I
A quiet ding issued from the cellphone, heralding the arrival of an email entitled, “let’s fuck.” The name of the sender was XX X.
Doubts flickered in the mind of the message’s recipient, Summer Lidin, a blonde twenty-four-year-old who was known to most of her clients as Sasha. This fake name had been pilfered from her older sister, who currently lived up in New York with a Jew that looked like a Puerto Rican and smelled like coleslaw.
Summer sent a portion of a joint into her lungs and extinguished the hirsute remainder inside of a ceramic thing that had been made by a child.
Leaning back in her bed, she opened the email.
“go to langston hotel on 580 lauren street at 11 tonite. meet me in the lobby. i want 3 hours.” No information regarding XX X’s identity accompanied these instructions.
Many clients used fake names (and auxiliary email accounts), but most of them proffered a pseudonym that belonged to a musician or movie star or comic book character whom they admired.
Perhaps this john lacked both imagination and idols.
Dexterous thumbs typed: “Sounds like fun XX X! I’d like a bouquet with 600 roses. Must use prtectin. Sasha.” Summer added two vowels, launched her reply into the ether, and exhaled the trapped cloud of pot. Although she found the tone of XX X’s email to be off-putting, a job where she serviced one man for the duration of an evening in the safety of an upscale hotel was ideal. Even if this fellow swallowed a handful of performance-enhancing pills, it was unlikely that his sexual requirements would compare to those of three separate one-hour clients.
A ding emerged from the cellphone, and the blonde opened the email.
Upon her touchscreen was the reply, “450.”
“If you can afford four hundred and fifty bucks, you can afford six,” muttered Summer, who then typed “I’ll take 550 roses” on her phone and thumbed the send button.
A ding sounded as the response landed, which read, “500.”
“Fucking shylock.”
The blonde typed, “525. This is a great deal,” and tossed her words into the ether.
“512.50,” was the john’s reply.
Years ago, Summer had been a topless dancer who had adamantly refused to have sex (or even perform fellatio) for money, and her pride would have gotten in the way of her accepting any fee from a man that involved quarters…but now, things were different. The sound of the television in the next room called to mind the little human being who had altered her perspective and made her a far more practical person.
“Okay,” Summer typed on her cellphone, “See you at 11. Looking forward to it!”
The phone dinged, and she opened the email.
“you better look like your pictures.”
Frowning, the blonde typed, “I do,” and pressed the send icon.
“we’ll see,” replied the skeptical john.
Summer did not bother to type any more digital defenses of her flesh.
Yawning, she stood from her bed and arched her back. The inhaled herb circulated throughout her system, softening her peripheral vision and putting a little bit of fuzz in her brain. Her right thumb scrolled down a luminous contact list, highlighted the name Mrs. Karr, and pressed the dial icon.
The third ring was followed by a click and an indrawn breath. “Yes…?”
“Hey, Mrs. Karr, it’s Summer.”
“Good evening young lady.”
“Can I bring Butch down in a few minutes?”
“You’ve got a client?”
“I do. He’s in a lot of pain and needs me for the rest of the night.”
Mrs. Karr believed (or pretended to believe) that Summer was a self-employed massage therapist.
“All right. Bring Butch down whenever you want. Has he eaten yet?”
“I made beef lasagna. And some spinach.”
(Summer wanted the older woman to know that the boy ate well-balanced meals.)
“Okay. I have some egg salad left over if he gets hungry later.”
“Great. Thanks.”
Summer showered, brushed the filmy residue of marijuana from her mouth, and pulled on black lace undergarments, which she then covered with a loose-fitting blue sweatsuit. The john would not see the physique that her genes and workout regimen had sculpted until they were in the privacy of his suite.
Palming the bedroom light switch, Summer entered the den. Butch was there watching television from a couch that his mother had found outside of a building where one of her regulars lived.
“Butch?”
“What?”
“Mommy’s got to go to work. I need to take you down to Mrs. Karr.”
“Her TV’s crappy.”
“Don’t be rude.”
(Over the years, Mrs. Karr’s television had received numerous insults from the six-year-old.)
“You wanna bring down new pajamas or use the ones we keep there?”
“I’m sleeping over?”
“You’re sleeping over.”
“I’m not eating egg salad.”
Through the windows of the taxicab, Summer saw Langston Hotel. Floodlights hidden in the corners of rectilinear topiary lashed the hotel’s beige façade with white fire. Two young men, who wore tan- and rust-colored uniforms were standing in front of the entrance. One of the attendants hid a cigarette upon noticing the approaching automobile, and the other stepped to the curb, leaned forward, and extended his hand.
“Good evening,” the fellow said while opening the rear door of the taxicab. “Welcome to the Langston.”
“Hi.”
Summer gave the cabbie a bill, and he returned five smaller ones, which were then divided between the driver, the valet, and herself. The erstwhile smoker held his breath and nodded amicably as he pulled open the glass door for the approaching blonde. Air conditioning, the smells of potpourri, and the sounds of gentle conversation drifted outside.
Leaving the hot June night behind, Summer entered the lobby.
Six chandeliers shone overhead, tossing amber light on plants, rust-colored walls, marble floors, rugs, paintings, and discrete enclaves of stylistically related furniture. Nearly two score people inhabited the vastness, but still, the room seemed empty.
The blonde looked for her john.
Sprawled upon the nearby couches was a plump and exhausted Hispanic family staring at the ceiling, and beyond them in groups of two or three sat flabby men who had loosened ties, rolled-up shirtsleeves, and thick glass tumblers.
Summer focused her attention farther into the lobby.
Near the elevator bank and sitting at a small table that lacked a drink was a lone white man. His hands were on his knees, and his attention was on her.
Walking across rugs and marble, Summer approached the watcher whom she knew to be her john.
XX X was thin and quite tall, and despite the season, he wore dark wool pants and a thick peacoat. Yellow sunglasses sat upon his aquiline nose, and bright smears of reflected light shone upon his scalp, where clung errant wisps of straw-colored hair. It was unclear if he was fifty years old or just an unhealthy man of thirty.
“Hi,” Summer said through a practiced smile as she neared XX X. “I’m Sasha.”
Eyes that lenses turned yellow flickered up and down. “You’re shorter than I thought.”
Most johns appreciated the sexual opportunities begat by capitalism, but some guys were of a different mindset. An individual like this would nitpick his paid companion because he enjoyed making pretty women feel bad or hoped to renegotiate the price or needed something to blame (such as the girl’s height or the smell of her deodorant) for his imminent sexual dysfunction.
“If you had specific height requirements,” Summer said, “you should’ve asked for that information.”
“You should’ve told me,” stated XX X, whose breath smelled like nachos.
“I’m five foot five. If I was short or tall, I’d’ve pointed that out—since it’d be different than what’s expected. But I’m average height—actually, one inch above average height for a woman—and don’t get complaints.”
Leaning back in his chair, the john made an appraisal of the blonde’s physique. His long fingers massaged his weak chin as he deliberated.
Eventually, XX X nodded. “Okay.”
“Shall we go to your room? Or do you want to get a drink at the bar first?”
“The room.”
Summer expertly concealed her disappointment.
XX X scratched the tip of his nose and unfolded himself from his seat. Decompressed, he stood halfway between six and seven feet tall.
A lump of concern materialized in the blonde, whose experiences had taught her that penis size usually corresponded to a guy’s height. Suddenly, she doubted the wisdom of agreeing to sell three hours of her company to this john (who was unpleasant and had nacho breath, (which did not betoken cleanliness anywhere else) for five hundred and twelve dollars and fifty cents.
A cold hand encircled her right wrist.
“It’s this one,” XX X said while pulling Summer toward the nearest elevator.
“Do you like the Langston?”
The john did not respond to the inquiry, but instead thumbed the call button and stared at the closed door. His face was inscrutable.
The blonde felt her pulse quicken inside of her clasped wrist. “Can you let go of—”
A bell dinged, and the door opened, revealing an interior of mirrors and burnished wood.
XX X pulled Summer into the elevator and withdrew a plastic card, which he then slotted into the button panel. A circle with the number “15” illuminated, accompanied by a quiet chime.
Silently, the door slid across the floor.
“It’s automatic,” said the john. “It knows exactly where I’m staying from this—” He waggled the key card. “Can’t go anywhere in this building without one.”
“Pretty high-tech,” remarked Summer, who was trying to cover up her growing unease.
Whirring, the elevator shifted and climbed.
The blonde breathed through her mouth in order to avoid the smell of nachos. “Want to tell me a little about yourself?”
“No.”
“What do you want me to call you?”
“Don’t care.”
“I should call you something, right?”
XX X did not respond to this inquiry.
“How about Billy?”
“Sounds like a kid’s name.”
Shrugging, the elevator slowed its ascent.
“Then Bill,” suggested Summer. “Or William. Whatever you prefer.”
No response came from the man.
The door slid aside, revealing a long hallway. Nobody was there.
XX X stepped from the elevator, pulling Summer by the wrist.
“Can you let go of—”
“Mine’s at the end,” the john said as he pulled the blonde forward. His unhurried strides were long, and his yellow eyes were focused upon his destination.
Quiet television noises and the smells of room service haunted the hallway, and Summer was comforted by the fact that she was not alone on the fifteenth floor. Twice before, she had landed in ugly situations (ones that she had ended herself with pepper spray and yelling), and she hoped that tonight would not prove to be her third rough encounter.
Every two steps that the john took required three from the blonde. His grip on her right wrist did not loosen.
Summer unzipped her purse with her free hand so that she could more quickly retrieve her pepper spray and noted to herself that she would have to remove XX X’s yellow sunglasses (or squirt at an angle).
The john pulled Summer to the final door, where he stopped and slotted his card.
A green light flashed above the knob, and a mechanical bolt clicked within the panel. XX X replaced the key in his coat, twisted the knob, and pushed.
Beyond the door lay an enclosure of absolute darkness.
Summer’s heart skipped uptempo, and her scalp tingled. “Let go of my arm right now.”
The john released the captured limb.
Wary, Summer massaged her wrist and motioned to the opaque interior. “Turn on a light.”
“Okay.”
An open hand slammed into Summer’s back and shoved her into the darkness. Something crinkled under her sneakers as she stumbled. Catching her balance, she spun around.
X XX’s lanky silhouette entered the room and closed the door. Darkness swallowed everything.
“No fucking games,” Summer barked. “Turn on the light right now or I’m leaving!”
A lock clicked.
“You’re not.” The john’s voice was assured.
Summer thrust her right hand into her purse, but the bag was jerked from her shoulder before she could grab the pepper spray. Filling her lungs with air, she turned her head toward the door and screamed.
Peanut butter filled her mouth. A hand shut her jaw and another slapped duct tape over her lips, silencing her cry one second after it had begun.
Cold fingers gripped the blonde’s arms, and steel encircled her wrists. Metal rattled as the john tightened two handcuffs. Everything smelled like plastic and nachos.
An image of Butch watching television overlaid the darkness in the terrified young mother’s mind.
A switch snapped like a gunshot, and a standing lamp illuminated. Squinting, gagged, and tasting peanut butter, Summer saw the suite.
Thick black fabric curtained all of the windows, and blue plastic tarps covered the floor and the king-sized bed. Upon the nightstand lay metal pipes of various sizes.
Summer felt a warm, tingling sensation between her legs as she wet herself.
XX X claimed an iron pipe the size of a crowbar. “Behave or I’ll break your skull.”
Tears filled Summer’s eyes. Running through her mind were the many bad choices that comprised her life, and the lone positive exception, which was her decision to see her accidental pregnancy through to term and give birth to Butch.
“Sit on the bed,” ordered the john.
The tarp crackled as the blonde walked toward the covered mattress. Some girls survived encounters like the one in which she now found herself, and if she remained level-headed, she would improve her odds.
Breathing deeply through her nose, Summer suppressed panic and reached the bed.
Police sirens sounded, igniting a small hope in Summer.
The noise grew louder, accompanied by the chattering of machine guns and some symphonic music.
Somebody on the fifteenth floor was watching an action movie.
The small hope died.
“Sit down,” ordered XX X.
Summer sat. Her wet sweatpants felt cold, and the plastic tarp crinkled. Upon the mini wet-bar, she noticed a handcuff key.
The john caressed his thick iron pipe and walked toward the blonde. “Do I still look like a Billy?”
Summer shook her head, turned her gaze to the floor, and swallowed. A lump of peanut butter went down her throat.
“You ever been fucked by a pipe?”
Peppy ragtime jazz intruded upon the scene.
The blonde raised her head and looked for the source of this incongruous music.
XX X rooted his free hand in his peacoat pocket and withdrew his cellphone. The jubilant brass, snappy drums, and bouncing bass line stopped when he fingered the device, which he then slapped to his fuzzy right ear.
“What?”
A voice that sounded like a trapped mosquito buzzed within the cellphone receiver.
The john’s eyes widened. “How the fuck did they find me?”
Again, the insect buzzed.
“I’ll come down.”
Hope flickered again within Summer’s chest.
XX X replaced the phone in his peacoat pocket and threw the iron bar at Summer’s face. She lurched to the right. Metal whipped through her hair, smacked against a bureau, and thudded on the floor.
“Stay here.”
The john grabbed a duffel bag, switched off the lamp, and exited.
A latch clicked as the door shut.
Alone in the darkness, Summer listened to the sound of XX X’s departure.
The elevator bell dinged, and Summer lunged for the opposite wall, where she blindly felt for the light switch with her bound hands. Her right pinky landed upon a plastic rectangle, and she pushed upward, eliciting a click.
The standing lamp illuminated, glaring upon the shiny piece of steel that lay atop the wet-bar. Quickly, she snatched the key and unlocked the handcuffs.
Footfalls sounded in the hallway.
Summer careened to the pile of metal that lay upon the nightstand. Her right hand closed upon a stainless steel pipe about as long as a cheerleader’s baton (and far thicker), and an instant later, she was beside the door.
Pressing her shoulder to the jamb, Summer secured the safety bolt and peered through the peephole.
A shadow slid along the hallway carpet, and as the footfalls grew louder, the blonde tightened her grip upon the cold steel.
An Asian couple strode into view and entered a nearby room, holding a conversation in a language that Summer thought sounded like it had been invented by irritated geese.
The blonde ripped the duct tape off of her face, extricated a peanut butter-covered handkerchief from her mouth, spat, reclaimed her purse from the floor, and fished out her pepper spray, which she then uncapped and pocketed. The tarp crinkled as she returned to the exit. Holding the steel bar at her side, she took a deep breath, undid the bolt, turned the knob, flung the door, and walked outside.
The hallway was empty.
Summer hastened to the elevator and fingered the call button. Gripping the metal bar so tightly that her hand ached, she waited.
Slow seconds passed.
A light shone on the wall, accompanied by a quiet ding.
The door slid open, revealing a terrified blonde who had tangled hair, red eyes, peanut butter stains on her lips, wet pants, and bruised wrists. Other than this apparition within the mirror, the space was unoccupied.
Heart racing, Summer walked inside and fingered the button marked, ‘L.’
The door shut, and the luminous circle went dark. For some reason, the elevator did not move.
Summer jammed her thumb into the lobby button.
Again, the circle shone and darkened without result.
Summer then remembered that the elevators in this building could not be activated without a room key.
“Goddamn prison hotel.”
The blonde ruminated. She could either locate the emergency stairwell on this floor or wait for the elevator to be called down to the lobby. The latter option contained the possibility of her getting trapped by the john in another confined space and was soon dismissed.
Summer thrust an index finger toward the door-open button, but just before flesh touched plastic, the elevator shuddered and began its descent.
No lights shone upon the panel.
Its destination was unknown.
“Go to the goddamn lobby you st—”
The elevator shrugged, coming to a stop.
A glance at the panel told Summer that she was on the twelfth floor. Pressing herself into a mirrored corner, she hid the steel bar behind her back and clasped the pepper spray that lay within her wet pocket.
The door opened, revealing a tall man.
Summer’s heart stuttered as the fellow walked forward. Her right hand withdrew the pepper spray.
The elevator lights illuminated a black fifty-year-old who had graying hair and a friendly smile. “Good evening.”
“Hi,” replied Summer, who then pocketed her atomizer.
Politely declining to comment upon the smells of urine and peanut butter that filled the space, the tall guest slotted his card and thumbed the lobby button. The elevator closed, descended the remainder of the shaft, and landed at ground level. There, the door slid into the wall.
“Goodnight,” the tall guest said while disembarking.
“You, too.”
Summer entered the lobby and surveyed the inhabitants of the potpourri vastness.
It did not seem as if XX X were in attendance.
Relieved, Summer hastened to the front desk, where a narrow receptionist wearing a permanent smile turned to face her.
“How may I—”
“A man is abusing women upstairs. In room fifteen thirty-nine.”
Critical eyes flickered to the metal bar in Summer’s right hand, her soiled apparel, and her peanut butter lips.
“Ma’am,” said the receptionist. “Are you a guest here at the—”
“Just look into it, okay? I heard screams, and you need to do something before somebody—”
Summer lost her ability to talk, and she knew that she needed to go home before she broke down in public.
“Ma’am?”
The blonde turned away from the doubtful receptionist and strode toward the exit. Beyond the glass lay the hot June night and two slumbering taxicabs.
Summer flung the door, passed by a smoking valet, and deposited herself within the nearer vehicle. Roused from a hazy nap, the squat black man who was behind the wheel looked a question over his shoulder.
“Twelve ninety, Briggs. Off of Thirtieth.”
“Ma’am.”
The driver tossed his vehicle onto the road.
Tears rolled down Summer’s face, and she rubbed them away with her palms.
Guiding the vehicle toward the highway, the driver sniffed the air, cracked the windows, and hung an air freshener that looked like a candy cane.
Summer climbed the stairs to her apartment, brushed her teeth three times, took a shower, made an anonymous call to the police about her awful encounter, inhaled a shot of vodka, and retrieved Butch from Mrs. Karr.
That night, mother and son slept together in the same bed.
Morning succeeded a maelstrom of terrible nightmares, one of which had not been imagined.
Summer drove Butch to school and returned home, contemplating her profession and its perils.
From the bottom drawer in her nightstand, she unearthed a turquoise business card that had been given to her a couple of months earlier. The giver had responded to one of her online postings and set up a meeting with her, but he was not a john. He was a handsome and well-spoken slick who had (or at least claimed to have) some luxurious set-ups where groups of women serviced premium clients. His offer to the blonde had been generous, but she had declined, unwilling to let a pimp run her life.
This morning, Summer felt differently about the idea of having a boss. The terrible experience with XX X had proven to her the dangers of working alone in the city of Great Crown, and she could not risk turning her son into an orphan.
Decided, Summer retrieved her cellphone, typed the pass code, and looked at the turquoise business card that she had just retrieved.
Calligraphic letters at the top of the thick, glossy rectangle stated, ‘Darren Tasking, Entrepreneur.’