Rivers of Gold (9 page)

Traci
, Dagmara.

Tonight's incarnation of Le Yef is at the top of the old Toy Building on Madison Square on the western edge of the axial mess where Fifth Avenue, Broadway, and Twenty-third Street skewer each other. At the southern end is the Flatiron Building, indomitable even in its coat of soot and grime, defiantly proclaiming its survival in this as in other Bad Times. Along its eastern edge running north is Madison Square, once home to open-air U.S. Open broadcasts, Pakistani parades, absurd lines for designer hot dogs, Tagalog death-metal concerts, and a dog run that was once one of the most pedigreed puppy pens in town. Now that the corporations bordering its rim have collapsed, as have the attempts to turn their shells into luxury housing, all that is left are cracked hexagonal paving stones and weed-choked flowerbeds in which vagrants (driven mad by the communal bottles of paint thinner passed around the benches by the bus stops at the north end of the park) pretend to swim. The best time to be here is toward sunset on a very late afternoon (at rooftop level, of course; you wouldn't want to be near the park after dark), when the western facade of the former New York Life Insurance building (since taken over by the same Arab company that bought the one that bought Barneys) turns the exact shade of chewable baby aspirin.

I love the view from up high, overlooking Madison Square—pure Steichen. N would be a natural for this setting. I could construct a whole series around her, and I just know Marcus fucking Chalk would eat it up.

The entry to Le Yef is routine: Make the call, give the password to the security goons just inside the door by the freight entrance down an alley, and step inside. The lobby's dark to save power, but the elevators still work (because the owner gets paid by promoters of Le Yef, or by dispossessed
ronin
chefs like Matt Hamilton or Akhtar Nawab, or, perhaps, by someone like Reza). I'm pleased to see the number of heads N is turning as we make our way to the elevators, and even more pleased by the fact that either excitement or the air-conditioning has brought N's nipples up through the thin fabric of her dress.

And of course we have the elevator car all to ourselves.

This Is How It Happens.

Can softness have a taste? Her lips are cumulus clouds wrapped in rose petals, but her jaw is firm, her tongue well-toned and animate. There is strength in her shoulders, the web of her back, the brace of her pectorals as they cantilever her breasts outward toward my shaking fingers. This woman has power, and poise; that was evident in her carriage as we strolled across the alley arm in arm past throngs of jealous onlookers. I could lose myself in a woman like this, a mouth like hers.

The door opens, and after we peel ourselves wetly apart we step outward into paradise. What was once a showroom for meaningless wares has been converted into a vast arena for the serious business of hedonism. The bar ( jerry-built, collapsible, but still backlit and equipped with portable refrigerators and dishwashers tapped into the building mains) dominates the field of vision. No fewer than three bartenders are on station at all times, with barbacks running resupply up the freight elevator from the liquor stash in a panel truck in a lot next door. Tonight's line-up appears to be: Chris, a black Adonis with a magazine visage, NFL physique, and ruined knees (now artificial); Song-hee, an androgynous Korean girl with a bleached hairdo straight out of animé and two railroads' worth of healed track marks up both arms which she always covers with long sleeves (I saw them when I photographed her naked for
Zyklon B
magazine—had to use one of my pseudonyms to avoid messiness between the mags. If you ever see a photo credit for Gianni Giovanni Frangipanni, that's me.); and V, willowy and raven-haired, an eye-patched lesbian with whom I once passed a dark and stormy night (she's never told, and neither have I).

Then there are the Staff Girls.

The Staff Girls of Le Yef are legendary, handpicked for their beauty and charm by the even more legendary LA, one of Le Yef's promoters. I've never met her, but LA's hazy background and fastidiousness for effectively creating the twenty-first-century courtesan have raised her to near-mythic status. She appeared on the scene right after 9/11, making a name for herself first around the Meatpacking District spots (how she managed to operate right at the police cordon I have no idea), moving slowly south and east, tapping into the bulging credit lines of the recovering financial sector. I've heard a story about how her first backer was somebody who made money in soy milk, but went broke when food prices started to spike a few years ago. I'm not sure exactly how she connected with Reza, but they worked a couple of early speaks together after the '10 crash. Whatever business they may have done then, they're completely separate entities now, and you don't bring her name up in front of Reza if you know what's good for you. There's no love lost between them, but since he supplies markets she doesn't deal with, they can at least coexist, albeit uneasily. LA's a promoter, a party planner par excellence. She's assembled a terrific system of cutouts between herself and her vendors (including the landlords she bribes for locations and the cops, firemen, and electricians she pays off), and she's never been linked to drugs (she's supposed to be some sort of fitness freak). Or, as is the common misconception, prostitution. Both markets readily served by Reza, courtesy of a payroll full of obliging cabbies and a small management team of savvy operators such as Yours Truly. LA's girls are decidedly
not
hookers. Nor are they entertainment in the conventional sense. They don't sing or dance (we've evolved beyond the need for talent). They're the quintessential fashion accessory. They're paid to make a party look good. LA turned the recognition of a simple fact (a party full of beautiful young women is a party you'd want to go to and stay at) into a sizzling business. She's made all the glossies (gushing sycophantic praise, lots of cheap hemline-level photos) and the papers and news Web sites (hand-wringing, moans about corruption, vice, spreading disease and drug use, moneymaking in an age of moral decline, yadda yadda). No one likes to see a woman getting ahead (especially unemployed men), let alone one who's thriving as well as she is at a time like this.

And of course there's the crowd. They Are Legion. There's the old-timers (thirties and up, the money behind the club) and there's my Target Market. Here's Cameron and Kyle, Dylan and Ryan, Tucker and Tyndall, Forrest and Savannah, with all of their consorts (all flavors), every one of them gawking and fawning over N. She's surrounded, but she keeps her composure admirably amid the idle flattery and inane chipmunk chatter. (The trick now is to drift just far enough to be out of earshot so I can do business, but not out of arm's reach. There's no way I'm letting a prize like N be on her own in Le Yef; too many predators, waiting for their chance. I should know, I'm one of them.) I let the girls and gayboys squawk and flap and whinny about her, while I get their boyfriends lined up. It's more practical to send them in groups, and they usually go in threes (legally, a cabbie has to let a fourth in the front seat, but five's against the law, and you don't want that), after surreptitiously giving me a cumulative stack of hundreds. These go into a dedicated jacket pocket (never,
ever
fuck with the money, not just my rule but Reza's). There must be a full moon tonight, they're lining up like lemmings. I ask Tyndall to bring us a couple of Chris's specials, a delicious concoction of fresh lime juice, ginger beer, and—if Chris knows you—a magnanimous pour of Old Plantation, shaken to a froth and served on shaved ice; being with N is putting me in an island mood. She comes back with the drinks at just about the time N pulls me close and says:

—Are you really
just
a photographer?

—Yes, he is, Tyndall says right on cue (obviously hoping for some freebies). The youngest one ever to shoot the cover of
Malathion
.

—And now
Roundup
, too, I say, carefully holding my enormous cocktail aloft for a communal toast. Whistles, catcalls, and applause follow as I intertwine my drink around N's and we sip from each other's glasses, gazing into each other's eyes, before breaking into laughter. (This is where I live. It's not always bad.)

N's playing with my fingers and brushing deliciously against me when she feels the lump of cash in my jacket pocket.

—That bulge is a little north of the one I'm supposed to be interested in, isn't it? she inquires with a small wry smile.

(Oh, fuck me poorly.)

—Tell me, when you were growing up, did you always do what you were told? I say. (I know this sounds contrived and pretentious, but believe me, I've thought this situation through dozens of permutations and this is one way that puts the ball in her court but still leaves both of us an out while saving face. Of course, she could call the cops as soon as she clears the door, but somehow I don't peg her for that type.)

—Never, she responds immediately.

Crisis Avoided.

Commence Phase Two.

I pull her close and kiss her, drinking in the sweetness of her tongue, our teeth touching. I'm completely lost in the moment (though not so lost I can't sense the flashbulbs popping around us), when a baritone voice I don't recognize says:

—Hello, suckers.

Turning toward the voice, I am confronted by my Recent Past. It's the blonde from the Broome Street Bar, Our Lady of the Abdominals. Tonight she's in a skin-tight silk crepe tank top that shows off the topography of her arms and shoulders, which display all the contours of a dedicated gym rat. There's no doubt about it, I am face to face with the one and only LA. It's only because I didn't recognize her from countless photos that night in the bar that I dared to hit on her. She never goes anywhere without some primordial specimen of XY-chromosomal overload. Currently, she's flanked by a creature that is human only in name, impossibly wide, skin more leather than flesh, eyes spaced too far apart and too orange in hue, a jaw built for pulverizing bone.

—Well? LA drawls in an unmistakably L.A. accent. Aren't you going to introduce us?

I gather my wits together just enough to make the introductions. N asks how I know LA, confusion (and something else, something unknown) in her eyes.

—We met downtown, LA says. She turns her head a fraction and whispers something inaudible to her saurian consort, who silently melts away through the readily yielding crowd. I babble something appropriately vague about the night in question and quickly throw a few compliments over the verbal mess. But LA's not listening. In fact, she's not looking at me at all. She's got her eyes fixed coolly on N, who does not shirk her gaze.

I was doing so well with N, but LA's throwing me off my game. I try to get back on track with:

—Business is clearly booming.

—Indeed it is, she says sideways to me, without taking her eyes off N. You should tell your boss he should learn how to share. There's plenty for everyone.

It's like vertigo, realizing the situation has suddenly been taken completely out of your control. LA's just talked Business out loud, in public, in front of a total stranger, and with
me
in the lens. She didn't mention Reza's name, but she did mention my
boss
. If N's a cop, or if anybody's running surveillance in the room, or somebody's making movies nearby with their phone … It's true what they say: nothing kills an erection like paranoia.

—We should have lunch, LA says to N.

—Glad to, N replies in a voice that is so much goddamn steadier than mine I want to spit. Instead I laugh too loudly and start suggesting options.

—Not you, LA says with an icy finality I feel in the base of my spine. I'll call you, you bring her there, you can pick her up afterward if you like. This isn't about you, she says, turning to look at me for the first time with a triumphant smile. I swear she can hear my cock shriveling.

And with a final look (it's not sexual, it's closer to desire for something you'd want to buy, to
own
) she's gone, melting into a crowd of gushing toadies, two massive black-suited brachiosaurids materializing just off either one of her sculpted shoulders.

—What was that about? I ask N, who's not quite shaken, but is visibly stirred by what's just transpired. You know who she is, right? Have you two met before? Was she coming on to you?

—Yes. No. No. N has gone cold; the woman who was ready to mount me five minutes ago has completely disappeared. Bring her back.
Please
bring her back. This version of N has tough hide, a hard shell, and spines. This woman
doesn't want me
. She chews a thumbnail, then, with a wave of her hand and a jerk of her head, she seems to shrug off the coldness. The glow returns to her skin; she takes a long pull of her drink.

—What just happened?

—Not sure. What'd she mean about your boss?

—Not sure.

I want to pursue this further, but my phone's leaping around in my pocket like a
paco
-crazed squirrel. There's a photo on the screen of an empty nest. Fuck! I need to resupply. While N most likely has an inkling about my extracurricular activities, there's no need to broadcast it for her and anyone else she may ever meet in life. On the other hand, there's no way I'm leaving her here alone, not with all my competitors lurking about and with a possibly predatory LA thrown into the mix as well. Although I'm not really sure
what
LA's game is—N is gorgeous, but if LA bats for that team, she's got an army of Staff Girls to choose from. What else could she be after? Something on me? Something on
Reza
?