out of trouble.”
I turned my head, ready to throw down, but it was Anthony Mannuzza, the asshole with the camera.
He was all duded up in black slacks and a crayon-green button-down shirt. The shirt was made of a shiny material, like silk, and hanging from his neck and one wrist were thin gold chains. He wore a gold watch with a sweeping second hand, and his dark hair was slicked back with sweet-smelling oil. His prettyboy Eurotrash face was perfectly shaved and preened, like a broad’s legs. He even pulled some of his eyebrows out to give them that regal look, and he would’ve been a ladykiller if he wasn’t such a goddamn fag.
“Well, if it isn’t Jimmy Olsen. Take any nice funerary pictures
lately?”
He smiled, said, “Oh, you saw that? I was trying to keep myself on the down low.”
“That was a man’s burial, prettyboy.”
“Well, hey, what’s the big deal? There were a hundred fucking guys taking pictures out there. Pearce must’ve been a popular guy.”
“You have no idea.”
“Believe me, I wasn’t taking pictures for me, man. I swear.”
“I know. For the book, right?”
“Right,” he said, smiling. “There you go.”
“Arright, well, I’m gonna have to hit you anyway
“ Autumn cut in with, “Aw, c’mon, don’t start now.”
I said, “Arright, darling. I’ll hold off. For you.”
She smiled. Anthony started breathing again.
“Marley, I think you need to relax,” Anthony said. “I know just the thing.”
I looked at him. He had fire in his eyes.
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” I said. “You tryin’ to get cute on me?”
We walked out of the Cowboy’s Cabin, and he led me to his Mach 1. I got in the shotgun seat, he got behind the wheel, and we took off.
“I saw what you did to that guy in the parking lot,” he said.
“And?”
“And you’re fucking psychotic. I like it.”
I smiled and lit a cigarette. “That was nothing. You should have seen me when I was
After about five blocks, we saw the twirling lights of a police cruiser up ahead. As we got closer we saw that the Mercury had plowed through a white picket fence and had come to rest against a parked minivan. The officer was apparently so distracted by the music coming from the stereo—it was “California Dreamin’” by the Mamas and the Papas now—that he didn’t realize a man was locked in the trunk. As we drove by, Anthony lost all composure and laughed so hard that he cried.
He brought me to this little place on the edge of town I’d never even heard of. We pulled up outside the place and there were maybe only three or four cars parked in front. Nice cars, not the usual Toyotas or Fords that dominated the roads of Evelyn. These cars were the few fancy cars in town, the BMWs, the Jaguars, the lone vintage Ferrari painted cherry red no doubt purchased by some pitiful millionaire going through a midlife crisis.
The building was a small log cabin tucked in behind the trees all the way at the end of Liston Street. An electric lantern hung from each side of the wooden door, and that was the only illumination. There was a wood plaque by the door where the mailbox would be. It said “Rose.”
“What the fuck is this,” I said, “a gay bar?”
“No, it’s not a gay bar. I’m not gay, man. I don’t know why you keep saying that.”
“Because you’re a fucking fruit, that’s why.”
“Whatever. I’m not going to argue with you, mister-fucking-violent.”
“Well, what’s the story with this place?”
“You’ll see. But before we go in, tuck that shirt in. They’re kind of picky about appearance.”
I was wearing a pair of dirty blue jeans, a white T-shirt with a pale denim shirt thrown over it. Work boots. “What, are they gonna try to make me put on a fucking jacket with a crest of arms on it?”
“No. Don’t worry about it. You’re with me.”
“Whatever. Lead the way. All I know is, I need a drink.”
Before we reached the door, it was opened from the inside by a large, well-dressed bouncer in a black suit and shirt. He was shaved bald, but had a peach-fuzz mohawk atop his head. This guy at the fancy bar was just one big muscle in a three-piece suit. He shined a flashlight in our faces. When he got to mine, he grunted.
“Don’t worry, Hyde,” said Anthony, “he’s cool. He’s a legend.”
Anthony palmed this guy a twenty, and he let us pass. The inside was a large room lit only by candles placed on every surface. The walls were wood. There was a full bar, and maybe eight or ten small tables with just as many chairs. In the back were two doors. One seemed to lead to a kitchen, or a storeroom, the other, I didn’t know. Probably a bedroom.
There were four well-dressed men seated individually at tables, drinking. Classical music was playing softly on a stereo. What caught my eye more than anything were the girls. There were five of them, all young, all pretty. One was wearing a black body stocking, one wore nothing more than a red bra and thong. Another was wearing a schoolgirl’s skirt and white shirt, and the other two were wearing negligees—one blue, the other black.
“Jesus,” I said.
“Am I still a fag?” asked Anthony, smiling.
“I don’t fucking care,” I said.
“You never knew about this place?”
“If I did, I’d live here.”
Anthony led us to an unoccupied table, and we sat down. The girl in the schoolgirl outfit came over.
Anthony said, “Hi, Samantha. You look nice.”
“Thanks,” she said robotically. “Who’s your friend?”
“This is Marlowe Higgins.”
She and I shook hands. My hand had its own, separate orgasm—a tingling upon touching her, like when you carry heavy groceries for too long.
“You look a little rough,” she said to me.
I couldn’t take my eyes off her body. I couldn’t respond.
“Wait, I think I know who you are,” she said. “You work at Long John’s, right?”
“Uh, yeah,” I said.
“Great food,” she said.
“Thank you. I don’t recall ever seeing you.”
“I don’t dress like this every day,” she said, as if I were an idiot for not realizing that. “What would you guys like?”
“You,” I said.
“Actually,” said Anthony, “this is my friend’s first time here, so I think we should start off with a couple of wet kisses.”
“Sounds good,” she said. “Who would you like?” Anthony whispered in my ear, “She’s the hostess. Let me do the talking, okay?”
“Sure,” I whispered back.
“Can you get me Sharon, and, uh, for my friend here, uh, let me see … Marley, who looks good to you?”
“Jesus,” I murmured.
“Samantha, if you could get Patty over here for my buddy, that would be great.”
“Sure,” she said, and padded off.
“Anthony, what did we just order, and how the hell am I going to pay for it?”
“Don’t worry. I got you covered.”
“You trying to butter me up for your fucking book or something?”
“No, man. You just don’t get to meet a lot of cool people when you’re constantly traveling.”
