Len Levinson - Without Mercy

The fat man walked west on Forty-second Street, his hands in his pockets and his shoulders so round you couldn’t see where they ended and his arms began. He passed movie theaters showing porno films, kung fu epics, and major Hollywood films on their last run through town.

“Loose joints—real Colombian,” said a black man standing with four others beside the entrance to a movie theater.

The fat man kept walking through the mass of humanity that choked the sidewalk. He wondered why so many young people were missing teeth. Must be from taking so much drugs. He looked in the window of the store that sold scuba equipment, hunting boots, and outdoor clothing. A few doors down he veered into a porno bookstore.

It was brightly lit with overhead fluorescent lamps and filled with solemn men looking through books and magazines. He passed the paperback novels in wire racks and made his way to the back where magazines were stacked on tables.

At a high counter a man with slick black hair sat smoking a cigar. In front of him was the cash register. Other employees prowled around making sure no one was trying to steal anything.

The fat man looked at the covers of magazines. He picked one up, thumbed through the pages, saw color pictures of pretty girls screwing guys and going down on them. He picked up another and looked at girls spreading their legs and smiling wantonly at the camera. A third magazine showed girls doing it to each other with their mouths, fingers, and dildos. The fat man thought it was disgusting for women to show themselves that way. Women were lazy and would do anything for money. It was easier for them to lie on their asses and spread their legs than get an honest job. They did it to mess up men’s minds just like his mind was getting messed up.

“This ain’t no library!” the man behind the cash register said loudly, “These books are for sale! Read them at home!”

The fat man put down the magazine and headed for the front door of the bookstore. Everything connected with women was a swindle. They paint themselves to hide their ugly spots. They wear nylon stockings to make their legs look nice. The only men who pose naked in magazines are fags, and fags are men who try to be like women.

On the sidewalk again, the fat man walked toward Eighth Avenue. He wondered why so many black and Puerto Rican men hung around here. What was the big attraction to standing in doorways all day long? Bunch of shitheads. Think they’re so smart. A hand shot out with a leaflet. The fat man took it. It advertised a massage parlor across the street, but the fat man was finished with massage parlors. Tonight he was going to try something else.

The corner of Forty-second Street and Eighth Avenue was thick with punks and bums. The fat man pushed through them and turned uptown on Eighth Avenue.

“I got grass, ups, and downs,” said a man as he passed.

The east block of Eighth Avenue between Forty-second and Forty-third Street had more whores and pickpockets than any other block in Manhattan. Halfway down the block was the Polka Dot Lounge, and the sign in the window said there were sixteen beautiful hostesses inside, but you couldn’t see inside because the window was painted black. The fat man stopped and looked at the open door that was blocked by a partition so you couldn’t see inside that way either. His right hand closed around the knife in his pocket. If anybody fucked with him in there they were going to get sliced from asshole to elbow. He moved toward the door, pushed it open, and went inside.

It was dark and dingy. The bar was to the left, and before it ten semi clad women sat on stools. Rock and roll music thundered out of the jukebox, and a naked black girl danced on a raised stage at the right, while toward the back a naked white girl danced on a pool table. Two big white guys sat at tables near the door, and the fat man figured they were the bouncers. Let them try and bounce him.

Approaching the bar, the fat man realized there were no men sitting there, only the whores eyeing him lasciviously. He faltered because he didn’t want to sit next to anybody just yet; he’d just wanted to look around a little. He didn’t realize he’d be the only customer in the joint.

He had no choice but to sit at the closest stool. He was too nervous and shy to look at the whores on either side of him. Behind the bar a blonde floozie with bucked teeth came toward him. There was no bar mirror and no bottles stacked around like in regular bars.

“What’ll you have?” asked the blonde.

“Gimme a beer.”

“A beer is three dollars and seventy-five cents.”

“Must be great beer.”

“You want one?”

“Yeah.”

She turned around, took a can of beer from the cooler, and set it in front of him with a glass he hoped wouldn’t give him a disease. He’d never seen the brand on the can before. Must be real shit water. Taking out a five dollar bill, he placed it on the bar. She plucked it away, rang it up, and returned with his dollar and a quarter change.

She held up the quarter in her fingers. “Mind if I keep this?”

“Go ahead.”

She said thanks without much sincerity and walked down the bar to talk with one of the whores. The fat man filled the glass with beer and took a swig. It tasted all right. Something rustled to his right.

“Hello,” said a woman’s voice.

He turned and looked at her. She had straight black hair, bangs, pouches under her eyes, and was around forty. Her dress was transparent gauze and wide open so that he could see her sagging tits and laundry bag belly.

“Hi,” he replied.

“What’s your name?” she asked in a foreign accent.

“Harry.”

“Where are you from?”

“New York. How about you?”

“Montreal.”

“No kidding?”

“I’m not kidding.” She made a long statement in French, then said, “You see?”

“Gee, you really are from Montreal, huh?”

“I told you. Are you a sailor?”

“No.”

“What do you do?”

“This and that.”

She rubbed her leg against his and smiled alluringly. “Buy me a drink?”

“What are you drinking?”

“Well, I don’t drink beer.”

“I didn’t think so.”

She pursed her lips. “How’s about a little bottle of champagne?”

“How much will it cost?”

“Thirty dollars.”

“Thirty dollars!”

“Uh huh.”

“Thirty dollars.”

“That’s not so much.”

“It is so too much.”

“You can’t afford thirty dollars?”

“Hell no.”

“How about twenty dollars? And we can take the bottle back there and be alone.” She pointed toward the rear of the bar room, and he saw a narrow corridor lined with doors, just like the massage parlor.

Now he knew what the score was. This was a whorehouse just like the massage parlor, only here they pretended to be a bar. “Twenty dollars is too much. I just came in for a drink and to look around.”

“Well, at least you’re honest. I like that.”

“I always try to be honest.”

“How about ten dollars.”

“Let me think about it.”

“For only ten dollars you’ve got to think about it?”

“Yeah.”

She shook her head as if his response was beyond comprehension, and turned away. He sipped some beer and looked at the naked white girl dancing on top of the pool table. Her legs were thick and too short for her body. Somebody grabbed his cock. He turned toward his left and saw a young, pretty black girl totally naked. Her breasts were round as grapefruits.

“Hi,” she said.

“Hi.”

“What’s your name?”

“Harry.”

“I’m Sally.”

“What do you say, Sally.”

She caressed his cock, and instead of making him horny it turned him off just like at the massage parlor. “Buy me a drink, baby.”