The Stand-In Read Online Free Page A

to the Club and he was still in drag, in the pink sequin-and-chiffon he wore for the striptease, and that night it was freezing, one of those wild nights when the wind made the water come over the wall of the lake and splashed the customers on their way in and out. That was why she wasn’t coming out to get him, didn’t feel well, she said. She knew he didn’t have a buck on him. (You didn’t leave cash lying around the dressing room.) She knew he couldn’t pay cabfare, she knew he’d have to ask for a ride back, but still she wouldn’t come and get him. He blew his top.
    He noticed this customer standing near the telephone waiting for his car to be brought up from the parking lot, or for a taxi, but he was so damned sore at his mother that he blew his top anyway. When he hung up, the customer came over and started talking. He didn’t listen, taking him for one of them trying to make out. Like always, he just said, look, he worked here, just worked here, he wasn’t one of the boys.
    â€œMy dear young man, I know that! I overheard your conversation, remember. It’s because I know that—”
    The English accent came through, and then he did listen. (Before he came to London he had thought of himself as British.) This man, this doctor told him he was from London and was in New Orleans to give a talk at a medical convention. He wasn’t at the Club as a tourist, but because his specialty was voice. Dr. Wilson then gave him his card and said there was a doctor in New York City worked with voice, too, only he couldn’t recollect his name. He said to write him and he would not only send him the name, but would contact this doctor about him. In a couple of lessons, Dr. Wilson said, he could teach him to pitch his voice so it came out from two to six tones deeper. Did it all the time, and so could this New York City doctor.
    The card said Harley Street, and Desmond didn’t know then that this was like Park Avenue except better. Harley Street was London and London was England and England (he thought then) was home sweet home and the English theater was where he wanted to be and if this doc could really fix his voice, why not? Why not—he almost shook the doc’s hand off!
    That night, during the twelve-thirty show he got the idea, and that night he didn’t mind singing, didn’t give a shit about the tourists’ dirty eyes, no goose pimples when they yelled, “Take it off! Take it off!” He asked “the girls” for a ride back, and they all looked at each other, then Fat Georgie said, okay, sure. Maybe if in the dressing room he hadn’t taken out the shiv and cleaned his nails with it they would have tried something in the car, maybe not, maybe he’d had them all wrong. Anyhow, they didn’t try a thing, and he used the shiv only on himself after they dropped him off near his place. He cut the back of his left hand and smeared the blood over his face and his shirt, then went in and woke his mother.
    There was a box of tissues by her bed, but he could tell by her breathing she had no more cold than he had. He put on the light so she got a good look at him with the blood smears and his hand mucky with blood. It was her fault, he said. He had warned her they would jump him if they got the chance, and in the car tonight they got their chance.
    He had had to use his shiv and Fat Georgie, he said, was on his way to the hospital now. (Fat Georgia.)
    â€œOh, Desmond! Oh, Desmond! Oh, Desmond!”
    He told her “Oh, Desmond” wasn’t going to help, to get dressed and they’d ride around until the bank opened. She could draw out what she had and drop him at the airport. He didn’t know how bad off Fat Georgie was but it was bad enough, and she knew what kind of story all of them would give the cops. They all stuck together, she knew that.
    â€œDesmond, oh, Desmond!” But she didn’t put up any argument, not that