Page 122 - Some Dance to Remember

92 Jack Fritscher

at Ryan. “A kind no different than you.”
“Then we’re both fools,” Ryan said.
Ryan loved Solly because Solly dared to please himself living out a
dimension of sex that Ryan understood but found foreign. “The sex games
Kick and I play,” he said, “are different from you and your boys. We
may play similar games, but we do it with mutuality, with regard for one
another.”
“My boys regard me,” Solly said, “as the source of the cash. How does
Kick regard you?”
“He regards me as the person he’s let in closer to him than he’s ever
let anyone.”
“How genteel! How aristocratic! How southern-fried!”
“How unlike the low-rent ingenues that sit on your face!”
Tiger was a case in point.
Tiger was a fresh seventeen when he zoomed on his skateboard past
Solly on that block of Market Street in front of the hustler bar called the
Old Crow, the oldest operating gay bar in town. Solly’s head turned. This
boy was special. He had potential. Solly pulled two twenties from his
pocket and rubbed them under his nose across his moustache. His eyes
locked straight into Tiger who glided back to a fancy stop.
“Follow me,” Solly said. He was intense. Tiger could not resist. Solly
knew immediately what it would take Tiger five years to learn: this boy
was the hustler he would take on as his son.
Solly grew more firm in his dick and in his fatherly resolve when he
learned that three years before, Tiger had pleaded guilty of attempted
murder after he smashed his mother’s skull with a hammer and stabbed
her in the chest with a screwdriver as she slept on the sofa in their Daly
City home. Then he masturbated, cut his wrists, and drove, bleeding,
to the police station. In the hospital he managed to get off a karate kick
that broke a policeman’s jaw. His mother survived the attack and visited
him twice in the two years he was sentenced to the California Youth
Authority. She scolded him for the several prison tattoos etched on his
arms. When he was released, he called her from a phone booth. All she
said was, “Hello?” And he hung up. He headed for the Tenderloin. In the
Youth Authority he had learned the street value of a healthy, muscular,
suckable young body. He had the mean good looks. Solomon Bluestein
had the bucks.
“He calls me ‘Dear Old Dad,’” Solly said. “We’re made for each other.
Maybe more than you and Kick.”

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