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  “Everybody has something to hide,” Dan said. “I think it’s to the brothers’ credit that they’re coming forward about Nabil’s sexuality. Too often families keep secrets that would help me find a person sooner rather than later.”

  “True. But in this case, there are other people who genuinely want him found, too. And I’m one of them.”

  “All right. Tell me everything you think you know about Nabil.”

  SIX

  Leathermen

  BACK IN HIS OFFICE, DAN laid the file with Nabil’s name on his desk. He sat back and let his thoughts drift as he glanced out across the river. Joe, the missing man in the poster, had been a leatherman, while Adam was an exotic dancer, and Nabil a bodybuilder. Did the three have anything else in common besides a love of the physical?

  Dan went online and trawled through a variety of websites for downtown bars till he found the link he wanted. Spearhead called itself a fraternity for “brothers under the skin.” While others identified leather with sexual extremism, Dan knew it for what it really was: a dress-up game for adults. Spearhead funded AIDS charities, raised awareness for social issues, and even organized an annual toys-for-tots drive as if to offset its darker associations.

  He scrolled through the online photographs. He found a shot of Joe from when he’d competed in the Mr. Leatherman Toronto contest. There were no photos of Adam or Nabil, however, but Dan wasn’t surprised to see the faces of a few old friends, including a rowdy photographer named Woody.

  A decade earlier, not long after winning his first Mr. Leatherman competition, Woody had pursued him. Their heat indicator had been off the charts, though Dan found Woody’s inability to commit off-putting. “You want a dozen lovers,” Dan told him. “I just want one.”

  “Why restrict yourself?” Woody admonished him for his conservative thinking, but Dan was adamant.

  “I want a stay-at-home companion,” Dan told him. “Not a party boy.”

  Woody had laughed. “Yeah, I guess we’re kinda mismatched that way.”

  Though Dan hadn’t seen him recently, he remembered him fondly. He scrolled through his contacts list. Sure enough, Woody’s number was there.

  “It’s Dan Sharp, Woody.”

  “Dan!” It was a near-explosion over the wires. “You sweet man, it’s been a dog’s age!”

  “It has been quite a while. I’m not sure what happened. Everything seemed to hit warp speed a few years ago and nothing’s slowed down since.”

  “You got that right! To what do I owe the pleasure?”

  “I’ve got some questions about your community.”

  Woody laughed. “The gay community, the AIDS community, or the leather community?”

  “The leather community for a starter. Got time for a coffee?”

  “For the sexiest man alive, anything.”

  “No need for the flattery, but thanks.”

  †

  It was a small establishment, Turkish, with brass decorations on the walls, colourful ceramic ornaments in every corner, and small, cozy booths for sharing. The owner, a jolly man with a rotund stomach, effused over them until they were comfortably seated.

  “I bring you the best!” he exclaimed when they asked for coffee and pastries.

  Dan gave his old friend the once-over. Woody’s compact frame barely hinted at his powerful physique. And despite his youthful appearance, he’d been a fixture in the neighbourhood for nearly two decades. He was also one of the community’s unofficial historians, showing up at events like a self-appointed archivist. It had started with AIDS, he told Dan. Losing so many friends had spurred him to document a world rapidly slipping away behind the curtains of hospitals and clinics. Eventually, the drug cocktails turned everything around and people began living longer than expected, but Woody’s enthusiasm for documenting remained.

  Coffee arrived with an assortment of delicacies. Woody sipped from his cup and popped a sticky-looking confection into his mouth. “So, what’s the story, sexy guy?”

  “I’m trying to find out about some men who might be involved in the leather scene here.”

  “If they’re involved, then chances are I’d know them. Shoot.”

  “First is a guy named Joe. You might have seen his face on missing-persons posters for the past few months.”

  “For sure I saw the posters. Yeah, Joe’s a leather guy. He was a Mr. Leatherman contender a few years back. I can’t say when he stopped coming around. Maybe early in the spring? Hard to remember that far back, to be honest.”

  “How about a guy named Adam Carnivale? He’s a dancer. There was a poster of him circulating in the summer.”

  Woody smoothed his moustache with his fingers as he considered. “Yeah, I recall the posters, but not the guy. He might have come around to the meetings once or twice, but I don’t think he was a regular.”

  “What about a guy named Nabil Ahmad?”

  “I know a guy named Nabil for sure. Don’t recall his last name. Very handsome, a little bit shy.”

  Dan slid the picture Nabil’s brothers had given him onto the table. “Is that him?”

  Woody looked up with a curious expression. “That’s him. What’s this about? Have you got a crush on the guy?”

  “No crush. He’s missing, too.”

  Woody’s expression darkened. “Oh.”

  “Are you in touch with him?”

  Woody shrugged. “Not really. I see him around from time to time. We don’t do Facebook or any of that shit. He’s supposed to compete in the Mr. Leatherman contest this weekend.”

  That was puzzling, for a man said to be secretive about his sexuality. “When did you last see him?”

  “Maybe a few weeks ago? It’s hard to pin down. It would be a Friday. That’s our regular meet-up night at George’s Play. There’s always a gang.” He paused. “Is all this official? Did someone ask you to find these guys?”

  “I’ve been asked to find Nabil by his family. I’m just trying to get a handle on things. As you said, it’s hard to pin down. People move around. After a while you may not even remember they were ever there. I’m looking for the invisible thread between these men, if there is one. I thought it might have to do with the leather community.”

  “You mean like someone in the community’s kidnapping them? That’s a frightening thought.”

  “Did you hear about the doctor who was murdered last weekend?”

  “Yeah, tragic.” Woody shook his head. “But he wasn’t part of the leather crowd, as far as I know. Did you hear differently?”

  “No, but there could be something that connects them. There’s nothing online that even says the police are acknowledging the gay angle. What about violence in the leather community?”

  “I guess we’re known for our sado-masochistic displays, but it’s pretty much performance and posturing. No one’s supposed to get hurt for real. There are code words and such, if things get out of hand. Maybe someone takes things too far once in a while, but it’s not common.”

  “How about HIV?”

  Woody nodded. “It’s rampant. That’s no surprise. Some of us are lucky to have made it to middle age. Many didn’t. I just read a study claiming that leathermen are sixty-one percent more likely to have HIV than other gay men.”

  “That’s pretty high.”

  “I’ll say. Seems just like the bad old days.” His gaze flickered away, over the unseen hordes who had not made it to middle age but continued to haunt the ones who’d managed that small miracle for themselves.

  “Sixty-one percent.” Dan considered. “Seems to be a thing people have for statistics at the moment. My son knows just about every murder stat going.”

  “Following in your footsteps?”

  “Not that I know of. And I’m glad for that. He just has a head for what’s going on in the city.”

  “That’s cool.” Woody bit into a slice of baklava. He studied Dan’s face as he chewed. “It’s been a while since you stepped in front of my camera. Care to do a little posing
sometime?”

  “I’m camera-shy these days, but thanks.”

  “That’s too bad. You weren’t always.”

  “People change.”

  “Yeah, true.” He shrugged. “Well, if you have time at least come and see the contest. Who knows — maybe Nabil will show up.”

  “Good idea.”

  Dan typed the event into his phone calendar and finished his coffee.

  “I’ve got to get back to work. Thanks for taking the time to chat.”

  “Any time. Always good to see you.”

  Woody leaned over the table and brought his face close to Dan’s. Lips parted and they exchanged a kiss. Woody sat back with an ecstatic look.

  “You still got it going on, dude!”

  “So do you, Woody.”

  SEVEN

  Lucky Charms

  AMIR AHMAD’S FACE WAS IMPASSIVE as he placed a glass of water on the table in front of Dan. He turned and sat beside his brother, Mustafa. The only feature the two men had in common was their dark eyes, but where Amir’s were sharp and inquisitive, Mustafa’s were soft and worried.

  “Thank you for coming so quickly,” Amir said.

  “It’s always best to get started as soon as possible.”

  The house was surprisingly well kept for three co-

  habiting brothers, Dan noted. He studied a decorative weave with Arabic script hanging in a far corner. Amir followed his gaze.

  “There are many who fear our religion because of the actions of a few.” He looked at Dan. “Do you find it disturbing?”

  “Not particularly. Perhaps Prabin told you my son’s mother is Muslim.”

  Amir’s eyes lit up. “Then you understand Muslim customs.”

  “Some, though I’m not comfortable with extremism of any sort.”

  “My brother and I are not extremists.”

  “Good to know.”

  “We have lived in Canada now for five years. Coming from Oman, however, there are many things we still do not understand about your country. We try, however, to be both good Muslims and good Canadians.”

  “Understood.” Dan considered his words. “I didn’t ask, but what is Nabil’s citizenship status? Are there any visa issues, for instance?”

  “No, there are no visa issues. All three of us are permanent residents. We are to become Canadian citizens next month.” Amir gave Dan a conciliatory smile. “That is one of the reasons we are extremely anxious to have you find Nabil and bring him home. His name means ‘noble’ in Arabic.”

  “A good name.” Dan nodded. “I’ll do what I can. In the meantime, I’d like to see Nabil’s room. I also need to check the contents of his computer.”

  The brothers exchanged a glance.

  “If you don’t think it is a violation of his rights.” It was Mustafa who spoke, practically for the first time since Dan had arrived.

  “Violation or not, it’s necessary,” Dan said carefully. “Sometimes you have to put the safety of the missing person ahead of their so-called civil rights. We all have secrets, but it’s often those secrets that get us into trouble.”

  “Yes, of course,” said Amir, with another look at Mustafa. “I want to reassert that whatever you find, our brother will come to no harm from us because of it. His safety is our chief concern.”

  They took him down the hall to Nabil’s room. The furniture was unexceptional, vintage IKEA. Dirty laundry lay scattered on the floor, a half-unbuttoned shirt flung over the back of a chair. Hand weights were lined up neatly beneath the window in increasing sizes, with a long-handled skipping rope hung over the edge of the bedpost. A heavy bolt on the inside of the door said Nabil liked his privacy.

  The brothers looked around, as though seeing the room through a stranger’s eyes for the first time.

  “Nabil is very messy for a good Muslim.” It was Mustafa who spoke.

  Dan sat on the bed and ran his finger along the spines of the books on the end table. About half the titles were in Arabic. One of the volumes had been turned inward. He pulled it out and flipped through a men’s workout handbook. English, with plenty of well-lit photos of muscled men. Training manual or bedside erotica?

  Amir ignored the book in Dan’s hands and pointed to one of the others.

  “This book is on purification of body, mind, and soul. The hadiths set out the rules of faith. There are many narratives about keeping the body clean and the home tidy. Cleanliness is said to be ‘half of faith.’ It does not mean only the physical self. It means having clean thoughts as well.”

  “In Christianity, we say that cleanliness is next to godliness.”

  “Yes, that is so. Good Muslims are told to purify and cleanse their bodies as well as their hearts before meeting our Lord.”

  And a gay Muslim with a leather fetish might have a very hard time doing that, Dan mused, returning the workout book to the shelf.

  Amir fingered a chain draped over the corner of a dresser mirror. “He left his ta’wiz behind. That is unlike Nabil.”

  Dan glanced at the pendant. “It’s to guard against the evil eye, isn’t it?”

  “Yes. Inside there are verses from the Quran inscribed on parchment. He had it for protection. This is an old-world tradition.”

  “So’s the cross,” Dan said. “It surprises me how people cling to the traditions that oppress them.”

  “Some would call it ignorance and superstition.” Amir exchanged a look with his brother. “Nabil adapted well to his new life in Canada. Better than us. Perhaps we should not be surprised to learn there are many things he did not want to share.”

  In a far corner, a hand-carved wooden screen shielded a prayer mat from prying eyes. A wrinkled, sweat-stained T-shirt had been dropped on it, while a pair of running shoes lay upended against a nearby closet door. Hardly the actions of a devout man, Dan thought.

  “Is it possible he was trying to distance himself from his religion?”

  Mustafa bristled. “Please do not insult our brother in his home.”

  “I’m simply asking a question. How he reconciles his sexuality with his faith is his business. My concern is to find him.”

  Amir intervened. “Of course, this is Canada. We are all entitled to be who we want to be. Isn’t that what you are saying? For instance, if certain people feel they want a Pride Parade, they are allowed to have a Pride Parade even if others oppose it.”

  “Yes, that’s true.”

  “Yet if someone wants to have a Nazi parade, for some reason we are supposed to accept that that is not a viable option, despite whatever opinions we may hold.”

  “That’s because there are laws about inciting hatred against others.”

  Amir looked at his brother. “Do you know what we are talking about, my brother?”

  Mustafa shook his head.

  “A Nazi parade. Do you know what this means?”

  “A ‘nasty’ parade?”

  Amir turned to Dan. “You see? This is what we have to contend with. You will forgive my brother. He is ignorant of many things in your culture.”

  Dan’s gaze went back and forth between the two brothers. “It’s appalling that someone living in Canada in the twenty-first century doesn’t know what a Nazi is.”

  “Nevertheless, this is the reality some of us are dealing with. If it is haram — forbidden by Islamic law — it is sometimes just easier to ignore.”

  “As you said, ‘ignorance and superstition.’”

  Amir made a sign for his brother to follow him. “Come, Mustafa. We will leave Mr. Sharp to make his investigations.”

  They left him alone. Dan was surprised they were willing to give him unfettered access to Nabil’s computer. Then again, it might be easier for them not to have to contemplate certain truths about their brother. In the course of his work, he’d uncovered many facts that had proved unpalatable to his clients. He couldn’t afford to ignore them if he wanted to work to the best of his abilities.

  He turned to the computer, a clunky old desktop model but wi
th a sophisticated webcam. Nabil’s screensaver was a lunar landscape of rocks and crevices that looked as uninhabitable as what Dan imagined his private life to have been, surrounded by two brothers who loved him but who could not understand him.

  He touched the mouse and the rocks vanished, replaced by an orderly desktop. A folder with the wishful-sounding title Maybe I Can Have It All yielded a sub-folder labelled Dreams. Inside that were three JPEGs. The first was of a mansion in a tropical setting, the second a bright red Ferrari, and the third a cool blue yacht. We all have to start somewhere, Dan thought with a smile.

  A folder labelled Family contained shots of a variety of domestic gatherings, with dozens of photos of Nabil and his brothers in an impressive garden, as well as an older couple Dan assumed were their parents. There was nothing out of the ordinary, just picture after picture of a shy-looking boy with a repressed vivacity, like a child who wanted to shout and be exuberant but had been taught to restrain himself at all costs. Even his school photograph showed a young man not entirely comfortable with himself, as though he’d learned to be fearful of revealing what lay beneath the surface in front of a camera.

  It was the sub-grouping Skin that caught Dan’s eye. Inside were shots of Nabil in leather gear. Hundreds, if not thousands of screen-capture images. The webcam. But here was a very different Nabil, at odds with the other photos. Arm bands framed his biceps, the skin oiled to a burnished chestnut. A studded vest curtained his chest, a coy invitation to follow the dark trail leading down to his slit of a navel, like a vaudeville muscleman. His hair had been styled and groomed into a jutting wave over his forehead. And around his neck, the ta’wiz. Here the drab wren turned into strutting peacock, the shy boy transformed into a crown prince of the erotic, fully in command of his world.

  In the only nude, Nabil sat facing the camera, knees raised and hands clutching his feet, his genitals hidden behind muscular forearms. It was sexy and innocent, manly and boyish, at the same time. He looked assured — poised and balanced. Dan wondered who had taken the shot. Someone Nabil trusted, obviously. Possibly even someone who loved him.