ANH TRANH INSISTED ON examining Pender’s wound. She had him sit on the edge of the bed. He could feel the heat of her as she leaned over him and gently tugged the adhesive tape away from his scalp, then dabbed the wound clean with a damp washcloth.
“Not too bad,” she reported. “One of the stitches pulled loose, but it don’t look infected. Wait here, I’ll be right back.”
She returned with the first aid kit from the office, applied what he thought was an antibiotic ointment, fastened a small butterfly strip where the stitch had given way, then rebandaged it expertly. It wasn’t until she was patting the adhesive tape into place that Pender noticed the small round tin container with oriental writing on the bedside table.
“What is that, what did you put on there?” he asked nervously.
“Calm down—it’s this amazin’ Chinese shit Wong gets. Take it with you, put it on every day.”
“You sure it’s safe?”
“My girlfriend got herse’f sliced to shit by a trick last year. Wong made her put this stuff on it every day—six months later you could hardly even tell she got cut.”
Anh stepped back to admire her handiwork, then began taking off her skirt.
“Whoa there,” said Pender.
“It makes my ass sweat. You want me to be comfortable, doncha?”
He did indeed. What they were about to go through would be not unlike a therapy session: without the aid of hypnosis he would try to get her to relive that evening a little over a year ago. But while Pender wanted her to be comfortable, he also wanted to be able to focus on the job at hand, so he suggested a compromise and she agreed.
Which is how Special Agent E. L. Pender found himself sitting up in bed in a cheap Dallas motel/whorehouse conducting an affective interview with a prostitute who was wearing one of his long-sleeved white shirts over a halter top and transparent panties. Having conducted an interview in bed in his underwear the night before, he was less bemused than he might have been.
At least he was dressed this time, in polyester Sansabelt slacks and a brown Banlon shirt. He had removed only his hat, bloodstained now, his jacket, and his Hush Puppies. He had his pocket notebook in one hand and a pen in the other. “Comfy now?” he asked Anh.
“I guess.”
“All right, I want to take you back to that night with Case—I mean Christy.”
“Man, what a creep. He was one of those johns, he didn’t just wanna fuck me, it was like he wanted me to fall in love with him, too, you know what I mean? He—”
“Hold on there, Annie. When I say take you back, that’s what I mean. See, the part of your brain that sums things up, and makes judgments, and compares things to other things, that’s an entirely different part of your brain from the part that stores the memories themselves. And that’s the part we need to get at tonight—that’s where the details are. And you know what they say, the devil’s in the details. I’ll start you off. What room was it—this one?”
“Unh-unh. Nope. Twenty. Other wing, far end.”
“Okay, you walk up to the door. It’s closed. It’s right in front of you. Picture the numbers on the door. A two and a zero. You knock. He says . . .”
“It’s open. He says, ‘It’s open. . . .’ ”
* * *
“Sometimes you see a trick, you think what the fuck’s he doing, payin’ for it. This one’s cute, he’s young, he smells good, fresh, like limes when you just cut ’em open. And I can tell he’s already hard, even before he forks over the cash. Some guys’re twitchy about the money part, but this guy, it’s like it’s part of the fun.
“The second time—and I’m just catchin’ my breath, like maybe a minute went by, no lie—so the second time, I’m suppose to pretend like I’m his little girl. I been ast that before, lots, I guess on account of I’m small. And small here, you know. I tell him the second time’s extra, and playin’ let’s pretend is double extra, and nobody hits me. He says my love, start the meter. I get called lots of things—‘my love’ ain’t usually one.
“The spooky thing is, the second time, it’s like he’s a whole different person. He moves different, he talks different, he even fucks different. . . .”
* * *
Of course, Pender didn’t really need all the details. The trouble was, you didn’t know which ones you needed until you had them all. Casey was priapic, a chameleon, liked to play games, carried a thick wad of cash. Nothing new in any of that; he’d had over two thousand dollars—hundreds wrapped in twenties—in his possession when he was arrested.
The third act of the drama was more revealing: this time Casey was the naughty little boy and Anh was the teacher. . . .
* * *
“I dunno what I’m suppose to be spankin’ him for, but he sure do. ‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry.’ He’s lying on his stomach, I’m whalin’ on him pretty good, then he grabs me, turns me over, and fucks me like an animal. I don’t mean just doggy-dog, I mean like you couldn’ a got him off me with a bucket of cold water, you’d a had to blast him with a farhose. But it ain’t personal—it’s like I’m not even there. He starts off apologizin’ to this teacher, then he’s bangin’ the shit outta me, then he wants to ass-fuck, where I do not go, I’m very sorry, but he don’t care ’cause I ain’t me, I’m this teacher. He knocks me down, he sticks it in, he says something like ‘Meet Max, how do you like Max,’ shit like that.
“Now old Wong might be a dickhead, but he do try to watch out for us. I start screamin’, he sends Big Nig—his name’s Ng but everbody calls him Big Nig—to check on me. Nig uses the passkey, all holy hannah breaks loose.
“And Big Nig, you gotta understan’, his mama got raped by a black GI, so he’s half ‘Mese, half black, and pure pissed off. Plus he’s twice Christy’s size, plus he’s suppose to be a big karate expert and all. Anyway, he come bustin’ in, see if the john’s killin’ me or what. Two seconds later, Big Nig’s on his back and Christy’s sittin’ on top of him bangin’ his head against the floor. I mean, dayum, if the carpet in this place was any thinner, Nig’s brains would of been all over it before Wong shows up with his horse pistol.
“Christy, he hears Wong drawin’ the hammer back on that big ol’ Colt, he climbs off. Says we had a misunderstandin’. I say well I don’t think so. So he gets his pants off the chair, pulls his roll out, starts peelin’ off Franklins—when he gets to five I say okay, I misunderstand now.
“But here’s the part that really frosted my ass. Him and Nig start talkin’ while he’s gettin’ dressed, Nig talkin’ bout what the fuck move was that, man, I got me a black belt and I never saw it comin’. They start talkin’, next thing I know they goin’ out for a drink together like they best buds or some’pn. And I’m the one cain’t siddown, know what I mean?”
“Sure do!” said Pender with absentminded enthusiasm, his attention having strayed briefly—he was planning his next interview in his head.
Anh Tranh giggled like the schoolgirl she should have been. “Why, Agent Pender, I would’n a figured you for the type.”