As the other women continued to prattle in the background, she stared out the window watching the exit signs: Olympic, Jefferson, and then Century, where the van pulled off the freeway and Plum felt her heart rising in her chest. A few moments later, Jerry Cakes stopped in front of a ten-story monolith of a hotel. He gave her a room number and told her he would be back in about two hours.
Plum walked through the lobby and headed for the elevator bank toward the back. The space struck her as unusually bright and she stared resolutely ahead, fearing that if she made eye contact with anyone, her purpose would be immediately unmasked. At the check-in line, tired travelers stood next to their luggage, waiting to be processed and filed. A light-skinned young black man in a stylish gray suit smiled at her as he passed. She wanted to return his smile, but was too conscious of maintaining a normal demeanor to do anything that was actually normal. She wondered what the man she was meeting looked like.
Plum stood in front of the elevator bank. By herself for a moment, she fervently hoped she would be riding solo, alone with her thoughts, her life, flying above it. Other people tied her to reality, something she believed she could use a little less of. Plum willed one of the doors to open, but all her exertions seemed to produce was a pair of men who could be heard talking behind her. She cursed silently to herself, her solitude shattered. They were discussing a meeting they’d just had and whether it had gone well. She tried to ignore them. The elevators were slow. Someone was touching her on the shoulder. She turned and saw a man’s smiling face.
“Excuse me,” he said. “Do you know any good restaurants around here?”
The one who had spoken to her was a white guy, medium build, with a trim mustache. His companion was taller, heavyset, and white too. They appeared to be around her age, and both were wearing business suits. She told him she didn’t know the restaurant situation. The elevator doors opened and she got in, the men right behind her. She wondered if they realized what she was doing in the hotel. She pressed the button for the ninth floor, stepped back, and stared straight ahead as the larger man pressed another button.
“Where you from?” said the one who wanted to know about the restaurants. It took Plum a moment to realize he was talking to her.
“San Francisco,” she said, which was true.
“What are you doing in town?”
“Business.” Why wouldn’t this guy shut up? Her stomach was fluttering.
“How’d you like to join us for dinner?” She thought he winked at his friend as he said this.
“Thanks, but I have to work.” Mercifully the doors opened and the men got out, wishing her good luck. What did they mean by that? She heard their laughter echoing in the hallway when the doors closed, leaving her alone again. Plum shut her eyes for a moment and exhaled through her nostrils. Good luck? Then she looked at her reflection in the elevator mirror mounted next to the door. She didn’t like the lighting in the elevator and hoped her client wouldn’t mind if what was going to transpire took place in shadows.
The doors opened at the ninth floor and Plum got out. To her relief, there was no one in the hallway. She was looking for Room 916, and a sign on the wall pointed her toward Rooms 900–920. For a moment, she thought about getting back in the elevator, going down to the lobby, and calling a cab. But instead she followed the arrow.
Beppo Molinari was from Rome and traveled to America three times a year. He told this to Plum while refilling her champagne flute with an inexpensive brand she hoped wouldn’t leave her with a headache in the morning. His steel-gray hair was cut short, and he had a fleshy face with a prominent nose on which a pair of wire-rimmed glasses perched. She guessed he was in his fifties and thought he would have been almost handsome had it not been for a pronounced overbite that, from Plum’s perspective, cancelled out the Italian accent (which she liked). Beppo sat on the king-sized bed. He was wearing black trousers and a pale pink button-front shirt with mother-of-pearl cufflinks. Plum smiled to hide her nervousness. They had been seated side by side for ten minutes, and she had learned about his wife, with whom he had conventional relations once a month, and his two sons, who were in their twenties and still lived at home, a situation he was paradoxically delighted with and disappointed by. Plum appreciated his humanity.
“Sit here,” Beppo said, patting his thighs. His voice was friendly. She got off the bed and slid onto Beppo’s lap. But Plum’s movement was not what he had in mind. Beppo placed his champagne flute on the bedside table. He took Plum’s and put it beside his. Then he lifted her leg over his head and to the side so she nearly fell over backward, the awkwardness causing them both to laugh (his playful, hers mortified). When he was done rearranging her limbs, she was straddling his thighs, facing him, heart pounding. He unfastened the top button of her blouse, then ran his fingertips horizontally along her breastbone, barely touching her skin. Plum shivered. She thought about whether there was anything in her refrigerator, glad to know that money would be less tight soon.
Plum didn’t like this position, so she pushed off Beppo’s lap and told him she’d be right back. She didn’t want to walk too quickly to the bathroom, and remembered to smile at him over her shoulder. Alone, she splashed cold water on her face, not caring what happened to her makeup. She needed to calm down.
Beppo called out: “Everything okay?”
“Fabulous!”
Plum pressed a hand towel against her moist face and looked at her reflection. The tension she felt was not evident. She could just tell Beppo she didn’t feel well, give him his three hundred dollars back (he’d paid her as soon as she’d arrived), and leave. To do what? Plum didn’t want an ordinary job. Then she’d have to admit to the one thing that was death to an artist: that she was ordinary herself. The unflagging desire to be seen as a creative force had come from an unwillingness to live a conventional life, and it was to her great regret that not only had she failed in her chosen career, but she hadn’t even managed to be unconventional. She hated herself for marrying Atlas, for living in Reseda, for having fallen so short of her youthful aspirations. Artists pushed limits, smashed taboos, courted disaster. This one was a junkie, that one stabbed his wife, another put rum on his corn flakes, had a thousand lovers, betrayed his country. Everything was fodder for the creative life. Everything. She went back into the room.
Beppo smiled when he saw her, his overbite becoming more pronounced. Plum knew those teeth wouldn’t stand a chance in the purview of the Los Angeles orthodontic community. Her ruminations on the subject of Beppo’s teeth ceased when she realized he had removed his pants and was stroking an impressive uncircumcised erection. She felt a surge of distress, of outrage that decorum had been breached, that the rhythm of the seduction had been thrown so completely off; but then quickly remembered that the rhythm was whatever the client wanted it to be. He was perfectly entitled to do what he was doing. It was the purpose of her visit.
“Please, Verlaine,” he said. “Get undressed.”
Plum hesitated a moment, thinking about the slight bulge that remained around her middle and the traces of cellulite on the backs of her thighs. How does someone who is in her late thirties, simply take off her clothes while standing in the middle of a room with a complete stranger, even one as friendly as Beppo Molinari? Plum thought about the life-drawing classes she had posed for, how her form had been reduced to a series of linked shapes rendered in charcoal, modular abstractions that held no inherent meaning. She remembered the Manet painting she’d discussed with Jan—a courtesan reclining on her side, languidly regarding the viewer, at once haughty and lubricious. That woman was hardly lithe, and her image had delighted art lovers for over a century. Plum wished she were a painting, admired, inspiring, discussed by scholars.
Turning her back to Beppo, she unbuttoned her blouse and let it slip to the floor. Then she slid out of the camisole. She unbuttoned her jeans, relieved at the release of their tightness but suddenly concerned that she hadn’t lost enough weight to be wearing them. She glanc
ed over her shoulder and saw Beppo running his knuckles against the shaft of his penis, grinning. Whatever imperfections of hers he may have noticed apparently did not bother him. He seemed to like her violet panties and matching bra. She made sure her gut was sucked in and hoped he wouldn’t see the dimples on her thighs. Like a swimmer facing a cold ocean and wanting to attack the ordeal head-on, she quickly stepped out of the panties and unhooked her bra. Now she was standing naked in the middle of the room. She turned to face him. Beppo’s smile had subsided into an expression of calm concentration. Were it not for his pronounced erection, he could have been preparing to give a piano recital. She knew what was supposed to come next but was uncertain how, exactly, to bring it about. Beppo removed a condom packet from his shirt pocket. He held it out to her, and said “Please.” Plum opened the condom, willing her hands not to shake. Then she placed it on Beppo and rolled it down, a nurse administering treatment. Beppo indicated that he was ready. His eyelids fluttered as she slid onto him, and his head rolled back. Plum closed her eyes and began to compose a grocery list. She had only gotten as far as whole-wheat bread, yogurt, and mini-carrots when she felt something clamp down on her right breast. Opening her eyes, she saw Beppo ecstatically sucking her nipple. Three seconds later, she felt him quiver. With serpentine quickness, he placed his hands on her hips and lifted her off.
“I’m a premature ejaculator,” he said.
Thank god, Plum thought. They hadn’t been going for thirty seconds. “You’re done?” In her mind she was already in the elevator.
“No, no, no, Verlaine. We stopped in time.” Beppo bent forward at the waist, attempting to pacify his mutinous hormones. Her disappointment was massive. When Beppo settled down, he reached for the remote control and found a news channel where a correspondent in a metal helmet and flak jacket was standing on a windswept military base filing a war report. Then he got down on all fours. After a moment he glanced over his shoulder.
“Spank me, Verlaine.”
Her heart leapt. Finally someone was playing her tune. Plum kept up a steady rhythm on his bottom for the next twenty minutes while Beppo alternately masturbated and channel-surfed until he finally exploded during the title sequence of a popular medical drama.
Plum didn’t like having sex with a stranger, even one as well-meaning as Beppo. But getting paid to inflict mild corporal punishment? That was something to which she could grow accustomed. There was a profession. By the time she got to the elevator, Plum knew she had found her calling.
She would be a dominatrix.
Smart Tarts did not yet offer this service, and Marcus and Jan were pleased to include Plum’s new specialty on the Web site, where from now on she would be known as Mistress Verlaine. Marcus was concerned that Plum’s business would not be as brisk, serving only a particular subgroup, but if she was willing to take the risk, he was willing to provide the aegis. Plum acquired a new credit card from one of the many slap-happy lending institutions willing to serve the credit-drunk and drove to an erotic boutique on Sunset Boulevard, where she went on a shopping spree. She filled her cart with studded bustiers, chains, whips, ball-gags, dog collars, all things Lycra and latex, and a pair of black vinyl boots with heels that looked like murder weapons. Then she called Jan, and the two of them worked on the redesign of her Web page on the Smart Tarts site. Plum posed in her new uniform and gazed at the camera with an expression that could turn a grape into a raisin. Next to this image of fierce sexuality, the copy read “Mistress Verlaine wants to know—are you a bad boy? You cannot resist what you crave most. I have what you want. I know what you need … no escort sessions available.” Bookings were instantaneous, if not extensive. But Plum was attending to a rarefied taste, so her business was not based on volume. She took to her new line of work like a Golden Retriever who has spotted a squirrel. If giving orders provided an erotic charge, having them obeyed was sublime. Years of frustration washed away. Her aggression had finally found an outlet both appropriate and remunerative. Plum had never been happier. Her services were expensive, and there was enough work that within a month she was earning more money than she’d made in her entire life.
Chapter 19
The summer was an inferno, hotter than the last. Traffic choked the freeways, great fingers of hot metal burning oceans of gasoline. Toxic clouds of fumes floated toward the brown sky. Fires raged across forests north of the San Fernando Valley and meadows to the west, leaving great swaths of burnt blackness in their wake. But the Ripps home was cooled by the four new air conditioners Marcus had purchased, and all was comfortable within. Without the financial worries of the previous year, Nathan was able to attend sleepaway camp. Lenore was put in charge of the operation with Kostya while Marcus and Jan travelled to Ojai, where they attended a theater festival, went to a classical music concert, and rusticated comfortably for a week.
By the middle of the summer, Plum was averaging between four and six assignations a week at private homes and hotels. She realized that in order to build her business, she would need her own space, but she didn’t want to deal with intrusive neighbors, which ruled out converting her garage/studio. After some investigation, Plum was able to locate Mistress Anita, a Latina dominatrix with a dungeon above a Jamba Juice in Culver City that she was looking to sublet. Marcus agreed to cover the rent in exchange for a slightly higher percentage of the profits. The dungeon was standard-issue medieval with a rack, shackles, and a comfortable cell for lounging. Mistress Anita had even taken the trouble to install wallpaper that looked like the dank interior of a castle wall. A throne sat on a platform above a table laden with clamps, dildos, and various restraints. The first thing Plum did was to install a hidden camera. She had been working on an idea for a video installation, and this would be a fecund source of material. A Tokyo gallery with which she had been corresponding had expressed interest in seeing the finished work.
Late one August night, Marcus found himself unable to sleep. While he was in the kitchen making herbal tea, he noticed he’d left his Black-Berry on the table. He’d forgotten to turn it off, and it was vibrating. He scrolled through his messages and stopped when he saw one from MannishBoy24. Who was that? He opened it and read: Breeze, U need 2 get out of the business B 4 something happens 2 U.
There had been a time when receiving an anonymous e-mail threat in the middle of the night might have upset him. But money can breed a sense of invincibility. Who could this be? A disgruntled former employee? It hadn’t occurred to him that there could be one. He disdainfully deleted the message. Then he sipped tea and scanned the business section of the day-old newspaper. This headline caught his eye:
PRIMUS TO RECEIVE L.A. BUSINESSMAN OF THE YEAR AWARD.
Roon Primus, CEO of Ameri-Can Industries, has been selected to receive the prestigious award in honor of his philanthropic activities. Primus serves on the boards of City of Hope Hospital, the American Cancer Society, the Southern California Architectural Preservation Association, and the ASPCA. The governor of California will be presenting the award.
Marcus didn’t read any further. Rather than getting him agitated, the article had a calming effect. Roon was basking in the adulation of a credulous public, but Marcus was doing fine. Marcus didn’t need a dinner. He was happy enough that he, too, could afford to make charitable contributions. He might have liked to be honored for his good works, but it was not something his ego required. And he understood it would never happen.
The planning for Nathan’s bar mitzvah moved forward. It was going to be lavish but tasteful. He had learned the prayers, and he worked on his speech with the rabbi, going through several drafts under her exacting tutelage. Marcus and Jan had never seen him apply himself to anything like this, and he seemed to have made a great leap forward as he engaged with the challenge of his preparation. They were curious about what the boy intended to say to the congregation, had asked for an advance look at his speech, but Nathan preferred it to be a surprise. It was late on a Tuesday evening in October, and Marcus was
in the kitchen loading the new dishwasher, when he heard the first few notes of a clarinet playing “Misty.” He walked upstairs and stood in the hallway listening. He could see Nathan seated in a chair with his back to the door, staring at the music on a stand in front of him. His playing was not technically polished, but the melody glided out of the instrument with enough feeling to make Marcus think his son might actually have talent. When the song finished, he couldn’t resist applauding. Nathan turned and gave a weary smile. His blue braces had been removed two days earlier, and their absence erased the slightly comical cast his face had assumed and replaced it with something bordering on handsome.
“That was really good.”
Nathan nodded thanks and resumed practicing. Marcus liked going to bed knowing his son was in his room, safe, living the kind of life he was able to provide for him; secure, warm, predictable in the finest sense. Sometimes he would find himself counting the years he had left with the boy, before his departure for college and life outside the family. A feeling of profound melancholia would overtake him and he would have to consciously focus his mind on something else to make it dissipate. As Marcus looked at the curly dark hair on Nathan’s head, he observed his thoughts turning in that direction, so he quickly said good night and went to his own room, where Jan lay in bed going over the RSVPs. Although there was mild consternation as she struggled with who would sit where, Jan was satisfied that everything was going well. Marcus reflected on this as he climbed between the mauve sheets. Mauve sheets? Where had they come from? Marcus nestled next to his wife.
“New sheets?”
“Egyptian cotton. Don’t worry, they were on sale.”
When Marcus arrived at Shining City after dropping Nathan off at school, he knew something was wrong immediately. The light in the room was odd. He immediately looked toward the back. Did he hear breathing, or a soft footstep? Was someone waiting for him?
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