She shook her head. I was watching the road and looking at her in quick peeks. She was slumped still in the seat of the MG. Her feet were out straight in front of her.
"How'd you end up in Providence?" I said.
"Red sent me down here."
..Why?" She shrugged again. It was a hard conversation to follow if you were driving.
"How'd you meet Red?" I said.
"You a cop?"
"No." "How come you had a gun?"
"Private cop," I said.
"Umph." "Everybody is thrilled like that," I said. "How'd you meet Red?" She shook her head. "Red had you on the street before?"
"Uh-huh."
"That's a tough work. Classy girl like you, I would think he, might set you up in a call operation."
She didn't comment.
"Weren't you a call girl first?"
"Yeah."
"So how come you got demoted?"
"Red ordered me around too much. I don't like being ordered around."
"So you were on the street and then Red sent you down here?"
"Yeah."
"You getting punished again?" I said.
"No. I didn't give him any trouble. He just drove me down to Providence and said I had to work there."
"When?"
"Last week?"
"When last week?"
She made an impatient gesture with her head. "I don't know, last week sometime."
"Today is Monday," I said. "How many days ago did you arrive?"
She was looking down at her knees, her feet pushed out straight in the low leg well of the sports car. It was dark, but I could see a sulky set to her shoulders.
"Come on, April, how many days?"
She shook her head in disgust and took a long exasperated breath and made a considerable show of thinking and counting on her fingers. She was overacting badly-I was already willing to believe that thinking came hard for her. "Five days," she said. "Thursday," I said. "I guess so." "What time of day?" "Jesus, mister, what difference does it make? Get off my ass, will you?" "What time?" "I don't know, late in the day." "Was it dark yet?" "It was just getting dark." "Red put on the headlights?" "Not at first." "Four maybe," I said. "Four thirty?" "Sure," she said. "And you weren't having any trouble with Red?" "No. When I started I got a little out of line maybe, and Red slapped me around and said I'd have to work the Zone for a month." "How long did you have to go?" "Two weeks." "And you weren't getting out of line?" "No." "So why'd he send you to the sheep ranch?" "I don't know." "Isn't it usually a place they send troublemakers?" She nodded. "You a troublemaker''" "Just that one time, honest to God. I only did it that once time." "What did you do?" "I got a call and I didn't go. You know? I said I was going, and I went out and everything, but I didn't go. I went to the show instead. And Red finds- out and he's pissed, right? And he beats the shit out of me and makes me work the Zone. But I was good after that. I didn't do a goddamned thing. I wanted to get back on call, you know? Guys take you to nice hotel rooms. You can sleep over, in-room movies sometimes, breakfast in bed, take a shower, everything, right? I wanted to get back on that. So I didn't give anybody any trouble."
"Everybody's gotta have a dream," I said.
"Just that one time," she said. "Only time I ever did anything bad."
We were quiet then. She dreaming heavily of in-room movies and room service, me thinking about how she seemed to have been shipped to Providence shortly after I talked to Amy Gurwitz, before I spoke first with Trumps, and long before Red told me the Chandler Street address.
April said, "Can you pull over a minute? I gotta go to the bathroom."
"Want me to pull off at the next exit and find a gas station?"
"No, I gotta go real bad. Just stop here and I'll go in the woods. Please, I gotta go bad."
I pulled over onto the shoulder and April got out as soon as the car stopped moving. She ran down the small gully along the road and up the other side and into the dark trees. It took me maybe ten minutes to realize I'd been had. I waited another ten and got out and walked into the woods and yelled. Beyond the reach of the headlights on Route 95 the woods were opaque. I couldn't see anything, and I was pretty sure that by now there was nothing to see.
Chapter 17
I'm not a man who quits easily. I had planned on the Warren Tavern and, goddamn it, I went to the Warren Tavern. Susan went with me. "The old pee-in-the-bushes trick," Susan said, her eyes bright, "and you fell for it."
"The price of chivalry," I said.
Susan sipped some white wine. "At least we know her situation."
"We did," I said. "And we can speculate that her new situation won't be a big improvement."
Susan nodded. She was wearing a violet-colored knit dress and diamond earrings. Her dark hair was shiny, and she smelled of expensive perfume. I hadn't seen her since Saturday and it seemed a year. The waiter brought duck for me and scrod for her. The duck had a pecan stuffing beneath it. "Rolling Rock, a duck, and thou."
I said, "under the timbered roof."
"Poetry," Susan said. "Everything you say is poetry." "And in action?"
"Epic," she said. "What are we going to do about April?"
"We can remember April and be glad," I said. "She doesn't want to come home."
"She told you that?"
"Yes. She was happy to get out of the sheep ranch in Providence, but she wanted nothing to do with me."
"Do you have a thought on where she'll go or what she'll do now?"
"Red, maybe. Her job skills are limited and she's gotta eat."
Susan nodded, thinking. I spent a lot of time trying to decide whether she was more spectacular when she was serious or when she laughed. The energy level didn't change and in both cases the charge of her presence made breathing harder. I had never decided and maybe I wouldn't. The fun was in thinking about it.
"She'll be back in some kind of setting like that, I imagine," Susan said.
"The forces that made her become a whore probably haven't changed. The things she hated about her home and her school and her town and herself presumably remain, whether or not she spent time in a -what do they call it?"
"Sheep ranch," I said. "You know-because it's kinky."
Susan ate some scrod. "In a way it must be a kind of perverse belonging."
"To what?" I said.
"To the pimp, to the other girls who are no better than you, to"-Susan had her fingers cathedraled and tapped her upper lip-"to a world where she's desirable enough for people to pay."
"A way to be valuable?"
"Yes," Susan said, and smiled. When she smiled I always expected people to turn and stare. "You're quite intuitive for a man with a seventeen-inch neck. It's a way to be valuable, even if only as a commodity, a product."
I washed down a bit of pecan stuffing with a swallow of Rolling Rock. The bottle was empty. I gestured at the waitress and she went for more. Susan's glass was still half full. It was one of her few serious flaws.
"She's valuable to the customer," Susan said, "because he's willing to pay for her, if but briefly. She's valuable to the pimp in that she generates income, she's rental property."
The waitress brought my beer. I drank some.
"And-I'm right, am I not?-the pimp takes care of her. Sees that she's paid, gets a bail bondsman if she's arrested, sees that she's not maltreated by the customer -at least, to the extent that she can't generate income?"
"Yes."
"All of this is, of course, dehumanizing," Susan said. She wasn't eating or drinking. She was single-mindedly following the trail of her speculation. She was explaining to me, but she was also explaining to herself. Thinking out loud. As I often did with her. She had very little peripheral vision. But I had never known anyone who could concentrate the way she could, once some- thing got her attention. "But perhaps being dehumanized is a kind of sedative for someone full of self-hate. It's a way of desensitizing yourself, and of course, your every experience tells you that the rest of the world is pretty lousy too."
"Which makes you not so bad," I said.