Hold Tight

by Christopher Bram

  “Ah,” she said. “Mr. Jones.” She took Hank by one arm to the man in the light gray suit who still sat in the same spot on the sofa. Not even the commotion upstairs had caused him to move.

  “Mr. Jones? I find someone who is wanting to meet you. He is a sailor. You did say you liked sailors?” She pushed Hank forward. Hank had no choice but to sit on the sofa beside the man. Mrs. Bosch hurried off to force a few other matches.

  Jones sat stiffly. He moistened his dry lips, took a deep breath and said, “Hello, sailor. What ship are you on?” His eyes blinked constantly. His small talk was very dry and nervous, like a list of questions he’d written out in advance.

  Hank answered him. Everything he told him was three months out of date, so Hank had no worries about divulging secrets. Hank had never been particularly conscious of what he told people until he started working with Mason and Erich. People often asked about boring details, just to make conversation. This man asked so many questions Hank began to wonder. No, there was nothing suspicious about the man. His accent wasn’t foreign and he looked clean-cut, even handsome. He was nervous about something, but the prospect of sex sometimes made these clean-cut types nervous. Hank wouldn’t mind seeing the man naked. He looked close to Hank’s age.

  Mrs. Bosch took Bunny from his post beside the fan and brought him across the room to the two shy petty officers. She thought the boy was only being demure tonight. She introduced him to the petty officers, who immediately seemed interested in him. She rubbed her hands together and looked around the room again. She went back to Hank and the man on the sofa. “You two are getting along famous?”

  “Yes, thank you,” Jones said brusquely, and nodded at her to leave them alone.

  “Then you should be going upstairs. While the night is still young.”

  Jones blanched. “That won’t be necessary.”

  Hank wished Mrs. Bosch would stay downstairs, listening to classical music on the radio the way she usually did. She didn’t understand that different men had different needs. They weren’t machines.

  “You do not like this sailor? Who do you want?” she demanded.

  “I find our friend perfectly suitable. I just don’t think it will be necessary for us to go upstairs.”

  “We do not allow window-shopping here! Okay. You have had your fun. If you do not choose someone right this minute, I must ask you to leave. I do not run a public museum.”

  Jones stammered, “But the man who brought me here said—”

  “I do not care what Carlo told you. You can leave or you can go upstairs. But you cannot stay in my sitting room one minute longer.”

  “Mrs. Bosch,” said Hank, “we’ll go upstairs when we’re ready, all right?” Hank felt sorry for the guy. This was obviously his first time in such a place and Mrs. Bosch’s pressure was only making it worse.

  “If it’s the money that concerns you,” said Jones, “I’m willing to pay you for the privilege of sitting here and talking to this man.”

  “Ha!” Mrs. Bosch folded her arms across her chest. “Pay for gab?” she said incredulously. “What are you? A spy?”

  Already pale, Jones turned white.

  “If you are a police dick, forget it. I have friends in very high places.”

  “N-n-n-not a spy,” said Jones. “For anyone. I like to talk. That’s all.”

  “Then you can talk upstairs, where the fee is the same whether you talk with your mouth or your willy.”

  “Let’s go,” said Hank. “We can talk up in my room.” Mrs. Bosch wasn’t going to leave the poor guy alone as long as he stayed in the sitting room. She had latched on to this man as an occasion to prove she was the boss here. “We don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do.”

  “No? I want to continue our conversation,” Jones admitted. “I’m not a spy,” he repeated. “For the police or anybody.”

  “Of course not. I was only making with a joke.” Mrs. Bosch softened now that she saw she was having her way and would be getting her money. “You go upstairs with our sailor friend. Where you can talk or whatever. In private. Enjoy.” She motioned them up from the sofa and escorted them out to the stairs. “Juke!” she hollered down. “Where is that ice, you lazy boy?”

  Jones followed Hank up the stairs. “Hag,” he muttered. “She’ll get hers at the day of reckoning. Just you wait.”

  The man’s anger surprised Hank. He had seemed so meek downstairs.

  “You were telling me about why you prefer the southern route. How far south do you go when…”

  They were passing the door to Mick’s room. Prospero and Ariel cooed and moaned in there.

  “The South Atlantic?” began Jones again. “Bermuda? Don’t U-boats ever…”

  This time, his voice caught as they passed Smitty’s door. He heard deep sighs and Smitty’s directions, “Deeper, Mick. His forehead’s sweating. He’s almost—”

  “Here we go,” said Hank, opening the door to his room and turning on the light. The wall was thick and they couldn’t hear voices from next door, only the bump of the bed against the wall.

  Jones immediately sat on Hank’s bed, as if faint. He didn’t look to see if he sat in anything. The sheets hadn’t been changed since the man with the moustache.

  Hank closed the door. It didn’t have a lock. He pulled his undershirt up over his head. “Hot up here. We’re right under the roof. You want to get more comfortable?”

  Sometimes that was all it took. Privacy, a bed, the pulling off of clothes: these shy ones turned into wildcats.

  But Jones looked up in a panic. “You don’t have to do that.”

  Hank had begun to unbutton his fly. “No? You’d rather do it for me?”

  “No! I don’t want to do anything. We’re only here to talk! Remember?” The man was absolutely terrified.

  “Okay.” Hank hesitated, then finished unbuttoning himself. “But I’m shucking my pants, if it’s all the same to you. I want to be comfortable.” Hank did it for the man’s sake. The guy wanted sex, or else he wouldn’t be here. However, the guy’s fear was stronger than his need now. Hank wanted to bring back the guy’s need. He stamped his pants to the floor—he had gone back to his old habit of not wearing drawers. “Feel better already,” he said, running a hand over his fuzzy blond front. “What were we saying?”

  Jones looked at the floor. Hank walked in front of him to sit on the bed and Jones twisted his head around to avoid seeing Hank. “We were talking about…” He stood up the instant Hank sat down beside him, went to the lone chair with the missing slat, turned the chair to one side and sat there. “Talking about how you avoid submarines.”

  “Why you so interested in subs?” Hank couldn’t help smiling.

  “Just curious. I know someone in the navy. A brother. I worry about him.”

  The brother sounded fake but Hank told the man what little he knew about convoys and U-boats, just to keep them occupied while Jones became accustomed to the situation. The situation began to excite Hank. He stretched out on his back and lightly shifted his nakedness against the rough sheets and the mattress that seemed to be filled with sand. He was touching himself with one hand, jiggling his balls, flipping his cock back and forth. He stopped watching Jones to watch himself thicken and stand. He pulled back the skin.

  “Stop that!” Jones turned away again before Hank saw him watching.

  “Stop what?” Hank slowly stroked his cock, as if it were a cat, and smiled at Jones.

  The man clenched his teeth and stared at the wall. His hands were in a ball between his lap and knees. The crotch of his trousers was half tented.

  “Your behavior’s disgusting,” he told the wall. “Get dressed and we can continue this conversation like civilized men.”

  “You don’t want me to do this to you?” Hank continued stroking. “Your bone’s gonna tear a hole in your pants.”

  The man threw one leg over the other and gripped his knee. “Trash! Don’t think you can poison me with your disease!”


  Hank almost laughed, he was so surprised by the man’s anger. “Hey, friend. You got a bone. You should enjoy it.”

  The man glared at Hank, legs and body twisted around his sex, his face full of anger. “You’re nothing but an animal!”

  “I like being an animal.” And Hank gripped his cock harder and jerked the skin back and forth, to defy the man.

  “Go ahead,” the man spat. “Like an ape at the zoo. A navy full of your kind doesn’t stand a chance against Hitler.”

  Was this the man’s kink? To abuse you while he watched you jerk off? He was getting Hank angry and Hank wanted to jizz on the expensive gray suit. Pounding furiously, he rolled to one side and aimed his cock at the man.

  The man jumped from his chair and backed toward the door. “Your days are numbered, mister! When real men have finished with degenerates like you…! When Hitler has finished with you apes and Bolsheviks…”

  Hank had one foot on the floor and was ready to get up and chase the man with his cock, when he heard what the man was saying. Hank almost stopped pounding, but to stop would show the man Hank understood. He lay back and closed his eyes to buttonholes, to watch the man through the slits.

  “Then your indecency will be wiped from our country! We will do what Hitler did for Berlin.” The man stood still now that he thought Hank was completely involved with his cock. His fear was gone. He stared at Hank, only Hank couldn’t quite read the man’s face through his blurred eyelashes. “When our leaders finally come to their senses, when they understand what some of us knew long ago—”

  “Huh?” Hank breathed hard and made faces. “Some of who?”

  “A handful of men and women. Who are working for the real America. While the rest of you wallow in depravity.”

  The man supported the Nazis. He seemed to be talking about other Nazis. But would a Nazi spy be as blunt about his beliefs as this man was? The man was upset and not thinking clearly, but no spy could afford to lose control like this. Still, there had been all those questions about convoys, and the man certainly wasn’t here for sex. He was here for something or someone else.

  Hank could feel his cock soften a little while he thought, and he wondered if he should roll away from the man and fake a finish, so the man wouldn’t guess that he could think. But the second Hank decided the man was a spy, his cock stiffened like a flexed muscle. He groaned, arched his back and writhed, all for effect, but when he began to shoot, it took his breath away. It had been so long since he had done this to himself it was like a new act, and his doing it in front of an enemy, against an enemy, gave it new power. Good as it was, Hank never forgot the presence of an enemy.

  When he opened his eyes, he found the man standing over him, a few feet away, coldly looking down at him like a doctor or coroner. Hank took a deep breath and gave his body a shake. “Wow. You missed a good one, buddy. But if you get your jollies talking about the war, no skin off my nose.”

  The man shuddered and looked away. “Disgusting. Covered with your own scum.” He felt something in his coat, then reached inside to get it. “Yes. This is what I like to see. Our servicemen enjoying themselves. Cigarette?”

  Now that it was over, the man abruptly wanted Hank to think he had enjoyed this, that there had been no fear or hatred involved. He winced at the sight of his own pack of cigarettes, then sneered proudly and passed the pack to Hank.

  Hank lit a cigarette and pretended its smoke was the most wonderful thing in the world. Pay close attention after sex, Mason had told him, when people are apt to drop their guard. Jones hadn’t had sex, but there was a forced calm in his voice as if he expected Hank to drop his guard.

  Jones sat down in his chair again. “Uh, could you please cover yourself?”

  Hank drew the sheet over his crotch and one leg.

  “Yes, it’s good to see you enjoying yourselves. Because I fear for your futures. I do. When this Sledgehammer thing comes off and you land in…where? France? I fear you boys won’t be any match for the Germans.”

  “Sledgehammer? What’s Sledgehammer?”

  “You never heard of Sledgehammer?” The man’s contempt returned. “This thing the whole East Coast is preparing for?”

  “Oh that.” Hank knew nothing about it, but he was instructed to play along with suspects. And he’d been given items to pass on to them, bits of information that had no truth to them. At least Mason hoped there was no truth to them. Nobody knew anything and there was no telling what was being planned. “That’s not for France,” said Hank. “That’s for Dakar.” He pronounced it “Duh Car.”

  “The car? Oh, Dakar!”

  “You know. Over in Africa.”

  The man’s eyes focused sharply on the air, seeing something before him. He touched his upper lip with his tongue. “But how do you know? Did they tell you?”

  “Hell no. They don’t tell us nothin’. Scuttlebutt. And I work in the chartroom and we all of a sudden got all these Africa charts. Gonna be hot as granny’s stove down there. Right next to the Equator, you know.”

  “Dakar,” the man repeated. He almost laughed, he was so pleased. “Yes, hot,” he said. “Hotter than you could imagine. I will worry for you, sailor. I really will.” He was smiling as he reached into his pocket and brought out his billfold. “If the Germans don’t get you, the tsetse flies will.” Fingering the bills inside, he stood up, pulled out a halved bill and flicked it at Hank. The green bill came open, fluttered about and landed on the floor beside the bed.

  Hank leaned down to snatch it up, as if that was what was important to him. “Jeez, mister. A ten-spot?”

  “Keep the change,” Jones announced. “It was most enjoyable. Watching one of our servicemen enjoy himself.” He made no effort to disguise the contempt in his voice. He treated Hank as someone too stupid to recognize a lie.

  Hank wanted to wad the bill in his fist and shove it down the man’s throat. “Hey, buddy. Anytime you want to watch me…” Hank had to get the man to return. Only if the man became a regular could they follow him and find out who he was. What was the next step? Nobody had gone into that with Hank. “And if you want to talk about the war, I’m the fella to see. Working in the chartroom, I get the real skinny. Stuff you never hear about in the newspaper.”

  “I’ll keep you in mind,” Jones said coolly. “This has been most entertaining.” He looked straight at Hank as he reached for the door. His fear was gone but he wasn’t as cool as he pretended. He hated Hank and there was a vengeful cut to his gaze, as if he wanted to see this naked body a corpse. Then he pulled the door shut and was gone.

  Bastard. Hank wanted to use the ten to wipe himself off, but ten dollars was ten dollars. Hank stood up and angrily washed himself at the basin on the dresser. The man was a spy. He had to be a spy, but it was the man’s contempt that angered Hank now that he was alone, the man’s arrogance. The man had talked admiringly of Hitler, asked about secrets, shown disgust for what Hank and the other men here loved to do, all the while thinking Hank was too dumb to guess what was happening. Hank had just had sex in front of a man who didn’t think he was human. He was going to do all he could to see the bastard identified, tracked down and caught. But Hank wanted to pay the man back directly. He burned to punch the man’s teeth in and fuck his bloody broken mouth.

  The image startled Hank. He had thought of sex as pleasure, relief, even here where it was also a duty. Only nuts like Mick saw sex as a weapon. But the house, the war, that bastard who had treated sex as vile—all were confusing Hank about something that once had been as simple as eating.

  9

  ERICH ZEITLIN RETURNED TO the Sloane House from a Sunday concert at Town Hall, full of Brahms and memories of Brahms, to find a message at the front desk: “Mr. Fate called and says he must see you immediately.”

  Erich brusquely thanked the desk clerk and rode the elevator upstairs to change out of his uniform. He doubted it was anything important, assumed Fayette had only come up with more questions or, at best, misunderstood someone. They h
ad uncovered nothing of interest in two weeks, not even a contraband cargo. But, putting on civilian clothes in his cell-like room, Erich found he was glad to have somewhere to go that afternoon. Sunday, the one day he had to himself, could be interminable.

  The subway ride downtown was slow and miserable. Portions of families sat in stupors in the glaring electric light, burnt air pouring through the open windows when the train was moving, stale air sighing from the small caged fans when the train was stalled. Up and down the car a few hand fans paddled away. Collars were unbuttoned and stockings were down. These people had no notion of public decorum. One might as well be sitting with them in their kitchens. Erich felt guiltily alone among them.

  At least when he was in uniform, he looked as though he belonged here. His foreignness was especially painful after the concert this afternoon, when, for two hours, he had belonged to something. Town Hall was full of refugee profiles and accents, people older and even more lost than Erich. Sitting among them in his uniform, he was both one of them and an American, too. And there had been the homeland of the music. All that overstuffed orchestral furniture had grown dowdy to Erich’s ear by the time he had gone to England, but now, with that dowdy, bourgeois life gone, he found Brahms, Bruckner and Mahler beautiful again. History had hurled him so abruptly into the future, he grasped at the past, even his father’s past.

  Erich loved his father, E. I. Zeitlin, the chemist. He loved him so much he had spent years trying to make a life independent of the respected man, studying philosophy in Vienna, mathematics in Zurich, economics at Cambridge, his failure in each only prolonging his dependence. Erich was in America only because of his father, hired by the University of Chicago and allowed to bring his family from Austria despite the quotas and restrictions that kept most Jews out. If Erich had suffered in some way, he might feel he deserved to be here.

  In the station at Fourteenth Street, where Erich got off, a tall young man with a banjo and a runty skull-faced man with a guitar sang hillbilly war songs. There was no open guitar case or upturned hat set out for contributions. The two seemed to believe their songs did good and sang them for free. “This machine kills Fascists,” was painted in blue on the short man’s guitar.