Page 8 of A Long Con

“Well, that’s good. So you’re a worker? Assigned by the City? Because I saw notices on the door, uninhabitable by humans, or something like that.”

“Oh yeah, the City’s out to get us. Not us. It’s my mother’s house, and she’s in hospice, so I’m supposed to be cleaning it up. Only, it’s a giant chore for one guy. While you’re at it, can you tell your guy to bring back that Depression glass he took a few days ago? Plates, cups, things like that. Green glass.”

I nodded and pretended to text again. I’d already sold the Depression glass. “Rajah dat. Maybe we can make a deal. Maybe if you let Pothole and me sell some of your stuff, Pothole can help you clean.”

Apollo looked thoughtfully over my shoulder. It was a good idea. If Pothole wasn’t wasting time breaking and entering, he’d have time to clean. And I knew the buyers. Win-win. But I blew it by adding, “I mean, who else you got to give that silverware to? You said you were the last in your family.”

Brah, the look of anger that stud flashed me was enough to make a saint swear. Right away I cupped his muscular thigh in my palm because I thought he was going to stand up and storm off. “I didn’t mean—”

He folded his arms angrily around his ribcage but didn’t disturb my hand. I fondled the cock side, the side he dressed on, and already I’d determined he was hung like a martyr. Why did I care about this? Well, being in the wrestling business for so long, I’d learned to assess and admire certain features of men. If he had a long, thick, juicy cock, he was more man, in my mind. It was admirable, like praising a statue of Apollo.

“I know what you mean,” he snapped. “And you’re fucking right. I had a twin who died at birth, and my mother never had any more kids. We were a dysfunctional family. Who would I give the silverware to? I certainly don’t want to take it back to New York with me . . . “ He looked at some public building within the park, just a shadowy shape at this time of night. “If I get to go back to New York.”

That was a weird thing to say. Why wouldn’t he go back to New York? Inching closer, I put my free hand on the back of his neck, almost massaging, like. “I didn’t mean that, brah. I didn’t know about your sibling and I’d never say an asshole thing like that. What you do in New York?”

He softened when he thought of his job. “I’m an artist.”

“Ah!” I said with sincere admiration. The heat of his cock warmed my hand, and I knew it was growing, lengthening. I wished I could cup the stiffening glans of his dick in my grasp—the better to admire him. “What style do you paint in? I know some art dealers around Arizona and LA.” Most of them were the criminals I had guarded when I’d first left the world of wrestling. But who cared, if they paid cash?

Apollo warmed up quite a bit now. “I normally paint in a Postimpressionist style, but I can really do several styles quite well. Cubism, Expressionism, Fauvism, Surrealism, you name it, I’ve sort of mastered a lot of 20th Century styles. I started painting on the walls of my mother’s house when I was twelve—”

“Hey dude, here’s that stuff you wanted.”

Pothole interrupted us at the worst possible time. In my enthusiasm for Apollo’s artwork, I actually could have squeezed a handful of dick. But now, because the youthful offender was looking at us, I had to remove my hands entirely and stand.

Worse still, he was with Hobie Cleminshaw. I’d never get to be alone with Apollo again.

Hobie said, “I’m real sorry, Mr . . . What’s your name? If we’re to be neighbors . . . “

Apollo stood and offered his hand to shake. I was pleased to see him tug at the jean fabric binding his cock. “Berkeley Moynihan. I’m the son of that messy lady down the street. Don’t worry. I’m cleaning it up.” He accepted the tray from a contrite Pothole.

“Yes,” said Hobie, “I saw the Humane Society truck the other day. Haven’t seen a cat since. That’s very humane of you.”

Berkeley said, “Some of them were salvageable. They’re going to rehome them.”

Out of desperation to finish this polite, dull conversation, I said, “Berkeley is an artist. He was just going to show me some of his artwork inside his house.”

“I was?” asked Berkeley. But I cast him such side-eye, he quickly said, “Oh. Yes. I was going to show Royal my artwork.”

Hobie hung in there. Maybe he wanted Berkeley for himself. “I’ve always wanted to paint. Turk’s always collecting original artwork too. Maybe we could—”

“It’s a business thing,” I said, again grasping Berkeley by the shoulder and steering him toward his house.

What would I find in the house aside from cat shit and trashed collectibles? Well, I didn’t care. I just had an overwhelming need to be alone with this Apollo.