The Lure (10 page)

A minute later, as he passed by, Noel said, “Thanks for the tip.”

Chaffee acted as though he hadn’t heard him.

Noel watched him serve the drink, then, as he watched Chaffee go into the other room, his eye was caught by something in the mirror hung high over the back of the bar. Two men he’d seen in the other room were now standing behind Noel, five or six feet apart, leaning against the wooden shelf. They seemed oblivious to each other, yet linked somehow, too. Staring at their reflections, Noel thought the one in the loose-fitting army fatigues must still be a boy, fifteen or sixteen years old. Sure enough, he held a can of 7-Up.

The two looked at each other briefly, then away. All very subtle, with no sign at all that they were aware of each other; until one changed his pose by a fraction—head back, cigarette lighted. The other shifted his own pose in equally minute reaction, sipping from the can in his hand, moving a leg; all very nonchalant.

It only took Noel a few minutes to realize that each movement was designed to signal an intention, a fear, a question; to attract or repel; an elaborate, silent mating dance.

Finally, the younger one turned to put his drink on the shelf. The other, a dark blond, turned his head to stare at the boy, shifting his own pose several times, signaling, Noel guessed, that he didn’t want the boy to go without him. The boy took a step toward him. They met, said something Noel couldn’t hear, then settled back against the shelf side by side. They talked quietly. The boy smiled. Their hands met in the brotherhood handclasp. Noel thought he heard names exchanged. Must remember to shake hands like that in the future, he reminded himself: Chaffee had done it, too.

Now the two were involved in a series of quick, intense questions and answers. Noel wished to hell he could overhear them, but the bar was too empty for him to move nearer. Suddenly, the boy shifted away from the wall, and the two of them left the room so fast Noel barely had a chance to see them slip out past Max at the door.

Noel gulped down the rest of his beer, unable to hide his excitement. He’d been here less than a half hour, and he’d actually witnessed a key social ritual of this society—a sexual pickup—from inception to consummation. First time out, and he’d struck pay dirt! If only he’d been able to hear what they’d said to each other! Loomis was right. He felt as though he’d parachuted into New Guinea and witnessed a once-a-century ceremony never before seen by a white man.

“I thought you were working tomorrow?” It was Vega, behind the bar.

“I am.”

“You must have something better to do than hang around here.”

“You’re kidding! It’s fascinating. Do you know what I just saw?”

“No and I don’t care. Get out of here. Come back tomorrow. Go!”

Vega turned away to wipe the bar top.

Noel fought down the urge to punch him in the face. Instead, he reached into his wallet, slapped a dollar onto the bar, and loudly said, “Another beer. And keep the change.”

Buddy glowered threateningly, but he got the beer. When he bent to reach it, Noel walked over to the Wurlitzer. The play button was taped over. He punched a half dozen selections at random.

The first song to come on had a long instrumental introduction with trumpet punctuations before a mellow black tenor sang, “I’m a free man. Yes. I am. A free man, baby. Yes. I am.”

Noel’s beer was open, waiting for him on the bar top. Vega and the dollar were gone.

Noel didn’t stay to finish the beer. Within minutes, the Grip filled up as though a crowded bus had stopped and unloaded all its passengers. Noel checked his watch. He and Buddy had come in at eight fifteen. It was now nine o’clock.

He’d made his point with Vega. If he stayed on it might constitute a challenge he wasn’t sure he could back up. Besides, with the bar so suddenly crowded, he felt less protected, more open to being forced into contact with possible enemies, spies, friends of Mr. X. Nor did it take long for him to see that the ordinary saloon mentality—lone men drinking silently or engaged in drunken conversation—didn’t hold true in the Grip. Instead, the place was filled with motion, many people talking, moving about from spot to spot, no doubt a lot of sexual hunting, too. The currents around him, though not always definable, were powerful.

Outside the bar, the night air was surprisingly warm, and he decided to walk to the subway. Turning the corner of West Street onto Christopher was like finding himself on a busy midtown thoroughfare in the middle of a business day. It seemed that hundreds of people were out, walking singly, in pairs, or groups of three or more, coming and going slowly on both sides of the street, leaning against parked cars, chatting, standing together at corners, talking and glancing at passersby. Traffic was heavy, with cars creeping along the curbs, slowing for the drivers to lean out and make conversation with pedestrians.

The street was garish, neon-lit from bars, pizza parlors, a transient hotel. And with the lights went the omnipresent beat of rock music, seeping onto the street from businesses, apartments with open windows, car stereos; from radios set on the high steps of a Catholic church where a dozen men sat, from tape decks that swung by as he passed their owners.

Noel walked the few blocks to Hudson Street feeling strange, disoriented. Men were everywhere, and hardly any women at all. Here, joints of grass were smoked as openly as cigarettes, passed hand to hand, even in front of policemen. Single men slinking against the walls as they approached him would chant out a monotonous litany: “Loose joints, coke, hash, LSD, speed.” Men cruising for sex everywhere, whether walking or sitting or standing still. Twice a man followed close behind Noel for a block or more, peripherally visible, trying to catch his attention, or saying something quiet and obscene, before turning away suddenly into a side street, or stopping and retreating in the direction he’d come from. A stocky, Spanish-looking man slightly younger than Noel hissed as he approached, then made animal cluckings behind Noel’s back. Two others in close-fitting jeans and denim jackets and body-slick T-shirts barely separated to let Noel through. “Did you get a look at that number!” he heard one say as they fell away. All the men seemed of a type—between twenty and forty years old, all similarly dressed in T-shirts, open-necked work shirts or flannel plaids, with bomber jackets. Some were in full leather costumes, complete with plaited chains hanging from the shoulders or wrapped around their visored hats; some even carried motorcycle helmets, though there were no bikes in sight.

A night town. A foreign, exotic land, not ten minutes on foot from the school where he taught. Noel felt like a zoologist who has just set eyes on the prairie where the animals he will be studying are heedlessly roaming. Consumed by his observations, he forgot his discomfort. He was surprised to be brought up short a minute later.

He’d crossed Hudson Street and gone a block or so. Men were more thickly congregated here, covering the sidewalk in front of a brightly lit bar and leaning against cars. Noel was threading through this languorous gauntlet when he turned to look into the jammed bar. His eye was caught by what seemed to be a very familiar face. He stopped, moving aside, angling for a better view amid all the motion inside. Then he saw the face again, saw it glance out the window at him, and almost dive back into the mob of bobbing heads. Wasn’t that…? Yes! But what was his name? Paul something or other: a bright student in Noel’s social deviance and criminal behavior class. But where had Paul gone so fast?

“You moving?” Noel heard a voice close behind him, and simultaneously felt two hands lightly grasp his buttocks. “Or are you waiting to get into something hot here on the sidewalk?”

Noel jumped away from the man’s hands, and stumbled forward, tripping over someone’s shoes.

“Don’t get so excited. Some people wouldn’t mind,” the man said.

Dazed, Noel caught himself and turned to let the tall, crew-cut blond go by with a lecherous wink. His face was older than his clothes or his voice suggested. Then Noel saw Paul again, this time coming out of the bar. It was him!

“Paul!” Noel shouted over the chatter around him. “Paul!” The boy turned, saw Noel, bit his upper lip, and then the face was gone again. A second later, Noel caught sight of him hurriedly threading through the cars jammed in the middle of the street, looking back to see if he was being followed, then darting into a doorway.

Noel was confused. It was Paul, wasn’t it? Yes. The boy had only been a foot or so away when he’d turned. He was sure it was the student. Why had he run away?

Noel pushed his way through the crowd. By the time he’d maneuvered out of the thickest gathering and was free to stop without being touched or fondled or pushed from behind, he had a thought that swept over him from head to feet like icy water. Paul had seen him! Seen him and run away from him. Why was clear, too. The boy was gay and didn’t want Noel to find out. He was ashamed of it.

A second thought followed: Paul must have concluded the same about Noel.

“Oh, Christ!” Noel said aloud, suddenly confronting the possible consequences. How would Paul face him tomorrow? Would he even return to class? Or would he go to the dean and drop the course for some stupid reason?

Worse, what if Paul got over his own shame and confronted Noel? Suddenly it was too much to think of here on this crowded, gay-infested street. He had to get out!

Back home Noel took off his clothes, dropped them on the rocker, then took a long, hot, massaging shower. By the time he was done he felt much better. The hell with Paul, he said to himself. The hell with Vega, too. With all of them. They’re not chasing me away. Boyle was right. There was something to be done with this study, and he was going to do it. He could get by if he stayed calm and played along—he would make Mirella Trent’s book look like a fourth-grade composition on what she did over her summer vacation. Bitch! Giving herself airs, acting like a movie star. He’d show her!

He went through his closets looking for clothing he could wear to the Grip. A flannel plaid shirt Monica’s parents had given him looked like it might do. Also an old pair of chinos from his college days.

It was almost midnight. Ordinarily he’d be reading in bed by now, or even asleep. But tonight he felt too hyped up to sleep.

Instead, he opened a fresh, college-ruled notebook to its first page and began playing with titles for the thesis. After filling two pages with writing, he decided they were all lousy. Too academic. Too sociological. Too expected. What he needed was something sensational: something the Current Ideas series could really push.

A distant police siren curved toward him, then away again, interrupting his thoughts. When it had gone, the title flashed into his mind and he wrote it down in large capital letters: I PASSED FOR GAY. He’d just reread it aloud, savoring it, when his phone rang, eerie sounding in the now total silence of the night.

“I understand you’re to begin work tomorrow.”

It was Loomis, his voice different somehow over the phone.

“News travels fast,” Noel said.

“You’ll get used to it. You and I will be talking every night you work. All my operatives report in. You have a pencil?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Copy down these phone numbers.”

All four numbers began with the same exchange—one Noel had never used before. “Do I ask for you, or what?”

“Not so fast. Let me explain. These are open numbers. What I mean is that they are currently unassigned to anyone by the telephone company. Ma Bell calls them ‘loops.’ So do we. The numbers will change, sometimes faster, sometimes more slowly, as they are assigned, or as new numbers come up. Whoever calls one of these numbers gets to talk to whoever is on the line. You can have a conference call for nothing with half the city.”

“You mean there’s no special number where I can reach you?”

“At these numbers. Not many people know of the loops. You call at a certain time and you get me. Whisper has one of them open at all times for emergencies.”

Noel wasn’t sure he understood how it worked.

Loomis explained. The unassigned numbers were lent out by the telephone company to Whisper. Only their police contact knew which numbers Whisper was using. Each time someone dialed the number it rang—a short metallic buzz that served as a warning to anyone already on the line. For the caller, after two rings, the line would seem to be answered: only it was possible that no one would be at the other end. In that case Noel was to ask if anyone were there, or give a code name. He was to call each night, as soon as he was off work at the Grip. He could also report in during his break. In an emergency, he was to use a special code.

“What’s that?”

“For ordinary calls just use your name. You’re called the Lure. Got that?”

“What’s the emergency code?”

“No fishing tonight.”

Noel wrote that next to the loop numbers.

“If the numbers change, you’ll be notified as soon as it happens. They change often, but never all at once. So don’t worry. Just memorize them and destroy what you’ve written.”

“What’s Vega’s code?”

“You and Buddy are having some initial difficulties, aren’t you?”

“A little,” Noel answered curtly, trying to play it down. He was afraid Vega’s dislike of him might jeopardize the job at the Grip and he didn’t want that, not now that he wanted the job, wanted to do the study. “Nothing we can’t iron out,” Noel added hopefully.