Bruce DeSilva - Cliff Walk

“You’re sure you’re okay with this?”

“I’ll survive.”

“Well, okay, then. Good-bye.”

“Good-bye, Dorcas.”

As I clicked off, I had the fleeting thought that I should warn poor deluded Doug; but I stifled it. I pulled back onto the road, cranked the prostitution playlist up loud, and sang along with the music. At one point I think I may have shouted, “Yippie!” But as I crossed the bridge over the Providence River, I felt suddenly deflated.

The witch was getting married again. How come I didn’t have somebody?

Lomax stripped Mason’s story across page one on Sunday, and it caused an immediate sensation. Preachers denounced the governor and the state legislature from the pulpit. The governor, in turn, denounced the paper for spreading the lie that he’d taken money from a pornographer-and then promised to return it. The Sword of God, assault rifles at port arms, picketed the governor’s McMansion in Warwick, chanting, “Little Rhody is not for sale”-a slogan that couldn’t have been more inaccurate. Fiona announced a criminal investigation and demanded immediate passage of her bill outlawing prostitution. All the national TV networks trumpeted the story. CNN embellished its coverage with a hastily prepared feature on Rhode Island corruption through the ages, complete with video of a dozen mayors, judges, and state legislators being led away in handcuffs. FOX News dressed up its report with spy camera video of half-naked hookers cavorting inside the Tongue and Groove. And a good time was had by all.

On Tuesday, the judiciary committees sent Fiona’s bill to the floors of the house and senate. Wednesday morning, the house passed it by a vote of 72-2 with one abstention, and that afternoon, the senate approved it by a vote of 38-0. Thursday morning, the governor signed it into law. And that evening, Fiona went on television to crow that “the shameful era of legalized prostitution in Rhode Island is over” and to hint that she was considering a run for governor. I had to squint to be sure, but I think she was wearing makeup.

Next morning, the Dispatch ’s editors huddled to discuss whether the newspaper should continue to refer to Fiona as “Attila the Nun.” Lomax was in favor, calling the appellation colorful and instantly recognizable. The fuddy-duddy copydesk chief was opposed, saying it was now technically inaccurate. As the debate heated up, I could hear their raised voices through the closed conference room door.

The new law made prostitution a misdemeanor punishable by six months in prison, a one-thousand-dollar fine, or both, and it applied equally to hookers and their Johns. The strip clubs were given just a week to clean up their act, and Mayor Carroza vowed that the Providence Police Department would be vigilant in enforcing it. So the night the law went live, I decided to check it out.

There were only a dozen cars in the parking lot at the Tongue and Groove. Inside, I found Joseph DeLucca chugging a beer at the bar. He wiped the foam from his upper lip with the tail of his Hawaiian shirt as I sat beside him.

“What are you doing here?” I asked. “I thought you got promoted.”

“That’s only for when the ex-SEALs are out of town.”

“Oh. Too bad.”

“Not really. I like this job better.”

“How come?”

“Free beer and pussy.”

As my eyes adjusted to the dark, I spotted several bullet holes from slugs that had gone wide of King Felix’s nervous triggerman. I looked around and saw only six girls and a handful of customers in the place.

“Slow night?” I said.

“Thank God,” he said. “I need the breather.”

“How do you mean?”

“It’s been fuckin’ nuts in here the last week. Guys in a panic about the new law showed up in droves. All the regulars, half the student bodies of URI and PC, busloads of horny bastards from Boston, Hartford, and Worcester. All of ’em desperate to legally screw a hooker one last time. And don’t even ask me about last night. It was un-fuckin’-believable !”

“Tell me more.”

“By nine o’clock I counted four hundred guys in here, which is fifty over the legal limit, and there were more outside trying to force their way in. I put the other bouncer on the door, told him not to let anyone else in until somebody came out. That left me alone on the inside, and it wasn’t pretty.”

“How so?”

“Four hundred horny guys and forty hookers? You do the fuckin’ math.”

“Fistfights?”

“A couple, yeah. And a whole lot of pushin’ and shovin’.”

“That how you got the shiner?”

“Uh-huh.”

“You got only ten private rooms here, right?”

“Right.”

“How’d that work out?”

“Would have had a fuckin’ riot, we hadn’t let the girls straddle guys reverse cowgirl at the cocktail tables. Shoulda been here, Mulligan. It was one hell of a party.”

“But it’s all over now,” I said.

“No, not really.”

“How do you mean?”

“Business will pick up again once word gets around.”

“What word?” I asked.

“Hang around for a while and you’ll see for yourself.” He waved the bartender over and asked him to bring us a couple of Buds.

“How’s the leg?” I asked.

“Healed up good as new.”

We were watching a Hispanic girl with a strawberry birthmark on her ass hump a stripper pole when a tall brunette in a G-string and nothing else pranced up and rubbed her palm against the front of my jeans.

“I’m Caramel. What’s your name?”

“They call me Mulligan.”

“Want to have some fun with Caramel tonight, Mulligan?”

What I thought was that Marical would be even more fun, but what I said was: “I heard all the fun ended last night.”

“You heard wrong.”

“Yeah?”

“Why don’t we find a dark corner where I can suck your cock? Or if you want, we can get a private room, and you can fuck me.”

The complimentary card for a trip around the world was still in my wallet. I wondered if I was the only one who heard it singing. It crooned the chorus to “Bad Girl” and segued into the opening verse of “Honky Tonk Women.”

I met a gin-soaked barroom queen in Memphis…

“Sorry, Caramel. I think I’ll just sit here and watch the show.”

“You sure?”

“I am.”

“If you change your mind, just call out my name, okay?”

“Sure thing,” I said.

She spun on her stilettos and was gone.

“What’s up with that?” I asked Joseph.

“Just business as usual.”

“What about the law?”

“What about it?”

I thought about it for half a second. “When the governor and the state legislators stop taking your money,” I said, “you pay off the cops.”

“Mulligan,” he said, “you never heard that from me.”

Maybe it was because I’d gone so long without sex, but today Vanessa Maniella looked especially enticing in a tight cashmere sweater that showed off the swell of her breasts and a short gray skirt that displayed a fine pair of legs.

“Thanks for agreeing to meet me,” she said.

“You’re welcome.”

“I thought it was time we got to know each other better.”

“Of course you did. My boyish charm is hard to resist.”

“I didn’t mean it that way.”

“No?”

“I’m not into men.”

“Oh.”

“Sorry to disappoint.”

“Don’t tell my achy breaky heart.”

“Billy Ray Cyrus?”

“Yeah, but he wrote it about me.”

We were seated at a table for two in the Cheesecake Factory at the Providence Place Mall. Outside the plate glass window, I could see Black Shirt, or maybe it was Gray Shirt, keeping an eye on us from a Hummer that was parked illegally on the street.