by Joseph Flynn
Robin hit him. That might have been unacceptable behavior at Mimi’s, but when some cretin scared her witless out of a sound sleep in her own home, it was entirely appropriate. Entirely futile as well. She hadn’t been able to reach his head and her fist glanced off his enormous chest like a powder puff off granite.
Manfred wasn’t the least bit perturbed. He merely nodded as if she had only confirmed his suspicions. “We will work on your upper body strength this morning.”
Then he turned on his heel and repeated that she should present herself in five minutes.
Robin looked at his retreating bulk and screamed.
The scream woke Bianca. It didn’t alarm her, though. Where she’d lived screams were a common enough occurrence. In fact, not a night went by without them. After all, a cry of feigned delight was a harlot’s stock-in-trade. All of her girlfriends at the brothel had told her that. They said she should never worry about their screams; they were only what the customers had paid for and expected. In no time at all, Bianca had become adept at recognizing these sounds. In fact, when she was alone, she even practiced her own screams so that they would be right when her turn came to entertain the customers.
Of course, there was that one time when the screams got entirely too real. A customer had gone too far with Greta and hurt her, and then it was the customer’s turn to scream when the Bear came into the room and twisted his head almost all the way around. Those screams were horrible.
But the scream that had woken her, that was more like the ones that Mama and Horst, a.k.a the Bear, exchanged when they were arguing. Bianca looked out through her bedroom doorway. The sofa-bed where the giant slept — she still didn’t believe he was her father, even if he had bought her all those presents — was folded away and all the cushions had been replaced.
Where was he?
Arguing with der hexe. The hag.
Bianca got up to investigate.
Robin got dressed. The morning was pitch black and from the way the windows were frosted she knew it was cold outside. She wore leggings and a long-sleeved t-shirt under her sweat-clothes. She laced up her sneakers over heavy white socks. Oh, she was going to work out, all right. And at just the right moment she was bound and determined that, oops, a weight would be just too heavy for her to hold and she’d manage to drop it squarely on fathead’s toes.
She stormed down the back stairs and out to the garage, ready to do battle.
Bianca tiptoed through the apartment. The giant wasn’t there. She poked her head out the front door, but there were no sounds in the hallway. She listened for footsteps from above in the Magical Garden — she very much wanted to get back in there, but not at the expense of kissing the hag’s hem — but no sound came from above. With no other choice left, she opened the rear door of the apartment.
The giant had shown her this was where the building’s laundry and other utilities were located. He had shown her that there was nothing to be afraid of back here, but Bianca was sure that a huge red rat lived in this place. It was the giant’s pet. And if she ever made the giant truly angry, Bianca knew he would give her to the rat and the rat would eat her.
This was very similar to the warning her mother had given her about what would happen to Bianca if she ever caught her sneaking into the brothel’s money room. But there had been a time or two when Bianca had slipped in and taken a few marks, and no one had noticed, and the rat hadn’t gotten her.
So now she took her chances with the giant’s rat. She looked all around and when she was sure that the rat was either sleeping or out eating other children, she scurried over to the rear window of the basement. She repositioned a cardboard box so she could climb up on it and look out. She saw another building that the giant had told her was the house’s garage.
And now, across the distance of the small backyard, she could hear more screams ... and moans. Her keen, educated ear told her that strenuous physical exertions lay behind the sounds ... and the sounds were genuine, not pretend.
The giant was shtupping the hag — and she was enjoying it!
Bianca was revolted. She looked around once more to make sure the rat hadn’t snuck up on her and then she scurried back into her apartment, slamming the door to the rat’s lair behind her. She ran back into her room, jumped in bed and pulled the covers over her head.
A terrible fear ran through her.
What if the giant really was her father?
What if her mother refused to take her back, even if the giant permitted it?
Would the hag then become her new mother?
Bianca would not have it. She’d feed herself to the rat first. Or she could turn the giant against the hag, make him see that he would be much better off with the hooker who looked like Geli. She at least would be a presentable choice.
And the hooker was coming to pick up Bianca for the day.
So she could start working on her right away.
Robin took the bus to work.
Manfred had offered to drive her; he had to drop off the cherry tarts at Mimi’s anyway. But Robin declined. Firmly. The idea of riding with Manfred and the kid, who’d get dropped off at Nancy’s, was too ... too ... too much like they were a family. The whole thing gave Robin the feeling that some malign force had set her at the top of a ski jump with a strong wind at her back. If she didn’t fight it with all her might it’d be, eeek, down the slippery slope where she’d finish not with a graceful jump, but pitching head over heels.
No, scratch that. She wasn’t doing anything head over heels.
In fact, she was still angry that she hadn’t been able to drop the weights on Manfred’s toes. She’d tried, twice. But he’d skipped neatly out of the way both times. The man’s reaction time and agility were not to be believed. At that point, Robin had abandoned the idea. A third time would have been too obvious, and undoubtedly as unsuccessful as the others.
And by that time he had her so involved in the workout she’d had to concentrate solely on what she was doing. She’d had to put so much effort into each movement that she’d had to grunt and shout just to complete it ... and it had felt so good to succeed she hadn’t even minded how loudly or rudely she’d been bellowing.
Now, she was sore again — but not as sore as the first time. This pain felt kind of good, strangely enough. It made her aware of herself in ways that she’d long since forgotten, since she’d been a kid racing around a playground anyway. She could feel actual muscles tightening and toughening under her suet. It was invigorating.
Made her feel really ready to go back to work and kick some tail.
Manfred had come and gone, leaving his tarts behind him, so she didn’t have to deal with him when she arrived at Mimi’s. Didn’t have to worry about him putting her off her game.
Good thing, too, because all her regulars were glad to see her back. Gave her a warm Screaming Mimi’s welcome. They lined up to take their shots.
“Well, look who’s back. Our charm school drop-out.”
“High praise from a med school lab rat,” Robin replied.
“Where’d you go, Robin? A mushroom farm to work on your pallor?”
“Sure, saw you there feeding the crops, fertilizer-for-brains.”
“It wasn’t the same without you; it was like a day without a headache.”
“Now you know how your wife feels when you’re gone for the night.”
“Love your hair, dear. Amazing what you can do with Johnson’s Glo-Coat.”
“Thanks, sweetie, it’d probably bleach out that little mustache of yours, too.”
After the breakfast rush ended, Mimi came over and gave Robin a quick peck on the cheek.
“It’s so good to have you back where you belong, Robin. Just like old times.”
Robin waited for the zinger, but there wasn’t one.
Mimi, and everyone else, really was glad to see her. Robin had been a little worried that people might tread gently around her after what she’d done to Ant-knee. But inside Mimi’s, at least, all
was right with the world.
That pumped her up even more than her workout had.
“You got your ass kicked,” said Iggy Gross, boy shock-jock.
“Well ... ”
“You did. You got it kicked.”
“Okay. I did.”
“I heard there’s a tape. Vid-e-o.”
“There’s no tape.”
“I’d pay you big bucks for that tape.”
“There is no tape!”
“But there was, wasn’t there?”
Tone Morello said nothing. He was enduring his twenty-third interview since he’d been fired from his job. He’d been to every TV station in town. He’d been to all the radio stations. He’d even been to the newspapers, including the neighborhood papers and one supermarket advertiser, to which he’d pitched his idea for a sports column. The electronic media had told him no thanks, to which the pencil press had added maliciously that everybody knew he didn’t write his own material. Basically, Tone had fallen off a cliff, had gone from being a six-figure-a-year celebrity to an unemployable nobody. And had done it in breathtakingly quick time.
All because of Robin.
Not so much that she’d kicked his keister in that damned debate of theirs. Tone didn’t know anybody in Chicago journalism who’d go up against Robin one-on-one of their own accord. And he had made sure that the tape his cameraman had shot of the nightmare had long since been reduced to slag. There was another tape, of course, the one that little broad had shot for Robin, but it hadn’t surfaced or one of his old buddies would have added to his humiliation by making it public. But that story Robin had laid on him, making him seem like Jack-the-freaking-Ripper instead of just a guy who got around, brother, had that done a job on him.
The cause for Tone’s dismissal had been moral turpitude, a reason that made him gag to this day. There were no morals in TV or journalism, and if everybody in the business who slept around got the axe for it, people would be getting their news from a town crier.
But him, he had become the poster boy for reckless, predatory sex — the bull’s-eye for the new puritanism. All because of Robin. They’d bought that tub of lard’s story lock, stock and barrel. So what if it was true? The thing that surprised Tone, though, when he stopped to examine that painful memory, was how personal Robin had made everything. There was more to it than just slugging it out with him. There was ... what? Something ... no, someone. That was it. Robin was getting even for someone else who had hurt her.
Insight wasn’t an everyday occurrence for Tone, and he was greatly pleased with this one. Now, he had something that maybe he could use to get even one day. He might have explored the idea of revenge further but he was distracted by someone yelling at him.
“Hey, you listening to me?” Iggy Gross shouted.
“Yeah, sure,” Tone said.
“What’d I just say?”
“I don’t know.”
Tone decided he’d better try to pay attention. Iggy Gross had actually called him and asked him to come in and talk. And the idiot — whose act consisted of pimple-faced, obnoxious, teenage, toilet humor — had a coast-to-coast radio audience of millions. He’d also said he might have a job for Tone.
“Okay,” Gross said, “we’ll forget about the tape for the time being. Now, here’s my angle: You’re a broken man. An evil, vicious, ball-busting man-hater has emasculated you and trashed your life? That’s right, right?”
Tone forced himself to nod.
“Good,” Gross smiled. “So what I want to do, on the air, of course, is give you a big, hairy ball transplant. Radio testosterone.”
“What?” Tone said, seizing the front of the skinny radio geek’s shirt.
“Balls,” Gross said without flinching. “I’ll give you balls and a hundred K for the first year.”
At the mention of money, even though it was less than a third of what he had been making, Tone let the shock-jock go. Gross continued unperturbed.
“You’ll do the sports reports for my show. We’ll start you out real meek, half-fag. You’ll try to do some of your sports grunts and they’ll come out like a squeeze toy. In fact, we’ll do an audio mix of your voice and a plastic squeaker to get the effect right. Then after time, exposure to me and my coaching, little by little, you start to get your balls back. The public gets to follow your progress. By the time I’m done with you you’ll be roaring like a friggin’ lion. All thanks to me. Whaddya say?”
At that moment, Tone experienced his second insight of the day.
“You’ve got something more in mind, don’t you?”
Gross sat back and looked at Tone, surprised that the guy wasn’t as stupid as he’d been told.
“Yeah. When I say the time is right, you have to fight a rematch with this diesel dyke who cracked your nuts in the first place.”
Tone wondered if he was suddenly getting smarter, or if he just seemed that way compared to Iggy Gross. Because he knew the jerk still hadn’t given him the whole story. This guy wanted him to go up against Robin again, get slaughtered again, and then Gross would do Robin in himself on his show.
Tone smiled.
“You in?” Gross asked.
“You bet,” Tone replied.
What the hell, it was a job ... and it’d be fun to see what Robin would do to this idiot. Meanwhile he’d work out a plan that’d really nail her.
“Who’s the kid?” Patty Phinney asked her daughter Nancy.
Nancy and Bianca had arrived at the offices of Gold Coast Realty.
Patty was sixty-two and looked ten years younger. She didn’t work out as hard as her daughter did, but she ate sensibly, walked three miles a day, had her blonde hair touched up every week and dressed to the nines: the upscale real estate diva.
Bianca had her face scrubbed, her blue hair combed straight back and a dead-end-kid-on-her-best-behavior expression on her kisser. She wore a bright red parka, a cornflower blue cotton sweater, blue jeans and blindingly white sneakers.
“Are you the madam?” Bianca asked Patty.
Nancy gave her a look.
“I beg your pardon,” Patty said, and then turned to her daughter for enlightenment.
“The kid was raised in a brothel.”
Patty added two plus two and turned red.
“And she thinks I’m—”
“She asked if I was a hooker. She likes to get a rise out of people.”
“Well, what are you doing with her?”
“She’s the kid who’s staying at Robin’s.”
“And the reason you brought her here?”
“I thought we’d break a few child-labor laws together.”
Patty gave Nancy a mighty frown, not that it did the least bit of good.
“Well, just keep her away from the clients.”
“Sure. You think I could borrow your hair dryer, Patty?”
Nancy never called her mother “Mom” at work; Patty kept a hair dryer on hand at all times because you never knew when you might get caught in the rain or snow and have to do quick repairs.
“Of course,” Patty said. Since her daughter’s hair was perfect, she knew Nancy wanted it for the child. “Just clean it before you give it back.”
Nancy fixed Bianca’s hairstyle in the ladies room. Spritzed it with water from the tap, dried it and fluffed it. Got it to come out looking reasonably close to a pixie cut rather than the Slickback Sam special it had been. The kid didn’t think much of it, but after Nancy told the kid to smile — or else — Nancy approved of the job she’d done. Even the blue hair didn’t bother her too much.
She took Bianca back to her office.
“Do you know how to read?”
“Yes.”
“Do you know how to count?”
“Of course.”
“Good. Then I can put you to work.”
“How much will I be paid?”
Nancy considered. The kid had spirit, and she liked that.
“Two dollars an hour.”
“Is that a fair
amount?”
“You have anybody else offering you more?”
Bianca considered. She hadn’t expected to be paid at all; she’d just asked the question as a basis for lodging future complaints. But this woman — not a hooker, she had to admit — was going to pay her. They might actually get along.
“No.”
“Then we’ll start by having you put these files in alphabetical order.”
Nancy pulled a chair over to one end of her desk, plunked down a stack of files and explained in detail what she wanted. Bianca looked up as Nancy leaned over her.
“You are much prettier than the hag. I think my father should shtup you instead of her.”
Nancy stood up and fixed Bianca with a stare hard enough to cut diamonds.
“Hag? Did you just call my sister Robin a hag?”
Determined to stick to her plan, Bianca nodded.
Nancy pointed her right index finger squarely at the kid’s nose. Then she shook it. Then she started to speak several times but bit her tongue. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d come so close to flying off the handle — but Nancy did not believe in flying off the handle. Not ever. She leaned in toward the kid, one hand on the back of the kid’s chair, the other on her desk. Nose to nose with Bianca.
“You are never to speak of Robin like that again. She gave your father a place to stay, which meant he could give you a place to stay. It cost her a lot to do that. If you were my kid, I’d give you a punishment you’d never forget for being so unkind. If you do it again, I’ll turn you back over to your father and tell him to give you a punishment you’ll never forget. Do you understand?”
Bianca thought of the red rat.
“I understand.”
The child knew she’d have to find another approach — if she still wanted this Hure in her life.
“Good,” Nancy said, standing up.
She kept a hard look on her face as Bianca bent to the task she’d been set, but Nancy had a hard time not smiling.
If the kid had it right, Robin was finally getting laid.
David Solomonovich sneaked up on Robin while she was wiping off some tables after the lunchtime rush and stole a kiss. He’d had to time it just right, and stand on tiptoes, but he got her just as she turned from one table to the next. It wasn’t just a little peck on the cheek, either. He threw his bony adolescent arms around her and kissed her full on the mouth.