The Lure (12 page)

“You ready to close out?” Rick Chaffee asked now.

“In a minute.”

Noel grabbed his cash drawer, his tip box, and his pad.

“My breakage is underneath,” Noel said, pointing to the liquor bottles he’d emptied during the course of his shift. The manager would tally them against the cash to see how much was sold. No problem for Noel. His customers bought, never asked for comps, and tipped well. As Chaffee had predicted, Noel was good for business.

“You going to the Window Wall tonight?” Rick asked. “Jimmy DiNadio just called from there. He said the place is hot as hell.”

“You going?” Noel asked.

“When I’m done.”

Noel knew he wasn’t: he was going home and going to sleep. “Maybe. I don’t know.”

He took his gear downstairs to the office. The office door was shut, and Noel had to put everything under one arm, balance it there, to pull open the heavy door.

Hell! The light was off.

He reached over, feeling along the chipped plaster wall to find the switch, grabbed it, and blinked in the sudden light.

Two heads turned toward him in surprise: Buddy Vega, his T-shirt halfway up his chest, his jeans at his feet, bent forward over a naked man Noel didn’t recognize right off, who was lying on the office desk as though it were the most comfortable mattress.

“Do you mind!” Vega snapped.

Noel almost dropped what he was carrying.

“The light, sweetheart. The light!” Vega commanded, nodding toward the wall switch and not missing a stroke of his hips.

“Leave it on,” the other man said in a thick Hispanic accent. Now Noel did recognize him—Miguel.

“Shut the door, will you?” Buddy said. “Give me five more minutes.”

Noel felt rooted to the spot at what he was seeing being done so nonchalantly—and by Buddy Vega of all people. But he finally closed the door and turned to go upstairs. Ascending, he bumped into Bob Seltzer, another bartender, who was headed downstairs.

“It’s occupied,” Noel said, blocking his way. He was still unnerved, aware he was perspiring suddenly.

“How occupied?” Seltzer asked, going around Noel and down a step.

“Vega’s in there.”

“So what?”

“He’s with someone,” Noel tried to explain without having to say it outright.

“Balling?” Seltzer asked, amused at Noel’s obvious discomfort. When Noel nodded yes, Seltzer asked, “You got a case for Buddy?”

It took Noel half a minute to figure out what he meant.

“Me? You’ve got to be kidding?”

“You sure act like you do,” Seltzer said, edging downstairs. “I’m going to take a good look. I’ve always been a voyeur.”

As upset by Bob’s suggestion as he was by the incident, Noel fled upstairs.

Below him, he heard Seltzer open the office door and after a long minute say, “Oh, excuse me!” in exaggerated apology, followed by Vega’s insults.

Only a few customers were left upstairs. One, dozing off at the Wurlitzer, was being tapped hard on the shoulder by Killer Max. Max, Noel knew, was dying to eighty-six someone tonight and had probably found his victim. Chaffee was on the wall phone, doubtless talking to Jimmy DiNadio again; he cupped his hand over the receiver when he saw Noel.

“I thought you were closing out?”

“I was. Vega’s screwing someone down there.”

“Again? Well, close out here,” he said, making a space on the counter. He returned to his intense, whispered conversation with Jimmy. Noel knew they were lovers and on the rocks these days. Rick was doing what sounded like a lot of explaining and apologizing.

“We’re closed, gentlemen,” Max shouted, holding the door open and shoving Sleeping Beauty onto the sidewalk. He turned around to see if any stragglers were left, then seeing none, locked the door. “Christ, what a pile of losers tonight,” he said, coming up to the bar where Bob had joined Noel closing out his register. “They look like rejects from a geriatrics ward at Bellevue.”

Bob was counting out loud now, pointedly ignoring Max.

“How about a date tonight?” Max asked Bob. “I got some new chains.”

“Forget it, Quasimodo,” Bob said. “You’re about twice as old and ten times as ugly as anyone I’ll go on a date with. Go bother Noel.”

Bob Seltzer had a live-in lover of five years and usually two or three smaller love affairs going on all at once, Noel knew. And a second job, in a bank. Where did he get the time for it? Noel wondered. Max also knew about Bob’s complicated love-life. It never stopped him from coming on.

“Dream about me tonight,” Max finally said, hitching up his leather pants and waving to Chaffee, who was still on the phone.

“Give me a break,” Bob said, when Max was out the side door and Noel had locked it after him. Without explaining he asked Noel, “You want some reds or Tuinals? Cheap tonight. Close-out sale.”

He flashed a handful of electrically colored capsules in a triangle of white paper. Noel knew that these combination barbiturates, far from being used as sleeping pills, were considered superrelaxants and valued by many gay partygoers.

“I’ll take some,” Rick called. “How many do you have?”

They did their deal while Rick tried to finish his conversation with Jimmy. Finally he gave up and came back to the bar.

“I’m going to kill that little bastard when I get my hands on him.”

“With Tuinals?” Noel asked.

“Are you kidding? He eats them like Sen-Sens.” Still muttering, Rick joined the two of them closing out his register, every once in a while breaking out into conversation: “Don’t ever marry a Sicilian, Noel. They’re worse than shit. Jealous as hell.”

“Noel isn’t the marrying kind,” Bob said. “He’s a loner.”

“I used to be married,” Noel let slip out, feeling a new camaraderie. “To a woman.”

“Buddy’s married, too. You see how seriously he takes it.”

“Screwing guys is a Puerto Rican’s idea of birth control,” Bob said. “Hey, I’m short seventy-five cents. Sue me.”

“I’m even,” was Noel’s reply. He’d waited for some reaction to his confession. When none came he felt relieved.

Vega came upstairs and let Miguel out the back door. Bob had gone over to the phone. Rick took all the register boxes one on top of the other downstairs to the office, stopping long enough to say to Vega, “I understand you were doing something fancy downstairs. I hope you cleaned up?”

When Noel and Vega were alone, Buddy said, “You should have stuck around, you might have learned something.”

Their eyes met and held each other’s across the bar. Vega couldn’t miss the disgust Noel felt.

“If I want to learn I’ll look it up,” Noel said sharply.

Vega glared back disdainfully, then punched open a beer for himself, gulped it half down, and left the bar.

Noel called down to Rick that he, too, was leaving.

“Aren’t you going to the Window Wall?” Rick asked, coming up.

“I’m beat tonight.”

“Hey! Noel?”

“Yeah?”

“Whatever’s going on between you and Buddy, you better get over it. It’s no good for the business, you know what I mean?”

“There’s nothing between me and Buddy.”

“I told you I didn’t want your personal life in the bar,” Chaffee warned. Then, more kindly: “Forget him, man. He’s got kids and all. C’mon out partying. Meet some other guys. They’re like flies on the Wall tonight. Believe me.”

At the same time that Noel realized how wrong Rick was, he also realized how conveniently wrong he was: misunderstanding his and Vega’s hostility as a sex problem suited Noel just fine, a reason Noel was not going out or being seen out.

“Thanks, Rick. You’re right, I know. But not tonight.”

“Next Thursday, then. There’s big party there. You come, hear?”

“Yes, Mother,” Noel teased back. “Good night. Say hello to Jimmy.”

“If I see him.”

Outside, the streets seemed especially empty. A few cruising autos crept along; only two guys stood talking in the doorway of an open-all-night greasy spoon that seemed to attract all the castoffs and low-life the area had to offer: teased-hair, peroxided young blacks with silver eye-shadow and hormone-instigated, budding breasts only half hidden beneath loud-patterned blouses; alcoholic bums of all ages who’d only recently gone over the edge, who would nod out in a booth until thrown out; poor teenaged straight couples talking animatedly, probably about their problems, more than likely buzzing on a speed high all night.

Noel didn’t go inside. Neither would most of his customers at the Grip—most of whom were middle-class professionals by day, and who preferred the more stylish Art Deco decorated diners farther up the West Side.

“Hey, man! What’s your hurry?”

Noel turned to the voice. Just stepping out of the diner doorway holding a white Styrofoam cup of steaming liquid was the boy Noel had first witnessed being picked up in the Grip, the day he’d gone to get a job. His name was Larry Vitale, Noel knew. He came into the Grip pretty regularly, and never went home alone. Little Larry, Bob Seltzer and Rick called him. Not only because he was still a minor, but also because of his small, tight body. He and Noel had exchanged maybe fifty words so far, but several times Noel had looked up from some work at the bar to see Little Larry smiling mischievously, as though they shared a secret.

“Want a sip?” Larry offered the cup. “It’s coffee.”

“No, thanks.”

“It’s usually awful,” Larry said, sipping. The face he made confirmed the coffee’s reputation. “I had a rush for it.”

Larry leaned against the brick wall of the diner, one boot propped behind him on the wall for balance.

“What’s your hurry?” he asked again. The mischievous smile surfaced.

“I’m going home. Tired.”

“That’s too bad,” Larry drawled, almost slurring the words. “I’m sort of high right now. I thought we could get Luded up and go play.”

As the boy talked, Noel was thirteen years old again. The other boy was his cousin Chas. Chas was speaking in that same tone of voice, urging Noel to join him in a thick brace of bushes at a distance from Chas’s parents’ house, where no prying eyes could see them, while they smoked a cigarette Chas had stolen from his dad and inspected the contents of each other’s short pants.

Noel shrugged. “Sorry. I’m beat. I woudn’t be any fun tonight. Believe me.”

Childlike disappointment creased Little Larry’s face. He looked even younger than his sixteen years, like a little cupid, cute and sexy. A little male Lolita. Then he grinned again. “Another time.”

“Another time,” Noel said, putting a hand on Larry’s shoulder and applying enough pressure for it to be construed as something—a promise, a contract. He knew that at least was required.

“Later, babe,” Little Larry said, apparently satisfied.

He spun away from the wall, out of Noel’s grasp, scraping the bricks with his boot heel, and slowly took off toward the straggly park that fronted the Hudson River at the end of the street. He stopped for a second to finish the drink, then tossed the cup into an overflowing wastepaper basket.

Noel remained where he was, watching Larry walk away, his young body swaying slightly on the wornaway heels of his cowboy boots, the slight bow of the slim legs, the snug, exact fit of the faded denims on his buttocks, how the belt tilted to the right slightly where the boy’s heavy ring of keys pulled it down. Between the loose jacket flapping open and the belt, a few inches of shirt stuck out and a tiny triangle of skin was exposed.

Who the hell was Little Larry anyway? Just another runaway who’d settled into the scene and adjusted fast?

“For all I know, the little squirt could be Mr. X,” Noel told himself.

A half hour later, Noel said the same thing to Loomis on the loop.

“I thought you said he’s a kid?” was the response.

“He is. But you asked for the one who was different, didn’t you?” Noel protested. “Admit it, Loomis. It’s not working out as you thought it would. It can’t be, if Little Larry is the best I can come up with.”

“There was the actor,” Loomis said. “What was his name?”

“Tony Coe. I thought you said he and his film company checked out?”

“They did,” Loomis confirmed. “But look on the bright side. There hasn’t been one murder, one takeover since you’re there.”

“I’m a lucky talisman now?”

“What’s your complaint, anyway? Everyone should be in your position. You’re getting material for your book. You’re well-liked. Well-paid. What’s your beef?”

“No beef. I suppose I’m just tired.” And unable to deal with the tension of not knowing whom he was looking for, Noel wanted to add,
I just thought I was wasting your time.
But Loomis was onto another topic.

“How are you and Vega getting along?”

“The same.”

“Is that better or worse?”

“A little worse tonight.”

“You want to talk about it? I have time.”

Noel did want to talk about it. He had no connection with Vega at the bar. He hardly ever saw him. Vega never explained things to him, never gave him hints, ideas, not even warnings. He supposed he didn’t need any more information. Nowadays people asked
him,
for Chrissakes. He knew more than many others. He felt comfortable with everyone but Vega. Chaffee was like an older brother, giving sound advice, even if his perceptions were way off. Bob Seltzer was like a younger brother who was a skirt-chaser: except that Bob chased men. Even Max was easy to get along with, the way a large, slightly intelligent, potentially lethal pet dog can be. They accepted Noel, and he, them. And because of that, so did everyone who came in. Everyone except Buddy Vega.