“You were a whore?”
“I was a kid. One-by-one, those men started to die. We didn’t know what it was. No one knew what was killing them. There were rumors. There were conspiracy theories. It didn’t matter, our friends, our lovers, our daddy’s and boys were dying and we didn’t know why. Soon, there wasn’t anyone at the club and the owner wanted out. Some of those men who died left us money and paintings and jewelry. We buried them as they died, whether they could afford a pine box or not; we held their wakes at Tamburlaine. Generations of men, young and old, gone.”
Chris wiped the cold cream along with his tears off his face and stood up. He stripped off his clothes and got into the shower. While there, he didn’t speak; Ingram waited patiently, sitting on a tall stool in the corner of the big room. He handed Chris a towel when he turned off the water.
“Thank you, dear boy.” He dried himself. “Well, we buried those men. Buried Jimmy. I kept the club going. There was a rebound in the late nineties. Then, everything fell off. We closed the kitchen. We laid off what little staff we had. Now, it’s down to me, a bartender, and a cleaning lady who comes in every morning. I own the place outright, including the building. But, there’s a conglomerate who has bought up most of the block, hell, most of the neighborhood. It’s just my bar, the deli, Sal’s, and an empty lot that they haven’t gotten, yet. Part of me thinks I should just sell out and be done with it, but I made a promise.” Chris wrapped the towel around his chest.
“What was the promise?”
“Time for bed.” Chris turned off the bathroom lights. The two men got in, he naked, Ingram still wearing the silk pajama bottoms.
“Do you want to fuck me or I could suck your cock or—”
“Relax. It’s late and I’m drunk. Just find a comfortable spot.”
Ingram snuggled up to him until the head of Chris’ cock pressed gently against his ass. Within a few moments, the boy was asleep.
“Just like that, the end of a long day.” Chris wrapped his arms loosely around Ingram and thought about the possibilities of Tamburlaine. With The Great Jericho Taylor mounting shows there, how could it not be a success?
Seven
“What are your plans for the day?” Chris applied a layer of pale blue powder on his right eyelid while using the mirror to watch Ingram dry off from a shower.
“I’m going to finish taking inventory of your kitchen equipment. Then, I plan on making you a wonderful dinner at Tamburlaine. Do you still have credit with any of the vendors?”
“Oh, I think I might. It’s been a long time since it’s been used though. Have you searched the executive chef’s office?”
“The chef has an office?” Ingram wrapped the towel around his waist and went to the sink.
“Downstairs. There’s a prep area down there, too, unless the rats have dismantled it. If we don’t have credit, I can give you cash. It’s not a problem.” Chris had finished his eye makeup and moved down to his lips.
Ingram lathered and shaved. They continued to eye each other, the mirror a convenient tool.
“This is all very domestic, you and I. Like an old married couple.” Chris’ tone sing-song, but something a little dark lurked beneath the words.
“Is that a problem?” Ingram wiped shaving cream from his ear.
“No, of course not. It’s just…it doesn’t matter.”
“If it’s important to you, it’s important to me, Baby.”
He couldn’t remember the last time someone had called him baby—or babe or sweetie or honey or hot stuff. “You’re a sweet boy.” Chris stood up, went to the closet, and removed a large, padded bra. Within a moment, he had massive breasts with ample cleavage. “The transformation—Just because Rusty is flat as a boy doesn’t mean mother must be, too.”
“You go through this every weekend, but no one comes?”
“It’s what I do. It’s who I am. It doesn’t really matter if there are only three or four people. I’ll do the act for myself. I do that, too. I do it for me. I do it for…well, it’s just what I do.” Chris stepped into a foundation piece that added a padded ass. A few adjustments. In the bedroom, he selected slacks, a sequined, royal-blue top, and a long flowing jacket with padded shoulders.
“You’re a big breasted version of Bea Arthur.”
“I’m surprised you know of her.” Chris smiled at the comparison.
“Reruns of The Golden Girls.” He pulled on socks, then a freshly pressed shirt followed by very tight jeans, without any underwear.
“Oh, television. That was never my thing. We had one in the bar for a while, but all the shows seemed insipid so I had it removed. I knew Ms. Arthur from the stage. Brilliant. ‘With the way he looks and the way she sees, they’re a perfect match.’” He mimicked Bea as Yenta from Fiddler on the Roof. The boy raised his eyebrows in question. “A role model for me,” said Chris.
“I thought you said you moved here in the 70s?” Ingram stopped pulling at buttons and zippers.
“I’d come for the shows for years and years. Mother used to bring me. Yenta the Matchmaker, Vera Charles… And, then, a few years before she died Bea returned to Broadway and performed her one woman show.”
“So, that’s why you dress like that?”
“No, there was another woman who molded my appearance. She was a comedian in the ’60s and ’70s. The biggest name at the time. Joan Rivers is given credit for breaking through the comedy barriers, but it was Rusty Warren who did that first. Rusty paved the way with her raunchy act dedicated to all things sex. By today’s standards, she’d be considered tame, even a joke. But, then, it was a new world for a foul-mouthed broad. She was wonderful. Amazing. Funny. And, that’s the act I do. It’s based on excerpts and pieces of her acts over the years.”
“You’ve been doing the same material for thirty years?” Ingram, dressed and handsome, asked. “Do you mind? I found these clothes in a bureau and they’re amazing.”
“I don’t mind. Those things, well, it’s good to see them being worn.”
“Where did—”
“It’s best if you don’t ask too many questions.” Chris checked his appearance in a floor length mirror, turning from side to side, inspecting his enhanced ass and grotesque bosom. Two squirts of perfume from an antique, crystal atomizer and he was ready to go.
Eight
They arrived at Tamburlaine just as Benny unlocked the door. He held it for Chris and Ingram. Ingram headed into the kitchen. Benny turned on lights and got to his prep work behind the bar. Chris headed for the small stage.
He turned on some lights. With a few hearty pushes, he rolled the upright piano into position and pulled out the microphone and adjusted the stand. Finally, he positioned the piano bench at the keyboard, sat, ran his hands along the keys, playing scale after scale. It’s why he kept his nails trimmed and manicured, so that he could continue to play his own music, just as Rusty had done for all those years.
Chris launched into Rusty Warren’s signature tune, “Knockers Up.” Such a massive hit for her in the ’60s, she built a brand around the song. While he played to the empty room, Chris remembered the crowds of the late ’80s who played along with him, who laughed at and with him. He remembered the full tills. The late-night bank drops. The drugs and parties and sex. So much sex.
His hands glided into a lush, romantic Chopin study. He loved music. He loved playing. He longed for the days when he would play from memory anything anyone asked for. He could accompany anyone, no matter what song they chose.
That was done. He hadn’t kept up with music. If the request was after 1984, there was no hope. He had little repertoire that didn’t involve Broadway ballads or sentimental World War II classics. The old black book, the standards, he could play them drunk or sober, preferably drunk.
And, so he played. An hour passed, then two. He played for no one. Benny had headphones on as he read the D
aily News. Ingram had taken off with $100 for the grocery store. And, so he played for himself, for the memory. He knew, with each key he pressed and each note expressed on the beautiful black Yamaha upright grand, that he was fulfilling the promise he’d made long ago. Keep the club open, even if just for himself and the occasional regular who hadn’t yet died—one more day of a promise fulfilled. When they died, and most of them died, he’d be sure they received a proper burial, a memorial, a remembrance—one more day of a promise fulfilled.
He wondered if he’d see Jerry again. Would he actually come through as he’d said? Would Tamburlaine once again conquer the nightclub scene. Would the restaurant flourish? Would the showroom sell out night after night again?
“What have we here? Madame Sousatzka plays again?”
Chris peered up from his reverie. He despised the developer. “Ah, Mr. Folgate. To what do I owe this displeasure.”
“I just wanted to give you a heads up that my friends at the health inspector’s office will be stopping by to shut you down. It’s time for this rat trap to have the doors bolted.”
A few days ago, the threat of the health inspector would have sent chills through Chris. He would have negotiated a fortune in bribes to survive. But, because of Ingram’s cleaning binge, the place was in great shape. Ingram’s actions had inspired Benny and the old cleaning lady, and the place was brighter and fresher than it had been in ages.
Before Chris had a chance to gloat, the inspector walked through the door and announced himself to Benny. Chris turned to the keyboard and, without another word to Mr. Folgate, began to play the wicked witch’s theme from “Somewhere Over the Rainbow,” his fingers rapid, light, and precise.
Folgate turned away and went to the bar. He ordered a drink, but Benny just shook his head. The man grew loud. Benny silently refused. Folgate threatened.
Benny pointed at the printed sign on the mirror. “We have the right to refuse service to anyone for any reason.”
“It won’t be long,” Folgate hissed to Benny. “Your days are numbered here!” he shouted toward Chris and then left the room.
The inspector returned to the barroom. “Excuse me, can you turn on some more lights?”
“Of course,” said Benny, who walked out from behind the bar and led the inspector into all the nooks and crannies of the place.
In the end, there was a problem with a urinal not flushing properly. The kitchen received near perfect marks. So did the bar and refrigerated areas. It was the best inspection Tamburlaine had ever received. The Inspector, impressed and happy, let Benny and Chris know of the success and accepted a shot as a reward.
Within hours, the club had thirty people in it. They were buying drinks at the bar and taking up seats at the tables around the small stage where Chris continued to play piano, sing, and tell the same stories and jokes that Rusty Warren had told decades before.
The audience, a mix of races, genders, and sexual orientations laughed, applauded, and quickly learned the refrains for the audience participation songs.
By 11:30, the bar was packed. Chris had had no break, not for dinner or even the restroom. He was in heaven, singing and entertaining; a dream come to life. Those fantasies that he often had on the empty lonely nights had somehow come true. And, because this just might be a dream, he wasn’t about to leave the stage, not even for the bathroom.
At midnight, The Great Jericho Taylor entered with a group of people. He took in the club and smiled. He said something to the handsome man on his arm. The guy seemed familiar to Chris, but he couldn’t place him.
The crowd around them parted, a table up front emptied quickly. Jericho’s group immediately began to play along with the act. When Jericho robustly belted out the chorus of “Lay Me Down, Roll Me Over, and Do It Again,” people all around the room snapped photos with their phones.
Chris found the flashes annoying, but Jericho remained unphased by the activity, so he followed suit.
At one in the morning, Billy Lake and Hank Miller came through the doors. The “ooos” and “ahhhs” momentarily drowned out the music from the Yamaha upright.
Jericho stood and came over to the edge of the stage and whispered to Chris: “Invite them to sing.”
“Really?”
“Yes, really. They know all the classics and they’re brilliant.” Jericho didn’t wait for Chris’ response, instead, returning to his table.
Ingram came by with an apron around his waist and cleared the tables of empty glasses and debris. He smiled up at Chris, mouthed “Billy Lake” and made goo-goo eyes.
“We have a few stars in our midst tonight,” said Chris as he vamped on the piano. “I would be remiss if I didn’t allow my great friend, The Great Jericho Taylor to take a bow. Jerry?”
Jericho stood up and gave a little nod to the wild applause of the group.
He’d figured out where he’d seen so many of these people before. “And, here’s to the cast of 42nd Street, long may it run,” said Chris, raising a bourbon glass to the audience. They hooted and hollered. “Finally, I would like to not only acknowledge them, but invite Billy Lake and Hank Miller to offer a little musical experience for you all. Again the crowd went wild. The two boys protested as they made their way to the stage. Chris continued to vamp on the keyboard as the three of them whispered and decided upon a song to perform together. Chris, excited that the boys knew everything he suggested, narrowed down the options to a romantic duet.
As the men launched into their second number, with Chris accompanying their every nuance, the front door of Tamburlaine was open more than it was closed, allowing a steady stream of patrons into the joint.
Jericho stood while the boys were once again in debates about what to sing next. He came over to the stage and got Chris’ attention. “This is just the beginning, my friend. You wait and see what I can do for you and Tamburlaine and what you can do for me.”
“I’m in, no matter what,” said Chris. He wanted to get up and hug Jerry, but there was no opportunity, he began another duet for Hank and Billy.
Nine
Chris sat at the quiet bar, drinking bourbon. His throat hurt. His fingers hurt. His heart sang. He watched as Ingram, singing “Roll me over, lay me down, and do it again,” light on his feet, cleaning tables and placing chairs upside down on top of them, a joy-filled young man.
Benny finished counting his till. He handed the bank bag and the long paper receipt to Chris. “Finally, something to put in the books, in the bank.”
Chris opened the bag, took out two hundred dollar bills, and handed them to Benny. “Just a little something extra for all your hard work tonight. I really do appreciate it.”
“It was nice being busy. I forgot what it felt like to make some money.” Benny tucked the cash into his jeans pocket. “I’ll finish up these glasses and be out of here.”
“Take your time.” Chris sipped more bourbon. He pulled another hundred-dollar bill from the bag. When Ingram came up with the last tray of glasses, he tucked the bill into the kid’s shirt pocket. “Thanks for all your help tonight.”
“It was amazing. You were amazing. The fun, the energy. I had a good time.”
“You’re a great waiter.” Chris filled his glass again, and a second one, which he handed to Ingram.
“Well, I’ve done this for a few years. But, cooking is really my thing. Too bad we didn’t have the kitchen running and a waiter or two. Could’ve really done it in.”
Chris watched Ingram’s eyes. They sparkled and glowed, his pale grey, nearly blue eyes. It had been years since anyone expressed such happiness in Tamburlaine.
“And, Jericho Taylor was right there.” Ingram pointed toward the spot where Jericho had sat. “The stage manager. Billy Lake. Hank Miller.” He continued to point out the spots where each had sat. “All of them. I joked with them and…” He absently spun an empty tray. “I don’t want to be their
waiter. I want to be on stage with them.”
“You will. You’re gorgeous. You’re talented. You should have gotten up there and sung tonight. You really could have shown off.” Chris spoke in his soft, motherly voice.
“Maybe tomorrow night. Tonight was all about them.”
Chris downed the last of the bourbon in his glass. “Yeah, tomorrow it may be only the three of us, again.”
“I like that.” Ingram glanced up from his thoughts right into Chris’ eyes.
“What do you like?”
“Being here with you and Benny. Feeling like I’m a part of something. And, knowing that, in a short time, this place is going to once again explode back onto the circuit. The scene. Drag queens everywhere!”
“I’m done, boss,” said Benny, wiping his hands on a bar towel.
“Great. We’ll all leave together.” Chris stood up, wobbled on his heels, gained his balance, and headed for the door, the bank bag under his arm. He stopped Ingram. “I’m glad you’re happy. You’re always welcome here. Got it?”
Ingram hugged him tight, or at least attempted. The big boobs between them were a great obstacle.
Ten
Chris and Ingram left Benny at the corner and walked the quiet street to the steel door. He wobbled a few times and Ingram gently took his elbow and guided them home. “You’re such a help, such a dear,” said Chris as he handed Ingram the key.
The two walked down the dark alley to the rear of the building; Chris braced himself on the crumbly brick walls. He felt far more drunk than he’d realized and barely made it into the house. He stumbled and landed in a kitchen chair.
Tamburlaine: A Broadway Revival Page 4
