False Allegations (2 page)

“You don’t smoke, right?”

“No, I don’t.”

“So if he was over here, he could smell smoke…He’d know you had company.”

Her laugh was a sad, dry thing. “Fat chance. He never comes here. Never.”

“So how do you…?”

“It’s an electronic affair, luv,” she said. “Very Nineties, isn’t it? I’ve got a PC in one of the bedrooms in the back. He pays my bills over a modem— anytime I want to see my balance, I can just call it up on the screen. Anything else you want to know?”

“Yeah,” I said. “What kind of name is Bondi?”

A quick smile played around her lips. “It’s from Bondi Beach. Right near Sydney. In Australia, where I’m from. My mom always said I was conceived on that beach, so she gave me that name. She was a young girl then, working square, before she went on the bash. All she could tell me about my dad is that he was a soldier. On leave he was. He left my mom something, all right.”

“Tell me about the lie,” I said. “The lie about love.”

“Oh smoke your cigarette, then,” she replied, a faint trace of the smile still playing on her lips. “I’ll even get you a beer if you want, how’s that?”

“I’m okay,” I said, settling back in the chair again. “Tell me.”

She got up, came over to where I was sitting. “That one’s built for two,” she said. “Move over.” I slid as far as I could to the left. She plopped down next to me…a tight squeeze. I pulled my right arm out from between us. She nestled into my chest. I draped my arm over her shoulders. She reached across her body with her left hand, grabbed my right hand and pulled it down, the way you’d pull a blanket over your shoulders. “Give us a puff, then,” she said, “I haven’t smoked in years, but I remember how good it used to taste.”

I held out the cigarette. She moved her mouth into it, took a quick, short hit. She exhaled powerfully, making a satisfied sound, closed her eyes, snuggled even closer.

A few minutes passed quiet like that. I was going to remind her of the question again when she started talking in a young girl’s voice, the one they use for secret–telling.

“I was a dancer when he met me. Before that, I was a party girl. You understand what that is?”

“Yeah. You don’t give your friendship to just anyone…but when you do, it costs a bit to maintain it.”

“Un huh. That’s about right. Anyway, he met me in a club. Where I was dancing. He was a real gentleman. Left me his card, asked if he could call me sometime. We had a few dates. Very,
very
, nice. Fine restaurants, a limo, flowers. You know how it goes. We got…close. But there was never any sex. I figured, maybe he was afraid of scaring me off. But, one night, he told me. Told me that he loved me.

“I thought he wanted me for a beard. You know, that he was gay and he needed some cover when he went out. But that wasn’t it. He’s…impotent, I guess. But not completely. I didn’t really follow it all that well, but, what he’s got, he can get aroused but he can’t…” Her voice trailed off, as though she was expecting me to cut in.

I didn’t. Another couple of minutes went by like that. She squirmed against me, as if she was seeking a more comfortable position. I moved as best I could in the squeezed spot, trying to help.

“He said he had a fantasy. A fantasy about me. That I would get so excited just
thinking
about him that I’d…well, what you just saw…before. Do that. He said he loved me. He knew how much I was…earning. At the club where I danced. He said he didn’t want to insult me, but…he could pay me just as much. A salary, like. And if I would…do that, what you saw…for him, whenever he wanted, then he would get stronger. You know what I mean. And, maybe, someday, we could be together. Like for real, together.”

“I still don’t see the lie,” I told her.

“I haven’t seen him since. Not once. It’s all…like I said. Just that. He never even calls me on the phone. Not to speak to, anyway. I was…sad about it, I guess, but then a girlfriend of mine…from the old club…she heard about it. And she told me.”

“Told you what?”

“He lets other people see it,” she said, a catch in her voice. “He lets them bloody
watch
. That’s why I let you…before. I never would have let anybody see it. But…you know what he does? He invites friends over to his apartment. Like to play cards or whatever. And then he calls me. And I put on a show. Not for him. Not for love. For anyone who’s in his apartment. He doesn’t tell them he knows me— he just tells them there’s this really randy girl who lives in the building across the way. A real bitch–in–heat slut, he tells them. Gets so flaming hot she does it to herself.”

I thought she was going to cry then, but she nipped a jagged chunk of air and kept it down until she was calm.

“Tell me what you want,” I said.

“I
‘ll be right back,” she said, sliding the freshly loaded condom off me in one smooth move. I heard noises from the bathroom but I kept my eyes closed.

I felt the bed react as she climbed back on. “Want another drag?” I asked, not opening my eyes.

“No,” she said, “one’s my limit.”

“You’re sure about the money?”

“Dead sure, honey,” she said. “And it’s cake too, I promise you— I’ve got it all worked out. I don’t know if he even lives there, but he has to
be
there when I…do it. Soon as he calls, I can call you. It’d only take a second— he’d never know. I’ve got the key to the apartment— you could walk right in. Right in the middle of me…doing it. He’d never know what hit him.”

“He might not be alone, right? You said— “

“I know the doorman. Bert, his name is. He’s an Aussie too. I met him when I was still doing…you know. Anyway, I take care of Bert. He can always count on me for something, even though I never go to that place anymore. You know, the place where I danced? I tested him. Bert, that is. Twice now. I use this,” she said, crawling over my chest to reach into a nightstand next to the bed. She held up a cellular phone. “See? It’s perfect. I told Bert I wanted to surprise Morton— that’s his name, Morton. So I ask Bert, when Mr. Morton comes in, would he give me a call? When he comes in
alone
, I say to Bert, giving him a wink, you know? And Bert did it. Twice. I gave him a hundred the next day. Both times. A hundred dollars, a wink, a little bit of hip…that’s all it cost.”

“So you want…?”

“He doesn’t know I have this,” she said, holding up the cellular phone again. “Bert can call me while he’s still in the elevator. So we know he’s alone. Then, when he calls
me
, when he wants his damn
performance
…that’s when I call
you
. He’s got a safe in there. In the living room. Behind a painting— can you imagine? He showed it to me once, early on.”

“You know the combination?”

“No, of course not. He wouldn’t trust me with something like that. But you can…
make
him tell you, can’t you? It wouldn’t take that long, believe me. He’s such a weak man.…”

“Fifty–fifty split?” I asked her.

“Yes,” she said. “I’m going to have to leave as soon as it’s done anyway. It won’t take me an hour to pack— it’s not like I ever needed a lot of clothes for
him
, right? He could never
prove
it was me, but…”

“So how do you collect your half?”

“You can mail it to me. At my girlfriend’s place in the Village. He doesn’t know about her. When we get the money, Sybil and me, we’re going to take off. Rent a car, load up everything we can stuff into suitcases, drive right to the airport. It’s a quick flight to L.A., then a nice jump over the water to home.”

“What if the safe’s empty?”

“I guarantee it won’t be, honey. Believe me, this is a rich flower, just
begging
to be plucked, I tell you true. What do you say, then?”

“Let’s do it,” I said.

She threw me a mega–watt smile, turned her back, wiggled her butt gently as she rooted through the nightstand drawer for another condom.

“S
he’s got the key, huh?” Michelle’s voice, her creamy–silk trademark, the voice that made her a ton of green on the phone–sex circuit. She was perched on the edge of my desk, just past where I had my feet propped up on the battered surface. I was tilted so far back that all I could see was her flashy legs if I looked straight ahead.

“Sure does,” I told her.

“And she wants you to go in when the guy’s
home
?”

“Yeah.”

“So you can make him open the
safe
?” she asked, a barely suppressed giggle in her voice.

“Un huh.”

“And she’s going to split the take with you fifty–fifty— ?”

“Right again,” I interrupted.

“And trust you to
mail
her share to her?” she asked, losing the fight to keep the laughter down.

“Yes.”

“Oh baby, I don’t mean to sound nasty, but…could she
really
think you were all
that
stupid?”

“No, I don’t scan it that way. She’s had a lot of experience. With men. Listening to them, sizing them up. That’s the way she made her living, not just dancing. Her story’s so bogus…it’s like an open invitation to double–cross her.”

“What…not give her an even split?” Michelle sneered.

“The best suckers are half–smart,” I said. “I think that’s the way she has me played. Let’s say I believe
some
of her story— what do I do then?”

“Use the key when the
voyeur
isn’t home,” Michelle replied. “Duh–uh!”

“Yeah. Go in with my own safe man, pop the thing, and walk away with the cash. Only…”

“Only they’ll have you on tape doing it. Or they’ll walk in when you’re red–handed. Or there’s a dead body in the bedroom. Or…whatever.”

“Sure,” I said quietly. I interlaced my fingers behind my head, closing my eyes.

I went so quiet I could hear Michelle breathing, hear the faint rasp of her nylons when she shifted her position slightly.

Time passed. “You aren’t any different,” I said. “Even Pansy didn’t notice anything.”

“That mutant mutt of yours wouldn’t notice Godzilla so long as the lizard left her Alpo alone,” Michelle mock–snarled. “She’s not exactly Rin Tin Tin.”

I flicked my eyes open, shifted them to the left where Pansy reclined on the couch. Pansy’s a Neapolitan mastiff. Long past the svelte hundred and thirty pounds she’d been when she was young, she tips the scales nearer to one sixty now. Sure, nobody’d confuse her with a genius— but Pansy would die for me as casually as she’d scarf down a quart of honey–vanilla ice cream, her personal favorite. And whatever she bites, God forgets.

“Don’t mind her,” I told Pansy. “Michelle gets cranky when she hasn’t been shopping for a few days…you know how she is.”

“I’ll tell you what I
won’t
be shopping for any more, baby,” she said. “I’m done with all that.”

“It really…worked?”

“Oh don’t be so squeamish!” Michelle snapped. “Yes, it ‘worked,’ okay? Funny, all my young life, I thought it would be Denmark for me. And it turns out to be Colorado instead.”

Michelle was a transsexual— a woman trapped in a man’s body, she always called it. She wasn’t the freak in her family— her scumbag bio–father filled that slot. So she ran. Ran
down
. First to the streets, then lower, always dropping deeper, fire–walking until she plateaued on pain. Once she got there, she did whatever it took to stay. It was dangerous as a subway tunnel full of psychopaths down there. And Michelle was scared all the time. But she was too high–instinct to touch any of the temporary tranqs— she saw what happened to the kids who go numb to escape the pain. So she spent every night surviving and every day crying.

I’d known her forever. She was my sister and I loved her, but I’d been hearing about the sex–change operation so long I’d stopped listening. Michelle would take it just so far…then some excuse would come up. She had to detox from the black market estrogen she’d been using. Or the doctors had to remove the cheesy implants from her chest first. Or the electrolysis destroyed the outer epidermis of her face so they couldn’t risk surgery. Always something.

But this last time, she got it done. I went down into the Zero chasing ghosts— Michelle went over the wall. When we both got back, I was me, and she was herself. For me, it was a return. For Michelle, it was the first time.

The real difference was: Michelle liked what she was.

“I’m walking it backwards,” I told her, getting down to business. “But I can’t see who’s calling the shots.”

“I got it from Harry,” Michelle said. “He’s never burned us.”

“Harry the painter?”

“No, Harry the CPA. You know, one of my old customers from…before.”