“Is that you, Paige?” Willy sputtered into the intercom.

“Yes, it is,” I said, although considering the way I looked and felt, I wasn’t at all sure.

“Okay, hang on! I’m coming right down.”

Eager to escape the sad specter of Gray’s name, I left the vestibule, crossed to the edge of the cement stoop, and sat down on the top step. Two young men were strolling up the street holding hands, but when they spied me sitting on the stoop ahead, they quickly loosened their fingers and dropped their hands to their sides. Then, when they drew closer and saw in the light from the vestibule that I wasn’t a homophobe prowling for prey, but rather a woman in mannish clothing (i.e., one of them, in a flip-flop kind of way), they relaxed, gave me a smile and a nod, and took hold of each other’s hand again.

The wardrobe was working.

Willy came out a few seconds later and, after he’d checked out my lesbian garb and given it a passing grade, we started walking west on Christopher, in the opposite direction of the strolling hand-holders.

I was feeling nervous about the whole expedition. “Where did you say this party is being held?” I anxiously inquired. “At a hotel?”

“That’s right,” Willy said. “The old Keller Hotel. It’s over by the river, on West Street. It was built in 1898, and it used to be a thriving hotel for seamen. Now it’s just a fleabag dump. We have parties in the hotel bar because it’s one of the few places that will serve homosexuals. And because it’s so far off the beaten track we don’t attract too much attention.”

“Does Flannagan know about this place?”

“He sure does, honey. The bar gets raided about once a month. All the Keller Hotel regulars are regulars at the Sixth Precinct police station, too.”

Oh, no. Just what I need-to get arrested at a gay bar dressed like a lesbian. Dan would lose every last one of his marbles over that! “You mean the party might be raided tonight?” I croaked. I was getting more nervous by the second.

“It could happen,” Willy said, “but I don’t think it will. This is the Fourth of July, don’t forget. The cops will be too busy with other crimes and disturbances of the peace to pay any mind to us.”

Pow! Pow! Bang! Boom!

As if on cue, a bunch of firecrackers went off in the near vicinity. Willy jumped like a jackrabbit and squealed like a girl. (So did I, if the truth be told.) “Eeeeeek!” he wailed, grabbing hold of my arm and twisting it so hard he almost dislocated my elbow. “What’s that? A machine gun?”

“I don’t think so,” I said, groaning and giggling at the same time. “Sounds more like firecrackers to me.”

“Oh, yeah,” he muttered, looking embarrassed. “I forgot about the fireworks.” He let go of my arm and quickened his pace toward Hudson Street. I hurried to catch up with him. After we crossed Hudson and neared the intersection of Greenwich Street, there was another loud explosion. “Yeeeeoww!” Willy shrieked. “That was a bad one! I bet somebody threw a cherry bomb in a trash can. Oh, how I hate all this dreadful noise! It scares the stuffing out of me!”

“Well, you’d better get used to it,” I said, breathing heavily from our brisk clip. “The pyromaniacs are just getting started. And the closer we get to the river, the worse it’s going to get.”

My apprehension was mounting with every step. There were very few streetlamps in this part of town, and many of those were broken. And after we crossed Washington and continued down Christopher toward the Hudson River, I realized how rundown and deserted the neighborhood was. Battered trucks, boarded-up warehouses, and dilapidated maritime buildings lined the ill-paved streets, and there were no stores or restaurants in sight.

But at least Willy and I weren’t walking the streets alone; quite a few other people were out treading in the same direction, rapidly making their way toward the waterfront to shoot off their skyrockets and torpedoes. The riverside fireworks were just getting underway, I observed, as the bright comet of a Roman candle whooshed into the black sky above, then exploded and released its vast shower of red and gold stars.

By the time we reached West Street, the sky was alive with fireballs and pinwheels. And our ears were ringing from the blasting bombs, cannons, crackers, and whiz-bangs. People near the river, on the other side of the elevated West Side Highway, were cheering and screaming and dashing in all directions-blazing sparklers thrust high in their hands-and the hot, humid nighttime air was filled with acrid smoke. The Villagers were staging their own little war.

Willy had stopped squealing every time a bomb went off, but he was still scared stuffingless. He grabbed my arm again and pulled me to the left, hastily leading me down West Street, and then around the corner on Barrow, to the entrance of the Keller Hotel.

The sight of the square, six-story, red stone structure gave me the shivers. The narrow windows were filthy, the canvas awning over the door was faded and tattered, and the low cement stoop was crumbling away. The dimly lit red-lettered sign sticking out from the corner of the building offered one sad, solitary word: HOTEL.

Even with the door propped wide open, the entryway was far more forbidding than inviting. And the groups of jittery young men hulking around near the door, smoking cigarettes and speaking in strained whispers, did nothing to ease my anxiety. I wanted to turn on my heels and run home like the wind.

Which would have been the smart thing to do, of course. But, as you well know by now, I’m more accomplished at doing the stupid thing. And tonight was no exception (not by a long shot!). Stupidly ignoring my fearful misgivings, I took a deep breath, straightened my spine, and-affecting what I hoped was a manly John Wayne swagger-followed Willy inside.

Chapter 21

THE SMALL BARROOM WAS SO CROWDED, hot, and smoky you could barely move or breathe. The barstools were all taken and the booths were tightly packed. There was no room but standing room-and very little of that. Leading with his prodigious potbelly, Willy forged his way into the center of the crush, then began wriggling toward the bar. I stayed as close on his heels as I could, trying not to brush against any burning cigarettes or step on any toes.

“What do you want to drink?” Willy shouted to me over his shoulder. His chubby round face was red from exertion.

“A bottle of Ballantine!” I shouted back. (I really wanted a champagne cocktail, but since Ballantine sponsored the Yankees, I figured that would be the more masculine choice.)

“Stay right where you are,” Willy hollered. “I’ll be back in a minute.” He turned and kept pushing toward the bar.

I stood still in the middle of the room and glanced around at the faces close (very close!) to me. They were all male. Various shapes, sizes, and ages, but the vast majority were young and attractive (in a smooth, big-eyed, feminine sort of way).

Abby should conduct a search for new models here, I said to myself. This place is crawling with chickens. Some of the guys had their arms around each other, clinging quietly together like sweet, just-married couples; others were more boistrous and communal-laughing, chatting, posturing, gesturing, trying to make an impression. I wondered how short, pudgy, middle-aged Willy would fare in this callow, good-looking crowd.

“Here you go!” Willy said, appearing out of the throng and handing me my beer. “It’s a madhouse in here. I thought I’d never make it back alive!”

“Well, I’m glad you did,” I shouted. “I was starting to feel lonely and out of place. I thought you said there’d be some other women here.”

“There are,” he said, standing on his tiptoes and yelling directly into my ear. “Two are sitting at the bar. And I bet a few more are sitting in the booths against the wall. Chivalry is not dead! The girls still get the seats!”