Hold Tight (10 page)

“Not so fast. There are things I have to clear up, before I accept this bill of goods.” She faced Hank. “So. You are a cocksucker?”

Hank lightly nodded. It had been strange enough with Mason, who had fancy words for it, but to hear the real words from a woman? He had felt funny around her the first time, and was just as uncomfortable with her now.

“You’re forgetting he was here before,” said Erich. “He might not look like a homosexual, but you shouldn’t be fooled by his appearance.”

“You do not have to tell me that. They come in all shapes and sizes.” She poked Hank’s arms and stomach. “Hmmm. He is beefy. Turn, please. Yes. Very All American.”

“Are you going to check his teeth, too?”

“His teeth? His teeth are not my concern.” But she pinched the corners of his mouth to take a quick look.

Hank glanced at Erich. Erich had made a joke, which was a surprise, and the joke suggested Erich was on Hank’s side after all. But when Hank looked at him, Erich still avoided his eyes. Erich looked straight at Mrs. Bosch, although it was obvious he didn’t like her at all.

“And you
are
a cocksucker? This is not something they are ordering you to do? Because it must be sincere. It is not something a man can fake, when push comes to shove. And do the customers
complain?
” she sang. “You have fucked with many men?”

“Yes ma’m.”

“Are you clean?”

“Madam!” said Erich. “This is unnecessary. Do you think they would choose a man who was infected, or who wasn’t a deviate?”

Mrs. Bosch shrugged. “What does the Navy know from whorehouses? Have you ever had the clap, young man?”

“Once,” Hank admitted. “But they fixed me up with something and I’m fine now.”

“Show me.” She gestured at his crotch.

“Please,” said Erich. “Can’t this wait until after I leave?”

“No. Because if your man is diseased, I’m sending him back with you. One man, and my house will be clapped out of business in a month. Come on, mister. Open up.”

Hank was grimacing but he began to unbutton his fly. He shifted around so his back was to Erich. He didn’t want this to be any more embarrassing for the two of them than it already was.

“What a nice one. Does that hurt?” She squeezed. “Now pull the skin back. Hmmm. Looks plenty healthy. You can put him away.”

“Satisfied?” said Erich.

“For now.” She looked for a place to wipe her hand and rubbed it against Hank’s blouse. “But we will have to see him at work before we can be certain.”

“What are you suggesting? That you bring one of your boys in here and have them perform for you?”

Mrs. Bosch laughed. “What an idea, Mr. Zeitlin. Oh, no. All I need is a week or two to see how he gets on with my customers. If he doesn’t, I can send him back, right?”

“Yes. Only he’ll do fine here. Won’t you, Fayette?”

“I’ll do my damnedest,” said Hank, and tried to get the man to look into his eyes, without success.

Erich quickly went over the instructions again, for Mrs. Bosch’s benefit as well as Hank’s. With customers, Hank was to say he was still in the Navy. With the others who worked at the house, he was to say he had been kicked out. Nobody, absolutely nobody, was to know his real purpose in being there. Erich would visit the house every Monday afternoon, but Hank was to telephone a special number if anything important came up between meetings—meaning encounters with suspected German agents, which could not be mentioned in front of Mrs. Bosch. Erich asked if Hank had any last questions, took another promise of secrecy from Mrs. Bosch and said he was going.

“Aren’t you forgetting something, Erich?” asked Hank.

“What?”

“Aren’t you going to wish me luck?”

The request startled Erich. He stared into Hank’s eyes, hard, as if he was trying to see through his eyes to his thoughts. “Of course,” he mumbled and held out his hand. His gaze slid from Hank’s, but the grip of his small hand was tight, desperate, like the grip of a civilian who thought that, just because you were in the service, you were going to die and he had to say goodbye to you in the name of the whole world.

“Goodbye,” said Erich and hurried out of the room. The front door was slammed very hard.

Such nerves and shyness and coolness, ending in a painful goodbye when they’d be seeing each other in less than a week? Hank could come up with only one explanation: the boyish little man was falling in love with him. Which was a bother, but kind of touching, too. It was a relief to realize all the man’s strangeness was caused by something so simple. It would pass.

“Now, we talk. Just you and me,” said Mrs. Bosch. She stood in front of Hank, clasped her hands together and told Hank he was to call her “Valeska” and look upon her as a big sister. “We are all a family here.” She explained that seventy-five percent of anything paid Hank was to be given to her. In exchange, she would provide him with bed and board. He was to be her “special boy,” the only one who actually lived in the house, and she trusted he would provide services that would justify his special standing. All her other boys lived outside, dropped in on their own or were sent for when business was heavy. Boys being boys, they had only so many performances in them per night. “Sometimes I wish I am dealing in girls instead. All a girl has to do is lie there, no matter how tired she is. But that line is all full up. And those girls can be so catty. I luf my ‘gay’ boys.”

She told him the house rules, duty hours, times for meals—he was to eat in the kitchen with her houseboy. He would have his own room, which he was to keep clean. “My houseboy can’t do everything, what with cooking and laundry. I get him now and he will take you to your room. Afterwards, I will introduce you to my boys.” She pressed a button on the wall and an electric bell rang in the hall. “One more thing. What you do for Uncle Sam is no concern of mine. My lips are sealed. But while you are living here, I am boss. Understood?”

“Yes, ma’m.”

She nodded, then abruptly pitched forward, threw her arms around Hank and whispered, “You will never tell them anything that might hurt our poor Valeska?”

Her embrace was all bone and sinew. Hank stood there, stunned, looking into the wiry hair and white gardenia just inside his focus. “No’m,” he said.

“You want something, Miz Bosch?”

The woman released Hank and they both turned. The door had been opened by a colored boy with straight, shiny hair. It looked like the boy from the night of the raid.

“We have a new member. This is…What is your name?”

Hank told her, while he watched the boy, pleased to find a familiar face here, even a black one.

“Hank will be living here. I want you to take him up to Leo’s old room, show him where everything is and bring him to the sitting room.”

Juke sneered and nodded. “This way, honey. And take your own bag, I ain’t no—” He had seen only a white uniform. Now he saw Hank’s face. “Blondie? You?”

“You were here the night we all got arrested,” said Hank.

“Uh huh. Wahl hush mah mouth,” said Juke, mocking Hank’s accent. “What’re you doing back at this toilet?”

“You know my houseboy?” asked Valeska.

“Well, kinda.” Hank didn’t know why he should be pleased to see the boy again. He had only gotten Hank deeper into grief that night, when Hank slugged the Shore Patrol. But he was a face from the past, which was something.

“Then I am not needing to tell you not to be taking any lip from him. If he gives you trouble, you tell me. He works here only because I am protecting him from reform school and the police.”

“And ’cause I’m cheap,” Juke muttered.

Valeska pretended not to hear. “Go. I will come up shortly.”

Hank lifted his seabag and followed the boy out into the hall. It was funny, using a colored to make yourself feel at home when life turns strange on you. But Hank knew he had to be careful. Seeing a casual acquaintance again, in the right circumstances, could turn you into old friends, which Hank couldn’t afford right now. It was a good thing the boy was colored.

“So you found me again, Blondie. You must have hunted high and low, but you finally sniffed me out. You can’t guess what it means to a girl to be loved like that.”

“Shit. I forgot you even existed.” Hank wondered if this would complicate things. Nobody was supposed to know who he was, or who he had been.

“Doll face. You still can’t tell when somebody’s pulling your leg? Not to be confused with pulling something else. Up the stairs here. Just follow my twitchy behind.”

Hank followed Juke, ducking where the ceiling lowered. “How come you’re still here? Getting arrested didn’t cure you of whorehouses, boy?”

“Me and fancy houses suit each other fine. You’re one to talk, Blondie. The Navy know you’ve turned professional?”

“No. I…” But Hank realized he could use the fact that Juke had been here that night. “They kicked me out. After the raid. I’m wearing these because they’re the only clothes I have to my name.” Juke would gossip; word would get around. Lying didn’t come naturally to Hank, but he would have to learn to lie here, just as he had to learn how to be alone and not trust anyone.

“Save those whites, baby. Johns go ape over sailors. But they gave you your walking papers? My, my. We queens are safe nowhere, are we, honey?”

They passed the music Hank had heard downstairs, coming from behind a closed door on the second floor. They started up another flight of stairs.

“So what happened to you after the raid?” said Hank. He had never talked so much to a colored, but he needed to talk to someone and better a colored than someone you might take seriously.

“They put my sweet ass on ice. Jail. For a month. Nothing they could charge me with but public nuisance. That’s their word for queen. Then they give me to a parole officer and he gives me back to the Witch-woman. For a fee. Mrs. Simon LeGreedy. So she’s got that to hold over me, but there’s ways of tricking around her. She’s twice as smart as the bimbos here think she is, but only half as smart as she thinks she is. You make friends with old Juke here and he can make it worth your while.” They were on the third floor now, in a hallway where the wallpaper was faded and peeling. Juke reached inside an open door and turned on a light. “Here we are, Blondie. The honeymoon suite.”

The room wasn’t much. A hospital bed and a deal cupboard, a bare lightbulb hanging on a cord, a chipped bedpan on the painted floor. There was a curled picture of Tarzan, clipped from a magazine and tacked to the wall. A canvas shade was pulled over the window.

“You’re lucky you’re in the back. Windows up front are painted over for the blackouts and farmers start pulling up at five every morning to set up their market out front. Hard for a girl to get much beauty sleep before noon. But all that racket should make you feel right at home, farmboy.”

Hank tossed his seabag in the corner and opened the top drawer of the cupboard. The bottom was lined with old newspaper—a black and yellow debutante ate cake—and was empty except for the blade of a safety razor and a racing form.

“Leo, the guy whose room this was,” said Juke, “was caught trying to break into the Witch-woman’s money box. He got arrested for dodging the draft a week later. The Witch-woman’s got friends in high places somewhere. I don’t know who, but some big deal’s got his finger in this pie.”

“Uh huh.” Hank didn’t look at Juke, afraid the answer showed in his eyes. He wished the boy would leave him in peace, so he could have time to tuck away his thoughts before he faced the others.

But Juke continued to stand in the doorway, arms crossed over his chest, hands on his shoulders. “Hey, Blondie,” he suddenly said. “Don’t think I forgot you decked that Shore Patrol for me. Didn’t do me much good. But don’t think I forgot.”

Hank looked up. The boy sounded sincere. “Nothing to remember. I would’ve done it for anyone.”

“Yeah? Yeah, I think you would’ve. Anyway, I remember.”

They looked at one another, neither of them wanting to say aloud that one might have cause to be grateful to the other.

Then Juke undid himself from his arms and put one hand on his hip. “So shake your ass, honey. We haven’t got all night. The Witch-woman wants you in her sitting room, pronto. Save your douche for later.”

Hank couldn’t help smiling. This boy was so funny, so strange. His girlishness made him seem perfectly harmless. It might be good having him here for company. The boy seemed faithful enough, even trustworthy. It would be good for Hank’s soul having him around. Like having a dog.

A
LPHEUS COOPER, KNOWN DOWNTOWN
as Juke, took Hank downstairs, trying to think of ways he could use this cracker. It would be handy having someone so large and dim as your friend around here. Juke had tried it with others, but they all thought they were too slick to take favors from a crazy little nigger, much less return them. This homeboy was anything but slick. He was in obvious need of good management and Juke was the one to give it to him. Juke might feel stupidly fond of the guy, or maybe it was only pity for someone so ignorant they might risk their neck for yours. But Juke knew how to keep feelings like pity or affection under control. At seventeen, he’d learned the hard way that a smart queen’s one concern in this world was looking after her own ass.

He went down the stairs, which creaked under the weight of the sailor thudding behind him. “Don’t let these girls fool you with their airs, Blondie. Nothing but dicks and smiles and the brains of chickens.” Of course, he thought Hank was nothing but a dick and a smile. How else could anybody think there was easy money in peddling your ass? But every boy thinks he’s the one exception to the stupidity around him. It didn’t hurt to play up to this hillbilly’s pride, so long as Juke didn’t make a fool of himself.

He opened the door to the sitting room. One of those lousy songs that was all voices and no orchestra played in the new phonograph cabinet Mrs. Bosch had bought as bait.

“Oh, boy? There you are. Yes,” said the cockney steward sitting in an armchair with Bunny in his lap. Bunny was pale and fish-eyed, smiling dreamily. The beet-faced steward held up an empty, suds-laced glass. “Me and my pal here need more of that horse piss you people call beer.”