THERE WAS a white phone on a glass table near the couch. One of those Swedish designer jobs, big round numbers in four grids of three. I left her standing by the window, picked up the receiver, and dialed the number of the pay phone on the corner. I scanned the joint while the phone rang- it looked like the waiting room in an expensive clinic. The Prof answered. "Call you back in fifteen minutes," I said, and hung up.
I sat down on the couch. Lit a cigarette, watching her. Thinking how I should look through the place first. But it didn't feel like a trap. And a woman who could change herself into something new could hide a microphone anyplace.
"What do you want?" I asked her.
She came to the couch, sat at the opposite end, curling her legs under her like a teenager.
"Maybe I just wanted to see you."
"Write me a letter."
She shook her head slightly, a fighter shaking off a punch. "I was just a kid."
I shrugged.
"You're still angry with me?"
"I'm not angry with anyone. I don't know you."
"But…"
"I remember you. It's not the same as knowing you, okay?"
"Okay."
"What do you want, Irene?"
"I haven't been Irene for a long time. That's one of the things I changed."
"What do I call you?"
"Whatever you want. That's me- I can be whatever you want. There's all kinds of candy."
"That's what you do now?"
"That's what I do."
I looked her over again, seeing it. "You got a closet full of wigs too?"
Her smile flashed. She scissored her legs off the couch, held out her hand to me. I grabbed her wrist instead, my thumb hard against the nerve junction. She didn't seem to notice. I left my cigarette burning in the ashtray. She led me down a carpeted hall, stepped into a room nearly as big as the living room. One wall was floor-to-ceiling mirrors. "My closet," she said.
One shelf was wigs, carefully positioned on Styrofoam heads. Blondes, brunettes, redheads from soft rose to flame. Every style from flower child to Dolly Parton. A wall of cosmetics: lipstick with all new, gleaming, fresh tips, standing in rows like large-caliber bullets…blusher, body powders, eyeliner, prefitted fingernails, polish, false eyelashes. Makeup table with a round padded stool, tiny row of frosted light bulbs surrounding another mirror, this one three-paneled.
The far wall looked flat. She slid back a panel. Fur coats. Fox, ermine, sable, mink, leopard. Others I didn't recognize.
Another panel. Cocktail dresses, formal gowns, yuppie go-to-business outfits. Leather miniskirts. Dresses from silk to cotton. Jumpers and pinafores.
Another section was shoes. Lizard-skin spike heels, black leather boots from ankle to mid-thigh, shoes trimmed with rhinestones, jogging shoes, little girls' shoes with Mary Jane straps, sandals.
Rows and rows of built-in drawers. She opened them smoothly, stepped aside, gesturing with her hand like a wrongly accused smuggler sneering at a customs agent. G-strings, silk panties, bikini briefs, garter belts, teddies, camisoles, cotton panties in a dozen colors. Panty hose still in the original wrappers. Stockings from fishnet to sheer. Push-up bras, front-opening bras, bras with holes for nipples to poke through, bras with straps that crossed over the back. Red, black, white, and a pastel rainbow.
There was another panel to the wall. She slid it back. Riding crops, handcuffs, lengths of thin steel chains, a leather-handled stock, leather straps at the end, like a shortened cat-o'-nine-tails. Leather belts, from spaghetti straps to thick slabs. Something that looked like a black rubber sweatshirt. Dog collars. A leather face mask, laced up the back, the mouth a zippered slash. Hairbrushes, Ping-Pong paddles, some foam-padded, others covered with sandpaper. Rings, clamps, vibrators. Dildos, from pencils to sausages. A bullwhip of braided silk.
"Seen enough?"
Her eyes were a challenge. My face was flat. I nodded.
She held out her hand again, turning it so I could hold her by the wrist. The next room down the hall was a teenage girl's bedroom: Heavy Metal posters on the wall, fluffy quilt on the big bed, stuffed animals, pink telephone. A leather-bound book next to it. It said "My Diary" on the cover in gold. Bathroom off to the side.
Three more bedrooms. A single working girl. A movie star. The last one had a black leather psychiatrist's couch in one corner. Rings bolted into the floor. The walls were lined in dark cork.
She took me back into the front room. My cigarette had burned itself out. I let go of her wrist- lit another one. She walked out of the room. I picked up the phone, hit the * button, watched the thin slash of liquid crystal fill up with the same number I had dialed before. The Prof answered. "Okay so far," I said. Hung up again.
She came back in again. "You think of a name for me yet?"
"There's lots of names for it."
"Money is the name for it. Nothing's changed."
"I haven't got any money."
"Yes you do, bounty hunter. I know what you do. But it's not your money I want. It's money I have for you- something I want you to do."
"There's nothing I want to do."
She took off her top. Her breasts stood out hard as white marble. "Silicone. The very best- envelopes, not injections." She licked her lips. "Collagen. Here too," she said, patting her seamless face. She stood, dropping the denim shorts to the floor in the same motion. "This is mine," patting her butt. "Hard work. Three times a week on the machines." She took a deep breath through her nose- her waist wasped. "I can do more crunches than a bodybuilder. Six days a week." The soft patch between her legs was dark, gleaming, heart-shaped. "Electrolysis. Once a month," she said, holding out her arms for me to see.
"You don't miss a trick."
"Don't be nasty, Burke. I'm proud of you- you got what you wanted. Can't I do it too?"
"What did I want?"
"You think I don't remember? A name. You got a name now. The whole street knows your name. After Mortay…"
She caught me looking at her, felt the chill. "I'm sorry. I know better. Don't say anything. I know the rules. There's something I need you to do- something you know how to do. And there's money. A lot of money. Just think about it, okay? And call me. You have the number. I'll come wherever you want…tell you what I need."
I stood up. "One more call," I told her. She shrugged, walked over to the window, naked in the light. The glass had a faint orange tint. One-way. I picked up the phone, dialed 958-2222. A recorded voice spat back a phone number. Ma Bell's black box telling the phone repairman that he was working on the right account. It wasn't the number I had called her on. I said "Okay" into the phone and hung up.
She came over to the door with me. "Whatever you want. And the money," she whispered. "Call me." Her lips flexed like she was going to kiss me. Saw me watching her face and pulled the punch. The door closed behind me. I took the elevator to the fourth floor, met Max on the stairwell. I pushed an imaginary button with my finger. We split up at the bottom of the stairs. When the doorman went to the back to answer the buzzer I walked out the front door.