Трумен Капоте: Answered Prayers

"… so after that," the mulatto was saying, "I stayed a week with Spencer in San Diego. Spencer! He is oooee some rocket , wow. One night we were parachuting along the San Diego Freeway, and Spencer picked up this spade marine, a real country-boy piece of smoked Alabama beef, so Spencer was like LoinLy after it in the back seat, and afterward the guy says: 'I sho can see what I git outta it. It feel good. But what I sho can't see is what you fellas git outta it.' And Spencer tells him: 'Ah, man. It's deelicious. Jes pussy on a stick.'»

The secretary languidly turned upon me a disapproving pair of wintergreen eyes. A blond, and how! — his skin had the golden oleo gleam that comes from long Cherry Grove weekends. yet, overall, he seemed decidedly moldy—a sort of suntanned Uriah Heep. "Yes?" he inquired in a voice that crawled coolly through the air like an exhalation of mentholated smoke.

I told him I wanted to see Miss Self. He asked my purpose, and I said I had been recommended by Woodrow Hamilton. He said: "You will have to fill out our form. Are you applying as a client? Or as a prospective employee?"

"Employee."

"Mmmmm," mused Black Beauty, "that's too bad. I wouldn't have minded scrambling your eggs, daddy." And the secretary? prissily pissed-off, said: "Okay, Lester. Shove your sore ass off sister's desk and hustle it down to the Americana. You've got a five-thirty. Room 507."

When I had completed the questionnaire, which asked nothing beyond the customary Age? Address? Occupation? Marital Status? Dracula's daughter evaporated with it into an inner office—and while he was gone, this girl ambled in, an overweight but damned attractive girl, a young boul de suif with a pink creamy round face and a fat pair of boobs squirming inside the bodice of a summery pink dress.

She cuddled down next to me and tucked a cigarette between her lips. "How about it?" I explained if it was a match she wanted, I couldn't help her as I'd stopped smoking, and she said: "So have I. This is just a prop. I meant how about it, where's Butch? Butch!" she cried, rising to engulf the returning secretary.

"Maggie!"

"Butch!"

"Maggie!" Then, coming to his senses: "You bitch. Five days! Where have you been?"

"Didja miss Maggie?"

"Fuck me . What do I count? But that old guy from Seattle. Oy vey, the hell he raised when you stood him up Thursday night."

"I'm sorry, Butch. Gee."

"But where have you been, Maggie? I went to your hotel twice. I called a hundred times. You might have checked in."

"I know. But see… I got married."

"Married? Maggie!"

"Please, Butch. It's nothing serious. It won't interfere ."

"I can't imagine what Miss Self will say." And at last he remembered me. "Oh, yes," this secretary said, as if flicking lint off a sleeve, "Miss Self will see you now, Mr. Jones. Miss Self," he announce, opening a door for me, "this is Mr. Jones."

She looked like Marianne Moore; a stouter, Teutonized Miss Moore. Grey hausfrau braids pinioned her narrow skull; she wore no makeup, and her suit, one might say uniform, was of prison-matron blue serge—a lady altogether as lacking in luxury as were her premises. Except … on her wrist I noticed a gold oval-shaped watch with Roman numerals. Kate McCloud had one just like it; it had been given her by John F. Kennedy, and it came from Cartier in London, where it had cost twelve hundred dollars.

"Sit down, please." Her voice was rather teacup-timid, but her cobalt eyes had the 20/20 steeliness of a gangland hit man. She glanced at the watch that was so out of keeping with her inelegant texture. "Will you join me? It's well after five." And she extracted from a desk drawer two shot glasses and a bottle of tequila, something I'd never tasted and didn't expect to like. "You'll like it," she said. "It's got balls. My third husband was Mexican. Now tell me," she said, tapping my application form, "have you ever done this work before? Professionally?"

Interesting question; I thought about it. "I wouldn't say professionally . But I've done it for… profit."

"That's professional enough. Kicks!" she said and hooked down a neat jigger of tequila. She grimaced. Shuddered. "Buenos Dios , that's hairy. Hairy . Go on," she said. "Knock it back. You'll like it."

It tasted to me like perfumed benzine.

"Now," she said, "I'm going to roll you some clean dice, Jones. Middle-aged men account for ninety percent of our clientele, and half our trade is offbeat stuff one way and another. So if you want to register here strictly as a straight stud, forget it. Are you with me?"

"All the way."

She winked and poured herself another shot. "Tell me, Jones. Is there anything you won't do?"

"I won't catch. I'll pitch. But I won't catch."

"Ah, so?" She was German; it was only the souvenir of an accent, like a scent of cologne lingering on an antique handkerchief. "Is this a moral prejudice?"

"Not really. Hemorrhoids."

"How about S. and M.? F. F.?"

"The whole bit?"

"Yes, dear. Whips. Chains. Cigarettes. F. F. That sort of thing."

"I'm afraid not."

"Ah, so? And is this a moral prejudices?"

"I don't believe in cruelty. Even when it gives someone else pleasure."

"Then you have never been cruel?"

"I didn't say that."

"Stand up," she said. "Take off your jacket. Turn around. Again. More slowly. Too bad you aren't a bit taller. But you've got a good figure. A nice flat stomach. How well hung are you?"

"I've never had any complaints."

"Perhaps our audience is more demanding. You see, that's the one question they always ask: how big is his joint?"

"Want to see it?" I said, toying with my super-special Robert Hall fly.

"There is no reason to be crude, Mr. Jones. You will learn that although I am someone who speaks directly, I am not a crude person. Now sit down," she said, refilling both our tequila glasses. "So far I have been the inquisitor. What would you like to know?"

What I wanted to know was her life story; few people have made me so immediately curious. Was she perhaps a Hitler refugee, a veteran of Hamburg's Reeperbahn, who had emigrated to Mexico before the war? And it crossed my mind that possibly she was not the power behind this operation but, like most American brothel keepers and sex-café padrones, a front for Mafioso entrepreneurs.

"Cat got your tongue? Well, I'm sure you will want to understand our financial agreement. The standard fee for an hour's booking is fifty dollars, which we will split between us, though you may keep any tips the client gives you. Of course, the fee varies; there will be occasions when you will make a great deal more. And there are bonuses available for every acceptable client or employee you recruit. Now?" she said, aiming her eyes at me like a pair of gun barrels, "there are a number of rules by which you must abide. There will be no drugging or excessive drinking. Under no circumstances will you ever deal directly with a client—all bookings must be made through the service. And at no time may an employee associate socially with a client. Any attempt at negotiating a private deal with a client means instant dismissal. Any attempt at blackmailing or in any way embarrassing a client will result in very severe retribution—by which I don't mean mere dismissal from the service."

So: those dark Sicilian spiders are indeed the weavers of this web.

"Have I made myself understood?"

"Utterly."

The secretary intruded. "Mr. Wallace calling. Very urgent. I think he's smashed."

"We are not interested in your opinions, Butch. Just put the gentleman on the line." Presently she lifted a receiver, one of several on her desk. "Miss Self here. How are you, sir? I thought you were in Rome. Well, I read it in the Times . That you were in Rome and had had an audience with the pope. Oh, I'm sure you're right: quel camp! Yes, I hear you perfectly. I see. I see." She scribbled on a note pad, and I could read what she wrote because one of my gifts is to read upside down: Wallace Suite 713 HotelPlaza . "I'm sorry, but Gumbo isn't with us anymore. These black boys, they're so unreliable. However, we'll have someone there shortly. Not at all. Thank you."