nearly shouted. “He said that he wanted to go to a disco.”
Her head bobbed so close to mine that I could feel the breath of her words on my cheek. This sensation was all the more intimate because we were in the middle of a moving mob.
“Evander?” I asked.
“We dropped some orange-speckled barrel and went out to get something to eat.”
“Dropped?”
“Took acid.”
“LSD?”
“Yeah. He said that he never did it before, and somebody gave me a two-way hit for some roses.”
“That stuff is dangerous, isn’t it?”
“So’s deep water, but people still go swimming in it.”
That’s when I began to like Ruby.
“So what happened after the club?” I asked.
“We never went, because I had to go up behind the Shangri-La to give some of the girls up there their makeup.”
“Another club?”
“Yeah,” Ruby said with a one-shoulder shrug and a little frown, “but no. I mean, Lula’s place is up behind the club. It’s there for, you know … sex. I go up sometimes and Lula lets a couple of the girls pay me to make them look like hippies. Some’a the guys want to ball a hippie chick and I give ’em the look.”
“There’s a whorehouse on the Strip?”
“It’s work,” the girl said, gesturing with her free hand at the sky. “I mean, it’s really no different than sellin’ your body to a production line or a coal mine.”
Or the cotton fields, I thought.
“Did Evander go there with you?”
“Yeah. I thought we’d leave together, but he met this guy and they cooked up something. I don’t know what, but when I finished workin’ he was gone.”
“What was this guy’s name?”
“I don’t know. I’ve seen him before. A white guy who likes to wear all green—shirt, tie, everything.”
“Like a straight guy?” I asked, experimenting with the language.
“He wasn’t a hippie, but he wasn’t straight either,” she said. “I didn’t know his name, but he was a pimp.”
The Shangri-La discotheque was vibrating from an overactive electric bass. We took an alley down the side of the blocky three-story building and ended up in a dark parking lot behind.
Across the lot was another three-story building. There were wooden stairs with no railing that went from the lower right corner of the building to the upper left, making a stop along the way for the door to the second floor. The only light was at a small deck at the summit of the stairs. On this upper platform was a yellow chair with an occupant who seemed large even from that distance.
“That’s Lula’s up there,” Ruby said.
“Let’s go.”
“I don’t wanna,” she said. “I mean, I go when they pay me, but it smells bad and the men look at you like you were meat … the women too.”
“I thought it was just another job?” I said.
“I’ll stick to my flowers. You want me to wait?”
“If you’d like.”
“Would you like?”
I nodded and touched a tress of her hair. She put three fingers on my left elbow. After that communication I headed for the long stairway.
Walking up that precarious flight of steps sticks out in my memory of that night. Jo’s Gator’s Blood was still roiling in my system, but it had waned appreciably since my fracas with the bikers. The stairs were wide enough for two lanes of foot traffic, but the feeling that there was no bannister to grab onto seemed to focus the insecurity of an entire generation on that climb.
I listed toward the wall, reaching out now and then for its solidity, and climbed with great concentration.
About halfway up I saw that the man sitting in the chair was broad, black, and bald.
When I was only three steps down he bellowed, “What you want?”
“I’m here lookin’ for the son of a friend’a mine,” I said in our common patois.
“You ain’t got no friends up here, mister.”
I took two more steps and the big black man stood up from his comfortably padded seat.
“You best to turn your ass around,” he advised.
I took the last
Her head bobbed so close to mine that I could feel the breath of her words on my cheek. This sensation was all the more intimate because we were in the middle of a moving mob.
“Evander?” I asked.
“We dropped some orange-speckled barrel and went out to get something to eat.”
“Dropped?”
“Took acid.”
“LSD?”
“Yeah. He said that he never did it before, and somebody gave me a two-way hit for some roses.”
“That stuff is dangerous, isn’t it?”
“So’s deep water, but people still go swimming in it.”
That’s when I began to like Ruby.
“So what happened after the club?” I asked.
“We never went, because I had to go up behind the Shangri-La to give some of the girls up there their makeup.”
“Another club?”
“Yeah,” Ruby said with a one-shoulder shrug and a little frown, “but no. I mean, Lula’s place is up behind the club. It’s there for, you know … sex. I go up sometimes and Lula lets a couple of the girls pay me to make them look like hippies. Some’a the guys want to ball a hippie chick and I give ’em the look.”
“There’s a whorehouse on the Strip?”
“It’s work,” the girl said, gesturing with her free hand at the sky. “I mean, it’s really no different than sellin’ your body to a production line or a coal mine.”
Or the cotton fields, I thought.
“Did Evander go there with you?”
“Yeah. I thought we’d leave together, but he met this guy and they cooked up something. I don’t know what, but when I finished workin’ he was gone.”
“What was this guy’s name?”
“I don’t know. I’ve seen him before. A white guy who likes to wear all green—shirt, tie, everything.”
“Like a straight guy?” I asked, experimenting with the language.
“He wasn’t a hippie, but he wasn’t straight either,” she said. “I didn’t know his name, but he was a pimp.”
The Shangri-La discotheque was vibrating from an overactive electric bass. We took an alley down the side of the blocky three-story building and ended up in a dark parking lot behind.
Across the lot was another three-story building. There were wooden stairs with no railing that went from the lower right corner of the building to the upper left, making a stop along the way for the door to the second floor. The only light was at a small deck at the summit of the stairs. On this upper platform was a yellow chair with an occupant who seemed large even from that distance.
“That’s Lula’s up there,” Ruby said.
“Let’s go.”
“I don’t wanna,” she said. “I mean, I go when they pay me, but it smells bad and the men look at you like you were meat … the women too.”
“I thought it was just another job?” I said.
“I’ll stick to my flowers. You want me to wait?”
“If you’d like.”
“Would you like?”
I nodded and touched a tress of her hair. She put three fingers on my left elbow. After that communication I headed for the long stairway.
Walking up that precarious flight of steps sticks out in my memory of that night. Jo’s Gator’s Blood was still roiling in my system, but it had waned appreciably since my fracas with the bikers. The stairs were wide enough for two lanes of foot traffic, but the feeling that there was no bannister to grab onto seemed to focus the insecurity of an entire generation on that climb.
I listed toward the wall, reaching out now and then for its solidity, and climbed with great concentration.
About halfway up I saw that the man sitting in the chair was broad, black, and bald.
When I was only three steps down he bellowed, “What you want?”
“I’m here lookin’ for the son of a friend’a mine,” I said in our common patois.
“You ain’t got no friends up here, mister.”
I took two more steps and the big black man stood up from his comfortably padded seat.
“You best to turn your ass around,” he advised.
I took the last
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