Scudder - Eight Million Ways To Die Part 38

I ate some lunch, then rode uptown on the Lexington IRT. The car was uncrowded, and directly opposite me a black kid in a pea jacket and heavy-soled boots was smoking a cigarette. I remembered my conversation with Durkin and wanted to tell the kid to put out the cigarette.

Jesus, I thought, mind your own business. Leave it alone.

I got off at Sixty-eighth Street and walked a block north and two blocks east. Ruby Lee and Mary Lou Barcker lived in apartment buildings diagonally opposite one another. Ruby's was on the southwest corner and I went there first because I came to it first. The doorman announced me over the intercom and I shared the elevator with a florist's delivery boy. He had his arms full of roses and the car was heavy with their scent.

Ruby opened the door to my knock, smiled coolly, led me inside. The apartment was spa.r.s.ely if tastefully furnished. The furniture was contemporary and neutral, but there were other items to give the place an oriental cast - a Chinese rug, a group of j.a.panese prints in black lacquered frames, a bamboo screen. They weren't enough to render the apartment exotic, but Ruby managed that all by herself.

She was tall, though not so tall as Kim, and her figure was lithe and willowy. She showed it off in a black sheath dress with a skirt slit to show a flash of thigh when she walked. She put me in a chair and offered me a drink, and I heard myself ask for tea. She smiled and came back with tea for both of us. It was Lipton's, I noted. G.o.d knows what I expected.

Her father was half French and half Senegalese, her mother Chinese. She'd been born in Hong Kong, lived for a time in Macao, then came to America via Paris and London. She didn't tell me her age and I didn't ask, nor could I have possibly guessed it. She might have been twenty or forty-five or almost anything in between.

She had met Kim once. She didn't really know anything about her, didn't know much about any of the girls. She herself had been with Chance for a time and found their arrangement comfortable.

She didn't know if Kim had had a boyfriend. Why, she wondered, would a woman want two men in her life? Then she would have to give money to both of them.

I suggested that Kim might have had a different sort of relations.h.i.+p with her boyfriend, that he might have given her gifts. She seemed to find the idea baffling. Did I mean a customer? I said that was possible. But a customer was not a boyfriend, she said. A customer was just another man in a long line of men. How could one feel anything for a customer?

Across the street, Mary Lou Barcker poured me a c.o.ke and set out a plate of cheese and crackers. 'So you met the Dragon Lady,' she said. 'Striking, isn't she?'

'That's putting it mildly.'

'Three races blended into one absolutely stunning woman. Then the shock comes. You open the door and n.o.body's home. Come here a minute.'

I joined her at the window, looked where she was pointing.

'That's her window,' she said. 'You can see her apartment from mine. You'd think we'd be great friends, wouldn't you? Dropping in at odd hours to borrow a cup of sugar or complain about premenstrual tension. Figures, doesn't it?'

'And it hasn't worked out that way?'

'She's always polite. But she's just not there. The woman doesn't relate. I've known a lot of johns who've gone over there. I've steered some business her way, as far as that goes. A guy'll say he's had fantasies about oriental girls, for example. Or I might just tell a guy that I know a girl he might like. You know something? It's the safest thing in the world. They're grateful because she is beautiful, she is exotic, and I gather she knows her way around a mattress, but they almost never go back. They go once and they're glad they went, but they don't go back. They'll pa.s.s her number on to their buddies instead of ringing it again themselves. I'm sure she keeps busy but I'll bet she doesn't know what a steady trick is, I'll bet she's never had one.'

She was a slender woman, dark haired, a little taller than average, with precise features and small even teeth. She had her hair pulled back and done in a chignon, I think they call it, and she was wearing aviator gla.s.ses, the lenses tinted a pale amber. The hair and the gla.s.ses combined to give her a rather severe look, an effect of which she was by no means unaware. 'When I take off the gla.s.ses and let my hair down,' she said at one point, 'I look a whole lot softer, a good deal less threatening. Of course some johns want a woman to look threatening.'

Of Kim she said, 'I didn't know her well. I don't know any of them really well. What a crew they are! Sunny's the good-time party girl, she thinks she's made a huge leap in status by becoming a prost.i.tute. Ruby's a sort of autistic adult, untouched by human minds. I'm sure she's socking away the dollars, and one of these days she'll go back to Macao or Port Said and open up an opium den. Chance probably knows she's holding out and has the good sense to let her.'

She put a slice of cheese on a biscuit, handed it to me, took some for herself, sipped her red wine. 'Fran's a charming kook out of Wonderful Town. I call her the Village Idiot. She's raised self-deception to the level of an art form. She must have to smoke a ton of gra.s.s to support the structure of illusion she's created. More c.o.ke?'

'No thanks.'

'You sure you wouldn't rather have a gla.s.s of wine? Or something stronger?'

I shook my head. A radio played un.o.bstrusively in the background, tuned to one of the cla.s.sical music stations. Mary Lou took off her gla.s.ses, breathed on them, wiped them with a napkin.

'And Donna,' she said. 'Wh.o.r.edom's answer to Edna St. Vincent Millay. I think the poetry does for her what the gra.s.s does for Fran. She's a good poet, you know.'

I had Donna's poem with me and showed it to Mary Lou. Vertical frown lines appeared in her forehead as she scanned the lines.

'It's not finished,' I said. 'She still has work to do on it.'

'I don't know how poets know when they're finished. Or painters. How do they know when to stop? It baffles me. This is supposed to be about Kim?'

'Yes.'

'I don't know what it means, but there's something, she's onto something here.' She thought for a moment, her head c.o.c.ked like a bird's. She said, 'I guess I thought of Kim as the archetypical wh.o.r.e. A spectacular ice blonde from the northern Midwest, the kind that was just plain born to walk through life on a black pimp's arm. I'll tell you something. I wasn't surprised when she was murdered.'

'Why not?'

'I'm not entirely sure. I was shocked but not surprised. I guess I expected her to come to a bad end. An abrupt end. Not necessarily as a murder victim, but as some sort of victim of the life. Suicide, for instance. Or one of those unholy combinations of pills and liquor. Not that she drank much, or took drugs as far as I know. I suppose I expected suicide, but murder would do as well, wouldn't it? To get her out of the life. Because I couldn't see her going on with it forever. Once that corn-fed innocence left her she wouldn't be able to handle it. And I couldn't see her finding her way out, either.'

'She was getting out. She told Chance she wanted out.'

'Do you know that for a fact?'

'Yes.'

'And what did he do?'

'He told her it was her decision to make.'

'Just like that?'

'Evidently.'

'And then she got killed. Is there a connection?'

'I think there has to be. I think she had a boyfriend and I think the boyfriend's the connection. I think he's why she wanted to get away from Chance and I think he's also the reason she was killed.'

'But you don't know who he was.'

'No.'

'Does anybody have a clue?'

'Not so far.'

'Well, I'm not going to be able to change that. I can't remember the last time I saw her, but I don't remember her eyes being agleam with true love. It would fit, though. A man got her into this. She'd probably need another man to get her out.'

And then she was telling me how she'd gotten into it. I hadn't thought to ask but I got to hear it anyway.

Someone had pointed Chance out to her at an opening in SoHo, one of the West Broadway galleries. He was with Donna, and whoever pointed him out told Mary Lou he was a pimp. Fortified by an extra gla.s.s or two of the cheap wine they were pouring, she approached him, introduced herself, told him she'd like to write a story about him.

She wasn't exactly a writer. At the time she'd been living in the West Nineties with a man who did something incomprehensible on Wall Street. The man was divorced and still half in love with his ex-wife, and his bratty kids came over every weekend, and it wasn't working out. Mary Lou did free-lance copyediting and had a part-time proofreading job, and she'd published a couple of articles in a feminist monthly newspaper.

Chance met with her, took her out to dinner, and turned the interview inside out. She realized over c.o.c.ktails that she wanted to go to bed with him, and that the urge stemmed more from curiosity than s.e.xual desire. Before dinner was over he was suggesting that she forget about some surface article and write something real, a genuine inside view of a prost.i.tute's life. She was obviously fascinated, he told her. Why not use that fascination, why not go with it, why not buy the whole package for a couple of months and see where she went with it?

She made a joke out of the suggestion. He took her home after dinner, didn't make a pa.s.s, and managed to remain oblivious to her s.e.xual invitation. For the next week she couldn't get his proposal out of her mind. Everything about her own life seemed unsatisfactory. Her relations.h.i.+p was exhausted, and she sometimes felt she only stayed with her lover out of reluctance to hunt an apartment of her own. Her career was dead-ended and unsatisfying, and the money she earned wasn't enough to live on.

'And the book,' she said, 'the book was suddenly everything. De Maupa.s.sant obtained human flesh from a morgue and ate it so that he could describe its taste accurately. Couldn't I spend a month as a call girl in order to write the best book ever written on the subject?'