“HIS NAME IS THOMAS Blair Rice III, born in 1918, the son of independently wealthy parents. The family’s money is in real estate, all of it managed by a Mr. Karl Lowenstein. The father’s an antiquarian and is a member of several archeological societies. The mother used to be an avid America Firster. Now she does a little volunteer work with the Red Cross.
“Rice attended both Choate and Yale, distinguishing himself in no way at either place. A classmate at Yale told us, ‘He was known to the drinking set as an intellectual, and to the intellectuals as a drunk.’”
“Typical spoiled rich kid. He doesn’t sound like a likely foreign agent, Mason, no matter what your contact thinks.”
“No, Admiral Whyte. But let Sullivan finish his report. There’s more.”
“While at Yale, Rice joined several America First-type organizations, but never stayed a member for long, apparently put off by their pacificism. He was arrested in May 1938 for taking part in an attempt to break up a Young Communist League rally in New Haven. No charges, although he was placed on probation at school. On his police record, there’s only that and two counts of drunk driving. His drinking seems to have tapered off since college. None of the five people we talked to from his class at Yale admit that they’ve stayed in touch with him. They remember him as a harmless, silly snob who admired Hitler and Mussolini, hated Communists, and dated several well-known debutantes.
“After he was graduated from Yale in 1940, he worked briefly at J. Walter Thompson, an advertising agency, in some sort of vague, managerial capacity. He is frequently seen at the Stork Club, 21 and El Morocco. Rice was exempted from the draft. No strings were pulled. He has asthma.”
“Thank you, Sullivan. As you said, Admiral, not the most likely suspect. But you’ve read the transcript of our contact’s conversation with the suspect, all heard and duly recorded by Mr. Zeitlin here. And there’s the fact that the suspect did go to a male bordello but didn’t do anything.”
“I’d think his not doing anything is a fact in his favor, Mason.”
“Maybe. Although his mere presence there suggests latent homosexual tendencies. More important, he seemed to be there primarily to gather information. For whom? Anything is possible. As you can see by the biographical material, we’re dealing with a very unstable personality. Which is why I feel we should continue to monitor the man’s activities.”
“I don’t know, Mason. There’re too many maybes here and not enough facts. The transcript does sound fishy, but it might be just some drunk, rich 4F shooting off his mouth. What about you, Sullivan? What’s the FBI’s take on this matter?”
“The FBI agrees it’s terribly iffy, Admiral. But nothing a spoiled brat like that did would surprise me. He might be a foreign agent. A bad one and perfectly harmless on his own. But there’s the possibility he could lead us to others more important and dangerous.”
“Hmmm. All right then. You have my permission to continue surveillance of the man. But only for a week. One week from today, we’ll review the additional evidence. If there’s been nothing else to suggest the man’s a spy, we’ll terminate the operation. This war’s too important for the Navy or FBI to squander valuable personnel on the doings of some poor little rich boy.”
“What about the girl? The one seen leaving Rice’s apartment yesterday.”
“What did you find on her, Sullivan?”
“Not much. She registered at the Martha Washington under ‘Mary Austin of Kansas City, Kansas,’ but we have no records on such a person. She might be nothing more than a prostitute or party girl, but she could also be Rice’s contact.”
“No. I don’t like the idea of our men chasing after dollies. Call your men off her, Sullivan.”
“Yes, sir.”
“That’ll be all for now, gentleman. I thank you for your efforts, but I’ll be damn glad when this unsavory business is over.”
Mason and Zeitlin stood up and saluted. Sullivan and the other FBI man stood and nodded. They filed out of the rear admiral’s carpeted office and past the two whispering WAVEs in the front office, none of them speaking until they were out in the hall.
“I wish you’d put up a fight over the girl, Sullivan. She could prove important.” said Mason, undercutting his criticism with a smile.
Sullivan frowned and stood up straight. “We’re shorthanded as it is. In point of fact, I have to spell one of my men myself now. Goodbye.” He and the new man turned and walked away, as identical and business-like in their padded gray suits as a pair of adding machines.
Erich followed the commander back to their office on the floor above. The presence of others in the hallway or on the stairs didn’t deter Mason from talking about Rice or criticizing Rear Admiral Whyte’s inability to appreciate sexual warfare. Erich waited until they were in the office and the door was closed to mention the sailor.
“So what do we tell Fayette, sir? It’s been two days since his encounter with Rice. He probably feels very confused over being left in the dark.”
“Tell him he did well.” Mason made himself comfortable behind his desk. “Tell him we’re working on his lead and’ll let him know what we turn up, if anything.”
“Yes, sir. And what do I tell him when he asks how much longer he has to stay?”
“Meaning…?”
“He’s going to think he found our spy and it’s time we return him to his ship.”
“Is that still so important to him? If I were Hank, I’d want to enjoy that brothel for as long as possible. Considering where he’s going when he’s finished.”
“But Fayette doesn’t know that.”
“No. And ignorance is bliss. Why spoil it for him?”
Mason frequently changed plans without telling his subordinate, but clearly he had not changed his plans for Fayette. Erich felt uncomfortable. He wanted to get away from his superior.
“It’s after four, Commander. I need to go back to the house, retrieve the microphone and perhaps speak to Fayette. If it’s acceptable to you, sir, I’d like to go now. Before their business hours.”
“Perfectly acceptable. We’ve done all the mischief we can do here for today.” Mason flipped through a new manual on his desk. “If you don’t mind me asking, Erich, what makes you so concerned about Fayette all of a sudden?”
“Concerned, sir? Not at all. I only want to keep the machine in working order.”
“As a doctor with patients, I’ve learned to be very careful not to identify too strongly with them. Not to become too involved. One must stay detached.”
“I am quite detached, Commander Mason.”
“It’s especially tricky with mental incompetents, because we can’t help seeing them as children. And children are eminently lovable. No, when we’re finished with Hank, he’ll be sent to a place where he’ll be happy, cared for and protected.”
Mason had heard Erich’s reports over the past two weeks, had read the transcript of Fayette’s clumsy but effective fencing with Rice, and yet he still assumed the sailor was mentally deficient. Hadn’t he noticed the cunning, even the distrust, becoming more apparent behind the man’s slow innocence? Fayette was not eminently lovable. Erich wanted to point that out to Mason, insist on it. But if Fayette weren’t an imbecile, he was a criminal. A life in a mental asylum was preferable to life imprisonment in Portsmouth.
“Was there something else, Mr. Zeitlin?”
“No, sir. Nothing. I’ll be going now.”
Erich rode uptown to the Sloane House, to change into civilian clothes, then rode the subway down to Fourteenth Street. The additional trip and the act of changing clothes made this visit feel strangely important to him, as if he intended to accomplish something different from earlier visits. Keeping Fayette’s mental capability a secret, Erich had realized he was protecting Fayette. Walking up the stairs to the street, Erich realized he wanted to tell Fayette more than was safe. He wanted to warn him.
Erich did not know where the urge had come from. As soon as he acknowledged it, he felt it had been at the back of his thoughts for the past two days, ever since he heard Fayette and the houseboy make love. He wasn’t sure why the sex act should seem crucial. Making love with the streetwalker he met the same night—a green Midwestern girl who found Jews exotic—Erich felt a peculiar kinship with Fayette, as if sex were sex, and hearing a man fornicate made you his brother. No, hearing that should repel you, even when it was with a woman, especially if you disliked the man. But Erich did not dislike Fayette. Listening in on him and the houseboy, he had not been repelled or morally sickened, only embarrassed by his own superfluity. For so long Erich had tried to detach himself from this wrong by thinking of the man as an idiot or a pervert. But he had discovered Fayette’s intelligence, and the man’s “perversion” had not sounded nearly as disgusting as its reputation. No longer protected from him by the names, Erich saw Fayette plain. His conscience would not shut up. Like Erich, Fayette was a foreigner in any country, only he didn’t know it, yet.
Approaching the square, Erich noticed the black Ford pulled up on the curb, the low sun reflected in a bronze oval stretched over the fender. There was a man slumped behind the wheel, as if taking a nap, and Erich saw the open eyes in the sideview mirror—Sullivan’s partner from the other night. Erich walked past without either of them acknowledging the other. He was surprised they were still watching the house. They had their hands full following Rice. Crossing the square littered with slats and cabbage leaves from the day’s market, Erich could feel the FBI watching him. He stepped into the shadow of the house, walked up the steps and rang the bell. His complicity sickened him, but warning Fayette did not feel quite right either. It might only cause the sailor to desert, which would send him to prison for certain. He had to be careful not to sacrifice Fayette just to soothe his own conscience. At the same time, he had to take care not to let carefulness cause him to do nothing. Erich knew he was so accustomed to guilt that inaction came much too easily to him. An American would behave differently.
The door was opened. It was Fayette.
He was dressed in freshly laundered whites and wore his cap, as if all set to report back to his ship. But he looked surprised to see Erich, unpleasantly so.
“You,” he whispered. “Yes?”
He stepped back when Erich quickly stepped inside and closed the door. He was looking sideways at Erich, one blue eye half-hidden behind his nose. He seemed mistrustful. Or maybe he was ashamed of what Erich had heard the other night. The idea of shame disturbed Erich. It made Fayette more human than ever.
“I came to pick up the things from the other night. Is it safe to go up to your room?”
Fayette rocked on his heels, like a guilty child. “Yeah, sure,” he said, then turned and started up the stairs.
Erich followed, knowing he should be deliberating over what to tell Fayette, but unable to think of anything except that the seat of the pants creasing and uncreasing in front of him covered an anatomy he had heard sodomized.
Up in the room, they closed the door. Erich moved the chair to the corner and stood on it. He was too short to reach the paper lantern, so he had to ask Fayette to take it down.
“Oh, you’ll be pleased to know we’re acting on your discovery. Commander Mason said to say you did well.”
“Yeah?” Fayette passed him the lantern and microphone and stepped down. “Good. Does that mean I’ll be getting out of here anytime soon?”
“They want you to remain here a little longer, Hank. Until they verify that this man is a spy.” Erich used Fayette’s first name deliberately, to suggest trust, but it sounded as condescending and phony as Mason’s constant use of it. “I’m sorry they’ve left you in the dark these past two days, Fayette.” He began to wrap the cord around the mike.
Fayette stood at the door and folded his arms. “So who was listening to me Tuesday night? You or the G-man?” He spoke angrily.
“Uh, I was.”
“Guess I gave you quite an earful. Me and the nigger.”
“Not at all.” Erich felt himself blushing. “You sounded as if you were enjoying yourself. As best you could. Under the circumstances.” When he looked up, he found Fayette staring at him curiously, the anger put aside.
“You don’t think I’m some kind of animal? For doing it with a colored?”
“No. You had no choice. You had to do it for us. Besides, I’m not American. Race doesn’t mean the same to me as it does to you.” Or rather, the Negro race, which apparently was what Fayette’s shame was about. He could still say “nigger,” although it rang false after what Erich had heard through the microphone he now packed into his briefcase. Feeling the sailor relax, Erich decided they needed to continue this conversation so he could gain Fayette’s trust before he decided exactly what to tell him. “Can I buy you a drink somewhere? What you did the other night calls for a celebration, don’t you think?”
“Maybe. I’d like that. I should get away from this stuff, even if it’s just for an hour. But I promised to go to a party tonight. With Juke. The colored boy.” He lowered his eyes. “Kind of to pay him back for the other night. That’s all. That’s why I’m done up in my dress whites like this.”
“Another time then.” But Erich wanted to do it tonight, before his nerve and good intentions changed.
“Sure. Only I really do need it tonight,” he admitted. It was as if they read each other’s thoughts. “Hey. All I got to do is show my face at this party. Then you and I could go somewhere for a beer. You mind coming along and cooling your heels for a half hour?”
“What about Juke?”
“Aw, Juke’s just Juke. He has no right to squawk. I don’t owe him anything. I don’t.”
Erich wondered what had happened since Tuesday, if anything. Whatever was going on between Fayette and the houseboy could hold for another night. This was more important. “Where’s this party being held?”
“Somewhere on the waterfront not too far from here. Starts before sunset, so it can’t be anything too wild. You mind, Erich?”
“Not at all. Let me take care of this first.” He went to the window and shook the cord loose, then reeled it in, wrapping it around his arm. All he was going to do was share a few facts disguised as suspicions with Fayette, just enough to put Fayette on his guard. It would be up to the sailor to choose his own course of action. Erich could alleviate his conscience without making himself fully responsible for any harm that came to the man. Besides, he did not know exactly what Fayette could do. “I’m finished here,” he said when the line was packed up with the mike.
“Before I forget, I got something I wanted to give you.” Fayette opened the top drawer of his dresser and passed Erich something. It was a book of matches, covered with blue zebra stripes and bearing the name “El Morocco” in tall, skinny letters. “Fell out of the spy’s pocket the other night. Maybe it’ll help find him.”
“Yes. This could prove helpful. Thanks,” said Erich and pocketed the matches, although they already knew Rice frequented this particular night club.
“I hope you people nail that bastard. What’s his name, anyway?”
“They want to keep that private, Hank. For legal reasons.”
“No skin off my nose. I never want to see the sonovabitch again in my life.”
“Hank!” The name was hollered from downstairs.
“That’ll be Juke. Must be time to go. I’ll tell him you’re coming with us.”
They went down the stairs, Erich wondering what he was getting himself into, not just with the party, but with his decision to unlock some of the secrets without unlocking all of them. It would be like plucking one apple from the base of a pyramid of apples, without causing an avalanche of apples.
The houseboy wasn’t waiting for them in the front hall, only the Bosch woman who was talking to a young colored girl in a white dress. Erich wondered what a girl was doing here.
“Where’d Juke go, Mrs. Bosch?”
The colored girl turned around, looked demure, then burst out laughing.
“Juke?”
“Aren’t I divine?” said the girl. She was the boy. His lips were painted bright red and he wore a wig in a snood. He turned once, flaring the dress. He lifted his knee and presented a white high heel. There was a glimpse of red toenail in the open-toe. “And you’re going to be Lena’s beautiful white sailor accompanying her to the ball,” he said, delicately slipping a brown hand with red fingernails inside Fayette’s arm.
Erich stared at Juke, trying to see the houseboy hidden inside the girl. He remembered the boy’s arm muscles and shoulders, but it was a long sleeve dress and the shoulders were padded, although there was probably less padding and more shoulder here than in most women’s dresses. The white gardenia pinned to his shoulder did not look inappropriate. And yet this was the boy who had been the man with Fayette. It was too confusing, like contemplating the sex life of a hydra.
Then the boy noticed Erich.
“Meester Zeitlin?” said Mrs. Bosch. “What’re you doing here?” But when Erich didn’t answer, only continued to stare at Juke’s eyelashes, she said, “Yes. Doesn’t he make the prettiest gurrl? I let him fix up one of my old dresses, but everything else is his.” She plumped up his snood, smoothed out his shoulders. “He has worked so long for me he now has my good taste.”
Juke’s made-up eyes shifted from Erich to Fayette.
“Juke. Are those earrings of mine you are wearing? Who told you to wear my good mother-of-pearl? I gif you an inch and you take a mile!”
Fayette, too, stared at the boy, his tongue poking the inside of his cheek. “What kind of party is this, anyway?”
“A drag ball, darling. Isn’t the dress a big enough hint?” Juke sneered at Fayette, angrily. He pointed an unladylike thumb at Erich. “Why’s he with you?”
“Yes, Meester Zeitlin. Why today? We don’t see you except on Mondays,” said Mrs. Bosch with a wink so quick it looked like a twitch.
“Haven’t you noticed?” said Juke. “He comes by all the time now. To see his boyfriend.”
“Not my boyfriend,” said Fayette. “Just a friend. He’s coming with us to this party, Juke. If it’s okay with you.”
“What if I say he’s not invited?”
“Then I’m not coming.”
Fayette and the houseboy stared at each other.
“He thinks you are Hank’s boyfriend?” The Bosch woman was giggling. “That is very funny, Meester Zeitlin.”
“It’s all right, Fayette. I have other things to take care of.” Erich did not want to involve himself in a lovers’ quarrel, if that’s what this was, and he did not want to attend a transvestite ball. “We can talk some other time.”
Juke turned on him. “What’s the matter, bookkeeper? Not man enough for a few drag queens?” The boy was crazy. He insulted Erich for giving in.
“Not at all. Mr. Fayette gave me the impression this was a casual gathering. If it’s a fancy dress affair, I’m not suitably dressed.”
“Mrs. Bosch be happy to let you wear one of hers,” said the boy.
The Bosch woman howled, laughing so hard she had to pull her handkerchief out of the front of her blouse and cover her mouth. “Eef only your boss could see…!”
“Pay no attention, Erich. Come along. There’s gonna be regular guys there. Like me.” Fayette turned away from the others and whispered, “Ten minutes won’t kill us.”
Erich felt Fayette wanted him there for protection against Juke. “Thank you, but I don’t want to be a fifth wheel.”
“You won’t be. It’s not like me and Juke are a couple or anything, just because he’s dressed up as a girl. We’re just some guys going to a party.”
Juke looked at Fayette. He nervously tapped the spike of one high heel against the floor. He chewed on his lip, before he remembered the lipstick.
A car horn honked out front.
“Oh, shit. That’s the taxi I phoned for. Okay, you want to bring the bookkeeper, bring the bookkeeper. Bring the garbage man and a full-piece orchestra for all I care. Let’s get going.”
“See? I told you Juke’d come around.”
Erich still didn’t want to go, but with everyone heading for the door he did not know how to get out of this.
“You be careful with those earrings!” Mrs. Bosch shouted behind them. “You lose one, Juke, and I strengle you!”
There was a yellow taxicab with red fenders waiting out front. Juke hobbled down the steps and across the cobblestones, gradually gaining enough momentum to walk gracefully in heels. By then, he had reached the cab. He stood at the door without opening it.
Erich understood first and opened it for him.
“Thank you, Erich, darling,” said Juke, sounding like a lady. “You did say your name is Erich?”
Seeing the black Ford still parked across the square, Erich wondered what Sullivan would think when he heard Mason’s assistant had gone off with the sailor and a Negro transvestite. Luckily, Juke looked like a real woman, at least to white eyes.
“We won’t stay long, I promise,” Fayette whispered as he stepped in.
Erich climbed in beside him, pulled the door shut and they were off.
“Pier 44, darling,” Juke told the driver. “I am so pleased you thought to bring your friend, Hank. For a girl to arrive with a man on each arm suggests she’s very much in demand.”
The driver said nothing, but studied them in his rearview mirror, unaware that this trio were even more peculiar than they seemed. Erich felt as if there were actually four of them in the backseat: himself, Fayette, Juke in drag, and the real Juke.
They had gone less than a mile when the taxi pulled to the curb.
“Here we are. Do pay the nice man, Erich. That’s a dear.”
Erich paid and stepped out after them. They stood at the foot of a short open pier flanked by enormous green warehouses. A gate in the chain link fence was wide open and a row of empty boxcars was parked on the track that ran out to the end of the pier. There was a smell of creosote and dead fish. The sun was an orange disk hovering in the murky air across the river.
Juke opened his purse and brought out a pair of white gloves, which he wiggled over his hands. “Valeska’s,” he explained. “You can’t wear gloves in taxis, though. Door handles just aren’t as clean as they used to be.” He noticed Erich and Fayette looking around in bewilderment. “Don’t be frightened, darlings. We’re exactly where we should be.”
He led them through the gate and down the pier. More of the river came into view, plumed with columns of black smoke from the tugboats, ferries and lighters swarming over the wide, smokey-orange water. Up ahead walked the silhouette of a couple in evening clothes. Then, just beyond the last boxcar, was a double-deckered gazebo, docked to the side of the pier. It was actually a boat, turned into some kind of restaurant or night club. Chinese paper lanterns swung in the breeze beneath the canopy over the upper deck—innocent paper lanterns. The deck below was dark with murmuring people. As they came closer, Erich heard a piano against the noise of cranes and boat whistles outside. People like Juke could not afford to congregate in more conspicuous places, he decided.
“Hank, dear.” Juke took hold of Fayette’s arm as they approached the party. “You’re forgetting I’m a lady.”
Beneath the awning over the red-carpeted entrance stood a handsome young man in a cut-away and a roundly plump figure in a tiara and strapless red dress. The slant of sunlight showed the blue shadow of a shave beneath the hostess’s face powder. He had just finished welcoming the couple in evening clothes. The handsome boy stood beside him like a mannequin chewing gum.
“Alpheus! Lena, I mean.” The hostess embraced Juke and made kissing sounds on either side of his snood. “What ever happened to you? We never see you at Chick’s.”
“Didn’t you hear, Kate? I moved downtown. Uptown life had simply grown too, too.”
“Frederick’s here,” the hostess said meaningfully.
“Oh?” Juke hesitated. “Oh, Kate, dear. I’d like you to meet Hank. Hank is in the service.”
“So I see,” said the hostess, his eyes eating Fayette. “Where did you ever find such a delectable piece of seafood?” He reached out for a quick touch, his bracelets jingling.
“Pleased to meet you, ma’m, uh, sir,” Fayette said with a stiff nod, glancing at Erich, more concerned for him than with being touched by a transvestite. He was probably touched by transvestites every day.
“And this is Erich. Erich’s a bookkeeper.”
The hostess gave him a quick, disappointed look. Erich knew he should not feel judged by someone so absurd, but he was abruptly conscious of being short, pudgy and balding. He adjusted his glasses, as if that could make a difference.
“I realize, of course, that Erich’s not dressed for the occasion,” Juke said blithely. “You couldn’t make an exception just this once, could you?” He expected Erich to be turned away, which was why he had given in so easily to Fayette.
“Well…One can’t be as picky as one was in days of old,” said the hostess. “And since you also brought this beautiful sailor—Welcome to our little soiree, Erich.” He held out a hand for Erich to squeeze, a hand the size of a football. He waved Erich inside and stage whispered to Juke, “But I declare, Lena. What ever do you see in such a drab little Jew? I hope he’s loaded.”
“Fabulously loaded,” Juke purred. “Thank you ever so much. Ta-ta for now.” He turned to join Erich and Fayette inside, dropping his honeyed smile the instant his back was to the hostess. His ruse had failed. “Piss elegant fake,” he grumbled. “Since you’re in, go get yourself a drink and try not to embarrass me,” he told Erich. “I’m introducing my date to a few old friends. Nobody you’d want to meet.”
“This won’t take long,” said Fayette as Juke led him off.
Erich watched them go, then looked around, feeling more numbed than shocked. He noticed the evening clothes of various cuts and ages, a few uniforms—all enlisted men—and many elaborate dresses and hairdos. The different aromas of perfume were so strong you couldn’t smell the river anymore. He was so accustomed to the presence of women at such gatherings that he assumed there were real women here, until he looked for them. A blonde with puffed shoulders had an adam’s apple like a rock. A pale Negress with a hat like a saucer did not quite know what to do with her purse. And someone who looked like Rita Hayworth—too much like her—had startlingly big feet. But everyone seemed well-behaved and civilized, despite an occasionally loud, uncivilized laugh. A baby grand piano at the end of the deck scattered lazy chords over the scene. The sunset behind the piano looked like a wall mural. They might all be in a midtown night club, except for the presence of enlisted men and Negroes. Erich decided he could live with this until Fayette was able to get away.
He found the bar beside the bulkhead of the stairs, asked the long-haired bartender for wine and had to take brandy instead. Looking around for Fayette, he took a deep sip of the drink. The floor suddenly seemed to sway. He lowered his glass and stared at it. Bottles and glasses behind the bar were ringing together.
There were delighted shrieks from people along the rail. Erich looked up and saw the mural of the warehouse sliding by. When he turned to look for the pier, it was ten feet away, getting further away as he watched. The floor was trembling.
“We’re free! We’re free!” someone screamed, and the piano broke into a bangy boogie-woogie. Men began to dance, some with men, some with men dressed as women. Others rushed to the stern and hooted at the golden skyline pulling away behind them. “Screw you, cops! Screw you, Mob!” screamed Rita Hayworth, then pulled up her dress, pulled off her BVDs and waved them like a big hanky at the city before she tossed them into the boat’s wake.
People rushed the bar and Erich was surrounded by crackling crinoline. He pushed his way through the surprisingly hard bodies to the railing, although it was too late now to jump. A hand on his shoulder suddenly turned him around. It was Fayette, red-faced and grimacing.
“Damn that Juke! He never told me this boat was going anywhere!”
“Did he say when we’d get back?” Hearing himself, Erich realized he wasn’t nearly as upset as Fayette. There was nothing either of them could do.
“No. Damn little so-and-so. I could wring his scrawny black neck. Shit. We’re stuck here until it’s over. I got you into this shitty mess, Erich, and I’m sorry.”
“No harm done. No. Nothing we can do but enjoy the ride,” Erich offered, wondering why he wasn’t more upset. The disguises and noises around them made him think of Carnival in Vienna and Zurich. Maybe it would be no worse than that. “Maybe we can find a quiet corner and talk, Fayette. This is as good a place as any to have that drink.” Trapped with Fayette for several hours, Erich could force himself to say everything that had to be said.
“Yeah,” Fayette answered, without enthusiasm. “If I can get five minutes peace from that pesky picaninny.” He looked out over the crowd. “Where is he? I better find the fool or he’s gonna be riled I gave him the brush.” And Fayette shouldered his way through the party, looking for the person he said he wanted to avoid.
There was such screaming they left the pier that one hoped the boat was capsizing. So many deaths by drowning would be splendid, cleansing the city of degenerates, ridding Blair of the fairy who had brought him misery.
He stood in the shadow of a boxcar, making fists with his black gloves while he watched the boat carry his enemy out toward the channel. The gloves made him feel capable, ruthless. He had leased a car that morning and driven out to Flushing and back to shake anyone who might be following him—it couldn’t be as difficult as Anna claimed to lose a tail. He had watched the house behind the docks all afternoon, parked in an alley, waiting to catch the sailor alone. He had followed the sailor, who was with a man with glasses and a colored girl, to this place. He had seen enough of the other people arriving—trash mocking good society through imitation—to understand what kind of party it was. Blair had invested too much time and cleverness in following the sailor this far to give up now.
The sun sank rapidly on the other side of the river. Blair waited until the boat was a distant shadow in the blue haze. He came out from behind the boxcar and approached the dockworker returning to his shed. He asked the man when the boat was expected back.
“Sometime after one, thweetie. Your boyfriend leave you behind?”
Blair did not deign to answer. He turned and walked back toward the gate, where his car was parked. He had a pint in the glove compartment and his first gun, purchased only a few hours ago.