Vermilion Read Free

into dance. The man moved his feet very little, possibly because of the stricture of his sharply pointed tiny boots, but the woman was all elbows, ankles, and breasts flailing in the heated colorful air. They were the only couple on the floor.
    Billy squinted at the dozen tables lining the opposite wall. He made out the shadowy figures of two other hustlers, sprawled in the darkness, also waiting for the crowd. He tightened his stance in the sudden heat of competition.
    â€œWhat’ll it be?” said the bartender, just at Billy’s shoulder.
    â€œMiller.”
    The bartender flipped open a cooler, extracted a bottle and twisted off the lid before sliding it across the bar. Billy held out the ten.
    â€œOn the house. Happy New Year,” the man said and winked without smiling.
    Billy nodded thanks and stuffed the bill back into his pocket. He felt better for having saved the dollar. He could nurse this beer until a man entered who would buy him others; who would want to spend thirty or even forty dollars more after the bar had closed. Billy moved around the corner of the bar to a stool in the shadows. He laid his jacket across the seat, and then swung onto the stool in the approved fashion of hustlers.
    By midnight, only about fifty persons had showed up, but the small crowd was lively. The dance floor was never empty, and the single waiter never enjoyed the opportunity to sit with his friends. Billy remained in the shadows. He leaned against the bar, elbows up, drink in one hand, cigarette in the other, legs cast wide apart. He searched every face that passed near him, discounting the regular patrons, the hookers between tricks or just out of the cold, and the four drag queens. That still left more than a dozen older men for him to work on. From long practice Billy could recognize hunger and desperation in a man’s eyes from ten paces away in dim red light; he also knew how to disguise the same in himself—with lowered lids and a seductive, apparently unconscious half-smile.
    Billy lit another cigarette. He had nursed his beer one hour by the clock. He guzzled the last of the warm liquid, and set the bottle disconsolately on the bar. Another Miller’s took its place immediately.
    Billy looked around at the bartender.
    â€œYour timing’s good tonight,” said the man dryly.
    â€œWho bought it?” demanded Billy.
    The bartender shrugged. “An admirer. Anonymous—at least for right now.”
    Billy drank this second beer much more quickly, and stared about trying to guess which man had sent it over. After a bit, he gave this over as not worth his trouble—it was unlikely the man would go away unintroduced.
    Three free beers later Billy was weary and woozy. It was past one; the bar would close in less than an hour. Before then he must secure a bed for the night and money for the following day.
    Billy looked around. The crowd was not larger, but was differently composed. Daisy Mae had left and returned with an undistinguished overweight man about fifty. He was now purchasing at least a third set of hard drinks. Daisy Mae sipped hers, and abandoned it half finished, while encouraging her companion to gulp his down. She coyly brushed her breasts against his chest while whispering—licking—in his ear. The man’s eyes were bright and distracted. He dragged Daisy Mae onto the dance floor and, ignoring the disco beat, held her in a slow embrace. She accommodated him, bending slightly forward and jutting her Parker House posterior far behind her. When her partner lurched drunkenly, Daisy Mae fell roughly against a drag queen who was impersonating a TWA stewardess. The stewardess turned heatedly on the comic-book hooker. Those around them left off dancing and grinned expectantly, calling for a fight.
    Billy wanted to move closer for a better view, but found he was now too drunk to stand easily. He leaned back and yawned, for the first time in the evening indifferent to how