Snowball in Hell

But at night … at night it was another world. The walkways gleamed white in the moist moonlight, the benches sat empty, the soap boxes were vanished, and the fountain splashed in an echoing silence. And in the underbrush beneath the forest of close growing trees and plants….
Doyle and his companion disappeared into a copse of banana trees. Matt trailed them still more slowly. He told himself that he was simply doing his job, and if he was somehow discovered, he could simply arrest Doyle and his pal-although there was nothing simple about it; the idea sickened him.
But then his own actions sickened him. What the hell was he doing pushing through the stalks and waxy flowers of banana trees in pursuit of these men? He stopped, concealed in shadow and leaves, watching as Nathan dropped his trousers and got down on his hands and knees. The other man unzipped and knelt behind him, momentarily blocking Matt's view.
For a moment Matt couldn't move. The scent of decaying leaves and fruit pulp was all around him, and he felt nauseated, almost dizzy. But he had to see, so he stepped cautiously, soundlessly, keeping an eye out for other men twisting and humping in the underbrush.
Pershing Square had always been notorious for this, and now with the military in town, it was worse.
When Matt had repositioned himself he had a perfect view of Nathan Doyle in a little circle of moonlight on his hands and knees getting fucked like a dog. He was even whimpering like a dog as the other man shoved in and out of him. Helpless, inarticulate cries-was it pleasure or pain or both?
Matt's heart seemed to thud in counterpoint, and he couldn't have looked away to save his life.
Face ricked, Doyle writhed and wriggled back on the huge cock impaling him-the other man's face was in shadow, but his powerful body was beautiful even in this obscene moment as he thrust fiercely, rhythmically into Nathan. His grunts carried through the banana leaves, and Matt wondered if he was imagining the sharp scent of sex mingled with damp earth.
And all the while Doyle kept up that puling.
It was sick and sad, and Matt knew he shouldn't be watching this, but he couldn't look away. He was miserably aware that he was getting hard-rock hard.
Doyle made another of those desperate mewling sounds. He shifted his weight and put his hand to his cock, working himself frantically, trying not to overbalance as the other man continued to slam into him.
He came first and then the other man came, collapsing on top of him, taking them both down to the ground. They lay there in the dampness, breathing hard.
Matt wiped his forehead surprised to find that it was wet. At last the naval officer moved, rolling off Nathan, and pushing up.
They didn't speak. The officer tucked himself back in, zipped up. Neither of them looked at the other as Doyle dressed hastily. The commander said something, and Doyle muttered something back, and the navy whites vanished into the trees. Doyle got up and went the other way. Matt pulled himself together, and followed.
He saw Doyle cut quickly across the cross-shaped plaza; he was making for Bunker Hill and home-making for the Angel's Flight funicular on Third and Hill, and it seemed to Matt that never had public transportation been so accurately named.
   
 Chapter Four  
The rumble of tanks and guns in the pitchy blackness, lorries and jeeps bumping along over the shifting sand-no lights allowed but the distant twinkle of the stars far overhead. Clouds of dust drifting ghostlike in the night, the forlorn yips of a jackal, the quiet murmur of voices…
BAM. BAM. BAM.
Nathan rolled out of bed, heart thundering, throat dry, groping for-
He was in a room, four walls, a ceiling, windows-he was crouching on a wooden floor next to an unmade bed. The room was soft with rosy light; the eucalyptus tree outside the window threw gentle brown shadows against the creamy walls. His books were stacked on the floor and shelves, a bottle of whisky stood on the table next to his typewriter.
He was in Los Angeles. He was home.
And someone was banging on his door.
Nathan stood, fighting to get the rush of adrenaline under control. He felt sick and shaky with it-all that fear and energy with no place to go. He sucked in a deep, steadying breath and went to the door.
«Yeah?»
A deep voice floated through the wooden barrier. «Police. Open up.»
He closed his eyes for a moment, then pulled himself together and unlocked the door. Two uniformed officers stood there.
«Nathan Doyle?»
He nodded.
«You're wanted downtown for questioning.»
«Am I under arrest?»
«We can do it that way if you want,» the larger of the two cops said.
Nathan shook his head. «Just wondering if I have time to brush my teeth.»
«We'll even give you time to pull your pants on.» That was the second cop, shorter, younger, more hostile. Nathan stared at him, wondering why he wasn't in the service, wondering if the comment about his pants was intended as a crack.
«Thanks,» he said coolly.
He stepped into the bathroom, bracing his hands on the sink and taking a couple of deep breaths, steadying himself.
It looked like he was out of time. He had wasted yesterday-Wednesday-dodging the cops and trying to find Pearl Jarvis. And then last night, giving into loneliness and nerves, he had gone back to the Biltmore hoping to find the naval officer who looked so much like Lt. Mathew Spain. That was stupid for a couple of reasons. Stupid to risk going back so soon, stupid to try for a repeat performance, and stupid most of all to acknowledge even to himself his attraction to an LAPD lieutenant. A cop. A married cop at that. Jesus. What was next? Unrequited love?
Last night he'd found his comfort and companionship in the brawny arms of an Airman he'd met on the steps of the hotel on his way out.
«Sam.» The man had insisted they exchange names. Nathan had used his middle name, «Finan.» Named for a disciple of St. Brendan. Finan was supposed to be a patron saint of monasteries, which was a good joke on someone. Sam had fucked Nathan in the banana trees of Pershing Square, and then he had tried to convince Nathan to come back to his flea-bitten hotel, and horrifyingly, Nathan had been tempted. He dreaded the idea of coming back here, of the silence and emptiness of this apartment building at night-just once he'd wanted to spend the night held tight in someone's arms, safe for a few hours, loved for a few hours– or at least pretending that he was loved.
But he'd resisted the temptation, and here he was, safe at home in time for the police to pick him up.
He could hear the cops talking quietly in his bedroom. Nathan turned on the taps, splashed cold water on his face. He shaved, brushed his teeth, ran a comb through his hair– taking no more than three minutes. He had learned to do this fast and in the dark, his mind raced ahead to what waited for him downtown.
They hadn't tried to put handcuffs on him yet. Did that mean he wasn't being arrested? Surely that was a good sign? But the morning was young.
He dressed quickly, fingers steady, focused on what and how much of the truth he could afford to tell. He would be talking to Matt Spain. That was both the good news and the bad news.
He pushed open the door to the bathroom and the two cops broke off what they were saying to each other and eyed him warily.
They went downstairs the three of them, Nathan's landlord and neighbors watching silently from their doorways. He was grateful once again that they hadn't handcuffed him, and if that was due to Matt Spain, he owed him one.
Nathan climbed into the back of the big black Ford. The young cop got behind the wheel, the older cop in back beside Nathan. Nathan listened absently as the officers talked back and forth.