“He’s just a man.”
“If that’s all he was, I wouldn’t be worried about this. He’s a fucking
“Where down there?”
“I don’t know. He keeps different boys all the time but he always sticks them in one of those fleabag flophouses. There’s a hundred ways outta those rattraps ... if you know about them.”
“I know about them—I was staying in one when I got popped for the last bit.”
“Yeah, but he knows
“Stay in the house tonight—I’m gonna go in there and look. Get me some upstate plates for the Caddy.”
41/
Wesley returned to working under the sink and Pet left him alone to go prepare the car. At 10:30 p.m., Wesley wheeled the Caddy up Water Street and turned left onto Pike. He traveled crosstown until he got across Broadway, connected with the West Side Highway and rolled uptown. He exited at 23rd Street and followed Twelfth Avenue north to 42nd. He left the Caddy with the attendant at the Sheraton Motor Inn; he already had a reservation and was shown right up to his room.
Wesley changed into wine-red knit slacks and a flaming Hawaiian-print shirt worn loose outside the pants. He added a pair of genuine alligator loafers and an ID bracelet on a thick sterling chain. The initials were “CT.” He left the Airweight in the Caddy and the flick knife in his suitcase.
At 11:15, he started his walk. He strolled past Dyer, trying to get a fix on the territory. Neon smashed at him with every step: LIVE BURLESQUE *** CHANNEL 69 *** MERMAID *** 42ND STREET CINEMA *** TOM KAT THEATRE. The street was alive the way a can of worms is alive: greasy and twisty-turning, but not going anywhere and comfortable only in the dark. As he crossed Tenth Avenue, Wesley noticed that the West Side Airlines Terminal was closed. A closer look told him that it was closed for good. Wesley looked up at the fifth floor—it would give a commanding view of the ugly scene. He thought about Korea for a flash-second.
Wesley crossed Ninth Avenue and headed down toward Eighth. He noticed five phone booths on the south side of the street and the Roxy Hotel on the north side. It was the Roxy where he got busted years ago, and he had to fight down the urge to see if the same clerk was still on duty for The Man. Some other time.
As he crossed Eighth, Wesley reflected that the Parole Board was just a couple of blocks away, right near the Port Authority. They never closed. He could have just walked in there and asked a question like any other citizen, but that thought never occurred to him.
He could tell a cop at a glance and he assumed that reaction was reversible. He noted the big Child’s Restaurant on Eighth and 42nd, but didn’t stop in. He counted thirteen movie houses between Eighth and Seventh. Thousands of people were on the street. Wesley wasn’t even picking up second glances from the traffic flow.
“When I’m on the street, how do I make sure the hustlers don’t make me?” Wesley had asked Lester years ago. The answer was simple: “Just
Crossing Broadway, Wesley almost walked right into the Prince, who was coming out of Rexall’s. The Prince wasn’t alone. His huge hand was resting possessively on the back of his companion’s neck—a short, powerfully built black guy with a monster Afro and a diamond earring in his right ear.
Wesley followed them down Broadway. The Prince was continually being stopped on the street, and his progress was slow. Wesley watched closely, but all the Prince did was occasionally lay money on people who apparently asked for some ... nothing else. The Prince stopped a fat woman, and Wesley halted about a half block behind them. They held a quick, whispered conversation, making no attempt to hide the fact that their communication wasn’t meant for bystanders, the Prince still holding the back of the black man’s neck. The woman nodded vigorously as though she understood, and then continued up the block in Wesley’s direction.
As she approached, she focused her eyes directly on Wesley and picked up speed. He could have avoided her rush but made no attempt to ... she slammed right into him, knocking him back against a mailbox. The fat woman gasped and grabbed huge handfuls of Wesley’s Hawaiian shirt to steady herself. As she attempted to rise, she pulled the shirt almost to his neck and then slammed her hands against his chest and quickly ran them along his body, across his groin, and down almost to his knees. Wesley struggled to get free, felt his pants lift over his socks, saving her that trouble. He cursed vehemently, and she backed off with some mumbled drunken apologies.
It was a lovely, professional frisk. She’d be able to tell the Prince he wasn’t heeled.
Wesley dusted himself off and hurried up the block. He passed by the Prince and threw him a frankly curious glance, like any tourist would. The Prince continued down the block. Using a store window for a mirror, Wesley saw the giant step into a phone booth—he didn’t see the Prince deposit any money, so he assumed it was the fat woman calling in to report.
Wesley turned up 46th Street and got a cab downtown on Fifth. He told the driver to take him to the Village, not knowing how far the Prince’s network went. Wesley entered the hotel on Bleecker between Sullivan and West Broadway where he was already registered.
42/
At 3:15 a.m., he telephoned Pet and the cab took him back to the Sheraton. He checked out the next morning, paying his bill in cash.
Pet was waiting in the garage for him. Neither of them liked to return in the daytime and avoided it whenever possible.
“You see him?” the old man asked.
“Yeah. How does he make a living? If he’s dealing, he must have every cop in the precinct greased—you can’t miss the freak.”
“He does the same work you do.”
“You know anything about a black guy, his boyfriend?”
“No. But I know he always marks his boyfriends with one of his diamonds. They get to wear the diamond so
