“The sister in Orlando,” Ernesto said. “Where?”
“Aw, come on, guys,” Alice said.
“Her address,” Ernesto said.
“She don’t know, either,” Alice said. “You don’t want to bother her.”
“Cut her,” he said to Domingo.
“No, don’t!” Alice said. “She lives near Disney World, I’ll get you the address, I’ve got it in my book, put the knife away, okay?”
“Get the address,” Ernesto said.
David Larkin didn’t like fags. They made him nervous. He always suspected they were trying to touch him. Or stand too close to him. He believed all the stories people told about homosexuals, that if you didn’t watch your eight-year-old son, they would take down his pants and bugger him. He believed there was a great homosexual conspiracy to turn the whole world gay. Homosexuals were worse than Communists in that respect.
The worst thing about Larkin’s fears was that he could never be absolutely sure who was gay and who wasn’t. He’d get a bead on some guy he thought was a fairy, and next thing you knew he’d see the guy in a restaurant and the guy was with a gorgeous blonde whose tits were spilling out the front of her dress. Down here, the girls wore next to nothing, it drove a man crazy. It was Florida did it to them. The sun boiled their brains, they right away ripped off all their clothes.
Once, Larkin met a guy he thought was as straight as an arrow, tried to fix him up with a girl who would fuck a sea slug, the guy said, “Thanks, I dress to the right.” Meaning he wore his cock on the right-hand side of his pants. Meaning he was a fairy. Not that all fairies wore their cocks that way, this was just the guy’s way of speaking. At least, Larkin didn’t think they wore their cocks that way, he sure as hell didn’t know. But maybe they did. Maybe that was a way all the fairies of the world had of identifying each other, the way they dressed their cocks, right or left. Who the hell knew? It was all very complicated.
Vincent Hollister was a fag, no doubt about that. This was only the third time he’d cut Larkin’s hair — well, he’d only been working here at Unicorn since the beginning of April — but Larkin knew definitely that Hollister was a fag. Still, he was the kind of fag Larkin could get along with. Not the flouncy type, you know? Not mincing. No limp wrist. Talked like anybody would, no lisp. Dressed like a normal human being. No jeans tight across the buns. A very interesting person, too. The things he talked about were very interesting. Like which hotel to stay at in Positano, Italy. Or where to buy good amber in London, England. Also, if he’d been a woman, Vincent had what a man would consider a very pretty mouth. Larkin wondered if he ever dressed up like a woman. He wondered what fairies did when they got together, other than blow each other and fuck each other in the ass. He was almost tempted to ask. He felt he knew Vincent well enough to ask. But then Vincent might take it the wrong way. You never knew with fags.
“So,” Vincent said, “what have you been up to?”
“Oh, I been busy,” Larkin said.
“Always busy, busy, busy,” Vincent said and smiled, and began combing out Larkin’s hair, his eyes on each separate strand as it passed through the comb, searching each strand the way Larkin’s mother used to search her fine-tooth comb when he was a kid growing up in New York City. Larkin was fifty-three years old. When he was growing up, you’d go to school in the morning, come back that afternoon with a head full of lice. His mother used to fine-comb his hair, looking for nits. Every time she found a nit, she’d squash it against the comb with her thumbnail. Vincent was maybe twenty-six, twenty-seven years old, he didn’t know about nits. Christ knew why he studied the hair that way.
Maybe it was an act.
Make the customer think you were paying great attention to the way the hair fell or whatever. Fags were great actors. In fact, some of the best actors in the world were fags. It always came as a shock when somebody told Larkin this or that actor was a fag. Last month sometime it must’ve been, he told this girl he had in bed with him — she was nineteen years old, this juicy little girl down from Atlanta, ass like a brewer’s horse and an appetite for coke that was astonishing — he told her Burt Reynolds was a fag. She almost started crying. She should have realized he was lying, Burt Reynolds used to have that big thing going with Dinah Shore, didn’t he? And then Sally Field. So unless every woman in Hollywood was a beard, then how could Burt Reynolds be a fag? Her eyes going big and round, misting over, he really thought she was going to start crying. Hey, I was only kidding, he said. It’s Clint Eastwood who’s the fag. Had to smile even now, just thinking of it.
“What’s comical?” Vincent asked.
“Oh, just remembering something,” Larkin said. “Just remembering something.”
In Miami Beach, Domingo thought Alice Carmody wasn’t getting the address fast enough to suit him.
He cut her again, on the arm this time.
She said, “Hey, come on, I’m dancin’ as fast as I can.”
A minute later, while she was opening the top drawer of the dresser across the room, he cut her again, over the eye this time. She said, “Shit, what’s the matter with you?” and angrily threw her address book on the dresser top and stamped off into the bathroom to get a towel. There were only two rooms, the bathroom and the other room with the daybed and the dresser in it. As she turned on the water in the sink, Ernesto and Domingo began talking in Spanish about whether or not they had to kill her. It was Ernesto’s contention that Domingo had now cut her a few more times than were necessary to scare her, and she might go to the police once they were gone. Alice didn’t know what they were talking about out there, jabbering away in Spanish. She was trying to stop the flow of blood from the cut over her left eye. It didn’t occur to her for a minute that they might try to kill her. She had already given them her sister’s address, hadn’t she? All she was thinking was that she had to get out of there fast because her connection sure as hell wasn’t going to wait on Collins Avenue and Lincoln Road forever.
In the other room, they decided they had to kill her.
When she came out of the bathroom with a Band-Aid over her left eyebrow, Domingo had the knife in his hand again. There was a funny look on his face.
Ernesto was standing just inside the door to the apartment, blocking it. He had a funny look, too.
She ran right back into the bathroom, and locked the door.
It was very quiet out there.
All she could hear was the sound of her own heart.
And then, all at once, they began whispering in Spanish.
What she had to do was get the bathroom window open. Get through it and jump down to the street. She was on the second floor, she knew she’d hurt herself if she jumped, but not as much as they were going to hurt her if she didn’t. The lock on the door was one of those push-button things on the knob, a Mickey Mouse lock, they could kick open the door in a minute if they wanted to. She figured if they hadn’t done it already they were afraid it would make too much noise. She once had a dealer kick in her door because she owed him money, man, it woke up the whole building. So she figured that’s why they weren’t doing it. Just whispering outside there in Spanish instead.
The window was painted shut.
She looked around for something she could work the paint with.