I look at him again, at the shirt with the top three buttons undone and the sleeves rolled up to show his pecs and the Silver jeans that look so new they're probably leaving ink on his well-developed calf muscles and the very, very white teeth. “So you're...” I lower my voice. “A male escort?”
He looks away without answering.
My mind struggles to catch up. “So who hired...your firm? Was it Richard?” I'm having a hard time believing Richard hired a high-priced hooker service, but who else would have- “It was Matt and Charlie!” I exclaim to Phil, who still hasn't said anything.
Phil stares into his empty glass. “Technically, we are an escort service. We provide only companionship, and anything else we do is of our own free will, the act of two consenting adults, and we expect no financial renumeration, nor can we accept any-”
“Yeah, I've heard the spiel on escort services,” I say. “So...how many of the people here are paid escorts?”
Phil shrugs. “About five or six, that's all. Your friends just told them to send a couple guys so no one would feel left out. That was thoughtful of them – most men would have just ordered girls.”
“Yeah, very thoughtful.” I frown. “So anyone here could be dancing with an escort, or hanging with them, and not know it? Until, what, they get the bill?”
Phil sighs. “Your friends should have been open about what they were doing. We do not provide companionship to people who don't know we're being paid, okay? We're not a friend-for-hire service and we wouldn't want anyone getting hurt if they found out.”
I sigh. “Matt and Charlie aren't bad people, they're just....well, idiots sometimes.” I think about this for a minute. “So....Richard doesn't know?”
Phil shrugs. “Depends what your friends told him. But he did say he was paying the bill, right? That's what Kimmy and Delilah meant when they asked him about it earlier. After he said he was picking up the tab, we assumed that meant for all of us.”
I groan. “This is a disaster. What's going to happen when-” I stop, realizing my phone has been recording this whole conversation. “-when Richard realizes the girl he's....hanging out with is an escort?”
Phil shakes his head. “Usually that doesn't end well. That's why we have a strict policy against it - when we know about it, of course.”
My mind races. We're live-streaming and Phil just told me that he's not a hooker, which of course means he really is. I now know that Richard is in a private room with another hooker, who he probably thinks just has a thing for his dimples, like regular girls. Don't I have some sort of moral obligation to go tell him the truth?
“I have to go...have a talk with my friends,” I say, standing up. “By the way...how did you get into this line of work, anyway?”
Phil looks down sheepishly. “Would you believe me if I said I was working my way through law school?”
“Is that true?”
He nods. “I know it sounds cliché, but it's true. I'm in debt up to my eyeballs from college, and if I took out any more loans for law school, I'd be paying them off until I'm old enough to collect social security, even if I got my dream job the minute I graduated. And in this economy, there are law school grads serving drinks in places like this.”
I nod. “I was just curious. It was nice meeting you, Phil. You should go dance with Tiffany now – but make sure you tell her the truth, okay?”
Phil nods, and I head toward the private-private room where Richard and Blondie headed earlier. As Phil explained to me, Matt knows the score and whatever he and Red are doing is none of my concern. But I'm sure it's the act of two consenting adults, neither of whom is receiving any financial stimulus.
I knock on the door, after making sure my phone camera is shut off. There's no need to capture this scene for posterity. “Richard?” I yell. “We need to talk. It's important.”
“I'm a little busy right now!” Richard yells. “Can we talk tomorrow?”
“This really can't wait!” I yell. “I'm coming in.” I give both parties five seconds to grab a sheet and try the knob. Fortunately, Richard didn't bother to lock it.
I'm surprised by what I see when I walk in. I was expecting half-naked scrambling for clothes, one or both of them pulling a shirt on, maybe the old pillow-over-the-penis move from Richard. But instead, I see the two of them sitting on the bed, mostly clothed. Richard is calmly doing the buttons on his shirt, and Red is struggling with the zipper on the back of her dress. They couldn't have gotten that far since I knocked on the door, so-
They already had sex. The strange thing is, neither one of them looks happy about it. Okay, I guess Red has sex with a lot of guys and surely she doesn't enjoy it every time, but you'd think Richard would be happy. After all, if he and Morgan really are just friends, then I don't think he has a girlfriend. I haven't seen him hanging out with anyone lately.
I mean, I guess it's possible that, hooker or not, Red just didn't satisfy him. But why would Richard look so angry about that? Unless he's having a too-much-to-drink moment like Biff.
“I guess I should be going,” Red says pointedly, looking at Richard. He stares at her blankly for a moment, then sighs, reaches behind her, and pulls up her dress zipper. “Happy now?”
“There's still that small matter we discussed earlier,” Red says.
Richard turns to look at me. “You know, Delilah and I just had sex, and then she demanded that I pay her for it.”
“Yeah, she's a hooker,” I say. “I just heard and I came to warn you, but I guess I'm too late.”
Richard reaches over to the bedside table and picks up his phone, tucking it in his shirt pocket, camera-side up. I guess he's recording, but probably not live-streaming. “I was shocked,” he says, and I actually believe him. “We had a good time dancing, then we came back here and had some fun together. I asked her if she'd like to go out again tomorrow and she gave me her number. Then, she tells me my payment is due, in cash, now.”
“You agreed to pay for it earlier, remember?” Delilah's voice sounds like broken glass being raked over a bed of hot coals.
“I did no such thing!” Richard yells. “I've never paid for sex in my life. And I wasn't just interested in the sex – I really liked you, as a person, Delilah.”
Delilah's face is as impassive as a brick wall. “That's sweet, but it won't get you off the hook for paying your bill. Now, your friends assured me earlier that you were good for it, Mr. Moneybags.”
“All of you?” Richard's dimples disappear in a mask of shock.
“The other escorts who came to this party, idiot,” Delilah snaps. “Kimmy, Dawn, Phil-”
“Phil?” Richard frowns. “I had no idea Matt was gay. Or was Phil for Charlie?”
“Your friends wanted to make sure all your party guests were taken care of,” Delilah says, heaving an exhausted sigh that makes her boobs rise and fall like a tidal wave of silicon.
Richard's eyebrows shoot up. “And you expect me to pay for all of them?”
“You said you'd take care of the bill when we first came in, remember?” Delilah yells.
“I thought you were the caterers!”
Delilah snorts. “That's the worst excuse I've heard for stiffing us on the bill this month.”
Richard stands up. “I have never paid for sex in my life and I'm not about to start now, Delilah. And if you want to sue me for non-payment, go ahead. Feel free to tell a judge what you do for a living.”
“I'm an escort,” Delilah says. “Escort services are perfectly legal, and yes, you do have to pay for the companionship we provided. If you're game for going to court over this, so am I.”
“You're not asking for money for companionship, you're asking for money for sex,” Richard says.
Delilah tosses her head. “The judge won't see it that way, but everyone who reads about my case in the paper will. You think you're the first guy who ever refused to pay for sex after the fact? We deal with cheapskate rich guys like you all the time.”
“You're not go
ing to take me to court,” Richard says, taking a step back from Delilah. He pulls his phone out of his pocket and quickly taps a few buttons. “I just emailed myself a copy of the conversation we just had, the one in which you demanded I pay you for sex.”
Delilah makes a dive for the phone, but Richard jumps back out of her way. “I told you, I already emailed the file,” he says, jumping onto the bed. “Even if you got the phone, it wouldn't help you.”
Delilah's lips pull back in a sneer. “I know you rich boys,” she says in a low, I-hate-your-guts sort of voice. “You won't embarrass your rich parents and their high-society friends by dragging a case like this through the court systems. Not when it's so much easier just to pay the bill.”
Richard glares at her. “Fine,” he says. “You're right, I don't want to embarrass my family with this. I will pay whatever bill the escort service sends me for tonight, but you will not get one dime extra for what we did here.”
Delilah stares him down for a second, then she grabs his wallet off the nightstand and starts pulling bills out.
“Give that back!” Richard yells, grabbing the wallet from her. She lets it go, but hangs onto the cash.
And that's when the door bursts open behind me and the bouncer, Muscles rushes in. He's followed by a middle-aged, pudgy guy in a suit and two police officers.
I really hope they turn out to be strippers.
“Whoa, what are you doing?” Richard asks, staring at the intruders. “This is a private room!”
“We just got word that that there was some illegal activity happening here, and it was my duty to report it to the police,” Muscles says.
“As the manager of this establishment, I can assure you that we do our best to discourage our guests from participating in any illegal activity,” the pudgy guy says.
Muscles holds up a tablet, frozen on an image of me and Phil at the bar. “During my smoke break, I've been watching these kids on GluedToYou,” he says. “Recognized them as soon as they came in. Couldn't believe it when I saw Phil telling Shade here about his employers and how they use our club to conduct illegal activities.”
I frown. “What you saw was Phil telling me that he works for a perfectly legal escort service, nothing more. Have any of you even seen the tape?”
One of the cops, a fortyish woman with an I've-seen-everything expression on her face, takes out a notebook. “You seemed to think he meant something else on that tape.”
I shrug. “I had suspicions, but nothing I could prove. Phil never admitted to anything, but just in case I decided to find someone else to hang out with.”
“I see.” The other officer, a guy with blonde hair and a bad overbite, looks at Richard and Delilah. “So what's going on in here?”
Delilah shrugs a shoulder. “Two consenting adults having a good time together, nothing more.”
“And the money in your hand?” The female officer points at Delilah's hand, which is still clutching a handful of hundreds. Richard looks down at his own hands, one of which is clutching his wallet. “The bouncer overheard you telling this woman earlier that you'd take care of the bill for tonight.”
“We talked to your friend Matt,” the male officer adds, consulting his own notes. “He gave us the name of the escort company. We're familiar with them, and they only accept payment by credit card. So what are you giving this young lady cash for?”
“A person can have more than one job.” Delilah tosses her enviably shiny red hair. “And I was obviously off the clock when I came in here with my former client.”
“Uh-huh,” the female officer says. “And what's he paying you for, then? What's this second job that you do with people in private?”
“Consulting.”
“Consulting on what?”
“Public relations,” I say, as an idea occurs to me. “Richard told me yesterday that he needs help publicizing that charity event he's been planning to throw. I'll bet that's what he hired her for, right Richard?”
“Yes,” Richard says quickly. “Delilah here told me about all her experience working in...public relations, and I asked her if she'd like to do some consulting work for my firm.” It's a struggle, but he valiantly manages to keep a straight face.
“You always pay your PR people in cash?” the male officer asks.
“I asked him for a small retainer, just until we can work out a contract,” Delilah says.
“I suppose you wouldn't mind sending us a copy of that contract after you've worked out the details,” the female officer says, staring at Richard like she's heard better bullshit from Bernie Madoff.
“Of course not,” Richard says, as she hands him her card. “I'll have my business people send over the contract in a few days.”
“Then I guess we'll have to be going,” the officer says sourly. “But don't worry, we'll keep in touch. We at the police department are really enjoying this video blog thing you guys are doing.” She shakes her head. “I'm still trying to figure out how you got this rich reusing and recycling.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
“So, what exactly is Richard going to do about his, um, contract with Delilah?” Morgan asks, as we pull into the One Man's Trash Thrift Store parking lot. After studying demographic data on the area, I'd determined that One Man's Trash was optimally located for our purposes.
“Well, obviously, he's going to hire her to do PR for his charity event,” I say pointedly as I get out of the car.
“What charity event?” Tiffany asks, climbing out of the backseat.
“The one he's having to benefit the local homeless shelter,” I say, glaring at Tiffany.
“Oh, right.” Her eyes brighten. “So we can help the homeless by attending that party instead of buying cans of food?”
“We can if we can afford the tickets. How much are they going to cost?” Morgan asks.
“I don't think he's decided yet.” The truth is, he just got off the phone with the homeless shelter today. Fortunately, they were thrilled to hear that a well-heeled individual wanted to help them by throwing a benefit party at a swanky hotel – and that he was picking up the tab for the entire event, catering and drinks included. All proceeds will go to the homeless shelter, and Richard gets to burn through some more money – a win-win. Besides, as Matt pointed out after the fiasco, throwing a charity event is another common millionaire activity.
“Well, maybe we'll make enough money with this crap that we can afford tickets, whatever they cost,” Morgan says as we walk into the store.
“So what are we looking for?” Tiffany asks.
“Shh!” I say to both of them, looking around for any lurking employees. “Thrift store employees aren't always friendly to Feebayers.”
“Oh,” Tiffany whispers. “What kind of crap are we-”
“Heard you the first time.” I head for the clothing section. “Let's start here. You should start with a product category you're familiar with.” I pause and look back and forth between Tiff and Morgan. “But you guys don't have to start here if you're more familiar with something else.”
Morgan looks around the shop. “I don't see any scanning electron microscopes or MCAT study guides.”
Tiffany puts a hand on her skintight-denim clad hip, lets her sunglasses slip down her nose and gives me her best are-you-stupid look. “Do I look like an expert on...” She spins around, looking at the rest of the store. “Whatever that thing is?” She points at a stuffed beaver mounted on a fake log.
“Taxidermy? Why, yes, Tiffany, I always thought you were a closet taxidermist. Can't believe I was wrong,” I say.
Tiffany rolls her eyes and shoves the sunglasses back up her nose. “Let's just find some clothes and get this over with.”
We start pawing through the racks. “Who's Al Godon?” Tiffany asks behind me. “Is he a famous designer?”
Suppressing a smirk, I turn around and look at the label she's inspecting, which is attached to a green sweater. “That's the care tag,” I explain. “The designer label has been
ripped out, probably because it's not an expensive brand.”
“But it says 100% Al Godon. That means it's authentic, right?”
Morgan can't keep from laughing any more. “Algodon is Spanish for cotton, Tiff. You're reading the wrong side of the care tag.”
Tiffany snorts and shoves the sweater back on the rack. “I knew that. I just wanted to see if you guys did.”
Moving on, I flip through several more tops. Mostly I'm seeing department store brands, nothing too fancy, although a few might bring a profit of five or ten dollars. Still, based on my research, I'd really like to a find a-
“Blue Fish?” Morgan asks, holding up a long, sleeveless dress. “I've heard of them, but I have to say I was expecting something better. This design is a little-”
“Tacky?” Tiffany looks down her nose at the dress.
To be honest, I agree with her. The dress is a marbled blue, with sections of random geometric designs printed on the front. It looks like something my grandmother would wear on a “Sixty and Single” cruise.
And yet, it's one of the most sought-after, highest grossing clothing brands on Feebay, at least according to my research – and I've spent a lot of time searching completed listings to figure out what has the best chance of selling.
And of course, Morgan found it.
“It is ugly, but it might do okay on the 'Bay,” I say casually. “Some people like that crap and will pay for the brand name. How much is it?”
Morgan peers at the tag. “Ten dollars. Do you think that's too much?”
“I think you should search for it on the Feebay app like I showed you,” I whisper.
While Morgan goes in search of good news, I turn back to the clothing racks, hoping to find something good.
“Holy crap!” I hear Morgan yell, and a pair of old ladies down in shoes turn to glare at us.
“May I help you?” One of them asks, and I see she's wearing a name tag that lists her as a store employee and a disapproving frown.
“Sorry,” Morgan says, sliding her phone into her pocket. “I, ah, have been looking for this dress for a long time and I'm happy I found it.”
Sorority Girls With Guns Page 15
