My chance came the next Saturday. I got up around noon, feeling lazy and relaxed, ready for anything. I slipped into a pair of jeans and went down to the kitchen.

The door to the back porch was open. Michael was sitting on the steps, looking at the garden. I stepped outside and sat beside him.

“Mind if I join you?”

“No.” He glanced up at me, then looked back at the garden. He was wearing a pair of jeans that hugged him from crotch to calves like a glove, and a white tank top that looked a size too small around his shoulders but hung loosely below his pecs.

“You must work out a lot,” I said.

“Couple of hours every day. And Lan-Tzu class three times a week.” He glanced at my naked chest. “You too?”

I shrugged. “Not since I was in New York. I haven’t found a gym here yet. You don’t get much sun, though. Burn easy?”

“No,” he said. “I’m just not crazy about sunlight. I’m basically a nocturnal animal.” He picked up a joint and a book of matches from a lower step. He lit it, inhaled, and offered it to me wordlessly. I shook my head.

“Gave it up about a year ago, when it started doing strange trips on my head. Thanks, though.”

“Too bad. Sharon grows some pretty mean weed in the garden.” He exhaled through clenched teeth. “It helps me focus my power.”

Whatever turns you on, I thought.

“You’re not originally from Houston, are you?” I asked.

“No. Born in Utah. Then Southern California.”

“Why would you leave that for this?”

“Too much sun out there, for one thing.” He smiled. “And work’s easier here.”

“Oh? I didn’t think you worked.”

“I work,” he said coolly. I got the idea he didn’t care to talk about it. But after another hit, he elaborated. “I supply special experiences for people who can pay. Experiences they can’t get anywhere else. I like Houston because people here have lots of money and not much imagination. They ask for easy stuff, and pay through the nose for it. Not like the Coast.” He shook his head. “People there wanted heavy trips, really taxed my energy. And there are more of us out there. Here, I’m a rarity.”

The joint was making him talkative. It was pretty murky, but I got the idea: he was a hustler. He had a very special appeal; the paying market might be small, but he had a corner on it. There must be plenty of rich hayseeds in Houston who’d pay to stick it to a muscular young longhair.

I decided to play dumb. “Shit, man—you mean sex?”

He stared straight ahead, his jaw tight, and took another hit. “Sometimes. But I don’t always charge for that. I enjoy myself too much.” He gave me a Mona Lisa smile.