Read Online Answered Prayers by Truman Capote - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Truman Capote
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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 announced, 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 wasMexican. 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 prejudice?”
“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
“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 announced, 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 wasMexican. 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 prejudice?”
“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
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