Steam

Descending the black tiled stairs like a tuxedoed tenor in a Busby Berkley number, Silky Markham felt his best smile coming on. He hated his small, trim feet, but under a cloud of tiny, blinking icicle lights, reflections of his patent leather shoes ricocheted off the high-gloss steps and mirrored baseboards into the manly size he always wanted. By the time he reached the double doors at the bottom of the shaft, his arms spread wide as if to embrace adoring fans, he could almost hear the applause celebrating his return. He hadn’t been to the baths in a medley of years, but when the heat and moisture, redolent of disinfectant and that other, distinctly male smell, wrapped him in a welcome-home-sailor hug he knew he had made the right choice.

It wasn’t fear that had kept him away. Habitually “safe”, he had no problem refusing risky offers, no matter how tempting. And he looked damn good. He had worked especially hard on his chest to offset that stubborn extra something around his waist, and his hair, a little inky perhaps in broad daylight, looked perfectly natural on stage at The Gilded Lily, where he had chosen the gels himself. The lighting would be especially flattering here, in the erotic Roman fantasyland under a shabby, Depression-era hotel.

No, not fear. He’d come to look down on cheap debauches as unbefitting a man of his... stature. He had worked too hard building up a following, crowbarring his airbrushed face into nightlife magazines, focusing repertoire and eye contact on straight women in the audience instead of flirting with their husbands, sucking up (and more!) to critics and the occasional talk-show host. Now, The Gilded Lily was packed for his shows, its swirl of perfume and recognizable designer colognes, horny and romantic, wafting onstage like incense in honor of his elevation to Downtown Celebrity. Tacky gossip about his private life he really didn’t need.

But two hours earlier, he had reached his limit. His show had been totally sold out, yet Francesco had been such a bitch about the guest list. And those stupid busboys, giggling over witty vivisections of his most refined seductions! His left eye was itching, twitching, even swelling. Too much! An extra cocktail (OK, three – Francesco was surely counting) had failed to heal him. He required more penetrating therapy: a little Jacuzzi, a little sauna, a little release of steam. Who would know? He pushed the door open and stepped back into his past.

But not quite. The small, stubby corridor that served as a lobby had been painted over in deep mailbox blue, a cheap way of avoiding renovation. At the far end two fluted, glossy white columns guarded a faux stone door behind which the petal-strewn pleasure-world of Hadrian’s Villa and Petronius’s Satyricon still sweated and moaned. Comforting to Silky, whose memories stood enshrined behind that dark blue veil, but also slightly disturbing, as if the paint would start sloughing away from the old paneling in a few more minutes. Decades-old SRO sconces glowed a new, ridiculous pink that flattered patrons but highlighted the bumps and patches on the walls. The hotel-style front desk on the right had been walled up to the vintage tin ceiling except for an arched window in front of a corseted teller’s cage barely large enough for attendant, computer and camera.

Silky’s smile crested when he walked up to it and saw Tad, a short but strikingly big-boned California biker who had enjoyed fifteen minutes of fame as a golden hustler and minor porn star way beyond Silky’s former tax bracket. Too many drugs shared with too many younger hustlers had crashed his market value, but he would probably stay boyish forever as long as his hairline remained so annoyingly in place.

“Silky! What a surprise!” purred the ex-Apollo.

“Surprise indeed!” Silky crooned, alluding to Tad’s diminished status. He hoped the once unattainable lust object lacked the IQ to catch the insult. “Glad we’re both still here,” he added honestly, “but don’t call me Silky.” He whispered into Tad’s sandy bangs, close enough to savor the crow’s feet that had begun their heartless advance. “Use my old membership name. I don’t have my card any more – been too long – but do you think you still have me on file?”

“Sure,” Tad smiled, eyes sparkling the same rich blue as the stones in his massive silver skull ring. “You’ll have to join again, token fee ’n’ all, but I bet you’re still in the computer. What was the name?”

“Vinnie Vitto,” the singer bragged, sliding a palm over his shiny black coif.

Stifling a laugh, Tad thumped on the keyboard at his left, paused, and poked “return” several times. Silky scrutinized him with too obvious pleasure and decided to cover his ogling with small talk.

“You do still get the youngest, cutest boys in town?” he smiled slyly.

Tad continued jabbing with his left hand, eyes glued to the screen, and pointed straight up with one thick finger of his right.

Directly above the arched window was another new addition, a pink foamcore trapezoid nailed to the wall by a frame painted the ubiquitous blue. An unconvincing art deco font boldly proclaimed: You must be 21 with photo ID to become a member, and in slightly smaller letters: Any use of fraudulent ID will result in permanent banning.

“I didn’t mean …” But Tad had slid off his stool and behind a black velvet curtain that blocked off the old office area. Somewhere, a noisy inkjet printer imitated a dentist’s drill. “Got it!” Tad chirped, and after a rather long wait and a mumbled conversation he returned with a willowy, beardless Latin who held several printed pages in an unduly large, thumb-ringed hand.

“Sorry, Vinnie. The manager needs me to run errands. Tina will take care of you.” The name confirmed Silky’s suspicion that the taller boy’s overly cultivated brows meant he regularly went in drag. “Welcome back. Nice to see you again.” And the professional charmer disappeared behind the curtain.

Tina ignored Silky’s analyzing gaze like someone used to stares and waved his very long lashes at each of the pages in turn. “Mr. Vitto… Mr. Vinnie Vitto?” he asked softly, vocal chords coated in face powder.

“Yes.”

“Mr. Vitto, you used to be a member here, correct?”

“Yes,” Silky repeated.

“ I’m afraid I have to mention that we have listed here several… um… incidents that I hope you will recall.”

“Incidents?” he asked innocently.

“Yeeeees…” Tina’s voice became increasingly secretarial. “I have three complaints made by our members on separate occasions regarding some rather boisterous and belligerent behavior, including verbal and physical abuse of several clients, all allegedly stemming from excessive alcohol consumption. Twice you were asked to desist from drug use on the premises, and once you were forcibly escorted from the club for aggressive behavior towards an employee.”

“WHAT?!” exclaimed Silky more stridently than he had intended.

“Please, Mr. Vitto. I’m only reading what’s here,” replied Tina calmly. He looked Silky in the eye for the first time, batted his lashes once and returned to his papers.

“Aaaannd…” he added following a gracefully tapered nail across the page, “it appears that on almost every occasion you were repeatedly asked to lower your voice, especially in the shower room, to desist from grabbing members’ ‘members’ in the hall, and to refrain from smoking on the premises.”

“I’ve never smoked cigarettes in my life!” huffed Silky, loosening his tie.

Tina laid the pages side by side, smoothing them out with long, thin fingers.

“Considering the circumstances, Mr. Vitto, I’ve been instructed to inform you that your request for membership is denied.”

“Absurd!” Silky howled, his singer’s voice slipping out of control. “Ridiculous! I never did any of those things.”

“Mr. Vitto, I’m only telling you what’s written here. Your request for membership has been denied.”

“Lies! All lies!” Silky slapped his palms against the wall on either side of the window. Seeing Tina flinch delighted him so much he calmed down just a notch and hissed, “I demand to see the manager.”

“Mr. Vitto…”

“Demand!” and he slammed his palms on the wall again. “This is slander. Someone has mixed up the files. I am not about to have my good name tainted by someone else’s bad behavior. Get the manager out here!”

“I’ll see what I can do, Mr. Vitto.” Tina shifted sideways off the stool, taking the papers with him.

Silky turned his back on the window, reaching out for sympathy, but the corridor was empty. He raised his eyes and hands to the familiar patterned ceiling. Too much! Sadly, the dark paint smothered any consolation. Realizing he had begun to sweat, he removed his heavy raincoat and draped it over his arm.

“Mr. Vitto?”

Silky spun around, his raincoat flying out like a wing and almost pulling him off balance.

Two faces crowded into the cage turned to each other with a knowing glance, then rotated to face Silky again like eggs in a carton.

“Charles Crawford,” the rounder, paler face explained. “How can I…”

“This…” Silky interrupted, wagging his finger at the face on his left. Forcibly controlling himself, he settled for spitting out, “…Tina has refused to allow me to renew my membership. He,” he drawled sarcastically, “insists there’s some nonsense in your computer implying that I… I don’t how your files got so messed up, but I want this straightened out right now!”

“Please, Mr.Vitto,” replied Crawford, his wimpy moustache motionless over pudding-soft lips. “I want to help, but you must understand how unlikely it is our computer could be mistaken”. And he raised the offending printout into view.

Heat, frustration and souring cocktails were stoking Silky’s temper. “That is a pack of lies!” he boomed just as three exceptionally cute, immaculate twinks bounced through the stairwell door, chattering like chipmunks. Silky’s outburst froze them in their tracks, silencing them, each with one hand in mid-air.

“Perhaps we should discuss this in my office,” suggested Crawford as a buzzer rudely farted in the middle of the wall and a previously invisible, frameless door cracked open on its own.

“Indeed we should!” Silky snorted and stormed past the paralyzed Boticelli trio like a Medici princess in a rage.

Unlike the lobby, the office was brightly lit by old fluorescent fixtures. Temporarily blinded, Silky rubbed his eyes with his free hand and was horrified to discover both had begun to itch.

“This way, please,” Crawford coaxed, motioning the squinting singer towards a Phillip Marlowe office door with a frosted window. Silky slammed painfully into a protruding desk before stumbling into Crawford’s theatrically dim den.

“Tina, page Manny and tell him to take over,” Crawford directed from the doorway, “then join us in my office.”

Once inside, he motioned Silky to a chrome and black leather armchair and slid behind a cluttered desk without offering to take his coat. Both men sat simultaneously. Crawford’s sanctuary was decorated in high ’70’s style complete with Follies poster and Roy Blakey black-and-whites of naked, longhaired boys. Chrome, leather and glass were everywhere, lit only by brass lamps with green glass shades. The manager gently laid Silky’s file in a pool of muted light.

“Now,” he said quietly, folding his small pudgy hands.

“There’s not a word of truth in those pages,” Silky growled, “and not one valid reason to deny me my membership.”

“Mr. Vitto, a computer has neither the intention nor the intelligence to lie. And you can rest assured that no member of my staff has either the motive or the spare time to single you out for an elaborate hoax. I am only the manager here, not an owner, and it is my responsibility to represent the partners’ wishes in a situation like this.”

“What situation? There is no situation,” Silky snapped, his voice rising again. “Those stories are total fiction. I never did any of those things.”

“Really?”

“Absolutely.”

“Are you sure?”

“What?”

“With all due respect, your file clearly states you were regularly under the influence when visiting us and twice caught smoking marijuana in your room. Perhaps you d…”

“That is slander,” Silky yelped thumping his fist on the slung leather armrest, only to have his hand bounce up like off a trampoline. “Someone else did those things and someone’s mistake has slipped them into my file.”

“Do you deny you’ve been drinking tonight?”

“I beg your pardon!”

“Forgive my boldness, Mr. Vitto, but there is a certain recognizable fragrance on your breath, and your sense of balance seems… what… slightly compromised? I could also mention your eyes, which are quite red and perhaps even a little swollen. Have you been smoking again as well?”

“Damn your lies and damn your insinuations!” bellowed Silky throwing his coat onto Crawford’s desk in exasperation. “Are you accusing me of using illegal drugs? My lawyer will tap dance down your throat if you insist on soiling my good name!”

Crawford looked past him to Tina, who had just entered the room. “Mr. Vitto,” he said icily, “we have been a professional establishment with an outstanding reputation for many, many years. We do not falsify our client’s files. And this file, sir, clearly has your name on it.”

“Look,” said Silky lowering his voice and raising his hands in surrender. “First of all, I am not Mr. Vitto, OK? That’s just an alias I use. Maybe there’s a real Vinnie Vitto who also comes here, and maybe he did those things. But it wasn’t me.”

“But you told the attendant…”

“Yes. I asked the attendant to see if my old alias was still on file. But Tad knows me! He knows who I am – my name is Silky Markham. Tad can vouch for me.”

At a glance from Crawford, Tina had moved forward to remove Silky’s raincoat from the desk. Reaching between the combatants, he turned to his boss saying, “Excuse me for butting in, Charles, but I clearly heard Tad call this man Vinnie.”

“He was only doing me a favor by playing the game,” Silky grumbled, grinding his teeth at Tina, who made himself even more annoying by suddenly appearing both taller and more powerfully built than Silky had imagined. “Ask Tad who I am. He’ll tell you.”

Tina explained that Tad had gone out to run errands.

“So? Does he have a cell phone?” Silky sneered triumphantly.

Crawford looked up at Tina who, hanging Silky’s coat on a chrome stand by the door, simply raised a manicured eyebrow.

Crawford reached for his phone, punched automatic dial, and pinned the receiver to his ear with his shoulder while sorting through the chaos Silky’s coat had left on his desk. A muted cell phone chimed “Born To Be Wild” just outside the door. Tina stepped out and returned holding by a single strap a gray nylon backpack in which the phone was still ringing.

Crawford replaced his phone in its cradle and the backpack went silent.

“Tad didn’t take his phone,” he pointed out unnecessarily. “Under the circumstances, Mr. Vitto…”

“My name is Markham!” Silky persisted, turning genuinely red.

“Are you aware, Mr. Markham, that we have a policy against fake ID’s?”

“You didn’t use to ask for ID.”

“No?” Crawford’s soft gray eyes hardened into shiny marble. “Well, we insist on it now. Perhaps you have something to prove you’re not Vincent Vitto?”

“My pleasure,” crowed Silky, “My wallet’s in my coat.” He turned to Tina, who had dropped the backpack on a chair by the coat rack.

Annoyed at being his personal maid, Tina snatched the raincoat, stalked over to Silky and presented it to him with a rancid smile like a waiter proffering a bottle of overpriced wine. Silky rummaged through the pockets, removed his overstuffed wallet and, leaving Tina stuck with the coat, threw it in front of Crawford.

“There,” he gloated, “see for yourself.”

Crawford opened the wallet and frowned. Heading off an objection, Silky explained, “I’m a little past military age and I live downtown, so I don’t own a car. I carry my passport when I need photo ID. There are plenty of credit cards there, bank card…”

“Where did you get this wallet, Mr. Markham?”

“What do you mean?” Silky recoiled. “It’s mine!”

“This wallet belongs to Seymour Manheim. Have you handed me the wrong wallet?”

“Don’t be ridiculous! That’s my legal name. Do you think my mother would have named me Silky? Markham’s muy stage names. Check the business cards.” He frowned deeply and hissed, “What are you implying?”

“I mean, how many names and wallets do you actually have? And how did you get them?”

“How dare you!” Silky fumed, rising slowly.

“Tina,” snapped Crawford, and the lanky Latin stepped backwards, digging into the pockets of the raincoat.

“I demand…” roared Silky.

“You’ll demand nothing!” Crawford barked, rising as well. Pointing to the corner of the ceiling behind him with the bulging wallet, he continued, “You see that camera? Every second of this interview is being recorded. And, believe me, if the police or an attorney needs a record of what went on here tonight, it will be my pleasure to provide it. You insist you have a right to be a member? Fine. Then, once again, who are you?”

“I told you...” Silky wailed, but stopped suddenly as Crawford’s flabby jaw dropped.

“Well!” the manager whispered, staring directly at Tina.

The off-duty drag queen stood at attention like a Mayan warrior, the raincoat a jaguar skin draped over his left arm. In his right hand lay a black, six-inch switchblade.

“And to think we even considered…” Crawford began.

“THAT is not mine!” Silky shrieked, at the top of his lungs.

“It was in your pocket,” Tina smirked.

“No it wasn’t! You put it there, you evil bitch!” And he lunged towards Tina, almost falling over his chair.

With great precision Tina tossed the raincoat to Silky, hitting him in the chest and forcing him to fumble with it as he as he fell back onto Crawford’s desk. In Tina’s left hand was a black and yellow taser.

“Mr.Vitto!” Crawford pleaded, raising his hands to protect himself. “Please don’t force us to…”

“My name is Markham… Manheim!” Silky howled. And spinning around to Crawford, he snatched his wallet out of the manager’s hand. Using the raincoat as a shield against the threatening taser, he shoved Tina out of the way and dashed into the outer office. Frantically, he fumbled with the doorknob to the lobby, and with one last bellow of “Fuck you all!” he fled, bowling over several young men waiting in line.

Tina and Crawford stood totally still for a moment, staring directly into each other’s eyes. Then the lithe, elegant warrior stepped slowly forward and laid the knife and the taser gently on the desk. Crawford’s left hand reached towards his phone and flipped a switch. The tiny red light on the video camera faded to black.

Without warning, Tina’s right hand flew over his head in an extravagant arc, fingers snapping at its apex. “The Troll Patrol strikes again!” he trumpeted, and both men collapsed in hysterics against the desk, high-fiving and squealing with glee.

“That knife! Ohmygosh! And… and that stun gun!” Crawford gasped through his tears. “Where did you ever…”

“In Tad’s bag,” Tina laughed, hand flat against his chest.

Tad’s disembodied blond head floated into the doorway. “Is he gone?”

Crawford fought hard to catch his breath. “And you, you idiot...” He choked, barely able to stand. “Next time, turn off your damn cell phone!”

They yowled and howled like hyenas at a feast, their laughter cascading from the office into the lobby, where the young, bright and beautiful brushed themselves off and smiled warmly in agreement. Obviously, this was the best bathhouse in town.