How Long Has This Been Going On (12 page)

"Do you know those guys?" Larken asked Frank.

Frank shook his head. "Different station. How come everyone gets so quiet? The call looks routine to me."

"Patrolman, in this world, the appearance of a cop is never routine."

"Transvesto
. Now I've heard everything."

"You're not having a good time, are you?"

Frank looked at him. "What do you think?"

Backstage, Desmond was in a state.

"It's the new act, Johnny," he wailed, wiping his brow with a paper napkin. "I told you it was too daring."

"Relax, Desmo." To Jo-Jo, the Kid said, "She showed her palm to Larry."

Jo-Jo nodded.

"Is that good?" Desmond asked.

"The act's playing really well," said Jo-Jo. "Something tells me you're going places."

You wish, the Kid thought.

Lois was back in the bar in no time, nodding at Larry. As the lights went down, Lois murmured to Elaine, "Believe it or not, it was trash on the sidewalk. Someone must have overturned the cans."

The Kid trotted out and went right into "He's So Unusual," the old Helen Kane number about a boy who refuses to make out. Frank got so irritated that he began to work his glass around the tabletop.

"They have
songs
about this, too?" said Frank, as Larken confiscated Frank's glass.

"Why shouldn't they? Would you prefer a song about cops coming in where they aren't needed simply because they're vicious, slimy pricks?"

Frank's eyes blazed at Larken in the darkness.

"Now, the problem with Bombasta," the Kid was explaining, "is that she thinks she has all the answers. She doesn't listen enough. For instance, just the other day I was telling her about this dance I attended. Sweet lights and soft music. Such a romantic scene. Miss Coty de Tramp—the 'Voom' girl?—was there, doing the peabody with Transvesto. And, I must admit, I was feeling pretty randy. And Bombasta said, 'Oh, Randy isn't that pretty.'"

Lois, at the cash register, told Elaine, "I hate to admit it, but we broke the bank tonight."

"It's so exciting here," said Elaine, taking it all in, from the back wall to the stage, from the hustling to the act. "It's a world with entirely new rules."

"Yeah," Lois agreed. "Be sure to tell Jeff all about it."

"That Bombasta," the Kid was saying. "What a caution she is. You know what she calls the other kind?
Joes.
As in 'Joe Doakes' or 'Eat at Joe's.' See, Bombasta has this theory that what sets them apart from us is that they're nothing but dreary, disgusting, boring, vile idiots." The Kid shook his head. "The
phrases
that Bombasta will utter!
The
furies
she contains!" The Kid was gleeful, but now he grew temperate, even solemn. " Yet she is on a holy quest. I know this about her. Bombasta seeks but one thing on this earth, and that is a pure and perfect love. Yes. Yes, it's true. One pure and perfect love is what Bombasta seeks." One beat, then: "So she seeks it with one guy on Monday, another guy on Tuesday..."

Desmond swung into the finale of the act, one of the Sophie Tucker numbers that Larken had put the Kid onto, "Cheatin' Charlene."

Frank was staring at Larken and Larken was staring at the stage, two icebergs about to have a crash.

Cord was standing behind Trey, holding him by the waist and methodically licking his way around Trey's ears.

Saul was watching this, transfixed.

Lois was whispering to Elaine. "Chick," she said, "I have plans for you."

The Empress Leticia and her court were beating their fans against their glasses in time with the music.

Lanning's and Carl's tables had forgotten each other. The Kid had them enthralled. Even Otis was beaming.

Winding up solid for the coda, the Kid sang:

Say, she's got a sofa

And a 'lectric fan.

Why, she's got everything

But one good man.

That no-repeatin',

Permanently cheatin'

Charlene!

The crowd erupted in cheers, and the Kid, waving them down, said, "Desmond and I had timed this
perfectly
so that it would have been twelve midnight just this second. Thanks to the surprise visit of Jane Law, it is already 1950 plus four minutes. So hit the noisemakers, kiss your boy friend, and, from Lois, Jo-Jo, Desmond, and myself, have a wonderful new year!"

Thriller Jill's enjoyed the most uproarious few hours in its history—but riding back to Larken's in Frank's car made for a very silent night. Larken decided to get right out without a word and let Frank drive off, but Frank parked the car and followed Larken to his door.

"We'll call it a night," said Larken. "Please, Frank?"

"Oh no, you don't," said Frank, pushing Larken inside and following him. "You're not getting out of this one," he said, snapping on the lights.

"No, Frank, because—"

"Look, fella, don't tell me
no,
right?"

"You just want to fight."

"You're damn
straight
I want to fight!" Frank shouted, slamming the door behind them and giving Larken a shove that sent him sprawling back onto the couch. "What the fuck kind
of place
is that, will you tell me?
Joes'?
He calls the others
Joes'
? Who's that faggot to call people names?"

"You apologize to me for using that word or you get out of my house," said Larken, getting up, "and I mean it."

Frank, surprised, said, "What word?"

"'Faggot.'"

Frank looked at Larken and saw that he meant it.

"Just a minute there," said Frank. "That guy's allowed to use words on my mother and father, and I'm not allowed to use words on
him?"

"Now
you've figured it out. Apologize or get the fuck out!"

"Look—"

"No,
you
look,
buster!
Because
you're
wrong! And you know what else? You're still a joe! You don't just dress like a joe and talk like one—you think like one! It's still us against them to you, and gay people are
them,
aren't they? And Johnny or Bombasta or whoever he finally decides he's going to be is perfectly in the right to call your parents 'joes' and you're not going to give him 'faggot' back! Because you and your kind have been giving us 'faggot' for many, many years! From now on, it's our turn. Your parents are
joes
and you can
stand
there and
take
it!"

Stunned by Larken's unaccustomed fire, Frank was silent—but now Larken changed his tone. "These stupid vases, you know?" he said, calmly regarding two matched green glass pieces that stood upon the coffee table. There was never anything in them; they just sat there. "Why did I buy them? I guess... they must have seemed like a bargain at the time. Now I'm tired of them. They annoy me, you know?"

Larken picked one up and sent it smashing to the wall just to Frank's right. By the time Frank looked from the broken glass back to Larken, Larken was holding the other piece and looking grim.

"This goes straight at your head, I swear to God," said Larken, "if you don't apologize to me for your disgusting attitude. And if you call the cops on me, when they get here I'm going to tell them that you've been screwing my ass and letting me blow you, and this is not a bluff."

Frank stared at Larken.

"You have five seconds."

At three, Frank said, "Okay, fuck it, I'm sorry, Larken,
okay?"

"And stop shouting at me in my own house."

"Right.
Jesus."

Larken put down the vase.

"Neat," said Frank. "Because you throwing that vase is like... you know, the wife is angry."

"I'm not your wife, Frank. I'm a man, just like you."

"How come you let me cram your ass, then?"

"Frank, to tell the truth, I don't know. Because I don't even like getting screwed. I have much more fun on top."

Frank snorted, as if to say, Fat chance, buddy.

"You won't understand this, Frank, but I go along with it because I like the thought of you taking that... that right over me. It's not the physical sensation. It's thinking about what you look like, all of you, and having you moan inside me—"

"Hell, you make noises, too."

Larken sat on the couch.

"It's a contest, isn't it, Frank? That's how you see it. The winner is the one who shows the least need for the other man, the least affection. I moan less, so I win, is that it? That other guy, he's just a piece of ass."

"That isn't true," Frank growled, but he sat next to Larken and took his hand. "I'm always affectionate with you."

"You don't like being gay."

"Of course I don't. Who would, with all the hard time you get from..."

"Joes."

"You say that to hurt me."

"Because you think you're a joe. Somewhere deep in Frank is a voice telling you you're better than me. You're more of a man. You won't kiss, you won't suck, and you won't get fucked. You're like the trade in Jill's. You think you're straight."

Frank shrugged.

"This," Larken announced, taking his hand back, "is not a sensible way to have an affair. Because—guess what?—I think we just broke up."

"I'll ignore that last bit while you tell me what a sensible way would be."

"I have no idea, Frank."

"Well, what's the usual way?"

"That's just it. There is no usual way because what we're doing isn't usual. Where would you go to... to inspect the models? You ever hear of a book about two gay men in love? A movie?"

"Are we in love?"

Larken looked right at Frank. "I think one of us is."

Frank put his arms around Larken, pulled him close and petted him. "Come on," he said. "Fighting is stupid. And I was stupid, because I started it. We don't... understand each other yet. You meant to do the right thing by taking me to that place, but I have to tell you that it's the biggest collection of cranks and goofies I've ever seen. If that's what gay is, then you're right: I'm not gay. And neither are you."

Larken said, "I want to fuck you."

He felt Frank freeze and pull away, but Larken held on to him. "If you can fuck me," he reasoned, "why can't I—"

"Why do you worry about it, when you give such beautiful beak?"

"Beak?"

"It's cop talk.
Head.
Give head."

"Well, why do I have to be the one who—"

"Because
you like
it! You told me you did."

"I don't like it, Frank, I love it. And I'm not even a size queen."

Frank paused. "A who what?"

"A size queen." "Uh, do you suppose you could help me out here, because I seem to have mislaid my dictionary of weird homo terms."

Larken looked at him.

"Sorry—weird
gay
terms."

"A size queen is especially attracted to extra-big-hung men, like you. You
have
noticed that you're kind of heavy in that department?"

"Yeah, but why a
queen?"

"Frank! You can't be that dense! Haven't you heard me use the word 'queen' a thousand times?"

"But why not... oh, size
hound
? Size
fan?"

"Frank, you keep wanting to stick Nelson Eddy and the Mounties in there to sing 'Stouthearted Men.' But if you fuck guys—as you have been fucking me—not somnolently or with a gun to your head but gratefully and with noisy abandon... Oh, you're blushing; that's cute."

Larken got up.

"Anyway," he went on, "if you do all this, then you are gay. And if you're gay, you're a queen. You want some coffee and everything?" Larken went to the fridge. "Or maybe a toast to welcome the new—"

"A size queen," Frank muttered.

"There are other kinds, too," said Larken, readying the drinks. "Like for what you're interested in... theatre queens, toe queens—they go to the ballet. Or for what you want sexually. Tart queens only go with hustlers, for instance. Rice queens like Orientals."

"Rice queens..." Frank echoed, with a slight air of desperation.

"There's also snow queens, but I forget what they do."

"And what kind of queen are you?"

"I'm a Frank queen," said Larken, handing Frank his drink. "But you're going to have to be more tolerant and accepting. You want to be a joe, fuck women. You want to be with me, stop pretending you're a joe. In fact... did you ever think of coming out on some small scale? Like to your parents?"

"Coming out?"

"Of the closet."

"What
closet?"

"Frank, you're so literal it's almost sweet. What closet? I guess the... the closet you've been hiding your secret self in. The closet with your dresses, in a way."

"My...
what?"
Frank jumped up. "Now I'm a
dress
queen, right? Pull open Frank's closet and what do you see? All I see, Lark, my boy, is my uniform gear and the white T-shirts and jeans for days off and my dark suit from graduation and maybe a sweater. What's in your closet? Some... I don't know, velveteen gown with a blue thing on it, what are they called, a sash? And your silk... step-ins? And your scarlet jumper with the, what? matching lunch box of iodine red? Is that what's in your closet, Larky? Right?"

The Kid opened the door and pulled out hanger after hanger of new costumes for the act—a beaded silk number, the body in fir green and the beads avocado and corn; a black sheath with a white organdy bow in the back and matching turban; and a sensational outfit in red satin with Carmen Miranda rumba ruffles on the arms and a red velvet snood; along with jewelry, barrettes, clips, bags, and shoes.

Arranging them on the bed, the Kid thought, the silk is Contessa Dooit and the black is definitive Bombasta. The red satin would work for Miss Coty de Tramp. But Transvesto... Or maybe Transvesto shouldn't actually appear. Once you're in drag, any allusion to a drag character would be redundant.

"You can't," Derek told the Kid. "You can't, you can't, you can't."

"Wait till you see the wigs."

"My boy—"

"What do you think of the name Jerrett Troy?"