The Lure (9 page)

“Looking for sex?”

“Whatever,” Vega said, then seemed to come alert. “That’s a word you didn’t know, right?”

“I wasn’t sure.”

“Any other words you hear you’re not sure of, you ask me. But not in company, you hear?”

They were stopped at a light. Noel was annoyed with Vega. “You don’t like me, do you?” he asked.

Vega puffed on the joint, face averted to look out the cab window so that his words came out low, almost muffled.

“I don’t like or dislike you, man.”

“Why are you treating me like an idiot then?”

“You want to stay alive? Then you listen to me. Hear?”

“Or is it that I’m not a cop?” Noel asked, dropping his voice with the last word so it was barely audible. “Is that it?”

“Something like that,” Vega admitted.

“Well, don’t worry about that. I’m a professional, Mr. Vega. Maybe not in your line, but in my own. I can take care of myself. Evidently the Fisherman knows what he’s doing. No?”

“Maybe,” Vega said, not sounding convinced. “Right here,” he said in a louder voice, tapping the guard window between them and the driver.

Noel let Vega pay for the ride and hassle with the cabby about a receipt—no doubt later reimbursed by the Police Department. Meanwhile, he stared at the bar and its environs.

The Grip was located at one end of a block that faced the elevated West Side Highway and the scores of huge moving vans parked under the closed road, a single-story building with stucco up to a series of painted over or tinted windows. The bar had two entrances, a large double door in the middle of the block and a single door at the corner. Both were painted black, with tiny windows set at eye height. Over the larger door was a plaque, the letters burnt in, ranch style, below a crudely drawn black-gloved fist holding a white cylindrical object that extended to the top and bottom edges of the sign. At first Noel thought it was a diploma. A moment later he realized it was probably meant to represent a penis. Better get used to it, he told himself.

There was another, smaller bar on the block and a closed-off four-story building, which might have been a warehouse. Right next to the Grip was another store with no identifying sign. A glance explained why none was needed. Two display windows on either side of the front door were filled with leather gear—full sets of men’s leather clothing, from boots to head-over masks, gloves, underwear, pants with front and back panels cut out. More, the windows contained sex tools of every size and description—fake phalluses in all sizes and colors, ribbed or smooth, different kinds of condoms, leather thongs, handcuffs, handkerchiefs, T-shirts printed with obscene illustrations. Floating over the wares on wires, like inane guardian angels, were two inflatable rubber dolls—one male, one female, both of them pinkly naked.

“Let’s go,” Vega snorted, pushing Noel out of the cab. Once on the street, he added, “Stupid shine, can’t write his name.” Then following Noel’s gaze to the sex emporium, he said, “You ought to go in, you won’t believe some of the shit in there. Buy yourself some cock rings and other gear, you know.”

He strode into the Grip, Noel behind him.

It was dark inside, with the musty smell of most saloons he’d been in, pulsing with the beat of rock music from speakers not immediately visible, relentless, monotonous.

Vega walked up to the bar, a huge, turn-of-the-century oaken affair which curved around from one room of the Grip into another in a shallow horseshoe. Noel joined him, envying his easy stride in the tight jeans, and wondering if it was off-hours. Loomis had said the Grip was busy all the time, but only a half dozen men were in the bar. One of these was a curly-haired, Hispanic-looking man who eyed them from the entrance.

“Hey, Miguel!” Vega teased loudly, going up to him, “what’s on your mind, eh, baby!”

Miguel stared at Noel with solid, almost dead eyes, then began talking low to Vega. Noel was spooked by the look. Could this be one of Mr. X’s hired assassins? Or was he merely interested in Noel? Either way, Noel didn’t like Miguel, and stayed at a distance from him.

A bartender appeared suddenly from the other room and came up to Noel. His look was a lot more obvious than Miguel’s; he pointed the tip of his tongue to one corner of his mouth, gazed slowly over the bar, up and down Noel’s body. “What can I get you?” he said with a slight indeterminate drawl.

Vega broke off his conversation long enough to turn around and say, “This is the guy I was telling you about. Noel Cummings. This here’s Rick Chaffee.”

Noel put a hand out; Chaffee hesitated, then took it in the open-banded, high-in-the-air peace shake of the sixties.

“I wondered why old Buddy talked you up so much,” he said, holding on to Noel’s hand. “Now I see.”

“Rick’s the manager,” Vega said offhandedly, then went into a small room off the side.

“Something to drink?” Chaffee offered, fixing a slow lizard stare upon Noel. Unlike Miguel’s stare, however, Chaffee’s was unmistakable. How many times had Noel seen it when men met women; the evaluation look, he called it—how good will she be in bed? What will she do? What can I do to make her hit the ceiling? Slowly, Noel withdrew his own hand, and glanced over the bottles on the back shelf of the bar.

“Beer’ll do.”

Chaffee got a can of Budweiser out of a barrel, punched it open on a screwed-down opener. “California, huh?”

“Frisco,” Noel said, trying to meet the look Chaffee had given him. Rick was about thirty years old, with long, lank dark hair, thin face, fine features, deep-set dark eyes. Scars in various places on his cheeks and forehead. A rough beard and mustache.

“Must be something in the water out there,” Chaffee said. He punched open a Bud for himself and leaned over the bar. “Need work, huh?” Without waiting for an answer, he asked, “You ever come in here before?”

“Just got in town.”

“I guess you don’t have to hang around bars much. You been pushing it much?”

For a second, Noel was confused, then he realized he was being asked if he were a prostitute. He fought down his sudden anger.

“No. Never did it.”

“You could,” Chaffee said. He tapped his long fingers on the bar, leaned closer, and said, “Tell me, would you rather work here or ball me? You can’t do both, you know. I’ve got ethics.”

He’d been waiting for his own reaction to the first proposition. This one was so good, Noel had to laugh. “Could I take a look around?”

“Sure. Look around. You’re too pretty for me, anyway. I’d rather have you pulling in business than have a few good fucks and lose you.”

“Then I can have the job?” Noel acted sincerely.

“You’re on a month’s probation. I’ll need you three nights a week. Eight o’clock to four in the morning. That’s when we close here. Not at three like California.”

“Two, out there,” Noel corrected, suddenly remembering the fact.

“Whatever,” Chaffee said, all business now. “You set up when you come in. We keep two reserves: open and closed. You have to get a key from me for that. Or ask. Count your register when you come in. Note it. Tips are split among everyone on the shift, usually two of us. Free drinks at your discretion. I assume you can mix anything?”

“Pretty much,” Noel lied. He’d have to get a bartenders’ manual and learn it by heart.

“We have three qualities of booze: house, brand, and top brand. Three prices. Always mix with the house unless someone asks for the others and is watching. No sex, no drugs at the bar. If you want to smoke or ball, go downstairs. Bud will show you the office downstairs. You get a half hour for dinner break. What you’re wearing looks fine. Don’t you have boots?”

“Yeah. But if I’m going to be on my feet all night…”

“Start tomorrow. Eight o’clock. You know the pay?”

“Buddy said…”

“It’s not much. That’s why you’ll have to hustle for tips. You shouldn’t have any trouble. I’ll work two nights’ shift with you for a while. Buddy’ll probably work with you on the other day. That’s Max at the door.”

Noel turned around in time to see a large, heavyset man with a nasty, distinctly Teutonic face, dressed in black leather from his boots to his visored motorcycle cap. He’d just come into the bar, looked around, smiled a broken-toothed grimace, and settled himself on a tall stool next to the entrance.

“You have any trouble at all, call Max. He’ll cream the guy. Eh, Max?” Chaffee lowered his voice. “He’s really a pussycat when you get to know him. But he likes to play rough, too.”

Max grunted loudly and, overhanging the stool on all sides, appeared to fall into an immediate sleep.

“Remember,” Chaffee warned, “you’ll be watched here. So no shit. Okay? Oh, and do us a favor? Don’t bring your personal life into the bar.”

Noel assured him he wouldn’t.

Business over for the minute, Chaffee smiled, and leaning over the bar ran a finger down the front of Noel’s chest, stopping only where the jeans began. Noel was so surprised he couldn’t help but flinch. “You’re going to regret not balling with me. Believe me, you’d bring out the best in me. I’d do things to you you’d never get over.”

“I thought you had ethics,” Noel said, sipping his beer and gingerly placing Chaffee’s hand back on the bar top.

“Tomorrow night at eight,” Chaffee repeated without anger, then turned to face a customer who’d just come into the bar.

Buddy came out of a doorway leading to two bathrooms, and to a stairway which, Noel supposed, led down to the office. He waited, but instead of coming over to Noel, Vega remained at the other end of the bar, talking with Miguel. Done serving his customer, Chaffee joined them.

Noel decided he’d made a good first impression and hadn’t overreacted to Chaffee’s overtures. He might as well take a look around before the place got crowded.

The second room was separated by a doorway, open on the barside. Smaller, darker, and quieter than the main room, it was dominated by a large pool table, with just enough side room for a player to stand back and take aim. A mirror a foot wide ran shoulder height along one wall of the room, opposite the bar. Below it, a wooden shelf was just deep enough and high enough to provide a precarious perch. There were no tables or chairs. Only a half dozen barstools.

Next to the second entrance was a huge oil Wurlitzer jukebox. And now Noel could make out several large multifaced speakers hung close to the ceiling, providing the sound. Sawdust was strewn on the wooden plank floors, the whole place spotlighted and pinspotted from a track system above the bar. The walls were painted a deep brown. It looked modest but expensive, he thought. With Redfern speakers like that, the system itself might cost five thousand dollars. Yet it all looked casual, offhand, nothing special. Were other gay bars this way? In this style? Or were Mr. X’s own tastes revealed here? A hint, a clue?

People were slowly coming into the bar, filtering into the second room, coming up to the jukebox. Noel remained near the pool table, trying to be both observant and inconspicuous.

He’d have to learn the argot and behavior patterns fast. Vega had been right. He’d have to keep his mouth shut, speak offhand, obliquely for a while to disarm suspicion. Until he could convince the men he was one of them, he’d have to be quiet. And careful.

If Chaffee and Vega were any indication, Noel would also have to be a great deal looser in his speech and manners. They talked to the point, bluntly, coloring their conversation with terms he was often unsure of. But their attitude—that was what was most surprising. He’d always associated homosexuality with feminine gestures and speech. But in here it was just the opposite: an extreme manliness, unruffled, almost frontiersman calm, as though all those Gary Cooper movies had come to life. Sure! That was it! The rough clothing, the swaggering walk, the drawling speech. They were acting out cowboy fantasies. How easy for him to copy! After all he was supposed to be from the West, wasn’t he?

“Something funny?”

Chaffee had come into the smaller room, was now leaning over the bar.

“Just remembering something,” Noel said, annoyed to be caught off his guard. He’d have to be more careful, damn it!

“Care to share it with me?”

It wasn’t a threat, or demand. Chaffee liked him, that much was already clear. He wasn’t the enemy. Or was he?

“It’s personal.”

“How’s your beer?”

“Fine. It get crowded in here?”

“Wall to wall.” Chaffee hesitated, then leaned a little closer over the bar. “Buddy said you knew your way around, but I get a different impression.”

Now Noel
was
on his guard. “Oh?”

“I think you’re pretty green. I’m not judging, mind you. I don’t give a fuck. But let Mother give you a little advice. You’re going to get guys coming in here who’ll tell you they’ll make you a model, a movie star, a pop star, anything. Listen to them nicely, refill their glasses a lot, even take presents from them. But don’t pay them any mind. Because once you do, you’ll be ground up into little bits by this scene, and some of the garbage around here. I’ve seen it happen to good-looking hayseeds often enough.”

“What about you?” Noel asked, trying to keep embarrassment from covering his face. “Haven’t you played with garbage?”

“A lot. But I’ve learned to keep my hands clean.” He nodded, then moved aside, speaking loudly to a man in the corner, “Hey, dude, you drinking or holding up the wall?”