love.
Moor was a thin young man with blond hair that was habitually somewhat long. He had pale blue eyes and very white skin. There were dark patches under his eyes and two deep lines around the mouth. He looked like a child, and at the same time like a prematurely aged man. His face showed the ravages of the death process, the inroads of decay in flesh cut off from the living charge of contact. Moor was motivated, literally kept alive and moving, by hate, but there was no passion or violence in his hate. Moor's hate was a slow, steady push, weak but infinitely persistent, waiting to take advantage of any weakness in another. The slow drip of Moor's hate had etched the lines of decay in his face. He had aged without experience of life, like a piece of meat rotting on a pantry shelf.
Moor made a practice of interrupting a story just before the point was reached. Often he would start a long conversation with a waiter or anybody else handy, or he would go vague and distant, yawn, and say, 'What was that?' as though recalled to dull reality from reflections of which others could have no concept.
Moor began talking about his wife. 'At first, Bill, she was so dependent on me that she used literally to have hysterics when I had to go to the museum where I work. I managed to build up her ego to the point where she didn't need me, and after that the only thing I could do was leave.
There was nothing more I could do for her.'
Moor was putting down his sincere act. 'My God,' Lee thought, 'he really believes it.'
Lee ordered another double tequila. Moor stood up. 'Well, I have to get going,' he said. 'I have a lot of things to do.'
'Well, listen,' said Lee. 'How about dinner tonight?'
Moor said, 'Well, all right.'
'At six in the K.C. Steak House.'
'All right. 'Moor left.
Lee drank half the tequila the waiter put in front of him. He had known Moor off and on in N.Y. for several years and never liked him. Moor disliked Lee, but then Moor didn't like anybody. Lee told himself, 'You must be crazy, making passes in that direction, when you know what a bitch he is.
These borderline characters can out-bitch any fag.'
When Lee arrived at the K.C. Steak House, Moor was already there. With him he had Tom Williams, another Salt Lake City boy. Lee thought, 'He brought along a chaperone.'
'... I like the guy, Tom, but I can't stand to be alone with him. He keeps trying to go to bed with me. That's what I don't like about queers. You can't keep it on a basis of friendship. ...' Yes, Lee could hear that conversation.
During dinner Moor and Williams talked about a boat they planned to build at Ziuhuatenejo. Lee thought this was a silly project. 'Boat building is a job for a professional, isn't it?' Lee asked. Moor pretended not to hear.
After dinner Lee walked back to Moor's rooming house with Moor and Williams. At the door Lee asked, 'Would you gentlemen care for a drink? I'll get a bottle. . . .'He looked from one to the other.
Moor said, 'Well, no. You see we want to work on the plans for this boat we are going to build.'
'Oh,' said Lee. 'Well, I'll see you tomorrow. How about meeting me for a drink in the Rathskeller?
Say around five.'
'Well, I expect I'll be busy tomorrow.'
'Yes, but you have to eat and drink.'
'Well, you see, this boat is more important to me than anything right now. It will take up all my time.'
Lee said, 'Suit yourself,' and walked away.
Lee was deeply hurt. He could hear Moor saying, 'Thanks for running interference, Tom. Well, I hope he got the idea. Of course Lee is an interesting guy and all that . . . but this queer situation is just more than I can take.' Tolerant, looking at both sides of the question, sympathetic up to a point, finally forced to draw a tactful but firm line. 'And he really believes that,' Lee thought. 'Like that crap about building up his wife's ego. He can revel in the satisfactions of virulent bitchiness and simultaneously see himself as a saint. Quite a trick.'
Actually Moor's brush-off was calculated to inflict the maximum hurt possible under the circumstances. It put Lee in the position of a detestably insistent queer, too stupid and too insensitive to realize that his attentions were not wanted, forcing Moor to tbe distasteful necessity of drawing a diagram.
Lee leaned against a lamppost for several minutes. The shock had sobered him, drained away his drunken euphoria. He realized how tired he was, and how weak, but he was not ready yet to go home.
Chapter 2
Everything made in this country falls apart,' Lee thought. He was examining the blade of his stainless-steel pocketknife. The chrome plating was peeling off like silver paper. 'Wouldn't surprise me if I picked up a boy in the Alameda and his. . . . Here comes honest Joe.'
Joe Guidry sat down at the table with Lee, dropping bundles on the table and in the empty chair.
He wiped off the top of a beer bottle with his sleeve and drank half the beer in a long gulp. He was a large man with a politician's red Irish face.
'What you know?' Lee asked.
'Not much, Lee. Except someone stole my typewriter. And I know who took it. It was that Brazilian, or whatever he is. You know him. Maurice.'
'Maurice? Is that the one you had last week? The wrestler?'
