City of Night (31 page)

           Jamey interrupted Chick: “Were you on the set the day Esmeralda first saw Lance?”

           “You know damn well I was, bitch, you tried to push me out of the camera each time you came on—like every other nelly upstart chorus boy. It was that Betty Grable musical we did—”

           “Rita Hayworth,” says Jamey.

           “Well, one of those, who cares? It couldve been Shirley Temple!”

           Jamey began to hum a tune from a musical, to sway his body to the rhythm. “I was just a Kid, then, but I remember it like it was this morning.”

           “You werent
that
Young,” Chick said; then to me: “Lance was doing this number with Betty Grable—or Rita Hayworth—one of those—that was right after he broke up with Pierce. Well, babe, I mean to tell you, dont let anyone tell you a moviestar isnt Powerful in this damn town. Why, when Lance left Pierce, Pierce fixed it so Lance couldnt get any work, hardly. Lance might have been a Big Star today if it hadnt been for that. Anyway, they had to finish this movie—and Lance knew he had to do Something, but quick—Lance always looks out for himself—”

           “Except maybe that time in Laguna,” Jamey said.

           “Well, you dont know what really happened, and dont pretend you do. You want to believe the worst about Lance.... Youre just: Jealous!”

           “Me? Jealous? Ha!”

           “Anyhow,” Chick continued, “Lance is doing this dance with Betty—or Rita—when Esmeralda Drake walks in—”

           “Esmeralda Drake the Third,” corrected Jamey.

           “Actually,” says Chick, “her real name was Gregory—Gregory Drake—and she came from A Fabulously Rich Family—the Drakes—and she was The Third—”

           “And the last—”

           “Yes, it’s sad. She was the only man left in the family—and, honey, she was queerer than I am,” said Chick.

           “Impossible!” said Jamey, throwing up his hands, this time completely knocking the cowboy hat off. “My
chapeau!”
he squealed; goes on: “No one—not even the dead queen who got buried in drag—is
that
queer!”

           “Shut your hole, Mae; youre swishing so much youre going to make a hurricane—not that a breeze wouldnt be welcome in this place.” Chick begins to fan himself with Jamey’s retrieved hat. “Anyway,” he continues, addressing me, “Lance nicknamed Gregory Drake the Third, Esmeralda Drake the Third—she was that nelly. Oh, babe, she was such a faggot! Awful. When Lance met her, Esmeralda was a very old man—”

           “Tell him what Esmeralda looked like,” Jamey said delightedly, and goes on to tell me: “She was a skinny, bony, old old man, with cheeks that looked like caves—”

           “And can you imagine?—that lecherous old man fell in love with Lance. The moment she saw him on the set, she Flipped—and let me tell you, Lance looked Magnificent!”

           “Tell him what Lance did to Esmeralda.”

           “Im coming to it, if you let me.... Nothing like a nervous queen on Saturday night when she thinks shes not going to Make Out and have to go home and jerk off,” Chick chastises Jamey. “You
are
going with me, arent you, baby?” he asked me.... “So Esmeralda Drake—Lance gave her that name right after he met her (he called her that to her face; we all did)—well, Esmeralda Drake flips over Lance—and I mean, babe, she
fullipped!
And Lance couldn’t get a job, because he’d tossed Pierce over. So he decides to play the old daddy for everything shes worth. Lance let her take him out to dinner, every day.... But this is the twist: He wouldn’t let her put a finger on him.”

           “Thats what Lance claimed, anyway!”

           “It’s True. Everyone knows that: Youre just being bitchy. Everyone knows Esmeralda never so much as touched Lance!”

           “I think you were in love with Lance, if you ask me,” said Jamey. He shrieked in pretended annoyance when someone passing by said to him: “Honey, I didnt recognize you in that cowgirl drag!”

           “Who wasnt in love with Lance?” Chick said. “And who was it that followed him into the dressing room that time and locked the door and—”

           “Vile gossip!”

           “We all saw you, and Lance pushed you away so hard you fell and threatened to sue the studio and they promised to put you at the front of the chorus line.”

           “Thats not true. I could have had Lance just like that—” Jamey snapped his fingers.

           “Dont listen to her, babe,” says Chick. “Shes just Nervous cause she’ll have to go home alone.” He turns now to Jamey: “That cowboy drag youre in was a definite mistake, honey—you look like an extra on the wrong set.... Anyway, let me continue—if this giddy bitch lets me—Lance was getting money from the old auntie, but Lance is Smart. He got the old man so fuckin hot after him that the old man was going out of her head. She bought Lance a car, everything he wanted, and, babe, this isnt gossip. It’s The Truth. Still, Lance wouldnt let her touch him. Then Lance made this deal: He’d move in with Esmeralda Drake—”

           “—the Third.”

           “—the Third. He’d move in with Esmeralda if Esmeralda would have the papers on the house made out in both Lance’s and Esmeralda’s names. The next day, Esmeralda was with her attorneys, and Lance moved in. Then Esmeralda tries to make out—and Lance says nothing doing, He promised to move in, and he did. But Touch him, no.... The old man was a case, I mean Ive never seen anyone so nervous. And she says to Lance he can have Anything. All right, says Lance, he wants the house in his name only. It was a magnificent house, babe: Lance still has it: all gorgeous modern furniture, original paintings (all the way from New York)—drapes like in the Movies—everything!... So the old man calls her attorneys again, she has the house put in Lance’s name—And Then Guess What?”

           Jamey gulps his drink in anticipation. “Youll never believe it!”

           “We were all there—Jamey was there—all the kids from the set. Lance gave this party, to celebrate his new house, and Esmeralda is there hobbling around on her cane, following Lance, smiling, nodding—thinking at last shes made it. Well! It was real late, and Lance goes to Esmeralda Drake the Third, and says to her—”

           “He really said this, we all heard it.”

           “—and says to her: ‘Get out of my house, I dont want to see you here again!’”

           “And the old man looked like a ghost—”

           “Yes, like he was going to die right there, and Lance saying: ‘I mean it, I mean it, get the hell out, youve bugged me long enough, get out.’ And he shoves Esmeralda Drake through the door right in front of our startled eyes.... Well, you know, Lance is a big fellow. And he had no trouble. The old man almost stumbled on her cane. Well, it was about four oclock in the morning—”

           “It was later—dont you remember someone had just said lets watch the dawn?”

           “Yes, youre right. We were so tanked, remember?”

           “Yes, and remember how Ronnie slapped you when you tried to make his boyfriend?”

          
“Ronnie
slapped
me? I
slapped
Ronnie!”

           “Thats not what I saw,” sang Jamey.

           “How would you know, Miss Mess? You were trying to make everyone; they couldnt drag you out of the toilet.... Now shut your hole and let me go on.... So, babe,” Chick says, turning his back on Jamey, “Lance shoves the old man out, and about seven oclock the poor old bastard (well, yes, I couldn’t help feeling sorry for him)—the poor old bastard comes beating on the door with her cane—Lance had locked the door, and Lance yells at her, ‘Get away from me, you lecherous old man!’”

           “No. He called her a dirty old man.”

           “All right, all right—it’s just a polite way of saying the same thing. And dont talk so damn loud, everyone’s looking.”

           “And whats wrong with That?” says Jamey, striking a pose.

           Chick went on: “And the old man is beating on the door. Then Lance went to the telephone and calls the police and says, ‘Theres a man trying to break into my house, I want him arrested!’ And the old man keeps beating on the door with her cane and shouting, ‘Let me in, let me in!’”

        
3

           The legend of Lance O’Hara was running through the bars—rather, the echoes of the legend. Incidents are being remembered, motivations supplied; and some, who had envied and Desired, now are obviously pleased: Who cared, for Now, if each new day another “great beauty” stormed their world? What mattered to them, for their momentary justification was that the “beauty” of
their
time, the one who had relegated them brutally to the background (and who, importantly, from the very beginning, had announced himself as one of them), must soon relinquish his throne....

           In Lance’s life—as I was to hear it from the whisperers—in Lance’s life (which, measured by the conquests that equal Success in that world, had been a meteoric, blazing ascent), there had been one very significant incident which in that tight-knit world was now being recalled with vindictive delight. The trap was being set, and this incident was chosen to mark the beginning of the downfall. Although it had happened many years before, during the time of Lance’s unquestioned reign, it was the point which the whisperers chose to focus on.

           In Hollywood, Randy is a well-known figure—a still-good-looking, masculine homosexual who, the whisperers have it, pushes narcotics. His thicklashed lids are always about to close, when he reveals his eyes from behind the familiar dark glasses. Once, he had played the drifting scene—the wanderer into the world of the active homosexual, all the more desired because he did not yet belong to that world—then. Because that was Yesterday. Now, in his 30s, be had crossed the line. And Randy, in the expression of the whisperers, Had Been Had. He had shifted roles. He was now a hungry searcher. Nightly youll find him, high or almost high, in one of the queer bars. Whereas once he had drifted into the lives—and masturbatory dreams—of others, now others drift in and out of his life. Randy had long acknowledged the hunger: His life was the cramming of night experiences. In recognizing this, Randy had acknowledged his fate and now hurled himself willingly into it.

           I was walking into the Pirate’s Den one night with Randy when a lisper gushes: “Randy-dear! You just missed Lance.” Randy didn’t answer. He moved hurriedly to the back of the bar. “Still not talking to him?” the lisper called after him. “Well, youre too much. Cant forget Laguna Beach, can you, sweetheart?”

           Randy and I sat at a table, near the jukebox—its bright colors splashing courageously into the dark bar. Suddenly Randy said bitterly: “That fuckin Lance! Why doesnt he go away and stay away, or die—anything; just so I wont hear about him any more, wont know hes even around.” He removes the sunglasses, squints at the people at the bar, puts the glasses on disgustedly. “Same fuckin faces, night after night. Man, if I pin the scene with you, you can still get out before it’s too late. And I dont give a damn how cool you think you are, youll get Caught and get Caught royal. Shit, man, I wasnt queer when I came on this scene. Sure, I’d make it with the fruits, take whatever I could from them—but I wouldnt put out.... Then I met that fucker Lance.... But I got one big satisfaction: If that son of a bitch had stuck with me at Laguna, he wouldntve got into that mess. Thats what that silly nellyass queen was coming on about when we came in.”

           In a world as ingrown as that of the bars, it is not rare for two people who have just met to pour out the intimate details of their lives; and Randy says: “See, man, I was going with Lance—more or less going with him, thats about the only way you can describe it with Lance. And we used to go out to Laguna Beach that summer. Well, man, someone told him something about this Esmeralda Drake—this old auntie whod kept him. Someone told him Esmeralda Drake had just had a heart attack or some other fuckin thing; got taken to the hospital. Well, hell, Lance never gave a damn about that poor old bastard—he took that auntie for every cent, then he threw him out of the house he’d given him. Well, we were on the beach with Chick and them, and Lance had a great tan—always in the sun—but when he hears about how Esmeralda Drake just had a stroke, he turned yellow, like he was painted or something, and he says, ‘Ive got to go to him right away.’ I said what the fuck’s the matter with you? that poor old sonofabitch doesnt want to see you, after what you did to him. Man, Lance locked that bastard out, called the cops that he was breaking in. Anyway, Lance says: ‘Youre right, he wouldnt want to see me.’ And thats when it started—like suddenly it wasnt Lance any more. He began cruising up and down the beach like some hung-up fairy that hasnt had any dick in months. He went in swimming, splashing around, showing off. He’d never done that—he didnt have to show off. He was so greatlooking, man, everyone came to him; he didnt have to say a word. He could be in a bar, alone—not talk to anyone, just glance at who he wanted and sit there and wait, and you couldnt take a bet in that bar that in five minutes he wouldnt have the cat he was after. But, Christ, that day, at Laguna, hes talking to everyone, rushing into the bar by the beach, drinking. And Lance didnt drink, man—thats the truth. I said, ‘What the hell’s wrong, you wanna get drunk?’ He says, ‘Yes, I wanna get drunk.’ I said, ‘Why?’ ‘To celebrate,’ he says—he actually said that: To celebrate! And, man, all this cruising is bugging me. Like I say, I hadnt been strictly gay then, but Lance is a charmer—he was bringing me out fast—wowee!... Now there I was with him, and that motherfucker is cruising up a steaming storm. Well, it got real late, the sun was going down, and it got cold, and we went into the bar—that queer bar on the beach. And Lance is still drinking. I tried to get him to come back to the hotel. But he wouldnt, he kept saying, ‘The celebration isn’t over!’—and, yeah, he keeps saying something about his new life is starting.... Then these two wise-ass marines walk into the bar—they werent queer, they were straight; just pinning the queer scene for kicks. And Lance says, ‘I want those two.’ Well, hell, I told him get the fuck away from me. And Im watching him coming on with those two wise-asses. Finally I split, didnt even go back to the hotel. I went back to Hollywood. And the next day I read how this actor (you know how the L.A. papers play things up: if a guy’s in the movies, they call him a moviestar—well, Lance never was that tough in the flix, but the papers played it up like he was—and it must have been some bitching gay editor anyway)—so the papers say how this moviestar nearly got killed out in Laguna, how he jumped off a cliff, broke both his arms. It didnt give the details, but it was clear what happened, man. You didnt have to be there to know. Lance is coming on with those two, and those two straight studs like: ugh-uh, no-sir, much-later, not-having-any. And this is putting Lance on—hes got this high opinion of himself—and he says he’ll drive them to the base, starts to put the make on them—in the car (which wasnt like him, then—I have to say)—and they still: not-having-any. So Lance says get the hell out of the car. And they come on mean with him—like clip the fuckin fairy. And Lance gets out of the car—he was drunk, anyway—and those two try to roll him. But he was broke—I know because I’d been with him—and they throw him over the cliff—like some common, helpless queer getting rolled.... Well, shit, I know you hear other stories—how
they
tried to make him, and he fell over by accident. Bullshit! What I told you is The Truth. And I know it, because I know that sonofabitch.... Anyway, I havent said a fuckin word to Lance since that night, and thats been years, and I dont even wanna see the bastard.... And, man, like I say, I still havent pinned what the scene is strictly with you—but I wanna warn you: Thats one cat to keep away from—that fuckin Lance O’Hara....”