A Long Line of Dead Men

Marilyn's Chamber was located in the basement of a warehouse on Washington Street. Meat packagers occupied the premises on either side, and across the street. There was no sign to lead you to the club. The green door was unmarked, with a low-wattage red light bulb just above it. It was ten o'clock when we knocked and were admitted by a young man with dark black skin, a shaved head, a sleeveless black jumpsuit, and a black mask. It was a quarter after one when the same young man opened the door and let us out.

There was a cab cruising down Washington Street and I stepped to the curb and hailed it. I gave the driver our address and sat back, and when Elaine started to say something I interrupted her to suggest that we ride home in companionable silence.

"I'd rather talk," she said.

"I'd rather you didn't."

"Are you afraid I'll embarrass the driver?"

"No, I'm afraid-"

"Because his name is Manmatha Chatterjee. He's from India, home of the Kama Sutra. His people invented fancy fucking."

"Please."

"So he's not going to be embarrassed."

"I am."

"Besides, if he blushed, who'd know?"

"God damn it…"

"I'm whispering," she said, "and he can't possibly hear me, you silly old bear, you. I'll stop. I'll behave. I promise."

She didn't say anything the rest of the way. In our elevator she said, "May I speak now, master? Or do you suppose the elevator is bugged?"

"I think we're safe."

"I had a good time. And I wasn't too warm in the leather."

"You might have been if you kept the top on."

"I suppose. You looked dashing in your guayabera."

"Casual yet commanding."

"I'll say. I'm really glad we went. I'll tell you, it's going to be a while before you see anything like that on television."

"Let us hope."

"What I really loved is how ordinary the people looked. I'm not talking about what they were wearing, but the people themselves. You go expecting extras from a Fellini movie and you run into folks who could host a Tupperware party."

"Some sexual underground."

"But that makes it more exciting," she said, "because it's more real. With the body piercing, everybody was so matter-of-fact. And it all seems so weird, doesn't it? Tribal, primitive."

"And permanent."

"Like tattoos, but more than skin deep. But my ears are pierced, and when you come right down to it, what's the difference between an earlobe and a nipple?"

"I give up," I said. "What's the difference?"

We were in our apartment now. "I don't know," she said, slipping both arms around my waist. "What's the difference between mashed potatoes and pea soup?"

"Anybody can mash potatoes."

"I already told you that one, huh?"

"Many times."

"The old jokes are the best jokes. That was fun, wasn't it? Did you have a good time?"

"Yes."

"Did it upset you when I took my top off?"

"It surprised me," I said. "It didn't upset me."

"Well, with all those tits in your face, I didn't want you to forget what mine look like."

"No chance of that. Yours were the prettiest."

She danced away from me. "Ha," she said. "You're gonna get laid tonight anyway, kiddo. You don't have to lie."

"Who said I was lying?"

"Let's put it this way- if you were Pinocchio, now would be a good time to sit on your nose."

"I'll tell you what else surprised me," I said. "I thought we agreed we weren't going to participate."

"So who participated? Oh, you mean the girl-girl stuff? I didn't think that counted."

"Oh."

"I sort of got into the spirit of things, I guess. Did it bother you?"

"I don't think 'bother' is the right word for it."

"Did it upset you?"

"I'm not sure 'upset' is the right word, either."

"Got to you, huh?"

"Got to me."

"Well," she said, "that's why we went, isn't it? So it would get to us? You old bear, you. You know what I think I'm going to do? I think I'm going to tie you up. You're not going to fall asleep this time, are you?"

"Probably not," I said. "Not for hours."

19

Paris Green does a nice brunch on Sundays, with tables set up outside under green-and-white umbrellas. We slept late and started the day there. Then Elaine took a cab to the Sixth Avenue weekend flea market to resume the hunt for urban folk art. I had a second cup of coffee and walked back home.

Jim Shorter had called in our absence, leaving a message on the machine. I rang him back and arranged to meet him in an hour at a meeting at Amsterdam and Ninety-sixth. Then I called another Jim, my sponsor, Jim Faber, to confirm our dinner date and decide which Chinese restaurant to favor with our presence.

We wound up at Vegetarian Heaven, on Fifty-eighth a few doors west of Eighth. The restaurant is a flight below street level, and the chambered dining room is cavernous, with no end of booths and tables, most of them empty.

"I'm glad we got here," Jim said. "I've been meaning to try this place but it looks so tacky from the outside. Do they ever do any business? I hope they're heroin importers and this is just a sideline."