“All right,” he says. “Fine.”
He takes the money from his shirt pocket and holds it up in the air for a second, eye-level, then tosses it on top of the bureau.
“What do you want me to do?” Mina asks, and follows the words with a long-practiced lick of her lips.
Speer moves around her, takes a seat in the rocker on top of his suitcoat, loosens his tie, and puts his hands down on the rocker’s arms.
“Now you stand in front of me,” he says, his voice barely audible. Mina positions herself before him.
“Now,” he says, “you get those whore’s clothes off you.”
She nods, slides out of her heels, then, slowly, arching her body side to side, she begins to pull her top off over her head, saying, “You gonna love what Mina’s got for you.”
“No,” Speer barks, surprising them both. Mina holds the loose halter against her chest for a second, then Speer starts rocking slowly, lowers his voice, and says, “Don’t use that name. In this room, your name is Margie.”
Mina nods and Speer says, “Say it.”
“My name is Margie.”
“Say it again.”
Mina sighs a bit, but complies. “My name is Margie.”
“All right,” Speer says, “keep going.”
She drops the halter to the ground, reaches around behind, and unzips the skirt, then pushes it down her legs. She unsnaps the garters on her thighs and does a very slow roll-down of the stockings. She can hear Speer’s breathing get heavier and she sees him shift slightly in his seat. She bunches up one stocking and throws it into Speer’s lap.
“I don’t want that,” he says, his voice a bit high, but there’s no conviction in the words and he leaves the stocking where it’s fallen.
Mina puts her hands on her hips, turns her waist slightly side to side, showing the customer all the vantages, letting him take in and cement the memories he’ll call up weeks and months from now.
Speer repositions his feet and stops the rocker from moving. The only sound in the musty room is the dry catch of his swallow over the low static of the radio.
“Lie down on the bed,” he says, and Mina smiles at him and stretches out on her side, her elbow bent and her arm propping her head as she looks at him.
“Lie on your back,” he whispers, and she obeys.
He continues to sit in the rocker staring at her as she stares up at the ceiling.
“Close your eyes,” he says, and she turns her head and glances at him, then heeds his request.
There’s nothing but static for a full minute, then Mina hears the creak of the chair as he stands, but she keeps her eyes closed. The ritual Johns will freak if you screw up the program at a crucial moment. But then they pay well when you follow the directions exactly. All in all, it balances out.
From across the room, she hears him say, “I’m very tired tonight, Margie. Do you have to hear the story again?”
She doesn’t know what to do. She’s not sure he wants her to speak. And if he does, she’s not sure what the answer should be. So she says nothing, stays prone with her eyes squeezed shut.
Then he whispers, “Please tell me the story,” the words muffled as if he were trying to keep his lips from moving, a bad ventriloquist or a kid cheating on a school exam.
“Please tell me the story,” she repeats, and can tell immediately she’s done the right thing, her instincts are on target.
She hears the sound of a zipper being opened.
“But Margie,” he says softly, “you have no idea the day I’ve had, the things I’ve witnessed out there.”
“I want to hear the story,” she demands, her voice bolder, more adamant.
And as if her tone has energized him, she hears the rapid fumbling of clothes being shed, coins falling from pockets and clanging on the linoleum floor.
“Please, Margie,” but his voice is already resigned, “I just want to lie down next to you. I just want to hold you and sleep.”
“You tell it to me right now,” she snaps, feeling in charge and liking it, sure he’ll capitulate to any request.
He comes to the side of the bed, strokes her cheek gently, takes her by the wrist. Then she feels the coolness of the metal and at the same time hears the ratcheted-click sound and opens her eyes in time to see him securing the other end of the handcuff to the frame of the bed.
“What the fuck,” she yells, and jerks her arm away, but she’s already locked in. With her free hand she takes a futile swing at him, but he sidesteps it and holds a finger up to his mouth, saying, “Quiet down, Margie. Right now.”
Mina shakes her head at him, controls herself enough to say, “I don’t do this shit, asshole. You want this shit, you go down Hip Sing Street. Everyone knows that.”
He’s naked from the waist down, but he’s still got his starched white shirt on and his tie is still pulled up to his throat. He’s smiling and nodding, saying, “Relax, Margie. You’ve done this before. This is not a problem.”
“Take this thing off or I’ll start screaming—”
“Margie—”
“I mean it, asshole. Get it off now.”
He holds the key up in the air for her to see and says, “Please, Margie. I’ll let you go anytime you want. You know that. But I’ll pay you double your rate if you relax and stay. I always have. I’m a man of my word.”
He suddenly doesn’t seem very dangerous to Mina, just an intricate kink with some cash to burn.
“Let me hold the key,” she says.
He places it gently on her stomach. She picks it up and holds it in her free hand.
“I want triple time,” she says. “These things are uncomfortable.”
“My money is your money, Margie. Have I ever denied you anything?”
Mina slowly settles back on the bed and he stands over her, brushes her cheek again like a lover, and says, “Now close the eyes and ask me.”
He starts to move to the foot of the bed and Mina realizes this could be over in three short minutes, so she closes her eyes and takes a breath and says, “Tell me the story again.”
There’s a pause. He gives a dry cough and says, “If you insist—”
She interrupts and says, “I insist. Right now. I want the story. Give it to me.”
She hears him take a deep, halting breath and she spreads her legs, but he doesn’t move from his spot at the foot of the bed.
And then he begins.
“Mr. Hoover was born on January first, 1895, in Washington, D.C.”
What the hell is this shit? Mina wonders, and starts to open one eye. But Speer yells, “Don’t you dare, Margie. You asked and now you’ll have to hear the whole story. You asked for this. You did.”
With one hand, Speer is grabbing the foot bar at the end of the bed. And with the other, he’s grabbing himself.
Mina closes her eyes before she bursts out laughing. She bites down on the inside of her cheeks to keep silent and thinks, Rosalita won’t believe this.
“Mr. Hoover went to law school at night, attending George Washington University. He graduated in 1916 and went on to, to …”—there’s some hesitation, some deep breathing, then he continues—“achieve a master of law degree the following year, whereupon he entered in service to the Department of Justice as a file reviewer”—the voice speeds up just a bit—“and within two years was appointed special assistant to the then Attorney General, A. Mitchell Palmer. In May of 1924 he was named acting director of the Bureau of Investigation”—a pause for breath, a swallow, the pitch gets higher. “Disgusted with the scandals of the Harding administration, Mr. Hoover devised his own rigorous methods of recruiting and regimenting new personnel.” The end of the bed lifts off the floor slightly, then bangs back down, and Mina almost convulses with laughter, but manages to dig her nails into her thigh to short-circuit the attack. “Mr. Hoover established the world’s largest fingerprint file, brought practicing scientists into the world of law enforcement and built, built”— the bed lifts and bangs again—“the National Academy where,” and again the bed slams up and down, “officers from all over the country could come, come, and train and”—this is it, Mina thinks, el fin grande—“and he retained his post until his death at, his death, on May second, 1972, his death am-amid vicious rumors about his loyal and trusting, he brought order to, he brought, he saved, he ordered, hunted the agents of chaos and anarchy that, he, he …,” and the rest turns into a groaning yell and the bed is shoved back against the wall and Mina opens her eyes to see only his hand still grasping the foot bar. The rest of him is crumbled down on the floor below her eye level.