Sin City

by Wendy Perriam

  “Jan, I’ve got money. You’ve got to let me help you. And Norah. What happened to poor Norah? Is she all right?”

  I nod. I’m touched that he should ask, but somehow wary still. Why should he help, or care so much?

  “I don’t care what it costs, so long as you get out of here.”

  I chew my thumb, which saves me from replying. Of course I’m flattered, grateful, but a bit pissed off as well. He’s still hot and damp from Suzie, just shot his sperm in her, or paid to have her spank him, tie him up. Yet he can still play the puritan with me, the innocent who finds brothels quite distasteful, has to “rescue” me.

  “It’s not that easy, Victor. I can’t just walk out. Carl’s been pretty decent on the whole, and we’re busy at the moment and …”

  “I’ll deal with Carl. If you’ve got a contract here, I’ll buy you off. Money’s not a problem. I’ll go see him now, explain you’re …”

  “No!” I shout. “I don’t want you interfering. I don’t want you here at all.”

  The silence seems louder than my yell. I don’t know why I shouted, or even why I sounded quite so cruel. I’m so confused and somehow still suspicious. I can’t explain it really, but it feels as if he’s … buying me. He’ll pay for me to leave, but what is he expecting in return? I line up my jars of make-up in a row. So many jars, so much paint and camouflage: lip-gloss, varnish, highlighters. Is Victor’s kindness another sort of mask, concealing something sinister – the outward smiling face of some perversion?

  He slumps against the wall; seems older, even haggard, face more drawn, frown-lines newly etched as he stares down at my sentry-line of pots. When he speaks at last, it’s very flatly; a dry brown shrivelled voice with no sap left in it. “Okay, Jan, I’ll go.” He walks heavily and slowly to the door, stops, turns round to face me. “Would you let me do one thing?”

  “What?”

  “Send you two airline tickets back to London? Then if you or Norah change your mind, or find you’re missing England or want to go back home, at least you’re not stranded here alone. I’ll get them in the mail tomorrow, leave them open-dated.”

  I spring up from the stool. Can I be hearing right? This man wants nothing in return, is willing to spend a thousand dollars on a girl who shouts at him, a girl he’ll never see again, a mean mistrustful girl who thinks giving and taking are two joined and hyphened words. Victor’s knocked the hyphen out, kicked aside the taking. This is giving for its own sake, without strings or IOUs. And the saintly guy is leaving, walking through the door. I can only see his navy back, hunched and defeated, as he turns into the passage.

  “Wait!” I shout, dash out after him, drag him back, close the door and lean against it. We catch each other’s eyes, look down. Now I’m the one who’s short of words. Thank you is too feeble. “I’m … not going back to England,” is all I manage to blurt out. “Not for ages anyway.”

  “No?” His whole body seems reprieved, as if someone’s let him go, stopped holding him bone-rigid on a string.

  “No.”

  “But you’re … staying here to work?” The string tautens once again, even the voice gruffer and more harsh now.

  “I’m not sure. Let me think about it. It’s such a shock, this, Victor, meeting you again and …”

  “I know. I understand. It’s one helluva shock for me as well.”

  I edge away from him. This room is too damned small for all the wild emotions whirling through it – shame, amazement, gratitude, resentment still and fear, and some crazy new excitement that the guy should care so much. I don’t want emotions, do I, don’t want to feel at all. I’ve spent the last ten days learning to be cool and tough, indifferent; not to have a heart, or only just a plastic one. And now Victor reappears, churns me up again, reminds me that I can feel, that I’m not completely numb.

  Numb? I’m boiling hot, and shaky; grope towards the windowsill. I feel short of space, short of air. The one small window is too high up to open. The walls are dizzy with flocks of flying birds which seem to flap towards me, hem me in. I’ve never understood why birds in a boxroom, especially this exotic breed, bluebirds from a fairy-tale with outstretched necks and golden eyes. Perhaps the wallpaper came cheap, or they used this room for children once. Wild blue wings are thrashing in my stomach, sharp beaks pecking down my spine. I steady myself against the sill, trace the outline of one V-shaped body. “Did you … really miss me, Victor? I mean you’re not just saying it?” I’m speaking to the wall.

  Victor’s voice is right behind my back. When I move, he moves, as if he can’t bear being parted from me, even by an eight-foot stretch of carpet.

  “I’ve been searching for you ever since. I’ve spent hours and hours hanging around the foyer of the Tropicana, watching everyone go in and out – everyone but you.”

  “The Tropicana? Why?”

  “That’s where you were staying, wasn’t it?”

  Another invention, one I’d quite forgotten. So many lies. Will he ever know the real me? Do I want him to? I’ve been hurt enough with Reuben.

  “Or were you working here already, Jan? Was the Tropicana story just a cover?”

  “No, of course not. Well, yes, I mean …” God! It’s so confusing. I mustn’t lie to Victor. He’s such a genuinely decent sort of person, my lies seem really shabby and unfair.

  He turns me round, tries to search my eyes. “Jan, that guy. The one I saw you with. Was he – well … important? I mean, things were really great between us – or so I thought until …” He swallows, tries again. “I just couldn’t understand what made you go off with some guy like that. What did I do wrong?”

  I sink down on the bed, silent for a moment. I’m remembering again: Victor feeding me his steak; buying me my trench coat; kissing all my fingertips when he left me late at night; still touching hands when he was halfway through the door, as if he couldn’t bear to tear himself away. “Nothing,” I whisper. “Absolutely nothing. You treated me quite beautifully. The man was no one, worse than no one. I’ve never even seen him since that night. And I wouldn’t want to, thanks.”

  He lifts his head, as if I’ve removed some crushing burden from it. He doesn’t speak – nor do I – just comes and sits beside me on the bed, links his fingers through my own, puts an arm around me. Minutes pass. I feel my breathing calm a little. I’d forgotten just how peaceful it could be with him, not wild crazy elation as with Reuben, just quiet content.

  We both jump when the phone rings. It’s Carl again. My customer’s arrived – early. Will I get myself together and go greet him in the lounge.

  “But Victor’s here still.”

  “Who?”

  “Er … Alvin.”

  “I’ll look after Alvin. Danny’s a big spender, I don’t want him messed about. Fix him a drink first, then take him down to Suzie’s room.”

  “Suzie’s?”

  “Yeah. It’s the only one that’s free. She’s in the jacuzzi with a bunch of Japs.”

  “But …”

  “No ‘buts,’ kid. Move your ass.”

  Carl’s slammed his receiver down. I’m still holding on to mine, clinging to it like an anchor while cross-currents surge and swell within my mind. Suzie’s room, Suzie’s bed, where Victor lay himself just half an hour ago; gentle Victor overlaid by big brash raucous Danny; Carl’s peremptory orders when Victor’s just offered me my freedom. The phone-lead kinks itself in tangles as I fidget to and fro with it, trying to decide what to do, what to even say. “I’m … wanted, Victor,” I stutter out at last.

  “What d’ you mean?”

  I try to explain, leave the sentence hanging. I’ve never seen Victor so distraught. He’s striding up and down, ramming his fist against the wall, whirling round to face me. “No, Jan, no. You can’t. You mustn’t.” He strikes his own palm, hard, sinks down on the stool, leaps up again. “I’ll go see Carl, explain you’re leaving with me.”

  “No,” I say with equal vehemence. How can I just walk out? It’s all too su
dden, too dramatic. I’m not sure I can trust him, even now. And what right has he to tell me what I can’t do? He had Suzie. I’ll have Danny. At least that makes us quits. Anyway, I need more time, time to think, time to weigh his offer up, including that offer of free flights back to England. I could always change my mind, move somewhere new and different: the Midlands or the North, even Scotland maybe, start again from scratch. My hundredth man – then out, back home to freedom. Well, maybe not quite freedom, but at least it might be simpler than trying to stay on here, without a proper permit and no medical insurance. Just one minor illness could set us back a hundred bucks, and I’m worried about Norah as it is. Angelique got her some new pills, but God knows what they are or if they’ll suit her. And she can’t stay there for ever, sitting on her butt all day with just a cat for company, and George. I dragged her out here; I ought to get her back. Perhaps I should walk out. I mean, now’s the time to leave – leave Carl, leave the States – while I’ve got a guy to help me, not just with the air fares, but with the whole frightening business of reporting our lost passports.

  No, impossible. How can I confess about the passports, admit the whole Reuben thing to Victor, when he’s already so disturbed by some less-than-nothing client? He’s crouching down in front of me, imploring. “Jan, let me stay with you, extend my time. Can’t this … this Danny” – he vomits out the name – “have someone else?”

  “There isn’t anyone else. Fridays are like Clapham Junction here.”

  “Well, let me try, for Christ’s sake. There must be some way around it, something Carl can do. Won’t you let me even ask?”

  I nod. “Okay, if you want, but …”

  He’s already through the door and down the passage. He isn’t old at all, not now. He’s shed twenty years in seconds. I’m smiling to myself as I watch him disappear. I’ve never been wanted quite so desperately – and just to talk. I suspect he’ll offer Carl a fortune, outbid even Danny. Carl will haggle, obviously, take advantage of the deadlock. I can almost hear that iron-in-velvet voice. “Yeah, sure I understand, Sir, but this other guy’s a highly respected customer. I can’t afford to lose him. He booked Adorée specially. She’s very popular.”

  Adorée finds her shoes, her stockings, sits down at the dressing-table, lipsticks on her smile. Two men smile back, dim wraiths in the mirror – jowly sun-scorched Danny on the left, pale devoted Victor on the right. She sweeps her cache of jars to the right side of the table – her pile of gaming chips.

  Her money’s all on Victor.

  Chapter Twenty Six

  I lost. I’m lying under Danny, on Suzie’s huge gold waterbed. Actually, we’re almost through. He’s come already, though it’s no credit to me. I’m surprised he didn’t kick me out, in fact. I was just a second mattress; could hardly feel my body for all the turmoil raging through my mind. I was really back with Victor in my room. He’s in there now, alone. He arranged with Carl to take me on an out-date, an All-Niter – after Danny’s left. I was furious at first. My free night gone, tomorrow’s early start with Angelique simply shrugged aside. Victor’s offer was obviously too high for Carl to worry about petty things like free time or prior arrangements.

  All-Niters can be dangerous. Some brothels won’t allow them, so those that do can charge the earth – up to two hundred bucks an hour. That won’t stop a pervert who wants a girl all night, and all alone, just so he can strangle her, or fire a round of bullets up her cunt. Carl takes down all the details on the client’s driving licence, makes sure he’s got the name of his hotel, but it still remains a risk – another of the risks we run to swell his funds, keep his profits flowing. Okay, Victor’s not a homicidal maniac, but there are other sorts of danger, and I still feel so mixed up. I mean, supposing he …

  “You’re kinda quiet tonight, doll.” Danny shifts his weight, tweaks my hair. I try to smile and flirt a bit, my words as damp and heavy as his naked torso slumped across my breasts. My hundredth man, and I’ve more or less ignored him. It’s the next man I’m concerned with, the next few hours in front of me. Danny’s just a hindrance. I listen for the pinger, will it to go off. I can only hear his fast and phlegmy breathing. He leans up on one elbow.

  “You not feelin’ good, sugar?”

  “Yeah, I’m fine.” I stroke his hair mechanically. Victor was wonderful at stroking. We never did much more; I don’t know why. I wish Carl hadn’t left him in my room. It was a question of privacy again – Victor’s privacy, of course, not mine. Supposing he’s rifling through my things? No, he wouldn’t dream of doing that. I feel uneasy, all the same. I’ve told so many lies, I suppose I’m scared he’ll find me out, find some evidence against me – thief or mental patient, failed Zionist, failed bride. It’s odd that I could feel so much for Reuben, lose everything for Reuben, and now be in a jitter because another guy, a completely different guy, different in age, looks, temperament, ideals, is about to take me out. Do I want to go or don’t I? God! I wish I knew. I was rather looking forward to my early night – a real glutton supper with no big-hulk man lying on my groaning stomach afterwards; a giggle with Desirée in the cat-room, then off to bed, alone, with a glossy magazine. I’ll have to warn Angelique that I won’t be leaving with her in the morning, scribble her a note if she’s otherwise engaged, tell her I’ll join her at her house, as soon as I can get away tomorrow, book a cab or something. And she’d better take the clothes and stuff for Norah. I can’t lug thick lisle stockings and armpit-high pink bloomers on my first romantic out-date.

  “You sure are miles away.” Danny’s sounding peeved. The pinger kindly blurs my lame excuses. We both get up. I help him with his clothes as a sort of extra-cum-apology – tartan trousers, two-tone shoes. He smells of sweat and aftershave; his skin is tacky damp. Both smell and dampness seem to have transferred themselves to me. It’s as if I’ve lost my cover, or Victor’s peeled it off. That makes me still more nervous. I keep inanely chattering as I pass his shirt and jacket. The jacket feels quite heavy, weighed down with wallet, bankrolls, silver cigarette case. I dress myself, smooth the frilled gold bedspread, retrieve the velvet cushions. Suzie’s room is daunting. The ruched and pleated drapes exactly match the thick gold satin padding round the mirrors which reflect more silk and frills.

  I usher Danny to the door, try to use the few remaining minutes to blank out the last hour, so he’ll leave with happy memories. There’s also the small matter of a tip. Usually he stuffs a wad of dollar bills down each cup of my bra. It’s a little joke between us, to keep my breasts warm, as he puts it. Lots of clients slip you extra. It’s a way of saying thank you, a sort of bond between you. My breasts stay cold this evening. Danny says goodbye, but nothing else. I start to worry. Supposing he reports me? That could really lead to trouble, cost me my whole job.

  I return to my room via Angelique’s. She’s not there, so I leave the note and a cartoon drawing of Danny with a massive body and a tiny cock. I open my door as quietly as I can. If Victor’s snooping, he deserves to be surprised. He’s not. He’s sitting on the stool, head down, sad slumped back towards me.

  “Victor.”

  He swings round, relief and resentment fighting in his face. Neither of us speaks. The moment’s too embarrassing. I’d like to scour Danny off, shower three times, soak in disinfectant. Impossible with Victor there. He clears his throat, mumbles something about leaving when I’m ready.

  I’m not ready. I need a respite on my own just to quieten down, change my knickers, change my mood. Yet it seems cruel to ask Victor to hang around outside when he’s already had one agonising wait, and is now hovering around me with that anxious hangdog look. So I simply grab a toothbrush and a sweater, let him lead me to his car. I’ll wash in his hotel. He seems to have forgotten his pressing need for privacy, takes me out the front and public way, almost flaunts me as he settles me in front. The Jan who sat there just two weeks ago is dead and buried. All except her name. Every time he uses it, I feel a pang of guilt, but I daren’t explain things now, wh
en we’re both so nervous still, so unsure of one another.

  I’m surprised to see it’s dark. It was only afternoon when I stripped off to have my bath, and the time with Danny could have been bright dawn or spooky midnight for all the notice I was taking of trivial things like time of day. We seem to have plunged straight from sunny daylight to black night, with no dusk or twilight in between. The powerful headlamps light up the dirt road. The rest is shadow; blurry shapes surging into focus, then disappearing as we swoop away. I’ve been closeted indoors every evening since I came here, confined to bluebird walls or cosy chintz. The dark gape of the night seems raw and threatening in comparison. Carl has failed to tame it, rig it up with spotlights, soften it with drapes.

  Victor switches on some music, a cassette of marching tunes. I’m grateful. Talking isn’t easy. Danny’s come between us, is still there in the car. I’m leaking his semen, smelling of his Aramis, and I know how Victor hates that. He seems turned in on himself, driving too fast along the bumpy pitted track. The music lurches with us – oompah-oompah, angry clash of cymbals.

  At last, we reach the main road with its decent concrete surface. A jaunty trumpet blares out my own relief. We’re almost at the highway. Victor stops before we reach it, turns the engine off.

  I tense. What now? He’s changed his mind. I’m not worth all that cash.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing. I’ve been wondering all this time where to go for dinner. I thought I’d take you somewhere special, Jan. There’s this Persian place with a real unusual menu and little boys in turbans who bring you finger-bowls with flower petals floating on the top. Or there’s a tiny French one, very chic, with a chef who trained in Paris, or there’s always Caesars – the Palace court or the Bacchanal. Except we’ve been to both of those. In fact, we’ve spent too much time in restaurants. What I’d really like is …” He breaks off, seems embarrassed.

  “Yes?”

  “To take you home to my place.”