Madam Read online

  “Hey. Um, I was just wondering, Zoë said she’d be here by now … ”

  “Yes,” I agree. “She should be. Let me get a hold of her and find out what’s happening, and I’ll call you right back.”

  “Okay.”

  Holy shit. I page Zoë/Kim and punch in an extra 911 to my phone number for emphasis.

  Jane’s at the door. “Hey, Sam’s asleep, you need me to stay?”

  “No. Thanks, honey.”

  She frowned. “You okay?”

  “Just the usual,” I shrug. “Peter Povaklas, and girls are disappearing. You don’t want to know.”

  “You’re so right. I don’t.” She blows me a kiss and closes the door behind her. We’re always careful about that, closing the door. Sam thinks that I do telemarketing for a living. He knows that it’s perfectly fine to knock on the office door at night, and he does, but I don’t ever leave it open, just in case.

  The phone rings: a new client. I’m polite, but he doesn’t want to leave his real name and that doesn’t fly. I don’t ask for much. “Perhaps you can call back next week,” I say, insincerely, and am disconnecting just as Amy’s number reappears on the radar. “Hey, Peach, sorry, got busy. Do you want me to see anyone?”

  Do I? Only about three hours ago, I did. I take a deep breath. I have no idea where Zoë/Kim is, but I’m not messing up Roger’s life any more than I have to. “I do if you can get yourself over to West Roxbury now. And I mean now.”

  She is cheerfulness itself. “Roger? Sure. Tell him I’m on my way.”

  “Are you really on your way? I’m not jerking this guy around.”

  “Of course I am, Peach!” She sounds genuinely surprised. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

  I bite back several potential answers and disconnect. I page Zoë/Kim again, and call Roger. “Great news, Amy’s on her way!”

  “Okay,” he sounds bemused. “Seriously, you know, if it’s a problem, I can call again another day.” He’s probably thinking longingly of bed—and sleep—at this point. I know I am.

  “No, Roger, I really apologize. It’s just been a really crazy night. You’ve been very patient and I can’t say how much I appreciate it.”

  Ten minutes later, Amy checks in. She’s actually at Roger’s house and everything is fine. I feel like I’ve run a marathon. Sometimes I get my fee easily, adding an hour on to something that’s already been booked, that sort of thing. But nights like tonight, I’ve sometimes had to make up to eighteen or twenty phone calls to send one girl on one call. It’s not always easy.

  I page Zoë/Kim and put out another call. The coffee kicks in and I feel pretty good; it is also starting to look like an early night, which is definitely good news.

  I never put out late-night calls. I’m talking three, four in the morning. Those are the creepy ones, the ones that are hard to screen, the ones where drug use is pretty much guaranteed. People who suddenly decide at four o’clock in the morning that they need to see an escort have needs that I don’t even want to know about. You don’t just suddenly decide that. There’s something else going on.

  I can’t imagine ever being so poor I’d take those risks, either for myself or my girls. If I need extra money, these days, I just turn the phones on earlier, send girls out in the afternoons. A lot of the married clients like that, either at their place or at some hotel. Gets everything taken care of and you’re still home for supper at six.

  Usually if I’m still going late, it’s just to call someone out, someone who’s been on a superlong call, something like that. That’s it. I’m usually in bed before two; midnight is more usual, giving me enough sleep to face Sam and breakfast and all that sort of thing. His dad helps out, but he’s usually off on a job earlier in the morning than I even want to think about. We’ve made it work.

  Things are winding down; I’m finishing up what I promise myself will be my last pack of cigarettes tonight. A client calls and books someone for next Tuesday, which is odd, but fine. People don’t generally book that far in advance. It’s an immediate gratification sort of thing, this industry. But, as I said, fine.

  Zoë/Kim finally calls back around midnight. She got lost, then stopped for directions and met a friend and, well, one thing led to another and … “Never mind,” I say, wearily. What probably happened was that she met up with someone that she turned into an extracurricular call of her own.

  I’m fine with that. As long as girls don’t steal my clients, they can work for other services, they can have private clients, whatever. But in this case, she might have had the courtesy to let me know she wasn’t going to make it to West Roxbury.

  Courtesy. Hmm, now there’s a concept. As I’ve said before, I’m not usually working with people who have their shit together. Why should I expect her to be different?

  I don’t care. It’s one o’clock, and I turn off the phones, turn off the television, turn off the lights. Say good night, Gracie.

  Addiction

  Clients don’t use nearly as many drugs now as they did—even ten years ago, much less when I started the business.

  Back then, it was all coke, and everyone did it. I did it, and often to excess, so this isn’t about throwing stones while living in a glass house. It’s about addiction, which is rampant in the world I live and work in.

  There are sexual addiction issues, too—what a surprise. I have clients who call me every night, sometimes two or three times a night. They can’t afford to see someone that frequently, but the contact with the service works for them as a temporary fix.

  I try to discourage this, of course. There are always guys who will try to use me as an aural substitute for the real thing: “So tell me again what she looks like … hmmm … . What size breasts? Yeah? What shape are they, really round? Uhhh … .” Yuck. Sometimes I feed into it, just a little, if I think that it’s going to lead to a call; but these are the guys I really hate to hear on the other end of the line. This is not a 900 number.

  Some of them are even aware of the problem. Jack Wilson is one. He was seeing girls two and three times a week, sometimes for two hours at a time, sometimes two girls at a time. When he realized that the spending was getting out of control, he went into therapy.

  I got a call about a week later.

  “Hello, Peach? This is—um—Jack.”

  “Hi, Jack,” I said cheerfully. Jack means money.

  “Yeah. Well. Listen, I have to ask you something. For a favor, actually, I have to ask you for a favor.”

  “Sure,” I said easily. “What can I do for you?”

  There was a long silence on the other end of the line. I began to wonder if we’d been disconnected. “Jack? Are you there?”

  “Um, yeah. I’m here. This is—oh, gee, this is a little embarrassing.”

  I raised my eyebrows, though of course he couldn’t see me. When you consider the really, really strange requests that I get on a regular basis, you have to wonder what on earth a client could find embarrassing. There’s plenty of stuff that goes on in my little world that I find embarrassing, mind you, but my clients are cheerfully unaware of my reactions to some of their preferences. “Don’t worry, Jack,” I said, encouragingly. “I’m fine with you telling me anything.” As long as it’s not little girls or animals, that is.

  “Okay. Okay, well, here goes. I—um—I want you to cut me off.”

  I blinked. “Cut you off?” I repeated.

  “Yeah. I mean—you know—I’m trying not to do this so much. The sex thing, you know.” Yeah, well, Jack, I didn’t think you were talking about excess carbohydrates. “I mean, I can’t afford it, not really, and my shrink says I need to stop. Well, at least ease off some. And I know he’s right, you know? I know it’s kind of taken control of my life.” He coughed, or at least pretended to. “So anyway, here’s the thing, I’m not sure I’m going to be all that good at this. In fact, I’m pretty sure that I’m not.” Another hesitation. “Cause I really don’t want to give it up, you know? But I know I have to. I know that’s what’s
good for me. So anyway, Peach, what I’m saying is that I’m going to keep calling you, probably, and I want you to not send me anybody.”

  Whoa, Nellie. You want to call me and tell me that you want me to make some good money, and then I’m supposed to tell you, oh, gee, no, Jack, but thanks anyway? Do I look like a moron to you? I gritted my teeth.

  On the other hand, Jack had been a really good client for over three years. We had talked almost daily during that time. He was as close to a colleague as I was ever likely to get, in the sense that we “worked” together so much and so often—and he was in trouble. He was asking me for help. I took a deep breath and tried not to think about my bank account. Jack, let me understand. I’m supposed to say no when you call next to ask for a call.”

  “Um … yes.”

  “Okay, I’ll do it.” I was a little hesitant. “How often do you anticipate this happening?”

  “Probably every day.” Here was a guy, at any rate, who was willing to look squarely at himself in the mirror. “I’m serious. I want you—no, that’s not it, damn it, I need you—to refuse to send me someone.” His breathing was a little ragged. “Christ, I don’t want to be doing this, Peach.”

  “I know,” I said, automatically reassuring him. “I know you don’t. And I’ll help.”

  “You mean that?” He was pathetically relieved.

  “Of course I do.” But I wasn’t so sure.

  It didn’t take long for our mutual resolve to be put to the test. The following Saturday was insane—people were crawling out of the woodwork—and in the middle of it all Jack called. “Hi, Peach.” He sounded like a little boy unsure of his welcome. As well he might.

  “Hi, Jack,” I said. “What’s up?”

  “Well, I was wondering who’s on tonight,” he said, his carefully casual voice not totally obliterating the quaver beneath, like someone writing and presenting a check that they know is going to bounce.

  “Jack,” I said, “I can’t talk to you tonight. It’s really busy here.”

  There was a slight pause. “Okay, okay. I know what you’re doing,” he said.

  “I’m glad you do,” I said. “Gotta go.”

  “Wait!” It was a yelp. “Don’t hang up! You know that thing we talked about last week?” There was a slight pause, then he hurried on as if afraid of what I might say. “You know, so, okay, I was thinking about it. And I’m going to start that program, I really am, real soon. I’m committed, you know? But I decided, um, you know, just to taper down a little first. I don’t think I can handle it cold turkey. I have a much better chance of success if I do it slowly.”

  And I don’t have time for your bullshit, I thought silently. “Jack, that’s not what you said before.”

  “I know.” Some animosity had crept into his tone. “I know, but I’ve changed my mind. I want to see someone tonight.”

  I groaned. “Hold on.” I switched to the other line. “Hello?”

  “Hey, Peach, it’s Gary.”

  “Hold on a minute,” I told him. I switched back to the first line. “Jack, I have to go.”

  “No!” He was belligerent and panicked all at once. “I want to see someone!”

  “Sorry, Jack.” I disconnected and got back to work. He called again within five minutes. “Peach, look, I don’t care what I said before. I want to see someone tonight.”

  I balanced the telephone between my ear and my shoulder while I lit a cigarette, giving me a moment to think. “We don’t have anyone you’d like,” I said, trying another tack.

  “I don’t believe you. You said you were so busy just a few minutes ago. Who’s on?”

  I sighed. I’m all for being cooperative, but this was ridiculous. It’s bad enough having to play these stupid games when I get paid at the end of the night, but here I was playing the game and doing it for no money at all. This does not compute. “Jack, I’m trying to be helpful to you here. You asked me to shut you off. I am. I’m also very busy. Please leave me alone.”

  “I’ll call another service!”

  “You do that.” That was just fine with me: the perfect solution, in fact. I got to do what was right and not have to argue with someone jonesing for sex all night.

  The bad thing was I knew he wouldn’t follow through on his threat. Some clients are sluts and call every service in town, playing one off against the other. Some are monogamous. Jack, fortunately or unfortunately, fit into the latter category.

  Sure enough, within a half hour he was back on the line. I recognized the number on my caller ID and was ready for him. “Jack, stop calling me. I really can’t talk to you tonight.”

  “I have the money right here. I want to see someone. Now.”

  “I don’t have anyone for you.” How long was I supposed to be virtuous, anyway? I pictured the crisp hundred-dollar bills in his hand and banished the thought immediately. I was supposed to be helping him. “Listen, Jack, if you still feel the same way tomorrow, call me then, and I’ll hook you up, okay? But at least sleep on it.”

  As if an addict has ever been able to just sleep off that kind of insistent need. I can still remember calling the coke dealer at eight in the morning because I’d run out and wasn’t able to just go to bed, as I was so self-righteously expecting Jack to do. I’m not proud of the memory, but that doesn’t make it any less real.

  “I’m never going to be able to sleep now!” he wailed.

  They really need a rehab facility for sex addicts.

  In the years that I’ve been in the business, I’ve seen a few guys like Jack, who struggled with their addictions, and a whole lot of other guys who rationalized themselves into the poorhouse by seeing it as macho and cool.

  All other addictions are the same. Maybe there are more fragile people, more damaged people in my line of work, but whatever the reason, there aren’t a whole lot of them, workers or clients, who are all that healthy. The ones who are, get out.

  The ones who are still there, year after year, aren’t the ones who are winning any awards for mental health.

  The cocaine use has decreased over the years. I stopped doing it before my clients did, as I went through changes in my personal life; but I’m seeing less and less of it these days. Ten years ago, I’d say at least half of my clients were using it recreationally, and some of them a lot more heavily than that. Girls had to deal with clients who were totally railed, paranoid, jumpy, and sometimes downright scary. Those were the days when a girl could spend a third of her time with a client checking the doors and the windows for imaginary people lurking behind them. That doesn’t happen very much anymore. It’s now the exception rather than the rule.

  They’re a lot less likely these days to want to get the girls fucked up, too. Oh, I’m not saying that everyone is sweet and kind, but there’s less thrill these days in messing someone else up. Or maybe they’re just more cautious.

  I used to have one client who, thank God, got married and dropped out. He used to be big into pills and champagne, and he didn’t want to partake alone. He used to get a room in one of the smaller nondescript business hotels over on Soldiers Field Road and have three girls over, one after the other, and he expected them all to drink his champagne and take his pills.

  After I got hip to what he was doing, I became more careful. All I needed was someone overdosing on her way home from a call. I told the girls to palm the pills, to fake taking them, or at least to take a taxi home after the call. That could be really difficult since many of the girls were young and not particularly practiced in the art of deception. A lot of them were into pleasing the client. A lot were curious enough to try the free drugs. As if there was such a thing as free drugs. So it was a relief when he quit.

  I know that a lot of people are currently doing Ecstasy, and heroin is coming back, though we see a lot more of the former in the business. There’s something about shooting up when you’re on a so-called date that can be a real turn-off. And Ecstasy is supposed to make you feel loving, after all. The pharmaceuticals are coming
back into their own, too—Valium, Oxycontin, Percocet, all that happy little group.

  Not for me. Those days are over, and I’m grateful that I survived them. I wouldn’t go back for all the cocaine in Colombia.

  Alla

  I talk a lot about the problems: the girls who get lost, whether through drugs, greed, or meeting the wrong guy. I really should talk some about the lighter side of my business, because there are a lot of girls who are healthy and smart, who work and move on. Being a callgirl is not necessarily a recipe for disaster.

  Most of those who work for me are students. College students, graduate students, foreign exchange students. It’s the way I set things up and the decision has proven to be the correct one. My service a certain cachet.

  On the other hand, it does present certain problems. No one can work during finals week, for example. And then there’s the whole roommate situation.

  The way things work, I speak with the client and get him to agree to see someone. Technically, that should be that, but it never is. The girl calls the client, theoretically to confirm, and he generally plays a game or two. “Well, I’m not sure, can you describe yourself?” Even though I’ve already described her, I think there’s a secondary thrill in talking about it so much. So even though I’ve already convinced him, now she has to convince him, too. Often this part of the conversation is explicit—painfully explicit. It’s annoying, but an integral part of the process.

  However, it is a part of the process that is absolutely impossible to manage in a college dorm with an unsuspecting roommate sitting a mere few feet away. Not something that you can come up with a snappy explanation for on the spur of the moment.

  These days, most girls have cell phones, and mobility has made this transaction a lot easier. Not for everybody, however.

  Alla was Russian. There is a significant Russian population in Boston, many of them Jews who came to the United States to flee all sorts of problems in the former Soviet Union, from discrimination to outright pogroms. Another generation since then has come for the same reason that so many young people come to Boston—for school. Recent immigrants, of both the legal and the illegal variety, need to work.