As we walked along Margaret Street a light tropical wind blew through Kimberly's hair. She looked good. Maybe too good, I thought. I decided to step up the interrogation:
"Why did you lie to Jess Harrison?"
"I don't know that I did."
"You told him you did tricks."
"That wasn't a lie."
"Rakoubian says you didn't."
"He's the biggest liar around."
"He said Mrs. Z never ran an escort service."
"She didn't. But some of us actresses made side arrangements with her clients."
"Jesus, Kimberly-do you know how hard you sound?"
"I never pretended I was soft."
"You did with me."
"No , Geoffrey. With you I didn't pretend."
Good, I wanted to believe her! "Why didn't you tell me you liked doing sex for money? ' My question came out almost like a wail. From the way she looked at me, I think she understood my pain.
"Because you never asked me, and I stopped doing it before I met you, and what I did with you wasn't for pay. She caught her breath. "There was another reason too.
"What was that?"
"I didn't think you'd understand."
I shook my head.
"I understand a lot of things. But not unnecessary lies."
"The only lies I told you were necessary ones."
"I see." I groaned.
"What about the Duquaynes?"
"What about them?"
"Did you make it with them?"
"Yes.
"In performance? Or privately?"
"Both."
"God damn you! Why didn't you tell me?" "Right … like: 'Gee, Geoffrey, I'm taking you to these people's home for dinner, and, by the way, I've had sex with the wife while the husband was tied up in a chair. ' "
"Whose idea was that?"
"Harold's. "Fun!"
"Actually it was."
"You like girls, don't you?" "Sometimes. Don't you?"
"You and Shadow were lovers." ,'We had been. Occasionally."
"Yet she knew nothing about the blackmail?" ,'That's right."
"So she suffered for what she didn't know?"
"Yes, Geoffrey, she did. She certainly did. And that's the reason I'm not done with this yet."
At the intersection of Angela Street and Passover Lane, the city cemetery spread out before us. The white graves, as in New Orleans, were set a 'bove the ground, and the bordering palms arched high against the clouds.
Kim was panting. I grabbed her. Then I pushed my mouth hard against hers and kissed her viciously. She took it from me, even when I cut her lip with my teeth.
"Why did you do that?" she asked, breaking away to spit out blood. "I felt like it."
"Good enough reason." She looked at me, smiled.
"I liked it. You knew I would."
"I didn't give a damn whether you'd like it or not."
"Why then, Geoffrey?"
"I wanted to see how tough a little bitch you really are. "
"And? Well?" She eagerly awaited my appraisal.
"You're tough enough," I said.
Walking south on Truman Avenue, the last stretch of U.S.I, the cars and trucks jammed up and honking, the leaves of the palms thrashing heavily in the early evening summer wind: "Where do you live?"
"Catherine Street. I share an apartment with two other girls. Waitresses."
"Bother you-being a waitress?"
She shrugged.
"No big deal. I've done it before."
"Why Key West?"
"why not?"
u knew the place?" She nodded.
"And I liked it too. It's a kind of re ge. 'The end of the line."
"Maybe that's the trouble with it."
"What do you mean?"
"One way in and one way out. It's like a box canyon. Not the best place to hide." We walked in silence for a block. Then I turned to her.
"You never really cared for me, did you?"
"No, that's wrong. I did."
"But not very much."
"A lot more than you think."
"But you weren't honest with me."
"I couldn't be."
"Damnit! You keep saying that. Every time you do, I feel like kicking you in the shins."
She stopped walking, stood still, then balanced herself on one foot and stuck out the other.
"Go ahead," she said, exposing her shin. "Go ahead, Geoffrey. Kick!"
:'I'd like to."
'Do. No one'll stop you. In Key West people beat up on people all the time."
"Put your stupid foot down," I said.
"I wouldn't want to damage your precious tattoo."
"You remember!" She looked pleased as she lowered her foot.
"I got it here, you know."
"Figures."
"This Chinese-"
"Woman did it. She's probably gone now too. Tattoo artists are always on the move."
She looked at me curiously.
"You're a funny guy. I didn't realize it until today."
"You 'underrated' me, didn't you?"
She looked at me, then laughed. Suddenly I wanted desperately to make love to her right There, most emphatically there in Key West, in the shadow of all the lush decadence of that little island, with the hot stifling air carrying a hint of rot, while the palms thrashed and the gays cruised and the rednecks drove by in their pickup trucks and the six-toed cats in the Ernest Hemingway House shrieked and screwed violently in the night.
While I was unlocking my door at the Spanish Moss, my neighbors from Arizona pulled in from one of their metal-detecting expeditions at the beach. When they saw Kimberly, they turned to each other and smiled. I could read their minds: they thought I too had found a kind of treasure.
As soon as the door was closed and we were alone in my room, I grabbed hold of her T-shirt and ripped it open down the front.
"Jesus!" she said.
I reached through the torn flaps of cotton and seized hold of her breasts. they were warm and her chest was damp. I stared at her.
"I'm going to fuck your brains out," I said.
She was amused.
"Is that my punishment?"
"I'll be doing it for me, not you."
"Fine, go ahead," she taunted. "We'll see whose brains end up on the floor."
I shoved her roughly toward the bed.
"Won't be mine."
She stumbled back upon it.
"Nor mine," she said. ,
She gazed at me, smiled her most sultry smile, then undid the clasp of her shorts.
I watched. When she had them down to her knees, I grabbed hold of her ankles, flipped her over, fell upon her, and, placing my hand on the back of her neck, pressed her face down hard against the mattress.
"Geoffrey! Stop! I can't breathe!"
"You'll manage,"
She turned her head to the side and gulped at the air. The down on her back sparkled wet. I pulled her panties to her knees. The smell of her body rose and filled my head. Then I fucked her as violently as I could. She came almost immediately. Then she came again.
I grabbed hold of her hair.
"You're just a little whore. Aren't you? Aren't you, bitch?"
"If you say so, Geoffrey."
"Say it!"
"I'm just a little whore," she sneered. Then she looked back at me.
"And you? What're you?" She gazed at me with mocking eyes.
I shook my head.
"You're a big manly rapist who uses his cock to make the girls scream. Right, Geoffrey? Hmmm? Hmmm?" Then she thrust herself hard against me, and then she came again.
I was shocked at the way I'd attacked her. But also I was thrilled. It was the same sensation I'd felt the first time I hit Rakoubian-letting go and then a feeling of being cleansed inside.
We settled down after that, screwed a little more, and then, when we were exhausted and our flesh was hot and damp, we broke apart and fell asleep.
When I woke it was dark.
She wasn't in the bed, and for a second I was frantic. Then I saw her on the other side of the room, sitting in a chair beside the window, her face and breasts glowing from light cast by the streetlamps filtered through the restless leaves of the palms outside.
"Hi," I said.
"Hi. "
"I didn't hurt you, I hope."
She smiled.
"Of course you didn't. I loved every minute of it. Did you?"
"Yes. Unfortunately."
"Oh dear . . ."
"I want to hate you. I don't."
She stood and yawned. She was wearing just her shorts.
"You called me 'whore' and 'bitch." But still you must like me pretty well. You smiled in your sleep."
"Must have been dreaming."
"Of what?"
"A girl I knew."
"What did she look like-this girl?"
"Like you," I said.
She laughed. Then she came to me and kissed the center of my forehead.
"Yeah, that's me, Geoffrey. Just an illusion, just a dream." She smiled and floated back across the room.
Her kiss disarmed me, it was gentle, not what I expected at all. I felt confused again, about her and us. What's happening between us? I asked myself. What's our new relationship?
"Neither of us has been totally straight with the other, Geof."
"What's that supposed to mean?" I asked.
"You concealed things."
"What things?"
"The reasons behind your block. Why you couldn't shoot people anymore." She turned to me.
"You bullshitted me. The way I saw it that gave me the right to bullshit you a little too. "
"What do you know about my block?"
She spoke softly.
"I know plenty. Rakoubian asked around about you. He found out what happened in Guatemala.
I stared at her.
"You gave me this romantic phobia line, that it was deep and psychological, and you were just like some famous pianist who mysteriously loses the use of one of his hands. But that wasn't the reason. The real reason was much more prosaic." She looked at me, whispered, "Wasn't it, Geoffrey?"
I turned away, but she went on.
"At first, when Adam told me, I thought he was jealous, that he wanted me to think less of you so I'd think a little better of him. But today, when you told me how he set you up, I realized he'd had other reasons for checking you out. Why didn't you tell me? I'd like to hear about it. I really would, if you'd care to tell me now."
"What's this supposed to be, Kim? Truth night? We'll level with each other and henceforth never tell another lie?"
"Why not?" she asked.
"You level with me, I'll level with you. What do you say?"
"Great," I said.
"Except how will I know if you're telling me the truth?"
"How about if I pledge?" she asked. She raised her hand.
"I hereby pledge. How's that?"
That sounded pretty good, so I told her about Guateala, and, as I did, wondered why I'd held the story back. I'd gone down there on assignment for the Sunday Times to shoot portraits of human rights advocates. It was a time when the government down there had been extremely repressive, and it took a special kind of bravery to speak out and protest. I photographed some very brave people, a surgeon, a lawyer from one of the wealthy Guatemalan families, and a housewife whose husband had "disappeared." Each of them had the composed features of people who hate injustice, eyes bright with indignation and fortitude. I worked hard to catch the common quality between them, and in the end I was pleased with my work.
Later, when my pictures were published, right-wing
Death Squad maniacs clipped them out. they mailed them to my subjects with holes punched in the eyes, and later, when these same subjects were all killed on a single night, it was pretty clear my pictures had been used to draw up an assassination list.
My photographer friends tried to comfort me. they said the same thing could have happened to them, and from now on we'd all have to be more careful. Colleagues who disliked me said much meaner things. But in the end my worst enemy was myself.
I blamed myself for being naive, for forgetting that a camera can be a dangerous weapon. I imposed my own punishment: I would not shoot people for a while. A childish idea, but it made me feel better. Except that what started out as an act of self-denial soon evolved into a phobia. From the day of the killings until the day I started shooting Kim, I could not bring myself to photograph a human face.
"Oh, Geoffrey, you could have told me. I would have understood. I wouldn't have thought you were CIA, or whatever people said. I gave you lots of chances to tell me. But when you kept your secret, it seemed like . . . I don't know-like you wanted a dishonest relationship."
That did it. I actually felt embarrassed, which greatly softened the effect of her deceits.
"Anyway," she said, "I'm very proud that I helped you break through the way you did."
"You've been a powerful force in my life. My best friend thinks so. The first time I told him about you, he said 'Don't give that girl up."
"Then I gave you up. At least that's what you think, isn't it? One thing I want you to understand, Geoffrey, no matter what happens between us now: if, as you say, I've been a powerful force in your life, that's a power I won't ever abuse."
She held my eyes for a moment, then glanced at her watch.
"Heyl It's late."
"Hungry?'; She nodded.
"Get dressed and I'll take you out." She picked up her torn T-shirt and waved it gently before my face.
"Love to, Geoffrey, but, unfortunately, I haven't a thing to wear."
I loaned her a shirt, then we walked a couple of blocks to a dark funky place called the Full Moon Saloon.
We took a corner table, ordered crabs, then Kim started pointing out the regulars. There was the happy-go-lucky sunbu@ed shrimp-boat skipper who'd made a fortune smuggling marijuana, and the intense, shifty-eyed, young black dude who was the biggest coke dealer on the island.
She looked happy as she regaled me with all this Key West lore. Though she'd been in town for only a month, she knew a lot. I let her talk, and then I told her I was sorry, I knew she needed to relax, but there were still things I had to know.
"Don't apologize," she said.
"Ask me anything."
"What happened that Saturday night when you came running to me at two A.M.?"
She paused, looked down at her food.
"I think that was the scariest night of my life."
She started to talk, and as she did I felt this sickening feeling growing in my gut.
After Sonya was killed, Kim heard rumors about the Masked Man, stories that told her he was a lot more dangerous than the benign spectator he'd appeared to be. The stories concerned professional call girls. Kim managed to trace one of them back. She met the girl in a coffee house in the Village. The girl wore dark glasses and wouldn't give her real name.
"Just think of me as your informant," she said.
She told Kim she'd been hurt. She'd known that she would be, she'd been told up front, and on that basis an extremely high fee had been negotiated and paid.
What will happen exactly'?" her informant had asked the call girl service manager, worried because the amount offered was so many times larger than what she usually received. The answer she got was candid and complete:
"You'll be tied up and gagged and mildly drugged, and then certain minor bones will be broken by a man who likes to hear them break. It won't be nearly so bad as it sounds; the drugs will alleviate much of the pain. But not all of it-don't say you weren't warned. Your fear and anguish are important. They're what this man is paying to see.
"Afterwards medical attention will be provided. Anything broken will be expertly reset. For a while you'll have to wear a cast; you can tell your friends you were in a skiing accident. Out of the dozen or so Herms scarfs you'll receive, you'll be able to make a handsome sling. .. ."
During
the recuperation period, there was an onslaught of gifts: not only scarfs, a different one sent each day, but also a matching set of Vuitton luggage, a little fur hat and muff, various and sundry earrings and pins, and finally a gold Cartier watch.
But neither the extraordinary fee nor the generous gifts could wipe out the memory of the horror. The girl told Kim that even if she were desperate and broke she would never go through such a scene again.
So how bad had it been? The pain was real enoughnot severe, as promised, although the girl had definitely wanted to scream. No, it wasn't the pain she was afraid of, it was the terror-the sense of helplessness, of powerlessness, of being at the mercy of this person she couldn't see. Because he wasn't just some kinky guy who got off hurting girls; most of the guys who did that were rather sweet, once the session was done. The Masked Man was different. In this business one became highly sensitive to people, and the signals coming off him were very, very bad.
What signals? Kim asked her. After all, since he was masked, you never saw his features. Oh, but she did, the girl said, she caught little glimpses through the mask, a hint of the thin tight set of the lips and the sharp predatory eyes. And then there was the feel of him, his touch, his smell, the little sounds he made, the way he moved, like a mechanic fixing the motor of your car, whistling slightly under his breath as he worked, half humming this cheery little tune. . . .
There was-how to put it?-no consideration, no human connection, no sense that you were a human being. And he wasn't human either. There was something hor@ible about him that was impossible to describe. His touch was cold. He radiated malevolence. When he touched you it was like being touched by a snake.
Kim picked up a crab, sucked'out the meat, wiped her mouth. All the time she was speaking she had stared past me at the room. Now her eyes met mine.
"Sonya was special," she said.
"I loved Shadow, but Sonya was someone I adored. Everyone in our group felt the same way. All of us in Mrs. Z's 'ensemble.'
"She was a real beauty, you have to understands true live Nordic goddess. She was from Sweden, came to New York as an all pair, then decided to stay on. Precisioncut blond hair, cold blue eyes, she had this great little accent. She was nice too. She loved to joke and make us laugh. And onstage she was terrific, especially as a dominant. Cruel countess, pitiless equestrienne-Sonya loved those kinds of roles.
"And that was what the Masked Man liked to see: one girl being cruel to another. Mrs. Z spun all sorts of scenarios, including one in which Sonya played this empress who puffed on long gold-tipped cigarettes while her female rivals, and I played one, were tortured slowly before her eyes.
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