“Men hate these, don’t they?” she said suddenly.
“Huh?” I’d been somewhere else. Not far away, but just. . . apart.
“Pantyhose. Men hate them, don’t they?”
“Hate? That’s a pretty strong word for clothing.”
“Okay, fine. Men don’t like them, all right?”
“I’m not following you.”
“You ever see pantyhose in a skin magazine?” she asked me. “It’s all garter belts and fishnet stockings and thongs, right? Pantyhose, it’s too. . . practical. Like shoes. You think men would wear spike heels? They hurt once you have them on for a while. But they make your legs look good, so what the hell, right?”
“What do I—?”
“That’s, of course, if they’re interested in big girls, right?” she snarled, angry beyond anything I could imagine having done to her. I couldn’t figure what had ignited all that, so I just rode it—waiting, knowing there’s always a reason in the eye of the tornado. . . if you’re around long enough to take that look.
“Some of them like little plaid pleated skirts and Mary Jane shoes and white socks. . . and white cotton panties too. A garter belt would spoil all that, wouldn’t it? The. . . image, I mean. That’s what it’s all about for. . . them. Whatever they see. Their eyes. You know even blind men are like that? I have a friend. A dancer. She says they get blind customers in there too.”
“And this is all about. . . what?” I asked her, as neutral as I could, no sarcasm anywhere near my voice.
“It’s all about. . . this!” she snapped at me. “This. . . killer, you call him. Whatever name you call him. He’s a man. But he’s not like the rest of you.”
“Because he’s gay?”
“You think that’s a difference? You think gay men don’t look at us the same way? Oh sure, maybe they don’t want to fuck us. Or maybe they do and just. . . I don’t know. But who do you think runs the damn fashion industry?”
“Frederick’s of Hollywood isn’t exactly Versace,” I said.
“It’s the same thing,” she shot back. “It’s all about what men want.”
“So. . . these women who silicone their chests out to all hell, the ones who rake in a couple of grand a night under the same tables they dance on, they’re all fashion victims?”
“I didn’t say that. I’m not saying it isn’t true, but that’s not what I’m saying. I’m just saying. . . the way things are. And any of us can feel it. We know. Some of us play along. Some of us just play. But we all know. And I’m telling you something about him. Something important, if you’ll listen. He’s not like you.”
“I already know he’s—”
“Not because he’s gay,” she said.
“Fine. Because he hates fag-bashers. Because he kills a lot of them. Because he’s a fucking superior specimen of humanity, for all I know.”
“He is,” she said, calmly. “And before I do anything more, I need to know more about you.”
“Me?”
“Yes, you. You’re a mercenary, aren’t you? Lincoln says you have a ‘code.’ Some bullshit he picked up from the movies. You’re a ‘professional,’ ” she sneered. “You’d never double-cross a client. Your word is your bond. So, even if you could trade this. . . man to the cops instead of helping him get away, you’d never do that, would you? Even if it would help you get out from under a bunch of trouble of your own, huh?”
“You trust this friend of yours?” I asked her. “Not Lincoln—your playmate?”
“I told you—”
“You told me she’d kiss your ass in Macy’s window. So what? I don’t mean do you believe she’d play whatever game you ordered her to—I mean do you believe her when she says something.”
That stopped her in her tracks, as if she’d never considered it. She crossed her arms under her breasts, lifted them deliberately, looked down at herself like she was thinking about how one would taste. Then she looked over at me.
“Why do you ask?” she said.
“Ask her,” I said. “All you got so far is what anyone could give you, insider or not. Yeah, I got a record. A nice long one. And, yeah, the cops are always on my case—they got a bunch of Unsolveds with my name on them. I’m a thief. Been one since I was a baby. And I’ll be one until I die. Those ‘codes’. . . You’re right: it is all movie bullshit. Any one of those slimy little gangsters’ll rat out any other. Happens all the time. But me, I got no gang. No crew. No fucking ‘Mafia’ or anything like that. I’ve got a family. Not my blood, but more true than any DNA could be. Truly mine. I wouldn’t sell any of them no matter what the price was. My life? Fuck that. I don’t care that much about it myself anymore. So ask your little slave friend that. You know my name. She knows it. There’s cops been around long enough to know it too. I been the same since forever. My name is in the street. It’s fucking engraved there, you know where to look. It’s not all true. None of that stuff ever is. But stick your ear anywhere you want, you come back with anything that says I’d shop one of my own, I’ll kiss your ass, bitch.”
“Look, I wasn’t—”
“Save it,” I chopped her off. “This guy. This. . . killer. There’s people who think I know who he is already. People who think they know who he is. They’re wrong. The guy they suspect—he’s dead. Dead and gone. But if he was alive, I wouldn’t trade him either, not for anything. I came up with him, and he saved my life. More than once. I don’t judge him. . . . I know him. Hell, I wanted to be him once. But I. . . couldn’t.”
“Why couldn’t you—?”
“That’s not your business. And it never will be. I just told you the truth. You’re always telling me what a liar I am, right? You know it all, don’t you? Trouble is, your yardstick don’t work on everyone. You want to sit in, you have to ante up. You don’t have what it takes to back your own hand, get out of the game.”
“But if the police are wrong. . .? If it’s not this man they think you know. . .?”
“Yeah, if they’re wrong, if it’s someone else, what have they got to offer me anyway? A pass on some cases? If they really had me on those cases, I’d be Inside right now. They had me down to the precinct once already. If they had any kind of hammer, they would have showed it to me. Fuck, they would have used it on me.”
“What’s the bottom line?” she asked, standing up suddenly, looming over me, breasts swinging down close to my face.
“You think we’re all alike,” I told her. “Men, anyway. You’re wrong. You think because I like your legs better in spike heels that tells you I’d turn rat? That’s your idea of knowing stuff? You don’t know anything. You sure as hell don’t know anything about me. Want to know some truth? Go ask this friend of yours. Ask her to ask. . . Ah, I’m not giving you any references—you’d just think it was a setup. Let her ask anyone she wants about me. Tell her to ask two questions: Would I rat out my own? And what would I think of a guy who’s going around blowing up baby-rapers? When you’re all done with that, you still want to help, let’s do it. You’re not satisfied, go your own way.” I finished, getting to my feet, forcing her to step away from me.