It is crowded at the Lucky Slipper, but that doesn't bother Ronald Boyd. Ronald likes crowds. Every summer he likes the crowds that mill around the street fairs of the city, or the crowd at an art gallery openings, but most of all he likes the crowd of young men that pack the gay bars along Halsted late every Saturday night. On Saturday nights all the bars are busy, but the Lucky Slipper is even more busy with the young men Ronald likes most. Who can count the number of times he has complained about his inexplicable attraction to the rough trade and the hustlers that stalk the three long bars of the Lucky Slipper? They move without guilt like animals through the amber light of bourbon and beer. Yet this attraction for Ronald is also sadly coupled with a limitation. To his continuing regret, Ronald would be the first to admit that he is very shy for a man with such tastes. He finds it almost impossible to walk up to one of these young men and engage him in conversation, let alone ask for a telephone number or arrange a date. Nevertheless, because necessity is the drag queen of invention, Ronald has come up with a scheme to overcome his shyness and get what he wants.

When Ronald was stationed in Greece during his service with the navy, he had his pocket picked in one of those crowded places he likes to frequent. It was at a dark and smelly bar below the Acropolis where you could get drunk on ouzo and touch for a price the beauty that still radiates from the light that was Plato's Athens. That theft taught Ronald a lesson: always protect your valuables. It also gave him an idea. When he replaced his wallet, he brought a few more as well. Not expensive leather wallets, but just wallets that looked expensive, especially in the dim light of a crowded bar. His real ID and money he keeps in his front pocket now, with his hand ready to test if it is still there. In his back pocket he puts the ordinary wallet, the wallet that is bait. In this wallet he folds blank paper cut to the size and shape of money, and a false ID. Covering the stack of phony money, Ronald places a typed note that reads: "This paper is chemically treated with skin poison. You will die in three days. For the antidote call 312.889.6543."

His friends call him Casey, Casey Radwan, but before he came to Chicago from a poor river town in Iowa, the guys in high school called him "Fingers."

Casey is quick with his hands. He can shuffle a deck of cards as fast and as smooth and a riverboat gambler, make a penny magically appear from behind your ear, and move a wallet from your pocket to his without even brushing a thread. Casey is good, and when he started working as a hustler on Halsted, those skills he had with his hands came in handy. He could whisk away a ring or a watch before a trick even knew what had happened.

Casey likes working the crowd at the Lucky Slipper on Saturday nights. If he can't get a trick, he can at least get a fat wallet. The middle-aged men who come to the Lucky Slipper have a lot of disposable income, and Casey prefers they dispose it on him. He is poor, blond and handsome, so this pick pocketing is his way of realizing trickle down economics. He would take the cash, and then pitch the wallet into the garbage. He isn't interested in fake IDs or credit cards. They leave a trail, and are too dangerous. Cash is fast, easy, and makes him invisible. Even with his tricks, Casey always wants the money up front, right on the dresser or coffee table where he can see it. One hundred dollars. That's what he asks and he often makes the trick count it out before they get down to business. Afterwards, he will slip away with what ever else he is smooth enough to finger. It is done effortlessly, the way the sky moves from blue to darkness.

Ronald is in the thick of it. The crowd is bigger than ever at the Lucky Slipper. It is Labor Day weekend, and this Saturday sees not only the usual men and boys from the city, but all sorts of curious and desperate visitors from out of town. Around eleven thirty, Ronald sees what he is looking for.

Casey has stepped up to the bar and is ordering a beer. Ronald has seen Casey here a few times before and longs to get to know him. But now he is at a loss for what to say, how can he ask such a beauty out for a date? Ronald watches, as Casey sizes up this trick or that, moving through the crowd with his beer before him like the whiskers of a cat. Casey stops and talks for a moment with an older man in a suit, then moves on to the back room bar. Ronald follows him. He has to get in the right position, so that when Casey passes, he will take the bait. Ronald goes around to the other end of the bar, and stands with his back to Casey, pretending to watch the porn video that plays on the TV above the doorway. The crowd is pressing in on Ronald now. In a few moments he sees Casey working his way towards him. Ronald just stands and waits. He senses the approach. Then, with the slightest brush, Casey passes and heads for the door. Ronald feels his back pocket and realizes his wallet is gone. That kid's good, Ronald says to himself and swallows a mouthful of warm beer.

"What the fuck is this shit," Casey says to himself as he stands under the lights of the Old Colony Bank parking lot. "Poison?" he says out loud as he reads the note and fans the paper money looking for something real, "You gotta be kidding." He throws the wallet down, then thinks for a second and picks up the paper with the phone number on it. This can't be true, he says to himself looking at his finger tips. "Who the fuck would do a thing like this?" Casey crumbles the paper, sticks it in his pocket and heads angrily home to his bed of gray sheets and a hard pillow.

Later the next morning, Casey wakes with a throbbing headache. He looks in the mirror and sees dark rings under his eyes. He doesn't know what's wrong. Then he remembers the brown wallet and the phone number that is in his jeans pocket. "I'm not poisoned," he says as he unfolds the paper and looks at it. When the phone rings, Ronald answers it with a cool, "Hello."

The voice on the other end says harshly, "OK, dude, I want the antidote."

"Of course, and you can have even more than that."

"What do I have to do?"

"Here's my address. Be over here by three."

"I'll be there. Don't worry."

"Cool, and by the way. Take a shower first."

Ronald hears the phone click on the other end as Casey slams it down.

The money is on the coffee table. One hundred dollars in fresh, new twenties. The Benny Goodman CD plays softly. All Ronald's valuables are hidden and locked. Two martinis sweat in their clear glasses that fan up like hands praying. When the doorbell rings, Ronald jumps and presses the buzzer without even asking who it is. A moment later, he opens the door and Casey stands before him in a yellow T shirt and faded jeans. Ronald smiles with satisfaction. Casey is everything Ronald could ever want.

"I came for the antidote, dude," Casey says, being as butch as he can.

"Yes, come in, I have it right here," Ronald says gesturing to the hundred dollars on the coffee table.

"What the fuck is this?"

"Pay back time, dude," Ronald says mockingly. You stole my wallet, so now I get what I want.

"What's that?"

"Well, you have to be drained of that poison if you are going to get better."

"I see, and what's in it for me?"

"Here, have a martini," Ronald says, with a smile.

Casey stands by the window sipping his martini as Ronald reaches out to him. Soon, they walk to the bedroom and the afternoon passes into evening. For a moment Casey thinks he could live happily in this modest apartment. Then, Ronald and Casey sleep quietly in the soft bed. Later, after Ronald showers and wakes Casey they decide to get something to eat. A pizza at Little Marco's fills them up and then they have a drink at Twirl. There, Casey realizes he ought to go home.

Ronald decides to walk Casey to the "L" stop at Belmont. It is almost one in the morning, but young people are still walking the streets. The night is cool, alive and shining with all the lights of cars, stores and neon signs. As they near the "L" station, Ronald stops.

"This is as far as I go, OK?"

"Sure, dude," Casey says.

"Will I see you again?" Ronald asks shyly. "I really like being with you."

"I don't know man, I'm awful busy."

"Well, call me some time, then."

"Yea, sure."

Suddenly, Ronald throws his arms around Casey, grabs him by the behind and gives him a long kiss.

Casey has to almost struggle to get away from Ronald's embrace. "What if somebody sees us, man?" is the first thought that rushes into his mind.

"Wo," Casey says, and then turns and walks towards the station with its chrome turnstiles. Polished by passing travelers, they seem like giant eggbeaters to those who have one drink too many.

Ronald follows Casey into the station with his eyes, and then turns himself to walk quickly down Belmont with a grin on his face. When he gets to the safety of the well lit doorway of the Swedish Restaurant, he stops and looks carefully at the brown, leather wallet in his hand. He opens it, and sure enough, there is an Iowa driver's license with Casey's face smiling back.

Ronald has not lost the old magic. His fingers are still as quick as they were in the navy where he was trained to disarm bombs and warheads. There he could insert a popsicle stick between the pin and detonator with the speed of a spark that moves from flame to fire.

 

©2002 Robert Klein Engler - Contributor's Bio