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Authors: Andrew Kaplan
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evening. Hillary was just what he was looking for. He was the same height as Caine, although thinner, with wavy blond hair and fine even features. He squinted slightly, which indicated that he might be nearsighted, and he wore lipstick and just a touch of eye makeup. He would play the âfemâ to Caineâs âbutch,â and was probably used to a passive role, so he shouldnât be much trouble, Caine deckled. After a few drinks, during which Hillary ran his fingers admiringly up Caineâs arm, shivering slightly at the feel of the silk and the hard muscles underneath the shirt, they agreed that the noisy atmosphere of the bar, the queens screeching in noisy voices and cattily eyeing, each other, was terribly crude and they left arm in arm. As they walked out, Hillary threw a triumphant glance at his fluttering friends. He had a dark-haired Adonis, oozing machismo, on his arm. Hillary drove them to his nearby apartment and, when they got inside, excused himself so he could slip into something more comfortable.
Hillary came out of the bedroom, wearing a flaming pink velvet robe and sat next to Caine on the couch. He nuzzled Caineâs neck, then ran his lips down the silk shirt and breathed warmly on Caineâs crotch. Caine spread his legs slightly and slid to the edge of the couch, as Hillary knelt before him and leaned forward. Suddenly, without any change in expression, Caine brought his knee up sharply into Hillaryâs chin, snapping the head back. Hillary crumpled to the floor, moaning through his shattered teeth. The blood trickled from his mouth and seeped into the carpet. He had almost completely bitten through his tongue. Caine considered kicking him again in the jaw, but the moaning stopped. He knelt and felt the erratic pulse of the unconscious man and was warmed by a vague sense of relief. After all, he hadnât wanted to kill the poor bastard. After a bit of searching, Caine found Hillaryâs wallet in a pants hip pocket in the bedroom and quickly scanned the driverâs license and credit cards. He had been right. Hillary wore wire-rimmed glasses in the license photograph. He took the wallet and methodically rummaged through the apartment to make it look like an ordinary robbery. Not that he thought that Hillary would go to the police. Homosexuals usually avoided the police, from whom they could expect little sympathy. As he left the apartment, he heard Hillary beginning to groan. He quickly walked two blocks to Sunset. On the way he dropped the black wig-and mustache in an apartment house trash bin. He caught a taxi outside Schwabâs and took it to near where he had parked the car.
Caine briefly studied the license photograph in the car, then drove to an all-night drugstore, where he bought hair dye, a curling set, and a pair of Polaroid light-sensitive wire-rimmed glasses of the same type as in the photograph. Back in his motel room, he dyed his hair blond, set it in the style in the photograph, and practiced the signature on the license. He destroyed everything he had bought and put the shirt and the other things that couldnât be destroyed into the motel garbage can near the managerâs office. Then he called and made a reservation for the morning flight to Vegas under his own name. He also called an all-night accommodation number and reserved a room at Caesars Palace under Hillaryâs name. Everything had gone perfectly, except for the tail he had spotted at LAX in the morning.
Caine stubbed out his cigarette in a large marble ashtray that stood on a coffee table modeled in the massive Roman style. He decided he would take care of the tail later that night. Meanwhile he had things to do that were innocent enough, so it didnât matter whether he was tailed or not. He found a telephone directory in a desk drawer and noted the address of the public library, a hardware store, a luggage shop, and several gun stores. Then he went down to the lobby, casually
Hillary came out of the bedroom, wearing a flaming pink velvet robe and sat next to Caine on the couch. He nuzzled Caineâs neck, then ran his lips down the silk shirt and breathed warmly on Caineâs crotch. Caine spread his legs slightly and slid to the edge of the couch, as Hillary knelt before him and leaned forward. Suddenly, without any change in expression, Caine brought his knee up sharply into Hillaryâs chin, snapping the head back. Hillary crumpled to the floor, moaning through his shattered teeth. The blood trickled from his mouth and seeped into the carpet. He had almost completely bitten through his tongue. Caine considered kicking him again in the jaw, but the moaning stopped. He knelt and felt the erratic pulse of the unconscious man and was warmed by a vague sense of relief. After all, he hadnât wanted to kill the poor bastard. After a bit of searching, Caine found Hillaryâs wallet in a pants hip pocket in the bedroom and quickly scanned the driverâs license and credit cards. He had been right. Hillary wore wire-rimmed glasses in the license photograph. He took the wallet and methodically rummaged through the apartment to make it look like an ordinary robbery. Not that he thought that Hillary would go to the police. Homosexuals usually avoided the police, from whom they could expect little sympathy. As he left the apartment, he heard Hillary beginning to groan. He quickly walked two blocks to Sunset. On the way he dropped the black wig-and mustache in an apartment house trash bin. He caught a taxi outside Schwabâs and took it to near where he had parked the car.
Caine briefly studied the license photograph in the car, then drove to an all-night drugstore, where he bought hair dye, a curling set, and a pair of Polaroid light-sensitive wire-rimmed glasses of the same type as in the photograph. Back in his motel room, he dyed his hair blond, set it in the style in the photograph, and practiced the signature on the license. He destroyed everything he had bought and put the shirt and the other things that couldnât be destroyed into the motel garbage can near the managerâs office. Then he called and made a reservation for the morning flight to Vegas under his own name. He also called an all-night accommodation number and reserved a room at Caesars Palace under Hillaryâs name. Everything had gone perfectly, except for the tail he had spotted at LAX in the morning.
Caine stubbed out his cigarette in a large marble ashtray that stood on a coffee table modeled in the massive Roman style. He decided he would take care of the tail later that night. Meanwhile he had things to do that were innocent enough, so it didnât matter whether he was tailed or not. He found a telephone directory in a desk drawer and noted the address of the public library, a hardware store, a luggage shop, and several gun stores. Then he went down to the lobby, casually
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