“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.
“Good.”
“He doesn’t care for what he calls nonprofessionals,” Noel said.
“He’ll adjust. He told me you need clothes. Copy down this address.” Noel was to go to a certain store the following afternoon after class, where he would be provided with whatever was needed to fit in at the Grip. “Whatever else you need,” Loomis added, “go where Buddy tells you and bill us. Remember, nothing too fancy, huh? We have a budget.”
“Don’t worry. Torn dungarees can’t be too expensive.”
“You’d be surprised. Okay, Lure, after work tomorrow you call one of these numbers and identify yourself. Any questions?”
“Nothing I can think of.” Then: “Will I meet any other agents? Operatives?”
“At the bar? Maybe. It’s not necessary. You don’t need to know who they are, nor they who you are. That’s why I’m using you, right? You aren’t just another p.c.”
Plainclothesman, Noel guessed.
“One more thing,” he asked, less sure of himself. “You really expect this Mr. X will meet me?”
“That’s why I’m going to all this trouble, no?”
“But how will I know him?”
“Don’t worry about that. Get some sleep. You’re going to be out late tomorrow.”
But he did worry…and he didn’t fall asleep. He doubted the mystery man would find him, even with his close resemblance to Mr. X’s favorite physical type: so many men he had seen tonight fit the description. Then he believed Mr. X would find him. And that was an even more disturbing possibility.
7
Mr. X was inescapably on his mind again, the following evening when Noel used the loops for the first time.
He dialed one of the four phone numbers he’d been given, heard it ring twice, as Loomis said it would, then heard what seemed to be someone picking it up. He almost expected a voice to say, “Hello.”
None did. The line seemed dead. Was anyone there? What was he supposed to do now?
“Contact,” he said unsteadily. Was that right?
Still silence.
“The Lure here,” he said, a little louder.
The silence was immediately broken. “What’s the problem, Lure?”
It was a vaguely familiar man’s voice. He couldn’t be certain, but it sounded to Noel like one of the voices he’d heard in the freezing jail cell.
“No problem. I’m supposed to talk to Vega.”
Noel couldn’t recall if the Fisherman had given him Vega’s code name.
“The Star calls in precisely twenty-five minutes,” the man said.
“The Star? Oh, you mean because Vega’s also a star in the heavens?”
“Twenty minutes,” the man said gruffly and was gone.
“I want to talk to him,” a middle-aged woman suddenly said. “Are you still there, Lure?” She had a motherly tone, a heavy Bronx accent. “We have all your data on file, but we’ll be sending you some papers. Releases and things. Just sign them and send them back to the address on the envelope. An organization for teachers in your field. You’ll receive pension benefits. And health insurance, including a comprehensive hospitalization and surgical policy. No life insurance, I’m afraid.”
“Naturally,” Noel replied, chilled as he was by her words, and the quick thoroughness of the organization.
“That’s all for now, dear,” she said. Someone’s aunt, someone’s mother, Noel thought. Probably at a desk in an office somewhere. “Just sign wherever there’s an X,” she added. “Bye now.”
X again, Noel thought. “Wait. Can I get the Star on any line?”
“Yes. Any of them.”
But before the twenty minutes had passed, Vega called him.
“What’s up?” Vega asked.
“Nothing. I just… Didn’t you want to show me around?”
“Yeah? So?”
“How’s tonight? I begin work at eight. You, too?”
“I’m not working the Grip tonight.”
“Maybe another time?”
“No.” Firmly. Then: “You’re right. We’ll do it tonight. I’ll pick you up. We’ll eat out. Then you go to work.”
Despite the quickness with which he invited Noel, Buddy was subdued, thoughtful, even morose when he arrived.
He grumpily finished the last beer in Noel’s refrigerator, only half paying attention as Noel brought out clothing for Vega’s approval. The only item from the previous night was Monica’s jeans. With them, he wore a red-and-white close-fitting baseball shirt with bright red half sleeves, a green-gray nylon bomber jacket, and work shoes with rubber soles, all of which he’d bought earlier that day in the small, merchandise-laden Army-Navy store Loomis had sent him to.
“Still too clean-cut for me,” Buddy said. “But you are supposed to be from the Coast. It’ll do.”
They ate dinner at a closely packed storefront restaurant off Christopher Street, sitting at a table in the big bow windows. The place was decorated with dozens of posters from Off-Broadway shows Noel had never heard of, and huge, floppy Boston ferns hanging from the ceiling, filling every available space over seven feet high. Almost everyone in the restaurant looked gay.
Noel had a dozen questions about words he’d heard last night. Vega answered succinctly.
“What’s a number?”
“You are. Or at least you’re supposed to be one. A hot number.”
“What’s that mean exactly?”
“It means a lot of people want to ball with you.”
“A hot number is someone sexually desirable?”
“Right. What else?”
“What do I talk about?”
“To who?”
“Chaffee. The others.”
“Nothing. Keep your mouth shut.”
That annoyed Noel again. But he went on: “What’s at Sixth Avenue and Twenty-eighth Street? I saw a lot of gays there yesterday.”
“The tubs. The baths,” Vega explained. “Sooner or later you’re going to have to make an appearance there. All the hot numbers do. You won’t believe the pace.”
“Do you go there?”
“Is that one of your questions?” Vega demanded.
“No, I just wondered.”
“Next question, then.”
The evening wasn’t turning out as Noel had wanted it. Vega was hard to get to know. He was deliberately closing Noel off.
The next question was interrupted when three men came into the restaurant and spotted Buddy. Looking happy for the distraction, Vega gestured them to join him and Noel. His spirits picked up immediately. Noel was pushed off to one side of the table as the four men exchanged greetings. The names came too fast for Noel to remember. All three newcomers stared at him in the way he’d come to recognize as a basic, once-over, evaluation cruise. He let it pass. Vega began telling them an anecdote about someone named Tim they all knew. Two of the men leaned in, hanging on every word.
The third man, muscular and brawny, with close-cropped hair, small dark eyes, and a bushy mustache, inspected the menu.
“You born on Christmas?” he suddenly asked.
Noel realized the question was aimed at him. “No. Why?”
“All the guys I know named Noel was born on Christmas.” He looked over the menu, decided on something, then looked at Noel again.
“You wit’ Buddy?” Then, pointing to Noel’s half-eaten cheeseburger, “That any good?”
“Overcooked.”
A waiter appeared and there was a flurry of ordering. Meanwhile, Mr. Muscles said:
“I seen you before. What gym you go to?”
“I don’t.”
He was skeptical. “You look worked out to me. Gymanstics?”
“Of a sort,” Noel said, intrigued by the pronunciation.
“I thought so. I can always tell. I seen you before. You live near here?”
“Noel’s from the Coast,” Vega said. “San Francisco.”
Noel hadn’t been aware Buddy was listening. Was there a reason?
“Oh. I probably seen you out dere.”
“Tony was out there for a shooting recently,” Vega said.
“Yeah,” Tony said, smiling and revealing several recently capped, perfect white teeth. “I’m kinda a star.”
“In porn flicks,” Vega said. “Tony Coe.”
Noel nodded as though he knew the name.
“Watch out,” one of the other men said. “He’ll ask you to join him in a flick.”
You see, Mr. Cummings, you won’t really have to look for Mr. X. He’s going to find you, Loomis had said.
And Chaffee: They’ll tell you they’ll make you a movie star…
“What’s wrong with that?” Tony was asking, hurt, with an attitude that suggested seething violence beneath his dumb surface.
“Noel’s too classy for skin flicks,” Vega said sharply.
“You’re just my type,” Tony said, looking at Noel. “Just my fucking type. We’d look real good together. Hey, bud? Real good. I’d fix it so you wouldn’t even know when the camera started.”
Tony reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out a business card which he handed to Noel. It read: Reality Productions, Inc.
“Keep it,” Tony said. “Call me.”
Noel pocketed the card, watching Vega watch him closely. Why had he interrupted? What was going on?
A minute or so later the answer to his question flashed on Noel so hard he almost gagged on the last piece of cheeseburger. Could Tony Coe be Mr. X? And did Buddy know that? Was that what Coe had meant by saying he had seen Noel before, when he couldn’t have?
While Vega had coffee and dessert, Noel tried to confirm this impression. But Coe was ignoring him, having gotten bullheadedly into an argument with one of his friends about two drugs Noel had never heard of. He was arrogant, all right. But was that enough for suspicion? He had said that Noel was exactly his type. So what? He might say that to anyone he found attractive.
“We have to go,” Vega announced. “Noel’s working tonight.”
As they were stepping out of the restaurant, Tony Coe stood up and came over to them. In a low voice he said to Buddy, “It’s a real shame about Kansas, huh?”
“Yeah. Fucked up,” Vega said, quickly adding, “I never knew the guy real well. He used to come rap a lot at the Grip.”
“Me, either,” Tony said. “You know, intimately but not well.” Changing his tone he said good-bye. “See you, too, babe,” he added to Noel.
Noel waited until they had gone a block before asking, “Is he another operative?”
“Tony? I don’t know. Why? I told you befor
e, he’s a porn star.”
That answer meant nothing. Noel fingered the card Tony had given him. Pornography, Loomis had told him. Mr. X was into pornography.
The Grip was packed when they arrived. Chaffee hailed Noel over and put him on the side bar. It was busy, and another hour and a half passed before Noel found time to stand still and look around. A minute later he noticed Vega slip downstairs with someone.
During this first night at the Grip, Noel was openly propositioned once, flirted with dozens of times, received a ten-dollar tip from a middle-aged gentleman in full leather, was offered four drugs, several of which sounded lethal, and smoked the third and fourth cigarettes of his life.
He got home late, exhausted, and dialed the loops. For a while no one answered, then he heard the motherly voice of a woman.
“Is it urgent, dear?” she asked. “I’ll ring the Fisherman at home, if you want.”
“No. Don’t bother.”
Brushing his teeth, Noel wondered exactly what the odds were that Tony Coe was Mr. X. That white-toothed smile. The overmuscled arms and shoulders. Hands like ham hocks, like vises, hands that could twist a man’s head right off his body.
He went to sleep with dawn prying under the window shades.
8
“Last call,” Noel shouted.
Only a few people sauntered over to the bar for a final drink.
It had been slow since midnight. Rick said there were several big parties tonight. Noel had heard about the one at the Window Wall—a downtown private discotheque—from at least a dozen customers. It was early Sunday morning, but with the feeling of a Saturday night, and in this subculture, as in any other, all the men wanted to get laid. Most of the regulars would be at the Window Wall by now, the rest at the Baths, or lurking through the shadowy corridors of Le Pissoir, an after-hours club which featured public sex shows in a series of huge, sleazy rooms, where you or your partner-of-the-minute might be the stars at any time: employees sometimes shone spotlights on the patrons; if you didn’t move out of their glare, people would gather to watch.
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