William Kienzle - Chameleon

“Why would a nun be on the make?”

“Wait a minute, I think I heard this one. But the way I heard it, the nun leaves the-whaddya call it? — the convent, the order, whatever. It’s the middle of the school year, the wrong time for the job market, her being a teacher and everything. So, to tide her over, she gets a job as a hooker. And she does fantastic business.

“Her pimp can’t figure it out. She isn’t that great a looker, but she’s bringing in twice the trade of any of his other girls. So, to learn how she does it, the pimp bugs her room. He hears her, usin’ that tone of voice kindergarten teachers use-only she’s talkin’ to a john. And she’s sayin’, ‘No, no! You’re doing it all wrong. You’re going to have to do it over and over again until you get it right!’”

“Very funny. But I wasn’t joking.”

“Whaddya mean?”

“Over there …”Under cover of his newspaper he gestured toward the far side of the lobby of the Pontchartrain.

“What?” The other man’s eyes followed the direction of the gesture, but he could detect nothing out of the ordinary.

“Over there, Fred: sitting on the couch … near the lamp. She’s doing her nails.”

Fred pinpointed her. “Oh, yeah, What gives you the idea she’s a nun?”

“That’s about as uniformed as they get nowadays. It’s called a modified habit.”

“That’s a nun?” Fred was not buying it. Not yet. “Go on! I’ve seen pictures of them!”

“Lately?”

“Sure! On TV. Ingrid Bergman. Loretta Young.”

“Fred, those are old movies. You find a nun dressed in an oldfashioned habit from head to toe now, she’s in a nursing home or she’s wacko or senile.”

“Well, pardon me , Al; we can’t all be good Catholics like you.”

“Just read a paper once in a while, willya, Fred.”

“Why? You can get all the news you need in a half hour on TV.”

“Even so, you musta seen nuns on the news. They’re always protesting nuclear power plants or war or they’re feeding the poor or something.”

“Oh, yeah, there’s Mother Teresa, I know her, But she wears the habit.”

“That’s a sari. But I’ll give you it looks like a habit. Haven’t you seen any of the other nuns?”

“Al, if they’re not wearin’ a habit, how would I know?”

“Well, for one thing, the TV reporter identifies them.”

“I guess I haven’t been payin’ that much attention.” Fred sounded repentant. “But take that little lady over there. How’d you know she’s a nun?”

“The veil mostly.”

“That’s a veil? Don’t look like a veil to me. Not a nun-type veil. Where’s that stuff they used to wear around their faces that pinched their cheeks and mouth?”

Al sighed deeply. He would not have made a patient teacher. “That’s why I called it a modified habit. The veil sits back on her head, lets her hair show. It’s supposed to remind you of what the wimple-the old veil-was like. Same with the rest of the habit … uniform would be a better name for it.” His tone made it clear he intended the term to be derogatory. Continuing the comparison, he added, “And that starched white collar is what’s left of the … you know, the bib. There’s even a scapular.”

“A what?”

“That strip of cloth that hangs down fore and aft. It covers her shoulders. That’s why they call it a scapular.”

Fred was impressed. “God, Al, I had no idea you knew so much about nuns. I didn’t know anybody knew that much.” Fred mulled over his newfound respect for the religious insight of his companion. “Okay, so she’s a nun. But what makes you think she’s a hooker? I mean, I got a problem with that. A nun a hastler? Sheesh! That almost makes me sick to my stomach. Maybe you’re wrong, Al.” Fred sounded as if he were praying that his otherwise knowledgeable friend was mistaken.

“Maybe, but I don’t think so. When was the last time you saw a nun who looked like that?”

“Geez, I don’t know. The last time I can remember seeing nuns, all they had was faces and hands. Everything else was covered up.”

“Okay, well, take my word for it: Nuns-even today’s nuns-don’t look like that. Doing her nails in public? Come on! And look at the makeup: That’s practically professional!”

“Yeah!” As Fred studied the woman in earnest, he began to appreciate her less as a possible nun and more as a desirable object.

“Don’t get me wrong,” Al continued, “nuns today may dress like everybody else or with a hint of a uniform like that one, but they’re usually kind of … well … plain. Maybe a little makeup, but nothing like that.”

“Nuns don’t necessarily prefer Hanes, huh?” Fred smiled. He enjoyed women more than just about everything else in life. He felt a growing excitement in the possibility that this fantastic-looking female might be a nun and a hooker as well.

“So, Fred, I may be wrong, but I think she’s here to turn a trick. You and I, we travel the country often enough as sales reps to know what a hooker looks like, how she acts.”

Fred was grinning. “Hey, Al, whaddya say we hit on her? I mean, if she’s really selling, I’d be glad to do a little buying. Whaddya say?”

Al shook his head. “Frankly, Fred, I don’t think we could afford her.”

She held up her hand, examined the tips of the spread fingers approvingly, tucked the emery board into her purse, and checked her watch.

She tapped her fingers against her knee. Time was not a significant consideration. Her basic charge was computed by the hour, and she had no other business on her schedule tonight. Nevertheless, waiting, killing time, made her fidgety.

As she glanced around the lobby she spotted the two men obviously studying her. They were seated far across the room, but there was no mistaking their interest.

She was used to this sort of reaction. She was a strikingly beautiful woman and she knew it.

But there was something out of the ordinary about those two across the room. At least about one of them. One was looking at her with that familiar lust to which she had grown accustomed. But the other one wore an expression that could best be described as disgust. Now why would-then she remembered: She was wearing the habit.

She almost smiled. Instead, she carefully curled a lip.

It worked. In a few seconds the two men exchanged a few words and then left the lobby. She had it all to herself. Just right.

One of the problems with being unoccupied, as she was now, was that it gave one time to think. She didn’t want time on her hands. She didn’t want to think.

That guy-the one who had been regarding her with such distaste-he reminded her of someone. Who?

Her memory searched the distant past. Way back to the days when she’d been a student at Sacred Heart school in Dearborn. Yes, that was it: Monsignor Hardy. He’d always reminded her of someone who had just smelled something repugnant.

More than once, no, frequently, she had been marched into Monsignor Hardy’s office in the rectory. Little Helen Donovan had been bad, had broken some rule, had violated some rule not yet legislated, had given scandal. Little Helen Donovan needed to be lectured, and then, after what passed for a fair trial in the parochial school of old, punished.

But that was it: old Monsignor Hardy used to look at her just the way that stranger had tonight.

It didn’t matter. She was not going to continue this line of work forever. For one thing, it was far too dangerous. You never knew what sort of client you were going to entertain. Often enough it was just an insecure guy after some variety or a thrill that he thought only a pro could deliver.