Toby angrily stuffed his uniform into his locker and pulled on his real clothes. He was done for the night, he couldn’t wait to be out of here, but he had to visit the Apollo Room one more time to get paid. Dancers were not required to trick with customers, but Mr. D., the owner, insisted they mix. Toby slung his backpack over his shoulder and headed down the hall, hoping nobody would recognize him in street clothes.
The Apollo Room looked like a basement rec room back home, with paneled walls and shag carpeting. Along the rear was a carpeted platform where dancers lounged like house cats with cigarettes, pretending not to notice the men who noticed them. The other dancers weren’t a bad bunch, Toby had discovered. They were bitchy at times but too laid-back to be vicious. Their one vice was laziness.
Toby made a quick circuit of the room. He’d learned to stop seeing men once they were eye level. Then he hunted down Mr. D. and found him at the wet bar by a large bowl of stale potato chips.
“And you performed twice?” Mr. D. asked as he took a fat roll of bills from his pocket.
“No. Three times. Ask Tubes if you don’t believe me.”
“I believe you, Bud. Three times, sure.” He always tried to take advantage of the fact his dancers were often too stoned to count. He paid Toby with three fifties. “Hey, if you want to pick up another hundred, there’s an ex-Marine putting together a little party for himself.”
“No, thanks. Got to go. Class in the morning.”
“Uh-huh.”
Toby claimed to be in college, which nobody believed at first—they all told their johns they were NYU students—but his arrogance and all-around priggery convinced people it might be true.
“Oh, I can’t work next Sunday. I’m in a play. It opens Friday.”
Mr. D. was not impressed. “You’re not quitting again, are ya, Bud? Nobody likes a quitter.” But dancers quit here all the time, of course, what with drugs and jail and love.
“No, just next weekend. I’ll be around after that. Good night.”
He was almost out the door when a voice spoke at his shoulder. “Excuse me. Bud? I caught your act. And I must tell you: it was utterly delightful.”
Toby reluctantly turned toward what sounded like a fruity old queen. He would smile and nod—there was no point in being rude. But the man’s face was not the usual middle-aged blob; it had sharpness, good looks, distinction.
“And hot. Very hot,” he added in a convincing English accent.
“Uh, thanks.” Toby studied him. And he understood. The face was distinct not because it was handsome but because it was famous. He’d seen it in magazines, the Times, and under glass outside a nearby theater.
“Excuse me.” Toby lowered his voice to a whisper. “But aren’t you Henry Lewse?”
The man looked startled. “Who? Oh no.” He laughed. “Good God. Not me. No. Never.”
He laughed louder and turned away. But he kept turning until he faced Toby again, smiling.
“I suppose I am,” he admitted with a chuckle. “My apologies. I didn’t expect to be recognized here. You flatter me. I never guessed that I was so well known in this country.”
“I’m an actor myself, you see,” Toby explained.
The face hardened, the smile faded. “Good for you.”
Toby held out his hand. “Toby Vogler.”
Henry Lewse took and shook the hand. He was shorter than Toby, and dressed all in blue, jeans and a jean jacket.
“Toby? Short for Tobias?” The name seemed to puzzle him.
“Yes. And everybody here thinks ‘Vogler’ is Jewish, but it’s a Swedish-German name in Wisconsin.”
Henry Lewse appeared to think about that, then lost interest in his name. “I should have guessed you were an actor. Your number was so much more polished than the others.”
“It’s supposed to end with a blackout. It got mangled tonight.”
“Technicians,” said Henry Lewse sadly. “They do muck up the magic.” He pointed at Toby’s backpack. “I’m sorry to see you’re leaving. I would’ve enjoyed a chance to chat.”
“I don’t have to be anywhere,” Toby confessed. “I just wanted to get out of here.”
“A reasonable want. Do you mind if I walk out with you? I should be heading home myself.”
And Toby finally saw it: there was sex in Henry Lewse’s eyes. He wasn’t shocked. No. But he was disappointed that a genius of the stage and screen could look at him with the same creepy lust of everyone else who visited the Gaiety.
“I should tell you, Mr. Lewse. I’m not like the other dancers. I just dance. I don’t hustle.”
“Oh? Oh. I wasn’t thinking that.” He laughed. “Besides, it’s a point of pride for me that I never pay for it.”
“Sorry to insult you. I just didn’t want to lead you on.”
“No apology necessary. A natural assumption given the nature of this place. Let’s drop the mister. Friends call me Henry. Could I invite you, friend to friend—actor to actor—to join me for a drink?”
“What? Me? Sure!” said Toby. “Or hot chocolate. I don’t drink.”
“Terrific. And so much safer too. Shall we?”
Toby couldn’t believe his luck. This was Henry Lewse. And Toby had him all to himself. He noticed Raoul watch them leave, looking more amused than envious. But Raoul probably didn’t even know who Henry Lewse was.
Toby grew more excited as he trotted behind him down the long flight of stairs to the street. He’d heard about this great actor and openly gay artist for years, seen his picture in magazines, read scores of interviews and profiles. If this homosexual could succeed in the theater without telling lies, maybe Toby could too. He had never seen Henry Lewse onstage. He was sure he’d seen him in a movie, but couldn’t remember any titles. What would Henry Lewse think if he asked for Toby’s favorite role and Toby couldn’t name one? He’d think Toby was a fraud. Then Toby remembered seeing his Hamlet on video back in college. Thank God. There was solid ground under his feet. He hadn’t liked it much—he didn’t get Shakespeare—but it was good to know that they could always talk about Hamlet.
Whatever happened, he was not going to go home with Henry Lewse. He’d gone home with Caleb the night that they met, but that was different. That was love at first sight. And Henry Lewse was an important British artist, Toby told himself, much too serious to want a one-night stand with an American nobody. Besides, the man was old enough to be his father.