Milo Grymdyke was a regular. He was predictable, arriving shortly after six o'clock each Friday night and purchasing his two five-dollar tokens, eyes averted from the cashier's face, proceeding quickly to the booths in back.
The booths were tucked away behind a threadbare curtain, out of sight from patrons in the shop. They were no more than simple plywood cubicles, unpainted, furnished with a single folding chair. One wall in each consisted of a heavy metal shutter, which concealed a plate glass window and another room beyond. Insertion of a token in the proper slot would raise the shutter to reveal a woman, seated on the far side of the glass. On cue, she would disrobe, performing for her one-man audience until their time ran out and the shutter fell.
Five dollars for five minutes. It was cheap at half the price.
No contact or communication with the woman was allowed, but Grymdyke often found the windows marked by palmprints, smudged by lips and tongues. The customers were theoretically forbidden to expose themselves, but Milo found the claustrophobic atmosphere was often redolent of sweat and what he took to be the musky smell of sex.
He could not be precise about the latter smell, of course. At thirty-seven, he was still a virgin.
Grymdyke chose the third booth on a whim and closed the flimsy door behind him, checking out the metal chair before he sat. He scooted closer to the shutter, told himself that it was for convenience, so that he could reach the coin slot without rising.
Milo put a token in the slot; the shutter rose. He did not recognize the woman, although several of the regulars were now familiar to him. She was dark and slender, of indeterminate age and nationality, with blue-black hair grazing her shoulders. She wore a purple T-shirt, cut above her navel, with bikini panties in a matching shade.
Grymdyke studied her face for a moment, aware of fleeting time, the tingle in his groin. He lingered over flawless olive skin, almond eyes vaguely reminiscent of the Orient, the full lips moist and dark, without embellishment.
Seated on a chair like Milo's, she began without preamble, running long fingers over her breasts. Her nipples came erect beneath the fabric, and she nudged the hemline upward, teasing Grymdyke with a glimpse of soft, round flesh. Her eyes were closed, lips slightly parted, revealing the tip of her tongue between perfect teeth.
Her performance was less mechanical — more sincere — than many of the others, and Milo felt himself responding. There was sudden color in his cheeks, and he could feel the perspiration on his face, beneath his arms.
The woman stretched now, catlike, pulling the T-shirt off over her head. One hand returned to her smallish breasts while the other slid into her panties, making a fist in her crotch. Milo's eyes flicked back and forth between the hands, unable to choose.
She finally made the decision for him, rising and turning her back to the window, rolling the panties down across round, tan buttocks. Milo sat mesmerized as she skinned them down her thighs, below her knees, raising one leg after the other to step clear, affording him his first glimpse of pubic hair.
Both hands disappeared between her legs, invisible until the fingertips poked through in back and she leaned forward, thrusting her hips toward the window. A ripple passed along her spine — just acting? — and she turned slowly, easing back into the chair, raising one leg at a time and planting the soles of her feet on the glass. Placing herself on display.
Milo felt light-headed with the evacuation of blood to his groin. The triangle of pubic hair was neatly trimmed and glistening. Her fingers walked around it, growing bolder, finally probing for the heart, and Grymdyke felt her shudder this time, as she spread her lips.
A single bloodshot eye stared back at Milo.
Winked.
The shutter fell.
He jerked back in his chair, nearly losing his balance. For a moment, he was dumbfounded by what he had seen. (Imagined?) It was idiotic. Physically impossible. And yet…
He fumbled for the second token. Trembling, he clutched the chair with both hands as the shutter rose.
A different woman sat beyond the window, waiting. Grymdyke recognized her as a listless blonde whose platinum was showing dark around the roots. She was unbuttoning a see-through blouse when Milo bolted from the cubicle.
Impossible.
Insane.
He took a moment to compose himself before reentering the shop. His legs felt wooden as he moved in the direction of the register, the cashier perched behind it on a stool. He cleared his throat to draw the younger man's attention from a bondage magazine.
His name was Hector, stitched across the left breast of a nylon jacket. Rodent eyes examined Milo for a moment, dull and listless.
"You need somethin'?"
"Yes." It came out as a whisper and he cleared his throat, commanding vocal cords to function. "There's a girl in number three."
"There better be. That's what we pay 'em for."
"I mean, she isn't there right now…."
The cashier frowned. "Oh yeah? Well, go on back there, sport. I'll getcha somethin' nice."
"There is a girl," he said before the man could leave his seat. "It's just that… well… she's not the same."
"The same as what?"
"Before." He felt the words begin to tumble out and wondered if he sounded incoherent, or if it was only in his mind. "I put a token in, and she was dark. A tall brunette. The time ran out, and when I put another token in, there was a different girl. A blonde."
The cashier visibly relaxed, deciding he had not been served a loony, after all, but merely some poor jerk who hadn't gotten off before the clock ran down. The worrisome became routine.
"Must be her coffee break. It's the law. Go figure."
"Coffee break?"
"They switch, ya know?"
"I need to see her."
"Sure, no sweat. They only get ten minutes, 'less she's gone to lunch. That's half an hour."
"No. I need to see her privately."
The young man's manner changed. "That's what the booths are for."
"I need to see her privately… outside."
"No dice. The ladies ain't allowed to mix with any of the customers."
He felt a sudden pang of desperation. "Surely you could let me have her name?"
"I'm not supposed to give 'em out, you unnerstan'? I mean, you look okay to me, but hey — " He spread his hands and smiled.
Milo palmed a fifty-dollar bill and placed it on the counter, near the register. "I understand the need to be discreet."
A moment passed in silence. Hector frowned and made the fifty disappear. "Okay, I figure you're a stand-up guy. She's tall, dark hair, you said? Nice tits, but maybe just a little on the small side?"
"Yes." The urgency had nearly robbed him of his voice.
"That's Laney Thatcher, but she don't come cheap."
"How much?"
A lazy shrug. "Search me. Free enterprise, you know? Don't sound too hungry when you call, she might negotiate."
"The number?"
Hector had retrieved his magazine by now, directing his attention to the centerfold. "She's in the book."
In fact, he found that there were sixty-seven Thatchers in the phone book, none of them named Laney. Loran Thatcher was the closest he could find, but two were listed simply by the first initial "L," without a hint of gender to assist him.
Hector might have lied, but Milo didn't want to think so, and he pondered other explanations as he lay in bed that night. The woman — Laney — could have purchased an unlisted number, or she might not have a telephone at all. The two "L. Thatchers" were his only hope, and it was too damned late to try them now.