Andrew happily traded the muggy air for a chilly dining room.

While prepping his tables, he prepared himself for another night of serving men who reminded him of his matka’s past boyfriends. A tall blond whose personality was as big as her bosom, matka attracted men on any day ending in Y, but her preference for geriatrics often found her in the widow’s seat.

His biological father had been ten years her senior, and when he died, the seventeen-year-old girl exited Soviet-controlled Slovakia with what little money he had left her.

Unaware of her condition, she stowed away on a freight train bound for Germany, where she stayed until the money ran out.

Her belly began to swell while traveling with a Christian youth group, and out of East Germany, she got a job on an Italian cruise ship. Unable to hide her pregnancy, she befriended a couple on board who helped her get to the United States.

Drusilanya Celich arrived in Philadelphia just in time to have Andrew.

An immigration official appeared on her second day in the maternity ward after a nurse informed INS that no man had visited to claim her or the child. His matka crafted an elaborate story about an American named Pietro who had brought her to the States. Tearfully, she’d explained how he promised to marry her after the baby was born but then confessed that she hadn’t seen him since he dropped her off at the hospital.

The fake name and address kept the INS busy for months.

Andrew’s birth made him a citizen, and since his mother was Caucasian, her deportation chances were zero to none. She charmed another immigration officer into securing a housing voucher at a hotel, then talked another into helping her collect assistance.

No stranger to hard work, matka got a job, and before Andrew turned five, she’d acquired citizenship.

Drusilanya moved with her son to Atlantic City, where she met Saul Rothstein while working as a cocktail waitress. Twenty years older, the genial man sold musical instruments from his shop in Brigantine. He taught eight-year-old Andrew to read music and play instruments, and in their three years together, he’d let Andrew fall asleep on his lap every night before putting him to bed.

Saul suffered a heart attack when Andrew turned eleven.

He never put it together that matka wasn’t married to Saul until she’d failed to inherit the music shop after his death. That was when, one windy October night, matka broke the back window of the apartment they once shared and took everything before the man’s family could do the same.

Matka’s next boyfriend was Michael Levitz. Pleasant enough, the older man worked long hours and made no time for Andrew, so matka ended it. He’d tried to get back with her several times until he died in a car accident outside Caesar’s Palace.

Milos Geller had been the rebound lover.

Matka met the tall, gaunt man at the Tropicana casino where she worked, and though he’d made enough money for her to quit, she refused to stop. Milos shared Andrew’s passion for music and brought him vinyl records from the department store he managed every Friday.

Milos had taught Andrew the value of money by giving the fifteen-year-old a credit card. He’d warned him that the balance was a set amount, and there’d be no more once it was spent. Naturally, Andrew burned through more credit than the allowance from his mother could cover. He had no choice but to get a job.

Life changed after Milos got shot during a night deposit at the bank. Losing that man before his seventeenth birthday pulled Andrew into a deep depression. He’d gotten so bogged down with work and music practice that he had no time to explore his budding sexuality with the tourist boys. The melancholy lifted when the White Plains Musical Academy, for which Milos had urged him to apply, accepted him into their orchestra program.

“Hey, Drew, got room for one more?” Dmitri stood over him, twirling a mug around his thumb.

“I can make room.” Andrew took the mug and dropped it into the little sink before scolding, “This water’s for rinsing silverware though,”

Dmitri crossed his pale blue eyes. “I’m in no mood for Ricky today.”

Rick was their cock-eyed dishwasher, a foul-mouthed sort who loved talking about his days in the jungles of ‘Nam and how much pussy he banged there.

The boys laughed until shift supervisor Angela pushed through the swing doors. Unlike the day shift leader, the svelte Angie closed shop at nine and expected her team to be out the door by nine-thirty; the pair knuckled down then and returned to work.

Andrew lost touch with Samil near the end of July. His first friend in New York had disappeared into a new relationship vortex.

Dmitri Boscov, the day-shift tea server, quickly filled the void. The nineteen-year-old lived with his Polish parents in Williamsburg, taking on three nights a week for the cash. The raven-haired twink never mentioned his orientation, but some lustful comments about an older male patron more than confirmed it.

Dmitri was Samil’s physical opposite, with long hair, full lips, and pale blue eyes. His waifish male model looks made the kitchen girls swoon, and he flirted with them regularly. They worked together often, and their conversations consisted of Dmitri oversharing.

Tonight, he confessed that his mother forgave his gayness because he was her third son, leaving two others to provide her with grandchildren. The pair cashed out at closing and counted their tips before venturing into the sweltering night.

The full moon energized them, and their lively banter about classical music and dance garnished some stares on the subway platform. Andrew bid Dmitri off with the arrival of his E train, and then he boarded the Q bound for Brighton.

♪

Sea breezes rushed down the numbered streets, dulling the oppressive heat.

Outside, children played noisily in the small courtyard, their parents upstairs watching the eleven o’clock news. The top-floor hallway reeked of long-eaten dinners as muted voices filtered through shoddily painted walls.

Andrew opened the unlocked door and slipped out of his shoes at the end of the hall. Polish words came with scented smoke where Sash and Cyril played dominos at the kitchen table.

Matka had taught him as a boy; he’d get his six dominoes turned over so she wouldn’t see the dots on his pips, and he’d guard them with his life while matka pushed the unused pieces into their ‘boneyard’ pile.

“Andrej,” Cyril heralded, his worn terry robe cinched tight. Socks and slippers covered his little feet; the air-conditioning made him cold.

Sash sat barefoot in black boxer briefs, the tattoos on his darker skin visible through a sleeveless t-shirt. Sam had said that Glass-Eye’s sun-kissed tone came from jogging the boardwalk shirtless every morning. Faded blue stars like those found on old maps capped each of his knees, and a tulip tangled in barbed wire lined his inner forearm.

Cyril’s elaborate manacles were just as faded. Tiled bands set behind chevrons were why the old man rarely walked around shirtless, but when he did, the stars on his shoulders and belly looked smaller than the ones on his knees.

Andrew let the older man kiss his hand. “Anything to drink?”

Cyril regarded him over the top of his thick lenses. “In stand-up.”

A commercial lift-top fridge stood next to the bulky ice box where the dishwasher once sat. Beer cans filled its wire basket shelves, and glass bottles of soda lay stacked beneath them. Andrew grabbed one, recalling fondly how Samil called the brand Doctor Pecker.

“Our friend in the police department,” said Cyril in Polish, “let me sit behind him when he typed Konni’s name into the computer,”

Sash connected a domino to Cyril’s. “Arrest date?”

“No date,” Cyril looked over the top of his glasses. “He’s coded in the computer as having an FBI contact.”

Sash took a swig from his beer bottle.

“When did Konni get back?”

“About a week ago. He’s staying with his mother.” Cyril’s thin lips turned downward in a bracket-shaped pout. “Sam-Sam tells Radeki that Konni’s new job keeps him out most of the day.”

Sash’s hand ran over his hairless scalp.

“What is Konni’s reason for not being in Ryker’s?”

“He told Nikola that his mother had it wrong,” said Cyril. “He was in a precinct lockup, where he answered their questions, and then they let him go.”

Niko was the only one among them who showed concern for Konrad and would bring the young man on his weekly boardwalk stroll with Andrew. A short, skeletal version of Samil, he proved to be a rude shithead who twitched like a drug addict, constantly moving his fingers though his body stayed still.

Andrew added him to the ‘do not engage’ list when the asshole asked if he blew straight guys since he wasn’t blowing Niko.

“According to our friend at the precinct,” Cyril added. “Konni was collected by a federal officer hours after they fingerprinted Miro.”

Sash’s hand slid under the hem of his shirt and scratched at his muscular tit. “Why would they give a shit about us?”

Cyril laid down a winning domino. “The guns,”

“Ambitious police sergeants care about guns.” Sash frowned at his defeat before setting his eye on the old man. “Federal agents do not,”

“They could be after our Croatian friend,” Cyril suggested. “Or they’re after you.”

Andrew walked to the living room, unwilling to hear anymore.

“Konrad wouldn’t risk being deported to a place he hardly remembers,” said Sash.

Someone restored the cable TV, and as Andrew used the remote to flick through the channels, he caught Sash gawking at him in the TV’s dark glass with each screen change.

“Stop staring at Andrej,” Cyril scolded quietly.

“I can’t,” Sash said, chuckling. “I’ve had too much to drink,”

Cyril hummed in agreement, but Andrew’s nerves tightened.

“We all know the price of deportation. Brno, Siberie, fucking Morav.” Sash rambled in a humored timbre. “We’ve shared our horror stories with Konni, and in doing this, we’ve made him a coward.”

Andrew gave up on the television, tossing the remote and strolling back into the kitchen. He pushed his empty bottle into the trash and returned to the cooler for a beer this time.

“Federals will stir the pot and make the INS nervous.” Sash stood and stretched, exposing his taut stomach. “We’ll need to take care of this outside of Brighton,”

“I’ll arrange things,” said Cyril, standing with him. “Where will you be this weekend?”

“I gotta job out of state,” Sash replied to him in English, his voice faintly slurred.

Cyril patted Andrew on the back, “Good night, Andrej,”

“G’night,” he said, watching the old man shuffle down the hall.

Beer in hand, Andrew felt Sash’s attention. Nervous energy drove him to the wall telephone, and when warm, ale-scented breath found his ear, he confronted Sash without averting his eyes.

“Why is the phone dead?”

“The young woman Tadeusz married last year.” Sash took the beer from his grasp and boldly finished what remained. “She ran it up so high that Cyril refused to pay the bill.”

Andrew slammed the receiver back into the cradle, but Sash planted his hand on the wall, putting his arm across Andrew’s face.

“Ahn-dredge?” his words came out like a song.

Andrew folded his arms. “You’re drunk,”

The bald Pole smelled of body wash, and with that blue eye gleaming, he dipped his head into Andrew’s space. “Did you understand what we were speaking about?”

“Most of it,” he said.

Sash pursed his lips. “Do you still live at Saint Mark’s?”

“Where’s Niko?” he asked.

“He’s coming back with Konrad,” said Sash.

“I hope it’s soon,” he mumbled, slipping under the man’s arm.

Sash slipped in front of him and spoke in Slovak.

“I have a favor to ask of you, Andrej.” His beer-scented breath tickled Andrew’s nose. “I want you to keep your mouth closed about the conversation you heard just now,”

Andrew stared at him and tried imagining the man’s face without the scar or missing eye. Two deep blue orbs on what suddenly appeared to be a handsome face.

“I know that if Samil asks if we speak of his brother,” Sash spoke, arms crossed over his chest. “You will tell him all you hear because your matka taught you honesty in all things,”

Andrew then studied his face in the man’s glass eye.

“Samil doesn’t know this about you.” Sash softened, his voice no longer slurred. “Do not volunteer. That’s all I ask.”

“I won’t mention it,” said Andrew, nodding. “Unless he asks.”

Sash played at being offended. “Fine, Andrej. I don’t care what you say.”

Andrew grinned.

Sash continued, his English unaltered.

“Sam-Sam is a shallow boy, the most important thing in his world is him,”

“Then why bother asking me not to say anything?” asked Andrew.

Then, that lone blue eye regarded him with a terrifying coldness. No more words came from the man, but his sinister gaze cut through him like a long blade. Andrew wilted beneath it, whisking to the hall and collecting his shoes.

Andrew slipped into his sneakers on the train platform, Sash’s hardened glare haunting him. He’d seen that expression before, on the bastard who raped him.

On the train back to Manhattan, he cursed his weak resolve. So many weeks of progress dented in just one brief encounter that frightened and aroused him.

He couldn’t explain his growing attraction to the bastard, only that the pie chart representing his feelings for Glass Eye changed with each new encounter. Fright took most of the pie today, with a narrow slice reserved for loathing.

Back on the street, a pay phone taunted with phantom ringing.

Your mother taught you honesty in all things.

Andrew quickened his pace as every phone booth he passed began ringing.

Your mother taught you…

The booth on Second Avenue bore his mother’s name etched in graffiti. Guilt nagged Andrew with more illusions as he wandered toward Stuyvesant Square, avoiding the next pay phone and its taunting ring.

Someone must have found his car by now, called the police, and traced it to matka’s insurance company. No doubt she was looking for him, desperate, imagining the worst. He deserved none of her concern, and she didn’t deserve the turmoil.

Samil, those men, his work, and this city all conspired to help him forget, but no diversion or change of scenery changed what Andrew became in the back seat of his car that day. No, matka could never know that part of him, but she deserved to know he was alive.

The phone booth felt like a prison cell.

Matka wouldn’t be home at this time of night, working her weekly owl shifts to have the weekends off. Dropping two quarters into the slot, Andrew tapped their phone number on the silver keys and swallowed hard as it rang.

‘This is Drusy,’ her recorded voice made his nose burn. ‘If you have information about my boy, Andrej, please call the Atlantic City Police Department.’

A long beep followed. “Matka, it’s me. Don’t worry. I’m okay,” he said in Slovak, fighting back his tears. “I got a job and a place. I love you. Please, just give me some time.”