The Hardest Thing

one of you gay?”
    “No, sir,” said number six.
    “And you, sergeant?”
    “Will this go on my records, sir?”
    “If it does,” I said, “I personally undertake to kick the living shit out of the officer who puts it there. So?”
    “I’ve fooled around.”
    “Much?”
    “Quite a bit.” He was five eleven, maybe six feet tall, his hair neatly cut and side parted, his skin smooth and pale over a swimmer’s body. Smooth, but for a dark treasure trail. Nice pink tits that made me think of clothespins.
    “Turn around.”
    He did as he was told. The kind of ass you could rest a cup of coffee on.

    “Go and shave. Be ready in five minutes, understand ?”
    “Sir.”
    “Do you need me?” Number six—the one in the PJs—was scratching his head, the muscles in his arm and chest making a nice show under the bright lights.
    I could think of a dozen uses for him, but not right now. “You can go home to bed.”
    I’d like to think the look on his face was disappointment rather than relief.

    “What’s your name?”
    “Eric Johanssen. Officer Eric Johanssen.”
    “Hmm. Let me think about that.”
    We were back at Parker-Rendell in a hospitality room that was used by visitors or night-owl executives. It was decked out with a bed, a wardrobe, a chest of drawers and the kind of bland tasteful decor you find in midprice hotels and porn sites. There was a neutral print on the wall, and even a vase with a bunch of sticks in it. I’ll never understand that one.
    The tech boys had been in as instructed. There was a laptop on the bed and a webcam positioned on the nightstand. Three chairs had been arranged in a semicircle well out of the shot.
    “Eric. Hmm. Ricky? No, not preppy enough. Where’d you go to college, Eric?”
    “Ithaca.”
    “No, that won’t do. Sounds Greek. Hey, Jack!” Rendell was hovering nervously around the chairs. “Got any ideas for a good high-class hustler name?”
    “Channing.”

    “Perfect. Any particular reason?”
    “Oh,” he said “I think I just…saw it on a…you know. Website.”
    Eric—or Channing, as we must now call him—was freshly showered and shaved and wearing a new white terrycloth robe; Parker-Rendell treats its guests well. All he had underneath were box-fresh white Calvin Klein underpants and a pair of white tube socks. Martin had been in charge of the wardrobe for this little production number. Thank god for 24-hour stores.
    “Now, you’re going to be just fine,” said the fat, married sergeant. “I mean we’ll be right outside if you need us, okay? Just…outside.”
    The door closed, leaving one young blond cop facing three older men.
    “Make yourself comfortable, then.”
    Channing jumped up on the bed and tested the bounce. His robe fell open.
    “Okay. I’m ready.”
    “Just remember,” said Jack Rendell, “you’re on your own. Don’t look at us. Forget we’re here.”
    “That’s fine.”
    “Let’s get this show on the road, then,” I said. “Martin—you sure about these websites?”
    “They’re the classy ones. High subscription rates, lots of traffic, high-end clientele.” Now that the senior cops had left us, he was a lot more relaxed. “If Marshall goes anywhere, he’ll go to one of them.”
    We were set up on three different websites: Manhattan Massage Therapy, Fit for Life Personal Training Exchange, Ivy League Recruitment.

    “Okay, go ahead and log on. Remember your username : Channing.”
    “Sure. Channing.” He settled the laptop on his thighs and tapped the keyboard. We watched on a monitor as he flipped between tabs. “Okay. I’m in.”
    “Get the camera on. Remember, no sound.”
    “Give me a moment.” The cursor flashed around the screen, clicking on boxes, and a picture appeared in the bottom right-hand corner of the screen. Channing adjusted the camera until he was satisfied with the framing. He lay back and ran a hand over his stomach. “Okay. Showtime.”
    A volley of pings from the speakers. Channing was popular. Channing was new. Channing was lying back in an open robe with a handsome bulge in his briefs. The greater New York area was sitting up and taking notice—even in the small hours.
    “Hey, guys,” typed Channing. “Just got back from the gym.”
    Ping! Ping! Ping!
    Like I said, all this online stuff is unfamiliar territory to me. Channing, however, seemed right at home. I guess he’d done it before. Martin and Jack exchanged approving glances.
    We watched the conversation on the