Drumsticks

by Charlotte Carter

  The farmers market was lovely with winter flowers and exotic pears and apples and brown breads warm from the oven. I walked among the stalls and continued to flash the photo at the regulars. No one knew Miller.

  Man. That guy must have been a genius at covering his tracks—and his ass. Maybe he and Ida had both done the crimes. But it was only Ida who’d done the time. Miller had no prison record.

  I had a reunion with my greasy old boyfriend, as Ida had teasingly referred to him. The homeless old gent who cadged money from shoppers and ran errands for some of the vendors pinned me down as I was leaving the park.

  “Can you help me out?” he asked. “I’m this close!” The smell of alcohol and unwashed privates rose up off him like bayou swamp gas.

  “This close to what?”

  He opened his hand and showed me the six or seven quarters in his palm. “A Big Mac,” he said. “I just need—”

  I slapped a dollar bill into his hand. “Here you go. Don’t you buy anymore juice with that.”

  The day was getting away from me. I ran over to Aubrey’s hair guy, who bitched and fussed about the lack of notice but wound up giving me a terrific super-short haircut.

  Back at home, I mixed and matched every piece of clothing I owned. Finally I settled on—surprise—all black. A reliable old skinny dress that showed off my butt and legs but wasn’t too dressy.

  Shit, why should I sweat it? Dan would probably be turning more eyes than I would anyway.

  We were having dinner, of course. But our first stop was a little hole-in-the-wall theater in Hell’s Kitchen, where an old friend of Dan’s was having his play done. “Don’t worry,” Dan had assured me. “It’s only one act. And funny, not heavy.”

  He didn’t lie. I laughed out loud a couple of times; I’d seen lots worse. Even with the obligatory meet and greet the author, we were out of there and claiming our corner table at the French seafood restaurant on King Street less than ninety minutes after the curtain went up.

  It smelled just right in there: garlic! butter! Coltrane on the sound system. Low lights anointed Dan’s skin—and mine, if I was lucky—like an adoring handmaiden in a Renaissance painting.

  I laid down one rule. “No talking about me when I was Daddy’s favorite little whiz kid.”

  “I can live with that,” he said. “I’d much rather hear about your latest adventure in Paris anyway,” he said.

  Oh no, I told him firmly. That subject was also taboo. The last thing I wanted to do was relive my busted affair with Andre, let alone the Vivian nightmare.

  His curiosity about my Paris trip made me realize that Daddy must have kept the story of Vivian’s death a secret from him. So maybe he and Hinton weren’t quite so tight as I had thought. Maybe Dan didn’t even know “Eddie” had a sister.

  We still found plenty to talk about over our funky bouillabaisse, endive salad, and house red. Like both of us often being lonesome and desperate as the only child. Both of us often being lonesome and desperate as black Ivy Leaguers—him some ten or twelve years before me. Both of us having a taskmaster for a father, a striver for whom failure was not an option—not for himself and not for his child.

  I was letting my guard down. Maybe even showing off a little. It was risky to tell him about playing on the street. Neither of my parents knew about it. But I did it anyway. I knew he’d never rat me out to my father. He was too proud of his image as the good guy grown-up.

  “Are you serious!” was his immediate reaction to my revelation. Equal parts shock and admiration.

  Just the kind of response that little Nan craved.

  I was off and running with stories about the fantastic assortment of characters I’d met on the street; the narrow escapes from muggers; the all-night parties with musicians and assorted other fiends; the sax player I’d picked up who ended up dead on my kitchen floor. Escapade after escapade, any one of which would curl my daddy’s hair if he knew about it.

  I painted myself as a cross between La Femme Nikita and Edith Piaf. Danny Boy was eating it up. Much raucous laughter emanating from our little corner.

  “That’s incredible stuff, Nan. You’re really fierce.”

  I probably batted an eyelid or two.

  “No, I mean it,” he said. “You’re so different from the picture I had of you. I mean, based on what I know about Eddie—and the things he says about you.”

  “You thought I’d be a black debutante, didn’t you? A real BAP.”

  He fumbled for a politic answer.

  “That’s okay, I forgive you,” I said. “I figured you for one, too.”

  Yes, I’d say my guard was definitely lowered. Somehow it no longer seemed important to dislike Dan Hinton just because my father did like him.

  A mustachioed waiter went whizzing by with the dessert cart. Maybe a real femme on a first date would pass on dessert. But I got a good look at that pear tart and I knew I had to have it.

  We shared it, laughing all the way through the last dollop of cream. I saw Dan raise his hand. But he wasn’t calling for the check, or even for that end-of-the-night espresso. Instead he ordered another bottle of wine, with my hearty approval.

  I was just as agreeable when he moved out of his chair and onto the small banquette with me.

  We were only one glass into the new bottle when he mentioned that he was divorced.

  “She left you, you said?”

  He nodded.

  “So—what was the matter with her?”

  I was gambling with that line, hoping he would realize I was making a joke.

  He did. And after enjoying his laugh, he took my fingers and kissed them lightly, and thanked me for saying that.

  It took a long time for him to release my hand. He didn’t let go, in fact, until after he had kissed me lightly on the mouth. So very lightly that in the kiss there was just as much hello, dear cousin as there was sexual interest. The thing sent a tiny tremor across my top lip. I didn’t kiss back, I didn’t not kiss back.

  I had a bit more wine and then said, “You’ve been with a lot of women, haven’t you? Had sex with a lot of women, I mean—to be blunt.”

  I could see him calculating, trying to figure what kind of answer I wanted to hear.

  In the end he merely shrugged and said, “Yeah.”

  Well, that was honest. Kind of like my father—you gotta tell the truth even when it might work against you, and certainly without regard to how it might affect anybody else.

  “Is that what happened with your marriage—too many other women?”

  I had made another joke, unintentionally. If you’re married to a guy, how many other women does it take to add up to “too many”?

  “We didn’t break up over sex,” he said, and I thought I caught a trace of patronization in his tone. “I know you think I’m Mr. Straight Arrow. But from the very beginning Michele and I had an understanding about attractions to other people. Michele was very enlightened about it. We had a more or less open marriage, as they used to call it.”

  Loosely translated: I was a real boody fiend.

  So Michele merely smiled and said skip that lipstick, eh? Ha.

  I averted my head until I could wipe the smirk off my lips. Was I being unfair to Dan Hinton? People were hard on pretty men. It just seems so difficult to believe anything they say. Maybe it was an especially thorny problem for pretty black men, a lot of whom—let’s face it—don’t give too much of a shit whether you believe them or not. They know you’re going to give it up anyhow, am I lying?

  My attention had wandered a little. Dan was winding up his explanation of why he and Michele had split. I caught only the part about her not being able to accept that he had no intention of quitting his job to work for a corporation.

  We got back to more immediate matters: a police raid on the wrong apartment that had ended in the death of a young man and his girlfriend, the names we gave as children to our imaginary siblings, did I really hate my dad’s wife Amy or was it just the idea of her, what did I
think of Wynton Marsalis.

  It was late, one-thirty, when we paid up and left the restaurant. The manager bid us good night and bolted the door behind us.

  We stood on the sidewalk, close together, not talking.

  After a while he drew me to him, another kiss, not much cousin in that one.

  “Should I put you in a cab?” he asked.

  I thought about it for a second and then shook my head.

  “Walk you home?”

  “We could walk,” I said, “but not home.”

  He didn’t quite know what I meant. Even so, sexual anticipation flicked on in his eyes. I couldn’t blame him. This was the moment when two people who’ve had a great evening together decide yes or no.

  “I don’t think you should see me home,” I said.

  “Why?”

  “Because I’d probably ask you upstairs and jump straight into the sack with you.”

  “And that would be bad because …?”

  I laughed. “Yeah, I know, I didn’t really answer you.”

  “Is it because of Eddie? Because I work for him?”

  “Believe me, it’s not that. I just—shouldn’t—tonight,” I said. “Look, we’re only a few blocks from where my friend Aubrey works. I think I’ll stop in over there. Maybe I’ll spend the night at her place.”

  Gentleman Dan pushed no further. We turned south on Sixth Avenue. The wind nipped mildly at his open raincoat and he kept me near to him with an arm over my shoulder.

  “This is it,” I said when we arrived at Caesar’s Go Go Emporium.

  “Are you serious!” he asked for the second time that evening.

  “Yes,” I said. “This is where Aubrey works. Exotic dancing, I think they call it.”

  Caesar’s was as lurid as ever. Dirty windows outlined in blinking red bulbs, the vile back beat of disco music booming out through the door and onto the street.

  “Gross, isn’t it?” I said.

  Dan shook his head, the weirdest grin on his face.

  “I’m safe going in by myself,” I told him. “They’ve got bouncers up the wahzoo in here. Besides, what if Aubrey’s on now? You’ll get one look at her bod and forget all about me.”

  “Not a chance,” he said.

  Shock. Puzzlement. Titillation. All there on his face.

  Was I enjoying this. At last, I was the cool kid who was always leading everybody else into sin.

  “Why don’t you call it a night, Dan. I’ll speak to you.”

  “I’m going in with you.”

  “Okay. Come on in.”

  We made our way through the smoke-filled room. Men. Everywhere you turned. Young and old. Most of them drunk.

  Dan said, straining to be heard above the din, “The mayor doesn’t like strippers. What’s your friend going to do if they start enforcing the law about places like this?”

  I thought about it for a minute, and shrugged. “Maybe Alvin Ailey?”

  As we were laughing about that, we heard a squeal of delight from somewhere behind us. “Smash! What up?” the voice said.

  I turned to see Justin hurrying toward us.

  Now, I would have predicted that a drink-and-chat meeting between Dan Hinton and the always outrageous Justin might well turn into a major surrealist event. But I was wrong. Mostly because Justin fell into near rapturous silence and let Dan do most of the chatting. By God, Dan Hinton had, like me, been raised by some rock-solid middle-class Negroes: he could keep up a polite line of small talk with just about anybody—even while they were staring at his crotch.

  About a quarter to three, I convinced Dan to go home. I was exhausted and wanted to lie down in Aubrey’s dressing room until she was changed and ready to leave. She was so busy that night she didn’t even know I was in the house. But, I said teasingly to Dan, “I’ll introduce you to her next time.”

  He kissed me good night like a rutting musk ox. I suppose the endless parade of naked female flesh, together with the testosterone in the air and the mild attack of homosexual panic that Justin had probably evoked, all contributed to his fervid embrace.

  So ended my dream date.

  Justin wore a filthy expression.

  “Down, boy,” I said. “The live sex act is over.”

  “Child, where did you get that man?” he said. “You must be paying Mama Lou time and a half. I want that fucking doll back, you hear me?”

  “Put your tongue back in your head, J.” Aubrey was suddenly at my side. “Nanette, where did you get that man who just left out of here?”

  Last dance, like the song says.

  The naked girls were all finished for the night and the cleaning people were sweeping the floor and stacking the chairs.

  What time was it when I ate dinner? Nine or so. I had no business being hungry again, but there I was at the bar sharing an order of moo goo gai pan with Justin. The Chinese place off Canal Street never closed.

  Aubrey was backstage cleaning herself up.

  “Love is in the air,” J said with a sigh, making his chopsticks do a little dance across the bar surface. “Mama Lou is working those roots.”

  “Oh, you think so, huh?”

  “Yes, I do. Me and Kenny. You and Daniel. Love is all around and you’re gonna make it after all, Smash-up. We’re going to have a fabulous holiday season.”

  “Yeah. Fa-la-la.”

  “Speaking of Madam Lou and her magic, is there any news since our little enterprise uptown?” he asked. “Still trying to prove that Ida Williams was deliberately offed?”

  “Still trying to find out exactly what happened. Ida wasn’t exactly Miss Jane Pittman, turns out. She’d been in prison. Loveless doesn’t think I’m quite so crazy now for being suspicious. I don’t know much about the investigation. This pain-in-the-ass cop I know is supposed to be keeping me up-to-date on things. But I had to do something for him first. He’s kind of got me over a barrel.”

  Raised eyebrow. “My, my. Sounds promising.”

  “Don’t you ever stop, J?” I threw the fortune cookie at him.

  “Okay. I’ll stop. Are you ready for our next adventure?”

  “What adventure is that?”

  “Girl, don’t pretend like you forgot about it.”

  “I’m not pretending. What on earth are you talking about?”

  “We’re putting on the feedbag with Kenny tomorrow. You know—lunch? Crab cakes? Champagnes? You promised you’d go. He’s taking us to Miss Mary’s, our fave fag bar and grill.”

  “I did? Tomorrow? Oh, shit, listen, J. I don’t have a lot of time for drunches these days.”

  Drunch was Justin’s contribution to the English language, a term describing a lunch that emphasized drinks over food.

  In an appeal for pity I added, “I’m really beat, man. I thought I’d sleep in tomorrow and then try to run down that old clipping we found, the one from that Cleveland newspaper.”

  “You promised, Smash-up. Kenny’s going to be crushed if you don’t.”

  “Okay, okay. Champagne it is.”

  “Not champagne—champagnes.”

  “All right, Tinkerbell. As long as the grapes don’t come from New York States.”

  CHAPTER 10

  I Remember You

  Justin lived in the East Village, not far from me, maybe ten minutes walking. But I’d never been to his apartment and he had never been to mine.

  Knowing his campy self, I expected not so much an apartment as a theme park. And the theme might have been anything from Motown to Bette Davis to gay serial killers. But, just like the way things turned out at Ida’s apartment, I was totally off the mark.

  His place was off Avenue A, on the fifth floor of a well-maintained old building with rococo ironwork across the lobby and the elevator doors. The apartment was sparsely furnished in restful colors playing off one another like a wry take on a Japanese tea ceremony: lapsong souchong, bitter brown, strong green tea, mint, celadon, eggshell. One or two lovingly restored antique pieces. In the front room, rice paper shades
admitted that muted but strangely tactile light peculiar to the Lower East Side.

  I’d told Justin I would pick him up about eleven-thirty and we’d catch a cab over to the West Side where Kenny worked, at the southern end of Hell’s Kitchen.

  I oohed and aahed over his gorgeous all-nickel bathroom while he put the finishing touches on his outfit: he had to find a pair of socks that picked up that speck of color in his tie.

  “By the way, what happened,” I asked in the taxi, “to break your unbroken record with boyfriends? I thought you only dated black men or Italians.”

  “Ain’t it funny? I’m with a regular white-bread guy who could just as well be me. I don’t know. I met him at Mother Mary’s one night and—bang zoom—I was in love. You know what I mean, Smash-up?”

  I only nodded. Not because I wasn’t listening. And not because I didn’t care about his love-at-first-sight gushings. I had suddenly choked up. I was thinking about Andre. Thoughts about him and Paris and our time together there came at me that way, in quick, impossibly sad little bursts.

  I pushed those memories away, hard, and looked over at Justin.

  “Aside from all the jokes, you love him, do you?” I asked.

  “Yeah, I guess I do. He’s just a palooka who takes my money and makes me call him honey. But he’s my palooka.”

  “He borrows money from you?”

  “A few bucks. When he’s between jobs. The boy is naturally extravagant. I like that in a man.”

  “Well, I hope you know what you’re doing.”

  He leaned in close and said, “Baby, I don’t care.”

  I did a loud, bad imitation of Lady Day—“O mah man, I love him so, he’ll nevuh know”—and got a frightened look from the driver in the rearview.

  Miss Mary’s was a welcome refuge from the grunge of the street. The unmistakable aroma of martinis hit us as we swung in the door.

  Kenny slid out of the booth to greet us. He wore a finely cut jacket over a black T-shirt and dark pants. Light, close-cropped hair. That lanky Midwestern look. About the same age as Justin—well, J had never specifically revealed his age to me, but I figured him for thirty-nine or forty. Anyway, as J had told me, Kenny was a lot like him, even down to the hint of hard living in the corners of his eyes.