Free City of Night by John Rechy Page A

coaxed me. “Lets go with him. It’s a draggy day anyhow. And anyway, we get to eat there real good.” He adds, smiling secretly. “And we dont have to do much. Oh, hes Special!” Remembering the man I had walked around Times Square with, wearing a jacket and cap, I began to laugh. “Not that,” Pete says, “we wont be walking around Times Square in leather.”
               Without going to him, Pete motions yes to the man, who goes down the steps, into the subway. Pete and I follow. I was walking fast, to catch up with the man. “Cool it,” Pete explains. “I know where we get off.” Without glancing back, the man gets in one of the cars, and we got in another. “He doesnt want anyone to see him leaving with guys,” Pete said. I had been through this before: Unlike the black-dressed Al, who walked you around for an hour through Times Square, some scores dont want to be seen leaving the street with a younger man. “He lives in—hold on— Queens!” Pete laughed. “And dig this, spote: I think he teaches at Queens College. They even got a school now,” he says, shaking his head.
               We got off at Queens Plaza, and followed the man to a large apartment house. We waited at the corner for a few minutes, and then we walked into the lobby. It’s a moderate-priced apartment house, very quiet, softly lighted. We reached the second floor, and along the hallway, a door was open slightly. There stood the little man beaming at us sweetly. He had taken off his coat, and he was wearing a gayly colored apron now.
               “Hello, hello, hello!” he chirped merrily. “Im so glad you boys could come. I was hardly expecting—”
               Pete whispered to me (I couldnt see how the man could help but hear him, but possibly neither cared): “Play it Cool and go along with it.” At times Pete seemed to have an enormous tolerance for the quirks of the people he knew: a tolerance which could instantly turn into intolerance when he felt he’d been had.
               “Itll be just a few minutes, boys,” the old man announced, “and then we’ll have a Lovely dinner. You boys must be famished, and I just happen to have some Very Nice Steaks. Now,” he says, and his voice trembles slightly, “you boys get—uh—Comfortable.” He stood watching us intently. I glanced at Pete, and he had begun to unbutton his shirt.
               “Do what I do,” he told me, but I was strangely embarrassed suddenly, because by then Pete was taking off all his clothes. “Come on, man,” he says to me, annoyed. “You wanna score or dont you?” (Again, I knew the man, his gaze nailed on us, could hear him, and I realized conclusively this didnt matter.) “This cat’s pretty swinging people if he digs you,” Pete goes on, “and we can come back and have ‘dinner.’” He laughed again. “Come on.”
               I finally did. Pete sat on the couch, glancing at a comic book. He was completely unembarrassed. I sat on a chair looking at a magazine. The man returned to the kitchen, humming gayly. “It’ll be just a few more minutes, now boys—” He turned at the door and looks fondly at Pete. “Petey-boy,” he said, “I do believe youve been gaining a few pounds—you should have more salads, less starches.... You boys dont know how to care for yourselves, but well fix that.... And you, my boy—” turning now to me like a doting mother “—you could stand a bit more weight—just a few more pounds, not much—and we’ll fix that too.” He disappeared into the kitchen, and I could hear dishes rattle.
               I glanced up abruptly, and Pete is looking at me over the comic book. He smiles broadly.
               Soon, the meal was served, on a small, carefully set table in the dining room. We were summoned by a tinkling little bell which the man jingled. I had never eaten like this before, and I start to put my pants on.