Not far from the Cathedral—so that you can almost feel the vibrations of the pealing bells—there is a bar called The Rocking Times: a small square bar with two entrances: one from the street, the other from an alley leading through a bricked, potted courtyard into a narrow corridor (from which the head branches off, a dark cave with the ubiquitous sex-drawings, sexpleadings) and into the bar.
Only minutes earlier, walking through the Quarter in the yellowing afternoon (after I had luckily found a room at the Y in this already-jammed city, arriving there at the exact moment when someone was making a hurried, angry exit: a room to which I will return only periodically when the need to be alone recurs), I had seen a queen enter this bar; and I know it will be a hustling bar.
As my eyes adjusted to the muddy light—a draped door doubly sheltering it from the Outside, the first person I noticed—beyond the cursory recognition of the malehustlers, the queens, the scores—was a blackhaired woman sitting on a stool against the wall of the bar. She leaned toward me, but when I sat near her, wondering if perhaps she had recognized me, she turned her face away from me.
In the right light, she is an attractive woman, somewhere in her 40s. But as she bends toward the lighted bar to bring to her heavily painted mouth the glass shes drinking from, she looks hard, toughened like those women depicted in movies as the hanging-on ex-mistresses of bigtime gangsters.
With an inviting smile which in itself would have indicated that I have come to the right place, the chubby bartender (one of two working the bar this afternoon) set a complimentary Welcoming drink before me.... Occasionally, he will talk in confidential tones to the darkhaired woman, and with attempted but unsuccessful subtlety, he indicates by a look or a movement of his head someone in the bar. The woman listens without turning her face. They seem conspiratorially to be keeping track of the people here.
Looking about this bar (the hungry faces of the hunted and the hunting)—as familiar as the others in the nightcities I have left—I feel, recurring, a sense of something hugely ominous, intensified by the interlude earlier with the gypsy woman—then a heavy weariness, quickly replaced by the manic excitement.
Against the whining jukebox near me, a tall pale queen is snapping her long fingers rhythmically to the juke-rocking and twisting. Another queen, with faintly mascaraed eyes in anticipation of the actual day of Mardi Gras when they can legally “masquerade” as women, stormed in and insisted loudly nervously to the finger-snapping queen:
“Mae, youve
got
to come outside with me this
very
minute and help me with Miss Ange! Shes outside pulking her nelly guts out! We
gotta
take her to her pad before the fuzz busts her.” In an even more hysterical voice: “Shes
holding—“
(I see the woman sitting next to me straighten up alertly.) “—and I just cant handle her myself, she keeps fighting me off with her
nails!”
Without interrupting the indifferent snapping of her fingers, the pale queen, flying Sky-High herself, trying for artificial heaven, hisses: “Am I my sister’s keeper or something?... When I needed that nelly bitch once, she didnt know me from Eve!” Rocking back and forth—sometimes so far back that it seems she will surely lose her balance—her hands like featherless wings over her head—or, more correctly, like swaying palmtrees in a strong breeze—she calls to the smoky ceiling:
“Im comin, Big Daddy-O!” And she echoes the jukebox: “Oh, yes, indeedee, babies—let the good times roll!”
As the other queen dashed outside in confused exasperation, the darkhaired woman summoned the chubby bartender and whispered to him. He left the bar quickly, returning in a few moments ushering in a tiny queen who looks like a torn ragdoll: so pale her features seem to have been merely sketched on her face, all life vampirishly drained from her.
The bartender placed her on one of the small couchlike benches that outline the bar. Now the blackhaired woman, crouching before the queen as if to shelter her from foreign, hostile eyes, holds her own glass to the queen’s gurgling mouth, which insistently rejects the liquid.
I hear the woman say to the sick queen: “Ive warned you about drinking so much!—honey.” The tone of her voice, which is not Southern, is full of exasperation—but the last word softens it: It is the tone of a person trying, unsuccessfully, to be angry.
“Not... drunk,” Miss Ange mutters dazedly. “Pills—and—...”
The woman looked apprehensively about the bar. She rises from the bench, impatiently; relents, bends down again, insists curiously: “Ive told you not to
drink
so much.”
She whispers again to the bartender, and he begins to frisk the queen. Finding what hes looking for—pills and joints buried in the queen’s pockets—he disappeared into the head. The woman goes to the narrow corridor, and I hear her on the telephone calling a cab. Returning, she paused before the oblivious queen by the jukebox, as if to reprimand her. Instead, she merely glared at her and followed the bartender now leading the groggy queen outside.... In a few moments, the bartender and the woman returned to the bar, the woman to sit again on that same stool against the wall.
Two queens, who look like twins—faces propped on elbows—keep glancing at me through all this. Simultaneously (when I catch them looking in my direction), they transformed their hands—finger-spread—into flirtatious fans behind which they continued to peer coquettishly like parodies of Grand Spanish
Doñas.
Suddenly, the previously fanlike hands droop into two listless pairs of wan broken wrists—as the afternoon light that announces the entrance of someone flashes into the dark bar—and I know that whoever has entered is someone hostile. The woman near me sits up rigidly like someone alerted for battle.
Two tall, burly, suited men had walked in: gangster-types, their faces stamped with the arbitrary arrogance of policemen. Spotting them immediately for what they are—vice cops—just as the others in the bar have already done (the exaggerated poses have eased: even the scores, who are seldom questioned, are feigning indifference, turning their backs pointedly quickly on whatever hustler they may have been speaking to), I looked intently into the glass before me, thinking cornily, but with real apprehension, of a Southern chain-gang of vagrants from The Rocking Times.
The two vice cops are checking identifications at random. From the voices I hear respond, slowly, with emphatic animosity, I can tell that theyre avoiding questioning the queens; concentrating on the malehustlers as if the hustlers’ presence somehow threatens them personally.
Obviously I havent been cool enough; the vice cops are already standing behind me. “Where are you staying?” one asked me. I turn to face stone-cold cop-eyes....
Before I could answer, the blackhaired woman said clearly: “Hes staying with me.” She adds wryly, addressing the vice cops: “You know where that is, dont you... boys?”
The taller of the two smiles at her—but only with his mouth; the irascible meanlook remained on his face, carved there by years of blind hatred. “That house of yours sure must be crowded,” he drawled at the woman.
“I got a real large one.” Her cold look matches theirs.
They stood momentarily at the draped door, the two cops, looking back into the bar as if to engrave each face here threateningly—indelibly—on their minds: the look of someone who says: “This is only the beginning of the game—a hint; we’ll get you eventually; if not here, then somewhere else.”... Typically cop-swaggering, armed with invisible bully-sticks, they walked out. The frozen scenes about me resume, as if a movie film had begun again at the exact point at which it had paused.
The blackhaired woman says to me: “They try to bug everyone before the tourists come in. Mostly the hustlers,” she added pointedly. “But after a while, the closer it gets to Mardi Gras, it cools off; they lose control—too many to take care of.” Coming from a woman—a woman with whom I havent even spoken—those words, aimed so surely at me, embarrass me curiously. “Where are you really staying?” she asked me.
“At the Y,” I told her.
“You sure?” Then: “Look, boy, Im not trying to pry. I know your scene. And I dont give a damn. But if you dont have a pad, theyll bust you for vag.... Hey! Desdemonal Drusilla!” she calls out to the two look-alike queens. “Theyre real sisters,” she explains to me, “twins: Desdemona and Drusilla Duncan. And theyre cool.”
“You callin us, sweetheart?” one queen says, and they both slide off their stools simultaneously and come over demurely.
The woman introduced us.
“Chawmed,” says Desdemona Duncan.
“Dee-lighted, Ahm sure,” says Drusilla Duncan.
“I really have a place,” I said to the woman, realizing why shes asked the two queens over.
The two queens perched on nearby schools. “Too bad,” sighed Desdemona and Drusilla Duncan almost at the same time.
The woman shrugged. The bartender refilled her glass—with Seven-Up. “Im Sylvia,” the woman introduced herself. “I own this bar.”
“And shes a real darling, too,” trilled Drusilla Duncan.
Someone entered. Sylvia squinted, leaned forward. Then she turned away.
“I hate the vice cops as much as you do,” she told me.
2
Two youngmen near the Bourbon House face each other on the street—one, blackhaired and meanfaced, threatening the other with a large stick; the other, a small blond boy of about 18 (turned-up nose, cleft-chin, blue eyes, masses of blond hair over his forehead—a replica of the current, boyish, blond-faced teenage idols of rock-n-roll), tensely and imminently uncertainly menacing the other with a knife poised gleaming in the blind sun. Behind the dark one hovers a small skinny girl like an anxious vulture. Her painted mouth seems to have been slashed carelessly across her pinched face in a gaping, scarlet gash. The stick and the knife are ready to attack. Eyes starved for violence, the girl shouts malevolently to her dark boyfriend, pushing him forward:
“Go, man!
Kill the motherfucker!”
The two poised malebodies hurl themselves against each other, grapple, separate, lock for a long motionless moment as if in passion. The blond boy staggered back, a bloody slit at his temple. The blackhaired youngman stands looking down in bewilderment at his own hand, ripped at the thumb and the finger so that it opened like the webbed foot of a duck.
“Killim!” the girl screamed savagely at the dark one.
Someone from the Bourbon House rushed out shouting: “Police! Police!”
Like a stone scattering birds, that hollered word disbands the group quickly. People dart into doors, cross the street
“Bring him with you,” an older man says peremptorily to me and another youngman who has witnessed the fight, and who, minutes earlier, had been with me and the blond boy at Les Petits bar. We hold the blond boy, the blood from his temple creating a growing dark-crimson flower on his white shirt. As quickly as we can move him—past the startled eyes of tourists as they dodge to one side to avoid Contamination—we turn into Royal, where the man who has asked us to follow him has already called a cab.
Along the trellised balconied houses, the taxi flees from the afternoon, into the protective custody of the approaching night The youngman holding the blond one, who threatens to pass out at any moment (the older man sits in front, staring straight ahead; the driver is predictably unconcerned), is saying Toughly to me: “That dirty motherin bastard, we gonna come back and git him!”—asking me would we or wouldnt we kill the son of a bitch who had hit our buddy with a stick—although our buddy—the blond boy, whom both of us had met minutes earlier at Les Petits bar (all three of us with the same score), had done nothing but come on to the black-haired-youngman’s girlfriend; and she, sensing the possible conflict (easily brought into play in any hustling bar by the necessity of the hustler to assert his masculinity with a girl—any girl, any woman) and instigating the scene connivingly (by winking at us as the darkhaired youngman embraced her), had told her boyfriend that the blondhaired boy had leaned toward her as if to kiss her. On the street the fight had occurred.
Somewhere beyond the Quarter, the taxi stopped before what looks like a boarded-up store, with black-painted windows. The man pays, we enter the building through an unlocked side door. Inside, the large room is dark, like a cell. Pushed against the walls are tables, chairs upturned on them. A couple of booths. Dark, smeared, ugly patches on the wall behind a bar without stools indicate that several panels of mirrors have been removed. Only one grayish-amber panel, smashed in the middle creating a glassy spider web, remained. A light is on in a room beyond the door.
From the shadows, other faces begin to appear, slowly, dimly, peering impressionistically out of the darkness. They seemed to be crawling like giant insects from somewhere out of the woodwork. Now I can distinguish the faces clearly: three malehustlers I had seen at The Rocking Times, a bewildered girl, and a young painted queen.
The man who brought us here disappeared quickly through the lighted door.
We placed the blond boy, propped, on the seat of a booth. As if in renewed, dazed surprise, he stared at the blood on his hand, and he tore at his shirt, holding the piece of cloth to his wounded temple.
The queen’s face hangs like a white, painted mask over him. “Poor dear,” she sighs, “and hes so
cute
too.”
Now the shadow of a woman appeared against the light from the other room, followed by the man who brought us here. As the woman approached, I recognized her: Sylvia—the woman at The Rocking Times.