Shella

by Andrew Vachss

  I touched a spot where her neck met her shoulder, felt her jump with the pain. “Don’t try to run,” I told her.

  She opened the door. I heard her call “Candy?” I waited outside.

  A light came on in the house. Then another. I went around to the back, slipped in a window. I heard a sound from the front. Flesh on flesh. The girl Bonnie was on her knees. Shella was slapping her with one hand, holding the girl’s hair in the other. I stepped forward, let Shella see me.

  “What?” I asked her.

  “It’s okay. This bitch was late, that’s all,” Shella said to me. She turned her head, looked at the girl. “Weren’t you?” she said. Slapped her again, hard.

  “I thought—”

  “It’s okay,” she said to me. Again. “I’m taking her home.” Shella was dressed all in black, like a bodysuit. Boots on her feet, face all made up like she was going out. “We’ll finish this later.”

  I didn’t know who she was talking to when she said that.

  They went out together. I heard the car start up.

  Shella didn’t come back until the next afternoon. I was in the front room, watching television.

  “How come you never put the sound on?” she asked me.

  “I’m trying to learn how to read lips.”

  She gave me a funny look, said she was going to take a shower.

  When she came back inside, I was still there.

  “You never ask questions, do you?”

  “Sometimes.”

  “What you saw, last night. It’s just a game, okay?”

  “Sure.”

  “I do that, sometimes.”

  “All right.”

  “You don’t care?”

  “I don’t know what it is.”

  She sat on the arm of my chair, smelling like soap and powder. “You want me to do something for you?”

  I closed my eyes. Felt so tired.

  “Want me to read to you, baby? Read you a book?”

  I nodded, thinking about it. She gave me a little kiss, a sweet kiss.

  When I woke up, it was dark. A blanket over me. Shella was gone.

  I knew there was something in the memory. I didn’t push it, just let it pass through me. Like pain. I can see the inside of my body, sometimes. I got shot, once. A little gun. Just above the knee. It went in and out. I could see the hole in my pants when I took them off. In and out. I could see the path of the bullet. Like a tunnel, all red and clotted with white stuff. I wrapped a bandage around it, real tight. I saw inside my leg, saw the tunnel close, fill up. It got better. The scars are like dots, front and back.

  Memory. Shella slapping that girl. A hotel room. In Huntsville, Alabama. Some convention. Shella said we could make some heavy scores. When we checked in, I saw the signs for the convention. Women Executives. Advertising or something. I gave Shella a look. She winked at me. Told me we wouldn’t work Badger—she’d get the money herself. Just be ready if something went bad.

  I was in the connecting room when I heard her come in. I heard voices, then the sound of a belt. Shella wouldn’t turn hard tricks. I looked through the door. A fat woman was on the bed, face down, her wrists and ankles tied to the bedposts, a pillowcase over her head. Shella was whipping her. The back of the fat woman’s thighs were red against her pale-white skin.

  Shella showed me the money later. A lot of money. Why was Shella whipping that woman staying in my mind? I never remember anything for nothing. I let it run, waiting.

  I got it. When Shella worked that convention, we had another room. In a motel out on the highway. Took a cab to the convention hotel when we checked in. Like we were coming from the airport. When we checked out of the hotel, we took a cab to the airport. Then we caught another one back to the motel, where we had our car.

  When Misty got back, I told her I knew how to do it. Told her we’d go next Friday night. She ran over, gave me a big kiss like I’d done something great.

  The phone rang in the hotel room. It never rings. Nobody has the number. I pointed at Misty—she picked it up.

  “Oh! I’ll be right down. No, wait a minute. Can you send someone up with them? Okay. Thanks.” She bustled around the room, pulling on a pair of slacks.

  “What?”

  “You’ll see, baby.”

  A knock at the door. Friendly knock. Misty opened it. A bellboy in a uniform, whole mess of packages on one of those carts they use in hotels to move luggage. The bellboy put the stuff where Misty pointed, on the bed. He never looked at me. Misty gave him some bills. He sort of bowed, saying thanks. It must of been too much money.

  When he closed the door, Misty locked it, put on the chain. Danced around, flinging off her clothes.

  She opened one of the packages, opened another. Took out a little red piece of leather, held it up.

  “Isn’t it beautiful?”

  “What is it?”

  “A dress, baby. Wait … see, it goes with these shoes, and I have stockings for it, and …”

  “How come …?”

  She was looking at the dress—I could see it was a dress, now that she told me—holding it up. “I’ll have to use powder to get this on, but wait’ll you see …”

  She ran off into the bathroom. Closed the door. She doesn’t usually do that, close the door. I heard the shower. Turned on the TV.

  When she came out, she was in the red dress. It was so tight, she had to take little steps. The top of the dress pushed her breasts together so hard they were popping out over the red leather. Big zipper right down the front. The skirt was way up on her thighs. She had black stockings, red spike heels the same color as the dress. Her arms and her neck were bare, hair pulled up on top of her head, long earrings, little red balls at the end, dangling.

  “What do you think?”

  “It’s beautiful,” I told her. Shella had pranced around like that once, asked me how she looked. I told her “Good” and she threw an ashtray at me. So I knew not to say that again.

  “See how it shows me off, honey? With these heels, and the dark stockings …? Like I have long legs, yes?”

  “Yes.”

  “I don’t know how I’m gonna sit down in this. And I can’t wear pants under it either. But it’s worth it. I mean, I want you to be proud of me when we go out.”

  “I am proud of you. You look great, Misty.”

  “For real?”

  “I swear.”

  “Wait’ll you see the best part!” she said, rooting around in the other packages.

  I watched her bending over the bed. The skirt rode up, white flesh above the thick black bands at the top of her stockings. I could see her sex.

  “Look!” she said, holding up some black clothing.

  “What is it?”

  “It’s a suit, honey. For you. You don’t have clothes for a nightclub.”

  I let her fuss with the stuff. She was right—I never thought of it. A black suit. Smooth, shiny. A white shirt, like they wear with tuxedos, all ruffles in front. The shirt had little black buttons, black cufflinks. She even had black boots. Alligator, they looked like.

  “Everything fits,” I said. Surprised.

  “I measured you, honey. In your sleep. Every square inch. Do you like it?”

  “It’s great,” I said, letting her close all the little snaps and buttons on the shirt. I got into the pants. The waist was fine, but they didn’t feel right. “They’re too tight,” I said.

  “No, they’re not. Here …” She opened the snap at the top, moved around behind me, reached inside my underwear, grabbed my cock, moved it to one side. “Try them now.”

  They closed fine. I gave her a look. “That means you carry left, honey. You don’t … I mean, it’s not supposed to be right in the middle, you understand? Once you put it where it’s supposed to be, it won’t move, okay?”

  She looked so young then. Like something mattered, so much. I felt Shella near me, nudging me in the ribs, rolling her eyes like she did when she said I was being stupid. “It won’t
stay like this, I see you in that dress,” I told Misty. Her face lit up.

  The jacket fit real good. I looked at myself in the mirror. “The shoulders are too big,” I told Misty. They stuck way out.

  “They’re supposed to be like that,” she said. “It’s the fashion.”

  Later, I was on my back, Misty on top of me, breasts just brushing my face. Inside her, feeling her hard muscles inside the soft flesh. She was wet, dripping on me, pumping.

  When she was done, she fell asleep like that.

  Later again, she woke up. Rolled off me, lit a cigarette. Put her head against her shoulder, blew smoke at the ceiling.

  “How did I look in that dress, honey?”

  “Beautiful.”

  “You said that. That’s not what I mean. Did you think I looked like a … what? A college girl?”

  “No.”

  “A whore, then?”

  “No. Not that.”

  “But … what, baby?”

  I took a hit off her cigarette, thinking for the truth. “What do you call those things you dance in?”

  “Costumes?”

  “No. The G-string, like. The little strap that goes between your cheeks.”

  “That is a G-string.”

  “No. What do you call the thicker ones, like with a panel in front?”

  “Oh!” She jumped off the bed, looked through the drawers in the fake-wood bureau against the wall. “This?” she asked, holding up a piece of black silk.

  “I don’t know.…”

  She climbed into it, showed me. From the front, it looked like a pair of panties, but there was nothing covering the side of her legs, nothing behind but the strip that divided her butt.

  “Turn around,” I told her. “Bend over.”

  When she did, it was like she was naked, but her sex was covered by the black cloth.

  “What do you call that?”

  “A thong, honey.”

  “Can you get one the same color as the dress?”

  “Sure! That’s a good idea. I shoulda thought of it. You’re so sweet. It’s … prettier that way, huh?”

  “Yes.”

  “Are we going to dance, baby? At the club?” It was the next morning, way before she had to go to work.

  “I don’t know how,” I told her. I hadn’t thought about it.

  “Didn’t you ever learn?”

  “No.”

  “Want me to teach you?”

  “It wouldn’t do any good,” I told her. Thinking of Shella. How she tried to show me. “Just hold me, one hand on my shoulder … like that … yes … one hand on my waist, okay? Now just move with the music—I’ll follow you.” It didn’t work. I tried and tried—I never get tired—but it didn’t work. I kept bumping her, pushing her around, stepping on her feet. Shella finally quit. “I don’t get it,” she said. “I’ve watched you snatch flies out of the air without even hurting them. You move so beautiful when you’re … working. But… it’s like there’s no music in you.” I shook my head. Misty came over to me, smiling.

  “Come on, let’s just try, okay?”

  I went along with it. Some song playing on the radio. It was no good. Finally, Misty just put her head against my chest, stood there close to me, swaying a little until the song was over.

  Friday afternoon, we took off. Misty had made a reservation at one of the motels near the airport. LaGuardia Airport, only a few miles from where we had to go later. The cab dropped us right in front, like we came in on a plane.

  The room was the same as all of them. Misty took a shower for a long time. I watched TV. Then she made a call, to have the limo come for us at ten o’clock that night. She laid out everything on the bureau: makeup, nail polish, hair brushes. She said she was going to take a nap, to wake her at seven so she could get ready.

  I thought it through while she was asleep. It didn’t have to be tonight. Maybe he wouldn’t even be there.

  We stood out in front of the motel, waiting so the limo driver wouldn’t have to call up to the room. The parking lot was full of people making deals, standing around in little groups, talking through the windows of cars. They weren’t slick about it. I saw a car pull up, three guys walk over to it. Two other guys got out of the back, opened the trunk. One guy looked through the trunk, took out a flat suitcase, opened it up, looked inside. They traded the suitcase for an airline bag, and the car drove off.

  Men walked by, looked at Misty. She held on to my arm, just a light touch. Two men came up the steps, all dressed up in peacock clothes. One of them smiled at Misty, said something in Spanish. The other looked at me real hard. I dropped my eyes. I could smell their perfume as they went past us, laughing.

  The limo was on time. The driver had a business suit on, wearing a cap with a little peak. He opened the back door, held it for Misty. We climbed inside.

  Once we got rolling, Misty told him we changed our minds, gave him the address of the club, not someplace in Manhattan, where she’d told them at first. He looked over his shoulder, said he was sorry, but it would have to be the same price. Misty told him it was okay.

  The cops ask him any questions, all he’d ever remember was Misty busting out of that dress. Me, I look like anybody.

  The limo pulled right in front of the club. The driver came around the curb side. I got out first, held out my hand to Misty. Just the way he did, when I was watching him from up on the train platform.

  I gave the driver a twenty. Misty told him we’d call his dispatcher when we were ready to come home.

  The two bodyguards out front never looked at us.

  Inside the door, a man was sitting at a white table, a gray metal box in front of him. I gave him a hundred, he handed me back a fifty. A short, muscular guy was standing next to the table. He tilted his head, and we followed the directions. There was another room straight ahead. I stood still while a skinny guy ran his hands over me. He wasn’t playing around, checked my ankles, inside of my thighs, small of my back. He had a knife in a shoulder holster—I never saw one like that before.

  A woman was there too—looked like a jailhouse matron, short hair, heavy forearms. She ran her hands over Misty, looked in her purse.

  We kept walking, following some people in front of us. Staircase leading down. I went first, feeling Misty’s hand on my shoulder.

  We found a table against one wall. The place was dark, soft blue lights running in thin tubes all around the ceiling. A waitress came over, wearing a short black dress with a white apron in front. Misty ordered a frozen Daiquiri, I ordered rum and Coke, two glasses.

  The room was laid out in a crooked circle, tables all around the sides. In the center, there was a dance floor. The music was slow, stringy stuff… guitars and piano. I couldn’t see a band, the music came from everywhere. Finally, I spotted a few of the speakers—there must’ve been dozens of them.

  A couple of tables away, a tall woman with a wild mane of black hair took out a mirror, tapped some coke onto it from a silver tube, chopped it into lines, snorted a line into each nostril through a rolled-up bill. Then she passed the mirror to the man with her.

  When people went on the dance floor, baby spotlights shot down from the ceiling. Off and on, little pools of white light, big puddles of black. Like prison searchlights, just roaming around, nobody at the controls.

  I drank some of the Coke, poured the shot glass of rum into what was left. When the waitress came, we ordered the same again.

  After a while, we got up to dance. Just stood on the edge of the dance floor, not moving. Misty rubbed against me. I put my head down so I could hear what she was saying, but she was just singing some song to herself.

  He came in just before midnight. With the same woman. They took him to a table that stood off by itself. Nothing else was close to it.

  I couldn’t be sure it was him, this Carlos that Monroe told me about, until he got up to dance. A tall, narrow man, black hair pulled straight back from his forehead, tied in the back with a ponytail. He was wearing a lon
g white coat, like cowboys wear, only silk. When he stood up, it was almost down to his ankles. The woman with him was wearing pants made out of that stretch stuff, like they wear for exercising, so tight her rear was two separate halves. The pants were black around the calves but they got lighter and lighter as they went up. The part covering her butt was silver. He held the coat open and she stepped inside, dancing by herself while he stood there. His hands were covered with diamonds—he held them so they framed her butt, silver wiggling inside the flash. Her hands were around his waist—I couldn’t see them under the long coat.

  When they sat down, a waitress brought him a silver tray, little mound of white powder on it. The woman with him had a tiny spoon on a chain around her neck. She sat on his lap, scooped some powder, held it to his nose. Did it again. She didn’t take any for herself.

  A heavy set man came in with a blonde on his arm. The blonde was in an orange dress cut all the way down to her waist, held together with straps across the front. Misty leaned over to me. “You think I look like that?” she asked.

  I wasn’t sure what to say, so I shook my head.

  “She looks like a cheap piece of goods,” Misty said. “No class.”

  I nodded, watching the woman on the man’s lap.

  Carlos and the woman got up to dance again. The music was faster now, but Carlos still didn’t move. The woman was climbing all over him, twisting like a snake, working hard.

  “What’s that dance, that they’re doing?” I asked Misty.

  “It’s the Lambada … or, anyway, it’s supposed to be. That skinny bitch can’t shake it worth a damn. You see the way those pants are cut … to make her look like she’s got a decent butt? She wouldn’t last ten minutes on a runway.”

  The woman’s legs were all hard muscle under the pants. I still couldn’t see her hands.

  Misty got up to go to the ladies’ room. When she came back, she told me all about it. Gold trim around the mirrors, a maid with towels, trays of perfume, coke.

  The later it got, the more crowded it was. The smoke was so heavy it stung my eyes. Misty was used to it, she said it wasn’t so bad.