Derrick Steele: Private Dick The Case of the Hollywood Hustlers

By Zavo

Derrick Steele, a hard-drinking, lusty private detective working for Steele Investigations, is being framed for the murder of a hustler in downtown Los Angeles. Despite Derrick’s efforts to solve the crime and clear his name, the body count continues to rise. It quickly becomes apparent that Derrick is facing the most dangerous adversary of his career. The action escalates when best friends Daniel McAllister, a New York private investigator, and Derrick’s brother, Nathan, return to Los Angeles and join the agency. Still reeling from a tragic past relationship, Derrick struggles with his developing feelings for the handsome detective McAllister, who is equally smitten with the over-sexed Derrick. In addition to the blossoming romance, the arrival of Daniel and Nathan reveals a Steele family secret that will change Derrick’s life forever. The action catapults to an explosive climax as the three detectives race to solve the murders, exonerate Derrick, and protect the lives and legacy of the Steele family.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Bold Strokes Books
• Release date: Sep 1, 2013
• ISBN: 9781602826328

Zavo

Zavo was born and raised in the Adirondack Mountains of Upstate New York. He relocated to the Pacific Northwest more than twenty years ago and has been penning tales of male lust and romance ever since. His short stories have appeared in FirstHand, Frat Sex 2, How the West Was Done, Inches, Locker Room Tales, and Treasure Trail: Erotic Tales of Pirates on the High Seas. He is also the Lambda-nominated author of the novels Hot on His Trail and Two Bottoms in the Ninth. Formerly employed in the fields of market research and public relations, Zavo is currently between jobs and fills his days being a stay-at-home dad and part-time writer and editor. He lives in Camas, Washington, with his partner of twelve years. He is currently penning his second Derrick Steele mystery, as well as the further adventures of Jake Slater.

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Synopsis

Derrick Steele, a hard-drinking, lusty private detective working for Steele Investigations, is being framed for the murder of a hustler in downtown Los Angeles. Despite Derrick’s efforts to solve the crime and clear his name, the body count continues to rise. It quickly becomes apparent that Derrick is facing the most dangerous adversary of his career. The action escalates when best friends Daniel McAllister, a New York private investigator, and Derrick’s brother, Nathan, return to Los Angeles and join the agency. Still reeling from a tragic past relationship, Derrick struggles with his developing feelings for the handsome detective McAllister, who is equally smitten with the over-sexed Derrick. In addition to the blossoming romance, the arrival of Daniel and Nathan reveals a Steele family secret that will change Derrick’s life forever. The action catapults to an explosive climax as the three detectives race to solve the murders, exonerate Derrick, and protect the lives and legacy of the Steele family.

Derrick Steele: Private Dick

The Case of the Hollywood Hustlers

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Title Page

Derrick Steele: Private Dick

The Case of the Hollywood Hustlers

© 2012 By Zavo. All Rights Reserved.

ISBN 13: 978-1-60282-632-8

This Electronic Book is published by

Bold Strokes Books, Inc.

P.O. Box 249

Valley Falls, New York 12185

First Edition: February 2012

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission.

Credits

Editor: Greg Herren

Production Design: Stacia Seaman

Cover Design By Sheri ([e-mail])

Dedication

This book is dedicated to Gary, my partner in life and love.

Chapter One

I wasn’t looking for any action as I left the lavish house early that morning—especially after getting picked up at The Dugout late last night. He had been an older gentleman, probably close to my father’s age. I recalled a pleasing forest of gray hair covering most of his body, coupled with an astonishing virility. The daddy thing was unusual, since I tended toward the younger pickups. In recent years, I’d made my way through the plethora of young male hustlers working the boulevards of downtown Los Angeles. I had forgotten the older gentleman’s name, though. Given the quantities of bourbon and beer I had consumed, that wasn’t surprising. For memory’s sake, let’s call him David.

David had taken me back to his place. He had been a strong, powerful lover, and very well-endowed. I hadn’t gotten much sleep, nor had I had my usual coffee, cigarette, and bourbon this morning. My head was throbbing, and I was a touch on the cranky side. David said he frequented The Dugout, which meant my chances of seeing him again were relatively good. A good-sized backup prick was always nice to have. The thought brought a smile to my face as I took the marble steps leading to his house two at a time and hit the sidewalk in a lighthearted mood.

David had offered to call me a cab, or have me driven home by his chauffeur, but I’d chosen instead to walk in the brisk, early morning air. I fished a cigarette from the inside pocket of my sport coat, knowing it would exacerbate my headache, but not caring. I was just coming abreast of The Dugout, still several blocks from my house, when I spied the young hustler lounging against the wall of a vacant store two buildings down from the bar. He was smoking a cigarette and had a don’t fuck with me air about him. I hadn’t seen him before. Not that I knew all the hustlers who plied these streets, but I knew a good percentage. He was out relatively early for his trade.

I’d lived in Los Angeles my entire life, but had only taken advantage of the dozens of young hustlers hawking their wares up and down the streets after losing my most recent lover, Randall. That is—if you could call five years recent. From what Randall had told me, and what I had gleaned in my numerous encounters with these young men, it was a hard life on the streets for them; extremely unforgiving, and inherently dangerous. Randall had vehemently warned me on several occasions to avoid these young men at all costs—a warning I had ignored. I just didn’t care after he was gone. After my first interlude with one—whose name was Jonathan—these young men seemed to become an addiction for me. Maybe obsession was a better word.

As soon as I saw this young man, I knew I was not going to pass him over. He was clean-shaven, and dangerously handsome. His blond hair was cropped short, and a similar-colored mustache was struggling to grow above his upper lip. He was wearing a white T-shirt, with the sleeves rolled up. A pack of smokes rested in the right roll. His light gray chinos, held firmly in place by a black leather belt, accentuated the lump at his crotch, and the whole ensemble was topped off with a pair of black motorcycle boots. The smoke from his cigarette curled up his face in the early morning sunshine. Incredibly, the sight of him had me feeling horny again. I walked up to him boldly.

He remained nonchalant as I approached, smoking his cigarette and eyeing me up and down. He was as unconcerned with me as I was trying to appear with him. When I stopped before him, he continued to eye me up and down, measuring the worth of the merchandise. Seemingly satisfied with the goods before him, he threw his cigarette on the sidewalk and ground it out with his heel—all very dramatic. I followed suit with mine.

Good morning, handsome. I haven’t seen you around before.

I was still intrigued, despite the corny line.

Funny, I replied, I was about to say the same to you.

Unfazed, his gaze returned to my crotch and stayed there. The pickup was obvious, and I admired this young man’s boldness.

Let’s cut to the chase, he said, shall we? Twenty bucks and I’ll make your morning.

Christ, for twenty bucks, you should make my entire day!

Times are tough, mister.

How old are you?

Why, are you a cop?

His air of bravado was slightly shaken for a moment.

I’m not a policeman. But I’m someone who can’t afford to be busted for peddling with minors. I can afford your price if you’re legal. What year were you born?

1914 was his surly reply.

That made him around twenty-one—younger than I had thought at first.

That’ll do. Where can we do this?

Follow me.

He walked to the end of the storefront and suddenly disappeared left. As I followed him, I discovered an alley at the end of the building, flanked by a park. A waist-high stone wall separated the two. The young man was standing on the other side of a large garbage bin, motioning impatiently for me to join him. When I did, he turned me around and pushed me backward till my back was pressed against the wall of the store. I could feel the coldness of its stone through my clothing. He slid his hands under my shirt and massaged my chest and stomach before sinking to his knees at my feet.

What’s your name?

He stared up at me, impatience plainly visible on his face.

Not that it should matter, but my name is Billy Joe. My friends call me BJ.

Of course they do.

Billy Joe began rubbing the front of my trousers, and I responded to his touch immediately. He unbuttoned my pants and tugged them, with my briefs, down my hips to my knees. My dick sprang free and slapped him on the right cheek. He grabbed it in his right hand and squeezed it several times.

Wow, nice cock, mister!

He gave it a few tentative tugs before running his tongue lazily up the shaft and over the fat knob. I sighed, closed my eyes, and rested my full weight against the building. Suddenly, the warmth and wetness of his mouth was covering the head of my prick and its full length very quickly. He began bobbing in earnest, and before long the only sounds in the alley were those of his vigorous sucking accompanied by my moans and grunts of pleasure. He was in no hurry, and neither was I. I relaxed against the building as he gave my dick his full attention. After a good twenty minutes of his ministrations, I felt a powerful explosion building. On his next upward swipe I grunted loudly and began coating his tonsils with my seed. He never hesitated or gagged, just took everything I had to offer. When I was spent he licked the head and shaft clean, then stood up and wiped off his chin.

You got a smoke, mister? And of course, the twenty bucks you owe me.

Don’t you have smokes?

This is my last pack, and they need to get me through the day.

I chuckled softly as I retrieved my pack of cigarettes, tapped the bottom, and offered the extended one to this handsome young hustler. I was careful not to let him see the holstered gun under my left armpit. Billy Joe stuck the cigarette in his mouth, and looked at me expectantly, a half smile playing about his lips. We both knew he had either a lighter or matches. But I was willing to play his game. I pulled my lighter from the same pocket and lit the cigarette. Billy Joe inhaled deeply and exhaled a thick cloud of white smoke.

It’s good to see there are still gentlemen in this town. Now, how’s about my money? I need to find my next customer. I’ve got a full day ahead of me, if you know what I mean.

I pulled a twenty and a five from my wallet and handed them to him.

Here’s an extra five for a couple of packs of smokes. I hate to see a man go without.

Thanks, mister.

As he eagerly stuffed the cash in his back pocket, I tapped a cigarette out for myself, lit it, took a deep drag, and felt the smoke fill my lungs.

As I said before, Billy Joe, I’ve never seen you around before. Are you new to the area?

As a private detective, these hustlers were often a key source of information when I was working a case. They saw and knew everything that happened on the streets, and I tried to stay on good terms with as many of them as possible. I could probably tell you his story before he even opened his mouth. I’d met a half dozen young men like him this year alone—runaways, mostly from the Midwest or the East Coast. Wanting a piece of the action in the motion pictures industry and turning tricks on the streets to make ends meet. Often they developed drug addictions to boot. Billy Joe reminded me a lot of Jeremiah, a hustler I’d known for the past five years. He was my top informant, and most often my preferred paid sexual partner. He was now pushing twenty-five, a little old for the streets, but he often took the younger ones under his wing. I’d been hired to track down several of these hustlers by their concerned families, and not all of those cases had come to a happy ending.

Before Billy Joe had a chance to respond, I felt a sharp tug on the sleeve of my sport coat. This was followed immediately by a chunk of cement exploding from the wall to my left. Incredulously, I realized someone was shooting at me. In broad daylight? A third bullet tore another chunk out of the wall a few feet above my head.

Get down, Billy Joe!

We both hit the ground and scrambled till we were crouching against the park’s retaining wall. I pulled my Colt free.

"You are a cop, aren’t you?"

I’m a private detective, Billy Joe, and I’m more concerned right now with who’s shooting at us.

I cautiously raised my head above the wall and scanned the park. I saw several people running away from the area, but their positions told me they hadn’t actually been on park grounds when the shooting began. I scanned the park again, and saw movement behind a tree at its southernmost end. A man was leaning against a large oak tree, holding a rifle. He wasn’t a very good shot; he couldn’t have been more than fifty yards away. As more bullets destroyed the top of the wall we crouched behind, and the wall behind us, Billy Joe crawled on his stomach down the alley, disappearing around the back corner of the building. Someone must have heard the shots and called the police—I heard sirens in the distance. We weren’t far from the 69th Precinct.

I raised my head a second time just as the wall several inches to my right disintegrated, showering me with chunks of cement. A piece caromed off my right cheek, and I felt blood trickling down my face. I emptied the Colt, tearing bits of bark and leaves from the tree where the shooter was standing. Either I must have come pretty close to hitting him, or he heard the sirens, for he cut and ran. Not knowing if the man was acting alone, I reloaded the Colt before raising my head again. No shots rang out. I crawled onto the sidewalk, hoping I was out of the line of fire before standing up and sidling backward till my back was against the front of The Dugout. That’s when I heard an engine roar to life and saw a black Cadillac pull away from the curb adjacent to the park. It was too far away to get a license plate number or to determine how many passengers were in it or who the driver was. The sirens drew closer and two patrol cars came careening around the corner as I turned to check the sidewalk behind me.

I said a silent prayer that these cops would be the help I needed. Some cops in this town were more often a hindrance to any investigation I was working on. I wasn’t popular with a lot of folks in this town. This was due primarily to my line of work: private dick, gumshoe, detective—whatever you wanted to call me. I worked for my father, who owned Steele Investigations. It was headquartered in a second-story office in one of the less affluent areas of downtown Los Angeles. He’d inherited it from my grandfather, Jebediah, more than twenty years ago, and it had a stellar reputation. Angus O’Malley ran the office and was Senior Investigator. My official title was Junior Investigator—I was still trying to prove to my parents that I could hold down a job for more than six months. As a private dick I’d been responsible for the collapse of several marriages, the ending of numerous illicit affairs, and for busting at least a half dozen high-level gambling rings—the list went on and on. And on many occasions, I’d made several local police officers appear inept. These men never passed up a chance to make things difficult for me when our paths crossed during an investigation.

The first patrol car pulled to the curb at an angle in front of The Dugout. The second one pulled in to its left. I groaned inwardly as I saw Sergeant Antonio DiMarco climb out from behind the wheel of the first car. He had been my nemesis since we were classmates in high school. An officer I knew only as Davis got out of the passenger seat. I heaved a sigh of relief when Lieutenant Michael Grogan, also a classmate and my best friend, exited the second squad car. He was alone.

Antonio had disliked me since his family had moved here from Sacramento our freshmen year. I had never done anything to him specifically; it was simply a case of my family having more than his. He had a chip on his shoulder regarding wealthy folks. There had never been anything sexual between Antonio and me. He had tried once, and that had been the extent of it. It happened during my first semester of college right after high school. I’d gotten a late start in college at the ripe old age of twenty-one. I’d been unsure as to what I wanted to do after graduation, so I had decided to see the world. I had spent time roaming through Europe, Asia, and South America. My parents hadn’t been crazy about the idea, but still had let me go. I think my father thought it would make a man out of me. And it did—but not in the way he’d envisioned. I had met and bedded numerous men.

But I had finally returned home, a little jaded, and my parents were insistent that I go to college. Since I had no better options at the time, I enrolled at Pacific Union College in Angwin. The Antonio incident happened while I was home for Christmas break. I’d been drinking with the old gang at Michael’s house. His parents were attending a Christmas party. We were all getting good and drunk, Antonio more so than the rest. He asked me to smoke some reefer with him. That was my drug of choice in those days—that in addition to alcohol. Antonio said he had just enough for the two of us, so we left the main party without being noticed and made our way to one of the bedrooms on the second floor. We closed and locked the door, sat on the bed, and smoked. Very quickly the drug had its desired effect. But before I realized what was fully happening, Antonio was standing in front of me with his pants down to his knees and his raging hard-on staring me in the face. A veritable forest of black hair grew at its thick base and continued up under his shirt. For a moment a part of me wanted to see the rest of him—but that quickly passed.

Suck my cock, Derrick!

I’d never cared for Antonio. He was good-looking and had a helluva club between his legs, but he was a mean, vicious man. Even stoned as I was, there was no way that I was going to oblige him.

My hesitation angered him.

What’s the matter, Derrick? My meat ain’t good enough for you? You got no problem sucking that worthless Michael Grogan every chance you get!

I stood up and swung with my right fist, connecting squarely with Antonio’s nose. Blood flew forth as if from a fount. Antonio hit the floor, the sound echoing through the room. He started to get up, but I was standing over him, my fists clenched in rage. He must have seen something in my face that terrified him, for he ceased his struggles to rise.

Don’t ever talk about Michael like that again, Antonio. You’ll never be the man he is, or the officer, either. And don’t ever come near me again!

I left the room without a backward glance. Antonio’s hatred of me was forever cemented into place. And he never let a chance pass to harass me or throw mud on my character and my profession. His jibes also included my family. Antonio was the first to address me, but I could see Michael hurrying to interject himself between us.

After Antonio joined the police force, he continued to be a thorn in my side. I had been well known at several of the precincts before I became an investigator.

Well, well, look what dragged itself out so early in the morning. You look like hell, Steele. I don’t suppose you know anything about the shots that were just fired near here?

As a matter of fact I do, Sergeant DiMarco.

I always addressed him by his rank because he had not received a promotion in the twelve years he had been at the 69th Precinct, and I knew it was a sore point with him.

Michael joined us. Good morning, Derrick. Were you involved in the reported shots that were fired near here? He noticed my cheek. "There’s