Bodies of Work (an Avondale Story)

Copyright © 2011, 2015, 2020 by Etienne

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Wherever possible, the syntax and spelling in this book follows guidelines set forth in The Chicago Manual of Style, 14th Edition, and in the Merriam-Webster online dictionary.

Cover Art © 2015, 2020 by Gerald Lopez

Acknowledgments

A word of thanks to my fans, whose encouraging e-mails and requests for more Avondale Stories keep me going.

To Jim Kennedy, my long-suffering editor, who does his best to keep me on the straight and narrow comma path.

To my partner of twenty plus years, for his support and encouragement.

Author’s Notes

Many people have written to inquire if the places described in the Avondale stories are real, and I'm happy to say that most of them are. Avondale is a very real neighborhood in Jacksonville, Florida, situated between Roosevelt Boulevard (US-17) and the St. Johns River. It is bounded on the northeast by McDuff Avenue which separates it from the neighborhood known as Riverside, and on the southwest by Fishweir Creek.

After the great fire of 1901 leveled much of downtown Jacksonville, destroying over two thousand buildings and leaving nearly ten thousand people homeless, the Springfield neighborhood immediately north of downtown was developed. Then the city began to move west and south along the St. Johns River, and first Riverside then Avondale were born. Said to be the first planned community in Florida, Avondale was developed in the nineteen twenties.

The restaurants frequented by our guys are very real, and pretty much as described in the stories:

The Derby House, sometimes referred to as Gorgi’s Derby House was a popular restaurant for several decades, until it closed circa 2011, give or take a year or so. It was the kind of neighborhood hangout where people seated themselves. After its closure, the building was remodeled, enlarged a bit, and a new restaurant emerged, known as The Derby on Park.

Biscottis, which opened in the fall of 1993, is a very popular restaurant located in the Avondale shopping area.

The Pizza Italian in Five Points, was opened by a Greek immigrant in the spring of 1976, and he dished out good pizza, wonderful lasagna, and the best meatball subs in town for just over forty-one years. Sadly, the restaurant closed in 2017, due to the owner’s age and health problems.

Richard's Sandwich Shop in Five Points, for some thirty years offered the best Camel Riders* in town. After more than thirty years in business, the owner sold the property and retired in 2016.

The Goal Post Sandwich Shop is located across the street from the complex that houses The Loop, and has been a fixture in the neighborhood for a very long time.

The Cool Moose Café has been serving breakfast and lunch to neighborhood residents for some twenty years.

The Loop Pizza Grill, home of the best grilled chicken sandwich in town and locally referred to simply as The Loop, began in Jacksonville in the late eighties, and has grown to several locations around town. The Avondale location, situated on Fishweir Creek, was popular for its deck, where one could sit and watch sea birds foraging in the tidal estuary while eating. Unfortunately, the entire complex was razed by developers in 2017, and replaced by apartments. The Loop moved to another location nearby, but that location, sadly, lacks a deck on the water.

*THE TERM Camel Rider might sound like a pejorative to some in today's politically correct society, but in Jacksonville—which has one of the largest Middle Eastern communities on the East Coast—it's the name of a sandwich offered at the numerous sandwich shops around town operated by people whose ancestors fled the economic decline and religious persecution of the Ottoman Empire. Predominately Christian, they came from Syria, Lebanon, and other parts of the Middle East and settled in Jacksonville during the early twentieth century and shortly before.

All of the sandwich shops offer sandwiches in a pocket of pita bread, and these sandwiches are called riders. The Camel Rider is a pita pocket stuffed with lettuce, slices of tomato, cheese, and cold cuts, with a bit of mustard and a dash of olive oil. The camel rider is a very simple, but amazingly satisfying sandwich.

Table of Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Afterword

About the author

Contact the author

Other books by Etienne

Bodies of Work

Etienne

Chapter 1

Jacksonville, FL

WILL YOU COME down off that fucking roof? Mike was yelling in an effort to make himself heard.

By way of answering, I started hammering roofing nails into the shingles even harder, making much more noise than was necessary in the hope that he would go away. But it was not to be, for a few minutes later his head appeared at the top of the ladder.

George, he said, you promised to go to the club with me tonight… and this fucking roof can wait.

I have to finish this bundle of shingles, I said, furiously hammering away.

No, you don’t. The roof will still be here tomorrow.

True, but the weather won’t be quite as good.

So what? All those shingles do is protect the felt. The felt is what keeps the house dry, and all of the felt is in place.

The weather is still important. If it rains tomorrow, I won’t be able to get anything done.

Fuck the weather and fuck the roof. You’re coming down now, even if I have to drag your sorry ass down myself.

Think you’re man enough?

Only one way to find out.

He scrambled onto the roof and walked over to me.

Two ticks, I said.

Two ticks, my ass. It looks like you’ve settled down to stay up here all night.

He was looking at the floodlights I’d arranged in the branches of a live oak tree, which in contrast to the gloom elsewhere brightly illuminated my work area.

What time is it? I said.

After eight.

I need another hour.

Another hour? Not on your life.

Mike walked back to the ladder and disappeared from sight. Two minutes later the lights went out, and I was left in darkness. Shit, I thought, he pulled the plug. I put the bag of roofing nails in a pouch of the carpenter’s apron I was wearing, tucked my hammer into the little loop on my belt, and used the faint glow from the nearest streetlight to find my way across the roof to the ladder and then down. When I reached the ground, I went looking for the power cord and found that the first fifty-foot section of it had been removed, leaving the plug on the second section dangling from the eaves.

Mike was waiting for me in the kitchen, a smug look on his face. I guess I was man enough after all, he said.

Damn it, Mike, where’s that extension cord?

In a safe place. Its work is done for the day, and so is yours. You can’t hide up there on that roof forever, George.

What do you mean?

You caught that prick with someone else’s prick up his ass, and you did the right thing by kicking him out. But that was six months ago, so get over it… stop hiding on the roof… and get on with your life.

Is that what you think I’ve been doing? Hiding? He had me there. I’d caught my boyfriend of two years in my bed with his legs in the air, and I hadn’t been the guy kneeling between them. After I’d kicked him out, various acquaintances had shared their suspicions that there had been other infidelities as well. Aren’t friends wonderful? But to be honest, if they’d told me of their suspicions before I’d caught him in flagrante delicto, I wouldn’t have believed them—not without the all-important empirical evidence.

Well, haven’t you?

In someone’s immortal words: ‘Not only no, but hell no’.

Methinks thee doth protest too much. This is me you’re talking to, not some twit who hasn’t known you for more than two-thirds of your life, so I’ll ask you again. Haven’t you?

Well, maybe just a little. Damn, I hate it when he’s right.

Now that wasn’t so hard to admit, was it?

What do you think?

Get your ass in the bathroom and clean up. We’re going out on the town, and you’re going to forget that prick—and the roof—at least for an evening.

All right, I guess I can stand an evening at the club, especially if it will shut you up.

Damn straight. You’re going to enjoy this evening, even if it kills you.

I couldn’t stay angry with him—we’d known each other too long and too well for that. Twenty minutes later, having showered and shaved, I was standing naked in front of the bathroom vanity toweling my hair dry. I hung the towel up, brushed my hair, and was inspecting myself in the mirror when Mike came into the bathroom. He was already naked and reached into the shower to turn the water on.

Turning to me, he said, Taking inventory, are we?

Not really.

Sure you are. I’ll give you a hand, speaking metaphorically. Let’s see, on a ten point scale, I’d say, face nine, body eight (you need to work on those pecs), ass ten, dick seven and a half, personality needs a bit of improvement.

I had to chuckle at that. You’re no slouch, yourself.

True, and my dick is half an inch longer than yours when it’s angry.

In point of fact, we shared the same vital statistics: age thirty, six foot two, waist thirty-four, and size eleven-D shoes. We’d borrowed each other’s clothes since we were kids. The principal difference between us was that his black hair was worn in a buzz cut, where my thick blond hair was just a bit longer. He was right about the dick size as well—we’d first compared erections at age thirteen or thereabouts.

Why do you put up with my moods? I said.

Because I love you like the brother I never had, just like you love me. Because we’ve been best friends since Christ was a corporal. Because I want you to be happy. Because—

I cut him off, saying, Point made, point taken. Now get in the shower.

Without waiting for an answer, I went to my closet, selected a pair of chinos and a knit shirt, and carried them into the master bedroom. I dressed quickly, gave myself a brief squirt of Tiffany for Men, stepped into a pair of deck shoes, and made my way to the den, where I settled into my favorite chair to wait for Mike. He walked into the room a few minutes later, dressed in 501s and a muscle tee.

Ready? he said.

As I’ll ever be.

I stood up, and he looked me up and down, then bent over and pulled my right pants leg up, exposing an ankle holster.

I thought I saw a bulge down there. Do you have to wear that thing?

"Mike, you know I have to wear it even when I’m off duty. As they say, ‘You never really need a gun until you really need one’."

Your status as the youngest lieutenant ever to grace the Jacksonville Sheriff’s Office doesn’t give you some leeway?

You know it doesn’t. We’ve been through this…. Besides, doesn’t it make you feel safer knowing that you’re going out with one of Jacksonville’s finest?

He ignored my rhetorical question and said, Your car or mine?

Your idea, your car.

Let’s go, then.

My house was a fifty-year-old bungalow in Avondale, which I’d spent the better part of five years renovating and restoring, mostly with my own two hands. The Avondale neighborhood had begun to be developed in the twenties, as people moved out and away from downtown after the great fire of 1901 had destroyed very nearly all of the downtown area. Avondale and the adjacent neighborhood of Riverside were home to a large gay population. This fact always surprised some people, given that Jacksonville boasted the second or third largest Southern Baptist congregation in the country, which congregation dominated local politics in many ways.

Most of Riverside and parts of Avondale had declined over the years, but in the seventies or thereabouts, the Riverside Avondale Preservation society had been formed. RAP, as it was universally known, aggressively promoted the neighborhood, as well as restoration of its homes. It had all begun because the city had announced plans to four-lane a thoroughfare through the length of the area that would have meant the demolition of dozens of historic buildings. RAP had put a stop to that project and was still going strong after more than thirty years. Mike drove quickly down a couple of cross streets and turned toward The Metro, a gay entertainment mecca that had been around for more than a decade.

Why here instead of Brothers? I said. Brothers, situated in the shadow of the Blue Cross Tower, was a popular afterwork watering hole.

Because there’s a visiting entertainer I want to hear.

You mean a famous drag queen is coming to River City?

Not a drag queen. At least not in the usual sense of the word. This one does his own singing—like Jim Bailey used to do.

Well, that at least will be different. I’m not sure I’m in the mood to sit through yet another lip-synched rendition of ‘I Will Survive’.

Don’t get your hopes up. There’ll be a bit of that sort of thing before the featured attraction performs.

Does this attraction have a name?

His stage name is Monique, but his real name is Bob Jones, if you can believe that.

Bob Jones, as in the well-known fundamentalist Southern Baptist college?

Yep.

Wow, the guy certainly has a sense of humor.

Mike parked, and we walked up to the entrance, paid our fee, and had our hands stamped with a symbol indicating we’d paid. I followed him to the main bar, where he ordered for both of us.

You didn’t ask what I wanted, I said, raising my voice above the not inconsiderable background chatter.

Puhleeze. You don’t like the swill that passes for wine here, and you don’t like beer, so I ordered a glass of Harvey’s Bristol Cream. That way you can nurse it all evening as usual.

Thanks.

I took the proffered glass and stood there, nursing my drink and surveying the room for a minute or three. Spotting a couple of familiar faces at a nearby table, I ambled over in that direction, took a vacant chair, and spent some time catching up with friends and acquaintances. Finally, Mike came over and parked himself beside me.

The show, as they say, is about to begin, he said.

The lights on the stage came up, and an emcee appeared holding a cordless microphone. God, I thought, why do these guys feel the need to emcee the show in drag themselves? Go figure. The opening acts were announced, and the audience was fed a few tidbits and teasers concerning the featured performer. I braced myself for the inevitable. Finally, the three opening acts were done and Monique was announced.

He walked on stage wearing a formfitting gown. I noted with interest that he was fairly short, quite slim, and was doing his act with a minimum of artifice. He wore very little makeup and changed only his wigs as he did extremely credible imitations of Streisand, Garland, and Lee, among others. He was quite good, possibly even as good as the legendary Jim Bailey, and the audience went crazy.

The lights came up when it was over, and Mike whispered in my ear, Well, was it worth it?

Much as I hate to admit it, it was. Thanks for talking me into this.

No problem. He excused himself to go into active chase mode.

Having finally finished my drink, I wandered over to the bar for another one and stood there for a few minutes watching the crowd as I sipped on my sherry. Finally a stool became vacant and I sat with my back to the bar, watching the crowd. Eventually, I became aware of a presence to my left and turned to see who it was. It was, as they say, a cutie-pie. Short, slim, brownish hair cut very close to the scalp, just short of a buzz cut, and very cute. We stared at each other for a long moment.

Hi, he said. My name is Bob. What’s yours?

George.

Well, George. What did you think of the show?

Seen one, seen ‘em all… except for Monique. He was great. In fact, he made me think of Jim Bailey.

Thanks. I’ve sort of modeled myself after him, and I appreciate your honest opinion.

"Holy shit. You’re that Bob."

Guilty as charged.

Buy you a drink?

Sure.

While I was in the process of doing that, Mike walked up to me with a younger guy in tow. He handed me the car keys. Take my car home, will you? I’m going home with my friend… what did you say your name was? he said, looking at his companion.

Stan.

Right, Mike said without skipping a beat, my friend Stan. He’s promised faithfully to get me home in the morning.

Mike headed to the door with Stan in tow.

Bob looked at me. I just love success stories, don’t you?

I do too, but in Mike’s case, they only seem to last no longer than forty-eight hours or so.

Sounds like you know him well.

We’ve been best friends, man and boy, since we were eight or thereabouts.

That’s impressive. I can’t think of anyone I’ve been friends with for more than a year.

We talked for quite a while until our drink glasses were empty. Finally, he said, I’m staying downtown at the Omni, would you like to tuck me in?

Don’t you have another show to do?

I have two performances tomorrow, but not tonight.

In that case, what’s your room number?

He told me, and I said, See you there.

I set my empty glass on the bar, headed to the parking lot, and found Mike’s car. I hadn’t started the evening prepared for sex in any sense of the word, but fortunately Mike had a well-stocked glove box in his car, so I helped myself to a few condoms and slipped them into my pocket. Arriving downtown, I found a space in the Omni parking lot, secured the car, and made my way into the hotel. I went straight to the elevator and arrived on his floor just in time to find Bob inserting his plastic room key into the slot in the door of his room.

Chapter 2

Jacksonville, FL

WE ENTERED HIS room, and he closed and chained the door behind us. We embraced briefly and indulged in a lengthy kiss. Finally, he broke away, saying, After performing under those hot lights, I’m desperately in need of a shower. Why don’t you join me?

Without waiting for an answer, he headed for the bathroom, shedding various garments along the way. I walked over to the bed and undressed, carefully folding my clothes and placing them on one of the chairs. Having done that, I entered the bathroom. He was just about to step into the shower, and I quickly noted that his slim body was lean, quite fit, and very compact. His torso was hairless, as was the rest of him, as far as I could tell. As he turned to step into the shower, his bubble butt was shown to advantage.

What are you waiting for? he said.

You. I stepped into the shower with him.

We spent quite a while washing each other’s bodies, leaving no stone unturned and no crevice unexplored, both of us wonderfully erect the entire time. Finally, he grabbed my erection and said, I want that thing in me, now.

We’ll be more comfortable in that nice queen-size bed.

Fine, but make it quick.

He turned the water off, and we quickly toweled ourselves mostly dry. He grabbed my erection again and led me into the bedroom. There was no need for subtleties—the foreplay had been going on in the shower for ten minutes or more. Before I knew it, he’d slipped a condom over my erection, was on his back with his legs in the air, and I was entering him slowly and cautiously.

Don’t hold back, he said. Do it fast and hard.

Are you sure?

Shut up—and do it now.

I obliged, and began to thrust in and out.

Faster… deeper… harder, he said.

I picked up the pace.

Much better.

I won’t last long at this rate.

That’s okay, next time will take longer.

Promises, promises.

Just wait, you’ll see.

I bent down and shut him up by covering his mouth with mine. Finally, I began to spasm deep inside him, and I felt him spurt against my abdomen. When it was over, I stretched out on the bed beside him.

How do you hide all this under that tight dress? I said, caressing his softening genitals.

There are various ways to do that, all of them uncomfortable. To answer your question, I usually wear a dance belt, but where a male dancer points his dick at the sky, I tuck mine down in the other direction.

He began to stroke me, saying, How soon will you be ready for a repeat performance?

As soon as I’m sufficiently inspired.

I think I can manage to inspire you, he said, and proceeded to do so.

It didn’t take long, and when it was over, he said, Can you spend the night?

Sure, provided we can do this again first thing in the morning.

Deal, he said as he reached over to turn out the light beside the bed.

I woke up the next morning almost on the dot of six, just as I always do, and almost hopped out of the bed automatically to head for the bathroom until, at the last minute, I realized where I was. Bob had rolled over onto his side during the night, facing away from me, so I eased up against him and put my arms around him, but not before I’d slipped a condom over my morning wood.

He began to stir under my hands. Mmmm. What time is it?

Early. You probably don’t want to know, I said as I eased into him.

This is a nice wake-up call.

Finest kind.

I began to stroke him and to do things to his neck and ear with my mouth as I began to plunge in and out. Once again, it wasn’t very long before we were both spent.

He rolled over to face me, and we kissed.

That was nice, he said.

Yes, it was. Want to have breakfast?

Not a chance. I have two performances tonight, and I’m going to sleep ‘til noon.

Then I’ll leave you to it. I’m meeting a friend for an early morning workout at the YMCA.

You have enough energy for a workout after all this?

Sure. I find sex energizing, don’t you?

Not at this hour.

I gave him one last kiss and went to the bathroom to relieve myself. When I returned to the bedroom and began to dress, he went to the bathroom. He returned just as I was strapping my ankle holster in place.

His eyes widened a bit. Do you always carry a gun?

I’m a policeman, and I’m never totally off duty.

This is a first for me; I’ve never had a cop before.

Want to have me again? What time will your show be over tonight?

Yes—and probably not until well after midnight.

In that case, I’ll stop by for the second performance, unless, of course, duty calls.

Are you on duty today?

I have the entire weekend off, but I’m subject to call.

My holster in place and pants snugged down over it, I gave him a brief kiss and left the room. When I got home, I found Mike nursing a cup of coffee in the kitchen.

Good morning, sunshine, I said.

My, aren’t we chipper this morning, and I know why. You’ve got that ‘just been laid’ look about you.

That I do, and you’ll never guess who it was.

I give up.

Bob Jones.

The performer? No way.

He was chatting me up when you handed me your keys last night.

"Well, I am impressed."

Ready to go to the Y?

Not really, but I will anyhow.

By the way, how was Stan?

Who?

The guy you went home with.

Oh, him. Quite forgettable, and something of a disappointment.

Do you mean to say that you struck out?

Not at all. We fucked a couple of times, actually, but it just wasn’t very interesting.

Sorry.

Not your fault. Are you ready to go?

After you.

We took my car to the central YMCA facility, which was on Riverside Avenue not too far from downtown. It was a large complex, situated between the street and the river, and featured handball courts, lockers, showers, steam room, sauna, and an indoor pool. The equipment room contained every workout machine known to man, or so it seemed. There was even a new room full of stationary bikes devoted to spinning classes—the latest fitness craze. In addition, there was an outdoor running track situated between the Y and the river.

We carried our gym bags into the locker-room, and Mike said, What are we doing today?

We usually run on Saturdays, but if you want to do a different routine, I’m game.

Let’s do about five miles, then. I need to sweat last night out of my system.

We pulled on our gear and headed out the door and down Riverside Avenue. It was a well-established route used by various members at all times of the day, starting with a group who met, already in running gear, an hour before the Y opened. They timed their run so that the facility would be open by the time they returned. Then they showered, shaved, dressed, and went to work. They called themselves the ‘dawn patrol’.

We’d just reached the one-mile mark at the park when Mike said, What are you doing the rest of the day?

What do you think? The shingles are calling me.

Want some help?

You know you can’t hammer even a roofing nail in straight, but I appreciate the offer.

Then I’ll play gofer for a bit and lug a few more bundles of shingles up the ladder to you.

Thanks, I’ll be grateful for that.

We completed our run in relative silence. Back in the locker-room, we slipped on Speedos and went to the pool to cool down while doing a few laps.

In the locker-room once again, Mike looked at me. Steam or sauna?

Steam, I think, if that’s okay with you.

Fine.

He led the way to the steam room, towel slung over his shoulder, and I followed suit. The usual assortment of men were sitting on the tiled benches, taking the steam. Some of them had towels around their waists, while others were sitting on their towels, legs spread, various parts dangling in full view. Mike and I emulated the former, cinching our towels around us before we sat down on one of the benches. I settled back against the warm tile wall and, with eyes half closed, watched the group.

After we’d been settled on the bench for a couple of minutes, a sort of nerdy-looking guy wearing glasses entered the room and took a spot on the bench across the room from us. His towel was kind of loosely draped over his thighs, but with his legs spread, you could clearly see his private parts. He slipped one hand under the towel and began to fondle himself until he was fully hard. Somehow he managed to keep his erection pointing out along his thigh instead of standing up and tenting the towel. He was watching us intently while pretending not to do so.

In the Mists and Vapors

HE’D FOLLOWED THE two men from the locker-room into the steam room, where he watched them carefully through hooded eyes. They were both so hot-looking, but the blond was the one that really turned him on. He wondered if they were lovers, but watching their body language, he decided that they were probably just friends.

He began to fondle himself to full erection, thinking about the hot blond across the room and what he would like to do with and to him. The two men didn’t appear to notice him, but they couldn’t help but do so. He could see their genitals between their spread legs, and neither of them appeared to be reacting to his display.

He got so excited that he lost control and spewed onto his thigh before he could slow down. He heard the blond say to the other man, Ready to hit the showers? The other man nodded, and the two of them left the room.

Damn. Maybe next time he could control himself a little better. He wanted the blond to notice him… to desire him… to want him. He settled back against the wall with a sigh of resignation.

I WATCHED THE guy with the glasses lose control and spurt all over his thigh. Such behavior was not at all uncommon in the steam room. In fact, at times the jacking off and other displays were much more overt. I looked at Mike. Ready to hit the showers?

He nodded, and we left the room. The shower room had five stalls divided by chest-high partitions along one wall and four along the other. One door led to the locker-room, and the other opened to an anteroom, which in turn led to the pool. The shower room was unoccupied, and we stood in adjacent stalls.

Did you see that guy? Mike said.

Which guy?

The nerd with the glasses. He was hot for your body, let me tell you.

Surely not.

George, if you were a lollipop, that guy would turn you into an all-day sucker. Trust me on this.

If you say so. That being said, he’s not my type, so he’ll just have to get over it.

We finished showering and went to our lockers to dry and dress.

Want to have an early lunch? Mike said as we walked through the lobby to the exit.

Sure. Where?

You know I prefer Richard’s when I’m in the mood for a Camel Rider, but they’re not open on Saturday, so how about the Goal Post?

That’ll do.

I pointed the car down Riverside Avenue, and when we were past the St. Vincent’s Hospital complex, I turned left onto King Street and one block later turned right onto St. Johns Avenue, and followed it almost to its intersection with Herschel Street. The Goal Post Sandwich Shop was a long-time neighborhood fixture and was heavily patronized by the Junior League set from the nearby Ortega neighborhood, where much of the old money in town still resided.

Like most of the sandwich shops in town, it was owned by a family of Middle Eastern descent. Jacksonville has a huge population of people from Lebanon and other spots who’d been in the area for two or three generations or more. Most of them were Christian, and quite a few of them were communicants at St. John’s Episcopal Cathedral, as were we—although our attendance was somewhat irregular. A staple in all the sandwich shops was the Camel Rider, which was a pocket of pita bread filled with bits of lettuce, slices of cheese, tomato, and cold cuts. We placed our orders and took the only available booth while we waited for our number to be called. We consumed our Camel Riders and a bag of chips each and returned to the house.

ON THE LAST SATURDAY of his life, James Albright followed his normal routine—which proved his undoing. He drove, as usual, to his office in the Riverplace Tower, which had been built as the Gulf Life Tower. The building was a city landmark. When completed in 1967, it had been, at twenty-eight stories, the tallest precast, post-tensioned concrete structure in the world, which was a fancy way of saying that the building didn’t have a steel skeleton. Its skeleton was composed of pre-stressed concrete beams. It held that distinction for some thirty-five years until 2002, when a taller such structure was erected in San Francisco.

Making his way to the 23rd floor, he stopped, as he always did, in the men’s room adjacent to the elevators. Standing in front of the urinal, he paid no attention when someone else entered the room and walked up to the adjacent urinal. He was so intent on the task at hand that he didn’t see the flash of the knife… and barely felt it, as it slashed through the blood vessels in his neck. His hand went to his throat instinctively when he felt the warm wetness, and he fell to the floor as he bled out.

I SETTLED DOWN on the roof, and Mike, as he’d promised, started carrying bundles of shingles up the ladder and placing them on the roof as directed. He’d just brought me the tenth bundle when my pager buzzed.

Shit, I said, looking at the number on the display. I knew it couldn’t last. I’d like to get through just one Saturday off without interruption.

Go ahead. I’ll put your tools and supplies away.

Thanks.

I made my way to the ladder, climbed down, went to the kitchen, and grabbed a soft drink from the fridge. Then I sat down to call the number displayed.

Chapter 3

Jacksonville, FL

BRIDGES, A GRUFF voice said into my ear.

George, Captain. What’s up, and why are you dispatching calls?

The captain wasn’t known for excess verbiage, and without preamble, he said, A messy murder in Riverplace Tower. Men’s room, 23rd floor by the elevators. Your team is already on the way. I just happened to be in my office when the call came in.

Give me a minute to change, and I’m on the way.

Did I interrupt something?

I was on the roof nailing shingles, and I’m only wearing cutoffs and a T-shirt.

Sorry about that, but that’s why the taxpayers pay us the big bucks. Just put on a pair of jeans; you’re going to a crime scene, not a fashion show, and you don’t have to dress to impress anyone.

Will do, Captain. Thanks.

He hung up without saying good-bye, which was typical. I headed for my bedroom, where I grabbed a pair of jeans and a clean polo shirt along with my shoulder holster, badge, and shield. In the car, I placed a bubble light on the dash and headed for the expressway. When I arrived at the tower, I saw several cruisers already on the scene, as well as an EMT truck. The 23rd floor was swarming with people in and out of uniform, so I elbowed my way through the crowd and into the men’s room. Janet Sanchez was bending over a body on the floor, as was a man whose name I couldn’t immediately recall but whom I recognized as an assistant medical examiner. There was a huge pool of blood around the body.

What have we got, Sergeant? I said.

She stood up at the sound of my voice. Hi, boss. The victim is James Albright, age forty-two. He was a Chartered Life Underwriter and had an office on this floor. His wallet is empty, and based on tan lines, he’s missing a ring and a watch or heavy bracelet.

Are you thinking robbery?

Could be. The guards downstairs say that he always came in about the same time every Saturday morning and spent a few hours in his office. He told them that he used the quiet time to catch up on his paperwork.

In other words, his habits were probably well-known.

Right.

What about surveillance cameras?

We’ve asked them to pull the tapes for this morning.

Ask them for tapes from the last two or three Saturday mornings as well. We might catch someone watching him. Do they go back that far?

They keep a week on tape and then transfer them to DVD format. They retain the DVDs for a month. I’ll take care of it.

The ME stood up and looked in my direction. Hi, Lieutenant, he said. At first glance, I’d say his throat was slashed with a very sharp knife, possibly one with a serrated edge. We’ll know more after we get him down to the morgue. He was probably dead by the time he hit the floor.

Thanks, Roger. His name had come to me the minute he stood up, which spared me the embarrassment of asking for it. How long do you think he’s been dead?

Based on liver temperature, I’d say two or three hours.

Security says he entered the building about three hours before he was found, Janet said. And before you ask, nobody saw anything unusual, at least nobody we’ve talked to so far.

You know the drill, Sergeant. Have your guys expand the circle until it includes everyone on this floor and everyone on both the ground floor and the lower floor. Any floor, in fact, that has an outside entrance, including the floor that opens on the covered walkway to the parking garage.

We’ve asked for tapes from the garage cameras, also.

Good. What about next of kin?

Working on it. I sent two of the guys in a cruiser to the address listed on his driver’s license about twenty minutes ago.

Who?

Sam and Larry.

Good, they’re probably the most tactful of the bunch.

Having set all of the relevant wheels in motion, I found a place to sit and called the captain to report. He listened