"A hero is somebody who gets other people killed..."
Read the previous installments here.
If you’ve ever been in an adult bookstore, especially one with video booths or a peep show, or a massage parlor, you know the smell. It’s a sickly sweet overpowering deodorizer scent somewhere between cotton candy and a crushed funeral bouquet. As I trudge up the steps to the second floor landing, my head begins to swim from the aroma.
At the top of the stairs I’m greeted by a barred steel gate, like you’d have on a backyard fence. Its painted white, but the image of the barely clad woman inside as caged animal is unmistakable. That, or a little girl helplessly imprisoned.
“Hi,” she says giving her auburn hair a toss. There’s a curious thickness to the sound of her voice. A step or two from the door the buzzer sounds, drawing my attention to the dirt bag sitting at the desk. A full year after the citywide smoking ban, the place still manages to reek of cigarettes.
She’s pretty enough, in the dim yellow light cast by the single lamp on the desk. Look closer and you can see the mileage on her face. She’s twenty-something going on fifty. The garish scarlet, like a fresh scar, of her lipstick reminds me that Cleopatra is thought, by some, to have invented it by using crushed carmine beetles.
“I’m Cassandra. Tonight we’ve also got Mandy, or Reese if you don’t mind waiting for a few minutes.”
Mandy is apparently the dark-skinned black girl with the platinum blond hair and fake tits seated on the couch, staring zombie-like at the crappy old color TV blaring “The Jerry Springer Show.”
“No, Cassandra… you’ll do just fine,” I say trying to find some way to make the whole exchange less sleazy. It doesn’t work. I step over to the desk and pay Captain Douche-nozzle $90 for a 40 minute “program.” He doesn’t even notice the gun in my shoulder holster. It’s not likely he is going do anything about it if he does. Except maybe call the cops. And that gets him fired.
“OK… well, come on back,” she says leading me to the serpentine hallway that must run the entire length of the building.
Passing closed doors, almost all you can hear is the sounds of music playing over the in-house system. Just loud enough to cover the moans and squeaking of bed springs. We enter a small lounge with a tiny bedroom of the back. The only light in the room coming from a bare red light bulb in the ceiling socket.
“Have you been here before,” she asks.
“Not… not here… but…” I mumble.
“Well it’s $90 for full service, extra if you want anything… special.” She hands me a towel off a pile on the dresser. “The shower is through there. I’ll be back in 5 minutes. And your time doesn’t start until I come back in the room.”
“I really just wanted to ask you a question.” I fish Tammy’s picture out of my back pocket. “Do you know this girl?”
Cassandra glances briefly at the picture. Just long enough for me to see the reflexive focus of recognition.
“Sorry I don’t…” she begins.
“Come on, don’t lie to me. I know you recognized her,” I say.
She looks in my eyes. She’s scared of something.
“Wouldn’t you rather…” Her hands begin to work their way down my zipper.
“You really don’t want that…” is what I want to say.
What comes out is “Maybe after we talk… now tell me about her.”
“Look… I have to go back out so they know when to start your time. Just wait here. I’ll be back in 5 minutes, I swear,” she says with an hint of desperation.
What am I going to do? If I don’t let her go, she’s not going to tell me anything and the weedy prick out front is going to either come looking for her or call in some help. I hold up another hundred dollar bill.
“When… you come back,” I say, slipping the Benjamin into my shirt pocket.
Silently she steps out the door. I give it seventy-thirty against her coming back.
I sit down on the broken-down love seat - no, the double-entendre isn’t lost on me - and wait.
I wonder how JR is doing down stairs? As much as being dead may have changed him, he’s still a homophobe, so the Shamrock must be only slightly less uncomfortable than being up here.
I put my head back on the pillow and wait.
END CHAPTER TWO
If you’ve ever been in an adult bookstore, especially one with video booths or a peep show, or a massage parlor, you know the smell. It’s a sickly sweet overpowering deodorizer scent somewhere between cotton candy and a crushed funeral bouquet. As I trudge up the steps to the second floor landing, my head begins to swim from the aroma.
At the top of the stairs I’m greeted by a barred steel gate, like you’d have on a backyard fence. Its painted white, but the image of the barely clad woman inside as caged animal is unmistakable. That, or a little girl helplessly imprisoned.
“Hi,” she says giving her auburn hair a toss. There’s a curious thickness to the sound of her voice. A step or two from the door the buzzer sounds, drawing my attention to the dirt bag sitting at the desk. A full year after the citywide smoking ban, the place still manages to reek of cigarettes.
She’s pretty enough, in the dim yellow light cast by the single lamp on the desk. Look closer and you can see the mileage on her face. She’s twenty-something going on fifty. The garish scarlet, like a fresh scar, of her lipstick reminds me that Cleopatra is thought, by some, to have invented it by using crushed carmine beetles.
“I’m Cassandra. Tonight we’ve also got Mandy, or Reese if you don’t mind waiting for a few minutes.”
Mandy is apparently the dark-skinned black girl with the platinum blond hair and fake tits seated on the couch, staring zombie-like at the crappy old color TV blaring “The Jerry Springer Show.”
“No, Cassandra… you’ll do just fine,” I say trying to find some way to make the whole exchange less sleazy. It doesn’t work. I step over to the desk and pay Captain Douche-nozzle $90 for a 40 minute “program.” He doesn’t even notice the gun in my shoulder holster. It’s not likely he is going do anything about it if he does. Except maybe call the cops. And that gets him fired.
“OK… well, come on back,” she says leading me to the serpentine hallway that must run the entire length of the building.
Passing closed doors, almost all you can hear is the sounds of music playing over the in-house system. Just loud enough to cover the moans and squeaking of bed springs. We enter a small lounge with a tiny bedroom of the back. The only light in the room coming from a bare red light bulb in the ceiling socket.
“Have you been here before,” she asks.
“Not… not here… but…” I mumble.
“Well it’s $90 for full service, extra if you want anything… special.” She hands me a towel off a pile on the dresser. “The shower is through there. I’ll be back in 5 minutes. And your time doesn’t start until I come back in the room.”
“I really just wanted to ask you a question.” I fish Tammy’s picture out of my back pocket. “Do you know this girl?”
Cassandra glances briefly at the picture. Just long enough for me to see the reflexive focus of recognition.
“Sorry I don’t…” she begins.
“Come on, don’t lie to me. I know you recognized her,” I say.
She looks in my eyes. She’s scared of something.
“Wouldn’t you rather…” Her hands begin to work their way down my zipper.
“You really don’t want that…” is what I want to say.
What comes out is “Maybe after we talk… now tell me about her.”
“Look… I have to go back out so they know when to start your time. Just wait here. I’ll be back in 5 minutes, I swear,” she says with an hint of desperation.
What am I going to do? If I don’t let her go, she’s not going to tell me anything and the weedy prick out front is going to either come looking for her or call in some help. I hold up another hundred dollar bill.
“When… you come back,” I say, slipping the Benjamin into my shirt pocket.
Silently she steps out the door. I give it seventy-thirty against her coming back.
I sit down on the broken-down love seat - no, the double-entendre isn’t lost on me - and wait.
I wonder how JR is doing down stairs? As much as being dead may have changed him, he’s still a homophobe, so the Shamrock must be only slightly less uncomfortable than being up here.
I put my head back on the pillow and wait.
END CHAPTER TWO