at concerts, film festivals, and the like.
Nicky watched Beverly click across Prospect, a sleek, polished illusion of womanly grace and confidence. For any number of reasons, not the least of which was simple respect, Nicky always thought of, and referred to, Beverly Ahn in the feminine.
‘Hi, gorgeous,’ Beverly said. ‘Sorry I’m late.’ She stepped onto the sidewalk, towering over Nicky by three or four inches.
Nicky felt himself color slightly at the compliment. He bullied it back. He was never quite sure how to react to compliments from men. Especially men who wore lace camisoles. ‘Good morning, bella aura ,’ Nicky replied. He always countered Beverly in faux Italian because she loved things like that. And this morning Nicky needed all the flattery he could muster. It was a point that Beverly Ahn lost no time in acknowledging.
‘You don’t know what I’m going to have to go through to talk him into this,’ Beverly said, stepping into the doorway. ‘The man’s a beast.’
‘Well,’ Nicky began, trying to think of some charming way to placate her, ‘they don’t call me the Beastmaster of Euclid Avenue for nothing, you know.’
Beverly just glared at him. ‘And why am I doing this again?’
‘Because you like me. Because I’m the coolest white boy you know. And because I’ll take you to dinner anywhere you want. But not for a week or two.’
‘Anywhere?’
‘Yep.’
‘You’d walk into Giovanni’s with me dressed like this?’
The funny thing was, Nicky would. Wouldn’t even think twice about it. Ever since his early rock-band days – Nicky Starr and the Constellation – it seemed as if he was born to shock. ‘Beverly. It would be my pleasure.’
Beverly laughed. ‘You do go on, Nicholas.’ She reached into her bag and retrieved a compact. She opened it, did some maintenance on her face, then added, ‘Just keep an eye on this fucking creep for me, okay, hon?’
The creep in question was a hood named Ronnie ‘Rat Boy’ Choi. Willie T had pointed him out to Nicky one night at Lancers on Carnegie, and the first thing Nicky had noticed was that the man looked every bit of his name. Willie had also told him about Choi’s thing for cross-dressers. Nicky figured that Choi probably liked his transvestites a lot younger than Beverly, but Nicky also figured that Beverly had something pretty special going for her. Something she had long ago stopped offering to Nicky. ‘You don’t have anything to worry about,’ Nicky said.
‘No?’ Beverly replied, raising a solitary, sculpted eyebrow. She grabbed Nicky’s coffee cup and sipped.
‘Of course not,’ Nicky said. ‘I’ll be right there. All you have to do is talk him into an anonymous interview with me. One hour, anywhere he wants. No cops. No tape.’
Beverly pouted for a moment, letting Nicky know that she was fully aware of the fact that nobody could protect her from a butcher like Rat Boy Choi. In one drug-crazed moment he could, and would, slit her throat for no reason at all.
‘Okay,’ she said. ‘Let’s go.’
Nicky produced his most charming smile, looked skyward, put his hand through a crook in Beverly’s arm, and hailed a cab.
Elegant Linda’s was an opium house that operated out of the basement of a warehouse on East Thirtieth Street, near Superior Avenue. After passing muster with a pair of gargantuan Anglo thugs at the unremarkable front door, and paying in advance, Nicky and Beverly descended a long narrow staircase, passed through two more doors, then entered a dimly lit womb of damp red carpeting – floor, walls, and ceiling. The lounge at the back of the room, where one could sip tea or cocktails while waiting, was a haphazard jumble of mismatched red vinyl furniture, maroon draperies, and filigreed gold fixtures.
Two men sat at the back, one black, one white. They wore matching motorcycle jackets, mirrored sunglasses, leather chaps.
In contrast, the two hostesses were garbed in virginal white
Nicky watched Beverly click across Prospect, a sleek, polished illusion of womanly grace and confidence. For any number of reasons, not the least of which was simple respect, Nicky always thought of, and referred to, Beverly Ahn in the feminine.
‘Hi, gorgeous,’ Beverly said. ‘Sorry I’m late.’ She stepped onto the sidewalk, towering over Nicky by three or four inches.
Nicky felt himself color slightly at the compliment. He bullied it back. He was never quite sure how to react to compliments from men. Especially men who wore lace camisoles. ‘Good morning, bella aura ,’ Nicky replied. He always countered Beverly in faux Italian because she loved things like that. And this morning Nicky needed all the flattery he could muster. It was a point that Beverly Ahn lost no time in acknowledging.
‘You don’t know what I’m going to have to go through to talk him into this,’ Beverly said, stepping into the doorway. ‘The man’s a beast.’
‘Well,’ Nicky began, trying to think of some charming way to placate her, ‘they don’t call me the Beastmaster of Euclid Avenue for nothing, you know.’
Beverly just glared at him. ‘And why am I doing this again?’
‘Because you like me. Because I’m the coolest white boy you know. And because I’ll take you to dinner anywhere you want. But not for a week or two.’
‘Anywhere?’
‘Yep.’
‘You’d walk into Giovanni’s with me dressed like this?’
The funny thing was, Nicky would. Wouldn’t even think twice about it. Ever since his early rock-band days – Nicky Starr and the Constellation – it seemed as if he was born to shock. ‘Beverly. It would be my pleasure.’
Beverly laughed. ‘You do go on, Nicholas.’ She reached into her bag and retrieved a compact. She opened it, did some maintenance on her face, then added, ‘Just keep an eye on this fucking creep for me, okay, hon?’
The creep in question was a hood named Ronnie ‘Rat Boy’ Choi. Willie T had pointed him out to Nicky one night at Lancers on Carnegie, and the first thing Nicky had noticed was that the man looked every bit of his name. Willie had also told him about Choi’s thing for cross-dressers. Nicky figured that Choi probably liked his transvestites a lot younger than Beverly, but Nicky also figured that Beverly had something pretty special going for her. Something she had long ago stopped offering to Nicky. ‘You don’t have anything to worry about,’ Nicky said.
‘No?’ Beverly replied, raising a solitary, sculpted eyebrow. She grabbed Nicky’s coffee cup and sipped.
‘Of course not,’ Nicky said. ‘I’ll be right there. All you have to do is talk him into an anonymous interview with me. One hour, anywhere he wants. No cops. No tape.’
Beverly pouted for a moment, letting Nicky know that she was fully aware of the fact that nobody could protect her from a butcher like Rat Boy Choi. In one drug-crazed moment he could, and would, slit her throat for no reason at all.
‘Okay,’ she said. ‘Let’s go.’
Nicky produced his most charming smile, looked skyward, put his hand through a crook in Beverly’s arm, and hailed a cab.
Elegant Linda’s was an opium house that operated out of the basement of a warehouse on East Thirtieth Street, near Superior Avenue. After passing muster with a pair of gargantuan Anglo thugs at the unremarkable front door, and paying in advance, Nicky and Beverly descended a long narrow staircase, passed through two more doors, then entered a dimly lit womb of damp red carpeting – floor, walls, and ceiling. The lounge at the back of the room, where one could sip tea or cocktails while waiting, was a haphazard jumble of mismatched red vinyl furniture, maroon draperies, and filigreed gold fixtures.
Two men sat at the back, one black, one white. They wore matching motorcycle jackets, mirrored sunglasses, leather chaps.
In contrast, the two hostesses were garbed in virginal white
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