False Allegations

have to hang up right away.'

'But when you go out…'

'I can't just go out, can I?' she snapped.

'I don't know how it works,' I said mildly.

She ran both hands through her thick chestnut mane, combing it back off her face. 'I'm sorry,' she said. 'I get so cooped up here sometimes I feel like biting my own head off. You can't imagine how…trapped it makes you feel.'

'That's okay,' I said softly, not telling her that I wouldn't need an imagination. I grew up trapped—and not in some luxo–pad. 'Tell me how it works,' I urged her, still soft.

'Seventy–two hours,' she said. 'Three days, that's the key. Once I…finish, I don't have to do it again for seventy–two hours. It could be more—he could wait a long time to call me—he was out of the country once for almost a month—but it's never less, understand?'

'Sure.'

'He used me,' she said, her voice flat and hard. 'He lied. He's a liar. Now he has to pay for it.'

'What did he lie about?' I asked, moving my right hand in a sweep–gesture to cover the whole setup.

'Who needs to lie to a whore? Isn't that what you mean?' she faced me, bitter–voiced. 'Sure, he pays for… this. But it's his, not mine. His name is on the lease. Everything's in his name, even the bloody electricity.'

'He lied about that?'

'No,' she said, her voice a hard sneer against my muted sarcasm. 'What he lied about was love.'

'Okay if I smoke?' I asked her.

She looked up in surprise. 'Why would you ask? You see the damn ashtray right there, don't you?'

'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