ESCORT SERVICE
1
Upscale Escorts,” purred over the fiber-optic cable into the telephone receiver. “Victoria speaking. How may I help you?”
“Double D,” a man’s voice replied. Calm and assured, but with a tremor of excitement the woman who called herself Victoria had come to recognize over the years.
“Certainly, sir. Please hold.”
“Double D. This is Tammy. Could I have your access code, please, sir?”
“Eight one eight eight one.”
“One moment, please.”
The only sound was the faint hum of the phone line.
“Verified. Please hold for service.”
Fifteen seconds passed.
“You’re calling from the Royale?” A man’s voice, somewhere between oily and menacing.
“Yes, that’s right. How did you—?”
“Caller ID, pal. We’ve got the best stuff here. Of
all
kinds, if you catch my drift. That’s room 2720. A suite, if I remember correctly, right?”
“Yes. I—”
“First we ask the questions, then you talk, how’s that?”
“Sure. I mean, whatever you—”
“Credit card?”
“Yes, I have a credit card. Do you—?”
“Spell it out. It’s not for billing . . . You understand that all payments are in cash, right?”
“Yes. I was just—”
“The card is for verification, understand? We have to know who we’re dealing with. That protects us, and it protects you too, okay?”
“Yes. I understand. The card is American Express, number 07J4 89B677R 0X91.”
“Expiration date?”
“June 2001.”
“Gonna put you on hold, all right?”
“Yes.”
Ninety-seven seconds passed.
“Okay, Mr. Roget, we’ve got you.”
“That’s Rogét,” the caller said. “It’s French-Canadian.”
“Sure. Okay, you’re clear. What can we send you?”
“I’d like an . . . escort.”
“Right. But you called Double D, so I take it you want a very deluxe escort, yes?”
“Yes.”
“I don’t mean to sound cold, sir, but escorts, they’re kind of like cars. There’s Rolls-Royces and there’s Fords, you understand?”
“Yes. I—”
“And there’s used cars and new ones, you understand that?”
“Yes.”
“The newer it is, the more expensive. Because, once you drive it, once
anyone
drives it, well, it’s not so new anymore, you still with me?”
“Yes.”
“Now, we don’t go below a certain . . . limit, okay? Uh, let’s say we were talking about . . . oh, I don’t know . . . school. High school, that’s an easy way to look at it. Would you want, say sophomore, senior . . . or . . . ?”
“Freshman,” the man said.
“Very expensive.”
“I don’t care. I just want—”
“It’s five K for all night, plus whatever . . . gratuity you might wish to bestow.”
“All right.”
“All our escorts
are
escorted, do you know what I’m saying?”
“I think so.”
“Someone will be along with the escort. That’s the person you pay. In cash. The only thing you give the escort is the gratuity, got it?”
“Yes.”
“Now, a little wear and tear is perfectly acceptable, okay? But damaged goods, that would be a very serious thing. Very expensive. If you—”
“I’m not going to—”
“Sure. Whatever. But, remember, we know where you live, Mr. Ro
gét
. In fact, we know an awful lot about you now. So . . .”
“I said I’m not going to—”
“Sir, we don’t care what you do. What we do care is that you understand: what
ever
you do, you have to pay for it, all right?”
“Yes.”
“Would nine o’clock be satisfactory?”
“Yes. That would be—”
“They’ll ring your room from the lobby,” the man said, cutting the connection.
2
The man who gave his name as Roget put down the phone and got to his feet. He was medium-height, perhaps in his late forties—but close-cropped dull-gray hair, a sallow complexion, and a haggard face added another decade to his appearance. His body was not so much thin as taut. The backs of his hands were stippled with tiny dark spots. The little finger and the first segment of the one next to it on his right hand were missing.
He left the sitting room of the suite and entered the bedroom. Dropping to both knees, he opened the bottom drawer of a bureau and looked inside for a long moment. Then he shut the drawer, got to his feet, carefully removed his clothing, and entered the bathroom.
When he emerged from the bedroom a half-hour later, the man was dressed in a dark-blue suit with a white shirt and black tie. He checked his watch. Nodded to himself. Picked up the phone and ordered a chicken sandwich on rye toast, no mayo, from Room Service.
He ate the sandwich slowly, chewing each mouthful with care. When he finished, he dialed Room Service again and told the person who answered that he would leave his tray outside the door.
Then he went to the desk, took out a few sheets of hotel stationery, and began to write—tiny words so precise they might have been typed. When he was finished, he placed the sheets of paper inside a hotel envelope and sealed it. Then he put the envelope in the pocket of his suit coat.
The man sat down in an armchair and closed his eyes.
3
The phone rang at 8:58 p.m. The man picked it up.
“Yes?”
“Your escort is here.” It was a man’s voice. “Shall I bring her up?”
“Yes.”
Less than two minutes later, there was a soft rap at the door of the suite. The man opened it. Standing before him was a tall, well-developed man with long dark hair pulled back into a ponytail. Behind him, just visible behind and below his right shoulder, was a girl with straight blond hair almost covering her face.
Roget stood aside. The tall man and the blonde girl entered the suite. Roget started to open his mouth, but the tall man motioned for silence. The blonde girl walked deeper into the suite and stood quietly, hands clasped behind her back as if terribly shy, eyes downcast. She was dressed in a school uniform: green blazer over a plain white blouse and a plaid pleated skirt with matching suspenders.
The tall man opened his palm. Roget reached into his pocket and came out with a stack of new one-hundred-dollar bills. The tall man fanned it as one might a sheaf of paper, then pocketed it without counting. He stepped so close that Roget could see the pores of his skin. “She can get back on her own,” the tall man said. “And if she can’t . . . you just call us, all right? But that would be extra . . .”
“All right,” Roget replied.
The tall man left.
4
“How old are you?” Roget asked the blonde girl.
“Thirteen,” she replied, still not looking up.
“Do you want to sit down?” he asked her.
“Whatever
you
want. That’s why I’m here.”
“Then let’s sit down.”
“Okay.”
“You seem . . . afraid. Are you?”
“I’m a little . . . nervous, I guess.”
“I’m not going to hurt you, child.”
“Thanks. I—”
“But you’re not really thirteen, are you?”
“Yes, I am. Do you want to see my birth certificate? I have it with—”
“No, thank you. How long have you been doing . . . this?”
“I never . . . I mean, this is my first—”
“What’s your name?”
“Whatever you say it is, Daddy.”
Roget’s face tightened. He took a deep breath. Then he said: “Your name is Melody, how’s that?”
The blonde girl’s face twitched. “Okay,” she said.
“And you live in the Heights. And go to Cables High. You’re in the eleventh grade. And you were sixteen last July. Your father works at—”
“How do you
know
all that? How could you? They promised no one would ever . . .”
“No one has to,” Roget said, his voice calm with assurance. “It just costs money. To find out things. To get things. You know about the ‘getting things’ part, don’t you, Melody?”
“You don’t—”
“Yes, I do. Did they show you the film about the Japanese schoolgirls? Or start you off with a beeper in the mall? Or maybe it was—”
“What
ever
! I mean, who cares?”
“You know what ‘Double D’ stands for, Melody?”
“Yeah,” the girl said, her voice hardening. “Daddy-Daughter.”
“And how much does that pay?”
“A thousand dollars,” the girl said proudly. “The most anyone gets.”
“Plus the . . . gratuity, yes?”
“Sometimes. Not always.”
“How would you like to start earning that money, Melody?”
“Whatever you say, Daddy.”
“Don’t call me that!” Roget said sharply.
“I’m sorry. I was just . . .”
“That’s all right,” he said, voice shifting to a soothing tone. “It’s my fault. I shouldn’t have barked at you like that. I shouldn’t have . . . made you feel bad. That’s abuse too, you know. Emotional abuse. When a parent makes a child feel bad—as though they have no worth—that hurts. Sometimes it hurts worse than anything. And sometimes the parent doesn’t even know he’s doing it. . . .”
“That’s all right,” the girl said, repeating the man’s words, using his same tone, keeping the fear at bay, working hard, terrified that she had finally found that client who all the girls whispered about—the Death Trick.
Roget shook his head like a terrier with a rat. The girl didn’t move.
Finally, he stopped. When he looked across at her, his eyes were clear and calm again.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “The headaches . . . they get really bad sometimes.”
“Are they migraines?” the girl asked, too brightly. “My mother used to—”
“No, child. It’s a tumor. A brain tumor. From cancer.”
“You mean you’re going to, like. . . ?”
“Die? Yes. And fairly soon. I refused the chemo. It would have made it impossible to . . .”
“What?”
“Make amends.”
“I don’t get it.”
“It doesn’t matter, Melody. I’ve spent just about all my money. And I’ve done a lot of work. But your work . . . Well, you won’t have to do it. Not tonight. All you have to do is talk, okay? Talk and listen.”
“Sure. Do you want me to take off my—?”
“Just sit, child. If you want some soda or anything, it’s right over there in the mini-bar.”
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome. I had—I guess I
have
—a daughter about your age. I mean, she
was
your age. When she . . . I mean, she’s about nineteen now. Almost twenty. Her birthday is next month.”
“Are you going to—?”
“No, I’m not going to see her. I don’t know where she is.”
“Did she, like, run away or something?”
“Yes, that’s just what she did. She ran away. She ran away from me.”
“Oh.”
“Not for . . . what you think. Not for . . . the reason you’re here. Or thought you were here, anyway. I never touched my daughter. Never laid a hand on her. Just words,” Roget said. “Ugly, hurtful, mean words. ‘You’re fat. You’re ugly. You’re stupid. You’re lazy.’ I thought I was . . . motivating her. Making her work harder. The same way my . . . It doesn’t matter. Do you know what I mean, Melody?”
“I . . . guess so. I mean, nobody in my family ever called me names. They just . . .”
“What?”
“I don’t know . . . ignored me. Like I wasn’t there. I had—I mean, I have—nice things. And friends. And everything. That’s not why I . . .”
“Do this?”
“Yes. It’s just for . . . fun. Kicks. I mean—”
“They ask you that a lot, don’t they? Why you got into . . . this?”
“Who? You mean . . . clients?”
“Yes.”
“No. They never ask. I mean, you’re the first one. If you’re even asking . . . I can’t really tell.”
“No, I’m not asking you, Melody. It doesn’t much matter after a while, does it?”
“I . . . guess not. And they . . .”
“What?”
“I don’t know how to explain it. They . . . pay attention to me.”
Roget nodded his head. Sadly, as though acknowledging a great truth.
“I mean, I’m not going to be doing this much longer,” the girl continued. “When I go to college, I’ll—”
“Yes, I understand, Melody. Do you have a red button?”
“A red button? On my—?”
“No. I guess the different . . . services . . . call it different things. A beeper, a cell phone . . . some way you can call them if you get in trouble.”
“You mean, like . . . arrested? Morty said we would never get arrested. But if something goes wrong, I have a number to call. For a lawyer. Morty says —”
“And Morty is the man who brought you?”
“No. That’s just Chester. He’s—”
“So Morty is your boss?”
“Well, he’s not really my
boss
. I mean, not like my
father’s
boss, like in a company and all. He’s the guy who talked to me when I . . . signed up.”
“And where is Morty now?”
“Now? I don’t know. I mean, he doesn’t stay in one place, like. He moves around.”
“Does he ever go to the Castle?”
“Oh, wow! You know about that? I was only there once. It’s really—”
“Only for special guests?”
“Yeah! I wasn’t supposed to even know where it is, you know what I mean? They, like, blindfold you and everything.”
“But . . . ?”
“But I, like, recognized it. Not from the front. It’s all dark and everything. But after. When I was . . . done. I went outside. In the back yard. Only it’s not a yard. It’s humongous. Like a park, even. Way out past the pool with all the lights. I just wanted to smoke a joint, be by myself. And then I realized where I was. My friend . . . well, she’s not really my
friend
so much, from school, like, we went there once. Around the back, I mean. So I knew it. Where I was, I mean.”
“Was your . . . friend there that night?”
“Alexia? Fat chance! I mean, it’s
her
house, right? But she doesn’t even know about . . . it. Only a couple of kids at school do it, and Alexia’s not in our crowd, so she’d never—”
“It’s pretty early yet,” Roget said, getting to his feet. “We have a long time to wait. Why don’t you just lie down. You can sleep if you like. Or watch TV. Just no phone calls, okay?”
“Okay.”
5
It was almost one in the morning when the girl finally spoke to Roget again. She was sprawled on the couch, candy wrappers strewn in a fan around her feet.
“Look, it’s, like, none of my business, okay? But you paid a lot of money. And I haven’t done anything. And it’s getting late and all. I mean, what did you hire me for?”
Roget got up silently and went into the back bedroom. When he emerged he was carrying a large satchel. And an ugly-looking Uzi on a strap slung over his shoulder. He put on a raincoat, sliding the submachine gun underneath.
“I hired you for just what I told them, Melody. I need an escort.”
for Dr. Yitzhak Bakal