A Better Goodbye Page 12

  “Got it,” Nick said. “Any place to park that’s better than the street?”

  “There’s two spaces in the garage, but the girls get them. For safety reasons. In case any crazies they meet here start waiting outside. It happens, you know.”

  “Maybe I can look around if I run out every couple hours to move my car.”

  “Whatever, as long as there’s no clients on the way up.”

  With the ground rules laid out, there was nothing left for Nick and Sierra to talk about. The only voice heard belonged to Kianna as she worked the two phones, most callers apparently seeking nothing more than titillating conversation as they tried to start their hearts with a morning tug. Every once in a while, she cast an annoyed glance at Sierra, but Sierra ignored her. Typical queen bee.

  She kept it up until the intercom buzzed. “Must be my eleven o’clock,” she said. She hurried toward a speaker next to the front door and asked who it was. When a voice said it was Phil, she buzzed him up without telling him the apartment number. “Comes every Wednesday,” she told Nick, giggling, expecting him to acknowledge the double entendre. He forced a smile and hoped for her sake that her skills in bed were better than her sense of humor.

  “You want me to open the door for this guy?” he asked.

  “I’m trying to get him in here, not chase him away,” she said.

  Behind them Kianna laughed. Nick felt his ears burning, but he kept his eyes on Sierra. “So,” he said, “what do I do?”

  “In there,” she said, pointing toward a side room. “And shut the door behind you.”

  “You want me hiding?” The idea was strange, even insulting.

  “Yes, hiding. Now do it before he gets here.”

  Nick started to ask her, What the fuck? Then he thought better of it and stepped into what looked like a second bedroom, telling himself to take it slow and easy, get a handle on the situation, the way Cecil taught him to. He flipped a switch and an overhead light came on, revealing three pieces of fifth-rate erotic art on the walls and taupe carpet in serious need of vacuuming. A futon covered by a multicolored comforter had been pushed up against one wall. Beside it were fancy plastic bottles filled with oil and lotion. Something was spilling from a bottle that hadn’t been closed and was now lying on its side, next to a puffball of carpet fabric, a box of tissue, and a CD without a case.

  He kneeled to see what these girls listened to, only to be distracted by the mess on the floor. The unvacuumed carpet was stained with whatever the girls used on their clients, and maybe human fluids as well. There were tall candles on both sides of the futon, and wax from them had spilled onto the carpet. What surprised him most was how much hair there was everywhere, on the pillows and the comforter, in the wax deposits, even on the CD player. The long hair was obviously female, but the short, curly hair had to be pubic and was most likely male. He made a mental note to be careful where he put his hands before he finally got around to picking up the forlorn CD. He’d never heard of a band called Enigma. Shrugging, he searched for the CD’s case. When he couldn’t find it among the half-dozen others that were safe in their cases, he laid it atop a CD player stained by oily fingers.

  A half-open door beckoned from a few feet away, so he rose and stepped through it just far enough to turn on the light. It was a bathroom, and one look told him not to venture any farther. The faucets in the sink and shower were dripping, staining the porcelain with rust in shapes that might inspire visions both sacred and profane. The wastebasket overflowed with tissue, paper towels, tampons, and God knows what else.

  The presumably clean towels stacked behind the toilet suggested a touch of order that was quickly belied by a wet towel hanging on a rack and another on the floor. Good thing the lid on the toilet seat was down. He didn’t want to think about what might be under it.

  But when the candles were burning, the overhead light was off, and the curtains were closed, a guy whose only concern was his hard-on wouldn’t notice any of it. Nick smiled as he remembered the times he had been blinded by horniness, and he wondered at the temptation he would face in the days and weeks ahead. Those were good-looking women out there, especially Kianna. She was enough to make him wonder if employees got discounts. Then again, it had never been his style to pay for it.

  He stood and moved toward the only significant piece of furniture in the room besides the futon, a padded chair that looked like it belonged at a dining table. Before he reached it, he saw a door that had to be to a closet. What the hell, he’d checked out everything else. He opened it and saw the flimsy things the girls wore dangling from wire hangers. An instant later he was hit by an overpowering smell that had nothing to do with lingerie. It was pure stink.

  The source was a pile of sheets and towels that had been thrown in the rear of the closet as soon as whatever happened on them happened, probably yesterday, although a smell like that could have been a week in the making. There was a vacuum cleaner tucked in a rear corner, too. As Nick wondered if it had ever been used, the bedroom door opened and Kianna stood there staring at him accusingly.

  “Oh, shit,” she said, “You're not a pervert, are you?”

  “No, I’m . . . ” He was searching for words and not finding them. It was Kianna’s fault. Her boobs were right there ready to be stared at, and he didn’t want her busting him for it. The look he’d gotten from Sierra had been embarrassing enough. But Kianna’s boobs were still interfering with his ability to form an explanation, and it didn’t seem like the time to bring up the general filth in the bedroom or the stench in the closet. Finally, against these impossible odds, he summoned a complete thought: “I’m looking for a vacuum. Thought I’d clean the place up.”

  “I don’t think so,” Kianna said.

  “I’m serious.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes.”

  “Really?”

  She kept staring at him, suspicion narrowing her eyes while a smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. She was beautiful even when confused.

  “Hey,” Nick said, “I found the vacuum, didn’t I?”

  She thought about that for a moment. “Okay,” she said, letting her smile seize control of her face. “I was just going to ask if you wanted to come out. You really don’t have to hide. Sierra was being a bitch. Just make sure you stay behind the dividers when there’s clients, okay?”

  “Will do,” Nick said.

  She turned and walked back to the living room. He followed, enjoying the view despite his suspicions about her hygiene. There was no TV—Scott had said he didn’t want his girls wrapped up in The Bold and the Beautiful when they should be taking care of business—so Nick watched Kianna carefully pour oils and lotions she’d purchased at a ninety-nine-cent store into fancy unmarked bottles. “All the girls do it,” she said. “Clients don’t know the difference.”

  Sierra glared at Nick when she stepped out of the master bedroom to say her regular was getting dressed, but that was all. Maybe it was because she was preoccupied by the complaints she registered as soon as the poor goof was gone. She said he had the hairiest back she’d ever seen, and today he’d had toilet paper stuck to his ass, too. Kianna said she thought TP ass was cute.

  A little before two, after Kianna had seen two clients and Sierra her second and third, Scott came by, fussing over the girls before he pulled Nick aside and shoved a notepad and a pen at him. They were for keeping track of how many clients the girls saw and how long the sessions lasted. Each girl, at the end of her shift, had to stop by a metal security box under the kitchen sink and deposit an envelope bearing the number she’d been assigned and containing the house’s share of her daily earnings. “These fucking women would steal my goddamn lungs if I let ’em,” Scott said. “And do not let them talk you into any kickbacks, man. Do not.” Then he grabbed Sierra by the arm and steered her into the master bedroom for a massage, playfully slapping her on the rump and telling her she looked hot.

  What Scott wanted, Scott got. Nick understood that. Bu
t it still bothered him more than he’d imagined it would. It must have showed, because he could see Kianna subtly shaking her head, reminding him to stay cool. “Scott always fucks her,” she said. “I mean, it’s what you’ve got to do to work here. But, like, once is enough, you know?”

  Nick nodded and let it go at that. Kianna was soon back on the phone, lying on the sofa, acting like he wasn’t there when she rubbed and scratched and picked at the remnants of the Thai lunch she and Sierra had had delivered. They hadn’t offered him any, and he wasn’t going to ask, even though his stomach was growling and Kianna seemed like the type to share. Until he got some money in his pocket, he’d have to remember to bring something from home, a sandwich or at least an apple. Plus, a newspaper to read so he wouldn’t go nuts from boredom.

  Sierra emerged from her romp with the boss looking flushed and messy. Five minutes later, Nick heard Scott before he saw him: “Christ, only one clean towel in the fucking bathroom.” He finished his point when he stepped into view. “You damn well know I always use two. What the fuck is going on here, you want to tell me?”

  The girls looked too frightened to speak. Once again Nick felt as though he’d been rendered invisible.

  “This goddamn place costs me twenty-five hundred bucks a month and you’ve got it looking like a fucking pigsty.” Scott turned his glare toward the other bedroom. “I don’t even want to go in there, do I? Probably some kind of toxic waste site.”

  Nick fought back a smile.

  “Get off your lazy asses and clean everything the fuck up. Jesus, how you going to make any goddamn money if it looks like a shithole in here?”

  He slammed the door when he left. Nick couldn’t help thinking the guy’s performance was a rerun of something he’d done on TV. But it was too early in the game for Nick to be running his mouth about the boss, so he sat back and watched how the girls handled it.

  “Get off your lazy fucking ass, Kianna,” Sierra said, turning anger to petulance by mimicking Scott.

  Kianna wrinkled her nose and said, “It’s a fucking what kind of waste thingy did he say?”

  “Toxic.”

  “It’s a fucking toxic waste . . . ”

  “Site.”

  “Waste site. Yeah.”

  When they finished bitching and laughing, they began to clean up. Kianna, carrying a load of sheets and towels to the laundry room, looked like she wanted to ask Nick for help. “Uh-uh,” Sierra told her, leaving unspoken the warning that he would rat them out to Scott.

  The girls’ shift was supposed to be over at three, but one of their replacements, a slender, waif-like Latina calling herself Riki, didn’t show up until half past. Kianna seized the moment and split, saying she had to pick up a friend at LAX. With the phones ringing infrequently—Wednesdays were always slow, the girls said—Sierra devoted most of the next half-hour to muttering about how Ling always screwed her over like this. Ling was the AWOL masseuse, and the longer she was out there ignoring Sierra’s messages and pages, the more interested Nick was in getting a look at her.

  The big moment arrived at five-thirty, a good hour after Sierra had finally stormed off while Riki was telling her latest telephone suitor, “There’s no full service but I do allow mutual touching.” As Nick tried to break the code, Ling swept through the door like royalty, carrying three bags from Bath & Body Works and not bothering to apologize for being late.

  When she noticed Nick, she looked down her elegant nose at him and said, “Are you waiting for Riki?”

  “No, I’m waiting for you,” he said. “Been here all day.”

  “Is that a joke?”

  “Afraid not.”

  “Well, like, clients aren’t allowed in until it’s time for their appointment. Besides, I don’t even know you.”

  Riki hung up and filled in the blanks for Ling: “This is Nick. He’s the security guy Scott got for us.”

  “He thinks he’s funny,” Ling said.

  “I’m just trying to tell you I bumped into the guy across the hall this morning,” Nick said, blanking on the name and getting no help from Riki. “Probably be a good idea to stay away from his boyfriend. He was pretty upset.”

  “That little faggot Neal,” Ling said, as if that explained everything. “Tell him he can go fuck himself.”

  “I’m not sure I’ll see him again,” Nick said.

  “Whatever,” Ling said, and she began taking oils and lotions out of her bags, telling Riki how much they cost. Riki smiled a ninety-nine-cent-store smile, as if to say Ling didn’t know the joke was on her, and Nick studied Riki’s hair, which had been bleached blonde and enhanced with braided extensions that went to her waist. When she caught him looking—these girls were aces at doing that—she gave him a little smile.

  Ling booked only one appointment, a regular she polished off in twenty minutes. Then she rushed to see Eddie, her lover with the shifting sexual preference.

  “You’re not worried about the other guy?” Nick said.

  “Neal? He’s at work by now,” Ling said. “Like a good little boy.”

  When she was gone, Nick felt a weight descend on him. He was more than physically tired, he was sapped in a way that made him wonder how many more days of this he would have to endure. It must have shown on his face, because Riki tottered over on five-inch heels after buzzing up her seven o’clock and deposited herself beside him on the sofa, pushing her braids off her shoulders so he could see her tiny breasts under a sheer negligee. “Want to hide in the closet and peek when I do my next client?” she asked. “I’m a squirter.”

  The warmth of her smile confused him at first. He wanted to think he had misunderstood this girl who must have been in high school only a year or two before, but he knew he hadn’t. There was no other kindness she was equipped to offer. Just the same, he told her, “I better hang around out here.” Her smile collapsed, and the day weighed more than ever.

  13

  It had been sunny, but the temperature hadn’t climbed out of the sixties, so like any self-respecting Cali girl, Jenny spent the day freezing and wishing April was over. Now, as night fell, she was bundled in an XL fleece hoodie she had borrowed from an old boyfriend and never returned. It made her hips look enormous, but she didn’t care. Fresh from work, Maria and one of the girls from her Chinatown place, a blonde who called herself Twyla, were making sure there was plenty to look at. They both had on camisoles that showed off their boobs and low-rise Juicy sweatpants so every man in the grocery store could see the tops of their thongs and the tailbone tattoos they called tramp stamps without a trace of irony.

  Jenny couldn’t resist glancing at the men and categorizing them—Client . . . Not a client . . . Client—the way she and Rosie used to when they goofed on everyone who ogled them at the Sherman Oaks Galleria. Ogled. Jenny loved that word. But she wondered if it really applied here at the Ralphs on La Brea and Third Street, where some of the oglers had to be Orthodox Jews. The neighborhood was loaded with them, guys who spent their Sabbath walking around in black suits and hats, looking very somber and holy. She used to see them on her way to work at Maria’s place downtown, and even then she had wondered how many of them got massages. She knew it wasn’t like being religious meant you never got horny. One of the girls she had worked with even had a rabbi for a client. Jenny tried not to imagine what it was like to jerk him off. Too bizarre, you know?

  But Maria wouldn’t have thought twice about it if she had the pope in her hand. She was oblivious to everything except money and finding ways to spend it. Her primary luxury, it seemed, was useless boyfriends. The first one Jenny knew about was a fat black drug dealer named Mookie who lived in his mother’s guesthouse in Leimert Park and wouldn’t sleep with Maria if she hadn’t seen enough clients. For the last year she’d been supporting a photographer whose work was so bad that everyone except Maria realized it. He wasn’t even cute, just a skinny white guy about forty who acted like his chin stubble made up for the hair he was losing. Maria bragged that he was a grea
t artist, and the photographer was always trying to get the girls to pose nude for him. Some actually did, the really stupid ones.

  It was the easiest thing in the world for Jenny to tell Maria’s picture-taking boyfriend to fuck off, but Maria was another story. She was acting like she’d never heard Jenny’s horror story from the Valley or processed her need to do massage only in a place that had security. Maria, in her blissful, willful way, had decided she would make dinner for Jenny and convince her to work in Chinatown. Why Twyla was included, Jenny still hadn’t figured out. But there the three of them were in Ralphs, bending over the poultry case and laughing as the chill tweaked Maria’s and Twyla’s nipples.

  Not ten feet away, an elderly man stared until Twyla gave him a nasty look. Then she turned back to Jenny and Maria and said, “What are we doing here anyway?” Her words sounded fuzzy enough to make Jenny think she was stoned.

  “I’m going to cook chicken,” Maria said.

  Twyla looked down at the contents of the case. “Wow, is this chicken?” she said.

  “Yeah, this is chicken,” Maria said. “See on the package? It says right there.”

  Twyla stared at the words as if they were written in Sanskrit. Finally she said, “What if they’re lying?”

  “They can’t do that,” Maria said. “It’s against the law.”

  “I don’t know,” Twyla said. “I’ve never seen chicken when it looks like this. I mean not, like, cooked. How can you be sure this is chicken?”

  “I just can, all right?” Maria said. “And I’m going to cook it, and then it will look more, you know, like chicken.”

  Jenny listened to them for as long as she could stand it before wandering off in search of Top Ramen. Peeking down one aisle after another, she wondered just how weird her day was going to be after it had started so wonderfully. She had handed in a paper on Elizabeth Bishop’s influence on Robert Lowell, hoping it would convince her teacher that Bishop was more important artistically and politically than the nutcase the class wasted so much time studying. Even if her plan didn’t work, Jenny had learned more about Bishop—her twenty years in Brazil, her love affair with a female architect there, her dying too young at Harvard. Only now were Brazilians paying tribute to Bishop by reading her poetry and turning her life into a biography, a play, and a movie. It had taken so long because they had considered her scandalous for dressing in men’s clothes and speaking in curses and just generally being Bishop. Scandalous was another word Jenny liked.