Diary of a Manhattan Call Girl. Tracy Quan

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СКАЧАТЬ style="font-size:15px;">      But at least he didn’t make a scene in front of her doorman.

      “And when I got upstairs there was a note. Do you want to see it?” She pulled a small envelope out of her gym bag.

       I know why you’re holding back from seeing me. I’m truly sorry about what happened, and you’ll always be special to me. I think about you constantly. I miss everything about you. Please give me a chance.

       All my love, J.

      “Then he called this morning! I think I should see him. He’s being very generous. He’s offering me a lot of money, and you’ve always said I should treat this more like a business. Well, this is a business decision for me.”

      “You should set some sort of weekly quota for yourself. But that doesn’t mean you can’t have standards. Some things are not for sale,” I pointed out. “While he’s thinking about you constantly, he’s making breather calls to Eileen. He’s a loose cannon.”

      “She doesn’t know it’s him. Eileen doesn’t even have Caller ID! How can she say that?” A towel attendant entered the changing room, and we both clammed up. “Welllll,” Allie mumbled. “Don’t tell Jasmine. Or any of the other girls. Promise me you won’t say a word. But I asked him for two thousand. And he agreed.” Despite wanting to elude everyone’s disdain, she looked rather pleased with herself. “Soooo,” she said, with a hint of smugness. “What would you do?”

      Every girl has a favorite john, and who this guy is tells you a lot about the girl. Jasmine’s favorite is Harry from Darien, who keeps a black Town Car waiting while he’s getting a blow job upstairs in his socks and wing tips. Because he’s her steadiest customer and a quickie, she hasn’t raised his price in two years. In my case, there’s Milton. Unlike Harry, Milt is no quickie. Sometimes, he’s a lot of work. But he spends far more than my other regulars, and he’s willing to help if I get myself into a financial pickle. How could I not like him? He’s financially faithful. And the bottom line with a favorite john is that deep down you like it when he’s faithful. Allison’s favorite? A spineless weasel who married into a real estate family, who ratted on us all to the IRS because he was afraid his rich wife would find out about his midday excursions to call girls. Though he likes a bit of variety, he’s really obsessed with Allie. And who else would be flattered to hear that a john “thinks about her constantly”? Most professionals would run for the hills if a client said that.

      “When you have a business,” I told Allie, “you have to set your own standards. Weed out the undesirables. Being a call girl is like being responsible for a really hot restaurant. Some people get a little dessert on the house, and some don’t even get in the door. Jack shouldn’t be able to get a reservation. He’s been tainted by this IRS mess, and we can’t afford to have him around.”

      “You’re blaming the victim. That IRS agent threatened to ruin his life! You’re not being fair to him.”

      “That IRS guy threatened to ruin my life, too. But I didn’t become an informant, did I?”

      “But you don’t have children! Jack has a family, a marriage, people who depend on him.”

      “Jack’s ‘children’ are grown! It’s not as if Jack’s wife was going to get custody of two people in their late twenties!”

      “No,” she agreed. “But he didn’t want to hurt her. He was trying to protect his family. You shouldn’t condemn him for that.”

      “He blabbed to the IRS about us—and now they have every reason to think they can come back for more. What kind of man ‘protects his family’ by turning himself into a sitting duck?” I asked. “Even if what he did was justifiable, we can’t afford to deal with him. What if he gets subpoenaed? Every conversation, every transaction you have increases the risk.”

      Allison appeared to be listening, so I pressed on.

      “Look,” I said very patiently. “Your girlfriends have been sticking together and we’re not seeing this guy—”

      “That’s why he keeps calling me!” she said brightly. “And offering me so much money! None of the other girls will see him. Maybe I should ask for three thousand.”

      I shrank back in horror.

       2 Through the Hooking Glass

      FRIDAY MORNING. 2/4/00

      Last night, after our appointment with Harry, Jasmine dragged me to the Mark for a martini. Not wanting to show up blotto for dinner with my fiancé, I opted for a ladylike Kir Royale—“just one.” Jasmine ordered her usual: Absolut, straight up, with an olive.

      “I’m worried about Allison,” I confided.

      “Stop the fucking presses!” Jasmine sputtered. “When have you not worried about Allison? What sort of problem might Her Blondness be causing—I mean, having—this week?”

      I told her about Jack’s showing up at her building without an appointment and Allison’s latest bright idea, the $3,000 question. “Don’t discuss this with Allie,” I added. “Promise you won’t say a word about what I’ve told you!”

      Jasmine gave me a searing look that unnerved me.

      “Allie might say something about us to Jack,” I explained. “Do you want him as an enemy? Who knows when he might get interviewed again by the IRS? Or if she might tell him that we turned her against him…not that we did exactly…”

      My sheepish voice trailed off into a maze of denial. I tried not to think about the sin I was committing. Spilling one best friend’s secret (against her specific wishes) to another best friend! Is there a special place in hell? I hope there’s a waiting list.

      “That girl…” Jasmine was muttering darkly. “That girl’s soul is composed of cotton candy.” (I see what Allie means about Jasmine being judgmental.) “She’s a moral idiot!”

      And if Jasmine knew that Allison had asked me to keep a secret? Would she trust me not to blab her business around? But I would never tell Jasmine’s secrets to Allie. That’s the difference. I swallowed the rest of my apéritif. The sweet alcoholic potion was doing its job, morphing into a weird elixir of self-justification, smoothing out my wrinkled conscience.

      “And Eileen’s been getting creepy phone calls from him,” I went on. “She slammed the phone down. He retaliated by calling her back. And now Eileen’s telling everyone who will listen how she stood up to this jerk! What should we do?”

      Jasmine frowned into her empty glass. “We should get another drink. And keep Jack in perpetual limbo—if we can. Eileen’s too confrontational for her own good.” As she signaled to the waiter, her wrist glittered winningly. (That guy on Forty-seventh Street who does those Bulgari knockoffs. I must remember to ask for his number.)

      Jasmine sighed and shook her head. “Eileen reminds me of those big dumb guys from my old neighborhood who were always getting into bar fights!” she said. Eileen’s about five feet tall, but Jasmine has a СКАЧАТЬ