Everybody Pays (6 page)

THE REAL THING

T
he middle-aged, middle-sized man sat behind a steel-gray metal desk. Venom-yellow glare from the naked fluorescent tubes over his head turned his complexion a sickly shade of ugly. The top of the desk was cluttered with paper: tear sheets from the personals column of a local tabloid, phone bills, a porno magazine with the cover ripped halfway off, the local Yellow Pages.

The man took a hard puff on the remaining stub of his cigar. He made a sour face, as though the taste had betrayed him. Then he started rooting through the paper clutter for an ashtray. After a few seconds, he made a grunt of disgust and dropped the burning stub on the nicotine-colored linoleum floor. He was grinding it out with his heel when the blonde walked through the office door.

“You’re a genius, Lester,” the blonde said, throwing an extra touch of throatiness into her husky whiskey-and-cigarettes voice as she crossed the room and parked one silk-sheathed hip on the edge of the desk. The man she called Lester opened his mouth to respond, but the blonde took a deep breath first, pulling his flesh-pouched eyes to her chest. The blonde listened to the silence, as if assuring herself it would hold. Then she crossed her muscular legs slowly and smoothly—the rasp of nylon was the loudest thing in the room.

The sex-sound made the man gulp, clearing his throat. “Uh . . . thanks, Delva. But I don’t know what—”

“Oh yes, you do,” the blonde interrupted. “I mean, you’re the
boss
around here, right? Who else?”

“I don’t exactly get your—”

The blonde twisted her torso. Her cantilevered breasts jutted at an impossible angle as her head swiveled to face the man.

“The kiddie stuff, Lester. That was real genius.”

“Oh.
That
. It wasn’t no big thing. To figure it out, I mean. There’s a big market there. Different strokes, right?”

“You mean me?” the blonde purred, licking her lips.

“Cut it out, Delva,” the man said. “You wanna be a lez, that’s your business, okay?”

“So it’s the same?” the blonde asked softly.

“Huh?”

“Some people are gay, some people like to meet-and-beat, some people love shoes, some people like to fuck little kids . . . ?”

“What’s the damn difference?” the man replied, more life in his voice now. “I mean, it ain’t
real
anyway, okay? It’s a fake. A hustle, that’s all. We don’t do no out-call stuff here, not like some of those joints where you can just order pussy delivered like a goddamned pizza.”

“Yes,” the blonde said, a quick smile slashing across her full lips. “But the genius part was getting a real live little girl for the phones. I mean, it’s just
amazing
that those child-molester freaks can tell the difference.”

“Huh?”

“Oh, come
on,
Lester. You know as well as me that the rest of them can’t tell. You got blimps like Marcia cooing into the phone like she’s the hottest piece of stuff in town. You think if the marks could
see
that fat slob they’d still get turned on?”

“Yeah, I guess maybe you’re right, Delva,” the man said, an undercurrent of sneer in his voice. “I mean, if any of the guys you phone-fuck knew you was a dyke, that’d sure—”

“Oh, bullshit.” The blonde laughed. “Truth is, it’d be a big turn-on for them. They’d think they were so hot, they got me to go over, change sides, right? Besides, men
love
lesbians, don’t they? You can get guys to watch girl-girl stuff all day. Try to get a bunch of girls to watch two gay guys getting it on—they’d fall asleep.”

“Maybe you’re—”

“Oh, you
know
I’m right, don’t you, Lester? I mean,
you
know it.”

“Look . . .” The man gulped. Sweat cracked under the hair-sprayed strands carefully combed to cover his bald spot, but the practiced sneer stayed in his voice. “. . . they’re all the same in the dark, Delva. Pussy is pussy—and yours ain’t gold.”

The blonde leaned forward again, twisting her body even more radically, her face only inches from the gray man’s. Her red silk sheath rose to just past mid-thigh, displaying thick black bands around the tops of her fishnet stockings. “You sure . . . ?” she whispered.

“Cut it out already!” he snapped. “You think I’m a trick?”

“No,” the blonde said calmly. “I think you’re a genius, like I said. How’d you ever get a little girl to be such a good actress? I mean, I heard her on the phone a couple of times—you’d swear she was really into it.”

“She
is
really into it. What can I tell you? That’s one grown-up little girl.”

“Where’d you ever find her? One of the ads?” the blonde asked, pointing a long red-lacquered fingernail at a newspaper column circled in red: help wanted.

“Not that way! Jeez, how you gonna put an ad like that in the paper? What we do, it’s all legit, top to bottom. You know that. There’s nothing illegal about any of this. Like I told you when you signed on, all you girls are independent contractors, right? There’s a First Amendment, too, maybe you don’t under—”

“So how
did
you find her, Lester?”

“I got an ad running. ‘Phone Hostess,’ you know. Anyway, this woman calls me, right? Regina, you remember her?”

“Uh-uh,” the blonde said, a puzzled expression on her heavily made-up face.

“She was only here a few weeks. Anyway, one day, she comes in to get paid—that’s the only reason any of them would come
here
. Hell, that’s why
you’re
here, right?”

“Ah, you know me so well.” The blonde smiled. “So what happened next?”

“Next? Oh, you mean with the . . . Okay, she comes in. And she’s got this little girl with her. She was, I dunno, eight, nine, ten . . . whatever—I can’t tell with kids. So this Regina, she says the kid wants to
work
, okay? I thought it was a gag, but I figured, what do I got to lose? So I give her a tryout. Right here. And let me tell you, Delva, this kid’s a pro. She was talking so hot to the marks that called, I couldn’t believe it. And once the word got out, we were
smoking
, I’m telling you. There’s nothing like the real thing.”

“And then—”

“Let me finish for
once
, all right? It’s true. What you said. The diddlers really
can
tell the difference. The word got around—now little Lolita’s the hottest thing in town. You know what her rate is? Four ninety-five! That’s a buck sweeter than we can get for anybody else, including
you
, Delva. And the beauty part is, it’s all legal. One hundred percent legit. The kid’s an
actress,
see? I don’t know how her mother got her trained so good, but—”

The blonde got to her feet, stood facing the man, hands on hips. “You got my money?” she demanded.

“Sure. I got it right here. What’d you think, I was gonna run out on you?”

“No, Lester,” the blonde said. “I know you’re a man of honor.”

The man flushed under his gray complexion. “You think you’re better than me? You’re a phone whore—I’m a phone pimp. I don’t
make
nobody do nothing. You don’t like the deal, you can just haul your fat ass out of here, go find a place where they’ll treat you better.”

“I’m sorry, Lester,” the blonde said softly. “I was only playing.”

“Don’t play like that, bitch!” the gray man said. “You don’t insult a man’s honor in his own place. You know better than that.”

“I
said
I was sorry, Lester,” the blonde replied. She took a step forward, leaning one hip against the front of the desk. “You running a new ad?”

“That’s right,” the man said, only slightly mollified. “And this ain’t for no sex stuff either. You know what’s hot now? Psychics. Astrologists. Tarot cards. All that stuff.”

“But you can get all that on the street,” the blonde said, a puzzled tone in her voice. “Why would they want—?”

“Look, everybody knows, the Gypsies, they’re just gonna rip you off. Besides, what if you want to talk to someone, say, two in the morning? Who’s open then?”

“Yeah, but . . .”

“We got this all on
computer
now, would you believe that, Delva? Square business: You tell your birthday, all they got to do is push some buttons and they got like a whole
report
on you. Computers, it’s like magic. They got
everything
on them. It’s amazing.”

“Yeah. I guess so, but . . .”

“What?”

“You ever try it? For yourself, I mean?”

“How could I—”

“You know what I mean, Lester,” the blonde said. She stepped back from the desk, and began to walk in little circles, round and round, as if she were on a turnstile. The gray man’s eyes followed—his gaze never reached her eyes. “You give everyone a tryout, right?” she said. “The way you did with me? You get their home number, then you call them and you act like a trick. So you can see how they do.”

“What’s that got to do with—?”

“You try them
all
, right? Even this little girl—what’s her name again?—Lolita?”

“That’s not her
real
name, for Chrissakes! What’s wrong with you?”

“Me? Nothing. I was just thinking. You always have to test people, right? See how they do on the real thing?” The blonde stopped mid-stride, her back to the gray man, peering over one shoulder. “I just thought you could call one of those psychics,” she said, “find out what’s going to happen to you.”

“Happen to me? What—?”

“Like are you going to win the lottery; stuff like that.”

“Oh. Yeah, well, why should I? It’s all bullshit, like you said.”

“I meant, just to see how they come across. Look, forget I mentioned it—it’s probably a stupid idea. Give me my money and I’ll get out of here. What time is it anyway?”

“Exactly two-sixteen a.m.,” the man said, pulling back a cuff to display a gold watch with diamonds circling the face. He started to paw through a metal box which held a number of index cards. “Let’s see. You were on Monday and Tuesday, then you—”

“I sure hope this thing works,” the blonde said, fumbling in her purse.

“What works?” he asked, looking up.

“This,” the blonde said, pulling a semi-automatic pistol from her purse. “The silencer, I mean,” tapping the long tube that extended from the front of the barrel.

“Delva, look . . .” The gray man’s voice spasmed.

“Keep quiet, Lester. Keep
real
quiet. You keep quiet, you
stay
quiet, and I’m out of here in a minute, no harm done.”

“It’s in the safe,” he said, a resigned tone in his voice. “If you needed cash, you could’ve always—”

“No, it’s not in the safe,” the blonde said. “It’s in your records. I want this ‘Lolita’s’ real name. I want her mother’s name. I want where they live. I want it all—everything you got, okay? And
fast
, Lester—this whole thing makes me nervous.”

“Sure, Delva—whatever you want, okay? It’s right in here,” he said, holding up the metal box with the index cards. “Let me just . . . here! I got it.”

“Put it on the desk,” Delva said. “And keep your hands where I can see them.”

She moved quickly to the desk, swept the three index cards up in one hand, and glanced down to read the cards, holding the pistol steady all the while. “Okay,” the blonde said. “That’s it. You wouldn’t do something stupid, would you, Lester? Like calling them yourself and telling them what just happened here?”

“No way, Delva,” the sickly-looking man promised. “They won’t hear nothing from me—you got my word.”

“That’s good, Lester. Don’t worry, I’m not mad at you. This whole thing is all fake, right? Just like you said. It’s all an act. Me too. I’m acting, too. Don’t worry about the gun—it was just a joke. This pistol, it isn’t any more real than what you sell.”

“Delva . . .”

“That’s not my real name,” the blonde woman said. The pistol in her hand made a sound like an enormous champagne cork popping. A red dot blossomed on the gray man’s forehead.

for Joel “Doc” Dvoskin

SLOW MOTION

I
have to wait for the fear before I start my walk.

There’s an Eastern man in town. Came by train. Dressed like a banker. A flashy banker. Says he’s a writer.

Someone must have told him about me. Probably over at the Lucky Lady. One of the gamblers, one of the drunks—it don’t matter.

He says he wants to write about me. Says people where he comes from, they’re all interested in gunfighters. Lot of money in it if I’d tell him my story.

I asked him what a lot of money meant to him . . . what the words coming out of his mouth meant. I always do that when I’m striking a deal. I like to make sure.

He said I could get five hundred dollars if I told him everything.

I told him to give me the money.

He said, no, he’d have to hear what I had to say first.

We settled on half in advance, pretty much like I expected.

That was a week ago. I’ve been lying to him every day since then.

Now he’s waiting to see one happen. Said I’d told him enough—all he needed was to see one happen so he could write about it from his own eyes. Then I could get paid.

That’s why I do it, he thinks.

See, the way people talk, you’d think you could make a living being a gunfighter. You can make a living with a gun, all right, but not fighting.

Killing, that’s what pays.

People talk different where the Easterner comes from. But they’re just as wrong. They think gunfighters go around having duels just to see who’s the fastest.

I didn’t even know what a duel was until he told me. He said they do it back East, too, only they do it different. Two men start back-to-back. Then they step off while another one counts out loud. When the counter gets to the right number, both men turn and fire.

It’s a matter of honor, the Easterner told me. If someone does something against your honor, you challenge him to a duel.

I never fought a man for honor.

Some do. Some men, you call them a coward or a thief or even a liar, they’ll want to step out into the street and face you.

I’ve been called a lot worse than that, but it never got me into a gunfight.

A man in Kansas said things about my mother. I didn’t do nothing. He kept on. I told him if he was truthful about wanting to fight me he could prove it. And not by calling my mother no names.

He couldn’t call the vicious whore enough names to measure up to the truth, anyway.

But I didn’t tell him that. What I told him was, put up a stake and I’d match it. Then we’d go out into the street like he wanted. Winner takes the stake.

He didn’t have no real money. So I used on him what he was using on me. I told him he was a coward. Everybody knows I only fight for money. So him challenging me when he didn’t have none—that showed his true color.

He was a young one. Stupid. He came back in a couple of weeks and put fifty dollars gold on the table right in front of me. Right in front of everyone.

I matched it. Then we stepped out. And it happened the way it always does.

He got at one end of the street and me at the other. Then we started to walk to each other. My legs always tremble terrible when it starts. I have to walk real stiff, so it won’t show. When the
real
fear hits me, I go right back there. Where it first happened.

I feel it inside me. A red wash comes over my eyes. I keep walking. I have to get very close. People don’t understand it, not at all. I have to wait for the fear to take over complete. One man has to draw first. They say it’s never me. Because I’m so fast. But I keep walking because I can’t do nothing else. I get stiffer and stiffer as I walk, like adobe hardening in the sun.

It usually takes them a long time to draw. Everybody knows if you draw too soon you ain’t going to hit nothing. Cowards, they start shooting from a long ways away. It’s a big thing to keep walking, get close. I get credit for that. But they don’t know I can’t do nothing else.

I keep walking until the other man draws. Then it all slows
way
down. Just like it used to before, when it happened to me. I can see every move the other man makes. Like he’s doing it underwater. Then the fear rips and jolts and blood fills up my ears and I can’t hear nothing and my gun comes out. Usually the other man shoots first. Not always. I’ve been shot a few times, but never one to finish me.

I always finish them. When I shoot, I don’t miss.

And I
keep
shooting. Every man I fight, he gets all six.

Tomorrow, it will happen again. The Easterner can see it all. He can write it down. He’ll pay me my money then. People always pay me after I do the work.

People fear me. And I know what they say about me. That I ain’t afraid of nothing.

They don’t know my secret.

For every man I kill, I feel less fear when I start my walk the next time.

That’s the only thing I’m afraid of. One day, I won’t be afraid enough. Things won’t slow down.

That’s the day all this stops.

for Tony