by Ritz, David
This much I had learned for sure: Just sitting across from someone and listening gives you power. It gives you information about them. It’s like you’re in the audience watching a play. You can relax, watch the action, and enjoy the plot. You don’t have to do anything. You just show up, take your seat, and settle back. That’s the approach I took when I went to meet Holly Windsor for the first time.
It was a mild winter for New York City. The air was crisp and clean, and the rhythms of the city got under my skin—the stream of yellow cabs, the people on the street, the anxious hurry-up attitude that makes New York New York. I felt energized. After the sticky humidity of Florida and Georgia, the cold felt good against my skin. I liked wearing an overcoat. I liked seeing women fashionably dressed in long woolen skirts and sweaters. I’d seen enough South Beach bikinis to last me a lifetime. To me, New York had class.
The Holly Windsor Agency lobby had plenty of class. It was in a converted hat factory turned high-tech office building. The brick walls were exposed and the lighting subdued. The furniture was curvy and sleek, like pieces of modern sculpture. The receptionist looked like Lady Gaga. I wondered what Holly Windsor looked like.
I didn’t expect her to have purple hair and be as tall as me. Her hair wasn’t entirely purple—it was basically black—but it was accented with purple highlights. She wore a black pantsuit and silver jewelry except for purple earrings that matched the highlights in her hair. She wasn’t pretty, but I wouldn’t call her ugly. She knew how to work with what she had. She had height. She had a thin body. Her neck was long and her mouth small. I noticed that her fingernails were painted black. I also noticed her shoes—purple Adidas sneakers. She looked at me straight in the eye. Her own eyes were misty gray. She spoke in a low, excited voice, something like an actress.
“Oh, Power,” she said, extending her hand, “since the first I heard your name I have been dying—darling, I mean dying—to meet you. What kind of man carries the name of Power? I had to know. I had to see for myself. Now that I see, I understand. Follow me into my den. There’s much to discuss.”
Her den had no desk, only two matching black suede couches and a silver love seat. On the wall were paintings of exotic birds and sexy flowers. Purple drapes were drawn and fell all the way to the floor. Outside I could hear the traffic on Broadway. Her iPod was on low volume, but I could hear a love song by Prince.
As Holly leaned back in the love seat, I tried to guess her age. Forty? Fifty? Somewhere in there.
“You come highly recommended,” she said. “You must tell me all about yourself.”
“Not much to tell.”
“Oh, please, darling. Even at your ridiculously young age, I know you’ve lived a life of adventure. Tell me about the people you’ve been working with.”
“I’ve just been training here and there. Looking to learn.”
“And have you learned?”
“I think so.”
“Charles Simmons tells me your best quality is discretion,” she said. “And I can see that your reluctance to discuss your former employers is an indication of that discretion. But of course I know Mr. Irv Wasserman, and naturally I know Mr. Renato Ruiz, and I am certain you would not be here had you not served them both with absolute loyalty and discretion. As a matter of fact, my agency is all about discretion. So feel free to say whatever you like about your former employers. I assure you, love, that it will go no further than this room. I hope you don’t mind if I smoke.”
“It’s your office.”
“It’s a den, darling, not an office.” She placed a cigarette in a slim black holder and lit it with a silver lighter. “Tell me what you’ve been through, Power. Open your heart.”
“I’ve just been trying to mind my own business.”
“While helping others with theirs. But what was their business like? What was it like to be working with a man like Wasserman? And what is your take on our mutual friend Mr. Ruiz?”
“They’re interesting men.”
“Discretion! You are the quintessence of discretion! A quality to be admired, but now you are in New York, far away from your former bosses, and I must know what you think and how you feel about everything. If I am to trust you, darling Power, I must know you.”
Holly took a long drag of her cigarette and blew out a perfectly formed ring of smoke. I watched it float up to the ceiling.
“Once we start working together, you’ll get to know me soon enough,” I said.
“Why do you think that Ruiz’s attempt to take over my agency met with such catastrophic results? Can you tell me that?”
“Not really.”
She laughed out loud. I liked her laugh. It was almost musical. Her laugh made me smile.
“He failed because he’s a fucking idiot, isn’t he? He failed because, when it comes to women, he knows nothing—absolutely positively nothing. He failed because he’s a lowlife drug dealer. He failed because he’s a sleazeball looking to operate in a world of class. Wouldn’t you agree with me, dear Power? Wouldn’t you say that I’ve hit the nail on the head?”
“I’m not sure.”
“Please, dear, spare me your loyalty. Admit this man is trash.”
I stayed silent.
“You’re perfect, Power, you really are. Given the chance to bad-mouth people you must really want to bad-mouth, you still say nothing. Most impressive, darling. Most impressive indeed. That makes me feel like when our time together is over, you’ll also be discreet in discussing me. And, importantly, in discussing my clients.”
“Who are your clients?”
“Brilliant question. You don’t know?”
“If I did, I wouldn’t ask.”
“Women. My clients are women, beautiful women. That’s why you’re here, isn’t it? Aren’t you here because you love beautiful women and beautiful women love you?”
“Not really. I’m here because Slim sent me here.”
“Charles told me that, like him, you are a great connoisseur of beautiful women. He told me that you are an old-fashioned man who likes to protect beautiful women. Am I wrong?”
I just shrugged. I didn’t know where this was going.
“Do you understand what a modeling agency does?” she asked.
“Find work for models,” I answered.
“And what sort of work?”
I didn’t know why I was being questioned like this, but I guessed that was Holly’s style. “Magazine work,” I said. “Work on TV commercials. The usual.”
Holly smiled. “A reasonable answer from a reasonable man. You are a reasonable man, aren’t you?”
“I think so.”
She put out her cigarette in a silver ashtray and stood up. She had good posture. She walked over to the window, pulled back the drapes, and pointed to the street below.
“Most men aren’t reasonable. Most men think with their dicks. Wouldn’t you agree with me, dear?”
“I’ve never taken a survey,” I said.
“Are you a man who thinks with your dick?”
I laughed. “I like to think that I think with my brain, Miss Windsor.”
“Holly,” she said, correcting me. “I am Holly and you are Power. And your power in sitting in my den and having this dialogue with me, darling, this extraordinary dialogue, is quite evident. This is a screen test, Power. This is your moment. And I must say you’re doing wonderfully well. Are you proud of yourself? Are you feeling good?”
“I’m feeling fine,” I said, thinking that the lady was more than half nuts.
“Good, because what I’m feeling is that you’re right for this job. I say that because I’m a woman who lives life instinctually, not scientifically. Science is overrated, wouldn’t you say?”
“Don’t know.”
“Well, I do, sweetheart. I know that most men think through their dicks. I have experience in that area. Tremendous experience. Experience is our greatest teacher. Books are fine. You’re studying certain books, aren’t you?”
; “At the community college, yes.”
“And what books are those?”
“Business books. And a history one.”
“You’re ambitious, Power, which is another reason you’re sitting in my den subjecting yourself to my scrutiny. Only ambitious people interest me. Without ambition life is a boring train ride from the crib to the grave. That sounds philosophical, doesn’t it? Are you taking philosophy at that junior college?”
“No.”
“Good. Philosophy is a waste of time. I don’t like it. But I do like psychology. Are you taking a psychology course?”
“No.”
“You should, darling. See if it’s not too late to register for Psychology 101. I think of myself as a psychologist. And recently I’ve been tested. Intensely tested. And I must say that I’ve passed with flying colors. Would you like me to explain?”
“Yes, I would.”
“You have a generous spirit, Power, and a spirit that does not judge. That’s important in this work. Most people love to judge. They judge others so they don’t have to judge themselves. I have had to learn not to judge. Of course there are certain people—and I do confess that I have your former employer Mr. Renato Ruiz in mind—who don’t require judgment because their fatal flaws of character will conspire in ways to bring them down. They will fall, as Mr. Ruiz has fallen, and their humiliation will be absolute. Other people—take your Charles Simmons, for example—elude judgment because their brilliance keeps them three or four steps ahead of us mere mortals. Are you following me, darling?”
“I think so.”
“Now I will speak of myself. I will speak of myself in the third person—as Holly Windsor. I will look at myself like a character in a play, a girl from Tulare, a small city in the very fertile agricultural belt of central California, a city that was neither here nor there. This girl, this Holly Windsor, grew up on fashion magazines because her mother loved fashion. Her mother, June, was a failed model who, having missed the mark in New York City, found herself back in her hometown of Los Angeles modeling at a car show, where she met a wealthy farmer named Jack Windsor. Jack grew tomatoes, asparagus, and apricots. Jack appreciated beautiful women and June was certainly beautiful. Her first and only child—Holly Windsor—was not. You might say that she was homely. But June couldn’t accept that fact and, with the magic of makeup, worked on Holly for years and years. Do you know why I’m telling you all this, darling?” she asked.
“No.”
“Because it’s absolutely essential that you know Holly Windsor. You must know who she is. She must reveal herself to you with complete candor. She must tell you that she has suffered at the hands of a mother who could not accept a simple reality—that her daughter had the face of her father, not her mother. Am I boring you, darling?”
“Not at all.”
“Good, because there is more to tell about Holly Windsor. She tried to see herself through her mother’s distorted lens. Her mother trained her in poise, taught her posture and charm. Her mother gave her all the skills that, as a young lady, her mother had lacked. But because Holly lacked beauty, she, like her mother before her, failed as a model. So she left New York and flew south to Miami. Before I go any further, there is an essential detail in this story that explains why Holly Windsor and June Windsor no longer speak. Can you guess what that detail might be?”
“I wouldn’t want to try.”
“Holly Windsor loves women. She loves them passionately. Does that shock you, darling Power?”
“No.”
“Does that surprise you?”
“Not really.”
“So you had come to that conclusion on your own?”
“I hadn’t really thought about it.”
“Discretion! You are the soul of discretion! How I love this man! How I thank the sweet fates of good fortune for sending him my way! Do you think of yourself as a Southern gentleman?”
“My mother taught me good manners.”
“They show. They really do, darling. They make a woman feel at ease. Holly Windsor thought that by moving to Miami she would feel at ease. The pace would ease up. The pressures of New York would be lifted. She found work at a swimsuit modeling agency answering the phone. Five years later she was second in charge. And five years after that, she ran the place. Let me ask you a question, my love. Have you seen Scarface?”
“Sure.”
“Well, Holly Windsor became the Scarface of Miami modeling. She took over the city. She scooped up every salable model in sight—and she got top dollar. She taught herself Spanish. Habla español, Power?”
“No.”
“Well, Holly does. Holly went to Brazil and Colombia, to Venezuela and Chile, where she sold her models to the top magazines. Holly went to France, Holly went to Italy. Holly became rich, richer than her rich farmer father, who, along with her mother, vowed never to speak to her again because she loved women. Let me be clear, though. And let me be honest. Holly did love many of the models she represented, but Holly did not touch one—not a single one—because Holly learned what the jackass sleazeball Mr. Renato Ruiz never learned. You don’t sample your own merchandise. Ever. Are you in agreement with me, Power?”
“I am.”
“Good. But just because Holly understood that one lesson didn’t mean she understood other lessons. Cocaine isn’t the only seductive drug that can bring you down. Real estate is just as lethal. Especially in South Florida. The lust for property—beachfront property—can overwhelm a woman from Tulare, California, looking to conquer the world and prove to her parents, who have scorned her for loving women, that she is, above all, a genius. Have you ever met a genius?”
“I’m not sure.”
“Holly Windsor thought she was a genius. She was absolutely convinced of the fact. Holly Windsor was also in love. Her lover was a real estate agent, a former beauty queen from Palm Beach named Maribel Joyspring. Can you imagine such a name, Power? Maribel was convinced that she too was a genius. So we have two self-proclaimed geniuses, Holly and Maribel, sharing a bed and a vision of buying up South Beach, one block at a time. What Holly the genius didn’t know was that Maribel the genius was also crooked to the core.
“Lust is one thing. Lust in and of itself is not confusing. Lust is what it is. But love—love, my darling, is the most confusing emotion on God’s green planet. And when you have lust and love all wrapped up in parcels of pricey real estate—well, you can see what happened. The modeling agent followed the crooked real estate agent down the primrose path to financial ruin. So what did Holly Windsor do? She begged and borrowed and kept it all together until it all fell apart. And she fell apart. Did Mr. Charles Simmons tell you this story, Power? Am I boring you?”
“Yes . . . I mean, no, you’re not boring me, and yes, Slim told me something about the story, but not much.”
“Well, I’m telling you too much, but I have to, darling. I can’t leave anything out of the story since you’re now part of the story. A vital part. Because even though Humpty Dumpty Holly Windsor fell off the wall and had a great fall, all the king’s horses and all the king’s men did put her put back together again. She put herself back together again. She always has and she always will. That’s because she’s a woman who, having made a mistake once, will not make the same mistake twice. Other mistakes, perhaps. Other mistakes, certainly. But not that mistake—not the mistake of mistaking lust for love. Because if we confuse lust for love we lose reason. And reason is all that’s separating us from the sleazeballs looking to steal our gold. I’m speaking of Mr. Renato Ruiz and I’m speaking of Miss Maribel Joyspring, that cunt.
“But all that is past tense. It’s time to live in the present. We’re told if we live in the past or worry about the future we’ll miss the present. And we don’t want to do that. So here’s how I see the present: Presently the modeling business is a pounding headache. A nightmare. The girls are tiresome, ambitious, and bitchy. The buyers—the fashion editors, art directors, and such—are prejudiced for this
type or that. The competition is fierce. In my view, the market is limited. So I’ve moved on. No more models.”
“But I thought you ran a modeling agency.”
“You thought wrong, my dear. I run an escort agency. And believe me, it’s an upgrade from what I’d been doing. The market is far wider, the buyers more diverse, more generous, and, of course, infinitely more numerous. You will meet many of those buyers, as you will meet many of the women they are buying.”
A whorehouse, I thought. Slim has sent me to work in a fuckin’ whorehouse.
“Oh, darling,” said Holly, “I’m afraid you don’t look happy. You don’t look happy at all. Does this come as a shock?”
I shrugged it off. I didn’t know what to say.
Holly continued. “Well, I can assure you that you will meet a far more cultivated set of women than if you were working in a modeling agency. And you may even fall in love . . .”
“I wouldn’t worry about that.”
“You sound bitter, my dear. Did Mr. Renato Ruiz’s excessive womanizing turn you off?”
I didn’t say anything.
“This is a new world you’re entering, Power, so I’d advise you to forget everything you thought you knew about women. You’re about to be educated, young man, in an entirely different area of human behavior. I know you like to learn, and, believe me, you will study subjects that your community college does not offer.”
“What exactly will I be doing?”
“A precise question deserves a precise answer. You will not be pimping, if that’s your concern. You will be assisting me, but on the highest executive level. You will be the only man in this office. You will wear a suit and tie every day. I will personally take you shopping to make sure you have the right look. Not too formal, not too casual; elegant, European, custom-tailored jackets and suits that will make you feel like a prince. You are a prince. Prince Power. Prince Power will be seated at Queen Holly’s right hand. You will meet the girls who I hire. You will give me your candid evaluation because, in truth, they are far closer to your age than mine. You will enjoy meeting them. They will enjoy meeting you. The ambience of this office, darling, is one of extreme professional dignity. We will do our work in an atmosphere of cordiality. From time to time, you will meet our clients. They too require scrutiny. Your male perspective will be invaluable. You will be forthright with me, you will be candid, you will tell me which clients you feel are suitable and which are not. In both areas—the girls and their clients—I have made some mistakes. That’s why I realize I need a man’s point of view. I am placing great trust in you, my dear—a trust that, according to Mr. Charles Simmons, is more than warranted. Just being with you, even for this short amount of time, assures me that Mr. Simmons is right. My inner voice says that Power is a prince, Power is here to help, Power is a great addition to what is becoming the classiest escort agency in America’s classiest city. Prince Power, welcome to New York.”