The End of Billy Knight

by Ty Jacob

  Steve, she knew, wouldn’t be home. Much to her delight his new lover walked out to greet them wearing a pair of red Speedos. He looked like a carbon copy of Steve’s last lover, only slightly younger: cute, blond, tanned and muscular, but not so big as to make Steve look puny.

  Sasha climbed out of the car and greeted him with her arms in the air and a smile on her face, as though she’d known him forever. “Why hello you gorgeous thing you! You must be the new edition.”

  After introductions – the new lover’s name was Marcus – Sasha explained that she had to run home to change and pick up a few things. “See you boys at the restaurant at nine!” she yelled, and drove off.

  She was disappointed that Mike wasn’t home when she got there, because she wanted to give him his presents right away. She changed into a dress that matched the Mexican flag, with ruffled folds of red, white and green, and then inspected herself in the mirror. Yes, perfect. She opened the drawer of her vanity and reached in, picking up the small glass bottle that contained the chicken juice from last night. She held it to the light.

  There was, of course, no guarantee. She knew from talking to Doctor Barbara that results could range from absolutely nothing to extreme and dangerous illness. What she hoped for was something in the middle, but it was a risk she was willing to take. Her biggest concern was that illness didn’t occur for two to five days after infection. If it didn’t happen quickly, it would be too late. She dropped the bottle into a small woven handbag and headed out the door.

  Sasha arrived at El Mexicano ten minutes early in order to make sure everything was ready. She slid past the scrawny hostess at the front door with not so much as a nod. In the kitchen, Jorge greeted her with open arms and a big “Hola!”

  “Hola, doll. Now, listen here. You need some better signage out front. How about this?” She gestured upwards toward an imaginary billboard. “It would be in big letters, so everyone can see it from a distance. ‘El Mexicano: Burritos as big as your head.’”

  Jorge smiled and set his hand on his belly, which had grown considerably over the years. “Yes, Sasha. I like it. You’re always good to me. May I use it?”

  “Of course. Now let me get to work. I’ve got important people coming tonight. Big directors and producers, you know.”

  Jorge looked impressed.

  She asked quickly about the specials for the evening, set her handbag down in the small hallway that led from the kitchen to the dining area, and got busy. She went around straightening and polishing the silverware, fluffing Jorge’s new cloth napkins, and making sure the wooden tabletop was spotless. Everything had to be perfect. She ordered a pitcher of margaritas from the bar and placed it in the middle of the table.

  When Steve and his entourage arrived, she stepped in front of the hostess and greeted everyone individually with dramatic kisses to the air. Before she kissed Marcus she said, “Oh, I almost didn’t recognize you with your clothes on.” She turned to Steve and added, “You’ve got a hot little number here, boss!” She smacked Marcus on the ass and Steve looked proud, as though someone were admiring his new thoroughbred horse.

  Sasha herself led everyone to the table, although she let the emaciated hostess carry the menus. Then Sasha made a big show of telling them all where to sit. Steve was at the head of the table and Marcus at the other end. She sat Blane on Steve’s left and then herself on his right. “So I can be close to the kitchen,” she said. Max and Phil were on either side of Marcus. The effect was of a table that separated things according to their kind – the directors from the models, the watchers from the watched, the desirous from the desired.

  The hostess began telling everyone about the specials when Sasha interrupted. “Don’t you worry, honey. I’ll tell them the specials. I already talked to Jorge.” Then she dismissed the skeletal creature with a wave of her hand.

  Max pointed to a picture on the wall. “Hey, Sasha. That’s you.”

  Ever since Sasha left, Jorge had been covering the walls with glossy head shots of every drag queen who ever worked there, interspersed with large tourist posters of Mexico. A photograph showing a much younger Sasha was near the entrance, overlooking the hostess stand.

  “Yeah. I got my start as a drag queen here,” she told Max, who was smiling in his dim-witted way. “This whole Mexicano drag queen shtick is because of me.”

  Phil spoke up then, gazing at Sasha. “That’s really great, Sasha. You’re great.”

  Sasha suspected that if the boy wasn’t already putting on dresses, he would be soon. “You’re very sweet, doll. Thanks,” she said, feeling a small stab of guilt for what she was about to do.

  She began pouring the margaritas as she told everyone about the specials and embellished them with her own recommendations. She was pleased with herself that she managed to talk Blane and Phil into getting the beef enchiladas.

  A new waitress named Emily took their orders in a rush. She was obviously very busy. Not long afterward, Sasha got up to check on things.

  “The food won’t be ready yet,” Steve said.

  “I’ll just see how it’s going.” She walked into the kitchen and asked Jorge about their meals. She’d committed everybody’s order to memory.

  “It’ll be another fifteen minutes until they’re ready,” Jorge said.

  Waiters and waitresses were running in and out of the kitchen. The restaurant was full. It was good that it was so busy. Little things would go unnoticed.

  She looked at her watch, helped herself to some corn chips, and wandered back out of the kitchen. On the way toward the table, she checked her handbag.

  The hallway that led from the kitchen to the restaurant floor was painted a dark blue. On the left side, where Sasha had left her bag, there was a long countertop. This was where the wait staff added up their bills and ran credit cards through the machine for approval. On the right side there was a service window where staff ordered drinks from the bar and gave cash to the bartender. Sasha was relying on the fact that, except for moments when the waiters were dealing with bills, this space was usually empty. Staff passed through quickly, and few lingered.

  She opened her handbag now and checked that both things were there: her compact and her small bottle of chicken juice. There was nothing else. She knew better than to leave a handbag full of money on a countertop in LA. She pulled out the compact now and checked her makeup. Spectacular.

  Back at the table, she joined the conversation for exactly ten minutes. Blane was rambling on about some stupid movie he’d made in the desert outside Las Vegas.

  When she got up to check on the food the second time, everything was nearly ready. Emily rushed by and Sasha grabbed her elbow, saying, “Honey, I’ll serve our table, don’t you worry. You seem a bit busy.”

  Emily was delighted. “That would be great, Sasha. You don’t mind?”

  “Not at all, honey.”

  Emily thanked her again and ran out to a table that was waiting to order.

  Although it had been years, Sasha knew the routine. She grabbed one of the large oval serving trays and began arranging the warm dinner plates side by side. Six fit if you let some hang over the edge. She set a side of salsa between two plates and heaved the tray up on her right shoulder. Loaded with meals and full of food, the trays had always been heavy. But Sasha had done this many times in the past, and she was still capable.

  She walked out of the kitchen and stopped in the hallway to set the tray down on the counter. She opened several cupboards, pretending to look for salt and pepper shakers. Then, when she was sure that nobody was around, she put her left hand into her handbag and pulled out the bottle. She moved quickly and discreetly, unscrewing the top with her right hand and then, in one sweeping motion, pouring the raw chicken juice across the top of the two beef enchiladas.

  She knew that sometimes there were public health investigations at restaurants, and she didn’t want it to look like Blane and Phil got sick here at El Mexicano. If they’d ordered chicken it would be too obvious. T
his was the least she could do to protect Jorge – and herself.

  If she got caught, she’d lose her job at Cougar and never be welcome at El Mexicano again. Steve would be shocked and angry and, even worse than that, Jorge would be terribly hurt. She could almost see Jorge’s sad, stunned eyes looking at her, his beautiful Cuban accent asking, “Why do you do this to me, Sasha?”

  She quickly threw the empty bottle back in her handbag, picked up the side of salsa, and dumped some across the top of each enchilada, to help hide the juice.

  “What are you doing?” A waiter was standing beside her, looking over her shoulder. Sasha didn’t know how long he’d been there.

  Fortunately, she had years of practice with quick thinking on stage, ad-libbing responses to hecklers, and dealing with awkward sound failures in humorous and entertaining ways. Out of mere survival her mind had become sharp and swift. Her face could hide the deepest insecurities and fears.

  She held out her fingers now, as if she was counting things to do, continuing a private conversation she’d been having with herself. “Extra salsa, okay.” She turned to the waiter. His eyes were jet black, as though they were all pupil, and it seemed as though he was looking right through her. She cleared her throat. “Now, tell me, doll. Where’s the salt and pepper?”

  He looked at her for a moment, and she thought she saw the most vague suspicion pass across his face. It bloomed up slowly, but then died back.

  “Here you go.” He reached up into a cupboard and pulled down two clear glass shakers, then he turned away and began adding up a bill.

  Sasha took a deep breath. She was okay.

  The noise from the kitchen and the restaurant floor mixed there in the hallway – sounds of people talking, plates clattering all around, everything loud and chaotic. She loved the energy at El Mexicano when it was busy. Even back at the old location, which was smaller, the liveliness of it all had always made her feel good. As she thanked this waiter now, it seemed for a moment that she was eighteen again. There was so much ahead of her.

  When she went to lift the tray, she struggled and quickly set it down. “Oh!” she moaned out loud. “Please,” she said to the waiter. “Be a doll and help me with this, would you? I told Emily I’d do it, to help her out, but these trays are just so much heavier than when I used to work here.”

  It wouldn’t be good for Steve to see her serving the meals. She didn’t want to look suspicious.

  The waiter said, “Sorry. I got a table that needs their bill.”

  She put a hand on his arm and gave him the most charming pout she could muster. “Oh, help an old girl out, won’t you?”

  He paused. “Sure.” He lifted her tray onto his shoulder and headed out to the table. Sasha walked out behind him and sat down. She directed everything from her seat. “The taco salad is over there, doll. The beef enchiladas go to those two sexy men…”

  She sat down and watched as Blane and Phil brought forks full of salsa and beef to their mouths, chewing it, swallowing it down. She kept refilling their margarita glasses, as well as everyone else’s.

  “This is great,” Blane said. “The beef’s delicious.”

  “Mind if I try?” Steve asked.

  “Sure.” Blane pushed his plate toward Steve.

  Sasha did not want Steve sick. She did not want it to be obvious which meals had been bad. Just as Steve was reaching forward with his fork, she lifted her hand quickly, so that her own nearly-full margarita glass toppled in Steve’s direction, spilling across the table and running into his lap.

  “Oh, I’m so sorry!” she yelled. “I’m such a klutz.” She waved her hands in the air. “No more margaritas for Sasha!”

  Steve had quickly moved his chair back and was already wiping his pants with his napkin. He did not look happy. Blane threw his napkin onto the margarita puddle in the middle of the table.

  “Missy!” Sasha called the hostess over. “This big ol’ girl made a big ol’ mess. Would you be a dear and bring us some more napkins?”

  By the time the mess was cleaned up and Steve had gone to the men’s room to dry his lap with the hand dryer, the meal was almost over. Luckily Steve forgot about his desire to taste Blane’s enchilada. Sasha watched as Blane and Phil ate their last bites. The deed was done. She folded her hands under the table and made a small prayer to the goddess. Please, she thought, let it work.

  19. Stripping at Exposé

  MIKE WAS STANDING by the bar, ready to do his first number for the evening. He was disappointed that Kerry hadn’t shown up yet. He wanted to chat.

  After his first number, he knew, the customers would monopolize his time, trying to talk to him and buy him drinks. Usually this was fine. It was what he was here for. Exposé only paid him ten bucks an hour, and it was the extras the customers paid for that that made stripping worthwhile. But tonight he wanted to talk to Kerry. He thought of Kerry’s blond hair in the sun in front of the Lighthouse Café that afternoon, of his little smile, the ankh tattoo hidden on his hip.

  There weren’t many customers in the bar yet – just a few old lechers in the corners, a couple of teddy bears up by the stage. The lechers were always trying to fondle him. The teddy bears just wanted to talk. There was one guy in the audience who, whenever Mike did a private dance for him in back, always tried to touch more than he’d paid for.

  The private dances were what made him the most money, without sex. Mike charged twenty bucks minimum for a private, the length of one song. Although most of the guys charged only ten, Mike had no shortage of customers. For the twenty bucks he let them touch his chest, back, arms and legs. For a thirty dollar dance they could also touch his ass. For forty, his crotch. In the private rooms they weren’t supposed to have sex, not even a hand job, although some guys offered it. Mike didn’t. There was a window in the door and the bouncers could check. Mike never did overtime – full-on sex after hours – for anything less than a hundred. If the guy was ugly, or if he looked rich, it was more.

  The good thing was that Mike didn’t have to do overtime if he didn’t want. It wasn’t expected. But he did it, because the money was good, and he was used to sex with strangers. He pushed away his fear. He was always careful. He didn’t leave with anybody bigger than him, unless the guy was a regular, and even then only if the bouncers had said the guy was okay.

  From behind the bar Pascal, the owner and bar manager, caught Mike’s eye now and gestured to the stage. Mike stepped in back and went into the changing room, where he unlocked his locker and pulled out his tool belt and hardhat, and then put them on. He was wearing work boots, jeans, and a flannel shirt with the sleeves cut off. The costume was silly, but that was part of what made it entertaining. It was construction drag. He’d learned from Sasha. On the nights she showed up at Exposé to watch his routine, she invariably gave him helpful advice and feedback. And she spent a lot of time with him at home putting together his costumes. He always smiled to himself when he put them on – whether it was construction drag, police drag, or football drag. He wore his costumes in the same spirit as Sasha wore her dresses. “You’re supposed to smile,” she told him. “It’s supposed to be fun.” As the costume came off it was also – unlike Sasha’s drag – going to be sexy.

  He walked through a narrow passage now, to the doorway at the back of the stage. He parted a curtain and stepped out. ‘Brass in Pocket’ by the Pretenders started playing, which he’d told Sasha he wanted to dance to even though she didn’t like the song. The room was almost empty. He’d rather dance to a crowd, but the shows were supposed to start at nine. He moved to the music, swaying and smiling.

  He unbuttoned his shirt and let it hang open, leaned back to show off his abs. He let the shirt fall behind him and put his hands on the back of his head to show off his hairy armpits, his biceps. He winked and side-stepped. One by one he took off the hard hat, the tool belt, the work boots. The boots were untied, with the laces tucked in, to make it easy.

  With his back toward the audience, he bent over
in his tight jeans and wiggled his butt. One of the old lechers whistled. Mike turned back around and squinted through the lights to see if Kerry had come in, but he couldn’t see him.

  The first song ended and ‘I Don’t Want to Live Without You’ by Foreigner started up. Sasha had picked the song, helped with all the choreography. “This song is how I feel about you,” Sasha had said, and Mike didn’t know what to say.

  He almost always danced to a slower song for his second number. The first number was good for getting the customers horny and getting their energy up, but the second number was for enticing them into requesting extras.

  Mike moved his body, gently rubbing his hands over his torso and thighs. He slipped off his jeans, then his socks, and danced in a white jockstrap. He liked how the elastic straps in back pushed up his butt cheeks and accentuated the curve of his ass. There was no full-frontal nudity on stage at Exposé. Everyone knew you had to pay more for that.

  When the second song ended, one of the teddy bears held up a five-dollar bill. The five-dollar dances were easy. Mike stepped down off the stage in his jock strap and walked over as a the DJ started a new song. After the two songs that Mike had chosen, the DJ played anything he wanted.

  The customer was someone Mike recognized. This guy had once paid Mike for five private dances in a row, and then talked about his holiday in North Carolina nearly the entire time. He was in his fifties, with grey hair and a wedding ring.

  Mike stood directly in front of him now and held his arms over his head, his hips jutting out. The guy pushed the bill down into Mike’s jock strap. That was as much contact as he would get for that money. Touching during a five-dollar dance wasn’t allowed. Mike began moving, very close. One of the bouncers watched from the corner. If a customer started groping, Mike was supposed to step out of reach, but if the guy was sexy, Mike stepped away very slowly. If the guy continued trying to touch, a bouncer would come over. Pascal always said this was a high-class place, not a common whorehouse.