Virgin by Mary Elizabeth Murphy Read Free Book Online Page B

Mexico. Perhaps America was the place. But
maybe it was too late for him in America. He would be turning thirty soon. And
how would he get in? Damned if he'd be a wetback. Not after practically
managing The Blue Senorita.
    The featureless
corridor of his future seemed to stretch on ahead, with no exits or side
passages. Just a single door at the far end. Emilio promised himself to keep an
eye peeled for a way out of that corridor.
    Charlie
Crenshaw turned out to be that way.
    Emilio hadn't
realized that at first. The pudgy, brown-haired, blue-eyed boy had looked
terribly young when he stumbled into the Blue Senorita that night ten years
ago. He'd been roaring drunk and obviously under age, but he'd flashed his
money and spread it generously, and everyone had nudged each other when he
bought doe-eyed Jose for an hour.
    When the maricon's time was up, Emilio had let him out a side door and stood watching to make
sure he got good and far away from The Blue Senorita before he forgot about
him. But at the mouth of the alley the kid was jumped by three young malos. Emilio
hesitated. Served the little maricon right to be beat up and robbed, but
not on The Blue Senorita's doorstep. The local policia wouldn't care--
Orosco paid them plenty not to--but if the brat got killed there could be a
shitstorm from the States and that might lead to trouble from the capital.
    Cursing under
his breath, Emilio had pulled on his weighted leather gloves and charged up the
alley. By the time he waded into the fight, the kid was already down and being
used as a soccer ball. Emilio let loose on the malos. He crushed noses,
crunched ribs, cracked jaws, shattered teeth, and broke at least one arm. He
smashed them up and left them in a bleeding, crying, gagging, choking pile
because it was his job to look out for The Blue Senorita's interests, because
he wanted to make sure these malos never prowled The Blue Senorita's
neighborhood again.
    Because he liked it.
    He dragged the
unconscious kid back to the side door and checked out his wallet. He learned
his name was Charles Crenshaw and that he was only fifteen. Fifteen! Hell to
pay if he'd been kicked to death out here. He shuffled through pictures of the
boy with his parents, posed at different ages before different homes. As the
boy grew, so did the houses. The most recent was a palace.
    The little maricon was rich.
    And then Emilio
came to a photo of the boy and his father standing before a building with a
shiny crensoft sign over the
reflecting pool set in the front lawn. CrenSoft . . . Crenshaw . . . the rich
boy's father owned a company.
    As he stared at
the wallet, thoughts of blackmail, and even ransom tickled Emilio's mind. But
those were just quick fixes. They would change nothing. Perhaps there was
another way. . .
    And somewhere down the long, featureless corridor of his future,
he saw a red exit sign begin to
glow.
    Emilio threw
Charlie over his shoulder and carried him back to his apartment. He placed a
call to the family, told the father where Charlie was, and said to come get
him. Then he sat back and waited.
    The father arrived
at dawn. He was taller than Emilio, and about ten years older. Every move,
every glance was wary and full of suspicion. He had another man with him;
Emilio later learned he was the father's pilot. When Emilio showed him
Charlie's battered, unconscious form, the father's face went white. He rushed
to the bed and shook the boy's shoulder. When
Charlie groaned and turned over, the father seemed satisfied that he was only
sleeping it off. Emilio noticed him checking to make sure his son's watch and
ring were still where they belonged.
    When the father spoke, his voice was tight and harsh.
    "Who did
this?"
    "Tres
malos," Emilio said. His English was
not very good then.
    "Where are
they?" the father said in fluent Spanish.
    Emilio ground a
fist into his palm. "Worse off than your son."
    The father
looked at him. "You helped him? Why?"
    Emilio
shrugged. He'd been practicing