Table Of ContentArsenic and Rio
By
DJ Manly
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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents
either are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously.
Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead,
is entirely coincidental.
Arsenic and Rio
Copyright (cid:164) 2008 DJ Manly
ISBN: 978-1-55487-089-9
Cover art by Martine Jardin
All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or
utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any
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invented, is forbidden without the written permission of the publisher.
Published by eXtasy Books
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Chapter 1
A
s Marshall stood looking out the window at Havendale House, he
wondered what was more miserable, him or the weather.
As the wind moaned around him, he rubbed his hands together for
a minute and tried to feel something beside numbness. The only
sensation that assaulted him was loss as the rain slashed against the
pane glass window.
He knew all about these places. Only damaged goods were sent
here, refuge from the streets, “troubled youth”. Losers, living together
in cleverly disguised buildings, which were weaved into the fabric of a
typical middle class neighbourhood.
But no one was really fooled.
The director of Havendale House was a psychologist by the name of
Frank Barter. He had been standing outside last night when the two
police officers had deposited Marshall at the front door. Barter was a
tired looking middle-aged man who spoke very slowly, as if everyone
had problems understanding the English language.
Having hastily introduced himself and scribbled his name on the
clipboard, one of the cops shoved at him and he ushered Marshall to
his room. Before leaving, he said, “It’s late now. Get some sleep and
we’ll talk tomorrow, Marshall.”
His roommate was a younger kid named Gaston Turgeon, a chubby
redhead with a big mouth. He talked nonstop from the moment
Marshall walked into the room. He was one of those mixed French and
English kids who didn’t speak either language well.
Gaston announced to him that he was fourteen and loved heavy
metal and pot. Then he proceeded to list his favourite groups and
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detail the reasons why he felt so inspired by their songs. After talking
for almost twenty minutes without receiving so much as a nod of
acknowledgement, Marshall finally looked at him and said, “Haven’t
you noticed I haven’t said a fucking word since you began blabbering?”
“Yeah…” Gaston laughed, “Hey, why not? Can’t you talk?”
“Figure it out, genius.” He replied softly, giving him a meaningful
glare. He then turned on his side and closed his eyes.
Gaston stopped talking.
* * * *
In the morning, rather than follow the others down to the dining room,
Marshall stayed in his room looking out the window. It was still raining
and somehow that made him feel less alone. When a young woman
suddenly walked into his room, he knew she was some kind of
counsellor. They all had that same expression on their faces, some
combination of compassion and apprehension.
“Marshall?” She smiled. “I’m Susan. Welcome to Havendale
House.”
Marshall met her eyes and then looked at the floor. “You can’t
keep me here. I’m almost eighteen.”
“You have been mandated by the courts to be here, Marshall.
There is nothing we can do about that, but we can do something about
the future.” Her voice was soothing and optimistic.
He had heard that tone before like a well-rehearsed script.
“Bet you say that to all the boys,” Marshall smirked, his voice
mocking.
“Ah, you have a sense of humour,” she grinned. “You must be
hungry. Why don’t you come down for some breakfast? Frank will want
to see you later, go over the house rules and set up counselling
sessions.”
“I’m not hungry, thanks.” Marshall turned his back.
“Suit yourself.”
A few hours later, the one called Susan came back to his room.
Marshall lay on the bed, his battered overstuffed duffel bag under his
feet. “Marshall,” she said, “it’s lunch time. Won’t you come and have a
sandwich or something?”
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Marshall sat up and looked at her. “I told you, I’m not hungry.”
“Frank wants to see you at one o’clock. Go see Gracie at the front
desk and she’ll show you where Frank’s office is, okay?”
He shrugged. “Whatever.”
“In the meantime, why don’t you have a look around? It’s a pretty
nice house. We have five residents here, ranging from the ages of
fourteen to eighteen.”
“It’s not a house,” Marshall told her, meeting her eyes, “it’s a
prison.”
She sighed. “Anyway, feel free to move around.”
“Can I feel free to move around outside the door, too?” He
quipped.
“You don’t have that privilege yet. That’s up to Frank. He will
discuss it with you later.”
“I’m sure he will,” Marshall responded without expression.
* * * *
Susan watched him as he got up and went over to the window again.
He was a handsome boy, quite beautiful really, with shoulder length
dark curly hair and soft sherry brown eyes. He was far too thin and it
made him look delicate. In spite of his Italian heritage, he was quite
pale. She would remind Frank to make an appointment for a physical
next week to determine if he was healthy. She knew, given his
background, that HIV was a possibility.
He was uncooperative, but so were many of the boys when they first
arrived. It usually took some time for them to adjust to life in the group
home. What disturbed her most about Marshall is that he seemed so
sad, disconnected really. There was something missing in his eyes. She
hated to admit but usually when they came in that way, it was already
too late.
* * * *
By the time Marshall left his room, it was well after one o’clock. He
had fallen asleep, then figured he might as well go and hear what this
Frank guy had to say. He wandered the carpeted hallway where three
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other bedrooms and a bathroom were located. There were two other
rooms that said Private on the doors.
He ended up in a big dining room where two women were cleaning
off one long table and a smaller one near a picture window that was
nicely decorated and clean. Beside the kitchen door was a flight of
stairs leading into a basement. At the bottom of the stairs was a large
recreation room where two boys played ping-pong. The boys barely
glanced at him. Marshall left and headed back upstairs to the dining
room. He had taken the wrong direction.
The kitchen workers, two women with skin as black as ebony, gave
him curious looks when he reappeared. They didn’t speak to him. He
made his way past the bedrooms again, then turned the corner. A desk
was situated next to the front door. Behind it sat a rather homely
woman with gray hair. She was talking on the phone as he approached.
She immediately put down the receiver when she saw him and
issued him a forced smile. “There you are. We have been hunting all
over for you. Marshall Calletti, right?” She massaged the back of her
neck for a moment. “Frank is waiting for you.”
“Sorry, I got lost.”
She eyed him, pressed a button and opened the door beside her.
She picked up the phone again and said, “We found him. He’s here. Go
in. It’s the door on your left. He’s waiting,” she urged.
The man named Frank Barter opened his door just as Marshall was
about to turn the handle. He was not much to look at, balding and
short, a pudgy little man with thick-rimmed glasses and rings of sweat
under the arms of his peach coloured shirt. “We were waiting for you,
Marshall. Please, come in and sit down.” He directed him to a chair.
“Who are ‘we’?” Marshall asked, looking around.
“Just an expression. No one, just you and me.”
Marshall looked around him. The office was small, not much
bigger than a broom closet. A pile of file folders rested on the floor,
some on his desk and others jammed together on a shelf fixed to the
wall. There was no window and right above them, an old ceiling fan
clunked away. An expensive looking computer sat on his desk as well
as a jug of ice water. On the wall was a picture of a redheaded woman
and three boys, ranging from about the age of twelve to sixteen.
Frank poured some water into a glass and asked Marshall if he
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wanted some.
“No thanks,” Marshall looked down at his hands. This office was
bizarre. It made him feel claustrophobic.
Frank opened a file and began thumbing through it, then closed it
and looked at him. “Susan says you don’t want to eat.”
“Not hungry. Am I breaking some kind of a law or something?” He
met his eyes.
“Not yet, but you will have to eat eventually.”
“Guess so…sometime,” Marshall replied with a shrug.
Frank reached over and lifted the receiver of the phone. He
pressed a button and said, “Gracie, hold my calls.” He hung up without
waiting for her to answer. “I’d like to talk about your file.”
Marshall sighed. “Whatever. You have the power.” He picked at the
material of the chair. “Do I have a choice?”
* * * *
Frank Barter studied him for a minute. He was a good-looking kid and
the evaluation by the police psychologist intrigued him. He certainly
seemed to fit the profile, but he planned to be more careful this time.
Last time, it had been a disaster.
“Let’s talk about you first, Marshall… You have quite a history
here, arrested several times for prostitution, petty theft and vandalism.
You appear to have slipped through the system, released into the
custody of a twenty-nine year old man posing as your uncle, an Art
Anderson. Yet you never spent more than a night locked up. You were
always bailed out. Can you tell me about that, Marshall?”
* * * *
“You tell me. You have the file,” Marshall replied dryly.
“He was your pimp, wasn’t he?”
“He took care of me.”
“But he made money from your sexual activities, lived off you?”
“We took care of each other.” Marshall bit his lip.
“Mr., ah…Anderson died of a heroin overdose. Is that right?”
He nodded and looked away.
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“You were there with him, called the ambulance?”
“Yeah, but ambulances don’t come too quickly in that part of the
city. They figure one less scum to worry about.”
“You sound bitter.”
“He was my friend.”
“Strange choice for a friend, a guy who lives off the sexual activities
of a kid and buys heroin with the earnings,” Frank replied simply.
“How long were you associated with Mr. Anderson, Marshall?”
“He took me in when I was twelve.”
“And what about your parents?”
“You know about my parents. It’s in the file.”
“I’d rather hear it from you.” Frank leaned forward.
Marshall sighed, “Okay, my father was a drunk and died of alcohol
poisoning when I was ten. My mother is nuts and in a hospital
somewhere for the criminally insane. She tried to stab me with a
butcher knife.”
“You saw a psychologist when the police arrested you, two weeks
after Mr. Anderson’s death. Am I right?”
“Jesus, are you stupid or do you just enjoy playing the same song
over and over?” Marshall threw up his hands. “Yes, I saw a fucking
shrink and he was weirder than you are. And I wasn’t arrested!”
“Watch the language, Marshall. Calm down. Take a breath.”
“Yeah, right. Take a breath.”
“You were taken into custody then. You were not arrested at that
time, but it was clear you were selling your body on the streets and
taking drugs. No charges were filed, but you were deemed a troubled
youth in need of protection.”
“I was not doing drugs,” Marshall scowled. “I smoked a bit of
weed, that’s all. The hard stuff, I never touch. I’m not that stupid.”
“I see. It’s interesting how you’ve been able to slip through the
cracks all this time, Marshall.”
“Because I was allowed to slip through the cracks. The system is so
clogged up, they have no time to go looking for more,” he replied with
a shrug. “Lot of fucked up people out there.”
“How long have you been on your own?”
“Since they took my mother away to the crazy house, just before my
twelfth birthday.”
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“You ran away from the foster home they placed you in after your
mother was institutionalized.”
“You win a thousand points,” Marshall said.
“Were you mistreated there or was it because you didn’t bother
giving it a chance?” Frank Barter lifted an eyebrow.
“Look,” Marshall bit his lip, “let me tell you something about life.
Life sucks and there are very few people who really give a damn about
anyone except themselves and when they’re nice to you…well, they
want something. That’s just the way it is. Art…well, he might have
profited from what I did but, he never abused me and our relationship
was mutual. You know what I mean? We suited each other.”
Barter nodded. “Yes, I know what you mean. Ever think about
seeing your mother?”
“Why in hell would I want to see her?” Marshall sneered. “She tried
to kill me.”
“You understand she’s sick.”
“Yeah, her and ten thousand other people,” Marshall shrugged.
“All right, Marshall, let’s leave it for today. Next time, I would
appreciate it if you showed up on time.”
“When can I get out of here?”
“You were court mandated here for treatment, Marshall. The
length of time is determined by…” Frank began, looking at his file
again.
“I know about that shit, I mean outside this place?” Marshall threw
up his hands. “Am I to be a prisoner here?”
“When I think you are ready, I will grant you a pass. First, you will
start eating. I will have a doctor check you out to make sure you are
healthy. Did you practice safe sex out there, Marshall?”
Marshall rolled his eyes. “Yes, yes, yes. I know about AIDS.”
“Have you been tested?”
“No, ‘cause I feel fine.”
“Says you completed grade eight on your file, but I will arrange for
you to take the educational assessment test this week to determine
what level you are really at.”
“Looks like I’m going to be a busy little beaver, doesn’t it?”
Marshall sneered.
“Seems so,” Frank rose out of his chair. “Ask Gracie for a list of
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