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I turned my eyes toward Reggie, looking for his signal. His signals were always subtle, but, after three years I had learned to translate them. Was it to be Reggie on me, Reggie on Emile, or me on Emile? In the last several months, Reggie had been encouraging and training me to broaden myself, to become versatile. He also was sloughing me off. Thus, he hadn’t hesitated to turn me over to the schooner’s captain when the man had an itch to scratch. It was subtle, of course, but it was becoming clear that seventeen really was rather old for a man who liked to fuck boys. He was being kind, I knew, and I was doing what I could to cooperate. I was highly sexed. I needed it frequently.Reggie smiled and gave a little nod toward the bow. I understood, and followed in the path that Emile had set.The boy was naked and positioned on the bow sprint, which jutted out over the prow, with the ship’s figurehead--a wooden rendition of Reggie’s buxom wife, Nevis, suspended underneath it. The boy was. Sometimes I could hear muffled domestic sounds. And sometimes laughter. As if they were real people.It was almost two months before the phone range. An odd clicking ring, like the phone had seen some hard days.“Out front. 8AM.”The line went dead, then came the rasping croak of a busy signal.I tried to sleep more, but in the end just lay awake until it was time to go.When I walked out, Tommy sat in his rattletrap of a car waiting.He handed me a picture.“Study him, then give it back. Just follow and report.” He handed me a little black notebook and a couple pens.“Report what?”“I don’t know. Whatever the target does, whatever you think, maybe. They didn’t say.”Target. That was the word. “How long?”“All week. Until Saturday night. There’s a phone number inside the notebook. Call every night at midnight and just listen. If the plan changes that’s how they’ll let you know.”The “target” was staying at a hotel, one of the aging, less fancy ones. I picked him up less than an hour after Tommy.
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