Boulevard (24 page)

Henry Carlton passed Millie on his way through the gate. A pale girl running in the rain, her dress so thin she looked naked, a sight that made no impression on Henry at all. He had been married for a while, when he was eighteen and knew no better, and his wife was seventeen and moist and ripe like that. He turned to watch the girl splash away in the rain, then opened the iron gate and walked down the passageway to the courtyard.
Hallelujah it's raining
in his head, a snatch of the disco song,
it's raining, Hallelujah it's raining men
.

By now he had washed away any trace of Eugenie, whom he had called Genie, had washed every molecule of her touch from his skin through countless evenings along the waterfront, in the back rooms of the Bourbon Pub or TT's West, or like last evening when he spent all night in the baths on Frenchmen Street. He liked the dingy rooms, the low light, the multitude of body types, nobody perfect with their clothes off except, of course, the ones who were always perfect, the flawless ones, the flawless faces, a god walking down the corridor, powerful buttocks moving as he walks, nodding from side to side to his worshipers, drinking the desire like nectar, his only food. The perfect one in the baths last night had been Mark, Newell's boyfriend, or, rather, his ex-boyfriend, and so this morning Henry had gotten out of bed early with the anticipation of this visit, Henry rushing to Newell with the news that Mark had turned out to be exactly the kind of slut Henry had predicted, throwing up his legs for everybody in the place and in particular with this one hairy man who was bigger than him, who was all over him.

Climbing from the loggia to the gallery, Henry was still humming when what should he see or rather whom should he see, coming out of Newell's room.

Mark, without the hairy brute beside him, Mark all by himself with his clothes on, come crawling back to Newell, wouldn't you know? After a night like that, on his hands and knees on the floor in that tiny room in the baths, with that man at his backside, these hams of buttocks
pumping away at poor Mark who was all twisted around, tongue out of his mouth trying to get a look at what was happening, trying to be the camera of his own porn movie, and Henry at the door making sure he took in the whole scene.

“Well, good morning,” Henry called, and waved, making sure to flail the hand a bit, knowing it got on Mark's nerves.

“Hey, Henry,” Newell said, “look who showed up and is just leaving.”

Mark flushed, in the middle of saying something, only now seeing Henry, and the part that galled Henry was, it was clear Mark hadn't seen Henry at all last night, didn't remember him at all. “I'll call you later,” Mark called out.

Newell stepped to his doorway again, hand on the knob, motioning Henry inside. “Do whatever you want.”

“I'll call. I really will.”

Newell shrugged, looked at him a moment, and Henry was trying to maneuver to see Newell's face, to see if there was any affection in it, any weakness that Mark could possibly exploit; but Newell turned away in closing the door and so Henry never saw.

“I can't believe that son of a bitch,” Newell said.

“What does he want?”

“Dumps me flat on my ass and then wants me to go to a party. With those stupid friends of his.”

Henry sat on the edge of the bed, one leg crossed, ankle tucked under his knee, a posture that made him feel
safe. “Maybe he wants to get back with you.”

“Please. I can't stand him.”

“He's really cute.”

Newell walked to the front gallery with a glass of water, stood sipping it. Standing in front of a brown potted plant, completely dead. Newell looked down at it and poured the remains of the glass into it.

Coming back inside, he said, “He's not cute enough.”

“They were following him all over the baths last night.”

“He was at the baths?”

“Oh, yes, honey, he was the biggest whore there. He gave out more sugar last night than Belle Watling.”

Newell gave out one snort of a breath, in contempt. “That's fine, I don't care where he goes.”

“What kind of party does he want you to go to?”

“A Halloween party. With some friend of his.”

Henry curled around the bedpost, leaning over, feeling the thickness at his midsection. “If it was that friend he was with last night, you better go.”

“Henry, I already told you I don't care that he was there.”

“This good-looking hairy man with a dick like a donkey.”

“The friend is a woman,” Newell said. “The party. This rich woman that he knows. I don't know why he wants me there.”

“But you're going, aren't you?”

“I don't think so.”

Henry stood. “You want to go to the tea dance today?”

“I have to work.” He looked at the clock beside the bed. “Right now, as a matter of fact.”

Henry walked with him. They had become comfortable over the past weeks, settled into a relationship as French Quarter sidekicks. Henry felt he himself was being very mature. He had enjoyed the drama between Newell and Mark as a spectator, noting that sucking Newell's cock appeared to be a fairly short-term proposition, whereas sidekick status was more durable. He liked Newell a lot, because of his face. Newell always appeared to have something on his mind. With an ordinary cute person, Henry never wondered much about what the guy was thinking; with Newell, Henry wondered all the time.

No wonder Mark would come crawling back like this. For Henry, it was almost as delicious as if it were happening to him.

He decided to go to the bookstore and get some quarters from Newell, prowl the booths there for a while. Since the new booths had opened, a lot of men were going there instead of patronizing the other movie houses. This afternoon the bookstore was full, people lined at the register when Henry followed Newell inside, Newell heading to the office to talk to that old flabby man who smoked cigarettes all the time. Glaring at Henry already was the world's ugliest transsexual, Miss Sophia, and her outfit for the night was a one-piece pants suit with flare bottoms, one of those bright, flowered sixties fabrics nobody would touch anymore, along with a pair of white
vinyl boots that zipped on the side.

Henry stood in the line for the quarters, bought two whole rolls, figuring to watch the new Falcon movie a couple of times and see who showed up in there, but on the way to the booths he checked the marquee, the display of what was playing where, with Newell's descriptions of each movie printed on index cards in black fine-tip marker. “Hot action where this painter's model shows off himself and then the painter gets turned on, Roger is so fantastic!!!,” “First the blond goes down on Hawk and then they get into the back of the Jeep, Hawk is just like this guy I knew in high school on the football team!!!” and finally, “Bruno visits his next door neighbor who is Roger!!!! and they go at it right on the patio!!!! Incredible!!!!!” Judging by the number of exclamation points, Bruno's was definitely the movie to see.

Henry was proud to patronize the bookstore as Newell's friend because this had become, in that ephemeral way of fashion, a good place to prowl between drinks at Travis's and dances at the Parade, the kind of place Henry was drawn to without any premeditation. Newell was someone to whom Henry could talk, publicly, in an intimate and friendly way, and Newell had become a star here, so that to be in his company, to be favored with his attention, was a mark of increased status, like being the pal of a bartender at Lafitte's.

Standing beside the marquee, Henry hooted across the counter, “Newell, this sign looks just fabulous,” as
Newell was checking out the day cashier, another young queen and pretty cute, too, Henry thought. He would have to be introduced.

“That movie with Bruno is great,” Newell said. “I watch it every night after we close.”

“He is so big, he scares me,” said the day cashier, glancing at Henry, this dishwater blond with almond-shaped eyes and a spray of moles over both cheeks. “Honestly, honey. A man can be too big.”

“Henry does not agree with that, do you, Henry?”

“Oh, no.”

“And that Roger,” said Dishwater. “Honey, if he came after me with that thing, I would have to scream.”

“So would I,” said Henry. “With pure appreciation.”

He went through the curtains into the twilight of the booths exactly on the beat, a perfect exit. He had a view of himself that was like theater, as if he were on stage and in the audience as well, and at the same time he was the play-by-play announcer, the critic, and the judge who awarded the prizes. As, at this moment, narrating to himself,
He swept aside the curtains and walked into the dark space. He listened to the sounds from all around. He had an uncanny awareness, walking forward, looking for the door with the gold number seven on it, somebody already inside but who? He looks inside. He moves with such grace. There are two men inside, comparing erections, one of them is holding a quarter in his hand, the other is holding his penis, rubbing it, like Bruno on the movie screen, and the two look at him and at once he understands,
he has great perception, this is not the pair to interrupt, so he backs away with a glance at the pair in the room, a glance that says to them, I know you want to be alone with your change and your erections, I'll just find someone who's alone, like the man heading into the door marked with the gold number five, the black-and-white movie that is supposedly Chuck Connors the Rifleman doing a jerk-off scene for the camera, a sad, desperate film that Henry has seen, an attractor for the solitary. A lonely man this one must be, and not half bad to look at, judging from that glimpse of his retreating backside, so Henry followed and their eyes met in the booth as the man reached into his pocket and jingled coins
.

Henry can slip a coin into a slot so easily, dropping it neatly so the coin never touches the sides, the clean click of the coin engaging the electrical connection, the fluttering image reappearing, Henry's precise, neat fingers reaching to adjust the focus, smiling at his neighbor in the booth, who has already unzipped his trousers. Another amazing performance, keeping the man and his apparatus engaged at the proper velocity all the while watching poor Chuck Connors abuse himself and wondering, again, if it really was the actor, poor fellow, but nicely hung, and readying another quarter to drop at the proper moment when the projector sputtered and stopped, at moments like these Henry knew himself to be a fully engaged human being
.

Lafayette hung around in the bookstore now that it was busy. He liked to be near the register, to jive at the
counter while Newell kept the music going, listening to Newell rag Mr. Mac, trying to convince the old man to buy some decent disco lights and maybe a mirror ball for the store, to make the place more festive, Newell said, a word the kid had started using lately. Lafayette made a rumble of a deep laugh in his throat and cut his eyes at Newell. A thing had been on Lafayette's mind, lately, nothing to put in words, but a willingness, if anything were ever to start itself, after work, for instance, if Newell were ever to approach him, say Newell needed something like a woman sometimes did, and he approached Lafayette. There were times when, thinking about it, wondering, looking at the sinuous way Newell moved to the music behind the cash register, moving those hips those thighs those lips. Sometimes Lafayette wanted to reach his fingers through that dog collar and pull a bit, grab Newell that way and let him know, but that would be the wrong way, as if Lafayette were the one who was wanting something, and he was certainly not, but on the other hand if some evening after the store closed Newell were to approach him, to touch him on the biceps, say, if Newell were to touch him there.

Not that he needed, not that he wanted … There were plenty of women to be had, there was no need for a man to reach, to ask, to lower himself, but on the other hand if the opportunity presented itself, if it should happen, what would be the harm in saying yes? Lafayette would be a part of it, yes, but not really, because he was only doing what he would have done with a woman anyway,
receiving this lovely dust of pleasure over himself, he could picture it that way, and so the bookstore for a while became interesting to Lafayette, and Lafayette became interesting to the people in the bookstore.

Mac was sitting at his desk late that evening, stacks of rolled quarters everywhere, piled on the desk, on top of the filing cabinet, on the shelf next to the Mr. Coffee machine, stacked up on his extra shoes. He was going to have to buy a fucking safe on top of everything else and where the fuck to put it. Maybe hire Leon to build him a room in the back, a good stout room, and build a safe in it. Why fucking not? if he was going to have to keep so fucking much cash on hand. Jesus Christ, these faggots bought turns in the quarter movies like it was nothing. Lately he had to empty the machines in the middle of the day, stuffed with change already, and him just finished rolling up the goddamn quarters from the night before. Simpler to keep rolling the goddamn things himself than to hike back and forth from the fucking bank. The new booths had been open nine days, and the movie business was bigger every day, nearly double what it had been before. Now Newell had room to keep a good movie as long as he liked, and in fact he was having trouble keeping stocked. Mac supplied his store from a wholesale house in Algiers, a very quiet operation, and one to which Mac had been reluctant to introduce Newell; he would have to keep an eye on the kid for a while longer before taking a step like that. Maybe one of these days he would drive Newell to the warehouse with him, take a look at
the whole range of available merchandise, most of the stock having come down from Chicago, novelties and fuck magazines and fuck movies, one-hand bullshit he liked to call it, his stock in trade, part of it, along with Dixie and the world upstairs.

Tonight the Owner was having a party upstairs, being a person whose name is best left out of this, for the good of all parties involved. The Owner was upstairs, maybe with Dixie in the parlor, or maybe he had already gone into one of the rooms off the gallery with his nephew Jack and a couple of the girls. The building always felt so much smaller when the Owner was in it, and tonight he planned to be here all evening, though if Mac was lucky he could avoid the ugly old son of a bitch, face that looked like a fucking skull with fucking skin stretched over it, lips like pieces of sausage, what a miserable ugly old motherfucker he was but with more money than the pope. Too much goddamn time to think, counting out these fucking quarters. He shook a cigarette out of its pack, lighting, puffing, and heading to the office door to stand in it, looking across at Newell. “There has fucking got to be a better way.”