Eager to escape the sad specter of Gray’s name, I left the vestibule, crossed to the edge of the cement stoop, and sat down on the top step. Two young men were strolling up the street holding hands, but when they spied me sitting on the stoop ahead, they quickly loosened their fingers and dropped their hands to their sides. Then, when they drew closer and saw in the light from the vestibule that I wasn’t a homophobe prowling for prey, but rather a woman in mannish clothing (i.e., one of them, in a flip-flop kind of way), they relaxed, gave me a smile and a nod, and took hold of each other’s hand again.
The wardrobe was working.
Willy came out a few seconds later and, after he’d checked out my lesbian garb and given it a passing grade, we started walking west on Christopher, in the opposite direction of the strolling hand-holders.
I was feeling nervous about the whole expedition. “Where did you say this party is being held?” I anxiously inquired. “At a hotel?”
“That’s right,” Willy said. “The old Keller Hotel. It’s over by the river, on West Street. It was built in 1898, and it used to be a thriving hotel for seamen. Now it’s just a fleabag dump. We have parties in the hotel bar because it’s one of the few places that will serve homosexuals. And because it’s so far off the beaten track we don’t attract too much attention.”
“Does Flannagan know about this place?”
“He sure does, honey. The bar gets raided about once a month. All the Keller Hotel regulars are regulars at the Sixth Precinct police station, too.”
Oh, no. Just what I need—to get arrested at a gay bar dressed like a lesbian. Dan would lose every last one of his marbles over that!
“You mean the party might be raided tonight?” I croaked. I was getting more nervous by the second.
“It could happen,” Willy said, “but I don’t think it will. This is the Fourth of July, don’t forget. The cops will be too busy with other crimes and disturbances of the peace to pay any mind to us.”
Pow! Pow! Bang! Boom!
As if on cue, a bunch of firecrackers went off in the near vicinity. Willy jumped like a jackrabbit and squealed like a girl. (So did I, if the truth be told.) “Eeeeeek!” he wailed, grabbing hold of my arm and twisting it so hard he almost dislocated my elbow. “What’s that? A machine gun?”
“I don’t think so,” I said, groaning and giggling at the same time. “Sounds more like firecrackers to me.”
“Oh, yeah,” he muttered, looking embarrassed. “I forgot about the fireworks.” He let go of my arm and quickened his pace toward Hudson Street. I hurried to catch up with him. After we crossed Hudson and neared the intersection of Greenwich Street, there was another loud explosion. “Yeeeeoww!” Willy shrieked. “That was a bad one! I bet somebody threw a cherry bomb in a trash can. Oh, how I hate all this dreadful noise! It scares the stuffing out of me!”
“Well, you’d better get used to it,” I said, breathing heavily from our brisk clip. “The pyromaniacs are just getting started. And the closer we get to the river, the worse it’s going to get.”
My apprehension was mounting with every step. There were very few streetlamps in this part of town, and many of those were broken. And after we crossed Washington and continued down Christopher toward the Hudson River, I realized how rundown and deserted the neighborhood was. Battered trucks, boarded-up warehouses, and dilapidated maritime buildings lined the ill-paved streets, and there were no stores or restaurants in sight.
But at least Willy and I weren’t walking the streets alone; quite a few other people were out treading in the same direction, rapidly making their way toward the waterfront to shoot off their skyrockets and torpedoes. The riverside fireworks were just getting underway, I observed, as the bright comet of a Roman candle whooshed into the black sky above, then exploded and released its vast shower of red and gold stars.
By the time we reached West Street, the sky was alive with fireballs and pinwheels. And our ears were ringing from the blasting bombs, cannons, crackers, and whiz-bangs. People near the river, on the other side of the elevated West Side Highway, were cheering and screaming and dashing in all directions—blazing sparklers thrust high in their hands—and the hot, humid nighttime air was filled with acrid smoke. The Villagers were staging their own little war.
Willy had stopped squealing every time a bomb went off, but he was still scared stuffingless. He grabbed my arm again and pulled me to the left, hastily leading me down West Street, and then around the corner on Barrow, to the entrance of the Keller Hotel.
The sight of the square, six-story, red stone structure gave me the shivers. The narrow windows were filthy, the canvas awning over the door was faded and tattered, and the low cement stoop was crumbling away. The dimly lit red-lettered sign sticking out from the corner of the building offered one sad, solitary word: HOTEL.
Even with the door propped wide open, the entryway was far more forbidding than inviting. And the groups of jittery young men hulking around near the door, smoking cigarettes and speaking in strained whispers, did nothing to ease my anxiety. I wanted to turn on my heels and run home like the wind.
Which would have been the smart thing to do, of course. But, as you well know by now, I’m more accomplished at doing the stupid thing. And tonight was no exception (not by a long shot!). Stupidly ignoring my fearful misgivings, I took a deep breath, straightened my spine, and—affecting what I hoped was a manly John Wayne swagger—followed Willy inside.
Chapter 21
THE SMALL BARROOM WAS SO CROWDED, hot, and smoky you could barely move or breathe. The barstools were all taken and the booths were tightly packed. There was no room but standing room—and very little of that. Leading with his prodigious potbelly, Willy forged his way into the center of the crush, then began wriggling toward the bar. I stayed as close on his heels as I could, trying not to brush against any burning cigarettes or step on any toes.
“What do you want to drink?” Willy shouted to me over his shoulder. His chubby round face was red from exertion.
“A bottle of Ballantine!” I shouted back. (I really wanted a champagne cocktail, but since Ballantine sponsored the Yankees, I figured that would be the more masculine choice.)
“Stay right where you are,” Willy hollered. “I’ll be back in a minute.” He turned and kept pushing toward the bar.
I stood still in the middle of the room and glanced around at the faces close (very close!) to me. They were all male. Various shapes, sizes, and ages, but the vast majority were young and attractive (in a smooth, big-eyed, feminine sort of way).
Abby should conduct a search for new models here
, I said to myself.
This place is crawling with chickens.
Some of the guys had their arms around each other, clinging quietly together like sweet, just-married couples; others were more boistrous and communal—laughing, chatting, posturing, gesturing, trying to make an impression. I wondered how short, pudgy, middle-aged Willy would fare in this callow, good-looking crowd.
“Here you go!” Willy said, appearing out of the throng and handing me my beer. “It’s a madhouse in here. I thought I’d never make it back alive!”
“Well, I’m glad you did,” I shouted. “I was starting to feel lonely and out of place. I thought you said there’d be some other women here.”
“There are,” he said, standing on his tiptoes and yelling directly into my ear. “Two are sitting at the bar. And I bet a few more are sitting in the booths against the wall. Chivalry is not dead! The girls still get the seats!”
“Oh, yeah? Then if we went over and stood near the booths, do you think somebody would get up and let me sit down?” (I didn’t really care about getting a seat. I was just hoping it would be quieter in a booth—that maybe I’d get to talk to some people without shouting, and actually be able to hear their replies. It was time to do a little name-dropping and pop a few questions.)
“Probably,” Willy said. “C’mon, let’s go see.”
It took us a while to get across the floor. Even more revelers had pushed their way into the party, packing the room so tightly I felt surrounded by sardines instead of chickens. Some of the men were dancing—if you could call it that. Feet rooted in place, they stood locked together like lovers, heads on each other’s shoulders, swaying to the music from the jukebox. The Maguire Sisters were singing “Sincerely,” but you could barely hear their harmony above the clamor of the crowd.
“Hey, Farley!” Willy cried out, spotting somebody he knew and waving frantically. He was so thrilled to find a friend his metaphorical tail was wagging. “Look, Paige, I want to go talk to Farley for a while, okay?” he hollered. “You stay here. See if you can get a seat in a booth.”
“Okay,” I said, not eager to be left alone, but wanting Willy to have a good time. As he began moving toward the back of the room where his friend was standing, I turned and took a good look at Farley. He was tall, dark, and skinny, and his neck was as long as his legs (okay, not really—it just seemed that way). He was younger than Willy—in his thirties I guessed—wearing a pink short-sleeved shirt, a pair of gray slacks, and an enormous snaggletoothed smile. He was as glad to see Willy as Willy was to see him.
Feeling happy for Willy, but very sorry for myself (would I ever see Dan again?), I turned back around and tried to act casual, as though I were perfectly comfortable in this weird, way-out atmosphere. I threw my head back, guzzled my beer like a man, and then made a quick survey of the booths, choosing the one where I wanted to sit.
The booth closest to the door seemed the most promising. It was occupied by five fellows who seemed to be around Gray’s age. I couldn’t see the faces of the three whose backs were turned toward me, but their thick hair and well-built shoulders sent a clear message of youth and energy. Slumped in the far corner of the booth was a woman. A girl, really. She was small and serious, and she looked sadder than a kitten lost in the rain.
Looking pretty sad myself, I’m sure, and feeling so nervous my knees were knocking, I staggered toward the door and stationed myself right next to the booth in question. Then I took a cigarette out of the pack in my pocket and held it to my lips. “Anybody got a light?” I asked, doing my suavest Robert Taylor, but probably looking a whole heck of a lot more like Red Skelton.
“Sure,” said the young man facing me from the outer edge of the booth. He took a Zippo out of his pocket and flicked it into flame. Then he stood up and lit my cigarette. “Would you like to join us?” he asked, snapping his Zippo closed and gesturing toward his empty spot on the bench. “Please sit down.”
“Thanks,” I said, slipping into his seat in a flash. I took a deep drag on my cigarette, set down my beer, and leveled my gaze at the scarred wood tabletop, trying to think of a good way to introduce myself and launch my inquisition. “Uh, hi,” I finally began. “My name’s Phoebe.” I slowly raised my eyes to meet those of the people sitting across the table. “This is my first time here, and I—”
A cherry bomb exploded in my brain. And my entire nervous system went into shock. No exaggeration. If President Eisenhower himself had leaned over and kissed me on the mouth, I couldn’t have been more stunned. Because sitting directly opposite me—with his wavy dark hair falling down over his forehead and his deep brown eyes boring like bullets into mine—was the man I had been thinking and wondering about since late yesterday afternoon, when I first saw him standing, half naked, in the doorway of room 96 at the Mayflower Hotel.
“Aunt Doobie?” I blurted, voice cracking. “Is that you?”
Which was the worst possible thing I could have said, of course. Because now—thanks to my unbelievably careless and stupid (but totally involuntary) outburst—the man was on full alert. He was staring right through my lesbian disguise and recognizing the face of the aggressive, inquisitive woman who had disturbed him during his nap at the Mayflower. And whether his name was John Smith, or Aunt Doobie, or Randy, or Dagwood Bumstead—one thing was perfectly clear: he was
not
pleased to see me again.
Five silent but gut-wrenching seconds passed before the man broke his hostile, dead-on glare. He ripped his eyes away from mine and aimed them at door. Then he sprang to his feet, ducked his chin into the collar of his black linen shirt, and—without another glance in my direction, or a single word to the other people at the table—lunged into the crowd and began shoving his way toward the exit.
Oh my god! What on earth is he doing?! Is he running away?
I whipped my head around just in time to see him bolt through the door to the street. And that’s when I
really
lost it—my mind, I mean, and what was left of my cool (which had gone on a one-way trip to the moon). I should have held fast and questioned the other people in the booth, of course, found out if any of them knew Aunt Doobie’s real name. And then I should have hurried over to Willy to tell him what was going on and enlist his help. But I was too frantic to do either of those things. Aunt Doobie was on the run! If I didn’t act fast, he would make a clean getaway!
So what did I do? You guessed it. I jumped to my feet, scrambled to the door, and took off after him.
I HIT THE SIDEWALK RUNNING—EAST on Barrow toward the heart of the Village—straining my eyes through the night, hoping to catch sight of a dark-haired man in black pants and a black shirt. But after I’d gone about seventy-five yards, I came to a sudden stop. It was so dark on the deserted street ahead, I couldn’t see anything at all, much less a man in black clothing.