Matt clutched the phone in a death grip. “The car you’re getting into will be a blue Jetta driven by Jake. The car you’ll tell the police you got into is a navy-blue Audi driven by Colton Langley. If there are any witnesses to this exchange, I’m hoping they are near-sighted and will focus on the 6’5” drag queen instead of the car or its driver.”
Vince cackled. “You do know I’m just fucking with you, right?”
“Please don’t,” Matt begged. “There are a lot of moving parts here, including a freakishly tall drag queen; a temperamental lesbian photographer; the GM Godmother, who isn’t speaking to me; 8 other gay boys from the GM who are just itching for an excuse to get naked and shake each other’s hands; a lawyer who wants to get me on my knees in handcuffs again; and me, who dreamed last night that I killed my boyfriend! Throw in the guy we’re trying to take down, a psychotic, self-hating gay who got my boyfriend kicked out of school and orchestrated Debbie’s firing just for the hell of it, and I think there’s enough material here for a German opera—or two.”
“Remind me to talk to you about the benefits of valium,” Vince said.
Matt wasn’t laughing. If anything, he wanted to cry. Colton Langley posed an existential threat to the GM, maybe to all Okie gays, and it seemed like he was the only one who cared.
“Circling back to the handcuff wielding lawyer,” Vince said. “That’s the guy I’m supposed to call, right”
“Yes. Garland Stone-Dancer. I gave you his card. Do you still have it?”
“Hold on,” Vince said.
Matt heard rummaging noises, cursing, then a triumphant “Found it!”
“Staple the card to your dick,” Matt suggested. “That way you won’t lose it.”
“Nah, the cops will be all over my cock while they’re frisking me. I’ll tuck it in my bra instead. Trust me. I’ve been frisked more times than you can imagine. For guys who claim to be straight, cops love cock.”
Matt squeezed his eyes shut. He had a sudden memory of Vince’s jabbering the entirety of their flip-fuck marathon, a maddening, stream-of-consciousness commentary on everything from how tight Matt’s hole was, to the inflation rate in Zimbabwe, to noting that since they were each jizzing inside the other their combined body weight hadn’t changed.
“Tell the police that the guy who picked you up said his name is Fitz,” Matt said. “Colton’s middle name is Fitzgerald, so that will bolster your story. Colton doesn’t use that name. The only reason I know it is because of William.”
“William and I go way back,” Vince said. “You must have done something awful for him to be mad at you.”
Matt sighed. “It’s a long story. Anyway, don’t forget Fitz.”
“Got it. Anything else?”
“Just one more thing,” Matt said. “When the police take you and Colton downtown and are leading you inside the station, look around for Molly. She’ll be wearing a hot pink fedora. She’ll yell Colton’s name when she has a good shot. That will be your cue. Then it will be up to you.”
Silence. For once, Vince had nothing to say, and Matt could understand why. Grandstanding aside, in a few hours, Bella would be on her own, no friends by her side, as she and Colton were led into Oklahoma City police headquarters, where she could be roughed up, mocked, or even charged—certainly would not be respected.
“Thank you for helping us,” Matt said. “Good luck. I’ll see you on the other side.”
3:34 p.m. Matt made another call.
“Stone-Dancer and Associates,” said a peppy-sounding female voice.
Matt asked for Garland and was placed on hold.
Minutes ticked by in a constant loop involving thirty seconds of easy-listening jazz, followed by the message that “At Stone-Dancer and Associates the client comes first. Please continue holding until Mr. Stone-Dancer or one of our associates can take your call.” Then more music.
Matt began to ponder just who were these associates and why they never answered his calls.
By the time Garland finally picked up, Matt had one burning question for him: “Are there really any associates at Stone-Dancer and Associates?”
“Of course there are!”
“How many?” Matt asked.
“Two.”
Matt knew Garland well enough to know the guy rounded up when it suited him. “Two? Quick. What are their names?”
Garland sighed. “Okay, there’s a part-time para legal. She might just be the same person who answers the phones. It’s about branding. Nobody wants to hire the law firm of Stone-Dancer and Para Legal.”
