Boldt

by Ted Lewis

  “I’d appreciate it,” I tell him, and put some money on the bar. “The change is yours. And also there’ll be more for information leading to an arrest.”

  “You know, I suppose, that I’m already being paid for information of a different kind?”

  “Who by, Lambert?”

  “That’s right.”

  “So?”

  “So if you see him, tell him about your request, would you? Mr. Lambert’s a man who likes to know what’s going on.”

  “Yes, I know that,” I say. “I’ll pass on the news.”

  I get off the stool and go out of the bar. Murdock is still waiting by the reception desk only now he’s looking at a girl who’s impatient for the clerk to show up. I don’t blame her, and I don’t blame Murdock either because the girl is without a doubt the most beautiful girl in this part of the city. She’s probably around twenty-one or -two and although her clothes are casual, they’ve been bought at the most expensive stores. She’s wearing a pink voile shirt with a long collar and puffed sleeves and over it a V-neck sleeveless pullover. She’s also wearing white oxford trousers with deep cuffs and two-tone round-toe shoes. Her hair is very, very black and it’s long, falling right to the waist of her pullover. She jams her hand down on the buzzer and leaves it there for a minute or so but still nothing happens. “The clerk’s in a mood,” I tell her. “He thinks the manager doesn’t understand him.”

  She turns her head slightly, and it seems that’s all it takes for her to take stock of who’s talking to her because immediately she turns back to her previous position, not saying anything.

  “If you like I could get the manager,” I tell her.

  This time she turns fully and although her eyes hardly move I get the impression I’m being flipped over the way a good dealer flips over a playing card.

  “I’m sure you could,” she says. “But if I wanted him, I’d be quite capable of getting him myself. Like I’m capable of making my own pick ups. But if, on the other hand, you’d like to earn a dollar, you could always hang around and take my luggage up to my room.”

  “Maybe I’ll do that,” I tell her. “But don’t you think that might be a little risky?”

  She shakes her head. “No,” she says. “Not at all.”

  I shrug. Murdock chips in, “Come on, Roy. No risk, no excitement. Took me eight years with my old lady to find that out.”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” I say. “The excitement might be in finding out if she means what she says.”

  “And pigs always find out, don’t they?” the girl says.

  I smile at her. “We have our ways, but obviously you already know that.”

  “Everybody does,” she says, and just then the desk clerk appears and she turns away again. Murdock and I walk across the lobby and out of the hotel. As we walk back to the car Murdock says, “Well, it’s a shame, but I have to say that was one you lost.”

  “It’s a shame all right,” I agree. “You don’t see many like that in this town.”

  “Still,” Murdock says as we get in the car, “you might bump into her again when we come back.”

  “Yeah, and next time I’ll wear a mask.”

  “On the other hand,” I say, “I hope I don’t.”

  “What?” Murdock says, starting up the engine.

  “See her again. I like to sleep nights.”

  “Yeah,” Murdock says. “And by the way, thanks. That was a nice play about the room.”

  “Draper’s got to think everything’s nice this week.”

  Murdock takes a left down the side of the hotel complex and we drive slowly east through the factory area. The day is duller now and noon traffic reflects the neutral color of the sky.

  “No need to worry about this part of the route,” I say to Murdock. “Bolan’ll station observation points and he’ll check out the area all through the day. There’s nothing here for us.”

  We’re now nearing the end of the industrial complex and we’re running into a small urban area with an edge-of-city intersection which forms the center of this dead, characterless suburb. There are the usual blocks of stores and business premises and a couple of bars and garages and very little else. The area has a neutral feeling, as if the people around are only there briefly to make some kind of transaction, and the minute it’s been made, they’ll disappear back where they came from, quick. The place has only one establishment that makes the neighborhood any different from a hundred others and that is a place called Clark’s. It’s right at the intersection, down about fifty-sixty yards where the stores begin to straggle out to nothing.

  “Why don’t we call in at Clark’s?” I ask Murdock.

  “Why don’t we?” Murdock replies, slowing down for the red. “There’s always somebody willing to help us in Clark’s.”

  “Yeah,” I say. Murdock takes the right and a couple of seconds later pulls into the curb outside Clark’s.

  The proprietor of Clark’s is a traditionalist. He believes in keeping things the way they’ve always been. That is why the outside of Clark’s hasn’t been painted in the last twenty years; why the sidewalk in front is never swept; why the windows into the street are never cleaned; why the missing ‘K’ in Clark’s has never been replaced; why the cracked pane in the front door has never been attended to.

  Murdock and me get out of the car, but before we even draw into the curb we’ve been caught and boxed by a group of four niggers standing by Clark’s entrance. Their broad-brimmed hats, their leather and suede coats and their colored shirts make them look like cartoon characters on a live action background against the drabness of Clark’s frontage. As we step onto the sidewalk Murdock and me automatically unbutton our coats so that the niggers are reminded of what we’re carrying; not that they don’t know, but any one of them could be high enough to forget in the event of being turned on to some action. They’re all grinning that terrifically happy grin that reflects the amusing world around them, or at least, the way what they’re on has refined it in their minds. One of them, one in a cream hat, blows us a kiss as we approach Clark’s entrance, and the others almost fall over, it’s so funny.

  Then, because the laughs are coming, he says, “They been more fuzz around today than I got on my ass, fuzz.”

  “I’ll prove that statement one day, sugar,” I say as we walk by.

  “Today, man,” he says. “Do it today, sugar. I’m low on kicks right now.”

  I stop and face him. “Now that is a downright lie, honey,” I tell him. “Now ain’t it?”

  The nigger pouts at me. “I’m clean,” he says. “So clean, you try and bust me. I ain’t carrying nothing.”

  Murdock pushes open the door.

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah,” I tell the nigger. “You’re probably right, but maybe I’ll just check your hat because even you, sugar, you may get careless one day.”

  Before the nigger can take in my words, I shoot out a hand and grab the brim of the cream-colored hat and putting a whip on my arm I flick the hat high above the passing traffic. It lands somewhere on the far side of the road. The nigger’s face slips somewhat and so do the faces of his friends, so it’s up to them to find some way of getting those faces back in their original positions. But the nigger with the mouth can only say, “You fuck, you cocksucker, look what you done.”

  I smile at him. “That’s what I love to hear,” I tell him. “I love to hear it. A smart mouth nigger blowing it. I mean, come on, can’t you do better than that, shortenin’ bread? Hey sugar chile?”

  I smile at him again. Murdock leans on the door and I go into Clark’s, Murdock following after me, and the door swings closed behind us.

  Now the first part of Clark’s is pretty much in keeping with the outside. It’s a small anteroom, as shabby as the front, and it smells of the three guys who are playing draw poker around a foldi
ng green baize table next to the entrance into the second part of Clark’s. The three players all know Murdock and me and we all know them. The game doesn’t pause just because we’ve come in, but one of the guys, a guy called Arthur Montgomery, says, “Hello, friends, how are things with you this afternoon?”

  Murdock says to me, “Is it afternoon, Roy?”

  “Shucks, I don’t know, George,” I say to him. “We been working so hard this morning I’m damned if I know what time it is.”

  “Well,” Murdock says, “you can rely on Arthur. Christ, if Arthur tells us it’s afternoon, then, Christ, it must be because Arthur knows what time it is, don’t you Arthur?”

  Arthur says, “You two going in?”

  “No, we’re not going in, Arthur,” I say to him. “We just dropped by to ask for the brand name of your deodorant.”

  “I don’t use one,” Arthur says.

  “You don’t say?” Murdock says. “He doesn’t use a deodorant. How about that, Roy?”

  I shake my head in amazement and Arthur gets up, taking care to bring his cards with him. He goes over to the door and kicks it; the door opens slightly not revealing anything or

  anybody behind it, and Arthur says, “Two guys coming in. Cops.”

  The door doesn’t move for about a minute and then it’s pulled in a foot or so more, giving Murdock and me just enough room to go through one at a time. After the door’s closed behind us and the curtains beyond have been drawn, we’re inside of Clark’s and Clark’s, you have to admit, is quite something. Considering where it is and considering everything else.

  The whole point about Clark’s, which in a sense is in keeping with the unreality of its situation, is that there’s never been anybody called Clark that’s had anything to do with the place. As long as I’ve known it, it’s been run by a guy called Moses Shapiro and Moses himself adds to the unreality of the place, not only because of his personality, but because he doesn’t belong to anybody. Nobody owns him. Not one of the organizations has a piece of him, and that in itself makes Moses a pretty unusual character. But if it weren’t for that, that apart, Moses doesn’t need that kind of immunity to make him special. Moses is bigger than life in every way, apart from his size. He’s the toughest queen I ever met and could take on anything that happened to be pushed his way. I know professionals who’d never say a wrong word or ever put a foot wrong inside of Clark’s because of what Moses would be likely to do to them if their play didn’t happen to suit him. Moses, with his bald head glowing above his kaftan, his silky trousers and his furry slippers is able to take any six or seven guys apart without breaking sweat. His fat ringed fingers and the gross muscles on his arms and legs go to work as if that’s the only thing he was born to do which, of course, it isn’t: he was born to persecute everything that isn’t gay. Moses is one of those guys who isn’t satisfied with the guys he can make easily. He likes to bear down on the guys who aren’t gay, or at least don’t think they are. He likes to use his muscle—in fact, rape with a view to corruption is his bag, and as a rule, if Moses sets out to bear down, then whoever he’s bearing down on don’t stand a chance, no way. In fact, some of the guys Moses has had never walk back to the other side of the line. Of course, it’s not all muscle with Moses; he uses softeners a lot of the time, and two of those softeners are two sisters, real sisters, real girls, called Agnes and Marcia Garner. The two girls appear to be waitresses inside of Clark’s which of course they’re not: they’re pulling for Moses and they do a beautiful act.

  They’re two girls like you’ve never seen, they both look as though they took liberal arts at college; as though they were voted the two most likely to marry the president of the local Chamber of Commerce; the two most likely to be Young Mothers of the Year; the two most likely to be chosen by Seventeen to model this year’s fashions; they’d make Natalie Wood look like Yvonne De Carlo alongside of them. But when they go to work, that’s something else entirely. I’d like to see anybody try and stay away from the two of them and succeed. They operate like you’ve never seen. They can take the pants off you and have Moses take over at sucking your dick so that you’d never know it. When you finally tumble, it’s too late because by that time there’s Moses’s two other little helpers, Arnold and Chris, and there’s no way you could lift yourself up off your back, or your face, whichever the case may be. After that, no use making any kind of complaint because for that you need witnesses, and inside of Clark’s, witnesses you’re just not going to get.

  In spite of all this, Moses runs a flourishing business, mainly because he lays off his regulars because his regulars are important to him. They come back and they come back, and mostly anybody who’s anybody in this city is from time to time seen talking to Moses. Christ knows why because for all his independence, Moses can’t do anything for them. He can’t do anything for Florian, for example, and he can’t do anything for Florian’s wife, but they love to be there, they love to be sitting at the high stools with Moses, being insiders to his private scene, watching how it works out with whoever he’s got his eye on. Sometimes, if they’re inside enough, they can watch how it works out in the end. A lot of money comes down to Clark’s from time to time, and the rest of the time Moses relies on the steady custom of hustlers and grifters and entrepreneurs that make Clark’s a full house from 11 A.M. to 11 A.M. day after day.

  So Murdock and me go through the door and into the part of Clark’s that counts. It’s pretty much alive and our presence doesn’t slow it down any. The hustlers don’t stop hustling and the grifters don’t stop grifting and the games keep going. Moses and his little gang are perched up on the two-foot-high area at the far end of the room. Murdock and me don’t make for that area but instead we move toward the curved bar. There are no vacant stools but Murdock moves in front of me and stands behind two small-time fags, saying to them, “Those high stools, you know, they’re not too good for your balls. Could easy get them busted on those narrow seats.”

  They both turn and give Murdock the face but they’re not going to be consistent and they slide off and slide away leaving Murdock and me to take their places. Murdock dusts his seat off before he sits down.

  “I can’t take talcum powder on a dark suit,” he says. “It’s hell to get off.”

  “Yeah,” I say, “especially talcum powder that’s mobile.”

  So we’re sat down and it’s the usual thing about us trying to get served, being cops, while all the free spenders are pushing it over the counter. There are three people behind the bar, all like Moses, one a queen of spades with silver hair and the other two young guys who look as though they’d sway from the smoke of your cigarette. But they’re all very good at studiously ignoring a couple of pigs who only want a couple of small drinks to wash the company down with. So in the end Murdock demonstrates how pissed off we both are by picking up the glass jug that holds the water, swinging it away from the counter and dropping it on the floor. For that we get the nigger and we’re about to get Moses as well. The nigger drifts down the counter in our direction and you’ve got to hand it to him, he does a very nice thing; he looks for all the world as though he’s on his way to attend to us, but just before he gets there he pretends that a different member of the clientele has caught his eye, and he makes a big deal out of making the drink just right, with all the crap. That takes another three or four minutes, and then he fixes his divine presence in front of us, a nice, faint smile on his lips, just to underline the fact that we know that he knows what he’s dealing with.

  “Well,” he says, “I guess it’s about time you two made an appearance. We was all wondering if maybe you’d been taken out or something like that. You know, by enemies of society.”

  By now Moses has shifted his great bulk over to where we are and he’s making a big production out of not stepping his slippered feet in the pieces of glass.

  “Hello Moses,” I say to him. “I never knew you could danc
e.”

  Moses is around six three and wider than me and Murdock put together, but the voice that issues from his lips is as thin as a Confederate dollar.

  “Yeah,” he says, “and I can tromp, too. That I’m good at.”

  “I’ve heard that,” I say.

  The nigger queen says, “Do I serve the gentlemen, Mr. Moses?”

  “Oh sure,” Moses says. “Give them all they want. That way they leave me alone because they frighten me, you know, they really do.”

  “And what would you gentlemen like?” the bartender says.

  “I thought you’d never ask,” Murdock says. “A piece of your ass with brown sugar if you’ve got it.”

  His eyes go slitty and he has to stand there while Murdock and me sit grinning at him. In the end Murdock says, “Give us some vodka and some scotch in separate, clean glasses. And one for yourself and Mr. Moses.”

  “Moses,” I say, “why don’t you sit down? I got something to talk to you about.”

  “I don’t like sitting down with pigs,” Moses says.

  “I know that,” I tell him. “I know how you feel, but why not force yourself just this once. I really do have something to say.”

  Moses shrugs and says, “Up there. There’s more room.”

  Moses turns away and makes for the raised area, Murdock and me following after him.

  Sitting at the table are Agnes and Marcia dressed like twins in white blouses and white slacks, half full glasses of Pernod in front of them, and when we get to the table the one called Agnes says, “And I was wondering what I was going to have to do to get an introduction.”

  “I know,” says Marcia. “I know the feeling. You didn’t know how you were going to live with yourself if you hadn’t of.”

  “Beat it,” Moses says to them. “Save the jokes for when I tell you.”

  The girls get up and leave the table and Murdock and me sit down in their places. Moses sits down too and the black queen brings the drinks, sets the tray down and goes back to tend to his bar and his customers.