Free Quarry by Max Allan Collins

were. My bladder was near explosion point and as I pushed open the door and flicked on the light switch, I heard a chorus of voices say, “Hey!” “Watch it!” “What the fuck!”
    Automatically I flicked the light switch back off and was wheeling back out the door, my mind clouded but alert enough to know something stunk in Denmark. If I carried a gun, I might’ve reacted real bad. But I don’t, so I didn’t.
    Then I got the picture. Quite literally.
    On the wall of the large john-room were the silvery, flickering images of a film. A woman in a dark wig and nothing else was sitting on the edge of a bed; she had fleshy thighs and was spreading them, bountiful droopy breasts staring downward at the action. There was no sound, other than that of the eight-millimeter projector clicking and clacking away and some scattered hard breathing from the audience, which I gathered was made up of five or six fellow YMCA residents. Sitting on the floor of the can of the Young Men’s Christian Association, digging the porno.
    I laughed and went back outside, getting my key from out my pocket. I was almost down to my room when I heard a voice from behind me say, “Hey man! Hey, Johnson!”
    That was the name I was registered under. I turned and said, “Yeah?”
    It was the bearded guy, the youngish Gabby Hayes who had checked me in. And by young I mean somewhere between twenty-five and forty, don’t ask me where.
    “Say, man,” he said, “go on back in the john and do what you have to.”
    I laughed again and said, “Never mind. You boys scared the piss right out of me.”
    “That doesn’t offend you, does it?”
    “Offend me?”
    “Those pornies, I mean. Look, everybody here on the floor knows about it, and I only show ’em because the guys enjoy it. They pitch in and I send for the stuff in the mail. From the back of the men’s mags. I don’t hardly make a cent on it, honest to Christ.”
    “Hey. No big deal.”
    “No, but it is. I’d get fired if anybody reported this. If any of the guys staying here don’t approve, fine, I’ll stop showing ’em. So if you don’t like it, please say so, okay?”
    “Listen, I don’t really care one way or the other.”
    He smiled, nodded his shaggy head. “You’re all right, Johnson.”
    “Thanks. Look, I wouldn’t mind taking a shower before I turn in. How much longer does the Bijou go on in there?”
    “Should be over in five minutes. Can you hold out that long?”
    “Sure.”
    “Look, I’ll come down to your room and knock when I’ve got everybody out of the john, okay?”
    I nodded.
    Ten minutes later I was sitting on the bed, shoes off, rubbing my feet, and the knock came-at the door. I got up and opened it and Gabby said, “All clear.”
    “Fine.”
    “You wouldn’t care for a nightcap, would you?”
    If I hadn’t been drunk, it might’ve occurred to me that maybe this guy had in him some of what Boyd was. But I was drunk. So I said, “I already had more than I need, but . . . what the hell.”
    “Fine. Come on.”
    He had a bottle of whiskey, I didn’t notice what kind, which he poured over ice from a little cooler he kept in one corner of his room. He used water glasses and poured them three-quarters full; a refill would be unnecessary. I sat at the chair at the desk-dresser and he sat on the bed.
    “Thanks for understanding about the movies.”
    “Okay.”
    “It’s not that I’m a sex maniac or anything.”
    “Sure.”
    “Or those other guys either. It’s just something to do.”
    “I understand.”
    “Do you?”
    “Sure.”
    “You understand then. That’s good. That’s real good. Because I don’t want anybody getting the wrong impression.”
    “Yeah.”
    “You a salesman, or what?”
    “Yeah.”
    “You got a wife?”
    “No.”
    “Girl friend?”
    “A few.”
    “More than one, huh? Girl in every port?”
    “Here and there.”
    “Anything steady?”
    “No.”
    “Take my advice. Get somebody steady. Listen to me. I’m older