I have a friend named Gerry Abromowitz, whom I’ve known since the club days in the early years of the New Wave—music, not film. Gerry owned his own club for a while, a place called the Crawlspace, a venue for harDCore bands and slammers. Off and on, Gerry went by the name of Gerry Louis, Jr., and even looked into having the legal change. But he stopped short of doing it about the time that the Crawlspace closed down after one steaming-hot summer. A personal-injury suit put a lock on the front door, but in truth, the place was a loser from the word go. Now, Gerry Louis, Jr., was back to Gerry Abromowitz and settling into the beginnings of middle age, working as the owner/operator of a movie theater called the Very Ritzy down on 9th.
The Very Ritzy had just been the Ritz, of course, in its original incarnation, but as usual, Gerry couldn’t resist fucking around with the name. It started out as a burlesque house, and then it was the last of the burlesque houses, and then it was the last of the porno houses, and when Gerry took it out of mothballs on a short-term lease, his intention was to make it an art house. But he soon found out that it was difficult to outbid the more powerful competition for the bookings, and when he could get a decent film, nobody seemed to be interested in traveling to that part of town after working hours. So he quietly took it back to porno for the matinees and made it straight repertory at night, taking in the spillage and the last-call crowd from the Snake Pit and other clubs in the surrounding area. He seemed to make a living from this novel arrangement, though that was probably due to the fact that his skin-flick matinees were all profit; over the years, Gerry Abromowitz had amassed one of the most extensive privately owned sixteen-millimeter porno collections south of Jersey.
“Ge-roo,” I said, shaking his hand. He had agreed to meet me Monday noon at the theater. We stood in the red-carpeted lobby.
“Nick the Stick,” Gerry said. “Lookin’ good. How about me… I gain much weight?”
About forty, I thought. But I said, “Nah.”
“C’mon up. I’m runnin’ the projector. My kid’s up there; I don’t want to leave him alone.”
A man in a business suit walked into the lobby, his eyes straight ahead. An usher—long hair, wearing a black T-shirt and ripped black jeans—took the man’s ticket, tore it in half, then returned to the paperback he was reading without moving from his stool. The business suit scurried quickly through the lobby to the darkness of the theater. I followed Gerry up a carpeted set of stairs.
We hit a landing and then an office area, where a boy just past toddler played with an action figure that looked to me like the Astro Boy of my youth. All four walls of this room had film cans racked and labeled on wooden shelves, with a large slotted area set aside for one-sheets and stills.
“Gerry junior,” Gerry said, tipping his head proudly at the boy.
“Gerry Louis, Jr.?” I said.
“Nick, Nick, Nick,” Gerry said.
I turned to his kid. “What’s that guy’s name?” I said, nodding at his toy.
“Jason the Power Ranger!” the kid said, puffing out his chest and his cheeks. When he did that, the little fats looked a lot like his dad.
“Aw, man,” I said, “I wish I had one of those.” That got Gerry junior excited, and he started running around the room, holding up Jason the Power Ranger in the go-fly position. Gerry senior motioned me up another short set of stairs.
We took seats outside the shut door of the projection booth, close enough to hear if something mechanical went wrong. The air was stagnant and warm, but I was in shorts and a T-shirt, and Gerry was dressed approximately the same way. Gerry’s kinky hair had plenty of gray in it, and he had one of those faces that always seemed to be smiling, even when it was not.
“So what’s on the bill today?” I said. “The Sorrow and the Pity?”
“Not quite. Crotchless in Seattle. It’s a big title for me this summer.”
“I’ll bet. So the porno’s keeping this place afloat.”
“So far. The associations, the exodus of the law firms moving east into the city, that’s helped. These guys pay their seven bucks, come in for the first show, fifteen minutes, wack-adoo, wack-adoo”—Gerry contorted his face, made a fist, pumped out a two-stroke jack-off mime—“they’re in and out. It’s cheaper than a prostie, Nick. And with the plague out there, it’s damn sure safer. Everyone thought, with videotape rental, the theatrical was gonna go the way of quadrophonic sound. And that was true to some degree, especially with the pervs. But these married guys, for whatever reason—maybe they’re not gettin’ enough at home, whatever—they can’t pop in a porno tape in their own house. What are they gonna tell junior? ‘Keep it down. Daddy’s tryin’ to watch Stormy Weathers give Ralph Rimrod some head’? Excuse me.” Gerry pulled balled Kleenex from his pocket, blew his nose loudly into the tissue. “I’m telling you, this porno thing is a growth market, if you got the right location.”
“Yeah, but who cleans up the theater?”
Gerry smirked. “That kid you saw in the lobby, he came to me, said he wanted to learn the exhibition business. I gave him a bucket and mop, said, ‘Here, go to school.’ Between shows, he does the honors. But it’s not as bad as you think, Nick. These business types are very fastidious—they bring their own socks, Wall Street Journals, shit like that. They’re better behaved than my nighttime repertory crowd, I’ll tell you. But even that’s beginning to pick up. Kids are smoking pot again, you know it?”
“Sure,” I said, thinking of the stash in my glove box.
“That helps. Helps the ‘appreciation of cinema.’ Helps music, and fucking, and everything else, too, right? Anyway, I’m gonna start adding psychotronic midnights on the weekends—”
“Listen, Ger—”
“I know, you don’t have all day. You called because you needed some information.”
“That’s right. I’m looking for a kid, got himself into some local porn action.”
“How old?”
“Seventeen.”
“What genre?”
“Man on boy, what I can make out. Maybe interracial, if that narrows it down. The kid is black.”
Gary scratched behind his ear. “I wouldn’t know, directly. Everything I got here is classic, on celluloid, from the archives. The video business is wide open, man; anybody can do it. Let’s say you want to make a movie with a school theme. All’s you need is a camera, a couple of lights if you want it real clean, some props—a piece of chalk, maybe a blackboard—and you got yourself a real intricate story about a teacher disciplining his student.”
“Isn’t there any risk? I mean, it’s got to be illegal, right?”
“Yes and no. The situation you’re describing, if the kid’s a minor, yeah, that’s illegal, but lookswise he’s probably right on the cusp, so who’s gonna check? Basically, as long as there’re no penetration shots, you’re in the clear.”
“The business is that scattered.”
“Sure. It’s done all over the city. Like I say, I wouldn’t have any idea where to tell you to start. I’m not in that business.”
“Somebody’s got to distribute the stuff, though.”
Gerry shifted in his seat. “In the man-boy arena? All the homo stuff, and the different varieties of it, everything comes out of this little warehouse around 2nd on K. This guy owns a storefront porno operation. I think it’s called the Hot Plate.”
“What’s his name?”
“Bernard Tobias. Bernie.”
“Think he’ll talk to me?”
“Not just to you, no. Bernie, he’s a weird bird. Well, maybe not so weird if you’re an amateur psychiatrist. He’s a little guy who always needs to be the big magilla. I’ve met him a few times; he’s always bragging about how he only does business with ‘executive officers,’ never meets with anybody’s assistant, like we’re talking about Wharton graduates in the skin trade here. I think if you go in with a couple of guys, wear ties, do the dog and pony show, you’ll be all right.”
“Thanks, Gerry. Appreciate the help.”
<
br /> “Hey, Nick—how’d you end up in this, anyway? I ran into one of my old bartenders from the Crawlspace a few months ago—”
“Joe Martinson.”
“Joe, right. He told me what you were doing. The way I remember you, you were this music-crazy guy used to stand in the corner watching the bands, a beer in each hand. Fact, I used to call you ‘Nick Two-Beers,’ remember?”
“You said it was my Indian name. ’Course, I remember when you insisted everyone call you Gerry Louis, Jr. Things happen to people—you never know where they’re going to end up.”
“You got that right. That guy in that band Big Black, Durango’s his name, remember? He’s a corporate lawyer now. I saw his picture in a magazine, little bald guy in a hot-shit suit like every guy you see walking out of Arnold and Porter. So yeah, you never know.” Gerry got out of his chair. “Speaking of Jerry Lewis, I’m doing a retrospective next month, kicking it off with The Nutty Professor. I can get you a pass.”
“I don’t think so.”
“It’s an American classic!”
“So are you, Ger.” I shook his hand. “Listen, thanks again, man. Thanks a million.”
I USED GERRY’S DIRECTORY before I left, then found a pay phone out on 9th and called Bernie Tobias. I identified myself as Ron Roget—an appropriately lizardly name I had just seen in the directory—and bullshitted him about my production company out of Philadelphia, which I said did the “man/boy discipline thing” better than anyone “on the East Coast.” He said he couldn’t meet with me that week, but when I told him that “my associates” and I would be in D.C. tomorrow, and only for one day, he agreed. As Gerry had predicted, the “associates” tag hit Bernie’s hot button. We agreed on a time the next day.
I made it to the Spot after the lunch rush had subsided. Mai was behind the bar, bent into the soak sink with a glass load, and Phil Saylor stood at the register counting checks. Anna was by the service bar, arranging her tip change in dollar stacks on the green netting. I spoke to Mai briefly, thanked her for what we had arranged over the phone the day before.
“Hey, Phil,” I said, speaking to his back. “I’m taking some time off. Mai and I set it up. That okay by you?”
“I need the shifts, Phil,” Mai interjected.
“She told me already,” Phil said without raising his head. He didn’t add anything, so I went down to the service end of the bar and rubbed the top of Anna Wang’s head.
“Hey, Nick.”
“Hey, what’s up?”
“Got a cigarette?”
“Sure.”
I gave her one, lit it for her. She leaned her back against the wall, dragged sharply on the smoke, exhaled just as sharply. “Some woman called you,” she said. “Said your uncle wants to see you.”
“Costa,” I said. “The woman would be his nurse.”
“He sick?”
“Cancer,” I said. Anna looked at the cigarette in her hand, thought about it, took another drag.
“That’s rough.”
I nodded. “How’d your date go with LaDuke?”
“Okay, I guess.”
I reached out and Anna passed me the cigarette. I took a puff, handed it back. “Just okay?”
“It was fun.” Her eyes smiled. “He took me to the Jefferson Memorial last night. We sat on the steps, split a bottle of wine. Or rather, I drank most of it. No guy’s ever tried anything so obvious with me. I know it’s a corny move, but I got the feeling he didn’t think it was, if you know what I mean.”
“He’s strictly from L-Seven, but genuine.”
“Exactly. Most of the guys I meet still in their twenties, they’re so ironic, so cynical, you know, I just get tired of it sometimes. Jack’s cute, and he’s funny, and all those good things, but he’s also really square. In some weird way, that’s refreshing.”
“So why was the night ‘just okay’?”
“It always comes down to the big finish, doesn’t it?” Anna butted the smoke in an ashtray, looked up. “Well, at the end of the night, I wanted to kiss him, you know? And I’m pretty sure he wanted to kiss me, too. So I took the initiative.” Anna grinned. “I gave it to him pretty good, I think. But he was shaking, Nick. I mean, shaking real deep. It’s like, I don’t know, he was scared to death. And then he just pulled away, and it was like something just seemed to go out of him.”
“Maybe it’s been awhile for him.”
“I guess.”
“You gonna see him again?”
“Maybe. I don’t know. The guy’s carrying something serious around on his back. I’m not sure if I need that right now.”
I touched her arm. “Listen, I’ve got to go.”
“Take it easy,” she said.
I poked my head into the kitchen, hooked Darnell up as the driver for my appointment the next day. Then I phoned LaDuke from the bar, got him in on it, too. On the way out the door, Phil Saylor grabbed my arm.
“What’s your hurry?” he said.
“I’m off to the ball game with a friend of mine. Got to pick him up where he works.”
“Don’t stay away too long, hear? Mai, she’s okay, but after she works a few days straight, she starts jumping all into the customers’ shit.”
“I thought you were mad at me, Phil.”
“You made a mistake. You’re allowed one or two.”
I moved to shake his hand, but he turned away. The two of us were square again, I guess.
WHEN I WALKED INTO Goode’s White Goods in Beltsville, the first thing I saw was Johnny McGinnes, bent into an open refrigerator, blowing pot smoke into the box. During working hours, McGinnes’s pants pocket always contained a film canister and a one-hit pipe, which he lit at regular intervals right on the sales floor. After the exhale, he would tap the ashes out against his open palm and drop the pipe back into his pocket in one quick movement. I had worked with him for many years, and to my knowledge, no one, customer or management type, had ever caught him in the act of getting high.
McGinnes saw my entrance, pulled a six of Colt 45 tall boys from the fridge, held them up, winked, and put them back inside. He shut the door and goose-stepped down the aisle back to his customer, a middle-aged woman looking at a dishwasher. As usual, McGinnes was done up synthetic-crisp: navy blue slacks, poly/cotton oxford, and a plain red tie with a knot as pretty as a fist. His thinning black hair slashed down across his high forehead, with only his silver sideburns betraying his age. McGinnes managed to throw me a mental patient’s grin as he spoke to the woman; even across the showroom, I could see that he was half-cooked.
Goode’s White Goods, one of the few major appliance independents left in the D.C. area since brand-name retailing came to Sears, had managed to carve out a niche for itself as a full-service operation. White goods was the industry term for big-ticket appliances, and the company’s owner, Nolan Goode—it was inevitable that McGinnes would dub him “No Damn Good”—mistakenly overcalculated the public’s comprehension of the wordplay in the store’s name. Confusion notwithstanding, Goode’s White Goods had managed to survive. And after McGinnes had joined the team, it had actually begun to thrive.
In contrast to the noise common on an electronics’ floor, No Damn Good’s appliance shop seemed quiet as a museum, orderly rows of silent, shiny, inanimate porcelain aligned beneath wall-to-wall banners. In the center aisle, a young man used an unwieldy buffer to wax the floor, solemnly repeating the phrase “Slippery, slippery,” though there were no customers anywhere near him. A man I pegged as the manager—prematurely bald, prematurely overweight—stood behind the counter, hiking his pants up sharply, as if that was the most aggressive act he would attempt all day. On the other side of the counter stood a young, square-jawed guy, smiling broadly, arranging point-of-purchase promotional materials. He had the too-handsome, dim-bulb look of a factory rep, Triumph of the Will in a navy blue suit. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a little guy shoot out of the stockroom and head in my direction, his hand extended all the way out, his hip-on-the-chea
p clothing drooping everywhere on his skinny frame.
“And how are we doin’ today?” he said as he reached me, his hand still out.
I shook it and said, “Waiting on McGinnes.”
“Anything I can do for you while you’re waiting?”
“No thanks.”
“Well, if you have any questions about a major appliance—”
“The name is Donny,” I said.
Donny smiled a little strangely and I smiled back. He scratched his ratty ’fro and walked back down the aisle, slinking behind the counter. I checked McGinnes: He had removed the dishwasher’s wash tower—it looked exactly like a vibrator—and was making little jabbing movements with it behind the customer’s back, pitching the merits of the machine to her all the while. This was for my benefit, I supposed, or maybe he was just bored. Then a young couple came through the door with buy signs practically tattooed on their foreheads—any salesman worth his salt can tell—and McGinnes excused himself to greet them.
Donny yelled across the sales floor, “Hey, Johnny, you got a call on line one. Guy wants to give you an order,” and he pointed to a wall-mounted phone where a yellow light blinked clear as a beacon. McGinnes hesitated, went to take the call. Donny racewalked toward his new customers. Even before I saw McGinnes pick up the phone and make a bitter face, I knew what Donny Boy had done: gotten a dial tone and put it on hold, then used the phony bait to draw McGinnes away from the live ones coming through the door. Johnny should have known; in fact, it was one of the very first tricks he had played on me years ago.
McGinnes closed his deal, though, and Donny did not. Afterward, when I had been introduced to the boys and stood with them around the counter, there seemed to be no residual animosity coming off Johnny. Just another way to grab an up, the memory to be filed away by McGinnes under “payback,” to be retrieved the next time a yom came walking through the door.
Down by the River Where the Dead Men Go Page 11