No. 22 Pleasure City

by Mark Fishman

  “Sit down, please. You’re behaving like a jealous child.”

  “I’m not jealous because I’m not interested in you. And you know I’m no child. I mean what I’m saying. You’re finished with her if you’re going to play the kind of games with her you’re used to playing.”

  Violet’s arm swung out and knocked the whisky glass out of his hand, his arm flew backward, the glass shattered against a pristine white wall beneath the dark frame of a photograph. Burnett stood up, the bathrobe swung open, Violet saw a pair of women’s panties stretched across his erect cock.

  She started laughing. She was bent over double and holding her sides and almost choking with laughter. Burnett, smiling at first, laughed along with her until they both had tears in their eyes.

  They stopped laughing at the same time. He sat down on the sofa, leaving the bathrobe open. She sat down next to him. Nothing was said for almost a minute.

  “Look, I’m finished with you. I don’t want anything. No money, nothing. I met somebody and I like him and I think he’s for me.”

  “I’m sure he is.”

  “I mean it. I don’t hold anything against you. Just the scar between my legs. And I’m trying to forget it. Promise me you won’t hurt anybody else.”

  “Okay, I promise you I’ll knock it off with the cigarettes.” Burnett gave her an insincere smile. His fingers were crossed behind his back.

  “What do you say we go out for a drink?”

  “How about that place on lower Jackson, the Black-and-Tan Bar?” Burnett said.

  “You always did like the cheap places, Lew.”

  [ 55 ]

  Fitch got out of his car with the hardcover notebook in one hand, reached his arm out and put the keys in the lock in the car door, turned the key and heard the lock fall into place and saw the button going down with it, then walked to the back entrance of the house where Angela was tied with rope to the plumbing under the bathroom sink.

  It was his eighth session with her. He counted each one of them and put a number at the top of the page before he started setting down everything Angela said in the notebook. She was making progress and he felt at last that he was doing something with his life more than chasing after money and taking kidnapping contracts. He hadn’t studied anything like what he was in the process of doing with her. He’d seen movies and read enough books to know that listening was a more important part of a thing like this than asking questions until, at least, he had the right question to ask. Listening was eighty percent, paying attention was essential. It was hard work. That’s why he was so tired when he left the house on Nightingale Lane after a session with Angela Mason.

  The notebook was already half-filled with words she’d said and thoughts he’d had during each session while Angela was talking to him from her place on the floor. Fitch scribbled in the margins what sorts of facial expressions she made as she told him her story. At moments he felt sorry for her, but he dropped the emotional line for a more scientific approach and listened quietly, directing her thoughts on a path with a few well-placed words.

  Whether or not she’d ever fall in love wasn’t what his job was really about because his job was to wake her up to a pattern she’d been stuck in for a long time, and that pattern involved a lot of manipulation with her sex.

  He admitted to himself that he liked what he was doing and sometimes the details she gave him made his cock hard. But there was more to it than that, he’d started to understand something about her that gave him a hint about his own life. She looked very good sprawled out helpless on the floor. He wondered if she’d fall in love with him. He’d read about that possibility.

  He unlocked the door at the back entrance, shut and locked it behind him. There was a light on in the hallway, the house was quiet. Then Angela called his name. He left his jacket over the cold radiator in the living room, made his way through the hallway to the bathroom where a low-watt bulb burned in the ceiling. She was upright and leaning with her shoulder against the wall beneath the sink. She looked worn out. There were circles under her sea-blue eyes and the deep color of those eyes was washed out.

  “You look tired,” Fitch said.

  “I didn’t sleep, not really.”

  He sat on the closed toilet seat. “What is it? You worried about something?”

  “Give me a cigarette, will you?”

  Fitch reached up, moved the blindfold from the towel and pulled the towel off the towel rack, ran cold water on a part of it and wiped Angela’s face for her. He went to get his jacket from the living room. When he came back he snapped a cigarette out of the pack, lit it for her and put it between her lips.

  Angela took a long pull at it, exhaled, then blinked her eyes, indicating that he ought to take it out of her mouth.

  “Thanks,” she said. “Can you loosen these ropes? They’re cutting into my skin. I moved a lot last night. Trying to sleep.”

  “Okay.”

  When the ropes were loosened a bit, Fitch took up his notebook and pen, remembered the cigarette and picked it off the edge of the sink and took a drag, offered it to her, put it between her lips until she’d had a puff, then put it out under the running tap.

  “What were you thinking about while you couldn’t sleep?”

  “You.”

  [ 56 ]

  It was Violet’s turn to take Pohl’s arm to keep her balance as she walked alongside him a block away from Winthrop and Front Street as they headed back in the direction of Jackson, winding through streets she didn’t recognize. She was still drunk from the time she’d spent in the Black-and-Tan Bar, but the confrontation between Pohl and Burnett had sobered her up a little and even though she didn’t know where she was going she knew enough to keep quiet and hold on to Pohl’s arm.

  As they got to the corner of Jackson and Norwood Street, Pohl took her around the corner and straight to a bar on lower Jackson opposite the Black-and-Tan. The doors swung shut behind them. It wasn’t very busy. Pohl found an empty booth, pushed Violet in first and then got in on the same side, next to her.

  Violet lowered her head, covered her eyes with her hands. She cried without making a sound. Pohl put his arm around her shoulders, her hands fell into her lap, she leaned her head against him. He looked down at her hands. The hem of her tight skirt stretched across her white thighs.

  She reached out toward his hand, but Pohl withdrew it before she’d got hold of it. The woman was drunk and vulnerable and Burt Pohl wasn’t going to take advantage of it. He was just beginning to calm down after smashing Burnett in the face and enjoying it. He ordered drinks to celebrate. She excused herself to go to the toilet to fix her face. He looked around at the bar.

  It was shabbily elegant, a third-rate joint filled with small-timers of all varieties and a few slumming high rollers that came in for the atmosphere. Pohl hadn’t been in here before, but he liked what he saw, especially the ruby-red decoration, the lush overstuffed furniture with vinyl-coated fabric made to look like leather and the fake mahogany bar.

  His eyes came to a tall man at the bar with a swarthy aquiline face and greasy hair, wearing a tight-fitting dark suit. The man was holding a drink in his left hand and smiling. He was drunk. He leaned over the bar, told the bartender something and the bartender laughed loudly and Pohl saw the tall man’s mouthful of teeth as he laughed along with the bartender.

  Violet returned from the toilet, Pohl got up, she slid in past him, he sat down next to her. The waiter brought two cocktails to the table.

  “To Burnett’s broken up face,” Pohl said, raising his glass.

  “You know his name?” Violet asked, her eyes narrowed.

  Pohl didn’t know what to say, then he thought of something and tried it on her: “You said it in front of me.”

  “Oh, that’s right.”

  Pohl took a swallow of his drink and so did Violet Archer. They looked at each other and smiled. Pohl’s eyes came to rest on the hem of her skirt. He caught himself eyeing her, looked up and straight ahead.


  “I don’t even know your name,” Violet said.

  “Burt,” he said. “Burt Pohl.”

  They shook hands.

  Violet picked up her drink, sipped it, looked around at the bar and didn’t seem to recognize it.

  He wondered if she was still drunk.

  “Ever been here before?” she asked.

  “First time.”

  “For me, too. Didn’t know it existed.”

  “You were just across — ” Pohl stopped himself.

  Her eyes swept the bar, Pohl followed them until his gaze landed alongside hers on the tall man with greasy hair. He was stretching his right leg, he grasped it by the ankle and pulled it up behind him so the heel touched his lower back. He stood there like a stork.

  “You know him?” Pohl asked.

  “No. Just looks familiar.” Violet finished her drink while he wasn’t looking at her. “But he’s not my type.”

  He turned toward her. “Burnett’s your type?”

  “It’s more complicated.”

  “Everything’s always more complicated,” Pohl said with a frown. “I can tell you stories.”

  “You don’t have to, I’ve got my own.”

  “Let’s have another drink.”

  “Right.”

  Pohl called the waiter over and ordered two more of the same. Violet looked at him now for the first time. She gave him a genuine smile. Pohl pulled gently nervously at his earlobe. She laughed. He blushed. They didn’t say anything. The waiter brought the drinks and took away the empty glasses.

  They took their first sips in silence. Music came from speakers placed in four corners where the stained walls met the black ceiling. Some customers spoke in whispers, the tall man told the bartender another joke, the front doors swung open and a couple of women came in talking loud.

  Pohl shut the noise out of his head, Angela jumped into his thoughts, and he finished his drink with a pained expression on his face.

  “What is it?” Violet said.

  He offered her a cigarette, put one between his lips, lit both of them. He wanted to talk about Angela and he didn’t mind telling the story to anybody who’d listen but a voice with experience told him to keep his mouth shut because Violet wasn’t just anybody and he didn’t know what was between her and Burnett so it wasn’t smart to show his hand just because he was feeling sorry for himself.

  He searched for something to say, and when he found it he said: “I don’t like beating up anyone.”

  “Okay, but you helped me out of a spot. I might’ve let him do it.”

  “Do what?” Pohl took a swallow of his drink.

  “Burn me with a cigarette.” She crushed the butt of hers into the ashtray. “He did it once, he’d do it again if I let him.”

  “What kind of guy would do a thing like that?”

  “I told you, I’ve got a few stories of my own.”

  “You like it rough, is that it?”

  “I wouldn’t say yes, and I wouldn’t say no. You’re too nice a guy to understand. And that’s all for the good. But I was with Burnett for another reason, don’t ask me what that reason was, and instead, I got burned. No pun intended.”

  “You mean you’re not involved with him anymore?”

  “I’m trying to warn him off another woman. Nobody deserves a guy like that.”

  Pohl thought of asking her if it was Angela that she was trying to protect but he kept the question to himself. Shimura had promised him that she and Burnett weren’t seeing each other anymore, but that didn’t keep him from wondering what had gone on when Angela was seeing Burnett, worrying about her now and wanting to find her. He wasn’t interested in trying to figure out Violet one way or the other.

  Violet finished her drink, smiled at Pohl, patted his hand and said: “I’ve got to be going.”

  “Okay, Violet. I’m glad I met you.”

  “Thanks a lot for everything, Burt.”

  Pohl let her out of the booth, stood watching her as she walked away swinging her hips just enough to draw attention to them.

  He liked her all right but he knew enough about her by listening to what she’d said to know that it was because she didn’t want anything from him that she was pleasant and honest and flirting with him. In another situation, if he’d had something she wanted, he knew she’d be a first-rate pain in the ass.

  [ 57 ]

  Aoyama saw Eto in a doorway across the street from the small garden on Lavergne Terrace. He was lit by the long reach of light that came from a streetlamp. Aoyama didn’t see a lit cigarette because Eto wasn’t smoking, he was chewing gum because he wanted to quit cigarettes, which they both knew wasn’t going to last long. Aoyama stopped and lit one for himself. On the soft night breeze that floated toward him, he smelled the flowers and the recently turned topsoil and the fresh full leaves of the lone tree in the center of the garden.

  It was a fine night. He wished all nights could be like this but he knew better than to believe in wishes that experience told him didn’t come true very often. It was just a dose of plain realism. He sighed, kept on walking toward Eto who’d stepped out of a grimy doorway to greet him.

  “What’s the latest word on our Fitch?” Aoyama said quietly, as they walked along in the direction of Nightingale Lane.

  “The routine,” Eto said. “He does the same thing more or less every night. You could set the clock by him.”

  “Every night?”

  “Yeah, and there’s a guy that comes around while he’s there, wearing cook’s clothes, right out of a restaurant kitchen. Nothing but a stack of containers with food in them. I got the scent from where I kept myself out of sight.”

  “Some kidnappers. Then, we know they’re up to something else.” Aoyama shook his head. “When you’ve got money you spend it, I guess. They must be getting plenty out of it.”

  It wasn’t something Eto had to answer so he just made a sound from somewhere in the back of his throat. They slowed down when they got to Nightingale Lane. There were six old-fashioned streetlights that went the length of the lane and an old tree planted between each lamppost whose leaves shone in the light. Eto took Aoyama by the sleeve and they ducked into the shadow of a doorway.

  “There it is, number four, and you can see most of the lights are out,” Eto said in a whisper. “I guess both Fitch and the cook are gone.”

  “You didn’t see them go?”

  “I don’t have to see them. I told you, it’s clockwork.”

  Aoyama searched his raincoat for a pocket-sized, monocular telescope. He kept it with him at all times. When he drew his hand out of his pocket, the molded plastic nose fell onto the doorstep. He picked it up, put it back, then shut an eye to use the telescope. “There’s a light,” he said.

  “There’s always a light. It isn’t exactly luxury, but it isn’t the sort of kidnapping we’re used to,” Eto explained solemnly. “I haven’t seen anything like it until now.”

  “We’ll find out what’s going on soon enough.”

  “You talked to Shimura?”

  “Yes. It’s set for the day after tomorrow, in the afternoon.”

  “Two days,” Eto complained.

  [ 58 ]

  Pohl turned at Fourteenth Street, went straight to his apartment building, unlocked the entrance door and went in. He climbed the stairs and felt the drinks he’d had with Violet Archer. He was still a little high and he’d been pleasantly surprised at meeting her. There was relief in the fact that the woman with Burnett hadn’t turned out to be Angela and the opportunity to smash Burnett in the face had eased his frustration and brought him more clarity of mind than he’d expected from something so basic.

  He unlocked the door of his apartment, shut it behind him and locked it. As he made his way through the apartment, he wondered if Shimura would be upset with him for doing some surveillance of his own and he prayed that Burnett wouldn’t bring assault charges against him. Pohl went into the kitchen, searched a cabinet beneath the sink for a metal pot
to boil water in, sent water from the tap into the pot and put it on the stove.

  He went to the bathroom to rinse his face with cold water and shake off some of the fuzziness the cocktails had given him. He wasn’t used to drinking as much as he’d been drinking since the night he’d discovered Angela and Burnett together. He dried his face and put the towel on the rack and then it hit him. It was a wave of fatigue that came with the days and nights he’d spent worrying and that wave would’ve consigned him to the bathroom floor with no chance of getting up if it weren’t for the glimmer of satisfaction he got out of the roundhouse that knocked some teeth loose in Burnett’s head. It was enough to give him the short-term boost he needed to keep him on his feet looking in the mirror at his tired face instead of being saddled with the feeling he was sliding down a slope. He changed out of his street clothes into his pajamas.

  Pohl sat in a chair and sipped from his cup of tea. His head started to ache as the cocktails wore off and he got up to take an aspirin. He liked Violet — who wouldn’t like a woman like that? — she attracted him in a cheap sort of way, but he didn’t ever want to see her again because he knew if he saw her again she’d bring some sort of disaster with her.

  And she’d always make him think of Burnett and the thought of Burnett would drag him down to the picture he kept in his head of Angela with a ball-gag in her mouth and under other circumstances that picture might’ve made his cock hard if it wasn’t that Burnett was a part of it.

  The tea settled him down. He called Shimura at home. Shimura told him that there had been a development, that he’d have news in forty-eight hours. Pohl put the receiver in the cradle, sighed. He was excited, but not hopeful, and while he wanted more than anything to see Angela, he felt sick in his stomach because he didn’t know what to expect from her when Shimura brought her to the surface.

  Pohl got into bed exhausted, shut his eyes right away but couldn’t sleep. His mind scratched at the details of what he’d seen a few nights before and how he’d felt since Angela disappeared and even though he came up with almost nothing to hold on to what he did have in front of him was enough to keep him awake for another hour.