Chapter 15

   

                Maxwell pulled Charlie up to the curb, yanked up the lever for the emergency brake, but did not turn off the engine -- he, not at all certain he intended to stay.

                Finding the place had presented him with no problem. Even if he had missed the tales of The Palace over the years, no one could have missed its gaudy facade, the lights alone setting this whole side of Paterson aglow. Coming from the south, he had seen the glow grow and heard the increasing volume of the music for blocks, and now, parked in front of it, he wondered why the city had never thought to close the place down. Rumor said a number of high ranking police officers had a piece of the action here. From the look of it, Maxwell suspected, Mayor Graves and the city council had a piece of the action as well.

                The building had once been a movie theater, the only one in the City of Paterson specifically designed to accommodate movies without first going through a transition from classical stage and Vaudeville -- although later, in the lean times of the Great Depression, managers brought in stage shows to help boost sales, ending finally with weekend stripe tease. Maxwell had snuck into the show twice, and both times found himself sharply disappointed by the extreme ugliness of the strip tease artist, old women who had grown wrinkled from years of persistent performance.

                At its beginning, however, residents of Paterson saw the theater at a kind of joke, calling it Gateway's folly, after William Gateway, who had built two such theaters, one in Paterson, and another in Jersey City. Gateway had foreseen the eventual demise of the stage and the rise of movies, even though it took many years for the vision to become reality, by which time he had lost his fortune and others had taken over the two huge 2,500 seat theaters.

                For years, the building had sat unused, a rotting relic to a Paterson past that few could afford to renovate, despite its ideal location side by side with the city's largest hotel. Maxwell remembered wandering around inside building during those years when only the rats and the hobos made use of it, recalling the rounded ceiling above the seats with its scenes of the universe. He also remembered the huge screen and the state upon which it sat, as well as the converted rooms to either side that served as changing rooms for the cast during those years when the theater had live acts and store rooms at other times.

                At some point during the mid-1970s, someone with money managed to purchase the building and convert it to use as a go-go palace. Maxwell remembered passing it during one of his cross-down jogs, and recalled the mounds of junk management had dumped out onto the curb, old seats, curtains, props, even pieces of the screen itself, along with the well-outdated projection equipment from the room high above the balcony. Maxwell also recalled the hundreds of people crawling through that wreckage in search of treasures they would not find, like packs of rates hoping to strip the last dignity by stealing the old lady's dusty clothing.

                Despite taking up more than half the block, the theater was larger than it looked, with passages throughout traveling into the nearby hotel as well into some of the store front basements that had been built on the far side. In front of Maxwell and along this side of the theater's marque, eight windows with eight windows looked down onto the sidewalk -- with eight more of equal size and spaced equally apart on the other side of the marque. These matched the places where movie posters had once hung advertising coming attractions or shows currently being shown inside. Indeed, the windows made us of the same round string of lights Maxwell remembered surrounding the original posters.

But instead of action posters depicting a hero and heroine against a dramatic back drop, management had built small stages inside each window, and upon each stage, a nearly naked woman danced. Many of these women Maxwell recognized from his weekly visits to Wolfman's place, go go girls who made the rounds from club to club, but who acted here as advertisement as well as entertainment, helping to lure in the mostly white male population that lined the sidewalk waiting to get inside.

                Any map of the suburbs would name the numerous local towns from which the crowd came, white men from Wayne, Little Falls, Totowa, Cedar Grove, Nutley and other towns making the trek into Paterson just to get a glimpse of the building -- this glowing entity of throbbing lights the single biggest tourist attraction in the city, drawing more viewers per weekend than the Great Falls did in a year, men parking their pickup trucks and dented 1970s hotrods along the sidewalk or in the large parking lot in back. Many of the men hooted and howled at the women in the windows, clearly the victim of previous alcoholic endeavors before arriving, men holding up bills against the class as if pegging favors once they got inside.

                Then, someone tapped on Maxwell's driver's side window, a grim face grinning in, as the hand motioned for Maxwell to roll down the window. It took Maxwell a moment to understand what the man wanted, and whether or not the grey face belonged to the bar or was simply someone seeking a handout. The man motioned again, more vehemently, the artificial good humor fading into a much more annoyed expression.

                "Open the fucking window!" the man shouted.

                Maxwell complied, but only rolling the window down a half an inch.

                "Yes?" he asked.

                "You can't park here unless you're going inside," the man said.

                "I haven't made up my mind yet," Maxwell said.

                "Then you can't stay," the man said, a pale scar on his nose glowing under the parade of lights.

                Maxwell could have argued the point since no city sign indicated any restriction except those on Tuesday and Thursday mornings for street cleaning, but he knew this would only end him up with an argument. Finally Maxwell nodded, eased out of the car and locked the door, then got onto the end of the line. He cast a glance at the car and wondered if it was safe, then concluded with all the lights and the guards, no one would likely touch it.

                The line reminded Maxwell of those he had seen outside the Filmore East waiting on ticket for a rock concert, men two and three thick extending from some invisible door beneath the marque to the outreaches of the last window. The line moved more quickly than Maxwell would have thought, management anxious to drag the men in where they could collect their money.              The marque bore the message "Girls, Girls, Girls" along with an assortment of Xs, much in the way the theater had in the past advertised more conventional entertainment. Despite the glitter, the theater had a dingy quality, the fabric worn, and in places, light bulbs burned out and not replaced. The gold leaf that had made a trim along the glass doors leading to the interior pealed in places, and the lettering from the original name only partly scraped off, leaving an E and a L to linger unexplained.

                On either side of the doorway in, management had made use of the poster displays, filling them with photographs of dancers that had danced inside, though some of these were so faded Maxwell could only guess as to their age, or where those dancers now were.

                What had once served as the theater lobby separated the club proper from the street. Although all that the room contained presently was a small table near the inner door where several men sat, scars of the former use showed on both sides of the door. No one had bothered to remove the glass cases that had once displayed candy or the large glass containers in which popcorn had been made. Indeed, signs indicating a variety of candy brands still decorated the wall behind the cases. Crumpled containers for popcorn sat like odd little hats a top the popper, with prices listed under each size -- the cost dating the theater's closing to somewhere around 1970.

                The line of potential customers streamed passed each of these to halt before the table, where two men sat with jackets open and the leather hostlers housing their pistols just visible. Both looked as stern as bankers, eyeing each customer as if seeking some clue as to whether the club could expect trouble. At intervals, one or the other of the two grim men asked a younger-looking patron to produce identification, sending those who refused back outside. From everyone else, the two men asked for twenty-five dollars.

                "Twenty-five dollars?" Maxwell said, his voice breaking over the figure. He had balked at Wolfman's request for five dollars, but this seemed absolute highway robbery.

                "You have a problem with that?" one of the grim men asked, eyes registering a hint of alarm, his scarred upper lip twitching slightly.

                "Twenty-five dollars is a lot of money," Maxwell said, aware of the grumbling men behind him who wanted to know what the hold up was, clutching their own payments in anticipation of the treats they could expect inside.

                "You get a lot for that," the other, slightly less stern men said.

                Twenty-five dollars was more money than Maxwell spent on a bad week at the other bar, and more than he would pay for a whole date. Every instant told him to leave, to let these highway robbers have their way with the line of fools behind him.. He could, after all, see Patty again at the other place, sometime, provided Wolfman forgave him and her and let them both come back.

                But what if Patty had been wrong about that? What if he and she could never go back. Maxwell could hardly go wandering Patty's neighborhood hoping to run in to her on the street.

                "Well? Are you coming or going?"

                Maxwell sighed, and felt down into his pocket for the cash left over from the purchase of Suzanne's clothing. He handed two tens and five singles to the man with a scarred lip, then ambled through the second set of doors into the club.

                                Maxwell had to reach back into distant memory to recall what the interior had looked like during his last visit here. High above his head, the bowl-like ceiling still showed a painted solar system, a sun at the highest point of the bowl with planets descending at various angles, each bearing the face of the Roman god to which the planet was named. In-between each planet, fainter gold stars gleamed -- now far less brightly than they had during the theater's hey day, yet not so dull under the constant flash of strobe lights from below.

                The club was a sensual assault with lights and sound operating on a level that instantly caused Maxwell a headache. Everywhere he looked lights blinked, sweeping the hall laser-like as if the product of a time warp bringing him back to 1970s disco. Hidden speakers in the walls and ceiling rumbled at such a volume each note seemed to pound against his chest, making his heart beat at the same unbearable rhythm.

                With the seats removed, the theater's full size became apparent -- stretched out like an indoor football field with the original screen stage as the goal on the far end. Along left wall, however, instead of stands full of cheering fans stood additional stages, each corresponding to the external windows Maxwell had seen along the sidewalk. An open door connected stage with the window display allowing dancers to move freely from inside to out. Each stage was banked in lights, which flicked on and off in a way that made the lights look as if they were moving, and created an eerie effect in the room's dark interior as shadows danced over the large empty space.

                No, not empty. Unfurnished, Maxwell thought. And even that was an overstatement since a huge bar sat in the very middle of that supposedly open space.

                The hall itself could have served as an armory with a ceiling two stories high and floor space into which the entire fleet of city fire trucks could have fit without even touching bumpers -- and yet the room was stuffed with shoulder to shoulder men, gathered in a mass, groups thickest at the foot of each stage, as if peasants playing homage to a woman god. Each crowd swayed to the movement of the goddess' body, moaning to a particular sensual smile, groaning over each suggestive pose.

                At the foot of each of these, management had set up tiny bars, with grim faced men behind each hawking beer and shots, grabbing customers by the collar whenever the bottles went empty or they lingered too long over the same half-filled glass. But these bars merely acted as satellites to the greater bar located at the center of the room, a huge square bar that offered stools -- one hundred to a side -- and a broader range of entertainment on the huge square stage built at its center. Thirty women roamed this stage, doing single routines or combining into groups, turning the crowd on with an assortment of mock lesbian acts or self-gratification.

                The men hooted and howled, stretching across the bar to show their appreciation with five and ten dollar bills, some got a flash of breast for their money, most copped a feel, many women removed their tops or bottoms or both when the tips seemed high enough and danced without the article of clothing until some bartender or bouncer shouted for them to get dressed again. The patrons roared with disapproval, then immediately thrust more money at the woman again.

                Oddly enough, other seating arrangement existed, cafe style tables in-between the main bar and its satellites. For men with money to burn, dancers did private close up sessions called "lap dancing," in which these women pressed themselves against their patron, stripping off their tops so that a man's mouth might linger within an inch of the woman's nipple as her other parts gyrated near his belt, giving rise to significant sections of his anatomy.

                But not all the dancers danced, choosing instead to sit and drink with patrons, giving special men a few moments relief from the steady seduction.  But even the men who sat and talked and drank did not escape the club's relentless effort at money gathering, as bouncers and bartenders or occasional roving barmaid prodded them nearly constantly to hurry their drinking or order refills. In all cases, these men -- lucky enough to sit and talk with the dancers -- also bought the dancers drinks.

                These drinks, Maxwell noticed, went for $7.50 each.

                Maxwell stopped a dozen yards from the door and pivoted around, blinking at the bright lights and madness of activity, the contrast between dark and light so acute his eyes hurt and water. But the sound caused more pain, the moaning and groaning only underlying the abusive throb coming out of each speaker. These people might have been tortured from the way they looked, and squirmed. Maxwell tried to focus on the stage acts, looking to find Patty's face among the twisted limbs, bared breasts and mocked sex.

                His search started with the outer stages and worked in. He went from one stage to the next in a long circle, squinting over and around the moaning men, disappointed (and yet relieved) when each stage produced only a stranger's face. Then, when these stages revealed no Patty, Maxwell started his survey of the inner and more complicated main stage, wandering around the perimeter of the bar to investigate any one who remotely resembled Patty. Many bodies were so entangled Maxwell could not make out their faces, but eliminated them from consideration because he could not imagine Patty consenting to such a routine. But then, he would never have thought her capable of degrading herself so much as to dance here in any capacity, not with the stage so cluttered and the focus of attention so defused.

                In his search, he had waved off bartenders and bouncers who insisted he needed to drink to stay inside, telling them, he would buy a drink when he was good and ready, then lost them in the crowd. But standing now in one spot, as confused as he had been when first arriving, Maxwell felt a heavy hand of a bouncer fall on his shoulder.

                "What the hell are you trying to pull, Buddy," the man said, twisting Maxwell around. "Don't you know the house rules say you have to buy a dr..."

                The six foot seven inch tall black man's sentence dribbled to an end as the scarred face grew sight, a single pale scar that connected the edge of one eye to the end of his mouth, giving him a look of constant agony. For a moment, he only stared, eyes blinking slowly as the brain behind them struggled to remember where he had seen Maxwell before.

                "It's been a long time," Maxwell said softly.

                The black man's face was chiseled into his own member from those three long days in jail, the specter who had promised to protect Maxwell if he became the black man's wife. The later memory the naked black man on River Street was less distinct.

                "YOU?" the black man said, the veil of his own memory rising, causing his eyes to widen, and with recognition came a flood of old admiration, the memory of the last hours in the jail returning, of a weary Maxwell fighting of exhaustion as well as the waves of organized attackers, anyone of which could have been the one to break through Maxwell's defense.

                "You haven't changed a whole lot," Maxwell said, although he did notice spots of grey that dotted the man's beard stubble and hair around his ears. "Except I see you got yourself out of jail. I thought you were headed to state facilities."

                "I got a good lawyer," the big man said, grinning, two gold teeth filling the spaces Maxwell remembered previously as being vacant. "It seems the cops forgot to read me my rights."

                The man had killed four people with his bare hands during a bar fight twenty years ago. His Karate training had resulted in a charge of murder. Maxwell remembered, too, the fear on the faces of people along River Street who called the man "Red Ball."

                "What are you doing here?" Maxwell asked.

                The golden smile broadened a little. "I run the place."

                "You own all this?"

                "I run it, not own it. The boss owns the place. I'm his number one assistant," the black man said. "But that's not surprise. I've known the boss since he was a kid. I even saved his life once. We're tight, and he promised me a long time ago that if I got out of jail, I'd sit side by side with him and rule this town."

                "I thought the mob ran Paterson," Maxwell said, recalling some of the tales Creeley sometimes told. "Don't they have something to say about your boss?"

                "We're pretty close," the big man said. "The families have come into line. They love the boss and he produces for them. But there's a few hold outs, bastards who want to stay independent, and a few politicians who think they're honest. But that's all old stuff, too, business stuff, and no surprise either. What is a surprise if finding you here. This isn't your kind of place. You've always seemed to straight for this scene."

                "It's been a lone time since you've seen my last," Maxwell said with a grin. "I could have changed."

                But the big man shook his head. "Not you," he said. "Not after that thing in the joint. So what brings you to our little establishment?"

                Maxwell more snorted than laughed, nodding his head as he continued to look around at the crowd of sweating men's face, each blinking off and on with the lights, each expression caught into the throes of lust, while on the variety of stages, the dancers feigned seduction, limbs, mouths and faces painted with the proper mood which their cold, dark stares denied.

                "I'm here looking for somebody," Maxwell said, turning his attention back to the tall, tough black man he had first met in jail.

                "Here?" the man said, only half laughing, the face drawing tight around his scar as if he guessed more about Maxwell's purpose than Maxwell let on. "Who?"

                "A dancer named Patty," Maxwell said, aware of the still more tightening face, and the look of shock growing into panic in the black man's eyes.

                "Patty Mills?" he said, his hefty voice gone shrill. "You're here to see Patty Mills?"

                "Yes," Maxwell said, taking note of the black man's sharp glances towards the mirrored boarder that circled the room around the wall just near the ceiling, a slanted flat mirror behind which Maxwell guessed other men stood, more security watching the crowd for trouble.

                "You're crazy, man," the black man said in a harsh whisper that Maxwell could barely hear over the moans and groans and music. "What are you doing messing with a bitch like that?"

                "What's wrong with Patty. She's a friend."

                "That bitch doesn't have friends, only victims, and you're too good a soul to get sucked up in her web. Get out of here, man, go home and find yourself a good girl, one that you can marry."

                "Look," Maxwell said, realizing for the first time that he didn't even know the black man's name. "I've let only two people tell me what to do in my life, one's dead, the other went to the lake to retire. I paid good money to get in here, and while I'm here, I'm going to see Patty."

                The black man's eyes grew hard. "I can put you out," he said.

                "Can you?"

                The grin -- when it reappeared -- had lost all its good humor. It was the smile Maxwell remembered from the jail.

                "I can and will," the black man said, and stepped back.

                Around them, patrons turned, drawn from one attraction to another, the whispered word "fight" rippling through them, their moaning ceasing as men at the main bar and some from the cafe tables stood up to get a better look.

                "LONGFELLOW!"

                Patty's voice resounded through the room like a fog horn, cutting through the whispers and the music, and Maxwell turned his attention briefly towards it, catching sight of the dancer seated at one of the nearby cafe tables.

                "Longfellow, get over here," she commanded, and the black man, whose shoulders had stiffened, sagged.

                "Go to her," he muttered, "if that's your poison."

                Patty sat at one of the cafe tables, surrounded by men, burly, short-haired men in football jerseys or backwards turned baseball caps, their faces transmitting their hostility. All had drunk too much, yet not enough to incapacitate them. All seemed uncomfortable with Maxwell's sudden arrival.

                "This is my friend," Patty told them as she rose and kissed Maxwell on the cheek, her long fingers pressed against his chest in a sign of affection.

                She oozed the odor of alcohol, and judging from the number of glasses in front of her space at the table, she had obviously ingested more than usual. Her grin lacked its usual bite, and her eyes had a slight glaze over them that ordinary people with ordinary resistant levels to booze might have received from two or three drinks.

                "He's a poet," she told the men around her, and they -- all four of them -- bristled, their eyes growing hard the way the jocks had at school had when confronted with a sincerely, academically minded student. One of them mumbled something about his going off to find a library.

                The largest of these men sat nearest to Patty, a huge man with huge hands, blue eyes, a blond crew cut, and muscles that bulged even through his thick NY Giants jacket.

                The man looked familiar to Maxwell, though they probably had never met face to face. It was the brutal expression suggesting no hope of friendship between them, the large man's crooked mouth twisted into something that only barely resembled a smile.

                "A poet?" he said. "Ain't that sweet. Tell me, do you dress up in girls clothes, too?"

                "Such a kidder you are, Carl," Patty laughed. "Of course, Longfellow doesn't dress up in girl's clothing. He writes poems with words that rime."

                "I know what poems are," Carl snapped savagely, casting a sharp sidewards glance at her. "I'm not stupid."

                "Nobody said you were," Patty said, patting the man's arm before turning back to Maxwell. "Carl's just a little bit jealous."

                "I AM NOT!"

                "But you are, Carl, and I think that's sweet."

                "Let's not talk about this any more," Carl grumbled. "Send your fag friend away so we can get back to what we were doing."

                "What were we doing, Carl?" Patty asked, her eyes full of playful suggestions.

                "Send him away," Carl said. "This is between me and you."

                "You didn't mind your friends hanging around," Patty said. "Why can't I have one of mine?"

                "Look, bitch," Carl said, making a grab for her arm to yank her back down into her seat.

                "Leave off of her," Maxwell said in a voice so cold it turned the heads of all four men.

                Maxwell had spoken quietly so only a few men beyond the table had heard. Life for the rest of the club went on with its pounding rhythms and swaying hips, forgetting the previous promise of a fight between Maxwell and the bouncer.

                But the bouncer, who had lingered within easy earshot, stirred with alarm.

                "What's this?" Carl said, drunken eyes opening with delighted surprise. "The little faggot speaks. What are you going to do, faggot? Are you going to play it like you're a man and come to this bitch's rescue?"

                "Longfellow," Patty said, all the humor gone from her voice. "Maybe you should go away for a little while."

                "Not if this ass is going to treat you like that," Maxwell said in the same low voice.

                "ASS?" Carl roared, laying his huge hands on the table top as he rose, as knowing grins passed between his three friends. They shoved back their chairs to get out of his way. "Do you know who you're talking to, faggot?"

                "Not exactly," Maxwell said. "But I don't see how it matters. Anyone who'd treat a woman like you just did is an ass, and should be called an ass as often as possible."

                Carl's pale face flushed red, leaving creases of white around the mouth and nose and eyes. He glared at Maxwell, his two massive hands curling into fits.

                The initial butterflies of fear fluttered inside Maxwell's stomach, and in the back of his head, he heard his long-dead uncle's voice whisper: "Center yourself, boy," and Maxwell took a deep breath, bringing calm to the very place from which the fear rose. He slid his back foot into a slant and eased his weight onto it.

                Around him, the club once more turned its attention towards him and the angry man, the moaning and groaning and dancing ceasing. Someone even pulled the plug on the music, so that an uneasy silence settled over the place, with only the click of the blinking lights remaining, their movement casting Maxwell and Carl into alternate repetitions of light and dark.

                "Longfellow," Patty pleaded. "Go away. You don't know what you're getting into. This is Carl Greene. He used to be a defensive lineman for the NY Giants."

                "So?"

                "So I'll crush your fucking head, faggot!" The huge man boomed and brushed aside the cafe table as he charged, empty glasses, beer bottles and small round candle crashing to the floor.

                Maxwell shifted his weight again to adjust for the advance, readying himself for the impact -- which never came.

                A blur of movement to Maxwell's left interrupted the charge as the bouncer leaped in-between them, confronting the football player, nose to nose.

                "Leave off him," the black man said, the scar now so tight his one eye nearly closed as if in pain, his own hands down, tense, in a readied position.

                "The mother fucker called me an ass," Carl roared, his head shifting so as to glare at Maxwell over the black man's shoulder. "And I'm going to make him pay."

                "Not in here, you won't," the black man said, though Carl's companions stirred.

                Bouncers from around the room converged on the spot, and surrounded the group, like a small army positioning itself for war.

                "The man grabbed at Patty," Maxwell said in the same low voice as before. "I told him to stop."

                "You touched the dancer?" the black man asked, now eyeing Carl with renewed distaste. "We have rules in here against that, you know."

                "Hey," Carl said, seeming a little confused as he shifted his attention away from Maxwell towards the apparently more formidable threat of the black man, eyeing him careful with the same skills he might have used in evaluating a line man on an opposing offensive line.

                The black man's frame was smaller and narrower than Carl's, yet the black man had a leathery toughness to his features and stance that made him seem extremely dangerous, and then, there was that scar, giving him the look of a pirate.

                "What goes on between me and the bitch is my concern," Carl finally said.

                "Wrong," the black man said. "In this club, she's our property, and we don't like people damaging our goods."

                "It wasn't like that," Carl said, glancing now at the army of bouncers that now focused their attention on him, glancing up at the mirrors and towards the doors where he knew more bouncers would emerge if the situation escalated, and from his expression, Carl clearly did not like the odds. "We were talking when this faggot came over and interrupted us."

                "That's not true," Patty said. "I invited Longfellow over. Carl just didn't want him around."

                Carl's glance at Patty stabbed with hatred. His fist stirred and rose in one quick motion, but was not quick enough to land, blocked with the black man's arm. Then, in a series of jabbing strikes, the black man knocked the football player back, one sharp blow to the face, then another to the abdomen, and finally a third to the face again.

                Carl staggered back under each blow, his face showing a look of total incomprehension, as the black man's hands moved, each blow registering as much surprise as pain.

                This wasn't the stuff of the grid iron where brute force ruled, but a subtler stuff he was clearly unprepared to tackle. Finally, the huge man staggered into the unyielding wall of bouncers, whose arms swarmed around him and held him for still more blows. But the black man glanced instead at the football player's friends.

                "Get him out of here," he told them, "and tell him when he comes to his senses that he's banned from this club. No one hits a dancer, ever."

                The men nodded, glanced around, then fled, half carrying, half dragging their stunned companion. Behind them, the host of bouncers followed like vultures, to make sure they found the door out. When all had gone, the black man turned his attention to Patty.

                His face crinkled into an expression that was a cross between pain and humor, like a father with an impetuous daughter he was forced to scold, though didn't totally believe in his own moral lesson. This expression transformed the man for Maxwell, making him seem less leathery.

                "You know you shouldn't have done that, Miss Patty," he said softly.

                The club recovered from the disturbance, men with their blood lust fed, turned back to other desires, buying themselves drinking, settling informal bets over the short-lived fight, staring up at the women, their appetites whetted by the violence.

                "Done what, Thomas?" Patty asked, her voice sounding so full of innocence, that Maxwell glanced sharply at her.

                "You know what, Miss Patty," the black man said. "You know how the boss rants and raves when he finds out you caused scenes like this. You can't keep teasing these fools without your getting yourself an evil reputation."

                "I didn't tease Carl, he's been like that a long time."

                "He's like that because you had a long time to work on him," the black man said. "And he's not the first. One of the reasons the boss put you out of here last time was on account of the fights. If you don't want him to put you out again, you'll behave."

                "The BOSS," Patty said, exaggerating the work into mockery. "won't put me out. He loves me."

                The black man snorted. "You think all men love you."

                "They do."

                The black man stared at her for a long time, then sighed. "Maybe they do," he said. "But the boss loves money more, and he won't let no trashy little bitch like you get between him and his money."

                "Hey!" Maxwell said. "Watch your mouth!"

                "LONGFELLOW!" Patty yelped, half laughing. "Did you just see what happened here? Stop playing hero or you'll get hurt. Thomas here is a friend of mine."

                "So was Carl," Maxwell mumbled, disturbed by the amused look in the black man's eyes.

                "Carl was a lover, he doesn't count," Patty said with a flippant wave of her hand. "Lovers I can get a dime a dozen, but Thomas -- he's the real stuff. I couldn't find another one like him if I spent my whole life looking. Isn't that right, Thomas?"

                The black man actually looked embarrassed, his gaze shifting away from her and towards the circus going on around the club.

                "The boss pays me to look after you, so I do," he mumbled.

                "Stop being modest, Thomas," Patty said, laying her hand on the black man's arm. "You know its more than that."

                "Someone pays you to watch out for Patty?" Maxwell asked. "Why"

                "Because the BOSS loves me," Patty said. "I told you that. Say, I haven't introduced you two yet. Longfellow, this is Thomas. Thomas, this is Longfellow."

                "Most people call me Tom," the black man said, thrusting one of his long-fingered hands towards Maxwell.

                "Some people also call you Red Ball," Maxwell said. "Everyone other than Patty calls Max," Maxwell said, shaking the hand, not surprised to find the man's grip firm and the palm cool. "But there's no need to introduce us, Patty, we've already met."

                "Met? You two?" Patty said, her painted brows rising high onto her forehead.

                "Yes," Tom said. "We met years ago. In Jail. And later, down on River Street."

                Patty's expression went from surprised to astonished. "Jail? Longfellow? Now I know you're pulling my leg."

                "No one's pulling your leg, Patty," Maxwell said. "There are many things you don't know about me."

                "So I see," Patty said, looking coy, "and I suppose you'd be willing to spend some time with me to tell me all about it, eh?"

                "Not about jail," Maxwell said, shifting his feet uncomfortably. "That's really something I'd rather forget. But there are other things to talk about and do if you every want to go out with me sometime."

                The answer seemed to puzzle Patty even more, drawing her eyebrows down into a stern frown. She studied Maxwell for a moment, then nodded as if coming finally to a decision.

                "Why don't you wait for me when I get off at two," she told Maxwell.

                "PATTY!" Tom barked. "What did I just finish telling you about doing that?"

                "Calm down, Thomas," Patty said. "I'm not teasing him. I figure the three of us can go for coffee or Breakfast and discuss this offer of a date more closely."

                "Which is worse," Tom said. "You know what the boss says about his girls picking up guys while on the job."

                "Which goes to show you how much you know, Thomas," Patty snapped back. "You may have met Longfellow in jail. I met him down at Wolfman's place. Nobody's picking up anybody here. We're just going for breakfast."

                "All right, all right," Tom said, glancing to each side as men began to look over for another possible show of violence. "Just go back to work."

                Patty smiled, baring all her bright white teeth. "Anything you say, Thomas," she said and waltzed off, leaving an uncomfortable silence between the two men, one hardly filled by the bump and grind, moan and roan or the rock and roll of the club around them.

                "How about a drink?" Tom asked finally.

                "I'm not sure I can afford the prices," Maxwell said, only half joking.

                "Don't worry, it'll be on the house tonight," Tom said, wrapping a long arm around Maxwell's shoulders while leading him away from the crowd, away from the flashing light of the exterior bars and the shadowy strobes of the center bar, towards a small door between two small stages along the interior side of the room. Tom nodded at one of the bartender -- the man behind the bar, bent, pressed a button and a buzzer sounded releasing the lock of the door.

                Tom eased Maxwell in, then closed the door, the click sound as sound now as when the gates locked behind him in the jail, with the tall black man now pressing against the door.

                "We have to talk," Tom said, his voice stripped of its earlier friendliness.

                "What about?" Maxwell asked, surveying the room for other ways of escape. He took not of other doors that led from either side of the one through which he had just come, doors that led to a hall, and to the small bars and stages that he had seen from the floor, a back maze of passages that encircled the building like one long tunnel, with ladders rising to hidden lookouts behind the mirrors.

                "About your seeing Miss Patty later," Tom said. "I don't advise it."

                "Is that why you brought me here, to threaten me?"

                Let's call it a friendly warning."

                The black man's gaze remained fixed on Maxwell's, and for the first time, Maxwell noticed the stiff tendons in the black man's neck and the ready posture, as if expecting to do battle here and now.

                "Look, Thomas," Maxwell said. "You no more frighten me now than you did when I was a kid. If I want to see Patty, I will.

                "It isn't a good idea you seeing the boss' girl. He doesn't like it when she gets serious with other men."

                "What does Patty have to say about all of this?"

                "She doesn't have a say. This is between us."

                "Us and the boss, you mean. Don't forget the boss."

                "I'm not."

                "No," Maxwell said softly. "I guess you wouldn't, if he's the one who pays you to scare off his competition. Do you intimidate everybody who comes on to Patty, or am I special?"

                "Let's say you're the only one you have to worry about," Tom said. "Leave off her, or you and me will have to tangle."

                "You once said we would have to tangle when we were still in jail," Maxwell said. "I didn't listen then, I'm not listening now. If you want to tangle, we tangle. But if the boss wants me not to see Patty, let him tell me that to my face."

                The black man's scar tightened, drawing a noose around his left eye. He seemed in pain, though his gaze had a confused look, half anger, half regret. When he finally spoke again, the words came with great difficulty.

                "You don't want to meet up with the boss, friend. If that happens, you won't have time to talk. He'll just blow your brains out."

                "Then, I'll tell you what," Maxwell said, disliking the whole direction the conversation had gone. "Why don't we just let Patty decide if she wants to see me or not. I'll ask her how attached she is to your boss. If she says she's hitched up to his wagon, I'll move on. If she says she's free, then I won't."

                "I told you she doesn't have any say in this!"

                "I'm telling you, she does."

                The black man's fingers slowly flexed, the tension moving up from hands to arms to shoulders to neck. His feet shifted, his left foot back into a perpendicular position behind the front foot.

                "It keeps you from falling down when someone hits you," Charlie had told Maxwell during those early lessons. "Boxers do it differently. They want to weave and bob. You don't. You want to play target. You want your opponent to come to you, then with your position firm, you turn their movement against them."

                "I don't want to fight you, Tom," Maxwell said, his own hands still open at his side, his feet positioned more naturally. He didn't want to send the wrong message, as would happen if he positioned himself for defense.

                "You don't have a choice," Tom said. "If you won't leave Patty alone, then you'll have to fight me, now or later."

                "Says who?"

                "Says the boss."

                "You don't have to listen to him."

                "So I should screw myself up with the boss so you can screw around with his woman? He pays me, boy, you don't."

                Maxwell lifted his hand slowly and deliberately to his face, rubbed his jaw, then let the hand drop again.

                "So let me get this straight," Maxwell said. "If I promise to leave, we don't fight?"

                "Leave and promise not to mess with Miss Patty again."

                "Ever?"

                "Ever."

                Maxwell sagged a little, exhaling a sharp and apparently despondent sigh, his shoulders easing forward as his arms sack. He looked as dejected as a high school computer nerd who had just failed computer science for the year, or a jock cut from the football roster.

                Tom never saw Maxwell's foot shift or if he did, made nothing of it, since it edged forward, not back, as if Maxwell was giving up and making his way towards the door, to comply with the man's request.

                The foot struck Tom before the Blackman could react, striking at none of the traditional targets: the chest, face or groin, but at the man's shin.

                Tom howled with pain and fell out of his defensive posture, grabbing at the wound with both hands, his face a mask of utter disbelieve as well as agony. He had no time for more reaction as Maxwell leaped, grabbing the man's wrist to bend it inward. The tiny bones crunched under Maxwell's pressing fingers.

                The black man fell to his knees, the only act that could relieve the pressure on his wrist. Still, he glared up at Maxwell with rage in his eyes.

                "That was a cheap trick!" the man growled. "A fucking girl's kick!"

                "You're right," Maxwell said, "and it wasn't fair, and my dojo teacher would have me on the mat for it, beating me to a pulp for violating the sanctity of the art. But a long time ago, my uncle told me to never overlook the obvious. Rules don't count when it comes to life and death."

                Something changed deep in Tom's eyes, an altered evaluation that only begrudgingly amounted to respect.

                "You've learned a lot since the last time we met," the black man said. "You can let go of my hand. I'll leave you alone for the moment."

                "For the moment?"

                "If the boss tells me I should come after you later, that's when we'll fight. In the meantime, have your little fling, you just earned it. Very few men ever got the drop on Tom Jackson with or without a kick to the skins."

                Maxwell studied the black man's face for a while. The glare had ceased, and the tendons around the black man's throat had returned to an easier state. Maxwell released his grip and stepped back, this time with his feet and hands poised in a defensive position. The black man rose with great deliberation, watching Maxwell the whole time, rubbing his painful wrist.

                "You're quicker than you used to be," the black man said. "You were good in jail, but now you've developed grace and style, even when you cheat. Have you been studying?"

                "Twice a week," Maxwell said.

                "In town?"

                "At the Broadway dojo."

                The black man nodded. "I should have recognized his influence. What level are you at?"

                "You mean what color belt?"

                "That's right."

                "I don't know. I don't believe in them. I'm not there to get graded. If you want to know, go ask Juan."

                "I will," Tom said, though a new look flickered into his eyes, a cross between alarm and fear. "Purists are dangerous, you know."

                "I don't get you?" Maxwell said, tilting his head slightly as to work out the mystery of the statement.

                "You take the philosophy too serious," Tom said. "That's dangerous. The dojo will teach you to fight only to defend yourself. Sometimes you have to fight for other things, bigger things than yourself."

                "My uncle, Charlie, tried that, and it got him killed."

                "Sometimes that happens, too," Tom said.

                "Not this time," Maxwell said. "I'm going to die in bed of old age."

                "A fool's hope if you keep messing with women like Miss Patty."

                "I thought we were off that jag?"

                "We can't be," Tom said, then sighed and leaned against the door, casting a careful glance at the lower and upper passage ways, then, in a lower voice continued: "Look, man, let me be straight with you. Sure, Miss Patty's a great girl. But she's fucked up, too. That's the problem. She's got this streak of gold in her that draws nice guys like you, then that other side takes hold, and she gets like a cat who can't stand to just eat her food, she's got to play with it, too. There ain't a man she knows she hasn't played with."

                "Even you?"

                "She tried, until she found out I got other priorities," Tom said. "But even as a friend, she likes to pull my string from time to time, and then, there's the matter of the Boss."

                "So you said before. He loves her, too."

                The black man lowered his voice even more so that Maxwell had to lean closer to hear it.

                "He don't just love her, he adores her," Tom said. "He'd cut your balls off if she asked, and because he adores her so much, she pulls his string the hardest, refusing to settle down as his chick for more than a month or two, always making him cough up cash to keep her happy. Even then, she gets ahold of boys like you, pretending she wants them instead, just to drive the Boss crazy. And it does! At first, the Boss tries to play her games, letting her have her little toy, but she always plays her game too hard, right up under his nose. She gets wilder and more crazy, until the Boss starts reacting, and then she keeps pushing it, edging it up until the Boss explodes."

                "Then he sends you to deal with the situation?"

                "That's right."

                "And you think that's going to lead to a fight between us?"

                "It has to."

                "I could walk away when you come."

                "You could. But no one else has, except very early on. When a man gets a taste of Miss Patty's golden side, he'll go through all her bullshit to hold on. It takes a gentle yank from me to finally get them loose, and even then, they linger on the outskirts of her life like ghosts or something, each hoping she'll turn her favors on them again."

                "Does she?"

                "Not in your life. Once a man walks away from her, she forgets them. The Boss is the only one I know who walked away from her and got away with it."

                "Why are you telling me all this?" Maxwell asked. "Do you think you can convince me with talk when your threats failed?"

                "I was hoping you would be open to reason."

                "Because you don't want to fight me?"

                "Because you're just stubborn and tough enough for me to have to kill you if I do."

                "Kill me?" Maxwell said, brows rising with surprise.

                "Or you kill me," the black man said. "I don't want things to come to either situation."

                "It won't," Maxwell said. "I would walk away if it ever came to that."

                "Maybe," the black man said. "But if you get it into your head to veer away from what you say your philosophy is, then one of us will have to die."

                "Look," Maxwell said with a sigh. "All this talk is making me thirsty. How about I buy you a drink? Or do I have to kick you in the shins again?"

                The black man laughed.

                "You are a crazy man, and in any other circumstance we might even have become friends."

                "I seemed to recall a particular problem we had when we were in jail together."

                "That was no problem," Tom assured him. "You proved tougher than I thought. As for the drink, your money's no good here. I'm buying."

                They walked back out into the main room, which throbbed with the back beat that was so loud, Maxwell couldn't even tell what song was playing -- only that it had been recorded in some earlier era of rock when records lacked the modern day sophistication to smooth over the rough edges. The music seemed to inspire the worst in some of the drunks, who cursed each other in open verbal duels, drawing the attention but not yet the wrath of security. The place had grown more crowded, with much of the previously vacant space now filled -- many of whom had to worm their way towards the bar to get themselves a drink or get the attention of the dancer to give them a tip.

                Tom led Maxwell through the maze of men towards one of the small side bars where there was no dancer, therefore less of a crowd. He motioned for two men to get up off their stools, and though they seemed reluctant at first, his glare motivated them and they quickly moved on, grabbing drinks and change from the bar top as they did.

                Tom motioned for Max to sit then took the second stool for himself. Maxwell ordered a bottle of Coors Light, the black man ordered Jack Daniels, then nodded towards one of the nearby tables at which Patty sat accompanied by four or five men, each buying her a handful of drinks.

                "When does she get up to dance?" Maxwell asked, having to shout to be heard over the roar of the music.

                "She doesn't," Tom said.

                Maxwell, who had taken a swig of beer, nearly choked. "What to you mean?"

                "The boss doesn't like her to dance, so she doesn't," Tom said."

                "But he hired her."

                "To drink, not dance," Tom said, "and make sure she get the rest of the bastards drunk while she's at it. She makes more money for the boss any most of the other girls put together."

                "And she stands for this?" Maxwell asked.

                Tom grinned, his scar tightening into what should have served as a grimace of pain, but his dark eyes twinkled.               "Normally, she tells the Boss to fuck off," Tom said. "Then she goes running down to Wolfman's place, and dancers there until Wolfman gets sick of her, then, she comes crawling back here."

                "How long has this been going on?"

                "For as long as I can remember," Tom said, then slugged down his drink, wiped his mouth carefully with a bar napkin, then sighed. "I got work to do. You stay here if you want. Have all you want to drink, it's on the house."

                A step or two away, Tom stopped and looked back at Maxwell.

                "I don't dislike you, boy, but I'm warning you one more time. If you push this, the Boss will give me orders, and then I'll have to come after you    and it'll take more than a kid's kick to my shins to stop me."

                "We'll see," Maxwell said.

                Maxwell didn't drink much, but weariness worked on him so that he didn't catch the start of the fight until it was nearly over and Tom reappeared, dragging a resistant Patty behind him.

                 "That's two times in one night, Miss Patty," he said. "I don't need this kind of shit. So you go collect your things and I'll take you home."

                "But I'm not ready to leave yet," Patty said.

                "Then what the fuck was that scene all about?" Tom barked. "Didn't you tell those two men you wanted one of them to take you home?"

                Patty shrugged. "I just wanted to see which one would do it for me," she said, blinking up at the black man's face, her eyes free of any apparent deception.

                Tom's mouth tightened so much, his scar went pale.

                "Go get your things," he said, hissing out the words from between his teeth.

                "No."

                "Listen, Miss Patty," Tom said, jabbing a forefinger at Patty's face. "I'm not one of your bar room play things. You'll listen to me or I'll have you dumped out onto the street where those dogs can tear you apart. I told you to get your things, now go get them. I'm not going to hear any arguments."

                Patty did not move, except for her head, which slowly turned as she studied the rapidly dissipating crowd, she searching apparently from among the shrinking numbers someone who might stand up to Tom for her. Then, she struck onto Maxwell, and smiled.

                "I already have a ride," she told Tom, who had taken a threatening stride towards her.

                He stopped sharply. "Who?"

                "Longfellow, of course," Patty said with a laugh. "I almost forgot about him. I promised to let him ride me home."

                This time Tom shook his head, saying: "No way."

                "But I promised him," Patty said, batting her lashed innocently. "You wouldn't want me to disappoint the poor boy, would you?"

                "No way," the black man repeated.

                "Now hold on here," Maxwell said, sliding off the bar stool to cross the distance to where Tom stood. "You and I went through all this earlier."

                "You went through it," Tom said. "I make the rules here. She goes home with me. What she does outside this place and who she sees there, is her business. But like I told that other fellow, I say what goes on here. Get your things, Miss Patty."

                "You are a real pain, Thomas," Patty said with a slightly slanted smile, yet lacking anything spiteful. "Longfellow will just have to drive behind us, because I want him to come home with me tonight. Or are you going to have him beat up, too?"

                Tom glanced at Maxwell, his hard stare evaluating him again, and after another moment, he sighed.

                "I can't stop him from going where he wants," Tom said finally. "But you, Miss Patty, are coming with me."

 

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