Free Hold Tight by Christopher Bram Page B

into trouble in the first place, but Hank liked to stick to places he knew. He needed at least one familiar landmark in his life now that everything else was confusion. And he was lonely, a little nervous—about what, he wasn’t sure—and bored. Sex was a fine way of forgetting yourself for an hour or so. He was more watchful now, more careful where he went and with whom. This city wasn’t as free and easy as he had thought that first day, but a little caution was all Hank needed to have a good time. There had been a couple of guys who were so much fun naked that Hank saw them more than once before they left town or simply disappeared. The city was a giant railroad depot that people passed through on their way to the war. Only Hank remained behind.
    A young man suddenly sat in the aisle seat beside him. The young man squirmed, tapped his fingers on his knees, then promptly got up again. Hank turned to watch the slender silhouette climb the aisle toward the smokey projector beam that fanned overhead. There wasn’t enough time before he met Commander Mason. Hank had come here today only because he had nowhere else to go after checking out of the Y. And maybe as a way of saying goodbye to the place. When he couldn’t follow the young man, Hank suddenly resented what the Navy was doing with him, but only for a moment.
    They had chosen Hank and nobody else for their special assignment. He wanted to be proud of that, but it still felt peculiar. What he did with whom had always been as private as what he dreamed when he was asleep—and usually as impossible to keep track of. But people were suddenly treating his sex life as something that made Hank odd and useful. He wasn’t accustomed to so much attention, especially from people who had no intention of going to bed with him. Over the past month, Mason had met twice with Hank, privately. They met in the bar at the Hotel Astor, which was around the corner and seemed to have its share of men like Hank. The first time, Hank couldn’t help wondering if the commander, who came dressed in civvies, wanted to get laid himself. But no, the officer was all cold curiosity beneath his oily smiles, as impersonal as a Navy doctor sticking his finger up your ass. He met Hank in secret because agents might be watching the building and would notice the comings and goings of someone as distinctive as Hank, or so he said. Hank preferred to believe him. He disliked Mason, disliked his way of repeating over and over what was expected of Hank, as if Hank were too stupid to remember.
    But none of that should matter. There was a war on and Hank wanted to help them catch their spies as quickly as possible, so he could get back to the McCoy. His only real crime, Hank thought, was slugging that Shore Patrol—this sex business was only a sideline, an accident. Working at this house should square away his trouble with the Shore Patrol. That should be more important to him now than any uneasiness over the Navy’s interest in his sex life. And the war took all kinds of unimportant, personal things and made them important. Kitchen fats, old tin cans, newspapers—why not sex?
    The movie was not quite over when Hank put his shoes back on and left. There were the usual pairs of men talking in the balcony lobby. Goodbye, thought Hank, and wondered what it was going to be like going to bed with guys he might not like. Downstairs, he passed a buxom young woman chatting with the brass-buttoned usher who took tickets. Hank had seen her before, usually in the lobby, although she didn’t seem to work here. She looked ladylike enough, despite her thick mascara and lipstick, but Hank wondered if she was one of those girls who preyed on sailors. Well, he was going to prey on sailors himself, wasn’t he? She glanced up as he went out the door, stared for an instant, then quickly averted her eyes, as if ashamed.
    It was already night. Half the little lights beneath the marquee were out and the streetlights were