Memoirs of a Gigolo

by Margaret Buffano

  “Don’t worry;” said Harold,” they settle most of these cases out of court; no one will see the pictures. And if it does go to court, who’s to say you were in on it?”

  “Okay, but what kind of money are we looking at?” I asked.

  “Thousands…it’s not like when I pay a hooker to seduce a husband…that’s an easy shot to get…a couple of hundred bucks. But, like I said, women are different, it’s not so easy to do…but you two can…I say thousands!”

  “All right, I get that part,” I said, “but you said there were two things; what’s the other?”

  “The ability to kill another human being…to murder…I have never been able to do that!

  “You see that gun I have?” He pointed to his desk drawer. “I’ve never shot it at anything but a target in all my years as a dick!

  “And my clients…I couldn’t tell you how many times after they hired me, and I show them pictures of their spouse getting it on with a stranger…or even…sometimes a friend…a close friend…they want them dead!

  “And not just their spouse; sometimes they want the person their spouse is cheating with killed, also. Most clients only hint at wanting their spouse killed…some ask me straight out to do it…others have even begged me to do it. They offer me money…big money…but I just can’t bring myself to do it. That’s money thrown away!

  “But you two…you have that…you have both those qualities…the ability to seduce and the ability to kill. And I’ve got all the connections! I can make us all rich!”

  “We’re already rich,” Chi smirked.

  “Then you’ll be even more rich…the sky’s the limit!”

  “So, you’ll do all the negotiating?” I asked, “We’re paid to seduce women and or kill them?”

  “Precisely,” beamed Harold, “We split it all down the middle…fifty/fifty.”

  “Wrong,” said Chi, “I see three people here…we split a third for each of us.”

  “Fair enough…” said Harold; some of his smile dwindled at hearing his cut reduced.

  “Another thing,” I stressed, “no one sees the photos other than us and the clients.”

  “Of course…I do all my own developing right in there.” He pointed to a door, which I thought was a closet. “It’s my own dark room,” he declared proudly.

  “When it comes to the killing; we call all the shots…the how, when, and where…is that understood?” announced Chi.

  “Understood…” Harold smiled as he stood up, “So, it’s a deal…we’re partners?” He offered his hand to Chi.

  Chi stood up, and pushed Harold’s hand aside.

  “We’ll do business with you, old man, but we ain’t partners.”

  ***

  I hit the button on my intercom.

  “It’s me…open up!”

  I recognized the voice as Chi’s. I hit the enter button, opened the studio door, and walked out into the hall.

  From the sound of the ruckus below, I knew Chi wasn’t alone. I heard the giggling voices of more than one woman. From the sound of their thumping and crashing on the stairs, I deduced they were all drunk…quite drunk…I was right.

  Chi was the first to walk in followed by the Bulldog, the woman I met at Chi’s apartment the other morning. I couldn’t remember her name. They had some long tall blonde woman in tow.

  “Alex…my buddy!” Chi wrapped his arms around me.

  “I need to get to the little girl’s room,” announced Blondie. There was a hint of a British accent.

  I pointed her in the right direction; she disappeared.

  “What the hell do you want?” I demanded to Chi.

  Mona…that was the bulldog’s name…I finally remembered…Mona!

  “That woman is my biggest client,” remarked Mona, pointing toward my now occupied bathroom. “Chi here says you’re a great party-boy, do me a favor and show her a good time.”

  Mona took a wad of money and stuffed it down into the front of my pants. I didn’t take the time to see what the payment was; I only knew I felt deeply offended. I was just about to reach into my pant’s front and toss whatever it was into the face of Ms. Bulldog, when Chi took hold of my arm.

  “Do me this one favor,” whispered Chi, “I’ve done my share for you.” He looked knowingly into my eyes.

  “Why should I?” I asked.

  “I’ve killed for you, you son of a bitch; you owe me!”

  He was right; least I could do was make love to some old limy tart. Why not, what’s one night between friends, if that’s what we were?

  “Do you know who that woman is?” Mona confided in me, her bulldog joules flapped about after each word she uttered. “That’s Beryl Rupert of London, the famous fashion designer! Why, she’s designed clothing for…”

  “For Teenyboppers…Slut Trailer-Trash Housewives…and Cheap Hookers!” I rudely interrupted.

  “Don’t say things like that!” she hissed, her hot sour gin-soaked breath sprayed my face.

  “Don’t let him say things like that!” she pleaded, her eyes lifted to the ceiling, her arms stretched out and up; sending her prayer up to Valhalla to invoke Thor to smite me down.

  She turned and made an appeal to Chi, “Tell him not to say things like that!”

  He just laughed. “Don’t fret, Mona, my pet, Alex is an old hand at this. Oh…look…libations!” His attention went across the room to the Booze-Trolley I kept near the window. He began to make a gin and tonic for all of us.

  Beryl Rupert of London came staggering out of the bathroom and into the open.

  She was an attractive woman…late forties, perhaps early fifties. Though obviously drunk as a sailor, she still presented herself with an air of a successful businesswoman from London – all very proper, indeed. Her hair was without doubt not her natural color. The world has not seen such bright blonde hair or deep blue eyes since the experimentation on young Austrian children by the Third Reich.

  Her clothes were of the highest quality from Paris, obviously not something from her own line. She dressed simply, tight black pants, and a too-stiff starched, large collared white blouse.

  She was a tall woman who increased her height by wearing stiletto-heeled pumps, slender with long and lanky arms and legs.

  Having such beauty and poise, one could believe a rumor that in her youth she was a runway model, save for one small flaw. The woman had a bulbous nose, reminiscent of a small new potato.

  To be honest, I rather liked it. I thought it gave character to her face. It would have been a detrimental mistake – one many women have made in their quest for perfection – to let some plastic surgeon have their way with it. It would be like asking, “Doctor, could you please remove my personality and make me as bland as milquetoast?”

  She took her drink from Chi and held it to the light; I took notice of her gold wedding band.

  “A gin and tonic,” she exclaimed, “and look at all that ice…how refreshingly American. You Americans are so…how should I put this…so…so American! I like it! Here’s to the Colonies!”

  She lifted her drink in a toast, we followed suit.

  “And who is this?” she asked, looking me up and down.

  “This…this is my good friend, Alex,” replied Chi.

  “Alex, aye…so…are you going to be my boyfriend for tonight, Alex?” She started toward me.

  “See…what did I tell you? Do I take care of my clients, or what?” beamed the bulldog with pride.

  Beryl pressed her body hard against mine.

  “So, Alex, I have a question for you. Let’s just say you were dying of thirst, and someone offered you a bottle of wine or a beautiful woman, which would you chose?”

  “That’s easy,” I said, “The wine of course. I’d drink it down, smash his head in with the empty bottle, and take his woman.”

  “Oh…a bad boy! Me like-key!” she smiled, “One other question, my dear Alex. Do you like to ‘Dawnce’?”

  It took me a moment to cut through her thick London accen
t and get to the meaning of her question, and then it hit me.

  “Yes, I like to dance.”

  “Well…then, let’s go dancing!” shouted the bulldog…I mean, Mona.

  ***

  There is no place in the city, perhaps on the entire planet, where a married (I repeat, married) woman can go dawncing; I mean dancing, with a young man half her age and not attract attention or looks of disapproval. And that place is Chesterfields.

  To describe Chesterfields to you now, again, would be pointless. Chesterfields remains Chesterfields, and it always will remain the same. In years to come, when it is finally closed and torn down, it will remain constant in our memory.

  True to my word, Beryl and I danced, dance after dance, till I retired to our table and she to the lady’s room.

  After a long period of drinking in silence, the bulldog – I mean, Mona – made a startling discovery.

  “Where the hell is Beryl?” she asked in a stupor, “You boys stay here; I’m going to the lady’s room to see if she fell in.”

  Alone, Chi looked up in his drunkenness at me.

  “So, do you want to ‘Dawnce’?” he said in his best British accent, which was lacking. “You know, we never ‘Dawnce’ anymore,” he continued.

  I ignored him, and then his manner changed to somber.

  “Would you dance with me? We can do that here; no one cares. Would you like to dance?”

  “Quit messing around,” I said, silently wondering how serious his request might be.

  Suddenly, Mona came dashing back to the table.

  “Come quick, there’s something wrong with Beryl!”

  I got up to follow Mona; Chi was too drunk to move or be of any help; so I left him at the table in his state of half unconsciousness.

  At the door of the lady’s room, I turned to Mona before entering.

  “Try to keep people out.” I said; she nodded.

  Inside, I looked around, there was nobody. I looked under the stales; there were the legs of Beryl – I recognized the shoes – her pants and panties were down around her ankles.

  “Beryl…you all right?” I tapped on the metal door.

  Not a sound!

  “Beryl…are you all right?” I repeated, now smashing my fist on the door.

  Again, nothing!

  I lowered myself down and crawled under the locked door. Inside the stall I found Beryl seated on the commode, her eyes were open, but she was motionless. Her purse was open, lying on the floor next to her.

  Then I saw it. A hypodermic needle hanging loosely from her arm; it was deep in her vein.

  I put my fingertips to her jugular. There was no pulse, no movement, and no life. She was already turning cold. I poked around in her purse. There were three five hundred dollar bills, I took them and placed them in my pocket. Waste not want not, so they say.

  I slipped down under the metal door again, and left the lady’s room. Mona was still outside, guarding the entrance.

  I pressed my lips next to Mona’s left ear, “She’s dead!”

  “What the hell are you talking about!” she screamed.

  “She over dosed on something…she’s dead.”

  A look of numb shock flushed over her face.

  “Follow me back to the table,” I whispered. Mona obeyed without a word.

  Chi was sleeping, his head resting on the tabletop.

  “Who knows you were out with Beryl?” I asked Mona.

  “Nobody, I’m sure. I called her at her hotel. I told her to meet me out front. We drove in my car to Chi’s, then to your place.”

  “So, no one knows but us?”

  “No one…not a soul.”

  “Grab hold of Chi with me. You can take me home first, and then Chi.”

  “But…what about Beryl?”

  “What about her?”

  “How can you be so cold?” There were tears forming in Mona’s eyes, I ignored them.

  We drove to my studio, I realized Chi was too drunk and she too frantic to drive any further. I suggested they spend the night at my studio.

  I threw Chi onto my couch; he fell into a deep sleep without a word.

  Mona fell onto one corner of my bed; I fell to the other. In the dark, I could hear her crying.

  “Are you all right?” I whispered.

  She rolled across the bed and into my arms. She cried herself to sleep. I held the bulldog in my arms the entire night.

  ***

  Surprisingly, it was three days before a custodian found Beryl’s body. Sad, to die in Chesterfields of an overdose, and found three days later, stone-cold on a commode, meant only one thing to the world at large; Beryl was just another dyke junky who pushed her luck too far.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  “Traps, Snares, and Puppy dog tails”

  The old ways had been slowly fading away. The witch doctor warned the village elders on many occasions – if tribal customs, laws, sacrifices, and festivals were no longer followed, the jungle’s wrath would descend on all, and he would be blameless.

  Despite his determination, his words of warning went ignored.

  The witch doctor remained in his hut for three days, fasting and praying for a sign. On the morning of the fourth day, he went out and took the first laid chicken egg of the day, and cracked it open on the side of a large rock. The insides ran down the face of the stone; it was pitch-black – this was the worst of all omens.

  Again, he made a plea to the village elders, and again his warnings fell on deaf ears.

  That season, five women of the tribe became pregnant. At the proper time, they all delivered within days of one another. All five children were boys, which normally would have been reason for great celebration; but, in this case, it was not. All five children were born blind.

  They called a special assembly of the village elders to discuss what action to take. Someone suggested sacrificing the babies, something quick and merciful. Perhaps, smash their skulls and leave the bodies as tribute to the jungle spirits. But if a lion or tiger were to find the bodies first, the wildcats would pick up a taste for human flesh, and that would be detrimental. Another proposal was killing the babies painlessly, and then cooking and eating them, by the entire tribe.

  On hearing this, the witch doctor stood up in protest.

  “You foolish people, don’t’ you understand why this misfortune has befallen us? And I warn you, this disaster will repeat itself time and time again, until we repent and vow to return to the ways of our ancestors!”

  “Very well,” proclaimed the chief. “We must take an oath never to stray again from the path of our ancestors, so this evil will leave and never return.

  “The entire village will shoulder the burden of raising these five children, as atonement for our transgressions. But…you will be the one responsible!” He addressed this last part to the witch doctor.

  They erected a communal hut where the five lived. They scheduled wet nurses. The entire village took up the undertaking of raising the five.

  When the five were no longer children, but young men, they assigned menial tasks for them. Ones they could do without leaving their hut – weaving, grinding, and such were their responsibilities. In return, the tribe presented food and clothing offerings that the witch doctor delivered.

  Only the witch doctor had direct contact with the five.

  Not having any family to call their own, they had taken to calling him, Father, and he, also without family, called them, Sons.

  One day, the witch doctor brought three times the normal daily offering to the five.

  “I am traveling to a nearby village, and will not be back for a fourth night. This other village has captured an elephant; they have tamed the animal and are using it as a beast of labor. I feel it is my duty to investigate.”

  “What is an elephant?” asked son number three – each called by number only, because they never received names.

  “It is a strange beast, difficult to describe.”

  “Take us with you, fat
her,” said son number two, “True, we cannot see, but we can also experience this…elephant!”

  The five seldom ventured outside their hut, let alone the village. Looking at their now adult faces, the witch doctor thought it good to take them with him.

  They traveled for days, the witch doctor in front, the five close behind. Son number one, with his hand on the witch doctor’s shoulder, son number two, his hand on the shoulder of son number one, and so on.

  Standing before the domesticated elephant, the witch doctor addressed the five, “Go, my sons, the elephant is before you…experience!”

  Son number one took hold of the elephant’s tail. Number two put his arms around one of the legs of the beast. Number three ran his hands across the rib cage of the animal. Number four took hold of the ear, and number five, the trunk.

  One by one, the five ran back to the witch doctor in excitement.

  “Father…father...the elephant is like a piece of rope,” cried number one who had taken hold of the tail.

  “Father…an elephant is like the trunk of a tree”, said number two who had grabbed hold of the leg.

  “Father…an elephant is like a great wall”, cried number three who had touched the side of the beast.

  “Father…an elephant is like a palm tree”, said number four who had taken hold of its ear.

  “An elephant is thick and muscular like a long python”, said number five who had held the elephant’s trunk.

  “You are all correct…it is as you say! It is getting late, we must return to our village,” said the witch doctor.

  “Thank you, father,” said the five, “Now we know what an elephant is.”

  He guided them home; with tears in his eyes, he could see little much more than they could.

  ***

  Harold was right; there was money to be made – plenty of money; seduction is big business. It was all done with a smooth easy professionalism, which made all of us proud. And to tell the truth, I rather enjoyed it.