Hold Tight (28 page)

Instead, the pitch and rhythm of the engine changed and the boat drew in toward the city. Hank recognized the green-black warehouse jutting up from the river. Behind him, partygoers sighed and a few queens roused themselves for a final round of camping before they returned to life ashore. There was a flickering of light behind the warehouse, like an electrical storm. The boat swung around the warehouse and the pier came into view. A cherry light blinked brightly on the roof of a police car.

More white and blue cars were parked up and down the pier, with paddy wagons and a dozen cops, the cops all getting to their feet and unbuckling nightsticks.

All talking stopped, then the piano. There was only the drum of the engine bringing them into the slip. The trance lasted a second, and broke. All at once, everyone on board was cursing, screaming advice, running in circles. The boat sounded like a burning house full of tropical birds.

“This is the police!” shouted a voice in a megaphone. “You are ordered to dock your vessel immediately. All occupants are under arrest.”

Men who had brought other clothes grabbed their bags, pulled off their dresses, pulled shirts and trousers over brassieres and garter belts. The deck was scattered with dresses and lone high heels. “I work for the city!” cried Rita Hayworth. “I can’t get arrested!” He pulled up his dress only to remember he had no underwear, and no other clothes. He stood there, laughing hysterically.

Hank walked through the chaos, looking for Juke or Erich. Juke ran right past him, looked over the rail on the side away from the pier, then ran back to Hank. Hank expected him to squeal for help, like a girl. He ran like a girl. Juke ripped off his wig and thrust it at Hank.

“Take this. And these.” He took off his shoes and stuck them into the wig. “Oh, shit. Take these back with you, too. They’re Bosch’s.” He unclipped the earrings and put them inside one shoe.

Hank held the wig like a sack. “Where you going?”

“Jail if I don’t get my ass outa here! I’m on parole and the law just loves sticking it to drag queens.” Juke looked stranger than ever, his own hair flat and bobby-pinned, his mouth still slashed with lipstick. “I’m gonna swim for it. Don’t look at me like that. You don’t have to marry me, just hold my shit.”

“Lay off. I’ll hold your stuff,” said Hank. “You think that’s smart?”

Juke hiked his skirt up to climb over the railing. “Anything beats getting traded around for chewing gum on Riker’s.” He stood on the ledge, looked down, then out. The warehouse was fifty yards away on the other side of the slip. The boat was still moving.

Toward the stern, beneath the noise, the piano began to play again, accompanying a loud falsetto voice. Perfectly calm, the hostess stood in his red dress with one hand on his heart and sang “God Bless America.” Others began to join him.

“Good luck,” said Hank.

“Screw you,” said Juke. “You don’t care if I’m living or dead.” He held his nose and jumped back, white dress fluttering up his legs as he dropped feet first. There was a loud splash and he was gone.

A spoke of light flashed across the clouded green water as a police boat beyond the stern swung its searchlight. Then the water was black again, bubbling along the moving hull. Hank saw nothing, until he made out a pale shape twenty yards off, bobbing in a dog-paddle toward the pilings under the warehouse. He had done something wrong, like there was something he should have done to protect the boy. He was relieved Juke could take care of himself.

The engine was cut off and the boat coasted in towards the pier with the chorus of “God Bless America” rising above everything else. The song was punctuated by the percussive splashes of three more men jumping overboard.

The hull ground against the bumper pilings. A wall of blue summer uniforms, with peaked caps and steel badges swarmed onto the boat.

“Shut up and get moving.”

“Get moving, sweetheart.”

“No lip, you. If I want lip, I’ll drop my pants.”

“Shut up with the yammering! No singing!”

Cops grabbed a few arms or necks, but most only poked with their nightsticks. The men were herded together and moved off the boat. Two deckhands came up from the engine room and sheepishly went about the business of tying the boat up.

“You there! Can the song! You think you’re Kate Smith or something?”

The last voice stopped singing. “But I am, officer.”

“You making fun of America’s favorite singer?”

“It’s more in the nature of homage,” the hostess declared.

There was a gasp and a dull crack, followed by the sound of a man choking. Everyone who saw what happened froze. When the hostess was led off and Hank could see him, the man’s face was covered with blood. It startled at first like blood, then looked like an entire tube of dark lipstick smashed over a face. It took time to accept it was blood. The short tuxedoed piano player and a well-dressed colored man had to hold up the hostess so he could walk.

“You see that? Now stop gawking. Get moving. Like good little girls.”

A few cops went at it with happy hatred. Others refused to look at you. They muttered at you but glanced at each other, shared their contempt or smirks only with each other. If they looked at you, they looked right through you. Hank was glad Juke had gotten away. The boy was sure to have done or said something that would get his head knocked in. Or Hank’s head. Hank had been knocked cold once for Juke; nothing was gained by resisting. Still, he couldn’t help looking for the cop who clubbed the hostess, in case he met the cop again someday, alone. But the cops all looked alike, Hank hated them so much.

Herded onto the pier, the guests were divided into two groups. Anyone still in drag was immediately led off to the pie wagons. The others were muttered and prodded over to a place between a boxcar and the water. The men accustomed to the protection of male clothes were more frightened than the drag queens. A single word from a cop was like a pistol fired beside the ear. Hank was protected from fear by his experience and bottled rage. He found Erich in the group beside the boxcar, standing very still and pale, looking not so much afraid as like a man lost deep inside his thoughts. His briefcase hung on his arm.

“You’ll be okay,” Hank whispered. “Tell them you’re with Navy Intelligence. You got some kind of card or papers, don’t you?”

Erich nodded, not caring. He saw the wig and shoes in Hank’s hand.

“Juke’s. So he could swim for it.”

They both looked out at the water but saw no one in the dark slip or the thick grove of pilings beneath the warehouse.

Men milled through the crowd, searching for people they knew. Assurances and fears were whispered about. A pair of cops stood in front of them, between the boxcar and water’s edge, idly slapping nightsticks into their palms. Another pair stood behind the men, so nobody could step around to see what was happening on the other side of the boxcar. People bent down to look under the boxcar and saw stockings and heels climbing into the paddy wagons. Once the drag queens were hauled off, somebody whispered, the rest of them would be beaten up by the cops.

“Do they do that here?” Erich whispered.

Hank found himself hoping they would. If the cops came in swinging, he’d swing back, even if it meant getting beaten to a pulp. Anything was better than this furious helplessness. He felt paralyzed by good sense and the fear around him. “Maybe you better show them your papers,” he told Erich. “Before things go crazy.”

“No.” Erich spoke firmly. “I can’t do that. Not in good conscience.”

“You there! Shut up! All of youse shut up! You think this a tea party?”

Motors started up on the other side of the boxcar. Yoohoos and insults were shouted from the backs of the paddy wagons that reappeared down the pier, driving toward the gate. Four paddy wagons were followed by two police cars. They passed through the gate and disappeared beneath the elevated highway.

A plainclothes cop came out from behind the boxcar and approached the pair of cops watching the men. They spoke, glanced at the men, laughed, then walked off, all three of them. The pair of cops at the other end walked away too.

The men stood where they were, looking at each other in bewilderment.

“Hey! What about us?” Erich shouted.

The plainclothes cop stopped and turned around. “You? What about you?”

The others stared at Erich, furious with him for speaking up.

“You’re free. What else ya want, sweetheart? A kiss?” sneered the plainclothes cop. “There ain’t enough pie wagons in the city to take all you fruits. So we’re taking only the pretty ones. Count your lucky stars you’re ugly.”

“Then you’re not really enforcing the law,” said Erich indignantly. “This entire operation was only intended to give you and your men a bit of fun tonight. Which makes you no better than the gangs of Nazis who—”

Hank jumped in front of him and turned Erich away from the cops. “Shut up. Just shut up.” A mass beating was one thing, but Erich’s goading would only get
him
singled out by the cops.

“You feel left out, Nelly Belle? You want us to haul you in? Maybe we can slap you with something stiffer than a disorderly charge while we’re at it.”

“He don’t know what he’s saying,” Hank shouted over his shoulder. “He’s all upset right now. What the hell you think you’re doing?” he whispered to Erich. “This ain’t your fight.”

Erich pinched his mouth shut, as if he realized that, too. But his eyes were full of fight. Hank was surprised to find anger behind those sober eyeglasses.

“This is your lucky day, Nelly Belle. I’d rather go get a drink than go back to the station and book you. See ya in the funny papers, ladies.” And the cops walked off, laughing. Doors were slammed and the rest of the baboon-snouted cars drove down the pier.

“You all right?” Hank released Erich’s shoulders. “It doesn’t pay to speak your mind to those bastards.”

“Yes. I just…” Erich looked around.

The others were walking away, relieved, embarrassed, unable to look at each other. Free, they could feel strange they weren’t arrested while friends were. Even Hank felt strange. There were exaggerated sighs of relief and attempted jokes as people wandered toward the gate.

“It was just too familiar,” said Erich. “It’s not the same thing, but it felt the same. If they actually enforced the law, then it wouldn’t feel like brute malice. But they use the law for a bit of sport! They just use it to tell you you’re a thing and not a person. It’s appalling! Aren’t you appalled?” But when he stared at Hank, the righteousness went out of Erich’s eyes. He stared like a man suddenly looking into a mirror. “You still think you have no business being suspicious?” Erich said softly. “You still think I’m just a nervous Jew?”

“Cops are bastards. They always have been. But the Navy looks after its own.” Hank felt uncomfortable with Erich’s look and indignation. The indignation sounded fake, like he was hiding something with it. “The Nazis go at Jews like this?”

“Or worse. Much worse if the rumors out of Poland are true.” He seemed to explain something to himself. “Although it’s bad enough being expelled from your own country. So it’s not the same thing after all.” He gave the briefcase full of cord and microphone a nervous shake. “Let’s get out of here. This place disgusts me.”

“You go ahead. I better look around and see if Juke’s still here. He’s gonna need his shoes.” Hank assumed Juke was already walking home barefoot. He just didn’t want to spend anymore time with Erich.

“Yes. You do that. Good night, Fayette.”

They parted without shaking hands or mentioning when they’d meet again. They turned their backs on each other. Hank walked out to the end of the pier, calling out Juke’s name once or twice. When he started for the gate, Erich was nowhere in sight. Hank walked alone, distrusting Erich, distrusting the Navy, distrusting his distrust, knocking shoes packed in a wig against his leg.

B
LAIR WAS SITTING IN
his car when the police first arrived. He heard tires thud over the railroad crossing, looked out and almost urinated on himself when he saw a patrol car at the gate. But the police drove onto the pier without noticing the chromeless, war-model automobile parked with two older autos against the chain link fence. Blair slouched down, swallowed his fear with the help of his pint of Scotch and waited for the police to go away. More patrol cars began to arrive, then paddy wagons, and Blair understood what was happening. He cursed his luck and the police. He loved the police, admired their uniforms and ability to act, but they spoiled everything tonight. They’d give a boatload of degenerates a proper punishment, and throw Blair’s prey into a place where he couldn’t get him. There was nothing for him to do but sit there and watch the show.

The boat finally reappeared, all lit up like a birthday cake. Some absurd singing was replaced by satisfying shrieks and yelps when the police went into action, but Blair’s view was blocked by boxcars once the boat was docked. He was sorry he couldn’t go out on the pier for a better look. Under different circumstances, he might even have offered a police sergeant money to let him join in. A phase of murmuring and occasional barked commands followed, rather boring. Then the paddy wagons began to roll through the gate and Blair decided it was over. He started up his car and backed out to the street, careful not to turn on his headlights until he was halfway down the block.

Blair was bitterly disappointed. He had so much fire tonight and nothing to do with it. He could hire a lawyer to bail out the sailor, anonymously, so he could get him back out in the open again. A lawyer would have to wait until morning. In the meantime, he couldn’t go home. They were watching his apartment and Blair would have to lose them all over again. He decided to drive out to Long Island where he could find a nice inn for the night.

The West Side Highway hung above the street like a long, trestled roof, hiding the street from the city. Blair did not know this part of town, so he drove back the way he came, toward the farmers’ market and that vile house. He turned down a side street and the automobile pounded over cobblestones. The headlight beams wagged up and down the length of a dark, curbless street, bouncing around a small figure walking up ahead. The figure hobbled down the middle of the street, its back to the car. A sopping white dress stuck in brown splotches to its skinny body. Her wet, black hair was short and she walked in an angry, jerky ungirlish manner, barefoot. Blair slowed down, touched his horn and she glared at him over her shoulder. It was the boy. Blair couldn’t believe his luck. A wash of make-up reddened the mouth and bruised the eyes, but it was definitely his colored houseboy. The boy continued walking, drifting to the lefthand side of the street to let the car pass.