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A Nightingale Singsby Cornelius Michael Sullivan
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 ita Ann
Santomo sits on the black leather couch, legs tucked under her, an envelope
and letter in her lap. She holds a Benson and Hedges 100 menthol cigarette
between two fingers, below the knuckles to make sure ash or smoke won’t
damage her flesh-tone-lacquered fingernails. She picks up the envelope
and looks at the box in the upper right hand corner. “Motherfuckers don’t
even have to pay for stamps,” she says. Then she takes the letter. Her
hands are steady—her father used to say she had the hands of a surgeon—so
she isn’t worried the ash will crumble and fall on her new blue, silk
pants. The smoke drifts lazily upward in the still air of the living
room, spreading across the ceiling like ground fog, then over the window
giving Stone Mountain a hazy look, the look it shows during the magical
hour before sunrise. She tries to remember the last time she’s gotten
up before sunrise but can’t. She can’t even remember the last time she’s
risen before noon. She reads the letter for the third time, not a letter
actually but a notice ordering her appearance before Judge Richard Gandolpho,
Superior Court Judge, Erie County, Pennsylvania, in two weeks, on June
23, for a hearing on an “order to show cause why the order of restraint
should not be renewed for another year.” She laughs bitterly. The twenty-third
is her birthday. Thirty-three years, she mumbles. Or is it thirty-four?
She isn’t sure. She hasn’t paid attention to her birthday in a long time.
She reaches in her alligator bag for her wallet, thinking she can check
her driver’s license. But then she remembers that, according to the license,
she’s twenty-six.
She flicks the ash into the crystal ashtray she bought at Tiffany’s and opens the Daytimer that she keeps on the granite coffee table. Nails at two o’clock, registration at the community college at three, probation officer at four, and…”damn,” on the phones from six to twelve. It’s Wednesday, and fat George is off tonight, for no good reason, because he has no clue how to use his spare time, always spending it with the drivers at the sports bar on Front Street near Atlanta Stadium, two blocks from the agency. Wedged between the pages of the Daytimer are the tickets to see Mel Torme. They call him the “velvet fog.” Rita has all his CDs but hearing him live is better. The one time she saw him, in Erie, when she was seventeen, the night before…his voice carried her to a place she had never found again. When she got to the agency, she would tell George to call Harry, the owner. He would have to get someone else to take the calls tonight. Besides, Harry should realize it’s a waste for her to be on the phones. She could knock off three or four dates before going to the concert at eleven, probably yielding Harry as much as he'd make the whole night from the other girls. She knows she is the best looking woman in his stable. Yes, stable. She could be a horse, though a good-looking one, with smooth skin men like to caress. Why, her last three dates asked her to take a bath so they could sponge her body, the way a groom washes a prize thoroughbred. She takes the letter and envelope and crumbles them into a ball. She doesn’t give a shit about the “order to show cause.” Maybe, she won’t even shown up at the hearing. Why should she have to show cause to anyone? Fuck the judge and fuck the restraining order. Before she leaves for the day, she stops in the bathroom. She dabs
her eyes and cheeks with tulip-scented tissue. She plucks an errant
hair from her eyebrow. She looks at her reflection. Her face is perfect
in every way: smooth forehead, eyes and lips that sweetly beckon, framed
by lustrous brunette hair falling gracefully to her shoulders. She
smiles, a special smile, the one she shows the world, copied from the
smile of a model on the cover of Vogue the month she got into the business;
a smile of wry detachment and intelligence, a smile that holds out promise
for the successful suitor, the empty promise, Rita knows, of fool’s
gold.
Clarissa is waiting for her. She is chewing gum, energetically working her jaw, alternating from one side to the other. The sight makes Rita laugh. If Clarissa is serious about what she said the other day, she can use her mandibular strength to great advantage. From her bag, Rita takes out Word Power Made Easy. She hates using new words without checking, even if she’s using them only in her mind. There it is! Mandible. She had even successfully used the adjective form. Proud to use a word she learned a month ago and that it popped into her head without conscious effort, she puts the book away and continues on to Clarissa, giving her hips an added twist for the benefit of three matrons in curlers. “You get more stunning every time I see you,” Clarissa says, as she removes the gum from her mouth and sticks it on the side of a water bowl. “A chimera, my dear.” Clarissa’s bright smile curls into a pout. “There you go again, Rita, shaming me with the big words.” “An illusion. I’m an illusion.” “Those boobs are no illusion, honey.” “Maybe not,” Rita says, suddenly having an urge to suck in her chest to see if she can make them disappear. “But they’re not real either.” Clarissa picks up the water bowl and fills it from the faucet behind her. Rita puts her left hand in the bowl, not bothering to remove the fake diamond wedding band. “I was thinking of getting it done,” Clarissa says, “but I don’t want to get hard. Mine are small but soft, if you know what I mean.” “I had mine done with saline injected with a needle through the navel. No scars. And soft.” “Ugh. I’ll have it done the old-fashioned way. Maybe big and hard ain’t so bad. It’s size that matters, right?” “You’re incorrigible.” “There you go again, honey, using them big words on me.” Rita isn’t sure Harry will take Clarissa on. It isn’t just the street talk; she is too upfront about everything, a turnoff for most dates. When it comes to sex, men aren’t direct and they don’t like women who are. But Harry had developed an excellent clientele: lawyers, doctors, accountants, entrepreneurs, no lowlifes, few salesmen, none of those middle-eastern guys with the weird cologne and annoying accents, and no athletes, thank God, except for the Atlanta Hawks bench warmer whose “thing” was so big only Matilda, aka, Fantasy, would do him, and she would do anyone. All the more remarkable because Harry never bothered with advertising, relying on a small ad in the Yellow Pages: “The Woman of Your Dreams…companionship for the discriminating…24 hours…major credit cards accepted.” Harry also said business was about word of mouth and repeats. He gave a girl three months and then counted the number of repeat requests. He applied some secret formula and decided whether the girl could continue. “Harry wants to see you tomorrow at eleven,” Rita says. “Cool.” Rita switches hands and extracts a cigarette from the pack in her bag. Clarissa lights it from a book of matches. “Don’t you own a lighter?” “No.” “I’ll let you use mine. It’s a Lady Dunhill.” “What do I need a lighter for?” “Harry likes women with lighters. For that matter, so do most men.” “You’re intelligent, Rita. You really are. I admire you. Going to school and all.” “It’s a community college.” “College is college.” Rita stares at Clarissa. She is so fetching, so innocent, so…what’s the word…she learned it last night, while she was lying in bed, using her breasts as a book stand. Oh, right. Insouciant. “I have a question.” “Sure,” Clarissa says. ‘Hope I know the answer.” “Why do you want to be an escort? You have a nice job, a straight job. Why bother with the bullshit?” “It’s better than this bullshit. I got this dress, tried it on three months ago, shows off my ass just fine. Bought it at Filene’s basement, on fuckin’ layaway. Picked it up yesterday. Three months it took me to pay for the thing and come to find out one of the straps has a broken buckle. I sit in my dumb ass fleabag with a view of Buckhead shopping center, which I can’t set my fanny in, ‘cause I can’t even afford the fake pearls I wanted to get to go with the dress. Last week, I was so fuckin’ lame from…I don’t know, I was just so p-oed I decided to show off my ass at that whatchamajigger hotel up the road…” “The Ritz Carlton.” “Yeah, I felt like doin’ the Ritz at the Ritz. So, anyhow, I drive up there and the fuckin’ black ass doorman takes one look at my car and says I got to park it myself. Wasn’t no good for the goddamn valet. Fuckin guy don’t even know he’s still a goddamn slave. Then I take myself into the bar, give the bartender a twenty dollar tip so he’ll be nice to me, and next thing I know, the security guy has got me by the arm, draggin’ me outside.” Rita laughs. “Don’t you know, Clarissa, when you gave the bartender twenty bucks you were telling him you were a hooker. The Ritz is off limits to the business, has been for the last six months.” “Well, shit, how was I supposed to…” Clarissa’s face brightens. “See, then, the asshole bartender was sendin’ me a message. I’m born to hook.” Rita suddenly feels responsible for Clarissa, thinking she’s sorry she ever mentioned Harry and that he was in the market for black women. “Maybe you should think it over.” “What’s there to think about. I need to improve myself, like you done.” “I never heard anyone say what I do is self-improvement.” “Yeah, well it is, that’s for damn certain.” “I wish I never started.” “Yeah, well, you’re still doin’ it. You must like it. One of these days, you’ll meet some dude and you’ll be set. Shit, I gotta get unstuck. I can’t go to no college like you. My upstairs is unoccupied and my downstairs ain’t being attended to.” “Wait a second, Clarissa, you don’t think—” “I figure a man’s gotta have sex. Good sex. And most men don’t get good sex, because most of us girls won’t give out good sex. But I’m good at sex. Shit, it’s the one thing I’m good at, that and doin’ nails, and doin’ nails don’t get me shit. Maybe, just maybe, I’ll find me a rich dude, white, yellow, black, makes no difference to me, give him a taste of my…you know, make him want it permanent.” “You’re dreaming, Clarissa. The dates don’t want—” Rita stops. Clarissa isn’t listening. Her eyes are half closed. “What do you think my stage name should be?” Clarissa asks. “Use your first name if you want.” “Do you use yours?” “Rita’s not a very exciting name.” ‘What do you use?” “I change it every month. It drives my regulars nuts. Harry too.” “Give me some examples.” “Let’s see. Right now, I’m Angel. Last month I was Zelda, the month before I was Yvonne. I go through the alphabet, A to Z¸ then start over. When I’m on A, I feel like I suddenly got younger.” “You ain’t old.” “I’m getting there. In this business anyway. Harry is threatening to hold me out as ‘mature.’” “What will he call me?” “Virginal.” Clarissa stifles a screech. “Honey, I ain’t been a virgin since I was twelve.” “It’s not what you’ve done but how you look that counts.” “I got the name. Vanity. She’s a big porn star, you know. See, I got a lot of ideas. Just because I’m sittin’ here and you’re sittin’ there don’t mean I got no ideas. After I meet the right, what you call it, date, I set myself up with him for a while, get myself a big apartment, maybe take a trip to LA, audition—” “I can’t believe this. You haven’t started and you already got the disease.” “Whatcha mean by that?” What do I mean? Rita wonders. She feels a pressure on her chest, like someone is sitting on it, and she has to throw him off. “I mean, Clarissa,” she says slowly, “you have hooker syndrome. I mean…” Clarissa’s big, black eyes are now open wide, and Rita sees the anger swimming around the pupils. “Yeah, I’m listenin’ to you. Say what you gotta say.” “You start out working, the money’s great. Half the time you don’t even have to fuck the date. And if you know what you’re doing, you’ll make him come before he can stick it in you. Easy. You take the money, buy a car, go shopping, travel to places you always wanted to see. You get a big apartment. And then the time goes. You get a little older. Then a little older again. Now you’re thinking, I can’t quit. What would I do? I know what I’ll do. I’ll get a date to marry me. I’ll retire. And maybe you do find a date dumb enough to marry you. But eventually he wises up. Shit, he says, I can get the sex anywhere. What do I need her for? End of marriage, end of you. You go back to selling yourself, that is, if you had sense enough not to get yourself knocked up in the meantime, or even if you did, you either give the baby to him or he takes it from you because what kind of mother are you? You keep hooking and you keep dreaming, too stupid to realize your dream is a nightmare.” “Are you finished?” Clarissa says, eyes fixed, a jagged vein in her knotted forehead pulsating. “Yes.” “You know what I think?” “What?” “I think you don’t want no competition.” “Come off it, Clarissa.” “Yeah, well, you have no cause to speak to me that way. You’re supposed to be my friend.” “Oh, right, I forgot to say, hookers have no friends.” Rita’s hand has been in the water throughout. “God damnit!” “What now?” Rita holds her hand in the air. “My fingers are wrinkled.” “Calm yourself. That ain’t nothin.’ ” Rita takes a cloth and wipes her hand. She looks at the clock on the wall. “I have to leave.” “Don’t you want me to do your nails?” Clarissa’s anger has faded, replaced by a forlorn, wounded look. “No time now. I’ll come in tomorrow.” “Won’t be here tomorrow. Won’t be back ever.” “Right. Your new life.” “Damn right.”
The customer was on his way out the door, dragging a lawnmower behind him. Daddy would be in a good mood. He was always in a good mood after a big sale. “Ready for lunch?” he said, kissing her on the forehead. “Ready.” “How about burgers at Johnny’s?” Johnny’s was Daddy’s favorite place in town. Rita hated it. It was dirty and old. Noisy too, with guys jabbering about sports and women, drinking beer and making cutesy comments to her. And the owner, Johnny, scared her. He was nice enough, but he wasn’t nice in a nice way, always telling her how pretty she was, she was turning into a woman, someday when she grew up… A truck suddenly crosses into Rita’s lane, too close for her to stop
in time. She swerves to the right, onto the shoulder, the bouncing
back to the highway. “Motherfucker,” she says, as Daddy’s face and
the hardware store dissolve, leaving in its stead Johnny’s face, worn
and leathery, the deep-set eyes, black holes where demons are born.
At the sight of her, Mr. Hanson stops laughing, says a quick “love you” into the phone, and hangs up. Whenever a man stops what he’s doing when he sees her, Rita knows she’ll get what she wants. From where he is sitting, he has to look up to see her face and he isn’t looking up. “What can I do for you?” Mr. Hanson says softly, though it’s quite apparent to Rita he is really asking “What can you do for me?” Rita sits and opens her bag. “I’m Rita Ann Santomo, a student here. Do you mind if I smoke?” “This is a no-smoking facility,” he says apologetically. “I know, Mr. Hanson, but do you mind if I smoke?” He’s looking past Rita and she turns to see. The biddy is glowering. “Are you having a problem with registration?” he asked. “I tried to register for History of Popular Music, but the class is full.” “We establish maximums for our seminars. Now, if you’re interested in music, we offer—” “I’m interested in History of Popular Music.” “I see.” Mr. Hanson could be just another date. Though he is no longer staring at her chest, he isn’t looking at her face either. Dates are like that. Few can look you in the face. A date will look at your chest, your legs, your ass, at his feet, even at his own member, anywhere but your face. Only when…but Rita thinks it’s laughable. Why would anyone want to look at someone whose mouth is full? “One more student can’t possibly make a difference,” she says. His narrow eyes are focused on his folded hands, tightly clutched. He’s nervous, Rita knows. It always shows in the hands. “If we make an exception for you, Mrs…” “Miss.” He looks at the diamond wedding band, confusion spreading across his face. She likes when men are confused. “It’s my mother’s wedding band.” “Oh, I’m so sorry.” “Don’t be.” Rita is having fun. “She walked out on my father. At least she left the ring behind.” “Yes…that’s good…but I do think…I think that if we make an exception for you, uh…” “Rita.” “Yes, Rita…if we make an exception for you we will have to make an exception for others.” “Not necessarily. Registration closes in an hour. If no one else tries to register let me in. I’ll be the only exception.” “We have other seminars.” Rita moves her chair closer to Mr. Hanson’s desk. She wants him to smell her perfume. She blinks and her eyes instantly become moist. “Please, Mr. Hanson.” Mr. Hanson slowly raises his head. “You’re an attractive woman,” he says wistfully. “Thank you,” she says and rises. “Where are you going?” “To tell Miss Jameson that you are permitting me to register for the class.” “I didn’t say—“ “Oh, but you did, Mr. Hanson.” He shrugs, defeated. Rita opens her handbag and takes out the cigarettes and lighter. “Excuse me,” he says. “As I mentioned—” “Don’t worry. I’m going outside to smoke.” Rita is standing a few yards away from the door when Mr. Hanson appears. He looks the opposite way, grimaces in disappointment, and then turns to go back inside. He sees her. He smiles and approaches, hands in his pockets, like he has nothing special in mind. Men are so obvious, Rita thinks. “Hi, again,” he says. “Hi.” “You’re quite a determined young woman.” “I hope it’s not offensive.” “I like determined women.” ‘Thank you. And I like determined men, men who say what they want.” Mr. Hanson shuffles his feet. “Precisely.” Rita takes a lengthy puff of her cigarette, expanding her chest as she takes the smoke deep into her lungs. “Can you spare a cigarette?” “You smoke?” Rita exhales, directing the smoke toward his face. “On occasion.” “Occasions like this one?” “Social occasions.” Rita hands him a cigarette. “Menthol.” “Beggars can’t be choosers.” Rita smiles, her sincere smile, not a Vogue smile, more of a Penthouse centerfold smile. “You needn’t beg, Mr. Hanson.” He has his offer ready. Tomorrow afternoon, a one hour session. He
will rent a room at the Westin. What the hell, Rita decides. She’ll
give him the hour for nothing. It’s the least she can do for the dean
of her school.
One thing Rita learned as she got older was that it was harder to be honest with herself. There was too much in life to deny, too much she wished never happened, too much she couldn’t see the why of. So she convinced herself she loved Johnny, twenty-five years older than she, a boozer, a man with a violent temper, a charmer, a surprisingly good and gentle lover—as if that should mean a Goddamn thing—giving her a roof over her head after Daddy died, when the insurance money went to her mother, wherever she was. Sometimes Rita thought Johnny started to beat on her to impress his Mob friends, surly, wizened bookies and drug peddlers, who gathered in the back room of the bar and did the books, writing everything in pencil so they could erase at will, like her boss, the accountant, in downtown Erie, wrote and erased, wrote and erased, until he or his client was satisfied with the balance sheet. Maybe Johnny started beating on her because he thought she was fooling around on him. She wasn’t, but you couldn’t tell Johnny anything, and you certainly couldn’t tell him that a woman could ever resist a man’s advances. She lost her job at the accounting office when Johnny and his boss, Vito, cornered the accountant in the parking garage and smashed his face against the hood of his car. And she left without Lisa, telling herself she would return to get her when she was settled. She did return to get her, from Washington D.C. six months later, after the abortion, after the law student at Georgetown refused to marry her. Johnny knew everything. He had a complete report on her from a former vice-cop turned private investigator. She was an unfit mother, the court petition said. She abandoned her husband and child. She had lived with a man in D.C. She had an abortion. She worked as a part time maid at the Shoreham Hotel and couldn’t support herself, let alone herself and a child. She stood in the courtroom, tall and beautiful, but her beauty angered the judge. How can you hate beauty? She wanted to cry out. Then the judge announced his decision, saying “Your looks don’t automatically make you a good mother.” Johnny let Lisa read her letters, for a while anyway. She had Johnny
fooled, for a while anyway. She told him she had gotten a secretarial
job at an advertising agency when she moved to Atlanta. She told him
she quit drinking. He even let her take Lisa to Europe two years ago,
to Paris, then to Florence, Venice and around the rest of Italy, including
Verona, where Daddy said her great-grandparents were born. But the
postcards she sent from expensive hotels got Johnny suspicious. He
sent the investigator to the agency, paid his way and gave him spending
money. Then the petition for the restraining order came in the mail,
with the investigator’s affidavit. Naturally, it didn’t say what Rita
had done with him in the room at the Hyatt, on the king-bed, then again
while she was bent over the sink in the bathroom, and once more in the
morning when he flattened her against the desk and the phone went flying
across the room, breaking into three pieces.
If she goes independent, she’ll have to advertise. She’ll have to buy a computer. Arnold told her the Internet is the place to solicit dates. She should set up a web site and put sexy photos on it, being careful to say that the date isn’t paying for sex, just company, but that sex, if it happens, is between consenting adults. A crock of shit, Arnold said, but everyone will know what the ad is really about. She’ll get more calls than she can handle. And if she’s willing to travel, she can make even more. It sounded good, but Rita isn’t sure she wants to do it. She cherishes her anonymity, her change of identity every month, the protection fat George provides if a date is too weird or refuses to pay, posting bail if she screwed up and was out with a cop, which is what happened at the Ramada Inn. Big mistake, going to the Ramada Inn. Not that it was so bad to be arrested. It goes with the terrain. (She likes that word much better than territory.) But he didn’t have to fuck her first, while his buddies listened from the next room, getting themselves off to her moaning and groaning, too stupid to realize she was faking. A thousand dollar fine and one year’s probation for a first offense. And a lecture from the judge. “Your looks don’t entitle you to flaunt the rules,” the judge said, sounding like the judge in Erie. “Ask Mr. Hanson,” she thinks and chuckles, as she puts fifty cents in the meter outside the county jail, where Jim Goldberg, her nice Jewish probation officer, has his office. “I love you, Rita,” Jim says. “You’re my only criminal who comes on time.” “I committed a victimless crime.” “I also love you because you’re smart.” “My professor in Criminal Justice says probation officers are dying out.” “I admit it. I’m a dinosaur. But what other job can a sociology major get?” “Pimp?” Rita enjoys her time with Jim. He said he was forty, but he looks twenty, curly blonde hair atop a baby face you want to kiss, eyes green and intelligent, thin and muscular but not steroid muscles like those oafish freaks at the gym. Seeing Jim is like having a therapist. She considered going to a therapist but the health insurance Harry got for her through his limousine company doesn’t cover treatment for the ordinary woes of life, unless you’re on medication or hospitalized. She doesn’t take drugs, including aspirin. Sometimes, Rita thinks she’s a therapist. The dates tell her everything, more than they would ever tell a real therapist. They often preface their confessions with, “Now, listen, you’ve got to promise me you won’t tell anyone, I mean, I haven’t even told my shrink…” But then, often as not, they tell her something completely mundane (the first word she learned from her book) like “I wish I could tell my wife I hate the way she makes scrambled eggs,” or “I have no desire to fuck her in the ass, but I’d love to watch somebody else do it,” the latter usually being the date’s way of asking her if he can fuck her in the ass. Some girls refuse to kiss a date, some won’t hold a date’s hand, and some won’t let the date go down on them. Some will do all that and more; a few won’t even require the date to use a condom. Rita always insists on a condom, even for oral sex. And anal sex is out, no exceptions. She hadn’t done it with Johnny, and she hadn’t done it with the law student in D.C. Maybe she’d never do it. Or maybe she would, someday, with someone. “Have you decided to quit yet?” Jim asks. “I told you, Jimmy. I did quit. The cop who busted me was my last call.” “You’re talking to me, not one of your clients.” “Really, I quit. I’m living off my savings. My car’s dented and I can’t afford to fix it. I can’t take a vacation because the judge won’t let me leave the state.” Rita thinks it might help to cry, so she does. “Can you cry whenever you want?” “No, I can cry only about things not worth crying about.” “I feel like crying whenever I see you. I hate to see you waste your life.” “Don’t lecture me.” “I can’t help it. I’m Jewish.” “See what I mean. You can’t help being who you are.” “Are you taking a course in philosophy?” “No, but maybe I should.” “I took philosophy.” “How was it?’ “I don’t know. Didn’t understand a word of what I read.” Rita opens her bag and shows him the book. “When I finish this, there won’t be a word I don’t understand.” Jim takes the book and leafs through it. “Here’s one for you. Courtesan.” “What’s the definition?” “Rita Ann Santomo.” “Hooker, you mean.” Embarrassed, Jim puts down the book. “I have to write a report. What you’re doing is asking me to lie.” “I would quit if…” “What?” “Nothing.” “Tell me.” As she returns the book to her bag, she notices the concert tickets. “Hey,” she says, pulling them out, “two tickets for Mel Torme tonight. When I bought them, I had no idea who I would invite. I thought between then and now the right person would come along, I mean, the right person to go to a concert with. So—” “Rita…” “Don’t you like Mel Torme? He’s great. I’m praying he’ll sing my favorite song. If he doesn’t I plan to stand and offer to do anything—” “Rita.” “What?” “You know I can’t.” “Why? You’re not married.” “No, I’m not married.” “You don’t have a girlfriend. Or do you? Because if you did—” “I don’t have a girlfriend.” “You’re embarrassed to be seen with me.” “Rita!” “You’ll get jealous when everyone stares at my tits.” “Rita!” “Come on, Jim. Go with me. I never ask a man for a goddamn thing and I’m asking you.” “Rita, I can’t.” “Why not?” “It’s against the rules.” For Rita, the world stops. The clock on the wall stops ticking, her breathing stops, the air stops moving, and the dull gushing sound of the air conditioning is silent. She stands and puts the tickets back in the bag. “I’m sorry,” Jim says. “Don’t be.” Rita is out the door before Jim can say see you next week.
“You still look pregnant, George,” she says. “Hey, look at this,” George says, pointing at a photo in the magazine. “This girl used to work for us.” “Let me see,” Harry says and grabs the magazine. “Oh, Chantel or whatever the fuck her name was. Don’t you remember? I fired her because she was a swinger. She wanted to bring her husband along on calls.” “The one with the saggy jugs,” George says. “Speaking of jugs,” Harry says, turning to Rita, “your jugs are too valuable to spend the night pressed against a desk with that precious mouth talking instead of—” “Get to the point, Harry,” Rita says. “You don’t have to do the phones.” Harry jumps off the desk. Dressed in a black Armani suit, white shirt buttoned at the neck, diamond cufflinks, he looks more like a movie producer than a glorified pimp. Rita once got $5000 over two nights out of a producer from Los Angeles, who was in Atlanta shooting a TV movie. He was her first date at the agency after she graduated from trolling the circuit through the downtown hotels, an hour each at the Westin, Hyatt, Sheraton, and Holiday Inn, then starting over again and hoping the original guys had left so she could draw a bead on somebody new, eventually meeting Harry and fucking him for nothing, giving it to him extra special, guaranteeing that he’d hire her. The producer wanted her to come out to Los Angeles where he could hook her up with someone named Madame Alex, said she would triple what she was making in Atlanta. But the idea made her nervous. It was before she had the breast job. She didn’t want to compete with those LA women, the TV and movie wannabes that remade their entire bodies, not just the breasts but also the nose, the mouth, the chin, the neck, the stomach, the hips, the thighs. She heard about one girl who had her feet made smaller—was that possible?—because she had fucked a producer and got a part in a soft-core sex movie about a bunch of Playboy models stranded on a desert island. The producer said he was worried how she would look prancing around in the sand—as if the audience was going to watch her feet! She also couldn’t stomach the thought of working for a woman. She feels more comfortable around men. She understands men. “What do you have planned for me?” “New client. Big bucks. Said he wants my best girl for the night. No, said he wants my best ‘mature’ girl.” “Thanks for nothing.” “Nothing wrong with mature, Rita.” “My name is Angel.” “Sorry.” “I can’t spend the night. I have plans at eleven.” “What plans?” “None of your business.” “If it’s business, it’s my business.” “It’s personal.” “Now, don’t go getting a boyfriend on me. You’re too valuable to be giving away what you got for nothing.” “I’m going to see Mel Torme.” Harry guffaws. “Mel Torme! I thought he was dead. Christ, I saw him in Dayton, Ohio before anyone ever heard of him.’ “I’ve been to Dayton,” George says. “Did a stint at Wright Patterson.” Harry is nonplussed. “You were in the airforce?” “Yeah, I was.” “You’re bullshitting me.” “I knew that’s what you’d think,” George says, snatching back the magazine and burying his face in it. “Listen, Harry,” Rita says. “I’m not going to miss this concert. I bought the tickets—” “Tickets? Who you going with?” “No one.” Harry smirks. “I’ll go with you. Then we’ll…for old time’s sake.” “Don’t go there, Harry.” “Why not? You fucked me to get the job. You can fuck me to keep it.” George looks up from his magazine. He’s grinning. “Hey, what about me?” “What about you? You want to fuck one my girls, you have to pay for it?” “I don’t make enough.” Rita is fed up. “I’m sick of this folderol.” She smiles, beaming with pride. “Folderol?” Harry says, his mouth wide open. “Folderol? What’s with the fancy word?” “None of your business.” “Like I said, your business is my business.” “I’ll see the date until 10:30. Take it or leave it.” “Because you’ve been here for five years doesn’t give you—” “Nobody fucks around with my life, not even you, Harry.” “When you’re Angel, or Blondie, or Cora, or Debbie, or whatever the fuck name you pick, you ain’t got a life. And using Ivy League words won’t get you anywhere either. If you want a life, get the fuck out and be Rita.” Rita blinks and the tears flow. For a moment, she thinks she’s in a movie. “I can be whoever I want to be, asshole, and don’t you forget it.” She heads for the door, stopped by Harry’s hand on her neck, squeezing. “Come on, babe, what’s the matter. You on the rag?” She throws his hand off her. “Don’t touch me. Don’t ever touch me.” “For shit’s sake, Rita. What the fuck is it?” “Tell the asshole he’s got to 10:30 to fuck my brains out. Then I’m going to see Mel Torme. Alone!” “Whatever Angel wants, Angel gets,” Harry says, chewing on his cigar.
“I don’t think we have time for what I had in mind,” he says, as they sit side by side on the couch of his suite at the Hyatt. “What did you have in mind?” Rita asks, giving her tone just the right touch of sensuality. “Romance.” “Three hours is more than enough time for romance.” “I wanted to book you for the night because I thought we’d have a few drinks, go to dinner at this lovely Italian restaurant I know, maybe stop by a jazz club afterwards, a date, a real date.” “Roll play, you mean,” Rita says, immediately regretting the words. “If you want to call it that.” “I’m sorry,” Rita says. “I should have kept my mouth shut.” “Not a problem. You’re a person. Say whatever you like. I do.” He rises and walks over to the minibar. Rita watches his wide back and prominent ass. She likes what she sees. Daddy had a cute ass. “Drink?” he says. “Are we staying here or going out?” He turns and smiles. He’s in his fifties, maybe even sixty, she isn’t sure. His bright eyes look young, and his head is full of wavy white hair that rearranges itself whenever he moves his head. It’s gloriously unmanageable; maybe he is too. She would like it if he is. “You tell me,” he says. “Would you like to go out?” “It’s your three hours.” “I can only have a good time if you do.” Rita laughs. “What a line.” “Your other customers say the same thing?” “Dates you mean.” “Dates. See, you think of them as dates.” “No. It’s what we call them. Used to call them Johns. Date sounds better.” “So…” “So, you’re the first date to tell me I should have a good time.” “Good. I get a Brownie point.” “No, something else.” She goes to him and kisses him. Unaccountably, her lips quiver. She feels something. “Thank you,” he says and kisses her back. His lips quiver too. “I’m nervous,” he says. “I am too.” “You?” “Why not me?” “Yes, why not you?” They go out, but go nowhere in particular. He wants to walk. They stroll along Peachtree, stopping to look in store windows, through the Underground where he buys her an ice cream cone, chocolate-chocolate chip. She hasn’t had a real ice cream cone since…damn…I want to cry, she screams inside her head. “What’s the matter?” he asks. “Nothing, I was thinking…” “What?” “My Daddy used to take me for ice cream cones, every Saturday morning.” “Where was that?” “Erie, Pennsylvania.” “Been there.” “Stay long.” “One day. Took a deposition.” “You’re a lawyer.” “Couldn’t you tell?” “I can’t tell much of anything anymore.” They sit on a bench in front of a movie theater. “I love the movies,” he says. “Me too. I used to go every week when I was little.” “With Daddy?” “Yes.” “And now?” “No more Daddy, no more movies.” “You can go to the movies by yourself. I do all the time.” “My nights are occupied with other things.” “Dates don’t like to go to the movies?” Rita feels like giggling. Goodness. Goodness? What happened to ‘motherfucker’? He’s making her feel like a schoolgirl. “They don’t like going to the movies with me,” she says through her giggles. “Better things to do, right?” Now she’s laughing so hard her stomach hurts. She bends over, doubled up like you’re supposed to when you’re on an airplane about to crash. She straightens and sighs. “For what I charge, a movie is a bad idea, don’t you think.” “I don’t know. I once dated a girl who loved to neck at the movies. No. Better. She loved giving me blow jobs in the movies.” “Hey, maybe that’s how I can get a date to take me to the movies.” Now they’re laughing together. Rita’s ice cream is running down the
cone and dripping on her slacks. Fuck the slacks. He leans over and
licks the ice cream from her chin. Then he kisses her, a sweet, soft
kiss, yet passionate, the kind of kiss you get at your wedding, though
she never got that kind of kiss at her wedding, or ever, not from Johnny
anyway. She likes being kissed by this man, even more than everything
else she likes about him.
“I don’t know why I stay here. Whenever I get off the elevator, if I’m on a high floor, I feel like jumping.” “Your room is on a high floor. Let’s go up there. But I have a better idea than jumping.” Rita thinks she sees a tear in his eye, but she could be imagining it. He says, “I think we should say goodbye here.” “We have another hour.” “Not enough time for what I had in mind.” “I’ll stay longer.” “You said you had another engagement.” “I have tickets to see Mel Torme. No one to go with, though.” “Are you inviting me?” “I guess I am.” “I’m sorry.” Rita’s heart is pounding. He must see it, because he puts his hand on her chest. . “Please don’t be offended,” he says. “I wouldn’t feel right about it. I’m married.” She takes his hand off her chest. “Why is it all right to call the agency for a fuck, but not all right to see Mel Torme?” “I didn’t mean it that way.” “Words mean what they say.” “I mean they are two different worlds.” Her heart won’t stop pounding. She is short of breath. Maybe I’m having a heart attack, her inner voice says, like Daddy, the morning after the concert, lying on the floor, gasping, then not gasping, then nothing. “Then forget the concert,” she says. “Let’s go upstairs and fuck. We’ll stay in the world that’s made for fucking.” She swallows; the pounding stops and her breath returns. “What’s your name?” he asks. “I told you. Angel.” “Your real name.” “It’s a terrible name.” “I’ll be the judge.” “No you won’t.” “Tell me.” ‘Why do you want to know?” “You know my name. I should know yours. It’s only fair.” “There’s nothing fair about any of this.” “Tell me your name.” “Rita Ann Riccardi,” she blurts out, realizing she has said her maiden name, her Daddy’s name. He puts his arms around her and hugs her. She feels like a little
girl, safe in Daddy’s arms.
Her heart sinks when the concert ends. Mel did not sing her song. She puts her head in her lap and cries. She cries because she wants to. She cries like she cried when the ambulance came and took Daddy away. She cries for Lisa. She cries for herself. The crowd is standing, cheering and applauding. Mel reappears. Everyone sits and Rita slowly lifts her head. It is so quiet she thinks everyone must hear her sniffling. Not bothering to wipe her eyes, she stands. Mel’s back is turned away from the audience. He’s talking to the bandleader, who sees Rita standing, the empty seat next to her, the only empty seat in the auditorium. He whispers to Mel, who then wheels around and meets her look. “What can I do for you, young lady?” he asks, saying the words like he sings, a velvet fog. Rita swallows. “I have a song, Mr. Torme, a favorite song. Perhaps you would sing it for me.” “I know what it is,” he said. “Really?” “A woman as lovely as you…it can only be one song.” “Thank you.” Mel laughs and points to the empty seat. “Should we wait?” Rita looks at the seat. “Oh, no, that’s all right. I mean…” Instinctively, she reaches for her bag. She doesn’t know what to say. She needs her book. “Have you lost something?” Mel asks, a comforting warmth spreading through the air to her. “No,” Rita says, her mouth forming a smile from the distant past, a smile that has never appeared on the cover of a magazine. “I’ve found it.” Rita sits and Mel lifts his microphone. He begins to sing.
She know that the next morning she will wake an hour before sunrise, the magical hour, when Stone Mountain will be standing in the haze, but not the haze of her cigarette smoke sliding across the window. She will put on the jogging pants she has never worn and take a walk, maybe as far as the base of the mountain, stop in somewhere for juice and coffee, see what people are like in the morning before they go to work. Then she’ll walk home and call Mr. Hanson, tell him or the biddy, whoever answers the phone, that she won’t be meeting him at the Westin. The Lexus dealer will be next, to find out what they'll give her for the car. After that, the landlord, listing the apartment for rent. The most important call will be last. Jim will understand; he’ll file his report and go to court to obtain the judge’s approval. One suitcase will handle what she needs. Whoever rents the apartment can have her work clothes, including the gown Arnold likes her to wear. On the way to the airport, she’ll ask the cab driver to stop at the bank. The cashier’s check for the balance of her account will be made out to Rita Ann Riccardi, after they ask for proof that’s who she is and she shows them her social security card, which is under Lisa’s picture in her old wallet, the one she hasn’t used since she bought the alligator bag. She orders another glass of wine and lights another cigarette. She holds the cigarette at the ends of her fingers. Her hands are shaking. Not the hands of a surgeon. An ember falls to her pants. She watches it burn a hole. She feels the sting on her leg. “Long time, no see,” the bartender says. “I don’t live in Atlanta anymore.” “Yeah? I didn’t know. Where do you live?” “Erie. Erie, Pennsylvania.” “Long way from here.” “Yes, it is.” The bartender walks to the other end of the bar and looks through the day’s receipts. Rita starts to sing, softly at first, then a little louder. The bartender turns around and puts his elbows on the bar, his hands under his chin. She sings louder. A maintenance man in the lobby stops sweeping and leans on the broom, watching. She sings until she finishes the song. “What were you singing?” the bartender asks, hands still under his chin. “A Nightingale Sings in Berkeley Square. It’s a Mel Torme standard. He sang it for me tonight.” “Nice.” “Thank you, but Mel sings it much better.” “I kind of doubt it.” “Oh, but there’s no question—” “Hasn’t anyone ever told you?” “Told me?” “You sing like a nightingale.” |
ands like
a surgeon. Rita, twelve, was sitting on a stool in the back of the
hardware store while Daddy was finishing with a customer. Hanging out
at the hardware store was boring, but she liked being near Daddy. He
was handsome, oh, so handsome: tall, like she knew she would be, with
strong but soft features. Mom used to tell him he’d be a knockout if
he was a woman, which made Rita excited every time she looked in a mirror
and saw that with each passing month she was looking more like him.
Why did Mom leave? Disappeared one day with no warning. Or maybe there
was a warning, a warning to Daddy, though he never said. She didn’t
like to think about it. Daddy had taken good care of her and loved
her.
he wasn’t
going to accept rejection. She wanted to take the course, History of
American Popular Music, and she didn’t intend to be denied. So what
if the maximum twelve students had registered. One more wouldn’t hurt.
She tells the officious biddy behind the desk she wants to see Mr. Hanson,
the Dean. The biddy says he’s busy, but through the glass doors behind
the desk, Rita sees him talking on the telephone and laughing. Rita
does what she always does when she wants something. She ignores what’s
in her way. She walks past the biddy and into Mr. Hanson’s office,
giving the biddy the same swivel of the hips she used on the women at
the salon.
ohnny
wasn’t the owner of Johnny’s. The mob was. Rita learned the truth
after she became Mrs. Johnny Santomo, in fact, after Lisa was born,
five months after they were married. It was the only time she was glad
Daddy was dead. She wouldn’t have wanted him to see who got his little
girl. Yes, Daddy liked Johnny or, rather, he liked the hamburgers,
and he wouldn’t have thought Johnny was right for a woman with the hands
of a surgeon.
otherfuckers.
Somebody had put a dent in her new Lexus while she was charming Mr.
Hanson. It would cost at least five hundred bucks to fix it: two one-hour
dates after Harry took his 50 percent cut. She knows she should quit
Harry. But Harry would go crazy if she took her regulars, particularly
Arnold, who keeps her overnight when he comes to town once a month,
happily paying $3500 for the privilege of drinking himself into unconsciousness
and sleeping on her breasts, snoring so loudly she can’t sleep. Arnold
isn’t interested in sex. He likes to sit in the chair in his favorite
room, Room 1202 at the Sheraton—why he likes that room Rita doesn’t
understand; they’re all the same at the Sheraton—and watch her walk
back and forth, removing one item of clothing on each traverse until
she’s down to her panties. He won’t permit her to remove her panties.
And he won’t touch her. On their third date, after her walk, and in
her panties, she came over to him at the chair and straddled his lap.
She grabbed his hands and brought them to her breasts. He screamed
and burst into tears. It made her feel guilty. Who was she to tell
him what he could or couldn’t do? It was his $3500. She apologized
and he, the gentleman, accepted her apology. He slept that night, and
every other night he saw her, with his head on her breasts. But he
would never touch them with his hands.
hey never
return to the room. It’s nine-thirty and they’re standing in the lobby,
next to a fake palm tree, a plastic leaf flapping against her head in
the air-conditioned produced breeze. He pushes the leaf out of the
way and looks up, through the atrium, to the ceiling twenty floors above.
t the
concert, a man, tall and thin, with legs like train tracks, tries to
sit in the empty seat next to her. He had stared at her in the lobby,
and she knew he would eventually make his move. She places her hand
on the seat and says it’s taken. She doesn’t care whether he believes
her.