Chapter 8: Four in the Corner Pocket
Brian and Ariel Close In On Their Drug Mule; Clark Breaks In.
knit, knit, knit, knit, purl, purl, purl, purl
knit, knit, knit, knit, purl, purl, purl, purl
As Rose Royal double-checked her rows, she harrumphed over the catty twinks who, moments before, tried to slip by without paying the cover. Who were they to give lip to their eminent Elder?
From where she sat - knitting at her little table in the Corner Pocket entry - Rose decided that she was not down to play with Queens Born After the Internet.
The Queens Born Before were better all around, she mused. Queens Born Before were survivors. Queens Born Before had to invent themselves. Queens Born Before had Taste.
Queens Born Before the Internet endured the self-sorting trials of unchecked bigotry, so they were a cut above. Now just anyone can be gay, she mused.
What queens need nowadays is a bouncer.
Rose shook herself from her reverie. Knit your knits and purl your purls, gurl. Two rows left.
knit, knit, knit, knit, purl, purl, purl, purl
knit, knit, knit, knit, purl, purl, purl, purl
Some survivors don’t show it. They don’t weather.
Take Tina Turner, rest in peace, who went through Hell on Earth but looked sensational for her second act.
And then take Rose, who clawed herself from Hell with wrinkles for her rigors, creases from the crises, folds for every failure, portions of misfortune more than she deserved but short of what she could bear. Emerging as a woman long ago, without a guide beyond her sisters in transition, Rose prostituted daily on the sidewalks of the Tenderloin; for years, a decade, more.
She dreamed sometimes of strutting on the sidewalks once again, but how she used to be, and how the world was then, for belly laughs and burgers and an SRO bed with the princely rent boys who presided over Polk Street once upon a time.
Rose shook herself awake, her needles still.
Stitch your stitches, bitch.
purl, purl, purl, purl, knit, knit, knit, knit
purl, purl, purl, purl, knit, knit, knit, knit
She didn’t look up on hearing the chatter of approaching customers.
“HAVE YOUR I.D.’S OUT YOU FUCKING CUNTS,” Rose barked into her knitting.
purl, purl, purl, purl, knit, knit, knit, knit
“Hiya, Rose,” Brian greeted her.
Rose looked up, brightening. Brian was her kind of people. “BiBimBap! You fetching motherfucker.”
“Shame on you!” Brian rolled his eyes, amused. “Is Prada still here?”
“Fuck if I know. I’m paid to look pretty.” She waved him in. “Watch out for the AIDS going ‘round. Tip the dancers. NEXT!”
Tyler followed in the reception line. “ROSE!”
“Oh hi ... um ...” As Tyler moved in for a kiss on the cheek, Rose deflected. “Air kisses, please. Air kisses. Lovely, yes.”
“Ya never age, Rose. What’s your secret?”
“A dab of menses on the pulse points before bed.” Rose waved Tyler in. “NEXT!”
Ariel sidled up in his flamboyant disguise. “Rose, you are, as ever, a sore sight for eyes.”
“Wilford Brimley drag night is Tuesday,” Rose shot back. Ariel took the read full in the face, reeling three steps backwards. “I’m not even going to ask,” Rose continued. “I’m bored already.”
When Gage emerged from behind Ariel, Rose drank him in. “What’s the flavor of this candy on your arm?”
“Gage, it’s polite to curtsy before royalty.”
“Really?” Gage asked, blushing.
“Really,” Rose and Ariel said together.
After Gage offered a clumsy bow, Rose welcomed him as an eminent guest of the Corner Pocket.
And when the twosome went inside she got back to work.
purl, purl, purl, purl, knit, knit, knit, knit …
#
Ariel sidled up beside Gage as he took in his surroundings.
“The Corner Pocket,” Ariel intoned gravely, aka Obi-Wan Kenobi. “You will never find a more wretched hive of scum and villainy. We must be cautious.”
Gage barely heard. As his exposure to gay clubs was limited to TV, he expected a sleek, intimidating spaceship lit by lasers, with trained dancers gyrating to thumping techno for a clientele of fashionistas.
The Corner Pocket, on the other hand, was a humble, wholesomely sleazy Pop-and-Pop operation. The bartenders worked within an island in the middle of the room, shaking cocktails between the legs of young men of all colors and body types, wearing undies of all colors and undie types, step-touching on the bar.
The last thing Gage expected was to feel at home, but he did.
Brian lurked in the shadows with his hat pulled down, scanning the room, eyes locked on his target. He poked Ariel, pointing: “Prada Purse.”
“Son of a bitch.”
Gage followed their gaze to discover a thick-legged Puerto Rican in his late 20’s rocking back and forth atop the opposite end of the bar. He wore a pageant-style sash that read “BIRTHDAY KING” and beneath it, tight satin boxers manufactured with a large round hole in the back.
Ariel wrinkled his nose. “His underpants are atrosh.” Ariel turned to admonish Gage. “Never, EVER wear undies with a porthole in the back. Ever!”
Smitten by Prada Purse, Gage failed to respond.
“EVER!” Ariel repeated. “Do you hear me?”
Gage snapped from his reverie. “Yes.”
“Yes what?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“Good boy.”
“Why you guys call him Prada Purse?” Gage asked.
“It’s his name,” answered Ariel.
“He got it Inside,” added Brian.
“In prison,” Ariel translated.
“He’s a mule.”
“Drug smuggler.”
“His rectum is like a clown car.”
“OOM-PAH-PAH, OOM-PAH-PAH!” Tyler belted, carrying four beers. “We offer an assortment of beverages on today’s flight.” She distributed the bottles. “Beer, beer, beer and beer.”
Ariel dug into his pocket. “The Surgeon General warned y’all never to drink on an empty stomach.” He plucked three pills from an Altoids tin and passed them out.
“What’s this?” Gage asked, taking one.
“Some E to put a shine on things. It’s the old-school shit. You’ll be gurning for weeks.”
“Thank you, Johnny Applespeed!” Tyler twinkled.
Gage examined his pill. It was pressed in the shape of Garfield’s head. “This is what again?”
“It’s E,” Brian said, chasing the pill with a swig of beer.
“All these letters,” Gage moaned.
“Daddy’s goin’ in,” Ariel announced, turning to Brian. “When I run my finger along the brim of my hat, it’s showtime. Hold off ‘til then.” Ariel rolled his shoulders and motorboated his lips, then shook it off and sauntered toward Prada Purse.
Gage looked over at Tyler, who was chewing her pill. “Skol!” she toasted. “Sorry, ma mout id full.”
Throwing caution to the wind, for caution never brought much fun anyway, Gage popped Garfield.
#
Ariel tucked a five into Prada Purse’s left sock. The young thug wiggled his ass cutely, then knelt on the bar.
“Gracias, Papi!”
“Lookin’ fahn in dem sexy draws of yaws, Birthday Boah,” Ariel drawled with the slurred resonance of Lindsey Graham on his fifth mint julep.
“Wanna touch my Disco Stick? It can be yours if the Price is Right.”
“Ho ho, I’s a Christian man!” Ariel jested, in character.
“The crack in the back is part of the package,” Prada Purse offered. “Where you stayin’ at, Papi?
Ariel whispered in his ear. “I’m lookin’ for a ah, powdery substance. I reckon you might be able to help an old feller out.”
“Coke?” Prada Purse whispered back.
“No, called Ketamine,” Ariel replied. “Special K. Pretty hard to fahnd ‘round these parts.”
Prada Purse glanced about furtively. “I might be sitchyated. Liquid okay? I didn’t have the chance to, y’know, whatever that word is where you make something powder.”
Ariel ran his finger along the brim of his boater hat. On cue, Brian materialized beside him and Prada Purse’s face fell ten stories.
“Back from South of the Border, muchacho?” Brian growled.
“We’re the Welcome Wagon. Olé!” Ariel ripped off his mustache for a surprise reveal, then winced, shrinking away to nurse his upper lip.
Brian took charge. “Where’s our fucking product, you shady bitch?”
“I just got back. Flat tire. And I missed a payment on my phone. Didn’t get your video or nuthin’.”
“Two hundred vials. That’s the order.”
“I got the bottle in my locker.”
“Sure it ain’t crammed up your shitter?”
Now assured that his lip was still affixed to his face, Ariel rejoined them. “Bet you fucking diluted it.”
“I di’in’t!” Prada Purse pleaded. “I made good choices!”
“If it comes up light,” Brian warned, “I’ll turn your colon into a REAL fucking purse.”
“And I’ll save the remainder for a luggage set,” Ariel added.
The gears turned in Prada Purse’s head. “Just lemme get it, aight? Jeez.” He jumped off the box and jogged toward a door in the back.
Ariel and Brian exchanged a significant look. Brian turned and booked toward the bar entrance.
Ariel felt a tap on his shoulder and turned; a thin, exotic-looking Middle Eastern woman gazed at him, her eyes radiating a preternatural peace.
Ariel’s heart sank. “Oh, hi Valencia. You look gorge.”
“Medulla’s been trying to reach you.”
“I been uh, takin’ care of a uh, a t-transport situation,” Ariel stuttered.
“She’d like a word.”
Ariel’s face fell. “Like, now? She’s here?”
With a balletic gesture, Valencia directed Ariel’s gaze toward a storage room-cum-office in the back. Her left eye glinted in the light. “This way.”
“Is she mad?” Ariel asked.
Valencia floated toward the back without another word, leaving Ariel no choice but to follow.
#
Clark loped across the lobby of the Harlequin Hotel and discovered a skinny, blond, angel-faced twink waiting beside the elevator.
“Hangin’ out your shingle?” Clark asked.
“Wipe that sneer off ya scabby-ass face,” Vel lisped.
“Turnin’ on the red light tonight? Who you finna see?”
“Another word outta you, Clark, and I shiv you through your fucking skull.”
Clark smirked but said no more. The kid had a reputation around town that belied his willowy effeminacy. The tea was that Vel killed a dangerous John in his teenaged years and felt no remorse.
The elevator doors clattered open; Vel entered and pressed “8.” When Clark stood back, Vel fixed a cold-as-ice gaze on him.
“I just happen to be goin’ to 8 too!” Clark assured him. “It’s a coincidence!”
They rode up together in silence. Vel emerged first and hung a left down the hallway. Clark paused outside the elevator, tugged his red JESUS U hoodie over his eyebrows and rang up the hotel’s front desk on his phone.
“Good evening,” answered the operator. “This is Guest Services at the Harlequin Hotel. How may I help you tonight?”
Clark eyeballed Gage’s driver’s license inside the stolen wallet. “Aloha, I’m calling for Gage Keller.”
“May I tell Mr. Keller who’s calling?”
“Debbie.”
“I’m going to put you on a brief hold.”
“Thanks.”
Clark waited.
A phone rang in the distance, down the hallway to his right. Clark jogged toward the sound, which peaked behind the door of Room 817.
Clark checked the cruising app on his phone.
2551 feet gave Clark plenty of time to skip down the back stairs, he figured, should the distance begin to close.
His face a neutral mask, Clark withdrew Gage’s room key from the stolen wallet and inserted it into the door.
The lock beeped. Then it clicked.
He was in.
###
COMING UP IN CHAPTER 9: Ariel Goes Mano-a-Womano With Medulla, Who Dangles a Tantalizing Prospect
Thank you for reading!
☮️ & ❤️,
