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 “Oh no!” My gay young friend laughed. “I may be queer, but I’m not desperate. No foxy Grandmas for me.” He winked at me and moved away from us down to the far end of the bar.

 “Bitchy little thing, isn’t she?” Grabass’s nose was out of joint. “Let’s get some air,” he suggested.

 That was fine with me. We walked over to Washington Square Park. Except for a few pairs of lovers clinching in the shadows, the interior of the park was pretty deserted. We strolled toward the Arch at the Fifth Avenue end. Two cops sauntered past us, measured us with their eyes, and kept on walking.

 They were about a dozen feet beyond us when Grabass suddenly whirled around and slugged me on the jaw with all his might. It took me by surprise, and I hit the pavement hard. I stayed there, momentarily dazed.

 “Keep your goddam paws to yourself, you goddam fag pansy!” Grabass roared loudly.

 There was nothing effeminate about him now. He looked the picture of a tough old sea dog who was indignant at having a pass made at him by a homosexual. The two cops swung around and marched back to us fast.

 “What’s going on here?” one of them demanded.

 “This disgusting queer grabbed for my prick, Officer!”

 “I thought you were friends,” the second cop remarked. “You were walking together.”

 “I never saw him before.” Grabass overflowed with sincerity. “He came up and asked me for a match. When I gave him one, he started up a conversation and walked along with me. As soon as he thought we were safely past you, he said he wanted to suck me and grabbed for my prick.”

 “That’s not true!” I protested.

 The first cop held up his hand for me to be quiet. “You want to prefer charges?” he asked Grabass.

 “I certainly do! Something has to be done to get these perverts off the street so decent people will be safe.”

 The canny old queen! I swore to myself. If he preferred charges, I’d spend the rest of the night in jail and Night Court. He must have known it was too late for me to get a bail bondsman to spring me. I’d never get out before the bank opened!

 “He’s lying!” I told the cops. “I’m straight. I’ve never—-”

 “You can tell your story to the judge. You’ll get your chance,” the second cop told me. “On your feet,” he ordered.

 I stood up.

 “Come along.” The first cop took me by the arm. “You too,” he told Grabass. “You can sign a complaint at the precinct house.” He marched me towards Fifth Avenue. Grabass and the other cop followed.

 As we approached the Arch, I spied my gay young friend from the bar standing there with half-a-dozen or so other gay people. “What’s up, Steve?” he called to me.

 “I’ve been busted.”

 “What for?”

 “Homosexual soliciting and assault.”

 “On that tired old queen?” my friend was derisive.

 “It’s a bum rap,” I assured him.

 “Entrapment!” One of the other gay people shouted the word angrily.

 “The Vice Squad at it again?” Four lesbians, arm-in-arm, strolled up to the group, attracted by the shout. ,

 “Police persecution!” Three more husky male homosexuals came running over.

 “Let him go!” My friend started the cry.

 “Let him go! Let him go!” Others picked it up and it became a chant.

 A Gay Liberation banner appeared from somewhere and fluttered in the breeze.

 “Don’t interfere!” The first cop tried to push me through the crowd that was gathering. “Let us pass!"

 A large man blocked our way deliberately. “Move aside, or I’ll run you in, too, you faggot!” the second cop threatened.

 It was the wrong thing to say. The gathering mob reacted strongly. A large rock came flying from somewhere on its fringe. It missed the cop and hit Grabass solidly on the left temple. He went down hard and stayed there, stretched out on the pavement.

 The second cop swung his club at the large man blocking our way. From the side, a Lesbian hit the cop’s wrist with a karate chop. The billy went sailing. The first cop struggled to pull his gun. Before he could succeed, he went down under the weight of three or four angry male homosexuals. The second cop and I were separated by the mob.

 “Quick, Steve! This way!” My San Marino friend grabbed my arm and led me running back through the park. We circled it, walked a few blocks up University Place, then cut back to Fifth and approached the Arch again from the other direction.

 We were preceded by three or four police cars with their sirens blaring. joining the crowd of onlookers on the sidewalk across from the Arch, we watched as the cops dispersed the mob. It was a good hour before it was over.

 When it was, Grabass still lay stretched out on the pavement. An ambulance was summoned friend strolled wver casually and eavesdropped as they were loading Grabass into it.

 “Concussion,” he told me when he came back. “They’re taking him to Beekman Downtown.”

 I thanked him and We parted company. I went uptown to Forty-second Street and killed the time before morning in an all-night movie. Then I had some breakfast and found a phone booth.

 The hospital informed me that Captain Grabass’s condition was “satisfactory.” He’d regained consciousness, but the doctor had thought it best to put him under sedation. He was sleeping comfortably now and probably wouldn’t wake up until midmorning.

 My luck had held! Grabass was not going to make it to the bank on time! Still, not wanting to take chances, I made sure I was there a full hour early.

 Promptly at nine, the bank’s doors were opened. I produced the key Baron Duvivier had given me and was conducted down to the vault. A bank official located the strongbox for me and I opened it. The two sets of papers were there, just as Duvivier had said they would be.

 I destroyed the set giving Captain Grabass ownership of the Monaco Line. The second sheaf, turning over the Gaylife Line and the Queen William to the Monaco Line, I put in my inside jacket pocket. Then I left the bank and hailed a cab to take me to the New York offfices of the Monaco Line where Baron Duvivier was supposed to be waiting for me. During the taxi ride I reflected happily on all the various ways in which I planned to spend the whopping fee I’d earned.

 I was expected. A trim secretary conducted me directly to Baron Duvivier’s offce. I went through the door and stopped short.

 Seated behind the desk was Captain Maldemerde! Click-click.

 “Where’s Baron Duvivier?” I exclaimed.

 “He was unavoidably detained. Do you have the papers?”

 “Yes.”

 “May I see them, please?”

 I handed them to him. He looked them over, and then slid them into the top drawer of the desk. Then he locked the desk.

 “What detained the Baron?” I asked.

 “Rigor mortis.” Click-click. “He died two days ago.”

 I stared at Maldemerde, trying to absorb what he’d said. “I’m sorry to hear that,” I said finally. “I guess I’d better see whoever’s in charge now.”

 “I’m in charge.” Click-click.

 “I mean of the Monaco Line.”

 “So do I. I’m in charge of the Monaco Line.” Click-click.

 “Then perhaps I’d better see an officer of the Duvivier Foundation.”

 ‘Tm in charge of that, too.” Click-click.

 “Then I’ll talk to you. About my fee—”

 “What fee?” Click-click.

 “My fee for the services performed during the voyage.”

 “What services? What fee?” Click-click.

 “I had a deal with the Baron and—-”