The Manhattan Hunt Club

CHAPTER 8

He wasn't crazy. No matter what anyone said, Francis Jagger knew he wasn't crazy.

He'd had to kill the girl. He'd even tried to warn her. When they first met her, he warned her about Jimmy, how she needed to stay away from Jimmy.

But she hadn't.

Instead, she started acting real friendly toward Jimmy.

He'd warned Jimmy about her, too. Told him she was just like his mother.

Jimmy had just smiled at him, the way he always did. "Come on, Jag-you don't even remember your mother."

But he did remember his mother. He remembered how, when he was a little boy-before he even went to school- she started hanging around with someone. Ted, that was his name. And right from the first time he met Ted, he'd known what was going to happen.

"Don't worry, Francie," his mother kept telling him. "He's not going to take me away from you."

"Don't call me that! That's a girl's name!"

"No it's not. And even if it was, so what?" She'd picked him up and swung him in the air. "Aren't you pretty enough to be my little girl?"

The boy next door had heard her say that, and started calling him Francie, too. And then Francine.

He'd hated that.

And he would have stopped that boy from doing it, too, except that before he could decide exactly what to do, he'd come home one day and his mother was gone.

His mother, and Ted, and all their stuff.

He waited for her to come back, and tried not to cry, and ate the food he found in the refrigerator, and sat up all night so he'd be awake when she came back for him.

He waited all the next day, and the next night, too, but his mother hadn't come home.

Finally, a stranger had come and taken him away from his house and sent him to live with someone else.

There had been a lot of people he'd lived with, moving from one house to another, never staying in any of them long enough to feel like he belonged. By now, all the people who had taken him in for a few weeks-but never more than a few months-had run together in his mind. Even if someone had asked, he wouldn't have been able to put their faces together with their names.

The only person he really remembered-even wanted to remember-was Jimmy.

He'd met Jimmy three years ago, and right away he knew they were going to be friends. Part of it was Jimmy's smile- the way it made him feel inside. He hadn't felt anything like it since his mother left. He and Jimmy started hanging around together right away, getting drunk and doing some drugs. Jimmy didn't have a room, so Jagger let him come and stay with him. He'd even given him the bed, and started sleeping on the sofa himself. Jimmy told him the bed was big enough for both of them, and that almost wrecked everything. For a second he felt like killing Jimmy, but then got himself under control. "I ain't no fag," he said, his voice trembling with barely contained fury.

Jimmy's smile had faded away. "Hey, man, I never said you was. All I said was the bed was big enough. No big deal, okay?"

And it had been okay-it had been okay right up until they met Cherie. "It's spelled the French way," she said right off, like he cared. "It means sweetheart." She smiled at Jimmy when she said that, and Jimmy smiled back at her.

That was when Jagger knew she was going to go away with Jimmy, just like his mother had gone away with Ted. But he hadn't let it happen. He'd known when they were planning it-known that whole day. The way they were looking at each other, and talking to each other when they thought he wasn't listening. But he'd known exactly what they were up to.

He'd even told Jimmy: "You're goin‘ away, aren't you? You're goin' away with her, just like my mom went away with Ted."

"What're you talkin‘ about, man?" Jimmy asked, but there was a look in his eyes that told Jagger he knew exactly what he was talking about. "Why'd I wanta go away with her? You're my bud, Jag. It's you and me!"

Jimmy had smiled at him, and Jagger had wanted to believe him-had wanted to believe him more than anything. But he hadn't, and that night, while they were smoking some dope that Cherie had picked up somewhere, he started seeing things really, really clearly.

He kept looking at Jimmy-looking at his eyes, and his slim body, and the way he smiled.

He started thinking how pretty he was.

Almost pretty enough to kiss.

He'd cut that thought out of his head. Where the fuck had it come from anyway? He wasn't a fag!

But the more he tried not to think about it, the more he kept thinking about it, even though he knew it was all wrong.

Jimmy was a guy, for Christ sake. He had a dick!

But if he didn't, and if he had boobs… boobs like Cherie's…

He sucked in another hit on the bong they were all sharing, and then things started getting kind of hazy. He couldn't remember what happened after that, except that he wanted to touch Jimmy. Wanted to touch him really bad.

But it was wrong-it was all wrong! He was a guy, just like all the rest of the guys.

But then he figured out how to make it right! All he had to do was fix things.

Fix Jimmy.

Cherie had fallen asleep, and now Jimmy was smiling at him again, smiling the way that made Jagger's stomach feel all queasy, and his balls start to ache, and his dick get hard.

"Come on," Jimmy whispered. "Come on, Jag-you're my bud. You know what you want. So come on and get it." He'd lain back on the floor then, and Jagger knew that Jimmy wanted him to do it.

Jimmy wanted him to fix it so they could be together.

The knife slid into Jimmy easily-just slipped through his shirt and between his ribs and into his heart. It didn't hurt Jimmy-Jagger never would have wanted to hurt him. Jimmy just looked sort of surprised for a second, and then he lay real still, stretched out on his back, his eyes fixed on him.

And he was still smiling at him, so Jagger knew it was okay.

He slid the knife into Cherie next. She didn't even wake up-she just lay there, but her boobs stopped moving like they had when she was breathing.

He undressed both of them, being really careful not to disturb Jimmy. Then he cut Cherie's boobs off, and carefully put them on Jimmy's chest.

Then came the worst part. He didn't want to touch Jimmy's dick-didn't even want to look at it. But he had to, in order to cut it off. It was a lot bigger than his own, and it seemed to take a long time to get it off. But finally he cut it free, and then everything was all right.

Jimmy didn't look like a guy anymore-he looked like a girl.

A pretty girl.

Exactly the kind of girl his mother would have wanted for him.

Taking off his own clothes, Jagger lay down next to Jimmy.

He stroked Jimmy's face with his finger, tracing his smile, brushing a lock of hair back from his forehead.

He kissed Jimmy, gently at first, then harder.

He pressed himself close to Jimmy, pressed their bodies together, rubbed himself against Jimmy's strong torso, until…

He couldn't remember anything after that-not until the police came.

He'd told them it wasn't his fault, that it was Jimmy and Cherie's fault. If Jimmy hadn't been planning to go away with Cherie-

But they'd locked him up anyway, locked him in jail.

Locked him up, and told him he'd never get out.

And that was where he'd stayed until they came for him the other night. He hadn't said a word when they took him out of his cell and put him in the van, but he listened, and he heard where they were taking him.

To a hospital.

He figured it must have something to do with Bobby Breen. Jagger had liked Bobby Breen almost as much as he'd liked Jimmy. And Bobby Breen had liked him, too. But something had happened to Bobby-something Jagger couldn't quite remember. They'd been together-real close together- in one of the little closets behind the kitchen where they both worked. Then something had started happening to Bobby. He'd started turning into a woman-a beautiful woman. Jagger had wanted to kiss the woman, to make love to her.

And she'd let him. She let him do everything he wanted to do.

She hadn't moved, hadn't tried to push him away.

She'd just lain there on the floor, very still, and for a long time after he'd loved her, he just looked at her. She was beautiful-even more beautiful than Bobby Breen had been. He didn't remember much after that. Some people asked him what he'd done, but he hadn't said anything, knowing that nobody was going to listen to him anyway.

They'd taken him to the hospital, but instead of putting him in a room, they brought him down into the basement.

That was when he began to think maybe something was wrong, and he'd finally spoken. "Where the fuck are we?" he demanded. "What's going on?"

But instead of answering him, one of the orderlies hit him-hit him hard enough to knock him out. The next thing he remembered was waking up in the room he was in now.

A room that didn't have any windows, and stunk of urine and shit and garbage. There were a couple of moldy mattresses on the floor and only one light-a naked bulb hanging from a wire in the ceiling.

The only door was locked from the outside.

Jagger didn't have any idea how long he'd been in the room-didn't have any idea what time it was, or what day it was, or even if it was night or day. Every now and then the same guys who'd taken him out of the hospital opened the door and gave him some food. Mostly it was stale bread, but sometimes there was some meat, and they usually gave him an old tin can filled with water to wash it down.

Every time they came, he asked them what was going on, but they never told him. "You'll find out," was all they ever said. "And when you find out, you're going to like it-you're going to like it a lot."

Now he could hear them coming again, hear their footsteps outside the door. He heard the key working in the lock, and heard the bolt slide back.

The door swung open, a man was shoved inside, and then the door was pulled closed again.

Pulled closed, and bolted.

Jagger looked at the man. He was young-maybe twenty-two or twenty-three.

Just about the same age Jimmy had been.

But he didn't have blue eyes like Jimmy's. He had brown eyes.

Brown, like his mother's.

And curly hair like his mother's, too.

And he looked scared. "You got a name?" Jagger asked. The man hesitated then nodded. "Jeff."

"Jeff," Jagger repeated softly, almost to himself. Then he nodded. "I like that. I like that a lot."