The Lure by Felice Picano Page A

“It’s a real shame about Kansas, huh?”
    “Yeah. Fucked up,” Vega said, quickly adding, “I never knew the guy real well. He used to come rap a lot at the Grip.”
    “Me, either,” Tony said. “You know, intimately but not well.” Changing his tone he said good-bye. “See you, too, babe,” he added to Noel.
    Noel waited until they had gone a block before asking, “Is he another operative?”
    “Tony? I don’t know. Why? I told you before, he’s a porn star.”
    That answer meant nothing. Noel fingered the card Tony had given him. Pornography, Loomis had told him. Mr. X was into pornography.

    The Grip was packed when they arrived. Chaffee hailed Noel over and put him on the side bar. It was busy, and another hour and a half passed before Noel found time to stand still and look around. A minute later he noticed Vega slip downstairs with someone.
    During this first night at the Grip, Noel was openly propositioned once, flirted with dozens of times, received a ten-dollar tip from a middle-aged gentleman in full leather, was offered four drugs, several of which sounded lethal, and smoked the third and fourth cigarettes of his life.
    He got home late, exhausted, and dialed the loops. For a while no one answered, then he heard the motherly voice of a woman.
    “Is it urgent, dear?” she asked. “I’ll ring the Fisherman at home, if you want.”
    “No. Don’t bother.”
    Brushing his teeth, Noel wondered exactly what the odds were that Tony Coe was Mr. X. That white-toothed smile. The overmuscled arms and shoulders. Hands like ham hocks, like vises, hands that could twist a man’s head right off his body.
    He went to sleep with dawn prying under the window shades.

8

    “Last call,” Noel shouted.
    Only a few people sauntered over to the bar for a final drink.
    It had been slow since midnight. Rick said there were several big parties tonight. Noel had heard about the one at the Window Wall—a downtown private discotheque—from at least a dozen customers. It was early Sunday morning, but with the feeling of a Saturday night, and in this subculture, as in any other, all the men wanted to get laid. Most of the regulars would be at the Window Wall by now, the rest at the Baths, or lurking through the shadowy corridors of Le Pissoir, an after-hours club which featured public sex shows in a series of huge, sleazy rooms, where you or your partner-of-the-minute might be the stars at any time: employees sometimes shone spotlights on the patrons; if you didn’t move out of their glare, people would gather to watch.
    Noel hadn’t been to Le Pissoir, of course. Nor to the Baths, nor even to the Window Wall, where women were allowed—outnumbered thirty to one. But, after keeping quiet and listening hard for three weeks, he’d heard enough to know what else was being offered to his clientele.
    He told himself he didn’t have to go to those places yet, that he had more than enough data from a dozen nights at the Grip to make a book. He’d built up casual relationships with the other employees, and even a few customers. He knew he was accepted as one of them. That was an important step.
    Wilbur Boyle thought so, too. When Noel had finally approached his department chairman with his idea, Boyle had been cautious but obviously pleased his hint had been taken. Impressed also by Noel’s initiative in taking a job right at the center of the gay world. “An enormous, but essential chore,” Boyle had called it, shaking Noel’s hand warmly in front of a bewildered Alison. Thank God, Noel thought.
    “You ready to close out?” Rick Chaffee asked now.
    “In a minute.”
    Noel grabbed his cash drawer, his tip box, and his pad.
    “My breakage is underneath,” Noel said, pointing to the liquor bottles he’d emptied during the course of his shift. The manager would tally them against the cash to see how much was sold. No problem for Noel. His customers bought, never asked for comps, and tipped well. As Chaffee had