Hold Tight by Christopher Bram

I forgot you even existed.” Hank wondered if this would complicate things. Nobody was supposed to know who he was, or who he had been.
    “Doll face. You still can’t tell when somebody’s pulling your leg? Not to be confused with pulling something else. Up the stairs here. Just follow my twitchy behind.”
    Hank followed Juke, ducking where the ceiling lowered. “How come you’re still here? Getting arrested didn’t cure you of whorehouses, boy?”
    “Me and fancy houses suit each other fine. You’re one to talk, Blondie. The Navy know you’ve turned professional?”
    “No. I…” But Hank realized he could use the fact that Juke had been here that night. “They kicked me out. After the raid. I’m wearing these because they’re the only clothes I have to my name.” Juke would gossip; word would get around. Lying didn’t come naturally to Hank, but he would have to learn to lie here, just as he had to learn how to be alone and not trust anyone.
    “Save those whites, baby. Johns go ape over sailors. But they gave you your walking papers? My, my. We queens are safe nowhere, are we, honey?”
    They passed the music Hank had heard downstairs, coming from behind a closed door on the second floor. They started up another flight of stairs.
    “So what happened to you after the raid?” said Hank. He had never talked so much to a colored, but he needed to talk to someone and better a colored than someone you might take seriously.
    “They put my sweet ass on ice. Jail. For a month. Nothing they could charge me with but public nuisance. That’s their word for queen. Then they give me to a parole officer and he gives me back to the Witch-woman. For a fee. Mrs. Simon LeGreedy. So she’s got that to hold over me, but there’s ways of tricking around her. She’s twice as smart as the bimbos here think she is, but only half as smart as she thinks she is. You make friends with old Juke here and he can make it worth your while.” They were on the third floor now, in a hallway where the wallpaper was faded and peeling. Juke reached inside an open door and turned on a light. “Here we are, Blondie. The honeymoon suite.”
    The room wasn’t much. A hospital bed and a deal cupboard, a bare lightbulb hanging on a cord, a chipped bedpan on the painted floor. There was a curled picture of Tarzan, clipped from a magazine and tacked to the wall. A canvas shade was pulled over the window.
    “You’re lucky you’re in the back. Windows up front are painted over for the blackouts and farmers start pulling up at five every morning to set up their market out front. Hard for a girl to get much beauty sleep before noon. But all that racket should make you feel right at home, farmboy.”
    Hank tossed his seabag in the corner and opened the top drawer of the cupboard. The bottom was lined with old newspaper—a black and yellow debutante ate cake—and was empty except for the blade of a safety razor and a racing form.
    “Leo, the guy whose room this was,” said Juke, “was caught trying to break into the Witch-woman’s money box. He got arrested for dodging the draft a week later. The Witch-woman’s got friends in high places somewhere. I don’t know who, but some big deal’s got his finger in this pie.”
    “Uh huh.” Hank didn’t look at Juke, afraid the answer showed in his eyes. He wished the boy would leave him in peace, so he could have time to tuck away his thoughts before he faced the others.
    But Juke continued to stand in the doorway, arms crossed over his chest, hands on his shoulders. “Hey, Blondie,” he suddenly said. “Don’t think I forgot you decked that Shore Patrol for me. Didn’t do me much good. But don’t think I forgot.”
    Hank looked up. The boy sounded sincere. “Nothing to remember. I would’ve done it for anyone.”
    “Yeah? Yeah, I think you would’ve. Anyway, I remember.”
    They looked at one another, neither of them wanting to say aloud that one might have cause to be grateful to