It was lunchtime, and Bernie responded favorably to the suggestion that she buy him a drink.
“What have I got to lose, right?” He eyed her. “I mean, the stories I could tell…And the beauty is, Gini, this is a one hundred percent kosher operation. Like, who gets harmed, right? We have a license for this.” He winked. “A license to print money—don’t quote me on that.”
He led the way to a wine bar around the corner on Fulham Road; it was filled with the kind of women who still wore velvet headbands and whose habitual tone of voice was a strangulated shriek. Gini ordered champagne and kir at five pounds a glass—Bernie’s choice. A few questions, just to kick-start him, and Bernie was off. He explained a few of the market-forces principles behind his work.
“The way I look at it, Gini, is this. …What makes the world go round? Sex. What’s the one commodity you can always flog? Sex. What’s the new, nice, clean, guaranteed-AIDS-free way to dispense it? Down the telephone line. This is a growth industry we’re looking at here, Gini, and you can quote me on that….”
He talked on, and Gini listened with only half her attention. She had worked on stories before that took her into this twilight zone. The needs catered for there were intense, and the methods used to salve those needs were many: street girls, call girls, escort agencies, models, magazines, strip clubs, peep shows, phone lines, books, videos. An empire for the unsatisfied to explore, an empire that could cater to every permutation of sexual taste. As Bernie was only too happy to explain, growth industries required dedication; some of the amateurs involved in the phone-line business failed to understand this.
“What you need, Gini,” he said, sipping his second champagne and kir, “what you need is market identification—and we’ve got that. You have to understand the punter’s specialized taste. For instance, our company—we do rubber. We do bondage. Spanking—we’ve got three spanking lines, don’t ask me why, but spanking’s big. Black girls, Swedish girls, French maids—okay, it’s predictable, Gini, I’ll say that before you do. But our callers don’t want surprises. They want what triggers them, if you get my point. Blondes, brunettes, redheads. We do gay lines, obviously. We do virgins—or sluts. Sluts, well, they mouth off a lot, they verbalize, right, so they’re always in demand. Plus, mentioning mouths, a lot of clients are what you might call anatomically demanding. So we do leg lines and bum lines. And then there’s our number one best seller—”
“Which is?”
“Breasts.” Bernie rolled his eyes. He made generous gestures with his hands. “Big breasts.”
He sighed. The predictability of his clients’ desires seemed to disappoint him.
Gini said, “How many lines do you personally supervise, Bernie?”
“Me? Eighty-six. And it’s rising each week.”
“That’s impressive. Bernie. Let me get you another drink….”
As Gini had hoped, the third drink relaxed Bernie quite a lot. He grew more garrulous still. Gently Gini steered him in the direction she wanted: Who was behind his company, and were there perhaps other aspects to their empire besides telephone sex? On the question of his employers, Bernie became cautious.
“No names, okay? Let’s just say I work for one smart operator, okay?”
On the question of this operator’s other activities, Bernie was more inclined to be drawn. Discretion fought a losing battle with the desire to boast. He first hinted, then confirmed, that telephone sex lines were just the tip of this iceberg, and that for an up-and-coming man—Bernie grinned—there were career opportunities here. Promotion beckoned. His company also had an escort agency arm—a high-class escort agency, he added hastily, top girls and credit card facilities. Finally, a recent diversification this, there was the company’s video arm. Not sleaze videos, he wouldn’t want her to think that, but the new sex education videos, one hundred percent legit, very explicit, fronted by doctors and therapists, on sale in the high street, on sale in ultrarespectable shops. His company’s most recent offering, Married Love II, had sold seven hundred and fifty thousand copies within six weeks.
Gini looked suitably impressed. “That’s fascinating, Bernie,” she said. “I’d really like to know more. Especially about the escort agency. Would they talk to me, d’you think?”
“’Course they would. If I’m with you. Hazel runs it. She and me, we’re like that.” He held up two fingers crossed. “You want to go over now?”
“Can you spare the time, Bernie?”
“Sure I can. That’s cool,” he said in a magnanimous way, and lurched to his feet.
Both the escort agency and the video film studio proved to be in Shepherd’s Bush. The agency, Elite Introductions, was surprisingly stylish. To the right of its entrance, another door, unmarked, led down to the video studio in the basement. Bernie jerked his thumb in its direction.
“The equipment they’ve got down there,” he said, “you wouldn’t believe. Three camera setups, top of the range sound equipment, a revolving stage—three quarters of a million at least. They’re filming now, so it’s off limits. Pity. It’s artistic. You’d be impressed.”
He opened the door to the escort agency and led her in. Hazel, a tall, brassy redhead, was sitting flanked by filing cabinets, telephones, and expensive flower arrangements. She was polishing her nails at her desk. She was aged about thirty, with green eyes and a green dress. She was painting her nails cerise. She seemed pleased enough to see Bernie, who gave her a hug and a kiss.
“Ooh,” she said, “Bernie, you really stink. You been at them champagne cocktails again? Fancy a coffee? I’m parched myself. You, Gini? It’s no trouble.” She made a face. “Tuesdays business is always a bit slack.”
Like Bernie, Hazel seemed unworried at talking to the press; it turned out she was a regular reader of the News, and her main interest, initially, was the identities of famous people Gini had interviewed in the past. Gini fed her a few names. Hazel, having dispensed coffee, settled again at her desk. She winked at Bernie.
“One or two of them are familiar to us, Bernie—yes? We get them all in here, you know, Gini. Movie stars, Arab princes, top businessmen—well, I mustn’t say more. We have to be discreet.
“Of course,” she went on, her eyes narrowing slightly, “we’re an escort agency, Gini. All above board. What you see is what you get. Our girls—and we have some very lovely girls—are there for company, light conversation, dinner on the town. No extracurricular activities. We’re strict about that.”
“Of course,” Gini said. “What are your rates?”
“It depends on the girl. Eight till midnight, that’s two hundred and fifty quid. After midnight we charge by the hour. For our very special ladies there’s a premium. Our two top girls can make five hundred a night, easy.”
“That’s a lot of money.”
“Eighty percent to the girls, twenty to the agency…” She paused, and gave Bernie a glance. “And then, if they’re enjoying themselves, and they want to make a private agreement with the client—well, that’s up to the girl concerned, right?”
Gini decided it was time to push. She said, “What interests me is the clients. Bernie was telling me earlier, with the phone lines, how he has to cater to very specific tastes. I guess you find the same thing? Some men will always want a blonde, others a brunette—do you find that?”
“And how.” Hazel reached for a large directory on her desk. She flipped it open and beckoned Gini to look. “That’s how we classify the girls, see? By hair color. We’ve found it’s the best. Sometimes we’ll get a punter with more specific needs—remember that one, Bernie, who liked Irish girls? He was sweet. I liked him. Said it had to be Irish, he liked the lilt in the voice. …”
Gini turned the pages of the directory in front of her. It resembled the model agency brochures she had borrowed from Lindsay, and many of the women pictured here might almost have made it as models. Neither Hazel nor Bernie had been exaggerating: The women pictured were all young and attractive; none looked in the least cheap. T
here was a section on blondes, on redheads, on brunettes. Beneath the photographs there were details of the women’s height and vital statistics as well as their names—noms de guerre presumably. Most seemed to end in a y. Among the blondes alone there were Nicky and Lucky and Vicky and Suzy. Suzy, in particular, had a beautiful face.
“I wonder,” Gini said, “you have regular clients, I guess. Do some of them like to see the girls on a regular basis? Every week, say, or every month?”
Bernie laughed. “Every week? At our rates? You must be joking. Not too many of those, Hazel, right?”
“No. But plenty of once-a-monthers.” She made a face. “Regular as the moon, some of them. Have to have their little monthly treat.”
“Maybe it’s like a ritual for them,” Gini said. “Do you ever feel that? Like they have to see the girl on a certain day of the week. Or at a certain time. Or in a certain place. That adds to the thrill, maybe?”
Hazel gave her a sharp look. “Hey, you’ve got the right instincts, I’ll say that. You want a job here?” She sighed. “There’s lots of them like that. There was one last year—I won’t mention specifics, but he’s a household name, put it like that. He had a thing about red. Every girl we sent, she had to wear a red dress. Then there was that Jap, Bernie, remember him? Had a thing about feet. Didn’t care about the hair color, the figure, the face—just the feet. One girl we sent over, she wore polish on her toenails, and this guy, he threw a fit.” She raised her eyes heavenward. “Men. They’re really weird, I’ll tell you that.”
This was not helpful. Gini persevered. “What about days of the week,” she said. “Do they ever insist on a certain day? Always a Monday? Always a Sunday, anything like that?”
“Not that I recall.” Hazel shrugged. “Maybe, if I went through and checked. It’s feasible—like it’s the one day a month their wife’s out of town, something like that? Mind you”—she smiled—“some of them, you wouldn’t believe how brazen they are. Couldn’t give a damn who knows what they’re up to. You remember that one last year, Bernie—that Yank who got his secretary to make the call? I felt so sorry for her, though I say it myself. You could tell she was nicely brought up, she had this really posh voice—”
“Really?” Gini leaned forward. “She was English?”
“Oh, yes. Very la-de-da, but nice with it. I mean, I could hear her blushing down the phone, poor kid. Three times he made her go through that…I’ve got it here.” She flipped the pages of the appointment book. “There you are, October, November, and December. A once-a-monther—and specific! I wonder he didn’t send the secretary round with a measuring tape. They had to be blonde. They had to be at least five foot nine and no more than five ten. Long legs, young—he liked them young. Big tits…Well, nothing so unusual about that. But can you credit it? Making some poor secretary spell that out on the phone? That’s why it sticks in my memory. Usually, they’re cagey. They always call themselves. What a creep.”
“Extraordinary,” Gini said. “So what happened?”
“Well, it was weird, actually.” Hazel lowered her voice to a confidential tone. She began to flick the pages of her appointment book. “Let me just check back…ah, here we are. When she first calls, this poor girl, she says her boss will be flying in from the States the next week and she has to set him up with a date. Then she goes through all these specifics, the way I said, then she says she’ll call back, and then the next thing I know, I have to send round a whole lot of pictures. This guy’s made a shortlist, would you believe? So, I send the pictures round to some hotel off Albemarle Street. Three times I do this. October, November, December. Christ knows why. He chose Suzy every time. So the secretary calls back again, and makes the booking and—oh, what do you know? How weird. He booked a Sunday, now I come to look. I’d forgotten that.”
“He did?” Gini felt herself tense. She looked down at the brochure in front of her. Suzy’s pensive features gazed back. She had thick blond hair that reached to her shoulders, and a very young, somewhat vulnerable face. She was wearing a white high-necked evening dress with long sleeves. She looked like a beautiful schoolgirl out on her first date.
“I’m not surprised at his choice,” she said carefully. “She’s very pretty. She looks terribly young though….”
Hazel winked. “Not as young, nor as innocent as she looks, our Suzy. But she is one of our top girls.” She shrugged. “Made no difference anyway. He canceled—or the secretary did, on his behalf. Said he’d altered his plans, something like that. All that fuss, then three cancellations. Can you believe that?”
“He canceled?” Gini stared at her. “You’re sure of that?”
“That’s right.” Hazel closed the appointment book. “Like I say, men are weird, right? Maybe just seeing the pictures gave him some kind of kick. Maybe he went to another agency, found a girl he liked better. Who knows?”
“You mean he never even met Suzy? Not once?”
“Not exactly.” Hazel smiled. “We reckon he saw her. Once.”
“What makes you think that?”
“Because the last time the secretary rang, in December, she said he wanted to take a look at her. On approval. I mean, bloody cheek! So Suzy has to go round to some plush West End hotel, sit in the lobby for half an hour, then leave. Which she did.”
“And he was in the lobby too, you mean? Checking her out?”
“You tell me.” Hazel shrugged. “If he was, he never spoke to her—nothing like that. I thought, maybe he was so choosy, and when he saw her, she didn’t come up to scratch. Anyway, the secretary rang back, poor kid, and canceled again. Then I never heard another word. It cost him, mind you. Full fees for late cancellations, an extra fee for the hotel visit. The best part of two thousand quid. He must be loaded.”
“Credit card?” Gini said.
Hazel unscrewed the bottle of nail polish and began to apply a second coat.
“Cash. By courier,” she said. “The easiest money we ever made, right, Bernie? I wish all our customers were like that,”
On the sidewalk outside, Gini’s mind raced. It had to be Hawthorne, surely, and it was the first possible outside corroboration of McMullen’s story that she had. An English secretary on the telephone, an English voice calling ICD about those parcels: There must be a connection. The coincidence was too great. She glanced back at the agency office, wishing she had been able to examine that appointment book for herself. But it would probably have told her little: Hawthorne would use an alias. Besides, there was another way to discover more about this.
She turned to Bernie, who lingered at her side, to thank him for his help. As she did so, the door to the basement video studio opened, and a group of people spilled out. Two, a good-looking young man with long, dark, curling hair, and a very pretty young girl, might have been the stars of the sex instruction video. The others looked like technicians—cameramen, soundmen, perhaps.
They were followed by a tall, thin man in his mid-forties with reddish hair drawn back in a ponytail. He was resplendent, head to foot, in mustard-yellow Armani. At the sight of him, Bernie ducked aside and drew her into a store doorway until he had passed. He was clearly not eager to be seen.
Gini said, “Your boss, was it, Bernie?”
Bernie shuffled his feet “One of them. Put it like that. I’d better get back. Keep in touch, right?”
The Armani-clad man climbed into a brand-new black BMW. Bernie, looking shifty, sloped off in the opposite direction. Gini made for the tube, where she stood on the platform, thinking hard. The next person to talk to was Suzy, obviously. She did not have Suzy’s real name or her telephone number or her address. Further inquiries at Elite Introductions might cause suspicion. But Suzy’s company could be hired by the evening. Gini might not be able to hire her—but Pascal certainly could.
Chapter 22
AT THREE THAT TUESDAY afternoon, about the time Gini arrived at the escort agency, Pascal finally persuaded Lorna Munro to talk to him. Her photographic session over, he took her for
a drink in the Deux Magots café on Boulevard St. Germain, just across the street from the St. Germain church.
This elusive American girl looked no more than eighteen. She was at least six feet tall, Pascal calculated, and could have weighed no more than one hundred pounds. She was still in the strong makeup she’d needed that afternoon for monochrome shots. Her short thick hair, on close inspection, was naturally blond. She had wide-set sapphire-blue eyes, a broad, friendly smile, and an air of radiant health. She was wearing flat shoes, black leggings, a man’s white shirt, and a man’s tweed overcoat. Despite this androgynous outfit, every male in the café turned to stare when they walked in.
Lorna Munro seemed impervious, or indifferent, to this. They were seated in the café’s glass-enclosed sidewalk section, fronting the boulevard. Lorna Munro looked at him somewhat warily, then grinned.
“Okay,” she said. “I did my best. Tell your friend in England I’m sorry. Will you do that? I might have known you’d catch up with me one way or another. …You mind if I order some food? I’m ravenous. It feels like a week since breakfast. …” She turned to the waiter with a dazzling smile. “I’ll have a large steak sandwich, pommes frites on the side, a green salad no dressing…Oh, and maybe some hot chocolate. It’s freezing out there. My hands are numb. My feet are numb. My butt’s numb, come to that.”
Pascal smiled. With the freakishness peculiar to fashion magazines, Lorna Munro had been required to model Gaultier’s summer collection on a January day, on a windswept sidewalk. Most of the dresses in which she’d posed had been sleeveless and backless; several had featured metallic conical breast shields. Lorna Munro had been professional enough to ignore the crowds this attracted, and the goose flesh it induced.
He said, “Hot chocolate? A steak sandwich? And I thought all models were supposed to be anorexic.”