your way. Take the Tylenol first."

Gavin watched Diego walk to the kitchen, which was just a space off the dining area separated by an eating counter, and then into the dining area. Gavin was concerned about the young man's health, yes, but he was quite aware that he was finding Diego very attractive—and arousing—as well. Something about a young, beautiful man suffering brought out conflicting instincts in Gavin.

"Here are two Tylenol," Gavin said. "Take a couple of these every four hours or so. And slip that T off . . . oh, god, that is a bad bruise on your side. Here sit in this chair and put this bag of frozen peas against that bruise under your eye. I'll rub some Bengay on the chest bruise and then you can hold the cold pack against that for a while too."

Gavin's hand trembled as he gently rubbed the Bengay into a large bruise below Diego's right pectoral.

"How did you get this bruise?"

"He . . . they punched me in the face and I fell against the coffee table in there."

"And then they took the TV and the computer?"

"Yes."

"How many were there?"

"Two. Maybe three."

"How did they get in? Was the door locked?"

"I don't know how they got in. The door, I suppose." There was a pause. "But maybe someplace else. Germane says it's important to say the door was locked. I was asleep on the sofa."

"Did you recognize them?"

"Uhh, no."

"And then they were gone. They just knocked you aside, took the TV and computer, and left?"

There was a pause.

"They just left, Diego?" Gavin could feel Diego trembling under his gliding fingers. He was trembling too. He didn't know why Diego started trembling at that question. But Gavin was all too aware why he was trembling. The young man was perfection itself. Gavin had a weakness for small, dark men.

"Germane wants me to say more than one did it. He says three. I did say there were three, didn't I?"

"Did what, Diego? Did they do more than beat and rob you?"

"They took me into the bedroom."

Oh, my god, Gavin thought. "It must have been—"

"Germane takes me into the bedroom," Diego said in a small voice. He had raised a hand and put it over Gavin's on top of his bruise.

"I don't mind being taken into the bedroom." Diego said. "You're being very nice to me. And you are very nice. Nobody did anything else for me. You went out and got medicine."

"Diego."

"Would you take me into the bedroom? But be good to me? Germane, he . . . I so wish someone would be good to me."

Gavin couldn't help himself. He moved behind Diego and moved his free hand over Diego's shoulder and laid it over the young man's nipple. Diego raised his face to Gavin and Gavin leaned over and they kissed.

* * * *

Diego was laying on his good side on the double bed in the bedroom. Gavin didn't know the last time the sheets had been changed on the bed and he didn't particularly care. His eyes were held by Diego's, watching how expressive the young man was in showing how Gavin's cock was pleasuring him.

Gavin was being as careful as he could be. Diego had requested that they be able to maintain eye contact, so the young man was on his side, with his torso bent so that his head and shoulders were flat on the surface of the bed. Gavin had one of Diego's legs running up his torso and the other one was bent, with Diego leveraging off the floor with his toes. Gavin was slowly pumping the young man, being careful not to worry his bruises any more than necessary.

The moaning from the young Hispanic was very arousing to Gavin. He ejaculated much faster than he had wanted too. Then, while still inside Diego, he encased the young man's hard cock in with a fist and brought him to a spouting as well. All the time Diego maintained eye contact, telling Gavin how much he was enjoying this slow, sensual fuck.

"Tell me what you told the police about the robbery and assault, Diego. I'll write it up for the newspaper. But I need more information."

The two were entwined on the bed, Diego still sighing from the encounter. Gavin felt the young man stiffen when he asked that question.

"We haven't gone to the police yet," he said. "Germane says we need to have something to push them. That the police will just say we shouldn't be living in this neighborhood. Or . . . or that Germane did it. He said we need to have something in the newspaper."

"Them? Not the police. Ah . . . do you mean the insurance company?"

"Uh."

"Ah, I see."

"Diego." The voice was deep, commanding.

Both Gavin and Diego looked up. Diego was trembling again, and Gavin couldn't claim he wasn't.

Germane was standing in the doorway, scowling.

"I think you'd better leave, Mr. Reporter."

Gavin didn't wait for another invitation. He rose from the bed, gathered up his clothes, and brushed through the doorway past Germane. He quickly dressed in the living room, and stumbled out of the apartment and down the stairs. Not until he hit the bottom of the stairs did he gather enough wits about himself to worry about Diego. He climbed half way back up the stairs and called out. "I'll write it up. Just like Diego said it. It'll be in the paper. It's OK. It's not Diego's fault."

Then, knowing full well why Diego had those bruises, he ran out into the street and looked wildly about, not, at that instant, remembering where he'd left his car.

* * * *

Gavin was sitting at his desk, trying to decide what he could write up on the robbery and theft that would meet Germane's need but still get past the city editor. He was sweating, almost to the edge of tears. He had left Diego there to face the music alone. He felt like a worm, like the lowest of the low. He could have gone back, but he didn't. He had reasoned that the newspaper coverage was what Germane wanted, so that not going back but coming here instead was the right thing to do.

He'd gotten all the way back to The Sentinel's office before he realized what he'd seen leaning up against the wall in the bedroom. At the time, he'd been too excited about getting inside Diego that it hadn't registered. But now he realized that he'd seen a large flat-screen TV and a computer leaning up against the bedroom wall.

He was taken out of his misery on what to write fairly quickly—but only to be dropped into a larger misery.

"Is that the man who beat and sexually assaulted you—and then stole your TV set and computer?" The sound of the voice cut all the way across the city room from the door to the hallway. The hubbub in the room died immediately, and all faces, including Gavin's turned toward the doorway.

Gavin had difficulty focusing, but the softly spoken, "Yes, sir," galvanized his attention. He knew the voice.

The policemen in the doorway was pointing at Gavin. Standing next to him, his face even more battered than the last time Gavin had seen him, stood Diego. He was crying.

Gavin pushed the delete button on his computer. Was it all in the plan even for Diego to get him into the bedroom and the bed, Gavin wondered. For some reason, he felt more hurt that that might be the case than that he'd been played to support the theft and beating story.

Germane was going to get a bigger story published now than Gavin had been writing, he knew. But it wouldn't be Gavin who wrote the story.