Murder on a Hot Tin Roof

Chapter 20

HAVE YOU EVER HAD THE FEELING THAT you’ve lost touch with your real self altogether-that you’re floating around in the stratosphere without any skin? Then you know how I felt that night, as I dressed myself in long pants and a white shirt-just as Willy had told me to do-and prepared to make my fraudulent debut as a lesbian. I was uncomfortable, not to mention too warm, in the stiff masculine attire, and I couldn’t wait for the painful charade to be over.

I went downstairs, put some money in my pants pockets (Willy had forbidden me to carry a purse), then stuck a pack of cigarettes in the breast pocket of my white cotton shirt. I looked at the clock on my living room table. I was too early. It was 8:00 P.M. and I wasn’t supposed to meet Willy until 9:00. I had plenty of time to call Binky.

Taking the pad with Gray’s phone messages out of the table drawer, I sat down on the couch, lit up an L &M, and dialed Binky’s number. He answered on the second ring.

“Hello. Who is it? Speak up! I’m in a hurry.”

“Hi, Binky,” I said. “It’s Pa-I mean Phoebe Starr. I spoke to you the day before yesterday, remember? I’m the actress who wants to enroll in the Actors Studio. You said you’d take me there tomorrow and show me around, so I’m calling to confirm that appointment.”

There was a short silence, then Binky said, “You’re Gray Gordon’s friend, right?”

“Yes.”

“Then what the hell do you think you’re doing? Are you nuts? Why are you calling me

now? Maybe you haven’t heard, but Gray’s dead! He doesn’t friggin’ exist anymore!” Binky sounded like an overactive volcano-boiling and ready to blow.

“Yes, I know,” I said. “It’s so horrible, I still can’t believe it. It’s a sickening, hideous tragedy. Gray was such a wonderful person. Who would do such a terrible thing to him?”

“Don’t ask me,” he said, lowering his voice to a more mournful tone. “But you want to know something, sweetheart? I think what

you’re trying to do is pretty terrible, too.”

“What do you mean?” I asked, starting to squirm. What did he think I was trying to do? And why was it so terrible? “I really don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Binky let out a derisive snort. “I’ll tell you what I’m talking about! I’m talking about the way you’re swooping in like a vulture, trying to pick the meat off Gray’s bones and fill the sudden vacancy at the Studio. Gray’s only been dead for three friggin’ days, little girl. He’s probably not even cold yet. And here you are, already trying to take his place in Strasberg’s class.”

“I am not!” I cried, defending myself vociferously. “How could you say such an awful thing? I called you tonight because I

told you I would the last time we spoke. And that was before I knew that Gray was dead. Don’t you remember? We spoke on Saturday and the news of Gray’s murder didn’t appear in the papers until Sunday!”

“Saturday, Sunday-what’s the difference? You’re still just trying to get into the Studio.”

“Yes, I would like to join, but so would every other actress under the sun. We

all want to study under Lee Strasberg, you know. I’ve wanted to work with him for as long as I can remember. So I am not-repeat not-trying to take advantage of Gray’s tragic misfortune. I’m just continuing my pursuit of a lifelong dream. And Gray wanted to help me achieve that dream, if you recall. That’s why he told me to call you.”

“Oh, all right!” Binky said, letting out a loud groan of exasperation. “I’ll take you to the damn Studio sometime. But I can’t talk about it now. I’m late for work.”

“So when

can you talk about it?” I urged, desperate to pin him down. “Can I call you later, when you get off work?”

“Are you nuts? I won’t get home till five in the morning. On big holidays like this, the Latin Quarter bar stays open all night. You can call me tomorrow if you want to-but not before noon.”

“Okay, thanks,” I said. “I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

Binky’s only goodbye was a beastly grunt, plus the sound of the receiver crashing into the cradle.

EVEN IN THE DARK OF NIGHT, I FELT extremely self-conscious when I left my building and stepped out onto the sidewalk. What if somebody I knew saw me looking like this? No makeup, no high heels, no purse, no wavy, shoulder-length hairdo (I had pulled my hair back in a rubber band, the way Willy told me to do). Thank God Abby and Jimmy weren’t there to witness my defeminization. Abby would have a heart attack and die; Jimmy would just die laughing. Otto would probably bark his head off for a few seconds and then cover his little brown eyes with his paws.

I was glad all the neighborhood stores were closed. If Angelo or Luigi got a load of my lesbian get-up they’d probably run down the street to St. Joseph’s to light candles and pray for the salvation of my soul. And I hated to think how Dan would react-so I tried not to. One good thing could come from my disguise, though, I realized. If Baldy or Blackie happened to be hiding in the shadows in ambush, they might not know who I was!-a lucky ramification which could save me from a shanghaiing (or any other dastardly deed either one of them might have in mind).

Keeping my head down and walking as fast as I could in the stifling heat, I crossed Seventh Avenue, made my way over to Christopher, and-shielding my face whenever I passed a streetlamp-made a beeline for the four-story brownstone where Willy lived. I stepped into the well-lit vestibule and, feeling a very strong sense of déjà vu, rang the buzzer for 2A.

As I stood there waiting for Willy to answer, I couldn’t help noticing that both the mailbox and the buzzer for 2B still bore the name GRAY GORDON. The sight of Gray’s carefully hand-printed capitals broke my heart. He had probably been very happy when he’d lettered those labels, I mused-excited about beginning a new life in his new apartment and looking forward to a fabulous future.

“Is that you, Paige?” Willy sputtered into the intercom.

“Yes, it is,” I said, although considering the way I looked and felt, I wasn’t at all sure.

“Okay, hang on! I’m coming right down.”

Eager to escape the sad specter of Gray’s name, I left the vestibule, crossed to the edge of the cement stoop, and sat down on the top step. Two young men were strolling up the street holding hands, but when they spied me sitting on the stoop ahead, they quickly loosened their fingers and dropped their hands to their sides. Then, when they drew closer and saw in the light from the vestibule that I wasn’t a homophobe prowling for prey, but rather a woman in mannish clothing (i.e., one of them, in a flip-flop kind of way), they relaxed, gave me a smile and a nod, and took hold of each other’s hand again.

The wardrobe was working.

Willy came out a few seconds later and, after he’d checked out my lesbian garb and given it a passing grade, we started walking west on Christopher, in the opposite direction of the strolling hand-holders.

I was feeling nervous about the whole expedition. “Where did you say this party is being held?” I anxiously inquired. “At a hotel?”

“That’s right,” Willy said. “The old Keller Hotel. It’s over by the river, on West Street. It was built in 1898, and it used to be a thriving hotel for seamen. Now it’s just a fleabag dump. We have parties in the hotel bar because it’s one of the few places that will serve homosexuals. And because it’s so far off the beaten track we don’t attract too much attention.”

“Does Flannagan know about this place?”

“He sure does, honey. The bar gets raided about once a month. All the Keller Hotel regulars are regulars at the Sixth Precinct police station, too.”

Oh, no. Just what I need-to get arrested at a gay bar dressed like a lesbian. Dan would lose every last one of his marbles over that! “You mean the party might be raided tonight?” I croaked. I was getting more nervous by the second.

“It could happen,” Willy said, “but I don’t think it will. This is the Fourth of July, don’t forget. The cops will be too busy with other crimes and disturbances of the peace to pay any mind to us.”

Pow! Pow! Bang! Boom!

As if on cue, a bunch of firecrackers went off in the near vicinity. Willy jumped like a jackrabbit and squealed like a girl. (So did I, if the truth be told.) “Eeeeeek!” he wailed, grabbing hold of my arm and twisting it so hard he almost dislocated my elbow. “What’s that? A machine gun?”

“I don’t think so,” I said, groaning and giggling at the same time. “Sounds more like firecrackers to me.”

“Oh, yeah,” he muttered, looking embarrassed. “I forgot about the fireworks.” He let go of my arm and quickened his pace toward Hudson Street. I hurried to catch up with him. After we crossed Hudson and neared the intersection of Greenwich Street, there was another loud explosion. “Yeeeeoww!” Willy shrieked. “That was a bad one! I bet somebody threw a cherry bomb in a trash can. Oh, how I hate all this dreadful noise! It scares the stuffing out of me!”

“Well, you’d better get used to it,” I said, breathing heavily from our brisk clip. “The pyromaniacs are just getting started. And the closer we get to the river, the worse it’s going to get.”

My apprehension was mounting with every step. There were very few streetlamps in this part of town, and many of those were broken. And after we crossed Washington and continued down Christopher toward the Hudson River, I realized how rundown and deserted the neighborhood was. Battered trucks, boarded-up warehouses, and dilapidated maritime buildings lined the ill-paved streets, and there were no stores or restaurants in sight.

But at least Willy and I weren’t walking the streets alone; quite a few other people were out treading in the same direction, rapidly making their way toward the waterfront to shoot off their skyrockets and torpedoes. The riverside fireworks were just getting underway, I observed, as the bright comet of a Roman candle whooshed into the black sky above, then exploded and released its vast shower of red and gold stars.

By the time we reached West Street, the sky was alive with fireballs and pinwheels. And our ears were ringing from the blasting bombs, cannons, crackers, and whiz-bangs. People near the river, on the other side of the elevated West Side Highway, were cheering and screaming and dashing in all directions-blazing sparklers thrust high in their hands-and the hot, humid nighttime air was filled with acrid smoke. The Villagers were staging their own little war.

Willy had stopped squealing every time a bomb went off, but he was still scared stuffingless. He grabbed my arm again and pulled me to the left, hastily leading me down West Street, and then around the corner on Barrow, to the entrance of the Keller Hotel.

The sight of the square, six-story, red stone structure gave me the shivers. The narrow windows were filthy, the canvas awning over the door was faded and tattered, and the low cement stoop was crumbling away. The dimly lit red-lettered sign sticking out from the corner of the building offered one sad, solitary word: HOTEL.

Even with the door propped wide open, the entryway was far more forbidding than inviting. And the groups of jittery young men hulking around near the door, smoking cigarettes and speaking in strained whispers, did nothing to ease my anxiety. I wanted to turn on my heels and run home like the wind.

Which would have been the smart thing to do, of course. But, as you well know by now, I’m more accomplished at doing the stupid thing. And tonight was no exception (not by a long shot!). Stupidly ignoring my fearful misgivings, I took a deep breath, straightened my spine, and-affecting what I hoped was a manly John Wayne swagger-followed Willy inside.