Diary of a Manhattan Call Girl. Tracy Quan

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СКАЧАТЬ he refused to believe me. “You were trying to hide your conversation the other night! Why?” My distress made him angry. “What have you done?” he demanded.

      For the first time, I was forced to consider just what Allison, in fact, had on me. We’ve been trading customers for five, maybe six, years. She knows my boyfriend. We’ve had dinner with each other’s families. She’s the only working girl I’ve ever introduced to my mom or my cousin, and yet she’s the most unstable. What was I thinking when I allowed her into my personal life? Allison even knows where I hide my cash—whatever I don’t spend, that is. I hired a lawyer, the notorious Barry Horowitz, who normally defends rich sociopaths—like those Dalton kids who hacked off that homeless man’s hand in Central Park. I hired him to defend myself against my best friend! And against Tom Winters, the IRS agent, who was also asking people about my furniture and my clients and looking for a weak link in my life.

      Tom Winters was neutralized before he could get to my boyfriend. By mid-November he was a front-page story in the Post, a public embarrassment for the U.S. Treasury Department. He had been caught—on tape—doing the very thing he accused every call girl in New York of doing: pocketing undeclared income. Winters had used his government job to extort cash from terrified shopaholic hookers who were caught spending far more than the income they declared on their tax returns. A small Barneys shopping bag filled with hundreds did him in. (It’s amazing how much cash you can fit into a bag that was designed to carry a bottle of foundation.)

      When Allison came to her senses, I felt like I was waking from a bad dream. You know, that moment when you’re not sure it was a dream and you’re not sure you’re awake yet?

      Jasmine had cautioned me last fall about making up with Allie. “If a girl ever threatened me like that—you don’t get to do that in this business! Not without consequences. And if it wasn’t for that silly bitch, your boyfriend wouldn’t have been asking you all those questions.”

      Yes, Allie got me into trouble with my boyfriend, but I managed to get myself out of it. I’ve kept his mind off “all those questions” by keeping Allie at arm’s length. I never converse with her when he’s around, always turn my cell off when I’m with him, and, to date, he’s none the wiser. Yes, I am always looking over my shoulder and sometimes I need to be alone just to decompress from my own shadow, but that’s the cost of making friends with the girls you work with. (Some hookers refuse to socialize with the other girls—and who can blame them?)

      I persuaded Jasmine not to tell anyone about Allison’s insane threats. Allison needed to get back on her feet and replace the business she had lost. If the other girls knew she had threatened to turn someone in, they’d be shocked—and she would never get any business from them again. Eileen, for example, is angry enough at Jack; I can just imagine how she’d take it if she knew about Allie’s recent conversations with him.

      Allie has never been the sharpest eyebrow pencil at the makeup counter. Her reputation as the natural blonde with the wonderful voice—too-dim-to-hurt-a-flea—has been her meal ticket. And not just with men! Allie’s the kind of girl madams adore because she’s too disorganized to steal their customers. During the last seven years, she has decided to quit the business at least four times. Professional call girls regard her as harmless competition. Fortunately for Allie, nobody knows about her angry threats. Well, nobody but me. And Jasmine.

      Today, Jasmine remarked, “That girl owes you big-time. You protected her reputation.” We were walking back from the nail salon, after an emergency pedicure (for Jasmine, due to a stubbed toe) and a routine manicure (for me). I still haven’t said anything to Jasmine about Allison and Jack.

      “If I were a bitch,” she continued. “I’d blackmail Allison and she’d be paying me to keep your secret. How much do you think it’s worth? Three hundred a week? If it’s any more than that, it’s not worth it, she might as well quit the business. But I think she could come up with a couple of hundred. The logic of blackmail—”

      “Don’t even think that way!” I said in horror.

      “Please, Allison’s so kinky she’d fucking love it, having to turn tricks to pay off some evil blackmailer. Wasn’t she claiming to be a sex addict last summer? This is right up her alley!”

      “Stop it,” I moaned.

      “Oh, come on. She’s lucky I’m not a bitch. Therefore I won’t do all those things—which, by the way, I know she would love to have done to her. That girl loves attention, and if there’s one thing a blackmailer gives you, it’s attention.”

      I suppressed a spiteful giggle. “Blackmail is not something to joke about,” I said primly.

      Jasmine became eerily calm. “No,” she agreed. “It’s not.” We were standing at the corner of York and Seventy-ninth, waiting for the light to change.

      “And not being a bitch is not some sort of unique accomplishment that you get a great big medal for,” I added.

      “Maybe not,” Jasmine allowed, heading into the crosswalk, “but it should be.”

      Uh-oh. Five o’clock. Time to rinse off my camphor mask, rewind the video, change the sheets. Milton’s due to arrive any minute now!

      THURSDAY. 2/3/00

      This morning, an emergency rendezvous with Allie at the health club. I was climbing backward on the StairMaster when she appeared, flushed and damp, in flower-print running shorts and a cropped T-shirt.

      “I have to talk to you,” she panted. “I need your advice. You’re the only person I can talk to…Why—uh—are you doing it like that?”

      “It’s supposed to work the glutes,” I said through clenched teeth. “Can you just broadcast our problems a little louder?”

      When I got to the women’s locker room, Allie had already showered. She was standing in front of a full-length mirror, sprinkling talc-free powder on her breasts. The nine-to-fivers had cleared out and the moms had gone off to Power Yoga, leaving the room empty.

      “It’s about Jack,” Allie began. Then, frowning at her image in the mirror, she added, “Does my tummy look sort of…huge today? I feel so puffy.”

      “Your abs look fine,” I reassured her. “What’s going on with Jack?”

      She patted the thin strip of blond hair between her legs with a powder puff, then stood on the scale—carefully setting the powder puff aside before she dared look at the number settings. She stepped off the scale, began pulling her panties on, then confessed, “I—um—ran into him last night.”

      “Ran into him?” I squinted at her furiously. “You saw him, didn’t you.”

      “No! I mean, yes, but not the way you mean. I ran into him because—” She blushed. “He surprised me. I was coming home from a call, and Jack was standing outside my building holding a huge bouquet of lilies! You know I love lilies.”

      “Allie. A john who shows up without an appointment is a stalker. Even if—especially if—he’s carrying your favorite flowers. You could have been walking home with a straight friend—with a boyfriend or something—and then what? Sneaking up on a hooker is pathological and disrespectful,” I told her. “Not to mention ungentlemanly.”

      “Well, СКАЧАТЬ