Such a Dance (24 page)

In his bedroom, she tried, and failed, to keep the tears at bay as she found her clothes and pulled them on. She heard Jimmy coming down the hall, and she fought to finish getting dressed before he arrived there.

He walked into the room and said, “Marian, I’m sorry, I . . .”

“No.” She pushed past him and out of the room. She found her jacket and her purse and ran outside. It was cold and rainy but it felt safer than inside Jimmy’s house.

 

Eddie opened the door of his room and found Marian on the other side, sobbing. A large purple bruise marred her left eye.

“Oh, dear,” Eddie said, the words immediately feeling stupid. He didn’t know what to say or how to act, but he did know that Marian had been hurt badly. He put an arm around her and led her into the room. “Come in, come in.”

Lane, who had been sitting on the bed to tie his shoes—they had no particular plans, but Lane had been going through the motions each day regardless of whether they left the room or not—sat up straight.

“What happened?” Lane asked.

“Jimmy Blanchard,” Marian said with a significant amount of disdain. She pulled away from Eddie and turned toward him. “He’s off his nut. Attendance is way down at the Doozies because, surprise, I alone can’t sell tickets. And when I told him hiring a dancing horse is not the way to get people in the seats at the James, well.” She gestured toward her face.

“Did you quit?” Eddie asked. He was appalled that Blanchard would stoop so low as to hit a woman, Marian in particular.

“Not yet, but I believe that I should. I will. The show is a sinking ship.”

“I thought this might happen, but I’m surprised it went bad so fast,” Lane mused.

Marian jerked toward him, as if she hadn’t seen him there. She nodded. “Well, it was a second-rate show, anyway. I loved performing there, but it just hasn’t been the same since Jimmy let Eddie go, and everyone knows that.” She sighed. “Yes, I’ll have to leave. But I could get another job. Or you and me could team up again, Eddie.”

Eddie grunted. “It’s not that easy.”

Lane stood. “This could be your shot, Eddie. Your chance to get back on Broadway. You and Marian team up, you bring back Cotton and France, that’s your ticket.”

“And what about you?”

Lane shrugged. “What about me?”

Eddie rubbed his forehead. “You really want to stay in Times Square?”

Lane blinked, which made it clear to Eddie that Lane was thinking about him and not himself. By “Times Square,” Eddie meant New York, because Eddie knew Lane was thinking seriously about leaving the city altogether. It was touching that Lane was deferring to Eddie, but Eddie was starting to think Lane’s safety—ensuring they could continue to be together—was more important than where Eddie danced. For someone whose best moments had all been on a stage until six months ago, the fact that all of his happiest moments lately had been with Lane seemed significant. It surprised him to realize that, but this was not the time. He schooled his features and concentrated on Marian.

“I don’t think I can do it,” he said.

“Hooey,” said Lane.

“I’m serious.” Eddie briefly touched Lane’s forearm. “It’s not just me anymore. If you had asked me six months ago, well, yes, I would have said me and Marian should dance our way onto whichever stage would have us. But maybe it’s time to give up on that dream.”

“Applesauce,” said Marian. “You are a great dancer, Eddie. You’re just going to give up because you haven’t gotten a job in a while?”

“I’m a faggot dancer, Marian. Isn’t that what Blanchard told you? Isn’t that what he’s told everyone on Broadway? No one will buy the husband-and-wife act anymore. And if it’s not that, if that’s not what Blanchard is telling everyone to convince them not to hire me, it’s something else incriminating. I’m doing some of the best stuff I’ve ever done, I’m dancing better than I’ve ever danced, and I still can’t get a banging job.”

“Jimmy’s whole production is about to go belly-up and then no one will care what he says. His opinion won’t matter.”

But Eddie knew that wasn’t true. The way Marian hesitated before she spoke indicated to Eddie that she knew that, too. “Tell me there aren’t rumors about me. Not just at the James Theater. You know lots of Broadway people. You’ve heard what people are saying, haven’t you?”

Marian frowned. “It’s just rumor. None of it means anything.”

Eddie had been fishing, but Marian had basically just confirmed his worst fear. News about what he was, what he had been doing since leaving the Doozies, had probably spread far and wide by now. His career had effectively taken a bullet in the heart.

But playing along like he didn’t know this as sure as he knew the sun rose in the east, Eddie turned back to Lane. “And what will you do?”

Lane shrugged. “Not sure. Go back to working for Epstein.”

“I thought you wanted out.”

“What’s a washed-up gangster to do? It’s not like I’ve got a lot of choices here.”

Marian’s eyes went wide. Eddie had forgotten she didn’t know anything of Lane’s background. Well, now she did.

“This stays quiet, Marian,” Eddie said.

“As if I would say anything. Come now, Eddie, you should know me better.”

Lane looked so sad that Eddie decided to take a chance. He walked close to him and slowly put his arms around Lane. Lane embraced him back, briefly resting his chin on Eddie’s shoulder before stepping away.

“My life, it’s not just mine anymore,” Eddie said. “It’s yours, too. And if you have to leave town, I’m going with you.”

“Eddie, no. I can’t ask you to give up your career.”

“What career?” Eddie threw his hands up in the air, frustrated now. “I am very likely done for. Too many people have heard whatever baloney Blanchard is spreading. Maybe I’d be better off starting over in a new city.”

Lane sighed. “Let’s not be hasty.”

Marian looked back and forth between them a few times. “So you’re a real couple now, huh? Like a husband and wife, except two husbands.”

Eddie and Lane both got flustered by that remark, talking at the same time and denying it. Then Lane laughed softly.

“I was almost married once,” Lane said. “I love Eddie a hell of a lot more than I ever loved my fiancée. So maybe, Marian, you are not so far off the mark. This thing with Eddie and me, it’s certainly something.”

“I have heard of such things,” Marian said.

Eddie got a good gander at that bruise on Marian’s face. “What are you going to do now? You’re leaving Blanchard, right? Are you definitely going to quit the Doozies?”

“I don’t know,” said Marian. “It’s a paycheck, but I’ll tell ya, if I never saw Jimmy Blanchard again, it would be too soon.”

Lane put a hand on Eddie’s shoulder. “Well, if you need a place to stay, I know of some good hiding spots in this city.”

Marian nodded. “I think . . . yes. I think I can’t go home for a little while. Can you help?”

Lane nodded. “Yes. That, at least, I can do.”

“I Cried for You”

T
he smoke in the low-rent speakeasy in Greenwich Village in which Lane and Eddie sat was so thick it hung like fog over the Brooklyn Bridge on a rainy morning. This place was sad, in Lane’s estimation, dirty and dingy and lacking in life. It was the sort of saloon the Women’s Christian Temperance Union decried before Prohibition reinvigorated New York nightlife, the sort of place where men went to slowly kill themselves with drink.

The hooch was the real McCoy, at least, whiskey imported from Scotland by way of the Dominican Republic, according to the place’s proprietor.

Lane missed the Marigold. He missed running his own place, yes, but more than that, he missed the atmosphere. He missed the way men could openly interact with each other. He missed how happy everyone seemed there. He missed watching Eddie teaching the others how to dance.

But the Marigold was gone. Lane had gone back a few days before and seen there were chains draped across the door, secured with a heavy padlock. The city had shut it down. The Marigold was dead. Lane mourned it as if it had been a living, breathing person.

Lane and Eddie had been sleeping at Lane’s place the last week without incident, which made Lane feel pretty safe there. The apartment existed outside of his association with the Mob, although he didn’t doubt they knew where it was. He hadn’t defected yet, though. They had no reason to come for him, he figured. When one of Epstein’s associates tracked him to the Times Square cafeteria where he’d taken to eating lunch each afternoon, Lane had acted agreeable, saying he’d needed time to figure out his next move. The associate backed off, but Lane knew his summons to meet with Epstein was pending. He’d have to face it. But for now, Epstein was leaving him be.

Eddie didn’t look much happier tonight, staring forlornly at his drink, occasionally tipping the glass just far enough to move the liquid without spilling it. Lane didn’t like Eddie’s tendency toward sadness lately. Not that it wasn’t understandable under the circumstances, but Lane couldn’t help but worry about a repeat of the incident on the elevated train platform.

So he asked, “What’s eating you, Eddie?”

Eddie traced the edge of his glass with his finger. “If I don’t get steady work again soon, I’m going to have to give up my room at the Knickerbocker.”

“Oh.” Lane had been so preoccupied with the crux of their situation that he hadn’t given much thought to how Eddie paid his rent. He immediately regretted that, because this was an issue he should have anticipated better. “What about the shows you did last week?”

Eddie let out a huff of a breath. “You can’t exactly call substituting for a sick dancer in a second-rate vaudeville show steady work. That only lasted a week, anyway.” He shook his head. “Face it, Lane. I’m blacklisted. Nobody wants me. Not even with Marian back in the picture.”

Lane had used his connections to get Marian a room at a hotel near Madison Square temporarily. She hadn’t officially quit the Doozies yet but she’d called in sick a few times. The three of them had also planted rumors that Eddie and Marian were looking to reunite and do their act on a new stage with the hope that some producer would snatch them up. Jimmy Blanchard was reportedly furious.

“So wait it out a little,” Lane said. “Broadway has a short memory. Take some time to regroup and make a comeback.”

“Sure. And what do I do in the meantime? Wishin’ and hopin’ won’t pay the rent.”

The solution came to Lane suddenly. He blurted it out before he could think better of it. “Come live with me.”

The look Eddie shot Lane was so astonished, Lane thought Eddie’s eyes might fall out of his head.

“I’m serious,” Lane said, realizing he was. “You don’t have much in the way of possessions. Your clothes, your books, all of that will fit in my place. And the apartment is out of the way and it’s safe. For now, at least.”

“You would do that for me?” The awe still shone on Eddie’s face.

“You need a place to stay. I have space and I like your company. We spend most of our time together anyway. This just eliminates the commute.” Lane smiled for good measure.

“What about Epstein?”

“I’ll figure something out. If I have to move, I’ll take you with me. Maybe it won’t come to that. But you are welcome to stay with me for as long as you need. Or forever, for that matter.”

Lane didn’t regret saying it, but there was something momentous about the word “forever.” But that was what he wanted, wasn’t it? He loved Eddie and wanted him for the rest of his life.

But did Eddie want that? Lane was sincere, but worried he’d scare Eddie. And yet Eddie leaned forward instead of shrinking away. “I . . . yes,” Eddie said. “If you’ll really have me, I’d like that.”

“Of course I’ll have you.” Lane smirked. “I’ll have you any way I can get you.”

That finally broke through Eddie’s defenses, and he laughed.

“Let’s get out of here,” Lane said.

 

Julian’s hip ached and his head was bent at a strange angle and his left leg had gone pins and needles. He didn’t care and wasn’t inclined to move.

Frank was tucked up against him, curled into a ball with his back pressed against Julian’s front. Julian curled his arm around Frank’s torso and tugged him even closer. This was the eighth or ninth morning he’d woken up this way—he’d started to lose track. Frank and Julian had been hiding out in Julian’s room at the boardinghouse ever since the Marigold had been raided.

They’d happened to be standing near each other when the cops barged in. Julian had simply grabbed Frank’s hand without thinking and then dutifully ran to Lane’s office to retrieve a sheaf of papers that were entrusted to his keeping. They’d snuck out the back together and got stuck in an alley and had to climb a fence to get to Sixth Avenue. Once they were on an elevated train, they were home free and, Julian noticed suddenly, still holding hands.

Frank, it turned out, had been living out of a sugar daddy’s house on Fifth Avenue, though he had only been back to change clothes lately. Well, to change and also stuff his earnings into a mattress. He was sick of the old man, he’d said, tired of getting poked until he was sore, tired of the man’s clumsy attempts at romance, tired of his life being beholden to a man who lately had come to disgust him. The man worked in the public sector, from what Julian had been able to discern through Frank’s confused mumblings, a politician of some sort or maybe a judge, but either way, the sort of man who would not want it widely publicized that he was keeping house with a very young man. Frank had been prostituting himself and then later saving his wages from the Marigold so that he could get his own place and threaten this man, whose name he wouldn’t say, with disclosure if he tried to start a fight.

Two days before the raid at the Marigold, though, the man had found Frank’s stash of cash and stolen it. He’d yelled at Frank, furious that Frank had been sleeping with other men for money. Frank had grabbed the uniform clothes Lane had paid for and slept in the kitchen at the Marigold.

He’d explained all this in one long sentence while still clutching Julian’s hand as they sat on the train downtown, so Julian did what any sensible man would do when faced with a young, attractive man down on his luck: he brought Frank home.

Frank had stayed in Julian’s room without leaving for three days. Julian went out only to procure food, either from the plump Irishwoman who ran the boardinghouse or from the cafeteria down the street. While he was out, he’d grab a newspaper just to keep up with what was going on in the city outside of his block, but otherwise, his contact with the world was minimal.

Sometime on the fourth day, they went from merely sharing a bed to touching each other. By the fifth day, they were kissing. They made love on the sixth day. It was definitely love by then, at least as far as Julian was concerned, because it was the first time he’d willingly had sex in nearly a decade without being paid for it.

He felt mildly guilty about that as he smoothed Frank’s hair off his baby face. Julian was not quite twice Frank’s age. Something felt predatory about that. Except that Julian was coming to care for this unruly kid more intensely than he’d cared for anyone recently.

Frank stirred. Julian shifted away slightly to give Frank room to uncurl and stretch out, which he did a moment later. He looked up at Julian and smiled.

Julian smiled back and ran a hand through Frank’s hair, watching it stand up before slowly falling back to his head.

“Julie?” Frank said, using the nickname that no one except Frank could have gotten away with. “Can we . . . go somewhere today? I’m getting a little sick of this room.”

“Sure, sweetheart, just as soon as I can figure out how to smuggle you out of this place without Mrs. O’Sullivan seeing you.”

It had never occurred to Julian to find the owners’ decree against overnight guests oppressive, because Lord knew after all those years of sharing beds just to have a place to sleep, it was nice to go to bed alone for a change.

Not that he minded having Frank there with him one bit, small as the bed was.

What an odd turn Julian’s life had taken.

As the bed was wedged against the wall, Julian had to roll over Frank to get out of it. Frank stretched again as Julian stood, the sheet falling away from his naked body. Julian stopped to admire him—it was nice to take the time to enjoy a man instead of convincing himself he was attracted. And Frank was definitely a man—albeit a young one, but several years older than Julian had been when he’d first engaged in carnal pleasures—which put Julian’s conscience somewhat at ease.

“You . . . you don’t think me some stodgy old man, do you?” Julian asked.

Frank frowned. “Hardly. You’re not old.”

“I’m old enough. Older than you.”

“You’re not . . . you’re nothing like the Old Man.” Frank had lately taken to calling his sugar daddy the Old Man. “You actually listen when I talk.”

Julian opened one of the drawers in the banged-up dresser that sat in the corner of the room. He considered his options. Instead of clothes, he grabbed a towel, figuring he should bathe first, if only to get rid of the scent of sex and sweat that clung to his skin. Not that he didn’t like it, but if they went out, he wasn’t sure his neighbors would appreciate his stench.

“Also,” Frank said, “you’re honest. You never try to be anything you aren’t.”

Julian laughed softly. Perhaps not anymore, but that had not always been the case. “I’m a washed-up fairy. I don’t look like I could be anything else.”

“Not washed up.”

Nothing on the fairy comment. Julian smiled ruefully. “Well, darling, I’d better . . .” He gestured toward the hall with his towel.

Frank nodded and stretched his arms over his head again.

It astonished Julian that Frank didn’t see him as old, didn’t see him as the tawdry doll he’d become. It astonished him, too, that they’d spent more than a week with not much else to do but fuck and talk and they hadn’t yet grown tired of each other. Julian hadn’t grown tired of Frank, at any rate.

Once he was clean, Julian returned to his room, where he found Frank wearing only unbuttoned trousers, sponging himself from the basin in the corner. His hair was still wildly disheveled. Frank had a raw, sexy quality even when he wasn’t being deliberately provocative. Julian appreciated that in a much younger lover.

Julian sighed and went back to his clothes, selecting herringbone trousers and a crisp arrow-collar shirt. He tied a pink scarf around his neck like a cravat for good measure. He donned his straw boater hat and then walked over to the cracked mirror that hung on the wall. He supposed there was no need to bother with the stage makeup he kept in a box under the bed, as Frank had seen him without it plenty this week and there was no one else he felt the need to impress just then. Well, maybe he could get out a little rouge . . .

Once he was happy with his appearance, he turned to a now-dressed Frank, who grinned.

“You are something else,” said Frank.

“In a good way, I hope.”

“In the best way.”