How Long Has This Been Going On (11 page)

"Trey."

They shake.

"Yeah, Carl told me about you," says Cord.

"Carl?"

"Over at the big fag table there. Where everyone's wearing pretty colors."

"Oh, yeah." Trey keeps it cool. He flashes his smile and says, "That was some easy gig."

"Carl's okay, when you learn how to handle him. I guess all fags are. Just make sure they know who's in charge, is how it works."

"Yeah."

"Don't let 'em slip away, boy. You nail 'em. They come up and talk, you tell 'em how it'll be. They like that, 'cause they're fags. It's not like bein' with a woman."

"Yeah."

The two of them scanning the place, leaning back against the bar, stretching out. They've got boots on, heavy belts, rough mouths, and they're in charge.

"The real thing," says Trey, "is I gotta get me a gig tonight, 'cause I been thrown outta where I was puttin' up."

"Hell, if it comes down to that," says Cord, looking the boy over nice and full, "you can sack with me."

Jo-Jo is peering out at the crowd through the black curtains that hide backstage from the club room.

"How does it look?" Desmond asks.

"It's a capacity crowd, Desmond, old boy."

"No, how does it
feel?'

"Beg pardon?"

Desmond hugs himself. "We're going out there and we'll put it over! That's the show business!"

"Desmond," says Jo-Jo, looking over at the Kid as he primps, "don't get ecstatic on me."

The Kid's in white sailor's pants, a baggy red silk shirt with all the buttons taken off, and a navy silk tie.

"Dashing," says Jo-Jo. "You look almost legal."

"You're irked at me for putting on a great new act, I'm afraid."

Jo-Jo keeps forgetting how honest the Kid can be. It's as if he were kicking your leg and you fell down: because
then
what do you say? No, I'm not irked. I'm not nervous because you're so ambitious and energetic and talented and cute.

Jo-Jo says, "You're afraid?"

"I don't want you angry at me. I'm going to put on the best show I can, but it's not because I want to crab your act."

"Then don't crab it," says Jo-Jo, angry but contained. "Let me be who I am, too."

"There's room for everyone, Jo-Jo," the Kid replies.

A john named Ray was telling Saul, "I saw you talking to the new boy. What's he like?"

"Mysterious. You never know what he'll say next."

"Did you set it up with him or not?"

"Oh, dear, no. He's so—"

"Maybe he likes the more aggressive type."

Ray stared intently at Trey. Trey felt it, looked at Ray, and, before their eyes locked, casually looked away.

"He doesn't like anyone," said Saul, bewildered. "I don't know what he wants in the world."

The three queens at Carl's table have determined to drive Lanning's gang from the club by scorning them. "Look, look, look," says Carl's second-in-command, Arkel. "Just look and look and never touch. All that toothsome trade going to waste." He's staring straight at Lanning for this. "Who may they be, the daughters of Bilitis?"

"They're the Cherry Sisters," says Carl.

Arkel's voice rises. "Is that Otis I see, or a camping tent wearing Laird Cregar?"

"Trash," Donny calls him.

"Goons," cries Arkel.

"Trolls," says Lanning. "Get back under your bridge!"

"Better cool it down, girls," one of the bartenders tells both tables as he races by with a laden tray.

"Who wants us to?" Arkel calls out.

For an answer, the vigilant Lois silently manifests herself in direct view of the warring tables, and both parties immediately turn in to themselves.

"It's astonishing," says Elaine, coming up from behind with a tray of sandwiches. "You can even be testy without saying a word!"

Lois runs her hand along Elaine's back as she passes. "Mr. Husband on the road again?"

"On the road
still"
Dropping the tray onto the bar.

"Huh. And you don't think he's wondering—"

"If I'm seeing a man? Surely he does, because he's got plenty of girl friends. But don't ask me if he suspects that there's a woman." Elaine filled the tray with empty plates to take back to the kitchen. "Don't waste your breath on that one. Because to men like Jeff, lesbians simply do not exist. Even to men not like Jeff."

Lois is staring intently at one of the tables.

"What?" Elaine asks.

Nodding her head at a group way up in front of the stage, Lois says, "Some of those women aren't women."

"What do you mean?"

"Drag's against the law, and I
don't
allow drag in my club," says Lois, starting off to do what she does best, namely settle someone's hash.

"Wait," says Elaine, gently touching her arm. "You mean those are men dressed as..." Elaine takes another look at the table. "That's called 'drag'?"

"Yep. And it's catnip for cops."

"But... why do they
do
that?"

"Search me."

"Though it's sort of cute, in a goofy way. And, as I look now, I'd say that
all
of those women aren't women."

"Right. And they're
all
taking a flying leap straight out of—"

"Lois, it's New Year's. Let them stay. For me?"

Thinking it over, Lois smiles and, going behind the bar, says, "Got something to show you, Miss. Bought it this afternoon in a very exclusive shop on Redondo."

"I tremble."

Lois opens a paper bag and pulls out a metal rod.

"What's that, I dread to ask?"

"Massage toy." Lois winks. "You run it up and down and back and forth along the skin."

Elaine puts a hand to her mouth. "Now I really do," she says. "Tremble."

"They used to make these out of wood. Very sanded down, of course. Maybe they're mass-producing them now."

"Exactly how much experience have you had?"

"I'll tell you someday."

"No," says Elaine, thoughtfully, as she hands the tray to one of the bartenders to take into the kitchen. "Tell me now."

Lois hates being challenged, except—she suddenly discovers—by Elaine. Lois tells.

At the drag queens' table, one seat is empty, and those already in place—Milady Darla, Faye Sylphides, and the Duchess of Topsy—take turns scanning the door as if awaiting a Major Entrance. Lanning and his coterie pass a few remarks.

"Who's the empty chair for, girls?" Donny asks, leaning confidentially toward the Duchess of Topsy. "Superman?"

"No," says Lanning. "P. T. Barnum. He has a few vacancies in his freak show."

Lightly fanning herself, Milady Darla languidly asks, of no one, "Dear, who
are
these guano riffraff?"

Faye Sylphides says, "I dread to think."

"We can all see that," Lanning snaps back.

"I know who they're waiting for," Otis begins, then breaks off as a piece of trade passes their table: tall and tight, with an absurdly fetching gap in his upper front teeth, wearing a black leather vest over a cowboy shirt. "Oh, Lord," Otis moans.

"Who is that guy?" Donny asks, following him with his eyes.

"His name's Eli," says Lanning. "White, white skin and tattoos everyplace."

"Oh, heaven, set me free," Otis pleads.

Ray is talking to Woody, a versatile and accommodating hustler whom Ray has taken home a number of times. Many hustlers look annoyed or disgusted when talking to johns, but Woody tries to appear interested in them. He feels it's part of the service.

"Do you know anything about the new guy?" Ray asks.

"Not much. People are talking, but that's about it."

"Is he... difficult?"

"He doesn't do a lot."

"That way he lights up as he speaks, as if he thought of something incredibly wonderful to say."

While Ray fills his eyes with Trey, Woody gazes off at something or other and lets a businesslike pause set in before he turns back, his arms folded to show off his biceps, his body rocking slightly from side to side, his mouth welcoming. "So what are you looking for tonight, Ray?" he asks. "The usual, or something special for the holiday?"

Over at Lanning's table, Otis is a wreck and Lanning is lecturing him. "If you're going to make a scene," he says, "you'll have to leave the table."

"I just..." Otis starts. "I don't know what to..."

"You can see he's available, silly. If you want him, get him."

"Oh, sure, he's really going to come home with a big, fat horror like—"

The three drag queens have burst into applause and now they rise, still clapping, as a fourth drag queen makes her way to the table, tastefully imperious, blowing kisses at a couple of wags who play a fanfare on their New Year's noisemakers.

"Shit," says Lois.

"Jesus, it's
Arnold!
" cries Lanning.

This stops the queen dead. Slowly she turns. "No," she tells Lanning, touching at her wig, smoothing out her Empire gown, raising a tiny bejeweled mirror (attached to her bodice by means of a dainty chain and a cunning faux-emerald clasp) to check her beauty spot. "No," she repeats, to one and all: "The Empress Leticia," which she pronounces, in four syllables, as "Leti-ci-a."

"And we are her court," adds the Duchess of Topsy, as the other two make the most gala of curtsies.

Thriller Jill's is packed and dense with expectation. Carl's table sends drinks to the Empress and her courtiers. The kitchen is running out of everything. The line of trade along the back wall scowls and mutters. The johns take out their wallets and count their money. Elaine sneaks up on Lois and steals a kiss. Trey tells a joke and Cord laughs; the joke is stupid, but everything a sexy boy does is wonderful. Eli takes one last parade through the room, now wearing the vest without the shirt. "I want to be held," Otis whispers, watching him. "I want to be kissed, I want to be fucked, I want to be loved." Backstage, the Kid takes a fleeting last look in the mirror, Desmond prays, and Jo-Jo cries, "Overture and beginners, friends."

Larken and Frank were standing outside Jill's, and Larken said, "We've gotten this far and you are not changing your mind now. So work those feet and—"

"Just give me a chance, right, Lark? It's a heavy step to take."

"Stop seeing it as a historical moment in your life and just glide in with me."

"Boy, oh, boy," said Frank, shaking his head as they walked up to the door.

"Here goes Frank," said Larken.

The bouncer told him, Sorry, they're full up; but Lois waved them in, momentarily noting that Larken had a date. The lights were going down for the act, so Larken caught two beers at the bar and then joined Frank, standing at the back, and that worked all right till one of the hustlers ran the flat of his hand along the crack of Frank's ass; just then, luckily, a john and one of the younger hustlers got up to leave, and Larken grabbed their table. By the time Frank had finished giving the offending hustler a vigorous critique of back-wall cruise-bar etiquette and joined Larken, Jo-Jo had already brought the Kid on.

"Now, I'm a big believer in dating," the Kid was telling the crowd. "Because dating is where love begins, and love is our truth." Heading for the piano, he said, "Desmond, can I ask a personal question?"

Desmond, nervously reading from a script propped up next to the music, answered, "'Why sure, Kid,'" sounding like a constipated robot.

"Folks, this is Desmond, the deaf maestro of Thriller Jill's. Let's give him a hand."

"'Desmond bows,'" read Desmond off his script.

The Kid elegantly rose above it—nobody was clapping, anyway—and said, "Now, Desmond, in your vast dating experience—tell the truth, now—have you ever dated a man?"

"'Pshaw,'" replied Desmond, pronouncing the p—"'none of them were men.'"

Scattered laughs, as the Kid returned to the stage, muttering, "I don't know what I'd do without him, but I'd rather."

"Kind of informal for a show, isn't it?" Frank whispered to Larken.

"So," the Kid was saying, "I figured I ought to set up my dear friend, Miss Coty de Tramp—the 'Voom' girl—with this guy I know, James Shortzaroff. But when I told her, Miss Coty said, 'Oh, I couldn't possibly—I just had twins!'"

Looking mildly scandalized, the Kid nodded at the crowd.

"That's right," he said. "She picked them up on Hollywood Boulevard!"

"It's odd, the way he tells them," Elaine murmured to Lois.

"What way?" she answered, helping the bartenders wash an overflow of champagne glasses.

"He's so quizzical with all those double meanings. He doesn't act as if he's performing blue material. He acts like a high-school student doing campus takeoffs at the annual talent show."

Carl's table was so busy dishing Lanning's table that they became a nuisance during the Kid's first two numbers, "Find Me a Primitive Man" and "Do It Again." Naturally, Lanning's table clapped furiously after the songs, leading what for Thriller Jill's had to count as something of an ovation. Larken even put in a whistle, and Elaine cried, "Bravo!"

"I don't see what's so great," Frank told Larken. "To me, it's some kind of freak show."

"See, what I think we need," the Kid was telling them all, "is a superhero of our own. A Superman or Batman for
our
kind, not so much to save us from physical danger as to rescue us from our unique curse of death by romance. And I have the hero all picked out—Transvesto. Gender: unknown. Dress: to kill. Life's goal: to make sure that those who love true, love well and long."

Frank snorted.

"Desmond, you believe in Transvesto, don't you?"

"'Desmond nods.'"

"Well, I'd like to dedicate the next number to Transvesto—"

The Kid abruptly stopped and sought Lois, who was already signaling to one of the bartenders to up the lights: Two cops had walked into the club.

"And I'd like to thank Father Murphy," the Kid announced, "for teaching me the lovely devotional hymns I sang for you tonight. God bless America."

He put down the microphone and left the stage.

Habitués of clubs on the Other Side know the drill, and newcomers do what everyone else does: You go into suspended animation and hope it isn't a raid.

Lois talked with the cops briefly, held up the flat of her hand to Larry, the head bartender, and left the club with the cops.