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| City Hall was more than the main municipal building; it marked the geographical center of the sprawling city and was a line of demarcation for the surrounding area. To the west rose the stone canyons that housed the city’s legendary law firms and the grand apartment buildings where old money lived. To the east, the retail district and the giant department stores: John Wanamaker’s, Strawbridge & Clothier, Gimbels. Smaller retailers lined Market Street nearly to the banks of the Delaware River. On the side streets other wares were for sale. Shabby bookstores filled with porn; 25-cent peep shows with dingy back rooms and prostitutes of either sex working the squalid streets around the Trailways bus terminal. Clayton headed east. Thirteenth Street throbbed with the Saturday night bustle, and hustle, of a hot night in the city. The sidewalks teemed with an assortment of drunks, punks and juvenile delinquents. Traffic inched along as if it were noon instead of close to midnight. One of three young Black queens standing in the doorway of a closed shoe store noticed the tall, thin, light-skinned young man with the Afro cutting through the crowd. Clayton had that straight Black boy swagger common to guys of his twenty-two years. Though, after four years “in the life,” his stroll was no longer as pronounced as his North Philly brethren. “Here comes my trade, Miss Thing,” she said nudging her friend in the side. “Hey handsome,” she called out as Clayton passed, “What’s your name?” She posed with hand on hip in exaggerated femininity. “Can I go with you?” Clayton smiled and was about to politely decline when all attention was drawn to a distraught young White woman who turned the corner from the small side street. Her dirty blond hair hung limply on each side of her gaunt face. A strung-out hippie. “He ripped me off, man,” she exclaimed loudly to no one in particular. “He ripped me off. Shit, man! Shit!” “Miss Thing, take yo’ ol’ junkie ass outta here,” one queen shouted as she passed. “Serves yo’ ass right.” The others laughed loudly as the woman, indifferent to their taunts, raved on as she continued down the street. “He ripped me off. Shit!” The sight, the sound of desperation in her voice, sent a chill through Clayton. A shiver of fear. He turned away and quickly walked the few feet between him and his destination, the bar on the corner. The Ritz was one of Philly’s venerable gay bars, the only one downtown that was predominately Black. In marked contrast to its name, The Ritz was a dive, frequented by drag queens, hustlers, middle-age working class gays and a sprinkling of the next generation of same. The room was a long, narrow, cavern with black lacquered walls. An L shaped bar ran the length of one wall. Five booths and a jukebox lined the opposite wall. As usual on a weekend night, it was packed. People stood two deep at the bar keeping three harried bartenders busy. The air was filled with the voice of Aretha, lively chatter and a thick fog of cigarette smoke. Clayton scanned the crowd as he squeezed through then spotted who he was looking for sitting in the last booth. He walked up and caught his attention. A thin, middle-aged man, stood up. His blue silk shirt was opened almost to the navel revealing several gold chains around his neck. “Hey slim,” he said as he slapped five with Clayton. “Whaz up, my man?” “I wanna take care some business,” Clayton said in a low voice. “Right on.” The man jerked his head in the direction of the men’s room at the back of the bar. The small room had a trough style urinal on one side and a sink next to a stall on the other. A drag queen stood before the broken mirror carefully applying make-up. |
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