I looked more closely at the women, looked beyond their dress and hairstyles. From what I’d learned of Lady Sally’s House, I expected them all to be stunning, in face and body. And some were…and some were merely pretty…and some were homely even by street standards. I decided those must be clients—for what other kind of woman would need to come to a brothel? (God, I had a lot to unlearn!) Some looked sophisticated, some funky. Some looked bright and educated; at least one looked dumb as a bag of hammers. I saw a saintly grandmother, and a 400-pound native Indian woman who looked mean as a snake.
What the hell standards did I fall short of?
The piano wizard got himself into trouble, noodled his way out onto the end of a long fragile limb—then recovered so adroitly that you realized he’d been teasing you, and thundered his way to a conclusion. Loud applause, in which I joined; shouts and whistles. “Hey, Silas,” one of the Indians yelled, “let’s kidnap this white man and take him back to Hobbema with us!”
Eddie got up, wrinkled his face up into a remarkable imitation of a dried apricot, took a quick bow, and left with the big redheaded guy. They made an odd pair. The party became general again. Earnest conversation here, raucous laughter there; some drifted to the bars. Over by the fireplace, the bag lady lectured to a small circle of attentive listeners. The police chief and the big Indian began playing chess. A sound system began playing upbeat bebop sax, Dexter Gordon or someone who loved him, in the background.
It came to me that this was the party I had always wanted to be invited to. I began to cry, almost noiselessly. Phillip stared at me, thunderstruck, and Robin began to panic, but I couldn’t help it.
Lady Sally was suddenly there beside me, although I hadn’t seen her come in. (I was to learn that this was typical.) “Are you all right, Maureen? Do you want Kate?”
I shook my head no, and somehow she knew I was answering both questions. “Thank you, boys,” she said cheerfully, “I’ll take over now.”
She led me out of the parlor; I followed blindly. We ended up at what had to be her office, and sat down together on a sofa. She held me while I cried it out, and after I was through.
When I moved away she let go at once. We sat side by side in silence for a time.
“What it is,” I said finally, looking at the floor, “I never had a home. Just places to live for a while. I was an Army brat until my Dad died. I’ve wanted a home so bad for such a long time. Out there: those folks are home. Maybe some of them have other homes outside of here, maybe not, but this is a home for them. Right?”
“Yes.”
“Could you maybe just skip being polite for a minute, and tell me what standard it is I don’t meet? Is it anything I could fix?”
She sighed and turned away. “I’ll give you a straight answer. There are three basic problems. First, your age. I do not employ artists under eighteen. You are sixteen at most, and doubtless can pass for twelve. That is not an asset in this House.
“Second your training. I’ve had very bad luck with street girls. Most of what you think you know about The Art is wrong, and unlearning takes more discipline than I think you’ve got.
“Third and most important, your attitude. You don’t much like yourself, and you don’t much like your clients, and you don’t much like what you and they do together. That, more than anything, makes you no use to me.”
I remembered Phillip saying, “Art with contempt in it is always sour.” I could understand that. The difficult part was to grasp the concept that inducing a genital sneeze could qualify as art…
She frowned. “The first problem is self-correcting; the second is correctable with a lot of hard work. I don’t know whether there’s anything you could do about the third. I place a high value on acceptance and tolerance. I’m inclined to give you points for the way you accept and tolerate my friend Charles, and his…peculiarity. But not enough points. I’m sorry.”
I closed my eyes. After a long silence, I opened them and said, “Thank you for your honesty.”
She frowned again. “You’re right to thank me; honesty is hard work.” She turned back to look at me, and started. “Dear God, child, you’re exhausted. You look, in the words of a horseman of my acquaintance, like you’ve been rode hard and put away wet. Sit there and I’ll fetch a wheelchair to take you back to your room—”
I started to protest, and realized that I really was wiped out. My side hurt. My pride hurt. “All right.”
CHAPTER 3
FINAL EXAM
If you’ve lived a bad life, they send you to Hell. But if you’ve been truly wicked, they give you a tour of Heaven first…
I didn’t cry until I got back to my room and chased out Phillip and Robin. Then I didn’t stop for hours.
Nice going, Mo! Sweet sixteen, and already beyond hope. Anyone else might have been satisfied to be a whore by now—but you’ve managed to become too clumsy and jaded to be a whore. A decent one anyway.
Hours went by that way. My pain became so large I could not bear it alone; some of it turned into anger, and spilled over onto Lady Sally.
Says I don’t have the skills. The bitch. How the hell does she know? And where was I supposed to learn? Says I have no discipline. Let her try living with Big Travis, see how long she can keep a straight face. Says I don’t like the clients. Christ, almost two years I’ve been tricking, and all I’ve ever had were creeps and jerks. Says I don’t like screwing. Well, I used to, once. Maybe I could learn to like it again, if I had someone who wasn’t a creep or a jerk, in a place that wasn’t sleazy, and I didn’t have to hurry. Maybe I could even learn to believe that it could be some kind of art…
Says I don’t like myself—
How the hell am I supposed to like myself? She doesn’t want me. Big Travis doesn’t want me. Even the Professor’s turned his back on me. The only people that have ever wanted me have been creeps and jerks and…and…and…and…
I became aware of intense pain in my knuckles. I had been rhythmically banging my fists together, hard. I shook my fingers violently as if I were shaking off boiling water and got up from my bed to pace the room.
My side hurt, like a toothache. So did my head. My eyes were red and my nose plugged from crying. My belly was full of rocks. I catalogued all the physical discomforts, cherished them. They were perfectly satisfactory hurts. Sooner or later every one of them was going to go away. It was only a matter of waiting.
But the emotional hurts were not going to go away, no matter how long I waited. The loop began again:
Lady Sally doesn’t want me. Big Travis doesn’t want me. Even the Professor has turned his back on me. The only ones who’ve ever wanted me have been creeps and jerks and…
I still could not make myself complete the thought. The loop went into rewind:
…dna skrej dna speerc neeb evah em detnaw reve ev’ohw seno ylno ehT .em no kcab sih denrut sah rosseforP eht nevEven the Professor has turned his back on me—
I stopped pacing.
After a while I took a deep breath. Then another, and another. I went to the bathroom, washed my face, brushed my hair. I came out, tried the closet. The only outfit in a one-size-fits-all was a kimono and sandals. Not great, but you work with what you’ve got. I returned to the john and applied makeup with extreme care. When I was done I looked twenty-two years old and wealthy enough to carry off Eastern affectations. With the right resumé I could have applied for a job in a Tokyo bank. A vice cop or a hotel dick would have looked right past me.
I didn’t really think this would work. But it was worth a try.
If it didn’t work, then I would cut my throat.
As I stepped out into the hallway I saw the Mayor coming into the building through the Discreet Entrance; at least, it looked like him under that silly mask. It was dark outside; I had cried for a long time. I ignored him politely and went to the elevator, retraced the maze that led to Lady Sally’s Parlor. I met no one along the way, and heard nothing; either the night was young or the soundproofing
was excellent. When I reached the spiral staircase I heard party sounds from downstairs. I paused, listening for Lady Sally’s distinctive deep voice, but I didn’t hear it. I was nervous as hell. Suddenly I remembered the Mayor. If that was really him…did he, while he was at it, ask his famous trademark question? “How’m I doin’?” The giggle helped. Not enough, but some.
I squared my shoulders and descended the staircase.
There were three or four different parties going on simultaneously in the Parlor. No one paid any attention to me, so I scanned the room. One group of fifteen or so was watching two Chinese, a Marine and a transvestite play cards; they appeared to be wagering Peek Frean cookies. A slightly smaller group at one of the Parlor’s two bars was having a liar’s contest; the big Indian I’d seen earlier held the floor and his audience was loud and appreciative. A dozen people were singing “Baby, It’s Cold Outside” a capella by the fireplace, the men taking the Ray Charles part and the women giving the Betty Carter responses. On the other side of the room a man and a woman sat on the piano bench, facing a hushed crowd, and took turns blowing smoke figures. She took a deep drag on a cigar and blew a dragon; it had scales, and emitted a plume of smoke from its nostrils as it rose. He watched it until it dissolved, nodded admiringly, and blew an angel. With a halo and a harp. It hung motionless in the air for a moment, spread its wings, flapped them majestically, and ascended, shimmering into nothingness. They smiled at each other. In another corner of the Parlor, a stunning redhead and a priest shared a computer, gesticulating excitedly, typing simultaneously, watching the screen together, then gesticulating again. A couple with matching wedding rings sat on a couch nearby, holding hands and looking intently into each other’s eyes, oblivious to the universe.
I wanted to belong here so bad my teeth hurt.
Between that and the ache in my side, I yearned to go to one of the two bars and order something with authority. Or slide back to my room for some of that Russian dope. The girl I had been, way back when I had first gone up that alley, would probably have done one of those things. Instead I looked for familiar faces. No sign of Lady Sally, my first choice; she’d have stood out even in this crowd. No Doctor Kate. Nor Phillip, nor Mary, nor Robin. Stranger at the feast. Oh wait, there was someone I knew—
Charles.
There was no mistaking those ears on that bald head. He was standing by the bar, watching the two smoke artists. I wondered what he was doing in human form; surely the Moon was up by now? I realized for the first time that there were no windows in the Parlor. That’s something I usually notice right away about a room. Perhaps Charles had to be physically touched by moonlight to go into his act. I started toward him, and saw that a real dog sat by his feet. I grinned, some of my tension going out of me. Maybe she was his artist.
You had to wonder what he’d be like…
He recognized me as I approached, and his face took on an odd, guarded expression. The phrase that popped into my mind was, like a dog wondering if he’s about to be kicked. He knew I had seen him change, and we had not exchanged a word since. Awkward—
The girl I had been when I went up the alley would probably have said something like, “Hi, snoopy,” or if I’d been really clever, “Give me your paw and you can have my maw, arf arf.” Instead I said, “Hello, Charles. We haven’t been properly introduced; I’m Maureen.”
Can a face relax into a smile? His did. “Hello, Maureen. It’s good to see you up and around. Uh…may I present my good friend, the celebrated author, Ralph Von Wau Wau?”
I followed his gesture, didn’t see anybody.
“Down here, Fräulein,” came a voice from below.
I gaped.
“You got something against short people?” the German shepherd asked.
“Oh, stop it, Ralph,” Charles said. “Maureen is new here, and you know you take a bit of getting used to.”
The dog hung his head. “Aw, Curly, I vas chust teasing her a little.” Now he mentioned it, Charles did look like an underweight Third Stooge.
“Ralph is a mutant, Maureen. A psych experiment with serendipitous results. High IQ and a surgically modified larynx.”
Ralph barked with laughter. “Mein Gott! De t’ree uff us are Mo, Larynx, unt Curly!”
I took a deep breath, and then another. Then I squatted and held out my hand. “No offense, Ralph; it was rude of me to stare. Pleased to meet you.”
He extended his paw and we shook. “Zat wass a fast recovery, Maureen.”
“I’m learning about this place. Will you excuse me, Ralph, Charles? I’m eager to get to know you both, but right now I need to find Lady Sally; it’s important that I talk with her. Do either of you know where she might be?”
“Priscilla will know,” Charles said. “Oh, Priscilla! Here she comes—”
I gave Ralph a friendly scratch behind the ears, straightened up and turned to see Priscilla approaching. She wore sweatpants and a skintight muscle shirt. She was entitled. I would not have believed a woman could have so much sculptured muscle mass and still look totally feminine. She was astonishingly light on her feet. She had to be the bouncer.
And was. Charles introduced us—her grip was firm but not aggressive—and stated my problem. She nodded, murmured into her wristwatch, waited, then smiled at me. “Come on, hon.”
She led me to a door directly opposite the main entrance, between the two bars. We went down a short flight of stairs, through a fire door, went right along a short corridor and stopped at another door. Priscilla knocked a complex pattern.
“Come in,” came that distinctive voice.
Lady Sally sat behind an antique desk, on which were a computer, a printer and a Lava Lamp. The air smelled faintly of fine coffee, and a good stereo was playing good music at background volume. Books lined the walls. She nodded to a chair. “Sit down, dear. Thank you, Priscilla.”
“Sure, Boss.” Priscilla closed the door behind her.
Lady Sally held up one finger, typed a few keys with her other hand, shut down the computer and put away the startup disk. “Now then, darling, what can I do for you?”
It was hard to get enough air. I had rehearsed this a dozen times, and couldn’t remember my lines. “You’ve already done a lot for me, Lady.”
“No, dear,” she said. “I did that for myself. I hate a knife.”
Maureen, quit waiting for a better argument to occur to you and say what you came here to say—
“Do you know a man called the Professor?” I blurted.
She looked surprised. “I am acquainted with a gentleman of that name. Is yours a swindler?”
“The best in the world,” I agreed.
“Well, on the East Coast, at any rate. Yes, I know the Professor. Why do you ask?”
I hesitated, then went for broke. “If I dial his private number, will you speak with him for me?”
“You know him that well?”
“I lived with him for almost a year. And worked with him.”
I had succeeded in surprising, if not impressing her. “And you left that to work the streets for that Travis creature?”
I shrugged and sat back in my chair. “I’ve kicked myself a few times.”
“But why?”
I sighed deeply. “The best I can say it is that I started feeling sorry for the marks. It wasn’t easy: you know the Professor’s maniac thing about only conning creeps. But it got to me. Look: the Professor and I both screw people for a living—but the ones I screw are grateful afterwards. We both sell illusion; I just work cheaper. I know it doesn’t make much sense.”
“On the contrary, child,” she said slowly, “it makes a certain sense to me. Why do you wish me to speak with him now?”
I sat forward and met her eyes. “You said I don’t much like myself. I do and I don’t. If I try to give you a big sales pitch for me I’ll have trouble passing a lie-detector test; the best I can tell you is I’m not as bad as I could have been. But right after I first got here, I called up the Professor and to
ld him where I was, and he laughed and said I’d finally gotten exactly what I deserved and then hung up, and I want you to call him up now and ask him why he said that—” I was crying now. “—because if he was right and this place is what I deserve, then dammit you gotta take me and teach me!”
She blinked at me.
I had shot my bolt. I met her gaze and waited for her reply.
And a speaker crackled into life somewhere on her desk. “Boss!” Mary’s voice rapped, “Trouble in the Parlor! Sounds like one hostile. Pris is down; I’m on my way!”
Lady Sally was already loping up the stairs. I scrambled after her, hampered by a costume designed to keep the women from being able to run fast enough—
Richard Fariña once said, “There is a tide in the affairs of men, which taken at the flood, you’re liable to fucking drown.” As I burst into the Parlor, cursing at the pain in my side, the first thing I saw was the man who had put it there.
“God damn, Baby Love,” Big Travis called happily, “you lookin’ bad. You lookin’ like some solid citizen bitch, like a growed-up lady been around the world. That ain’t a bad look, that Jap shit; we’ll make us some money with that.” He gestured with his Saturday Night Special. “Bring it on over here.”
He was crazy-eye high on crank. The room was full of quiet still people. Priscilla lay face down at this feet, also quiet and still; I saw blood on the back of her neck, trickling along her splendid trapezius. He had to have sucker-punched her; he could never have taken her in a fair fight.
I hesitated a second, then smiled joyously.
The hesitation was fake. My brain was already up to speed from making my pitch to Lady Sally, I was full of adrenaline from running, and I’d just been thinking about the Professor, who can invent a new identity in the time it takes to shake hands. Shifting mental gears took no time at all: Travis would think the hesitation in getting my smile on was because I knew I was in for a rough time when he got me home.
“Travis! Thank God you found me—they’ve been keeping me prisoner! Get me out of here, baby!”
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