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Austin Macauley Publishers LLC - Eric Trujillo

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113 pages

English

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Description

Mississippi native Alex Ashby is a drop-dead gorgeous 22-year-old male prostitute. He has been a victim all his life, having suffered both physical and sexual abuse at the hands of his father and uncle.
Now, he sits in Chicago's Cook County Jail accused of killing two very important people and a pizza delivery boy and is believed only by a black newspaper reporter and Alex's friend, a cocky blond hustler named Tom Pappas.
The reporter and Tom scour Chicago's seedy Uptown neighborhood, where many white Southerners have settled, to find "The Night Crawler"--whom they believe to be the real killer--and a 12-year-old hustler believed to be the only survivor of the massacre, who can exonerate Alex.
Their odyssey takes the reporter on a harrowing ride through Blood Alley--Chicago's deadliest and most dreaded street--where even angels fear to tread.

Sujets

Erotic literature

Romance

Informations

Publié par	Austin Macauley Publishers LLC
Date de parution	31 mars 2020
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9781645364030
Langue	English

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Extrait

Joy Boy
Eric Trujillo
Austin Macauley Publishers
2020-03-31
Joy Boy About the Author Dedication Copyright Information © Acknowledgment Chapter One Summer, 1977 Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five Chapter Six Chapter Seven Chapter Eight Chapter Nine Chapter Ten Chapter Eleven Chapter Twelve Chapter Thirteen Chapter Fourteen Chapter Fifteen Chapter Sixteen Chapter Seventeen Chapter Eighteen Chapter Nineteen One Year Later Epilogue
About the Author
Septuagenarian Eric Trujillo was born in South Louisiana and educated in both Louisiana and Mexico City. He speaks English and Spanish fluently, and can ‘maneuver’ in three other languages.
He worked for the State of Illinois in various investigative positions for thirty years before returning to Louisiana, where he currently lives with his two standard poodles, Bella and Leo. He is the father of Jared, now an attorney in New York City.
This is his first novel.
Dedication
This book is dedicated to my parents, now deceased, who provided me with incredible amounts of love and encouragement, and an unlimited supply of books. Also dedicated to the victims of racism and homophobia everywhere, and to my son, Jared, for whom I would open a vein if he needed the blood.
Copyright Information ©
Eric Trujillo (2020)
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. For permission requests, write to the publisher.
Any person who commits any unauthorized act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Ordering Information:
Quantity sales: special discounts are available on quantity purchases by corporations, associations, and others. For details, contact the publisher at the address below.
Publisher’s Cataloging-in-Publication data
Trujillo, Eric
Joy Boy
ISBN 9781645364009 (Paperback)
ISBN 9781645364016 (Hardback)
ISBN 9781645364030 (ePub e-book)
Library of Congress Control Number: 2019918346
www.austinmacauley.com/us
First Published (2020)
Austin Macauley Publishers LLC
40 Wall Street, 28th Floor
New York, NY 10005
USA
mail-usa@austinmacauley.com
+1 (646) 5125767
Acknowledgment
Thanks to my friends, Mrs. Bonnie Martiny and Mrs. Shirley B. Simon, my readers and consultants, without whom this work would still be in progress.
Chapter One

Summer, 1977
He stood in a corner watching me. Wary, caged, cornered, and waiting for my next move. Outside the small doorless conference room in which he talked and I listened, cell doors banged open and rattled shut in the distance. Harsh male voices pinged off smooth, hard surfaces and ricocheted around like gumballs after the crank has been turned, smashing into my eardrums.
Inmates in jailhouse orange jumpsuits tethered together in groups of two or more by leg irons and handcuffs, occasionally shuffled slowly, pathetically, past the open doorway. A huge young policeman stood just inside the door, pretending that he wasn’t listening to the interview but obviously enjoying it. Other uniformed personnel zipped to and fro past the doorway.
Somewhere nearby, a woman wailed inconsolably.
“I’m a whore,” Alex Ashby said defiantly. "With a capital ‘Ho’! ‘A male prostitute,’ as they say on TV. A hustler. A Joy Boy. A Boy Toy. A Rent Boy. Whatever you wanna call me. Jus’ doan’ call me late for lunch! Personally, I like ‘hustler’ best.
“I’ve peddled my ‘services’ for drugs, for a ride while hitchhiking, for a place to lay my head, for food, or whatever, but I ain’t no murderer! Even the sight of blood makes me sick!”
I sat taking notes and recording the interview at a small metal table about the size of a serving tray in the corner opposite where he stood with his arms across his chest like an ancient vampire.
Alex was twenty-five, tall, and handsome. Some would say he’s ‘drop-dead gorgeous.’ He had the kind of bone structure that made photographers go gaga. There was a gauntness about him that reminded me of Spanish monks or paintings by El Greco. His high-boned pink cheeks looked as though they had just been slapped for his impertinence. His thin but muscular body showed not an extra ounce of fat. His winters in Chicago would be rough with such a low percentage of body fat to keep him warm.
He had long chestnut hair when I first saw him but it had since been cut off. The lack of hair emphasized the perfection of his features and drew one’s attention to Alex’s eyes. They were large, inquisitive eyes. Sensual almost, and hazel. In the fluorescent lighting of this place, they appeared blue. In other places I had seen him, they appeared brown or green. They were very much like their owner: they changed to fit the occasion.
His body had filled out since I met him two years prior. At the time, it was rail thin and covered with pustules and open sores, looking more like a survivor of Auschwitz than that of an American citizen of the second half of the twentieth century. Now an eagle with spread wings covered his chest. Calligraphy covered his abdomen and just about every available patch of skin on his torso. His right arm was covered with tribal tattoos. The left with a memorial to someone named Buddy Ray Ashby. The work was excellent, successfully covering the sores and the ugly track marks that had covered his cadaverous body and spaghetti arms.
“My life sucks,” he said. “I’ve led a rough life. You’re gonna hear some things that you’re gonna believe’s made up but they’re not! Every single word I tell you is true. I’ve seen and done things you haven’t even dreamed of. I ’on’t really know why you’d wanna interview me, anyway. My goose is cooked but I thank ya for the opportunity to let me tell my side of the story.”
I nodded, “You’re welcome,” and smiled his way. “You’ve been accused of killing a nationally known television chef, the Cook County Public Guardian, and a pizza boy who, they say, just happened to walk in on you while you murdered the other two. I don’t believe you did, but the other two newspapers, the radio, and TV stations have already convicted you without your ever having gone to trial. The evidence doesn’t add up to your being guilty.”
“Thanks,” he said. "I wish some other people believed me. I ’on’t lie. Too much trouble to lie. I’ll give it to ’ya straight.
“I come from the world’s most dysfunctional family,” he began. "White trash is what we are. Not Po White Trash. Jus’ plain white trash.
“There were seven of us. I’m the youngest. The baby boy…” He interrupted himself in mid-sentence. “I take that back. There was eight of us. I’m the second from the last and the second -to-the-youngest boy.”
“You don’t know how many people there were in your family, Alex?”
"There was eight of us originally. I delivered Number Eight myse’f. Nobody was home but me an’ Mama when she started havin’ these stomach pains. All mornin’ they kep’ up, getting’ worse by the hour. I didn’ know what to do so I kept callin’ Daddy at the store but he was too busy to come home. It was a Saturday mornin’, his busiest day.
"When the pains got worse an’ then she started bleedin’ ‘down there,’ she went to the bathtub an’ filled it part-ways wit’ water. I went an’ got some rags to sop up the blood. At first, she didn’ even know she was pregnant but I think she might’a suspected, ‘cause she didn’t want me to call Dr. Portman an’ then she tol’ me to stop callin’ Daddy.
"When the baby’s head popped out, we both knew. It was a little boy. Real little . She figured he come maybe two months premature but he was healthy an’ she thought he’d make it.
"I almost passed out from the smell an’ the sight of her hairy p*…‘private parts ,’ shall we say, an’ the bloody baby that jus’ kind’a squirted* out. Worst of all, the afterbirth! I thought it was another baby comin’ out but it was still attached to the baby. She tol’ me what it was an’ what I needed to do. We had’ta work fast to clean up all the blood outta the tub, clean her up, stuff my ol’ undershirts up her ‘private parts,’ to stop any leakage, then wash the baby, an’ bury the afterbirth. She tol’ me to dig a deep hole under the magnolia tree in the back yard. It had’ta be really deep, she said, so animals wouldn’ dig it up.
“I’ll tell you one thing,” he said, "if I waddn’ gay before that, that wudda made me gay. It was really horrible!
"I asked Mama if we could name him Jason but she said we waddn’t gonna keep him no way, so it didn’t matter what I called ’im.
"Then we wrapped Baby Jason up in an old towel, put him in a shoebox, put the shoebox into a big shoppin’ bag on the back seat of our ol’ station wagon, an’ took ‘im down to Baton Rouge to the Montgomery Ward’s store in the Bon Marché Shoppin’ Center on Florida Boulevard. When we got there, Mama took ‘im to the manager actin’ all surprised an’ shocked, yammerin’ on an’ on ‘bout how colored people was like animals, droppin’ their young’ens anywhere an’ jus’ leavin’ ‘em to fend fa’ themselves. Mama was a good actress. She cudda won an Oscar for her performance that day.
“I was seven when he was born so he’d be ’bout eighteen now.”
Alex smiled when he saw my reaction. “That ain’t nuttin’,” he said. “This is only the beginnin’. You wanted to know all about my life so I’m givin’ it to ya’ straight,” he said, then continued. "Mama made me swear on the Bible never to tell nobody ‘bout that baby as long as she was alive. She ain’t alive no mo’, so I c’n talk a