Chapter 9
“I’m Just Wild About Harry”
A
tall man with greasy hair stood in the Marigold’s kitchen, sneering at his surroundings. Lane knew this was Epstein’s rum runner, the guy whose hooch he had been ordered to buy, but Lane didn’t want to do business.
“I heard about you, Carillo,” the man said.
“I’ll just assume it’s good things. I have a club to open, so let’s get to business.”
The man flicked his wrist. A couple of men in rough clothes strolled in carrying wooden boxes. One of them had a pin on his collar advertising a construction workers’ union. That was just great, Lane thought. This guy had probably infiltrated a local union and was not only skimming off the top but also getting his legitimate workers to help him with his illegitimate activities. Lane knew he couldn’t judge too much, but it was one thing to put members of your own organization in harm’s way to make a buck; it was another to exploit honest working men.
The men put the boxes on the floor. Lane moved to open the case, but the man pulled a gun. “Explain to me why I should sell my wares to a two-bit faggot such as yourself.”
Lane blinked to keep the panic that had bubbled up off his face. “My money’s the same color as everyone else’s,” he said. “Also, I shot the last guy who asked me that question.”
Lane pulled his gun as he walked over to the crates. He raised his hand and Raul appeared with a knife, which he used to pry open the first box. Everything looked like the real McCoy—the bottles were sealed and their labels indicated they had come from a distillery in Jamaica that Lane was familiar with.
Lane held the gun such that the man in his kitchen could definitely see it, but he didn’t point it, not yet. “Explain to me why I should believe there is rum in these bottles and not water.”
“You think I would swindle you?”
“I don’t know you.” Lane lifted the gun, transferred it between his hands to show how good his reflexes were, but he still didn’t point it at the man. “Look, I have regular people who keep this place wet. I am buying this shipment as a favor to our mutual friend. But I certainly don’t need this, and if there turns out to be anything but actual rum in those bottles, I
will
shoot you. Do we understand each other?”
The man didn’t move or speak.
Lane rolled his eyes and pointed the gun at the man. “Raul,” he said.
Raul went to the case and pulled out one of the bottles. He looked the bottle over. “Label’s fake, boss,” he said in his lilting Spanish accent.
“Of course it is,” said Lane. “Why give the faggot
capo
real alcohol?” He fired a warning shot that whizzed by the man’s head, splintering the wood in the doorway behind him. Lane had missed deliberately, not wanting to harm the guy but to get him to rethink his strategy. “Look what you made me do.”
“Jesus Christ, Carillo. You could have shot my ear off.”
“Indeed. I won’t miss next time. Now where’s the rum that Epstein asked you for?”
The man raised his gun.
Lane’s reflexes were faster.
The man missed, but Lane didn’t. The bullet from the stranger’s gun went into a cabinet behind Lane’s head, the impact sending bits of wood and dust flying back at Lane. But it didn’t matter, because Lane had already put his bullet in the space between the man’s eyes.
“What a mess,” Lane said, reholstering his gun. He felt angry and frustrated and resentful that not only would he have to clean this up, but he was out a case of liquor. “What’s in the bottles, Raul?”
“It’s rum, but it’s watered down. Maybe one part rum to three parts water.”
“Useless, in other words.”
Raul nodded.
Lane rubbed his forehead, a headache blooming behind his eyes. “Call Callahan and Legs Aurelio and clean this up. Then I’ll call Epstein and figure this out.”
“Yes, sir.”
A half hour later, Lane walked into Lenny’s, so angry he practically vibrated with it. Epstein was, thankfully, at a table alone.
“Sir,” Lane said.
“Did you get your shipment?”
“Well, if by ‘get my shipment’ you mean ‘get watered-down rum from a man who tried to kill me,’ then yes, I certainly did.”
Epstein frowned. “He was legit. Your own cousin Tony swore by him. He’s been making deliveries to clubs in Times Square for five years.”
Lane crossed his arms. He had to put the lid on his anger before he said something to Epstein that he regretted. “He pulled a gun on me.”
“I presume he is no longer among the living.”
“What was I supposed to do?”
Epstein sat back and looked surprised. “Well, this is interesting. I’ve never seen you fume like this.”
Lane let his hands fall to his sides. “He didn’t want to do business with me because apparently my reputation precedes me.”
Epstein tilted his head, the question left unasked.
“I’m a faggot,” Lane said through his teeth. “So he tried to sell me watered-down liquor like I’m some kind of dumbbell.”
“And that angers you.”
Lane sighed. “Bottom line is we make money. If he’s selling something to the family, why should it matter if he sells it to me or cousin Tony? It’s all the same.”
Epstein nodded thoughtfully. “I agree.”
“So.” Lane put his hands on the table, thinking it was a good time to leave.
“Keep your anger in check, Carillo. It won’t do for you to lose your cool demeanor.”
“I need to get back.”
“Of course. You’ve got a cleaning crew?”
“The runner has a date with a rock at the bottom of the East River.”
“I do like you.” Epstein shifted his tremendous weight in his chair and leaned forward. “I’m on your side. You believe that, don’t you?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good. Get out of here and make me some money.”
On the walk back to the Marigold, Lane thought about what Epstein had said. Lane couldn’t remember being so angry. What was the cause? Long hours, not enough sleep, enough frustration each week to last a lifetime? There was alcohol to smuggle into New York and there were cops to pay off and he lived every day wondering if this was the moment just before everything crashed down around him.
And then, of course, there was Eddie. Each night spent with Eddie was like an ice pick to Lane’s frozen heart, to the part of himself he’d let go numb after Scott’s death. One had to be numb to pull the trigger, to end the life of a fellow human. Lane spared a moment of regret for the life he’d taken, though he knew that if he hadn’t fired, he’d have been the one lying dead on the cold tile floor of the kitchen of the Marigold.
Funny to realize he didn’t want to die. There had been a long period—years, even—when he hadn’t much cared if he saw tomorrow. Lately, however, his life had taken on a purpose it hadn’t had before, a reason to keep on. The club was a big part of it, his own slice of real estate in the bustling city, the one place on earth where men like him could be themselves without fear of violence or reprisal. And if that weren’t enough, he had a dancer with hot feet whose bed he’d begun to grace with some regularity.
It wasn’t a life he’d ever envisioned for himself, but it wasn’t half bad. And if things kept on going the way they were, maybe he’d have something worth killing for.
Eddie pulled the brim of his fedora over his eyes as he strolled into the bar at the Hotel Astor. It was crowded and noisy, which kept attention from coming his way—and he’d dressed as inconspicuously as possible in a gray suit, no bright colors or identifying markers anywhere. He made his way toward the oval-shaped bar, where a man was slinging drinks—“coffee,” presumably—and a small group of men had gathered in their designated area off to the left.
A man in a threadbare brown suit and an old bowler hat caught Eddie’s eye. He was putting on airs, clearly, a big brawny man out of his element and trying to make new friends at the bar.
Eddie paused a fair distance away to take in the scene. The thing was, he knew he could have Lane anytime he wanted now. They’d been seeing each other regularly for a couple of weeks. With every new encounter, Lane seemed eager, seemed to want more of Eddie’s time. He played it off nonchalantly, but Eddie was on to him. Too bad this was not meant to be; maybe two men could shack up and share a house and pretend everything was hunky-dory, but it was an illusion, and one that couldn’t possibly last.
And here Eddie was, proving it. He’d overheard one of the stagehands at the James Theater saying that Bryant Park had been cleared out a few weeks before; so he’d come here instead, although now he regretted it. Yes, that man by the bar was intriguing, but did he want cheap sex just to prove something to Lane? To prove something to himself? And what, exactly, was he proving, aside from the fact that he was utterly pathetic?
He felt ridiculous and exposed suddenly, and his pulse kicked up a notch as he thought about what he’d been about to do. Lane hadn’t asked him for anything other than regular companionship. Eddie liked Lane a great deal and could have gone to him tonight. So why had he come here to try to pick up a stranger?
He was a fool.
Once he was back in the lobby, he felt like he needed to regroup. He dodged around columns and people milling about and made his way toward the men’s room. Once there, he splashed water on his face and tried to pull himself together.
The Astor, at least, was still considered a respectable establishment, perhaps because the queer men who congregated in the bar kept to their own section and remained the portrait of discretion. Eddie had always appreciated the bar for that reason; he could explain away his presence if caught there. So, if he should slip back through the well-lit lobby and run into someone he knew, there was no reason to think he couldn’t simply say he had an engagement of some sort at the hotel. No matter that it was now after midnight. So that’s what he’d do; he’d slip out and go home and maybe he’d go to see Lane or maybe he wouldn’t, but either way, the answer to his current state of befuddlement would not be found in the Hotel Astor bar.
He heard a groan come from behind him. At first, he thought he might have walked in on an assignation—it wouldn’t have been the first time—but then there was a second groan, one that sounded more like pain than pleasure.
“Hello?” Eddie asked the room.
He got a pained grunt in response. Alarmed, Eddie turned around and walked to the back of the room, where he saw a man huddled. He considered just backing away and leaving the man there, until he grunted again and Eddie noticed the blood pooling on the floor tile.
Eddie cursed in surprise and then said, “Can I . . .” before realizing how silly it sounded. Careful not to step in the blood, he knelt next to the man. There was something familiar about that exact shade of blond hair, though the man’s face was swollen and distorted. Blood ran from his nose.
Then the man looked up and their eyes met. And Eddie knew those eyes intimately.
“Julian.”
“Leave me,” Julian whispered.
So he was conscious, at least. “Who did this to you?”
Julian just shook his head.
“Should I take you to a hospital?”
Julian’s eyes went wide and he shook his head vehemently. “Arrest,” he whispered.
But Julian didn’t look good. Eddie could see the familiar features through the swelling, but his shirt was stained with blood and there was an unhealthy amount on the floor. All Eddie really knew was that he had to get Julian out of this bathroom, and he had to do it without drawing any attention to himself.
He went back to the sink. There was a stack of bright white towels piled on the counter. Eddie hated to soil one, but he didn’t have a lot of options. He soaked it and walked back to Julian. He used the towel to wash the blood off his face—the nose bleed seemed to have stopped—while he considered the options. He didn’t have many; Julian lost consciousness, his head lolling back on his shoulders.
Eddie quickly turned over several ideas for where to take Julian. The Knickerbocker was a few blocks south. Eddie considered getting a room at the Astor, but he didn’t think he had enough money on him.
Then it occurred to him: the Marigold was close. Just on the other side of Times Square. All Eddie really had to do was get Julian across the street and up a couple of blocks.
He pressed the cool towel against Julian’s face. Julian stirred.
“I need to get you out of here,” Eddie said. “Can you walk?”
“I can’t . . .”
Eddie ran back to the sink and grabbed one of the other towels. He used it to soak up the blood on the floor and then stuffed it into a trash receptacle under the sink. Once he got Julian as clean as he’d get, he pulled Julian’s jacket closed to hide the red stains on his shirt. Then he hooked an arm around Julian’s torso.
“I need you to stand,” Eddie said. “I’ll get you help.”
Julian let out an almighty moan as Eddie lifted him off the floor. Panicked, Eddie waited for a moment to see if anyone would barge through the door to see what was happening. When no one came, Eddie pulled himself and Julian upright.
“Put your arms around my neck,” he told Julian, a bit concerned about propriety. But Julian needing attention immediately was the larger concern.
Julian put his hands limply on Eddie’s shoulder. Eddie squeezed him a little, which caused Julian to let out a wheezy breath.
Then Julian started crying.
Eddie more or less dragged Julian out of the bathroom. He moved as fast as he could across the lobby. When Julian passed out again, his head rolling across Eddie’s shoulder, Eddie held him up. To a man looking on curiously, Eddie simply said, “My pal had too much to drink. Gotta get him home before his old lady finds out!”
Eddie felt safer out on the street. He was less exposed and better able to keep to the shadows. He managed to get a very limp Julian to the corner, but then he gave up and scooped the man into his arms. Julian sighed and put his head against Eddie’s shoulder. Eddie carried him across Broadway as if he were a recently rescued damsel in distress.