Chapter Three

Charlie Watts woke up from a crappy, late afternoon nap. It was another crappy sleep in a long line of crappy sleeps he'd had since moving out of his small, under-furnished bachelor apartment and back into his old room in his parent's basement in Brentwood. It might have been fine when he had been taking classes at the nearby University of Calgary, but as a grown man, it just wasn't cutting it.

Since graduating from university with a major in IT-Systems Development and a minor in psychology, Charlie had been working a string of low-paying internships which had led to high praise but no job offers. The IT industry seemed to be a revolving door of interns. Why would they hire someone full-time when they could just cycle through high-tech student drones? At twenty-four, Charlie was beginning to wonder if a full-time, permanent job was the twenty-first-century version of the unicorn.

It had been four weeks since he had returned home—four weeks since his birthday—and his world was shrinking. Aside from his friend Carrie, he had no social life, and he couldn't fully realise his social potential because he hadn't gotten around to telling his parents he was gay.

He'd gotten so desperate to live out his non-existent gay life that, when the plumbing in the downstairs bathroom had started to act up the previous week and his parents had called in a plumber, Charlie had followed up their call with one of his own. He had informed them that his parents were terrified of older men coming into their house—he claimed they had been bound, gagged and robbed by a fifty-year-old cable repairman. The company had assured him that they would send out Mitch, a young, very competent plumber to deal with the issue, and they had also assured him that Mitch was very sensitive and good at dealing with seniors. Charlie's fulsome fantasies of a well-muscled tradesman playing with his pipes were dashed when he was introduced to the plumber, a thirty-year-old woman named Michelle—Mitch, for short.

"Charlie-boy, dinner's ready," his mother yelled from upstairs.

"Fuck," he muttered to himself.

"Now!" his dad yelled even louder. He was obviously no happier about the return of the prodigal son than Charlie was. "And don't forget to wash up."

What am I, five?

He swung by the bathroom with its newly repaired plumbing and washed his hands. As he did, he glanced in the mirror. A kid with a triangular face, wispy blond hair and jade-green eyes stared back at him. The guy in the mirror was cute, if maybe a bit gangly. Wiry, his grandmother had called him. It wasn't that he was without muscle… It was just that little of it had made it north of his waist. The way he saw himself was all thighs and ass with a series of twigs sticking out from his narrow upper trunk. Charlie and the wispy kid in the mirror locked eyes on each other. What did he think of the ‘real-world Charlie'? Did the mirror-kid find him attractive, or did he just see a geek?

I've got to get out of here and find a job. Now!

* * * *

As soon as Charlie had finished his mother's traditional Friday-night dinner of meatloaf with gravy and canned peas, he pushed himself back from the table. "I'm going to go out for a bit."

"Going to meet up with some of your friends?" his mother asked.

"Yeah—some friends," he replied without enthusiasm, as he began to leave the room.

"Maybe a nice girl?" she added hopefully.

"I'm sure there'll be one there."

As he walked down the hall he heard his father call out, "Don't forget to say goodbye to your gran."

He pivoted on his heel and headed towards the rear of the house. His father always reminded Charlie to visit her before he went out, sounding like he strongly expected one of them not to be around by the end of the day.

Elsie Watts, Charlie's grandmother, looked nowhere near her seventy-eight years. She had brightly dyed red hair, green-flecked hazel eyes and perfectly applied makeup that highlighted her strong cheekbones. She occupied the large back bedroom of the house which had been set up as a bed-sitting room, complete with a comfortable easy chair and a large-screen television. She had moved in a few years earlier after falling and breaking a hip. She was fine now, but Maggie and Ted always fussed over her like she was a combination of a china doll and a needy child. She was one of Charlie's best friends.

"Hi, Gran. How's your day been?" he said, bending down to give her a kiss on the cheek. He moved her TV tray and the remnants of her dinner off to the side and plunked himself on the floor beside her.

"Oh, you know this place—it's been a bucket of laughs."

"Solve the mystery yet?" he asked, indicating the television which was playing a British detective show.

"Third character in did it…as usual. The writers must think we're all a bit dense not to pick up on that."

"And Constable Winslow will always wander off in mid-interrogation to take a phone call," Charlie added, laughing.

"And they always manage to get his shirt off at least once an episode."

"Thank God," Charlie added, without any reservation. He smiled. This was the only place where he felt safe. He had never told Gran that he was gay. She had always sort of known it and, when she had brought it up in conversation, she hadn't seemed to be enquiring, only stating a fact, like that he had blond hair.

"So, I heard you were going out."

Charlie nodded.

"Then stop wasting your valuable time with an old lady, and get moving. Go find your own Constable Winslow. I dare you."

Charlie popped up onto his feet. "Love you, Gran."

He bent down and gave her another kiss on the cheek. He turned to leave when she interrupted.

"Oh, here. I have something for you."

Charlie turned. Her hand was extended towards him. She held up two twenty-dollar bills.

"Gran…" he said, reprovingly.

"Go on. Buy yourself and the constable a pint on me."

"I don't drink anything that expensive."

"Maybe he does. Now go."

She shooed him out like a fly, both of them laughing.

* * * *

Charlie wandered down 17th Avenue with his closest friend, Carrie Wallace. They had met in Charlie's second-year Introduction to Social Psychology course and soon become inseparable. Carrie was the only person, other than Gran, who knew for certain that Charlie was gay. She was sympathetic to his frustration with living back at home and had taken him out to try and drown his sorrows.

They had started at the Crown and Anchor Pub with a few pints and bar-hopped their way to the bright red and blue neon sign of the Wild Rose Saloon. They'd snuck in through an exit to the tent set up for the throngs of tourists in for the Calgary Stampede known best for its world-famous rodeo. After several shooters, they were feeling no pain. Carrie clutched Charlie's arm as if she were trying to stop him from floating away.

"I think I gotta call it quits," she said. "When the patio lights get this swirly, it's time to go home."

"Noooo," Charlie sang out. "One more drink. Pleeeeeease," he begged.

"I am way too drunk. Thank God I'm working the evening shit tomorrow."

Charlie burst out laughing. "Haaaaaa—you said shit."

"I did not!"

"You did too! You did, you did, you did."

"Oh shut up," Carrie countered, then gave him a big, sloppy, tongue-filled kiss, which Charlie returned in kind.

"You know what I love about you?" Charlie slurred as he held her.

"Is it my beautiful wavy black hair? My perfect nose? My copper-coloured eyes? How about my luscious lips?"

"All of those, but what I really love is that you tolerate me," Charlie replied. "We're perfect for each other… If only you were a guy."

"Can't help you there, sweet man. Anyway, I'm grabbing an Uber, which I will hopefully not vomit in on the way home. One more of those and I'm banned for life." She thought for a moment. "Can you imagine? I'd have to lower myself to taking cabs like the other puking drunks?" She grabbed his face and kissed it again. "Look what's become of me!"

"You look great to me, my love. Now, you take your magic carpet ride home. I've got one more stop before I return to prison."

They stepped out onto the street and Charlie waited with Carrie until her ride showed up. He walked a few blocks then hailed a cab, giving the driver instructions to get to his last stop of the night.

Ten minutes later, Charlie got out of his cab and stepped into Bar-None. He admired the huge space with its wooden floors, polished over the years by many feet and grit from the streets—wood that was washed cleaner, but not entirely clean, by some poor, nameless staffer, who everybody called the Kid. The name was more of a job title than an epithet—sometimes it was a young, muscled blond, sometimes a young skinny brunette. He was responsible for maintaining some level of cleanliness in order to keep the health board happy. The clients didn't care. Today's Kid, a short, shaved-headed tough, walked by Charlie and headed towards the toilets with a box of urinal cakes and the ubiquitous pail filled with bleach and water. Without looking back, the Kid shouted a general announcement, "Toilets are being washed in a minute. Use ‘em now or forever hold your pees." The Kid laughed at his own joke. Two guys at the bar did the math in their heads, then, just to be safe, slid off their stools and headed off to relieve their bladders.

Charlie had only been here a few times before. He found a seat at the bar, recognising the bartender on duty. His name was Mickey. Charlie loved his short black, textured hair with rainbow highlights. He wore an unbuttoned plaid shirt, open to the waist showing off his hairy muscular chest, and tight jeans that left nothing to the imagination.

"Hey, Mickey, how's it going?"

"Pretty good start to the night. The usual for you, Charlie?"

He remembered my name! Oh my God!

"Uh, sure," Charlie replied.

Charlie remained at the bar, casting his gaze around the room, looking for anyone he knew, or someone that he thought he would like to. The men here were old enough to date his father. The thought of that sent chills down his spine.

Charlie's phone chirped. Probably Carrie checking up on me, he thought. He glanced at the screen. It showed a new email, but not from Carrie. It was from an employment matching service, one of the tons he'd registered with. He had plugged in his particulars, in as much detail as possible, and the algorithms were supposed to match his skills with suitable jobs on record. He'd finally had a hit. He opened up the email.

Dear Charlie Watts,

It is our pleasure to offer you an interview for the following employment match.

Position: Office and technical manager

Period: Three weeks, commencing immediately

Employer: Declan Hunt Investigations

Please see attachment for full job description.

Charlie got no further before he let loose with a loud, unflattering laugh, and started to choke on his beer. That night's Kid was behind him in a moment, and slapped him on the back. Mickey was there a second later.

"Are you all right, Charlie?" Mickey asked. With Mickey in front, and the Kid slapping him on the back, Charlie realised that this was obviously what he needed to do to get attention in a gay bar.

"I'm okay. The beer just went down the wrong pipe."

"Thanks, Kid," Mickey said, letting the Kid know he could halt his assault on Charlie's back. Then, to Charlie, he said, "Take it easy. It's not last call for another hour."

"It's just that I got a job match!" Charlie blurted out, holding up his phone for Mickey to see. "The first one in… Well, forever…"

"Congratulations," Mickey said, as he glanced at the email. "Well, you certainly landed an interesting company."

"Yeah, right? A private investigator! What the fuck do I know about that?"

"It says there that they want an office manager and tech person. Are you organised?"

"Well… Yeah."

"Do you know about tech stuff?"

"I have my degree in it," Charlie responded, his liquor-soaked brain slowly piecing things together. The alcohol combined with the fact that the most beautiful bartender in the world first, knew his name and, second, was talking to him, made the whole world a very unsettled place at that moment.

"And I happen to know that if you get a chance to meet Declan Hunt," said Mickey, who took Charlie's phone away from him, tapped out something on it then returned it with the image of a man on the screen, "you will not be able to stop yourself from coming in your pants."

Charlie looked at the image on the phone. There was a picture of a man, stripped to the waist. Every fibre of the substantial muscles in his arms and pecs were bulging as he carried a man away from a burning car. The hero's perfect body was covered in a sheen of sweat and—Charlie used his fingers to zoom in on the image. His face was that of someone who had seen a hard life. A scar cut across his left eyebrow, dividing it in two, and his nose, which might have been broken at some time, had a slight bend to the left. Charlie scrolled down the image of his body towards his—oh my God, he has a hard-on! He could clearly make it out under his jeans. Charlie focused his eyes on the man's face. He had the look of… Gran—I think I've found my Constable Winslow.

Charlie set down his phone and sipped his last drink of the night, then got up from the bar.

Mickey winked and said, "Hey, Charlie. Good luck with the job. I got a good feeling about it."

Charlie winked back and said, "Thanks Mickey."

He made his way out onto the street. Charlie wasn't in any mood to go home, so he made one more stop—The Black Bean Eatery, a twenty-four-hour diner known for its cheap coffee, great pie and for being Calgary's destination break-up joint. More relationships were ended at this restaurant than in Vegas.

Charlie ordered a coffee and slice of key lime pie, then he pulled up the email and opened the job description attachment.

Wanted: Office manager for reputable private investigations firm. General duties include client contact, bookkeeping, filing and running errands. Strong computer knowledge an asset. Must be discreet, have a clean criminal record, follow instructions without question and be able to work under stressful conditions.

Charlie re-read the job description. Strong computer knowledge an asset…

His knowledge was beyond strong on the computer side of things.

Discreet, and a clean criminal record…

Check. His life was far too boring to have a criminal record and, as far as discretion went, he'd been keeping a big secret his entire life.

Then there was that image of this Hunt guy that was burned into his brain. Imagine spending every day with him…

What the hell? What do I have to lose? He was going to land this job! It would be a lot more exciting than his last internship working for an oil company cleaning up their databases. He grabbed his phone, opened the email he had received at the bar and hit the ‘Accept' icon.

Before he got home, he'd received an interview time—Monday, eleven a.m.