The Closer

by Donn Cortez

  PLEASE DEPOSIT ANOTHER FIFTY CENTS FOR THE NEXT THREE MINUTES.

  Oh, I get it. You don’t know any more about this than I do, do you? Don’t know why I thought you would—you’re just a bunch of electronics.

  AND YOU’RE JUST A BUNCH OF HORMONES.

  What? Electra, I’m shocked. That’s not very polite.

  YOU KNOW IT’S TRUE.

  Well… maybe. I have to admit, I did think about what it would be like to kiss Bobby.

  AND?

  Halfway through the kiss, he turned into Uncle Rick.

  DANGER! DANGER! RED ALERT!

  I know, I know… I just couldn’t help it. And now I feel guilty, and I’m not even sure why—is it because I thought about kissing Uncle Rick, or because I’m thinking about going out with Bobby? This is all messed up, Electra.

  I HAVE A POSSIBLE SOLUTION.

  I’m all ears. And hormones.

  TRANSPLANT UNCLE RICK’S BRAIN INTO BOBBY’S BODY.

  Hmm. That way, I’d get Uncle Rick’s personality, but I could still date Bobby’s body without gettting into trouble. Electra, you’re brilliant!

  Of course, it would have to be our secret. I’d be the only one who’d know. I’d have to help Uncle Rick adjust to being a teenager all over again, and tell him which clothes he could wear without looking dorky, and teach him about music and stuff— though most of the stuff he listens to now is pretty cool. Except the jazz.

  There’s only one problem, Electra—aside from the obvious one of finding a brain surgeon willing to work cheap. I don’t know how to say it, but…

  I still want Uncle Rick’s body.

  WARNING! WARNING! POSSIBLE INFORMATION OVERLOAD!

  I can’t help it, Electra—maybe it’s wrong, but that’s how I feel.

  I BELIEVE THE TECHNICAL TERM FOR WHAT YOU ARE FEELING IS: EXTREME STUPIDITY.

  I know, I know… God, what am I going to do? This is driving me crazy, Electra, it really is.

  I went down to Uncle Rick’s studio yesterday. He promised to show me the new piece he was working on, even though he never shows anybody a piece until it’s finished.

  His studio is in a loft in a cruddy part of town, but I guess the rent is cheap. I took the bus to get there, after school.

  I really like his loft. It’s in an old warehouse with bare wooden walls and all these huge rusty pipes and oak beams running across the ceiling, which is about twenty feet high. There’s a row of dusty windows all the way around the top of the loft that probably haven’t been cleaned in about fifty years. I offered to wipe them down once, but Uncle Rick wouldn’t let me—he says he likes the quality of light they let in.

  So I knock on the door, which is this big slidy metal thing that Uncle Rick really has to yank on to get open. He’s wearing ripped jeans and a dirty white T-shirt, he’s covered in sweat, and he’s got grease marks on his arms and face. Disgusting, right?

  God, he looked sexy.

  I swear, my brain just seized up. He told me to come in and I didn’t say a word, just stumbled inside. It was a really sunny day, and it took a moment for my eyes to adjust—at first I couldn’t see a thing. I just stood there, trying not to breathe too hard. I could smell hot metal and freshly cut wood. And him.

  When my vision cleared I saw this form in the middle of the room. It was a sculpture of a bald woman leaning over a bowl she held in her lap, her head down. It was made out of metal—aluminum, I think. Her skin was like scratchy chrome.

  “Just a sec, I’ll turn it on,” Uncle Rick said.

  When he did, water started to gush from the woman’s head. All of a sudden, she had this beautiful liquid hair. And it didn’t just fall straight down, either—there were some glass parts sticking up that I didn’t notice at first, that made the water kind of swirl as it fell.

  It didn’t flow into the bowl; it funneled into glass pipes on either side of her chest, wound around each other so the water flowing through them looked like shimmery braids. The pipes connected to the bottom of the bowl, which slowly filled up with water.

  I got closer and saw that the woman was studying her own reflection in the bowl of water. He’d painted the bottom of the bowl silver, turning it into a curved mirror.

  “It’s fantastic,” I said. Maybe it was just my imagination, Electra—but I think the woman looked a little like me.

  Uncle Rick shook his head and lit a cigarette, and I could see sunlight sparking off little metal shavings stuck in his hair.

  “Nope, not yet,” he said. “There’s something missing.”

  I know just what he means.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Two and a half years ago.

  “Can I ask you a few questions?”

  Nikki looked over the man at the next booth, carefully. He was around thirty, with unkempt brown hair, a stubbly beard, and eyes that looked like they hadn’t seen sleep in a week. He was dressed too well to be homeless, but he didn’t have the vibe of a customer. She made him for a cop, but that didn’t bother her; she dealt with cops every day, they were as much a part of hooking as the johns.

  “I’m not working, honey,” she said. “Coffee break, you know? Get back to me in twenty minutes or so.”

  “I’d rather not cut into your profits,” the man said. “I’m a journalist. I’m doing a story about the Stroll and I’d like your take on it.”

  She smiled at him. A smile was her automatic reaction to dealing with anyone, regardless of how she felt—it lowered people’s defenses while giving her a second to raise her own. Every working girl she knew had one unbreakable rule about dealing with johns, and Nikki applied that rule universally: go with your gut. And her gut said…

  Danger?

  Sorrow.

  “Okay,” she said abruptly. “Have a seat.”

  Later, she analyzed that moment over and over, trying to figure out why she had agreed to talk to him. There was something not quite right about the guy, something damaged and hurt—she’d never have gotten in a car with him. And yet, the overwhelming impression she got wasn’t rage, but a deep sadness.

  He picked up his coffee cup and slid into the booth across from her. “My name is Jack.”

  “Wendy.” It was the name she used on the street.

  Jack pulled out a notepad and pen. “How long have you been doing this?”

  “Since I was seventeen—fifteen years, give or take.”

  “How’d you get started?”

  “Same reason everyone does—drugs. I got hooked on the worst one of all.”

  “Crack?”

  “No—money.” She pulled out a pack of cigarettes. “See, the money to be made can be amazing. When you’re young and dumb, it almost seems like they’re giving it away. So you spend it. Life becomes one long party. Next thing you know, you’re addicted to something expensive, and now you don’t have a choice anymore. You can’t just quit and go work as a waitress, because minimum wage plus tips won’t support your habit, and besides, you’re not qualified to do anything else.”

  “You don’t look like a junkie.”

  She lit her cigarette with a small butane lighter. “That’s because I’m not one. Wrong part of town.” She waved one red-nailed hand, indicating the diner they sat in. It was called the Templeton, and it was funky but not run-down; a row of booths lined one wall and an old-fashioned counter with chrome stools the other. It was decorated in a retro-chic fifties’ style, with a sign over the servers’ pick-up window that read Specials in glowing neon script. Each of the booths had its own chrome mini-jukebox mounted next to it, the kind where you flipped through the selections by turning pages mounted behind glass. A few other working girls sat at another booth, and a young man with a goatee tapped away at a laptop at the counter.

  “See, every city has two Strolls: the downtown and skid row. Skid row is where the crackheads and junkies work. They work cheap because all they want is enough for that next fix. The downtown is different—young, pretty and upscale. We cater to businessmen, mainly. You took
a poll of the girls downtown, you’d get mostly single moms and college students.”

  “Which one are you?”

  “Neither. I’m an old-timer, been doing it my whole life. I’m used to the money and don’t really know how to do anything else.”

  “You could always go back to school.”

  “And do what? Become an accountant? I could just see me at the staff Christmas party—‘Hey, everyone! Wendy’s giving blow jobs under the mistletoe!’ ”

  Jack winced, almost imperceptibly.

  “Yes, the Christmas season,” he said. “Brisker business during the holidays?”

  “No, men are pretty much horny all year round.”

  “What about bad johns? Any increase at particular times of the year?”

  It was an odd question. She thought about it, then said, “Maybe in the summer. Hot weather, hot tempers. But the really bad ones—well, they’re bad all the time. All that stuff about the full moon bringing out the crazies is bullshit. You’re just as likely to get a creep on a sunny afternoon in July as midnight on Halloween.”

  “Ever had it happen to you?”

  “Sure. Not in a long time, though—my instincts are pretty sharp.”

  “How about friends of yours?”

  “Everybody gets a bad trick sooner or later. If you’re lucky, you’ll only get robbed.”

  “Ever known someone who was unlucky?”

  She glanced at him sharply. He met her stare eye to eye. After a second, she answered.

  “If you’re talking about dead whores, yes. Yes, I’ve known several dead whores. Would you like details?” She threw the words at him like broken glass.

  His reaction wasn’t what she expected. He simply looked thoughtful and said, “I don’t care how they made a living. Were they your friends?”

  She glared at him, not sure what to think. “Some were. Others probably deserved what they got and more.”

  “That might be true. But how do you know?”

  “I trust my gut. Some people are just shit—the planet would be better off without them.”

  “I wish my gut was as reliable as yours.”

  “What, don’t journalists have instincts?”

  “No,” he said. “Just questions…”

  And he’d asked her a few more and then gone away. She saw him a few more times over the next week, talking to other girls, and from what they said he’d asked them pretty much the same things he’d asked her.

  But Nikki was the only one he interviewed twice.

  He came back to the same restaurant about ten days later. She was sitting by herself, and nodded when Jack asked if he could sit down. Outside, a gray rain was drizzling down.

  They stared at each other for a moment without talking. They never spoke about that moment afterward, but Nikki knew exactly what had happened. They had recognized each other, had understood on some deep level they were alike. It had taken an effort to smile.

  “So,” she said. “How’s your story going?”

  “I’m not a journalist.”

  “Big surprise. Cop?”

  “No.”

  “What do you want?” she asked flatly. “I don’t work for pimps.”

  “I’m not a pimp. Why don’t you have a partner?”

  That stopped her for a second, but she pretended not to know what he meant. “Because I’m not a cop either, I’m a hooker—”

  “Most girls use a buddy system. One gets in a car, the other one writes down the licence plate.”

  “I can take care of myself.”

  “So I hear.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  A waitress hurried by. Jack waited until she was out of earshot before replying. “Most hookers don’t carry weapons or drugs because they’re more likely to be busted for that than soliciting. You not only carry weapons, you’re not afraid to use them. Frankly, the other girls are terrified of you.”

  “Fuck ’em.”

  “And what about Sally? Fuck her, too?”

  Her smile faltered, but only for an instant. “You knew her?”

  “No. But I know what happened to her.”

  “Only one person knows that,” she said calmly. Her hand crept toward the purse beside her on the booth seat.

  “I didn’t kill her,” Jack said. “But I know how she probably died.”

  Her hand slipped inside the purse.

  “She was picked up on the night of July nineteenth, in a white car stolen an hour before. Nobody saw the driver’s face, including you. She was probably raped, strangled and dismembered, but the body still hasn’t been found.”

  Her hand found the pebbled roughness of the hand-grip and tightened around it. She thumbed the safety off.

  “Three girls in the last eight months,” Jack said. “All of them with dark hair in curls. Sally was the only working girl, and the only one whose body—or body parts—haven’t been found.”

  Her finger wrapped around the trigger, ever so carefully. “Why?” she asked.

  “I don’t know. But if you’ll help me, maybe we can ask him in person….”

  And after a second, she’d thumbed the safety back on.

  He told her, calmly and rationally, exactly what he planned to do. He explained the risks, and what he expected of her. He told her she could walk away at any point.

  She told him she’d have to think about it. He gave her a week.

  She’d taken the rest of the night off and gone home—no way was she going to be able to work with Jack’s offer on her mind. She lived in an apartment in Yaletown, just off the downtown core, overlooking False Creek to the south. It cost her a good chunk of money every month, but she wouldn’t scrimp on living space; though she never stayed in one city for too long, she always made sure she was comfortable. She didn’t do drugs, hadn’t had a boyfriend in years—de-signer furniture and an address with a view were relatively harmless vices in comparison.

  She changed out of her working clothes and slipped into a pair of sweats and a T-shirt, then curled up on her white leather couch with a glass of scotch. She took a sip and looked around her home: plasma-screen television, CD jukebox, DVD collection, computer and computer games. Toys, distractions. Something to do when she wasn’t working or working out. The same went for the Rollerblades, the mountain bike, the snowboard. She’d get rid of them the next time she relocated, and buy brand-new stuff in another city.

  Her eye fell on the bookshelf. The books were the only thing that traveled with her from place to place, even though they were heavy and a pain to transport. Travel books mostly, big hardcovers with lots of pictures. Spain, Tahiti, France, Greenland—she liked variety. She had maps, too, and a big hollow globe in the corner that doubled as a bar. There were also recipe books from all over, even though she never cooked— they were something she’d gotten into the habit of picking up when she traveled. Some people collected spoons, some collected ceramic figurines, she collected cookbooks. Go figure.

  Travel was her true addiction. She’d save up every year and go someplace for a month or two, taking a vacation not just from her work but from herself. She’d travel under a different name, dye her hair, experiment with different kinds of clothes, food, even the TV shows she watched. At first she’d regarded it as a kind of game, a harmless hobby like all her others, but eventually she realized she was doing the same thing she did for her clients—playing a role. The difference was she was doing it for her own pleasure, not somebody else’s, which made it masturbation as opposed to prostitution.

  What the fuck. Considering how many hand jobs she’d given in her life, she deserved a little self-satisfaction.

  But was it enough?

  Maybe that wasn’t even the right question. Maybe she should be asking herself if Jack was crazy, or if she was. So why wasn’t she?

  Because she already knew the answer.

  What she found herself thinking about instead was Sally. And Janet. And Billie and Yolanda and Joyce and CC and Veronique …the list went
on and on, girls she’d known that had turned up dead or just disappeared. Nikki hoped some of them had made it out of the life; had gotten married or moved or just plain quit.

  Maybe some of them had. But not many.

  The phone rang. She frowned, got up and checked the call display. Private Caller, no number. She didn’t pick up. She’d been having problems with a client the last couple of days, an Asian guy who had been hanging around the Stroll. Unlike Jack, this guy was definitely creepy—he’d picked up Nikki, then tried to talk her into a freebie by claiming he was a pimp scouting talent. She hadn’t fallen for it, but apparently he’d pulled the same thing on several other girls who weren’t as bright; one of them—probably Teresa, that bitch—had given him Nikki’s phone number, and now he kept calling. The guy had dressed well and talked a good game, but no way he was a pimp—too short, too round, too ugly. She might have believed he was some kind of Chinese gangster, but those guys tended to travel in packs and their girls usually worked out of massage parlors.

  The phone had stopped, but now it rang again. Same ID. “Fuck,” she said, and picked it up.

  “Hello, Wendy?” It was him.

  “Yeah?”

  “I’d like to see you again.”

  “Look, Richard, I told you—I’m not interested.”

  “Why not? I’ve asked around, you don’t have a manager.”

  “And that’s just how I like it.”

  “Really? You’re not considering someone else?”

  “I’m a solo act, Richard. I don’t like to share.”

  “Then who was that guy in the coffee shop—the one you were talking to for so long?”

  Her eyes narrowed. “You’ve been spying on me?”

  “No, no. I was just down on the Stroll and saw you, that’s all. Who is he, your boyfriend?”

  “No,” Nikki snapped. “He’s someone I trade favors with now and then. I fuck him, he fucks somebody else—like some jerk that won’t take no for an answer.”

  “That supposed to worry me?”

  “Thing is, he uses a badge and a gun. He fucks you, you stay fucked.”