By the time I got home the next day, the details of my stay in Las Vegas were already becoming hazy. The only clues I had about what had gone on was a drink coaster with the words ‘Joan Collins Special’ scratched on it, two olive pips, a couple of paper napkins with Keno numbers scrawled on them, the word ‘Help’ and the name of the jail in LA to which Pierce was being extradited.
I deposited all this in the garbage bin, made myself a coffee and sat in the dark of the living room. I surveyed the note pad by the answer phone. There were no messages for me. The heatwave still hadn’t broken. The air was so hot, you could practically hear it shimmering off the street and crackling through the crevices of every building. The house smelt of alcohol, stale cigarettes and take-away pizza. In between searching for a cooler spot on the couch, moving fretfully from cushion to cushion, I peeled at my split ends, tuned into re-runs of old gangster movies or watched bow-tied weather men pointing sticks at satellite photos predicting more heat. I even watched the test-pattern. I then scratched the labels off the take-away all-in-one-ready-mix margheritas I had been drinking on the road. After that, I looked up ‘romance’ in my dictionary. It said ‘remote from everyday life’. ‘To exaggerate, to fabricate, to lie.’
I finally slid on the floor, in the dark, and shuffled back through my tattered deck of days. I felt exposed. Finessed. Caved in, like a house of cards. The night noises of my neighbourhood drifted into the house. I could hear sprinklers whirring lazily, jacuzzis throbbing, canned laughter from other people’s television sets. I felt an ache of loneliness through to my bones. It seemed that everybody belonged somewhere, to someone, except for me. For the first time, I missed my mother. I wanted to be tucked up in her bed, eating Vegemite on toast and sharing the cryptic crossword. The mug of coffee in my hand was cold. The surface was a skin of grease. I drank it anyway.
I probably would have sat there for the rest of my life if Tash hadn’t come home and found me. She galloped into the room, all breathless and dishevelled, loaded with packages. She switched on the light, saw me huddled on the floor in the dark, and stopped still. ‘Good day, huh?’ she taunted, arching a pencilled brow.
When I confessed to her what had happened, she silently crossed to the kitchen and returned with a huge whiskey. I drained it in one gulp. I felt the liquid fire burn the back of my throat and make a hard landing in my empty stomach. It made my eyes tingle. Tash fetched me another, then stood, hands on hips, like a ward nurse administering medicine.
‘I need a job,’ I told her. ‘Got any ideas?’
Tash gave me a sly glance. ‘How desperate are ya?’
‘Desperate.’
She ripped open one of the packages she’d dumped on the carpet and unravelled a satiny bodice and suspender ensemble. It was like something you see on the dust jacket of a Harold Robbins novel. ‘Come on. We’re late. Two hundred bucks each, for an hour’s work. All ya have to do is stand there and look pissed off.’ She glanced at my face. ‘Believe me, tonight, you’re a natural.’
‘Tash,’ I said wearily, realising that I hadn’t slept for about forty-eight hours, ‘what are you talking about?’
Tash was now scooting around the room, slashing plastic carry-bags and tearing open packages. ‘I joined an agency. Yesterday. I should’ve done it eons ago. Don’t look like that. It’s all very kosher. Candida – she’s the Madam – she’s like a grade school teacher, no kiddin’! Pleated skirt, starched white blouse, the works. I nearly started doin’ my multiplication table! Anyway, she gets about seventy bucks for introducin’ ya to ya client, right, an’ then ya jest like, make ya own arrangements.’ Peeling off her clothes, Tash beetled into the bedroom where she proceeded to dust her naked body with baby powder. Trailing behind, I watched her lie on the carpet and wriggle her legs into a tiny rubber skirt, talking ten to the dozen the whole time. ‘And it ain’t really like bein’ a prostitute or anythin’. I mean, you get a choice,’ she emphasised. ‘Candida offered me about, oh, ten guys from her books. The first dude she dredged up likes his “escort” – they call ya “escorts”, funny huh? – to be doin’ the ironin’, see, while he, like, breaks into the house. Another schmuck wants ya to hit him with a feather duster while he licks the goddamned floor boards. Nice guy, Candida reckons, real successful an’ all.’ She paused, panting, the skirt marooned halfway up her thighs. ‘This other guy on her books has this, like, heirloom fantasy. The “escort” see, has to hide his ring in her – you know – while he searches the goddamned room. When he can’t find it, he, like goes bananas. Finally, ya have to give him the ring and say “Sorry, lord and master” and then be kinda “mock-raped” ya know, as punishment.’ With one final, forceful tug, she gasped and the tight rubber skirt snapped against her waist. ‘That was just like, too weird for me. Chrrrist, I’m never gonna get this off again. I’ve cut off all circulation. Tell me if I’m goin’ blue, okay?’ she gasped, jackknifing to her feet. ‘So, that left it down to two guys. The first one she told me about likes ta dress up in the chick’s underwear an’ do her housework. Well, that didn’t appeal to me – ya, know, havin’ the guy in ya own house an’ all. Besides, like I told Candida our house is such a mess, after the earthquake an’ all, it would take him, like, about a week and cost him a fortune at two hundred bucks an hour. So –’ she levered herself on to the chair in front of her dressing table and uncased a lipstick. She spoke into it as if it were a miniature microphone while she applied her lippy. ‘… At ‘eft ‘is ‘uy, ‘oel ‘ulman.’ She smacked her lips together and ran her tongue hard across her front teeth. ‘So, that left this guy called Joel Schulman,’ she repeated. ‘All he wants is a bit of light bondage.’
‘What a low-life.’
‘No way, José!’ Tash swung around to face me, her eyes fierce. ‘With Joel Schulman I’m scraping the top of the barrel. No kiddin’. ’Cause, guess what?’ She craned back into the mirror, massaging foundation on to her face and dusting her complexion vampire-white. ‘The guy is like, the head of one of Hollywood’s major studios. Went for my first session last night, believe it or not.’
‘But Tash,’ I whispered, aghast. ‘Bondage?’
Tash shrugged, appraising her reflection. ‘Some people like country. Some people like classical. Others rap, or rock ‘n’ roll. What’s the diff?’ She was now darting and diving into drawers and cupboards, fetching shoes and garter belts. ‘It’s justa matter of keepin’ an open mind about it all, okay?’
‘Okay,’ I replied stoically.
‘Look, the truth is, he’s got stale breath, body odour and a picture of his wife by the bed. But he pays well, it doesn’t hurt and afterwards, when I told him about my singing an’ all, he offered me a recordin’ contract, for a demo. Not only that, but he’s teachin’ me about classical music – ya know, Andrew Lloyd Webber an’ those guys.’
I could suddenly feel a draft blowing through my open mind. So I closed it. ‘But Tash, these men are, well, they’re sick.’
‘Men are like babies. That’s all. They need fantasy. I figure somethin’ must of just happened to ’em, when they were young an’ all. And they, like, can’t get it outta their systems. Candida says we’re analysts. Practical analysts. She says that if they didn’t have us girls an’ stuff, they’d probably go out and, like, attack someone.’
‘But last night, didn’t it, you know, well … revolt you?’
Tash shrugged. ‘The only thing which revolts me is his ego. I mean, how dare a sixty year-old guy think he’s turnin’ me on. Ugh.’
‘Sixty. Jesus, Tash. Are you sure he’s up to it?’
‘God yeah. Look, he’s real fit. In A-1 condition. A 10 K-a-day guy. So …’ She turned to face me, transformed into a cold and icy Sex Siren. ‘Are ya comin’ or what? He told me to bring along a friend whenever I wanted. He likes two girls. One to watch. An’ he’ll pay double. We’re talkin’ serious coin here.’
I looked at Tash’s tiny, shiny body, her wiry little legs and fierce eyes. My past flashed through my mind, as if I was in a car smash – Chuck and his gluteus maximus muscles, Rondah and her liposuctioned hips and silicone lips, Mimi’s colonics, pet psychiatrists, Pierce Scanlen’s plucked nostrils – I could feel the whiskey in my bloodstream now, thick and treacherous. I took another swig, gulping it down, one, two, three. It was time to toughen up. ‘Okay,’ I hiccoughed, and put down the empty glass. ‘Why not?’
Things couldn’t get worse.