Songs of Innocence

passed I heard cheering when some athlete on TV did something good, but other than that I might as well have been in one of those old Twilight Zone episodes where a guy wakes up and discovers that everyone in town has vanished. You don’t think of New York City ever being empty, not even for one block, but it can be; and an empty street with shuttered storefronts can be as desolate here as in as any Western ghost town.

There was a pair of pay phones at the corner of Madison and I dialed the phone number again. The woman who answered sounded young and bored, though she was probably trying to sound sultry. “Hi, honey. Who is this?”

“This is John,” I said. “I called you earlier. You said I should call again when I got to the corner of 28th and Madison.”

“Sure, honey. Are you ready to come up?”

I said I was.

“The building is number 44. Ring the bell for the fourth floor, okay?”

“Forty-four, fourth floor,” I said. “That’s pretty easy to remember.”

She laughed and hung up.

The building could charitably have been called a brownstone, except that there were no stones, just flat slab walls of poured concrete. It looked like the sort of thing a particularly unimaginative child would build with a construction toy: four walls, four floors, two windows per floor. I rang the bell. A buzzer buzzed and I pushed the door open.

A freight-style elevator with a sliding metal gate inside the door carried me up to the fourth floor. When it grumbled to a stop, I slid the gate, pushed the door, and found myself in a dim hallway with a sign on the wall that said “Sunset Entertainment.” There was just one door. The sign looked slick and professional, as though this were an indie movie studio or a casting agency or something, but that pretense ended as soon as the door opened. There was nothing in the front room other than an armchair with a gray cat sleeping on the seat.

The woman who’d opened the door was standing behind it, and I didn’t see her till she swung it shut behind me. “Hi—John?”

She was about my height and slender, with blonde hair and a row of silver rings running up one earlobe, five or six of them. On one shoulder she had a tattoo of a Celtic knot, which I could see because she was wearing a halter top. A wraparound skirt and step-in heels completed the outfit. She stood with her shoulders thrown back to put her modest bosom on display and smiled. It was a brittle smile.

She extended a hand and led me down a short hallway. There were two doors further down and one door here, which she opened. Inside, the lights were low. There was a padded massage table at waist height, a boombox on the floor playing Enya, and a metal shelf with a roll of paper towels, a few jars, a spray bottle, and a fat candle. It smelled like vanilla.

Which one was she, I wondered—Julie, Belle, or Rodeo?

“Samantha,” she said when I asked her name.

“You’re not on the Web site.”

She rolled her eyes. “Yeah, the site hasn’t been updated in, like, forever. Cassie hasn’t been here for months, and Julie...”

“What?”

The smile had flickered for a moment, but it was back. “Nothing. I’m sure she’ll get the site updated one of these days. Meanwhile—” She raised her hands and dropped them to her side. “I’m here, you’re here, so...” She nodded at a folding chair in the corner. “You want to put your things there?”

I took out a handful of twenties I’d gotten at an ATM on the way uptown. “Samantha,” I said, “there’s something—”

She shook her head. “Undress first.”

“I’m not—”

She put an index finger against my lips. “I can’t talk to you till you’ve undressed, sweetie.”

Because I might be a cop wearing a wire. It was a reasonable precaution before taking money for a sex act. But that’s not what I was here for.

I pressed the money into her hand, closed her fingers around it. “I’m not here for a massage, Samantha. Or for anything sexual, or for anything that will get you in trouble. I’m also not a cop. I’m a friend of Cassandra’s. Something bad’s happened to her and I need your help.”

Her eyes went wide and her hand jumped to her mouth, taking my money with it. “Is she okay?”

“No.”

“Oh my god. Oh my god.” Samantha opened the door of the room. “Di?” she called. “Come in here!”

One of the other doors opened and a black woman in jeans and a Nike t-shirt came running. “What? What is it?” She was looking fiercely at me. I recognized her voice from the phone. She didn’t sound bored anymore. “You trying something, asshole?”

“No, no, it’s Cassie,” Samantha said, “he said something’s happened.”

Di reached into the back pocket of her jeans and swung up at me with a slim black canister, her thumb on top, ready to squeeze down and launch a spray of something painful into my face. “You get the fuck out of here, mister, or I swear to god I will cut your balls off and feed them to you.”

“Di!” Samantha put her hand up in front of the nozzle. “He says he’s a friend of Cassie’s.”

“And you fucking believe him?” She pushed Samantha’s hand down. “I’m going to count to three and you’d better be out of here before I’m done. One—”

I sat down on the massage table, put my hands out to either side, kept the palms showing. No one had ever told me I look dangerous—quite the opposite—but under the circumstances I wanted to be extra sure. “I’m sorry if I scared you. I just need to talk to you for a few minutes and then I’ll go.”

“Two,” Di said. She took a step closer to me, extending the canister toward my face. “Get up.”

“Listen to me, please,” I said. “Cassandra is dead. The police found her body this morning. In her apartment.” Di’s hand was shaking, and Samantha had started to cry. “They came to me because my number was programmed into her phone. She was a friend of mine. That’s the truth.”

“Yeah?” Di said. “Then what’s her real name?”

“Dorrie. Dorrie Burke. We took classes together at Columbia. That’s where I know her from.”

“How’d you get this number?”

“Craigslist,” I said. “She told me what name she worked under.”

Samantha looked from Di to me and back again. Di’s hand slowly came down.

“What’s your real name?” she said.

“It’s John,” I said. “John Blake. I didn’t lie to you.”

Samantha wiped one eye with the heel of her hand. “What—what happened to Cassie?”

“They don’t know yet. They say it looked like suicide. I think someone got into her apartment and knocked her out, made it look that way. It looks like they made her swallow some pills.”

“She OD’d?” Di said.

I shook my head. “She was in the bathtub. Suffocated.” I described the scene to them. I hated to do it. I watched Samantha’s face go pale and both of them seemed to retreat into themselves. As bold as Di was, she was frightened, too. And why shouldn’t she be? If it was one of their customers who did it, it might as easily have been Di found dead in her bathtub instead.

“You said that Dorrie hasn’t worked here for months,” I said. “How many months?”

Samantha said, “Two? Three?” She looked over at Di.

“Two,” Di said.

“Why’d she leave?”

They exchanged another look. “It was after what happened to Julie,” Samantha said.

I waited.

“There’s this guy,” Di said. “Man probably a foot taller than you, skinny, but with big hands, really long fingers. The girls called him E.T.” She stuck out an index finger: Phone home. “He was a regular, would come once a month, sometimes twice. Sam had him a few times.” Samantha shivered, nodded.

“He liked to brag about how he was connected and all that,” Di said, “talk about the guys he did jobs for—