the other.
Then Juke undid himself from his arms and put one hand on his hip. “So shake your ass, honey. We haven’t got all night. The Witch-woman wants you in her sitting room, pronto. Save your douche for later.”
Hank couldn’t help smiling. This boy was so funny, so strange. His girlishness made him seem perfectly harmless. It might be good having him here for company. The boy seemed faithful enough, even trustworthy. It would be good for Hank’s soul having him around. Like having a dog.
6
A LPHEUS COOPER, KNOWN DOWNTOWN as Juke, took Hank downstairs, trying to think of ways he could use this cracker. It would be handy having someone so large and dim as your friend around here. Juke had tried it with others, but they all thought they were too slick to take favors from a crazy little nigger, much less return them. This homeboy was anything but slick. He was in obvious need of good management and Juke was the one to give it to him. Juke might feel stupidly fond of the guy, or maybe it was only pity for someone so ignorant they might risk their neck for yours. But Juke knew how to keep feelings like pity or affection under control. At seventeen, he’d learned the hard way that a smart queen’s one concern in this world was looking after her own ass.
He went down the stairs, which creaked under the weight of the sailor thudding behind him. “Don’t let these girls fool you with their airs, Blondie. Nothing but dicks and smiles and the brains of chickens.” Of course, he thought Hank was nothing but a dick and a smile. How else could anybody think there was easy money in peddling your ass? But every boy thinks he’s the one exception to the stupidity around him. It didn’t hurt to play up to this hillbilly’s pride, so long as Juke didn’t make a fool of himself.
He opened the door to the sitting room. One of those lousy songs that was all voices and no orchestra played in the new phonograph cabinet Mrs. Bosch had bought as bait.
“Oh, boy? There you are. Yes,” said the cockney steward sitting in an armchair with Bunny in his lap. Bunny was pale and fish-eyed, smiling dreamily. The beet-faced steward held up an empty, suds-laced glass. “Me and my pal here need more of that horse piss you people call beer.”
“Yes, suh. Right away, suh.” But Juke only ushered Hank inside and closed the door. The cracker was looking over the room as if he’d never seen furniture before.
It was early and the steward was the only customer. The half dozen others, sitting on the long, black camelback sofa beneath the black window shade or on the love seat or around the card table, were whores. The music was turned up loud enough for a party, but it didn’t look like a party here. Everybody was waiting for something. The guys playing acey-deucy at the table looked up when Juke brought Hank in, then went back to their cards when they saw it was only more competition. The steward went back to trying to coax a response out of the unresponsive Bunny. Things never picked up until more money came into the room.
“Bigger than when it was downstairs,” said Hank.
“Uptown, we do up a place like this with style ,” Juke scoffed. “Fancy drapes and colored lights. That overhead light makes everybody look like they’re at the morgue. But Mrs. Bosch’s too cheap for any of that. She could get herself a classier line of whore, too,” Juke whispered. “Instead of trash.”
A sharper man would wonder if Juke were calling him trash, but the cracker only nodded and looked at Mick and Smitty on the sofa, thumbing through Mick’s copy of Strength and Health magazine. Mick was older than the others and worked out at a gymnasium. Smitty worshipped him, which was a laugh. Everyone was taken by Mick the first time they saw him, or at least by the biceps stretching his rolledup sleeves. It hurt Juke to find his cracker eyeing him.
“Watch out for Mick,” Juke whispered. “The muscles? He’s cuckoo in the head.”
“Uh
Then Juke undid himself from his arms and put one hand on his hip. “So shake your ass, honey. We haven’t got all night. The Witch-woman wants you in her sitting room, pronto. Save your douche for later.”
Hank couldn’t help smiling. This boy was so funny, so strange. His girlishness made him seem perfectly harmless. It might be good having him here for company. The boy seemed faithful enough, even trustworthy. It would be good for Hank’s soul having him around. Like having a dog.
6
A LPHEUS COOPER, KNOWN DOWNTOWN as Juke, took Hank downstairs, trying to think of ways he could use this cracker. It would be handy having someone so large and dim as your friend around here. Juke had tried it with others, but they all thought they were too slick to take favors from a crazy little nigger, much less return them. This homeboy was anything but slick. He was in obvious need of good management and Juke was the one to give it to him. Juke might feel stupidly fond of the guy, or maybe it was only pity for someone so ignorant they might risk their neck for yours. But Juke knew how to keep feelings like pity or affection under control. At seventeen, he’d learned the hard way that a smart queen’s one concern in this world was looking after her own ass.
He went down the stairs, which creaked under the weight of the sailor thudding behind him. “Don’t let these girls fool you with their airs, Blondie. Nothing but dicks and smiles and the brains of chickens.” Of course, he thought Hank was nothing but a dick and a smile. How else could anybody think there was easy money in peddling your ass? But every boy thinks he’s the one exception to the stupidity around him. It didn’t hurt to play up to this hillbilly’s pride, so long as Juke didn’t make a fool of himself.
He opened the door to the sitting room. One of those lousy songs that was all voices and no orchestra played in the new phonograph cabinet Mrs. Bosch had bought as bait.
“Oh, boy? There you are. Yes,” said the cockney steward sitting in an armchair with Bunny in his lap. Bunny was pale and fish-eyed, smiling dreamily. The beet-faced steward held up an empty, suds-laced glass. “Me and my pal here need more of that horse piss you people call beer.”
“Yes, suh. Right away, suh.” But Juke only ushered Hank inside and closed the door. The cracker was looking over the room as if he’d never seen furniture before.
It was early and the steward was the only customer. The half dozen others, sitting on the long, black camelback sofa beneath the black window shade or on the love seat or around the card table, were whores. The music was turned up loud enough for a party, but it didn’t look like a party here. Everybody was waiting for something. The guys playing acey-deucy at the table looked up when Juke brought Hank in, then went back to their cards when they saw it was only more competition. The steward went back to trying to coax a response out of the unresponsive Bunny. Things never picked up until more money came into the room.
“Bigger than when it was downstairs,” said Hank.
“Uptown, we do up a place like this with style ,” Juke scoffed. “Fancy drapes and colored lights. That overhead light makes everybody look like they’re at the morgue. But Mrs. Bosch’s too cheap for any of that. She could get herself a classier line of whore, too,” Juke whispered. “Instead of trash.”
A sharper man would wonder if Juke were calling him trash, but the cracker only nodded and looked at Mick and Smitty on the sofa, thumbing through Mick’s copy of Strength and Health magazine. Mick was older than the others and worked out at a gymnasium. Smitty worshipped him, which was a laugh. Everyone was taken by Mick the first time they saw him, or at least by the biceps stretching his rolledup sleeves. It hurt Juke to find his cracker eyeing him.
“Watch out for Mick,” Juke whispered. “The muscles? He’s cuckoo in the head.”
“Uh
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