Mirror Image (36 page)

Manny shook her head violently. No.

The creature smiled and the planes of her face subtly altered. She was still golden and beautiful, but her burnished flesh was now dulled and tarnished, her eyes seemed to have sunk deeper into her face and her cheekbones looked sharper. She had been golden and innocent; now she was ancient and exuded a palpable aura of evil. Her mouth twisted and she spat at Manny, green slime dribbling down the surface of the glass.

But by now the nameless woman was awake, staring in horror at the figure in the glass. Instinctively, she clutched the babe to her bosom and screamed, the sound tearing from her throat. The image instinctively spat at her too—and a gobbet of the green fluid passed through glass and splattered onto her face, searing into the flesh to the right of her eye.

Manny screamed with the pain, the fire in her face.

And awoke.

*   *   *

M
ANNY RESTED HER
forehead against the cool glass of the bathroom mirror. She was bathed in sweat, her bathrobe sticking to her skin, and yet she felt cold, chilled through to the bone. She looked at her face again …

The skin from the corner of her right eye, almost down to her jaw bone was red and raw, leaking a pale watery pus.

 

79

T
HIS WAS
only Toni's third night on the street, and she was still terrified. Her two friends who also worked the streets told her that only the first night was the hardest and then after that it got easier. But the second night hadn't been any easier and she was absolutely petrified with the prospect of another customer tonight.

Frankie, who lived in the apartment further down the hall, told her that she should be able to get three or four johns a night and if the clients wanted the “works” at one hundred bucks for an hour, that would mean she was earning four hundred dollars for a mere four hours work per day, not bad. Go for the big bucks while you're still young and pretty, she'd advised, forget the hand jobs or the oral.

The first night she'd managed one guy, a hand job. She'd been shaking, but he'd been drunk and hadn't noticed. She'd been so sick, so ashamed afterwards that she'd gone right back to the apartment and washed herself again and again, imagining she could still smell him—stale sweat and beer—on her skin.

The next guy on the second night had been so nervous that she felt almost sorry for him, and again, she'd washed and washed herself, scrubbing away the smell, knowing she could never erase the memory.

She hated it, she'd never be able to get used to it, not the way Frankie or Joey did. But she had to do it, she needed the money desperately.

It had started when she lost her job—and she'd been lucky that they hadn't pressed charges, but she supposed it would have cost the store more to sue her for stealing several T-shirts. And it couldn't have happened at a worse time: she was four months pregnant and just beginning to show. Maybe that had been another reason the store manager hadn't pressed charges, simply dismissed her on the spot without a reference. Without a reference she stood absolutely no chance of finding another job. And she was too proud to return to her Kansas hometown, she didn't want to see the disappointment in her parents' eyes.

She'd borrowed some money just before the baby was born. None of the regular lending agencies would give it to her, and she ended up dealing with a “private finance company.” Later, when it was too late, she realized they were little more than loan sharks. When they'd asked her if she was working, she'd lied and said yes, and they'd never checked. When they discovered that she couldn't pay back the loan, they'd become very upset. Now a guy was coming around every day demanding money, threatening her, and the last time he'd deliberately turned and looked at the baby as he told her that people who didn't pay him always had bad luck.

She'd spoken to Frankie, telling her the story, hoping—but not asking—that she might help her out, give her some money. She knew Frankie had plenty of cash; the older woman had her hair done twice or three times a week, and always wore the latest fashions. Frankie hadn't been any help though—except to make the suggestion that she go on the streets. Toni had immediately dismissed the idea out of hand, until Frankie had started to tell her how much money was to be made from it, and as long as you were careful and picked the right clients and didn't go with any crazy looking guys, never got into a car with more than one person and avoided some of the sleazier bars, you'd be all right. Oh, and you always made sure to take your pill and you didn't do it with guys who wouldn't wear a condom.

Toni owed over three hundred dollars; it had started out at one hundred and fifty, but the interest mounted up rapidly. Frankie had pointed out to her that three nights on the street at three clients a night would take care of her problem and leave money left over to buy herself or baby Stephanie a present. And you never knew, maybe she'd end up liking it. Frankie knew women who only did it on weekends or mid-week, just for a night or two, earning themselves enough money to carry them through to the next week. And yes, some husbands knew about it: but if you were trying to claim unemployment benefits with a couple of kids to bring up and a mortgage to pay and the bills just mounting up, what other way was there to earn money … except maybe go out and rob a bank.

Toni knew she'd never like this. She enjoyed sex, but only with someone she loved, or at least thought she loved. But there was nothing pleasurable in this. This was a necessity.

She hadn't even dressed “whorishly” and yet she felt as if everyone knew what she did, and everyone was looking at her. She'd come into the bar tonight with Frankie and though she'd been here nearly two hours—and Frankie had been in and out with three different guys, and she charged fifty bucks—so far no one had shown the slightest bit of interest in her. Maybe she looked just too respectable. No one wanted respectable these days.

 

80

J
ONATHAN FRAZER
looked at her closely. He'd noticed her the moment he'd stepped into the bar: a slim dark-haired, pale-skinned young woman, maybe nineteen, maybe twenty, looking awkward and out of place here. A tall, stunning African American woman chatted to her for a few moments on a few occasions before disappearing with two different men. He knew what
she
was, but the younger woman was different. He closed his eyes, squeezing them tightly shut, attempting, without success, to call up the figure of the image. He looked at the woman through slitted eyes.

Did it matter what she was? She was still cattle. Flesh and muscle, bone and blood. Especially the blood. She was an animal about to be butchered and sacrificed to the image.

He leaned back against the wall, his left arm extended, feeling the pressure of the knife against his forearm. It was a risk wearing it in case he was picked up by the police, but it gave him such a feeling of power, of control, of authority.

Jonathan Frazer sat forward, and stared into his glass of Coke. Reflected in the dark surface, he saw his own haunted expression, his deep sunk eyes, the lengthening stubble on his chin, the new lines around his eyes.

The image looked at him.

Startled he looked up and around the room.

And saw the beasts.

The people were still there, but surrounded now by thin glowing ovals of light. As they moved, the ovals shifted, moving with them, sometimes hardening to a reflective surface, then dissipating to reveal, not the person beneath, but the flickering image of an animal, a fleshy beast with the attributes of a human, a man with the face of a swine, a woman with the huge eyes of a cow, a small man with the feral features of a rat. The shimmering ovals were wan pinks and delicate greens, pale blues, insipid yellows. But one was different: the woman at the bar was bathed in a warm blood red light that so was intense he could barely make out her features beneath it.

Jonathan Frazer was on his feet before he was even aware that he was moving. The beasts parted before him.

 

81

T
ONI WATCHED
the guy move through the crowd, and knew instinctively that he was making his way towards her. Tall, thin, with a three-day growth of beard on his face, and a directness about his gaze that she found disconcerting. His clothing was good quality, but looking a little rumpled now, as if he had slept in them.

Watch out for the crazies, Frankie had warned her.

He stopped in front of her, saying nothing, simply staring at her. She attempted a smile, but found she couldn't meet his eyes.

“You shouldn't be here,” he said hoarsely. “A girl like you is too pretty, too good to be doing this.”

Surprised, she looked up, staring into his eyes. She thought she saw genuine pity there. But Frankie had warned her about this type, too—the type who wanted to save her from herself.

“You're new.” The man moved in beside her, and she caught a faintly musty, damp smell from his clothing. “Let me guess: a husband unemployed, the rent due, bills to be met or maybe you've lost your job?”

Toni nodded. Was he a pimp, a social worker, or the police maybe?

He shook his head, drawing his fingers through thin black hair that needed a wash, pulling it back off his face. “It doesn't matter, does it? What matters is that you've been forced into doing this.”

“Are you going to tell me there's another way?” she asked boldly.

“No,” he shook his head, surprising her. She expected him to give her an answer; everyone had an answer to her problem. “If you see this as the solution to your problem, then so it is.”

“I owe money,” she said suddenly, surprising herself. “Over three hundred dollars to a money lender. He's grown threatening. I think he's going to hurt my baby if I don't give him the money.” She had no idea why she was telling this stranger her story.

“How much do you charge?” the man asked gently. Now the shadows beneath his eyes lent them compassion.

“Forty.”

“How long have you been doing this?”

“This is my third night.”

“And how much have you earned so far?”

“Eighty,” she whispered.

“Tonight?”

“Over the past two nights. I've had two men…”

“Come with me then, and I'll pay you two hundred and twenty dollars on one condition…”

“What's that?” she asked fearfully, expecting to discover that he wanted her to do something kinky.

“You ask me no questions.”

“No questions?”

“None.”

“You don't want to do anything … odd, do you?”

“Not in the slightest,” he smiled. “Just the most natural thing in the world.”

Toni slipped her hand into his. “No questions then.”

*   *   *

N
OW, SHE HAD
a hundred questions, and she didn't like the answers she was getting.

She had been reluctant to bring him back to her apartment; there was only one room and the baby slept in the crib in the corner, and when he had suggested his place, she had immediately agreed. He gave the taxi driver an address in the Hollywood Hills. She'd immediately thought he owned a place but when he led her past the side of the main house and towards the guesthouse she realized he only rented the place. Standing outside the door of the guesthouse she felt an uneasiness in the pit of her stomach. She heard him muttering when he discovered that the door was already open.

“Do you live here … is it OK for you to be here?” The last thing she needed was to be done for trespassing or breaking and entering.

He looked back over his shoulder. “The house is empty; everyone is away. I'm … I'm looking after things. I work here,” he added as an afterthought.

Toni followed the man into the dark interior of the long room, wrinkling her nose at the dry, musty smell … similar to the smell that clung to his clothes. A hand—dry and cold—reached out of the darkness and found hers, pulling her deeper into the shadows. “Sorry, there's something wrong with the circuit breakers, the electrician is supposed to be here tomorrow morning,” he murmured, his voice little more than a whisper. There were objects piled high all around, but with an almost uncanny knack he led her deep into the pitch-dark room without bumping into anything. As her eyes adjusted to the dimness, she could make out the vague squares of the windows and similarly lighted rectangles high in the ceiling. The man—she realized he hadn't given her a name, and hadn't asked for hers in return—dropped her hand and moments later she heard the rasp of a match being drawn across sandpaper and a tiny yellow light flared. He put the flame to a tall white candle, creating a warm circle of yellowish light.

There was an enormous mirror in front of the candle that helped reflect the light. She looked into it. The glass was old and warped: she imagined she could see shapes twisting in the darkness behind her. And then she jumped, her hand flying to her throat as a pale face materialized out of the shadows behind her right shoulder. “Jesus! You frightened me!”

“Sorry.”

The dancing candlelight lent him a ghastly expression, deepening the shadows under his eyes, shading the stubble to create a skull-like appearance. He moved around in front of her and handed over a thick wad of twenty-dollar bills.

“You can count it; there's thirty there. Consider it a bonus … buy something for your child with it.”

Toni put the money into her bag without counting it. “I think I can trust you,” she said, smiling.

“I think you can,” he agreed, his lips drawing back from his teeth in an imitation of a smile.

Without another word, Toni began to undress.

 

82

S
KINNY, FRAZER
thought, flat-chested, narrow-hipped, her stomach still carrying the weight of the child. He watched her undress without the slightest flicker of emotion, and when she was naked, he came around behind her and stood with his hands on her shoulders staring into the glass.