Slick (22 page)

“Doesn’t sound like it.”

“Yeah. This place is better. My absolute favorite was Club Flamingo, but damn it, they closed it down to make way for the Staples Center.”

I scanned the faces of the many couched girls. Only a small percentage of them were black, which made my task easier. But those faces were so heavily dolled up that any one of them could have been Harmony. All I had to go by was that low-quality Polaroid.

“So I guess you’re a longtime customer,” I said, still scanning.

“Here? No. This is only my second or third time. But I’ve been going to places like this for thirty years now. Every time I’m in town.”

“And without inferring judgment, Dave, may I ask what it is you like so much about these places?”

To his credit, he merely smiled. “There are a lot of answers I could give you, Dave. Most of them would take an hour. And all of them, I imagine, would gloriously fail in converting your viewpoint to one that matches mine.”

I liked this guy. He had the sharp, knowing quality of a man who’s seen enough bullshit in his life and had no urge to add to the pile. It wouldn’t have surprised me if he was cut from the same vocational cloth as me and Maxina.

He took a puff of his expensive cigar and then shrugged. “I’ve been married twice. My first wife broke my heart. My second wife broke my heart and took my wallet. I should also add that when you factor in legal costs, wife number two ended up costing me more than what they charge here. But in both cases, the love they claimed to have for me was nothing more than an illusion. Am I losing you already?”

“No. Not at all.”

That was my fault. As he talked, I studied every young black hostess who entered my field of vision.

“Now, I refuse to blame an entire gender for my bad experiences,” he continued. “I’m too smart and self-aware for that. But the problem is that I’m also too smart and self-aware to jump back on that proverbial horse and trust my heart to another woman. And why should I? Out of fear of dying alone? Please. That’s for insecure people. Out of the pain of
being
alone? That one’s more valid. I love affection and I love intimate conversation. Often times, I find them better than sex. And you’d be surprised by some of the smart and soulful women you find here, Dave. These are gals who’ve been through a lot. Even the young ones.”

He didn’t have to tell me. The one I was looking for had enough drama to fill a miniseries.

“I appreciate these girls,” he said. “And when I find the right one, I get the same kind of pleasure from their company that I did from my two ex-wives, when things were good. And when things aren’t good? Either one of us is free to clock out at any time. No theatrics. No lawyers. Why should I give my soul to another human being when I can just portion it out? On my schedule, on my terms, to whomever I choose. See, I’m renting myself out to these women as much as they’re renting themselves out to me. It doesn’t get more mutual than that.”

The door to the ladies’ room opened. A young black woman stepped into the lounge. She wore a tiny black spaghetti-strap dress, which was conservative compared to her coworkers’. Although her face was marred by layers of garish cosmetics, I recognized it immediately.

“It may seem like a cold transaction,” said Dave. “It may even seem like another illusion. But you know what? And this is the thing that very few people understand—”

“I have to go,” I said with a compunctious shrug. “I’m very sorry, Dave.”

Again, he only smiled. He looked to the woman, then me. “You didn’t come here for the usual reasons, did you?”

“Afraid not.”

“Well, I won’t pry. Go to her.”

“Thank you. It really was nice talking to you.”

“I believe you. But if you want some unsolicited parting advice, my friend, tread carefully. Just because she’s half as old and half as smart as you doesn’t mean she can’t hurt you.”

I had to stifle a laugh. For all his observational skills, “Dave” thought I was in love. My excitement and anxiety must have created a remarkable facsimile.

I left him behind and approached her. She stopped to fish for something in her little black purse, but soon gave up looking. As she started for the couches, I caught her by the purse strap.

“Excuse me. Hi.”

She eyed me warily. “Hi.”

“What’s your name?”

“Danesha.”

Smart. I guess there was something about this place that brought out the pseudonym in everybody.

“Danesha,” I said. “That’s a very pretty name. Do you mind if I just call you Harmony?”

This was how I officially crashed the world of the lovely young Harmony Prince. I could have been more delicate, I suppose, but I didn’t want to start our relationship out on a game. I didn’t see the need and I didn’t have the time.

“Who, uh, who are you?”

“My name is Scott. Scott Singer. You and I have a lot to talk about.”

She stared at me for a few long moments. Maybe it was the nature of her job. Or the sincerity of my smile. Or maybe it was just the fact that she’d seen enough monsters in her life to know that I was comparatively benign. Whatever it was, she grabbed the hook before I even had to add bait.

“Hold on,” she said.

She grabbed a punch card from the wall rack and fed it into the slot. Ka-CHUNK. The meter was running. Now we were both on a clock.

Technically our relationship did start out on a game.

“My first job,” I said while lining up my shot at the 1-ball, “was with a Republican polling firm in Bethesda, Maryland. I started out as a phone jockey, sitting in a warehouse with a hundred other pimply-faced peons, calling people in the middle of dinner to ask them what they thought about Ed Meese. I was your age, and I was perfectly miserable.”

From the other side of the decrepit pool table, Harmony watched me break. It was just the two of us here in the so-called fun room. Every so often, a gangly old security man buzzed by just to keep the fun level acceptable. From the telling stains on the worn red felt near the left side pocket, I had to wonder what they considered unacceptable.

By the end of the break, the purple 4-ball had become a casualty.

“Guess I’m solids,” I said.

Expressionless, Harmony batted her cue stick from hand to hand. Her relaxed stance was encouraging. She could see I wasn’t fixing to add more stains to the table.

I targeted the 1-ball again. “Anyway, in a job like that, I realized the only thing worse than being miserable was being complacent. I watched the people around me, one by one, get sucked into the drone life. I didn’t want to be next. So I decided right then and there that I would either become a spectacular success at what I was doing, or a spectacular failure. Shit.”

As soon as I hit the cue ball, I knew its trip would end with a scratch. I took the ball out of the pocket and placed it by Harmony.

“Don’t hold back.”

She gave me a shy metallic grin. “Okay.”

Her orthodontry was one of several revisions to the mental image I’d constructed from the Polaroid. For starters, she was tiny. Even with her shoes on, the woman barely topped five feet and ninety pounds. But that was just an in-person issue. The cameras would never reveal her small stature unless she was scaled against a guy like me.

What bothered me more was her face. Sure, it was round and pretty, with pleasant cheekbones and alluring hazel eyes, but the deep, soulful sheen that made her photo leap out at me was completely absent. Was the photo a fluke? Or was I catching her at a bad time? I figured it didn’t matter. As far as the histrionic media cared, Harmony offered more than enough victim appeal, not to mention sex appeal. She confirmed the latter the moment she leaned forward to line up her shot.

“You can keep talking,” she said. “It don’t mess up my game.”

Mentally, I winced. I knew the street grammar would cost her a point or two on the credibility scale. If only I had more time to play Henry Higgins.

“Long story short,” I continued, “I wound up sticking out in a good way.”

She sank the 12. “How?”

“I rephrased the questions to help get the results my bosses were looking for. For example, when there was a Republican politician at issue, I’d ask people how they’d rate their ‘approval.’ When it was a Democrat, I’d ask how they’d grade their ‘performance.’ It made a difference. Today that kind of stuff is a no-brainer. I mean they’ve got question-loading down to an art form. But back then it was enough to impress the boys upstairs. Within four months I was promoted to associate research consultant. The pay wasn’t much better, but at least it got me away from the phones.”

Harmony made a skillful bank shot, pocketing the 9. “You still a Republican?”

“I was never a Republican. I just worked for them. And I haven’t done that since the late eighties.”

“So who you work for now?”

“Lots of people. In lots of different places. Occasionally I work in the music business.”

She let out a quick, knowing smirk before eliminating the 10-ball. “Me too.”

“I know,” I admitted.

“Yeah? What else you know about me?”

“Not as much as you think.”

She paused her game to give me the stern eye. “You ain’t been following me and shit, have you?”

“No. I’m not a stalker. I didn’t even know you existed until twelve hours ago.”

“What happened twelve hours ago?”

“I discovered your file.”

“My file? Where?”

“Mean World.”

“You work for Mean World?”

“At the moment. You can keep playing, you know. It doesn’t mess up my talking.”

Harmony didn’t see the humor. “What do you want with me?”

“Keep playing. I’ll keep talking.”

I watched as she reluctantly got back to the game. For a woman with brain damage, she sure seemed to be running on all cylinders.

She overshot her cue. I circled the table and took my time finding the best angle.

“You worked with Hunta on the video for ‘Chocolate Ho-Ho,’ right?”

She shrugged it off. “Yeah. Me and like a thousand other women.”

“What did you think of him?”

“He was all right, I guess. He was gone most of the time. I mean, you know.” She took a hit from an imaginary joint. “Gone.”

“But he wasn’t rude to you or anything.”

“No. We never even talked.”

“And did you like working for Mean World? I mean, did anyone there ever give you a hard time?”

She kept her cautious gaze on me, even as I used an impressive bit of backspin to sink the 5.

“Why you want to know about that?”

I smiled. “Just curious.”

“You really work for Mean World?”

“Yeah. Why wouldn’t I?”

She raised an eyebrow.
Are you kidding?

“I never said I rapped for them.”

“I still ain’t never seen a white man working there.”

“What can I say? They’re getting progressive.”

I made my shot for the 3. An indentation in the table caused the cue ball to make a wild turn, setting off an unfortunate chain of events that ended with the premature sinking of the 8-ball.

“I guess I lose,” I said.

“Yeah, but that wasn’t fair.”

“When are things ever fair?”

At last I got the look from her.
That
look. The one that hinted at a world of pain, a lifetime of hard knocks. She was in there after all, under all the bad lighting and makeup. Thank God.

She nervously bounced the cue ball around the table. “So...what now? We play again?”

I approached her. “Got any room in that little purse of yours?”

“Why?”

With the subtle grace of a veteran briber, I slipped her a five hundred-dollar roll of twenties. She looked down at her hand like I’d just spit a diamond into it.

“What...what’s this for?”

“That’s for starters. Do you have a car here?”

“No. I take the bus.”

“Good. Let me drive you home and I’ll give you another thousand dollars. It’s just me talking and you listening. Nothing more. I promise.”

I doubted I was the first customer to try to negotiate an outside acquaintance with Harmony, but her stupefied look made me wonder if I’d gone too high on the up-front. I didn’t want to seem desperate or insane.

“I... I can’t,” she said. “They don’t let us leave with customers.”

“When’s your shift up?”

“Soon.”

“All right. When you get off, come outside and look for a black Saturn sedan with a dented trunk. That’ll be me. If you show up, great. If not, keep the five hundred and have a good life. I promise I’ll never bother you again.”

Good. Better. I could already see her mental alert fall from red to orange. After scanning for witnesses, she stashed the money in her hanging purse. No doubt her mind was still working feverishly to figure out the catch, starting with the usual suspects.

“Just talking,” she confirmed.

“Just talking.”

“Because I ain’t like these other girls, okay? I don’t do that shit. Not with you. Not with Hunta. Not with nobody but the man I marry.”

“We’re just talking.”

She stared me down (or in this case, up) for a good long time.

“Okay.”

“Okay,” I echoed. “Now how do I clock out of here?”

 

 

Despite the fact that I was standing in the dingy stairwell of an industrial complex in the heart of downtown Los Angeles, my first breath outside the Flower Club was the sweetest air I’d ever tasted. I felt I’d played a good game with Harmony, figuratively speaking, but the whole taxi dancer experience had left me thoroughly unclean.

It wasn’t like me to be so uptight and judgmental. Ordinarily I was a social Libertarian. Whatever floats your boat, as long it doesn’t sink anyone else’s. But something in there set off a trip wire inside of me. Perhaps it was “Dave’s” valiant but ultimately sad attempt to rationalize the hiring out of intimacy. Or the warped, love-stained pool table that forever ruined the game of 8-ball for me. Or maybe, just maybe, it was the way I’d used hard cash to lure Harmony toward a series of drastic, life-changing events she couldn’t possibly prepare for. I had my suspicions, but whatever it was, it filled me with the overwhelming desire to do something admirable.