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It was midnight.
I stood in the plaza of the Seattle Art Museum and pulled my collar tight against the seeping rain.
I stared across the street at the doors beneath the flashing marquee of the Pink Pussycat Theater.
A few people hurried past, but there was no one near me in the large stone plaza, but for Hammering Man, the two story high black metal statue outside the Museum’s doors. For the past half hour I had stood there, and every eleven seconds Hammering Man’s motorized arm had swung down, as if he wanted to smash me.
I’m being ridiculous, I thought. What if someone from the firm sees me? I’m leaving.
But I stayed. I stood there in the rain because ten minutes earlier I had seen Peter Simon, the Managing Partner of the firm, and my mentor— go inside the Pink Pussycat Theatre.
The minutes went by. The rain slipped past my collar and chilled my neck. I wondered how people could ever want to work out of doors. I like working in a snug office, with its grey carpeting, recessed lighting and controlled climate. I like the view from the top two floors of a downtown skyscraper. I like having a secretary who answers my phone and processes my words. I like being a corporate attorney.
I looked at my watch; Peter Simon had been inside twenty minutes. What the hell could he be doing?
I scooted out from beneath Hammering Man’s lowering hammer, strode across the street and under the garish marquee that flashed: Safe Sex Is XXX-citing Sex! I opened the darkened glass door, expecting to feel something sticky on the handle. I wished I had gloves on, and a hat I could pull down to hide my face.
In the darkness there was loud, pulsing music. A woman was half-singing, half-moaning “Oh, baby!”, over and over and over.
I went down a curving hallway that had dozens of half-doors built into the outer wall. Men, milling about the hallway, were going into and coming out of the half-doors. From behind each door I passed came the sounds of women groaning and gasping. Beside each door was a sign, Quarters Only!, and a full color poster of climactic scenes from the sex-films to be viewed inside.
Above each door were lighted signs: red for In Use, green for Available.
I thought that Peter Simon could be behind one of the red-lighted doors. I gasped, “My God! Peter!”, and felt equal amounts of pity and contempt. He had been my hero; the smoothest, most successful, most prestigious attorney I had ever worked with. How could he be one of these shadowy men, these perverts, moving in the darkness?
That thought made me worry that someone among these men might know me, see me, and think the same of me. I kept moving. In the deepest part of the curving hallway I noticed a large glass window built into the wall. Through the window I saw a woman with long black hair, wearing a purple negligee and reclining on a small, gold painted bed. Next to the window was a full-sized, green door. A poster beside the green door had color photographs of the black haired woman wearing a purple bikini. Large letters above the photos said,  APPEARING 11PM — 3AM: Tiffany!
The green-lighted sign above the green door said, Available.
I went out of the theater certain that Peter Simon had been behind that green door, and had left the theater just before me. Yet, when I stood again in the drizzling rain I was swarmed with guilt. Having stumbled upon Peter Simon’s ugly secret, why had I felt compelled to investigate it? Why hadn’t I just turned and walked away?
The very next day Peter Simon and I spent a long afternoon in hard negotiation with three opposing lawyers, hammering out an agreement between our client, a furniture manufacturer, and the union which represented half our client’s employees. I was able to concentrate on the work, although sometimes a flickering memory of the dark halls of the sex club would distract me.
“That was an amazing piece of work, Peter. You had those three goons mesmerized. No one can pull off a negotiation the way you can.”
“Really, Neil. Sometimes you make lawyering sound like a carnival trick.”
He softened the statement by giving me one of his easy smiles, but I swore inwardly with frustration. For months I had been fumbling to strum the right chord of flattery.
“Ah, hell, Peter. Maybe someday I’ll grow up.”
“Don’t be so hard on yourself, Neil. You’ve got youth, vigor. And there’s nothing wrong with being ambitious.”
“As long as you don’t think I have a ‘lean and hungry look’,” I said.
Peter laughed. I felt better.
“Will you have time to review the agreement?” he asked.
“I’ll make time,” I said. “I’ve had the mail room hustling to copy those Johnson Motors documents. Should be two boxes waiting in my office now. I was planning on putting in a late night anyhow.”
“Okay. But don’t feel you have to burn the midnight oil every night, Neil. You’re working hard enough already.”
He was nearly six inches shorter than me and something about how he looked up, straight into my eyes, with that easy smile, touched me. I thought of last night, how I had spied on him, had even wanted to confront him in the shadows of the Pink Pussycat Theater. I was overwhelmed by shame.
Yes, I was probably the only one who knew of Peter Simon’s secret. I could have told anyone or everyone of the flaw in his character that sent him scurrying into the Pink Pussycat, to stare at pornographic films, and worse, to lock himself behind a green door and—
But he was my boss, my mentor. I wanted to protect him. In a surge of passionate loyalty, I swore I would guard his secret as if it were my own.
It was eleven-thirty that same night when Peter Simon, wearing his beige raincoat, leaned into my office.
“Working on those boxes?”
“Um-hmm,” I answered a bit distracted. I had been reading and organizing papers for five hours straight.
“You know, Gloria could get that in shape for us, Neil.”
“Oh, I know,” I sighed.
I had considered letting Gloria, my paralegal, do exactly that. But in the back of my mind I had hoped Peter would see me diligently working on the boxes, and would be impressed. I leaned back in my chair, stretching my arms over my head. “Gloria wanted to see her daughter’s basketball game. I’ll bill the time at her rate, not mine. Besides, Peter, if I’m ever going to know as much as Gloria, I’ve got to do some grunt work.”
He laughed. I smiled, pleased with the results of my new humility.
“You’ve been burning a little of that midnight oil, too.” I nodded at the briefcase in Peter’s hand.
“I have, Neil. In fact, I have a new client with a great deal of work, and, I might add, a great deal of money. They have a wrongful discharge suit that I could use your help on.”
I felt tremendously grateful, but restrained the urge to say something fawning. Peter Simon was standing in the doorway of my office, near midnight, telling me he needed my help with a new client! It was a good end to a long day.
“Just let me know the details, Peter. Tomorrow, or whenever you have the time.”
He winked at me, and left.
I spun in my chair and put my feet up on the window ledge. I stared at the geometric forms of dark office buildings, and beyond, the headlights of cars on the highways. I felt warm with appreciation. My thoughts wandered pleasantly—until I suddenly had a vision of myself standing in the rain beneath the hammering arm of Hammering Man, staring across the wet street at the bright marquee of the Pink Pussycat Theater.
I spun in my chair and slapped both palms down on my desk. “Damn! I bet he’s going there.”
When I came out on the street I was winded from running through the halls and cursing the slowness of the elevator ride down to the lobby. I jogged to the corner of Fifth Avenue and Pine. When I spotted the beige raincoat and the briefcase, I almost laughed aloud: Peter Simon was not heading toward the garage where he kept his black Mercedes— he was making his way toward Pike’s Market, toward the seedy waterfront. I had caught him.
In my rush I had not grabbed my raincoat or umbrella. The misting rain wet my hair and face, but I didn’t care. My adrenalin was up. I followed him from a block behind, turned as he turned, and matched my pace to his. We walked through the maze of streets walled by the tall dark buildings, cars sometimes splashing by, their red brake lights blurred from the misty rain.
When he came to First Avenue he crossed to the side the theater was on. I stayed on the side of the art museum. I could see, looming ahead, the giant black silhouette of Hammering Man, his great hammer swinging down in its slow arc.
When Peter went into the theater, I crossed the street, dashing in front of a taxi, and skipped through the doors behind him.
I came into the dark, curving hallway just in time to see the back of his beige raincoat go around the corner. I pushed past a clump of men, turned the corner, and saw the green door closing. I ran up to the window in time to see the same black haired girl standing, smiling over her shoulder, pulling the curtains across the inside of her window.
“Damn!” I walked down the corridor, panting.
I turned to watch the green door near “Tiffany’s” window and saw a very wide man coming down the hall.
He pushed by me with a gruff, “'scuse me.”
He knocked on a door and it opened, bright light spilling from it, making me squint. A man just as wide as the one who had pushed by me stood in the open door and said, “Got it?”
“Yeah.”
He went in. The door closed. When my eyes readjusted to the dark, I noted the sign above the door he had entered, “Office.” I imagined the two blocky men sitting in a stale, cramped room, unshaven, wearing bad suits, counting money.
“What a sleazy business.” I turned to watch the door near Tiffany’s window. “What a way to make a living.”
As I stared at the green door, waiting for it to open and Peter Simon to come out, I began pondering the business aspects of the Pink Pussycat Theatre. Other than the lease and a few dozen video machines, there’d be little capital investment. And the employees? You could forget about the headaches of unions, human resources departments, and benefits packages! What advertising would be necessary, beyond the garish flashing marquee, and a small, provocative photograph in the entertainment pages of the city’s newspaper? Then too, it was a cash business, with all the usual advantages. In fact, this business of twenty-five cent voyeuristic sex was so primal it would not feel the deepest recession; the worst of times would be the best of times.
Just as I began imagining how the owners of the thriving theater, subject to restrictive ordinances and laws, and annoying suits from community activists, might require considerable legal expertise— the green door opened.
I pressed my back into the wall, swallowed hard, and suddenly knew that I did not have the nerve to confront Peter Simon.
But it was a fat, bearded man in a tight beige raincoat that came out from the green door.
“Damn.” I walked up to Tiffany’s window. She was stretched on the gold bed, her long legs crossed, reading a paperback book.
I strode out of the theater, across the street, and began pacing beneath Hammering Man’s swinging hammer. I was thinking in confused fragments, sometimes stopping to stare at the theater across the street, when Peter Simon suddenly came out the door.
He went along First Avenue. I turned and ran uphill to Second Avenue, then turned left and ran a full block, then turned left again, and ran downhill to First Avenue.
“Peter!”
He looked up. “Neil. Hello.” He stopped, holding his briefcase with both hands. “On your way home?”
“Yes.” I struggled to breathe and speak casually. “I thought I might get a nightcap somewhere.”
“Ah. Well-deserved, I’m certain.”
I had run around the block like a mad man and come up on him suddenly in the poorly lighted street, and he seemed as natural as if we were meeting in the hallway of our office.
“Care to join me?” I asked.
“Oh, no. Thank you. I don’t drink.”
I wanted to kick myself: I had foolishly forgotten Peter’s renowned disdain for alcohol.
He shifted the briefcase to one hand. “You enjoy your night cap. See you tomorrow.” He patted me on the shoulder as he walked past.
The next thing I remember, I was back in the dark, curving hallway of the Pink Pussycat Theater. I put a dollar in the change machine near Tiffany’s window and four quarters clanked into the metal tray. I scooped up the quarters and went through the green door.
I dropped a quarter into the slot on a metal box. The lights went out. One wall of the small room was a pane of darkened glass, from floor to ceiling. There was a whirring noise, and a tin curtain behind the window raised. On the other side of the glass, in soft yellow light, in a purple bra and panties, stood Tiffany.
She looked straight into my eyes as she picked up a telephone near her bed. The tin curtain whirred and began to lower. The lights in my room came on. I saw a telephone by the window and picked up the handset while digging a quarter from my pocket and wedging it into the slot. As the whirring curtain went back up I held the phone to my ear.
“Hello.” Her voice was casual, friendly. I had expected an affectedly deep, sultry voice.
“Hello,” I said.
“That’s a nice suit. Armani?”
I stupidly looked down at my rain darkened suit. “Yes. How’d you—”
“Armani’s my second favorite designer.” As she spoke she ran the fingers of one hand over her flat belly. Her nails gleamed with purple polish.
“Who’s your favorite?” I asked.
The curtain began whirring, lowering. I saw her lips moving but my phone had gone dead. I scrambled to push the third of my four quarters in the slot.
Her calm voice came over the telephone, “You know, you can put in more than one quarter at a time.”
“Oh.”
As I put my last quarter in the slot, I wondered what I would say in the minute before the tin curtain lowered.
“You’re a good looking guy.”
I frowned at the unsophisticated flattery and watched as Tiffany cradled the phone on her shoulder.
“How tall are you?”
I hesitated. “Six one.”
“Mmm...” She slowly slid both hands into her panties. “You’ve got seven inches on me.”
I could not keep from smirking.
Then the phone went dead and the curtain was lowering. She smiled and pointed at the coin slot on my side of the glass partition. I shrugged, miming that I had no more quarters. The curtain reached the bottom of the window and the lights came on inside my room. I took out my wallet but dropped it. I hung up the phone, picked up the wallet and opened the door. I darted to the change machine and put in a ten dollar bill. The sudden banging of forty quarters in the metal tray made me jump. I scooped the coins with both hands and darted back through the green door.
I kept pushing quarters into the slot even after the whirring of the tin curtain had stopped. When I finally looked up I saw Tiffany, an interested smile on her purple lipsticked mouth, the telephone cradled on her shoulder.
I picked up my phone.
“You’ve come back,” she said. “And you’ve decided to stay awhile.”
“I need to talk to you.”
“You like to talk?”
“I need to ask you, something about—” I was having trouble organizing my thoughts. I felt a flash of anger with myself for not having roughed out a line of questioning.
“There’s a guy who comes here. He wears a beige raincoat—”
“How unique.”
Her sarcasm tripped me up. “Huh? Oh.” I added, “He’s fifty-three, trim, short, five eight or so, with graying hair.”
She didn’t answer, but went and lay on the gold painted bed. I watched the muscles ripple under the skin of her long legs. Why was it necessary that she tell me what Peter Simon did inside this room? Wasn’t it obvious?
“I mean, I don’t know if you have confidentiality rules, maybe about discussing your—” I groped for a word, trying ‘client’, ‘customer’, ‘men’, and lost my thought in the search.
“You’re handsome,” she said into the telephone. I listened, waiting for more flattery I knew was coming. “I’ll bet you never have a problem getting a woman. If you want her.”
“Not if I really want—”
“Want me?”
I didn’t answer.
She massaged the inside of her thighs, leaning her head down, her long black hair cascading with the movement. “Don’t think about your job,” she said.
“I’m not!”
“Think about me.”
“My career is going fine. I’m happy with things.”
“Are you happy?”
“As happy as anyone,” I insisted. “Being happy isn’t what work’s about. After all, if it was supposed to be fun it wouldn’t be called work, right?”
I felt stupid.
“I like my work,” she said. “I like to talk to men. I like how they look at me. I like to look at them.”
I could hear my breathing echoing over the phone. I estimated I had about eight dollars of time left.
“This guy I asked you about. He’s a highly respected man, the senior partner of our firm. He’s well connected in the city and state.”
I began talking fast, wanting to get it all out before I would stop myself.
“He’s my goddamn boss, my mentor. And he has this, this goddamn complacent peaceful almost beatific way about him that either makes you love him or despise him!”
I lowered my voice. “Actually, I don’t know anyone who despises him. Even I don’t. Really. The opposite: I admire him. I want to get closer to him. I want to be his protege. He can really move my career forward. You should see how he can handle people. I mean, the guy is a master of manipulation. He can make anyone trust him, believe he’s sincere—”
“Maybe he is sincere?”
Her question stopped me. I watched dumbly as she undid the purple bra. The heavy fall of her breasts took my breath away. I stared: her nipples were painted purple. I was confused; she had to be acting, faking enthusiasm for my pleasure, yet her nipples were hard, erect. I quickly theorized that the owners of the theater, those two blocky men behind the door marked “Office”, kept Tiffany’s room cool for just that reason.
“Peter’s a fraud,” I said.
“A fraud? How do you know?”
“I know. That’s all. Believe me. He isn’t what he makes people think he is. He’s no saint. Far from it.”
“Tell me.”
“You wouldn’t believe.”
“Try me.”
I stared at her breasts. “What?”
She deftly slipped the panties down her long legs. She stood before me, naked, with the natural, smug assurance of an athlete.
“Tell me what you feel. Tell me what’s on your mind.”
I told her everything.
 It was nearly a week before I saw Peter Simon again. I was returning to our offices, just stepping out of the elevator, when I looked up to see him standing in the softly lighted, grey carpeted lobby. “Hello, Peter.”
“Neil. How are you?”
“Fine. Great.” I stepped out of the elevator.
Peter held the door open for two stout men, both with heavily oiled black hair and wearing matching brown cashmere overcoats. They were twins. Peter followed them into the elevator.
I pressed back the closing doors and blurted, “I’m just getting back from Johnson Motors.” I shouldn’t have been speaking of clients or firm business in the reception area, but I wanted Peter to know I’d been working hard.
“Ah. That matter of the two boxes?” he said.
“Yes,” I smiled at his private allusion to the boxes I had labored on last week. “It went well. And I’ve got some new work. I can go over it with you, tomorrow, if you like?”
“Good.”
The door tried to close; I pushed it back.
Peter smiled at me. “You’ve been putting in a lot of late nights, Neil. I’m not over-working you, am I?”
“Oh, no, not at all. It’s good to burn the midnight oil once in a while.”
“You’ve been doing a great job. But remember: all work and no play—” He wagged a finger at me.
I almost laughed aloud as I let the elevator door close on Peter Simon’s sincere smile, and the blank expressions of the silent, stout twins standing behind him.
As the receptionist handed over my messages I smiled and asked, “So, who are the wide-body twins with Peter?”
“Don’t you know?”
“No,” I couldn’t help being amused by her gossipy tone. “Tell me.”
“They’re Peter’s newest clients.”
“Are you sure? I know all Peter’s clients.”
“They’re the Roth twins,” she said. “Arnold and Stanley Roth.”
“I don’t recall the Roths.”
“Well, they don’t come out much before midnight.” She chuckled at her cryptic remark.
“What’s their business?”
“You really don’t know?” She was delighted by my ignorance. “Arnold and Stanley Roth own all the stripper places along the waterfront. All those adult video stores, too.”
I shuffled my messages and managed to ask casually, “Like that place with the flashing lights, on First Avenue, I think with some ridiculous name. Oh, the Pink Pussycat Theater?”
“Right. They own that and most all the others in the city.”
“A regular monopoly, eh? What kind of work is Peter doing for them?”
“Oh, the usual. Contracts, permits. I overheard them talking about one case, it was a dancer they fired, I think for being drunk at work. She’s suing them for wrongful discharge.” In my office I took my shoes off and sat in my leather chair, putting my feet up on the window ledge. I watched the rainy grey afternoon being overcome by the black purpling night. Beyond the massive, angular buildings, I watched the mesmerizing flow of headlights on the rivers of highways.
I thought of my first time in the small room behind the green door. I understood now that Peter Simon must have been down the hall, in the room marked “Office”, with his new clients, the Roth twins. I was not upset.
For the next five or six hours, I knew I would review the incoming business from Johnson Motors. I knew that I would concentrate on my work, easily, with no distracting thoughts of Peter, of my career, of anything.
In the past, the stress of my own ambition and the demands of my career had made me feel there was a scalding geyser of tension shooting upward inside me. In the past week though, I had been deeply relaxed. I did not push, yet what I wanted came to me. I felt I suddenly had my career, my energy, well in hand.
As I stared out the window I imagined how it would feel when, with the relaxed weariness of a full day of hard work, I would leave the office at midnight. I thought of the nervous excitement I would feel as I walked along the hushed streets, how the excitement would increase, how my throat would get dry, my palms would get damp, my hands would shake.
I imagined the shock of forty quarters falling into the metal tray, and the soft whirring of the tin curtain rising, and I shivered with anticipation. |
