Placing Out by P. J. Brown

again. Goddamn nancy boy. Take it home to Nebraska."
    Crying and holding his arm, the kid lurched after his trick. Ben stood in the shadows, watching the light around him bathe the paved pathway in silver. A couple walked by, a man and a woman. Chatting and laughing, they didn't see him. He didn't move until they were past. He continued to hear the woman's light tinkling laughter long after he could no longer see them.
    He strode through the park, back to Central. Looking for trouble all the way. Sorry he didn't find any. He almost made it out of the station when Roach caught up to him.
    "You busy tonight?"
    "No. I'm off the next couple of days, but not tonight. What's up?" Maybe he'd get his trouble after all.
    "Got some church ladies in Covina complaining about some vagrants and drunks disrupting their neighborhood."
    "That's out of our jurisdiction."
    "We're just gonna go have a talk with them."
    Right. "I'll go grab my gear."
    "Five. Meet us on the north side."
    There were four of them this time. Two cars. He rode with Roach, who drove with the window down, a Camel hanging from his mouth. It was clear Roach knew where he was going. Without a missed turn or hesitation he pulled up in front of an unlit wood and brick house. Mule, another one of Roach's Red Squad goons, so called because he brayed like his namesake when he laughed, also knew where they were going. He carried something bulky. Ben couldn't see what it was. The two didn't go to the front of the house. Instead, they moved stealthily around the back where they came up to a padlocked gate. Mule stepped forward, revealing a pair of bolt cutters he used to break the lock. Still silent, the four of them oozed through the darkness, flowing down the stairs to the speakeasy.
    Even before they busted down the security door, Ben knew what kind of club it was. Another pansy club. One he'd never heard of. A trio of startled, painted faces on a makeshift stage watched in horror as the four cops waded in, nightsticks swinging. Roach jumped on the stage and smashed the first drag queen square in her carefully made up face. She collapsed in a flurry of feathers and pearls, dragging down the mic stand she had been clutching.
    Mule pulled the mic away from her and swung it through the air at a pair of men rushing the stage in a futile effort to stop Roach.
    Ben let his fury and frustration of the last weeks flow through him. He slammed fists and saps around with equal abandon, not caring who he hit. Blind in his rage. Every bloody face looking up at him with a plea in his eyes was Dylan. But it didn't help.
    Even after they had rounded up the battered men and shipped them to booking and Ben went home, he couldn't get that face out of his mind. And that didn't make any fucking sense at all. He was just another man. He paced his room, bouncing his fist out of the palm of his hand. It didn't help.
    When he nearly put his fist through the window, he knew he was spiraling out of control. He needed to cool off. He couldn't do that in this tiny room. He threw on a cheap pair of denim pants and flannel shirt and left the rooming house without his hat or jacket.
    The early March air was cool, but setting a lung-burning pace soon had him sweating and breathing hard. It wasn't enough. He headed north, and before long found himself in the Tenderloin. It was late and he wasn't armed. Not a safe place to be right now. He swung around and went south.
    He wasn't going there. Right up until the minute he stood in front of Dylan's room he knew he wasn't going to do this. It was wrong. It would destroy everything he thought he knew about himself.
    He slammed his fist down on the door. It shook under his fist. Ben didn't think for a minute what he would do if Dylan wasn't home. He pounded on the door without stop until it was wrenched open under his assault.
    "Who the fu--" Dylan took a startled step back. Without a word Ben pushed past him. "Ben?"
    Still not talking, Ben kicked the door shut and