Mark Fishman - No. 22 Pleasure City

Hadley finished his cup of coffee, got up, went to the sink and rinsed it. He put it in the drying rack, and without turning around, he asked: “What is it?”

“What?”

“I’m always happy to see you, you know that, but what’s on your mind?”

“Burt Pohl.”

“Burt?”

“And the agency.”

“You had any breakfast?”

“Not yet.”

“Let me fix you some bacon and eggs — you can tell me about it.”

Rand Hadley didn’t wait for an answer, he took a frying pan down from a hook on the wall, switched on the gas burner, went to the refrigerator for eggs, bacon and a cholesterol-reducing butter substitute for cooking.

Burnett undressed slowly, his arms and legs weighed more than his whole body and he could barely stand up. He put his hand to his forehead. He didn’t have a fever. Wearing only his underpants, he went to the study and stood at the window next to his desk and separated the Venetian blinds to look down at the street. There was the car with blackened windows that had followed him since he’d gone out to check the locations the real estate agent had given him. He placed his hands on the sill and peered through the blinds at the car and sighed. He wondered now what his sexual adventures had got him into.

He looked down at the erection that pushed against his boxer shorts, pointing northeast. His right hand was more than averagely dexterous, he kept his left on the sill, and he touched himself beneath the crisply laundered fabric. His cock jumped, his fingers were cold. No circulation, he thought. He went on looking at the car. The headlights blinked on and off like a pair of eyes. His right hand came out of his boxer shorts, he jumped back, away from the window. It was the wrong time for pleasure even though that’s what he looked for all the time. He suddenly felt sick, ran to the toilet and vomited.

Burnett took off his boxer shorts, turned the shower on and got in, letting the warm water flow over him. In three-minute cycles he experienced severe muscular stomach cramps accompanied by spasms until he regulated the temperature to a higher degree of heat. This calmed him down. The telephone rang but he didn’t leave the comfort of the shower to answer it because he was sure it was Violet Archer, who had the worst timing of any woman he’d known.

Violet called from the public phone at the corner whenever she saw the light of the desk lamp shining through the blinds like a signal he’d given her. He loved Violet’s slanted green eyes, and after he’d finished with her, though it’d taken him a long time to get some distance between them and still she clung to him like lint, he thought of her eyes blinking and tearful with the pain he’d happily inflicted on her lithesome body. The phone rang, Burnett went on scrubbing himself under the shower, and he let it ring until she hung up.

Violet left the Kawamura Agency with a worried look on her face. Even Kawamura noticed it when she went past the open door of his office. Shimura hadn’t turned up anything for her on Burnett. There was nothing she could use against him. She wanted to squeeze money out of him, and she’d hired Shimura to give her something to hold on to. Violet figured that Burnett owed her more than money, but it was money that she was most likely to get out of him, and losing money hurt him more than anything else. Violet went straight to the elevator, fixing her hair in front of the mirror while she waited.

She stood on the sidewalk in front of the building where the agency occupied the sixth floor. The soft wind blew her jet-black hair across her face. She caught a few strands with her fingertips and put them in her mouth. Her green eyes, slanted like wings, looked down at her feet. With plenty of money, she would’ve been accepted by the world. It was money that made happiness, and her own happiness was the only thing she thought about. Now she was hungry.

The restaurant on Waterford Street near the river was small. There were a dozen tables and they were all occupied. A middle-aged woman folded her napkin, set it down next to an empty soup bowl and a torn piece of French bread and got up from her chair. Violet waited for her to leave the table, and the waitress cleared it and laid out placemat, napkin and cutlery.

The waitress waved Violet to the table and was handed the laminated menu. She was hungry, but she watched her weight. She ordered a green salad and an omelet. She sipped absentmindedly from the glass of water. She knew that she looked good, and it was obvious that a lot of men were attracted to her. She’d got mixed up with Burnett because she’d wanted it with him, and he was always looking for women. But why did she have to find men like Burnett, who only abused her?

She didn’t know until she was involved with him that he had a particular way with women and what he wanted them to do for him, even expected of them right up to the moment he was finished with them. She ate her omelet slowly, chewing each mouthful twenty times before swallowing, drinking room-temperature bottled water, and kept the salad for last. Most of the customers left the restaurant to return to work.

Violet put her hand between her legs and pushed the hem of her skirt high enough to touch a raised part of the skin on her inner thigh. It was a scar Burnett gave her during one of his games. She’d agreed to it, but it left her with a permanent, discolored ridge on the silkiness near her pussy. She pulled down the hem of her skirt, shifting her legs under the table.

She put her hand to her mouth. She touched her full lips with the fingers that had caressed the blemish. It was the only imperfection on her skin. She vowed to get even with Burnett. She bit gently on her lower lip, pouting.

Her hands itched, she reached for the glass of water just to do something with one of them, wanting the uncomfortable feeling to go away, and when it didn’t go away she thought a slap in the face might do the trick. Instead, she quickly swallowed a mouthful of water, a few drops ran down her chin. She ignored them. She took a deep breath, then finished the salad, spearing slices of tomato with her fork. Violet ordered coffee. When she finished it the waitress re-filled the cup.

She left the restaurant and wasn’t in a hurry to go anywhere though she knew what she was going to do at nightfall. It was late afternoon now, people walked slowly along the sidewalk window-shopping. She watched them as if they couldn’t see her. She gave the younger, wealthy-looking men a perfect examination with her eyes. It made them uncomfortable. They gazed back at her, taking stock of every line and curve, trying not to draw attention to themselves. Some of them stared thoroughly, boldly at Violet Archer, their eyes sharp as razors climbing slowly from her shoes to her black hair.

Burnett hadn’t looked at her like that, but he was smart. The transparent ones didn’t appeal to Violet Archer. Burnett didn’t let it happen right away, he kept his interest in her just beneath the surface out of sight. He played the hand he held just to get her, and he didn’t use the same cards again.

Violet saw him once or twice a week if he wanted it that way whether or not she was in the mood to see him. He never told her she was anything more than someone to play with and that was what kept her from leaving him. She liked it. And she liked the games he played with her even when they hurt. Then he was bored, it was over, he dumped her, and it threw her out of balance. Now she’d get something out of him that would make her happy. He was going to pay for his indifference and the scar between her legs.