blowing.”
“That supposed to mean something?”
“No, but it sounds good.”
Henry flipped the towel behind himself and whipsawed the back of his shoulders. “You must be a fag. You can talk to me, just don’t touch.”
“You’re quick to judge,” the man said, nothing altering in his face.
Henry girded his middle with the towel. “I’m used to the attention. In the army I couldn’t take a shower some guy wasn’t looking at me.” His clothes were heaped on a bench. Pawing aside his jacket to get at his jeans, he plucked out an Ace pocket comb and slicked it through his wet hair. “I was in Nam.”
“Then you’re older than I thought.”
“You look exactly what you are. What are you, fifty?”
The man merely smiled. “I’ve been around the block.”
“Yeah, so have I,” Henry said with sudden bitterness and a slackening of stomach muscles that disturbed the whole of his posture, as if something had twitched and given. “What’s your name? You got a business card? I ever need a job, I might look you up.”
“Don’t do me any favors,” the man said lightly, which Henry did not take kindly. His mouth went sour.
“I don’t want to hurt your feelings, but old guys like you are the sorriest in the world. You got nothing coming. Everything’s going, you know what I mean? Up ahead, what d’you see? Not much, right?”
“That’s the way the world works,” the man said mildly, and, excusing himself, padded by on rubber thongs into the same stall Henry had occupied.
Henry marked time. He drew himself up and whipped the comb through his hair again. Moving to a mirror, he projected his jaw in the cloudy glass, studied his profile, and with a substantial breath regained a sense of worth. Moments later, as if being cued onto a stage, he sauntered into the cloying heat of the stall. The man’s gym shorts drooped from a peg, the supporter hanging out, and the man stood dazzled in a cone of silver spray. His hair was soaped and his face sculpted into a perfect attitude of indifference.
“Thought I’d see you.”
“It’ll cost you,” Henry said.
• • •
“Jesus bloody hell,” said the bigger of the two uniformed policemenupon entering the stall. The grit from their heavy shoes made mud around the victim, who lay supine on the wet tiles, his face battered and discolored, his left eye swollen shut and his mouth bloody. The other officer crouched over him, and the big officer, dodging a drip from the shower nozzle, said, “Who spread the towel over him?”
“I did.” The trembling voice came from the YMCA’s assistant director, who stood shocked and frightened just outside the stall.
“Why didn’t you tuck one under his head?”
“I was afraid to move him.”
The big officer, whose eyes had a vague stinging effect, sidestepped another drip. “Was the water going?”
“Yes, sir. I turned it off.”
“Then you’re the one who found him.”
“Yes, sir.”
“See anybody?”
“No, sir.”
“D’you know who this guy is?”
“I think it’s Mr. Pothier, owns the furniture store off Essex Street. He’s been a member in good standing for years.”
The big officer stepped around his partner and squatted on the other side of the victim, his leather accessories creaking and his holstered revolver riding up on his hip. His heavy face came forward. “Can you hear me, Mr. Pothier?”
“He can’t talk,” said the other officer.
“But he can move his head, can’t you, Mr. Pothier?” There was a slight painful nod, and the big officer leaned closer. “Somebody did a job on you. You know who it was?” There was a long pause, then the barest of movements, negative, and the big officer grunted to his feet, his face pink from exertion and disgust. His partner looked up.
“What’s the matter?”
“I don’t think he wants to tell us.”
FOUR
B ARNEY C OLE had a wearisome day, the morning spent in court trying to squeeze child support out of ex-husbands and the
“That supposed to mean something?”
“No, but it sounds good.”
Henry flipped the towel behind himself and whipsawed the back of his shoulders. “You must be a fag. You can talk to me, just don’t touch.”
“You’re quick to judge,” the man said, nothing altering in his face.
Henry girded his middle with the towel. “I’m used to the attention. In the army I couldn’t take a shower some guy wasn’t looking at me.” His clothes were heaped on a bench. Pawing aside his jacket to get at his jeans, he plucked out an Ace pocket comb and slicked it through his wet hair. “I was in Nam.”
“Then you’re older than I thought.”
“You look exactly what you are. What are you, fifty?”
The man merely smiled. “I’ve been around the block.”
“Yeah, so have I,” Henry said with sudden bitterness and a slackening of stomach muscles that disturbed the whole of his posture, as if something had twitched and given. “What’s your name? You got a business card? I ever need a job, I might look you up.”
“Don’t do me any favors,” the man said lightly, which Henry did not take kindly. His mouth went sour.
“I don’t want to hurt your feelings, but old guys like you are the sorriest in the world. You got nothing coming. Everything’s going, you know what I mean? Up ahead, what d’you see? Not much, right?”
“That’s the way the world works,” the man said mildly, and, excusing himself, padded by on rubber thongs into the same stall Henry had occupied.
Henry marked time. He drew himself up and whipped the comb through his hair again. Moving to a mirror, he projected his jaw in the cloudy glass, studied his profile, and with a substantial breath regained a sense of worth. Moments later, as if being cued onto a stage, he sauntered into the cloying heat of the stall. The man’s gym shorts drooped from a peg, the supporter hanging out, and the man stood dazzled in a cone of silver spray. His hair was soaped and his face sculpted into a perfect attitude of indifference.
“Thought I’d see you.”
“It’ll cost you,” Henry said.
• • •
“Jesus bloody hell,” said the bigger of the two uniformed policemenupon entering the stall. The grit from their heavy shoes made mud around the victim, who lay supine on the wet tiles, his face battered and discolored, his left eye swollen shut and his mouth bloody. The other officer crouched over him, and the big officer, dodging a drip from the shower nozzle, said, “Who spread the towel over him?”
“I did.” The trembling voice came from the YMCA’s assistant director, who stood shocked and frightened just outside the stall.
“Why didn’t you tuck one under his head?”
“I was afraid to move him.”
The big officer, whose eyes had a vague stinging effect, sidestepped another drip. “Was the water going?”
“Yes, sir. I turned it off.”
“Then you’re the one who found him.”
“Yes, sir.”
“See anybody?”
“No, sir.”
“D’you know who this guy is?”
“I think it’s Mr. Pothier, owns the furniture store off Essex Street. He’s been a member in good standing for years.”
The big officer stepped around his partner and squatted on the other side of the victim, his leather accessories creaking and his holstered revolver riding up on his hip. His heavy face came forward. “Can you hear me, Mr. Pothier?”
“He can’t talk,” said the other officer.
“But he can move his head, can’t you, Mr. Pothier?” There was a slight painful nod, and the big officer leaned closer. “Somebody did a job on you. You know who it was?” There was a long pause, then the barest of movements, negative, and the big officer grunted to his feet, his face pink from exertion and disgust. His partner looked up.
“What’s the matter?”
“I don’t think he wants to tell us.”
FOUR
B ARNEY C OLE had a wearisome day, the morning spent in court trying to squeeze child support out of ex-husbands and the
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