by Ray Garton
“Don't even bring him up, Chadwick!” She tried to whisper but she was so angry her words came out in a harsh rasp. “Quitting this dump was the best thing he ever did, but he would've gotten that promotion if you weren't fuh—"
She was going to say, If you weren't fucking that noxious slab of fat! But she knew word would get back to Miss Schuman and Casey wanted to keep her job for a while longer.
“I'm sorry?” he said.
She plucked the cigarette from her mouth and blew smoke in his direction as she said, “Nothing.” She left the room.
Chad followed her.
“You know,” he said, “the way I heard it, he didn't leave. He was ousted, if you know what I mean.” He chuckled.
“The way I heard it, he left, and I heard it from him." She stormed through the big door and into the lobby.
Chad was just a step behind her.
“Well,” he said, “of course he would tell you that."
Casey hit the elevator button so hard the tip of her finger was numbed. The doors slid open instantly and she stepped inside.
“Can't you take the stairs?” she snapped when Chad followed her. She hit the L button with her thumb.
“I want to have a word with you."
She turned away from him and blew smoke at the NO SMOKING sign on the wall. The elevator doors closed, and the car began to descend.
“Casey,” he began, his voice suddenly lowering. “I understand."
“Understand what?” she asked.
“Why you treat me the way you do. You're nice to Davey because ... well...” He shrugged then coolly stretched an arm out and propped himself against the wall. “Because he's not a threat. But you try to keep your distance from me because ... because you're afraid of your attraction to me."
Casey's jaw dropped and she started to tell him he was so full of shit that his ears reeked, but Chad stepped forward and put a hand on her neck, slipped his fingers into her hair, and pulled her face toward him, his tiny mouth puckering.
Casey gasped and pulled back, at the same time slipping her cigarette into the breast pocket of his suit-coat.
Chad stepped away from her and began slapping the smoking pocket.
“What ... Jesus Chrrr ... this ... this is a brand-new suit!” he sputtered, his voice rising to a high pitch.
Casey took in a steadying breath. “Next time,” she said through clenched teeth, “it goes in your eye."
The elevator stopped and the doors opened.
“That shit may work with her," Casey hissed as she stalked out, “but not with me."
Chad's hand froze an inch above his pocket, holding the butt gingerly between thumb and forefinger. His face hardened. “With who?" he asked.
Casey turned and pressed her hand to the edge of the elevator door. She couldn't resist. “I'm curious. Chadwick, does she ever get on top?"
Chad's mouth snapped shut and his little nostrils flared.
Casey pulled her hand away and the doors rolled shut.
“Bastard!” she whispered to herself, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand as if he had actually kissed her. The very thought made her feel dirty.
She went to the bank of payphones in the building's lobby, dropped a quarter into the slot, and punched Davey's number.
It rang eight times; he didn't answer.
She sighed as she replaced the receiver. Leaving the building to go to lunch, Casey thought, Please, Davey, be all right.
Benedek wearily paced the sidewalk across from Live Girls, hands in his coat pockets, his hat pulled low over his forehead, until his knees seemed unable to hold his weight any longer. There was a bench facing the opposite side of the street, but it was filthy and he was cold. The only other possibility was Lim's Chinese Kitchen, New York's Fastest Oriental Ulcer. He went inside and ordered tea and a few fortune cookies and took a seat by the window.
He'd gotten little sleep the night before. Jackie had insisted he spend the day inside.
“I'll cancel my appointments,” she'd said. “I don't have anything important today, nothing that can't wait. I'll stay with you and—"
“I can't just sit here, Jackie,” Benedek had interrupted quietly. “I've got to arrange the cremation and I just can't stay around here. You go to work. I'll be all right."
He'd eaten a light breakfast, called a few mortuaries until he'd found one that sounded reasonable, then he'd gone down and arranged to have his sister and niece burned down to two small piles of ashes.
He'd sat there in that plush, deadly silent office listening to portly, toupeed Mr. Birnbaum talk about “our various plans, all of which are designed with your convenience in mind,” all the while thinking, I'm having them slipped into a giant oven and burned to gray little ashes I could blow away with a single breath.
Afterward, he'd taken a cab to Times Square.
He bit into a fortune cookie. Crumbs of it clung to his lips as he chewed.
The day was dark with clouds; tires splashed through puddles outside.
A man shuffled by with his head low, talking loudly to the sidewalk—something about pressing charges and pressing flowers.
Benedek wondered if Vernon would ever show up at Live Girls again. He was raising another cookie to his mouth when he spotted the young man he'd seen the day before. A meat truck passed slowly, blocking Benedek's view, and he nearly knocked the table over standing up. Tea sloshed from the cup and the cookies wobbled over the tabletop. Benedek hurried to the door, pushed through, and stood on the curb, watching.
The truck passed and Benedek got a glimpse of him just before he stepped through the black curtains. It was the same guy, no doubt about it. Same coat, same walk. Except...
Yesterday, the guy had seemed dizzy and off balance when he came out of Live Girls. Today he seemed that way going in.
Benedek held up a hand to the oncoming traffic and stepped into the street. A car horn honked and the driver's mouth worked angrily as he shook his fist at Benedek.
“Yeah,” Benedek snarled, waving an annoyed hand at the man, “your mother sucks warts, buddy."
On the other side, he faced the doorway of Live Girls. He took out a cigarette, lit it, and paced. Going in after him probably wouldn't be a good idea. Probably best to wait for him to come out.
Yeah, he thought, I'll wait.
Davey slipped a dollar bill beneath the bars and said, “Tokens, please."
The woman in the darkness—Shideh—silently dropped the tokens in his hand. He went down the dingy corridor.
He'd slept late and awakened screaming. A vague nausea had prevented him from eating; he couldn't even drink coffee. The face in the bathroom mirror had been drawn, cheeks gaunt and eyes sunken with dark patches beneath them. There had been a harsh taste in his mouth, metallic and sticky. He'd stared at himself in the mirror for a long time, wondering what was wrong.
The phone had rung; on the third ring, he'd unplugged it, unable to tolerate the shrill sound another moment. He'd paced, then collapsed wearily on the sofa before the television. He'd watched it, unseeing.
He'd bitten her. She'd made him bite her. He remembered the powerful hold of her hand on the back of his skull as she'd pushed his mouth down on her neck.
Bite me.
Going back to the sofa, he'd begun biting his nails until one pulled to the quick and a spot of blood oozed from the small tear. When he'd put it in his mouth and tasted the blood, a rush of dizziness made him lie down.
When he recovered, he'd put on his coat and gone out to see her, to ask her what she'd done to him.
In the booth, he dropped his tokens into the box. As the panel lifted, he folded his arms tightly across his chest.
I shouldn't be here, he thought. I should be home in bed, I'm sick, I shouldn't be here, why am I here?
When he saw her, he knew. He began to grow hard instantly and looked away, angry and ashamed.
When the panel stopped humming, he looked up. “Your neck,” he breathed.
The
re was no bite mark.
Her sultry look disappeared when she saw him and her face became blank.
“Not here,” she said flatly, her voice muffled, and reached out of his view. The panel began to close.
“I just want to talk to you,” Davey said quickly. “I want to—"
“Not here."
The panel thumped shut.
There was movement behind the slot. When Davey looked down, he saw her mouth framed by the rough wooden edges. She spoke quietly.
“I have a break at three. For two hours. Meet me in front of my apartment building."
“But I just want to talk to—"
“Later."
She went away.
The booth suddenly seemed smaller, darker. It smelled of sweat and sex. Davey pushed the door open and hurried out, thinking of the smooth, unbroken flesh of her neck.
A few moments after Davey had fallen into step with the foot traffic outside, a deep, lazy-sounding voice beside him said, “Excuse me?"
He ignored it.
“Sir? Excuse me."
Davey turned, expecting one of the street people to ask him for a quarter. It was a tall man with a long, droopy face. He smiled at Davey, satisfied to have his attention.
“My name's Walter Benedek,” he said, walking beside Davey. “I'd like to ask you a couple questions if you don't mind."
Davey felt a quick flash of fear. “About what?” he asked.
“Well”—Benedek puffed on his cigarette and tossed it away—“I'm a reporter for the Times. Right now I'm doing a feature on the, um, sex industry."
Davey stopped and looked at the man suspiciously.
“Here.” Benedek pulled out his wallet and showed Davey an ID card. “See? New York Times. Been there almost twenty-seven years.” He put the wallet away. “Now, I'm doing this piece on the business, okay? It seemed like a good idea.” He spread his arms. “It's booming, right? But it's not so easy. Nobody wants to talk about it."
Davey started walking again.
“Oh, a few people, sure, but most of those who talk are a little”—he waggled his fingers around his head—“a little loopy, know what I mean? So I saw you coming out of that place, that Live Girls place. You seem intelligent. Coherent." He laughed. “I'd like to talk to someone—you'll remain anonymous, of course—about what it's like to patronize places like that."
Davey frowned. “Sounds like you'd be patronizing me."
“No, no, not at all. See, if I don't write this, there's this guy in the office—a Moral Majority type? He's on a mission from God to clean up the city, if you know what I mean. I think the piece should be unbiased. I just want to hear your thoughts. If you're not pressed for time..."
“I am,” Davey said quickly, hurrying his pace.
Benedek kept up with him.
“I'll buy you a drink? Lunch? Just a half hour is all I need, really. How about a drink? Perfect weather for a nice hot buttered rum, huh?"
Without looking at the man, Davey thought about it. Despite his clothes and heavy coat, he felt cold, light, as if he'd lost a great deal of weight. A hot rum would be good—if he could keep it down. The sound of another voice—even a stranger's voice, especially a stranger's voice—might be welcome.
“My name won't be mentioned?” he asked.
“You won't have a name at all,” Benedek replied.
“Okay. A half hour."
“Great. C'mon, I know a place."
Benedek watched the young man slide into the booth in the quiet, shadowy bar. Davey had inconspicuously held on to rails, benches, walls, and doorjambs all the way over to the bar, as if to keep from falling. His eyelids were so heavy, the mere sight of them made Benedek feel a bit sleepy himself.
“So, Davey, what kinda work you in?"
“Publishing. At least, I was. I worked at Penn Publishing. But I, well, I quit. I got fed up."
“If you don't mind my asking,” Benedek said, getting comfortable at the table, “are you feeling okay?"
Davey scratched his chin and nodded. “I'm fighting the flu."
When the waitress came, Benedek ordered two hot buttered rums, then lit a cigarette. He took out his pad and pen and cleared his throat loudly.
“What was it,” he asked, “about that place, Live Girls, that attracted you?"
Davey shrugged. “First time I went in was yesterday. I was, I don't know, curious. My girlfriend had just left me that morning and I just wanted a diversion."
“Mm-hm.” Benedek made notes as if it were a legitimate interview. “Had you ever been in a place like that before?"
“No."
“What was your initial reaction?"
“A little sorry I'd gone in at first. It was dirty and dark and..."
The waitress brought their drinks and Benedek paid her.
“Look,” Davey said, “are you sure you don't want to talk to someone else? I mean, I don't exactly frequent those places."
“How many times you been in there?"
Davey sniffed and looked down at his drink.
“Three times."
“In two days? That's pretty frequent. Why'd you go back?” Benedek sipped his rum.
Davey lifted his drink and stared at it. He sipped the drink like a child taking cough medicine, and put it down. His face tensed, his lips pressed together hard. He smiled apologetically at Benedek.
“Sorry. My stomach's been a little upset."
Benedek nodded at Davey's drink. “That'll do you good. So, why'd you go back? Nothing better to do? They selling more than peep shows in there?"
“Why don't you go in and see for yourself?"
Good question, Benedek thought.
“Because,” he said, “my opinion doesn't matter. I want this piece to focus on your feelings and the feelings of others who go in that place and places like it. I want the point of view of those who work there and the—"
Davey's brow creased. “Have you talked to the employees? From Live Girls, I mean?"
Benedek was intrigued. It seemed he'd almost snagged something here. “Should I?” he asked.
Davey took another drink without meeting Benedek's eyes. “I just ... wondered."
“Okay, back to my question. What made you want to go back in there?"
“I guess I was intrigued."
“That's all? Look, Davey, if they're doing something illegal in there, you can tell me. Like I said, your name and the name of the establishment will not be mentioned.” He slapped together a little fiction in his mind. Benedek had learned long ago that nothing loosened the tongue like a common experience. “When I was a young man living in Jersey, working my ass off to get into the newspaper business, there was this bar. The chicks'd get up on the bar and dance around and strip. Never all the way, not back then, but enough, you know? And this guy who'd been going there a lot longer than me told me a secret. The girls had this code. They'd look you in the eye, and if you wanted something, you were supposed to reach up and kinda pinch your nose, like you were scratching it. Then, while she was dancing, she'd put her finger in her mouth, meaning, ‘You wanna blow job?’ Or she'd make a fist—hand job. Or put her hand over her crotch—‘You wanna fuck?’ When she hit on the one you wanted, you pinched your nose again. Then she'd meet you in the employees’ bathroom, you'd pay her, and she'd do you. I used to go there all the time until the joint was busted one night—while I was there! I wasn't in the back, thank God. I wrote it all up and the story nailed me a job on some little rag.” He laughed, pleased with himself, thinking, Walter, you are one consummate bullshit artist.
“So,” he went on, “I didn't fall off the melon truck yesterday, Davey."
Davey stared at his rum. “Well,” he began slowly, “there's this girl..."
Benedek frowned. Davey seemed very nervous suddenly. No, afraid.
“Yeah, go on."
Benedek listened closely and made notes as Davey talked about his experiences inside Live Girls, about Anya, then, haltingly, like a shy young boy talking
about his first kiss, about the blow job Anya had given him through the opening in the wall.
“Okay,” Benedek said with a grin. “Some gorgeous girl gives you a blow job, of course you go back, right?"
Looking at Benedek for the first time in several minutes, Davey opened his mouth to speak, then looked away.
“What is it, Davey?” Benedek asked quietly.
Davey shook his head.
“Come on, kid, is there more?"
“I think...” Davey whispered. His head was low and his fingers twitched around the glass. “I think she ... did something to me."
This is it, Benedek thought excitedly. Whatever it is, this is it.
“What?” he asked. “What do you think she did to you?"
Davey took a big gulp of his drink and grabbed his coat. “I think I should go,” he said tremulously. “I'm not feeling so well and I should be in bed."
“Wait a sec, kid,” Benedek said as Davey slid out of the booth. “Don't go."
Davey stood, started to put on his coat, and fell down.
“Jesus,” Benedek muttered, kneeling beside him. “You okay?"
“I'm fine ... fine,” Davey breathed, sitting up. “Just drinking on an empty stomach, I guess."
Benedek looked at him closely. There were dark circles under his eyes and his face was pale.
Maybe he's always pale, he thought, what do I know? But he doubted it. When Benedek saw him yesterday, he'd seemed, even at a distance, quite healthy.
The waitress dashed to their table, plump and breathless and bleached blond. “What is it?” she asked. “What's wrong?"
Benedek scowled up at her and said, “Can't you see the man hasn't had enough liquor? Bring another hot rum.” He helped Davey to his feet and seated him at the table, then sat across from him. “Davey,” he said quietly, “tell me about this girl."
“Well, she's ... beautiful. Absolutely, unbelievably beautiful.” His eyes brightened. “I went back later that afternoon. Then last night. I met her outside the place. She was on her way to this club where she dances. The Midnight Club."
Benedek wrote it down. “Think I've heard of it. That's the one over on ... let's see, the corner of..."