Hudson pushed Otis back a little and looked through the peephole. He wasn’t expecting anyone at that particular hour, and the guy standing at his door didn’t appear a good fit for the job, either. Without looking behind him, he stretched out a hand. “You, back in there,” he advised and opened the door.

The new visitor was somewhere north of forty, with thinning black hair, brushed back. His face was bony, and his eyes were cold. He wore a long coat, his hands stuffed in his pockets.

“Yeah?” Hudson asked.

“Mr. Vegas,” the man said, without actually asking, “it looks like you’re running a business. Do you mind if I come in?”

Hudson barely had time to step aside. He looked down the hallway briefly. The presence of the two goons by the elevator didn’t surprise him. Then, he turned, and froze when he saw the dangerous newcomer facing Otis, who was staring back, with all that candor that seemed to be him.

Quickly, Hudson moved between them. He pushed Otis into the small kitchenette that was, thankfully, separated by a door. “Darling, how about you go make me a sandwich?” he drawled. Then, as he turned toward his new visitor, he continued, “How can I help you, Mr.--”

“Watkins,” the man replied. “Who was that? One of your… models?”

“No,” Hudson replied, feeling his hackles rising. Talk about being in the wrong place at the wrong time.

“Too bad. He’s got a good face.”

“He’s not made for business,” Hudson said quickly. “Now, what can I help you with, Mr. Watkins?” He made no move to invite the other to sit. Part of his cover was being an insolent prick, as well as being a guy who seemed to lack basic awareness of what kind of dangerous situation he was getting himself into.

“Yes, you’re right,” the man said. “You can help me. Greatly.” He produced a business card from an inside chest pocket with a gloved hand. “I presume boys with the ambition of becoming part of the entertainment industry often come knocking on your door. I’ve seen some of your body of work on that website of yours. I’d say you have a good eye. How about you send such boys to me? I have even more venues to offer. And I bet they can use the money.”

“I see. Any particular type of young man you’re looking for?” Hudson didn’t like the way Watkins’s eyes moved to the door of the kitchenette. “He’s not for sale,” he said pointedly.

Watkins looked at him with a sly smile. “Everything is, usually. For the right price. But I’m not here to step on your turf, Mr. Vegas. Do you understand?”

Oh, he understood all right. That was a warning. “Yes, of course. You still haven’t answered my question. What’s your pleasure? Blonds, redheads?”

“Desperate,” Watkins said from the tip of his lips.

“I see,” Hudson said slowly. Could it be that he was lucky enough to have one of the men running the human trafficking ring knocking on his door so soon? His eyes moved toward the narrow door leading to the kitchenette. Not so lucky, though. The timing was horrible.

***

Otis felt rightfully annoyed, he believed. What was with that sudden demand for a sandwich? He wasn’t there to make sandwiches, and he wasn’t a darling to Hudson, either. He meditated briefly. Maybe his neighbor was demanding some sort of payment for dating advice. That had to be it. Then, making a sandwich wasn’t that big a deal. The darling matter, however, was not that clear.

He slowly inspected the small space, until his eyes fell on the small refrigerator in the corner. He opened it and stared inside. A lot of beer. Pursing his lips, Otis took one bottle out and looked at the label. With a shrug, he placed it on the counter and proceeded to continue his investigations. He had been caught in the act so easily. Never before had he felt so inadequate. That wasn’t true. He almost always felt inadequate in his interactions with other human beings.

He missed his grandma so much. She understood him. And now, under such duress, she’d know what to do. Otis identified a small egg, forlorn in a case for a dozen, and picked it up. He then placed it carefully next to the beer bottle. He had to look inside the cupboards, too, and after much searching he came up with one slice of bread, which he sniffed for any signs that it had gone bad. With great pains, he found some bacon behind the beer bottles.

It looked like there was barely anything else. Disconcerted, he took another long look at his meager findings. Hudson had a very unhealthy lifestyle, but it wasn’t Otis’s responsibility to correct that. However, he had been asked to perform a task, and maybe it would be considered payment for at least one piece of advice on dating rules.

He opened the microwave on the counter, glad to have found at least one appliance in that poorly appointed kitchen. It wasn’t very different than his, but he had a breakfast maker machine that could toast the bread, fry the egg, melt the cheese, and then serve everything in a round shape Otis liked a lot. Hudson didn’t look like he had anything like that in there.

He put the bacon on a plate and then broke the egg, separating it from the shell with extreme care. He punctured the yolk a couple of times with the tip of a knife he had found in one of the drawers. Then, he placed everything inside the microwave, and stared intently. His grandma had taught him a lot of tricks, how long to let the microwave do its job and all that. Pleased with the result, he assembled everything on the slice of bread. It wasn’t much of a sandwich, but that wasn’t his fault. Next time, he’d recommend that Hudson let him go to his place and bring back some food, or even use his breakfast maker to prepare some proper sandwiches.

After a short moment of deliberation, he opened the beer bottle. Hudson hadn’t mentioned it, but maybe he liked a drink with his sandwich. Just as he was admiring his handiwork, thinking that he hadn’t done a half-bad job, the door opened, and Hudson walked in with a displeased look on his face.