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Authors: Michael Litchfield
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in one of the most salubrious neighbourhoods, but front doors could be exactly that – just a
front
. And behind those doors could be a moral cesspit. More often than not.
The stairs were uncarpeted. All light was artificial, provided by a single, jaundiced bulb; no lampshade. The peeling walls were painted a sickly green. The first-floor landing creaked under my modest weight. The door to Venus was ajar.
‘This way,’ Husky called out, hearing my footsteps.
The décor of the office was very different from the approach. For a start, there was a carpet. Alongside a window was aburgundy-coloured chaise longue that was in reasonable condition. Framed soft-porn prints, art deco style, were hanging on all four walls. The rest of the furnishing was minimal. Husky sat behind a large, sturdy redwood desk, on which were stacked black-leather portfolios of the agency’s ‘talent’; also a couple of white phones and the two-way intercom speaker. I suspected that there was also a red panic-button somewhere down the side of her desk that, when pressed, would bring the blue cavalry to the rescue.
‘Hi,’ Husky said, cheerily, rising and offering a hand that was decorated with rings on every finger. ‘I’m Jasmine, sweet as the flower.’
‘Nice,’ I said, stupidly.
‘And you are?’
‘Not so nice. Michael Lorenzo.’
With a fleeting, sickly smile, she said, ‘Well, how do you do, Michael? Or do you prefer Mike?’
‘I do well, thank you, and Detective Inspector will do just fine.’
For a moment she appeared like a figure in a DVD when you have pressed the ‘pause’ button. Her large, puffy mouth was stuck half open in a ridiculous rictus, while her darkling eyes were frozen. I held my ID in front of her painted face and sightless gaze, but it was still a few more seconds before the DVD was running again.
‘I see,’ she said, finally, at last
really
seeing. Her hand was quickly withdrawn before I could squeeze her flesh. These sorts of folk weren’t inclined to do handshakes and other welcoming gestures with cops. ‘I assume this is a business call?’ Her voice had lost much of its husky texture, which must have been fake, like most of her face, though there didn’t seem to be much imitation about the breasts that were tippling over the top of her décolletage.
‘Strictly business,’ I said.
By now she had returned her substantial bum to the leather chair from whence it had risen like a full moon. She crossed her legs, made black and shiny by the tights that submarined down her undulating legs. Her skirt was as tight as a corset, with the hem nearer her navel than her knees. With her long fingers and brightly painted nails, she eyed me suspiciously, in the manner of a wife whose husband has called to say he’ll be working late at the office for the fifth successive evening.
‘How can I help?’ said Jasmine, without much enthusiasm, a touch of cockney creeping into her voice that was now metallic-hard . ‘You said you were looking for a
lady
. If that’s true, you’ve come to the right place. We have lots of ’em on our books.’ She patted the leather-bound portfolios to underscore her statement, much of her cockiness restored. ‘Much of the dating these days is done by Internet. We have our own website. If you visit it, you’ll see all the same girls that we have in our albums and you can browse at leisure.’
‘I’m not here to make a booking,’ I said, inviting myself to sit.
‘Then I don’t understand. You did say you were looking for a lady, right?’
‘Yes, but a specific lady. One who would have been on your books almost thirty years ago.’
The hiatus that followed was filled with suppressed laughter and overt incredulity. When finally she was able to speak, she said, ‘There’s no demand these days for grandmas.’ She thought she was funny.
‘I said the person I need to find was one of this agency’s girls about three decades ago.’
‘About the year I was
front
. And behind those doors could be a moral cesspit. More often than not.
The stairs were uncarpeted. All light was artificial, provided by a single, jaundiced bulb; no lampshade. The peeling walls were painted a sickly green. The first-floor landing creaked under my modest weight. The door to Venus was ajar.
‘This way,’ Husky called out, hearing my footsteps.
The décor of the office was very different from the approach. For a start, there was a carpet. Alongside a window was aburgundy-coloured chaise longue that was in reasonable condition. Framed soft-porn prints, art deco style, were hanging on all four walls. The rest of the furnishing was minimal. Husky sat behind a large, sturdy redwood desk, on which were stacked black-leather portfolios of the agency’s ‘talent’; also a couple of white phones and the two-way intercom speaker. I suspected that there was also a red panic-button somewhere down the side of her desk that, when pressed, would bring the blue cavalry to the rescue.
‘Hi,’ Husky said, cheerily, rising and offering a hand that was decorated with rings on every finger. ‘I’m Jasmine, sweet as the flower.’
‘Nice,’ I said, stupidly.
‘And you are?’
‘Not so nice. Michael Lorenzo.’
With a fleeting, sickly smile, she said, ‘Well, how do you do, Michael? Or do you prefer Mike?’
‘I do well, thank you, and Detective Inspector will do just fine.’
For a moment she appeared like a figure in a DVD when you have pressed the ‘pause’ button. Her large, puffy mouth was stuck half open in a ridiculous rictus, while her darkling eyes were frozen. I held my ID in front of her painted face and sightless gaze, but it was still a few more seconds before the DVD was running again.
‘I see,’ she said, finally, at last
really
seeing. Her hand was quickly withdrawn before I could squeeze her flesh. These sorts of folk weren’t inclined to do handshakes and other welcoming gestures with cops. ‘I assume this is a business call?’ Her voice had lost much of its husky texture, which must have been fake, like most of her face, though there didn’t seem to be much imitation about the breasts that were tippling over the top of her décolletage.
‘Strictly business,’ I said.
By now she had returned her substantial bum to the leather chair from whence it had risen like a full moon. She crossed her legs, made black and shiny by the tights that submarined down her undulating legs. Her skirt was as tight as a corset, with the hem nearer her navel than her knees. With her long fingers and brightly painted nails, she eyed me suspiciously, in the manner of a wife whose husband has called to say he’ll be working late at the office for the fifth successive evening.
‘How can I help?’ said Jasmine, without much enthusiasm, a touch of cockney creeping into her voice that was now metallic-hard . ‘You said you were looking for a
lady
. If that’s true, you’ve come to the right place. We have lots of ’em on our books.’ She patted the leather-bound portfolios to underscore her statement, much of her cockiness restored. ‘Much of the dating these days is done by Internet. We have our own website. If you visit it, you’ll see all the same girls that we have in our albums and you can browse at leisure.’
‘I’m not here to make a booking,’ I said, inviting myself to sit.
‘Then I don’t understand. You did say you were looking for a lady, right?’
‘Yes, but a specific lady. One who would have been on your books almost thirty years ago.’
The hiatus that followed was filled with suppressed laughter and overt incredulity. When finally she was able to speak, she said, ‘There’s no demand these days for grandmas.’ She thought she was funny.
‘I said the person I need to find was one of this agency’s girls about three decades ago.’
‘About the year I was
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