Power & Beauty (16 page)

“I think so.”

“Now I will speak of myself. I will speak of myself in the third person—as Holly Windsor. I will look at myself like a character in a play, a girl from Tulare, a small city in the very fertile agricultural belt of central California, a city that was neither here nor there. This girl, this Holly Windsor, grew up on fashion magazines because her mother loved fashion. Her mother, June, was a failed model who, having missed the mark in New York City, found herself back in her hometown of Los Angeles modeling at a car show, where she met a wealthy farmer named Jack Windsor. Jack grew tomatoes, asparagus, and apricots. Jack appreciated beautiful women and June was certainly beautiful. Her first and only child—Holly Windsor—was not. You might say that she was homely. But June couldn’t accept that fact and, with the magic of makeup, worked on Holly for years and years. Do you know why I’m telling you all this, darling?” she asked.

“No.”

“Because it’s absolutely essential that you know Holly Windsor. You must know who she is. She must reveal herself to you with complete candor. She must tell you that she has suffered at the hands of a mother who could not accept a simple reality—that her daughter had the face of her father, not her mother. Am I boring you, darling?”

“Not at all.”

“Good, because there is more to tell about Holly Windsor. She tried to see herself through her mother’s distorted lens. Her mother trained her in poise, taught her posture and charm. Her mother gave her all the skills that, as a young lady, her mother had lacked. But because Holly lacked beauty, she, like her mother before her, failed as a model. So she left New York and flew south to Miami. Before I go any further, there is an essential detail in this story that explains why Holly Windsor and June Windsor no longer speak. Can you guess what that detail might be?”

“I wouldn’t want to try.”

“Holly Windsor loves women. She loves them passionately. Does that shock you, darling Power?”

“No.”

“Does that surprise you?”

“Not really.”

“So you had come to that conclusion on your own?”

“I hadn’t really thought about it.”

“Discretion! You are the soul of discretion! How I love this man! How I thank the sweet fates of good fortune for sending him my way! Do you think of yourself as a Southern gentleman?”

“My mother taught me good manners.”

“They show. They really do, darling. They make a woman feel at ease. Holly Windsor thought that by moving to Miami
she
would feel at ease. The pace would ease up. The pressures of New York would be lifted. She found work at a swimsuit modeling agency answering the phone. Five years later she was second in charge. And five years after that, she ran the place. Let me ask you a question, my love. Have you seen
Scarface
?”

“Sure.”

“Well, Holly Windsor became the Scarface of Miami modeling. She took over the city. She scooped up every salable model in sight—and she got top dollar. She taught herself Spanish.
Habla español,
Power?”

“No.”

“Well, Holly does. Holly went to Brazil and Colombia, to Venezuela and Chile, where she sold her models to the top magazines. Holly went to France, Holly went to Italy. Holly became rich, richer than her rich farmer father, who, along with her mother, vowed never to speak to her again because she loved women. Let me be clear, though. And let me be honest. Holly did love many of the models she represented, but Holly did not touch one—not a single one—because Holly learned what the jackass sleazeball Mr. Renato Ruiz never learned. You don’t sample your own merchandise. Ever. Are you in agreement with me, Power?”

“I am.”

“Good. But just because Holly understood that one lesson didn’t mean she understood other lessons. Cocaine isn’t the only seductive drug that can bring you down. Real estate is just as lethal. Especially in South Florida. The lust for property—beachfront property—can overwhelm a woman from Tulare, California, looking to conquer the world and prove to her parents, who have scorned her for loving women, that she is, above all, a genius. Have you ever met a genius?”

“I’m not sure.”

“Holly Windsor thought she was a genius. She was absolutely convinced of the fact. Holly Windsor was also in love. Her lover was a real estate agent, a former beauty queen from Palm Beach named Maribel Joyspring. Can you imagine such a name, Power? Maribel was convinced that she too was a genius. So we have two self-proclaimed geniuses, Holly and Maribel, sharing a bed and a vision of buying up South Beach, one block at a time. What Holly the genius didn’t know was that Maribel the genius was also crooked to the core.

“Lust is one thing. Lust in and of itself is not confusing. Lust is what it is. But love—love, my darling, is the most confusing emotion on God’s green planet. And when you have lust and love all wrapped up in parcels of pricey real estate—well, you can see what happened. The modeling agent followed the crooked real estate agent down the primrose path to financial ruin. So what did Holly Windsor do? She begged and borrowed and kept it all together until it all fell apart. And she fell apart. Did Mr. Charles Simmons tell you this story, Power? Am I boring you?”

“Yes . . . I mean, no, you’re not boring me, and yes, Slim told me something about the story, but not much.”

“Well, I’m telling you
too
much, but I have to, darling. I can’t leave anything out of the story since you’re now part of the story. A vital part. Because even though Humpty Dumpty Holly Windsor fell off the wall and had a great fall, all the king’s horses and all the king’s men
did
put her put back together again. She put herself back together again. She always has and she always will. That’s because she’s a woman who, having made a mistake once, will not make the same mistake twice. Other mistakes, perhaps. Other mistakes, certainly. But not that mistake—not the mistake of mistaking lust for love. Because if we confuse lust for love we lose reason. And reason is all that’s separating us from the sleazeballs looking to steal our gold. I’m speaking of Mr. Renato Ruiz and I’m speaking of Miss Maribel Joyspring, that cunt.

“But all that is past tense. It’s time to live in the present. We’re told if we live in the past or worry about the future we’ll miss the present. And we don’t want to do that. So here’s how I see the present: Presently the modeling business is a pounding headache. A nightmare. The girls are tiresome, ambitious, and bitchy. The buyers—the fashion editors, art directors, and such—are prejudiced for this type or that. The competition is fierce. In my view, the market is limited. So I’ve moved on. No more models.”

“But I thought you ran a modeling agency.”

“You thought wrong, my dear. I run an escort agency. And believe me, it’s an upgrade from what I’d been doing. The market is far wider, the buyers more diverse, more generous, and, of course, infinitely more numerous. You will meet many of those buyers, as you will meet many of the women they are buying.”

A whorehouse,
I thought.
Slim has sent me to work in a fuckin’ whorehouse
.

“Oh, darling,” said Holly, “I’m afraid you don’t look happy. You don’t look happy at all. Does this come as a shock?”

I shrugged it off. I didn’t know what to say.

Holly continued. “Well, I can assure you that you will meet a far more cultivated set of women than if you were working in a modeling agency. And you may even fall in love . . .”

“I wouldn’t worry about that.”

“You sound bitter, my dear. Did Mr. Renato Ruiz’s excessive womanizing turn you off?”

I didn’t say anything.

“This is a new world you’re entering, Power, so I’d advise you to forget everything you thought you knew about women. You’re about to be educated, young man, in an entirely different area of human behavior. I know you like to learn, and, believe me, you will study subjects that your community college does not offer.”

“What exactly will I be doing?”

“A precise question deserves a precise answer. You will not be pimping, if that’s your concern. You will be assisting me, but on the highest executive level. You will be the only man in this office. You will wear a suit and tie every day. I will personally take you shopping to make sure you have the right look. Not too formal, not too casual; elegant, European, custom-tailored jackets and suits that will make you feel like a prince. You are a prince. Prince Power. Prince Power will be seated at Queen Holly’s right hand. You will meet the girls who I hire. You will give me your candid evaluation because, in truth, they are far closer to your age than mine. You will enjoy meeting them. They will enjoy meeting you. The ambience of this office, darling, is one of extreme professional dignity. We will do our work in an atmosphere of cordiality. From time to time, you will meet our clients. They too require scrutiny. Your male perspective will be invaluable. You will be forthright with me, you will be candid, you will tell me which clients you feel are suitable and which are not. In both areas—the girls and their clients—I have made some mistakes. That’s why I realize I need a man’s point of view. I am placing great trust in you, my dear—a trust that, according to Mr. Charles Simmons, is more than warranted. Just being with you, even for this short amount of time, assures me that Mr. Simmons is right. My inner voice says that Power is a prince, Power is here to help, Power is a great addition to what is becoming the classiest escort agency in America’s classiest city. Prince Power, welcome to New York.”

New York City has its own groove—fast, nervous, and impatient. You just go with it or you get swallowed up. Holly Windsor had that kind of groove. You couldn’t shut her up. It was almost like you had to go with her. At least that’s how I felt. If someone had said, “That woman’s full of shit,” I wouldn’t have argued. She was an actress in some play. At the same time, I couldn’t stop watching her act. I liked the play. And, in spite of myself, I even liked her. Maybe the reason I liked her is because she never stopped saying how much she liked me. I went for the flattery. And I was impressed by how honest she was about herself. People don’t usually go on and on about their own mistakes. I’d never met anyone like Holly Windsor. Nothing in my life had prepared me for her way of talking or her outlook on business.

My initial thought—that I’d be working at a whorehouse—was in some ways right, but in most ways wrong. First of all, there was no house. The girls always worked on the outside. They met their dates in hotel rooms, apartments, homes, private jets, and even yachts. The big surprise, though, was the way they looked. They looked like they worked as bank managers, or lawyers, or ad executives. They looked like young ladies on their way up in the world of high finance. They wore dark pinstriped suits where the skirts were never too short. The suits were tailored to fit their perfect shapes, but the tailoring always left a lot to the imagination. Of course when they first came up to the office to be interviewed they didn’t always look that way. The experienced ones did—the ones who knew that the more expensive the service, the more conservative the look. But the new ones, who had learned about Holly through mutual friends, often made the mistake of wearing way-too-sexy clothes that showed off too much cleavage or booty. For the first months, I was fascinated just watching Holly interview these women.

“Darling,” she would say—she called everyone “darling”—“tell me about your mother.”

That first question would throw them. They wouldn’t know what to say. Some thought it was a joke, but it wasn’t. Holly was dead serious. If the girl answered, “Oh, she’s real nice,” Holly would say, “You must tell me more than that, sweetheart.” If she replied, “I can’t stand her,” Holly would keep the questions coming until she got the whole picture. It came down to this: If a woman had a lousy relationship with her mother Holly wouldn’t hire her. If it was good, the girl had a chance. When I asked Holly about this, she said, “Darling, I told you to take psychology, didn’t I? Well, you don’t really have to take it because I’m teaching it. I’m teaching you that a girl’s most important relationship is her first. That’s with Mom. If that didn’t work, chances are most of her relationships after that won’t work either.”

“Didn’t you say that you have a terrible relationship with your mom?” I asked. “Didn’t you say she doesn’t even talk to you?”

“That’s why I could never be an escort. Too emotionally unstable. I look for girls with emotional stability. With stability, they have a chance to become a star in this business. Without it, they’re lost.”

Another stock question came early in the interview. Holly would take a cigarette, stick it in the black holder, light up, turn to the prospect, and say, “When did you lose your virginity?” When the question was answered, she’d ask, “Was it good?”

Later Holly told me, “If the first time was bad, that’s not a good sign, darling, not at all. My ears are eager to hear a girl talk about how the first time was wonderful. I need girls who learned to love sex early on. I need girls who have positive attitudes about this most primal of acts. That’s why my other questions involve religion. Too much religion often leads to lousy sex. My girls need to be unencumbered by guilt or a god interested in punishment of any kind. If a client wants to be punished, that’s one thing. But it’s the girl who will be doing the punishing, not God almighty.”

I have to say that this interviewing process was interesting as hell—so interesting that I actually did sign up for a psychology course at the community college. I saw right away that studying human nature was something I’d been doing very seriously ever since my mother died. Maybe that’s the real education Slim was trying to show me.

Slim never had anything good to say about college, so I didn’t bother telling him that I had enrolled. My night classes didn’t get in the way of my work at the Holly Windsor Agency. In addition to psych and history I was going to take a business course, but I figured it’d be better to stay general. I was learning enough business just by virtue of my work. My history teacher was a little boring, but my psych teacher was great. She came from Rome and spoke English with an accent. Professor Anna Severina was in her seventies and sharp as a tack. She talked about personality development and ego defense mechanisms and had me thinking about my own personality and defenses and whether I was suppressing the fact that I killed a man in cold blood. How did my personality develop to the point where I was able to do that? Professor Severina talked about denial and suppression and all kinds of ideas that had me wondering whether I was denying my true character by brushing off that murder as part of the education Slim was giving me. Sure, I killed. But soldiers kill every day. I was a soldier who Slim had hired out to Sugar. I did my duty—that was all. But having done it once, could I—and would I—do it again?