Time passed, and Laura slowly found herself gravitating toward Janet and away from Diane, who by now was resting an acquisitive hand on Laura's forearm. When Diane finally left the table for a few minutes to go to the restroom, Janet moved next to Laura and spoke to her softly, while the other women chattered on. "I'd love to go upstairs with you," she said.
"Upstairs?" Laura repeated dumbly.
"Diane is as cold a lover as she looks. But you and I . . . I think it could be very lovely." Janet touched Laura's cheek and smiled softly. "Let's be gone when she comes back."
Janet stood up and took Laura's hand. Laura stood dizzily, and the other women looked at them with a kind of grudging acceptance that told Laura that she was not the first woman to go upstairs with Janet.
The climb up the stairs was something out of a dream. Laura led and Janet followed, her hands on Laura's hips as they ascended. At the top, Janet took the lead once more, and they went down a long hall and into a cavernous and dimly lit room which seemed to Laura's hazy vision to contain nothing but a bed, a giant four-poster that swayed like a ship. She sat down on it at Janet's guidance, and the woman began to caress her bare arms, then move her hands lightly over Laura's breasts. Laura froze, unable to respond, unable to stand or protest the touches that became more intimate.
The beautiful woman with the violet eyes fell to her knees by the side of the bed, and Laura watched as she moved a hand between Laura's bare legs and up the roundness of her thighs, then extend her tongue and lick, very lightly, behind Laura's knee. Laura trembled, not with the warm ecstasy that she had known with Kitty, but with shame and fear.
"No . . ." she whimpered. "No, please . . ."
Now Janet's right hand touched the hem of Laura's panties, and her left hand touched her right breast, circling the nipple through the thin cotton blouse, making it harden involuntarily as the violet-eyed woman's fingers slipped beneath the fabric, touching Laura's sex, exploring the folds, the crevices that refused to moisten, that fear would not allow to be made damp.
Laura sat as still as stone, refusing to fall backward, and when Janet looked up curiously at her, Laura told her to stop, and she did, puzzled, confusion and annoyance on her face. Laura stood up, clutching her purse, which she had grabbed when they had left the table and not released since. She rearranged her clothing, edged her way past Janet, and went downstairs, where she put a twenty dollar bill on the bar, and walked out past the inquisitive eyes of the women at the table, out onto the steps, closing the door behind her, and then down to the street, where she walked two blocks before she had to stop, cling to an iron cage around a tree, and throw up her entire dinner, all the drinks, all the humiliation.
Laura stood panting for another few minutes, her head throbbing, then walked slowly down to the next corner, where the bright lights told her that she had come out of the residential district, away from the brownstones. A cab came by, and she weakly hailed it.
It took her back to the Hyatt, where she went directly to her room, stripped, and took a scalding shower. Afterwards, she vomited again, into the toilet, and fell into bed. She awoke before dawn, felt the peristalsis begin, and managed to reach the plastic wastebasket in time. In the morning, still sick, she washed the wastebasket out in the tub. As the detritus was swept away, she stared into the swirling eye of the water and began to cry, her head resting on the cool, white porcelain. She cried for a long time, then cleaned herself up, got dressed, and went back into the world.
The worth I credited him with, the cleverness, the goodness, the everything!
—Alexander Smith, Dreamthorp
"Life is good, Freddy," said Danny Vernon, taking another toke. "Music is good, pussy is good, life is good."
"Yeah, well, too much reefer ain't good, Danny. Don't be smokin' too much of that shit before we done playin', you hear?"
"Hell, nah, it ain't too much. You want a little more?" Danny held out the joint to Freddy. There was a good inch and a half left to it.
"No. Neither do you."
"Shit, Freddy, you gettin' to be like my old lady. How 'bout you, Johnny?" Danny held out the joint to the boy, who shook his head politely.
"No thanks, Danny. I'll stick to the beer."
Goddam, but he was a funny kid, Danny thought. Not that there was anything funny about turning down reefer, hell, a lot of folks were against anything that made their bodies goofy these days. It was something about his eyes, the way he looked at Danny sometimes when he didn't think Danny was looking at him. Shit, Johnny seemed nice enough—had come to hear them every night for a week now, knew his jazz like a true disciple, even though he didn't play anything himself. Finally on Wednesday night, Danny started to invite him backstage between sets.
Not that it was much of a backstage, just a little area with a john, a few worn-out easy chairs, a couch, and a bunch of pedestal ashtrays. But at least it was someplace where you could smoke reefer or snort a line of coke when a well-heeled jazz buff slipped you a gram or two as payment for a request. Johnny seemed to like it just fine, and acted, Danny told Freddy later, as though he'd been given an audience with the goddam Pope or something.
Al Joss, the pianist the group was named after, asked Danny what the hell he meant by bringing somebody backstage, but after Johnny talked to him for awhile, the man was won over, and now spent as much time with him as any of them. Only Sam, the drummer, seemed to have no time for the kid, and when he found him backstage, went out to the bar without a word. "Fuck 'im," Danny told Johnny, when the boy seemed pained by the rebuff. "Nigger hasn't smiled since Bird died. Says he's in a state of 'perpetual mourning,' but I think the cocksucker's just a prick. Ignore 'im."
After the sessions were over, they would sit at the bar and chatter until closing, then go home, although Johnny never said where he lived. But tonight was Friday, and Fridays, dammit, were special for Danny Vernon and Freddy Jefferson. Al and Sam still went home on Fridays, just like every other night, but Friday night (or Saturday morning) was pussy for Danny and Freddy. They'd been doing it for seven years now, and as Danny pushed back the plastic curtain that separated their little green room from the john and tossed the roach into the toilet bowl, he wondered if maybe they might not have a third party along this Friday night.
He suggested it to Freddy between the numbers of the last set, and the bass man's black face turned into a webwork of quizzical wrinkles. "You think he like dark meat, man?"
Danny shrugged. "If he's ever had it, he can't help but like it, and if he ain't had it, I think we owe it to the boy to increase his education."
Finally the set ended, and Danny and Freddy met Johnny at the bar, where he was waiting for them. Danny liked the way the kid's face lit up when he saw the two jazzmen, and he signaled to the bartender to bring them their usual, but Danny held up a hand.
"Whoa, not tonight, Johnny, my man. Tonight's more special than Michelob, know what I'm sayin'? We goin' someplace different tonight, and you're invited to come along with us."
Johnny's face grew puzzled, almost angry, Danny thought, as though he were upset that the traditional drinks and talk would be someplace else. Danny smiled as he thought happily that this could be the start of a whole new tradition for Johnny. Shit, maybe a whole new way of life, once he was initiated into the pleasures of Miss Minnie's. Once you split the black oak, oh my yes . . .
"Where?" Johnny asked, disappointment in his voice.
"Little place we know," Freddy answered, his grin almost neon in its intensity.
"You'll like it," Danny said. "Swear to God, son."
Something even weirder than usual came over the kid's face then, and Danny wondered what the hell he had said to cause it. The kid was spooky, no shit, but there was something about him Danny couldn't help but like.
No, he thought that maybe like wasn't the right word. Something he was drawn to was closer, wasn't it? Yeah, it sure was. He hoped to hell he wasn't getting queer in his old age, but then he thought of Peaches lying on her back, her l
egs spread and her huge titties flopping to either side, dark brown nipples against those white, white sheets, and decided that being queer was the least of his worries.
"Yeah," Johnny said, "but where?"
"Min-nie's," Freddy pronounced polysyllabically, and gave an expectant and theatrical shudder.
"What, like a jazz place?"
"Jazz is right," laughed Danny. "Jazz all night."
"Yeah?" Johnny smiled weakly. "Sounds good. Is this like a blues place? I mean, like Memphis Minnie, you know?"
"This is Chicago Minnie," Freddy told the kid, laying a hand on his shoulder. "You gonna find it . . . different."
"But good," Danny added. "Come on. We take Freddy's car."
Freddy's car was a 1968 red Cadillac limo, impeccably appointed and freshly waxed. Freddy drove, Johnny sat in the front seat, and Danny stretched out in the back, smiling in the darkness at the kid's reaction to the car. "Is this like a limo?" Johnny asked.
Freddy nodded. "I used to drive this—was a chauffeur when I wasn't playin', you know? The main man died and left it to me in his will, you believe that? I took it glad enough, though I painted her red. Looked like a fuckin' hearse when it was black. They call it a stretch limo, and let me tell you, boy, a lot of women been stretched out in that backseat."
"That why it smell like fish back here, Freddy?" Danny said.
"You got it. Don't stick to the seat now."
"Bullshit. You keep this car cleaner than a rich baby's ass."
"How, uh . . ." Johnny cleared his throat. "How many miles to the gallon do you get in something like this?"
"Shit, two, three, I don't know. Never checked. Don't matter, though. All I do's drive around town anyway."
"So, Johnny," Danny asked after a few minutes of silence had passed, "what you think of the Blue Light so far?"
He could see Johnny's head nodding. "Great place. Great music especially. How did you guys ever get together?"
"Why shouldn't we have?" Danny asked.
"Well, I mean, uh . . . I guess I meant . . ."
"You meant since Al and I are white and Freddy and Sam are black?"
"No, no! No, I didn't mean that."
"It's okay, kid," Danny said. "Jazz is a lot more ready to mix the races than most other things in this fuckin' society. Besides, I'm just a white nigger anyway." Freddy chuckled softly, and Danny laughed in response, then went on. "I like black people. I like their music—because jazz is their music—the best jazz, anyway. I like the way they walk, and talk, and the way their women can love you. I work with black folk, and I'm married to a black woman."
"You're married?" the kid asked.
"That's right. Never know it, would you? Been married four times too. Each bitch was worse than the one before, but I still kept doin' it. I shoulda stuck with the first one, I guess. She was the best of a bad lot." Danny didn't know why he was telling the kid all this, but now that he had started, he figured he might as well go ahead. "Funny thing is that she was the only white one too. Though she looked dark. She was part Indian—Seminole, not curry-breath Indian, you know? Hell, I could believe it, the way she used to whoop when we were doin' it. Christ, that was back in Orleans, must've been what, twenty-five years ago? She died a long time ago. We never did get a divorce. I think I married Eula before I found out my first wife died, so I guess I must've been a bigamist for a while. Never got arrested anyway, and it's too late now. Statute of limitations long run out."
"Statute of limitations?" Freddy said. "I thought that's what you use to figure out if a girl is old enough to fuck or not."
"Oh, did I forget?" Danny said to Johnny. "I love nigger humor too. Well, kid, I told you all about myself, what about you?"
"What about me?"
"Nothin' personal if you don't want. How about jazz? Why you like jazz so fuckin' much?"
Johnny looked out the window at the lights flashing by. "I don't know. The sound of it, I guess. And the life."
"The life? What you mean, the life?" Freddy asked.
"It's like . . . like dying young and beautiful."
"Well, you with the wrong bunch, Johnny," Danny said. "We ain't young and we sure as shit ain't beautiful."
"Speak for yourself, brother," Freddy said, chuckling.
"No, no," Johnny said. "I just mean that so many of them—Bird and Coltrane, Bud Powell, Dolphy, Clifford Brown—they died so young. Left so much."
"We living proof you can grow old in jazz," Freddy said. "And what about Ellington and Sidney Bechet and Louis Armstrong? And Dexter Gordon's still around—made a goddam movie. Becomes a movie star in his sixties. Man, there's lope for me yet."
"I meant . . ." Johnny went on, "I just meant that it seems . . . romantic."
"Nothin' romantic about dyin' young," Danny said. "Or dyin' old."
They drove several more blocks, and Freddy pulled into in all-night parking lot, handed the attendant three bucks, and locked the doors. "Gotta lock up here. Spics'll rob you blind."
Danny watched Johnny as they walked up the street. The kid was curious, he could tell, but also jumpy as hell, and Danny patted him on the shoulder. "Relax, son," he said. "Everything be cool."
They stopped in front of a long, rectangular building that looked like an apartment house and went into the lobby. An old black man in a doorman's uniform sat on a folding chair, and smiled at them with yellow teeth as they walked to the elevator. "Howya doin' tonight, Frank?" Freddy said.
"Good, good, now don't you dip it too deep tonight," the doorman said, and cackled like a woman.
"Ain't no such a thing as too deep at Minnie's," Danny answered, and the old man cackled again and slapped his thigh.
"Frank's been here longer than dirt," said Freddy as the elevator doors closed on them. "Long's I been coming here anyway."
Johnny cleared his throat. "There's, uh . . . there's no sign out front."
Both older men laughed. "Not the kind of place you advertise," Danny said. "Sort of a word-of-mouth kind of place."
"Yeah, mouth is right," Freddy agreed. "Mouth and a whole lotta other places too."
Danny looked closely at Johnny. "You kiddin', son? You really don't know what this is?"
Johnny nodded. "I think so. A whorehouse."
"Now you talkin'," Freddy said.
Danny waved a hand at Freddy to be quiet. "Just a minute." Then he turned to Johnny. "That bother you, Johnny? You rather not come with us? Because, I mean, we thought you'd enjoy it. But if you ain't, well, you don't have to come along." The elevator stopped, but Danny pushed the button to hold the doors closed. "You know?"
Danny felt uncomfortable as he looked into Johnny's eyes. He couldn't tell if the boy was angry or frightened or upset or feeling some other emotion that he couldn't read.
"I'll come," he said finally, and Danny took his finger off the elevator button.
The doors opened and they stepped out into a utilitarian hall walled with concrete blocks painted yellow. "Down this way," Danny said. "Minnie's got this whole floor. Used to be part of a housing development. Built back in the early sixties. Then it got trashed and regentrified, but Minnie's been here all these years."
Danny tried hard not to grin. He was sure that Johnny was picturing a fat, black madam dressed in feathers and silk—a mixture of Mammy and Belle Watkins in Gone with the Wind. So when the door opened and Minnie stood there, tall and svelte and dressed in a white satin gown that hugged every curve and yelled bullshit to her fifty-plus years, he bit back chuckle and patted Johnny on the shoulder. "Evening, Minnie. We've brought along a friend tonight. His name's Johnny."
"Well, isn't that nice," Minnie said in a husky voice, smiling a smile that once could have had half the men—white and black—of Chicago down on their knees to lick her toes. "We'll take good care of him." She tilted her head and gazed at Johnny, and Danny wondered what she saw there. "You a little nervous, Johnny?" Johnny shook his head. "Well, good. You don't have to be. My girls are all safe. They get blood tests once a
month for AIDS, and nobody does a thing without a condom. I hope that's all right with you?" Johnny nodded again. "The girls have them, so you don't have to run out to the drugstore or anything." She turned to Danny. "Peaches is ready, Danny. And Freddy, Sheila is waiting for fyou." Then she looked appraisingly at Johnny. "Johnny—I think maybe Cindy would suit you. Very young, very pretty. you'll like her. You two veterans, you know where to go. Johnny, you come with me."
Minnie led the boy away then, and Danny watched him go. There was something about the way his shoulders were set, some indication of tension Danny read in his back, that made him wonder if he had really done the right thing bringing him here. Then he remembered Cindy. Although he had never been with her, he had talked to her a few times. She was a sweet girl, kind and gentle. If anyone could settle Johnny down, it would be Cindy.
Cindy Jackson was tired. She had had four men already that night, beginning at eight o'clock. Two had been regular clients, older men who were undemanding, predictable, and tired easily, the type of man she could ball all night and still have energy enough for tennis the next morning.
But the other two had been young and full of juice, all of which, she truly believed, they had sprayed into their condoms. The first had used two, apparently not getting enough the first time, and wanting anal sex for the encore. She didn't like it that way, but if they used a rubber and paid enough, she allowed it, trying to make her moans of discomfort sound like moans of passion. That was very important, Miss Minnie had always told her. No matter if it hurts so much you scream, darlin', make it a scream of passion, and they'll love you for it. And after all, she'd never been hurt, not really. That type of man didn't come to Minnie's.
There was a quiet knock on the door of her room, and she sat up on the bed, patting her hair into place, and crossed her legs demurely. "Come in," she called.
The door opened, and Minnie stood there, a tall and good-looking white boy behind her. "Cindy, honey, this is Johnny. It's his first time here, so you be real sweet to him, all right?"
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