lenses tinted a pale amber. The hair and the glasses combined to give her a rather severe look, an effect of which she was by no means unaware. 'When I take off the glasses and let my hair down,'
she said at one point, 'I look a whole lot softer, a good deal less threatening. Of course some johns want a woman to look threatening.'
Of Kim she said, 'I didn't know her well. I don't know any of them really well. What a crew they are!
Sunny's the good-time party girl, she thinks she's made a huge leap in status by becoming a prostitute.
Ruby's a sort of autistic adult, untouched by human minds. I'm sure she's socking away the dollars, and one of these days she'll go back to Macao or Port Said and open up an opium den. Chance probably knows she's holding out and has the good sense to let her.'
She put a slice of cheese on a biscuit, handed it to me, took some for herself, sipped her red wine.
'Fran's a charming kook out of Wonderful Town. I call her the Village Idiot. She's raised self-deception to the level of an art form. She must have to smoke a ton of grass to support the structure of illusion she's created. More Coke?'
'No thanks.'
'You sure you wouldn't rather have a glass of wine? Or something stronger?'
I shook my head. A radio played unobstrusively in the background, tuned to one of the classical music stations. Mary Lou took off her glasses, breathed on them, wiped them with a napkin.
'And Donna,' she said. 'Whoredom's answer to Edna St. Vincent Millay. I think the poetry does for her what the grass does for Fran. She's a good poet, you know.'
I had Donna's poem with me and showed it to Mary Lou. Vertical frown lines appeared in her forehead as she scanned the lines.
'It's not finished,' I said. 'She still has work to do on it.'
'I don't know how poets know when they're finished. Or painters.
How do they know when to stop? It baffles me. This is supposed to be about Kim?'
'Yes.'
'I don't know what it means, but there's something, she's onto something here.' She thought for a moment, her head cocked like a bird's. She said, 'I guess I thought of Kim as the archetypical whore. A spectacular ice blonde from the northern Midwest, the kind that was just plain born to walk through life on a black pimp's arm. I'll tell you something. I wasn't surprised when she was murdered.'
'Why not?'
'I'm not entirely sure. I was shocked but not surprised. I guess I expected her to come to a bad end. An abrupt end. Not necessarily as a murder victim, but as some sort of victim of the life. Suicide, for instance. Or one of those unholy combinations of pills and liquor. Not that she drank much, or took drugs as far as I know. I suppose I expected suicide, but murder would do as well, wouldn't it? To get her out of the life. Because I couldn't see her going on with it forever. Once that corn-fed innocence left her she wouldn't be able to handle it. And I couldn't see her finding her way out, either.'
'She was getting out. She told Chance she wanted out.'
'Do you know that for a fact?'
'Yes.'
'And what did he do?'
'He told her it was her decision to make.'
'Just like that?'
'Evidently.'
'And then she got killed. Is there a connection?'
'I think there has to be. I think she had a boyfriend and I think the boyfriend's the connection. I think he's why she wanted to get away from Chance and I think he's also the reason she was killed.'
'But you don't know who he was.'
'No.'
'Does anybody have a clue?'
'Not so far.'
'Well, I'm not going to be able to change that. I can't remember the last time I saw her, but I don't remember her eyes being agleam with true love. It would fit, though. A man got her into this. She'd probably need another man to get her out.'
And then she was telling me how she'd gotten into it. I hadn't thought to ask but I got to hear it anyway.
Someone had pointed Chance out to her at an opening in SoHo, one of the West Broadway galleries.
He was with Donna, and whoever pointed him out told Mary Lou he was a pimp. Fortified by an extra glass or two of the cheap wine they were pouring, she approached him, introduced herself, told him she'd like to write a story about him.
She wasn't exactly a writer. At the time she'd been living in the West Nineties with a man who did something incomprehensible on Wall Street. The man was divorced and still half in love with his ex-wife, and his bratty kids came over every weekend, and it wasn't working out.
Mary Lou did free-lance copyediting and had a part-time proofreading job, and she'd published a couple of
