Hold Tight (15 page)

“Oh shut up. You and your lower classes.”

They took Ariel into the room, returned the bed to its place against the wall and sat him on it. Juke poured water from a pitcher into a bedpan and brought it over. “You’re a mess, baby. Couldn’t you tell that queen treats her cherry like it was a diamond?”

Prospero took over, wiping his friend’s face with a cold washcloth and chiding him for choosing “the thug.” His wiping grew gentler, his grip on his friend’s back firmer. Hank intended to leave, but it was so strange seeing one man treat another like they were husband and wife, or parent and child. Then the man began to kiss the blood off Ariel’s chin.

“That’ll be all,” he told Juke and Hank. “You can go. And please close the door behind you.”

Hank pulled the door shut and Juke said, “What do you bet Mrs. Bosch charges them for each other?”

Nothing surprised Hank anymore. Mick was crazy about his asshole. Men married other men, then came here together to get a taste of a real man. As if a man were more of a man if you had to pay for him. The Englishman had gotten worked up seeing his boyfriend beat up, and Hank had been with customers who wanted him to beat them, whip them with a belt or even spit on them, things Hank couldn’t do because his heart wasn’t in that. Were they sick or was he stupid?

Mrs. Bosch was on the second floor, herding everyone back into the sitting room. “Things are fine. Nothing is wrong. Enjoy yourselves.” She turned to Juke as he came down the stairs. “And what have you done now?”

“I didn’t do nothin’,” said Juke. “A john got too friendly with Miss Muscle and she tried ripping the man’s head off. But Blondie and I sewed him back together.”

Mrs. Bosch looked to Hank, who confirmed the story with a nod. She shook her head and sighed. “That Mick. He is all boy. Still, I would throw him out on the street if he was not so popular. So what is happening now?”

Juke told her who was doing who and where.

“Always with the horseplay, you boys. Do you not realize we are running a business? Okay, Juke. Back to the kitchen. You have had your fun for tonight. And you, Hank Fayette, make with the customers. I am losing money talking to you.”

“I just finished with a customer,” Hank said. He was annoyed with the woman for the way she spoke to Juke, for the way she never thanked him or Juke for keeping the peace, for her way of conveniently forgetting Hank’s real purpose in being here.

“Yes. And he tells me you showed no enthusiasm.”

“I got him off!” Hank said indignantly.

“Yes? Well, some people are never satisfied. You must work harder. The customer is always right. We must all work twice as hard, now that Mick is indisposed.”

Hank and Juke shared a quick look over the woman—Hank disgusted, Juke coldly amused—as Juke started down the stairs and Hank was hauled into the room by Mrs. Bosch, who looked around for unattached men. Hank wished she were a man. Then, when this assignment was over, he could slug her.

“Ah,” she said. “Mr. Jones.” She took Hank by one arm to the man in the light gray suit who still sat in the same spot on the sofa. Not even the commotion upstairs had caused him to move.

“Mr. Jones? I find someone who is wanting to meet you. He is a sailor. You did say you liked sailors?” She pushed Hank forward. Hank had no choice but to sit on the sofa beside the man. Mrs. Bosch hurried off to force a few other matches.

Jones sat stiffly. He moistened his dry lips, took a deep breath and said, “Hello, sailor. What ship are you on?” His eyes blinked constantly. His small talk was very dry and nervous, like a list of questions he’d written out in advance.

Hank answered him. Everything he told him was three months out of date, so Hank had no worries about divulging secrets. Hank had never been particularly conscious of what he told people until he started working with Mason and Erich. People often asked about boring details, just to make conversation. This man asked so many questions Hank began to wonder. No, there was nothing suspicious about the man. His accent wasn’t foreign and he looked clean-cut, even handsome. He was nervous about something, but the prospect of sex sometimes made these clean-cut types nervous. Hank wouldn’t mind seeing the man naked. He looked close to Hank’s age.

Mrs. Bosch took Bunny from his post beside the fan and brought him across the room to the two shy petty officers. She thought the boy was only being demure tonight. She introduced him to the petty officers, who immediately seemed interested in him. She rubbed her hands together and looked around the room again. She went back to Hank and the man on the sofa. “You two are getting along famous?”

“Yes, thank you,” Jones said brusquely, and nodded at her to leave them alone.

“Then you should be going upstairs. While the night is still young.”

Jones blanched. “That won’t be necessary.”

Hank wished Mrs. Bosch would stay downstairs, listening to classical music on the radio the way she usually did. She didn’t understand that different men had different needs. They weren’t machines.

“You do not like this sailor? Who
do
you want?” she demanded.

“I find our friend perfectly suitable. I just don’t think it will be necessary for us to go upstairs.”

“We do not allow window-shopping here! Okay. You have had your fun. If you do not choose someone right this minute, I must ask you to leave. I do not run a public museum.”

Jones stammered, “But the man who brought me here said—”

“I do not care what Carlo told you. You can leave or you can go upstairs. But you cannot stay in my sitting room one minute longer.”

“Mrs. Bosch,” said Hank, “we’ll go upstairs when we’re ready, all right?” Hank felt sorry for the guy. This was obviously his first time in such a place and Mrs. Bosch’s pressure was only making it worse.

“If it’s the money that concerns you,” said Jones, “I’m willing to pay you for the privilege of sitting here and talking to this man.”

“Ha!” Mrs. Bosch folded her arms across her chest. “Pay for gab?” she said incredulously. “What are you? A spy?”

Already pale, Jones turned white.

“If you are a police dick, forget it. I have friends in very high places.”

“N-n-n-not a spy,” said Jones. “For anyone. I like to talk. That’s all.”

“Then you can talk upstairs, where the fee is the same whether you talk with your mouth or your willy.”

“Let’s go,” said Hank. “We can talk up in my room.” Mrs. Bosch wasn’t going to leave the poor guy alone as long as he stayed in the sitting room. She had latched on to this man as an occasion to prove she was the boss here. “We don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do.”

“No? I want to continue our conversation,” Jones admitted. “I’m not a spy,” he repeated. “For the police or anybody.”

“Of course not. I was only making with a joke.” Mrs. Bosch softened now that she saw she was having her way and would be getting her money. “You go upstairs with our sailor friend. Where you can talk or whatever. In private. Enjoy.” She motioned them up from the sofa and escorted them out to the stairs. “Juke!” she hollered down. “Where is that ice, you lazy boy?”

Jones followed Hank up the stairs. “Hag,” he muttered. “She’ll get hers at the day of reckoning. Just you wait.”

The man’s anger surprised Hank. He had seemed so meek downstairs.

“You were telling me about why you prefer the southern route. How far south do you go when…”

They were passing the door to Mick’s room. Prospero and Ariel cooed and moaned in there.

“The South Atlantic?” began Jones again. “Bermuda? Don’t U-boats ever…”

This time, his voice caught as they passed Smitty’s door. He heard deep sighs and Smitty’s directions, “Deeper, Mick. His forehead’s sweating. He’s almost—”

“Here we go,” said Hank, opening the door to his room and turning on the light. The wall was thick and they couldn’t hear voices from next door, only the bump of the bed against the wall.

Jones immediately sat on Hank’s bed, as if faint. He didn’t look to see if he sat in anything. The sheets hadn’t been changed since the man with the moustache.

Hank closed the door. It didn’t have a lock. He pulled his undershirt up over his head. “Hot up here. We’re right under the roof. You want to get more comfortable?”

Sometimes that was all it took. Privacy, a bed, the pulling off of clothes: these shy ones turned into wildcats.

But Jones looked up in a panic. “You don’t have to do that.”

Hank had begun to unbutton his fly. “No? You’d rather do it for me?”

“No! I don’t want to do anything. We’re only here to talk! Remember?” The man was absolutely terrified.

“Okay.” Hank hesitated, then finished unbuttoning himself. “But I’m shucking my pants, if it’s all the same to you. I want to be comfortable.” Hank did it for the man’s sake. The guy wanted sex, or else he wouldn’t be here. However, the guy’s fear was stronger than his need now. Hank wanted to bring back the guy’s need. He stamped his pants to the floor—he had gone back to his old habit of not wearing drawers. “Feel better already,” he said, running a hand over his fuzzy blond front. “What were we saying?”

Jones looked at the floor. Hank walked in front of him to sit on the bed and Jones twisted his head around to avoid seeing Hank. “We were talking about…” He stood up the instant Hank sat down beside him, went to the lone chair with the missing slat, turned the chair to one side and sat there. “Talking about how you avoid submarines.”

“Why you so interested in subs?” Hank couldn’t help smiling.

“Just curious. I know someone in the navy. A brother. I worry about him.”

The brother sounded fake but Hank told the man what little he knew about convoys and U-boats, just to keep them occupied while Jones became accustomed to the situation. The situation began to excite Hank. He stretched out on his back and lightly shifted his nakedness against the rough sheets and the mattress that seemed to be filled with sand. He was touching himself with one hand, jiggling his balls, flipping his cock back and forth. He stopped watching Jones to watch himself thicken and stand. He pulled back the skin.

“Stop that!” Jones turned away again before Hank saw him watching.

“Stop what?” Hank slowly stroked his cock, as if it were a cat, and smiled at Jones.

The man clenched his teeth and stared at the wall. His hands were in a ball between his lap and knees. The crotch of his trousers was half tented.

“Your behavior’s disgusting,” he told the wall. “Get dressed and we can continue this conversation like civilized men.”

“You don’t want me to do this to you?” Hank continued stroking. “Your bone’s gonna tear a hole in your pants.”

The man threw one leg over the other and gripped his knee. “Trash! Don’t think you can poison me with your disease!”

Hank almost laughed, he was so surprised by the man’s anger. “Hey, friend. You got a bone. You should enjoy it.”

The man glared at Hank, legs and body twisted around his sex, his face full of anger. “You’re nothing but an animal!”

“I like being an animal.” And Hank gripped his cock harder and jerked the skin back and forth, to defy the man.

“Go ahead,” the man spat. “Like an ape at the zoo. A navy full of your kind doesn’t stand a chance against Hitler.”

Was this the man’s kink? To abuse you while he watched you jerk off? He was getting Hank angry and Hank wanted to jizz on the expensive gray suit. Pounding furiously, he rolled to one side and aimed his cock at the man.

The man jumped from his chair and backed toward the door. “Your days are numbered, mister! When real men have finished with degenerates like you…! When Hitler has finished with you apes and Bolsheviks…”

Hank had one foot on the floor and was ready to get up and chase the man with his cock, when he heard what the man was saying. Hank almost stopped pounding, but to stop would show the man Hank understood. He lay back and closed his eyes to buttonholes, to watch the man through the slits.

“Then your indecency will be wiped from our country! We will do what Hitler did for Berlin.” The man stood still now that he thought Hank was completely involved with his cock. His fear was gone. He stared at Hank, only Hank couldn’t quite read the man’s face through his blurred eyelashes. “When our leaders finally come to their senses, when they understand what some of us knew long ago—”

“Huh?” Hank breathed hard and made faces. “Some of who?”

“A handful of men and women. Who are working for the real America. While the rest of you wallow in depravity.”

The man supported the Nazis. He seemed to be talking about other Nazis. But would a Nazi spy be as blunt about his beliefs as this man was? The man was upset and not thinking clearly, but no spy could afford to lose control like this. Still, there had been all those questions about convoys, and the man certainly wasn’t here for sex. He was here for something or someone else.

Hank could feel his cock soften a little while he thought, and he wondered if he should roll away from the man and fake a finish, so the man wouldn’t guess that he could think. But the second Hank decided the man was a spy, his cock stiffened like a flexed muscle. He groaned, arched his back and writhed, all for effect, but when he began to shoot, it took his breath away. It had been so long since he had done this to himself it was like a new act, and his doing it in front of an enemy, against an enemy, gave it new power. Good as it was, Hank never forgot the presence of an enemy.

When he opened his eyes, he found the man standing over him, a few feet away, coldly looking down at him like a doctor or coroner. Hank took a deep breath and gave his body a shake. “Wow. You missed a good one, buddy. But if you get your jollies talking about the war, no skin off my nose.”

The man shuddered and looked away. “Disgusting. Covered with your own scum.” He felt something in his coat, then reached inside to get it. “Yes. This is what I like to see. Our servicemen enjoying themselves. Cigarette?”

Now that it was over, the man abruptly wanted Hank to think he had enjoyed this, that there had been no fear or hatred involved. He winced at the sight of his own pack of cigarettes, then sneered proudly and passed the pack to Hank.