Lady Slings the Booze Page 4

  Damn it, the PI isn’t supposed to be the straight man. “Which is?”

  “Throw out all the old maps you already have in the glove compartment,” Priscilla said.

  Lady Sally nodded. “Forget all the reports of earlier explorers. You can’t discover America if you keep shying away from the edge of the world. And if you do find it, you’ll waste years asking to be taken to Kublai Khan.”

  I brought my glass to my lips…looked at it, and set it down. I reached for my deck of Luckies…realized a teenager’s bedroom wouldn’t have any ashtrays, and put it away. “Look,” I said finally, “the dialogue is getting so clever here I’m starting to lose it. Let me see if I can put it in English, okay? What I think I’m hearing is: you got some kind of sneak thief in the joint; you want me to nail him; naturally you want it done discreet; so you want me to pose as a prostitute while I run him down; you don’t believe I know what that involves here; so you want me to keep an open mind and scope the place before I make up my mind. Is that close?”

  “Reasonably close,” Lady Sally agreed. “We can fine-tune it as we go along. If we do.”

  “So what’s the plan? You give me a Grand Tour of the place, visiting-fireman-style, and along about dawn I come back and give you my answer? No hard feelings if I take a pass?”

  “Something like that.”

  I thought about it. I’d been to a few Houses before…but never anyplace near as classy as this. And all I’d ever gotten to see of them was a crummy parlor—in one case, more of a bus station waiting room—and a hallway and a crib. It came to me that, given a choice, I’d almost rather tour a whorehouse than use one. Especially this one.

  And there was no reason the two had to be incompatible. As Clint Eastwood once said, “It do present mind-boggling possibilities, don’t it?” There were a lot worse ways to earn two hundred bucks…

  “I’d be a fool to refuse,” I said.

  “YOU certainly would,” Lady Sally agreed. “I don’t give many tours of my House—and this will be the first one I’ve given for free. Well, let’s say, ‘on spec.’ All right, let’s get this show on the road if we’re going. Mary!”

  I looked around. Still just the three of us.

  “Yes, Lady,” said a cheerful voice that seemed to come from the middle of the room.

  “Is Tim busy just now?”

  There was a five-second pause. “Not any more. His eleven o’clock just left.”

  “Ask him to come see use here, would you, dear?”

  “Sure thing. It’ll be a few minutes.”

  “Naturally. Thank you, love.”

  “You’re welcome, Lady!” Whoever she was, she was jolly.

  “Tim will show you around,” Lady Sally told me. “Just tell him you’re thinking about hiring on, and duck every question you can.”

  I frowned. “I still don’t know if that’s the way to go. Look, I’m pretty good with my mouth. When I was born I passed myself off as a doctor; if I could have reached the doorknob I’d have got away clean. I could fake being a hooker to a civilian, no sweat. But I don’t think I can fool another hooker for very long. Especially if you’re right, and I don’t really know much about it. There’s nothing I hate more than trying not to look surprised.”

  She shook her head. “Listen to me, Joe: in the first place, I would venture to guess that less than a quarter of the men who seek to enter my employ have ever worked professionally before. And those who have are nearly always as ignorant as you are of how things are done here. Tim won’t be surprised if you look a little…well, confused.”

  “If you say so,” I agreed dubiously.

  “And you’ll find that people don’t ask a lot of personal questions without encouragement.”

  “All right. Before he gets here, why don’t you tell me a little bit more about the specific problem you want me to deal with?”

  “No.”

  “How am I supposed to know what to keep my eyes out for?”

  “Joe,” she said patiently, “if you report to me at dawn that you are not prepared to go undercover as one of my artists, you are not ever going to know any more than you already do about my problem. If we proceed, you’ll be briefed. Just soak up the place.”

  That made sense. “Fair enough.”

  “I’ll see you at sunrise. Most people find Tim fairly non-threatening. If you—”

  The invisible Mary interrupted. (This place certainly seemed to have its share of people that weren’t there.) “Pris—”

  “Yes, Mary?”

  “Developing situation at the Bower; Class Three.”

  I was a little surprised. It didn’t make Priscilla look happier; just more alert. “On my way!”

  “Kate will meet you,” Mary said, but Priscilla was already gone. She moved like a panther chasing a cheetah, and nothing she did including closing the door behind her made the slightest sound. I felt almost sorry for the ass or asses who were making trouble in the Bower, whatever that was. (Bower-y bums?)

  Lady Sally watched her go expressionlessly. “As I was saying—” she began, but the door opened again and a tall slender guy came in.

  “I love it when she does that!” he said, eyes shining. “Like a cat on ice skates. She cornered in third gear, and I swear she wouldn’t have left a trail on rice paper.”

  He was in his late twenties, medium length black hair, green eyes, six two or three, a hundred and sixty pounds tops, very fit. He had a pleasant, youthful face. If you were his agent you’d have pitched him as the Hero’s Best Friend, the Eager Rookie. He wore dark slippers, dark slacks, and a green silk shirt. It was buttoned up to one short of his throat, but the sleeves were unbuttoned. That made me look closer. They weren’t bracelets. They were rope marks.

  Most people found him non-threatening…

  “Excuse me,” he said to me. “I could just watch Priscilla run like that for hours.”

  “Pleasure to meet a fellow sports fan,” I told him.

  He turned to Lady Sally. “You called, Your Ladyship?”

  “Tim, this is…I’m sorry, what is your name?”

  “Taggart,” I said. “Ken.”

  “Hi, Ken. Pleased to meet you too.” We shook hands. Nice grip.

  “Mr. Taggart might be joining the staff, Tim,” Lady Sally said. “I’d like you to take him on an inspection tour. Would you mind?”

  “I’d be happy to. My dance card is clear for the rest of the night.”

  “Any problems just now?” she asked obliquely.

  He grinned. “Naw. I’ve got her right where I want her. I’m eating out of the palm of her hand.”

  “How are things generally, dear?”

  “With me? Couldn’t be better,” he said, with obvious sincerity. “Why do you ask?”

  She smiled back at him. “You know perfectly well why.”

  “Yes, I do,” he said, and made a little bow. Not a Von Stroheim, a Japanese monk kind. “I love you too.”

  “Very satisfactorily. Now be off with you, children; Mother wants to brood. Tim, you go ahead, and Ken will catch right up with you, all right?”

  “I’ll be right with you,” I agreed.

  “Sure,” he said, and left.

  When the door had shut behind him I turned to Lady Sally. “You first,” I said.

  “I’d like you to leave all your weapons here on the desk, please,” she said with just enough emphasis that I knew she’d received a full report. “I don’t like people walking around my House armed. There’s a gun check at the front door; they’ll be waiting there for you with your overcoat when you leave.”

  I shrugged. “How about if I keep the blackjack? I might meet the Little Man Who Wasn’t There.”

  She frowned slightly. “True. All right.”

  I put both guns, the knucks and the switchblade on the desk.

  “Now you,” she said.

  “You don’t happen to have somebody…well, more like my kind of guy available to show me around? A little more…I don’t know…�
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  “Butch?” she suggested.

  “The guy’s got rope burns on his wrists, for Christ’s sake. I just don’t think I could be very simpatico with a guy like that.”

  The twinkle went out of her eye. I have to say I was sorry to see it go. “Mr. Quigley,” she said, all the tiddliness gone from her voice, “I begin to wonder if this is a waste of time. Yes, I have artists on staff who are ‘more your kind of guy’—and they would teach you very little. The most important lesson you have to learn about my House you will get through your head right now, or get the hell out: within these walls, you will be tolerant of anything you find strange. I don’t insist on sophistication, but I won’t accept rudeness. Think what you like about Tim’s tastes—or those of anyone here, artist or client—but if you don’t show perfect respect to each one of them, at all times, I’ll have Priscilla kiss you goodbye. That will be all for now.”

  I stopped at the door and turned back. This was where a wisecrack was supposed to go. “Uh…” I said.

  She looked up—and softened when she saw my face. “I beg your pardon, Joe. Look here: I probably have two dozen artists on staff whose sexual tastes and proclivities closely overlap your own. But not one of them suffers from the delusion that theirs is the Only Right Way To Be. That syndrome is the single most common sexual psychosis of this era, and it is my belief that it is virtually always the victim’s fault. But I could be wrong.”

  “I don’t know about that,” I said. I felt lousy.

  “You are not a bad man, Joe Quigley. For your place and time. Plop you down in the Renaissance just as you are now, you might be the Bertrand Russell of your day. Will you keep one thing in mind for me? No one is going to ask you to do anything you find repulsive—or even uninteresting, I promise.” Suddenly she smirked. “That is, they might very well ask—but they will take a no philosophically, and for keeps.”

  “I get you,” I said. “Thanks. Uh…one last thing. Just to keep things straight. Is an ‘inspection tour’ the same thing as being comped?”

  The twinkle was back. “Yes. But remember, you’ve only got ’til dawn.”

  “I’m a business-first kind of guy,” I assured her.

  “Just remember one other thing.”

  “Yeah?”

  “I know your real name too.”

  I blinked. “Yes, Ma’am.”

  3. The Spot…

  Behold how good and how pleasant it is for brethren to dwell together in unity…

  —Psalms cxxxiii:1

  “I’LL show you some of the Function Rooms first,” Tim said as we strolled down the hall.

  I was startled. “You hold conventions here? Speeches and panel discussions?”

  He chuckled. “Not that kind of function room. I mean each one has a specific function. You just left the Teenager’s Bedroom, male version. The female version’s pretty much the same, and it’s occupied at the moment anyway. Same for the Doctor’s Examining Room and the Executive’s Office. But here’s the Locker Room—”

  I understood him now. Fantasy scenario rooms. I’d heard of such things—but I’d never expected to see any as realistic as the one I’d just left…or the one we entered now.

  It even lacked a doorknob, like real locker rooms do. And when we got inside…well, it was funny: it smelled right, and it didn’t. I mean, there were enough authentic locker room smells—soap, water, terry cloth, basketballs, talcum—to make your subconscious accept it as a real locker room…but it didn’t have the sour sweat and old mildew smells that usually make you want to leave one as quickly as possible. The benches between the banks of lockers were a little wider than usual, and there were more mirrors than I was used to. There was a working shower room off to the left, with a non-skid floor that wasn’t completely dry yet.

  “Boys’ or girls’?” I asked Tim. Echo of locker room tile…

  “Depends on which bank of lockers you open. Each bank has a full complement of utensils, in the locker with the lock on it. As a matter of fact, you might end up spending time here, if you decide to join us: we haven’t got a good Gym Teacher at the moment.”

  For the sake of my cover, I tried to look as if I was giving it some thought. Beneath the surface, I gave it some thought.

  “If that suits you, of course,” he added. “That’s the very best thing about this place: no one ever has to take a gig or a client they don’t want.”

  Now that was something I’d never heard of before in a whorehouse. If it was true, then maybe it was conceivable that I might, for a few days, experimentally, in the line of duty…

  “But you’ve got the build for a gym teacher, and a macho face,” Tim finished.

  There’s a way he could have said that and pissed me off—not that I would have showed it. But he didn’t say it like that, like flirting; he said it like a casting director. I decided I had nothing against the guy.

  “Maybe,” I agreed. “That leads to a few fairly basic questions, though.”

  “Ask away, Ken. By the way, has anybody ever told you that you look a hell of a lot like—”

  “Yeah,” I interrupted flatly, and he had sense enough to drop it. “First of all, what’s the split here for beginners?”

  He looked startled. “We’re starting from square one, then. Brace yourself, Ken. There is no split. We’re on straight salary here.”

  I stared at him. “Straight salary?”

  “Weekly check, withholding taken out and everything. You get a nice chunk of circus money back from the IRS every spring.”

  I didn’t get it. “Then you don’t have any incentive to hurry up and get to the next customer.”

  “Exactly,” he said, nodding as if I’d said something intelligent. “Some of the artists who are already pros when they get here take a while to unlearn that habit. The Lady says good art shouldn’t be rushed.”

  Like I said, there’s nothing I hate as much as trying not to look surprised. But I was beginning to like this place. “What’s the starting salary?”

  “Oh, we all get the same. Only way to avoid squabbles.” He named a sum. “Plus room and board, of course.”

  Let’s just say it was significantly more than a PI makes, okay?

  “And tips?” I managed to say.

  He looked a little sheepish. “Well…tipping is discouraged. But it’s gently discouraged; if somebody just insists…” He grinned. “But bragging about it is strongly discouraged. Ballpark, I’d say you could take in anything from zilch to twenty-five percent of your base salary. I can tell you I never have any trouble keeping up my Christmas Club deposits during vacation.”

  “Vacation?”

  “Mandatory. You pick when, but it has to add up to three months a year. Paid.”

  I gave up: this was one of those conversations where even the hero can be forgiven for looking surprised. “Paid?”

  “Full salary. To discourage you from free-lancing somewhere else. The Lady says she doesn’t like to see a good artist burn out.”

  I was beginning to wonder if I really was in the wrong line of work. If he was telling the truth about never having to take a gig you didn’t want…Maybe, if I did a real good job on this caper, Lady Sally would consider letting me stay on staff.

  Of course, that raised the disturbing question, was I talented enough? Ten minutes earlier the question would never have occurred to me. Now, I wasn’t so sure. This was a class operation.

  I unbuttoned my coat and loosened my tie. “This place is something else,” I said, and meant it.

  “You said a mou—” Tim began, and checked himself. “Excuse me. You have to watch it around here or the double-entendres get a little thick on the ground. Uh…‘You said a great deal.’”

  I was starting to like him. So what if he was a little kinky? It was none of my business, was it? “Around here, that’s a double-entendre too, seems like.”

  He grinned. “You won’t get an argument out of me.”

  Idly, I opened a locker. Hanging from a hook was a m
iddy blouse and some girls’ underwear. Not Frederick’s of Hollywood stuff. I mean plain white cotton like real girls wear. Gym shorts and tee shirts were folded on the top shelf. I continued giving thought to being a Gym Teacher, and closed the locker. “The Lady must whack the johns pretty good to pay that well.”

  Tim’s grin flickered. “We don’t call them johns, Ken. We don’t think of them as johns—or janes. Or tricks. They’re clients.”

  “Sorry,” I said.

  “I heard the Lady say once that she’d call them ‘patrons and patronesses,’ if the word ‘patronizing’ didn’t have such unfortunate connotations these days. But that’s the relationship. We’re performance artists, and they’re patrons of the art. It just happens that about eighty percent of the time, the art involves orgasm for the client. And about the same for the artist.”

  My understanding was that prostitutes rarely really climax themselves. Female ones, anyway; I guess it’d have to be different for guys, wouldn’t it? And—“Not a hundred percent? For the clients, I mean.”

  “Well, a few don’t want orgasm. A small percentage of unfortunates aren’t capable. And some folks get to having such a good time downstairs, they forget.”

  I tried to imagine having such a good time at a whorehouse that I forgot to get laid. I was beginning to understand what Lady Sally meant about rupture. Just about everything I thought I knew about whorehouses was wrong. Well, here, anyway. “Downstairs?”

  “In the Parlor and the Lounges.”

  “Tell me about them.”

  “Ah, you must have come in the VIP entrance. Well, there are three others, two little Lounges and a big Parlor. It’s the Parlor that’s the most fun.”

  “Why three?”

  “Some people that come to a House, especially newcomers, feel a little easier if they know that all the people they’re going to meet of the opposite sex are artists. And some prefer to associate with their own sex. So we have a Male-Only and a Female-Only Lounge, with entrances on the east and west sides, respectively. Clients are asked to use discretion in cruising other clients there…but it isn’t prohibited. But generally, the best party is the Parlor. We’ll come to it, don’t worry.”