Chapter Three
Three establishments catering to the LGBTQIA community operated within San Gaetano territory, all of which paid some kind of protection to the family. If any of their owners or patrons experienced harassment, vandalism, or more severe hate crimes, it didn’t occur via directives from any of Salvatore’s capos or from the don himself. From what Gio gathered through the grapevines, the owners of those bars paid on time and minded their own damn affairs.
Gio respected that, but he was smart enough to stay the hell away from the neighborhood gay hangouts. He abstained from the hookup apps as well, for fear of his capo or another connected man glimpsing it on his phone. Life as a wiseguy came with a full set of risks, but advertise your homosexuality and you may as well put a target on your back for your enemies and allies to find. While made men earned the privilege of protection, off limits for unsanctioned hits, Gio doubted he’d gain immunity that way if anyone knew the truth.
Don Salvatore lived by the credo emblazoned on many a conservative bumper sticker— Marriage = 1 Man + 1 Woman —and expected his underlings to abide. Like a man wasn’t truly a man unless he banged broads in his youth and sired a brood with an amiable, church-going wife once he’d sown his oats.
Of course, if said oat-sower still had a few seeds left in the pouch and saw it necessary to do a little gardening on the side, she better be pretty, on the pill, and discreet.
Fuck if Gio intended to carry on the family’s time-honored traditions of wife, kids and mistress. He’d known from an early age that he preferred his own kind. Despite his desires, he grew strong and hung tough with his hetero counterparts. He well regarded his superiors in most respects, but this one.
How laughable to think, in this day and age, that homosexuality equated to weakness? Often Gio bit his lip during meetings with fellow associates when talked turned dirty, and his peers bragged of shaking down a “coupla swishy fags” because the mood hit them. Were Gio bolder, he’d take his cohorts to JT’s one night and introduce them to the retired SEALs and the construction workers with whom he enjoyed nodding acquaintanceships.
As for men, Gio knew what he liked when it came to sexual partners. He craved the heat of large, strong hands palming his ass, the rough abrasion of whiskers along his skin, the energetic slap of skin on skin as a hung top pounded his hole. When his first choice in type wasn’t available, he found satisfaction with others. Confidence attracted him as much as looks, that and a good sense of humor. Since his first kiss with a boy at fourteen, he’d dallied with a variety of men.
Gio admired men, period. Gym rats, shaggy-chested bears, flexible twinks. Asians, African-Americans, Latinos, Jews, Christians, atheists, frat boys, older queens, blonds and brunettes. He had yet, though, to have a redhead fuck him. He hoped that changed.
As he idled at the last traffic light before the bridge, he called up the image of Conor’s retreating form following their introduction. To say the tall ginger had caught his attention when spotted outside Lonnegan’s was an understatement. Gio’s heart had yet to slow down. That accent, too. Gio bet the man tasted like Irish cream.
Conor ticked every box on Gio’s list for an ideal hookup. He gave an assertive handshake and looked Gio in the eye when they spoke. Confidence, check . He radiated an air of mystery, which indicated a preference toward discretion, check. He possessed a beautiful face highlighted by a plush Cupid’s bow mouth made for sucking cock.
Double check.
Gio hoped Conor showed up at JT’s tonight. Himself, too, if he didn’t rear-end the truck taking its sweet time crossing the intersection onto the bridge. JT’s on the River took up prime real estate outside his family’s territory, near a cluster of galleries and eclectic boutiques and thrift stores. In the interest of attracting older Zoomers and young Millennials, the city was working with business owners to establish the area as an arts district. Yet, JT’s stood as a landmark to the gay community long before the AIDS crisis, and Gio’s existence. History kept the bar in its place, and respect grew around it.
He parked at the edge of the riverfront building’s lot, as far from lampposts as possible. He used his family-sanctioned driver’s license, with a variation of his real name and different birth date, at the ID check and soaked in the lively, black-lit atmosphere. A bass-heavy house mix thumped over loud chatter and cheers. Bodies crowded the main bar and filled nearly every booth along the walls. JT’s patronage was predominantly men and it looked that way tonight. Those in white and light-shade clothing gave off a neon glow under the UV lighting, adding to the venue’s retro disco aura. Gio loved it.
No sense in wasting his Friday night. Gio shouldered past groups of men swaying in place and tipping back longneck bottles and rocks glasses. He caught the eye of the weekend bartender, the doughy but pleasant Dwayne, and opened a tab.
“You see a tall redhead come in here?” he asked, loud enough to hear over the music.
Dwayne wore several slim neon glowsticks, fastened together like bracelets, on his wrists. He flashed a smile that showed off his double chin. “Natural or dyed? Copper, strawberry blonde, or auburn?” He cut his hand through air in a wide arc. “Take your pick.”
“This was the real deal. Dubliner looking for a good time. I told him about this place.”
“I appreciate the referral, G, but don’t look for a kickback,” said Dwayne. The joke might have landed with Gio if he wasn’t all that interested in Conor, and the bartender seemed to sense the growing tension. “You remember what he had on? I’ll keep a lookout, and an ear out for foreign accents.”
Gio gave as detailed a description from memory and pointed his beer bottle toward the far end of the bar, his stakeout spot. Dwayne said he’d direct anyone matching Conor that way, but, “If he’s hot, I can’t promise somebody won’t intercept him.”
“I’ll worry about that.” Gio pulled on his beer, thinking of Irish cream.
* * * *
Riding in the back of a taxi over the bridge toward the city’s burgeoning arts neighborhood, Conor fought constant thoughts of his father’s funeral. He hoped the day wasn’t soon in coming, but after his last conversation with his da, thoughts of mourners’ possible reactions to him invaded his mind.
We heard you were grinding in some gay bar when your father passed, Conor Jacob Malloy. That any way to honor your poor da’s memory?
Well, to be fair, it was his idea…
“Conor, you’re gruesome. Stop it,” he chided himself.
The driver turned his head, his breath visible on the transparent partition. “You say something?”
“No, sorry. I’m good.” Conor rested back in his seat. If the blackness persisted, he might as well tell the man to U-turn once he reached the other side. Nothing brought down the vibe of a queer bar at the start of a weekend like a moody gay. He imagined, too, if he showed back at the house after fifteen minutes his bedridden da would only throw him out again.
JT’s had changed little on the exterior, so Conor noticed when the cab pulled into the parking lot. Once a seafood restaurant with a shanty motif, the business changed hands right around the time Hugh Malloy opened Lonnegan’s. The thought warmed Conor. Two drinking establishments on opposite sides of the river, each catering to specific clientele, had helped him come to terms with his identity. Where his first kiss happened in his father’s pub, Conor remembered the exact location of his first same-sex kiss—in the far stall of the men’s room. The man’s name, however, was lost to time. To think more about it, he wasn’t sure he caught it that night.
In seedier days, when the staff had been lax about checking IDs, the stalls had lacked doors. Some joked that JT’s catered to a variety of fetishes, but Conor guessed it had been that way to eliminate a door’s use as a weapon. With the surrounding neighborhood in the midst of a renaissance, he anticipated walking into a more respectable atmosphere.
Respectable, perhaps. Loud, expected. Crowded, yes. Conor examined the queue waiting to get in and chose patience. Good to see a thriving business, at least. He recalled the times Lonnegan’s enjoyed near capacity patronage—typically St. Patrick’s Day and other ‘drinking holidays.’ At times when they flirted with a violation from the fire marshal, Hugh served anyone with a dollar to spend. His da hated to turn away good customers.
Conor thought, too, of the action he missed while living in Ireland. He’d moved out of the country a decade ago, and had skipped JT’s on his few visits home since. The face belonging to his men’s room kiss was a blur in the back of his mind. The man could have walked past him right now with Conor none the wiser.
No matter, though. He was here tonight by Joe’s quasi-invitation. Once he entered the club proper and his vision adjusted to the dark, Conor scanned the main bar for a sign of Joe’s unique profile.
JT’s all-male staff wore aqua-green tanks and tight white shorts that glowed with a bluish tint under the lighting. One server carrying a tray of empty glasses high over his head with one hand paused in his path toward the kitchen and winked at Conor. “You look lost.”
“I’m meeting someone,” Conor said, his voice raised to be heard over the lively pop music. “His name is Joe?”
The served guffawed. “Yeah, honey, that narrows it down.”
Worth a shot . Conor watched the young man’s bubble butt wiggle as he dance-stepped away. He looked for thinning patches in the crowd and created his own path to the bar. Might as well have a drink while he roamed the perimeter.
He spotted Joe at the far corner, leaning an elbow on the polished wood and watching the collective shuffle on the LED-lighted floor. As though sensing Conor’s approach, Joe turned his head and smiled. Dimples formed on either side of his lips, adding to the man’s physical charm.
Up close, Conor saw they looked deep enough to get the tip of his tongue caught in one.
Dial it back , his conscience warned. Maybe get a last name before you get a room?
“You made it!” Joe signaled for the bartender. “Lemme buy you one.”
“You don’t have to—”
Joe silenced him with a hard, but not harsh, glare. “I said I’d buy the first round when we met, right? What’re you drinking?”
Conor pointed at the bottle in Joe’s hand, nodding his thanks when the bartender popped the cap off a dewy one for him. When the current song morphed into a new one and the crowd’s enthusiasm crested, it drowned out their attempts at conversation. Joe beckoned for Conor to follow him, and burrowed them out of the club toward the exit leading to the back deck.
Here, the club’s volume muted as the door closed behind them, but vibrations from the sound system thrummed along the wooden slats under their feet. JT’s spacious back deck ran the length of the building and bordered the river. A smattering of people hung out, either huddled in twos for intimate talk or smoking and flicking ash over the railing. Before them, city lights glittered underneath a cloudless, dark sky.
“It’s nice out here,” Joe said, his voice a bit raspy and working back to normal. “One of my favorite parts about JT’s.”
Conor agreed. “Amazing view.”
“You know this used to be a seafood restaurant? It was back before I was born, but my grandparents used to come here.” Joe stretched out his arm. “This was all outdoor seating, and people would come up in their boats and anchor them here,” he said, indicating the moorings beneath the deck. “They said if you paid extra, the servers would bring the food out to you. Cloches, cloth napkins, the whole bit.”
“Nice.” Conor knew the lore from his own parents, but the notion of playing new-in-town tourist appealed to him. He saw no point in unloading his woes on a handsome new friend, and perhaps in some way his father would have championed the act. He’d hang on Joe’s every word and stroke his ego. This one’s for you, Da. “I take it you’re a native.”
Joe puffed up his chest. “Born and bred. I went to St. Paul’s High School, not far from where I saw you at Lonnegan’s. As you can see, it didn’t rub off on me much.” He gestured to the large rainbow flag tacked to the building’s exterior.
“Well, you’re in good company,” Conor said. Interesting. He’d attended the same school, and Joe looked to be close to his age. He’d have remembered such a handsome fellow loping through the hallways, but Joe’s face didn’t trigger such memories. Then again, Conor had gone up through the honors and college prep tracks, so they might not have crossed paths anyway. “Did you attend university here, too?”
“Nah.” Joe snorted, and tipped back his bottle. “I barely got out of high school. I was never meant for academia.”
That answered that.
“What brings you to town, Conor?” Joe leaned on the railing, crossing his legs at the ankles. “If you don’t mind my asking.”
Conor inhaled, fast and sharp. “Well,” he said, drawing out the word to stall. “I had mentioned I’m here to take care of some business.”
“Yeah.” Joe nodded. He left his mouth parted for a beat before adding, “I suppose everybody has some kind of hustle going on.”
“Not quite like that,” Conor said. My father is dying. “I work for an independent film company in Dublin as a locations manager.” At present, using up all his rolled-over leave. If his da lingered past his allotted paid time off, well, that might be good if Hugh took a turn for the better. If not, Plan B, as soon as Conor thought of one.
Joe blinked, an exaggerated reaction that suggested interest and required further explanation. “Cool, so you’re like on a film crew.”
“One way of putting it.” Conor set his half-full bottle on the railing. “I scout locations for our company’s productions, film and television,” he said. “That’s the short version of my job description, though there’s quite a bit involved in the process. Researching potential villages and buildings for accuracy, helping to secure permits, scheduling shoots.”
“Is that why you’re here?” Joe asked. “Doing recon for a new movie?”
Conor put both hands behind his back, crossing his fingers. I have to sell my father’s legacy. “A limited series, actually. A family saga that spans decades between Ireland and the States. The scenes in the present would play out here.” The story of my life. Conor met Joe’s gaze and tried for sincerity in his expression. He hoped Joe bought the fib.
“I’ll be honest, it sounds interesting but probably not something I’d follow.” Joe left his empty bottle next to Conor’s and drifted back a few steps. “I don’t spend a lot of time watching shows, or movies. I like sports.”
“Quite all right,” Conor said. “I prefer comedies myself. This project is rather heavy.” His taste for beer fading, he picked up on Joe’s cues and they began to stroll the length of the deck. “As it is, many of our productions aren’t distributed to this side of the globe, so if you want to watch them you’ll need a VPN and access to whichever channel in Ireland or the U.K. airs it.”
“Forget it then, sorry. That’s too complicated.”
A peaceful silence settled between them for a few beats. In his head, Conor thanked his da for pressing him to go out tonight. This brief respite injected him with much-needed serotonin, something missing from his life even before his father’s health issues had spiked. Dublin offered a vibrant gay scene, yes, but Conor kept to himself most of the time. At thirty, he could claim two serious relationships, the last one having ended five years ago. He remained friends with both men, had even attended the wedding of one, but these days he preferred to dodge romantic commitments in favor of the occasional shag.
Joe, for example, made for a prime sexual fling candidate. He carried on a conversation well, was gorgeous as sin and, looking at how his jeans fit, possessed a nice ass. Despite the stress of the past few days, Conor liked to remind himself that he was a man with healthy urges. One such need, to have Joe grasp him at the waist, occupied his foremost thoughts as he contemplated asking the man if he wanted to go back inside and dance.
Instead, what came out was, “What do you do for a living, Joe?”
What indeed?
I run with the mob. He could open with that line, and odds were Conor would laugh off the supposed joke and insist upon a genuine answer to this question. Gio had been tempted more than once to try it, but in this city one never knew who was lurking around the corner or in a group of men at one end of a deck behind the city’s best known gay bar. Don Salvatore himself hinted at good things to come for Gio within the family, and he wasn’t about to toss it away on a goofy remark.
He kept a story prepared for whenever he met somebody who wasn’t connected. Introducing himself as Joe instead of Gio played a small part in that it added to his anonymity. Call it acting. Maybe if he ever got to Ireland, he’d look up Conor’s film company and audition. “I’m a warehouse foreman,” he said. He built his legitimate persona off various interests operated by the San Gaetanos. “I started out in high school, working summers for one of the distribution centers out by the airport. Stayed out of trouble, got promoted. I do all right.”
“Good for you.”
“Yeah.” Gio shrugged. He spotted a couple of well-dressed men coming out the deck to smoke. Lawyers, maybe, or accountants. JT’s catered to an extensive clientele, from gig economy hustlers to doctors and executives. Gio thought himself neither better nor worse than anybody here but, in Conor’s presence, he suffered a fleeting moment of insecurity. They locked gazes for a moment, and Gio faltered as he studied Conor’s pale irises. Not quite blue, not quite green. Somewhere, a box of sixty-four crayons had the right word to describe them.
“Anyway,” he added, “it’s not as glamorous as scouting film locations.”
Conor stepped closer. “It’s honest work, though. Nothing to be ashamed about. And being a foreman means you’re in charge, yes? I don’t necessarily supervise people in my line of work.”
Honest, heh. Gio harbored no guilt as a Mafia associate. He’d known from day one how the family operated, and what consequences awaited him if he stepped out of line. Tonight’s dinner with the don and his capo, though, assuaged any worries for now.
“I may be changing careers soon,” Gio said. “A contact tipped me off to an investment opportunity in which I’d have managerial control, and I’m considering it.” A partial truth, and Gio wasn’t certain why he mentioned it. Scratch that. What he knew of Conor Still No Last Name, he liked. If this encounter led to a fling, he at least wanted Conor flying back to Dublin impressed by the burgeoning entrepreneur he laid. His smarts as well as his body.
They drifted back toward the door leading into the club. “Will it pay more than the warehouse? If so, congratulations if it pans out.”
“Thanks.”
Conor crooked his neck toward the door. “I’d say that’s worth a celebratory drink. I’ll buy the next round.”
Tempted by Conor’s generosity, Gio gave a slow shake of his head. He swallowed dry at the moment, but craved something different to quench his thirst. “Back in the day,” he said, “this used to be a pretty raunchy place.”
They paused at the door. Neither moved to open it. Gio rounded on Conor, blocking him.
“You’d go to the men’s room, but not to piss, if you know what I mean.”
Conor ticked up one side of his mouth in a coy smile. “I’m familiar with how it works, Gio. I’ve seen movies, though I’ve yet to scout a gay bar for one.” When Gio laughed, he added, “Are you suggesting we check out the loo?”
“Loo.” He liked the funny foreign slang words. “How do you get loo from lavatory , or water closet , or whatever the fuck you call the can?”
“It’s derived from the French word for water. Don’t ask me how I know that.”
Gio supposed a film locations manager picked up on strange details while on the job. French wasn’t one of the languages he studied for his collections work, either. “Too bad it ain’t trivia night, not that I’d want to hang around for it,” he said. “I was going to ask you if you wanted to come out to my car, so I can show you what they used to do in the loo here.”
“Lead the way.” Conor squared his shoulders and smiled at him. The warmth radiating from him hit Gio right between the eyes.
Why the hell not?
Conor wasn’t in a serious relationship, and he wasn’t able to provide his father any succor beyond a mournful bedside vigil. Hugh didn’t want that, though he might want to hear if Conor got lucky.
It would sound crass to another person’s ears, but it made sense to a son of a bartender. Hugh Malloy had loved life and passed those yearnings down to his son. Joe was a hard-working man out for a good time, and fit Conor’s profile of an ideal fuck. As much as he hurt these past few days, he couldn’t ignore the natural urge to get off with some assistance.
Hooking his forefinger around a back belt loop on Joe’s pants, he followed while Joe threaded through the main bar to the front entrance. Dance music enveloped them, and bodies swayed in their personal space either by accident or invitation. The tang of sweat and pheromones hung heavy in the air, heightening Conor’s anticipation for a good old-fashioned tumble in the back seat. He’d never gotten to experience it as a teen, so better late than never.
Joe owned a nice car. Warehouse foremen lived rather well, Conor surmised. He appreciated the roomy backseat, more so when Joe slid in after him and lunged forward to position them across the leather-upholstered bench. “Yeah, much better,” Joe said, his voice low and husky. “Been thinking about this since I first saw you.”
A sloppy kiss silenced Conor’s retort, and they delved into one another with feral speed. Pecs, waist, small of the back, ass, backs of thighs… Conor slid his palms down and around Joe’s hard body, eager to explore every inch of him. He appreciated how Joe mimicked his touches, and upped the ante by tugging away hems and digging fingers under barriers for skin-on-skin contact. They tangled limbs and pressed their torsos together, each gauging the other’s arousal through the layers. When Conor broke off the kiss, he mouthed a wet path down Joe’s throat and brushed his lips over the man’s T-shirt, teasing the hardened nipple denting the fabric.
Joe grunted his approval. Erogenous zone found, achievement unlocked. Conor reached for the hem to push upward. “You like having ’em sucked?” he asked before pursing his lips around the pebbled skin.
“Fuck, yeah.” Joe bucked under him, and Conor held fast. He worried Joe’s nipple between his teeth and swiped his tongue from side to side. Joe was practically hairless up top, a few chest hairs between his pecs. All the better to taste.
“You know what I like even more?” Joe answered his own question by grabbing Conor’s hand and cupping it to his cock.
“I hear you.” Wet smacking noises from Conor’s slow trail to Joe’s groin filled the tight space. Fogged windows hid their fevered kisses and touches. Good thing, too, since Conor had to bend into an awkward triangle with his ass upward. Joe adjusted himself to make it easier on them, and was hard as a rock when Conor freed his cock from his tight jeans and briefs. He wasted no time in sucking down the man’s length, and kept his breathing steady to stay relaxed.
Joe threaded his fingers through Conor’s hair. “Look at you, with those sweet lips around my cock,” he said, sounding breathless. “Go slower, I wanna see myself disappear down your throat.”
Conor released him with a loud pant, but licked him root to tip instead. He circled his tongue around Joe’s cockhead, teasing him.
“Fuck.” Joe’s body quaked with his quiet laughter. He grasped a handful of Conor’s hair. “You’re my first ginger, you know that?”
“Am I now?” Conor slurped hard and batted Joe’s cock against his slick mouth. “I hope I’m the standard by which the next gingers will be judged.”
“Maybe, but I’m thinking I ought to know your full name before I come inside you.”
Conor stilled, giving it some thought. Joe had gone to school at the same time as him, so he had to know the neighborhood well enough to recognize the Malloy name. He had enough concerns, and intended for Joe to be an image held in his rearview come the time to return to Dublin. A pleasant one, of course.
He smiled, keeping one hand on Joe’s cock while extending the other. “Conor Jacob, pleased to meet you.”