George Pelecanos - Down By the River Where the Dead Men Go

“Nick the Stick,” Gerry said. “Lookin’ good. How about me… I gain much weight?”

About forty, I thought. But I said, “Nah.”

“C’mon up. I’m runnin’ the projector. My kid’s up there; I don’t want to leave him alone.”

A man in a business suit walked into the lobby, his eyes straight ahead. An usher-long hair, wearing a black T-shirt and ripped black jeans-took the man’s ticket, tore it in half, then returned to the paperback he was reading without moving from his stool. The business suit scurried quickly through the lobby to the darkness of the theater. I followed Gerry up a carpeted set of stairs.

We hit a landing and then an office area, where a boy just past toddler played with an action figure that looked to me like the Astro Boy of my youth. All four walls of this room had film cans racked and labeled on wooden shelves, with a large slotted area set aside for one-sheets and stills.

“Gerry junior,” Gerry said, tipping his head proudly at the boy.

“Gerry Louis, Jr.?” I said.

“Nick, Nick, Nick,” Gerry said.

I turned to his kid. “What’s that guy’s name?” I said, nodding at his toy.

“Jason the Power Ranger!” the kid said, puffing out his chest and his cheeks. When he did that, the little fats looked a lot like his dad.

“Aw, man,” I said, “I wish I had one of those.” That got Gerry junior excited, and he started running around the room, holding up Jason the Power Ranger in the go-fly position. Gerry senior motioned me up another short set of stairs.

We took seats outside the shut door of the projection booth, close enough to hear if something mechanical went wrong. The air was stagnant and warm, but I was in shorts and a T-shirt, and Gerry was dressed approximately the same way. Gerry’s kinky hair had plenty of gray in it, and he had one of those faces that always seemed to be smiling, even when it was not.

“So what’s on the bill today?” I said. “ The Sorrow and the Pity?”

“Not quite. Crotchless in Seattle. It’s a big title for me this summer.”

“I’ll bet. So the porno’s keeping this place afloat.”

“So far. The associations, the exodus of the law firms moving east into the city, that’s helped. These guys pay their seven bucks, come in for the first show, fifteen minutes, wack-adoo, wack-adoo”-Gerry contorted his face, made a fist, pumped out a two-stroke jack-off mime-“they’re in and out. It’s cheaper than a prostie, Nick. And with the plague out the slageks. re, it’s damn sure safer. Everyone thought, with videotape rental, the theatrical was gonna go the way of quadrophonic sound. And that was true to some degree, especially with the pervs. But these married guys, for whatever reason-maybe they’re not gettin’ enough at home, whatever-they can’t pop in a porno tape in their own house. What are they gonna tell junior? ‘Keep it down. Daddy’s tryin’ to watch Stormy Weathers give Ralph Rimrod some head’? Excuse me.” Gerry pulled balled Kleenex from his pocket, blew his nose loudly into the tissue. “I’m telling you, this porno thing is a growth market, if you got the right location.”

“Yeah, but who cleans up the theater?”

Gerry smirked. “That kid you saw in the lobby, he came to me, said he wanted to learn the exhibition business. I gave him a bucket and mop, said, ‘Here, go to school.’ Between shows, he does the honors. But it’s not as bad as you think, Nick. These business types are very fastidious-they bring their own socks, Wall Street Journals, shit like that. They’re better behaved than my nighttime repertory crowd, I’ll tell you. But even that’s beginning to pick up. Kids are smoking pot again, you know it?”

“Sure,” I said, thinking of the stash in my glove box.

“That helps. Helps the ‘appreciation of cinema.’ Helps music, and fucking, and everything else, too, right? Anyway, I’m gonna start adding psychotronic midnights on the weekends-”

“Listen, Ger-”

“I know, you don’t have all day. You called because you needed some information.”

“That’s right. I’m looking for a kid, got himself into some local porn action.”

“How old?”

“Seventeen.”

“What genre?”

“Man on boy, what I can make out. Maybe interracial, if that narrows it down. The kid is black.”

Gary scratched behind his ear. “I wouldn’t know, directly. Everything I got here is classic, on celluloid, from the archives. The video business is wide open, man; anybody can do it. Let’s say you want to make a movie with a school theme. All’s you need is a camera, a couple of lights if you want it real clean, some props-a piece of chalk, maybe a blackboard-and you got yourself a real intricate story about a teacher disciplining his student.”

“Isn’t there any risk? I mean, it’s got to be illegal, right?”

“Yes and no. The situation you’re describing, if the kid’s a minor, yeah, that’s illegal, but lookswise he’s probably right on the cusp, so who’s gonna check? Basically, as long as there’re no penetration shots, you’re in the clear.”

“The business is that scattered.”

“Sure. It’s done all over the city. Like I say, I wouldn’t have any idea where to tell you to start. I’m not in that business.”

“Somebody’s got to distribute the stuff, though.”

Gerry shifted in his seat. “In the man-boy arena? All the homo stuff, and the different varieties of it, everything comes out of this little warehouse around 2nd on K. This guy owns a storefront porno operation. I think it’s called the Hot Plate.”

“What’s his name?”

“Bernard Tobias. Bernie.”

“Think he’ll talk to me?”

“Not just to you, no. Bernie, he’s a weird bird. Well, maybe not so weird if you’re an amateur psychiatrist. He’s a little guy who always needs to be the big magilla. I’ve met him a few times; he’s always bragging about how he only does business with ‘executive officers,’ never meets with anybody’s assistant, like we’re talking about Wharton graduates in the skin trade here. I think if you go in with a couple of guys, wear ties, do the dog and pony show, you’ll be all right.”

“Thanks, Gerry. Appreciate the help.”

“Hey, Nick-how’d you end up in this, anyway? I ran into one of my old bartenders from the Crawlspace a few months ago-”

“Joe Martinson.”

“Joe, right. He told me what you were doing. The way I remember you, you were this music-crazy guy used to stand in the corner watching the bands, a beer in each hand. Fact, I used to call you ‘Nick Two-Beers,’ remember?”

“You said it was my Indian name. ’Course, I remember when you insisted everyone call you Gerry Louis, Jr. Things happen to people-you never know where they’re going to end up.”

“You got that right. That guy in that band Big Black, Durango’s his name, remember? He’s a corporate lawyer now. I saw his picture in a magazine, little bald guy in a hot-shit suit like every guy you see walking out of Arnold and Porter. So yeah, you never know.” Gerry got out of his chair. “Speaking of Jerry Lewis, I’m doing a retrospective next month, kicking it off with The Nutty Professor. I can get you a pass.”

“I don’t think so.”

“It’s an American classic!”

“So are you, Ger.” I shook his hand. “Listen, thanks again, man. Thanks a million.”

I used Gerry’s directory before I left, then found a pay phone out on 9th and called Bernie Tobias. I identified myself as Ron Roget-an appropriately lizardly name I had just seen in the directory-and bullshitted him about my production company out of Philadelphia, which I said did the “man/boy discipline thing” better than anyone “on the East Coast.” He said he couldn’t meet with me that week, but when I told him that “my associates” and I would be in D.C. tomorrow, and only for one day, he agreed. As Gerry had predicted, the “associates” tag hit Bernie’s hot button. We agreed on a time the next day.