by Tracy Quan
“Well, you’d better go,” she said in that serious tone she reserves for all things pertaining to our mutual hairdresser. “I’ll try to get someone else. But call me from Lorenzo’s, just in case. And tell him I said hello!”
Lorenzo is the only person I’ve ever heard Jasmine kissing up to. She has innate respect for anyone who has that much power over the way she looks. I sat on the circular couch at Lorenzo’s with the other robed customers. Some of us were crowned (temporarily) with foul-smelling pieces of twisted foil. Others were pacing around with toning solution in their hair, chatting on their phones. I put in a call to Milt’s office to see if he could come later. A quickie at the Waldorf would be cutting it awfully close, but it would help me exceed my quota this week.
When the phone trilled, I was sitting in a shampoo chair, with my head flung back, hair falling into the sink. I maneuvered the phone to my ear, and the delicate ballet between cell-phone user and shampoo attendant began. She continued rinsing the back of my hair with a gentle motion, and I tried to keep the phone low down on my ear while arching back to make my hair more accessible.
“Yes?” I answered in a hopeful voice. But it wasn’t Milt, it was Allie. “I can’t talk now. I’ll call you back,” I said.
“I just found out—I just had a terrible—I can’t believe anyone would do this to me!”
“What happened? What are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about Jack! And Jason!”
“Jesus Christ,” I muttered. “Another call’s coming in. Hold on. Don’t go away!”
“Hello?” I said, hoping for Milton.
“Hey, guess what?” Matt said. “My meeting got canceled and I’m getting out early. Why don’t we do something before the show? I’ll meet you at six, at Chez Josephine.”
“At six! I can’t possibly.”
“Why? What are you doing?”
“I’m at the hairdresser and I won’t be out of here in time!”
“It’s four o’clock! You won’t be done by six?”
“I just got here! And they’re running behind schedule.”
I was actually near the end of my appointment. But I was determined to keep my date with Milt. And, if possible, find a way to fit the Waldorf in on the way home. There is this thing that happens when you lie to a guy—when you give up business to spend time with him and you’re lying to him. Somehow, it would be okay to have to lie. It would be okay to give up a few dates to keep the relationship on a happy footing. But if you have to deprive yourself of business and lie to your boyfriend, you can start to resent him. It’s like being taxed twice on the same money! I was determined not to start resenting him.
“Why don’t I swing by in a cab and pick you up at the hairdresser?” Matt suggested.
“What? No!” My heart leapt into my throat. “For god’s sake,” I squeaked angrily. “I’m practically breaking my neck trying to talk to you while I get my hair washed and now the phone’s getting soaked! I’ll see you at the theater!”
When I switched back to Allison, she was gone. As I sat in Lorenzo’s pneumatic chair, I ran through the conversation with Matt. Was I too shrill? Did he sound disappointed? Should I apologize? But maybe that will just draw attention to my strange schedule and make him ask more questions. If I cancel the date with Milton and let Matt pick me up—well, I can say I got lucky at the hairdresser, and—
“What’s giving you such a headache?” Lorenzo asked, massaging my scalp with his fingertips.
“Boyfriend problems.”
“Tell me about it,” he sighed, turning up the heat on the dryer. He pulled a round brush through my hair. “Just take it one boyfriend at a time,” he added sagely.
Lorenzo doesn’t know about my business, of course, but hairdressers are clued in to the ever-changing, temporary nature of happiness. They know there are only good hair moments. A good day may consist of many such moments strung together like beads, but this cannot be guaranteed. It can only be experienced. I think this affects their entire view of love, life, and human connection.
I pulled out my phone to cancel my date with Milton. I hate to do this. It gives a bad impression when you cancel on a regular. A client becomes a regular because you’re reliable. But maybe this is a sign—I can’t keep thinking like a hooker who’s thirty going on twenty-three. I need to prioritize my men here.
“I’m sorry, but he’s left for the day,” a secretary informed me.
As I ran out onto the street, my phone trilled and shook in my handbag. Please let this be Milton, and please let’s cancel.
“You disconnected me!” Allison said.
“You hung up! And now I’m trying to find a cab!”
A taxi slowed down, and I watched as two struggling shoppers began to emerge with their bags. Tourists! I wanted to grab them and pull them out of the cab with my bare hands!
“Jack accused me of sleeping with Jason!” Allie exclaimed. “I’m so upset!”
The shoppers appeared to be meditating in there!
“How does he know about Jason? What did you tell him?”
“He’s been tailing me for at least four weeks,” she moaned. “He hired a private detective!”
“I told you he was bad news! The man was stalking you! Remember?”
“I know,” she said. “I should have listened to you. But I thought I could handle him and I—I kind of liked having a sugar daddy,” she confessed. “I’ve never had one before.”
I hopped into the cab and tried to listen to Allie while I gave directions to the driver.
“If the detective’s any good, he knows you weren’t sleeping with Jason,” I said, hoping the driver couldn’t hear. “Unless, of course, you were!”
“I was not!” she protested. “Jason came upstairs to help me install some software. Once! But Jack is so narrow-minded—he can’t believe a man would come up to my apartment for two hours and not have sex with me! And he said he wouldn’t give me the rest of my tuition money unless I stop talking to Jason.”
For a minute, I wondered if this would be a good thing—but only in the short term. It would get Jason out of her life, but it would surely get Jack dug in deeper.
“And,” she continued, indignantly, “he wants me stop talking to you, too! To everyone and anyone I have ever worked with! And he’s starting up again about interior decorating. He says my interest in social work is causing me to spend too much around—around working girls!” She paused, then said, in an outraged wail, “That disrespectful sneak! He’s trying to control my life!”
“This is news to you? What did you expect?”
“I thought he really wanted to help me and maybe was a little insecure. I didn’t realize he was a—a patriarchal whore-basher with no ability to evolve! The things he said—about you, about me, about the girls on the van! I never want to hear from him again!”
“Well, I think you’re making the right move here. Establish boundaries,” I said, not wanting to overstate my case.
“Boundaries?” Allie said in a bitter voice. “I just want to get paid by the hour from now on. I’ll never get involved with a john again.”
As I exited the cab, I looked around anxiously. After all this talk of detectives and tailing, I was thinking that if Matt saw me entering my building—when I said I was really at the hairdresser—I’d be in a bit of a fix. What would I say? As I unlocked my apartment, I heard the business phone. An abbreviated ring told me the call was now in voice mail, and my kitchen clock told me I had no time to start checking messages.
When Milt arrived, I was undressed to the nines and had rehearsed in my mind an efficient routine designed to get him in and out with minimum time wastage. I rewound the video to the raunchiest anal-sex scene I could find, put on a pair of sexy black marabou slippers, and got myself into a strange crotchless item that was neither a teddy nor a merry widow but a sort of hybrid. I know that Milt knows that I know that this over-the-top costume’s inappropriate for “a nice call girl like me”—but that�
��s why he likes it.
While Milt sat watching the video screen, I slipped a condom on. Then I surprised him by turning around and sitting on his lap—on his cock actually—with the back of my neck facing him. I slid up and down in my heels, concentrating. It’s not the easiest position but it’s got novelty appeal, and I use it when I’m in a bit of a hurry—because it requires zero effort on the man’s part.
After he came, I carefully lifted myself up and gave him a quick kiss on the cheek. We shared a smile of satisfaction.
While Milt showered, I began to check my voice mail. There were two old messages from Allie and a new message from Liane, trying to set up a date for tonight. Then, as I continued through the queue of calls, I heard a female voice invoking the alias I use with men’s secretaries and hotel operators.
“This is Elspeth Mackay,” said a warm voice. I stopped, confused. I had not heard this voice before—and yet I had—but never on this particular phone. “I’m with the Manhattan district attorney’s office and I’m calling for Suzy Rollins. We’d like to know if you’d be willing to talk to us about Etienne L__ P__________________.” Her pronunciation was very accurate for a non-Francophone—she must be saying his name a lot. “If,” she continued, in the disarmingly friendly voice, “if you’d like to talk to us, please feel free to call me, anytime this week, to make an appointment.” And she left a number.
Elspeth. With none of the sharp edges or crackling notes, her girlish voice was almost unrecognizable. If I didn’t know who she was or what she’s really like—well, she sounds about fifteen years younger, and you’d never guess that she’s an assistant prosecutor! In all the time I’ve known her, I’ve never heard her so soft, so pleasing to the ear. So this is what she sounds like on the job! And how strange to think that I naively attributed her caustic ways to her profession.
I stared in horror at the dial pad as I continued pressing keys. For one mad moment, I thought that Elspeth had accidentally dialed my number and left a message for someone else—a crossed line, a mistake. But, of course, that couldn’t be; she’d dialed my business number, and she had the name right. I wanted this to be a bad dream.
Shaking, I replaced the receiver and heard the phone ring. I waited for it to go into voice mail, but it wouldn’t stop. When I picked it up, I heard Elspeth’s message replaying! I had forgotten to exit the system. I slammed the receiver down and unplugged the phone.
“What’s wrong?” said Milt. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
I was standing there in my high-heeled slippers, still wearing my Frederick’s of Hollywood costume, trying my best to look composed. My mouth felt stiff.
“Suzy? Are you feeling okay? Maybe you’d better sit down.”
I fell into an armchair, then leapt up, as if I’d been scorched. Yikes. I never sit with my bare pussy on a chair or a couch unless it’s covered with a towel or sheet!
“Oh, my god,” I said energetically. “I have tickets for Aida tonight. Do you mind if I start getting ready? It’s getting late.”
“Understood,” Milt said, with a curious searching look. “Did you get some bad news?”
“Yes,” I admitted. “Very bad news. And,” I said briskly, “I do have to start getting ready.”
While he dressed, I took off my heels. I knew it would be more professional to undress in the bathroom—why force him to watch this layer of erotic icing being stripped away? But I didn’t want to leave him alone to ponder what was wrong with me. That would be more unprofessional.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you,” I said, pulling out a bra from my dresser. “I just got a strange phone call and I—well, I forgot you were here for a minute.”
Oops, what did I just say? What is wrong with me?
He smiled at the new piece of underwear. “That’s pretty. I’ve never seen that before. Is this what you wear for your boyfriend?”
“Yes. I guess that’s right.”
“Sorry—did I say something I shouldn’t have?”
I looked up and realized that I had been frowning sadly. I had lost my professional bearings and I wanted to grab hold of Milton’s sleeve, cry on his chest. He looked so comforting and solid in his gray suit—Milton never wears any of that business casual stuff that younger guys like to wear—and he was fiddling with his tie. He looks like the kind of man who can take care of someone. Whereas Matt looks like the kind of guy who will certainly try to.
I pulled on a pair of sexy but simple black panties and gazed up at him.
“You look so young without your heels,” he said affectionately. “You look adorable in your heels, but even younger in bare feet. I’ll bet all the guys tell you that.”
“No,” I laughed. “You’re the only guy who ever tells me that.” I could feel the blood returning to my limbs, flexibility returning, and I forgot, for a moment, the terrible phone call—forgot the boyfriend I was now dressing for, the sister who was threatening to expose me. Milt and I were alone in our own little world, and Etienne—“If you’d be willing to talk to us about him!”—didn’t exist either. I continued pulling clothes out of the closet while Milton combed his bushy eyebrows with one of my hairbrushes. It was a silent, easy moment, and when he slid the money onto my dresser it was the normal amount that he usually gives. Things fell back into place.
When he was gone, I plugged in my phone. I erased my rather bouncy outgoing message—“Hi! So sorry I missed your call!”—and replaced it with the automated voice of the message system. Elspeth did not recognize my voice—I hope—when she called the first time. But if she calls again, she’s sure to pick up on some familiar quality. Now, Suzy Rollins will be less real to her, less of a voice and more the anonymous owner of a telephone. Though it’s just a matter of time before she starts looking Suzy’s number up in the reverse directory—if Suzy doesn’t return her calls. And she’ll find out that it’s not listed under Suzy Rollins—because there is no Suzy Rollins! Depending on how you define is, of course.
And what the hell has Etienne gotten himself into here? I haven’t heard from him in weeks, and even if he did call, I dare not answer my business phone. Is this the new case Elspeth was so excited about? What can she want from Suzy Rollins? And what is she trying to do to Etienne?
I made my way to the theater feeling very much like a reigning princess whose days are numbered.
But Matt, completely unaware of the crisis, continued to behave like a very confident courtier who has attached himself to a sure thing.
THURSDAY. 5/18/00
Today, in response to my telephonic smoke signals, Jasmine called twice, hung up, then called again. “You’re there!” she said when I picked up. “What is this all about? Why aren’t you answering your phone? Liane even called me. She says you left a very weird message for her. You shouldn’t do that! She’s almost eighty and she gets confused, you know.”
“I know.” I sighed. “But I was desperate to talk to her. Anyway, I’ve been calling Barry Horowitz. The office says he’s ‘on trial’ in Phoenix. He hasn’t called me back, and I was hoping against hope that you would find him for me. Doesn’t he have a private cell phone?”
“Maybe.” She paused. “Why?”
Jasmine was being cryptic about her access to Barry. She’s known him forever—since she was a juvenile offender, a junior ticket scalper. She MUST have a private hotline to Barry. “I’d like to know what this is about, before I start trying to hunt him down. You know, he gets a lot of crazy phone calls,” she added.
“If I tell you what happened, you’ll never believe me. One of the guys, one of my regulars is in trouble. And they’re trying to contact me.”
“Which guy?” Jasmine said sharply.
“I don’t know if you remember him—Etienne?”
“Sure, that good-looking French guy. Isn’t he with one of the auction houses?”
“That’s the one. I don’t know what he did or why they’d want to talk to me.”
“Maybe we should warn the othe
r girls. Have you tried to call him?”
“I’m afraid to! He told me about a month ago that he was going to disappear for a while. For a ‘knee operation.’ I’m afraid to call him from this phone. I’m afraid to use this phone period! I feel…trapped.”
“I have an idea,” Jasmine said. “Can you meet me at D’Agostino’s?”
I found her in aisle 6, wheeling around a shopping basket filled with club soda, hydrogen peroxide, and macadamia nuts. “I called Barry,” she said in a low voice. “You’re not under arrest or anything. This happens to people all the time—so calm down, okay?”
“I’m having the most god-awful time acting like everything’s normal in my life. It never occurred to me that one of my clients could get into trouble! I’ve spent my entire life trying to stay out of trouble myself! You know how it is. You think of these guys as pillars of respectability.”
“Everybody has something to hide,” Jasmine pointed out. “I spoke to Barry on the way over here. He’s coming back from Phoenix tonight.”
On my way home from D’Agostino’s, I stopped at a pay phone and called Liane. I haven’t used a coin phone in ages, and I was taken aback by how grubby a phone can get when it’s forced to stand on a street corner, month after month.
“Oh, there you are, I was worried about you! What is this about not answering your phone?” Liane asked. “Can you see Roger tomorrow morning?”
“I’m seeing my lawyer tomorrow morning. And anyway, I’d be too much of a nervous wreck to see someone new,” I told her. “I’m—I think I might have to leave town for a while.”
“Leave town? What sort of trouble have you gotten yourself into?” Liane said. “Ask your lawyer before you do anything like that! People always think the solution to their troubles is to leave town. Very often the solution is simply to sit still.”
“I didn’t want to leave this on your machine. But I want to warn you about Etienne L__ P________________. Do you know him?”
“Why yes, of course. Everyone knows him. I’ve known him for thirty years—and I knew his uncle. What’s happened?”
