Lives of the Circus Animals by Christopher Bram Read Free Book Online Page A

He did as she told him. Instantly a new box appeared, an empty box labeled New Mail.
    â€œWhat does that mean?” he asked.
    â€œIt means nobody’s written to you.”
    â€œOh dear. Nobody writes the colonel. My fucking so-called friends. Or did I give them the wrong address?”
    â€œMaybe they can’t imagine you plugged into the Net. You need to write a few notes to them.”
    â€œI suppose,” he said with a sigh. “But tomorrow. This old dog is too fried tonight to do any new tricks.” He noticed her mouth print on his glass—she had taken a sip. “So you will join me? Excellent.”
    She frowned at the wine. “Sorry. I took a swallow without thinking.”
    â€œNot at all. You deserve a reward for your very good deed. I’ll pour myself a fresh glass. Did you care to share in Mickey?”
    She didn’t but told Henry to go ahead. She’d drink one glass of wine and go home.
    While Henry curled up on the sofa, Jessie took the easy chair facing him. She picked a paperback book off the floor. “‘There is a new name for evil,’” she portentously declared. “Greville.”
    â€œI beg your pardon?”
    â€œ Greville . This novel. Big bestseller. About a psycho-killer genius with a yen for teenage girls. Like a trashy marriage between Lolita and Silence of the Lambs. Why’re you reading it?”
    â€œI’m not.”
    â€œThen why is it here?”
    â€œI don’t know.” He took the book from her, a fat thing with a Tuscan landscape on the cover. “Maybe someone left it?”
    â€œYou’ve had visitors?”
    â€œNo. Alas.” He flipped pages, remembered nothing, then tossed the book aside. He took up his joint. “Cheers,” he said and lit up.
    The tip caught fire like a fuse, with tiny crackles and hisses. The bitter smoke filled his lungs, promising peace, calm, silence. He held it down and held out the joint. “Yes?” he huskily grunted.
    â€œNo thank you.” She leaned back in her chair; there was no disapproval in her gaze, only amusement, even pride.
    It was fun to be the subject of a crush, so long as the crusher understood nothing could come of it. His batwoman knew he was gay. He never pretended otherwise, with her or anyone else. And she had a gay brother, that playwright fellow, so she must know. But just to be on the safe side, Henry thought he might reiterate the point.
    He exhaled a gray gust and took a breath of clean air.
    â€œWhat do you know about the Gaiety Theatre? Well, you wouldn’t, would you? It’s this old-fashioned queer club off Times Square. The costume designer took me there last month. I keep meaning to get back, but haven’t. It had the most beautiful Puerto Rican boys, strutting their stuff in G-strings and less. Very hot.” And he swallowed some wine, wondering what Jessie thought of that.
    â€œWhy haven’t you been back? You afraid you’ll be recognized?”
    He burst out laughing. “You flatter me, my dear. Nobody knows me in this town. Oh, a few artsy theatergoers. But certainly no regulars at the Gaiety. No, in this country one isn’t famous until one appears in a hit movie or is a regular on a television series. Not that that would stop me. The world knows which way my wand points. I do not need to slip among the soldiery, King Henry in mufti.”
    â€œYou underestimate your fame,” she said. “Anyone who cares about real theater art knows your work.”
    â€œOh them.” He took another sip of smoke, but spit it out—his throat had not recovered from the first blast. “Those few, those blessed few. That blessed band of brothers. A few critics and old farts. I’ve given my life to ‘real theater art,’ as you call it. And it’s given me no satisfaction. Now that my youth has fled, I need to cash in on my so-called celebrity. Enough of this art shit. I want to make