A bungalow court off the Strip: county turf, “Inge–Apt 6” on a mailbox. Jack found the pad, knocked, no answer. “Bobby, hey, sugar,” a falsetto trill–still no bite. A locked door, drawn curtains–the whole place dead quiet. Jack went back to his car, drove south.
Fag bar city: Inge’s haunts in a two-block stretch. Leo’s Hideaway closed until 4:00; the Knight in Armor empty. The barkeep vamped him–“Bobby who?”–like he really didn’t know. Jack hit B.J.’s Rumpus Room.
Tufted Naugahyde inside–the walls, ceiling, booths adjoining a small bandstand. Queers at the bar; the barman sniffed cop right off. Jack walked over, laid his mugshots out face up.
The barman picked them up. “That’s Bobby something. He comes in pretty often.”
“How often?”
“Oh, like several times a week.”
“The afternoon or the evening?”
“Both.”
“‘When was the last time he was here?”
“Yesterday. Actually, it was around this time yesterday. Are you–”
“I’m going to sit at one of those booths over there and wait for him. If he shows up, keep quiet about me. Do you understand?”
“Yes. But look, you’ve cleared the whole dance floor out already.”
“Write it off your taxes.”
The barkeep giggled; Jack walked over to a booth near the bandstand. A clean view: the front door, back door, bar. Darkness covered him. He watched.
Queer mating rituals:
Glances, tête-à-têtes, out the door. A mirror above the bar: the fruits could check each other out, meet eyes and swoon. Two hours, half a pack of cigarettes–no Bobby Inge.
His stomach growled; his throat felt raw; the bottles on the bar smiled at him. Itchy boredom: at 4:00 he’d hit Leo’s Hideaway.
3:53–Bobby Inge walked in.
He took a stool; the barman poured him a drink. Jack walked up.
The barman, spooked: darting eyes, shaky hands. Inge swiveled around. Jack said, “Police. Hands on your head.”
Inge tossed his drink. Jack tasted scotch; scotch burned his eyes. He blinked, stumbled, tripped blind to the floor. He tried to cough the taste out, got up, got blurry sight back–Bobby Inge was gone.
He ran outside. No Bobby on the sidewalk, a sedan peeling rubber. His own car two blocks away.
Liquor brutalizing him.
Jack crossed the street, over to a gas station. He hit the men’s room, threw his blazer in a trashcan. He washed his face, smeared soap on his shirt, tried to vomit the booze taste out–no go. Soapy water in the sink–he swallowed it, guzzled it, retched.
Coming to: his heart quit skidding, his legs firmed up. He took off his holster, wrapped it in paper towels, went back to the car. He saw a pay phone–and made the call on instinct.
Sid Hudgens picked up. “_Hush-Hush_, off the record and on the QT.”
“Sid, it’s Vincennes.”
“Jackie, are you back on Narco? I need copy.”
“No, I’ve got something going with Ad Vice.”
“Something good? Celebrity oriented?”
“I don’t know if it’s good, but if it gets good you’ve got it.”
“You sound out of breath, Jackie. You been shtupping?”
Jack coughed–soap bubbles. “Sid, I’m chasing some smut books. Picture stuff. Fuck shots, but the people don’t look like junkies and they’re wearing these expensive costumes. It’s welldone stuff, and I thought you might have heard something about it.”
“No. No, I’ve heard bupkis.”
Too quick, no snappy one-liner. “What about a male prostie named Bobby Inge or a woman named Christine Bergeron? She carhops, maybe peddles it on the side.”
“Never heard of them, Jackie.”
“Shit. Sid, what about independent smut pushers in general. What do you know?”
“Jack, I know that that is secret shit that I know nothing about. And the thing about secrets, Jack, is that everybody’s got them. Including you. Jack, I’ll talk to you later. Call when you get work.”
The line clicked off.
EVERYBODY’S GOT SECRETS–INCLUDING YOU.
Sid wasn’t quite Sid, his exit line wasn’t quite a warning.
DOES HE FUCKING KNOW?
Jack drove by Stan’s Drive-in, shaky, the windows down to kill the soap smell. Christine Bergeron nowhere on the premises. Back to 9849 Charleville, knock knock on the door of her apartment–no answer, slack between the lock and the doorjamb. He gave a shove; the door popped.