Yesterday Clover and I acted out mini-dramas on 42nd Street. Both of us dressed in the nines. Her skirt cut high to her thigh. We weren’t from the sneakers and jeans brigades. The pedestrians wondered who we were; a young blonde runaway and her protector. Anthony snapped shots of us. He seemed very pleased with the results. We went into a peep show and the cashier allowed us to engage in various suggestive poses. The XXX shop?s customers voyeured with honest intent. One man was rubbing his groin. Clover shut the door on everyone, including Anthony. We made out and groped each other.
Afterwards the three of us walked over to piers. As we posed in the soft afternoon light before the derelict USS Pennsylvania, dancing over the barnacled dock, we drank Jack Daniels. My stomach reacted badly, still recovering from the previous evening’s drunk. The shoot stopped when Anthony dropped his Minolta.
He headed home uptown to Harlem, hoping to fix his camera’s shutter.
We wandered back through Times Square.
No one paid attention to us now.
“I’m from San Francisco. I used to crowds like this.” Clover said and then added, You haven’t been coming to Tim?s lately.”
“Yeah, he thinks I stole money from him.”
“Andy told him that, but it was probably Andy who was the thief. He has a drug problem. You might be a thief, but you don’t seem the type to steal from friends.”
“Thanks,” I explained that I had gotten rid of gas-guzzlers from Boston for people who would file an insurance claim for a stolen car. The owners had gave me the keys and $300 to vanish them in New York. They reported the disappearance a day later. I had done it three times thanks to a lawyer friend and had helped James Spicer with the ATM scam, which entailed opening accounts on dead people’s IDs and putting $300 in the back. The ATM machines had a 45-60 lag. You could hit three. Four if you were lucky. Once I loved from James’ apartment in Park Slope, I had been honest,
We entered Bryant Park. The shadows stretched across the lawn. Clover was a little drunk. We sat on a bench and finished the Jack.
“Could I kiss you?”
She wore red lipstick and after a long session none remained on her bruised lips. I thought fucking her would be nice, but when we arrived at her St. Mark’s Place apartment, she said, “Not tonight, but I was curious to find out how you kissed. Nice.”
Nice yes nice.